\ Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2015 https://archive.org/details/poemsofthomasdav00davi_1 p M.Havertv. New York THE POEMS or THOMAS DAY I S. WITH NOTES, HISTORICAL ILLUSTRATIONS, ETC. AND AN INTRODUCTION, BY JOHN MITCHSL. Thy striving-, be it with loving ; Tbv living, be it in deed. Goethe . NEW YORK : P. M. HAVERTY. P. J. KENEDY, EXCELSIOR CATHOLIC PUBLISHING HOUSE, 5 Barclay Street. 1879. CH COlA-^ ESTNUt HU-U 31541 Brief, brave, and glorious, was his young carerr, His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foea , For he was Freedom’s champion, one of those. The few in number, who had not outstep. The charter tj chastise which she bestows On such as wield her weapons. He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o’er him wept. Byron CONTENTS PAG 8 INTRODUCTION, BY JOHN MITCHEL . . i INTRODUCTION, BY THE EDITOR . . . . ix PART I. — NATIONAL BALLADS AND SONGS. TIPPERARY’ 31 THE RIVERS 33 GLENGARIFF 35 THE west’s ASLEEP 37 OH ! FOR A STEED 38 CYMRIC RULE AND CYMRIC RULERS . . .41 A BALLAD OF FREEDOM 43 THE IRISH HURRAH 47 A SONG FOR THE IRISH MILITIA ... 48 OUR OWN AGAIN 50 CELTS AND SAXONS 53 ORANGE AND GREEN 56 PART II. — MISCELLANEOUS SONGS AND BALLADS. THE LOST PATH 59 love’s LONGINGS 61 HOPE DEFERRED 62 EIBHLIN A RUIN 64 THE BANKS OF THE LEE 65 THE GIRL OF DUNBWY 67 DUTY AND LOVE 68 ANNIE DEAR 69 BLIND MARY 71 THE BRIDE OF MALLOW 72 CONTENTS. PAQB THE WELCOME 74 THE MI-NA-MEALA 76 MAIRE BHAN A STOIR 78 oh! the marriage 79 A PLEA FOR LOVE ...... 81 THE bishop’s DAUGHTER 82 THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE .... 83 MY DARLING NELL 84 LOVE CHAUNT 85 A CHRISTMAS SCENE . . . < . 86 THE INVOCATION 88 LOVE AND WAR 90 MY LAND 91 THE RIGHT ROAD 92 PART III. — HISTORICAL BALLADS AND SONGS. jFirst .Strus. A NATION ONCE AGAIN 93 LAMENT FOR THE MILESIANS .... 95 THE FATE OF KING DATHI . . . . 98 ARGAN MOR 102 THE VICTOR’S BURIAL 104 THE TRUE IRISH KING . . . . . 105 THE GERALDINES 109 O’BRIEN OF ARA 114 EMMELINE TALBOT 116 O’SULLIVAN’S RETURN 122 THE FATE OF THE O’SULLIVANS . . .126 THE SACK OF BALTIMORE . . . .132 LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF OWEN ROE O’NEILL 137 A RALLY FOR IRELAND 140 THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK .... 143 CONTENTS. PART IV.- —HISTORICAL BALLADS AND SONGS. PAGS THE PENAL DAYS 147 THE DEATH OF SARSFJELD . . . .150 THE SURPRISE OF CREMONA .... 151 THE FLOWER OF FINAE 154 THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME . . . . 156 glare’s dragoons . . . . . .158 WHEN SOUTH WINDS BLOW . . . 161 THE BATTLE-EVE OF THE BRIGADE . . .162 FONTENOY 164 THE DUNGANNON CONVENTION . . . .168 SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1782 . . 171 THE MEN OF ’EIGHTY-TWO . . . .173 NATIVE SWORDS 175 tone’s grave 177 PART V. — MISCELLANEOUS POEMS NATIONALITY 179 SELF-RELIANCE 181 SWEET AND SAD .183 THE BURIAL 186 WE MUST NOT FAIL 190 O’CONNELL’S STATUE 192 THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED . . . .195 THE VOW OF TIPPERARY . . . .198 A PLEA FOR THE BOG-TROTTERS . . .199 A SECOND PLEA FOR THE BOG-TROTTERS . .201 A SCENE IN THE SOUTH 202 WILLIAM TELL 205 THE EXILE 207 MY HOME 209 FANNY POWER ... . . 214 MARIE NANGLE 216 MY GRAVE .... ... 219 APPENDIX 221 The sun get ; but set not nis nope . Stars rose ; his faith was earlier up ■ Fixed on the enormous galaxy. Deeper and older seemed his eye : And matched his sufferance sublime The taciturnity of time. He spoke, and words more soft than rain Brought the Age of Gold again : His action won such reverence sweet. As hid all measure of the feat. Emerum INTRODUCTION BY JOHN MITCHEL. At Mallow, on the river Blackwater, in the County of Cork, and some time in the year 1814, Thomas Osborne Davis was born. His father was by birth a W elshman, but long settled in the South of Ireland ; and Davis, ever proud of his Cymric blood, and of his kindred with the other Gaelic family of Milesians, named himself through life a Celt. “ The Celt” was his nom-de-plume ; and the Celtic music and literature, the Celtic language, and habits, and history, were always his fondest study. Partly from the profound sympathy of his nature with the fiery, vehement, affectionate, gentle, and bloody race that bred him, — his affinity with “ the cloudy and lightning genius of the Gael,” — partly from his hereditary aversion to the coarser and more energetic Anglo-Saxon, — and partly from the chivalry of his character, which drew him to the side of all oppressed nations everywhere over the earth, — he chose to write Celt upon his front ; he would live and die a Celt. The scenes of his birth and bo3 T hood nursed and che* rished this feeling. Amongst the hills of Munster — • on the banks of Ireland’s most beauteous river, the Avondheu , Spenser’s “Auniduff,” — and amidst a simple 11 PREFACE. people who yet retained most of the venerable usager > olden time, their wakes and funeral-caoines, their wed- ding merrymakings, and simple hospitality with a hun- dred thousand welcomes; he imbibed that passionate and deep love, not for the people only, but for the very soil, rocks, woods, waters, and skies of his native land, which gives to his writings, both in prose and poetry, their chief value and charm. He received a good education, and entered Trinity College, Dublin. During his university course, his read- ing was discursive, omnivorous, by no means confined within the text-books and classic authors prescribed for study within the current terms of the college curriculum. Therefore he was not a dull, plodding blockhead “ pre- mium-man.” He came through the course creditably enough, but without distinction; and Wallis, an early friend and comrade of Davis, and the author of the first tribute to his memory and his genius, in the “ Introduc- tion” prefixed to this edition of his Poems, says that “ during his college-course, and for some years after, while he was very generally liked, he had, unless, per- haps, with some few who knew him intimately, but a moderate reputation for high ability of any kind.” In short his moral and intellectual growth was slow ; he had no personal ambition for mere distinction, and never through all his life did anything for effect. Thus he spent his youth in storing his own mind and training his own heart ; never wrote or spoke for the public till he approached his thirtieth year ; exerted faculty after faculty (unsuspected by himself as well as by others) just as the occasion for their exertion arose, and nobody else was at hand able or willing to do the needful work PREFACE. m and when he died at the age of thirty-one, those only who knew him best felt that the world had been per- mitted to see but the infancy of a great genius. His poetry is but a fragment of the man. He was no boy-rhymer ; and brim-full as his eye and soul were of the beauties and glories of Nature, he never felt a ne- cessity to utter them in song. In truth he did not himself suspect that he could make verses until the establishment of the Nation newspaper, in which, from the first, ho was the principal writer ; and then, from a calm, deliberate conviction that amongst other agencies for arousing national spirit, fresh, manly, vigorous, national songs and ballads must by no means be ne- glected, he conscientiously set to work to manufacture the article wanted. The result was that torrent of impassioned poesy which flashed through the columns of the Nation, week by week, and made many an eager boy, from the Giant’s Causeway to Cape Clear, cut open the weekly sheet with a hand shaken by excitement, — to kindle his heart with the glowing thought of the nameless “ Celt.” The defeat of Ireland and her cause, and the utter prostration into which she has fallen, may, in the minds of many, deprive the labours of Davis of some portion of their interest. If his aspirations had been made realities, and his lessons had ripened into action ; if the British standard had gone down, torn and trampled before the green banner, in this our day, as it had done before on many a well-fought field, — then all men would have loved to trace the infancy and progress of the tri- umphant cause, — the lives and actions of those who had toiled in the sweat of their brows to make its triumph IV PREFACE. possible. It is the least, indeed, of the penalties, yet it Is one of the surest penalties of defeat — that the world will neglect you and your claims ; will not care to ask why you were defeated, nor care to inquire whether you deserved success. Yet to some minds it will be always interesting to understand instead of misunderstanding even a baffled cause. And to such, the Poems of Davis are presented as the fullest and finest expression of the national sen- timent that in 1843 shook the British empire to its base, and was buried ignominiously in the Famine-graves of 48 — not without hope of a happy resurrection. To characterize shortly the poetry of Davis — its main strength and beauty lies in its simple passion. Its exe- cution is unequal ; and in some of the finest of his pieces any magazine-critic can point out weak or unmusical verses. But all through these ringing lyrics there is a direct, manly, hearty, human feeling, with here and there a line or passage of such passing melody and beauty that once read it haunts the ear and heart for ever. “ What thoughts were mine in early youth ' Like some old Irish song , Brimful of love, and life, and truth, My spirit gushed along.” And in that exquisite song, “The Rivers.” Let any on€ who has an ear to hear, and a tongue to speak, read aloud the fifth stanza. * But far kinder the woodlands of rich C-onvamore, And more gorgeous the turrets of saintly Lismore ; There the stream, like a maiden, With love overladen Pants wild on each shore ” PREFACE. f /' . ' , ' ‘ I Who that has once seen, will ever forget, old Lord Clare, rising at the head of his mess-table, in the “Battle-evs of the Brigade” — 44 The veteran arose, like an uplifted lance , Saying, Comrades, a health to the monaich of France !” His “ Lament for the death of Owen Roe,” is the very heart and soul of a musical, wild, and miserable Irish caoine (the coronach , or noeniae) — li Wail, wail him through the Island ! Weep, weep for aur pride ! Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died ! Weep the victor of Benburb — weep him, young men and old ; Weep for him, ye women — your Beautiful lies cold ! “ We thought you would not die — we were sure you would not go, And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell’s cruel blow — Sheep without a shepherd , when the snow shuts out the sky — Oh ! why did you leave us, Owen ? Why did you die ? For his battle-ballads maybe instanced “Fontenoy,” and the “Sack of Baltimore.” And his love-songs are the genuine pleadings of longing, yearning, devouring pas- sion. Perhaps, however, the most characteristic, though far from the finest of all these songs, is that beginning “Oh! for a steed!” There he gives bold and broad expression to that feeling which we have already de- scribed as a leading constituent of his noble nature, — sympathy with conquered nations, assertion and es- pousal of their cause against force and fate, — and a mortal detestation and defiance of that conquering “energy” which impels the civilizing bullies of mankind to “bestride the narrow world like a Colossus.” This sympathy it was which so strongly attracted him to th6 vi PREFACE. books of Augustin Thierry, whose writings he often recommended as the most picturesquely faithful and heartily human of all historical works. Space would fail us to give anything like an adequate narrative of Davis’s political toils through the three last busy years of his life. It is not detracting from any man’s just claims to assert, what all admit, that he, more than any one man, inspired, created, and moulded the strong national feeling that possessed the Irish people in *43, made O’Connell a true uncrowned king, and “ Placed the strength of all the land Like a falchion in his hand.” The “government,” at last, with fear and trembling came to issue with the “ Repeal Conspirators” in the law courts. Well they might fear and tremble. One movement of O’Connell’s finger — for only he could give the signal — and within a month no vestige of British power could have remained in Ireland. For O’Connell’s refusal to wield that power, then unquestionably in his hands, may God forgive him ! He went into prison on the 30th of May, 1844, stayed there three months — came out in a triumph of perfect paroxysm of popular enthu- siasm stronger than ever. Yet from that hour the cause declined ; nothing, answering expectation or commen- surate with the power at his command, was done or attempted. “Physical force” was made a bugbear to frighten women and children ; priests were instructed to denounce “rash young men,” from their altars; and “Law” — London law, was thrust down the national throat. Davis saw this, — vainly resisted it, and made head PREFACE. VL against it for a while. He laboured in the Nation more zealously than ever; but his intimate comrades per- ceived him changed; and after a short illness he dlied\ at his mother’s house, Baggot street, Dublin, on the 16th of September, 1845. The Nation lost its strength and its inspiration. The circle of friends and comrades, — the “Young Ireland party,” as they were called, that revolved around this central figure, that were kept in their spheres by the attraction of his strong nature; taking their literary tasks from his hands, — drawing instruction from his varied accomplishments, and courage and zeal from his kindly and cheerful converse, — soon fell into confusion, alienation, helplessness. Gloom gathered round the cause, and Famine wasting the bone and vigour of the nation, made all his friends feel, as the confederate Irish felt when Owen Roe died of poison — like 4 ‘ Sheep without a shepherd when snow shut out the sky.” MacNevin, who idolized him, was cut suddenly from all his moorings, and like a rudderless ship drifted and whirled, until he died in a mad-house. Of others, it would be invidious to trace the career in this place. Enough to say, that the most dangerous foe English dominion in Ireland has had in our generation, is buried in the cemetery of Mount Jerome, in the southern suburbs of Dublin. Fragmentary and hasty as are the compositions in prose or verse, which Davis left behind him, they are the best and most authentic exponent of the principles and aspirations of the remnant of his disciples. v INTRODUCTION l BY THE EDITOR. It is my sincere belief, that no book has ever been pub- lished of more immediate and permanent interest to the Irish People, than this little volume of the Poems of Thomas Davis. The momentary grief of the people for his loss was loud and ardent enough. I have heard some touching instances of the intensity with which it manifested itself in thousands who had never seen his face, or heard his voice, — to whom, indeed, his very name and being were unknown until the tidings of his death awoke in them the vain regret that they had not earlier known and honoured the good great man who worked unseen among them. But, alas ! regrets of this description are in their very nature transient ; and all ranks of the people have much to learn before they can rightly appreciate what a trea- sure of hope and energy, of life and love, of greatnesi and glory for himself and them, lies buried in that un- timely grave. X INTRODUCTION. It has been the peculiar destiny of this Nation of Sor- rows, to lose by unseasonable death, at the very crisis of her peril, the only men who were endowed with the genius and energy to guide her unharmed through the strife. Too seldom have Ireland’s champions lived to reap the mature fruit of their toil. Too seldom hath the calm evening of existence, o’ercanopied by victory, and smiled on by such parting twilight as promises a brighter morrow, heralded for them that glad repose, which they only know who have laboured and seen their labour blessed. The insidious angel of Death has pre- ferred to take our chieftains unprepared in their noon of manhood, — too often before that noon arrived, stab- bing them stealthily in their tents, as they donned their armour, at the dawn of some great day, or mused upon the event of that encounter, which they had bent 3very energy to meet, and yet were doomed never to see. Long centuries hath the hand of God, for inscrutable causes, been very heavy on Ireland ; and this alaeri* y of Death is the fetter-key of his wrath. May this last offering of our first-born propitiate him, and may the kingly souls whom hereafter He may send among ur to rule and guide our people no more be prematurely sum- moned away, in the very dawn of their glory, with their hopes unrealized, and their mission unfulfilled. Fortunately, Davis was not a statesman and political leader merely, but a thinker and a writer too, — mre than that, a genuine poet ; as, I trust, all who peruse this little book will acknowledge. True, it is a mere garland of blossoms, whose fruit was doomed never to ripen; a reliquary of undeveloped genius, but recently awakened to a consciousness of its own power. INTRODUCTION. XI The ambition, the activity, and above all, the over- weening confidence of most young men of genius, secures for them a spontaneous discipline in those pur- suits for which they are specially adapted. Goethe and Schiller, Burns and Byron, Wordsworth and Coleridge, too young as most of them were, when they commenced a career of authorship, had written verses for years before they became known to the public. Many are the recounted instances of precocious poetic power, both in those who afterwards became renowned as poets, and in men destined to shine in far other pursuits, the first exercise of whose intellectual energy has taken this direction. Even men who, like Cowper and Alfieri, have burst the shell of seclusion at comparatively a late period of life, have betrayed in their boyish tastes or habits, the peculiar bent of their genius. However waywardness or timidity may have retarded the public profession of their art, they had yet some forecast of their destiny. They knew they had wings, and fluttered them, though they had not yet strength to fly. The case of Davis is different, and altogether so pecu- liar, that it ought not to be passed over in the very briefest introduction to his poetical remains. Until about three years before his death, as I am assured, he had never written a line of poetry. His efforts to acquire knowledge, to make himself useful, and to find a suitable sphere of action, were incessant; but they tried every path, and took every direction but this. The warmth of his affections, and his intense enjoyment of the beauties of nature and character, of literature am art, ought early to have marked him out as one destine*, to soar and sing, as well as to think and act. But the xii INTRODUCTION. fact is, that among his youthful cotemporaries, for many a long year, he got as little credit for any promise this way, as he did for any other remarkable qualities beyond extreme good nature, untiring industry, and very varied learning. Truth to say, much of this early misconception of his character was Davis’s own fault. He learned much ; suffered much, I have no doubt; felt and sympathised much ; and hoped and enjoyed abundantly; but he had not yet learned to rely on himself. His powers were like the nucleus of an embryo star, uncompressed, un- purified, flickering and indistinct He carried about with him huge loads of what other men, most of them statists and logicians, had thought proper to assert ; but what he thought and felt himself, he did not think of putting forward. The result was, that during his col- lege course, and for some years after, while he was very generally liked, he had, unless perhaps with some who knew him intimately, but a moderate reputation for high ability of any kind. In his twenty-fifth year, as I remember — that is, in the spring of 1839 — he first began to break out of this. His opinions began to have weight, and his character and influence tb unfold them- selves in a variety of ways. In the following year he entered political life. But this is not the place to recount the details of his subsequent career. The outbreak of his poetical power began in this wise. In the autumn of 1842, taking an active part in the establishment of a new popular journal, (the Na- tion,) which was intended to advance the cause of Nationality by all the aids which literary as well a« political talent could bring to its advocacy Davis, and INTRODUCTION. xiu the friends associated with him, found that while theii corps in other respects was sufficiently complete, they had but scanty promise of support in the poetica departmeut. The well-known saying of Fletcher of Sal- toun, — “Give me the ballads, and let who will make the laws,” — had sunk deeply into the minds of some of the projectors of the journal: though I am told that Davis himself was at first not very solicitous on this point ; so little aware was he of his own power in that respect, at the moment it was about to break forth. But the Editor of the journal bad set his heart on it, having before par- tially tried the experiment in a Northern paper. Ulti- mately, however, all the founders of the Nation agreed in the resolve, that come whence it would, poetry, — real living poetry, gushing warm from the heart, and not mechanically mimicking obsolete and ungenial forms,— was worth a trial, as a fosterer of National feeling, and an excitement to National hope. But it came not from any outward source ; and thereupon Davis and his com- panions resolved, in default of other aid, to write the poetry themselves. They did so ; they surprised them selves and every body else. The results of that despair- ing attempt have since been made known, and applauded in every quarter of the globe. The right chord had been struck, and the consequent stimulus to Irish literature has been, and is, incalculable. The rapidity and thrilling power, with which, from the time that he got full access to the public ear, Davis developed his energies as statesman, political writer, and poet, has been well described elsewhere. It excited the surprise and admiration even of those who knew him best, and won the respect of numbers, who from 2 INTRODUCTION. xiv political or personal prejudices, had been originally most unwilling to admit his worth. So signal a victory over long-continued neglect and obstinate prejudice as he had at length obtained, has never come under my observa- tion and I believe it to be almost unexampled. There is no assurance of greatness so unmistakable as this. No power is so overwhelming, no energy so untiring, no enthusiasm so indomitable, as that which slumbers for years, unconscious and unsuspected, until the character is completely formed, and then bursts at once into light *nd life, when the time for action is come. This was the true guarantee of Davis’s greatness, — of a genius which was equal to any emergency, which would have been constantly placing itself in new aspects, overcoming new difficulties, and winning fresh love and honour from his countrymen, and from mankind. A character so rich in promise, so full of life and energy, of love and hope, as his, and at the same time so suited for public life, is a rarity in history. Had he been spared for a few years longer, the world would have known this well. As it is, they must partly take it on trust from those who knew the man. For none of his writings, either in prose or verse, will enable them to know him thoroughly. As, indeed, the richer and deeper, and more vital and versatile a man’s character is, the poorer fragment of himself will his writings inevitably be. Not but that everything Davis has written, abounds in admonition and instruction, for Irishmen of every class, and for all in any country who have the sym pathies and affections of men. But from the activity of his public life, it was impossible that he could writs with that leisure and deliberate care, which the heart INTRODUCTION. XV and intellect require for finished composition. And ao cordingly, none of liis works can be taken as an adequate expression of his creative power. Had he lived, and been enabled to shift a portion of his political burden upon other shoulders, I have no doubt but he would have more frequently retired into himself, and thus been enabled to give the world the purer fruits of his unen- cumbered leisure. But the weight of his toil cut him off before that leisure came. If anywhere, it is in this volume, that a key to Da- vis’s most engaging qualities, and to his inward heart, may be found. But there is not room here, and I must await some other opportunity of weighing the merits of these poems, in relation to their author’s character, and to the wants of the time and country for which they were written. It may, at all events, be better done when his prose works also have been given to the public, and the elite of the labours of his young statesmanship made permanently and universally accessible. For lite- rary pre-eminence was not his ambition at all, and even usefulness through the channels of literature, but one of the many means which he shaped to one great end. For these and other reasons, apart from his want of leisure, and his early death, his poems above all must not be judged without a reference to his aims and hia mode of life. I do not believe that since the invention of printing, there has been any volume of such sincere effect and varied power, produced under similar cir- cumstances. The longer portion and by far the best of them were written and published in a single year (1844), ftnd that the most active of the author’s life, during which his political labours, in addition to constant writ xvi INTRODUCTION. mg for the journal with which he was connected, wer« almost as incessant and fatiguing as those of a minister of state. In these and in some not dissimilar instances which I could recount of others, there seems good reason to hope for our country and our age. Novalis used to lament bitterly the severance of poetry from philosophy, and ^ 6urely not without abundant cause ; but with far better reason might he have bemoaned the divorce of poetry from life and action. For in no respect is there a greater contrast between these latter formalized ages, and the wilder, healthier centuries of the world’s antique life. Solon was a poet, as well as a statesman and sage. Sophocles was not only an unrivalled dramatist, but a distinguished soldier, and in youth a miracle of beauty and accomplishments, — the Sidney as well as the Shakspeare of that glorious age. Pericles and Caesar were orators, philosophers, soldiers, wits, poets, and consummate statesmen, all in one. Descending to a later age, entirely different in character and aims, we find Alfred teaching his people as well as ruling them. Richard Coeur-de-lion was hardly less renowned for poetry than for courage. Bertrand de Born was warrior and patriot, poet and statesman, and it was not found that his success in one pursuit was marred or defeated by his proficiency in another. Among the Moslem cotemporaries of all these men, abundant examples might be adduced of such a combination of political with poetical power. And recurring to the early dwellers in the East, above all to those whom a peculiar dispensation set apart from other men, Moses and David were poets, as well as prophets and kings. INTRODUCTION. xvH For such is the natural condition of health, in nations as in men. The mind and the body alike are agile for a thousand feats, and equal to a thousand labours. For literature is then a part of life, a dweller in the common landscape, a presence in sunshine and in shade, in camp and festival, before the altar and beside the hearth,- - and not an intruding reminiscence, an antiquated mockery, a ghastly effete excrescence, hiding with its bloated bulk the worth of the present hour, and the lovely opportunities of unused actual life, that ever lie with mute appeal before the dullard man ; and which he alone who feels the force of, can enter into the feel- ings or apnreciat© ths. worth of bye-gone generations too. ^ It is only the insidious materialism of modern exist- ence, that has rent the finest tissues of moral power and dwarfed into mechanical routine and huxtering sub- serviency, the interchanging faculties of man, making literature itself a statute-book, or a gin-shop, instead of an overhanging canopy of the simple and sublime, a fostering, embracing atmosphere to man’s every thought and act. And thus it is that poets and philosophers, — that is, men of purer, deeper, more genial and generative faculty than others, — find all the avenues to power barred against them by lawyers and diplomatists, and are driven to suck their thumbs in corners, when they ought, by virtue of the fiercer life and more powerful reason that is in them, to be teaching the world by ex- ample as well as precept ; and not by words alone, but by action too, by the communities of peril, and the inter change of sympathy and love, to be filling the souls oi men with hope and resolution, with piety and truth. XV 111 INTRODUCTION. Here, at least, in this little book, is a precedent and admonition to the honest man-of-letters of whatever class or country — that if his feeling for his fellow- men — and who will feel for them, if he does not f — should lead him into political action, he need not des- pond because he is a poet, if only he i£, into the bargain, a self-reliant man. Davis was a poet, but he was not for that the less practical in public life, nor did the most prosaic of his opponents ever object to him, that he was the less fitted to advise and govern, because he occa- sionally expressed in verse the purer aspirations of his soul. Pity it is, to be sure, that these aspirations had not found a fuller utterance, before the fiat of death had hushed to unseasonable rest the throbbings of that large heart. Fragments though they be of a most capacious and diversified character, they are yet to a wonderful degree its unaffected utterance. Like wild flowers springing from the mould in the clefts of a giant oak, they relish of the open air, and have looked the sky in the face. Doubtless in many ways the impress of the poet’s spirit, and of the graces of his character, is but the purer for his partial and too late development of its loveliest folds. Like the first fragrance of the rose, ere its perfume becomes heavy with sweetness ; or as the violet smells the sweetest, when hidden by its cherishing leaves from the glare of the noonday sun. Moreover, the supreme worth of books is as an index of character ; as a fragmentary insight into unfathomed worth and power. For the man who is not better than his books, has ever seemed to me a poor creature. — Many there are, no doubt, — men whose names are high INTRODUCTION. xi* in literature — who fail to produce on their cotempora- ries or on those who know their biography, an impres- sion adequate to the promise of their writings — and some, perhaps, who really have no corresponding in ward worth. Allowing for the too ardent expectations of their admirers, this indicates ever some lamentable deficiency. One cannot help occasionally, in moments of ill-humour, suspecting some of these authors to be paltry secondhand thieves of other men’s thoughts, or mimics of other men’s energy, and not as all good writ- ers ought to be, natural, self-taught, self-directed men. And, therefore, in honest writing, above all things, is it true, that " well begun, is half done be it but once well begun. Goldsmith’s lovely nature is as visible, and more distinct in the little volume of the Vicar of Wake - field , than if he had written a dozen Waverley novels; Rosamund Gray and Undine are a purer offspring of their authors’ minds, and a more convincing evidence of their worth, than any congeries of romances could have been. And thus, perhaps, after all, the soul of Davis will shine from this book, as pure and clear, — though not so bright, or comprehensive, or beneficent, — as if he had been thirty years writing instead of three, and filled a dozen of volumes instead of one. Ah ! as far as writing goes, there is enough to make men love him, and guess at him, — and what more can the best of readers do with the supremest writer, though he lived to the age of Sophocles or Goethe. The true loss is of the oak’s tim- ber, the living tree itself, and not of its acorns or of the flowers at its base. The loss of his immediate influence on the events of his time, and on the souls of his co- XX INTRODUCTION. temporaries by guidance and example, — that is the true bereavement: one which possibly many generations to come will be suffering from and expiating, consciously or unconsciously. So complete an endowment as his is a rare phenomenon, and no calamity can be compared with its untimely extinction. Undoubtedly the circumstances which attended the development of Davis’s powers, are a striking proof of the latent energy which lies hid among our people, un- wrought and almost un thought of. Not that I entertain the opinion, though it is a favourite theory with some men, — and one which does not obtain the less accep- tance because it flatters human nature, — that there is an abundance of great men, ever walking the earth, utterly unconscious of their power, and only wanting a sufficient stimulus, themselves to know their power, and make all men acknowledge it. A theory of life and history, in any high sense of greatness, to which I cannot assent: for it seems to me the very esseuce of the great man is, that he is, in spite of himself, making ever new acquaint- ance with the realities of life. All animate and inani- mate nature is in a conspiracy to make him know himself, or at least to make others know him, and by their love or hate, their fear or reverence, to awaken his slumbering might. Destiny has a thousand electric shocks in store for him, to which unearnest men are in- sensible ; while his own unhasting yet unresting spirit is ever fathoming new depths in the infinities of thought, and suffering, and love. For, as the wisest of the an- cients told the clods who condemned him, — the great man is not born of a stock or a stone; but nature'a wants are strong in him, and the ties of heart and homi INTRODUCTION. xxi arc as dear, or dearer to him than to an}^ And home is the great teacher, in childhood by its joys, in manhood by its sorrows, in age by its ebbing regrets. No matter, then, whether thought or passion have the mastery in the great man’s nature, no matter whether action or reception preponderates in his life, if he be truly great, and live through man's estate, he will in some way be recognised. Strange it were indeed, if every other element in nature — the paltriest grain of sand, or the most fleeting wave of light — were perpe- tual and unlimited in its influence, and the mightiest power of all, the plenitude of spiritual life, could remain unfelt by kindred spirit, for the natural life of man. True, the great man will often shun society, and court obscurity and solitude : but let him withdraw into him- self ever so much, his soul will only expand the more with thought and passion. The mystery of life will be the greater to him, the more time he has to study it ; the loveliness of nature will be the sweeter to him, the less his converse with her is disturbed by the thought- less comment of the worldly or the vain. Let him re- tire into utter solitude, and even if he were not great, that solitude, — if nature whispers to him, and he listens to her, — would go near to make him so: as Selkirk, when after his four years’ solitude he trod again the streets of London, looked for a while a king, and talked like a philosopher. For a while, — since, as Richard Steele ably tells the story, in six months or so, the royalty had faded from his face, and he had grown again, what he was at first, a sturdy but common-place sailor. But nature herself haunts incessantly the really grea^ xxii INTRODUCTION. man, and nothing can vulgarize him. And if it were only on that account alone, whether tested by action, oi untested by it, the great man is sure of recognition, if allowed to live out his life. If he act, his acts will show him ; and even if he do not act, his thoughts or his goodness will betray him. “Hide the thoughts of such a man,” says a sage of our time: “hide the sky and stars, hide the sun and moon I Thought is all light, and publishes itself to the universe. It will speak, though you were dumb, by some miraculous organ. It will flow out of your actions, your manners and your face. It will bring your friendships, and impledge you to nature and truth, by the love and expectations of generous minds.” And yet there is in many of the best and greatest men, a tardiness of growth, which either beneficially shrouds their budding graces from the handling of impatient friends ; or at least sets at naught that impatience, and huffs the scrutiny of the interested watcher by perpe- tual new growth of mere leaves, instead of the flowers and fruit he craves. Even where the natural tendency is to active life, such men will for years evince an awk- wardness, a shiftlessness, and indirectness of aim, and unsteadiness of pursuit,-— on the whole a hulking, slob- bery ponderousness, as of an overgrown school-boy, — which will make men tardy in acknowledging their worth and power, when at length, after abundant way- wardness, their discipline is complete, their character formed, and their strength matured. As to the causes of all this, I dare not enter on them now. They all centre in a good-natured simplicity, an iufantine acquiescence and credulity, which makes succ INTRODUCTION. xxiii slow growing men content to be hewers of wood and drawers of water for half a life-time, until their patience is exhausted ; or until the trumpet call of duty, ever on the watch to startle them, rouses them into life ; then at length they commence their labours and assert their rights. In their experiences likewise, they are some- times tardy, and as some ancient wrote, and Goethe was fond of quoting: — *0 /.(*? Sapdg avdpoynos ov 7 Tai6cverai. In some such frame may the history of Davis’s mind be set. But though great men, wise men, kingly men, cannot but be few, good men and true need not be so scarce aa they are, — men, I mean, true to their own convictions, and prompt in their country’s need, — not greedy of dis- tinction, but knowing well the hived sweetness that abides in an unnoticed life, — and yet not shrinking from responsibility, or avoiding danger, when the hour of trial comes. It is such men that this country needs, and not flaunting histrionists, or empty platform patriots. She wants men who can and will work as well as talk. Men glad to live and yet prepared to die. For Ireland is approaching her majority, and what she wants is men. And thus is it, above all, in the manliness of this book, and of the author’s character, that the germ abides of hope for the country, and of consolation for his loss. If such worth could grow up, and such success be won, amid all the treacherous influences that sap the strength of Ireland, what have we not a right to hope fori What may not be yet the glory and gladness of that distant time, when our National Genius shall at length XXIV INTRODUCTION. stand regenerated and disenthralled from the shackles of foreign thought, and the contagion of foreign example when beneath his own skies with his own hills around, and the hearts of a whole people echoing his passionate words, he shall feel therein a content and exultation which mere cosmopolitan greatness is doomed never to know ; when satisfied with ministering to the wants of the land that bore him, and having few or no affections beyond the blue waves which are its eternal boundary, he shall find his only and most ample reward in the gratitude and love of our own fervent people ? All! some few short years ago, who could look for such a result with confidence ? Though some there were, whom strong affections made strong in hope, that never despaired, in the gloomiest season. Times are altered since then. The eyes of our people are opened, and their hearts are changed. A swift and a surprising, and yet an easy change, for a nation perisheth not ex- cept by its own sentence. Blind though it be, it needs but be led towards the East and turned to the rising sun, Tiresias-like, to recover its sight. Well, until a spirit of Nationality had arisen in the land, and spread from sea to sea, and was not only talked of but became an abiding principle in our lives, how could we hope to- have a manly book, or a manly being among us ? Or was it that the man and the feel- ing both arose together, like a high-tide with a storm at its back ? What else but the fostering breath of Nation- ality could make that genius strong, which, without such sympathy and cherishing, must necessarily grow up a weakling ? For sympathy given and received, if the life and soul of genius: without such support if INTRODUCTION. XX* crawls along a crippled abortion, when it ought to walk abroad a giant and champion of men. Until we had proved ourselves worthy of having great men among u?,; until we had shewed respect unto our dead, and taken the memory of our forgotten brave unto our hearts again, and bid them live there for ever; until we dared to love and honour our own, as they deserved to be loved and honoured, what had we, the Irish People, a right to expect? what goodness or greatness could we presume to claim? Until all sects and parties had at least begun to hold out a helping hand to each other, and to bind their native land with one bond of labour and love, what grace could even Nature’s bounty bestow on such a graceless people ? Time was, as many alive may well remember — and I have been often pained by the feeling — when, if the report of any new genius arose among us, we had to make up our minds to find much of its brightest pro- mise blighted in the early bud, or stunted in maturer growth, by the mingled, chill of exotic culture and of home neglect. In those days we could never approach a product of the National Mind, without a cold fear at our hearts, that we should find it unworthy of the Nation ; that we should find on it the stamp of the 6lave, or the slimy trail of the stranger. And even as we gazed with fondness and admiration on those, who in our evil days had yet achieved something for us, and given us something to be proud of, we still expected to meet in them some failure, some inconsistency, some sad, some lamentable defect, and to see the strong man totter like a weakling and a slave. And otherwise it could not be, in our abandonment 3 xxvi INTRODUCTION. both of our rights and hope to recover them. Could the orphaned heart of genius be glad like his who had a parent, — a mother-country, a father-land ? Could he who had no country, or doubted what country he be- longed to, and knew not anything that he should care to live or die for ; or if he dreamed of such an object; had chosen sect instead of country ? — Could he be strong in filial might, and firm in manly rectitude, and bold in genial daring, — or can he yet be so among us, — like him upon whose childish thought no party spite hath shed its venom, the milk of whose untried affections sectarian hate hath curdled not; but the greatness and glory of his country illumined for him the morning horizon of life ; while home, and love, and freedom, the sovereign graces of earth, have blended in one religion, and strengthened his heart with a mighty strength, and chastening his spirit for ever, have made the memory of his young days, indeed ineffably divine? Can he love home as home should be loved, who loves not his country too? Can he love country right, who hath no home? Can he love home or country perfectly, to whose aching heart the balm of love hath not been timely given ? Believe it not, ye sons of men ! — as he ought, he cannot. As star poiseth star in the wilderness of the illimitable heavens, even so the charities of life sustain each other, and centre in the spirit of God, and bind all created beings beneath the shelter of his love. Bnt enough, — a better and a brighter day is dawning, and the “ flecked darkness like a drunkard reels “From forth day’s pathway, made by Freedom’s wheel*. w INTRODUCTION. xxvii And our lost Thomas Davis was our Phosphorus, or bringer of light ! “Justice and Truth their winged child have found !” But let us not be incautiously hopeful. Let as re* nernber that the pestilential influences, which Davis, like all of us, had to struggle with and overcome, are still rife among us. Let us not deceive ourselves. The miseries of our country for seven centuries have had foreign causes; but there have been, ever from the be- ginning of that misery, domestic causes too. We were divided, and did hate each other. We are divided and do hate each other ; and therefore we cannot stand. It is in many respects, too, an ill time, in which we are to unlearn these errors, and abjure this vice, if ever we abjure it. But He who sent the disease will send the healing too. Ah, why were we not reconciled among ourselves, in earlier, in better times than these? The fruit of our reconciliation then would have been greater far than ever it can be now. Our native laws, and in- stitutions, and language, were not then withered away. The trees which our forefathers planted, had yet firm root in the land. But now, in the old age of our Na- tion, we have had to begin life again, and with delibe- rate effort, and the straining of every nerve, to repeat those toils, which the gladness of youth made light for our fathers long ages ago. And this autumn blossom of our glory may go, too, as tribute to swell the renown of those who so long enslaved us. Yet it is the best we can do. There are millions of sad hearts in our land Are the } 7 to be so for ever? There are millions who have not food. Are they never to be filled? Happy are xxviii INTRODUCTION. you, after all, 0 youth of Ireland I fortunate if you but knew it, for if ever a generation had, in hope, something worth living for, and in sacrifice, something worth dying for, that blessed lot is yours. And here, youth of Ireland ! in this little book is a Psalter of Nationality, in which every aspiration of your hearts will meet its due response, — your every aim and effort, encouragement and sympathy, and wisest admonition. High were the hopes of our young poet patriot, and unforeseen by him and all the stroke of fate which was to call him untimely away. The greater need that you should discipline and strengthen your souls, and bring the aid of many, to what the genius of him who is gone might have contributed more than all. Hive up strength and knowledge. Be straightforward, and sincere, and resolute, and undisnm’ed as he was ; and God will yet reward your truth and love, and blesi the land whose sons you boast yourselves to be. 20 th April , 1846. 1 fc. PART I jMattal Mkh nnir c $nttg0. '* National Poetry is the very flowering of the soul, the greatest svidence of its health, the greatest excellence of its beauty. Its me- lody is balsam to the senses. It is the playfellow of Childhood, ripens into the companion of Manhood, consoles Age. It presents the most dramatic events, the largest characters, the most impressive scenes, and the deepest passions, in the language most familiar to us. It magnifies and ennobles onr hearts, our intellects, our country, and our countrymen, — binds us to the land by its condensed and gem-like history ; to the future by example and by aspiration. It solaces ut in travel, fires us in action, prompts our invention, sheds a grace beyond the power of luxury round our homes, is the recognized envoy of our minds among all mankind, and to all time.” — Davis’s Essays, TIPPERARY. Air — Original .* I. Let Britain boast her British hosts, About them all right little care we ; Not British seas nor British coasts Can match the man of Tipperary ! • Vide “ Spirit of the Nation,” 4to. p. 84. 32 BALLADS AND SONGS. II. Tall is his form, his heart is warm, His spirit light as any fairy — His wrath is fearful as the storm That sweeps The Hills of Tipperary ! m. Lead him to fight for native land, His is no courage cold and wary ; The troops live not on earth would stand The headlong Charge of Tipperary ! IV. Yet meet him in his cabin rude, Or dancing with his dark-haired Mary g You’d swear they knew no other mood But Mirth and Love in Tipperary ! v. You’re free to share his scanty meal, His plighted word he’ll never vary— In vain they tried with gold and steel To shake The Faith of Tipperary ! VI. Soft is his caxlirHs sunny eye, Her mien is mild, her step is airy, Her heart is fond, her soul is high — Oh ! she’s The Pride of Tipperary ! TIPPERARY. 33 VII. Let Britain brag her motley rag ; We’ll lift The Green more proud and airy Be mine the lot to bear that flag, And head The Men of Tipperary ! vm. Though Britain boasts her British hosts, About them all right little care we— Give us, to guard our native coasts, The Matchless Men of Tipperary ! THE RIVERS. Air — Kathleen O' More. i. There’s a far-famed Black water that runs to Loch Neagh, There’s a fairer Blackwater that runs to the sea— The glory of Ulster, The beauty of Munster, These twin rivers be. 34 BALLADS AND SONGS. n. From the banks of that river Benburb’s towers arise ; This stream shines as bright as a tear from sweet eyes This fond as a young bride, That with foeman’s blood dyed — Both dearly we prize. m. Deep sunk in that bed is the sword of Monroe, Since, ’twixt it and Donagh, he met Owen Roe, And Charlemont’s cannon Slew many a man on These meadows below. IV. The shrines of Armagh gleam far over yon lea, Nor afar is Dungannon that nursed liberty, And yonder Red Hugh Marshal Bagenal o’erthrew On Beal-an-atha-Buidhe.* v. But far kinder the woodlands of rich Convamore, And more gorgeous the turrets of saintly Lismore ; There the stream, like a maiden With love overladen, Pants Wild on .each shore. • Vulgo , Ballanabwee — the mouth of the yellow ford. THE RIVERS. 35 VI. Its rocks rise like statues, tall, stately, and fair, [air, And the trees, and the flowers, and the mountains, and With Wonder’s soul near you, To share with, and cheer you, Make Paradise there. VII. T would rove by that stream, ere my flag I unrolled ; I would fly to these banks my betrothed to enfold— The pride of our sire-land, The Eden of Ireland, More precious than gold. VIII. May their borders be free from oppression and blight May their daughters and sons ever fondly unite — The glory of Ulster, The beauty of Munster, Our strength and delight. GLENGARIFF. Air. — O’ SullivarCs March. i. I WAnrERED at eve by GlengarifFs sweet water, Half in the shade, and half in the moon, 56 BALLADS AND SONGS. And thought of the time when the Sacsanach slaughter Reddened the night and darkened the noon ; Mo nuar ! mo nuar ! mo nuar /* I said, — When I think, in this valley and sky — Where true lovers and poets should sigh— Of the time when its chieftain O’Sullivan fled, f ii. Then my mind went along with O’Sullivan marching Over Musk’ry’s moors and Ormond’s plain, His curachs the waves of the Shannon o’erarching, And his pathway mile-marked with the slain : Mo nuar ! mo nuar ! mo nuar ! I said, — Yet ’twas better far from you to go, And to battle with torrent and foe, Than linger as slaves where your sweet waters spread. m. But my fancy burst on, like a clan o’er the border, To times that seemed almost at hand, When grasping her banner, old Erin’s Lamh Laidh Alone shall rule over the rescued land ; O baotho ! O baotho ! O baotho ! J I said, — Be our marching as steady and strong, And freemen our valleys shall throng, When the last of our foemen is vanquished and fled ! • “ Alas !’ t “ Oh, fine.” f Vide post , page 126 THE WEST’S ASLEEP. 37 THE WEST’S ASLEEP. Air — The Brink of the White Rocks . i. When all beside a vigil keep, The West’s asleep, the West’s asleep— Alas ! and well may Erin weep, When Connaught lies in slumber deep. There lake and plain smile fair and free, ’Mid rocks — their guardian chivalry — Sing oh ! let man learn liberty From crashing wind and lashing sea. ii. That chainless wave and lovely land Freedom and Nationhood demand — Be sure, the great God never planned, For slumbering slaves, a home so grand. And, long, a brave and haughty race Honoured and sentinelled the place — Sing oh ! not even their sons’ disgrace Can quite destroy their glory’s trace. iii. For often, in O’Connor’s van, To triumph dashed each Connaught clan— Vide “ Spirit of the Nation,” 4to p. *0 •4 38 BALLADS AND SONGS. And fleet as deer the Normans ran Through Corlieu’s Pass and Ardrahan. And later times saw deeds as brave ; And glory guards Clanriearde’s guave — Sing oh ! they died their land to save, At Aughrim’s slopes and Shannon’s wave. IV. And if, when all a vigil keep, The West’s asleep, the West’s asleep — Alas ! and well may Erin weep, That Connaught lies in slumber deep. But — hark ! — some voice like thunder spake “ The West's awake, the West's awake ” — “ Sing oh ! hurra ! let England quake, We’ll watch till death for Erin’s sake !” OH ! FOR A STEED. Air — Original * I. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and a blazing scimitar To hunt from beauteous Italy the Austrian’s red hussar To mock their boasts, And strew their hosts, And scatter their flags afar. • Vide “ Spirit of the Nation,” 4to p 209 oh! for a steed. 39 ii. Oh! for a steed, a rushing steed, and dear Poland gathered around, To smite her circle of savage foes, and smash them upon the ground ; Nor hold my hand While, on the land, A foreigner foe was found. hi. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and a rifle that never failed, And a tribe of terrible prairie men, by desperate valour mailed, Till “ stripes and stars,” And Russian czars, Before the Red Indian quailed. IV. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, on the plains of Hin- dustan, And a hundred thousand cavaliers, to charge like a single man, Till our shirts were red, And the English fled, Like a cowardly caravan. v. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, with the Greeks at Marathon, 40 BALLADS AND SONGS. Or a place in the Switzer phalanx, when the Moiat men swept on, Like a pine-clad hill By an earthquake’s will Hurled the valleys upon. VI. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, when Brian smote down the Dane, Or a place beside great Aodh O’Neill, when Bagenal the bold was slain, Or a waving crest And a lance in rest, With Bruce upon Bannoch plain. VII. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, on the Curragh ot Kildare, And Irish squadrons ready to do, as they are ready to dare — A hundred yards, And Holland’s guards Drawn up to engage me there. VIII. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and any good cause at all, Or else, if you will, a field on foot, or guarding a leaguered wall For freedom’s right ; Jn flushing fight To conquer if then to fall. CYMRIC RULE AND CYMRIC RULERS. 41 CYMRIC RULE AND CYMRIC RULERS* Air — The March of the Men of Harlech, f I. Once there was a Cymric nation : Few its men, hut high its station — Freedom is the soul’s creation, Not the work of hands. Coward hearts are self-subduing ; Fetters last by slaves’ renewing— Edward’s castles are in ruin, Still his empire stands. Still the Saxon’s malice Blights our beauteous valleys ; Ours the toil, but his the spoil, and his the laws we writhe in; Worked like beasts, that Saxon priests may riot in our tithing ; Saxon speech and Saxon teachers Crush our Cymric tongue ! Tolls our traffic binding, Rents our vitals grinding — Bleating sheep, we cower and weep, when, by one bold endeavour, We could drive from out our hive the Saxon drones for ever. Vide Appendix. 4 * t Welsh air. 42 BALLADS AND SONGS. u Cymric Rule and Cymric Rulers ” — Pass alom* the word ! n. We should blush at Arthur’s glory — Never sing the deeds of Rory — Caratach’s renowned story Deepens our disgrace. By the bloody day of Banchor ! By a thousand years of rancour ! By the wrongs that in us canker ! Up ! ye Cymric race— Think of Old Llewellyn, — Owen’s trumpets swelling: Then send out a thunder shout, and every true man summon, Till the ground shall echo round from Severn to Plin- limmon, “ Saxon foes, and Cymric brothers, “ Arthur’s come again ?” Not his bone and sinew, But his soul within you, Prompt and true to plan and do, and firm as Monmouth iron For our cause, though crafty laws and charging troops environ — “ Cymric Rule and Cymric Rulers — Pass along the word ! A BALLAD OF FREEDOM. 43 A BALLAD OF FREEDOM. i The Frenchman sailed in Freedom’s name to smite tne Algerine, The strife was short, the crescent sunk, and then his guile was seen ; For, nestling in the pirate’s hold — a fiercer pirate far — He bade the tribes yield up their flocks, the towns their gates unbar. Right on he pressed with frgemen’s hands to subjugate the free, The Berber in old Atlas glens, the Moor in Titteri ; And wider has his razzias spread, his cruel conquests broader, But God sent down, to face his frown, the gallant Abdel -Kader — The faithful Abdel-Kader ! unconquered Abdel- Kader ! Like falling rock, Or fierce siroc — No savage or marauder — Son of a slave ! First of the brave ! Hurrah for Abdel-Kader !* • This name is pronounced Cawder. The French say that their great foe was a slave’s son. Be it so — he has a hero’s and freeman’s heart. “ Hurrah for Abdel-Kader !” — Author’s Note 44 BALLADS AND SONGS. n. Tho Englishman, for long, long years, had ravaged Ganges’ side — A dealer first, intriguer next, ho conquered far And wide, Till, hurried on by avarice, and thirst of endless rule, His sepoys pierced to Candahar, his flag waved in Cabul ; But still within the conquered land was one uncon- quered man, The fierce Pushtani* lion, the fiery Akhbar Khan — He slew the sepoys on th| snow, till Scindh’s f full flood they swam it Right rapidly, content to flee the son of Dost Moham- med, The son of Dost Mohammed, and brave old P' st Mohammed — Oh ! long may they Their mountains sway, Akhbar and Dost Mohammed ! Long live the Dost ! Who Britain crost, Hurrah for Dost Mohammed ! * This is the name by which the Affghans call themselves. AffghajD is a Persian name (see Elphinstone’s delightful book on Cabul).— Author’s Note. f The real name of the Indus, which is a Latinized word. — Au thor’s Note. THE BALLAD OF FREEDOM. 45 III. The Russian, lord of million serfs, and nobles serflief still, Indignant saw Circassia’s sons bear up against his will ; With fiery ships he lines their coast, his armies cross their streams — • He builds a hundred fortresses — his conquests done, he deems. But steady rifles — rushing steeds — a crowd of name- less chiefs— The plow is o’er his arsenals ! — his fleet is on the reefs \ The maidens of Kabyntica are clad in Moscow dresses — His slavish herd, how dared they beard the mountain- bred Cherkesses ! The lightening Cherkesses ! — the thundering Cherk- esses ! May Elburz top In Azof drop, Ere Cossacks beat Cherkesses ! The fountain head Whence Europe spread — Hurra ! for the tall Cherkesses !* ’ Cherkesses or Abdyes is the right name of the, so-called, Circas nans. Kabyntica is a town in the heart of the Caucasus, of which Mount Elburz is the summit. Blumenbach, and other physiologists assert that the finer European races descend from a Circassian stocks Author’s Note. 46 BALLADS AND SONGS. IV. But Russia preys on Poland’s fields, where Sobieski reigned, And Austria on Italy — the Roman eagle chained — Bohemia, Servia, Hungary, within her clutches, gasp ; And Ireland struggles gallantly in England’s loosening grasp. Oh ! would all these their strength unite, or battle on alone, Like Moor, Pushtani, and Cherkess, they soon would have their own. Hurrah ! hurrah ! it can’t be far, when from the Scindh to Shannon Shall gleam a line of freemen’s flags begirt by freemen’s cannon ! The coming day of Freedom — the flashing flags i Freedom ! The victor glaive— The mottoes brave, May we be there to read them ! That glorious noon, God send it soon — Hurrah for human Freedom ! THE IRISH HURRAH. 4 ' THE IRISH HURRAH. Air — Nach m-baineann sin do. I. Have you hearkened the eagle scream over the sea ? Have you hearkened the breaker beat under your lee ? A something between the wild waves, in their play, And the kingly bird’s scream, is The Irish Hurrah. it. How it rings on the rampart when Saxons assail — How it leaps on the level, and crosses the vale, Till the talk of the cataract faints on its way, And the echo’s voice cracks with The Irish Hurrah. IH. How it sweeps o’er the mountain when hounds are on scent, Howdt presses the billows when rigging is rent, Till the enemy’s broadside sinks low in dismay, As our boarders go in with The Irish Hurrah. « IV. Oh ! there’s hope in the trumpet and glee in the fife, But never such music broke into a strife, As when at its bursting the war-clouds give way, And there’s cold steel along with The Irish Hurrah. 43 BALLADS AND SONGS. V. What joy for a death-bed, your banner above, And round you the pressure of patriot love, As you’re lifted to gaze on the breaking array Of the Saxon reserve at The Irish Hurrah, A SONG FOR THE IRISH MILITIA, Air — The Peacock . i. The tribune’s tongue and poet’s pen May ^ow the seed in prostrate men ; But ’tis the soldier’s sword alone Can r*,ap the crop so bravely sown 1 No more I’ll sing nor idly pine, But tram my soul to lead a line — A soldier’s life’s the life for me — A soldier s death, so Ireland’s free ! n. No foe would fear your thunder words If ’twere not for our light’ning swords^ If tyrants yield when millions pray, ’Tis lest they link in war array ; A SONG FOR THE IRISH MILITIA. Nor peace itself is safe, but when The sword is sheathed by fighting men — A soldier’s life’s the life for me — A soldier’s death, so Ireland’s free ! hi. The rifle brown and sabre bright Can freely speak and nobly write — What prophets preached the truth so well As Hofer, Br&n, Bruce, and Tell ? God guard the creed these heroes taught,— That blood-bought Freedom’s cheaply bought, A soldier’s life’s the life for me — A soldier’s death, so Ireland’s free ! IV. Then, welcome be the bivouac, The hardy stand, and fierce attack, Where pikes will tame their carbineers, And rifles thin their bay’neteers, And every field the island through Will sho w “ what Irishmen can do !” A soldier’s life’s the life for me — A soldier’s death, so Ireland’s free ! v. Yet, ’tis not strength, and ’tis not steel Alone can make the English reel ; But wisdom, working day by day, Till comes the time for passion’s sway— 5 50 BALLADS AND SONGS. The patient dint, and powder shock. Can blast an empire like a rock. A soldier’s life’s the life for me — A soldier s death, so Ireland’s free ! vi. The tribune’s tongue and poet’s pen May sow the seed in slavish men ; But ’tis the soldier’s sword alone Can reap the harvest when ’tis grown. No more I’ll sing, no more I’ll pine, But train my soul to lead a line — A soldier’s life’s the life for me — A soldier’s death, so Ireland’s free! OUR OWN AGAIN. Air — Original* i. Let the coward shrink aside, We’ll have our own again ; Let the brawling slave deride, Here’s for our own again — • ride “ Spirit of the Nation,’ 4to. p. 308 OUR OWN AGAIN. 51 Let the tyrant bribe and lie, March, threaten, fortify, Loose his lawyer and his spy, Yet we’ll have our own again. Let him soothe in silken tone, Scold from a foreign throne ; Let him come with bugles blown, We shall have our own again. Let us to our purpose bide, We’ll have our own again— Let the game be fairly tried, We’ll have our own again. n. Send the cry throughout the land, “ Who’s for our own again V * Summon all men to our band, — Why not our own again? Rich, and poor, and old, and young, Sharp sword, and fiery tongue — Soul and sinew firmly strung, All to get our own again. Brothers thrive by brotherhood — Trees in a stormy wood — Riches come from Nationhood— Sha’n’t we have our own again ? Munster’s woe is Ulster’s bane 1 Join for our own again — Tyrants rob as well as reign, — We’ll have our own again. 52 BALLADS AND SONGS. III. Oft our fathers’ hearts it stirred, “ Rise for our own again !” Often passed the signal word, “ Strike for our own again !” Rudely, rashly, and untaught, Uprose they, ere they ought, Failing, though they nobly fought, Dying for their own again. Mind will rule and muscle yield, In senate, ship, and field — When we’ve skill our strength to wield Let us take our own again. By the slave his chain is wrought, — Strive for our own again. Thunder is less strong than thought,— We’ll have our own again. IV. Calm as granite to our foes, Stand for our own again ; Till his wrath to madness grows, Firm for our own again. Bravely hope, and wisely wait, Toil, join, and educate ; Man is master of his fate ; We’ll enjoy our own again. With a keen constrained thirst— Powder’s calm ere it burst — CELTS AND SAXONS. 53 Making ready for the worst, So we’ll get our own again. Let us to our purpose bide, We’ll have our own again. God is on the righteous side, We’ll have our own again. CELTS AND SAXONS * i. We hate the Saxon and the Dane, We hate the Norman men — We cursed their greed for blood and gain, We curse them now again. Yet start not, Irish born man, If you’re to Ireland true, We heed not blood, nor creed, nor clan-^ We have no curse for you. ii. We have no curse for you or your’s, But Friendship’s ready grasp, And Faith to stand by you and your’s Unto our latest gasp — * Written in reply to some very beautiful verses printed in the Evening Mail, deprecating and defying the assumed hostility of the Irish C’elts to the Irish Saxons. —Author’s Note. 5 * 54 BALLADS AND SONGS. To stand by you against all foes, Howe’er, or whence they come, With traitor arts, or bribes, or blows, From England, France, or Rome. in. What matter that at different shrines We pray unto one God — What matter that at different times Our fathers won this sod — In fortune and in name we’re bound By stronger links than steel ; And neither can be safe nor sound But in the other’s weal. IV. As Nubian rocks, and Ethiop sand Long drifting down the Nile, Built up old Egypt’s fertile land For many a hundred mile ; So Pagan clans to Ireland came, And clans of Christendom, Yet joined their wisdom and their fame To build a nation from. v. Here came the brown Phoenician, The man of trade and toil — Here came the proud Milesian, Ahungering for spoil ; CELTS AND SAXONS. 55 And the Firbolg and the Cymry, And the hard, enduring Dane, And the iron Lords of Normandy, With the Saxons in their train. VI. And oh ! it were a gallant deed To show before mankind, How every race and every creed Might be by love combined— Might be combined, yet not forget The fountain whence they rose, As, filled by many a rivulet The stately Shannon flows. vit. Nor would we wreak our ancient feud On Belgian or on Dane, Nor visit in a hostile mood The hearths of Gaul or Spain ; But long as on our country lies The Anglo-Norman yoke, Their tyranny we’ll signalize, And God’s revenge invoke. VIII. We do not hate, we never cursed, Nor spoke a foeman’s word Against a man in Ireland nursed, Howe’er we thought he erred ; 56 BALLADS AND SONGS. So start not, Irish born man, If you’re to Ireland true, We heed not race, nor creed, nor clan, We’ve hearts and hands for you. ORANGE AND GREEN WILL CARRY THE DAY. Air — The Protestant Boys . I. Ireland! rejoice, and England ! deplore — Faction and feud are passing away. ’Twas a low voice, but ’tis a loud roar, “ Orange and Green will carry the day.” Orange ! Orange ! Green and Orange ! Pitted together in many a fray — Lions in fight ! And linked in their might, Orange and Green will carry the day. Orange ! Orange ! Green and Orange ! Wave together o’er mountain and bay. Orange and Green ! Our King and our Queen ! “ Orange and Green will carry the day I” ORANGE AND GREEN. 51 n. Rusty tne swords our fathers unsheathed — William and James are turned to clay — Long did we till the wrath they bequeathed ; Red was the crop, and bitter the pay ! Freedom fled us ! Knaves misled us ! Under the feet of the foemen we lay— Riches and strength We’ll win them at length, For Orange and Green will carry the day ! Landlords fooled us ; England ruled us, Hounding our passions to make us their prey But, in their spite, The Irish Unite, And Orange and Green will carry the day ! ra. Fruitful our soil where honest men starve; Empty the mart, and shipless the bay ; Out of our want the Oligarchs carve ; Foreigners fatten on our decay ! Disunited, Therefore blighted, Ruined and rent by the Englishman’s sway Party and creed For once have agreed— Orange and Green will carry the day ! 58 BALLADS AND SONGS. Boyne’s old water, Red with slaughter ! Now is as pure as an infant at play; So, in our souls, Its history rolls, And Orange and Green will carry the day ! IV. English deceit can rule ns no more, Bigots and knaves are scattered like spray— Deep was the oath the Orangeman swore, “ Orange and Green must carry the day !” Orange ! Orange ! Bless the Orange ! Tories and Whigs grew pale with dismay When, from the North, Burst the cry forth, “ Orange and Green will carry the day No surrender! No Pretender Never to falter and never betray — With an Amen, We swear it again, Orange and Green shall carry the day. jl ART II. JSntimtal JkngH anti Sallak “ The greatest achievement of the Irish people is their music. I tells their history, climate, and character ; but it too much loves tc weep. Let us, when so many of our chains have been broken,— while our strength is great, and our hopes high, — cultivate its boldei strains — its raging and rejoicing ; or if we weep, let it be like men whose eyes are lifted, though their tears fall. “ Music is the first faculty of the Irish ; and scarcely anything has such power for good over them. The use of this faculty and thi* power, publicly and constantly, *o keep up their spirits, refine theii tastes, warm their courage, increase their union, and renew theii zeal, -is the duty of every patriot.” — Davis’s Essays THE LOST PATH. Air — Gradh mo chroide i. Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be, All comfort else has flown ; For every hope was false to me And here I am, alone 60 BALLADS AND SONGS. What thoughts were mine in early youth ! Like some old Irish song, Brimful of love, and life, and truth, My spirit gushed along. H. I hoped to right my native isle, I hoped a soldier’s fame, I hoped to rest in woman’s smile, And win a minstrel’s name. Oh ! little have I served my land, No laurels press my brow, I have no woman’s heart or hand, Nor minstrel honours now. in. But fancy has a magic power, It brings me wreath and crown, And woman’s love, the self-same hour It smites oppression down. Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be, I have no joy beside ; Oh ! throng around, and be to me Power, country, fame, and bride. LOVE S LONGINGS. 61 LOVE’S LONGINGS. To the conqueror his crowning, First freedom to the slave And air unto the drowning, Sunk in the ocean’s wave — And succour to the faithful, Who fight their flag above, Are sweet, but far less grateful Than were my lady’s love. n. I know I am not worthy Of one so young and bright ; And yet I would do for thee Far more than others might; I cannot give you pomp or gold, If you should be my wife, But I can give you love untold, And true in death or life. m. Methinks that there are passions Within that heaving breast To scorn their heartless fashion, And wed whom you love best. 6 62 BALLADS AND SONGS. Methinks you would be prouder As the struggling patriot’s bride, Than if rank your home should crowd, or Cold riches round you glide. IV. Oh ! the watcher longs for morning, And the infant cries for light, And the saint for heaven’s warning, And the vanquished pray for might; But their prayer, when lowest kneeling, And their suppliance most true, Are cold to the appealing Of this longing heart to you HOPE DEFERRED. Am — Oh! art thou gone, my Mary dear? i. *Tis long since we were forced to part, at least it seems so to my grief, For sorrow wearies us like time, but all ! it brings not time’s relief ; As in our days of tenderness, before me still she seems to glide; And, though my arms are wide as then, yet she will not abide. HOPE DEFERRED. 63 The day-light and the star-light shine, as if her eyes were in their light, And, whispering in the panting breeze, her love-songs come at lonely night ; While, far away with those less dear, she tries to hide her grief in vain, For, kind to all while true to me, it pains her to give pain. n. I know she never spoke her love, she never breathed a single vow, And yet I’m sure she loved me then, and still doats on me now ; For when we met, her eyes grew glad, and heavy when I left her side, And oft she said she’d be most happy as a poor man’s bride ; I toiled to win a pleasant home, and make it ready by the spring ; The spring is past — what season now my girl unto our home will bring ? I’m sick and weary, very weary — watching, morning, night, and noon ; How long you’re coming — I am lying — will you not come soon 1 * 64 BALLADS AND SONGS. EIBHLIN A RUIN. Air — Eibhlin a ruin. L When I am far away, Eibhlin a ruin. Be gayest of the gay, Eibhlin a ruin. Too dear your happiness, For me to wish it less— Love has no selfishness, Eibhlin a ruin. XL And it must be our pride, Eibhlin a ruin. Our trusting hearts to hide, Eibhlin a ruin . They wish our love to blight, We’ll wait for Fortune’s light, The flowers close up at night, Eibhlin a ruin. m. And when we meet alone, Eibhlin a ruin. Upon my bosom thrown, Eibhlin a ruin ; THE BANKS OF THE LE2. 65 That hour, with light bedecked, Shall cheer us and direct, A beacon to the wrecked, Eibhlin a ruin. TV. Fortune, thus sought, will come, Eibhlin a ruin. We’ll win a happy home, Eibhlin a ruin ; And, as it slowly rose, ’Twill tranquilly repose, A rock ’mid melting snows, Eibhlin a ruin. THE BANKS OF THE LEE. Air — A Trip to the Cottage, i. Oh ! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, And love in a cottage for Mary and me ; There’s not in the land a lovelier tide, And I’m sure that there’s no one so fair as my bride* She’s modest and meek, There’s a down on her cheek, And her skin is as sleek As a butterfly’s wing— 6 * 66 BALLADS AND SONGS. Then her step would scarce show On the fresh-fallen snow, And her whisper is low, But as clear as the spring. On ! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, And love in a cottage for Mary and me, I know not how love is happy elsewhere, I know not how any but lovers are there ! ii. Oh ! so green is the grass, so c.ear is the stream, So mild is the mist, and so rich is the beam, That beauty should ne’er to other lands roam, But make on the banks of the river its home When dripping with dew, The roses peep through, ’Tis to look in at you They are growing so fast ; While the scent of the flowers Must be hoarded for hours, ’Tis poured in such showers When my Mary goes past. Oh ! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, And love in a cottage for Mary and me — Oh, Mary for me — oh, Mary for me ! And ’tis little I’d sigh for the banks of the Lee ! THE GIRL OF DUNBWY. 67 THE GIRL OF DUNBWY. i. Tis pretty to see the girl of Dunbwy Stepping the mountain statelily — Though ragged her gown, and naked her feet, No lady in Ireland to match her is meet. H. Poor is her diet, and hardly she lies — Yet a monarch might kneel for a glance of her eyes , The child of a peasant — yet England’s proud Queen Has less rank in her heart, and less grace in her mien. hi. Her brow ’neath her raven hair gleams, just as if A breaker spread white ’neath a shadowy cliff — And love, and devotion, and energy speak From her beauty-proud eye, and her passion-pale cheek. IV. But, pale as her cheek is, there’s fruit on her lip, And her teeth flash as white as the crescent moon’s tip, And her form and her step, like the red-deer’s go past — As lightsome, as lovely, as haughty, as fast. v. I saw her but once, and I looked in her eye, And she knew that I worshipped in passing her by ; The saint of the wayside — she granted my prayer, Though we spoke not a word, for her mother was there. 68 BALLADS AND SONGS. VI. I never can think upon Ban try’s bright hills, But her image starts up, and my longing eye fills ; And I whisper her softly, “ again, love, we’ll meet, “ And I’ll lie in your bosom, and live at your feet.’* I DUTY AND LOVE. Air — My lodging is on the cold ground. I. Oh ! lady, think not that my heart has grown cold, If I woo not as once I could woo ; Though sorrow has bruised it, and long years have rolled, It still doats on beauty and you ; And were I to yield to its inmost desire I would labour by night and by day, **^11 I won you to flee from the home of your sire, To live with your love far away. n. But it is that my country’s in bondage, and I Have sworn to shatter her chains ! By my duty and oath I must do it or lie A corse on her desolate plains : ANNIE DEAR. 69 Then, sure, dearest maiden, ’twere sinful to sue, And crueller far to win, But, should victory smile on my banner, to you I shall fly without sorrow or sin. ANNIE DEAR. Air — Maids in May . i. Our mountain brooks were rushing Annie, dear. The Autumn eve was flushing, Annie, dear ; But brighter was your blushing, When first, your murmurs hushing, I told my love outgushing, Annie, dear. n. Ah ! but our hopes were splendid, Annie, dear, How sadly they have ended, Annie, dear ; 70 BALLADS AND SONGS. Tho ring betwixt us broken, When our vows of love were spoken, Of your poor heart was a token, Annie, dear hi. The primrose flowers were shining, Annie, dear, When, on my breast reclining, Annie, dear! Began our Mi-na-meala . And many a month did follow Of joy — but life is hollow, Annie, dear. IV. For once, when home returning, Annie, dear, I found our cottage burning, Annie, dear ; Around it were the yeomen, Of every ill an omen, The country’s bitter foemen, Annie, dear. v. But why arose a morrow, Annie, dear, Upon that night of sorrow, Annie, dear? BLIND MARY 71 Far better, by thee lying, Their bayonets defying, Than live an exile sighing, Annie, dear. BLIND MARY. Air — Blind Mary . i. There flows from her spirit such love and delight, That the face of Blind Mary is radiant with light — As the gleam from a homestead through darkness wiL show, Or the moon glimmer soft through the fast falling snow II. Yet there’s a keen sorrow comes o’er her at times, As an Indian might feel in our northerly climes ; And she talks of the sunset, like parting of friends, And the starlight, as love, that nor changes nor ends. hi. Ah ! grieve not, sweet maiden, for star or for sun, For the mountains that tower, or the rivers that run—* For beauty and grandeur, and glory, and light, Are seen by the spirit, and not by the sight. 72 BALLADS AND SONGS. IV. In vain for the thoughtless are sunburst and shade, In vain for the heartless flowers blossom and fade ; While the darkness that seems your sweet being ta bound Is one of the guardians, an Eden around i THE BRIDE OF MALLOW. ’Twas dying they thought her, And kindly they brought her To the banks of Black water, Where her forefathers lie ; ’Twas the place of her childhood, And they hoped that its wild wood, And air soft and mild would Soothe her spirit to die. ii. But she met on its border A lad who adored her — No rich man, nor lord, or A coward, or slave ; But one who had worn A green coat, and borne A pike from Slieve Moume, With the patriots brave. THE JBR T PF. OF MALLOW. 73 in. Oh ! the banks of the stream are Than emeralds greener : And how should they wean her From loving the earth? While the song-birds so sweet, And the waves at their feet, And each young pair they meet, Are all flushing with mirth. IV. And she listed his talk, And he shared in her walk— And how could she baulk One so gallant and true ? But why tell the rest ? Her love she confest, And sunk on his breast, Like the eventide dew. v. Ah ! now her cheek glows With the tint of the rose, And her healthful blood flows, Just as fresh as the stream j And her eye flashes bright, And her footstep is light, And sickness and blight Fled away like a dream. 7 74 BALLADS AND SONGS. VI. And soon by his side She kneels a sweet bride. In maidenly pride And maidenly fears ; And their children were fair, And their home knew no care, Save that all homesteads were Not as happy as theirs. THE WELCOME. Air — An buachailm buidhe. I. Come in the evening, or come in the morning, Come when you’re looked for, or come without warn- mg, Kisses and welcome you’ll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I’ll adore you. Light is my heart since the day we were plighted. Red is my cheek that they told me ^was blighted ; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, “ true lovers ! don’t sever.” THE WELCOME. 75 ii. I’ll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them , Or, after you’ve kissed them, they’ll lie on my bosom. I’ll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you ; I’ll fetch from my fancy a tale that won’t tire you. Oh ! your step’s like the rain to the summer-vexed farmer, Or sabre and shield to a knight without armour ; I’ll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, Then, wandering, I’ll wish you, in silence, to love me. hi. We’ll look through the trees at the cliff, and the eyrie, We’ll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy, We’ll look on the stars, and we’ll list to the river, Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give hen Oh ! she’ll whisper you. “ Love as unchangeably beaming, And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming, Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, As our souls flow in one down eternity’s river.” IV. So come in the evening, or come in the morning, Come when you’re looked for, or come without warning Kisses and welcome you’ll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I’ll adore you Light is my heart since the day we were plighted, Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted : The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, “ true lovers ! don’t sever l’ J 76 BALLADS AND SON.**. THE M/-NA-MEALA. i. Like the rising of the sun, Herald of bright hours to follow, Lo ! the marriage rites are done, And begun the Mi-na-Meala. ii. Heart to heart, and hand to hand, Vowed ’fore God to love and cherish, Each by each in grief to stand, Never more apart to flourish. hi. Now their lips, low whisp’ring, speak Thoughts their eyes have long been saying, Softly bright, and richly meek, As seraphs first their wings essaying. IV. Deeply, wildly, warmly love — ’Tis a heaven-sent enjoyment, Lifting up our thoughts above Selfish aims and cold employment THE MI-NA-MEALA. 77 V. Yet, remember, passion wanes, Romance is parent to dejection ; Nought our happiness sustains But thoughtful care and firm affection. n. When the Mi-na-mealo? s flown, Sterner duties surely need you; Do their bidding, — ’tis love’s own, — • Faithful love will say God speed you. vri. Guard her comfort as ’tis worth, Pray to God to look down on her ; And swift as cannon-shot go forth To strive for freedom, truth, and honour. VIII. Oft recall — and never swerve — Your children’s love and her’s will follow Guard your home, and there preserve For you an endless Mi na-meala .* Honeymoon. 7 * 78 BALLADS AND SONG 9. MAIRE BIIAN A STOIR. Air — Original . i. In a valley, fur away, With my Mdire bhdn a stair ,* Short would be the summer-day, Ever loving more and more ; Winter-days would all grow long, With the light her heart would pour, With her kisses and her song, And her loving maith go lear.j Fond is Mdire bhdn a stair , Fair is Mdire bhdn a stair, Sweet as ripple on the shore, Sings my Mdire bhdn a stair . ii. Oh ! her sire is very proud, And her mother cold as stone ; But her brother bravely vowed She should be my bride alone ; • Which means ** fair Mary my treasure.” If we are to write gib- berish to enable some of our readers to pronounce this, we must do so fchus, Maur-ya vaun asthore, and pretty looking stuff it is. Really it is time for the inhabitants of Ireland to learn Irish. — Author’s Note t Much plenty, or in abundance. — Author’s Note. oh! the marriage. 79 For he knew I loved her well, And he knew she loved me tdo, So he sought their pride to quell, But ’twas all in vain to sue. True is Maire bhdn a stuir , Tried is Maire bhdn a stuir , Had I wings I’d never soar, From my Maire bhdn a stuir . hi. There are lands where manly toil Surely reaps the crop it sows, Glorious woods and teeming soil, Where the broad Missouri flows ; Through the trees the smoke shall rise, From our hearth with maithgo leor, There shall shine the happy eyes Of my Maire bhdn a stuir . Mild is Maire bhdn a stuir , Mine is Maire bhdn a stair, Saints will watch about the door, Of my Maire bhdn a stuir . OH! THE MARRIAGE. Air — The Swaggering Jig . i. Oh ! the marriage, the marriage, With love and mo bhuachaill for me, BALLADS AND SONGS. 8 $ The ladies that ride in a carriage Might envy my marriage to me ; For Eoghan* is straight as a tower, And tender and loving and true, He told me more love in an hour Than the Squires of the county could do. Then, Oh ! the marriage, &c. n. His hair is a shower of soft gold, His eye is as clear as the day, His conscience and vote were unsold When others were carried away ; His word is as good as an oath, And freely ’twas given to me ; Oh ! sure ’twill be happy for both The day of our marriage to see. Then, Oh ! the marriage, &c. in. His kinsmen are honest and kind, The neighbours think much of his skill, And Eoghan’s the lad to my mind, Though he owns neither castle nor mill. But he has a tilloch of land, A horse and a stocking of coin, A foot for the dance and a hand In the cause of his country to join. Then, Oh ! the marriage, &c. * Vulgo Owen ; but that is, properly, a name among the Cymrj 'Welsh). — Author’s Note. A PLEA FOR LOVE. 8 4 IV. We meet in the market and fair — We meet in the morning and night — He sits on the half of my chair, And my people are wild with delight. Yet I long through the winter to skim, Though Eoghan longs more I can see, When I will be married to him, And he will be married to me. Then, Oh ! the marriage, the marriage, With love and mo bhuachaill for me, The ladies that ride in a carriage, Might envy my marriage to me. A A PLEA FOR LOVE. i. The summer brook flows in the bed, The winter torrent tore asunder ; The sky-lark’s gentle wings are spread, Where walk the lightning and the thunder : And thus you’ll find the sternest soul The greatest tenderness concealing, And minds, that seem to mock control, Are ordered by some fairy feeling. 82 BALLADS AND SONGS. II. Then, maiden ! start not from the hand That’s hardened by the swaying sabre— The pulse beneath may be as bland As evening after day of labour : And, maiden ! start not from the brow That thought has knit, and passion darkened — In twilight hours, ’neath forest bough, The tenderest tales are often hearkened. THE BISHOP’S DAUGHTER. Air — The Maid of Rillala. i. Kill ala’s halls are proud and fair ; Tyrawley’s hills are cold and bare ; Yet, in the palace, you were sad, While, here, your heart is safe and glad. ii. No satin couch, no maiden train, Are here to soothe each passing pain ; Yet lay your head my breast upon, — ’Twill turn to down for you, sweet one ! THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE, 83 in. Your father’s halls are rich and fair, And plain the home you’ve come to share ; But happy love’s a fairy king, And sheds a grace on every thing. THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE. Air — An Cota Caol, i. His kiss is sweet, his word is kind, His love is rich to me ; I could not in a palace find A truer heart than he. The eagle shelters not his nest From hurricane and hail, More bravely than he guards my breast— The Boatman of Kinsale. n. The wind that round the Fastnet sweeps Is not a whit more pure — The goat that down Cnoc Sheehy leaps Has not a foot more sure. No firmer hand nor freer eye E’er faced an Autumn gale — 84 BALLADS AND SONGS. De Courcy’s heart is not so high — The Boatman of Kinsale. m. The brawling squires may heed him not, The dainty stranger sneer — But who will dare to hurt our cot, When Myles O’Hea is here ! The scarlet soldiers pass along — They’d like, but fear to rail — His blood is hot, his blow is strong — The Boatman of Kinsale. IV. His hooker’s in the Scilly van, When seines are in the foam : But money never made the man, Nor wealth a happy home. So, blest with love and liberty, While he can trim a sail, He’ll trust in God, and cling to me— The Boatman of Kinsale. DARLING NELL. i. Why should not I take her unto my heart ! She has not a morsel of guile or art ; Why should not I make her my happy wife, And love her and cherish her all my life ? LOVE CHAUNT. 85 I’ve met with a few of as shining eyes, I’ve met with a hundred of wilder sighs, I think I met some whom I loved as well — But none who loved me like my Darling Nell. ii. She’s ready to cry when I seem unkind, But she smothers her grief within her mind ; And when my spirit is soft and fond, She sparkles the brightest of stars beyond. Oh ! ’twould teach the thrushes to hear her sing, And her sorrow the heart of a rock would wring j There never was saint but would leave his cell, If he thought he could marry my Darling Nell ! LOVE CHAUNT i. I think I’ve looked on eyes that shone With equal splendour, And some, but they are dimmed and gone, As wildly tender. I never looked on eyes that shed Such home-light mingled with such beauty,— That ’mid all lights and shadows said, “ I love and trust and will be true to ye.” 8 86 BALLADS AND SONGS. IL Eve seen some lips almost as red, A form as stately ; And some such beauty turned my head Not very lately. But not till now I’ve seen a girl With form so proud, lips so delicious, With hair like night, and teeth of pearl,— Who was not haughty and capricious. hi. Oh, fairer than the dawn of day On Erne’s islands ! Oh, purer than the thorn spray In Bantry’s highlands ! In sleep such visions crossed my view, And when I woke the phantom faded ; But now I find the fancy true, And fairer than the vision made it. A CHRISTMAS SCENE ; OR, LOVE IN THE COUNTRY. I. The hill blast comes howling through leaf-rifted trees. That late were as harp-strings to each gentle breeze ; The strangers and cousins and every one flown, While we sit happy-hearted — together — alone. CHRISTMAS SCENE. 87 H. Some are off to the mountain, and some to the fair, The snow is on their cheek, on mine your black hair ; Papa with his farming is busy to-day, And mamma’s too good-natured to ramble this way. hi. The girls are gone — are they not ? — into town, To fetch bows and bonnets, perchance a beau , down Ah ! tell them, dear Kate, ’tis not fair to coquette — Though you, you bold lassie, are fond of it yet ! IV. You’re not — do you say 1 — just remember last night, You gave Harry a rose, and you dubbed him youi knight ; Poor lad ! if he loved you — but no, darling ! no, You’re too thoughtful and good to fret any one so. The painters are raving of light and of shade, And Harry, the poet, of lake, hill, and glade ; While the light of your eye, and your soft wavy form Suit a proser like me, by the hearth bright and warm. VI. The snow on those hills is uncommonly grand, But, you know, Kate, it’s not half so white as your hand And say what you will of the grey Christmas sky, Still I slightly prefer my dark girl’s grey eye. 88 BALLADS AND SONGS. VII. Be quiet, and sing me “ The Bonny Cuckoo,” For it bids us the summer and winter love through,— And then I’ll read out an old ballad that shews How Tyranny perished, and Liberty rose. VIII. My Kate ! I’m so happy, your voice whispers soft, And your cheek flushes wilder from kissing so oft, For town or for country, for mountains or farms, What care I ? — My darling’s entwined in my arms. THE INVOCATION. Air — Fanny Power . i. Bright fairies by GlengarifFs bay, Soft woods that o’er Killarney sway, Bold echoes born in Ceim-an-eich, Your kinsman’s greeting hear! He asks you, by old friendship’s name, By all the rights that minstrels claim, For Erin’s joy and Desmond’s fame, Be kind to Fanny dear ! THE INVOCATION. 89 ii. Her eyes are darker than Dunloe, Her soul is whiter than the snow, Her tresses like arbutus flow, Her step like frighted deer : Then, still thy waves, capricious lake ! And ceaseless, soft winds, round her wake, Yet never bring a cloud to break The smile of Fanny dear ! hi. Oh ! let her see the trance-bound men, And kiss the red deer in his den, And spy from out a hazel glen O’Donoghue appear Or, should she roam by wild Dunbwy, Oh ! send the maiden to her knee, I sung whilome,* — hut then, ah ! me, I knew not Fanny dear l IV. Old Mangerton ! thine eagles plume^ Dear Innisfallen! brighter bloom — And Mucruss ! whisper thro’ the gloom Quaint legends to her ear ; Till strong as ash-tree in its pride, And gay as sunoeam on the tide, We welcome back to Liffey’s side Our brightest, Fanny dear. * Vide ante , page 67. 8 * BALLADS AND SONGS. LOVE AND WAR. How soft is the moon on Glengariff! The rocks seem to melt with the light ; Oh ! would I were there with dear Fanny, To tell her that love is as bright ; And nobly the sun of July O’er the waters of Adragoole shines — Oh ! would that I saw the green banner Blaze there over conquering lines. ir. Oh ! love is more fair than the moonlight, And glory more grand than the sun ; And there is no rest for a brave heart, Till its bride and its laurels are won ; But next to the burst of our banner, And the smile of dear Fanny, I crave The moon on the rocks of Glengariff-— The sun upon Adragoole’s wave. MY LAND. 91 MY LAND. She is a rich and rare land ; Oh ! she’s a fresh and fair land : She is a dear and rare land — This native land of mine. 11. N<5 men than her’s are braver — Her women’s hearts ne’er waver ; I’d freely die to save her, And think my lot divine. hi. She’s not a dull or cold land ; No ! she’s a warm and bold land j Oh ! she’s a true and old land— This native land of mine. IV. Could beauty ever guard her, And virtue still reward her, No foe would cross her border— No friend within it pine ! v. Oh, she’s a fresh and fair land ; Oh, she’s a true and rare land ! Yes, she’s a rare and fair land — This native land of mine. 9 * BALLADS AND SONGS. THE RIGHT ROAD. i. Let the feeble-hearted pine, Let the sickly spirit whine, But work and win be thine, While you’ve life. God smiles upon the bold — So, when your flag’s unrolled, Bear it bravely till you’re cold In the strife. n. If to rank or fame you soar, Out your spirit frankly pour — Men will serve you and adore, Like a king. Woo your girl with honest pride, Till you’ve won her for your bride~- Then to her, through time and tide, Ever cling, m. Never under wrongs despair ; Labour long, and everywhere, Link your countrymen, prepare, And strike home. Thus have great men ever wrought, Thus must greatness still be sought, Thus laboured, loved, and fought Greece and Rome. PART III. Mate anti $mp ILLUSTRATIVE OF IRISH HISTORY. “ This country of ours is no sand-bank, thrown up by some recent caprice of earth. It is an ancient land, honoured in the archives of civilization, traceable into antiquity by its piety, its valour, and its sufferings. Every great European race has sent its stream to the river of Irish mind. Long wars, vast organisations, subtle codes, beacon crimes, leading virtues, and self-mighty men were here. If we live influenced by wind, and sun, and tree, and not by the passions and deeds of the Past, we are a thriftless and hopeless people.” Davis’s Essays A NATION ONCE AGAIN *f i. When boyhood’s fire was in my blood, I read of ancient freemen, * This little poem, though not strictly belonging to the historical class, is placed first ; as striking more distinctly than any other in th collection, the key-note of the author’s theme. — Ed. t Set to original music in the “ Spirit of the Nation,” 4to. p. 272 —Ed. 94 BALLADS AND SONGS. For Greece and Romo who bravely stood, Three Hundred men and Three men.* And then I prayed I yet might see Our fetters rent in twain, And Ireland, long a province, bo A Nation once again. ii. And, from that time, through wildest woe, That hope has shone, a far light ; Nor could love’s brightest summer glow Outshine that solemn starlight : It seemed to watch above my head In forum, field, and fane ; Its angel voice sang round my bed, “ A Nation once again.” iii. It whispered, too, that “ freedom’s ark And service high and holy, Would be profaned by feelings dark And passions vain or lowly : For freedom comes from God’s right hand, And needs a godly train ; And righteous men must make our land A Nation once again.” * The Three Hundred Greeks who died at Thermopylae, and th« Threq Romans who kept the Sublician Bridge. — Author’s Note LAMENT FOR THE MILESIANS. 9 , IV. So, as I grew from boy o man, I bent me to that bidding — My spirit of each selfish plan And cruel passion ridding ; For, thus I hoped some day to aid — Oh ! can such hope be vain ? — When my dear country shall be made A Nation once again. LAMENT FOR THE MILESIANS. Air — An hruacli na carraige baine.* i. Oh ! proud were the chieftains of green Inis-Fail As iruagh gan oidhir ’ n-a bh-farradh l f The stars of our sky, and the salt of our soil ; As truagh gan oidhir ’ n-a bh-farradh ! * Set to this beautiful Tipperary air in the “ Spirit of the Na* tion,” 4to. p. 236. f “ That is pity, without heir in their company,” i. e. What a pity that there is no heir of their company. See the poem of Giolla Iosa Mor Mac Firbisigh in The Genealogies, Tribes , and Cvstoms of the Ui Fiachrach , or O' Dubhda's C, untry , printed for the Irish Arch Soc. p. 230, line 2, and note d. Also, O' Reilly' s Diet, voce—farradh ‘-Author’s Note. 96 BALLADS AND SONGS. Their hearts were as soft as a child in the lap, Vet they were “ the men in the gap” — And now that the cold clay their limbs doth enwrap;— As truagh gan oidhir ’ n-a bh-farradh ! n. ’Gainst England long battling, at length they went down; As truagh gan oidhir ’ n-a bh-farradh ! But they left their deep tracks on the road of renown ; As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! We are heirs of their fame, if we’re not of their race,-- And deadly and deep our disgrace, If we live o’er their sepulchres, abject and base ;— As truagh gan oidhir ’ n-a bhfarradh ! HI. Oh ! sweet were the minstrels of kind Inis-Fail ! As truagh gan oidhir ’ n-a bhfarradh ! Whose music, nor ages nor sorrow can spoil ; As truagh gan oidhir ’ n-a bhfarradh But their sad stifled tones are like streams flowing hid, Their caoine * and their pioprachr f were chid, And their language, 44 that melts into music,” forbid ; As truagh gan oidhir ’ n-a bhfarradh ! Anglice, keen t Angl. pibroch. LAMENT FOR THE MILESIANS. 97 IV. How fair were the maidens of fair Inis-Fail ! As truagh gan oidhir ’ n-a bh-farradh ! As fresh and as free as the sea-breeze from soil, As truagh gan oidhir ’ n-a bh-farradh ! Oh ! are not our maidens as fair and as pure ? Can our music no longer allure ? And can we but sob, as such wrongs we endure ? As truagh gan oidhir ’ n-a bhfarradh ! v. Their famous, their holy, their dear Inis-Fail ! As truagh gan oidhir ’ n-a bh-farradh ! Shall it still be a prey for the stranger to spoil 1 As truagh gan oidhir ’ n-a bh-farradh ! Sure, brave men would labour by night and by day To banish that stranger away ; Or, dying for Ireland, the future would say As truagh gan oidhir ’ n-a bhfarradh / VI. Oh ! shame — for unchanged is the face of our isle ; As truagh gan oidhir ’ n-a bh-farradh ! That taught them to battle, to sing, and to smile ; As truagh gan oidhir ’ n-a bhfarradh ! We are heirs of their rivers, their sea, and their land, — - Our sky and our mountains as grand — [hand ; We are heirs — oh! we’re not — of their heart and their As truagh gan oidhir ’ n-a bh-farradh ! 9 98 HISTORICAL BALLADS. « THE FATE OF KING DATHI * (a.d. 428.) f I. Darkly their glibs o’erhang, Sharp is their wolf-dog’s fang, Bronze spear and falchion clang — Brave men might shun them Heavy the spoil they bear — Jewels and gold are there — Hostage and maiden fair — How have they won them ? ii. From the soft sons of Gaul, Roman, and Frank, and thrall, Borough, and hut, and hall, — These have been torn. Over Britannia wide, Over fair Gaul they hied, Often in battle tried, — Enemies mourn ! in. Fiercely their harpers sing,— Led by their gallant king, They will to Eire bring Beauty and treasure. * This and the remaining- poems in Part I. have been arranged nearly as possible in chronological sequence. — E d. + Vide Appendix ’ i THE FATE OF KING DATHI. 99 Britain shall bend the knee — Rich shall their households be — When their long ships the sea Homeward shall measure. IV. Barrow and Rath shall rise, Towers, too, of wondrous size, Taillin they’ll solemnize, Feis- Teamhrach assemble. Samhain and Beal shall smile On the rich holy isle — Nay ! in a little while QEtius shall tremble !* < v. Up on the glacier’s snow, Down on the vales below, Monarch and clansmen go — Bright is the morning. Never their march they slack, Jura is at their back, When falls the evening black, Hideous, and warning. * The consul (Etius, the shield of Italy, and terror of u the barba rian,” was a cotemporary of King Dathi. Feis-Teamhrach , the Par liament of Tara. Tailtin , games held at Tailite,. county Meath, Samhain and Pea?, the moon and sun which Ireland woi shipped — Author s Note 100 HISTORICAL BALLADS. VI. Eagles scream loud on high; Far off the chamois fly ; Hoarse comes the torrent’s cry. On the rocks whitening. Strong are the storm’s wings ; Down the tall pine it flings; Hail-stone and sleet it brings— Thunder and lightning. VII. Little these veterans mind Thundering, hail, or wind; Closer their ranks they bind— Matching the storm. While, a spear-cast or more, On, the front ranks before, Dathi the sunburst bore— Haughty his form. VIII. Forth from the thunder-cloud * Leaps out a foe as proud — Sudden the monarch bowed — On rush the vanguard; Wildly the king they raise — Struck by the lightning’s blaze— Ghastly his dying gaze, Clutching his standard ! THE FATE OF KING DATHI. 101 IX. Mild is the morning beam, Gently the rivers stream, Happy the valleys seem ; But the lone Islanders — Mark how they guard their king ! Hark, to the wail they sing ! Dark is their counselling — Helvetia’s highlanders. x. Gather, like ravens, near — Shall Dathi’s soldiers fear Soon their home-path they clear — Rapid and daring ; On through the pass and plain, Until the shore they gain, And, with their spoil, again, Landed in Eirinn. XT. Little does Eire* care For gold or maiden fair— “ Where is King Dathi ? — where, Where is my bravest V 9 On the rich deck he lies, O’er him his sunburst flies— Solemn the obsequies, Eire ! thou gavest. * The tree anAent and modern name of this island. — E d 9 * 102 HISTORICAL BALLADS. xn. See ye that countless train Crossing Ros-Comain’s* plain, Crying, lik^ hurricane, Uile liu ai ? — Broad is his cam's base — Nigh the “ King’s burial-place, ”f Last of the Pagan race, Lieth King Dathi ! ARGAN MOR.J Air — Argan M&r. i. The Danes rush around, around ; To the edge of the fosse they bound ; Hark I hark, to their trumpets’ sound, Bidding them to the war ! Hark ! hark, to their cruel cry, As they swear our hearts’ cores to dry, And their Raven red to dye; Glutting their demon, Thor. * Avgl. Roscommon. t Hibernice , Roilig na Riogh, vuJgo , Relignaree — “ A famous bu- rial-place near Cruachan,in Connacht, where the kings were usually interred, before the establishment of the Christian religion in Ire- land.” — O'Brien's Ir. Diet. $ Vide Appendix. ARGAN MOR. 103 n. Leaping the Rath upon, Here’s the fiery Ceallachan — He makes the Lochlonnach* wan, Lifting his bra *en spear ! Ivor, the Dane, is struck down, For the spear broke right through his crown. Yet worse did the battle frown — Anlaf is on our rere ! hi. See ! see ! the Rath’s gates are broke And in — in, like a cloud of smoke, Burst on the dark Danish folk, Charging us everywhere— Oh, never was closer fight Than in Argan Mor that night — How little do men want light, Fighting within their lair. IV. Then girding about our king, On the thick of the foes we spring— Down — down we trample and fling, Gallantly though they strive : And never our falchions stood, Till we were all wet with their blood, And none of the pirate brood Went from the Rath alive ! * Northmen 104 HISTORICAL BALLADS. THE VICTOR’S BURIAL. L Wrap him in his> banner, the best shroud of the brave — Wrap him in his onchu ,* and take him to his grave — Lay him not down lowly, like bulwark overthrown, But, gallantly upstanding, as if risen from his throne, With his craiseach\ in his hand, and his sword on his thigh, With his war-belt on his waist, and his cathbharr\ on high- Put his jleasg $ upon his neck — his green flag round him fold, Like ivy round a castle wall — not conquered, but grown old — ’ Mhuire as truagh ! A mbuire as truagh ! A mhuire as truagh ! ochon ! || Weep for him! Oh! weep for him, but remember, in your moan, That he died, in his pride, — with his foes about him strown. ii. Oh ! shrine him in Beinn-Edair^T with his face toward? the foe, As an emblem that not death our defiance can lay low — * Flag. t Spear. * Helmet. $ Collar. || Anglice , Wirrasthrue, ochone ! IT Howth. THE TRUE IRISH KING. 10$ Let him look across the waves from the promontory’s breast, To menace back The East, and to sentinel The West; Sooner shall these channel waves the iron coast cut through, Than the spirit he has left, yield, Easterlings ! to you — Let his coffin be the hill, let the eagles of the sea Chorus with the surges round, the tuireamh * of the free ! ’ Mhuire as truagh ! A mhuire as iruagh ! A mhuire as truagh ! ochon ! Weep for him ! Oh ! weep for him, but remember, in your moan, That he died, in his pride, — with his foes about him strown ! THE TRUE IRISH KING, f i. The Caesar of Rome has a wider demesne, And the Ard Righ of France has more clans in his train ; The sceptre of Spain is more heavy with gems, And our crowns cannot vie with the Greek diadems ; * A masculine lament. t Vide Appendix. 106 HISTORICAL BALLADS. But kindlier far before heaven and man Are the Emerald fields, and the fiery-eyed clan, The sceptre, and state, and the poets who sing, And the swords that encircle A True Irish Kino ! ii. For he must have come from a conquering race — The heir of their valour, their glory, their grace : His frame must be stately, his step must be fleet, His hand must be trained to each warrior feat, His face, as the harvest moon, steadfast and clear, A head to enlighten, a spirit to cheer; While the foremost to rush where the battle-branda ring, And the last to retreat is A True Irish King ! m. Yet, not for his courage, his strength, or his name, Can he fronf the clansmen their fealty claim. The poorest, and highest, choose freely to-day The chief, that to-night they’ll as- truly obey ; For loyalty springs from a people’s consent, And the knee that is forced had been better unbent — The Sacsanach serfs no such homage can bring As the Irishmen’s choice of A True Irish King ! IV. Come, look on the pomp when they “ make an O’Neill ; The muster of dynasts — O’h- Again,* O’ShiadhaiJ, Angl. O’Hagan, O’Shiel. THE TRUE IRISH KING. 107 O’Cath&in, O’h-Anluain,* ** O’Bhreislein, and all, From gentle Aird Uladhf to rude Dun na n-gall ‘‘ St. Patrick’s comharba ,” { with bishops thirteen, And ollamhs || and breitheamhs , IT and minstrels, are seen, Round Tulach-Og * * Rath, like the bees in the spring. All swarming to honour A True Irish King ! v. Unsandalled he stands on the foot-dinted rock ; Like a pillar-stone fixed against every shock. Round, round is the Rath on a far-seeing hill ; Like his blemishless honour, and vigilant will. The grey-beards are telling how chiefs by the score Have been crowned on 44 The Rath of the Kings” here tofore, While, crowded, yet ordered, within its green ring, Are the dynasts and priests round The True Irish King ! VI. The chronicler read him the laws of the clan, And pledged him to bide by their blessing and ban ; His skian and his sword are unbuckled to show That they only were meant for a foreigner foe ; * Angl. O’Cahan, or Kane, O’Hanlon. t Angl. The Ards. t Angl. Donegal. $ Successor — comharba Phadruig — the Archbishop of ( Ard-macha ) Armagh. || Doctors or learned men. U Judges Angl. Brehons ** In the county K Tir-Eoghain) Tyrone, between Cookstown and Stewartstown. 103 HISTORICAL BALLADS. A white willow wand has been put in his hand^ A typo of pure, upright, and gentle command — While hierarchs are blessing, the slipper they fling, And O’Cathain proclaims him A True Irish King ! VII. Thrice looked he to Heaven with thanks and with prayer — Thrice looked to his borders with sentinel stare — To the waves of Loch n-Eathach, * the heights of Srathbhan ; f And thrice on his allies, and thrice on his clan — One clash on their bucklers ! — one more — they are still — What means the deep pause on the crest of the hill ? Why gaze they above him ? — a war-eagle’s wing ! 4 ' ’ Tis an omen ! — Hurrah ! for The True Irish King !” vm. God aid him ! — God save him ! — and smile on his reign — The terror of England — the ally of Spain. May his sword be triumphant o’er Sacsanach arts Be his throne ever girt by strong hands, and true hearts ! May the course of his conquests run on till he see The flag of Plantagenet sink in the sea ! May minstrels for ever his victories sing, And saints make the bed of The True Irish Kjng ! Angl . Lough Neagh. f Angl. Strabane. THE GERALDINES. 10: THE GERALDINES. i. The Geraldines ! the Geraldines ! — ’tis fuil a thousand years Since, ’mid the Tuscan vineyards, bright flashed their battle-spears ; When Capet seized the crown of France, their iron shields were known, And their sabre-dint struck terror on the flanks of the Garonne : Across the downs of Hastings they spurred hard by William’s side, And the grey sands of Palestine with Moslem blood they dyed - But never then, nor thence, till now, have falsehood or disgrace Been seen to soil Fitzgerald’s plume, or mantle in his face. ii. The Geraldines ! the Geraldines ! — ’tis true, in Strong- bow’s van By lawless force, as conquerors, their Irish reign be- gan; And, oh ! through many a dark campaign they proved their prowess stern, In Leinster’s plains, and Munster’s vales, on king, and chief, and kerne : 10 110 HISTORICAL BALLADS. But Doble was the cheer within the halls so rude.) won, And generous was the steel-gloved hand that had such slaughter done ; How gay their laugh, how proud their mien, you'd ask no herald’s sign — Among a thousand you had known the princely Geral- dine. IIL These Geraldines ! these Geraldines ! — not long our air they breathed ; Not long they fed on venison, in Irish water seethed ; Not often had their children been by Irish mothers nursed, When from them full and genial hearts an Irish feeling burst ! The English monarchs strove in vain, by law, and force, and bribe, To win from Irish thoughts and w*ays this “ more than Irish” tribe ; For still they clung to fosterage, to breitheamh , cloak, and bard : What king dare say to Geraldine, “your Irish wife discard”? IV. Ye Geraldines ! ye Geraldines ! — how royally ye reigned O’er Desmond broad, and rich Kildare, and English arts disdained : THE GERALDINES. Ill Your sword made knights, your banner waved, free was your bugle call By Gleann’s* green slopes, and Daingean’sf tide, from Bearbha’sJ banks to Eochaill.J What gorgeous shrines, what breitheamh\\ lore, whaf minstrel feasts there were In and around Magh Nuadhaid’sH keep, and palace, filled Adare ! But not for rite or feast ye stayed, when friend or kin were pressed ; And foemen fled, when 44 Crom Abu”** bespoke your lance in rest. v. Ye Geraldines! ye Geraldines! — since Silken Thomas flung King Henry’s sword on council board, the English thanes among, Ye never ceased to battle brave against the English sway, Though axe and brand and treachery your proudest cut away. Of Desmond’s blood, through woman’s veins passed on th’ exhausted tide ; His title lives — a Sacsanach churl usurps the lion’s hide ; * Angl. Glyn. f Angl. Dingle. t Angl. Barrow. § Angl. Youghal || Angl. Brehon. •f Angl. Maynooth. ** Formerly the war-cry of the Geraldines ; and now their motto 112 HISTORICAL BALLADS. And, though Kildare tower haughtily, there’s ruin at the root, Else why, since Edward fell to earth, had such a tree no fruit? VI. True Geraldines ! brave Geraldines ! — as torrents mould the earth, You channelled deep old Ireland’s heart by constancy and worth : When Ginckle ’leaguered Limerick, the Irish soldiers gazed To see if in the setting sun dead Desmond’s banner blazed ! And still it is the peasants’ hope upon the CuirreachV' mere, “They live, who’ll see ten thousand men with good Lord Edward here” — So let them dream till brighter days, when, not by Ed- ward’s shade, But by some leader true as he, their lines shall be arrayed ! VII. These Geraldines ! these Geraldines ! — rain wears away the rock, And time may wear away the tribe that stood the battle’s shock, Angl. Curragh. THE GERALDINES. 113 But, ever, sure, while one is left of all that honoured race, In front of Ireland’s chivalry is that Fitzgerald s place : And, though the last were dead and gone, how many a field and town, From Thomas Court to Abbeyfeile, would cherish their renown, And men would say of valour’s rise, or ancient power’s decline, “ Twill never soar, it never shone, as did the Geral- dine.” vm. The Geraldines! the Geraldines! — and are there any fears Within the sons of conquerors for full a thousand years ? Can treason spring from out a soil bedewed with martyrs’ blood? Or has that grown a purling brook, which long rushed down a flood ? — By Desmond swept with sword and fire, — by clan and keep laid low, — - By Silken Thomas and his kin, — by sainted Edward ! No! The forms of centuries rise up, and in the Irish line Command their son to take the post that fits the Geraldine !* • The concluding- stanza, now first published, was found among the author’s papers. — E d. 10 * 1 14 HISTORICAL BALLADS. O’BRIEN OF ARA.* Air — The Piper of Blessington . i. Tall are the towers of O’Ceinneidigh — f Broad are the lands of MacCarrthaigh — { Desmond feeds five hundred men a day ; Yet, here’s to O’BriainJ of Ara! Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,|| Down from the top of Camailte, Clansman and kinsman are coming here To give him the cead mile failte. ii. See you the mountains look huge at eve — So is our chieftain in battle — Welcome he has for the fugitive, — Uisce-bealha , IT fighting, and cattle ! Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar, Down from the top of Camailte, Gossip and ally are coming here To give him the cead mile failte. * Ara is a small mountain tract, south of Loch Deirgdheirc, and north of the Camailte ( vulgo the Keeper) hills. It was the seat of a branch of the Thomond princes, called the O'Briens of Ara, who hold an important place in the Munster Annals. — Author’s Note t Vulgo , O’Kennedy. $ Vul. M’Carthy. § Vul. O’Brien H Vul. Drumineer. IT Vul. Usquebaugh. CTBRIEN OF ARA. 115 hi. Horses the valleys are tramping on, Sleek from the Sacsanach manger— Creachs the hills are encamping on, Empty the b&ns of the stranger ! Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar, Down from the top of Camailte, Ceithearn* and buannacht are coming here To give him the cead mile failte. iv. He has black silver from Cill-da-luaf — RianJ and CearbhallJ are neighbours — ’N Aonach|| submits with afuililiu — Butler is meat for our sabres ! Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar, Down from the top of Camailte, Rian and Cearbhall are coming here To give him the cead mile failte. ’Tis scarce a week since through OsairghelT Chased he the Baron of Durmhagh — ** Forced him five rivers to cross, or he Had died by the sword of Red Murchadhlff v. * Vulgo, Kerne. f) Vul Carroll. ** Vul Durrow t Vul Kill aloe. * Vul Ryan. II Vul Nenagh. IT Vul. Ossory ft Vul Murrough. 116 HISTORICAL 1 kLLADS. Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar, Down from the top of Camailte, All the Ui Bhriain are coming here To give him the cead mile failte. vi. Tall are the towers of O’Ceinneidigh— Broad are the lands of MacCarrthaigh — Desmond feeds five hundred men a day ; Yet, here’s to O’Briain of Ara! Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar, Down from the top of Camailte, Clansman and kinsman are coming hero To give him the cead mile failte. EMMELINE TALBOT. A BALLAD OF THE PALE, rrhe Scene is on the borders of Dublin and Wicklow ] I. ’Twas a September day — In Glenismole,* Emmeline Talbot lay On a green knoll. * Hibernicc , — Gleann-an-smoil EMMELINE TALBOT. 117 She was a lovely thing, Fleet as a falcon’s wing, Only fifteen that spring — Soft was her soul. ii. Danger and dreamless sleep Much did she scorn, And from her father’s keep Stole out that morn. Towards Glenismole she hies Sweetly the valley lies, Winning the enterprise, — No one to warn. hi. Till by the noon, at length, High in the vale, Emmeline found her strength Suddenly fail. Panting, yet pleasantly, By Dodder-side lay she — Thrushes sang merrily, “ Hail, sister, hail !” IV. Hazel and copse of oak Made a sweet lawn, Out from the thicket broke Rabbit and fawn. 118 HISTORICAL BALLADS. Green were the eiscirs round, Sweet was the river’s sound, Eastwards flat Cruach frowned, South lay Sliabh B&n. v. Looking round Barnakeel,* Like a tall Moor Full of impassioned zeal, Peeped brown Kippure.f Dublin in feudal pride, And many a hold beside, Over Finn-ghaillj; preside — Sentinels sure ! vr. Is that a roebuck’s eye Glares from the green ?— Is that a thrush’s cry Rings in the screen ? Mountaineers round her sprung, Savage their speech and tongue, Fierce was their chief and young— Poor Emmeline ! VII. “ Hurrah, ’tis Talbot’s child,” Shouted the kerne, Hib. Bearna-chael. f Hib Keap-iubhair. Vu?g Fingal, EMMELINE TALBOT. U9 “ Off to the mountains wild, Faire,* O’Byrne !” Like a bird in a net, Strove the sweet maiden yet, Praying and shrieking, “ Let- Let me return.” VIII. After a moment’s doubt, Forward he sprung, With his sword flashing out — Wrath on his tongue. “ Touch not a hair of her’s — Dies he, who finger stirs !” Back fell his foragers — To him she clung. IX. Soothing the maiden’s fears, Kneeling was he, When burst old Talbot’s spears Out on the lea. March-men, all staunch and stout, Shouting their Belgard shout — “ Down with the Irish rout, Frets cTaccomj)lir”f Vulg. Farrah. f The motto and cry of the Talbota / 120 HISTORICAL BALLADS. X. Taken thus unawares, Some fled amain — Fighting like forest bears, Others were slain. To the chief clung the maid — How could he use his blade ?— That night, upon him weighed Fetter and chain. XI. Oh ! but that night was long, Lying forlorn, Since, ’mid the wassail song, These words were borne— “ Nathless your tears and cries, Sure as the sun shall rise, Connor O’Byrne* dies, Talbot has sworn.” XII. Brightly on Tamhlachtf hill Flashes the sun ; Strained at his window-sill. How his eyes run From lonely Sagart slade Down to Tigh-bradan glade. Landmarks of border raid, Many a one. • Hib Conchobhar O’Broin. Yulg. Taflagni EMMELINE TALBOT. 121 XIII. Too well the captive knows Belgard’s main wall Will, to his naked blows, Shiver and fall, Ere in his mountain hold He shall again behold Those whose proud hearts are cold. Weeping his thrall. XIV. * Oh ! for a mountain side, Bucklers and brands! Freely I could have died Heading my bands, But on a felon tree ” — Bearing a fetter key, By him all silently Emmeline stands. * * xv. Late rose the castellan, He had drunk deep, — Warder and serving-man Still were asleep, — Wide is the castle-gate, Open the captive’s grate. Fetters disconsolate Flung in a heap. 11 * * 122 HISTORICAL BALLADS. XVI. ’Tis an October day, Close by Loch Dan Many a creach lay, Many a man. ’Mongst them, in gallant mien, Connor O’Byrne’s seen Wedded to Emmeline, Girt by his clan ! O’SULLIVAN’S RETURN.* Air — An cruisgin Ian . f i. O'Suillebhain has come Within sight of his home, He had left it long years ago ; The tears are in his eyes, And he prays the wind to rise, As he looks towards his castle, from the prow, from tha prow ; As he looks towards his castle, from the prow. Vide Appendix. t Slow time o’sullivan’s return. 123 ii. For the day had been calm, And slow the good ship swam, And the evening gun had been fired ; He knew the hearts beat wild Of mother, wife, and child, And of clans, who to see him long desired, long desired, And of clans, who to see him long desired. hi. Of the tender ones the clasp, Of the gallant ones the grasp, He thinks, until his tears fall warm ; And full seems his wide hall, With friends from wall to wall, Where their welcome shakes the banners, like a storm, like a storm ; Where their welcome shakes the banners like a storm IV. Then he sees another scene — Norman churls on the green — “ O ’ Suilleobhain abu ” is the cry; For filled is his ship’s hold With arms and Spanish gold, And he sees the snake-twined spear wave on high, wave on high ; And he sees the snake-twined spear wave on high.* * The standard bearings of O’Sullivan. Sec O’Donovan’s edition of the Banquet of Dun na l-Gedh, and the Battle of Magh Rath, to 124 HISTORICAL BALLADS. V. “ Finghm’s race shall be freed From the Norman’s cruel breed — My sires freed Bear’ once before, When the Barn wells were strewn On the fields, like hay in June, And but one of them escaped from our shore, from oui shore ; And but one of them escaped from our shore.”* VI. And, warming in his dream, He floats on victory’s stream, Till Desmond — till all Erin is free ! Then, how calmly he’ll go down, Full of years and of renown, To his grave near that castle by the sea, by the sea ; To his grave near that castle by the sea! the Archaeological Society, App. p. 349. — “ Bearings of O’Sullivan at the Battle of Caisglinn.” “ I see, mightily advancing on the plain, The banner of the race of noble Finghin ; His spear with a venomous adder ( entwined ), His host all fiery champions.” Finghin was one of their most famous progenitors. — Author’s Note. * The Barnwells were Normans, who seized part of Beara in the reign of Henry II. ; but the O’Sullivans came down on them, and cut off all save one — a young man who settled at Drimnagh Castle, Co Dublin, and was ancestor to the Barnwells, Lords of Trimlestone and Kingsland.— Author’s Note. o’sullivan’s return. 125 VII. But the wind heard his word, As though he were its lord, And the ship is dashed up the Bay. Alas ! for that proud barque, The night has fallen dark, Tis too late to Eadarghabhal* to bear away, to bear away ; Tis too late to Eadarghabhal to bear away. VIII. Black and rough was the rock, And terrible the shock, As the good ship crashed asunder ; And bitter was the cry, And the sea ran mountains high, And the wind was as loud as the thunder, the thunder , And the wind was as loud as the thunder. IX. There’s woe in Beara, There’s woe in Gleann-garbh,f And from BeanntraigheJ unto D un-kiarain All Desmond hears their grief, And wails above their chief — * Is it thus, is it thus, that you return, you return— Is it thus, is it thus, that you return ?” * Vul Adragoole. f Vul. GlengarrifF. Z Vul. Bantry ^ Vul. Dunkerron. 11* 126 HISTORICAL BALLADS. THE FATE OF THE O’SULLIVANS.* i. “ A baby in the mountain gap — Oh ! wherefore bring it hither? Restore it to it’s mother’s lap, Or else ’twill surely wither. A baby near the eagle’s nest ! How should their talons spare it ? Oh ! take it to some woman’s breast, And she will kindly care it.” ii. “ Fear not for it,” M’Swiney said, And stroked his cul-jionn * slowly, And proudly raised his matted head, Yet spoke me soft and lowly — * After the taking of Dunbwy and the ruin of the O’Sullivan s country, the chief marched right through Muskerry and Ormond, hotly pursued. He crossed the Shannon in curachs made of his horses’ skins. He then defeated the English forces and slew their commander, Manby, and finally fought his way into O’Ruarc’s country. During his absence his lady ( Beantighearna ) and infant were supported in the mountains by one of his clansmen, M‘Swiney who, tradition says, used to rob the eagles’ nests of their prey for hi charge. O’Sullivan was excepted from James the First’s amnesty on account of his persevering resistance. He went to Spain, and was appointed governor of Corunna and Viscount Berehaven. His march from GlengarrifF to Leitrim is, perhaps, the most romantic and gal« tant achievement of his age. — Author’s Note. t Vulgo, coulin FATE OF THE O’SULLIVANS. 127 * Fear not' for it, for, many a day, I climb the eagle’s eyrie, And bear the eaglet’s food away To feed our little fairy. hi. * Fear not for it, no Bantry bird Would harm our chieftain’s baby” — He stopped, and something in him stirred— ’Twas for his chieftain, may be. And then he brushed his softened eyes, And raised his bonnet duly, And muttered “ the Beanlighearna lies Asleep in yonder buaili ” * IV. He pointed ’twixt the cliff and lake, And there a hut of heather, Half hidden in the craggy brake, Gave shelter from the weather ; The little tanist shrieked with joy, Adown the gully staring — The clansman swelled to see the boy, O’Sullivan-like, daring. v. Oh ! what a glorious sight was there, As from the summit gazing, O’er winding creek and islet fair, And mountain waste amazing; Vulgo, boulle. 128 HISTORICAL BALLADS. The Caha and Dunkerron hills Cast half the gulfs in shadow, While shone the sun on Culiagh’s rills. And Whiddy’s emerald meadow — VI. The sea a sheet of crimson spread, From Foze to Dursey islands ; While flashed the peaks from Mizenhead To Musk’ry’s distant highlands — I saw no kine, I saw no sheep, I saw nor house nor furrow ; But round the tarns the red deer leap, Oak and arbutus thorough. VII. Oh ! what a glorious sight was there, That paradise o’ergazing — When, sudden, hurst a smoky glare, Above Glengarrifl* blazing — The clansman sprung upon his feet — • Well might the infant wonder — His hands were clenched, his brow was knit, His hard lips just asunder. • VIH. Like shattered rock from out the ground, He stood there stiff and silent — Our breathing hardly made a sound, As o’er the baby I leant ; FATE OF THE O’SULLIVANS. ]2& His figure then went to and fro, As the tall blaze would flicker — And as exhausted it sunk low, His breath came loud and thicker. IX. Then slowly turned he round his head, And slowly turned his figure ; His eye was fixed as Spanish lead, His limbs were full of rigour — Then suddenly he grasped the child, And raised it to his shoulder, Then pointing where, across the wild, The fire was seen to smoulder : — x. Look, baby ! — look, there is the sign, Your father is returning, The 4 generous hand’ of Finghin’s line Has set that beacon burning. * The generous hand’ — Oh ! Lord of hosts— Oh, Virgin, ever holy ! There’s nought to give on Bantry’s coasts— Dunbwy is lying lowly. XI. The halls, where mirth and minstrelsy Than Beara’s wind rose louder, Are flung in masses lonelily, And black with English powder— 130 HISTORICAL BALLADS. The sheep that o’er our mountains ran, The kine that filled our valleys, Are gone, and not a single clan O’Sullivan now rallies. XTI. “ He, long the Prince of hill and bay! The ally of the Spaniard ! Has scarce a single ath to-day, Nor seamen left to man yard” — M’Swiney ceased, then fiercely strode Bearing along the baby, Until we reached the rude abode Of Bantry’s lovely lady. XIII. We found her in the savage shed — A mild night in mid winter — The mountain heath her only bed, Her dais the rocky splinter ! The sad Beantighearr? had seen the fire—* ’Twas plain she had been praying— She seized her son, as we came nigher, And welcomed me, thus saying — XiV. “ Our gossip’s friend I gladly greet, Though scant’ly I can cheer him Then bids the clansman fly to meet And tell her lord she’s near him. * ■f / fAlE OF THE O’SULLIVANS. 131 M’Swiney kissed his foster son, And shouting out his faire — “ O’ Suillebhain abu ”■ — is gone Like Marchman’s deadly arrow ! xv. An hour went by, when, from the shore The chieftain’s horn winding, Awoke the echoes’ hearty roar — Their fealty reminding : A moment, and he faintly gasps — “ These — these, thank heav’n, are left me”-» And smiles as wife and child he clasps — “ They have not quite bereft me.” XVI. I never saw a mien so grand, A brow and eye so fearless — There was not in his veteran band A single eyelid tearless. His tale is short — O’Ruarc’s strength Could not postpone his ruin, And Leitrim’s towers he left at length, To spare his friend’s undoing. XVII. To Spain — to Spain, he now will sail, His destiny is wroken — An exile from dear Inis-fail, — Nor yet his will is broken ; 132 HISTORICAL BALLADS. For still ho hints some enterprise, When fleets shall bring them over, Dunbwy’s proud keep again shall rise, And mock the English rover. * * * XVIII. T saw them cross Slieve Miskisk o’er, The crones around them weeping — I saw them pass from Culiagh’s shore, Their galleys’ strong oars sweeping, I saw their ship unfurl its sail — I saw their scarfs long waven — They saw the hills in distance fail — They never saw Berehaven ! THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. * i. The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery’s hundred isles — The summer’s sun is gleaming still through Gabriel’s rough defiles — * Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in South Munster. It grew up round a Castle of O’Driscoll’s, and was, after his ruin, colonized by the English. On the 20th of June, 1631, the crew of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead of the night, sacked the town, and bore off into slavery all who were not too old, or too voung, or too fierce for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the intricate channel by one Hackett, a Di'ngarvan fisherman, whom THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. 133 Old Inisherkin’s crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird; And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard The hookers lie upon the beach ; the children ceasd their play ; The gossips leave the little inn ; the househo. ds kneel to pray — And full of love, and peace, and rest — its daily labour o’er — Jpon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore. ii. A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there ; No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air. The massive capes, and ruined towers, seem conscious of the calm ; The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm. So still the night, these two long barques, round Dun- ashad that glide, Must trust their oars — methinks not few T — against the ebbing tide — they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years after he was con- victed and executed for the crime. Baltimore never recovered this. To the artist, the antiquary, and the naturalist, its neighbourhood is most interesting. — See “ The Ancient and Present State of the Coun ty and City of Cork,” by Charles Smith, M. D., vol. 1, p. 270. Second edition. Dublin, 1774. — Author’s Note. 12 134 HISTORICAL BALLADS. Oh ! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore — They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Balti- more ! m. All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street And these must be the lover’s friends, with gentle glid ing feet — A stifled gasp ! a dreamy noise ! “ the roof is in a flame ! ” From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame — And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre’s fall, And o’er each black and bearded face the white or crim- son shawl — The yell of “ Allah” breaks above the prayer, and shriek, and roar — Oh, blessed God ! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore ! iv. Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shear- ing sword; Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gored ; Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching wild ; Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child ; THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. 135 But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing lieei, While o’er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel — Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store, There’s one hearth well avenged in the sack of Balti- more ! v. Mid-summer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds began to sing— They see not now the milking maids — deserted is the spring ! Mid-summer day — this gallant rides from distant Ban- don’s town — These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown ; They only found the smoking walls, with neighbours blood besprent, And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile the? wildly went — Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Cleire, and saw fiv6 leagues before The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore. VI. Oh ! some must tug the galley’s oar, and some must tend the steed — This boy wili bear a Scheik’s chibouk, and that a Bey’s jerreed. 136 HISTORICAL BALLADS. Oh ! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Darda- nelles ; And some are in the caravan to Mecca’s sandy dells. The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey — She’s safe — she’s dead — she stabbed him in the midst of his Serai; And, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore, She only smiled — O’Driscoll’s child — she thought of Baltimore. VII. Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band, And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand, Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling wretch is seen — ’Tis Hackett of Dungarvan — he, who steered the Alge- rine ! He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer, For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there — Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought the Norman o’er — Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore. LAMENT FOR EOGHAN RUADH. 137 LAMENT FOR THE DE \TH OF EOGHAN RUADH O’NEILL .* [Time— 10th Nov., 1649. Scene — Ormond’s Camp, County Water ford. Speakers — A Veteran of Eoghan O’Neill’s clan, and one o, the horsemen, just arrived with an account of his death. J I. “ Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Eoghan Ruadh O’Neill r “ Yes, they slew with poison him, they feared to meet with steel.” “ May God wither up their hearts ! May their blood cease to flow ! May they walk in living death, who poisoned Eoghan Ruadh ! n. Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words.” “ From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords ; But the weapon of the Sacsanach met him on his way, And he died at Cloch Uachtar,f upon Saint Leonard’s day.” * Commonly called Owen Roe O’Neill. Vide Appendix, t Vulgo t Cloigh Oughter. 12 * 138 HISTORICAL BALLADS. III. “ Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One ! Wail, wail ye for the Dead ; Quench the hearth, and hold the breath — with ashes strew the head. How tenderly we loved him ! How deeply we deplore ! Holy Saviour! but to think we shall never see him more. IV. Sagest in the council was he, kindest ip the Hall Sure we never won a battle — ’twas Eoghan won them all. Had he lived — had he lived — our dear country had been free ; But he’s dead, but he’s dead, and ’tis slaves we’ll ever be. v. O’Farrell and Clanriekarde, Preston and Red Hugh, Audley and MacMahon — ye are valiant, wise, and true ; But — what, what are ye all to our darling who is gone 1 The Rudder of our ship was he, our Castle’s corner stone ! VI. W aif, wail him through the Island ! Weep, weep for our pride ! Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died ! LAMENT FOR EOGHAN RUAPH. 139 Weep the Victor of Beann-bhorbh* — weep him, young man and old; Weep for him, ye women— your Beautiful lies cold ! VII. We thought you would not die — we were sure you would not go, And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell’s cruel blow — Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky — Oh ! why did you leave us, Eoghan ? Why did you die ? VIII. Soft as woman’s was your voice, O’Neill ! bright was your eye, Oh ! why did you leave us. Eoghan? why did you die? Your troubles are all over, you’re at rest with God on high; But we’re slaves, and we’re orphans, Eoghan ! — why di you die ?” • Vul fienburb 140 HISTORICAL BALLADS. A RALLY FOR IRELAND.* [may, 1689.lt Shout it out, till it ring From Beann-mhor to Cape Cleire, For our country and king, And religion so dear. Rally, men! rally — Irishmen ! rally ! Gather round the dear flag, that, wet with our tears, And torn, and bloody, lay hid for long years, And now, once again, in its pride re-appears. See ! from The Castle our green banner waves, Bearing fit motto for uprising slaves — For Now or never ! Now AND FOR EVER ! Bids you to battle for triumph or graves — Bids you to burst on the Sacsanach knaves — Rally, then, rally ! Irishmen, rally ! Shout Now or never ! Now AND FOR EVER ! Heed not their fury, however it raves, Welcome their horsemen with pikes and with staves, • Set to original music m “ Spirit of Nation,” 4to., p. 121. t Vide Appendix A RALLY FOR IRELAND. 141 Close on their cannon, their bay’nets, and glaives., Down with their standard wherever it waves ; Fight to the last, and ye cannot he slaves ! Fight to the last, and ye cannot he slaves ! n. Gallant Sheldon is here, And Hamilton, too, And Tirchonaill so dear, And Mac Carrthaigh, so true. And there are Frenchmen; Skilful and staunch men — De Rosen, Pont6e, Pusignan, and Boisseleau, And gallant Lauzun is a coming, you know, With Balldearg, the kinsman of great Eoghan Ruadh* From Sionainn to Banna, from Life to Laoi,* The country is rising for Libertie. Tho’ your arms are rude, If your courage he good, As the traitor fled will the stranger flee, At another Drom-mor, from “ the Irishry.” Arm peasant and lord ! Grasp musket and sword ! Grasp pike-staff and skian ! Give your horses the rein ! March, in the name of his Majesty — Ulster and Munster unitedly — * VulgOy Shannon, Bann, Liffev, and Lee. 142 HISTORICAL BALLADS. Townsman and peasant, like waves of the sea — Leinster and Connacht to victory — Shoulder to shoulder for Liberty, Shoulder to shoulder for Liberty. m. Kirk, Schomberg and Churchill Are coming — what then? We’ll drive them and Dutch Will To England again ; We can laugh at each threat, For our Parliament’s met — De Courcy, O’Briain, Mac Domhnaill, Le Poer, O’Neill and St. Lawrence, and others go leor , The choice of the land from Athluain* to the shore ! They’ll break the last link of the Sacsanach chain— They’ll give us the lands of our fathers again ! Then up ye ! and fight For your King and your Right, Or ever toil on, and never complain, Tho’ they trample your roof-tree, and rifle youi fane. Rally, then, rally ! Irishmen, rally — Fight Now OR NEVER, Now AND FOR EVER ! Laws are in vain without swords to maintain ; So, muster as fast as the fall of the rain : Vulgo , Athlone. THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK. 143 Serried and rough as a field of ripe gram, Stand by your flag upon mountain and plain : Charge till yourselves or your foemen are slain I Fight till yourselves or your foemen are slain ! THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK.* [August 27, 1690.] Air — Garradh Eoghain.f I. Oh, hurrah ! for the men, who, when danger is nign, Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick’s wall, And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. King William’s men round Limerick lay His cannon crashed from day to day, Till the southern wall was swept away At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.\ ’Tis afternoon, yet hot the sun, When William fires the signal gun, And, like its flash, his columns run On the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas . * Vide Appendix. t Garryowen. t “ Limerick of the azure river.’’ See *' The Circuit of Ireland, p. 47 —Author’s Note. 144 HISTORICAL BALLADS. H. Yet, hurrah ! for the men, who, when danger is nigh, Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick’s wall, And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. The breach gaped out two perches wide, The fosse is filled, the batteries plied ; Can the Irishmen that onset bide At the city of Luimneach linnghlas. Across the ditch the columns dash, Their bayonets o’er the rubbish flash, When sudden comes a rending crash From the city of Luimneach linn-ghla^ hi. Then, hurrah! for the men, who, when danger is nigk Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick’s wall, And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. The bullets rain in pelting shower, And rocks and beams from wall and tower The Englishmen are glad to cower At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. But, rallied soon, again they pressed, Their bayonets pierced full many a breast, Till they bravely won the breach’s crest At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas . IV. Yet, hurrah ! for the men, who, when danger is nigh. Are found in the front, looking death in the eye, THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK. 145 Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick’s wall, Vnd hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. Then fiercer grew the Irish yell, And madly on the foe they fell, Till the breach grew like the jaws of hell-*— Not the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. The women fought before the men, Each man became a match for ten, So back they pushed the villains then, From the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas • v. Then, hurrah ! for the men, who, when danger is nigh, Are found in the front, looking death in the eye Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick’s wall, And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. But Bradenburgh the ditch has crost, And gained our flank at little cost — The bastion’s gone — the town is lost ; Oh ! poor city of Luimneach linn-ghlas When, sudden, Sarsfield springs the mine, Like rockets rise the Germans fine, And come down dead, ’mid smoke and shine, At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas . VI. So, hurrah ! for the men, who, when danger is mgn, Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick’s wall, And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all, 13 146 HISTORICAL BALLADS. Out, with a roar, tho Irish sprung, And back the beaten English flung Till William fled, his lords among, F rom tho city of Luimneach linn-ghlas ’’Tvvas thus was fought that glorious fight, By Irishmen, for Ireland’s right — May all such days have such a night As the battle of Luimneach linn-ghlas PART IV. Sallab anii langn ILLUSTRATIVE OF IRISH HISTORY. “ By a Ballad History we do not mean a metrical chronicle, or any continued work, but a string of ballads chronologically arranged, and illustrating the main events of Irish History, its characters, customs, scenes, and passions. “ Exact dates, subtle plots, minute connexions and motives, rarely appear in Ballads ; and for these ends the worst prose history is superior to the best Ballad series ; but these are not the highest ends of history. To hallow or accurse the scenes of glory and honour, or of shame and sorrow — to give to the imagination the arms, and nomes and senates, and battles of other days — to rouse and soften, and strengthen and enlarge us with the passions of great periods— to lead us into love of self-denial, of justice, of beauty, of valour, of generous life and proud death — and to set up in our souls the me- mory of great men, who shall then be as models and judges of our actions — these are the highest duties of History, and these are best taught by a Ballad History.” — Davis’s Essays. THE PENAL DAYS. Air — The Wheelwright I. Oh! weep those days, the penal days, When Ireland hopelessly complained 148 HISTORICAL BALLADS. On . weep those days, the penal days, When godless persecution reigned ; When, year by year, For serf and peer, Fresh cruelties were made by law, And, filled with hate, Our senate sate To weld anew each fetter’s flaw ; Oh ! weep those days, those penal days— Their memory still on Ireland weighs. ii. They bribed the flock, they bribed the son, To sell the priest and rob the sire ; Their dogs were taught alike to run Upon the scent of wolf and friar. Among the poor, Or on the moor, Were hid the pious and the true— While traitor knave, And recreant slave, Had riches, rank, and retinue : And, exiled in those penal days, Our banners over Europe blaze. HI. A stranger held the land and tower Of many a noble fugitive ; No Popish ord had lordly power, The peasant scarce had leave to live TIIE PENAL DATS. 149 Above his head A ruined shed, No tenure but a tyrant’s will — Forbid to plead, Forbid to read, Disarmed, disfranchised, imbecile — What wonder if our step betrays The freedman, bom in penal days ? They’re gone, they’re gone, those penal days ! All creeds are equal in our isle ; Then grant, O Lord, thy plenteous grace, Our ancient feuds to reconcile. Let all atone For blood and groan, For dark revenge and open wrong, Let all unite For Ireland’s right, And drown our griefs in freedom’s song ; Till time shall veil in twilight haze, The memory of those penal days. 150 HISTORICAL BALLADS. THE DEATH OF SARSFIELD. * A CHAUNT OF THE BRIGADE. I. Sarsfield has sailed from Limerick Town, He held it long for country and crown ; And ere he yielded, the Saxon swore To spoil our homes and our shrines no more. H. Sarsfield and all his chivalry Are fighting for France in the low countrie— At his fiery charge the Saxons reel, They learned at Limerick to dread the steel. hi. Sarsfield is dying on Landen’s plain ; His corslet hath met the ball in vain — As his life-blood gushes into his hand, He says, “ Oh ! that this was for father-land !” * Sarsfield was slain on the 29th July, 1693, at Landen, heading his countrymen in the van of victory, — King William flying. He could not have died better. His last thoughts were for his country. As he lay on the field unhelmed and dying, he put his hand to his breast. When he took it away, it was full of his best blood. Look- ing at it sadly with an eye in which victory shone a moment before, he said faintly, “ Oh ! that this were for Ireland.” He said no more ; and history records no nobler saying, nor any more becoming death.— Author’s Note. — Vide Appendix, for a brief sketch of the services of the Irish Brigade, in which most of the allusions in these and several of the following poems are explained. — E d. I THE SURPRISE OF CREMCNA. 151 iv. Sarsfield is dead, yet no tears shed we— For he died in the arms of Victory, And his dying words shall edge the brand, When we chase the foe from our native land ! THE SURPRISE OF CREMONA. ( 1702 .) i. From Milan to Cremona Duke Villeroy rode, And soft are the beds in his princely abode ; In billet and barrack the garrison sleep, And loose is the watch which the sentinels keep : ’Tis the eve of St. David, and bitter the breeze Of that mid-winter night on the flat Cremonese ; A fig for precaution ! — Prince Eugene sits down In winter cantonments round Mantua town ! n. Yet through Ustiano, and out on the plain, Horse, foot, and dragoons are defiling amain “ That flash 1” said Prince Eugene, “ Count Meul, push on” — like a rock from a precipice Merci is gone. 152 HISTORICAL BALLADS. Proud mutters the prince — “ That is Cassioli’s sign : Ere the dawn of the morning Cremona ’ll be mine — For Merci will open the gate of the Po, But scant is the mercy Prince Vaudemont will shew !” HI. Through gate, street, and square, with his keen cava- liers — A flood through a gulley — Count Merci careers — They ride without getting or giving a blow, Nor halt ’till they gaze on the gate of the Po — “ Surrender the gate” — but a volley replied, For a handful of Irish are posted inside. By my faith, Charles Vaudemont will come rather late, If he stay ’till Count Merci shall open that gate ! IV. But in through St. Margaret’s the Austrians pour, And billet and barrack are ruddy with gore ; Unarmed and naked, the soldiers are slain — There’s an enemy’s gauntlet on Villeroy’s rein — “ A thousand pistoles and a regiment of herse — Release me, MacDonuell !”■ — they hold on their course, Count Merci has seized upon cannon and wall, Prince Eugene’s head-quarters are in the Town-hall ! v. Here and there, through the city, some readier band, For honour and safety, undauntedly stand. At the head of the regiments of Dillon and Burke Ts Major O’Mahony, flerce as a Turk. THE SURPRISE OF CREMONA. 153 His sabre is flashing — the major is drest, But muskets and shirts are the clothes of the rest! Yet they rush to the ramparts — the clocks have tolled ten — And Count Merci retreats with the half of his men. VI. “In on them,” said Friedberg, — and Dillon is broke, Like forest-flowers crushed by the fall of the oak ; Through the naked battalions the cuirassiers go ; — But the man, not the dress, makes the soldier, I trow Upon them with grapple, with bay’net, and ball, Like wolves upon gaze-hounds, the Irishmen fall — Black Friedberg is slain by O’Mahony’s steel, And back from the bullets the cuirassiers reel. VII. Oh ! hear you their shout in your quarters, Eugene ? In vain on Prince Yaudemont for succour you lean ! The bridge has been broken, and, mark ! how pell-mel Come riderless horses, and volley and yell ! — He’s a veteran soldier — he clenches his hands, He springs on his horse, disengages his bands — He rallies, he urges, till, hopeless of aid, He is chased through the gates by the Irish Brigade viii. News, news, in Vienna ! — King Leopold’s sad. News, news, in St. James’s ! — King William is mad. News, news, in Versailles — “Let the Irish Brigade Be loyally honoured, and royally paid.” 154 HISTORICAL BALLADS. News, news, in old Ireland — high rises her pride, And high sounds her wail for her children who died, And deep is her prayer, — “ God send I may see “ MacDonncll and Mahony fighting for me.” THE FLOWER OF FINAE. i. Bright red is the sun on the waves of Lough Sneeliiij A cool gentle breeze from the mountain is stealing, While fair round its islets the small ripples play, But fairer than all is the Flower of Finae. ii. Her hair is like night, and her eyes like grey morning, She trips on the heather as if its touch scorning, Yet her heart and her lips are as mild as May day, Sweet Eily MacMahon, the Flower of Finae. m. But who down the hill side than red deer runs fleeter And who on the lake side is hastening to greet her ? Who hut Fergus O’Farrell, the fiery and gay, The darling and pride of the Flower of Finae 1 i 4 THE FLOWER OF FINAE. 155 «. t IV. One kiss and one clasp, and one wild look of gladness ; Ah ! why do they change on a sudden to sadness— He has told his hard fortune, nor more he can stay, He must leave his poor Eily to pine at Finae. v. For Fergus O’Farrell was true to his sire-land, And the dark hand of tyranny drove him from Ireland ; He joins the Brigade, in the wars far away, But he vows he’ll come hack to the Flower of Finae. VI. He fought at Cremona — she hears of his story , He fought at Cassano — she’s proud of his glory, Yet sadly she sings Siubhail a ruin * all the day, “ Oh, come, come, my darling, come home to Finae.’’ VII. Eight long years have passed, till she’s nigh broken hearted, Her reel , and her rocfc, and her flax she has parted ; She sails with the “ Wild Geese” to Flanders away, And leaves her sad parents alone in Finae. VIII. Lord Clare on the field of Ramil lies is charging — Before him, the Sacsanach squadrons enlarging— Vulgo , Shule aroon. 156 HISTORICAL BALLADS. Behind him the Cravats their sections display— Beside him rides Fergus and shouts for Finae. IX. On the slopes of La Judoigne the Frenchmen are flying Lord Clare and his squadrons the foe still defying, Outnumbered, and wounded, retreat in array ; And bleeding rides Fergus and thinks of Finae. x. In the cloisters of Ypres a banner is swaying, And by it a pale weeping maiden is praying ; That flag’s the sole trophy of Ramillies’ fray ; This nun is poor Eily, the Flower of Finae. THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME. Air — The girl I left behind me . I. The dames of France are fond and free, And Flemish lips are willing, And soft the maids of Italy, And Spanish eyes are thrilling; Still, though I bask beneath their smile, Their charms fail to bind me, And my heart flies back to Erin’s isle, To the girl I left behind me. THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME. 157 ii. For she’s as fair as Shannon’s side, And purer than its water, But she refused to be my bride Though many a year I sought her ; Yet, since to France I sailed away, Her letters oft remind me That I promised never to gainsay The girl I left behind me. hi. She says — “ My own dear love, come home, My friends are rich and many, Or else abroad with you I’ll roam A soldier stout as any ; If you’ll not come, nor let me go, I’ll think you have resigned me.” My heart nigh broke when I answered — No I To the girl I left behind me. IV. For never shall my true love brave A life of war and toiling ; And never as a skulking slave I’ll tread my native soil on ; But, were it free or to be freed, The battle’s close would find me To Ireland bound — nor message need From the girl I left behind me. 14 158 HISTORICAL BALLADS. CLARE’S DRAGOONS * Air — Viva la. i. When, on Ramillies’ bloody field, The baffled French were forced to yield, The victor Saxon backward reeled Before the charge of Clare’s Dragoons. The Flags, we conquered in that fray, Look lone in Ypres’ choir, they say, We’ll win them company to-day, Or bravely die like Clare’s Dragoons. CHORUS. Viva la, for Ireland’s wrong ! Viva la, for Ireland’s right ! Viva la, in battle throng, For a Spanish steed, and sabre bright ! n. The brave old lord died near the fight, But, for each drop he lost that night, A Saxon cavalier shall bite The dust before Lord Clare’s Dragoons. For never, when our spurs were set, And never, when our sabres met, Could we the Saxon soldiers get To stand the shock of Clare’s Dragoons. * Vide Append' r. clare’s dragoons. 159 CHORUS. Viva la , the New Brigade ! Viva la , the Old One, too ! Viva la , the rose shall fade, And the Shamrock shine for ever new ! hi. Another Clare is here to lead, The worthy son of such a breed; The French expect some famous deed, When Clare leads on his bold Dragoons. Our Colonel comes from Brian’s race, His wounds are in his breast and face, The bearna baoghail* is still his place, The foremost of his bold Dragoons. CHORUS. Viva la , the New Brigade ! Viva la , the Old One, too ! Viva la , the rose shall fade, And the Shamrock shine for ever new ! rv. There’s not a man in squadron here Was ever known to flinch or fear ; Though first in charge and last in rere, Have ever been Lord Clare’s Dragoons ; * Gap of danger. 160 HISTORICAL BALLADS. But, see ! we’ll soon have work to do, To shame our boasts, or prove them true, For hither comes the English crew, To sweep away Lord Clare’s Dragoons. CHORUS. Viva la , for Ireland’s wrong ! Viva la , for Ireland’s right ! Viva la , in battle throng, For a Spanish steed and sabre bright ! v. Oh ! comrades ! think how Ireland pines, Her exiled lords, her rifled shrines, Her dearest hope, the ordered lines, And bursting charge of Clare’s Dragoons. Then bring your Green Flag to the sky, Be Limerick your battle-cry, And charge, till blood floats fetlock-high, Around the track of Clare’s Dragoons ! CHORUS. Viva la , the New Brigade ! Viva la , the Old One, too ! Viva la , the rose shall fade, And the Shamrock shine for ever new ! WHEN SOUTH WINDS BLOW. 161 WHEN SOUTH WINDS BLOW, Air — The gentle Maiden . i. Why sits the gentle maiden there, While surfing billows splash around? Why doth she southwards wildly stare, And sing, with such a fearful sound — “The Wild Geese fly where others walk; The Wild Geese do what others talk — The way is long from France, you know — He’ll come at last when south winds blow.” li. Oh ! softly was the maiden nurst In Castle Connell’s lordly towers, Where Skellig’s billows boil and burst, And, far above, Dunkerron towers : And she was noble as the hill — Yet battle-flags are nobler still : And she was graceful as the wave — Yet who would live a tranquil slave? m. And, so, her lover went to France, To serve the foe of Ireland’s foe ; Yet deep he swore — “ Whatever chance, “ I’ll come some day when sou th winds blow” 14 * 162 HISTORICAL BALLADS. And prouder hopes he told beside, How she should be a prince’s bride, How Louis would the Wild Geese* send, And Ireland’s weary woes should end IV. But tyrants quenched her father’s hearth, And wrong and absence warped her mind ; The gentle maid, of gentle birth, Is moaning madly to the wind — “ He said he’d come, whate’er betide : He said I’d be a happy bride : Oh ! long the way and hard the foe — He’ll come when south — when south winds blow !" THE BATTLE EVE OF THE BRIGADE Am — Contented I am, I. The mess-tent is full, and the glasses are set, And the gallant Count Thomond is president yet ; * The recruiting for the Brigade was carried on in the French ships which smuggled brandies, wines, silks, &c , to the western and south- western coasts. Their return cargoes were recruits for the Brigade, and were entered in their books as Wild Geese. Hence this became the common name in Ireland for the Irish serving in the Biigade. The fec/uiting was chiefly from Clare, Limerick, Cork, Kerry, and Galway —Author’s Note. THE BATTLE EVE OF THE BRIGADE. 16$ The vet’ran arose, like an uplifted lance, Crying — “Comrades, a health to the monarch of France !” With bumpers and cheers they have done as he bade, For King Louis is loved by The Irish Brigade. n. “ A health to King James,” and they bent as they quaffed, “Here’s to George the Elector ,” and fiercely they laughed, ** Good luck to the girls we wooed long ago, Where Shannon, and Barrow, and Blackwater flow “ God prosper Old Ireland,” — you’d think them afraid, So pale grew the chiefs of The Irish Brigade. hi. “ But, surely, that light cannot come from our lamp ? And that noise — are they all getting drunk in the camp V' “ Hurrah ! boys, the morning of battle is come, And the gener ale's beating on many a drum.” So they rush from the revel to join the parade ; For the van is the right of The Irish Brigade. IV. They fought as they revelled, fast, fiery, and true, And, though victors, they left on the field not a few ; And they, who survived, fought and drank as of yore, But the land of their heart’s hope they never saw more ; 164 HISTORICAL BALLADS. For in far foreign fields, from Dunkirk to Belgrade, Lie the soldiers and chiefs of The Irish Brigade. FONTENOY* (1745.) Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed, And, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine, the Dutch in vain assailed ; For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery, And well they swept the English ranks, and Dutch auxiliary. As vainly, through De Barri’s wood, the British soldiers burst, The French artillery drove them back, diminished, and dispersed. The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye, And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try; Vide Appendix. FONTENOT. 165 On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride f And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide. ii. Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread, Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head ; Steady they step a-down the slope — steady they climb the hill ; Steady they load — steady they fire, moving right on- ward still, Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace blast, Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast ; And on the open plain above they rose, and kept their course, With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hos- tile force : Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks — They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland’s ocean banks. m. More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round ; As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground ; 166 HISTORICAL BALLADS. Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fired — Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired. “ Push on, my household cavalry !” King Louis madly cried : To death they rush, but rude their shock — not una- venged they died. On through the camp the column trod — King Louis turns his rein : 44 Not yet, my liege,” Saxe interposed, 44 the Irish troops remain :” And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo, Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true. IV. 44 Lord Clare,” he says , 44 you have your wish, there are your Saxon foes !” The Marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes ! How fierce the look these exiles wear, who’re wont to be so gay, The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day — The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith ’twas writ could dry, Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their wo- men’s parting cry, Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their coun- try overthrown, — Each looks, as if revenge for all were staked on him a'one. FONTENOY. 161 On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere, Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exilea were. v. O’Brien’s voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he com- mands, “Fix bay’nets” — “Charge,” — Like mountain storm, rush on these fiery bands ! Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow, Yet, must’ring all the strength they have, they make a gallant show. They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle- wind— Their bayonets the breakers’ foam ; like rocks, the men behind ! One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surging smoke, With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza ! 44 Revenge ! remember Limerick ! dash down the Sacsanach !” VI. Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger’s pang, Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang : 168 HISTORICAL BALLADS. Bright was their steel, ’tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore ; Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags they tore ; The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered, fled — The green hill side is matted close with dying and with dead. Across the plain, and far away passed on that hideous wrack, While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun, With bloody plumes the Irish stand — the field is fought and won ! THE DUNGANNON CONVENTION. ( 1782 .) i. The church of Dungannon is full to the door, And sabre and spur clash at times on the floor, While helmet and shako are ranged all along, Yet no book of devotion is seen in the throng. In the front of the altar no minister stands, But the crimson-clad chief of these warrior bands ; DUNGANNON CONVENTION, 169 And though solemn the looks and the voices around, You’d listen in vain for a litany’s sound. Say ! what do they hear in the temple of prayer ? Oh ! why in the fold has the lion his lair ? ii. Sad, wounded, and wan was the face of our isle, By English oppression, and falsehood, and guile ? Yet when to invade it a foreign fleet steered, To guard it for England the North volunteered. From the citizen-soldiers the foe fled aghast— Still they stood to their guns when the danger had past, For the voice of America came o’er the wave, Crying — Woe to the tyrant, and hope to the slave!— Indignation and shame through their regiments speed, They have arms in their hands, and what more do they need? in. O’er the green hills of Ulster their banners are spread, The cities of Leinster resound to their tread, The vallies of Munster with ardour are stirred, And the plains of wild Connaught their bugles have heard ; A Protestant front-rank and Catholic rere— For — forbidden the arms of freemen to bear — * Yet foeman and friend are full sure, if need be, The slave for his country will stand by the free. By green flags supported, the Orange flags wave, And the soldier half turns to unfetter the slave ! 15 170 HISTORICAL BALLADS. IV. More honoured that church of Dungannon is now, Than when at its altar communicants bow ; More welcome to heaven than anthem or prayer, Are the rites and the thoughts of the warriors there ; In the name of all Ireland the Delegates swore : “We’ve suffered too long, and we’ll suffer no more — Unconquered by Force, we were vanquished by Fraud And now, in God’s temple, we vow unto God, That never again shall the Englishman bind His chains on our limbs, or his laws on our mind.” v. The church of Dungannon is empty once more — No plumes on the altar, no clash on the floor. But the councils of England are fluttered to see, In the cause of their country, the Irish agree ; So they give as a boon what they dare not withhold, And Ireland, a nation, leaps up as of old, With a name, and a trade, and a flag of her own, And an army to fight for the people and throne. But woe worth the day if to falsehood or fears She surrender the guns of her brave Volunteers ! SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1782. 171 SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1782. Air — Boyne Water . i. Hurrah ! ’tis done — our freedom’s won— Hurrah for the Volunteers ! No laws we own, but those alone Of our Commons, King, and Peers. The chain is broke — the Saxon yoke From off our neck is taken; Ireland awoke — Dungannon spoke — With fear was England shaken. II. When Grattan rose, none dared oppose The claim he made for freedom : They knew our swords, to back his words, Were ready, did he need them. Then let us raise, to Grattan’s praise, A proud and joyous anthem ; And wealth, and grace, and length of days. May God, in mercy grant him ! hi. Bless Harry Flood, who nobly stood By us, through gloomy years! Bless Charlemont, the brave and good, The Chief of the Volunteers ! 172 HISTORICAL BALLADS. The Ncith began ; the North held on The strife for native land ; Till Ireland rose, and cowed her foes— God bless the Northern land ! IV. And bless the men of patriot pen — Swift, Molyneux, and Lucas ; Bless sword and gun, which “ Free Trade” won— Bless God! who ne’er forsook us ! And long may last, the friendship fast, Which binds us all together ; While we agree, our foes shall flee Like clouds in stormy weather. y. Remember still, through good and ill, How vain were prayers and tears — How vain were words, till flashed the swords Of the Irish Volunteers. By arms we’ve got the rights we sought Through long and wretched years — Hurrah ! ’tis done, our freedom’s won — Hurrah for the Volunteers! THE MEN OF ’EIGHTY-TWO. 173 THE MEN OF ’EIGHTY-TWO. Am — An Cruisgin Lan. i. To rend a cruel chain, To end a foreign reign, The swords of the Volunteers were drawn. And instant from their sway, Oppression fled away ; So we’ll drink them in a cruisgin lan , lan , Zan, We’ll drink them in a cruisgin lan ! II. Within that host were seen The Orange, Blue, and Green— The Bishop for it’s coat left his lawn— The peasant and the lord Ranked in with one accord, Like brothers at a cruisgin lan , lan , lan y Like brothers at a cruisgin lan ! HI. With liberty there came Wit, eloquence, and fame ; Our feuds went like mists from the dawn , 15 * 174 HISTORICAL BALLADS. Old bigotry disdained — Old privilege retained — Oh ! sages, fill a cruisgin Ian , Zdn, Ian , And, boys, fill up a cruisgin Ian ! IV. The trader’s coffers filled, The barren lands were tilled, Our ships on the waters thick as spawn— Prosperity broke forth, Like summer in the north — Ye merchants! fill a cruisgin Ian , Ian , Zan* Ye farmers ! fill a cruisgin Ian ! v. The memory of that day Shall never pass away, Tho’ it’s fame shall be yet outshone ; We’ll grave it on our shrines, We’ll shout it in our lines — Old Ireland ! fill a cruisgin Ian , Ian , Zan, Young Ireland! fill a cruisgin Ian! VI. And drink — The Volunteers, Their generals, and seers, Their gallantry, their genius, and their brawn • With water, or with wine — The draught is but a sign — The purpose fills the cruisgin Idny Ian , Zdn, This purpose fills the cruisgin Ian ! NATIVE SWORDS. 176 VII. That ere Old Ireland goes, And while Young Ireland glows, The swords of our sires be girt on, And loyally renew The work of ’Eighty-two— Oh ! gentlemen — a cruisgin Ian , Ian , Zdn, Our freedom ! in a cruisgin Ian ! NATIVE SWORDS. (A VOLUNTEER SONG. — 1ST JULY, 1792.) Air — Boyne Water. We’ve bent too long to braggart wrong, While force our prayers derided ; We’ve fought too long, ourselves among, By knaves and priests divided ; United now, no more we’ll bow, Foul faction, we discard it; And now, thank God ! our native sod Has Native Swords to guard it. 176 HISTORICAL BALLADS. n. Like rivers, which, o’er valleys rich. Bring ruin in their water, On native land, a native hand Flung foreign fraud and slaughter. From Dermod’s crime to Tudor’s time Our clans were our perdition ; Religion’s name, since then, became Our pretext for division. hi. But, worse than all, with Lim’rick’s fall Our valour seem’d to perish ; Or o’er the main, in France and Spain, For bootless vengeance flourish. The peasant, here, grew pale for fear He’d suffer for our glory, While France sang joy for Fontenoy, And Europe hymned our story. rv. But, now, no clan, nor factious plan, The East and West can sunder — Why Ulster e’er should Munster fear Can only wake our wonder. Religion’s crost, when union’s lost, And “ royal gifts ” retard it ; But now, thank God ! our native sod Has Native Swords to guard it . tone’s grave. 177 TONE’S GRAVE. i. In Bodenstown Churchyard there is a green grave, And wildly along it the winter winds rave ; Small shelter, I ween, are the ruined walls there, When the storm sweeps down on the plains of Kildare, ii. Once I lay on that sod — it lies over Wolfe Tone — And I thought how he perished in prison alone, His friends unavenged, and his country unfreed— “ Oh, bitter,” I said, “ is the patriot’s meed ; hi. For in him the heart of a woman combined With a heroic life, and a governing mind— A martyr for Ireland — his grave has no stone — His name seldom named, and his virtues unknown. rv. I was woke from my dream by the voices and tread Of a band, who came into the home of the dead ; They carried no corpse, and they carried no stone, And they stopped when they came to the grave of Wolfe Tone. 178 HISTORICAL BALLADS. V. There were students and peasants, the wise and tho brave, And an old man who knew him from cradle to grave, And children who thought me hard-hearted ; for they, On that sanctified sod were forbidden to play. VI. But the old man, who saw I was mourning there, said, “ We come, sir, to weep where young Wolfe Tone is laid, And we’re going to raise him a monument, too — A plain one, yet fit for the simple and true.” VII. My heart overflowed, and I clasped his old hand, And I blessed him, and blessed every one of his band ; “ Sweet ! sweet ! ’tis to find that such faith can remain To the cause, and the man so long vanquished and slain.” VIII. In Bodenstown Churchyard there is a green grave, And freely around it let winter winds rave — Far better they suit him — the ruin and gloom, — Tili Ireland, a Nation, can build him a Tomb. PAKT Y. y&mtWmm $mmB. “ Nationality is nc longer an unmeaning or despised name among us. It is welcomed by the higher ranks, it is the inspiration of the bold, and the hope of the people. It is the summary name for many things. It seeks a Literature made by Irishmen, and coloured by our scenery, manners, and character. It desires to see Art applied to ex- press Irish thoughts and belief. It would make our Music sound in every parish at twilight, our Pictures sprinkle the walls of every house, and our Poetry and History sit at every hearth. “ It would thus create a race of men full of a more intensely Irish character and knowledge, and to that race it would give Ireland. It would give them the seas of Ireland to sweep with their nets and launch on with their navy ; the harbours of Ireland, to receive a greater com- merce than any island in the world ; the soil of Ireland to live on, by more millions than starve here now ; the fame of Ireland to enhance by their genius and valour ; the Independence of Ireland to guard bv laws and arms.” Davis’s Essays. NATIONALITY. i. A nation’s voice, a nation’s voice — It is a solemn tning ! It bids the bondage-sick rejoice— ’Tis stronger than a king. 180 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ’Tis like the light of many stars, The sound of many waves ; Which brightly look through prison-bars And sweetly sound in caves. Yet is it noblest, godliest known, When righteous triumph swells its tone. n. A nation’s flag, a nation’s flag — If wickedly unrolled, May foes in adverse battle drag Its every fold from fold. But, in the cause of Liberty, Guard it ’gainst Earth and Hell ; Guard it till Death or Victory — Look you, you guard it well ! No saint or king has tomb so proud, As he whose flag becomes his shroud. hi. A nation’s right, a nation’s right — God gave it, and gave, too, A nation’s sword, a nation’s might, Danger to guard it through. ’Tis freedom from a foreign yoke, ’Tis just and equal laws, Which deal unto the humblest folk, As in a noble’s cause. On nations fixed in right and truth, God would bestow eternal ycuth. SELF-RELIANCE. 181 IV. May Ireland’s voice be ever heard Amid the world’s applause ! And never be her flag-staff stirred, But in an honest cause ! May Freedom be her very breath, Be Justice ever dear ; And never an ennobled death May son of Ireland fear ! So the Lord God will ever smile, With guardian grace, upon our isle. SELF-RELIANCE. i. Though savage force and subtle schemes, And alien rule, through ages lasting, Have swept your land like lava streams, Its wealth, and name, and nature blasting, Rot not, therefore, in dull despair, Nor moan at destiny in far lands: Face not your foe with bosom bare, Nor hide your chains in pleasure’s garlands, The wise man arms to combat wrong, The brave man clears a den of lions, 16 182 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The true man spurns the Helot’s song ; The freeman’s friend is Self-Reliance ! ii. Though France, that gave your exiles bread. Your priests a home, your hopes a station Or that young land, where first was spread The starry flag of Liberation, — Should heed your wrongs some future day, And send you voice or sword to plead ’em, With helpful love their help repay, But trust not even to them for Freedom. A Nation freed by foreign aid Is but a corpse by wanton science Convulsed like life, then flung to fade — The life itself is Self-Reliance ! hi. Oh ! see your quailing tyrant run To courteous lies, and Roman agents ; His terror, lest Dungannon’s sun Should rise again with riper radiance. Oh ! hark the Freeman’s welcome cheer, And hark your brother sufferers sobbing ; Oh ! mark the universe grow clear, And mark your spirit’s royal throbbing, — ’Tis Freedom’s God that sends such signs, As pledges of his blest alliance; He gives brignt hopes to brave designs, And lends his bolts to Self-Reliance ! SWEET AND SAD. 183 IV. Then, flung alone, or hand-in-hand, In mirthful hour, or spirit solemn ; In lowly toil, or high command, In social hall, or charging column ; In tempting wealth, and trying woe, In struggling with a mob’s dictation ; In bearing back a foreign foe, In training up a troubled nation : Still hold to Truth, abound in Love, Refusing every base compliance — Your Praise within, your Prize above, And live and die in Self-Reliance ! SWEET AND SAD. A PRISON SERMON. I. ’Tis sweet to climb the mountain’s crest, And run, like deer-hound, down its breast ; *Tis sweet to snuff the taintless air, And sweep the sea with haughty stare : And, sad it is, when iron bars Keep watch between you and the stars ; 184 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And sad to find your footstep stayed By prison-wall and palisade : But ’twere better be A prisoner for ever, With no destiny To do, or to endeavour ; Better life to spend A martyr or confessor, Than in silence bend To alien and oppressor. n. ’Tis sweet to rule an ample realm, Through weal and woe to hold the helm ; And sweet to strew, with plenteous hand, Strength, health, and beauty, round your land And sad it is to be unprized, While dotards rule, unrecognised ; And sad your little ones to see Writhe in the gripe of poverty : But ’twere better pine In rags and gnawing hunger, While around you whine Your elder and your younger; Better lie in pain, And rise in pain to-morrow, Than o’er millions reign, While those millions sorrow. SWEET AND SAD. 185 III. ’Tis sweet to own a quiet hearth, Begirt by constancy and mirth; ’Twere sweet to feel your dying clasp Returned by friendship’s steady grasp And sad it is, to spend your life, Like sea-bird in the ceaseless strife— Your lullaby the ocean’s roar, Your resting-place a foreign shore : But ’twere better live, Like ship caught by Lofoden, Than your spirit give To be by chains corroden : Best of all to yield Your latest breath, when lying On a victor field, With the green flag flying ! IV. Human joy and human sorrow, Light or shade from conscience borrow ; The tyrant’s crown is lined with flame, Life never paid the coward’s shame : The miser’s lock is never sure, The traitor’s home is never pure ; While seraphs guard, and cherubs tend The good man’s life and brave man’s end: But their fondest care Is the patriot’s prison, 16 186 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Ilymning through its air — “ Freedom hath arisen, Oft from statesmen’s strife, Oft from battle’s flashes, Oft from hero’s life, Oftenest from his ashes !” THE BURIAL. * Why rings the knell of the funeral bell from a hun- dred village shrines ? Through broad Fingall, where hasten all those long and ordered lines ? With tear and sigh they’re passing by, — the matron and the maid — • Has a hero died — is a nation’s pride in that cold coffin laid? With frown and curse, behind the hearse, dark men go tramping on — Has a tyrant died, that they cannot hide their wrath till the rites are done ? * Written on the funeral of the Rev. P. J. Tyrrell, P.P. of Lusk*, one of those indicted with O’Connell in the government prosecutions of 1843 .— Ed. THE BURIAL. 187 THE CHAUNT. “ Ululu! ululu! high on the wind, 44 There’s a home for the slave where no fetters can bind. “ Woe, woe to his slayers” — comes wildly along, With the trampling of feet and the funeral song. And now more clear It swells on the ear ; Breathe low, and listen, ’tis solemn to hear. 44 Ululu! ululu! wail for the dead. 44 Green grow the grass of Fingall on his head ; 44 And spring-flowers blossom, ere elsewhere appearing, 44 And shamrocks grow thick on the Martyr for Erin. 44 Ululu ! ululu ! soft fall the dew 44 On the feet and the head of the martyred and true.” For awhile they tread In silence dread — Then muttering and moaning go the crowd, Surging and swaying like mountain cloud, And again the wail comes fearfully loud. THE CHAUNT. 44 Ululu ! ululu ! kind was his heart ! 44 Walk slower, walk slower, too soon we shall part- • 4 The faithful and pious, the Priest of the Lord, 44 His pilgrimage over, he has his reward. 183 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. “ By the bed of the sick, lowly kneeling, “ To God with the raised cross appealing — “ He seems still to kneel, and he seems still to pray, u And the sins of the dying seem passing away. In the prisoner’s cell, and the cabin so dreary, “ Our constant consoler, he never grew weary ; “ But he’s gone to his rest, u And he’s now with the blest, “ Where tyrant and traitor no longer molest — “ Ululu! ululu! wail for the dead! “ Ululu l ululu ! here is his bed.” Short was the ritual, simple the prayer, Deep was the silence and every head bare ; The Priest alone standing, they knelt all around, Myriads on myriads, like rocks on the ground. Kneeling and motionless — “ Dust unto dust.” “ He died as becometh the faithful and just — “ Placing in God his reliance ard trust;” Kneeling and motionless — “ ashes to ashes” — Hollow the clay on the coffin-lid dashes ; Kneeling and motionless, wildly they pray, But they pray in their souls, for no gesture have they— Stern and standing — oh ! look on them now, like trees to one tempest the multitude bow ; like the swell of the ocean is rising their vow : THE BURIAL. 189 THE VOW. We have bent and borne, though we saw him torn from his home by the tyrant’s crew — And we bent and bore, when he came once more, though suffering had pierced him through : And now he is laid beyond our aid, because to Ire* land true — A martyred man — the tyrant’s ban, the pious patriot slew. “ And shall we bear and bend for ever, “ And shall no time our bondage sever, “ And shall we kneel, but battle never, “ For our own soil ] “ And shall our tyrants safely reign “ On thrones built up of slaves and slain, > “ And nought to us and ours remain, “ But chains and toil. “ No ! round this grave our oath we plight, “ To watch, and labour, and unite, “ Till banded be the nation’s might — “ It’s spirit steeled, “ And then collecting all our force, “ We’ll cross oppression in its course, “ And die — or all our rights enforce, “ On battle field.” 16 * 190 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Like an ebbing sea that will come again, Slowly retired that host of men ; Methinks they’ll keep some other day The oath they swore on the martyr’s clay. WE MUST NOT FAIL. i. We must not fail, we must n.ot fail, However fraud or force assail ; By honour, pride, and policy, By Heaven itself ! — we must be free. ii. Time had already thinned our chain, Time would have dulled our sense of pain By service long, and suppliance vile, We might have won our owner’s smile. in. We spurned the thought, our prison burst, And dared the despot to the worst ; Renewed the strife of centuries, And flung our banner to the breeze. WE MUST NOT FAIL. 191 IV. We called the ends of earth to view The gallant deeds we swore to do ; They knew us wronged, they knew us brave, And, all we asked, they freely gave. v. We took the starving peasant’s mite To aid in winning hack his right, We took the priceless trust of youth ; Their freedom must redeem our truth. We promised loud, and boasted high, “ To break our country’s chains, or die And, should we quail, that country’s name Will be the synonyme of shame. VII. Earth is not deep enough to hide The coward slave who shrinks aside ; Hell is not hot enough to scathe The ruffian wretch who breaks his faith. VIII. But — calm, my soul ! — we promised true Her destined work our land shall do ; Thought, courage, patience will prevail 1 . We shall not fail — we shall not fail ! 192 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. O’CONNELL’S STATUE. (LINES TO HOGAN.) Chisel the likeness of The Chief, Not in gaiety, nor grief ; Change not by your art to stone, Ireland’s laugh, or Ireland’s moan. Dark her tale, and none can tell It’s fearful chronicle so well. Her frame is bent — her wounds are deep-* Who, like him, her woes can weep ? He can be gentle as a bride, While none can rule with kinglier pride. Calm to hear, and wise to prove, Yet gay as lark in soaring love. Well it were posterity Should have some image of his glee ; That easy humour, blossoming Like the thousand flowers of spring ! Glorious the marble which could show His bursting sympathy for woe, Could catch the pathos, flowing wild, Like mother’s milk to craving child. And oh ! how princely were the art Could mould his mien, or tell his heart When sitting sole on Tara’s hill, While hung a million on his will ! o’connell’s statue. 193 Yet, not in gaiety, nor grief, Chisel the image of our Chief; Nor even in that haughty hour When a nation owned his power. But would you by your art unroll His own, and Ireland’s secret soul. And give to other times to scan The greatest greatness of the man ? Fierce defiance let him be Hurling at our enemy — From a base as fair and sure As our love is true and pure, Let his statue rise as tali And firm as a castle wall ; On his broad brow let there be A type of Ireland’s history ; Pious, generous, deep, and warm, Strong and changeful as a storm ; Let whole centuries of wrong Upon his recollection throng — Strongbow’s force, and Henry’s wile, Tudor’s wrath, and Stuart’s guile, And iron Strafford’s tiger jaws, And brutal Brunswick’s penal laws ; Not forgetting Saxon faith, Not forgetting Norman scaith, Not forgetting William’s word, Not forgetting Cromwell’s sword. Let the Union’s fetter vile — 17 194 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The shame and ruin of our isle — Let the blood of ’Ninety-Eight And our present blighting fate— Let the poor mechanic’s lot, And the peasant’s ruined cot, Plundered wealth and glory flown, Ancient honors overthrown — Let trampled altar, rifled urn, Knit his look to purpose stern. Mould all this into one thought, Like wizard cloud with thunder fraught; Still let our glories through it gleam, Like fair flowers through a flooded stream, Or like a flashing wave at night, Bright, — ’mid the solemn darkness bright. Let the memory of old days Shine through the statesman’s anxious face— Dathi’s power, and Brian’s fame, And headlong Sarsfield’s sword of flame, And the spirit of Red Hugh, And the pride of Eighty-two. And the victories he won, And the hope that leads him on ! Let whole armies seem to fly From his threatening hand and eye ; Be the strength of all the land Lil*e a falchion in his hand, And be his gesture sternly grand. A braggart tyrant swore to smite THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED. 195 A people struggling for their rights O’Connell dared him to the field, Content to die, but never yield. Fancy such a soul as his, In a moment such as this, Like cataract, or foaming tide, Or army charging in its pride. Thus he spoke, and thus he stood, Proffering in our cause his blood. Thus his country loves him best— To image this is your behest. Chisel thus, and thus alone, If to man you’d change the stone. THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED * Air — Irish Molly O ! i. Full often when our fathers saw the Red above the Green, They rose in rude but fierce array, with sabre, pike, and scian , • This and the three following pieces are properly street ballads The reader must not expect depth or finish in verses of this descrip, tion, written for a temporary purpose. — E d. 196 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And over many a noble town, and many a field of dead, They proudly set the Irish Green above the English Red. u. But in the end, throughout the land, the shameful sight was seen — The English Red in triumph high above the Irish Green ; But well they died in breach and field, who, as their spirits fled, Still saw the Green maintain its place above the English Red. hi. And they who saw, in after times, the Red above the Green, Were withered as the grass that dies beneath a forest screen ; Yet often by this healthy hope their sinking hearts were fed, That, in some day to come, the Green should flutter o’er the Red. IV. Sure ’twas for this Lord Edward died, and Wolfe Tone sunk serene — Because they could not bear to leave the Red above the Green ; THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED. 197 And ’twas for this that Owen fought, and Sarsfield nobly bled — Because their eyes were hot to see the Green above the Red. So, when the strife began again, our darling Irish Green Was down upon the earth, while high the English Red was seen ; Yet still we hold our fearless course, for something in us said, “ Before the strife is o’er you’ll see the Green above the Red.” VI. And ’tis for this we think aud toil, and knowledge strive to glean, That we may pull the English Red below the Irish Green, And leave our sons sweet liberty, and smiling plenty spread Above the land once dark with blood — the Green above the Red ! VII. The jealous English tyrant now has banned the Irish Green, And forced us to conceal it like a something foul and mean; 17 * 198 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. But yet, by Heavens! he’ll sooner raise his victims from the dead Than force our hearts to leave the Green, and cotton to the Red ! VIII. We’ll trust ourselves, for God is good, and blesses those who lean On their brave hearts, and not upon an earthly king or queen; And, freely as we lift our hands, we vow our blood to shed Once and for ever more to raise the Green above the Red! THE VOW OF TIPPERARY. Air — Tipperary. i. From Carrick streets to Shannon shore, From Slievenamon to Ballindeary, From Longford Pass to Gaillte Mor, Come hear The Vow of Tipperary. A PLEA FOR THE BOG-TROTTERS. 198 ii. Too long we fought for Britain’s cause, And of our blood were never chary ; She paid us back with tyrant laws, And thinned The Homes of Tipperary. hi. Too long, with rash and single arm, The peasant strove to guard his eyrie, Till Irish blood bedewed each farm, And Ireland wept for Tipperary. IV. But never more we’ll lift a hand — We swear by God and Virgin Mary ! Except in war for Native Land, And thaCs The Vow of Tipperary ! A PLEA FOR THE BOG-TROTTERS. i. “ Base Bog-trotters,” says the Times , “ Brown with mud, and black with crimes, Turf and lumpers dig betimes (We grant you need ’em), But never lift your heads sublime, Nor talk of Freedom.” 200 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS II. Yet, Bog-trotters, sirs, be sure, Are strong to do, and to endure, Men whose blows are hard to cure— Brigands ! what’s in ye, That the fierce man of the moor Can’t stand again ye ? in. The common drains in Mushra moss Are wider than a castle fosse, Connaught swamps are hard to cross, And histories boast That Allen’s Bog has caused the loss Of many a host. iv. Oh ! were you in an Irish bog, Full of pikes, and scarce of prog, You’d wish your Times - ship was incog. Or far away, Though Saxons, thick as London fog, Around you lay. A SECOND PLEA FOR THE BOG-TROTTERS. 201 A SECOND PLEA FOR THE BOG-TROTTERS i. The Mail says, that Hanover’s King Twenty Thousand men will bring, And make the “ base bog-trotters ” sing A pillileu ; And that O’Connell high shall swing, And others too. ii. There is a tale of Athens told, Worth at least its weight in gold To fellows of King Ernest’s mould (The royal rover), Who think men may be bought and sold, Or ridden over. hi. Darius (an imperial wretch, A Persian Ernest, or Jack Ketch,) Bid his knaves from Athens fetch “ Earth and water,” Or else the heralds’ necks he’d stretch, And Athens slaughter. IV. The Athenians threw them in a well, And left them there to help themsel’, 202 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. And when his armies came, pell-mell, They tore his banners, And sent his slaves in shoals to hell, To mend their manners. v. Let those who bring and those who send Hanoverians, comprehend Persian-like may be their end,' And the bog-trotter ” May drown their knaves, their banners rend, Their armies slaughter. A SCENE IN THE SOUTH i. 1 was walking along in a pleasant place, In the county Tipperary ; The scene smiled as happy as the holy face Of the Blessed Virgin Mary ; And the trees were proud, and the sward was green, And the birds sang loud in the leafy scene. ii. Yet somehow I felt strange, and soon I felt sad, And then I felt very lonely ; A SCENE IN THE SOUTH. 203 I pondered in vain why I was not glad, In a place meant for pleasure only : For I thought that grief had never been there, And that sin would as lief to heaven repair. in. And a train of spirits seemed passing me by, The air grew as heavy as lead; I looked for a cabin, yet none could I spy In the pastures about me spread ; Yet each field seemed made for a peasant’s cot, And 1 felt dismayed when I saw them not. iv. As I stayed on the field, I saw — Oh, my God ! The marks where a cabin had been : Through the midst of the fields, some feet of the sod Were coarser and far less green, And three or four trees in the centre stood, But they seemed to freeze in their solitude. Surely there was the road that led to the cot, For it ends just beneath the trees, And the trees like mourners are watching the spot, And cronauning with the breeze ; And their stems are bare with children’s play, ' But the children — where, oh ! where are they 1 204 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. VI. An old man unnoticed had come to my side, His hand in my arm linking — A reverend man, without haste or pride — And he said : — “ I know what you’re thinking ; M A cabin stood once underneath the trees, ■* Full of kindly ones — but alas ! for these ! VII. “ A loving old couple, and tho’ somewhat poor, “ Their children had leisure to play ; 44 And the piper, and stranger, and beggar were sura “ To bless them in going aw T ay ; But the typhus came, and the agent too — 44 Ah ! need I name the worst of the two ? VIII. 44 Their cot was unroofed, yet they strove to hide “ In its walls till the fever w T as passed ; 44 Their crime was found out, and the cold ditch side 44 Was their hospital at last : “ Slowly they went to poorhouse and grave, But the Lord they bent to, their souls will save. IX. “ And thro’ many a field you passed, and will pass, 44 In this lordling’s 4 cleared’ demesne, 44 Where households as happy were once — but, alas “They too are scattered or slain.” Then he pressed my hand, and he went away ; I could not stand, so I knelt to prav • WILLIAM TELL. 205 X. “ God of justice !” I sighed, “ send your spirit down “ On these lords so cruel and proud, “ And soften their hearts and relax their frown, “ Or else? I cried aloud — “ Vouchsafe thy strength to the peasant’s hand “ To drive them at length from off the land !”* WILLIAM TELL AND THE GENIUS OF SWITZERLAND.! i. Tell. — You have no fears, My native land ! Then dry your tears, And draw your brand. * The scene is a mere actual landscape which I saw. — Author’s Note. t Just before the insurrection which expelled the Austrians, Tell and some of his brother conspirators spent a night on the shore of the Underwalde Lake, consulting for liberty ; and while they were thus engaged, the genius of Switzerland appeared to them, and she was armed, but weeping. “ Why weep you, mother?” said Tell ; and she answered, “ I see dead patriots, and hear their orphans wailing — and he said again to her, “ The tyrant kills us with his prisons and taxes, and poisons our air with his presence; war-death is better and she said, ‘ 4 it is better” — and the cloud passed irom her brow, and she gave him a spear and bade him conquer. — Author’s Note. 18 206 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. A million made a vow To free you. — Wherefore, now, Tears again, my native land ? n. Genius. — I weep not from doubt, I weep not for dread ; There’s strength in your shout, And trust in your tread. I weep, for I look for the coming dead, Who for Liberty’s cause shall die ; And I hear a wail from the widow’s bed Come mixed with our triumph-cry. Though dire my woes, yet how can I Be calm when 1 know such suffering’s nigh * HI. Tell. — Death comes to all, My native land ! Weep not their fall — A glorious band ! Famine and slavery Slaughter more cruelly Than Battle’s blood-covered hand ! IV. Genius. — Yes, and all glory Shall honour their grave, With shrine, song, and story. Denied to the slave. THE EXILE. 207 Thus pride shall so mingle with sorrow, Their wives half their weeping will stay ; And their sons long to tempt on the morrow The death they encounter to-day. Then away, sons, to battle away ! Draw the sword, lift the flag, and away ! * THE EXILE. (paraphrased from the french.) I’ve passed through the nations unheeded, unknown , Though all looked upon me, none called me their own. I shared not their laughter — they cared not my moan — For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. ii. At eve, when the smoke from some cottage uprose, How happy I’ve thought, at the weary day’s close, With his dearest around, must the peasant repose ; But, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. hi. Where hasten those clouds ? to the land or the sea-* Driven on by the tempest, poor exiles, like me? What matter to either where either shall flee? For, ah! the poor oxile is always alone. 208 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. IV. Those trees they are beauteous — those flowers they aro fair ; But no trees and no flowers of my country are there. They speak not unto me — they heed not my care; For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. v. That brook murmurs softly its way through the plain But the brooks of my childhood had not the same strain It reminds me of nothing — it murmurs in vain ; For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. VI. Sweet are those songs, but their sweetness or sorrow No charm from the songs of my infancy borrow, I hear them to-day and forget them to-morrow ; For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. VII. They’ve asked me, “ Why weep you V 9 I’ve told them my woe — They listed my words, as the rocks feel the snow. No sympathy bound us ; how could their tears flow ? For, sure the poor exile is always alone. VIII. When soft on their chosen the young maidens smile, Like the dawn of the morn on Erin’s dear isle, With no love-smile to cheer me, I look on the while ; For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. MY HOME. 209 IX. Like boughs round the tree are those babes round their mother, And these friends like its roots, clasp and grow to each other ; Hut, none call me child, and none call me brother; For, ah ! the poor exile is ever alone. x. Wives never clasp, and friends never smile, Mothers ne’er fondle, nor maidens beguile ; And happiness dwells not, except in our isle, — And so the poor exile is always alone. XI. Poor exile, cease grieving, for all are like you— Weeping the banished, the lovely, and true. Our country is Heaven — ’twill welcome you, too; And cherish the exile, no longer alone l MY HOME. A DREAM. 1 have dreamt of a home — a happy home— The ficklest from it would not care to roam ; ’Twas a cottage home on native ground, Where all things glorious clustered round- 18 * 210 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. For highland glen and lowland plain Met within that small demesne. In sight is a tarn, with cliffs of fear, Where the eagle defies the mountaineer, 4nd the cataract leaps in mad career, A.nd through oak and holly roam the deer. On its brink is a ruined castle, stern, — The mountains are crowned with rath and camy Robed with heather, and bossed with stone, And belted with a pine wood lone. Thro’ that mighty gap in the mountain chain, Oft, like rivers after rain, Poured our clans on the conquered plain. And there, upon their harassed rear, Oft pressed the Norman’s bloody spear ; Men call it “ the pass of the leaping deer.” Wild is the region, yet gentle the spot — As you look on the roses, the rocks are forgot ; For garden gay, and primrose lawn Peep through the rocks, as thro’ night comes dawn* And see, by that burn the children play ; In that valley the village maidens stray, Listing the thrush and the robin’s lay, Listing the burn sigh back to the breeze, And hoping — guess whom ? ’mong the thorn trees. Not yet, dear girls — on the uplands green Shepherds and flocks may still be seen. MY HOME. 211 Freemen’s toils, with fruit and grain, The valley fill, and clothe the plain. There’s the health which labour yields— Labour tilling its own fields. Freed at length from stranger lord — From his frown, or his reward — • Each the owner of his land, Plenty springs beneath his hand. Meet these men on land or sea — • Meet them in council, war, or glee ; Voice, glance, and mien, bespeak them free. W elcome greets you at their hearth ; Reverent they to age and worth ; Yet prone to jest and full of mirth. Fond of song, and dance, and crowd *— Of harp, and pipe, and laughter loud ; Their lay of love is low and bland, Their wail for death is wild and grand ; Awful and lovely their song of flame, When they clash the chords in their country’s nama They seek no courts, and own no sway, Save the counsels of their elders grey ; For holy love, and homely faith, Rule their hearts in life and death. Yet their rifles would flash, and their sabres smite, And their pike-staffs redden in the fight, And young and old be swept away, Ere the stranger in their land should sway. Correctly emit , the Irish name for the violin. — A uthor’s Not* 212 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. But the setting sun, ere he sink in the sea, Flushes and flashes o’er crag and tree, Kisses the clouds with crimson sheen, And sheets with gold the ocean’s green. Where the stately frigate lies in the bay, The friendly fleet of the Frenchman lay. Yonder creek, and yonder shore Echoed then the battle’s roar ; Where, on slope after slope, the west sun shines, After the fight lay our conquering lines. The triumph, though great, had cost us dear ; And the wounded and dead were lying near — When the setting sun on our bivouac proud, Sudden burst through a riven cloud, An answering shout broke from our men — Wounds and toils were forgotten then, And dying men were heard to pray The light would last till they passed away — They wished to die on our triumph day. We honoured the omen, and thought on times gone, And from chief to chief the word was passed on. The “ harp on the green” our land-flag should be, And the sun through clouds bursting, our flag at sea, The green borne harp o’er yon battery gleams, From the frigate’s topgallant the “ sun-burst” streama In that far-off isle a sainted sage Built a lowly hermitage, Where ages gone made pilgrimage. Over his grave, with what weird delight, MY HOME. 213 The grey trees swim in the flooding light ; How a halo clasps their solemn head, Like heaven’s breath on the rising dead. Longing and languid as prisoned bird. With a powerless dream my heart is stirred, And I pant to pierce beyond the tomb, And see the light, or share the gloom. But vainly for such power we pray, God wills — enough — let man obey. Two thousand years, ’mid sun and storm, That tall tower has lifted its mystic form. The yew-tree shadowing the aisle, ’Twixt airy arch and mouldering pile, And nigh the hamlet that chapel fair Shew religion has dwelt, and is dwelling there. While the Druid’s crom-leac up the vale Tells how rites may change, and creeds may fail. Creeds may perish, and rites may fall, But that hamlet worships the God of all. In the land of the pious, free, and brave, Was the happy home that sweet dream gavo. But the mirth, and beauty, and love that dwell Within that home — I may not tell. 214 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS FANNY POWER. i. The lady’s son rode by the mill ; The trees were murmuring on the hill, But in the valley they were still, And seemed with heat to cower : They said that he should be a priest, For so had vowed his sire, deceased ; They should have told him too, at least, To fly from Fanny Power. n. The lonely student felt his breast Was like an empty linnet’s nest, Divinely moulded to be blest, Yet pining hour by hour : For, see, amid the orchard trees, Her green gown kirtled to her knees, Adown the brake, like whispering breeze^ Went lightsome Fanny Power. irr. Her eyes cast down a mellow light Upon her neck of glancing white, like starshine on a snowy night, Or moonshine on a tower. FANNY POWER. 215 She sang — he thought her songs were hymns— An angel’s grace was in her limbs ; The swan that on Lough Erne swims Is rude to Fanny Power. IV. Returned, he thought the convent dull, At best a heavy heartless lull — No hopes to cheer, no flowers to cull, No sunshine and no shower. The Abbot sent him to his cell, And spoke of penance and of hell ; But nothing in his heart to quell The love of Fanny Power. v. He dreamed of her the livelong day At evening, when ho tried to pray, Instead of other Saints, he’d say, O holy — Fanny Power ! How happier seemed an exile’s lot Than living there, unlov’d, forgot ; And, oh, best joy ! to share his cot His own dear Fanny Power. VI. ’Tis vain to strive with Passion’s might— He left the convent walls one night, And she was won to join his flight Before he wooed an hour ; 216 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, So, flying to a freer land, He broke his vow at Love’s command, And placed a ring upon the hand Of happy Fanny Power. MARIE NANGLE; OR, THE SEVEN SISTERS OF NAVAN. A FRAGMENT. I. Oh ! there were sisters, sisters seven, As bright as any stars in heaven ; Save one, they all were snowy white, And she like oriental night : Yet she was like unto the rest, Had all their softness in her breast, Their lights and shadows in her face, And in her figure all their grace ; The brightest she of all the seven, Yet all were bright, as stars in heaven. ii. They had true lovers, every one, Except the fairest — she had none ; Or rather say that she returned Their love to none who for her burned ; MARIE NANGLE. 217 For Marie’s timid, Marie’s mild, And on her spirit undefiled St. Brigid’s* nuns their thoughts have bent ; She flies her sister’s merriment. They say they’ll marry, every one, But Marie says she’ll be a Nun. HI. “ Oh ! wait a while,” her father said, “ Sweet Marie, wait till I am dead.” The Nuns, for this, more firmly sought To wean her from each earthly thought. Oh ! you were made for God, not man,— ’Twas thus their pious plea began ; For much these pale recluses feared, As her gay sisters’ nuptials neared. “ Oh ! wait awhile,” the Baron said, “ Sweet Marie, wait till they are wed.” IV. A novice now, sweet Marie dwells Within dark Odder’s sacred cells ; Yet on her sisters’ wedding day She joins the chivalrous array. The brides were sweeter than their flowers, The bridegrooms came from haughty towers. Of Odder, — a nunnery dedicated to St. Bride or Brigid in the county Meath, parish of Skreen, in the twelfth century. 19 218 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. For Nangle’s* daughters are beneath No lordly hand in lordly Meath. The novice heart of Marie swells, “ Oh, dark,” she sighs, “ are Odder’s cells !” v. Yet vainly on that wedding day Her sisters and their gay grooms pray — She grieves to part with those so dear, But she is filled with pious fear ; While Tuite and Tyrrell urged in vain, Her tears fell down like Munster rain — Malone and Bellew, Taafie and Deasef — “ Oh, cease,” she says, “ in pity cease, Or I must leave your wedding gay, In Odder’s walls to fast and pray.” VI. The marriage rites are bravely done ; But what ails her, the novice Nun ? Oh ! never had she seen an eye Look into hers so tenderly. “ Methinks that deep and mellow voice Would make the Abbess’ self rejoice ; • The Nangles were Barons of the Navan, and figure much in th* history of the Pale. f ’Tis clear the Nangles knew their rank, for these names were among the best in Meath. MY GRAVE. 219 He’s sure the Saint I dreamt upon — Not Barnewell of Trimleston. In Holy Land his spurs he won — • What aileth me, a novice Nun?” * * * * [It is but a fragment of a Ballad, which some of Davis’s friends ax» sure was completed. No more, however, than the above was ever printed.] MY GRAVE. Shall they bury me in the deep, Where wind-forgetting waters sleep ? Shall they dig a grave for me, Under the green-wood tree ? Or on the wild heath, Where the wilder breath Of the storm doth blow ? Oh, no ! oh, no ! Shall they bury me in the Palace Tombs, Or under the shade of Cathedral domes ? Sweet ’twere to lie on Italy’s shore ; Yet not there — nor in Greece, though I love it more. In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find ? Shall my ashes career on the world-seeing wind ? 220 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound, Where coflinless thousands lie under the ground? Just as they fall they are buried so — Oh, no ! oh, no ! No ! on an Irish green hill-side, On an opening lawn — but not too wide ; For I love the drip of the wetted trees — I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze, To freshen the turf — put no tombstone there, But green sods decked with daisies fair ; Nor sods too deep, but so that the dew, The matted grass-roots may trickle through. Be fny epitaph writ on my country’s mind, 44 He served his country, and loved his kind." Oh ! ’twere merry unto the grave to go, If one were sure to be buried so. APPENDIX I. I>iep sunk in that bed is the sword of Monroe , Since , twixt it and Donagh ,* he met Owen Roe. Poems, p; ge 34. The Blackwater in Ulster is especially remarkable as the scene o. the two most memorable victories obtained by the Irish over the English power for several centuries past. The particulars of these battles are so little known, that it is hoped the following accounts of them, taken from the best accessible sources, will be acceptable to the reader. The first is from the pen of Mr. Davis. THE BATTLE OF BENBURB, (5th June, 1646.) The battle of Benburb was fought upon the slopes of ground, now called the Thistle Hill, from being the property of the Thistles, a family of Scotch farmers, now represented by a fine old man of over eighty years. This ground is two and a quarter miles in a right line, or three by the road, from the Church of Benburb, and about six miles below Caledon, in the county Tyrone ; in the angle between the Blackwater and the Oonagh, on the Benburb side of the latter, * So this line runs, as originally published, and likewise in the text of the present edition. But I have a strong suspicion that the author wrote it, — ‘‘Since ’twixt it and Oonagh ,” &c., meaning tie river Oonagh. Vide description of the battle, especially the first paragraph. I would not, however, alter the text, without some search after th« original MS. ; orr, in default of that, a critical examination of the to pography of a district, in the description of which so many errors har been committed. — E d. 222 APPENDIX, and close to Battleford Bridge. We are th&s particular in marking the exact place, because of the blunders of many writers on it. Major General Robert Monro landed with several thousand Scots at C&rrickfergus, in the middle of April, 1642, and on the 28th and 29th was joined by Lord Conway and Colonel Chichester,