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SI 
 
 LAYS 
 
 THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 BY JOHN SAVAGE. 
 
 S 
 
 S 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 J. S, REDFIELD, CLINTON HALL. 
 
 1850. 
 
T&.*77'l 
 
 Entkeed, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1 850, 
 
 BY JOHN SAVAGE, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for 
 
 the Southern District of New York. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAQE. 
 
 Preface .5 
 
 Rally Round the Glorious Green 9 
 
 Mary, Dear , 13 
 
 Moonlight Wandering 16 
 
 Hope at Last 17 
 
 Up, Up, Brothers all — Hymn of Freedom 19 
 
 To Caroline 22 
 
 Down with Kings 23 
 
 Sonnet — Fame 24 
 
 Still I have a Vision Bright 25 
 
 Come, let us Sing the Song of Pleasure 26 
 
 A Felon's Chaunt 27 
 
 Sonnet— To the Memory of W. H. Collier, R. H. A 28 
 
 A Voice from the People 29 
 
 Give up your Arms 83 
 
 To C ■ 34 
 
 The Curse of Kings 35 
 
 Sonnet — Mitchel 38 
 
 The Patriot's Vow 39 
 
IV CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Saint Anne's Well 41 
 
 Hill-Side Rhymings 46 
 
 I'riez Pour le Malheureux — Ballad 48 
 
 Deiir Mary of My Heart 52 
 
 A Sigh for the Brave 53 
 
 Home Thoughts 55 
 
 Sonnet — Ambition in the Lonely Mind 58 
 
 To rny Irish Brothers — an Exhortation 69 
 
 Oh, Erin, Dear Land of my Soul's Adoration 62 
 
 Shane O'Neill ; or, Saint Columkille's Revenge — (an historical 
 
 and legendary ballad) 64 
 
 A Night in the Spirit-Land 75 
 
 Mind — a Labor Chaunt 87 
 
 Song at Sea 89 
 
 Love in the Golden Vale 90 
 
 The Reaping of Moulough 95 
 
 A Welcome 97 
 
 Song 98 
 
 Plain Advice 99 
 
 The Leinster Maid 101 
 
 Kitty Tyrrel 104 
 
 Hurrah, for the Grave 105 
 
 Una — an Irish Peasant's Lament 106 
 
 Darling Fan 110 
 
 A Dream 112 
 
 Notes 113 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The " Lays," now presented to the public, were either written 
 in Ireland, about Ireland, or on subjects connected with her past 
 or present history. Some of them were penned in the excitement 
 of Revolution, and with the hope of aiding it ; they were printed 
 in the recognised National Journals of the day, and some of them 
 had the honor of finding a home in American ink and types before 
 the author himself sought a home there, or, the fact of a pohtical 
 failure in his native land doomed him to seek one. Others of the 
 " Lays" were suggested by occurrences during his wanderings in the 
 South of Ireland, and were written while on the " felon's track." 
 Some were written on the sea, and others since his arrival in this 
 land. 
 
 Such is an account of their birth. As to whether they shall have 
 a long life, or, not having a long one, they shall have a short life 
 and a merry one, or, not having either, they shall have a sudden 
 death, I am not prophet enough to say, nor dare I imagine. Apart 
 from their national character, much depends, in this community, on 
 the questions — Whether they are of sufficient literary merit to 
 claim any attention ? Whether, through all their foreign allusion 
 and illustration, there may gleam one ray of poetic promise ? Or, 
 whether the critic is, or is not in a dyspeptic humor ? 
 
The author trusts that the Notes may prove of interest to all 
 readers. He has written them principally for Americans, •who are 
 unacquainted with names and places^-of legend and historic lore, in 
 the Hibernian's Fatherland. Of those names and places, every 
 Irishman knows more or less ; yet, still he believes their hearts 
 will beat warmer in the reading — as his has in the writing — when 
 they wander back, at least, in thought, to Tyrone, Dublin, Wex- 
 ford — the LifFey, Boyne or Suir — to the tall men of Tipperary, the 
 stern mountains and stern men of Waterford — or steal with him up 
 the sweet Vale of Thrushes, his dear Glan-nis-mole, by the winding 
 brink of the joyous Dodder. 
 
 He trusts the morahty of Truth and Right shall be found a pro- 
 minent point in the character of the poems, while Oppression and 
 Knavery shall be treated with an equal regard for Justice. 
 
 J. S. 
 
 New York, February 11, 1850. 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 RALLY ROUND THE GLORIOUS GREEN. 
 
 Rally round the Glorious Green, 
 
 Men of Ulster — Men of Ulster ! 
 
 Crush your hate, and drown your spleen. 
 
 Orange Ulster — Brother Ulster ! 
 
 Let it ring from Malin Head, 
 
 O'er Dungannon to Rosstrevor — 
 
 From Rathlin(i) to Shelan's bed(2)— 
 
 That ye prize it more than ever ! 
 
 That ye love the Glorious Green ! 
 
 The Native Green ! — that ye adore it ! 
 
 And, better still, 
 
 Ye have the will. 
 
 To love with hfe the land that bore it ! 
 J* 
 
10 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Rally round the Glorious Green, 
 
 Men of Connaught — Men of Connaught ! 
 Fearless — brave — you've ever been, 
 
 Blood of Connaught — Irish Connaught ! 
 Let your pulse of kings fast flow — 
 
 Let your ancient blood give spirit ! 
 Let the Saxon scourgers know. 
 
 Your children shall the sod inherit! 
 Or, ye die upon the Green ! 
 That Glorious Green— howe'er they rend it, 
 Has still a sod, 
 Or grave — thank God, 
 To bear — or tomb — men who defend it ! 
 
 Rally round the Glorious Green, 
 
 Men of Munster — Men of Munster ! 
 By the graves of Skibberreen — 
 
 Learned Munster — VaHant Munster ! 
 Swear to right your father-land ! 
 
 Swear from the Cape unto the Shannon, 
 From Lough Dearg to Tramore's Strand ; 
 
 Swear to face the foeman's cannon ! 
 Swear to save the Noble Green ! 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. H 
 
 The darling Green — unless they yield it ! 
 
 For, by the Sun, 
 
 Each man has gun, 
 Or pike — as each has arms to wield it ! 
 
 Rally round the Glorious Green, 
 
 Men of Leinster — Men of Leinster ! 
 The truest sons the land hath seen — 
 
 Sternest Leinster ! — Gallant Leinster ! 
 Be you as your fathers — great ! 
 
 (Need I sing the strain alluring ?) 
 Still, Wicklow is 'Ninety-Eight !— 
 
 Wexford ! — noble — brave — enduring ! — 
 Swearing all to save the Green ! — 
 The Em'rald Green ! — oh, yes, I'll say it ; 
 Irishtown Cross, 
 And steep New Ross,^^) 
 Both owe a debt — and long to pay it ! 
 
 Rally round the Glorious Green, 
 
 Ulster — Munster — Leinster — Connaught! 
 
 Hand in hand are brothers seen, 
 
 Ulster — Munster — Leinster — Connaught! 
 
12 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Orange North, and Celtic South, 
 
 Blooded West, and Easters steady, 
 Join your pulses to one mouth. 
 
 Shouting out — you're leagued, and ready, 
 With your Ufe to hold the Green, 
 Your birthright Green — and oh, demand it 
 With prophet voice, 
 Bespeaking choice 
 Of steel — ^if sense cannot command it I 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 18 
 
 MAM, DEAR. 
 
 Scene — The Mountains — fFinter. 
 
 The snow is on tlie heather, 
 
 Mary, dear; 
 Earth and Heav'n seem together, 
 
 Mary, dear. 
 So, the feehngs of iny soul : 
 They in one wild streamlet roll, 
 Undefiled — save in their goal, 
 
 Mary, dear. 
 
 Around my heart is clinging, 
 
 Mary, dear, 
 
 A strain, my death-knell ringing, 
 
 Mary, dear; 
 
14 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Still, it is youth's early pride — 
 Freedom's watchword deified — 
 Worth, and wit, and all beside, 
 
 Mary, dear. 
 
 See yon cloud that skips away, 
 
 Mary, dear, 
 Light with love in Heaven's ray, 
 
 Mary, dear; 
 See — behind, where far it stood. 
 Streams a bright and brilliant flood, 
 Sweet, as joys of maidenhood, 
 
 Mary, dear. 
 
 Tho' it break my heart to leave, 
 
 Mary, dear; 
 And tho' sadly it would grieve 
 
 Mary, dear; 
 Still, 'twere well to know the worst — 
 Let not hope be fondly nurst : 
 Oh, my Country claims me first, 
 
 Mary, dear! 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 15 
 
 I know thy pure spirit well, 
 
 Mary, dear; 
 
 There Love — Erin — Virtue dwell, 
 
 Mary, dear ! 
 
 Ere a dastard's bride you'd be, 
 
 Love would lose humility, 
 
 For thine eye speaks — Liberty ! 
 
 Mary, dear. 
 
 It were worse than death to see, 
 
 Mary, dear, 
 
 Thy children around thy knee, 
 
 Mary, dear, 
 
 And each lisping little slave 
 
 Born beneath a lordling's glaive, 
 
 When their father could them save, 
 
 Mary, dear! 
 
16 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 MOONLIGHT WANDERING. 
 
 The moon shines in brightness 
 
 From the heavens above, 
 And smiles play in Hghtness 
 
 Round the hps of my love ; 
 The stars twinkle fondly — 
 In radiance they shine ; 
 In vain I look only 
 
 For eyes bright as thine ! 
 Not a star in the beautiful heavens above, 
 Sheds a ray of delight like the eyes of my love ! 
 Sheds a ray of dehght like the eyes of my love ! 
 
 The streamlet is rushing 
 
 In gladness along ; 
 With constant re-gushing 
 
 Ne'er drops its light song. 
 Thy voice has its sweetness — 
 
 More sweet than the lay 1 
 
 Thy step — the chaste fleetness 
 
 Of the silvery spray ! 
 
 And the shadowy waves of the streamlet so fair, 
 
 Are lost in the waves of my Mary's dark hair ! 
 
 Are lost in the waves of my Mary's dark hair ! 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 17 
 
 HOPE AT LAST.<'> 
 
 Give me the heart that's beating high — 
 
 A trusty hand and steel — 
 A mind as quick as falcon's eye, 
 And fired from head to heel, 
 
 With a new-born light 
 
 For his country's right, 
 That's lit from wrongs that are past ! 
 
 With an arm to strike, 
 
 From a gun or pike ! 
 Oh, then — then we may Hope at Last ! 
 
 Give me the heart that ne'er will stoop 
 
 To taunt his brother man ; 
 And love of land that ne'er will droop, 
 Ranged in the flashing van I 
 
 Near a barricade, 
 
 Or in woodland glade, 
 Or on hill where the heath holds fast, 
 
 Or a rocky glen, 
 
 Deck'd with riflemen ! 
 Oh, then — then we may Hope at Last ! 
 
18 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Give me heads that are cool and wise 
 Now — that are brave, but prudent, 
 To stay the gall that freedom sighs. 
 And guide the fierce young Student — 
 
 Lead the peasant men, 
 
 And the citizen ! 
 Fierce and keen as a northern blast ! 
 
 God grant us the will — 
 
 Good swords — and the skill 
 To use them, since Hope comes at Last ! 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 19 
 
 UP, UP, BROTHERS, ALL. 
 
 NATIONAL HYMN OF FREEDOM. 
 
 (Air — Brian Boroihme's March.) 
 
 Up ! up ! brothers, all ! 
 
 For liberty dear ! 
 From dark Donegal 
 
 To sea-beat Cape Clear, 
 From Achill's west isles 
 To Ben-Heder's head, 
 A young nation smiles 
 'Kound Liberty's bed ! 
 Then up ! up ! arouse ye ! — awake, and be stirring ! 
 Let no party-feud be your joint hopes deferring ! 
 But let the harp ring out at once in each throe, 
 A charge for yourselves, and a dirge for our foe ! 
 Hurrah ! for our hopes ! 
 A curse for our fears ! 
 If Freedom elopes 
 
 Whilst we have bright spears ! 
 
20 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 We are knaves — 
 
 Worse than slaves — 
 Rush ye down, mountaineers ! 
 
 For we've swore, 
 
 O'er and o'er. 
 To stay Tyranny's years ! 
 
 Up ! up ! brothers, all ! 
 
 Look ! — Freedom's bright sun 
 Glares fierce on the pall 
 
 That Slav'ry has spun : 
 And ere its lov'd fire 
 
 Shall set in the west. 
 Its heat shall inspire 
 
 Our green island's breast ! 
 Then we'll rally round the great goal that's retiring. 
 With vengeance-lit voices of Freedom's own firing ; 
 And chaunt a loud hymn to that sun whose red glow 
 Shall make our spears thirst for the blood of the foe ! 
 Hurrah ! for the day 
 
 When from its curs'd height 
 Tyrannical sway, 
 
 Its minions and might, 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 21 
 
 With a dash, 
 
 Like a crash 
 Of strong words in a fight, 
 
 Down shall fall, 
 
 Deeds and all, 
 In obscurity's night ! 
 
 Up ! up ! brothers, all ! 
 
 The slave-chains that hold 
 Your bosoms in thrall, 
 
 Are weak as they're old. 
 The sons' blood all join, 
 The Saxon to cross — 
 Of Benburb and Boyne, 
 Dungannon and Ross ! 
 O'er Erin the great God of justice is gliding. 
 With Unity's offspring for pulses confiding. 
 To fill this old isle with bright hopes, or a bier ; 
 Both waiting the seal-giving talisman spear ! 
 Hurrah ! for the spear ! 
 
 Hurrah ! for the mind. 
 That meets on a bier 
 The hope of his kind ! 
 
22 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 To be free ! 
 
 As the sea, 
 Lash'd or luU'd by the wind, 
 
 If you're true, 
 
 So shall you, 
 Or a death nobly find ! 
 
 •,• The irregularity of the metre in this chant, is a necessity to the grand 
 and martial air for which it was written. 
 
 TO CAROLINE. 
 
 Charmer of the Cupid Up, 
 
 Kiss the goblet, ere I sip ; 
 
 Wine, or water, tho' it be, 
 
 You shall make it ecstacy ! 
 Or, stay, my angel ! — we'll the prudes defy : 
 Come kiss my lips — and pass the goblet by ! . 
 
 Why should bliss, love, wanton time ? 
 
 Why should we be less sublime ? 
 
 I'm to kiss the cup you sip ; 
 
 Why not kiss your bursting lip ? 
 For bliss, when second-hand, the Gods decry ; 
 Then kiss my Hps, love — pass the goblet by ! 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 28 
 
 DOWN WITH KINGS. 
 
 " Down with Kings !" — they cry before us, 
 Over Europe's crown-struck way ; 
 
 People's cry, " They've ridden o'er us ! — 
 " Down vsdth crowns and kingly sway !" 
 
 Irish Democrats, join chorus ! 
 Up, and show your front to-day ! 
 
 Purse-proud men — aristocratic — 
 Trembling, dread to hear you cry ; 
 
 Since, from o'er the Adiiatic 
 
 To great France, resounded high 
 
 The barricade-shout ! — " Democratic 
 " Irishmen, come, do or die !" 
 
 " Down with Crowns !" All Europe, raging 
 'Neath the royal scorpion-stings, 
 
 Fiercely yell — their wrongs assuaging — 
 Shielded by the giant wings 
 
 Of democratic union, waging 
 
 War of thunder, blasting Kings ! 
 
24 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Welcome that celestial morning, 
 
 When a People, free, unchained, 
 Dauntlessly, all Monarchs scorning, 
 
 In the strength their spears have gained, 
 Unite, young Freedom's shrine adorning 
 
 With shields from conquer'd Kings obtain'd ! 
 Jons 21, 1848. 
 
 FAME. 
 
 A SONNET. 
 
 And what is Fame ? 'Tis like an eagle's scream, 
 
 That's borne aloft on echo or on wing ; 
 
 Where the bleak whirlwind, or the sun's rich beam, 
 The cadence fetters or its welcomes bring. 
 
 See the careering of that eagle gray ! 
 
 That fine, broad-chested, noble bird, that may 
 
 Be called of airy, winged tribes, the king ! 
 See how he rides, the charger of the skies, 
 
 And soars, not wondering at his fame-struck meed. 
 Buoyant his voice is with the sought-for prize, 
 
 And Echo lauds him wilder than his speed. 
 Ay, weak tribes tremble as the monarch flies ! 
 Yet, poising careless, not less proud, an arrow 
 Strikes the famed bird — who drops, e'en as a sparrow ! 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 25 
 
 STILL I HAVE A VISION BRIGHT. 
 
 Ar, still I see an image bright, 
 
 That shines with silent flame, 
 Like star to traveller at night. 
 
 Or hope for longing fame ! 
 Which, tho' it does not plainly vow 
 
 To light alone for me, 
 Its ghst'ning bids me gaze and bow, 
 
 To homage prudery. 
 
 . I love the maid with sparkling eye. 
 
 Whose lashes far oiit-tip 
 The jettest raven's darkest dye — 
 
 And such a ruby lip ! 
 Whose brightness beams with nect'rous draught. 
 
 Which make my teeth shed tears, 
 That while they fall, to my eye's call, 
 
 To flee such tempting spheres. 
 
26 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 COME, LET US SING THE SONG OF PLEASURE. 
 
 Come, let us sing the song of pleasure ! 
 
 Bringing to our lips a smile ! 
 Maiden, join the honeyed measure, 
 
 Bright'ning up our thoughts the while ! 
 
 Where is Fancy ? Let's pursue her ! 
 
 She will lend us for the time, 
 Gay lamps of revelry to woo her — 
 
 Making e'en young thoughts sublime ! 
 
 And maiden come, we'll seek her sister, 
 
 Joy — to girdle on Love's train ! 
 By Venus, no ! — you shan't desist — or, 
 
 If you do, I'll try again ! 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 21 
 
 A FELON'S CHAUNT/'> 
 
 Hurrah ! for the rifle and pike ! 
 
 Hurrah ! for the steel, while it flashes ! 
 Hurrah ! for the craiseach ^^ to strike 
 
 The despot who Liberty lashes ! 
 Hurrah ! for the Democrats' choice ! 
 
 O'er earth growing prouder and prouder ? 
 Hurrah ! for his steel and his voice ! — 
 And may they ring louder and louder ! 
 
 Up with the flag of the Democcs,ts ! 
 
 Down with the banner of Slavery ! 
 Down with all lords and aristocrats ! 
 Up with Republican bravery ! 
 
 Hurrah ! for the downfall of Kings ! — 
 The pestilent scourge of the nations ; 
 For all empty crown-bauble things 
 Must fall from their unholy stations ! 
 "My lord," and "our crown," and the peer, 
 Must bend to the Democrats' willing ! 
 Oh, this is Democracy's year ! — 
 . And, Erin, thy vows need fulfilling ! 
 
28 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Pike-handed, arise, Inisfallen ! (^ 
 
 Steel-minded, sleep ye no longer ! 
 On — on — sons of Benburb and Callan ! 
 
 End your wrongs in the gore of the wronger ! 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE W. H. COLLIER, E. H. A. 
 
 I SING of genius, and the many ills 
 
 That crowd upon his long and weary path, 
 Like winged fiends, whom the planet wills, 
 
 That saw his spirit ushered into wrath. 
 Ay, wrath — for such is Talent's thorny life, 
 
 Unless smooth'd down by Lucre, who is not 
 Known to the Destinies as Genius' wife. 
 
 Nor seldom number'd 'mongst the chosen lot 
 Whom Nature like's to call her offspring fair ! 
 
 Tho' she must doom her sons to dull despair ; 
 Albeit, she gives them minds richer than gold ! 
 
 But what is all this brainful ore? — this prize? 
 When Penury, with cankering eye, and cold. 
 
 Strikes him on earth, to send up to the skies 
 His crest; while tear-eyed Fame "Come, smitten Brother," 
 cries. Dublut, Aug. 24, 1847. 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 29 
 
 A VOICE FROM THE PEOPLE. 
 
 "My voice is still fbr war!" — Addison. 
 
 Shall our noble " Felons " perish ? 
 
 Shall the men whose thoughts we cherish — 
 
 Shall the souls whose hopes we nourish — 
 
 Lowly pine, 
 In a dungeon, fetter shaken — 
 Law-bereft, and slave-like taken ? — 
 Oh ! for Ireland's wrongs awaken. 
 
 Sword divine ! 
 
 'Waken sharp, with wrongs of ages — 
 Heroes' pride ! — 'mid chaunts of sages ! 
 Despots dread, when Wisdom wages 
 
 War sublime ! — 
 Giving freedom to the lowly — 
 Righting truth and justice solely — 
 Op'ning sacred gates to holy 
 
 Men, all time ! 
 
30 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Wonder-working lioly ranger ! 
 On the paths of truth and danger, 
 Ever found to aid the stranger, 
 
 Lowly bow'd ; 
 'Wake, to lead us on to glory ! 
 Path be palm, or path be gory ! 
 For we have, young heads and hoary, 
 
 Sworn aloud — 
 
 Sworn to rid this Irish, nation 
 Of its province degradation — 
 British rule, and slavish station — 
 
 By the sword, 
 Or, the pen, its magic casting. 
 Fierce in truths, with vigor lasting ! 
 If we shrink, welcome thy 'blasting. 
 
 Mighty Lord ! 
 
 Vain the pen, and vain the thinking, 
 Righting Erin's wrongs by inking ! — 
 Songs to swords, while swords are shrinking 
 From the fray! 
 
LArS or THE FATHERLAND. 31 
 
 No ! If ye would act as true men, 
 Pike and rifle handed you, men, 
 Felons' fate would be but few men — 
 
 Not each day ! 
 
 But we vow, while life's within us, 
 E'er to preach the means to win us 
 Liberty, though dark deeds thin us ! 
 
 We dare it ! 
 Though dear life and love be sunder'd — 
 In the blast-crown'd tyrant' thunder'd — 
 Broken-hearted— chain'd — and plunder'd — 
 
 We swear it ! 
 
 By the soul of silken Thomas — 
 By old Lim'rick's broken promise — 
 By Great Mitchel, exiled from us — 
 
 Hear us swear ! 
 By the wounds of young Fitzgerald — 
 Emmet's truth, and Tone imperill'd. 
 Worshiping bright Freedom's herald. 
 
 Sword, or spear ! 
 
82 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Join us — in this struggle driven, 
 Men of earth, and saints of heaven, 
 Under despot rule to leaven 
 
 All our strength ! 
 Rise, ye Felons ! — ready-handed ! 
 Brother Democrats ! — slaves branded ! 
 Rise ! — the day ye long demanded, 
 
 Conies at length ! 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 33 
 
 GIVE UP YOUR ARMS. 
 
 Give up your arms, brothers ! — 
 
 But as eagle yields his prey ! 
 Scout your wives and mothers ! 
 
 And your daughters lead away 
 To the stake — to the slaughter — 
 
 To the mercy, if you will, 
 Of minds foul as that water, ^^> 
 
 Which lives, alone to kill ! 
 
 Give up your arms, brawlers ! 
 
 And rend out your perjur'd tongues ! 
 Your necks bend for the collars 
 
 Which should clasp round serfish lungs ! 
 The sword you had for Freedom, 
 
 Crimson deep in sires' gore ! 
 
 And sell the friends who'd need 'em, 
 
 As you swore to do before ! 
 2* 
 
34 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Give up your arms, heroes ! 
 
 Sure 'twas well enough to rant 
 With Fancy's sword ! Be Neros 
 
 With the men who hate your cant ! 
 Lie down and Hck the slaver ! 
 
 Or, rise up and kiss the crown ! 
 And swear you were a raver. 
 
 When you vow'd to hew both down ! 
 
 TO C . 
 
 Ay, I'm a worshiper at Woman's shrine. 
 
 E'er since God ope'd these giddy eyes of mine ; 
 
 But ne'er again — ah, never. 
 Shall my soul ramble from each lip and eye ; 
 For yours, dear angel, caught it passing by. 
 
 And bound it there for ever ! 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 35 
 
 THE CURSE OE KINGS. 
 
 We read in Holy Scripture of the men who begg'd a 
 
 king. 
 The Israehtes, discarding God, to earthly idols cling ; 
 Despite of the beneficence amongst them He had shown, 
 They cast aside all gratitude, and built an earthly throne, 
 To bend the knee before it, 
 And like a God adore it, 
 And pour heart-blessings o'er it, 
 That should be God's alone. 
 
 A great and good man rais'd his voice to seek th' Al- 
 mighty's will. 
 
 Who from His throne celestial cried — "The people's wish 
 fulfil ! 
 
 But ere they raise a crown on earth, tell them the curse 
 'twill bring ;" 
 
 And thro' this sage, Jehovah spake to Israel's gathering : 
 
86 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Of the debased intentions, 
 Chains, slavery, dissensions — 
 The lazar-house inventions 
 To rear an earthly king. 
 "The plagues of earthly kings are these," the voice from 
 
 heaven spoke : 
 "Your daughters shall their handmaids be — your sons, 
 
 their chariots yoke ; 
 "To plough their fields — their corn reap — from dawn till 
 
 dusk to toil ; 
 "They spoil your vines, and olives too — and tithe your 
 flocks and soil : 
 
 "Your youths shall be degraded — 
 "Your dearest ties invaded — 
 "And e'en the strength that made it, 
 " Shall be the sceptre's spoil !" 
 
 But, the deluded wretches would not Hst to Heaven's 
 
 tongue : 
 They cried, — " A king to rule o'er us, and dwell our tents 
 
 among !" 
 (And — Freedom's God ! — sure, wiUing slaves, that bar- 
 
 ter'd Freedom so, 
 Deserv'd the fiercest ekastisement that men can live ^pd 
 
 know ;) 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 37 
 
 Whereat they had a crowning — 
 In pride their birthright drowning — 
 And angry God-head frowning 
 Those renegades below. 
 
 Howe'er, by omens wonderful, they shortly rued the 
 
 day 
 They call'd a king to reign o'er them, despite the sov'reign 
 
 sway 
 That led their sires from Egypt — that transform'd Moses' 
 
 rod — 
 That sent Badan, and Jerobaal, and Jephtha, when down- 
 trod, 
 
 To crush the force of legions, 
 That circled round their regions — 
 For which they swore allegiance 
 To serve alone but God ! 
 
 Oh, Irishmen ! will ye e'er doubt the power of God su- 
 preme. 
 
 That ye will tolerate a throne, to shut out Freedom's 
 beam ? 
 
 Do not ye think that native mind can legislate as well 
 
 On native soil, as foreigners from slavery's greatest hell ? 
 
38 LAYS OF TPIE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Aged wrongs have long inflamed it ; 
 Fierce Democrats have nam'd it, 
 And tott'ring thrones proclaim'd it, 
 Crown-sway'd, no Freemen dwell ! 
 
 MITCHEL. 
 
 " The memory of the just is with praises, and the name of the wicked shall 
 rot." — Proverbs, Chap. x. 
 
 Like a sky-Avonder in a gloomy night, 
 
 Outshone this man upon the ways of men ; 
 Illumining the fetid social den, 
 
 In which souls dwindled in their prime of might ; 
 
 For that they lacked an honest, guiding light, 
 To cheer them from the chamber-house of chains, 
 Where ghouls, with more tongues than the crop had 
 grains, 
 
 Bought up their sense, re-buying with it bright 
 Golden-lined favors from the despot's hand. 
 
 Oh, thou wert one — John Mitchel — in the isle, 
 
 To stand before the dooming cannons' file. 
 And preach God's holy truth unto the land ! 
 
 Ay, your faith shook them from the damn'd eclipse, 
 
 As Christian sinners shrink 'neath the Apocalypse ! 
 Oct. 18, 1849. 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 39 
 
 THE PATRIOT'S V0¥. 
 
 The day was calm as the smile of God ; 
 
 The air was still as stone ; 
 And my heart was full, as on I trod 
 
 The mountain-path alone ; 
 Wliich leads o'er holy-shrin'd Saint Anne/^°) 
 Above ^vhere wild the Dodder ran, 
 And where the Church Kilmosantan 
 
 In ivy'd ruin stood ; 
 "Where the dear Irish fei'n, and wild oak dock, 
 And the sapling ash of the ancient stock/^^) 
 And the foxtail and moss atween each rock, 
 
 Grew, o'erlooking the wildsome flood. 
 
 Oh, my heart was full — for thought subdued 
 
 All sense of touch or sound. 
 There's something so pure in solitude, 
 
 With Godhead's impress round, 
 
40 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 That I felt — not as one of clay — 
 But, one that dwelleth in clouds alway ; 
 . And, pity-hearted, then did pray 
 
 For a far-suif 'ring land. 
 Inspired, its wrongs seemed my soul round to girth, 
 For ages of despots, and famine, and dearth, 
 Sped round this old life-lending gem of the earth, 
 
 With earthly-made demons' red brand. 
 
 My fancy wept to be borne away, 
 
 Far to that isle of wrongs ; 
 And long'd for a host of mind ana sway, 
 
 To rend its galling thongs ; • 
 
 Lo ! — as wishing myself away, 
 An eagle's scream from wild Lough Bray, 
 Brought me to sense — God ! — I was clay ! 
 
 A slave on the turf I trod ! 
 I knelt to that Heaven which knows no cloud, 
 And vow'd myself by it, a blood-death shroud, 
 Or victory's life o'er the despot, bowed. 
 
 And blasted from my darling sod ! 
 
 July 22, 1848. 
 
LATS OF THE FATHERLAND. 41 
 
 SAINT ANNE'S WELL. 
 
 Adown the lov'd valley of sweet Glan-nis-mole, 
 
 The Dodder's wild waters in bright rapture roll ; 
 
 And woo the brown heath in its winding career, 
 
 Like a young lover stealthily pressing his dear ; 
 
 Or yet, like the red Indian tracing the spot 
 
 Where the white man has ravish'd his primeval cot ; 
 
 And it steals, and it foams, half in fear, half in joy, 
 
 Like a girl all beauty — all pride, like a boy. 
 
 Adown in this valley, where Solitude reigns 
 
 In all the wild stillness that Nature enchains, 
 
 Kippure for his throne, looking down on the vale, 
 
 (The bleak Castle-Kelly defying the gale,) 
 
 His head in the clouds, as though bound with a crown, 
 
 And sceptre, the rays of the sun streaming down. 
 
 His courtiers, Ball-mannoch, Cornaun, See-Finane, 
 
 From the Brakes to Green Tallaght he prides his domain : 
 
 And the Golden spears glist'ning like sentinels stand 
 
 Near the throne of the chief of this bright valley-band. 
 
42 LAYS OF THE FATHEBLAND. 
 
 With his face to the Liffey, his back to Ghmcree, 
 Echo sings — as bard should, of his proud chieftaincy, 
 And shields in his romantic, lone mountain span, 
 The pure spell-bound fountain — the Well of Saint Anne. 
 
 This blest spring lies hid on the Avild hilly side, 
 
 Like a tear on the cheek of a soul deified — 
 
 A " Sister of Charity," given by bliss, 
 
 To cure with its virtues, and cool with its kiss ! . 
 
 And dear is the valley — ah, yes, ever dear. 
 
 Are the scenes that are link'd with a smile or a tear ! 
 
 That thrill'd us with pleasure, or fill'd us with pain, 
 
 In the noonday of life, and youth's royal demesne ! 
 
 And what is more dear than the one lonely place, 
 
 Where youth met its reflex in some young loved face ? 
 
 Saw the tremors, the wooings, the kissings, and then 
 
 Saw the quarrels, and sobs — yea, and kissing again ? 
 
 Where the vale was our study — our music, the brooks — 
 
 The graveyard, our library — tombstones, our books ? 
 
 And the ruin, a monitor Graybeard profound. 
 
 Full of pride in his charge of the records around. 
 
 And our Wells — holy wells ! — that our loved legends link. 
 
 Making sinew and soul of our past glory drink — 
 
 To the heroes that fought, and the lances that sprung. 
 
 As the Sage calmly counselled — or blest Poet sung ! 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 43 
 
 They are dear to our hearts : e'en this humble spring can 
 Flow a still humbler bard's pen — loved Well of Saint 
 Anne. 
 
 Its waters are clear, and as pure as the soul 
 
 Of the Saint that endow'd it ! Beneath a green knoll 
 
 It peacefully slumbers in hallow'd repose ; 
 
 And though always brimming, yet ne'er o'erflows — 
 
 For a sideling trickle leads off' the blest flow, 
 
 When its breast is too full, to the Dodder below ; 
 
 And skirts by the little church, Kilmosantan, 
 
 Where the green ivy close the old ruin doth span ; 
 
 And clings like a lover whose constancy wages 
 
 A war with old Time — growing fonder through ages ! 
 
 On these wild, lovely waters, the Saint left a spell — 
 
 Which faith have the countrie, and thence to the Well 
 
 They fly for its draughts — for such 'twas Saint Anne 
 
 Bestow'd on the spring, that if mortal man 
 
 Was maim'd, ill, but faith had, he'll surely get ease, 
 
 If he creep from the Church to the Well, on his knees. 
 
 But, methinks, few e'er try — for devious the path. 
 
 To the sickling or sage ; and the maim'd one who hath 
 
 Strength enow to proceed, needs less the spell, than 
 
 Stout patience he'd want to suit goodly Saint Anne. 
 
44 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Sweet Vale ! — Holy Well ! — Shall this heart e'er forget, 
 This mind to thee die, or my sun of thought set, 
 On the days I have spent beside thy clear tide, 
 Or with those my heart clung to, clomb thy hill-side ? 
 Pointing out the old raths, where the sage peasant told 
 Me the fairies and spreethawns their wild revels hold ; 
 And I merrily laughed, and he solemnly chid ; 
 And he staringly conjured me, " Mind what I did," 
 Lest the "wee folk," in vengeance, should give me a stroke; 
 Then I danc'd on the rath, half in doubt, half in joke ; 
 And he, shaking his head, strolled away, chiding still, 
 And praying " Heaven help my irreverent will !" 
 Shall those scenes pass away, when afar I am gone ? 
 No ! — as steel to the magnet, I ever love on : 
 No ! — my heart never shall let that picture decay : 
 Though I float the Saint Lawrence, the famed thrushes' lay 
 Of Glan-nis-mole's valley shall charm mine ear, 
 And the wild Dodder's carol more loud I'll hear 
 Than Niagara's chorus ! And the little church ruin 
 Shall I see, and hear the Coliaghs' old Irish tune ! 
 In fancy, where e'er roaming, my loved vale I'll scan, 
 And my mouth shall be still cool with draughts from 
 Saint Anne. 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 45 
 
 HILL-SIDE RHYMINGS. 
 
 Caeriok Hills, Noon, August 1st, 1848. 
 
 The hand of Heaven gilds the scene, 
 
 All over rich, and mellow ; 
 The barley's bright, the hills are green, 
 
 The corn, golden yellovsr : 
 The Sun is darting like a flame 
 Of Hope, to Freedom's palace 
 Blessing the toil 
 That riches the soil 
 To fill up the Freeman's chahce ! 
 For a goblet of bliss, 
 Is the ripe harvest's kiss, 
 To the soul of the wrong' d-o'erladen — 
 And an offering bright, 
 On the altar of right ; 
 Like first vows from a long-lov'd maiden, 
 Are the visions of plenty adorning the path, 
 Where the echo of feet, and of fierce voices hath 
 Vow'd in vengeance, the tyrant to bend in his wrath. 
 
46 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 The purpled heath, on the hill-side, 
 
 The woodbine, tender, fragrant, 
 The wild-flow'rs on the rill-side, 
 "With beauties running vagrant. 
 
 Up the hedges, 
 
 Round the edges 
 Of the streamlet — hues a million 
 
 Sweet perfuming — 
 
 Joyous blooming — 
 Green, and gold, and bright vermihon, 
 
 Many vested tendrils there. 
 
 Scent the air. 
 
 Roses laughing, 
 
 Vi'lets quaffing, 
 In the dew-struck nectar'd flow — 
 
 And over yon. 
 
 Great Slievenamon 
 Looks gracious on the Suir below. 
 
 Earthward, skyward, 
 
 Low, and high ward, 
 Everywhere before us sing — 
 Hill and dale ai-e chorusing : 
 " Let us," jointly Nature cries, 
 " With the harvest fall or rise, 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 47 
 
 Let US, bounteous God-head, sever 
 
 Despots' chains, or die for ever." 
 And oh, should we fail, 'tis a glorious thought 
 To know, that the tyrant his damnation bought, 
 
 Though on earth it may meet him never 1 
 
 Ay, the Despot's day may be prolonged, 
 
 Until Union crowns the Righter ; 
 Ay, men by man on earth may be thonged — 
 
 Plebeian, crest, and mitre ; 
 B.ut, oh ! there's a hand to right the wi'onged, 
 
 A sword to smite the smiter. 
 
 This -was ■written on a beautiful day, before the -weather had be- 
 come broken, or the blight appeared that year, on one of the emi- 
 nences outside the town of Carrick, on the county Waterford side, 
 from which height the Golden Valley of the Suir is seen with much 
 advantage. When looking at it, I thought Cromwell right, when 
 he said — " ^Twas a country worth fighting for" Yes, I thought him 
 right, and am rebel enough to think so still. 
 
48 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 PRIEZ POUR LE MALHEUREUX.<'^> 
 
 Ah, once I knew an aged man, 
 
 When I was very young, 
 Whose head was white, 'neath Time's dread ban, 
 
 And foreign was his tongue ; 
 Whose waning eye and sallow cheek 
 
 Cried — " Here misfortune grew !" 
 And his words were, whene'er he'd speak, 
 
 " Priez pour le malheureux.^'' 
 
 I often wonder'd what they meant, 
 
 And view'd his weary look. 
 As on his breast I softly leant, 
 
 Beside a babbling brook ; 
 A holy well they said it was — 
 
 But then I little knew, 
 Nor cared for — ^yet a myst'ry 'twas — 
 
 "i'yics pour le maZheureuxy 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 49 
 
 The tear would often, streaming down 
 
 His cheeks, my young heart melt ; 
 But then he would pretend to frown, 
 
 And wondered that I felt. 
 And I knew not, howe'er it came, 
 
 His tears my heartstrings drew ; 
 Tho' young I was, I caught the flame — 
 
 "Prie2 pour le malheureuxP 
 
 From day to day, from year to year — 
 
 A dozen, say — pass'd o'er. 
 And still the babbling brook and tear 
 
 Were sought as oft before : 
 He was the same, tho' graver grown, 
 
 And I, as time past flew — 
 The better learnt to aid his moan — 
 
 " Priez pour le malheureuxP 
 
 And thus he grew down to the grave, 
 
 And I grew stout of Umb — 
 Like shoots that grow trees, ere they have 
 
 To be cut down like him. 
 
60 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 He fell back into Nature's womb, 
 As into cowslips' dew ; 
 
 And lonely I cried o'er his tomb — 
 " Priez pour le malheureuxy 
 
 The old man gone, I daily trod 
 
 The wild and hallow'd spot, 
 Where he oft held commune with God, 
 
 To soothe his lowly lot. 
 A cankering sore was at his heart, 
 
 That none but I e'er knew ; 
 And I but guess'd — he'd but impart — 
 
 " Priez pour le malheureuxr 
 
 And now as upward still I sped, 
 
 And older still I grew. 
 The meaning of the words I read — 
 
 " Priez pour le malheureux." 
 Oh, pray for the unfortunate ! 
 
 Now — now — it spoke me true, 
 That why he cried importunate — 
 
 " Priez pour le malheureur." 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 51 
 
 It spoke me now, that sorrows keen 
 
 Had wasted early love ; 
 That death — disease — misfortune's spleen — 
 
 Or dictates from above, 
 Had bred the waning cheek and eye — 
 
 Had spoke the words I knew — 
 And led him from his home to die — 
 
 '■'' Priez pour le malheureuxr 
 
 Now these words, so young implanted, 
 
 That made my old friend's pall, 
 They to me seem so enchanted, 
 
 That their memory ne'er shall fall. 
 Tho' all spleen's arrows straight be hurl'd 
 
 At mankind's breast, to you 
 I cry — in common with the world — 
 
 '■'■ Priez pour le malheureuxr 
 
52 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 DEAR MARY OF MY HEART. 
 
 The summer's sun is rich and fair, 
 
 Bestowing upon earth 
 A brightness pure — and everywhere 
 
 Conferring smiUng mirth : 
 More generous far than morning's dawn, 
 
 Whose holy beams impart 
 New hfe to all, is cailin ban,^^^^ 
 
 Dear Mary of my heart ! 
 
 Her forehead is a pearly star, 
 
 Enshrined beneath a fold 
 Of tresses dark, hke night afar, 
 
 Or sable crest of old. 
 Ah, gladly would I yield all ties — 
 
 All nature would I part — 
 To revel 'neath thy angel eyes. 
 
 Dear Mary of my heart ! 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 53 
 
 A SIGH FOR THE BRAVE/^^> 
 
 Sad is my heart, and lonely, 
 
 For the brave : 
 God ! is their spirit only 
 
 For a grave, 
 
 Or loathsome chains ? 
 Is all that dauntless homage of the mind, 
 Unbounded genius, and the hearts designed 
 To live in people's love, to be defined 
 On history's page, as one immortal blot, 
 For future worshippers of Freedom ? Oh, say not 
 
 That this alone remains ! 
 
 Oh, doom not thus an ending 
 
 Of a bright, 
 
 Star-Hghted cause, contending 
 
 For a right — 
 The Right or Man ! 
 
64 LAYS OF THE FATHERIjVND. 
 
 Shall the Apostles of pure Freedom's creed, 
 Fall in the sight of millions they'd have freed, 
 Or for their heaven-sent inspiration bleed ? 
 Forfend it, host ethereal ! Oh, breathe 
 On stagnate man, and let vict'ry enwreathe 
 The toils they well began 1 
 
 My spirit weeps in sadness, 
 
 When I think, 
 That all their youth, hope, gladness. 
 Thus should drink 
 
 The cup of life I 
 And that the idols of this world-famed sod, 
 (Sacred to genius, beauty, and to God,) 
 Should feel the hoof, a nation's voice, unshod ! 
 Oh, where's the nation's arms ? — where the heai*t 
 And soul-fired millions, eager for the start 
 
 Into the armed strife ? 
 
 Carrick oN-SciR, Aug. 7, 1848. 
 
LATS OF THE FATHERLAND. 66 
 
 HOME THOUGHTS. 
 
 Written on the mizen top, ship Fingal, November 4, 1848. Atlantic Ocean, two 
 days' sail from New York. 
 
 O'er the wide ocean 
 A sweet calm is lying, 
 
 With soft emotion 
 
 As young lover's sighing, 
 
 Is the scarce breathing wind — 
 
 While unbound, uncontined. 
 
 Like a fetterless mind. 
 Zealously trying 
 
 To compass a fav'ring gale, 
 
 Hangs loose each eager sail. 
 
 Here lonely sitting, 
 
 Dark waters surrounding, 
 Wild sea-birds flitting, 
 
 And wilder fish bounding — 
 
56 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND, 
 
 Joyous, for Freedom's tteirs ! 
 God ! spite of deeds and prayers ; 
 Heart-longings — hopes and cares — 
 
 Here am I sounding 
 For Erin — my grief of griefs — 
 Brothers — and martyr chiefe. 
 
 The waters beat lowly 
 
 Around the ship's keeling — 
 As dear ones part, slowly, 
 
 My lone soul she's stealing 
 From that loved sphere afar, 
 Where lives my ocean star ! 
 And hearts whose pulses are 
 
 Source of my feeling ! 
 (Oh ! what sweet bliss to know) 
 Thrill pure where e'er I go ! 
 
 When lowly thinking 
 
 Of home with its gladness ; 
 When Hope was drinking 
 
 Its life-tide to madness : 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. -5^ 
 
 Quaffing the mocking bowl 
 Till strength eat out its soul, 
 And waxeth faint its dole 
 
 Stifled in sadness — 
 E'en then I think of Free 
 Homes for Futurity ! 
 
 Though ever lonely, 
 
 Oh, still ever brightsome. 
 Dear Erin, only 
 
 Thy wrongs rise more frightsome — 
 Whispering sounds to me, 
 Chauntings of Liberty : 
 " God can make darkness be 
 
 Lucid and Hghtsome, 
 And his creating nod 
 Breathes life on Slav'ry's sod !" 
 
 Oh, God of Beauty — 
 
 Lord of Creation ! 
 Bend I with duty 
 
 In prayer for my nation ! 
 
 3* 
 
58 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Oh ! host of Heaven, close 
 Dreadful on Erin's foes ; 
 •May thy wrath fall on those, 
 
 Bringing prostration ! 
 And may both nations fall 
 Ere one shall weep in thrall. 
 
 AMBITION IN THE LONELY MIND. 
 
 Say, can the lonely mind e'er haven thought ? 
 Thought of Ambition in her highest flight, — 
 Or, is the soul so bent that life's delight 
 
 Wakes not the vision by which pleasure's bought ? 
 
 Say, can that mind — that soul, so lonely wrought, 
 Nurture a spring that fountains into Hope ? 
 Say, does it cover sighs beyond the scope 
 
 That seemeth loneliness unto a fault ? 
 
 It does ! Ambition's sprite is always near, 
 Gliding e'er thro' life's ever-changing ray, 
 And, like the sunshine on a rainy day. 
 
 Forming a brilliant prism in the drear 
 
 That spurs it on, and widens each man's sphere ; 
 
 But strange, in widening, narrows his thoughts here. 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 59 
 
 TO MY IRISH BROTHERS. 
 
 Brothers, on this soil of freedom — 
 
 Exiles from the barter'd land, 
 Where the manlines** Truth teaches 
 
 Falls beneath the felon brand ; 
 Be to one another loving, 
 
 For the sake of that old sod — 
 Hope is, to the creed of glory, 
 
 What the Christian is to God. 
 
 Better here, and toil on slowly 
 
 For a future freeman's name, 
 Than to lie 'neath vulture Britain — 
 
 Fetters — slaves — dishonor — shame, 
 Drooping like a shroud of thunder 
 
 O'er your weak but hallow'd path — 
 Oh ! friends, let your hearts be cheery, 
 
 Time a strono-er thunder hath. 
 
60 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Albion ne'er wove web of fetters 
 
 Strong enough to curb you down, 
 If blest UNION could enrol you 
 
 Sworn subjects to her crown ! 
 Then, my friends and exiled brothers. 
 
 Can you think, and still remain 
 Disunited, ice-brained braggarts, 
 
 Welding each his brother's chain ? 
 
 See, the stately forest monarch. 
 
 Hoary oak-tree of the wood. 
 That has lived right royal ages, 
 
 And has wildsome blasts withstood ; 
 In a wrathful moment, frenzied 
 
 With the storm-king's fiercest frown, 
 Yields a branch — ^that woodman handles 
 
 In the axe to hew it down. 
 
 So that land will work its ruin. 
 Ay, with suicidal brain, 
 
 It shall speed for tyrant power 
 Till its pace outstrip its rein. 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 61 
 
 The flaming brand it keeps to light 
 
 Vex'd discord in your isle, 
 Shall help to flame, and show ye, too, 
 
 Her state a blacken'd pile. 
 
 But that haughty land must crumble, 
 
 If you 're true as brothers ought — 
 Years may glide, but should not wipe out 
 
 Hopes and tasks that honor taught. 
 Ev'ry soul be Freedom's shelter ! 
 
 By the vows so oft you swore. 
 Live — to love — land, friends behind you, 
 
 And to bless Columbia's shore ! 
 
62 LAYS OF THK FATHERLAND. 
 
 OH, ERIN, DEAR LAND OF MY SOUL'S 
 ADORATION. 
 
 A VALENTINE. 
 
 Oh, Erin, dear land of my soul's adoration ! 
 
 My Erin ma vourneen, ma cailin, ma stor ! 
 May the heart of the exile forbid its vibration, 
 
 When beats it for aught save thy rock-girdled shore. 
 
 I've hoped on your smiles, dear, and wept o'er your weep- 
 ing— 
 I've lived in your thoughts, and have cherished thy 
 name ; 
 The hopes that you breathed, love, are still in soul's keep- 
 ing, 
 While vanished away are thy frowns as they came. 
 
 Ah ! mine's not the love of the insane admirer, 
 Who follows through fashion each coquetting elf; 
 
 Thy sorrow and life 's made thee — Freedom's inspirer — 
 More worthy of love than thou thinkest thyself ! 
 
LAYS OV THE FATHERLAND. 63 
 
 Keep lonely, my joy, thy pale face in thy sorrow — 
 Why — why should I ask thee to unrobe thy shame ? 
 
 No, sooner far. Death my red life-blood will borrow, 
 Ere tongue shall parade in dishonor thy name. 
 
 And though thy young spirit is downcast in feeling ; 
 
 Thou love of my youth ! let thy inmost heart's core 
 Be electric with mine in its minstrel revealing — 
 
 There 's one life that loves thee, my Erin, ma stor ! 
 
 Febeuaky 14, 1849. 
 
64 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 SHANE O'NEILL; 
 
 OR, SAINT COLUMKILLE'S REVENGE. 
 
 AN mSTOEIOAL AND LEGENDARY BALLAD. 
 
 Come, clansmen, give a hearty cheer ! — Hurrah ! for Shane 
 
 O'Neill ! 
 Who worried out the Saxon from the north of Tnnisfail ; 
 Who proudly vaunted, "Royal right!" before Eliza's 
 
 court ; 
 'Twas his to sway on Ulster's fields, or man an Ulster 
 
 fort! 
 
 She thought to win allegiance from the proud Shane 
 
 to her throne, 
 And showered tinsel gifts upon the Chieftain of Tyrone,<'5) 
 To read him " Prince of Ulster," and Dungannon's patent 
 
 "Lord!" 
 But he laughed at the queenly gifts he balanced on his 
 
 sword. 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND, 6.5; 
 
 He scorn'd the paltry coronet that tied him to a stake ; 
 He scoff'd to hear her talk of gifts which Britain dare not 
 
 make; 
 Nor prince, nor lord, nor parchment right, nor England's 
 
 laws nor pale ; 
 He own'd — he wore a gorgeous title — Ulster's proud 
 
 O'Neill ! 
 
 Oh, 'twas a sight to see him there, before the queen-deck'd 
 
 throne — 
 Two subtle minds, each playing deep, to make the game 
 
 its own; 
 The patronizing serpent, velvet-clad, in pomp and state — 
 The Northern Chief discarding gifts the Monarch would 
 
 create. 
 
 I ween the "Arch-Traitor" comes the victor off to-day ! — 
 I ween the Queen 's not more surprised than Sussex or 
 
 Burleigh ; 
 They thought their wiles of policy would charm or quell 
 
 his pride — 
 But Shane was steady as Rathlin against the channel 
 
 tide. 
 
66 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 And death-smiling Elizabeth — that treach'rous virgin — 
 
 vow'd 
 A host of honors on his head — his' body in a shroud ; 
 A scarlet mantle — (shroud of death) — she vow'd him 
 
 from that hour; 
 And England's Queen swore, •' By God's death," he shan't 
 
 defy her power ! (^^) 
 
 For the O'Neill, with gallant train, in London town 
 
 appears, 
 With curling hair and saffron vest, with battle-axe and 
 
 spears ! 
 And worthy lords and burghers stare to see the "rascaille 
 
 Kerne," 
 Freeborn-like, upstanding — Irish, noble, proud, and 
 
 stern !(!'') 
 
 Her royal treachery to begin, the Queen not long delay'd. 
 Until she sent a host of troops, with Randolph, to invade 
 The lion's den — tho' came they with false promises and 
 
 smiles. 
 As allies 'gainst the Scotch McNeills and Donnells of the 
 
 isles. 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 67 
 
 They came with hiscious, honeyed lips, to soothe the 
 
 Chieftain's ear — 
 Had warm smiles and friendly looks, but wish'd each 
 
 glance a spear : 
 They came as fabled Magi, in yore days of mystic law, 
 To try Deception's witchcraft, ere they sought to overawe. 
 
 This horde of British banditti, right up on Derry hill, (^^J 
 They set their irreligious stamp to work their treach'rous 
 
 will ; 
 "With sacrilegious mind and tongue the ancient church 
 
 profaned, — 
 With acts more hellish than their thoughts, the sacred 
 
 temple stained ! 
 
 Oh, Lord of sainted Ireland ! — shall impious minds like 
 those 
 
 Reel in the temple of thy truth ? — which, pure as heaven- 
 ward snows. 
 
 Has lived untainted, centuries, 'midst feud and tyrant 
 wrong — 
 
 New life and holy hope giving, through thy immortal 
 song ! 
 
68 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 " No !" swears the great, the fierce O'Neill — " they shall 
 
 not there remain, 
 To ruin the faith his fathers held, and desecrate its 
 
 fane !" 
 He sees through all their wily arts ! — by heaven, they'll 
 
 have it now ! 
 It charms my soul from O'Neill's voice — I read it on 
 
 his brow ! 
 
 " By the good and holy Malachy, they'll hold this hill 
 
 no longer ! 
 "Or else deceit and treachery — than saintly right — is 
 
 stronger ! 
 " From out the sacred Tempealmore those English knaves 
 
 must haste, 
 " As water 'fore the crimson sun upon an eastern waste !" 
 
 As proud as stately hon in the wild waste of Sahara — 
 With eyes as brightly shining as Diana's famed tiara — 
 This Shane O'Neill, his Irish blood on flame, and fierce 
 his will, 
 
 Swore reformation ne'er should blast the oaks of Colum- 
 
 kille!(i9) 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 69 
 
 Tliis Shane belike was blooded chief, and jealous of his 
 
 sway ; 
 He ne'er would brook — God bless him for't ! — nor foreign 
 
 law obey ; 
 He'd give his northern blood to gild an Irish eagle's beak, 
 Far sooner than a limb would bend, or tongue allegiance 
 
 speak ! 
 
 Have you seen the wild waves boiling, when a white 
 
 squall rumbles by ? 
 Have you seen the danger coming, when gloom sweeps 
 
 athwart the sky? 
 Have you seen the bloodhound breathless gasp, when 
 
 comes he on his scent? 
 Have you seen the eager arrow in the bow already 
 
 bent?— 
 
 As inward troubled was his mind as doth the wind-stirred 
 
 wave — 
 As portent of the will his face, as sky that warns to 
 
 save — 
 As sure as scent-found bandog he, as shaft to eager fly — 
 And smite the chord that sounds to soothe, but soothes 
 
 in treachery. 
 
70 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 To check the heretical knaves, right to the Foyle he 
 
 marches — 
 The impious strangers from beneath rehg-ion's holy arches 
 His clansmen thirst to oust, and slay with unrelenting 
 
 steel — 
 For that they trampled shrine and fane with sacrilegious 
 
 heel. 
 
 His vassals' every nerve and pulse with wrath and hate 
 
 were filled : 
 A skirmish, lo ! on Derry Hill ! — the minion, Randolph, 
 
 killed ! 
 Too glorious death by far it was, for one who held his 
 
 faith— 
 Of tyrant minds that crushed, and lived alone mankind to 
 
 scathe. 
 
 Oh, Derry now hangs trembling in their grasp, 'midst 
 
 hope and doubt. 
 As rain-drop on a quiv'ring leaf when winds boom fierce 
 
 about : 
 The banners of O'Doherty, and fearless Tnnishown, 
 Upheaved, to show the north is out, with true defiant 
 
 tone! 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 71 
 
 Far o'er O'Cahan's country to the south, as like a zone, 
 The standard of the O'Neills flaunt — the famed race of 
 
 Tyrone ! 
 The fierce McSwynes — O'Donnells' clan — their banners 
 
 flout the air, 
 To fan the brow or shroud the frame that fights, or finds 
 
 death there ! 
 
 They hung around the garrison, as ivy on the wall 
 Of some old castellated tow'r — to live, or with it fall — 
 To hide it in its might of growth — to make its strength 
 
 its own — 
 Or, if it withers in the blast, to drag with it the stone. 
 
 Yet, still the Saxon hirelings maintained the sacred hall, 
 As men will often hang on to the thread that weaves 
 
 their pall ; 
 But sooth, the sainted Columkille dooms men and 
 
 dome to wo — 
 For pestilence roamed vassal to their steps, where'er 
 
 they go ! 
 
72 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Thus, like a convict, stood the church — as the old annals 
 
 tell; 
 And thus the clans around it stood, to shroud it when 
 
 it fell; 
 And thus they would — as truth they could — but, lo ! 
 
 great omens fill 
 All minds — a miracle ! — from God, through holy Colum- 
 
 kUle! 
 
 A miracle ! — a miracle ! — behold yon fleeing brute. 
 
 With shaggy mane and flashing eyne, and earth-disdain- 
 ing foot — 
 
 "With speed-blown breast and strained neck, and sinews 
 swift as shade 
 
 That sunlight chaseth o'er a lake, or sweepeth down 
 a glade! 
 
 Its limbs are strong — its breath is long, and speeds the 
 brute so fast. 
 
 All eyes are weak to follow it, as swift it furies past — 
 
 Save that from out its mouth there gleams a wild un- 
 earthly torch — 
 
 Oh, heaven-wise ! — look how it flies right up against the 
 church ! 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 73 
 
 Oh, blessed Saints ! — right up the hill the wolf defies the 
 
 wind ! 
 Like comet, from the torch there speeds a trail of stars 
 
 behind ! 
 He nears the church ! — ha ! nearer still ! — still flames his 
 
 wildsome torch ! 
 And breathless quail the Saxons pale, as speeds he for 
 
 the porch ! 
 
 Oh, blessed Mother ! — on the wolf, his course nor had he 
 ceas'd. 
 
 Nor danger, fright, nor mortal will, could check the 
 charmed beast ; 
 
 Like star presiding o'er their lives, they watch the wolf- 
 mouth flame,^^*') 
 
 And read their destiny, as on the burning planet came. 
 
 Like torrent o'er a cliff he rush'd, or "midst a ewing fold. 
 And sent his burning brand to woo the Saxons' powder 
 
 hold: 
 Like sunrise casting murd'rous night, the mystic torch 
 
 he flung — 
 A light to guide the knaves to death — a self-obeying 
 
 tongue. 
 
74 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Up, like an answer to the call, the men and fort were 
 
 hurled ! 
 Crash ! went the sacred dome ! — where echo oft unfurled 
 The Christian fire, and learning's light, where else was 
 
 darkness still ! 
 Now, Niobe-hke, ruins sit weeping their ravish'd hill ! 
 
 So rent the soldiery in air — so crush'd their deep-laid 
 
 wiles : 
 The miracle ! — the miracle ! — from the Lord of hope and 
 
 smiles ! 
 So may he alway aid the Right, when Wrong the blow 
 
 provokes ; 
 And Columkilles be plenty, each to guard his Sacred 
 
 Oaks! 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 76 
 
 A NIGHT IN THE SPIRIT-LAND. 
 
 A SORROWFUL day in the montli of May, 
 
 Sorrowful, sad, and lonely ; 
 Callous and cold, as the winter clay. 
 
 Sorrowful, sad, and lonely, 
 Crowds of inhuman mortals stood, 
 Seeing a man of flesh and blood — 
 
 And not a mere man only, 
 
 But a Hero of truth, in the prime of his youth ! 
 Guarded, and chained, as felons may. 
 Ruthlessly dragged from his land away. 
 On that sorrowful day, of the sorrowftd time, 
 That swept off our pride to an exiled clime, 
 And rung on our hopes like a funeral chime, 
 
 Sorrowful, sad, and lonely. 
 
76 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 'Twas night — I sat in my own little room, 
 
 Sorrowful, sad, and lonely. 
 My mind as blank as an Atheist's tomb, 
 
 Sorrowful, sad, and lonely ; 
 Ay, as blank and bare as the grave, 
 Holding no faith the soul to save — 
 
 Not e'en from pity only — 
 And there sitting alone, like a statue of stone, 
 Chiselled and carved from granite gray ; 
 My favorite books unopened lay. 
 And Hope's pages that day, in Life's Volume were 
 
 thinn'd. 
 And my pictures and busts were as friends who had 
 
 sinn'd. 
 And the ghastly grim skull from its bracket down grinn'-d, 
 
 Sorrowful, sad, and lonely. 
 
 The midnight chime echoed into my room — 
 
 Sorrowful, sad and lonely — 
 That hour when spirits have leave to untomb. 
 
 Sorrowful, sad, and lonely. 
 That midnight chime my stupor broke. 
 The twelfth and I together woke. 
 
 Sorrowful, sad, and lonely. 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 7*7 
 
 And the horrible truth, of the hero in youth, 
 
 Guarded and chained as felons may, 
 
 Ruthlessly snatched from his home away, 
 Came, and then did I pray, for the ocean to save 
 That bright eagle-soul from a mariner's grave. 
 For his wisdom shall yet guide the steps of the brave ! 
 
 Now sorrowful, sad, and lonely. 
 
 I left my room, and was walking along, 
 
 Sorrowful, sad, and lonely — 
 Had left my study — was sauntering along, 
 
 Chilly, and weak, and lonely, 
 The rock-dotted beach of Ben Heder, 
 The jaggy-rocked coast of Ben Heder — 
 
 And stole through the rocks as if tombs of the dead, 
 
 Yet wherefore I came, or for why doth I tread 
 Those rocks on the beach of Ben Heder, 
 I never could say, since that lone month of May, 
 
 Or how came I there to Ben Heder. 
 
 Yet, onward my footsteps were wearily prest 
 O'er the rocks — through the rocks, wending. 
 
 Like a phantom of night, by the waves' pale crest ; 
 Doom'd for some judgment yet pending, . . 
 
78 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 To wander alone, by the weed-mantled stone, 
 
 On the brink of the Ocean's wide water, 
 Till at length failed my strength, and I sank down to rest 
 
 On a white flinty rock by the water. 
 
 I had scarce sat me there, when a spirit as fair — 
 
 Ay, as fair as my long-loved — my own one ! 
 'Mid a bright halo stood, by the brink of the flood — 
 A bright goddess, to cheer up the lone one — 
 The sorrowful, cheerless, and lone one — 
 And, like foe to the brave ! or, as grave to the slave ! 
 She came there to comfort the lone one. 
 And her smile was like dew, 
 On the sweet jessamin, 
 Sparkling bright, yet to view 
 
 Laying bare what 's within ; 
 Like a lamp, lighting you 
 To the beauties within, 
 The petal's pure essence all treasured within ! 
 
 She spake, and with voice as delightful as e'er 
 Li the blest fields of Paradise carol'd along, 
 
 When some crystalline soul leaves the earth's gloomy lair, 
 And is welcomed by angels, as one 'mid their throng. 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 79 
 
 'Twas loud, yet it hurt not the ear of the Soul, 
 
 And its cadence, tho' wild, was Soul's essence to me ! 
 
 And its bliss to my heart was like thoughts that oft roll 
 Through the mind, and are lost in their own ecstacy — 
 Ay, feith 's often lost in Hope's grand ecstacy. 
 
 Her will and her voice, 
 
 Such a bright vision spread, 
 
 That what she then said 
 I can dimly remember. 
 
 As her great thoughts came on, 
 
 Each and every one, 
 
 Burn'd the last from my brain, 
 
 Till their nothings remain — 
 Save the treasured up sparks — 
 
 An unquenchable ember 
 On the hearthstone of thought 
 Is all I have caught — 
 
 Is all I remember 
 Of what entered my head. 
 That the bright goddess said — 
 She said — 
 
 "Spirit of the north-wrought wind! 
 From your caverns unconfined — 
 
80 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Spirit of the foaming sea ! 
 From your thrones both list'ners be. 
 Leave your airy home of space, 
 Spirit of .^han race — 
 Quit your caves adamantine, 
 Spirit of the foaming brine — 
 From your fields of whiten'd bones — 
 Bleaching corses — drowning moans ; 
 From your palaces of gold, 
 Pearly grots, and wealth untold ! 
 From your green domain of waves, 
 Elves, and piscatorial slaves — 
 Spirit of the pond'rous deep, 
 Aid me ere yet Hope shall weep. 
 From your pyramids of snow, 
 From your ghostly peaks of wo, 
 From your path 'mid polar skies. 
 Whence the wrath of Boreas lies — 
 Come, thou spirit of scathing kind. 
 Aid me, watcher of the raging wind ! 
 
 " Hasten ! — hasten ! — double speed, 
 Let my echo find you freed ; 
 Let your mind outstretch my plead. 
 Wind and Sea ! come aid my need ! 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 81 
 
 Spirit of tte dashing caves, 
 From your gold-sands — coral caves ! 
 From your shelvings in the deep, 
 Where the Tritons revel keep. 
 And where Doedale lies asleep ; 
 Speed, as tho' old Neptune had. 
 In a regal frenzy — mad, 
 Called on you, the trident to 
 Rescue from old Earth's grasp, who 
 Stole it as the Sea-god lay 
 Nodding in the misty spray, 
 When Night had, with gentle web, 
 Circled Neptune's twiUght ebb ; 
 Come, as tho' that moment he 
 Shouted for you — Son of Sea ! 
 And you, gusty Wind, come down. 
 As tho' thunder's roar and frown 
 Bade you, pathway downward wend, 
 Clearing for his light'ning friend : 
 Or, as tho' JEolus fell 
 From air into the caves of Hell, 
 Where Eurydice and Ixion dwell, 
 Bound in everlasting spell. 
 
 4* 
 
82 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND, 
 
 And there the rout himself had raised, 
 But the brimstone doubly blazed, 
 And with royal bearing, proud, 
 Battled 'gainst a hellish crowd ; 
 Scattering them before his ire 
 Into the veriest abyss fire — 
 (Which with his breath was flaming higher.) 
 And so vanquishing, he feared 
 That his world-wide wings were seared ; 
 Heating in this fierce contest. 
 Shouted he his loud behest — 
 That his sprites all downward hie, 
 To aid him safely to the sky ! 
 ' Come, as in that moment's mind,' 
 JEolus cried — ' Hail, son of Wind ! 
 Wind and Sea, each quit your sphere 
 To aid me — Wave and Wind, appear :' 
 And Echo, good soul ! cried, ' Appear' — 
 
 And coeval as I heareth. 
 Spirit of the Sea appeareth ; 
 And Echo's call failed not until 
 She spake to her of the wondrous Will. 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 83 
 
 SPIRIT OF THE SEA. 
 
 " Hail ! sister Queen of the Nympliide train ! 
 I wait thj voice's pleasure, ere the strain 
 That sung me hither, ceased to sing, 
 Or spent its notes in echoing. 
 
 From Missouri to the Ganges — 
 
 From the North Seas to the South — 
 Where the wide Atlantic ranges. 
 
 And where Baltic opes its mouth — 
 Swifter than the lightning's flash ! 
 
 Intent as the thunder ! 
 Forcible as Triton clash ! 
 
 The brazen prow beaks under ! 
 I travelled at thy bidding — 
 
 So swift, no travel wrought ; 
 So quickly have I ridden, 
 
 I changed speed for thought 
 Of caves, or waves aught hidden : 
 Say why you have me sought ?" 
 
 The beautiful sprite, with the smile of dew, 
 That just let its goodness be seen athro', 
 
 Did answer make 
 To the Sprite of the Sea, and spake — 
 
84 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 " Brother of the greedy brine, 
 Tales of horror deep are thine : 
 List me, why I sung you hence — 
 A deed worth our omnipotence : 
 There is an earth-born son to save 
 From the wrathy gorge of the tideless wave ; 
 For that man, as a god, is true and brave, 
 And pineth himself for the land of the slave — 
 
 Is fetter'd and bound for the land of the slave. 
 Oh, Sea ! — 'tis my will this Man-God to save 
 From the pitiless rage of the tideless wave ! 
 A spirit like his on our earth is as rare 
 As trees on the ocean, or sands in the air ; 
 And his glory and truth shall ever remain 
 A soul-worshipp'd pillar on Liberty's plain ! 
 And that man shall we save 
 From the hungry, wild wave ! 
 Oh, the deeds of the brave 
 On the records of earth, last as long as the grave ! 
 Wills my rod, and bade my brain 
 Woo the Sphere-Gods with a strain : 
 Thus I sought you, mover of the main." 
 
LATS OF THE FATHERLAND. 85 
 
 And the sprite of the thundering air came down — 
 
 And spaketh to him the beautiful one, 
 And rehearseth her wish that the thunder's frown, 
 And the winds might let the lov'd bark pass on — 
 And Echo re-said — " Let the bark pass on !" 
 The Spirit op Wind saith, he loveth the soul, 
 Like his own, to be Free, from pole to pole ; 
 And he swears by his strength, for Liberty's sake. 
 He shall send genial airs in the lov'd bark's wake ; 
 And he vows, with the fair one, conjointly to save 
 The Free-loving soul from a stormy grave. 
 I could hold still no more 
 My breath, as before, 
 But shouted — "Joy ! — ^joy ! — Oh, the blest martyr save — 
 For his wisdom shall yet guide the steps of the brave !" 
 Ere I finish'd ray thought, 
 I was rapidly caught. 
 And whirled like a leaf on the autumn's tomb ; 
 The bright scene was cleft. 
 And I wept at being left. 
 Sad, thoughtful, and lone, in my own little room. 
 
 The light had burnt down dingy and dim, 
 And a distant lium, like a waking hymn. 
 
86 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 'Rose from the streets — and the heavens gray 
 Whisper'd a new-born Sabbath-day. 
 I felt a something roll down my cheek — 
 The words of a feeling the tongue can't speak ; 
 For I thought of him who was yesterday sent — 
 (The Sun of the Free in my land's firmament) — 
 To a fetter'd Hfe o'er the western foam, 
 From the land of his voice, and the joys of his home; 
 And I cursed the power that sent him there, 
 'Till my study was thick with the palsied air ; 
 And I vow'd that I'd hate, if I could nothing more, 
 While a grain of sand roU'd on my life's lone shore, 
 The Phantasm " law," 'neath the pure vestal veil 
 She stealeth her courtezan teachings to seal ; ^^^^ 
 And I'll keep my vow yet, please heaven, the day 
 Freedom's hand shades Time's dial, in pointing that way ! 
 ****** 
 
 Morn smiled with a crispy smile on my floor, 
 
 Sorrowful, sad, and lonely; 
 And I sank weak as one whose days are o'er, 
 As the town-clock chimed — one — two — three — four — 
 
 Sorrowful, sad, and lonely. 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 87 
 
 MIND, 
 
 A LABOR CHANT, 
 
 Ringers on the chiming anvil — 
 
 Tillers of the soil; — 
 Men of nerve and sweated brows — 
 
 Men of truth and toil — 
 Levelers of primeval forests — 
 
 Craftsmen of the city — 
 Here's a chant — a labor chant — 
 Chorus now my ditty ! 
 
 Brothers, here's my hand and heart, too ; 
 Ev'ry vein is for my kind ; 
 ■ What is wealth, if it should part you, 
 With its whisperings so golden, 
 (As deceitful as 'tis olden,) 
 From that only god-found palace, 
 Where, from Learning's crystal chaUce, 
 • Draught ye mighty stoups of mind ? 
 
88 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND, 
 
 Men of brawny bone and sinew, 
 
 Honest toil and craft — 
 Men, whose homely brows are sun-dyed. 
 
 Toiling on life's raft, 
 Down the wild sea of existence — 
 
 Truthful more than witty^ 
 Here's a chant of sweet resistance — 
 Chorus now my ditty ! 
 
 Brothers, if you mean to lift your 
 Trusty heads among your kind. 
 Aid the giant. Thought, to shift your 
 Lives upon the way of knowledge ; 
 (Learning's road is free of tollage ;) 
 And with shouts an hundred hundred, 
 Has the Age's spirit thundered — 
 
 " Whoso ruleth ? — Nought but mind !" 
 
 Men, whose only mace and sabre 
 
 Are the Scythe and Sledge — 
 Men, whose corded sinews labor 
 
 At the wheel or wedge — 
 Men, who love the earned prize, 
 
 Who scorn the rich man's pity — 
 Here's a chant ! — come, chorus, rise, 
 
 And swell aloud my ditty ! • 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 89 
 
 Brothers, earth would be a dismal. 
 
 Barren, wretched place, designed, 
 If it had not Nature's prismal 
 
 Sunlight, bright'ning, as it dallies, 
 
 O'er the hill-sides and the valleys ! 
 But more darksome, soulless, carron, 
 Is the heart whose vales lie barren, 
 
 UnUt by the Sun of Mind ! 
 
 SONG AT SEA. 
 
 Here's to the blue waves below, boys — 
 Here's to the blue sky above us — 
 
 But, here's to the girls we know, boys, 
 With the dark, dark eyes, who love us 
 
 May life be free as the wave, boys ! 
 
 And, when Time his glass stays o'er us, 
 Oh, may the path to the grave, boys. 
 
 Be lit with eyes that adore us ! 
 
90 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 LOVE IN THE GOLDEN VALE. 
 
 We talked of our land, 
 The dear beautiful land ! 
 As we paced slowly through 
 
 Thicket, streamside, and dale ; 
 And we spoke of the souls, 
 The young, high-bearing souls 
 Of her sons ! — and love too, 
 
 In that rich Golden Vale. 
 
 Proud is the smother'd wail — 
 Dying chief in his mail, 
 Heroes fall swift as hail 
 In battle's hour ; 
 Fierce are the vahant then, 
 Wild are the coolest men. 
 Cold blood and prison-den 
 
 Are cowards' dower. 
 
 * * * 
 
 * * * 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 91 
 
 Here Eva, while we throw 
 
 From our join'd hearts the flow — 
 
 Like two wild streams of wo, 
 
 Link'd in despair ; 
 While we uncowl our souls, 
 Bare to the God who rolls 
 Earth on its icy poles. 
 
 Clasp me in pray'r. 
 
 If you would bless me now, 
 More than can earth endow, 
 Pillow your angel brow 
 
 Close on mine, then — 
 Let your dark curling hair 
 Spread o'er my temples bare, 
 And bind them down to pray'r, 
 
 Love, say — Amen ! 
 
 Down on the sward we knelt. 
 My brow her lov'd curls felt, 
 And round my neck there dwelt 
 Eva's soft arm, 
 
92 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 As though choice had design'd 
 Her guardian spirit kind 
 To cheer and raise my mind 
 Sad in hfe's storm. 
 
 As might an angel fair, 
 
 From Heaven's depths of pray'r, 
 
 Cling to the lone hope there, 
 
 So clung to me ; 
 This loved enthusiast one ! 
 Her whom I'd sought and won — 
 Matchless, from Slievenamon, 
 
 Round to the Sea ! 
 
 Onward the proud Suir bore, 
 Distant gray Galteemore, 
 Round his old summit wore 
 
 The Sun's last smile ; 
 And clouds of golden dye, 
 Like heirs watching last sigh 
 Of those they '11 profit by, 
 
 Float round the while. 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 93 
 
 \ 
 
 Golden-ray'd depths of blue, 
 Part sunny — part in dew — 
 And Heaven's mystic hue, 
 
 God-like and grand ! 
 On — like a vision dreams — 
 Purple hills — ruby streams — 
 Till the rich valley seems 
 
 One spirit-land ! 
 
 And an Ambrosial draught. 
 At god-like banquets quafF'd — 
 Where round the goblets laugn'd 
 
 Sweet Ashphodel ; 
 Is the Suir's golden spray — 
 We knelt, but did not pray. 
 Lest what the mouth would say 
 
 Might break the spell. 
 
 Who would such blisses break ? 
 Eyes, more than tongues can speak- 
 Answering, I prest my cheek 
 Eva's upon ! 
 
94 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Both souls were bubbling higb— 
 Quick breathing — wild each eye- 
 Embracing, every sigh 
 Rolled into one ! 
 
 Sunset's gone — stars are blent 
 With our thought's firmament, 
 The loved and loving bent 
 
 In their last kiss — 
 
 * * ♦ 
 
 « * « 
 
 * « «r 
 
 Night — night of Bliss. 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 95 
 
 THE REAPING OF MOULOUGH.<^> 
 
 Air — "Irish Molly, O." 
 
 If Nature gave to human life a centuried lengtli of years, 
 And with them gave the strength of mind for which age 
 
 only fears, 
 I'll bless that glorious harvest-day, and chronicle the date, 
 For 'tis a smile 'midst mem'ry's tears for sorrowed 'Forty- 
 eight. 
 
 From far and wide the reapers came — through love his 
 
 cause they bore — 
 From Commeragh's wild to Slievenamon — ^from Grange 
 
 to Galteemore — 
 Like streamlets rushing to the sea, like wrecked men to 
 
 a rock, 
 They hurried down and gathered at the Reaping of Mou- 
 
 lough. 
 
96 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 God bless the hardy Reapers ! and Lord bless the mind 
 
 that gave 
 The thoughts that made their sinews aid and help the 
 
 outlawed brave ! 
 The mind that lives in noble deeds, all earth-made vaunters 
 
 mock — 
 And souls like yours are Freedom's hope, ye Reapers of 
 
 Moulough ! 
 
 Oh, bend the Reapers joyfully ! — the hook with fervor 
 
 plies ! — 
 And maidens of the sunny south bind up the falling 
 
 prize! 
 Oh, may the tyrants of our soil so fall before our wrath, 
 And wives of Irish conquerors aid to bind them in their 
 
 path ! 
 
 Sly thoughts of Freedom 'woke my mind as bound was 
 stook and sheaf; 
 
 There thousands, not less noble souls, ranged 'round the 
 noble Chief, 
 
 And eager gasped but for his word, to make each stook 
 a rock. 
 
 To plant the flag of Freedom at the Reaping of Mou- 
 lough ! 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 9t 
 
 A WELCOME. 
 
 Welcome, my own-beloved, long-beloved idol ! 
 
 Come to tbis bosom, as sun to tbe earth ! 
 Come, and let joyousness wildly confide all 
 
 Memory's treasures to towers of mirth ! 
 Welcome ! oh, long has the sight of my darling 
 
 Sadly been wish'd for, in weepings of gall — 
 Sadly, but now where's the demon or marling 
 
 Will keep from my bosom the spirit of all ? 
 
 Welcome, my long-cherish'd, idolized maiden. 
 
 Dream of my boyhood, and bliss of my youth ! 
 Come — here's a heart that will prove thee an Eden, 
 
 Bright as the first, in the god-land of truth ! 
 Oh, with this pleasure my fi-ame's in a tremor — 
 
 Stoical preachers may smile at me now ! 
 Laughing, like curses, befool the defamer — 
 
 Kisses, like yours, burn into my brow ! 
 
98 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Welcome, as light to the chain-worn captive ! 
 
 Welcome, as joy to the heartstrings of grief! 
 Welcome, as Freedom in war won and wrapt, if 
 
 Death has not brought to the Slave's soul relief ! 
 Welcome, as poison, if Honor's the chalice ! 
 
 Welcome, as Heaven, to the spirit that's gone 1 
 Welcome, as triumph of truth over malice ! — 
 
 Come to my bosom, my transcendent one ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Swell the clarion, now. 
 
 Drum the ringing tabor ! 
 Here's — the toiler's brow. 
 
 And the hand of labor 
 May his brow be high ! 
 
 May his hand be trusty ! 
 May his truth ne'er die, 
 
 Nor his sledge grow rusty ! 
 
 Men may smile and bow 
 To their money'd neighbor : 
 
 Give me hands to plough 
 With share — or with sabre ! 
 
 Swell tlie clarion, &rc. 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 99 
 
 PLAIN ADVICE. 
 
 Men, who'd have your brother man 
 
 As a friend adore you, 
 Rush not madly in his van — 
 
 Wait, and look before you ! 
 Leaves upon a madden'd stream 
 
 Kiss, and feed the river ; 
 On a wave of placid beam, 
 
 Buoyant float they ever. 
 
 Friends, who'd make a noble start. 
 
 Gaining man's affection, 
 Alway have the open heart — 
 
 Scorning mean detection. 
 Candor is a beacon fire. 
 
 Life's gloom'd abyss guiding. 
 Giving Hope when Spleen's desire 
 
 Chokes its own confidinof. 
 
100 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Minds, who'd raise a skyward hope, 
 With words kind and songful. 
 
 Give to Right the will to cope — 
 Justice to the wrongful ! 
 
 Kneel in pray'r to God most high ! 
 Bow to Freedom's altars ! 
 
 Bless the steel, when Freedom's nigh- 
 Curse the slave who falters ! 
 
 None need know how oft you kneel : 
 
 Must all count your matins, 
 As tho' they truckled in souls' weal. 
 
 As well as knaves in satins ? 
 Give me minds to do and dare. 
 
 Without the voice of ranting : 
 A silent and a holy pray'r 
 
 Is worth an age of canting ! 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 101 
 
 THE LEINSTER MAID. 
 
 Rich was the gloaming, 
 
 Autumn leaves fadin' ; 
 Thro' the vale, roaming, 
 
 Skipt a young maiden, 
 Lovely as life of truth. 
 
 Where sin ne'er ventur'd- 
 Pure-soul'd as infant youth 
 
 Age had not censur'd. 
 
 On she went tripping ; 
 
 Dew on the morning 
 Came with more dripping — 
 
 Left with more warning. 
 Noiseless, as mystic dream, 
 
 On she went gliding ; 
 Or, like a sun-light beam, 
 
 Thro' ravnne slidinof. 
 
102 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Her face, a solace 
 
 Might give the weary ; 
 
 True as a Wallace — 
 Mild as a fairy. 
 
 Nimblest her tiny foot, 
 On hill or forest ; 
 
 Soul from the branded root- 
 Despots abhorrest. 
 
 Her sainted grandsire 
 
 Fell by the Barrow, 
 When the fair lands' ire 
 
 Sprang like an arrow 
 Wildly from Freedom's bow : 
 
 Hope gleam'd aspirant, 
 Striking — not killing — low. 
 
 The hated tyrant. (^4) 
 
 Calm is her bosom — 
 
 Stately, the maiden ; 
 Wrongs — you can't choose 'em, 
 
 So thickly laden. 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 103 
 
 Lie on that placid soul ! 
 
 She thinks — and grieveth, 
 Lest o'er her years may roll 
 
 Ere she's relieveth. 
 
 Yes — that weak woman 
 
 For glory 's pining ! 
 Death to the foeman — 
 
 Sunbursts a shining ! (^ 
 And you would love her fate, 
 
 Minds chill and narrow, 
 When she sings — " 'Ninety-eight," 
 
 " New Ross," or " Barrow !" 
 
104 LAYS OF THE FATFIERI-AND. 
 
 KITTY TYRREL. 
 
 The Waters of the Rhine are blue — 
 
 The LifFey's waves are brown, love — 
 The nectar of the morning dew 
 
 Is richer than a crown, love : 
 But Kitty's eyes out-tint the Rhine — 
 
 And, brown as Liffey's water, 
 The flowing hair shades the divine 
 
 Pale brow of Dodder's daughter. 
 The bright dew on the rose is dull, 
 
 Before the charms that whirl 
 Around the lips, 
 The luscious lips, 
 
 Of pretty Kitty Tyrrel ! 
 
 Does Kitty ever think of him 
 Whose lot is far away, love ? — 
 
 Or of those days ere life was dim — 
 Or nights — young Cupid's day, love i 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 105 
 
 That rascal's joys are sweet as swift — 
 
 Nay, swifter are they, sweetest — 
 As his bright shaft's unerring drift 
 Rends deeper when 'tis fleetest ! 
 Oh, life was then a forest-tree — 
 And, swift as any squirrel, 
 We pranced, I vow. 
 On pleasure's bough — 
 Ah ! playful Kitty Tyrrel ! 
 
 HURRAH, FOR THE GRAVE. 
 
 "The Grave — the Grave, Is the true tranquillizer." 
 
 Mangan's " Oerman Anthology.^ 
 
 Hurrah for the wormy grave, boys ! 
 Hurrah for the wormy grave ! 
 When the world is false, or our girl's love halts, 
 There's pleasure alone in the grave. 
 
 Hurrah for the airless grave, boys ! 
 The lonely and deep-delv'd grave ! 
 When nations are lost, like ships tempest-toss'd. 
 There's quiet and rest in the grave. 
 
106 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 UNA. 
 
 AN IRISH peasant's LAMENT. 
 
 Oh, thick sorrows rend my heart, 
 Una, 
 
 Can I e'er my thoughts impart, 
 Una, 
 
 Oh ! why art thou, my pulse, gone, 
 
 Leaving me to wander lone. 
 
 On the rocks of life, Och hone ! 
 
 Una Mavrone. 
 
 Oh ! this choking heart will burst, 
 
 Una, 
 Would to God would come the worst, 
 
 Una, 
 Those eyes I can never render 
 To see ought — but comes in splendor. 
 Thy soft eyes beaming so tender ! 
 
 Una Mavrone. 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND, 107 
 
 Oh, why e'er across my way, 
 
 Una, 
 Did thy hght foot ever stray, 
 
 Uua? 
 Coming but as a vision — 
 As angel on a mission ! 
 Flying off with love's petition, 
 
 Una Mavrone. 
 
 When yon, blushing, lent your ear, 
 Una, 
 
 First my heart-accents to hear, 
 Una, 
 
 You were blithe as first of May ! 
 
 Swift as young doe bounds o'er brae ! 
 
 And as light as mountain fay ! 
 
 Una Mavi'one. 
 
 And your voice was clear as Spring ! 
 
 Una, 
 Your lips from the proud Sea-king, 
 
 Una, 
 
108 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 Were a gift of coral red ! 
 
 Still with tempting nectar spread, 
 
 Such as might the gods have fed ! 
 
 Una Mavrone. 
 
 Dare I think of your soft eyes ? 
 
 Una, 
 Can I bid expression rise, 
 
 Una? 
 No — my tongue forbids to speak 
 Of raven hair and velvet cheek — 
 The' strong in thought, in words I'm weak ; 
 
 Una Mavrone. 
 
 Ah ! dead is thy voice to me, 
 
 Una, 
 
 Must I ne'er tread down Glanchree ? - 
 Una, 
 
 No — no — Ma colleen — never — 
 
 That glen my soul would sever. 
 
 Oh, Mavourneen^ lost for ever ! 
 
 Una Mavrone. 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 109 
 
 Well ban a stor please glory, 
 
 Una, 
 We'll meet ; for life lacks story ; 
 
 Una, 
 Yes ! we'll shortly meet, for I'm 
 Wild and weary of my time, 
 And death's knell tolls swift its chime, 
 
 Una Mavrone. 
 
 Then, farewell, sweet days of peace — 
 Una, 
 
 Joy is past — come life's release ; 
 Una, 
 
 Oh, sweet Matair^"^^ MaAre, bless ; 
 
 And sooth my heart's wretchedness, 
 
 Till the grave my woes caress, 
 
 Una Mavrone. 
 
 Then, my soul ! my sorrows o'er, 
 
 On life's reef and rocky shore, 
 
 I'll seek in death my heart's a stor ! 
 
 Una Mavrone. 
 
110 LAYS OF THE FATHERLANH. 
 
 DARLING FAN. 
 
 Let poetic lovers go prattle, 
 
 And sing of their Chloes and Rosas — 
 And Quixotic wooers go battle 
 
 In homage to rustic Tobosas ; 
 Let Time make a football of Honor — 
 
 Let headaches be got without drinking — 
 A Maiden with twenty years on her; 
 
 Or, let the Moon laugh without winking — 
 In short, lovely Fanny, I swear it. 
 A harem of beauties may hear it, 
 I know not so charming a spirit 
 
 From the wilds of Catskill to Lough Dan, 
 As you, you sly, cherry-hpp'd fairy, 
 With a smile, hke homes to the weary, 
 With the blue eye, and step just as cheery — 
 I am yours, only yours, darling Fan ! 
 
 The time may come yet when the dollar, 
 
 That immortal, ever-young fellow ! 
 May fill up the purse of the scholar. 
 
 And make the poor devil's days mellow ! — 
 
LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. Ill 
 
 Old Milton regarded as shallow — 
 
 Will Shakspere be sold for waste paper — 
 Tom Moore wrapt round cheese — Byron, tallow, 
 And Freedom's flame fade to a taper ; 
 
 But never, I swear, lovely charmer, — 
 Dare you doubt me, you witching disarmer ; 
 Can my love or my homage grow warmer ? 
 
 If you doubt it, tell, tell me the plan ; 
 That I'll follow to prove my devotion, 
 Leave my books, and the wild-fire notion 
 Of saihng on Fame's stormy ocean, 
 And cling to my own darling Fan. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 I've sang, dear Bell, to Kate and Moll, 
 
 And eulogized dear Fanny ; 
 But now I tell you, once for all, 
 
 I love you best of any. 
 And though I sigh to Rose and Liz, 
 
 And they pout back to me, love, 
 I swear that nothing more it is 
 
 Than pout and sigh to me, love. 
 
112 LAYS OF THE FATHERLAND. 
 
 But, oh ! to gaze with heartless eyes, 
 
 With soulless lips be swearing, 
 True love to thee from Heaven cries 
 
 For death to cure my daring. 
 You say, my ev'ry notes rejoice, 
 
 The while of them I'm car'Iling — 
 I was but tuning up my voice, 
 
 To sing of you, my darling ! 
 
 I had a dream, the other night — 
 
 Sit close, my dove, and hear it ; 
 I dreamt (would you believe) that sprite — 
 
 That woful sprite — don't fear it — 
 That little scapeless, godless god. 
 
 Whom rhymers call young Cupid, 
 Came with his knowing, winking nod — 
 
 O, who dare call him stupid ? 
 He bade me name some maiden's name ; 
 
 I faltered out my dearest ! 
 And ere an echo cooled my flame. 
 
 She came with smile the clearest ; 
 And eyes, whose brightness dimm'd the youth's. 
 
 He left us jealous, snarling — 
 I kissed, and O ! that dreams were truths. 
 
 Then you were mine, my darling ! 
 
NOTES. 
 
 (1) — Rathlin, a small island off the north of the county Antrim. It is highly 
 deserving of a visit from the antiquary or the man of science. The remains 
 of Bruce's castle, and the stone coffins in the centre of the island, are full of 
 Interest for the pilgrim student. Here also are seen enchanting optical ajrial 
 illusions, — less known, but equal to the striking phenomenon of the Messina 
 Straits — the Fata Morgana. Of this supreme and poetical deception — which 
 completely transfers the mind from its earthly relations into all the light and 
 glories of the shadow-land — it will not be uninteresting to have a description 
 from Angelucci, a friar, and the first who accurately makes note of it : — 
 
 " On the 15th of August, 1643," says he, " as I stood at my window, I was 
 surprised with a most delectable vision. The sea that washes the Sicilian 
 shore, swelled up, and became, for ten miles in length, like a chain of dark 
 mountains ; while the waters of our Calabrian coast grew quite smooth, and, 
 in an instant, appeared as one clear polished mirror, reclining against the afore- 
 said ridge. On this glass was depicted, in chiaro scuro, a string of several 
 thousands of pilasters, all equal in altitude, distance, and degree of light and 
 shade. In a moment they lost half their height, and bent into arches, like 
 Roman aqueducts. A long cornice was next formed on the top, and above it 
 arose castles innumerable, all perfectly alike. These soon split into towers, 
 which were shortly after lost in columns — and then windows — and, at last, 
 ended in pines, cypresses, and other trees, even and similar. This was the 
 Fata Morgana, which, for twenty years, I had thought a mere fable." 
 
 Such an illusion, with the accessories which the grand and picturesque 
 shores of Antrim present — the rugged and romantic cliffs opposite — with an oc- 
 casional ruin standing alone in its desolation, like some bewitched soul doomed 
 to eke out its decay, counting years by the century, that its torture may be 
 enhanced in the sole recollection of its early glory and purgatorial dissolution — 
 and the wild scenic character of that coast — would be worth half an existence 
 to gaze upon. What I think most like to it, would be one of Martin's sublime 
 
114 NOTES. 
 
 and awful pictorial imaginings of the early world transformed into a stupen- 
 dous reality, and contemplate that unearthly moment as one in which it would 
 be a blessing to die. 
 
 (2)— SAf/an, a small but beauliCul lough, on the borders of Meath, and near 
 the junction of the provinces of Tlster, Leinster, and Connaght. 
 
 (3) — Irishtown Crosn, 
 
 And steep JVeio Ross, 
 
 Places celebrated in the memorials of the War for Independence in 1798, in 
 the county Wexford. The former town is a portion of the latter, but is outside 
 the memorable Three-bullet Gate, the attack and capture of which, on the 
 entry of the insurgents into Ross, exhibited so much headlong braverj'. New 
 Ross is situated on the side of a steep hill overlooking the river Barrow. In 
 the spring of 1845, I spent some time in the revolutionary neighborhoods of Old 
 Ross, the rock of Carrig-Byrne, and Lackan Hill; and, on several visits to the 
 Modellings, Irishtown, and New Ross, went over the ground of "one of the 
 most bloody and most protracted battles ever fought in Ireland." * As I ap- 
 proached those scenes, the more distracted and uncertain did the actual pres- 
 ence of time become. My soul and spirit — all that is immortal of man — was 
 not sensible of the present. By that electricity of thought and congeniality of 
 feeling which imbues an admirer with the age, spirit, or principle of his admi- 
 ration, I was living forty-seven years past, amid the by-gones, on an ever-to-be- 
 memoried fifth of June. [ walked over the ground with an abstracted silence — 
 driven by impulse, and a suffocating welling round my heart, that drowned 
 any attempt at utterance. 
 
 I approached the Gate with a nervous determination, feeling as though a 
 host of soldiery, with faces thirstier for blood than their bayonets, were op- 
 posed to my entrance ; nearer — still nearer — every step adding to my force of 
 will, until I passed beneath its hallowed arches — my young blood glowing with 
 the fervor of a martyr. I passed down the streets, and, in imagination, saw 
 the royal ensign of our oppressor carried, in the confusion of defeat, across the 
 Barrow's tide. I turned my back to the river, and walked up the town, in the 
 same burning silence — in that distracted state, in which we know it would 
 be real bliss to unloose the flood- gates of the heart in tears — but they come not. 
 I passed through the town, and re-entered it by the avenue called the '' Brogue- 
 makers' Lane." I also visited the boreen slough; and, returning again from 
 places which gave me such unutterable pain, lost myself In the glory and 
 shame of the time. 
 
 When opposite the Cross of Irishtown — that memorial of the day's disaster — 
 nature aided me in bursting the bonds of silence, only to call down a maledic- 
 tion on that intemperance which annihilated the hopes of Munster in that 
 
 • BiUTingtnn's " Rise and Fall."' 
 
NOTES. 115 
 
 insurrection, and weightened the balance of Fate against Ireland for years. 
 To-day — nearly five years since — with a greater knowledge of Ireland and her 
 history — with late personal experiences — with the opinions of her most gifted 
 sons before me — and an exile from her — I feel the virtue of my youthful curse ! 
 
 (5) — I wrote this song very hurriedly, late one night, on my return from one 
 of the Dublin Confederate Clubs — where I had seen, for the first time, some 
 splendid specimens of pike-heads. The sight of that glorious weapon, and 
 the anxiety displayed In choosing the most formidable shape, gave me my title 
 and theme — " Hope at Last." It was written for my fellow-citizens — that class 
 of society denominated The People — and was printed a day or two afterwards 
 in one of the cheap revolutionary publications which floated on the tide of 
 sedition. 
 
 (6) — This chaunt was the last song in the last ntimber of the last great 
 National Journal published in Ireland previous to the abortive risings of Ballin- 
 gary, Slievenamon, and Portlaw, in 1848. It was printed in the "Irish Felon," 
 for the publication of which paper, John Martin — the estimable, the simple, 
 and the high-minded — was exiled to a British penal colony, for ten years. 
 
 (7) — A spear. 
 
 (8) — I would suggest that this word be spelled, in future, Inis-/e^7i — "The Isle 
 of Felons ;" it is needless to say why. 
 
 (9) — The Dead Sea. — A great portion of the country was proclaimed under 
 martial law — and no person, '' by law," could keep arms, without informing 
 the ruling authorities ; and even then, the latter would allow the possession 
 of such w^eapons only to residents considered well-affected to the " Crown and 
 Government." I was of the opinion, that every man, of his own right, ought 
 to have, openly or secretly, what arms he chose — and so composed me a little 
 sarcastic ditty. 
 
 (10) — The Well of Saint Anne, situate in the valley of Glan-nis-mole. Kilmo- 
 santan is the ruins of a primitive Christian church, about two hundred yards 
 nearer to the river Dodder, than the well. 
 
 (11) — The valley of Glan-nis-mole was celebrated for its ash woods, not a 
 vestige of which now remains, (although a great portion of its sides still retain 
 the name of "The Woods,") except a young growth springing here and there 
 from some of the roots which were not entirely carried off. Fo.iitail— the plant 
 so called from its resemblance to a fox's irush. 
 
 (12) — " Pray for the unfortunate." 
 
 (13) — Pronounced colleen bawn. 
 
 (14) — These stanzas were written in contemplation of the probable fate of 
 the state prisoners, and of the hopes, doubts, dangers, and success of the lead- 
 
116 
 
 ers, who were wandering in the south — principally in Tipperary and Water- 
 ford — at the time. It was the day following the arrest of Smith O'Brien, at 
 Thurles — a rumor of which had just reached Carricli. 
 
 (15) — The turbulency and pride of this northern Shane O'Neill had the effect 
 of creating the English hate to such an extent, that, either by " war or diplo- 
 macy," they were determined to reduce him. " Yes," says Mitchel, " they 
 would now shower their tinsel honors upon him — set his foot upon the necks 
 of all his enemies — enrich him with the spoil of numerous abbeys, — let him 
 only consent to kneel at the footstool of a foreign throne, and place his country 
 under the iron heel of English power." But, Shane the Proud despised those 
 paltry coronets. "Letters-patent could not strengthen him in Tyr-owen; and 
 for abbeys, if he had been reformer enough, he could have robbed them for 
 himself."— Xj/e of Hugh O'Meill, 
 
 (16) — "Elizabeth, while she loaded him with honors, vowed revenge in 
 secret, and swore, ' by God's death,' that such a rascaille kerne should not long 
 despise her peerages and defy her power." — Ibid. 
 
 (17) — Leland thus describes O'Neill's appearance before the Queen, in Lon- 
 don, and the ignorant awe and wonder of the good citizens of Ehzabeth's licen- 
 tious capital : — " He resolved to attend her in a manner suited to her princely 
 dignity. * * * * He appeared in London, attended by a guard of 
 Gallovvglasses, arrayed in the richest habiliments of their country — armed with 
 the battle-axe — their heads bare — their hair flowing on their shoulders," (there 
 being in force, at the time, the Kilkenny statute prohibiting the growth of hair 
 so) — " their linen vests dyed with saffron, with long and open sleeves — and 
 surcharged with their short military harness ; — a spectacle astonishing to the 
 people, who imagined they beheld the inhabitants of some distant quarter of 
 the globe." 
 
 (18) — " A powerful body of English troops was sent to Derrj', under Colonel 
 Randolph, ostensibly as auxiliaries against the Scots, but, in truth, to form a 
 settlement there, which might be a key to Ulster, (or a bit between the teeth 
 of O'Neill.) These English being true Reformers, made small account of the 
 sanctity of that ancient seat of piety. They turned the church into an arsenal, 
 and fortified themselves upon the hill of Derry." — Hugh O'.N'eill. 
 
 (19) — I trust that none of my Episcopalian or other readers will accuse me 
 of bigotry, for the occasional epithets of opposition to the Reformatory times. 
 My allusions are in accordance with the characteristics of my ballad, and rigidly 
 in the path of historical accuracy. 
 
 (20)— Mitchel, in a note to his " Hugh O'Neill," says—" There is an obscurity 
 about the cause of the English troops evacuating Derry. The story of the skir- 
 mish in which Randolph was killed, is given by Camden and Cox; but O'SuUl- 
 
NOTES. llY 
 
 van does not mention it at all. And, on the other hand, the miracle of the 
 wolf is an unsatisfactory account of the matter. O'SuUivan, however, does 
 not state it as a fact, but as a popular belief in his day." 
 
 "The ignorant," says Leland, (Vol. II., p. 282,) " and superstitious exclaim- 
 ed, that the holy Kolum-kil had at length taken vengeance on the sacrilegious 
 profaners of his residence. They propagated their tale, (well calculated for 
 those to whom they addressed themselves,) of the enormous wulf which had 
 issued out of the woods, snatched up a burning brand in his teeth, and cast it 
 into the church, which the heretics have converted into an arsenal." So the 
 pious Colunikille avenged himself; and, without questioning the superstition, 
 I will only say, the legend (which is conceived with no idle or ignorant credu- 
 lity, and which materially aided Shane's purposes,) presents an enticing, if not 
 an interesting, pastime for the balladist. 
 
 (21) — John Mitchel was put through the formula of a trial on the 26th of 
 May, 1848; and at five minutes past seven in the evening, was found guilty — 
 of course. On the next morning, (Saturday,) he was brought up for sentence. 
 Mankind will ever remember his heroism at the bar, and his grand burst of 
 eloquence and prophecy at the time. For compassing, imagining, devising, 
 intending, etc., to levy war, and deprive "Our Gracious Queen" of the style, 
 title, dignity, and privilege of Sovereign of " these realms," and to plant, instead, 
 "an Irish Republic," Mitchel was transported, in chains, "beyond the seas, 
 for the term of fourteen years." A sad day for Ireland ! The ensuing Sabbath 
 was virtually the most unholy in the land since the days of Wolf Tone. In- 
 stead of the lamentation for his capture and departure, it should have been the 
 requiem for those killed in his defence, or the thrilling alleluiahs of victorious 
 barricades and a captured city. 
 
 " English law, then, however she may affect the antique phrase and spotless 
 veil of Justice, can never win our respect and obedience. We recognise and 
 abhor the strumpet, although she have stolen the robes of a vestal," 
 
 Address of the Irish Students' Club to O'Brien., Meagher, and Mitchel, 
 
 May ISth, 1848. 
 
 Ben Heder — the Hill of Howth — a celebrated promontory, with which there 
 are connected several historic legends. It forms the northern boundary of the 
 beautiful Bay of Dublin. Its outline is bold, varied, and picturesque. Many 
 a happy day, in company with some of my dearest friends, hq,ve I spent in 
 ascending its dangerous and craggy heights, and in exploring the many caverns 
 which perforate its base. 
 
 (^)—Moulo\igh, or Mullough, in the parish of Ballyneale, county Tipperary, 
 was the residence of John O'Mahony. The "reaping" was written to com- 
 memorate such an incident of the harvesting, rendered memorable in this case 
 by the patriotic spirit which led to it. The accompanying extract from a sketch 
 
118 NOTES. 
 
 of my friend, published shortly after my escape to this land, will not be out of 
 place : — 
 
 " This reaping took place on the 22d of August— and I had never up to that 
 time seen such an inspiring sight. The Monster Meetings of '43 were great 
 and magnanimous — the Confederate Meetings were enthusiastic and spirited — 
 but this mountain and valley band of reapers, old and young, and binders, 
 bright-eyed and brown-haired, struck me to the soul as being hopeful in a high 
 degree. Coming from miles and miles away — from the smiling vale, and over 
 the heath hill— the rich farmer with his score of men, the poor peasant with 
 his ready hook— the eagerness which they displayed in their ' love labor,' and 
 their determination to overcome all obstacles,— filled me with visions of bliss 
 for futurity. And there was an obstacle— or rather, there was one a-foot— but 
 it failed. A body of cavalry and police were sent from Carrick-on-Suir, in the 
 idea of raising a quarrel, or in the vain hope of arresting O'Mahony, and of 
 butchering the unarmed peasants, should they dare a rescue. But, despite 
 the intrusion of this horde of hirelings, and their attempts to raise a disturbance, 
 by trampling with their horses on the corn, and pushing in the midst of the 
 people, order was preserved by a few noble and courageous men, who hurried 
 through the ranks of the reapers, encouraging them to preserve steadily the 
 object for which they came. They needed no counsel — they were determined 
 to repay the intrusion at a not far olT day ; and here, reader, my spirit and 
 heart would forsake me, save that living senses of retrospection cry — 'God! 
 to what a low grade of serfdom may a people not be brought, through the un- 
 righteous superstition of a religious ban !' 
 
 " From that day I took my fate with O'Mahony, in the close woods and the 
 wild hills, the earthy cave and the peasant's friendship : and while on this 
 subject, I will say, that a warmer-hearted race of men for the outlaw's safety 
 never existed." 
 
 (23)— Pronounced as if vvritten Mawhirh, and, anglicised, means Mary Mother, 
 or Mother of God. 
 
 (24)— Alluding to the struggle in 1798. 
 
 (25) — The National Flag of Ireland — a green flag, with a rising sun on it 
 
 JVote to " A Voice from the People,'" p. 29. — This appeal, and the one which 
 follows, were writen at a time when the country, and more particularly the 
 city of Dublin, was equally excited and astonished by the decisive measures 
 of the Government. By one politic blow, the life of the National Press was 
 attempted, nay, almost taken. The leading journals were issued as usual on 
 the morning of Saturday, the 8th of July. Treason ran riot in print — rebellion 
 foamed in the precints of Dublin Castle — aye, lightened in the very shadow of 
 vice-royalty. Who was there, of friends or foes, th;it did not read the "rebel" 
 
119 
 
 press ? Who, indeed ? Why, from monarchy's proxy to the humblest news- 
 boy, all were capable, I'rom pure study, to read " My lord " or " My lady " a 
 pungent lecture on the "jacobin articles" of the week. The people, who are 
 so often fed by demagogues, and had of late been seduced from the table of a 
 grand one, liked the new food well ; but the Castle officials, who were used to 
 veritable good things, thought the rebellious " feast of reason" much too savory 
 for the equanimity of their palates, and so determined to "squelch" the sauce, 
 devastate the ingredients, and interdict the inventors. So accordingly, within 
 twenty-four hours from that noon — on the 8th — "The Irish Tribune" office 
 was ransacked, the MSS. and autographs zealously secured, and two of its 
 editorial proprietors — my friends, Richard D' Alton Williams and Kevin Izod 
 O'Dogherty — with the printer, were arrested on a charge of treason-felony, 
 and lodged in Newgate. " The Irish Felon," and its proprietor, John Martin, 
 met the same fate ; while "The Nation," and its editor, were respectively as- 
 saulted and arrested. Two days after — about the same hour — Thomas Francis 
 Meagher and Michael Doheny were arrested — the former in Waterford, the 
 latter in Cashel. Here were two glorious moments — perhaps the most hopeful 
 in '48 — lost to Irish Liberty, through the want of a settled plan among the lead 
 ers. Oh, no wonder is it that the God of buttles and of barricades forsook us — 
 for he was slighted when he gave us a shrine, and an opportunity to kneel 
 thereon. And, until Ireland has a man who will take as well as make his 
 opportunity, she will remain a province ; for what is the game of war, but 
 the science of opportunity ? Raise Mar's vizor — look at his face. By the 
 Lord, 'tis all opportunity ' 
 
 All was excitement. Enthusiasm carried hope such a long journey, that hope 
 itself could scarcer support the brain that reared it. The "Tribune" did not 
 appear after the 8th. The " Felon" (whose printer was not at that time arrest- 
 ed,) issued two more numbers, in the second of which the preceding "Chaunt" 
 was printed ; and in a contemplated number, whicli was arrested on the eve 
 of publication, the above " Voice" was to have appeared — myself and others 
 of the " Tribune " having offered our services to the survivor, on the arrest of 
 our own journal. 
 
 JWte to ''Saint Anne's Welt," p. 41. — Kippure, Castlekelly, Balmannock, 
 Cornaun, (better known as the "Old Hill of RoUinstown," and at present called 
 Montpelier,) See-Finane, &c., are the names of various hills which form p;irt 
 iif the Dublin range, and look down into the valley of Glan-nis-mole. The 
 brown Kippure is at the remote end of the vale. That sprightly, little, wayward 
 stream, the Dodder, rises in this hill from three points, which join a short wiiy 
 down, and spring and leap thence into the valley — the thousand streamlets and 
 cascades from the siurrounding hills rushing down to follow its sparkling crest, 
 and join their wandering voices into a united burst of song. Oh, that man 
 would take the lesson this mountain stream affords : 
 
120 
 
 The scenery in this delighlful valley is solitary, grand, bold, and effective. 
 Every turn brings the eye in presence of some new, striking, rugged scene, 
 highly picturesque — the wild stream always prancing around you, twisting and 
 leaping into all sorts of diamonded shapes, and chaunting its merry lyrics into 
 your intoxicated ears. I have lived there — and when not a resident, it was for 
 years a place of constant visiting ; for that mountain air gave new life to some 
 of my dearest relatives, as well as health and delight to myself. The names 
 of the hills and the people, with me are synonymous ; to name either, is to 
 name both — for there is scarcely a cot in the valley but I have been a visiter 
 to. Some of the hapi)iest — ay, the very happiest — days of my existence were 
 spent here in the pastimes of the mountaineers, or strolling over the lonely 
 hills with my favorite poet — exploring the old ruins — chasing the Dodder, over 
 rock and morass, to its very fount — making pilgrimages to the "Holy Well" — 
 or, expounding the beauties of the scene, and building airy castles to the dark- 
 eyed companion by my side ; ah, me I — and that dark-eyed companion went 
 away into dream-land with me then, for we were young — and youth will soar, 
 until imagination becomes weak from their daring, and they cling to each other 
 for support ; each to the other finds itself a staff— each, of itself, is weak ; 
 they cling — perchance they love ! Ah, reader, we have wandered to the land 
 of shapes : let this be a dream — awake. 
 
 This valley is celebrated for is beautiful thrushes, 
 
 Coliagh — old woman. 
 
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