By Patrick Tunney
The silent tomb enshrouds thy heart, thy spirit, true, hath flown.
The cold, cold clay enwraps thy head, loved, gentle Peg Malone.
In chorus, we acclaim her traits, her talent rich and rare.
An idol of her Celtic sept, fresh, true, polite and fair.
No more we’ll hear her gentle voice, her pure enthralling song.
In mellow tones she’ll chant sweet psalms, the Heavenly hosts among.
Her Irish pulse no more will throb, Oh, who will take her place?
She was a gem of eloquence, of elegance and grace.
When Banba reeked with terror vile, and shrieked with pangs of woe.
When the foemen’s spears were glancing in the vales of fair Mayo.
When sordid gangs were swaying fast to crush poor Rosaleen.
For freedom’s sake she took her place, ‘neath the orange, white and green.
Her memory in our hearts will bloom, like the flowers bloom in spring.
Memories of her love and deeds to the silent grave we’ll bring.
We’ll enshrine her name ‘mongst Ireland’s best, whilst the billows heave and roll,
And unceasingly by we’ll breathe a prayer for her dear spotless soul.