A A 6 7 ^ 9 CIL — ( 8 >^' *^ :«^ (VyVv . . .WWW ^fc«fe^' IsPJi:-'^: T ^^< ■#sm THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES '■'•• o ^ /^ EFFUSIONS AFTER TOII A COLLECTION OF POEMS AND LYRICS, HENRY M 'AN ALLY, PARTICK. PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR BY CAMERON AND FERGUSON, GLASGOW AND LONDON. 1884. M// Rights Reserved. \ TO T. D. SULLIVAN, ESQ., M.P. Honourable Sie, — To be permitted to dedicate to you this volume of my humble verse is the proudest honour of my life. I esteem you highly as a fearless, active member of " Ireland's Ii-ish Party" in the British House of Commons, but not in that band of illustrious Irish patriots came your national virtues first to light. You are the chief of Ireland's living poets, and have, by means of your inspiring lyre, been thrilling the hearts of Irishmen all over the globe so long as I remember; and as an Irish journalist you have, for many years, been foremost in the gallant fight, which must one day terminate in complete victory for the Irish nation. To ornament my book with the name of such a brilliant patriot, poet, and journalist, may seem ambition of me; nevertheless my wish to do so is supported by the wish of my personal Irish friends, and you can accept this dedication from me, and from them, as a slight recogni- tion of your long services to the laud that bore us. I cannot help feeling some regret that this volume is 937G53 IV unequal to the glitter your name gives it, Ijut its title, '*' Effusions after Toil," is, perhaps, the best apology for its defects, as it plainly shows you that I am not a favourite of fortune. At present I am only a toiler in a Clyde Shipyard, under the heats of summer and the storms of winter, and I never have had, at any time in my life, means of receiving the education necessary to place me on a level with the more enlightened poets of my native land. Indeed I shall await your jvidgment on the rude outpourings which I now introduce to your notice, before I confidently say that I am a poet of even the palest magnitude. It was not my intention to vex the public with a collection of my " Effusions ; " but I have been persuaded and assisted to publish by my personal friends, v,]io ar . 148 Caroline Adair, .... : 150 Impromptu Lines, .... . 151 The Fate of Young John Kane, . . 152 John Daily and the Boys of Garryowen, 154 Distress in Partick, 1879, . . , ■ , 155 Edina, . ... • . 156 Detective Cully, .... , 157 .John Ferguson, .... , 158 John Ferguson, Hurrah, . . . 159 An Afternoon in Juue, , IGO A Sad Story, .... 1 . 162 The Bear of Russia, . . 1G4 Lilly M'Lean, .... . . 166 A Perfect Orange Lily, » . 167 A Prologue, . . . . . 1 1 . 1G9 VIU CONTENTS. The Siuless Lamb of God, Christmas Morniug, ComplimcQts of the Season, . . A Xfiw-Year Epistle, Memory's Morning Star, , . . TheDeil and the Mountebanli, . The Maid of Milton, An Election Ballad, Saint Patrick's Night in J'artick, The Gem of Govacdalc, Mary's Look, Ye Birds that Flit from Tree to Tree, The-Lass of Kelvinhaugh, . The Pride of Stewartstowu, , The Fate of Abdul Aziz, , The Author to his Conmiittee, A Song by a Donegal Poet, . FAOK 171 174 175 177 179 181 181 183 ia5 187 188 189 190 192 193 194 198 EFFUSIONS AFTEE TOIL. PROSPECTUS. %'N harmony with the request X Of Irishmen who knew him best, The author means to bind in boards For them, a volume from his pen. Of verse which may amuse them when He tunes no more his harp's wild chords ; He vaunts not of the treasures they Will on the printed pages scan, But those who read them over may Behold an ardent Irishman. Love for the country of his sires Burns hot in his poetic fires. And in tlie book will play its part, — While songs of other sentiment Will to the reader still present The feelings of a Celtic heart. He to his countrymen applies, The offsprings of his native soil, To risk the cost, and patronise His book, " Efiusions after Toil." In this adventure of the press, They could assist him to success ; But should they treat him with disdain, He still can independent be ; — A bardic son of liberty, EFFUSIOXS AFTER TOIL. "Whom want of means will never chain ; For still above the silent vale His soul can soar on music's wings, Undaunted as the nightingale That to reposing nature sings. In this appeal the minstrel craves No patronage from crouching slaves, Who fear to breathe the air of heaven ; But unto men of nobler aim, AYhose thoughts are sparks of freedom's flame, His compliments are humbly given. He panders to no base desire, Fi-om which he would himself recoil ; But breathes stern independent fire Throughout " EiTusions after Toil." THE IRISH PHCENIX. fS BEAT illegitimate Elizabeth '\S Saw Erin beaten, bled, and burned to death, And thought the victim of her sword and fii-e Would not again to active life aspire ; But nothing mortal ever can efiace The inextinguishable Celtic race; The brutal woman spent her wrath in vain, The Irish phoenix rose to life again. In half a century of ills and woes, Dead Eiin from'her blood and ashes rose, And flashed her blade in freedom's sacred cause. Despising still the tyrant and his laws, Prefering rather on her own green plains,^ To challenge death than lie in servile chains ; Then Cromwell came her ardent pulse to quell. And blasted her with all the storms of hell. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. Tlie godless regicide across her ran, With reckless murder raging on his van, While towns and villages in flames behind Blazed frightfully, and roared amid the wind, Till all the land became from shore to shore A blackened waste of cinders and of gore ; And Erin fell again from off her feet, And lifeless lay beneath her winding-sheet. Now slain by Satan's own adopted son, She would appear beyond redemption done. Yet finding new vitality and breath, She phcenix-like consumed tlie bonds of death. And bounded back again to hopeful life, At freedom's call, to plunge in deadly strife With England's hangman, William of Nassau, Who came with his infernal foreign law. With all the reprobates that had been sent To aid the robber from the Continent, And all the ])utchers England could afford. The Dutchman landed flaming fire and sword ; And at the Boyne, and on red Aughrim's heights, Green Erin fought with him to save her rights, But, finally succumbing to his host. She bowed her head and yielded up the ghost. Then dead was she, and she was worse than dead, Eor heavy bondage fell upon her head. And on her limbs, amid the rayless gloom. Were penal ties to hold her in her tomb. Lest freedom's animatincf bugle-horn Might summon her again to life new-born ; But let no tyrant hope for lasting peace — The pulse of liberty Avill never cease. The chains that bound the corpse of Erin broke, The dead once more to life and action woke ; EFFUSIONS AFT£R TOIL. The sons of robbed and murdered Ii'ish sires Fanned twinkling embers into raging fires. And rose at times with daring hearts and hands To battle for their confiscated lands ; And England only cut them down in A'ain, For still the Irish plia^nix rose again. To (|ueucli green Erin long the t3'rant strove, But still she held the qiienchless tires of Jove, Enduring centuries of blood and tears, And at the end invincible appears, Wliile lecrions of her own nomadic race Tliat wander exiled over terra's face, Are still her children both in name and faith. And would be her's to victory or death. 'J'HE CENTENARY OF THOMAS MOORE. " Dear harp of laj' country, in ilurkuess I found thee ; The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, AVlien proudly, my own island harp, I unbound thee, And gave all V.iy chords to light, freedom, and song." Moore. ^ ROUND Apollo's dazzling throne ,X^ That cheers the wilderness of space. One hundred times our earth has gone Revolving on her circling race. Since Erin's noblest bard was boi-n To rouse the harp that slumbered long, And make it in the face of nu>rn Electrify the world with song. Tlie harp that once was Erin's pride For generations voiceless lay, As though the soul of song had died That tuned it in a former day. EFFUSIONS AFTEK TOIL. And Erin wept, but who again Could harmonise the instrument With melody sublimely plain, To give her tortured feelings vent? Subjected to a penal code, The land dark chains of bondage bore, And underneath the galling load Were crushed the elements of lore. That scarcely could a genius spring, To leave posterity a name, Till Moore, upon resistless wing, Soared to the highest peak of fame. Why should his centenary fail To stir his countrymen, to make The bells of joy ring on the gale This day, for his and Erin's sake ; For had he never come to light. Where would she find a bard supreme, To wear on fame's eternal height Proud laurels of eternal gleam ? The past gave all its memories, The treasures of a thousand years, To aid him in his " Melodies," Now bright with joy, now sad with tears; The old airs of his native plains — The dying ghosts of dead renown — Found life in his reviving strains That can at time defiance frown. What charming art to him was given ! What magic hand to sweep the lyre ! Whose chords drew down the fires of heaven, The hearts of mortals to inspire With feelings which could change the rage Of English tyrants to a smile. And make them lavish patronage Upon the bard of Erin's isle. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. He lived in days of mortal wratli — He saw Ins country streaming red With flame and blood npon the path That might to liberty have led ; And Avhile he sang his cheering lays, And poured his soul to freedom's god, Convulsive Mars in hostile blaze Belched fiery cataracts abroad. Napoleon scourged the world with war. Lord Byron lashed it with the pen, And fame resounded wide and far The mighty deeds of mighty men ; Yet through that world of wild alarms The songs of Moore applauded ran — Still flowing in a stream of charms Upon the ravished ears of man. The English language that he spoke Could not contain the fame he won, For into other tongues it bi-oke, Far in the regions of the sun ; And maids upon the Persian shore At eve could walk through flowery vales, And chant the " Melodies " of Moore, With voices sweet as nightingales. How Iran's persecuted sons Detest the Moslem tyrant's chain — See fields where crimson vengeance runs, And rolling rivers gorged with slain ; What though the Koran despot yet Withholds the liberties of men, He may not in his pride forget The dreadful " Gheber's bloody glen." Wliile England to her Shakespeare turns, And crowns him monarch of the stage, EFFUSIONS AFTEK TOIL. And Scotia bends the knee to Burns- The brightest name upon her page — Well may green Erin homage pay To purer excellence and worth — A bard as fair as flowery May, The virgin month that saw his bii'th. A century has glided by, And well may Erin celebrate The hundredth anniversary Of her great poet's natal date. He found her harp in silence lone — He tore it from the depth of shame — He gave its chords a Syren tone — He left it in eternal fame. Revile him, critics, as you please, His intellect attbrds j'ou play — Ye through its light can sport at ease, Like insects in the blaze of day ; Still, he the bard of Erin is. And will her lord of song remain ; No pen is known to write like his — A Moore will never live again. MUNROE'S DEFEAT AT BENBURB. 'UNROE his Covenanters hui-ries on, The banded clans of Ulster to assail ; His heart with valour glows at morning's dawn. But day's decline will see his courage fail ; For at Benburb great Owen Roe O'Neill, Whose warriors wait impatient for the fray. Shall meet him with a sweejjing battle gale, Which will thi'ee thousand of his robbers lay In bloody shrouds before the closing of the day. •'^ EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. The general, arriving at Benbiirb, Will find it sterner than Islandmagee, Whex'e there was not a musket to disturb His ruffians in their hellish midnicrht glee — He shall not drive before him to the sea The hostile clansmen on Blackwaterside, Who there for vengeance and for liberty- Are massed in all their military pride ; They soon will thin his ranks, aud strew them far and wide. A daring charge upon their lines he makes. And is repulsed with loss, yet comes again, And is repulsed afresh while lightning rakes His reeling columns on the bloody plain ; Repeatedly he charges, still in vain — He is in military skill outdone ; For great O'Neill, who studied war in Spain, Is only waiting for the setting sun To make Munroe and all his Covenanters run. Now westward slopes the blazing orb of day, And with his darting rays blinds Erin's Ibei, While great O'Neill, to give them further play, With hoi'se and foot like thiinder on them goes ; But will they stand to face the slasliing blows Of Irish steel 1 They fly like hunted deer- Bare-headed rides their general, who shows A woeful couHtenance, all white with fear, — He never looks behind, the chase is so severe. Benburb, thy plains are red with foemen's gore, The noise of victory is heard afar, The hills tremble with the a]>plauding ro^ir, That hails O'Neill, green Erin's battle star ; 'I'liis day's renown should stimulate the war And summon all the Irish race to fight For Irish inde2)endcnce, and to mar The English demon, Cx'Omwell, in his might. Who comes to bind the land in thraldom, dark as night. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. RODY M'CORLEY. VIST days when Irishmen arose JL-. To break their chains and kill their foes, The cause advanced where fell the blows Of dashin.cc Rody M'Corley. And often by hillside or wood, Along the Bann's enchanting- flood, The rebels plunged their ]nkes in blood, Led on by Rody M'Corley. The rebel Rody M'Corley, O daring Rody M'Corley ! The rebels plunged their pikes in blood, Led on by Rody M'Corley. Though handsome, tall, and fair to see. And was a child in rural glee, A lion in his wrath was he, Undaunted Rody M'Corley. With fearless hand, and heart of might, He fought his country's wrongs to right. And yeomen feared in open fight The steel of Rody M'Corley. The rebel, Rody M'Corley, daring Rody M'Corley I And yeomen feared in open tight The steel of Rody M'Corley. He roamed his native plains at large. And could like scathing lightning charge The scarlet flag of old King George, O valiant Rody M'Corley ! From hill to hill, from town to town. He chased the bulldogs of the Crown, And death was in the scowling frown Of warlike Rody M'Corley. 10 EFFUSIONS AFTEK TOIL. The rebel, Rody M'Coi-ley, O daring Rody M'Corleyl And death was in the scowling frown Of warlike Rody M'Corley. Night, mounted on her slumber-car, Reposed him not, for near and far He still watched England's dogs of war, And they watched Rody M'Corley. So swift was he, so tierce and bold, They could but capture him with gold, And to their hands a ti-aitor sold Heroic Rody M'Corley. The rebel, Rody M'Corlev, O daring Rody M'Corley"! And to their hands a traitor sold Heroic Rody M'Corley. Arrested was the gallant man. And shouts of hellish triumph ran Among the yeomen of the Bann, For they had Rody M'Corley. And soon they sealed his mortal doom. They hanged him on the Bridge of Toome But iianormen never will consume The cause of Rody M'Corley. The rebel, Rody M'Corley, O daring Rody M'Corley ! But hangmen never will consume The cause of Rody M'Corley. RORY, ■yXJST after reading in the Glasgow papers ^ Of Rory's many daring tricks and capers, And how he writes to Irish lords and mastei'S,. Informing tliom of terrible disasters. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 11 Which will be theirs should they deserve no l)etfctu-, I thought him kind for warning them by letter, And to give my opinion of the story, I took my pen and thi;s defended Rory : — Enlightened Irish lords and knights . May spell, and read, and stammer, And think the note that Rory writes Is quite devoid of gi-ammar ; But though his style be rude and rough, He tells a simple story, Which must to them be plain enough, For that's the kind of Rory. If he informs the gentlemen He has a gun or pistol. The meaning of his letter, then, Must be as clear as crystal ; He threatens with unei-riug hand To lay them stiff and gory, If longer they afflict the land. For that's the kind of Rory. No wonder that the man is mad ; He witnesses evictions, And sees poor families all s id. Turned out to dii'e aftiictions ; He meets the young upon his path, He meets the old and hoary, Their sorrows make him jump with wrath. For that's the kind of Rory. Now those who chai'ge the frantic man With foul assassination, Should point him out a better })lan Of dealing with starvation ; To strike the evil at the root Would only be his glory ; He would the cause of hunger shoot. For that's the kind of Rory. 12 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. NOTHING AT ALL. This song was wi'itten as a reply to Mr. T. U. Sullivan's "Griffith's Valuatiou." ^OTJ sing of '' Griffith's valuation," JC, Which some would feel inclined to orive The swindlers of the Irish nation For liberty to toil and live ; The sum is rather miich to throw them, Though they may think it r;ither small, Far better pay them what you owe them, And that will be nothing at all. To think of the rent-lifting jobliers, Puts me in a passionate flame ; Were I calling them less than robbers I would call them out of their name ; They levy their rents and must get them, To keep up the dance and the ball. But peeple are fools if they let them, For I would give nothing at all. Debauchery is a profession Which they find so hard to maintain, That foul defraud and o2)pression Must ride in the front of their train ; They must be paid " so much " an acre. Or if not their bailiffs will call In the name of law and its maker, But they should get nothing at all. The soil should Ijelong to the tiller. That is the opinion I hold. The grain should be sent to the miller, And not for a tyrant be sold ; EFFUSIONS APIER TOIL. l'^ Give oacli man tlie fruit of liis labour, In hovel, or cottage, or hall, The landlord can work like his neighbour. Or live upon nothing at all. THE LANDLORD'S GHOST. "^E on our side, Eternal Lord, JO) We need Thy strong almighty hand In presence of the tyrnut's sword, Which now is threatening the land ; The very plagues of hell expand Their wings across our plundered isle. Coercion comes, with all its band Of tortures and afilictions vile. If we resist the living death — If we reject its winding-sheet — Then shall we smell the cannon's breath, Our cause may sink in red defeat ; Yet, still our hearts indignant beat. And thousands would far sooner die Than lie beneath the tyrant's feet, Imploring pity from the sky. Now is your time, Hibernia's sons. In one accord to persevere ! Although the bulldog at you runs, Be not the trembling slaves of fear. But let the roaring mastiff hear A voice of thunder from your shores ; That victory is yours is clear — It is the landlord's ghost that roars. Though night may robe heaven's lofty arch In pitchy darkness, wide and far, 14' EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. It never can impede the uiarcli Of yon bright cheerful morning star : •Nor can the frowning tyrant mar Tlie liberty which through him breaks- Young Freedom comes upon her car ! Oppression hears the noise and quakes. IRELAND AND PARNELL. Tune ;— " The Harp that Once" *Tf ET us with hearts unchilled by grief, JLa The grand old cause revere, And deck it with the " chosen leaf," That badge of friendship dear ; And while oixr pulses, beating free, With hope and valour swell, The fondest sentiment must be Old Ireland and Parnell. Sad memories of ages march Before our mental gaze. Thick as the stars that on night's arcli, Above us dimly blaze ; But while the past is paved with woes Which on our island fell. The future bright with glory shows To Ireland and Parnell. All, boys! our countiy is not dead. Though seven hundred years Have seen her on a lowly bed, Defiled with blood and tears; Nor will she die— she heaves — she starts, She vows to break the spell, And calls on all to play their parts For Ireland and Parnell. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 15 She cries, " My gallant general Confronts my hostile foes, Nor yields to them when on him fall Their foul insulting blows ; And why not all my sons unite, And back their chieftain well, Till freedom's recompensing light Crowns Ireland and Parnell 1 " Pledge Irishmen this day with me A health to motherland, And to the worthy son whom she Entrusts with chief command ; Our land must rise again from shame, And hards unborn shall swell The harp with songs of lofty fame To Ireland and Parnell. LADY FLORENCE AND THE LAND LEAGUE. I. 'HAT is it that disturbs the brain Of startled Lady Florence? Is it ambition to obtain Appi'oval or abhorrence 1 I never heard her name before, And so it makes me wonder To hear her now abruptly roar Her literaiy thunder. « II. I ask the ladies of the land, Was Lady Florence living When Miss Parnell's great lady-band To us their aid were giving ? 1(3 EFFUSIONS AFTEK TOIL. Alive she was, but heeded not The bustle and confusion, She dwelt in such a happy spot Of pleasure-stowed seclusion. III. Our leaders were in prison thrown, Our peasants were evicted. Our ladies did the work alone Of helping the afflicted. And Lady Florence, if you please, You kept them at a distance, And lay in luxury and ease, Aflbrdino- no assistance. IV. You rise up now ^\ith noise immense, And — what is rather funny — The noise is all impertinence About the Land League money ; And while we read your printed notes, We are, in fact, beholding A landlord, dressed in j)etticoats. The Irish nation scolding. LADY FLORENCE AND HER DOG "HUBERT." 1^ S Lady Florence walked and mused alone, JQk> Her thoughtful mind to reconcile. Two scoundrels, who were tall and overgrown, And both attired in female style, EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 17 Approaclied lier ladyship, and threw her down, And guessing they were Irishmen rroni some conspiring band about tlie town, She looked for death just thei-e and then. II. They started work at once with gleaming knife, And cut her as they would a log. And would have quite consumed her sacred life, But for the coming of her dog ; Big " Hubert " came and chased the boys away, And off they ran she knew not where, And none in all the neighbourhood could say They saw the flight of such a pair. III. It was a miracle, and nothing less. How she, though cut and wounded sore. Could write next moxming to the London press, And scold the Irish as before ; No doctor dressed her wounds at any rate. But just her dog two ruffians chased. That stabbed her brutally and, strange to state, The rascals never can be traced. IV. It was to give the tale a better skin, That I resorted to my pen. And I shall say, if it be not a sin, The dog knows all about the men. He swallowed them, and has them in him still. And that is how they could abscond, But Lady Florence wants poetic skill, To make her statements correspond. V. If I can understand the lady right, She suffers much from wounded pride, 2 Ig. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. And must on Irishmen exhaust her spite, Who would not take her for theii* guide ; But if she like a lady could contrive, In quiet pomp through life to jog. She might at mental happiness arriA^e, Content to teach her darling dog. MA.JUBA MOUNTAIN. MID the gloomy clouds of night The British steal far up the height, And mass before the morning's light Their troops upon the mountain. But soon shall from its base below Ascend the dreaded daring foe, With flame and hail, to overthrow The stealers of the mountain. They come, they come — the gallant Boers, The hill before them smokes and roars; Their rifles vomit lead which soars Directed up the mountain. They come, they come in freedom's name; Such men can win eternal fame ; This day they shall subdue and tame Their foes upon the mountain. To drive the hardy farmers back The I5ritish charge the flerce attack, But all their valour fails to check The Boers upon the mountain ; For still advancing quick and well. They rush and sur^e with shout and yell, To sweep the Bi-itish down pell-mell, Or kill them on the mountain. EFFUSIONS AFTEK TOIL. ]'J The whistling fusilade which pours Upon the British from the Boers, John Bull, in tears at home, deplores, And mourns the fatal mountain. His boasted warriors are shot Like snipes upon the mortal spot, Except a few that nimbly trot Ad own the gory mountain. By Jove, it is exciting play To see a band of ploughmen slay An army in the face of day Upon a lofty mountain ; And plant immortal freedom's flag Upon the tallest frowning crag, High in the wind to wave and wag Above Majuba Mountain. THE WINNER OF WELLINGTON'S SWORD. I^HOUGH men of vulgar blood may smile, X The Duke of Connaught at the Nile Immortal laurels won. For, from the fact that he was there, He is the only man can wear The sword of Wellington. II. The sword that swept the hills of Spain, And flashed on Waterloo's red plain, Is now at his command ; And marvel not if nations reel. For well they know the mighty steel That glitters in his hand. 20 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. III. Should any man ask why he got Tlie weapon which is now his lot, The answer shows itself ; Though he is not a Wellington, He is the Queen's own darling son, And is at least a Guelph. IV. The sword no more than half rewards The Duke for going with the Guards To Egypt's land to fight. For he when there such tactics knew. That neither shell nor ball that flew Could near the hero light. His Royal Highness fought so well, That not a bvillct near him fell. Although, without a joke. He was at times so near his doom That be could hear the cannon boom, And whiles he saw the smoke. VI. The forty ages that, like kids, Looked from the lofty pyramids On Buonaparte, when there. Looked at the Duke with wild delight. To see him in his armour bright. Escaping everywhere. VII. And thus he fought for miles and miles Across the land of crocodiles. Protecting, I suppose, EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 21 The Khedive and his hundred wives, Who were in danger of their lives, Fx'om wicked rebel foes. .VIII. He helped to save the whole jing-bang — The ladies of the Harem sang To Allah's throne on high ; And all the eunuchs cried aloud, " Mahomet, bless the Duke who cowed Our foes, and made them fly." IX. He made poor Moslem rebels march So fast across Al Sirit's Arch* To wed the Howris fair, That hundreds narrowly escaped The gulf which right below them gaped, A boiling, bubbling lair. Now over land and ocean goes The hero's praise in glowing prose, All sparkling bright with joy ; And it in epic verse may rise, If some blind Homer, stuffed with lies, Invents another Troy. .XI. Ten thousand plaudits rend the stars, The royal favourite of Mars Is home uninjured still, * A very slender narrow bridge across the gulph of hell, over which Mahommedan souls pass on their way to heaven. •22 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. Thus pi-oving that Sir Garnet smiled Like fortune on Minerva's child, And ffuarded him. with skill . XII. Meanwhile his worth let none ignore. He never was at war before, Yet is in arms renowned ; And all our toil seems pleasure since We know it will support a prince That is with glory crowned. XIII. Grand is the honoiir he has won — The sword of old dead Wellington His belt and side will grace ; But still he wants the warlike nose Which like a scythe extended rose On mighty Arthur's face. XIV. Oh ! " Hero of a hundred fights," If wliat transpires on earth excites The ghosts on death's dark shore ; Perhaps thy spectre suffers pain Imagining thy sword again Will redden fields with gore. XV. 4 Great conqueror of Buonaparte, Sleep calm in death, nor heave, nor start, Nor make the least alarm — Another Arthur holds thy sword, But to his credit can afford To keep it out of harm. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 23 XVI. It had its day of war and waste, Now shall it peace and pleasure taste, And gather rust upon it. And never will it flash across The carnage of a Badajos While with the Duke of Connaught. A SONG FOR AN ALDERMAN. " Hurrah ! hurrah ! Tlie deed of deeds is done 1 " — A Iderman Connolly. " Thrice he routed all his foes, And thrice he slew the slain." — Dryden. I. ■^OHN BULL'S great laurelled army comes, ^ Distinguished, rank and file — Hear how in triumph peal their drums, The heroes of the Nile ! No braver soldiers tread the land, Nor ever will again ; They slew their foes on Egypt's sand, And then they slew the slain. II. Resound, O Eame ! their mighty deeds — For mighty deeds they are, And will astonish him who reads The records of the war ; At Tel-el-Kebir's awful fray, Where blood defiled the plain, They fought like men, and gained the day, And then they slew the slain. 24 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. III. Such valour shown, such honour won, Will fairly hide from view The martial fame of Wellington, Who fought at Waterloo. Our boys from Egypt can come back Without a single stain ; They broke the bleeding country's neck, And then they slew the slain. IV. Behold the heroes of the Nile ! See how their laiirels wave ! Applaud the boys, botli rank and file, For both alike are brave ! They gained the field, and then they sent The wounded out of pain ; An Alderman must compliment The boys that slew the slain. V. ^ Hurrah ! hurrah ! sing loud and shout — " The deed of deeds is done," They killed the wounded out and out, And that was gallant fun ; And could an Alderman but give The world an epic strain. Clothed in immortal verse would live The boys that slew the slain. OLD NICKY BUCKSHOT. I. ^LD Nicky Buckshot, as your name Is " damned to everlasting fame," Through your connection with Coercion, I just address you for diversion ; EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 26 But with more pleasure could, I grant, Address the mighty elephant, Big Jumbo, that in prime condition Goes round the world on exhibition. II. Big Jumbo is, to say the least, Not to be termed a wicked beast. For he has strength, and means to use it. Yet would not savagely abuse it ; And that betokens nobler nature Than you would show your fellow creature, And you connection claim with man, But prove the kindred if you can. III. When yon were Irish Secretary, Directing the constabulary, How to discharge their brutal duty, The deil himself, infernal Clootie, Who tortured Job, to try his patience. Could not invent the provocations You gave the peaceful unoffending, To break the law that needed raendins:. IV. Such law was never known, be damned ; You had the jails of Ireland crammed With men and women, all suspected Of being more or less connected With legal, moral agitation. Whose aim was better legislation ; And filling jails to overflowing Was not enough to keep you going. In Dublin, Ballina — Belmullet, You changed the scene to patent bullet, 26 EFFUSIONS AFTEK TOIL. And Hoyal Irish bloodhounds worried Poor people on the streets who hurried From square to corner for protection, From buckshot that in each direction Was flying after them by order, Resulting here and there in murder. VI. At last your own excesses chased you Right back to England, and disgraced you,. As if by the decree of God, Sent to the convict land of Nod, To wear a mark like branded Cain, To whom remembrance carried pain, Still showing him a reeking flood Of murdered Abel's crimson blood. YII. Ah, Buckshot, after all your crime. You left the country just in time To let your offspring, like a Turk, Come down on Cavendish and Burke. And why on them, and not on you. The vengeance fell, I never knew, And never may ex])ect to wrestle Tlie secret out of Dublin Castle. YIII. You were to Ireland such a curse That Satan could not have been worse ; You sowed assassination seed Wliich grew to be a bitter weed, Whose fruit was bloody, foul, and dark As shown upon the Fhcenix Park ; And men were horrified to see The bastard of your tyranny. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. IX. 27 111 othei- words — divorcing Order, You with Coercion whored till Murder Was born and grown a fearless laddie That even terrified its daddy, And how it rushed, with raging vengeance, Upon its sire's coercive engines, Will be a story on the pages Of history for many ages. Behold the Gem of the Atlantic ! You drove its quiet people frantic. And, leaving Spencer and Trevelyan To deal with what would seem rebellion. You now can read of retributions. And dreadful public executions, While Castle-hounds are panting still For blood their hungry maws to fill. XI. Huge bags of gold are working gaily, Enlisting new informers daily, For money is the chief temptation That coys poor wretches to damnation ; And rogues to earn it swear like fury Before an eager judge and jury, Who sum up perjuries and fictions. And work them out to death-convictions. XII. I guess, my lad, your nightly slumbers Are being now disturbed by numbers Of ugly, black, grimacing demons. Amounting to delirium tremens, 28 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. While canisters of tlynamite, All planted ready to ignite, And daggers drawn to stab and shiver, Make you, amid your dreaming, quiver. XIII. Such dreams, though raving babbling nonsense, Are natural to guilty conscience, And dance upon the mental vision, In hellish, horrible derision ; And you may long for morning's dawn, To see the wicked scoffers gone ; But when the morning comes, I fear, It only brings you little cheer. .\iv. You wake from terror to regret, And, thinking how the Cabinet With you no more would clothing rub Than with the lad called Beelzebub, You curse the day that you were born, To suffer agony and scorn — Horrific dismal dreams nocturnal. And sad realities diurnal. XV. James Carey, too, the base informer. Swears if he met you in a corner Of Paradise, he would assail you. And from the home of angels flail you ! But such a threat need not alarm you. In Paradise he cannot harm you, For you and James, in my opinion, Will never meet in that dominion. XVI. It is more likely that your shades Will quan-el when they meet in Hades, EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 29 But you are quite as white as James, And if lie calls you ugly names, Like what the kettle calls the pot. Just give it to the rascal hot ; He is your equal in disgrace, And call him " Jiulas " to his face. XVII. Existence must to you be sour, To be kicked out of place and power. And cast adrift upon life's ferry. That your own brother traitor, Carey, Is not afraid to paint you sooty, And give you all the hues of Clootie ; The words he swore in court would fall Upon your heart like drops of gall. XVIII. Perhaps, before your days are over, You will be to the knees in clover. For Marwood* yet will land among The ghosts of those that he has hung. And you, although at present baffled, May be the monarch of the scafibld, — A post that would become you rightly. And one that you could fill politely. XIX. Think not, old Nicky, that a bard Would have a heart so stern and hard As to address you out of malice; I wish you, boy, no bitter chalice. But would, if placed in high position, Take pity on your low condition, And make you hangman any minute You were in order to becfin it. * This was written before the death of Marwood, 30 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. XX. Farewell, old Nicky, fare-you-well, The land of Davitt and Parnell, The land that you would persecute, The land whose people you would shoot. Will be a nation free and brave. When you have to a thankless grave Hesigned yovir carcass, to be food For worms that may not think it good. GEEEN ERIN'S LAND. N Irish minstrel musing, lone, An exile on a rugged shore, Where summits frown of mighty stone, And ra])id floods careering roar. Sweeps his wild lyre Of warbling wire, Inspiring it with heart and hand. Till all the chords Pronounce the words — Asain to see Green Erin's land. Now overhung by summer skies, Her hills and glens and blooming sward, And all her thousand memories, Would fire the feeling of the bard, And make his soul Like thunder roll. Denouncing that tyrannic band Who hold in chains The fertile plains. And children of Green Erin's land. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 31 Fai-ewell to Scotland for a week — Good-niglit to friend and foe the Avhile; And now I to my steamer speak — Bear me aci'oss to yon gi'een isle, Whose hills and streams Have been my dreams When ruled by slumber's magic wand ; And oh ! when morn Is newly born, Let me be in Green Erin's land. A RAILWAY SONG. |.UIl train is driving on with speed. Her rapid wheels like lightning play Behind the flaming iron steed, That leads them fiercely on their way ; And I am riding swiftly through My native land, now in its bloom. All fair and beautiful to view — I soon shall pass the Bridge of Toome. Long years of exile lie behind, And shall this day forgotten be, Till I give hand, and heai"t, and mind. To scenes of early childish glee. For my remembrance must recall Departed innocence, and raise Dead joys to life, and sun them all, Amid the light of other days. Rush on, pi'oceeding, roaring train. The carriage window, as you fly, Shows me my native hills again, And charms my fondly gazing eye. 32 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. And I shall soon among them stray, As blithely as iia days of yore, To see the woods all gi-een and gay, And hear the distant torrents roar. Behold my native mountains frown, Majestic, mighty, stern, sublime. Huge monuments of dead renown. Memorials of former time. This should be freedom's dwelling-place, This noble country should be free, Tor nature writes upon its face. The grand design of liberty. PARISH OF BALLYSCULLION. ^IGH beats my pulse, and rapture fires My soul, and heart, and brain. For in the parish of my sires I breathe the air again ; And this is no delusive sight. No idle di-eam of morn, But is in real life and light The place where I was born. Since last I trod this scene of grace, Long changeful years have flown. Till now I through my native place Can wander forth unknown ; But not to me forgotten are The pictures of the past. These vales appear both near and far. As when I saw them last. How charming now to view the plain. In flaming hot July ; What laughing fields of growing grain Salute the sunny sky ; EFFUSIONS AFTKR TOIL. S3 W]iat fruits of cultivation rise To cheer the husbandman, Who still the wheels of labour plies Along the rolling Bann. Heaven on the tillers of the soil Send blessings manifold, And recompense them for their toil In autumn's garnered gold. Long may they hold their glens and hills, And long may they command Sufficient means to meet the ills That press their native land. In this abode of peace, I fain Would tarry late and long, And to the winds that ftm the plain Pour ovit mv tide of sons: ; But fate can laugh at my desire, I take a farewell view, And must abroad again retire — My native land, adieu. LOUGH BEG. ifii BEEIS]' summer floats her gorgeous flag "'VX On all the trees that wave and wag Along the borders of Lough Beg, And birds are warbling merrily ; The morning air is sweet with balm, The Lough appears serenely calm. Reposing like a sleeping lamb In beautiful tranquillity. Here would I love to spend my days. And pour an Irish minstrel's lays 34 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. To Nature's God, -whose beauties blaze Along the Lough so charmingly ; But my fond wish and fortixne's will Have differed, and will differ still, A foreign land, through good or ill. Is my allotted destiny. Lough Beg, I tread your lovely shore, As I have fondly done before. But I shall walk on it no more. For now I leave it mournfully ; And never may return again ; Yet still, when on a foreign plain, Enthroned within my heart shall reign The land of my nativity. PORTGLENONE. I. ^ DOWN the firmament afar cifcjb Rolls day's broad incandescent star, While playfully his parting beams Are dancing on the lakes and streams, And backward throwing yellow floods Of glory on the hills and woods, As if to ornament alone The scenery of Portglenone. II. Ah ! like that sun's receding rays, I linger for a while and gaze. To bid the town a fond adieu — The town I love so well to view. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 35 No vain pomposity is here, No kings enthroned in bronze appear, No "warriors in marble stone, In simple, homely Portglenone. III. How beautiful the glen appears Through which the winding Bann careers ! How charming is the river's glee. As on it journeys to the sea — A racing, gurgling, shining stream That shall in my remembrance gleam When I am musing sad and lone, And far away from Portglenone. IV. Alas ! the moment is at hand ! The magic spell of fairyland Dissolves at once, and I in haste Again must tread a barren waste. I go — I look behind — I grieve — My native land is hard to leave. No land on earth is like my own — Farewell, ye vales of Portglenone. THE LITTLE GENERAL.* I. flROWCURRY still confronts the weather, %J Unmoved by either rough or fine. And always clad with whins and heather, As in the days of " Auld langsyne," * Robert Jennings, commoulj^ called " Wee Rabin," but more widely known by the nickname of "General," was landlord of the towTiland of Tamladiiff, near Bellaghy, County Derry. He led a single and reckless life, but was still a kindly and obliging neighbour. It was in the Summer of 1880, that I visited that part of Ireland, and wrote the above verses. The "General" was then dead, and his estate in the hands of a stranger. 36 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. And I would gladly climb Crowcuriy, Such memories it would recall, But tears that from my eyelids hurry Cry " Where's the little General." II. Where is wee Rahin who was landlord Of Tamladufi" for many a j'-ear ; I saw him often as he wandered Among the whins and heather here. And youths, and maidens, who were courting, At day's decline by hedge or wall, And children that were gaily sporting, Cried, " See the little General." III. A change is now some how or other, For Rabin is no longer seen, And he to all men was a brother. Kind both to Orange and to Green ; And if he whiles got over jolly, He drank as often bitter gall, For no man reaped the fruits of folly More than the little General. IV. The crows still gathered round his dwelling, And nestled in his lofty trees. As if to mimic, with their yelling, His thoughts that never were at ease ; But now both crows and people mourn him, Ho sleeps in death's dark, narrow hall, And oh ! the grave will not return him, It holds the little General. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 37 GLADSTONE AND IRISH PATRIOTS. I. *m EPARTED advocates of Erin's cause, jy/ Your enemies are loud in your applause, All seeming willing to award you px'aise, And crown your lifeless bows with blooming bays, Eor England's highest minister admires The silent ashes of your perished fires. All from the fact that you. no longer can Assist the cause of freedom or of man. II. The venerable chief is rather brave, To stigmatise the tenants of the grave, For they are locked in awful, rayless death, And none of them can with declaiming breath, From that deep taciturnity arise. To scathe the hypocrite that preaches lies. And it would shameful be to strike the dead, Who moulder in their gloomy narrow bed. III. No, Gladstone, you would not the dead despise, They will not heed you though you tyrannise, With all the savage passions of a brute. It is the living you would persecute. Dead Irish patriots have your esteem. While living ones to you l)ut only seem . Foul criminals who must be lodged in jail. That English tyranny may still prevail. IV. Chief of the '•' Base and bloody brutal Whigs," The tunes to which you have been dancing jigs, 38 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. To gain support, to wile, and to deceive, Are now played out, and oS the mask you heave, And stand revealed the despot that you are, Witli foot on Erin's neck, so as to mar .*^The very tongue that would expression give Unto the miseries in which men live. You cannot meet our gallant chief, Parnell, In argument, but then your prison cell Supplies your want of reason, and you cast The brave man in it, and you hold him fast, To silence him, and Erin overawe, With all the terrors of coercive law. But while you thus an unarmed people dare, We hiss the coward's laurels that you wear. VI. Seize all our Irish leaders as you may. And hide them from the gazing eye of day. You shall not quench the spirit we possess, — • It is a flame you never can suppress. It burned tlu-ough centuries of blood and woe, And now it shall with keener fervour glow, For Irish hands our banner have unfurled In all the regions of the mighty world. VII. With prison, sword, and cannon at conimand. You mean to panic-strike, and crush the land, But we desjiair not of our country's fate, We shall not rest till we eradicate The landlords altogether from her shore, And le t the robbers plunder it no more ; And history will place our chief, Parnell, Beside George Washington and Wiliiani Tell. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 3^ ADDRESS TO JOHN FERGUSON, ESQ. I. 'OW is the time, ray gallant John, To help our native country on. For, see ! Coercion demons ride Across her bosom far and wide. With famine raging in the rear. The vitals from her breast to tear, And lay her pi'ostrate — beaten low, To weep another age in woe, II. The time is now for Irishmen, By means of money, voice, and pen, To aid the old immortal cause, To live amid despotic laws. And baffle famine's wasting breath, Which comes with misery and death, Invented by the tyrant's hand. To desolate the injured land. III. Why not the exiled Irish race, All over Terra's mighty face, In bonds of earnest love unite. With all their moral force to fight The foe who threatens to consume The ancient Celtic tribe, whose doom Included murder, want, and fraud, Since first they felt the Saxon rod ] Who says that God this famine sent Reviles the high Omnipotent, 40 EFFr SIGNS AFTER TOIL. And taunts eternal heaven at large Witli what we must the robber charge ;- That robber, mei'ciless and vile, Whose aim is but to crush our isle, Till her vitality is spent, To suit a brutal Government ? It is not that green Erin's soil Will not reward the tillage-toil. For through the surface plenty shoots, To yield the luxsbandman his fruits ; But there are idlers to be fed — Gigantic vermin stealing bread, And like Simoom's devoui'ing wind. They leave a deadly trace behind. VI. Behold our country now in chains. See how she bleeds from all her veins, While, to enlarge her thousand ills, Starvation rakes her glens and hills ; And Government, the cause of all. Heeds not the people's plaintive call. Nor stretches out a hand to save Its victims from a dreadful gi*ave. VII. Could imprecations separate The union we abominate. Well miglit we curse tlie woeful day. The perfidy of Castlereagh, Made Irislimen degraded slaves, To greedy thieves and vampire knaves, Who plunder, rob, exhaust, and wreck, Till famine comes on havoc's track. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 4i Aail. While Erin, pressed and crushed, remains, Beneath the weight of alien chains. So long will she, in want and grief. Be heard imploring some relief ; And all true offsprings of her soil Must feel their blood indignant boil, As if they would grim danger face, To lift their country from disgrace. IX. Meanwhile our duty is to give Our starving kindreds aid to live, For fled is freedom's dream the day We suffer them to melt away ; And England's terror, too, is gone, If we stand gazing idly on ; But with the help of God on high. We shall not let our people die. WINTER IN KILCAR. O AD is the winter in Kilcar, H' When unprepared the peasants are To face the elemental war That comes with roaring majesty. Lo\id and terrific is the squall Comes from the Bay of Donegal, And from the mountains, wild and tall, The tempest rages fearfully. Between the hills, and through the vale, Fierce leaping torrents brawl and rail. All sounding chorus to the gale That beats the homes of poverty. 42 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. And, oh ! already has the blast Unroofed the wretched huts, and cast The corn to ruin as it passed On giant wings, defiantly. Now writhes the husbandman with pain, The wife — the children — all complain ; The storm has swept away their grain, And left them hunger's cruelty. And worse than hunger still is theirs — Another evil on them bears — The wolfish landlord little cares For all their tale of misery. Sad is the winter in Kilcar, Cold, storm, and want extending far, "^ A dreaiy night without a star, Except the star of charity. And colder is the heart than snow That, to relieve such human woe, Would not from scanty means bestow A contribution willingly. OLD EIGHTY-TWO. ^LD Eighty-two expires in pain, His dying moans fall on my ear Like some wild, legendary strain, All sad and pitiful to hear ; In wintry grief the hills appear. The wind sings dirges through the moor, Pale, sickly want and trembling fear Infest the dwellings of the poor. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 43- II. Dear Erin, from thy starving glens Is heard the saddest dirge of all, Where famine has unnumbered dens From which appealing voices call On God to let his manna fall ; Or flash His lightning through the gloom, And tear the tyrant's heavy pall. Which keeps the land a living tomb. III. Farewell, old year ! Depart and go ! You die upon a bed of grief. And leave old Erin plunged in woe — Oppressed and plundered by a thief; And if her wrongs were new or brief, She might suppress the bursting tears, But, ah ! Remembrance turns the leaf,^ And looks at seven hundred years. IV. When shall thy hand, revolving time ! To Erin happiness restore, And set her up erect, sublime, And proud as in the days of yore 1 She cannot bear affliction more ; She must, and shall her youth renew, And be a nation long before She sees another Eighty-two. A NEW YEAR LAMENTATION. ^TUST as the womb of Time was rent, &v Just as the young year met the stars^ And seized upon the firmament, The reins to guide their wheeling cars. -44 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. Joy flew Ijelow on wings of air, And flowing glasses going round, Created laughtei', banished care, And raised a merry babbling sound ; Yet all amid that revelry Of olden custom, known so well, I took my pen and silently. From it this lamentation fell : — Ten thousand orbs, whose twinkling light, Illuminates the vault of night, Behold Time's youngest boy Eeceived this moment at his birth With shouts of far-resounding mirth And canticles of joy; But, looking from that starry hill, The Lord Himself can see That in at least Glencolumbkille There is no festive glee. There grim starvation sobs and moans, And speaks in supplicating tones Tliat might the tyi-ant shame. Whose heel is on the people's head. And ((rinds them wliile they cry for bread, Which is their riyht to claim. The festive season only brings 8uch miseries to them As met the infant King of kings In lonely Bethlehem. Ye who enjoy kind fortune's glance, How can ye spend, carouse, and dance With hearts devoid of care. While thousands pine in wretchedness, A prey to hunger and distress And ten-ible despair? EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 45- The gold ye throw in folly's pond Their mournful hearts would cheer, And would to you again, beyond Moi-tality, appear. For them I write to mournful airs, For them my soul indignant wears A tyrant-cursing frown, And pants to see correction's rod Laid on the robber's head, if God Would send red vengeance down. Oh, blessed God ! look down from heaven At Erin's cup of gall — Her peasants to starvation driven, And bread enough for all. THE EARTHQUAKE OF LISBON.* O ERENE was the morning in Portugal, IL^ Nor could the Portuguese imaarine that Their story-consecrated capital Upon the shoulders of an earthquake sat, Until the rumbling, tearing noise of what Resembled distant thunder rose and fell Through Lisbon, and the people started at The fierce heaving of a sudden swell. Which made the strongest building jingle like a bell. Then came another shock of louder sound, Which made whole streets of houses dance in air, And brought them tumbling headlong to the crround On the inhabitants, and crushed them there ; * This terrible earthquake, which destroyed the capital of Portugal on the first mominw of November, 1755, is reported to have moved 400,000,000 square miles of the globe's surface. 46 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. And for six most terrific minutes were The entrails of tLe earth at fearful play, All tearing loudly as if they would tear Our globe to atoms, as they will some day "When all the universe is vanishing away. Ships, anchored on the river Tagus, rocked As if amid a dreadful hurricane. And yet there blew no wind that would have shocked The lightest boat that ever sailed the main ; And lo ! the mariners beheld quite plain The massive structures of the city fall. Producing clouds of dust, and then again Eose flames of fire, wild, terrible, and tall, To burn the bodies of the dead, and ruin all. Full sixty thousand human beings fell In Lisbon, with that awful stroke of doom, While the same shock made the Atlantic swell, And to its inmost centre reel and boom. And Europe might have been one common tomb, For all her shores were threatened more or less With the loud inner fires of earth's deep womb Which roared in bondage, as if they would press Up through their crust, volcanic freedom to possess. Both land and ocean felt alike the throes Of that convulsion while it raged and tore — The tall Alps shook their thousand years of snows — The dashing billows with tumultuous roar High in an equipoise of surges bore JJp merchant vessels midway to the skies — Men never felt such trembling fear before. Nor looked to Heaven with such imploring eyes — God's wrath is but asleep, it can awake and rise ! EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 47 THE SON OF BRIAN BORU. °HILE Frenchmen fought with might and Invaders to repel, [main. And dreadful was the blazing plain Where heroes nobly fell, Upon the red field of Sedan, Where battle's lightning flew, The bravest was an Irishman, The Son of Brian Boru. II. The thunder's roar, the lightning's gleam Could not appal that man. For through his veins the royal stream Of ancient heroes ran ; And often had he flamed his lance In hostile foemen's view, Beneath the tricolor of France, O Son of Brian Boru ! HI. He with a proud, aspiring soul, That panted for renown, At fortified Sebastopol Had swept the Russian down ; And at Magenta's field of gore. And Solferino too, The Austrian had fled before The Son of Brian Boru. IV. But see him at Sedan, where he Had been outnumbered far — 48 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. The hills roared with artillerj^-- The thimderbolts of war ; Three hundred thousand Germans there, Their lines in order drew, Besetting both on point and rear The Son of Brian Boru. ♦ He yielded not, but still among The German foes would prance, For on his deeds of valour hung The destiny of France ; And, in the face of shot and shell, Would charge them still anew. Till wounded in the battle fell The Son of Brian Boru. VI. He fell, and with the blow France reeled In terrible dismay, To know that on the crimson field Her hero bleeding lay. For none so fiercely could advance Her foemen to subdue, O daring Chief ! O Star of France ! O Son of Brian Boru ! VII. He fell amid the battle's din, And dead to war became. Else night's proud stars had faded in The glory of his fame ; So swiftly would his sword have flashed The German columns through. As over piles of carnage dashed The Son of Brian Boru. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. i9 VIII. But hark ! he lives, and may again Cut down liis foes like corn, While echoes rend the martial plain To his loud bugle-horn ; And do, avenging heaven, permit That hero to renew The fame of France in Europe yet — The Son of Brian Boru. THE DEATH OF JOHN MITCHEL. "HERE Kelvin foaminfr drives alone His tributary flood to Clyde, Let me bewail, in plaintive song, The man that was my country's pride. The chief whose fame shall live to guide The nation that he loved so well ; All that of him could die has died — All that of him was mortal fell. John Mitchel, Erin's noblest son, No longer treads our earthly sphere, And we in him have parted one That unto us was doubly dear. For him we shed a kindly tear, Becaiise his life for us was spent, And neither king, nor prince, nor peer, Could so induce us to lament. We have much reason to deplore The crushing stroke that laid him low ; He fights in our defence no more, And he was stern oppression's foe. .•lO EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL, No more his passions rage and glow, Like angry lions in their den, Exhorting ns to rise and throw Onr chains away, and live as men. His brain is thoughtless, dark, and void ; Cold lies his speech-deserted tongue. The pen which he so well employed Is from his nerveless fingers wrung. Be sad my song ; let grief be sung, For he of whom I sing was brave, And far too soon he ranks among The population of the grave. • Think, Death, how cruel thou hast been To snatch a life we ill can spare, And see our land, as she is seen, A slave to misery and care. The man whom thou hast slain was rare, Beloved, respected, and admired, And when his last moan pierced the air, A world of intellect expired. We can but ill afford to give The grave such manhood, worth, and sense, "While many still among us live, With whom we better could dispense. Men who despise his excellence. And cannot prize his fair renown ; Such slaves and cowards, taken hence. Would drag no teax-s of sorrow down. The least that can of him be said. Is that his whole career was grand, Because devoted to the aid Uf his defrauded motherland. His flashing brain and daring hand Emboldened all his youthful prime, EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL, 51 And he could never i;nderstand That seeking freedom was a crime. Look back at thirty years ago, And ask how Mitchel conld have slept ; He saw his country steeped in woe, And fast in galling bondage kept. No wonder that his spirit leapt, The fiends of ruin to withstand. For pestilence and famine swept, Leagued with oppression, through the land. No wonder that he cried " To arms," And shouted for the battle plain, For wretched life had not the charms That would have blest the noble slain. To rend the cruel tyrant's chain He gladly would have fought and bled, Where fiery wind and crimson rain In freedom's cause were blown and shed. What though his efforts were in vain, They highly merited success, And, though he wore a convict's chain. He should have worn a recjal dress. In banishment he heeded less His own doom than his country's doom. Till soothing heaven was pleased to bless His dead bones with an Irish tomb. He fought for Erin till he stood Upon the threshold of the grave ; His latest act was for her good, A vestige of her rights to save. When shall there live a man so brave 1 When shall we see a man so true ? Wovild that the lesson that he gave Could wolfish bigotry subdue. 52 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. Sleep, Mitcliel ! sleep in silent peace, Thou art below thy own green sward ; Thy countrymen shall never cease Thy name and actions to regard. At least one heart (now beating hard) Still mindful of thy deeds sliall be, Nor is the bard an Irish bard, That would not raise the song to thee. A FENIAN CHIEF MUSING IN PRISON AT NIGHT. HUT from the world in this darh cell, @ This miserable English hell, Secured with iron bars, 1 sink to rest (if rest I can), . For night, sent with repose to man, Is on her throne of stars. But, oh ! I fear the sable pall Of drowsy night that covei's all Comes over me in vain ; For how can even slumber's balm. In such a squalid dungeon, calm Such agonising pain 1 My blood is chill, I pant, I cjuake — My bones with prison torture ache, The flesh is oft' them gone ; For ] tla-ough toil and want am left, Of all but life and hope bereft — A feeble skeleton. I live — I hope, and yet again, I fear my sootliing hopes are vain, For England is unjust ; EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 53 A tyrant brutal in her laws, And lowly pines the slave who does In English mercy trust. Would I from England mercy crave ? No ! Sooner would I dig my grave Than recognise her sway ; I scorned her still, I scorn her yet — Will scorn her till my life is set To rise in calmer day. At fii'st God planted in my mind A wish my country to unbind, If it unbound should be ; Hence night and day, with voice and pen, I taught my bleeding countrymen. To seek for liberty, I taught, and forced them to unite, Their injured motherland to right, And they united grew — Resolved upon their native plains To slay their foes, as once the Danes Were slain by Great Boru. My heart with expectacion heaved That Erin, from her chains relieved, Was bursting to revenge ; That soon her thousand hills unbound From shore to shore would far resound The pi'oud and glorious change. Good God ! in that delusive trance I })ictured the insp'ring glance Of banded Irishmen, With harp and shamrock streaming high, Upon green banners to the sky. From mountain, hill, and glen. 64 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. I coiiid have seen tliera charge their foes, While lightning flew, and smoke arose, And tlumder boomed abroad ; And shouts of victory were sent Upon the air, which seemed as rent With Erin thanking God. The \T.sion fair before me stood, A storm of flame whose rain was blood, And revolution seemed To rear its proud majestic form Amid the fury of the storm, For such at hand I deemed. Remembrance comes on silent wings. And, oh ! my soul with anguish wrings How fate my cause despised — How I bright hopes of freedom bore, And how they grew eclipsed before I saw them realised ! Now, well-a-day, my native isle, For thee I pine in bondage vile, Beneath a load of care ; Far from wife, child, and relative, Still dying, yet allowed to live A life I cannot bear. Oh ! would to heaven my mortal doom (Instead of this foul dungeon's gloom) Had been a bloody shroud ; For nobly then my bones had slept, Whilst over them a world had wept. And fame resounded loud. The soldier slain in freedom's cause Goes down to death amid applause, And such a death to me EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. .")■> Had been a holy gift of bliss Thrice magnified, compared to this Abode of misery. THE GLEAM OF EIGHTY THOUSAND SPEARS. 'J ''HAT rapture would inspire our souls ! How wildly would our pulses play, If startled by a roll of drums To celebrate St. Patrick's Day. We saw green banners wavins hisrh Amid exulting shouts and cheers, And on a plain, in freedom's cause, The gleam of eighty thousand spears. II. We long not to behold the flames Of revolution's fiery star, Nor would we wish our native land To feel the miseries of war ; But still our hearts would leap with joy, Suppressing all our doubts and fears, If on some Irish field we saw The gleam of eighty thousand spears. III. Then would we hope to see the end Of thraldom's foul, unholy reign, For only by the deeds of arms Will Irishmen their freedom gain : 5Q EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL, All moral agitation fails, At reason's voice the tyi-ant sneers, But let him for a moment see The gleam of eighty thousand spears. IV. Could history repeat itself, Could former days return anew, Could Grattan rise again from death With all the arms of " Eighty-two," The wants of Irishmen would ring With more command in England's ears, Nor would she dare to treat with scorn I The gleam of eighty thousand spears. The day we celebrate would be The proudest we have ever known, Could we the chains that bind us burst, And make our native land our own ; But we are slaves, and void of weight Are our demands, appeals, and tears ; To move the tyrant's heart we need The gleam of eighty thousand spears. FAIR ARE THE SKIES OF CHARMING MAY. Tune — " / saw thy form in youthful prime.^' FAIR are the skies of charming May, And fair are land and sea ; Heaven glances on the watery way. And brightens it for thee, Mary.* * Miss Mary Finegan, who left Partick for America in May, ]880. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 57 Hev starry flag thy steamer waves, Inviting thee to go, And soon the deep that sighs andjraves Ricrht under thee shall flow, Mary. II. Between thy dearest friends and thee Soon shall an ocean roar. And thou shalt dwell among the free On freedom's distant shore, Mary. To part with thee shall wet the cheeks Of kindreds who abide. Amid Old Scotland's lofty peaks. And by the Shannon side, Mary. III. In Erin and in Caledon Devoted friends will pray. That Christ may mark thee for his own. And guard thee night and day, Mary. And she, the sinless Virgin Queen, The Rose of Sharon's Vale, Will thee beneath her mantle screen. Should danger thee assail, Mary. IV. Since it is fate's decree that hence Thou art inclined to roam. Depart, and trust in Providence To find for thee a home, Mavy. There beats for thee on Scotland's shore No kinder heart than mine. And oh ! remember, evei-more, Its fondest Avish is thine, INIary. 58 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. ALL RED AND BLUSHING WAS THE ROSE. Tune—" The Banks of Boon?' LL red and blushing was the rose Just taken from its ' thorny tree ' — But she was still more beautiful Who gave that blooming rose to me ! And she requested me to wear The bonnie gem upon my breast ; And how could I refuse to yield To such a lovely maid's request 1 Placed on my heart, I wore the rose Till all its leaves decayed and fell ; And when divested of its bloom I still could feel the fragrant smell. So would it be if she were gone For whose dear sake that rose I wore ; Her smile would glimmer back from death, And haunt my soul for evermore. THE JOURNAL AND THE SHAMROCK. I. I^N Patrick's Day the postman came, As he appears diurnal, And, after calling out my name, Reached me the ^Derry Journal, And with it was enclosed to me The " Chosen leaf" of Ireland, So that I might both read and see My own dear ancient sireland. .^ EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 59" II. I read the Jovirnal with delight, For well I knew M-Carter,* Who writes as Irishmen should write- Would not his country barter. The Shamrock, be it understood, The way to compliment it, By jove, I " drowned " as I should. And drank her health who sent it. THE DEVIL CRITICISED. BEVIL, your name, beyond mistake, Is made of devils, and would make A host of devils if transposed And I to have the lot disclosed. And find what sounds two little vowels Can make amid your wicked bowels. Proceed politely with my pen To drag the vipers from their den, And hold them up before the eyes Of those who suffer from your lies ; Though I may not catch all the squad, Your name is so extremely bad. But I will tear it all to shreds, For cloven feet and horny heads. Wherever screened I would expose, That mortals miofht behold their foes. * Mr. Thomas M 'Carter, the patriotic publisher of the ^Derry Journal. '60 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. II. The name at first is simply " Devil," Belicad it then, and it is " Evil," Behead again, and it is still in Fresh order for commencing " Vil-lain;" Behead again, and it is " II," — A rather ill-spelled syllable ; Behead once more, and it is " L," A letter doubly placed in hell. And there is how your name reads on,"* The worst word in our lexicon ; And now, if I can make so free, As out of Devil steal the " V "— You button up your coat and feel, Quite happy to appear as " Deil," Thus showing that without a vest You still can be completely drest. III. Again, your name in full rehearsed Is Devil still, but if reversed, It is so artfully conti'ived — I look at it, and it is " Tiived ;" Much as to say the letters live Are scholars bright and quite alive, All learned in crime as they are ranged, And crime-inclined as they are changed, And change tliem as I like, they gather In warlike files around their father. IV. A glance at them, and they would file, And form the words " eld," ''live," and "Vile," Thus simply meaning you arc " eld," So old, indeed, that once you held EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 6l> A proud position liigh in heaven, From which you fell to dai'kness driven, And that jow " live," and in such style, As to be " vile" and making vile ; All this I gi'ant is only truth, For you could not be called a youth About six thousand years ago. The day you first became our foe, When you, a traitor in disguise, Invaded -Adam's Paradise, And struck a blow at man and wife, Which still engenders hate and strife ; And that you "live" and walk about Among us yet, I have no doubt, And are as " vile " as vile can make you, Oh, would some other devil take you. V. Yet further still, I have to write, Your name is not exhausted quite, For I, to look at it and view it, See other devils creeping through it ; And in their midst the imp is hid Which all your work in Eden did, I see it polished like a snake, It slumbers not, it is awake — And while you live will never die. Then here it is, its name is " Lie," And 'only give it room to play, It is no crip2:)le by the way. It starts, it runs, it flies so well, The telegraph despatch of hell. VI. Now in your name three other worms Are showing me their coils and forms, And, though they seem of milder mood, I would be loth to call them good, 62 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. They must be vile, and are, I swear, Just from the fact that they are there ; And here they are, behold the three — " Tie," " Dive," and " Die," if I can see, And, being verbs, they can but mean. To play some part which is, I ween, To " vie " with you in foul deceit. To "dive" in all the crime we meet, And "die" to all except the woe In which they live who "dive" below. VII. Should this rouse passion in your breast, Go home, and cool it in your nest. Or kindle strife in your own hot land. And never show your nose in Scotland ; I criticised you fair enough, Your name is not of wholesome stuff, Though I admit that it contains Such craft, deceit, and swindling brains, As would befit you for the helm Of our aristocratic realm ; And if you were a while Premier, No doubt you would be made a Peer, In gratitude for your hypocrisy. If used to suit the aristocracy ; But, Nick, you may believe my story. Although you could lead Whig or Tory — And rain the confidence of either — Your service is required by neither ; Both parties still are well supplied With hypocrites all trained and tried, Who might from you the laurels snatch At playing a deception match. And one of them can office fill As well as you with all your skill ; At any rate we must support Too many scoundrels of your sort, EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 63 Who in return send Erin's nation No more than brimstone legislation ; But if you took them all away And left them home with Castlereagh, Men would assert that you had grown The best old statesman ever known. VIII. If you would only mend, you vile, Detestable old crocodile, And from our rulers hide the knowledge They get from your infernal college, We might have less oppression here, And you might not so black appear ; But ah ! the rebel morning star, The haughty rascal that you are. You still retain that lust to reign Which drove you from the starry plain, Fov still you battle to be chief, Although it be of rogue and thief; And, talking now of thief and rogue, I grieve to see them in such vogue, That you among poor labour's tribes Can smile on even paltry scribes. Who, with your aid and by the pen. Defraud hard-working honest men. And to maintain that wronsj is riarht Will swear on oath that you are white. Time-keepers in the yards, old Nick, Are just the boys can play a trick. Yet I would not incline to show it, But for the reason that I know it, I have myself been cheated by them, I speak the truth and can defy them, And be it plainly understood I speak it for the common good, For small defrauds wear by degrees To any height or depth you please ; 64 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. The fingei'S that Avill steal a shilling To grab a thousand pounds ai'e willing, The wretch wlio cheats the working man Will I'ob the master when he can, And after that will still be able To visit the Commu.nion Table, Where, with an air of seeming grace, He mocks Religion to her face ; But when the wolf begins to peep Out through the clothing of the sheep, The startled master sees the jobber Is nothing but a common robber, And with a kick which I would grant him, Bids him be off to where you want him. Of all the children that you rear, And you have plenty here and there, A boy like that should be your boast, For he resembles you the most — A saint without, a fiend within — A dodger that will pray and sin, And use religion as a rag To liide his deeply cloven leg, Which some day, through -a luckless blunder, Appears, and makes the people wonder, But not, perhaps, before he can Retii'e and live a c^entleman. IX. Ah, Kick ! to hate is to behold you. To shun is better than to scold j'ou, To flog your children is to watch them, And in the act of plunder catch them ; A poet lashing them with rhyme Is onlv wasting ink and time, The hangman's rope, and not a sermon, Is what A\ould best reform the vermin. With these remarks I mean to throw My pen aside, and bid you go, EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 65' And go in haste, where duty leads you, The mad Salvation Army needs you, For now the jolly -rabble passes. The lads are squinting at the lasses ; The leader goes with back turned foremost. To see if males or females roar most. They march and sing— they scream and shout, You know what it is all about; Hear how their bugles blare and blow, They want their generalissimo. THE BATTLE OF DUMBARTON. This poem was written expressly for the Dumbarton Herald, and was published in that paper. I. O IX hundred years ago, or nearly, O The Scotch and English quarrelled queerly; The English came to Scotland merely To rob and rule the Scotchmen ; And Scots who loved their freedom dearly, Refused to yield to such men. II. King Edward — England's haughty chief. To Scotland was the source of grief; For many a rascal, knave, and thief, He sent across the border, And he was in a manner deaf When they committed mui-der. ' ni. Large army after army came To crush the Scots with sword and flame, And make them all adore the name 5 66 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. Of Edward, whom they hated ; And countless deeds of guilt and shame The villains perpetrated. IV. The work of havoc and dismay- Was carried on from day to day, — Towns, villages, and hamlets lay In ruins through the land ; And poor Dumbarton fell a prey Unto an English band. V. The English took it and began To plunder, as was still their plan. And there was neither boy nor man, Nor even maid nor wife, But had to yield that brutal clan Their money or their life. VI. Dumbarton in their occupation, However, was of short duration — One day of crime and depredation Was only but allowed them. By that great chieftain of the nation Whose sword had often cowed them. VII. Sir William Wallace — good and brave — Who fought his native land to save, Above the Clyde's majestic wave, Stood on Dumbarton Castle, And he beheld them misbehave, And right below him nestle. VIII. " By heavens," he cried, " If once the town Were under midnight's dreary frown. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 67 Yon wretches would their senses drown In weariness and slumber, And I with vengeance could go down And quickly thin their number." rx. Then to his garrison he said — " My gallant boys, be not afraid, I shall this night with my long blade Right down among them be ; And you will need to dash and wade , Through blood, and follow me. X. " Immortal fame is ours this night. Our country shall in us delight; Sweet bards unborn of us will write, And be our high applauders, If we descend this rocky height, And kill the vile marauders. XI. " Shame is our lot if we show fear, While English brutes beside us cheer. And in their glee can stab and spear The townsmen to the dust. And force the women, far and near, To their infernal lust." XII. His little garrison, undaunted, All swore to fight, because they wanted An opportunity but granted To strike at English power, And each man j umped with rage, and panted For midnight's solemn hour. 68 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. XIII. Dull midnight came, and all was gloom, Brave Wallace ci'ied, " The Sovithrons, whom "We long to meet are near their doom — We on the street shall hew them, And with our swords make ample room, To drive like whirlwind through them. XIV. " We go, and ere the dawn of morn, Their ranks shall be dispersed and torn, Their heads before us must be shorn, As with our weapons, whirling, We cut ripe rascals down like corn. Yon dreadful day at Stirling." XV. Then marched the chieftain and his flock Of hardy Scotchmen down the rock, Ajid right upon the English broke, In style that qiiite surprised them, ■ For so confounding was the shock — It fairly paralyzed them. xvr. In High Street all the play began. From Scot to Scot, from man to man, "No mercy on the robbers," ran, And with their shining steel, From Church Place up to Artizan, Went at it like the deil. XVJI. Then from Dumbarton rose a yell, As if from all the fiends of hell — No pen can write, no tongue can tell How weapons flamed and flashed ; How Scotchmen pranced, how Southrons fell, And bJood in toixents dashed. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 69 XVIII. When patriots fight for liberty — They charge the tyrant valiantly, And no deed told in history Of Trojan, Greek, or Spartan, Outshines that i-aid on tyranny — That midnight in Dumbarton, •'»" xix. In fi'ont of danger Wallace trod. And on he went in blood wet-shod ; His thought was like the wrath of God, He was with passion glowing, And with his sword — keen, long, and broad. The foemen down was mowing. .XX. With every blow he gave, there flew A head clean off, or may be two, And helmets, cleft and broken through. Upon the street were jinglin,' Till Edward's men began to rue The day they came from England. , XXI. Yet they were spited, and with spite They fought as long as they could fight, For beaten Englishmen will bite 1 heir nails with desperation ; But what cared Scotland's chief that night For their exasperation. XXII. He through their infantry cut lanes, He knocked the life out of their veins. Till all the walls and window panes On each side of him were Defiled with sparks of blood and brains, And tufts of gory hair. 70 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. XXIII. Their cavalry came to the fray, And thought to keep the chief at bay ; The man would spur, the steed would neigh,. But Wallace, fearing neither. Would with one blow politely slay Both man and horse together. XXIV. A stitiggle at Dumbai'ton Cross Resulted in their heavy loss ; For gallant Wallace slew a gross Himself, and rather more, While down the street, by Walker's Close, There ran a tide of gore. XXV. " Come on, my heroes," Wallace cried, " Dumbarton streets must well be dyed With blood of butchers, who have tried To crush the land that bore us;" With one accord his men replied — " Their blood shall fly before us." XXVI. Then fast and faster flew the gore. And loud and louder grew the roar — Loud shouts of men, who cursed and swoi'e. Alarmed the land for miles, While hundreds fell to shout no more. And lay in frightful piles. XXVII. The Scottish leader onward rushed, And still the blood around him gushed ; His followers behind him pushed, All dealing deadly blows. Until they killed, and smashed, and crushed,, At least live thousand foes. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 71 XXVIII. The Southrons soon were put to i*oute, The Scots gave one triumphant shout, The poor inhabitants, no doubt, Who kept within their hovels, Took courage then, and sallied out With spades, and rakes, and shovels. XXIX. The very women that resided In Walker's Close ran out, provided With sticks and pokers, and they prided In finishing the battle ; And, ere the mighty noise subsided, They made their weapons i-attle. XXX. Sir William laughed, and well he should, To see them in their fighting mood, For if the Close at that time could But match its present fame, The ladies that were in it would Be nothing less than game. XXXI, The English ran like hunted deer, The Scots pursued them with a cheer, And tumbled hundreds in the rear, With sword, or dirk, or skiver; And plenty, overcome with fear. Jumped in the Leven river. XXXII. Those who escaped, or had the luck To not be killed, or smashed, or stuck, Or laid to sleep in dust and muck, With broken heads and legs, Stole ofi" and hid behind Dumbuck, Amid the clifis and crags. 72 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. .XXXIII. The battle of Dumbarton ended, Gi'eat Wallace and liis men ascended Their lofty rock, whose two peaks blended With the dark clouds of heaven ; While down below two floods contended — The Clyde engulfed the Leven. XXXIV. When morning came, the dead that lay Upon the streets were drawn away. And buried deep down in the clay, To hide their mangled foi'ms Whose dust is till this present day The property of worms. GENERAL SYMEON'S NOONTIDE IN DUMBAKTON FORTRESS. This distinguished Frenchman, who served long and faithfully ■under the first Napoleon, \vas made captive on the field of Waterlf)o, and was, along with a number of other French prisoners, confined for a considerable period afterwards in Dumbai-ton Fortress. He had the liberty of walking for a while, each day, on the top of the rock, escorted by two soldiers of the garrison, at noontide. T noontide walks the General, The fresh' winds round him blow, His prison rock is steep and tall, The Clyde is far below; And splendidly before his view The sky is bending down, To rest its mighty arch of blue On huge Benlomond's crown. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 73 II. The distant liills are robed in light, The sunbeams on them fall, Presenting loveliness that might Enchant a General, Who, guarded well on either side, Still muses as he goes. Surveying with an air of pride The country of his foes. III. Fair nature seems to soothe his heart, And make it calmly I'oll ; But Glory, France, and Bonaparte, Are flashing throuorh his soul — For whom he often spurred his steed Amid the cannon's roar. Performing many a daring deed On many a field of gore. IV. His blood is boiling in his veins, His soul indignant burns ; His warlike master is in chains, His country, trampled, mourns; And he, if free this present hour. Would willingly anew Upon his bounding charger scour The plains of Waterloo. What chivalry is rising now In that commander's mind — His helmet gleaming on his brow, His warriors behind : 74 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. The air burns with the cannon's breath, The crimson torrents flow, He gallops hard, and chases death Along the silver Po ! VI. His blade is flashing by the Rhine, Through smoke, and flame, and blood ; The alligator sees it shine By Nile's majestic flood. Old monumental Egypt quakes Before his cannonade ; Rich are the spoils he gains and takes — ■ He makes mankind afraid. VII. At Austerlitz, the earthquake sound Of battle roai-s afar, His feelings nobly throb and bound, He loves the noise of war ; And when the conflict melts away, Before his scorching glance. Two empires tremble with dismay, And bend the knee to France. VIII. By Danube's banks he rides through gore, '"'" Loud cannon boom and blaze, "While God's terrific thimders* roar, And dz-eadful lightning plays. The angry skies elate his heart Upon the battle sod ; He fancies it is Bonaparte That throws the bolts of God. * One of Napoleon's battles on the banks of tlie Danube was fought through a fearful storm of thunder and lightning. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 75 IX. Hp fights upon the hills of Spain, Red flames befoi-e him rise; Towns blazing with his bui-ning rain Paint hell upon the skies : And high on lofty towers, unfurled, Amid the battle's roar, He plants the tei-ror of the world — Napoleon's tri-color. X. He is remembering, })erchance, How with his master bold He led the hostile bands of France To Malta's gates of gold ; And made the shining wealth their own^ Which graced the Church of God, Who on His high etex-nal throne Wields an avenging rod. XI. And oh ! perhaps, he meditates, How in historic Rome, He, flushed with trivimjih, desecrates The Pontift''s peaceful dome : He hurls the Po^e from off" his chair — He treats him as a foe, And marches him a prisoner To die in Fountain Bleau. XII, He pictures Moscow blazing red, All perishing to stones, Throujrh fear of him whom nations dread- " The man of thousand thrones. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. But all ! that blaze is a defeat, That will him overthrow — The warriors of France retreat To die on hills of snow. XIII. He muses over warlike deeds, He sees and hears them all — The flash of spears, the tramp of steeds, The bugle's martial call. But he is smarting from regret, Whose arrows pierce him through The splendid star that led him, set At dreadful Waterloo. XIV. Napoleon's glory is no more, No crown is on his brow ; On St. Helena's rocky shore He pines in bondage now ; And in Dumbarton's Fortress high. Above the rolling Clyde, One of his angels, who may sigh, Is fated to reside. XV. He walks at noontide, guarded well With gleaming British steel ; And who that sees him walk can tell What he may inly feel 1 His heai-t is bleeding drops of gall. For glory thai? is gone ; He was Napoleon's General — Undaunted Symeon ! EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. PROVOST BENNETT. AVE on, you sad November wind, That desolates the woods and vales; Yon suit my solitary mind, In which an equal murmur wails ; For, while you sing a song of grief Through glens of ruin and decay, I mourn Dumbarton's gallant chief, Who moulders now in silent clay. Brave Provost Bennett lies in gloom — Death's cruel hand has laid him low ; And never will that hand of doom Inflict a more lamented blow ; Because a braver man than he Will never toil again for man — • He was the son of Liberty, He took the lead upon her van. In courage he a lion was, In intellect a brilliant star; His dai'ing deeds evoked applause, His fame had wandered wide and far. And I have seen him in his pride, And doated on his godlike form ; How he could conquer all beside, • And overcome the wildest storm. I never shall forget the niglit That Bouverie before him fell, As if before a whirlwind's might That would have checked a blast from hell ; And oh ! the surging roar of cheers Which thundered through the trembling hall, Is sounding still upon my ears Like some loud distant waterfall. 78 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. Not once, but often have I seen The hero vanquishing his foes, And smiling meekly at the spleen Of jealousy which round him rose; For, being gifted to control, He could with elegance and grace Conceal the lightning of his soul Beneath a calmly smiling face. That Provost Bennett gained esteem, Let his accomplishments attest ; His life was not an idle dream, But one of toil unmixed with rest. And let his monument — the " Pier," Which of itself would him adorn, Prolong his fame from year to year, Through generations yet unborn. Dumbarton, you shall never see, Long as the rock salutes the sun. Such intellect and energy, And manhood, all combined in one. As now with Provost Bennett sleep Low in the chamber of the dead ; No wonder if you sigh and weep. And tears in his remembrance shed. I saw myself his cold remains Committed to their final rest, And thought my heart would break its chains That moment in my throbbing breast j Because, he was the chief I prized, And would have risked my life to save, However he might be despised By some that could not be so brave. Now that the star that shone so bright, And measured out a grand career, Has grown eclipsed in starless night, Upon his grave 1 drop a tear; EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 79 Yet my one consolation is — That he, throughout his " noon of fame," Knew all my sympathies were his, Regardless of reproach or blame. He fell too soon, he lowly lies. His fall I bitterly lament ; But his untarnished fame defies The stroke by which his heart was rent. Then, let him sleep in awful peace, His name will still be dear to me ; This pulse of mine, like his, will cease Ere I forget his memory ! THE LAST OF M'ANALLY. HILL up your glasses to the brim. And do not spare the whisky, For we have reason to rejoice, And we must all be frisky. Our joy should make the echoes ring All over Leven valley. In thanking God that we have seen The last ofM'Anally. So long as he was in our midst He kept us in subjection, And made us tremble in our shoes The time of an election : And often, through the local press, He on us made a sally. And well we knew his nom de phcnie Was none but M'Anally. We never will forget the time He wrote yon flaming letters. so EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. In which he ridiculed alike \ His equals and his betters : And then, the railing tongue he had Cut so sarcastically, That iifty men like us could not Have coped witli M 'Anally. We must confess he was a child Of much determination, Though, God knows, many a time we tried To wound his reputation. , And all our lies, and plans, and tricks,^ But only made him rally Upon us with revenge, and we All feared for M'Anally. The rock that lifts its head on high, And overlooks Dumbarton, Is firmer not than he has been In what he set his heart on : But then, his independent mind Would not with reason tally ; Men that have money surely could Enlighten M'Anally. ' His impudence was hard to bear, He never had a penny. And yet, would argue politics With even Peter Denny ! ' By Jove ! we would have taught him sense, And done it punctually, But for the law — that made us keep Our hands off M'Anally. His absence is a pleasant thing, And may kind fortune send it, That lie may never moi'e return To tight for Provost Bennett. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 81 And, if he only stops away, The town will "flourish brawlie ; Then let us hope that we have seen The last of M'Anally ! CATHERINE GREEK. I. *W\EATIT, riding on a pestilence, JL/ Dispensing mortal doom, Was driving young and old alike To sleep in silent gloom ; And, raging like a wintry storm, He, in his fierce cai'eer. Blew forth a blast which seized upon The life of Catherine Greer. II. He blew a blast of pestilence, Which through her body tore. And through the town a murmur spread That Catherine was no more. Then hearts grew sad, and eyes grew dim. And many shed a tear. Requesting God on high to rest The soul of Catherine Greer ! in. She was lamented by her friends, For she was fair and tall ; An honour to her native hills — The hills of Donegal : And she, perhaps, had some kind friend To whom her life was dear, And who would venture, weal or woe, Along with Catherine Greer. 82 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. IV. We live amid the air of Death — Its vapours round us play ; To-morrow's sun may shed his beams Upon our lifeless clay. We tread upon uncertain ground — Eternity is near ; Our feeble lives are in the Hand That took ofi" Catherine Greei*. The old and frail, that bend with age, May well prepare to die, When they behold the young and strong Mown down like heads of rye ; And ah ! how many young and fair, When life is bright and clear, Are, by the sweeping scythe of Death Out down, like Catherine Greer ! VI. Poor Catherine was but in her prime- Sweet, charming, young, and free ; The plain of life l)cfore her blazed, With glories fair to see. But those allurements grew eclipsed, She saw them disappear. And awful silence rested on The lips of Catherine Greer. VII. Her rosy cheeks are pallid now, Her locks no longer wave ; 8he sleeps, till an expiring world Alarms the silent grave. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 83 And while lier bones lie motionless, In stillness deep and drear, We ask the Lamb of God to bless The soul of Catherine Greer. THE FALL OF KARS. "^T is the hour of midnight, and no stai-s A Light up the black basaltic hills of Kars ; But clouds of thickest darkness hang and dwell Around the ramparts of the citadel : Not to relieve the gunners there of din, But that a scene of horror misht beain : For, suddenly, the heavy guns of Krupp Belch flame, which ploughs and teai's the darkness up. Well may those mounted monsters blaze and roai* — They shall be fired by Moslem hands no more ; For in their front, like an advancing tide, The soldiers of the Cross, extending wide. Approach with thunder rolling from their van, Resembling more God's wrath than that of man ; And trails of cannon light, like shooting stars, Illuminate their midnight raid on Kars. They scale the walls, they rush on the redoubts, And never rose from men such yells and shouts As now to Holy Alla's throne arise. Imploring the assistance of the skies. But Alia and his Prophet are asleep ; The morning sun must gaze upon a heap Of Moslem warriors defiled with gore, Who shall support the Koran faith no more. Like angry alligators, fight the Turks, To guard the citadel and hold its works ; 84 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. But Melikoff, and his determined band, Assail witli force that nothing can withstand, Prolonging battle, till the morning's light Concludes the bloody carnage of the night ; For kindly Sol shall calm the wrath of Mars, Where thousands fall — Oh God, the fall of Kars FRANCIS DOHERTY. IIGHT times yon sky That hangs on high Has seen this globe of ours revolve, Since Doherty, Right manfully, Left Clyde with many a bright resolve J And far from Clyde, We say, with pride, He played a part that was sublime. Till cold Disease Began to freeze The fountain of his mortal prime. Far from Japan, The brave young man Then sailed for home, his life to close, That kindreds dear Mififht "ather near, And light him to his last repose; But, coming home, Across the foam Of giant Ocean's angry storm, Death came and stole The living soul, And gave the waves his lifeless form. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. F."* Perhaps there may Be grief to-day Among his old Dumbarton friends ; But tears like rain Would fall in vain, To help what the Almighty sends. Nor will the tears They shed for years Dissolve the bonds in which he sleeps — The youth they mourn Will not return Although an aged mother weeps. All that we know Of friend or foe Who closed the eyes of that young man — • Is that he died Upon the tide, Returning homeward from Japan ; And o'er the reeds Of Ocean weeds Tumultuous billows howl and frown, Where Doherty Went silently, Perhaps ten thousand fathoms down. Above his tomb The waters boom A restless wilderness of blue ; Deep is the gi-ave, High is the wave, That rides and hides it from our view : And there he lies In heavy ties, Chained to the bottom of the sea, Where he shall lie Till startled by The roar of God's Artillery. 86 "' EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. If low and deep His bones must sleep Till Doomsday's wrath awakens them. His soul has flown To God's high Throne To wear a golden diadem. May Doherty Sleep silently Beneath the mighty Ocean's roar, And with the blest May calmly rest His soul on Heaven's eternal shore. THE RURAL HOMES OF BANK J^ CROSS the waste of memory, jfe^ One fondest look I throw, To catch a glimpse of happy scenes-— The scenes of long ago ; And pictures form before my soul, Sublimely fair to scan — The lakes, and hills, and hollow glens, And waving woods of Bann. Lough Neagh is sleeping far behind, With sky-reflecting breast ; Slieve Gallon's frowning shoulders rise Between me and the west ; Fresh valleys wear a smile of grace, While healthy breezes fan The stately oaks and sycamores That shade the banks of Bann. There lovo unites with innocence, In merry joyous glee, INFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 87 And friendship stretches out the hand, With cheerful heart, and free. And peasant gii-ls — serenely sweet, The first in beauty's van, Entrance the souls of manly swains, By love-inducing Bann. The bard may wander through the world, And learn the ways of men. But how in life can he forget The hills, and stream, and glen, Where first he breathed the air of heaven. And faced the mortal span. Which, oh ! some day will terminate Far from his native Bann. Land of my young and early days ! My heart is all thine own ; It lingers still around the slopes That border Portglenone. Thou art my native Paradise, Where first my life began ; ! And death will come ere I forget The rural homes of Bann. THE GOD-LIKE MAN OF AUSTERLITZ. WHEN eighty thousand French had cried "Long live the Emperor," they i-aised The fiercest cannonade that yet On earth had ever roared or blazed. Loud as the dreadful day of doom Their military thunder broke ; And all the hills of Austerlitz Grew tex-rible with flame and smoke. ^8 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. Great Bonaparte — their guide, their god, ' Was there in martial majesty, And his archangel — Prince Murat, Charged with a storm of cavalry. And, rushing like the winds of heaven, Assailed the foes in long ai-ray. Who fell before his flashing swords, Till heaps of carnage round him lay. Tremendous was the clash of arms, Tumultuous was the clamour then — The din of conflict, and the noise Of four times fifty thousand men. Three nations fought knee-deep in blood, Three languages the heavens rent ; And still the rousing cheer of France Above its yelling rivals went. Each "Vive la" that rent the skies, Fell in a hurricane of blows, Till god-like Bonaparte beheld The consummation of his foes. Two armies perished in his wrath. The dead lay thick upon the plain; The crows might have returned him thanks For such a noble field of slain. Then terrible was his renown — Gigantic laiirels decked his head ; His foot was placed on Europe's neck, He had no rivals more to dread. Rv stood, the conqueror of all. But was, alas ! himself a slave To mad ambition's whip, which drives The proudest headlong to the grave. The story of his high career Ts that a giant meteor ran Across the sky, and hid again From the astounded eye of man. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 89 Yet still, the dashing blaze he made A poet's fiery lyre befits, And bards unborn with song shall wreathe The God-like man of Ansterlitz. THE DESTRUCTION OF KELVIN BRIDGE. "^T was the first night of the year, Jt In Partick all was glee — ■ The pviblic houses yielded chimes Of mirth and revehy ; And crowds that occupied the streets ^ Created merry noise. While families,, in private homes, Indulged in sweeter joys. Meanwhile, the wintiy winds without Performed a bitter wail ; And Kelvin, leaping on his way, Roared chorus to the gale ; For he, like mortals mad with drink, Was foaming to the brim, Though it was but the juice of snow Intoxicated him. The heavy snows that had of late Reposed upon the hills, All melted now, was coming down In fiercely gushing rills ; Till Kelvin overflowed his banks, And, rising in his pride, Hesolved to tumble all that stood Between him and the Clyde. 90 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. In fi-ont of Partick, where the stream Rolls down a rocky bed, The mighty genius of the flood Raised up his awful head; And, speaking to the wooden bridge, Which right above him stood, He cried — " I shall not suffer you To span my roaring flood. " This night, while Partick residents In merriment unite, I mean to strike their wooden bridge. And drive it out of sight. if they carouse and dance with joy, Through cot and lighted hall, I shall at least play one wild trick That will astonish all." The startled bridge, with trembling voice, Said to the genius then — "My lord, I am the property Of honest working men ; And, if I perisli in your wrath, They all shall meet a loss, For often on my slender back I cai'ried them across. " In Partick and in Govan, too, The sons of toil, I know, With one accord shall mourn a friend, When I am lying low ; And I should rather stand than fall. If you can only march Your waters quietly beneath My poor but kindly arch." The angry water-god replied — ■ " Say what you like to me, T know of men by whom my deed Shall well applauded be. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. Ui You know jowr poor existence is But in improvement's way ; And he shall see your broken ribs Who sees the dawn of day." The wave was resolute and strong, The bridge was poor and frail, And might, that often conquers right, Was fated to prevail. The water spirit roared aloud, And with one heavy swell Broke down the bridge, and with a crash The planks asunder fell. JANE DRAKE. I. J^HIS song is from a bard, dear Jane, <^ Whose voice no more may reach thy home. For soon thou shalt be on the main. Where lordly billows roll and foam ; And on thine ear, from ocean blue, Will songs in other language glide — The screeching of the " wild sea-mew," The loud, deep moaning of the tide. II. Perchance, when on the sea, my dear. Poised in the whirls of wave and wind. This simple song may help to cheer The lonely chamber of thy mind: For thou, perusing it, shalt smile, And in imagination seem To dwell in Partick still a while, By shallow Kelvin's winding stream. 92 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. II r. May He who once on Galilee Commanded waves and wind to sleep, Control the elements for thee, While sailing on the restless deep. And when thou reachest safe the land Of great America, dear Jane, May still from His Almighty hand, IJpon thy head fresh blessings rain. IV. May fortune gi*eet thee with a smile Such as on cherub lips would play; Unchecked by grief, unhurt by guile, Till thou hast seen thy latest day. Farewell, and place thy trust in God, That He may never thee forsake ; And recollect, when far-abroad. My warmest wish is thine. Miss Drake. HENRY SHILLIG IN A BURNING WORLD AN AUTHENTIC STORY- OF THE LATE PRAJRJE FIRES OF AMERICA. I^HE moon sat on her midnight throne, JL And earth below was dear and lone — • A solitary globe, Whose j)eople from the toils of day, And, dead to care, reposing lay In slurnVjcr's dreamy robe. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 93' At that lone hour, from calm repose, Poor Henry Shillig -wildly rose ; For round his house there came A rapid whirlwind, driving fast — - A dreadful sound, a roaring blast Of wind, and smoke, and flame ! He called his -wife — she I'ose in fear, He seized two children young and dear, And bore them out with him ; And oh ! the spectacle he saw, Was one which filled his soul with awe. And made his eyes grow dim. But how could he and his take flight Unclothed, in such a fearful night, For wild winds loudly whii-led, Combined -with that mad element, Which will in Time's old age be sent To pulverise the world ? Before him and behind a tide Of fire was rushing far and wide — The flames were leaping high With fury awful and immense, While smoke, in volumes black and dense, Was rolling to the sky. Meanwhile, his children and his wife Were dearer far to him than life And all its thousand charms ; And ofi" he ran with her he loved. With love which he in danger proved, His children in his arms. To reach the town of Forestville, Far over blazincr alen and hill. He took his dangerous way ; 54 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. But he had little hope to save His dear ones from a burning grave, Till Heaven would send them day. No matter whei-e he cast his eyes, He saw the flames of ruin rise, Still carried on the breeze From wood to grove, from hill to dell, Tremendous as the flames of hell, Devouring all the trees. -'o Woods, with expiring woods combined. Disgorging floods of flame, which shined Along the lofty sky, As if heaven's angels mocked our earth, And burned their starry plains with mirth To see corruption die. The fear which he that night imbibed Is not imagined nor described. Nor can it be by man; Yet, nerved to action by despair, From place to place (not knowing where) He through the blazes ran. There was no place to which he turned But wilder than another burned. Presenting lurid light, Till he began to fear that all The erring race of man would fall That desolating night. He thought that all the lands abroad Were dying in the wrath of God ; And on the coming day All men would from their ashes rise And meet the Sovereign of the skies, Their last accounts to pay. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. I wonder how the man had power, Amid the terrors of that hour, To live, or draw a breath ; For such a spectacle might make The strongest-hearted mortal quake, So as to plunge in death. Tall burning trees fell to the ground, And showex's of sparks were flying round The poor, unhappy man ; Yet, though death seemed to fall his lot. And though the air he breathed was hot, He still for refuge ran. At last night's sable veil was torn, And through it gazed the eye of morn On river, glen, and hill, And, after running five long miles Through fii-e, he reached the ruined piles Of ill-starred Forestville. He reached the place where stood the town, Which had, alas ! been melted down. And was to ashes hurled ; But God spared Henry Shillig's life To lead his children and his wife Safe through a burning world. THE LAND THAT BORE US. ''EAR yon loud voice that I'ings afar- e Yon voice of human thunder ; A captive people struggling are To burst their bonds asunder. i)6 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. And, Irishmen, let us reply — Let us take up the chorus ; For that loud cry that rends the sky Is from the land that bore us ! Let us unite with might and maiii To aid our native nation ; And help their gallant sons to gain Their native legislation. For, though we tread a foreign soil, And foreign skies hang o'er us, Our noblest duty is to toil To save the land that bore us ! In spite of thraldom strong and vile, We toil with keen devotion, To heal the wounds of that dear isle In the Atlantic ocean. And let the tyrant's darkling brow (Behind us or before us) Frown as it may, we swear and vow To aid the land that bore us ! KING CANUTE COMMANDING THE SEA. NCE, in Southampton, King Canute, With his attendants standing mute. And silent by his side, Stood by the margin of the sea, Resolved to test his Majesty Upon the (lowing tide. The sea before him flowing came, And kindling into seeming flame. Bright with the beams of day ; EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 9T And fire lit upou the monarch's eyes i, To see the mountain billows rise, And in his presence play. Upon that howling waste he gazed, And in his mind fierce pictures blazed — His soul to action rose; He thought upon the battle plain, , The triumphs of the warlike Dane — The flight of Denmark's foes. He gazed, he paused, he stood entranced. And still within him wildly danced The visions most sublime, Of victories that he had won — The fame of which would onward run, And see the death of Time. At last he spoke, and cried — "My power No battlement nor hostile tower Is able to withstand; For nations subject are to me. And other nations soon will be At my supreme command. " My military fame is far. My sword is terrible in war — Men tremble at my nod ; For they have seen me dashing through Red fields of cax-nage, with the hue, And flash and gleam of God. " No pomp is like my royal robe, My kingdom yet shall be the Globe — No other king shall reign ; And he that will oppose my sway Must to omnipotence give way Upon the battle plain. 98 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. *' I am no offspring of this earth, But one of more than mortal birth, That for a time came down From yon vast plain so high and wide, To set my foot on human pride. And seize each kingly crown. " The lands obey me as I go, The waters, too, must cease to flow, Or flow, as I command; And these huge waves on ocean's bi'east, That leap and roar, will stand at rest Soon as I bid them stand ! " His Danish nobles i-ound him stood, Expecting ocean's angry flood "Would in a moment cease To quarrel with the winds, and all The battling waves asleep would fall Upon a bed of peace. Then like a God, great King Canute Stretched out his sceptre, stamped his foot, And shouted to the sea — -*' Let not thy tide at present flow, Stand motionless a while, and show Submission unto me." And when he to the sea had cried. The spirit of the dcej) replied With fierce majestic roar; Old Neptune shook his inmost bounds, And breakers broke with louder sounds Along the rocky shore. The tide rushed forward to the king, As if to grasp the abject thing And lasli him with disdain; EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 99 Arnl he confessed that He alone, Who ruled on Heaven's eternal throne, Could rule the raging main. We from this story of Canute _J May reap at least one golden fruit That should be cherished long — Presumption often teaches man His inability to scan And see where he is wrong. A SONG OF INDEPENDENCE. °Y independence is my joy, I never wrote a line, my boy, That was not with my nature born; For all my writing is the fire With which the Muses me inspire To blow their noisy trumpet horn. I never bent, I cannot bend ; I stand conformed to nature's laws, And will not change for foe or friend. Though neither will espouse m}' cause. My heart, my soul, my voice, my pen, Belong to my own countrymen : Nor would I wander from their side; But still my fiery pulses rage In honest conflict to engage For labour's children far and wide. They toil beneath oppressive might — Injustice stares them in the face; I would assist their wrongs to right, And help them on in every place. 100 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. Is it because that I am brave, And would disdain to be a slave, My friends would all indignant be 1 You know that in my bosom burns A manly heart, that scouts and spurns All that would cripple liberty. There never left the Irish soil An exile with a braver heart; But then, I am a son of toil — Ordained to play a lowly part. I may in poverty remain — My limbs may wear the tyrant's chain; But tyranny will never bind The roaring lions of my soul. The thoughts that leap beyond control Through my unconquerable mind. My day will cease, my sun will fall, My slumber shall be lone and drear, And some who drench me now with erall Upon my grave may drop a tear. THE LAUNCH OF THE DAPHNE. TWO hundred men on board the Daphne stood, And she went nobly gliding down the ways, Until embraced by Clyde's majestic flood, And from his bank arose a cheer of praise; But, in' a dreadful moment of amaze, That customary joy abruptly died — The vessel heaved and reeled before our gaze, Then with a plunge, upon her larboard side 8ank in the quickly closing waters of the Clyde I Ah, God ! no mortal language can express That most horrific panic when she fell; EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 101 Imagination droops, all powerless The terrible reality to tell ; A sudden cry rose from the sui'ging swell, Heart-rending to the men that were on shore; But quite as soon that agonising yell Was choked to silence and was heard no more ! ■ The liver foamed and then grew tranquil as before. To think of it our hearts are awe-struck still; We saw our comrades in a fearful state Launched to eternity, and all o\ir skill Was impotent to save them from their fate. Then parents, wives, and children, desperate, Came crowding to the yard fi'om far and near — Their cries of anguish coming throuarh the erate Were piercing wails, extremely sad to hear, And who was there that could suppress the bursting tear? In all the history of building ships, The Daphne launch no precedent can find ; We speak of it with tremor on our lips, And deep sensation rooted in our mind ; Yet, the Almighty God — so good and kind, Our comrades in a better land can place, And to the helpless they have left behind, Turn with a Father's hand and smiling face — In Him is still a store of solace, help, and grace. JOYFUL CHRISTMAS. J OW joyful Christmas comes again, High mounted on his wintry car; And as he drives along the plain. Loud songs of joy are heard afar; -' 102 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. For in the East there shines a Star, Beneath whose fair and brilliant ray The armies of confusion are, Like vapours, vanishing away! All nature seems to understand Tlie tidings of the joyful moru — That, far away in Judah's land. The Conqueror of Death is born. Grim darkness is to fragments torn, Or to unbounded chaos hurled; And fringes of pure light adorn The farthest margin of the world! The gloom of forty centuries, Distracted and deranged, takes flight. Retreating from the eastern skies To shelter in eternal night. For neither Sin nor Death can fight The young Almighty that is come; Pale Falsehood trembles at His sight, And all the pagan gods are dumb! Approach, oh ! man, with reverence The Crib of Bethlehem, and see The Child of dread Omnipotence — The Son of awful Majesty. And think what thou art worth, when He Incarnate for thy sake became, To live in misery for thee, And die for thee a death of shame! Thou art of little consequence. Compared to Him, though He comes down From His high Thione in thy defence. To win thee a celestial crown. He comes not with a hero's irown, But with a smile of innocence, Disdaining all the vain renown, Tliat only dazzles human sense. EFFUSIONS AFTEK TOIL, lO^i Born of the Virgin — Sharon's Rose, The gem and pearl of womankind; Cold Winter's breath upon Him blows- He trembles in the morning wind. The world against Him is combined — The world that He comes to unchain; And persecutors seek to find The young God, that He may be slain. His love indeed is boundless love, : And, most astonishing to tell, How He would leave His Throne above Amongst the sons of men to dwell-- An erring race that strayed and fell, Subjected to unnumbered crimes; And He to ransom them from hell Would sufler death ten thousand times! \ March on ! ye Wise Men, and salute Your King with songs and anthems gay. For many mortals will be mute Before another Christmas Day. Ah ! many will have passed away Into the terrible Unknown; Have mercy on them. Lord, I pray, And gather them around Thy Throne! THE MYSTERY OF CALVARY. YE weeping dames of Solyma, What is it that can freely diaw Such tears of sorrow down'? Has blood been shed amid yon crowd Of savages, that clamour loud Upon Golgotha's crown.' ]04 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. Yes; crucified, and pierced with spears, And dyed with ci'imson rain, Amid their brutal yells and cheers, The Lamb of God is slain. Thy cruel sons, Jerusalem, Have pressed a thorny diadem Upon His tender head. And nailed Him to a cross of wood, Which streams with His redeeming blood- Immaculate and red; And He no sooner parts life's heat. Than, oh ! the shock is felt — His corpse has for a winding sheet Creation's humid belt. The moans of an expiring God Have moved Creation deep and broad, That thunders roar afar; While Nature, trembling to her base, With frightful darkness hides the face Of day's gigantic star, As though preparing to be rent, By one dread crash of doom. Which yet will plunge the firmament In everlasting gloom. The Galilean that is slain Is more than mortal, and again In triumph will arise; Because His blood is only shed To conquer death, revive the dead. And brighten weeping eyes. The virtue of His sacred gore; Hath set the captive free; And heaven's artillery but roar. Announcing victory. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. lOf) Our deadly foe is overthi'own, The bloody wounds of Christ atone For our sad primal fall; Yet punishable guilt will stain The wretch who tears those wounds again. That have redeemed us all. That mystery on yonder hill Of our reprieve, lies hex-e — Impossible made possible — The way to heaven is clear. Oh! for an angel's golden lyre, Upon each softly sounding wire Of God's dear Lamb to sins; For nobler theme could not ensrase The voice or thought of bard or sage, Than Christ, our Lord and King. But, to embrace His dying love, Be man to man a brother; For those can claim not Christ above Who love not one another. THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. These lines were spoken as a prologue at a dramatic entertain- ment, given 24th October, 1879, under the management of Mr. I). M'Kendrick, in St. James' Hall, Partick, BROTHER Abstainers, and friends to the cause, AVe scai'cely need hope to win your applause, In thus presuming to bi-ing on the stage, One of the popular plays of the age; 1( (5 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. For we are novices yet in the art, That can cliarm the eye, or speak to the heart; We only hope you indulgent will be, And pardon what faults in us you may see, II. Eoth nature and art must have time to grow, The lily must bud before it can blow; Perfection is but attained by degrees, We yet may be able to charm and please. At present your kind attention we crave. And we know that you are honest and brave; Our attempt to-night will try us the sorest— We venture to play "The Flowers of the Forest. Ill- I'he Total Abstainers kindly intend, The needful of the parish to befriend; For all the proceeds of this night shall go, To heli> the sujferers out of their woe; And who is here will refuse to applaud A work so pleasing to man and to God? It is a duty incumbent on all, To aid the poor of St. Vincent de Paul. IV. With CJiarity added to Temperance, Our Abstinence League deserves to advance; And ne\'er shall we abandon our flag, Until out of shame and disgrace we drag Oui- poor fellow men, as much as we can, Who are sinking in the ruin of uian; Poor drunken men are the saddest — the sorest — ^ Abstainers are quite the " Flowers of the Forest." EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 107 TO A PARTICK BRIDE. These lines were presented by the author to Miss Mary Jane Lowe, on the morning of her marriage with Mr. John M'Kenua, 1st January, 1877. I. PERMIT a minstrel, Mary Jane, To wake a string, to cliant a strain, Upon your bridal morn; To wish you all the joys which cheer The hearts of mortals, as the year To life and light is born. II. Ten thousand worlds that wander through Yon vast eternity of blue. In harmony roll on; While joy upon his trumpet horn Blows loudly through the air of morn, And calls upon the dawn. III. One year has drawn his parting groan, Another mounts the vacant throne, And grips the reins of Time; And Earth begins again to run Her journey round the mighty Sun, As in Creation's prime. IV, There is through nature's wide domain, Unbounded rapture, Mary Jane, Which can with yours combine; 108 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. And well the day shall correspond With all the glories, sweet and fond, That light tip Hymen's shi-ine. V, To Hymen's altar now yon go — His torch presents a brilliant show Of pure, unsullied flame; The bands are dangling by his side, In which you soon shall be a bride, And wear another name. VI. Receive the solemn wedding chains — The Ruler of the starry plains, In whom your trust you place, Can give to you along with them A more than royal diadem, From His immortal grace. VII. May angels guard your marriage rite, With swords of majesty and light, May God pronounce it good; May happiness from lieaven come down. Your social festive board to crown, With friends in merry mood. VIII. •O may that star shine on your feast, Which led the sagos of the East Through deserts wild and broad, Directing them upon the road, Until they found the lone abode, Where lay the Lamb of God. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 10& IX. The fondest wisli I entertain, Is yours devoutly, Mary Jane, On this, your wedding day — A poet's soul is still the same, Enkindled once, its ardent flame, Is an eternal ray. To bride and bridegroom, and their friends, I drink one earnest health, which ends These verses punctually; To each and all a merry feast, Combined with the regards at least — Of Henry M 'Anally. WINTER. ► ARE is the plain, the wind is chill, ' Its breath is keen, its voice is shrill- I hear it rave on crag and hill, With vengeance borne along; While sadly murmur sti-eam and rill As chorus to its sons. The leafless trees, far down the vale, Like willows bend before the gale; And woe-presaging is the wail That rises from the Clyde, Whose dashing billows loudly rail In all their wintry pride. Both wind and wave alike declare That winter jetties in the air; 110 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. And see upon Ben Lomond (where The clouds their ballast throw), _ '. There gleams a waste, all white and fair, Of newly fallen snow. Grim Winter now will rule the plain, And curse the land with hail and rain, And snow, and with a frosty chain, That will the waters bind; Cause miseiy, and want, and pain, To torture poor mankind. The rich and great in pomp and ease, Defiance smile at winter's breeze. Though snows may drift, and winds may freeze. And many woes combine; For they can still oh what they please. At sumptuous tables dine. When elemental battle brawls, Their gorgeous palaces and halls Can well withstand the gusts and squalls That rock the poor man's door; For winker's vengeance only falls Severely on the poor. May God, who can all understand, Look down upon this woeful land, And to the poor His aid expand, And cheer each pallid form! For dreary winter is at hand. With all its plagues of storm. And through the land, what mournful cries Will from poor huts and hovels rise, While, from the wild inclement skies The frosty breezes blow; And over hill and mountain flies The blinding shower of snow. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 1 1 1 Tlie pangs of hunger and distress Through many a ragged child will press, Whose weeping mother will caress The starving babe, and sigh, Which may, alas ! be fatherless, Save for the Sire on high. Those creatures, who have cause to fear This bitter season of the year, I grieve for them, and with a tear, Which in their cause I shed, I pray may Heaven in pity hear All those who cry for bread ! AN EVENING MEDITATION IN SPRING. I. X NEVER felt such soothing bliss JL As when, upon an eve like this, I wander forth unseen, Where these gigantic summits frown like monuments of dead renown, And giants that have been. p. Before me and behind me play The glances of departing day. Which gleam and flit along; While, from the warbling groves and woods, The air imbibes a thousand floods Of most hilarious song. III. The little poets of the Spring, That in each leafy arbour sing, Inspii-e me with their glee, ] 1 2 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. And lift my soul in solemn mirth "^ To poets of eternal birth, And starry harmony. IV. Absorbed in thought— proud, grand, sublime, I gaze upon the birth of time, When Great Jehovah came Through chaos, boundless, drear, immense— A Poet of Omnipotence, J And of stupendous fame. V. I cfaze upon that moment, when He lifted His omnific pen, A lofty song to write ; I And where its shining point He laid, There instantly a world was made And hung before His sight. vi. He wrote on high, and, as He wrote. The universe was made to float In volumes from His pen ; Till His grand song swept through the bounds Of mighty space, whicli so astounds The feeble minds of men. VII. He laid His awful pen aside, And splendid systems wandered wide In perfect harmony; While twice ten million angels sang, And all the young Creation rang In one vast jubilee. VIII. God is Himself a Bard, and all Tlie countless angels who extol His name are bards, who sing EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 113 In His own presence as He reigns, High-seated on the starry plains — Their Makei-, Lord, and King. IX. God is a Bard, and those high hills On which I gaze are syllables Of His eter-nal lay; And, lost in wonder, I behold Their lofty peaks, all bi-ight with gold. Caught from retiring day. Bright Sol, upon his chariot driven, Adown yon azux'e slope of heaven, Drags home his playful beams ; O Lord of earth and firmament, Thy works are all magnificent — In them Thy glory gleams. THE AUTHOR AT A BULL-FIGHT IN GOVAN. I. THE Captain and his old grey head Came right in front of me; A storm of wrath lit up his face — An angry man was he ; And with a proud, defiant air. Spoke out both loud and quick — " Is your name M'Aually, Sir, The man who lost the stick?" 8 Hi EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. II. " Yes," I replied, " I am the man From whom the stick was wrung, And I suppose, from what you seem, That you are Captain Young." " I am the Chief of the Police," He thundered from liis throat ; "■ And you that should have known ere you To Provost Wilson wrote. III. " Your letter to the Provost, Sir, Is present in my hand, And I can read it now, and let You hear it where you stand. And you should be ashamed, my man, If you can feel remorse. For writing such a lying scroll Upon the Govan Force. IV, " If I can undei'stand you right, You mean to say the men Are but a den of thieves, and I The Chieftain of the den. What explanation can you give? Speak out, be ])lain and >)rief ; Say if the Constables be thieves, And I the master thief." V. " Ah ! no," I cried, " T never will Pronounce such artful stuff, For, simple as I am, I know Your meaning well enough : EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 115 You wisli to draw me in a snare, But you are baffled quite ; You cannot lock me in the cell, For what I say to-night." VI. He shook his old grey head and jumped, And into fury burst, And shouted, " Sir, why did yon not Acknowledge me at first ? Why did you not wi-ite unto me. And tell me which and what 1 I am the Chief of the Police — Are you aware of that 1 " VII. " I am aware of that," said I, " Yet, in reply, may say, By writing unto you, I would Thi'ee half-pence cast away. You know, my small affairs would give Your honour little pain; I wi'ote to Provost Wilson, Sir, Nor wrote to him in vain." VIII. " Well, now," the angry Captain cried, " Your stick in here is left; But, ere you get it, you must charge The Constable with theft." ; " Down with the charge," said I, " at once, Nor let us longer prate. And I will prove your man a thief Before a magistrate." IX. The Constable then from the cell Was by a brother led. 116 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. To hear me giving in tlie charge, Which made him hang his head. And, after it was written down, He went back to his cell; But still the Captain stood and talked. And raged away like hell. X. He called me names, and they were names Not fonnd in English lore; I never heard such Billingsgate In all my life before. And it was vain for me to talk, Without a fish-wife's tongue, To match the chosen epithets Dealt out by Captain Young. XI. God help the Irish— the despised, The miserable trash; They suffered more than I can say From his unsparing lash. He ridiculed them high and low, He trod them underneath; He gi'inned at me, grimaced, and gaped, And let me see his teeth. XII. I had begun to think that he Would seize me like a bear, And tear me, as I was alone Beside him in his lair; But he grew calm at last, and went Exhausted from my view; And I was glad enough to bid The cross old man — Adieu. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. ] 1 ' HEGARTY'S ROCK. In the summer of 1881, 1 made a short visit to Lmishowen, ami, while there, was entertained by Father Peter Kearney, of Bimcrana. One night the rev. gentleman escorted me along tlie rugged bank of Lough 8willy, and, as the night was calm and lovely, we became seated for a while upon a rock to indulge in conversation. While seated there, he pointed out to me " Hegarty's Rock," and related the sad tradition connected with it, whicli forms the subject of the following poem. It is a true story of the penal days. A green mound, raised over the exact sjiot by the Right Rev. Edward Maginn, D.D., now marks out where Father Hegarty's dust reposes. He was interred on the spot where he was murdered. I. ^T was a dewy summer night — ^ It haunts my recollection still — The sun had drawn away his light; Grey mist encircled every hill. And not a sound fell on the ear, Except Lough Swilly's constant play, Which was so musical to hear. That it made drowsy nature gay. II. Upon a rugged rock I sat, While Father Kearney sat with me, And told me a tradition that Shall not in life forgotten be. He told it, and it sent a shock Of horror through my heart and brain; And, oh ! he pointed out the rock Where Father Hegarty was slain. III. He said — " There stands before your eyes The hoary cliff which drank his blood; 118 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. His head was taken as a prize, His body buried where he stood. He had been living in a cave — His sister from the village went To it each morn by stealth, and gave To him some kindly nourishment. IV. " The soldiers sought liim night and day^ There was a price upon his head; At last, by means of money, they Were to his lonely dwelling led. His sister's husband led them fi*om Buncrana, in the morning's gloom; The holy pi'iest beheld them come. But how could he escape his doom? " He made to run, and would have tried Across broad Swilly's wave to swim, But his pursuers on him cried To stand, and none would injure him. He stood, and soon they made him reel — ■ The head from off his body fell; They cheered, and waved their bloody steel When they had done the work of hell. VI. " In former time such law was known — To be a Catholic was death; And here, in brave old Innishowen Men suffered much to hold the faith Yet, after all the wicked laws Which scourged and bled the country sore. Our faith is God's eternal cause — We only love it all the more." EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 119 VII. Thus Father Kearney treated me To conversation by the side Of S willy, on a rock, as we Enjoyed the gurgling of the tide. And ever since my spirit seeks, As in a dream, to roam unknown, Around the blood- anointed peaks And storied clitfs of Innishowen. PATRICK'S DAY. ■^^ITH merry din of fife and drum » » The Seventeenth of March is come — The air is light, the sound is gay; As birds rejoice to see the Spring, Ten thousand voices wildly sing The canticles of Patrick's Day! Yon skies, that gave this morning birth, Ere night will ring with shouts of mirth. And swallow many a loud hurrah! For millions far and wide proclaim The nation, pedigree, and fame, To which they cling on Patrick's Dayl There is an Isle, around whose shores Great thunder-voiced Atlantic roars With dashing majesty and sway; And to that Isle my soul takes flight On wings of rapture and delight, To celebrate Saint Patrick's Day! That lovely Island of the West, Which lies in ocean's heaving breast, Beneath the sun's retiring ray, 120 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. Is dear to me, for there of yore My Celtic Fathers proudly wore The Shamrock on Saint Patrick's Day! Still in my soul the flame burns on, That led my sires in ages gone To daring deeds and hostile play; And heavy Death will bind me low, Before that fire will cease to glow With welcome for Saint Patrick's Day! Still through my veins the torrent flows That often to the war-note rose, When Erin fast in bondage lay ; And thoughts, that leap like flashing swords, Inspire my harp's wild, wai'bling chords With martial notes for Patrick's Day! With love that none can understand I still i^evere my native land; And with a bard's fond hope still pray For God to break the galling ties. In which Green Erin captive lies. Upon her own Saint Patrick's Day! Green Island — consecrated long In history, romance, and song. And loved in regions far away; Whatever lot on earth is mine, The heart that beats in me is thine. And thine alone, on Patrick's Day! IMMORTAL PATRICK'S DAY. ^ GAIN, the Seventeenth of March J^ Is causing me to smile, Across the war of waves and wind. Towards my mother isle. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 121 And wildly beats my glowing heax't Foi' kindreds far away; Ten thousand memories are thine — Immortal Patrick's Day. Again to me, as in a di'eam, Departed joys retvirn — Far distant joys, that still upon The heights of memory burn. And I behold Green Erin's woods, Her glens and valleys gay; Ten thousand memories are thine — Immortal Patrick's Day. Long, weary years have vanished since I left my native plains; But still I curse through foreign lands, My country's wrongs and chains. And still I sing to friend and foe. The spirit-i'ousing lay: Ten tlaousand memories are thine — Immortal Patrick's Day. Long years have flown, and waves have rolled In majesty between; But time and tide alike are vain — I still revere the Green. And I will press it to my heart. For ever and for aye; Ten thousand memoi'ies are thine — 1 Immortal Patrick's Day. O Erin ! isle of bard and sage. This night the Lord will see What crowded halls in foreign lands Appeal to Him for thee. And He will break thy fetters yet. And cast them all away; Ten thousand memories are thine — Immortal Patrick's Day. 122 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. O Erin ! I will rise tliis night And drink to thee with pride, Amongst my friends and countrymen, Upon the banks of Clyde. And with the Shamrock to be seen, Give thee a loud hurrah; Ten thousand memories are thine — Immortal Patrick's Day. SAINT PATRICK'S NIGHT. ; THIS night to us, Hibernia's sons, Is one of harmony and mirth; And, highest in our rapture runs. The brave old land that gave vts birth. That is the land we all adore — The land whose wrongs we mean to right , The land to which we evermore Shall drink upon Saint Patrick's Night. The saintly isle we still adore. For which our fathers fought and bled, Through many a field of dust and gore, And many a glen defiled with dead. And, glancing at the days of yore. We come, with all our pride and might, To sing the songs of gay Tom Moore, And celebrate Saint Patrick's Night, Though exiles in a foreign land — All doomed to breathe a foreign air, We in the midst of strangers stand, And independently declare The never-dying love we boar To Erin, and her brilliant light, The faith Saint Patrick planted there — The glory of Saint Patrick's Night. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 123 We meet to strengthen friendship's ties, And give our bursting feelings vent, Where Scotland's lofty mountains rise To prop the bending firmament. And, lighted high on fiery wings, Our elevated hearts take flight — For joys flow from a thousand springs To glorify Saint Patrick's Night. We feel as if the chains were gone That bind our prostrate nation down, For through our veins the blood flows on That bore our fathers to renown. And by the dust of our dead sires, Whose souls are now in glory brig'ht. We swear to still augment the fires That burn upon Saint Patrick's Night. We never will forsake the cause — Ah ! never will we rest content, Till Irishmen make Irish laws. All in an Irish Parliament. And now, my boys, to crown our glee, Before we part, with all our might — One rousing cheer for liberty, Another for Saint Patrick's Night. THE LAUNCH OF THE COCKERMOUTH. This splendid sailing ship was built at Linthouse, Govan, by Messrs. A. Stephen & Sons, and a few days after she was launched the following poem appeared in the local press. As it created some mirth in Partick and Govan at the time, the author is persuaded to reproduce it, though its intrmsic value is Uttle. L THE Cockermouth prepared to start, The master motioned with his hand. The carpenters with blows were smart. To help her outward from the^land; 12i EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. Then down the ways she moved for Clyde, And, drinking up five gills of wine, Rushed rapidly upon the tide, And wet her sides with ocean brine. II. She bathed herself, she danced and dashed, And, in a fit of seemins mirth, "With merry swells of water lashed The kindly spot that gave her birth. She tugged the chains which checked her flight, She tried to break them in the flood; But, being powerful and tight, They held her fast, and there she stood. III. The master then took off his hat. And waved it to evoke a cheer; His men replied with cheering that Was charming music to his ear. And when the h)Ufi hiirrahs they gave In empty air had died away. The ship spoke out upon the wave, Or should have spoken, I should saj : — • " My lords and gentlemen, this day My chief request is that I may, Before I seaward wander. Be spared a minute here or more To thank my builders on the shore — Brave John and Alexander. " 1 know their hearts beat high with pride To see me on the waters ride, For water is my home; And I shall soon be sailing fax-, Amid wild elemental war. Where giant billows foam. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 125 " O Masters, you have built me well, With solid decks and splendid shell, Of grand materials; Such as will stand to me in storm, When round my weather-beaten form The roaring tempest falls, " You nui'sed me kindly in the yard, Still toiling patiently and hard — To all my wants attending; And I advanced by slow degrees. Till I can venture on the seas. Upon myself depending. " Once rigged with lofty masts and sails, If either wind or wave prevails In crashing me with heavin', I need not cast the blame upon My circumspective builders — John And Alexander Stephen. " Nor would I throw such like disaster Upon their manager — M'Master, For he, with due attention, Inspected all my parts and particles; And I embody fai' more articles Than I am fit to mention. " M'Master, you have done your duty,. And, honestly to crown the beauty, And all the proof required Is to behold myself, and see If I am not what I should be — A ship to be admired. " For other foremen in the yard I entertain a high regard. As well as for the chief; But, as the tug is at my side, Prepared to tow me up the Clyde, I must be sweet and brief. 126 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. " Pat Kelly — foreman riveter, I see him looking at me there, My handsome form to see; And he, though often rendered sad By his somewhat unruly squad, Has not neglected me. " All tight, like soles to upper leather. My frames and plates are plied together; And waves, dash as you may, My rivets will retain the same Firm, stubborn grip of plate and frame, Till both are worn away. " Supposing it were fate's decree, Some future day to bury me In Ocean's yawning belly, It would be false of me to say That any living man might la}- The blame on Patrick Kelly. " His squad of men at me may cheer, For I afforded them some beer, To which they had a right; Because I always saw them sweating, As they my iron sides were beating From morning until night. " With hobbies bouncing, hammers dancing And burning rivets redly glancing, They warmed me like an oven; Till, like themselves, I often panted For something which I knew they wanted To drink my health in Go van, "I knew pay Monday just as well As any man who Vjeat my shell, For on that day the boys Enjoyed themselves upon the spree, And I was glad enough to be A day without their noise. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 127 " The riveters must have their beer, To keep their hearts in proper cheer, And bid dull care begone; And, seeing that to be the case, I hope you will, with kindly grace, Foi'give them, Master John. ^'The carpenters deserve my thanks, For how they laid my decks with planks And caulked them at their ease. And placed my figure-head up high, Which seems a lady that can fly, And will, across the seas. ■" I thank the joiners, smiths, and fitters, On me their labovir shows and glitters — ', They all have done their best, To make me stout as well as bonny, And send me out from Caledonia, Prepared to stand the test. " The helpers, too, their share have done, I always saw them rush and run On duty here and there; Still toiling harder than their neighbours, And worse rewarded for their labours — And that is scarcely fair. " Another word, and I am done — Collectively, or one by one, I bless the men of Linthouse; And may their masters — Alexander And John, be each the sole commander Of something like a mint-house. •'o " It is men of their class and station, That make this land a mighty nation, Whose fame must wide and far go With ships like me — well built, and made To carry on extensive trade In many kinds of cargo. 128 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. " I almost had forgot to thank The handsome Lady on the bank, Who, when she saw me mai'ching, Gave me a bottle of good wine, Which tasted, as I thought, divine, Because my lips were parching. " She gave me it to quench my drought, And said, ' Up with it, " Cockermouth," Because the day is hot;' And, as I never was teetotal, I drank it all, and. smashed the bottle Upon the mortal spot. " Her kindness I shall not forget, — To see the way my lips she wet When I began to stir; Yet, gentlemen, you need not think, That it is merely for the drink I speak in praise of her. " The smile I saw upon her face Was one of most bewitching grace — Her look was quite enchanting; And bear ye all this truth in mind — Wherever you no lady find, Sweet happiness is wanting. " My wish is, now that my oration Be written down for publication; And one is here, I guess, Who can, and will with pleasure do it, And add, perhaps, a trifle to it. Before it goes to press. " Go at it, boy, and give my name A corner on the page of fame; And I, while north or south, Or east or west, will praise and prize The bard that can immortalise The name of ' Cockermouth.' EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 129 " Farewell to all in Linthouse Yard; God bless the boys wlio labour hard, And make their shoulders play. May joy attend them morn and even: Long live the gallant bi'others Stephen — Hurrah! my boys, hurrah!" The " Cockermouth " Then shut her mouth, And nothing further said; And we all cheered, Or should have cheered. To hear the speech she made. THE PEINCE AND PRINCESS OF WALES IN SCOTLAND. Tlie following lines were written when the Prince aad Princess of Wales were on a tour throusrh Scotland. THE Prince of Wales — Prince Albert's son. Who is a noted rover, Has come, as I suppose, for fun. To travel Scotland over; And we must hail him with a cheer, As I may with my pen mark; For he shall let us see the dear Sweet wife he got in Denmark. IL His wife is of a race of kings That were renowned for slaughter; 130 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. And Tennyson, who of her sings, Calls her the "Sea-King's daughter;" Because the Danes, in days of yore, Were pirates and invaders, Who swept the seas from shore to shore On fleets of hostile traders. HI. The Scandinavian had his day Of murder, fraud, and pillage, And could with ease arrest or slay A British town or village; But now, the " Sea-King," old and frail- Not fit to send us slaughter, Is acting on a smaller scale, And sends us but his daughter. IV. It is of no utility To rip old sores, and show them. But it is splendid gallantry To let no mortal know them. The lad who loves a lass will feel Inclined his wife to make her, And from the household of the deil Would volunteer to take her. V. Let us salute the Prince of Wales With loud hurrahs, and then, mark, He is no loyal Scot who fails To cheer the girl from Denmark. Our joy will be beyond compare. And it shall make us loyal. To see a sjjorting, jaunting pair. Whose blood tliey say is royaL EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 131 VI. "This royal blood, which kings and queens, Into their veins can gather, Beats me to find oiit what it means, Or who has been its father; But, it would seem. Creation must Have flesh and blood afforded To some great Adam, more than dust, By Moses not recorded. VII. The Prince of Wales and his Princess Are on their way to Glasgow; And we, at all events, I guess, Will round them in a mass go; And cheer them till our throats are sore — Heaven keep our throats in order, That we may all be fit to roar — " Welcome over the border." VIII. We toil to keep them, anyhow, We have to find them coppers; And it will give us pleasui'e now To see the royal paupers. O ye, whose duds are in the pawn, Redeem them, and look bonny In presence of the pair now on A tour through Caledonia. THE ONE-ARMED SAILOR. ^ ^_ T Govan Cross a sailor lad, ^9 Who only had one arm, Sang out with all the voice he had, The Govanites to charm. 132 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. And thus he sang witlioiit a tune — " Good people, pity rae; I lost my arm one afternoon Upon a ship at sea. II. " It was on the Atlantic Main The accident occurred; Our gallant ship, ' Eliza Jane,' Was flying like a bird; For, having all her canvas out, And getting rattling wind. She left the foam she raised about An English mile behind. III. " In fact, the wind blew rather fast, The waves were rolling high, And I I'an up the tallest mast To work beside the sky; When down I fell just like a stone, ' Slap bang ' u})on the deck. And broke my arm right through the b(ine,^ And might have smashed my neck. IV. " I lay a while quite dead to view, As stiff as any log, Till some one of our gallant crew Gave me a drink of grog ; And when the grog had brought me round, I tried to rise again; But, hanging to my side, I found A whole ton weight of pain. " Poor landsmen think they suffer woes Most difficult to bear. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 133 If whiles upon their mouth and nose They tumble down a stair; But falling headlong from the skies Upon a ship at sea, Would learn them what it was to rise, And make them pity me. VI. " I was so ill that afternoon, There was no hope for me. But off my arm was taken soon And flung into the sea; And I began, when it was cut, To curse, and yell, and jump, Seeing the doctor left me but This unavailing stump. VII. " I often pine, lament, and rave, To think my arm and hand, Are resting in a sailoi-'s grave Not far from Newfoundland; While I, in search of bread, must roam Through Scotland wide and far, I who with Neptune once at home Have been a jolly tar. VIII. ** Had I my arm and hand again, As in the days of yore, I would decidedly disdain To beg upon tht shore; For I would plough the ocean wide, Where wind with water wars. And live upon the roaring tide, Among my brother tars." 134 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. LOW IN THE SILENT GRAVE. I. LOW in the silent grave, sire, at rest, Thy body lies, while mingling with the blestjr Thy soul enjoys God's everlasting day, Above the reach of dreams that fade away; And thou on earth hast had thy share of dreams — ■ The desert showed thee many flowing streams, Wliich from thy sight went swiftly fleeting by, And left their stony channels bare and dry. II. Thou wert an Irishman in mind and heart, That never failed to play a manly part; But manhood, be it manhood over twice, Is often recompensed by cowardice; For man is barbarous to brother man. And of liim takes advantage when he can; And I have seen thy once [)retending friends, Rob thee and thine to serve their selfish ends. III. I saw George Birt, I recollect the knave for one— A common burglar could no more have done To ruin thee, thy partner, and her brood Of little ones that little understood. I was myself a child, and knew not then That rogues lived on the sweat of honest men; And talk is unavailing now, for George Has since gone to the clay the worms to gorge. IV, It was not George alone who wrought thee ill, But his was robbery I'emembcred still; It was an action of such naxTow greed. That I could not forget the paltry deed, EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 135 Though I were living till no rogues appear Upon the surface of this earthly sphere, And that will only be when Adam's race Is all transported to some other place. Shade of my sire, enjoy thy peaceful rest, This world devours its weaker ones at best — The rich are cannibals with teeth of gold, That eat the poor and all the means they hold; And how the base, inhuman work is done, Is most deplorable beneath the sun; Yet, I could suffer all on which I gaze, Except the hypocrite that cheats and prays. VI. Sublime is he, though poor, whose moral pliui Is to be honest with his fellow man — He can among his friends stand up erect With an unblushing face, and claim respect; And, when upon him calls the trump of God, He goes undaunted from the course he trod, Well knowing that his honesty will rise And meet him in eternal Paradise. DELIGHTFUL, CHARMING MAY. F all the months the year contains, However mild they be, The mantle-weaver of the plains Is most beloved by me; For hers is such a form of grace — Light, frolicsome, and gay; And beauty glitters in her fact — Delighttul, charming May! 136 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. See liow she like an angel roams, All sparkling as she goes — Right playfully the torrent foams, The daisy brightly blows; The vales and woods with music ring, All nature seems to say: " Behold the darling Queen of Spring'" — Delightful, charming May! Her march is over hills and heights, And through the glens below, And where her gentle footstep lights, She leaves a mark to show; And, stretching to the lofty trees, She clothes them on her way. And leaves them rustling in the breeze — Delightful, charming May! Earth smiles beneath her vernal feet, The golden sun looks down. And brightens all his beams to greet Her splendid floral crown. The Helds below, the skies above, Around her laugh and play; And I with them admire and love Delightful, charming May! Sweet month of elegance and bloom. To bards and lovers dear — She decks her predecessor's tomb, And starts life with a cheer; And when she dies, or downward goes, With pure effulgent ray, She sets untarnished, as she rose — Deliglitful, charming May! Now comes the blooming maid I love, Her smiles shall grace the land — EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 137 I see her stealing through the grove, With laurels in her hand. Behind her flows her shining liair, Her eyes are floods of day, Her voice enchants the morning air — Delightful, charming May! THE BANKS OF THE BANN. "^EAR land of my fathers — immortal in story, M3 The birthplace of clansmen and heroes of yore; To love thee sincerely is my highest glory, Though destined to wander thy valleys no more. Bright scene of my childhood — gay, cheerful, and merry, Forget thy grand aspect is more than I can; For I love so fondly the green hills of 'Derry, In all their wild pride by the Banks of the Bann. II. Now Spring — gently breathing, is gaily adorning Those banks with primroses of beautiful bloom; All sweet and serene as the radiance of morning From Coleraine along to the meadows of Toome. And nature's musicians — the gay-feathered charmers. Are pouring their songs to the Author of man; All wai'bling together, delighting the farmers, While tilling their fields bv tlie Banks of the Bann. III. Alas! for those farmers, their wives, sons, and daughters, The glory and boast of their own native plains, In serfdom supporting the tyrant that si aug iters The weal of theii- country, and holds tiieui in chains. 138 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. Will God never lift tliem from that degradation, Nor humble the despot in his wicked plan; The haughty oppressor, the land's ruination — The only one curse by the Banks of the Bann. IV. Sweet land of my fathers, O, beauty's own dwelling I Where freedom but slumbers to waken anew; Long, long has the heart in my bosom been swelling, Afliicted with soitow and anguish for you. But now I am hoping, for liberty's dawning. For thraldom's foul visage already looks wan; To swallow the tyrant perdition is yawning. And peace will return to the Banks of the Bann« A BIKTH-DAY CANTICLE. ■^T was in Mai'ch, when Spring's blithe horn ilv. Awoke the primrose, soft and pale. That dear Elizabeth was born — The sweetest gem in all the vale. A chei-ub form, serene and meek, Fair as her lovely mother isle; Creation to a milder cheek Could not have lent a softer smile. A damsel now in cliarmiug bloom, A seraph still in humble guise; May sorrow never cast its gloom Upon her kindly beaming eyes. And may the heart that in her burns, With purest love throb light and gay, To witness many sweet returns Of her rejoicing natal day. Ye vernal winds, whose floral smell Revives the verdure of the plain, EFFUSIONS Al'-TER TOIL. 13(? Breathe sweetly over hill and dell — She came amid your cheerful reign. And rise, ye flowers, again from death, . Renew your bloom, appear sublime — The smile of fair Elizabeth Is model for your golden prime. "Would heaven but aid the bard who sings This day in honour of her birth, His soul would soar on fiery wings To higher altitudes of mirth; And catch the music of the skies, As chanted through eternal morn, And thus in song immortalise The day Elizabeth was born. THE TYRANT OF THE WORLD. THERE is among the human race A reckless monster of disgrace, Producing mortal woe; A monster of infernal birth, That came to curse the sons of earth. As fiends are cursed below; And under him men groan in chains — To grim destruction hurled; For on a throne of crime he reigns. The tyrant of the world. That monster is Intemperance — Hell kindles in his countenance. And blazes in his frown; He like a roaring lion roams, Assailing peaceful, happy homes, And trampling virtue down; 140 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. And wliei'e a home to Mm is sfiven. With all-commanding sway, He shuts the door that leads to Heaven, And points the other way. He makes that home a wretched place — A habitation lost to grace, Where guilt can only dwell; And oft religion cries aloud To millions of the human crowd That follow him to hell; But, drifting still before the gale, On life's uncertain lake. The woeful souls to ruin sail, And will no warning take. Detestable Intemperance! Men know that his inheritance Is woe that wounds for aye; 'And yet, as slaves to his control, They drink the poison of the soul, And perish as they may; And many thousands in their prime (When they become his slaves) Are sent by him, befoi-e their time, To fill untimely graves. He figures through all lands and times, He stands alone the crime of crimes, A father for them all; For countless crimes obey his nod. They rise, as by a magic rod. In answer to his call; I^or could my pen in language frame The miseries that spring From him, and all the deeds of shame Of which he is the king. • EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 141 Intemperance^ I hate to meet Your votaries upon the street, Because they seem to me The skeletons of souls that God Had made to people His abode, Fallen from their dignity; And, ah! the poor outcasts of bliss Beneath misfortune bend, And cannot from the foul abyss Of stupor reascend. Oh, chiefs of Germany and France, Whose swords would for vain glory glance, And hew men down like corn — Your daring deeds may live in song, And History your fame prolong. To startle bards unborn; But brighter far your fame would glance, From men to angels whirled. Could you dethi'one Intemperance — The tyrant^of the world. zAtmbarton, 1S72, JAMES CAREY'S EPITAPH. I. 'ERE lies James Carey, who was shot At sea, on board The Melrose; A viler fiend on earth was not, If all the fiends of hell rose. The ball that shot him sti-uck its mark. Yet he will live in stoiy. For murder on the Phcenix Park, And treachery as gory. 142 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. II. His native land is not his grave, And that gives Ireland pleasure; This foreign tomb which holds the knave Contains no envied treasure. The worms, which round his carcass rant, May eat it, if they choose it. For Irish worms would rather want Than condescend to use it. THE DEEAM OF KING FREDERICK THE GREAT. 'ING Frederick the Great, one night In dreary slumber lay. And, while he slumbered, had a dream That filled him with dismay. And well he might dream, quake, and fear, And long to see the morn, For on that night in Corsica A thunderbolt was born, A little boy, an infant small, Came from his mother's womb; And, like all children born, began His journey to the tomb. Napoleon came to life and light, ' And hailed with feeble cry Tlie world he was in after days With war to horrify. King Frederick awoke at morn, But still was struck with awe; Nor could from his remembrance brush What he in slumber saw. EPPUSIOKS AFTER TOIL. 143 And, calling on his aid-de-camp, J lis troubled mind to ease, Kehearsed to him the dream he had In words resembling these: — Last night, as T in slumber lay, I dreamed a star of brilliant ray On high above me shone. And, gazing up, I came to know- That it was shining there as though To represent my throne. The star — the genius of my land, I saw it yielding lusti-e grand; And, oh! my heart beat high, Till suddenly another star, Of more transcendent glory far, Came driving up the sky. A nameless stranger it appeared. Yet all the stars its presence feared, For, as it onward trod. It grew in magnitude and size. Till on its face would seem to rise The blazing wrath of God. A star like it was never known, Its evil-boding glance was thrown Towards the dashing Rhine; And as it moved, and flashed, and blazed. The German people upward gazed, And wondered at the sign. My star — the star of Prussia went And met in the firmament, To check its rapid flight; When oh ! the stranger, fierce and young, On my advancing planet sprung. And shook the vault of night. Hi EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. Loud tlumdei' roared, and lightning flew Tliroughout the vast vinboimded blue, In awful tumult driven; As if the Seraphim that fell Had broken through the gates of hell, And warred again with heaven. Beneath the shock my planet reeled, Then rose afresh upon the field, Its station to maintain ; And both defeated in their turn. Would still with redder fury burn, And dash to war again. My star at last exhausted grew, And from the field ot battle flew, Unable to withstand Its young, unconquerable foe. Who seemed the bolts of Jove to throw With terrible command. ■ Then high upon a blazing throne The proud defiant victor shone, Preparing in his might To tumble older, milder stars, Right headlong from their lofty cars, On heaven's eternal height. The stars of heaven became alarmed, And all at once around him swarmed. So as to work his fall ; Yet for a time the stranger flashed. And through their hostile columns dashed, A terror to them all. A hurricane — a raging flood, Kesembling fire, and smoke, and blood. Swept over all the land; EFFUSIONS AFTEK TOIL. Uf) And whirlwinds carried stans awav, From place to place, as thougli tlie day Of judgment were at hand. The banded stars at length prevailed, The giant luminary paled. And dwindled out of sight; Then silence dwelt upon the plain. The star of Prussia rose again. With all its former liijht. My dream prognosticates to me Some trouble that I cannot see, And which I fain would know; Lest some reverse may be at hand, From which my gallant Fatherland May suffer mortal woe. Perhaps it is the will of God To level His chastising rod Against the German Powers, And to my capital advance Some chief to plant the flag of France On Berlin's lofty towers. If that is done, then it will phice All nations under arms to face The danger that will be; And war, upon a mighty scale, Will rake the world witl). flame and hail. And scourge it awfully. BUNCRANA. This effusion was written in Buncrana, one iiioruing iu 1S81. EUNCRANA, kindly town, adieu ! I take the train for 'Derry; But long shall I remember you, For you have made me merry. 10 146 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. The pleasures that you gave to me Were all as sweet as manna, And I sliall long again to see The people of Buncrana. The men are resolute and brave, And worthy of the nation, That calls on Irishmen to save Their Land from desolation. The women are as chaste and bright As beautifnl Diana, That from the lofty waste of night Looks doAvn npon Buncrana. The country's cause will gather flame Where such brave hearts are beating Such men were never made to shame Sucli women by retreating. And now the Irish sjjirit glows, Hot as a red volcano; Parnell assails old Erin's foes, Be at his back Buncrana. Be true to Erin, now that she In moral war engages With the relentless tyranny Which she has borne for ages. Soon good will triumph over ill ; Hosanna, loud hosanna! The landlords totter down the hill — Oh! help them down, Buncrana. A. J. M'KENNA. SPRING decks the hills of Ulster now^ And splendid is that floral bloom, But grief is yet on Ulster's brow, For one that sleeps in starless gloom. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 147 ]\r'Kenna sluiubei'S in the tomb, Tlie grass above his bosom grows, That even thunderstorms will boom, And not molest his dread repose. His mighty intellect is dim. His noble heart will throb no more; And well may Ulster weep for him — A braver son she never bore. A scholar infinite in lore, An orator whose eloquence Would, like a rapid torrent, roar. Poured in his native land's defence. Alas ! my gifted countryman, Reposing in his narrow bed, He sleeps for aye, but never can His memory settle with the dead ; How he once wrote, and people read The grand creations of his mind — His lofty mind, which blazed and shed A glory that will live behind. Stern advocate of Erin's rights, Whom tyranny could never tame, Tliough silent now, his deeds are lights Upon the misty cliffs of fame. And we will honour still the same The sage who lived for us and wrote; And Irishmen will love his name In ages that are yet remote. Star of the North, departed star. We mourn in absence of thy light ; For thine was light which beamed afar. And met with none that shone so bright. We pine and sigh in dreary night. And gaze upon the heavy skies; But when upon the vacant site Will such a luminary rise? 148 EFFUSIONS AFTEK TOIL. M'Kenna's brilliant life is past, And only in his manhood's prime; Bear witness, people of Belftist, His life was useful and sublime. And now, beyond the ^rasp of Time To him a rich reward is given; And vain is all my plaintive rhyme, For he will not come back from Heaven. THE ARMY OF DAMNATION. T. *^^TILD is the town ai-ound us now. 3( » It blusters loud and stormy, With shouts and yells that reach the clouds From an invading army. It seems the fiends that fell from heaven Are making preparation To mount the skies again, with all The arinv of damnation. II. Both male and female warriors Are marshalling together, And all the weapons they require Are lungs as strong as leather; For by the means of noi.se alone They mean to gain salvation, ^Should nothing rise to interrupt The army of damnation. iir. They will ascend with Lucifer Upon infernal pinions, To storm the starry firmament, And seize the blest dominions; EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 149 J3ut .should their proud ohl chief again, Retreat in desperation, Ten thousand million miles will fall The army of damnation. IV. They send their newsboys through the town, Young brats that near and far cry, Still holding up to you for sale A thing they call the " War Cry." That is an organ which they print, And, through its circulation, They gather iu some pence to help Th(! army of damnation. V, Recruits are wanted to enlist Beneath their flying banner, And no objection will be made To creed, or class, or manner; For reprobates and prostitutes, From dens of degradation. May soon be Captains if they join The army of damnation. VI. The noise they make upon the street Is anything but charming; The neighbours cannot sleep at night, The sound is so alarming. Their sport, while in the barrack-room. Defies all imitation. For Beelzebub slips in among The army of damnation. VII. March on! ye screaming warriors, Sing loud, and shout like blazes; 150 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. Your mvisic is the cry of hounds, Yet merry fun it raises. And then the bobbies, who would sleep, For want of recreation, Are kept vipon the move to watch The army of damnation. CAROLINE ADAIR. O HE was the pride of Portglenone, O The i'lorv of the Bauu: And where her beaming glances shone All other lights grew wan. That not a gem on earth coiild shine, In radiance to compare With Caroline — sweet Caroline — Young Caroline Adair. She stood, in twenty years of bloom, A maid, serenely gay; Nor thought November's blast of doom Would come in vernal May. And there was not, from brine to brine, Another maid so fair As Caroline — sweet Caroline — Younu Caroline Adair. And often, by the Bann's clear waves, She, like an angel, sang. While in their deep, enchanted caves Delighted echoes rang; And small birds would their songs resign, To hear the vocal air Of Caroline — sweet Caroline — Young Caroline Adair. But death, who plunders as he goes Among the tribes of man. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 151 TJntimoly snatched that lovely rose — The glory of the Banu. And soon a youth was known to pine, And pei'isli in despair, For Caroline — sweet Caroline — Youns: Caroline Adair. She died — and how could he remain, For his was fiiithful love; A silent woe, a wasting pain, An emblem of the dove. And now, beyond the stars that shine. He dwells in upper air With Caroline — sweet Caroline — Young Caroline Adair. IMPROMPTU LINES, Spoken in Company, 1st January, 1877. 'E see the infant year begin, We glory in its birth. And round its cradle raise a din Of revelry and mirth. We welcome in the rising year, And yet we little know What thunder from its atmosphere It shall upon us throw. To millions who aloud rejoice, And sing with mirth to day. Ere long the cannon's roaring voice Will sterner music play. A cloud — presaging death and doom, Is rolling Avide and far, mbracing in its boding gloom Ked battle's evil star. 152 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. !Xe\v year, to know the wrath of man, And learn his cruelty, Would only be to read and scan Your unknown history. i'HK FATE OF YOUKG JOHN KANE. |AUK midnight from her di*eary car Shed darkness over earth and sky, Except where shone some lonely star Through broken clouds that hung on high; And Father Tyne, with gurgling roar. Was heaving onward to the main; While basely on his northei'n shore Was shed the blood of young John Kane. • loliu's ])ulse was beating high with glee, For he was in his youthful bloom; Nor could he have foreseen that he Was treading on the verge of doom — That he was then to lose his life ( )n merry England's jxsaceful plain; 15ut the assassin and his knife Required the blood of young John Kane. He met a band of men whose cx-eed Was to assassinate and kill; And, oh! to chronicle tht; deed Yet makes the blood of life run chill. They dashed their sharp knives in his breast^ And ch^ft his youthful heai-t in twain, Till, red with blood, lay down to rest 'I'lie mangled form of young John Kane. He Avas alone among his foes, And, lifting up his naked hand Against their penetrating blows, Could not theii- cruelty withstand; EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 153 But, liad his friends from Garvagh been Upon the ground wliero \u; was slain, They would have gladly rushed between The murderers and young John Kane. Had Garvagh boys been on the spot That awful night — that evil time, The brutal savages would not Have perpetrated such a crime. But they were far from him, and he Their welcome aid could not obtain; And they were never more to see Their gallant comrade — voung John Kane. 'a The direful tidings, when conveyed Across the sea to Erin's shore, May have caused some sweet Irish maid Dejjarted friendship to deplore. But what cared those foul murderers For all her anguish, grief, and pain? Her lover's crimson blood was theirs, And in the grave slept young John Kane. Years glided by, and still the stones Whereon he fell, and lay, and bled, And gave expiring sobs and moans. Wore signs of blood remaining red — That summer suns and wintr\^ snows 8hed all their heats and colds in vain, To hide the guilt and shame of thost? "Who stabbed and murdered young John Kane. Since he was slain, revolving years Have thrown the date to "Auld Lang Svne," Yet men remember him with tears, Who knew him on the banks of Tyne. But his dear friends in Garvagh may, Perhaps, more bitterly complain; ' For, like a lamb to wolves a prey, Died all could die of young John Kane. 151 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. JOHN DAILY AND THE BOYS OF GAERYOWEN. THE City of the Treaty Stoue Is still tlie same old Gari-yowen As "wlien her walls, in clays long gone, Defied King William's cannon; Because her sons, in weal or woe, Would headlong rush upon the foe As fiercely as the dashing flow Of their own native Shannon. For Daily from the Treaty Stone, With all the Boys of Garryoweii, Has to Dumbarton come, and shown Old Garryowen in glory. The manly blood that Sarstield led Through clouds of dust and fields of dead, Could yet in Erin's cause be shed, AVith green flags flying gaily; Nor would we tamely tolerate A foe to enter Thommond Gate, But fight till death would be our fate, Commanded by John Daily; For Daily from the Treaty Stone, With all the boys of Garryowen, Has to Dumbarton come, and shown Old Garryowen in glory. Ye slaves that would dt^grade your sires By stifling all their former fires — Remember Limerick's walls and spires Fell only through a treaty; And l)y that stone of fraud and blame, Wlierc faithless Dutchman signed his name, John Daily swears your rightful claim Is Independent feet aye; \ EFFUSIONS AFTEU TOIL. 155 For Daily from the Treaty Stone, With all the boys of Garryoweu, Has to Dumbarton come, and shown Old Garryowen in glory. DISTRESS IN PARTICK, 1879. ' ' Our contributor, Mr. ]M 'Anally, who, whatever else may be said of him, has underlying all his impidse and keenness of feeling a kindly heart, sends us the following." — Editor, Dumbarton Herald. USH on, O! Kelvin to the Clyde, And murmur sadly as you go, For on your hoary banks reside Pale human misery and woe. The old yeai', over hills of snow, Is moaning out upon the air; While bitter tears from mortals flow, Whose hearts are deeply pressed with care. It is not elemental war — The wrath of cold, inclement skies, Enthroned on winter's icy car, Can draw such tears from human eyes : A fiercer, wilder, angel flies. With colder, keener, sharper blade, Among the poor, whose cries arise To sympathising heaven for aid. In Partick there is grim distress — I saw it, and my bosom bled — Poor, ragged children, comfortless, And weeping mothers wanting bread. Ye Avho on luxuries are fed, And can repose in lordly halls. Think, think of those on quiltless led. Who lie and starve in empty walls. 150 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. Rush on, O Kelvin ! splash and roar, And pour your wintry song of grief; Sad chorus rises from your shore, Whei-e hundreds clamour for relief. May God, our Father, King and Chief, Who is all merciful and kind, Look down, and make this torture brief, That eats the heart and tears the mind. K D I N A, Written when Priuce Albert's monument was imveiled in Edinburcth. J And h(;lps to cool the flame of day: Its leaves hold out thcar soft green hands To shield me from the burning ray. And as I muse, they dancf^ and play Upon the scorching air of June, And songs of birds, clear, sweet, and gay, Cheer u]) the sultry afternoon. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 161 Yon incandescent globe on high, Whose beams to distant planets blaze, And in whose face no human eye Can for a moment bear to gaze. Is flashing down his glowing rays Along the slopes and hills of Clyde, Where that fair angel, " Summer," plays In rich pomposity and pride. I never saw a feirer scene — ■ The cultivated fields are grand; The corn is rising fresh and green At the Almighty's high command. The groves and woods bloom and expand, And hedges robed in verdure rise, While in the distance mountains stand, With their tall peaks lost in the skies. I look at June's embellished gown, I see her gorgeous attire, I see the crags and summits frown Amid the day-star's beams of fire — I see them all, and I admire The Author of their grand array — He shaped each cliff and rocky spire, And built the lofty mountains gray. So long as Summer tarries here. Fresh shades of beauty come andjgo; The hills in loveliness appeal-. The woods rich leafy grandeur show. But I have seen a waste of snow Repose on all I now behold. And vegetable life lie low, Unable to endure the cold. It shall be so again, for soon These glories will begin to fade, And all this burning air of June Shall dwindle to a colder shade, 11 162 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. And Winter over glen and glade Triumphantly will blow his horn, While underneath his feet are laid The robes of Nature, spent and to7"n. Such is the fate of poor, weak man — - He flourishes a Avhile in bloom, Then finishes the little span Which terminates beside the tomb. And down he sinks in rayless gloom, His lights of life are out and fled; His ultimate abode and doom Is awful silence with the dead. A SAD STORY. OUNG man, I listen to the breeze That rages through the leafless trees On desolatinw winces; And as it roars with giant force, My soul afilicted with remorse And bitter anguish rings. " Fair Summer's once enchanting form Lies low beneath the rushinsr storm Of elemental war; And I, who once like Summer bloomed, To sink like Summer have beem doomed Beneath a wintry star. " I once such lovely features wore, The rose of June grew pale before My fascinating smile; But though I shone as beauty's pearl, 1 was a friendless orphan girl, Left on the world of guile. EFFUSIONS AFTKR TOIL. 1G3 " When I was young my mother died, And left me lonely by the Clyde; And in red battle's van, Amid the blaze of shot and shell. My iiither for his co\xntry fell At bloody Inkerraann. " Years winged away, and, as they Hew, I ripened under them and grew A handsome human flower; But love will seize the maiden's breast, And who is fit to stand the test Of love's beguiling power? " I loved in truth, and was beloved, But, oh! my lover faithless proved, And left me all forlorn. That I, a prey to woeful want, Must wander as a mendicant, By cold and hunger torn. " Deluded and deserted now, I cling to life, I know not how. In bittei-ntss and shame, Lamenting over former time. When added to my rosy prime Was pure unsullied fame. " JSTo one except the Lord above, Who sees and knows what injured love Has to endure and feel. Can understand how wounds the dart That quivers in my broken heart, More pungently than steel. " The savage Avinds of winter rail, Alternate mixed with snow and hail, Far over hill and lea; 164 EFFUSIONS Al'-TKK TOIL. And though the raven will be fed, I ask, Who shall su])ply with bread My starving babe and meT' / THE BEAR OF RUSSIA. (Written before the late war between Russia and Turkey beiran.) WHY should the Bear of Russia now In idleness repose or lurk, When he may, at his leisure, spring With his great ]Kiws upon the Turk, And show the fiiithless Mussulman Some active play, or bloody work .' As fiercely as a wintry storm When roaring tlirougli a leafless wood He growls all restless iu his d(ai By Neva's loudly sounding flood, And longs to glut his hungry maw Upon a feast of human blood. Great despot, forming foul designs, The Moslem Crown to overthrow — All that reform will liave to boast, When ho inflicts the fatal blow. Is that a tyi-ant strong in arms Has laid a weaker tyrant low. When, more than twenty years ago, He rushed at Turkey with his lance. Resolved to finish her career, He met misfortune and mischance — » He fell upon his knees befoi-e The swords of England and of France. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 165 Now France and England are apart, Their ties of unity have burst, Napoleon moulders with the dead, We have his bones in Chiselhurst; And Russia's second enterpi'ise Will reap more plunder than the first. Perhaps this country yet will grieve For standing mute, with banner furled, While France, alone, bled sore beneath The pressure of the German world, Till crimson battle's thunderbolts TTpon her Capital were liurled. Should England now confront the Bear, To vindicate her claims and rights, She will but cast her eyes in vain Along the plain on which she fights, To spy the wai'-like sons of France Who fought with her at Alma's heifthts. Well she remembers how the French, Amid the country of the Bear, Dwelt on the tented plain with hei", And waved their eagles in the air; Or wheeled their cannon to her side When she required French thunder there. They came in time at Inlcermann, Her struggling thousands to unbind, And at Sebastopol's famed walls They fought for her with heart and mind, And pierced the rock-ljuilt Malakoff With one wild blast of battle wind. Where is the nation that could stand The clash of arras with which proud France, Combined with England, to the field In hostile terror could advance? The Bear would quake to hear and see Such thunder roar, sucli lightning glance. 166 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. All! well may England grant a grave Unto the dead Napoleon's bones, And weep above his treasured dnst, If weeping for neglect atones; But Russia's Bear, strong of himself, Dreads not their I roved one harvest eve, Still gazing on the gurgling tide To see it roll and heave; I met a youth who laughed and talked, And told a tender tale, And well he might, for with him walked The gem of Govandale. Upon his arm reclined a maid Fair as the glance of morn, And merry as the wind that played Among the waving corn; And her soft locks, that shone like gold. Were sporting with the gale; Which made it charming to behold The gem of Govandale. More like a native of the skies Than of this earth of ours, The beaming splendour of her eyes Lent beauty to the flowers. 188 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. And moaning Clyde rushed proudly by With miisic in his wail, Rejoicing on his bank to spy The gem of Govandale. The youth still pressed her lily hand As gently as the dove, And, though I could not understand, I knew his tale was love. For whiles a passing blush he wore. As though his heart would fail To speak the world of love he bore The ofem of Govandale. To woo at eve, and steal a kiss From lips of melting Hanie, Creates within a silent bliss For which there is no name; But gi-eat mnst be tlie heaven of Ijliss That lover must inhale, Whose willing lips get leave to kiss The gem of Govandale. MARY'S LOOK. BAY, what has checked my soul of fire? Where is the sound I once could raise, That now I cannot wake my lyre To half its glee of former days'/ Ah! Reason, that was then my book, Has ceased to guide my simple lay; So lost am I in Mary's look, For Mary's look outrivals day. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 189 As though in some absorbing trance I of lier beauty dream the while, Still wasting in her scorching glance, So deeply wounding is her smile. Yet Luna's beam, upon a brook. In milder glory fails to play; But love's abode is Mary's look. And Mary's look outrivals day. Yon little chanters of the grove, That warble on the morning wind, Although they sing sweet songs of love, I listen with such heavy mind, That I could almost them rebuke For tempting me with notes so gay; And T, a slave to Mary's look, For Mary's look outrivals day. Hence will I muse where flows the^CIyde, And pour my wailings to the wave; And thither let these passions glide That my cheerless bosom rave — Else to some unfrequented nook I will pursue my pensive way, And hide for aye from Mary's look. For Mary's look outrivals day. YE BIRDS THAT FLIT FFvOM TREE TO TREE. YE birds that flit from tree to ti'ee. And pour your thousand songs of glee Upon the empty atmosphere, Ye fail to bring me back the days When I had mingled in your lays, And sung with heart ms full of cheer. 190 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. Because the maid I loved is dead, At least, is dead or lost to mt' , And all yovir joy but makes me slied Salt tears to wet lier memory. Still in my mind is framed Lev form, Like Iris gleaming in the storm, For storm is sweeping through my mind. To think the maid I loved is gone. While in my bosom tarries on The knowledge that her heart was kind; And that kind heart within her breast Was purer than the snowy robe That hangs on lofty Everest — The tallest summit of the globe. As blythely as the birds that now Are wai'bling on each blooming bougli, To her I chanted tender lays ; Bu.t Sol may shine at morning bright, And have to wade through clouds ere night, That will impede his brilliant rays; And if those birds that sing on high Are chanting to delight my ear. They but evoke a sad reply — I give them nothing but a tear. THE LASS OF KELVINHAIJGH. This effusion was written at the request of Ji wounded lover. THOUGH brilliant ai-e yon orbs of light, That colonise tlie waste of night, Upon their lofty convex height A star I never saw So beautiful as one I know, That shines in human guise below, Wliose beaming glances yield and show Sweet light to Kelviuhaugh. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 191 An earth-born star, a clavusel fair, With whom no other can compare. In all her charms is blooming there, Dispensing beauty's law ; For none to equal her is known, And unto her belongs alone The right to reign on beauty's throne As Queen of Kelvinhaugh. I spied her through the garden stray, Where lilies waved and laughed in day, And from her smile the lilies gay Seemed richer bloom to draw ; And, oh ! how happy was the grass That rose and touched the bonny lass, Or gently bent to let her pass- Sweet Lass of Kelvinhaugh. And I have seen her walk beside The broad majestic stream of Clyde, While wintry snows lay far and wide, Nor had begun to thaw; And, brightened by her kindling eye. The bright snows beamed more brilliantly. And savage Winter smiled to spy The Lass of Kelvinhaugh. Time rolls away, but let it roll, Remembrance tarries in my soul, And love burns on beyond control, Fired by the for-m I saw; And He who from those plains above, Can secret thought perceive and prove, But know^s how fervently I love The Lass of Kelvinhaugh. 192 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. THE PRIDE OF STEWARTSTOWK 'OVEMBER was roariug through tlie trees. And sweeping tliem with his Wast, As AVilliam for Scotland sailed away On a steamer from Belfiist ; And his cheeks wei"e wet with drops of grief For the girl he left alone — Sweet Mary, the pride of Stewartstown, In the Connty of Tyrone. Young Mary was a beautiful rose That was blighted on its stem, And William Avas the untimely blast Which blighted that bonny gem; And he was grieved at the wound she felt. For that wound was all his own; And she was the pride of Stewartstown, In the County of Tyrone. He landed ujjon old Scotland's shoi*e, Where all was strange to his view, And, casting a look with tearful eyes At her lakes and mountains bkie. He cried — " I left a maiden behind That 1 never shall disown. For she is the pride of Stewartstown, In the County of Tyrone. " The maid, wliose dear affections ai'e mine. Will never find mo untrue, I will return and marry her soon. For she is as pure as dew." But time rolled on, and his fiery vows Grew as cold as silent stone, Tliough sweet was the pride of Stewartstown, In the Countv of 'J'yi'one. EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 193 He wedded another lovely maid He met on the banks of Clyde, And pi'oved untrue to the Irish girl That he should have made his bride. And base was the heart that could be led To evoke a plaintive moan From Mary, the pride of Stewartstown, In the County of Tyrone. THE FATE OF ABDUL AZIZ. ^ LONG the shining Bosphorus, J^ And by the Dardenelles, And riding on the winds across Hot sands and burning dells, And sweeping through the boundless East A tragic story swells, Whicli to the Moslem thus the fate Of Abdul Aziz tells:— " Constantinople groans with pain Beneath a clovid of gloom, As if Almighty Alla's brows Wei-e yielding looks of doom — Foreboding wrath that would some day The Turkish throne consume. And Abdul Aziz has eloped To an untimely tomb. " Not fit to rule, and hold aloft Mohammedan renown, He abdicated suddenly The Turkish tlu-one and crown; And then, his heart, regretting sore, Began to fret and frown, Till he in anguish slew himself. And in his blood lav down. 13 194 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL, " His pomp and splendour vanishing, Tlie thought was hard to bear, And lost to him his harem was, With all its ladies fair. Then, steering for a l)etter land, His shade took flight in air Across Al Sirit's awful bridge. To meet the houris there." THE AUTHOK TO HIS COMMITTEE. A Committee of active and patriotic Irishmen in Partick sent a deputation to the author, requesting liim to prepare a volume for the press, and they would assist him to publish it. This Committee, aided by Irishmen in Govan, went to work at once, and placed " Eii'usions after Toil" in the hands of the pub- lishers. TO you, my kindest, warmest friends, Sons of my native soil, I dedicate a rhyme which ends " Ellusions after Toil." For you would me iingrateful deem, And heartless would my bosom seem, If I neglected here to show The world of gratitude I owo To you, for all the pains you took, In helping me to place this book Lefore the public, and in style ! That it may last and live a while When I am sleeping low, No more a simple song to pen, To cheer my sti-uggling countrymen, Thcii' chains away to throw. By Kelvin's Banks I sang my strains, I trod an alien strand, EFFUSIONS AFTEU TOIL. 195 And heaving me detest the chains That galled my native land, The blood that tires the Celtic heart To play a patriotic part, Moved yon to organise a plan To help yonr humble countryman To lay his artless songs before Tiie jjublic on a foreign shore, And leave his counti'ymen what might Have sunk and died in silent night But for the aid you gave ; And I shall never you forget, But :ilways glory to have met With Irishmen so brave. No length of time in exile can This heart of mine subdue, For I am yet an Irishman — Stern, resolute, and true; And still my mother isle shall be The dearest spot on earth to me, And still in red rebellious form My soul will kindle up like storm Against the brutal Saxon knaves Who hold green Erin's children slaves; And if the songs I can produce Are of the least inspiring use In freedom's holy tight, I have not chanted them in vain, For pouncing on the tyrant's chain. Is labour that is right. Another labour should be done — And done on Scotland's shore. Each Irishman should teach his son To love old Erin more; Ah ! never let the Irish race Degenerate in any place, 19G EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. For Erin's banner yet will rise In waving triumpli to the skies; And lie is not an Irish sire Who fails to give his son the fire That would prepare him, hand and heart, Some day to share the gallant part That Irishmen will play, When tyranny gives up the ghost, And bids farewell to Erin's Coast For ever and for aye. A brighter day is dawning, boys, We shall a nation be, The Irish bard will sing the joys Of people that are free; And blest will be the bard whose lyre Will not the voice of wrath require — His heart, his soul, his mind, his brain Will not endure the constant pain Of hurling vengeance all around; His harp will yield a sweeter sound Than what is national to-day, For bitterness will pass away, No more to Aoav in rhyme; And Erin's mountains, vales, and streams, Will him supply with noble themes. For song and verse sublime. To you, my kindest, warmest friends. Sons of my native soil, I dedicate this rhyme which ends " Eflusions after Toil." The volume is your own by right, It never would have come to light But for the action that you took — You are the authors of the book; The smallest part was played by me — I only wrote the poetry, EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. 197 Which is, perhaps, no more than rhyme — I wrote it in my idle time, At night most generally; And, with its value as you read, You have the boundless thanks indeed Of Henry M' Anally. 198 EFFUSIONS AFTER TOIL. APPENDIX. A SONG BY A DONEGAL POET. I visited Donegal in the summer of 18S1, and while there a song of mine appeared in the ^Derry Journal. Its title was "Green Erin's Land," and it is included in this volume. Mr. George Murray, a respectable Irish gentleman, residing in (jlasgow, A\us at the same time on a visit to his native county, and wrote me tlie folloviing beautiful reply, which I take the liberty of publishing in his own form as it appeared in the Journal. TO MR. HENPvY M'ANALLY. In reply to " (ireen Erin's Land," a lyric that graced the Londomkrry Journal, 18th July, ISSl. XifERE, grasp my hand! 1 feel my blood Ji