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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 felonthey chained you as one-
And 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.

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.”

TIIERE's one day in the year that I'll always

observe As long as I've one breath of life. To our patron saint my memory will serve,

And I haven't the least fear of strife. But with pleasure and freedom, I'll sing and

I'll dance, While the piper his tunes sweetly play; Each lad and his colleen can gambol and

prance, While we drown the green shamrock on Pat

rick's Day.

Patrick's Day! Saint Patrick's Day!

Throw aside coffee and tea;
Fill up your glasses, then drink to your

And we'll drown the green shamrock on

Patrick's Day. Now, the seventeenth of March is our natal


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?

And we celebrate it with great joy; From the gray-haired old man and old woman,

too, To the smallest of spa!peens or boy. No true Irishmen could then miss a fair,

But to town, sure they rode all the way On their donkeys and cars, sure, they come

near and far, To drown the green shamrock on Patrick's

Day.-CHORUS. We're not selfish at all on our open fields,

All are welcome to join;
So come up every one of ye, take a hand in,

In the merriment ye can purloin.
And while the piper has wind for to blow,

And his nimble fingers can play,
We'll stay till the wee small hours of the morn,
To drown the green shamrock on Patrick's


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?

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.

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 Ire'and through weal and through woe,
And what's that to any man whether or no?

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, Throw fortune in with a “God go with you,”

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.

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 bluifs, and the braes!

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.

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 ciime 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

Of silver lyres,
And many voices in wreathed swell;

And their thrilling chime

Fell on mine ears
As the heavenly-hymn of an angel band-

“ It is now the time,

These be the years,
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand."

“ 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.

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“ 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 break-

Faix, but for your blue eye,

I've a notion to try What a sort of old maid you'd make.”


ONE OF THE BRAVE CONNAUGHT RANGERS. “Ah! Dermot, win me not, love, To be your bride to-night;

On the battle-field at midnight, stood a soldier at his post, How could I bear

Thinking of his dear old country and of those he loved the most: A mother's tear,

He could hear the muskets rattle, just like thunder in the air, A father's scorn and slight?

But he dare not go amongst them, for on duty” lie was there. So, Dermot, cease your suing

Altho' but a private soldier, many brave deed haa ne, Don't work your Nora's ruin;

And he knew that ere the morning tha fierce battle would be "Twould be my sore undoing,

won; If you're found at my window, dear.”

But he little dreamt that he would never leave that place again, “ Ah! for shame with your foolish alarms: As he stood there meditating, he so cruelly was slain. Just drop into your Dermot's arms: Don't mind looking at all

CHORUS. For your cloak or your shawl; They were made but to smother your charms. He was one of the brave Connaught Rangers, one of old Erin's

sons, And now a dark cloud rising,

While thinking of home, far across the blue foam, he fell by

the enemies' guns, Across the moon is cast; The lattice opes

But he died like a true Irish soldier, deny it, now nobody can, And anxious hopes

For his life he did yield on that fierce battle-field, like a brave Make Dermot's heart beat fast:

fighting Irishman. And soon a form entrancing, With arms and fair neck glancing

From behind he bullet struck him, and he fell down with a cry, Half shrinking, half advancing,

“ Mother, is it true that I am at last about to die? Steps light on the lattice sill:

I was just this moment thinking of the day when I should see When a terrible arm in the air

Once again your loving features at the home so dear to me; Clutch'd the head of the lover all bare; Mother, darling, God protect you; when I'm gone what will you And a voice, with a scoff,

do? Cried, as Dermot made off,

It is hard to die so early, in the midst of glory, too. “Won'T YOU LEAVE US A LOCK OF YOUR HAIR?” Hark! I hear the angels calling; yes, I'm dying, there's no


But we've on a splendid battle, for I hear my comrades shout. THE OLD CHURCH.


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for me,

Thou art crumbling to the dust, old pile! Soon his comrades did surround him, but, alas! it was too late, Thou art hastening to thy fall,

That brave soldier lad was dying, soon he'd reach the golden And 'round thee in thy loneliness

gate; Clings the Ivy to the wall.

Shortly they could hear him murmur,“ Sweetheart, do not grieve The worshipers are scattered now Who knelt before thy shrine,

But remember that your loved helped to win this victory." And silence reigns where anthems rose Up then he was gently lifted, taken to his resting place In days of “ Auld Lang Syne.”

Oh! it was a solemn moment, tears were on each soldier's face;
Those men who had just been fighting, stood with helmet in

their hand, Aud sadly sighs the wandering wind,

For they knew that noble spirit had gone to another land.Where oft, in years gone by,

CHORUS. Prayers rose froin many hearts to Him,

The Highest of the High; The tramp of many a busy foot

THE DEATH OF OWEN ROE. That sought thy aisles is o'er,

“ Did they dare-did they dare, to slay Owen Roe O'Neill? ” And many a weary heart around Is still forever more.

Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet with steel." “May God wither up their hearts. May their blood cease to

flow, How doth Ambition's hope take wing, May they walk in living death, who poisoned Owen Roe!

How droops the spirit now, We hear the distant city's din,

Though it break my heart to hear say again the bitter words.”. The dead are mute below;

“ From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords, The sun that shone upon their paths But the weapon of the Saxon met him on his way, Now gilds their lonely graves,

And he died at Clough-Oughter, upon St. Leonard's day.” The zephyrs which once fanned their brows, The grass above them waves.

“Wail-wail ye for The Mighty One! Wail-wail ye for the


Quench the hearth, and hold the breath-with ashes strew the Oh! could we call the many back

head. Who've gathered here in vain,

How tenderly we loved him! How deeply we deplore! Who've careless roved where we do now, Holy Saviour! but to think we shall never see him more.

Who'll never meet again;
How would our very soul be stirred,

Sagest in the council was he,--kindest in the hall,
To meet the earnest gaze

Sure we never won a battle-'twas Owen won them all. Of the lovely and the beautiful,

kad be lived-had he lived, our dear country had been free; The lights of other days.

Put he's dead--but he's dead, and 'tis slaves we'll ever be.



PAT'S LETTER. “O'Farrell and Clanrickard, Preston and Red Hugh, Audley and MacMahon-ye are valiant, wise, and true;

WELL, Mary, me darlint, I'm landed at last, But what-what are ye all to our darling who is gone?

And troth, though they tell me the st'amer

was fast, The rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle's corner-stone!

It sames as if years upon years had gone by "Wail-wail him through the Island. Weep-weep for our

Since Paady looked intill yer beautiful eye! pride!

For Amerikay, darlint-ye'll think it is Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died !


Is twenty times furder than Cork from KilWeep the Victor of Benburbweep him, young and old;

dare; Weep for him, ye women-your beautiful lies cold!

And the say is that broad, and the waves arc “We thought you would not die—we were sure you would not

that high,

Ye're tossed like a fut-ball 'twixt wather and go, And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow

sky; Sheep without a sheperd, when the snow shuts out the sky, And ye fale like a pratie just burstin' the

shkin, Oh! why did you leave us, Owen ? Why did you die?

That all ye can do is to howld yersilf in. Soft as a woman's was your voice, O'Neill! bright was your Ochone! but, me jewel, the say may be grand,

But, when ye come over, dear, travel on land! eye. Oh, why did you leave us, Owen ? why did you die?

It's a wondherful counthry, this—so I am Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with God on high;

towld+ But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Owen !--why did you They'll not look at guineas, so chape is the die?"


And the three that poor mother sewed into my ST. PATRICK WAS A GENTLEMAN.

coat St. PATRICK was a gentleman, and came of decent people;

I sowld for a thrifle, on l'aving the boat. In Dublin town he built a church and on't he put a steeple ;

And the quarest of fashions ye iver have seen! His father was O'Houlihan, his mother was a lady,

They pay ye with picters all painted in green, His uncle was O'Shaughnessy, and his aunt a Widow Grady.

And the crowds that are rushing here, morning Then success to bold St. Patrick's fist,

and night, He was a saint so clever,

Would make the lord-lieutenant shake with

the fright. He gave the snakes and toads a twist,

The strates are that full that there's no one And banished them forever!

can pass, Oh! Feltrim Hill is very high, so is the Hill of Howth, too,

And the only law is, “Do not thread on the But there's a hill that is hard by, much higher than them both grass.'

Their grass is the quarest of shows—by me 'Twas on the top of this high hill St. Patrick preached a sarmin,

VowHe made the frogs skip thro' the bogs, and banished all the For it wouldn't be munched by a Candlemas varmin!

Tell father I wint, as he bid me, to see There's not a mile in Ireland's Isle where the dirty varmin His friend, Tim O'Shannon, from Killycaugh

musters; Where'er he put his dear fore foot, he murdered them in It's rowling in riches O'Shannon is now,

clusters: The toads went hop, the frogs went pop, slap-haste into the With a wife and tin babies, six pigs and a waters,

cow, And the snakes committed suicide to save themselves from In a nate little house, standing down from the slaughter.


With two beautiful rooms, and a pig-sty comNine hundred thousand vipers blue he charmed with sweet dis- plate. courses,

I thought of ye, darlint, and dramed such a And dined on them at Killaloe, in soups and second courses ;

drame! When blind-worms crawling on the grass disgusted the whole That mebbe, some day, we'd be living the nation,

same; He gave them a rise, and opened their eyes to a sense of their Though, troth, Tim O'Shannon's wife niver situation.

could dare

(Poor yaller-skinned craythur) with yoh to Oh, then, should I be so fortunate as to get back to Munster,

compare; Sure I'll be bound that from that ground I ne'er again will once While, as for the pigs, shure 'twas aisy to see stir;

The bastes were not mint for this land of the 'Twas there St. Patrick planted turf, and plenty of the praties, free. With pigs galore, machree asthore! and buttermilk and ladies !

I think of ye, darlint, from morning till night; No wonder that we Irish lads should be so free and frisky, And when I'm not thinking ye're still in me Since St. Patrick taught us 'first the knack of drinking of good sight! whisky;

I see your blue eyes, with the sun in their 'Twas he that brew'd the best of malt, and understood distilling, glanceFor his mother she kept a shebeen shop in the town of Innis- Your smile in the meadow, your fut in the killen!





I go,

PAT'S LETTER.--Continued.

POOR PAT MUST EMIGRATE I'll love ye, and thrust ye, both living and

Fare you well, poor Erin's isle! I now must leave you for a dead!

while, (Let Phil Blake look out for his carroty

The rents and taxes are so high I can no longer stay; head!)

From Dublin's quay I sailed away, and landed here but yesterI'm working, acushla, for you-only you !

day, And I'll make ye a lady yit, if ye'll be true;

Me shoes and breeches, and shirts, now are all that's in my kit, Though, troth, ye can't climb Fortune's laddher so quick,

I have dropped in to tell you now the sights I have seen before Whin both of your shouldhers are loaded with

Of the ups and downs in Ireland since the year of ninetybrick. But I'll do it-I declare it, by—this and by But if that nation had its own, her noble sons might stay at

eight; thatWhich manes what I daren't say-from

home, Your own

PAT. But since fortune has it otherwise, poor Pat must emigrate.

The devil a word I would say at all, although our wages are but ROBERT EMMET.

small, THOUGH over your ashes the grave grass tan

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

breath; gles, And night winds moan 'round your clayey When they call upon rent-day and the devil a cent you have to bed,

pay, Yet voice sounds forth in the silent They will drive you from your house and home to beg and watches

starve to death. “ O, martyred Emmet, thou art not dead!” What kind of treatment, boys, is that to give an honest Irish Not in the land that you loved and cherished,

Pat? Not in the hearts of the Celtic race,

To drive his family to the road to beg and starve for meat? For whose rights you strove, till the blood. But I stood up with heart and hand and sold my little spot of marked pillars

land, Of tyranny shook to their bone-made base! That is the reason why I left and had to emigrate. Death may come with his somber vestment Such sights as that I've often seen, but I saw worse in SkibTo hide such hearts from our earthly ken;

bareen But the spirit within, no death nor darkness In forty-eight, (that time is no more), when famine it was Can ever conceal from the gaze of men.

great; To the doomful gibbet the tyrant led thee, I saw fathers, boys and girls with rosy cheeks and silken curis, And quenched life's flame in its lucent All a-missing and starving, for a mouthful of food to eat. prime;

When they died in Skibbareen, no shrouds or collins were to be But no tyrant ever can dim the halo

seen, That rings thy name for all future time. But patiently reconciling themselves to their desperate, horrid

fate; Over thy urn no white shaft rises,

They were thrown in graves by wholesale, which caused many No pompous mark of the sculptor's art;

an Irish heart to wail, But thy glorious name and thy grand achieve

And caused many a boy and girl to be most glad to emigrate. ments Are graven forever on Ireland's heart!

Where is the nation or the land that reared such men as Paddy's There alone let them stand recorded,

land? Till vict'ry comes on the battle's flood

Where is the man more noble than he they call poor Irish Pat? To the deathless cause that was consecrated

We have fought for England's Queen, and beat her foes wherever In the holy font of thy generous blood !

seen, O Spirit that soared upon eagle pinions,

We have taken the town of Delhi—if you please, come, tell me And lived and died for a grand design,

that! There's a radiant wreath in the future wait. We have pursued the Indian Chief, and Nana Sahib, that cursed ing

thief, The land that nurtured such soul as thine; But why should we be so oppressed in the land St. Patrick

Who skivered babes and mothers, and left them in their gore; O'er the weary years and the anxious vigils The Day of Deliverance yet will rise,

blessed? And the hills shall echo a grand Te Deum

The land from which we have the best-poor Paddy must emiFor the martyrs' pray’rs and her exiles' grate. sighs.

There is not a son from Paddy's land but respects the memory Then with her chainless hand she'll fashion

of Dan, A garland meet for her martyr's tomb,

Who fought and struggled hard to part that poor and plunAnd where now the graveyard nettle is trail

dered country: ing

Ile advocated Ireland's rights with all his strength and might, The tended lily shall sweetly bloom ;

And he was but poorly recompensed for all his toil and pains. And the pilgrim'over thy green grave bending He told us for to be in no haste, and in him for to place our Shall murmur soft as his pray’r is done-


( “ It wasn't in vain you died, oh, Emmet,

And he would not desert us or leave us to our fate; For the cause you championed at last is But death to him no favor showed, from the beggar to the throne, : won!

Since they took our liberator, poor Pat must emigrate.

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