PRICE, STANDARD 1O CtS. PUBLISHERS, ST., STANDARD RECITATIONS BY BEST AUTHORS. A Choice Collection of Beautiful Compositions, CABEFULL.T COMPILED FOB SCHOOL, LYCEUM, PARLOR AND OTHER ENTERTAINMENTS, By FRANCES P. SULLIVAN. CONTENTS OF 3Vo. 1O. PAGE The Building of the Ship. E. J. Pope 3 The Idiot Boy. Anon 4 My Mother's Bible. George P. Morris 4 Tne Trumpet. Mrs. Hemans 5 Fortitude more than Bravery. Mrs. Hemans 5 Never say "I Can't.'' Mrs.' M. A. Kidder... 5 Baby's Things. Thalia Wilkinson 5 The Children in the Moon. From the Scan- ^ dinaviau 6 Cleon and I. Charles Mackay 6 Courage. Barry Cornwall....." 7 Life. Barry Cornwall 7 The Child and the Sunshine. Geo. Cooper. 7 Polish War Song. James C. Percival 7 The Coliseum. Byron 8 The Shipwreck. William Falconer 8 There is no such Word as Fail 8 God Know-;. Nathan D. Urner 9 Virtue, Be.iuty, Piety, are One. Mrs. Russell K; i van; i ugh 9 The Pharisee's Prayer. H. H. Johnson 10 The Misnomer. Josie C. Malott 10 Up and be Doing 11 The Scottish Exile 11 Paradise. Riickert 12 Song of the Bush-Boy. Pringle 12 The Flight of the Giaour. Byron 13 The Word that was not too Late. Eben E. Rexford 14 The Drummer-Boy of Cardinell. Nettie Patterson 15 The Unknown God. John Joslyn 15 Kesurgam. Eben E. Rexford 1C The Bookkeeper 16 The Fault of the Age. Ella Viceler 17 The Sergeant's Story. Wyr.r^.^j Kit 17 After a Little. J. W. Donors 18 Do Your Part. J.W.Donovan 19 Maclaine's Child. Anonymous 19 Drew the Wrong Lever. Alexander Andersen 20 In the Dark. Geo. Arnold 21 The Old Homestead. Walter Bruce 21 The Crowded Street. William Cullen Bryant 22 The Guiding Light. T. F. Watson ' 22 A Translation from the Romaic. Charles L. Graves 23 The Lan d of our Birth. Lillie E. Barr 2-1 Before the Battle. William Andrew Harper 24 " East or West, Home is Best." Mattie S. Dunn 25 The Song of the Gibbet. Alfred Thompson 26 PAOB Pawnee Pete. A Tale of the Yellowstone Bill Y. Butts 26 Quatrains from Omar Khayyam. W. Stokes 27 An Engineer's Story *. 27 Clouds and Sunlight. Duncan Macgiegor... 28 Choice of Trades. A Recitation for several Little Boys 28 Small Beginnings. Charles Mackay 2' The Common Lot. James Montgomery j Three Rules. (A Temperance Recitation Austin Q. Hagermau 30 Our Own Dear Laud. J.R.Thomas 30 'Tis not Fine Feathers tnat make Fine 1' rds. Anon 31 The Battle. Translated from Schille- l.y Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 31 The Earl of Richmond to his Army. Shake- speare '. 32 Switzerland." William Tell." Barnes Sher'il dan Knowles 33 The Death of Leonidas. Rev Geo. Croly..! 33 The True King. Translat. I from Seneca, by Leigh Hunt 34 The Pilot. Thomas Hayaes Bayly. . . . / 34 Truth and Honor ! .C. 35 One by One. Adelaide A. Procter . . . . I 36 The "Rogues' Gallery" 36 We're Growing Old together. William Ball 37 Their Golden Wedding. James Roach : : 7 The OH Oaken Bucket. Samuel \Voodw<>rth ''! Extract from the Deserted Village. Oliver Goldsmith 3y Uncle Joe. Anonymous 40 Fourth of July. George W. Bethune 4 C The Poor Man and the Fiend. Anonymous 41 Footsteps on the Other Side. Margaret Eytinge 4> The Wolves. Trowbridge 42 The Noblest Men. Anonymous 4:! Sheridan at Stone River. Sherman D. Richardson 4 ; The Old Mill. Thomas Dunn English 4.~> " Then be Content, Poor Heart." Mrs. Riley Smith 4:, The Old Professor -ir, Parson Caldwell 41; The Snake in the Grass. J. G. Saxe DareandDol J. W. SanWu 47 The Toy of the Giant's Child. From the German of Chamiseo... 48 Copyrighted 1866, by M. J. ITM & Co. LIBRARY THE ROBERT EMMET Splendid Collection of Lyric Gems BANIM, BROUGHAM, BALPE, CALLANAN, HALPINE, KEEGAN, "CLOVER, MEAGHER, THOMAS MOORE, FATHERS PROUT AND RYAN, AND OTEfER WELL KNOWN NEW YORK: M. J. IVERS & CO., 86 NASSAU STREET. Copyrighted 1880, by M J. Ivers'& Co. CONTENTS. PAGE Acushla gal machree 38 Aileen 39 Aileen, mavourneen 54 Am I not fondly thine own ? 26 Angel's Whisper 32 Battle of Fontenoy 20 Bells of Shandon 21 Ben Bolt and Sweet Alice 51 Birth of Ireland . 57 Boys of Kilkenny 27 Breathe not his name 50 Brennen on the inoor 64 Brian the Brave 17 Caoch, the Piper 52 Come back to Erin, mavourneen. . 48 Come rest in this bosom 12 Dear harp of my country 44 Dear little shamrock of Ireland. . 27 Death of SarsfiVld 16 Digging for gold 61 Dirge of O' Sullivan Beare 24 Dublin Bay 32 Emmet's death 4 Erin-go-bragh 16 Erin is my home 19 Erin marourneen 63 Exile of Erin 31 Fairy Boy 15 Farewell to my harp 39 Grave of Wolfe Tone -V) Green above the Red 30 He like a soldier fell 45 Her bright smile haunts me still. 17 I cannot sing the old songs 49 Irish Astronomy 59 I shall meet thee again 4(5 I won't let you in 46 I would not die in youth's, etc. ... 44 Kate Kearney 47 Kathleen mavourneen 25 Kilkenny cats 60 Killarney's lakeg and fells 10 Kitty Tyrrell 26 ^.ament of the Irish emigrant. ... 41 Lsmnegan's Ball 62 Let Erin remember, etc 11 Limerick is beautiful 38 Meeting of the waters 9 Memory of the dead 6 Minstrel Boy 3 Molly Bawn 29 Mother, he's going away 7 O'Donnell Abu 12 Oft in the stilly night 37 One of the rank and file 45 Orange and Green 8 O the Shamrock 11 Paddy Blake's echo \ 55 Paddy is the boy 43 Pat Malloy ". 42 ' ' Persevere " 14 Rising of the moon 42 Rory of the hills 28 Rory O'Moore 13 Shamrock, the four-leaved 19 Shamus O'Brian 33 She is far from the land 5 Soldier of Erin 51 Soldier's tear 49 Song of the Irish exile. 1 40 Sweet Nora McShane 48 " O'Neil 47 St. Patrick and the Serpent 58 Swords of former time 4 The Blackbird 23 Harp that once in Tara's halls. 3 Heart bowed down 30 Irishman 63 Macs and the O's 23 Reconciliation 5 Valley lay smiling before me. 40 Whistling thief 54 White Cockade 25 'Tis the last rose of summer 6 Unroll Erin's flag to the breeze. . . 56 Why don't you come home? 37 Widow Machree 18 Wild rose of Erin 49 You'll remember me 24 Your party girl milking the cow- 43 THE ROBERT EMMET SONG AND RECITATION BOOK, THE HARP THAT ONCE THRO' TARA'S HALLS. AIR " Gramachree." THE harp that once, thro' Tara's halls, The soul of Music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls, As if that soul were fled : So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er ; And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more ! No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells ; The chord, alone, that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells : Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes The only throb she gives Is when some heart, indignant, breaks, To show that still she lives ! THE MINSTREL BOY. 'AiR " The Moreen." THE Minstrel Boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you'll find him ; His father's sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him. " Land of Song !" said the warrior-bard, " Tho' all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee ! " The Minstrel fell ! but the foeman's chain Could not bring that proud soul under ; The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again, For he tore its chords asunder ; And said : " No chains shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery ! Thy songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery ! " EMMET'S DEATH. BY S. P. C. *' HE dies to-day," said the heartless judge, Whilst he sate him down to the feast, And a smile was upon his ashy lip As he uttered a ribald jest ; For a demon dwelt where his heart should be. That lived upon blood and sin, And oft as that vile judge gave him food The demon throbbed within. " He dies to-day," said the jailer grim, While a tear was in his eye ; " But why should I feel so grieved for Jiim? Sure I've seen many die ! Last night I went to his stony cell, With the scanty prison fare He was sitting at a table rude, Plaiting a lock of hair ! And he look'd so mild, with his pale pale face, And he spoke in so kind a way, That my old breast heav'd with a smothering feel, And I knew not what to say ! " " He dies to-day," thought a fair, sweet girl She lacked the life to speak, For sorrow had almost frozen her blood, And white were her lip and cheek Despair had drank up her last wild tear, And her brow was damp and chill. And they often- felt at her heart with fear, For its ebb was all but still. OH, FOR THE SWORDS OF FORMER TIME! OH, for the swords of former time ! Oh, for the men who bore them ; When, arm'd for Right, they stood sublime, And tyrants crouch'd before them ! When pure yet, ere courts began With honors to enslave him, The best honors worn by Man Were those which virtue gave him. Oh, for the swords of former time, etc. Oh, for the kings who flourish 'd then ! Oh, for the pomp tliat crown'd them ; Wlien hearts and hands of freel>orn men Were all the ramparts 'round them. When, safe built on bosoms true, The throne was but the center, 'Round which Love a circle drew, That Treason duot not enter. Oh, for the kings who rlourish'd then, etc. SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.* AIR " Open the Door." SHE is far from the land where her young Hero sleeps, And lovers are around her sighing ; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying ! She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, Every note which he lov'd awaking. Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking ! He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwin'd him, Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him ! Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow ; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, From her own loved Island of sorrow ! THE RECONCILIATION. BY JOHN BANIM. [The facts of this ballad occurred in a little mountain-chapel, in the county of Clare, at the time efforts were made to put an end to faction-fighting among the peasantry.] THE old man he knelt at the altar, His enemy's hand to take, And at first his weak voice did falter, And his feeble limbs did shake : For his only brave boy, his glory, Had been stretched at the old man's feet A corpse, all so haggard and gory, By the hand which he now must greet. And soon the old man stopped speaking, And rage, which had not gone by, From under his brows came breaking Up into his enemy's eye And now his limbs were not shaking, But his clinch'd hands his bosom cross'd And he looked a fierce wish to be taking Revenge for the boy he had lost. But the old man he looked around him, And thought of the place he was in, And thought of the promise which bound him, And thought that revenge was sin And then, crying tears, like a woman, "Your hand ! " he said "ay, that hand ! And I do forgive you, foeman, For the sake of our bleeding land ! " * Thie poem was written on the death of Sarah Cnrran, who was engaged to the im- laortal Emmet. She died in Italy, of a broken heart, soon after her lorer was executed. 'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. Ant " Groves of Blarni'tj." 'Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone ; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone ; No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh ! I'll not leave thee, thou lone one ! To pine on the stem ; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them ; Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle The gems drop away ! When true hearts lie wither'd, And fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone ? THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. ANONYMOUS. WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight ? Who blushes at the name ? When cowards mock the patriot's fate, W r ho hangs his head for shame ? He's all a knave or half a slave, Who slights his country thus ; But a true man, like you, man, Will fill your glass with us. We drink the memory of the brave, The faithful and the few Some lie far off beyond the wave- Some sleep in Ireland, too ; All all are gone but still lives on The fame of those who died- All true men, like you, men, Remember them with pride. Some on the shores of distant lands Their weary hearts have laid, And by the stranger's heedless hands Their lonely graves were made ; But, though their clay be far away Beyond the Atlantic foam In true men, like you, men, Their spirit's still at home ! The dust of some is Irish earth ; Among their own they rest ; And the same land that gave them birth Has caught them to her breast ; And we will pray that from their clay Full many a race may start Of true men, like you, men, To act as brave a part. They 'rose in dark and evil days To right their native land ; They kindled here a living blaze That nothing shall withstand. Alas ! that Might can vanquish Right They fell and passed away ; But true men, like you, men, Are plenty here to-day. Then here's their memory maybe For us a guiding light, To cheer our strife for liberty, And teach us to unite. Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, Though sad as theirs your fate ; And true men, be you, men, Like those of Ninety-Eight ! MOTHER, HE'S GOING AWAY. Mother. Now what are you crying for, Nelly ? Don't be blubbering there like a fool ; With the weight o' the grief, faith, I tell you You'll break down the three-legged stool. I suppose now you're crying for Barney, But don't b'lieve a word that he'd say, He tells nothing but big lies and blarney Sure you know how he served poor Kate Karney Daughter. But mother ! Mother. Oh, bother. Daughter. Oh, mother, he's going away, And I dreamt the other night Of his ghost all in, white 7 [Mother speaks in an undertone.} The dirty blackguard f Daughter. Oh, mother, he's going away. Mother. If he's going away, all the betther Blessed hour when he's out of your sight There's one comfort you can't get a letther For yiz neither can read nor can write. Sure 't was only last week you protested, Since he courted fat Jinney McCray, That the sight o' the scamp you detested With abuse sure your tongue never rested DaugJiter. But, mother ! Mother. Oh, bother ! Daughter. Oh, mother, he's going away. [Mother speaking again with peculiar parental mety.'} May he never come back. Daughter. And I dream of his ghost, Walking round my bedpost Oh, mother, he's going away. S- LOVER. 8 ORANGE AND GREEN. THB night was falling dreary In merry Banton town, When, in his cottage, weary, An Orangeman lay down. The summer sun in splendor Had set upon the vale, And shouts of : "No surrender ! " Arose upon the gale. Beside the waters laving The feet of aged trees, The Orange banner waving, Flew boldly in the breeze In mighty chorus meeting, A hundred voices joined, And fife and drum were beating The Battle of the B&yne. Ha ! tow'rd his cottage hieing, What form is speeding now, From yonder tliicket flying, With blood upon his brow ? " Hide hide me, worthy stranger, Though green my color be, And in the day of danger May Heaven remember thee ! " In yonder vale contending Alone against that crew, My life and limbs defending, An Orangeman I slew. Hark ! hear that fearful warning, There's death in every tone Oh, save my life till morning, And Heaven prolong your own ! " The Orange heart was melted In pity to the Green ; He heard the tale, and felt it His very soul within. " Dread not that angry warning Though death be in its tone I'll save your life till morning, Or I will lose my own." Now, 'round his lowly dwelling The angry torrent press'd, A hundred voices swelling, The Orangeman addressed ' ' Arise arise, and follow The chase along the plain ! In yonder stony hollow Your only son is slain 1 " With rising shouta they gather Upon the track amain, And leave the childless father Aghast with sudden pain. He seeks the righted stranger In covert where he lay " Arise ! " he said, " all danger Is gone and past away ! " I had a son one only, One loved as my life, Thy hand has left me lonely, In that accursed strife. I pledged my word to save thee Until the storm should cease. I kept the pledge I gave thee Arise, and go in peace ! " The stranger soon departed From that unhappy vale ; The father, broken-hearted, Lay brooding o'er the tale. Full twenty summers after, To silver turned his beard ; And yet the sound of laughter From him was never heard. The night was falling dreary In merry Wexford town, When in his cabin, weary, A peasant laid him down. And many a voice was singing Along the summer vale, And Wexford town was ringing With shouts of : " Granua tlile." " My hair," he said, "is hoary, And feeble is my hand, And I could tell a story Would shame your cruel band. Full twenty years and over Have changed my heart and brow And I am grown a lover Of peace and concord now. "It was not thus I greeted Your brother of the Green ; When, fainting and defeated, I freely took him in. I pledged my word to save him From vengeance rushing on, I kept the pledge I gave him, Though he had killed my son." That aged peasant heard him, And knew him as he stood, Bemembrance kindly stirr'd him, And teder gratitude. With gushing tears of pleasure, He pierced the listening train " I'm here to pay the measure Of kindness back again ! " Upou his bosom falling, That old man's tears came down Deep memory recalling The cot and fatal town. " The hand that would offend thee My being first shall end ; I'm living to defend thee, My savior and my friend ! " Beside the waters, laving The feet of aged trees, The green flag, gayly waving, Was spread against the breeze In mighty chorus meeting, Loud voices filled the town, And fire and drum were beating, Down, Orangemen, lie down ! " Hark ! 'mid the stirring clangor 9 That woke the echoes there, Loud voices, high in anger, Rise on the evening air. Like billows of the ocean, He sees them hurry on And, 'mid the wild commotion, An Orangeman alone. He said, and slowly turning, Address'd the wondering crowd, With fervent spirit burning, He told the tale aloud. Now pressed the warm beholders, Their aged foe to greet ; They raised him on their shoulders And chaired him through the street. As he had saved that stranger From peril scowling dim, So in his day of danger Did Heav'n remember him. By joyous crowds attended, The worthy pair were seen, And their flags that day were blended Of Orange and of Green. THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.* Am" The Old Head of Denis." THERE is not in this wild world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.f Oh, the last rays of feeling and life must depart Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh, 110 it was something more exquisite still. 'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made ev'ry dear scene of enchantment more dear ; And who felt how the best charms of nature improve When we see them reflected from looks that we love. Sweet vale of Ovoca ! how caljn could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best, Where the storms which we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. * " The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that beautiful icenery which lie* between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow ; and these lines were iuggeted y a rieitto this romantic spot, in the summer of the year 1806. t The rivew of Avon and Oyoca. 10 KILLABNEY. BY M. W. BALFE. BY Killarney's lakes and fells, Emerald isles and winding bays Mountain paths, and woodland dells, Memory ever fondly strays. Bounteous nature loves all lands, Beauty wanders everywhere, Footprints leaves on many strands, But her home is surely there. Angels fold their wings and rest In that Eden of the west, Beauty's home, Killarney, Heaven's reflex, Killarney. Innisf alien's ruin'd shrine May suggest a passing sigh, But man's faith can ne'er decline Such God's wonders floating by Castle Lough and Glena Bay, Mountains Tore and Eagle's Nest, Still at Muckross you must pray, Though the monks are now at rest. Angels wonder not that man There would fain prolong life's span Beauty's home, Killarney, Heaven' s reflex, Killarney. No place else can charm the eye With such bright and varied tints, Every rock that you pass by Verdure borders or besprints. Virgin there the green grass grows, Every morn Spring's natal day, Bright hued berries daff the snows, Smiling winter's frown away. Angels often pausing there, Doubt if Eden were more fair, Beauty's home, Killarney, Heaven's reflex, Killarney. Music there for echo dwells, , Makes each sound a harmony, Many voic'd the chorus swells, Till it faints in ecstasy. With the charmf ul tints below Seems the heaven above to vie, All rich colors that we know Tinge the cloud- wreaths in that sky. Wings of angels so might shine, Glancing back soft light divine, Beauty's home, Killarney, Heaven's reflex, Killarney. LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OP OLD AIR" The Red Fox." LET Erin remember the days of old, Ere her faithless sons betrayed her, When Malachi wore the collar of gold Which he won from her proud invader ; When her kings, with standard of green unfurl'd, Led the Red Branch Knights to danger, Ere the emerald gem of the western world Was set in in the crown of a stranger. On Lough Neagh's bank, as the fisherman strays. When the clear cold eve's declining, He sees the round towers of other days In the wave beneath him shining ! Thus shall Memory often, in dreams sublime, Catch a glimpse of the days that are over ; Thus, sighing, look thro' the waves of Time For the long-faded glories they cover. 11 OH, THE SHAMROCK. AIR "Alley Croker." THROUGH Erin's Isle, To sport awhile As Love and Valor wander'd, With Wit, the sprite, Whose quiver bright, A thousand arrows squander'd ; Where'er they pass, A triple grass* [ m g> Shoots up, with dew-drops stream- As softly green As emeralds, seen Through purest crystal gleaming ! Oh, the shamrock, the green, immor- Chosen leaf [tal shamrock ! Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin's native shamrock ! Says Valor : ' ' See, They spring for me, Those leafy gems of morning 1 " Says Love : "No no, For me they grow ! My fragrant path adorning ! " But Wit perceives The triple leaves, And cries : " Oh ! do not sever A type, that blends Three godlike friends, Love, Valor, Wit, forever ! " Oh, the shamrock, the green, immor- Chosen leaf [tal shamrock ! Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin's native shamrock ! So firmly fond May the last bond They wove that morn together, And ne'er may fall One drop of gall On Wit's celestial feather I May Love, as twine His flowers divine, Of thorny falsehood weed 'em f May Valor ne'er His standard rear Against the cause of Freedom ! Oh, the shamrock, the green, immor- Chosen leaf [tal shamrock ! Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin's native shamrock ! * Saint Patrick is Baid to have made use of the species of the trefoil, to which in Ireland we get the name of Shamrock, in explaining the doctrine of the Trinity to the Pagan Irish. I do not know if there be any other reason for our adoption of the plant as a nationalemblem. Hope, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child " standing upon tip-toes, and a trefoil of three-colored grass in her hand.' 1 12 COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. AIR :< Lough Sheding" COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken dear ! Tho' the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here : Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast, And the heart and the hand all thy own to the last ! Oh ! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same, Thro' joy and thro' torments, thro' glory and shame t I know not, I ask not if guilt's in that heart I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art ! Thou hast call'd me thy Angel, in moments of bliss, Still thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the hours of this Thro' the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too. O'DONNELL ABU. BY M. j. M'CANX. PROUDLY the note of the trumpet is sounding, Loudly the war-cries arise on the gale, Fleetly the steed by Loc Suilig is bounding, To join the thick squadrons in Saimear's green vale. On, every mountaineer, Strangers to flight and fear ; Rush to the standard of dauntless Red Hugh ' Bonnought and Qallowglass Throng from each mountain pass ! On for old Erin O'Donnell abu ! Princely O'Neill to our aid is advancing, With many a chieftain and warrior-clan ; A thousand proud steeds in his vanguard are prancing, 'Neath the borders brave from the banks of the Bann ; Many a heart shall quail Under its coat of mail ; Deeply the merciless tyrant shall rue When on his ear shall ring, Borne on the breeze's wing, Tyrconnell's dread war-cry O'Donnell abu ! Wildly o'er Desmond the war wolf is howling, Fearless the eagle sweeps over the plain, The fox in the streets of the city is prowling, All all who would scare them are banished or slain I Grasp, every stalwart hand, Hackbut and battle-brand Pay them all back the deep debt so long due ; Norris and Clifford well Can of Tir-Conaill tell- Onward to glory O'Donnell abu 1 Sacred the cause that Clan-Conaill's defending 13 The altars we kneel at and homes of our sires ; Ruthless the ruin the foe is extending Midnight is red with the plunderer's fires ! On with O'Donnell, then, Fight the old fight again, Sons of Tir-Conaill all valiant and true ; Make the false Saxon feel Erin's avenging steel ! s Strike for your country ! O'Donnell abu ! RORY O'MORE: OR, GOOD OMENS. BY SAMUEL, LOVER. YOUNG RORY O'MORE courted Kathleen Bawn, He- was bold as a hawk, she as soft as the dawn ; He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, And he thought the best way to de that was to tease. " Now, Rory be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry, (Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye,) " With your tricks I don't know, in troth, what I'm about ; Faith you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out." " Oh ! jewel," says Rory, " that same is the way You've thrated my heart this many a day ; And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure ? For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. " Indeed, then," says Kathleen, " don't think of the like, For 1 half gave a promise to soothering Mike ; The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound." " Faith," says Rory, " I'd rather love you than the ground.'" " Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go ; Sure I drame ev'ry night that I'm hating you so !" " Oh," says Rory, " that same I'm delighted to hear, For drames always go by conthraries, my dear ; " Oh ! jewel, keep draming that same till you die, And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie T And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure ? Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. " Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teased me enough. Sure I've thrash'd for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff ,-, And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste, So I think after that I may talk to the praste." Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck, So soft and so white, without freckle or speck, And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light; . And he kissed her sweet lips ; don't you think he was right?' " Now, Rory, leave off, sir ; you'll hug me no more, That's eight times to-day you've kiss'd me before." " Then here goes another," says he, ' to make sure,. For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More.. U "PERSEVERE." BY JOHN BROUGHAM. ROBERT, the Bruce, in the dungeon stood Waiting the hour of doom ; Behind him the Palace of Holyrood, Before him, a nameless tomb. And the foam on his lip was flecked with red, As away to the past his memory sped, Upcalling the day of his great renown When he won and he wore the Scottish crown ; Yet come there shadow, or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine. " I have sat on the royal seat of Scone," He muttered, below his breath ; " It's a luckless change, from a kingly throne To a felon's shameful death." And he clenched his hand in his despair, And he struck at the shapes that were gathering there Pacing his cell in impatient rage, As a new-caught lion paces his cage ; But come there shadow, or come there shine The spider is spinning his web so fine. " Oh, were it my fate to yield up my life At the head of my liegemen all, In the foremost shock of the battle-strife Breaking my country's thrall, I'd welcome death from the foeman's steel, Breathing a prayer for old Scotland's weal ; But here, where no pitying heart is nigh, By a loathsome hand, it is hard to die ; " Yet come there shadow, or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine. " Time and again have I fronted the pride Of the tyrant's vast array. But only to see, on the crimson tide. My hopes swept far away. Now a landless chief, and a crownless king, On the broad, broad earth, not a living thing To keep me court, save yon insect small Striving to reach from wall to wall : " For come there shadow, or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine. " Work work as a fool, as I have done, To the loss of your time and pain The space is too wide to be bridged across, You but waste your strength in vain." And Bruce, for the moment, forgot his grief, His soul now filled with the same belief, That howsoever the issue went, For evil or good was the omen sent ; And come there shadow, etc. As a gambler watches his turning card 15 On which his all is staked ; As a mother waits for the hopeful word For which h,er soul has ached ; It was thus Bruce watch'd, with every sense Centered alone in that look intense ; All rigid he stood with unuttered breath, Now white, now red, but still as death ; Yet come there shadow, or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine. Six several times the creature tried, When at the seventh' : " See see 1 He has spanned it over," the captive cried, " Lo ! a bridge of hope to me ; Thee, God, I thank for this lesson here Has tutored my soul to Persevere ! " And it served him well, for ere long he wore In freedom the Scottish crown once more ; And come there shadow, or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine. THE FAIRY BOY. [When a beautiful child pines and dies, the Irish peasant believes the healthy Infant has been stolen by the fairies, and a sickly elf left in its place.] A MOTHEK came, when stars were paling, Wailing 'round a lonely spring ; Thus she cried while tears were falling, Calling on the Fairy King : ' ' Why with spells my child caressing, Courting him with fairy joy ; Why destroy a mother's blessing, Wherefore steal my baby boy ? " O'er the mountain, through the wild wood Where his childhood loved to play ; Where the flowers are freshly springing, . There I wander, day by day. " There I wander, growing fonder Of the child that made my joy ; On the echoes wildly calling, To restore my fairy boy. " But in vain my plaintive calling, Tears are falling all in vain ; He now sports with fairy pleasure, He's the treasure of their tram ! F- " Fare thee well, my child, forever, In this world I've lost my joy, But in the next we ne'er shall seyer, Then I'll find my angel boy I " U.L If ERIN GO BEAGH. GHEEN were the fields where my forefathers dwelt, Oh ! Erin, mavourneen, slan laght go bragh, Tho' our farm it was small, yet comfqrt we felt, Oh ! Erin, mavourneen, slan laght go bragh ! At length came the day when our lease did expire, And fain would I live where before lived my sire, But ah, well-a-day, I was forced to retire ; Erin, mavourneen, slan laght go bragh. Though all taxes I paid, yet no vote could I pass, oh Erin, mavourneen, slan laght go bragh ! Aggrandized no great man, and I felt it, alas, oh ! Erin, mavourneen, slan laght go bragh ! Forced from my home, yea, where I was born, To range the wide world, poor, helpless, forlorn ; I look back with regret, and my heart-strings are torn, Erin, mavourneen, slan laght go bragh ! "With principles pure, patriotic, and firm, Erin, mavourneen, slan laght go bragh ! Attach'd to my country, a friend to reform, Erin, mavourneen, slan laght go bragh ! I supported old Ireland, was ready to die for it, If her foes e'er prevailed, I was well known to sigh for it But my faith I preserved, and am now forced to fly for it Erin, mavourneen, slan laght go bragh ! THE DEATH OF SARSFIELD. [Sarsfield was slain on July 29. 1693, at Landen, heading his countrymen in the van of victory King William flying. He could not have died better. His last thoughts were for hi* country. As he lay on ihe field, unhelmed and dying, he put his hand to bis breast. When he took it away it was full of his best blood. Looking at it sadly with an eye in which victory shone a moment before, he said, faintly, " Oh, that this we're for Ireland ! " He said no more ; and history records no nobler saying, nor any more becoming death.] SAUSKIELD has sailed from Limerick Town, He held it long for country and crown ; And ere he yielded, the Saxon swore To spoil our homes and our shrines no more. Sarsfield and all his chivalry Are fighting for France in the Low Countries At his fiery charge the Saxons reel, They learned at Limerick to dread the steel. Sarsfield is dying on Landen's plain ; His corslet hath met the ball in vain As his life-blood gushes into his hand, He says, ' ' Oh ! that this was for fatherland I " Sarsfield is dead, yet no tears shed we For he died in the arms of Victory. And his dying words shall edge the brand, When we chase the foe from our native land 1 HER BRIGHT SMILE HAUNTS ME STILL. 17 'Tis years since last we met, and we may not meet again ; I have struggled to forget, but that struggle was in vain. For her voice lives on the breeze, and her spirit comes at will ; In the midnight on the leas, her bright smile haunts me still. At the first sweet dawn of light, when I gaze upon the deep, Her form still greets my sight, while the stars their vigils keep. When I close mine aching eyes, sweet dreams my senses fill ; And, from sleep when I arise, her bright smile haunts me still. I have sailed 'neath alien skies, I have trod the desert path ; I have seen the storm arise like a giant in his wrath. Every danger I have known that a reckless life can fill ; Yet her presence is not flown, her bright smile haunts me still. BRIAN THE BRAVE.* AIR " Molly Macalpin." REMEMBER the glories of Brian the Brave, Though the days of the hero are o'er ; Tho' lost to Mononia f and cold in the grave, He returns to Kinkora J no more. That star of the field which so often has pourM Its beam on the battle, is set ; But enough of its glory remains on each sword, To light us to victory yet. Mononia ! when Nature embellish'd the tint Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair, Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print The footstep of slavery there ? No ! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign, Go tell our invaders, the Danes, That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine, Than to sleep but a moment in chains. Forget not our wounded companions, who stood In the day of distress by our side ; While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood. They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died. That sun which now blesses our arms with his light, Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain ; Oh ! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night, To find that they fell there in vain. * Brian Boromhe, the great monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clon- tarf, in the beginning of the eleventh century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty- five engagements. t Munster. J The palace of Brian. j This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalpais. the favorite troops ef Brian, when they were interrupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf by Fitz- patrick, Prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that they might be allowed to fight with the rest. " Let ttakt*, ' they said, " be ftuck In the ground, and suffer each of us, tted to and supported by one of tht*c tinke*, to be placed in his rank by the side of a sound man." " Between^seven and eight hundred meii ' adds O'Halloran, li pale, emaciated, and supported >st of the troops . never was sue" , chap. i. ij^i/T^ccii ocvcn miu ei^ui i;ujiuit*u uieii QUUB *j ill in this manner, appeared mixed with the loremost of the troops never was suck another sight exhibited." JH (orij of Inland, bock l.'th, cl 18 WIDOW MACHREE. WIDOW MA.CHREE, it's no wonder you frown, Och, hone ! Widow Machree ; Faith it ruins your looks, that same dirty black Och, hone ! Widow Machree. How altered your air, With that close cap yoxi wear 'Tis destroying your hair, Which should be flowing free ; Be no longer a churl Of its black silken curl, Och, hone ! Widow Machree. Widow Machree, n >\v the summer is come, Och, hone ! Widow Machree ; When everything smiles, should a beauty look glum ? Och, hone ! Widow Machree. See the birds go in pairs, And the rabbits and hares Why even the bears Now in couples agree ; And the mute little fish, Though they can't spake, they wish, Och, etc. Widow Machree, and when winter comes in, Och, hone ! Widow Machree ; To be poking the fire all alone is a sin, Och, hone ! Widow Machree. Sure the shovel and tongs To each other belongs, And the kettle sings songs, Full of family glee ; While alone with your cup, Like a hermit you sup Och, etc. And how do you know, with the comfort I've towld, Och, hone ! Widow Machree ; But you're keeping some poor fellow out in the cowld, Och, hone ! Widow Machree, With such sins on your head, Sure your peace would be fled, Could you sleep in your bed, Without thinking to see Some ghost or some sprite, That would wake you each night ? Och, etc. Then take my advice, darling Widow Machree, Och, hone ! Widow Machree ; And with my advice, faith I wish you'd take me, Och, hone ! Widow Machree. Tou'd have me to desire, Then to sit by the fire, And sure hope is no liar In whispering to me, That the ghosts would depart, When you'd me near your heart, Och, eta THE FOUE-LEAVED SHAMROCK I'LL seek a four-leaved shamrock In all tlie fairy dells, And if I find the charmed leaves, Oh, how I'll weave my spells. I would not waste my magic might On diamond, pearl, or gold ; For treasures tire the weary sense Such triumph is but cold. But I weuld play the enchanter's part In casting bliss around : Oh ! not a tear nor aching heart Should in the world be found, Should in the world be found. To worth I would give honor, I'd dry the mourner's tears ; And to the pallid lip recall The smile of happier years ; And hearts that had long been estranged, And friends that had grown cold, Should meet again like parted streams And mingle as of old. Oh ! thus I'd play the enchanter's part, Thus scatter bliss around ; And not a tear nor aching heart Should in the world be found, Should in the world be found. The heart that had been mourning O'er vanished dreams of love, Should see them all returning, Like Noah's faithful dove. And Hope should launch her blessed bark On Sorrow's dark'ning sea, And Mis'ry's children have an Ark, And saved from sinking be. Oh ! thus I'd play the enchanter's part ; Thus scatter bliss around, And not a tear nor aching heart Should in the world be found, Should in the world be found. ERIN IS MY HOME. OH, I have roamed in many lands, And many friends I've met, Not one fair scene or kindly smile Can this fond heart forget. But I'll confess that I'm content, No more I wish to roam ; Oh, steer my bark for Erin's Isle, For Erin is my home. If England were my place of birth, I'd love her tranquil shore, And if Columbia were my home, Her freedom I'd adore ; Tho' pleasant days in both I've passed, I dream of days to come ; Oh, steer my bark to Erin's Isle, For Erin is my home. 20 THE BATTLE OF FONTENOY. THRICE, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed, And, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine, the Dutch in vain assailed * For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery, And well they swept the English ranks, and Dutch auxiliary. As vainly through De Berri's wood, the British soldiers burst. The French artillery drove them back, diminished, and dispewed, The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye, And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try. On Fontenoy on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride ! And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide. Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread, Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head ; Steady they step adown the slope steady they climb the hill ; Steady they load steady they fire, moving right onward still, Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as though a furnace blast, Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast ; And on the open plain above they 'rose and kept their course, With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile force : Past Fontenoy past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean banks. More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush 'round : As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground ; Bomb-shell and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fired Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired. " Push on, my household cavalry ! " King Louis madly cried ; To death they rush, but rude their shock not unavenged they died. On through the camp the column trod King Louis turns his rein : " Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, " the Irish troops remain ! " And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo, Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true. " Lord Clare," he says, " you have your wish, there are your Saxon foes ! " The marshal almost smiled to see, so furiously he goes ! How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont to be so gay, The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ, could dry, Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's parting ery- Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown, Each looks, as if revenge for all were staked on him alone. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere, Rushed on to fight a nobler band than those proud exiles were. O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands, "Fix bay'nets!" "charge!" like mountain storm, rush on these fiwy bands ! Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow, Yet must'ring all the strength they have, they make a gallant show. They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle wind Their bayonets the breakers' foam ; like rocks, the men behind ! One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surging smokt With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke. On Fonteny, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza ! "Revenge ! remember Limerick ! dash down the Sassenagh !" Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang, 21 Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang ; Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore ; Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags they tore ; The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered, fled The green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead ; Across the plain, and far away passed on that hideous wrack, While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track. On Fontenoy on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun, With bloody plumes the Irish stand the field is fought and won ! THE BELLS OF SHANDON. BY FATHER PROUT. WITH deep affection and recollection I often think of those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, in days of childhood, Fling 'round my cradle their magic spells. On this I ponder, where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee ; With thy bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in, Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine ; While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate, But all their music spoke naught like thine For memory dwelling on each proud swelling Of thy belfry knelling its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. I've heard bells tolling "old Adrian's Mole" in, Their thunder rolling from the Vatican, And cymbals glorious, swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame ; But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly. Oh ! the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. There's a bell in Moscow, while on tower and kiosko In St. Sophia the Turkman gets, And loud in air, calls men to prayer From the tapering summit of tall minarets. Such empty phantom, I freely grant them, But there's an anthem more dear to me ; 'Tis the bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 22 THE MACS AND THE O'S. WHEK Ireland was founded by the Macs and the O's I never could learn, for nobody knows : But history says they came over from Spain, To visit old Granua, and there to remain ; Our fathers were heroes for wisdom and fame For multiplication they practised the same ; St. Patrick came over to heal their complaints, And very soon made them an island of saints. The harp and the shamrock were carried before Brave Roderick O'Connor and Roger O'Moore, And the good and bad deeds of the Macs and the O' And this is the tale that these verses disclose. Hugh Neil of Tyrone, O Donnel, O'Moore, O'Brien, O'Kelly, O'Connell galore, All houses so royal, so loyal and old, One drop of their blood was worth ounces of gold. McDonnell, McDougal, O'Curran, O'Keefe, Sly Redmond O'Hanlon, the Rapderrey chief ; O Maley, McNally, O'Sullivan rare, O'Faily, O'Daily, O'Purns of Kildare ; O'Dougherty, chief of the Isle Inishone, McGinness, the prince of the valleys of Down, The Collerans, Hollerans, every one knows ; The Raffertys, Flahertys they were all O's. One-eyed King McCormick, and great Phil. McCool McCarty of Dermot and Tooley O'Toole, Hugh Neil the grand and great Brian Boru, Sir Tagen O'Regen and Con Donohue ; O'Hara, O'Marrah, O'Conner, O'Kane, O'Carroll, O'Farrell, O'Brennan, O'Drane, With Murtaugh McDermot, that wicked old Turk t Who had a crim. con. with the wife of O'Rourke. McCadden, McFadden, McCarron, McGlone, McGarren, McFarren, McClarey, McCoy, McHaley, McClinch, McElrath, McElroy ; McMillan, McClellan, McGillan, McFinn, McCullagh, McCunn, McManus, McGyn, McGinley, McKinley, McCaffray, McKay, McCarral, McFarrell, McCurchy, McRay. O'Dillon, O'Dolan, O'Devlin, O'Doyle, O'Mullen, O'Nolan, O'Bolan, O'Boyle ; O'Murray, O'Rooney, O'Corney, O'Kane, O'Cary, O'Leary, O'Shea and O'Shane, O'Brien, O'Rourke, O'Reilly, O'Neill, O'Hagan, O'Reagan, O'Fagan, O'Sheil ; O'Dennis, O'Dwyer, O'Blaney, O'Flynn, O'Grady, O'Shaughnessey, Brian O'Lynn. The daughters of Erin are, Eileen O'Roone, And Norah McCushla and Shela McClone, With Kathleen Mavourneen and Mollev Asthore, 23 The beautiful charmers we love and adore. There is Dora McCushla and Widow McChree ; There is Molly McGuire and Biddy McGee ; There is dear Norah Creina and Shelish McGrath, And the mother of all is sweet Erin-go-Bragh t THE BLACKBIRD. IT was on one fine morning for soft recreation, I heard a fair damsel making a sad moan, Sighing and sobbing with sad lamentation, Saying my Blackbird most loyal has flown. My thoughts they deceived me, reflection it grieves me, And I am o'er-burdened with sad misery ; But if death should blind me, as true love inclines me, My Blackbird I'll seek out wherever I be. Once in fair England my Blackbird did flourish, He was the chief flower that in it did spring, Fair ladies of honor his person did nourish, Because that he was the true son of a king. But oh ! that false fortune has proved so uncertain That caus'd the parting between you and me, But if he remain in France or in Spain, I'll be true to my Blackbird wherever he be. In England my Blackbird and I were together, When he was the most noble and gen'rous of heart But woe to the time when he arrived there, Alas ! he was soon forced from me to part. In' Italy he beam'd and was highly esteemed, In England he seems but a stranger to me, But if he remain in France or in Spain, All blessings on my Blackbird wherever he be. But if by the fowler my Blackbird is taken, Sighing and sobbing will be all the tune, But if he is safe, and I'm not mistaken, 1 hope I shall see him in May or in June. The birds of the forest, they all flock together, The turtle was chosen to dwell with the dove, So I'm resolved in fair or foul weather, Once in the Spring to seek out my love. Oh, he is all my treasure, my joy and my pleasure. He's justly belov'd though my heart follow thee, How constant and kind, and courageous of mind, Deserving of blessing wherever he be. It's not the wide ocean can fright me with danger, Although like a pilgrim I wander forlorn, For I'll find more friendship from one that's a stranger, More than from one that in Britain was born. 24 DIRGE OF O'SULLIVAN BEARE. [The following dirge for O'Snllivan, translated from the Irish by J. J. Callantn, it un- surpassed in the vehemence of its maledictions by anything in the language.] THE sun on Ivera No longer shines brightly ; The voice of her music Xo longer is sprightly ; Xo more to her maidens The light dance is dear, Since the death of our darling O'Sullivan Beare. Scully ! thou false one, You basely betrayed him, In his strong hour of need, [him. When thy right hand should aid He fed thee he clad thee You had all could delight thee ; You left him you sold him May Heaven requite thee ! Scully ! may all kinds Of "evil attend thee ! On thy dark road of life May no kind one befriend thee ! May fevers long burn thee, And agues long freeze thee ! May the strong hand of God In his red anger seize thee ! Had he died calmly, I would not deplore him ; Or if the wild strife Of the sea- war closed o'er him : But with ropes 'round his white limbs Through oceans to trail him, Like a fish after slaughter, 'Tis therefore I wail him. Long may the curse Of his people pursue them : Scully, that sold him, And soldiers that slew him ! One glimpse of Heaven's light May they see never ! May the hearth-stone of hell Be their best bed forever ! In the hole which the vile hands Of soldiers had made thee ; Unhonored, unshrouded, And headless they laid thee. No sigh to regret thee, No eye to rain o'er thee, No dirge to lament thee, No friend to deplore thee ! Dear head of my darling, How gory and pale These aged eyes see thee. High spiked on their jail ! That cheek in the summer sun Ne'er shall grow warm ; Nor that eye e'er catch light, But the flash of the storm ! A curse, blessed ocean, Is on thy green water, From the haven of Cork, To Ivera of slaughter ; Since the billows were dyed With the red wounds of fear Of Muiertach Oge, Our O'Sullivan O'Beare ! YOU'LL REMEMBER ME. V HEN other lips and other hearts Their tales of love shall tell, In language whose excess imparts The power they feel so well ; There may, perhaps, in such a scene, Some recollection be Of days that have as happy been, And vou'll remember me. When coldness or deceit shall slight The beauty now they prize, And deem it but a faded light Which beams within your eyes ; When hollow hearts shall wear a mask 'Twill break your own to set In such a moment I but ask That you'll remember me. KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. 25 KATHLKEN, mavourneen ! the gray dawn is breaking, The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill, The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking, Kathleen, mavourneen, what, slumb'ring still ? Ah ! hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever ? Oh ! hast thou forgotten this day we must part ? It may be for years and it may be forever. Oh ! why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart ? It may be for years, and it may be forever ; Then why art thou silent, Kathleen, mavourneen ? Kathleen, mavourneen ! awake from thy slumbers, The blue mountains glow in the sun's golden light ; Ah ! where is the spell that once hung on my numbers ? Arise, in thy beauty, thou star of my night. Mavourneen, mavourneen, my sad tears are falling, To think that from Erin and thee I must part, It may be for years and it may be forever, Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? It may be for years, and it may be forever ; Then why art thou silent, Kathleen, m-ivourneen ? THE WHITE COCKADE. J. J. CALLANAN. Irish Jacobite Song. PRINCE CHARLES he is King James's son And from a royal line he sprung ; Then up with shout, and out with blade, And we'll raise once more the white cockade. O ! my dear, my t'air-hair'd youth, Thou yet hast hearts of fire and truth : Then up with shout, and out with blade We'll raise once more the white cockade. My young men's hearts are dark with woe ; On my virgins' cheeks the grief-drops flow ; The sun scarce lights the sorrowing day, Since our rightful prince went far away. He's gone, the stranger holds his throne ; The royal bird far off is flown : But up with shout, and out with blade We'll stand or fall with the white cockade. No more the cuckoo hails the spring, The woods no more with staunch hounds ring ; The song from the glen so sweet before Is; hush 'd since Charles has left our shore ; The Prince is gone : but he soon will come, With trumpet-sound, and with beat of drum ; Then up with the shout and out with the blade Huzza for the right and the white cockade. 26 KITTY TYRRELL. Yor'BE looking as fresh as the morn, darling You're looking as bright as the day ; But while on your charms I'm dilating, You're stealing my poor heart away. But keep it and welcome, mavourneen, Its loss I'm not going to mourn ; Yet one heart's enough for a body, So pray give me yours in return. Mavourneen, mavourneen, O ! pray give me yours in return. I've built me a neat little cot, darling, I've pigs and potatoes in store ; I've twenty good pounds in the bank, love. And may be, a pound or two more. It's all very well to have riches, But I'm such a covetous elf, I can't help still sighing for something, And, darling, that something's yourself. Mavourneen, mavourneen, And that something, you know, is yourself. You're smiling, and that's a good sign, darling, Say "yes," and you'll never repent, Or, if you would rather be silent, Your silence I'll take for consent. That good natured dimple's a tell-tale, Now all that I have is your own ; This week you may be Kitty Tyrrell, Next week you'll be Mistress Malone. Mavourneen, mavourneen, You'll be my own Mistress Malone. AM I NOT FONDLY THINE OWN THOU, thou reign'st in this bosom, There, there, hast thou thy throne ; Thou, thou knowest that I love thee Am I nat fondly thine own? Yes, yes, yes, yes, am I not fondly thine CTO ? Then, then, e'en as I love thee, Say, say, wilt thou love me ? Thoughts, thoughts, tender and true, love, Say, wilt thou cherish for me ? Yes, yes, yes, yes, say, wilt thou cherish fo. nc Speak, speak, love, I implore thee, Say, say, hope shall be thine, Thou, thou know'st that I love thee, Say but that thou wilt be mine ! Yes, yes, yes, yes, say but thou wili bo T j THE DEAR LITTLE SHAMROCK OF IRELAND. BY ANDREW CHERRY. THERE'S a dear little plant that grows in our isle, 'Twas Saint Patrick himself, sure, that set it ; And the sun on his labor with pleasure did smile, And with dew from his eye often wet it! It thrives through the bog, through the brake, through the mireland : And he called it the dear little Shamrock of Ireland. The sweet little Shamrock, the dear little Shamrock, The sweet little, green little Shamrock of Ireland. This dear little plant still grows in our land Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin, Whose smiles can bewitch, whose eyes can command, In each climate that they may appear in ; And shine through the bog, through the brake, through the mireland ; Jusf like their own dear little Shamrock of Ireland. The sweet iittle Shamrock, the dear little Shamrock, The sweet little, green little Shamrock of Ireland. This dear little plant that springs from our soil, When its three little leaves are extended, Denotes from one stalk we together should toil, And ourselves by ourselves be befriended ; And still through the bog, through the brake, through the mireland, From one root should branch, like the Shamrock of Ireland. The sweet little Shamrock, the dear little Shamrock, The sweet little, green little Shamrock of Ireland. THE BOYS OF KILKENNY. OH, the boys of Kilkenny are brave roaring blades. And if ever they meet with the nice little maids. They'll kiss them and coax them, and spend their money free, Of all the towns of Ireland, Kilkenny for me. In the town of Kilkenny there runs a clear stream, In the town of Kilkenny there lives a pretty dame, Her lips are like roses and her mouth much the same- Like a dish of fresh strawberries smothered in cream. Her eyes are as black as Kilkenny's large coal, Which through my bosom has burnt a large hole ; Her mind, like its river, is mild, clear, and pure, But her heart is more hard than its marble, I'm sure. Kilkenny's a pretty town, and shines where it stands, And the more I think of it the more my heart warms ; If I was at Kilkenny, I should then be at home, For there I got sweethearts, but here can get none. I'll build my love a castle on Kilkenny's free ground, Neither lords, dukes, nor squires shall ever pull it down ; And if any one should ask you to tell him my name, I am an Irish exile, and from Kilkenny I came. RORY OF THE HILLS. " THAT rake up near the rafters, Why leave it there so long ? The handle, of the best of ash, Is smooth, and straight, and strong ; And, mother, will you tell me, Why did my father frown, When to make the hay in summer time I climbed to take it down ? " She looked into her husband's eyes, While her own with light did fill ; " You'll shortly know the reason, boy !" Said Rory of the Hill. The midnight moon is lighting up The slopes of Sliev-na-mon Whose foot affrights the startled hares So long before the dawn ? He stopped just where the Anner's stream Winds up the woods anear, Then whistled low, and looked around To see the coast was clear. A sheeling door flew open In he stepped with right good will "God save all here, and bless your work," Said Rory of the Hill. Right hearty was the welcome That greeted him, I ween, For years gone by he fully proved How well he loved the Green ; And there was one among them Who grasped him by the hand One who, through all that weary time, Roamed on a foreign strand He brought them news from gallant friends That made their heart-strings thrill ; " My soul ! I never doubted them !" Said Rory of the Hill. They sat around the humble board Till dawning of the day, And yet not song or shout I heard No revellers were they ; Some brows flushed red with gladness, While some were grimly pale ; But pale or red, from out those eyes Flashed souls that never quail ! " And sing us now about the vow, They swore for to fulfill " " Ye'll read it yet in history," Said Rory of* the Hill. Next day the ashen handle, He took down from where it hung, The toothed rake, full scornfullj. Into the fire he flung. And in its stead a shining blade Is gleaming once again, (Oh ! for a hundred thousand of Such weapons and such men !) Right soldierly he wielded it, And going through his drill " Attention " " charge " " front point " " advance ! ' Cried Rory of the Hill. She looked at him with woman's pride, With pride and woman's fears ; She flew to him, she clung to him, And dried away her tears ; He feels her pulse beat truly, While her arms around him twine "Now God be praised for your stout heart, Brave little wife of mine." He swung his first-born in the air, While joy his heart did fill " You'll be a FREEMAN yet, my boy," Said Rory of the Hill. Oh ! knowledge is a wondrous power, And stronger than the wind ; And thrones shall fall and despots bow Before the might of mind ; The poet and the orator The heart of man can sway, And would to the kind Heavens That Wolfe Tone were here to-day ! Yet trust me, friends, dear Ireland's strength, Her truest strength, is still The rough-and-ready roving boys, Like Rory of the Hill. MOLLY BAWN. O MOLLY BAWN, why leave me pining Or lonely waiting here for you While the stars above are brightly shining, Because they have nothing else to do. The flowers late were open keeping, To try a rival blush with you, But their mother, Nature, kept them sleeping, With their rosy faces wash'd in dew. The pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear, And the pretty stars were made to shine , The pretty girls were made for the boys, d^ar, And may be you were made for mine. The wicked watch-dog here is snarling He takes me for a thief, d'ye see ? For he knows I'd steal you, Molly, darling, And then transported I should be. 30 THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED. BY THOMAS DAVIS. AIR ' ' Irish Molly ! " FULL often when our fathers saw the Red above the Green, They 'rose in rude but fierce array, with saber, pike and skian, And over many a noble town, and many a field of dead, They proudly set the Irish Green above the English Red. But in the end, throughout the land, the shameful sight was seen The English Red in triumph high above the Irish Green ; But well they died in breach and field, who, as their spirits fled, Still saw the Green maintain its place above the English Red. And they who saw, in after times, the Red above the Green, Were withered as the grass that dies beneath a forest screen ; Yet often by this healthy hope their sinking hearts were fed. That, in some day to come, the Green should flutter o'er the Red. Sure 'twas for this Lord Edward died, and Wolfe Tone sunk serene Because they could not bear to leave the Red above the Green ; And 'twas for this that Owen fought, and Sarsfield nobly bled Because their eyes were hot to see the Green above the Red. So, when the strife began again, our darling Irish Green Was down upon the earth, while high the English Red was seen ; Yet still we held our fearless course, for something in us said : "Before the strife is o'er you'll see the Green above the Red." And 'tis for this we think and toil, and knowledge strive to glean, That we may pull the English Red below the Irish Green, And leave our sons sweet Liberty and smiling plenty spread, Above the land once dark with blood the Green above the Red. The jealous English tyrant now has bann'd the Irish Green, And forced us to conceal it like a something foul and mean ; But yet, by Heavens ! he'll sooner raise his victims from the dead Than force our hearts to leave the Green and cotton to the Red. We'll trust ourselves, for God is good, and blesses those who On their brave hearts, and not upon an earthly king or queen ; And freely as we lift our hands, we vow our blood to shed Once and forever more to raise the Green above the Red ! THE HEART BOWED DOWN BY WEIGHT OF WOE. THE heart bow'd down by weight of woe, To weakest hope will cling ; To thought and impulse while they flow, That can no comfort bring, With those exciting scenes will blend O'er pleasure's pathway thrown, But mem'ry is the only friend That grief can call his own. The mind will, in its worst despair, 31 Still ponder o'er the past, On moments of delight that were Too beautiful to last ; To long departed years extend Its visions with them flown : For memory is the only friend That grief can call its own. N. W. BALPE. THE EXILE OF ERIN. THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his raiment was heavy and chill ; For his country he sighed when at twilight repairing. To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day star attracted his eyes' sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where oft in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of ERIN GO BRAGH. " Oh, sad is my fate," said the heart-broken stranger, The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee ; But I have no refuge from famine and danger. A home and a country remain not to me. Ah ! never again in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers liv'd shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of ERIN GO BRAGH. " Erin, my country, though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore, But alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more. Oh ! cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace where no perils can chase me ': Ah ! never again shall my brothers embrace me They died to defend, or lived to deplore. " Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sires, did you weep for its fall ? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood ? And where is the bosom friend dearer than all ? Oh ! my sad heart, long abandoned by pleasure^ Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure, Tears like the rain-drop may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. " Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing, Land of my forefathers, ERIN GO BRAGH. Buried and cold when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest Isle of the ocean, And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with emotion, ERIN, MAVOURNEEN ! ERIN GO BRAGH ! THOS. CAMPBELL. 38 THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. [A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland, that, when a chiM smiles in its deep, it ie " talking with angels."] A BABY was sleeping, its mother was weeping, For her husband was far on the wild, raging sea, And the tempest was swelling 'round the fisherman's dwelling- And she cried : " Dermot, darling, oh ! come back tome \" Her beads while she number'd the baby still slumber'd, And smiled in her face as she bended her knee ; " Oil ! blest be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. " And while they are keeping bright watch o'er thy sleeping, Oh ! pray to them softly, my baby, with me And say thou would'st rather they'd watch o'er thy father, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. " The dawn of the morning saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see ; And closely caressing her child with a blessing. Said : "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee DUBLIN BAY. BY MR8. CRAWFORD. HE sail'd away in a gallant bark, Roy Neill and his fair young bride, He had ventur'd all in that bounding ark That danced o r er the silver tide. But his heart was young and his spirit light, And he dashed the tear away, As he watched the shore recede from sight, Of his own sweet Dublin Bay. Three days they sail'd, and a storm arose, And the lightning swept the deep, ' And the thunder-crash broke the short repose Of the weary sea-boy's sleep. Roy Neill, he clasped his weeping bride, And he kiss'd her tears away, "Oh, love, 'twas a fatal hour," she cried, " When we left sweet Dublin Bay." On the crowded deck of the doomed ship Some stood in their mute despair, And some, more calm, with a holy lip, Sought the God of the storm in prayer. *' She has struck on the rock !" the seamen cried, In the breath of their wild dismay, And the ship went down and the fair young bride That sailed from Dublin Bay. SHAMUS O'BRIEN, THE BOLD BOY OF GLINGALL. 33 A Tale of Ninety -Eight. BY SAMUEL LOVER. JlST afther the war, in the year '98, As soon as the boys wor all scattered and bate, 'Twa the custom, whenever a peasant was got, To hang him by thrial barrin' sich as was shot. There was trial by jury goin' on by daylight, And the martial-law hangin' the lavins by night ; It's them was hard times f.r an honest gossoon, If he missed in the judges he'd meet a dragoon ; An' whether the sodgers or judges gev sentence, The divil a much time they allowed for repentance ; An' it's many's the fine boy was then on his keepin' Wfd small share iv restin', or aitin', or sleepin'. An' because they, loved Erin, an' scorned to sell it, A prey for the bloodhound, a mark for the bullet. Unsheltered by night, and unrested by day, With the heath for their barracks, revenge for their pay. An' the bravest an' hardiest boy iv them all Was Shamus O'Brien, from the town of Glingall. His limbs were well set, an' his body was light, And the keen-fanged hound had not teeth half so white. But his face was as pale as the face of the dead, An' his cheek never wanned with the blush of tne red ; An' for all that he was an ugly young b'y, For the divil himself couldn't blaze with his eye, So droll an' so wicket, so dark an' so bright, Like a fire flash that crossed the depths of the night ! An' he was the best mower that ever has been, An' the illigamest hurler that ever was seen, An' his dancin' was sich that the men used to stare, An' the women turn crazy, he done it so quare, An' by gorra, the whole world giv it into him there. An' it's he was the b'y that was hard to be caught, An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought, An' it's many the one can remember right well The quare things he done ; and it's oft I heard tell How he lathered the yeomen, himself agin' four, An' stretched the two strongest on old Galtimore. But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest An' treachery prey on the blood iv the best ; Afther many a brave action of power and pride, An' many a hard night on the mountain's bleak side, An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast, In the darkness of night he was taken at last. Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon, For the door of the prison must close on you soon, An' take your last look at her dim lovely light, That falls on the mountain and valley this night ; One look at the village, one look at the flood, An' one at the sheltering, far distant wood ; Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill, 34 An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still ; Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' an' wake, An' farewell to the girl that would die for your sake. An' twelve sodgers brought him to Maryborough jail, An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin' all bail ; The fleet limbs wor chained, an' the strong hands wor bound* An' he laid down his length on the cowld prison ground ; An' the dreams of his childhood came over him there As gentle an' soft as the sweet summer air ; An' happy remembrances crowding on ever, As fast as the foam-flakes dhrift down on the river, Bringing fresh to his heart merry days long gone by, Till the tears gathered heavy and thick in his eye. But the tears didn't fall, for the pride of his heart Would not suffer one drop down his pale cheek to start ; An' he sprung to his feet in his dark prison cave, An' swore with the fierceness that misery gave, By the hopes of the good, an' the cause of the brave, That when he was mouldering in the cold grave His enemies should never have it to boast His scorn of their vengeance one moment was lost ; His bosom might bleed, but his cheek would be dhry ; For undaunted he lived, and undaunted he'd die. Well, as soon as a few weeks were over and gone, The terrible day iv the thrial kem on ; There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to stand, An' sodgers on guard, and dhra.goons sword-in-hand An' the court-house so full that the people were bothered. An' attorneys an' criers on the point iv bein' smothered ; An' counsellors almost gev over for dead, An' the jury sittin' up in their box overhead ; An' the judge settled out so detarmined and big, With his gown on his back, and an illegant new wig ; An' silence was called, an' the minute it was said, The court was as still as the heart of the dead, An' they heard but the openiu' of one prison lock, An' Sham us O'Brien came into the dock. For one minute he turned his eye 'round on the throng, An' he looked at the bars so firm and strong, An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend, A chance to escape, nor a word to defend ; An' he folded his arms as be stood there alone, As calm an' as cold as a statue of stone ; An' they read a big writin'. a yard long at laste, An' Jim didn't understand it, or mind it a taste, An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says, "Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, av you pl'aseV" An all held their breath in the silence of dhread, An' Shamus O'Brien made answer and said : " My lord, if you ask me if in 7ny life-time t thought any treason, or did any crime That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here, The hot blush of shame or coldness of fear, Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow. Before God and the world I would answer you, no ! But if you would ask me, as I think it like, If in the rebellion I carried a pike, An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to the close, AJ' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes, 1 answer you, yes, and I tell you again, Though I stand here to perish, its my glory that then In her cause I was willing that my veins should run dry, An' now for her sake I am ready to die." Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright, An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light ; By my sowl, it's himself was the crabbed ould cliap ! In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap. Then Shamus' mother in the crowd standin' by. Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry : "0, judge, darlin', don't, O, don't say the word ! The crathur is young, have mercy, my lord, He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin' ; You don't know him, my lord O, don't give him to ruin ; He's the kindliest crathur, the tendherest-hearted, Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted. Judge, mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord An' God will forgive you 0, don't say the word ! " That was the first minute that O'Brien was shaken, When he saw that he was not quite forgot or forsaken ; An' down his pale cheeks, at the words of his mother, The big tears wor runnin' fast, one after th' other ; An' two or three times he endeavored to spake, But the sthrong manly voice used to falther and break ; But at last by the strength of his high mounted pride, He conquered and masthered his grief's swelling tide ; " An, " said he, " mother, darlin', don't break your podr heart For, sooner or later, the dearest must part ; An' God knows it's betther than Avandering in fear On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer To lie in the grave, where the head, heart and breast, From thought, labor, and sorrow, forever shall rest. Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more, Don't make me seem broken in this, my last hour ; For I wish, when my head's lying undher the raven, No true man can say I died like a craven !" Then towards the judge Shamus bent down his head, An' that minute the solemn death-sentence was said. The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on Ligh, An the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky ; But why are the men standin' idle so late ? An' why do the crowds gather so fast in the strate ? What come they to talk of ? What come they to see ? An' why does the long rope hang from the tree? O, Shamus O'Brien ! pray fervent and fast, May the Saints take your soul, for this day is your last ; Pray fast an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh When, strong, proud an' great as you are, you must die. An' fasther an' fasther, the crowd gathered there, 36 Boys, horses an gingerbread, just like a fair ; An' whiskey was sellin', and cussamuck, too, An' ould men and young women enjoying the view, An' ould Tim Mulvany, he med the remark, There wasn't sich a sight since the time of Noah's ark ; An' begorry 'twas thrue for him, for divil sich a scruge, Sich divarshin an' crowds, was known since the deluge ; For thousands were gathered there, if there was one, Waitin' till sich time as the hangin' id come on. At last they threw open the big prison gate, An' out came the sheriffs an' sodgers in state, An' a cart in the middle, an' Shamus was in it, Not paler, but prouder than ever that minute. An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien, Wid prayin' an' blessin', and all the girls cryin', A wild, wailin' sound Item on by degrees, Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees. On on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone, An' the cart an' the sodgers go steadily on ; An' at every side swellin' around of the cart, A wild, sorrowful sound that id open your heart ; Now undher the gallows the cart takes its stand, An' the hangman gets up wid the rope in his hand ; An' the priest havin' blessed, goes down on the ground, An' Shamus O'Brien throws one last look around. Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still, Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turned chill ; An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare, For the gripe iv the life-strangling cord to prepare ; An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer. But the good priest done more, for his hands he unbound, And with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the ground ; Bang bang ! go the carbines, and clash ! go the sabers ; He's not down ! he's alive still ! now stand to him, neighbors Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd, By the Heavens he's free ! then thunder, more loud, By one shout from the people the heavens are shaken, One shout from the world that the dead might awaken. The sodgers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that, An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat ; To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe Glin, And the divils in the dice if you catch him ag'in. Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang, But if you want hangin', it's yourself you must hang. He has mounted his horse, and soon he will be In America, darlint, the land of the free. OPT IN THE STILLY NIGHT. J7 Scotch Air. OFT, in the stilly night, When I remember all Ere slumber's chain has bound me, The friends, so link'd together, Fond mem'ry brings the light I've seen around me fall, Of other days around me ; Like leaves in wintry weather ; The smiles, the tears I feel like one, Of boyhood's years, Who treads alone The words of love then spoken Some banquet liall deserted, The eyes that shone, Whose lights are fled, Now dimm'd and gone, Whose garland's dead, The cheerful hearts now broken. And all, but he, departed I Thus in the stilly night, Thus in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Ere slumber's chain has bound 010, Sad mem'ry brings the light Sad mem'ry brings the light Of other days around me. Of other days around me. WHY DON'T YOU COME HOME? OH ! sweet is the smile of the beautiful morn, As it peeps through the curtain of night, And the voice of the nightingale singing his tune, While the stars seem to smile with delight. Old nature now lingers in silent repose, And the sweet breath of summer is calm, While I sit and wonder if Shamus e'er knows How sad and unhappy I am ! CHORUS. Oh ! Shamus O'Brien, why don't you come home, You don't know how happy I'll be ; I've but one darling wish, and that is that you'd come And forever be happy with me ! I'll smile when you smile, and I'll weep when you weep, I'll give you a kiss for a kiss, And all the fond vows that I've made you, I'll keep What more can I promise than this V Does the sea have such bright and such beautiful charms That your heart will not leave it for me ? Oh ! why did I let you go out of my arms, Like a bird that was caged and is free ! Oh ! Shamus O'Brien, ete. Ch 1 Shamus O'Brien, I'm loving you yet, And my heart is still trusting and kind : It was you who first took it, and can you forget That love for another you'd find ? No ! no ! if you break it with sorrow and pain, I'll then have a duty to do ; Jf you'll bring it to me, I'll mend it again, And trust it, dear Shamus, to you. Oh ! Shamus O'Briea, etc. 38 LIMERICK IS BEAUTIFUL. LIMERICK is beautiful, As everybody knows, The river Shannon, full of fish, Through that city flows ; But 'tis not the river or the fish, That weighs upon my mind, Nor with the town of Limerick I've any fault to find. Ochone, ochone, The girl I love is beautiful, And soft-eyed as the fawn, She lives in Garry o wen, And is called the Colleen Bawn. And proudly as that river flows Through that famed city, As proudly and without a word That colleen goes by me. Ochone, ochone. If I was made the Emperor Of Russia to command, Or Julius Caesar, or the Lord Lieutenant of the land, I'd give my plate and golden store, I'd give up my army, The horses, the rifles, and the foet, And the Royal Artillery. Ochone, ochone. I'd give the crown from off my head, My people on their knees ; I'd give the fleet of sailing ships Upon the briny seas ; A beggar I would go to bed, And happy rise at dawn, If by my side for my sweet brid I had found my Colleen Bawn. Ochone, ochone. ACUSHLA GAL MACHREE. BY MICHAEL DOHENY. THE long, long wished-for hour has come But come, asthore, in vain, And left thee but the Wailing hum Of sorrow and of pain : My light of life, my only love, Thy portion sure must be Man's scorn below, God's wrath above Acushla gal machree. 'Twas told of thee the world around, Was hoped for thee by all, That with one gallant sunward bound Thou'd burst long ages' thrall ; Thy fate was tried, alas ! and those Who perilled all for thee Were cursed and branded as thy foes, Acushla gal machree. What fate is thine, unhappy isle, That e'en the trusted few Should pay thee back with fraud and guile When most they should be true ? 'Twas not thy strength or courage failed Nor those whose souls were free ; By moral force wert thou betrayed, Acushla gal machree. I've given thee my youth and prime,; And manhood's waning years ; Fve blest thee in thy sunniest time. And shed for thee my tears ; And, mother, tho' thou'st cast away The child who'd die for thee, My fondest wish is still to pray For 'cushla gal machree. FAREWELL TO MY HARP. AIR "New Langolee." DEAR harp of my country, in darkness I found the, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp ! I unbound thee, And gave all my chords to light, freedom, and song I The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thril] ; But so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness, That even in thy mirth it will steal from me stilL Dear harp of my country 1 farewell to thy numbers, The sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine ; Go sleep, with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone ; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over. And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thv own. AILEEN. Tis not for love of gold I go, And I go to brave a world I hate 'Tis not for love of fame ; And woo ic o'er and o'er, Tho' fortune should her smile bestow, And tempt a wave, and try a fat* And I may win a name, Upon a stranger shore, Ailleen, Ailleen, And I may win a name. Upon a stranger shore. And yet it is for gold I go, Oh ! when the bays are all my own, And yet it is for fame, I know a heart will care 1 That they may deck another brow. Oh 1 when the gold is wooed and won, And bless another name, I know a brow shall wear, Ailleen, Ailleen, And bless another name. I know a brow shall wear ! For this, but this, I go for this And when with both returned again, I lose thy love a while ; My native land to see, And all the soft and quiet bliss I know a smile will meet me there, Of thy young, faithful smile, And a hand will welcome me, Ailleen, Aillen, Of thy young, faithful smile. And a hand will welcome me ! SONG OP THE IRISH EXILE. ALONE, all alone, by the wave- washed strand, And alone in the crowded hall ! The hall it is gay, and the waves are grand, But my heart is not there, at all. It flies far away, by night and by day. To the time and the place that are gone Oh, I never can forget the maiden I met In the valley near Sliebh na m-ban ! It was not the grace of her queenly air, Nor her cheek like the rose's glow, Nor was it the wave of her braided hair, Nor the gleam of her lily white brow ; 'Twas the soul of truth, and the melting truth, And the eye like the summer dawn, That stole my heart away, one mild day, In the valley near Sliebh na m-ban ! Alone, all alone, by the wave-washed shore, My restless spirit cries My love, oh, my love, will I never see you more? And my land ! will you ever uprise ? By night and by day I ever pray, While lonely the time rolls on, To see our flag unrolled and my true love to unfold In that valley near Sliebh na m-ban ! THE VALLEY LAY SMILING BEFORE ME. THE valley lay smiling before me Where lately I left her behind ; Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me That saddened tl'j joy of my mind. I looked for the lamp which, she told me, Should shine, when her pilgrim returned ; But, though darkness began to infold me, No lamp from the battlements burned. I flew to her chamber 'twas lonely, As if the loved tenant lay dead ; Ah, would it were death, and death only ! But no, the young false one had fled. And there hung the lute that could soften My very worst pains into bliss ; While the hand that had waked it so often, Now throbbed to a proud rival's kiss. There was a time, falsest of women ! When Breffni's good sword would have sought That man, through a million of foemen, Who dared but to wrong thee in tJwught ! While now oh, degenerate daughter Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame ! And through ages of bondage and slaughter Our country shall bleed for thy shame. Already the curse is upon her, And strangers her valleys profane ; They come to divide to dishonor, And tyrants they long will remain. But onward ! the green banner rearing, Go, flesh every sword to the hilt ; On our side is Virtue and Erin, On theirs is the Saxon and Guilt, LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. I'M sitting on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side, On a bright May morning long ago, When first you were my bride ; The corn was springing fresh and green. And the lark sang loud and high, And the red was on thy lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary, The day as bright as then ; The lark's loud song is in my sar, And the corn is green again ! But I miss the soft clasp of your hand And your breath warm on my cheek, And I still keep list'ning for the words You never more may speak. 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here ; But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest, For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends, But, O ! they lova them better far, The few our Father sends ; And you were all I had, Mary, My blessing and my pride ; There's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died. I'm bidding you a long farewell, My Mary, kind and true, But I'll not forget you, darling, In the land I'm going to. They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there ; But I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair ! 42 THE RISING OF THE MOON. BY JOHN K. CASEY. " O, then tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, Murmurs passed along the valley, Tell me why you hurry so ?" Like the banshee's lonely croon, ' ' Hash, ma bouchal, hush and listen ;" And a thousand blades were flashing And his cheeks were all aglow. At the rising of the moon. " I bear ordhers from the captain, (Jet you ready quick and soon ; There beside the singing river For the pikes must be together That dark mass of men was seen, At the risin' of the moon." Far above the shining weapons Hung their own beloved green. "Oh, then tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, " Death to every foe and traitor, Where the gatherin' is to be ? " Forward, strike the marchin' tune, " In the ould spot by the river, And hurrah, my boys, for Freedom I Right well known to you and me. 'Tis the risin' of the moon." One word more for signal token, Whistle up the marchin' tune, Wel1 the 7 fought for poor old Ire- With your pike upon your shoulder land By the risin' of the moon." And ful1 bitter was tlieir fate - (Oh, what glorious pride and sorrow Out from many a mud- wall cabin Fill the name of Ninety-Eight !) Eyes were watching through that Yet, thank God, e'en still are beating night, Hearts in manhood's burning noon, Many a manly chest was throbbing Who would follow in their footsteps, For the blessed warning light. At the risin 1 of the moon, PAT MOLLOY. AT sixteen years of age I was my mother's fair-haired boy , She kept a little huckster shop, her name it was Malloy. " I've fourteen children, Pat," says she, " which Heav'n to me has sent ; But childer ain't like pigs, you know ; they can't pay the rent." She gave me ev'ry shilling there was in the till, And kiss'd me fifty times or more, as if she'd never get her fill, " Oh ! Heav'n bless you ! Pat," says she, " and don't forget, my boy, That Ould Ireland is your country, and your name is Pat Malloy ! " Oh ! England is a purty place : of goold there is no lack I trudged from York to London wid me scythe upon me back, The English girls are beautiful, their loves I don't decline ; The eating and the drinking, too, is beautiful and fine ; But in a corner of me heart, which nobody can see, Two eyes of Irish blue are always peeping out at me ! O, Molly darlin', never fear : I'm still your own dear boy Ould Ireland is me country, and me name is Pat Malloy ! From Ireland to America, across the seas, I roam : And every shilling that I got, ah ! sure I sent it home, Me mother couldn't write, but, oh ! there came from Father Boyce: " Oh ! Heav'n bless you ! Pat," says she I hear me mother's voice f But, now I'm going home again, as poor as I began, To make a happy girl of Moll, and sure I think I can : Me pockets they are empty, but me heart is fill'd with joy ; For Ould Ireland is me country, and me name is Pat Malloy. PADDY IS THE BOY 43 IT'S some years ago, I very well know. Since I first saw daylight with my two blessed eyes ; I was born, so they say, when my Dad was away, On St. Patrick's day, in the morning. How they nursed me with joy ; said, what a fine boy I Put a stick in my fist, by the way of a toy ; Faith ! there's no mistake, they admired my make, And said some day I'd give the girls a warming. CHORUS. For Paddy is the boy that's fond of a glass, Paddy is the boy that's fond of a lass ! Dear Old Dublin is the place for me, And Donnybrook is the place to go for a spree. At a wake or a fair, poor Paddy is there ; He will fight foe or friend, if they do him offend ; Let the piper strike up, he will rise from his cup, With a smile on his face adorning. With his little Colleen, he'll dance on the green, Sure, an Irishman there in his glory was seen ; Play a reel or a jig, he don't care a fig, But he'll dance till daylight in the morning. For Paddy is the boy, &e. Now boys, do you mind, you never will find, Such a dear little place as the Emerald Isle ; Long, long may it stand, and good luck to the land That dear old St. Patrick was born in ! May the girls, young and old, may the boys, brave and bold. Unite, heart and hand, to protect the dear isle ! And, morn, noon, and night, may joy and delight Shine on them, like a fine summer's morning. For Paddy is the boy, &c. YOUR PURTY GIRL MILKING HER COW. TWAS on a bright morning in summer I first heard his voice speakin' low, As he said to a colleen beside me, Who's that purty girl milking her cow ? Oh ! many times afther ye met me, An' vowed that I always should be Your darlin' acushla, alanna, mavourneen, A suilish machree. I haven't the manners or graces Of the girls in the world where ye mov I haven't their beautiful faces, But oh ! I've a heart that can love ; If it plaise ye, I'll dress me in satin, An' jewels I'll put on my brow, But oh ! don't be afther forgettin' Your purty girl milking her cow. 44 I WOULD NOT DIE IN YOUTH'S BRIGHT HOUB. BT THOS. FRANCIS MEAGHER. I "WOULD not die in this bright hour, While Hope's sweet stream is flowing ; I would not die while Youth's gay flowtr In springtide pride is glowing. The path I trace in fiery dreams For manhood's flight, to-morrow, Oh, let me tread, 'mid those bright gleams Which souls from Fame will borrow. I would not die ! I would not die In Youth's bright hour of pleasure ; I would not leave, without a sigh, The dreams, the hopes I treasure ! I set young seeds in earth to-day, While yet the sun was gushing, And shall I pass, ere these, away, Nor see the flowerets blushing? Are these young seeds, when earth looks fair, To rise with fragrance teeming, And shall the hand that placed them ther Lie cold when they are gleaming ? I would not die ! I would not die In Youth's bright hour of pleasure ; I would not leave, without a sigh, The dreams, the hopes I treasure. DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY! [In that rebellions but beautiful song, " When Erin first arose," there is, if I recollect aright, the following line, " The dark chain of silence was thrown o'er the deep. '' The chaim of silence was a sort of practical figure of rhetoric among the ancient Irish, walker tells ui of "A celebrated contention for precedence between Finn and Gaul, near Finn's palace, at Almhaim, where the attending bards, anxious if possible to produce a cessation of hoitiU- tii, shook the chain of silence and flung themselves among the ranks."] DEAR Harp of my country ! in darkness I found thee ; The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long ; When proudly, my own island harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song ! The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have wakened thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill ; But so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness, That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear Harp of my country ! farewell to thy number This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twin* ; Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touched by some hand less unworthy than mine : If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbbed at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone ; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I waked was thjr owa. ONE OF THE RANK AND FILE. 45 'TWAS a glorious day, worth a warrior's telling : Two kings had fought, and the fight was done, When, amidst the shouts of victory swelling, A soldier fell on the field he'd won. He thought of kings and royal quarrels, And thought of glory without a smile For what had he to do with laurels, He was only one of the rank and file. But drawing his little cruiskeen, He drank to his pretty colleen, " Oh, darling ! " said he, " if I die, Tou won't be a widow, for why ? . Sure you would never have me, 'vou'rneen." Then a raven tress from his bosom taking, That now was stained with his life-stream A fervent prayer on that ringlet making. He blessings sought on the loved one's head. And visions fair of his native mountains Arose, enchanting his fading sight ; Her emerald valleys and crystal fountains Were never shining more clear and bright. But grasping his little cruiskeen, He pledged that dear island so green : " Though far from thy valleys I die, Dearest isle of my heart, thou art nigh, As though absent I never had been." A tear now fell, for as life was sinking, The pride that guarded his manly eye Had weaker grown, and such tender thinking Brought heaven and home, his true love, nigh But, with the fire of his gallant nation, He scorned surrender without a blow ; He met death with capitulation, And with warlike honors he would go. But drawing his little cruiskeen He drank to his cruel colleen, To the emerald land of his birth, Then lifeless he sunk to the earth Brave a soldier as ever was seen. "HE LIKE A SOLDIER FELL." BY EDWAKD FITZBALL. O LET me like a soldier fall I only ask of that proud race Upon some open plain ; Which ends its blaze in me, This breast, expanding for the ball To die the last, and not disgrace To blot out every stain ; Its ancient chivalry ; Brave, manly hearts confer my doom, Though o'er my clay no banner wave, That gentler ones may tell No trumpet requiem swell, Howe'er forgot, unknown my tomb, Enough, they murmur at my grave, I like a soldier fell. " He like a soldier fell." 46 "I WON'T LET YOU IN!" 'TWAS a cowld winter's night and the tempest was snarlin', ry>1 " now, like a sheet, cover'd cabin and sty, When rfarney flew over the hills to his darlin', 1 vapp'd at the window where Katty did lie. " Arrah, jewel," says he, " are you sleeping or waking, It's a bitter cwld night, and my coat it is thin, The storm it is brewiu', the frost it is bakin', Oh, Katty, avourneen, you must let me in !" " Ah, then, Barney," says Kate, and she spoke through the window, " How could you be taking us out of our bed, To come at this time, it's a shame and a sin, too, It's whiskey, not love, has got into your head. If your heart it was true, of my fame you'd be tindher, Considher the time, an' there's nobody in, What has a poor girl but her name to defend her ? No, Barney, avourneen, I won't let you in ! " " Acushla," says he, " it's my heart is a fountain, That weeps for the wrong I might lay at your door ; Your name is more white than the snow on the mountain, And Barney 'Id die to presarve it as pure. I'll go to my home, tho' the winter winds face me, I'll whistle them off, for I'm happy within, And the words of my Katty will comfort and bless me, ' No, Barney, avourneen, I won't let you in ! ' " I SHALL MEET THEE AGAIN! OH ! Dermot Asthore ! between waking and sleeping, I heard thy dear voice, and I wept to its lay ; Ev'ry pulse of my heart, the sweet measure was keeping, Till Killarney's wild echoes had borne it away. Oh ! tell me, my own love, is this our last meeting? Shall we wander no more in Killarney's green bow'rs, To watch the bright sun o'er the dim hills retreating, And the wild stag at rest in his bed of spring flow'rs. CHORUS. Oh ! Dermot Astore ! between waking and sleeping, I heard thy dear voice, and wept to its lay ; Ev'ry pulse of the heart, the sweet measure was keeping Till Killarney's wild echoes had borne it away. Oh ! Dermot Astore ! how this fond heart would flutter, When I met thee by night, in the shady boreen, And heard thy own voice in a soft whisper utter, Those words of endearment, "Mavourneen Colleen." I know we must part, but oh ! say not forever, That it may be for years adds enough to my pain. But I'll cling to the hope that tho' now we must sever, In gome blessed hour I shall meet thee again. Oh! etc. KATE KEARNEY. 47 OH ! did you ne'er hear of Kate Kearney ? She lives on the banks of Killarney ; From the glance of her eye, shun danger arid fly, For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney. For that eye is so modestly beaming, You'd ne'er think of mischief she's dreaming Yet, oh ! I can tell , how fatal's the spell That lurks in the eye of Kate Kearney. 0, should you e'er meet this Kate Kearney, Who lives on the banks of Killarney, Beware of her smile, for many a wile Lies hid in the smile of Kate Kearney. Though she looks so bewitchingly simple, Yet there's mischief in every dimple, And who dares inhale her sigh's spicy gale, Must die by the breath of Kate Kearney. SWEET NOEA O'NEAL. OH ! I'm lonely to-night, love, without you, And I sigh for one glance of your eye ; For, sure there's a charm, love, about you, Whenever I know you are nigh. Like the beam of the star when 'tis smiling, Is the glance which your eye can't conceal, And your voice is so sweet and beguiling That I love you, sweet Nora O'Neal. Oh ! don't think that ever I'll doubt you, My love I will never conceal ; Oh ! I'm lonely to-night, love, without you, My darling, sweet Nora O'Neal ! Oh, the nightingale sings in the wild-wood, As if every note that he knew Was learned from your sweet voice in childhood, To remind me, sweet Nora, of you. But I think, love, so often about you, And you don't know how happy I feel, But I'm lonely to-night, love, without you My darling, sweet Nora O'Neal ! Oh ! don't think, etc. Oh ! why should I weep tears of sorrow ? Oh ! why let hope lose its place ? Won't I meet you, my darling, to-morrow, And smile on your beautiful face ? Will you meet me ? Oh ! say you will meet me With a kiss at the foot of the lane, And I'll promise whenever you greet ine That I'll never be lonely again. Oh ! don't think, etc. . . COME BACK TO ERIN, MAVOURNEEN! COME back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen, Come back, aroon, to the land of thy birth, ^.ime with the shamrocks and spring-time, mavourueea. And it's Killarney shall ring with our mirth. Sure, when we lent you to beautiful England, Little we thought of the lone winter days, Little we thought of the hush of the star shine Over the mountains, the bluffs and the braes ! Come back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen, Come back again to the land of thy birth, Come back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen, And it's Killarney shall ring with our mirth. Over the green sea, mavourneen, mavourneen, Long shone the white sail that bore thee away, Riding the white waves, that fair summer mornin', Just like a mayflower afloat on the bay. Oh ! but my heart sank when clouds came between us Like a gray curtain the rain falling down, Hid from my sad eyes the parh oW the ocean, Far, far away where my colleen had flown. Oh ! may the angels, oh, wakin' and sleepin', Watch o'er my bird in the land far away ! And it's my prayer will consign to their keepin' Care o' my jewel by night and by day. SWEET NORAH McSHANE. I'VE left Ballymornach a long way behind me, To better my fortune I've crossed the big sea ; But I'm sadly alone, not a creature to mind me, And faith I'm as wretched as wretched can be ; I think of the buttermilk, fresh as the daisy, The beautiful hills and the emerald plain, And, ah ! don't I oftentimes think myself crazy, About that black-eyed rogue, sweet Norah McShane. I sigh for the turf-pile so cheerfully burning, When barefoot I trudged it from toiling afar, When I toss'd in the light the thirteen I'd been earning, And whistled the anthem of " Erin go bragh." In truth, I believe that I'm half broken-hearted, To my country and love I must get back again, For I've never been happy at all since I parted From sweet Ballymornach and Norah McShane. Oh ! there's something so sweet in the cot I was bora in, Though the walls are but mud and the roof is but thatck ; How familiar the grunt of the pigs in the mornin', What music in lifting the rusty old latch. Tia true I'd no money, but then I'd no sorrow, My pockets were light, but my head had no pain ; And if I but live till the sun shine to-morrow, ould Ireland and Norah McShane. THE WILD ROSE OF ERIN. 49 HER long raven locks in the night wind was streaming' As over the waters she mournfully gazed, The moonbeams around her were placidly beaming, That beautiful daughter of Erin wa- crazed ; She plucked a wild rose that in beauty was glowing, Then, kissing it, bade the fair flower decay, And on the dark waves which were quietly flowing, The wild rose of Erin soon wither'd away. Bright, beautiful type of a heart that was broken, The fair hand that cull'd and then left it to die, Was woo'd and was won, but those vows kindly spoken, Deceived and then left her 'mid sorrow to sigh ; Twas far from the spot where the shamrock was growing, - Her false-hearted lover had left her to stray, While on the dark waves which were quietly flowing The wild rose of Erin soon wither'd away. A SOLDIER'S TEAR. UPON the hill he turn'd, to take a last fond look At the valley, and the village church, and the cottage by the brook ; He listened to the sounds so familiar to his ear, And the soldier lean'd upon his sword, and wiped away a tear. Beside that cottage porch a girl was ou her knees, She held aloft a snowy scarf, which flutter'd in the breeze ; She breathed a prayer for him, a prayer he could not hear ; But he paused to bless her as she knelt, and wiped away a tear. He turn'd and left the spot oh ! do not deem him weak, For dauntless was the soldier's heart, though tears were on his cheek. Go watch the foremost ranks in danger's dark career Be sure the hand most daring there has wiped away a tear. I CANNOT SING THE OLD SONGS. CLAIUBEL. I CANNOT sing the old songs I sung long years ago : For heart and voice would fail me, and foolish tears would flow ; For by-gone hours come o'er my heart, with each familiar strain I cannot sing the old songs, or dream those dreams again ! I cannot sing the old songs, their charm is sad and deep ; Their melodies would waken old sorrows from their sleep ; And tho' all unforgotten still, and sadly sweet they be I cannot sing the old songs, they are too dear to me ! I cannot sing the old songs : for visions come again Of golden dreams departed, and years of weary pain. Perhaps, when earthly fetters shall have set my spirit f re. My voice may know the old songa, for all eternity ! 50 OH, BREATHE NOT HIS NAME! AIK " The Brown Maid." OH ! breathe not his name let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonor'd his relics are laid ! Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head 1 But the night-dew that falls, tho' in silence it weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps ; And the tear that we shed, tho' in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. .THE GRAVE OF WOLFE TONE. BY THOMAS DAVIS. IN Bodenstown Churchyard there is a green grave, And wildly along it the winter winds rave ; Small shelter, I ween, are the ruined walls there, When the storm sweeps down on the plains of Kildare. Once I lay on that sod it lies over Wolfe Tone And thought how he perished in prison alone, His friends unavenged, and his country unfreed "Oh, bitter," I said, " is a patriot's meed. ' ' For in him the heart of a woman combined With a heroic life, and a governing mind A martyr for Ireland his grave has no stone, His name seldom named, and his virtues unknown." I was woke from my dream by the voices and tread Of a band, who came into the home of the dead ; They carried no corpse, and they carried no stone, And they stopped when they came to the grave of Wolfe TflB& There were students and peasants, the wise and the brave, And an old man who knew him from cradle to grave, And the children who thought me hard-hearted ; for they On that sanctified soil were forbidden to play. But the old man, who saw I was mourning there, said : " We come, sir, to weep where young Wolfe Tone is laid, And we're going to raise him a monument, too A plain one, yet fit for the simple and true." My heart overflowed, and I clasped his old hand, And I blessed him, and blessed everyone of his band " Sweet ! sweet ! 'tis to find that such faith can remain To the cause, and the man so long vanquished and slain. J In the Bodenstown Churchyard there is a green And freely around it let winter winds rave Far better they suit him the ruin and gloom TILL IRELAND, A NATION. CAN BUILD HIM A TOMB. THE SOLDIER OF ERIN. 51 AIR " Exile of Erin." THE shadows of darkness around him were falling, And eve's lonely star lit the wanderer's way, When the harp of the minstrel, his footsteps recalling, The brave soldier paused at the heart-moving lay. Oh ! dear to my soul in the spring-time of feeling, Ere the blight of the cold world had swept o'er its flowers ; Was that strain of my childhood from tender lips stealing In fair Connamara's now desolate bow'rs. Sweet song of my boyhood, still deeper and deeper, It sinks on my heart as I list to the strain ; Like a dream of the dead that steals o'er the sleeper, And brings back the lost and the loved ones again. Dear voice of the past, like the Jone harp of Tara, It wakes 'mid the ruins of all I deplore ; Farewell to thy green hills, my fair Connamara, First home of my heart, I shall see thee no more. BEN BOLT AND SWEET ALICE. OH ! don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt, Sweet Alice with hair so brown ? She wept with delight when you gave her a smile, And trembled with fear at your frown. In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt, In a corner obscure and alone, They have fitted a slab of granite so gray, And poor Alice lies under the stone. They have fitted, et. Oh ! don't you remember the wood, Ben Bolt, Near the green sunny slope of the hill ; Where oft we have sang 'neath its wide-spreading shades, And kept time to the click of the mill? The mill has gone to decay, Ben Bolt, And a quiet now reigns all around ; See the old rustic porch, with its roses so sweet, Lies scatter'd and fall'n to the ground. See the old, etc. Oh ! don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, And the master so kind and so true ; And the little nook by the clear running brook, Where we gat her 'd the flowers as they grew? On the master's grave grows the grass, Ben Bolt, And the running little brook is now dry ; And of all the friends who were schoolmates then There remain, Ben, but you and I. And of all, etc. 52 CAOCH, THE PIPER. BY J. KEEGAN. ONE winter's day, long, long ago, When I was a little fellow, A piper wandered to our door, Gray-headed, blind, and yellow. And oh, how glad was my young heart, Though earth and sky looked dreary, To see the stranger and his dog Poor Pinch and Caoch O'Leary. And when he stowed away his " bag," Cross-barred with green and yellow, I thought and said, " In Ireland's ground There's not so fine a fellow." And Fineen Burk and Shane Magee, And Eily, Kate, and Mary, Rushed in with frantic haste to ' ' see " And " welcome " Caoch O'Leary. O God ! be with those happy times, O God ! be with my childhood, When I, bare-headed, roamed all day Bird-nesting in the wild- wood I'll not forget those sunny hours, However years may vary ; I'll not forget my early friends, Nor honest Caoch O'Leary. Poor Caoch and Pinch slept well that night, And in the morning early He called me up to hear him play " The wind that shakes the barley. " And then he stroked my flaxen hair, And cried, " God mark my deary ! " And how he wept when he said " Farewell, And think of Caoch O'Leary," And seasons came and went, and still Old Caoch was not forgotten, Although I thought him " dead and gone," And in the cold clay rotten ; And often when I walked and danced With Eily, Kate, and Mary, We spoke of childhood's rosy hours, And prayed for Caoch O'Leary. Well, twenty summers had gone past, And June's red sun was sinking, When 1, a man, sat by my door, Of twenty sad things thinking. CAOCH, THE PIPER. 3 (Concluded.) A. little dog came up the way, His gait was slow and weary, And at his tail a lame man limped 'Twas Pinch and Caoch O'Leary. Old Caoch ! but oh, how woe-begone ! His form is bowed and bending, His fleshless hands are stiff and wan, Ay, Time is even blending The colors on his threadbare " bag," And Pinch is twice as hairy And " thin-spare " as when first I saw Himself and Caoch O'Leary. " God's blessing here ! " the wanderer cried, "Far, far be hell's black viper Does anybody hereabouts Remember Caoch the Piper ? " With swelling heart I grasped his hand, The old man murmured ' ' Deary ! Are you the silky-headed child That loved poor Caoch O'Leary ? " " Yes, yes," I said the wanderer wept As if his heart was breaking " And where, a vhic machree," * he sobbed, ' ' Is all the merry-making I found here twenty years ago ? " " My tale," I sighed, " might weary- Enough to say, there's none but me To welcome Caoch O'Leary ! " " Vo vo vo ! " the old man cried, And wrung his hands in sorrow, " Pray lead me in, asthore machree, And I'll go home to-morrow. My ' peace is made,' I'll calmly leave This world so cold and dreary, And you shall keep my pipes and dog, And pray for Caoch O'Leary ! " With Pinch I watched his bed that night, Next day his wish was granted ; He died, and Father James was brought, And the Requiem Mass was chanted. The neighbors came ; we dug his grave, Near Eily, Kate, and Mary, And there he' sleeps his last sweet slp God rest you, Caoch O'Leary ! * Son of my heart. AILEEN, MAVOURNEEN. HE tells me he loves me, and can I believe The heart he has won he can wish to deceive, Forever and always his sweet words to me Are Aileen, mavourneen, acushla machree. Last night when we parted, his gentle good-by, A thousand times said, and each time with a sigh, And still the same sweet words he whispered to me, My Aileen, mavourneen, acushla machree. The friend of my childhood, the friend of my youth, Whose heart is all pure, and whose words are all trutk, Oh, still the same sweet words he whispered to me, My Aileen, mavourneen, acushla machree. Oh, when will the day come, the dear happy day, That a maiden may hear all a lover can say, And speak out the words he now whispers to me, My Aileen, mavourneen, acushla machree ! THE WHISTLING THIEF. WHEN Pat came o'er the hills his colleen fair to see, His whistle, loud and shrill, his signal was to be. "Oh ! Mary," the mother cried, "there's some one whistling sure." ' ' Oh ! Mother, you know, it's the wind that's whistling through the door. [Whistles "Garry Owen."] " I've lived a long time, Mary, in this wide world, my dear, But the wind to whistle like that, I never yet did hear." " But, mother, you know, the fiddle hangs close behind the chink, And the wind upon the strings is playing a tune, I think." [Dog barks.] "The dog is barking now, and the fiddle can't play that tune." " But, mother, you know that dogs will bark, when they see the moon." ' Now, how can he see the moon, when you know he's old and blind? Blind dogs can't see the moon, nor fiddles be played by the wind. [Pig grunts.] "And now there is the pig uneasy in his mind." "But, mother, you know, they say that pigs can see the wind." " That's all very well in the day, but then I may remark That pigs, no more than we, can see anything in the dark. " Now, I'm not such a fool as you think ; I know very well it is Pat. Get out ! you whistling thief, and get along home out o' that. And you, be off to your bed, and don't bother me with your tears ; For, tho' I've lost my eyes, I have not lost my ears." MORAL. Now, boys, too near the house don't courting go, d'ye mind ? Unless you're certain sure the old woman's both deaf and blind. The days when they were young, forget they never can ; They're sure to tell the difference 'twixt wind, fiddle, pig, dog, or man. PADDY BLAKE'S ECHO. 55 BY SAMUEL LOVER. One of the Wonders of Killarney. IN the gap of Dunlo There's an echo, or SO) And some of them echoes is very surprisin' ; You'll think, in a stave That I mane to desaive, For a ballad's a thing you expect to find lies in. But visibly thrue In that hill forninst you There's an echo as plain and as safe as the bank, too ; But civilly spake "How d'ye do, Paddy Blake?" The echo politely says, " Very well, thank you ! " One day Teddy Keogh With Kate Connor did go To hear from the echo such wondherful talk, sir ; But the echo, they say, Was conthrairy that day, Or perhaps Paddy Blake had gone out for a walk, sir. So Ted says to Kate, ' ' 'Tis too hard to be bate By that deaf and dumb baste of an echo, so lazy, But if we both shout At each other, no doubt, We'll make up an echo between us, my daisy ! "Now, Kitty," says Teddy, ' ' To answer be ready. " 'Oh, very well, thank you," cried out Kitty, then, sir, " Would you like to wed, Kitty darlin' '! " says Ted. ' Oh, very well, thank you," says Kitty again, sir. " D'ye like me f " says Teddy, And Kitty, quite ready, Cried " Very well, thank you ! " with laughter beguiling. Now won't you confess Teddy could not do less Than pay his respects to the lips that were smiling ! Oh, dear Paddy Blake, May you never forsake Those hills that return us such echoes endearing ! And, girls, all translate The sweet echoes like Kate, No faithfulness doubting, no treachery fearing. And, boys, be you ready, Like frolicsome Teddy, Be earnest in loving, though given to joking ; And thus when inclined, May all true lovers find Sweet echoes to answer from hearts they're invoking ! 56 UNROLL ERIN'S FLAG TO THE BREEZE I BY FATHER RYAN. UNROLL Erin's flag ! fling its folds to the breeze ! Let it float o'er the land, let it wave o'er the seas ; Lift it out of the dust let it wave as of yore, When its chiefs with their clans stood around it and swore That never, no, never, while God gave them life, And they had an arm and a sword for the strife, That never, no, never, that banner would yield, As long as the heart of a Celt was its shield ; While the hand of a Celt had a weapon to wield, And his last drop of blood was unshed on the field ! Lift it up ! wave it high ! 'tis as bright as of old ; Not a stain on its green, not a blot on its gold, Though the woes and the wrongs of three hundred long years Have drenched Erin's Sunburst with blood and with tears ; Though the clouds of oppression enshroud it in gloom, And around it the thunders of tyranny boom, Look aloft ! look aloft ! lo ! the cloud's drifting by, There's a gleam through the gloom, there's a light in the sky. 'Tis the Sunburst resplendent far flashing on high ; Erin's dark night is waning, her day-dawn is nigh. Lift it up ! lift it up ! the old Banner of Green : The blood of its sons has but brightened its sheen. What though the tyrant has trampled it down, Are its folds not emblazoned with deeds of renown ? What though for ages it droops in the dust, Shall it droop thus forever? No, no ! God is just ! Take it up ! take it up from the tyrant's foul tread ; Lest he tear the Green Flag, we will snatch its last shred, And beneath it we'll bleed as our forefathers bled, And we'll vow by the dust in the graves of our dead, And we'll swear by the blood that the Briton has shed, And we'll vow by the wrecks which through Erin he spread, And we'll swear by the thousands who famished, unfed. Died down in the ditches wild howling for bread, And we'll vow by our heroes, whose spirits have fled, And we'll swear by the bones in each coffinless bed, That we'll battle the Briton through danger and dread ; That we'll cling to the cause which we glory to wed Till the gleam of our steel and the shock of our lead Shall prove to the foe that we meant what we said That we'll lift up the Green, and we'll tear down the Red. Lift up the Green Flag ! oh, it wants to go home, Full long has its lot been to wander and roam : It has followed the fate of its sons o'er the world, But its folds, like their hopes, are not faded nor furled ; Like a weary-winged bird, to the East and the West It has flitted and fled, but it never shall rest, Till, pluming its pinions, it sweeps o'er the main, And speeds to the shore of its old home a/"" 5 " Where its fetterless folds o'er each mountain and pitta 7 Shall wave with a glory that never shall wane. Take it up ! take it up ! bear it back from afar ! That banner must blaze 'mid the lightning of war ; Lay your hands on its folds, lift your eyes to the sky, And swear that you'll bear it triumphant or die : And shout to the clans scattered far o'er the earth, To join in the march to the land of their birth : And wherever the exiles, 'neath heaven's broad dome, Have been fated to suffer, to sorrow and roam, They'll bound on die sea, and away o'er the foam, They'll march to the music of "Home, sweet Home." THE BIRTH OF IRELAND. WITH due condescension, I'd call your attention to what I shall mention of Erin so green, And, without hesitation, I'll show how that nation became, of creation, the gem and the queen. 'Twas early one morning, without any warning, that Venus was born in the beautiful Say ; And, by the same token, and sure 'twas provoking, her pinions were soak- ing, and wouldn't give play. Old Neptune, who knew her, began to pursue her, in order to woo her the wicked old Jew And almost had caught her atop of the water great Jupiter's daughter ! which never would do. But Jove, the great janius, looked down and saw Vanus and Neptune so heinous pursuing her wild, And he spoke out in thunder he'd rend him asunder and sure 'twas no wonder ! for tazing his child. A star that was flying hard by him espying, he caught with small trying and down let it snap ; It fell quick as winking on Neptune a-sinking, and gave him, I'm thinking, a bit of a rap. That star it was dry land, both lowland and highland, and formed a sweet isl- and, the land, of my birth : Thus plain is the story that, sent down from glory, old Erin asthore is the gem of the earth ! Upon Erin nately jumped Vanus so stately, but fainted kase lately so hard she was pressed ; Which much did bewilder, but, ere it had killed her, her father distilled her a drop of the best. That sup was victorious ; it made her feel glorious a little uproarious, I fear it might prove So how ean ye blame us that Ireland's so famous for drinking and beauty, for fighting and love ? NATIONAL TEACHER'S MONTHLY. 5S ST. PATRICK AND THE SERPENT. A Last Relique of Father Prout. IN the day* of good St. Patrick, while our country yet was free, While her name was known and honored over ev'ry land and sea The snakes and toads in thousands infested all our bogs, And no respite could be gotten from the croaking of the frogs. But St. Patrick saw the nuisance, and by the cross he swore To banish all the varmint from our island's verdant shore. Then with his big shillelagh to work he boldly set, And gave them all a licking which they've not forgotten yet. Then the people hoped the country was fist, I shall not for- bear to vindicate my character and motives from your aspersions. As a man to whom fame is dearer than life, I will make the last use of that life in doing j ustice to that reputation which is to live after me, and which is the only legacy I can leave to those I honor and love, and for whom I am proud to perish. As men, my Lord, we mus-t appear, on the great day, at one common tribunal; and it will then remain for the Searcher of all hearts to show a collective universe who are engaged in the most virtuous actions, or actuated by the purest motives, my country's oppressors or- $ My Lord, shall a dying man be denied the legal privilege of exculpating himself, in the eyes of the community, of an undeserved reproach thrown upon him during his trial, by charging him with ambition, and attempting to cast away, for a paltry consideration, the liberties of his country ? Mhy, then, insult me ? or rather, why insult justice, in demanding of me why sentence of death should not be pronounced ? I know, my Lord, that form pre- scribes that you should ask the question ; the form also presumes the right of answering I 1 his, no doubt, may be dispensed with; and so might the whole ceremony of the trial, since sentence was already pronounced at the castle before your jury was empanelled. Tour Lord- ships are but the priests of the oracle, and I submit to the sacrifice; but I insist on the whole of the form. I am charged with being an emissary of France. An emissary of Prance I and for what end ? It is alleged that 1 wished to sell the independence of my country 1 And for what end ? Was this the object of my ambition? and is this the mode by which a tribunal of justice reconciles contradictions ? No I I am no emissary. My ambition was to hold a place among the deliverers of my country, not in power, nor in profit, but in the glory of the achievement. Sell my country's independence to France I And for what ? For a change of masters? No; but for ambition ! O ! my country I was it personal ambition that could influence me ? Had it been the scul of my actions ci.uld I not, by my education and fortune, by the rank and consideration of my lamily, have placed myself among the proudest of your oppressors ? My country was my idol. 'J o it I sacrificed every selfish, evtry endearing senti- ment; and for it I now offer up my Hie ! O God 1 No I my Lord; 1 acted as an Irishman, determined on delivering my country from the yoke of a foreign and unrelenting tyranny and from the u.ore palling yoke of a domestic faction, its joint partner and perpetrator in the patricide, whose reward is the ignominy of existing with an exterior cf splendor, and a con- sciousness of depravity. It was the wish of my heart to extricate my country from this doubly riveted despotism I wished to place her independence beyond the reach of any power on earth. I wished to exalt her to that proud station in the world which Providence had fitted her to fill. Connection with France was, indeed, intended ; but only as far as mutual interest would sanction or require. "Were the French to assume any authority inconsistent with the purest independence, it would be the signal for their destruction. \\e sought aid of them; and we He was here intenupted by Loid Norbury, who said : " You proceed to unwarrantable lengths, in older to exasperate and delude the unwary, and circulate opinions of the most dangerous tendency, for the purpose of mischief." t Lord Norbnry here interrupted the speaker with, ''What you have hitherto said confirms and justifies the t Here Lord Norbury exclaimed; " Listen. Sir, to the sentence of the tow." Here Mr. Emniett paused and the Court desired him to proceed.' X - Bought it, as we had assurance we should obtain it, as auxiliaries in war, and allies in peace . Were the French to come as invaders or enemies, uninvited by the wishes of the People, I should oppose them to the utmost of my strength. Yes, my countrymen, I would meet them on the beach, with a sword in one hand and a torch in the other. I would meet them with all the destructive fury of war; and I would animate you to immolate them in their boats, before they had contaminated the soil. If they succeeded in landing, and if we were forced to retire before superior discipline, I would dispute every inch of ground, raze every house, burn every blade of grass before them, and the last entrenchment of liberty should be my grave. What I could not do myself if I should fall, I would leave in charge to my countrymen to accomplish ; because I should feel conscious that life, more than death, is unprofitable, when a foreign nation holds my country in subjection. But it was not as an enemy that the succors of France were to land. I looked, indeed, for the assistance of France; but I wished to prove to France, and to the world, that Irishmen deserved to be assisted; that they were indignant at slavery, and ready to assert the independ- ence and liberty of their country ! I wished to procure for my country the guarantee which Washington procured for America, to procure an aid which, by its example, would be as important as by its valor, allies disciplined, gallant, pregnant with science and experience . who would preserve the good and polish the rough points of our character ; who would come to us as strangers, and leave us as friends, after sharing our perils and elevating our destiny. These were my objects ; not to receive new task-masters, but to expel old tyrants. These were my views, and these only become Irishmen. It was for these ends I sought aid from France, because France, even as an enemy, could not be more implacable than the enemy already in the bosom of my country.* I have been charged with that importance, in the efforts to emancipate my country, as to be considered the key-stone of the combination of Irishmen, or, as your Lordship expressed it, " the life and blood of the conspiracy." You do me honor overmuch. You have given to the subaltern all the credit of a superior. There are men engaged in this conspiracy who are not only superior to me, but even to your own conceptions of yourself, my Lord ; men, betore the splendor of whose genius and virtues I should bow with respectful deference, and who would think themselves dishonored to be called your friends, who would not disgrace themselves by shaking your blood-stained hand ! t What, my Lord, shall you tell me on the passage to the scaffold which that tyranny, of which you are only the intermediate minister, has erected for my murder, that I am accountable for all the blood tbat has been and will be shed, in this struggle of the oppressed against the oppressor? Shall you tell me this, and must I be so very a slave as not to repel it? I, who fear not to approach the Omnipotent Judge, to answer for the conduct of my short life, am I to be appalled here, before a mere remnant of mortality ? by you, too, who, if it were possi- ble, to collect all the innocent blood that you have caused to be shed, in your unhallowed ministry, in one great reservior, your Lordship might swim in it ! t Let no man dare, when I am dead to charge me with dishonor. Let no man attaint my memory by believing that I could have engaged in any cause but that of my country's liberty and independence, or that I could have become the pliant minion of power in the oppression and the miseries of my countrymen. The proclamation of the Provisional Government speaks for my views. No inference can be tortured from it to countenance barbarity or debasement at home, or subjection, humiliation or treachery from abroad. I would not have submitted to a foreign oppressor, for the same reason, that I would resist the domestic tyrant. In the dignity of freedom I would have lought upon the threshold of my country, and its enemy should enter only by passing over my lifeless corpse. And am I, who lived but for my country who have subjected myself to the dangers of the jealous and watchful oppressor, and now to the bondage of the grave, only to give my countrymen their rights, and my country her in- dfoendence, am I to be loaded with calumny, and not suflered to resent it ? No! God forbid 1 If the spirits of the illustrious dead participate in the concerns and cares of those who were dear to them in this transitory life, O, ever dear and venerated shade of my departed father, look down with scrutiny upon the conduct of your suffering son, and see if I have even for a moment, deviated from those principles of morality and patriotism which it was your care to instil into my youthful mind, and lor which I am now to offer up my life ! My Lords, you seem impatient for the sacrifice. Ihe blood for which you thirst is not congealed by the artificial terrors which surround your victim; it circulates warmly and un- ruffled, through the channels which God created for nobler purposes, but which you are bent to distroy, for purposes so grievous that they cry to heaven, Be ye patient ! I have but a few words more to say. I am going to my cold and silent grave. My lamp of life is nearly extinguished. My race is run. The grave opens to receive me, and I sink into its bosom ! I have but one request to ask, at my departure from this world; it is the charity of its silence. Let no man write my epitaph; for, as no man who knows my motives dare no w vindicate them, let not predjudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them and me repose in obscurity and peace, ana my tomb remain nninscribed, until other times and other men can do justice to my character. When my country takes her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written I I have done. * Here be was interrupted by the Court. t Here be was interrupted by Lord Xorbnry. J Here the jodge interfered. Here Lord Norbury told the prisoner that hi* principles were treasonable and subversive of government, and bU language unbecoming a penon in tiis situation; and tbat bis father, the late Dr. Emmett, wi a man who -would BO> STANDARD BECITATI A ( "'[ORS, "mil 000 612553 8 g School, Lyceum, Parlor, and other Entertainments, By FRANCES P. SULLIVAN. CONTENTS OF No. 4. Resignation. By u. W. Longfellow .... 3 At the Morgue. By Edinimd G. Stedman 4 John Burns of Gettysburg. By Bret Harte 4 The Pledge at Spunky Point. By John Hay 5 The Ivy Green. By Charles Dickens ... 6 Conductor Bradley. By John G.Whittier 6 Ring Down The Drop I Cannot Play. By J. W. Watson. 7 The Battle-Song of Labor 8 The Haunted Palace. By Edgar Allan Poe 8 Mary, the Maid of the Inn. Robert Southey 9 The Clown's Story. Vandyke Browne... 11 The Execution of Montrose. By W. E. Aytoun 12 The Old Forsaken School-House. By JohnH. Yates 14 The Two Beggars 15 The Young Tramp. By Charles F. Adam 15 Song of the Mystic. Father Ryan 16 Truth Freedom Virtue. An Address toa Child 17 The little Cup-Bearer 17 Leaving the Homestead 18 In the Floods. By Isabella Fyvie Mayo 18 Alabama. By Mrs. Hemans 19 "If Things was only Sich." By B. P. Shillaber 20 The Mountains of Life. By J. G. Clark 20 Give me the Hand. By Goodman Barnaby 20 The King's Temple 21 The Portrait . By Owen Meredith 22 The Guard's Story 23 The Red Jacket. George M. Baker 23 Minot's Ledge. By Fitz-James O'Brien. 24 The Bondage of Drink 25 The King's Picture. By Helen B. Bost- wick 25 Night. By James Montgomery 26 Ouster's Last Charge. By Frederick Whit- taker 26 PAO. Four Lives. By &B ... t B. Freeman... . 28 Eternal Justice. By Charles Mackay 29 The Fatal Glass. By Laura U. Case .... 30 Though Lost to Sight, to Memory Dear. By Ruthven Jenkyns 30 If 31 Our Ships at Sea. By George W. Bniigay 51 Scatter the Germs of the Bdautiful 32 The Pride of Battery B. By E. H. Gassa- way 32 I'm with You once again. By Gt orge P. Morris 83 Incident of the French Camp. By Robert Browning 33 Marion's Dinner. By Edward C. Jones. 34 Tale of a Temptation. By Alice Hortou 34 The Sailor-Boy's Dream. By William Dimoud 36 A Sailor's Story. By Mrs. C. H. N. Thomas 37 Xerxes at the Hellespont. By R. C. Trench 38 The Flight of Xerxes. By Maria Jane Jewsbury 38 Hero and Leander. By Leigh Hunt .... 39 The Avalanche 40 The Surgeon's Tale. By Barry Cornwall 40 Clear the Way. By Charles Mackay .... 41 The Toast. By Mary Kyle Dallas 41 Baby. By George Macdouald 42 The Lips that Touch Liquor Must Never Touch Mine. By George W. Young. 42 The Ideal and the 'Real. By I. Edgar Jones 48 The Bricklayers. By G. H. Barnes 44 The Charge by the Ford. By Thomas Dunn English 45 Music in Camp. By John R. Thompson 45 Maturnus' Address to His Band. By Ed- ward Spencer 46 Jo, the Tramp. By Edgar M. Chipmau 47 The Death of Hofer. By James C. Man- gan 47 Memory. By James A. Garfield, 48 Price 12 Cents by Mail. 1 and 2 Cent Stamps taken. Address HI. J." IVERS & CO., 86 NASSAU STREET, JV. Y. City. CUSHING'S MANUAL CONTAINING RULES of PROCEEDING and DEBATE OF DELIBERATIVE ASSEMBLIES. A Complete Guide for Instruction and Reference in all Matters pertaining the Management of Public Meetings according to Parliamentary Usages. BY LUTHER S. CTJSHING. REVISED BY FRANCES P. SUIJLIVAK. The contents embrace the following subjects : Addition of Propositions. kisi of members. Question. Adjournment. Main Question. Quorum. Amendment. Majority. Reading of Paper*. Apology. Members. Reception. Assembly, Deliberative. Membership. Recommitment. Assembling. Motion. Reconsideration. Blanks, filling of. Chairman, preliminary elec* Naming a member. Officers. Recording Officer. Recurrence of Business. 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Judgment of an aggregate Proceedings, how set in mo- Punishment, [lion. Will of assembly. Withdrawal of motion. Lie in the Table. [body. Quarrel between members. Yeas and Nays. In addition to the abpve this volume contains THE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES AND THE DECflLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE. 808 Pages. Bound in paper, 25 cents ; bound in cloth, gilt back, 50 e*fe. M. J. IVERS & CO., 6 Nassau Street, New York, N. Y.