THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE 
 
 IRISH ON THE PRAIRIES, 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 REV. THOS. AMBROSE BUTLER, 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 D. & J. SADLIER & CO., 31 BARCLAY STREET. 
 
 MONTREAL : 
 
 Corner Notre-Dame and St. Francis Xavier Sts. 
 1874.
 
 Entered According to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by 
 
 THOS. AMBROSE BUTLER, 
 in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
 Stereotype 
 
 SURPLUb 
 
 .<*> 
 
 CbmlH n 
 
 25 fc IT New Cf>4nb.n St. N. Y.
 
 PS 
 
 1235 
 
 DEDICATED 
 
 HIS FAITHFUL, LOVING FRIENDS 
 
 IN THE "OLD LAND 
 
 IN THE NEW 
 
 THE A UTHO R. 
 
 il
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 "T^HE Author sends forth this little book of 
 Poems, on its precarious journey, with no- 
 small amount of diffidence. It contains the sim 
 ple fruits of many pleasant hours of literary 
 labor in the bright domain of Poetry hours in 
 the years of youth and early manhood, and in the 
 noon of life. 
 
 Some of the following Poems have already ap 
 peared in the Dublin "Nation" above the nom de 
 plume " Eblana ;" others are to be found in recent 
 numbers of the New York "Emerald" and some 
 have lately been inserted in numbers of "Irish 
 Penny Readings" Many, however, have never, 
 until noiv, been brought forth to seek the favor of 
 the reading public. Amongst the latter is the 
 principal poem of the volume " The Irish on the 
 Prairies" 
 
 The Author cherishes a hope that '' The IrisJi 
 on the Prairies" will be a welcome guest to the
 
 vi PREFACE. 
 
 exiles of Erin; will be deemed worthy of the 
 place assigned to it as usJicr to the other Poems 
 of the volume ; will be found a faithful exponent 
 of Irish feeling in the " Old Land" and the New; 
 and a genuine index of the sentiments of a ' Sog- 
 garth Aroon" 
 
 Many of the minor Poems have been composed 
 
 in the Author s lonely, happy home, beside an 
 
 Irish chapel, in the shadows of the hills of 
 
 Wicklow, where, as a "Country-Curate" the early 
 
 years of his missionary life glided calmly along. 
 
 Some have been composed in the home of the 
 exile, beside the rolling prairies of Kansas, in 
 tranquil moments, after the busy priestly labors 
 of the day. 
 
 Go forth, little book ! into the wide world of 
 Literature. May your simple pages bring bright 
 ness to the eyes of many exiles of Erin, and a 
 gleam of sunshine to the hearts of loved ones far 
 away. 
 
 T. A. B. 
 CATHEDRAL, LEAVENWORTH, 
 
 KANSAS, September, 1873.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE IRISH ON THE PRAIRIES : 
 
 Parti. Introductory . . . .n 
 
 Part II. New and Old . . .18 
 
 Our Future . . . . ' . .44 
 
 The Exodus . . . . . . .47 
 
 The Nation's Muster-Roil .... 49 
 
 The Old Year 52 
 
 Avon-Liffey . . . . . . -55 
 
 The Lost Home ...... 59 
 
 The Church ....... 64 
 
 A Retrospect ....... 67 
 
 The Birth of the Spring ..... 70 
 
 Dreams ........ 72 
 
 A Prison Scene . . . . . . 73 
 
 Glendalough 78 
 
 Elegy on my Sister ...... 85 
 
 Commemoration Day ..... 88 
 
 Godless Teachings . . . . . 91 
 
 Doctor Yore 94
 
 viii Contents, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Dalkey 97 
 
 Our University ...... 103 
 
 Ode on Washington's Birth-Day . . .107 
 Winter in Town . . . . . .no 
 
 A Prologue . . . . . . 1 1 1 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 The \Vicklow Vales . . . . . .117 
 
 The Dance . . . . . . .120 
 
 My Lovely Isle, Adieu ! . . . . .122 
 
 Gazing Westward . . . . . .124 
 
 O, Lovely Land! . . . . .126 
 
 Hunting Song . . . . . . .128 
 
 The Friends whom I Loved Long Ago . .130 
 
 The Green Flag . . . . . -131 
 
 "God Save Old Ireland" . . . .133 
 
 There's Music midst the Mountains . . .136 
 
 Farewell, Dear Land ! . . . .138 
 
 Irish-American Brigade . . . . .140 
 
 The Hurlers ....... 142 
 
 The Fiddler . . . . . . .145 
 
 From Far Away ...... 147 
 
 The Little Bit of Land 149 
 
 Faithful unto Death . . . . .151 
 
 A Green Sod from Erin . . . . .153 
 
 The Exile's Love . . . . . .155 
 
 Christmas on the Prairies . . . .157 
 
 The Fenian Name . . . . . .159 
 
 Farewell of the Irish Maiden 160
 
 POEMS.
 
 THE 
 
 IRISH ON THE PRAIRIES. 
 
 PART I 
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 I. 
 
 JOME, heap up the logs on the hearth 
 stone, and shut out the wintery blast; 
 |To-night, in our snug little shanty, I'll 
 
 tell you some tales of the Past. 
 And while the wind howls on the prairies, and 
 
 drives the white snow to the door, 
 I'll visit in fancy the Old Land, and stand on her 
 
 Emerald shore. 
 'Twill lift up a load from my old heart, and calm 
 
 all my longings awhile, 
 
 To live o'er the Past, and to speak of the scenes 
 of that beautiful isle.
 
 12 The Irish on the Prairies. 
 
 'Twill cheer me to fill your young bosoms with 
 
 love for the suffering land 
 To make you feel proud of Old Erin, and ever 
 
 her foemen withstand. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Old Land! the Old Land! I love her, 
 though naught of her form can be seen 
 
 Though thousands of miles of the prairies and 
 billowy seas intervene 
 
 Though want and affliction surround her, and 
 tyranny tramples her down, 
 
 And leaves her oppressed and dejected, de 
 prived of her sceptre and crown. 
 
 Not thine is the fault, weeping Mother ! thy chil 
 dren are leaving thy breast, 
 
 To seek o'er the billowy ocean a home in this 
 land of the West. 
 
 Poor Queen ! there are hearts that still love thee, 
 and hands that would strike for thy fame, 
 
 Though traitors still fawn to the tyrants, and 
 sycophants blush at thy name.
 
 The Irish on the Prairies. 13 
 
 III. 
 
 Is Poverty hateful, degrading ? Is Sorrow de 
 serving of scorn ? 
 Can man make you hate the Old Island -the 
 
 land where your father was born ? 
 Is false-hearted Britain so pow'rful, that far o'er 
 
 the boisterous sea 
 The lies and the taunts that she utters reecho 
 
 midst homes of the free ? 
 Is Freedom a phantom, delusion, to tempt the 
 
 sad exile to roam 
 To climes where the sun-light of Justice shall 
 
 never illumine his home ? 
 Is man what his Maker intended, on mountain 
 
 and prairie and plain 
 As free as the winds of the heavens that sweep 
 
 o'er the waves of the main ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 But Patrick, my son ! if they taunt you, and 
 
 smile as they utter your name, 
 Forget not the Saint of my Country-rejoice in 
 
 the light of his fame.
 
 14 The Irish on the Prairies. 
 
 And tell to the scoffers the glories that shone 
 
 on his banner of old, 
 When back from the skies of Old Ireland the 
 
 darkness of Slavery roll'd. 
 When high on the green hills of Erin the ensign 
 
 of Calvary rose, 
 An emblem of hope to the Christian, a sign of 
 
 defeat to his foes, 
 A banner we planted wherever the foot of an 
 
 Irishman trod 
 We march'd in the steps of Our Master we 
 
 fought the great battles of God ! 
 
 V. 
 
 And Brigid, my darling ! midst many the Faith 
 
 of your Mother avow, 
 Nor suffer a blush for a Virgin to mantle your 
 
 cheeks or your brow ; 
 But proudly acknowledge Saint Brigid "the 
 
 Mary of Erin " whose name 
 Was honor'd in ages departed, and shines through 
 
 the annals of fame. 
 The lamp of the convent whose splendor beamed 
 
 forth like a beautiful star,
 
 The Irish on the Prairies. 15 
 
 Illuming the path of the maidens who came to 
 
 her shrine from afar, 
 Who came where the heart found a treasure that 
 
 earth could not ever afford 
 A gift that is offered by Heaven to virgins who 
 
 follow the Lord ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Sweet love of our Faith and our Country ! for 
 ever unfading they last, 
 Like ivy-leaves twining together round desolate 
 
 wrecks of the Past, 
 Round abbeys whose gables have fallen, round 
 
 castles whose turrets are gone, 
 Round towers that stand up majestic, in valleys 
 
 deserted, alone, 
 Round ruins of churches whose steeples oft 
 
 echoed the voice of the bell, 
 But totter'd and crumbl'd in tempests, and rang 
 
 their own funeral-knell, 
 And mingled their dust with the valleys' an 
 
 emblem of patriots brave, 
 Who fall on the breast of their country, and find 
 
 in its bosom a grave !
 
 16 The Irish on the Prairies. 
 
 VII. 
 
 God's blessing be ever upon thee, my beautiful 
 
 isle far away ! 
 May tempests ne'er shatter thy beauty, may time 
 
 never bring thee decay ! 
 But ever be noble, though fallen, and ever be 
 
 lovely, though lone 
 If Mother of Sorrows yet smiling midst tears for 
 
 her sons who are gone ! 
 O ! tyrants can never destroy thee ! O ! sorrows 
 
 can never deface 
 The hope that has liv'd through the ages, and 
 
 gladdened the suffering race ; 
 Nor exile and happiness banish remembrance of 
 
 days that have fled. 
 No! no! by the Past and its sorrows! Ah! 
 
 no, by the graves of the dead ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 My children ! we fled from the famine the evil 
 
 that tyranny made, 
 And exiles o'er seas and the prairies in search of 
 
 some happiness stray'd.
 
 The Irish on the Prairies. ij 
 
 We found it afar from Old Ireland ; but often I 
 think, with a sigh, 
 
 Far better to live in " the Old Land," far better 
 in Erin to die ! 
 
 To live on a little contented, to manfully strug 
 gle awhile, 
 
 To go to the grave of my fathers, and sleep in 
 the Sanctified Isle. 
 
 Far sweeter to follow old customs, and live like 
 our fathers of old, 
 
 Than wander a stranger midst peoples, and die 
 in the struggle for gold ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 But now let us heap up the fire-wood, and sit in 
 the light of the blaze ; 
 
 The snow is still falling and drifting, and day 
 light in heaven decays ; 
 
 And everything seems to incite me to picture 
 the Present and Past, 
 
 The scenes in the Old Isle of Beauty, and here 
 where my fortune is cast 
 
 The contrast between home in Ireland and here 
 in "the Land of Free,"
 
 1 8 The Irish on the Prairies. 
 
 Between the New World with its greatness, and 
 
 olden lands over the sea : 
 To show you why often at even' my mind seems 
 
 to wander astray 
 My heart, like a bird in its prison, is throbbing 
 
 for Erin to-day ! 
 
 PART II. 
 
 NEW AND OLD. 
 
 I. 
 
 A MERICA ! Parent of Freemen ! who once 
 
 as a giant arose, 
 And shook off the shackles of Britain, and scat- 
 
 ter'd the merciless foes ; 
 Who summon'd the nations in bondage to come 
 
 to the home of the free 
 From crumbling old kingdoms of Europe, from 
 
 suffering isles of the sea. 
 To come to the cities uprising on mountain and 
 
 valley and plain, 
 Beside the great lakes and the rivers, beside the 
 
 wild waves of the main.
 
 The Irish on the Prairies. 19 
 
 To come to the prairies out-stretching for thou 
 sands of miles far away, 
 
 Where buffalo graze though the meadows, and 
 timorous antelope stray. 
 
 II. 
 
 They answer the call of Columbia gallant dis 
 ciples of toil 
 And Commerce is thron'd in the cities, and 
 
 Labor is lord of the soil. 
 And under "the Star-spangled Banner" the 
 
 native and foreigner stand, 
 As noble Apostles of Freedom and props of the 
 
 prosperous land. 
 And grand is the stride of the nation in all that 
 
 exalts and redeems, 
 And joyous the face of her children, enliven'd 
 
 by Liberty's beams. 
 And newness and freshness surround her, unlike 
 
 the Old Country's decay. 
 The night of her bondage is over she woke to 
 
 a happier day !
 
 2O The Irish on the Prairies. 
 
 
 
 III. 
 
 How youthful the nation appeareth, wherever 
 the wanderer goes ! 
 
 How strong while the stream of new people, like 
 blood through her arteries flows ! 
 
 How new to the eye of the Exile the face of the 
 cities that rise 
 
 With magical force from the forests and lift their 
 young heads to the skies ! 
 
 No sign of antiquity near them ; no ruins of cas 
 tle or hall ; 
 
 No palace of baron or tyrant ; no ivy-clad tot 
 tering wall ; 
 
 No mark to betray to the passer the dwelling of 
 sorrow and care ; 
 
 No sign of oppression, for Poverty stalks not the 
 streets in despair ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Away midst the flow'rs of the prairies, beside 
 
 the green woods of the West, 
 "The Settler" is raising his cabin, the red-bird 
 
 is building her nest,
 
 TJie Irish on the Prairies. 21 
 
 Where naught of the noise of the cities, or 
 breath of its tumult or strife, 
 
 Can reach to the ear of the peasant, or ripple 
 the stream of his life. 
 
 E'en there, midst the oldest of forests, the new 
 ness of life can be seen, 
 
 E'en there is the foot-print of Freedom, where 
 trail of the savage has been, 
 
 E'en there, far away from his kindred, the Exile 
 from Erin appears, 
 
 With hopes, reawak'd in his bosom, that slum- 
 ber'd in gloomier years. 
 
 V. 
 
 My children ! the home of my fathers the spot 
 where my being began 
 
 The scenes of my youthful affection how fair to 
 the vision of man ! 
 
 The cot on the hill, midst the hedges, whose 
 walls were as white as the snow 
 
 The valleys, with vesture of verdure, where sil 
 very rivulets flow ! 
 
 The meadows, where "butter-cups" mingle with 
 " daisies" at birth of the May,
 
 22 The Irish on the Prairies. 
 
 The woods, where the black-birds are piping 
 their notes through the length of the day, 
 
 The mountains, in majesty standing, as sentinels 
 guarding the vales, 
 
 With brows that are furrow'd by streamlets, and 
 wrinkl'd by wintery gales ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Out here on the beautiful prairies the scene is 
 delightfully grand, 
 
 For signs of the richest fertility cover the face 
 of the land, 
 
 And waves of the brightest of verdure are roll 
 ing forever amain, 
 
 When Winter releases the meadows, and lifts up 
 his garb from the plain. 
 
 But sameness of scene is before us ; for Nature, 
 though lavish of stores, 
 
 Bestow'd not the gift of variety found on " the 
 Emerald shores." 
 
 But far through the boundless dominions a prai 
 rie, or forest, appears, 
 
 As changeless in form as the ocean that roll'd 
 through the thousands of years.
 
 The Irish on the Prairies. 23 
 
 VII. 
 
 Around on "the Settlement" gazing, the Exile 
 
 can never behold 
 A scene to remind him of Erin a home like his 
 
 fathers of old : 
 The hedges of hawthorn and sallow the furze, 
 
 with its yellowish flow'r 
 The trees that are standing majestic, by hillock 
 
 and cottage and bower. 
 Ah, no ! We have left them forever, and rude 
 
 are the dwellings we see 
 The huts of the logs of the forests, of branches 
 
 of many a tree, 
 
 And rough are the fences surrounding the con 
 fines of many a home. 
 O ! naught like the hedges of Ireland we find 
 
 wheresoever we roam ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 'Tis true in our home on the prairies we've plenty, 
 we've riches in store, 
 
 'Tis true that the tyrannous "Agent" can threat 
 en my people no more,
 
 24 The Irish on the Prairies. 
 
 'Tis true that the land that we toil on is ours' 
 and our children's alone, 
 
 And free on the soil of the freeman we're rich as 
 a king on his throne. 
 
 But O ! how I long for the laughter that rose 
 round my home far away ; 
 
 The music of mirth that was swelling by fire 
 sides at close of the day ; 
 
 The jokes and the tales of the neighbors, whom 
 sorrows could never o'erthrow. 
 
 Ah ! here the heart's music is wanting we heard 
 in the years long ago ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 When Summer goes over the waters and smiles 
 on our Emerald Queen, 
 
 How lovely the look of the valleys ! how pleas 
 ant each sun-lighted scene ! 
 
 How cheering at mid-day to wander adown by 
 the meadows and streams, 
 
 Not dreading the sun in the heavens, but loving 
 the glance of his beams. 
 
 For never, as here on the prairies, does sun-light 
 oppress or destroy ;
 
 The Irish on the Prairies. 2$ 
 
 It smiles and it dances in Erin it lights up the 
 
 spirits with joy. 
 And welcome, as flowers of the May-time, is 
 
 Summer all over our isle ; 
 For man, like the flow'rs of the valleys, revives 
 
 in the light of its smile. 
 
 X. 
 
 What sports we enjoy'd in the meadows, when 
 
 labor had ceas'd for the day ! 
 What joy and excitement apparent, when "hurl- 
 
 ers " prepared for their play ! 
 What lively emotions, as onward the strugglers 
 
 to victory sped ! 
 Ah ! where are the friends of my boyhood ? I 
 
 sigh for the years that have fled. 
 I sigh ! for my wealth cannot purchase such joy 
 
 as I felt long ago : 
 The peace of the poorest of peasants the calm 
 
 that the rich never know. 
 I sigh on the breast of the prairies, and pray 
 
 that kind Heaven may smile 
 On homes and the hearts of my people who 
 
 dwell in the Emerald Isle.
 
 26 The Irish on the Prairies. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Alas ! I can never recall them the scenes 'neath 
 
 the shadowing trees 
 The light-hearted "Piper," whose music arose 
 
 on the wings of the breeze ; 
 The men and the maidens who joyously join'd 
 
 in the dance on "the Green," 
 And danc'd till the sun-light departed, and dark 
 ness came down on the scene. 
 But hold ! I will sing you a ditty a song of the 
 
 Dance in the Glen ! 
 To lilt a sweet air of my country will cheer up 
 
 my spirits again. 
 So stir the red-logs and be silent, or join in the 
 
 chorus with me ; 
 We'll joyfully sing of the customs of father-land 
 
 over the sea. 
 
 THE DANCE. 
 
 ^AiR Billy O'Rourke ma bouchal.] 
 
 THE Summer-sun is laughing down, 
 And o'er the heather glancing ; 
 
 We'll haste away ere close of day, 
 To join the peasants dancing
 
 TJie Irish on the Prairies. 27 
 
 Beneath the ivy-clothed trees 
 
 That guard the farmer's dwelling 1 , 
 And softly shake their leafy bells, 
 
 While music's strains are swelling 1 . 
 We'll haste away, we'll haste away, 
 
 Along the scented heather ; 
 We'll join the merry peasant band, 
 
 And "trip the sod" together. 
 
 r- 
 
 From silent glen, from mossy moor, 
 
 From cabin lone and dreary, 
 They come the friezed and hooded band, 
 
 With spirits never weary. 
 With hearts so light that sorrows ne'er 
 
 Can break their sense of pleasure 
 The Irish heart that laughs at care 
 
 Is bless'd with brightest treasure. 
 We'll haste away, we'll haste away, 
 
 Along the scented heather ; 
 We'll join the merry peasant band, 
 
 And "trip the sod" together. 
 
 The stars will peep amidst the trees, 
 Their light with moonbeams blended,
 
 28 The Irish on the Prairies. 
 
 Before the music dies away, 
 
 Before the dance is ended. 
 And joke and laughter, wild and free, 
 
 Ring round the farmer's dwelling, 
 And lithesome limbs keep measur'd time 
 
 Where Irish airs are swelling. 
 We'll haste away, we'll haste away, 
 
 Along the scented heather ; 
 We'll join the merry peasant band, 
 
 And "trip the sod" together. 
 
 As long as happy Irish hearts 
 
 Are throbbing through the Nation 
 As long as Ireland's exiled sons 
 
 Are found on God's creation 
 As long as Music's thrilling strains 
 
 Can wake a sweet emotion, 
 We'll save the customs of our sires, 
 
 At home and o'er the ocean. 
 We'll haste away, we'll haste away, 
 
 Along the scented heather ; 
 We'll join the merry peasant band, 
 
 And " trip the sod " together.
 
 The Irish on the Prairies. 29 
 
 XII. 
 
 But ah ! in our home on the prairies, when day 
 
 has arrived at its close, 
 The toiler is worn with his labor the weari'd is 
 
 wanting repose. 
 Forever, forever so eager to gather the wealth 
 
 that deprives 
 The heart of its lightness and brightness, and 
 
 darkens the path of our lives. 
 O ! brighter the hut of the poorest, wherever 
 
 contentment is seen, 
 Than dwellings where trouble is brooding the 
 
 palace of chieftain or queen. 
 And sweeter to live in the Present, than wander 
 
 in thought far way, 
 Nor wish for a gleam of the Future, but live in 
 
 the light of To-day. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 No music is heard in our shanty, no music is 
 
 heard on the plain, 
 No music amidst the wild forests, where silence 
 
 and solitude reign.
 
 30 The Irish on the Prairies. 
 
 No notes but the lays of the songsters the birds 
 
 in the Spring of the year, 
 In days when the Summer is reigning, and 
 
 flow'rs in the valleys appear. 
 No piper e'er plays on the prairies, no peasants 
 
 e'er dance in the glen, 
 No maidens of Erin e'er warble the songs of their 
 
 childhood again, 
 But sit in the shade of their dwellings when 
 
 Summer-sun sinks to his rest, 
 And sigh for the beautiful Summer that smiles 
 
 on " the Land of the West ! " 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The Sunday! how welcome in Erin! how 
 
 happy, how blest is the day ! 
 The dawn of its morning seemed ever to drive 
 
 the dark sorrows away. 
 And even in wildest of weather, when Winter 
 
 was roughest of mien, 
 The Angel of Peace was beside us, and smiled 
 
 on the gloomiest scene. 
 And like to the voice of the Seraphs, who sang 
 
 to the shepherds of old,
 
 The Irish on t/ie Prairies, 31 
 
 The bell of the church in the village its musical 
 
 melody roll'd, 
 A voice to awaken devotion a summons to 
 
 haste to the shrine, 
 And kneel at the foot of the altar, to worship 
 
 the Master Divine ! 
 
 XV. 
 
 From many a home on the mountains, from 
 
 many a hut in the glen, 
 From many a cot in the valleys there came forth 
 
 a streamlet of men : 
 The young in their spring of existence, the old 
 
 in their time of decay, 
 Went forth in the light of the Sunday to haste 
 
 to the chapjel to pray. 
 
 The aged, with tottering footsteps, with eager 
 ness moved in the throng ; 
 The young, in the flush of their vigor, proceeded 
 
 with swiftness along. 
 And like to the rivulets spreading in streams o'er 
 
 the breast of the land, 
 The maidens and boys of the parish out-spread 
 
 into many a band.
 
 32 The Irish on the Prairies. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 The Chapel! the old parish Chapel! ah! 
 
 fondly my fancy recalls 
 The form that it ever presented the hue of its 
 
 mouldering walls ; 
 The quaint-looking windows and arches, the 
 
 tow'r where the cross was display'd ; 
 The statue of Joseph the Patron, and Mary 
 
 Immaculate Maid. 
 
 The font where the worshippers halted to sprin 
 kle their brow, and to pray 
 A blessing on home and its people, and peace 
 
 through the sanctified day. 
 The porch where we enter'd how sombre ! the 
 
 altar how simple and bright ! 
 It gladden'd the heart of the wearied, and fill'd 
 
 the devout with delight. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Not far from the old parish Chapel, and nigh to 
 
 a sheltering wood, 
 The mould'ring remains of an abbey in tottering 
 
 majesty stood.
 
 The Irish on the Prairies. 33 
 
 The ivy was over the ruins the freshness of life 
 
 with decay 
 The ivy will flourish for ages, the walls will soon 
 
 moulder away ! 
 Around are the graves of our fathers they sleep 
 
 in the sanctified dust, 
 With the Saints and the Martyrs beside them 
 
 the bones of beatified just. 
 They sleep where QO sorrows can reach them, 
 
 and under the Emerald sod ; 
 They rest 'neath the grass of Old Ireland, and 
 
 near to the temple of God. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Ah ! oft, ere the bell of the chapel had summon'd 
 
 the people to pray, 
 I've sat midst the tombs of the vanish'd, or 
 
 join'd with the children in play ; 
 Or listen'd with boyish emotion to patriot spirits 
 
 who told 
 Of hopes in the future of Ireland her struggles, 
 
 her sorrows of old. 
 Or heard the fond parent relating the news from 
 
 his sons o'er the sea,
 
 34 The Irish on the Prairies. 
 
 From homes on the breast of the prairies from 
 lands where his children are free, 
 
 Till, stirr'd by the words of the speakers, my 
 spirits in tumult arose, 
 
 With love for the land of my fathers, with hate 
 for her merciless foes ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Loud sounded the bell in the turret, " his Rev- 
 
 'rence" appeared on the way 
 The Speakers retir'd to the chapel the little 
 
 ones ceas'd from their play ; 
 And hearts that had sorrow'd a moment, and 
 
 lips that had spoken of pain, 
 Were moved by the voice of Religion, and la- 
 
 bor'd for heaven again. 
 And earth and its cares were forgotten, and hope 
 
 of a future above 
 Arose midst the lights of the altar that typify 
 
 Catholic love : 
 The love that no gloom can extinguish, no 
 
 tyrant of earth can destroy, 
 That cheers the fond heart of the mother, and 
 
 follows her wandering boy.
 
 The Irish on the Prairies. 35 
 
 XX. 
 
 The mothers! the poor Irish mothers! ah! 
 
 many have wept by the shore, 
 And sobb'd as they parted from children the 
 
 lov'd who will see them no more. 
 And many have borne through the future a 
 
 wound that no science could heal 
 A wound that is like to heart-breaking, that 
 
 none but a mother can feel ! 
 How many have found naught to comfort, no 
 
 solace their trouble to calm, 
 No hope through the length of existence to pour 
 
 o'er their spirits a balm, 
 But that which the faith of our Fathers and 
 
 Christ in His temple afford 
 The faith and the hope of a meeting beside the 
 
 great throne of the Lord ? 
 
 XXI. 
 
 There's solace when under "The Stations" the 
 
 mothers- in solitude pray, 
 And follow, in spirit, "The Mother and Son" on 
 
 " the dolorous way ; "
 
 36 The Irish on the Prairies. 
 
 And mingle their sorrows with Mary's, and stand 
 by Her under the Cross, 
 
 And fill'd with the thought of Her dolors, forget, 
 for a moment, their loss. 
 
 Forget all the world, and the troubles that dark 
 en the pathway of years ; 
 
 Remain in the gloom of the Passion, and give to 
 the Saviour their tears ; 
 
 Then offer the loss of their children a sacrifice 
 up to the Son, 
 
 While praying the will of the Father, not theirs', 
 may for ever be done ! 
 
 XXII. 
 
 But here, in the wilds of the prairies, the Sunday 
 
 no joyousness brings 
 No heart, like a lark in the morning, with feeling 
 
 of happiness sings ; 
 No dawning of hope with the daybreak to souls 
 
 that are panting with love, 
 That thirst for a drop from the fountains that 
 
 spring in the Kingdom above. 
 No music of bells from a distance no crowds of 
 
 "parishioners" pass,
 
 The Irish on the Prairies. 37 
 
 And offer a glad salutation as onward they haste 
 
 to "the Mass; 
 Or come with us back from the chapel, and sit 
 
 for awhile in our cot, 
 Ah, friends still at home in Old Ireland ! how 
 
 sadly I envy your lot ! 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 The Sunday arrives with its silence. No labor 
 
 of sinewy hand 
 No sound of the axe in the forests no plough 
 
 in the bountiful land ; 
 But rest in the home of the exile a rest for the 
 
 body alone ! 
 The mind is as active as ever it flieth to days 
 
 that have flown. 
 A chapel "a church," as they call it is many a 
 
 mile to the west, 
 Within it the birds of the prairies in Winter have 
 
 shelter and rest. 
 
 No voice to disturb them at morning no bell- 
 tones to scare them away ; 
 For seldom the priest can attend us, and stand 
 
 at the altar to pray. 
 4
 
 38 The Irish on the Prairies. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The church on the breast of the prairies how 
 
 humble, how shatter'd, how lone ! 
 Its frame-work is warping and rotting the grass 
 
 on its pathway has grown. 
 Its roof in the Winter is clothed with snow, that 
 
 unmelting remains 
 As long as the drifts in the forests, or flakes on 
 
 the face of the plains ; 
 For seldom the breath of the fire-wood is felt 
 
 through the cold of the year, 
 And seldom in Winter our footprints upon the 
 
 white pathway appear. 
 Alone ! all alone on the prairies ! alone on the 
 
 sanctified ground ! 
 Ah no ! for invisible angels are hovering ever 
 
 around ! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 The altar ! Ah ! think of the manger the cra 
 dle where Jesus was laid 
 
 That morning when angels of beauty stood 
 round the Immaculate Maid.
 
 The Irish on the Prairies. 39 
 
 Ah ! think of the crib and the stable, and star 
 light that fell on the floor ! 
 
 Respect the low shrine on the prairies, and blush 
 at its poorness no more. 
 
 Ah ! not a fond thought of Old Ireland the altar- 
 piece ever recalls ; 
 
 No church on the prairies presents us the hue of 
 the mouldering walls 
 
 Of chapels that stand in the valleys, where 
 streams through the fatherland flow 
 
 O God ! for one hour in the chapel where oft I 
 have prayed long ago ! 
 
 V 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 On Sundays when Mass is expected, the settlers, 
 at dawning of day, 
 
 Are seen in the woods on the prairies, that lie 
 from the church far away. 
 
 They come in their lumbering wagons, their lit 
 tle ones seated a-near, 
 
 At times when the Summer is smiling, and often 
 in " Fall " of the year ; 
 
 But seldom, when Winter is howling, the wagons 
 are seen on the plain ;
 
 4-O The Irish on the Prairies. 
 
 At home by the stove in the shanty, the mother 
 
 and children remain. 
 And seldom a worshipper walketh to Mass as 
 
 they do in our land, 
 We miss the bright streamlets of peasants, we 
 
 meet not a juvenile band. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 No crowds in the shades of the chapel no little 
 
 ones running around j 
 No tombs midst the trees in the valley to tell of 
 
 the sanctified ground ; 
 No "Soggarth" like him whom we honored as 
 
 "father" in Erin of old, 
 Whose voice on the altar was pleasant as ring 
 
 of the purest of gold ! 
 'Tis true that we honor our Pastors, whatever 
 
 the land of their birth, 
 'Tis true that we worship our Maker wherever 
 
 His temple on earth ; 
 But O ! what a joy to the Irish to exiles what 
 
 heavenly boon ! 
 To hear in the church on the prairies the voice 
 
 of their "Soggarth aroon !"
 
 The Irish on the Prairies. 41 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 No fount with its water so holy is found in the 
 
 Winter-time there, 
 
 For sprinkling the brow ere the worshipper en 
 ters the temple of prayer. 
 No "spring" on the hill-side is bubbling no 
 
 "wells" that are blest can be seen, 
 Like those that are holy in Ireland, and sprinkle 
 
 her garment of green : 
 The "wells" where the pilgrims are halting and 
 
 sad ones are seeking relief, 
 Where sick ones are freed from their troubles, 
 
 and cur'd by the strength of belief 
 By faith such as faith is in Erin the faith that 
 
 no pow'r could destroy 
 That lives in the hearts of our people, and lights 
 
 the lone cabin with joy ! 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 O ! often in slumbers of midnight I dream of my 
 
 isle o'er the sea, 
 And see her all radiant with beauty the home 
 
 of the happy and free.
 
 42 The Irish on the Prairies. 
 
 And often I dream that the island is like to a 
 
 barque far away 
 A green-painted ship that will reach us before 
 
 the first dawn of the day. 
 O God ! if the waves could upheave her and bear 
 
 her in majesty o'er, 
 To rest in the sunlight of Freedom beside the 
 
 American shore ; 
 Or if this invincible nation would wrench her 
 
 from tyranny's chain, 
 Then, then I would fly to Old Ireland, and rest 
 
 on her bosom again. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 My children ! mayhap in the future, beside this 
 
 lone home in the West, 
 Some heart-broken exiles of Erin may seek for a 
 
 shelter and rest, 
 Some other lone wanderers settle on prairies as 
 
 rich as our own, 
 Till round on the wild a New Ireland of beauty 
 
 and pow'r shall have grown. 
 Then down in the woods in the even' the voice 
 
 of the village shall ring
 
 The Irish on the Prairies. 43 
 
 Then out on the prairies the maidens the songs 
 
 of Old Erin shall sing 
 Then sports that we lov'd in Old Ireland shall 
 
 rise up again to the view, 
 And plant all the joys of " the Old Land " amidst 
 
 the bright scenes of "the New." 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 O Patrick in heaven ! smile ever adown on my 
 
 isle far away ! 
 O follow the steps of the exiles wherever through 
 
 life they may stray ! 
 O guard the bright treasure and freedom you 
 
 gave to our fathers of yore, 
 Till steps of your soldiers shall echo in triumph 
 
 on every shore ! 
 O aid us to struggle forever for honors no tyrants 
 
 can claim, 
 Till Erin shall rise from her sorrows, and nations 
 
 shall honor her name. 
 
 Then, then will her children, uprising on moun 
 tain and prairie and plain, 
 With joy rush to Erin, their Mother, to make her 
 
 a Nation again !
 
 Our Future. 
 
 i. 
 
 A MOMENT we rest on our voyage of sorrow, 
 
 Afar on the waters of fugitive Time, 
 And hope that the light that will herald the 
 
 morrow 
 May show us the shores of some beautiful 
 
 clime. 
 That shadows, now dark'ning the billows before 
 
 us, 
 
 May fade on the rim of the waters afar, 
 And clouds, that are sailing in majesty o'er us, 
 May sink in the light of some glittering star! 
 
 n. 
 
 Oh, Ireland ! how often thy patriot spirits 
 
 Have look'd for a day when thy sorrows would 
 cease
 
 Our Future. 45 
 
 Have long'd for the boon which the freeman 
 
 inherits 
 Have pray'd, midst their tears, for thy happy 
 
 release 
 Have sent forth their hopes, like the dove o'er 
 
 the billows, 
 But homeward they came with no branch of 
 
 the palm. 
 
 They found but the seed of the dark weeping- 
 willows 
 No rest mid the waters no promise of calm ! 
 
 III. 
 
 The Future, in fancy I seek to behold it ; 
 
 To look on the signs that will usher its reign ; 
 To gaze through the shadows that thickly en 
 fold it ; 
 To view all the scenes that will come in its 
 
 train ; 
 To look to the land where our childhood was 
 
 cherished, 
 
 To try if her glory will glisten again ; 
 If Liberty's soul mid her ruins has perished 
 Mid ruins of dwellings and corses of men.
 
 46 Our Future. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh ! think will the flocks of the stranger be 
 
 straying 
 Along by the valleys where hamlets have 
 
 been ; 
 Will shepherds, alone, by the streamlets be 
 
 playing 
 The pipe that once gather'd a crowd to the 
 
 green ; 
 Will Celts in the land of adoption be reaping 
 
 A harvest of glory in battle's career, 
 Whilst far on the shores where their fathers are 
 
 sleeping 
 
 No marks of their march or their struggle 
 appear ! 
 
 V. 
 
 I know not, but often I think, with a feeling 
 Of sadness that borrows a pang from the 
 past, 
 
 How silently forward the Future is stealing, 
 Whilst men in our isle are in lethargy cast. 
 
 In gloomiest season how cheering and pleasant
 
 The Exodus. 47 
 
 To scatter the seeds of the flow'rs for the May ! 
 The Future will tread in the track of the 
 
 Present : 
 
 Then, brothers, prepare for her coming to 
 day. 
 
 The Exodus. 
 
 i. 
 
 *T^HEY r.re going, they are going where Mis 
 souri's waves are flowing, 
 Where the waving crops are growing for the 
 
 tiller of the soil ; 
 Where the light of Justice beameth, and the 
 
 sword of Justice gleameth, 
 And good fortune ever seemeth as attendant 
 upon toil. 
 
 II. 
 
 Far from Erin they are flying where their fathers' 
 
 bones are lying, 
 
 Where Atlantic's waves are sighing 'round her 
 desolated shore ;
 
 4.8 The Exodus. 
 
 V/liere the streams of care are welling 'round 
 
 each simple peasant's dwelling, 
 And the bravest hearts are swelling with the 
 sorrow at their core. 
 
 III. 
 
 There are parents fond, endearing ; there are 
 
 scenes yet bright and cheering ; 
 But an evil star is peering o'er the dwellings 
 
 of our isle 
 
 O'er the cot amidst the bushes, where the shin 
 ing river rushes, 
 
 Where the sparkling fountain gushes like a 
 heart that has no guile. 
 
 IV. 
 
 They are leaving home for ever ; and the fond 
 est kindred sever ; 
 And the light of joy shall never brightly beam 
 
 upon their breast ; 
 Though the freeman's flag is o'er them, and a 
 
 life of peace before them, 
 Yet the mother fond who bore them sighs 
 with sorrow in the West.
 
 The Nation's Muster-Roil. 49 
 
 V. 
 
 Let them go ! may Heaven speed them ! be a 
 
 blessed lot decreed them ; 
 But if Ireland e'er shall need them, may they 
 
 hasten o'er the sea ; 
 May the loving hearts that slumbered, by the 
 
 weight of grief encumbered, 
 Beat for Erin's woes unnumbered, and return 
 to set her free ! 
 
 The Nations Muster-RolL 
 
 (The Irish Census of 1861.) 
 I. 
 
 T)EHOLD our Nation's muster-roll to-day 
 Oh ! how it tells her sad and fallen state ! 
 Not midst her foes in dreadful battle fray, 
 
 Did Erin's children meet the soldier's fate, 
 Nor yet as beggars at their master's gate ; 
 
 But, proudly scorning Ireland's hated foe, 
 They left the land in exiled homes to wait 
 
 For better days, to strike a gallant blow 
 
 Upon their native fields, where Shannon's 
 waters flow.
 
 5O The Nation's Muster-RolL 
 
 II. 
 
 But oh ! for words to rouse the dying fire 
 Of Celtic love for happy hearts at home ! 
 
 To boldly wake the bard's majestic lyre, 
 
 Till hearts would throb within their living 
 dome ! 
 
 Till now awhile our thoughts would sadly roam 
 To scenes where shatter'd dwellings lowly lie : 
 
 And then to feel the tempest's blinding foam 
 To hear the winds of poignant sorrow sigh, 
 Till men would start with rage, and join in 
 Freedom's cry! 
 
 III. 
 
 Aye, men ! the wreck will tell the tempest's 
 
 force 
 
 The pilot's guile, or pirate 's bloody sway 
 The broken gables mark the spoiler's course, 
 
 And give the lie to cringing slaves who say 
 That Erin's millions gather wealth to-day. 
 
 The lordly prosper peasants leave the land 
 And thus, through cycles, Ireland's hopes de 
 cay :
 
 The Nation's Muster-Roll. 51 
 
 Each tide of time that strikes the rugged 
 
 strand, 
 Sweeps off the country's wealth the strong, 
 
 the helping hand. 
 
 rv. 
 
 But cease to grieve Jehovah loves our isle, 
 Where faith has shone undimm'd amidst the 
 
 gloom 
 Where hope and love have sought His cheering 
 
 smile, 
 Whilst seated watching nigh the Nation's 
 
 tomb. 
 
 Oh ! soon will break, like summer's virgin bloom, 
 A gleam of glory o'er our isle's expanse, 
 
 ** 
 
 And chase the shades that far before us loom, 
 And wake the Celt from out his heavy trance, 
 To view the Nation's rise, and hail her bold 
 advance.
 
 The Old Year. 
 i. 
 
 A H ! the Year has just departed, like a parent 
 
 broken-hearted, 
 When her once sweet-smiling children have 
 
 been gathered to the clay. 
 In the Winter's gloom appalling, when the flaky 
 
 snow is falling, 
 
 And the earth's great heart is hardened, and 
 her grassy head is gray. 
 
 II. 
 
 Nature seems o'ercome with sadness, and she 
 
 feels no throb of gladness, 
 When the laughing Sun at mid-day maketh 
 
 diamonds of the snow ! 
 And the voice of lamentation spreads across this 
 
 wide creation, 
 
 When the wild winds, moving onward, with a 
 moaning accent blow.
 
 The Old Year. 53 
 
 III. 
 
 Lo ! the icy tears are pendant from the turret- 
 tops resplendent, 
 And the branches of the poplars raise the 
 
 morning plumes on high ! 
 And the streams no longer hasten, roaring from 
 
 the rocky basin, 
 
 For the ice has stopp'd their wailings, and the 
 bosoms cease to sigh ! 
 
 IV. 
 Dead Year! in Spring-time's splendor, when 
 
 thy heart was soft and tender, 
 Then fond Nature ope'd her treasures fra 
 grant odors for thy shrine 
 And poor, weary mortals bless'd thee, whilst the 
 
 beauteous Spring caress'd thee, 
 And they hoped for more successors of so 
 prosperous a line. 
 
 V. 
 
 Later on thy path of duty, when the Summer 
 
 beamed in beauty, 
 
 And the sunshine danced around thee, like a 
 truant child at play
 
 54 The Old Year. 
 
 When the brilliant sky of heaven smiled upon 
 
 thee in the even', 
 
 Then thou seemed to wish to mingle all the 
 shades of night with day. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But the voice of death was calling when the 
 
 Autumn leaves were falling, 
 And the rustling withered leaflets sung the 
 
 dirge before thy death, 
 And the clouds were edged with mourning when 
 
 the shades of eve returning, 
 Cast their gloom upon Creation as all Nature 
 held its breath. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Soon thy parent, Time, forsook thee, and death 
 
 at length o'ertook thee, 
 And amidst the midnight shadows thou wast 
 
 borne to thy tomb, 
 And poor mortals missed thee sadly ; whilst old 
 
 Time, careering gladly, 
 
 Brought another New Year smiling from 
 amidst the Winter's gloom.
 
 Avon-Liffey. 
 
 T^vOWN by the silent glades, 
 
 Under the forest's shades, 
 
 Ever the glassy stream glideth along. 
 
 Out in its rural space, 
 
 Bright in its placid face, 
 Like a sweet spirit that knoweth no wrong ! 
 
 II. 
 
 See ! how the willows bend, 
 
 Hailing their olden friend ; 
 Lo ! how the lilies are sprinkled with spray ! 
 
 Downward they bend awhile, 
 
 As when in sacred aisle 
 People are bless'd by the priest as they pray. 
 
 III. 
 
 See how the waters sweep 
 Down to the "Salmon Leap,"
 
 56 Avon-Li ffey. 
 
 Eagerly rushing, like children, to play. 
 
 Oh ! how they dance about, 
 
 Raising a joyous shout, 
 Leaping the rugged rocks gliding away. 
 
 IV. 
 
 See yonder truant tide 
 
 Seeking the rocky side, 
 Where, like a gem, the mill crowneth the hill ; 
 
 Down to the foaming wheel 
 
 Softly the waters steal 
 Laughing they roll it around as they will. 
 
 V. 
 
 Onward the waters go, 
 
 Down to the bed below, 
 Where the white foam saileth ever around 
 
 Stop not to sigh or breathe, 
 
 Snatch but a foamy wreath, 
 Emblem of glory that mortals have found ! 
 
 VI.
 
 Avon- Liffey. 57 
 
 Far from the odors of garden and mead, 
 
 Soon tow'rds the city's hum 
 
 Onward the waters come 
 On to Eblana they joyously speed. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Look through the murky haze, 
 
 Hiding the ancient days, 
 On through a hundred of decades of years, 
 
 Where o'er the rolling main 
 
 Hasten'd the pirate Dane 
 Lo ! on the Liffey his banner appears ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Later the tears of slaves 
 
 Dropp'd in the silver waves ; 
 Liffey look'd red as it swept through the vale : 
 
 Blood of the Celtic race 
 
 Fell o'er its placid face 
 Ah ! how they triumph'd, the Lords of the Pale ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Oft rang the Abbey-bells * 
 Out from the holy cells,
 
 58 Avon-Li ffey. 
 
 Over the water at Angelas' hour ; 
 Lo ! as the music floats, 
 Monks in the fishing-boats 
 
 Pray to their Patroness speak of her pow'r. 
 
 X. 
 
 Gone are the olden times, 
 Lost, like the Abbey's chimes 
 
 Crumbl'd the human clay, chieftains and slaves. 
 Yet, midst the ages' flight, 
 Constant as Truth and Right, 
 
 Rolls Avon-Liffey to Ocean's blue waves. 
 
 * Saint Mary's Abbey, Dublin. Leave was granted to the 
 monks of this abbey, in the year 1185, to have fishing-boats on 
 the waters of the Avon-Liffey.
 
 The Lost Home. 
 
 /^OME sit, my son, beneath the shade where 
 Autumn winds are sighing ; 
 
 The shadows, creeping down the woods, an 
 nounce that day is dying ; 
 
 And far the murky clouds out-spread the float 
 ing flags of warning 
 
 Where Alleghanies' giant hills were seen at 
 early morning. 
 
 II. 
 
 Behold ! my son, the fertile fields, where golden 
 
 grain is swelling ; 
 And far away the crested pines thy brother's axe 
 
 is felling ; 
 And yonder see our cheerful cot beside the 
 
 mountain river, 
 Thy father knows no master here but God, the 
 
 mighty Giver.
 
 60 The Lost Home. 
 
 III. 
 In other days, when life was young, and hope 
 
 was beaming o'er me, 
 I lov'd my father's natal cot I lov'd the isle 
 
 that bore me, 
 And love it still the dear old land though 
 
 ocean's waves divide us ; 
 The thoughts of old and fancy's spell shall bring 
 
 it shores beside us. 
 
 IV. 
 Oh ! land of sorrows, Innisfail ! the saddest, still 
 
 the fairest ! 
 Though ever-fruitful are thy breasts though 
 
 green the garb thou wearest, 
 In vain thy children seek thy gifts, and fondly 
 
 gather round thee ; 
 They live as strangers midst thy vales since dark 
 
 oppression bound thee. 
 
 V. 
 My natal home beside the glen ! how could I 
 
 cease to love thee ? 
 The yellow thatch was o'er thy walls, the 
 
 beeches wav'd above thee ;
 
 The Lost Home. 6 1 
 
 Thy sides were like the sea-gull's wings of 
 
 purest, snowy brightness ; 
 They woo'd the Sun, till round thy porch he 
 
 flung his silv'ry brightness. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Methinks I now behold thy smoke ascend from 
 
 yonder thicket 
 Methinks 1 see my aged sire beside thy open 
 
 wicket, 
 And hear my brothers' notes of mirth along the 
 
 valleys ringing, 
 Where maidens o'er the milking-pails the rural 
 
 songs are singing. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Around thy hearth, at day's decline, arose the 
 
 voice of gladness 
 The fleeting years, as on they sped, flung in no 
 
 seeds of sadness ; 
 And though the swelling tide of care oft roll'd 
 
 its waves beside us, 
 We clung in hope around our home no perils 
 
 could divide us. 
 
 6
 
 62 The Lost Home. 
 
 VIII. 
 But ah ! on sudden, Famine's breath brought 
 
 direful desolation ; 
 Whilst tyrants cast their cruel laws around the 
 
 dying nation, 
 And spurn'd the wasting, wither'd poor, for 
 
 help, for mercy crying, 
 The Saxons smil'd with joy to hear that Celtic 
 
 sons were dying. 
 
 IX. 
 
 My God, it came ! the fearful gale against our 
 
 happy dwelling ; 
 We stood the fearful shock awhile, though waves 
 
 of care were swelling ; 
 Whilst, like a monster midst the deep, which 
 
 loves the tempest's thunder, 
 The lord who own'd our lands desir'd to see us 
 
 sinking under. 
 
 X. 
 
 In vain the hopes we fed awhile ! in vain each 
 
 dear endeavor ! 
 My father's fathers' natal home was lost to us 
 
 for ever ;
 
 The Lost Home. 63 
 
 And cozy roof, and porch, and walls, were cast 
 
 to earth together, 
 And we, in woe, were forced to face the Winter's 
 
 direful weather. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Alanna ! 'neath their native soil my parents' 
 
 hearts are sleeping 
 Across their lonely grassy graves the shamrock 
 
 leaves are creeping ; 
 And we are here amidst those wilds, where 
 
 tyrants ne'er can bind us, 
 With lands as fertile not so fair as those 
 
 we've left behind us. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Yes ; true, my son ! thy father dear has drunk 
 
 the bitter potion ; 
 Yet often midst those lonely woods he thinks 
 
 with fond emotion, 
 That yonder billows seek our isle that gentle 
 
 zephyrs fan her : 
 Oh ! may her exiles seek her, too, to raise her 
 
 drooping banner ! "
 
 The Church. 
 
 i. 
 
 /^\LDEST rock amidst the waters ! boldly 
 
 bearest thou thy brow ! 
 As in ages long forgotten, still unchanged thou 
 
 standest now ! 
 And the tempests waste their fury when they 
 
 strike against thy side, 
 And the wild waves, leaping at thee, fall in 
 
 drops into the tide. 
 Still they roll in times of storms when a mist is 
 
 o'er the skies, 
 And thy face seems dark with sadness, and the 
 
 raven round thee flies ! 
 But forever shall thy bold front be as changeless 
 
 as to-day, 
 Still as fearless in the tempest, and as firm 
 
 amidst the spray.
 
 The Church. 65 
 
 II. 
 
 Grandest giant of the waters ! on thy head a 
 
 gem was set, 
 In thy days of early childhood, and it rests upon 
 
 thee yet. 
 
 Yet undimmed its pristine splendor, but increas 
 ing through the years, 
 As the Sun, uprising slowly, with increasing 
 
 light appears ! 
 And that gem e'er sparkles brightly nations in 
 
 its beams behold 
 Brilliant beacon-lights of promise, like the Ma- 
 
 gis' star of old. 
 But never for one moment shall its brightness 
 
 leave thy head 
 Until time's swift course is finished, and the race 
 
 of man is dead. 
 
 HI. 
 
 Oh ! the Rock ! the Rock of Ages which so 
 
 proudly shows its form ! 
 Which yet towers above the billows and defies 
 
 the raging storm,
 
 66 The Church. 
 
 Is the rock the Saviour promised when He 
 
 preached in Galilee, 
 Where His sheep would find a shelter, where His 
 
 Prince would fix His See. 
 And the gem upon its summit, sparkling through 
 
 the lapse of time, 
 Is the glorious Church of ages light of life to 
 
 every clime. 
 Like a star above the waters, peering through 
 
 the world's foam ! 
 Gem undimmed, on Rock of Ages is the holy 
 
 Church of Rome. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Winds of discord ! strike ye strongly at the tur 
 ret-headed Rock ! 
 
 Sea of troubles ! pour your waters with a thun 
 der-roaring shock ! 
 
 Vain shall ever be your efforts ; God is ever still 
 the same, 
 
 And the justice of Jehovah shall illumine Pio's 
 name. 
 
 Nations ! come ye with your legions ! place your 
 sentinels around !
 
 A Retrospect. 67 
 
 Halt in haste ! but tramp not proudly on the 
 
 consecrated ground ! 
 God is watching o'er His temple God is smiling 
 
 on our Pope ; 
 And the Cross the Christian's ensign is the 
 
 Pontiff's flag of hope. 
 
 A Retrospect. 
 
 HTHROUGH the solemn forest wending, 
 When the shades of eve are blending, 
 With the hues the leaflets pendent 
 Fling along the shady way ; 
 Oft we gaze, with growing sadness, 
 Tow'rds the lovely scenes of gladness 
 
 That we left behind forever 
 At the dawning hour of day. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ah ! 'tis thus when life is fading, 
 When the gloom of care is shading 
 
 Many vistas bright and pleasant 
 Where our early life appears,
 
 68 A Retrospect 
 
 Oft we gaze awhile with sorrow 
 Which no moment's pang can borrow 
 From our darksome life at present 
 Back to scenes of vanish'd years. 
 
 III. 
 
 Oft has hope appear'd awaking 
 
 When the light of Knowledge breaking 
 
 Waken'd Erin's fallen children 
 From their dreams of want and woe. 
 When the bard, with truth and boldness, 
 Strove to chase the nation's coldness 
 
 With his burning words of beauty, 
 Like his brothers 'long ago. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ah ! the days of pleasant seeming 
 When our peasant bands were streaming, 
 Like the mountain-rills unnumber'd, 
 Down the hills, along the vales ; 
 Rushing round, where, proudly soaring 
 High in hope, a chief was pouring 
 
 Words of warning, words of promise, 
 Hush'd ere long by Famine wails !
 
 A Retrospect. 69 
 
 i 
 V. 
 
 Then the hopes awhile awoken, 
 Ere the island's heart was broken 
 
 Hopes in deeds of gallant daring 
 Wrought by men of Irish mould, 
 Then the dreadful desolation 
 Sweeping o'er our trodden nation 
 
 Famine made by foreign masters, 
 With the hellish craft of old ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Brothers ! light may break to-morrow 
 O'er our gloomy path of sorrow. 
 
 Look with hope across the ocean 
 Irish courage still remains. 
 O ! "the green" is proudly waving 
 O'er the exiles, battles braving, 
 
 Hoping still they yet may gather 
 Nigh their foes on Irish plains !
 
 The Birth of the Spring. 
 
 i. 
 
 T TUSH ! our Mother Earth is waking ; purple 
 
 light is softly breaking 
 
 Through the passing clouds that Winter flee 
 ing bringeth in her train. 
 Smiling Spring ! awake in beauty ; pay to Time 
 
 a daughter's duty ; 
 
 Wield thy magic wand of splendor o'er Crea 
 tion's broad domain. 
 
 II. 
 
 Tempests wild the Winter's vassals SAveeping 
 
 round the proudest castles, 
 Shouting, screaming forth their war-cry, struck 
 
 the hearts of men with fear ; 
 Bent the forest-lords before them, as they swept 
 
 in fury o'er them, 
 
 As they sent through leafless branches, tri 
 umph's wild, terrific cheer.
 
 The Birth of the Spring. ?\ 
 
 III. 
 Now the Winter's reign is ended. Queenly 
 
 Spring her way has wended 
 Down the hills whose brows are furrow'd by 
 
 the rapid streamlet's waves, 
 Down along the wrinkl'd valleys ; through the 
 
 silent, rural alleys ; 
 
 O'er the garden's swelling bosoms, to the 
 vanish'd flow'rets' graves. 
 
 IV. 
 She will pour her balm around her, till the 
 
 deadly chill that bound her, 
 Shall in misty vapor vanish midst the fleeting 
 
 Winter-clouds ; 
 She will guard their tender childhood in the 
 
 silent vale and wild-wood ; 
 She will wrap their heads at morning in the 
 glist'ning dewy shrouds ! 
 
 V. 
 O'er the bursting blossoms bending, she will woo 
 
 the light descending 
 
 From the throne of dazzling glory where the 
 Sun in splendor reigns ;
 
 72 Dreams. 
 
 Midst her peaceful haunts delaying, through her 
 
 bright dominions straying, 
 Light of day will fondly linger, bound by 
 Beauty's golden chains ! 
 
 Dreams. 
 
 i. 
 
 T TEED them not the fleeting shadows float 
 ing through the midnight dreams, 
 
 Like the scenes that seem so pleasant 'neath the 
 glassy-bosom'd streams : 
 
 Shining brightly, jewel-studded, 'neath the sil 
 ver-headed spray, 
 
 Dreams the phantom-works of Fancy fade as 
 night before the day. 
 
 II. 
 
 Heed them not the shores of dreamland trust 
 
 no treasure to the ships 
 
 Sailing down the stream of Visions, midst the 
 mighty mind's eclipse.
 
 A Prison Scene. 73 
 
 Trust no syren voice that rises where the misty 
 
 shadows play. 
 Dreams the phantom-works of Fancy fade as 
 
 light before the day ! 
 
 A Prison Scene. 
 
 i. 
 
 / ~PHE clouds are hast'ning day's decline, their 
 
 mighty folds are spread 
 Above our island's giant frame, like palls that 
 
 wrap the dead ; 
 And gleams of light fall faintly down, and 
 
 quickly fade away, 
 Like flushes on the cheeks of youth that herald 
 
 life's decay. 
 
 n. 
 
 Within a gloomy prison-cell a gallant youth 
 
 appears, 
 The hope of Freedom's bright up-rise illumed 
 
 his path of years. 
 
 7
 
 74 -A Prison Scene. 
 
 Young Emmett dared to love our isle, and love 
 
 engendered zeal ; 
 He pledg'd his life in Erin's cause to work the 
 
 Nation's weal. 
 
 III. 
 
 Adown through grated windows dim the strug 
 gling daylight falls, 
 
 The gloom is spreading round the cell it creeps 
 along the walls ; 
 
 And dark the fate that hovers near, yet Robert's 
 heart is warm, 
 
 He hopes, he prays that Freedom's barque may 
 weather through the storm. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But hark ! the iron bolts are drawn the door is 
 
 opened wide, 
 And soon a maiden, meek and sad, is standing 
 
 by his side. 
 Adown her cheeks the pearly tears in ceaseless 
 
 streamlets flow ; 
 Her heart has burst beyond its bounds beneath 
 
 a weight of woe !
 
 A Prison Scene. 75 
 
 V. 
 "Ah, Sarah! fondest, dearest one! my days of 
 
 joy have fled ; 
 The breast that bears a double love will soon be 
 
 with the dead ; 
 The heart that beat in happy times for you and 
 
 Erin's isle, 
 Will soon be still, and feel no more a loving 
 
 woman's smile. 
 
 VI. 
 "But O! when death has seal'd my eyes, and 
 
 quench'd the vital flame, 
 Remember Robert through the years, and guard 
 
 the martyr's fame. 
 And when amidst the happy scenes thy lover 
 
 lov'd so well, 
 Think, think while living how he lov'd, and 
 
 loving how he fell ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Aye, fell ! but not where Erin's flags midst. 
 
 gallant columns wave ! 
 A martyr in my country's cause, I find an early 
 
 grave.
 
 76 A Prison Scene. 
 
 But weep not ! sweeter far to die in Freedom's 
 
 blessed cause, 
 Than live a slave beneath the sword that dire 
 
 Oppression draws ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " If cowards slight this noble cause, and mock 
 
 my brief career, 
 Subdue thy throbbing, bursting heart, and dry 
 
 the gushing tear, 
 And raise thy gentle voice awhile thy lover's 
 
 fame to save ; 
 O ! bless the cause of Fatherland, give honor 
 
 to the brave ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 " Farewell ! my life is dwindling fast, as fades 
 
 the light of day ; 
 We'll meet again, to part no more, in regions far 
 
 away : 
 Above the skies, beyond the stars, where tyrants 
 
 ne'er can dwell 
 Fond treasure ! dearer far than life ! my Sarah, 
 
 fare thee well."
 
 A Prison Scene. 
 
 77 
 
 x. 
 
 One mighty sigh of grief up-swells, as swells the 
 troubled tide ; 
 
 One moment more of deepest woe, and Sarah 
 leaves his side, 
 
 But through the lapse of stormy years no foe- 
 man dare assail 
 
 The name of Emmett Freedom's child the 
 pride of Innisfail !
 
 Glendalough. 
 i. 
 
 /^LEN of the Lakes ! I hail thee with emo 
 tion 
 
 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 ; 
 And sweetly o'er me steals a happy feeling 
 
 That thou art one I oft beheld before. 
 The hazy curtains seem to rise, revealing 
 
 The long-sought beauties of thy raagic shore ! 
 
 II. 
 
 The silv'ry lakes ! what solemn awe around 
 
 them, 
 
 Embosom'd safely midst the mountains brown ! 
 The heathy cliffs, the waving forests bound 
 
 them ; 
 Lugduff, the giant, proudly looketh down.
 
 GlcndalojtgJi. 79 
 
 The Summer sun at mid-day softly peepeth 
 Adown the heather, o'er the shadow'd streams. 
 
 The gloomy lake awhile in silence sleepeth, 
 Then wakes and smiles amidst the sunny 
 beams ! 
 
 III. 
 
 So grand, so solemn seems the silence reigning 
 
 Across the glen in Summer's sweetest hour, 
 That Nature, weari'd, here in peace remaining 
 
 Awhile, is slave to Slumber's witching pow'r. 
 She scarcely breathes beside the streamlet sigh 
 ing, 
 
 Beneath the pines that guard the sobbing 
 
 lake, 
 Till Autumn leaves, beside the waters lying, 
 
 With rustling voices bid the sleepers wake ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 A home was here for sainted hermit glowing 
 With burning love and wondrous faith divine ! 
 
 A calm retreat for youth in virtue growing, 
 Where Nature's God could have a fitting 
 shrine.
 
 8o Glendalough. 
 
 And so the lakes, through brightest golden 
 ages, 
 
 Reflected forms of Erin's sainted men, 
 And while they live in grand historic pages, 
 
 St. Kevin's works will speak amidst the glen ! 
 
 V. 
 
 They stand majestic ruined churches lowly, 
 
 Whose mould'ring porches creeping ivy climbs. 
 The prelates, princes, 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 amidst the gloom of Time ; 
 For though no more the abbey-bell out-swelleth, 
 
 The voiceless ruins tell their tale sublime ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Unnumber'd legends quaint, and sweet, and 
 tender, 
 
 Are still preserv'd amidst the gloomy glen 
 Of Kevin's love the peasant's kind defender, 
 
 The friend and father dear to suff 'ring men.
 
 Glcndalough. 8 1 
 
 Ah, happy hours ! Alas ! too soon departed ! 
 
 When seated nigh the lake with friends so dear, 
 I heard of Kevin, kind and tender-hearted, 
 
 And felt I had some kindred spirits near ! 
 
 A LEGEND OF ST. KEVIN. 
 
 In the days when good Saint Kevin filled with 
 
 thoughts of God and heaven 
 Rais'd those lovely churches seven, midst the 
 
 mountain-girdled glen ; 
 When the hammers' sounds up-swelling, echoed 
 
 through the hermit's dwelling, 
 Sweetly ringing, gladly telling of the stalwart 
 
 working-men. 
 
 Strongest son of honest labor, fit to wield the 
 sledge or sabre, 
 
 Was the gallant Phelim then. 
 Soon, too soon he left the sun-light, ne'er to see 
 the earth again ! 
 
 In the grave where shamrock creepeth, there 
 
 the gallant worker sleepeth 
 There a widow'd woman weepeth, wailing 
 wildly o'er the dead ;
 
 82 Glendalougli, 
 
 But at eve she sinketh slowly on her couch so 
 
 lone and lowly, 
 And she prays, with spirit holy, that, as joys 
 
 of earth have fled, 
 
 She may rest and be forgiven, midst the golden 
 halls of heaven, 
 
 She may see the field outspread, 
 Where her husband's spirit walketh forth from 
 dwellings of the dead ! 
 
 Ere the dawn her death is knelling, where the 
 
 Avon's waves were swelling, 
 And two infants' cries are telling of the births 
 
 that came in woe. 
 Ah ! the twins are now forsaken ! ne'er their 
 
 mother shall awaken ! 
 To the Spirit-land she's taken, and her babes 
 
 are left below. 
 
 But the loss Saint Kevin heareth by the couch 
 the Saint appeareth ; 
 
 Soon he bears them o'er the snow, 
 To his cell beneath the mountains where the 
 Avon's waters flow ! 
 
 Kevin thinks of Him who feedeth ev'ry mortal 
 thing that breatheth ;
 
 Glendalough. 83 
 
 Surely, surely now he needeth aid from God 
 
 for orphans young ! 
 So hastes along the heather, through the snowy, 
 
 stormy weather, 
 To the rocks that stand together near the 
 
 chapel's holy wall. 
 
 O'er the rock he bendeth lowly, on the rock he 
 striketh slowly, 
 
 And the iron mallets fall, 
 
 Till a mighty stony basin stands beside the 
 mountains tall ! 
 
 Then he prays that at the dawning, 'neath the 
 
 forest's frosted awning, 
 By the caves so grimly yawning o'er the 
 
 mountain-shadow'd lake, 
 Bounding deer may nimbly hasten to the mighty 
 
 rocky basin, 
 From their store of milk to place in some for 
 
 orphans wanting aid ; 
 
 That the fawns may gladly spare it, that the 
 lovely babes may share it, 
 
 Nor the Saint be still afraid 
 
 That the orphan twins might wither in his cell 
 beside the glade.
 
 84 Glendalough. 
 
 When the yellow dawn is breaking, lo ! the 
 
 shining deer awaking, 
 Soon the mountain -bed forsaking, nimbly 
 
 bound they down the hill. 
 With a sparkling glance of pleasure, pour they 
 
 forth the milky treasure, 
 Nor with miser's stinted measure, till the rocky 
 
 bowl o'erflows, 
 
 And the twins grow daily stronger, till they 
 need the milk no longer : 
 
 Such their Heavenly Father's will. 
 This the lonely Irish legend that is told of Kevin 
 still ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Glen of the Lakes ! farewell ! perhaps forever ! 
 
 Thy countless beauties fade in mist away ; 
 But oh ! can shades of time from me dissever 
 
 The sweet remembrance of that Summer day? 
 No ! no ! for oft, beside the prairies dwelling, 
 
 My fancy leads me o'er the ocean waves, 
 To giant hills, where Avon's stream is swelling 
 
 To peasants' homes and hermits' holy caves !
 
 Rlegy on my Sister. 
 i. 
 
 DREARY task ! to send my thoughts 
 
 along 
 
 In measur'd language while my soul is sad ! 
 To try to sing a mourning, requiem song 
 Of her who ever made my spirits glad ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Of her whose smile had ever on me beam'd, 
 And fill'd my heart, enkindled it with love. 
 
 Of her who ever to my fancy seem'd 
 
 An angel sent from heaven's court above ! 
 
 III. 
 
 How can my heart still throb within my breast, 
 When mighty sorrow dwells within its core ? 
 
 The voice that cheer'd it is, alas ! at rest ! 
 The loving eyes will never move it more ! 
 8
 
 86 Elegy on my Sister. 
 
 IV. 
 In early youth she seem'd a child of God ; 
 
 She lov'd the temple's sacred, calm retreat. 
 Unknown, unnotic'd mid the crowd she trod, 
 
 While love lent swiftness to her weari'd feet. 
 
 V. 
 Her love ! the love that mounts unto the skies, 
 
 That finds its rest when death removes the veil 
 That spreads across poor sinful mortals' eyes, 
 
 And gives an answer to its long appeal. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Like a bright flow'r she rose before my eyes, 
 And twin'd the tendrils round my youthful 
 
 heart, 
 
 And as she grew she pointed toward the skies, 
 And seem'd to say, "Dear brother ! we must 
 part ! " 
 
 VII. 
 O such a flow'r ! so lovely and so chaste, 
 
 Could never flourish on this wicked earth ! 
 The lily, blooming o'er the desert waste, 
 
 Will wither soon, and soon again take birth. .
 
 Elegy on my Sister. 87 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And she is gone ! and naught of her remains 
 Save but the mem'ry of her pious deeds, 
 
 As dear flow'rs fragrance on the desert plains 
 Still hovers 'round amidst the faded weeds ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Beneath the shadow of the lofty tow'r 
 
 Where great O'Connell's mould'ring body lies, 
 
 There is the dust of that beloved flow'r 
 And snapp'd, alas ! are dear fraternal ties ! 
 
 X. 
 
 The cross that crowns the great, majestic pile 
 Is often shadow'd on her grassy mound. 
 
 The roaring tempest seems to rest awhile, 
 And pass in silence o'er the sacred ground ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 Peace to her ashes ! pray'rs shall oft arise 
 To her dear soul, although it reigns above. 
 
 Although rejoicing far beyond the skies, 
 Her soul is happy in her Saviour's love.
 
 88 Commemoration Day. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Yet shall we pray at morning, noon, and eve, 
 And beg her soul may soon be with her king. 
 
 Resign'd and hopeful, never shall we grieve, 
 But feel the joy that hopes of heaven bring ! 
 
 Commemoration Day. 
 
 i. 
 
 voice of war is hushed, the struggle 
 o'er! 
 
 And blessed peace is smiling once again ! 
 The hum of trade is heard from shore to shore, 
 That girds our Nation midst the mighty 
 
 main. 
 The peasant pioneers, on hill and plain, 
 
 O'erthrow the forest giants, plough the soil ; 
 And mankind hails the new and happy reign 
 Of empire gained by brave and honest toil 
 A prouder, nobler prize than victor's gory 
 spoil.
 
 Commemoration Day. 89 
 
 II. 
 
 The storm has ceased the clouds have passed 
 
 away 
 
 The fratricidal feuds are buried deep ; 
 With equal light the Summer smiles to-day 
 O'er silent graves where friend and foeman 
 
 sleep, 
 Where widows, orphans, oft at even' weep ! 
 
 Away with grief, and sing the soldiers' fame, 
 And on their tombs the flow'ry garlands heap ; 
 Nor whisper aught of censure, scorn, or 
 
 blame 
 
 Beside the silent tomb that bears a "rebel's" 
 name ! 
 
 III. 
 
 In peace beside each other sleep the brave, 
 And "dust to dust" they pass to Mother 
 Land ! 
 
 The earth that forms the soldier's lowly grave 
 Is native soil, for which they drew the brand, 
 
 And fought and fell amidst a brother-band. 
 Then place the laurel over ev'ry tomb,
 
 90 Commemoration Day, 
 
 And scatter flow'rs around with lavish hand 
 No soldier's grave shall cast a shade of 
 
 gloom, 
 But like a garden-bed with flow'rs of May 
 
 shall bloom ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 And flock around, ye men of foreign climes. 
 
 Who found a refuge 'neath the Nation's shield, 
 And paid, with grateful hearts, in darkest times, 
 
 The debt you owed, upon the battle-field. 
 In noble deeds to none you wish to yield, 
 
 Then gather 'round and sing the soldiers' praise 
 Whose love for freedom with their life was seal'd ; 
 
 And once again the Starry Banner raise 
 
 Above the gallant dead who fell in other days !
 
 Godless Teachings. 
 
 HPHE children growing up in boyhood's prime, 
 Are young recruits for dang'rous days pre 
 paring 
 For struggles ever on the path of Time, 
 
 Where cares are great, and human foes are 
 
 daring ; 
 Where worldly wiles beset the toiler's way, 
 
 Like weeds around the rising plant entwining ; 
 And foes of Truth the tempting fruit display 
 The serpent's craft and darkest guile com 
 bining. 
 
 II. 
 
 The weapon strongest in the ceaseless strife 
 The armor guarding hearts that know no 
 terror 
 
 That carves a path amidst the maze of life, 
 And guards the young beside the gulf of error,
 
 92 Godless Teachings. 
 
 Is Learning subject to Religion's sway 
 
 Like purest stream that flows from sparkling 
 
 fountain, 
 
 Constrain'd within its proper course to stay, 
 When rolling down the high and furrow'd 
 mountain. 
 
 III. 
 
 'Tis vain to learn the gifts of Mother Earth 
 
 To scan the motions made by starry legions, 
 And hear no word of Him who gave them birth, 
 
 And mark'd their path amidst the cloudy 
 
 regions ! 
 
 To search the deepest depths of Learning's 
 mine, 
 
 No light of faith your feeble steps directing, 
 Is labor lost ! the mind's unbroken shrine 
 
 Is dark, indeed, Religion's aid neglecting. 
 
 IV. 
 
 My country's sons ! when bigot tyrants sought 
 To kill the faith your fathers fondly cherish'd ; 
 
 The holy priest, the man who science taught, 
 Beneath the sword of persecution perish'd.
 
 Godless Teachings. 93 
 
 Yet altars rose within the mountain caves, 
 
 And Learning's stream was guarded midst 
 afflictions, 
 
 And priest and teacher sunk to honor'd graves 
 Amidst a people's grateful benedictions. 
 
 V. 
 
 To-day of Learning's poison'd draught beware, 
 That comes from foes our country's base 
 
 deceivers ! 
 
 O guard the lambs ! your little ones with care, 
 The poison'd cup would make them unbe 
 lievers ! 
 
 Your Shepherds' call rings o'er the sainted land ; 
 Their voice of warning woke our faithful Na 
 tion. 
 Avoid the gifts that fill the bigot's hand, 
 
 And save your sons from "Godless Educa 
 tion."
 
 Doctor Yore. 
 
 (A philanthropic Priest, beloved by the citizens of Dublin. He 
 died in that city in the month of February, 1864.) 
 
 I. 
 
 "T^vEAR stricken Isle! amidst thy countless 
 
 woes 
 One gleam of hope still lights the path of 
 
 years ; 
 One holy love amidst thy children grows, 
 
 Unchang'd by want, unchill'd by earthly 
 
 fears ; 
 
 Sweet holy hope, and love for him who cheers 
 The drooping soul with gifts that God be 
 stows. 
 
 Dear priests of Erin ! Heav'n's anointed peers ! 
 Though Celtic hearts have felt unnumber'd 
 
 throes, 
 
 For you the light of love undimm'd forever 
 glows.
 
 Doctor Yore. 95 
 
 II. 
 
 Alas ! another guiding star has set ! 
 
 Another "Soggarth" gone forevermore, 
 Whose loss our island cannot soon forget 
 
 Her sainted son the venerated Yore. 
 Let pray'rs arise throughout our sea-girt shore, 
 
 Let pious joy destroy each vain regret ; 
 Angelic bands his happy spirit bore 
 
 To realms of bliss, where, free from Adam's 
 debt, 
 
 That faitHTul Irish priest his Lord at length 
 has met. 
 
 III. 
 
 The people's priest ! How sad they seem to-day, 
 The loving poor, who watch'd his sunny smile, 
 
 And felt his aid upon their rugged way, 
 
 And knew that heart that knew not human 
 guile, 
 
 That throbb'd for God, for man, for native Isle ! 
 Who gave the sadden'd blind a holy ray,* 
 
 * The allusions are to Dr. Yore's connection with "St. Mary's 
 Asylum for Industrious Blind," "Catholic Society for Support of 
 Deaf and Dumb," " St. Vincent de Paul's Orphanage," &c.
 
 96 Doctor Yore. 
 
 To cheer their hearts, dispel each worldly wile 
 That sought to lead their tott'ring steps astray, 
 And make the child of God the pros'lytizer's 
 prey! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ah ! silent children ! little "mutes," who ne'er 
 
 Rejoic'd a mother's heart with vocal sound, 
 Nor lisp'd to Heav'n a child's sweet, simple 
 
 pray'r, 
 
 When ev'ning cast its heavy shades around 
 You grieve to-day, for fond affection bound 
 
 Your heart to him who banish'd dark despair, 
 Through whom asylum, blessed by Heav'n, you 
 
 found, 
 Where, led by truth, and free from worldly 
 
 care, 
 
 Your youthful, pious souls their thanks to God 
 declare. 
 
 V. 
 
 Ye little orphans ! stay the tears that flow 
 Adown your cheeks as once they fell before ; 
 
 Your second father leaves you here below, 
 But lives above, his earthly labors o'er.
 
 Dalkey. 97 
 
 Strive, strive like him to gain that priceless 
 
 store 
 Of blessings bright which midst this earth oft 
 
 grow ; 
 
 Your pastor's field a glorious harvest bore. 
 Then youth go forth with hopeful spirit sow 
 Seeds like that godly father's, midst this world 
 of woe. 
 
 Dalkey . 
 
 TV TEAR where the ocean rolls its boist'rous 
 
 tide, 
 
 Tow'rd fair Eblana from the Eastern side, 
 Near where Killiney lifts its rugged form 
 High tow'rd the skies, nor fears the wintry 
 
 storm : 
 
 Near where the billows loudly, madly roar, 
 When sweeping swiftly past "the Colamore," 
 The ancient town of lovely Dalkey stands 
 The fairest spot amidst the Irish lands.
 
 98 Dalkey. 
 
 In ancient times, while Erin yet was free, 
 Ere Saxon despots cross'd the foaming sea, 
 When Irish monarchs held the Irish throne, 
 And plac'd their hopes in Irish hands alone, 
 Here mighty chiefs, midst splendor, pass'd their 
 
 days, 
 
 And lords and peasants heard the bardic lays 
 Which told of wars between some Danish band 
 And hardy clansmen of our Father-land. 
 
 Oft did the walls with boist'rous laughter sound 
 That now in ruins seem to seek the ground. 
 Oft on Killiney did the signals burn 
 That told the clansmen of the chief's return. 
 Oft through old Dalkey march'd a gallant band, 
 The pride and glory of our Celtic land ; 
 And tow'rd his home the stalwart peasant trod, 
 With cheerful mien in peace with man and 
 God. 
 
 Those days have pass'd on Time's deceitful wing ; 
 No more these walls with joyous laughter ring ; 
 No more the strains of golden harps swell high, 
 To tell that chiefs of noble blood are nigh.
 
 Dalkey. 99 
 
 Yet Dalkey still retains its ancient fame, 
 And lovely scenes are blended with its namr>. 
 For though the tyrant since has robb'd our Ian Is, 
 And on our treasures laid destructive hands 
 Though times of want and woe have pass'd since 
 
 then, 
 
 Though dead, long ago, are the warrior-nun, 
 Though long in ruins have those castles stood 
 Still, still they stand her for the country'? good, 
 And Nature dwells here as in days of yore, 
 And spreads her charms around the rocky shore. 
 
 i 
 
 Here poets still may revel in delight, 
 As 'round they gaze on ev'ry charming sight, 
 Or wandering down by rugged " Colamore," 
 They see the billows dash against the shore, 
 And hear the ocean roaring far away, 
 Where mighty vessels leap amidst the spray. 
 
 Here Essex landed with his Saxon band, 
 When first he hastcn'd to enslave our land. 
 And English war-ships rode on yonder tide, 
 Where naught but small boats on the waters 
 glide.
 
 100 Dalkey. 
 
 Here English soldiers landed warlike store, 
 With many an oath and many a brutal roar, 
 And dragg'd the cannon up the rugged strand 
 To slay the men of this old Irish land. 
 
 See yonder mansion stretching toward the sea, 
 Remote and peaceful and from danger free. 
 No noise is heard except the roaring waves, 
 And light wind sighing through the rocky caves, 
 No shout arises here the live-long day, 
 Save when the sea-gull sweeps upon his prey. 
 
 Now on the beach the loaded fish-boat lies, 
 While hardy fishers soon divide the prize. 
 Or at the mid-day free from grief or pain, 
 The old men tell of perils on the main, 
 And speak of fights they had in other years 
 With murd'rous crews of flying privateers ; 
 Or tell of smugglers sailing o'er the main, 
 With costly goods from France or lovely Spain 
 And others listen, though they don't forget 
 To mend the small sails or the broken net : 
 Such sights are seen at rugged Colamore, 
 Where mighty billows leap against the shore.
 
 Dalkey. IO1 
 
 On Summer-days I've sat on yonder hill, 
 The winds at rest and Nature calm and still. 
 Upon the heath I've read of Rome and Greece, 
 The fate of nations and the sweets of peace. 
 Oft I have thought how sweet 'twould be for 
 
 those 
 Long years engag'd against their country's 
 
 foes, 
 
 Tired of the battle and the long campaign, 
 Here to retire and dwell in yonder plain. 
 
 Cross "Dalkey-Hill," or on its summit stand, 
 And gaze afar upon the verdant land, 
 Toward where "The Scalp" and Wicklow Hills 
 
 arise, 
 Where "Sweet Ovoca" 'tween the mountains 
 
 lies, 
 And where " the Dargle " sweeps amidst the 
 
 hills, 
 
 Where rocks resound with music of the rills. 
 And nearer still, Shangana's plain is seen, 
 With pleasant cots, and waving meadows green. 
 There snowy sheep and lowing cattle graze 
 There sit the shepherds in the Summer-days.
 
 102 Dal key. 
 
 Let others boast of homes beyond the main, 
 In sunny France, in orange-bearing Spain ; 
 Where Alps are clad in everlasting snow ; 
 Where lakes abound, where sunny waters flow, 
 Or where the rivers sweep through orange- 
 groves ; 
 Where Rhone's wild water by the mountain 
 
 roves ; 
 
 Where Switzer-peasants tend the fleecy flocks, 
 And chase the chamois o'er the shelving rocks ; 
 Or yet again where cascades cast the spray 
 Midst rosy banks, and leap about all day. 
 Yes ! even talk of homes along the Rhine, 
 And lovely walks amidst the trellis'd vine. 
 All, all would vanish from my glowing mind, 
 And leave one thought one longing wish 
 
 behind 
 
 To live, to die amidst each lovely scene 
 That decks Old Dalkey like a bridal-queen !
 
 Our University. 
 
 Written on the occasion of laying the corner-stone of tht 
 Catholic University of Ireland, in 1862. 
 
 T3 EJOICE, ye Celts ! whate'er your lot may 
 
 be, 
 
 If still the sparks of faith your bosoms fire, 
 If still ye long for homes and altars free, 
 
 And seek for hope to guide each dear de 
 sire ; 
 Rejoice ! for lo, our burning feuds expire 
 
 When Erin's prelates wake "the sainted 
 
 land." 
 And though each year some stars of hope 
 
 retire, 
 And sorrows break, like waves along the 
 
 strand 
 
 Still, still our darling isle the tempests will 
 withstand !
 
 IO4 Our University. 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh, gladsome sight ! oh, proudest, brightest 
 
 day 
 That dawn'd for years upon our slighted 
 
 isle ! 
 When stalwart thousands march'd in strong 
 
 array, 
 
 'Neath Irish skies in Summer's sunny smile, 
 To show their front against their ruler's guile, 
 
 To tell the world that Ireland's faithful race, 
 Though poor, dejected, wakes to life awhile, 
 Resolv'd to give to learning hallow'd place 
 A home where Faith shall reign which man 
 can ne'er deface ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Methought, as onward roll'd the human stream : 
 The marshall'd force of thirty thousand 
 men 
 
 That sight of wonder was a happy dream 
 Of olden times by wooded hill and glen. 
 
 To hear the tramp, the stirring strains, as when 
 The Celtic clans as victors left the field,
 
 Ouj^. University. 105 
 
 Would move the faintest heart to hope again 
 That men who long in vain for rights appeal'd, 
 And now behold their strength, will ne'er to 
 tyrants yield. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ah ! long ago our island's wondrous fame 
 
 As Learning's home was midst the nations 
 
 spread, 
 Till^urope, startled, echo'd Erin's name, 
 
 And thirsting students towards her temples 
 
 sped, 
 
 Where learned Saints the lamp of science fed. 
 Ah ! then no bigot laws our country bound, 
 But Learning, Truth, one golden glory shed ; 
 "The Isle of Scholars" then was holy ground, 
 Where Science honor'd God, and Arts a refuge 
 found ! 
 
 V. 
 
 Alas ! in evil hour the tyrants came, 
 
 And sorrows brooded o'er our ruin'd state ; 
 
 The English edicts smother'd Learning's flame : 
 The vilest serfdom seem'd our fathers' fate ;
 
 106 Onr University. 
 
 But soon, despite the tyrants' hellish hate, 
 They nourish'd Knowledge in their mountain- 
 caves, 
 Where priests and teachers midst their people 
 
 sate 
 An out-law'd band, who sunk to honor'd 
 
 graves, 
 
 Or wept in exile homes beyond the distant 
 waves. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Oh, joyous thought ! our fathers' faith survives, 
 And love for learning stirs our people still. 
 And struggling Erin hopeful boldly strives 
 
 To make her rulers own a Nation's will. 
 May Faith and Science once again fulfil 
 
 Their happy task in Irish classic halls ; 
 May Erin's cause her future students thrill, 
 
 Till youth shall stand where Faith or country 
 calls, 
 
 And strive to break each bond that weakens 
 or enthralls !
 
 Ode on Washington s Birth-Day, 
 
 1873. 
 
 Delivered at the Inauguration of the Catholic Hall, 
 Leavenwortk, Kansas. 
 
 I. 
 
 "t \ J"E ope the gates of Knowledge, 
 
 We hail the eager throng 
 That surges onward toward the shrine 
 
 Of orat'ry and song. 
 We bless the star of Liberty 
 
 That sheds a light around, 
 And we pray, on this day, 
 
 That no despot may be found 
 To enslave the soul, debase the mind ! 
 
 That no despot may be found. 
 
 II. 
 O, noble chief! whose mem'ry 
 
 A grateful race recalls, 
 Whose name should blaze in starry light 
 
 Around our humble walls !
 
 io8 Ode on Washington s Birth-Day. 
 
 Thy hand, that struck Oppression down, 
 The wounds of faction bound. 
 
 So we pray, on this day, 
 
 That no despot may be found 
 
 To enslave the soul, debase the mind ! 
 That no despot may be found. 
 
 III. 
 
 No fitter day to open 
 
 The doors of Learning's hall. 
 No better time to raise the heart, 
 
 And olden thoughts recall, 
 Than now, when o'er the continent 
 
 Our father's praises sound. 
 And we pray, on this day, 
 
 That no despot may be found 
 To enslave the soul, debase the mind ! 
 
 That no despot may be found. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Our mighty country's Father 
 
 No bigot feeling knew. 
 He struck "for homes and altars free" 
 
 He left these gifts for you.
 
 Ode on Washington s Birth-Day. 109 
 
 So here, whate'er our faith may be, 
 
 His praises we shall sound, 
 As we pray, on this day, 
 
 That no despot may be found 
 To enslave the soul, debase the mind ! 
 
 That no despot may be found. 
 
 * V. 
 
 O ! blessed light of Freedom ! 
 
 The suff'rer looks to thee, 
 And seeks thee from his distant home 
 
 Beyond the stormy sea. 
 And here, to-night, with grateful hearts, 
 
 Thy champion's praises sound, 
 As we pray, on this day, 
 
 That no despot may be found 
 To enslave the soul, debase the mind ! 
 
 That no despot may be found.
 
 Winter in Town. 
 
 i. 
 
 A H ! the day is dull and dreary 
 
 Dreary as the night ; 
 For the sky above is clouded, 
 And the glorious sun is shrouded, 
 And the heart grows sad and weary, 
 
 Longing for the light. 
 Ah ! my heart is sad and weary ! 
 Dreary as the night. 
 
 II. 
 
 Dismal show'rs for ever patter 
 
 On the walks below, 
 And they strike my windows madly, 
 And they trickle down them sadly, 
 And, with wildest din and clatter, 
 
 Mimic rivers flow. 
 Thus my spirits, like the streamlets, 
 
 Gloomy every flow !
 
 Prologue. Ill 
 
 III. 
 
 In my lofty study sitting, 
 
 High above the town, 
 Gaze I, through the falling showers, 
 To the home amidst the bowers, 
 Where the sunny beams seem flitting 
 
 Ever up and down. 
 Ah ! the beams are on the hill-side 
 
 Flitting up and down. 
 
 P ro logue. 
 
 Spok:n on St. Patricks Day, at au Entertainment given by 
 the "Irish-American Dramatic Club." 
 
 T TAIL to the exiles far from Erin's shore ! 
 
 Who love the land their fathers lov'd of yore; 
 Who love the isle, that rests amidst the waves, 
 Where daisies grow above their mothers' graves. 
 Hail to them all ! To-day their mem'ry roams 
 In fancy back to Ireland's happy homes ;
 
 112 Prologue. 
 
 To hills whose breasts are clad in garb of green, 
 Where yellow moss with shamrock -leaves is 
 
 seen, 
 
 Where laughing children, aged men to-day, 
 Bend lowly down, and bending seem to pray, 
 While seeking midst the grass a gem as fair 
 To Irish eyes as em'ralds "rich and rare." 
 Ah ! many a time we've heard our fathers tell 
 Of mossy banks beside a bubbling well, 
 Where greenest shamrock met their eager gaze 
 On "Patrick's morning" in their boyhood's days, 
 And how they pluck'd and plac'd it on their 
 
 breast, 
 
 To show they loved the faith of Patrick best, 
 The faith that flourished midst the nation's woes, 
 That, trampled down, like shamrock, proudly 
 
 rose. 
 
 Hail to the exiles ! in our festive hall 
 We meet, the young, the old Hibernians all ! 
 "Sons of Hibernians" such the name we bear, 
 For Irish parents claim us as their care. 
 We stand before you, eager to essay 
 To cheer your hearts on Patrick's happy day, 
 To wake the merry laugh and happy smile 
 In exil'd sons of Erin's suff'ring isle.
 
 Prologue. 113 
 
 Upon this stage Hibernians' sons will come 
 And sound the shrilly fife and rolling drum. 
 And sing the songs of Erin "Music's queen !" 
 And act a part in drama's moving scene. 
 Great \% our wish, our effort to succeed, 
 If yet we fail, O "take the will for deed." 
 The curtain moves ! I boldly now announce, sir, 
 The farce of "Box and Cox and Mrs. Bouncer." 
 And though no smile light up your Celtic faces, 
 When "Pierce O'Hara" talks of Irish races ; 
 Yet when old "Bouncer" speaks to "Box," the 
 
 printer, 
 
 If ev'ry heart is coloVas ice of Winter, 
 You must dissolve, and laugh, and grow right 
 
 merry, 
 
 And feel as frisky as young kids in Kerry. 
 I'll merely add this adage to our greeting 
 " The pudding's proof is always in the eating."
 
 SONGS.
 
 The Wicklow Vales. 
 
 AIR "Limerick is Beautiful." 
 
 H ! brightly beams the Summer sun 
 
 On fair lands far away ; 
 A garb of green the valleys wear, 
 
 Where silv'ry streamlets stray. 
 But boyhood's home I'll ne'er forget, 
 
 Though dark my fate may be 
 Where'er I roam, my Irish home, 
 
 The Wicklow Vales for me. 
 
 Where'er I roam, my Irish home, 
 
 The Wicklow Vales for me. 
 
 There's music in the leafy woods, 
 And mid the rocky hills 
 
 The rolling tones that follow fast 
 The leaping, rippling rills.
 
 Il8 The Wick low Vales. 
 
 And sunshine dances round our door 
 At mid-day, wild with glee, 
 
 And proudly stand the mountains grand ! 
 The Wicklow Vales for me. 
 
 And proudly stand the mountains grand ! 
 The Wicklow Vales for me. 
 
 Amidst those hills the steel was heard, 
 
 And music's martial strain, 
 When patriots sought to make our isle 
 
 "A nation once again." 
 The outlaw bold, like eagle wild, 
 
 On mountain's brow was free 
 Oh ! Freedom's home ! where'er I roam, 
 
 The Wicklow hills for me. 
 Oh ! Freedom's home ! where'er I roam, 
 
 The Wicklow hills for me. 
 
 Ah ! sorrows fall like mountains' shades 
 O'er brightest scenes of earth, 
 
 Yet hope remains amid these plains 
 To hail the morrow's birth. 
 
 And gladly glides the Winter's night, 
 Mid scenes of mirth and glee
 
 The Wicklow Vales. 119 
 
 Where'er I roam, my mountain home, 
 
 The Wicklow Vales for me. 
 Where'er I roam, my mountain home, 
 
 The Wicklow Vales for me. 
 
 Let others boast of happy homes 
 
 In fair lands far away, 
 My love for thee shall never fade, 
 
 Where'er my footsteps stray. 
 Dear Wicklow ! Home of loving hearts, 
 
 My mountain nurse, Machree ! 
 No vales can e'er with thine compare, 
 
 The Wicklow Vales for me. 
 No vales can e'er with thine compare, 
 
 The Wicklow Vales for me.
 
 The Dance. 
 
 AIR ' ' Bitty 'Rourke. " 
 
 *T^HE Summer sun is laughing down, 
 And o'er the heather glancing 
 We'll haste away ere close of day 
 
 To join the peasants dancing 
 Beneath the ivy-clothed trees 
 
 That guard the farmer's dwelling, 
 And softly shake their leafy bells, 
 
 While music's strains are swelling 
 We'll haste away, we'll haste away, 
 
 Along the scented heather ; 
 We'll join the merry peasant band, 
 
 And "trip the sod" together. 
 
 From silent glen, from mossy moor, 
 
 From cabin lone and dreary, 
 They come \fatfriezed and hooded band, 
 
 With spirits never weary.
 
 The Dance. 121 
 
 t 
 
 With hearts so light that sorrows ne'er 
 
 Can break their sense of pleasure 
 The Irish heart that laughs at care 
 
 Is bless'd with brightest treasure. 
 We'll haste away, we'll haste away, 
 
 Along the scented heather ; 
 We'll join the merry peasant band, 
 
 And "trip the sod" together. 
 
 The stars will peep amidst the trees, 
 
 Their light with moonbeams blended, 
 Before the music dies away, 
 
 Before the dance is ended. 
 And joke and laughter, wild and free, 
 
 Ring round the farmer's dwelling, 
 And lithesome limbs keep measur'd time 
 
 Where Irish airs are swelling. 
 We'll haste away, we'll haste away, 
 
 Along the scented heather ; 
 We'll join the merry peasant-band, 
 
 And "trip the sod" together. 
 
 As long as happy Irish hearts 
 
 Are throbbing through the Nation 
 11
 
 122 My Lovely Isle, Adieu. 
 
 As long as Irish exiled sons 
 
 Are found on God's creation 
 As long as music's thrilling strains 
 
 Can wake a sweet emotion, 
 We'll save the custom of our sires 
 
 At home and o'er the ocean. 
 We'll haste away, we'll haste away, 
 
 Along the scented heather ; 
 We'll join the merry peasant-band, 
 
 And "trip the sod" together. 
 
 My Lovely Isle, Adieu ! 
 
 AIR " Shule Aroon" 
 
 I. 
 A WAY from Erin's lovely shore 
 
 My weary heart with grief is sore,- 
 Alas ! I'll never see thee more ! 
 
 My lovely isle, adieu ! 
 Far, far, far from thee 
 
 
 
 We sail away on the stormy sea. 
 Ah ! could I sleep on the rolling deep, 
 And cease to dream of you !
 
 t 
 
 My Lovely Isle, Adieu. 123 
 
 II. 
 
 Ah ! oft in happy times I've stray'd 
 Thro' meadows green and forests' shade 
 From father's cot beside the glade, 
 
 But now, old home, adieu ! 
 Far, far, far from thee 
 We sail away on the stormy sea. 
 Ah ! could I sleep on the rolling deep, 
 
 And cease to dream of you ! 
 
 III. 
 
 They say the land is rich to-day 
 Where wild Missouri's waters stray 
 Midst prairies boundless, far away. 
 
 Ah ! fairer land, adieu ! 
 Far, far, far from thee 
 We sail away on the stormy sea. 
 Ah ! could I sleep on the rolling deep, 
 
 And cease to dream of you ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 No riches gain'd on foreign shore 
 Can e'er my youthful joys restore.
 
 124 Gazing Westward. 
 
 Can steal my heart from thee, asthore ! 
 
 My lovely isle, adieu ! 
 Far, far, far from thee 
 We sail away on the stormy sea. 
 Ah ! could I sleep on the rolling deep, 
 
 And cease to dream of you ! 
 
 Gazing Westward. 
 
 \ \ 7"HEN the shades of eve are blending 
 Where the fleecy clouds have roll'd ; 
 When the ruddy sun descending 
 
 Tips the mountain-tops with gold ; 
 When the weary soul is sinking, 
 
 Like the setting sun, to rest, 
 Then of olden times I'm thinking, 
 
 Gazing fondly tow'rd the West ! 
 
 Far beyond the forests olden, 
 
 Where the shadows creep to-night ; 
 
 Far beyond the mountains golden, 
 Gilt with day's declining light ;
 
 Gazing West^vard. 125 
 
 Far beyond the billows foaming, 
 O'er the ocean's troubled breast, 
 
 Tow'rd the past my heart is roaming, 
 Gazing fondly tow'rd the West ! 
 
 Yet I gaze, though tears are gushing, 
 
 Though my throbbing heart is sore ; 
 *Yet I stand, though onward rushing 
 
 Roll the scenes I'll see no more. 
 Shadows gather gloom around me ; 
 
 Happy sounds disturb my rest, 
 Rudely breaking bonds that bound me, 
 
 Gazing fondly tow'rd the West. 
 
 Yet in Fancy's pow'r I wander, 
 
 By the olden paths at eve ; 
 O'er the vanish'd years I ponder ; 
 
 For the stricken Isle I grieve. 
 Yet I watch for day's awaking 
 
 Though the sun has sunk to rest 
 For the light of Freedom breaking 
 
 O'er the dim and distant West !
 
 0, Lovely Land ! 
 
 r^\ LOVELY land ! where'er I roam, 
 
 I oft will think of thee ! 
 Where'er I fix my future home, 
 
 Whate'er my lot may be. 
 If midst the shades of forest trees 
 
 Beneath a foreign sky, 
 My thoughts shall speed across the seas 
 
 To where thy valleys lie. 
 
 Could I forget to sing thy praise 
 
 Thou beautiful and fair ? 
 Could I forget my early days, 
 
 Amidst my worldly care, 
 That I have spent upon thy breast 
 
 Thy lovely breast of green, 
 Thou beauteous daughter in the West 
 
 Atlantic's peerless queen ?
 
 0, Lovely Land! 127 
 
 All beautiful but sad art thou 
 
 A slave amidst the free ! 
 Enchain'd and lone thou sittest now, 
 
 Kncircl'd by the sea. 
 Like widow fair in gloomy weeds, 
 
 Thou smilest mid thy tears 
 Thou hardy nurse of gallant deeds 
 
 In long departed years ! 
 
 Thy sons oft sought to break thy chain, 
 
 To raise thy drooping head, 
 Bit still a slave thou dost remain, 
 
 And hope from thee has fled. 
 Yet soon, perhaps, thou wilt arise, 
 
 Like one from out the tomb, 
 Like sun-light bursting from the skies, 
 
 Chasing the Nation's gloom !
 
 Hunting Song. 
 
 AIR "Shilly Shally." 
 
 HPRUMPETS sounding, horses bounding, 
 
 O, how happy seems the day ! 
 When we sally from the valley, 
 
 Chasing Reynard far away. 
 Far away, while through the mountains 
 
 Ring the notes we love to hear, 
 Music sweet to happy hunters, 
 
 Made by hounds in wild career ! 
 
 Downward dashing streams are flashing 
 
 Scarlet streams of hunters bold ! 
 Swiftly going where are flowing 
 
 Mountain torrents uncontroll'd. 
 Loose the reins and spur the charger, 
 
 Gallant steed we've won our way ! 
 Rush again through glen and meadow ; 
 
 Boldly hold the lead to-day.
 
 Hunting Song. 129 
 
 Still careering, nothing fearing, 
 
 Now we're rushing through the vale 
 Glen of glory ! fam'd in story ! 
 
 Lovely glen of wild Imael ! 
 Up the rugged, rocky mountains, 
 
 Where the "mountain-fox" is seen. 
 O ! I love your brow of boldness, 
 
 Tow'ring heights of old Kaigeen ! 
 
 Naught shall ever rudely sever 
 
 Happy thoughts of long ago, 
 Spent in racing, wildly chasing, 
 
 Where "the Greece" and "Slaney" flow. 
 Hark ! again the trump is sounding ! 
 
 See ! the dogs are rushing round. 
 Huntsman's whoop the wild "you-youp," 
 
 Tells that Reynard's "run to ground."
 
 The Friends whom I Loved 
 Long Ago. 
 
 O <-> 
 
 AIR ' ' The Beautiful Maid of my Soul. " 
 
 A WAY midst our Irish hills, 
 
 My heart and my thoughts are to-day, 
 By the banks of the streamlets that dance 
 
 To the Emerald meadows away. 
 But darkness comes down through the glen ; 
 
 The rivers, too, wail as they flow, 
 For I miss those that brightened the scene 
 The friends whom I lov'd long ago. 
 
 Beside the old castle walls, 
 
 Where ivy is green as of old, 
 Have I sat in the shade in the eve, 
 
 When the heavens their banners unroll'd, 
 And listen'd to tales of the past, 
 
 Of Erin's dark ages of woe ; 
 Ah ! 'twas then that I valu'd them most 
 
 The friends whom I lov'd loner aero.
 
 The Green Flag. 131 
 
 Away midst the forests' wilds, 
 
 Where roll the Missouri's dark waves, 
 They have sought for a refuge a home 
 
 For this land is an island of slaves ! 
 But ever they hope, midst the gloom, 
 
 To strike yet for Erin a blow ; 
 Ah ! soon may we see them again 
 
 The friends whom we lov'd long ago ! 
 
 The Green Flag. 
 
 AIR" Well Rally round the Flag" 
 
 A H ! our flag is in the dust now 
 The flag our fathers bore, 
 
 Fighting to free our Mother Ireland ! 
 And the Saxons tramp it down in 
 The gallant Nation's gore, 
 
 Fighting to free our Mother Ireland ! 
 Why do we loiter while hope remains ? 
 Strike for her freedom ! shatter her chains ! 
 O ! we'll rush to raise that flag, boys ! 
 The flag our fathers bore, 
 
 Fighting to free our Mother Ireland '
 
 132 The Green Flag. 
 
 Ah ! that flag was rais'd awhile 
 On the heathy mountains high, 
 
 Calling for aid for Mother Ireland ! 
 And though tyrants tore it down, 
 We will lift it up or die, 
 
 Fighting to free our Mother Ireland ! 
 Swear to be faithful ! pledge heart and hand ! 
 Flock to her standard ! rescue our land ! 
 O ! we'll rush to raise that flag, boys ! 
 The flag our fathers bore, 
 
 Fighting to free our Mother Ireland ! 
 
 By the wrongs of many years, 
 By the tombs of martyred men, 
 
 Fighting to free our Mother Ireland ! 
 By the shroudless paupers' graves, 
 We now swear to strike again, 
 
 Fighting to free our Mother Ireland ! 
 Fling out the Green flag wide let it wave ; 
 Rush to that standard, sons of the brave ! 
 O ! we'll bear that flag afar, boys ! 
 Through Erin's cruel foes, 
 
 Fighting to free our Mother Ireland !
 
 " God Save Old Ireland" 
 
 AIR "The Admiral" 
 
 T TOW 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 dawn 
 ing 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. 
 
 O 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 ! 
 12
 
 134 " God Save Old Ireland" 
 
 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. 
 Aye ! ready now, like men of old, to bravely 
 
 fight or die ; 
 
 Oh ! truly shall their mem'ries live their gal 
 lant deeds be told, 
 And Allen's name shine through the years a 
 
 burnish'd lamb of gold ! 
 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 sea ! 
 
 Oh ! may the swan-like dying notes of Erin's 
 
 martyr'd braves 
 Be wafted far, and move the hearts of those 
 
 beyond the waves 
 The scatter'd Celts, whose discord dire has 
 
 dimm'd our glorious green,
 
 'God Save Old Ireland" 135 
 
 May all unite in Larkin's name! let women 
 
 chant his caione ! 
 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 !
 
 There s Music midst the Moun 
 tains. 
 
 AIR "The Nenagh Boys." 
 
 \ BOVE the blooming heather-hills, 
 
 Along the dancing silver rills, 
 A joyous sound the soldier thrills 
 
 There's music midst the mountains ! 
 From giant mountains' rocky throne, 
 The battle's blast at length is blown ; 
 It rings the notes of " Garry-ovv'n," 
 
 There's music midst the mountains! 
 Then rouse ye up, my gallant boys ! 
 My gallant boys ! my gallant boys ! 
 Then rouse ye up, my gallant boys ! 
 
 There's music midst the mountains ! 
 
 The martial sounds: the sabres' clash, 
 The muskets' bang and fiery flash, 
 The bay'nets' charge, and thunder-crash! 
 There's music midst the mountains !
 
 There 's Music midst the Mountains. 137 
 
 With steady step, and side by side, 
 Descend like torrents' dashing tide, 
 And fight or die as heroes died ! 
 
 There's music midst the mountains ! 
 Then rouse ye up, my gallant boys ! 
 My gallant boys ! my gallant boys ! 
 Then rouse ye up, my gallant boys ! 
 
 There's music midst the mountains ! 
 
 Oh ! glory come to crown the brave 
 Who strike, a nation's life to save ! 
 The laurel o'er the tomb shall wave 
 
 There's music midst the mountains ! 
 A blessing come on those who stand, 
 A brave, united, fearless band, 
 To guard, to save our father-land ! 
 
 There's music midst the mountains ! 
 Then rouse ye up, my gallant boys ! 
 My gallant boys ! my gallant boys ! 
 Then rouse ye up, my gallant boys ! 
 
 There's music midst the mountains !
 
 Farewell, Dear Land! 
 
 AIR "Good-by, Sweet Heart, Good-by." 
 
 A LONG the glen I lov'd in childhood, 
 I haste like one who flies the foe, 
 By sunny brook, through silent wildwood, 
 
 With drooping head I sadly go. 
 I bid a last adieu to-day 
 
 To home and friends, whose holy spell 
 Still clings around me while I say, 
 " Farewell, dear land, farewell ! " 
 
 The sweetest hopes of youth have vanish'd, 
 
 Like light behind the mountain's brow. 
 The fondest, truest friends are banish'd, 
 
 And I am leaving Erin now. 
 The brave and true afar have gone, 
 
 In foreign lands in peace to dwell. 
 I, too, in tears will wander on : 
 
 Farewell, dear land, farewell !
 
 Farewell, Dear Land ! 139 
 
 While yet the faintest hope was gleaming, 
 
 I clung in love to father's home ; 
 In darkest hour my heart kept dreaming 
 
 A better time would surely come. 
 But ah! the tempest burst at last, 
 
 And hope sunk 'neath Oppression's swell. 
 Dear cot ! thy happy hours have pass'd ! 
 
 Farewell, dear land, farewell ! 
 
 When billows roll, when westward sailing, 
 
 My tearful eyes will turn again 
 To where I think the stars are paling 
 
 Above that cot beside the glen. 
 Then gaze again, with beaming eyes, 
 
 Right onward o'er the ocean's swell, 
 To where Columbia proudly lies : 
 
 Farewell, dear land, farewell!
 
 I risk- American Brigade 
 
 AIR ' ' Cruiskeen Lawn. " 
 
 T)ENEATH the crested pines, 
 
 Behold the snowy lines 
 
 Of a thousand camps with waving flags array'd 
 O ! proudly there we see 
 "The Green Flag" floating free 
 Above Old Ireland's gallant new Brigade, 
 
 New Brigade ! 
 Above Old Ireland's gallant new Brigade. 
 
 To guard " The Stripes and Stars" 
 
 They hasten'd to the wars, 
 For they love the land that gave the Irish aid, 
 
 And in the days of yore 
 
 Bade us "welcome" to this shore. 
 So we'll aid her with our gallant new Brigade 
 
 New Brigade ! 
 So we'll aid her with our gallant new Brigade.
 
 I risk- American Brigade. 141 
 
 "The Sun-burst" gleams to day 
 Midst forests far away 
 It casts a gleam of glory on each blade, 
 And cheers the soldier's breast 
 With mem'ries of the West 
 O! these thoughts will nerve our gallant new 
 Brigade ! 
 
 New Brigade ! 
 
 O ! these thoughts will nerve our gallant new 
 Brigade ! 
 
 O ! may the day yet come 
 When trumpets, fife, and drum 
 
 Shall sound a joyous anthem through each glade ; 
 A welcome back again 
 To our brave, our banish'd men 
 
 To the soldiers of our gallant new Brigade 
 New Brigade ! 
 
 To the soldiers of our gallant new Brigade.
 
 The Hurlers. 
 
 AIR " When I was bound Apprentice." 
 
 \ I 7 HAT joy on Sunday ev'nings 
 
 When down the old " boreen" 
 A gay "gorsoon" I hasten'd 
 
 To join, on village green, 
 The hurlers young and lithesome 
 
 Who toss'd the bounding-ball ! 
 O ! the days of yore, on the Irish Shore, 
 
 That we never can recall ! 
 O ! the days of yore, on the Irish Shore, 
 
 That we never can recall ! 
 
 My frieze was not the finest, 
 
 Yet little did I care ; 
 My hat of straw and ribbons 
 
 Was " much the worse of wear ;" 
 But soon I flung them from me, 
 
 And hail'd the bounding ball.
 
 The Hurlers. 143 
 
 O ! the days of yore, on the Irish Shore, 
 
 That we never can recall ! 
 O ! the days of yore, on the Irish Shore. 
 
 That we never can recall ! 
 
 Like Celtic clans contending 
 
 In battle's dreadful fray, 
 We strove for village honors 
 
 While rang the loud hurrah 
 From young and old spectators 
 
 Who watch'd the bounding ball. 
 O ! the days of yore, on the Irish Shore, 
 
 That we never can recall ! 
 O ! the days of yore, on the Irish Shore, 
 
 That we never can recall. 
 
 Ah ! me ! what change has fallen 
 
 Across our path since then ! 
 How many gay companions 
 
 Shall never smile again ! 
 Their path of life has ended 
 
 By Abbey's ivy wall ! 
 Ah ! the days of yore, on the Irish Shore, 
 
 That we never can recall ! 
 Ah ! the days of yore, on the Irish Shore, 
 
 That we never can recall.
 
 144 The Hurlers. 
 
 O ! some are 'neath the banner 
 
 That guards the exiles' home, 
 And some have drawn the sabre 
 
 Beside the hills of Rome. 
 And some have fought and fallen 
 
 Beneath Spoletto's Wall. 
 O ! the days of yore, on the Irish Shore, 
 
 That we never can recall ! 
 O ! the days of yore, on the Irish Shore, 
 
 That we never can recall. 
 
 God grant that joy may visit 
 
 Our peasants' home again, 
 That olden sports may cheer us 
 
 On village green and glen ; 
 That hopeful sons of Ireland 
 
 May drive the bounding ball. 
 O ! the days of yore, on the Irish Shore, 
 
 That we never can recall ! 
 O ! the days of yore, on the Irish Shore, 
 
 That we never can recall !
 
 The Fiddler. 
 
 AIR " Si. Kevin once was traveling." 
 
 T TRAVEL through our charming isle, 
 
 From Bann to Sunny Cove, 
 And ever find a cheering smile 
 
 Where'er I love to rove. 
 I cheer the homes of grief and care, 
 
 And wild the young heart bounds, 
 When 'neath the roofs of peasants' cots 
 
 My dear old fiddle sounds. 
 
 O ! often in the summer time 
 
 I've sat beneath a tree, 
 And play'd while laughing couples 
 
 Smil'd pleasantly on me. 
 And " gorsoons" left the " hurley-goals ;" 
 
 And peasants stopp'd their ploughs, 
 And came to hear my fiddle's voice 
 
 Beneath the spreading boughs. 
 13
 
 146 The Fiddler. 
 
 When Winter-snows are on the ground, 
 
 And nights are cold and drear, 
 Beside the blazing fire of turf 
 
 The farmer's friends appear. 
 Awhile they talk of long ago. 
 
 The happy days of yore 
 I strike my fiddle ! up they jump 
 
 And dance about the floor. 
 
 On Sunday nights the dance is held 
 
 In some secluded spot. 
 O ! then I think myself a King 
 
 So happy is my lot. 
 The gallant youths soon gather 'round 
 
 They form the dancing row, 
 They take their places, wheel about 
 
 And "trip the heel and toe." 
 
 You talk of balls in palace halls, 
 
 And boast of pleasures there, 
 With music of Italian bands 
 
 You think so "rich and rare." 
 But give me dear old Ireland's songs 
 
 Beside the peasant's fire, 
 And Irish airs for Irish jigs, 
 
 No better I desire.
 
 From Far Away. 
 
 AIR ' ' The Honey-Moon. " 
 
 T IP! up ! the day is dawning bright, 
 
 The hills are tipp'd with purple light, 
 The glassy lakes are lovely sight, 
 
 Like happy hearts at rest ! 
 The Sun that lifts his head on high, 
 The gentle winds that softly sigh, 
 The streams that ripple laughing by 
 
 All tell we're in the West. 
 
 We launch our boat upon the bay, 
 Beneath the tow'ring mountains gray ; 
 We gaze along the sparkling spray, 
 
 To scenes we lov'd of old. 
 To where on sunny Sunday eves 
 We rov'd amidst the yellow leaves ; 
 Ah ! still my bounding bosom heaves 
 
 With thoughts of bliss untold.
 
 148 From Far Away. 
 
 The little school is standing still, 
 The homestead stands on yonder hill ; 
 My eyes with tears of sorrow fill ! 
 
 How roll'd the past away ! 
 And stormy tempests roll'd around 
 Since first I left the Irish ground. 
 A haven bright at last I found, 
 
 Where Freedom's zephyrs play ! 
 
 Come, brothers ! ply the dripping oar, 
 And guide our boat to yonder shore. 
 I'll stand on father's land once more 
 
 And kiss the sacred sod ! 
 And though no mother's voice again 
 Can call me up the silent glen, 
 I'll dream awhile I'm young as when 
 
 The shady paths I trod.
 
 The Little Bit of Land. 
 
 AIR " The. Green Fields of America." 
 
 A H ! tempt me not, my master, with the offer 
 
 of your shining gold, 
 To win from me the little spot my sainted father 
 
 lov'd of old, 
 
 To take from me the humble home that ne'er to 
 me or mine was cold. 
 
 Ah ! leave me ! and I'll ask no more, the 
 
 little bit of land ! 
 Ah! tell me not, to tempt me, that the gold 
 
 could win a home for me, 
 And peace and hope and happiness beyond the 
 
 distant rolling sea. 
 
 No ! nothing, dearest, native Isle ! could win my 
 loving heart from thee ! 
 
 Ah ! leave me, and I'll ask no more, the 
 little bit of land!
 
 15 The Little Bit of Land. 
 
 Sure even though the yellow grain is not so rich 
 
 as long 1 ago, 
 Though darkest blight is o'er the fields where all 
 
 the young potatoes grow ; 
 
 Though Famine's breath has wither'd men, and 
 wak'd the wail of want and woe, 
 
 Ah ! leave me, and I'll ask no more, the 
 
 little bit of land. 
 Before my father went to rest, in yonder grave 
 
 beneath the trees, 
 He bless'd me as I wept and pray'd beside him 
 
 on my bended knees ; 
 
 He ask'd me still to cling to home and ne'er to 
 cross the stormy seas, 
 
 He left me, and I ask no more, a little 
 bit of land. 
 
 Ah, master ! sure your fleecy sheep have fertile 
 
 fields to feed upon ; 
 They'll never pine and die of want as died our 
 
 brothers gaunt and wan. 
 
 The willing heart, the helping hand, the friendly 
 neighbors all have gone. 
 
 But leave me, and I ask no more, the 
 little bit of land.
 
 Faithful Unto Death. 151 
 
 I'm lonely, very lonely now, but yet one hope 
 
 my bosom thrills : 
 That when the iron hand of death my throbbing 
 
 heart forever stills, 
 
 They'll lay me down in holy ground beside my 
 darling Irish hills, 
 
 They'll give me, and I ask no more, a 
 little bit of land. 
 
 Faithful Unto Death. 
 
 A BLESSING on the gallant heart 
 
 That fears no human foe, 
 That bravely dares the stroke of fate, 
 
 Unmov'd in weal or woe ; 
 Who stands undaunted on the field, 
 
 And cries with latest breath 
 " I glory still through good and ill, 
 
 I'm faithful unto death. 
 I glory still through good and ill, 
 
 I'm faithful unto death."
 
 152 Faithful "Unto Death. 
 
 A blessing on the sailor bold 
 
 Afar from native land, 
 Who looks along the stormy sea, 
 
 The tiller in his hand. 
 And bravely guides the bounding bark, 
 
 Despite the tempest's breath 
 Midst ocean's shock, by shoal and rock, 
 
 Still faithful unto death. 
 Midst ocean's shock, by shoal and rock, 
 
 Still faithful unto death. 
 
 But O ! there's one as bold and brave 
 
 As any heart can be ; 
 As true as soldier midst the foes 
 
 As sailor on the sea. 
 As valiant in the cause of right, 
 
 And true to latest breath. 
 Kind heaven sends such gallant friends, 
 
 Still faithful unto death. 
 Kind heaven sends such gallant friends, 
 
 Still faithful unto death. 
 
 Then let the battle roll around, 
 
 Or tempests burst above, 
 The bravest heart is that which throbs 
 
 With patriotic love.
 
 A Green Sod from Erin. 153 
 
 The honest son the man that guards 
 
 That cause to latest breath, 
 And ere he dies in triumph cries, 
 
 "I'm faithful unto death. 
 And ere he dies in triumph cries, 
 
 " I'm faithful unto death." 
 
 A Green Sod from Rrin. 
 
 T HAVE brought a bright treasure 
 
 From home's holy shrine, 
 Where the friends who have lov'd me 
 
 Still loving repine. 
 How verdant the grass is ! 
 
 How fresh is the clay ! 
 Sweet emerald treasure 
 
 From home far away ! 
 
 Little sod ! I once found it 
 
 Beside the old door 
 Where my mother caress'd me 
 
 In sweet days of yore !
 
 154 -A Green Sod from Erin. 
 
 Where footsteps of childhood 
 
 First totter'd in play. 
 Sweet emerald treasure 
 
 From home far away ! 
 
 Wildest storms from the mountains 
 
 Have swept o'er it long 
 Yet they hurt it no more than 
 
 A summer bird's song. 
 And sunlight danced o'er it 
 
 Till ev'ning grew gray, 
 Sweet emerald treasure 
 
 From home far away. 
 
 As the tears of the loved ones 
 
 Have fallen in show'rs 
 O'er this green sod memento 
 
 Of happier hours. 
 So those of the exile 
 
 Shall moisten the clay. 
 Sweet emerald treasure 
 
 From home far away.
 
 The Exile s Love. 
 
 AIR "My Lave is like the red, red Rose. 
 
 '"PHE lover sings his plaintive songs, 
 
 The soldier thrilling strains, 
 The shepherd tunes his shrilly pipe 
 
 Upon the distant plains. 
 But sweeter far for me my friends 
 
 When Summer's night is nigh 
 To sit beneath the forest trees 
 
 And hear the zephyrs' sigh. 
 
 I hear them sigh, and then I think 
 
 They come from o'er the sea, 
 From lovely, verdant Irish vales 
 
 With tales of home for me. 
 Ah, dearest love ! my native Isle ! 
 
 My heart is all thine own ! 
 It seems to fly to thee at eve, 
 
 And leave me here alone !
 
 156 The Exiles Love. 
 
 I think the wind that sweeps the hills 
 
 Behind my father's home 
 The same that swells the vessel's sails 
 
 And lifts the curling foam. 
 And bears some long-departed voice 
 
 O'er seas from shore to shore, 
 To whisper through those lonely woods 
 
 Thy name, Old Isle asthore ! 
 
 Dear Ireland ! while my life remains 
 
 My love shall never die ! 
 When fondest mem'ries come thy name 
 
 Shall mingle with each sigh. 
 My dearest love ! my darling isle ! 
 
 My heart is all thine own ! 
 It seems to fly to thee at eve 
 
 And leave me here alone !
 
 Christmas on the Prairies. 
 
 AIR " Tramp, Tramp." 
 
 C EATED here this Christmas night 
 
 In our prairie home so bright ; 
 Far away from lovely Erin o'er the sea ; 
 We will talk of other days, 
 We will sing the Celtic lays, 
 We will swear to make our sufif 'ring mother free ; 
 High, high, high, we raise the wine-cun, 
 Pledging our lives, Old Land, for thee ! 
 We will ne'er deny the claim 
 Of our isle of olden fame 
 We will never cease to strive to set her free ! 
 
 Rich and lovely lands we own 
 Where the golden grain is sown, 
 And our countless flocks are grazing o'er the 
 plains ; 
 
 u
 
 158 Christmas on the Prairies. 
 
 Yet though peace and plenty smile 
 Far from Erin's lovely isle, 
 
 We will ne'er forget our country, though in chains. 
 High, high, high, we raise the wine-cup 
 Pledging our lives, Old Land, for thee ! 
 We will ne'er deny the claim 
 Of our isle of olden fame 
 We will never cease to strive to set her free ! 
 
 Gallant leaders lie to-day, 
 
 In the prisons far away, 
 For the crime of loving thee, our lovely Queen ' 
 
 For they sought to strike a blow 
 
 Where the Lee and Liffey flow, 
 And to raise again our own beloved Green ! 
 High, high, high, we raise the wine-cup 
 Pledging our lives, Old Land, to thee ! 
 
 We will ne'er deny the claim 
 
 Of our isle of olden fame 
 We will never cease to strive to set her free !
 
 The Fenian Name. 
 
 AIR "None can Love like an Irishman." 
 
 HPHE ardent Fenians proudly boast 
 
 Their love for Erin o'er the waves, 
 And pant to meet the Saxon host 
 
 In fight beside their fathers' graves. 
 If love for Ireland lifts them up 
 
 Above vile faction, class, or clan 
 Then here's my hand ! I love my land, 
 
 And claim the name of Fenian-man ! 
 
 If while they seek to set her free 
 
 They join in bonds of trust and love 
 That all may faithful brothers be 
 
 And win the smile of God above ! 
 Nor fear the light, nor Father's gaze, 
 
 Nor fall beneath Religion's ban. 
 O ! here's my hand ! I love my land, 
 
 And claim the name of Fenian-man !
 
 160 Farewell of the Irish Maiden. 
 
 The Isle that bears upon its breast 
 
 The countless temples, shrines of God ; 
 And where the dust of countless blest 
 
 Lies mingled with our native sod, 
 Shall yet be freed by gallant men 
 
 Who serve no faction, class or clan ! 
 Who grasp the hand for native land 
 
 And claim the name of Irishman ! 
 
 Farewell of the Irish Maiden. 
 
 r\ ! MOTHER dear ! the hour has come ! 
 
 The big ship spreads her wings ! 
 " The Starry Flag" is floating free ; 
 
 The joyful sailor sings. 
 While I, thy daughter, weep and wail. 
 
 I'll never see you more ! 
 We sail away for New York bay, 
 
 From Ireland's sainted shore ! 
 
 I'll clasp my hands across my eyes 
 
 When you and I must part ; 
 To see your anguish, Mother dear ! 
 
 Would break my bursting heart !
 
 Farewell of the Irish Maiden. 161 
 
 One long, last look when out at sea, 
 
 One pray'r for you, asthore ! 
 When fade away the sparkling bay 
 
 And Ireland's sainted shore ! 
 
 When far away upon the deep 
 
 I'll take " the Beads" you gave 
 And pray to Mary, " Mother mild," 
 
 Who smiles along the wave. 
 And beg Her smile on mother's heart 
 
 Whom I shall see no more 
 When fade away the sparkling bay 
 
 \nd Ireland's sainted shore ! 
 
 I'll keep the little sod of earth 
 
 You took from near our home, 
 And bear it near me through my life 
 
 Wherever I may roam ! 
 My dust shall mix with Irish earth 
 
 When I shall be no more ! 
 Far, far away from yonder bay 
 
 And Ireland's sainted shore ! 
 
 THE END.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 )UE on the last date stamped below. 
 
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