« PredošláPokračovať »
You know 'twas but jokin' the words that II
Who's that at the dure? 'Tis himself! O my
darlin', Forgive me 'twas wrong for to plague you, I know;
I'll marry you now, and o'erjoyed and continted,
I'll be as your spouse through life's journey
THE HUSBAND'S DREAM.
WHY, Dermot, you look healthy, now your dress is neat and clean,
My children, too, have oft awoke, Oh, father, dear, they've said,
My Mary's form did waste away, I saw her sunken eye,
On straw my babes in sickness laid, I heard their wailing cry; laughed and sung in drunken joy, while Mary's tears did
Then like a beast I fell asleep and had this warning dream:
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; Then I heard them say: Poor thing, she's dead, she led a wretched life,
Grief and want has broken her heart-who'd be a drunkard's wife?
I saw my children weeping 'round, I scarcely drew my breath,
She is not dead, I frantic cried, and rushed to where she lay,
And ever since I've heaven blessed for sending me that dream.
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 groundGod 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:
And when there is gloom upon you, bid them think who has brought it there
Sure a frown or a word of hatred was not made for your face so fair;
You've a hand for the grasp of friendship-another to make them quake, And they're welcome to whichsoever it pleases them most to take.
Shall our homes, like the huts of Connaught, be crumbled before our eyes?
Shall we fly, like a flock of wild geese, from all that we love and
Is there any one here that's in love?
It struck my heart, but that didn't harm me; Her uncle had a plow-boy young Mary loved quite well,
And in her uncle's garden their tales of love would tell;
Is the elegant Rosanna Carney.
But still she loved her plow-boy on the banks of sweet Dundee.
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.
On the beautiful banks of the Shannon
I've a sprig of it here, you may see.
It's the friend that ne'er played me a trick, And I'd rather lose half my supportin'
Than part with this illigant stick.
It's the porter that carried my luggage,
It is useful for rows in the summer,
And when winter comes on with a storm, If you're short of a fire in the cabin,
You can burn it to keep yourself warm.
For, it always is there, when it's wanted,
For, it goes off whene'er you desire,
It's a talisman so upright and honest,
You are sure to be paid, I'll be bound.
In trade it's not given to fail,
An argument striking it's there;
They vote as they like, every soul;
Or it's sure to come down on the poll.
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.
When Paddy reached the belfry-ropes, "Be jabers!
To get a piece that's long enough I must climb to the top;"
But they set poor Micky free, the pair got no release;
They took them to the station, where their conduct they now rue,
THE WEARING OF THE GREEN.
Он, Paddy, dear, and did you hear the news that's going 'round?
And I knew not what to say! "He dies to-day," thought a fair, sweet girlShe lacked the life to speak,
For sorrow had almost frozen her blood,
The brawling squires may heed him not, The dainty stranger sneer
But who will dare to hurt our cot,
When Myles O'Hea is here?
They'd like, but fear to rail-
His hooker's in the Scilly van,
When seines are in the foam;
He'll trust in God, and cling to me-
THE WEARING OF THE GREEN.-Continued.
But if, at last, her colors should be torn from Ireland's heart,
No! by those who were here before us, no churl shall our tyrant
Our land it is theirs by plunder, but, by Brigid, ourselves are
No! we do not forget the greatness did once to sweet Erie belong;
In evil we only follow our enemies' darksome track.
Oh! come for a while among us, and give us the friendly hand,
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, Her presence, her absence, all crowded on
Then on the cannon balls flew, men from both sides drew,
Leaving the fields covered with dead.
While each man cried out gloriously:
KATE OF KENMARE.
O! MANY bright eyes full of goodness and glad
Where the pure soul looks out, and the heart loves to shine,
And many cheeks pale with the soft hue of sad
Have I worshiped in silence and felt them divine!
But hope in its gleamings, or love in its dreamings,
Then methought, as the clouds were repeatedly flowing,
I saw a lion stretched on the crimson-gold places,
Ne'er fashioned a being so faultless and fair As the lily-cheeked beauty, the rose of the Roughty,
The fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Ken
But time has not ages, and earth has not distance
To sever, sweet vision, my spirit from thee! Again am I straying where children are play
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!
To him who far travels how sad is the feeling— How 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!
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
And the rose of that garland is Kate of
Daughter. But, mother!
Mother. Oh, bother!
Daughter. Oh, mother, he's going away.
Walking round my bedpost-
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,*
Peals the loud gun-its thunders boom the echoing vales along,
And foot and horse in mingled mass, regardless all of life,
strange that with such ardent flame each glowing heart beats Their battle word was William's name, and "Death or Liberty! Then, Oldbridge, then thy peaceful bowers with sounds unwonted rang,
And Tredagh, 'mid thy distant towers, was heard the mighty clang;
The silver stream is crimson'd wide, and clogg'd with many a
Now fiercer grows the battle's rage, the guarded stream is
And furious, hand to hand engage each bold contending host;
He falls-the veteran hero falls, renowned along the RhineAnd he whose name, while Derry's walls endure, shall brightly shine.
Oh! would to heav'n that churchman bold, his arms with triumph
The soldier spirit had controll'd that fir'd his pious breast.
And he, the chief of yonder brave and persecuted band,
He bleeds, brave Caillemonte-he bleeds-'tis closed, his bright
Yet still that band to glorious deeds his dying accents cheer.
If he's going away, all the betther
Blessed hour when he's out of your sight!
And now that well-contested strand successive columns gain,
In vain the sword green Erin draws, and life away doth fling-
Since he courted fat Jinney M'Cray,
With abuse sure your tongue never rested-
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 aid-