Irish song
The mountains of Pomeroy
The morn was breaking bright and fair,
The lark sang in the sky,
Wheb the maid she bound her goIden hair,
With a blithe glance in her eye;
For, who beyond the gay green-wood,
Was a-waiting her with joy,
Oh, who but her gallant Renardine,
On the mountains of Pomeroy.
An outlawed man in a land forlorn,
He scorned to turn and fly,
But kept the cause of freedom safe
Up on the mountains high.
Full often in the dawning hour,
Full oft in twilight brown
He met the maid in the woodland bow'r,
Where the stream comes foaming down
For they were faithful in a love
No wars could e'er destroy.
No tyrant's law touched Renardine,
On the mountains of Pomeroy.
"Dear love, " she said, "l'm sore afraid,
For the foeman's force and you
They've tracked you in the lowland plain
And all the valley through.
My kinsmen frown when you are named
Your life they would destroy
'Beware,' they say, 'of Renardine,
On the mountains of Pomeroy."
"Fear not, fear not, sweetheart," he cried,
"Fear not the foe for me
No chain shall fall, whate'er betide,
On the arm that would be free!
Oh, leave your cruel kin and come,
When the lark is in the sky.
And it's with my gun I'll guard you,
On the mountains of Pomeroy."
The morn has come, she rose and fled
From her cruel kin and home;
And bright the wood, and rosy red,
And the dumbling torrent's foam.
But the mist came down and the tempest roared,
And did all around destroy;
And a pale, drowned bride met Renardine,
On the mountains of Pomeroy.
