WitH THE Story TELLERS

For if he conquers Wicklow
We cannot save Kildare.

So whet your pikes and oil your guns,
Your powder keep secure,

For mark me! you'll have need of them,
With Feach in Glenmalure.

So to Idrone and Offaly
Where stately Barrow flows,
We now must bid a fond farewell,
We’re off to meet our foes
Tonight at Old Kilcullen
The Liffey we will pass;
'Tis but a few hours march from there
To Ballymore Eustace.
And what a wealth of scenery
Awaits the clansmen there,
On one side Wicklow mountains,
On the other side Kildare;
With the river Liffey boiling
In eddies at their feet.
They hear the frightful rumbling,
The crushing and the jumbling,
Of boulders downward tumbling
Their presence there to greet.

The fall’s named Poulaphuca,
Thrice fifty feet in height,
And down that dreadful precipice,

The pooka comes each night;
Wrapt in the mist and vapor
That from the falls arise;
He comes to seek his weird abode,
Over a track none ever rode,
His hideous form he only showed
When lightning lit the skies.

EET