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But the night dew that falls, though in silence

it weeps, LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he OLD.

sleeps ;

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, LET Erin remember the days of old,

Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
Ere her faithless sons betrayed her;
When Malachi wore the collar of gold

Which he won from her proud invader ;
When her kings with standard of green unfurled
Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger,

Ere the emerald gem of the western world
Was set in the crown of a stranger.

O, The French are on the say !

Says the Shan Van Vocht;

The French are on the say,
On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays,
When the clear cold eve 's declining,

Says the Shan Van Vocht ;
He sees the round towers of other days

O, the French are in the bay ! In the wave beneath him shining !

They 'll be here without delay, Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime,

And the Orange will decay, Catch a glimpse of the days that are over,

Says the Shan Van Vocht. Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time

O, the French are in the bay !
For the long-faded glories they cover !

They'll be here by break of day,
THOMAS MOORE (" Irish Melodies ").

And the Orange will decay,

Says the Shan Van Vocht.



TIE harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls

As if that soul were fied.
So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts that once beat high for praise

Now feel that pulse no more !

And where will they have their camp?

Says the Shan Van Vocht;
Where will they have their camp?

Says the Shan Van Vocht;
On the Currach of Kildare,
The boys they will be there
With their pikes in good repair,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.

To the Currach of Kildare
The boys they will repair,
And Loril Eluard will be there,

Says the Shan Van Vocht.

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[The Lake of Gougaune Barra, I. e. the hollow, or recess of St. Finn Bar, in the rugged territory of Ibh-Laoghaire (the O'Learys' country), in the west end of the county of Cork, is the parent of the river Lee. Its waters embrace a small but verdant island of about half an acre in extent, which approaches its eastern shore. The lake, as its name implies, is situate in a deep hollow, surrounded on every side (save the east, where its su erabundant waters are discharged) by vast and almost perpendicular inountains, whose dark inverted shadows are gloomily reflected in its still waters beneath.]

THERE is a green island in lone Gougaune Barra, Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow; In deep-valleyed Desmond -a thousand wild


Come down to that lake from their home in the mountains.

There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow

Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow; As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning, It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning.

- O, to see them all

And its zone of dark hills, brightening,

When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning,

And the waters rush down, mid the thunder's deep rattle,

Like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle; And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming, And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming! O, where is the dwelling, in valley or highland, So meet for a bard as this lone little island?

How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara, And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera, Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home

by the ocean,

And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion, And thought of thy bards, when assembling together,

In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy heather;

They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter,

And waked their last song by the rush of thy water.

High sons of the lyre, O, how proud was the feeling,

To think while alone through that solitude stealing,

Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number, I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber, And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains

The songs even Echo forgot on her mountains; And gleaned each gray legend that darkly was sleeping

Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty were creeping!



Least bard of the hills! were it mine to inherit | Where is my cabin door, fast by the wildwood ?
The fire of thy harp and the wing of thy spirit, Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall ?
With the wrongs which like thee to our country Where is the mother that lookeil on my childhood ?
have bound me,

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around O my sad heart ! long abandoned by pleasure, me,

Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ? Still, still in those wilds might young Liberty rally, Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without And send her strong shout over mountain and measure, valley,

But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. The star of the west might yet rise in its glory, And the land that was darkest be brightest in story. Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing,

One dying wish my lone bosom can draw,

Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing ! I tooshall be gone;- but my name shall be spoken

Land of my forefathers, Erin go bragh ! When Erin awakes and her fetters are broken.

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Some minstrel will come, in the summer eve's Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean ! gleaming,

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with When Freedom's young light on his spirit is

devotion, -

Erin mavourneen, Erin go bragh !
And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion,
Where calm Avon-Buee seeks the kisses of ocean,
Or planta wild wreath, from the banks of that river,
O'er the heart and the harp that are sleeping for-


They are dying! they are dying ! where the

golden corn is growing ; They are dying ! they are dying! where the

crowded herds are lowing ; EXILE OF ERIN.

They are gasping for existence where the streams THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,

of life are flowing, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; And they perish of the plague where the breeze For his country he sighed, when at twilight

of health is blowing !

God of justice! God of power!
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.

Do we dream? Can it be,
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,

In this land, at this hour,
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,

With the blossom on the tree,
Where once,
in the fire of his youthful emotion,

In the gladsome month of May,
the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.

When the young lambs play,

When Nature looks around
Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger;

On her waking children now,
The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,

The seed within the ground,
But I have no refuge from famine and danger,

The bud upon the bough?
A home and a country remain not to me.

Is it right, is it fair,
Never again in the green sunny bowers

That we perish of despair
Where my forefathers lived shall I spend the

In this land, on this soil,
sweet hours,

Where our destiny is set,
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,

Which we cultured with our toil,
And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh !

And watered with our sweat ?
Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,

We have ploughed, we have sown,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ;

But the crop was not our own ;
But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken,

We have reaped, but harpy hands
And sigh for the friends who can meet me no Swept the harvest from our lands;
more !

We were perishing for food,
O cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me

When lo ! in pitying mood,
In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase Our kindly rulers gave
me ?

The fat fluid of the slave,
Never again shall my brothers embrace me ?

While our corn filled the manger
They died to defend me, or live to deplore !

of the war-horse of the stranger !

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God of mercy! must this last?
Is this land preordained,
For the present and the past

And the future, to be chained, –
To be ravaged, to be drained,
To be robbed, to be spoiled,

To be hushed, to be whipt,
Its soaring pinions clipt,
And its every effort foiled?

Do our numbers multiply
But to perish and to die?

Is this all our destiny below,
That our bodies, as they rot,
May fertilize the spot

If this be, indeed, our fate,

Far, far better now, though late,

That we seek some other land and try some

other zone;

The coldest, bleakest shore
Will surely yield us more

Than the storehouse of the stranger that we dare
not call our own.

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Where the harvests of the stranger grow? And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing!


Over golden Istambol,

Who felt for our misfortunes and helped us in

our dearth,

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Turn here your wondering eyes,
Call your wisest of the wise,

Your muftis and your ministers, your men of
deepest lore;

Let the sagest of your sages

Ope our island's mystic pages,

And explain unto your highness the wonders of our shore.

A fruitful, teeming soil,
Where the patient peasants toil
Beneath the summer's sun and the watery winter

Where they watch their flocks increase,
And store the snowy fleece

Till they send it to their masters to be woven
o'er the waves;

Where they tend the golden grain
Till it bends upon the plain,

Then reap it for the stranger, and turn aside to die.

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Kindly brothers of the East, -
Thou great tiara'd priest,
Thou sanctified Rienzi of Rome and of the earth, I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother,
Or thou who bear'st control
And the sight was heaven to see;

All the livelong day, and the night beside,
Gnawing for lack of food.

I awoke with an eager, famishing lip,
But you had no bread for me.



GIVE me three grains of corn, mother, -
Only three grains of corn;

It will keep the little life I have

Till the coming of the morn.

I am dying of hunger and cold, mother. —
Dying of hunger and cold;

And half the agony of such a death,
My lips have never told.

It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother, —
A wolf that is fierce for blood;


How could I look to you, mother, -
How could I look to you,

For bread to give to your starving boy,
When you were starving too?

For I read the famine in your cheek,

And in your eyes so wild,
And I felt it in your bony hand,
As you laid it on your child.

The Queen has lands and gold, mother,-
The Queen has lands and gold,
While you are forced to your empty breast
A skeleton babe to hold, -

A babe that is dying of want, mother,
As I am dying now,

With a ghastly look in its sunken eye,
And famine upon its brow.

What has poor Ireland done, mother,

What has poor Ireland done, That the world looks on, and sees us starve,

Perishing, one by one ?
Do the men of England care not, mother,

The great men and the high,
For the suffering sons of Erin's isle,

Whether they live or die ?

Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore !

No more shall freedom smile? Shall Britons languish, and be men no more ?

Since all must life resign, Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave

'T is folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent grave.



There is many a brave heart here, mother,

Dying of want and cold,
While only across the Channel, mother,

Are many that roll in gold ;
There are rich and proud men there, mother,

With wondrons wealth to view, And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night

Would give life to me and you.

Come nearer to my side, mother,

Come nearer to my side,
And hold me fondly, as you held

My father when he died ;
Quick, for I cannot see you, mother,

My breath is almost gone ; Mother! dear mother ! ere I die,

Give me three grains of corn.

Before proud Rome's imperial throne

In mind's unconquered mood, As if the triumph were his own,

The dauntless captive stood.
None, to have seen his frecborn air,
Had fancied him a captive there.
Though through the crowded streets of Rome,

With slow and stately tread,
Far from his own loved island home,

That day in triumph led,
Unbound his head, unbent his knee,
Undimmed his eye, his aspect free.
A free and fearless glance he cast

On temple, arch, and tower,
By which the long procession passed

Of Roine's victorious power ;
And somewhat of a scornful smile
Upcurled his haughty lip the while.
And now he stood, with brow serene,

Where slaves might prostrate fall,
Bearing a Briton's manly mien

In Cæsar's palace hall ;
Claiming, with kindled brow and cheek,
T'he liberty e'en there to speak.




What constitutes a state ?
Not high-raised battlement or labored mound,

Thick wall or moated gate ;
Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned ;

Not bays and broad-armed ports, Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ;

Not starred and spangled courts, Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to


No:- men, high-minded men, With

powers as far above dull brutes endued

In forest, brake, or den,
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude,

Men who their duties know,
But know their rights, and, knowing, dare main-


Prevent the long-aimed blow,
And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain ;

These constitute a state ;
And sovereign law, that state's collected will,

O'er thrones and globes elate
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill.

Smit by her sacred frown,
The fiend, Dissension, like a vapor sinks ;

And e'en the all-dazzling crown
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks ;

Such was this heaven-loved isle,

Nor could Rome's haughty lord withstand

The claim that look preferred, But motioned with uplifted hand

The suppliant should be heard,
If he indeed a suppliant were
Whose glance demanded audience there.
Deep stillness fell on all the crowd,

From Claudius on his throne
Down to the meanest slave that bowed

At his imperial throne ;
Silent his fellow-captive's grief
As fearless spoke the Island Chief.
“Think not, thou eagle Lord of Rome,

And master of the world,
Though victory's banner o'er thy dome

In triumph now is furled,
I would address thee as thy slave,
But as the bold should greet the brave !

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