THE FAIR HILLS OF EIRE, O!

In that land so delightful the wild thrush's lay
Seems to pour a lament forth for Eire's decay—
Alas! alas! why pine I a thousand miles away
From the fair Hills of Eire, O!

The soil is rich and soft-the air is mild and bland,
Of the fair Hills of Eire, O!

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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
The fair Hills of Eire, O!

A noble tribe, moreover, are the now hapless Gael,
On the fair Hills of Eire, O !

A tribe in battle's hour unused to shrink or fail
On the fair Hills of Eire, O!

For this is my lament in bitterness outpoured,
To see them slain or scattered by the Saxon sword—
Oh, woe of woes, to see a foreign spoiler horde

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;
Far dearer to my heart than a gift of gems or gold
Are the fair Hills of Eire, O!

The dewdrops lie bright 'mid the grass and yellow corn
On the fair Hills of Eire, O!

The sweet-scented apples blush redly in the morn
On the fair Hills of Eire, O!

The watercress and sorrel fill the vales below;

The streamlets are hushed till the evening breezes blow:
While the waves of the Suir, noble river! ever flow
Near the fair Hills of Eire, O!

A fruitful clime is Eire's, through valley, meadow, plain,
And the fair land of Eire, O!

The very 'Bread of Life' is in the yellow grain
On the fair Hills of Eire, O!

Far dearer unto me than the tones music yields
Is the lowing of the kine and the calves in her fields,
And the sunlight that shone long long ago on the shields
Of the Gaels, on the fair Hills of Eire, O!

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,
Whose arm is strong to hew tyrants down,
How long shall it be ere I see his face,
How long shall it be ere he wins the crown?
O Eire, my soul! etc.

* 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,
A brilliant phalanx, a dazzling band,

Will sail full soon for our noble coasts,
And reach in power Inis Eilge's strand,
O Eire, my soul! etc.

They will drive afar to the surging sea
The sullen tribe of the dreary tongue;

The Gaels again shall be rich and free;
The praise of the Bards shall be loudly sung!
O Eire, my soul! etc.

Oh, dear to my heart is the thought of that day!
When it dawns we will quaff the beaded ale ;
We'll pass it in pleasure, merry and gay,
And drink to all sneakers out of our pale,
O Eire, my soul! etc.

O Mother of Saints, to thee be the praise
Of the downfall that waits the Saxon throng!
The priests shall assemble and chant sweet lays,
And each bard and lyrist shall echo the song!
O Eire, my soul! etc.

JOHN OTUOMY.

A WELCOME FOR 'KING' CHARLES.

O PATRICK, my friend, have you heard the commotion,
The clangour, the shouting, so lately gone forth?
The troops have come over the blue-billowed ocean,
And Thurot commands in the camp of the North.
Up, up, to your post!-one of glory and danger-
Our legions must now neither falter nor fail ;
We'll chase from the island the hosts of the stranger,
Led on by the conquering Prince of the Gael!

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
The soul of the nation to combat and dare,
While Georgy is feeble and Cumberland shaken,
And Parliament gnashes its teeth in despair.
The lads with the dirks from the hills of the Highlands
Are marching with pibroch and shout to the field,
And Charlie, Prince Charlie, the King of the Islands
Will force the usurping old German to yield!

Oh, this is the joy, this the revel in earnest,
The story to tell to the ends of the earth,
That our youths have uprisen, resolving, with sternest
Intention, to fight for the land of their birth.

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.