SHANE DYMAS' DAUGHTER. IT was the eve of holy St. Bride, And there seem'd not o'er her soul to glide For ne'er did that clear and sainted well A form more fair than the shadow that fell Her bosom fair as the foam on the wave Yet O! forgive her that starting tear; Fair Kathleen, many a long, long year, Her beads were told, and the moonlight shone When her path was cross'd by a holy nun;"Benedicte, fair daughter! Fair Kathleen started-well did she know- Her country's scourge, and her father's foe,— "Twas the voice of her Saxon lover. "Raymond! -"Oh hush, my Kathleen dear, "My red roan steed's in yon Culdee grove, And thine, to-morrow will offer thee "But away, my love, away with me! To a land where the breeze from the orange bowers 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! Till in bliss beneath the western sky, "Die, Saxon, now!"-At that fiend-like yell 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! O sweetheart Erin! good old land! I love them all, thy heart and hand, O welcome was thy bright green shore, I wove the tendril bands Of friendships great, there's none could cloy Old Ireland's hearts and hands. SHANE DYMAS' DAUGHTER.-Continued. His last groan echoing through the grove, He dies, thy first and thy only love, Vain, vain, was the shield of that breast of snow! Through his Kathleen's heart the murderous blow Too deadly aimed, has slain him. The spirit fled with the red, red blood The blast of death has blighted the bud "Tis morn;-in the deepest doubt and dread The gloomy hours are rolling; No sound save the requiem for the dead, 'Tis dead of night-not a sound is heard, Save from the night-wind sighing; Or the mournful moan of the midnight bird, Who names the name of his murder'd child? Saw ye that cloud o'er the moonlight cast, '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! SMIGGY MAGLOORAL. THERE was a man lived in the West, Arrah! he married a maid, she was none the best, CHORUS. And her name was Noral, Maggie Noral, Dingy dural, Smig. Maglooral, walk off. Arrah! she goes to bed at eleven o'clock, She sat on grass till she caught the cramp, 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, Arrah! she puts on her clothes, and it's out she goes, MAGGIE'S SECRET.-Continued. I sat by his mother, one midsummer day, My foolish tears they began to flow, Though my heart beat high with joy So, you see, that they needn't come wooing to me, For my heart-my heart is over the sea. WHERE THE GRASS GROWS GREEN. I'm Denny Blake, from the County Clare, CHORUS. I love my native country, Poor Pat is often painted With a ragged coat and hat; His heart and hospitality Has 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. "Tis true he has a weakness For a drop of something pure, 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, That sparkles on the sea. Round our own island shore Lay their green heads to rest on the blue heaven's bosom, The hues of the prism, philosophers say, boys, Makes melody sweet, it is true, on the ear- All at once every string And, oh! there is harmony now that is glorious, 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 ROCK OF CASHEL.-Continued. Love of my love, and temple of my God! How would I now clasp thee Close to my heart, and, even as thou wast trod, So with thee trodden be! O, for one hour a thousand years ago, THE MAID OF CASTLE CRAIGH. THREE times the flowers have faded since I left my native home, No maiden could e'er compare with the Maid of Castle Craigh. Her blooming cheek was like the rose, all blushing; and her eye To hear the chant, in deep and measured flow, But oh! it seem'd as cold to me, sweet Maid of Castle Craigh. To see of priests the long and white array, The people kneeling prostrate far away, To see the Prince of Cashel o'er the rest, Their prelate and their king, I courted her a year and more, and sought to gain her love, That I had won thy gentle heart, dear Maid of Castle Craigh. But now my griefs are all at rest, the wars ct length are o'er, 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. There was a time all this within thy walls The creedless, heartless, murderous robber And never since that time Round thy torn altars burned the sacred flame, Or rose the chant sublime. Thy glory in a crimson tide went down, Altar and priest, miter, and cope, and crown, O, but to see thee, when thou wilt rise again- And with the splendors of thy second reign Children of those who made thee what thou Shall lift thee from the tomb, And clothe thee, for the spoiling of the past, And psalm, and hymn, and gold, and precious And gems beyond all price, And priest, and altar, o'er the martyr's bones, And endless prayer, and crucifix, and shrine, And thronging worshipers shall yet be thine- And who shall smite thee then?-and who shall see Thy second glory o'er? When they who make thee free themselves are free, To fall no more. DERMOT ASTORE. OH! Dermot Astore! between waking and sleeping Oh! Dermot Astore! how this fond heart would flutter, I know we must part, but oh! say not for ever, SWEET KATHLEEN THE GIRL I ADORE. FAR away o'er the sea, there's a spot dear to me I left her one day for to roam far away, REFRAIN Sweet Kathleen my darling, I'll never forget, Oh my heart holds one hope, 'tis to see just once more Though long years have gone by, since I kissed her good-bye Still the tears on her face, in my dreams I can trace, |