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Raymond!"-"Oh hush, my Kathleen dear,
My path's beset with danger;

But cast not, love, those looks of fear
Upon thy dark-haired stranger.

"My red roan steed's in yon Culdee grove,
My bark is out at sea, love!
My boat is moored in the ocean cove;
Then haste away with me, love!
My father has sworn my hand shall be
To Sidney's daughter given;

And thine, to-morrow will offer thee
A sacrifice to heaven.

"But away, my love, away with me!
The breeze to the west is blowing;
And thither, across the dark-blue sea,
Are England's bravest going.

To a land where the breeze from the orange bowers
Comes over the exile's sorrow,

Like the light-wing'd dreams of his early hours

Or his hope of a happier morrow.

"And there, in some valley's loneliness,
By wood and mountain shaded,

We'll live in the light of wedded bliss,
Till the lamp of life be faded.

Then thither with me, my Kathleen, fly!
The storms of life we'll weather,
Till in bliss beneath the western sky,
We live, love, die together!

"Die, Saxon, now! "-At that fiend-like yell
An hundred swords are gleaming:
Down the bubbling stream, from the tainted well,
His heart's best blood is streaming.

In vain does he doff the hood so white,
And vain his falchion flashing:

Five murderous brands through his corslet bright
Within his heart are clashing!

SHANE DYMAS' DAUGHTER.-Continued.

His last groan echoing through the grove,
His life blood on the water,

He dies, thy first and thy only love,
O'Niall's hapless daughter!

Vain, vain, was the shield of that breast of snow!
In vain that eye would sustain him,

Through his Kathleen's heart the murderous blow Too deadly aimed, has slain him.

The spirit fled with the red, red blood
Fast gushing from her bosom;

The blast of death has blighted the bud
Of Erin's loveliest blossom!

'Tis morn;-in the deepest doubt and dread The gloomy hours are rolling;

No sound save the requiem for the dead,
Or knell of the death-bell tolling.

"Tis dead of night-not a sound is heard, Save from the night-wind sighing;

Or the mournful moan of the midnight bird,
To yon pale planet crying.

Who names the name of his murder'd child?
What spears to the moon are glancing?
"Tis the vengeful cry of Shane Dymas wild,
His bonnacht-men advancing.

Saw ye that cloud o'er the moonlight cast,
Fire from its blackness breaking?
Heard ye that cry on the midnight blast,
The voice of terror shrieking?

"Tis the fire from Ardsaillach's willow'd height, Tower and temple falling;

'Tis the groan of death, and the cry of fright, From monks for mercy calling!

SMIGGY MAGLOORAL.

THERE was a man lived in the West,
Musha dural ling, du ral laddy, O!

Arrah! he married a maid, she was none the best,
But he'd sooner have her than all the rest;

CHORUS.

And her name was Noral, Maggie Noral,
Dingy dural, Smig. Maglooral, walk off.

Arrah! she goes to bed at eleven o'clock,
Musha dural ling, du ral laddy, O!
And she calls the maid for to wind the clock,
For she milked the cow from the chimney top.

She sat on grass till she caught the cramp,
Musha dural ling, du ral laddy, O!

They built a tent out of her hoops,

And they brought her to with some turtle soup.

Now this morning she arose from her sweet repose,
Musha dural ling, du ral laddy, O!

Arrah! she puts on her clothes, and it's out she goes,
She meets one of her foes, his name was Mose.
She tread on his toes, and a quarrel arose,
Which came to blows, and the science she shows;
But in the gutter she goes, as you may suppose,
And it's quick she arose, and it's home she goes,
For to dream of her woes, for what she knows,
She knows, she knows.

MAGGIE'S SECRET.-Continued.

I sat by his mother, one midsummer day,
And she looked me through and through,
As she spoke of her lad who was far away-
For she guessed that I loved him, too.
She turned to me fondly, and whispered low,
I was worthy her sailor-boy.
My foolish tears they began to flow,

Though my heart beat high with joy

So, you see, that they needn't come wooing to

me,

For my heart-my heart is over the sea.

WHERE THE GRASS GROWS GREEN.

I'm Denny Blake, from the County Clare,
And here at your command,
To sing a song in praise of home,
My own, my native land.
I've sailed to foreign countries,
And in many climes I've been,
But my heart is still with Erin,
Where the grass grows green.

CHORUS.

I love my native country,
And tho' richer lands I've seen,
Yet I can't forget ould Erin,
Where the grass grows green.

Poor Pat is often painted

With a ragged coat and hat; His heart and hospitality

Has much to do with that. Let slanderers say what they will, They cannot call him mean; Sure a stranger's always welcome Where the grass grows green.

He's foolish, but not vicious,

His faults I won't defend; His purse to help the orphan, His life to serve a friend. He'll give without a murmur,

So his follies try and screen; For there's noble hearts in Erin, Where the grass grows green.

'Tis true he has a weakness

For a drop of something pure,
But that's a slight debility
That many more endure.
He's fond of fun, he's witty,

Though his wit 'tis not too keen, For there's feeling hearts in Erin, Where the grass grows green.

There's not a true-born Irishman,
Wherever he may be,
But loves the little emerald

That sparkles on the sea.
May the sun of bright prosperity
And bring better days to Erin,
Shine peaceful and serene
Where the grass grows green.

Struck one by one,

Makes melody sweet, it is true, on the ear-
But let the hand ring

All at once every string

And, oh! there is harmony now that is glorious,
In unison pealing to heaven away;
For union is beauty, and strength victorious,

In hues, tones, or hearts, on St. Patrick's Day.
Those hues in our bosoms be sure to unite, boys;

Let each Irish heart wear those emblems so true; Be fresh as the green, and be pure as the white, boys, Be bright as the orange, sincere as blue.

I care not a jot

Be your scarf white or not,

If you love as a brother each child of the soil; I ask not your creed,

If you'll stand in her need

To the land of your birth in the hour of her dolours,
The foe of her foes, let them be who they may;
Then, "Fusion of hearts, and confusion of colors!"
Be the Irishman's toast on St. Patrick's Day.

FAIR was that eve, as if from earth away
All trace of sin and sorrow

Passed, in the light of the eternal day,
That knows no night nor morrow.

The pale and shadowy mountains in the dim
And glowing distance piled!

A sea of light along the horizon's rim,
Unbroken, undefiled!

Blue sky, and cloud, and grove, and hill, and glen,

The form and face of man

Beamed with unwonted beauty, as if then
New earth and heaven began.

Yet heavy grief was on me, and I gazed
On thee through gushing tears,
Thou relic of a glory that once blazed
So bright in bygone years!

Wreck of a ruin! lovelier, holier far,
Thy ghastly hues of death,
Than the cold forms of newer temples are
Shrines of a priestless faith.

In lust and rapine, treachery and blood,
Its iron domes were built;

Darkly they frown, where God's own altars stood,

In hatred and in guilt.

But to make thee, of loving hearts the love,
Was coined to living stone;

Truth, peace, and piety together strove
To form thee for their own.

And thou wast theirs, and they within thee met,

And did thy presence fill;

And their sweet light, even while thine own

is set,

Hovers around thee still.

"Tis not work of mind, or hand, or eye, Builder's or sculptor's skill,

Thy sight, thy beauty, or thy majesty— Not these my bosom thrill.

'Tis that a glorious monument thou art, Of the true faith of old,

When faith was one in all the nation's heart, Purer than purest gold.

A light, when darkness on the nations dwelt, In Erin found a home

The mind of Greece, the warm heart of the

Celt,

The bravery of Rome.

But, O! the pearl, the gem, the glory of her

youth,

That shone upon her brow;

She clung forever to the Chair of TruthClings to it now!