LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. @]^pp" __ Qup^rig]^ Ifu. UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. V SONGS AND BALLADS BY THE MOST GIFTED Poefe of the Emerald Isle INCLUDING MOORE, DAVIS, GRIFFIN, LOVER, MANGAN, And other Popular Irish Bards, Witli ClioicG Selections from tlie Most Brilliant I RISK- American Poets. v>^r^!-{ or NEW YORK: "" FRANK TOUSEY, PUBLISHER. 1880. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, By prank TOUSEY, in the oflace of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C. POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS OF THE E M E R A L D ISLE CONTENTS TITLE PAGE TITLE A Munster Keen, by Edward Walsh 72 Aileen the Huntress, by Edward Walsh 76 Ailleen, by John Banim 81 An Irish War Song, by Edward Walsh 74 Araby's Daughter, by Thomas Moore 16 As Slow Our Ship, by Thomas Moore 18 A Lay Sermon, by Charles G-avan Duffy 91 A Love Song to My Wife, bj' Joseph Brennan 100 A Remonstrance, by T. D. Sullivan _ 105 A Prison Lay, by Thomas Francis Meagher 106 An Exile's Wooing, by M. Higgins 12a A Brother's Consolation, by Michael Cavanagh 123 Awake, My Dear Country, by Thos. P. Masterson 124 Arthur McCoy, by Pontiac 126 Adieu, My Own Dear Erin, by J. J. Cailanan 136 Annie Dear, by Thomas Davis 139 An Exile's Dream, by Joseph Brennan 143 Acushla Gal Machree, by Michael Doheny 161 A Place in Thy Memory, by Gerald Griffin 40 Address to Fancy, by Gerald Griffin 43 A Wanderer's Musings, by Wm. Geoghegan 191 Angel's Whisper, by Samuel Lover 49 Brian The Brave, by Thomas Moore 8 Believe Me, if All, by Thomas Moore 13 Battle of Credran, by Edward Walsh 74 PAGE Bingen on the Rhine, by Mrs. Norton 167 Bear ot the Strong Left Hand, by D. O'Sullivan 109 Burial of Sir John Moore, by Rev. Chas. Wolfe 172 Bad Luck to this Marching, by Charles Lever 177 Bells of Shandon, by Father Prout 102 Battle of Fontenoy, by Thomas Davis 28 Bridal of Malahide, by Gerald Griffin 36 Bride of Mallow, by Thomas Davis 29 Boatman of Kinsale, by Thomas Davis 25 Boys of Wexford, by Dr. Robt. D. Joyce 183 Come, Rest In this Bosom, by Thomas Moore 15 Come O'er the Sea, by Thomas Moore 19 Carolanand Bridget Cruise, by Samuel Lover 49 Cahal Mor, of the Wine-Red Hand, by J. C. Mangan 61 Caoch the Piper, by J. Keegan 92 Celts and Saxons, by Thomas Davis 151 Christmastide of Old, by Wm. Geoghegan 192 Dirge of O'Sullivan Beare, by J. J. Cailanan Donal Kenny, by John K. Casey Dreams, by Joseph C. Clarke Death of Owen Roe, by Thomas Davis Ellen Bawn, by J. C. Hangan 99 llo 24 (iii) CONTENTS. TITLE PAGE Erin's Flag, by Rev. A. J. Ryan 89 Eriu, by Uoctoi- Drennan 104 E.iimet's Death, by S. F. C. 109 Evening by the Hudson, by John Locke 135 Exile of Erin, by G. A. Reynolds 147 Erin, My Country, by William McComb 147 Fame, by Gerald Grlffln 44 Faded Now, by Gerald Griffin 45 Fill High To-Nlght, by William P. Mulchiuock 145 Farewell! But Whenever, by Thomas Moore 1G8 Flag of Our Laud, by Rev. A. J. Ryau 173 Go Where Glory, by Thomas Moore 10 Gille Machree, by Gerald Griffin 38 Gougaune Barra, by J. J. Callanan 79 God Save Old Ireland, by Rev. T. Ambrose Butler lia Gathering of the Clans, by Richard Oulahan 123 Siroves of Blarney, by R. A. Milliken • 146 Green Above the Red, by Thomas Davis 148 Good-Night, by Miles O'Reilly 183 Has Sorrow Thy Young Days, by Thomas Moore 19 Highway for Freedom, by J. C. Mangan 56 He was not Our Brother, by John Banim l42 Had I a Heart, by R. Brinsley Sheridan 172 Hurling on the Green, by Dennis Holland 111 Irish Rapparees, by Charles Gavan Duffy 164 I Saw from the Beach, by Thomas Moore 12 I'd Mourn the Hopes, by Thomas Moore 17 Irish National Hymn, by J. 0. Mangan 62 In the Prison Cell, by Mrs. O'Donovan Rossa 120 Ireland's Soldiers, by Richard O' S. Burke 128 Innishowen, by Charles Gavan Duffy 130 Ireland, by J. Boyle O'Eeilly 92 Irish Peasant Girl, by Chas. J. Kickham 85 Isle of the Blest, by Gerald GrlfSn 43 Know Ye Not, by Gerald Griffin 44 Kinkora, by J. C. Mangan 58 ICathleen Ban Adair, by Francis Davis 87 Kate of Garnavilla, by Edward Lysaght 110 Kate of Killashee, by William Collins J22 Killarney, by M. W. Balfe 150 Knight of the Shamrock, by J. Frazer 161 Killevy, oh, Killevy, by William Carleton 165 Let Erin Remember, by Thomas Moore 9 Love's Young Dream, by Thomas Moore 15 Lesbia Has a Beaming Eye, by Thomas Moore 21 Love's Longings, by Thomas Davis 25 Lament of the Princes, by J. C. Mangan 65 Li lUgh Ine, by Fitzjames O'Brien 124 Liinej-ick Town, by John F. O'Donnell 183 TITLE PAGE Listening for the Footfalls, by Stephen J. Meany 161 Lost Path, by Thomas Davis 30 Last Rose of Summer, by Thomas Moore 10 Last Glimpse of Erin, by Thomas Moore 17 Laud of the West, by Samuel Lover 48 Lady of the Emerald, by Dennis Holland 144 My Land, by Thomas Davis 26 My Grave, by Thomas Davis 34 Molly Bawn, by Samuel Lover 50 Molly Muldoon, by Samuel Lover 51 Mo Craoibhin Cno, by Edward Walsh 73 My Betrothed, by Francis Davis 88 Man's Mission, by. Mrs. W. R. Wilde (Speranza) 90 Morning on the Irish Coast, by John Locke 97 Musings, by J. E. Fitzgerald 121 My Noble Irish Girl, by Dr. L. Reynolds 125 Munster War Song, by R. D. Williams 145 Ma Chreevin Evin, by Edward Walsh 148 Motherland, by John Locke 160 Mother, He's Going Away, by Samuel Lover 162 My Own, by Mary Eva Kelly (Eva) 188 My First Pair of Boots, by Richard Oulahan 190 No,Tsrot More Welcome, by Thomas Moore 19 Night Closed Around, by Thomas Moore 22 Nanny, by Francis Davis 86 Norah of Caliirciveen, by Michael Scanlon 113 Oh, For the Swords, by Thomas Moore 9 Oh, Blame TSfot the Bard, by Thomas Moore 11 Oh, the Shamrock, by Thomas Moore 13 Oft in the Stilly Night, by Thomas Moore 16 Oh, 'Tis Sweet to Think, by Thomas Moore 20 Oh, Breathe Not His Name, by Thomas Moore 21 Oil, the Marriage, by Thomas Davis 31 Old Times, by Gerald Griffin 38 Orange and Green, by Gerald Griffin 41 O'Donovan's Daiighter, by Edward Walsh 78 O'Donnell Abu, by M. J. McCann 142 Old Landmarks on the Shannon, by J. F. O'Don- nell 158 O, Say, My Brown Drimin, by J. J. Callanan 175 O, Sons of Erin, by Rev. Wm. J. McClure 180 Panegyric on Black Thomas, by J. C. Mangan 59 Pater Noster, by M. J. Heffernau 118 Pastheen Plon, by Samuel Ferguson 117 Pillar Towers of Ireland, by D. F. McCarthy 136 Persevere, by. John Brougham 117 Priez Pour Le Malheureux, by John Savage 174 Remember Thee, by Thomas Moore 14 Rory O'More, by Samuel Lover 176 Bory of the HlUs, by Oliarles J. Kickham 84 CONTENTS. TITLE PAGE TITLE Robert Emmet, by William Geoghegan 191 Ruins of Donegal Castle, by J. C. Mangan 63 Rights of Man, by Dr. Robert D. Joyce 103 Roving Brian O'Connell, by Di-. Robert D. Joyce U9 Revelry of the Dying, Anonymous 121 Rich and Rare, by Thomas Moore 17 Sarsfleld's Ride, by Dr. Robert D. Joyce 185 Shamus O'Brien, by Samuel Lover 152 Shamrock and Lily, by John Bauim 181 Shaun's Head, by John Savage 99 Song of the Cossack, by Father Prout 162 Sweet Sybil, by Charles Gavan DufCy 188 Sublime was the Warning, by Thomas Moore 163 Spring Time, by William Geoghegan 179 She is Par From the Land, by Thomas Moore 13 Sister of Charity, by Gerald GrifBn 39 Soul and Country, by J. C. Mangan 57 Song of the Irish Exile, by Charles J. Kickham 83 Stamping Out, by Miles O'Reilly 113 Song of the Ejected Tenant, by Wm. P. Mulch- inock 110 Shamrock and Laurel, by Rev. Wm. J. McClure 113 Songs of Our Land, Anon 138 Spirit Bride, by B. Doran Killian 140 Siege of Maynooth, by J. C. Mangan 61 Sack of Baltimore, by Thomas Davis 29 The Burial, by Thomas Davis 31 The Bivouac, by Charles Lever 175 The Brigade at Fontenoy, by Bart Dowling 131 The Calm Avonree, by John Locke 159 The Dying Girl, by R. D. Williams 114 The Dying Patriot, by Chris M. O'Keefe 153 They are Dying, by D. P. McCarthy 95 The Exile, by John Walsh 135 The Empty Saddle, by S. J. Meany 96 To Erin, by Thos. D. Reilly 93 The Farewell to My Harp, by Thomas Moore 18 The Four-Leaved Shamrock, by Samuel Lover 48 The Felon's Love, by J. K. Casey 164 The Fairy Boy, by Samuel Lover 60 The Glen of the Lakes, by Rev. T. A Butler 101 Tone's Grave, by Thomas Davis 107 The Geraldines, by Thomas Davis 26 'Tis Gone, and Forever, by Thomas ^Moore 13 The Harp that Once, by Thomas Moore 8 The Hermit, by Oliver Goldsmith 155 The Harp Without the Crown, by Carroll Malone 133 The Holly and Ivy Girl, by J. Keegan 143 The Ii-igb Exiles, by Martin McDermott 97 The Irish Wife, by T. D. McGee The Irish-American, by T. D. Sullivan The Irishman, by James Orr The Minstrel Boy, by Thomas Moore The Moore Centenniali by D. Doran Killian The Mountain Forge, by T. Irwin The Memory of the Dead, Anon The Man of the North Countrie, by T. D. M'Gee The Muster of the Gael, by T. O'D. O'Callaghan The Meeting of the Waters, by Thomas Moore The Mother's Lament, by Thomas Davis The Old Church, by Tyrone Power The Patriot Mother, by Carroll Malone The Parley, by John Banim The Poet's Preaching, by J. C. Mangan The Penal Days, by Thomas Davis The Prophecy, by Gerald Griffin The Pilgrim Harper, by Samuel Lover The Rising of the Moon, by John K. Casey The Reconciliation, by John Banim The Returning Janizary, by Francis Brown The River of Time, by T. O'D. O'Callaghan Time of the Barmecides, by J. C. Mangan True Irish King, by Thomas Davis The Time I've Lost, by Thomas Moore The Toast, by Michael Doheny The Valley Lay Smiling, by Thomas Moore The Welcome, by Thomas Davis Tipperary, by Fionula Thoughts on a Dead Woman, by Robert White 'Tvvas a Vision, by Michael Scanlan Twenty Golden Years Ago, by J. C. Mangan Winter, by M. J. Heffernan Wheat Grains, by J. Boyle O'Reilly Widow Malone, by Charles Lever Widow Machi-ee, by Samuel Lover Weep on— Weep on, by Thomas Moore When Twilight Dews, by Thomas Moore When Through Life, by Thomas Moore We May Roam Through, by Thomas Moore When in Death, by Thomas Moore What will You do. Love? by Samuel Lover We'll Not Give Up, by Bart Dowling Widow's Message, by Ellen Forrester Wearing of the Green, by H. G. Curran Wearing of the Green, by Dion Boucieault Woman of Three Cows, by J. C. Mangan You Remember Ellen, by Thomas Mioore Young Enthusiast, by T. F. Meagher 108 132 150 10 119 127 135 190 178 11 39 151 109 82 68 34 40 50 129 182 69 33 22 157 104 133 173 140 189 176 54 20 20 15 14 21 107 103 115 137 177 57 CONTENTS. SUMMARY OF CONTENTS THOMAS MOORE'S IRISH MELODIES, THOMAS DAVIS' PATRIOTIC SONGS AND BALLADS, - GERALD GRIFFIN'S SWEETEST SONGS AND POEMS, SAMUEL LOVER'S POPULAR SONGS, ---...- JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN'S CHOICE POEMS, .... EDWARD WALSH'S STIRRING BALLADS, JEREMIAH J. CALLANAN'S POEMS, JOHN BANIM'S BEST POEMS, --.-.-.. CHARLES J. KICKHAM'S PATRIOTIC SONGS, .... FRANCIS DAVIS' LO^^E AND WAR BALLADS, .... WITH SKETCHES OF THE AUTHORS. age 7 to 23 " 23 ' 34 " 35 ' 46 " 47 ' 54 " 55 ' 70 " 71 ' 78 " 79 ' 80 " 81 ' 83 88 ' 85 " 86 ' 88 CHOICE SELECTIONS FROM THE MOST POPULAR IRISH AND IRISH-AMERICAN POETS, EJtBRACING OLIVER GOLDSMITH, CHARLES LEVER, CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY, JOHN K. CASEY, THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER, T. D. SUI^ LIVAN, JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY, JOHN LOCKE, STE- PHEN J. MEANY, JOHN SAVAGE, D. F. M'CAR- THY, WILLIAM P. MULCHINOCK, MICHAEL DOHENY, AND THE BEST'POETS OF OUR DAY, WILL BE FOUND FROM PAGE TO PAGE. THOMAS MOORE. Ibeland has been described by strangers as pre-eminently a nation of poets and ora- tors. Her claim to the first portion of this title may be disputed by many, and with every appearance of justice. Ireland has not produced a Homer, a Dante, or a Shakespeare. Yet her people are a singularly poetic and imaginative race ; and, if from among them no man has yet arisen to take rank with the glorious triad above mentioned, it is undeniable that in poets of a minor order, (all great and beautiful in their own rank), that lovely west- ern island, which is too painfully close to Great Britain, is most prolific. As a nation of orators, Ireland's title stands unquestioned. Her greatest orators ai'e doubtless as great as those that have arisen in any nation. A true orator is a prose poet; and of all orators, it has been truly said that Ireland's illustrious son, Henry Grattan, is the most poetical. ITow the reasons, when weighed, will be found sufficient, why Ireland should be pre- eminent in oratory, and yet not have produced a poet of the very highest order. No na- tion subject to another, enslaved and oppressed, though the minstrels that sing her woes may be the sweetest and most melodious, ever produced a Homer or a Dante; it needs the full freedom, power and energy of political nationality for that. On the other hand, it is the desperate struggle of a people whose national sentiments is unconquerable, against a mighty and unscrupulous tyrant, that gives the broadest and most exciting field to the orator. Hence, poor, suffering, but indomitable Ireland owns a galaxy of orators unequaled in the world: her Grattan, Flood, Plunkett, Curran, Emmet, O'Connell, ShieU, Meagher and O'Gorman. But if Ireland's time is not yet come to produce a poet of that rank of which none of the great free nations has ever produced more than one, it is a fact of universal acceptance that in poets of the next grade she is unsurpassed. Let us take, as our first example, the marvelously gifted child of song whose name is placed at the head of this little volume. And who has not heard of Tom Moore? His songs have traveled far and wide, and have brought solace, and comfort, and joy to half the world. They have cheered the exile in his lonely hut, the sailor on the forecastle has sung them to the storm, around the sol- dier's bivouac fire their melody has made the long night pass in happiness away — touching every chord of human feeling — sometimes as full of mystic sadness as is the pale moon- beam, again as sportive, gay and gladsome as the summer breeze that toys with the rose and dances on the ripple of the sunlit sea. Translated into every European language, in every nation they have found a home, and they will be sung and listened to with delight by m POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS young and by old, in the far-off days to come, when great cities, yet unbuilt, shall rule the destinies of continents whose wilds are yet untrodden and unexplored. Lord Byron said that Moore's songs : " Oh, Blame Not the Bard," "Breathe Not His Name," "When He Who Adores Thee," were worth all the epifcs that ever were written. Poems of Thomas Moore, BRIAN THE BRAVE.* Aie: — "Molly MacalpinJ'^ RemeMBEE the glories of Brian the brave, Tho' the days of the hero are o'er ; Tho' lost to Mononia+ and cold in the grave,. He returns to Kinkora$ no more. That star of the field which so often has pour'd Its beam on the battle, is set; But enough of its glory remains on each sword, To light us to victory yet. Mononia ! when Nature embellish'd the tint Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair, Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print The footstep of slaver j'- there? No ! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign, Go tell our invaders, the Danes, That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine. Than to sleep but a moment in chains. Forget not our wounded companions, who stood § In the day of distress by our side ; While the moss of the vaUey grew red -w itli their blood. They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died. That sun which now blesses our arms with his lightj Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain; Oh ! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-mght. To find that they, fell there in vain. * Brian Borotnhe, the great monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the be- ginning of the eleventh century, after having de- feated the Danes in twenty -five engagements. + Munster. t The palace of Brian. § This alludes to an Interesting circumstance re- lated of the Dalgais, the favorite troops of Brian, when they were interrupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf, by Pitzpatrick, Prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that they might be al- lowed to fight with the rest. — " Let stakes (they said) be stuck in the ground, and suffer each of vs, tied to and supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank by the side of a sound man." "Between seven and eight hundred men (adds O'Halloran) pale, emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foremost of the troops; never was such another sight exhibited."— JJjstori/ of Ireland, book 12th, chap. I. THE HARP THAT ONCE THRO' TARA'S HALLS. Air: — "Gramachree." The harp that once, thro' Tara's halls. The soul of Music shed. Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls. As if that soul were fled: So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er ; And hearts, that once beat high for praise. Now feel that pulse no more! No -more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells; The chord, alone, that breaks at night. Its tale of ruin tells: Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes. The only throb she gives Is when some heart, indignant, breaks, To show that still she lives! OF THE EMERALD ISLE. LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OP OLD. Air:—" The Red Fox." Let Erin remember the days of old, Ere her faithless sons betrayed her, When Malachi wore the collar of gold Which he won from her proud invader; When her kings, with standard of green unfurl'd, Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger. Ere the emerald gem of the western world Was set in in the crown of a stranger. On Laugh-Neagh's bank, as the fisherman strays, When the clear cold eve's declining. He sees the round towers of other days In the wave beneath him shining! Thus shall Memory often, in dreams sublime, Catch a glimpse of the days that are over; Thus, sighing, look thro' the waves of Time For the long-faded glories they cover. OH, FOR THE SWORDS OF FORMER TIME. Oh, for the swords of former time! Oh, for the men who bore them; When, arm'd for Right, they stood sublime, And tyrants crouch'd before them! W^hen pure yet, ere courts began With honors to enslave him. The best honors worn by Man Were those which virtue gave him. Oh, for the swords of former time, etc. Oh, for the kings who flourish'd then! Oh, for the pomp that crown'd them; When hearts and hands of freeborn men ■ Were all the ramparts 'round them. When, safe built on bosoms true, The throne was but the center, 'Round which Love a circle drew, That Treason durst not enter. Oh, for the kings who flouiish'd then, etc. THE VALLEY LAY SMILING BEFORE ME. Air: — " I'he Pretty Girl Milking her Cow.'''' [These stanzas are founded upon an event of most melancholy Importance to Ireland, If, as we are told hy our Irish historians. It gave England the first opportunity of dividing, conquering, and enslaving us. The following are the circumstances, as related by O'Halloran. " The King of Leinster haJ long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the King of Meath; and though she had been for some time married to O'Ruark, Prince of BrefCni, yet could it not restrain his passion. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruai-k intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety freqiient In those days), and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested to a lover she adored. Mac Murchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady coveyed to his capital of Ferns." The monarch Roderic espoused the cause of O'Ruark, while Mac Murchad fled to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II. "Such," adds Giraldus Cambrensis (as I find him (in an old translation), "is the variable and fickle nature of women, by whom all mischiefs in the world (for the most part) do happen and ccmie, as may ap- pear by Marcus Antoninus, and by the destruction of Troy."] The valley lay smiling before me. Where lately I left her behind; Yet I ti'erabled, and something hung o'er me, That sadden'd the joy of my mind. I look'd for the lamp which she told me Should shine, when her Pilgrim return'd, But, though darkness began to enfold me, ' No lamp from the battlements burn'd! J flew to her chamber — 'twas lonely As if the lov'd tenant lay dead-^ Ah, would it were death, and death only ! . But no— the young false one had fled. And there hung the lut^, that could gofteu My very worst pains into bliss, ■^Vhile the hand, that had wak'd it so often, ^Dyv' throbb'd to mj proud yival's liissS There was a. time, falsest of women! When Brefifni's good sword would have sought That man, through a million of foemen. Who dar'd but to doubt thee in thought! While now— oh! degenerate daughter Of Erin! how fall'n is thy fame? And through ages of bondage and slaughter. Thy country shall bleed for thy shame, Already, the curse is upon her, And strangers her valleys profane; They come to divide- tq disljonor — And tyrants they long will remain! Put, onward!- the green banner rearing^ Gro, jiegh ey'ry brand to the hilt; Dp'otir* side is Vii-kie ajiid Erin, ' Qi\ theirs is the SftXOJJ a»ti Quiltf M^ 10 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE. AiR:—"3Iaidofthe Valley." Go where glory waits thee ; But, while Fame elates thee, Oh! still remember me. When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest, Oh ! then remember me. Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee. All the joys that bless thee Sweeter far may be; But when friends are nearest, And when joys are dearest. Oh I then remember me. When, at eve, thou rovest. By the star thou lovest, Oh! then remember me. Think, when home returning', Bright we've seen it burning. Oh ! thus remember me. Oft, as summer closes, When thine eye reposes On its ling'ring roses. Once so lov'd by thee. Think of her who wove them. Her who made thee love them; Oh ! then remember me. When, around thee, dying, Autumn-leaves are lying. Oh ! then remember me. And, at night, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing. Oh ! still remember me. Then should Music, stealing All the soul of Peeling, To thy heart appealing. Draw one tear from thee; Then let Mem'ry bi-ing thee Strains I us'dto sing thee; Oh ! then remember me. THE MINSTREL BOY. AiR: — " The Moreen.''^ The Minstrel Boy to th*^ war is gone. In the ranks of death you'll find him; His father's sword he has girded on. And his wild harp slung behind him. " Land of Song!" said the warrior-bard, " Tho' all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall euard, One faithful harp shall praisa thee!" The Minstrel fell! — but the foeman's chcin Could not bring that proud soul under; The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again. For he tore its chords assunder; And said: "No chains shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery ! Thy songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery." 'TIS THE LAST ROSE OP SUMMER. Air: — " Groves of Blarney." 'Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone ; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone ; No flower of her kindred. No rose-bud is nigh. To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh! I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem ; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them; Thus kindly I scatter Thy leasees o'er the bed. Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow. When friendship's decay, And from Love's shining circle The gems drop away! When true hearts lie wither'd, And fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone ^ OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 11 OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD. Air—" Kitty TyrreV Oh! blame not the Bard, if he fly to the bowers, Where pleasure lies carelessly smiling at fame; He was born for much more, and, in happier hours, His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame. The string that now languishes loose o'er the lyre. Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart; And the lip which now breathes but the song of desire, Might have pour'd the full tide of the patriot's heart! But, alas, for this country ! her pride is gone by, And that spirit is broken which never "would bend; O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh, For 'tis treason to love her, and deatti to defend ! TJnpriz'd are her sons, till they've learned to betray ; Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires, And the torch that would light them thro' dignity's way, Must be caught from the pile where their country expires ! Then blame not the Bard, if, in pleasure's soft dream, He should try to forget what he never can heal! Oh ! give but a hope — let a vista but gleam Thro' the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel ! That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay dov,'n Ev'ry passion it nurs'd, ev'ry bliss it ador'd ; While the myrtle, now idly entwin'd with his crown. Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword. But, tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away. Thy name, loved Erin! shall live in his songs ; Not e'en in the hour when his heart is most gay, Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs! The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains ; The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, TiU thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains. Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep! THE MEETING OP THE WATERS.* Air:—" The Old Head of Denis." There is not in this wild world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.-l- Oh, the last rays of feeling and life must depart Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green; 'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill. Oh, no — it was something m5re exquisite still. 'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made ev'ry dear scene of enchantment more dear; And who felt how the best charms of nature improve When we see them reflected from looks that we love. Sweet vale of Ovoca! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best. Where the storms which we feel in this cold world should cease. And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. *"The Meeting of the Waters "forms a part of that beautiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, lu the county of Wicklow; and these lines were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot, in the summer of the year 1806. + The rivers of Avon and Ovoca. 12 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS OH! THE SHAMROCK Am:— " Alley Crolcer." Throtjgh Erin's Isle, To sport awhile As Love and Valor wander'd, With Wit, the sprite, Whose quiver bright, A thousand arrovs^s squander'd; Where'er they pass, A triple grass* Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming, As softly green As emeralds, seen Through purest crystal gleaming! Oh, the shamrock, the green, immortal shamrock ! Chosen leaf Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin's native shamrock! Says Valor: " See, They spring for me, Those leafy gems of morning!" Says Love: "No — no. For me they grow, My fragant path adorning!" But Wit perceives The triple leaves. And cries: " Oh! do not sever A type, that blends Three godlike friends. Love, Valor, Wit, forever!" Oh, the shamrock, the green, immortal shamrock! Chosen leaf Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin's native shamrock! So firmly fond May last the bond They wove that morn together, And ne'er may fall One drop of gall On Wit's celestial feather! May Love, as twine His flowers divine. Of thorny falsehood weed 'eml May Valor ne'er His standard rear Against the cause of Freedom! Oh. the shamrock, the green, immortal shamrock! Chosen leaf Of Bard and Chief. Old Erin's native shamrock! * Saint Patrick Is said to have made use of that species of tlie trefoil, to which in Ireland we give the name of Shamrock, in explaining the doctrine of the Trinity to the Pagan Irish. I do not know if there be any other reason for our adoption of this plant as a national emblem. Hope, among the an- cients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, "standing upon tip-toes, and a trefoil or three-colored grass in her hand." I SAW FROM THE BEACH. Atr:—" Miss Molly." I SAW from the beach, when the morning was shining, A bark o'er the waters move gloricuslj'- on ; I came, when the sun o'er that beach was declining. The bark was still there, but the waters were gone! Ah! such is the fate of our life's early promise, So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known; Each wave that we danc'd on at morning ebbs from us, And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone. Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning The close of our day, the calm eve of our night — Give me back — give me back the wild freshness of morning. Her clouds and her tears are worth evening's best light. Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning. When passion Ilrst wak'd a new life thro' his frame. And his soul, like the wood, that grows precious in burning. Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame. 01" mS EMjSRALI) ISLS. 13 'TIS GONE, AND FOREVER. AlR:—'' Savournah Deelish." 'Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking. Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead, When man, from the slumber of ages awaking, Loolc'd upward and blessed the pure ray, ere it fled ! 'Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of its burning, But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning. And, darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee. For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting Around thee, thro' all the gross clouds of the world; When Truth from her fetters indignantly starting, At once, like a sun-burst,* her banner unfurl'd. Oh, never shall earth see a moment so splen- did! Then — then, had one Hymn of Delivei-ance blended The tongues of all nations, huw sweet had ascended The first note of Liberty, Erin, from thee. But, shame on these tyrants, who envied the blessing ! And shame on the light I'ace, unworthy its good. Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies caressing: The voung hope of Freedom, baptiz'd it in blood! Then vanished for ever that fair, sunny vision, Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision. Shall long be remember'd, pure, bright, and elj^sian. As first it arose, my lost Erin, on thee. ♦"The Sun-biivst " was the fanciful name given bj' the ancient Irisli to the Royai Banner. SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.* AiR: — "Open the Door." She is far from the land where her young Hero sleeps. And lovers are around her sighing; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps. For her heart in his grave is lying! She sings the wild song of her dear native plains. Every note which he lov'd awaking. — Ah ! little they think, who delight in her - strains. How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking! He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwin'd him. Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him ! Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow ; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, From her own loved Island of sorrow! * This poem was written on the death of Sarah Curran, who was engaged to the immortal Emmet. She died in Italy, of a broken heart, some few years after her lover was executed. BELIEVE ME, IP ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS, Ajr: — "My Lodging is on the cold Ground." Believe me, if all those endearing young I Thou would'st still be ador'd as this moment charms, thou art. Which I gaze on so fondlv to-day, j Let thy loveliness fade as it will; Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in And around the dear ruin each wish of my my arms. Like fairy gifts, fading away, heart Would entwine itself verdantly still. u POPULAR SOmS AND BALLADS It is nob while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofa.n'd by a tear, That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known, To which time will but make thee more dear] Oh ! the heart, that has truly lov'd, never forgets. But as truly loves on to the close; As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turn'd when he rosel REMEMBER THEE. Air: — " Castle Tirowen." PiEMEMBEE, thee ! yes, while there's life in this lieart, It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art; More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom and thy shoivers. Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours. Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious and free, First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea; I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brovv, But, oh ! could I love thee more deeply than now? No, thy chains as they torture thy blood as it runs, But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons — Whose hearts, like the young of the desei't- bijid's nest, Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thv breast. WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD. AiR: — " We may roam thro' this world like a child at a feast. Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest, And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east. We may order our wings, and be off to the west; But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile, Are the dearest gifts that Heaven supplies, We never need leave our own Green Isle For sensitive hearts and sun-bright eyes. Then remember, whenever your goblet is crown'd. Thro' this world whether eastward or westward you roam. When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes 'round. Oh I remember the smile which adorns her at home. In England the garden of beauty is kept By a dragon of prudery, plac'd within call; But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept, That the garden's but carelessly watch'd after all. Oh ! they want the wild sweet-briery fence, Which 'round the flowers of Erin dwells. Which warns the touch, while winning the sense. Garyone." Nor charms us the least when it most repels. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd, .Thro' this world whether. eastward or westward you roam. When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes 'round. Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home. In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail. On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try, Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail. But just pilots her off, and then bids her good -by? While the daughters of Erin keep the boy. Ever-smiling beside his faithful oar, Thro' billows of woe and beams of joy, The same as he look'd when he left the shore. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd, Thro' this world whether eastward or westward you roam. When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes 'round, Oh ! remember the smile which adorns her at home. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. AiR: — '^ Lough Sheeting." Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken dear! Tho' the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here ; Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast, And the heart and the hand all thy own to the last ! Oh ! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same, Thro' joy and thro' torments, thro' glory and shame? I know not, I ask not if guilt's in that heart , I but know that 1 love thee, whatever thou art! Thou hast call'd me thy Angel, in moments of bliss, Still thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the hours of tnis — Thro' the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too. WHEN THROUGH LIFE UNBLEST WE ROVE. Air: — " Banks of Banna." When through life unblest we rove. Losing all that made life dear, Should some notes, we us'd to love In days of boyhood, meet our ear; Oh I how welcome breathes the strain, Wakening thoughts that long have slept — Kindling former smiles again In faded eyes, that long have wept! Like the gale, that sighs along Beds of oriental flow'rs, Is the grateful breath of song. That once was heard in happier hours. Fill'd with balm, the gale sighs on. Though the flowers have sunk in death ; So, when pleasure's dream is gone. Its memory lives in music's breath! Music! — Oh! how faint, how weak Language fades before thy spell! Why should feeling ever speak, When thou canst breatbe her soul so well. Friendship's balmy words may feign, Love's are ev'n more false than they ; Oh ! 'tis only music's strain Can sweetly soothe, and not betray ! LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. Air:—" The Old Woman." Oh! the days are gone, when beauty bright My heart's chain wove; When my dream of life, from morn till night. Was love, still love! New hope may bloom. And days may come. Of milder, calmer beam. But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream! Oh! there's nothing half so sweet in life , As love's young dream ! Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar. When wild j'^outh's past; Tho' he win the wise, who frown'd before, To smile at last ; He'll never meet A joy so sweet In all his noon of fame, I As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame; And, at every close, she blushed to hear The one loved name ! Oh! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot. Which First Love trac'd ; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On Memoi-y's waste I 'Twas odor fled As soon as shed; 'Twas morning's winged dream! 'Twas a light, that ne'er can shine again On life's dii.U stream! Ohl 'twas light, that ne'er can shine agahi Oil iij:e's dull strea^al 16 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS ARABY'S DAUGHTER. FaheweLiL — farewell to thee, Araby's^ daughter, (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea) No peai-1 ever lay, under Oman's green water, Moi-e pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee. Oh, fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, How light was thy heart till love's witchery came, Like the wind of the south* o'er a summer lute blowing, And hush'd all itb music and wither'd its frame ! But long upon Araby's green sunny highlands, Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, * With nought but the sea-starf to light up her tomb. And still, when the merry date season is burning, And calls to tbe palm-groves the young and tbe old. The happiest there, from their pastime returning. At sunset, will weep when thy story is told. The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses Her dark-flowing hair for some festive day. Will think of thy fate, till neglecting lier tresses, She mournfully turns from the mirror away. Now shall Iran, belov'd of her hero! forget thee?— Tho' tyrants watch over her teai's as they start. Close, close by the side of that hero she'll set thee, Embalm'd in the innermost shrine of her heart. Farewell ! — be it ours to embellish thy pillow With every thing beauteous that grows in the deep ; Each flower of the rock, and each gem of the pillow, Shall sweeten thy bed, and illumine thy sleep. Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept; With many a shell, in whose hoUow- wreath'd chamber, We Peris of ocean, by moon-light have slept. We'll dive whei'e the gardens of coral lie darkling. And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head; We'll seek where the sands of the CaspianJ are sparkling, And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. Farewell — farewell — until Pity's sweet fountain Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave. They'll weep for the chieftain who died on that mountain. They'll weep for the maiden who sleeps in this wave. * " This wliKl Cthe Samoor) so softens the strings of lutes, that they can never be tuned while It liisxii." —Stephen's Persia. + " One of the greatest curiosities found in the Peisiaii Uuif is a lish which the English call Star tlsh. It is circular, and at night very luminous, re- sembling the full moon surrounded by rays'" — Mirza Abu Taleb. t "The bay Kieselarke, which is otherwise called the Golden Bay; the sana whereof shines of fire."— iitvuy. OFT, TN THE STILLY NIGHT, SpgtQh air. Oft, in the stilly night. Ere Slumber's cli&in has bptjjjd jjie, J'ond mem'ry brings the ligt}{/ Qt pfcljej' days around, jiie; The smiles, the tears jOjf boyhood's years. The words of love then spoken; OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 17 Now dimm'd and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken. Thus in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad mem'ry brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends, so link'd together, I've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather; I feel likeT)ne, Who treads alone Some banquet hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garland's dead. And all, but he, departed I Thus in the stilly night, Ere slumbei''s chain has bound me, Sad mera'ry brings the light Of other days around me. THO' THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN. Axr:—" Coulin." TnoTfie last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see, Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me; In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam. To the gloom of some desert, or cold rocky shore, Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more. I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind. And I'll gaze on thy gold hair, as graceful it wreathes. And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes; Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair. RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE. AlB: — "27ie Suvimer is Coming." Rich and rare were the gems she wore,* And a bright gold ring on her wand siie bore; But, oh ! her beauty was far beyond Her sparkling gems and snow-white wand. " Lady! dost thou not fear to stray. So lone and lovely, thro' this bleak way? Are Erin's sous so good or so cold As not to be tempted by woman or gold?" " Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm; No son of Erin will offer me harm ; For, tho' they love woman and golden store, Sir Knight! they love honor and virtue more!" On she went, and her maiden smile In safety lighted her 'round the Green Isle; And bless'd for ever is she who relied Upon Erin's honor and Eidn's pride! * This ballad is founded upon the following anec- dote:— "The people were Inspired with such a spirit of honor, virtue, and religion, by the great example of Brian, and by his excellent adniinisti-ation, that, as a proof of It, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels, and a costly dress, undertook a journey alnne, from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at Wie top of which was a ring of exceeding great value; and such an Impression had the laws and government of this monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her honor, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jevrels."— Warner's Bist07-y of Ireland, Vol. i, book W- I'D MOURN THE HOPES, Aik:— " T}ie Ros0 Tn^,''* I'd mourn the hopes that leave me^ If ^A]/ sniileg bad left me too; I'd weep, when friends dsc^ive me, If thou wevt. like tliem. ?>?>fci'JW' But, wjjije I've thee before me, With hearts go warm and eyes .60 brigb fc, No clouds can linger o'er me, " That sniile tunis them aU to lig'n^f 18 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS 'Tis not in fate to harm me ; While fate leaves thy love to me; 'Tis not in joy to chai-m me, Unless joy "be shar'd with thee, One minute's dream about thee Were worth a long — an endless year Of waking bliss without thee, My own love — my only dear I And, tho' the hope be gone, love. That long sparkled o'er our way, Oh! we shall journey on, love, More safely without its ray. Far better lights shall win me Along the paths I've yet to roam, The mind that burns within me. And pure smiles from thee at home. Thus, when the lamp that lighted The traveler at first goes out, He feels awhile benights, And looks 'round in fear and doubt. But soon, the prospect clearing. By cloudless starlight on he treads, And thinks no lamp so cheering As that light which Heaven sheds! THE FAKEWELL TO MY. HARP. AiB: — "iVety Langolee.^^ Deab harp of my country in darkness I found thee. The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long. When proudly, my own Island Harp! I unbound thee. And gave all my chords to light, freedom, and song! The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness, That even in thy mirth it will steal from me still. Dear harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers. The sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine; Go — sleep, with the sunshine of fame on tin slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover. Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone ; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over. And all the w ild sweetness I wak'd was thy own. AS SLOW OUR SHIP. Am:- -''The Girl I Left Behind Me." As slow our ship her foamy track Against the wind was cleaving. Her trembling pennant still look'd back To that dear isle 'twas leaving. So loath we part from all we love, Fi'om all the linKs that bind us; So turn our hearts, where'er we rove, To those we've left behind us ! When, 'round the bowl of vanish'd years. We talk, with joyous seeming, And smiles that might as well be tears, So faint, so sad their beaming; While mem'ry brings us back again Each early tie that twin'd us, Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then To those w.^'ye left behind, usl And, when in other climes we meet Some isle or vale enchanting. Where all looks flow'ry, mild and sweet, And nought but love is wanting; We think how great had been our bliss, If Heav'n had but assign'd us To live and die in scenes like this, With some we've left behind us ! As trav'lers oft look back at eve, When eastward darkly going. To gaze upon that light they leave Still faint behind them glowing — So, when the close of pleasure's day To gloom hath near consign'd us, We turn to catch one fading ray Of joy that's left behind jxs. OP TISS EMERALD ISLE. 19 COME O'ER THE SEA. Air: — " Cuishlih ma Chree." Come o'er the sea, Maiden! with me, Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows! Seasons may roll, But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes. Let fate frown on, so we love and part not ; 'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art not ! Then come o'er the sea, Maiden! with me, Come wherever the wild wind blows; Seasons may roll. But the true soul Bui'ns the same, where'er it goes. Is not the sea Made for the free, Lands for courts and chains alonel Here we are slaves; But, on the waves, Love and Liberty's all our own ! No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, All earth forgot, and all Heaven around us? Then come o'er the sea. Maiden! with me, Come wherever the wild wind blows; Seasons may roll. But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes. HAS SORROW THY YOUNG- DAYS SHADED. Air:— " Sly Patrick.'' Has soiTow thy young days shaded, As clouds o'er the morning fleet? Too fast have those young days faded, That even in sorrow were sweet? Does Time with his cold wing wither Each feeling that once was deai-? — Come, child of misfortune ! come hither, I'U weep with thee tear for tear. Has love to that soul so tender Been like our Lagenian mine, Where sparkles of golden splendor All over the surface shine? But if in pursuit we go deeper, Allur'd by the gleam that shone, Ah ! false as the dream of the sleeper, Like Love, the bright ore is gone. Has Hope, like the bird in the story, That flitted from tree to tree With the talisman's glittering glory — Has Hope been that bird to thee?' On branch after branch alightmg. The gem did she still display. And, when nearest and most inviting. Then waft the fair gem away? If thus the sweet hours have fleeted, When Sorrow herself look'd bright. If thus the fond hope has cheated, That led thee along so light; If thus the unkind world wither Each feeling that once was dear; Come, child of misfortune ! come hither, I'll weep for thee tear for tear. NO, NOT MORE WELCOME. Air: — " Luggelaiv," No, not more welcome the fairy numbers, C3f music fall on the sleeper's ear, When, half-awaking fearful slumbers, He thinks the full choir of Heav'n is near. Then ca.me that voice, when all forsaken, This heart long had sleeping lain. Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken To such benign, bless'd sounds again. Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the steal- ing Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shell ; Each secret winding, each inmost feeling Of all my soul echoed to its spell ; 'Twas whisper'd balm — 'twas sunshine spoken ! I'd live years of grief and pain To have my long sleep of sorrow broken By such benign, bless'd sounds again I So POPULAR SOms AN£> BALLADS WEEP ON— WEEP OK Air:—" The Song of Sorroio." Weep on — weep on, your hour is past, Your dreams of pride are o'er; The fatal chain is 'round you cast. And you are men no more. In vain the hero's heart hath bled ; The sage's tongue hath warned in vain- Oh, Freedom, once thy flame hath fled, It never lights again. Weep on ; perhaps in after days They'll learn to love your name; And many a deed may wake in praise. That long hath slept in blame. And wb6n they tread the ruin'd isle. Where rest, at length, the lord and slave. They'll wondering ask, how hands so yile Could conquer hearts so brave? " 'Tvvas fate," they'll say, " a wayward fate Your web of discord wove; And while jour tyrants join'd in hate, You never join'd in love. But hearts fell off that ought to twine, And man profan'd what God had given, Till some were heard to curse the shrine Where others knelt to Heaven." OH! 'TIS SWEET TO THINK. AlR: — " Thady, you Gander." Oh! 'tis sweet to think that, where'er we rove. We are sure to find something blissful and dear; And that when we're far from the lips we love. We have but to make love to tlae lips we are near! The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling, Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone; But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing It can twine with itself, and make closely its own. Then, oh I what pleasure, where'er we rove. To be doomed to find something, still, that is dear; And to know, when far from the lips we love. We have but to make love to the lips we are near! 'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise. To make light of the rest if the rose is not there; And the world so rich in resplendent eyes, 'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair. Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike, They are both of them bright, but they're changeable, too; And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike. It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue ! Then, oh ! what pleasure, where'er we rove. To be doomed to find something, still, that is dear ; And to know, when far from the lips we love. We have but to make love to the lips we are near! WHEN TWILIGHT DEWS. When twilight dews are falling soft Upon the rosy sea, love, I watch the star, whose beam so oft Has lighted me to thee, love! And thou, too, on that orb so clear, Ah ! dost thou gaze at even, And think, tho' lost forever here, Thou'lt yet be mine in Heaven? There's not a garden walk I tread, There's not a flower I see, love ! But brings to mind some hope that's fled, Some joy I've lost with thee, love ! And still I wish that hour was near. When, friends and foes forgiven, The pains, the jUs we've wept thi*o' here, May turn to smiles ipi Heaven I OP thje: emerald isle. SI LESBIA HAS A BEAMING EYE. AiE : — " Nora Creina. " Lesbia has a beaming eye, But no one knows for whom it beameth; Right and left its arrows fly, But what they aim at no one dreameth ; Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon My Nora's lid that seldom rises ; Few her looks, but every one Like unexpected light surprises. Oh, my Nora Creina, dear, My gentle, bashful Nora Creina. Beauty lies In many eyes, But love in yours, my Nora Creina. Lesbia wears a robe of gold, But all so close the nymph has lac'd it. Not a charm of beauty's mould Presumes to stay where nature plac'd it; Oh, my Nora's gown for me. That floats as wild as mountain breezes, Leaving every beauty free To sink or swell, as Heaven pleases. Yes, my Nora Creina, dear, My simple, gi-aceful Nora Creina! Nature's dress Is loveliness. The dress you wear, my Nora Creina! Lesbia has a wit refin'd, But when its points are gleaming 'round us Who can tell if they're design'd To dazzle merely, or to wound us? Pillow'd on my Nora's heart, In safer slumber love i-eposes ; Bed of peace! whose roughest part Is but the crumpling of the roses! Oh, my Nora Creina, dear! My mild, my artless Nora Creina! Wit, tho' bright, Has not the light That warms your eyes, my Nora Ci'eina ! OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. Air:—" The Brown Maid." Oh! breathe not his name — let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonor'd his relics are laid ! Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed. As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head! But the night-dew that falls, tho' in silence it weeps. Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps ; And the tear that we shed, tho' in seci'et it rolls. Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. WHEN IN DEATH I SHALL CALM RECLINE. Air. — " Unknown. " When in death I shall calm recline, O, bear my heart to my mistress dear; Tell her it liv'd upon smiles, and wine Of the brightest hue, while itlingei-'d here: Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow To sully a heart so brilliant and light; But balmy drops of the red grape borrow, To bathe the relic from morn to night. When the light of my song is o'er, Then take my barp to your ancient hall ; Hang it up at that friendly door Where weary travelers love to call: Then if some bard, who roams forsaken. Revive its soft note in passing along. Oh! let one thought of its maker waken Your warmest smile for the child of so g Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing. To grace your revel when I'm at rest; Never, oh! never, its balm bestowing On lips that beauty hath seldom blest ! But when some Avarm, devoted lover To her he adores shall bathe its brim. Oh! then my spirit around shall hover. And hallow each drop that foams for him. Popular songs and ballads THEi TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING. Air: — ^' Pease vjoon a Trencher." The time I've lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light that lies In woman's eyes, Has been my heart's undoing. The' Wisdom oft has sought me, I scorn'd the love she brought me ; My only books Were woman's looks. And Folly's all they've taught me. Her smile when Beauty granted, I hung with gaze enchanted, Like him, the Sprite,* Whom maids by night Oft meet in glen that's haunted. Like him, too. Beauty won me, But, while her eyes were on me, If once their ray Was turn'd away, Oh ! winds could tot outrun me. And are those follies going? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing? No — vain, alas! th' endeavor From bonds so sweet to sever; Poor Wisdom's chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever ! * This alludes to a kind of Irish fairy, which is to be met with, they say, in the fields, at dusk. As long as you keep your eyes upon him, he is fixed and in your power; but the moment you look away, (and he 19 Ingenious in furnishing some inducement), he vanishes. I had thought that this was the sprite which we call the Leprechaun; but a high authority upon such subjects, Lady Morgan, (in a note upou her national and interesting novel, O'Donuel,) has given a very different account of that goblin. NIGHT CLOSED AROUND THE CONQUEROR'S WAY. Fair Boso'iny Air: Thy . Night clos'd around the conqueror's way, And lightning show'd the distant hill Where those who lost that dreadful day, Stood few and faint, but fearless still! The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal, Forever dimmed, forever crost — Oh, who shall say what heroes feel. When all but life and honor's lost! The last sad hour of Freedom's dream, And Valor's task, mov'd slowly by, While mute they watch 'd, till morning's beam Should rise, and give them light to die I There is a world where souls are free. Where tyranbs taint not nature's bliss; If death that world's bright opening be, Oh ! who would live a slave in this? YOU REMEMBER ELLEN. Air:—" V/ere I a Cleric." Yo'CJ remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride, How meekly she blessed her lot, When the stranger, William, has made her his bride. And love was the light of their lowly cot. Together they toiled thro' winds and rains. Till William, at length, in sadness, said: " We must seek our fortune on other plains," Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed. They roam'd a long and a weary way. Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease. When now, at close of one stormy day, They see a proud castle among the trees. "To-night," said the youth, "we'll shelter there ; The wind blows cold, the hour is late ;" So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air. And the porter fcow'd as they pass'd the gate. "Now, welcome, lady!" exclaim'd the youth — " This castle is thine, and these dark woods all." She believ'd him wild, but his words were truth, For Ellen is lady of Rosna Hall. And dearly the lord of Rosna loveS What William, the stranger, woo'd and wed; And the light of bliss, in the lordly groves, Is pure as it shone in the lowly shed. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 23 THOMAS DAVIS. Thomas Osborne Davis was born in Mallow, county Coi-k, in 1814, and died in Septem- der, 1845, in Dublin. In early youth he was distinguished for the ardor and severe discip- line with which he pursued his studies, and this closeness of application he steadily contin- ued till the twenty-sixth year of his age,when he had accumulated an amount of knowledge rarely possessed by a man of his years. He finished his education in Trinity College, Dub- lin, and in 1840 was called to the Irish Bar. Upon the dismissal of Chancellor Plunket in that year, Davis first directed his mind to politics; he and his friend, John Dillon, becoming contributors to one of the Dublin papers. Some time after, this journal having changed its independent tone ^the proprietor was look- ing for place, which he subsequently obtained), they withdrew Lheir support, and transfer- red their services to the silent but practical work of the committee of the Repeal Associa- tion — of which they were both members. The want of a thoroughly independent and na- tional journal being felt by the young men of the country, Thomas Davis, John Dillon, and Charles Gavan Duffy determined, in 1843, to establish the Nation as a political and literary journal, under the editorial management of Mr. Duffy, who had previously conducted tlie Belfast Vindicator. The Nation's principal aim was to teach the people that in education and industrial pursuits their true dignity consisted, and to impress upon them the im- portance of temperance and self reliance as the means best calculated to secure the nation- ality and independence of the country. It was then that Davis became a man of great and noble purposes; he threw his whole heart and soul into the new undertaking, and possessing the rare power of imbuing others with his own burning spirit, the Nation was supported by a staff of writers never equalled before in Irish journalism. To promote the object for which this journal was established, the editor held it to be indispensable that songs and ballads for the. people should form a prom- inent feature. He knew their stirring and fascinating influence upon the Irish heart. A poet who could produce such national ballads as would find, a ready acceptance with the people was required ; and though Davis had previously never attempted verse, he did not hesitate in this emergency to undertake to supply this great desideratum. The following vigorous and highly dramatic ballad was his first contribution ; this, and his other productions in this volume will amply prove that he did not mistake his vocation. He not only wrote himself, but incited others to do the like, until the Nation became the medium of giving to the world some of the finest ballads of modern times. A more earnest or sincere man than Davis never lived, " In his total ^baegation of self, in his unwearied inr 4nstvjj was "his own parallel." 24 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS The chai-acteristios of his nature were a strict love of truth and right, and an exuberant, joyous spirit; and though confident of his power as a poet and essayist, his ambition was to rank beside Owen Roe and Grattan, rather than beside Moore and Goldsmith. He estimat- ted talents and fame, however brilliant and dazzling, and liberty, however broad and se- cure, in proportion only as they promoted solid virtue and permanent happiness. Acting upon these principles, he effected, dui'ing his short career, more than most others in a life-time could accomplish. His devoted love for Ireland knew no bounds, his fidelity to her inter- ests has rarely been equalled; and he sei'vedher with intense zeal, without stint or reserve, for the sole gratification of doing good to his kind. His simplicity and almost womanly tenderness of nature were beautifully blended with the severe integrity of his principles. His masculine understanding, his high enthusiasm, his marvellous energy and unconquera- ble resolution preeminently fitted him for the achievement of any noble or patriotic enter- prise. He bore nature's impress of a great man, and she bad marked him as the faithful champion of his country's rights and freedom. Poems of Thomas Davis. THE DEATH OP OWEN ROE. fTime—lOth Nov., 1649. Scene— Onnond's Camp, County Waterford. Speakers— A Veteran of Owen Roe's clan, and one of the horsemen, just arrived with an account of his death.] " Did they dare — did they dare, to slay Owen Roe O'Neill?" "Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet with steel." " May God wither up their hearts. May their blood cease to flow, May they walk in living death, who poisoned Owen Roe! Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words." "From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords. Buc the weapon of the Saxon met him on his way, And he died at Clough-Oughter, upon St. Leonard's day." " 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. " Sagest in the council was he, — kindest in the hall, Sui-e 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 'tis slaves we'll ever be, " O'Parrell and Clanrickard, Preston and Rel Hugh, Audley and MacMahon — j'e ai-e valiant, wise, and true; But whaJ — what are ye all to our darling who is gone? The Rijdder of our Sbip was h^t Pui" Qastle's coj'nej- stone S *' Waii-^wail him through the Island. Weep---weep for our pri4§! Would that on the battle-field our gallant chjef had died! Weep the Victor of Benburb — weep him, young man aiid p].d} Wpep for liim, ya woiupn—your penuUtnl Im cMfl ! " ' - ' ' < Off THE EMERALD ISLE. 2S " We thought you would not die — we were sure you would not go, And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow — Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky — Oh! why did you leave us, Owen? Why did you die? " Soft as a woman's was your voice, O'Neill! bright was your eye. Oh, why did you leave us, Owen? 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?" LOVE'S LONGINGS. To the conqueror his crowning. First freedom to the slave. And air unto the drowning. Sunk in the ocean's wave. And succor to the faithful, Who fight their flag above. Are sweet, but far less grateful Than were my lady's love. I know I am nDt worthy Of one so young and bright ; And yet I would do for thee Far more than others might; I cannot give you pomp or gold, If you should be my wife. But I can give you love untold, And true in death or life. Methinks that there are passions Within that heaving breast To scorn their heartless fashions. And wed whom you love best. Methinks you would be prouder As the struggling patriot's bride, Than if rank your home should crowd, or Cold riches 'round you glide. Oh ! the watcher longs for morning, And the infant cries for light, And the saint for Heaven's warning. And the vanquished pray for might; But their prayer, when lowest kneeling, And their suppliance most true, Are cold to the appealing Of this longing heart to you. THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE. 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 Prom hurricane and hail. More bravely than he guards my breast — The Boatman of Elinsale. 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'Hea is here? The scarlet soldiers pass along — They'd like, but fear to rail — His blood is hot, his blow is strong — The Boatman of Kinsale. 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. THE WELCOME. 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 of tener you come here the more I'll adore you. 26 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS 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. I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them ; Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom. I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you; I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. Oh, your step's like the rain to the summer-vex'd farmer, Or saber 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. We'll look through the trees- at the cliff, and the eyrie, We'll tread 'round the rath on the track of the fairy, We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river, Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her. Oh, she'll whisper you: " Love as unchangeably beaming, And trust, when in secret most tunefully streaming. Till the starlight of Heaven above us shall quiver. As our souls flow in one down eternity's riyer." So come in the evening, or come in the morning. Come when you're look'd for, or come without warning, Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you. Light is my heart since the day we were plighted, Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "true lovers, don't sever." MY LAND. 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 nor 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 her pine! 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 GERALDINES. The G-eraldines— 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 saber-dint struck terror on the banks of the Garonne; Across the downs of Hastings they spurred hard by William's side. And the grey sands of Palestine with Moslem blood they dyed; But never then, nor thence, till now, has falsehood or disgrace Been seen to soil Fitzgei-ald's plume, or mantle in his face. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 27 The Geraldines — the Geraldines! 'tis true in Strongbow's van, By lawless force, as conquerors, their Irish reign began ; And, oh! through many a dark campaign they proved their prowess stern. In Leinster's plains, and Munster's vales, on king, and chief, and kerne ; But noble was the cheer within the halls so rudely won. And 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 — Among a thousand you had known the; princely Geraldine. These G-eraldines — these Geraldines! not long our air they breath'd; Not long they fed on venison, in Irish water seethed ; Not often had their children been by Irish mothers nursed, When from their full and genial hearts an Irish feeling burst! The English monarchs strove in vain, by law, and force, and bribe. To win from Irish thoughts and ways this " more than Irish " tribe; For still they clung to fosterage, to brehon, cloak, and bard; What king dare say to Geraldine: " Your Irish wife discard?" Ye Geraldines — ye Geraldines ! — how royally je reigned O'er Desmond broad, and rich Kildare, and English arts disdained; Your sword made knights, your banner waved, free was your bugle call By Glyn's green slopes, and Dingle's tide, from Barrow's banks to Youghal. What gorgeous shrines, what brehon lore, what minstrel feats there were In and around Maynooth's grey keep, and palace-filled Adare ! But not for rite or feast ye stay'd, when friend or kin were press'd; And foemen fled, when '' Crom abo " bespoke your lance in rest. Ye Geraldines — ye Geraldines ! — since Silken Thomas flung Eling Henry's sword on council board, the English thanes among, Ye never ceased to battle brave against the English sway. Though ax and brand and treachei'y your proudest cut away. Of Desmond's blood, through woman's veins passed on th' exhausted tide; His title lives — a Saxon 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? True Geraldine! brave Geraldine! — as torreni;s mould the earth, You channelled deep old Irelan-d's heart by constancy and worth; When Ginckle 'leaguered Limerick, the Irish soldiers gazed To see if in the setting sun dead Desmond's banner blazed ! And still it is the peasant's hope upon the Curragh's mere, " They live, who'll see ten thousand men with good Lord Edward here" So let them dream till brighter da3rs, when, not by Edward's shade. But by some leader true as he, theii- lines shall be arrayed! These Geraldines — these Geraldines ! — rain wears away the rock. And time may wear away the tribe that stood the battle's shock; But ever, sm-e, 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 Abbeyfeale, would cherish their renown, And men would say of valor's rise, or ancieiit 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? Can treason spring from out a soil bedewed with martj^r's blood? Or has that grown a purling brook, which long rushed down a flood? — By Desmond swept with sword and fire, — by clan and keep laid low, — By Silken Thomas and his kin, — by Sainted Edward! No! The forms of centuries rise up, and in the Ii-ish line Command teeib son to take the post that fits the Geraldine I POPULAR S-OAuro AND BALLADS THE BATTLE OF FONTENOY. Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed, And, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine, the Dutch in vain assailed; Foi" town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery, And well they swept the English ranks, and Dutch auxiliary. As vainly through De Berri's wood, the British soldiers burst. The Fi-euch artillery drove them back, diminished, and dispersed, The bloody Duke of Cumbei-land beheld with anxious eye, And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to ti'y. On Fontenoy — on Fonteuoj^ how fast his generals ride! And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eYentide. Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread. Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head; Steady they step adown the slope — steady they climb the hill; Steady they load — steady they fire, moving right onward still. Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as though a furnace blast. Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast; And on the open plain above they 'rose and kept their course, With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile force: Past Fontenoy — past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks — They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean banks. More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush 'round: As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground; Bomb-shell and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fired- Fast, fi"om each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired. "Push on. my household cavalry!" King Louis madly cried; To death they I'ush, but rude their shock — not unavenged they died. On through the camp the column trod — King Louis turns his rein: " Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, " the Irish troops remain!" And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo, Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true. "Lord Clare," he says, "you have your wish, there are your Saxon foes!" The marshal almost smiled to see, so furiously he goes! How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont to be so gay, The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day — The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ, could dry. Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's parting cry — Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown. Each looks, as if I'evenge for all were staked on him alone. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere. Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exUes were. O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands, " Fix bay'nets"— "charge," — like mountain storm, rush on these fiery bands! Tliiu 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 Fontenoj^ hark to that fierce huzza! "Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sassenaghl" Lilie 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 arefillfe'd with gore; Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags they tore; The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered, fled — OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 29 The green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead; Across the plain, and far away passed on that hideous wx'acii:, 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! 'TwAS dying they thought her, And kindly tliey brought her To the banks of Blackwater, Where her forefathers lie; 'Twas the place of her childhood, And they hoped that its wild wood, And air soft and mild would (Soothe her spirit to die. THE BRIDE OF MALLOW. And she listed his talk, And he shared in her walk — And how could she balk One so gallant and true? But why tell the rest? Her love she confest, And sunk on his breast Like the even tide dew. But she met on its border A lad who adored her — No rich man, nor lord, or A coward, or slave; But one who had worn A green coat, and borne A pike from Slieve Mourne, With the patriots brave. Oh! the banks of the stream are Than emeralds greener And how should they wean her From loving the earth? While the song-birds so sweet, And the waves at their feet, And each young paii* they meet. Are all flushing with mirth. Ah ! now her cheek glows With the tint of the rose, And her healthful blood flows Just as fresh as the stream ; And her eye flashes bright, And her footstep is light. And sickness and blight Fled away like a dream. And soon by his side She kneels a sweet bride, In maidenly pride And maidenly fears; And their children were fair; And their home knew no care, Save that all homesteads were Not as happy as theirs. THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. rBaltlmore is a small seaport In the barony of Carbery, In South Munster. It grew np around a eastle of )'Driscoirs, and was, af car his ruin, colonized by the EnKlish. On the 20th of June, 1631, the crew of two llgeriue galleys landed in the dead of the night, sacked the town, and liore off into slavery all who were lot too old, or too young, or too fierce for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the intricate !hannel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman, whom they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two yeai-s itter he was convicted and executed for the crime. Baltimore never recovered this. To the artist, the intiquary, and the naturalist, its neighborhood is most interesting.— See "Smith's Ancient and Present itate of the County and City of Cork," vol. i. p. 270.] The summer sun is falling soft on Oarb'ry's hundred isles — The summer sun is gleaming still through Grabriel's rough defiles — Old Jnisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird, And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard; The hookers lie upon the beach ; the children cease their play; The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to pray — And full of love, and peace, and I'est — its daily labor o'er — Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore. A deeper rest, a starry trance has come with midnight there; No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air. The massive capes, and ruined towers, seem conscious of the calm; The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm. So still the night, these two long barks, 'round Dtinashad that glide. Must trust their oars — methinks not few — against the ebbing tide — Oh ! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore — • They bx-ing some lover to his bx'ide, who sighs in Baltimoi'e! so POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS All — all asleep within each roof along that rocky street, And these must be the lover's friends, with gently- gliding feet — A stifled gasp — a dreamy noise ! ' ' The roof is in a flame !" From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame — And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming saber's fall, And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl — The yell of " Allah!" breaks above the pray'r, and shriek, and roar — Oh, blessed God! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore! Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword; Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gor'd ; Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand -babes clutching wild; Then fled the maiden, moaning fast, and nestled with the child; But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing heel, While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel — Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store, There's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore ! Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds begin to sing — They see not now the milking maids — deserted is the spring! Midsummer day — this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town — These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown ; They only found the smoking walls, with neighbors' blood besprent, And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went — Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Cleir, and saw five leagues before The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore. Oh! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the street-^ This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed. Oh ! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Dardanelles ; And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy delJs. The maid that Bandon gallantsought is chosen for the De^'' — She's safe — she's dead — she stabbed him in the midst of his Serai; And, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore. She only smiled — O'Driscoll's child — she thought of Baltimore. 'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band, Aiid all around its trampled hearts a larger concourse stand, Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling wretch is seen — 'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan — he who steered the Algerine ! He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer. For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there — Some muttered of M'Morrogh, who had brought the Norman o'er — Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore. THE LOST PATH. Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be, All comfort else has flown. For every hope was false t^o me. And here I am, alone. What thoughts were mine in early youth. Like some old Irish song, Biinif al of love, and hope, 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 woinan'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. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 81 OH I THE Oh! the marriage — the marriage, With love and mo buachail for me, The ladies that ride in a caiu'iage Might envy my marriage to me ; For Owen is straight as a tower, And tender and loving and true, He told me more love in an hour Than the squires of the county could do. Then, oh! the marriage, etc. His hair is a shower of soft gold. His eye is as clear as the day, His conscience and vote were unsold When others were carried away; His word is as good as an oath, And freely 'twas given to me; Oh I sure 'twill be happy for both The day of the marriage to see. Then, oh ! the marriage, etc. His kinsmen are honest and kind, MARRIAGE. The neighbors think much of his skill. And Owen's the lad to my mind, Though he owns neither castle nor mill. But he has a tilloch of land, A horse, and a stocking of coin, A foot for the dance, and a hand In the cause of His country to join. Then, oh ! the marriage, etc. We meet in market and fair — We meet in the morning and night — He sits on half of my chair. And my people are wild with delight. Yet I long through the winter to skim, Though Owen longs more, I can see, When I will be married to him, And he will be married to me. Then, Oh! the marriage— the mari'iage. With love and 7710 buachail for me, The ladies that ride in a carriage Might envy my marriage to me. THE BURIAL.* Wht rings the knell of the funeral bell from a hundred village shrines? Through broad Pingall, where hasten all those long and ordered lines ? With tear and sigh they're passing by — the matron and the maid — Has a hero died — is a nation's pride in that cold coflBn laid? With frown and curse, behind the hearse, dark men go tramping on — Has a tyrant died, that they cannot hide their wrath till their rites are done? THE CHANT. " Ululu! xilulu! high on the wind. There's a home for the slave where no fetters can bind. Woe — woe to his slayers" — comes wildly along, With the trampling of feet, and the funeral song. And now more clear It swells on the ear ; Breathe low, and listen, 'tis solemn to hear. " Ululu! ululu! wail for the dead. Green grow the grass of Fingall on his head; And spring-flowers blossom, ere elsewhere appearing, And shamrocks grow thick on the Martyr for Erin. Ululu! ululu! soft fall the dew On the feet and the head of the martyr'd and true." For awhile they tread In silence dread — Then muttering and moaning go the crowd, Surging andswaj'^ing like mountain cloud, And again the wail comes fearfully loud. " Ululu! ululu! kind was his heart! Walk slower, walk slower, too soon we shall part. The faithful and pious, the Priest of the Lord, * Written on the funeral of the Rev. P. J. Tyrrell, Pc P- of Lusk; one of those Indicted with O'Coniiell In the government prosecutions of 1843. 83 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS His pilgrimage over, he has his reward. By the bed of the sick, lowly kneeling, To God with the raised cross appealing — He seems still to kneel, and he seems still to pray, And the sins of the dying seem passing away. " In the prisoner's cell, and the cabin so dreary, Oiir constant consoler, he never grew, weary ; But he's gone to his rest. And he's now with the blest, Where tyrant and traitor no longer molest — Ululu! ululu! wail for the deadl Ululul ululul here is his bed." Short was the ritual, simple the prayer, Deep was the silence and every head bare; The Priest alone standing, they knelt all around, Myriads on myriads, like rocks on the ground. Kneeling and motionless — "Dust unto dust." " He died as becometh the faithful and just — Placing in God his reliance and trust;" Kneeling and motionless — " ashes to ashes " — Hollow the clay on the coffin- lid dashes; Kneeling and motionless, wildly they pray. But they pray in their souls, for no gesture have they^— Stem and standing, O ! look on them now, Like trees to one tempest the multitude bow; Like the swell of the ocean is rising their vow: THE vow. "We have bent and borne, though we saw him torn from his home by the tyrant's crew — And we bent and bore, when he came once more, though suffering had pierced him through: And now he is laid beydnd our aid, because to Ireland true — A martyr'd man — the tyrant's ban, the pious patriot slew. " And shall we bear and bend for ever. And shall no time our bondage sever, And shall we kneel, but battle never, For our own soil? "And shall our tyrants safely reign On thrones built up of slaves and slain, And nought to us and ours remain But chains and toil? 1 ' "No! 'round this grave oui* oath we plight. To watch, and labor, and unite, Till banded be the nation's might — Its spirit steeled. "And then, collecting all our force, We'll cross oppression in its course, And die — or all our rights enforce. On battle field." Like an ebbing sea that will come again. Slowly retired that host of men ; Methinks they'll keep some other day, The oath they swore on the martyr's clay. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 33 THE TRUE IRISH KING-. The Csesar of Rome has a wider demesne And the Ard-Righ* of France has more clans in his ti-ain; The scepter of Spain is more heavy with gems, And our crowns cannot vie with the Greek diadems; But kinglier far, before Heaven and man, J Are the emerald fields and the fiery-eyed clan, The scepter, and state, and the poets who sing. And the swords that encircle a True Irish King! 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 from 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 Sassenach 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'Neil; The muster of dynasts— O'Hagan, O'Shiel, O'Cahan, O'Hanlon, O'Breslen, and all, From mild Ardes and Orior to rude Donegal. "St. Patrick's comharba," with bishops thirteen, And OUaves, and brehons, and minstrels, are seen, 'Roulid Tulach-Og 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 fix'd against every shock. 'Round — 'round is the Rath on a far-seeing hill, Like his blemishless honor and vigilant will. The grey-beards are telling how chiefs by the score Have been crowned on'" The Rath of the Kings " heretofore, While, yet crowded, yet ordered, within its green ring, Are the dynasts and priests around 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 hierachs are blessing, the slipper they fling. And O'Cahan proclaims him a True Irish King. Thrice looked he to Heaven with thanks and with prayer — Thrice looked to his borders with sentinel stare — To the waves of Loch Neagh, the hights of Strabane, And thrice on his allies, and thrice on his clan — One clash on their bucklers — one more — they are still — * Ard-Righ,— Great King. 34 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS 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! G-od save him and smile on his reign — The terror of England, the ally of Spain. May his sword be triumphant o'er Sassenach arts, Be his throne ever girt by strong hands and true hearts. Ma7 the course of his conquest run on till he see The flag of Plantagenet sink in the sea! May minstrels forever his victories sing, And saints make the bed of the True Irish King. THE PENAL DAYS. Oh! when those days, the penal days. When Ireland hopelessly complained. Oh! weep those days, the penal days, When godless persecution reigned; When, year by year, For serf and peer, Fresh cruelties were made by law, And, filled with hate. Our senate sato To wield anew each fetter's flaw. Oh ! weep those days, those penal daj's — Their mem'ry still on Ireland weighs. They bribed the flock, they bribed the son, To sell the priest and rob the sire ; Their dogs were taught alike to run Upon the scent of wolf and friar. Among the poor, Or on the moor. Were hid the pious and the true — While traitor knave, And recreant slave. Had riches, rank, and retinue; And, exiled in those penal days, Our banners over Europe blaze. A stranger held the land and tower Of many a noble fugitive ; No popish lord had lordly power. The peasant scarce had leave to live ; Above his head A ruined shed, No tenure but a tyrant's will — Forbid to plead. Forbid to read, Disarm'd, disfranchised, imbecile — What wonder if our step betrays Tiife freedman, born in penal days? They're gone — they're gone, those penal days ! All creeds are equal in our isle; Then grant, oh Lord, thy plenteous grace, Our ancient feuds to reconcile. Let all atone For blood and groan. For dark revenge and open wrong; Let all unite For Ireland's right. And drown our grief in freedom's song; Till time shall veil in twilight haze. The memory of those penal days. MY GRAVE. Shall they bury me in the deep. Where wind-forgetting waters sleep? Shall they dig a grave for me Under the greenwood tree? Or on the wild heath. Where the wilder breath Of the storm doth blow? Oh, no — oh, no! Shall they bury me in the Palace Tombs, Or under the shade of Cathedral domes? Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore; Yet not there — nor in Greece, though I love it more. In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find? Shall my ashes career on the world-seeing wind? Shall they fling my corpse on the battle mound, Where, cofBnless, thousands lie under tlie ground? Just as they fall they are buried so — Oh, no — oh, no! No, on an Irish green hill-side. On an opening lawn — but not too wide! 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 tlieif, But green sods deck'd 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. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 36 GERALD GRIFFIN. Gerald G-riffin was born in Limerick, on 10th December, 1803. As a poet he is not so well known as he deserves; but as a novelist he takes his place by universal consent in the first rank, beside Banim and Carleton. His father's want of success as a brewer in Limer- ick, compelled the family to remove to Fairy Lawn near G-lin in the county, a distance of thirty miles from the city. Here the family lived for some time, but the parents were per- suaded by an elder brother of Gerald's, an oflBcer in the British army, who served in Amer- ica, to emigrate to that country, Gerald, who was intended for the meJ.iCal profession, remained with his brother. Dr. Griffin, who then resided at Adare, about eight miles from the city. With his two sisters who remained in Ireland, Gerald spent much of his time in rambling through the romantic demesne of Lord Dunraven — fishing in the Mague, or watching its waters glide whispering- ly along by time-worn walls of the old cast'es and monastic ruins of that locality. Poetry was his first and greatest inspiration, and if lis natural bent had been properly encouraged, he would probably have been the greatest c 1 the Irish poets. He has, however, proved himself equal to any task which he deliberately andertook to perform. At the age of nineteen he wrote his drama of '' Aguire," of which his brother thought so highly, that he consented to Gerald's going to London to seek his fortune as a dramatic writer — without a single friend there to whom he could look for counsel or support. Im- bued with the true poetic spirit, and anxious to devote his whole energies to create a name as a poet, he brought misery and ruin upon himself by the pursuit of his darling passion. At the age of twenty he wrote " Gisippus," which has been pronounced to be "the greatest drama of our time." At twenty- five, he wrote " The Collegians," and thence for- ward till he withdrew from the world, he never ceased to pour forth the rich creations of his fertile and vigorous imagination, in verse and prose. But the success which he attained was too dearly paid for. His health was undermined by long vigils, by mental toil and blasted hopes. He became sad and heartbroken. His delicate sensibility of feeling forbade all intercourse with even those who were willing and able to help him — and foremost among these were John Banim and Dr. Maginn, Although his distress was most severe — being sometimes without food for three days, he acted fii-mly upon his resolute determination of trusting solely to his own efforts for success. As he approached the goal of his ambition, his keen enthusiasm became blunted and sub- dued by the anxieties and disappointments which met him on every hand. To his sister he says: " I look now upon success as a matter of mere business. As to Fame, if I could ac- , complish it in any other way, I should scarcely try for its sake alone." He wore away all relish for it in bis too eager pursuit. The publishers for whom be wrote ''cheated hira 36 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS abominably," he says. They forgot the first rudiments of arithmetic; they never counted his pages correctly ! All of them, except Jerdan of the Literary Gazette. At this time he translated a volume and a half of Prevot's works for two guineas. To cheat a man of such hard earned money was to commit the sin of " defrauding the laborer of his wages." At last he says to his brother: " I am tired of this lonely, wasting, dispir- iting, caterpillar kind of existence, which I endure, however, in hope of a speedy metamor - pilosis. It would amaze you to know all I have done, and to no purpose." His mind was deeply tinged with a strong religious sentiment, and in order to live, as it seemed to him, a more perfect life, he joined the Society of Christian Brothers in September, 1838; a society of good and religious men, who, withdrawing from the world and its fleeting pleasures, de- vote their whole lives to the education of the poor alone. No one could describe in more felicitous language than Gerald, the new world of beauty and delight which education could open to minds pent up in darkness; and no one could feel more anxious to transplant light and intelligence to where gloom and ignorance pre- viously ruled supreme. It is this ignorance and not their poverty or toil that degrades men. On the 12th June, 1840, he died in the North Monastery of the Christian Brothers in Cork, after having labored for nearly two years in his new vocation. There is a graceful ease and elegance of versification in all his poems; and though they breathe the ardor and warmth of feelings peculiar to youth, they are ever remarkable for their chasteness and purity of thought and expression. Poems of Gerald Griffin. THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE. rof the monuments most worthy of notice in the chapel of Malahide is an altar tomb surmounted with theettJgy, in bold relief, of a female habited in the costume of the 14th century, and representing the Honorable Maud PI unlcet, wife of Sir Richard Talbot. She had been previously married to Mr. Hiissey, son to the Barou of Galtrim, who was slain on the day of her nuptials, leaving her the singular celebrity of having been " a maid, wife, and widow on the same day."] The joy-bells are ringing in gay Malahide, The fresh wind is singing along the sea-side; The maids are assembling with garlands of flowers. And the harpstrings are trembling in all the glad bowers. Swell — swell the gay measure! roll trumpet and drum! 'Mid gr3e tings of pleasure in splendor they come! The chancel is roady, the portal stands wide For the lord and the lady, the bridegroom and bride. What years, ere the latter, of earthly delight The future shall scatter o'ei' the'n in its flight! . ' What blissful caresses shall Fortune bestow. Ere those dark-flowing tresses fall white as the snow! Before the high altar young Maud stands - array 'd; With accents that falter her promise is made — From father and mother for ever to part, Foi* him and no other to treasure her heart. The words are repeated, the bridal is done. The rite is completed — the two, they are one ; The vow, it is spoken all pure from the heart, That must not be broken till Ijfe gball depart, OF THE EMERALD ISLE. S? Hark ! 'mid the gay clangor that compass'd their ear, Loud accents in anger come mingling afar ! The foe's on the border, his weapons resound Where the lines iu disorder unguarded are found. As wakes thei good shepherd, the watchful and bold, When the ounce or the leopard is seen in the fold. So rises already the'chief in his mail, While the new-married lady looks fainting and pale. " Son, husband, and brother, arise to the strife. For the sister and mother, for children and wife! O'er hill and o'er hollow, o'er mountain and plain. Up, true men, and follow ! let dastards remain !" Farrah ! to the battle ! they form into line — The shields, how they rattle! the spears, how they shine! Soon — soon shall the f oeman his treachery rue — On, burgher and yeoman, to die or to do! The eve is declining in lone Malahide, The maidens are twining gay wreaths for the bride ; She marks them unheeding — her heart is afar. Where the clansmen are bleeding for her in the war. Hark! loud from the mountain 'tis Victory's cry! O'er woodland and fountain it rings to the sky! _ The foe has retreated ! he flies to the shore ; The spoiler's defeated — the combat is o'er ! With foreheads unruffled the conquerors come — But why have they muffled the lance and the drum? What form do they carry aloft on his shield? And where does he tarry, the lord of the field? Ye saw him at morning, how gallant and gay! In bridal adorning the star of the day: Now weep for the lover — his triumph is sped, His hope it is over ! the chieftain is dead I But O, for the maiden who mourns for that chief. With heart overladen and rending with grief ! She sinks on the meadow in one morning- tide, A wife and a widow, a maid and a bride ! Ye maidens attending, forbear to condole! Your comfort is rending the depths of her soul. True — true, 'twas a story for ages of pride, He died in his glory — but, O, he has diedl The war-cloak she raises all mournfully now — And steadfastly gazes upon the cold brow. That glance may for ever unaltered remain. But the Bridegroom will never retuj'n it, The dead-bells are tolling in sad Malahide, The death-wail is rolling along the sea-side ; The crowds, heavy-hearted, withdraw from the green. For the sun has departed that brighten'd the scene! Ev'n yet in that valley, though years have roll'd by. When through the wild sally the sea-breezes sigh. The peasant, with sorrow, beholds in the shade The tomb where the morrow saw Hussey convey'd. How scant was the warning, how briefly reveal'd. Before on that morning death's chalice was fill'd! The hero who drunk it there moulders in gloom. And the form of Maud Plunket weeps over his tomb. The stranger who wanders along the lone vale Still sighs while he ponders on that heavy tale; " Thus passes each pleasure that earth can supply — Thus joy has its measure— we live but to die!" 38 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS GILLE MACHREE, GiLLE Machree,* sit down by me, We now are joined and ne'er shall sever ; This hearth's our own, our hearts are one, And peace is oui's for ever! When T was poor, your fatber^s door Was closed against your constant lover; With care and pain, I tried in vain My fortunes to recover. I said: " To other lands I'll roam, Where Fate may smile on me, love;" I said: " Farewell, my own old home!" And I said: " Farewell to thee, love!" Sing Gille machree, etc. I might have said, my mountain maid, Come live with me, your own true lover; I know a spot, a silent cot. Your friends can ne'er discover; Where gently flows the waveless tide By one small garden only; Where the heron waves his wings so wide, And the linnet smgs so lonely ! Sing Gille inachree, etc. I might have said, my mountain maid, A father's lighb was never given True hearts to curse with tyrant force, That have been blest in Heaven. But then, I said: " lu after years, When thoughts of home shall find her! My love may mourn with secret tears Her friends thus left behind her." Sing Gille machree, etc. O, no, I said, my own dear maid, For me, though ail forlorn, for ever, That heart of thine shall ne'er repine O'er slighted duty — never. From home and thee though wandering far A dreary fate be min«, love; I'd rather live in endless war. Than buy my peace with thine, love. Sing Gille machree, etc. Far, far away, by night and day, I toiled to win a golden treasure; And golden gains repaid my pains In fair and shining measure. I sought again my native land, Thy father welcomed me, love; I poured my gold into his hand. And my guerdon found in thee, love. Sing Gille machree, sit down by me. We now are joined, and ne'er shall sever ; This hearth's our own, our hearts ai-e one, And peace is ours for ever. * Qille machree,— brightener of my heart. OLD TIMES. Old times — old times! the gay old times! When I was young and free, And heard the merry Easter chimes Under the sally tree; My Sunday palm beside me placed. My cross upon my hand, *A heart at rest within my breast, And sunshine on the land ! Old times — old times! It is not that my fortunes flee, Nor that my cheek is pale, I mourn whene'er I think of thee, • My darling native vale! A wiser head I have, I know. Then when I loitered there; But in my wisdom there is woe. And in my knowledge, care. Old times — old times ! I've lived to know my share of joy. To feel my share of pain. To learn that friendship's self can cloy. To love, and love in vain ; To feel a pang and wear a smile, To tire of other climes, To like my own unhappy isle, And sing the ga y old times ! did times — old times ! And sure the land is nothing changed, The birds are singing still ; The flowers are springing where we ranged. There's sunshine on the bill ; The sally vpaving o'er my head, Still sweetly shades my frame, But ah, those happy days are fled, And I am not the same! Old times — old time^! Oh, come again, ye merry times ! Sweet, sunny, fresh, and calm; And let me hear those Easter chimes, And wear my Sunday palm. If I could cry away mine eyes. My teal's would flow in vain; If I could waste my heart in sighs. They'll never come again ! Old times — old times! OF THE EMERALD ISLE. THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. My darling — ray darling, -while silence is on the moor. And alone in the sunshine, 1 sit by our cabin door; When evening falls quiet and calm over land and sea, My darling — my darling, I think of past times and thee ! Here, while on this cold shore, I wear out my lonely hours, My child in the Heavens is spreading my bed with flowers, All weary my bosom is grown of this friendless clime, But I long not to leave it; for that were a shame and crime. They bear to the churchyard the youth in their health away, I know where a fruit hangs more ripe for the grave than they, But I wish not for death, for my spirit is all resigned. And the hope that stays with me gives peace to my aged mind. My darling — my darling, God gave to my feeble age, A prop for my faint heart, a stay in my pilgrimage; My darling — my darling, God takes back his gift again — And my heart may be broken, but ne'er shall my will complain. THE SISTER OP CHARITY. She once was a lady of honor and wealth. Bright glowed on her features the roses of health ; Her vesture was blendedx)f silk and of gold. And her motion shook perfume from every •fold. Joy reveled around her — love shone at her side, And gay was her smile as the glance of a bride, And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall, When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul. She felt in her spirit the summons of grace That called her to live for her suffering race, And, heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home, 'Rose quickly, like Mary, and answered: " I come." She put from her person the trapping of pride, A.nd passed from her home with the joy of a bride. Nor wept at the threshold as onward she moved. For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved. Lost ever to fashion — to vanity lost That beauty that once was the song and the toast. No more in the ball-room that figure -vi e meet. But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat. Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame ; Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth, For she barters for Heaven the glory of earth. Those feet that to music could gracefully move, Now bear her alone on her mission of love; Those hands that once dangled the perfume and gem Are tending the helpless, or lifted for them ; That voice that once echoed the song of the vain. Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain; And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl. Her down-bed a pallet — her trinkebs a bead. Her luster — one taper, that serves her to read. Her sculpture — the crucifix nailed by her bed. Her painting — one print of the thorn- crowned h^ad, Her cushion — the pavement that wearies Iw knees. Her music — the psalm or the sigh of disease. The delicate lady lives mortified there. And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer. Yet not to the service of heart and of mind Are the cares of that Heaven-minded virgin confined ; Like Him whom she loves, to the mansions of gtief. She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief; She strengthens the weary, she comforts the weak. And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick; 40 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS Where want and affliction on mortals attend The Sister of Charity there is a friend. Unshrinking, where pestilence scatters his breath, Like an angel she moves 'midst the vapors of death; Where rings the loud musket, and flashes the sword, Unfearing she walks, for she follows her Lord. How sweetly she bends o'er each plague- tinted face, With looks that are lighted with holiest grace ! How kindly she dresses each suffering limb. For she sees in the wounded the image of Him! Behold her, ye worldly ! — behold her, ye vain! Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain, Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days, Forgetful of service — forgetful of praise. Ye lazy philosophers, self-seeking men — Ye fire-side philanthropists, great at the pen — How stand in the balance, your eloquence, weighed With the life and the deeds of that high-born maid! A PLACE IN THY MEMORY. "A PLACE in thy memory, deai'est, Is all that I claim — To pause and look back when thou hearest The sound of my name. Another may woo thee nearer, Another may win and wear ; I care not if he be dearer. If I be remembered there. " Remember me, then, oh! remember My calm, light love; Though bleak as the blast in November My life may prove. That life will, though lonely, be sweet, If its brightest enjoyment should be A smile and a uind word when we meet. And a place in thy memory." THE PROPHECY. In the time of my boyhood 1 had a strange feeling, That I was to die ere the noon of my day ; Not quietly into the silent grave stealing. But torn, like a blasted oak, sudden away; That even in the hour when enjoyment was keenest. My lamp should quench suddenly, hissing in gloom; That even when mine honors were freshest and greenest, ' A blight should rush over and scatter their bloom. It might be a fancy — it might be the glooming Of dark visions, taking the semblance of truth; And it might be the shade of the storm that is coming, Cast thus in its morn through the sunshine of youth. But be it a dream, or a mystic revealing. The bodement has haunted me year after year; And whenever my bosom with rapture was filling, I paused for the footfall of fate at mine ear. With this feeling upon me, all feverish and glowing, T rushed up the rugged way panting to fame. I snatched at my laurels whUe yet they were growing. And won for my guerdon the half of a name. My triumphs I viewed, from the least to the brightest, As gaj"^ flowers plucked from the fingers of death ; And wherever joy's garments flowed richest and lightest, I looked for the skeleton lurking beneath. Oh, friend of my heart ! if that doom should fall on me, And thou shouldst live on to remember my love, OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 41 Come oft to my tomb when the turf lies upon me, And list to the even wind mourning above. Lie down by that bank, where the river is creeping All fearfully under the still autumn tree, When each leaf in the sunset is silently weeping, And sigh for departed days, thinking of me. By the smiles ye have looked — by the words ye have spoken— (Affection's own music, that heal as they fall)— By the balm ye have poured on a spirit half broken. And, oh ! by the pain ye gave — sweeter than all; Remember me, L , when I am departed. Live over those moments when they, too, are gone ; Be still to your minstrel the soft and kind^ hearted, And droop o'er the marble where he lies alone. Remember how freely that heart, that to others Was dark as the tempest-dawn frowning above, Burst open to thine with the zeal of a brother's, And showed all its hues in the light of thy love. And, oh! in that moment when over him sighing, Forgive, if his failings should flash on thy brain ; Remember, the heart that beneath thee is lying, Can never awake to offend thee again. And say, while ye pause on each sweet recollection, " Let love like mine own on his spirit attend; For to me his heart turned with a poet's affection ; Just less than a lover, and more than a friend." ORANGE AKD GREEK The night was falling dreary In merry Bandon town. When, in his cottage, weary, An Orangeman lay down. The summer sun in splendor Had set upon the vale, And shouts of: " No surrender!" Arose upon the gale. Beside the waters laving The feet of aged trees. The Orange banner waving, Flew boldly in the breeze — In mighty chorus meeting, A hundred voices joined. And fife and drum were beating The Battle of the Boyne. Ha ! tow'rd his cottage hieing. What form is speeding now, From yonder thicket flying. With blood upon his brow? " Hide — hide me, worthy strangerj Though green my color be, And in the day of danger May Ueaveri remember fhm \ "In yonder vale contending Alone against that crew. My life and limbs defending, An Orangeman I slew. Hark! hear that fearful warning, There's death in every tons — Oh, save my life till morning, And Heaven prolong your own !" The Orange heart was melted In pity to the Green ; He heard the tale, and felt it His very soul within. "Dread not that angry warning Though death be in its tone — I'll save your life till morning, Or I will lose my own." Now, 'round his lowly dwelling The angry torrent press'd, A hundred voices swelling, The Orangeman addressed — ■ " Arise-^arise, and follow The chase along the plain! in voiidel' stony hollow ¥ci»jn- only son is slain!" POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS With rising shouts they gather Upon the track amain, And leave the childless father Aghast with sudden pain. He seeks the riglited stranger, In covert where belay — " Arise!" he said, " all danger Is gone and past awayl " I had a son — one only, One loved as my life. Thy hand has left me lonely, In that accursed sti'ife. I pledged my word to save thee Until the storm should cease. I kept the pledge I gave thee — Arise, and go in peace !" The stranger soon departed Prom that unhappy vale; The father, broken hearted, Lay brooding o'er the tale. Full twenty summers after, To silver turned his beard ; And yet the sound of laughter From him was never heard. The night was falling dreary In merry Wexford town. When in his cabin, weary, A peasant laid him down. And many a voice was singing Along the summer vale, And Wexford town was ringing With shouts of: " Granua Uile." Beside the waters, laving The feet of aged trees. The green flag, gayly waving, Was spread against the breeze- In mighty chorus meeting, Loud voices filled the town, And fire and drum were beating, Down, OrangemeUf lie down!" Hark! 'mid the stirring clangor That woke the echoes there, Loud voices, high in anger, Rise on the evening air. Like billows of the ocean, He sees them hurry on — And, 'mid the wild commotion, An Orangeman alone. " My hair," he sajd, " is hoary, And feeble is my hand, And I could tell a story Would shame your cruel baud. Full twenty yeai's and over Have changed my heart and brow, ■And I am grown a lover . Of peace and concord now. " It was not thus I greeted Your brother of the Green; When, fainting and defeated, I freely took him in. I pledged my word to save him Fi'om vengeance rushing on, I kept the pledge I gave him, Though he had killed my son." That aged peasant heard him. And knew him as he stood. Remembrance Kindly stirr'd him, And tender gratitude. With gushing tears of pleasure. He pierced the listening train — " I'm here to pay the measure • Of kindness back again!" Upon his bosom falling. That old man's tears came down; Deep memory recalling The cot and fatal town. " The hand that would offend thee, My being first shall end; I'm living to defend thee, My savior and my friend!" He said, and slowly turning, Address'd the wondering crowd. With fervent spirit burning, He told -the tale aloud. Now pressed the warm beholders. Their aged foe to greet; They raised him on their shoulders And chaired him through the street. As he had saved that stranger From peril scowling dim. So in his day of danger Did Heav'n remember him. By joyous crowds attended, "The worthy pair were seen, And their flags that day were blended Of Orange and of Green. OF THS EMERALD ISLE. 43 ADDRESS TO FANCY. Thott rushing spirit, that oft of old Hast thrilled my veins at evening lonely, When musing by some ivied hold, Where dwelt the daw or martin only; That oft has stirred my rising hair, When midnight on the heath has found me, And told me potent things of air Were haunting all the waste around me. Who sweep'st upon the inland breeze. By rock and glen in autumn weather, With fi'agrance of wild myrtle trees, And yellow furze, and mountain heather. Who sea- ward, on the scented gale. To meet the exile coursest fleetly, When slowly from the ocean-vale, His native land arises sweetly. That oft has thrilled with creeping f &ar My shuddering nerves at ghostly story, - Or sweetly di'ew the pitjdng tear. At thought of Erin's ruined glory. A fire that burns — a frost that chills. As turns the song to woe or gladness ; Now couched by wisdom's fountain rills. And skirting now the wilds of madness. Oh ! spirit of my Island home, Oh! spirit of my native mountain, Romantic fancy! quickly come I Unseal for me thy sparkling fountain. If e'er by lone Eillarney's wave, Or wild Grlengariif's evening billow, My opening soul a welcome gave To thee beneath the rustling wlUow. Or rather who, in riper days. In ruined aisles at solemn even. My thoughtful bosom wont to raise To themes of piirity and heaven I And people all the silent shades With saintly forms of days departed, When holy men and votive maids Lived humbly there, and heavenly hearted. Oh thou, the minstrel's bliss and bane, His fellest foe, and highest treasure. That keep'st him from the heedless train, Apart in grief — apart in pleasure. That chainless as the wandering wind. Where'er thou wilt, unbidden blowest. And o'er the rapt, expectant mind. All freely com'st, and freely goest. Come, breathe along my eager chords, And mingle in the rising measure. Those burning thoughts and tinted words That pierce the inmost soul with pleasure. Possess my tongue — possess my brain, Through every nerve, electric thrilling, That I ma}^ pour my ardent strain With tuneful force, and fervent feeling. HT-BRASAIL— THE ISLE OP THE BLEST. P'rom the Isles of Aran and the west continent, often appears visible that enchanted island called O'Bra- . and in Irish Begara, or the Lesser Ai-an, set down in cards of navigation. Whether it be real and firm land, kept hidden by special ordinance of God, as the terrestrial paradise, or else some illusion of airy- clouds appearing on the surface of the sea, or the craft of evil spirits, is more than our judgments can sound out. There is, westward of Aran, a wild island of huge rocks, (Skira Rocks) the receptacle of a deal of seals thereon yearly slaughtered. These rocks sometimes appear to be a great city far o£E, full of houses, castles, towers, and chimneys; sometimes fuU of blazing flames, smoke, and people running to and fro. Another day you would see nothing but a number of ships, with their sails and riggings: then so many great stacks or reeks of corn and turf; and this not only on fair sun-shining days, vvhereby it might be thought the reflection of the sunbeams on the vapors arising about it, had been the cause, but also on dark and cloudy da,ys.—0'Flaherty's West Connaught, Irish ArchcBologioal Society's Publications, page 68. On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell, A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell ; Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest, And they called it Hy-Brasail, the isle of the blest; Prom year unto year, on the ocean's blue rim, The beautiful specter showed lovely and dim ; The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay, ^ And it looked like an Eden, away, far awayl A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale, In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail; Prom Ara, the holy, he turned to the west, For though Ara was holy, Hy-Brasail was blest. 4A POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS He heard not the voices that called from the shore — He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar : Home, kindred, and safety, he left on that day, And he sped to Hy-Brasail, awa,y, far away! Morn rose on the deep, an-d that shadowy isle. O'er the faint rim of distance, reflected its smile; Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy shore Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before; Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track, And to Ara again he looked timidly back; O ! far on the verge of the ocean it lay. Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away I Rash dreamer, return ! O, ye winds of the main, Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again. Rash fool! for a vision of fanciful bliss. To barter thy calm life of labor and peace. The warning of reason was spoken in vain ; He never revisited Ara again ! Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray, And he died on the waters, away, far away ! FAME. Why hast thou lured me on, fond muse, to quit The path of plain, dull, worldly sense, and be A wanderer through the realms of thought with thee? While hearts that never knew thy visitings sweet, Cold souls that mock thy gentle melan- choly. Win their bright way up fortune's glittering wheel, And we sit lingering here in darkness still. Scorned by the bustling sons of wealth and folly. Yet still thou whispered in my ear: " The day. The day may be at hand when thou and I (This season of expectant pain gone by) Shall tread to joy's bright porch a smiling way. And rising, not at once, with hurried wing, To purer skies aspire, and hail a lovelier spring." KNOW YE NOT THAT LOVELY RIVER? Know ye not that lovely river? Know ye not that smiling river? Whose gentle flood," By cliflE and wood. With wildering sound goes winding ever. Oh, often yet with feeling strong. On that dear stream my memory ponders. And still I prize its murmuring song. For by my childhood's home it wanders. Know ye not, etc. There's music in each wind that blows Within our native valley breathing; There's beauty in each flower that grows Around our native woodland wreathing. The memory of the brightest joys In childhood's happy morn that found us, Is dearer than the richest toys, The present vainly sheds around us. Know ye not, etc. Oh, sister, when 'mid doubts and fears, That haunt life's onward journey ever, I turn to those departed years. And that beloved and lovely river; With sinking mind and bosom riven, And heart with lonely anguish aching,. It needs my long-taught hope in Heaven, To keep that weaiy heart from breaking. Know ye not, etc. Of the: emerald isle. FADED NOW. Faded now, and slowly chilling, Summer leaves the weeping dell, While, forlorn, and all unwilling, Here I come to say farewell. Spring was green when first I met thee, Autumn sees our parting pain. ^ Never, if my heart forget thee. Summer shine for me again. Fame invites ! her summons only Is a magic spell to me. For, when I was sad and lonely, ' Fame it was that gave me thee. False she is, her slanderers sing me. Wreathing flowers that soonest fade; But such gifts if Fame can bring me, Who will call the nymph a shade! Hearts that feel not — hearts half broken, Deem her reign no more divine; Vain to them are praises spoKen, Vain the light that fills her shrine. But in mine those joys elysian Deeply and warmly breathe ; Fame to me has been no vision. Friendship's smile embalms her wreath. Sunny lakes and spired mountains Where that friendship sweetly grew- Ruins hoar, and glancing fountains, Scenes of vanish'd joys, adieu! Oh, where'er my steps may wander. While my home-sick bosom heaves, On those scenes my heart will ponder, Silent^ of tj in summer eves. Still, when calm, the sun, down-shining, Turns to gold that winding tide, Lonely on that couch reclining. Bid those scenes before thee glide; Fair Killarney's sunset splendor. Broken crag and mountain grey, And Glengariff's moonlight tender, Bosomed on the heaving bay. Yet, all pleasing rise the measure Memory soon shall hymn to thee, Pull for me no coming pleasure, Waste no joy for thought of me. 46 POPULAR SOKCfS AND BALLADS Oh, I would not leave thee weeping, But, when falls our parting day. See thee hushed, on roses sleeping. Sigh unheard, and steal away. Oh, farewell ! those joys are ended — Oh, farewell! that day is done; Palled in clouds, and darkly blended. Slowly sinks our wasted sun. When shall we, with souls united. See those rosy tints return, And, in blameless love united. View the past, yet never mourn? Hues of darker fate assuming. Faster change life's summer skies; In the future, dimly glooming, Forms of deadly promise rise. See a loved home forsaken. Sundered ties and tears for thee; And, by thoughts of terror shaken, . See an altered soul in me. Sung in pride and young illusion, Then forgive the idle strain ; Now my heart, in low confusion. Owns its sangiiine promise vain. Fool of Fame! that earthly vision Charms no more thy cheated youth And those boasted dreams elysian Fly the searching dawn of truth. Never in those tender bowers — Never by that reedy stream — Lull'd on beds of tinted flowers, Young Romance again shall dream./ Now his rainbow pinions shaking. Oh ! he hates the lonesome shore, Where a funeral voice awaking, Bids us rest to joy no more! Yet, all pleasing rise the measure Memory soon shall hymn to thee, Dull for me no coming pleasure. Lose no joy for thought of me. Oh, I would not leave thee weeping, But, when falls our parting day. See thee hush'd, on roses sleeping. Sigh unheard, and steal away. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 47 SAMUEL LOVER. • Forty years ago, when Moore was reposing under the shade of the bays which his muse had so gloriously won, the subject of this sketch was at the zenith of his fame. He occupied the ground froln which Moore had retired — though his songs bore no more com- parison to Moore's than the twitterings of the goldfinch does to the carol of the lark; still, at the time to which we refer, Samuel Lover was (next to Moore) the most popular Irish poet. For Thomas Davis had not as yet become aware of the wealth of thac rich vein of poetry which lay hidden in the depth of his loving Irish heart. It is true that Griffin and Banim, so immeasurably Lover's superiors as novelists, also occupied the poetic field at the same time; but their songs never attained the popularity of Lover's, though the latter never wrote anything as full of genuineMrish feeling as " Grille Machree" or " Soggarth Aroon." It is to his comic songs he owes his popularity with the masses of his country- men, though the " Angel's Whisper," " Fairy Boy," and "Four-leaved Shamrock " are .some of the most beautifully-rendered illustrations of those exquisitely poetic legends which take such a hold on an imaginative and simple-hearted people. Samuel Lover was a native of Dublin, in which city he first saw the light in the year 1797. He commenced life as a portrait-painter, and soon became so successful in his profes- sion that he received the patronage of some of the leading members of the Irish aristoc- racy, including the Duke of Leinster, the Marquis of Wellesley, Lord Cloncurry, and a host of other noblemen. In 1828 he was elected an Academician of the Royal Hibernian Society of' Arts, of which he subsequently became secretary. When our great national poet, Moore, visited Ireland, and was so splendidly and enthusiastically welcomed in his native city, his young townsman composed a song in his honor, which he sang at the grand banquet given by the Irish Capital to her most gifted son. Moore was highly pleased with the poetry and the music, and passed a flattering though well-merited eulogium on the young aspirant to poetic fame, which at once placed him prominently before the public on the road over which he traveled so steadily and so successfully for the ensuing twenty years. 48 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS Poems of Samuel Lover. THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK. I'll seek a four-leaved shamrock In all the faii-y dells, And iJ? I find the charmed leaves, Oh, how I'll weave my spells. I would not waste my magic might On diamond, pearl or gold; For treasures tire the weary sense — Such triumph is but cold. But I would play the enchanter's part In C2 sting bliss around : Oh ! not a tear nor aching heart Should in the world be found. Should in the world be found. To worth I would give honor, I'd dry the mourner's tears; And to the pallid lip recall The smile of happier years ; And hearts that had long been estranged, And friends that had grown cold, Should meet again like parted streams And mingle as of old. Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's part, Thus scatter bliss around; And not a tear nor aching heart Should in the world be found. Should in the world be found. The heart that had been mourning O'er vanished dreams of love, Should see them all returning. Like Noah's faithful dove. And Hope should launch her blessed bark On Sorrow's dark'ning sea. And Mis'ry's children have an Ark, And saved from sinking be. Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's part; Thus scatter bliss around. And not a tear nor aching heart Should in the world be found. Should in the world be found. THE LAND OF THE WEST. Oh! come to the West, love — oh! come there with me, 'Tis a sweet land of verdure that springs from the sea; Where fair plenty smiles from her emerald throne, Oh, come to the West, and I'll make thee my own ! I'll guard thee — I'll tend thee — I'll love thee the best, And you'll say there's no land like the land of the West! The south has its roses, and bright skies of blue. But ours are more sweet with love's own changeful hue — Half sunshine, half tears, like the girl I love best — Oh! what is the South to the beautiful West? Tlien come there with me, and the rose on thy mouth V/ill be sweeter to me than the flowers of the South. The North has its snow-tow'rs of dazzling array. All sparkling with gems in the ne'er setting day. There the storm-king may dwell in the halls he loves best, But the soft- breathing zephyr he plays in the West- Then come to the West where no cold wind doth blow, And thy neck will seem fairer to me than the snow! The sun in the gorgeous East cbaseth the night. When he xiseth refreshed in his glorj^ and might. But where doth he go when he seeks his sweet rest? Oh! doth he not haste to the beautiful We: i'( Then come there with me, 'tis the land I love best, Tis the land of my sires! 'tis my own darling West. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 49 CAROLAN AND BRIDGET CRUISE. [It Is related of Carolaii, the Irish bard, that when deprived of sight, and after the lapse of twenty yearrs, he recognized his first love by the touch of her hand. The lady's name was Bridset Cruise; and though not a pretty name, it deserves CO be recorded, as belonginK to the woman who could Inspire such a pas- sion. On his return from a pilgrimage which he made to St. Patrick's Purgatory, In Lough Dearg, he found several persons on shore waiting the arrival of the boat which had conveyed him to the scene of his devo- tion. In assisting one of these devout ti'avelers to get on board he chanced to talce a lady's hand, and his sense of touch and feeling was so acute, that upon taking it he exclaimed: " Bar Lamh mo cardais Criost (By the hand of my Gossip,j this is the hand of my first love, Bridget Cruise."] "True love can ne'er forget; Fondly as when we met, Dearest, I love thee yet, My darling one !" Thus sung a minstrel gay His sweet impassion'd lay, Down by the ocean's spray At set of sun. But wither'd was the minstrel's sight, Morn to him wa^ dai-k as night. Yet his heart was full of light. As he thus his lay begun. " True love can ne'er forget; Fondly as when we met. Dearest I love thee yet. My darling one ! Long years are past and o'er, Since from this fatal shore, Cold hearts and cold winds bore My love from nie." Scarcely the minstrel spoke, When quick, with flashing stroke, A boat's light oar the silence broke O'er the sea. Soon upon her native strand Doth a lovely lady land. While the minstrel's love-taught hand Did o'er his wild harp run: " True love can ne'er forget; Fondly as when we met, Dearest, I love thee yet, My darling one 1" Whei-e the minstrel sat alone, There, that lady fair hath gone, Within his hand she placed her own, The bard dropped on his knee. From his lips soft blessings came, He kiss'd her hand with truest flame. In trembling tones he named — her name. Though her he could not see ; But, oh! — the touch the bard could tell Of that dear hand, remember'd well. Ah ! — by many a secret spell Can true love find her own ! For true love can ne'er forget; Fondly as when they met, He loved his lady yet, His darling one. THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. [A superstition of great beauty prevails In Ireland, that, when a child smiles in its sleep, it Is "talk- with Angels.") ^ A BABY was sleeping, its mother was weeping. For her husband was far on the wild, raging sea, And the tempest was swelling 'round the fisherman's dwelling — And she cried: " Dermot, darling, oh ! come back to me 1" Her beads while she number'd, the baby still slumber'd. And smiled in her face as she bended her knee ; " Oh! blest be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. " Aiid while they are keeping bright watch o'er thy sleeping. Oh I pray to them softly, my baby, with me — And say thou would'st rather they'd watch o'er thy father. For I know that the angels are whispering with thee." The dawn of the morning saw Dermot returning. And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see; And closely caressing her child with a olessing, Said: " I knew that the angels wei-e whispering with thaa," 50 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS THE FAIRY BOY. , [When a beautiful nhlld pines and dies, the Irish peasant believes the healthy infant has been stolen by the fairies, and a sickly elf left iu its place.] A MOTHER came, when stars were paling, Wailing 'round a lonely spring ; Thus she cried while tears were falling, Calling on the Fairy King: " Why with spells my child caressing, Courting him with fairy joy ; Why destroy a mother's blessing. Wherefore steal my baby boy? " O'er the mountain, through the wild wood. Where his childhood loved to play ; Where the flowers are freshly springing. There I wander, day by day. "There I wander, growing fonder Of the child that made my joy; On the echoes wildly calling, To restore my fairy boy. " But in vain my plaintive calling, Tears are falling all in vain ; He now sports with fairy pleasure, He's the treasure of their train! " Fare thee well, my child, forever, In this world I've lost my joy. But in the 7iext, we ne'er shall sever, Then I'll find my angel boy !" THE PILGRIM HARPER. The night was cold and dreary! — no star was in the sky, When, travel-tired and weary, the harper raised his cry; He raised his ci-y without the gate, his night's repose to win. And plaintive was the voice that cried: " Ah, won't you let me in?" The portal soon was opened, for in the land of song. The minstrel at the outer gate yet never lingered long; • And inner doors were seldom closed 'gainst wand'rers such as he, For locks of hearts to open soon, sWeet music is the key. But if gates are oped by melody, so grief can close them fast, And sorrow o'er that once bright hall its silent spell had east; All undisturb'd, the spider there his web might safely spin, For many a day no festive lay — no harper was let in. But when this harper entered, and said he came from far. And bore with him from Palestine the tidings of the war, And he could tell of all who fell, or glory there did win, The warder knew his noble dame would let that harper in. They led him to the bower, the lady knelt in prayer; The harper raised a well-known lay upon the turret stair; The door was oped with hasty hand, true love its meed did win, For the lady saw her own true knight, when that harper was let in! MOLLY BAWN. On, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining. Lonely waiting here for you ; The stars above are brightly shining. Because they've nothing else to do. The flowers late were open keeping. To try a rival blush with you, But their mother, Nature, -set them sleeping. With their rosy faces washed with dew, Oh, Molly Bawn— Oh, Molly Bawn. The prett}' flowers were made to bloom, dear, And the pretty stars were made to shine; The pretty girls were made for the boys, dear, And maybe you were made for mine. The wicked watch-dog here Is snarling. He takes me for a thief, you see ; He knows I'd steal you, Molly, darling. And then " transported " I would be, Oh, Molly Bawn— Oh, Molly Bawn. OF TBE EMERALD ISLE. 51 MOLLY MULDOON. [Note.— It Is generally believed that liover wrote the following sprightly and humorous poem, though his name did not appear to it. We take the liberty of publishing it in this collection.] Molly Mtjldoon was an Irish girl, And as fine a one As you'd look upon, In the cot of a peasant or hall of an earl. Her teeth were white, though not of pearl — And dark was her hair, but it did not curl ; Yet few who gazed on her teeth and her hair, But owned that a power o' beauty was there. Now many a heai'ty and rattling gorsoon, Whose fancy had charmed his heart into tune, Would dare to approach fair Molly Muldoon, But for that in her eye, Which made most of them shy And look quite ashamed, though they couldn't tell why — Her eyes were large, dark blue and clear, And heart and viind seemed in them blended. If intellect sent you one look severe Love instantly leapt in the next to mend it — Hers was the eye to check the rude, And hers the eye to stir emotion. To keep the sense and soul subdued, And calm desire into devotion. There was Jemmy O'Hare, As iine a boy as you'd see in a fair, And wherever Molly was he was there. His face was round and his build was square, And he sported as rare And tight a pair Of legs, to be sure, as are found anywhere. And Jemmy would ■wear His caubeen and hair With such a peculiar and rollicking air. That I'd venture to swear Not a girl in Kildare Nor Victoria's self, if she chanced to be there. Could resist his wild way — called " Devil may care.'' Not a boy in the parish could match him for fun, Nor wrestle, nor leap, nor hurl, nor run With Jemmy — No gorsoon could equal him — None. At wake or at wedding, at feast or at fight. At throwing the sledge with such dext'rous sleight, — He was the envy of men, and the women's delight. Now Molly Muldoon liked Jemmy O'Hare, And in troth Jemmy loved in his heart Miss Muldoon, I believe in my conscience a purtier pair Never danced in a tent at a pattern in June — To a bagpipe or fiddle On the rough cabin door That is placed in the middle — Ye may talk as ye will," There's a grace in the limbs of the peasantry there With which People of Quality couldn't compare. And Molly and Jemmy were counted the two That would keep up the longest, and go the best through All the jigs and the reels Popular songs and ballads That have occupied heels Since the days of the Murtaghs and Brian Boru. It was on a long, bright sunny day They sat on a green knoll side by side. But neither just then had much to say ; Their hearts were so full that they only tried To do anything foolish just to hide "What both of them felt, but what Molly denied. They pluck'd the speckled daisies that grew Close by their arms — then tore them, too; And the bright little leaves that they broke from the stalk, They threw at each other for want of talk; While the heart-lit look and the sunny smile, Reflected pure souls without art or guile. And every time Molly sighed or smiled, Jem felt himself grow as soft as a child ; And he fancied the sky never looked so bright, The grass so green, the daisies so bright, Everything looked so gay in his sight • That gladly he'd linger to watch them till night — And Molly herself thought each little bird Whose warbling notes her calm soul stirred, Sang only lais lay but by her to be heard. An Irish courtship's short and sweet. It's sometimes foolish and indiscreet; But who is wise when his young heart's heat Whips the pulse to a galloping beat — Ties up his juagment neck and feet, And makes him the slave of a blind conceit? Sneer not, therefore, at the loves of the poor, Though their manners be rude their affections are pure; They look not by art, and they love not by rule, For their souls are not tempered in fashion's cold schT)ol. Oh ! give me the love that endures no control But the delicate instinct that springs from the soul, As the mountain stream gushes its freshness and force, Yet obedient, wnerever it flows, to itsr source. Yes, give me the love that but nature has taught, By rank unallured and by riches unbought; Whose very simplicity keeps it secui'e — The love that illumines the hearts of the poor. All blushful was Molly, or shy at least. As one week before Lent Jem procured her consent To go the next Sunday and spake to the priest. Shrove-Tuesday was named for the wedding to be, And it dawned as bright as they'd wish to see. And Jemmy was up at the day's first peep. For the livelong night no wink could he sleep. A bran new coat, with a bright big button He took from a chest and carefully put on — And brogues as well lamjMacked as ever went foot on. Were greased with the fat of a quare sort of mutton.' Then a tidier gorsoon couldn't be seen Treading the Emerald Sod so green — Light was his step and bright was his eye, As be walked through the slobbery streets of Athy. And each girl he passed bid "God bless him" and sigliPd, While §lie wished in her heart that herself was the bride. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 58 Hush! here's the priest — let not the least Whisper be heard till the father has ceased. " Come bridegroom and bride, That the knot may be tied, Which no power upon earth can hereafter divide." Up rose the bride and the bridegroom, too. And a passage was made for them both to walk through; And his Rev'rence stood with a sanctified face, Which spread its infection around the place. The bridesmaid bustled and whispered the bride. Who felt so confused that she almost cried, But at last bore up and walked forward, where The father was standing with solemn air; The bridegroom was following after with pride, When his piercing eye something awful espied! He stopped and sighed, Looked 'round and tried To tall what he saw, but his tongue denied ; With a spring and a roar He jumped to the door. And the beide laid her eyes on the bridegroom no more! Some years sped on, Yet heard no one, Of Jemmy O'Hare, or where he had gone. But since the night of that widow'd feast. The strength of poor Molly had ever decreas'd ; Till, at length, from earth's sorrow her soul releas'd, Filed up to be ranked with the saints at least. And the morning poor Molly to live had ceased, Just five years after the widow'd feast, An American letter was brought to the priest, Telling of Jemmy O'Hare deceas'd! Who, ere his death. With his latest breath. To a spiritual father unburdened his breast. And the cause of his sudden departure confessed — " Oh, Father!" says he, "I've not long to live. So I'll freely confess, and hope you'll forgive — That same Molly Muldoon, sure I loved her indeed ; Ay, as well as the Creed That was never forsaken by one of my breed; But I couldn't have married her after I saw — " '■ Saw what?" cried the Father, desirous to hear — And the chair that he sat in unconsciously rocking — "Not in her 'karacter,' yer Rev'rince, a flaw — " The sick man here dropped a significant tear. And died as he whispered in the clergyman's ear — " But I saw, G-od forgive her, a hole in her stocking!" the moral. Lady readers, love may be Fixed in hearts immovably. May be strong and may be pure ; Faith may lean on faith secure. Knowing adverse fate's endeavor Makes that faith more firm than ever. But the purest love and strongest. Love that has endured the longest, Braving cross, and blight and tiial, 54 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS Fortune's bar, or pride's denial, Would — no matter what its trust — Be uprooted by Disgust — Yes, the love that might for years ' {Spring in suffering, grow in tears, Parents' fi'igid counsel mocking. Might be — where's the use in talking?— Upset by a broken stocking! WIDOW MACHREE. Widow Machree, it's no wonder you frown, Och, hone! Widow Machree; Faith it ruins your looks, that same dii'ty black gown, Och, hone! Widow Machree. How altered your air, With that close cap you wear — 'Tis destroying your hair, Which should be flowing free; Be no longer a chui-1 Of its black silken curl, Och, hone! Widow Machree. Widow Machree, now the summer is come, Och, hone! Widow Machree; When everj'thing smiles, should a beauty look glum? Och, hone! Widow Machree. See the birds go in pairs. And the rabbits and hares — Why even the bears Now in couples agree ; And the mute little fish, Though they can't spake, they wish, Och, hone ! Widow Machree. Widow Machree, and when winter comes in, Och, hone! Widow Machree; To be poking the fire all alone is a sin, Och, hone! Widow Machree. Shure the shovel and tongs To each other belongs. And the kettle sings songs, Full of family glee; While alone with your cup. Like a hermit you sup — Och, honel Widow Machree, And how do you know, with the comforts I've towld, Och, hone! Widow Machree ; But you're keeping some poor fellow out in the cowld, Och, hone! Widow Machree. With such sins on your head, Sure your peace would be fled. Could you sleep in your bed, Without thinking to see Some ghost or some sprite, That would wake you each night, Och, hone! Widow Machree. Then tajie my advice, darling Widow Machree, Och, hone! Widow Machree; And with my advice, faith I wish you'd take me, Och, hone! Widow Machree. You'd have me to desire. Then to sit by the fire. And sure hope is no liar, In whispering to me, That the ghosts would depart. When you'd me near your heart, Och, hone! Widow Machree. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 55 J. C. MANGAN. James Clarence Mangan was born in Dublin in 1803, and died thei'e in 1849. For a period of more than twenty years he had been a contributor to ahnost every magazine or periodical published in Ireland during that time. When scarcely fifteen j^ears of age he ob- tained a situation in a scrivener's office, where he remained for seven years, and then be- came a solicitor's clerk for three years. Describing this period of his life, he says: "I was obliged to work seven years of the ten from five in the morning, winter and summer, to eleven at night; and, during the three remaining years, nothing but a special providence could have saved me from suicide. The misery of my own mind — my natural tendency to louehness, poetry, and self-analysis, the disgusting obscenities and horrible blasphemies of those associated with me— the persecutions I was obliged to endure, and which I never avenged but by acts of kindness — the close air of the room, and the perpetual smoke of the chimney — all these destroyed my constitution. No ! I am wrong ; it was not even all these that destroyed me. In seeking to escape from this misery, I had laid the foundation of that evil habit which has proved to be my ruin." Alas! It is too true that like many another child of song he drank long and deeply; and in his desire to forget himself — to fly from the actual into the ide^I, he became an opium- eater. He became connected with the libi'ary of Trinity College, where he acquired that knowledge of languages which he afterwards turned to such good account. In person Mangan was below the middle size. His face was ashy pale, but when kindled up by the light and brilliancy of his full, blue eye, under the influence of his favorite drug, he was perfectly beautiful. He usually wore a carmelite brown kind of fi-ock coat, tightly buttoned, and occasionally over it a small, blue cloak, in the shape of which the bias cut was carefully excluded. His hat, which w-as high-crowned and battered — and the old um- brella under his arm, even the warmest day in summer, gave the finishing stroke to his quaint and specter-like appearance. And yet there was Something deeply but painfully in- teresting about him. On a friend of his presenting a looking-glass to bis face, that he might see the ravages which his wild habits were making, he said: "Yes, 1 see a skinless skull there — an empty socket where intelligence once beamed ; but when I look within myself, I behold a sadder vision- -the vision of a wasted life." His existence became like that of Savage and Foe, vagrant and dissipated, till he was taken from a garret in a mean street in Dublin to one of the public hospitals, where he died after a week's illness. His remains repose in Glasueviu cemetery, without a stone to mark the spot. Among the poets whom Ireland has produced within the last forty years, Clarence Man- gan deservedly occupies a high place. As a translator he was inimitable ; and he translated 56 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS from the Irish, the French, the German, the Spanish, the Italian, the Danish, and the East- ern languages, with such a versatile facility as not only to transfuse into his own tongue the substance and sense of his original, but the appropriate graces of style and ornament, and idiomatic expression which are peculiar to the poetry of every country. He frequently surpassed his originals in the freedom and fluency of his language; and many of the poems which he has called translations, are entirely his own. It has been well observed that he was a Dervish among the Turks, a Bursch among the Germans, a Scald among the Danes, an Improvisatore in Italy, and a Senachie in Ireland. His original poems exhibit the vigor of his style and the vividness of his fancy ; and embody every form of grace and dignitj'. in the wondrous flow and charming melody of his versification. The only poems of his which are in a collected form are his translations from the German, which were published in 1845, under the title of: " Anthologia Germanica." Poems of J. C, Mangan-. HIGHWAY FOR FREEDOM. " My suffering cornntry .shall be freed, And shine wirh tenfold glory !" So spake the gallant Winkelreid, Renowned in German story. "No tyrant, even of kingly grade, Shall cross or darken my way!" Out flashed his blade, and so he made For freedom's course a highway! We want a man like this, with power To arouse 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 thy way! The men must fight w ho dare desire For Freedom's com-se a highway ! Alas ! I can but idly gaze Around in grief and wonder; The People's will alone can raise The people's shout of thunder. 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 ! 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? Path also out For Freedom's course a highway! 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 and fugitive? 'Tis deeds, not words, that I weigh — Your swords and guns alone can give To Freedom's course a highway ! ELLEN BAWN. Ellen Bawn — oh, Ellen Bawn, you darling — darling dear, you, Sit awhile beside me here, I'll die unless I'm near you! 'Tis for j^ou I'd swim the Suir and breast the Shannon's waters: For, Ellen dear, you've not your peer in Gal way's blooming daughters! Had I Limerick's gems and gold at will to mete and measure^ Were Loughrea's abundance mine, and all Portumlia's treasure, OF THE EMERALD ISLE. m These might lure me, might insure me many and many a new love But oh! no bribe could pay your tribe for one like you, my true love! Blessings be on Connaught! that's the place for sport and rakino-' Blessnigs, too, my love, on you, a-sleeping and a- waking' '^ ' I'd have met you, dearest Ellen, when the sun went under But, woe! the flooding Shannon broke across my path in thunder. Ellen ! ! I'd give all the deer in Limerick's parks and arbors Ay, and all the ships that rode last year in Muuster's harbors Could I blot from Time the hour T first became your lover ' For, oh! you've given my heart a wound it never can recover! "Would to Grod that in the sod my corpse to-night were lying And the wild birds wheeling o'er it, and the winds a-sighing' Smce your cruel mother and your kindred chose to sever Two hearts that love would blend in one for ever and for ever' SOUL AND COUNTRY, Arise! my slumbering soul, arise! And learn what yet remains for thee To dree or do ! The signs are flaming in the skies A struggling world would yet be free And live anew. The earthquake hath not yet been born That soon shall rock the lands around Beneath their base. Immortal fi-eedora's thunder horn, As yet, yields but a doleful sound To Europe's race. Look around, my soul, and see and say If these about thee understand Their mission here ; The will to smite — the power to slay — Abound in every heart — and hand Afar, anear. But, God! must yet the conqueror's sword Pierce mind, as heart, in this proud year? Oh, dream it not! It sounds a false, blaspheming word, Begot and born of moral fear — And ill-begot 1 To leave the world a name is naught; To leave a name for glorious deeds And works of love — A name to waken lightning thought. And flre the soul of him who reads, This tells above. Napoleon sinks to-day before The ungilded shrine, the single soul Of Washington ; Truth's name alone, shall man adoi-e, Long as the waves of time shall roll Henceforward on! My countrymen! my words are weak, My health is gone, my soul is dark. My heart is chill — Yet would I fain and fondly seek To see you borne in freedom's bark O'er ocean still. Beseech your God, and bide your hour- He cannot, will not, long be dumb; Even now his tread Is heard o'er earth with coming power* And coming, trust me, it will come, ' Else M-ere he dead! THE WOMAN OP THREE COWS. {From the Irish.) JIv'/ ballad, which is of homely cast, was Intended as a rebuke to the saucy pride of a woman Iti hum ble life, who assumed airs of consequence from being tne possessor of tiiree cows Its a^?/hn?« n^^?,.^; O, Woman of Three Cows, agragh! don't let your tongue thus rattle 1 O, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because vou may have cattle. 1 have seen— and, here's my hand to you, I only say what's true— A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you. 58 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS Good luck to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't be their despiser, For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the veiy miser, And Death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows; Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good Woman of Three Cows I See where Mononia's heroes lie, proud Owen Moore's descendants, 'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants! If they were forced to iSow to Fate, as every mortal bows, Can you be proud, can yoio be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows? The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning; Movrone! * for they were banished, with no hope of their returning — Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house? Yet you can give yourself these airs, O, Woman of Three Cowsl O, think of Donnell of the Ships, the Chief whom nothing daunted — See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted! He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse — Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good Woman of Three Cows? O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in story- Think how their high achievements once made Erin's greatest glory — Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs, And so, for all your pride, will yours, O, Woman of Three Cows! Th' O'Carrolls also, famed when fame was only for the boldest, Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and oldest; Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse? Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cowsl Your neighbor's poor, and you, it seems, are big with vain ideas, Because, forsooth, you've got three cows, one more, I see, than she has; That tongue of yours wags more at times than Charity allows. But If you're strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows! THE SUMMING UP. Now, there you go! You still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing, . And I'm too poor to hinder j-ou ; but, by the cloak I'm wearing, If I had but four cows myself, even tho' you were my spouse, I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows! * My grief. i KINKORA. 1015. [This poem is ascribed to the celebrated poet, Mac Liag, the secretary of the renowned monarch, Brian Born, who, as is well known, fell at the battle of Clontarf , in 1014, and the subject of it is a lamentation for the fallen condition of Kinkora, the palace of that monarch, consequent on his death. The decease of Mac Liag is recorded in the " Annals of the Four Masters," as having taken place in 1015. A great number of his poems are still in existence, but none of them have obtained a popularity so widely extended as his " Lament." The palace of Kinkora.which was situated on the banks of the Shannon, near Killaloe, is now a heap of ruins.] Oh, where, Kinkora, is Brian the Great? And where is the beauty that once was thine? Oh, where are the princes and nobles that sate At the feast in thy halls, and drank the red wine? Where, oh, Kinkora? Oh, where, Kinkora, are thy valorous lords? Oh, whither, thou Hospitable, are they gone? Oh, where are the Dalcassians of the golden ' swords?* And where are the warriors Brian led on? Where, oh, Kinkora? * Colg n-or, or the Swords of Gold, i. e., of the Goldhilted Swords. 1^- OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 59 And where is Morrough, the descendant of kings; The defeater of a hundred — the daringly brave — Who set but slight store by jewels and rings — Who swam down the torrent and la,ughed at its wave, , Where, oh, Kinkora? Aud where is Donogh, King Brian's worthy son? And where is Conaing, the beautiful chief? Ami Kian and Core? Alas! they are gone — They have left me this night alone with my grief! Left me, Kinkora ! And where are the chiefs with whom Brian went forth, The never vanquished sons of Erin the brave, The great King of Onaght, renowned for his worth, And the hosts of Baskinn, from the western wave? Where, oh, Kinkora? Oh, where is Duvlann of the Swift-footed Steeds? And where is Kian, who was son of MoUoy? And where is King Lonergan, the fame of whose deeds In the red battle-field no time can destroy? Whei-e, oh, Kinkora? And where is that youth of majestic hight, The faith-keeping Prince of the Scots? Even he, As wide as his fame was, a^* great as was his might. Was tributary, oh Kinkora, to thee! Thee, oh, Kinkora! They are gone, those heroes of royal birth ! Who plundered no churches, and broke no trust ; 'Tis weary for me to be living on earth When thee, oh Kinkora, lie low in the dust! Low, oh, Kinkora! Oh. never again will princes appear, To rival the Dalcassiaus of the cleaving swords ; I can never dream of meeting afar or anear In the east or the west, such heroes and lords! Never, Kinkora! Oh. dear are the images my memory calls up Of Brian Boru! — how he never would miss To give me at the banquet, the first bright cup! Ah ! why did he heap on me honor like . this? Why, oh, Kinkora? I am Mac Liag, and my home is on the lake ; Thither often, to that palace whose beauty is fied, Came Brian, to ask me, and I went for his sake, Oh, my grief! that I should live, and Brian be dead ! Dead, oh, Kinkora! PANEGYRIC ON BLACK THOMAS BUTLER. EAKL OF ORMOND, BETWEEN THE BEIGN OF HENRY VIII. AND ELIZABETH. {From the Irish.) Strike the loud lyre for Dark Thomas, the Roman, Roman in Faith, but Hibernian in Soul! Him, who, the idol of warrior and woman. Never feared peril, and never knew dole. Who is the Man whom I name with such rapture? Who but our Ossory's and Ormond's Great Chief — He whom his foes battled vainly to capture — He whom his friends loved beyond all belief! Him the great Henry* gave rubies and rings to — Him the King Edward for fleetness admired; Even as his body, his spirit had wings, too, , And defied efiiorts that death alone tired. ♦ Henry VXII, 60 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS Southwards tins morn into deep Tipperary, Northward ere night on the shores of the Erne, Always he showed his contempt of those chary Shifbs of the soul that no Butler could learn! Oriel of streams, and Duhallow of Harbors, Yielded him shoreward s their silver and gold* — All he despised! as those greenwoods and harbors Grii'dling his towei's from the ages of old. Riches he loved not — his trust and his treasure Lay in the midst of his far flaming sword; War was his pastime and battle his pleasure, And his own glory the God he adored! Thrice, and a fourth time, he humbled Clan Caura; + His were the warriors that wasted Dunlo — How his bands ravaged and fired Glen-na-Maura Who tlioughout green Inisfail doth not know? Munster beheld his achievements of wonder, Connaught and Ulster his bands left bereaven : Wrath, like the wrath of his lightning and thunder, . Cast into shade the high anger of Heaven ! Woe unto us ! This great man has departed ! Quenched lies his lamp in the dust of the tomb ! He, the land's giant, the great Lion-hearted! He, even he, hath succumbed unto Doom! Rest is his lot for whom Life yielded no rest — Darkling and lone is his dwelling to-night — On the proud thousand-yeared Oak of the Forest Hath on a sudden come blastment and blight! Toll ye his funeral dirge, ye dark waters, O'er which so often his fleets held their march! Mourn for the Earl, thou lerna of Slaughters; Build up his pillar and laurel his arch! Thy foes were his, and with them he warred only — Weep for him, then, from the depths of thy core! Weep for the Chief who hath left thee thus lonely — One like to him thou shalt never see more ! O ! for myself, my bwo eyes are as fountains — Flowing, o'erflowing, by night and by morn, Gloomily roam I on Banba's t grey mountains. Feeling all wretched, all stricken and lorn. Jewels and gold in profusion he gave me — Would they, not he, were now under the sod! 1 shall soon follow him; these cannot save me — Death is my guerdon, but, Glory to God ! Glory to God in the Highest — and Lowest! His are the Power and the Glory alone — Pay Him, O, Man, the high homage thou owest, Whether thou rest on a footstool or throne ! Yet may His glory be mirrored in others — As in the waves the rich poop of the bark; And the mean man stands apart from his brothers, W ho doth not trace it in Thomas the Dark ! , * Viz:— Their white and yellow fisli. + xhe MacCarthies, i J3anba (Banva) was one ot the ancient nanaes of Irelancl. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. . 61 CAHAL MOR OP THE WTNE-RED HAND. I WALKED entranced Through a land of Morn ; The sun. with wondrous excess of light, Shone down and glanced Over seas of corn, And lustrous gardens alef t and right. Even in the clime Of resplendent Spain Beams no such sun upon such a land ; But it was the time, 'Twas in the reign Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand. Anon stood nigh By my side a man Of princely aspect and port sublime. When he: " The clime Is a clime to praise, The clime is Erin's, the green and bland; And it is the time. These be the days. Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-Red Hand." Then I saw thrones. And circling fires, And a dome 'rose near me as by a spell, Whence flowed the tones Of silver lyres. And many voices in wreathed swell ; And their thrilling chime Pell on mine ears As the heavenly-hymn of an angel band- Him queried I: ' " It is now the time, " Oh, my lord and khan, I These be the years. What clime is this and what golden time?" Of Cahal Mor of the VVine-red Hand." THE SIEGE OP MAYNOOTH. Crom, Crom-aboo!* The Greraldine rebels from proud Maynooth, And with Him are leagued four hundred, the flower of Leinster's youth. Take heart once more, oh, Erin! The great God gives thee hope; And thro' the mist of Time and Woe thy true Life's portals ope! Earl Thomas of the Silken Robes! — here doubtless burns thy soul; Thou beamest here a Living Sun, around which thy planets roll. Ohl would the Eternal Powers above that this were only so! Then had our land, now scorned and banned, been saved a world of woe! No more — no more! — it maddeneth so! — But rampart, keep, and tower, At least are still — long may they be — a part of Ireland's power ! But — who looks 'mid his warriors from the walls, as gleams a pearl 'Mid meaner stones? 'Tis Parez — foster-brother of the Earl. Enough ! — we shall hear more of him ! Amid the hundred shafts Which cainpward towards the Saxon host the wind upbears and wafts, One strikes the earth at Talbot's feet, with somewhat white — a scroll — Impaled upon its barb — Oh ! how exults the leader's soul ! He grasps it — reads: " Now, by St. George, the day at last is ours! Before to-morrow's sun arise we hold yon haughty towers! The craven traitor ! — but, 'tis well ! — he»shall receive his hire. And somewhat more to boot, God wot, than perchance he may desire !" * The war-cries of the principal Irish septs or families were the following:— The Fitzgeealds', Earls of Kildare, Crom-aboo! Crom for Ever! or. Hurrah for Crom! This cry lias been suggested by their strong- liold of Croom, in the County Limerick. The Fitzgkralds', Knighrs of Kerry, Farri-huidhe-aboo! The Yellow Iroop for Kver! The O'Neils', Earls of Tyrone, Lamhdearg-abon.' The Red Hand for Ever! The Crest of tiie family is the Red Hand. The O'Briens', Zamft-?aidc?--aboo.' The Stong Hand for Ever! Crest, a dexter arm holding a naked sword. Tlie M'Carthys' and FiTZntAtTRiCES' was tlie same as the Briens'. But the M'Carthys', Earls of Desmond, took Sean-ait-aboo! The Old Place, for Ever! The De Burgos' or BoORKES', Earls of Clanricarde, Gall-ruath-aboo! The Red Stranger for Ever! Richard De Biirgo, the sec- ond Earl of Ulster, was red-haired, and hence he was called the Red Earl, anci his descendants the Red Strangers. The Fitzpatricks', or Mac-Gille-Patricks', Geair-laider-aboo! Tlie Sharp and Strong for Ever! Crest, a Lion and a Dragon. The Mac-Sweeneys", Battailah-aboo! The Noble Staff for Ever!— in allusion to a part of the family arms. The Hefpernans', Ceart-na Suas-oboo! The Right from. Above for Ever! intimating that no justice was to be expected without the aid of Heaven. The Husseys', Barons of Galtrim, Cair-direaeh-aboo! Strict Justice for Ever! These cries mean, Success to the cause of the family! Hurrah for the family! or the family and cause,for ever! Previously to attacking an enemy it was cus- tomary among the Irish in former times to cry out: Farrah—Farrah! which meant. Fall on— Fall on! It is not unusual for the Irish soldiers to-day to shout the cry of Fatig-a-ballagh! Clear the ivay! Napier, in his History of the Peninsular War, says: " Nothing so startled the French soldiery as the wild yell with wblcll tb§ Irish regiments sprang to the charge," 62 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS Alas — alas! — 'tis all too true! A thousand marks of gold In Parez' hands, and Leinster's bands are basely bought and soldi Earl Thomas loses fair Maynooth and a hundred of his clan — But, worse! he loses half his hopes, for he loses trust in Mau! The morn is up; the gates lie wide; the foe pour in amain. Oh ! Parez, pride thee in thy plot, and hug thy golden chain ! There are cries of rage from battlements, and mellays beneath in cowrt, But Leinster's Brave, ere noon blaze high, shall mourn in donjon fort! "Ho! Master Parez! thou?" So spake in the hall the Saxon chief — "How hast thou proved this tentless loon? But, come, we will stanch thy grief! Count these broad pieces over well !" He flung a purse on the ground, Which in wrathful silence Parez grasped, 'mid the gaze of all around. "So! — right?" "Yes, right. Sir John ! Enough! I now depart for home !" "Home! sayest-thou. Master Parez? Yes, and by my Halidome, Mayest reach that sooner than thou dreamest. But before we part, I would a brief, blunt parle with thee. Nay, man, why dost thou start?" "A sudden spasm. Sir John." — "Ay — ay! those sudden spasms ivill shock, . As when, thou knowest, a ti'aitor lays his head upon the block!" "Sir John!" — "Hush, man, and answer me! Till then thou art in bale — Till then mine enemy and thrall!" The fallen chief turned pale. "Say, have I kept good faith with thee?" — "Thou hast — good faith and true!" " I owe thee nought, then?" "Nought, Sir John; the gold lies here to view." "Thou art the Earl's own foster brother?" — "Yes, and bosom friend!" "What?" — "Nay, Sir John, I need those pieces, and " — "Conie, there's an end!" "The Earl heaped favors on thee?" — "Never King heaped more on Lord!" "He loved thee? honored thee?" — "I was his heart, his arm, his sword!" "He trusted thee?" — "Even as he trusted his own lofty soul!" "And thou betrayest him? Base wretch! thou knowest the traitor's goal I "Ho! Provest-Marshal, hither! Take this lose! caitiff hence — I mark, methinks, a scaffold under yonder stone defense. Off with his head! By Heaven, the blood within me boils and seethes, To look on him! So vile a knave pollutes the air he breathes!" 'Twas but four days thereafter, of a stormy evening late. When a horseman reared his charger in before the castle gate. And gazing upwards, he desci'ied by the light of the pale moon shed, Impaled upon an iron stake, a well-known gory head! " So, Parez! thou hast met thy meed!" he said, and turned away — "And was it a foe that thus avenged me on that fatal day? Now, by my troth, albeit I hate the Saxon and his land, I couldj methinks, for one brief moment press the Talbot's hand !" IRISH NATIONAL HYMN. Oh, Ireland, ancient Ireland, Ancient, yet forever young; Thou our mother, home and sireland. Thou at length hast found a tongue. Proudly thou at length, Resistest in triumphant strength. Thy flag of freedom floats unfurled; And as that mighty God existeth, Who giveth victory when and where he listeth. Thou yet shall wake and shake the nations of the world. For this dull world still slumbers, Weetless of its wants or loves, Though, like Ci-alileo, nuojbers OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 63 Cry aloud: " It moves — it moves 1" Iq a midnight dream, Drifts it down Time's wreckful stream — All march, but few descry the goal. Oh, Ireland be it thy high duty To teach the world the might of moral beauty, And stamp God's image truly on the strug- gling soul. Strong in thy self-reliance. Not in idle threat or boast. Hast thou hurled thy fierce defiance At the haughty Saxon hgst. Thou hast claimed, in sight Of high Heaven, thy long- lost right. Upon thy hills, along thy plains. In the green bosom of thy valleys, The new-born soul of holy freedom rallies. And calls on thee to trample down in dust thy chains ! Deep, saith the Eastern story, Burns in Iran's mines a gem, For its dazzling hues and glory Worth a Sultan's diadem. But from human eyes Hidden there it ever lies ! The aye-travailing G-nonies alone, Who toil to form the mountain's treasure. May gaze and gloat with pleasure without measure Upon the lustrous beauty of that wonder stone. So is it with a nation Which would win for its rich dower That bright pearl, Self-Liberation — It must labor hour by hour. Strangers, who travail To lay bare the gem, shall fail; Within itself, must grow, must glow — Within the depths of its own bosom Must flower in living night, must broadly blossom, The hopes that shall be born ere Freedom's Tree can blow. Go on, then, all-rejoiceful! " March on thy career unbowed ! Ireland ! let thy noble, voicef ul Spirit cry to God aloud ! Man will bid thee speed — God will aid thee in thy need — The Time, the Hour, the Power are near — Be sure thou soon shall form the vanguard Of that illustrious band whom Heaven and Man guard; And these words come from one ivhom some have called a Seer. THE RUINS OF DONEGAL CASTLE.* (From the Irish.) O MOURNPUL, O forsaken pile, What desolation dost thou dree ! How tarnished is the beauty that was thine ere while, .Thou mansion of chaste melody ! Demolished lie thy towers and halls ; A dark, unsightly, earthen mound Defaces the pure whiteness of thy shining walls. And solitude doth gird thee round. Fair fort ! thine hour has come at length, Thine older glory has gone by. Lo! far beyond thy noble battlements of strength. Thy corner-stones all scattered lie I Wliere now, O rival of the gold E mania, be thj'' wine- cups all? Alas! for these thou now hast nothing but the cold — Cold stream that from the Heavens doth fall! Thy clay-choked gateways none can trace, Thou fortress of the once bright doors! The limestones of thy summit now. bestrew thy base. Bestrew the outside of thy floors. Above thy shattered window-sills The music that to-day breaks forth Is but the music of the wild winds from the hills. The wild winds of the stormy North! What spell o'ercame thee, mighty fort, What fatal fit of slumber strange, O palace of the wine! — O many-gated court! That thou should'st undergo this change? Thou wert, O bright-walled, beaming one, Thou cradle of high deeds and bold, The Tara of Assemblies to the sons of Con, Clan-Connell's Council-hall of old! * This fine old castle of his ancestors was razed to the gronnd by Hugh Roe O'Donnell, previously 10 his journey to Spain, lest it should fall into the hands of the English. 64 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS Thou wert a new Eniania, thou ! A northern Cruachan in thy might — A dome like that which stands by Boyne's broad water now, Thou Erin's Rome of all delight ! In thee were Ulster's tributes stored, And lavished like the flowers in May; And into thee were Counaught's thousand treasures poured, Deserted though thou art to-day! How often from thy turrets high, Thy purple turrets, have we seen Long lines of glittering ships, when summer time drew nigh, With masts and sails of snow-white sheen ! How often seen, when gazing 'round. From thy.tall towers, the hunting trains. The blood-enlivening chase, the horseman and the hound. The fastness of a hundred plains! How often to thy banquets bright We have seen the strong-armed Gaels re- pair. And when the feast was over, once again unite For battle, in thy bass-court fair! Alas, for thee, thou fort forlorn ! Alas, for thy low, lost estate ! It is my woe of woes, this melancholy morn. To see thee left thus desolate ! O ! there hath come of Connell's race A many and many a gallant chief. Who, if he saw thee now, thou of the once glad face! Could not dissemble his deep grief. Could Manus of the lofty soul Behold thee as this day thou art. Thou of the regal towers! what bitter — bitter dole, What agony would rend his heart! Could Hugh Mac Hugh's imaginings Portiay for him thy rueful plight, What anguish, O, thou palace of the northern kings. Were his through many a sleepless night ! Could even the mighty Prince whose choice It was to o'erthrow thee^ — could Hugh Roe But view thee now, methink he would not much rejoice That he had laid thy turrets low ! Oh! who could dream that one like him, One sprung of such a line as his, , Thou of the embellished walls, would be the man to dim Thy glories by a deed like this? From Hugh O'Donnell, thine own brave. And far-famed sovereign came the blow? By him, thou lonely castle o'er the Esky's wave. By him was wrough thine overthrow. Yet not because he wished thee ill. Left he thee thus bereaven and void ; The prince of the victorious tribe of Dalach still Loved thee, yea, thee whom he destroyed ! He brought upon thee all his ~\-oe, Thou of the fair-proportioned walls. Lest thou shouldst ever yield a shelter to the foe — Shouldst house the black, ferocious Galls! Shouldst ^^et become, in saddest truth, ■ A Dun-a-Gall * — the stranger's own. For this cause only, stronghold of the Gaelic youth. Lie thy majestic towers o'ertbrown. It is a drear, a dismal sight, Tills of thy ruin and decay. Now that our kin^s, and bards, and men of mark and might Are nameless exiles far away ! Yet, better thou shouldst fall, meseems, By thine own king of many thrones. Than that the truculent Galls should rear around thy streams Dry mounds and cii'cles of great stones. As doth in many a desperate case The surgeon by the malady, So hath, oh shield and bulwark of great Coffey's race. Thy royal master done by theel The surgeon, if he be but wise, Examines till he learns and sees Where lies the fountain, of his patient's health, where lies The germ and root of his disease. Then cuts away the gangrened part, That so the sounder may be freed Ere the disease hath power to reach the sufferer's heart. And so bring death without remead. Now thou hast held the patient's place, And thy disease hath been the foe ; * Fort of the foreigner. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 65 So he, thy surgeon, oh, proud house of Dalach's race, Who should he be if not Hugh Roe? But he, thus fated to destroy Thy shining walls, will yet restore And raise thee up anew in beauty and in joy. So that thou shalt not sorrow more. By God's help, he who wrought thy fall Will reinstate thse yet in pride ; Thy variegated halls shall be rebuilded, all Thy lofty courts, thy chambers wide. Yes ; thou shalt live again, and see Thine youth renewed. Thou shalt outshine Thy former self by far, and Hugh shall reign in thee, The Tirconnellian's king and thine! LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OP TYRONE AND TYRCONNELL. {From the Irish.) [This is an Elegy on the death of the princes of Tyrone and Tyrconnell.who having fled with others from Ireland In the year 1607, and afterwards dying at Rome, were Interred on St. Peter's Hill, In one grave. The poem is the production of O'Donnell's bard, Owen Roe Mac an Bhaird, or Ward, who accompanied the family in their exile, and is addressed to Nuala. O'Donnell's sister, who was also one of the fugitives. As the circumstances connected with the flight of the Northern Eai-ls, which led to the subsequent confisca- tion of the six Ulster Counties by James I., may not be immediately in the recollection of many of our readers, it may be proper briefly to state, that it was caused by the discovery of a letter directed to Sir William Ussher, Clerk of the Council, dropped in the Council-chamber on the 7th of May, and which ac- cused the Northern chieftains generally of a conspiracy to overthrow the government. The charge is now totally disbelieved. As an illustration of the poem, and as an intei-esting piece of hitherto unpublished literature in Itself, we extract the account of the flight as recorded in the Annals of the Four Masters, and translated by Mr. O'Donovan: "Maguire (Cuconnaught) and Bonogh, son of Mahon. who was son of the Bishop O'Brien, sailed in a ship to Ireland, and put in at the harbor of Swilly. They then took with them from Ireland the Earl O'Neill (Hugh, son of Fedoragh) and the Earl O'Donnell (Rory, son of Hugh, who was son of Magnus) and many others of the nobles of the province of Ulster. These are the persons who went with O'Neill, namely, his Countess Catherina, daughter of Magennis, and her three sons; Hugh, the Baron, John, and Brian; Art Oge, son of Cormac, who was son of the Baron; Ferdoragh, son of Con, who was son of O'Neill; Hugh Oge, son of Brian, who was son of Art O'Neill; and many others of his most' inti- mate friends. These were they who went with the Earl O'Donnell, namely, Caffer, his brother, wiih his sister Nuala; Hugh, the Earl's child, wanting three weeks of being one year old; Rose, daughter of O'Do- herty and wife of Caffer, with her son Hugh, aged two years and three months; his (Rory's) brother's son Donnell Oge, son of Donnell, Naghtan son of Calvach, who was son of Donogh Cairbreach O'Donnell, and many others of his intimate friends. They embarked on the Festival of the Holy Ci'oss in autumn. This was a distinguished company; and it Is certain that the sea has not borne and the wind has not wafted in modern times a number of persona in one ship more eminent, illustrious, or noble in point of genealogy, heroic deeds, valor, feats of arms, and brave achievements than they. Would that God had but permitted' them to remain in their patrimonial inheritance until the children should arrive at the age of manhood! Woe to the heart that meditated, woe to the mind that conceived, woe to the council that recommended the project of this expedition, without knowing whether they should, to the end of their lives, be able to return to their native principalities or patrimonies." The Earl of Tyrone was the illustrious Hugh O'Neill the Irish leader in the wars against Elizabeth.] ' " The Saturday before the flight, the Earl of Tyrone was with the lord-deputv at Slane, where he had spoken with his lordship of his journey into England, and told him he would be there about the beginning of Michaelmas term, according to his Majesty's directions. He took leave of the lord-deputy In a more sad and passionate manner than was usual with him. From thence he went to Mellifont and Garret Moore's house, where he wept abundantly whpu he took his leave,, giving a solemn farewell to every child and every servant in the house, which made them all marvel, because in general It was not his manner to use 'such compliments. On Monday he went to Dungarvan, where he rested two whole days, and on Wednes- day night they say he travelled all night. It is likewise reported that the countess, his wife, being exceed- ingly weary, slipped down from her horse, and weeping, said: ' She could go no further.' Whereupon the earl drew his sword, and swore a great oath that 'he would kill her on the spot if she would not pass on with him. and put on a more cheerful countenance.' When the party, which consisted (men, women and children) of fifty or sixty persons, arrived at Loch Foyle, it was found that their journey had not been so secret but that the governor there had notice of it, and sent to invite Tyrone and his son to dinner. Their haste, however, was such that they accepted not his courtesy, but hastened on to Rathmulla, a town on the west side or Lough Swilly, where the Earl of Tyrconnell and his company met with them. From thence the whole party embarked, and landing on the coast of Normandy, proceeded through Prance to Brussels. Davies-concludes his curious narrative with a few pregnant words, in which the difficulties that England had to contend with in conquering Tyrone are thus acknowledged with all the frankness of a generous foe:—' As for us that are here,' he says, ' we are glad to see the day wherein the countenance and majesty of the law and civil government hath banished Tyrone out of Ireland, which the best army in Europe, and the expense of two millions of sterling pounds had not been able to bring to pass.' "—Moore's Ireland. 0, Woman of the Piercing Wail, Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay With sigh and groan. Would God thou wert among the Gael ! Thou wouldst not then from day to day Weep thus alone. 'Twere long before, around a grave In green Tirconnell, one could find This loneliness; Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined Companionless. 66 POPULAR SO]!^GS AND BALLADS Beside the wave, in Donegal, In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore, Or Killilee, Or where the sunny waters fall, At Assaroe, near Erna's shore, This could not be. On Derry's plains — in rich Drumclieff — Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned In olden years, No day could pass but wom.nn's grief Would rain upon the burial ground Fresh floods of tears ! Oh, no — from Shannon, Boyne, and Suir, From high Dunluce's castle- Malls, From Lissadill, Would flock alike both rich and poor, One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls ToTara'shill; And some would come from Barrow-side, And many a maid M-ould leave her home On Leitrim's plains. And by melodious Banna's tide, And by the Mourne and Erne, to come And swell thy strains! Oh. horses' hoofs would trample down The Mount whereon the martyr-saint* Was crucified. From glen and hill, from plain and town. One loud lament, one thrilling plaint. Would echo wide. TJiere would not soon be found, I ween. One foot of ground among those bands For museful thought. So many shriekers of the keen^ Would cry aloud, and clap their hands, All woe-distraught! Tmo princes of the line of Conn Sleep in their cells of clay beside O'Donnell Roe; Three royal youths, alas! are gone. Who lived for Ei'in's weal, but died , For Erin's woe! Ah ! could the men of Ireland read The names these noteless burial stones Display to view, Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed, Theii" tears gush forth again, their groans Resound anew ! The youths whose relics moulder here Were sprung from Hugh, high Prince and Lord Of Aileach's lands; * St. Peter. This passage is not exactly a blunder, thouRli at first it may seem one; the poet supposes the grave itself transferred to Ireland, and he naturally include.s in the transference the whole of the immediate locality around the grave. — Tr. t Keen, or Caoine, the funeral-wail. Thy noble brothers, justly dear. Thy nephew, long to be deplored By Ulster's bands. Theirs were not souls wherein dull Time Could domicile Decay or house Decrepitude ! They passed from Earth ere Manhood's prime, Ere years had power to dim their brows Or chill their blood. And who can marvel o'er thy grief. Or who can blame thy flowing tears, That knows their source? O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief, Cut off amid his vernal years, Lies here a corse Beside his brother Cathbar, whom Tirconnell of the Helmets mourns In deep despair — For valor, truth, and comely bloom, For all that greatens and adorns, A peerless pair. Oh, had these twain, and he, the third, The Lord of Mourne, O'Niall's son, Their mate in death — A prince in look, in deed and word — Had these three heroes yielded on The fleld their breath. Oh, had they fallen on Criffan's plain, There would not be a town or clan From shore to sea, But would with shrieks bewail the Slain, Or chant aloud the exulting rann* Of jubilee! When high the shout of battle rose. On flelds where freedom's torch still burned Through Erin's gloom, If one, if barely one of those Were slain, all Ulster would have mourned The hero's doom ! If at Athboy, where hosts of brave Ulidian horsemen sank beneath The shock of spears, Young Hugh O'Niell had found a grave, Long must the north have wept his death With heart-wrung tears! If on the day of Ballachmyre The Lord of Mourne had met, thus young, A warrior's fate. In vain would such as thou desire To mourn, alone, the champion sprung From NialJL the Great ! No marvel this — for all the Dead, OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 67 Heaped on the field, pile over pile, At Muilach-brack. Were scarce an eric* for his head, If Death had stayed his footsteps while On victory's track ! If on the Day of Hostages The fruit had from the parent bough Been rudely torn Iti si»ht of Muster's bands— MaG-N>ie's— Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow, Could ill have borne. If on the day of Ballock-boy Some arm had laid, by foul surprise, The chieftain low, Even our victorious shouts of joy Would soon give place to rueful cries And groans of woe! If on the day the Saxon host Were forced to fly — a day so great For Ashaneet — The chief had been untimely lost, Our conquering troops should moderate Their mirthful glee. There would not lack on Lifford's day, From Q-alway, from the glens of Bo3'"le, From Limerick's towers, A marshalled file, a long array, Of mourners to bedew the soil With tears in showers! If on the day a sterner fate Compelled his flight from Athenree, His blood had flowed. What numbers all disconsolate Would come unasked, and share with thee Aflliction'sload! If Perry's crimson field had seen His life-blood offered up, though 'twere On Victory's shrine, A thousand cries would swell the keen, A thousand voices of despair Would echo thine! O, had tlie fierce Dalcassian swarm That bloody night on Fergus' banks But slain our chief. When arose his camp in wild alai'm — How would the triumph of his ranks Be dashed with grief! How would the troops of Murback mourn If on the Curlew Mountains' day, Which Eagland rued. Some Saxon hand had left them loni, By shedding there, amid the fray, Their prince's blood! Red would have been our warrior's eyes Had Roderick found on Sligo's field A gory grave, No Northern Chief would soon arise So sage to guide, so strong to shield, So swift to save. Long would Leith-Cuinn have wept if Hugh Had met the death he oft had dealt Among the foe; But, had our Roderick fallen too. All Erin must, alas! have felt The deadly blow ! What do I say? Ah, woe is me! Alreadj^ we bewail in vain The fatal fall! And Erin, once the Great and Free, Now vainly mourns her breakless chain, And iron thrall! Then, daughter of O'Donnell, dry Thine overflowing eyes, and turn Thy heart aside. For Adam's race is boi-n to die. And sternly the sepulchral urn Mocks human pride ! Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne, Nor place thy trust in arm of claj'', But on thy knees Uplift thy soul to God alone. For all things go their destined way As He decrees. Embrace the faithful Crucifix, And seek the path of pain and prayer Thy Saviour trod ; Nor let thy spirit intermix With earthly hope and worldly care Its groans to God! And Thou, Oh mighty Lord ! whose waj's Are far above our feeble minds To understand. Sustain us in these doleful days. And render light the chain that binds Our fallen land! Look down upon our dreary state, And thi-ough the ages that may still Roll sadl}!- on. Watch thou o'er hapless Erin's fate, And shield at least from darker ill The blood of Conn! * A compensation or fijie, + gallysbanuou, 68 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS THE POET'S PREACHlNa. {From the German of Salis Seeiuis.) See how the day beameth brightlj^ before iisl Blue is the firmament — green is the earth — Grief hath no voice in the universe-chorus — Nature is ringing with Music and Mirth. Lift up the looks that are sinking in Sadness — Graze ! and if Beauty can capture thy soul, Virtue herself will allure thee to Gladness — Gladness, Philosophy's guerdon and goal. Enter the treasuries Pleasure uncloses — List! how she trills in the nightingale's lay! Breathe! she is wafting thee sweets from the roses; Feel! she is cool in the rivulet's play; Taste! from the grape and the nectarine gushing Flows the red rill in the beams of the sun — Green in the hills, in the flower groves blushing, Look! she is always and everywhere one. Banish, then, mourner, the tears that are trickling Over the cheeks that should rosily bloom: Why should a man, like a girl or a sickling. Suffer his lamp to be quenched in the tomb. Still may we battle for Goodness and Beauty; Still hath Philanthropy much to essay; Glory rewards the fulfilment of Duty ; Pest will pavilion the end of our way. What, though corroding and multiplied sorrows, Legion-like, dai-ken this planet of ours, Ifope is a balsam the wounded heart borrows Ever when Anguish hath palsied its powers : Wherefore, though Fate play the part of a traitor, Soar o'er the stars on the pinions of Hope, Fearlessly certain that sooner or later Over tiie stars thy desires shall have scope. Xiook 'round about on the face of Creation ! Still is God's Earth undistorted and bright. Comfort the captives to long tribulation. Thus shalt thou reap the more perfect delight. Love' — but if Love be a hallowed emotion, Purity only its rapture should share; Love, then, with willing and deathless emotion, All that is just and exalted and tair. Act ! — for in Action are Wisdom and Glory, Fame, Immortality — these are its crown: Wouldst thou illumine the tablets of story, OF THE EMERALD ISLE. Build on achievements thy dome of Renown. Honor and Feeling were given thee to cherish ; Cherish them, then, though all else should decay: Landmarks be these that are never bo perish, Stars that will shine on thy duskiest day. Courage! — Disaster and Peril once over, Fresiaen the spirit as showers the grove: O'er the dim groans that the cypresses cover Soon the Forget-me-not rises in love. Courage, then, friends! Though the universe crumble, Innocence, dreadless of danger beneath. Patient and trustful and joyous and humble, Smiles through the ruin on Darkness and Death. THE TIME OP THE BARMECIDES. {From the Arabic.) My eyes are filmed, my beard is grey, I am bowed with the weight of years ; I would I were sti-etched in my bed of clay, With my long-lost youth's compeers ! For back to the past, though the thought brings woe, My memory ever glides To the old — old time, long — long ago. The time of the Barmecides. To the old — old time, long — long ago, The time of the Barmecides. Then youth was mine, and a fierce wild will, And an iron arm in war. And a flleefc foot high upon Ishkar's hill, When the watch-lights glimmered afar; And a barb as fiery as any I know That Khoord or Beddaween rides, Ere my friends lay low, long— long ago. In the time of the Barmecides. Ere my friends lay low, long— long ago. In the time of the Barmecides. One golden goblet illumed my board, One silver dish was there ; At hand my tried Karamanian sword Lay always bright and bar.e; For those were the days when the angry blow Supplanted the word that chides, When hearts could glow, long — long ago, In the time of the Barmecides. When hearts could glow, long — long ago, In the time of the Barmecides 70 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS Through city and desert my mates and I Were free to rove and roam, Our diapered canopy the deep of the sky, Or the roof of the palace-dome — Oh, ours was that vivid life to and fro Which only sloth derides — Men spent life so, long — long ago, In the time of the Barmecides, Men spent life so, long — long ago, In the time of the Barmecides I I see rich Bagdad once again, With its turrets of Moorish mould, And the Khalif's twice five hundred men Whose binishes flamed with gold; I call up many a gorgeous' show Which the Pall of Oblivion hides- All passed like snow, long — ^long ago. With the time of the Barmecides; All passed like snow, long — long ago. With the time of the Barmecides 1 But mine eye is dim, and my beard is grey. And I bend with the weight of years — Mav I soon go down to the House of Clay Where slumber my youth's compeers ! For with them and the past, though the thought wakes woe. My memory ever abides. And I mourn for the time gone long ago, For the time of the Barmecides 1 I mourn for the time gone long ago, For the time of the Barmecides 1 OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 71 EDWARD WALSH- Edward Walsh was born in Londonderry in the year 1805, and died in Cork on tlie 6th of August, 1850, in the forty-fifth year of his age. Of the number of poets which Ire- land has produced duringthe last fifty years, there was none more Irish than our author. It was his boast that he belonged to an old Sept which was settled on the borders of Cork and Kerry ages before the English invasion; and it would be rare to meet a man of purer heart or more sterling sentiment. His father, who was a small farmer in the county of Corn, eloped with a young lady much above his own position in life. Shortly after mar- riage his diflficulties increased, and to avoid them, he enlisted in the mUitia, and was quar- tered in LondondeiTy when his son was bom. The poet having received a good education, in early life became a private tutor. Some time after he taught school in Millstreet, county Cork, from which he removed in 1837, and went to teach in Toureen, where he first began to write for the magazines. After some time he went up to Dublin, where he soon became disappointed, and was at last elected schoolmaster to the convict station at Spike Island. In a year or two be left this place and became teacher at the Workhouse in Cork, where he remained till his death. He married early, and has left a wife and family to mourn his loss. Two volumes of his poetical translations from the Irish have been publish- ed, with the original text on the opposite page. He was a great proficient in the fairy and legendary lore of the country; indeed, second only to Crofton Croker himself. His contri- butions to Irish literature have been both considerable and creditable; there is a singular beauty and fascinating melody in his verse which cheers and charms the ear and heart. His translations preserve all the peculiarities of the old tongue, which he knew and spoke with graceful fluency. His ballads are the most literal and characteristic which we possess. His "Jacobite Relics of Ireland," published by that persevering and spirited promo- ter of Irish literature, John O'Daly of Dublin, contains some of the best specimens of his muse. 72 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS Poems of Edward Walsh A MUNSTEE, KEEN. On Monday morning, the flowers were gayly springing, The skylark's hymn in middle air was singing, When, grief of griefs! my wedded husband left me, And since that hour of hope and health bereft me. Ulla gulla, gulla g'one! etc., etc.* Above the board, where thou art low reclining, Have parish priest and horsemen high been dining, And wine and usquebaugh, while they were able, They quaffed with thee — the soul of all the table. Ulla gulla, gulla g'one! etc., etc. Why didst thou die? Could wedded wife adore thee, With purer love than that my bosom bore thee? Thy children's cheeks were peaches I'ipe and mellow. And threads of gold, their tresses long and yellow. Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! etc, , etc. In vain for me are pregnant heifers lowing ; In vain for me are yellow harvests growing; Or thy nine gifts of love in beauty blooming — Tears blind my eyes, and grief my heart's consuming! Ulla gulla, gulla g'one! etc., etc. Pity her plaints whose wailing voice is bi'oken. Whose finger holds our eai'ly wedding token. The torrents of whose tears have drain'd their fountain, Whose piled-up grief on grief is past recounting. Ulla gulla, gulla g'one! etc., etc. I still might hope, did I not thus behold thee. That high Knockferin's airy peak might hold thee, Or Crohan's fairy halls, or Corrin's towers, Or Lene's bright caves, or Cleana's magic bowers.^ Ulla gulla, gulla g'one! etc., etc. But, oh, my black despair! when thou wert dying. O'er thee no tear was wept, no heart was sighing — No breath of pra3rer did waft thy soul to glory ; But lonely thou didst lie, all maira'd and gory! Ulla gulla, gulla g'one! etc., etc. * The keener alone sings the extempore death-song; the burden of the uUagone, or chorus, is taken ■ by all the females present, t Places celebrated lu fairy topography. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. Oh ! may your dove-like soul, on whitest pinions, Pursue her upward ilight to God's dominions. Where saints' and martyrs' hands shall gifts provide thee — And, oh, my grief ! that I am not beside thee ! UUa guUa, gulla g'one! etc., etc. MO CRAOIBHIlSr CNO.* My heart is far from Liffey's tide And Dublin town; It stays beyond the Southern side "Of Cnoc-Maol-Donn,+ Where Cappoquint hath woodlands green. Where Amhan-Mhor's§ waters flow, Where dwells unsung, unsought, unseen. Mo craoibhin cno, Low clustering in her leafy screen. Mo craoibhin cno! The high-bred dames of Dublin town Are rich and fair, With wavy plume, and silken gown, And stately air ; Can plumes compare thy dark brown hair? Can silks thy neck of snow? Or measur'd pace, thine artless grace, Mo craoibhin cno, When harebells scarcely show thy trace. Mo craoibhin cnof I've heard the songs by Liffey's wave The maidens sung— They sung their land the Saxon's slave. In Saxon tongue — Oh I bring me here that Gaelic dear Which cursed the Saxon foe, When thou didst charm my raptured ea^-, Mo craoibhin cno! And none but God's good angels near. Mo craoibhin cno! I've wandered by the rolling Lee ! And Lene's green bowers — I've seen the Shannon's wide-spread sea. And Limerick's towers — And Liffey's tide, where hills of pride Frown ojer the flood below; My wild heart strays to Anihan-Mhor's side, Mo craoibhin cno! With love and thee for aye to hide, Mo craoibhin cno! * Mo craoibhin cno literally means my cluster of nuts; but it ttgui-atively sis?nifles my nut brown maid. It is pronounced Bla Creevin Kno. ■\- Cnoc-maol- Ooiin—The Brownbare hill. A lofty mountain between theconnty of Tipperary and that of VVaterford, commanding a glorious prospect of unrivaled scenery. t Cappoqinn. A romantically situated town on the Blackwater, in the county of Waterfovd. The Irish name denotes The Head of the Tribe of Conn. § Amhan-Mhor—The G-reat River. The Black- water, which flows into the sea at Youghal. Tlie Irish name is uttered in two sounds, Oan Vore. O'DOISrOVAN'S DAUGHTER. One midsummer's eve, when the Bel-flres were lighted. And the bag-piper's tone call'd the maidens delighted, I joined a gay group by the Araglin's water. And danced till the dawn with O'Donovan's daughter. Have you seen the ripe monadan glisten in Kerry? Have you mark'd on the Galteys the black whortleberry? Or ceanaban wave by the wells of Blackwater? They're the cheek, eye and neck of O'Donovan's Daughter! Have you seen a gay kidling on Claragh's round mountain? The swan's arching glory on Sheeling's blue fountain? Heard a weird woman chant what the fairy choir taught her? They've the step, grace and tone of O'Donovan's Daughter! Have you mark'd in its flight the black wing of the raven? The rose-buds that breathe in the summer-breeze waven? 74 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS The pearls that lie hid under Lene's magic vi ater? They're the teeth, lip and hair of O'Donovan's Daughter! Ere the Bel-fire was dimm'd, or the dancers departed, I taught her a song of some maid broken-hearted; And that group, and that dance, and that love-song I taught her, Haunt my slumbers, at night with O'Donovan's Daughter! God grant 'tis no fay from Cnoc-Firinn that wooes me, God grant 'tis not Cliodhna the queen that pursues me, That my soul lost and lone has no witchery wrought her. While I dream of dark groves and O'Donovan's Daughter! If, spell-bound, I pine with an airy disorder. Saint Gobnate has sway over Musgry's wide border; She'll scare from my couch, when with prayer I've besought her, That bright airy sprite like O'Donovan's Daughter. AN IRISH WAR SONG. Bright sun, before whose glorious ray Our pagan fathers bent the knee, WhosePillar- Altars yet can say. When time was young our sires were free ; Who saw our latter-days' decree, Om- matron's tears, our patriot's gore. We swear befoi'e high Heaven and thee, The Saxon holds us slaves no more! Our clairsach wild, whose trembling string Hath long the song of sorrow spoke, Shall bid the " Ros-g Catha^^ sing The curse and crime of Saxon yoke, ^ And bv each heart its bondage bi'oke. Each exile's sigh on distant shore, Each martyr 'neath the headsman's stroke, The Saxon holds us slaves no more ! Our Sunburst on the Roman foe Flashed vengeance once on foreign field, On Clontarf's plain lay scattered low What power the Sea-kings fierce could wield ; Benburb can 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! Send j'our loud war-cry o'er the main. Your Sunburst to the breezes spread ; That slogan rends the Heavens in twain, The earth reels back beneath your tread; Ye Saxon despots hear and dread, Your march o'er patriots' hearts is o'er; That shout hath told, that tramp hath said, Our counti-y's sons are slaves no more. BATTLE OF CREDRAN. 1257. [A briUiant battle was fought by Geoffrey O'Donnell, Lord of Tirconnell, against the Lord Justice of Ireland, Maurice Fitzgerald, and the English of Connaught, at Credran Cille, Roseede, in the territory of Carburry, north of Sligo, in defense of his principality. A fierce and terrible conflict toolr place, in which bodies were hacked, heroes disabled, and the strength of both sides exhausted. The men of Tirconnell maintained their ground, and completelj' overthrew the English forces in the engagement, and defeated them with great slaughter; but Geoffrey himself was severely wounded, having encountered in the flght Minirice Fitzgerald, in single combat, in whicli they mortally wounded each other.— Annals of the Ihur masters.] From the glens of his fath'ers O'Donnell comes forth. With all Cinel-Conall.* fierce septs of the North— O'Boyle and O'Daly, O'Dugan, and they, That own, by the wild waves, O'Doherty's sway. * Cinel-Conall.— The descendants of Conall-Gulban, the sow •f Niallof the Nine Hostages, Monarch of Ireland in the Fourth century. The principality was named Tir Choa»ile, or Tyrcounell, which Included tlie county Donegal, and its chiefs were the O'Dennells. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 75 Clan Connor, brave sons of the diademed Niall, Has poured the tall clansmen from mountain and vale — M'Sweeny's sharp axes, to battle oft bore, Flash bright in the sunlight by high Dunamore. Through Inis-Mac-Durin,* through Derry's dark brakes, Grlentocher of tempests, Slieve-snacht of "the lakes, Bundoran of dark spells, Loch-Swilly's rich glen, The red deer rush wild at the war-shout of men ! Ob ! why through Tir-Conall, from Cuil-dubh's dark steep, To Samer's + green border the fierce masses sweep, Living torrents o'er -leaping their own river shore, In the red sea of battle to mingle their roar? Stretch thy vision far southward, and seek for reply Where blaze of the hamlets glare red on the sky — Where the shrieks of the hopeless I'ise high to their God- Where the foot of the Sassenach spoiler has trod! Sweeping on like a tempest, the Gall-Oglacht stern Contends for the van with the swift-footed kern — There's blood for that burning, and joy for that wail — ■ The avenger is hot on the spoiler's red'trail! The Saxon had gathered on Credran's far hights. His groves of long lances, the flower of his knights — His awful cross-bowmen, whose loud iron hail Finds through Cota§ and Sciath, the bare heart of the Gael! The long lance is brittle — the mailed ranks reel Where the Gall-Oglach'b ax hews the harness of steel; And truer to its aim in the breast of a f oeman. Is the pike of a Kern than the shaft of a bowman. One prayer to St. Columb II — the battle steel clashes — The tide" of fierce conflict tumultuously dashes; Surging onward, high-heaving its billow of blood, WhUe war-shout and death-groan swell high o'er the flood! As meets the wild billows the deep-centered rock, Met glorious Clan-Conall the fierce Saxon's shock ; As the wrath of the clouds flashed the ax of Clan-Conell, Till the Saxoij lay strewn 'neath the might' of O'DonnelU One warrior-alone holds the wide bloody field, * Districts In Donegal. + Somer,— The anclint name of Loch Earne. i £?a^^Oer^ac/l or GaHomerJass.— The heavy armed foot soldier. Kern or Ceithernach.— The MsM armed soldier. - S Cota,— The saffron-dyed shirt of the Kern, consisting of many yards of yellow linen, thickly plaited. Sciath, — The wicker shield, as Its nanie imports. II St. Oolum, or Colum-CHle, the dove of the Church.— The patron saint of Tyrconnell, descended from Conall Oulban, V6 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS With barbed black charger and long lance and shield — Grim, savage, and gory he meets their advance, His broad shield uplifting, and couching his lance. Then forth to the van of that fierce rushing throng Rode a chieftain of tall spear and battle-ax strong. His bracca* and geochal, and cochal's red fold. And war- horse's housings, were radiant in gold! Say, who is this chief spurring forth to the fray, The wave of whose spear holds yon armed array? And he who stands scorning the thousands that sweep, An army of wolves over shepherdless sheep? The shield of his nation, brave Geoffrey O'Dor.nell, (Clar-Fodhla's firm prop is the proud x-ace of Conall) And Maurice Fitzgerald, the scorner of danger. The scourge of the Gael, and the strength of the stranger. The launched spear hath torn through target and mail — The couched lance hath borne to his crupper the Gael — The steeds driven backwards all helplessly reel ; But the lance that lies broken hath blood on its steel ! And now, fierce O'Donnell, thy battle-ax wield — The broadsword is shivered, and cloven the shield. The keen steel sweeps grinding through proud crest and crown — Clar-Fodhla hath triumphed — the Saxon is down! * Bracoa.So called, from beinj? striped with various colors, was the tight-fitting Truis. It covered the ankles, legs, and thighs, rising as high as the loins, and fitted so close to the limbs as to discover every muscle and motion of the parts which it covered. Geochal, — The jacket made of gilded leather, and which was sometimes embroidered with silk. Cochal, — A sort of cloak with a laige hanging collar of difCerent colors. This garment reached to the "middle of the thigh, and was fringed with a border like shagged hair, and being brought over the shoulders, was fastened on the breast by a clasp, buckle, or brooch of silver or gold. In battle, they wrapped the Cochal several times around the left arm as a shield.— Train- ee's Dress and Artnor of the Irish. AILEEN THE HUNTRESS. [The incident related in the following ballad happened about the year 1731- Alleen, or Ellen, was daugh- tes of M'Cartle of Clidane, an estate originally bestowed upon this respectable branch of the family of M'Cartie More, by James, the seventh Earl of Desmond, and which, passing .safe through the confiscation of Elizabeth, Cromwell, and William, remained in their possession until the beginningof the present cen- tury. Aileen, who is celebrated in the traditions of the people for her love of hunting, was the wife of James O'Connoi-, of Cluain Tairbh, grandson of David, the founder of the Siol-t-Da, a well-known sept at this day in Kerry. This David was gi-andson to Thomas MacTeige O'Connor, of Ahalahanna, head of the second house of O'Connor Kerry, who, forfeiting in 1666, escaped destruction by taking shelter among his relations, the Nagles of Monanimy.] Fair Aileen M'Cartie, O'Connor's young bride, Forsakes her chaste pillow with matronly pride. And calls forth her maidens (their number was nine) To the bawn of her mansion, a-milking the kine. They came at her bidding, in kirtle and gown. And braided haii", jetty, and golden, and brown, Of TtlE EMERALD ISLE. And form like the palm-tree, and step like the fawn, And bloom like the wild rose that circled the bawn. As the Guebre's round tower o'er the fane of Ardfert — As the white hind of Brandon by young roes begirt— As the moon in her glory 'mid bright stars outhmig — Stood Aileen M'Cartie her maidens among. Beneath the rich 'kerchief, which matrons may wear. Strayed ringleted tresses of beautiful hair; Tliey wav'd on her fair neck, as darkly as though 'Twere the raven's wing shining o'er Mangerton's snow! A circlet of pearls o'er her white bosom lay, Erst worn by thy proud queen, O'Connor the gay, And now to the beautiful Aileen come down The rarest that ever shed light in the Laune. The many- fringed faluinn that floated behind, Gave its hues to the sunlight, its folds to the wind — The brooch that retain'd it, some forefather bold Had torn from a sea-kiug iu battle- tield old. Around her went bounding two ■wolf-dogs of speed, So tall in their stature, so pure in their breed ; While the maidens awoke to the new-milk's soft fall, A song of O'Connor in Carraig's pi'oud hall. As the milk came outpouring, and the song came outsung. O'er the wall 'mid the maidens a red deer outspruno; — Then cheer'd the fair lady — then rush'd the mad liound — And away with the wild stag in air-lifted bound. The gem-fastened /aZZtim7i is dashed on the bawn — One spring o'er the tali fence — and Aileen is gone! But morning's rous'd echoes to the deep dells proclaim The course of that wild stag, the dogs, and the dame! By Cluain Tairbh's green border, o'er moorland and higlit. The red-deer shapes downward the rush of his flight — In sun-light his antlers ail-gloriously flash. And onward the wolf-dogs and fair huntress dash ! By Sliabh-Mis now winding (rare hunting I ween) 1 He gains the dark valley of Scota the queen Who found in its bosom a cairn-lifted grave. When Sliabh-Mis first flow'd with the blood of the brave ! By Coill-Cuaigh's green shelter, the hollow rocks ring — Coill-Cuaigh, of the cuckoo's first song in the spring, Coill-Guaigh of the tall oak, and gale-scenting spray — God's curse on the tyrants that wrought the decay! Now Maing's lovely border is gloriously won, Now the towers of the island gleam bright in the sun, And now Ceall-an Amanach's portals are pass'd, •yS POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS Where headless the Desmond found refuge at last! By Ard-na-greach mountain, and Avonmore's head, To the earl's proud pavilion the panting deer fled — Where Desmond's tall clansmen spread banners of pride, And rush'd to the battle, and gloriously died! The huntress is coming, slow, breathless, and pale. Her raven locks streaming all wild in the gale: She stops — and the breezes oring balm to her brow — But wolf-dog and wild deer, oh, where are they now? On Reidhlan-Tigh-an-Earla, by Avonmore's well, His bounding heart broken, the hunted deer fell, And o'er him the brave hounds all gallantly died. In death still victorious — their fangs in his side. 'Tis evening — the breezes beat cold on her breast. And Aileen must seek her far home in the west; Yet weeping, she lingers whei-e the mist-wreaths are chill, O'er the red-deer and tall dogs that lie on the hill! Whose harp at the banquet told distant and wide. This feat of fair Aileen, O'Connor's j'oung bride? O'Daly's — whose guerdon tradition had told, Was a purple-crown'd wine-cup of beautiful gold? J. J. CALLANAN. Jeremiah Joseph Callanan was born in Cork in 1795. He was educated for the priesthood, but the delicate state of his health, and the restless spirit, which afterwards be- came the bane of his existence, and which frequently led him to abandon real good for some vain and shadowy prospect, impelled him, after a residence of two years, to quit May- nooth, and to relinquish all his future prospects in the clerical profession. In 1820 he en- tered Trinity College as an out-pensioner, with the intention of studying for the bar ; but, like his previous choice, he renounced this also after a two years' trial. In 1823 he became an assistant in the school of Dr. Maginn in Cork, where he remained only a few m.onth's — but through Maginn's introduction he became a contributor to " Blackwood's Magazine." During these six years, and up to 1829, he spent his time in rambling through the coun- try, collecting the old Irish ballads and legends, and in giving them a new dress in a new tongue. Early in 1829 he became a tutor in the family of an Irish gentleman in Lisbon, and on the 19th of September of the same year, he died there, in the 34th year of his age. His " Recluse of Inchidony," in the Spenserian metre, is his longest poem, — but his verses on " Gougaune Barra" have attained the widest popularity in the south of Ireland, OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 79 The Lake of Gougaune Barra — i. e., the hollow, or recess of Saint Finn Barr, in the rug- ged territory of Ibh-Laoghaire, (the O'Learys' country), in the west end of the county of Cork, is the parent of the river Lee. Its waters embrace a small but verdant islaml, of about half an acre in extent, which approaches its eastern shore. The lake, as its name im- plies, is situate in a deep hollow, surrounded on every side, (save the east, where its super- abundant waters are discharged), by vast and almost perpendicular mountains, whose dark inverted shadows are gloomily reflected in its still waters beneath. The names of those mountains are Dereen, (the little oak wood), where not a tree now remains; Maolagh, which signifies a coimtry — a region — a map, perhaps so called from the wide prospect which it af- fords; Nad an vAllar, the eagle's nest, and Faoilte na Gougaune — i. e., the cliffs of G-ou- gaune, with its steep and frowning precipices, the home of a hundred echoes. Poems of J. J, Callanan, GOUGAUNE BARRA. There is a green island in lone Gougaune Barra,, Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow; In deep-valleyed Desmond — a thousand wild fountains Come down to that lake, from their home in the mountains. There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow Looks chidingiy down on the mirth of the billow ; As, like some gay child that sad monitor scorning, It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning. And its zone of dark hills — oh, to see them bright'ning, When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning, And the waters rush down, 'mid the thunder's deep rattle, Like clans from the hills at. the voice of the battle; And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming. And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming, Oh, where is the dwelling in vallej', or highland. So meet for a bard as this lone little island? How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara, And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera, Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean, And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion. And thought of thy bards, when assembling together. In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy heather, They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter, And waked their last song by the rush of thy water! High sons of the lyre, oh, how proud was the feeling. To think while alone through that solitude stealing. Though loftier minstrels green Erin can n nmber, I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber, And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains The songs even echo forgot on her mountains; And gleaned each grey legend, that darkly was sleeping Where the mist aiid the rain o'er their beauty were ereepingi POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS Least bard of the hills ! were it mine to inherit The fire of thy hai'p, and the wing of thy spirit, With the wrongs which like thee to our country has bound me, Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around me, StilJ — still in those wilds might young liberty rally. And send her strong shout over mountain and valley; The star of the west might yet rise in its glory, And the land that was darkest be brightest in story. I, too, shall be gone — but my name shall be spoken When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken ; Some minstrel will come, in the summer eve's gleaming, When freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming. And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion. Where calm Avon-Buee seeks the kisses of ocean, Or plant a wild wreath, from the banks of that liver. O'er the heart, and the harp, that are weeping forever. DIRGE OF O'SULLIVAN BEARE. [The following dirge for O'SuUivan, translated from the Irish by J. J. Callanan, Is un^rpassed in the vehemence of its maledictions by anything in the language.] The sun on Ivera No longer shines brightly; The voice of her music No longer is sprightly; No more to her maidens The light dance is dear, Since the death of our darling, O'SuUivan Beare. Scully ! thou false one. You basely betrayed him, In his strong hour of need, When thy right hand should aid him. He fed thee — he clad thee — You had all could delight thee ; You left him — you sold him — May Heaven requite thee! Scully ! may all kinds Of evil attend thee! On thy dark road of life May no kind one befriend thee ! May fevers long burn thee, And agues long freeze thee! May the strong hand of God In his red anger seize thee! Had he died calmly, I would not deplore him ; Or if the wild strife Of the sea-war closed o'er him : • But with ropes 'round his white liii;' :: Through oceans to trail him, Like a fish after slaughter, 'Tis therefoie I wail him. Long may the curse Of his people pursue them; Scullj^, that sold him. And soldiers that slew him! One glimpse of Heaven's light May they see never! May the hearth-stone of hell Be their best bed forever ! In the hole which the vile hands Of soldiers had made thee; Unhonored, unshrouded. And headless they laid thee. No sigh to regret thee, No eye to rain o'er thee, No dirge to lament thee. No friend to deplore thee! Dear head of my darling, How gory and pale These aged ej'^es see thee, High spiked on their jail! That cheek in the summer sun Ne'er shall grow warnv; Nor that eye e'er catch light. But the flash of the storm! A curse, blessed ocean, Is on thy green water. From the haven of Cork, To Ivera of slaughter ; Since the billows were dyed With the red wounds of fear Of Muiertach Oge, Our O'SuUivan O'Beare! Up '' OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 81 JOHN BANIM. John Banim, author of " Tales of the O'Hara Family," was born in the city of Kilkenny, and received his education in its college. About 1813 he went to Dublin to study under an able master, but manifesting no strong desire for the profession of an artist, he returned to his native city, where he became a drawing-master. He did not long bear the fatigue and drudgery of this calling, for he soon had recourse to literature as his chosen profession. As a novelist, his character stands deservedly very high ; second, indeed, to no one. The re- cords of departed genius truly show, that the track of gifted individuals is like that of a meteor— brilliant to excess, but equally transient. His burning love of religion and coun- try was traced by him in letters of fire, and his indignant sincerity gave him a power which few possessed before him.- His temperament was sensitive and gloomy ; hence he depicted the darker passions and more sullen traits of the character of his countrymen. His novels are strong, and full of fire; replete with powerful and striking imagery, both moral and physical — equally indicative of tenderness and strength. His ballads are very national — full of natural feeling, and of true fidelity to Irish character. He returned to Dublin, after the burial of his only son in Paris, quite broken-hearted. Death soon placed him be3'ond the reach of this world's sj'^mpathy, after having attained the high honor of being one of Ire- land's greatest novelists. P OEMS OF JOHN J^ B ANIM. AILLEEN. 'Tis not for love of gold I go, 'Tis not for love of fame ; Tho' fortune should her smile bestow. And I may win a name, Ailleen, And I may win a name. And yet it is for gold I go. And yet it is for fame, That they may deck another brow, And bless another name, Ailleen, And bless another name. For this, but this, I go — for this I lose thy love a while ; And all the soft and quiet bliss Of thy young, faithful sni ile, Ailleen, Of thy young, faithful smile. And I go to brave a world I hate. And woo it o'er and o'er, And tempt a wave, and try a fate Upon a stranger shore, Ailleen, Upon a stranger shore. 83 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS O! when the bays are all my own, I know a heart will care ! O! when the gold is wooed and won, I know a brow shall wear, . Ailleen, I know a brow shall wear ! And when with both returned again, My native land to see, I know a smile will meet me there, And a hand will welcome me, Ailleen, And a hand will welcome me! THE RECONCILIATION. [The facts of this ballarl oecurreci in a little mountain-chapel, in the county of Clare, at the time effort,"' weie made to put an end to faction-fighting among the peasantry.] The old man he knelt at the altar, His enemy's hand to take. And at first his weak voice did falter, And his feeble limbs did shake; For his only brave boy, his glory. Had been stretched at the old man's feet A corpse, all so haggard and gory. By the hand which he now must greet. And soon the old man stopped speaking, And rage, which had not gone by, From under his brows came breaking Up into his enemy's eye — And now his limbs were not shaking. But his clinch'd hands his bosom cross'd And he looked a fierce wish to be taking Revenge for the boy he had lost. But the old man he looked around him, And thought of the place he was in, And thought of the promise which bound him. And thought that revenge was sin — And then, crying tears, like a woman, "Your hand!'-' he said — "ay, that handl And I do forgive you, foeman, For the sake of our bleeding Itmdl" THE PARLEY, Ours is no quarrel that will not be ended, Ours are not hearts to hate on to the last — The foe still devoted, the foe still intended. To him, and him only, our challenge we cast — And him — even him — let him now but awake To the love he should own for our desolate land. And his hand we will take, And his hand we will shake, Though the blood of her children be fresh on that hand ! And oh! toiling sleeper, when — when wilt thou break up The fierce haggard dream of thy feverish heart, And from its delusions of tumult awake up To know what a dupe and a raver thou art? Wake — wake, in the fair names of manhood and mind! Of wisdom, of charity, mercy and truth! By the love thou dost find On thy soul to its kind I By its nature! its yearnings eternal for truth ! In the dear name of country we cannot adjure thee — Thou lone one! no country at present thou hast; But, up at our bidding! and we will ensure thee A country, and lovor of country, at last I Ay! in lieu of the rage- thirst thou'rt pantiuR to slalce, Up — up, in the name of this desecrate land. And your hand we will take. And your hand we will shake. Though the blood of her children be fresh on that hand. f- OF TEE EMJERALID ISLZ /83 CHARLES J. KICKHAM. Charles J. Kickham was born about fifty years ago in the village of Mullinahone, in the county of Tipperary. He came from a noble stock. His father, John Kickham, was a man blessed by Providence with a considerable share of this world's goods, and by the manner in which he dispensed them, he not only "laid up treasures in Heaven," but gained the re- spect and love of his poor neighbors for miles around. He was, besides, a patriot of the purest mold, and both by precept and example instilled the love of country and kind into the youthful hearts of his children. John Kickham's wife was an O'Mahony, a lady of no- ble soul, charitable heart and elegant figure. As became the race from which she sprang, she was eminently patriotic. Blessed with such parents, and gifted by nature with an affectionate heart and the germs of a superior intellect, no wonder this gentle, thoughtful boy developed into the earnest, un- selfish patriot and gifted scholar — beloved and honored by all who knew him either person- ally or by his works. He was educated in his father's house under the supervision of that fond parent, who provided an excellent tutor for the purpose. He progressed rapidly, bidding fair to fulfill his father's dearest expectations, when a sad incident occurred which marred the hopes of his parents, and threw a cloud over all his future life. When he was about thirteen years of age, he ckme across a powder-flask which had been incautiously left in his way ; going to the fire to drop a few grains in, the whole exploded with a dreadful shock, and the distract- ed father rushed into the room to find his darling boy, the pride of his parent's heart, ap- parently dead on the floor. He, however, slowly recovered, but he remained near-sighted and partially deaf ever since. As he could no longer avail himself of his teacher's instruc- tions, he turned his thoughts to self-culture, became a great reader, and spent a great part of his time communing with nature and his own soul in the romantic scenery of his neigh- borhood. Charles Kickham has given to the world some excellent novels of Irish life; and as & poet he is particularly happy in expressing the genial feelings and hopes of the people he loves so dearly. He will ever be remembered as a pure and devoted patriot, as a kind friend, and as a genial gentleman. 84 POPULAR SOJ^GS AND BALLADS Poems of Charles J. Kickham RORY OF THE HILLS. " That rake up near the rafters, Why leave it there so long? The handle, of the best of ash. Is smooth, and straight, and strong; And, mother, will you tell me, Why did my father frown, When to make the hay in summer time I climbed to take it down?" She looked into her husband's eyes, While hi;r own with light did fill; " You'll shortlv know the reason, boy!" Saki Rory of 'the Hill. The midnight moon is lighting up The slopes of Sliev-na-mon — Whose foot affrights the startled hares So long before the dawn? He stopped just where the Anner's stream Winds up the woods anear, Then whistled low, and looked around To see the coast was clear. A sheeling door flew open — In he stepped with right good will — " God save all here, and bless your work," Said Rory of the Hill. Right hearty was the welcome That greeted him, I ween, For years gone bj'' he fully proved How well he loved the (jreen; And there was one among them Who grasped him by the hand — One who, through all that weary time, Roamed on a foreign strand- He brought them news from gallant friends That made their heart-strings thrill; " SIv sowl! I never doubted them!" Said Rory of the Hill. They sat around the humble board Till dawning of the day, And yet not song or shout I heard — No revellers were they; Some brows flushed red with gladness, While some were grimly pale ; But pale or red, from out those eyes Flashed souls that never quail! "And sing us now about the vow, They swore for to fulfill — " "Ye'll read it 3'et in history," Said Rory of the Hill. Next day the ashen handle. He took down from where it hung, The toothed rake, full scornfully, Into the fire he flung, And in its stead a shining blade Is gleaming once again, (Oh ! for a hundred thousand of Such weapons and such men!) Right soldierly he wielded it, And going through his drill — " Attention " — " charge " — "front point " — " advance!" Cried Rory of the Hill. She looked at him with woman's pride, With pride and woman's fears; She flew to him, she clung to him. And diied away her tears; He feels her pulse beat truly. While her arms around him twine*- " Now God be praised for your stout heart, Brave little wife of mine." He swung his first-born in the air. While joy his heart did fill — " Y^'ou")] be a Freeman yet, my bov," Said Rory of the Hill. Oh ! knowledge is a wondrous power. And stronger than the wind; And thrones shall fall and despots bow Before the might of mind ; The poet and the orator The heart of man can sway. And would to the kind Heavens That Wolfe Tone were here to-day t Yet trust me, friends, dear Irelaud's'strength, Her truest strength, is still, The rough-and-ready roving boys, Like B-ory of the Hill. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 85 SONG OF THE IRISH EXILE. Alone, all alone, by the wave-washed strand, And alone in the crowded hall! The hall it is gay, and the waves are grand. But my heart is not there, at all. It flies far away, by night and by day, To the time and the place that are gone — Oh, I never can forget the maiden I met In the valley near Slibebh na m-ban ! It was not the grace of her queenly air, Nor her cheek like the rose's glow, Nor was it the wave of her braided hair. Nor the gleam of her lily white brow ; 'Twas the soul of truth, and the melting ruth, And the eye like the summer dawn. That stole my heart away, one mild day, In the valley neai- Sliebh na m-ban I Alone, all alone, by the wave-washed shore, My restless spirit cries — My love, oh, my love, will I never see yon more? And my land! will you ever uprise? By night and by day I ever pray. While lonelily the time rolls on. To see our flag unrolled and my ti-ue love to unfold In that valley near Sliebh na m-baui THE IRISH PEASANT GIRL. She lived beside the Anner, At the foot of Sliv-na-mon, A gentle peasant girl, With mild eyes like the dawn ; Her lips were dewy rose-buds, Her teeth, of pearls so rare, And a snow-drift 'neath a beechen bough, Her neck and nut-brown hair. How pleasant 'twas to meet her _0n Sunday, when the bell W as filling with its mellow tones. Lone wood and grassy dell; And when at eve young maidens Strayed the river bank along, The widow's brown-haired daughter Was the loveliest of the throng. Oh, brave — brave Irish girls — vVe well may call you brave — Sure the least of all your perils Is the stormy ocean wave ; When you leave our quiet valleys, And cross the Atlantic's foam, To hoard your hard-won earnings For the helpless ones at home. " Write word to my own dear mother Say we'll meet with God above. And tell my little brothers I send them all my love; May the angels ever guard them. Is their dying sister's prayer — " And folded in the letter Was a braid of nut-brown hair. Ah, cold and well-nigh callous, This weary heart has grown, For thy helpless fate, dear Ireland, And for sorrows of ray own: Yet a tear my eye will moisten, When by Anner side I sti-ay. For the lily of the mountain foot, That withered far away. FRANCIS DAVIS (The Belfast Man.) This poet of exquisite lyric gifts and attainments, was born in Belfast. At an early age he was apprenticed to the muslin weaving, a branch of business then superior to most trades even in that tbi'ifty quarter of the country. POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS " The workshop where Francis Davis plied his trade, and wliich witnessed his first poetic flights of fancy, was situated in an Orange quarter, known as Brown's Square, Three others occupied the " shop " with himseK; these were called the Brothers May. They were members of the choir belonging tc St. Patrick's Church, Belfast, and we have the evidence of Dr. Stewart, of Dublin, who was one of the shining lights at the great musical jubilee at B9ston, that the choir, organ, and organist of St. Patrick's, Belfast, was among the best in Ireland. The Brothers May were not a little proud of their connection with the choir, and, accordingly, they invited Davis to paj' it a visit. The poet did so; and often drew his inspiration from the part-singing of his companions, the Mays. We think it was in 1844 Davis' first piece was produced. It was entitled: "The Lavely Forsaken," and appeared in the Belfast Vindicator, then under the able management of McDevitt aad McConvery, the former shortly after becoming editor-in-chief of the Dublin Freeman, and who, till his death, remained the firm triend of the Belfast man. Shortly after this Francis Davis began to contribute to the Nation newspaper, then a light and a guide to the great awakening spirit of Ireland's nationality. The constant perusal of the Nation, the personal friendship of Charles Gavan Duflfy, but above all the young national spirit which surrounded Davis in Belfast, gave a national tone to his mind, and caused those splendid outpourings which, in no respect whatever, are inferior to his great confrere, Tom Davis. Some of the earliest and best compositions of Davis were composed during his daily toil, which, although pretty constant, was of a light character, and not wanting in poetic surroundings. Poems of Francis Davis. NANNY. Oh! for an hour when the day is breaking Down by the shore, when the tide is making! Fair as a v^hite cloud, thou, love, near me. None but the waves and thyself to hear me. Oh, to my breast how these arms would press thee ; Wildly my heart in its joy would bless thee ; Oh, how the soul thou hast won would woo thee, G-irl of the snow-neck! closer to me. Oh, for an hour as the day advances, {Out where the breeze on the broom -bush dances). Watching the lark, with the sun-ray o'er us, Winging the notes of his heaven-taught chorus 1 Oh, to be there and my love before me, Soft as a sunbeam smiling o'er me; Thou wouldst but love, and I would woo thee. Girl of the dark eye ! closer tO me. Oh, for an hour where the sun first saw us, (Out in the eve with its red sheets 'round us), Brushing the dew from the gale's soft winglets. Pearly and sweet with thy long, dark I'inglets; Oh, to be thei-e on the sward beside thee. Telling my tale, though I know you'd chide me; Sweet were thy voice, though it should undo me, Girl of the dark locks! closer to me. Oh, for an hour, by night or by day, love, Just as the Heavens and thou might say, love; Far from the stare of the cold-eyed many, Bound in the breath of my dove-souled Nanny ! Oh, for the pure chains that have bound me, Warm from thy red lips circling 'round me 1 Oh, in my soul, as the light above me, <3ueeu of the pui'e hearts! do I love thee, OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 87 KATHLEEN BAN ADAIR. The battle blood of Antrim had not dried on freedoni.'s sliroud, And the rosy ray of morning was but struggling thro' the cloud; When, with lightning foot and deathly cheek, and wildly waving hair, O'er grass and dew, scarce breathing, flew young Kathleen ban Adair. Behind, her native Antrim in a reeking ruin lies ; Before her, like a silvery path, Kell's sleeping waters rise; And many a pointed shrub has pierc'd those feet so white and bare, But, oh ! thy heart is deeper rent, young Kathleen ban Adair. And Kathleen's heart but one week since was like a harvest morn; When hope and joy are kneeling 'round the sheaf of yellow corn; But Where's the bloom then made her cheek so ripe, so richly fair? Thy stricken heart hath fed on it, young Kathleen ban Adair. And now she gains a thicket^ where the slee and hazel rise ; But why those shrieking whispers, like a rush of worded sighs? Ah, low and lonely bleeding lies a wounded patriot there, And every pang of his is thine, young Kathleen ban Adair. " I see them, oh! I see them, in a fearful red array; The yeomen, love! the yeomen come — ah. Heaven! away — away! I know — I know they mean to track my lion to his lair; Ah! save thy life — ah! save it for thy Kathleen ban Adair." " May Heaven shield thee, Kathleen! when my soul has gone to rest; May comfort rear her temple in thy pure and faithful breast ; But to fly them — oh! to fly them, like a bleeding, hunted hare; No! not to purchase Heaven, with my Kathleen ban Adair. " I loved, I love thee, Kathleen, in my bosom's wai-mest core; And Erin, injured Erin, oh ! I loved thee even more ; And death, I feared him little when I drove him thro' their square, Nor now, though eating at my heart, my Kathleen ban Adair." With feeble hand his blade he grasp'd, yet dark with spoilers' blood; And then, as though with dying bound, once more erect he stood; But scarcely had he kiss'd the cheek, so pale, so purely- fair, When flash'd their bayonets 'round him and bis Kathleen ban Adair! Then up arose his trembling, yet his dreaded hero's hand. And up arose, in struggling sounds, his cheers for motherland; A thrust — a rush — their foremost falls ; but, ah ! good God ! see there — Thy lover's quivering at thy feet, young Kathleen ban Adair ! But, Heavens! men, what recked he then your heartless taunts and blows, When from his lacerated heart ten dripping bayonets rose? And, maiden, thou with frantic hands, what boots it kneeling there? The winds heed not thy yellow locks, young Kathleen ban Adair. Oh! what were tears, or shrieks, or swoons, but shadows of the rest, When torn was frantic Kathleen from the slaughtered hero's breast? And hardly had his last-heaved sigh grown cold upon the air, When, oh! of all but life they robb'd youug Kathleen ban Adair! But whither now shall Kathleen fly? — already is she gone; The water, Kells, is tempting fair, and thither speeds she on ; A moment on its blooming banks she kneels in hurried prayer — Now in its wave she finds a grave, poor Kathleen ban Adair! POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS MY BETROTHED. Oh, Tjome, my betrothed, to thine anxious bride, Too long have they kept thee from my side; Sm's 1 sought thee Iby meadow and mountain, asthore, And I watch'd and I wept till my heart was sore, While the false to the false did say: We will lead her away by the mound and the rath, And we'll nourish her heart in its worse than death, Till her tears shall have traced a pearly path, For the work of a future day. Ah! little they knew what their guile could do — It has won me a host of the stern and true. Who have sworn by the eye of the yellow sun, That my home is their hearts till thy hand be won; And they've gathered my tears and sighs ; And they've woven them into a cloudj'' frown. That shall gird my brow like an ebony crown, Till these feet, in thy wrath shall have trampled down, . And, all that betwixt us rise. Then come, my betrothed, to thine anxious bride! Thou art dear to my breast as my heart's I'ed tide ; And a wonder it is j'ou can tarry so long, And j'our soul so proud, and your arm so strong. And your limb without a chain; And your feet in their flight like the midnight wind, When he laughs at the flash he leaves behind ; And j'our heart so warm, and your look so kind— Oh, come to my arms again! Oh, mj' dearest has eyes like the noontide sun, So bright that my own dare scarce look on ; And the clouds of a thousand years gone by. Brought back, and again on the crowded sky, Heaped haughtily pile o'er pile. Then all in a boundless blaze outspread. Rent, shaken, and tossed o'er their flaming bed. Till each heart by the light of the Heavens was read, Were as nought to his softest smile ! And to hear my love in his wild mirth sing. To the flap of the battle-god's fiery wing ! How his chorus shrieks through the iron tones Of crashing towers and creaking thrones. And the crumbling of bastions strong! Yet sweet to my ear as the sigh that slips From the nervous dance of a maiden's lips, When the eye first wanes in its love eclipse, Is his soul-creating song! Then come, my betrothed, to thine anxious bilde! Thou hast tarried too long, but I may not chii.i.e; For the prop and the hope of my home thou ai't, Ay, the vein that suckles my growing heart. Oh, I'd frown on the world for thee! And it is not a dull, cold, soulless clod, With a lip in the dust at a tyrant nod. Unworthy one glance of the patriots' God, That you ever shall find in me! i OF THE EMERALD ISLE. .CHOICE SELECTIONS FROM THE IRISH AND IRISH-AMERICAN POETS. ERIN'S FLAa. BY KEV. ABRAM J. RYAN. Unroll Erin's flag ! fling its folds to the breeze, Let it float o'er the land, let it flash o'er the seas; Lift it out of the dust — let it wave as of yore, When its chiefs with their clans stood around it and swor( That never — no — never! while God gave them life, And they had an arm and a sword for the strife, That never — no — never! that banner should yield As long as the heart of a Celt was its shield ; While the hand of a Celt had a weapon to wield. And his last drop of blood was unshed on the field. Lift it up! wave it high! — 'tis as bright as of old! Not a stain on its green, not a spot on its gold, Tho' the woes and the wrongs of three hundred long years Have drenched Erin's sunburst with blood and with tears ! Though the clouds of oppression enshroud it in gloom, And 'round it the thunders of tyranny boom. ^ Look q^loft — look aloft! lo! the clouds drifting' by. There's a gleam through the gloom, there's a light in the sky 'Tis the sunburst resplendent — far, flashing on high! Erin's dark night is waning ; her day dawn is nigh. Lift it up — lift it up! the old Banner of Green! The blood of its sons has but brightened its sheen ; What! — though the tyrant has trampled it down, Are its folds not emblazoned with deeds of renown? What ! — though for ages it droops in the dust, Shall it droop thus forever? — no — no! God is just! Take it up — take it up, from the tyrant's foul tread. Let him tear the Green Flag — we will snatch its last shred. And beneath it we'll bleed as our forefathers bled, And we'll vow by the dust in the graves of our dead. 90 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS And we swear by the blood wbich the Briton has shed — And we'll vow by the wrecks which through Erin he spread- And we'll swear by the thousands who, famished, unfed, Died down in the ditches — wild bowline: for bread. And we'll vow by our heroes, whose spirits have fled, And we'll swear by the bones in each coifinless bed. That we'll battle the Briton through danger and dj-ead; That we'll cling to the cause which we glory to wed, Till the gleam of our steel and the shock of our lead Shall prove to our foe that we meant what we said — That we'll lift up the Green, and we'll tear down the Red. Lift up the Green Flag! oh! it wants to go home; Full long has its lot been to wander and roam; It has followed the fate of its sons o'er the world, But its folds, like their hopes, are not faded nor furled; Like a weary-winged bird, to the east and the west, It has flitted and fled — but it never shall rest, 'Till pluming its pinions, it sweeps o'er the main, And speeds to the shores of its old home again. Where its fetterless folds, o'er each mountain and plain, Shall wave with a glory that never shall wane. Take it up — take it up ! bear it back from afar — That banner must blaze 'mid the lightnings of war; Lay 5'our hands on its folds, lift your gaze to the sky And swear that you'll bear it triumphant or die! And shout to the clans scattered far o'er the earth, To join in the march to the land of their birth ; And wherever the exiles, 'neath Heaven's broad dome, Have been fated to suffer to sorrow and roam, They'll bound to the sea, and away o'er the foam. They'll sail to the music of " Home, Sweet Home!" "MAN'S MISSION. BY SPERANZA (MRS. W. R. WILDE.) Human lives are silent teaching — Be they earnest, mild, and true — Noble deeds are noblest preaching From the consecrated few. Poet-priests their anthems singing, Hei'o-swords on corslet ringing. When truth's banner is unfurled; Youthful preachers, genius-gifted. Pouring forth their souls uplifted. Till their preaching stirs the world. Each must work as God has given Hero hand or poet soul — Work is duty while we live in This weird world of sin and dole. Gentle spirits, lowly kneeling, Lift their white hands up, appealing To the throne of Heaven's king — Stronger natures culminating. In great actions incarnating, What another can but sing. Pure and meek-eyeclas an angel, We must strive — must agonize ; We rpust preach the saint's evangel Ere we claim the saintly prize — Work for all — fo)- work is holy — We fulfil our mission solely When, like Heaven's arch above, Blend our souls in one emblazon, And the social diapason Sounds the perfect chord of love. Life is combat, life is striving. Such our destiny below — Like a scythed chariot driving Through an onward pressing foe. Deepest sorrow, scorn and trial OF THE EMERALD ISLE. n Will but teach us self-denial ; Like the alchemists of old, Pass the ore through cleansing fire If our spirits would aspire Te be God's refined gold. We are struggling in the morning With the spirit of the night, But we trample on its scorning — Lo! the eastern sky is bright. We mast watch. The day is breaking Seen, like Memnon's statue waking With the sunrise into sound, We shall raise our voice to Heaven, Chant a hymn for conquest given, Seize the palm, nor heed the wound. We must bend our thoughts to earnest. Would we strike the idols down ; With a purpose of the sternest Take the Cross, and wait the Crown. Sufterings human life can hallow, Sufferings lead to God's Valhalla — Meekly bear, but nobly try, Like a man with soft tears flowing, Like a God with conquest glowing, So to love, and work, and die ! A LAY SERMON. BY CHAELES GAVAN DUFFY. Brother, do you love your brother? 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? Brother, shun the mist exhaling Fi'om the fen of prid ) and doubt, Neither seek the house of bondage WaUing straitened souls about; Bats! who, from their narrow spy -hole, Cannot see a world without. Anchor in no stagnant shallow — Trust the wide and wondrous sea, Where the tides are fresh forever, And the mighty currents free ; There, perchance, O ! young Columbus, Your New World of truth may be. Favor will not make deserving — (Can the sunshine brighten clay?) Slowly must it grow to blossom, Fed by labor and delay, And the fairest bud of promise Bears the taint of quick decay. * You must sti-ive for better guerdons; Strive to be the thing you'd seem; Be the thing tliat God hath made you, Channel for no borrowed stream ; He hath lent you mind and conscience ; See you travel in their beam ! Gee you scale life's misty highlands By this light of living truth! And with bosom braced for labor, Breast them in your manly youth ; So when age and care have found yon, Shall your downwardpath be smooth. 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 forever From a loving mother's breast, " 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. Wear no show of wit or science, But the gems you've won, and weighed; 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? 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. 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. Tnus, 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 1 93 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS IRELAND. BY J. BOYLE O'REILLY. Oh, land of sad fate ! like a desolate queen, " Wlio remembei'S in sorrow the crown of her glory, The love of thy children not strangely is seen — For humanity weeps at thy heart-touching story. Strong heart in affliction! that draweth thy foes 'Till they love thee more dear than thine own generation; Thy strength is increased as thy life-current flows — What were death to another is Ireland's salvation! Her sons scatter wide like the seeds on the lea, And thsy root where they fall, be it mountain or furrow; They come to remain and remember; and she In their growth will rejoice in a blissful to-morrow ! They sing in strange lands the sweet songs of their home, Their emerald Zion enthroned on the billows; To work, not to weep by the rivers they come ; Their harps are not hung in despair on the willows. The hope of the mother beats youthful and strong, Responsive and true to her children's pulsations, No petrified heart has she saved from the wrong — Our Niobe lives for her place 'mong the nations! Then woi'k, all her sons — be they Keltic or Danish, Or Norman, or Saxon — one mantle was o'er us; Let race lines, and creed lines, and every line, vanish — We'U work as the Gael: "For the mother that bore us!" CAOCH THE PIPER. BY J. KEEGAJSr. One winter's day, long — long ago. When I was a little fellow, A piper wandered -to our door. Grey-headed, blind, and yellow — And oh, how glad was my young heart. Though earth and sky looked dreary — To see the stranger and his dog — Poor "Pinch " and Caoch O'Learj', And when he stowed away his " bag," Cross-barred with green and yellow, I thought and said: "In Ireland's ground There's not so fine a fellow." And Fiueen Burk and Shane Magee, And Eily, Kate, and Mary, Rushed in, with frantic haste to "see" And "welcome " Caoch O'Learj^ Oh, God be with those happy times, Oh, God be with my childhood, When I, bare-headed, roamed all day Bird-nesting in the wild-wood — I'll not forget those sunny hours, However years may vary; I'll not forget my early fi'iends, NorJionest Caoch O'Leary. Poor Caoch and " Pinch" slept well that night. And in the morning early He called me up to hear him play "The wind that shakes the barley." And then he stroked my flaxen hair, And cried: "God mark my dearj'." And how he wept when he said: "Farewell, And think of Caoch O'Leary." And seasons came and went, and still , Old Caoch was not forgotten, Although I thought him "dead and gone," And in the cold clay rotten, OF THE EMERALD ISLE. And often when I walked and danced With Eily, Kate, and Mary, We spoke of childhood's rosy hours, And prayed for Caoch O'Leary. Well — twenty summers had gone past, And June's red sun was sinking. When I, a man, sat by my (foor, Of twenty sad things thinking. A little dog came up the way, His gait was slow and weary, And at his tail a lame man limped — 'Twas "Pinch" and Caoch O'Leary. Old Caoch! but oh! how woe-begone! His form is bowed and bending. His flesh less hands are stiff and wan, Ay — Time is even blending The colors on his threadbare "bag" — And " Pinch" is twice as hairy And "thin-spare" as when first I saw Himself and Caoch O'Leary. " God's blessing here," the wanderer cried, " Far — far be hell's black viper; Does anybody hereabouts Remember Caoch the Piper?" With swelling heart I grasped his hand; The old man murmured: " Deary! Are you the silky-headed child That loved poor Caoch O'Leary?" " Yes — yes," I said — the wanderer wept As if his heart was breaking — " And where, a vMc niachree,"* he sobbed, " Is all the merry-making I found here twenty years ago?" — "My tale," I sighed, "might weary, Enough to say — there's none but me To welcome Caoch O'Leary." " Vo — Vo — Vo!" the old man cried, And wrung his hands in sorrow, "Pray lead me in, asthore machree, And I'll go home to-morrow. My ' peace is made ' — I'll calmly leave This world so cold and dreary, And you shall keep my pipes and dog. And pray for Caoch O'Leary." With "Pinch," I watched his bed that night, Next day. his wish was granted; He died — and Father James was brought, And the Requiem mass was chanted — The neighbors came; we dug his grave, Kear Eily, Kate and Mary, And there he sleeps his last sweet sleep; God rest you! Caoch O'Leary. *Son of my heart. TO ERIK BY THOMAS DEVIN REILLY. My country! — too long, like the mist on thy mountains, The cloud of affliction hath sadden'd thy brow : Too long hath the blood-rain empiirpled thj^ fountains, And Pity been deaf to thy cries — until now. Thou wert doom'd for a season in darkness to languish. While others around thee were basking in light; Scarce a sunbeam e'er lighten'd the gloom of thy anguish • In the "Island of Saints," it seem'd still to be night. Of thy children, alas! some in sorrow forsook thee, They could not endure to behold thee distress'd ; lu " the land of the stranger " did others o'erlook thee, Unworthy the life-stream they drew from thy breast. And the song of the minstrel was hushed in thy bowers; For Discord's dire trump, thy iov'd harp was thrown by; While, strong as the ivy that strangled thy towers, The gripe of oppression scarce left thee a sigh! 94 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS That is past — and for aye let its memory perish; The day-spring arises, while heaviness ends; Wake, Erin ! forbear thy dark bodings to cherish — The wheel hath revolv'd and thy fortune ascends! Yes — thy cause hath been heard — men have wept at thy story- Alas! that a land of such beauty should rttourn! Have thy children ne'er grac'd the high niches of glory? Was kindness ne'er known in their bosoms to burn? Yes, rich as the mines which thy teeming hills nourish, Are the stores of their genius which nature imparts; And sweet as the flow'rs in thy valleys that flourish. The fragrance of feeling that breathes from their hearts! When stung to despair, in their wildness what wonder If sometimes their souls from affection )uight rove, That frenzy subsiding, their feelings the fonder Will seek their own halcyon channel of love! Let the past be forgotten! Yet shall thou, fair Erin, - Fling off the base spells which thy spirit enslave ; Thou shalt, like the sea-bird, awhile disappearing. Emerge with thy plumage more bright from the wave. Once more 'mong the verdure and dew of thy mountains The shamrock shall ope its wet eye to the sun. While fondly the muse shall recline by thy fountains, And warble her strains to the rills as they run. And plenty shall smile on thy beautiful vallej'-s, And peace shall return, the long wandering dove; And religion, no longer a cover for malice, Shall spread out her wings o'er an Eden of leva. Then tuning thy mild harp, whose melody slumbers. As high on the willow it w-aves in the breeze; Let poesy lend thee her liveliest numbers. To sound thy reveille, thy anthem of praise. And say unto those that have left thee forsaken — "Return, oh, return, to your lone mother's ai-ms! Other lands in their sons can a fondness awake'n; Shall Erin alone for her race have no chai'ms? " Oh, blush as ye wander, that it e'er should be taunted, That strangers have felt what mj'' own could not feel; That, when Britons stood forth in my trial undaunted, My children slunk back unconcerned in my weal. "Oh, if yet in your bosom one last spark ye treasure Of love for the land of your sires — of your birth — Return ! and indulge in the soul-thrilling pleasure, Of hailing that land 'mong the brightest on earth!" OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 95 Then joy to thee, Erin ! thy better day breaketh ; The long polar night of thy woe speeds away; And, as o'er thy chill breast the warm sunlight awaketh, Bach bud of refinement evolves in the ray. Yet remember — the blossom is barren and fleeting. As long as the canker of strife, unsubdued. With its poisonous tooth at the core remains eating — If e'er thou art glorious, thou first must be good. \'^ THEY AEE DYING. BY DENIS FLORENCE M'CABTHT. They are dying — they are dying! where the golden corn is growing; rhey are dying — they are^iying! where the crowded herds are lowing; rhey are gasping for existence where the streams of life are flowing; A.p4 they perish of the plague where the bx'eeze of health is- blowing. God of justice! God of power! Do we dream? Can it be. In this land, at this hour. With the blossom on the tree, In the gladsome month of May, When the young lambs play. When nature looks around On her waking children now. The seed within the ground, The bud upon the bough ? Is it right, is ittair, That we perish of despair In this land, on this soil, Where our destiny is set. Which we cultured with our toil And watered with our bweat? We have ploughed, we have sown. But the crop was not our own; We have reaped, but harpy hands Swept the harvest from our lands; We were perishing for food, When lo! in pitying moodj Our kindly rulers gave The fat fluid, of the slave, While our corn filled the manger Of the war-horse of the stranger ! God of mercy ! must this last? Is this land preordained. For the present and the past And the future, to be chained — To be ravaged, to be spoiled, To be hushed, to be whipt, Its soaring pinions dipt, And its every effort foiled? Do our numbers multiply But to perish and to die? Is this all our destiny below, That our bodies as they rot, May fertilize the spot Where the harvests of the stranger grow? If this be, indeed, our fate. Far — far better now, though late, That we seek some other land and try some other zone ; The coldest, bleakest shore Will surely yield us more Than the storehouse of the stranger that we dare not call our own. Kindly brothers of the west, Who from liberty's full breast Have fed us, who ai-e orphans beneath a step- dame's frown, Behold our happy state, And weep your wretched fate * That you share not in the splendors of our enjpire and our crown. Kindly brothers of the east — Thou great tiara'd priest. Thou sanctified Rienzi of Rome and of tlis earth ; Or thou who bear'st control Over golden Istambol, Wh» felt for our misfortunes and helped us in our dearth. Turn here your wondering ey es, Call your wisest of the wise. Your muftis and your ministers, your men of deepest. lore; Let the sagest of your sages Ope our island's mystic pages, 96 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS And explain unto your highness the wonders of our shore. A fruitful, teeming soil, Where the patient peasants toil Beneath. the summer's sun and the watery winter sky; Where they tend the golden grain Till it bends upon the plain, Then reap it for the stranger, and turn aside to die. Where they watch their folds increase. And store the snowy fleece Till they send it to their masters to be woven o'er the waves ; Where having sent their meat For the foreigner to eat, Their mission is fulfilled and they creep into their graves. 'Tis for this they are dying where the golden corn is growing, 'Tis for this they are dying where the crowd- ed herds are lowing, 'Tis for this the}'' are dying where the streams of life are flowing, And they perish of the plague where the bi'eeze of health is blowing. THE EMPTY SADDLE. BY STEPnEN J. MKANY. "He comes — he comes!" cried the Lady May— " My Lord returns-- betimes — He hath been away the livelong day, And is back ere the the vesper cliimes. Oh! I knew that bis manly heart would yearn For the loving heart at home, That the joys of the chase could ne'er replace The joys of his hearth — I come !" 'Twas thus the loving, fair young wife Exclaimed, in girlish glee; " I come — I come, my life of life, Thou'rt back to thy home and me." For the echo of hoof was heard below. And the mastiff's welcoming whine — Nor dreamt she, I trow, of grief or woe. As she hailed the watched-for sign. One bound to the casement — one step without — One heart-whole cry of love ; One vacant stare, as she asked: '•Oh, ■where Is that form all forms above? Ah, I know — I know — a glad surprise He means for his loving May 1" And with strained eyes and anxious sighs. She watches ana waits that day. But no clank of spur in the castle hall — No step on the old oak stair — And silent all the answering call To the loving welcomes there. "Oh, where is he hiding— my life and light? Why tarries he from my side? Come forth, Sir Knight, and glad the sight Of your May — your little bride!" Oh, woe for the bride! and alas, for her lord ! No playful lord was there ; No pulse was stirred by the joyous word, As she asked in her grief: "Oh, where?" But she saw beneath with eye of fire — 'Twas a crushing of heart indeed — The anguish dire of the faithful squire And her brave Knight's sorrowing steed. Ay, sorrowing steed ! — It had borne him long In the battle's rush and roar — And proud and strong in the hostile throng, It hath carried him safely o'er — But now in the peaceful hour of chase, One stumble — its master dead ! And its grief we trace in the lagging pace, And the bowed and bending head. It needed no word to the Lady May To tell she was widowed now — It boots not to say how the shock that daj^ Called the death chill to her brow — A desolate hearth-^a vacant chair — A breaking heart — na more 1 But oft in despair comes the cry: "Oh, where Stays my lord, when the chase is o'er." In the early blush of the bright Spring morn, The Knight had gone forth in glee ; No omen to warn, as the hunter's horn Hangout right merrily! And be kissed good-by to the fair young face. As he rode from his lordly hall ; But ne'er from the race did his steps retrace, " The empty saddle" was all! OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 97 MORNINa ON THE IRISH COAST. BY JOHIf LOCKE. [The Incident which prompted the writing of the following lines was related to me by a friend who visited Ireland during the summer. Ou the voyage eastward my triend made the acquaintance of an old man, who, in his franli and candid way, told him he had been thirty years residing in " the States," and that he was then going home to spend tlie evening of tiis life in the Old Laud, amid the scenes of his youth- hood. His anxiety to see li-eland once moi'e was so deep and fervid, that my friend took a special interest In him. The night before the ship reached the Irish shore they remained on deck, and as the dawning broke, they were rewarded for their weary vigil by beholding the dim outlines of the Irish coast. The sight awakened all the old man's slumbering enthusiasm, and his fii'st impassioned exclamation was: " The top o' the aiornin' to you, Ireland, alanna!" Th' anam au Dhia! but there it is, The dawn on the hills of Ireland! God's angels lifting the night's black veil From the fair, swoet face of my sireland! Oh, Ireland, isn't it grand you look, Like a bride in her rich iadornin', And with all the pent up love of my heart, I bid you the top o' the mornin'. This one short hour pays lavishly back For many a year of mourning; I'd almost venture another flight, Ttiere's so much joy in returning — Watching out for the hallowed shore, All other attractions scorning' ; Oh, Ireland, don't you hear me shout? I bid you the top o' the mornin'. Ho — ho ! upon Cleena's shelving strand, The surges are grandly beating, And Kerry is pushing her headlands out To give us the kindly greeting ; Into the shore the sea-birds fly ' On pinions that know no drooping; And out from the cliffs, with welcomes charged, A million of waves come trooping. Oh, kindly, generous Irish land, So leal and fair and loving, No wonder the wandering Celt should think And dream of you in his roving! The alien home may have gems and gold — Shadows may never have gloomed it; But the heart will sigh for the absent land, Where the love-light fii'st illumed it. And doesn't old Cove look charming there, Watching the wild waves' motion, Leaning her back up against the hills, And the tip of her toes on the oceani I wonder I don't hear Shandon's bells, Ah, maybe their ohiming's over. For it's many a year since I began The life of a Western rover. For thirty summers, astore raachree, Those hills I now feast my eyes on. Ne'er met my vision, save when they rose, Over Memory's dim horizon. E'en so, 'twas grand and fair they seemed In the landscape spread before me; But dreams are dreams, and my eyes would ope To see Texas' sky still o'er me. Ah ! oft upon the Texan plains. When the day and the chase were over'. My thoughts would fly o'er the weary wave. And around this coast-Une hover; And the prayer would rise, that some future day All danger and doubtings scOrnin', I'd help to win my native land The light of young liberty's mornin'. Now fuller and truer the shore-line shows — Was ever a scene so splendid? I feel the breath of the Munster breeze, Thank God that my exile's ended. Old scenes, old songs, old friends again, The vale and cot I was born in I Oh, Ireland, up from my heart of Ijearts, I bid you the top of the mornin'. THE IRISH EXILES. BY MARTITi MAC DERMOTT. When 'round the festive Christmas board, or by the Christmas hearth, That glorious mingled draught is poured — wine, melody and mirth ! When friends long absent tell, iow-toned, their joys and sorrows o'er, And hand grasps hand, and eyelids fill, and lips meet lips once more — Oh! in that hour 'twere kindly done, some woman's voice would say — "Forget not those who're sad to-night — poor exiles, far away I" 98 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS Alas, for them! this morning's sun saw many a moist eye pour Its gushing love, with longings vain, the waste Atlantic o'er. And when he turned his lion-eye this ev'ning from the west. The Indian shores were lined with tiiose who watched his couched crest; But not to share his glory, then, or gladden in his ray, They bent their gaze upon his path — those exiles far away! It was — oh! how the heart will cheat! because they thought, beyond His glowing couch lay that Green Isle of which their hearts were fond; And fancy brought old scenes of home into each welling eye, And through each breast pour'd many a thought that filled it like a sighl 'Twas then — 'twas then, all warm with love, they knelt them down to pray For Ii'ish homes and kith and kin — poor exiles, far away ! And then the mother bless'd her son, the lover bless'd the maid. And then the soldier was a child, and wept the while he prayed; And then the student's pallid cheek flushed red as summer rose, And patriot souls forgot their grief to weep for Erin's woes; And oh! but then warm vows were breathed, that come what might or may. They'd right the suffering isle they loved — those exiles, far away 1 And some there were around the board, like loving brothers met, The few and fond and joj'^ous hearts that never can foi'get; They pledged: " The girls we left at home, God bless them!" and they gave " The memory of our absent friends, the tender and the brave!" Then up, erect, with nine times nine — hip — hip — hip — hurrah! Drank: " Erin sZcwii/ta gal go bragh!" those exiles far away. Then, oh ! to hear the sweet old strains of Irish music rise, Like gushing memories of home, beneath far foreign skies ; Beneath the spreading calabash, beneath the trellised vine, The bright Italian myrtle bower, or dark Canadian pine — Oh I don't those old familiar tones — so sad, and now so gay — Speak out your very —very hearts — poor exiles, far away 1 But, Heavens! how many sleep afar, all heedless of these strains. Tired wanderers! who sought repose through Europe's battle-plains — In strong, fierce, headlong fight they fell — as ships go down in storms — They fell — and huTuaii whirlwinds swept across their shattered forms! No shroud, but glory, wrapped them 'round; nor prayer nor tear had they — Save the wandering winds and the heavy clouds— poor exUes, far away! And might the singer claim a sigh, he, too, could tell how tost Upon the stranger's dreary shore his heart's best hopes were lost; ~"^ How he, too, pined to hear the tones of friendship greet his ear, And pined to walk the river-side to youthful musing dear. And pined with yearning silent love among his own to staj — Alas! it is so sad to be an exile far away 1 Then, ! when 'round the Christmas board, or by the Christmas hearth. That glorious Tningled draught is poured — wine, melody and mii'thl When friends long absent tell, low-toned, their joys and sorrows o'er. And hand grasps hand, and eyelids fill, and lips meet lips once more — Jn that bright hour, perhaps — perhaps, some woman's voice would say — " Think — think on those who weep to-night, poor exiles, far away 1" OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 99 DONAL KENNY. BTJOHNK. CASEY. *' Come, piper, play the ' Shaskan Reel,' Or else the ' Lasses on the heather,' And Mary, lay aside your wheel Until we dance once more together. At fair and pattern oft before Of reels and jigs we've tripped full many; But ne'er again this loved old floor Will feel the foot of Donal Kenny." Softly she arose and took his hand , And softly glided through the measure. While, clustering 'round, the village band Looked half in sorrow, half in pleasure. Warm blessings flowed from every lip As ceased the dancers' airy raotion; Oh, Blessed Virgin guide the ship Which bears bold Donal o'er the ocean! " Now God be with you all!" he sighed, Adowu his face the bright tears flowing — " God guard you well, avic," they cried, "Upon the strange path you are going." So full his breast, he scarce could speak. With burning grasp the stretched bands taking. He pressed a kiss on every cheek, And sobbed as if his heart was breaking. "Boys, don't forget me when I'm gone. For sake of all the days passed over. The days you spent on heath and bawn, With Donal Biiadh, the rattlin' x-over. Mary, agra, your soft brown eye Has willed my fate " (he whispered lowly) ; "Another holds thy heart; good-by! Heaven grant you both its blessings holy!" A kiss upon her brow of snow, A rush across the moonlit meadow, Whose brown-clad hazels, trembling slow, The mossy boreen wrapped in shadow ; Away o'er TuUy's bounding rill, And far beyond the Inny river; One cheer on Cari'jck's rocky hill. And Donal Kenny's gone forever. The breezes whistled through the sails. O'er Galway Bay the ship was heaving. And smothered groans and bursting walls Told all the grief and pain of leaving. One form among that exiled band Of parting sorrow gave no token. Still was his breath and cold his hand ; For Donal Kenny's heart was broken. SHAUN'S HEAD. BY JOHN SAVAGE. Scene:— Be/ore Dublin CasHe— Night— a clansman of Shaun O'Neill discovers his chief's head on a pole, God's wrath upon the Saxon ; may they never know the pride Of dying on the battle-field, their broken spear beside; When victory gilds the gory shroud of every fallen brave, Or death no tales of conquered clans can whisper to his grave. May every light from cross of Christ that saves the heart of man, Be hid in clouds of blood before it reach the Saxon clan ; For sure, oh, God, and You know all? whose thought for all sufficed. To expiate these Saxon sins, they'd want another Christ. Is it thus, oh,''Shaun, the haughty! Shaun, the valiant, that we meet? Have my eyes been lit by Heaven but to guide me to defeat? Have I no chief, or you no clan, to give us both defense? Or must I, too, be statued here with thy cold eloquence? Thy ghastly head grins scorn upon old Dublin's Castle tower. Thy shaggy hair is wind-tossed, and thy brow seems rough with power; Thy wrathful lips, like sentinels, by foialest treachery stung, Look rage upon the world of wrong, but chain thy fiery tongue. That tongue whose Ulster accent woke the ghost of Columbkill, Whose warrior words fenced 'round with spears the oaks of Derry Hill; Whose reckless tones gave life and death to vassals and to knaves, And hunted hordes of Saxops into holy Irish graves. 100 . POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS The Scotch marauders whitened when his war-cry met their ears, And the death-bird, like a vengeance, poised above his stoi-my cheers; Ay, Shaun, across the thundering sea, out-chanting it your tongue, Flung wild un-Saxon war-whoopings the Saxon Court among. Just think, O Shaun ! the same moon shines on Liffey as on Foyle, And lights the ruthless knaves on both, our kinsman to despoil ; And you the hope, voice, battle-ax, the shield of us and ours, A murdered, trunkless, blinding sight above these Dublin towers. Thy face is paler than the moon, my heart is paler still — My heart? I had no heart — 'twas yours — ^tioas yours! to keep or kill. And you kept it safe for Ireland, chief — your lif«, your soul, your pride — But they sought it in thy bosom, Shaun — with proud CNeillit died. You were turbulent and haughty, proud and keen as Spanish steel; But who had right of these, if not our Ulster's chief— O'Neill? i Who reared aloft the " Bloody Hand" until it paled the sun, And shed such glory on Tyrone, as chief had never done? He was ''turbulent" with traitors — he was "naughty'' with the foe — He was "cruel," say ye Saxons! Ah! he dealt ye blow for blow! He was "rough" and "wild," and who's not wild to see his hearthstone razed? He was "merciless as fire" — ah, ye kindled him — he blazed! He was "proud!" yes, pi'oud of birthright, and because he flung away Your Saxon stars of princedome, as the rock does mocking spray. He was wild, insane for vengeance — ay ! and preached it till Tyrone Was ruddy, ready, wild, too, with " Red Hands" to clutch their own. " The Scots are on the border, Shaun!" — ye saints, he makes no breath — I remember when that cry would wake him up almost from death: Art truly dead and cold? O, chief! art thou to Ulster lost? " Dost hear — dost hear? By Randolph led, the troops the Foyle have crossed!" He's truly dead ! he must be dead ! nor is his ghost about — And yet no tomb could hold his spirit tame to such a shout! The pale face droopeth northward — ah! his soul must loom up there, By old Armagh, or Antrim's glynns. Lough Foyle, or Bann the fair! I'll speed me Ulster-wards, your ghost must wander there, proud Shaun, In seai'ch of some O'Neill, through whom to throb its hate again. A LOVE SONG TO MY WIFE. BT JOSEPH BKENAN. CosiE to me, darling one, nearer and nearer — Time only renders you dearer and dearer ; Grief has no chill for the love that is truthful; Years as they roll find it brilliantly youthful — Steadfastly scorning a moment of ranging — Changes around, find affection unchanging; Brightly it silvai's the clouds which are o'er us; Nightly it lights up the pathway before us. See you that calm and majestical river, Stealing on tranquilly, ever and ever — Beautiful alwaj's, in sunshine or shadow, Breasting the tempest, or kissing the meadow — Bountiful, too, in its musical flowing — Source of the gi'een which beside it is glowing; Soul of the woods which so verdantly bound it; Seed of the flowers which are laughing around it. Dear; as that river flows onward and onward. Forcing the seeds of fertility sunward, So has the current of love for you glided; Brightening the years which are gathered beside it — Clothing their forms with a raiment of purple ; Gracing their hands with the laurel and myrtle ; OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 101 Making each hour, whicih in quiet reposes, Break into beauty and blush into roses. Surely that stream has a lesson for lovers, O'er it a silver-clad sisterhood hovers. Birds which, illuming the proximate grasses, Peck into dimples the wave as it passes ; Birds that fulfil their predestinate duty. Lending their hues to the completion of beauty, Bright in the m.orning, or dark in the even, Ultimate tints in the landscape of Heaven. Thus, as our Love hurries on to its ending, Beautiful things with its beauties are blending, Fancies which rest in the years by it, dreaming Silver-clad thoughts which ore constantly gleaming, Griefs which, at evening, the shadow enhances. Breaking to joys as the morning advances, Hope for the future, and fond recollection, Golden-hued guardians of human affection. What if some casual wing of ill-omen Glides o'er the wave like the shade of the Gnomon, I What if the song-birds at times have been wearied. What if the sunshine has not been unvaried? What if the buds of our Spring, whicii departed, Left us in solitude, weak and sad-hearted. What if we sometimes have moments of weeping Over the little ones death has set sleeping? Let them sleep on ; there are dreams in their slumbers. Soothed by the angels' most musical numbers; Lit by the light of a greatness supernal. Blest by the bliss which alone is eternal, Let them sleep on; they are happy above us, Death cannot make them unable to love us; Weep not for babes which are benisous o"er us; Grieve not because they are happy before us! Come to me, darling one, nearer and nearer — Time only renders you dearer and dearer: Grief has no chill for the love which is truthful. Years, as they roll, find it brilliantly youthful — Steadfastly scornuig a moment of ranging — Changes around leave affection uncbangina ; Brightly it silvers the clouds which are o'er us. Nightly it lights up the pathway before us! " THE GLEN OP THE LAKES." BY KEV. T. AMBROSE BUTLEB. Glen of the Lake! I hail thee with emotion, Long sighed- for object of the poet's soul — A pilgrim-bard presents his heart's devotion Beside the hills where Avon's waters roll. Now sweetly o'er me steals a happy feeling. That thou art one I oft beheld before ; The hazy cui'tains seem to rise, revealing The long-sought beauties of thy magic shore. The silv'ry lakes! what solemn awe around them, Embosom'd safely mid the mountains brown; The heathy cliffs, the waving forests bound them, Lugduff, the giant, proudly Ipoketh down. The summer sun at midday softls^ peepeth Adown the heather, o'er the shadow'd streams; The gloomy brook awhile in silence sleepeth. Then wakes and smiles amid the sunny beams. So grand, so solemn seems the silence reigning Across the Glen in summer's brightest hour. That nature wearied here in peace remaining. Seems slwre awhile to slumber's mighty pow'r. 102 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS She scarcely breathes beside the streamlet sighing, Beneath the pines that guard the sobbing lake ; Til] autumn leaves beside the waters lying, With rustling voices bid the sleepers wake! A home was here for sainted hermit glowing. With sacred love and wondrous faith divine ! A calm reti'eat for youth in virtue growing Where natui-e's God could have a fitting shrine. And so the lakes, through brightest golden ages Reflected forms of Erin's sainted men; And while their names illume historic pages, Saint Kevin's works shall speak amid the glen ! They stand majestic — ^I'uined churches lowly, Whose mold'ring porches creeping-ivy climbs ; Tl# princes, prelates, hermits meek and holy Rest 'neath the cross that tells of better times. And, grandest sight! " the pillar-tow'r" that telleth Of glories gone amid the glooms of time; For though no more the Abbey-bell out s^elleth. The voiceless ruins tell their tale sublime! Unnumbered legends, quaint, and sweet, and tender, Are still preserv'd and heard beside the glen Of holy Kevin, peasants' kind defender — The friend and father dear to suffering men. One summer day, alas! it soon departed. When seated nigh the lake with friends most dear, I heard of Kevin, kind and tender-hearted, And felt I then had kindred spirits near! THE BELLS OF SHANDON. BY FATHER PBOUT. With deep affection and recollection I often think of those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, in daj^s of childhood. Fling 'round my cradle their magic spells. On this I ponder, where'er I ^^■auder, And thus grow fonder, sv^'eet Cork, of thee; With thy bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. I've heard bells chiming full many clime in, Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine; While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate, But all their music spoke naught line thine ; For memory dwelling on each proud swelling Of thy belfry knelling its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. I've heard bells tolling "old Adrian's Mole" in. Their thunder rolling from the Vatican, And cymbals glorious, swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame; But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly. Oh ! the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. There's a bell in Moscow, while on tower and kiosko In St. Sophia the Turkman gets, And loud in air, calls men to prayer From the tapering summit of tall minarets. Such empty phantom, I freely grant them. But there's an anthem more dear to me; 'Tis the bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 103 THE RIGHTS OP MAN. BY DB. ROBERT DWYEB JOYCE. Though he was born to till the soil Or ply the busy trade, To pamper tyrants by his toil The poor man ne'er was made ; That wondrous flame, the soul's the same In poor or noble clay, And the self-same laws will try its cause On the final Judgment Day. Then here's the son of poverty, Who bravely fills his can. And drink with me to liberty. And the God-made rights of man. The reckless despot on his throne, Who gave him right to sway? To make the suffering millions groan In bondage day by day? Is he a god that with his rod Can fill unnumbered graves? No ! Blood and bone, he still must own, He's mortal like his slaves ! Then here's the son of poverty, Who fearless fills his can, To pledge with me bright liberty, Ajad the God-made rights of man. When delved great Adam's progeny, And our primal mothers span, There was no difference of degree E'er seen twixt man and man; But the human might, ambition's flight, Have set up tyrants' rule. A lesson stei'n the nations learn In hard misfortune's school. So here's the son of poverty, Who stoutly fills his can. And works with me for liberty. And the God-made rights of man. There never was a law divine To make the poor bow down To mortal man, whate'er his line, However bright his crown; The poor man's blood is warm and good, And red as his who reigns, And why should he bend neck or knee — Bow silent down in chains? So here's the son of poverty Who fills a brimming can. And prays with me for liberty. And the God-made rights of man. On many a plain with fii'e and steel. The poor man's cause was tried. And many a deed of noble zeal That great cause sanctified; For that good cause, for righteous laws. Arise, prepare, and be Brave patriots all, to stand or fall. Soldiers of Liberty. And here's the son of poverty, Who clinks with mine his can — Who'll strike with me for liberty. And the God-made rights of man. WE'LL NOT GIVE UP THE OLD LAND. BY BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING. Fill high, my gallant comrades, ere we join the bloody fray, Ere the sword-flash and the sunlight greet the op'ning eye of day; Here's to home and homeland thro' every weal and woe— And we'll not give up the Old Land without another blow. Pledge me fondly, pledge me truly, cross your arms upon your breast, Pledge your faith to holy Ireland, " island of the blest," That wherever exile sends us, or how far away we go. We won't give up the Old Land without another blow. No, we won't give up the Old Land, we won't lie down to die— We won't cringe down to Moloch with yelping whine or sigh ; But we'll stand our i-ights defending, like the stout pine 'neath the snow, We can't give up the Old Land without another blow. Is she worth our love and honor — isshe worth our blood and life? And the price we set upon her, and the straining and the strife? Ifes, she's worth this world all over and worlds we'll never know; So we won't give up our Own Land without another blow. 104 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS Then fill high, my gallant comrades, ere we join the bloody fi'ay, Ere the swordflash and the sunligtit greet the op'niug eye of day; And as we strike tor fr-eedom and tlie friends we can't forget, We have Ireland, Home and Beauty to claim our prowess yet. THOUGHTS ON A DEAD WOMAN. BY ROBERT WHITE. {Written in memory of his ivife, Alice White, ivho died November 2Q, 1875.) "She should have died hereafter."— Macbeth. A DEAD Woman! Only a dead woman. In the floodtide of our soul-stricken grief Why will the mind, fully formed and fixed With sentiment soft as in youth immature, Dream and rave, and feed its thoughts On the memory of only a dead woman? The poet prates of the dead past. Poets are dreamers an,d makers of metaphors. Figures of speech ai'e the food of their faculties. There is no dead past. If there is, why not mentally bury Our memory of only a dead woman? The priest — God's priest; The Sainted Sister, the Virgin Spouse of Christ. These ethereal spirits, 'twixt Heaven and earth, Revere, praise and pray for the dead, And memory of the dead, And salvation of only a dead woman. We labor by muscle and fiber of thought ; We j-ebel 'gainst blessings that God's wisdom gives; We feed upon sin ; we revel in vanity ; We crave for more luxury: forgetting tlio while We are sous of only a dead woman. The dead past. Why will it not die? The dead past has live brain-ghosts That haunt our humanity; Sleeping and' waking — sometimes to sweeten, Bat oft, ay! G-od makes more bitter Our quickened love of only a dead woman. The grave, the clay, the cold slab, The frosty blast, the sweet fragrant flowers, Entomb, enshrine, enthi-one. And with golden-laced shroud and snow- garnished coverlet. Bury away our youth's impassioned love With only a dead woman. Our children grow up, learn and pla}^, Read, sing, romp and be merry ; Labor, dress, dance and be cheery ; Wonder and grieve at our sadness and sorrow — Forgetting we are living on the thoughts Of their dead mothei-— only a dead woman. ERIN. BY DR. DRENNAW. When Erin first rose from the dark swelling flood, God bless'd the green island, and saw it was good; The em'rald of Europe, it sparkled and shone, In the ring of the world, the most precious stone. In her sun, in her soil, in her station thrice blest, With her back towards Britain, her face to the West, Erin stands proudly insular, on her steep shore. And strikes her high harp 'mid the ocean's deep roar. But when its soft tones seem to mourn and to weep. The dark chain of silence is thrown o'er the deep; At the thought of the past the tears gush from her eyes, And the pulse of her heart makes her white bosom rise. O ! sons of green Erin, lament o'er the time. When religion was war, and our country a crime, OF THE EMERALD ISLE. KS When man, in God's image, inverted his plan, And moulded his Grod in the image of man. When the int'rest of state wrought the general woe, The stranger a friend, and the native a foe; While the mother rejoic'd o'er her children oppressed, And clasped the invader more close to her breast. When with pale for the body and pale for the soul Church and state joined in compact to conquer the whole; And as Shannon was stained with Milesian blood, Ey'd each other askance and pronounced it was good. By the groans that ascend from your forefathers' grave, For the country thus left to the brute and the slave. Drive the Demon of Bigotry home to his den. And where Britain made brutes how let Eriii make men. Let my sons like the leaves of the shamrock unite, A partition of sects from one footstalk of right, Give each his full share of the earth and the sky, Nor fatten the slave where the serpent would die. Alas! for poor Erin that some are still seen, Who would dye the grass red from their hatred to Green ; Yet, oh! when you're up and they're down, let them live. Then yield them thac mercy which they would not give. Arm of Erin, be strong ! but be gentle as brave ! And uplifted to strike, be still ready to save ! Let no feeling of vengeance presume to defile The cause of, or men of, the Emerald Isle. The cause it is good, and the men they are true, And the Green shall outlive both the Orange and Blue! And tlie triumphs of Erin her daughters shall share, With the full swelling chest, and the fair flowing hair. Their bosom heaves high for the worthy' and brave. But no cowai'd shall rest in that soft-swelling wave; Men of Erin! awake, and make haste to the blest. Rise — Arch of the Ocean and Queen of the West! A REMONSTRANCE. BY T. D. STTLLIVAN. [In 1865 the Hon. Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee visited Ireland, and in a speech at Wexfor>l, poiu-ed a iiialiKiiant tide of abuse on the Irish-American patriots who were prominent in preparing to assist tlieir l)ret)iren in Ireland in the contemplated revolution of that exciting period. The following lightniii'-r re- ply flashed out from the columns of the Dublin Nation, of which the author was then associate editor.] 'TwAS badly done, 'twas badly done, To come o'er miles of land and sea. When years of exile past had run, And "speak the words you spoke, M'Gee ; To turn unto the dear old home, By millions lov'd, where'er they roam. And, standing in the ancient place, ■ Before your people, face to face. To add your words to those that fiing Dishonor on your country's name, And echo taunts and jibes that bring To brave men's cheeks a crimson flame, Better you stayed far— far awa}^. Content beside your new-made hearth. Than come with words like these to snv To this green land that gave you birth ; Better you stayed in fortune's smile. Than sought this sad, yet proud old isle, To swell the chorus of the foes Who mock her hopes and slight her wops. Their scoffs and strokes are hard to be;ii-; But deeper than her heart is wrung, "When one whose name she long held dear, Turns on her cause a faithless tongue. 106 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS And yon, too, speak in scornful tone Of men who love that sacred cause! What voice more loudly than your own Inveighed against the tyrant's laws? What bolder deeds than those were planned To which you vowed to set your hand? What weightier words of sterner rage Or who in sweeter, fiercer songs, Has sung the dear isle's deathless charms, Or told her rosary of wrongs. To rouse her kindling youth to arms? And when, an outlaw'd man, you fled. And joined our exiles o'er the main. What voice in firmer accents said The old green flag should rise again ? Told them what hearts so brave and true For Ireland's freedom yet could do, And bade them nurse their deadly hate To crush her wronger soon or late? Still bleeds and weeps the suffering isle — Her banner moulders in the dust — How are those hopes so vain or vile, You swore so long were true and just? , And what may be their sudden crime, Those banished millions of our race, To change them in a little time From brave and good to false and base? Ah, Ireland knows those exiles well, And little heeds the tale you tell; Each day across the ocean foam Their loving words come speeding home, With gifts that make sad hearts rejoice. And ease awhile their sore distress — What wonder that the nation's voice Speaks of them but to cheer and bless. Ah well, we thought to see once more The Irish hills — to breathe anew The air in which you sung before — Would win a kindlier strain from you — But let it pass. If traitor swords Could kill her cause, or bitter words Could make it folly, crime or shame, 'Twere dead before your wisdom came. 'Tis living still. It will not die Till foreign rule from hence in hurled. And Ireland stands a nation high Amongst the nations of the world. A PRISON LAY. BY THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER. I LOVE, I love these grey old walls ! Although a chilling shadow falls Along the iron-gated halls, And in the silent, narrow cells, Brooding darkly, ever dwells. Oh ! still I love them — for the hours Within them spent are set with flowers That blossom, spite of wind and showers. And through that shadow, dull and cold. Emit their sparks of blue and gold. Bright flowers of mirth ! — that wildly spring From fresh, young hearts, and o'er them fling, Like Indian birds with sparkling wing, Seeds of sweetness, grains all glowing. Sun-gilt leaves, with dew-drop flowing. And hopes as bright, that softly gleam. Like stars which o'er the church-yard stream A beauty on each faded dream — Mingling the light they purely shed With other hopes, whose light has fled. Fond mem'ries, too, UTidimmed with sighs, '^Vhose fragrant sunshine never dies. Whose summer song-bird never flies — These, too, are chasing hour by hour, 7)59 clouds which 'round thl? prison And thus, from hour to hour, I've grown To love these walls, though dark and lone. And fondly prize each grey old stone. Which flings the shadow, deep and chill, Across my fettered footsteps still. Yet, let these mem'ries flow and flow Within my heart, like waves that glow Unseen in spangled caves below The foam which frets, the mists which sweep The changeful surface of the deep. jSTot so the many hopes that bloom Amid this voiceless waste and gloom, Strewing my path-way to the tomb As though it were a bridal bed, And not the prison of the dead. I would those hopes were traced in fire, Beyond these walls — above that spire — Amid yon blue and starry choir. Whose sounds play 'round us with the streams Which glitter in the white moon's beams. I'd twine those hopes above our Isle, Above the rath and ruined pile. Above each glen and rough defile, The holy well — the Druid's shrine- Above then? ^llj ikose bope^ I'd twjin«. r OF THE EMERALD ISLE. \m So should I ti-iumph o'er my fate, And teach this poor, desponding State, In signs of tenderness, not hate, Still to think of her old story, Still to hope for future glory. Within these walls, those hopes have been The music sweet, the light serene Which softly o'er this silent scene, Have like theautum streamlets flowed, And like the autumn sunshine glowed. And thus, from hour to hour, IVe grown To love these walls, though dark and lone, And fondly pi'ize each grey old stone. That flings the shadow, deep and chill. Across my fettered footsteps still. WHAT WILL YOU DO, LOVE? BY SAMUEL LOVEB. What will you do, love, when I am going, With white sail flowing. To seas beyond? What will you do, love, when waves divide us, And friends may chide us. For being fond? Though waves divide us, and friends be chid- In faith abiding, I'll still be true. And I'll pray for thee on stormy ocean, In deep devotion— That's what I'll do I What would you do, love, if distant tidings, Thy fond confidings Should undermine; And I abiding 'neath sultry skies. Should think other eyes, Were as oright as thine? Oh, name it not, though guilt and shame Were on thy name, I'd still be ti'ue ; But that heart of thine, should another share it, I could not bear it — What would I do? What would you do, when home returning, With hopes high burning, With wealth for j'ou — If my bark, that bounded o'er foreign foaui. Should be lost near home — Ah, what would you do? So thou wert spared, I'd bless the morrow^ In want and sorrovv, That left me you ; And I'd welcome thee from the wasting billow, My heart thy pillow! That's what I'd do. TONE'S GRAVE. BY THOMAS DAVIS. 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 stortn sweeps down on the plains of Kildare. 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 uufreed — " Oh, bitter," I said, "is a 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 tliey came to the grave of Wolfe Tone. 108 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS There were students and peasants, the wise and the brave, And an old man who knew him from cradle to grave, And the children who thought me hard-hearted; for they, On that sanctified soil 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 hira 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 everyone of his band: "Sweet! Sweet! 'tis to find that such faith can remain To the cause, and the man so long vanquished and slain." In the 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 IRISH WIFE. BY T. D. M'GEE. I WOULD not give my Irish wife For all the dames of the Saxon land— I would not give my Irish wife For the Queen of France's hand. For sine to me is dearer Than castles strong, or lands or life — An outlaw — so I'm near her To love till death my Irish wdfe. O, what would be this home of mine — A ruined, hermit-haunted place. But for the light that nightly shines Upon its walls from Kathleen's face 1 What comfort is a mine of gold — • What pleasure in a royal life, If the heart within lay dead and cold, If I could not wed my Irish wife. I knew the law forbade the banns — I knew my King abhorred her race — Who never bent before their clans. Must bow before their ladies' grace. Take all my forfeited domain, I cannot wage with kinsmen strife — Take knightly gear and noble name, And I will keep my Irish wife. My Irish wife has clear blue eyes, My Heaven by daj^, my stars by night — And twinlike truth and fondness lie Within her swelling bosom white. My Irish wife has golden hair — Apollo's harp had once such strings — Apollo's self might pause to hear Her bird-like carol when she sings. I would not give my Irish wife For all the dames of the Saxon land — I would not give my Irish wife For the Queen of France's hand. For she to me is dearer Than castles strong, or lands, or life — In death I would lie near her, And rise beside my Irish wife. TIPPERARY, BY PIONUL A. Were you ever in sweet Tipperary, where the fields are so sunny and green, And the beath-browa Siieve-bloom and the Gal tees look down with so proud a mein? 'Tis there you would see more beauty than is on all Irish ground — God bless you, my sweet Tipperary, for where could your match be found? OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 109 They say that your hand is fearful, that darkness is in your eye: But I'll not let them dare to talk so black and bitter a lie. Oh! no macushla storin! bright, bright, and warm are you, With hearts as bold as the men of old, to yourself and your country true. And when there is gloom upon you, bid them think who has brought it there — Sure a frown or a word of hatred was not made for your face so fair; You've a hand for the grasp of friendship — another to made them quake, And they're welcome to whichsoever it pleases them most to take. Shall our homes, like the huts of Connaught, be crumbled before our eyes? Shall we fly, like a flock of wild geese, from all that we love and prize? No ! by those who were here before us, no churl shall our tyrant be ; Our land it is theirs by plunder, but, by Brigid, ourselves are free. No! we do not forget that greatness did once to sweet Erin belong; No treason or craven spirit was ever our race among; And no frown or no word of hatred we give — but to pay them back ; In evil we only follow our enemies' darksome track. Oh ! come for a while among us, and give us the friendly hand : And you'll see that old Tippsrary is a loving and gladsome land; Prom Upper to Lower Ormond, bright welcomes and smiles will spring; On the plains of Tipperary the stranger is like a king. EMMET'S DEATH. BY S. F. C. " He dies to-day," said the heartless judge. Whilst he sate him down to the feasc, And a smile was upon his ashy lip As he uttered a ribald jest; For a demon dwelt where his heart should be. That lived upon blood and sin, And oft as that vile judge gave him food The demon throbbed within. " He dies to-day," said the jailer grim. While a tear was in his eye; " But why should I feel so grieved for hhnf Sure I've seen many die ! Last night 1 went to his stony cell, With the scanty prison fare — He was sitting at a table rude. Plaiting a lock of hair I And he look'd so mUd, with his pale— pale face. And he spoke in so kind a way, That my old breast heav'd with a smothering feel. And I knew not what to say !" " He dies to-day," thought a fair, sweet girl- She lacked the life to speak. For sorrow had almost frozen her blood, And white were her lip and cheek — Despair had drank up her last wild tear. And her brow was damp and chill, And they often felt at her heart with fear, , For its ebb was aU but still. THE PATRIOT MOTHER. BY CARROLL MALONE. " Come, tell us the name of the rebelly crew That lifted the pike on the Curragh with you ; Come, teU us their treason and then you'll be free. Or, by Heaven! you'll swing on yon high gallows-tree!" "^ lanniv! a lanniv! the shadow of shame Has never yet f all'n upon one of your name ; And, oh! may the blood from my bosom you drew In your veins" turn to poison when you turn untrue 1 no POPULAR SONGS ANt) BALLADS " The foul words — oh! let them not blficken your tongne, That would do to yourself and your country such wrong; Or the curse of a mother, so bitter and dread, With the wrath of your God, may they fall on your head! I have no one but you in this whole world wide ; Yet, false to your pledge, you'll ne'er stand by my side. If a ti-aitor you lived, you'd be further away From my heart than if, tnie, you were wrapt in the clay ! " Deeper and darker my mourning would be For your falsehood so base than j'our death, proud and free; Dearer, far dearer than ever, to me, My darling, you'd be on the high gallows-tree ! 'Tis holy, agra! with the bravest and best — Go, go, from my heart, and be joined with the rest: A lana machree! oh, a lana machree! Sure, a stag and a traitor you never will be?" There's no look of a traitor upon that young brow That is I'aised to the tempter so haughtily now; No traitor e'er held up the firm head so high ; No traitor e'er showed such a proud, flashing eye ! On the high gallows-tree, on the brave gallows-tree, Where bloomed leaves and blossoms, a sad doom met he; But it never bore blossom so pure and so fair As the heart of the martyr that hung from it there 1 KATE OF GARNAVILLA. BY EDWARD LYSAGHT. Have you been at Garnavilla? Have you seen at Garnavilla Beauty's train trip o'er the plain With lovely Kate of Garnavilla? Oh! she's pure as virgin snows Ere they light on woodland hill; Sweet as dew-drop on wild rose Is lovely Kate of Garnavilla I Philomel, I've listened oft To the lay, nigh weeping willow; Oh, the strains, more sweet, more soft. That flows from Kate of Garnavilla! Have you been, etc. As a noble ship I've seen Sailing o'er the swelling billow, So I've marked the graceful mien Of lovely Kate of Garnavilla! Have you been, etc. If poet's prayers can" banish cares, No cares shall come to Garnavilla; Joy's bright rays shall gild her days, And dove-like peace perch on her pillow. Charming maid of Garnavilla! Lovely maid of Garnavilla! Beauty, grace and virtue wait On lovely Kate of Garnavilla i SONG OF THE EJECTED TENANT. BY WHiilAM PEMBROKE MULCHINOCK. I LEAVE thee on the morrow, my old accustomed home, In sadness and in sorrow the hollow world to roam, Too bold to be a ranger, with heart too full of pride To crouch unto the stranger whom I have oft defied. 'Tis hard links should be riven that time and friendship wove, 'Tis hard power should be given to hearts that know not love; 'Tis hard when death is near me with certain step, though slow- When naught is left to cheer me^ 'tis hard from home to go. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. lU I leave the chimney-corner, the old familiar chair, To lay before the scorner my aged bosom bare, To stand at every dwelling, to catch the rich man's eye, And with a heart high swelling, for some small pittance sigh. My hope of joy is broken, my happiness is o'er. The words of fate are spoken — " beg thou for evermore." Would that my life were over, my weary life of pain! Would that the green grave's cover my aged form might gain! With eye and ear delighted, my only child beside, I heard her young vow plighted — I saw her made a bride. In joy we knelt around her; but ere a year went by. The demon, sickness, found her — she sought her bed to die. When spring's nighb stars were paling, our ululu was lou(i, With woman's bitter wailing, we wound her in her shroud. She left her child behind her — I reared him on my knee; Alas! if man was kinder he need not beg with me. Over the mighty mountain, and by the lone sea shore, By ice-bound stream and fountain we'll wander evermore; To us, like a lamb that ranges along a bleak hill-side, From all the season's changes a shelter is denied. I will not wish disaster to him that did me wrong, I leave him to a Master that's mei'ciful as strong; And when the dawn is breaking upon the land and sea, I'll say, with bosom aching: "Farewell, old home, to thee." HURLING ON THE GREEK BY DENNIS HOLLAND. 'TwAS night. On Antietam's hight The weary warriors lay, Tired, where the long and bloody fight Had tried their worth that day. Darkness had stUled the strife's alarm. Though streams of life-blood yet were warm. Where the drowsy out-post sank. And shook his sleeping comrade's arm: "You're surely dreaming, Frank." The startled sleeper gazed toward The camp-fire's waning glow; "Where are we?" "Here on the sloping sward ; And the beaten foe below." "Thunder! I dreamed of Ireland, lad. And a hurling-match." "Well, our foes have had ' Full plenty , of that I ween." "But I dreamed we tossed the ball like mad On a fair bx'xiad Irish green." " Ah, Frank, full many a ball we've hurled, And many a head to-day. The game we've played with our flag unfurled Is the game I love to play; When that glorious flag k%imv front floats out, ' ' -' -: ^J Uij^ 1 . .: ; _ : And with rifle clubbed, and with ringing shout, We spring 'neath its emerald sheen. And scatter the foes like a rabble-rout, On the crimson-dappled green!" " Shall we ever again see Ireland, Frank, And play upon Irish ground. This glorious game, where our brethen sank In the death of the starved hound? On our side Erinn,* our island mother, Each hurler true as a sworn brother: Blither game had ne'er been seen Than I hope to play some day or other To the goal of an Irish green!" The foe was gone with the morijing's light; And the flag of emerald hue Waved proudly above the woodfid hight, Bagemmed with the morning's dew. And o'er many a flght did that banner wave, 4nd o'er many an Irish warrior's grave Its mourning folds were seen ;^-:t But how many of all that phalanx brave Will again see an Iri^ green? *Blre ariaev-ne; a piatches. iVeqiieDj. cry at Irish hurling 113 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS NORA OF CAHIRCIVEEN. BY MICHAEL SCANLAN. Oh, Nora, dear Nora, you're going to leave us, To better your fortune you tempt the rough main, Bnt think, O mavourneen, how sadly 'twill grieve us, To feel we may never behold thee again. Oh, blame me not, then, that my hot tears are starting, Already in fancy the sea rolls between, And the light of our home, like a dream, is departing, And may never come back to old Cahirciveen. When the bright summer moon thro' the old oak is sliining, And the note of the harp calls the young and the gaj'; When the swains of the village of love-wreaths are tw ining, I'll think of my darling who's far — far away. When the lads to the dance will lead each village maiden, I'll think of the foot that tripped light o'er the green; I'll turn from their mirth, for my spirit, o'erladen, Will weep for the beauty of Cahu'civeen. Oh, flatter me not with your speedy returning, Few — few that come back from the far happy shoi'e; Keep the star of your land in your inmost soul burning, But kiss the green hills, for you'll see them no more. Let me fold you once"moi-e to my poor heart that's broken; Gol guard you; remember the days that have been; From the far distant land send a sign or a token That you'll never forget us in Cahirciveen. Woe — woe to the mother! alas! for the daughter. And the dreams that were twined for the bright days to come; A token of love has come over the water, A wreath of green laurel from poor Nora's tomb. On the wild hills of Kerry the mother is weeping, While the lads and the lasses still dance on the green; 'Neath the wild western prairie poor Noi-a is sleeping, Far away from the village of Cahirciveen. -o- "GOD SAVE OLD IRELAND!" / BY THE KEV. T. AMBROSE BUTLER, How fondly now, how proudly now, the exiles' bosoms swell With thoughts of scenes of loveliness by lake and hill and dell ! — With mem'ries of the sunny hours that faded soon away. Like golden light that gleams awhile at dawning hour of day! And tear-drops glisten in the eyes of gallant men and true — The forest-oak, like fragile flow'r, oft bears the morning dew — Oh ! native isle ! — the heart distills such tribute-tears for thee ! — God save Old Ireland! — struggling Ireland! — Ireland o'er the sea! God save Old Ireland! — struggling Ireland!— Ireland o'er the sea! How bravely now, how nobly now, the few and fearless stand — The struggling sons in Freedom's van who work for mother-land! Who dare the dungeon ; — face the steel ; — and mount the scaffold high, Ay! — I'eady now, like men of old, to bravely fight or die — Oh! truly shall their mem'ries live — their gallant deeds be told, And Allen's name shine through the years a buruish'd lamp of gold! OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 113 And Celtic mothers pray to Heav'n their sons as brave may be ! God save Old Ireland !— struggling Ireland ! — Ireland o'er the sea! God save Old Ireland! — struggling Ireland! — Ireland o'er the seal Oh! may the swan-like dying notes of Erin's martyr'd bi'aves Be wafted far and move the hearts of those beyond the waves — The scattered Celts whose discord dire has dimm'd our glorious green- May all unite in Larkins' name — let women chant his caione.'K, Oh! let those hands that brush aside the noble soldier's tear Be stretch'd to those who vow revenge beside O'Brien's bier! Swear — swear you'll struggle side by side to make your country free! God save Old Ireland ! — struggling Ireland ! — Ireland o'er the sea ! God save Old Ireland! — struggling Ireland! — Ireland o'er the sea! * Pronounced keen. THE SHAMROCK AND LAUREL. BY REV. WILLIAM M'CLTJRE. There's a lofty love abounding In the emblem of a land ; There's fellowship confounding The evil mind and hand; In the token of a nation, In the flow'ret of a race ; And a multiform oblation Is uplifted by the grace And patriotism of millions — To the hearthstones and hamlets Where gush the native fountains; To the valleys and the streamlets, The cities and the mountains — With a pride as high as Ilion's! As the lily was the glory Of the olden flag of France; As the rose illumes the story Of the Albion's advance — In the shamrock is communion Of all Irish faith and love ; And the laurel crows the union Of grandeurs interwove 'Round the temple of the chainless To the laurel fill libations, The cup with shami'ocks wreathing ; And before the monarch-nations Raise the symbol, breathing: " Equal Rights " — to lordings gainJess! Interweave the lowly shamrock. Freedom's laurel to endow; Ay ! unite with Ireland's shamrock Columbia's laurel-bough — For there's hope and help unchary Columbia's skies beneath. And from every cliff and prairie, To Erin's hills of heath, Salutations, clear and cheerful, Resound across the ocean; And Celts, in might increasing. With patriot emotion, Vow in their souls unceasing: " We'll avenge thee, Mother Tearful!" "STAMPHSTG OUT." BY GEN. CHARLES G. HALPiNE {" Miles O'Reilly"). " We must stamp out the fires of tliis Fenian insurrection and quencii its embers in the blood of the wretches who are its promoters." — London i ivies. Ay, stamp away ! Can you stamp it out — This quenchless fire of a nation's freedom? Your feet are broad and your legs are stout. But stouter for this you'll need 'em! You have stamped away for six hundred years, But again and again the Old Cause rallies. Pikes gleam in the hands of our mountaineers. And with scj'thes come the men from our valleys; 114 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS Tlie Rteel-clad Norman as he roams, Is faced by our naked gallowglasses, We lost the plains and our pleasant homes, But we held the hills and passes! And still the beltane fires at night, ' If not a man were left to feed 'em — By widows' hands piled high and bright, Flashed far the flame of Freedom ! Ay, stamp away! Can you stamp it out. Or how have your brutal arts been baffled? You have wielded the power of rope and knot, Fire, dungeon, sword and scaffold. But still, as from each martyr's hand The Fiery Cross fell down in fighting, A thousand sprang to seize the brand, Our beltane fires relighting! And once again through Irish nights, O'er every dark hill redly streaming. And numerous as the heavenly lights Our rebel fires were gleaming! And though again might fail that flame, Quenched in the blood of its devoted, Fresh chieftains 'rose, fresh clansmen came, And agam the Old Flag floated! That fire will burn, that flag will float, By Virtue nursed, by Valor tended — Till with one tierce clutch upon your throat Your Moloch reign is ended ! It may be now, or it may be then. That the hour will come we have hoped for ages — But, failing and failing, we try again. And again the conflict rages. Our hate though hot is a patient hate. Deadly and patient to catch you tripping — And your years are*many, your crimes are great, And the scepter is from you slipping. But stamp away with your brutal hoof, While the fires to scorch you are upward cleaving, For, with bloody shuttles, the warp and woof Of your shroud the Fates are weaving! THE DYING GIRL. BY R. D. WILLIAMS. From a Munster vale they brought her. From the pure and balmy air, An Ormoiid peasant's daughter. With blue eyes and golden hair. They brought her to the citj, And she faded slowly there, Consumption has no pity For the blue eyes and golden hair. When I saw her first reclining, IJer lips were moved in prayer. And the setting sun was shining Oh bei' jGosened goidsn ii^ir. " When our kindly glances met her, • Deadly brilliant was her eye, And she said that she was better. While we knew that she must die. She speaks of Munster valleys. The patron, dance and fair. And her thin hand feebly dallies With her scattei-ed golden hair. When silently we listened To her breath with quiet care, Her eyes with woiider glistened, And- shi agfe'cf" - i4' ','-^«sfc ^^^^ there, OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 115 The poor thing smiled to ask it, And her pretty mouth laid bare, Like gems within a casket, A string of pearlets rare. We said that we were trying By the gushing of her blood, And the time she took in sighing, To know if she were good. Well, she smil'd and chatted gayly, Tho' we saw in mute despair The hectic brighter daily, And the death-dew on her hair. And oft her wasted fingers Beating time upon the bed. O'er some old tune she lingers, And she bows her golden head. At length the harp is broken And the spirit in its strings, As the last decree is spoken. To its source exulting springs. Descending swiftly from the skies, Her guardian angel came, He struck God's lightning from her eyes, And bore him back the flame. Before the sun had risen Thro' the laj'k-loved morning air, Her young soul left its prison, XJndefileci by sin or care. I stood beside the couch in tears Where pale and calm she slept, And tho' I've gazed on death for years, I blush not that I wept. I check'd with effort pity's sighs. And left the matron there, To close the curtains of her eyes, And bind her golden hair. DREAMS. BY JOSEPH C . CLARKE. BWEET kissings of the lips of night, What moves your eerie springs? And whence troop out your angels white, Fair dreams, on lily wings? Deep from the sleep-masked soul a ray Steals forth of buried times, And blurred by changings of to-day, Pale Mem'ry wakes her chimes. They sound with silver voices sweet. And all her dim-browed throng Moves softly and with soundless feet Their clden paths along. Adown dead faces course hot tears That burn upon the cheek, And, brimming with the loss of years, Their lips all trembling speak. Till fair and light will Fancy sweep, With thousand sprites and wiles, That, mingling, twirl in magic leap Thro' Memory's grove defiles. Flow'rs bloom supernal 'neath their tread, Lute tinklings fill the trees, The gorgeous sun shines golden red, And perfumes clasp the breeze. Then passion, with her blazing mien. And earnest, panting crew, Step in and dance the lines between, And pulse the heart-string through. When 'mid its laden, shadow-bliss, A slu'oud o'er all's unfurled, And time, with envious, serpent hiss, Awakes us to the world. And are these unrealities — Each form and lucent beam That fled but as existence flees? Are these or life — a dream? ^ For is't not even thus as sweeps Life's ship o'er waters blind? That passion glares and mem'ry weeps 'Mid fancy's sons of wind? What then's this spirit-life that flies. While visioned phantasms roll? Sees it but as thro' others' eyes? Is it a deeper soul? We'll know not till uplifts the dark, And life and dreams shall flee ; For kindred waves float each frail bark- Passion, fancy, memory. THE WIDOW'S MESSAGE TO HER SON. BY ELLEN FORRESTER. ** Remember., Denis, all I bade you say ; TeU him we're well and happy, thank the Lord, 116 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS But of our troubles, since he went away, You'll mind, avick, and never say a word; Of cares and troubles, sure, we've all our share, The tinest sunnner isn't always fair. " Tell him the spotted heifer calved in May, She died, poor thing; but that you needn't mind; Nor how the constant rain destroyed the hay ; But tell him God to us was ever kind. And when the fever spread the country o'er, His mercy kept the ' sickness ' from our door. " Be sure you tell him how the neighbors came And cut the corn and stored it in the barn ; 'Twould be as well to mention them by name — Pat Murphy, Ned M'Cabe, and James M'Carn, And big Tim Daly from behind the hill;' But say, agra — Oh, say I missed him still. " They came with ready hands our toil to share — 'Twas then I missed him most — my own right hand; I felt, although kind hearts were 'round me. there, The kindest heart beat in a foreign land. Strong hand! brave heart! oh, severed far fi'om me, By many a weary league of shore and sea. "And tell him she was with' us — he'll know who; Mavourneen, hasn't she the winsome eyes. The darkest, deepest, brightest, bonniest blue I ever saw except in summer skies. And such black hair! It is the blackest hair That ever rippled o'er neck so fati\ "Tell him old Pincher fretted many a day, And moped, poor dog, 'twas well he didn't die, Crouched by the road-side how he watched the way, And sniffed the travelers as they passed him by — Hail, rain, or sunshine, sure, 'twas all the same. He listened for the foot that never came. "Tell him the house is lonesome-like and cold, The fire itself seems robbed of half its light; But, maybe 'tis my eyes are growing old, And things look dim before my failing sight. For all that tell him 'twas my self that spun The shii'ts you bring, and stitched them every one. "Give him my blessing, morning, noon and night, Tell him my prayers are offered for his good, That he may keep his Maker still in sight, And firmly stand as his brave father stood, True to his name, his country, and his God, Faithful at home, and steadfast still abroad." OF TSE EMERALD ISLE. m "PERSEVERE." BY JOHN BROUGHAH. Robert, the Bruce, in the dungeon stood, Waiting the hour of doom ; Behind him the Palace of Holyrood, Before him, a nameless tomb. And the foam on his lip was flecked with red, As away to the past his memory sped, Upcalling the day of his great renown When he won and he wore the Scottish crown ; Yet come there shadow, or come thei-e shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine. " T have sat on the royal seat of Scone," He muttered, below his breath; " It's a luckless change, from a kingly throne To a felon's shameful death." And he clenched his hand in his despair, And he struck at the shapes that were gath- ering there. Pacing his cell in impatient rage, As a new-caught lion paces his cage; But come there shadow, or come there shine. The spider is spinning his web so fine. " Oh, were it my fate to yield up my life At the head of my liegemen all, In the foremost shock of the battle-strife Breaking my country's thrall, Pd welcome death from the foeman's steel, Breathing a prayer for old Scotland's weal ; Birt here, whei'e no pitying heart is nigh, By a loathsome hand, it is hard to die;" Yet come there shadow, or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine. " Time and again have I fronted the pride Of the tyi'ant's vast array. But only to see, on the crimson tide, My hopes swept far away. Now a landless chief, and a crownless king, On the broad — broad earth, not a living thing To keep me court, save yon insect small Striving to reach from wall to wall;" For come there shadow, or come there shine. The spider is spinning his thread so fine. " Work — work as a fool, as I have done. To the loss of your time and pain — The space is too wide to be bridged across. You but waste your strength in vain. " And Bruce, for the moment, forgot his grief, His soul now filled with the same belief, That howsoever the issue went, For evil or good was the omen sent; And come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine. As a gambler watches his turning card On which his all is staked ; As a motlier waits for the hopeful word For which her soul has ached ; It was thus Bruce watched, with every sense Centered alone in that look intense ; All rigid he stood with unuttered breath. Now white, now red, but still ais death; Yet come there shadow, or come there shi»:e, The spider is spinning his thread so fine. Six several times the creature tried. When at the seventh: " See — see! He has spanned it over," the captive cried, " Lo! a bridge of hope to me; Thee, God, I thank, for this lesson here Has tutored my soul to Persevere !" And it served him well, for ere long he wore In freedom the Scottish crown once more; And come there shadow, oi* come there shine. The spider is spinning his thread so fine. PASTHEEN PION. (From the Irish.) BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, • [In Hardlman's " Irish Minstrelsy " there is a note upon the original of Pastheen Fion. The name may be translated either fair j'outh or fair maiden, and the writer supposes it to have a political meaning, and to refer to the son of James II. Whatever may have been the intention of the author, it is, on the surface, an exquisite love song, and as such we have retained it.] Oh, my fair Pastheen is my heart's delight; Her gay heart laughs in her blue eye bright ; Like the apple blossom her bosom white, And her neck like the swan's on a March morn bright} 118 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS Then, Oro. come with me — come with me — come with mel Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet! And, oh, I would go through snow and sleet. If you would come with me, my brown girl, sweet! Love, of my heart, my fair Pastheen! Her cheeks are as rsd as the rose's sheen, But my lips have tasted no more, I ween, Than the glass I drank to the health of myqueen! Then, Oro, come with me — come with me — come with me! Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet! And oh ! I would go through snow and sleet If you would come with me, my brown gij-1, sweet! Were I in the town, where's mirth and glee, Or 'twixt two barrels of barley bree. With my fair Pastheen upon my knee, 'Tis I would drink to her pleasantly! Then, Oro, come with me — come with me — come with me! Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet! And, oh, I would go through snow and sleet If you would come with me, my browu girl, sweet! Nine nights I lay in longing and pain, Betwixt two bushes, beneath the rain. Thinking to see you, love, once again; But whistle and call wei'e all in vain! Then, Oro, come with me — come with me — come with me! Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet! And oh, I would go through snow and sleefc If you would come with me, my brown girl, sweet I I'll leave my people, both friend and foe; From all the girls in the world I'll go ; But from you, sweetheart, oh, never, oh, no! Till I lie in the cofiRn stretched, cold and low! Then, Oro, come with me — come with me — come with me ! Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet! And, oh, I would go through the snow and sleet If you would come with me, my brown girl, sweet! PATER NOSTER. BY M. J. HEFFERNAN. Father of all! who reign'st supreme Beyond yon blue, o'er-arching sphere, As Thy forever glorious name Is hallow'd there, so be it here ; Grant that our numbered hours may be So many hymns of praise to Thee ! "Thy kingdom come!" ah, yes, my God! That hope is sweet, indeed, to those Who, in this cold world, feel the rod Of deep affliction, and the throes Of pain: blest ai-e they when the tomb Receives them;''*' oh, Thy kingdom cornel" Yet, Father ! shouldst Thou deem it right To shower on me from year to year Those miseries which crush and blight Young hope, no murmurs shalt Thou hear Prom me, for I will utter none r No — then as now — " Thy will be done!" " Give us this day our daily bread!" That thus our hearts be always free From sordid cares ; and so be led To think more on Thy works and Thee. Lord! keep our souls fed constantly With Faith, and Hope, and Chai-ity. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 119 If there b^ those who would me wrong In thought, or wish, or deed, or word, Let their crimes be the first among Those that Thou'lt forgive ; and grant, oh, Lord! That I, too, may be forgiven For all my crimes 'gainst man and Heaven ! Thou knowest an inheritance Of frailty's ours, since first were driven Our common parents from the once Elysian path that led to Heaven ; Then save us. Lord, from evil when Temptation spreads her lures. Amen ! THE MOORE CENTENNIAL. 1879. BY B. DORAN KTLLIAN. Long, long had Banba lain Within the circling main, A lost Atlantis to her sister lands. Dumb with exceeding woe and voiceless pain: Her broken Harp, beside, Swayed in the songless tide. That rose and fell, and rose and fell, in vain: 'Till those who sailed her seas Said, sorrowing, words like these ; " Alas, poor Banba's hive of honey-bees Will never swarm again." Not that her soul was old — Not that her clime was cold — Or bosky fields and thymy woods were bare, Exhaust of juicy branch or pregnant mold; No ! but that Hate and Feud Left her no calm to brood, And none could sing who would, or could, would dare — The Themes of Hearth and Wold- Fame's Hesper fruits of gold — That hung, in wealth untold, Yet turned to ashes there. This — but not this alone — With a high pride unknown To baser soils and less heroic mood. She sought the cause of every Fated One ; Bared her breast to Bigot Zeal, Racked her arms on Change's wheel. And held the Old and Leal, the Only Good ; Then, with long sufl'eriug worn, Of all but Honor shorn. In proud reserve of scorn, Scarce knew herself undone. Who, the all-gifted one To loose her stricken tongue? Whose, the all-potent hand to lead her forth— Roll back the gathered clouds and show the sun? Restring her ancient lyre-^ Restore her native fii'e— f I And send her Song and Story 'round the Earth- So all who heard should say, " The Dead, but yesterday. Is heard, again, in Freedom's choir And still has heart for Mirth." O ! who but you, Tom Moore, Made her New Life secure. In pierceless panoply of deathless words — Whose burning luster blinds who would obscure ; Soothed, to a sober heat, Her heart's convulsive beat. And stilled the bigot strain that jarred its chords; Dowered her long-wasted strength, With Grecian grace, at length. And quickening every power to feel. Gave hardness to endure. Blessed be your natal day! Praised be your name alway ! Of Iber's later stock the first in fame. For Fancy-soaring Song and Freedom- saving Lay; And, O, while Banba's fields A single songster yields, Be yours the name most green, and yours the grave most gay With all the gifts of spring That poet art can bring To show, what else takes wing, God's Genius comes to stay. Nor in your motherland Be the sole homage planned — Whei'e Hudson pours the exile-greeting wave. Let sculpture sketch the frieze, and Ariel wave the wand — Where Northern Cedars grow, Let your immortelles blow. And to the Schuylkill's flow, your naiiie roil gi'and; Incorporate with the clime, And blending — dream divine ! — Hj'-Braisii's bloom ^Jid IJman's primg Fi'pm QOfis.^ spy,^iid to §t;;an^^ 130 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS In mild Bermuda's groves, \V hen Summer, sauntering, roves Tlirougla languid aii'S and arbors breathing balm, To songs of yours, let Cupid yoke his doves. And Samos — sacred isle ! — Forget her loss and smile — In 3'ou, Anacveon lives and Sappho loves; Through you the Persian's siirines With IBanba's Baal-fire shines, While Iran's G-od inclines. And all the world approves I O, Bard of every race ! O, Song of seraph grace! While bosoms glow or valor nerves an ai^n, Our heart's most sacred core shall be your place. Our Land, our cause, and you Shall kindred tho\ights renew. While Truth has words to olease or voice to charm. But most to woman's call. At home-like hearth or hall. To Irish Music's swooning fall. We'll pledge you, haud in hand. IN THE PRISON CELL. BY MRS. MARY J. O'DONOVAN ROSSA. [Written after a visit to her husband in Portland Prison, in 1866.] Within the precincts of the prison bound, Treading the sunlit courtyard to a hall Roomy and unadorned, where the light Through screenless windows glaringly did fall. Within the precincts of the prison walls. With rushing memories and bated breath — With heart elate, and light, swift step that smote Faint echoes in this house of living death, Midway I stood in bright expectancy — Tightly I clasped my babe — my eager sight Hungrily glancing down the long, low room. To where a door bedimmed the wall's pure white. They moved — the noiseless locks ! Th e portal fell With clank of chain wide open, and the room Held him, my wedded love — my heart stood still With sudden shock — with sudden sense of doom. Oh! for a moment's twilight that might hide The harsh, tanned features, once sosoft and fair! The shrunken eyes that with a feeble flash Smiled on my presence and his infant's there! Oh ! for a shadow on the cruel sun That mocked thy father, baby, with its glare ! Oh! for the night of nothingness, or death, Ere thou, my love, this felon's garb should wear! My heart that had with glad, impatient bounds Counted the moments ere he should appear. Drew back at sight so changed, and, shivering, waited, Pulselessly waited, while his step drew near! My heart stood still, that had with gladsome bounds Marked tlie slow moments ere he should appear — My heart stood still and waited while his voice — His voice, though altei'ed, smote my quiet ear. It needed not, my Love, those pain-wrung words. Falling with sad distinctnes.=! from thy lips. To tell a tale of insult, abject toil. And day-long labor, hewing Portland steeps. It needed not, my JLove, this anguished glance, This fading fire within thy gentle eyes, To rouse the torpid voices of my heart, Till all the sleeping Heavens shall hear their cries. Yet must we crj' : " How long, oh Lord — how long?" For seven red centuries a country's woe Has wept the prayer in tears of blood ; and still Our tears to-night for fx'esber victims flow ! w- OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 121 REVELRY OF THE DYING. rWhen it is rpmemberecl that tlip author of the following extraordinary stanzas was sti-icken down soon after thfy were written, tliey will present to the reader a fl^ish of ghastly wit seldom exceeded in griinness. They were written, we believe, by an Irish officer of the Auglo-East-Indian army during tlie reign of a fearful pestilence. We meet 'neath the sounding rafter, And the walls around are Vjare ; As they shout to our peals of laughter It seems that the dead are there. But stand to your glasses, steady! We drink to your comrades' eyes. Quaff a glass to the dead already; And hurrah ! for the next that dies. Not here are the goblets flowing; Not here Is the vintage sweet; 'Tis cold, as pur hearts are growing And dark as the doom we meet. But stand to your glasses, steady! And soon shall our pulses rise, A cup to the dead already ; Hurrah! for the next that dies. Not a sigh for the lot that darkles; Not a tear for the frieniis that sink; We'll fall 'midst the wine-cup's sparldes As mute as the wine we drink. iSo stand to your glasses, steady! 'Tis this that the respite buys; One cup to the dead already ; Hurrah ! for the next that dies. Time was when we frowned at others ; We thought we were wiser then. Ha — ha 1 let them think of their mothers Who hope to see theni again. So stand to your glasses, steady ! The thoughtless are here the wise; A cup to the dead already; Hurrah! for the next that dies. There's many a hand that's shaking; There's many a cheek that's sunk; But soon, though our hearts are break- ing, They'll burn with the wine we've drunk. Bo stand to your glasses, steady ! 'Tis here the revival lies ; A cup to the dead already; Hurrah! for the next that dies. There's a mist on the glass congealing; 'Tis the hurricane's fiery breath ; And thus does the warmth of feeling Turn ice in the grasp of death. Ho ! stand to your glasses, steady ! For a moment the vapor flies ; A cup to the dead already; Hurrah! for the next that dies. Who dreads to the dust returning? Who shrinks from the sa))le shore. Where the high and haughty yearning Of the soul shall sing no more? Ho ! stand to your glasses, stead3^1 The world is a world of lies ; A cup to the dead already; Hurrah ! for the next that dies. Cut off from the land that bore us, Betrayed by the land we find, Where the brightest have gone before us. And the dullest remain behind. Stand ! — stand to your glasses, steady I 'Tis all we have left to prize; A cup to the dead already ; And hurrah ! for the next that dies. MUSINGS. BY J. E. FITZGEBALD. MtrsiNG, ever musing, on the glories fled and past, Thinking, ever thinking, if the gloom will always last, Dreaming, ever dreaming, of a morning yet to come. When motherland shall rise again triumphant from the tomb. Reading, ever reading, o'er her history's crimson page, 'Till I lay the volume by me with very hate and rage, And wish the sti-ength of millions were centered all in me, To wrench the Gordian knot, my motherland, from thee. Praying, ever praying, with all a patriot's zeal. With all the fire and fervor that vengeance dii e can feel, 133 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS That he who guides the destinies of nations here below, Would send some angel of his wrath to strike the tyrant low. Longing, weary longing, for the dawn of freedom's day, For the cannon and the lances, and the men in strong array, And the battle field all crimsoned with tyrant blood accursed, And the rag of Saxon tyranny forever in the dust. AN EXILE'S WOOINQ. BY M. HIGGINS. Come — come to me, love, T am lonely — I'm lonely and lowly and sad; Come, darling, with you, and you only, Can pleasure or solace be had. Tho' bright be the smiles of the many Who carol around me to-night. The shade of j^our absence, dear Annie, Is hiding my heart from their light. I'm cased in no mail of moroseness, I nurse no aversion to joy. Yet all their good-humor seems grossness, Their kindness contrived to annoy. Their music is rolling and bounding, Their laughter chimes cheery and free, A tenebrse, dolefully sounding. Might wake as much mirth within me. I wish to their songs you were listening And lending the sweetness they lack; I wish that your blue eyes were glistening On mine, giving fond gazes back; I wish that your fay toot was mingling In dances I coldly evade — Ah ! soon would be burning and tingling The pulse now so icy and staid. I wish the next home-wending steamer. Which trails her long plumes thro' the gale. Could carry your sorrowing dreamer Back — back to beloved Innisfail. What joy ere the sunny June days slip Away like gold beads from life's threads, To wander once more around Leixlip And drive thro' the strawberry beds. With mountain-dew elixir gargle The throat that grows sore from my sighs, Have a walk by your side through the Dargle, On Saggard's greeu slades cool my eyes; Pass o'er every path where the plodder Each Sabbath seeks, seldom in vain, Fair scenes and fresh air by the Dodder, To winnow all care from his brain. I'd wish to go fish every nook a Fat trout loves to haunt in Loch Biay ; And be blest if I felt Poul-o-Phuca, Baptize me anew in her spray. Faitli the wag and the wit of these revels, Who haply see only in me Some tethered ass owned by blue devils, Would gape at the madcap I'd be. But the gruflf voice of power prohibits My own land again to be mine, Every right save to jails and to gibbets Must we who love Erin resign. 'Tis true that the prison and halter Might leave us unlodged or unstrung, If we learn to truckle and palter With servile demeanor and tongue. 'Tis true, if we chose to go limping And crouching to life's latest goal. Some gold might be twined with the gimping. Which bound us fast body and soul. But better, far better to molder, 'Neath hill-ferns giacing a grave, Than thus with bowed head and crook'd shoulder. Conserve the vile shape of a slave. In the land where no fetters can gall us We live with a vow to return. When freedom and vengeance recall us, And beacons of hope for us burn. Then come to me, love, I am lonely, 'Mid mirth's pealing pipes a poor drone — Come, darling, with you, and you only, Can pleasure and solace be known. KATE OP KILLASHEE. BY W^iLLIAM COLLINS. Bright are the heath-blossoms on Beara's mountain brown. And bright the waves of Camolin that roll past Longford town; OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 123 But brighter still than flower or rill, and lovelier far is she, The pride and boast of Longford, fair Kate of Eillashee. Sweet is the rippling laughter, the music of the tongue, Like some old Irish melody by siren played or sung; And like the sunny waters that go dancing to the sea, In light and beauty beaming, is Kate of Killashee. Plow bright her blushing glances of love whene'er we met, Like rainbow tints upon the rose with dew of morning wet, And bright the love-light shining from her eyes of hazel brown- Oh! she's the star of Leinster, the pride of Longford town. Fair Kate, 'tis mine to wander afar from Erin's strand — Alone beside the Hudson's wave, within the strangers' land; But backward ever flies my heart to home and love and thee — To Longford's pleasant valleys and the Rose of Killashee. A BROTHER'S CONSOLATION. BY MICHAEL CAVANAGH. They buried him on the "Rock " at the foot of the " Round Tower." — Letter from Home Search every fane the island 'round, Where rest the sainted and the brave, Thou'lt never view more hallowed ground Than thy young baby's grave. No king who ruled on Erin's throne, No chief who glory o'er her shed, A nobler monument doth own Than that which marks his bed. On " Patrick's Holy Rock" he sleeps, Where kings stood fenced by heroes' spears ; The " Tower " that o'er him vigil keeps, Stands there two thousand years. 'The bones of prelates canonized Lie thick beneath those ruins grey ; The blood of martyrs fertilized That consecrated clay. That grave is his by " right divine" — His sires ruled Munster's hills and plains ; The blood of Cormac's royal line Ran red within his veins. A scion of that noble stock Which never flinched from friend or foe, Has claims on his ancestral rock 'Twere treason to forego. In kindred dust his body lies. Where Erin's best through ages trod; With kindred angels in the skies. His soul adores its God. Then, though maternal tears you weep. While Nature's grief your bosom wrings. Look up ! Thank God, your boy's asleep. In " Cashel of the Kings I" GATHERING THE CLANS. BY RICHARD OTJLAHAN. From Dublin gates to Galway, and up from Derry walls, Through fierce Red Owen's tribe-lands, the rallying cry appals! Kildare and Kerry, Clare and Cork, the gathering clans prepare; And they ne'er will furl the old Green Flag till Freedom perches there! A few days' earnest work would arm full fifty thousand more. Whose hearts throb wildly for the fray, by Liffey, Boyne and Nore— Each rifle true and dollar sent, before our Flag's unfurled, Give heart and hope to fatherland, and joy to all the world! 1S4 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS The Irish ai'my laugh to scorn Bull's coward, brutal boast, To " stamp out," like his plague-struck Gods, Green Erin's Fenian Host- Such bugbear threats advance the claim of outraged manhood's cause; But the soldiers of the Sunburst accept reprisal laws. He knows his bloated lords would hang — his cities light the sky; And leave a wilderness of walls where Leeds and London lie! For Freedom's boon — for land and life — our patriot-brothers smite, And they ne'er will furl the old Green Flag till vict'ry ends the fight. Shall those brave fellows " in the gap" call madly, but in vain, For arms and aid, too long delayed through discord's fatal bane? By martyrs' graves and prison-braves J the living and the deadl We must not let the old Green Flag go dovm below the Bed! LOUGH INE.* BY FITZJAMES O'BBIEN. I KNOW a lake where the cool waves break. And softly sink on the silver sand ! No steps intrude on that solitude. And no voice save mine disturbs the strand. There a mountain bold, like a giant of old, Turned to stone by some magic spell, Uprears in might his misty hight. Like a warder watching o'er flood and fell. In the midst doth smile a. little isle. Whose verdure shames the emerald's green ; On its grassy side, in ruin'd pride, A castle of old is darkling seen ! On the lofty crest, the wild cranes nest: In its halls the sheep good shelter find; And the ivy shades where a hundred blades Were hung when their owners in sleep reclin'd. That chieftain of old, could he now behold His lordly tower a shepherd's pen. His corse long dead, from its narrow bed Would start with anger and shame again ! It is sweet to gaze, when the sun's bright rays Are cooling themselves in the trembling wave; But 'tis sweeter far when the evening star Shines like a smile o'er Friendship's giave. Then the hollow shells, through their wreathed cells, Make music on the silent shore, Ab the summer breeze, through the distant trees. Murmurs in f ragant bteathings o'er. And the sea-weed shines like the hidden mines Of the fairy cities beneath the sea; And the wave washed stones are as bi'ight as the thrones Of the ancient kings of Araby ! Oh ! were it my lot in that fairy spot To live forever, and dream 'twere mine; Coui'ts might woo, and kings pursue, Ei-e I would leave thee^oved Lough Ine! *A beautiful salt-water lake in the County of Cork. AWAKE, MY DEAR COUNTRY. {Lilies written on reading: *' Oh! Blame Not The Bard.'''') BY THOMAS P. MASTERSON. Awake, my dear country, and dry up thy tears, Deep grief unavailing too long has been thine; Oh! heed not the minstrel that fosters thy fears, And bids thee the dream of thy freedom resign. Look 'round on thy children who secretly sigh, Tho' treason's their love they await but the day When 'neath thy green banner they'll throng at thy cry, For oh! there are men who've not learnt to betray. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 125 Then rouse to the struggle, we'll shame not our sires, Nor yet undistinguished shall we pass away; Nor need we the torch from the funeral pyres Of our counti-y to light us thro' dignity's way. We seek not the honors injustice bestows, We scorn the distinction by treachery bought; And the beacon that lights us to liberty throws No reflection of shame on the path we have sought. Awake, dearest Ireland! thy pride has not fled, Nor broken's the spirit inflamed thee of yore; Nor dimmed are the rays of the glory that shed Its brightest effulgence for aye on thy shore. ' Unfading's our hope for the land that we love, Our complainings no more shall be heard o'er the earth, And our harp shall but tell of how nobly we strove To rescue dear Ireland, the land of our bii-th. Then think not the tyrant who rivets thy chains Can weep for the captive his cruelty binds — The captive who still her despoiler disdains. She asks not his pity and scorns his designs. Then cease thy lamenting, that hour is now past, Like men, let us true to our purpose abide ; The tried and the trusted have gathered at last, Then on for dear Ireland! we've God on our side. THE EXILE. BY JOHN WALSH. To Erin vdth a blessing, So far — so far away. Do I send my heart's caressing, This merry Christmas day. Far beyond the gliding waves, Where the wild winds moan above, Raving thi*o' the rushing waters, Do I speed my meed of love, Till it light within the glen. On my happy boyhood's home — Oh, to Erin, with a blessing. My heart to-day will roam. Oh, long since we have parted — The green old land and I, Since, crushed and broken-hearted, From her bright face did I fly; For I could not bear to think That the tyrant's grasp would hold. And I tried to burst her bondage, With my brother exiles bold. We failed — mavrone, how sadly Did I leave my boyhood's home — Oh, to Erin, with a blessing. My heart to-day will roam. Shall I live to see you, darling? Shall we meet for evermore? For I dream fi'om night till morning Of your green and sunny shore. Thro' the golden summer sheen. Thro' the frosty winter's haze. Thro' the midnight's dancing shadows And the noontide's fervid blaze, My thoughts are ever turning To my happy boyhood's home — Oh, to Erin, with a blessing. My heart to-day will roam. MY NOBLE IRISH GIRL. BY DK. L. REYNOLDS. I LOVE thee — oh, that word is tame To teU how dear thou art; No seraph feels a holier flame Than that which thrills my heart. How mild and innocent the brow, Where thy dark ringlets curl. Thy soul is pure as virgin dawn, My noble Irish girl. 126 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS I love to gaze upon thy smile, Thine eyes so briglit and gay; Foi' there's no stain of art or guile In aught you thiuli or say. The happiest liour that e'er I knew, Though it my peace —ay peril, Is when thee to my heart I drew, My noble Irish girl. I need not in the herald's book My loved one's lineage trace — I read her lineage in her look, Her record in her face ; I hear it in each touching tone That floats thro' rows of pearl; Thou art my queen — my heart's th}' throne, My noble Irish girl. I feel the impress of thy worth, And strive to be like thee; Thou art to me what Heaven's to earth, What sunshine's to the sea; And if from me some luster beam, 'Mid sin and passion's whirl, 'Tis thy light shines on my life's stream, My noble Irish girl. ARTHUR M'COY. BY PONTIAC. While the snow-flakes of winter are falling On mountain, and housetop, and tree, Come olden weird voices recalling The homes of Hy-Fah^ to me ; The ramble b}^ river and wild wood. The legends of mountain and glen, When the bright, magic mirror of childhood Made heroes and giants of men. Then I had my dreamings ideal, My prophets and heroes sublime. Yet I found one, true, living, and real, Surpass all the fictions of time: Whose voice thrilled my heart to its center. Whose form tranced my soul and my eye; A temple no treason could enter; My hero was Arthur M'Coy. For Arthur M'Coy was no bragger, No bibber, nor blustering clown, 'Fore the club of an alehouse to swagger. Or drag his coat-tail through the town; But a veteran, stern and steady, Who felt for his land and her ills; In the hour of her need ever ready To shoulder a pike for the hiUs. As the strong mountain tower spreads its arms, Dark, shadowy, silent, and tall, In our tithe-raids and midnight alarms. His bosom gave refuge to all — If a mind, clear, and calm, and expanded, A soul ever soaring and high, ' Mid a host — gave a right to command it — A hero was Arthur M'Coy. While he knelt, with a Christian demeanor, To his priest, or his Maker alone, He scorned the vile slave, or retainer. That crouched 'round the castle, or throne ; The Tudor— The Guelph, The Pretender, Were tyrants, alike, branch and stern ; But who'd free our fair land, and defend her, A nation, were naonarchs to him. And this faith in good works he attested. When Tone linked the true hearts, and brave. Every billow of danger he breasted — His sword-flash, the crest of its wave ; A standard he captured in Gorey, A sword-cut and ball through the thigh Were among the mementoes of glory Recorded of Arthur M'Coy. Long the quest of the law and its beagles, His covert the cave and the tree: Though his home was the home of the eagles. His soul was the soul of the free. No toil, no defeat could enslave it. Nor franchise, nor "Amnesty Bill" — No lord, but the Maker who gave it, Could curb the high pride of his will. With the gloom of defeat ever laden — Seldom seen at the hurling or dance. Where through blushes, the eye of the maiden Looks out for her lover's advance ; And whenever he stood to behold it, A curl of the lip or a sigh. Was the silent reproach that unfolded The feelings of Arthur M'Coy. For it told him of freedom o'ershaded — That the iron had entered their veins — When beauty bears manhood degrafled, And manhood's contented in chains, OF THE EMERALD ISLE. m Yet he loved that fair race as a martyr, And if his own death could recall The blessings of liberty's charter, His bosom had bled for them all. And he died for his love — I remember, On a mound by the Shannon's blue wave, On a dark snowy eve in December, I knelt at the patriot's grave. The aged were all heavy-hearted — No cheek in the churchyard was dry; The sun of our hills had departed — God rest you, old Ai-thur M'Coy! THE MOUNTAIN FORGE. BY T. IRWIN. In the gloomy mountain's lap Lies the village dark and quiet; All have passed their labor-nap, And the peasant, half-awaking, A blind, yawning stretch is taking, Ere he turns to rest again; There is not a sound of riot, Not a sound save that of pain, Where some aged bones are aching; Lo! the moon is in the wane — Even the moon a drowse is taking. By the blossomed sycamore, Filled with bees when day is o'er it, Stands the Forge, with smoky door; Idle chimney, blackened shed — All its merry din is dead ; Broken shaft and wheel disused Strew the umbered ground before it, And the streamlet's voice is fused Faintly with the cricket's chirrup, As it tinkles clear and small 'Round the glooming hearth and wall, Hung with rusty shoe and stii-rup. Yes, the moon is in the wane ; Hark! the sound of horses tramping Down the road with might and main ; Through the slaty runnels crumbling. Comes a carriage swinging, rumbling; 'Round the steep quick corner turning, Plunge the horses, puff' d and champing ; Like the eyes of weary ghosts, Tlie red lamps are dimly burning. Now 'tis stopt — and one springs down, And cries unto the sleeping town — "Ho! for a blacksmith — ho! awake! Bring him who will his fortune make — The best — the best the village boasts 1" Up springs the brawny blacksmith now. And rubs his eyes, and binishes off The iron'd sweat upon his brow. Hurries his clothes and apron on, And calls his wife and wakes his son. And opens the door to the night air, And gives a husky cough ; Then hastens to the horses standing With drooping heads and hotly steaming. And sees a dark-eyed youth out-handing A sweet maiden, light and beaming. He strikes a lusty shoulder-blow ; " Four shoes," he cries, "are quickly wanting ;" His face is in an eager glow. " Take my purse and all that's in its Heart, it you in twenty minutes Fit us for the road." The smith Looks at the wearied horses panting, Then at the clustering gold ; And thinks, as he falls to his Work, He dreams — a mind-dream, rusty mui'k. That this is but a fairy myth, A tale to-morrow 4i0 be told. But now the forge fire spirts alive To the old bellows softly purring, In the red dot the irons dive ; Brighter and broader it is glowing. Stronger and stronger swells the blowing, The bare armed men stand ' round and mutter Lowly while the cinders stirring — Ho ! out it flames 'mid sparkles dropping. Spitting, glittering, flying, hopping; Heavily now the hammers batter, All is glaring din and clatter. In the cottage dimly lighted By the taper's drowsy glare. Stands the gentle gii'l benighted; By her side forever hovers That dark youth, O, best of lovers! Daring all that love will dare With an aspect firm and gay ; Now the moon seems shming clearer. Hark! a sound seems swooping nearer From the heathy hills; the maid Lists with ear acute, and while One there with brave, assuring smile. Smooths her forehead's chestnut braid, The danger softly dies aiway. 128 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS Now the forge is in a glow, Bellows roaring, irons ringing; Three we made, and blow on blow Sets the patient anvil singing; ."Another shoe— another, hark ye," Ra-ra — ra-ra — ra-ra-rap ; Split the ruddy sheddings sparky, Ra-ra — ra-ra — ra-ra-rap ; Strikes the quick and lifted hammer On the anvil bright and worn ; While amid the midnight there. Beyond the noisy streaming glare, With a yellow misty glamor, Looks the moon upon the corn. On the hill- road moving nigher. Hurries something dimly shooting, Glances from two eyes of fire; "Haste, 0, haste!" they're working steady; Cries the blacksmith: "Now they're ready." Pats the pawing horses, testing On the ground their iron footing; Helps the lady, lightJy-resting On his black arm up the carriage*, Takes the gold with doubt and wonder — And as o'er the stones and gorses Tramp the hot pursuing horses. Cries with voice of jolly thunder — " Trust me, they won't stop the marriage!' Scarce a minute's past away When, O, magic scene! the village Lies asleep all hushed and grey; But hark ! who throng again the street With roaring voices, brows of heat? Come they here the town to pillage? No. Across the road, o'erthrown. Carriage creaks and horses moan ; " Blacksmith, ho!" the travelers cry — Not a taper cheers the eye; While a-top a distant hill Flushed with dawn-light's silent warning. Speed the lovers toward the morning With a rapid right good will; . While behind that father fretting. The pale night-sick moon is setting. IRELAND'S WELCOME TO THE DISCHARGED BRITISH SOLDIER OF IRISH BIRTH. {Woking Prison, 1870.) RICKAED O'S. BURKE. [Written in reply to the suggestion of the Pall Mall Gazette, in the columns of which journal a para- graph appeared, advising the government to dishonorably discharge all Irishmen from Her Majesty's land sorvice.on account of their long recognized disloyalty. The paragraph In question stated that the matter was about to receive Parliamentary action, which is supposed completed, and the soldiers of Irish birth discharged.] And Shamus, allhay, is it thrue, what they say, this news from the Parliament, That all of my boys, my sojer boys, back home are to be sent? Back home are to be sent, allhay, in shame and black disgrace. For having, inside their scarlet coats, the heart of their grand old race?. Chorus. From my heart I say, God bless this day, My bouchal bawn machree; Without penny or pack to tack to your back, Your welcome home to me. They'll be sorry and sore when you're not to the fore these dangerous coming years, Oh, I forget, they're bairns yet, musha, see their volunteers; And whin those bairns meet the foe, faith vict'ries will be scant, 'Tis right enough, you're not the stuff, 'tis min wid legs they'll want. Fi-om my heart I say, etc. Whin you, like a thraveling killin' machine, o'er land and say did roam, Did it ever inther your mind at all, you'd have work to do at home? You'd have work to do at home, allhay, of the easiest, quai'riest kind, AUana machree, come hither to me — there's somethin' in the wind. From my heart I say, etc. In dark and in dawn, na bouchaleen bawn, they thried to coax you away, AVid bounties, and medals, and dhrums, and fifes, and ribbons so bright and gay ; OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 139 Machree, I knew to me you'd be thrue, through thick aud thin aich day; For heart so brave never beat in the slave who'd fight for nothing but pay. Prom my heart i say, etc. The shan van vacht is goin' 'round and saying things mighty quaire, Alanna machree, come hither to me — she"has a word for you're air, There's something in the wind, allhay, there's strange things going on, And maybe the union jack won't go — where union jacks have gone. From my heart I say, etc. Did these wholesale despots think, allhay, they bought you out and out Whin they gave you a rag to cover your back, and a bic to put in your mouth? They thought you'd forget, allanna machree, for thev spoke so smooth and fair. How thej^ rooted you out of house and home and left" you starving and bare. From my heart I say, etc. The old home is in ruins now, 'twas the peelers, sure, pulled it down, And mother and Eileen they died that night in the snow going into the town; In the old grave yard they are lying, allhay, above them the night wind moans, Alanna machree, sure you'll thry to free the sod that covers their bones? From my heart I say, etc. In life there's nothing nobler than revenge^ for our martyr'd dead; To lighten the load of the hand oppressed, 'to give the hungry bread; To strive for the poor, the plundered poor, with a brother's strong, true hand, To march to the grand old music still, for God and our mother land. From my heart I say, etc. o THE RETURNING JANIZARY. BY FRANCIS BROWN. 'There came a youth at dawn of day From the Golden Gate of the proud Serai; He came with no gifts of warrior pride But the gleam of the good sword by his side. And an arm that well could wield ; But he came with a form of matchless mould- Like that by the Delphian shrine of old — And an eye in whose depth of brightness shone The light by the Grecian sunset thrown On the dying Spartan's shield ; For the days of his boyhood's bonds were o'er. And he stood as a free-born Greek once more! They brought him robes of the richest dyes, And a shield like the moon in autumn sliies, A steed that grew by the Prophet's tomb, And a helmet crown'd with a heron's plume, And the world's strong tempter. Gold ; And they said: "Since thou turnest from the towers Of honor's path and pleasure's bowers, Go forth in the Saphi's conquering march — And gold and glory requite thy search. Till a warrior's death unfold For thee the gates of Paradise, And thy welcome beam'd by the Houris' eyes." "And where will the yearning memories sleep. That have fiU'd mine exiled years With a voice of winds in the forest free. With the sound pJL ibe chi^mieir ha hj^eUed in the grave, ;guii far in tti* iixitii'^ tha poivei' nt their numbere ^h0, Undid tbd beai'fcs et m f§WM m^ UW^i OP mS JEUmALt) tSLS. m It will waken an echo in souls deep and lonely, Like voices of reeds by the summer breeze "fanned; It will call up a spirit of freedom, when only Her breathings ai-e heard in the songs of our land. Por they keep a record of those, the true-hearted. Who fell with the cause they had vowed to maintain; They show us bright shadows of glory departed, Of the love that grew cold, and the hope that was vain; The page may be lost and the pen long forsaken, And when weeds may grow wild o'er the brave heart and- hand ; But ye are still left when all else hath been taken, Like streams in the desert, sweet songs of our land. Songs of our land, ye have followed the stranger, With power over ocean and desert afar. Ye have gone with our wanderers through distance and danger, And gladdened their path like a home-guiding star; With the breath of our mountains in summers long vanished, And visions that passed like a wave from our strand. With hope for their country and joy from her banished, Ye come to us ever, sweet songs of our land. The spring-time may come with the song of her glory, To bid the green heart of the forest rejoice; But the pine of the mountain, though blasted and hoary, And rock in the deserr can send forth a voice. It is thus in their triumph for deep desolations, WhUe ocean waves roll or the mountains shall stand, Still hearts, that are bravest, and best of the nations. Shall glory and live in the songs of our land. ANNIE, DEAR. BY THOMAS D AT I S . 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 ray love outgushing, Annie, dear. Ah ! but our hopes were splendid, Annie, dear; How sadly they have ended, Annie, dear; The ring betwixt us broken, • When our vows of love were spoken, Of your poor heart was a token, Annie, dear. 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 returnin I found our cottage burning. Around it were the yeomen, Of every ill and omen, The country's bitter loeraen. Annie, Annie, dear, dear ; Annie, dear. But why arose a morrow, Upon that night of sorrow, Far better, by thee lying. Their bayonets defying, Than live in exile sighing. Annie, Annie, dear? dear? Annie, dear. uo POPULAR SOJSfGS AUt) BALLADS THE SPIRIT BRIDE. BY B. DORAN KILLIAN. In the deep'ning gloom of the forest eves A white face ever my soul descries, And the lush — lush green of the locust leaves Is gemmed with the glow of two spirit eyes:— Eyes of the deepest, haziest blue; Face like a moonlit waterfall's foam, That evermore say: "I am waiting for yon. So tarry not long, love, come, love, come!" Sombrous aisles, where my lost one strays ! Sacred shades,' where my lost one roves! I wander and watch in j^our deepest maze, In the heart and the hush of your darkest groves — Groves, where the white face brightest gleams — Groves where the blue eyes bluest grow, Till I catch the light of the bright — bright beams, And the red — red lips I used to know. An orange bloom in a cypress wreath My spirit bride her brow has on ; And she leans and leans till I feel her breath. And her drooping hair my cheek upon. Oh I sweet, warm breath of the days gone by; Oh! soft— soft hair of the silver sheen. Ton come for the kiss that may not cloy, And the closer clasps that should have been. In the sapphire courts of the bright and blest She bjdestill the eve on the earth descends. Then, all in her bridal garments drest. To our trysting-place in the woods she wends: Bridal and burial garments white. Orange and rue on her veiled head! T)-ue to the troth of her maiden plight. She hies to the joys of the nuptial bed. Oh ! mortal tongues may never disclose, And mortal eyes may nevei-more see, Such burning kisses my bride bestows, And warm embraces she gives to me; Kisses full of Seraphic fire; Embraces such as the Cherubim know; Fi-ee of the dross of earthly desii-e, We kiss and clasp, and glow and glow ! Have you seen the depths of a cross-girt spring When the sun a sidelong glance sends through? Have you watched the vistas that lead and bring The eye to the skies divinest blue? That spring is the type of her deep, pure truth, That vista its weird — weii'd story, So saddened, and sunned, and circled with ruth, It shines with heavenly glory! Betimes a grief all human will come Across our brightest trysting hour, A grief all human, but such an one Of more than human power; As angels feel who know their love For mortal form requited. Yet know, their golden gates above Shut out the loved benighted. Then sigh on sigh, and gaze on gaze, And tenderest drawings nearer; Then all the thousand — thousand wa}-s The dear one makes the dearer ; Ah ! sorrow may come in many a guise, On ebon pinions moving. But soonest it comes, and longest it lies, Where part the leal and loving ! Pall, shades of evening, gather and fall Past and thick, 'mid the locust leaves; Weave, funeral pines, your shadiest pall Where my Spirit Bride receives; The pall will shift like a cloud eclipse When her white robe glints the air, And Heaven break in while I press her lips, And toy with her silver hair I WINTER. BY MICHAEL J. HEFFERNAN. Close the shutters, bolt and bar the doo''s, the cheerless dajr is gone, And night, borne on the wintry blast, wraps all the earth in gloom; Heap wood upon those dying sparks, and leave me to my own Silent broodings in my lonely little room. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 141 What music do the wretched hear in every dismal sound That marks the gloomy tracks of Desolation and Despair? How they love to bx'ood upon the past when Horror reigns around! Calm sunshine the unhappy cannot bear. Let others love the Springtime, or the Summer calm and bright, Or the golden Autumn twilight — sweetest season of the year. But, ah! /always welcome the cold, joyless Winter night— - Its wild bowlings fall like music on my ear. Yet I, too, had my Spring-tide joys, when in the flush of youth I plucked the modest daisy and the primrose from the sward, To bring them to a little girl, the soul of Love and Truth, And snatched the kiss half granted in reward. The attributes from angels beamed . from out my Mary's face, Her smile would make a hermit's life one live-long Summer day; Oh ! who could look upon that form of light, unearthly grace, And think it was, or e'er could be — but clay? Our youth — our Springtide — passed away one hallow'd blissful dream. The May-time came, and soon I called my Mary " little wife," And I took her to my cottage by the margin of a stream: Oh! then began the Sxmimer of my life! Sweet Mary! how thine image, clear and fresh as yesterday. Comes floating on my memory o'er the rapid stream of Time; How my weary heart is yearning once again to fly away. Back to the golden sunshine of our prime ! Can'st thou, my sainted bride, now from thy new home in the skies, See the heart thou hast left desolate corroding with mute woe? Can'st thou watch me in my broken sleep, and hear the unconscious sighs I offer to thy memory here below? Oan'st thou see our little cottage door, where oft thou'st watched for me At sunset; whilst the anxious tears into thine eyes would start. If thou sawest me not coming at the wonted hour to thee, To calm the foolish throbbings of thy heart? But, oh ! never — never shall thy kiss of welcome greet me more ; Cold are those rich, ripe lips, those love-lit eyes, that marble brow ' Drear loneliness remains forme; my summer days are o'er ; This woi'ld has Winter only for me now ! Ah, well do I remember, love, the Autumn eve that found Thy f ever'd cheek upon my breast ; the golden sunset beamed Thro' our chamber's half -closed window, throwing mellow light around, While the parting soul within thy blue eyes gleamed. Me thinks thou art before me now. The cold sweat jnats thy hair; The death-smile quivers on thy lip; the flush has left thy cheek; Thine eyes grow dim; thy spirit-sister angels fill the air; Thou sighest the farewell thou canst not speak. Thou art gone. Thy saintly spirit with the angels wings her way To the blest home thy Creator hath prepared for thee above; Leaving me but the cold semblance, in this pallid form of clay, Of the early, only object of my love. And now, indeed, 'tis Winter, and no hopes for me remain Jn this cold and dreary vale of tears, of sorrow and of pain; 142 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS But to struggle on in Virtue's path, that I may soon agaia Meet thee where naught can enter with a stain. Oh, once I loved the Spring-tide, and the Summer calm and bright, And the golden Autumn twilight— sweetest season ot the year; But now I always welcome the cold, joyless Winter night, Whose cold bowlings fall like music on my ear. O'DONNELL ABU. BY M. J. M'CAisrjsr. PROUDLT the note of the trumpet is sounding, Loudly the war-cries arise on the gale. Fleetly the steed by Loc Suilig is bounding, To join the thick squadrons in Saimear's green vale. On, every mountaineer. Strangers to flight and fear; Rush to the standard of dauntless Red Hugh! Bonnought and Gallowglass Thi'ong from each mountain pass! On for old Erin — O'Donnell abu ! Princely O'Neill to our aid is advancing, With many a chieftain and warrior-clan; A thousand proud steeds in his vanguard are prancing, 'Neath the borders brave from the banks of the Bann: Many a heart shall quail Under its coat of mail ; Deeply the merciless tyrant shall rue. When on his ear shall ring, Borne on the breeze's wing, Tyrconnell's dread war-cry — O'Donnell abu 1 Wildly o'er Desmond the war wolf is howling, Fearless the eagle sweeps over the plain, The fox in the streets of the city is prowling, All — ail who would scare them are banished or slain I Grasp, every stalwart hand. Hackbut and battle- brand — Pay them all back the deep debt so long due ; Norris and Clifford well Can of Tir-Conaill tell- Onward to glory — O'Donnell abu I Sacred the cause that Clan-Conaill's defending— The altars we Icneel at and homes of our sires ; Ruthless the ruin the foe is extending — Mindight is red with the plunderer's fires! On with O'Domnall, then, Fight the old fight again, Sons of Tir-Conaill all valiant and true! Make the false Saxon feel Erin's avenging steel ! Strike for your country ! — O'Donnell abu! HE SAID THAT HE WaS NOT OUR BROTHER. BT JOHN BANIM. He said that he was not our brother — The mongrel! he said what we knew — No, Eire! our dear Island-mother, He ne'er had his black blood from you! And what though the milk of your bosom Gave vigor and health to his veins — He was but a foul foreign blossom. Blown hither to poison our plains! He said that the sword had enslaved us — That still at its point we must kneel, — The liar! — though often it braved us, We crossed it with hardier steel ! This witness his Richard — our vassal! His Essex — whose plumes we trod down! His Willy — whose peerless sword-tassel We tarnish'd at Limerick town 1 No! falsehood and feud were our evils, While force not a fetter could twine — Come, Northmen— come, Normans — come, Devils! We gavo them our SjMrth to the chine! And if once again he would try us, To the nmsic of trumpet aud drum. And no traitor among us or nigh us — Lee him come, the Brigand! let him come! OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 143 AN EXILE'S DREAM. BY JOSEPH BRENNAN. I WILL go to holy Ireland, The land of Saint and Sage, Where the pulse of boj'hood's leaping In t-he shrunken form of Age; Where the shadow of giant HoiDes For evermore is cast, And the wraiths of mighty chieftains Are looming thi-ough the Past. From the cold land of the Stranger I will take my joyous flight, To sit by my slumbering country. And watch her through the night; When Spring is in the sKy, And the flowers are on the land, I will go to ancient Ireland, Of the open heart and hand. I will go where the Galtees, Are rising bare and high. With their haggard foreheads fronting The scowl of the clouded sky; I will gaze adown on the valleys, And bless the teeming sod. And commune with the mountains — " The Almoners of G-od;" I will list to the murmurous song Which is rising from the river. Which flows, crooning to the ocean, Forever and forever. When the May month is come. When the year is fresh and young, I will go to the home of my fathers — The land of sword and song. I will go where Killarney Is sleeping in peaceful rest. Unmoved, save when a falling leaf Ripples its placid breast ; Where the branches of oak and arbutus Are weaving a pleasant screen, And the sunshine breaks in diamonds Through its tracery of green ; Where the mists, like fantastic specters, Forever rise and fall, And the rainbow of the Covenant Is spaiining the mountains tall. When the wind blows from the "west Across the deep Sea, I will sail to my Innisfail — To the "Isle of Destiny." I will go to beautiful Wicklow, The hunted outlaw's rest. Which the tread of rebel and rapparee In many a struggle prest; I \y\\\. go to the lonely graveyard, Near the pleasant fields of Kildare, And pray for my chief and my hero, Young Tone, who is sleeping there. I will go to the gloomy Thomas street, Where gallant Robert died, And to the grim St. Michan's, Where the "Brothers" lie side by side; I will go to where the heroes Of the Celts ai'e laid, And chant a Miserere For the souls of the mighty Dead. I will seize my pilgrim staff. And cheerily wander forth From the face of the smiling South To the black frown of the North ; And in some hour of twilight I will mount the tall Slieve-Bloom, And weave me a picture-vision In the evening's pleasant gloom ; I will call up the buried leaders Of the ancient Celtic race. And gaze with a filial fondness On each sternly-noble face — The masters of the mind. And the chieftains of the steel, Young Carolan, and Grattan, The M'Caura, and O'Neill; I will learn from their voices. With a student's love and pride, To live as they lived. And to die as they died. Oh, I will sail from the West, And never more will part From the ancient home of my people — The land of the loving heai-t, -o- THE "HOLLY AND IVY" GIRL, BY J. KEEGAN. ."Ggmb, buy my nice, fresh Ivy, aiid sny Holly sprigs so gi'efn', I have the finest brsri ohes iMs^,i m&v j&t were geon, " pome, buy from me, good Clirietjawa, and lei ma tiome, I v>x%f> 144 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS "Ah! won't you take my ivy?— the loveliest ever seen! Ah! won't you have my Holly boughs? — all you who love the Green! Do! — take a little bunch of each, and on my knees I'll pray, That God may bless your Christmas, and be with you New Year's Day. " This wind is black and bitter, and the hail-stones do not spare My shivering form, my bleeding feet, and stiff, entangled hair ; Then, when the skies are jiitiless, be merciful, I say — So Heaven will light your Christmas and the coming New Year's Day." 'Twas thus a dying maiden sung, while the cold hail rattled down. And fierce winds whistled mournfully o'er Dublin's dreai-y town: — One stiff hand clutched her Ivy sprigs and Holly Boughs so fair, With the other she kept brushing the haildrops from her hair. So grim and statue-like she seemed, 'twas evident that Death Was lurking in her footsteps — while her hot, impeded breath Too plainly told her early doom— though the burden of her lay Was still 6f life and Christmas joys, and a Happy New Year's Day. 'Twas in that broad, bleak Thomas street, I heard the Wanderer sing, I stood a moment in the mire, beyond the ragged ring — My heart felt cold and lonely, and my thoughts were far away, Where I was many a Christinas-tide and Happy New Year's Day. I dreamed of wanderings in the woods among the Holly Green: I dreamed of my own native cot and porch with Ivy Sqreen; I dreamed of lights forever dimm'd — of Hopes that can't return — And dropped a tear on Christmas fires that never more can burn. The ghost-like singer still sung on, but no one came to buy; The hurrying crowd passed to and fro, but did not heed her cry; She uttered one low, piercing moan — then cast her boughs away — And smiling, cried — "I'll rest with God before the New Year's Day I" On New Year's Day I said my prayers above a new-made grave, Dug decently in sacred soil, by Lifi:e3''s murmuring wave; The Minstrel maid from Earth to Heaven has winged her happy way, And now enjoys, with sister saints, an endless New Year's Day. THE LADY OF THE EMERALD. BY D. HOLLAND. fin the East and in the West, In the olden days, the emerald was more highly valued than the diamond; and Ic was believed that certain mystic virtues, protecting the wearer against the wiles of evil men and. evil spirits, lurked in the emerald that was pure in color and without a flaw.] The queen of my love is fair and bright. With neck like the drifting snows; And her shadowy eyes have a witching light Like the starry gleam of the autumn night ; But the hue of the summer rose May not rival the virgin fires that beam On her blushing cheek, I trow; And her brown hair sbines with a sunny- gleam; But cold and dark as a winter's dreanj J§ the shadow upon her brgvy, In robe as green as the Dryad's vest My queenly love is dight; _2. A ruby glows on her snowy breast, And the girdle that clasps her yielding waist With starry gems is bright. But her foes have plundered her regal dower; She wears no longer now (When shame and sorrow aro^ijd her lower) The mystic sign of her queenly t^CjSVQV— 1'h^ Emei'ald on her brpWf ' ' OF THE EMERALD ISLE. , 145 But I'll win back that gem for my bright lady, The jewel of sea-bright green, That bears a fairy potency, For hearts that are brave and souls that are free. In its mystic stainless sheen. And her robes shall glitter with gems untold ; And her wasted cheek shall glow With the roseate hue it wore of old ; And I'll circle her locks in a wreath of gold. With the emerald on her brow FILL HIGH TO-NIGHT. BY WILLIAM PEMBROKE MULCHINOCK. Fill high to-night, in our halls of light The toast on our lips shall be — "The sinewy hand, the glittei'ing brand, Our homes and our altars free." Though the coward pale, like the girl may wail. And sleep in his chains for years. The sound of our mirth shall pass over earth With balm for a nation's tears. A curse for the cold, a cup for the bold, A smile for the girls we love ; And for him who'd bleed, in his country's need, A home in the skies above. We have asked the page of a former age For hope secure and bright, And the spell it gave to the stricken slave Was in one strong word — "Unite." Though the wind howl free o'er a simple tree Till it bends beneath its frown — For many a day it will howl away Ex'e a forest be stricken down By the martyr's dead, who for freedom bled, By all that man deems divine, Our patriot band for a sainted land Like brothers shall all combine. Then fill to-night, in our halls of light. The toast on our lips must be — '•The sinewy hand, the glittering brand, Our homes and our altars free." THE MUNSTER WAR-SONG. 1190. BY R. D. WILLIAMS. [This ballad relates to the time when the Irish began to rally and unite against their invaders. Tlie union was, alas! brief; but its effects wei-e great. The troops of Connaught and Ulster, under Cathal Ornv dearg (Cathal O'Connor of the Red Hand), defeated and slew Armoric St. Laurence, and stripped De Cour- cv of half his conquests. But the ballad i-efers to Monster; and an extract from Moore's 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, Avere O'Brian of Thomond, and Mac Carthy of Des- mond, hereditai-y rulers of North and South Muuster, and chiefs respectively of the two I'ival tribes, the Dalcassians and Eoganians- By a truce now formed between those princes, O'Brian was left free to direct his arms against the English; and having attaclced their forces at Tliurles, in Fogarty's country, gave them a complete, overthrow, putting to the sword, adds the Munster Annals, a great number of knights."— ffisto7j/ of Ireland, a. d. 1190. J Can the depths of the ocean afford yoa 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 Aharlow?* The clangor of conflict o'erburdens the breeze, From the stormy Slieve Bloom to the stately Gal tees; Your caverns and torrents are purple with gore, Slievenamon, Glencoloc, and sublime Galtymore ! The Sun-burst that slumbered embalmed in our tears, Tipperary ! shall wave o'er thy tall mountaineei-s! And the dark bill shall bristle with saber and spear, While one tyrant remains to forge manacles here. •'!' Abarto'w gim, Qmniy Qt TipperB* 146 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS The riderless war-steed careers o'er the plain, Witli a shaft in his flank and a blood-dripping mane, His gallant breast labors, and glares 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 fljang 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 Shannon." all crimsonly flow. Like the billows of hell with the blood of the foe. Ay ! the f oemen are flying, but vainly they fly — Revenge, with the fleetness 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 Slieve Bloom, To tell the pale Saxon of tyranny's doom; When, like tigers from ambush, our fierce mountaineers 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 for their graves- From the gloomy Ardfinnan to wild Templemore — From the Suir to the Shannon — is red with then- 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 flash'd in the summer sun's ray. The hilts of their falchions were crusted with gold, And the gems of their helmets were bright to behold. By Saint Bride of Kildare! but they moved in fair show — To gorge the young eagles of dark Aharlow ! THE GROVES OP BLARNEY. BY B. A. MILLIKEN. The groves of Blarney they look so charmiug, Down by the purling of sweet silent streams. Being banked with posies that spontaneous grow there. Planted in order by the sweet rock close. 'Tis there the daisy and tlie sweet carnation. The blooming pink, and the rose so fair; The daflydowndilly — likewise the lily. All flowers that scent the sweet f i-agrant air, There's gravel walks there, for speculation, And tjonvereatiou in swoefc £o]ii;uds, And if a lady should be so engaging, As to walk alone in those shady bowers, 'Tis there the courtier he may transport her, Into some fort, or all under ground. There is a stone there, that whoever kisses, Oh ! he never piigses to grow eloquent; 'Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber, Or become a member of Barliaroept; A clever spouter he'll soon "tui-n piijb, or An out-and-outer, ^' to be left alone.'' Don't hope tg |;ii)4er iiim. Qp to bgwildev 'Tii* thfu'e t\»y luv(M> may hmv the dove, o^ I Sure li^'s 6 pilgrfm tvom tJje BJftrnev OF THE EMERALD ISLE. m THE EXILE OP ERIN". BY G-. A. REYNOLDS. Theb3 came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his raiment was heavy and chill; For his country he sighed when at twilight repairing, To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day star attracted his eyes' sad devotion. For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean. Where oft in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang I could forgive thee, heartless creature, Who recked not for my rise, or fall; But 1 for scoff and scorn was singled; And all the treacheries of thy race, In thy deceitful smile were mingled, To ruin — wrong me — and debase. Thy quarrel found me ever ready — Thy bidding set my lance in rest — My arm and heart, how strong and steady. Thy friends and foes have both confess'd. And if, as oft, in general gladness, My prowess was forgotten — then It was my strange escape from sadness, To dare, and do, for thee again. LISTENING FOR THE FOOTFALLS. BY STEPHEN J. MEANY. Alone in the autumn twilight, In the evening's gathering gloom, She sat, that Irish peasant wife. In the porch of her cottage home. Her woman's work around her — Her busy hands at play — And in tune her voice kept crooning Some old-time Irish lay. But hark I in the distance a rustling The shadowy leaves among — And the welcoming chirping of children- And she stops both work and song. And she lovingly listens the coming Of the pride of her happy life — The husband and little ones home again, To cheer the heart of that Irish wife. ACUSHLA GAL MACHREE. BY MICHAEL DOHENY. The long-long wished for hour has come, But come, asthore, in vain, And left thee but the wailing hum Of sorrow and of pain ; My light of life, my only love, Thy portion sure must be Man's scorn below, God's wrath above — Acushla gal machree. 'Twas told of thee the world around, Was hoped for thee by all. That with one gallant sunward bound 'Thou'd burst long ages' thrall ; Thy fate was tried, alas ! and those Who perilled all for thee Were cursed and branded as thy foes, Acushla gal machree. What fate is thine, unhappy isle, That e'en the trusted few Should pay thee back with fraud and guile When most they should be true? 'Twas not thy strength or courage failed Nor those whose souls were free; By moral force wert thou betrayed, Acushla gal machree. I've given thee my youth and prime. And manhood's waning years; I've blest thee in thy sunniest time. And shed for thee my tears ; And mother, tho' thou'st cast away The child who'd die for thee. My fondest wish is still to pray—' For Cushla gal machree. 162 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS I've tracked for thee the mountain sides And slept within the brake, More lonely than the swan that glides On Lua's fairy lake ; The rich have spurned me from their door Because I'd set thee free, Yet dt) I love thee more and more — Acushla gal machree. I've run the outlaw's bold career, And borne his load of ill. His troubled rest and waking fear With fixed, sustaining will; And should his last dread chance befall, E'en that should welcome be. In Death, I'll love thee more than all — Acushla gal machree. MOTHEJR, HE'S GOING AWAY. BY SAMXJEL LOVER, . Mother. Now what are you crying for, Nelly? Don't be blubbering there like a fool ; With the weight o' the grief, faith, I tell you You'll break down the three-legged stool. I suppose now you're ciying for Barney, But don't b'lieve a word that he'd say. He tells nothing but big lies and blarney — Sure you know how he served poor Kate. Karney. Daughter, But, mother 1 Mother. Oh, bother. Daughter. 0.h, mother, he's going away, And I dreamt the other night Of his ghost— aiZ in white! [Mother speaks in an undertone.'] The dirty blackguard ! Daughter. Oh, mother, he's going away. Mother. If he's going away, all the betther — Blessed hour when he's out of your sight! There's one comfort — you can't get a letther — For yiz neither can read nor can write. Sure 't w^as only last week you protested, Since he courted fat Jinney M'Cray, That the sight o' the scamp you detested — With abuse sure your tongue never rested — Daughter. But, mother! Mother. Oh, bother! Daughter. Oh, mother, he's going away. iMother speaking again with peculiar pa- rentalp)iety.'\ May he never come back! Daughter. And I dream of his ghost, Walking round my bedpost — Oh, mother, he's going away. THE SONG OP THE COSSACK. (From the French of Beranger.) BY THE EEV. F. MAHONY ("FATHER PKOUT.") [The original of the following stanzas was written by Beranger— who, as our readers are aware, was a French compound of Burns, Moore and Swift— shortly after the restoration of the Bourbons, consequent upon the first downfall of Napoleon. How it must have fired the blood of Republican France and whetted the steel of the worshiping legions of le petit corporal on his return from Elbal] Come arouse thee up, my gallant horse, and bear thy rider on ! The comrade thou, and the friend, I trow, of the dweller on "the Don." Pillage and death have spread their wings! — 'tis the hour to hie thee forth. And with thy hoofs an echo make to the trumpets of the North I Nor gun, nor gold, do men behold upon thy saddle-tree; But earth affords the wealth of lords for thy master and for thee; Then fiercely neigh, my charger grey! O, thy chest is proud and ample; And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of Prance, and the pride of her heroes trample. • Europe is weak — she hath grown old ; her bulwarks are laid low; She is loth to hear the blast of war — she shrinketh from a foe I Come, in our turn, let us sojourn, in her goodly haunts of joy — In the pillar'd porch to wave the torch, and her palaces destroy! Proud as when first thou slak'dst thy thirst in the flow of conquer'd Seine, Ay, shalt thou lave, within that wave, thy blood-red flanks again. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 163 Then fiercely neigh, my gallant grey! O, thy chest is sti-ong and ample; ■ And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of our heroes trample. Kings are beleaguer'd on their thrones by their own vassal crew ; And in their den quake noblemen, and priests ai-e bearded, too; And loud they yelp for the Cossack's help to keep their bondsmen down, And they think it meet, while they kiss our feet, to wear a tyrant's crown! The scepter now to my lance shall bow, and the crosier and the cross, All shall bend alike, when I lift my pike, and aloft that scepter toss ! Then proudly neigh, my gallant grey! O, thy chest is broad and ample; And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of her heroes trample. In a night of storm I have see)i a form! and the figure was a giant, And his eye was bent on the Cossack's tent, and his look was all defiant; Kingly his crest — and toward the West with his battle-ax he pointed, And the "form" I saw was Attila, of this earth the scourge anointed. From the Cossack's camp let the horseman's trg^p the coming crash announce ; Let the vulture whet his beak sharp-set, on the can-ion field to pounce! Then proudly neigh, my gallant grey ! O, thy chest is broad and ample ; And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of heroes trample. What boots old Europe's boasted fame, on which she builds reliance. When the North shall launch its avalanche on her works of art and science? Hath she not wept her cities swept by our hordes of trampling stallions? And tower and arch crush'd in the march of our barbarous battalions? Can we not wield our fathers' shield? the same war -hatchet handle? Do our blades want length, or the reapers strength, for the harvest of the Vandal? Then proudly neigh, my gallant grey! O, thy chest is strong and ample; And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, and the pride of our heroes trample. SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING-. BY THOMAS MOOBE. AiR:—''lheBlacJcJok6." StJBLlME was the wai'ning which Liberty spoke, And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke Into life and revenge from the Conqueror's chain! Oh, Liberty ! let not this spirit have rest Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west; Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot, Nor, oh ! be the shamrock of Erin forgot. While you add to your garland the olive of Spain! If the fame of our fathers, bequeath'd with their rights, Give to country its charms, and to home its delights; If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain ; Then, ye men of Iberia! our cause is the same — And, oh ! may his tomb want a tear and a name, Who w^ould ask for a nobler, a holier death. Than to tui-n his last sigh into Victory's breath For the shamrock of Erin and olive of Spain! Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resign'd The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find That repose which, at home, they had sigh'd for in vain, "Breathe a hope that the magical flame, which you light, May be felt yet in Erin, as calm and as bright ; And forgive even Albion, while, blushing, she draws. Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause Of the shami-ock of Erin and olive of Spain! 164 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS THE FELON'S LOVE. BY J. K. CASEY. " Gracie O'Donnell— oh ! why sit you there, Twining so calmly your bright yellow hair, Wait you a lover to come from Knockbwee, When the brown moon arises on mountain and sea? " You have eyes like the starlight on Nephin's gray peak, There is bloom on your lips — why the snow on your cheek? The smile on thy face, gentle maiden, is gone. And the touch of your fingers is cold as the stone." "I wait not a lover to come from Knockbwee, My lover's in chains on the wide swelling sea, O, Willie mavoiirneen, when traitors stood high, The foe felt the glance of your clear flashing eye. " You loved me, astJiore, and your heart broke across, ' When you thought of the parting, the sorrow and loss, But you knew your own Gracie would wither in shame, If the brand of a traitor was placed on your name. "They called you a felon — they chained you as one — And made you the brother of Emmet and Tone ; Oh ! princes might envy that title to-day. For the sake of the hearts lying down in the clay. "Yes, a traitor to England — a foe of its race, You proudly looked up to the black tyrant's face ; 'Twas the crime of our fathers — their sons stand up now, With that mark of a traitor stamped plain on each brow. " The last kiss I've pressed on your lips and your cheek, The last word you've heard for your Gracie to speak; The last time I've looked on my brave Willie's face, And felt the wild clasp of a felon's embrace. " I am twining my hair, for a bridal is near. By the walls of Kilkeevan they'll carry a bier. For the felon's true love could not live while the brand Was not flashing on high in the grasp of his hand." THE IRISH RAPPABEES. A Peasant Ballad of 1691. BY CHARLES GAVAST DTJFPY, M. P. [When Limerick was surrendered, and the bulk of the Irish army tooli service with Louis XIV., a multi- tude of the old soldiers of the Boyne, Aughrim, and Limerick, preferred remaining in the country at the risk of fighting for their daily bread; and with them some gentlemen, loth to part with their estates or their sweethearts, among whom Redmond O'Hanlon is perhaps the most memorable. The English army and the English law drove them by degrees to the hills, where they were long a terror to the new and old settlers from England, and a secret pride and comfort to the trampled peasantry who loved them even for their excesses. It was all they had left to take pride in.l RiGH Shemus* he has gone to France, and left his crown behind — 111 luck be Theirs, both day and night, put runnin' in his mindl Lord Lucant followed after, with his Slashers brave and true, * Righ Shemus. — King James II. + After the Treaty of Limerick, Patrick Sarsfleld, Lord Lucan, sailed with the brigade to France, and wag killed while leading his countrymen to victory at the battle of Landen, in the Low Countries, on 39th July, 1693. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 165 And now the doleful keen is raised: "What will poor Ireland do? What must poor Ireland do? Our luck," they say, "has gone to France — what can poor Ireland do?" Oh, never fear for Ireland, for she has so'gers still, For Rory's boys are in the wood, and Reniy's on the hill; And never had poor Ireland more loyal hearts than these — May God be kind and good to them, the faithful Rapparees ! , The fearless Rapparees! The jewel were you, Rory, with your Irish Rapparees! Oh, black's your heart. Clan Oliver, and colder than the clay! Oh, high's your head, Clan Sassenach, since Sarsfield's gone away! It's little love j'ou bear to us, for sake of long ago. But howld your hand, for Ireland still can strike a deadly blow — Can strike a mortal blow — Och! dhar-a-Chreesth! 'tis she that still could strike the deadly blow! The Master's bawn, the Master's seat, a surly boclagh-^ fills ; The Master's son, an outlawed man, is riding on the hills. But, God be praised, that 'round him throng, as thick as summer bees, The swords that guarded Limerick wall — his loyal Rapparees! His lovin' Rapparees! Who dare say no to Rory Oge, with all his Rapparees? Black Billy Grimes of Latnamard, he racked us long and sore — God rest the faithful hearts he broke — we'll never see them more! But I'll go bail he'll bi-eak no more, while Truagh has gallows-trees. For why? — he met, one lonesome night, the fearless Rapparees! The ans:ry Rapparees! They never sin no more, my boys, who cross the Rapparees ! Now, Sassenach and Cromweller, take heed of what I say — Keejj down your black and angry looks, that scorn us night and day, For there's a just and wrathful judge, that every action sees. And He'll make strong, to right our wrong, the faithful Rapparees ! The fearless Rapparees! The men that rode at Sarsfield's side, the roving Rapparees! * Bodagh.^A severe and inhosp Itable man. THE CHURCHYARD BRIDE. BY WILLIAM CARLETON. The bride she bound her golden hair — Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! And her step was light as the breezy air, When it bends the morning flowers so fair, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. And oh, but her eyes they danced so bright, Kiileevy, oh, Killeevy! As she longed for the dawn of to-morrow's ligbt. Her bridal vows of love to plight, . By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. Tlie bridegroom is come with youthful brow, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! To receive from his Eva her virgin vow ; " Why tarries the bride of my bosom now, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy?" A cry — a cry ! 'twas her maiden spoke, Kiileevy, oh, Killeevy! " Your bride is asleep — she has not awoke: And the sleep she sleeps will be never broke. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy." Sir Turlough sank down with a heavy moan, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! And his cheek l3ecame like the marble stone — "Oh, the pulse of my heart is forever gone! By the bonnie gi-een woods of Killeevy." The keen is loud, it comes again, Killeevy,. oh, Killeevy! And rises sad from the funeral train, As in sorrow it winds along the plain By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy, IGG POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS And, oh, but the plumes of white were fair, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! Wlieii they flutter'd all mournful in the aii", As rose the hymn of the requiem prayer, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. There is a voice that but one can liear, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! And it softly poors, from behind the bier, Its note of death on Sir Torlough's ear. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The keen is loud, but that voice is low, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! And it sings its song of sorrow slow, And names young Turlough's name with v7oe. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. Now the grave is closed, and the mass is said, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! And the bride she sleeps in her lonely bed. The fairest corpse among the dead. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The wreaths of virgin white are laid, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! B j"^ virgin hands o'er the spotless maid ; And the flowers are strewn, but they soon will fade By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. " Oh, go not yet — nor yet away, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! Let us feel that life is near our clay," The long departed seem to say, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. But the tramp and the voices of life are gone, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! And beneath each cold forgotten stone, The mouldering dead sleep all alone. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. But who is he who lingereth yet? Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! The fresh green sod with his tears is wet. And his heart in the bridal grave is set. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. O, who but Sir Turlough, the young and brave, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! Should bend him o'er that bridal grave, And to his death-bound Eva rave. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. "Weep not — weep not," said a lady fair, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! " Should youth and valor thus despair. And pour their vows to the empty air, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy?" There's charmed music upon her tongue, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! Such beauty — bright, and warm, and young- Was never seen the maids among. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. A laughing light, a tender grace, Killeevj', oh, Killeevy! Sparkled in beauty around her face. That grief from mortal heart might chase. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. " The maid for whom thy salt tears fall, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! Thy grief or love can ne'er recall ; She rests beneath that grassy pall. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. " My heart it strangely cleaves to thee, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! And now that thy plighted love is free. Give its unbroken pledge to me, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy." The charm is strong upon Turlough's eye, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! His faithless tears are already dry. And his yielding heart has ceased to sigh. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. " To thee," the charmed chief replied, Killeevy, ch, Killeevy! "I pledge that love o'er my buried bride: O ! come, and in Tui-lough's hall abide. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy." Again the funeral voice came o'er, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! The passing breeze, as it wailed before. And streams of mournful music bore. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. "If I to thy youthful heart am dear, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! One month from hence thou wilt meet me here. Where lay thy bridal, Eva's bier, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy." He pi'essed her lips as the words were spoken, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! And his banshee's wail — now far and broken — Murmured: " Death," as he gave the token. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. "Adieu — adieu!" said the lady bright, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! And she slowly passed like a thing of light. Or a morning cloud, from Sir Toi'lough's sight. By the bgnnie green wooclg of Killeevy, OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 167 v|^ow Sir Turlough has death in every vein, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! And there's feai' and grief o'er his wide domain, And gold for those who will calm his brain, By the bonnie gi-een woods of Killeevy. " Come, haste thee, leech, right swiftly ride, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! Sir Turlough the brave, Green Truagha's pride. Has pledged his love to the churchyard bride. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy." The leech groaned loud: " Come tell me this, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! By all thy hopes of weal and bliss, Has Sir Turlough given the fatal kiss, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy?" " The banshee's cry is loud and long, Kiljeevy, oh, Killeevy! At eve she weeps her funeral song. And it floats on the twilight breeze along. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. " Then the fatal kiss is given — ^the last, Killeew, oh, Killeevy! Of Turlough's race and name is past. His doom is seal'd, his die is cast. By the bonnie green woods of Klilleevy. " Leech, say not that thy skill is vain, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! Oh, calm the power of his frenzied brain. And half his lands thou shalt retain. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy." The leech has failed, and the hoary priest, • Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! With pious shrift his soul released. And the smoke is high of his funeral feast. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The shanachies now assembled all, Killeevy,' oh, Killeevy ! And the songs of praise in Sir Turlough's hall. To the sorrowing harp's dark music fall. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. And there is trophy, banner, and plume, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! And the pomp of death with its darkest gloom, O'ershadows the Irish chieftain's tomb. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy I The month is closed, and G-reen Truagha's pride, Killeevy, oh, Killeevy! Is married to death — and, side by side. He slumbers now with his churchvard bride. By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. BINGEN ON THE RHINE. BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON. A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiei-s, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand. And he said: " I never more shall see my own, my native land; Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen — at Bingon on the Rhine. " Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around, To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground. That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun. And amidst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars. The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars; And some were young — and suddenly beheld life's morn decline; And one had come from Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine. "Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age. And I was but a trnant bird, that thought my home a cage; For my father was a soldier, and even as a child. My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword; 168 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS And with boyish love I Ining it where the bright light used to shiae On the cottage wail at Biugen — calm Bingeu on the Rhine! " Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die. And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name, To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine) — For the honor of old Bingen — dear Bingen on the Rhine! " There's another — not my sister; in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry — too fond for idle scorning — O, friend! I fear the lightest heai-t makes sometimes heaviest mourning; Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen, My body will be out of pain — my soul be out of prison) I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingeu — fair Bingeu on the Shine! " I saw the blue Rhine sweep along— I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounding through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eye was on me as we passed with fi-iendly talk Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-i'emembered walk, And her little hand lay lightly, confidingl}'' in mine, But we'll meet no more at Bingen — loved Bingeu on the Rhine." His voice grew faint and hoarser — his grasp was childish weak — His eyes put on a dying look — he sighed and ceased to speak; His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled — The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land — was dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle field, with bloody corpses strewn; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine. FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR. BY THOMAS MOOBE. Air:— " Moll Room.'''' Faeewell! but, whenever you welcome the hour That awakens the night song of mirth in your bower, Then think of the friend who once welcom'd it too. And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. His griefs may return — not a hope may remain Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain ; But he never will forget the short vision, that threw Its enchantment around him while lingering with youl And still, on that evening, when pleasure fills up To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright. My soul, happy friends! shall be with you that night; OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 169 Shall join in your revels, your sports and your wiles, And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles! Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer, Some kind voice had murmur'd: "I wish he were here!" Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy. Bright dreams of the past which she caimot destroy — Which come, in the night-time of sorrow and care. And bring back the features that Joy us'd to wear; Long— long be my heart with such memories filled Like the vase, in which roses have once been distilled — You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang 'round it stUl. THE BEAR OF THE STRONG LEFT HAND. BY DENNIS O'SULLIVAN. ** To horse! to horse!" The bugle blast rang out upon the plain. And the shrilly neigh of the startled steed sends back a wild refrain; Then hurrying here and rushing there the drowsy troopers glide. While the carbines' ring and the saddles' fling denote a hasty ride. " Mount, and away !" ere break of day — 'tis many a mile away; We were on the trail of the Spotted Tail, who was out on a bold foray ; And ere the sun in the meridian sent down its daziiling light, We had caught the Sioux, and whipped them, too, in an open prairie fight. One of the captives in the fray, and the boldest of the band. Was a brave who hailed among his tribe as the Rear of the Strong Left Hand, And a nobler face or a manlier form ne'er graced a royal throne. While a courage high that could not die from out the dark eye shone. With folded arms, and clouded brow, and ever-silent tongue, The captive Bear met the ruthless jeers that the thoughtless troopers flung; And though wounded sore, and the crimson gore his buffalo robe had dyed. No plaint nor moan, no sigh nor groan, betrayed his stoic pride. The life of our troop was an Irishman — a rollicking lad from Clare — Who was ever ready for frolic and fun — a regular devil-may-care; And many a humorous trick he played on stranger, friend and foe, And 'tis little he recked of the danger entailed, nor cared he for word or blow. The Spirit of Mischief never sleeps, it stalks in camp and court; The wise and the brave, as well as the fool, are ever at its sport: And now the Bear of the Strong Left Hand, the red man sad and sore. Must bear a share, for JacK O'Hare was at his pranks once more. We camped that night, and all was quiet, save the sentry's guarded cry, Or a howl that arose from the prowling wolves that ever hovered nigh; Then Jack O'Hare stole tlirough the camp to where the Strong Hand lay, Dreaming, maybe, of brighter days, and of dear ones far awaj''. Like a crafty fox Jack stole along, so silent and so sly, A roguish smile was on his face, there was mischief in his eye; And as he passed by the burning pile he stooped and raised a brand, •'Twas then we knew, the favored few, he was after the Strong Left Hand. • Yes, Jack had spotted the silent brave, and he swore he'd break the spell, Or, in his own expressive words: " He'd raise particular h — 11;" And all the day we heard him say, and he muttered it o'er and o'er: •' I'll set a trap for that dummy chap — I'll make the Strong Bear roar." 170 POPULAR SONOS AND BALLADS The men who ride in the western land soon cruel and callous grow, And no gleam of pity enters the heart for the treacherous dusky foe ; The reeking scalps, the burning camps, the torture horrid and slow. Has made them feel that the bullet and steel is the only mercy to show. Now Jack bent o'er the fallen foe, and down went the blazing stick. Deep into the flesh of the sleeping brave, till it burnt him to the quick; And then such a wail as rose on the gale, such a yell of rage and pain, 'Twas enough to make the stoutest quake, as it swept o'er the silent plain. With a lightning bound and a fierce look 'round, up sprang the madden'd Bear, But no form met his sight in the clear moonlight, nor man nor beast seemed there; One glance he cast on the smould'ring brand, as his quivering flesh did quail, ' And then, in the ancient Celtic tongue, he shouted out: "Hauna mon dheil!"* " By the powers above!" cried Jack O'Hare, as he sprang from his hiding-place, " Those words never fell from a cursed Sioux — he's one of my own old race; What in the devil drove you here, in the red man's feathers and paint. And fighting, too, with this Indian crew?— Oh, Lord, the poor fellow is faint! " Run, Harry, run, bid the doctor come; you, Barney, fly to the tent; Bring me the flask, quick, do what I ask — his life is nearly spent; You great fool there, what makes you stare — why can't you give me a hand? He's no red thief at all, but white, like us all — a boy from my own old land!" With scowling brows and ominous vows, the troopers thronged the glade, While one old scout, with a vengeful shout, cried: " Death to the Renegade!" " Ay, string him up, the mongrel pup!" yelled roaring Barney Shaw, "No quarter for those who join our foes. Hurrah for the Border Law!" "I don't care a straw for your Border Law," cried out bold Jack O'Hare; "Nay — nay, don't frown — the man is down, and — touch him if you dare! I can feel Death now on his clammy brow: don't you see the staring eye? For the sake of Him who forgives all sin, let us leave him in peace to die. " And how do you know what bitter woe, what luckless stroke of Fate Has made him roam from friends and home, in this forlorn state? Perchance, eyen now, as his death you vow, a mother or wife may mourn. And be praying to God, on the dear old sod, for the w^anderer's safe return." The troopers rough felt Jack's rebuif, and old Flint-eye, the guide, Was the first to cry, with ^ moistened eye: " Let the derned galloot just slide." Even Barney Shaw felt liis rough heart thaw, and he muttered to Dan the Rake, "Assure as a gun, we've missed our fun — let's give him a rousing wake." We hore the Bear to the nearest tent, and then the surgeon came. He felt the pulse of the weary man, and gazed on the stalwart frame; One sileni shake of the old man's head, and not a signal more — We coula almost hear Death drawing near — the warrior's pains were o'er. A long-drawn sigh, some muttered words, an anxious look around. A hand thrust near the manly breast, and a packet falls to the ground; Then a gleam of hope, and rest and peace o'er those sad features stole. As the penitent words 'scaped from his lips-'" God's mercy on my soul!" With a heartfelt sigh, and a tearful eye. Jack knelt by the lifeless clay, And offered up a fervent prayer for ibhe soul that had passed away; While the troopevii there, with heads all bare, gazed Bilently on the rtead, And one jyould know, ia.* wbi«ip«i' low: " If .the paper .couldji't .be rm^T' * yoat Mul to the apyiff 0^ !rHS SMERALD iSLW. m By the light of the blazing pine, in a voice that was solemn and slow, The sui-geon read to the wondering group the following tale of woe; While now and then, as the words came forth, strong Jack O'Hare would sigh, And clasping the hand of the silent dead, would utter a piteous crj"-. " 'Tis many a day and far away, in that Isle of sorrow and glee, Since Pat and I, 'neath old Lordon's eye, propounded our ABC; And ever since then, as boys and men, in pleasure, or peril, or pain, He was moi'e to me than a brother could be — I'll ne'er meet his like again. " In boyhood we strayed o'er hill and glade, singing lays of our native land. While in after days, 'neath the twilight rays, we danced with the village band; And my own colleen, with the bright blue e'en, ne'er grudged O'Neill a kiss, Yet so clear to me was his loyalty , I ne'er took the joke amiss. " In the goal-field strife, when blows wei-e rife, and each one battled to win, My generous Pat — I'll e'er mind that — never belted me on the shin; When the murderous pack were on our track, athirsting for our blood. In the lonely glen, as two to len, for life and land we stood. • " And in the great strife for this nation's life, through many a rough campaign. Side by side, in love and pride, we trudged in the sun and the rain; Wlien in the fight on Fredericksburg Height, a bullet struck me down, Who bore me away from deadly fray, but the friend from our own old town! "Away from the din, the crime and sin, and the city's feverish toil. We strove to win, for our kith and kin, a home on Iowa's soil; And 'twas pleasant to see the plenty and glee that reigned in our teeming vale: Woe — woe to think we were on the brink — but list to my harrowing tale. " 'Twas Christmas time, and the joyous chime rang out o'er the prairie clear, And the merry sleigh-bells and the winsome belles came in chorus from far and near 'Neath the holy sign of a love Divine young and old knelt down to pray. And peace and good will did each bosom fill on that blessed Chrisc-born day. " Like a horrid dream the rest did seem, but no dream e'er caused such blight. For — curse the hand that raised the brand — I killed my friend that night! He was stiff'and cold, when the neighbors told we had fought with clubs and knives. And the fight began, so the story ran, o'er a game of Forty -Fives. " Oh, Grod! to think that the cursed drink, and the still more cursed play, Should cause such woe and overthrow the peace of that happy day ! I had killed my friend, my generous friend — I had hacked his" kindly face — Whose only crime, through a long life-time, was robbing witlwul the ace. " As I could not face the dark disgrace, like a haunted being I fled. With little care, in this world drear, where I laid my weary head ; When a roving band from the Indian land o'ertook me, famished and sore, I had little fear that death seemed near — I had praj'ed for it evermore. " And time and again, in the conflict's din, have I sought, and sought in vain, For the bullet or steel to strike and heal my soul-eating anguish and pain; And 'tis little they knew, the savage crew, "that, though ever in danger's van, 1 ne'er struck a blow, di'ew trigger or bow, 'gainst the life of a fellow man. 172 POPlfLAtt SOJVGS AND JBALLaJDS " When this is read, the Bear will be dead, and you may know the name He had borne before the blight came o'er, and the country from whence he came; ISear a thriving town of old renown, on the fertile plains of Clare, Where, pure and young, he danced and sung, he was known as James O'Hare." Still, by the light of the blazing pine, we stared on the living and dead, For Jack O'Hare was crouching there, caressing the lifeless head ; And not an eye in that tent was dry, and not a word was said. But we stayed, and Jack pray'd by his brother's corpse until the East grew red. In a sheltered glade a grave we made; we dug it wide and deep, And there we laid the lifeless clay of James O'Hare to sleep; But since that night no merry light, no touch of the devil-may-care, No wit nor glee could the troopers see in grief -stricken Jack O'Hare. THE BURIAL OP SIR JOHN MOORE. BY REV. CHARLES WOLFE. Not a dram was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We hurled him darkly at dead of night, TlieKods ^■^■i^h our bayonets turning, Bv 1lie stvufffjling Tnoonbeams' misty light. And the Janteni dimly burning. No useless cofBn enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; Bntlie lav jike a warrior taking his rest. With his martial cloalv around him. Tvv find short were the prayers we said, A.n(l we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead. And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow I Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er liis colfl ashes upbraid liim, But little he'll reck, if they'll let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done, AVhen the clock struck the hour for retir- ing; And we heard the distnnt and random gun That the foe was suilenly tiring. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame, fresh and gory. We carved not a line, we raised not a stone; But we left him alone in his glory! HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD FRAMED. BY RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. Had I a heart for falsehood framed, I ne'er could injure j-ou, F'M-, tlio' your tongue no promise claim'd, Your charms would make me true; T 'en, lady, dread not here deceit, Nor fear to suffer wrong, For friends in all the aged you'll meet, And lovers in the young. But when they find that you have bless'd Another w-ith your heart, They'll bid aspiring passion rest, And act a brothei-'s part. Then, lady, dread not here deceit. Nor fear to suflfei- wrong, For friends in all the aged j'ou'll meet, And brothers in the young. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 173 TWENTY GOLDEN YEARS AGO. BY JAMES CLARENCE MANOAN. Oh, the rain, the weary, dreary rain, How it plashes on the window-sill ! Niffht, I guess, too, must be on the wane, Strass and Gass* around are grown so stUl. Here I sit, with coflEee in my cup — Ah ! 'twas rarely I beheld it flow In the tavern where I loved to sup Twenty golden years ago ! Twenty years ago, alas ! — but stay — On my life, 'tis half-past twelve o'clock! After ail, the hours do slip away — Come, here goes to burn another block! For the night, or morn, is wet and cold, And my fire is dwindling rather low ; — T had fire enough, when young and bold, Twenty golden years ago. Dear! I don't feel well at all, somehow; Pew in Weimar dream how bad I am; Floods of tears grow common with me now, High-Dutch floods, that reason cannot dam. Doctors think I'll neither live nor thrive If I mope at home so ; — I don't know — Am I living noiv? I tvas alive Twenty golden years ago. Wifeless, friendless, flagonless, alone. Not quite bookless, though, unless I choose. Left with nought to do, except to groan. Not a soul to woo, except the muse — Oh ! this is hard for me to bear; Me, who whilom lived so much en Tiaut, Me, who broke all hearts like china-ware, Twenty golden years ago I Perhaps 'tis better; — time's defacing waves Long have quench'd the radiance of my brow — They who curse me nightly from their graves, Scarce could love me were they living now; But my loneliness hath darker ills — Such duns as Conscience, Thought and Co. , Awful Gorgons ! worse than tailors' bills Twenty golden years ago ! Did I paint a fifth of what I feel, Oh, how plaintive you would ween I was ! But I won't, albeit I have a deal More to wail about than Kerner has I Kerner's tears are wept for wither'd flowers. Mine for wither'd hopes ; my scroll of woe Dates, alas ! from youth's deserted bowers, Twenty golden years ago ! Yet may Deutschland's bardlings flourish long ; Me, I tweak no beak among them ; hawks Must not pounce on hawks; besides, in song I could once beat all of them by chalks. Though you find me, as I near my jail, Sentimentalizing like Rousseau, Oh ! I had a grand Byronian soul Twenty golden years ago! Tick-tick, tick-tick I not a sound save Time's And the wind-gust as it drives the rain — Tortured torturer of reluctant rhymes. Go to bed, and rest thine aching brain! Sleep! no more the dupe of hopes or schemes; Soon thou sleepest where the thistles blow — Curious anticlimax to thy dream's Twenty golden years ago! * Street and lane. -o- FLAG OF OUR LAND. BY FATHER A. J. RYAN. Flag of our Land, that oft has streamed through battle's lurid blaze and smoke, When the long ranks were wrapped in flame, and in the shock the legions broke, Flag of our Land! for you, for us they say the sun of hope has set, We give them back the craven lie ! we're shattered, but not beaten yet. The Norman trampled on your folds, the Norman trampled on us, too; And Saxon hate and native guile did all the wreck that Hell could do. Not coward-like, but wild for fight, have we and they in conflict met, We've borne the loss for centuries ; repulsed, but never beaten yet. 174 Popular songs and ballads This isle is ours, its plains and hills, from center to the utmost sea, We tread its soil, we speak its tongue, we dearly pray to see it free. Patience and faith shall do the work, and earnestness shall win the debt ; Hark you who still have hearts to toil; we're scattered, but not beaten yet. While in this Irish Land their lives the spirit of an Irish race, The pluck that smiles at worst reverse and meets disaster face to face, By Heaven and all the shining stars, around the throne of Godhead set. The future teems with hope for us; we're watchful, but not beateu yet. "Perish the pastl" the patriot cried; ay, let the mournful ages go. With bitter feud, the curse of hate, they've made our heritage of woe. Into the darkness of our doom a ray of nobler glory let ; Seize fast the present; years to come they'll swear we were not beateu yet. Down with the feuds of vanished years, they waste our breath, they break our strength ; A nobler creed, a nobler life, 'tis ours to preach and fill at length. Flag of our Land, float high and fair; they lie who say our sun has set; God and the future still are ours ; we live, and are not beaten yet. PRIEZ POUR LE MALHEUREUX.* BY JOHN SAVAGE. Ah! once an aged friend I had, When 1 was very young; His head was white, his mouth was sad, He spoke a foreign tongue ; Whose waning eye and withered cheek Said: " Here misfortune grew;" And his words were — when'er he'd speak — " PHez Pour le Malheureux." I, wistful, wondered what they meant, And viewed his weary look, As by his bending bi^east Ileant Beside a babbling brook; A holy well they said it was — An old cross stood there, too, And heard, with many a tearful pause: '■^ Priez Pour le Malheur eux."- The tears would often, streaming down His cheeks, my young heart melt; And then he'd look a kindly frown To check the grief I felt. But thoughts that would not quiet keep My yearning heart-strings drew — 'Tis sad to see an old man weep; "Priez Pour le Malheureux." Days swelled to months, which bloomed in years; Years pass'd too swiftly o'er, And still the brook, the cross and tear Were blended as before ; He was the same, though graver grown, And I, as childhood flew, The better learnt to feel his moan : " Priez Pour le Malheureux." Oh ! wonder-building days of joy. Through which the child is led. Which seem ne'er coming to the boy Till they are felt and fled. Ye now are here — my feelings start With prayers my childhood knew; Thank God I've not outgrown my heart! ^'Priez Pour le Malheureux," And thus he grew down to the grave. And I grew stout of limb: Like shoots that grow trees, ere they have To be cut down like him. He fell back into nature's womb As into cowslips dew, And lonely I sobbed o'er his tomb: '"Priez Pour le Malheureux." The old man gone, I daily trod The wild but hallowed spot Where oft he had conimun'd with God, To soothe his weary lot; And while through summer sang the birds, And nature Heavenly grew, I carved upon the cross his words: '■'Priez Pour le Malheureux." *Pray for the unfortunate. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 175 My hope — entrancing boyhood sped, The boy a student grown. The meaning of the words I read I'd carved upon the stone: Oil, pray for the unfortunate! Now seemed my sense to view Wby ciied my friend importunate: ^•Priez Four le Malheureux.'" Now fancy told me sorrows keen Had crush'd, not killed, his truth ; That Fate bad set its "might have been " On life, and love, and youth — Had worn the cheek and dimmed the eye, Had spoke the words I knew, • And led him from his home to die: "Friez Four le Malheureux." THE BIVOUAC. BY CHARLES LEVER. Air: — " Garryoiven." ■ Now that we've pledged each eye of blue, And every maiden fair and true, And our green island home — to you The ocean's wave adorning, Let's give one hip — hip — hip, hurra ! And drink e'en to the coming day, When squadron square We'll all be there! To meet the French in the morning. May his bright laurels never fade. Who leads our fighting fifth brigade, Those lads so true in heart and blade, And famed for danger scorning; So join me in one hip, hurra 1 And drink e'en to the coming day. When squadron square We'll all be there! To meet the French in the morning. And when with years and honors crown'd. You sit some homeward hearth around. And hear no more the stirring sound That spoke the trumpet's warning; You till, and drink, one hip, hurra! And pledge the memory of the day, When squadron square They all were thei-e To meet the French in the morning. O, SAY, MY BROWN DRIMIN. BY J. J. CALLANAN. [Drimin Is the favorite name of a cow, by which Ireland is here allegorically denoted. The five ends of Erin are the five Jcingdoms— Munster, Leinster, Ulster, Connaiight, and Meath— into which the Island was divided under the MUesian dynasty.] O, SAY, my brown Drimin, thou silk of the kine. Where — where are thy strong ones, last hope of thy line? Too deep and too long is the slumber they take ; At the loud call of freedom why don't they awake? My strong ones have fallen — from the bright eye of day, All dai-kly they sleep in their dwelling of clay; The cold turf is o'er them — they hear not my cries, And siace Louis no aid gives, I cannot arise, Oh! where art thou, Louis? Our eyes are on thee! Are thy lofty ships walking in strength on the sea? In freedom's last strife if you linger or quail. No morn e'er shall break on the night ol the Crael. But should the king's son, now bereft of his right, Come proud in his strength for his country to fight, Like leaves on the trees will new people arise. And deep froni Ibeir mountains sbout back to my prieg. When the prinoe, now aa .exile, ^laU ,eome for big .()vyxi, The isles of his father, his rigfets, and his thron.©^' My people in battle the Saxons will meet," ' -' 'Anrl kick them befort* Wko old shoes from fihelv feet* 176 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS O'er mountains and valleys they'll press on their route, The five ends of Erin shall ring to their shout; My sons all united, shall bless the glad day When the flint-hearted Saxons they've chased far away. i WIDOW MALONE. BY CHARLES LEVER, Did you hear of the Widow Malone, Ohone ! Who lived in the town of Athlone? Ohone ! Oh, she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts, So lovely the Widow Malone, Ohone I So lovely the Widow Malone. Of lovers she had a full score. Or more, And fortunes they all had galore. In store ; From the minister down To the clerk of the crown, All were courtmg the Widow Malone, Ohone! All were courting the Widow Malone. But so modest was Mistress Malone, 'Twas known, That no one could see her alone, Ohone! Let them ogle and sigh, They could ne'er catch her eye, So bashful the Widow Malone, Ohone ! So bashful the Widow Malone. 'Till one Mister O'Brien, from Clare — How quare! It's little for blushing thej^ care Down there. Put his arm 'round her waist — Gave ten kisses at laste — " Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone, My own! " Oh," says he, "you're my Molly Malone." And the widow they all thought so shy, My eye! Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh. For why? But, " Lucius," says she, " Since you've now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, Ohone ! You may marry your Mary Malone." There's a moral contained in my song. Not wrong. And one comfort it's not very long. But strong — If for widows you die. Learn to kiss, not to sigh. For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone, Ohone ! Oh, they're all like sweet Mistress Malone. RORY O'MORE; OR, GOOD OMENS. BY SAMUEL LOVER. YouNa RoRY O'MoRE courted Kathleen Bawn, He was bold as a hawk, she as soft as the dawn: He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. "Now, Rory be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry, (Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye,) "With your tricks I don't know, in troth, what I'm about; Faith you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out." "Oh! jewel," says Rory, "that same is the way You've thrated my heart this many a day ; And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. "Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the like. For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike: The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound." "Faith," says Rory, "I'd rather love you than the ground." OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 171 "Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go; Sure I drame ev'ry niglit that I'm hating you so!" "Oh," saj^s Rory, "that same I'm delighted to hear, For drames always go by conthrairies, my dear; Oh ! jewel, keep draming that same till you die, And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie! And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. "Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teased me enough, Sure I've thrash'd for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff; And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste, So I think after that, I may talk to the praste."* Then Rory the rogue, stole his arm 'round her neck, So soft and so white, without freckle or speck. And he looked in her eyes that were beaming witli light, And he kissed her sweet lips; — don't you think he was right? "Now, Rory, leave off, sir; you'll hug me no more, That's eight times to-day you've kiss'd me before." "Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure. For there's luck in odd numbers,'.' says Rory O'More. ♦Paddy's mode of asking a girl to name- the day. i-o- BAD LUCK TO THIS MARCHING. BY CHARLES LEVER. Bad luck to this marching, Pipeclaying and starching; How neat one must be to be kill'd by the French! I'm sick of parading, Through wet and cold wading. Or standing all night to be shot in a trench. To the tune of a fife They dispose of your life. You surrender your soul to some illigant lilt ; Now I like " Garryowen " When I hear it at home, But it's not half so sweet when you're going to be kilt. Then, though up late and early, Our pay comes so rarely. The devil a farthing we"ve ever to spare; They say some disaster Befell the paymaster ; On my conscience I think that the money's not there. And, just think, what a blunder, They won't let us plunder, While the convents invite us to rob them, 'tis clear; Though there isn't a village But cries: " Come and pillage!" Yet we leave all the mutton behind for Monseer, Like a sailor that's nigh land, I long for that Island Where even the kisses we steal if we please; Where it^s no disgrace If you don't wash your face, And you've nothing to do but to stand at your ease. With no sergeant to abuse us. We fight to amuse us, Sure it's better beat Christians than kick a baboon ; How I'd dance like a fairy To see old Dunleary, And think twice ere I'd leave it tc) be a di'agoon! -0- THE WEARING OP THE GREEN. BY DION BOTJCICAULT. Oh, Paddy dear, an' did jou hear the news that's going 'round? The shamrock is forbid, by law, to grow on Irish ground ! No more St. Patrick's day we'll keep, his color can't be seen ; For there's a bloody law as'in the Wearing of the Green ! POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS Oh, I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand, And he says: How's poor Ould Ireland, and how does she stand? She's the most distressed co'untry that ever I have seen ; For they'i-e hanging men and women for tbe "Wearing of the Green! And since the color we must wear is England's cruel red, Ould Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they have shed; Then take the shamrock from j^our hat, and cast it on the sod — It will take root and flourish still, the' under foot 'tis trod. When the law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they grow, And when the leaves in summer time their verdure do not show; Then I will change the color I wear in my caubeen — But, 'till that day, plaze God! I'll stick to the Wearing of the Green! But if, at last, her colors should be torn from Ireland's heart — Her sons, with shame and sorrow, from the dear old soil will part; I've heard whispers of a country that lies far beyond the sae, "Where rich and poor stand equal, in the light of Freedom's day ! Oh, Erin! must we leave you? driven by the tyrant's hand; Must we ask a mother's blessing, in a strange, but happy land? "Where the cruel Cross of England's thraldom's never to be seen — But where, thank God ! we'll live and die, still Wearing of the Green 1 THE MUSTER OF THE GAEL. BY T. O'D. O'CALLAGHAN. . . List — list! the world is all astir from both poles to Equator, Upheaving like a wind-tossed sea, Etna's fiery crater. While yet the molten lava tide adown its side comes rolling With force which evermore may mock all human powers controlling. Yes — yes, old Earth is all ablazing with sights and sounds all-thrilling, And oh, this wild -commotion is with joy my bosom filling! For I have pined this many a day in dark despair and sadness. Without a throb of painless joy, without a ray of gladness, To pierce the gloom which iiUed my soul at seeing the olden glory Departing from the Isle of Saints, old land of song and story — At seeing our ancient Gaelic race wide scattered o'er the woi'ld; • Oh, I have waited long to see the Green once more unfui-led — To view our scattei-ed race come forth in strong embattled legions, Pi"om torrid zone and temp'rate climes, and frigid Northern I'egions, Where they have wandered lone and long, with hearts dai'k draped in sorrow. Still watching for the pi-oniised dawn of that grand and glorious morrow Which golden prophets had foretold, in words of inspiration, When Freedom's sun should gild once more the banner of our nation, As in the golden days of yore, ere Strongbow crossed the water, And stained our councry's emerald soil with crimson hue of slaughter. Hark! 'tis the trumpet's martial blast, through many a fair land ringing, And faith and hope and joyoiice more to Celtic bosoms bringing—' To million bosoms of our race in alien climes sojourning, Through all the years, in all the lands, for vengeance ever burning. See — see, those ships in many a bay, with winged canvas spreading' The anchor now is weighed, and now for Ireland's shore they're heading| ;Grod speed them in their gallant course far o'er old ocean foaming, How glorious jn the captivs land to -vatch those fleets a-coming! *To heal' the joyous cheers roll out, lilie pealing thundar bursting pvptn rnillion hearts on Ir/:?l?),nd's shore f ox' Saxoi). Wood a-thir/^tJjrjjKl O^ THi: EMERALD ISLE. 179 Thrice glorious 'twere, in faith, to list that glad and thunderous greeting, A.nd see our scattei'ed race once more beneath the Sunburst meeting, jProm far Australia's friendly shores a gallant host is coming, For lo! high o'er the Pacific that war-cloud darkly looming; » And seel on broad Atlantic's breast full many a flag unfurled O'er that great host which saileth from the mighty Western world. From east and west, from north and south, the Gael are homeward sailing, Dark vengeance throned in every heart, and fealty unfailing ; Since first old ocean's circling waves fi'om bonds of chaos sallied, Ne'er host so vast, on sea or shore, 'round Freedom's banner rallied. O, Erin old ! thine exiled sons have heard thy trumpet sounding, And now, as sprang thy wolf-dog erst, their gallant ships are bounding On to thy shores, and many a heart is throbbing with emotion, And eyes are strained on all thy hills to scan the misty ocean. They land ! they land ! the cheering news o'er all the Isle is winging ; To arms! to arms! is the cry o'er mount and valley ringing; And bonfires blaze on all the hills, and chapel bells are tolling, And Heaven's blue vault is rent with cheers in mighty chorus rolh'ng; And prison chains are burst in twain, and freedom's 'fulgent sunlight Streams in on noble spirits there, erst wrapped in dungeon's dun light; And gladness spreads o'er all the land, and rusted swords are brightened, While war-steeds prance impatiently, as saddle-girths are tightened ; Heavens! 'tis a glorious sight— ^those green flags proudly streamings Bright, vengeful pikes and flashing swords in serried phalanx gleaming — The vast, embattled host its marcla o'er plain and valley wending, While roll of drum and trumpet bray with clank of steel are blending. Now, men of Ireland, halt! — array your lines in battle column! See! yonder gleams the Saxon steel! — the hour is grand and solemn! Your country's wrongs for vengeance call! — fling out your bold defiance) On Heaven and Right, on gun and steel, this day be your reliance I Ho! comes the foe — his scarlet lines in War's proud pomp advancing: , His banners wave right jauntily, his bayonets are glancing Bright in the golden noonday sun, while fife and drum are sounding. And battle-steeds, caparisoned right pompously are bounding. They've met, and pike and bayonet in deadly strife are clashing; In vain the column of the foe 'gainst Freedom's host are dashing; Their ranks are broke from rear to van, their banners rent and toi'n, While high o'er all, in Victory's light, the Green is proudly borne. 'Tis sunset now — the field is won — the beaten foe is flying! Of that proud host not one remains, save captui-ed, dead and dyine:; The clash of steel is heard no more — hushed is the cannon's thunder; Thank God! the chains of centuried thrall at last are rent asunder! Strike, strike the harp of Innisfail to martial strains of gladness! No more, no more awake its voice in slavish tones of sadness! Old Freedom's regal scepter hence shall rule the plains of Sireland, Till Doomsday's fire- may wrap in flame the hills of rescued Ireland. . THE SPRING TIME. BY WILLIAM GEOGHEaAN. Regrets! the troubles of this lower world Fall from my mind, as from the new-clad Earth Fades out the memory of the dead leaves twirl'd About h(n* Autumns past. This glorious biilh Of buds and grasses, and the scented air. Make one forget all things that are less fair. 180 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS Etei-nal Spring- tide! for it is eternal— 'Tis we who pass out of it, iu the shade Of youth's eclipse; but it has regions vernal And haunting odors that die, not fade; Or else why should we look so fondly back, And through the years still scent its flowery track? Years after we have mouldered into dust Young hearts shall feel what ours feel to-day; Yet in the fairer Home there surely must Be joys before which this shall pale its ray. Death is so near in sunshine, and my mood Would take it as a step to greater good. 'Twould not be hard to die 'neath this new sun ; 'Twere better, perhaps, than waiting till it set In winter glooms that tinge the soul with dun, And mar its vision with a vain regret. Heaven is so near. Oh, serial maids, take me! T should not fear to die and soar with ye. Sti-ange that the earth, the fairer that it grows, Should make one sit more lightly to it, than When from the pale north sky fall fast the snows, And babbling brooks, ice-bound, no longer ran; We had no restless longings in those days — We sat contented in the wintry rays. Like children quiet, in an alien place, Forgetful or unheeding, 'mid their toj^s, Until some semblance of their motuer's face, With longing grief their little hearts annoy. And all's forgotten, all things lose their chai'ms. Poor comforters, for lack of mother's loving arms. Dear mother nature, but one glance f I'om thee Is Spring for us ; a smile, and Summer blooms ; A passing fi'own, and Autumn froni the tree Scatters the leaves; then Winter quick entombs The earth, and it, like buried Lazarus, sleeps, Nor wakes till o'er it tender April weeps. O, SONS OF ERIN. ET KEV. WILLIAM J. M'CLURE. 0, SONS of Erin, brave and strong, Upon your prostrate mother gaze; Her sorrows have been overloug, 'Tis time her beauteous face to raise. When tyranny usurps the right, And chivahy pines in the jail. There's deep revenge in Freedom's fight- 'Tis life to win, 'tis death to fail! The power of monarchy is steel. And crushing, soul-subduing laws, Whose weight alone the coilers feel, And murmur oft, and know the cause. And battle oft the despot's might. And scorning torture and the jail, Seek swift revenge in Freedom's fight— 'Tis life to win, 'tis death to fail! Wild — wild's the night e'er freedom's sun Lights up the j-amparts of the free; It rolls away, the battle's won. And sounds a glorious reveille — A reveille of hearts full light, Uncrusbed by slavery and the jail, It echoed down the Alpine hight, 'Twill glad the hills of luisfaill OP ms emsraw Isle. 181 THE SHAMROCK AND THE LILY. BY JOHN BANIM. Sir Shamrock, sitting drinking, At close of day — at close of day, Saw Orange Lily, thinking, Come by that way — come by that way ; With can in hand we hail'd him. And jovial din— and jovial din; The Lily's drought ne'er fail'd him — So he stept in— so he stept in. At first they talk'd together. Reserved and flat — reserved and flat. About the crops, the weather. And this and that — and this and that^ But, as the glass moved quicker, To make amends — to make amends. They spoke — though somewhat thicker — Yet more like friends — yet more like friends. " Wny not call long before, man. To try a glass — to try a glass?!' Quoth Lily — " People told me You'd let me pass — you'd let me pass — JJay, and they whisper'd, too, man, Death in the pot — death in the pot, Slipt in for me by you, man — Though I hope not — though I hope not." ' ' Oh, foolish — foolish Lily ! Good drink to miss — good drink to miss, For gossip all so silly, And false as this — and false as this ; And 'tis the very way, man, With such bald chat— with such bald chat. You're losing, day by day, man. Much more than that — much more than that. " Here, in this land of mine, man, Good friends with me — good friends with me, A life almost divine, man, Your life might be — your life might be. But — jars for you! till, in man, My smiling land — my smiling land, You bilious grow, and thin, man. As you can stand — as you can stand. " Now, if 'tis no affront, man, On you I call — on you I call. To tell me what you want, man, At-all-at-aU — at-all-at-all: Come let us have in season, A word or two — a word or two; For there's neither rhyme nor reason In your hubbubboo — your hubbubboo! " With you I'll give and take, man, A foe to cares — a foe to cares, Just asking, for God's sake, man. To say my prayers — to say my prayers. And, like an honest fellow. To take my drop — to take my drop. In reason, till I'm mellow. And then to stop — and then to stop. " And why should not things be so, Between us both — between us both? You're so afraid of me? Pho! All fudge and froth — all fudge and froth. Or why, for little Willy, So much ado— so much ado? What is he, silly Lily, To me or you — to me or you? " Can he, for all you shout, man, Back to us come — back to us come, Our devils to cast out, man. And strike them dumb — and strike them dumb? Or breezes mild make blow, man. In summer-peace — in summex'-peace, Until the land o'erflow, man. With God's increase — with God's increase?" " What you do say, Sir Shamrock," The Lily cried — the Lily cried, " I'll think of, my old game-cock. And more beside — and more beside. One thing is certain, brother — I'm free to say — I'm free to say, We should be more together,' Just in this way — ^just in this way." " Well — top your glass. Sir Lily, Our parting one — our parting one — A bumper and a tUly, To past and gone — to past and gone — And to the future day, lad. That ye may see — that ye may see. Good humor and fair play, lad, 'TwLst you and me — 'twixt you and me I" 1^83 . POPULAR SOK&S AND BaLLADS THE RIVER OF TIME. BY T. O'D. O'CALLAGHAN. Oh, River of Time! the long ago thou wert but a rippling rill, And the dulcet rhyme of thy crystal flow was sweet as wind-harp's trill; That song of joy like a lullaby on the air 'rose soft and low. As thy ripples sped from their fountain-head and flashed in the morning's glow ; While Earth's fair queen, in radiant sheen, flower-crowned by angel hands, The beauteous grace of her mirror'd face oft scann'd in thy golden sands; And the dreamy moon, in night's mystic noon, when her full, round orb shone bright, Gazed down with pride on thy silvery tide, pale shimmering in her light. While the primal stars in their gilded cars rolled on through the azure hight — Pair, glittering gems, bright diadems high set on the brow of Night, Oh, River of Time ! thy stream has swelled thro' the centuried lapse of years — Has grown and swelled since of old it welled from its fount 'mid the starry spheres, Till now, broad and deep, with majestic sweep, like the roll of an inland sea, That stream, erst a rill, turns God's mighty mill on its course to eternity! Oh, methinks I hear, rising high and clear on the ghostly midnight wiod. The surge and the roar of thy waves evermore and the rush of the flood behind, And the shrieks of the lost on thy bosom tossed, like wrecks on the ocean waves. Drifting out to sea, oh, River, with thee, far away from the land of graves! Oh, River of Time! from the days of yore flowing on to the billowy sea. Bring us back once more from the silent shore the friends who have flown with thee. The myriad host of the loved and lost — the hearts that were fond — ah, me! — The beauty and bloom in the grave's dark womb — the spirits that wander fi'ee Prom sin's dark slime in that wondrous clime — bright land of the ransomed souls, Where Death's cold shadow never falls, nor death-bell sadly tolls. Ah ! in vain we crave, for thy ebbless wave, when it passeth the grave's dark bourne, With its freight of souls, as it seaward rolls, never can nor will return! Oh, River of Time! flowing slowly on, with the wrecks of our hopes and dreams — On, evermore on to the great Unknown, where the rapturing vision gleams. And the white souls float in space, as the mote on summer's irradiant beams — Oh! swollen thy flood with the priceless blood which ever and ay doth well Prom human souls slain on Life's battle-plain by the ambushed hosts of hell; Sin's juggernaut rolls over prostrate souls thick strewn on the fleld of strife. While thy mystic tide with their blood is dyed — red blood from the battle of life ! Oh, River of Time! in the dim, dark past, full many and many a year, Thou'st left thy fount on that sacred mount, long lost to both "sage " and " seer;" No human eye, as the years sped by, has ever beheld, I ween, That mystic mount, or that crystal fount, all bright in its virgin sheen, Since the first twain fell 'neath the tempter's spell, amid Eden's flowery bowers. When earth was young, ere jet upsprung the thorns among the flowers ; When thy limpid stream in the morning gleam reflected the Heavenly towers, And Paradise rang with the silvery clang of the harps of seraphic powers; For Earth, at its birth, in its child-like mirth, flower-gemmed and green and fair, Careering through space, in emulous race with the stars and the spirits of air. Was Higher, I ween, to the angelic scene, than this Earth of ours to-day, With its deep, dark ci'ime, oh. River of Time-— in sorrow and sin grown grey I OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 183 GOOD-NIGHT. MILES C'REILLY. Good-night; I have to say good-night To such a host of peerless things; Good-night unto that fragile hand, All queenly with its weight of rings; Good-night to fond, uplifted eyes, Good-night unto the pe^;)fect mouth, And all the sweetness nestled there — The snowy hand detains me, then I'll have to say good-night again. But there will come a time, my love, When, if I read our stars aright, I shall not linger by this porch With my adieus. Till then, good-night! You wish the time were now? And I. You do not blush to wish it so? You would have blushed yourself to death To own so much a year ago — What, both these snowy hands? Ah, then I'll have to say good-night again. THE BOYS OF WEXFORD. BY ROBERT DWYER JOYCE, M. In comes the captain's daughter, The captain of the Yeos, Saying: " Brave United men, We'll ne'er again be foes. A thousand pounds I'll give you, And fly from home with thee, And dress myself in man's attire, And fight for liberty !" We are the boys of Wexford, Who fought with heart and hand To burst in twain the galling chain. And free our native land! And when we left our cabins, boys. We left with right good will. To see our friends and neighbors That were at Vinegar Hill. A young man from our ranks, A cannon he let go ; He slapped it into Lord Mountjoy — A tyrant he laid low. We are the boys of Wexford, We fought with heart and hand To burst in twain the galling chain. And free our native land. We bravely fought and conquered At Ross and Wexford town ; And, if we failed to keep them, 'Twas drink that brought us down, We had no drink beside us On Tubber'neering's day, Depending on the long bright pike. And well it worked its way! We are the boys of Wexford, Who fought with heart and hand To burst in twain the galling chain, And free our native land! They came into the country Our blood to waste and spill ; But let them weep for Wexford, And think of Oulart Hill! 'Twas drink that still betrayed us — Of them we had no fear; For every man could do his part Like Forth and Shelmalier! We are the boys of Wexford, Who fought with heart and hand To burst in twain the galling chain. And free our native land ! My curse upon all drinking, It made our hearts full sore ; For bravery won each battle, But- drink lost ever more; And if, for want of leaders. We lost at Vinegar Hill, We're readj'" for another fight. And love our country still! We are the boys of Wexford, Who fought with heart and hand To burst in twain the galling chain, And free our native laud! LIMERICK TOWN. BY JOHN F. O'PONNEL];. (" CAVIARe''), Herb IVe got you, PJiil^p JJesmond, standing in the market-place, 'Mid the farmers and the cwn- sacks, and the hay in either space. Near the f niit-stalte^ mA pim Wf>m»n ,J?nJM',r»g ftocks an/J p^}}fff^ J^e^^ IS-l POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS There is High street, up the hill-side, twenty shops on either side, Queer, old-fashioned, dusky High street — here so nar)'Ow, there so wide, 'Whips and harness, saddles, signboards, hanging out in quiet pride. Up and down the noisy highway, how the market people go ! Country girls in Turkey kerchiefs — poppies moving to and fro — Frieze-clad fathers, great in buttons, brass and watch-seals, all a show. Merry — merry are their voices, Philip Desmond, unto me, • Dear the mellow Munster accent, with its intermittent glee; Dear the blue cloaks and the grey coats, things I long have longed to see. E'en the curses, adjurations, in my senses sound like rhyme, And the great rough-throated laughter of that peasant, in his prime, Winking from the grass-bound cart-shaft, brings me back the other time. Not a soul, obsei've you, knows me, not a friend a hand will yield. Would they know, if to the land-marks all around them I appealed? Know me 1 If I died this minute — dig for me the Potter's field. Bricks wax grey, and memories greyer, and our faces somehow pass Like reflections from the surface of a sudden-darkened glass. Live you do, but as a unit of the undistinguished mass. "Pshaw! you're prosy." Am I prosy? Mark you then this sunward flight : " I have seen this street and roof-tops anibered in the morning's light, Golden in the deep of noonday, crimson on the marge of night. " Continents of gorgeous cloud-land, argosies of blue and flame, With the sea- wind's even pressure o'er this roaring fabourg came." This is fine supernal nonsense. Look, it puts my cheek to shame. Come, I want a storm of gossip, pleasant jests and ancient chat ; At that dusky doorway yonder my grandfather smoked and sat, Tendrils of the wind-blown clover sticking in his broad-leafed hat. There he sat and read the paper. Fancy I recall him now! All the shadow of the front-house slanting up from knee to brow; Critic he of far convulsions, keen-ej'^ed judge of sheep and cow. Now he. lives in God's good judgments. Simon, much he thought of me, Laughing gravely at my questions, as I sat upon his knee- As I trifled with his watch-seal, red carbuncle fair to see. Ancient house that held my father, all are gone beyond recall, There's where Uncle Michael painted flower-pots on the parlor waII, There's where Namiie, best of she-goats, munched her hay and had her stall. Many a night from race and market down this street six brothers strode,^ Finer, blither, truer fellows never barred a country road. Shouting, wheeling, fighting, scorning watchman's law and borough code. Hithei", with my hand in her band, came my mother many a day, Ste, the old man's pet and darling, at his side or far away, And her chair was near the window, half in square and half in bay. Oh, my mother, my pure-hearted, dear to me as child and wife. Ever earnest, ever toilsome in this quick, xmresting strife, Ever working out the mission of a silent, noble life. Do I love you? Can you ask me? Do I love you, mother mine? Love you! Yes, while God exists and while His sun and moon shall shine, I was yours, O. sweet, bright darling, in the Heavens I shall be thine. OF THE miERALT) ISLE. 185 If I wi-ite this rhyming gossip, all about the ancient street, 'Tis because the very footpaths were made blessed by your feet: Dear, pale mother! writing of you, how my heart and pulses beat! Beat and beat with warm convulsions, and my eyes are thick with tears, And your low song by my cradle sounds again within mine ears ; Hei-e's the highway which you ti'od once, I thi-ice filled with childish fears. Rolled the wagons, swore the carters outside in the crowded street, Horses reared, and cattle stumbled, dogs barked high from loads of wheat, But inside the room was pleasant, and the aii' with thyme was sweet. Others now are in their places, honest folk who know us not, "Do I chafe at the transition? Philip, 'tis the common lot; Do your duty, live youi* lifetime, say your prayers, and be forgot. SARSPIELD'S RIDE; OR, THE AMBUSH OP SLIAV BLOOM. BY R. D. JOYCE, M. D. [The generally rpceived historical acount of the exploit related in the following ballad differs in several points from the traditionary version. And yet the latter should not be despised, for tin; peasantry of Limerick and Tipperary have stories of the incident, all agreeing with regard to the ride of Galloping O'Hogan. The songs also of the time yu'eserve the name of that celebrated horseman and outlaw In connec- tion with the affair. For instance, after mentioning the way in which the outlawed inhabitants of the surrounding country hung on the track of King 'William's convoy, one of these old songs I'epresents O'Hogan as saying: " "We marched with bold Lord Lucan before the break of day, Until we came to Kinimagoun where the artiler.v lay; Then God He cleared the firmament, the moon and stars gave light, - And tor the Battle of the Boyne we had i-eveuge that night!" It may be also stated that in every song and story of the time, King William is aUvays nicknamed "Dutch Bill," a coguomeu by which he is even to the present day remembered in many parts of Munster,] PART THE FIRST. " Come up to the hill, Johnnie Moran, and the de'il's in the sight you will see. The men of Dutch Bill in the lowlands are marching o'er valley and lea; Brave cannon they bring for their warfare, good powder and bullets go leor, To batter the grey walls of Limerick adown by the deep Shannon shore !" Tliey girded theij' corselets and sabers that morning so glorious and still, They leapt like good men to their saddles, and took the lone path to the hill; And deftly they handled their bridles as they rode thro' each green, fairy coom, Each woodland, and broad rocky valley, till they came to the crest of Sliav Bloom ! " Look down to the east, Johnnie Moran, where the wings of the morning are spread, Each basnet yoit see in the sunlight it gleams on an enemy's head ; Look down on their long line of baggage, their huge guns of iron and brass. That, as sure as my name is O'Hogan, will ne'er to the Williamites pass! "Spur, then, to the green shores of Brosna— see Ned of the Hills on your way — Have all the brave boys at the muster by Brosna at close of the day; I'll ride off for Sarsfield to Lim'rick, and tell what I've seen from the hill — If Sarsfield won't capture their cannon, by the Cross of Kildare, but we will!" Away to the north went young Johnnie, like an arbalast bolt in his speed, Away to the west brave O'Hogan gives bridle and spur to his steed ; Through the fierce highland torrent he^dashes, through copse and down greenwood full fain. Till he biddeth farewell to the mountains, and sweeps o'er the flat lowland plain I 186 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS You'd search from the grey Rocks of Cashel each side to the blue ocean's rim, Through green dale, and hamlet, and city, but you'd ne'er find a horseman like him; With his foot, as if grown to the stii-rup, his knee, v;ith its rooted hold ta'en, With his seat in the saddle so graceful, and his sure hand so light on the reinl A? the cloud-shadow skims o'er the meadows, when the fleet-winged summer winds blow, By war-wasted castle and village, and streamlet and crag doth he go; The foam-flakes drop quick from his charger, yet never a bridle draws he, Till he baits in the hot, blazing noontide by the cool fairy well of Lisbui! He rubbed down his charger full fondly, the dry grass he heaped for its food, He ate of the green cress and shamrock, and drank of the sweet crystal flood; He's up in his saddle and flying o'er wood- track and broad heath once more. Till the sand 'neath the hoofs of his charger is crunch'd by the wide (Shannon's shore ! For never a ford did he linger, but swam his good charger across — It clomb the steep bank like a wolf-dog — then dashed over moorland and moss. The shepherds who looked from the highland, they crossed themselves thrice as he passed. And they said 'twas a sprite from Crag Aeivil, went by on the wings of the blast. PART THE SECOND. Dutch Bill sent a summons to Limerick — a summons to open their gate, Tlieir fortress and stores to surrender, else the pike and the gun were their fate. Brave Sarsfield he answered the summons: "Though all holy Ireland in flames Blazed up to the skies to consume us, we'll hold the good town for King James." Dutch Bill, whei? he listed the answer, he stamped, and he vowed, and he swore That he'd bury the town, ere he'd leave it, hi grim fiery ruin and gore; From black Ireton's Fort with his cannon he hammered it well all the day, And he wished for his huge guns to back him that were yet o'er the hills far away. The soft curfew bell from Saint Mary's tolled out in the calm sunset air. And Sarsfield stood high on the rampart and looked o'er the green fields of Clare; And anon from the copses of Cratloe a flash to his keen eyes there came, 'Twas the spike of O'Hogan's bright basnet glist'ning forth in the red sunset flame 1 Then down came the galloping horseman with the speed of a culverin ball. And he reined up his foam-flecked charger with a gallant gambade by the wall ; And his keen eye searched tower, fosse and rampart — they lay all securely and still — And then to the bold Lord of Lucan he told what he'd seen from the hill! * The good steed he rests in the stable, the bold rider feasts at the board. But the gay, laughing revel once ended, he'll soon have a feast for his sword ; And now he looks out at the window, where the moonbeams flash pale on the square, For Sarsfield, full dight in his harness, with five hundred bold troopers is there! He's mounted his steed in the moonlight, and away from the North Gate they go. Where the woods cast their black spectral shadows, and the streams with their lone voices flow; The peasants awoke from their slumbers, and prayed as they swept through the glen. For they thought 'twas the great Garodh Earla,* that thundei-ed adown with his men ! The grey, ghastly midnight was 'round them, the banks they were rocky and steep; The hills with one sullen roar echoed, for the huge stream was angry and deep; But- the bold Lord of Lucan he cared not, he asked for no light save the moon's, And he's foi'ded the broad, lordly Shannon, with his galloping guide and dragoons. * Garrett, the great Earl of Desmond, who Is still believed by the peasantry to arise from his enchanted cave beside Longh Gur in Limerlclt, on the St. .Tohii's night of every seventh year, and 8>veep, at the head of his mail-clad barons and Itniglits, through the surrounding country. OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 187 I'he star of the morning out glimmered, as fast by Lisearly they rode ; As they swept round the base of Comailta the sun ou their bright helmets glowed. Now the steeds in the valley are grazing, and the horsemen crouch down in the broom, And Sarsfield peers out like an eagle on the low-lying plains from Sliav Bloom. PART THE THIRD. O'Hogan is down in the valleys,' a watch on the track of the foe, Johnnie Moran from Brosna is marching, that his men be in time for a blow. All day from the bi-ight blooming heather the tall Lord of Lucan looks down On the roads, where the train of Dutch Billy on its slow march of danger is bowne. The red sunset died in the heavens; night fell over mountain and shore; The moon shed her light on the valleys, and the stars glimmered brightly once more; Then Sarsfield sprang up from the heather, for a horse tramp he heard on the waste, 'Twas O'Hogan, the black mountain sweeping, like a specter of night, in his haste/ "Lord Lucan, they've camped in the forest that skirts Ballyneety's grey tower, I've found out the path to fall on them and slay in the dread midnight hour; They have powder, pontoons, and great cannons — Dhar Dhia! but their long tubegare bright! They hare treasure go leor for the taking, and their watchword is ' Sarsfield!' to-night." The star of the midnight was shining when the gallant dragoons got the word. Each sprang with one bound to his saddle, and looked to his pistols and sword |» And away down Comailta's deep valleys the guide and bold Sarsfield are gone. While the long stream of helmets behind them in the cold moonlight glimmered and shone. They stayed not for loud brawling river, they looked not for togher or path. They tore up the long street of Cullen with the speed of the storm in its wrath; When on old Ballyneety they thundered, the sentinel's challenge rang clear — " Ho! Sarsfield's the word," cried Lord Lucan, " and you'll soon find that Sai'sfield is hei'e!" He clove through the sentinel's basnet, he rushed by the side of the glen,' And down on the enemy's convoy, where they stood to their cannons like men; His troopers with pistol and saber, through the camp like a whirlwind they tore, With a ci^sh and a loud-ringing war-cry, and a plashing and starnping in gore! The red-coated convoy they've sabered, Dutch Bill's mighty guns they have ta'en. And they laugh as they look on their capture, for they'll ne'er see such wonders again; Those guns, with one loud-roaring volley, might batter a strong mountain down, Wirristhru for its gallant defenders if they e'er came to Limerick town ! They filled them and rammed them with powder, they turned down their mouths to the clay. The dry casks they piled all around them, the baggage above did they lay; A mine train they laid to the powder, afar to the greenwood out thrown — " Now, give us the match!" cried Lord Lucan, " and an earthquake we'll have of our own! O'Hogan the quick fuse he lighted — it whizzed — then a flash and a glare Of broad blinding brightness infernal burst out in tlie calm midnight air; A hoarse crash of thunder volcanic roared up to the bright stars on high. And the splinters of guns and of baggage showered flaming around through the sky! The firm earth it rocked and it trembled, the camp showed its red pools of gore. And old Ballyneety's grey castle came down with a crash and a roar;* The fierce sound o'er highland and lowland rolled on like the dread earthquake's tramp. And it wakened Dutch Bill from his slumbers and gay dreams that night in his camp! + The nncient castle of Ballyneety was rent asunder by the shock of the explogion, half, of tt falling With a loufl orasU Chat acl(}e4 not a little to tfte horror of the gcefte, 18S POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS Lord Lucan dashed back o"er the Shannon ere the bright star of morninsf an— <, With his men through the North Gate he clattered, unhurt and unseen by hi;, ic^s; Johnny Moran rushed down from Comailta — not a foe was alive for his blade, But his men searched the black gory ruins, and the deil's irx the spoil that they made ! SWEET SIBYL, BY CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY, M. P. !My Love is as fresh as the morning sky, My Love is as soft as the summer air. My Love is as true as the saints on high, H; And never was saint so fair! O, glad is my heart when I name her name, For it sounds like a song to me — I'll love you, it sings, nor heed their blame, For you love me, Astore Machree! Sweet Sibyl — sweet Sibyl! my heart is wild With the fairy ?pell that her eyes have lit; I sit in a dream where my Love has smil'd — I kiss where her name is writ! O, darling, I flj' like a dreamy boy; The toil that is joy to the strong and true, The life that the brave for their land employ, I squander in dreams of you. The face of my Love has the changeful light That gladdens the sparkling sky of spring ; The voice of my Love is a st >-.nge delight. As when birds in ths May-cime sing. O, hope of my heart ! O, light of my life! O, come to me, darling, with peace and rest? O, come like the Summer, my own sweet wife. To your home in my longing breast! Be blessed with the home sweet Sibj'l will sway With the glance of her soft and queenly eyes; ! happy the love young Sibyl will pay With the breath of her tender sighs. That home is the hope of my waking dreams — That love fills my eyes with pride— There's light in their glance, there's joy in their beams. When I think of my own young biide. MY OWN. {Froin the Irish.) BY EVA. (miss MARY EVA KELLY.) By the strange beating of my heart. Finding no place for all its joy — By those soft tears that wet my cheek. Like dews from Summer sky — By this wild rush through every vein — This chok'd and trembling tone, Surcharg'd with bliss it cannot tell — I feel thou art my own. And yet it cannot all be true, I've dreara'd a thousand wilder dreams; But this is brighter, wilder far, Than even the wildest seems. I've dreamed of wonders, spirit-climes. Of glories and of blisses won; But ne'er before did vision come, To say thou wert my own! My own — my own ! thus gazing on. My life-breath seems to ebb away; And o'er and o'er, and still again, The same dear words I sa}' ! I know — I know it must be true. And here, with Heaven and Love alone, I hold thee next ray heart of hearts ! For thou art all my own ! OF THE EMERALD ISLE. 189 WHEAT-GRAINS, BT JOHN" BOYLE O'REILLY. As grains from chaff, I sift ttiese worldly rules, Kernels of wisdom, from the husks of schools: Benevolence fits the wisest mind ; But he who has not studied to be kind, Who grants for asking, gives without a rule, Hurts whom he helps, and proves himself a fool. The wise man is sincere; but he who tries To be sincere, hap-hazard, is not wise. Knowledge is gold to him who can discern That he who loves to know must love to learn. Straightforward speech is very certain good; But he who has not learned its rule is rude. Boldness and firmness, these are virtues each, Noble in action, excellent in speech. But who is bold, without considerate skill. Rashly rebels, and has no law but will; While he called firm, illiterate and crass. With mulish stubborness obstructs the pass. The mean of soul are sure their faults to gloss. And find a secret gain in other's loss. Applause the bold man wins, respect the grave ; Some, only being not modest, think they're brave. The petty wrong-doer may escape unseen; But what from sight the moon eclipsed shall screen ? Superior minds must err in sight of men. Their eclipse o'er, they rule the world again. Temptation waits for all, and ill will come; But some go out and ask the devil home. "I love Grod," said the saint. God spake above, " Who loveth me must love those whom I love." " I scourge myself," the hermit cried. God spake : "Kindness is prayer; but not a self-made ache." THE RISING OP THE MOON. BY JOHN K. CASEY. " ' Oh, then tell me, Shawn O'FerraU, Tell me why you hurry so?' 'Hush, ma bouchal, hush and listen ;' And his cheeks were all aglow. ' I bear ordhers from the captain, Get you ready quick and soon ; For the pikes must be together At the risin' of the moon.' " ' Oh, then tell me, Shawn O'FerraU, Where the gatherin' is to be?' ' In the ould spot by the river. Right well known to you and me. One word more — for signal token. Whistle up the marchin' tune, With your pike upon your shoulder By the risin' of the moon.' " Out from many a mud-wall cabin Eyes were watching through that night. Many a manly chest was throbbing For the blessed warning light. Murmurs passed along the valley, Like the banshee's lonely croon, And a thousand blades were flashing At the risin' of the moon. " There beside the singing river That dark mass of men was seen, Far above the shining weapons Hung their own beloved green. 'Death to every foe and traitor, Forward, strike the marchin' tune. And hurrah, my boys, for Freedom! 'Tis the risin' of the moon.' " Well they fought for poor old Ireland And full bitter was their fate. (Oh, what glorious pride and sorrow Fill the name of Ninety-eight!) Yet, thank God, e'en still are beating Hearts in manhood's burning noon, Who would follow in their footsteps, At the risin' of the moo«." 190 POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS THE MAN OF THE NORTH COUNTRIE. BY T. D. M'GEK. He came from the North, and his words were few, But his voice was kind and his heart was true. And I knew by his eyes no guile had he, So I mai-ried the man of the North Countrie. O! Garryowen may be more gay, Than this quiet street of BalUbay; And I know the sun shines softly down On the river that passes my native town. But there's not — I say it with joy and pride — Better man than mine in Munster wide; And Limerick Town has no happier hearth Than mine has been with my Man of the North. I wish that in Munster they only knew The kind — kind neighbors I came unto: Small bate or scorn would ever be Between the South and the North Countrie, MY FIRST PAIR OF BOOTS. (1829—1879.) BY KICHARD OULAHAN. 'TwAS the vigil of Christmas, away in the past. When a loving young mother, of rich raven locks. Plagued with coaxing and teasing, had promis'd, at last, That the " gift " to her boy should be no baby's box; Full of hopes for the morrow, Queen Mab spun a dream About candy-framed pictures, and fairest of fruits, Till my eyelids unlock'd, in the morning's first gleam, And 1 found, on the pillow, my first pair of boots! Oh, the joy of that waking! — Now fifty long years Since I kiss'd their red tops with uijroarious glee ; And, in free dishabille, amid laughter and' cheers, Hugg'd the old mastiff, Wolf, barking "encore!" at me. When the red-leggin'd jack-daw, so humanly vain, Struts about, like a fop, and exultingly hoots, I can fancy a fat little coxcomb again. To his' fellows displaying his first pair of boots. In my waterproof armor, right up to the knees. How I daringly dash'd where the boys fear'd to go, Making light of the warning that " somebody'll freeze," As I plung'd through a miniature mountain of snow ; If these memories saddeii, I'm glad when they come To attest that the heart is still fresh at the roots. And remembers each scene 'round its infancy's home, Where my last Christmas box was my first pair of boots. As we jostle along o'er the rocks of Life's track — In the dim distance leaving the schoolhouse and play, From the brain- busj^ Present we seldom look back 'Till the tablets of childhood are lost on the way — Let the soldier have trophies, the poet green bays, And the soul-troubled Shylock, his golden pursuits; Heaven's angel of Happiness lo's^ingly plays With the boisterous boy in his first pair of boots. OF T3E EMEkALD ISLE. 191 ROBERT EMMET. [Written on the occasion of his Centennial, March 4, 1878.] BY WM. GEOGHEGAN. Though over your ashes the grave grass tangles, And night winds moan 'round your clayey bed, Yet a voice sounds forth in the silent watches — "O, martyred Emmet, thou art not dead!" Not in the land that you loved and cherished, Not in the hearts of the Celtic race. For whose rights you strove, till the blood- marked pillars Of tyranny shook, to their bone-made base ! Death may come with his somber vestment To hide such hearts from our earthly ken ; But the spirit within, no death nor darkness Can ever conceal from the gaze of men. To the doomful gibbet the tyrant led thee, And quenched life's flame in its lucent prime ; But no tyrant ever can dim the halo That rings thy name for all future time. Over thy urn no white shaft rises. No pompous mark of the sculptor's art ; But thy glorious name and thy grand achievements Are gi'aven forever on Ireland's heart ! There alone let them stand recorded. Till vict'ry comes on the battle's flood To the deathless cause that was conseci-ated In the holy font of thy generous blood! O, Spirit that soared upon eagle pinions, And lived and died for a grand design, There's a radiant wreath in the future waiting The land that nurtured such soul as thine; O'er the weary j'ears and the anxious vigils The Day of Deliverance yet will rise, And the hills shall echo a grand Te Deu-m For her martyrs' pray'rs and her exiles' sighs. Then with her chainless hand she'll fashion A garland meet for her martyr's tomb, And where now the graveyard nettle is trailing The tended lily shall sweetly bloom ; And the pilgrim over thy green grave bending Shall murmur soft as his pray'r is done — " It wasn't in vain you died, oh, Emmet, For the cause you championed at last is won!" A WANDERER'S MUSINGS. BY WM. GEOGHEGAN. Thoxt art far away, my mother, far o'er the mighty sea, Yet flies my lonely spirit on wings of love to thee; And in the hours of silence, when darkness veils tlie earth, In fancy I revisit the land that gave me birth. I meet the smiling welcome — thy lips I fondly press, Oh ! is there aught more holy — a mother's pui-e caress? I feel the gentle presence of thy soft hand in mine, I see the beaming love-light in those dear eyes of thine. And memory sweetly pictures the scenes of childhood fair, The cotbage in the valley, the Inny flowing there; The paddock and the woodland, the orchard and the glade, Where oft in boyhood's freedom my careless footsteps stray'd. Oh ! Columbia's scenes of beauty do charm the traveler's eye, When Nature's bloom and verdure in rich profusion lie ; Where Art with magic fingers hatb reared her loSty dome, Yet still to me is fairer my own, my childhood's home. loa POPULAR SONGS AND BALLADS God bless thee, gentle mother; may he thy spirit cheer, May His abundant mei-cy dry every falling tear; And when thou meekly kneelest in solitude to pray, Think of the lonely wanderer in distant lauds away. THE CHRISTMASTIDE OP OLD. BY WM. GEOGHEGAN. Once more the hells of Christmas Send their chimes across the snow ; And the holly branches glisten In the firelight's ruddy glow; Glad voices give me greeting In the old accustomed way — " I wish you a merrj'' Christmas And a happy New Year's Day!" But the tender words and wishes Leave me lorn and pensive-souled, For my thoughts go bounding backward To the Christmas Days of old. From the mirth-resounding circles That I loved in boyhood's daj^s, And whose songs and lightsome laughter Crackled like the > ule-log's blaze — Many a friendly face has vanished. Many a form is lying low Where the Inny's dancing waters To Lough Ree's bright bosom flow ; Others walk the path of exile, And the hearthstone now is cold Where they loved and danced and feasted In the Christmastide of old. As I sit within my chamber Listening to the night-wind's moan, I mark two empty places By this fireside of my own. Two vacant chairs are standing, Where, in other days for me Two loved ones laughed and pi'attled, Or contended for my knee! Ah, it's hard to think they're lying 'Neath the heavy churchyard mould, Whose presence lent such luster To the Christmas Days of old! God be with them. They are happy ; And for us who yet remain In this vale of mortal sorrow 'Tis not fitting to complain. Ring out, sweet bells of Christmas, Across December's snow, You mind us of another land Where flow'rs immortal blow. Where the loved ones never leave us To commingle with the mould. Where the nightless years are brighter Than our Christmas Days of old. ff'M.'l THE END. THE ARM CHAIR. A LAKGE, NEW, lO-PAGE ILLUSTRATED FAMILY PAPER. JUST ISSUED! - - IT CONTAINS THE BEST STORIES hi THE FINEST AUTHORS in I he WOJILD, and for general tj'pography excels anything in farailj' literatui-e ever offereil to an admiring public. ITS ILLUSTRATIONS ARE SUPERB, and the paper is edited by one who has made this class of journalism a life-long study. Although it is generally said that cheap articles are not good, we and our 100,000 subs^'ibei-s in this case repudiate that statement, and join in proclaiming THE ARM CHAIR WITHOUT AN EQUAL IN THE WORLD. 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