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Now do believe me, dearest mother,
Now I lie on my dying bed;

If I had lived I would have been clever,
But now I droop my youthful head.
But whilst our bodies lie moldering,

And weeping willows over our bodies grow,
The deeds of great Napoleon

Shall sting the bonny bunch of roses, oh.

WE MAY ROAM THRO' THIS WORLD.

WE may roam thro' this world, like a child at a feast,
Who but sips of a sweet and then flies to the rest;
And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east,
We may order our wings, to be off to the west;
But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile,

Are the dearest gifts that heaven supplies,
We never need leave our own green isle

For sensitive hearts and for sun-bright eyes. Then remember, whenever your goblet is crown'd,

Thro this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,

Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home.

WE MAA ROAM THRO' THIS WORLD.-Continued, In England the garden of beauty is kept

By a dragon of prudery placed within call; But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept,

That the garden's but carelessly watched after all. Oh! they want the wild sweet-briery fence,

Which round the flowers of Erin dwells,
Which warms the touch while winning the sense,
Nor charms us least when it most repels.
Then remember, etc.

In France, when the heart of woman sets sail,
On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try,
Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail,

But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-by; While the daughters of Erin keep the boy,

Ever smiling beside his faithful oar,
Through billows of woe, and beams of joy,
The same as he looked when he left the shore.
Then remember, etc.

"THE GLEN OF THE LAKES."

GLEN of the Lakes! I hail thee with emotion, Long-sighed-for object of the poet's soulA pilgrim-bard presents his heart's devotion

Beside the hills where Avon's waters roll. Now sweetly o'er me steals a happy feeling, That thou art one I oft beheld before; The hazy curtains seem to rise, revealing

The long-sought beauties of thy magic shore. The silv'ry lakes! what solemn awe around them, Embosom'd safely 'mid the mountains brown; The heathy cliffs, the waving forests bound them, Lugduff, the giant, proudly looketh down. The summer sun at midday softly peepeth

Adown the heather, o'er the shadow'd streams; The gloomy brook awhile in silence sleepeth,

Then wakes and smiles amid the sunny beams. So grand, so solemn seems the silence reigning Across the Glen in summer's brightest hour, That nature wearied here in peace remaining,

Seems slave awhile to slumber's mighty pow'r. She scarcely breathes beside the streamlet sighing, Beneath the pines that guard the sobbing lake; Till autumn leaves beside the waters lying,

With rustling voices bid the sleepers wake!

A home was here for sainted hermit glowing,

With sacred love and wondrous faith divine! A calm retreat for youth in virtue growing

Where nature's God could have a fitting shrine. And so the lakes, through brightest golden ages Reflected forms of Erin's sainted men ; And while their names illume historic pages,

Saint Kevin's works shall speak amid the glen! They stand majestic-ruined churches lowly,

Whose mold'ring porches creeping-ivy climbs; The princes, prelates, hermits meek and holy

Rest 'neath the cross that tells of better times. And, grandest sight! "the pillar-tow'r" that telleth

Of glories gone amid the glooms of time; For though no more the Abbey-bell out swelleth, The voiceless ruins tell their tale sublime! Unnumbered legends, quaint, and sweet, and tender, Are still preserv'd and heard beside the glen Of holy Kevin, peasants' kind defender

The friend and father dear to suffering One summer day, alas! it soon departed,

men.

When seated nigh the lake with friends most dear, I heard of Kevin, kind and tender-hearted,

And felt I then had kindred spirits near!

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THE IRISH MOTHER'S DREAM.

ONE night, as the wind of the winter blew loud,
And snow swathed the earth, like a corse in its shroud,
An aged mother mused in her dim cottage shed,

O'er the young soldier-son of her heart far away,
Where the cannon flames red o'er the low lying dead,
And the desolate camp bleakly spreads in the day.
And near stood her daughter, with sad strained smile,
And kind cheek of care that long weeping had worn,
As she whispered, "Now sleep, dearest mother, a while—
God is good, and our Dermod will surely return."

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THE IRISH MOTHER'S DREAM.-Continued.

They passed through the streets of the tents lying stillThey passed by the trenches that ridge the brown hillThey saw the pale faces that famine has worn;

They pace where the wounded lie lonely and lostWhere the corse, cannon-torn, to its red bed was borneWhere the poor frozen sentinel died on his post. "Ah, why, Dermod, why did you cross the wide foam, To fortune, my child, in this land of the dead? Sure we'd plenty at home-there was better to come: Why, for this, did you leave me, acushla?" she said.

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THE WEARING OF THE GREEN.

ONE blessing on my native isle!
One curse upon her foes!

While yet her skies above me smile,
Her breeze around me blows:

Now, never more my cheek be wet;
Nor sigh, nor altered mien,
Tell the dark tyrant I regret
The Wearing of the Green.

Sweet land! my parents loved you well;
They sleep within your breast;
With theirs-for love no words can tell-

My bones must never rest. And lonely must my true love stray, That was our village queen, When I am banished far away,

For the Wearing of the Green.

But, Mary, dry that bitter tear,

'Twould break my heart to see; And sweetly sleep, my parents dear, That cannot weep for me.

I'll think not of my distant tomb,
Nor seas rolled wide between,
But watch the hour that yet will come,
For the Wearing of the Green.

Oh, I care not for the thistle,

And 1 care not for the rose, For when the cold winds whistle Neither down nor crimson shows; But like hope to him that's friendless Where no gaudy flower is seen,

By our graves, with love that's endless, Waves our own true-hearted Green.

Oh, sure God's world was wide enough,
And plentiful for all!

And ruined cabins were no stuff
To build a lordly hall;

They might have let the poor man live,
Yet all as lordly been:

But Heaven its own good time will give For the Wearing of the Green.

KATY'S LETTER.

OCH, girls dear, did you ever hear I wrote my love a letter,

And although he cannot read, I thought 'twas all the better;

For why should he be puzzled with hard spelling in the matter,

When the maning was so plain that I loved him faithfully,

And he knows it-oh, he knows it--without one word from me.

I wrote it and I folded it, and put a seal upon it,

'Twas a seal almost as big as the crown of my best bonnet;

For I would not have the postmaster make his remarks upon it,

As I'd said inside the letter that I loved him faithfully,

And he knows it-oh, he knows it-without one word from me.

SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND.

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SWEET ERIN, MY COUNTRY.

SWEET Erin, my country, oh, wilt thou for

ever

sever

The despotic grasp from our Isle, pure fair?

Though thy sons, by the cruel oppressor were

banished

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Far from their native shore, over the sea, Still the spirit of Hope from their hearts had not vanished, They'd die for machree.

"6 the cause still, dear Erin

MISTER MICHAEL MURPHY.

TEN years ago I stepped on board a ship to England bound;
My heart and pockets both were light, though I'd not got a
pound.

I was but a young 'Greesheen," then, without deceit or sham;
But times and things have altered with myself, and now I am-

Enslaved by the tyrant be, doomed to despair? Will the day ever come, when

with joy we can

and

I got some work to carry bricks, at fourteen bob a week,
But soon I got the sack, because they said I'd too much cheek;
So I fell back upon the club, and when I let them see,
That I was full of book-learning, they made a secretary of―

CHORUS.

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INNISHOWEN.-Contiuued.

Nor purer of old was the tongue of the Gael,
When the charging aboo made the foreigner quail;
Than it gladdens the stranger in welcome's soft tone,
In the home-loving cabins of kind Innishowen.

O! flourish, ye homesteads of kind Innishowen,
Where seeds of a people's redemption are sown;
Right soon shall the fruit of that sowing have grown,
To bless the kind homesteads of green Innishowen.
When they tell us the tale of a spell-stricken band
All entranced, with their bridles and broadswords in hand,
Who await but the word to give Erin her own,
Through the midnight of danger in true Innishowen.

Hurrah for the Spaemen of proud Innishowen!—
Long live the wild Seers of stout Innishowen!-
May Mary, our mother, be deaf to their moan
Who love not the promise of proud Innishowen!

When your name was revered in those
bright days of yore;

And honor illulmes the grand old, old story,
Which speaks of thy prowess then, Erin

asthore.

Sweet Erin, my country, the sad tears of mourning

Now glisten like dew on your cheek, oh, so

66

worn;

Thy smile once was bright as the sun when

| And I soon got acquainted with an M. P., Mr. Teague.
My speechifying was so good, I soon got into fame,
And everybody tells me that the man to make a name is-
CHORUS.

CHORUS.

Mister Michael Murphy, a man of great ability,
Known and respected, too, by all the gentility;
Patronized by all the nobs, amongst the great nobility,
For Mister Michael Murphy is a well-known man.

mer morn;

adorning Your mountains and vales, on a sweet sumBut some day the hand of a just retribution Shall strike, yes, and sweep from thy emerald shore The laws that enslave thee in cruel persecution, And proudly you'll stand forth a nation once

more.

From that they made me president of our new Home Rule
League,

"

Michael Murphy, Esquire;
My letters are now all addressed, "
And if I get in Parliament, I'll set the house on fire.
With my great and burning eloquence I'll teach them the right

way

To satisfy the Home Rule League; then every one will say-
CHORUS.

I LOVE OLD IRELAND STILL.
WHERE is the man that does not love the land where he was born,.
Who does not think of it with pride, no matter how forlorn?
I only know that I love mine, and long again to see
Oppression from it banished, and old Ireland once more free.

CHORUS.

Let friends all turn against me, let foes say what they will,
My heart is with my country, I love old Ireland still.
You'll find no better island if you search the wide world o'er;
And yet she's sneered at and despised, because her offspring's
poor!

If she could only have the wealth that lies beneath her soil,
She'd once more prosper, and her sons might live by honest

toil.-CHORUS

There's not an Irishman to-day would ever wish to roam
Into a foreign land to live, if he could live at home.
Then give her liberty, and let her banner be unfurled,
Then Ireland and her sons may prove a credit to the world.
CHORUS.

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