ORANGE AND GREEN.

THE night was falling dreary in merry Bandon town,
When, in his cottage, weary, an Orangeman lay down.
The summer sun in splendor had set upon the vale,
And shouts of: "No surrender!" arose upon the gale.

Beside the waters laving the feet of aged trees,

The Orange banner waving, flew boldly in the breezeIn mighty chorus meeting, a hundred voices joined,

And fife and drum were beating the Battle of the Boyne.

Ha! tow'rd his cottage hieing, what form is speeding now,
From yonder thicket flying, with blood upon his brow?
"Hide-hide me, worthy stranger, though green my color be,
And in the day of danger may Heaven remember thee!

"In yonder vale contending alone against that crew,
My life and limbs defending, an Orangeman I slew.
Hark! hear that fearful warning, there's death in every tone--
Oh, save my life till morning, and Heaven prolong your own!TM

The Orange heart was melted in pity to the Green;

He heard the tale, and felt it his very soul within. "Dread not that angry warning though death be in its tone→→→ I'll save your life till morning, or I will lose my own."

Now 'round his lowly dwelling the angry torrent press'd,
A hundred voices swelling, the Orangeman addressed-
Arise-arise, and follow the chase along the plain!
In yonder stony hollow your only son is slain!

"I had a son-one only, one loved as my life,

Thy hand has left me lonely, in that accursed strife.

I pledged my word to save thee until the storm should cease.
I kept the pledge I gave thee-arise, and go in peace!"

The stranger soon departed from that unhappy vale;
The father, broken-hearted, lay brooding o'er the tale.
Full twenty summers after, to silver turned his beard;
And yet the sound of laughter from him was never heard.

The night was falling dreary in merry Wexford town,
When in his cabin, weary, a peasant laid him down.
And many a voice was singing along the summer vale,
And Wexford town was ringing with shouts of: "Granua
Uile."

Beside the waters, laving the feet of aged trees,

The green flag, gaily waving, was spread against the breezeIn mighty chorus meeting, loud voices filled the town,

And fife and drum were beating, Down, Orangeman, lie down?

Hark! 'mid the stirring clangor that woke the echoes there,
Loud voices, high in anger, rise on the evening air.
Like billows of the ocean, he sees them hurry on-

And 'mid the wild commotion, an Orangeman alone.

"My hair," he said, "is hoary, and feeble is my hand,
And I could tell a story would shame your cruel band.
Full twenty years and over have changed my heart and brow,
And I am grown a lover of peace and concord now.

"It was not thus I greeted your brother of the Green;
When, fainting and defeated, I freely took him in.

I pledged my word to save him from vengeance rushing on,

I kept the pledge I gave him, though he had killed my son."

ORANGE AND GREEN.-Continued.

That aged peasant heard him, and knew him as he stood,
Remembrance kindly stirr'd him, and tender gratitude.
With gushing tears of pleasure, he pierced the listening train-
"I'm here to pay the measure of kindness back again!"
Upon his bosom falling, that old man's tears came down;
Deep memory recalling the cot and fatal town.
"The hand that would offend thee, my being first shall end;
I'm living to defend thee, my savior and my friend!"
He said, and slowly turning, address'd the wondering crowd,
With fervent spirit burning, he told the tale aloud.
Now pressed the warm beholders, their aged foe to greet;

They raised him on their shoulders and chaired him through the street.

What would you do, love, if distant tidings Thy fond confidings

HOLYCROSS ABBEY.

"FROM the high sunny headlands of Bere in the west,
To the bowers that by Shannon's blue waters are blest,
I am master unquestion'd and absolute "-said
The lord of broad Munster-King Donald the Red-
"And now that my sceptre's no longer the sword,
In the wealthiest vale my dominions afford,

I will build me a temple of praise to that Power
Who buckler'd my breast in the battle's dread hour."
He spoke it was done and with pomp such as glows
Round a sunrise in summer that Abbey arose.
There sculpture, her miracles lavish'd around,
Until stone spoke a worship diviner than sound.

There from matins to midnight the censers were swaying,
And from matins to midnight the people were praying;
As a thousand Cistercians incessantly raised
Hosannas round shrines that with jewejry blazed;
While the palmer from Syria-the pilgrim from Spain,
Brought their offerings alike to the far-honor'd fane;
And, in time, when the wearied O'Brien laid down
At the feet of Death's Angel his cares and his crown,
Beside the high altar a canopied tomb
Shed above his remains its magnificent gloom,
And in Holycross Abbey high masses were said,
Through the lapse of long ages, for Donald the Red.

In the days of my musings, I wander'd alone,

To this Fane that had flourish'd ere Norman was known;
And its dread desolation was saddening to see,
For its towers were an emblem, O Erin, of thee!
All was glory in ruins-below and above-
From the traceried turret that shelter'd the dove,
To the cloisters dim stretching in distance away,
Where the fox skulks at twilight in quest of his prey.
Here soar'd the vast chancel superbly alone,

While pillar and pinnacle moulder'd around—
There, the choir's richest fretwork in dust overthrown,
With corbel and chapiter "cumber'd the ground."
O'er the porphyry shrine of the Founder all riven,
No lamps glimmer'd now but the cressets of heaven-
From the tombs of crusader, and abbot, and saint,
Emblazonry, scroll, and escutcheon were rent;
While usurping their banners' high places, o'er all
The Ivy-dark mourner--suspended her pail.
With a deeper emotion the spirit would thrill,
In beholding wherever the winter and rain
Swept the dust from the relics it cover'd-that still
Some hand had religiously glean'd them again.
Then I turn'd from the scene, as I mournfully said-
"God's rest to the soul of King Donald the Red."

Should undermine;

Should think other eyes,

Were as bright as thine?

Oh, name it not, though guilt and shame Were on thy name,

I'd still be true;

But that heart of thine, should another share it,

I could not bear itWhat would I do?

What would you do, when home returning,
With hopes high burning,
With wealth for you-

If my bark, that bounded o'er foreign foam,
Should be lost near home-
Ah, what would you do?
So thou wert spared, I'd bless the morrow,
In want and sorrow,
That left me you;

And I'd welcome thee from the wasting bill w,
My heart thy pillow!
That's what I'd do.

AVONDHU.

Он, Avondhu, I wish I were

As once upon that mountain bare,

Where thy young waters laugh and shine
On the wild breast of Meenganine.

I wish I were by Cleada's hill,
Or by Glenruachra's rushy rill;
But no! I never more shall view
Those scenes I loved by Avondhu.

Farewell, ye soft and purple streaks
Of evening on the beauteous Reeks;
Farewell, ye mists, that loved to ride
On Cahirbearna's stormy side.
Farewell, November's moaning breeze,
Wild minstrel of the dying trees;
Clara! a fond farewell to you,
No more we meet by Avondhu.

No more-but thou, O glorious hill,
Lift to the moon thy forehead still;
Flow on, flow on, thou dark swift river,
Upon thy free wild course forever.
Exult, young hearts, in lifetime's spring,
And taste the joys pure love can bring;
But wanderer, go, they're not for you-
Farewell, farewell, sweet Avondhu.

And Larry-that's me b'y-I want to shpake to you av him.
Sure, Larry bates thim all for luck!-'tis he will make his way,
And be the proide and honnur to the sod beyant the say;
We'll soon be able-whist! I do be singin' till I'm hoorse,
For iver since a month or more, my Larry's on the foorce!
There's not a proivate gintleman that boords in all the row
Who houlds himself loike Larry does, or makes as foine a show,
Thim eyes av his, the way they shoine, his coat and butthons

too

He bates them kerrige dhroivers that be on the avenue!

He shtips that proud and shtately-loike, you'd think he owned the town,

And houlds his shtick convanient to be tappin' some wan down-
Aich blissed day, I watch to see him comin' up the shtrate,
For, by the greatest bit av luck, our house is on his bate.
The little b'ys is feared av him, for Larry's moighty shtrict,
And many's the little blagyard he's arristed, I expict;
The beggyars gets acrass the shtrate-you ought to see thim

fly

And organ-groindhers scatthers whin they see him comin' by.
I know that Larry's bound to roise, he'll get a sergeant's post,
And afther that a captincy widhin a year at most,
And av he goes in politics he has the head to throive-
I'll be an Aldherwoman, Katae, afore I'm thirty-foive?
What's that again? Y'are jokin', surely,-Kate, is it thrue?
Last noight, you say, he-married? and Alleen O'Donahue?
O Larry, c'u'd ye have the hairt-but let the spalpeen be;
Av he demanes hmsilf to her, he's nothing more to me.
The ugly shcamp! I alwas said, just as I'm tellin' you,
That Larry was the biggest fool av all I iver knew;

And many a toime I've tould mesilf-you see it now, av coorse-
He'd niver come to anny good av he got on the foorce.

THE GOAT.

Он! now my dear friends, I'm going to relate,
If you pay attention, you've not long to wait;
My father lived in a place called Graymote,
He'd a sow, and a cow, and a fine billy goat.

This goat, sure, he had a queer, curious way,
He'd go out each morning and stop out all day;

When he'd come home at night, like a bull he would roar,
Till my father got up for to open the door.

One day we sat down, and was going to ate,
The goat leaped on the table and shtole all the mate;
And without saying a word, shure the dirty ould gommagh,
He druv his two horns in my poor father's stomach.

The words she scarce spoke, when the goat gave a jump,
And struck me mother, oh, gorra! such a murthering thump.

Then all in the house bate a hasty retrate,

And the goat bucked away at the divil's own rate;
He spied my father's coat hanging up, gave a bawl,

Made a charge on the "frize," and druv his head in the wall.

Some time afther they went to look for the goat,
They searched all around, till they came to the coat;
But all of the goat that was left the next day,

Was only the shtump of his tail, and it bucking away.

A SHAMROCK FROM THE IRISH SHORE.

O, POSTMAN! speed thy tardy gait—

For thee I watch, for thee I wait,
Go quicker round from door to door;

Thou bringest news of bale and bliss-
Like many a weary wanderer more.

Some life begun, some life well o'er.
He stops-he rings!-O Heaven! what's this?
A shamrock from the Irish shore!

Dear emblem of my native land,

By fresh fond words kept fresh and green;
The pressure of an unfelt hand-
The kisses of a lip unseen;

A throb from my dead mother's heart-
My father's smile revived once more-
Oh, youth! oh, love! oh, hope thou art,
Sweet Shamrock from the Irish shore!
Enchanter, with thy wand of power,

Thou mak'st the past be present still:
The emerald lawn-the lime-leaved bower-
The circling shore-the sunlit hill;
The grass, in winter's wintriest hours,
By dewy daisies dimpled o'er,
Half hiding, 'neath their trembling flowers,

The Shamrock of the Irish shore!

And thus, where'er my footsteps strayed,
By queenly Florence, kingly Rome-
By Padua's long and lone arcade-
By Ischia's fires and Adria's foam-
By Spezzia's fatal waves that kissed
My poet sailing calmly o'er ;

By all, by each, I mourned and missed
The Shamrock of the Irish shore!

I saw the palm-tree stand aloof,
Irresolute 'twixt the sand and sea;
I saw upon the trellised roof

Outspread the wine that was to be;
A giant-flowered and glorious tree
I saw the tall magnolia soar;

But there, even there, I longed for thee,
Poor Shamrock of the Irish shore!

Now on the ramparts of Boulogne,
As lately by the lonely Rance,

At evening as I watched the sun,

I look! I dream! Can this be France?
Not Albion's cliffs, how near they be,
He seems to love to linger o'er;
But gilds, by a remoter sea,

The Shamrock on the Irish shore!

I'm with him in that wholesome clime-
That fruitful soil, that verdurous sod-
Have still a simple faith in God.
Hearts that in pleasure and in pain,
Where hearts unstained by vulgar crime

The more they're trod rebound the more Like thee, when wet with Heaven's own rain, O Shamrock of the Irish shore!

Memorial of my native land,

True emblem of my land and race-
Thy small and tender leaves expand,
But only in thy native place.
Thou needest for thyself and seed
Soft dews around, kind sunshine o'er;
Transplanted, thou'rt the merest weed,
O Shamrock of the Irish shore!

A SHAMROCK FROM THE IRISH SHORE.-Cont'd.
Here on the tawny fields of France,

Or in the rank, red English clay,
Thou showest a stronger form, perchance;
A bolder front thou may'st display,
More able to resist the scythe
But then thou art no more the blythe
That cut so keen, so sharp before;
Bright Shamrock of the Irish shore!

Ah, me! to think thy scorns, thy slights,
Thy trampled tears, thy nameless grave
On Fredericksburg's ensanguined heights,
Or by Potomac's purple wave!
Ah, me! to think that power malign

Thus turns thy sweet green sap to gore,
And what calm rapture might be thine,
Sweet Shamrock of the Irish shore!

Struggling, and yet for strife unmeet,
True type of trustful love thou art;
Thou liest the whole year at my feet,

To live but one day at my heart.
One day of festal pride to lie

Upon the loved one's heart-what more? Upon the loved one's heart to die,

O Shamrock of the Irish shore!

They roamed a long and weary way,

Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, When now, at close of one stormy day, They see a proud castle among the trees. "To-night," said the youth, "we'll shelter there,

The wind blows cold, the hour is late!" So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air, And the porter bowed as they passed the gate.

"Now welcome, lady!" exclaimed the youth, "This castle is thine, and these dark woods all."

She believed him crazed, but his words were truth,

For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves

What William, the stranger, wooed and wed; And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves, Shines pure as it did in the lowly shed.

NORAH O'NEAL.

Он, I'm lonely to-night, love, without you,
And I sigh for one glance of your eye;
For sure there's a charm, love, about you,
Whenever I know you are nigh.
Like the beam of the star when 'tis smiling,
Is the glance which your eye can't conceal;
And your voice is so sweet and beguiling,
That I love you, sweet Norah O'Neal.

CHORUS.

Oh, don't think that ever I'll doubt you, my love, I will never conceal;

I'm lonely to-night, love, without you, my darling sweet Norah O'Neal.

Oh, the nightingale sings in the wildwood,

As if every note that he knew

Was learned from your sweet voice in childhood,

To remind me, sweet Norah, of you.

But I think, love, so often about you,
And you don't know how happy I feel;

But I'm lonely to-night, love, without you,
My darling, sweet Norah O'Neal.

Oh, why should I weep tears of sorrow?
Oh, why let hope lose its place?
Won't I meet you, my darling, to-morrow,
And smile on your beautiful face?
Will you meet me? oh, say will you meet me
With a kiss at the foot of the lane:
And I'll promise, whenever you greet me,
That I'll never be lonely again.

THE SWEET SONGS OF ERIN ASTHORE.

Он where is the true Irish heart that don't beat
With rapture, and sweet ecstasy,

When he listens with joy, to the loved songs of home,
Filled with romance and sweet melody.

Their notes thrill the heart, of the wanderer that roams Far away from his dear native shore;

And the one only solace that cheers him through life, Are the sweet songs of Erin asthore.

REFRAIN.

"Come back to Erin, Oh Kathleen Mavourneen,"
Their music so grand, thrills my heart o'er and o'er,
The world knows no sweeter, no grander, or purer
Sweet songs, than the loved ones of Erin asthore.

How well I remember those days long ago,
Ere I left my loved country to roam;

All the boys, and the girls, they would gather at eve,
On the old village green by my home.
How their sweet voices rang, as the old songs they sang,
Oh I long for to live those days o'er;
But their mem'ries I'll hold, till the day that I die,
With the sweet songs of Erin asthore.

REFRAIN.

"Come back to Erin, Oh Kathleen Mavourneen," Their music so grand, thrills my heart o'er and o'er, The world knows no sweeter, no grander, or purer Sweet songs, than the loved ones of Erin asthore.