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SHAMROCK ON PATRICK'S DAY.
THE FALON'S LOVE.--Continued.
They called you a felon—they chained you as one-
Yes, a traitor to England-a foe of its race,
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
Throw aside coffee and tea;
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;
In the merriment ye can purloin.
And his nimble fingers can play,
The spinning-wheel stops and my girls grow pale,
Come here, bana-thagua, sit beside me awhile,
And the youngest of all is the white-headed boy,
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,
Gossiping under the huge bright star;
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 the country folks at the chapel door ; And the golden blaze from the lofty windows
That slanted in on the crowded fioor.
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,
And do my duty as best I can.
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
For the love of you, Nora dear.
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,
Come back again to the land of thy birth;
And its Killarney shall ring with our mirth.
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.
Watch o'er my bird in the land far away;
Care of my jewel by night and by day.
Then all my heart flies to England and thee,
I WALKED entranced
Through a land of Morn;
Shone down and glanced
Over seas of corn,
Even in the clime
Of resplendent Spain
But it was the time,
'Twas in the reign
Anon stood nigh
By my side a man
Him queried I:
“Oh, my lord and khan,
When he: “ The clime
Is a clime to praise,
And it is the time,
These be the days,
Then I saw thrones,
And circling fires,
Whence flowed the tones
Of silver lyres,
And their thrilling chime
Fell on mine ears
“ It is now the time,
These be the years,
“ 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
“ You know the vow you made, love, You know we fixed the day;
And here I'm now
To claim that vow,
Sure maybe I'd change my mind;
Faix, but for your blue eye,
I've a notion to try What a sort of old maid you'd make.”
A LOCK OF YOUR HAIR.-Contiwued.
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.
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;
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;
Sagest in the council was he,--kindest in the hall,
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.
THE DEATH OF OWEN ROE.-Continued.
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
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.
(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!
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.