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Warriors! see th' Invader near!
Warriors! now the standard rear—
Grasp the sabre—point the spear.

Warriors! rise.

By the Hero's hallow'd fame;

By the Coward's deathless shame;

By Ireland's injur'd honour'd name;

By Borhoime's shade, whose dying hand,

On the bloody Clontarf strand,

Swept the wild Dane from the land,

Warriors! rise.

Onward! to the battle go,
Bid the Atheist Plund'rer know,
Our breasts with Irish valour glow!
If, trusting to his faith, ye yield,
The die is cast, your doom is seal'd—
Remember Jaffa's murd'rous field!

Warriors! rise.

By all the Hero's heart holds dear—
The Spouse's smile, the Infant's tear,
The voice of God and Nature near.
'Tis in no Tyrant's tott'ring cause,
'Tis for his King, his Home, his Laws,
The Freeman's sword the Freeman draws.

Warriors! rise.

When did the Frenchman learn to spare
The kneeling Parent's hoary hair,
Or soften to the Infant's pray'r?
Tho' Fate or Fortune waft him o'er,
Teach him, if once he treads our shore,
He treads it—to return no more.

Warriors! rise.

See! yonder see his banners wave!
Fathers! Brothers! Sons! be brave—
Give him no ground, but for his grave.
What, tho' his countless hosts pour on—What tho' on earth we stand alone,
To shield the Temple and the Throne— Warriors! rise.

By the Captive's galling chain,
By the polluted, plunder'd fane—The ruin'd cot—the smoaking plain-
On! Warriors!—to the Battle go,
Squadrons, sweeping on the Foe,
Strike the exterminating blow.

Warriors! rise.

Rushing thro' the heaps of slain,

Re-dye with many a gory stain

The laurels of the Egyptian plain.

Now! the hour of trial's nigh—

Swell the battle-chorus high,

"Death! glorious Death or Liberty!"

Warriors! rise.

Brace the helm, the standard rear,
Grasp the sabre, point the spear—
United !—what have ye to fear f

Warriors! be brave.





Those wings, with art Dedalean taught to bear

Safely a new inhabitant of air;

Those silver plumes, whose imitated pride

For Leda's love the king of heav'n belied;

The gayly-burnish'd pinions of each dove

Yok'd to the chariot of the queen of love,

In honour yield to these, that form the line

Where glows that strong, that piercing wit of thine;

Or wake the joyful strings, when touch'd by thee,

To all the pow'r of melting melody:

With these the wanton archer of the sky

Arms all his golden shafts, and gives them wings to fly.




Hark! 'midst the gloom of Lagan's winding shores,
Yon mournful knell loud thrills the startled ear—

While freed from life, a much lov'd Spirit soars,
Aud claims on earth the tribute of a tear.

* The self-taught Poet, to whose memory this tribute is paid, died at Magherabeg, near Dromore, in Ireland, the 2?th of December, 1804, having nearly completed the 24th year of his age, for he was born the 19th of March, 1781. While he was a poor weaver boy, having received the rudiments of his education at ono of the Bifhop of Dromore's Sunday Schools, he had, by reading such books as he could borrow, made so considerable a progress, that in the Autumn of 1800 he presented his Lordship with a copy of verses, requesting the loan of books. The Bishop being struck with the marks of genius displayed in this poem rescued him from the loom, and placed him at the Diocesan School of Dromore, where his application was so diligent that in little more than two years he had read the principal Latin and Greek Classics. Being thus qualified to superintend the education of youth, which had been the object of his wishes, he was received early in the year 1804 as an Assistant Teacher in the Academy of the Rev. Dr. Bruce, of Belfast, where he was distinguished for his diligence and skill in preparing the boys under his care to be examined before the last Summer vacation. But by this time such strong symptoms of a consumption had appeared in his tall, thin, and slender frame, that he could not any more return to his charge, and his declining health confined him to the house of his poor mother, near the turnpike-gate between Hillsborough and Dromore, where he continued to experience the kindness of his former


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Bee, dark December tears his robes of snow,
Cold icy clew his hoary locks deforms, And with th' expiring Year, departing slow,

Sighs midst the whirlwind of his rushing storms!

In Fancy's wreath no gem resplendent shines—
Her frantic hand the flow'ry garland rends—

Funereal cypress round her brow she twines,
And o'er her fav'rite's tomb in sorrow bends!

In his pure mind the flow'rs of Genius sprung,
His artless breast with every virtue shone;

His rural lyre the sylvan Dryads strung,

And Truth inspir'd him from her heav'nly throne.

But now no more that vocal lyre shall charm—
Cold is the hand that bade its chords resound,

And cold that heart so late with friendship warm,
Deep in the bosom of the wintry ground!

New fiedg'd with radiant plumes of heav'nly fire,
His soul ascending views it's native skies!

Cease, cease, my Muse! from paths unknown retire,
And from the prospect turn thy dazzled eyes.


patron, and was most generously attended by Sir George Atkinson, an eminent Physician, in Hillsborough; but his case was beyond the reach of medical aid, and terminated fatally on the day above-mentioned. Cunningham, though very unlike in his bodily frame to Dr. Goldsmith, who was short, and not slender, so strongly resembled him in the face, that when he stood near the profile of the Doctor his portrait seemed to have been drawn for him. Many of his poetical compositions have been printed in the Gentleman's Magazine, and other periodical publications, subscribed by his proper signature; but be sometimes assumed the fictitious names of Alotao and Colic.

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