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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.
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.
Which he won from her proud invader ;
SHAN VAN VOCHT.
O, The French are on the say !
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
The French are on the say,
Says the Shan Van Vocht ;
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 !
They'll be here by break of day,
And the Orange will decay,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH
TIE harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
As if that soul were fied.
So glory's thrill is o'er,
Now feel that pulse no more !
And where will they have their camp?
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
To the Currach of Kildare
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
[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 ?
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
Erin mavourneen, Erin go bragh !
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!
Do we dream? Can it be,
In this land, at this hour,
With the blossom on the tree,
In the gladsome month of May,
When the young lambs play,
When Nature looks around
On her waking children now,
The seed within the ground,
The bud upon the bough?
Is it right, is it fair,
That we perish of despair
In this land, on this soil,
Where our destiny is set,
Which we cultured with our toil,
And watered with our sweat ?
We have ploughed, we have sown,
But the crop was not our own ;
We have reaped, but harpy hands
We were perishing for food,
When lo ! in pitying mood,
The fat fluid of the slave,
While our corn filled the manger
of the war-horse of the stranger !
God of mercy! must this last?
And the future, to be chained, –
To be hushed, to be whipt,
Do our numbers multiply
Is this all our destiny below,
If this be, indeed, our fate,
Far, far better now, though late,
That we seek some other land and try some
The coldest, bleakest shore
Than the storehouse of the stranger that we dare
Where the harvests of the stranger grow? And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing!
DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY.
Over golden Istambol,
Who felt for our misfortunes and helped us in
Turn here your wondering eyes,
Your muftis and your ministers, your men of
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 they watch their flocks increase,
Till they send it to their masters to be woven
Where they tend the golden grain
Then reap it for the stranger, and turn aside to die.
GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN,
Kindly brothers of the East, -
All the livelong day, and the night beside,
I awoke with an eager, famishing lip,
THE IRISH FAMINE.
GIVE me three grains of corn, mother, -
It will keep the little life I have
Till the coming of the morn.
I am dying of hunger and cold, mother. —
And half the agony of such a death,
It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother, —
How could I look to you, mother, -
For bread to give to your starving boy,
For I read the famine in your cheek,
And in your eyes so wild,
The Queen has lands and gold, mother,-
A babe that is dying of want, mother,
With a ghastly look in its sunken eye,
What has poor Ireland done, mother,
What has poor Ireland done, That the world looks on, and sees us starve,
Perishing, one by one ?
The great men and the high,
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.
SIR WILLIAM JONES.
There is many a brave heart here, mother,
Dying of want and cold,
Are many that roll in gold ;
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,
My father when he died ;
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.
With slow and stately tread,
That day in triumph led,
On temple, arch, and tower,
Of Roine's victorious power ;
Where slaves might prostrate fall,
In Cæsar's palace hall ;
WHAT CONSTITUTES A STATE ?
What constitutes a state ?
Thick wall or moated gate ;
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,
Men who their duties know,
Prevent the long-aimed blow,
These constitute a state ;
O'er thrones and globes elate
Smit by her sacred frown,
And e'en the all-dazzling crown
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,
From Claudius on his throne
At his imperial throne ;
And master of the world,
In triumph now is furled,