THE FALON'S LOVE.-Continued. "You loved me, asthore, and your heart broke across, For the sake of the hearts lying down in the clay. "Yes, a traitor to England-a foe of its race, You proudly looked up to the black tyrant's face; "Twas the crime of our fathers-their sons stand up now, With that mark of a traitor stamped plain on each brow. "The last kiss I've pressed on your lips and your cheek, The last word you've heard for your Gracie to speak; The last time I've looked on my brave Willie's face, And left the wild clasp of a felon's embrace. "I am twining my hair, for a bridal is near, By the walls of Kilkeevan they'll carry a bier, For the felon's true love could not live while the brand Was not flashing on high in the grasp of his hand." THE OLD FARMER'S DISCOURSE. I'VE a pound for to spend and a pound for to lend, No lord in his castle or king on his throne. The spinning-wheel stops and my girls grow pale, I have twenty-five pounds and a three-year-old cow; Come here, bana-thagua, sit beside me awhile, And the youngest of all is the white-headed boy, Your hands then, old neighbors, one more cup will drain, SHAMROCK ON PATRICK'S DAY. THERE'S one day in the year that I'll always observe As long as I've one breath of life. To our patron saint my memory will serve, And I haven't the least fear of strife. But with pleasure and freedom, I'll sing and I'll dance, While the piper his tunes sweetly play; Each lad and his colleen can gambol and prance, While we drown the green shamrock on Patrick's Day. CHORUS. Patrick's Day! Saint Patrick's Day! Fill up your glasses, then drink to your And we'll drown the green shamrock on Now, the seventeenth of March is our natal day, And we celebrate it with great joy; From the gray-haired old man and old woman, too, To the smallest of spa'peens or boy. To drown the green shamrock on Patrick's We're not selfish at all on our open fields, So come up every one of ye, take a hand in, We'll stay till the wee small hours of the morn, OLD LANDMARKS ON THE SHANNON. We stand by the bridge, in the level morning, And the saffron water below us flowsSaffron save where, in yon eastern inlet, The light has deepened its bloom to rose. There is the city, good Master Leonard, Tailor and poet, sir, as you are, And here am I with my heart to bursting, Gossiping under the huge bright star; There is the city with roof and casement, Belfry and steeple, of which we sung, When we were boys in St. Michael's parish; Then was the time for a man to be young. Then the city-I still keep thinking Looked gayer, grander, fairer than now, You say it didn't: "Not half as splendid." And I object with my next best bow. Hark! 'tis the bell of St. Dominic ringing,! Ah, weary music that bell to me; For I remember another music In days that I never again shall set. Heavy-heavy monotonous tolling Out from the belfry this morning's rung; I can recall when the saint kept singing: Now is the time for a man to be young. SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. OLD LANDMARKS.--Continued. Oh, the delight of the Sunday mornings, Each separate leaf like a narrow tongue; And the old roof branded in restless shadow, That was the time for a man to be young. I'm not pious, and not affected; I like the life of a true, straight man, But, Master Leonard, you will believe me, Throw fortune in with a "God go with you," "THE night is fresh and calm, love, Of the moon falls bright On the beautiful sleeping flowers. For the love of you, Nora dear. All so white and so cold, But no morsel of flesh and bone. "There's not a soul astir, love, But that rogue of a breeze Till they tremble all through with fear. Ah! them happy flowers that's creeping To your window where you're sleepingSure they're not chide for peeping At your beauties, my Nora dear. You've the heart of a Turk, by my soul, To leave me perched here like an owl; "Tis treatment too bad For a true-hearted lad To be starved like a desolate fowl. COME BACK TO ERIN. COME back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen, Come back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen, Oh, but my heart sank when clouds came between us, CAHAL MOR OF THE WINE-RED HAND. If you're found at my window, dear." Ah! for shame with your foolish alarms: Just drop into your Dermot's arms: Don't mind looking at all For your cloak or your shawl; ONE OF THE BRAVE CONNAUGHT RANGERS. ON the battle-field at midnight, stood a soldier at his post, Thinking of his dear old country and of those he loved the most; He could hear the muskets rattle, just like thunder in the air, But he dare not go amongst them, for "on duty" he was there. Altho' but a private soldier, many brave deeds he had done, And he knew that ere the morning tha fierce battle would be won; But he little dreamt that he would never leave that place againAs he stood there meditating, he so cruelly was slain. CHORUS. They were made but to smother your charms. He was one of the brave Connaught Rangers, one of old Erin's And now a dark cloud rising, Across the moon is cast; The lattice opes And anxious hopes Make Dermot's heart beat fast: Steps light on the lattice sill: Clutch'd the head of the lover all bare; "WON'T YOU LEAVE US A LOCK OF YOUR HAIR?" THE OLD CHURCH, sons, While thinking of home, far across the blue foam, he fell by the enemies' guns, But he died like a true Irish soldier, deny it, now nobody can, For his life he did yield on that fierce battle-field, like a brave fighting Irishman. From behind he bullet struck him, and he fell down with a cry, Mother, is it true that I am at last about to die? I was just this moment thinking of the day when I should see Once again your loving features at the home so dear to me; Mother, darling, God protect you; when I'm gone what will you do? THOυ art crumbling to the dust, old pile! Soon his comrades did surround him, but, alas! it was too late, Thou art hastening to thy fall, And 'round thee in thy loneliness The worshipers are scattered now And silence reigns where anthems rose And sadly sighs the wandering wind, The tramp of many a busy foot Is still forever more. How doth Ambition's hope take wing, We hear the distant city's din, The sun that shone upon their paths The zephyrs which once fanned their brows, Oh! could we call the many back Who've careless roved where we do now, How would our very soul be stirred, To meet the earnest gaze Of the lovely and the beautiful, The lights of other days. That brave soldier lad was dying, soon he'd reach the golden gate; Shortly they could hear him murmur, "Sweetheart, do not grieve SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. THE DEATH OF OWEN ROE.-Continued. "O'Farrell and Clanrickard, Preston and Red Hugh, “Wail-wail him through the Island. Weep-weep for our Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died! "We thought you would not die—we were sure you would not And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow- Is twenty times furder than Cork from Kildare; And the say is that broad, and the waves are that high, Ye're tossed like a fut-ball 'twixt wather and sky; And ye fale like a pratie just burstin' the That all ye can do is to howld yersilf in. "Soft as a woman's was your voice, O'Neill! bright was your But, when ye come over, dear, travel on land! musters; Where'er he put his dear fore foot, he murdered them in clusters: The toads went hop, the frogs went pop, slap-haste into the waters, And the snakes committed suicide to save themselves from slaughter. Nine hundred thousand vipers blue he charmed with sweet discourses, And dined on them at Killaloe, in soups and second courses; When blind-worms crawling on the grass disgusted the whole nation, He gave them a rise, and opened their eyes to a sense of their situation. Oh, then, should I be so fortunate as to get back to Munster, 'Twas there St. Patrick planted turf, and plenty of the praties, "Twas he that brew'd the best of malt, and understood distilling, Tell father I wint, as he bid me, to see nee. voice sounds forth in a watches the silent "O, martyred Emmet, thou art not dead!" Not in the land that you loved and cherished, Not in the hearts of the Celtic race, For whose rights you strove, till the bloodmarked pillars Of tyranny shook to their bone-made base! Death may come with his somber vestment To hide such hearts from our earthly ken; But the spirit within, no death nor darkness Can ever conceal from the gaze of men. To the doomful gibbet the tyrant led thee, And quenched life's flame in its lucent prime; But no tyrant ever can dim the halo That rings thy name for all future time. Over thy urn no white shaft rises, No pompous mark of the sculptor's art; But thy glorious name and thy grand achievements Are graven forever on Ireland's heart! There alone let them stand recorded, Till vict'ry comes on the battle's flood O Spirit that soared upon eagle pinions, The land that nurtured such soul as thine; Then with her chainless hand she'll fashion The tended lily shall sweetly bloom; And the pilgrim over thy green grave bending Shall murmur soft as his pray'r is done— "It wasn't in vain you died, oh, Emmet, For the cause you championed at last is won! " To drive his family to the road to beg and starve for meat? But I stood up with heart and hand and sold my little spot of land, That is the reason why I left and had to emigrate. Such sights as that I've often seen, but I saw worse in Skibbareen In forty-eight, (that time is no more), when famine it was great; I saw fathers, boys and girls with rosy cheeks and silken curls, All a-missing and starving, for a mouthful of food to eat. When they died in Skibbareen, no shrouds or coffins were to be seen, But patiently reconciling themselves to their desperate, horrid fate; They were thrown in graves by wholesale, which caused many an Irish heart to wail, And caused many a boy and girl to be most glad to emigrate. Where is the nation or the land that reared such men as Paddy's land? Where is the man more noble than he they call poor Irish Pat? We have fought for England's Queen, and beat her foes wherever seen, We have taken the town of Delhi-if you please, come, tell me that! We have pursued the Indian Chief, and Nana Sahib, that cursed thief, Who skivered babes and mothers, and left them in their gore; But why should we be so oppressed in the land St. Patrick blessed? The land from which we have the best-poor Paddy must emigrate. There is not a son from Paddy's land but respects the memory of Dan, Who fought and struggled hard to part that poor and plundered country; He advocated Ireland's rights with all his strength and might, And he was but poorly recompensed for all his toil and pains. He told us for to be in no haste, and in him for to place our trust, And he would not desert us or leave us to our fate; But death to him no favor showed, from the beggar to the throne, Since they took our liberator, poor Pat must emigrate. |