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OLD LANDMARKS ON THE SHANNON. We stand by the bridge, in the level morning, And the saffron water below us flowsSaffron save where, in yon eastern inlet,

The light has deepened its bloom to rose. There is the city, good Master Leonard, Tailor and poet, sir, as you are, And here am I with my heart to bursting, Gossiping under the huge bright star; There is the city with roof and casement, Belfry and steeple, of which we sung, When we were boys in St. Michael's parish; Then was the time for a man to be young.

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COME BACK TO ERIN.

COME back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen,
Come back, aroon, to the land of thy birth,
Come with the shamrocks and springtime, mavourneen,
And its Killarney shall ring with our mirth.
Sure when we left you to beautiful England,
Little we thought of the lone winter days,
Little we thought of the hush of the starshine,
Over the mountains, the bluffs, and the braes!

CHORUS.

Come back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen,
Come back again to the land of thy birth;
Come back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen,

And its Killarney shall ring with our mirth.
Over the green sea, mavourneen, mavourneen,
Long shone the white sail that bore thee away,
Riding the white waves that fair summer mornin',
Just like a May flower afloat on the bay.
Oh, but my heart sank when clouds came between us,
Like a gray curtain, the rain falling down,
Hid from my sad eyes the path o'er the ocean,
Far, far away where my colleen had flown.
Oh, may the angels, oh, waking and sleeping,
Watch o'er my bird in the land far away;
And it's my prayer will consign to their keeping
Care of my jewel by night and by day.
When by the fireside I watch the bright embers,
Then all my heart flies to England and thee,
Craving to know if my darling remembers,
Or if her thoughts may be crossing to me.
CAHAL MOR OF THE WINE-RED HAND.
I WALKED entranced

Through a land of Morn;

The sun, with wondrous excess of light,
Shone down and glanced
Over seas of corn,

And lustrous gardens aleft and right.

Even in the clime

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A LOCK OF YOUR HAIR.-Contiwued.

"Ah! Dermot, win me not, love, To be your bride to-night; How could I bear

A mother's tear,

And now a dark cloud rising,

Across the moon is cast;

A father's scorn and slight?
So, Dermot, cease your suing-
Don't work your Nora's ruin;
"Twould be my sore undoing,

If you're found at my window, dear."
"Ah! for shame with your foolish alarms:
Just drop into your Dermot's arms:

Don't mind looking at all

CHORUS.

For your cloak or your shawl;

They were made but to smother your charms. He was one of the brave Connaught Rangers, one of old Erin's

sons,

The lattice opes

And anxious hopes

Make Dermot's heart beat fast:
And soon a form entrancing,
With arms and fair neck glancing
Half shrinking, half advancing,

Steps light on the lattice sill:
When a terrible arm in the air
Clutch'd the head of the lover all bare;
And a voice, with a scoff,

Cried, as Dermot made off,

"WON'T YOU LEAVE US A LOCK OF YOUR HAIR?"

The worshipers are scattered now
Who knelt before thy shrine,
And silence reigns where anthems rose
In days of "Auld Lang Syne."

And sadly sighs the wandering wind,
Where oft, in years gone by,
Prayers rose from many hearts to Him,
The Highest of the High;
The tramp of many a busy foot
That sought thy aisles is o'er,
And many a weary heart around
Is still forever more.

ONE OF THE BRAVE CONNAUGHT RANGERS.

ON the battle-field at midnight, stood a soldier at his post,
Thinking of his dear old country and of those he loved the most;
He could hear the muskets rattle, just like thunder in the air,
But he dare not go amongst them, for "on duty" he was there.
Altho' but a private soldier, many brave deeds he had done,
And he knew that ere the morning tha fierce battle would be

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won;

But he little dreamt that he would never leave that place again-
As he stood there meditating, he so cruelly was slain.

While thinking of home, far across the blue foam, he fell by the enemies' guns,

But he died like a true Irish soldier, deny it, now nobody can, For his life he did yield on that fierce battle-field, like a brave fighting Irishman.

THE OLD CHURCH,

Thou art crumbling to the dust, old pile! Soon his comrades did surround him, but, alas! it was too late,
Thou art hastening to thy fall,
That brave soldier lad was dying, soon he'd reach the golden
And 'round thee in thy loneliness
gate;

Clings the Ivy to the wall.

Shortly they could hear him murmur, "Sweetheart, do not grieve

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But we've on a splendid battle, for I hear my comrades shout.
-CHORUS.

How doth Ambition's hope take wing,
How droops the spirit now,
We hear the distant city's din,

The dead are mute below;

The sun that shone upon their paths

Now gilds their lonely graves,

The zephyrs which once fanned their brows, Wail-wail ye for The Mighty One! Wail-wail ye for the The grass above them waves.

for me,

But remember that your loved helped to win this victory."
Up then he was gently lifted, taken to his resting place—
Oh! it was a solemn moment, tears were on each soldier's face;
Those men who had just been fighting, stood with helmet in
their hand,

For they knew that noble spirit had gone to another land.—
CHORUS.

THE DEATH OF OWEN ROE.

"DID they dare-did they dare, to slay Owen Roe O'Neill?"
"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 Owen Roe!

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 Saxon met him on his way,
And he died at Clough-Oughter, upon St. Leonard's day."

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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.

Sagest in the council was he,-kindest in the hall,

Sure we never won a battle-'twas Owen 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.

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SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND.

THE DEATH OF OWEN ROE.-Continued. "O'Farrell and Clanrickard, 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? The rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle's corner-stone! "Wail-wail him through the Island. Weep-weep for our

pride!

Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died!
Weep the Victor of Benburb-weep him, young and old;
Weep for him, ye women-your beautiful lies cold!

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"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 sheperd, when the snow shuts out the sky-
Oh! why did you leave us, Owen? Why did you die?

Oh, why did you leave us, Owen? 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, Owen!-why did you

die?"

ST. PATRICK WAS A GENTLEMAN.

ST. PATRICK was a gentleman, and came of decent people;

In Dublin town he built a church and on't he put a steeple;
His father was O'Houlihan, his mother was a lady,

His uncle was O'Shaughnessy, and his aunt a Widow Grady.
Then success to bold St. Patrick's fist,

And ye fale like a pratie just burstin' the
shkin,

That all ye can do is to howld yersilf in.
Ochone! but, me jewel, the say may be grand,

“Soft as a woman's was your voice, O'Neill! bright was your But, when ye come over, dear, travel on land!

eye.

It's a wondherful counthry, this-so I am towld-+

They'll not look at guineas, so chape is the gowld:

And the three that poor mother sewed into my
coat

I sowld for a thrifle, on l'aving the boat.
And the quarest of fashions ye iver have seen!
They pay ye with picters all painted in green,
And the crowds that are rushing here, morning
and night,

Would make the lord-lieutenant shake with
the fright.

The strates are that full that there's no one

He was a saint so clever,

He gave the snakes and toads a twist,
And banished them forever!

PAT'S LETTER.

WELL, Mary, me darlint, I'm landed at last, And troth, though they tell me the st'amer was fast,

It sames as if years upon years had gone by
Since Paady looked intill yer beautiful eye!
it is
For Amerikay, darlint-ye'll think

quare-
Is twenty times furder than Cork from Kil-
dare;

And the say is that broad, and the waves are that high,

Ye're tossed like a fut-ball 'twixt wather and sky;

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can pass,

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And the only law is, 'Do not thread on the
grass.'
Their grass is the quarest of shows-by me

VOW

For it wouldn't be munched by a Candlemas

cow.

Tell father I wint, as he bid me, to see
His friend, Tim O'Shannon, from Killycaugh-

nee.

It's rowling in riches O'Shannon is now,

Oh, then, should I be so fortunate as to get back to Munster,
Sure I'll be bound that from that ground I ne'er again will once
stir;
"Twas there St. Patrick planted turf, and plenty of the praties,
With pigs galore, machree asthore! and buttermilk and ladies!
No wonder that we Irish lads should be so free and frisky,
Since St. Patrick taught us first the knack of drinking of good
whisky;

"Twas he that brew'd the best of malt, and understood distilling,
For his mother she kept a shebeen shop in the town of Innis-

killen!

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PAT'S LETTER.-Continued.

POOR PAT MUST EMIGRATE

I'll love ye, and thrust ye, both living and dead!

FARE you well, poor Erin's isle! I now must leave you for a while,

(Let Phil Blake look out for his carroty head!)

The rents and taxes are so high I can no longer stay;
From Dublin's quay I sailed away, and landed here but yester-
day,

I'm working, acushla, for you-only you!
And I'll make ye a lady yit, if ye'll be true;
Though, troth, ye can't climb Fortune's lad-
dher so quick,

Me shoes and breeches, and shirts, now are all that's in my kit,
I have dropped in to tell you now the sights I have seen before
I go,

Whin both of your shouldhers are loaded with

brick.

Of the ups and downs in Ireland since the year of ninetyBut I'll do it-I declare it, by—this and by But if that nation had its own, her noble sons might stay at eight;

that

home,

But since fortune has it otherwise, poor Pat must emigrate. The devil a word I would say at all, although our wages are but small,

If they left us in our cabins where our fathers drew their breath;

When they call upon rent-day and the devil a cent you have to

pay,

Which manes what I daren't say-from
Your own

PAT.

ROBERT EMMET.
THOUGH Over your ash the grave grass tan-
gles,
And night winds moan 'round your clayey

bed,

Yet

a

voice sounds forth in the silent watches"O, martyred Emmet, thou art not dead!" Not in the land that you loved and cherished, Not in the hearts of the Celtic race, For whose rights you strove, till the bloodmarked pillars

Of tyranny shook to their bone-made base!

Death may come with his somber vestment

To hide such hearts from our earthly ken;
But the spirit within, no death nor darkness
Can ever conceal from the gaze of men.
To the doomful gibbet the tyrant led thee,

And quenched life's flame in its lucent
prime;

But no tyrant ever can dim the halo

That rings thy name for all future time.
Over thy urn no white shaft rises,

No pompous mark of the sculptor's art;
But thy glorious name and thy grand achieve-

ments

Are graven forever on Ireland's heart!
There alone let them stand recorded,

Till vict'ry comes on the battle's flood
To the deathless cause that was consecrated
In the holy font of thy generous blood!

O Spirit that soared upon eagle pinions,
And lived and died for a grand design,
There's a radiant wreath in the future wait-

ing

The land that nurtured such soul as thine;
O'er the weary years and the anxious vigils
The Day of Deliverance yet will rise,
And the hills shall echo a grand Te Deum
For the martyrs' pray'rs and her exiles'
sighs.

Then with her chainless hand she'll fashion
A garland meet for her martyr's tomb,
And where now the graveyard nettle is trail-
ing

They will drive you from your house and home to beg and starve to death.

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There is not a son from Paddy's land but respects the memory of Dan,

Who fought and struggled hard to part that poor and plun-
dered country:

He advocated Ireland's rights with all his strength and might,
And he was but poorly recompensed for all his toil and pains.
He told us for to be in no haste, and in him for to place our
(

trust,

The tended lily shall sweetly bloom;
And the pilgrim over thy green grave bending

Shall murmur soft as his pray'r is done"It wasn't in vain you died, oh, Emmet,

And he would not desert us or leave us to our fate:

For the cause you championed at last is But death to him no favor showed, from the beggar to the throne, won! " Since they took our liberator, poor Pat must emigrate.

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