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POOR PAT MUST EMIGRATE.-Continued.

MOLLY CAREW. With spirits bright and purses light, my boys, we can no longer Och hone! and what will I do? stay,

Sure my love is all crost For the shamrock is immediately bound for America;

Like a bud in the frost, For there is bread and work, which I cannot get in Donegal,

And there's no use at all in my going to bed; I told the truth, by great Saint Ruth, believe me what I say. For 'tis dhrames and not sleep comes into my Good night, my boys, with heart and hand, all you who take Ire- head: land's part,

And 'tis all about you, I can no longer stay at home, for hear of being too late;

My sweet Molly CarewIf ever again I see this land, I hope it will be with a Fenian band,

And indeed 'tis a sin and a shame: So God be with old Ireland; poor Pat must emigrate.

You're complater than Nature
In every feature,

The snow can't compare
GOUGAUNE BARRA.

With your forehead so fair,

And I rather would see just one blink of your There is a green island in lone Gougaune Barra,

eye There Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow;

Than the purtiest star that shines out of the In deep-valleyed Desmond-a thousand wild fountains

skyCome down to that lake, from their home in the mountains.

And by this and by that, There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow

For the matter o' that, Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow;

You're more distant by far than that As, like some gay child that sad monitor scorning,

same! It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning.

Och hone! wirrasthrue!

I'm alone in this world without you. And its zone of dark hills-oh, to see them bright’ning,

Och hone! but why should I spake When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning,

Of your forehead and eyes, And the waters rush down, 'mid the thunder's deep rattle,

When your nose it defies Like clans from the hills at the voice of the battle;

Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming,

rhyme ? And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming,

Tho' there's one Burke, he says, that would Oh, where is the dwelling in valley, or highland,

call it snublime. So meet for a bard as this lone little island ?

And then for your cheek!

Throth, 'twould take him a week

Its beauties to tell as he'd rather. How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara,

Then your lips! oh Machree! And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera,

In their beautiful giow Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean,

They a patthern might be And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion,

For the cherries to grow. And thought of thy bards, when assembling together,

'Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depths of thy heather,

knowThey fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter,

For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago; And waked their last song by the rush of thy water!

But at this time o' day,

'Pon my conscience, I'll say High sons of the lyre, oh, how proud was the feeling,

Such cherries might tempt a man's To think while alone through that solitude stealing,

father! Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number,

Och hone! wirrasthrue! I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber,

I'm alone in this world without you. And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains

Och hone! by the man in the moon, The songs even echo forgot on her mountains;

You taze me all ways And gleaned each gray legend, that darkly was sleeping

That a woman can plaze, Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty were creeping.

For you dance twice as high with that thief

Pat Magee, Least bard of the hills! were it mine to inherit

As when you take share of a jig, dear, with The fire of thy harp, and the wing of thy spirit,

me, With the wrongs which like thee to our country has bound me,

Tho' the piper I bate, Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around me,

For fear the owld chate Still-still in those wilds might young liberty rally,

Wouldn't play you your favorite tune; And send her strong shout over mountain and valley;

And when you're at mass The star of the west might yet rise in its glory,

My devotion you crass, And the land that was darkest be brightest in story.

For 'tis thinking of you

I am, Molly Carew;

While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep, I, too, shall be gone—but my name shall be spoken

That I can't at your sweet purty face get a When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken ;

peep: Some minstrel will come, in the summer eve's gleaming,

Oh, lave off that bonnet, When freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming,

Or else I'll lave on it And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion,

The loss of my wandherin' sowl! Where calm Aron-Buee secks the kisses of ocean,

Och hone! wirrasthrue! Or plant a wild wreh, from the banks of that river,

Och hone! like an owl, O'er the heart, and the harp, that are weeping forever.

Day is night, dear, to me, without you!

MOLLY CAREW.-Continued.

THE SIEGE OF MAYNOOTH.
Och hone! don't provoke me to do it;
For there's girls by the score

Crom, Crom-aboo! The Geraldine rebels from proud Maynooth,
That love me and more;

And with him are leagued four hundred, the flower of Leinster's And you'd look very quare if some morning youth. you'd meet

Take heart once more, oh, Erin! The great God gives thee My weddin' all marchin' in pride down the hope; sthreet;

And thro' the mist of Time and Woe thy true Life's portals ope! Throth, you'd open your eyes,

And you'd die with surprise, Earl Thomas of the Silken Robes!-here doubtless burns thy To think 'twasn't you was come to it!

soul; And, faith, Katty Naile,

Thou beamest here a Living Sun, around which thy planets roll. And her cow, I go bail,

Then had our land, now scorned and banned, been saved a world Would jump if I'd say

of woe! “Katty Naile, name the day.”

Oh! would the Eternal Powers above that this were only so! And tho' you're fair and fresh as a morning No more no more!-it maddeneth so!-But rampart, keep, and in May,

tower While she's short and dark like a cowld win.

ther's day,
Yet if you don't repent

At least are still—long may they be a part of Ireland's power!

But-who looks 'mid his warriors from the walls, as gleams a
Before Easther, when Lent
Is over I'll marry for spite;

pearl

'Mid meaner stones ? 'Tis Parez-foster-brother of the Earl. Och hone! wirrasthrue!

And when I die for you,
My ghost will haunt you every night.

Enough!-we shall hear more of him! Amid the hundred shafts

Which campward towards the Saxon host the wind upbears and BROSNA'S BANKS.

wafts,

One strikes the earth at Talbot's feet, with somewhat white-a Yes, yes, I idled many an hour

scroll (0, would that I could idle now,

Impaled upon its barb-Oh! how exults the leader's soul! In wooing back the wither'd flower Of health into my wasted brow!)

He grasps it-reads: “Now, by St. George, the day at last is But from my life's o'ershadowing close,

ours ! My unimpassioned spirit ranks

Before to-morrow's sun arise we hold yon haughty towers! Among its happiest moments those

The craven traitor!-but, 'tis well!-he shall receive his hire, I idled on the Brosna's Banks.

And somewhat more to boot, God wot, than perchance he may

desire!" For there upon my boyhood broke The dreamy voice of nature first;

Alas!-alas!—'tis all too true! A thousand marks of gold And every word the vision spoke,

In Parez' hands, and Leinster's bands are basely bought and How deeply has my spirit nursed !

sold ! A woman's love, a lyre, or pen,

Earl Thomas loses fair Maynooth and a hundred of his clanA rescued land, a nation's thanks,

But, worse! he loses half his hopes, for he loses trust in Man! A friendship with the world, and then A grave upon the Brosna's Banks.

The morn is up; the gates lie wide; the foe pour in amain. For these I sued, and sought, and strove,

Oh! Parez, pride thee in thy plot, and hug thy golden chain! But now my youthful days are gone,

There are cries of rage from battlements, and mellays beneath

in court, In vain, in vain-for woman's love Is still a blessing to be won;

But Leinster's Brave, ere noon blaze high, shall mourn in donjon

fort! And still my country's cheek is wet, The still unbroken fetter clanks,

“ Ho! Master Parez! thou?" And I may not forsake her yet

So spake in the hall the Saxon

chiefTo die upon the Brosna's Banks.

How hast thou proved this tentless loon? But, come, we will Yet idle as those visions seem,

stanch thy grief! They were a strange and faithful guide, Count these broad pieces over well!” He flung a purse on the When IIeaven itself had scarce a gleam

ground, To light my darken'd life beside;

Which in wrathful silence Parez grasped, 'mid the gaze of all And if from grosser guilt escaped

around. I fel no dying dread, the thanks Are due unto the power that shaped

“So!-right?” “Yes, right, Sir John! Enough! I now deMy visions on the Brosna's Banks.

part for home!"

" Home! sayest-thou, Master Parez? Yes, and by my halidome, And love, I feel, will come at last,

Mayest reach that sooner than thou dreamest. But before we Albeit too late to comfort me;

part, And fetters from the land be cast,

I would a brief, blunt parle with thee. Nay, man, why dost thou Though I may not survive to see.

start?If then the gifted, good, and brave Admit me to their glorious ranks,

A sudden spasm, Sir John.”—“Ay-ay! those sudden spasms My memory may, tho' not my grave,

will shock, Be green upon the Brosna's Banks. As when, thou knowest, a traitor lays his head upon the block!”

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“ Ho! Provost-Marshal, hither! Take this losel caitiff hence-1 mark, methinks, a scaffold under yonder stone defense. Off with his head! By Heaven, the blood within ine boils and

seethes, To look on him! So vile a knave pollutes the air he breathes!” 'Twas but four days thereafter, of a stormy evening late, When a horseman reared his charger in before the castle gate, And gazing upwards, he descried by the light of the pale moon

shed, Impaled upon an iron stake, a well-known gory head!

“So, Parez! thou hast met thy meed!” he said, and turned

away* And was it a foe that thus avenged me on that fatal day? Now, by my troth, albeit I hate the Saxon and his land, I could, methinks, for one brief moment press the Talbot's

hand!

THE PRETTY GIRL OF LOCK DAN. The shades of eve had crossed the glen

That frowns o'er infant Avonuiuie; When, nigh Loch Dail, two weary inen,

We stopped before a cottage door.
* God save all here," my comrade cries,

And rattles on the raised latch-pin;
God save you kindly,' quick replies

A clear sweet voice, and asks us in.
We enter; from the wheel she starts,

A rosy girl with soft black eyes;
Her fluttering court'sy takes our hearts,

Her blushing grace and pleased surprise. Poor Mary, she was quite alone,

For, all the way to Glenmalure, Her mother had that morning gone

And left the house in charge with her. But neither household cares, nor yet

The shame that startled virgins feel, Could make the generous girl forget

Her wonted hospitable zeal. She brought us in a beechen bowl, Sweet milk, that smacked of mountain

thyme, Oat cake, and such a yellow roll

Of butter-it gilds all my rhyme! And while we ate the grateful food,

(With weary limbs on bench reclined), Considerate and discreet, she stood

Apart, and listened to the wind. Kind wishes both our souls engaged

From breast to breast spontaneous ran The mutual thought--we stood and

pledged, -THE MODEST ROSE ABOVE Loch Dan. “ The milk we drink is not more pure,

Sweet Mary-bless those budding charms! Than your own generous heart, I'm sure,

Nor whiter than the breast it warms!” She turned and gazed, unused to hear

Such language in that homely glen; But, Mary, you have nought to fear,

Though smiled on by two stranger men. Not for a crown would I alarm

Your virgin pride by word or sign; Nor need a painful blush disarm

My friend of thoughts as pure as mine. Her simple heart could not but feel

The words we spoke were free from guile; She stooped, she blushed, she fixed her

wheel,-
'Tis all in vain-she can't but smile!
Just like sweet April's dawn appears

Her modest face-I see it yet-
And though I lived a hundred years

Methinks I never could forgt
The pleasure, that, despite her heart,

Fills all her downcast eyes with light,
The lips reluctantly apart,

The white teeth struggling into sight; The dimples eddying o'er her cheek,

The rosy cheek that won't be still!O! who could blame what flatterers speak,

Did smiles like this reward their skill! For such another smile, I vow,

Though loudly beats the midnight rain, I'd take the mountain-side e'en now,

And walk to Luggelaw again!

EMMET'S FAREWELL TO HIS SWEETHEART. FAREWELL, love, farewell, love, I now must leave you,

The pale moon is shining her last beam on me; In truth, I do declare I never deceived you,

For it's next to my heart is dear Erin and thee.

Draw near to my bosom, my first and fond true love,

And cherish the heart that beats only for thee; And let my cold grave with green laurels be strewn, love,

And cherish the heart that beats only for thee;

Oh, never again in the moonlight we'll roam, love,

When the birds are at rest and the stars they do shine; Oh, never again shall I kiss thy sweet lips, love,

Or wander by streamlets with thy hands pressed in mine.

Oh, should a mother's love make all others forsake me,

Oh, give me a promise before that I die, That you'll conie to my grave when all others forsake me,

And there with the soft winds breath sigh then for sigh.

My hour is approaching, let me take one fond look, love,

And watch thy pure beauty till my soul does depart; Let thy ringlets fall on my face and brow, love,

Draw near till I press thee to my fond and true heart. Farewell, love, farewell, love, the words are now spoken,

The pale moon is shining her last beams on me: Farewell, love, farewell, love, I hear the death token,

Never more in this world your Emmet you'll see,

THE DEAR EMERALD ISLE.

SHULE AROON.

I would I were on yonder hill,

KIND friends, will ye help a poor, weary stranger, 'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,

Who's foot-sore and weary and hungry the while? And every tear would turn a mill,

I've nothing to give, but an orphan will bless you Is go de tu mo murnin slan.

If you'll help a poor boy from the dear em'rald isle.

But a year ago, sure, I was smiling and happy;
CHORUS.

Not a care on my mind, and a heart free from guile,

In a dear little cabin at the foot of the mountain,
Shule, shule, shule aroon,

That rears its proud head o'er the dear em'rald isle.
Shule go succir, agus shule go cuin,
Shule go den durrus angus eligh glum, My father and mother, God bless their dear mem'ry,

Were contented and happy, although they were poor;
Is go de tu mo nurnin sian.

The land it was bad, and they worked late and early I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,

To pay up the rent, with the wolf at the door. I'll sell my only spinning wheel,

At length my poor father took ill of a fever, To buy for my love a sword of steel,

From toiling so hard on the bleak, barren soil ; Is go de tu mo murnin slan.

Although my poor mother was careful and tender,

He died, and now lies 'neath the dear em'rald isle.
I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red,
And round the world I'll beg my bread, Then the sheriff he came with a band of armed ruflians
Until my parents shall wish me dead,

To turn out a child and a mother so gray;
Is go de tu mo murnin slan.

And deaf to all pleading they tore down our cabin

Like a flower she drooped and faded away: I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,

Then hunger and sorrow soon told on my mother; I wish I had my heart again,

Like a flower she dropped and faded away; And vainly think I'd not complain, And with a last blessing, while her poor child caressing, Is go de tu mo murnin slan.

She gave up her life and was laid 'neath the clay.
But now my love has gone to France, Then they laid my dear mother beside my poor father-
To try his fortune to advance.

I planted a shamrock just over their grave;
If he e'er come back 'tis but a chance, While I, a poor orphan, driven forth by misfortune,
Is go de tu mo murnin slan.

To leave that dear land, and to cross the wild wave;
But, wherever I wander, I ever shall ponder

And dream of the time when nature did smile
LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

On my father and mother and dear loving brother
On! the days are gone, when beauty bright And the old cabin home in the dear em'rald isle.

My heart's chain wove;
When my dream of life, from morn till night, Then if ever the Father shall look down in pity,
Was love, still love!

And cast off the yoke that does Ireland enslave,
New hope may bloom,

I'll hie me back then to the scenes of my childhood,
And days may come,

And pluck a pure shamrock from my dear parents' grave.
Of milder, calmer beam,

Don't say no more, boy, for I, too, am a daughter; But there's nothing half so sweet in life And to think of her wrongs, oh, it makes my blood rile; As love's young dream!

And I pray that the time is not very far distant
Oh! there's nothing half so sweet in life When the green shall wave proud o'er the dear em'rald isle.
As love's young dream!

MCCARTHY'S MARE.
Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar,
When wild youth's past;

We started for the fair, with spirits light and hearty,

Behind McCarthy's mare, oh! it was a lively party!
Tho' he win the wise, who frown'd before,
To smile at last;

You never saw the likes of it, believe me what I say,

Sure, we had a roaring racket, but the mare she ran away.
He'll never meet
A joy so sweet

CHORUS.
As when first he sung to woman's ear
In all his noon of fame,

Off she wint! off she wint! be gob, I was not worth a cint;
His soul-felt flame;

The sate was just as hard as flint, behind McCarthy's mare. And, at every close, she blushed to hear The one loved name!

“ Hould her in!” McCarthy cried, “Stop her! says McCue,

I tho't I'd shake to pieces, as along the road we flew; Oh! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot,

Me head was swimming like a top, my heart was in despair, Which First Love trac'd;

The divil himself was in the wheels behind McCarthy's mare. Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot

McCarthy held the reins, and Murphy held McCarthy,
On Memory's waste!

But whiskey filled their brains and made them wild and hearty 'Twas odor fled

Maloney tumbled out behind, and there we let him lay-
As soon as shed;

Sure I offered to assist him--but the mare she ran away! 'Twas morning's winged dream! 'Twas a light, that ne'er can shine again Me dacent coat was tore, me hat was left behind me, On life's dull stream!

I rattled and I swore, and I thought the dust would blind me Oh! 'twas light, that ne'er can shine again In holes and ditches wint the wheels, oh, murther, what a day On life's dull stream!

Sure, myself was kilt entirely, with the inare that run away.

DEAR OLD IRELAND.

THE RISING OF THE MOON.

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DEEP in Canadian woods we've met, from one bright island

Oh, then tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, flown;

Tell me why you hurry so?' Great is the land we tread, but yet our hearts are with our own.

Hush, ma bouchal, hush and listen;'

And his cheeks were all aglow. And ere we leave this shanty small, while fades the autumn day,

“I bear ordhers from the captain,
We'll toast old Ireland! dear old Ireland! Ireland! boys, hur-
rah!

Get you ready quick and soon;
For the pikes must be together

At the risin' of the moon.'
We've heard her faults a hundred times, the new ones and the
old,

"Oh, then tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, In songs and sermons, rants and rhymes enlarged some fifty

Where the gatherin' is to be?' fold.

. In the ould spot by the river, But take them all, the great and small, and this we've got to

Right well known to you and me. say:

One word more—for signal token, Here's good old Ireland! lov’d old Ireland! Ireland! boys, hur

Whistle up the marchin' tune, rah!

With your pike upon your shoulder

By the risin' of the moon.'
We know that brave and good men tried to snap her rusty chain,
That patriots suffered, martyrs died, and all, 'tis said, in vain;

“Out from many a mud-wall cabin But no, boys, no! a glance will show how far they've won their

Eyes were watching through that night, way.

Many a manly chest was throbbing Here's good old Ireland! lov'd old Ireland! Ireland! boys hur- For the blessed warning light. rah!

Murmurs passed along the valley,

Like the banshee's lonely croon, We've seen the wedding and the wake, the pattern and the fair;

And a thousand blades were flashing The stuff they take, the fun they make and the heads they break

At the rising of the moon. down there. With a loud hurroo, and a phillalo, and a thundering “ clear the “ There beside the singing river way,"

That dark mass of men was seen, Here's gay old Ireland! dear old Ireland! Ireland! boys, hur- Far above the shining weapons rah!

Hung their own beloved green.

* Death to every foe and traitor, And well we know, in the cool gray eves when the hard day's

Forward, strike the marchin' tune, work is o'er

And hurrah, my boys, for Freedom!

'Tis the risin' of the moon.' How soft and sweet are the words that greet the friends who

meet once more;
Mary Machree” and “My Pat 'Tis he,” and “My own

Well they fought for poor old Ireland heart night and day!

And full bitter was their fate. Ah, fond old Ireland! dear old Ireland! Ireland ! boys, hurrah!

(Oh, what glorious pride and sorrow

Fill the name of Ninety-eight! )

Yet, thank God, e'en still are beating And happy and bright are the groups that pass for their peaceful Hearts in manhood’s burning noon, homes for miles,

Who would follow in their footsteps, O'er fields and roads and hills to mass, when Sunday morning At the risin' of the moon.”

smiles, And deep the zeal their true hearts feel, when low they kneel and

RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE pray; Oh, dear old Ireland! blest old Ireland! Ireland! boys, hurrah!

WORE.

Rich and rare were the gems she wore, But deep in Canadian woods we've met, and never may see And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore:

again The dear old isle where our hearts are set, and our first fond Her sparkling gems and snow-white wand.

But, oh, her beauty was far beyond hopes remain ! But come, fill up another cup; and with every sup let's say: "Lady! dost thou not fear to stray, Here's lov'd old Ireland! good old Ireland! Ireland! boys, hur- So lone and lovely, thro’ this bleak way? rah!

Are Erin's sons so good or so cold

As not to be tempted by woman or gold ?
THE IRISH STRANGER.

“ Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm;

No son of Erin will offer me harm; On, pity the fate of a poor Irish stranger

For, tho’ they love woman and golden store, That's wandered thus far from his home;

Sir Knight! they love honor and virtue I sigh for protection from want, woe and danger,

more! But know not which way for to roam, I ne'er shall return to Hibernia's bowers.

On she went, and her maiden smile For bigotry hath trampled her sweetest of flowers,

In safety lighted her 'round the Green Isle; That gave comfort to me in my loneliest hours.

And bless'd forever is she who relied
They are gone and I'll ne'er see them more.

Upon Erin's honor and Erin's Pride!

With “

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