THE HUSBAND'S DREAM. WHY, Dermot, you look healthy, now your dress is neat and clean, eye; My children, too, have oft awoke, Oh, father, dear, they've said, On straw my babes in sickness laid, I heard their wailing cry; I thought I once more staggered home, there seemed a solemn gloom, I missed my wife, where can she be? and strangers in the room; I saw my children weeping 'round, I scarcely drew my breath, bread. She is not dead, I frantic cried, and rushed to where she lay, I awoke, and true, my Mary, dear, was kneeling at my side; TIPPERARY. WERE you ever in sweet Tipperary, where the fields are so sunny and green, And the heath-brown Slieve-bloom and the Galtees look down with so proud a mien? 'Tis there you would see more beauty than is on all Irish ground— God bless you, my sweet Tipperary, for where could your match be found? They say that your hand is fearful, that darkness is in your eye: country true. ROSANNA CARNEY. Is there any one here that's in love? If so, you can guess how I feel, When I say I've a charming young girl, And her age it is sweet seventeen. When Cupid his arrow did fire, THE BANKS OF SWEET DUNDEE. IT is of a farmer's daughter so beautiful I'm told, But you soon shall hear this maiden fair did prove his overthrow. It struck my heart, but that didn't harm me; Her uncle had a plow-boy young Mary loved quite well, The girl that I fondly admire Is the elegant Rosanna Carney. CHORUS. Handsome and tall, waist very small, Brim full of real Irish blarney; The bells they will ring, the birds they will sing, The morn I wed Rosanna Carney. Her father is a man of great wealth, There's lots of good men done the same. THE SHILLALEH. On the beautiful banks of the Shannon Than part with this illigant stick. It's the porter that carried my luggage, And when winter comes on with a storm, You can burn it to keep yourself warm. For, it goes off whene'er you desire, And it's sure to hit whate'er it's aimed at- It's a talisman so upright and honest, You are sure to be paid, I'll be bound. And, faith! at an Irish election, An argument striking it's there; For with brickbats and sprigs of the Shannon, But it's no use opposing shillaleh, Or it's sure to come down on the poll. And in her uncle's garden their tales of love would tell; But still she loved her plow-boy on the banks of sweet Dundee. THERE were once two Irish laboring men, to America they came over, And they tramped about in search of work from New York to Dover; Said Paddy to Mick, "I'm tired of this, we're both left in the lurch, And if we don't get work, bedad! I'll go and rob a church!" "What! rob a church!" said Mick to Paddy, "how could you be so vile? Sure something bad will happen you when in the sacred aisle; But if ye do, I will go with you, we'll get safe out, I hope," So listen, and I'll tell ye true, how Paddy stole the rope: When Paddy reached the belfry-ropes, "Be jabers! 66 stop, " said he, To get a piece that's long enough I must climb to the top;" Says Mick to Paddy, "Come out of that! as he on the floor lay groaning, "Is that the way to steal a rope? No wonder now ye're moaning; I'll how yez how to cut a rope. There! just lend me your knife." "Yerra, Mick, be careful! " cried out Paddy, "or else you'll lose your lite!" Mick bounded up the rope, and, like an artful thief, The piece fell down, and he was left to hang up there and mope"Bad cess unto the day," said he, "when we came stealing rope." There was Paddy groaning on the floor, while Mick hung up on high, "for if I drop "Come down," says Paddy. "I can't," says Mick, I'll die;" Their noise soon brought the preacher 'round, the sexton and police, But they set poor Micky free, the pair got no release; They took them to the station, where their conduct they now rue, Than when they broke into the church and tried to steal the rope. THE WEARING OF THE GREEN. Он, Paddy, dear, and did you hear the news that's going 'round? For they are hanging men and women for the wearing of the green. And since the color we must wear is England's cruel red, Ould Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they have shed; Then take the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod, grow, And when the leaves in summer time their verdure do not show, Then I will change the color I wear in my caubeen, But till that day, plaze God, I'll stick to the wearing of the green. THE WEARING OF THE GREEN.-Continued. No! by those who were here before us, no churl shall our tyrant be; Our land it is theirs by plunder, but, by Brigid, ourselves are free. No! we do not forget the greatness did once to sweet Erie belong; No treason or craven spirit was ever our race among; And no frown or no word of hatred we give-but to pay them It was all but a moment, her radiant existence, back, In evil we only follow our enemies' darksome track. On the plains of Tipperary the stranger is like a king. BURKE'S DREAM. SLOWLY and sadly one night in November I laid down my weary head to repose Tired from working hard, down in a felon's yard; Methought that I sat on the green hills of Erin, But they soon rallied back from our Pike volunteers, Then methought that I seen our brave, noble commanders In green, trimmed with gold, with their bright-shining sabers, Show neither fear nor dread, vanquish the foe ahead! Then on the cannon balls flew, men from both sides drew, So from our vengeance the Samagh fled, While each man cried out gloriously: Her presence, her absence, all crowded on me; But time has not ages, and earth has not dis tance To sever, sweet vision, my spirit from thee! Again am I straying where children are playing Bright is the sunshine and balmy the air, Mountains are heathy, and there I do see thee, Sweet fawn of the valley, young Kate of Kenmare! Thy own bright arbutus hath many a cluster O! what are the berrics that bright tree doth Peerless in beauty, that rose of the Roughty, That fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare! O! beauty, some spell from kind Nature thou bearest, Some magic of tone or enchantment of eye, That hearts that are hardest, from forms that are fairest, Receive such impressions as never can die! The foot of the fairy, though lightsome and airy, Can stamp on the hard rock the shape it doth wear, Art cannot trace it nor ages efface it— And such are thy glances, sweet Kate of Kenmare! To him who far travels how sad is the feelingHow the light of his mind is o'ershadowed and dim, Come from your prison, Burke! Irishmen have done their work, When the scenes he most loves, like the river's God he was with us, old Erin is free! Then methought, as the clouds were repeatedly flowing, soft stealing All fade as a vision and vanish from him! Yet he bears from cach far land a flower for that garland, That memory weaves of the bright and the fair: While this sigh I am breathing my garland is wreathing, And the rose of that garland is Kate of Blessed hour when he's out of your sight! THE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE. A. D. 1690. IT was upon a summer's morn, unclouded rose the sun. A kingly host upon its side a monarch camp'd around, Through yonder fairy-haunted glen, from out that dark ravine,* And foot and horse in mingled mass, regardless all of life, And now that well-contested strand successive columns gain, There's one comfort-you can't get a letther-While backward James's yielding band are borne across the plain. For yiz neither can read nor can write. Sure 'twas only last week you protested, Since he courted fat Jinney M'Cray, That the sight o' the scamp you detestedWith abuse sure your tongue never rested Daughter. But, mother! Daughter. Oh, mother, he's going away. Walking round my bedpost Oh, mother, he's going away. In vain the sword green Erin draws, and life away doth flingOh! worthy of a better cause and of a bolder king. In vain thy bearing bold is shown upon that blood-stain'd ground; Thy tow'ring hopes are overthrown, thy choicest fall around: Nor, sham'd, abandon thou the fray, nor blush, though conquer'd there, A power against thee fights to-day no mortal arm may dare. Nay, look not to that distant height in hope of coming aidThe dastard thence has ta'en his flight, and left his men betray'd. Hurrah! hurrah! the victor shout is heard on high Dunore; Down Platten's vale, in hurried rout, thy shatter'd masses pour. |