Bereft of home and kith and kin,
With plenty all around,
I starved within my cabin,
And slept upon the ground;
But cruel as my lot was,

I ne'er did hardship know
'Till I joined the English army,
Far away from Aherlow.

"Rouse up there," says the corporal,
"You lazy Hirish hound;
Why don't you hear, you sleepy dog,
The call to arms' sound?
Alas, I had been dreaming
Of days long, long ago;
I woke before Sebastopol,
And not in Aherlow.

I groped to find my musket-
How dark I thought the night!
O blessed God, it was not dark,
It was broad daylight!

And when I found that I was blind,
My tears began to flow;

I longed for even a pauper's grave
In the Glen of Aherlow.

O blessed Virgin Mary,

Mine is a mournful tale;

A poor blind prisoner here I am,
In Dublin's dreary jail ;
Struck blind within the trenches,
Where I never feared the foe;

And now I'll never see again
My own sweet Aherlow!

474

66

THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF

TH

RORY OF THE HILL

HAT rake up near the rafters,
Why leave it there so long?
The handle, of the best ash,

Is smooth and straight and strong;
tell me,

And,

mother, will you

Why did my father frown

When to make the hay, in summer-time
I climbed to take it down?”
She looked into her husband's eyes,
While her own with light did fill,
"You'll shortly know the reason, boy!
Said Rory of the Hill.

The midnight moon is lightning up
The slopes of Sliav-na-man,—
Whose foot affrights the startled hares
So long before the dawn?

He stopped just where the Anner's stream
Winds up the woods anear,

Then whistled low and looked around
To see the coast was clear.

The sheeling door flew open

In he stepped with right good-will-
"God save all here and bless your WORK,"
Said Rory of the Hill.

Right hearty was the welcome
That greeted him, I ween,
For years gone by he fully proved
How well he loved the Green;
And there was one amongst them
Who grasped him by the hand-

1

One

R

He

66

One who through all that weary time
Roamed on a foreign strand;

He brought them news from gallant friends
That made their heart-strings thrill
"My sowl! I never doubted them!"
Said Rory of the Hill.

They sat around the humble board
Till dawning of the day,

And yet not song nor shout I heard -
No revelers were they :

Some brows flushed red with gladness,
While some were grimly pale;
But pale or red, from out those eyes
Flashed souls that never quail!
"And sing us now about the vow,
They swore for to fulfil —”
"You'll read it yet in history,"
Said Rory of the Hill.

Next day the ashen handle

He took down from where it hung,

The toothed rake, full scornfully,

Into the fire he flung;

And in its stead a shining blade
Is gleaming once again

(Oh! for a hundred thousand of
Such weapons and such men !)
Right soldierly he wielded it,
And-going through his drill-
"Attention charge "-" front, point "-

66

"advance"

Cried Rory of the Hill.

66

She looked at him with woman's pride,
With pride and woman's fears;
She flew to him, she clung to him,
And dried away her tears;

He feels her pulse beat truly,

While her arms around him twine"Now God be praised for your stout heart, Brave little wife of mine.'

He swung his first-born in the air,
While joy his heart did fill
"You'll be a FREEMAN yet, my boy,"
Said Rory of the Hill.

Oh! knowledge is a wondrous power,
And stronger than the wind;
And thrones shall fall, and despots bow,
Before the might of mind;

The poet and the orator

The heart of man can sway,

And would to the kind heavens

That Wolfe Tone were here to-day!

Yet trust me, friends, dear Ireland's strength

Her truest strength-is still

The rough-and-ready roving boys,

Like Rory of the Hill.

DENNY LANE
(1818-1896)

KATE OF ARRAGLEN

W

HEN first I saw thee, Kate,
That summer ev'ning late,
Down at the orchard gate
Of Arraglen,

I felt I'd ne'er before

Seen one so fair, asthore,

I feared I'd never more

See thee again –

I stopped and gazed at thee,

My footfall luckily

Reached not thy ear, though we

Stood there so near;

While from thy lips a strain,

Soft as the summer rain,

Sad as a lover's pain

Fell on my ear.

I've heard the lark in June,
The harp's wild plaintive tune,
The thrush, that aye too soon
Gives o'er his strain

I've heard in hushed delight,
The mellow horn at night,

Waking the echoes light

Of old Loch Lene;