The Poems of Thomas Davis :: :: University of Virginia Library

Thy striving, be it with Loving;
Thy living, be it in Deed.
Goethe.

Brief, brave and glorious, was his young career,
His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foes;
For he was Freedom's champion, one of those,
The few in number, who had not outstept
The charter to chastise which she bestows
On such as wield her weapons. He had kept
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.
Byron.

xxvi

The sun set; but set not his hope:
Stars rose; his faith was earlier up:
Fixed on the enormous galaxy,
Deeper and older seemed his eye:
And matched his sufferance sublime
The taciturnity of time.
He spoke, and words more soft than rain
Brought the Age of Gold again:
His action won such reverence sweet,
As hid all measure of the feat.
Emerson.

xxix

To the Memory of Thomas Davis.

BY JOHN FISHER MURRAY.

When on the field where freedom bled,
I press the ashes of the brave,
Marvelling that man should ever dread
Thus to wipe out the name of slave;
No deep-drawn sigh escapes my breast—
No woman's drops my eyes distain,
I weep not gallant hearts at rest—
I but deplore they died in vain.

When I the sacred spot behold,
For aye remembered and renowned,
Where dauntless hearts and arms as bold,
Strewed tyrants and their slaves around;
High hopes exulting fire my breast—
High notes triumphant swell my strain,
Joy to the brave! in victory blest—
Joy! joy! they perished not in vain.

But when thy ever mournful voice,
My country, calls me to deplore
The champion of thy youthful choice,
Honoured, revered, but seen no more;
Heavy and quick my sorrows fall
For him who strove, with might and main,
To leave a lesson for us all,
How we might live—nor live in vain.

xxx

If, moulded of earth's common clay,
Thou had'st to sordid arts stooped down,
Thy glorious talent flung away,
Or sold for price thy great renown;
In some poor pettifogging place,
Slothful, inglorious, thou had'st lain,
Herding amid the unhonoured race,
Who doze, and dream, and die in vain.

A spark of his celestial fire,
The God of freemen struck from thee;
Made thee to spurn each low desire,
Nor bend the uncompromising knee;
Made thee to vow thy life, to rive
With ceaseless tug, th' oppressor's chain;
With lyre, with pen, with sword, to strive
For thy dear land—nor strive in vain.

How hapless is our country's fate,—
If Heaven in pity to us send
Like thee, one glorious, good, and great—
To guide, instruct us, and amend;
How soon thy honoured life is o'er—
Soon Heaven demandeth thee again;
We grope on darkling as before,
And fear lest thou hast died in vain.

In vain—no, never! O'er thy grave,
Thy spirit dwelleth in the air;
Thy passionate love, thy purpose brave,
Thy hope assured, thy promise fair.
Generous and wise, farewell!—Forego
Tears for the glorious dead and gone;
His tears, if tears are his, still flow
For slaves and cowards living on.

I. PART I. NATIONAL BALLADS AND SONGS.

“National Poetry is the very flowering of the soul,—the greatest evidence of its health, the greatest excellence of its beauty. Its melody is balsam to the senses. It is the playfellow of Childhood, ripens into the companion of Manhood, consoles Age. It presents the most dramatic events, the largest characters, the most impressive scenes, and the deepest passions, in the language most familiar to us. It magnifies and ennobles our hearts, our intellects, our country, and our countrymen,—binds us to the land by its condensed and gem-like history; to the future by example and by aspiration. It solaces us in travel, fires us in action, prompts our invention, sheds a grace beyond the power of luxury round our homes, is the recognised envoy of our minds among all mankind, and to all time.”—Davis's Essays.

TIPPERARY.

[_]

AIR—Original.

I

Let Britain boast her British hosts,
About them all right little care we;
Not British seas nor British coasts
Can match The Man of Tipperary!

II

Tall is his form, his heart is warm.
His spirit light as any fairy—
His wrath is fearful as the storm
That sweeps The Hills of Tipperary!

III

Lead him to fight for native land,
His is no courage cold and wary;
The troops live not on earth would stand
The headlong Charge of Tipperary!

IV

Or dancing with his dark-haired Mary,
Yet meet him in his cabin rude,
You'd swear they knew no other mood
But Mirth and Love in Tipperary!

V

You're free to share his scanty meal,
His plighted word he'll never vary—
In vain they tried with gold and steel
To shake The Faith of Tipperary!

VI

Soft is his cailín's sunny eye,
Her mien is mild, her step is airy,
Her heart is fond, her soul is high—
Oh! she's The Pride of Tipperary!

VII

Let Britain brag her motley rag;
We'll lift The Green more proud and airy;—
Be mine the lot to bear that flag,
And head The Men of Tipperary!

VIII

Though Britain boasts her British hosts,
About them all right little care we—
Give us, to guard our native coasts,
The Matchles Men of Tipperary!

Vide “Spirit of the Nation,” 4to. p. 84.

THE RIVERS.

[_]

Air—Kathleen O'More.

I

There's a far-famed Blackwater that runs to Loch Neagh,
There's a fairer Blackwater that runs to the sea—
The glory of Ulster.
The beauty of Munster.
These twin rivers be.

II

From the banks of that river Benburb's towers arise;
This stream shines as bright as a tear from sweet eyes;
This fond as a young bride,
That with foeman's blood dyed—
Both dearly we prize.

III

Deep sunk in that bed is the sword of Monroe,
Since, 'twixt it and Donagh, he met Owen Roe,
And Charlemont's cannon
Slew many a man on
These meadows below.

IV

The shrines of Armagh gleam far over yon lea,
Nor afar is Dungannon that nursed liberty,
And yonder Red Hugh
Marshal Bagenal o'erthrew
On Béal-an-atha-Buidhe.

V

But far kinder the woodlands of rich Convamore,
And more gorgeous the turrets of saintly Lismore;
There the stream, like a maiden
With love overladen,
Pants wild on each shore.

VI

Its rocks rise like statues, tall, stately, and fair,
And the trees, and the flowers, and the mountains, and air,
With Wonder's soul near you
To share with, and cheer you,
Make Paradise there.

VII

I would rove by that stream, ere my flag I unrolled;
I would fly to these banks my betrothed to enfold—
The pride of our sire-land,
the Eden of Ireland,
More precious than gold.

VIII

May their borders be free from oppression and blight:
May their daughters and sons ever fondly unite—
The glory of Ulster,
The beauty of Munster,
Our strength and delight:

Vulgo, Ballanabwee—the mouth of the yellow ford.—

GLENGARIFF.

[_]

Air.—O'Sullivan's March.

I

I wandered at eve by Glengariff's sweet water,
Half in the shade, and half in the moon,
And thought of the time when the Sacsanach slaughter
Reddened the night and darkened the noon;
Mo nuar! mo nuar! mo nuar! I said,—
When I think, in this valley and sky—
Where true lovers and poets should sigh—
Of the time when its chieftain O'Sullivan fled.

II

Then my mind went along with O'Sullivan marching
Over Musk'ry's moors and Ormond's plain,
His curachs the waves of the Shannon o'erarching,
And his pathway mile-marked with the slain:
Mo nuar! mo nuar! mo nuar! I said,—
Yet 'twas better far from you to go,
And to battle with torrent and foe,
Than linger as slaves where your sweet waters spread.

III

But my fancy burst on, like a clan o'er the border,
To times that seemed almost at hand,
When grasping her banner, old Erin's Lamh Laidir
Alone shall rule over the rescued land:
O baotho! O baotho! O baotho! I said,—
Be our marching as steady and strong,
And freemen our vallies shall throng,
When the last of our foemen is vanquished and fled!

“Alas.”

Vide post, page 108.

“Oh, fine.”

THE WEST'S ASLEEP.

[_]

Air—The Brink of the White Rocks.

I

When all beside a vigil keep,
The West's asleep, the West's asleep—
Alas! and well may Erin weep,
When Connaught lies in slumber deep.
There lake and plain smile fair and free,
'Mid rocks—their guardian chivalry—
Sing oh! let man learn liberty
From crashing wind and lashing sea.

II

That chainless wave and lovely land
Freedom and Nationhood demand—
Be sure, the great God never planned,
For slumbering slaves, a home so grand.
And, long, a brave and haughty race
Honoured and sentinelled the place—
Sing oh! not even their sons' disgrace
Can quite destroy their glory's trace.

III

For often, in O'Connor's van,
To triumph dashed each Connaught clan—
And fleet as deer the Normans ran
Through Corlieu's Pass and Ardrahan.
And later times saw deeds as brave;
And glory guards Clanricarde's grave—
Sing oh! they died their land to save,
At Aughrim's slopes and Shannon's wave.

IV

And if, when all a vigil keep,
The West's asleep, the West's asleep—
Alas! and well may Erin weep,
That Connaught lies in slumber deep.
But—hark!—some voice like thunder spake:
“The West's awake, the West's awake”—
“Sing oh! hurra! let England quake,
We'll watch till death for Erin's sake!”

Vide “Spirit of the Nation,” 4to p. 70.

OH! FOR A STEED.

[_]

Air—Original.

I

Oh! for a steed, a rushing steed, and a blazing scimitar,
To hunt from beauteous Italy the Austrian's red hussar;
To mock their boasts,
And strew their hosts,
And scatter their flags afar.

II

Oh! for a steed, a rushing steed, and dear Poland gathered around,
To smite her circle of savage foes, and smash them upon the ground;
Nor hold my hand
While, on the land,
A foreigner foe was found.

III

Oh! for a steed, a rushing steed, and a rifle that never failed,
And a tribe of terrible prairie men, by desperate valour mailed,
Till “stripes and stars,”
And Russian czars,
Before the Red Indian quailed.

IV

Oh! for a steed, a rushing steed, on the plains of Hindustan,
And a hundred thousand cavaliers, to charge like a single man,
Till our shirts were red,
And the English fled
Like a cowardly caravan.

V

Oh! for a steed, a rushing steed, with the Greeks at Marathon,
Or a place in the Switzer phalanx, when the Morat men swept on,
Like a pine-clad hill
By an earthquake's will
Hurled the vallies upon.

VI

Oh! for a steed, a rushing steed, when Brian smote down the Dane,
Or a place beside great Aodh O'Neill, when Bagenal the bold was slain,
Or a waving crest
And a lance in rest,
With Bruce upon Baunoch plain.

VII

Oh! for a steed, a rushing steed, on the Curragh of Kildare,
And Irish squadrons skilled to do, as they are ready to dare—
A hundred yards,
And Holland's guards
Drawn up to engage me there.

VIII

Oh! for a steed, a rushing steed, and any good cause at all,
Or else, if you will, a field on foot, or guarding a leaguered wall
For freedom's right;
In flushing fight
To conquer if then to fall.

Vide “Spirit of the Nation,” 4to, p. 209.

CYMRIC RULE AND CYMRIC RULERS.

[_]

Air—The March of the Men of Harlech.

I.

Once there was a Cymric nation;
Few its men, but high its station—
Freedom is the soul's creation
Not the work of hands.
Coward hearts are self-subduing;
Fetters last by slaves' renewing—
Edward's castles are in ruin,
Still his empire stands.
Still the Saxon's malice
Blights our beauteous valleys;
Ours the toil, but his the spoil, and his the laws we writhe in;
Worked like beasts, that Saxon priests may riot in our tithing;
Saxon speech and Saxon teachers
Crush our Cymric tongue!
Tolls our traffic binding,
Rents our vitals grinding—

Bleating sheep, we cower and weep, when, by one bold endeavour,
We could drive from out our hive these Saxon drones for ever.
“Cymric Rule and Cymric Rulers”—
Pass along the word!

II.

We should blush at Arthur's glory—
Never sing the deeds of Rory—
Caratach's renowned story
Deepens our disgrace.
By the bloody day of Banchor!
By a thousand years of rancour!
By the wrongs that in us canker!
Up! ye Cymric race—
Think of Old Llewellyn,—
Owen's trumpets swelling;
Then send out a thunder shout, and every true man summon,
Till the ground shall echo round from Severn to Plinlimmon,
“Saxon foes, and Cymric brothers,
“Arthur's come again!”
Not his bone and sinew,
But his soul within you,
Prompt and true to plan and do, and firm as Monmouth iron
For our cause, though crafty laws and charging troops environ—
“Cymric Rule and Cymric Rulers”—
Pass along the word!

Welsh air.

A BALLAD OF FREEDOM.

I

The Frenchman sailed in Freedom's name to smite the Algerine,
The strife was short, the crescent sunk, and then his guile was seen;
For, nestling in the pirate's hold—a fiercer pirate far—
He bade the tribes yield up their flocks, the towns their gates unbar.
Right on he pressed with freemen's hands to subjugate the free,
The Berber in old Atlas glens, the Moor in Titteri;
And wider had his razzias spread, his cruel conquests broader,
But God sent down, to face his frown, the gallant Abdel-Kader—
The faithful Abdel-Kader! unconquered Abdel-Kader!
Like falling rock,
Or fierce siroc—
No savage or marauder—
Son of a slave!
First of the brave!
Hurrah for Abdel-Kader!

II

The Englishman, for long, long years, had ravaged Ganges' side—
A dealer first, intriguer next, he conquered far and wide,
Till, hurried on by avarice, and thirst of endless rule,
His sepoys pierced to Candahar, his flag waved in Cabul;
But still within the conquered land was one unconquered man,
The fierce Pushtani lion, the fiery Akhbar Khan—
He slew the sepoys on the snow, till Scindh's full flood they swam it
Right rapidly, content to flee the son of Dost Mohammed,
The son of Dost Mohammed, and brave old Dost Mohammed—
Oh! long may they
Their mountains sway,
Akhbar and Dost Mohammed!
Long live the Dost!
Who Britain crost,
Hurrah for Dost Mohammed!

III

The Russian, lord of million serfs, and nobles serflier still,
Indignant saw Circassia's sons bear up against his will;
With fiery ships he lines their coast, his armies cross their streams—
He builds a hundred fortresses—his conquests done, he deems.
But steady rifles—rushing steeds—a crowd of nameless chiefs—
The plough is o'er his arsenals!—his fleet is on the reefs!
The maidens of Kabyntica are clad in Moscow dresses—
His slavish herd, how dared they beard the mountain bred Cherkesses!
The lightening Cherkesses!—the thundering Cherkesses!
May Elburz top
In Azof drop,
Ere Cossacks beat Cherkesses!
The fountain head
Whence Europe spread—
Hurrah! for the tall Cherkesses!

IV

But Russia preys on Poland's fields, where Sobieski reigned,
And Austria on Italy—the Roman eagle chained—
Bohemia, Servia, Hungary, within her clutches, gasp;
And Ire and struggles gallantly in England's loosening grasp.
Oh! would all these their strength unite, or battle on alone,
Like Moor, Pushtani, and Cherkess, they soon would have their own.
Hurrah! hurrah! it can't be far, when from the Scindh to Shannon
Shall gleam a line of freemen's flags begirt by freemen's cannon!
The coming day of Freedom—the flashing flags of Freedom!
The victor glaive—
The mottoes brave,
May we be there to read them!
That glorious noon,
God send it soon—
Hurrah for human Freedom!

This name is pronounced Cawder. The French say that their great foe was a slave's son. Be it so—he has a hero's and freeman's heart. “Hurrah for Abdel-Kader!”—Author's Note.

This is the name by which the Affghans call themselves. Affghan is a Persian name (see Elphinstone's delightful book on Cabul).— Author's Note.

The real name of the Indus, which is a Latinised word.—Author's Note.

Cherkesses or Abdyes is the right name of the, so-called, Circassians. Kabyntica is a town in the heart of the Caucasus, of which Mount Elburz is the summit. Blumenbach, and other physiologists, assert that the finer European races descend from a Circassian stock.— Author's Note.

THE IRISH HURRAH.

[_]

Air—Nach m-baineann sin dó.

I

Have you hearkened the eagle scream over the sea?
Have you hearkened the breaker beat under your lee?
A something between the wild waves, in their play,
And the kingly bird's scream, is The Irish Hurrah.

II

How it rings on the rampart when Saxons assail—
How it leaps on the level, and crosses the vale,
Till the talk of the cataract faints on its way,
And the echo's voice cracks with the Irish Hurrah.

III

How it sweeps o'er the mountain when hounds are on scent,
How it presses the billows when rigging is rent,
Till the enemy's broadside sinks low in dismay,
As our boarders go in with The Irish Hurrah.

IV

Oh! there's hope in the trumpet and glee in the fife.
But never such music broke into a strife,
As when at its bursting the war-clouds give way,
And there's cold steel along with The Irish Hurrah.

V

What joy for a death-bed, your banner above,
And round you the pressure of patriot love,
As you're lifted to gaze on the breaking array
Of the Saxon reserve at The Irish Hurrah.

A SONG FOR THE IRISH MILITIA.

[_]

Air—The Peacock.

I

The tribune's tongue and poet's pen
May sow the seed in prostrate men;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the crop so bravely sown!
No more I'll sing nor idly pine,
But train my soul to lead a line—
A soldier's life's the life for me—
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!

II

No foe would fear your thunder words
If 'twere not for our light'ning swords—
If tyrants yield when millions pray,
'Tis lest they link in war array;
Nor peace itself is safe, but when
The sword is sheathed by fighting men—
A soldier's life's the life for me—
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!

III

The rifle brown and sabre bright
Can freely speak and nobly write—
What prophets preached the truth so well
As Hofer, Brian, Bruce, and Tell?
God guard the creed these heroes taught,—
That blood-bought Freedom's cheaply bought.
A soldier's life's the life for me—
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!

IV

Then, welcome be the bivouac,
The hardy stand, and fierce attack,
Where pikes will tame their carbineers,
And rifles thin their bay'neteers,
And every field the island through
Will show “what Irishmen can do!”
A soldier's life's the life for me—
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!

V

Yet, 'tis not strength, and 'tis not steel
Alone can make the English reel;
But wisdom, working day by day,
Till comes the time for passion's sway—
The patient dint, and powder shock,
Can blast an empire like a rock.
A soldier's life's the life for me—
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!

VI

The tribune's tongue and poet's pen
May sow the seed in slavish men;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the harvest when 'tis grown.
No more I'll sing, no more I'll pine,
But train my soul to lead a line—
A soldier's life's the life for me—
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!

OUR OWN AGAIN.

[_]

Air—Original.

I

Let the coward shrink aside,
We'll have our own again;
Let the brawling slave deride,
Here's for our own again—
Let the tyrant bribe and lie,
March, threaten, fortify,
Loose his lawyer and his spy,
Yet we'll have our own again.
Let him soothe in silken tone,
Scold from a foreign throne;
Let him come with bugles blown,
We shall have our own again.
Let us to our purpose bide,
We'll have our own again—
Let the game be fairly tried,
We'll have our own again.

II

Send the cry throughout the land,
“Who's for our own again?”
Summon all men to our band,—
Why not our own again?
Rich, and poor, and old, and young,
Sharp sword, and fiery tongue—
Soul and sinew firmly strung,
All to get our own again.
Brothers thrive by brotherhood—
Trees in a stormy wood—
Riches come from Nationhood—
Sha'n't we have our own again?
Munster's woe is Ulster's bane!
Join for our own again—
Tyrants rob as well as reign,—
We'll have our own again.

III

Oft our fathers' hearts it stirred,
“Rise for our own again!”
Often passed the signal word,
“Strike for our own again!”
Rudely, rashly, and untaught,
Uprose they, ere they ought,
Failing, though they nobly fought,
Dying for their own again.

Mind will rule and muscle yield,
In senate, ship, and field—
When we've skill our strength to wield,
Let us take our own again.
By the slave his chain is wrought,—
Strive for our own again.
Thunder is less strong than thought,—
We'll have our own again.

IV

Calm as granite to our foes,
Stand for our own again;
Till his wrath to madness grows,
Firm for our own again.
Bravely hope, and wisely wait,
Toil, join, and educate;
Man is master of his fate;
We'll enjoy our own again.
With a keen constrained thirst—
Powder's calm ere it burst—
Making ready for the worst,
So we'll get our own again.
Let us to our purpose bide,
We'll have our own again.
God is on the righteous side,
We'll have our own again.

Vide “Spirit of the Nation,” 4to. p. 308.

CELTS AND SAXONS.

I

We hate the Saxon and the Dane,
We hate the Norman men—
We cursed their greed for blood and gain,
We curse them now again.
Yet start not, Irish born man,
If you're to Ireland true,
We heed not blood, nor creed, nor clan—
We have no curse for you.

II

We have no curse for you or your's,
But Friendship's ready grasp,
And Faith to stand by you and your's,
Unto our latest gasp—
To stand by you against all foes,
Howe'er, or whence they come,
With traitor arts, or bribes, or blows,
From England, France, or Rome.

III

What matter that at different shrines
We pray unto one God—
What matter that at different times
Our fathers won this sod—
In fortune and in name we're bound
By stronger links than steel;
And neither can be safe nor sound
But in the other's weal.

IV

As Nubian rocks, and Ethiop sand
Long drifting down the Nile,
Built up old Egypt's fertile land
For many a hundred mile;
So Pagan clans to Ireland came,
And clans of Christendom,
Yet joined their wisdom and their fame
To build a nation from.

V

Here came the brown Phœnician,
The man of trade and toil—
Here came the proud Milesian,
Ahungering for spoil;
And the Firbolg and the Cymry,
And the hard, enduring Dane,
And the iron Lords of Normandy,
With the Saxons in their train.

VI

And oh! it were a gallant deed
To show before mankind,
How every race and every creed
Might be by love combined—
Might be combined, yet not forget
The fountains whence they rose,
As, filled by many a rivulet
The stately Shannon flows.

VII

Nor would we wreak our ancient feud
On Belgian or on Dane,
Nor visit in a hostile mood
The hearths of Gaul or Spain;
But long as on our country lies
The Anglo-Norman yoke,
Their tyranny we'll signalize,
And God's revenge invoke.

VIII

We do not hate, we never cursed,
Nor spoke a foeman's word
Against a man in Ireland nursed,
Howe'er we thought he erred;
So start not, Irish born man,
If you're to Ireland true,
We heed not race, nor creed, nor clan,
We've hearts and hands for you.

Written in reply to some very beautiful verses printed in the Evening Mail, deprecating and defying the assumed hostility of the Irish Celts to the Irish Saxons.—Author's Note.

ORANGE AND GREEN WILL CARRY THE DAY.

[_]

Air—The Protestant Boys.

I

Ireland! rejoice, and England! deplore—
Faction and feud are passing away.
'Twas a low voice, but 'tis a loud roar,
“Orange and Green will carry the day.”
Orange! Orange!
Green and Orange!
Pitted together in many a fray—
Lions in fight!
And linked in their might,
Orange and Green will carry the day.
Orange! Orange!
Green and Orange!
Wave them together o'er mountain and bay.
Orange and Green!
Our King and our Queen!
“Orange and Green will carry the day!”

II

Rusty the swords our fathers unsheathed—
William and James are turned to clay—
Long did we till the wrath they bequeathed;
Red was the crop, and bitter the pay!
Freedom fled us!
Knaves misled us!
Under the feet of the foemen we lay—
Riches and strength
We'll win them at length,
For Orange and Green will carry the day!
Landlords fooled us;
England ruled us,
Hounding our passions to make us their prey;
But, in their spite,
The Irish Unite,
And Orange and Green will carry the day!

III

Fruitful our soil where honest men starve;
Empty the mart, and shipless the bay;
Out of our want the Oligarchs carve;
Foreigners fatten on our decay!
Disunited,
Therefore blighted,
Ruined and rent by the Englishman's sway;
Party and creed
For once have agreed—
Orange and Green will carry the day!

Boyne's old water,
Red with slaughter!
Now is as pure as an infant at play;
So, in our souls,
Its history rolls,
And Orange and Green will carry the day!

IV

English deceit can rule us no more,
Bigots and knaves are scattered like spray—
Deep was the oath the Orangeman swore,
“Orange and Green must carry the day!”
Orange! Orange!
Bless the Orange!
Tories and Whigs grew pale with dismay,
When, from the North,
Burst the cry forth,
“Orange and Green will carry the day;”
No surrender!
No Pretender!
Never to falter and never betray—
With an Amen,
We swear it again,
Orange and Green shall carry the day.

“The elements of Irish Nationality are not only combining—in fact, they are growing confluent in our minds. Such nationality as merits a good man's help, and awakens a true man's ambition,—such nationality as could stand against internal faction and foreign intrigue, —such nationality as would make the Irish hearth happy, and the Irish name illustrious, is becoming understood. It must contain and represent all the races of Ireland. It must not be Celtic; it must not be Saxon; it must be Irish. The Brehon law, and the maxims of Westminster;—the cloudy and lightning genius of the Gael, the placid strength of the Sacsanach, the marshalling insight of the Norman;—a Literature which shall exhibit in combination the passions and idioms of all, and which shall equally express our mind, in its romantic, its religious, its forensic, and its practical tendencies;—finally, a native government, which shall know and rule by the might and right of all, yet yield to the arrogance of none;—these are the components of such a nationality.”—Davis's Essays.

“It is not a gambling fortune, made at imperial play, Ireland wants it is the pious and stern cultivation of her faculties and her virtues, the acquisition of faithful and exact habits, and the self-respect that rewards a dutiful and sincere life. To get her peasants into snug homesteads, with well-tilled fields and placid hearths,—to develope the ingenuity of her artists, and the docile industry of her artisans,—to make for her own instruction a literature wherein our climate, history, and passions shall breathe,—to gain conscious strength and integrity, and the high post of holy freedom;—these are Ireland's wants.” Davis's Essays

II. PART II. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS AND BALLADS.

“The greatest achievement of the Irish people is their music. It tells their history, climate, and character; but it too much loves to weep. Let us, when so many of our chains have been broken,—while our strength is great, and our hopes high,—cultivate its bolder strains —its raging and rejoicing; or if we weep, let it be like men whose eyes are lifted, though their tears fall. “Music is the first faculty of the Irish; and scarcely anything has such power for good over them. The use of this faculty and this power, publicly and constantly, to keep up their spirits, refine their tastes, warm their courage, increase their union, and renew their zeal, —is the duty of every patriot.”—

Davis's Essays.

THE LOST PATH.

[_]

Air.—Grádh mo chroide.

I

Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be,
All comfort else has flown;
For every hope was false to me,
And here I am, alone.
What thoughts were mine in early youth!
Like some old Irish song,
Brimful of love, and life, and truth,
My spirit gushed along.

II

I hoped to right my native isle,
I hoped a soldier's fame,
I hoped to rest in woman's smile,
And win a minstrel's name—

Oh! little have I served my land,
No laurels press my brow,
I have no woman's heart or hand,
Nor minstrel honours now.

III

But fancy has a magic power,
It brings me wreath and crown,
And woman's love, the self-same hour
It smites oppression down.
Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be,
I have no joy beside;
Oh! throng around, and be to me
Power, country, fame, and bride.

LOVE'S LONGINGS.

I

To the conqueror his crowning,
First freedom to the slave,
And air unto the drowning,
Sunk in the ocean's wave—
And succour to the faithful,
Who fight their flag above,
Are sweet, but far less grateful
Than were my lady's love.

II

I know I am not worthy
Of one so young and bright;
And yet I would do for thee
Far more than others might;
I cannot give you pomp or gold,
If you should be my wife,
But I can give you love untold,
And true in death or life.

III

Methinks that there are passions
Within that heaving breast
To scorn their heartless fashions,
And wed whom you love best.
Methinks you would be prouder
As the struggling patriot's bride,
Than if rank your home should crowd, or
Cold riches round you glide.

IV

Oh! the watcher longs for morning,
And the infant cries for light,
And the saint for heaven's warning,
And the vanquished pray for might;
But their prayer, when lowest kneeling,
And their suppliance most true,
Are cold to the appealing
Of this longing heart to you.

HOPE DEFERRED.

[_]

Air.—Oh! art thou gone, my Mary dear?

I

'Tis long since we were forced to part, at least it seems so to my grief,
For sorrow wearies us like time, but ah! it brings not time's relief;
As in our days of tenderness, before me still she seems to glide;
And, though my arms are wide as then, yet she will not abide.
The day-light and the star-light shine, as if her eyes were in their light,
And, whispering in the panting breeze, her love-songs come at lonely night;
While, far away with those less dear, she tries to hide her grief in vain,
For, kind to all while true to me, it pains her to give pain.

II

I know she never spoke her love, she never breathed a single vow,
And yet I'm sure she loved me then, and still doats on me now;

For, when we met, her eyes grew glad, and heavy when I left her side,
And oft she said she'd be most happy as a poor man's bride;
I toiled to win a pleasant home, and make it ready by the spring;
The spring is past—what season now my girl unto our home will bring?
I'm sick and weary, very weary—watching, morning, night, and noon;
How long you're coming—I am dying—will you not come soon?

EIBHLIN A RUIN

[_]

Air.—Eibhlín a rúin.

I

When I am far away,
Eibhlín a rúin,
Be gayest of the gay,
Eibhlín a rúin,
Too dear your happiness,
For me to wish it less—
Love has no selfishness,
Eibhlín a rúin.

II

And it must be our pride,
Eibhlín a rúin,
Our trusting hearts to hide,
Eibhlín a rúin,
They wish our love to blight,
We'll wait for Fortune's light—
The flowers close up at night,
Eibhlín a rúin.

III

And when we meet alone,
Eibhlín a rúin,
Upon my bosom thrown,
Eibhlín a rúin,
That hour, with light bedecked,
Shall cheer us and direct,
A beacon to the wrecked,
Eibhlín a rúin.

IV

Fortune, thus sought, will come,
Eibhlín a rúin,
We'll win a happy home,
Eibhlín a rúin,
And, as it slowly rose,
'Twill tranquilly repose,
A rock 'mid melting snows,
Eibhlín a rúin.

THE BANKS OF THE LEE.

[_]

Air.—A Trip to the Cottage.

I

Oh! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee,
And love in a cottage for Mary and me;
There's not in the land a lovelier tide,
And I'm sure that there's no one so fair as my bride.
She's modest and meek,
There's a down on her cheek,
And her skin is as sleek
As a butterfly's wing—
Then her step would scarce show
On the fresh-fallen snow,
And her whisper is low,
But as clear as the spring.
Oh! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee,
And love in a cottage for Mary and me,
I know not how love is happy elsewhere,
I know not how any but lovers are there!

II

Oh! so green is the grass, so clear is the stream,
So mild is the mist, and so rich is the beam,
That beauty should ne'er to other lands roam,
But make on the banks of the river its home.

When, dripping with dew,
The roses peep through,
'Tis to look in at you
They are growing so fast;
While the scent of the flowers
Must be hoarded for hours,
'Tis poured in such showers
When my Mary goes past.
Oh! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee,
And love in a cottage for Mary and me—
Oh, Mary for me—oh, Mary for me!
And 'tis little I'd sigh for the banks of the Lee!

THE GIRL OF DUNBWY.

I

'Tis pretty to see the girl of Dunbwy
Stepping the mountain statelily—
Though ragged her gown, and naked her feet,
No lady in Ireland to match her is meet.

II

Poor is her diet, and hardly she lies—
Yet a monarch might kneel for a glance of her eyes;
The child of a peasant—yet England's proud Queen
Has less rank in her heart, and less grace in her mien.

III

Her brow 'neath her raven hair gleams, just as if
A breaker spread white 'neath a shadowy cliff—
And love, and devotion, and energy speak
From her beauty-proud eye, and her passion-pale cheek.

IV

But, pale as her cheek is, there's fruit on her lip,
And her teeth flash as white as the crescent moon's tip,
And her form and her step, like the reed-deer's, go past—
As lightsome, as lovely, as haughty, as fast.

V

I saw her but once, and I looked in her eye,
And she knew that I worshipped in passing her by;
The saint of the wayside—she granted my prayer,
Though we spoke not a word, for her mother was there.

VI

I never can think upon Bantry's bright hills,
But her image starts up, and my longing eye fills;
And I whisper her softly, “again, love, we'll meet,
And I'll lie in your bosom, and live at your feet.”

DUTY AND LOVE

[_]

Air.—My lodging is on the cold ground.

I

Oh! lady, think not that my heart has grown cold,
If I woo not as once I could woo;
Though sorrow has bruised it, and long years have-rolled,
It still doats on beauty and you:
And were I to yield to its inmost desire,
I would labour by night and by day,
Till I won you to flee from the home of your sire,
To live with your love far away.

II

But it is that my country's in bondage, and I
Have sworn to shatter her chains!
By my duty and oath I must do it or lie
A corse on her desolate plains;
Then, sure, dearest maiden, 'twere sinful to sue,
And crueller far to win,
But, should victory smile on my banner, to you
I shall fly without sorrow or sin.

ANNIE DEAR.

[_]

Air.—Maids in May.

I

Our mountain brooks were rushing,
Annie, dear,
The Autumn eve was flushing,
Annie, dear;
But brighter was your blushing,
When first, your murmurs hushing,
I told my love outgushing,
Annie, dear.

II

Ah! but our hopes were splendid,
Annie, dear,
How sadly they have ended,
Annie, dear;
The ring betwixt us broken,
When our vows of love were spoken,
Of your poor heart was a token,
Annie, dear.

III

The primrose flowers were shining,
Annie, dear,
When, on my breast reclining,
Annie, dear!
Began our Mi-na-meala,
And many a month did follow
Of joy—but life is hollow,
Annie, dear.

IV

For once, when home returning,
Annie, dear,
I found our cottage burning,
Annie, dear;
Around it were the yeomen,
Of every ill an omen,
The country's bitter foemen,
Annie, dear.

V

But why arose a morrow,
Annie, dear,
Upon that night of sorrow,
Annie, dear?
Far better, by thee lying,
Their bayonets defying,
Than live an exile sighing,
Annie, dear.

BLIND MARY.

[_]

Air.—Blind Mary.

I

There flows from her spirit such love and delight,
That the face of Blind Mary is radiant with light—
As the gleam from a homestead through darkness will show,
Or the moon glimmer soft through the fast falling snow.

II

Yet there's a keen sorrow comes o'er her at times,
As an Indian might feel in our northerly climes;
And she talks of the sunset, like parting of friends,
And the starlight, as love, that nor changes nor ends.

III

Ah! grieve not, sweet maiden, for star or for sun,
For the mountains that tower, or the rivers that run—
For beauty and grandeur, and glory, and light,
Are seen by the spirit, and not by the sight.

IV

In vain for the thoughtless are sunburst and shade,
In vain for the heartless flowers blossom and fade;
While the darkness that seems your sweet being to bound
Is one of the guardians, an Eden around!

THE BRIDE OF MALLOW.

I

'Twas dying they thought her,
And kindly they brought her
To the banks of Blackwater,
Where her forefathers lie;
'Twas the place of her childhood,
And they hoped that its wild wood,
And air soft and mild would
Soothe her spirit to die.

II

But she met on its border
A lad who adored her—
No rich man, nor lord, or
A coward, or slave;
But one who had worn
A green coat, and borne
A pike from Slieve Mourne,
With the patriots brave.

III

Oh! the banks of the stream are
Than emeralds greener:
And how should they wean her
From loving the earth?
While the song-birds so sweet,
And the waves at their feet,
And each young pair they meet,
Are all flushing with mirth.

IV

And she listed his talk,
And he shared in her walk—
And how could she baulk
One so gallant and true?
But why tell the rest?
Her love she confest,
And sunk on his breast,
Like the eventide dew.

V

Ah! now her cheek glows
With the tint of the rose,
And her healthful blood flows,
Just as fresh as the stream;
And her eye flashes bright,
And her footstep is light,
And sickness and blight
Fled away like a dream.

VI

And soon by his side
She kneels a sweet bride,
In maidenly pride
And maidenly fears;
And their children were fair,
And their home knew no care,
Save that all homestcads were
Not as happy as theirs.

THE WELCOME.

[_]

Air.—An buachailín buidhe.

I

Come in the evening, or come in the morning,
Come when you're looked for, or come without warning,
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you,
And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you.
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted,
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,
And the linnets are singing, “true lovers! don't sever.”

II

I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them;
Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom.
I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you;
I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you.
Oh! your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed farmer,
Or sabre and shield to a knight without armour;
I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me,
Then, wandering, I'll wish you, in silence, to love me.

III

We'll look through the trees at the cliff, and the eyrie,
We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy,
We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river,
Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her.
Oh! she'll whisper you, “Love as unchangeably beaming,
And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming,
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver,
As our souls flow in one down eternity's river.”

IV

So come in the evening, or come in the morning,
Come when you're looked for, or come without warning,
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you,
And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you!
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted,
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,
And the linnets are singing, “true lovers! don't sever!”

THE MI-NA-MEALA.

I

Like the rising of the sun,
Herald of bright hours to follow,
Lo! the marriage rites are done,
And begun the Mi-na-meala.

II

Heart to heart, and hand to hand,
Vowed 'fore God to love and cherish,
Each by each in grief to stand,
Never more apart to flourish.

III

Now their lips, low whisp'ring, speak
Thoughts their eyes have long been saying,
Softly bright, and richly meek,
As seraphs first their wings essaying.

IV

Deeply, wildly, warmly, love—
'Tis a heaven-sent enjoyment,
Lifting up our thoughts above
Selfish aims and cold employment.

V

Yet, remember, passion wanes,
Romance is parent to dejection;
Nought our happiness sustains
But thoughtful care and firm affection.

VI

When the Mi-na-meala's flown,
Sterner duties surely need you;
Do their bidding,—'tis love's own,—
Faithful love will say God speed you.

VII

Guard her comfort as 'tis worth,
Pray to God to look down on her;
And swift as cannon-shot go forth
To strive for freedom, truth, and honour.

VIII

Oft recall—and never swerve—
Your children's love and her's will follow;
Guard your home, and there preserve
For you an endless Mi-na-meala.

Honeymoon.

MAIRE BHAN A STOIR.

[_]

Air—Original.

I

In a valley, far away,
With my Máire bhán a stóir,
Short would be the summer-day,
Ever loving more and more;
Winter-days would all grow long,
With the light her heart would pour,
With her kisses and her song,
And her loving maith go leór.
Fond is Máire bhán a stóir,
Fair is Máire bhán a stóir,
Sweet as ripple on the shore,
Sings my Máire bhán a stóir.

II

Oh! her sire is very proud,
And her mother cold as stone;
But her brother bravely vowed
She should be my bride alone;
For he knew I loved her well,
And he knew she loved me too,
So he sought their pride to quell,
But 'twas all in vain to sue.
True is Máire bhán a stóir,
Tried is Máire bhán a stóir,
Had I wings I'd never soar,
From my Máire bhán a stóir.

III

There are lands where manly toil
Surely reaps the crop it sows,
Glorious woods and teeming soil,
Where the broad Missouri flows;
Through the trees the smoke shall rise,
From our hearth with maith go leór,
There shall shine the happy eyes
Of my Máire bhán a stóir.
Mild is Máire bhán a stóir,
Mine is Máire bhán a stóir,
Saints will watch about the door
Of my Máire bhán a stóir.

Which means, “fair Mary my treasure.” If we are to write gibberish to enable some of our readers to pronounce this, we must do so thus, Maur-ya vaun asthore, and pretty looking stuff it is. Really it is time for the inhabitants of Ireland to learn Irish.—Author's Note.

Much plenty, or in abundance.—Author's Note.

OH! THE MARRIAGE.

[_]

Air.—The Swaggering Jig.

I

Oh! the marriage, the marriage,
With love and mo bhuachaill for me,
The ladies that ride in a carriage
Might envy my marriage to me;
For Eoghan is straight as a tower,
And tender and loving and true,
He told me more love in an hour
Than the Squires of the county could do.
Then, Oh! the marriage, &c.

II

His hair is a shower of soft gold,
His eye is as clear as the day,
His conscience and vote were unsold
When others were carried away;
His word is as good as an oath,
And freely 'twas given to me;
Oh! sure 'twill be happy for both
The day of our marriage to see.
Then, Oh! the marriage, &c.

III

His kinsmen are honest and kind,
The neighbours think much of his skill,
And Eoghan's the lad to my mind,
Though he owns neither castle nor mill.
But he has a tilloch of land,
A horse, and a stocking of coin,
A foot for the dance, and a hand
In the cause of his country to join.
Then, Oh! the marriage, &c.

IV

We meet in the market and fair—
We meet in the morning and night—
He sits on the half of my chair,
And my people are wild with delight.
Yet I long through the winter to skim,
Though Eoghan longs more I can see,
When I will be married to him,
And he will be married to me.

Then, Oh! the marriage, the marriage,
With love and mo bhuachaill for me,
The ladies that ride in a carriage,
Might envy my marriage to me.

Vulgo Owen; but that is, properly, a name among the Cymry (Welsh).—Author's Note.

A PLEA FOR LOVE.

I

The summer brook flows in the bed,
The winter torrent tore asunder;
The sky-lark's gentle wings are spread,
Where walk the lightning and the thunder:
And thus you'll find the sternest soul
The gayest tenderness concealing;
And minds, that seem to mock control,
Are ordered by some fairy feeling.

II

Then, maiden! start not from the hand
That's hardened by the swaying sabre—
The pulse beneath may be as bland
As evening after day of labour:
And, maiden! start not from the brow
That thought has knit, and passion darkened—
In twilight hours, 'neath forest bough,
The tenderest tales are often hearkened.

THE BISHOP'S DAUGHTER.

[_]

Air.—The Maid of Killala.

I

Killala's halls are proud and fair;
Tyrawley's hills are cold and bare;
Yet, in the palace, you were sad,
While, here, your heart is safe and glad.

II

No satin couch, no maiden train,
Are here to soothe each passing pain;
Yet lay your head my breast upon,—
'Twill turn to down for you, sweet one!

III

Your father's halls are rich and fair,
And plain the home you've come to share;
But happy love's a fairy king,
And sheds a grace on every thing.

THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE.

[_]

Air.—An Cóta Caol.

I

His kiss is sweet, his word is kind,
His love is rich to me;
I could not in a palace find
A truer heart than he.
The eagle shelters not his nest
From hurricane and hail,
More bravely than he guards my breast—
The Boatman of Kinsale.

II

The wind that round the Fastnet sweeps
Is not a whit more pure—
The goat that down Cnoc Sheehy leaps
Has not a foot more sure.
No firmer hand nor freer eye
E'er faced an Autumn gale—
De Courcy's heart is not so high—
The Boatman of Kinsale.

III

The brawling squires may heed him not,
The dainty stranger sneer—
But who will dare to hurt our cot,
When Myles O'Hea is here.
The scarlet soldiers pass along—
They'd like, but fear to rail—
His blood is hot, his blow is strong—
The Boatman of Kinsale.

IV

His hooker's in the Scilly van,
When seines are in the foam;
But money never made the man,
Nor wealth a happy home.
So, blest with love and liberty,
While he can trim a sail,
He'll trust in God, and cling to me—
The Boatman of Kinsale.

DARLING NELL.

I

Why should not I take her unto my heart?
She has not a morsel of guile or art;
Why should not I make her my happy wife,
And love her and cherish her all my life?
I've met with a few of as shining eyes,
I've met with a hundred of wilder sighs,
I think I met some whom I loved as well—
But none who loved me like my Darling Nell.

II

She's ready to cry when I seem unkind,
But she smothers her grief within her mind;
And when my spirit is soft and fond,
She sparkles the brightest of stars beyond.
Oh! 'twould teach the thrushes to hear her sing,
And her sorrow the heart of a rock would wring;
There never was saint but would leave his cell,
If he thought he could marry my Darling Nell!

LOVE CHAUNT.

I

I think I've looked on eyes that shone
With equal splendour,
And some, but they are dimmed and gone,
As wildly tender.
I never looked on eyes that shed
Such home-light mingled with such beauty,—
That 'mid all lights and shadows said,
“I love and trust and will be true to ye.”

II

I've seen some lips almost as red,
A form as stately;
And some such beauty turned my head
Not very lately.
But not till now I've seen a girl
With form so proud, lips so delicious,
With hair like night, and teeth of pearl,—
Who was not haughty and capricious.

III

Oh, fairer than the dawn of day
On Erne's islands!
Oh, purer than the thorn spray
In Bantry's highlands!
In sleep such visions crossed my view,
And when I woke the phantom faded;
But now I find the fancy true,
And fairer than the vision made it.

A CHRISTMAS SCENE;

OR, LOVE IN THE COUNTRY.

I

The hill blast comes howling through leaf-rifted trees,
That late were as harp-strings to each gentle breeze;
The strangers and cousins and every one flown,
While we sit happy-hearted—together—alone.

II

Some are off to the mountain, and some to the fair,
The snow is on their cheek, on mine your black hair;
Papa with his farming is busy to-day,
And mamma's too good-natured to ramble this way.

III

The girls are gone—are they not?—into town,
To fetch bows and bonnets, perchance a beau, down;
Ah! tell them, dear Kate, 'tis not fair to coquette—
Though you, you bold lassie, are fond of it yet!

IV

You're not—do you say?—just remember last night,
You gave Harry a rose, and you dubbed him your knight;
Poor lad! if he loved you—but no, darling! no,
You're too thoughtful and good to fret any one so.

V

The painters are raving of light and of shade,
And Harry, the poet, of lake, hill, and glade;
While the light of your eye, and your soft wavy form
Suit a proser like me, by the hearth bright and warm.

VI

The snow on those hills is uncommonly grand,
But, you know, Kate, it's not half so white as your hand;
And say what you will of the grey Christmas sky,
Still I slightly prefer my dark girl's grey eye.

VII

Be quiet, and sing me “The Bonny Cuckoo,”
For it bids us the summer and winter love through,—
And then I'll read out an old ballad that shews
How Tyranny perished, and Liberty rose.

VIII

My Kate! I'm so happy, your voice whispers soft,
And your cheek flushes wilder from kissing so oft;
For town or for country, for mountains or farms,
What care I?—My darling's entwined in my arms.

THE INVOCATION.

[_]

Air.—Fanny Power.

I

Bright fairies by Glengariff's bay,
Soft woods that o'er Killarney sway,
Bold echoes born in Céim-an-eich,
Your kinsman's greeting hear!
He asks you, by old friendship's name,
By all the rights that minstrels claim,
For Erin's joy and Desmond's fame,
Be kind to Fanny dear!

II

Her eyes are darker than Dunloe,
Her soul is whiter than the snow,
Her tresses like arbutus flow,
Her step like frighted deer:
Then, still thy waves, capricious lake!
And ceaseless, soft winds, round her wake,
Yet never bring a cloud to break
The smile of Fanny dear!

III

Oh! let her see the trance-bound men,
And kiss the red deer in his den,
And spy from out a hazel glen
O'Donoghue appear;—
Or, should she roam by wild Dunbwy,
Oh! send the maiden to her knee,
I sung whilome, —but then, ah! me,
I knew not Fanny dear!

IV

Old Mangerton! thine eagles plume—
Dear Innisfallen! brighter bloom—
And Mucruss! whisper thro' the gloom
Quaint legends to her ear;
Till strong as ash-tree in its pride,
And gay as sunbeam on the tide,
We welcome back to Liffey's side,
Our brightest, Fanny dear.

Vide ante, page 42.

LOVE AND WAR.

I

How soft is the moon on Glengariff!
The rocks seem to melt with the light;
Oh! would I were there with dear Fanny,
To tell her that love is as bright;
And nobly the sun of July
O'er the waters of Adragoole shines—
Oh! would that I saw the green banner
Blaze there over conquering lines.

II

Oh! love is more fair than the moonlight,
And glory more grand than the sun;
And there is no rest for a brave heart,
Till its bride and its laurels are won;
But next to the burst of our banner,
And the smile of dear Fanny, I crave
The moon on the rocks of Glengariff—
The sun upon Adragoole's wave.

MY LAND.

I

She is a rich and rare land;
Oh! she's a fresh and fair land;
She is a dear and rare land—
This native land of mine.

II

No men than her's are braver—
Her women's hearts ne'er waver;
I'd freely die to save her,
And think my lot divine.

III

She's not a dull or cold land;
No! she's a warm and bold land;
Oh! she's a true and old land—
This native land of mine.

IV

Could beauty ever guard her,
And virtue still reward her,
No foe would cross her border—
No friend within it pine!

V

Oh, she's a fresh and fair land;
Oh, she's a true and rare land!
Yes, she's a rare and fair land—
This native land of mine.

THE RIGHT ROAD.

I

Let the feeble-hearted pine,
Let the sickly spirit whine,
But work and win be thine,
While you've life.
God smiles upon the bold—
So, when your flag's unrolled,
Bear it bravely till you're cold
In the strife.

II

If to rank or fame you soar,
Out your spirit frankly pour—
Men will serve you and adore,
Like a king.
Woo your girl with honest pride,
Till you've won her for your bride—
Then to her, through time and tide,
Ever cling.

III

Never under wrongs despair;
Labour long, and everywhere,
Link your countrymen, prepare,
And strike home.
Thus have great men ever wrought,
Thus must greatness still be sought,
Thus laboured, loved, and fought
Greece and Rome.

III. PART III. HISTORICAL BALLADS AND SONGS.

First Series.

“This country of ours is no sand-bank, thrown up by some recent caprice of earth. It is an ancient land, honoured in the archives of civilisation, traceable into antiquity by its piety, its valour, and its sufferings. Every great European race has sent its stream to the river of Irish mind. Long wars, vast organisations, subtle codes, beacon crimes, leading virtues, and self-mighty men were here. If we live influenced by wind, and sun, and tree, and not by the passions and deeds of the Past, we are a thriftless and hopeless people.” Davis's Essays.

A NATION ONCE AGAIN.

I

When boyhood's fire was in my blood,
I read of ancient freemen,
For Greece and Rome who bravely stood,
Three Hundred men and Three men.
And then I prayed I yet might see
Our fetters rent in twain,
And Ireland, long a province, be
A Nation once again.

II

And, from that time, through wildest woe,
That hope has shone, a far light;
Nor could love's brightest summer glow
Outshine that solemn starlight:
It seemed to watch above my head
In forum, field, and fane;
Its angel voice sang round my bed,
“A Nation once again.”

III

It whispered, too, that “freedom's ark
And service high and holy,
Would be profaned by feelings dark
And passions vain or lowly:
For freedom comes from God's right hand,
And needs a godly train;
And righteous men must make our land
A Nation once again.”

IV

So, as I grew from boy to man,
I bent me to that bidding—
My spirit of each selfish plan
And cruel passion ridding;
For, thus I hoped some day to aid—
Oh! can such hope be vain?—
When my dear country shall be made
A Nation once again.

The Three Hundred Greeks who died at Thermopylæ, and the Three Romans who kept the Sublician Bridge.—Author's Note.

LAMENT FOR THE MILESIANS.

[_]

Air—An bruach na carraige báine.

I

Oh! proud were the chieftains of green Inis-Fail;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
The stars of our sky, and the salt of our soil;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
Their hearts were as soft as a child in the lap,
Yet they were “the men in the gap”—
And now that the cold clay their limbs doth enwrap;—
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!

II

'Gainst England long battling, at length they went down;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
But they left their deep tracks on the road of renown;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
We are heirs of their fame, if we're not of their race,—
And deadly and deep our disgrace,
If we live o'er their sepulchres, abject and base;—
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!

III

Oh! sweet were the minstrels of kind Inis-Fail!
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
Whose music, nor ages nor sorrow can spoil;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
But their sad stifled tones are like streams flowing hid,
Their caoine and their piopracht were chid,
And their language, “that melts into music,” forbid;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!

IV

How fair were the maidens of fair Inis-Fail!
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
As fresh and as free as the sea-breeze from soil
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
Oh! are not our maidens as fair and as pure?
Can our music no longer allure?
And can we but sob, as such wrongs we endure?
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!

V

Their famous, their holy, their dear Inis-Fail!
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
Shall it still be a prey for the stranger to spoil?
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
Sure, brave men would labour by night and by day
To banish that stranger away;
Or, dying for Ireland, the future would say
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!

VI

Oh! shame—for unchanged is the face of our isle;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
That taught them to battle, to sing, and to smile;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
We are heirs of their rivers, their sea, and their land,—
Our sky and our mountains as grand—
We are heirs—oh! we're not—of their heart and their hand;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!

“That is pity, without heir in their company,” i. e. What a pity that there is no heir of their company. See the poem of Giolla Iosa Mor Mac Firbisigh in The Genealogies, Tribes, and Customs of the Ui Fiachrach, or O'Dubhada's Country, Printed for the Irish Arch. Soc. p. 230, line 2, and note d. Also O'Reilly's Dict, voce—farradh.—Author's Note.

Anglice, keen.

Angl. pibroch.

THE FATE OF KING DATHI.

(A.D. 428.)

I

Darkly their glibs o'erhang,
Sharp is their wolf-dog's fang,
Bronze spear and falchion clang—
Brave men might shun them!
Heavy the spoil they bear—
Jewels and gold are there—
Hostage and maiden fair—
How have they won them?

II

From the soft sons of Gaul,
Roman, and Frank, and thrall,
Borough, and hut, and hall,—
These have been torn.
Over Britannia wide,
Over fair Gaul they hied,
Often in battle tried,—
Enemies mourn!

III

Fiercely their harpers sing,—
Led by their gallant king,
They will to Eire bring
Beauty and treasure.
Britain shall bend the knee—
Rich shall their households be—
When their long ships the sea
Homeward shall measure.

IV

Barrow and Rath shall rise,
Towers, too, of wondrous size,
Tâiltin they'll solemnize,
Feis-Teamhrach assemble.
Samhain and Béal shall smile
On the rich holy isle—
Nay! in a little while
Œtius shall tremble!

V

Up on the glacier's snow,
Down on the vales below,
Monarch and clansmen go—
Bright is the morning.
Never their march they slack,
Jura is at their back,
When falls the evening black,
Hideous, and warning.

VI

Eagles scream loud on high;
Far off the chamois fly;
Hoarse comes the torrent's cry,
On the rocks whitening.
Strong are the storm's wings;
Down the tall pine it flings;
Hail-stone and sleet it brings—
Thunder and lightning.

VII

Little these veterans mind
Thundering, hail, or wind;
Closer their ranks they bind—
Matching the storm.
While, a spear-cast or more,
On, the front ranks before,
Dathi the sunburst bore—
Haughty his form.

VIII

Forth from the thunder-cloud
Leaps out a foe as proud—
Sudden the monarch bowed—
On rush the vanguard;
Wildly the king they raise—
Struck by the lightning's blaze—
Ghastly his dying gaze,
Clutching his standard!

IX

Mild is the morning beam,
Gently the rivers stream,
Happy the valleys seem;
But the lone islanders—
Mark how they guard their king!
Hark, to the wail they sing!
Dark is their counselling—
Helvetia's highlanders

X

Gather, like ravens, near—
Shall Dathi's soldiers fear?
Soon their home-path they clear—
Rapid and daring;
On through the pass and plain,
Until the shore they gain,
And, with their spoil, again,
Landed in Eirinn.

XI

Little does Eire care
For gold or maiden fair—
“Where is King Dathi?—where,
Where is my bravest?”
On the rich deck he lies,
O'er him his sunburst flies—
Solemn the obsequies,
Eire! thou gavest.

XII

See ye that countless train
Crossing Ros-Comain's plain,
Crying, like hurricane,
Uile liú ai?—
Broad is his carn's base—
Nigh the “King's burial-place,”
Last of the Pagan race,
Lieth King Dathi!

The consul Œtius, the shield of Italy, and terror of “the barbarian,” was a contemporary of King Dathi. Feis-Teamhrach, the Parliament of Tara. Tailtin, games held at Tailte, county Meath. Samhain and Beal, the moon and sun which Ireland worshipped.—Author's Note.

Angl. Roscommon.

Hibernice, Roilig na Riogh, vulgo, Relignaree— “A famous burial place near Cruachan, in Connacht, where the kings were usually interred, before the establishment of the Christian religion in Ireland.”— O'Brien's Ir. Dict.

ARGAN MÓR.

[_]

Air—Argan Mór.

I

The Danes rush around, around;
To the edge of the fosse they bound;
Hark! hark, to their trumpets' sound,
Bidding them to the war
Hark! hark to their cruel cry,
As they swear our hearts' cores to dry,
And their Raven red to dye;
Glutting their demon, Thor.

II

Leaping the Rath upon,
Here's the fiery Ceallachàn—
He makes the Lochlonnach wan,
Lifting his brazen spear!
Ivor, the Dane, is struck down,
For the spear broke right through his crown;
Yet worse did the battle frown—
Anlaf is on our rere!

III

See! see! the Rath's gates are broke!
And in—in, like a cloud of smoke,
Burst on the dark Danish folk,
Charging us everywhere—
Oh, never was closer fight
Than in Argan Mór that night—
How little do men want light,
Fighting within their lair

IV

Then girding about our king,
On the thick of the foes we spring—
Down—down we trample and fling,
Gallantly though they strive:
And never our falchions stood,
Till we were all wet with their blood,
And none of the pirate brood
Went from the Rath alive!

Northmen

THE VICTOR'S BURIAL.

I

Wrap him in his banner, the best shroud of the brave—
Wrap him in his onchu, and take him to his grave—
Lay him not down lowly, like bulwark overthrown,
But, gallantly upstanding, as if risen from his throne,
With his craiseach in his hand, and his sword on his thigh,
With his war-belt on his waist, and his cathbharr on high—
Put his fleasg upon his neck—his green flag round him fold,
Like ivy round a castle wall—not conquered, but grown old—
'Mhuire as truagh! A mhuire as truagh! A mhuire as truagh! ochon!
Weep for him! Oh! weep for him, but remember, in your moan,
That he died, in his pride,—with his foes about him strown.

II

Oh! shrine him in Beinn-Edair with his face towards the foe,
As an emblem that not death our defiance can lay low—

Let him look across the waves from the promontory's breast,
To menace back The East, and to sentinel The West;
Sooner shall these channel waves the iron coast cut through,
Than the spirit he has left, yield, Easterlings! to you—
Let his coffin be the hill, let the eagles of the sea
Chorus with the surges round, the tuireamh of the free!
'Mhuire as truagh! A mhuire as truagh! A mhuire as truagh! ochon!
Weep for him! Oh! weep for him, but remember, in your moan,
That he died, in his pride,—with his foes about him strown!

Flag.

Spear.

Helmet.

Collar.

Anglice, Wirrasthrue, ochone!

Howth.

A masculine lament.

THE TRUE IRISH KING.

I

The Cæsar of Rome has a wider demesne,
And the Ard Righ of France has more clans in his train;
The sceptre of Spain is more heavy with gems,
And our crowns cannot vie with the Greek diadems;
But kinglier far before heaven and man
Are the Emerald fields, and the fiery-eyed clan,
The sceptre, and state, and the poets who sing,
And the swords that encircle A True Irish King!

II

For, he must have come from a conquering race—
The heir of their valour, their glory, their grace:
His frame must be stately, his step must be fleet,
His hand must be trained to each warrior feat,
His face, as the harvest moon, steadfast and clear,
A head to enlighten, a spirit to cheer;
While the foremost to rush where the battle-brands ring,
And the last to retreat is A True Irish King!

III

Yet, not for his courage, his strength, or his name,
Can he from the clansmen their fealty claim.
The poorest, and highest, choose freely to-day
The chief, that to-night, they'll as truly obey;
For loyalty springs from a people's consent,
And the knee that is forced had been better unbent—
The Sacsanach serfs no such homage can bring
As the Irishmen's choice of A True Irish King!

IV

Come, look on the pomp when they “make an O'Neill;
The muster of dynasts—O'h-Again, O'Shiadhail,
O'Catháin, O'h-Anluain, O'Bhreisléin, and all,
From gentle Aird Uladh to rude Dún na n-gall:

“St. Patrick's comharba,” with bishops thirteen,
And ollamhs and breitheamhs, and minstrels, are seen,
Round Tulach-Og Rath, like the bees in the spring,
All swarming to honour A True Irish King!

V

Unsandalled he stands on the foot-dinted rock;
Like a pillar-stone fixed against every shock.
Round, round is the Rath on a far-seeing hill;
Like his blemishless honour, and vigilant will.
The grey-beards are telling how chiefs by the score
Have been crowned on “The Rath of the Kings” heretofore,
While, crowded, yet ordered, within its green ring,
Are the dynasts and priests round The True Irish King!

VI

The chronicler read him the laws of the clan,
And pledged him to bide by their blessing and ban;
His skian and his sword are unbuckled to show
That they only were meant for a foreigner foe;
A white willow wand has been put in his hand—
A type of pure, upright, and gentle command—
While hierarchs are blessing, the slipper they fling,
And O'Catháin proclaims him A True Irish King!

VII

Thrice looked he to Heaven with thanks and with prayer—
Thrice looked to his borders with sentinel stare—
To the waves of Loch n-Eathach, the heights of Srathbhán;
And thrice on his allies, and thrice on his clan—
One clash on their bucklers!—one more!—they are still—
What means the deep pause on the crest of the hill?
Why gaze they above him?—a war-eagle's wing!
“'Tis an omen!—Hurrah! for The True Irish King!”

VIII

God aid him!—God save him!—and smile on his reign—
The terror of England—the ally of Spain.
May his sword be triumphant o'er Sacsanach arts!
Be his throne ever girt by strong hands, and true hearts!
May the course of his conquest run on till he see
The flag of Plantagenet sink in the sea!
May minstrels for ever his victories sing,
And saints make the bed of The True Irish King!

Angl. O'Hagan, O'Shiel, O'Cahan, or Kane, O'Hanlon.

Angl. The Ards.

Angl. Donegal.

Successor—comharba Phadruig—the Archbishop of (Ard-macha) Armagh

Doctors or learned men.

Judges. Angl. Brehons.

In the county (Tir-Eoghain) Tyrone, between Cookstown and Stewartstown.

Angl. Lough Neagh.

Angl. Strabane.

THE GERALDINES.

I

The Geraldines! the Geraldines!—'tis full a thousand years
Since, 'mid the Tuscan vineyards, bright flashed their battle-spears;
When Capet seized the crown of France, their iron shields were known,
And their sabre-dint struck terror on the banks of the Garonne:
Across the downs of Hastings they spurred hard by William's side,
And the grey sands of Palestine with Moslem blood they dyed;—
But never then, nor thence, till now, have falsehood or disgrace
Been seen to soil Fitzgerald's plume, or mantle in his face.

II

The Geraldines! the Geraldines!—'tis true, in Strongbow's van,
By lawless force, as conquerors, their Irish reign began;
And, oh! through many a dark campaign they proved their prowess stern,
In Leinster's plains, and Munster's vales, on king, and chief, and kerne:
But noble was the cheer within the halls so rudely won,
And generous was the steel-gloved hand that had such slaughter done;
How gay their laugh, how proud their mien, you'd ask no herald's sign—
Among a thousand you had known the princely Geraldine.

III

These Geraldines! these Geraldines!—not long our air they breathed;
Not long they fed on venison, in Irish water seethed;
Not often had their children been by Irish mothers nursed,
When from their full and genial hearts an Irish feeling burst!

The English monarchs strove in vain, by law, and force, and bribe,
To win from Irish thoughts and ways this “more than Irish” tribe;
For still they clung to fosterage, to breitheamh, cloak, and bard:
What king dare say to Geraldine, “your Irish wife discard”?

IV

Ye Geraldines! ye Geraldines!—how royally ye reigned
O'er Desmond broad, and rich Kildare, and English arts disdained:
Your sword made knights, your banner waved, free was your bugle call
By Gleann's green slopes, and Daingean's tide, from Bearbha's banks to Eóchaill.
What gorgeous shrines, what breitheamh lore, what minstrel feasts there were
In and around Magh Nuadhaid's keep, and palacefilled Adare!
But not for rite or feast ye stayed, when friend or kin were pressed;
And foemen fled, when “Crom Abú” bespoke your lance in rest.

V

Ye Geraldines! ye Geraldines!—since Silken Thomas flung
King Henry's sword on council board, the English thanes among,
Ye never ceased to battle brave against the English sway,
Though axe and brand and treachery your proudest cut away.
Of Desmond's blood, through woman's veins passed on th' exhausted tide;
His title lives—a Sacsanach churl usurps the lion's hide:
And, though Kildare tower haughtily, there's ruin at the root,
Else why, since Edward fell to earth, had such a tree no fruit?

VI

True Geraldines! brave Geraldines!—as torrents mould the earth,
You channelled deep old Ireland's heart by constancy and worth:
When Ginckle 'leaguered Limerick, the Irish soldiers gazed
To see if in the setting sun dead Desmond's banner blazed!

And still it is the peasants' hope upon the Cuirreach's mere,
“They live, who'll see ten thousand men with good Lord Edward here”—
So let them dream till brighter days, when, not by Edward's shade,
But by some leader true as he, their lines shall be arrayed!

VII

These Geraldines! these Geraldines!—rain wears away the rock,
And time may wear away the tribe that stood the battle's shock,
But, ever, sure, while one is left of all that honoured race,
In front of Ireland's chivalry is that Fitzgerald's place:
And, though the last were dead and gone, how many a field and town,
From Thomas Court to Abbeyfeile, would cherish their renown,
And men would say of valour's rise, or ancient power's decline,
“Twill never soar, it never shone, as did the Geraldine.”

VIII

The Geraldines! the Geraldines!—and are there any fears
Within the sons of conquerors for full a thousand years?
Can treason spring from out a soil bedewed with martyr's blood?
Or has that grown a purling brook, which long rushed down a flood?—
By Desmond swept with sword and fire,—by clan and keep laid low,—
By Silken Thomas and his kin,—by sainted Edward! No!
The forms of centuries rise up, and in the Irish line
Command their son to take the post that fits the Geraldine!

Angl. Glyn.

Angl. Dingle.

Angl. Barrow.

Angl. Youghal.

Angl. Brehon.

Angl. Maynooth.

Formerly the war-cry of the Geraldines; and now their motto.

Angl. Curragh.

O'BRIEN OF ARA.

[_]

Air—The Piper of Blessington.

I

Tall are the towers of O'Ceinneidigh—
Broad are the lands of MacCarrthaigh—
Desmond feeds five hundred men a-day;
Yet, here's to O'Briain of Ara!
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,
Down from the top of Camailte,
Clansman and kinsman are coming here
To give him the cead mile failte.

II

See you the mountains look huge at eve—
So is our chieftain in battle—
Welcome he has for the fugitive,—
Uisce-beatha, fighting, and cattle!

Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,
Down from the top of Camailte,
Gossip and ally are coming here
To give him the cead mile failte.

III

Horses the valleys are tramping on,
Sleek from the Sacsanach manger—
Creachs the hills are encamping on,
Empty the bâns of the stranger!
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,
Down from the top of Camailte,
Ceithearn and buannacht are coming here
To give him the cead mile failte.

IV

He has black silver from Cill-da-lua —
Rian and Cearbhall are neighbours—
'N Aonach submits with a fuililiú—
Butler is meat for our sabres!
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,
Down from the top of Camailte,
Rian and Cearbhall are coming here
To give him the cead mile failte.

V

'Tis scarce a week since through Osairghe
Chased he the Baron of Durmhagh—
Forced him five rivers to cross, or he
Had died by the sword of Red Murchadh!
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,
Down from the top of Camailte,
All the Ui Bhriain are coming here
To give him the cead mile failte.

VI

Ara is a small mountain tract, south of Loch Deirgdheirc, and north of the Camailte (vulgo the Keeper) hills. It was the seat of a branch of the Thomond princes, called the O'Briens of Ara, who hold an important place in the Munster Annals.—Author's Note.

Vulgo, O'Kennedy.

Vul. M`Carthy.

Vul. O'Brien.

Vul. Drumineer.

Vul. Usquebaugh.

Vulgo, Kerne.

Vul. Killaloe.

Vul. Ryan.

Vul. Carroll.

Vul. Nenagh.

Vulgo, Ossory.

Vul, Durrow.

Vul. Murrough.

EMMELINE TALBOT.

A BALLAD OF THE PALE.

[_]

[The Scene is on the borders of Dublin and Wicklow.]

I

'Twas a September day—
In Glenismole,
Emmeline Talbot lay
On a green knoll.
She was a lovely thing,
Fleet as a falcon's wing,
Only fifteen that spring—
Soft was her soul.

II

Danger and dreamless sleep
Much did she scorn,
And from her father's keep
Stole out that morn.
Towards Glenismole she hies;—
Sweetly the valley lies,
Winning the enterprise,—
No one to warn.

III

Till by the noon, at length,
High in the vale,
Emmeline found her strength
Suddenly fail.
Panting, yet pleasantly,
By Dodder-side lay she—
Thrushes sang merrily,
“Hail, sister, hail!”

IV

Hazel and copse of oak
Made a sweet lawn,
Out from the thicket broke
Rabbit and fawn.
Green were the eiscirs round,
Sweet was the river's sound,
Eastwards flat Cruach frowned,
South lay Sliabh Bân.

V

Looking round Barnakeel,
Like a tall Moor
Full of impassioned zeal,
Peeped brown Kippure.
Dublin in feudal pride,
And many a hold beside,
Over Finn-ghaill preside—
Sentinels sure!

100

VI

Is that a roebuck's eye
Glares from the green?—
Is that a thrush's cry
Rings in the screen?
Mountaineers round her sprung,
Savage their speech and tongue,
Fierce was their chief and young—
Poor Emmeline!

VII

“Hurrah, 'tis Talbot's child,”
Shouted the kerne,
“Off to the mountains wild,
Faire, O'Byrne!”
Like a bird in a net,
Strove the sweet maiden yet,
Praying and shrieking, “Let—
Let me return.”

VIII

After a moment's doubt,
Forward he sprung,
With his sword flashing out—
Wrath on his tongue.
“Touch not a hair of her's—
Dies he, who finger stirs!”
Back fell his foragers—
To him she clung.

101

IX

Soothing the maiden's fears,
Kneeling was he,
When burst old Talbot's spears
Out on the lea.
March-men, all staunch and stout,
Shoutíng their Belgard shout—
“Down with the Irish rout,
Prets d'accomplir.”

X

Taken thus unawares,
Some fled amain—
Fighting like forest bears,
Others were slain.
To the chief clung the maid—
How could he use his blade?—
That night, upon him weighed
Fetter and chain.

XI

Oh! but that night was long,
Lying forlorn,
Since, 'mid the wassail song,
These words were borne—
“Nathless your tears and cries,
Sure as the sun shall rise,
Connor O'Byrne dies,
Talbot has sworn.”

102

XII

Brightly on Tamhlacht hill
Flashes the sun;
Strained at his window-sill,
How his eyes run
From lonely Sagart slade
Down to Tigh-bradán glade,
Landmarks of border raid,
Many a one.

XIII

Too well the captive knows
Belgard's main wall
Will, to his naked blows,
Shiver and fall,
Ere in his mountain hold
He shall again behold
Those whose proud hearts are cold,
Weeping his thrall.

XIV

“Oh! for a mountain side,
Bucklers and brands!
Freely I could have died
Heading my bands,
But on a felon tree”—
Bearing a fetter key,
By him all silently
Emmeline stands.

103

XV

Late rose the castellan,
He had drunk deep,—
Warder and serving-man
Still were asleep,—
Wide is the castle-gate,
Open the captive's grate,
Fetters disconsolate
Flung in a heap.

XVI

'Tis an October day,
Close by Loch Dan
Many a creach lay,
Many a man.
'Mongst them, in gallant mien,
Connor O'Byrne's seen
Wedded to Emmeline,
Girt by his clan!

Hibernice,—Gleann-an-smóil.

Hib. Bearna-chael.

Hib. Keap-iúbhair.

Vulg. Fingal.

Vulg. Farrah.

The motto and cry of the Talbots.

Hib. Conchobhar O'Broin.

Vulg. Tallaght.

104

O'SULLIVAN'S RETURN.

[_]

Air—An crúisgin lán.

I

O'Suillebhain has come
Within sight of his home,—
He had left it long years ago;
The tears are in his eyes,
And he prays the wind to rise,
As he looks towards his castle, from the prow, from the prow;
As he looks towards his castle, from the prow.

II

For the day had been calm,
And slow the good ship swam,
And the evening gun had been fired;
He knew the hearts beat wild
Of mother, wife, and child,
And of clans, who to see him long desired, long desired;
And of clans, who to see him long desired.

105

III

Of the tender ones the clasp,
Of the gallant ones the grasp,
He thinks, until his tears fall warm:
And full seems his wide hall,
With friends from wall to wall,
Where their welcome shakes the banners, like a storm, like a storm;
Where their welcome shakes the banners like a storm.

IV

Then he sees another scene—
Norman churls on the green—
“O'Suilleabháin abú” is the cry;
For filled is his ship's hold
With arms and Spanish gold,
And he sees the snake-twined spear wave on high, wave on high;
And he sees the snake-twined spear wave on high.

106

V

“Finghín's race shall be freed
From the Norman's cruel breed—
My sires freed Béar' once before,
When the Barnwells were strewn
On the fields, like hay in June,
And but one of them escaped from our shore, from our shore;
And but one of them escaped from our shore.”

VI

And, warming in his dream,
He floats on victory's stream,
Till Desmond—till all Erin is free!
Then, how calmly he'll go down,
Full of years and of renown,
To his grave near that castle by the sea, by the sea;
To his grave near that castle by the sea!

VII

But the wind heard his word,
As though he were its lord,
And the ship is dashed up the Bay.
Alas! for that proud barque,
The night has fallen dark,
'Tis too late to Eadarghabhal to bear away, bear away;
'Tis too late to Eadarghabhal to bear away.

107

VIII

Black and rough was the rock,
And terrible the shock,
As the good ship crashed asunder;
And bitter was the cry,
And the sea ran mountains high,
And the wind was as loud as the thunder, the thunder;
And the wind was as loud as the thunder.

IX

There's woe in Béara,
There's woe in Gleann-garbh,
And from Beanntráighe unto Dún-kiaráin;
All Desmond hears their grief,
And wails above their chief—
“Is it thus, is it thus, that you return, you return—
Is it thus, is it thus, that you return?”

Slow time.

The standard bearings of O'Sullivan. See O'Donovan's edition of the Banquet of Dún na n-Gedh, and the Battle of Magh Rath, for the Archaeological Society, App. p. 349.—“Bearings of O'Sullivan at the Battle of Caisglinn.”

“I see, mightily advancing on the plain,
The banner of the race of noble Finghin;
His spear with a venomous adder (entwined),
His host all flery champions.”
Finghin was one of their most famous progenitors.—Author's Note.

The Barnwells were Normans, who seized part of Beara in the reign of Henry II.; but the O'Sullivans came down on them, and cut off all save one—a young man who settled at Drimnagh Castle, Co. Dublin, and was ancestor to the Barnwells, Lords of Trimlestone and Kingsland.—Author's Note.

Vul. Adragoole.

Vul. Glengariff.

Vul. Bantry.

Vul. Dunkerron.

108

THE FATE OF THE O'SULLIVANS.

I

“A baby in the mountain gap—
Oh! wherefore bring it hither?
Restore it to it's mother's lap,
Or else 'twill surely wither.
A baby near the eagle's nest!
How should their talons spare it?
Oh! take it to some woman's breast,
And she will kindly care it.”

109

II

“Fear not for it,” M`Swiney said,
And stroked his cul-fionn slowly,
And proudly raised his matted head,
Yet spoke me soft and lowly—
“Fear not for it, for, many a day,
I climb the eagle's eyrie,
And bear the eaglet's food away
To feed our little fairy.

III

“Fear not for it, no Bantry bird
Would harm our chieftain's baby”—
He stopped, and something in him stirred—
'Twas for his chieftain, may be.
And then he brushed his softened eyes,
And raised his bonnet duly,
And muttered “the Beantighearna lies
Asleep in yonder buaili.”

IV

He pointed 'twixt the cliff and lake,
And there a hut of heather,
Half hidden in the craggy brake,
Gave shelter from the weather;
The little tanist shrieked with joy,
Adown the gulley staring—
The clansman swelled to see the boy,
O'Sullivan-like, daring.

110

V

Oh! what a glorious sight was there,
As from the summit gazing,
O'er winding creek and islet fair,
And mountain waste amazing;
The Caha and Dunkerron hills
Cast half the gulfs in shadow,
While shone the sun on Culiagh's rills,
And Whiddy's emerald meadow—

VI

The sea a sheet of crimson spread,
From Foze to Dursey islands;
While flashed the peaks from Mizenhead
To Musk'ry's distant highlands—
I saw no kine, I saw no sheep,
I saw nor house nor furrow;
But round the tarns the red deer leap,
Oak and arbutus thorough.

VII

Oh! what a glorious sight was there,
That paradise o'ergazing—
When, sudden, burst a smoky glare,
Above Glengarriff blazing—
The clansman sprung upon his feet—
Well might the infant wonder—
His hands were clenched, his brow was knit,
His hard lips just asunder.

111

VIII

Like shattered rock from out the ground,
He stood there stiff and silent—
Our breathing hardly made a sound,
As o'er the baby I leant;
His figure then went to and fro,
As the tall blaze would flicker—
And as exhausted it sunk low,
His breath came loud and thicker.

IX

Then slowly turned he round his head,
And slowly turned his figure;
His eye was fixed as Spanish lead,
His limbs were full of rigour—
Then suddenly he grasped the child,
And raised it to his shoulder,
Then pointing where, across the wild,
The fire was seen to smoulder;—

X

“Look, baby !—look, there is the sign,
Your father is returning,
The ‘generous hand’ of Finghin's line
Has set that beacon burning.
‘The generous hand’—Oh! Lord of hosts—
Oh, Virgin, ever holy!
There's nought to give on Bantry's coasts—
Dunbwy is lying lowly.

112

XI

“The halls, where mirth and minstrelsy
Than Bêara's wind rose louder,
Are flung in masses lonelily,
And black with English powder—
The sheep that o'er our mountains ran,
The kine that filled our valleys,
Are gone, and not a single clan
O'Sullivan now rallies.

XII

“He, long the Prince of hill and bay!
The ally of the Spaniard!
Has scarce a single cath to-day,
Nor seaman left to man yard”—
M'Swiney ceased, then fiercely strode,
Bearing along the baby,
Until we reached the rude abode
Of Bantry's lovely lady.

XIII

We found her in the savage shed—
A mild night in mid winter—
The mountain heath her only bed,
Her dais the rocky splinter!
The sad Beantighearn' had seen the fire—
'Twas plain she had been praying—
She seized her son, as we came nigher,
And welcomed me, thus saying—

113

XIV

“Our gossip's friend I gladly greet,
Though scant'ly I can cheer him;”
Then bids the clansman fly to meet
And tell her lord she's near him.
M`Swiney kissed his foster son,
And shouting out his faire—
“O'Suillebháin abú”—is gone
Like Marchman's deadly arrow!

XV

An hour went by, when, from the shore
The chieftain's horn winding,
Awoke the echoes' hearty roar—
Their fealty reminding:
A moment, and he faintly gasps—
“These—these, thank heav'n, are left me”—
And smiles as wife and child he clasps—
“They have not quite bereft me.”

XVI

I never saw a mien so grand,
A brow and eye so fearless—
There was not in his veteran band
A single eyelid tearless.
His tale is short—O'Ruarc's strength
Could not postpone his ruin,
And Leitrim's towers he left at length,
To spare his friend's undoing.

114

XVII

To Spain—to Spain, he now will sail,
His destiny is wroken—
An exile from dear Inis-fail,—
Nor yet his will is broken;
For still he hints some enterprise,
When fleets shall bring them over,
Dunbwy's proud keep again shall rise,
And mock the English rover.

XVIII

I saw them cross Slieve Miskisk o'er,
The crones around them weeping—
I saw them pass from Culiagh's shore,
Their galleys' strong oars sweeping;
I saw their ship unfurl its sail—
I saw their scarfs long waven—
They saw the hills in distance fail—
They never saw Berehaven!

After the taking of Dunbwy and the ruin of the O'Sullivan's county, the chief marched right through Muskerry and Ormond, hotly pursued. He crossed the Shannon in curachs made of his horses' skins. He then defeated the English forces and slew their commander, Manby, and finally fought his way into O'Ruare's country, During his absence his lady (Beantighearna) and infant were supported in the mountains, by one of his clansmen, M`Swiney, who, tradition says, used to rob the eagles' nests of their prey for his charge. O'Sullivan was excepted from James the First's amnesty on account of his persevering resistance. He went to Spain, and was appointed governor of Corunna and Viscount Berehaven. His march from Glengarriff to Leitrim is, perhaps, the most romantic and gallant achievement of his age.—Author's Note.

Vulgo, coulin.

Vulgo, boulie.

115

THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.

I

The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles—
The summer's sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles—
Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird;
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard;
The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play;
The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to pray—
And full of love, and peace, and rest—its daily labour o'er—
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore.

116

II

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there;
No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air.
The massive capes, and ruined towers, seem conscious of the calm;
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm.
So still the night, these two long barques, round Dunashad that glide,
Must trust their oars—methinks not few—against the ebbing tide—
Oh! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore—
They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore!

III

All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street,
And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet—
A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! “the roof is in a flame!”
From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame—
And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall,
And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl—
The yell of “Allah” breaks above the prayer, and shriek, and roar—
Oh, blessed God! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore!

117

IV

Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword;
Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gored;
Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching wild;
Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child;
But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing heel,
While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel—
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store,
There's one hearth well avengéd in the sack of Baltimore!

V

Mid-summer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds began to sing—
They see not now the milking maids—deserted is the spring!
Mid-summer day—this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town—
These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown;
They only found the smoking walls, with neighbours' blood besprent,
And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went—
Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Cléire, and saw five leagues before
The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore.

118

VI

Oh! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed—
This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed.
Oh! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Dardanelles;
And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells.
The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey—
She's safe—she's dead—she stabbed him in the midst of his Serai;
And, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore,
She only smiled—O'Driscoll's child—she thought of Baltimore.

VII

'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band,
And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand,
Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling wretch is seen—
'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan—he, who steered the Algerine!
He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer,
For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there—
Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought the Norman o'er—
Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore.

Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in South Munster. It grew up round a Castle of O'Driscoll's, and was, after his ruin, colonized by the English. On the 20th of June, 1631, the crew of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead of the night, sacked the town, and bore off into slavery all who were not too old, or too young, or too fierce for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman, whom they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years after he was convicted and executed for the crime. Baltimore never recovered this. To the artist, the antiquary, and the naturalist, its neighbourhood is most interesting.—See “The Ancient and Present State of the County and City of Cork,” by Charles Smith, M. D., vol. 1, p.270. Second edition. Dublin, 1774.—Author's Note.

119

LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF EOGHAN RUADH O'NEILL,

[_]

[Time—10th Nov., 1649. Scene—Ormond's Camp, County Waterford. Speakers—A Veteran of Eoghan O'Neill's clan, and one of the horsemen, just arrived with an account of his death.]

I

“Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Eoghan Ruadh O'Neill?”
“Yes, they slew with poison him, they feared to meet with steel.”
“May God wither up their hearts! May their blood cease to flow!
May they walk in living death, who poisoned Eoghan Ruadh!

II

Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words.”
“From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords;
But the weapon of the Sacsanach met him on his way,
And he died at Cloch Uachtar, upon Saint Leonard's day.”

120

III

“Wail, wail ye for The Mighty One! Wail, wail ye for the Dead;
Quench the hearth, and hold the breath—with ashes strew the head.
How tenderly we loved him! How deeply we deplore!
Holy Saviour! but to think we shall never see him more.

IV

Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall!
Sure we never won a battle—'twas Eoghan won them all.
Had he lived—had he lived—our dear country had been free;
But he's dead, but he's dead, and 'tis slaves we'll ever be.

V

O'Farrell and Clanrickarde, Preston and Red Hugh,
Audley and Mac Mahon—ye are valiant, wise, and true;
But—what, what are ye all to our darling who is gone?
The Rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle's corner stone!

VI

Wail, wail him through the Island! Weep, weep for our pride!
Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died!

121

Weep the Victor of Beann-bhorbh —weep him, young man and old;
Weep for him, ye women—your Beautiful lies cold!

VII

We thought you would not die—we were sure you would not go,
And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow—
Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky—
Oh! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die?

VIII

Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill! bright was your eye,
Oh! why did you leave us, Eoghan? why did you die?
Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with God on high;
But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Eoghan!—why did you die?”

Commonly called Owen Roe O'Neill.

Vulgo, Clough Oughter.

Vul. Benburb.

122

A RALLY FOR IRELAND.

[MAY, 1689.]

I.

Shout it out, till it ring
From Beann-mhór to Cape Cléire,
For our country and king,
And religion so dear.
Rally, men! rally—
Irishmen! rally!
Gather round the dear flag, that, wet with our tears,
And torn, and bloody, lay hid for long years,
And now, once again, in its pride re-appears.
See! from The Castle our green banner waves,
Bearing fit motto for uprising slaves—
For Now or never!
Now and for ever!
Bids you to battle for triumph or graves—
Bids you to burst on the Sacsanach knaves—
Rally, then, rally!
Irishmen, rally!
Shout Now or never!
Now and for ever!
Heed not their fury, however it raves,
Welcome their horsemen with pikes and with staves,
Close on their cannon, their bay'nets, and glaives,
Down with their standard wherever it waves;
Fight to the last, and ye cannot be slaves!
Fight to the last, and ye cannot be slaves!

123

II.

Gallant Sheldon is here,
And Hamilton, too,
And Tirchonaill so dear,
And Mac Carrthaigh, so true.
And there are Frenchmen;
Skilful and staunch men—
De Rosen, Pontée, Pusignan, and Boisseleau,
And gallant Lauzun is a coming, you know,
With Balldearg, the kinsman of great Eoghan Ruadh.
From Sionainn to Banna, from Lifé to Laoi,
The country is rising for Libertie.
Tho' your arms are rude,
If your courage be good,
As the traitor fled will the stranger flee,
At another Drom-mór, from “the Irishry.”
Arm, peasant and lord!
Grasp musket and sword!
Grasp pike-staff and skian!
Give your horses the rein!
March, in the name of his Majesty—
Ulster and Munster unitedly—
Townsman and peasant, like waves of the sea—
Leinster and Connacht to victory—
Shoulder to shoulder for Liberty,
Shoulder to shoulder for Liberty.

124

III.

Kirk, Schomberg and Churchill
Are coming—what then?
We'll drive them and Dutch Will
To England again;
We can laugh at each threat,
For our Paliament's met—
De Courcy, O'Briain, Mac Domhnaill, Le Poer,
O'Neill and St. Lawrence, and others go leor,
The choice of the land from Athluain to the shore!
They'll break the last link of the Sacsanach chain—
They'll give us the lands of our fathers again!
Then up ye! and fight
For your King and your Right,
Or ever toil on, and never complain,
Tho' they trample your roof-tree, and rifle your fane.
Rally, then, rally!
Irishmen, rally—
Fight Now or never,
Now and for ever!
Laws are in vain without swords to maintain;
So, muster as fast as the fall of the rain:
Serried and rough as a field of ripe grain,
Stand by your flag upon mountain and plain:
Charge till yourselves or your foemen are slain!
Fight till yourselves or your foemen are slain!

Set to original music in “Spirit of Nation,” 4to., p. 121.

Vulgo Shannon, Bann, Liffey, and Lee.

Vul. Athlone.

125

THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK

[August 27, 1690.]

[_]

Air—Garradh Eoghain.

I

Oh, hurrah! for the men, who, when danger is nigh,
Are found in the front, looking death in the eye.
Hurrah! for the men who kept Limerick's wall,
And hurrah! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all.
King William's men round Limerick lay,
His cannon crashed from day to day,
Till the southern wall was swept away
At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
'Tis afternoon, yet hot the sun,
When William fires the signal gun,
And, like its flash, his columns run
On the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.

126

II

Yet, hurrah! for the men, who, when danger is nigh,
Are found in the front, looking death in the eye.
Hurrah! for the men who kept Limerick's wall,
And hurrah! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all.
The breach gaped out two perches wide,
The fosse is filled, the batteries plied;
Can the Irishmen that onset bide
At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
Across the ditch the columns dash,
Their bayonets o'er the rubbish flash,
When sudden comes a rending crash
From the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.

III

Then, hurrah! for the men, who, when danger is nigh,
Are found in the front, looking death in the eye.
Hurrah! for the men who kept Limerick's wall,
And hurrah! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all.
The bullets rain in pelting shower,
And rocks and beams from wall and tower;
The Englishmen are glad to cower
At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas
But, rallied soon, again they pressed,
Their bayonets pierced full many a breast,
Till they bravely won the breach's crest
At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.

127

IV

Yet, hurrah! for the men, who, when danger is nigh,
Are found in the front, looking death in the eye.
Hurrah! for the men who kept Limerick's wall,
And hurrah! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all.
Then fiercer grew the Irish yell,
And madly on the foe they fell,
Till the breach grew like the jaws of hell—
Not the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
The women fought before the men,
Each man became a match for ten,
So back they pushed the villains then,
From the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.

V

Then, hurrah! for the men, who, when danger is nigh,
Are found in the front, looking death in the eye.
Hurrah! for the men who kept Limerick's wall,
And hurrah! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all.
But Bradenburgh the ditch has crost,
And gained our flank at little cost—
The bastion's gone—the town is lost;
Oh! poor city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
When, sudden, Sarsfield springs the mine—
Like rockets rise the Germans fine,
And come down dead, 'mid smoke and shine,
At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.

128

VI

So, hurrah! for the men, who, when danger is nigh,
Are found in the front, looking death in the eye.
Hurrah! for the men who kept Limerick's wall,
And hurrah! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all.
Out, with a roar, the Irish sprung,
And back the beaten English flung,
Till William fled, his lords among,
From the city of Luimneach-linn-ghlas.
'Twas thus was fought that glorious fight,
By Irishmen, for Ireland's right—
May all such days have such a night
As the battle of Luimneach linn-ghlas.

Vulgo, Garryowen.

“Limerick of the azure river.” See “The Circuit of Ireland,” p. 47.—Author's Note.

129

IV. PART IV. HISTORICAL BALLADS AND SONGS.

Second Series.

130

“By a Ballad History we do not mean a metrical chronicle, or any continued work, but a string of ballads chronologically arranged, and illustrating the main events of Irish History, its characters, costumes, scenes, and passions. Exact dates, subtle plots, minute connexions and motives, rarely appear in Ballads; and for these ends the worst prose history is superior to the best Ballad series; but these are not the highest ends of history. To hallow or accurse the scenes of glory and honour, or of shame and sorrow—to give to the imagination the arms, and homes, and senates, and battles of other days—to rouse and soften and strengthen and enlarge us with the passions of great periods—to lead us into love of self-denial, of justice, of beauty, of valour, of generous life and proud death—and to set up in our souls the memory of great men, who shall then be as models and judges of our actions—these are the highest duties of History, and these are best taught by a Ballad History.”— Davis's Essays.

131

THE PENAL DAYS.

[_]

Air—The Wheelwright.

I

Oh! weep those days, the penal days,
When Ireland hopelessly complained.
Oh! weep those days, the penal days,
When godless persecution reigned;
When, year by year,
For serf, and peer,
Fresh cruelties were made by law,
And, filled with hate,
Our senate sate
To weld anew each fetter's flaw.
Oh! weep those days, those penal days—
Their memory still on Ireland weighs.

132

II

They bribed the flock, they bribed the son,
To sell the priest and rob the sire;
Their dogs were taught alike to run
Upon the scent of wolf and friar.
Among the poor,
Or on the moor,
Were hid the pious and the true—
While traitor knave,
And recreant slave,
Had riches, rank, and retinue;
And, exiled in those penal days,
Our banners over Europe blaze.

III

A stranger held the land and tower
Of many a noble fugitive;
No Popish lord had lordly power,
The peasant scarce had leave to live:
Above his head
A ruined shed,
No tenure but a tyrant's will—
Forbid to plead,
Forbid to read,
Disarmed, disfranchised, imbecile—
What wonder if our step betrays
The freedman, born in penal days?

133

IV

They're gone, they're gone, those penal days!
All creeds are equal in our isle;
Then grant, O Lord, thy plenteous grace,
Our ancient feuds to reconcile.
Let all atone
For blood and groan,
For dark revenge and open wrong;
Let all unite
For Ireland's right,
And drown our griefs in freedom's song;
Till time shall veil in twilight haze,
The memory of those penal days.

THE DEATH OF SARSFIELD.

A CHAUNT OF THE BRIGADE.

I

Sarsfield has sailed from Limerick Town,
He held it long for country and crown;
And ere he yielded, the Saxon swore
To spoil our homes and our shrines no more.

134

II

Sarsfield and all his chivalry
Are fighting for France in the low countrie—
At his fiery charge the Saxons reel,
They learned at Limerick to dread the steel.

III

Sarsfield is dying on Landen's plain;
His corslet hath met the ball in vain—
As his life-blood gushes into his hand,
He says, “Oh! that this was for father-land!”

IV

Sarsfield is dead, yet no tears shed we—
For he died in the arms of Victory,
And his dying words shall edge the brand,
When we chase the foe from our native land!

135

THE SURPRISE OF CREMONA.

(1702.)

I

From Milan to Cremona Duke Villeroy rode,
And soft are the beds in his princely abode;
In billet and barrack the garrison sleep,
And loose is the watch which the sentinels keep:
'Tis the eve of St. David, and bitter the breeze
Of that mid-winter night on the flat Cremonese;
A flg for precaution!—Prince Eugene sits down
In winter cantonments round Mantua town!

II

Yet through Ustiano, and out on the plain,
Horse, foot, and dragoons are defiling amain.
“That flash!” said Prince Eugene, “Count Merci, push on”—
Like a rock from a precipice Merci is gone.
Proud mutters the prince— “That is Cassioli's sign:
Ere the dawn of the morning Cremona 'll be mine—
For Merci will open the gate of the Po,
But scant is the mercy Prince Vaudemont will shew!”

136

III

Through gate, street and square, with his keen cavaliers—
A flood through a gulley—Count Merci careers—
They ride without getting or giving a blow,
Nor halt 'till they graze on the gate of the Po—
“Surrender the gate”—but a volley replied,
For a handful of Irish are posted inside.
By my faith, Charles Vaudemont will come rather late,
If he stay 'till Count Merci shall open that gate!

IV

But in through St. Margaret's the Austrians pour,
And billet and barrack are ruddy with gore;
Unarmed and naked, the soldiers are slain—
There's an enemy's gauntlet on Villeroy's rein—
“A thousand pistoles and a regiment of horse—
Release me, MacDonnell!”—they hold on their course.
Count Merci has seized upon cannon and wall,
Prince Eugene's head-quarters are in the Town-hall!

V

Here and there, through the city, some readier band,
For honour and safety, undauntedly stand.
At the head of the regiments of Dillon and Burke
Is Major O'Mahony, fierce as a Turk.
His sabre is flashing—the major is drest,
But muskets and shirts are the clothes of the rest!
Yet they rush to the ramparts—the clocks have tolled ten—
And Count Merci retreats with the half of his men.

137

VI

“In on them,” said Friedberg,—and Dillon is broke,
Like forest-flowers crushed by the fall of the oak;
Through the naked battalions the cuirassiers go;—
But the man, not the dress, makes the soldier, I trow.
Upon them with grapple, with bay'net, and ball,
Like wolves upon gaze-hounds, the Irishmen fall—
Black Friedberg is slain by O'Mahony's steel,
And back from the bullets the cuirassiers reel.

VII

Oh! hear you their shout in your quarters, Eugene?
In vain on Prince Vaudemont for succour you lean!
The bridge has been broken, and, mark! how pell-mell
Come riderless horses, and volley and yell!—
He's a veteran soldier—he clenches his hands,
He springs on his horse, disengages his bands—
He rallies, he urges, till, hopeless of aid,
He is chased through the gates by the Irish Brigade.

VIII

News, news, in Vienna!—King Leopold's sad.
News, news, in St. James's!—King William is mad.
News, news, in Versailles—“Let the Irish Brigade
Be loyally honoured, and royally paid.”
News, news, in old Ireland—high rises her pride,
And high sounds her wail for her children who died,
And deep is her prayer,— “God send I may see
MacDonnell and Mahony fighting for me.”

138

THE FLOWER OF FINAE.

I

Bright red is the sun on the waves of Lough Sheelin,
A cool gentle breeze from the mountain is stealing,
While fair round its islets the small ripples play,
But fairer than all is the Flower of Finae.

II

Her hair is like night, and her eyes like grey morning,
She trips on the heather as if its touch scorning,
Yet her heart and her lips are as mild as May day,
Sweet Eily MacMahon, the Flower of Finae.

III

But who down the hill side than red deer runs fleeter?
And who on the lake side is hastening to greet her?
Who but Fergus O'Farrell, the fiery and gay,
The darling and pride of the Flower of Finae?

IV

One kiss and one clasp, and one wild look of gladness;
Ah! why do they change on a sudden to sadness—
He has told his hard fortune, nor more he can stay,
He must leave his poor Eily to pine at Finae.

V

For Fergus O'Farrell was true to his sire-land,
And the dark hand of tyranny drove him from Ireland;

139

He joins the Brigade, in the wars far away,
But he vows he'll come back to the Flower of Finae.

VI

He fought at Cremona—she hears of his story;
He fought at Cassano—she's proud of his glory,
Yet sadly she sings Siúbhail a rúin all the day,
“Oh, come, come, my darling, come home to Finae.”

VII

Eight long years have passed, till she's nigh broken-hearted,
Her reel, and her rock, and her flax she has parted;
She sails with the “Wild Geese” to Flanders away,
And leaves her sad parents alone in Finae.

VIII

Lord Clare on the field of Ramillies is charging—
Before him, the Sacsanach squadrons enlarging—
Behind him the Cravats their sections display—
Beside him rides Fergus and shouts for Finae.

IX

On the slopes of La Judoigne the Frenchmen are flying,
Lord Clare and his squadrons the foe still defying,
Outnumbered, and wounded, retreat in array;
And bleeding rides Fergus and thinks of Finae.

X

In the cloisters of Ypres a banner is swaying,
And by it a pale weeping maiden is praying;
That flag's the sole trophy of Ramillies' fray;
This nun is poor Eily, the Flower of Finae.

Vulgo, Shule aroon.

140

THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME.

[_]

Air—The girl I left behind me.

I

The dames of France are fond and free,
And Flemish lips are willing,
And soft the maids of Italy,
And Spanish eyes are thrilling;
Still, though I bask beneath their smile,
Their charms fail to bind me,
And my heart flies back to Erin's isle,
To the girl I left behind me.

II

For she's as fair as Shannon's side,
And purer than its water,
But she refused to be my bride
Though many a year I sought her;
Yet, since to France I sailed away,
Her letters oft remind me
That I promised never to gainsay
The girl I left behind me.

141

III

She says—“My own dear love, come home,
My friends are rich and many,
Or else abroad with you I'll roam
A soldier stout as any;
If you'll not come, nor let me go,
I'll think you have resigned me.”
My heart nigh broke when I answered—No!
To the girl I left behind me.

IV

For never shall my true love brave
A life of war and toiling;
And never as a skulking slave
I'll tread my native soil on;
But, were it free or to be freed,
The battle's close would find me
To Ireland bound—nor message need
From the girl I left behind me.

142

CLARE'S DRAGOONS.

[_]

Air—Viva la.

I

When, on Ramillies' bloody field,
The baffled French were forced to yield,
The victor Saxon backward reeled
Before the charge of Clare's Dragoons.
The Flags, we conquered in that fray,
Look lone in Ypres' choir, they say,
We'll win them company to-day,
Or bravely die like Clare's Dragoons.

CHORUS.

Viva la, for Ireland's wrong!
Viva la, for Ireland's right!
Viva la, in battle throng,
For a Spanish steed, and sabre bright!

143

II

The brave old lord died near the fight,
But, for each drop he lost that night,
A Saxon cavalier shall bite
The dust before Lord Clare's Dragoons.
For, never, when our spurs were set,
And never, when our sabres met,
Could we the Saxon soldiers get
To stand the shock of Clare's Dragoons.

CHORUS.

Viva la, the New Brigade!
Viva la, the Old One, too!
Viva la, the rose shall fade,
And the Shamrock shine for ever new!

III

Another Clare is here to lead,
The worthy son of such a breed;
The French expect some famous deed,
When Clare leads on his bold Dragoons.
Our colonel comes from Brian's race,
His wounds are in his breast and face,
The bearna baoghail is still his place,
The foremost of his bold Dragoons.

CHORUS.

Viva la, the New Brigade!
Viva la, the Old One, too
Viva la, the rose shall fade,
And the Shamrock shine for ever new!

144

IV

There's not a man in squadron here
Was ever known to flinch or fear;
Though first in charge and last in rere,
Have ever been Lord Clare's Dragoons;
But, see! we'll soon have work to do,
To shame our boasts, or prove them true,
For hither comes the English crew,
To sweep away Lord Clare's Dragoons.

CHORUS.

Viva la, for Ireland's wrong!
Viva la, for Ireland's right!
Viva la, in battle throng,
For a Spanish steed and sabre bright!

V

Oh! comrades! think how Ireland pines,
Her exiled lords, her rifled shrines,
Her dearest hope, the ordered lines,
And bursting charge of Clare's Dragoons.
Then fling your Green Flag to the sky,
Be Limerick your battle-cry,
And charge, till blood floats fetlock-high,
Around the track of Clare's Dragoons!

CHORUS.

Viva la, the New Brigade!
Viva la, the Old One, too!
Viva la, the rose shall fade,
And the Shamrock shine for ever new!

Gap of danger.

145

WHEN SOUTH WINDS BLOW.

[_]

Air—The gentle Maiden.

I

Why sits the gentle maiden there,
While surfing billows splash around?
Why doth she southwards wildly stare,
And sing, with such a fearful sound—
“The Wild Geese fly where others walk;
The Wild Geese do what others talk—
The way is long from France, you know—
He'll come at last when south winds blow.”

II

Oh! softly was the maiden nurst
In Castle Connell's lordly towers,
Where Skellig's billows boil and burst,
And, far above, Dunkerron towers;
And she was noble as the hill—
Yet battle-flags are nobler still:
And she was graceful as the wave—
Yet who would live a tranquil slave?

146

III

And, so, her lover went to France,
To serve the foe of Ireland's foe;
Yet deep he swore—“Whatever chance,
I'll come some day when south winds blow.”
And prouder hopes he told beside,
How she should be a prince's bride,
How Louis would the Wild Geese send,
And Ireland's weary woes should end.

IV

But tyrants quenched her father's hearth,
And wrong and absence warped her mind;
The gentle maid, of gentle birth,
Is moaning madly to the wind—
“He said he'd come, whate'er betide:
He said I'd be a happy bride:
Oh! long the way and hard the foe—
He'll come when south—when south winds blow!”

The recruiting for the Brigade was carried on in the French ships which smuggled brandies, wines, silks, &c., to the western and south-western coasts. Their return cargoes were recruits for the Brigade, and were entered in their books as Wild Geese. Hence this became the common name in Ireland for the Irish serving in the Brigade. The recruiting was chiefly from Clare, Limerick, Cork, Kerry, and Galway. —Author's Note.

147

THE BATTLE EVE OF THE BRIGADE.

[_]

Air—Contented I am.

I

The mess-tent is full, and the glasses are set,
And the gallant Count Thomond is president yet;
The vet'ran arose, like an uplifted lance,
Crying—“Comrades, a health to the monarch of France!”
With bumpers and cheers they have done as he bade,
For King Louis is loved by The Irish Brigade.

II

“A health to King James,” and they bent as they quaffed,
“Here's to George the Elector,” and fiercely they laughed,
“Good luck to the girls we wooed long ago,
Where Shannon, and Barrow, and Blackwater flow;”
“God prosper Old Ireland;”—you'd think them afraid,
So pale grew the chiefs of The Irish Brigade.

148

III

“But, surely, that light cannot come from our lamp?
And that noise—are they all getting drunk in the camp?”
“Hurrah! boys, the morning of battle is come,
And the generale's beating on many a drum.”
So they rush from the revel to join the parade:
For the van is the right of The Irish Brigade.

IV

They fought as they revelled, fast, fiery, and true,
And, though victors, they left on the field not a few;
And they, who survived, fought and drank as of yore,
But the land of their heart's hope they never saw more;
For in far foreign fields, from Dunkirk to Belgrade,
Lie the soldiers and chiefs of The Irish Brigade.

149

FONTENOY.

(1745.)

I

Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed,
And, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine, the Dutch in vain assailed;
For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery,
And well they swept the English ranks, and Dutch auxiliary.
As vainly, through De Barri's wood, the British soldiers burst,
The French artillery drove them back, diminished, and dispersed.
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide.

150

II

Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread,
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head;
Steady they step a-down the slope—steady they climb the hill;
Steady they load—steady they fire, moving right on-ward still,
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace blast,
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast;
And on the open plain above they rose, and kept their course,
With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile force:
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks—
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean banks.

III

More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round;
As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground;
Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fired—
Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired.

151

“Push on, my household cavalry!” King Louis madly cried:
To death they rush, but rude their shock—not unavenged they died.
On through the camp the column trod—King Louis turns his rein:
“Not yet, my liege,” Saxe interposed, “the Irish troops remain;”
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo,
Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true.

IV

“Lord Clare,” he says, “you have your wish, there are your Saxon foes!”
The Marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes!
How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont to be so gay,
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day—
The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could dry,
Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's parting cry,
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown,—
Each looks, as if revenge for all were staked on him alone.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere,
Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were.

152

V

O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands,
‘Fix bay’nets”—“charge,”—Like mountain storm, rush on these fiery bands!
Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow,
Yet, must'ring all the strength they have, they make a gallant show.
They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battlewind—
Their bayonets the breakers' foam; like rocks, the men behind!
One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surging smoke,
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza!
“Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sacsanach!”

VI

Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang,
Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang:
Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore;
Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags they tore;

153

The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered, fled—
The green hill side is matted close with dying and with dead.
Across the plain, and far away passed on that hideous wrack.
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun,
With bloody plumes the Irish stand—the field is fought and won!

THE DUNGANNON CONVENTION.

(1782.)

I

The church of Dungannon is full to the door,
And sabre and spur clash at times on the floor,
While helmet and shako are ranged all along,
Yet no book of devotion is seen in the throng.
In the front of the altar no minister stands,
But the crimson-clad chief of these warrior bands;
And though solemn the looks and the voices around,
You'd listen in vain for a litany's sound.
Say! what do they hear in the temple of prayer?
Oh! why in the fold has the lion his lair?

154

II

Sad, wounded, and wan was the face of our isle,
By English oppression, and falsehood, and guile;
Yet when to invade it a foreign fleet steered,
To guard it for England the North volunteered.
From the citizen-soldiers the foe fled aghast—
Still they stood to their guns when the danger had past,
For the voice of America came o'er the wave,
Crying—Woe to the tyrant, and hope to the slave!—
Jndignation and shame through their regiments speed
They have arms in their hands, and what more do they need?

III

O'er the green hills of Ulster their banners are spread,
The cities of Leinster resound to their tread,
The vallies of Munster with ardour are stirred,
And the plains of wild Connaught their bugles have heard;
A Protestant front-rank and Catholic rere—
For—forbidden the arms of freemen to bear—
Yet foeman and friend are full sure, if need be,
The slave for his country will stand by the free.
By green flags supported, the Orange flags wave,
And the soldier half turns to unfetter the slave!

155

IV

More honoured that church of Dungannon is now,
Than when at its altar communicants bow;
More welcome to heaven than anthem or prayer,
Are the rites and the thoughts of the warriors there;
In the name of all Ireland the Delegates swore:
“We've suffered too long, and we'll suffer no more—
Unconquered by Force, we were vanquished by Fraud;
And now, in God's temple, we vow unto God,
That never again shall the Englishman bind
His chains on our limbs, or his laws on our mind.”

V

The church of Dungannon is empty once more—
No plumes on the altar, no clash on the floor.
But the councils of England are fluttered to see,
In the cause of their country, the Irish agree;
So they give as a boon what they dare not withhold,
And Ireland, a nation, leaps up as of old,
With a name, and a trade, and a flag of her own,
And an army to fight for the people and throne.
But woe worth the day if to falsehood or fears
She surrender the guns of her brave Volunteers!

156

SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1782.

[_]

Air.—Boyne Water.

I

Hurrah! 'tis done—our freedom's won—
Hurrah for the Volunteers!
No laws we own, but those alone
Of our Commons, King, and Peers.
The chain is broke—the Saxon yoke
From off our neck is taken;
Ireland awoke—Dungannon spoke—
With fear was England shaken.

II

When Grattan rose, none dared oppose
The claim he made for freedom:
They knew our swords, to back his words,
Were ready, did he need them.
Then let us raise, to Grattan's praise,
A proud and joyous anthem;
And wealth, and grace, and length of days,
May God, in mercy grant him!

157

III

Bless Harry Flood, who nobly stood
By us, through gloomy years!
Bless Charlemont, the brave and good,
The Chief of the Volunteers!
The North began; the North held on
The strife for native land;
Till Ireland rose, and cowed her foes—
God bless the Northern land!

IV

And bless the men of patriot pen—
Swift, Molyneux, and Lucas;
Bless sword and gun, which “Free Trade” won—
Bless God! who ne'er forsook us!
And long may last, the friendship fast,
Which binds us all together;
While we agree, our foes shall flee
Like clouds in stormy weather.

V

Remember still, through good and ill,
How vain were prayers and tears—
How vain were words, till flashed the swords
Of the Irish Volunteers.
By arms we've got the rights we sought
Through long and wretched years—
Hurrah! 'tis done, our Freedom's won—
Hurrah for the Volunteers!

158

THE MEN OF 'EIGHTY-TWO

[_]

Air.—An Crúisgín Lán.

I

To rend a cruel chain,
To end a foreign reign,
The swords of the Volunteers were drawn,
And instant from their sway,
Oppression fled away;
So we'll drink them in a crúisgín lán, lán, lán,
We'll drink them in a crúisgín lán!

II

Within that host were seen
The Orange, Blue, and Green—
The Bishop for it's coat left his lawn—
The peasant and the lord
Ranked in with one accord,
Like brothers at a crúisgín \lán, lán, lán,
Like brothers at a crúisgín lán!

III

With liberty there came
Wit, eloquence, and fame;
Our feuds went like mists from the dawn;

159

Old bigotry disdained—
Old privilege retained—
Oh! sages, fill a crúisgín lán, lán, lán,
And, boys! fill up a crúisgín lán!

IV

The trader's coffers filled,
The barren lands were tilled,
Our ships on the waters thick as spawn—
Prosperity broke forth,
Like summer in the north—
Ye merchants! fill a crúisgín lán, lán, lán,
Ye farmers! fill a crúisgín lán!

V

The memory of that day
Shall never pass away,
Tho' its fame shall be yet outshone;
We'll grave it on our shrines,
We'll shout it in our lines—
Old Ireland! fill a crúisgín lán, lán, lán,
Young Ireland! fill a crúisgín lán!

VI

And drink—The Volunteers,
Their generals, and seers,
Their gallantry, their genius, and their brawn
With water, or with wine—
The draught is but a sign—
The purpose fills the crúisgín lán, lán, lán,
This purpose fills the crúisgín lán!

160

VII

That ere Old Ireland goes,
And while Young Ireland glows,
The swords of our sires be girt on,
And loyally renew
The work of 'Eighty-Two—
Oh! gentlemen—a crúisgín lán, lán, lán,
Our freedom! in a crúisgín lán!

NATIVE SWORDS.

(A VOLUNTEER SONG.—1st JULY,1792.)

[_]

Air.—Boyne Water.

I

We've bent too long to braggart wrong,
While force our prayers derided;
We've fought too long, ourselves among,
By knaves and priests divided;
United now, no more we'll bow,
Foul faction, we discard it;
And now, thank God! our native sod
Has Native Swords to guard it.

161

II

Like rivers, which, o'er valleys rich,
Bring ruin in their water,
On native land, a native hand
Flung foreign fraud and slaughter.
From Dermod's crime to Tudor's time
Our clans were our perdition;
Religion's name, since then, became
Our pretext for division.

III

But, worse than all, with Lim'rick's fall
Our valour seem'd to perish;
Or, o'er the main, in France and Spain,
For bootless vengeance flourish.
The peasant, here, grew pale for fear
He'd suffer for our glory,
While France sang joy for Fontenoy,
And Europe hymned our story.

IV

But, now, no clan, nor factious plan,
The East and West can sunder—
Why Ulster e'er should Munster fear,
Can only wake our wonder.
Religion's crost, when union's lost,
And “royal gifts” retard it;
But now, thank God! our native sod
Has Native Swords to guard it.

162

TONE'S GRAVE.

I

In Bodenstown Churchyard there is a green grave,
And wildly along it the winter winds rave;
Small shelter, I ween, are the ruined walls there,
When the storm sweeps down on the plains of Kildare.

II

Once I lay on that sod—it lies over Wolfe Tone—
And thought how he perished in prison alone,
His friends unavenged, and his country unfreed—
“Oh, bitter,” I said, “is the patriot's meed;

III

For in him the heart of a woman combined
With a heroic life, and a governing mind—
A martyr for Ireland—his grave has no stone—
His name seldom named, and his virtues unknown.

IV

I was woke from my dream by the voices and tread
Of a band, who came into the home of the dead;
They carried no corpse, and they carried no stone,
And they stopped when they came to the grave of Wolfe Tone.

163

V

There were students and peasants, the wise and the brave,
And an old man who knew him from cradle to grave,
And children who thought me hard-hearted; for they,
On that sanctified sod, were forbidden to play.

VI

But the old man, who saw I was mourning there, said,
“We come, sir, to weep where young Wolfe Tone is laid,
And we're going to raise him a monument, too—
A plain one, yet fit for the simple and true.”

VII

My heart overflowed, and I clasped his old hand,
And I blessed him, and blessed every one of his band;
“Sweet! sweet! 'tis to find that such faith can remain
To the cause, and the man so long vanquished and slain.”

VIII

In Bodenstown Churchyard there is a green grave,
And freely around it let winter winds rave—
Far better they suit him—the ruin and gloom,—
Till Ireland, a Nation, can build him a tomb.

164

“A Ballad History is welcome to childhood, from its rhymes, its high colouring, and its aptness to memory. As we grow into boyhood, the violent passions, the vague hopes, the romantic sorrow of patriot ballads are in tune with our fitful and luxuriant feelings. In manhood we prize the condensed narrative, the grave firmness, the critical art, and the political sway of ballads. And in old age they are doubly dear; the companions and reminders of our life—the toys and teachers of our children and grand-children. Every generation finds its account in them. They pass from mouth to mouth like salutations; and even the minds which lose their words are under their influence, as one can recall the starry heavens who cannot revive the form of a single constellation.”—Davis's Essays.

165

V. PART V. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

166

“Nationality is no longer an unmeaning or despised name among us. It is welcomed by the higher ranks, it is the inspiration of the bold, and the hope of the people. It is the summary name for many things. It seeks a Literature made by Irishmen, and coloured by our scenery, manners, and character. It desires to see Art applied to express Irish thoughts and belief. It would make our Music sound in every parish at twilight, our Pictures sprinkle the walls of every house, and our Poetry and History sit at every hearth.

“It would thus create a race of men full of a more intensely Irish character and knowledge, and to that race it would give Ireland. It would give them the seas of Ireland to sweep with their nets and launch on with their navy; the harbours of Ireland, to receive a greater commerce than any island in the world; the soil of Ireland to live on, by more millions than starve here now; the fame of Ireland to enhance by their genius and valour; the Independence of Ireland to guard by laws and arms.”—Davis's Essays.

167

NATIONALITY.

I

A nation's voice, a nation's voice—
It is a solemn thing!
It bids the bondage-sick rejoice—
'Tis stronger than a king.
'Tis like the light of many stars,
The sound of many waves;
Which brightly look through prison-bars;
And sweetly sound in caves.
Yet is it noblest, godliest known,
When righteous triumph swells its tone.

168

II

A nation's flag, a nation's flag—
If wickedly unrolled,
May foes in adverse battle drag
Its every fold from fold.
But, in the cause of Liberty,
Guard it 'gainst Earth and Hell;
Guard it till Death or Victory—
Look you, you guard it well!
No saint or king has tomb so proud,
As he whose flag becomes his shroud.

III

A nation's right, a nation's right—
God gave it, and gave, too,
A nation's sword, a nation's might,
Danger to guard it through.
'Tis freedom from a foreign yoke,
'Tis just and equal laws,
Which deal unto the humblest folk,
As in a noble's cause.
On nations fixed in right and truth,
God would bestow eternal youth.

IV

May Ireland's voice be ever heard
Amid the world's applause!
And never be her flag-staff stirred,
But in an honest cause!

169

May Freedom be her very breath,
Be Justice ever dear;
And never an ennobled death
May son of Ireland fear!
So the Lord God will ever smile,
With guardian grace, upon our isle.

SELF-RELIANCE.

I

Though savage force and subtle schemes,
And alien rule, through ages lasting,
Have swept your land like lava streams,
Its wealth, and name, and nature blasting,
Rot not, therefore, in dull despair,
Nor moan at destiny in far lands;
Face not your foe with bosom bare,
Nor hide your chains in pleasure's garlands,
The wise man arms to combat wrong,
The brave man clears a den of lions,
The true man spurns the Helot's song;
The freeman's friend is Self-Reliance!

170

II

Though France, that gave your exiles bread,
Your priests a home, your hopes a station,
Or that young land, where first was spread
The starry flag of Liberation,—
Should heed your wrongs some future day,
And send you voice or sword to plead 'em,
With helpful love their help repay,
But trust not even to them for Freedom.
A Nation freed by foreign aid
Is but a corpse by wanton science
Convulsed like life, then flung to fade—
The life itself is Self-Reliance!

III

Oh! see your quailing tyrant run
To courteous lies, and Roman agents;
His terror, lest Dungannon's sun
Should rise again with riper radiance.
Oh! hark the Freeman's welcome cheer,
And hark your brother sufferers sobbing;
Oh! mark the universe grow clear,
And mark your spirit's royal throbbing.—
'Tis Freedom's God that sends such signs,
As pledges of his blest alliance;
He gives bright hopes to brave designs,
And lends his bolts to Self-Reliance!

171

IV

Then, flung alone, or hand-in-hand,
In mirthful hour, or spirit solemn;
In lowly toil, or high command,
In social hall, or charging column;
In tempting wealth, and trying woe,
In struggling with a mob's dictation;
In bearing back a foreign foe,
In training up a troubled nation:
Still hold to Truth, abound in Love,
Refusing every base compliance—
Your Praise within, your Prize above,
And live and die in Self-Reliance!

SWEET AND SAD.

A PRISON SERMON.

I

'Tis sweet to climb the mountain's crest,
And run, like deer-hound, down its breast;
'Tis sweet to snuff the taintless air,
And sweep the sea with haughty stare:
And, sad it is, when iron bars
Keep watch between you and the stars;
And sad to find your footstep stayed
By prison-wall and palisade:

172

But 'twere better be
A prisoner for ever,
With no destiny
To do, or to endeavour;
Better life to spend
A martyr or confessor,
Than in silence bend
To alien and oppressor.

II

'Tis sweet to rule an ample realm,
Through weal and woe to hold the helm;
And sweet to strew, with plenteous hand,
Strength, health, and beauty, round your land:
And sad it is to be unprized,
While dotards rule, unrecognized;
And sad your little ones to see
Writhe in the gripe of poverty:
But 'twere better pine
In rags and gnawing hunger,
While around you whine
Your elder and your younger;
Better lie in pain,
And rise in pain to-morrow,
Than o'er millions reign,
While those millions sorrow.

173

III

'Tis sweet to own a quiet hearth,
Begirt by constancy and mirth;
'Twere sweet to feel your dying clasp
Returned by friendship's steady grasp:
And sad it is, to spend your life,
Like sea-bird in the ceaseless strife—
Your lullaby the ocean's roar,
Your resting-place a foreign shore:
But 'twere better live,
Like ship caught by Lofoden,
Than your spirit give
To be by chains corroden;
Best of all to yield
Your latest breath, when lying
On a victor field,
With the green flag flying!

IV

Human joy and human sorrow,
Light or shade from conscience borrow;
The tyrant's crown is lined with flame,
Life never paid the coward's shame:
The miser's lock is never sure,
The traitor's home is never pure;
While seraphs guard, and cherubs tend
The good man's life and brave man's end:

174

But their fondest care
Is the patriot's prison,
Hymning through its air—
“Freedom hath arisen,
Oft from statesmen's strife,
Oft from battle's flashes,
Oft from hero's life,
Oftenest from his ashes!”

THE BURIAL.

Why rings the knell of the funeral bell from a hundred village shrines?
Through broad Fingall, where hasten all those long and ordered lines?
With tear and sigh they're passing by,—the matron and the maid—
Has a hero died—is a nation's pride in that cold coffin laid?

175

With frown and curse, behind the hearse, dark men go tramping on—
Has a tyrant died, that they cannot hide their wrath till the rites are done?

THE CHAUNT.

“Ululu! ululu! high on the wind,
“There's a home for the slave where no fetters can bind.
“Woe, woe to his slayers”—comes wildly along,
With the trampling of feet and the funeral song.

And now more clear
It swells on the ear;
Breathe low, and listen, 'tis solemn to hear.

“Ululu! ululu! wail for the dead.
“Green grow the grass of Fingall on his head;
“And spring-flowers blossom, ere elsewhere appearing,
“And shamrocks grow thick on the Martyr for Erin.
“Ululu! ululu! soft fall the dew
“On the feet and the head of the martyred and true.”

For awhile they tread
In silence dread—
Then muttering and moaning go the crowd,
Surging and swaying like mountain cloud,

176

And again the wail comes fearfully loud.

THE CHAUNT.

“Ululu! ululu! kind was his heart!
“Walk slower, walk slower, too soon we shall part.
“The faithful and pious, the Priest of the Lord,
“His pilgrimage over, he has his reward.
“By the bed of the sick, lowly kneeling,
“To God with the raised cross appealing—
“He seems still to kneel, and he seems still to pray,
“And the sins of the dying seem passing away.

“In the prisoner's cell, and the cabin so dreary,
“Our constant consoler, he never grew weary;
“But he's gone to his rest,
“And he's now with the blest,
“Where tyrant and traitor no longer molest—
“Ululu! ululu! wail for the dead!
“Ululu! ululu! here is his bed.”

Short was the ritual, simple the prayer,
Deep was the silence and every head bare;
The Priest alone standing, they knelt all around,
Myriads on myriads, like rocks on the ground.
Kneeling and motionless—“Dust unto dust.”
“He died as becometh the faithful and just—
“Placing in God his reliance and trust;”

177

Kneeling and motionless—“ashes to ashes”—
Hollow the clay on the coffin-lid dashes;
Kneeling and motionless, wildly they pray,
But they pray in their souls, for no gesture have they—
Stern and standing—oh! look on them now,
Like trees to one tempest the multitude bow;
Like the swell of the ocean is rising their vow:

THE VOW.

“We have bent and borne, though we saw him torn from his home by the tyrant's
crew—
“And we bent and bore, when he came once more, though suffering had pierced him
through:
“And now he is laid beyond our aid, because to Ireland true—
“A martyred man—the tyrant's ban, the pious patriot slew.

“And shall we bear and bend for ever,
“And shall no time our bondage sever,
“And shall we kneel, but battle never,
“For our own soil?
“And shall our tyrants safely reign
“On thrones built up of slaves and slain,
“And nought to us and ours remain
“But chains and toil?
“No! round this grave our oath we plight,
“To watch, and labour, and unite,
“Till banded be the nation's might—
“Its spirit steeled,

178

“And then, collecting all our force,
“We'll cross oppression in its course,
“And die—or all our rights enforce,
“On battle field.”

Like an ebbing sea that will come again,
Slowly retired that host of men;
Methinks they'll keep some other day
The oath they swore on the martyr's clay.

WE MUST NOT FAIL.

I

We must not fail, we must not fail,
However fraud or force assail;
By honour, pride, and policy,
By Heaven itself!—we must be free.

II

Time had already thinned our chain,
Time would have dulled our sense of pain;
By service long, and suppliance vile,
We might have won our owner's smile.

III

We spurned the thought, our prison burst.
And dared the despot to the worst;
Renewed the strife of centuries,
And flung our banner to the breeze.

179

IV

We called the ends of earth to view
The gallant deeds we swore to do;
They knew us wronged, they knew us brave,
And, all we asked, they freely gave.

V

We took the starving peasant's mite
To aid in winning back his right,
We took the priceless trust of youth;
Their freedom must redeem our truth.

VI

We promised loud, and boasted high,
“To break our country's chains, or die;”
And, should we quail, that country's name
Will be the synonyme of shame.

VII

Earth is not deep enough to hide
The coward slave who shrinks aside;
Hell is not hot enough to scathe
The ruffian wretch who breaks his faith.

VIII

But—calm, my soul!—we promised true
Her destined work our land shall do;
Thought, courage, patience will prevail!
We shall not fail—we shall not fail!

180

O'CONNELL'S STATUE.

(LINES TO HOGAN.)

Chisel the likeness of The Chief,
Not in gaiety, nor grief;
Change not by your art to stone,
Ireland's laugh, or Ireland's moan.
Dark her tale, and none can tell
Its fearful chronicle so well.
Her frame is bent—her wounds are deep—
Who, like him, her woes can weep?
He can be gentle as a bride,
While none can rule with kinglier pride.
Calm to hear, and wise to prove,
Yet gay as lark in soaring love.
Well it were, posterity
Should have some image of his glee;
That easy humour, blossoming
Like the thousand flowers of spring!
Glorious the marble which could show
His bursting sympathy for woe.

181

Could catch the pathos, flowing wild,
Like mother's milk to craving child.

And oh! how princely were the art
Could mould his mien, or tell his heart.
When sitting sole on Tara's hill,
While hung a million on his will!
Yet, not in gaiety, nor grief,
Chisel the image of our Chief;
Nor even in that haughty hour
When a nation owned his power.

But would you by your art unroll
His own, and Ireland's secret soul,
And give to other times to scan
The greatest greatness of the man?
Fierce defiance let him be
Hurling at our enemy.—
From a base as fair and sure
As our love is true and pure,
Let his statue rise as tall
And firm as a castle wall;
On his broad brow let there be
A type of Ireland's history;
Pious, generous, deep, and warm,
Strong and changeful as a storm;
Let whole centuries of wrong
Upon his recollection throng—

182

Strongbow's force, and Henry's wile,
Tudor's wrath, and Stuart's guile,
And iron Strafford's tiger jaws,
And brutal Brunswick's penal laws;
Not forgetting Saxon faith,
Not forgetting Norman scaith,
Not forgetting William's word,
Not forgetting Cromwell's sword.
Let the Union's fetter vile—
The shame and ruin of our isle—
Let the blood of 'Ninety-Eight
And our present blighting fate—
Let the poor mechanic's lot,
And the peasant's ruined cot,
Plundered wealth and glory flown,
Ancient honours overthrown—
Let trampled altar, rifled urn,
Knit his look to purpose stern.
Mould all this into one thought,
Like wizard cloud with thunder fraught;
Still let our glories through it gleam,
Like fair flowers through a flooded stream,
Or like a flashing wave at night,
Bright,—'mid the solemn darkness bright.
Let the memory of old days
Shine through the statesman's anxious face—
Dathi's power, and Brian's fame,
And headlong Sarsfield's sword of flame,

183

And the spirit of Red Hugh,
And the pride of 'Eighty-Two,
And the victories he won,
And the hope that leads him on!

Let whole armies seem to fly
From his threatening hand and eye;
Be the strength of all the land
Like a falchion in his hand,
And be his gesture sternly grand.
A braggart tyrant swore to smite
A people struggling for their right—
O'Connell dared him to the field,
Content to die, but never yield.
Fancy such a soul as his,
In a moment such as this,
Like cataract, or foaming tide,
Or army charging in its pride.
Thus he spoke, and thus he stood,
Proffering in our cause his blood.
Thus his country loves him best—
To image this is your behest.
Chisel thus, and thus alone,
If to man you'd change the stone.

184

THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED.

[_]

Air—Irish Molly O!

I

Full often when our fathers saw the Red above the Green,
They rose in rude but fierce array, with sabre, pike, and scian,
And over many a noble town, and many a field of dead,
They proudly set the Irish Green above the English Red.

II

But in the end, throughout the land, the shameful sight was seen—
The English Red in triumph high above the Irish Green;
But well they died in breach and field, who, as their spirits fled,
Still saw the Green maintain its place above the English Red.

185

III

And they who saw, in after times, the Red above the Green,
Were withered as the grass that dies beneath a forest screen;
Yet often by this healthy hope their sinking hearts were fed,
That, in some day to come, the Green should flutter o'er the Red.

IV

Sure 'twas for this Lord Edward died, and Wolfe Tone sunk serene—
Because they could not bear to leave the Red above the Green;
And 'twas for this that Owen fought, and Sarsfield nobly bled—
Because their eyes were hot to see the Green above the Red.

V

So, when the strife began again, our darling Irish Green
Was down upon the earth, while high the English Red was seen;
Yet still we held our fearless course, for something in us said,
“Before the strife is o'er you'll see the Green above the Red.”

186

VI

And 'tis for this we think and toil, and knowledge strive to glean,
That we may pull the English Red below the Irish Green,
And leave our sons sweet Liberty, and smiling plenty spread
Above the land once dark with blood—the Green above the Red!

VII

The jealous English tyrant now has banned the Irish Green,
And forced us to conceal it like a something foul and mean;
But yet, by Heavens! he'll sooner raise his victims from the dead
Than force our hearts to leave the Green, and cotton to the Red!

VIII

We'll trust ourselves, for God is good, and blesses those who lean
On their brave hearts, and not upon an earthly king or queen;
And, freely as we lift our hands, we vow our blood to shed
Once and for evermore to raise the Green above the Red!

187

THE VOW OF TIPPERARY.

[_]

Air.—Tipperary.

I

From Carrick streets to Shannon shore,
From Slievenamon to Ballindeary,
From Longford Pass to Gaillte Mór,
Come hear The Vow of Tipperary.

II

Too long we fought for Britain's cause,
And of our blood were never chary;
She paid us back with tyrant laws,
And thinned The Homes of Tipperary.

III

Too long, with rash and single arm,
The peasant strove to guard his eyrie,
Till Irish blood bedewed each farm,
And Ireland wept for Tipperary.

IV

But never more we'll lift a hand—
We swear by God and Virgin Mary!
Except in war for Native Land,
And that's The Vow of Tipperary!

188

A PLEA FOR THE BOG-TROTTERS.

I

“Base Bog-trotters,” says the Times,
“Brown with mud, and black with crimes,
Turf and lumpers dig betimes
(We grant you need 'em),
But never lift your heads sublime,
Nor talk of Freedom.”

II

Yet, Bog-trotters, sirs, be sure,
Are strong to do, and to endure,
Men whose blows are hard to cure—
Brigands! what's in ye,
That the fierce man of the moor
Can't stand again ye?

III

The common drains in Mushra moss
Are wider than a castle fosse,
Connaught swamps are hard to cross,
And histories boast
That Allen's Bog has caused the loss
Of many a host.

189

IV

Oh! were you in an Irish bog,
Full of pikes, and scarce of prog,
You'd wish your Times-ship was incog.
Or far away,
Though Saxons, thick as London fog,
Around you lay.

A SECOND PLEA FOR THE BOG TROTTERS.

I

The Mail says, that Hanover's King
Twenty Thousand men will bring,
And make the “base bog-trotters” sing
A pillileu;
And that O'Connell high shall swing,
And others too.

II

There is a tale of Athens told,
Worth at least its weight in gold
To fellows of King Ernest's mould,
(The royal rover),
Who think men may be bought and sold,
Or ridden over.

190

III

Darius (an Imperial wretch,
A Persian Ernest, or Jack Ketch,)
Bid his knaves from Athens fetch
“Earth and water,”
Or else the heralds necks he'd stretch,
And Athens slaughter.

IV

The Athenians threw them in a well,
And left them there to help themsel’,
And when his armies came, pell-mell,
They tore his banners,
And sent his slaves in shoals to hell,
To mend their manners.

V

Let those who bring and those who send
Hanoverians, comprehend
Persian-like may be their end,
And the “bog-trotter”
May drown their knaves, their banners rend,
Their armies slaughter.

191

A SCENE IN THE SOUTH.

I

I was walking along in a pleasant place,
In the county Tipperary;
The scene smiled as happy as the holy face
Of the Blessed Virgin Mary;
And the trees were proud, and the sward was green,
And the birds sang loud in the leafy scene.

II

Yet somehow I felt strange, and soon I felt sad,
And then I felt very lonely;
I pondered in vain why I was not glad,
In a place meant for pleasure only:
For I thought that grief had never been there,
And that sin would as lief to heaven repair.

III

And a train of spirits seemed passing me by,
The air grew as heavy as lead;
I looked for a cabin, yet none could I spy
In the pastures about me spread;
Yet each field seemed made for a peasant's cot,
And I felt dismayed when I saw them not.

192

IV

As I stayed on the field, I saw—Oh, my God!
The marks where a cabin had been:
Through the midst of the fields, some feet of the sod
Were coarser and far less green,
And three or four trees in the centre stood,
But they seemed to freeze in their solitude.

V

Surely here was the road that led to the cot,
For it ends just beneath the trees,
And the trees like mourners are watching the spot,
And cronauning with the breeze;
And their stems are bare with children's play,
But the children—where, oh! where are they?

VI

An old man unnoticed had come to my side,
His hand in my arm linking—
A reverend man, without haste or pride—
And he said:—“I know what you're thinking;
“A cabin stood once underneath the trees,
“Full of kindly ones—but alas! for these!

VII

“A loving old couple, and tho' somewhat poor,
“Their children had leisure to play;
“And the piper, and stranger, and beggar were sure
“To bless them in going away;
“But the typhus came, and the agent too—
“Ah! need I name the worst of the two?

193

VIII

“Their cot was unroofed, yet they strove to hide
“In its walls till the fever was passed;
“Their crime was found out, and the cold ditch side
“Was their hospital at last:
“Slowly they went to poorhouse and grave,
“But the Lord they bent to, their souls will save.

IX

“And thro' many a field you passed, and will pass,
“In this lordling's ‘cleared’ demesne,
“Where households as happy were once—but, alas!
“They too are scattered or slain.”
Then he pressed my hand, and he went away;
I could not stand, so I knelt to pray:

X

“God of justice!” I sighed, “send your spirit down
“On these lords so cruel and proud,
“And soften their hearts, and relax their frown,
“Or else,” I cried aloud—
“Vouchsafe thy strength to the peasant's hand
“To drive them at length from off the land!”

The scene is a mere actual landscape which I saw.—Author's Note.

194

WILLIAM TELL AND THE GENIUS OF SWITZERLAND.

I.

Tell.

—You have no fears,
My native land!
Then dry your tears,
And draw your brand.
A million made a vow
To free you.—Wherefore, now,
Tears again, my native land?

II.

Genius.

—I weep not from doubt,
I weep not for dread;
There's strength in your shout,
And trust in your tread.
I weep, for I look for the coming dead,
Who for Liberty's cause shall die;
And I hear a wail from the widow's bed
Come mixed with our triumph-cry.
Though dire my woes, yet how can I
Be calm when I know such suffering's nigh?

195

III.

Tell.

—Death comes to all,
My native land!
Weep not their fall—
A glorious band!
Famine and slavery
Slaughter more cruelly
Than Battle's blood-covered hand!

IV.

Genius.

—Yes, and all glory
Shall honour their grave,
With shrine, song, and story,
Denied to the slave.
Thus pride shall so mingle with sorrow,
Their wives half their weeping will stay;
And their sons long to tempt on the morrow
The death they encounter to-day.
Then away, sons, to battle away!
Draw the sword, lift the flag, and away!

Just before the insurrection which expelled the Austrians, Tell and some of his brother conspirators spent a night on the shore of the Underwald Lake, consulting for liberty; and while they were thus engaged, the genius of Switzerland appeared to them, and she was armed, but weeping. “Why weep you, mother?” said Tell; and she answered, “I see dead patriots, and hear their orphans wailing;”— and he said again to her, “The tyrant kills us with his prisons and taxes, and poisons our air with his presence; war-death is better;” and she said, “It is better”—and the cloud passed from her brow, and she gave him a spear and bade him conquer.—Author's Note.

196

THE EXILE.

[_]

(PARAPHRASED FROM THE FRENCH.)

I

I've passed through the nations unheeded, unknown;
Though all looked upon me, none called me their own.
I shared not their laughter—they cared not my moan—
For, ah! the poor exile is always alone.

II

At eve, when the smoke from some cottage uprose,
How happy I've thought, at the weary day's close,
With his dearest around, must the peasant repose;
But, ah! the poor exile is always alone.

III

Where hasten those clouds? to the land or the sea—
Driven on by the tempest, poor exiles, like me?
What matter to either where either shall flee?
For, ah! the poor exile is always alone.

IV

Those trees they are beauteous—those flowers they are fair;
But no trees and no flowers of my country are there.
They speak not unto me—they heed not my care;
For, ah! the poor exile is always alone.

197

V

That brook murmurs softly its way through the plain;
But the brooks of my childhood had not the same strain.
It reminds me of nothing—it murmurs in vain;
For, ah! the poor exile is always alone.

VI

Sweet are those songs, but their sweetness or sorrow
No charm from the songs of my infancy borrow,
I hear them to-day and forget them to-morrow;
For, ah! the poor exile is always alone.

VII

They've asked me, “Why weep you?” I've told them my woe—
They listed my words, as the rocks feel the snow.
No sympathy bound us; how could their tears flow?
For, sure the poor exile is always alone.

VIII

When soft on their chosen the young maidens smile,
Like the dawn of the morn on Erin's dear isle,
With no love-smile to cheer me, I look on the while;
For, ah! the poor exile is always alone.

IX

Like boughs round the tree are those babes round their mother,
And these friends, like its roots, clasp and grow to each other;
But, none call me child, and none call me brother;
For, ah! the poor exile is ever alone.

198

X

Wives never clasp, and friends never smile,
Mothers ne'er fondle, nor maidens beguile;
And happiness dwells not, except in our isle,—
And so the poor exile is always alone.

XI

Poor exile, cease grieving, for all are like you—
Weeping the banished, the lovely, and true.
Our country is Heaven—'twill welcome you, too;
And cherish the exile, no longer alone!

MY HOME.

A DREAM.

I have dreamt of a home—a happy home—
The flcklest from it would not care to roam:
'Twas a cottage home on native ground,
Where all things glorious clustered round—
For highland glen and lowland plain
Met within that small demesne.

In sight is a tarn, with cliffs of fear,
Where the eagle defies the mountaineer,
And the cataract leaps in mad career,
And through oak and holly roam the deer.
On its brink is a ruined castle, stern,—
The mountains are crowned with rath and carn,
Robed with heather, and bossed with stone,
And belted with a pine wood lone.

199

Thro' that mighty gap in the mountain chain,
Oft, like rivers after rain,
Poured our clans on the conquered plain.
And there, upon their harassed rear,
Oft pressed the Norman's bloody spear;
Men call it “the pass of the leaping deer.”

Wild is the region, yet gentle the spot—
As you look on the roses, the rocks are forgot;
For garden gay, and primrose lawn
Peep through the rocks, as thro' night comes dawn.

And see, by that burn the children play;
In that valley the village maidens stray,
Listing the thrush and the robin's lay,
Listing the burn sigh back to the breeze,
And hoping—guess whom? 'mong the thorn trees.
Not yet, dear girls—on the uplands green
Shepherds and flocks may still be seen.

Freemen's toils, with fruit and grain,
The valley fill, and clothe the plain.
There's the health which labour yields—
Labour tilling its own fields.
Freed at length from stranger lord—
From his frown, or his reward—
Each the owner of his land,
Plenty springs beneath his hand.

200

Meet these men on land or sea—
Meet them in council, war, or glee;
Voice, glance, and mien, bespeak them free.
Welcome greets you at their hearth;
Reverend they to age and worth;
Yet prone to jest and full of mirth.
Fond of song, and dance, and crowd —
Of harp, and pipe, and laughter loud;
Their lay of love is low and bland,
Their wail for death is wild and grand;
Awful and lovely their song of flame,
When they clash the chords in their country's name.

They seek no courts, and own no sway,
Save the counsels of their elders grey;
For holy love, and homely faith,
Rule their hearts in life and death.
Yet their rifles would flash, and their sabres smite,
And their pike-staffs redden in the fight,
And young and old be swept away,
Ere the stranger in their land should sway.

But the setting sun, ere he sink in the sea,
Flushes and flashes o'er crag and tree,
Kisses the clouds with crimson sheen,
And sheets with gold the ocean's green.

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Where the stately frigate lies in the bay,
The friendly fleet of the Frenchmen lay.
Yonder creek, and yonder shore
Echoed then the battle's roar;

Where, on slope after slope, the west sun shines,
After the fight lay our conquering lines.
The triumph, though great, had cost us dear;
And the wounded and dead were lying near—
When the setting sun on our bivouac proud,
Sudden burst through a riven cloud,
An answering shout broke from our men—
Wounds and toils were forgotten then,
And dying men were heard to pray
The light would last till they passed away—
They wished to die on our triumph day.
We honoured the omen, and thought on times gone,
And from chief to chief the word was passed on,
The “harp on the green” our land-flag should be,
And the sun through clouds bursting, our flag at sea,
The green borne harp o'er yon battery gleams,
From the frigate's topgallant the “sun-burst” streams.

In that far-off isle a sainted sage
Built a lowly hermitage,
Where ages gone made pilgrimage.
Over his grave, with what weird delight,
The grey trees swim in the flooding light;

202

How a halo clasps their solemn head,
Like heaven's breath on the rising dead.

Longing and languid as prisoned bird,
With a powerless dream my heart is stirred.
And I pant to pierce beyond the tomb,
And see the light, or share the gloom.
But vainly for such power we pray.
God wills—enough—let man obey.

Two thousand years, 'mid sun and storm,
That tall tower has lifted its mystic form.
The yew-tree shadowing the aisle,
'Twixt airy arch and mouldering pile,
And nigh the hamlet that chapel fair
Shew religion has dwelt, and is dwelling there.

While the Druid's crom-leac up the vale
Tells how rites may change, and creeds may fail.
Creeds may perish, and rites may fall,
But that hamlet worships the God of all.

In the land of the pious, free, and brave,
Was the happy home that sweet dream gave.
But the mirth, and beauty, and love that dwell
Within that home—I may not tell.

Correctly cruit, the Irish name for the violin.—Author's Note.

203

MY GRAVE.

Shall they bury me in the deep,
Where wind-forgetting waters sleep?
Shall they dig a grave for me,
Under the green-wood tree?
Or on the wild heath,
Where the wilder breath
Of the storm doth blow?
Oh, no! oh, no!

Shall they bury me in the Palace Tombs,
Or under the shade of Cathedral domes?
Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore;
Yet not there—nor in Greece, though I love it more.
In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find?
Shall my ashes career on the world-seeing wind?
Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound,
Where coffinless thousands lie under the ground?
Just as they fall they are buried so—
Oh, no! oh, no!

No! on an Irish green hill-side,
On an opening lawn—but not too wide;

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For I love the drip of the wetted trees—
I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze,
To freshen the turf—put no tombstone there,
But green sods decked with daisies fair;
Nor sods too deep, but so that the dew,
The matted grass-roots may trickle through.
Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind,
“He served his country, and loved his kind.”

Oh! 'twere merry unto the grave to go,
If one were sure to be buried so.

Ον γαρ φιλει θεος γ', αποθνησκει νεος.