"Come in-with a 'Cead Mille Failthe;' Sit down, and don't make any noise, Till I come for more comforts to crown ye,

Till I gladden the hearts of the boys.

"Arrah, shake hands again-noble fellows,

That left your own homes for the

poor,

Not a man in the land could betray you, Or shut up his heart or his door.”

'NINETY-EIGHT.

IN the old marble town of Kilkenny, With its abbeys, cathedrals, and halls, Where the Norman bell rings out at nightfall,

And the relics of gray crumbling walls Show traces of Celt and Saxon

In bastions, and towers, and keeps, And graveyards and tombs tell the liv ing

Where glory or holiness sleeps; Where the Nuncio brought the Pope's blessing,

And money and weapons to boot, Whilst Owen was wild to be plucking

The English clan up by the root; Where regicide Oliver revelled,

With his Puritan, ironside horde, And cut down both marble and monarchy,

Grimly and grave, with the sword ;— There, in that old town of history,

England, in famed 'Ninety-Eight, Was busy with gallows and yeomen, Propounding the laws of the State.

They were hanging a young lad, a rebel, On a gibbet before the old jail.

And she hugged his young heart to her bosom,

And kissed his face, pallid and wan; And, as the rope dangled before her, She held the loop fast in her hand For, though her proud soul was unblenching,

Her frail limbs were failing to stand; And whilst the raw yeomen came crowding

To witness the harrowing scene, The brave mother flushed to the forehead,

And spoke with the air of a queen:— "My son, they are going to hang you, For loving your faith and your home, And they called me to urge you, and save you

And in God's name, I've answered

"Blessed Mother!" sneered out the vile

yeoman,

"Tell your son to confess and be free!"

"Never, never!-he'll die like his father; My boy, give your life to the Lord; But of treason to Ireland, mavourneen, Never breathe one dishonoring word.”

His white cheek flushed up at her speaking,

His heart bounded up at her call, And his hushed spirit seemed, at awaking,

To scorn death, yeomen, and all.

"I'll die, and I'll be no informer,

My kin I will never disgrace, And when God lets me see my poor father,

I can lovingly look in his face."

"You'll see him in hell!" cried the yeo

man,

As he flung the sad widow awayAnd the youth in a moment was strangling

In the broad eye of shuddering day.

"Give the gallows a passenger outside," A tall Hessian spluttered aloud, As he drove a huge nail in the timber, 'Mid the curses and cries of the crowd.

Then seizing the poor bereaved mother, He passed his broad belt round her

throat,

Whilst her groaning was lost in the drum-beat

And her shrieks in the shrill bugle

note.