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122

COUNTY JAIL.-Continned.

At five o'clock one of them said,
"It's nearly time to go to bed;"
The truth from him I found did creep,
For all turned in and went to sleep.
The turnkey bawled, as stiff as starch,
Right about face and then quick march! "
We did, and made such a rush,
Like monkeys marching around a bush;
Such clanking of clogs, such shaking of knees,
Such croaking of bellies and clanking of keys,
Such damning beds as hard as a nail,
They'd starve a poor devil in County Jail!

At six next morning up we got,
Each man was called to clean his pot,
Then through the yard we did lurch,
All fell in line to go to church;
And there such dresses as met my view,
One arm was red the other was blue-
One leg was yellow, the other was gray,
And then the parson began to pray.
He said that Elijah went up in a cloud,
And Lazarus walked about in his shroud,
And that Jonah he lived inside of a whale,
A dd sight better than County Jail!

Service being over, we all got back
And fell in line for skilly and whack;
We crushed like pigs all in a lump-
At nine each took his hand at pump.
At ten we raised a glorious mill,

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I laid me down upon a bank, bewailing my sad fate.
That doomed me thus a slave to love and cruel Molly's hate;
How can she break the honest heart that wears her in its core,
Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore.

You said you loved me, Molly, dear-ah! why did I believe!
Yet who could think such tender words were meant but to de-
ceive,

That love was all I asked on earth-nay, heaven could give no more,

Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore.

Oh! had I all the flocks that graze on yonder yellow hill,
Or lowed for me the numerous herds that yon green pasture fill;
With her I love I'd gladly share my kine and fleecy store,
Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore.

Two turtle doves above my head sat courting on a bough,
I envied them their happiness to see them blll and coo;
Soon fondness once for me was shown, but now, alas! 'tis o'er,

And smothered each other with right good Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore.

will!

At eleven we raised it and quit the house,
All fell in line for pans of skouse.

Then if there's a man, no matter how droll,
We pop him into Pompie's hole,
Where whack and water cocks his tail,
There's glorious times in County Jail!

O, SONS OF ERIN.

O, SONS of Erin, brave and strong,
Upon your prostrate mother gaze;
Her sorrows have been overlong,
"Tis time her beauteous face to raise.
When tyranny usurps the right,

And chivalry pines in the jail,

There's deep revenge in Freedom's fight'Tis life to win, 'tis death to fail!

The power of monarchy is steel,

And crushing, soul-subduing laws, Whose weight alone the toilers feel, And murmur oft, and know the cause. And battle oft the despot's might,

And scorning torture and the jail, Seek swift revenge in Freedom's fight'Tis life to win, 'tis death to fail!

Wild-wild's the night e'er freedom's sun
Lights up the ramparts of the free;
It rolls away, the battle's won,

And sounds a glorious reveille-
A reveille of hearts full light,
Uncrushed by slavery and the jail,
It echoed down the Alpine height,
"Twill glad the hills of Innisfail!

Then fare thee well, my Molly dear, thy loss I e'er shall mourn,, While life remains in Stephen's heart 'twill beat for thee alone. Tho' thou art false, may heaven on thee its choicest blessings pour,

Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore.

THE HARP WITHOUT THE CROWN.

OH! how she plowed the ocean, the good ship Castle Down,
The day we hung our colors out, the Harp without the Crown!
A gallant bark, she topped the wave; and fearless hearts were

we,

With guns, and pikes, and bayonets, a stalwart company. 'Twas sixteen years from Thurot; and sweepng down the bay, The Siege of Carrickfergus so merrily we did play;

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By the old Castle's foot we went, with three right hearty cheers;

And waved our green cockades aloft, for we were Volunteers, Volunteers,

Oh! we were in our prime that day, stout Irish Volunteers.
'Twas when we waved our anchor on the breast of smooth Gar-
moyle,

Our guns spoke out in thunder: "Adieu, sweet Irish soil!"
At Whiteabbey, and Greencastle, and Holywood so gay,
Were hundreds waving handkerchiefs, with many a loud huzza.
Our voices o'er the water went to the voices 'round;
Young Freedom, struggling at her birth, might utter such a
sound.

But one green slope beside Belfast, we cheered, and cheered it still;

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that year, and called it

Oh! that our hands, like our hearts, had been in the trench at

Bunker's Hill!

THE HARP WITHOUT THE CROWN.-Continned.

Our ship cleared out for Quebec port; but thither little bent, Up some New England river, to run her keel we meant.

We took our course due north as out 'round old Blackhead we steered,

Till Ireland bore southwest by south, and Fingal's rock appeared.

Then on the poop stood Webster, whle the ship hung flutteringly,
About to take her tack across the wide, wide ocean sea.
He points to the Atlantic-" Yonder's no place for slaves;
Haul down these British badges; for Freedom rules the waves,
Rules the waves!

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"Now, British Tars! St. George's cross is trailing in the sea;
How do you like the greeting, and the handsel of the Free?
Of the Free?

These are the terms and tokens of men who will be free."
They answered us with cannon, their honor to redeem,
To shoot away our Irish flag, each gunner took his aim;
They ripped it up in ribbons, till it fluttered in the air,
And filled with shot-holes, till no trace of golden Harp was
there;

But the ragged holes did glance and gleam, in the sun's golden light,

Even as the twinkling stars adorn God's unfurled flag at night. With drooping fire, we sung: 'Good-night, and fare-ye-well,

brave Tars! "

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Our Captain looked aloft: "By Heaven! the flag is stripes and stars,

Stripes and stars."

Right into Boston port we sailed, below the Stripes and Stars.

I'M PROUD I'M AN IRISHMAN BORN.

THE Scotchmen may boast of their snow-covered mountains,
Their wild towering rocks, woods and heath-covered dales;
With their cataracts and rivers, and clear silver fountains,
Their pastures of culture and their flower-covered vales.
But give to me old Erin's shore, that's the land I adore,
All countries I have seen, but no such beauties adorn:
And where is the Irishman, who loves not his native land,
Oh, boys, but I'm proud that I'm an Irishman born.

CHORUS.

For Irishmen never yield when they're on the battlefield,
With a gun, sword or fist, or a twig of blackthorn;
And oft on the battlefield our sires made their foes to yield,
Oh, boys, but I'm proud that I'm an Irishman born.

THE PEASANT'S BRIDE.

I WAS a simple country girl
That loved the morning dearly;
My only wealth a precious pearl
I found one morning early.

I milked my mother's only cow,
My kind poor lovin' Drimin;
I never envied then nor now
The kine of richer women.

The sun shone out in bonny June,
And fragrant were the meadows;
A voice as sweet as an Irish tune
(I know it was my Thady's),
Said, Mary dear, I fain would stay,
But where's the use repining?

I must away to save my hay
Now while the sun is shining."

Now Thady was as stout a blade As ever stood in leather,

With hook or scythe, with plow or spade,
He'd beat ten men together;
He's just the man, thought I, for me,
He is working late and early,
He shall be mine if he is free,
He takes my fancy fairly.

I gave my hand, though I was young,
And heart, too, like a feather,

Our marriage song by the lark was sung
When we were wed together;

And many a noble lord, I'm told,
And many a noble lady,
Would gladly give a crown of gold
To be like me and Thady.

TONY LUMPKIN'S SONG.

LET schoolmasters puzzle their brain
With grammar, and nonsense, and learning;
Good liquor, I stoutly maintain,

Gives genus a better discerning.

Let them brag of their heathenish gods,
Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians;
Their Quis, and their Quæs, and their Quods,
They're all but a parcel of Pigeons.
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.

When Methodist preachers come down,
A-preaching that drinking is sinful,
I'll wager the rascals a crown,

They always preach best with a skinful.
But when you come down with your pence
For a slice of their scurvy religion,
I'll leave it to all men of sense,
But you, my good friend, are the pigeon.
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.

Then come, put the jorum about,
And let us be merry and clever,
Our hearts and our liquors are stout,
Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons forever.
Let some cry up woodcock or hare,
Your bustards, your ducks, and your wid-

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I'M PROUD I'M AN IRISHMAN BORN.-Continued.
Old Ireland can boast of her statesmen and warriors,
Her poets, painters and sculptors, too;

She had Princely O'Neil, Sarsfield, Norris and Clifford,
Tyrconnell, O'Donnell and the great Brian Boru.

Oliver Goldsmith, Thomas Moore, Isaac Butt and Sergeant
Power,

Robert Emmet and John Mitchell, Dan O'Connell and Curran;
The great Duke of Wellington, and bold Marshal McMahon,
Oh, boys, but I'm proud that I'm an Irishman born.

The stranger in old Ireland is sure to find a welcome hand,
And kindly they'll treat him until he departs:

Be he heathen, Russian, Jew or Turk, no hatred in the Irish lurk,

For love truth and friendship doth reign in their hearts, So Irishmen of each degree, come join in Erin's praise with me, For wherever I am, my heart to Erin doth turn;

For no nation upon the earth unto such heroes has given birth, Oh, boys, but I'm proud that I'm an Irishman born.

THE FOX HUNT.

THE first morning of March in the year '33
There was frolic and fun in our own country:
The King's County hunt over meadows and rocks
Most nobly set out in the search of a fox.

Hullahoo! harkaway! hullahoo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!

When they started bold Reynard he faced Tullamore,
Through Wicklow and Arklow along the sea-shore;
There he brisked up his brush with a laugh, and says he,
""Tis mighty refreshing this breeze from the sea."
Hullahoo! harkaway! etc.

With the hounds at his heels every inch of the way,
He led us by sunset right intot Roscrea.
Here he ran up a chimney and out of the top,
The rogue he cried out for the hunters to stop
From their loud harkaway! &c.

""Twas a long thirsty stretch since we left the sea-shore,
But, lads, here you've gallons of claret galore;
Myself will make free just to slip out of view,
And take a small pull at my own mountain dew,"
So no more hullahoo! etc.

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When Reynard he knew that his death was so nigh,
For pen, ink, and paper he called with a sigh;
And all his dear wishes on earth to fulfil,
With these few dying words he declared his last will,
While we ceased harkaway! etc.

"Here's to you, Mr. Casey, my Curragmore estate,
And to you, young O'Brien, my money and plate,
And to you, Thomas Dennihy, my whip, spurs, and cap,
For no leap was so cross that you'd look for a gap."

And of what he made mention they ound it no blank,
For he gave them a check on the National Bank.

THE CONVICT AND THE CROSS. "OH! let me wear the little cross, the little cross that once I wore.

When oft, a happy boy, I roamed along the Lee's lamenting shore;

And as I heard the stream glide by, that sobbed to leave so sweet a land,

A more lamenting human tide swept onward to the distant strand;

Even then I vowed, come weal, come woe, if faintest hope should ever gleam

That life and verdure here at home might spring from that now wasted stream, That I would take my humble part-that I the glorious risk would share,

And what the patriot heart inspired the pa

triot hand would do and dare.

But ah! I faint, mine eyes grow dim in thinking of the days of yore

Oh! let me wear the little cross that once a happy child I wore!

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The cross was sent; some kindly heart, that heard the captive's dying prayer,

Left at the gate the little cross smooth-folded round with loving care;

Coarse hands, and cold the sacred fold with scorn and careless languor broke, And found, enshrined in snowy fleece, a little cross of Irish oak.

"Ho! ho!" they cried, "what emblem's this? what popish charm is this we see? Some talisman, perchance, it is to set the Irish rebel free! "

And so it is, although ye mock, beyond your bolts, beyond your bars,

'Twill lead his soul enfranchised forth, above the sun, above the stars;

For though ye kept it from his hands, within his faithful heart he bore

The little cross, the saving cross that once a happy child he wore.

A curse be on such heartless rules, and shame to them who such could shape, Could bring to life such monstrous forms, such worms of twaddle and of tapeScourge, if ye will, the honest backs of those who scorn your lash, and ye

THE CONVICT AND THE CROSS.-Continued. But torture not the soul with thongs, and leave the immortal spirit free. From Tobolsk's mines, from Ethiop's plains, from Abyssinian tyrants learn That men are not machines, nor move by springs, that you alone discernImprison, exile, hang all those your ruthless laws have foemen made;

But let the soul, in going forth, be strengthened by Religion's aid.

Not yours to judge the priceless worth, not yours to scan the countless store

Of grace and hope the cross can give, the cross a Christian child once wore.

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DARRYNANE.

(Written in 1844, after a visit to Darrynane Abbey.)
WHERE foams the white torrent, and rushes the rill,
Down the murmuring slopes of the echoing hill-
Where the eagle looks out from his cloud-crested crags,
And the caverns resound with the panting of stags-
Where the brow of the mountain is purple with heath,
And the mighty Atlantic rolls proudly beneath,
With the foam of its waves like the snowy fenane-
Oh! that is the region of wild Darrynane!

Oh! fair are the islets of tranquil Glengariff,
And wild are the sacred recesses of Scarifl-
And beauty, and wildness, and grandeur, commingle
By Bantry's broad bosom, and wave-wasted Dingle;
But wild as the wildest, and fair as the fairest,
And lit by a luster that thou alone wearest-
And dear to the eye and the free heart of man
Are the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane!

And who is the Chief of this lordly domain?

Does a slave hold the land where a monarch might reign? Oh! no, by St. Finbar, nor cowards, nor slaves,

Could live in the sound of these free, dashing waves!

A Chieftain, the greatest the world has e'er known—
Laurel his coronet-true hearts his throne-
Knowledge his scepter-a Nation his clan-
O'Connell, the Chieftain of proud Darrynane!

A thousand bright streams on the mountains awake,
Whose waters unite in O'Donoghue's Lake-
Streams of Glanflesk and the dark Gishadine
Filling the heart of that valley divine!
Then rushing in one mighty artery down
To the limitless ocean by murmuring Lowne!
Thus Nature unfolds in her mystical plan
A type of the Chieftain of wild Darrynane!
In him every pulse of our bosoms unite-
Our hatred of wrong and our worship of right-
The hopes that we cherish, the ills we deplore,
All center within his heart's innermost core,
Which gathered in one mighty current, are flung

To the ends of the earth from his thunder-toned tongue!
Till the Indian looks up, and the valiant Affghan
Draws his sword at the echo from far Darrynane!

But here he is only the friend and the father,
Who from children's sweet lips truest wisdom can gather,
And seeks from the large heart of Nature to borrow
Rest for the present and strength for the morrow!
Oh! who that e'er saw him with children about him,
And heard his soft tones of affection, could doubt him?
My life on the truth of the heart of that man
That throbs like the Chieftain's of wild Darrynane!
Oh! wild Darrynane, on thy ocean-washed shore,
Shall the glad song of mariners echo once more?
Shall the merchants, and minstrels, and maidens of Spain,
Once again in their swift ships come over the main?
Shall the soft lute be heard, and the gay youths of France
Lead our blue-eyed young maidens again to the dance?
Graceful and shy as thy fawns, Killenane,

Are the mind-molded maidens of far Darrynane!

Dear land of the South, as my mind wandered o'er
All the joys I have felt by thy magical shore,
From those lakes of enchantment by oak-clad Glena
To the mountainous passes of bold Iveragh!
Like birds which are lured to a haven of rest,
By those rocks far away on the ocean's bright breast-
Thus my thoughts loved to linger, as memory ran
O'er the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane!

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THE IRISH PEASANT GIRL.
SHE lived beside the Anner,

At the foot of Sliv-na-mon,
A gentle peasant girl,
With mild eyes like the dawn;
Her lips were dewy rose-buds,
Her teeth, of pearls so rare,
And a snow-drift 'neath a beechen bough,
Her neck and nut-brown hair.

How pleasant 'twas to meet her
On Sunday, when the bell
Was filling with its mellow tones
Lone wood and grassy dell;
And when at eve young maidens
Strayed the river bank along,
The widow's brown-haired daughter
Was the loveliest of the throng.

Oh, brave-brave Irish girls

We well may call you brave-
Sure the least of all your perils
Is the stormy ocean wave;
When you leave our quiet valleys,
And cross the Atlantic's foam,
To hoard your hard-won earnings
For the helpless ones at home.
"Write word to my own dear mother-
Say we'll meet with God above,
And tell my little brothers

I send them all my love;
May the angels ever guard them,
Is their dying sister's prayer—"
And folded in the letter

Was a braid of nut-brown hair.
Ah, cold and well-nigh callous,

This weary heart has grown,
For thy helpless fate, dear Ireland,
And for sorrows of my own:
Yet a tear my eye will moisten,
When by Anner side I stray,
For the lily of the mountain foot,
That withered far away.

OULD IRELAND, YOU'RE MY DARLIN'.
OULD Ireland, you're my jewel, sure,
My heart's delight and glory;
Till time shall pass his empty glass,
Your name shall live in story.
And this shall be the song for me,
The first my heart was larnin
Before my tongue one accent sung.
“Ould Ireland, you're my darlin'."
My blessings on each manly son

Of thine, who will stand by thee;
But hang the knave and dastard slave,
So base as to deny thee.
Then bould and free, while yet for me
The globe is 'round us whirlin
My song shall be Gra Galmachree,
Ould Ireland, you're my darlin'."
Sweet spot of earth that gave me birth,
Deep in my soul I cherish,
While life remains within these veins,
A love that ne'er can perish.

If it was a thing that I could sing,
Like any thrush or starlin',
In cage or tree, my song should be:
"Ould Ireland, you're my darlin'."

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