Both the people of the house slept on the hearth-stone, without any bed, or, as far as I know, any covering, save their rags.

I had an opportunity of overhearing their connubial colloquy, which was in Irish, and had reference solely to conjectures respecting us, our character, our object and our money.

It convinced me that our safety would be compromised by any longer delay.
During the pauses of their conversation, I endeavoured to string together a rough draft of the stanzas that follow, or a considerable part of them.

I give them here, with the accompanying notes, as they were published in the _People_ newspaper.

In the notes or in the text, there is nothing I wish to alter.
Air: "_Gradh mo Chroidhe_." The long, long-wished for hour had come, Yet came, mo stor, in vain, And left thee but the wailing hum Of sorrow and of pain.
My light of life, my lonely love, Thy portion sure must be, Man's scorn below, God's wrath above A Chuisle geal mo chroidhe.
'Twas told of thee, the world around, 'Twas hoped from thee by all, That, with one gallant sunward bound, Thou'dst burst long ages thrall.
Thy faith was tried, alas! and those Who perilled all for thee, Were cursed, and branded as thy foes; A Chuisle geal mo chroidhe.
What fate is thine, unhappy isle, That even the trusted few[13] Should pay thee back with hate and guile, When most they should be true?
'Twas not _thy_ strength or spirit failed; And those that bleed for thee, And love thee truly, have not quailed; A Chuisle geal mo chroidhe.
I've given thee manhood's early prime, And manhood's waning years; I've blest thee in thy sunniest time, And shed with thee my tears; And mother, though thou'st cast away The child who'd die for thee, My latest accents still shall pray For Chuisle geal mo chroidhe.
I've tracked for thee the mountain sides, And slept within the brake, More lonely than the swan that glides O'er Lua's fairy lake.[14] The rich have spurned me from their door, Because I'd set thee free; Yet do I love thee more and more, A Chuisle geal mo chroidhe.
I've run the outlaw's brief career, And borne his load of ill, His troubled rest, his ceaseless fear, With fixed sustaining will; And should his last dark chance befall, E'en that shall welcome be, In death, I'll love thee, most of all, A Chuisle geal mo chroidhe.
I was awakened next morning by a strange voice, with an accent, as I thought, different from that which we had been accustomed to.