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I say?

my darlin',


THE HUSBAND'S DREAM. You mane man; how dar' you? how dar' you, Why, Dermot, you look healthy, now your dress is neat and clean,

I never see you drunk about, oh, tell me where you've been; To kiss me so bouldly—well, well! but that's Your wife and family all are well, you once dia use them strange, awful :

Oh, you are kinder to them now, how came the happy change? How dar' you act in such a hathenish way? It was a dream, a warning voice, which heaven sent to me,

To snatch me from a drunkard's curse, grim want and misery;

My wages were all spent in drink, oh, what a wretched view! Get up off your knees, you will soil your new

I almost broke my Mary's heart, and starved my children, too. throusers; What! marry you? well, but that bates all What was my home or wife to me? I heeded not her sigh, an' all;

Her patient smile has welcomed me when tears bedimmed her Don't you know you are axin' an impidint eye; queshtion?

My children, too, have oft awoke, Oh, father, dear, they've said, But I'll think, and I'll tell you the next Poor mother has been weeping so because we've had no bread. time you call.

My Mary's form did waste away, I saw her sunken eye, Why! where are you goin'? Now sure you're on straw my babes in sickness laid, I heard their wailing cry; not angry,-

I laughed and sung in drunken joy, while Mary's tears did You know 'twas but jokin' the words that I

stream, said ;

Then like a beast I fell asleep and had this warning dream: Here's my hand if you wish it, and Cormac,

I thought I once more staggered home, there seemed a solemn I'll be yours till the sod closes over my head. gloom,

I nissed my wife, where can she be? and strangers in the room;

Then I heard them say: Poor thing, she's dead, she led a wretched Why, Cormač—he's gone;---he has left me in life, anger,

Grief and want has broken her heart-who'd be a drunkard's I've druv him away; ( what shall I do!

wife? But sure he'll come back-Saints in heaven forgive me!

I saw my children weeping 'round, I scarcely drew my breath, O yes, he'll come back, he's too honest and They called and kissed her lifeless form forever stilled in death; thrue:--

Oh, father, come and wake her up, the people say she's dead, Who’s that at the dure? 'Tis himself! O my Oh, make her smile and speak once more, we'll never cry for darlin',

bread. Forgive me—'twas wrong for to plague you, j She is not dead, I frantic cried, and rushed to where she lay, I know;

And madly kissed her once warm lips, forever cold as clay; I'll marry you now, and o'erjoyed and con- On, Mary, speak once more to me, no more I'll cause you pain, tinted,

No more I'll grieve your loving heart, nor ever drink again. I'll be as your spouse through life's journey

Dear Mary, speak, 'tis Dermot calls. Why, so I do, she cried,
I awoke, and true, my Mary, dear, was kneeling at my side;

I pressed her to my throbbing heart, while joyous tears did


And ever since I've heaven blessed for sending me that dream. THEY come from a land beyond the sea,

TIPPERARY. And now o'er the western main Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly, WERE you ever in sweet Tipperary, where the fields are so sunny

From the sunny land of Spain. “0, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams, And the heath-brown Slieve-bloom and the Galtees look down Our destin'd home or grave?”

with so proud a mien ? Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams, 'Tis there you would see more beauty than is on all Irish groundThey swept the Atlantic wave.

God bless you, my sweet Tipperary, for where could your match

be found? And, lo, where afar o'er ocean shines

They say that your hand is fearful, that darkness is in your eye: A sparkle of radiant green,

But I'll not let them dare to talk so black and bitter a lie. As though in that deep lay emerald mines,

Oh! no, machusla storin! bright, bright, and warm are you, Whose light through the wave was seen.

With hearts as bold as the men of old, to yourselves and your “ 'Tis Innisfail-'tis Innisfail!

country true. Rings o'er the echoing sea;

And when there is gloom upon you, bid them think who has While bending to heav'n the warriors hail

brought it there That home of the brave and free.

Sure a frown or a word of hatred was not made for your face

so fair; Then turn'd they unto the Eastern wave,

You've a hand for the grasp of friendship—another to make them Where now their Day-God's eye

quake, A look of such sunny omen gave

And they're welcome to whichsoever it pleases them most to

take. As lighted up sea and sky. Nor frown was seen through sky or sea, Shall our homes, like the huts of Connaught, be crumbled before Nor tear o'er leaf or sod,

our eyes ? When first on their Isle of Destiny

Shall we fly, like a flock of wild geese, from all that we love and Our great forefathers trod.


to go.

and green,



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Is there any one here that's in love?

It is of a farmer's daughter so beautiful I'm told,
If so, you can guess how I feel,

Her parents died and left her a large amount in gold;
When I say I've a charming young girl, She lived with her uncle, the cause of all her woe,
And her age it is sweet seventeen.

But you soon shall hear this maiden fair did prove his overthrow. When Cupid his arrow did fire,

It struck my heart, but that didn't harm me; Her uncle had a plow-boy young Mary loved quite well,
The girl that I fondly admire

And in her uncle's garden their tales of love would tell;
Is the elegant Rosanna Carney.

There was a wealthy squire that oft came her to see,

But still she loved her plow-boy on the banks of sweet Dundee. CHORUS. Handsome and tall, waist very small,

It was on a summer's morning, her uncle went straightway, Brim full of real Irish blarney;

He knocked at this maiden's door and unto her did say: The bells they will ring, the birds they will Arise, arise, my pretty maid, and a lady you may be, sing,

For the squire is waiting for you on the banks of sweet Dundee.” The morn I wed Rosanna Carney.

* I care not for your squires, your dukes, or lords likewise, Her father is a man of great wealth,

My Willie's eyes appear to me like diamonds in the skies.” And climbed up the ladder of fame;

Begone! unruly female, you ne'er shall happy be, Some say he carried a hod

For I intend to banish William from the banks of sweet Dundee. There's lots of good men done the same. And brim full of real Irish blarney;

Her uncle and the squire rode out one summer's day. His daughter's the hard-working girl,

Young William is in favor," hier uncle he did say; All the dudes down our street are in love

Indeed, it is my intention to tie him to a tree, With the elegant Rosanna Carney.

And then to bribe a press-gang on the banks of sweet Dundee.” THE SHILLALEH.

A press-gang came to William when he was all alone, On the beautiful banks of the Shannon

He boldly fought for liberty, but they were six to one; There grows such an illigant tree,

The blood did flow in torrents—“ Pray, kill me now," said he, And the fruit that it bears is shillaleh,

“For I will die for Mary on the banks of sweet Dundee!” I've a sprig of it here, you may see. 'Tis the remnant of all iny large fortune, It's the friend that neer played me a trick, She met this wealthy squire down in her uncle's grove,

This maiden fair walking, lamenting for her love, And I'd rather lose half my supportin’

He put his arms around her—"Stand off, base man," said she, Than part with this illigant stick.

You have sent the only lad I loved from the banks of sweet

Dunaee! ” It's the porter that carried my luggage,

For I've shouldered it many a mile, And from thieves it will safely protect me,

He put his arm around her and tried to throw her down, In a beautiful delicate style.

Two pistols and a sword she saw beneath his morning gown; It is useful for rows in the summer,

She took the weapons from him, his sword he used so free, And when winter comes on with a storm,

But she did fire and shot the squire on the banks of sweet Dundee. If you're short of a fire in the cabin, You can burn it to keep yourself warm.

Her uncle overheard the noise, and hestening to the ground,

Saying: “Since you have killed the squire I'll give you your death It's a friend both so true and so constant,

wound.” Its constancy pen cannot paint;

"Stand off," then cried Mary, "undaunted I will be!” For, it always is there, when it's wanted,

She the trigger drew and her uncle slew on the banks of sweet And sometimes it's there when it ain't.

It beats all your guns and your rifles ;
For, it goes off whene'er you desire,

A doctor soon was sent for, a man of noted skill,
And it's sure to hit whate'er it's aimed at-

And then there came a lawyer for him to sign his will; For, shillalehs they never miss fire.

He willed his gold to Mary, who fought so manfully, It's a talisman so upright and honest,

Then he closed his eyes no more to rise on the banks of sweet Twenty shillings it pays to the pound:

So if ever it gets you in debt, sir,
You are sure to be paid, I'll be bound.

It never runs up a long score, sir,
In trade it's not given to fail,

THERE were once two Irish laboring men, to America they came There's no danger of its being insolvent;

over, For, it always pays down on the nail.

And they tramped about in search of work from New York to

Dover; And, faith! at an Irish election,

Said Paddy to Mick, “ I'm tired of this, we're both left in the An argument striking it's there;

lurch, For with brickbats and sprigs of the Shannon, And if we don't get work, bedad! I'll go and rob a church!”

We see things go all right and square. " What! rob a church!” said Mick to Paddy, “ how could you be It's then there's no bribery at all, sir,

so vile? They vote as they like, every soul;

Sure something bad will happen you when in the sacred aisle; But it's no use opposing shillaleh,

But if ye do, I will go with you, we'll get safe out, I hope," Or it's sure to come down on the poll. So listen, and I'll tell ye true, how Paddy stole the rope:

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EMMET'S DEATH. They tramped about through mud and mire, and the place they wanted finding,

“ He dies to-day," said the heartless judge, They got inside a country church, which nobody was minding; Whilst he sate him down to the feast, They scraped together all they could, and then prepared to slope, And a smile was upon his ashy lip When Paddy said, “Hold on now, Mick, what shall we do for As he uttered a ribald jest; rope?

For a demon dwelt where his heart should be, We've got no bag to hold our swag, and before we go outside, That lived upon blood and sin, With something stout and strong, me lad, the bundle must be And oft as that vile judge gave him food tied ;"

The demon throbbed within. Just then he spied the church-bell rope, and swift as an antelope,

“He dies to-day,” said the jailer grim, He scrambled up on the belfry high, to go and steal the rope. While a tear was in his eye;

• But why should I feel so grieved for him? When Paddy reached the belfry-ropes, “Be jabers ! said he, Sure I've seen many die! “ stop,

Last night I went to his stony cell, To get a piece that's long enough I must climb to the top;”.

With the scanty prison fareSo like a sailor up he went, and when near the end said he:

He was sitting at a table rude, “ I think the piece that's underneath quite long enough will be.” Plaiting a lock of hair! So holding by one arm and leg, he pulled his clasp-knife out, And he look'd so mild, with his pale pale face, And right above his head and hand he cut the rope so stout; And he spoke in so kind a way, He quite forgot it held him up. By the powers of Doctor Pope! That my old breast heav'd with a smothering Down to the bottom of the church fell Paddy and the rope.


And I knew not what to say! Says Mick to Paddy, Come out of that!” as he on the floor lay “ He dies to-day,” thought a fair, sweet girl groaning,

She lacked the life to speak, “Is that the way to steal a rope? No wonder now ye're moan. For sorrow had almost frozen her blood, ing;

And white were her lip and cheekI'll how yez how to cut a rope. There! just lend me your knife.” Despair had drank up her last wild tear, * Yerra, Mick, be careful! cried out Paddy, “ or else you'll lose And her brow was damp and chill, Your lite!

And they often felt at her heart with fear, Mick bounded up the rope, and, like an artful thief,

For its ebb was all but still.
Instead of cutting it up above, he cut it underneath;
The piece fell down, and he was left to hang up there and mope-
“ Bad cess unto the day,” said he, “ when we came stealing rope.”

There was Paddy groaning on the floor, while Mick hung up on

His kiss is sweet, his word is kind, high,

His love is rich to me; “Come down,” says Paddy. “I can't,” says Mick, “ for if I drop

I could not in a palace find
I'll die;"

A truer heart than he.
Their noise soon brought the preacher 'round, the sexton and

The eagle shelters not his nest police,

From hurricane and hail, But they set poor Micky free, the pair got no release;

More bravely than he guards my breastThey took them to the station, where their conduct they now rue,

The Boatman of Kinsale.
For if they had no work before, they've plenty now to do;
And for their ingenuity they have a larger scope

The wind that round the Fastnet sweeps Than when they broke into the church and tried to steal the rope.

Is not a whit more pure

The goat that down Cnoc Sheehy leaps

Has not a foot more sure.

No firmer hand nor freer eye Oy, Paddy, dear, and did you hear the news that's going 'round?

Eer faced an Autumn galeThe shamrock is forbid, by law, to grow on Irish ground;

De Courcey's heart is not so highNo more St. Patrick's day we'll keep-his color last be seen,

The Boatman of Kinsale. For there's a bloody law agin the wearing of the green. Oh! I met with Napper Tandy, and he tuk me by the hand, The brawling squires may heed him not, And he says: How is poor ould Ireland, and how does she stand ? The dainty stranger sneer-She's the most distressed country that ever I have seen,

But who will dare to hurt our cot, For they are hanging men and women for the wearing of the When Myles O’Hea is here? green.

The scarlet soldiers pass along

They'd like, but fear to railAnd since the color we must wear is England's cruel red,

His blood is hot, his blow is strong> Ould Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they have The Boatman of Kinsale.

shed; Then take the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod, His hooker's in the Scilly van, It will take root, and flourish still, tho' under foot 'tis trod.

When seines are in the foam ; When the law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they But money never made the man, grow,

Nor wealth a happy home. And when the leaves in summer time their verdure do not show, So, blest with love and liberty, Then I will change the color I wear in my caubeen,

While he can trim a sail, But till that day, plaze God, I'll stick to the wearing of the He'll trist in God, and cling to megreen,

The Boatman of Kinsale.





KATE OF KENMARE, But if, at last, her colors should be torn from Ireland's heart, Her sons with shame and sorrow from the dear old soil will part; O! Many bright eyes full of goodness and gladI've heard whispers of a country that lies far beyond the sea, Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom’s day. Where the pure soul looks out, and the heart

loves to shine, Oh Erin! must we leave you, driven by the tyrant's hand? Must we ask a mother's blessing in a strange but happy land,

And many cheeks pale with the soft hue of sadWhere the cross of England's thraldom is never to be seen,

ness, But where, thank God, we'll live and die still wearing of the Have I worshiped in silence and felt them

divine! green? No! by those who were here before us, no churl shall our tyrant But hope in its gleamings, or love in its dream

ings, Our land it is theirs by plunder, but, by Brigid, ourselves are

Ne'er fashioned a being so faultless and fair free.

As the lily-cheeked beauty, the rose of the

Roughly, No! we do not forget the greatness did once to sweet Erie be

The fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Ken

mare! long; No treason or craven spirit was ever our race among; And no frown or no word of hatred we give—but to pay them It was all but a moment, her radiant existence, back,

Her presence, her absence, all crowded on In evil we only follow our enemies' darksome track. Oh! come for a while among us, and give us the friendly hand, But time has not ages, and earth has not disAnd you'll see that old Tipperary is a loving and gladsome land;

tance From Upper to Lower Ormond, bright welcomes and smiles will To sever, sweet vision, my spirit from thee! spring

Again am I straying where children are playOn the plains of Tipperary the stranger is like a king.


Bright is the sunshine and balmy the air, BURKE'S DREAM.

Mountains are heatly, and there I do see thee,

Sweet fawn of the valley, young Kate of SLOWLY and sadly one night in November

I laid down my weary head to repose
On a pillow of straw, which I long shall remember;

Thy own bright arbutus hath many a cluster O’erpowered by sleep I feel into a doze,

Of white waxen blossoms like lilies in air; Tired from working hard, down in a felon's yard;

But, O! thy pale cheek hath a delicate luster, Night brought relief to my well-tortured frame,

No blossoms can rival, no lily doth wear; Locked in my prison cell, surely an earthly hell;

To that cheek softly flushing, to thy lip I fell asleep and began for to dream.

brightly blushing,

0! what are the berries that briglit tree doth Methought that I sat on the green hills of Erin,

bear? Premeditating her victory won;

Peerless in beauty, that rose of the Rouzhty, Surrounded by comrades, no enemy fearing.

That fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of KenStand was the cry, every man to his gun!

mare! Then on came the Samagh facing our Irishmen,

But they soon rallied back from our Pike volunteers, Whose cry it was shrill, hurrah, boys! Father Murphy

O! beauty, some spell from kind Nature thou

bearest, And his brave Shellamires.

Some magic of tone or enchantment of eye, Then methought that I seen our brave, noble commanders

That hearts that are hardest, from forms that All mounted on chargers and in gorgeous array,

are fairest, In green, trimmed with gold, with their brighi-shining sabers,

Receive such impressions as never can die! On which danced the sunbeams of freedom that day;

The foot of the fairy, though lightsome and On, was the battle-cry, conquer this day or die;

airy, Sons of Hibernia, fight for liberty.

Can stamp on the hard rock tho shape it doth Shoiv neither fear nor dread, vanquish the foe ahead! Cut down their horse, foot and artillery.

Art cannot trace it nor ages efface it

And such are thy glances, sweet Kate of KenThen on the cannon balls flew, men from both sides drew,

mare! Our men were bound by oath to die or hold their ground; So from our vengeance the Samagh fled,

To him who far travels low sad is the feelingLeaving the fields covered with dead.

How the light of his mind is o'ershadowed While each man cried out gloriously:

and dim, Come from your prison, Burke! Irishmen have done their work, When the scenes he most loves, like the river's God he was with us, old Erin is iree!

soft stealing

All fade as a vision and vanish from him! Then methought, as the clouds were repeatedly flowing,

Yet he bears from cach far land a flower for I saw a lion stretched on the crimson-gold places,

that garland, Beneath the pale moonbeams in death's sleep reposing,

That memory weaves of the bright and the The comrades I knew I would never see again;

fair: Then over the mountain path homewards I hastened back, While this sigh I am breathing my garland is There saw my mother, who fainted, gave a loud scream,

wreathing, At the shock of which I awoke, just at davbreak,

And the rose of that garland is Kate of And founa myself a prisoner, and all but a dream.




THE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE. In lonely Lough Quinlan in summer's soft hours,

A, D. 1690. Fair islands are floating that move with the tide,

It was upon a summer's morn, unclouded rose the sun. Which, sterile at first, are soon covered with And lightly o'er the waving corn their way the breezes won; flowers,

Sparkling beneath that orient beam, 'mid banks of verdure gay, And thus o'er the bright waters fairy-like Its eastward course a silver stream held smilingly away.

glide! Thus the mind the most vacant is quickly awak. A kingly host upon its side a monarch camp'd around, ened,

Its southern upland far and wide their white pavilions crowned; And the heart bears a harvest that late was Not long that sky unclouded show'd, nor long beneath the ray so bare,

That gentle stream in silver flowed, to meet the new-born day. Of him who in roving finds objects in loving, Like the fawn of the valley-sweet Kate of Through yonder fairy-haunted glen, from out that dark ravine," Kenmare!

Is heard the tread of marching men, the gleam of arms is seen;

And plashing forth in bright array along yon verdant banks, Sweet Kate of Kenmare, though I ne'er may All eager for the coming fray, are rang'd the martial ranks.

behold thee Though the pride and the joy of another may Peals the loud gun—its thunders boom the echoing vales along,


While curtain'd in its sulph’rous gloom moves on the gallant Though strange lips may praise thee and

throng; strange arms enfold thee!

And foot and horse in mingled mass, regardless all of life, 'A blessing, dear Kate, be on them and on With furious ardor onward pass to join the deadly strife.

thee! One feeling I cherish that never can perish Nor strange that with such ardent flame each glowing heart beats

One talisman proof to the dark wizard care-
The fervent and dutiful love of the Beautiful, Their battle word was William's name, and “ Death or Liberty!

Of which thou art a type, gentle Kate of

Then, Oldbridge, then thy peaceful bowers with sounds unwonted


And Tredagh, 'mid thy distant towers, was heard the mighty MOTHER, HE'S GOING AWAY.


The silver stream is crimson'd wide, and clogg'd with many a Now what are you crying for, Nelly ?

corse, Don't be blubbering there like a fool; With the weight o' the grief, faith, I tell you Now fiercer grows the battle’s rage, the guarded stream is

As floating down its gentle tide come mingled man and horse. You'll break down the three-legged stool.

cross'd, I suppose now you're crying for Barney, But don't b’lieve a word that he'd say,

And furious, hand to hand engage each bold contending host; He tells nothing but big lies and blarneySure you know how he served poor Kate He falls——the veteran hero falls, renowned along the RhineKarney.

And he whose name, while Derry's walls endure, shall brightly


Oh! would to heav'n that churchman bold, his arms with triumph Daughter. But, mother!

blest, Mother. O, bother.

The soldier spirit had controllid that fir'd his pious breast. Daughter. Oh, mother, he's going away,

And I dreamt the other night
Of his ghost-all in white!

And he, the chief of yonder brave and persecuted band, [Mother speaks in an undertone.] The dirty Who foremost rush’d amid the wave and gained the hostile

strand; blackguard! Daughter. Oh, mother, he's going away.

He bleeds, brave Caillemonte-he bleeds—’tis closed, his bright


Yet still that band to glorious deeds his dying accents cheer. If he's going away, all the bettherBlessed hour when he's out of your sight!

And now that well-contested strand successive columns gain, There's one comfort-you can't get a letther-While backward James's yielding band are borne across the plain. For yiz neither can read nor can write,

In vain the sword green Erin draws, and life away doth flingSure 'twas only last week you protested,

Oh! worthy of a better cause and of a bolder king.
Since he courted fat Jinney M'Cray,
That the sight o' the scamp you detested-
With abuse sure your tongue never rested-

In vain thy bearing bold is shown upon that blood-stain'd


Thy tow'ring hopes are overthrown, thy choicest fall around: Daughter. But, mother!

Nor, sham’d, abandon thou the fray, nor blush, though conquer'd Al other. Oh, bother!

there, Daughter. Oh, mother, he's going away. A power against thee fights to-day no mortal arm may dare. other, speaking again with peculiar parental piety. ] May he never come back!

Nay, look not to that distant height in hope of coming aid --Daughter. And I dream of his ghost,

The dastard thence has ta'en his flight, and left his men betray’d.
Walking round my bedpost-

Hurrah! hurrah! the victor shout is heard on high Dunore;
Oh, mother, he's going away. Down Platten's vale, in hurried rout, thy shatter'd masses pour.

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