THE TRUE IRISH KING.-Continued.

Come, look on the pomp when they make an O'Neil;

The muster of dynasts-O'Hagan, O'Shiel, O'Cahan, O'Hanlon, O'Breslen, and all, From mild Ardes and Orior to rude Donegal. "St. Patrick's comharba,' with bishops thirteen,

And Ollaves, and brehons, and minstrels, are

seen,

'Round Tulach-Og Rath, like the bees in the spring,

All swarming to honor a True Irish King. Unsandaled he stands, on the foot dinted rock, Like a pillar-stone fix'd against every shock. 'Round 'round is the Rath on a far-seeing hill,

Like his blemishless honor and vigilant will. The grey-beards are telling how chiefs by the

score

Have been crowned on "The Rath of the Kings heretofore,

While, yet crowded, yet ordered, within its green ring,

Are the dynasts and priests around the True Irish King.

The chronicler read him the laws of the clan, And pledged him to bide by their blessing and ban;

His skian and his sword are unbuckled to show

That they only were meant for a foreigner

foe;

A white willow wand has been put in his hand

A type of pure, upright and gentle commandWhile hierarchs are blessing, he slipper they

fling,

And O'Cahan proclaims him a True Irish King.

Thrice looked he to Heaven wth thanks and with prayer—

Thrice looked to his borders with sentinel stare

To the waves of Loch Neagh, the heights of Strabane,

And thrice on his allies, and thrice on his clan

One clash on their bucklers-one more-they are still

What means the deep pause on the crest of the hill?

Why gaze they above him? A war-eagle wing!

66 "Tis an omen! Hurrah for the True Irish King!"

God aid him! God save him and smile on his

reign

The terror of England, the ally of Spain. May his sword be triumphant o'er Sassenach arts,

Be his throne ever girt by strong hands and true hearts.

May the course of his conquest run on till he

see

The flag of Plantagenet sink in the sea!
May minstrels forever his victories sing,
And saints make the bed of the True Irish
King.

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 soul-
A 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 men. One summer day, alas! it soon departed,

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!

"THE BRIGADE" AT FONTENOY.

By our camp fires 'rose a murmur
At the dawning of the day,
And the tread of many footsteps
Spoke the advent of a fray;
And as we took our places,

Few and stern were our words,

While some were tightening horse-girths, And some were girding swords.

The trumpet blast has sounded

Our footmen to array-
The willing steed has bounded,
Impatient for the fray-

The green flag is unfolded,

66

While arose the cry of joy

Heaven speed dear Ireland's banner
To-day at Fontenoy."

We looked upon that banner,

And the memory arose

Of our homes and perished kindred,
Where the Lee or Shannon flows;

We looked upon that banner,

And we swore to God on high,
To smite to-day the Saxon's might-
To conquer or to die.

Loud swells the charging trumpet-
'Tis a voice from our own land-
God of battles-God of vengeance,
Guide to-day the patriot band;
There are stains to wash away-
There are memories to destroy,
In the best blood of the Briton
To-day at Fontenoy.

Plunge deep the fiery rowels

In a thousand reeking flanks

Down, chivalry of Ireland,

Down on the British ranks

Now shall their serried columns
Beneath our sabers reel-

Through their ranks, then, with the war

horse

Through their bosoms with the steel.

With one shout for good King Louis,
And the fair land of the vine,

Like the wrathful Alpine tempest
We swept upon their line-

Then rang along the battle-field
Triumphant our hurrah,

And we smote them down still cheering,

"Erin, slanthagal go bragh!"

As prized as is the blessing

From an aged father's lip

As welcome as the haven

To the tempest-driven ship—

As dear as to the lover

The smile of gentle maid

Is this day of long-sought vengeance
To the swords of the brigade.

See their shattered forces flying,
A broken, routed line-

See England, what brave laurels

For your brow to-day we twine.

Oh, thrice blessed the hour that witnessed
The Briton turn to flee

From the chivalry of Erin,
And France's "fleur de lis."

IRELAND WILL YET BE FREE.

LET tyrants exult and their mandates proclaim,
Their scepters with iron hands sway;
Oppression the Irish heart never can tame,
Nor drive hope of freedom away.

The yoke may be heavy and firm in its place,
The fetters secure all may be;

But blood will wash out this most shameful disgrace,
And Ireland ere long shall be free.

The day may be distant-perhaps it is near,
When freedom shall dawn on our land;
When Ireland no longer a tyrant need fear,
Her rights she will seek and demand.

Her fields, now deserted, shall blossom once more,
Her ships will skim over the sea;

The hirelings of England be hurled from our shore,
And Ireland will truly be free.

Then toast our fair island, my countrymen all, "Success to her struggle so nigh;

Her sons will spring forth at the first trumpet call, And battle for freedom or die.

Then when we have conquered and peace smiles again, Let this our grand toast ever be:

"Confusion to tyrants wherever they reign! And Ireland shall ever be free.

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.”
The poor mother turned on her pillow, and there
Soon slept the kind sleep Heaven sheds on our care.
Silence filled the dusk chamber-the low ashy hearth
Sunk lower, and noiselessly sifted the snow,
O'er the white, spacious girth of the cold, solemn earth,
Where the muffled moon fitfully glimmer'd below;
But vanished the while are her visions of fear,

And passed, for a space, is her sorrow and pain; For an angel has wafted her soul from its sphere, And in dreams she beholds her own Dermod again. Dear joy! how she loves him! A long year has passed Since she kissed his pale forehead, and hung on his breast; She looks in his face-'tis the same, still the sameStill soft are those eyes as the dew on the sod: No thirst for the game of wild battle or fame

Have lessened their love for her, thanks be to God! But away! they are speeding o'er mountain and moor-O'er city and forest-o'er tempest and tide; But little she heeds of their terrors, be sure,

While that son of her bosom seems still at her side. Lo! at length they have passed the wild ocean, and stand On a summit, that looks o'er a desolate land;

Far off the great fortresses loom o'er the spray,
Anear, the bleak tents drift the slopes of the ground;
And a sense of decay fills the solitude gray,
For an army in ruins is scattered around.

"And is it for this," said the poor dreaming soul,

66

My Dermod has wandered from home's blessed air?Here Death fills the wind blowing keen from the pole Here the pestilence strikes what the cannon may spare.”

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.

"I thought, as you grew fond and brave by my side,
No sorrow could cloud us-no fate could divide;

I fancied the day when our home would grow bright,
With the smile of some colleen I'd cherish for thee-
When I'd sing thro' the night by the hearth's ruddy light,
With your boy, my own Dermod, asleep on my knee;
And when, circled round by a few happy friends,
Old age drooped my head, after many a year,
As I passed to my God, through the death that He sends,
The kind Father would bless me, and you would be near."

Still close in the gloom seems he standing by her;
But hark! 'tis the drum, and the camp is astir;

And a sound fills the air, from the hill to the star,
Like an earthquake, along the wild bastion it runs,
While echoes afar roar the voice of the War,

As it doubles its thunder from thousands of guns, And she wakes. In the gleam of the pale morning air One gives her a letter-soon, soon is it read; But a low piteous moan only speaks her despair—

"Ah, Mother of God! my own Dermod is dead!"

INNISHOWEN.

GOD bless the gray mountains of dark Donegal,
God bless Royal Aileach, the pride of them all;
For she sits evermore like a Queen on her throne,
And smiles on the valleys of Green Innishowen.

And fair are the valleys of Green Innishowen,
And hardly the fishers that call them their own-
A race that nor traitor nor coward have known
Enjoy the fair valleys of Green Innishowen.

O simple and bold are the bosoms they bear,
Like the hills that with silence and nature they share;
For our God, who hath planted their home near his own,
Breathed His spirit abroad upon fair Innishowen.

Then praise to our Father for wild Innishowen,
Where fiercely forever the surges are thrown-
Nor weather nor fortune a tempest hath blown
Could shake the strong bosoms of brave Innishowen.

See the bountiful Couldah careering along-
A type of their manhood so stately and strong-
On the weary forever its tide is bestown,

So they share with the stranger in fair Innishowen.

God guard the kind homesteads of fair Innishowen,
Which manhood and virtue have chosen for their own;
Not long shall that nation in slavery groan,
That rears the tall peasants of fair Innishowen.

Like that oak of St. Bride which nor Devil nor Dane,
Nor Saxon nor Dutchman could rend from her fane,
They have clung by the creed and the cause of their own
That rears the tall peasants of fair Innishowen.
Then shout for the glories of old Innishowen,
The stronghold that foemen have never o'erthrown-
The soul and the spirit, the blood and the bone,
That guard the green valleys of true Innishowen.

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.