THE FAIR HILLS OF EIRE, O! In that land so delightful the wild thrush's lay The soil is rich and soft-the air is mild and bland, 181 Her barest rock is greener to me than this rude land— Oh, the fair Hills of Eire, O! Her woods are tall and straight, grove rising over grove; Trees flourish in her glens below, and on her heights above, Oh, in heart and in soul, I shall ever, ever love A noble tribe, moreover, are the now hapless Gael, A tribe in battle's hour unused to shrink or fail For this is my lament in bitterness outpoured, On the fair Hills of Eire, O!. Broad and tall rise the Cruachs in the golden morning's glow On the fair Hills of Eire, O! O'er her smooth grass for ever sweet cream and honey flow On the fair Hills of Eire, O! Oh, I long, I am pining, again to behold The land that belongs to the brave Gael of old; The dewdrops lie bright 'mid the grass and yellow corn The sweet-scented apples blush redly in the morn The watercress and sorrel fill the vales below; The streamlets are hushed till the evening breezes blow: A fruitful clime is Eire's, through valley, meadow, plain, The very 'Bread of Life' is in the yellow grain Far dearer unto me than the tones music yields DONOGH MACCON-MARA. O EIRE, MY SOUL, WHAT A WOE IS THINE! O SPIRIT OF SONG, awake! arise! For thee I pine by night and by day; With none to cheer me, or hear my sighs For the fate of him who is far away* O Eire, my soul, what a woe is thine! That glorious youth of a kingly race, * Prince Charlie. O EIRE, MY SOUL, WHAT A WOE IS THINE! 183 Why, bards, arise ye not, each and all Why sing ye not strains in warlike style? He comes with his heroes, to disenthral By the might of the sword, our long-chained isle! O Eire, my soul! etc. Kings Philip and James, and their marshalled hosts, Will sail full soon for our noble coasts, They will drive afar to the surging sea The Gaels again shall be rich and free; Oh, dear to my heart is the thought of that day! O Mother of Saints, to thee be the praise JOHN OTUOMY. A WELCOME FOR 'KING' CHARLES. O PATRICK, my friend, have you heard the commotion, And you, my poor countrymen, trampled for ages, Grasp each of you now his sharp sword in his hand! The war that Prince Charlie so valiantly wages Is one that will shatter the chains of our land. Hurrah for our leader! hurrah for Prince Charlie! Give praise to his efforts with music and song; Our nobles will now, in the juice of the barley, Carouse to his victories all the day long! Rothe marshals his brave-hearted forces to waken Oh, this is the joy, this the revel in earnest, We will drive out the stranger from green-valleyed Erin— King George and his crew shall be scarce in the land, And the Crown of Three Kingdoms shall he alone wear in The Islands-our Prince-the man born to command! WILLIAM HEFFERNAN. MAYO. On the deck of Patrick Lynch's boat I sat in a woeful plight, Through my sighing all the weary day, and weeping all the night, Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go, By the blessed sun, 'tis royally I'd sing thy praise, Mayo. When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did much abound, In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round 'Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now I'm forced to go, And must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo. They are altered girls in Irrul now; 'tis proud they're grown and high, With their hair-bags and their top-knots, for I pass their buckles by; But it's little now I heed their airs, for God will have it so, That I must depart for foreign lands, and leave my sweet Mayo. |