Chaunt of The Cholera Songs for Ireland. By the Authors of "The O'Hara Tales," "The Smuggler," &c. [i.e. John Banim] |
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| SONGS FOR IRELAND. |
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 | Chaunt of The Cholera |  |
21
SONGS FOR IRELAND.
23
SONG.
[Doubt me not!—You cannot doubt]
I
Doubt me not!—You cannot doubtBecause for Freedom I cry out!
The cry which has been all to you,
You surely love from others, too,
And, Sister, most from me—
From me, engaged, at your own will,
To share your lot of good or ill,
The joy or grief, the shame or glory,
Of your fortunes and your story—
Sister! no! no!
For a lot so high and brave
You cannot choose a willing slave,
And Slave I will not be!
24
II
Doubt me not!—the slander scoutWhich for my worship bids you doubt;
'Twas practised by your men of old,
Who Priest and Prince unflinching told
That they their land would free;
And if in mine a priest be found
To our good cause at heart unsound,
He too may know the place decreed him
In our plan of Equal Freedom—
Oh no! oh no!
By a Christian's hope and troth,
And by a true heart's scorn and wrath,
In this they slander me!
III
Doubt me not!—though still they sayThat I would wile my chains away,
And summon back my strength and pride,
And then, unfaithful, leave your side—
Oh, trust them least in this!
25
Us, Island-Sister, at a birth,
Sisterhood between us dooming
While a wave is round us booming—
Sister, no! no!
Never thus my wishes stray,
And on his name a ban I pray,
Whose baleful dream it is!
26
SONG.
[“More blood!” cry the vultures—“more blood!”—]
I
“More blood!” cry the vultures—“more blood!”—The old carrion-crows of our land—
The men by her children who stood
With halter and scourge in their hand!
“Blood! blood, ankle deep!” is the shout,
While they gloat o'er their Circean cup,
And grin—the base, ravening rout—
As though it were blood they suck'd up!
II
But from them every drop we shall saveWhich through her dear arteries floats,
Till at last in despair they do crave
From the devil and us their own throats!
Every drop! though like Dives they pray
From the hell in their own bosoms nursed,
Crying out but for one to allay
The pangs of that horrible thirst!
27
THE IRISH SOLDIER.
I
The Irish soldier, cast for fight,Stood to his arms at dead of night,
Watching the east, until its ray
To the battle-field should show his way;—
Soldier, soldier, soldier brave,
You will fight though they call you slave,
And though you but help a bandit hand
Uncheck'd to kill in your native land.
II
The soldier thought on his chance of doom—How the trampled sod might be his tomb—
How, in evening's dusk, his sightless stare
To the small pale stars might upward glare;—
28
You will fight though you think of the grave—
Though it yawn so near you, black and chill,
Honor and courage man you still.
III
And o'er his solemn brow he madeThe Christian sign, and humbly said—
“Your prayers, good saints, if I should fall;
And for mercy, O Lord, on you I call!”—
Irish soldier, soldier brave,
You will fight, although you crave
The prayers of the saints your own to aid,
And the sign of the cross on your brow have made.
IV
The morning broke—the bugle blew—The voice of command the soldier knew,
And stern and straight in the van he stood,
And shouting, he rush'd to the work of blood;—
29
Thousands lay round you, crimson'd and cold—
But over their bodies you still fought on,
Till down you sank as the day was won.
V
And the Irish soldier now hath come,Worn, and wounded, and crippled, home,
The hated, and slander'd, and scorn'd of those
Who safely slept while he faced their foes;—
Irish soldier, soldier bold,
In your native land you now are told
'Twas traitor-blood on that field you lost,
For you call'd on the saints, and your brow you cross'd!
30
THE IRISH MOTHER TO HER CHILD.
I
Now welcome, welcome, baby-boy, unto a mother's fears,The pleasure of her sufferings, the rainbow of her tears,
The object of your father's hope, in all he hopes to do,
A future man of his own land, to live him o'er anew!
II
How fondly on thy little brow a mother's eye would trace,And in thy little limbs, and in each feature of thy face,
His beauty, worth, and manliness, and every thing that's his,
Except, my boy, the answering mark of where the fetter is!
31
III
Oh! many a weary hundred years his sires that fetter wore,And he has worn it since the day that him his mother bore;
And now, my son, it waits on you, the moment you are born,
The old hereditary badge of suffering and scorn!
IV
Alas, my boy so beautiful!—alas, my love so brave!And must your gallant Irish limbs still drag it to the grave!
And you, my son, yet have a son, fore-doom'd a slave to be,
Whose mother still must weep o'er him the tears I weep o'er thee!
1828.
32
SONG.
[He said that he was not our brother—]
I
He said that he was not our brother—The mongrel! he said what we knew—
No, Erin! our dear Island-mother,
He ne'er had his black blood from you!
And what though the milk of your bosom
Gave vigor and health to his veins—
He was but a foul foreign blossom,
Blown hither to poison our plains!
33
II
He said that the sword had enslaved us—That still at its point we must kneel—
The liar!—though often it braved us,
We cross'd it with hardier steel!
This witness his Richard —our vassal!
His Essex —whose plumes we trod down!
34
We tarnish'd at Limeric town!
III
No! falsehood and feud were our evils,While force not a fetter could twine—
Come Northmen,—come Normans,—come Devils!
We gave them our Sparth to the chine!
And if once again he would try us,
To the music of trumpet and drum,
And no traitor among us or nigh us—
Let him come, the Brigand! let him come!
Should the reader choose to select any subject to whom, in 1828, these lines were addressed, he is requested to recollect that, since the passing of a great measure, gratitude has wholly effaced from the minds and hearts of Irishmen the hostility which they had previously felt towards a great personage. Of course the verses do not at all apply at present: they may, however, stand as a true record of former feelings, now calmed down by judicious conciliation.
Richard II.: he made the first attempt at a regular conquest of Ireland in the field, and closed his campaign against young Arthur Mac Murchad O'Kavanah, by consenting that the settlers of the pale should pay an annual tribute for footing in the country.
In the county of Wexford is a place called “the pass of plumes,” from the great slaughter of Essex's army which took place in it: after this event, we find him writing to England, that of 24,000 veteran troops, with whom he had come to Ireland, under a promise to conquer it for Elizabeth, he had but about 4,000 remaining; and he ends his curious letter (after declaring the impossibility of quelling the queen's enemies in the field) by advising the plan of extermination, by destroying crops, cattle, and stragglers, men, women, and children, which Mount-Joy carried into effect; but of which it was Elizabeth's successor who reaped the advantage.
William III., who was beaten by a small and distressed garrison, at Limeric, and compelled to raise the siege.
The formidable weapon described by Spencer, a blow from which—dealt by an arm to match—used, in his time, to cleave a rider in two halves, from the skull to his saddle!
35
SONG.
[As we are men and Irishmen]
I
As we are men and Irishmen,Scorn for his scorn'd alliance!
As we are men, and Irishmen,
Unto his threat, defiance!
He would, indeed, think low of us,
Though his taunt hath but belied him,
If, for such taunt, we had not thus
Denied him, and defied him!
II
But, words are often light as air,When most they sound a meaning,
And the heart is weak when pride is there,
And young fame is overweening;
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With his soldier-pride unbroken,
The first in glory and in name,
That his words of us were spoken.
III
And time hath since gone o'er us all,And vanities as fleeting,
And the chief hath heard our manful call
With a pulse more calmly beating,
And haply look'd at us again,
And wish'd forgotten ever
The biting words, which from brave men
A brother brave would sever!
37
SONG.
[Yes! discord's hand to the last it was]
I
Yes! discord's hand to the last it wasIn every field of our story,
Which did our country's fortunes cross,
And tear down all her glory—
And this we saw, and this we felt,
Yet still the warning slighted,
Till a clinging curse was to us dealt—
The curse of the disunited!
II
But, warn'd at last, in our strength we standCrying out, with one deep chorus,
For requital to this outraged land—
Land of our love, that bore us!
38
“Now, now, thou shalt be righted,
For now thy sons thy future span,
Because they are United!”
III
Ay! by the fate we shall weave for her,To atone for the fate we wove her!
By those, her name who hate and slur—
By ourselves, who deeply love her!
By manhood's worth! by the sacred flame
On her hearths and her altars lighted—
By her present shame—by her ancient fame—
We are—we are United!
1828.
39
THE IRISH MAIDEN'S SONG.
I
You know it, now—it is betray'dThis moment, in mine eye—
And in my young cheek's crimson shade,
And in my whisper'd sigh—
You know it, now—yet listen, now—
Though ne'er was love more true,
My plight and troth, and virgin vow,
Still, still I keep from you,
Ever—
40
II
Ever, until a proof you giveHow oft you've heard me say
I would not even his empress live,
Who idles life away,
Without one effort for the land
In which my fathers' graves
Were hollow'd by a despot hand
To darkly close on slaves—
Never!
III
See! round yourself the shackles hang,Yet come you to love's bowers,
That only he may soothe their pang,
Or hide their links in flowers—
But try all things to snap them, first,
And should all fail, when tried,
The fated chain you cannot burst
My twining arms shall hide—
Ever!
41
THE IRISH PRIESTS' SONG.
I
Men who for the land do toil,Humble brethren of our soil,
Charms or spells we did not wind
O'er your independent mind;
Priestly frown, or bigot threat,
From your priests ye have not met;
True, we call'd ye forth—what then!
'Twas as brother-Irishmen!
II
By the love between us grownAt the desart's storm-blanch'd stone,
42
There we knelt, and there we pray'd,—
By its memory, old and rare,
Since our straw-thatch'd house of prayer,
Of the rude hill part and prize,
On the rude hill dared arise—
III
By its great increase, since weRear'd our own sheds, lowlily,
Near, and like, and still, around,
No friends but each other found—
By the love such lot accords—
Bedside comforts, fireside words—
By that love, in Ireland's name,
We did call ye, and ye came!
43
THE RECONCILIATION.
I
The old man he knelt at the altar,His enemy's hand to take,
And at first his weak voice did falter,
And his feeble limbs did shake;
For his only brave boy, his glory,
Had been stretch'd at the old man's feet,
A corpse, all so haggard and gory,
By the hand which he now must greet.
44
II
And soon the old man stopt speaking,And rage which had not gone by,
From under his brows came breaking
Up into his enemy's eye—
And now his limbs were not shaking,
But his clench'd hands his bosom cross'd,
And he look'd a fierce wish to be taking
Revenge for the boy he lost!
III
But the old man he then glanced around him,And thought of the place he was in,
And thought of the promise which bound him,
And thought that revenge was sin—
And then, crying tears, like a woman,
“Your hand!” he said—“aye, that hand!
And I do forgive you, foeman,
For the sake of our bleeding land!”
The facts of these verses occurred in a little mountain-chapel, in the country of Clare, at the time when efforts were made to put an end to the faction-fighting of the Irish peasantry.
45
THE SHAMROCK AND THE LILY.
I
Sir Shamrock, sitting drinking,At close of day, at close of day,
Saw Orange Lily, thinking,
Come by that way, come by that way;
With can in hand he hail'd him,
And jovial din, and jovial din;
The Lily's drouth ne'er fail'd him—
So he stept in, so he stept in.
II
At first they talk'd together,Reserved and flat, reserved and flat,
46
And this and that, and this and that—
But, as the glass moved quicker,
To make amends, to make amends,
They spoke—though somewhat thicker—
Yet more like friends, yet more like friends.
III
“Why not call long before, man,To try a glass, to try a glass?”
Quoth Lily—“People told me
You'd let me pass, you'd let me pass—
Nay, and they whisper'd too, man,
Death in the pot, death in the pot,
Slipt in for me by you, man—
Though I hope not, though I hope not.”
IV
“Oh foolish, foolish Lily!Good drink to miss, good drink to miss,
For gossip all so silly,
And false as this, and false as this;
47
With such bald chat, with such bald chat,
You're losing, day by day, man,
Much more than that, much more than that.
V
“Here, in this land of mine, man,Good friends with me, good friends with me,
A life almost divine, man,
Your life might be, your life might be;
But—jars for you! till, in, man,
My smiling land, my smiling land,
You bilious grow, and thin, man,
As you can stand, as you can stand.
VI
“Now, if 'tis no affront, man,On you I call, on you I call,
To tell me what you want, man,
At-all-at-all, at-all-at-all;—
48
A word or two, a word or two;
For there's neither rhyme nor reason
In your hubbubboo! your hubbubboo!
VII
“With you I'll give and take, man,A foe to cares, a foe to cares,
Just asking, for God's sake, man,
To say my prayers, to say my prayers,
And, like an honest fellow,
To take my drop, to take my drop,
In reason, till I'm mellow,
And then to stop, and then to stop.
VIII
“And why should not things be so,Between us both, between us both?
You're so afraid of me? Pho!
All fudge and froth, all fudge and froth;—
49
So much ado, so much ado?
What is he, silly Lily,
To me or you, to me or you?
IX
“Can he, for all you shout, man,Back to us come, back to us come,
Our devils to cast out, man,
And strike them dumb, and strike them dumb?
Or breezes mild make blow, man,
In summer-peace, in summer-peace,
Until the land o'erflow, man,
With God's increase, with God's increase!”
X
“What you do say, Sir Shamrock,”The Lily cried, the Lily cried,
“I'll think of, my old game-cock,
And more beside, and more beside;—
50
I'm free to say, I'm free to say,
We should be more together,
Just in this way, just in this way.”
XI
“Well—top your glass, Sir Lily,Our parting one, our parting one—
A bumper and a tilly,
To past and gone, to past and gone—
And to the future day, lad,
That yet may see, that yet may see,
Good humor and fair play, lad,
'Twixt you and me, 'twixt you and me!”
51
SONG.
[“Oh, well I love to see thee]
I
“Oh, well I love to see theeSo bravely look, my only boy—
But thy courage—can it free thee?
Alas, alas, it may destroy!
'Twas in your father's eye, boy,
The day they dragg'd him by our door,
A shameful death to die, boy,
Ere thee to him thy mother bore!”
II
“They shall not drag me, mother,Like him, unto the gallows tree—
52
The last and only one, from thee;
And yet shall they restore me
The rights they've robb'd from him and me,
Or else—while Heaven is o'er me—
A worse foe than my father see!”
III
“What mean you now, my own boy?Your death upon their fighting field
Would leave me all as lone, boy,
As any which their hate can yield!”
“Mother, I do not fear them,
Even should they dare the worst they could;
Yet never will I cheer them
A challenge to their strife of blood!”
IV
“And how then win your own, boy,Though pure and high your quarrel stands,
53
And from their griping iron hands?”
“A battle still must win it!
A battle, mother, they shall rue,
Although no blood flow in it,
To make the widow childless too!”
54
THE PARLEY.
I
Ours is no quarrel that will not be ended—Ours are not hearts to hate on to the last—
The foe still devoted, the foe still intended,
To him, and him only, our challenge we cast—
And him—even him—let him now but awake
To the love he should own for our desolate land,
And his hand we will take,
And his hand we will shake,
Though the blood of her children be fresh on that hand!
II
And oh! toiling sleeper, when, when wilt thou break upThe fierce haggard dream of thy feverish heart,
55
To know what a dupe and a raver thou art!
Wake, wake, in the fair names of manhood and mind!
Of wisdom, of charity, mercy and ruth!
By the love thou dost find
On thy soul to its kind!
By its nature! its yearnings eternal for truth!
III
In the dear name of country we cannot adjure thee—Thou lone one! no country at present thou hast—
But, up at our bidding! and we will ensure thee
A country, and love of a country, at last!
Aye! in lieu of the rage-thirst thou'rt panting to slake,
Up, up, in the name of this desecrate land,
And your hand we will take,
And your hand we will shake,
Though the blood of her children be fresh on that hand!
56
SONG.
[Here we are, Mr. Bull, your Orange and Green]
I
Here we are, Mr. Bull, your Orange and Green,Flaunting away like two show flowers,
Or rival Sultanas, that it may be seen
Which first you will choose for your amorous hours;
Though, like a great Sultan, you won't condescend
At either your fancy cravat to throw—
But, please make a choice, for 'tis time you should end
Our rivalry, ere to “the scratch” we go!
II
Come! tell us your mind! old Orange or me?Her jaundiced phiz, or my bloomy charms?
A hen-pecking, peevish old maid of sixty,
Or beauty, and vigor, and youth, in your arms?
57
You'll hardly, I think, bring home such a bride;
If you hope, under God, a fine family,
A man of your sense must soon decide.
III
And know you her dower, and know you mine?An old woman bevy, a thin male crew,
As hungry and poor as Pharaoh's lean kine,
Of her own sickly colour, she brings to you—
I offer a portion few princesses have!
A kingdom! a kingdom! of teeming plains!
A people! a people! fresh, loyal, and brave!
A nation, a nation! with blood in its veins!
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