Oh, Lord! Grant me direction
To sing this foul transaction
Which causes sad reflection
Late done at Blarismoor.
By wicked Colonel Barber
Should I proceed much further,
And call his conduct murder
'Twere treason I am sure.
Belfast may well remember
When tyrants in their splendour,
In all their pomp and grandeur
They hoist them on a car
While cavalry were prancing
And infantry advancing
And glitt'ring armour glancing
All in the pomp of war.

They were of good behaviour
No heroes e'er were braver
But a perjured base deceiver
He swore there lives away
For the sake of golden store
This villain falsely swore
And the crime we now deplore
In sorrow and dismay.
Amidst a hollow square
Well guarded front and rear
With guns and bayonets there
Their constancy to move
When they received their sentence
Their hearts felt no relentings
They bowed to each acquaintance
And kneeled to God above.

Their foes held consultation
To find our combination
And then this exhortation
Curs'd Barber did propose:
"Arise from your devotion
Take pardon and promotion
Or death will be your portion
Unless you now disclose."
Some moments then they mused
For their senses were confused
But, smiling, they refused
And made him this reply:
"We own we are United
Of death we're not affrighted
And hope to be requited
By Him who rules on high."

The guns were then presented
The balls their bosoms entered
While multitudes lamented
The shocking sight to see;
Those youthful martyrs four
Lay weltering in their gore
And the plain besprinkled o'er
With the blood of liberty.
In coffins they were hurried
From Blarismoor were carried
And hastily were buried
While thousands sank with grief.
Crying,"Grania, we much wonder
You rise not from your slumber
With voice as loud as thunder
To grant us some relief."