The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 5.
John Greenleaf Whittier, Ed.

Sure that same night the Banshee howled
     To fright the evil dame,
And fairy folks, who loved Kathleen,
     With funeral torches came.

She watched them glancing through the trees,
     And glimmering down the hill;
They crept before the dead-vault door,
     And there they all stood still!

‘Get up, old man! the wake-lights shine!’
     ‘Ye murthering witch,’ quoth he,
“So I'm rid of your tongue, I little care
     If they shine for you or me.

Oh whoso brings my daughter back,
     My gold and land shall have! “
Oh then spake up his handsome page,
     ” No gold nor land I crave!

But give to me your daughter dear,
     And by the Holy Tree,
Be she on sea or on the land,
     I'll bring her back to thee. “

“My daughter is a lady born,
     And you of low degree,
But she shall be your bride the day
     Ye bring her back to me.”

He sailed east, he sailed west,
     And north and south sailed he,
Until he came to Boston town,
     Across the great salt sea.

“Oh have ye seen the young Kathleen,
     The flower of Ireland?
Ye'll know her by her eyes so blue,
     And by her snow-white hand!”