DARLING BETSY GRAY
In Granshaw she was born and reared,
Near to the Ards new town With
twinkling eyes and golden curls,
She was the pride of Down;
You'd go the whole of Erin's Isle,
And search by night and day But
never would you find the like,
Of darling Betsy Gray.
'Twas on the thirteenth day of June,
That year of Ninety-Eight The
pikes turned out 'gainst Ballynahinch,
To better free men's fate;
The bravest of the Hearts of Down,
Amidst the gory fray With
dashing steed and flashing blade,
Was darling Betsy Gray.
But English muskets said their piece,
They cut the Irish down And
Freedom's dreams lay cold and dead,
Before the Butcher's Crown;
Her sweetheart, Willie Boal, cried out:
My love, we must away No
Redcoat e'er shall lay a hand,
On darling Betsy Gray.
At Armstrong's farm at Ballycreen,
The Yeos upon them fell They
murdered Betsy, Willie too,
Her brother George as well;
Now in that vale of Ballycreen,
Green bushes wave and sway And
only black oak marks the grave,
Of darling Betsy Gray.
