THE CHANT.

“Ululu! ululu! high on the wind,

There's a home for the slave where no fetters can bind.

Woe, woe to his slayers!” — comes wildly along,

With the trampling of feet and the funeral song.

And now more clear

It swells on the ear;

Breathe low, and listen,‘ tis solemn to hear.

“Ululu! ululu! wail for the dead.

Green grow the grass of Fingall on his head;

And spring-flowers blossom,‘ ere elsewhere appearing,

And shamrocks grow thick on the Martyr for Erin.

Ululu! ululu! soft fall the dew

On the feet and the head of the martyred and true.”

For awhile they tread

In silence dread —

Then muttering and moaning go the crowd,

Surging and swaying like mountain cloud,

And again the wail comes fearfully loud.