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COUNTY JAIL.-Continned.

MOLLY, ASTHORE. At five o'clock one of them said, " It's nearly time to go to bed;"

As down by Banna's banks I strayed one evening in May, The truth from him I found did creep,

The little birds in blithest notes made vocal every spray: For all turned in and went to sleep.

They sung their little notes of love, they sung them o'er and

o'erThe turnkey bawled, as stiff as starch, · Right about face and then quick march!” Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore. We did, and made such a rush, Like monkeys marching around a bush; The daisy pied and all the sweets the dawn of nature yields, Such clanking of clogs, such shaking of knces, The primrose pale, the violet blue, lay scattered o'er the fields, Such croaking of bellies and clanking of keys, Such fragrance in the bosom lies of her whom I adore, Such damning beds as hard as a nai!,

Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore. They'd starve a poor devil in County Jail!

I laid me down upon a bank, bewailing my sad fate.

That doomed me thus a slave to love and cruel Molly's hate; At six next morning up we got,

How can she break the honest heart that wears her in its core, Each man was called to clean his pot,

Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore.
Then through the yard we did lurch,
All fell in line to go to church;
And thei such dresses as met my view,

You said you loved me, Molly, dear-ah! why did I believe!

Yet who could think such tender words were meant but to deOne arm was red the other was blue

ceive, One leg was yellow, the other was gray,

That love was all I asked on earth--nay, heaven could give no And then the parson began to pray.

more, He said that Elijah went up in a cloud, And Lazarus walked about in his shroud,

Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore. And that Jonah he lived inside of a whale,

Oh! had I all the flocks that graze on yonder yellow hill, A d-d sight better than County Jail!

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, Service being over, we all got back

Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore.
And fell in line for skilly and whack;
We crushed like pigs all in a lump-

Two turtle doves above my head sat courting on a bough, At nine each took his hand at pump.

I envied them their happiness to see them blll and coo;
At ten we raised a glorious mill,
And smothered each other with right good Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore.

Soon fondness once for me was shown, but now, alas! 'tis o'er,
will!
At eleven we raised it and quit the house,
All fell in line for pans of skouse.

Then fare thee well, my Molly dear, thy loss I e'er shall mourn, Then if there's a man, no matter how droll,

While life remains in Stephen's heart 'twill beat for thee alone. We pop him into Pompie's hole,

Tho' thou art false, may heaven on thee its choicest blessings Where whack and water cocks his tail,

pour, There's glorious times in County Jail !

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

O, SONS OF ERIN.

THE HARP WITHOUT THE CROWN.

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!

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

cheers; And waved our green cockadey 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;
The people had changed its that year, and called it
Bunker's Hill;

Bunker's Hill.
Oh! that our hands, like our hearts, had been in the trench at

Bunker's Hill!

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!

name

war.

THE HARP WITHOUT THE CROWN.-Continned.

THE PEASANT'S BRIDE.
Our ship cleared out for Quebec port; but thither little bent,
Up some New England river, to run her keel we meant. I was a simple country girl
We took our couise due north as out 'round old Blackhead we

That loved the morning dearly ; steered,

My only wealth a precious pearl Till Ireland bore southwest by south, and Fingal's rock apo

I found one morning early. peared.

I milked my mother's only cow, Then on the poop stood Webster, whle the ship hung flutteringly,

My kind poor lovin' Drimin; About to take her tack across the wide, wide ocean sea.

I never envied then nor now

The kine of richer women.
He points to the Atlantic-“ Yonder's no place for slaves ;
Haul down these British badges; for Freedom rules the waves,
Rules the waves!

The sun shone out in bonny June, Three hundred strong men answered, shouting: “Freedom rules And fragrant were the meadows; the waves!

A voice as sweet as an Irish tune Then altogether they arose, and brought the British ensign (I know it was my Thady's), down;

Said, “ Mary dear, I fain would stay,
And up we raised our island Green, without the British Crown; But where's the use repining ?
Emblazoned there a golden harp, like maiden undefiled,

I must away to save my hay
A shamrock wreath around its head, looked o'er the sea and Now while the sun is shining."

smiled.
A hundred days, with adverse winds, we kept our course afar; Now Thady was as stout a blade
On the hundredth day, came bearing down, a British sloop-of-

As ever stood in leather,

With hook or scythe, with plow or spade, When they spied our flag they fired a gun; but as they neared He'd beat ten men together; us fast,

He's just the man, thought I, for me,
Old Andrew Jackson went aloft, and nailed it to the mast,

He is working late and early,
To the mast.

He shall be mine if he is free,
A sailor was that old Jackson; he made our colors fast,

He takes my fancy fairly. Patrick Henry was our captain, as brave as ever sailed; “Now we must do or die,” said he, “ for our green flag is nailed.”

I gave my hand, though I was young, Silently came the sloop along; and silently we lay

And heart, too, like a feather, Till with ringing cheers and cannonade the foe began the fray; Our marriage song by the lark was sung Then, their boarders o'er the bulwarks, like shuttlecocks we When we were wed together; cast,

And many a noble lord, I'm told, One broadside volley from our guns swept down the tapering And many a noble lady, mast:

Would gladly give a crown of gold
“Now, British Tars! St. George's cross is trailing in the sea; To be like me and Thady.
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.”

TONY LUMPKIN'S SONG.
They answered us with canzon, their honor to redeem,
To shoot away our Irish flag, each gunner took his aim;

LET schoolmasters puzzle their brain
They ripped it up in ribbons, till it fluttered in the air,

With grammar, and nonsense, and learning; And filled with shot-holes, till no trace of golden Harp was

Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, there;

Gives genus a better discerning. But the ragged holes did glance and gleam, in the sun's golden Let them brag of their heathenish gods, light,

Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians; Even as the twinkling stars adorn God's unfurled flag at night.

Their Quis, and their Quæs, and their Quods, With drooping fire, we sung: “Good-night, and fare-ye-well, They're all but a parcel of Pigeons. brave Tars!"

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.
Our Captain looked aloft: “ By Heaven! the flag is stripes and
stars,

When Methodist preachers come down,
Stripes and stars.”

A-preaching that drinking is sinful,
Right into Boston port we sailed, below the Stripes and Stars.

I'll wager the rascals a crown,

They always preach best with a skinful. I'M PROUD I'M AN IRISHMAN BORN.

But when you come down with your pence

For a slice of their scurvy religion,
THE Scotchmen may boast of their snow-covered mountains, I'll leave it to all men of sense,
Their wild towering rocks, woods and heath-covered dales;

But you, my good friend, are the pigeon. With their cataracts and rivers, and clear silver fountains,

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.
Their pastures of culture and their flower-covered vales.
But give to me old Erin's shore, that's the land I adore,

Then come, put the jorum about,
All countries I have seen, but no such beauties adorn:

And let us be merry and clever, And where is the Irishman, who loves not his native land,

Our hearts and our liquors are stout, Oh, boys, but I'm proud that I'm an Irishman born.

Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons forever. CHORUS.

Let some cry up woodcock or hare,

Your bustards, your ducks, and your widFor Irishmen never yield when they're on the battlefield,

geons; With a gun, sword or fist, or a twig of blackthorn; But of all the birds in the air, And oft on the battlefield our sires made their foes to yield, Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. Oh, boys, but I'm proud that I'm an Irishman born.

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.

I'M PROUD I'M AN IRISHMAN BORN.-Continued.

THE CONVICT AND THE CROSS. Old Ireland can boast of her statesınen and warriors, Her poets, painters and sculptors, too;

“Oh! let me wear the little cross, the little

cross that once I wore. She had Princely O'Neil, Sarsfield, Norris and Clifford, Tyrconnell, O'Donnell and the great Brian Boru.

When oft, a happy boy, I roamed along the Oliver Goldsmith, Thomas Moore, Isaac Butt and Sergeant

Lee's lamenting shore;
Power,

And as I heard the stream glide by, that

sobbed to leave so sweet a land, Robert Emmet and John Mitchell, Dan O'Connell and Curran; The great Duke of Wellington, and bold Marshal McMahon, A more lamenting human tide swept onward

to the distant strand; Oh, boys, but I'm proud that I'm an Irishman born.

Even then I vowed, come weal, come woe, if The stranger in old Ireland is sure to find a welcome hand,

faintest hope should ever gleam And kindly they'll treat him until he departs:

That life and verdure here at home might Be he heathen, Russian, Jew or Turk, no hatred in the Irish spring from that now wasted stream, lurk,

That I would take my humble part-that I lor love ( truth and friendship doth reign in their hearts,

the glorious risk would share, So Irishinen of each degree, come join in Erin's praise with me, And what the patriot heart inspired the pa

triot hand would do and dare. For wherever I am, my heart to Erin doth turn; For no nation upon the earth unto such heroes has given birth, But ah! I faint, mine eyes grow dim in thinkOh, boys, but I'm proud that I'm an Irishman born.

ing of the days of yore--
Oh! let me wear the little cross that once a

happy child I wore!
THE FOX HUNT.
The first morning of March in the year '33

“ 'Twill tell me of a mother's love; forgive me, There was frolic and fun in our own country:

O thou sacred sign!
The King's County hunt over meadows and rocks

'Twill tell me more than mother's love-'twill Most nobly set out in the search of a fox.

tell me of a love divine; Hullahoo! harkaway! hullahoo! harkaway!

'Twill tell me of a captive bound, a captive Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!

bound by ruthless hands-

The thorny crown, the draught of gall, the When they started ld Reynard he faced Tullamore,

ruffian jeers o fribald bands-
Through Wicklow and Arklow along the sea-shore;

The shame, the agony, the death! ah, me! the
There he brisked up his brush with a laugh, and says he, years have rolled and rolled,
“ 'Tis mighty refreshing this breeze from the sea.” And still in this most awful type, unselfish
Hullahoo! harkaway! etc.

love thy fate behold!

These it will tell, and oh! perchance, a softer With the hounds at his heels every inch of the way,

thought 'twill whisper too He led us by sunset right intot Roscrea.

Father, forgive, forgive even them, for ah! Here he ran up a chimney and out of the top,

they know not what they do. The rogue he cried out for the hunters to stop

But ah! I faint, mine eyes grow dim, my lease From their loud harkaway! &c.

of life is well nigh o'er

Oh! let me wear the little cross, that once a
was a long thirsty stretch since we left the sea-shore, happy child I wore!"
But, lads, here you've gallons of claret galore;
Myself will make free just to slip out of view,

The cross was sent; some kindly heart, that
Anu take a small pull at my own mountain dew,"

heard the captive's dying prayer, So no more hullahoo! etc.

Left at the gate the little cross smooth-folded

round with loving care; One hundred and twenty good sportsmen went down, Coarse hands, and cold the sacred fold with And sought him from Ballyland through Ballyboyne;

scorn and careless languor broke, We swore that we'd watch him the length of the night, And found, enshrined in snowy fleece, a little So Reynard, sly Reynard, lay hid till the light.

cross of Irish oak. Hullahoo! harkaway! etc.

“ Ho! ho!" they cried, “ what emblem's this? But the hills they re-echoed right early next morn

what popish charm is this we see? With the cry of the hounds and the call of the horn,

Some talisman, perchance, it is to set the Irish

rebel free!”
And in spite of his action, his crft, and his skill,
Our fine fox was taken on top of the hill.

And so it is, although ye mock, beyond your
Hullahoo! harkaway! etc.

bolts, beyond your bars,

'Twill lead his soul enfranchised forth, above When Reynard he knew that his death was so nigh,

the suri, above the stars; For pen, ink, and paper he called with a sigh;

For though ye kept it from his hands, within And all his dear wishes on earth to fulfil,

his faithful heart he bore With these few dying words he declared his last will,

The little cross, the saving cross that once a While we ceased harkaway! etc.

happy child he wore. “Here's to you, Mr. Casey, my Curragmore estate,

A curse be on such heartless rules, and shame And to you, young O'Brien, my money and plate,

to them who such could shape, And to you, Thomas Demnihy, my whip, spurs, and cap, Could bring to life such monstrous forms, such For no leap was so cross that you'd look for a cap.

worms of twaddle and of tapeAnd of what he made meniion they "ound it no blank, Scourge, if ve will, the honest backs of those For he gave them a check on the National Bank.

who scorn your lash, and ye

DARRYVANE.

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 discernInnprison, exile, hang all those your ruthless

laws have foemen made; But let the soul, in going forth, be strength

ened 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.

IRISH NATIONAL HYMN.

Oh, Ireland, ancient Ireland,

Ancient, yet forever young;
Thou our mother, home and sireland,
Thou at length hast found a tongue.

Proudly thou at length

Resistest in triumphant strength. Thy flag of freedoin floats unfurled;

And as that mighty God existeth,
Who giveth victory when and where He

listeth, Thou yet shalt wake and shake the nations of

the world.
For this dull world still slumbers,

Weetless of its wants or loves,
Though, like Galileo, numbers
Cry aloud: “It moves-it moves!”

In a midnight dream,
Drifts it down Time's wreckful

stream-
All march, but few descry the goal.

Oh, Ireland be it thy high duty
To teach the world the might of moral

beauty, And stamp God's image truly on the strug

gling soul.

(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 hillWhere the eagle looks out from his cioud-crested crags, And the caverns resound with the panting of stagsWhere 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 fenaneOh! that is the region of wild Darrynane! Oh! fair are the islets of tranquil Glengarill, And wild are the sacred recesses of ScariilAnd 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 wearestAnd 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 å 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 knownLaurel his coronet-true hearts his throneKnowledge his scepter-a Nation his clanO'Connell, the Chieftain of proud Darrynane! A thousand bright streams on the inountains awake, Whose waters unite in O'Donoghue's LakeStreams of Glantlesk 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 uniteOur hatred of wrong and our worship of rightThe 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 nly 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 breastThus my thoughts loved to linger, as memory ran O'er the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane!

Strong in thy self-reliance,

Not in idle threat or boast,
Hast thou hurled thy fierce defiance
At the haughty Saxon host.

Thou hast claimed, in sight

Of high Heaven, thy long-lost right. Upon thy hills, along thy plains,

'In the green bosom of thy valleys,

The new-born soul of holy freedom rallies, And calls on thee to trample down in dust thy

claims!

Deep, saith the Eastern story,

Burns in Iran's mines a gem,
For its dazzling hues and glory
Worth a Sultan's diadem.

But from human eyes

Hidden there it ever lies ! The aye-travailing Gnomes alone,

Who toil to form the mountain's treasure, May gaze and gloat with pleasure without

measure Upon the lustrous beauty of that wonder

stone.

THE IRISH PEASANT GIRL.

IRISH NATIONAL HYUX. --Continued.
So is it with a nation

Which would win for its rich dower
That bright pearl, Self-Liberation-
It must labor hour by hour.

Strangers, who travail

To lay bare the gem, shall fail;
Within itself, must grow, must glow-

Within the depths of its own bosom
Must flower in living night, must broadly

blossom, The hopes that shall be born ere Freedom's

tree can blow.

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.

Go on, then, all-rejoiceful!

March on thy career unbowed!
IRELAND! let thy noble voiceful
Spirit cry to God aloud!
Man will bid thee speed-

God will aid thee in thy need-
The Time, the Hour, the Power are near-

Be sure thou soon shalt form the vanguard Of that illustrious band whom Heaven and

Man guard; And these words come from one whom some

have called a Seer

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 valieys,

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.

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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'."

Yet, not from his courage, his strength or his

name, Can he from the clansmen their fealty claim. The poorest, and highest, choose freely to

day The chief that to-night they'll as truly obey; For loyalty springs from a people's consent, And the knee that is forced had been better

unbentThe Sassenach serfs no such homage can bring As the Irishman's choice of a True Irish

King!

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