fyf . \ri) Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2016 https://archive.org/details/spiritofnationorOOunse THE OR, BALLADS AND SONGS BY TIIE WRITERS OF “ THE NATION.” CONTAINING ALL THE SONGS AND BALLADS FORMERLY PUBLISHED IN TWO PARTS. FIFTY-FIRST EDITION. BOSTON COLLEGE LIBRARY CHESTNUT HILL, MASS. DUBLIN: JAMES PUFFY & SONS, 15 Wellington Quay, And 1a PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON. 1882 . PR ml • Lf SGc. p hinted by E D M U N D Eu K K E & Co , 61 & 62 G 11 EAT STRAND STREET, DUBLIN. ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIFTIETH EDITION. A New Edition of the “Spirit op the Nation” has been long called for, and is here presented in a clear, bold type. The old stereo plates, from which over one hundred thousand impressions had been printed, had got so com- pletely worn out under the press, that copies printed from them were imperfect, and it became necessary to print a new edition in a style worthy of a work, the reputation of which lias steadily risen with each succeeding generation, not only at home, but in England and America. Francis Jeffrey and Miss Mitford in England, and Longfellow in America, have written and epoken of some of the poems with enthusiasm ; and a new demand for them has grown up in both countries. ♦ The Present Edition is not a mere reprint of the two parts published in 1843. With all that is worth preserving in them, it unites the additional poems in the expensive quarto published in 1845, under the title of “Songs and Ballads by the Writers of The Nation.” CONTENTS Names of Poems. Adieu to Innisfail, - Aid yourselves and God will aid you, Advance, - Annie, Dear, Anti-Irish Irishman, - Appeal, An, Arms of Eighty-two, - Ballad of Freedom, - Battle of Beal-an-atha-Buidhe, Battle-Eve of the Brigade, Bide your Time, Bishop of Ross, Boatman of Kinsale, - Boyhood’s Years, Brothers, Arise, Cate of Ceann-mare, - Cease to do Evil, Learn to do Well, Clare's Dragoons, Day Dreamer- Dear Land, Dream of the Future, Eire a Ruin, England’s Ultimatum, Erin, our own little Isle, Exterminator’s Song, Fag an Bealagli, Fail of the Leaves, - Father Olathe w, Fill high to-night, - Fireside, Fontenoy, Gael and the Green, - Authors' Names. Page. R. D. Williams, - - 63 Sliabh Cuilirm, - - 171 D. F. M'Carthy, - - 204 Thomas Davis, - 127 Hugh Harkin, - 253 - - 53 M. J. Barry, - 250 Thomas Davis, - 11-3 William Drennan, - 44 Thomas Davis, - - 108 M. J. Barry, - 78 Dr. Madden, - 100 Thomas Davis, - 133 Rev. C. Meehan, - - 65 G. S. Phillips, - 224 D. F. M 'Car thy, - - 183 D. P. McCarthy, - - 117 Thomas Davis, - 176 Charles Gavan Duffy, - Ill Sliabh Cuilinn, - - 20 D. F. M‘Carthy, - - 122 Sliabh Cuilinn, - - 91 Sliabh Cuilinn, - 213 Fermoy, - - 23 J. C. O’Callaghan, - 125 Charles Gavan Duffy, , - 9 Rev. C. Meehan, - - 180 . - 68 William Mul chi neck, - 233 D. F. M 'Car thy, - - 233 Thomas Davis, - 215 M. J. Barry, - 40 VI CONTENTS, Names of Poems. Gathering of the Nation, Geraldines, Green above the Red, Green Flag, Health, A, - Highway for Freedom, Ilymn of Freedom, - Inis-Eoghain, Irish Arms Bill, Irish Reaper’s Harvest Hymn, Irish War Song, Israelite Leader, Kate of Araglen, Lament of Grainne Maol, Lament for Owen Roe O'Neill, Lament for the Milesians, Lay Sermon, Lion and Serpent, Lost Path, - Love’s Longings, Memory of the Dead, Men of Tipperary, Munster, Munster War Song, - Muster of the North, My Grave, - My Land, - Nation’s First Number, New Year’s Song, O'Connell, - O'Donnell abu, Oh ! for a Steed, Orange and Green will carry the day Our Course, Our Own again, Ourselves Alone, Paddies Evermore, - Past and Present, Patience, - Patriot Brave, Patriot's Bride, Patrot's Haunts, Peasant Girls, Authors' Names. Page. - J. D. Fra2er, - - 97 . Thomas Davis, . - 98 . Thomas Davis, - - 157 - M. J. Barry, - - 147 - J. D. Frazer, - - 198 - Clarence Mangan, - 202 - M. J. Barry, - - 103 - Charles Gavan Duffy, - SZ - William Drennan, - 203 - John Keegan, - - 62 - Edward Walsh, - - 35 - A* , - - 149 - Denny Lane, - - 163 - Hugh Harkin, - - 242 - Thomas Davis, - - 11 - Thomas Davis, - - 140 - Charles Gavan Duffy, - 186 - R. D. Williams, . - 53 - Thomas Davis, - - 71 - Thomas Davis, - - 2 4« - - - - 41 - Thomas Davis, - - 6? - Sliabh Cuilinn, - - 142 - R. D. Williams, - - 51 - Charles Gavan Duffy, - 28 - Thomas Davis, - - 210 - Thomas Davis, - - 138 - Clarence Mangan, - 17 - D. F. M‘Carthy, - - 129 - Astrea, - - 14 - M. J. M'Cann, . - 235 - Thomas Davis, - - 131 - Thomas Davis, . - 199 - J. D. Frazer, - - 219 - Thomas Davis, - - 193 - Sliabh Cuilinn, . - 56 - Sliabh Cuilinn, . - 84 - Sliabh Cuilinn, . - 248 • Spartacus, - - 155 - It. D. Williams, - - 179 - Charles Gavan Duffy, - 74 - William Mulchineck, - 193 - - - - 108 CONTENTS. VU Names of Poems. Pillar Towers of Ireland, Price of Freedom, Rally for Ireland, Recruiting Song of the Irish Brigade, Right Road, Saxon Shilling, Slaves' Bill, Shan Van Vacht, Song for July the 12tli, 1S43, - Song of the Penal Days, Song of the Volunteers of 1782, Songs of the Nation, - Sonnet, - Stand Together, Steady, - Step Together, Sword, The, True Irish King, Tone’s Grave, Tyrol and Ireland, - Union, The, Up for the Green, Victor’s Burial* Voice and Pen, Voice of Labor, Vow of Tipperary, - Was it a Dream, Watch and Wait, Welcome, - West’s Asleep, Wexford Massacre, - What's my Thought like, Why, Gentles, why, - • Wild Geese, Authors' Names. Pane. - D. F. M’Carthy, - - 1G5 - D. F. M‘Carthy, - - 79 Thomas Davis, - 88 - Maurice O’Connell, - 152 - Thomas Davis, - 87 - K, T. Buggy, - - 54 - William Drennan, - 239 - Michael Dolieny, , - - 95 - J. D. Frazer, - - 36 - Edward Walsh, - - 70 - Thomas Davis, - - 38 - Edward Walsh, - - 110 E. N. Shannon, - - 22 Beta, - - 2G - R. D. Williams, - - 231 - M. J. Barry, - - 154 - M. J. Barry, - - 119 - Thomas Davis, - ' - 144 - Thomas Davis, - - 93 - Theta, - - 25 - Sliabh Cuilinn, - - 105 - Fermoy, - - - 135 - Thomas Davis, - - 222 - D. F. M‘Carthy, - - 133 - Charles Gavan Duffy, - 47 - Thomas Davis, - - 211 - John O’Connell, - - 72 - Charles Gavan Duffy, - 174 - Thomas Davis, - - 140 . Thomas Davis, - - 60 - M. J. Barry, - - 252 - John O'Connell, - - 227 - L. N. F. - - - 162 • M, J. Barry, - - 169 THE SPIRIT OF THE RATION. FAG AN BEALACH * [To make the general tone and some of the allusions in this song Intelligible, we should, perhaps, mention that it was written in October, 1842, when the hope and spirits of the people were low; and published in the third number of the Nation , as the Charter-song of the con- tributors. It was supposed to be first sung, as it actually was, at one of their weekly suppers.] BY CHARLES GAVAN DUPT Y. I. “ Hope no more for fatherland, All its ranks are thinned or broken Long a base and coward band Recreant words like these have spoken : But WE preach a land awoken ; Fatherland is true and tried As your fears are false and hollow ; Slaves and dastards, stand aside — Knaves and traitors, Fag an Bealach ! * Fag an Bealach , “ Clear the road, 15 or, as it is vulgarly spelt, Faugh a Balia gh, was the cry with which the clans of Connaught and Munster used in faction fights to come through a fair with high hearts and smashing shillelalis. The regiments raised in the South and West took their old shout with them to the Continent. The 87th, or Royal Irish 10 THE SPIRIT OF TIIE NATIOK. ♦ IT. Know, ye suffering brethren ours, Might is strong, but Right is stronger ; Saxon wiles or Saxon pow’rs Can enslave our land no longer Than your own dissensions wrong her ; Be ye one in might and mind — Quit the mire where cravens wallow — And your foes shall flee like wind From your fearless Fag an Bealach ! III. Thus the mighty multitude Speak in accents hoarse with sorrow : “ We are fallen, but unsubdued ; Show us whence we hope may borrow, And. we’ll fight your fight to-morrow. Be but cautious, true, and brave, Where you lead us we will follow ; Hill and valley, rock and wave, Soon shall hear our Fag an Bealach ! ” IV. Fling our banner to the wind, Studded o’er with names of glory ; Fusileers, from their use of it, went generally by the name of “The Faugh a Ballagh Boys.” “ Nothing, ” says Napier, in his History of the Peninsular War — “ nothing so startled the French soldiery as the wild yell with which the Irish regiments sprang to the charge;” and never was that haughty and intolerant shout raised in battle, but a charge swift as thought, and fatal as tiame, came with it, like a rushing incar- nation Qi Fag an Bealach l THE SPIRIT OF TIIE NATION. 11 Worth, and wit, and might, and mind, Poet young, and patriot hoary, Long shall make it shine in story. Close your ranks — the moment’s come— NOW, ye men of Ireland ! follow ; Friends of Freedom, charge them home— Foes of Freedom, Fag an Bealach / LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF EOGHAN RUADH O’NEILL, COMMONLY CALLED OWEN ROE O’NEIL. [This striking and dramatic ballad was the first written by Thomas Davis, Before the publication of the first number of the Nation , Davis, Dillon, and Duffy agreed to attempt political ballads, on which they had great reliance for raising the spirit of the country ; to their next meeting Davis brought the “ Lament for Owen Koe,” and “ The Men of Tipperary.”] BY THOMAS DAVIS. Time -10th November, 1G49. Scene— Ormond’s camp, Co. Waterford. Speakers— a veteran of Owen O’Neil’s clan, and one of the horsemen just arrived with an account of his death. I. “ Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Owen Roe O’Neil 1” il 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 Owen Roe ! 12 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 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 Saxon met him on his way, And he died at Cloc Uactair, upon Saint Leonard’s Day.” in. “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 Owen won them all. Had he lived, had he lived, our dear country had been free ; But he’s dead, but he’s dead, and J tis slaves we’ll ever be. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 1 V. “ O’Farrell and Clanrickarde, Preston and Bed Hugh, Audley and MacMahon, ye are valiant, wise, and true ; But what — what are ye all to our darling who is gone 1 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! Weep the victor of Beinn Burb — weep him, young men 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 Cromweirs cruel blow — Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky — Oh! why did you leave us, Owen? why did you die? 14 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. VIII. “ Soft as woman’s was your voice, O’Weil ! bright was your eye ! Oli! why did you leave us, Owen t 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, Owen ! — why did you die ?” O’CONNELL. i. I SAW him at the hour of pray’r, when morning’s earliest dawn Was breaking o’er the mountain-tops — o’er grassy dell and lawn — When the parting shades of night had fled — when moon and stars were gone, Before a high and gorgeous shrine the chieftain kneeled alone. His hands were clasped upon his breast, his eye was raised above — I heard those full and solemn tones in words of faith and love ; He prayed that those who wronged him might for ever be forgiven ; Oh ! who would say such prayers as these are not received in heaven ? THE SFIRIT OF THE NATION, 15 II. I saw him next amid the best and noblest of our isle — There was the same majestic form, the same heart- kindling smile ! But grief was on that princely brow — for others still lie mourned — He gazed upon poor, fettered slaves, and his heart within him burned; And he vowed before the captive’s God to break the captive’s chain — To bind the broken heart, and set the bondsman free again ; [need, And fit he was our chief to be, in triumph or in Who never wronged his deadliest foe in thought, or word, or deed. ill. I saw him when the light of eve had faded from the west — Beside the hearth that old man sat, by infant forms caressed ; One hand was gently laid upon his grandchild's clustering hair, The other, raised to heaven, invoked a blessing and a pray’r ! And woman’s lips were heard to breathe a high and glorious strain — Those songs of old, that haunt us still, and ever will remain 1 G THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Within the heart like treasured gems — that bring from mem’ry’s cell Thoughts of our youthful days, and friends that we have loved so well ! IV. I saw that eagle glance again — the brow was marked with care, Though rich and regal are the robes the Nation’s chief doth wear ; * And many an eye now quailed with shame, and many a cheek now glowed, As he paid them back with words, of love for every curse bestowed. I thought of his unceasing care, his never-ending zeal; I heard the watchword burst from all — the gathering cr y— Repeal ! And, as his eyes were raised to heaven — from whence liis mission came — He stood , amid the thousands there , a monarchy save in name. Astrea. * Written during his mayoralty. XHE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 17 THE NATION’S FIRST NUMBER, BY CLARENCE MANGAN. Air — ‘ £ Jxory O' More. ” I. ’Tis a great day, and glorious, 0 Public ! for you— This October Fifteenth, Eighteen Forty and Two ! For on this day of days, lo ! The Nation came forth, To commence its career of Wit, Wisdom, and Worth— To give genius its due— to do battle with wrong — And achieve things undreamed of as yet, save in song. Then arise ! fling aside your dark mantle of slumber. And welcome in chorus The Nation’s First- Number. ii. Here we are, thanks to heaven ! in an epoch when Mind Is unfettering our captives, and couching our blind ; And the Press, with its thunders, keeps marring the mirth Of those tyrants and bigots that curse our fair earth. Be it ours to stand forth and contend in the van Of truth’s legions for freedom, that birthright of man : B IS THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Shaking off the dull cobwebs that else might encumber Our weapon — the pen — in The Nation’s First Number. in. W e announce a New Era — be this our first news — When the serf-grinding landlords shall shake in their shoes, While the ark of a bloodless yet mighty Keform Shall emerge from the flood of the popular storm ! Well we know how the lickspittle panders to pow’r Feel and fear the approach of that death-dealing hour ; But we toss these aside— such vile, vagabond lumber Are but just worth a groan from The Nation's First Number. iv. Though we take not for motto, Nul n’a de T esprit (As they once did in Paris) hors nos bons amis , We may boast that for first-rate endowments our band Forms a phalanx unmatched in — or out of — the land, Poets, Patriots, Linguists, with reading like Parr’s — Critics keener than sabres — Wits brighter than stars, And Beasoners as cool as the coolest cucumber, Form the host that shine out in The Nation’s First Number. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 19 V . We shall sketch living manners and men, in a style That will scarcely be sneezed at, we guess, for a while ; Build up stories as fast as of yore Mother Bunch ; And for fun of all twists take the shine out of “ Punch Thus our Wisdom and Quizdom will finely agree, Very much, Public dear, we conceive, as }OU see, Do the lights and the shades that illume and ad umber Each beautiful page in The Nation’s First Number. vt. A word more. To Old Ireland our first love is given, Still our friendship hath arms for all lands under heaven. We are Irish — we vaunt it — all o’er and all out ; But we wish not that England shall “ sneak up the spout !” Then, 0 Public ! here, there, and elsewhere through the world, Wheresoe’er Truth’s and Liberty’s flags are un- furled, From the Suir to the Rhine, from the Boyne to the Humber, Raise one shout of applause for The Nation’s First Number. 20 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. DEAR LAND. L When comes the day all hearts to weigh, If staunch they be, or vile, Shall we forget the sacred debt We owe our mother isle ? My native heath is brown beneath, My native waters blue ; But crimson red o’er both shall spread, Ere I am false to you, Dear land ! Ere I am false to you. IL When I behold your mountains bold— Your noble lakes and streams — A mingled tide of grief and pride Within my bosom teems. I think of all your long, dark thrall — Your martyrs brave and true ; And dash apart the tears that start— We must not weep for you, Dear laud ! We must not weep for you. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION, 21 III. My grandsire died, his home beside ; They seized and hanged him there ; His only crime, in evil time Your hallowed green to wear. Across the main his brothers twain Were sent to pine and rue ; And still they turned with hearts that burned In hopeless love to you, Dear land ! In hopeless love to you. IV. My boyish ear still clung to hear Of Erin's pride of yore, Ere Norman foot had dared pollute Her independent shore ; Of chiefs, long dead, who rose to head Some gallant patriot few ; Till all my aim on earth became To strike one blow for you, Dear land ! To strike one blow for you ! v. What path is best your rights to wrest Let other heads divine ; By work or word, with voice or sword, To follow them be mine. 22 THIS SPIRIT OF THE NATION. The breast that zeal and hatred steel No terrors can subdue; If death should come, that martyrdom Were sweet endured for you, Dear land ! Were sweet endured for you. Sliabh Cuilinn. SONNET. BY F. N. SHANNON, Translator of Dante, Author of ‘‘Tales Old and New.” In fair, delightful Cyprus, by the main, A lofty, royal seat, Love’s dwelling stands ; Thither I went, and gave into his hands An humble scroll, his clemency to gain. “ Sire,” said the writing, “ Thyrsis, who in pain Has served thee hitherto, this boon demands— His freedom ; neither should his suit be vain, After six lustres’ service in thy bands.” He took the scroll, and seemed to pore thereon ; But he was blind, and could not read the case. Seeming to feel his grievous want full sore — • Wherefore, with stern and frowning air, anon He said, and flung my writing in my face : “ Give it to Death — w r e two will talk it o’er." THE SFTRTT OF THE NATION. 23 ERIN-0 UR OWN LITTLE ISLE. Air — “ The Caravat Jig.” I. 0 Irishmen ! never forget *Tis & foreigner’s farm — your own little isle ; 0 Irishmen ! when will you get Some life in your hearts for your poor little isle'l Yes ! yes !— we’ve. a dear little spot of it ! Oil ! yes ! — a sweet little isle ! Yes ! yes !- — if Irishmen thought of it, ’Twould be a dear little, sweet little isle ! II. Then, come on and rise — ev’ry man of you ; Now is the time for a stir to be made ; Ho ! Pat ! who made such a lamb of you ? Life to your soul, boy, and strength to your blade ! Yes ! yes ! — a dear little spot of it ! Oh ! yes ! — a sweet little isle ! Yes ! yes ! — if Irishmen thought of it, Erin once more is our own little isle ! III. Rise heartily ! shoulder to shoulder, We’ll show ’em strength with good humour go leor ! Ri.se ! rise ! show each foreign beholder We’ve not lost our love to thee, Erin a stoir I 24 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. For, oh ! yes ! — ’tis a dear little spot of it ! Yes ! yes ! — a sweet little isle ! Yes ! yes ! — the Irish have thought of it ; Erin for ever — our own little isle ! IV. Kever forget what your forefathers fought for, 0 ! When, with “ O’Neill !” or “ O’Donnell aboo !” Sassenaghs ev’ry where sunk in the slaughter, 0 ! Vengeance for insult, dear Erin, to you ! For, oh ! yes ! — a dear little spot of it ! Yes ! yes ! — a sweet little isle ; Yes ! yes ! — if Irishmen thought of it, Erin once more is our own little isle ! v. Yes, we have strength to make Irishmen free again; Only unite — and we’ll conquer our foe ; And never on earth shall a foreigner see again Erin a province — though lately so low. For, oh 1 yes ! — we’ve a dear little spot of it ! Yes ! yes ! — a sweet little isle ! Yes ! yes ! — the Irish have thought of it ; Eiin for ever — oun own little isle ! Fermoy. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 25 TYROL AND IRELAND. “Ye gather three ears of corn, and they take two out of three. Are ve contented ? are ye happy? But there is a Providence above, and there are angels : and when we seek to right ourselves, they will assist us.”— Speech of Hof tr to the Tyrolese, 1809. I. And Hofer roused Tyrol for this, Made Winschgan red with blood, Thai Botzen’s peasants ranged in arms, And Inspruck’s fire withstood. For this ! for this ! that but a third The hind his own could call, When Passyer gathered in her sheaves ; Why, ye are robbed of all. ii. IJp rose the hardy mountaineers, And crushed Bavaria’s horse, ILth* name of Father and of Son,* For this without remorse. Great Heaven, for this ! that Passyer’ s swains Of half their store were rest 3 Why, clods of senseless clay ! to you Not even a sheaf is left ! * “The Bavarian vanguard, composed of 4,000 men, advanced into the defile; and when they had reached midway, the mountaineers hurled down upon their heads huge rocks, which they had rolled to the verge of the precipice, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Hol> Ghost.”— Ili$toi re des Tyroliens. 26 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. III. ’Midst plenty gushing round, ye starve — ’Midst blessings, crawl accurst — And hoard for your land-cormorants all, Deep gorging till they burst ! Still, still they spurn you with contempt, Deride your pangs with scorn, Still bid you bite the dust, for churls * And villains basely born ! IV. 0 idiots ! feel ye not the lash ? The fangs that clutch at gold ? From rogues so insolent what hope Of mercy do ye hold ? The pallid millions kneel for food ; The lordling locks his store. Hath earth, alas ! but one Tyrol, And not a Hofer more. Tjieta. STAND TOGETHER. i. Stand together, brothers all ! Stand together, stand together ! To live or die, to rise or fall, Stand together, stand together ! THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION, *7 Old Erin proudly lifts her head — Of many tears the last is shed ; Oh ! for the living — by the dead ! Stand together, true together ! II. Stand together, brothers all ! Close together, close together ! Be Ireland’s might a brazen wall — Close up together, tight together ! Peace ! no noise ! — but, hand in hand, Let calm resolve pervade your band, And wait, till nature’s God command — Then help each other, help each other. m. Stand together, brothers all ! Proud together, bold together ! From Kerry’s cliffs to Donegal, Bound in heart and soul together ! Unroll the sunburst ! who’ll defend Old Erin’s banner is a friend ; One foe is ours— oh! blend, boys, blend Hands together — hearts together ! IV. Stand together, brothers all ! Wait together, watch together ! See, America and Gaul Look on together, both together ! 23 fill: SPIRIT OF THE NATION, Keen impatience in each eye ; Yet on “ ourselves” do we rely — “ Ourselves alone ” our rallying cry ! And “stand together, strike together !” Beta. THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH. A.D. 1641. BY CHARLES GAYAN DUFFY. [We deny and have always denied the alleged massacre of 1C41. But that- the people rose under their chiefs, seized the English towns and exp died the English settlers, and in doing so committed many excesses, Is undeniable— as is equally the desperate provocation. The ballad here printed is not meant as an apology for these excesses, which we condemn and lament, but as a true representation of the feelings of the insurgent* in the first madness of success.] I. Joy ! joy ! the day is come at last, the day of hope and pride — And see! our crackling bonfires light old Bann’s rejoicing tide, And gladsome bell and bugle-horn from Newry’s captured towers, Hark ! how they tell the Saxon swine, this land is ours, is OURS. ii. Glory to God ! my eyes have seen the ransomed fields of Down, My ears have drunk the joyful news, (t Stout Phe- lim hath his own.” THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 29 Oh ! may they see and hear no more, oh ! may they rot to clay, When they forget to triumph in the conquest of to-clay. in. Now, now we’ll teach the shameless Scot to purge his thievish maw ; Now, now the Court may fall to pray, for Justice is the Law ; Now shall the Undertaker* square, for once, his loose accounts — We'll strike, brave boys, a fair result, from all his false amounts. IV. Come, trample down their robber rule, and smite its venal spawn, Their foreign laws, their foreign church, their ermine and their lawn, With all the specious fry of fraud that robbed us of our own ; And plant our ancient laws again beneath our lineal throne. v. Our standard hies o’er fifty towers, o’er twice ten thousand men ; Down have we plucked the pirate Red, never to rise again ; * The Scotch and English adventurers planted in Ulster by James L were called Undei takers. 30 THIS SPIRIT OF THE NATION. The Green alone shall stream above our native field and flood — The spotless Green, save where its folds are gemmed with Saxon blood ! Vi. Pity !* ** no, no, you dare not, priest — not you, our father, dare Preach to us now that godless creed — the mur- derer’s blood to spare; To spare his blood, while tombless still our slaugh- tered kin implore “ Graves and revenge” from Gobbin cliffs and Carrick’s bloody shore !+ VII. Pity! — could we “ forget, forgive,” if we were clods of clay, Our martyred priests, our banished chiefs, our race in dark decay, And, worse than all — you know it, priest — the daughters of our land With wrongs we blushed to name until the sword was in our hand % * Iceland, the Protestant historian, states that the Catholic priests ** labored zealously to moderate the excesses of war," and frequently protected the English by concealing them in their places of worship and even under their altars. f The scene of the massacre of the unoffending inhabitants of Island Magee by the garrison of Carrickfcrgus. THE SITE-T OP THE NATION. 31 VIII. Pity ! well, if you needs must whine, let pity have its wa y, Pity for all our comrades true, far from our side to-day : The prison-bound who rot in chains, the faithful dead who poured Their blood ’neath Temple's lawless axe or Parson’s ruffian sword. IX. They smote us with the swearer’s oath, and with the murderer’s knife ; W e in the open field will fight fairly for land and life; But, by the dead aM all their wrongs, and by our hopes to-day, One of us twain shall fight their last, or be it we or they. They banned our faith, they banned our lives, they trod us into earth, Until our very patience stirred their bitter hearts to mirth. Even this great flame that wraps them now, not we but they have bred : Yes, this is their own work ; and now their work be on their head ! 32 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. XI. Nay, father, tell us not of help from Leinster a Norman peers, If we shall shape our holy cause to match their selfish fears — Helpless and hopeless be their cause who brook a vain delay ! Our ship is launched, our flag’s afloat, whether they come or stay. XII. Let silken Ilowtli and savage Siane still kiss their tyrant’s rod, And pale Dunsany still prefer his master to his God ; Little we’d miss their fathers’^ons, the Marchmen of the Pale, If Irish hearts and Irish hands had Spanish blade and mail ! XIII. Then, let them stay to bow and fawn, or fight with cunning words ; I fear me more their courtly arts than England’s hireling swords ; Nathless their creed, they hate us still, as the despoiler hates ; Could they love us. and love their prey, our kins- men’ s lost estates ] THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 33 XIV. Our rude array’s a jagged rock to smash the spoiler’s pow’r, Or, need we aid, His aid wo have who doomed this gracious hour ; Of yore He led His Hebrew host to peace through strife and pain, And us he leads the self-same path, the self-same goal to gain. xv. Down from the sacred hills whereon a saint* com' muned with God, Up from the vale where Bagenal’s blood manured the reeking sod, Out from the stately woods of Truagh, McKenna’s plundered home, Like Malin’s waves, as fierce and fast, our faithful clansmen come. XVI. Then, brethren, on ! O’Neill’s dear shade would frown to see you pause — Our banished Hugh, our martyred Hugh, is watch* ing o’er your cause — His generous error lost the land — he deemed the Norman true; Oh, forward ! friends, it must not lose the land again in you ! • St. I’atrick, whose favorite retreat was Lecule, in the Co. Dowa* 0 34 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. NOTE ON “THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH.” The Times newspaper, in the absence of any topic of public interest, having made this ballad the subject of a leading article, in which extra- vagant praise of its literary merits was joined with an equally extra- vagant misrepresentation of its object and tendency, it had the hard fortune to run the gauntlet of all the Tory journals in the empire, and to become the best abused ballad in existence. It was described as the Rosg-Cata of a new rebellion— as a deliberate attempt to revive the jealousies of the bill of settlement; and the organ of the General Assem- bly of Ulster coolly proclaimed the writer to be a man with the intellect, but also with the heart, of Satan ! Under these circumstances I shouldnot have permitted its insertion in the present edition, had I not feared that omitting it might be interpreted into an admission of charges, than which nothing can possibly be more false or ludicrous. In writing it, I had simply in view to produce— what it will not be denied an historical ballad ought to be— a picture of the actual feelings of the times in which the scene is laid ; and the sentiments are certainly not more violent than the great masters of ballad poetry— Scott, for example, in his “Glencoe” — have put into the mouths of injured men. Possibly the prejudice in the present case arose from overlookir^ the fact that these sentiments are attributed to men who had been plundered of two provinces by a false king, im- prisoned for returning conscientious verdicts, robbed by enormous fines, persecuted for the exercise of their religion, and subject to a long series of tyrannies, which historians, without exception, have described as cruel and infamous. To make these men talk coolly, and exhibit all the horror of spilling one drop of human blood into which O’Connell has trained this generation, would fee very much on a par, in point of sense and propriety, with the old stage custom of dressing Richard III. in the uniform of the Coldstream Guards. So little intention, however, was there to make it available to any political purpose, that there is not a single allusion in the poem that was not suggested by the circumstances of the period ; while some of them would be quite inapplicable to e uiy ather time, especially to the present (1844). THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. OO IRISH WAR-SONG. BY EDWARD WALSH. Air — “ The world's turned upside down.** Bright sun ! before whose glorious ray Our pagan fathers bent the knee ; Whose pillar- altars yet can say When time was young our sires were free ; Who seest how fallen their offspring be, Our matrons’ tears, our patriots’ gore ; We swear, before high heaven and thee, The Saxon holds us slaves no more ! Our sunburst on the Roman foe Flashed vengeance once in foreign field j On Clontarf’s plain lay scathed low What power the sea-kings fierce could wield 3 Beinn Burb might say whose cloven shield ’Neath bloody hoofs was trampled o'er ; And, by these memories high, we yield Our limbs to Saxon chains no more ! The clairseach wild, whose trembling string Had long the “ song of sorrow” spoke, Shall bid the wild Rosg-Cata* sing The curse and crime of Saxon yoke. ♦ Literally the “Eye of Battle the war-song of the bards. 36 TIIE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. And, by each heart his bondage broke*^ Each exile’s sigh on distant shore - ■ Each martyr ’neath the headsman’s stroke — The Saxon holds us slaves no more ! Send the loud war-cry o'er the main — Your sunburst to the breezes spread : That slogan rends the heaven in twain — The earth reels back beneath your tread. Ye Saxon despots, hear, and dread ! Your march o’er patriot hearts is o’er — That shout hath told, that tramp hath said, Our country’s sons are slaves no more ! SONG FOR JULY 12th, 1843. BY J. D. FRASER. Air— “ Boyne Water. 11 Come — pledge again thy heart and hand— One grasp that ne’er shall sever ; Our watchword be — “ Our native land’’— Our motto — “ Love for ever.” And let the Orange lily be Thy badge, my patriot brother — - The everlasting Green for me ; And we for one another. THE SPIRIT OF TIIE NATION. 37 Behold how green the gallant stem On which the flower is blowing ; How in one heavenly breeze and beam Both flower and stem are glowing. The same good soil, sustaining both, Makes both united flourish ; But cannot give the Orange growth, And cease the Green to nourish. Yea, more — the hand that plucks the flow’r Will vainly strive to cherish ; The stem blooms on — but in that hour The flower begins to perish. Regard them, then, of equal worth While lasts their genial weather ; The time’s at hand when into earth The two shall sink together. Ev’n thus be, in our country’s cause, Our party feelings blended ; Till lasting peace, from equal laws, On both shall have descended. Till then the Orange lily be Thy badge, my patriot brother— The everlasting Green for me ; And — we for one another. 3S THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1782. BY THOMAS DAVIS. Air — 44 Boyne Water 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. 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 ! Bless Harry Flood, who nobly stood By us through gloomy years ; Bless Chari emont, the brave and good, The Chief of the Volunteers ! THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 39 The North began, the North held on The strife for native land, Till Ireland rose, and cowed her foes — 3 God bless the Northern land ! 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. Remember still, through good and ill, How vain were prayers and tears — 1 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! 40 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. THE GAEL AND THE GKEEN. BY M. J. BARRY. Air— “ One bumper at parting.” Come, fill every glass to o’erfiowing, With wine, or potheen if you will, Or, if any think these are too glowing, Let water replace them — but fill ! Oh ! trust me, ’tis churlish and silly To ask how the bumper’s filled up; If the tide in the heart be not chilly, What matters the tide in the cup 1 Oh ! ne’er may that heart’s tide ascending In shame on our foreheads be seen. While it nobly can ebb in defending Our own glorious color — the Green i In vain did oppression endeavor To trample that Green under foot ; The fair stem was broken, but never Could tyranny reach to its root Then come, and around it let’s rally, And guard it henceforward like men ! Oh i soon shall each mountain and valley Glow bright with its verdure again. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 41 Meanwhile, fill each glass to the brim, boys, With water, with wine, or potheen , And on each let the honest wish swim, boys — Long flourish the Gael and the Green ! Here, under our host’s gay dominion, While gathered this table around, What varying shades of opinion In one happy circle are found ! What opposite creeds come together ! How mingle North, South, East, and West! Yet who minds the diffrence a feather ?— Each strives to love Erin the best. Oh ! soon through our beautiful island May union as blessed be seen, While floats o’er each valley and highland Our own glorious color — the Green ! THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD * Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight? Who blushes at the name ? When cowards mock the patriot’s fate, Who hangs his head for shame ? * The music to which this fine song is set will be found in the “Bal- lads and Songs by the Writers of the Nation , with original and ancient music.” James Duffy, 1845. 42 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. He’s all a knave or half a slave Who slights his country thus ; But a true man, like you, man, Will fill your glass with us. We drink the memory of the brave, The faithful and the few — Some lie far off beyond the wave, Some sleep in Ireland, too ; All, all are gone — but still lives on The fame of those who died ; All true men, like you, men, Remember them with pride. Some on the shores of distant lands Their weary hearts have laid, And by the stranger s heedless hands Their lonely graves were made ; But, though their clay be far away Beyond the Atlantic foam, In true men, like you, men, Their spirit’s still at home. The dust of some is Irish earth ; Among their own they rest ; And the same land that gave them birth Has caught them to her breast ; THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 43 And we will pray that from their clay Full many a race may start Of true men, like you, men, To act as brave a part. They rose in dark and evil days To right their native land ; They kindled here a living blaze That nothing shall withstand. Alas ! that Might can vanquish Right— They fell, and passed away ; But true men, like you, men, Are plenty here to-day. Then here’s their memory-may it be For us a guiding light, To cheer our strife for liberty, And teach us to unite ! Through good and ill, be Ireland’s still, Though sad as theirs your fate ; And true men, be you, men, Like those of Ninety -Eight. 44 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. THE BATTLE OF BE AL- AN- ATH A-BU ID HE. Won by the great Hugh O’Neill over Marshal Bagenal and the flower of Elizabeth's army, between Armagh and 131ackwaier Bridge, a.d. 1598. BY WILLIAM DRENNAN. By O’Neill close beleaguered, the spirits might droop Of the Saxon three hundred shut up in their coop, Till Bagcnal drew forth his Toledo, and swore, On the sword of a soldier, to succor Port Mor. His veteran troops, in the foreign wars tried — Their features how bronzed, and how haughty their stride — Stept steadily on ; it was thrilling to see That thunder-cloud brooding o’er Beal-an-atha- buidhe. The flash of their armor, inlaid with fine gold — Gleaming matchlocks, and cannon that mutteringly rolled — ■ With the tramp and the clank of those stern cuiras- 1 siers Dyed in blood of the Flemish and French cavaliers. And are the mere Irish, with pikes and with darts, With but glibb-covered heads, and but rib-guarded hearts — THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 45 Half-naked, half-fed, with few muskets, no guns — The battle to dare against England’s proud sons ] Poor bonnochts, and wild gallowglasses and kern* — Let them w r ar with rude brambles, sharp furze, and dry fern ; Wirrastrue f for their wives— for their babes ochanie , If they wait for the Saxon at Beal-an-atha-buidhe. Yet O’Neill standeth firm — few and brief his com- mands : u Ye have hearts in your bosoms, and pikes in your hands ; Try how far you can push them, my children, at once ; Fag an bealach ! and down with horse, foot, and great guns. “ They have gold and gay arms — they have biscuit and bread ; Now, sons of my soul, we’ll be found and be fed ; ,v And he clutched his claymore, and, “Look yonder !” laughed he, “ What a grand commissariat for Beal-an-atha- buidhe !” * Buanadh , a billeted soldier, from buanacht , quarterage. Gallo- ytaeh, a heavy soldier. Ceitheirn, a band of light troops, plural of Ceilhearnaigh. t Wirrastrue— A Mhuire as truagh , 0 Mary, what sorrow ! 46 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Near the chief a grim tyke, an O’Shanaghan, stood; His nostrils, dilated, seemed snuffing for blood ; Rough and ready to spring, like the wiry wolf- hound Of Irenfe— who, tossing his pike with a bound, Cried, “ My hand to the Sassanach ! ne’er may I hurl Another to earth if I call him a churl ! He finds me in clothing, in booty, and bread — My chief, won’t O’Shanaghan give him a bed'?” “ Land of Owen aboo !” and the Irish rushed on— The foe fired but one volley — their gunners are gone; Before the bare bosoms the steel-coats have fled, Or, despite casque and corselet, lie dying and dead. And brave Harry Bagenal, he fell while he fought, With many gay gallants — they slept as men ought, Their faces to heaven ; there were others, alack ! By pikes overtaken, and taken aback. And my Irish got clothing, coin, colors, great store, Arms, forage, and provender — plunder go leor ! THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 47 They munched the white manchets— they champed the brown chine — Fuilleluadh ! for that day how the natives did dine ! The chieftain looked on, when O’Shanaghan rose, And cried, “ Hearken, O’Neill! I’ve a health to propose — ‘ To our Sassanach hosts !’” and all quaffed in huge glee, With Cead mile faille go Beal-an-atha-buidhe ! THE VOICE OF LABOR. A CHANT OF THE CITY MEETINGS, A.D. 1843. BY CHARLES GAVXN DUFFY. Ye who despoil the sons of toil, saw ye this sight to-day, When stalwart Trade, in long brigade, beyond a king’s array, Marched in the blessed light of heaven, beneath the open sky, Strong in the might of sacred right, that none dare ask them why ? These are the slaves, the kneedy knaves, ye spit upon with scorn — The spawn of earth, of nameless birth, and basely bred as born * 48 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Yet know, ye soft and silken lords, were we the thing ye say, Your broad domains, your coffered gains, your lives, were ours to-day. Measure that rank from flank to flank — ’tis fifty thousand strong; Ancl mark you here, in front and rear, brigades as deep and long ; And know that never blade of foe, or Arran’s deadly breeze, Tried, by assay of storm or fray, more dauntless hearts than these. The sinewy smith, little he recks of his own child, the sword ; The men of gear, think you they fear their liandi work — a lord ? * And, undismayed, yon sons of trade might see the battle’s front, Who bravely bore, nor bowed before, the deadlier face of want. What lack we here of show or form, that lure your slaves to death ? Not serried bands, nor sinewy hands, nor music’s martial breath ; [endure, And if we broke the bitter yoke our suppliant race No robbers we— but chivalry — the Army of the Poor. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 49 Shame on ye now, ye lorldly crew, that do your betters wrong — We are no base and braggart mob, but merciful and strong. Your henchmen vain, your vassal train, would fly our first defiance ; In us — in our strong, tranquil breasts— abides your sole reliance. Aye ! keep them all, castle and hall, coffers and costly jewels — Keep your vile gain, and in its train the passions that it fuels. [decayance ; We envy not your lordly lot — its bloom or its But ye have that we claim as ours— our right in long abeyance — [freedom : Leisure to live, leisure to love, leisure to taste our Oh ! suffring poor, oh ! patient poor, how bitterly you need them ! [charter, “ Ever to moil, ever to toil,” that is your social And, city slave or peasant serf, the toiler is its martyr. Where Frank and Tuscan shed their sweat the goodly ufop is theirs ; If Norway’s toil make rich the soil, she eats the fruit she rears ; O’er Maine’s green sward there rules no lord, saving the Lord on high ; But we are slaves in our own land — proud masters, tell us why ? 50 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. The German burgher and his men, brother with brothers live ; While toil must wait without your gate what gracious crusts you give. Long in your sight, for our own right, we’ve bent, and still we bend — Why did we bow h why do we now 1 — proud masters, this must end. Perish the past — a generous land is this fair land of ours, And enmity may no man see between its towns and tow’rs. Come, join our bands— -here, take our hands — now shame on him that lingers ! Merchant or peer, you have no fear from labor’s blistered fingers ! Come, join at last ; perish the past — its traitors, its seceders— Proud names and old, frank hearts and bold, come join, and be our leaders. But know, ye lords, that be your swords with us or with our wronger, Heaven be our guide, for we will bide this lot shame no longer ! THF SPIRIT OF THE NATION, 5 ] THE MUNSTER WAR-SONG. A.D. 1190. BY R. D. WILLIAMS. Air — “ And doth not a meeting” [This ballad relates to the time when the Irish began to rally and unite against their invaders. The union was, alas ! brief, but its effects were great. The troops of Connaught and Ulster, under Cathal Croibh- dearg (Cathal O’Connor of the Red Hand), defeated and slew Armoi ic St. Lawrence, and stripped De Courcy of half his conquests. Rut the ballad relates to Munster ; and an extract from Moore’s (the most access- ible) book will show that there was solid ground for triumph : “ Among the chiefs who agreed at this crisis to postpone their mutual feuds, and act in concert against the enemy, were O’Brian of Thomond, and Mac Carthy of Desmond, hereditary rulers of North and South Munster, and chiefs respectively of the two rival tribes, the Dalcassiansand Eoganians. By a truce now formed between those princes, O’Brian was left free to direct his arms against the English ; and having attacked their forces at Thurles, in Fogarty’s country, gave them a complete overthrow, putting to the sword, add the Munster annals, a great number ol knights.” — Moore’s “History of Ireland,” a.d. 1190.] Can tlie depths of the ocean afford you not graves, That you come thus to perish afar o’er the waves—* To redden and swell the wild torrents that flow Through the valley of vengeance, the dark Eathar- lacli 1* The clangor of conflict o’erburthens the breeze, From the stormy Sliabh Bloom to the stately Gailtees ; Your caverns and torrents are purple with gore, Sliabh na m-Ban,+ Gleann Colaich, and sublime Gailtee Mor ! The sunburst that slumbered, embalmed in our tears, Tipperary ! shall wave o’er thy tall mountaineers ! And the dark hill shall bristle with sabre and spear, While one tyrant remains to forge manacles here. Abarlow G-’en, county Tipperary. Slievenamon, 52 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. The riderless war-steed careers o’er the plain With a shaft in his flank and a blood-dripping manes, His gallant breast labors, and glare his wild eyes ! He plunges in torture — falls — shivers — and dies. Let the trumpets ring triumph ! the tyrant is slain ! He reels o’er his charger deep-pierced through the brain ; And his myriads are flying like leaves on the gale — But who shall escape from our hills with the tale] For the arrows of vengeance are show’ ring like rain, And choke the strong rivers with islands of slain, Till thy waves, “lordly Sionainn,”all crimsonly flow, Like the billows of hell, with the blood of the foe. Ay ! the foemen are flying, but vainly they fly — Revenge with the fieetness of lightning can vie ; And the septs of the mountains spring up from each rock, And rush down the ravines like wolves on the flock. And who shall pass over the stormy Sliabh Bloom, To tell the pale Saxon of tyranny’s doom, When, like tigers from ambush, our fierce moun- taineers Leap along from the crags with their death-dealing spears ] They came with high boasting to bind us as slaves, But the glen and the torrent have yawned on their graves ; THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 53 From the gloomy Ard Fionnain to wild Teampoll Mor — * From the Siur to the Sionainn — is red with their gore. By the soul of Heremon ! our warriors may smile, To remember the march of the foe through our isle ; Their banners and harness were costly and gay, And proudly they flashed in the summer sun’s ray; The hilts of their falchions were crusted with gold, And the gems of their helmets were bright to be- hold ; By Saint Bride of Cildare ! but they moved in fail* show — To gorge the young eagles of dark Eatharlach ! AN APPEAL. Ill-fated Erin ! land of woe, Still trodden down by foreign foe, Why strike you not one final blow ? Long-suffering country ! are not thine For ambush meet the deep ravine, And plains to form the embattled line 1 The hardy Affghan, prompt and bold, Unconquered in his mountain hold, Bade Britain’s bravest hearts wax cold. * Ardfhmn and Tcim)lemora» 54 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Shall we, who boast a holier trust, Whose stainless cause is pure and just — Shall we still grovel in the dust 1 Shall we, in banded millions strong, Still bear the yoke we’ve borne too long ? Still crouch to insult, scorn, and wrong h THE SAXON SHILLING. BY K. T. BUGGY. [Mr. Buggy was a native of Kilkenny, and for some time editor of the Kilkenny Journal. He was also a contributor to the Ci'izen Magazine, and an active agitator in the Repeal movement. lie succeeded Mr. ( '.avan Duffy as editor of the Belfast Vindicator in 1843, when the latter established the Nation ; and lie died soon after in the midst oi his labors.] Hark ! a martial sound is heard — The march of soldiers, filing, drumming, Eyes are staring, hearts are stirred — For bold recruits the brave are coming. Ribands flaunting, feathers gay — The sounds and sights are surely thrilling/ Dazzled village youths to-day Will crowd to take the Saxon Shilling l Ye, whose spirits will not bow In peace to parish tyrants longer— Ye, who wear the villain brow — And ye, who pine in hopeless hunger- THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 55 Fools, without the hrave man’s faith — All slaves and starvelings who are willing To sell yourselves to shame and death — Accept the fatal Saxon Shilling. Ere you from your mountains go To feel the scourge of foreign fever, Swear to serve the faithless foe That lures you from your land for ever ! Swear henceforth its tools to be — To slaughter trained by ceaseless drilling — Honor, home, and liberty Abandoned for a Saxon Shilling ! Go — to find, ’mid crime and toil, The doom to which such guilt is hurried ! Go— to leave on Indian soil Your bones to bleach, accursed, unburied ! Go — to crush the just and brave, Whose wrongs with wrath the world are filling! Go — to slay each brother slave — Or spurn the blood-stained Saxon Shilling ! Irish hearts ! why should you bleed To swell the tide of British glory — Aiding despots in their need, Wlio’ve changed our green so oft to gory ? None, save those who wish to see The noblest killed, the meanest killing, And true hearts severed from the free, Will take again the Saxon Skilling ! 56 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Irish youths ! reserve your strength Until an hour of glorious duty, When freedom’s smile shall cheer at length The land of bravery and beauty. Bribes and threats, oh ! heed no more — Let nought but Justice make you willing To leave your own dear island shore For those who send the Saxon Shilling . OURSELVES ALONE. The work that should to-day be wrought, Defer not till to-morrow ; The help that should within be sought, Scorn from without to borrow. Old maxims these — yet stout and true— They speak in trumpet tone, To do at once what is to do, And trust OURSELVES ALONE. Too long our Irish hearts we schooled In patient hope to bide, By dreams of English justice fooled And English tongues that lied. That hour of weak delusion’s past— The empty dream has flown : Our hope and strength, we find at last, Is in OURSELVES ALONE THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 57 Aye ! bitter hate, or cold neglect, Or lukewarm love, at best, Is all we’ve found, or can expect, We Aliens of the West. No friend, beyond our own green shore, Can Erin truly own ; Yet stronger is her trust, therefore, In her brave sons alone. Remember, when our lot was worse— Sunk, trampled to the dust — ’Twas long our weakness and our curse In stranger aid to trust. And if, at length, we proudly trod On bigot laws o’ertlirown, Who won that struggle] Under God, Ourselves— ourselves alone. Oh 1 let its memory be enshrined In Ireland’s heart for ever ! It proves a banded people’s mind Must win in just endeavor ; It shows how wicked to despair, How weak to idly groan— If ills at others' hands ye bear, The cure is in your own. The foolish word “ impossible ” At once, for aye, disdain ; No power can bar a people’s will, A people’s right to gain. 58 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Be bold, united, firmly set, Nor flinch in word or tone — We’ll be a glorious nation yet, Redeemed — erect — alone ! Sliabh Cuilinn. THE LION AND THE SERPENT. AN ARMS-BILL FABLE. BY R. D. WILLIAMS. In days of old the Serpent came To the Lion’s rocky hall, And the forest king spread the sward with game, And they drank at the torrent’s fall ; And the Serpent saw that the woods were fair. And she longed to make her dwelling there. But she saw that her host had a knack of his own At tearing a sinew or cracking a bone, And had grinders unpleasantly strong ; So she said to herself : “ I’ll bamboozle the king With my plausible speech, and all that sort of thing, That, since Eve, to my people belong.” “ Those claws and those grinders must certainly be Inconvenient to you as they’re dreadful to me — Draw ’em out, like a love, I’m so ’frighted ! And, then, since I’ve long had an amorous eye on Yourself and your property, dear Mr. Lion, We can be (spare my blushes) united THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 59 So subtle the pow’r of her poisonous kisses, So deadly to honor the falsehood she hisses, The Lion for once is an ass. Before her, disarmed, the poor simpleton stands; Jhe union’s proclaimed, but the hymen’al bands Are ponderous fetters of brass. The Lion, self-conquered, is chained on the ground, And the breath of his tyrant sheds poison around The fame and the life of her slave. How long in his torture the stricken king lay Historians omit, but ’tis known that one day The serpent began to look grave. For, when passing, as usual, her thrall with a sneer, She derisively hissed some new taunt in his ear, He shook all his chains with a roar ; And, observing more closely, she saw with much pain That his tusks and his claws were appearing again, iV fact she neglected before. From that hour she grew dangerously civil , indeed, And declared he should be, ere long, totally freed From every dishonoring chain. “ The moment, my dearest , our friend, the Foxs draws Those nasty sharp things from your majesty’s jaws, You must bound free as air o’er the plain.” 60 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. But the captive sprang from his dungeon flaor, And he bowed the woods with a scornful roar, And his burning eyes flashed flame ; And as echo swelled the shout afar, The stormy joy of freedom’s war O’er the blast of the desert came. And the Lion laughed, and his mirth was loud As the stunning burst of a thunder-cloud, And he shook his wrathful mane ; And hollow sounds from his lashed sides come, Like the sullen roll of a ’larum drum — He snapped like a reed the chain ; And the Serpent saw that her reign was o’er And, hissing, she fled from the Lion’s roar. THE WEST’S ASLEEP. BY THOMAS DAVIS. Air — “ l 1 he Brink of the White Roelcs”* 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. * This air slightly differs, in the end of the second line, from the Version in Bunting’s third volume, and agrees with that to which Mr. Horncastle .sang The Herring is King. ’ There is a totally different, und still liner air known in the county Tipperary hy the name of “The Brink of the White Rocks.” THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 61 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. 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 Honored and sentinelled the place — Sing, oh ! not even their sons’ disgrace Can quite destroy their glory’s trace. For often, in O’Connor’s van, To triumph dashed each Connacht clan, And fleet as deer the Normans ran Through Coirrsliabh Pass and Ard Eathain ;* And later times saw deeds as brave ; And glory guards Clanricard’s grave — Sing, oh ! they died their land to save, At Aughrim’s slopes and Shannon’s wave. And if, when all a vigil keep, The West’s asleep, the West’s asleep, Alas ! and well may Erin weep That Connacht lies in slumber deep. But, hark ! some voice like thunder spake : “ The West's awake , the West's awake ” — Sing, oh ! hurrah ! let England quake, We’ll watch till death for Erin’s sake ! Vulgarly written Coriews and Ardraha.n. G2 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. THE IRISH REAPER’S HARVEST HYMN. BY JOHN KEEGAN. All hail ! Holy Mary, our hope and our joy ! Smile down, blessed Queen ! on the poor Irish boy Who wanders away from his dear beloved home ; 0 Mary ! lie with me wherever I roam. Be with me, 0 Mary ! Forsake me not, Mary ! From the home of my fathers in anguish I go, To toil for the dark-livered, cold-hearted foe, Who mocks me, and hates me, and calls me a slave, Ail alien, a savage — all names but a knave. But, blessed be Mary ! My sweet, holy Mary ! The lodaglf' he never dare call me a knave. From my mother’s mud sheeling an outcast I fly, With a cloud on my heart and a tear in my eye ; Oh ! I burn as I think that if Some One would say, “ Revenge on your tyrants !” — but, Mary ! I pray, From my soul's depth, 0 Mary ! And hear me, sweet Maryl For union and peace to old Ireland I pray. The land that I fly from is fertile and fair, And more than I ask or I wish for is there, * Bodagh , a clown, a churl. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 63 But I must not taste the good things that I see — “ There’s nothing but rags and green rushes for me.”* 0 mild Virgin Mary ! 0 sweet Mother Mary ! Who keeps my rough hand from red murder but thee h But sure in the end our dear freedom we’ll gain, And wipe from the green flag eaeluSassanach stain, And oh ! Holy Mary, your blessing we crave ! Give hearts to the timid, and hands to the brave ; And then, Mother Mary ! Our own blessed Mary ! Light liberty’s flame in the hut of the slave ! ADIEU TO INNISFAIL. BY R. D. WILLIAMS. Air — “ The Cruiskeen Lawn” Adieu ! — the snowy sail Swells her bosom to the gale, And our bark from Innisfail Bounds away. While we gaze upon thy shore, That we never shall see more, And the blinding tears flow o’er, We pray. * Taken literally from a conversation with a young peasant on his way to reap the harvest in England, THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. f)4 Ma vuirneen! be thou long In peace the queen of song — In battle proud and strong As the SOS* Be saints thine offspring still, True heroes guard each hill, And harps by ev’ry rill Sound free ! Though, round her Indian bowers, The hand of nature showers The brightest, blooming flowers Of our sphere ; Yet not the richest rose In an alien clime that blows, Like the briar at home that grows Is dear. Though glowing breasts may be In soft vales beyond the sea, Yet ever, gra ma cliree , Shall I wail For the heart of love I leave, In the dreary hours of eve, On thy stormy shores to grieve, Innisfail ! But mem’ry o’er the deep On her dewy wing shall sweep, When in midnight hours I weep O’er thy wrongs ; THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 65 And bring me, steeped in tears, The dead flowers of other years, And waft unto my ears Home's songs. When I slumber in the gloom Of a nameless, foreign tomb, By a distant ocean’s boom, Innisfail ! Around thy em’rald shore May the clasping sea adore, And each wave in thunder roar, “ All hail !” And when the final sigh Shall bear my soul on high, And on chainless wing I fly Through the blue, Earth’s latest thought shall be, As I soar above the sea, ‘ Green Erin, dear, to thee Adieu ! ” BOYHOOD’S YEARS. BY THE REV. CHARLES MEEHAN. Ah ! why should I recal them — the gay, the joyous years, Ere hope was crossed or pleasure dimmed by sorrow and by tears i m 66 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Or why should mem’ry love to trace youth’s glad and sunlit way, When those who made its charms so sweet are gathered to decay 1 The summer’s sun shall come again to brighten hill and bower — The teeming earth its fragrance bring beneath the balmy shower ; [our tears — « But all in vain will mem’ry strive — in vain we shed They’re gone away, and can’t return — the friends of boyhood’s years ! All ! why, then, wake my sorrow, and b*d me now count o’er [to come no more — The vanished friends so dearly prized — the days The happy days of infancy, when no guile our bosoms knew, [moment flew 1 Nor recked we of the pleasures that with each ’Tis all in vain to weep for them — the past a dream appears ; And where are they — the loved, the young, the friends of boyhood’s years ? Go seek them in the cold churchyard — they long have stolen to rest ; But do not weep, for their young cheeks by woe were ne’er oppressed. Life’s sun for them in splendor set — no cloud came o’er the ray That lit them from this gloomy world upon their joyous way. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 67 No tears about their graves be shed — but sweetest flow’rs be flung — [perish young — The fittest offring thou canst make to hearts that To hearts this world has never torn with racking hopes and fears ; [happy years ! For blessed are they who pass away in boyhood’s THE MEN OF TIPPERARY. BY THOMAS DAVIS. 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 ! 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. 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 ! Yet meet him in his cabin rude, Or dancing with his dark-haired Mary, You’d swear they knew no other mood But mirth and love in Tipperary ! 68 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 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 ! Soft is his cailiris 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 I Let Britain, too, her banner brag, We’ll lift the Green more proud and airy ; Be mine the lot to bear that flag, And head the Men of Tipperary. Though Britain boasts her British hosts, About them all right little care we ; Give us, to guard our native coasts, The Matchless Men of Tipperary i FATHER MATHEW. ODE TO A PAINTER ABOUT TO COMMENCE A PICTURE ILLUSTRATING THE LABORS OF FATHER MATHEW, Seize thy pencil, child of art ! Fame and fortune brighten o’er thee ! Great thy hand, and great thy heart, If well thou dost the work before thee ! THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 69 ’Tis not thine to round the shield, Or point the sabre, black or gory ; Tis not thine to spread the field, Where crime is crowned — where guilt is glory! Child of art ! to thee be given To paint, in colors all unclouded, Breakings of a radiant heaven O’er an isle in darkness shrouded I But, to paint them true and well, Every ray we see them shedding In its very light must tell What a gloom before was spreading. Canst thou picture dried-up tears— Eyes that wept no longer weeping — Faithful woman’s wrongs and fears, Lonely, nightly vigils keeping — Listening every footfall nigh, Hoping him she loves returning ? Canst thou, then, depict her joy, That we may know the change from mourning 1 Paint in colors strong, but mild, Our isle’s redeemer and director. Canst thou paint the man a child , Yet shadow forth the mighty VICTOR i Let his path a rainbow span, Every hue and color blending, Beaming “ peace and love ” to man, And alike o’er all extending ! 70 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Canst thou paint a land made free — From its sleep of bondage woken — Yet, withal, that we may see What ’t was before the chain was broken? Seize thy pencil, child of art ! Fame and fortune brighten o’er thee ! Great thy hand, and great thy heart, If well thou dost the work before thee ! SONG OF THE PENAL DAYS. a.d. 1720 . BY EDWARD WALSH. Air — “ Mo Chraoivin Aovinn .” Ye dark-haired youths and elders hoary, List to the wand’ring harper’s song. My clairseach weeps my true love’s story, In my true love’s native tongue : She’s bound and bleeding ’neath the oppressor, Few her friends and fierce her foe, And brave hearts cold who would redress 1 er — Ma chreevin evin alga , 0 l My love had riches once and beauty, Till want and sorrow paled her cheek ; And stalwart hearts for honor s duty — They’re crouching now, like cravens sleek. O Heaven ! that e’er this day of rigor Saw sons of heroes abject, low — And blood and tears thy face disfigure, Ma chreevin evin alga , 0 ! THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 71 I see young virgins step the mountain As graceful as the bounding fawn, With cheeks like heath-flow’r by the fountain, And breasts like downy ceanavan . Shall bondsmen share those beauties ample 1 Shall their pure bosoms’ current flow To nurse new slaves for them that trample 1 Ma chreevin evin alga , 0 ! Around my dair smell's speaking measures Men, like their fathers tall, arise ; Their heart the same deep hatred treasures— I read it in their kindling eyes ! The same proud brow to frown at danger— The same long couliris graceful flow— The same dear tongue to curse the stranger— Ma direevin evin alga , 0 ! I’d sing ye more, but age is stealing Along my pulse and tuneful fires ; Far bolder woke my chord, appealing, For craven Slieamus , to your sires. Arouse to vengeance, men of brav’ry, For broken oaths — for altars low — For bonds that bind in bitter slav’ry— Ma direevin evin alga , 0 ! 72 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. WAS IT A DREAM 1 BY JOHN O’CONNELL. It was an empty dream, perchance, yet seemed a vision high, That in the midnight hour last night arose before mine eye — Two figures — one in woe and chains, the other proud and free — Were met in converse deep and grave beside the western sea. “ What, ne'er content, and restless still f ' the proud one sternly cried ; li Forsooth of freedom prattling still, and parting from my side 'l I hold thy chain, thou busy fool ! mine ire thou mayest provoke, And bring destruction on thine head, but never shake my yoke !” Then up arose the mourning one, and raised her beauteous head, And mild and calm, though sad in tone, “ My sis- ter,” thus she said, [thou hast been — “ For sister I would fain thee call, though tyrant None feller or more pitiless hath hapless slave THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 73 “ The rights, the freedom that I seek, the Lord of heaven gave — That mighty Lord who never willed that earth should have a slave ! — [ask of thee Those rights, that freedom thou didst take ; I only To give mine own to me again, and friends we’ll ever be.” The proud one laughed in haughty scorn, and waved a falchion bright [the fight ; O’er the enchained one’s head aloft, and dared her to The flushing cheek and kindling eye bespoke no terror there, But, with a strong, convulsive gasp, she bowed to heaven in prayer I Then raised her front serene again, and mildly spoke once more : [passed o’er — “ Seven long and weary centuries of insult have Of insult and of cruel wrong ! and from the earliest hour, [of pow’r. E’en to this day, a tyrant thou hast been in pride “ But when distress and enemies came threat’n- ingly around, [been found ! Then soft in words, and falsely kind, thou ever hast Distress again may come to thee, and foreign dan- gers press, [thankfulness !’’ And thou be forced to yield m2 all, and earn no 74 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Again the proud one scornful laughed, and waved again her brand; [fettered hand — The other mutely raised to heaven her chained and Then swift a storm passed o’er the scene, and when its gloom was gone, The tyrant form was lowly laid — the captive had her own ! THE PATRIOT’S BRIDE. BY CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. Oh ! give me back that royal dream My fancy wrought, When I have seen your sunny eyes Grow moist with thought, And fondly hoped, dear love ! your heart from mine Its spell had caught, And laid me down to dream that dream, divine, But true, rethought, Of how my life’s long task would be, to make yours blessed as it ought. To learn to love sweet Nature more For your sweet sake, To watch with you— dear friend ! with you — Its wonders break ; The sparkling Spring in that bright face to see Its mirror make — THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 75 On Summer morns to hear the sweet birds sing By linn and lake ; And know your voice, your magic voice, could still a grander music wake ! On some old, shell-strewn rock to sit In Autumn eves, Where gray Killiney cools the torrid air Hot Autumn weaves ; Or by that holy well in mountain lone, Where Faith believes (Fain would I b’lieve) its secret, darling wish True love achieves : Yet, oh ! its saint was not more pure than she to whom my fond heart cleaves. To see the dank, mid-winter night Pass like a noon, Sultry with thought from minds that teemed And glowed like J une ; Whereto would pass in sculped and pictured train Arks magic boon, And Music thrill with many a haughty strain And dear old tune, Till hearts grew sad to hear the destined hour to part had come so soon. To wake the old, weird world that sleeps In Irish lore ; The strains sweet, foreign Spenser sung By Mulla’s shore ; 76 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Dear Curran’s airy thoughts, like purple birds That shine and soar ; Tone’s fiery hopes, and all the deathless vows That Grattan swore ; The songs that once our own dear Davis sung— ah me ! to sing no more. To search with motlier-love the gifts Our land can boast — Soft Erna’s isles, Neagh’s wooded slopes, Clare’s iron coast ; Kildare, whose legends gray our bosoms stir With fay and ghost ; Gray Mourne, green Antrim, purple Glenmalur, Lene’s fairy host ; With raids to many a foreign land, to learn to love dear Ireland most. And all those proud, old, victor fields We thrill to name, Whose mem’ries are the stars that light Long nights of shame ; The cairn, the dun, the rath, the tower, the keep, That still proclaim, In chronicles of clay and stone, how true, how deep Was Eire’s fame. Oh ! we shall see them all, with her, that dear, dear friend we two have loved the same. Yet, ah! how truer, tend’rer still Methought did seem THE SPIRIT 01 THE NATION. 77 That scene of tranquil joy, that happy home, By Dodder’s stream ; The morning smile, that grew a fix6d star With love-lit beam, The ringing laugh, locked hands, and all the far And shining stream Of daily love, that made our daily life diviner than a dream. For still to me, dear friend ! dear love! Or both — dear wife ! Your image comes with serious thoughts, But tender, rife ; No idle plaything, to caress or chide In sport or strife ; But my best, chosen friend, companion, guide, To walk through life, Linked hand in hand, two equal, loving friends, true husband and true wife. THE LOST PATH. BY THOMAS DAVIS. Air — “ Gradh mo chroidhe Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be, All comfort else has flown ; For every hope was false to me, And here I am, alone. Vulgo, “ gra ma c krea” Unglict f »».y heart’s lore} 78 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. What thoughts were mine in early youth ! Like some old Irish song, Brimful of love, and life, and truth, My spirit gushed along. 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 honors now. 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. BIDE YOUR TIME. BY M. J. BARRY. Bide your Time — the morn is breaking, Bright with freedom’s blessed ray — Millions, from their trance awaking, Soon shall stand in firm array. THE SPIRrr OF THE NATION. 79 Man shall fetter man no longer ! Liberty shall march sublime : Every moment makes you stronger — Firm, unshrinking, Bide your Time. Bide your Time — one false step taken Perils all you yet have done ; Undismayed, erect, unshaken, Watch and wait, and all is won. *Tis not by a rash endeavor Men or states to greatness climb : Would you win your rights for ever, Calm and thoughtful, Bide your Time. Bide your Time — your worst transgression Were to strike, and strike in vain. He, whose arm would smite oppression, Must not need to smite again ! Danger makes the brave man steady — Rashness is the coward’s crime ; Be for Freedom’s battle ready When it comes— but, Bide your Time. THE PRICE OF FREEDOM. BY D. F. M'CARTHY. Man of Ireland ! — heir of sorrow ! Wronged, insulted, scorned, oppressed — Wilt thou never see that morrow When thy weary heart may rest ? 80 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Lift thine eyes, thou outraged creature ! Nay, look up, for man thou art — Man in form, in frame, and feature — Why not act man’s godlike part ] Think, reflect, inquire, examine, Is’t for this God gave you birth— With the spectre look of famine Thus to creep along the earth ] Does this world contain no treasures Fit for thee, as man, to wear ] — Does this life abound in pleasures, And thou askest not to share ] Look ! the nations are awaking— Every chain that bound them burst ! At the crystal fountains slaking With parched lips their fever thirst ; Ignorance, the demon, fleeing, Leaves unlocked the fount they sip — Wilt thou not, thou wretched being, Stoop and cool thy burning lip ] History’s lessons, if thou’lt read ’em, All proclaim this truth to thee : Knowledge is the price of freedom — Know thyself, and thou art free ! Know, 0 man ! thy proud vocation — Stand erect, with calm, clear brow — Happy, happy were our nation If thou hadst that knowledge now ! THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 81 Know thy wretched, sad condition— Know the iiis that keep thee so ; Knowledge is the sole physician — Thou wert healed, if thou didst know ! Those who crush, and scorn, and slight thee— Those to whom you once would kneel— Were the foremost then to right thee, If thou felt as thou shouldst feel. Not as beggars lowly bending — Not in sighs, and groans, and tears— But a voice of thunder sending Through thy tyrant brother’s ears 1 Tell him he is not thy master — Tell him of man’s common lot ; Feel life has but one disaster — To be a slave, and know it not ! If thou knew what knowledge giveth— If thou knew how blest is he Who in Freedom’s presence liveth, Thou wouldst die, or else be free ! Round about he looks in gladness, Joys in heaven, and earth, and sea— Scarcely heaves a sigh of sadness, Save in thoughts of such as thee i F 82 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. INIS-EOGHAIN. BY CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. [Inis-Eoghain (commonly written Innishowen, and pronounced Tnni- shone) is a wild and picturesque district in the county Donegal, inhabited chiefly by the descendants of the Irish clans permitted to remain in Ulster after the plantation of James I. The native language and the old songs and legends of the country are as universal as the people. One of the most familiar of these legends is, that a troop of Hugh O’Neill’s horse lies in magic sleep in a cave under the hill of Aileach, where the princes of the country were formerly installed. These bold troopers only wait to have the spell removed to rush to the aid of their country ; and a man (says the legend) who wandered accidentally into the cave found them lying beside their horses, fully armed, and holding the bridles in their hands. One of them lifted his head, and asked, “ is the time come?” hut receiving no answer— for the intruder was too much frightened to reply— dropped back into his lethargy. Some of the old folk consider the story an allegory, and interpret it as they desire. God bless the Gray mountains of dark Dun na n- gall ! * God bless royal Aileach ! the pride of them all ; For she sits, evermore, like a queen on her throne, And smiles on the valleys of green Inis-Eoghain. And fair are the valleys of green Inis-Eoghain, And hardy the fishers that call them their own— A race that nor traitor nor coward has known Enjoys the fair valleys of green Inis-Eoghain. Oh ! simple and bold are the bosoms they bear, Like the hills that with silence and nature they share ; For our God, who hath planted their home neal his own, Breath’d His Spirit abroad upon fair Inis-Eoghain, * Donegal. THE SPIRIT QE THE NATION. 83 Then praise to our Father for wild Inis-Eoghain, Where fiercely for ever the surges are thrown ; Nor weather nor fortune a tempest hath blown Could shake the strong bosoms of brave Inis- Eoghain. See the beautiful Cul-daim* careering along, A type of their manhood so stately and strong — ■ On the weary for ever its tide is bestown, So they share with the stranger in fair Inis-Eoghain. God guard the kind homesteads of fair Inis- Eoghain, [own ; Which manhood and virtue have chosen for their Not long shall the nation in slavery groan That rears the tall peasants of fair Inis-Eoghain. Like the oak of St. Bride, which nor devil nor Dane, Nor Saxon norDutchman, could rend from her fane, They have clung by the creed and the cause of their own, Eoghain. Through the midnight of danger, in true Inis- Then shout for the glories of old Inis-Eoghain, The stronghold that foeman has never o’er- thrown — The soul and the spirit, the blood and the bone, That guard the green valleys of true Inis- Eoghain. * The Couldah, or Culdaff, is a chief river in the Innishowen moun- tain*. 84 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Nor purer of old was the tongue of the Gael When the charging ctboo made the foreigner quail, Than it gladdens the stranger in welcome’s soft tone In the home-loving cabins of kind Inis-Eoghain. Oh! flourish, ye homesteads of kind Inis-Eoghain^ Where seeds of a people’s redemption are sown ; Right soon shall the fruit of that sowing have grown, To bless the kind homesteads of Green Inis- Eoghain. When they tell ns the tale of a spell-stricken band, All entranced, with their bridles and broadswords in hand, Who await but the word to give Erin her own, They can read you that riddle in proud Inis* Eoghain ! Hurrah for the spsemen* of proud Inis-Eoghain ! Long live the wild seers of stout Inis-Eoghain ; May Mary, our mother, be deaf to their moan Who love not the promise of proud Inis-Eoghain! PADDIES EVERMORE. Air — “ Paddies Evermore The hour is past to fawn or crouch As suppliants for our right ; Let word and deed unshrinking vouch The banded millions’ might : * An Ulster and Scotch term signifying a person gifted with second sight”- a prophet. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 85 Let them who scorned the fountain rill Now dread the torrent's roar, And hear our echoed chorus still, We’re Paddies evermore. What, though they menace ? suffering men Their threats and them despise ; Or promise justice once again ] We know their words are lies : We stand resolved those rights to claim They robbed us of before, Our own dear nation and our name, As Paddies evermore. Look round — the Frenchman governs France The Spaniard rules in Spain, The gallant Pole but waits his chance To break the Eussian chain ; The strife for freedom here begun We never will give o’er, Nor own a land on earth but one— We're Paddies evermore. That strong and single love to crush The despot ever tried — A fount it was whose living gush His hated arts defied. ’Tis fresh as when his foot accursed Was planted on our shore, And now and still, as from the first, We’re Paddies evermore. 86 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. What recked we though six hundred years Have o’er our thraldom rolled 1 The soul that roused O’Connor’s spears Still lives as true and bold. The tide of foreign power to stem Our fathers bled of yore ; And we stand here to-day, like them, True Paddies evermore. Where’s our allegiance ? With the land For which they nobly died ; Our duty i By our cause to stand, Whatever chance betide ; Our cherished hope ? To heal the wmes That rankle at her core ; Our scorn and hatred ] To her foes, Like Paddies evermore. The hour is past to fawn or crouch As suppliants for our right ; Let word and deed unshrinking vouch The banded millions’ might ; Let them who serened the fountain rill Now dread the torrent’s roar, And hear our echoed chorus still, We’re Paddies evermore. Sliabh Cuilinn. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 87 THE RIGHT ROAD. BY THOMAS DAVIS. Let the feeble-hearted pine, Let the sickly spirit whine, But to work and win be thine While you’ve life. God smiles upon the bold— So, when your flag’s unrolled, Bear it bravely till your cold In the strife. 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. Never under wrongs despair, Labor long and everywhere, Link your countrymen, prepare, And strike home. Thus have great men ever wrought, Thus must greatness still be sought, Thus labored, loved, and fought Greece and Rome. 88 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. A RALLY FOR IRELAND. May, 16S9. BY THOMAS DAVIS. Shout it out till it ring From Beinn-Mor to Cape Cleir, 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 triumphs or graves — Bids you to burst on the Sassanach 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 ; THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 89 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 ! Gallant Sheldon is here, And Hamilton, too, And Tirconaill so dear, And MacCarthy so true. And there are Frenchmen — Skilful and staunch men — De Rosen, Pontee, Pusignan, and Boisseleau, And gallant Lauzun is a-coming, you know, With Bealdearg, the kinsman of great Owen Roe ; From Sionainn to Bann, and from Life to Laoi,* The country is rising for liberty. Though your arms are rude, If your courage be good, As the traitor fled will the stranger flee, At another Drom-mhor 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,r— Leinster and Connacht to victory — * These rivers are vulgarly named the Shannon, Lif/ey, and Lee. 90 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Shoulder to shoulder for liberty ! Shoulder to shoulder for liberty ! Kirk, Schomberg, and Churchill Are coming — what then h We’ll drive them and Dutch Will To England again. We can laugh at each threat, For our parliament’s met — De Courcy, O’Brien, M‘Domhnaill, Le Poer, O’Neill, and St. Lawrence, and others go leor , The choice of the land from Athlone to the shore They’ll break the last link of the Sassanach 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, Though they trample your roof-tree, and rifle your fane. Eally, 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 ! THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 91 EIRE A RUIN. Air — “Eibhlin a Ruin/'* Long thy fair cheek was pale, Eire a ruin— Too well it spake thy tale, Eire a ruin— Fondly nursed hopes betrayed, Gallant sons lowly laid, All anguish there portrayed, Eire a ruin . Long my dear clairseacKs string Eire a ruin, Sang but as captives sing, Eire a ruin , ’Twas sorrow’s broken sigh Blent with mirth’s reckless cry, Saddest of minstrelsy ! Eire a ruin „ Still was it thine to cope, Eire a ruin — Still against hope to hope, Eire a ruin , Ever through blackest woe Fronting that tyrant foe, Whom thou shalt yet lay low, Eire a rum . In vulgar spelling, Eileen aroon ♦ 92 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Though he should sue thee now, Eire a ruin y Heed not his traitor vow, Eire a rum ; When didst thou e’er believe, When his false words receive, But sorely thou didst grieve, Eire a ruin f Millions of hearts are thine, Eire a ruin ; Millions as one combine, Eire a ruin ; Closer in peril knit, Patient, though passion-lit — For such is triumph writ, Eire a ruin. Then let thy clairseach pour, Eire a ruin , Wailings of grief no more, Eire a ruin ; But strains like flash of steel, Kindling that fire of zeal Which melts their chains who feel, Eire a ruin . Sliabh Cuilinn. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 93 TONE’S GRAVE. BY THOMAS DAYIS. 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 Kil- dare. 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 — u Oh ! bitter,” I said, “is the patriot’s meed ! “ 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.” 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. There were students and peasants, the wise and the brave, And an old man who knew him from cradle to grave ; 94 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. And children who thought me hard-hearted— for they, On that sanctified sod, were forbidden to play. 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.” 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 ! ” i i i i • • 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. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 95 THE SHAN VAN VACHT.* A.D. 1176. BY MICHAEL DOHENY. The sainted isle of old, Says the Shan Van Vacht , The sainted isle of old, Says the Shan Van Vaclit , The parent and the mould Of the beautiful and bold, Has her blithesome heart waxed cold 1 Says the Shan Van Vacht . The Saxon and the Dane, Says the Shan Van Vacht , The Saxon and the Dane, Says the Shan Van Vacht , The Saxon and the Dane Our immortal hills profane ; Oh ! confusion seize the twain, Says the Shan Van Vacht. What are the chiefs to do % Says the Shan Van Vacht , What are the chiefs to do ? Says the Shan Van Vacht . What should the chieftains do But to treat the hireling crew To a touch of Brian Boru 1 Says the Shan Van Vacht. * Properly An T-Sean Bhean Bhochd. 9G THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. They came across the wave, Says the Shan Van Vacht, They came across the wave, Says the Shan Van Vacht , They came across the wave But to plunder and enslave, And should find a robber’s grave, Says the Shan Van Vacht. Then be the trusty brand, Says the Shan Van Vaclit , Then be the trusty brand, Says the Shan Van Vacht, Then be the trusty brand Firmly clutched in every hand, And we’ll scourge them from the land, Says the Shan Van Vacht . There’s courage yet and truth, Says the Shan Van Vacht , There’s courage yet and truth, Says the Shan Van Vacht ; There’s a God above us all, And, whatever may befall. No invader shall enthrall, Says the Shan Van Vacht . THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 97 THE GATHERING OF THE NATION. BY J. D. FRAZER. Those scalding tears — those scalding tears Too long have fallen in vain — Up with the banners and the spears, And let the gathered grief of years Show sterner stuff than rain. The lightning, in that stormy hour When forth defiance rolls, Shall flash to scathe the Saxon pow’r, But melt the links our long, long show’r Had rusted round our souls. To bear the wrongs we can redress, To make a thing of time — The tyranny we can repress — Eternal by our dastardness Were crime — or worse than crime ! And we, whose best and worst was shame, From first to last, alike, May take, at length, a loftier aim, And struggle, since it is the same To suffer — or to strike. What hatred of perverted might The cruel hand inspires That robs the linnet's eye of sight, To make it sing both day and night I Yet thus they robbed our sires, u 98 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. By blotting out the ancient lore Where every loss was shown — Up with the flag ! we stand before The Saxons of the days of yore In Saxons of our own. Denial met our just demands, And hatred met our love ; Till now, by heaven ! for grasp of hands We’ll give them clash of battle-brands, And gauntlet ’stead of glove. And may the Saxon stamp his heel Upon the coward’s front Who sheathes his own unbroken steel Until for mercy tyrants kneel, Who forced us to the brunt ! THE GERALDINES. BY THOMAS DAVIS. 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 ; THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 99 Across the downs of Hastings they spurred hard by William's side, And the gray sands of Palestine with Moslem blood they dyed ; But never then, nor thence till now, have false hood or disgrace [his face. Been seen to soil Fitzgerald’s plume, or mantle in The Geraldines ! the Geraldines !- ’tis true, in Strongbow’s van, [began ; By lawless force, as conquerors, their Irish reign 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 gen’rous 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 — [Geraldine. Among a thousand you had known the princely 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 ! 100 Tllfi SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 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 Ireitheamli , cloak, and bard : [discard” % What king dare say to Geraldine, “ Your Irish wife Ye Geraldines! ye Geraldines! how royally ye reigned [arts disdained : O’er Desmond broad and rich Kildare, and English Your sword made knights, your banner waved, free was your bugle call By Gleann’s* green slopes, and Daingean’st tide, from Bearbha’sJ banks to Eochaill.§ What gorgeous shrines, what breitheamh\\ lore, what minstrel feasts there were In and around Magh Nuadhaid’sH keep, and palace- filled Adare ! But not for rite or feast ye stayed when friend or kin were pressed ; And foemen fled when “ Crom abu ”** bespoke your lance in rest. Ye Geraldines ! ye Geraldines 1 since Silken Thomas flung King Henry’s sword on council board, the English thanes among, * Angl. Glyn. t Angl. Dingle. t Angl. Barrow. § Angl. Youghal. I! Angl. bvehon. % Angl. Maynooth. ** Formerly the war cry of the Geraldines; and now their motto. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 101 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 Sassanach 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 1 True Geraldines ! brave Geraldines ! as torrents mould the earth, You channelled deep old Ireland’s heart by con- stancy and worth : When Ginckle leaguered Limerick, the Irish sol- diers gazed To see if in the setting sun dead Desmond’s banner blazed ! And still it is the peasants’ hope upon the Cuir- r each’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 ! * Angl. Curragh. 102 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 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 honored 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 will say of valor’s rise, or ancient power s decline, “ ’ Twill never soar, it never shone, as did the Geraldine.” The Geraldines ! the Geraldines ! and are there any fears Within the sons of conquerors for full a thousand years 1 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 SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 103 The forms of centuries rise up, and in the Irish line Command their sons to take the post that fits the Geraldine !* HYMN OF FREEDOM. BY M. J. BARRY. God of peace ! before thee, Peaceful, here we kneel, Humbly to implore thee For a nation’s weal. Calm her sons’ dissensions, Bid their discord cease, End their mad contentions — Hear us, God of peace ! God of love ! low bending, To thy throne we turn ; Let thy rays, descending. Through our island burn. Let no strife divide us, But, from heaven above, Look on us and guide us — Hear us, God of Love ! •The concluding stanza, now first published, was found among the Editor's papers.— K d. 104 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. God of Battles ! aid us ; Let no despot’s might Trample or degrade us, Seeking this our right ! Arm us for the danger ; Keep all craven fear To our breasts a stranger — God of Battles ! hear. God of Right ! preserve us Just — as we are strong ; Let no passion swerve us To one act of wrong ; Let no thought unholy Come our cause to blight ; Thus we pray thee, lowly— Hear us, God of Right ! God of Vengeance ! smite us With thy shaft sublime, If one bond unite us Forged in fraud or crime { But if, humbly kneeling, We implore thine ear, For our rights appealing— God of Nations ! hear. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 105 THE UNION. How did they pass the Union? By perjury and fraud ; By slaves who sold their land for gold, As Judas sold his God ; By all the savage acts that yet Have followed England’s track — The pitchcap and the bayonet, The gibbet and the rack. And thus was passed the Union, By Pitt and Castlereagh ; Could Satan send for such an end More worthy tools than they ? How thrive we by the Union ? Look round our native land : In ruined trade and wealth decayed See slavery’s surest brand ; Our glory as a nation gone ; Our substance drained away ; A wretched province trampled on, Is all we’ve left to-day. Then curse with me the Union, That juggle foul and base — The baneful root that bore such fruit Of ruin and disgrace. 106 THE SPIRtt OF THE NATION. And shall it last, this Union, To grind and waste us so 1 O’er hill and lea, from sea to sea, All Ireland thunders, No ! Eight million necks are stiff to bow— We know our might as men ; We conquered once before, and now We’ll conquer once again, And rend the cursed Union, And fling it to the wind — And Ireland’s laws in Ireland’s cause Alone our hearts shall bind ! Sliabh Cuilinn THE PEASANT GIRLS. The Peasant Girl of merry France, Beneath her trellised vine, Watches the signal for the dance — The broad, red sun’s decline. ’Tis there — and forth she flies with glee To join the circling band, Whilst mirthful sounds of minstrelsy Are heard throughout the land. And fair Italia’s Peasant Girl, The Arno’s banks beside, With myrtle flowers, that shine like pearl, Will braid at eventide THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 107 Her raven locks ; and to the sky, With eyes of liquid light, Look up, and bid her lyre outsigh : “ Was ever land so bright ? ” The Peasant Girl of England see, With lip of rosy dye, Beneath her sheltering cottage tree, Smile on each passer-by. She looks on fields of yellow grain, Inhales the bean-flower’s scent, And seems, amid the fertile plain, An image of content. The Peasant Girl of Scotland goes Across her Highland hill, With cheek that emulates the rose, And voice the skylark’s thrill. Her tartan plaid she folds around, A many-coloured vest — Type of what varied joys have found A home in her kind breast. The Peasant Girl of Ireland, she Has left her cabin home, Bearing white wreaths — what can it be Invites her thus to roam 1 Her eye has not the joyous ray Should to her years belong ; And, as she wends her languid way, She carols no sweet song. 108 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Oh ! soon upon the step and glance Grief does the work of age ; And it has been her hapless chance To open that dark page. The happy harvest home was o’er — The fierce tithe-gatherer came, And her young lover, in his gore, Fell by a murderous aim ! Then, well may youth’s bright glance be gone For ever from that eye, And soon will sisters weep upon The grave that she kneels by ; And well may prouder hearts than those, That there place garlands, say : “ Have Ireland’s peasant girls such woes ] — When will they pass away V 9 THE BATTLE-EVE OF THE BRIGADE. BY THOMAS DAVIS. Air— “ Contented I am .” 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. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 109 “ 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 Sionainn,* and Bearbha,j and Abhain- dubhj flow “ God prosper Old Ireland !” you’d think them afraid, So pale grew the chiefs of the Irish Brigade. “But, surely, that light cannot come from our lamp — And that noise — are they all getting drunk in the camp V “ Hurrah ! boys, the morning of battle is come, And the generate! 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. They fought as they revelled, fast, fiery, and true, And, though victors, they left on the field not a few ; [yore, And they who survived fought and drank as of 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. * Shannon. t Barrow. X Ayondhu, or Black-water. 110 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. THE SONGS OF THE NATION. BY EDWARD WALSH. Ye songs that resound in the homes of our island — That wake the wild echoes by valley and high- land — That kindle the cold with their forefather’s story — That point to the ardent the pathway of glory ! — Ye send to the banished, O’er ocean’s far wave, The hope that had vanished, The vow of the brave ; And teach each proud despot of loftiest station To pale at your spell- word, sweet Songs of The Nation ! Sweet songs ! ye reveal, through the vista of ages, Our monarchs and heroes, our minstrels and sages, The splendor of Eamhain,* the glories of Teamhair,f When Erin was free from the Saxon defamer — The green banner flying, The rush of the Gael, The Sassanach’s dying, His matron’s wild wail — These glories forgotten, with magic creation, Burst bright at your spell-word, sweet Songs ol The Nation ! * The palace of the Ulster Kings, near Armagh, Latinised Emania. t Tam. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Ill The minstrels who waken these wild notes of freedom Have hands for green Erin — if Erin should need 'em ; And hearts for the wronged one wherever he ranges, From Zebla to China — from Sionainn* to Ganges ; And hate for his foeman, All hatred above ; And love for dear woman, The tenderest love ; But chiefest the fair ones whose eyes' animation Is the spell that inspires the sweet Songs of The Nation ! THE DAY-DREAMER. BY CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. What joy was mine in the gallant time When I was an outlaw bold ! Girt with my clan in the glades of Truagh, Or shut in my castle-hold, In solemn feis,+ with the brehons gray, And the stalwart chiefs of old. How many a tranced hour I sat At the feet of the Soldier-Saint * Shannon. fFeis, the public council of the ancD::t Irish t St. Lorcan OTutUijJ, 112 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Or drank high hopes from our dauntless Hugh That cordial the hearts of the faint ; Or wove bold plots with untiring Tone, To blot out the isle’s attaint. What deeds we vowed to the dear old land ! What solemn words we spoke ! How never w r e’d cease or sleep in peace Till we shattered the stranger’s yoke — And not with a storm of windy words, But many a soldier stroke. We’d knotted whips for the Saxon churls, And steel for the Norman peers, And a gallows high for the pampered priests Who were drunk with the peasants’ tears ; And the towers grim where the robbers laired, We dashed them about their ears ! We lifted the buried harp anew, With its guardian spear and skeane,* And forth we sent to the listening land Full many a mystic strain, Which scattered the slavish fear away That hung on its breast like a chain. The torrent’s voice in the slumb’ring night Is tame to the words we spake — ♦ Skeanc, properly /Skim lhe dagger of the Trial*. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 113 The tempest words in whose fiery breath The thrones and dominions shake ; Till, lo ! from their sleep the people rose, And their chains like a reed they brake. It stirs me still, that solemn sight, Of the proud old land made free, Our flag afloat from her castles tall And the ships on the circling sea, And the joyful voice, like a roll of drums, Of the nation’s jubilee ! A BALLAD OF FREEDOM. BY THOMAS DAVIS. 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. Eight on he pressed with freemen’s hands to sub- jugate the free, The Berber in old Atlas glens, the Moor in Titteri > And wider had his razzias spread, his cruel con- quests broader, H 114 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 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 !* 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 Candaliar, his flag waved in Cabul ; But still within the conquered land was one um conquered man, The fierce Pushtanif lion, the fiery Akhbar Khan — He slew the sepoys on the snow, till Scindh’sJ full flood they swam it * This name is pronounced Cawder. The French say that their great foe was a slave’s son. Be it so— lie has a hero’s and freeman's heart. *' Hurrah for Abdel-Kader !” t This is the name by which the Affghans call themselves. Affghan is a Persian name (see Elphinstone’s delightful book on Cabul). Note, too, that in most of their words a sounds aw, u sounds oo , and i sounds ee, X The real name of the Indus, which is a Latinised word. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 115 Right rapidly, content to flee the son of Dost Mohammed, The son of Dost Mohammed, the 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 ! The Russian, lord of million serfs and nobles serflier still, [will ; Indignant saw Circassia’s sons bear up against his With fiery ships he lines their coast, his armies cross their streams, He builds a hundred fortresses — his conquest done, he deems. But steady rifles — rushing steeds — a crowd of nameless chiefs ! [reefs. The plough is o’er his arsenals !— his fleet is on the The maidens of Kabyntica are clad in Moscow dresses — His slavish herd, how dared they beard the moun- tain-bred Cherkesses ! The lightning Cherkesses ! the thundering Cher' kesses ! May Elburz top In Azof drop, 116 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Ere Cossacks beat Cherkesses ! The fountain-head Whence Europe spread — Hurrah for the tall Cherkesses !* 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 Ireland struggles gallantly in England’s loosen- ing grasp. [on alone, Oh ! -would all these their strength unite, or battle Like Moor, Pushtani, and Cherkess, they soon would have their own. Hurrah, ! hurrah ! it can’t be far, when from the Scindh to Sionainnf Shall gleam a line of freemen’s flags begirt with 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 ! * Cherkesses or Abydes is the right name of the so-called Circassians Kabyntica is a town in the heart of the Caucasus, of which Mount Elbur t is the summit Blum en bach and other physiologists assert that the finer European races descend from a Circassian stock, t Shannon. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 117 “ CEASE TO DO EVIL— LEARN TO DO WELL.”* BY D. F. MCCARTHY. 0 THOU whom sacred duty hither calls, Some glorious hours in freedom's cause to dwell, Read the mute lesson on thy prison walls — “ Cease to do evil — learn to do well If haply thou art one of genius vast, Of generous heart, of mind sublime and grand, Who all the spring-time of thy life hast passed Battling with tyrants for thy native land — If thou hast spent thy summer, as thy prime, The serpent brood of bigotry to quell, Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime — “ Cease to do evil— learn to do well !” If thy great heart beat warmly in the cause Of outraged man, whatever his race might be — - If thou hast preached the Christian's equal laws, And stayed the lash beyond the Indian sea — If at thy call a nation rose sublime— If at thy voice seven million fetters fell, Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime — “ Cease to do evil — learn to do well !” * Inscription on O’Connell’s prison 118 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. If thou hast seen thy country’s quick decay, And, like a prophet, raised thy saving hand, And pointed out the only certain way To stop the plague that ravaged o’er the land— If thou hast summoned from an alien clime Her banished senate here at home to dwell, Bepent, repent thee of thy hideous crime — “ Cease to do evil — learn to do well !” Or if, perchance, a younger man thou art, Whose ardent soul in throbbings doth aspire, Come weal, come woe, to play the patriot’s part In the bright footsteps of thy glorious sire ! If all the pleasures of life’s youthful time Thou hast abandoned for the martyr’s cell, Do thou repent thee of thy hideous crime — “ Cease to do evil — learn to do well !” Or art thou one whom early science led To walk with Newton through the immense of heaven, Who soared with Milton, and with Mina bled, And all thou hadst in Freedom’s cause hath given ? Oh ! fond enthusiast— in the after time Our children’s children of your worth shall tell ! England proclaims thy honesty a crime— “ Cease to do evil — learn to do well !” THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 119 Or art thou one whose strong and fearless pen Roused the young isle, and bade it dry its tears, And gathered round thee ardent, gifted men, The hope of Ireland in the coming years — Who dares in prose and heart-awakening rhyme Bright hopes to breathe, and bitter truths to tell 1 Oh! dangerous criminal, repent thy crime — “ Cease to do evil — learn to do well !” “ Cease to do evil ” — aye ! ye madmen, cease ! Cease to love Ireland, cease to serve her well, Make with her foes a foul and fatal peace, And quick will ope your darkest, dreariest cell. “ Learn to do well ” — aye ! learn to betray — Learn to revile the land in which you dwell ; England will bless you on your altered way — “ Cease to do evil — learn to do well !” Third week of O’Connell’s imprisonment. THE SWORD. BY M. J. BARRY. What rights the brave ? The sword ! What frees the slave ? The sword ! 120 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. What cleaves in twain The despot's chain, And makes his gyves and dungeons vain ] The sword ! CHORUS. Then cease thy proud task never While rests a link to sever ! Guard of the free, We’ll cherish thee, And keep thee bright for ever ! What checks the knave 1 The sword ! What smites to save The sword ! What wreaks the wrong Unpunished long, At last, upon the guilty strong ? The sword ! CHORUS. Then cease thy proud task never, &c. What shelters right ? The sword ! What makes it might ? The sword ! THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 121 What strikes the crown Of tyrants down, And answers with its flash their frown 1 The sword ! CHORUS. Then cease thy proud task never, &c. Still be thou true, Good sword ! We’ll die or do, Good sword ! Leap forth to light If tyrants smite, And trust our arms to wield thee right, Good sword ! CHORUS. Yes ! cease thy proud task never While rests a link to sever ! Guard of the free, We’ll cherish thee, And keep thee bright for ever ! 122 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. A DREAM OF THE FUTURE. RY D. F. MCCARTHY. I dreamt a dream, a dazzling dream, of a green isle lar away, Where tne glowing west to the ocean’s breast calleth the dying day ; And that; island green was as fair a scene as ever man’s eye did see, With its chieftains bold, and its temples old, and its homes and its altars free ! No foreign foe did that green isle know — no stranger band it bore, Save the merchant train from sunny Spain and from Afric’s golden shore ! And the young man’s heart would fondly start, and the old man’s eye would smile, As their thoughts would roam o’er the ocean foam to that lone and “ holy isle !” Years passed by, and the orient sky blazed with a new-born light, And Bethlehem’s star shone bright afar o’er the lost world’s darksome night ; And the diamond shrines from plundered mines, and the golden fanes of J ove, Melted away in the blaze of day at the simple spell-word, “ love I” THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 123 The light serene o’er that island green played with its saving beams, And the fires of Baal waxed dim and pale like the stars in the morning streams ! And ’twas joy to hear, in the bright air clear, from out each sunny glade, The tinkling bell, from the quiet cell or the cloister’s tranquil shade ! A cloud of night o’er that dream so bright soon with its dark wing came, And the happy scene of that island green was lost in blood and shame ; For its kings unjust betrayed their trust, and its queens, though fair, were frail, And a robber band from a stranger land with their war-whoops filled the gale ; A fatal spell on that green isle fell — a shadow of death and gloom Passed withering o’er, from shore to shore, like the breath of the foul simoom ; And each green hill’s side was crimson dyed, and each stream rolled red and wild, With the mingled blood of the brave and good — of mother, and maid, and child ! Dark was my dream, though many a gleam of hope through that black night broke, Like a star’s bright form through a whistling storm, or the moon through a midnight oak ’ 124 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATfON. And many a time, with its wings sublime, and its robes of saffron light, Would the morning rise on the eastern skies, but to vanish again in night ! For, in abject prayer, the people there still raised their fettered hands, When the sense of right and the power to smite are the spirit that commands ; For those who would sneer at the mourner’s tear, and heed not the suppliant’s sigh, Would bow in awe to that first great law-- a banded nation’s cry ! At length arose o’er that isle of woes a dawn with a steadier smile, And in happy hour a voice of pow’r awoke the slumbering isle ! And the people all obeyed the call of their chief’s unsceptred hand, Vowing to raise as in ancient days the name oi their own dear land ! My dream grew bright as the sun-beam’s light, as I watched that isle’s career Through the varied scene and the joys serene of many a future year — And, oh ! what thrill did my bosom fill, as I gazed on a pillared pile, Where a senate once more in power watched o'er the rights of that lone green isle 1 THE SPIRIT OP THE NATION. 125 THE EXTERMINATOR’S SONG. BY JOHN CORNELIUS O’CALLAGHAN. Air — “ ’ Tis I am the Gipsy King.” ’Tis I am the poor man’s scourge, And where is the scourge like me 1 My land from all Papists I purge, Who think that their votes should be free. Who think that their votes should be free. For huts only fitted for brutes My agent the last penny wrings ; And my serfs live on water and roots, While I feast on the best of good things ! For I am the poor man's scourge! For I am the poor man’s scourge ! ( Chorus of the Editors of the Nation ) Yes, you are the poor man’s scourge ! But of such the whole island we’ll purge ! A despot, and a strong one, am I, Since a Drummond no longer is here To my “ duties ” to point ev’ry eye, Though of “rights” I wish only to hear— Though of “rights ” I wish only to hear I If conspiracies I apprehend, To throw off my rack-renting rule, 126 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. For a “ Special Commission ” I send To my friends of the old Tory school, For I am the poor man’s scourge ! For I am the poor man’s scourge ! us of the Editors of the Nation ) Yes, you are the poor man's scourge ! But of such the whole island we’ll purge ! I prove to the world I’m a man, In a way very pleasant to show ; I corrupt all the tenants I can, And of children I have a long row — And of children 1 have a long row ! My cottiers must all cringe to me, Nor grudge me the prettiest lass ; Or they know very well that they’ll see Their hovels as flat as the grass! For I am the poor man’s scourge ! For I am the poor man’s scourge 1 (Chorus of the Editors of the Nation ) Yes, you are the poor man’s scourge! But of such the whole island we’ll purge ! If a Connor my right should deny To “ do what I like with my own,” For the rascal I’ve soon a reply, Into gaol for “ sedition ” lie’s thrown— Into gaol for “ sedition ” he’s thrown! THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 127 The tariff is bringing rents down, Yet more cash from the farmer I’ll squeeze; And, for fear of being shot, come to town To drink, game, and intrigue at my ease ! For I am the poor man’s scourge ! For I am the poor man’s scourge ! (Chorus of the Editors of the Nation ) Yes, you are the poor man’s scourge ! But of such the whole island we’ll purge ! ANNIE, DEAR. BY THOMAS DAVIS. 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. Ah ! but our hopes were splendid, Annie, dear, How sadly they have ended, Annie, dear; 128 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. The ring betwixt us broken, When our vows of love were spoken, Of your poor heart was a token, Annie, dear. The primrose flow’rs 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. For once, when home returning, Annie, dear, 1 found our cottage burning, Annie, dearj Around it were the yeomen, Of every ill an omen, The country’s bitter foemen, Annie, dear. 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. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 129 A NEW YEAR’S SONG. My countrymen, awake ! arise ! Our work begins anew : Your mingled voices rend the skies, Your hearts are firm and true ; You’ve bravely marched and nobly met Our little green isle through, But oh ! my friends, there’s something yet For Irishmen to do ! As long as Erin hears the clink Of base, ignoble chains — As long as one detested link Of foreign rule remains — As long as of our rightful debt One smallest fraction’s due, So long, my friends, there’s something yet For Irishmen to do ! Too long we’ve borne the servile yoke, Too long the slavish chain, Too long in feeble accents spoke, And ever spoke in vain. Our wealth has filled the spoiler’s net, And gorged the Saxon crew ; But, oh I my friends, we’ll teach them yet What Irishmen can do ! i 130 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. The olive branch is in our hands, The white flag floats above ; Peace — peace pervades our myriad bands, And proud, forgiving love ; But, oh ! let not our foes forget We’re men, as Christians, too, Prepared to do for Ireland yet What Irishmen should do ! There’s not a man of all our land Our country now can spare, The strong man with his sinewy hand, The weak man with his pray’r ! No whining tone of mere regret, Young Irish bards, for you ; But let your songs teach Ireland yet What Irishmen should do ! And wheresoe’er that duty lead, There, there your post should be ; The coward slave is never freed — The brave alone are free ! O Freedom ! firmly fixed are set Our longing eyes on you ; And though we die for Ireland yet, So Irishmen should do ! THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. OH ! FOR A STEED. BY THOMAS DAVIS. 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. 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. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and a rifle that never failed, And a tribe of terrible prairie men, by desperate valor mailed, Till “ stripes and stars ” And Russian czars Before the Red Indian quailed. 132 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, on the plains of Hindostan, And a hundred thousand cavaliers to charge like a single man, Till our shirts were red, And the English fled Like a cowardly caravan. 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 valleys upon. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, when Brian smote down the Dane, Or a place beside great Aodh O’Neill, when Bage- nal the bold was slain, Or a waving crest And a lance in rest With Bruce upon Bannoch plain. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, on the Currach of Cildar, And Irish squadrons skilled to do as they are ready to dare, A hundred yards, And England’s guards Drawn up to engage me there. THE SPIRIT OE THE NATION. 133 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. THE VOICE AND PEN. BY D. F. MCCARTHY. Oh ! the orator’s voice is a mighty power As it echoes from shore to shore ; And the fearless pen has more sway o’er men Than the murderous cannon’s roar. What burst the chain far o’er the main, And brightens the captive’s den h ’Tis the fearless voice and the pen of power — Hurrah ! for the Voice and Pen ! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for the Voice and Pen ! The tyrant knaves who deny our rights, And the cowards who blanch with fear, Exclaim with glee, “ No arms have ye — Nor cannon, uor sword, nor spear ! 134 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Your hills are ours ; with our forts and tow’rs We are masters of mount and glen.” Tyrants, beware ! for the arms we bear Are the Voice and the fearless Pen ! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for the Voice and Pen ! Though your horsemen stand with their bridles hand, And your sentinels walk around — Though your matches flare in the midnight air And your brazen trumpets sound ; Oh ! the orator’s tongue shall be heard among These listening warrior men, And they’ll quickly say, “ Why should we slay Our friends of the Voice and Pen V Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for the Voice and Pen ! When the Lord created the earth and sea, The stars and the glorious sun, The Godhead spoke, and the universe woke, And the mighty work was done ! Let a word be flung from the orator’s tongue, Or a drop from the fearless pen, And the chains accursed asunder burst That fettered the minds of men Hurrah I Hurrah ! for the Voice and Pen ' THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 135 Oh ! these are the swords with which we fight, The arms in which we trust, Which no tyrant hand will dare to brand, Which time cannot dim or rust ! When these we bore we triumphed before, With these we’ll triumph again ; And the world will say, “ No power can stay “ The Voice and the fearless Pen !” Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for the Voice and Pen ! UP FOR THE GREEN. A SONG OF THE UNITED IRISHMEN. A.D. 1796. Air— * * The W earing of the Green . ” ’Tis the green — oh ! the green is the color of the true, And we’ll back it ’gainst the orange, and we’ll raise it o’er the blue ! And the color of our fatherland alone should here be seen — And the color of the martyred dead — our own iim mortal green. Then up for the green, boys, and up for the green ! Oh ! ’tis down to the dust, and a shame to be seen ; 136 THE SPIRIT OF TIIE NATION. But we’ve hands, oh ! we’ve hands, boys, full strong enough, I ween, To rescue and to raise again our own immortal green ! They may say they have power ’tis vain to oppose — ’Tis better to obey and live, than surely die as foes; But we scorn all their threats, boys, whatever they may mean ; For we trust in God above us, and we dearly love the green. So we’ll up for the green, and we’ll up for the green — Oh ! to die is far better than be cursed as we have been ; And we’ve hearts — oh ! we’ve hearts, boys, full true enough, I ween, To rescue and to raise again our own immor- tal green. They may swear, as they often did, our wretched- ness to cure, But we’ll never trust John Bull again, nor let his lies allure ; No, we won’t, no, we won’t, Bull, for now nor ever more ! For we’ve hopes on the ocean, and we’ve trust on the shore* THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 137 Then up for the green, boys, then up for the green ! Shout it back to the Sassanach, “ We’ll never sell the green ! ” For our Tone is coming back, and with men enough, I ween, To rescue and avenge us and our own immortal green. Oh ! remember the days when their reign we did disturb, At Luimneach * and Durlas f, Blackwater and Beinnbhorb,% And ask this proud Saxon if our blows he did en- joy When we met him on the battle-field of France— at Fontenoy. Then we’ll up for the green, boys, and up for the green ! Oh ! ’tis still in the dust, and a shame to be seen ; But we’ve hearts and we’ve hands, boys, full strong enough, I ween, To rescue and to raise again our own unsul- lied green ! Fermoy. * Limerick. t Misspell Thurles. J Benburb. i 38 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. MY LAND. BY THOMAS DAVIS. 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 . No men than hers are braver — Her women’s hearts ne’er waver I’d freely die to save her, And think my lot divine. 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. Could beauty ever guard her, And virtue still reward her, No foe would cross her border — No friend within it pine I 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 SPIRIT OP THE NATION. 139 THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE. BY THOMAS DAVIS. Air — “ The Cota CaolT 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. 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. The brawling squires may heed him not, The dainty stranger sneer — But who will dare to hurt our cot When Myles O’ Idea 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. 140 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 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. LAMENT FOR THE MILESIANS. BY THOMAS DAVIS. Oh ! proud were the chieftains of proud Innis-Fail, As truagh gan oidhir 1 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 en wrap, As truagh gan oidhir * n-a bh-farradh ! * As iruagli gan oidhir ’ n a bh-farradh. “ That is pity, without heir in their company,” «.e., what a pity that there is no heir of their com- pany. See the poem of Giolla iosa Mor Mac Firbisigh, The Genealogies , Tribes , and Customs of the Ui Fiachrach , or O'Dubhda's Country , printed for the Irish Arch. Soc., p. 230, line 2, and note d. Also O' Reilly's Diet , voce farradh. THE SPIRIT OF TIIE NATION. 141 'Gainst England long battling, at length they went down, As truagh gan oidhir ’ n-a bh-farradh! But they’ve 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 ! Oh ! sweet were the minstrels of kind Innis-Fail ! A' s 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 pibroch were chid, And their language, “ that melts into music," forbid, As truagh gan oidhir ’ n-a bh-farradh ! How fair were the maidens of fair Innis-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 ! Oli ! 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 ! 142 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Their famous, their holy, their dear Innis-Fail, A’s truagh gan oidhir ’n-a bli-farradh ! Shall it be a prey for the stranger to spoil ? A’s truagh gan oidhir ’n-a bli-farradh ! Sure brave men would labor by night and by day To banish that stranger away, Or, dying for Ireland, the future would say A' s truagh gan oidhir ’n-a bh-farradh ! Oh ! shame — for unchanged is the face of our isle, A’s truagh gan oidhir ’ n-a bh-farradh ! That taught them to battle, to sing, and to smile, A’s 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, A’s truagh gan oidhir ' n-a bh-farradh 1 MUNSTER. Ye who rather Seek to gather Biding thought than fleeting pleasure, In the South what wonders saw ye % From the South what lessons draw ye i Wonders, passing thought or measure — Lessons^ through a life to treasure. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 143 Ever living Nature, giving W elcome wild, or soft caress — Scenes that sink into the being, Till the eye grows full with seeing, And the mute heart can but bless Him that shaped such loveliness. Dark and wide ill, Rivers idle, Wealth un wrought of sea and mine; Bays where Europe’s fleet might anchor— Scarce Panama s waters blanker Ere Columbus crossed the brine, Void of living sound or sign. God hath blest it, Man opprest it — Sad the fruits that mingling rise — Fallow fields, and hands to till them ; Hungry mouths, and grain to fill them ; But a social curse denies Labor’s guerdon, want’s supplies. Sunlight glances, Life that dances In the limbs of childhood there — Glowing tints, that fade and sicken In the pallid, famine-stricken Looks that men and women wear, Living types of want and care. 144 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Faith and patience ’Mid privations, Genial heart, and open hand ; But, what fain the eye would light on, Pleasant homes to cheer and brighten Such a race and such a land — These, alas ! their lords have banned. These things press on Us the lesson : Much may yet be done and borne ; But the bonds that thus continue Paralyzing limb and sinew, From our country must be torn ; Then shines out young Munster’s morn. Sliabh Cuilinn, THE TEUE IEISH KING * BY THOMAS DAYIS. The Caesar of Eome has a wider demesne, And the Ard-Kigh 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 ; * See Appendix L. to O’Doaoyan’s “ Ily-Fiachra,” p. 245, &c. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 145 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 1 For he must have come from a conquering race — The heir of their valor, 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 ! 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 Sassanach serfs no such homage can bring As the Irishman’s choice of a True Irish King ! Come, look on the pomp when they “ make an O’Neill;” The muster of dynasts — O’h-Again, O’Shiadhail, O’Cathain, O’h-Anluain, O’Bhrislein and all, From gentle Aird Uladh to rude Dun 11a 11-gall ; K 146 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. “ St. Patrick’s comharba ,’* ** with bishops thirteen, And ollamhs, and breithams, and minstrels are seen Round Tulach-Ogt rath, like the bees in the spring, All swarming to honor a True Irish King ! 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 honor and vigilant will. The gray-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 ! 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’Cathain proclaims him a True Irish King ! Thrice looked he to heaven with thanks and with pray’r, Thrice looked to his borders with sentinel stare, * Successor — comharba Pliadraig - the Archbishop of Armagh, f In the county Tyrone, between Cookstown and Stewartstown. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. L 47 To the waves of Locli N-Eathach, the heights of Strathbhan — 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 !” 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 Sassanach 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, And minstrels for ever his victories sing, And saints make the bed of the True Irish King; THE GREEN FLAG. a.d. 1647. BY M. J. BARRY. Boys ! fill your glasses, Each hour that passes Steals, it may be, on our last night’s cheer, 118 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. The day soon shall come, hoys, With fife and drum, boys, Breaking shrilly on the soldier’s ear. Drink the faithful hearts that love us — - ’Mid to-morrow’s thickest fight, While our green flag floats above us, Think, boys, ’tis for them we smite. Down with each mean flag, None but the green flag Shall above us be in triumph seen : Oh ! think on its glory, Long shrined in story, Charge for Eire and her flag of green ! Think on old Brian, War’s mighty lion, ’Neath that banner ’twas he smoto the Dane ; The Northman and Saxon Oft turned their backs on Those who bore it o’er each crimsoned plain. Beal-an-atha-Buidhe beheld it Bagenal’s fiery onset curb ; Scotch Munroe would fain have felled it — We, boys, followed him from red Beinnburb. Down with each mean flag, None but the green flag Shall above us be in triumph seen : Oh ! think on its glory, Long shrined in story, Charge with Eoghan for our flag of green i THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 149 And if, at eve, boys, Comrades shall grieve, boys, O’er our corses, let it be with pride, When thinking that each, boys, On that red beach, boys, Lies the flood-mark of the battle’s tide. See ! the first faint ray of morning Gilds the east with yellow light ! Hark ! the bugle note gives warning — One full bumper to old friends to-night. Down with each mean flag, None but the green flag Shall above us be in triumph seen : Oh ! think on its glory, Long shrined in story, Fall or conquer for our flag of green ! THE ISRAELITE LEADER. A Hebrew youth, of thoughtful mien And dark, impassioned eye, Once stood beside the leafy sheen Of an oak that towered high. Ever, amid man’s varied race, Such port and glance are found— Unerring signs by which to trace The slave’s first onward bound. THE SPIRIT OF TIIE NATION. Ay ! Liberty's good son, though he Yet bears the tyrant brand — Not distant far the hour can be For such to arm and band. His father’s heaped-up corn was near, To tend it seemed his care ; But — souls like his to heaven are dear — An angel sought him there. Under the shade of that tall oak A stranger met his eyes, And glorious were the words he spoke Of Israel’s quick uprise ! Deep, thrilling words — they instant made That young heart overflow, As the strong leap of the cascade Heaves up the tide below. He spread a feast for the harbinger Who such good tidings bore, But fire from heaven consumed it there — He saw that guest no more ; And when the first deep awe had passed Of such strange visitant, Up sprung his hopes for Israel, fast As eagles from their haunt. And the pale youth who, but that morn (So mtek of heart was he), Stood winnowing his father’s corn, At midnight, like a sea. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION 15] When tameless is its stormy roar, To Baal’s high altar rushed, And it was overturned before The next bright orient blushed. An altar to the Living God Upon the ruin stood, And groves where Baal’s priests had trod Were rooted from the wood ; And God’s good sword with Gideon went For ever from that day, Till, of the hosts against him sent, Not one was left to slay. Oh! names like his bright beacons are To realms that kings oppress, Hailing, with radiant light from far, Their signals of distress. When a crushed nation humbly turns From sin that was too dear, Not long the proud oppressor spurns — Deliverance is near. A- 152 THE SPIRIT . OF THE NATION. RECRUITING SONG FOR THE IRISH BRIGADE. BY MAURICE O’CONNELL. Air — “ The White Cockade ” Is there a youthful gallant here On fire for fame — unknowing fear — Who, in the charge’s mad career, On Erin’s foes would flesh his spear ? Come, let him wear the white cockade, And learn the soldier’s glorious trade ; ’Tis of such stuff a hero’s made, Then let him join the bold Brigade. Who scorns to own a Saxon lord, And toil to swell a stranger’s hoard 1 Who, for rude blow or gibing word, Would answer with the freeman’s sword ? Come, let him wear the white cockade, &( Does Erin’s foully slandered name Suffuse thy cheek with generous shame ? Wouldst right her wrongs — restore her fame? — Come, then, the soldier’s weapon claim — Come, then, and wear the white cockade, &c. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 153 Come, free from bonds your father’s faith, Redeem its shrines from scorn and scathe — The hero’s fame, the martyr’s wreath, Will gild your life or crown your death. Then come, and wear the white cockade, &c. To drain the cup — with girls to toy, The serfs vile soul with bliss may cloy; But wouldst thou taste a manly joy] — Oh ! it was ours at Fontenoy ! Come, then, and wear the white cockade, &c. To many a fight thy fathers led, Full many a Saxon’s life-blood shed ; From thee, as yet, no foe has fled — Thou wilt not shame the glorious dead ] Then come, and wear the white cockade, &c. Oh ! come — for slavery, want, and shame, We offer vengeance, freedom, fame, With monarchs comrade rank to claim, And, nobler still, the patriot’s name. Oh ! come, and wear the white cockade, And learn the soldier’s glorious trade ; ’Tis of such stuff a hero’s made — Then come, and join the bold Brigade. 154 THE SPIRIT OP THE NATION. STEP TOGETHER, BY M. J. BARRY. Step together — boldly tread, Firm each foot, erect each head, Fixed in front be every glance — Forward, at the word “ advance”—* Serried files that foes may dread ; Like the deer on mountain heather, Tread light, Left, right — Steady, boys, and step together ! Step together — be each rank Dressed in line, from flank to flank, Marching so that you may halt ’Mid the onset’s fierce assault, Firm as in the rampart’s bank Raised the iron rain to weather — Proud sight ! Left, right — Steady, boys, and step together ! Step together — be your tramp Quick and light — no plodding stamp Let its cadence, quick and clear, Fall like music on the ear ; Noise befits not hall or camp— THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 155 Eagles soar on silent featlier ; Tread light, Left, right — Steady, boys, and step together ! Step together — self-restrained, Be your march of thought as trained. Each man’s single powers combined Into one battalioned mind, Moving on with step sustained : Thus prepared, we reck not whether Foes smite. Left, right — We can think and strike together ! PATIENCE. Be patient, oh! be patient! put your ear against the earth — Listen there how noiselessly the germ o’ the seed has birth, How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its little way, Till it parts the scarcely broken ground, and the blade stands forth to day. Be patient, oh! be patient! for the germs of mighty thought 15G THE SriRIT OF THE NATION. Must have their silent undergrowth, must under- ground be wrought ; But as sure as ever there’s power that makes the grass appear. Our land shall smile with liberty, the blade-time shall be here. Be patient, oh ! be patient ! go and watch the wheat- ears grow So imperceptibly that ye can mark nor change nor throe, Day after day, day after day, till the ear is fully grown, A_nd then again, day after day, till the ripened field is brown. Be patient, oh ! be patient! though yet our hopes are green, The harvest-fields of Freedom shall be crowned with sunny sheen. Be ripening, be ripening, mature your silent way, Till the whole broad land is tongued with fire on Freedom’s harvest day. Spartacus. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 157 THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED. BY THOMAS DAVIS. Air— “ Irish Molly , 0 !” Full often, when our fathers saw the Red above the Green, They rose in rude but fierce array, with sabre, pike, and skian, And over many a noble town, and many a field ot dead, They proudly set the Irish Green above the English Red. 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 tied, Still saw the Green maintain its place above the English Red. And they who saw, in after times, the Red above the Green, Were withered as the grass that dies beneath a forest screen ; 158 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 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. 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. 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.” And ’tis for this we think and toil, and knowledge strive to glean, That we may pull the English Red beloAV the Irish Green, THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 159 And leave our sons sweet liberty, and smiling plenty spread Above the land once dark with blood — the Green above the Red ! 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 ! Well 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 I 160 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. THE WELCOME. BY THOMAS DAVIS. 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 oft’ner you come here the more I’ll adore you. Light is my heart since the day we were plighted, Eed 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 !” 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 Dh! your step’s like the rain to the summer vexed farmer, Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor ; I’ll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, Then, wandering, I’ll wish you, in silence, to love me. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATIOIST. 161 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 stream- ing, Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver As our souls flow in one down eternity’s river.” 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 oft’ner 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 !” L 162 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. WHY, GENTLES, WHY* Air — “ Why, soldiers , why?” Why, gentles, why Should we so melancholy be 1 Why, gentles, why 1 We know that all must die— He, you, and I ! Life, at the best, Is but a jest ; Hopes brightly shine but to fly. Kejoice, then, that rest— Deep, quiet, blest — Stands ever nigh ! Why, tell me, why Should we so melancholy be 1 Why, tell me, why Burst th’ unbidden sigh, While tears dim the eye ? Why crave for rest, And, even when happiest, Find gloomy thoughts ever nigh f ’Tis that while we live Nought full content can give, Known but on high ! L. N. f. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 16 KATE OF ARAGLEN. Air— “ An Cailin JRuadh BY DENNY LANE. W hen first I saw thee, Kate, that summer evening late, Down at the orchard gate of Araglen, I felt I’d ne’er before seen one so fair, a stdr ; I feared I’d never more see thee again. I stopped and gazed at thee — my footfall, luckily, Reached not thy ear, tho’ we stood there so near ; While from thy lips a strain, soft as the summer rain, Sad as a lover’s pain, fell on my ear. I’ve heard the lark in June, the harp’s wild, plaintive tune, The thrush, that aye too soon gives o’er his strain — I’ve heard in hushed delight the mellow horn at night Waking the echoes light of wild Loch Lein ; But neither echoing horn, nor thrush upon the thorn, Nor lark at early morn hymning in air, Nor harper’s lay divine, e’er witched this heart of mine, Like that sweet voice of thine, that evening there. 164 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. And when some rustling, dear, fell on thy listening ear, You thought your brother near, and named his name, I could not answer, though, as luck would have it so, His name and mine, you know, were both the same ; Hearing no answering sound, you glanced in doubt around With timid look, and found it was not he ; Turning away your head, and blushing rosy red, Like a wild fawn you fled, far, far from me. The swan upon the lake, the wild rose in the brake, The golden clouds that make the west their throne, The wild ash by the stream, the full moon’s silver beam, The evening star’s soft gleam, shining alone ; Tiie lily robed in white — all, all are fair and bright ; But ne’er on earth was sight so bright, so fair, As that one glimpse of thee, that I caught then, mo cliree , It stole my heart from me that evening there. And now you’re mine alone, that heart is all my own — That heart that ne’er hath knowa a flame before. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 165 That form of mould divine, that snowy hand of thine, Those locks of gold, are mine for evermore. Was lover ever seen, as blest as thine, Kathleen? Hath lover ever been more fond, more true ? Thine is my ev’ry vow ! for ever dear, as now ! Queen of my heart be thou ! mo cailin ruadh ! THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND. BY D. F. MCCARTHY. The pillar towers of Ireland, liow wondrously they stand By the lakes and rushing rivers through the valleys of our land ; In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their heads sublime, These gray old pillar temples —these conquerors of time ! Beside these gray old pillars, how perishing and weak The Roman’s arch of triumph, and the temple of the Greek, And the gold domes of Byzantium, and the pointed Gothic spires — All are gone, one by one, but the temples of our sires. 166 THF SPIRIT OF THE NATION. The column, with its capital, is level with the dust, Aiul the proud halls of the mighty and the calm homes of the just ; For the proudest works of man, as certainly, but slower, Pass like the grass at the sharp scythe of the mower ! But the grass grows again when, in majesty and mirth, On the wing of the Spring, comes the Goddess of the Earth ; But for man in this world no springtide e’er returns To the labors of his hands or the ashes of his urns ! Two favorites hath Time — the pyramids of Nile, And the old mystic temples of our own dear isle ; As the breeze o’er the seas, where the halcyon has its nest, Thus time o’er Egypt’s tombs and the temples of the West. The names of their founders have vanished in the gloom, Like the dry branch in the fire or the body in the tomb ; But to-day, in the ray, their shadows still they cast — These temples of forgotten gods — these relics oi the past ! THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 167 Around these walls have wandered the Briton and the Dane, The captives of Armorica, the cavaliers of Spain, Phoenician and Milesian, and the plundering Norman peers, And the swordsmen of brave Brian, and the chiefs of later years ! How many different rites have these gray old temples known ! To the mind what dreams are written in these chronicles of stone ! What terror and what error, what gleams of love and truth, Have flashed from these walls since the world was in its youth ! Here blazed the sacred fire, and, when the sun was gone, As a star from afar to the traveller it shone ; And the warm blood of the victim have these gray old temples drunk, And the death-song of the druid and the matin of the monk. Here was placed the holy chalice that held the sacred wine, And the gold cross from the altar, and the relics from the shrine, 168 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. And the mitre shining brighter with its diamonds than the east, And the crozier of the pontiff, and the vestments of the priest ! Where blazed the sacred fire, rung out the vesper bell; Where the fugitive found shelter became the hermit’s cell ; And hope hung out its symbol to the innocent and good, For the cross o’er the moss of the pointed summit stood ! There may it stand for ever, while this symbol doth impart To the mind one glorious vision, or one proud throb to the heart ; While the breast needeth rest may these gray old temples last, Bright prophets of the future, as preachers of the past ! THE SPIRIT OF TIIE NATION. 169 THE WILD GEESE.* The wild geese — the wild geese — ’tis long since they flew O’er the billowy ocean’s bright bosom of blue ; For the foot of the false-hearted stranger had curst The shores on whose fond breast they’d settled at first ; And they sought them a home afar off o’er the sea, Where their pinions, at least, might be chainless and free. The wild geese — the wild geese — sad, sad was the wail That followed their flight on the easterly gale ; But the eyes that had wept o’er their vanishing track Ne’er brightened to welcome the wanderers back ; The home of their youth was the land of the slave, And they died on that shore far away o’er the wave. The wild geese — the wild geese — their coming once more Was the long-cherished hope of that desolate shore, * The recruits of the Irish Brigade were generally conveyed to France in the smugglers which brought foreign wines and brandy to our west coast, and were entered on the ships’ books as “wild geese ” Hence this became the common name for them among the country people. 170 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. For the loved ones behind knew it would yet be free, If they flew on their white pinions back o’er the sea ; But vainly the hope of these lonely ones burned, The wild geese — the wild geese — they never re- turned. The wild geese — the wild geese —hark ! heard ye that cry ? And marked ye that white flock o’erspreading the sky] Can ye read not the omen ] Joy, joy to the slave, And gladness and strength to the hearts of the brave ; For wild geese are coming at length o’er the sea, And Eirinn, green Eirinn, once more shall be free ! THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 171 AID YOUKSELVES AND GOD WILL AID YOU. Signs and tokens round us thicken. Hearts throb high and pulses quicken: Comes the morn, though red and lurid — Clouds and storms around it hung— Still it is that morn assured Long ye’ve prayed for, sought, and sung. Soon those clouds may break, and render To your noon its genial splendor — Or in gloom more hopeless vest it ; On your heads the end is rested — Front to front ye’ve now arrayed you, Aid yourselves and God will aid you. Awful, past all human telling, Is the change upon you dwelling ; Act but now the fool or craven, And, like Canaan doomed of yore, “ Slave of slaves ” shall be engraven On your foreheads evermore. Crouching to your masters’ mercies, Drugged with slavery’s cup like Circe’s, Scorn and by-word of the nations, Curse of coming generations, Blackest shame will overshade you — Aid yourselves and God will aid you. 172 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Hence, oli ! hence such foul surmises ! Truer far a vision rises, Men in Freedom’s rank battalioned, Countless as the bristling grain, Firm as ardent, wise as valiant, All to venture — all sustain ; Men of never-sinking patience, Tried and taught by stern privations, From their path nor lured nor driven, Till their every bond is riven — Every wrong dispersed like May dew — Aid yourselves and God will aid you. No ! a heart-roused people’s action Cannot die like storms of faction. Long a mute but master feeling In the millions’ breast was nursed, Till — a magic voice appealing — Forth it came, the thunder-burst ! ’Gainst it now they plant their barriers, Guard their keeps, and arm their warriors, Lavish all their futile forces, Power’s most stale and vile resources, Yet awhile to crush, degrade you : Aid yourselves and God will aid you. Blind misrule, and free opinion, Armed lies, and truth’s dominion, THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 173 In a battle still recurring Ever have these foes been set : Here their deadliest strife is stirring— Who can doubt the issue yet % Watch and wait, your hour abiding, Nought your goal one moment hiding, Fearing not, nor too confiding, Trusting in your leader's guiding — His who ne’er forsook, betrayed you : Aid yourselves and God will aid you. But, should all be unavailing — Reason, truth, and justice failing, Every peaceful effort blighted, Every shred of freedom reft — Then — oh I are we crushed or frighted While one remedy is left h Back ! each slave that faints or falters; Or. ! true heart that never alters ; On! stout arm no terrors weaken, Bruce’s star and Tell’s your beacon ; Strike — that stroke is many a day due : Aid yourselves and God will aid you. Sliabh Cuilinn. 174 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. WATCH AND WAIT. BY CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. Air — “ Tow roiv row." Sadly, as a muffled drum, Toll the hours of long probation : Let them toll, the stable soul Can work and wait to build a nation. Curse or groan Never more shall own But our stifled hearts are patient As a stone. Yes, as patient as a stone, Till we’re struck in hate or ire ; Then the dint will fall on flint, And send them back a stream of fire I Wait, boys, wait, Beady for your fate, Prompt as powder to the linstock Soon or late I Let us gather love and help, Won from native friends and foemen ; How little loath the hearts of both, We read in many a glorious omen. No, boys, no, Let no word or blow Brand a native Irish brother As our foe. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 175 Holy Freedom’s pealing voice Willing slaves hath never woken ; Ireland’s trance was ignorance, And Knowledge all her spells hath broken. Hell and night Vanish from her sight, As when God pronounced aforetime, “ Be there light !” Cherish well this sacred flame, Feed its lamp with care and patience ; From God it came, its destined aim To burst the fetters off the nations. Now, boys, now, Why should we bow, When the promised day is dawning, And that’s now f Brothers, if this day should set, Another yet must crown our freedom ; That will come with roll of drum And trampling files with MEN to lead them Who can save Renegade or slave 1 Fortune only twines her garlands F or the brave ! 176 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. CLARE’S DRAGOONS. BY THOMAS DAVIS, Air— “ Viva la." When on Ramiliies’ 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 1 Yiva la for Ireland’s right ! Yiva la in battle throng For a Spanish steed and sabre bright. 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, THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 177 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 1 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 conies from Brian's race, His wounds are in his breast and face, The bearna baeghail * 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. There’s not a man in squadron here Was ever known to flinch or fear, Though first in charge and last in rear Have ever been Lord Clare’s Dragoons, * The gap of danger. M 178 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 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 ! 0 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 Bose shall fade, And the Shamrock shine for ever new ! THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION 179 THE PATRIOT BRAVE. BY R. D. WILLIAMS. I drink to the valiant who combat For freedom by mountain or wave ; And may triumph attend, like a shadow, The swords of the patriot brave ! Oh ! never was holier chalice Than this at our festivals crowned — The heroes of Morven, to pledge it, And gods of Valhalla, float round. Hurrah for the patriot brave ! A health to the patriot brave ! And a curse and a blow be to liberty’s foe, Whether tyrant, or coward, or knave. Great spirits, who battled in old time For the freedom of Athens, descend ! As low to the shadow of Brian In fond hero-worship we bend. From those that in far Alpine passes Saw Dathi struck down in his mail, To the last of our chiefs’ galloglasses, The saffron-clad foes of the Pale, Let us drink to the patriot brave ; Hurrah for the patriot brave ! But a curse and a blow be to liberty’s foe, And more chains for the satisfied slave. 180 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. O Liberty ! hearts that adore thee Pour out their best blood at thy shrine, As freely as gushes before thee This purple libation of wine. For us, whether destined to triumph, Or bleed as Leonidas bled, Crushed down by a forest of lances On mountains of foreigner dead, May we sleep with the patriot brave ! God prosper the patriot brave ! Put may battle and woe hurry liberty’s foe To a bloody and honorless grave ! THE FALL OF THE LEAVES. BY THE REV. C. MEEHAN. I. They are falling, they are falling, and soon, alas ! they’ll fade, The flowers of the garden, the leaves of dell and glade ; Their dirge the winds are singing in the lone and fitful blast, And the leaves and flowers of summer are strewn and fading fast. THE SPIRIT OF TIIE NATION. 181 Ah! why, then, have we loved them, when their beauties might have told They could not linger long with us, nor stormy skies behold Fair creatures of the sunshine ! your day of life is past, Ye are scattered by the rude winds, fallen and fading fast : And, oh ! how oft enchanted have we watched your opening bloom, When you made unto the day-god your offerings of perfume ! How vain our own imaginings that joy will always last — ’Tis like to you, ye sweet things, all dimmed amt faded fast. The glens where late ye bloomed for us are leafless now and lorn, The tempest’s breath hath all their pride and all their beauty shorn. II. ’Twas ever so, and so shall be — by fate that doom was cast — The things we love are scarcely seen till they are gone and past. Ay, ye are gone and faded, ye leaves and lovely flowers, But when spring comes you’ll come again to deck the garden's bowers; 182 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. And beauty, too, will cull you, and twine ye in hex hair — What meeter, truer emblem can beauty ever wear 1 But never here, oh ! never shall we the loved ones meet Who shone in youth around us, and, like you, faded fleet ; Full soon affliction bowed them, and life’s day- dawn o’ercast — They’re blooming now in heaven, their day of fading's past ! Ye withered leaves and flowers ! oh ! may you long impart Monition grave and moral stern unto this erring heart — Oh ! teach it that the jovs earth are short-lived, vain, and frail, And transient as the leaves and flowers before the wintry gale. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 183 CATE OF CEAN N-M ARE.* BY D. F. JV1‘CARTHY. I. Oh ! many bright eyes full of goodness and glad- ness, Where the pure soul looks out and the heart loves to shine, And many cheeks pale with the soft hue of sadness* Have I worshipped in silence and felt them divine! But hope in its gleamings, or love in its dreamings, Ne’er fashioned a being so faultless and fair As the lily-cheeked beauty, the rose of the Ruach- tach,f The fawn of the valley, sweet Cate of Ceann- mare ! II. It was all but a moment, her radiant existence, Her presence, her absence, all crowded on me ; But time has not ages, and earth has not distance, To sever, sweet vision, my spirit from thee ! Again am 1 straying where children are playing, Bright is the sunshine and balmy the air, Mountains are heathy, and there do 1 see thee, Sweet fawn of the valley, young Cate of Ceann* mare ! * Properly Ceann-Mara— head of the sea t Commonly written liowghty. 184 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. in. Thy own bright arbutus hath many a cluster Of white, flaxen blossoms, like lilies in air. But, oh ! thy pale cheek hath a delicate lustro No blossoms can rival, no lily doth wear. To that cheek softly flushing, to thy lip brightly blushing, Oh ! what are the berries that bright tree doth bear % Peerless in beauty, the rose of the Ruachtach, That fawn of the valley, sweet Cate of Ceann-mare ! iv. 0 beauty ! some spell from kind nature thou bearest, Some magic of tone or enchantment of eye, That hearts that are hardest from forms that are fairest Receive such impressions as never can die. The foot of the fairy, though lightsome and airy, Can stamp on the hard rock the shape it doth wear ; Art cannot trace it, nor ages efface it — And such are thy glances, sweet Cate of Ceann- mare ! v. To him who far travels how sad is the feeling, How the light of his mind is o’ershadowed and dim, THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 185 When the scenes he most loves, like the river’s soft stealing, All fade as a vision, and vanish from him ! Yet he bears from each far land a flower for that garland That memory weaves of the bright and the fair ; While this sigh I am breathing my garland is wreathing, And the rose of that garland is Cate of Ceann- mare! VI. In lonely Lough Quinlan,* in summer’s soft hours, Fair islands are floating that move with the tide, Which, sterile at first, are soon covered with flow’rs, And thus o’er the bright waters fairy-like glide ! Thus the mind the most vacant is quickly awakened, And the heart bears a harvest that late was so bare, Of him who, in roving, finds objects in loving Like the fawn of the valley, sweet Cate of Ceann-mare ! * Dr. Smith, in his “History of Kerry,” says: “Near this place is a considerable fresh-water lake, called Lough Quinlan, in which are some small floating islands, much admired by the country people. These islands swim from side to side of the lake, and are usually composed at first of a long kind of grass, which being blown off the adjacent grounds about the middle of September, and floating about, collect slime and other stuff, and so yearly increase till they come to have grass and other vegetables grown upon them.” 186 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Sweet Cate of Ceann-mare ! though I ne’er may hehold thee — Though the pride and the joy of another you be — Though strange lips may praise thee and strange arms enfold thee, A blessing, dear Cate, be on them and on thee ! One feeling I cherish that never can perish — One talisman proof to the dark wizard, Care — The fervent and dutiful love of the beautiful, Of which thou art a type, gentle Cate of Ceann- mare ! A LAY SERMON. BY CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. I. Brother, do you love your brother i Brother, are you all you seem ? Do you live for more than living $ Has your life a law and scheme ? Are you prompt to bear its duties, As a brave man may beseem % ii. Brother, shun the mist exhaling From the fen of pride and doubt ; Neither seek the house of bondage, Walling straitened souls about — Bats ! who, from their narrow spy-hole, Cannot see a world without. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 187 ill. Anchor in no stagnant shallow ; Trust the wide and wondrous sea, Where the tides are fresh for ever, And the mighty currents free : There, perchance, 0 young Columbus ! Your New World of truth may be. IV. Favor will not make deserving — (Can the sunshine brighten clay T ) — * Slowly must it grow to blossom, Fed by labor and delay ; And the fairest bud of promise Bears the taint of quick decay. V. You must strive for better guerdons — Strive to be the thing you’d seem ; Be the things that God hath made you, Channel for no borrowed stream ; He hath lent you mind and conscience — See you travel in their beam ! VI. See you scale life’s misty highlands By this light of living truth i 188 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. And, with bosom braced for labor, Breast them in your manly youth ; So, when age and care have found you, Shall your downward path be smooth. VII. Fear not, on that rugged highway, Life may want its lawful zest ; Sunny glens are in the mountain, Where the weary feet may rest, Cooled in streams that gush for ever From a loving mother’s breast. VIII. “ Simple heart and simple pleasures,” So they write life’s golden rule. Honor won by supple baseness, State that crowns a cankered fool, Gleam as gleam the gold and purple On a hot and rancid pool. IX. Wear no show of wit or science, But the gems you’ve won and weighed 4 Thefts, like ivy on a ruin, Make the rifts they seem to shade : Are you not a thief and beggar In the rarest spoils arrayed! THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 189 X. Shadows deck a sunny landscape, Making brighter all the bright ; So, my brother ! care and danger On a loving nature light, Bringing all its latent beauties Out upon the common sight. XI. Love the things that God created, Make your brother’s need your care ; Scorn and hate repel God’s blessings, But where love is, they are there ; As the moonbeams light the waters, Leaving rock and sand-bank bare. XII. Thus, my brother, grow and flourish, Fearing none and loving all ; For the true man needs no patron— He shall climb, and never crawl ; Two things fashion their own channel — The strong man and the waterfall. 190 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. THE BISHOP OF ROSS. BY DR. MADDEN, Author of the “ Lives of the United Irishmen.*’ I. The tramp of the trooper is heard at Macroom -* The soldiers of Cromwell are spared from Clonmel, + And Brogliill— the merciless Broghill — is come On a mission of murder which pleases him well. II: The wailing of women, the wild ululu , Dread tidings from cabin to cabin convey ; But loud though the plaints and the shrieks which ensue, The war-cry is louder of men in array. ill. In the paijv of Macroom there is gleaming of steel, And glancing of lightning in looks on that field, And swelling of bosoms with patriot zeal, And clenching of hands on the weapons they wield. Magh Cromlia. t Cluain Meala. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 191 IV. MacEgan,* a prelate like Ambrose of old, Forsakes not his flock when the spoiler is near ; The post of the pastor’s in front of the fold When the wolfs on the plain and there’s rapine to fear. V. The danger is come, and the fortune of war Inclines to the side of oppression once more ; The people are brave — but, they fall ; and the star Of their destiny sets in the darkness of yore. VI. MacEgan survives in the Philistine hands Of the lords of the Pale, and his death is de- creed ; But the sentence is stayed by Lord Broghill’s com- mands, And the prisoner is dragged to his presence with speed. VII. f ‘ To Carraig-an-Droichidj this instant,” he cried, “ Prevail on your people in garrison there To yield, and at once in our mercy confide, And your life I will pledge you my honor to spare.” * Miic Aodhagain in proper spelling. t Commonly written Carrigadrohid (the Rock of the Bridge), three miles east of Macroom, county Cork. The castle is built on a steep rock in the river JUte, by the M'Carthys. 192 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. VIII. “ Your mercy ! your honor ! ” the prelate replied, “ I well know the worth of : my duty I know , Lead on to the castle, and there, by your side, With the blessing of God, what is meet will I do.” IX. The orders are given, the prisoner is led To the castle, and round him are menacing hordes : Undaunted, approaching the walls, at the head Of the troopers of Cromwell, he utters these words : x. “ Beware of the cockatrice — trust not the wiles Of the serpent, for perfidy skulks in its folds ! Beware of Lord Broghill the day that he smiles ! Ilis mercy is murder ! — his word never holds. XI. “ Remember, ’tis writ in our annals of blood, Our countrymen never relied on the faith Of truce, or of treaty, but treason ensued — And the issue of every delusion was death F XII. Thus nobly the patriot prelate sustained The ancient renown of his chivalrous race, And the last of old Eoghan’s descendants obtained For the name of Ui-Mani new lustre ancl grace. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 193 XIII. He died on the scaffold, in front of those walls Where the blackness of ruin is seen from afar; And the gloom of its desolate aspect recalls The blackest of Broghill’s achievements in war ! OUR OWN AGAIN. BY THOMAS DAYIS. 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. 194 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION, II. Send tlie cry throughout the land, u Who’s for our own again Summon all men to our band, Why not our own again h 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. hi. 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— THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION 195 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. 1Z6 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. A PATRIOT’S HAUNTS. BY WILLIAM P. MULCHINECK. I love the mountain rude and high, Its bare and barren majesty, And in its peopled solitude I love to stand in musing mood, And bring, by fancy’s magic pow’r, Bright dreams to charm the passing hour # To fill the green and heathy glen With hosts of stalwart fighting men, With banners flaunting fair and free, Fit for a new Thermopylae ; And in the dark and narrow pass T place a young Leonidas. iVith joy I mark the phantom fight, And hear the shouts for native right ; A nd thus, until the shades of night Proclaim time’s quick and restless flight, hi fancy, freedom’s war I see, And tread a land by slaves made free. I love to mark the billows rise, And fling their spray into the skies — To mark the bold, impetuous shock They deal upon the rugged rock ; Until, where’er its side they lave, Their power is shown in many a cave. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 19 I match the rock to tyranny, The waves to slaves and man made free ; For know, ’twas unity like this That Greece put forth at Salamis ; And thus the Romans, side by side, From Carthage tore her crest of pride ; And yet, where slaves are found, I ween., New Fabii may still be seen, Whose hearts, though bold enough, I trow. See not the fitting moment now — Can find not yet the unity That made the Doric children free, That made the haughty Samnite fly The anger of a Roman eye. Doubters ! ascend a mountain- height, With healthy pulse and sinew light — Cowards ! upon the foaming tide Cast your glances, far and wide, And in the dark hill say with me, “ There’s many a sure Thermopylae, ” And o’er each bay’s profound abyss, “ True hearts could make a Salamis.” 198 THIS SPIRIT OF THE NATION. A HEALTH. BY J. D. FRAZER. I. liURRAH ! our feuds are drowned at last; Hurrah ! let tyrants tremble ; The fronted foemen of the past In brotherhood assemble. Fill up — and with a lofty tongue As ever spoke from steeple, From shore to shore his health be rung — The leader of the people. II. In mighty triumphs, singly won, The nation has a token That mightier deeds will yet be done — The last strong fetter broken ; Since hearts of nerve and hands of strength, Once banded to resist him, Unfurl his flag, and share at length The glory to assist him. III. Up with the wine from boss to brim, And be his voice the loudest Who rears, at risk of life or limb, Our country’s flag the proudest. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. l99 “ The leader of the people ” — grand, Yet simple wisdom guide him ! And glory to the men who stand, Like sheathed swords, beside him. ORANGE AND GREEN WILL CARRY THE DAY. BY THOMAS DAVIS. 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 ! 200 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 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 ! THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 201 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 spirit of the nation. A HIGHWAY FOR FREEDOM, BY CLARENCE MANGAN. Air— “ Boyne Water l' * I. u My suffering country shall be freed, And shine with tenfold glory 1” So spake the gallant Winkelried, Renowned in German story. “ No tyrant, even of kingly grade, Shall cross or darken my way !” 0?it flashed his blade, and so he made For Freedom’s course a highway ! H. We want a man like this, with pow’r To rouse the world by one word ; We want a chief to meet the hour, And march the masses onward. But, chief or none, through blood and fire. My fatherland, lies tliy way ! The men must fight who dare desire For Freedom’s course a highway ! hi. Alas ! I can but idly gaze Around in grief and wonder > The people’s will alone can raise The people’s shout of thunder. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 203 Too long, my friends, you faint for fear, In secret crypt and by-way ; At last be men ! Stand forth and clear For Freedom’s course a highway! IV. You intersect wood, lea, and lawn, With roads for monster wagons, Wherein you speed like lightning, drawn By fiery iron dragons. So do. Such work is good, no doubt ; But why not seek some nigh way For mind as well h Path also out For Freedom’s course a highway ! v. Yes ! up ! and let your weapons be Sharp steel and self-reliance ! Why waste your burning energy In void and vain defiance, And phrases fierce but fugitive h ’Tis deeds, not words, that I weigh— Your swords and guns alone can give To Freedom’s course a highway 1 204 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. ADVANCE. BY D. F. MCCARTHY. God bade the sun with golden step sublime Advance ! He whispered in the listening ear of time, Advance ! He bade the guiding spirits of the stars, With lightning speed, in silver, shining cars, Along the bright floor of his azure hall Advance ! Sun, stars, and time obey the voice, and all Advance ! The river at its bubbling fountain cries Advance ! The clouds proclaim, like heralds through the skies, Advance ! Throughout the world the mighty Master's lawa Allow not one brief moment’s idle pause : The earth is full of life, the swelling seeds Advance l The summer hours, like flow’ry harnessed steeds, Advance ! To man’s most wondrous hand the same voice cried, Advance ! Go draw the marble from its secret bed, And make the cedar bend its giant head ; THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 205 Let domes and columns through the wondering air Advance ! The world, 0 man ! is thine. But wouldst thou share — Advance ! Go, track the comet in its wheeling race, And drag the lightning from its hiding place ; From out the night of ignorance and fears Advance ! For love and hope, borne by the coming years, Advance ! All heard, and some obeyed the great command, Advance ! It passed along from listening land to land — Advance ! The strong grew stronger, and the weak grew strong, As passed the war-cry of the world along ; Awake, ye nations! know your powers and rights — Advance ! Through hope and work, to freedom’s new de- lights Advance ! Knowledge came down and waved his steady torch — Advance ! Sages proclaim, ’neath many a marble porch, Advance ! 20G THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. As rapid lightning leaps from peak to peak, The Gaul, the Goth, the Roman, and the Greek, The painted Briton, caught the winged word, Advance ! And earth grew young, and carolled, as a bird, Advance 1 0 Ireland ! oh, my country ! wilt thou not Advance ? Wilt thou not share the world’s progressive lot 1 Advance ! Must seasons change, and countless years roll on, And thou remain a darksome Ajalon, And never see the crescent moon of hope ? Advance ! *Tis time thine heart and eye had wider scope — Advance ! Dear brothers, wake ! look up ! be firm ! be strong ! From out the starless night of fraud and wrong Advance ! The chains have fallen from off thy wasted hands, And every man a seeming freeman stands ; But, ah ! ’tis in the soul that freedom dwells — Advance ! Proclaim that time thou wearest no manacles— Advance ! THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 207 Advance !— thou must advance or perish now — Advance ! Advance ! Why live with wasted heart and brow] Advance 1 Advance ! or sink at once into the grave ; Be bravely free, or artfully a slave. Why fret thy master, if thou must have one ] Advance ! Advance three steps, the glorious work is done— Advance ! The first is courage — ’tis a giant stride ! Advance ! With bounding step, up Freedom’s rugged side, Advance ! Knoivledge will lead you to the dazzling heights ; Tolerance will teach and guard your brother’s rights. Faint not ! for thee a pitying future waits ! Advance ! Be wise, be just, with will as fixed as Fate’s Advance ! 208 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. THE IRISH ARMS BILL. BY WILLIAM BRENNAN. I. My country, alas ! we may blush for thee now, The brand of the slave broadly stamped on thy brow ! Unarmed must thy sons and thy daughters await The Sassenagh’s lust or the Sassenagh’s hate. II. Through the length and the breadth of thy regions they roam ; Many huts and some halls may be there — but no home ; Rape and Murder cry out, i6 Let each door be unbarred ! Deliver your arms, and then stand on your guard !” in. For England hath wakened at length from her trance — She might knuckle to Russia, and truckle to France, And, licking the dust from America’s feet, Might vow she had ne’er tasted sugar so sweet. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 209 IV. She could leave her slain thousands, her captives, in pawn, And, Akhbar to lord it o’er Affghanistan, And firing the village or rifling the ground Of the poor, murdered peasant, slink off like a hound. v. What then 1 She can massacre wretched Chinese, Can rob the ameers of their lands, if she please, And when Hanover wrings from her duties not due, She can still vent her wrath, enslaved Erin ! on you. VI. Thus — but why, beloved land, longer sport with thy shame 1 If my life could wipe out the foul blot from thy fame, How gladly for thee were this spirit outpoured, On the scaffold as free as by shot or by sword ! VII. Yet, oh! in fair field, for one soldier-like blow, To fall in thy cause, or look far for thy foe ; To sleep on thy bosom, down-trodden with thee, Or to wave in thy breeze the green flag of the free! o 210 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. VIII. Heaven ! to think of the thousands far better than I, Who for thee, sweetest mother, would joyfully die! Then to reckon the insult — the rapine — the wrong ! How long, God of love 2 — God of battles ! how long 2 MY GRAVE. BY THOMAS DAVIS. Shall they bury me in the deep, Where wind-forgetting waters sleep 2 Shall they dig a grave for me Under the green-wood tree 2 Or on the wild heath, Where the wilder breath Of the storm doth blow 2 Oh, no ! oh, no ! Shall they bury me in the palace tombs, Or under the shade of cathedral domes 2 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 2 Shall my ashes career on the world-seeing wind 2 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 211 Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound, Where cofiinless thousands lie under the ground — Just as they fall they are buried so 1 Oh, no ! oh, no ! No ! on an Irish green-hill side, On an opening lawn, but not too wide ! 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. THE VOW OF TIPPERARY. BY THOMAS DAVIS. Air — “ The Men of Tipperary ” I. From Garrick streets to Shannon shore — From Sliabh na m-Ban* to Ballindeary — From Longford Pass to Gaillte Mor— Come hear the vow of Tipperary. Commonly written Slievenamon. 212 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 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 f THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 213 ENGLAND'S ULTIMATUM. “ Repeal must not be argued with. Were the Union gall it must be maintained. Ireland must have England as her sister, or her subiuga- trix. This is our ultimatum.” — Times. I. Slaves ! lie down and kiss your chains, To the Union yield in quiet ; Were it hemlock in your veins, Stand it must — we profit by it. II. English foot on Irish neck, English gyve on Irish sinew, Ireland swayed at England's beck— So it is, and shall continue. in. English foot on Irish neck, Pine or rot, meanwhile, we care not ; Little will we pause to reck How you writhe, while rise you dare not. IV. Argue with you !— stoop to show Our dominion's just foundation ! Savage Celts ! and dare you so Task the lords of half creation 1 TIIE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. V. Argue ! do not ask again, Proofs enough there are to sway you, Three-and-twenty thousand men, Whom a word will loose to slay you. VI. Store of arguments besides In their time we will exhibit — Leaded thongs for rebel hides, Plaining thatch, and burthened gibbet. VII. Bid your fathers tell how we Proved our rights in bygone seasons ; Slaves ! and sons of slaves ! — your knee Bow to sister England’s reasons. SuABH CuiLINN. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 215 FONTENOY. BY THOMAS DAVIS. 1 . Thrice at the huts of Fontenoy the English column failed, And twice the lines of St. Antoine the Dutch in vain assailed ; For town and slope were guarded with fort and artillery, 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. ii. Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread, Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Haj is at their head ; 216 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. Steady they step a-down the slope— steady they climb the hill — Steady they load— steady they fire, moving right onward still Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace blast, Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets show' ring fast ; And on the open plain above they rose, and kept their course, With ready fire and steadiness, 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 ; Bombshell, and grape, , and round shot tore, still on they marched and fired — Fast from each volley grenadier and voltigeur retired. u Push on, my household cavalry,” King Louis madly cried : To death they rush, but rude their shock — not unavenged they died. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 217 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. (i Lord Clare,” he says, “ you have your wish— th^r-3 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 w 7 olves, their country overthrown — Each looks as if revenge for all rested on him alone. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet else- where, Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proixd exiles were. 218 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. V. O’Brien’s voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands, “ Fix bay’nets — charge.” Like mountain storms 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 battle-wind — 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 liuzzah ! “ Revenge 1 remember Limerick ! dash down the Sassenach.” 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 ; THE SPIRIT OF THE NATiON. 219 Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags they tore. The English strove with desp’rate 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 ! OUR COURSE, BY J, D. FRAZER. We looked for guidance to the blind ! We sued for counsel to the dumb ! Fling the vain fancy to the wind— Their hour is past and ours is come ; They gave, in that propitious hour, Nor kindly look nor gracious tone ; But heaven has not denied us powT To do their duty, and our own. 220 THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. II. And is it true that tyrants throw Their shafts among us steeped in gall 1 And every arrow, swift or slow, Points foremost still, ascent or fall ] Still sure to wound us, though the aim Seem ta’en remotely, or amiss ] And men with spirits feel no shame To brook so dark a doom as this ! III. Alas ! the nobles of the land Are like our long- deserted halls ; No living voices, clear and grand, Respond when foe or freedom calls. But ever and anon ascends Low moaning, when the tempest rolls— A tone that desolation lends Some crevice of their ruined souls ! IY. So be it— yet shall we prolong Our prayers, when deedswould serve our need] Or wait for woes, the swift and strong Can ward by strength or ’scape by speed ] The vilest of the vile of earth Were nobler than our proud array, If, suffering bondage from our birth, We will not burst it when we may. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 221 V. And has the bondage not been borne Till all our softer nature fled— - Till tyranny’s dark tide had worn Down to the stubborn rock its bed ? But if the current, cold and deep, That channel through all time retain, At worst, by heaven ! it shall not sweep Unruffled o’er our hearts again ! VI. Dp for the land ! — ’tis ours — ’tis ours ! The proud man’s sympathies are all Like silvery clouds, whose faithless show’rs Come frozen to hailstones in their fall. Our freedom and the sea-bird’s food Are hid beneath deep ocean waves, And who should search and sound the flood If not the sea-birds and the slaves 1 222 THE SPIRIT OF TIIE NATION. THE VICTOR’S BURIAL. BY THOMAS DAVIS. I. Wrap him in his banner, the best shroud of the brave — Wrap him in his oncJiu * and take him to his grave ; Lay him not down lowly, like a bulwark over- thrown, But gallantly upstanding, as if risen from his throne, With his craiseachf in his hand, and his sword on his thigh, With his war-belt on his waist, and his catlibarr\ 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. Wirasthrue ! oh, wirasthrue ! oh, wirasthrue! oclione ! • Weep for him! oh, weep for him ! but remem- ber, in your moan, That he died in his pride, With his foes about him strown. Flag. t Harp, X Helmet. § Collar. THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 223 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 pro- montory’s breast, To menace back the east, and to sentinel the Avest. Sooner shall these channel Avaves 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 tuireamli f of the free ! Wirasthrue ! oh, Avirasthrue ! oh, Avirasthrue ! ochone ! Weep for him! oh., Aveep for him! but remem- ber, in your moan, That he died in his pride, With his foes around him stroAvn ! * Iiowth. t A masculine lament. 224 THE SPIRIT 0E THE NATION. BROTHERS, ARISE! BY GEORGE PHILLIPS. [The subjoined address "was written to the Irish Nationalists, during the Monster Meetings of 1843, by one of the English Puseyites, and may be fairly taken to represent the sentiments of many of that great party. They cannot but sympathize with a people not only oppressed for con- science' sake, but for opinions differing little from their own; and it is natural -that the sympathy of the young and earnest should exhibit the bold and emphatic spirit which breathes through this poem.] L Brothers, arise ! the hour has come To strike the blow for truth and God ! Why sit ye folded up and dumb 1 Why, bending, kiss the tyrant’s rod 1 Is there no hope upon the earth ? No charter in the starry sky ] Has freedom no ennobling worth ? And man no immortality h II. Ah, brothers ! think ye what ye are — What glorious work ye have to do ; And how they wait ye near and far To do the same the wide world through. The wide world sunk in dreams and death, With guilt and wrong upon its breast, Like nightmares choking up its breath, And murdering all its holy rest ! SPIRIT OF THE NATION. III. Bethink ye how, with heart and brain, This God-like work were ablest done ; For man must ne’er go back again And lose the triumphs he has won. Ye who have spurned the tyrant’s power, And fought your own great spirits free, Forget not in this trying hour The claims of struggling slavery ! iv. The wise and good— oh ! where are they, To guide us onward to the right, Untruth and specious lies to slay, And red oppression in its might 1 Come forth, my brothers ! on with us— Direct the battle we would give ; By thousands we would die — if thus The millions yet unborn may live. v. For what is death to him who dies With God’s own blessing on his head 1 A charter — not a sacrifice ; A life immortal to the dead. And life itself is only great When man devotes himself to be, By virtue, thought, and deed, the mate Of God’s own children and the free. £ THE SPIRIT OF THE NATION. VI. And are we free ¥ Oh ! blot and shame ! That men who for a thousand years Have battled on through fire and flame, And nourished, with their blood and tears, Religion — freedom — civil right, Should tamely suffer traitor hands To dash them into gloom and night, And bind their very God with bands. VII. And will ye bear, my brother men, To see your altars trampled down h Shall Christ’s great heart bleed out again Beneath the scoffer’s spear and frown h Shall priests proclaim that God is not, And from the devil’s gospel teach Those worldly doctrines, unforgot, Which burning tyrants loved to preach ? VIII. Shall traitors to the human right, To God and truth, have boundless sway, And ye not rush into the fight And wrench the sacred cross away, And tear the scrolls of freedom, bought With blood of martyrs and the brave, From men who, with derisive sport, Defy you on the martyr’s grave ¥ SPIRIT OF THE NATION. 227 IX. Ah, no ! — uprushing, million-strong, The trodden people come at last — Their fiery souls, pent up so long, Burst out in flames all thick and fast ; And thunder-words and lightning-deeds Strike terror to the wrong, who flee, Till, lo ! — at last the wronger bleeds, And, dying, leaves the nation free ! WHAT’S MY THOUGHT LIKE? BY JOHN O’CONNELL. “ What’s my thought like ?” “ How is it like ?*'