Old maxims these—yet stout and true

They speak in trumpet tone, To do at once what is to do,

And trust OURSELVES ALONE.

Too long our Irish hearts we schooled
In patient hope to bide,

By dreams of English justice fooled
And English tongues that lied.
That hour of weak delusion's past
The empty dream has flown:
Our hope and strength, we find at last,
Is in OURSELVES ALONE.

Aye! bitter hate or cold neglect,
Or lukewarm love at best,
Is all we've found, or can expect,
We aliens of the West.

No friend, beyond our own green shore,
Can Erin truly own;

Yet stronger is her trust, therefore,
In her brave sons ALONE.

Remember when our lot was worse
Sunk, trampled to the dust
'Twas long our weakness and our curse
In stranger aid to trust.

And if, at length, we proudly trod

On bigot laws o'erthrown,

Who won that struggle? Under God, Ourselves-OURSELVES ALONE.

F

JOHN O'KEEFFE
(1747-1833)

Air-" Don Casar"

LOW, thou regal purple stream
Tinted by the solar beam,

In my goblet sparkling rise,
Cheer my heart and glad my eyes.
My brain ascend on fancy's wing,
'Noint me, wine, a jovial king.
While I live, I'll lave my clay :
When I'm dead and gone away,

Let my thirsty subjects say,

"A month he reign'd, but that was May."

I

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY

AM a friar of orders gray:

As down the valley I take my way,

I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,
Good store of venison does fill my scrip:
My long bead-roll I merrily chaunt,
Where'er I walk, no money I want;
And why I'm so plump the reason I'll tell
Who leads a good life is sure to live well.
What baron or squire

Or knight of the shire

Lives half so well as a holy friar !

After supper, of heaven I dream,
But that is fat pullet and clouted cream.
Myself, by denial, I mortify

With a dainty bit of a warden pie:
I'm clothed in sackcloth for my sin:
With old sack wine I'm lined within:
A chirping cup is my matin song,

And the vesper bell is my bowl's ding dong. What baron or squire

Or knight of the shire

Lives half so well as a holy friar !

A

ELLEN O'LEARY
(1831-1889)

MY OLD HOME

POOR old cottage tottering to its fall;

Some faded rose-trees scattered o'er the wall;
Four wooden pillars all aslant one way;

A plot in front, bright green, amid decay,

Where my wee pets, whene'er they came to tea, Laughed, danced, and played, and shouted in high glee;

A rusty paling and a broken gate

Shut out the world and bounded my estate.

Dusty and damp within, and rather bare;
Chokeful of books, here, there and everywhere;
Old-fashioned windows and old doors that creaked,
Old ceilings cracked and gray, old walls that leaked ;
Old chairs and tables, and an ancient lady
Worked out in tapestry, all rather shady;
Bright pictures, in gilt frames, the only color,
Making the grimy wall-paper look duller.

What was the charm, the glamour that o'erspread
That dingy house and made it dear? The dead
The dead-the gentle, loving, kind and sweet,
The truest, tenderest heart that ever beat.
While she was with me 'twas indeed a home,
Where every friend was welcome when they'd come.
Her soft eyes shone with gladness and her grace
Refined and beautified the poor old place.