Here by the shore of the swift flowing Boyne
Where the Jacobite cause bled and died.
Here the piper had come to find his dead sons
that their loved native soil must soon hide.
What chance had they here against William’s cannon
Armed with muskets their grand sires bore?
Why had they been drawn to the sound of the guns?
A call they will hear nevermore.
While he searched he still harbored the faintest of hopes
That one of his sons still might bide.
But no, then he saw them as if they both slept
by the shore of the Boyne, side by side.
Beneath a great oak the man buried his hopes
His ***** turned the red clay aside.
His strong hands worked the earth for all he was worth
as a trickle of sweat stung his eyes.

I have heard that man play, on the cool evening’s breath,
Such a dirge as would make angels weep.
It’s a cry from his heart that escapes   from his pipes
to the place where his two heroes sleep.