PR 1195 .17 F45 ■ • • * „V. * v ..*••. ^ A ^6* THE FENIAN WAR SONGS ! DEDICATED TO " THE MEN IN THE GAP." New-Y HILTON & CO., PUBLISHERS, NO. 128 NASSAU STREET 5*^ < 5A Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866 BY S. L. WILLIAMS, In the Clerk's Office of the United States District Court for the Southern District of New-York. Contents. Ninety-Eight, - - - 19 Shan Van Voght, - - - 21 A Cushla Gal Mo Ohree, 23 Lament of the Ejected Irish Peasant, - 24 The Wearing of the Green, - - 25 Sequel to the " Wearing of the Green,'* • 28 Fenian Song, - - 29 The Young Enthusiast, - . 29 Fenian Battle Hymn, 31 Our Olden Tongue, - • 31 Oscar — The Dog of Shaun Desmond, - 33 Davis, - . - 36 A Wail— 1847, - - - 37 The Shamrock, - . - 37 Drimin Donn Dilis 40 Patrick Sheehan, - . - 42 The Irish Marseillaise, ' - ;,» 44 Hurrah ! For the Battle of Freedom, - 45 The Blacksmith of Limerick, - t 46 Ireland, - . '. - 49 Dirge of Olifier Gras, - - 61 The < J Holly and Ivy" Girl, ; . -53 Shaun's Head, 55 The Felons, . . 53 Dirge For Devlin Reilly, '- 60 Glenflesk, - \] 'J - 65 The Martyr, 70 The Pass of Plumes, - - - 72 The Sunny South so Glowing, ,- - * 75 An Exile's Dreams - j - , - • . 76 THE FENIAN WAR SONGS. NINETYJ3IGHT BY A BELFAST MAN, Remember, men of sixty-six, The country that has borne you ; You'll raise aloft that green old flag, And carry it before you. The Union Jack, we'll push it back, And try to imitate Those men who said their blood they'd shed, In glorious Ninety-eight. Their memory, then, may it be blest — They fought against Saxon knaves ; They'd rather do or die than rest While Irishmen were slaves. Old Ireland, then, for Irishmen, No matter what our fate ; If we're but true we'll surely do More than in ninety-eight. FENIAN WAR SONGS. Think how the brave Lord Edward died, How Emmet loved the cause ; They gave their lives and nobly tried To banish English laws. Like them, our brothers now they keep In dungeons — what a fate ; Better to tight or die like those Brave men of Ninety-eight. Oh ! Ireland shall I ever see Thy freedom nobty won ? To strike for thee, asthore mac7iree, No danger would I shun. I'd mount the breach until I'd reach The spot where I'd relate Pulling down that flag, the British rag, Like those of Ninety-eight. Oh God, I think upon the past With pleasure mixe3 with pain ; How long, Lord, is this to last, Or shall we try again To raise our land to take her stand As firm as any State ? If 'tis but done our freedom's won — Remember Ninety-eight. We hear a cry of anguish From our brothers as of yore ; Shall we leave them thus to languish In an English prison sore ? The cry must be, " To arms now," To meet the foeman's hate ; Our steel shall make the Saxon reel — Hurrah for Ninety-eight. FENIAN WAR SONGS. 21 SHAN VAN VOGHT. Tis a glorious moonlight ni^ht, Thought the Shan van Vocht; 'Tis a glorious moonlight night, Said the Shan van Vocht ; So ? t were best to take a stroll, Where the foaming billows roll, In soft murmurs to my soul. Said the Shan van Vocht. So she went down to the shore, Did the Shan van Vocht, And she heard the billows roar, Did the Shan van Vocht ; And she thought upon the time, When in youth's so glorious prime, All nature seemed sublime To the Shan van Vocht. Oh ! who was once so fair As the Shan van Vocht ? So blithe and free from care, As the Shan van Vocht ? How glorious was her youth 1 How grand her love and truth I The bitterer now the ruth Of the Shan van Vocht ! Oh ! fearful grew the form Of the Shan van Vocht ! Like a transfigured storm Stood the Shan van Vocht ! While the intermingled tide Of agony and pride, With pangs intensified, Thrilled the Shan van Vocht ! For like a tongue of flame. To the Shan van Vocht, FENIAN WAR SONGS. Was the vision of her shame To the Shan van Yocht! Like a fierce avenging flame, Embracing all her frame, Was the vision of her shame To the Shan van Yocht ! The sad sea carolled wild To the Shan Van Vocht ! And the west wind breathed all mild On the Shan Van Vocht ! The waves they sang their psalm, The west wind brought its balm ; But nought the grief could calm Of the Shan Van Yocht ! And thus the live-long night Grieved the Shan Yan Yocht 1 While moon and sea shone bright On the Shan Yan Yocht! Till at length, at break of day, She knelt her down to pray, Then homeward took her way, Did the Shan van Yocht ! What thoughts the dawn awoke In the Shan van Yocht, As the sunrise slowly broke ? On the Shan van Yocht ; Whether terror and despair Fled from the morning air, And hope was new-born there, For the Shan van Yocht — None know. Still sad and dumb Is the Shan van Yocht, But 'tis thought a time will come When the Shan van Yocht, New ramparted with truth, New glorified with } r outh, No more can be, in sooth, Called the Shan van V^cht. 7ENIATC "nr.vit sONGS.- 23 A CUSHLA GAL ,M0 CHEEE. MICHAEL DOHENY. The long, long wished-hour has come, Yet come, astor, in vain ; And left thee but the wailing hum Of sorrow and of pain : My light of life — my lonely love, My portion sure must be, * Man's scorn below, God's wrath above — A cuisle geal mo croide ! I've given thee manhood's early prime, And manhood's teeming years ; I've blest thee in my merriest time, And shed with thee my tears. And, mother, though thou cast away The child who'd die for thee, My fondest wishes still should pray For cuisle geal mo croide ! For thee I've tracked the mountain's sides, And slept within the brake, More lonely than the swan that glides O'er Luna's fairy lake. The rich have spurned me from their door, Because I'd make thee free, Yet still I love thee more and more, A cuisle geal mo croide ! I've run tho outlaw's wild career, And borne his load of ill ; His rocky couch — his dream of fear — With fixed sustaining will ; And should his last dark chance befall Even that shall welcome be ; In death I'd love thee best of all, A cuisle geal mo croide ! U FENIAN WAii coiTP_5 'Twas prayed for thee, the world around, Twas hoped for thee, by all, That with one gallant sunward bound, Thou'dst burst long ages' thrall ; Thy faith was tried, alas ! and those Who'd peril all for thee. Were cursed and branded as thy feres, A cuisle geal mo croide ! What fate is thine, unhappy Isle, When even the trusted few Would pay thee back with hate and guile, When most they should be true ; 'Twas not my strength or spirit fail'd, Or those who'd die for thee, Who lov'd thee truly have not fail'd, A cuisle geal mo croide ! LAMENT OF THE EJECTED IRISH PEASANT. Air :— "Eileen Aroon." The night is dark and dreary, A gradh geal mo chroide ; And the heart that loves you weary, A gradh geal mo chroide ; For every hope is blighted, That bloomed when first we plighted Our troth, and were united, A gradh geal mo chroide ! Still our homestead we behold, A gran geal mo chr*oide ; But the cheerful hearth is cold, A gradh geal mo chroide ; And those around its glow, Assembled long ago, In the cold, cold earth lie low A gradh geal mo chroide ! FENIAN WAR SONGS. 25 'Twas famine's wasting breath, A gradh geal mo chroide ; That winged the shaft of death, A gradh geal mo chroide ; And the landlord lost to feeling, Who drove us from our sheeling, Though we prayed for mercy kneeling, A gradh geal mo chroide ! 0! 'twas heartless from that floor, A grad geal mo chroide : Where our fathers dwelt of yore,. A grand geal mo chroide ; To fling our offspring— seven — 'Neath the wintry skies of heaven, To perish on that even', A gradh geal mo chroide ! ] But the sheety blast blows chill, A gradh geal mo chroide ; To this scathed bleeding heart, Beloved as thou art, For too soon — too soon we part, A gradh geal mo chroide ! # ■ #n - • THE WEARING OF THE GREEN. AN OLD STREET BALLAD. I'm a lad that's forced an exile From my own native land, For an oath that's passed against me In this country I can't stand ; But while I'm at my liberty I will make my escape. I'm a poor distresed croppy For the Green on my cape. For the Green on my cape. For the Green on my cape. I'm distressed — but not disheartened^— For the Green on my cape. 26 FENIAN WAR SONGS. Bat I'll go down to Belfast To see that seaport gay, And tell my aged parents In this country I can't stay, 'tis dark will be their sorrow — Bat no truer hearts I've seen, And they'd rather see me dying Than a traitor to the Green. O, the wearing of the Green. 0, the wearing of the Green. May the curse of Cromwell darken Each traitor to the Green. When I went down to Belfast, And saw that seaport grand, My aged parents blessed me, And blessed poor Ireland. Then I went unto a captain And bargained with him cheap — He told me that his whole ship's crew Wore Green on the cape. 0, the Green on the cape. 0, the Green on the cape. God's blessing guard the noble boys With* Green on the cape. 'Twas early in the morning Our gallant ship set sail, Kind heaven did protect her, With a pleasant Irish gale. •We landed safe in Paris, There victualing was cheap — They knew we w r ere United, We wore Green on the cape. We wore Green on the cape. We wore Green on the cape. They treated us like brothers For the Green on the cape. FENIAN WAR SONGS. 27 Then forward stepped young Boney, And took me by the hand Saying—" How is old Ireland, And how does she stand ?" "It's as poor, distressed a nation As ever you have seen, They are hanging men and women For the wearing of the Green. For the wearing of the Green. They are hanging men. and women, too, For wearing of the Green." " Take courage now, my brave boys, For here you have good friends, And we'll send a convoy with you, .Down by their Orange dens ; And if they should oppose us, With our weapons sharp and keen, We'll make them rue and curse the day That e'er they saw the Green. That e'er they saw the Green. That e'er they saw the Green. We'll show them our authority For wearing of the Green !" may the wind of Freedom Soon send young Boney o'er, And we'll plant the Tree of Liberty Upon our Shamrock shore ; Oh' we '11 plant it with our weapons While the English tyrants gape To see their bloody flag torn down,. To Green on the cape. 0, the wearing the Green. 0, the wearieg the Green. God grant us soon to see that day, And freely wear the Green ! 28 FENIAN WAR SONGS. SEQUEL TO "THE WEARING OF THE GBEEN." COMPOSED AND SUNG BY E. T. WELCH. Ye, Fenians of America, one thought I pray bestow, On dear Ould Ireland's blood-stained root, cursed by the cruel foe ; Pray ne'er forget the far-famed deeds of glorious Ninety-Eight. But, with your gleamin' sabres bright, seal bloody England's fate. The blessed shade of Emmett, from his bright seat above, Beckons on Ould Ireland's sons the future bright to prove, And, on that bright and glorious day, it never shall be seen That Ireland's sons shall be proscribed for wearing of the Green. In days of death and carnage, what sons have been more brave ? Who have sunk with front more bold into the war < rior's holy grave. Than thy brave sons, dear Erin, land of the poet's pride, Whose sons for every land oppressed have shed their crimson tide ? Then strike for home and fireside, and for your friends of yore, And to avenge the fall of those, whose souls have gone before. The spirit of O'Connell with looks of love serene, Points to the day, that soon shall come, when all may wear the Green. See the front of battle lours, see England's marshalled hosts, Who of making feasts on Irish hearts have vainly made their boasts ; FENIAN WAR SONGS. 29 Have set the battle in array 'gainst freedom's holy cause, And have sent forth their myriads to enforce the ty- rant's laws. Bring forth the dreaded firelock, loud let the cannon peal. The fate of foes to Ireland let bloody battles seal ; Let no such word as Failure in our language more be seen, But victorious or nobly fall, defending of the Green ! -eg. » - o r- FENIAN SONG. BY " ACTING VOLUNTEER." Dear land, though the cold and the timid condemn, We shall struggle for thee in defiance of them. Till we hail thee as free as the eagle* whose eye Is exultingly turned to his home in the sky ! And like the wild eagle, when guarding his nest, We'll shield thee in danger or die on thy breast . Until thy last foernan hath fled from thy shore, Aud thy days of dissension and thraldom are o'er. And then, like that eagle, when scanning afar The eyrie he knows that no mortal can mar — Thy sons shall look down from thy land's highest peak On the plains where a tyrant in vain they shall seek. [N. Y. Citizen. THE YOUNG ENTHUSIAST. BY THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER. ~ Though young that heart, though free each thought; Though free and wild each feeling, And though with fire each dream be fraught Across those bright eyes stealing — 80 FENIAN WAR SONGS. That heart is true, those thoughts are bold : And bold each feeling sweepeth ; There lies not there a bosom cold, A pulse that faint! y. sleepeth. His dreams are idiot-dreams, ye say, Tha dreams of fairy story ; Those dreams will burn in might one day Arid flood his path with glory ! Thou old dull vassal ! fling thy sneer Upon that young heart coldly, And laugh at deeds thy heart may fear, Yet he will venture boldly. Ay, fling thy sneer while dull and slow Thy witherecLblood is creeping ; That heart will beat, that spirit glow, When thy tame pulse is sleeping. Ay, laugh when o'er his country's ilk With manly eye he weepeth ; Laugh, when his brave heart throbs and thrills, And thy cold bosom sleepeth. Laugh, when he vows in heaven's sight, Ne'er to flinch — ne'er to falter ; To toil and fight for a nation's right, And guard old Freedom's altar. Ay, laugh when on the fiery wing Of hero thought ascending, To fame's bold cliff with eagle spring, That young bright mind is tending. He '11 gain that cliff, he '11 reach that throne. The throne where genius shineth, When round and through thy nameless stone, The green weed thickly twineth. FENIAN WAR SONGS. SI FENIAN BATTLE-HYMN. BY " EOYIGO." Lo ! the days of the Tyrant are numbered, And the hour of redemption's at hand ; Oh, Fenians ! too long have we slumbered, Let us strike for our dear native land ! With the great souls of heroes before us, Who lived in the ages sublime, We will join in one grand freedom-chorus, To echo through all coming time. We will arm for the fight, We will battle for the right, Till the foe has been driven* from our sod ; We will strike for our home, With the valor of Old Eome, And our trust is the justice of our God. For ages the Saxon has striven To make us a nation of slaves ; From our homes and our hearths we were driven, And our soil drank the blood of our braves. But we thank God the exiles are training, And the minstrel again strikes his lyre ; Lo ! the star of the tyrant is waning, And the soul of Old Ireland on fire I We will arm for the fight, We will battle for the right, Till the foe has been driven from our sod ; We will strike for our home, With the valor of Old Rome, And our trust is the justice of our God ! [N. Y. Citizen. OTJB OLDEN TONGUE. From dim tradition's far-off opal fountains. Where clouds and shadows loom . 32 FENIAN WAR SONGS. Deep in the silence of the tall grey mountain's Primeval gloom ! Thy silvery stream flows down with music bounding, ancient tongue ! With love, and tears, and laughter softly sounding, As wild bird's liquid song. From winds and waters in their choral mingling, Thy honied words were born ; From that strong pulse thro' Nature's bosom tingling, In Earth's first morn, The quivering boughs in forests green and olden, With murmurs low, Rang out such accents beautiful and golden, Beneath the dawn's white glow. Around in mighty characters unfolded, The fame we yet discern ; The ivied shrine in grace and grandeur moulded, The ' cromlee ' stern — The tall slim tower of aspect wierd and hoary, With dream and ' rann ,' Full-crested in its lone and silent glory, Fronting the naked sun ! Thou bring'st bright visions, bardic strains enchanting, Attuned in lordly halls ; The clash of spears — the banners gayly planting On palace walls — White-bearded sages — warrior-chiefs victorious A goodly throng ! In panoramic pomp of ages glorious, Before us pass along. O'er wide blue plains we see the red deer bounding, * In flickering shade and sun ; And on his track with deep-toned lay resounding, The wolf-hound dun — Old mountains dim, dark forest, rock and river, Those days are o'er ; FENIAN WAR SONGS. 83 But shades and echoes people ye forever, A.nd shall till time is o'er ! ! tongue of ail our greatness — all our sorrow, Shalt thou then fail and fade? And leave the full hearts mute that ne'er can borrow From stranger aid, Fit utterance for those thoughts whose stormy clangor, Swells deep within — The memories of our love, and hate and anger, Which naught from us can win ? Not so — thou hast not stemmed the floods of ages, Nor braved a conqueror's sway : Thou hast not writ upon the world's wide pages, To pass away — Deep, deep, thy root where never human power May reach to spoil : And eoon, in wealth of vernal leaf and flower, Thou'lt deck this olden soil! OSCAE-THE BOG OF SHATJN DESMOND. RALPH VARIAN. Through meadows of gay Inniscarra, Where feathered grass dips at the rim, A shadowy trout, like an arrow, Sends bubbles to play at the rim. The daisy-fields blinked to the morning, And stooped to the west every night ; The freshest- of perfume adorning • Wide bunches that yielded delight. And joy, from the bright silver quiver, Of trout low, or sky-cleaving lark ; U FENIAN WAR SONGS. Bright shades in the sky and the river, Enkindle the love-heaving spark. And Nancy and Nor ah together, Led fairy troops over the hill ; They wound through the moss and the heather, • And the ineadow-insh down by the rill. The fern on the hillocks surrounding, Is stirring a bright heaving sea, And throngh it conies, dripping and bounding Some object its course cleaving free. : Tis Oscar, the dog of Shaun Desmond, With osier-wand basket of white, Of him, the bright children are so fond, They meet him with boundless delight. In his basket they place the white biscuit, And butter, and bottle of milk ; Suspended from white neck they risk it, It rests on his coating of silk. And Oscar returns to his master, Who lives in the cave by the rill ; No pigeon could, safer or faster, Bear message o'er moorland and hill. The children sit down by a hayrick, To hear of the beautiful hound ; The tale of Shaun Desmond, from Patrick, Where woodruff wafts perfume around. " Forget not, my children, the outlaw, Who saving the Poor from the Great, Avenging their sad wrongs without law, Was forced to a desolate fate." FENIAN WAR SONGS. 85 He tells how they outlawed Shaun Dogged, For shooting some tyrannous slave ; And forced him, for shelter, where rush-wand And osiers are fringing the wave. " This dog to Shaun Desmond was given, With good sense, far more than a hound ; He sure was inspired by kind Heaven To steer safe, where dangers abound ! u Like manna, soft-falling at evening, The Jews in the desert to save ; Or raven, with bread, swiftly winging, To succor the saint in his cave." A tear gems the clear eye of Childhood, J As dew when the speedwell is shut, Or gems, of the glittering wild wood, When Autumn drops down the brown nut. But songs of the sunshine will come quick On childhood's sweet April showers, And Patrick just tossing the hayrick Found laughter ring out from its bowers. But flinging the hay from their curls, The children are serious again, And say that no treacherous churls Shall win Oscar's secret from them. " My children, through life while you're steering, May this in your good hearts endure, seek to secure for dear Erinn, Fixed homes for the laboring poor ? " Now think of good Oscar each morning, And bear him the napkin of food ; And give him the fair timely warning If Red Coats appear in the wood." 86 FENIAN WAR SONGS. They talk of the faithful dumb creature, As homeward they leisurely pace, And find in the bosom of nature, Sweet lessons no time can efface. ^' « ^ DAVIS. WRITTEN ON SEEING THE STATUE IN MOUNT JEROME. I stand beside thy tomb, Lost chieftain of our race — No dull abode of gloom, This thy last resnng-piace ; The golden sunlight streams Upon that marble brow ; And there in fancy's dreams, Bright thoughts seem gathering now. Brother bards have sung thy nation's anguish-moan ; A kindred soul impressed thy form upon the stone 1 But oh ! the kindling glance, The lovelight of thine eye ; Thy footstep's firm advance, The greeting or reply — The hand of friendly grasp, The voice of thrilling tone — Within death's leaden clasp All these, alas ! are gone ! And yet! thy lightning thoughts still our hearts shall warm, And be to Freedom's barque a life-light in the storm. Full fain would 1 believe That o'er the poet's grave The fading hues of eve, Their softest shadows weave ; And when at midnight dim, Wild tempests groaning rise, That piercing wails for him Ascend the darkened skies ; But sweeter 'tis to know his spirit lives enshrined Within a nation's heart — and in his people's mind. FENIAN WAR SONGS. 37 A WAIL-1847. DOCTOR WILLIAM DRENNAN. Lament for the land where the sunbeams wander Amid shadows deeper than elsewhere fall, And the listless winds seem to wail and ponder Over glories past which they can't recall. Fair are its cities, but Despair frequents them ; From its fertile valleys must the famished flee ; And coasts safe-smiling where the wave indents them, Invite, Isle of Ruin ! no hope to thee ! Och-on for thee, Erin ! och-on a chree ! Round thy mystic towers and cromlechs lonely, Flit shadows majestic of chiefs and sage, But the light on each clairseah and torqe is only Dimly reflected to this darkened age. Felled are thy tall trees that erst branched so boldly, Hushed thy sweet singers that once warbled free; ! the bleak fortune that now clasps thee coldly When, Isle of Ruin ! shall it pass from thee I Och-on for thee, Erin ! och-on a chree THE SHAMROCK. RALPH YARIAN. When eager Spring sees Winter stiL Fixed with his ice-belts on the hill ; While leafless woods, all trembling, feel The sap along their branches steal ; And sheltered banks of mossy mould Throw up the cups of white and gold ; Though Winter, from the mountains yet 'Mid snow-sheets puffs his bitter breath ; While Spring's fair breast with passion hoaves- I seek the Shamrock's triple leaves. 38 FENIAN WAR SONGS. And when, from dewy mountain height, She hangs her velvet mantle bright ; And drooping with laburnum showers, Looks through her lilac-scented bowers While woods throw back her glittering beam, With tender green and lucid gleam ; While dance to all her warm, soft, showers, Her fragile, pensile, woodland flowers, As Spring with deep'ning passion heaves — I seek the Shamrock's triple leaves. And when the beech with glittering mass Of satin foliage sweeps the grass, And June waves out her radiant wing To dazzle sweet departing Spring ; And fox-glove-bells, and white ray-flowers, Gleam through her shades of tangled bowers, And seas of fern now heave and swell, And stately moon-flowers fringe the dell, And scarlet poppies nod between The fields of wheat, yet sappy green, And trodden greensward breathing tells Of clover white, with honey cells ; And luscious blooms of golden vetch To seashore meadows sunward stretch, And Summer bathes in Spring's fresh falls — I seek the Shamrock's golden balls. When flick'ring beams of golden hue Through maples bathe germander blue, And o'er the heaving meadow sod The pearled and downy light stems nod, Whose amber clusters drooping chime Sweet greetings to the year's rich prime ; And great valerian reddens o'er The walls of Ballintemple-shore ; And grass-plats of the gardens trim With mignionette are blossoming, And village doors and windows swing FENIAN WAR SONGS. 39 To let the balm of Summer in, As latest shower of hawthorn falls— I seek the Shamrock's golden balls. When Summer tempts the open boat, Where breezes play and ripples float ; And when vacation fully in, Brings schoolboys to the river's rim ; While standing by the rugged way, The towering thistle eyes the day ; And crimson by the cottage walks, Sweet-William's grow and hollyhocks, And sunflower — stately mystic flower- Wheels with the slowly wheeling hour, When panting summer dries the falls — I seek the Shamrock's golden balls. When Morning, with her eye of light, Peers low among the branches bright, And skimming on the seaward flow Of winding river, swift or slow, Sets Glanmire's steaming woods aglow, And pennyroyal, flowering, lifts His pale green wands, in fairy rifts ; And Autumn's crisp and glittering wings Bring thoughts of Christmas-gatherings, Bearing the fruited-holly up, Strewing the branch, and acorn cup Shaking the fragrant russets down, With nuts upon her carpet brown ; From azure heights and orange halls When latter rains fling water-falls, With clouds aglow, and breezes keen — I seek the Shamrock's fadeless green. When water-fowl, dejected, lag By tall masts of the bulrush flag, And rushy isle, with mist-wreath white, 40 FENIAN WAR SONGS Is centered in the gleaming light Of frozen lough — a brilliant sight! While ice-house hoards the frozen store, And piled-up carts are bearing more ; And ice-men busy at the rim, While skaters o'er the surface skim ; And by the cot and sheltered weH, The old thorn shows the icicle ; With snow in drifts and bright air keen, I seek the Shamrock's fadeless green. When tired of day, pent up within, And weary of the hammer's din ; Or shrinking from the creaking hinge, As rich men flaunt and poor men cringe ; Or, mid their halls, my spirit palls At bigot creeds, and party, calls ; Or tightened brow begins to fade, Ere evening spreads her twilight shade ; Ere stars arise, ere sunsets fall, 'Mid Autumn-dyes, or Spring's fresh call, Or barren Winter, leafless grieves — I seek the Shamrock's triple leaves. DKIMIN DONN DILIS, JOHN WALSH. Oh ! Drimin dorm dilis ! the landlord has come, Xike a foul blast of death has he swept o'er our home. He has withered our roof-tree— beneath the cold sky, Poor, houseless, and homeless, to-night we must lie. My heart it is cold as the white winter's snow ; My brain is on fire, and my blood's in a glow. Oh ! Drimin donn dilis, 't is hard to forgive When a robber denies us the right we should live FENIAN WAR SONGS. 41 With my health and my strength, with hard labor and toil, I dried the wet marsh and I tilled the harsh soil — I toiled the long day through, from morn till even, And I thought in my heart I'd a foretaste of heaven. The summer shone round us, above and below, The beautiful summer that makes the flowers blow. Oh ! it's hard to forget it, and think I must bear That strangers shall reap the reward of my care. Your limbs they were plump then, your coat it was silk, And never was wanted the mether of milk, For freely it came in the calm summer's moon, While you munched to the time of the old milking croon. How often you left the green side of the hill, To stretch in the shade and to drink at the rill ; And often I freed you before tfye gray dawn, From your snug little bed at the edge of the bawn. But they racked and they ground me with tax and with rent, 'Till my heart it was sore and my life-blood was spent ; To-day they have finished ; and on the wide world, With the mocking of friends from my home was I hurled. I knelt down three times for to utter a prayer, But my heart it was seared, and the words were* not there ; Oh ! wild were the thoughts through my dizzy head came, Like the rushing of wind through a forest of flame. I bid you, old comrade, a long last farewell, For the gaunt hand of famine has clutched us too well ; It severed the master and you, my good cow, With a blight on his life, and a brand on his brow. 42 FENIAN WAR SONGS. PATRICK SHEEHAN. CHARLES J. KICKHAM. My name is Patrick Sheehan, My years are thirty-four, Tipperary is my native place, Not far from Galtymore ; I came of honest parents — But now they're lying low And many a pleasant day I spent In the Glen of Aherlow. My father died ; I closed his eyes Outside our cabin door — The landlord and the sheriff too Were there the day before — And then my loving mother, And sisters three also, Were forced to go with broken hearts From the Glen of Aherlow. For three long months, in search of work, I wandered far and near ; I went then to the poorhouse For to see my mother dear ; The news I heard nigh broke my heart, But still, in all my woe, I blessed the friends who made their graves^ In the Glen of Aherlow. Bereft of home and kith and kin — W T ith plenty all around — I starved within my cabin, And slept upon the ground ; But cruel as my lot was, I ne'er did hardship know. Till I joined the English army, Far away from Aherlow. FENIAN WAR SONGS. 48 " Rouse up there," says the Corporal, " You lazy Hirish 'ound, Why don't you hear, you sleepy dog, The call ' to arms' sound ?" Alas, I had been dreaming Of days long, long ago, I woke before Sebastopol, And not in Aherlow. I groped to find my musket — How dark I thought the ni^ht ; blessed God, it was not dark, It was the broad daylight ! And when I found that I was blind, My tears began to flow, 1 longed for even a pauper's grave In the Glen of Aherlow. blessed Virgin Mary, Mine is a mournful tale, A poor blind prisoner here I am, In Dublin's dreary jail ; Struck blind within the trenches, Where I never feared the foe, And now I'll never see again My own sweet Aherlow ! A poor neglected mendicant I wandered through the street, My nine months' pension now being out, I beg from all I meet ; As I joined my country's tyrants, My face I'll never show Among the kind old neighbors, In the Glen of Aherlow. The Irish youth's — dear countrymen— Take heed of what I say, For if you join the English ranks Youll surely rue the day ; U FENIAN WAR SONGS. And when you are tempted A soldiering to go, Remember poor blind Sheehan Of the Glen of Aherlow. THE IRISH MARSEILLAISE. x n England there's commotion, that leads to wild) alarms, The English troops are marching off, with full supply of arms ; They sail in haste for Ireland, with spirits much de- pressed, For they fear the gallant Fenian host, that's coming from the West. Oh I the Fenians are a noble race, whose hearts are true and brave, Their music is the battle-shout, their hope a soldier's grave ; They hate the boasted British power, as only those can, hate, Who would avenge Old Ireland's wrongs, like men of Ninety-Eight! March on, march on, ye Fenians brave, the time is now or never, When Ireland from her bondage wakes, and burst her chains forever ! The British troops in Ireland may well grow pale with dread, For in the silence of the night is heard a martial tread ; Tis the tramp of men patrolling, as they learn the Fe- nian drill, While their signal-fires are burning on each mountain! top and hill ! The British laws may still oppress, the people old andi young, They may seize and they may banish them, as they have seized and hung ; FENIAN WAR SONGS. 45 They may take their pikes and muskets, too, and leave them none to wield ; But the Fenians will supply their arms for Freedom's battle-field. March on, march on, ye Fenians brave, the time is now or never, When Ireland from her bondage wakes, and bursts her chains forever ! The world is changing day by day, till not a trace is found Of ancient wrongs and tyrannies on which the brave have frown'd ; The Russian serf no longer dreads a master's stem command ; While the slave that taxed America is free throughout the land. 'Tis now the Star of Ireland's fate is shining through the gloom, While the spirits of her martyred dead are rising from the tomb. Loved Emmet, Tone, Fitzgerald, who died for Ireland's right, Are urging on the column, and will bless them in the fight ! March on, march on, ye Fenians brave, the time is now or never, When Ireland from her bondage wakes, and bursts her chains forever ! HURRAH! FOR THE BATTLE OP FREEDOM. BY EVERGREEN. Hurrah ! for the battle of Freedom ; Hurrah ! for the battle of Right ; May Victory's smiles ever speed them Who struggle gainst tyranny's might. Hurrah ! for the noise and the clangour 46 FENIAN WAS SONGS. Of men rushing on to the fray ; Away with all lagging and languor, — And for daring and action hurrah ! Hurrah ! for the bayonet gleaming ; Hurrah ! for the bright flashing blade The flag and the banner outstreaming, The men in battalions array'd. And the bugles' and trumpets loud braying, And the sally, and feint, and assay, And the clang of the steel, and the slaying, And the victors' wild shout of hurrah ! Hurrah ! for the battle of Freedom ; Hurrah ! for the battle of Right ; May Victory's smiles ever speed them Who struggle 'gainst tyranny's might. Hurrah ! for the noise and the clangour Of men rushing on to the fray ; Away with all lagging and languor, For daring and action hurrah. From The " Fenian Brotherhood." THE BLACKSMITH OF LIMERICK. ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. He grasped his ponderous hammer, he could not stand it more. To hear the bombshells bursting, and the thundering % battle's roar ; He said — " The breach they're mounting, the Dutch- man's murdering crew — I'll try my hammer on their heads and see what that can do ! " Now swarthy Ned and Moran, make up that iron well ; 'Tis Sarsfield's horse that wants the shoes, so mind not shot or shell ; FENIAN WAR SONGS. 47 " Ah sure, " cried both, " the horse can wait — for Sars- field's on the wall, And where you go we'll follow, with you to stand or falll" The blacksmith raised his hammer, and rushed into the street, His 'prentice boys behind him, the ruthless foe to meet — High on the breach of Limerick, with dauntless hearts they stood, Where the bombshells burst, and shot fell thick, and redly ran the blood. "Now look you, brown-hair Moran, and mark you swarthy Ned, This day we'll prove the thickness of many a Dutch- man's head ! Hurrah ! upon their bloody path they ? re mounting gallantly ; And now, the first that tops the breach, leave him to this and me !" The first that gained the rampart, he was a captain brave ! A captain of the grenadiers, with blood-stained dirk and glave ; He pointed and he parried, but it was all in vain, For fast thro' skull and helmet the hammer found his brain ! We next that topt the rampart, he was a colonel bold, Bright thro' the murk of battle his helmet flashed with gold — "Gold is no match for iron !" the doughty blacksmith said, As with that ponderous hammer he cracked his fo& man's head ! 48 FENIAN WAR SONGS. " Hurra for gallant Limerick !" black Ned and Moran cried, As on the Dutchmen's leaden heads their hammers well they plied ; A bombshell burst between them — one fell without a groan, One leaped into the lurid air, and down the breach was thrown ! " Brave smith ! brave smith !" cried Sarsfield, "beware the treacherous mine — Brave smith ! brave smith ! fall backward, or surely death is thine I The smith sprang up the rampart, and leaped the blood-stained wall, As high into the shuddering air went foemen, breach, and all ! Up like a red volcano they thundered wild and high, Spear, gun, and shattered standard, and foemen thro the sky ; And dark and bloody w T as the shower that round the blacksmith fell — He thought upon his 'prentice boys, they were aveng- ed well ! On foemen and defenders a silence gathered down, 'Twas broken by a triumph-shout that shook the an- cient town ; As out its heroes sallied, and bravely charged and slew, And taught King William and his men what Irish hearts can do ! Down rushed the swarthy blacksmith unto the river side, He hammered on the foe's pontoon, to sink it in the tide ; The timber it was tough and strong, it took no crack or strain — FENIAN WAR SONGS. 49 — ■ • + "Havrone, 'twon't break," the blacksmith roared, "111 try their heads again V 1 * * * * * * The blacksmith sought his smithy, and blew his bel lows strong, He shod the steed of Sarsiield, but o'er it sang no song: " Ochon ! my boys are dead," he cried ; " there loss I'll long deplore, But comfort's in my heart, their graves are red with foreign gore! -«~*-e*~ IEELAND. ! the sight entrancing, When morning's beam is glancing O'er files arrayed "With helm and blade, And plumes in the gay wind dancing. When hearts are all high beating And the trumpet's voice repeating That song whose breath May lead to death, But never to retreating. ! the sight entrancing, When morning's beam is glancing O'er the files arrayed With helm and blade, And plumes in the gay wind dancing. Yet 'tis not helm or feather, For ask you, despot, whether His plumed bands Can bring such hands And hearts as ours together. 60 .FENIAN WAR BONGS. Leave pomps to those who need 'em, Adorn but man with freedom, And proud he braves The gaudiest slaves That crawl where monarehs lead 'em, The sword may pierce the beaver, Stone walls in time may sever, 'Tis heart alone Worth steel and stone, That keeps men free for ever. ! the sight entrancing When morning beam is glancing O'er files arrayed In helm and blade, And in freedom's cause advancing ! SONG OF THE GALLOPING O'HOGAN.* ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. Air. — (c He thought of the Charmer," &o. Hurrah ! boys, hurrah ! for the sword by my side, The spur and the gallop o'er bogs deep and wide ; Hurrah ! for the helmet an' shining steel jack, The sight of the spoil, an' good men at my back ! An' we'll sack and burn for King and sire land, An' chase the black foe from ould Ireland 1 FENIAN WAR SONGS. 51 At the wave of my sworcl start a thousand good men. And we ride like the blast over moorland and glen Like dead leaves of winter in ruin an' wrath, We sweep the cowed Saxon away from our path. An' we'll sack and burn for King and siselandV An* chase the black foe from ould Ireland ! The herds of the foe graze at noon by the rills We have them at night in our camp 'mid the hills Their towns lie in peace at eve of the night, But thev're sacked an' in flames ere the next morning light ! An' we'll sack and burn for King and sireland, An' chase the black foe from ould Ireland ! And so we go ridin' by night and by day, An' fight for our country an' all the rich prey ; The roar of the battle sweet music we feel, An' the light of our hearts i%the flashin' of steel ! An' we'll sack and burn for King and sireland, An chase the black foe from ould Ireland ! * One of the Rapparee chiefs in the time of King James the Second. DIRGE OF OLIEEXE, OUAS. Dark's the cloud our mountains o'er, A cloud that never came before ; Stern the noon-hush — broken lowly By the voice of sorrow solely. Floats the death-knell on the wind, Grief, alas ! comes close behind ; Harghly hoarse the raven's croaking Warning that man's life is broken. For thee noble 3 r outh ! for thee, Wails the becm-sig'e mournfullie, In the midnight, still and lone, Sadly swells her caoine's moan. 62 FENIAN WAR SONGS. The Rock's Son answers to her wail, Grieving from gnty wall and vale ; • The cock no longer hails the pearly Morn, or cheers us late or early, Ah, my Oiifeir og ! mo s'roid'e, 'Tis thy death wakes the wild bean- sig'e ; Tis it that brings both night and morrow, 'Tis it that brings the bitter sorrow ! What fills thy place to us, our chief ? Nought but tears, and sobs of grief ; There's nought for us since he is taken, But weeping tears, and sore heart-breaking ! Death ! — thou hast smote forever, now, The fairest flower from highest bough : Mo nuar ! could nothing stay thy doom's ton© And save our dear one from the tombstone ? Sword of brightness! strong and sure Shielder of the just and poor, 'Neath thy noble father's banner High thou won'st in Ormond, honor, Ne'er till now — ah, ne'er till now, Thy home 'neath hopeless grief did bow ; Good thou wast, heir, and noble, Thee, they mourn in bitter trouble. Rightful heir, in truth — still bearing High their name and love for Erinn ; As oak-tree, thou wast fair to see, And like to broaden thy branches free. Such was not thy fate's designing, Lorn in earth thou'rt now reclining ; 0, ruin of joy, each day for all — Ah — for thy love — a black heart pall ! FENIAN WAR SONGS. She, a mother, ever weepeth For the long, long sleep, he sleepeth, Her children's sire, her first love, dearest — Ah' 'tis she hath anguish dearest ! Never again, the chase he'll follow- By misty mount, or gloomy "hollow ; Never be heard his sweet horn ringing, Never his dog's cry, gayly springing. Never he'll urge his swift young steed, Over the mound, and over the mead ; Change is o'er his fairness bowed, O'er his glory fell a cloud. generous hand ! thou'rt weak for aye ! Magnanimous heart! thou art but clay ! Seed of night, fast friend of the bard, O'er thee the spirits of song keep ward. [From the Irish. THE " HOLLY AtfD IVY" GIRL. - BY KEEGAX. M Come buy my nice, fresh ivy, and my hollysprigs so green ; I have the finest branches that ever yet were seen. Come buy from me, good christians, and let me home I pray. And I'll wish you, ' Merry Christmas Time,' and a ' Happy New Year's Day.' Ah ! wou-'t you buy my ivy ? — the loveliest ever seen ! Ah! won't you buy my holly boughs ? — all you who love the green ! 54 FENIAN WAR SONGS. Do ! take a little branch of each, and on my knees Til pray, That God may bless your Christmas, and be with your New Year's day. The wind is black and /bitter, and the hailstones do not spare My shivering form, my bleeding feet, and stiff en- tangled hair ; Then when the skies are pitiless, be merciful I say — So Heaven will light your Christmas and the coming New Year's day." — 'Twas a dying maiden sung, while the cold hail rattled down, And fierce winds whistled mournfully o'er Dublin's dreary town ; — One stiff hand clutched her ivy-sprigs and holly boughs so fair, With the other she kept brushing the hail-drops from her hair. So grim and statue-like she seemed, 'twas evident that Death Was lurking in her footsteps — whilst her hot impeded breath Too plainly told her early doom — though the burden of her lay Was still of life, and Christmas joys, and a Happy New Year's Day. 'Twas in that broad black Thomas-Street I heard the wanderer sing ; I stood a moment in the mire, beyond the ragged ring— My heart felt cold and lonely, and my thoughts were far awa} r , Where I was, many a Christmas-tide, and Happy New Year's Day. FENIAN WAR SONGS. 55 I dreamed of wanderings in the woods amongst the holly green ; I dreamed of lights forever dimmed — of hopes that can't return — And dropped a tear on Christmas fires, that never more can burn. The ghost-like singer still sung on, but no one came to buy; The hurrying crowd passed to and fro, but did not heed her cry ; She uttered one low piercing moan — then cast her boughs away — And smiling cried — " I'll rest with God before the New Year's Dav !" On New Year's day I said my prayers above a new- made grave, Dug decently in sacred soil, by Liffey's murmuring Wave ; The minstrel-maid from Earth to Heaven has winged her happy way, And now enjoys, with sister-saints, an endless New Year's Day. -**^^ SHATJN'S HEAD. Scene —Before Dublin Castle — Night— a Clansman of Sliaun 0' Neil's discovers his Chief's head on a pole. BY JOHN SAVAGE. God's wrath upon the Saxon ! may they never know the pride Of dying on the battle-field, their broken spar be- side ; When victory gilds the gory shroud of every fallen brave, 56 FENIAN WAR SONGS. Or death no tales of conquered clans can whisper to his grave. May <3very light from Cross of Christ that saves the heart of man, Be hid in clouds of blood before it reach the Saxon clan ; For sure, God!— and you know all whose thought for all sufficed — To expiate these Saxon sins, they'd want another Christ. Is it thus, Shaun the haughty ! Shaun the valiant ! that we meet — Have ray eyes been lit by Heaven but to guide me to defeat ; Have I no chief — or you no clan, to give ns both de- fence, Or must I, too, be statued here with thy cold elo- quence? Thy ghastly head grins scorn upon old Dublin's Cas- tle-tower, Thy shaggy hair is wind-tossed, and thy brow seems rough with power ; Thy wrathful lips, like sentinels, by foulest treachery stung, Look rage upon the world of wrong, but chain thy fiery tongue. That tongue whose Ulster accent woke the ghost of Columbkil), Whose warrior words fenced round with spears the oaks of Derry Hill ; Whose reckless tones gave life and death to vassals and to knaves, And hunted hordes of Saxons into holy Irish graves. The Scotch marauders whitened when his war-cry met their ears, And the death-bird, like a vengeance, poised above his stormy cheers ; FENIAN WAE SONGS. 57 Ay, Sliaun, across the thundering sea, out-chanting it your tongue, Flung wild un-Saxon war whoopings the Saxou Court among. Just think. Shaun ! the same moon slimes on Liffey as on P^oyle, And lights the ruthless knaves on both, our kinsmen to despoil ; And you the hope, voice, battle-axe, the shield of us and ours, A murdered, trunkless, blinding sight above these Dublin towers. Thy face is paler than the moon, my heart is paler still— ■ My heart ? I had no heart — 'twas yours — 'twas yours ! to keep or kill. And you kept it safe for Ireland, Chief — your life, your soul, yjDiir pride — But thev sought it in thy bosom, Shaun — with proud O'Neii it died. You were turbulent and haughty, proud and keen as Spanish steel, But who had right of these, if not our Ulster's Chief O'Neii? Who reared aloft the " Bloody hand" until it paled tho sun, And shed such glory on Tyrone, as chief had never done. He was " turbulent" with traitors — he was " haughty" with the foe — He was ''cruel," say ye Saxons! Ay! he dealt ye blow for blow ! He was " rough" and " wild," and who's not wild to see his hearthstone razed ? He was " merciless as fire" — an' ye kindled him— he blazed ! 58 FENIAN WAR SONGS. He was " proud ;" yes, proud of birthright, and be- cause he flung away Your Saxon stars of princedom, as the rock does mocking spray. He was wild, insane for vengeance — ay ! and reached it till Tyrone Was ruddy, ready, wild too, with " Red hands" to clutch their own. " The Scots are on the border, Shaun," — ye saints, he makes no breath, — * I remember when that cry would wake him up almost from death ; Art truly dead and cold ? Chief ! art thou to Ulster lost ? " Dost hear, dost hear I By Randolph led, the troops the Foyle have crossed !" He's truly dead ! he must be dead ! nor is his ghost about — • And yet no tomb could his spirit tame to such a shout. The pale face droopeth northward — ah his soul must loom up there, By old Armagh, or Antrim's glynns. Loch Foyle, or Bann the Fair! I'll speed me Ulster-wards, your ghost must wander there, proud Shane, In search of some O'Neil, through whom to throb its hate again. THE FELONS. Good peasant — we are strangers, here, And night is gathering fast ; The stars scarce glimmer in the sky ; And moans the mountain's blast ; FENIAN WAR SONGS. 59 Cau'st tell us of a place to rest ? We're wearied with the road ; No churl the peasant used to be. With homely couch and food." " I cannot help myself nor know Where ye may rest or stay ; A few more hours the moon will shine And light you on your way." • But peasant — can you let a man Appeal to you in vain ; Hear at your very cabin door ; And 'mid the pelting rain ? Here in the dark, and in the night, Where one scarce sees a span ; What ! — close your heart ! — and close your door ! And be an Irishman ?" 41 No — no — go on — the moon will rise In a short hour or two ; What can a peaceful laborer say Or a poor toiler do ?" " You're poor ? — well — here's a golden chance To make you rich and great ! Five hundred pounds are on our heads ! The gibbet is our iate - ! Fly — raise the cry, and win the gold ! Or some may cheat you soon ; And we'll abide, by the road side, And wait the rising moon." What ails the peasant? — does he flush At the wild greed of gold ? Why seizes he the wanderers' hand's ? — Hark to his accents bold : — 60 FENIAN WAR SONGS. " Ho I have a heart for you, neighbors ! Ay — and a hearth, and a home ! Ay, and a help for you neighbors ! God bless ye — and prosper ye — come ! " Come — out of the light of the soldiers ; Come in 'mongst the children and all ; And I'll guard ye, for the sake of ould Ireland ; Till Connal himself gets a fall. " To the devil, with all their gold guineas, Come — everything is ^our own — And I'll kneel at your feet — friends of Ireland ! What I wouldn't for a king on his throne. " God bless ye that stood in the danger, In the midst of the country's mishap ; That stood up to meet the big famine : Och ! — ye are the men in the gap ! " Come in— with ' Cead Hille Failthe ;' Sit down ; and don't make any noise ; Till I come for more comforts to crown ye ; Till I gladden the hearts of the boys ! " Arrah ! shake hands again — noble fellows ! That left your own homes for the poor ! Not a man in the land could betray you, Or shut up his heart or his door." -^-a-C*»- DIEGE FOE DEVIN EEILLY. JOSEPH BRENAN. " When the day has come, darling, that your darling must go From the scene of his struggle, of his pride and his woe, — FENIAN WAR SONGS. 61 Lay him on' a hillside with his feet to the dew, Where the soul of the verdure is faintly stealing through — On the slope of a hill with his face to the light, Which glows upon the dawn and glorifies the night ; For the grand old mother nature is mightier than death, The subtle Irish soul of which the beautiful is breath ; Which nestles and dreams in the solemn sounding trees And flings out its locks to the rapture of the breeeze, And 't will crave for God's wonders, from the daisy star close by, To the golden scroll which sparkles with his scripture in the sky." God rest you, Devin Reilly, in the place of your choice Where the blessed dew is faling and the flowers have a voice ; Where the conscious trees are bending in homage to thfc*lead, And the earth is swelling upward, like a pillow for your head ; And his rest will be with you, for the lonely neeming grave, Though a dungeon to the coward, is palace to the brave,— Though a black Inferno circle, where the recreant are bound, Is a brave Valhalla pleasure-done where heroes are crowned ; Oh ! God's rest will be with you, in the congress"of the great, Who are purified by sorrow, and are victors over Fate; Oh ! God's rest will be with you, in the corridors of fame, Which was jubilant with welcome, when Death named your name, Way 'inongst the heroes for another hero soul ! . Room for a spirit which has struggled to its goal ! 62 FENIAN WAR SONGS. Rise, for in life he was faithful to his faith, And entered without stain, beneath the portico of death, And his fearless deeds around, like attendant angels stand, Claiming recognition from the noble and the grand ; Claiming to his mead — who from fresh and bounding youth, To the days of manly trial, was truthful to the truth — The welcome of the hero, whose foot would not give way, Till his trenchant sword was shivered in the fury of the fray ; And brave will be that welcome if the demi-gods above, Can love with a tithe of our humble mortal love 1 " Lay me on a hillside w T ith my feet to the dew, Where the life of the verdure is faintly stealing through ; On the slope of a hill, with my face to the light Which glows upon the dawa, and glorifies the night;" Would it were a hillside in the land of the Gael, Where dew falls like tear-drops, and the wind is a wail ; Where the winged superstitions are gleaming through the gloom, Like a host of frighted Fairies, to beautify the tomb. On the slope of a hill with your face to the sky Which clasped you, like a blessing in the days gone by; When your hopes were as radiant as the stars of the night, And the reaches of the Future throbbed with con- stellated light. FENIAN WAR SONGS. 63 Have you seen the mighty tempest, in its war-cloak of cloud, When it stalks thro' the midnight, so defiant and proud ; When 'tis shouldering the ocean, 'till the crouching waters fly From the thunder of its voice and the lightning of its eyes ; And the waves, in timid multitudes, are rushing to the strand, In a vain appeal for succour from the buffets of its hand ? Then you saw the soul of Reilly when, abroad in its might, It dashed aside, with loathing, all the creatures of the night ; Till the plumed hosts were humbled, and their crest, white no more, Were soiled with the sand, and strewn upon the shore ; For the volumed swell of thunder was concentrated in his form, And his tread was a conquest and his blow was like a storm. Have you seen a weary tempest, when a harbor is near, And its giant breast is heaving from the speed of its career ; How it puts off its terrors, and is timorous and week, As it stoops upon the waters, with its cheek to their cheek ; As it broods like a lover, over all the quiet place ; Till the dimpling smiles of pleasure are eddying in its trace ? Then you saw the soul of Reilly when ceasing to roam, It flung away the clouds, and nestled to its home ; 64 FENIAN WAK SONGS. When the heave and swell were ended, and the spirit was at rest, And gentle thoughts like white-winged birds, were dreaming on its breast ; And the tremulous sheets of sunset, around its couch were rolled, In voluptuous festooning of purple, lined with gold. Oh ! sorrow on the day when our young apostle died, When the lonely grave was opened for our darling and our pride ; When the passion of a people w r as following the dead, Like a solitary mourner, with a bowed uncovered head ; When a nation's aspirations were stooping o'er the dust; When the golden bowl was broken, and the trenchant sword was rust ; When the brave tempestuous spirit, w T ith an upward wing had passed, And the love of the wife was a widow's love at last ; Oh ! God rest you, Devin Reilly, in the shadow of that love, And God bless you with his bliss,in the pleasure dome above, W T hen the the heroes are assembled, and the very an- gels bow To the glory of eternity, which glimmers on each brow. " Lay me on a hillside with my feet to the dew, Where the life of the verdure is faintly stealing through ; On the slope of a hill, with my face to the light, Which glows upon the daw T n, and glorifies the night ;" Would it were a hillside in ihe land of the Gael, Where the dew falls tike tear-drops and the wind is a wail - FENIAN WAR SONGS. 65 Where the winged superstitions are gleaming through the gloom. Like a host of frighted Fairies to beautify the tomb! On the slope of a hill with your face to the light Which clasped you, like a blessing in the davs gone by ; " When your hopes were as radiant as the stars of the night, And the reaches of the future throbbed with con- stellated light. GLENFLESK. BY RALPH VARIAN. In grandeur Cintra's peaks arise, The Lisbon hills are fair ; And fruits and flowers of gorgeous dyes, Are heavy on the air ; And all that's rugged, wild and grand ; Luxuriant, graceful, bright ; In wildering mazes, hand-in-hand, Unite to charm the sight In Cintra grand. And yet, the little home I knew Beside the turbid wave ; The little home that held in view The outlaw's wondrous cave For me ; with plot of meadow gras*!, The old oak wood in view, The wild and storied rugged pass, And flowers in sun and dew, In sweet Glennesk I The Annemore stretched north and south Across the saffron west ; And summer came, without a drought, In gold and purple dressed ; 65 FENIAN WAR SONGS. The Cruachan showed the Phil-a-dhaoun ; The Loah and the Clyde, All splashed with foam, came coursing down, To join the deeper tide, In sweet Glenflesk! My grandarae's little cot retired Behind the skirting wood, And all good things my heart desired, Within its four walls stood ; The bright fields, sloping southward, reached Flesk's soft and silvery rim, While, with the stream, a rope-walk stretched In elm-shadows dim In sweet Glenflesk! And up the rock my mother's cot Crouched in the heather bright ; The children Heaven gave her lot Grew in her careful sight. But grandame's partial love was dealt To me, the youngest child ; 0, swiftly flew the months, we felt, All radiant-winged, and wild, In sweet Glenflesk ! Beside the low and bright turf fire, We listened to the store, The magic tales that could not tire ; We heard, and ask for more ; And " Mammy Betty" (grandame's name t , She loved its sounds from me) Would pour wild legends, bright with fame On hill, and cave, and tree, In sweet Glenflesk. But 0, the day ! the heavy day ! The day of bitter woes ! The roofs that sheltered our kind play ; Our parent's soft repose ; FENIAN AVAR SONGS. 67 Our homely pra} r er, our fireside peace ; Our hospititable board, Were levelled low, and scarce a trace Of homes once snugly stored, In sweet Glenflesk. Then worn with want, and wild with grief, My misery to enhance, I joined beneath this Wellesley chief To check imperial France ; Black fate ruled high the slaughtering hour I joined this Saxon band, To pine beneath its withering power, Far from my native land, And sweet Glenflesk. 0, that with heart had sped my hand, With Captain Rock to roam ; To fight through passes of our land, For freedom, hearth and home ; But, here encamped with alien chiefs, Beneath a scorching sky, I utter forth my useless griefs, As from home I lie And sweet Glenflesk. Strange glories Nature's hand can stamp, In mellow hues and dyes ; At night the lucid glow-worm's lamp, And flickering bright fireflies ; The Kintas of Coolares stretch, With gorgeous waxen flowers, And, bright with luscious fruit-trees, reach The seaward caves and towers Of Cintra gaand. And yet I hope to lay my head Beside the outlaw's cave ; 68 FENIAN WAR SONGS. Again to see, ere life be fled, My native glen and wave. 0, all young men of Erinn. know How hard must be his fate, Who will to foreign service go, Far from his native state, And sweet Gienflesk. THE IRISH MOTHER'S LAMENT. I'm kneeling by your grave, aroon ! the autumn sun shines bright, Flinging upon the grassy mound a' flood of golden light ; The flowers I tended for your sake are dropping one by one, While I must weep in hopeless grief above your grave, my son. The withered leaves are showering down, they cannot break your rest ; And fair and bright the gorgeous pall they've flung upon your breast ; I saw them bud and blossom forth, beneath the soft spring sky, But little dreamed that you, my son, should be the first to die. I knew that want had paled your cheek, that hunger cast its blight Upon the crimson lip, and eye, whose very glance was fight 1 I knew the powerful arm grew weak, the sweet voice lost its tone ; Yet still watched on, in trembling fear, till death the struggle won. .FENIAN WAR SONGS. 69 I longed to yield with cheerfulness the treasure lent to me, But vainly strove to bow the will, although I bent the knee. Oh ! terrible the inward strife that rends the mother's heart ! They only know who've felt the pang, how hard it is to part. Was there not plenty in the land ? the earth gave forth her store — The glad and fruitful mother earth, with riches brim- ming o'er ; Not for the slave who tilled the soil the garnered wealth was won ; Our tyrant masters gorged their fill, and murdered thee, my son! Were there not stately homes enough, that our roof- tree must fall, On the forsaken green hillside I see the blackened wall ; Be calm, my heart, in faith abide, God will not still en- dure That tyrant hands shall desecrate the dwellings of the poor. The dwellings of the virtuous poor, the homes of poverty, Are sacred in the sight of God, though humble they may be ; Beneath the holy cabin roof the truest prayers may rise, And many a suffering spirit there, is fashioned for the skies. Mavourneen! hark, the bitter winds are howling round your home, 70 FENIAN WAR SONGS. Sleep on in peace, rny own one, sleep, your mother soon will come ; The autumn leaves are showering down upon your place of rest, And bright and beautiful the pall that wraps your gen- tle breast. THE MARTYR. On the dread tempest-wing over the stormy sea, And fearful paths untrod, Past ships and fleets, whose pride and chivalry, Bowed to the might of God, From the far-jewelled " Eldorado" of the west— To a dethroned qeen's poor hopeless breast, Came news that darkly bode. The tale to her bleeding heart is quickly told — Her exiled son is dead — Deep, in the starry land of corn and gold, They've pillowed his weary head ; There 'neath the hickory trees and waving limes, And hemlocks dark, where creeping ivy climbs, J Is made his dreamless bed. He sunk to rest, with hopeful, trusting prayer, For his qeen mother-land — She, for whose weal his fiery love did dare Fetters and felon brand ; In his proud youth his hopes were round her wreathed, And his last sigh of ebbing life was breathed — For her, proscribed and banned. Now, from her bruised heart the poor lorn queen, Over the wild sea's surge, Pours out, with pallid lips, the dismal caoine — Her dead son's dirge ; List ! ye thronged heavens, to her song of woe, Pity her anguished soul — her tears that flow — Avert thy scourge. FENIAN WAR SONGS. 11 " My son is dead ! — my beautiful, my brave, Gone to his peaceful sleep ; And strangers laid my darling in his grave ; Therefore, I moan and weep. Oh! how he loved me — oh I but his heart was true, And his words were balm, soft as the blessed dew On the harebells deep. 11 In the dim future time, when of the garnish throng Who sought in tinselled state Thy brave heart's blood — sought it through crime and wrong, And perjury and hate ; When, of their paltry thrones no trace survive In song and story, Terence ! thy name shall live Godlike and pure, and great. u Ye stately towering pines, ye golden orange trees, Bending his grave above, With dreamy music in the mournful breeze, Sigh o'er my dear, dead love.. Oh mystic, trackless sea, sing in your ceaseless roll, A holy requiem for the patriot's soul — Droop, lilies of the grove. " Ah ! my dear darling, had but thy dying eyes When set their sun, Been closed by me, thy mother, 'midst my sighs, My own my gallant one ! I would have hushed thee to thy final rest, And shamrock-shrouded, wrapt thee in thy breasts- God's will be done." Young men of Erin ! — ye of the old proud race, Sons of the fiery Gael ! The hapless queen who sings, with shadowed face, Her sad death-wail • 72 FENIAN WAfc SONGS. Whose cry is born across the troubled sea, Is she who bore — who nursed ye tenderly — Your mother, Inuisfail. And he, whose ashes lie in the golden sand, Where the red sun sinks down, Who, throned on high, shall in the spirit-land Receive a martyr-crown — He was thy brother. Go thou do and dare Like him, thy guiding star ; for Ireland sweet and, fair, Win glory and renown. THE PASS OF PLUMES. BY R. D. WILLIAMS. " Look out," said O'Moore, to his clansmen, " afar— Is yon white cloud the herald of tempest or war? Hark! know you the roll of the foreigners' drums? By heaven ! Lord Essex in panoply comes, With corslet, and hemlet, and gay bannerol, And the shields of the nobles with blazon and scroll ; And, as snow on the larch in December appears, What a winter of plumes on the forest of spears ! To the clangor of trumpets and waving of flags, The clattering of cavalry prance o'er the crags ; And their plumes — By St. Kyran ! false Saxon, ere night, Yon shall wish these fine feathers were wings for your flight. Shall we leave all the blood and the gold of the Palo To be shed by Armagh and be won by O'Neil ? Shall we yield to OR nark, M'Guire, and O'Donnell, Brave chieftains of Breffny, Ferrnanah, Tyrconnell ; Yon helmets that ' Erick' thrice over would pay FENIAN WAR SONGS. 73 For the Sassenach, fiery clansmen of Leix, Avenge your sires' blood on their murderous race. Now, sept of O'Moore, fearless sons of the heatiier, Fling your scabbards away, and strike home and to- gether ! Then loudly the clang of commingling blows Up swelled from the surrounding fields, And the joy of a hundred trumps arose, .And the clash of a thousand shields ; And the long plumes danced, and the falchions rung, And flashed the whirled spear, And the furious barb through the wild war sprung, And trembled the earth with fear ; The fatal bolts exulting fled, And hissed as they leaped away ; And the tortured steed on the red grass bled, Or died with a piercing neigh. I see their weapons crimsoned — I hear the mingled cries Of rage and pain and triumph, as they thunder to the skies. The cooluned Kerne rushes upon armor, knight, and mace, And bone and brass are broken in his terrible em- brace. The coursers roll and struggle ; and the riders girt in steel, From their saddles, crushed and cloven, to the purple heather reel, And shattered there, and trampled by the charger's iron hoof, The seething brain is bursting through the crushing helmet's roof, Joy ! Heaven strikes for freedom ! and Elizabeth's array, With her paramour to lead them, are sore beset to- day. Their heraldry and plumery, their coronets and mail, Y4 FENIAN WAR SONGS. Are trampled on the battle field, or scattered on the gale ! As the cavalry of ocean, the living billlows bound,^ When lightnings leap above them, and thunders clang around, And tempest-crested dazzingly, caparison'd in spray, They crush the black and broken rocks, with all their roots away ; So charged the chivalry of Erin in her ire — Their shock the roll of ocean, their swords electric fire — They rose like banded billows that, when wintry tem- pests blow, The trembling shore with stunning roar and dreadful wreck o'erfiow. But when they burst tremendously upon the bloody ground, Both horse and man, from rear to van, like shivering barques went down. Leave your costly Milan hauberks, haughty nobles of the Fale, And your snowy ostrich feathers as a tribute to the Gael. Fling away gilt spur and trinket, in your hurry, knight and squire, They will make our virgins ornaments, or decorate the lyre. Ho ! Essex, how your vestal Queen will storm when she hears The " meer Irish" chased her minion and his twenty thousand spears. Go ! tell the royal virgin that O'Moore, M'Hugh, O'Neil, Will smite the faithless stranger while there's steel in Innisfail. The blood you shed shall only serve more deep re* venge to nurse, And our hatred be as lasting as the tyranny we curse ; FENIAN WAR SONGS. 75 From age to age consuming, it shall blaze, a quench less fire, And the son shall thirst and burn still more fiercely than his sire. By our sorrows, songs and battles — by our cromleachs raths and towers — By sword and chain, by all our slain — between your race and ours Be naked glaives and yawning graves, and ceaseless tears and gore, Till battle's flood wash out in blood your footsteps from the shore !" THE SUNNY SOUTH SO GLOWING. The sunny South is glowing in the glow of Southern glory, And. the Southern Cross is waving o'er the freest of the free ; Yet vain, in vain, my weary heart would try to hide the story That evermore 'tis wandering back, dear native land to thee ; The heathy hills of Malazan, the Band's translucent waters, Glenleary's shades of hazel, and Agivy's winding streams ; And Kathleen of the raven locks, the flower of Erinn's daughters, — Lost heaven of wildering beauty ! thou art mine at least in dreams. Oh ! the green land, the old land, Far dearer than the gold land, With all its landscape glory and unchanging summer skies ; Let others seek their pleasures In the chase of golden treasures, Be mine a dream of Erinn and the light of Kathleen's eyes. 76 FENIAN. WAR SONGS. Sweets scenes may group around me, hill and dale, la- goon and wild wood, And eyes as bright and cloudless as the azure skies above ; But strange the face of nature — not the happy haunts of childhood, And The cold glance of beauty — not the smile of early love ; Even in the pulse of joy itself the native charm is wanting, For distant far the bosoms that would share it as their own ; Too late to learn that loving hearts will never bear transplanting, Uprooted once, like seedless flowers, they wither lost and lone. Oh ! the old land, the green land, That land of land, the queen land ; Keep, keep the gorgeous splendor of your sunny Southern shore ; Unfading and undying, O'er the world between us lying, The hallowed loves of former days are mine for ever more. AN EXILE'S DEEAMS. I will go to holy Ireland, The land of saint and sage, Where the pulse of boyhood is leaping In the shrunken form of age ; Where the shawdow of giant hopes Forevermore is cast, And the wraiths of mighty chieftians Are looming through the Past. From the cold land of the stranger I will take my joyous flight, To sit by my slumbering country, And Watch her through the night ; FENIAN WAR SONGS. 77 When the Spring is in the sky. And the flowers are on the land, I will go to ancient Ireland, Of the open heart and hand. I will go where the Gal tees Are rising bare and high, With their haggard foreheads fronting The scowl of a clouded sky, I will gaze adown on the valleys, And bless the teeming sod, And commune with the mountains — " The Almoners of God ;" I will list to the murmurous song Which is rising from the river, Which flows, crooning to the ocean, Forever and forever. When the may-month is come, When the year is fresh and young, I will go to the home of my fathers — The land of sword and song. I will go where Killarney Is sleeping in peaceful rest, Unmoved, save when a falling leaf Ripples its placid breast ; Where the branches of oak and arbutus Are weaving a pleasant screen, And the sunshine breaks in diamonds Through its tracery of green ; Where mists, like fantastic spectres, Forever rise and fall, And the rainbow of the Covenant Is spanning the mountains tall, When the wind blows from the West, Across the deep sea, I will sail to my Innisfail, To the " Isle of Destiny." I will go to beautiful Wicklow, The hunted outlaw's rest, Which the tread of rebel and rapparee In many a struggle prest ; ?S FENIAN WAR SONGS. I will go the lonely graveyard, Near the pleasant fields of Kildare, And pray for my chief and my hero, Young Tone who is sleeping there ; I will go to the gloomy Thomas-street, Where gallant Robert died, And to the grim St. Michan's Where " the Brothers" lie side by side ; I will go to where the heroes Of the Celts are laid, And chant a Miserere For the souls of the mighty Dead. I will seize my pilgrim staff, And cheerily wander forth From the smiling face of the South To the black frown of the North ; I will call up the buried leaders Of the ancient Celtic race, And gaze with a filial fondness On each sternly noble face The masters of the mind, And the chieftains of the steel, Young Carolan and Grattan, The M'Caura and O'Neil ; I will learn from their voices, With a student's love and pride, To live as they lived, And to die as they died. Oh, I will sail from the West, And never more will part From the ancient home of my people — The land of the living heart. THE END. v V V \/ %j 4> •iL , *.^fr ,0* e* 1 "* o, 4* 5° A ^ t'^^G^*'*' Deacidified usin 9 the Bookkeeper process. *• .«? Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: Jan. 2009 PreservatlonTechnologies / \ *o 9 » * A W0RLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION ^ tl# «£» 111 Thomson Park Drive *• t * ,w, * - Cranberry Township, PA 1 6066 *jr/ffl53^- <4 (724)779-2111 ^ ^ ""