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O welcome was thy bright green shore,

That rose upon my sight;
Like dawn upon the wave once more

To chase the long, long night;
For tho’ in many an hour of joy

I wove the tendril bands Of friendships great, there's none could cloy

Old Ireland's hearts and hands.

Fair Kathleen started-well did she know

( what will not love discover! Her country's scourge, and her father's foe,

'Twas the voice of her Saxon lover, “Raymond!”—“Oh hush, my Kathleen dear,

My path's beset with danger;
But cast not, love, those looks of fear

Upon thy dark-haired stranger.
“My red roan steed's in yon Culdee grove,

My bark is out at sea, love!
My boat is moored in the ocean cove;

Then haste away with me, love!
My father has sworn my hand shall be

To Sidney's daughter given;
And thine, to-morrow will offer thee

A sacrifice to heaven.

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“But away, my love, away with me!

The breeze to the west is blowing; And thither, across the dark-blue sea,

Are England's bravest going.
To a land where the breeze from the orange bowers

Comes over the exile's sorrow,
Like the light-wing'd dreams of his early hours

Or his hope of a happier morrow.
And there, in some valley's loneliness,

By wood and mountain shaded,
We'll live in the light of wedded bliss,

Till the lamp of life be faded.
Then thither with me, my Kathleen, fly!

The storms of life we'll weather,
Till in bliss beneath the western sky,

We live, love, die together!
Die, Saxon, now!"-At that fiend-like yell

An hundred swords are gleaming:
Down the bubbling stream, from the tainted well,

His heart's best blood is streaming. In vain does he doff the hood so white,

And vain his falchion flashing: Five murderous brands through his corslet bright

Within his heart are clashing!

My heart is a nest that is robbed and forsaken, When gone from my sight is the girl that I

love; One word from your lips can my gladness

awakenYour smile is the smile of the angels above. Then meet me at twilight, beside the bright

waters; The love that I've told you, I'd whisper

once more; Oh! sweetest and fairest of Erin's fair

daughters, Dear rose of Killarney, Mavourneen Asthore.

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Saw ye that cloud o'er the moonlight cast,

Fire from its blackness breaking? Heard ye that cry on the midnight blast,

The voice of terror shrieking? 'Tis the fire from Ardsaillach's willow'd height,

Tower and temple falling; 'Tis the groan of death, and the cry of fright,

From monks for mercy calling!


THERE was a man lived in the West,
Musha dural ling, du ral laddy, O!
Arrah! he married a maid, she was none the best,
But he'd sooner have her than all the rest;


And her name was Noral, Maggie Noral,

Dingy dural, Smig. Maglooral, walk off. Arrah! she goes to bed at eleven o'clock, Musha dural ling, du ral laddy, O! And she calls the maid for to wind the clock, For she milked the cow from the chimney top.

Brave was his spirit, yet mild as the Brahmin, His heart bled in anguish the wrongs of the

poor; To relieve their hard sufferings he braved

every danger, The vengeance of tyrants undauntedly bore. Even before him the proud titled villains in

power Were seen, though in ermine, in terror to

cower; But, alas! he is gone, he has fallen, a young

They have murdered my Emmet, my Em-
met's no more.

OH! many a time I am sad at heart,

And I haven't a word to say;
And I keep from the lads and the lasses apart,

In the meadows a-making hay.
But Willie will bring me the first wild rose,

In my new sun-bonnet to wear;
And Robin will wait at the keeper's gate,

For he follows me everywhere
But I tell them they needn't come wooing to

For my heart-my heart is over the sea.
Two summers ago, when a brave ship sailed

Far away to the golden West;
Oh! nobody knew that my heart went, too,

For the secret I ne'er confessed.
A mother took leave of her boy that day,

I could hear her sob and cry,
As I followed her back to her dreary home,

But never a word said 1-
But you see that they needn't come wooing to

me, For my heart-my heart is over the sea.

She sat on grass till she caught the cramp,
Musha dural ling, du ral laddy, O!
They built a tent out of her hoops,
And they brought her to with some turtle soup.

Now this morning she arose from her sweet repose,
Musha dural ling, du ral laddy, O!
Arrah! she puts on her clothes, and it's out she goes,
She meets one of her foes, his name was Mose.
She tread on his toes, and a quarrel arose,
Which came to blows, and the science she shows;
But in the gutter she goes, as you may suppose,
And it's quick she arose, and it's home she goes,
For to dream of her woes, for what she knows,
She knows, she knows.

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The white and the orange, the blue and green, boys,

We'll blend them together in concord to-night;
The orange most sweet amid green leaves is seen, boys,
The loveliest pansy is blue and white.

The light of the day,

As it glides away, Paints with orange the white clouds that float in the west:

And the billows that roar

Round our own island shore
Lay their green heads to rest on the blue heaven's bosom,

Where sky and sea meet in the distance away:
As Nature thus shows us how well she can fuse 'em,

We'll blend them in love on St. Patrick's Day.
The hues of the prism, philosophers say, boys,

Are nought but the sunlight resolved into parts: They're beauteous, no doubt; but I think that the ray, boys, Unbroken, more lights up and warms our hearts.

Each musical tone,

Struck one by one,
Makes melody sweet, it is true, on the ear-

But let the hand ring

All at once every string-
And, oh! there is harmony now that is glorious,

In unison pealing to heaven away;
For union is beauty, and strength victorious,

In hues, tones, or hearts, on St. Patrick's Day.
Those hues in our bosoms be sure to unite, boys;

Let each Irish heart wear those emblems so true; Be fresh as the green, and be pure as the white, boys, Be bright as the orange, sincere as blue.

I care not a jot

Be your scarf white or not,
If you love as a brother each child of the soil;

I ask not your creed,

If you'll stand in her need
To the land of your birth in the hour of her dolours,

The foe of her foes, let them be who they may;
Then, Fusion of hearts, and confusion of colors!

Be the Irishman's toast on St. Patrick's Day.


I love my native country,

And tho' richer lands I've seen, Yet I can't forget ould Erin,

Where the grass grows green.

Poor Pat is often painted

With a ragged coat and hat; His heart and hospitality

Hlas much to do with that. Let slanderers say what they will,

They cannot call him mean; Sure a stranger's always welcome

Where the grass grows green.

He's foolish, but not vicious,

His faults I won't defend; His purse to help the orphan,

His life to serve a friend. He'll give without a murmur,

So his follies try and screen; For there's noble hearts in Erin,

Where the grass grows green.

NORAH CREINA. Who are you that walks this way so like the Empress Dejanina ? Is it true what people say, that you're the famous Shilnagirah? Or are you the great Pompey? or Britain's Queen, bold Til

bureena ? Or are you Dido, or Doctor Magee? oh no, says she, I'm Norah Creina!

CHORUS. I'm the girl that makes the stir from Cork along to Skibbereena; All the day we drink strong tea, and whisky, too, says Norah

Creina. Who are you that ax my naine? Othello, Wat Tyler or Julius

Cæsar? Or are you Venus, of bright fame? or that old fogy Nebuchad

nezzar? Or maybe you are Pluto stout, or jolly old Bacchus, drunk and

hearty, There, my lass, your eye is out, for I am Napoleon Bonaparte.

'Tis true he has a weakness

For a drop of something pure, But that's a slight debility

That many more endure. He's fond of fun, he's witty,

Though his wit 'tis not too keen, For there's feeling hearts in Erin,

Where the grass grows green.

There's not a true-born Irishman,

Wherever he may be, But loves the little emerald

That sparkles on the sea.
May the sun of bright prosperity
And bring better days to Erin,

Shine peaceful and serene
Where the grass grows green.

Won't you dine with me to-day? I'll send for you a horse and

crupper, And, lest you should refuse to stay, I'll tell you who we'll have

for supper: Macgillicuddy of the Reeks, and Donaghue Glen, the Duke of

Glo'ster, Oliver Cromwell and Brian O’Lynn, Cadwallader Waddy and

Leslie Foster.

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Love of my love, and temple of my God!
How would I now clasp thee

THREE times the fowers have faded since I left my native home, Close to my heart, and, even as thou wast Through hopeless love enlisting, in foreign lands to roam; trod,

But whersoe'er I wandered, near or far away, So with thee trodden be!

No maiden could e'er compare with the Maid of Castle Craigh. 0, for one hour a thousand years ago,

Her blooming cheek was like the rose, all blushing; and her eye Within thy precincts dim,

Like yonder star, that shines afar so bright and tenderly;
To hear the chant, in deep and measured flow, But oh! it seem'd as cold to me, sweet Maid of Castle Craigh.

Her bosom like the snow, in evening's rosy ray,
Of psalmody and hymn!
To see of priests the long and white array,

I courted her a year and more, and sought to gain her love, Around thy silver shrines

And sure her heart was fond and warm, though timid as a dove;

For oh! I never knew, till I was far away, The people kneeling prostrate far away,

That I had won thy gentle heart, dear Maid of Castle Craigh. In thick and chequer'd lines.

But now my griefs are all at rest, the wars et length are o'er, To see the Prince of Cashel o'er the rest,

And landed safe on Erin's soil, I'll never leave it more; Their prelate and their king,

But live in peace and joy, to bless each happy day, The sacred bread and chalice by him blest, With thee, my own, my only love, dear Maid of Castle Craigh.

Earth's holiest offering.


To hear, in piety's own Celtic tongue,

The most heart-touching prayer
That fervent suppliants e'er heard On! Dermot Astore! between waking and sleeping

I heard thy dear voice, and I wept to its lay; 0, to be then and there!

Every pulse of my heart the sweet measure was keeping There was a time all this within thy walls

Till Killarney's wild echoes had borne it away. Was felt, and heard, and seen;

Oh! tell me, my own love, is this our last meeting!

Shall we wander no more in Killarney's green bow'rs, Faint image only now thy sight recalls

To watch the bright sun o'er the dim hills retreating, Of all that once hath been.

And the wild stag at rest in his bed of spring ow’rs ? The creedless, heartless, murderous robber

Oh! Dermot Astore, etc. came, And never since that time

Oh! Dermot Astore! how this fond heart would flutter, Round thy torn altars burned the sacred

When I met thee by night in the shady borcen, flame,

And heard thine own voice in a soft whisper utter

Those words of endearment, “ Mavourneen colleen!” Or rose the chant sublime.

I know we must part, but oh! say not for ever, Thy glory in a crimson tide went down,

That it may be for years adds enough to my pain; Beneath the cloven hoof

But I'll cling to the hope, that though now we must sever, Altar and priest, miter, and cope, and crown,

In some blessed hour I shall meet thee again. And choir, and arch, and roof.

Oh! Dermot Astore, etc.
0, but to see thee, when thou wilt rise again-
For thou again wilt rise,

And with the splendors of thy second reign
Dazzle a nation's eyes !

Far away o'er the sea, there's a spot dear to me
Children of those who made thee what thou

In old Erin, the land I adore, wast,

Where a colleen so true, with sweet eyes oh so blue, Shall lift thee from the tomb,

Is waiting to greet me once more. And clothe thee, for the spoiling of the past,

I left her one day for to roam far away, In more celestial bloom.

As a wanderer from my native shore;

But I long to go back o'er the sea's bounding track, And psalm, and hymn, and gold, and precious

To sweet Kathleen the girl I adore.
And gems beyond all price,

And priest, and altar, o'er the martyr's bones,
And daily sacrifice.

Sweet Kathleen my darling, I'll never forget,

Remembrance of you thrills me o'er; And endless prayer, and crucifix, and shrine, Oh my heart holds one hope, 'tis to see just once more And all religion's dower,

Sweet Kathleen the girl I adore. And thronging worshipers shall yet be thine0, but to see that hour!

Though long years have gone by, since I kissed her good-bye

On the old village green that sad day, And who shall smite thee then ?-and who shall

Still the tears on her face, in my dreams I can trace, see

As she bade me God speed, on my way; Thy second glory o'er?

And at night oft I pray, for the dawn of the day When they who make thee free themselves

That will give me a glimpse just once more are free,

Of my dear native isle, and the old-fashioned stile, To fall no more.

Where I first met the girl I adore.-REFRAIN.

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