COME all true sons of Erin's isle, and listen unto me,

I'm sure, when you have heard my song, with me you will agree;
To condemn those English juries who, with faces grim and bold,
Do send poor innocent Irishmen to dungeons dark and cold.
Of that great crime in Phoenix Park, no doubt you all have heard,
At the trial of the prisoners, you all know what occurred;
James Carey turned informer, and those precious lives he sold,
And sent them to their dreadful doom for a bit of English gold.

To escape a speedy vengeance, James Carey had to roam,
And with his ruined family he left his native home;
And thought to seek seclusion in lands quite far away,
So he sailed on the Melrose Castle for the shores of Africa.
On the 29th day of July, as the ship was nearing shore,
Some passengers near the forecastle heard a terrible uproar;
They rushed toward the cabin, but ere they reached the spot,
The base informer Carey had received a fatal shot.

O'DONELL, THE AVENGER.-Continued.

Those noble lives had been avenged, the traitor now is dead,
The avenger, Pat. O'Donnell, soon slept on a prison bed;
Cast there by English tyrants until his day of trial,

When he was tried, like other Irishmen, in the unjust English style.

On the 30th of November, for this murder he was tried,
When he saw Judge Denham on the bench, all hopes within him
died;

His counsel, who were able men, to save him hard did try,
But the jury found him guilty, which meant that he should die.

On the 1st day of December, he was sentenced to be hung,
Soon over the whole universe the doleful tidings rung;
In every cot in Erin's isle great sorrow did prevail,
For the friends of Pat. O'Donnell his misfortune did bewail.
The day of his execution was a terrible sight to see,
His comrades at the prison gate were weeping bitterly;

At the loathsome sight of the gallows he ne'er did cringe or cry,
As a martyr for his native land quite bravely did he die.

Although he's dead and laid to rest, all honored be his name,
Let no one look upon his act with contempt or disdain;
His impulse was but human, that no one will deny,
And I hope he'll be forgiven by the Infinite One on high.
If every son of Erin's isle had such a heart as he,

Soon would they set their native land once more at liberty;
Unfurl their flag unto the breeze, their rights they would redeem,
If unity and friendship in their land did reign supreme.

O'DONOVAN'S DAUGHTER.

ONE midsummer's eve, when the Bel-fires were lighted,
And the bag-piper's tone call'd the maidens delighted,
I joined a gay group by the Araglin's water,
And danced till the dawn with O'Donovan's daughter.

Have you seen the ripe monadan glisten in Kerry?
Have you mark'd on the Galteys the black whortleberry?
Or ceanaban wave by the wells of Blackwater?
They're the cheek, eye and neck of O'Donovan's daughter!

Have you seen a gay kidling on Claragh's round mountain?
The swan's arching glory on Sheeling's blue fountain?
Heard a weird woman chant what the fairy choir taught her?
They've the step, grace, and tone of O'Donovan's daughter!

Have you mark'd in its flight the black wing of the raven?
The rose-buds that breathe in the summer-breeze waven?
The pearls that lie hid under Lene's magic water?
They're the teeth, lip, and hair of O'Donovan's daughter!

Ere the Bel-fire was dimm'd, or the dancers departed,

I taught her a song of some maid broken-hearted;

And that group, and that dance, and that love-song I taught her, Haunt my slumbers at night with O'Donovan's daughter!

God grant 'tis no fay from Cnoc-Firinn that wooes me, God grant 'tis not Cliodhna the queen that pursues me, That my soul lost and lone has no witchery wrought her, While I dream of dark groves and O'Donovan's daughter!

If, spellbound, I pine with an airy disorder,
Saint Gobnate has sway over Musgry's wide border;

She'll scare from my couch, when with prayer I've besought her,
That bright airy sprite like O'Donovan's daughter.

THE BOYS OF WEXFORD.

IN comes the captain's daughter,
The captain of the Yeos,
Saying: Brave United men,
We'll ne'er again be foes.
A thousand pounds I'll give thee,
And fly from home with thee,
And dress myself in man's attire,
And fight for liberty!"

We are the boys of Wexford,

Who fought with heart and hand To burst in twain the galling chain, And free our native land!

And when we left our cabins, boys,
We left with right good will,
To see our friends and neighbors
That were at Vinegar Hill.
A young man from our ranks,
A cannon he let go;

He slapped it into Lord Mountjɔy—
A tyrant he laid low.

We are the boys of Wexford,

We fought with heart and hand
To burst in twain the galling chain,,
And free our native land.

We bravely fought and conquered
At Ross and Wexford town;
And, if we failed to keep them,

'Twas drink that brought us down. We had no drink beside us

On Tubber'neering's day,
Depending on the long bright pike,
And well it worked its way!
We are the boys of Wexford.

We fought with heart and hand
To burst in twain the galling chain,
And free our native land,

They came into the country

Our blood to waste and spill; But let them weep for Wexford, And think of Oulart Hill!

"Twas drink that still betrayed us

Of them we had no fear;

For every man could do his part

Like Forth and Shelmalier!

We are the boys of Wexford

We fought with heart and hand
To burst in twain the galling chain,
And free our native land.

My curse upon all drinking,
It made our hearts full sore;
For bravery won each battle,
But drink lost ever more;
And if, for want of leaders,
We lost at Vinegar Hill,
We're ready for another fight,
And love our country still!

We are the boys of Wexford

We fought with heart and hand
To burst in twain the galling chain,
And free our native land.

THE COW THAT ATE THE PIPER.

IN the year '98, when our troubles were great,
And it was treason to be a Milesian,
That black-whiskered set we will never forget,
Though history tells us they were Hessian.

In this troublesome time, oh! 'twas a great crime,
And murder never was riper,

At the side of Glenshee, not an acre from me,
There lived one Denny Byrne, a piper.

Neither wedding or wake would be worth a shake,
Where Denny was not first invited,

At squeezing the bags and emptying the kegs,
He astonished as well as delighted.

In these times poor Denny could not earn one penny,
Martial law had him stung like a viper;
They kept him within till the bones and the skin
Were grinning thro' the rags of the piper.

One evening in June, as he was going home,
After the fair of Rathnagan,

What should he see from the branch of a tree,
But the corpse of a Hessian there hanging.

Says Denny: "Those rogues have boots, I've brogues,”
On the boots then he laid such a griper,

He pulled with such might, and the boots were so tight,
That legs and boots came away with the piper.

Then Denny did run, for fear of being hung,
Till he came to Tim Kennedy's cabin;
Says Tim from within: "I can't let you in,

You'll be shot if you're caught there a-rapping."
He went to the shed, where the cow was in bed,
With a wisp he began to wipe her;

They lay down together on a seven-foot feather;
And the cow fell a-hugging the piper.

Then Denny did yawn, as the day it did dawn,
And he streel'd off the boots of the Hessian;

The legs-by the law, he left on the straw

And he gave them leg-bail for his mission.

When the breakfast was done, Tim sent out his son,
To make Denny jump up like a lamplighter;
When the legs there he saw, he roar'd like a jackdaw,
"Oh, daddy! the cow's ate the piper!"

"Musha bad luck on the beast-she'd a musical taste,
For to eat such a beautiful chanter;

Arrah! Patrick avic, take a lump of a stick,
Drive her off to Glenhealy-we'll cant her."
Mrs. Kennedy bawl'd, and the neighbors were call'd,
They began for to humbug and gibe her;

To the churchyard Tim walked, with the legs in a box,
And the cow will be hung for the piper.

The cow she was drove a mile or two off,

To the fair at the side of Glenhealy,

And there she was sold for four guineas in gold,

To clerk of the parish, Tim Daly.

They went to a tent, the luck-penny was spent,

The clerk being a jolly old swiper,

Who d'ye think was there, playing the "Rakes of Kildare,"

But poor Denny Byrne, the piper!

Then Tim gave a bolt, like a half-drunken colt,

At the piper he gazed like a gommack,

46

He said: By the powers! I thought these eight hours

You were playing in driman dhu's stomach!" Then Denny observed how the Hessian was served, And they all wish'd Nick's cure to the griper; For grandeur they met, their whistles they wet, And like fairies they danced round the piper.

Mo croaibhin cno literally means my cluster of nuts but it figuratively signifies my nut brown maid. It is pronounced Ma Creevin Kno

+ Cnoc-maol-Donn-The Brown bare hill. A lofty mountain between the county of Tipperary and that of Waterford, commanding a glorious prospect of unrivaled scenery.

Cappoquin. A romantically situated town on the Blackwater, in the country of Waterford. The Irish name denotes the The Head of the Tribe of Cona.

Amhan-Mhor-The Great River. The Blackwater, which flows into the sea at Youghal. The Irish name is uttered in two sounds, Oan Vore.

FATHER O'FLYNN.

Or priests we can offer a charmin' variety,
Far renowned for larnin' and piety;
Still, I'd advance ye, widout impropriety,
Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.
Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,
Slainté, and slainté, and s'ainté agin;
Powerfulest preacher, and
Tinderest teacher, and
Kindliest creature in ould Donegal.

He spoke of his family's pride

She told him at once to be gone, And said: Sir, unless as a bride,

In vain you will seek Colleen Bawn. The wild flowers that grow by the lake Are jewels sufficient for me. And all the gold from you I'd take,

In a plain, simple ring it must be. Then bright grew the sweet face of Eily, For he promised the very next morn To speak to the priest, Father Riley, And marry his dear Colleen Bawn; And marry his dear Colleen Bawn.

MORRISEY AND THE RUSSIAN.

COME all ye gallant Irishmen, wherever that you be,
I hope you'll pay attention and listen unto me

Till I sing about the battle that took place the other day
Between a Russian sailor and gallant Morrisey.

"Twas in Terre-del-Fuego, in South America,

This Russian challenged Morrisey-these words to him did say: “I hear you are a fighting man, and wear a belt, I see, Indeed I wish you would consent to have a round with me."

Then out spoke brave Morrisey, with heart both brave and true,
"I am a valiant Irishman that never was subdued,
For I can whale the Yankee, the Saxon buli or bear;
In honor of old Paddy's land I still the laurel wear."

Those words enraged the Russian boy upon the Yankee land,
To think that he should be put down by any Irishman.
Says he: "You are too light a frame, and that without mistake,
I'll have you resign the belt or else your life I'll take."

To fight upon the 10th of March these heroes did agree,
And thousands came from every part the battle for to see;
The English and the Russians their hearts were filled with glee,
They swore this Russian sailor-boy would kill brave Morrisey.

Those heroes stepped into the ring most gallant to be seen
And Morrisey put on the belt, bound round with shamrock green;
Full sixty thousand dollars then, as you may plainly see,
Was to be champion's prize who would gain the victory.

They shook hands and walked around the ring, commencing then to fight,

It filled each Irish heart with pride for to behold the sight.
The Russian he floored Morrisey up to the eleventh round,
With Yankee, Russian, and Saxon cheers the valley did resound.

The Irish offered four to one that day upon the grass,
No sooner said than taken up, and down they brought, the cash.
They parried away without delay to the thirty-second round,
When Morrisey received a blow that brought him to the ground.

Up to the thirty-seventh round 'twas fall and fall about, Which made the foreign tyrants to keep a sharp lookout; The Russian called his second for to have a glass of wine, Our Irish hero smiled and said: "This battle will be mine."

The thirty-eighth decided all, the Russian felt the smart-
Morrisey with a dreadful blow struck the Russian on the heart;
The doctor he was called upon to open up a vein,
He said it was quite useless, he would never fight again.

Our hero conquered Thompson, the Yankee Clipper, too,
The Benicia Boy, and Sheppard he nobly did subdue;
So let us fill a flowing glass, and here is health galore
To noble Johnny Morrisey and Paddies evermore.

THE MAID OF SWEET GORTEEN.

COME all you gentle Muses, combine and lend an ear,
While I set forth the praises of a charming maiden fair;

It's the curling of her yellow locks that stole away my heart,
And death, I'm sure, must be the cure if she and I must part.

The praises of this lovely maid I mean for to unfold,
Her hair hangs o'er her shoulders like lovely links of gold;
her carriage neat, her limbs complete, which fractured quite my
brain,

Her skin is whiter than the swan that swims on the purling stream.

Her eyes are like the diamonds bright that shine in crystal stream, So modest and so tender, she's fit to be a queen;

Many pleasant hours I spent in the garden field,

In hopes to get another sight of the maid of sweet Gorteen.

It was my cruel father that caused my grief and woe,

He locked her in a room and would not let her go;

Her windows I have daily watched, thinking she might be seen,
In hopes to get another sight of the maid of sweet Gorteen.

My father arose one day and thus to me did say:

O, my dear son, be advised by me, don't throw yourself away,
To marry a poor servant girl whose parents are so mean,

So stay at home and do not roam, but always with me remain.

O, father, dearest father, don't part me from my dear,

I would not lose my darling for 1,000 pounds a year;

Was I possessed of England's crown I would make her my queen, In high renown I'd wear the crown with the maid of sweet Gorteen

My father in a passion flew and thus to me did say:

Since it's the case within this place no longer she shall stay,
Mark what I say, from this very day you never shall see her face,
For I will send her far away unto some lonesome place.

"Twas a few days after a horse he did prepare,

And sent my darling far away to a place I know not where;
I may go view my darling's room, where ofttimes she has been,
Thinking to get another sight of the maid of sweet Gorteen.
Now to conclude and make an end I take my pen in hand,
John O'Brien is my name, and flowery is my land,
My days are spent in merriment since my darling I first seen,
But her abode is on a road at a place called sweet Gorteen.

THE POOR MAN'S LABOR'S NEVER DONE.

I MARRIED a wife for to sit by me, which makes me sorely to repent;

Matches, they say, are made in heaven, but mine was for a penance sent.

I soon became a servant to her, to milk the cows and black her shoon;

For women's ways, they must have pleasure, and the poor man's labor's never done.

The very first year that we were married, she gave to me a pretty babe:

She sat me down to rock its cradle, and give it cordial when it waked:

If it cried, she would bitterly scould me, and if it bawled, away I should run;

For women's ways, they must have pleasure, and the poor man's labor's never done.

So all ye young men that are inclined to marry, be sure and marry a loving wife,

And do not marry my wife's sister, or she will plague you all your life;

Do not marry her mother's daughter, or she will grieve your heart

full sore;

But take from me my wife, and welcome-and then my care and trouble is o'er.

CAOCH THE PIPER.

Oh, God be with those happy times,
Oh, God be with my childhood,
And often when I walked and danced
With Eily, Kate, and Mary,
We spoke of childhood's rosy hours,
And prayed for Caoch O'Leary.
Well-twenty summers had gone past,
And June's red sun was sinking,
When I, a man, sat by my door,
Of twenty sad things thinking.
A little dog came up the way,

His gait was slow and weary, And at his tail a lame man limped'Twas Pinch" and Caoch O'Leary.

Does anybody hereabouts

Deary!

Remember Caoch the Piper?"
With swelling heart I grasped his hand;
The old man murmured: "
When I, bare headed, roamed all day
Bird-nesting in the wild-wood-
I'll not forget those sunny hours,
However years may vary;

I'll not forget my early friends,
Nor honest Caoch O Leary.

Poor Caoch and "Pinch" slept well that night,

And in the morning early

He called me up to hear him play
"The wind that shakes the barley."
And then he stroked my flaxen hair,

And cried: "God mark my deary."
And how he wept when he said: Farewell,
And think of Caoch O'Leary.”

And seasons came and went, and still
Old Caoch was not forgotten,
Although I thought him "dead and gone,"
And in the cold clay rotten,

"Are you the silky headed child

That loved poor Caoch O'Leary?"