THE FALON'S LOVE.-Continued.

"You loved me, asthore, and your heart broke across, When you thought of the parting, the sorrow and loss, But you knew your own Gracie would wither in shame, If the brand of a traitor was placed on your name. "They called you a felon-they chained you as oneAnd made you the brother of Emmet and Tone; Oh! princes might envy that title to-day,

For the sake of the hearts lying down in the clay.

66

Yes, a traitor to England-a foe of its race,

You proudly looked up to the black tyrant's face; "Twas the crime of our fathers-their sons stand up now, With that mark of a traitor stamped plain on each brow.

"The last kiss I've pressed on your lips and your cheek, The last word you've heard for your Gracie to speak; The last time I've looked on my brave Willie's face, And left the wild clasp of a felon's embrace.

"I am twining my hair, for a bridal is near, By the walls of Kilkeevan they'll carry a bier,

For the felon's true love could not live while the brand Was not flashing on high in the grasp of his hand."

THE OLD FARMER'S DISCOURSE.

I'VE a pound for to spend and a pound for to lend,
And ca de me la fal ha kind words for a friend;
No mortal I envy, no master I own,

No lord in his castle or king on his throne.
Come fill up your glasses, the first cup we will draw
To the comrades we lost on the red battle's plain.
Well cherish the fame, boys, who died long ago,
And what's that to any man whether or no?

The spinning-wheel stops and my girls grow pale,
Whilst their mothers are telling some sorrowful tale
Of old cabins leveled, or coffinless graves,
Or ships swallowed up in salt ocean's waves.
Girls, that's over, and for each of you now

I have twenty-five pounds and a three-year-old cow;
We'll have lana-walla at your weddings I trow,
And what's that to any man whether or no?

Come here, bana-thagua, sit beside me awhile,
And the pride of your heart let me read in your smile.
Would you give your old home for the lordless hall?
You glance at my rifle that hangs on the wall,
And your two gallant sons on parade day are seen
In the ranks of the brave 'neath the banners of green.
We have taught them to guard it against traitor or foe,
And what's that to any man whether or no?

And the youngest of all is the white-headed boy,
The pulse of our heart and our pride and our joy;
From the dance and the hurling he steals off to pray,
And will wander alone by the river all day.
He's as good as the priest at his Latin I hear,
Through college, plase Goodness, we'll send him next year.
Oh, he'll offer the Mass for our souls when we go,
And what's that to any man whether or no?

Your hands then, old neighbors, one more cup will drain,
And caide me la faltha, again and again,
May discord and treason keep far from our shore,
And freedom and peace light our homes ever more.
He's the king of good fellows, the poor honest man,
So we'll live and be merry as long as we can;
We'll cling to old Ireland through weal and through woe,
And what's that to any man whether or no?

OLD LANDMARKS ON THE SHANNON. We stand by the bridge, in the level morning, And the saffron water below us flowsSaffron save where, in yon eastern inlet, The light has deepened its bloom to rose. There is the city, good Master Leonard, Tailor and poet, sir, as you are, And here am I with my heart to bursting, Gossiping under the huge bright star; There is the city with roof and casement,

Belfry and steeple, of which we sung, When we were boys in St. Michael's parish; Then was the time for a man to be young.

Then the city-I still keep thinking

Looked gayer, grander, fairer than now, You say it didn't: "Not half as splendid." And I object with my next best bow. Hark! 'tis the bell of St. Dominic ringing, Ah, weary music that bell to me; For I remember another music

In days that I never again shall see. Heavy-heavy monotonous tolling

Out from the belfry this morning's rung; I can recall when the saint kept singing: Now is the time for a man to be young.

OLD LANDMARKS.--Continued.

Oh, the delight of the Sunday mornings,
And the country folks at the chapel door;
And the golden blaze from the lofty windows
That slanted in on the crowded fioor.
Far off the altar, the priests, the incense-
The sound of the gong, the sigh of the soul,
And over the heads of the congregation
The curtained organ's terrible roll.
The green leaves danced on the yellow case-
ment,

Each separate leaf like a narrow tongue; And the old roof branded in restless shadow, That was the time for a man to be young.

I'm not pious, and not affected;

I like the life of a true, straight man,
I strike the world whenever it strikes me,
And do my duty as best I can.

But, Master Leonard, you will believe me,
I'd give the best fame that the world has
made,

"God go with you," Throw fortune in with a To pray one prayer now as then I prayed.

"WON'T YOU LEAVE US A LOCK OF YOUR HAIR?"

"THE night is fresh and calm, love, The birds are in their bowers, And the holy light

Of the moon falls bright

On the beautiful sleeping flowers.
Sweet Nora, are you waking?
Ah! don't you hear me spaking?
My heart is well nigh breaking

For the love of you, Nora dear.
Ah! why don't you speak, mavrone?
Sure I think that you're made of stone,
Just like Venus of old,

All so white and so cold,

But no morsel of flesh and bone.

"There's not a soul astir, love,
No sound falls on the ear

But that rogue of a breeze
That's whispering the trees,

Till they tremble all through with fear. Ah! them happy flowers that's creeping To your window where you're sleepingSure they're not chide for peeping

At your beauties, my Nora dear. You've the heart of a Turk, by my soul, To leave me perched here like an owl; "Tis treatment too bad For a true-hearted lad

To be starved like a desolate fowl.

"You know the vow you made, love,

You know we fixed the day;
And here I'm now

To claim that vow,

And carry my bride away.

So, Nora, don't be staying

For weeping or for praying

There's danger in delaying,

Sure maybe I'd change my mind; For you know I'm a bit of a rake, And a trifle might tempt me to breakFaix, but for your blue eye,

I've a notion to try

What a sort of old maid you'd make."

COME BACK TO ERIN.

COME back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen,
Come back, aroon, to the land of thy birth,
Come with the shamrocks and springtime, mavourneen,
And its Killarney shall ring with our mirth.
Sure when we left you to beautiful England,
Little we thought of the lone winter days,
Little we thought of the hush of the starshine,
Over the mountains, the bluffs, and the braes!
CHORUS.

Come back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen,
Come back again to the land of thy birth;
Come back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen,
And its Killarney shall ring with our mirth.
Over the green sea, mavourneen, mavourneen,
Long shone the white sail that bore thee away,
Riding the white waves that fair summer mornin',
Just like a May flower afloat on the bay.

Oh, but my heart sank when clouds came between us,
Like a gray curtain, the rain falling down,
Hid from my sad eyes the path o'er the ocean,
Far, far away where my colleen had flown.
Oh, may the angels, oh, waking and sleeping,
Watch o'er my bird in the land far away;
And it's my prayer will consign to their keeping
Care of my jewel by night and by day.
When by the fireside I watch the bright embers,
Then all my heart flies to England and thee,
Craving to know if my darling remembers,
Or if her thoughts may be crossing to me.
CAHAL MOR OF THE WINE-RED HAND.
I WALKED entranced

Through a land of Morn;
The sun, with wondrous excess of light,
Shone down and glanced

Over seas of corn,

And lustrous gardens aleft and right.
Even in the clime

Of resplendent Spain

Beams no such a sun upon such a land; But it was the time,

"Twas in the reign

Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand.
Anon stood nigh

By my side a man

Of princely aspect and port sublime.
Him queried I:

"Oh, my lord and khan,

What clime is this and what golden time?' When he: "The clime

Is a clime to praise,

The clime is Erin's, the green and bland; And it is the time,

These be the days,

Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand."

Then I saw thrones,

And circling fires,

And a dome 'rose near me as by a spell, Whence flowed the tones

A LOCK OF YOUR HAIR.-Contiwued.

"Ah! Dermot, win me not, love,

To be your bride to-night;

How could I bear

A mother's tear,

A father's scorn and slight? So, Dermot, cease your suing— Don't work your Nora's ruin;

"Twould be my sore undoing,

If you're found at my window, dear."

"Ah! for shame with your foolish alarms:

Just drop into your Dermot's arms:

Don't mind looking at all

For your cloak or your shawl;

ONE OF THE BRAVE CONNAUGHT RANGERS. ON the battle-field at midnight, stood a soldier at his post, Thinking of his dear old country and of those he loved the most; He could hear the muskets rattle, just like thunder in the air, But he dare not go amongst them, for "on duty" he was there. Altho' but a private soldier, many brave deeds he had done, And he knew that ere the morning tha fierce battle would be

won;

But he little dreamt that he would never leave that place againAs he stood there meditating, he so cruelly was slain.

CHORUS.

And now a dark cloud rising,
Across the moon is cast;
The lattice opes

And anxious hopes

Make Dermot's heart beat fast:
And soon a form entrancing,
With arms and fair neck glancing
Half shrinking, half advancing,

Steps light on the lattice sill:

When a terrible arm in the air

Clutch'd the head of the lover all bare;

And a voice, with a scoff,

Cried, as Dermot made off,

It is hard to die so early, in the midst of glory, too.

THE OLD CHURCH.

But we've on a splendid battle, for I hear my comrades shout. -CHORUS.

And 'round thee in thy loneliness
Clings the Ivy to the wall.

The worshipers are scattered now
Who knelt before thy shrine,

And silence reigns where anthems rose
In days of "Auld Lang Syne."

And sadly sighs the wandering wind,
Where oft, in years gone by,
Prayers rose from many hearts to Him,
The Highest of the High;

The tramp of many a busy foot
That sought thy aisles is o'er,
And many a weary heart around

Is still forever more.

How doth Ambition's hope take wing,
How droops the spirit now,

We hear the distant city's din,
The dead are mute below;

The sun that shone upon their paths
Now gilds their lonely graves,

The zephyrs which once fanned their brows,
The grass above them waves.

Oh! could we call the many back
Who've gathered here in vain,

Who've careless roved where we do now,
Who'll never meet again;

How would our very soul be stirred,

To meet the earnest gaze

Of the lovely and the beautiful,

The lights of other days.

That brave soldier lad was dying, soon he'd reach the golden gate;

Shortly they could hear him murmur, "Sweetheart, do not grieve

THE DEATH OF OWEN ROE.-Continued.

"O'Farrell and Clanrickard, Preston and Red Hugh,
Audley and MacMahon-ye are valiant, wise, and true;
But what-what are ye all to our darling who is gone?
The rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle's corner-stone!

"Wail-wail him through the Island. Weep-weep for our pride!

Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died!
Weep the Victor of Benburb-weep him, young and old;
Weep for him, ye women-your beautiful lies cold!

"We thought you would not die-we were sure you would not go,

And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blowSheep without a sheperd, when the snow shuts out the skyOh! why did you leave us, Owen? Why did you die?

PAT'S LETTER.

WELL, Mary, me darlint, I'm landed at last, And troth, though they tell me the st'amer was fast,

It sames as if years upon years had gone by Since Paady looked intill yer beautiful eye! it is For Amerikay, darlint-ye'll think quare

Is twenty times furder than Cork from Kildare;

And the say is that broad, and the waves are that high,

Ye're tossed like a fut-ball 'twixt wather and sky;

And ye fale like a pratie just burstin' the shkin,

That all ye can do is to howld yersilf in. Ochone! but, me jewel, the say may be grand,

It's a wondherful counthry, this-so I am towld+

They'll not look at guineas, so chape is the

gowld:

And the three that poor mother sewed into my coat

I sowld for a thrifle, on l'aving the boat.
And the quarest of fashions ye iver have seen!
They pay ye with picters all painted in green,
And the crowds that are rushing here, morning
and night,

Would make the lord-lieutenant shake with the fright.

The strates are that full that there's no one

(Poor yaller-skinned craythur) with yoh to compare;

While, as for the pigs, shure 'twas aisy to see The bastes were not mint for this land of the free.

I think of ye, darlint, from morning till night; And when I'm not thinking ye're still in me sight!

I see your blue eyes, with the sun in their glance

killen!

dance.

PAT'S LETTER.-Continued.

POOR PAT MUST EMIGRATE

dead!

voice sounds a watches

forth in the silent

"O, martyred Emmet, thou art not dead!" Not in the land that you loved and cherished, Not in the hearts of the Celtic race, For whose rights you strove, till the bloodmarked pillars

Of tyranny shook to their bone-made base!

Death may come with his somber vestment

To hide such hearts from our earthly ken; But the spirit within, no death nor darkness Can ever conceal from the gaze of men. To the doomful gibbet the tyrant led thee, And quenched life's flame in its lucent prime;

But no tyrant ever can dim the halo

That rings thy name for all future time.

Over thy urn no white shaft rises,

No pompous mark of the sculptor's art; But thy glorious name and thy grand achieve

ments

Are graven forever on Ireland's heart! There alone let them stand recorded,

Till vict'ry comes on the battle's flood
To the deathless cause that was consecrated
In the holy font of thy generous blood!

O Spirit that soared upon eagle pinions,
And lived and died for a grand design,
There's a radiant wreath in the future wait.

ing

The land that nurtured such soul as thine;
O'er the weary years and the anxious vigils
The Day of Deliverance yet will rise,
And the hills shall echo a grand Te Deum
For the martyrs' pray'rs and her exiles'
sighs.

Then with her chainless hand she'll fashion
A garland meet for her martyr's tomb,
And where now the graveyard nettle is trail-
ing

The tended lily shall sweetly bloom;
And the pilgrim over thy green grave bending
Shall murmur soft as his pray'r is done-
"It wasn't in vain you died, oh, Emmet,

while,

The rents and taxes are so high I can no longer stay; From Dublin's quay I sailed away, and landed here but yesterday,

Me shoes and breeches, and shirts, now are all that's in my kit, I have dropped in to tell you now the sights I have seen before I go,

Of the ups and downs in Ireland since the year of ninetyBut if that nation had its own, her noble sons might stay at eight; home,

But since fortune has it otherwise, poor Pat must emigrate. The devil a word I would say at all, although our wages are but small,

If they left us in our cabins where our fathers drew their breath;

When they call upon rent-day and the devil a cent you have to

To drive his family to the road to beg and starve for meat? But I stood up with heart and hand and sold my little spot of land,

That is the reason why I left and had to emigrate.

Such sights as that I've often seen, but I saw worse in Skibbareen

In forty-eight, (that time is no more), when famine it was great;

I saw fathers, boys and girls with rosy cheeks and silken curis, All a-missing and starving, for a mouthful of food to eat. When they died in Skibbareen, no shrouds or coffins were to be seen,

But patiently reconciling themselves to their desperate, horrid fate;

They were thrown in graves by wholesale, which caused many an Irish heart to wail,

And caused many a boy and girl to be most glad to emigrate. Where is the nation or the land that reared such men as Paddy's land?

Where is the man more noble than he they call poor Irish Pat? We have fought for England's Queen, and beat her foes wherever

that!

We have pursued the Indian Chief, and Nana Sahib, that cursed thief,

Who skivered babes and mothers, and left them in their gore; But why should we be so oppressed in the land St. Patrick blessed?

The land from which we have the best-poor Paddy must emigrate.

There is not a son from Paddy's land but respects the memory of Dan,

Who fought and struggled hard to part that poor and plundered country;

He advocated Ireland's rights with all his strength and might, And he was but poorly recompensed for all his toil and pains. He told us for to be in no haste, and in him for to place our trust,

(

And he would not desert us or leave us to our fate;

won! "

Since they took our liberator, poor Pat must emigrate.