Peewee crying, I'd be flying,
Could I fly like thee!_

When Garry, who had stanched his wounds, arose,
He seized his axe, and 'gan with rapid blows
To fell down fir trees. Through the silent strath
The hollow echoes rang. With fiendish wrath
He made resolve to heap the splintered wood
Against the door, and burn the hated brood
Of his tormentors one and all. He hewed
An ample pyre, then piled it thick and high,
While the sun, sloping to the western sky,
Proclaimed the closing of that fateful day.
But the doomed women little dreamed that they
Would have such fearsome end ... As Garry lay
Rubbing the firesticks till they 'gan to glow,
He heard a Fian mother singing low--

_Sleep, O sleep, I'll sing to thee--
Moolachie, O moolachie.
Sleep, O sleep, like yon grey stone,
Moolachie, mine own.

Sleep, O sleep, nor sigh nor fret ye,
And the goblins will not get ye,
I will shield ye, I will pet ye--
Moolachie, mine own._

The mother sang, the gentle babe made moan--
And Garry heard them with a heart of stone ...