My name is Pat O'Donnell|
And I come from Donegal,
l am, you know, a dangerous foe
To traitors one and all;
For the shooting of James Carey
I've been tried in London town,
And now upon the gallows high
My life I must lay down.
I sailed aboard the Montrose,
In August 'eighty-three,
And on my voyage to Capetown
He was made known to me.
When I heard he was James Carey,
We had angry words and blows,
And the villain he strove to take my life
On board of the Montrose.
I stood up to defend myself,
And fight before I'd die;
My pocket pistol I drew forth,
And at him I did fly;
We fired until the second round,
When I shot him through the heart,
And I gave him the third revolver shot
Before he did depart.
Oh! Carey's wife and child came to|
The cabin where he lay,
And seeing him lying in his gore
It filled them with dismay.
"O'Donnell, you've shot my husband,"
Mrs. Carey loud did cry;
"Oh, yes, I did, in self-defence,
Madam," then said I.
The captain had me handcuffed
And guarded iron-bound,
And I was kept a prisoner
'till we landed in Capetown;
I was then brought back to England,
When my trial it came on,
And the prosecutors for the Crown
Were Carey's wife and son.
The jury found me guilty,
And the judge made this replay:
"For the murder of James Carey,
O'Donnell, you must die
On the twenty-third of December
And on the gallows high;
So the Lord have mercy on your soul,
For your hour is drawing nigh."
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