Chapter 11

"We thought you would not die—we were sure you would not go,And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow—Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky—Oh! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die?

"We thought you would not die—we were sure you would not go,

And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow—

Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky—

Oh! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die?

VIII.

"Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill! bright was your eye,Oh! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die?Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with God on high,But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Eoghan!—why didst thou die?"

"Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill! bright was your eye,

Oh! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die?

Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with God on high,

But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Eoghan!—why didst thou die?"

THE PENAL DAYS.

Air—The Wheelwright.

Oh! weep those days, the penal days,When Ireland hopelessly complained.Oh! weep those days, the penal days,When godless persecution reigned;When year by year,For serf and peer,Fresh cruelties were made by law,And filled with hate,Our senate sateTo weld anew each fetter's flaw.Oh! weep those days, those penal days—Their memory still on Ireland weighs.

Oh! weep those days, the penal days,

When Ireland hopelessly complained.

Oh! weep those days, the penal days,

When godless persecution reigned;

When year by year,

For serf and peer,

Fresh cruelties were made by law,

And filled with hate,

Our senate sate

To weld anew each fetter's flaw.

Oh! weep those days, those penal days—

Their memory still on Ireland weighs.

II.

They bribed the flock, they bribed the son,To sell the priest and rob the sire;Their dogs were taught alike to runUpon the scent of wolf and friar.Among the poor,Or on the moor,Were hid the pious and the true—While traitor knave,And recreant slave,Had riches, rank, and retinue;And, exiled in those penal days,Our banners over Europe blaze.

They bribed the flock, they bribed the son,

To sell the priest and rob the sire;

Their dogs were taught alike to run

Upon the scent of wolf and friar.

Among the poor,

Or on the moor,

Were hid the pious and the true—

While traitor knave,

And recreant slave,

Had riches, rank, and retinue;

And, exiled in those penal days,

Our banners over Europe blaze.

III.

A stranger held the land and towerOf many a noble fugitive;No Popish lord had lordly power,The peasant scarce had leave to live;Above his headA ruined shed,No tenure but a tyrant's will—Forbid to plead,Forbid to readDisarmed, disfranchised, imbecile—What wonder if our step betraysThe freedman, born in penal days?

A stranger held the land and tower

Of many a noble fugitive;

No Popish lord had lordly power,

The peasant scarce had leave to live;

Above his head

A ruined shed,

No tenure but a tyrant's will—

Forbid to plead,

Forbid to read

Disarmed, disfranchised, imbecile—

What wonder if our step betrays

The freedman, born in penal days?

IV.

They're gone, they're gone, those penal days!All creeds are equal in our isle;Then grant, O Lord, thy plenteous grace,Our ancient feuds to reconcile.Let all atoneFor blood and groan,For dark revenge and open wrong;Let all uniteFor Ireland's right,And drown our griefs in freedom's song;Till time shall veil in twilight haze,The memory of those penal days.

They're gone, they're gone, those penal days!

All creeds are equal in our isle;

Then grant, O Lord, thy plenteous grace,

Our ancient feuds to reconcile.

Let all atone

For blood and groan,

For dark revenge and open wrong;

Let all unite

For Ireland's right,

And drown our griefs in freedom's song;

Till time shall veil in twilight haze,

The memory of those penal days.

THE SURPRISE OF CREMONA.

1702.

From Milan to Cremona Duke Villeroy rode,And soft are the beds in his princely abode;In billet and barrack the garrison sleep,And loose is the watch which the sentinels keep:'Tis the eve of St. David, and bitter the breezeOf that mid-winter night on the flat Cremonese;A fig for precaution!—Prince Eugene sits downIn winter cantonments round Mantua town!

From Milan to Cremona Duke Villeroy rode,

And soft are the beds in his princely abode;

In billet and barrack the garrison sleep,

And loose is the watch which the sentinels keep:

'Tis the eve of St. David, and bitter the breeze

Of that mid-winter night on the flat Cremonese;

A fig for precaution!—Prince Eugene sits down

In winter cantonments round Mantua town!

II.

Yet through Ustiano, and out on the plain,Horse, foot, and dragoons, are defiling amain."That flash!" said Prince Eugene: "Count Merci, push on"—Like a rock from a precipice Merci is gone.Proud mutters the Prince: "That is Cassioli's sign:Ere the dawn of the morning Cremona'll be mine;For Merci will open the gate of the Po,But scant is the mercy Prince Vaudemont will shew!"

Yet through Ustiano, and out on the plain,

Horse, foot, and dragoons, are defiling amain.

"That flash!" said Prince Eugene: "Count Merci, push on"—

Like a rock from a precipice Merci is gone.

Proud mutters the Prince: "That is Cassioli's sign:

Ere the dawn of the morning Cremona'll be mine;

For Merci will open the gate of the Po,

But scant is the mercy Prince Vaudemont will shew!"

III.

Through gate, street, and square, with his keen cavaliers—A flood through a gulley—Count Merci careers—They ride without getting or giving a blow,Nor halt till they gaze on the gate of the Po."Surrender the gate!"—but a volley replied,For a handful of Irish are posted inside.By my faith, Charles Vaudemont will come rather late,If he stay till Count Merci shall open that gate!

Through gate, street, and square, with his keen cavaliers—

A flood through a gulley—Count Merci careers—

They ride without getting or giving a blow,

Nor halt till they gaze on the gate of the Po.

"Surrender the gate!"—but a volley replied,

For a handful of Irish are posted inside.

By my faith, Charles Vaudemont will come rather late,

If he stay till Count Merci shall open that gate!

IV.

But in through St. Margaret's the Austrians pour,And billet and barrack are ruddy with gore;Unarmed and naked, the soldiers are slain—There's an enemy's gauntlet on Villeroy's rein—"A thousand pistoles and a regiment of horse—Release me, MacDonnell!"—they hold on their course.Count Merci has seized upon cannon and wall,Prince Eugene's headquarters are in the Town-hall!

But in through St. Margaret's the Austrians pour,

And billet and barrack are ruddy with gore;

Unarmed and naked, the soldiers are slain—

There's an enemy's gauntlet on Villeroy's rein—

"A thousand pistoles and a regiment of horse—

Release me, MacDonnell!"—they hold on their course.

Count Merci has seized upon cannon and wall,

Prince Eugene's headquarters are in the Town-hall!

Here and there, through the city, some readier band,For honour and safety, undauntedly stand.At the head of the regiments of Dillon and BurkeIs Major O'Mahony, fierce as a Turk.His sabre is flashing—the major is dress'd,But muskets and shirts are the clothes of the rest!Yet they rush to the ramparts, the clocks have tolled ten,And Count Merci retreats with the half of his men.

Here and there, through the city, some readier band,

For honour and safety, undauntedly stand.

At the head of the regiments of Dillon and Burke

Is Major O'Mahony, fierce as a Turk.

His sabre is flashing—the major is dress'd,

But muskets and shirts are the clothes of the rest!

Yet they rush to the ramparts, the clocks have tolled ten,

And Count Merci retreats with the half of his men.

VI.

"In on them!" said Friedberg—and Dillon is broke,Like forest-flowers crushed by the fall of the oak;Through the naked battalions the cuirassiers go;—But the man, not the dress, makes the soldier, I trowUpon them with grapple, with bay'net, and ball,Like wolves upon gaze-hounds, the Irishmen fall—Black Friedberg is slain by O'Mahony's steel,And back from the bullets the cuirassiers reel.

"In on them!" said Friedberg—and Dillon is broke,

Like forest-flowers crushed by the fall of the oak;

Through the naked battalions the cuirassiers go;—

But the man, not the dress, makes the soldier, I trow

Upon them with grapple, with bay'net, and ball,

Like wolves upon gaze-hounds, the Irishmen fall—

Black Friedberg is slain by O'Mahony's steel,

And back from the bullets the cuirassiers reel.

VII.

Oh! hear you their shout in your quarters, Eugene?In vain on Prince Vaudemont for succour you lean!The bridge has been broken, and, mark! how, pell-mellCome riderless horses, and volley and yell!He's a veteran soldier—he clenches his hands,He springs on his horse, disengages his bands—He rallies, he urges, till, hopeless of aid,He is chased through the gates by theIrish Brigade.

Oh! hear you their shout in your quarters, Eugene?

In vain on Prince Vaudemont for succour you lean!

The bridge has been broken, and, mark! how, pell-mell

Come riderless horses, and volley and yell!

He's a veteran soldier—he clenches his hands,

He springs on his horse, disengages his bands—

He rallies, he urges, till, hopeless of aid,

He is chased through the gates by theIrish Brigade.

VIII.

News, news, in Vienna!—King Leopold's sad.News, news, in St. James's!—King William is mad.News, news, in Versailles!—"Let the Irish BrigadeBe loyally honoured, and royally paid."News, news, in old Ireland!—high rises her pride,And high sounds her wail for her children who died,And deep is her prayer: "God send I may seeMacDonnell and Mahony fighting for me!"

News, news, in Vienna!—King Leopold's sad.

News, news, in St. James's!—King William is mad.

News, news, in Versailles!—"Let the Irish Brigade

Be loyally honoured, and royally paid."

News, news, in old Ireland!—high rises her pride,

And high sounds her wail for her children who died,

And deep is her prayer: "God send I may see

MacDonnell and Mahony fighting for me!"

THE FLOWER OF FINAE.

Bright red is the sun on the waves of Lough Sheelin,A cool, gentle breeze from the mountain is stealing,While fair round its islets the small ripples play,But fairer than all is the Flower of Finae.

Bright red is the sun on the waves of Lough Sheelin,

A cool, gentle breeze from the mountain is stealing,

While fair round its islets the small ripples play,

But fairer than all is the Flower of Finae.

II.

Her hair is like night, and her eyes like grey morning,She trips on the heather as if its touch scorning,Yet her heart and her lips are as mild as May day,Sweet Eily MacMahon, the Flower of Finae.

Her hair is like night, and her eyes like grey morning,

She trips on the heather as if its touch scorning,

Yet her heart and her lips are as mild as May day,

Sweet Eily MacMahon, the Flower of Finae.

III.

But who down the hill-side than red deer runs fleeter?And who on the lake-side is hastening to greet her?Who but Fergus O'Farrell, the fiery and gay,The darling and pride of the Flower of Finae?

But who down the hill-side than red deer runs fleeter?

And who on the lake-side is hastening to greet her?

Who but Fergus O'Farrell, the fiery and gay,

The darling and pride of the Flower of Finae?

IV.

One kiss and one clasp, and one wild look of gladness;Ah! why do they change on a sudden to sadness?—He has told his hard fortune, no more he can stay,He must leave his poor Eily to pine at Finae.

One kiss and one clasp, and one wild look of gladness;

Ah! why do they change on a sudden to sadness?—

He has told his hard fortune, no more he can stay,

He must leave his poor Eily to pine at Finae.

For Fergus O'Farrell was true to his sire-land,And the dark hand of tyranny drove him from Ireland;He joins the Brigade, in the wars far away,But he vows he'll come back to the Flower of Finae.

For Fergus O'Farrell was true to his sire-land,

And the dark hand of tyranny drove him from Ireland;

He joins the Brigade, in the wars far away,

But he vows he'll come back to the Flower of Finae.

VI.

He fought at Cremona—she hears of his story;He fought at Cassano—she's proud of his glory.Yet sadly she singsSiúbhail a rúin[80]all the day,"Oh! come, come, my darling, come home to Finae."

He fought at Cremona—she hears of his story;

He fought at Cassano—she's proud of his glory.

Yet sadly she singsSiúbhail a rúin[80]all the day,

"Oh! come, come, my darling, come home to Finae."

VII.

Eight long years have passed, till she's nigh broken-hearted,Herreel, and herrock, and her flax she has parted;She sails with the "Wild Geese" to Flanders away,And leaves her sad parents alone in Finae.

Eight long years have passed, till she's nigh broken-hearted,

Herreel, and herrock, and her flax she has parted;

She sails with the "Wild Geese" to Flanders away,

And leaves her sad parents alone in Finae.

VIII.

Lord Clare on the field of Ramillies is charging—Before him, the Sacsanach squadrons enlarging—Behind him the Cravats their sections display—Beside him rides Fergus and shouts for Finae.

Lord Clare on the field of Ramillies is charging—

Before him, the Sacsanach squadrons enlarging—

Behind him the Cravats their sections display—

Beside him rides Fergus and shouts for Finae.

IX.

On the slopes of La Judoigne the Frenchmen are flyingLord Clare and his squadrons the foe still defying,Outnumbered, and wounded, retreat in array;And bleeding rides Fergus and thinks of Finae.

On the slopes of La Judoigne the Frenchmen are flying

Lord Clare and his squadrons the foe still defying,

Outnumbered, and wounded, retreat in array;

And bleeding rides Fergus and thinks of Finae.

In the cloisters of Ypres a banner is swaying,And by it a pale, weeping maiden is praying;That flag's the sole trophy of Ramillies' fray;This nun is poor Eily, the Flower of Finae.

In the cloisters of Ypres a banner is swaying,

And by it a pale, weeping maiden is praying;

That flag's the sole trophy of Ramillies' fray;

This nun is poor Eily, the Flower of Finae.

CLARE'S DRAGOONS.

Air—Viva la.

When, on Ramillies' bloody field,The baffled French were forced to yield,The victor Saxon backward reeledBefore the charge of Clare's Dragoons.The Flags we conquered in that frayLook lone in Ypres' choir, they say,We'll win them company to-day,Or bravely die like Clare's Dragoons.

When, on Ramillies' bloody field,

The baffled French were forced to yield,

The victor Saxon backward reeled

Before the charge of Clare's Dragoons.

The Flags we conquered in that fray

Look lone in Ypres' choir, they say,

We'll win them company to-day,

Or bravely die like Clare's Dragoons.

chorus.

Viva la, for Ireland's wrong!Viva la, for Ireland's right!Viva la, in battle throng,For a Spanish steed, and sabre bright!

Viva la, for Ireland's wrong!

Viva la, for Ireland's right!

Viva la, in battle throng,

For a Spanish steed, and sabre bright!

II.

The brave old lord died near the fight,But, for each drop he lost that night,A Saxon cavalier shall biteThe dust before Lord Clare's Dragoons.For never, when our spurs were set,And never, when our sabres met,Could we the Saxon soldiers getTo stand the shock of Clare's Dragoons.

The brave old lord died near the fight,

But, for each drop he lost that night,

A Saxon cavalier shall bite

The dust before Lord Clare's Dragoons.

For never, when our spurs were set,

And never, when our sabres met,

Could we the Saxon soldiers get

To stand the shock of Clare's Dragoons.

chorus.

Viva la, the New Brigade!Viva la, the Old one, too!Viva la, the rose shall fade,And the shamrock shine for ever new!

Viva la, the New Brigade!

Viva la, the Old one, too!

Viva la, the rose shall fade,

And the shamrock shine for ever new!

III.

Another Clare is here to lead,The worthy son of such a breed;The French expect some famous deed,When Clare leads on his bold Dragoons.Our Colonel comes from Brian's race,His wounds are in his breast and face,Thebearna baoghail[81]is still his place,The foremost of his bold Dragoons.

Another Clare is here to lead,

The worthy son of such a breed;

The French expect some famous deed,

When Clare leads on his bold Dragoons.

Our Colonel comes from Brian's race,

His wounds are in his breast and face,

Thebearna baoghail[81]is still his place,

The foremost of his bold Dragoons.

chorus.

Viva la, the New Brigade!Viva la, the Old one, too!Viva la, the rose shall fade,And the shamrock shine for ever new!

Viva la, the New Brigade!

Viva la, the Old one, too!

Viva la, the rose shall fade,

And the shamrock shine for ever new!

IV.

There's not a man in squadron hereWas ever known to flinch or fear;Though first in charge and last in rere,Have ever been Lord Clare's Dragoons;But see! we'll soon have work to do,To shame our boasts, or prove them true,For hither comes the English crew,To sweep away Lord Clare's Dragoons.

There's not a man in squadron here

Was ever known to flinch or fear;

Though first in charge and last in rere,

Have ever been Lord Clare's Dragoons;

But see! we'll soon have work to do,

To shame our boasts, or prove them true,

For hither comes the English crew,

To sweep away Lord Clare's Dragoons.

chorus.

Viva la, for Ireland's wrong!Viva la, for Ireland's right!Viva la, in battle throng,For a Spanish steed and sabre bright!

Viva la, for Ireland's wrong!

Viva la, for Ireland's right!

Viva la, in battle throng,

For a Spanish steed and sabre bright!

Oh! comrades! think how Ireland pines,Her exiled lords, her rifled shrines,Her dearest hope, the ordered lines,And bursting charge of Clare's Dragoons.Then fling your Green Flag to the sky.Be "Limerick" your battle-cry,And charge, till blood floats fetlock-high,Around the track of Clare's Dragoons!

Oh! comrades! think how Ireland pines,

Her exiled lords, her rifled shrines,

Her dearest hope, the ordered lines,

And bursting charge of Clare's Dragoons.

Then fling your Green Flag to the sky.

Be "Limerick" your battle-cry,

And charge, till blood floats fetlock-high,

Around the track of Clare's Dragoons!

chorus.

Viva la, the New Brigade!Viva la, the Old one, too!Viva la, the rose shall fade,And the shamrock shine for ever new!

Viva la, the New Brigade!

Viva la, the Old one, too!

Viva la, the rose shall fade,

And the shamrock shine for ever new!

THE BATTLE EVE OF THE BRIGADE.

Air—Contented I am.

The mess-tent is full, and the glasses are set,And the gallant Count Thomond is president yet;The veteran stands, like an uplifted lance,Crying—"Comrades, a health to the monarch of France!"With bumpers and cheers they have done as he bade,For King Louis is loved by the Irish Brigade.

The mess-tent is full, and the glasses are set,

And the gallant Count Thomond is president yet;

The veteran stands, like an uplifted lance,

Crying—"Comrades, a health to the monarch of France!"

With bumpers and cheers they have done as he bade,

For King Louis is loved by the Irish Brigade.

II.

"A health to King James," and they bent as they quaffed,"Here's to George theElector," and fiercely they laughed,"Good luck to the girls we wooed long ago,Where Shannon and Barrow and Blackwater flow;""God prosper Old Ireland,"—you'd think them afraid,So pale grew the chiefs of the Irish Brigade.

"A health to King James," and they bent as they quaffed,

"Here's to George theElector," and fiercely they laughed,

"Good luck to the girls we wooed long ago,

Where Shannon and Barrow and Blackwater flow;"

"God prosper Old Ireland,"—you'd think them afraid,

So pale grew the chiefs of the Irish Brigade.

III.

"But, surely, that light cannot come from our lamp,And that noise—are theyallgetting drunk in the camp?""Hurrah! boys, the morning of battle is come,And thegénérale'sbeating on many a drum."So they rush from the revel to join the parade:For the van is the right of the Irish Brigade.

"But, surely, that light cannot come from our lamp,

And that noise—are theyallgetting drunk in the camp?"

"Hurrah! boys, the morning of battle is come,

And thegénérale'sbeating on many a drum."

So they rush from the revel to join the parade:

For the van is the right of the Irish Brigade.

IV.

They fought as they revelled, fast, fiery, and true,And, though victors, they left on the field not a few;And they who survived fought and drank as of yore,But the land of their heart's hope they never saw more;For in far foreign fields, from Dunkirk to Belgrade,Lie the soldiers and chiefs of the Irish Brigade.

They fought as they revelled, fast, fiery, and true,

And, though victors, they left on the field not a few;

And they who survived fought and drank as of yore,

But the land of their heart's hope they never saw more;

For in far foreign fields, from Dunkirk to Belgrade,

Lie the soldiers and chiefs of the Irish Brigade.

FONTENOY.

1745.

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 Barri's wood, the British soldiers burst,The French artillery drove them back, diminished, and dispersed.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.

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 Barri's wood, the British soldiers burst,

The French artillery drove them back, diminished, and dispersed.

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.

II.

Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread;Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head;Steady they step a-down the slope—steady they climb the hill;Steady they load—steady they fire, moving right onward still,Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through 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 grew their ranks—They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean banks.

Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread;

Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head;

Steady they step a-down the slope—steady they climb the hill;

Steady they load—steady they fire, moving right onward still,

Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through 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 grew their ranks—

They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean banks.

III.

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 WaterlooWere not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true.

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.

IV.

"Lord Clare," he says, "you have your wish; there are your Saxon foes!"The Marshal almost smiles 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 cry,Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown—Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on him aloneOn Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere,Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were.

"Lord Clare," he says, "you have your wish; there are your Saxon foes!"

The Marshal almost smiles 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 cry,

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 these 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 fiery 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 smoke,With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke.On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza!"Revenge, remember Limerick! dash down the Sacsanach!"

O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands

"Fix bay'nets!—charge!" Like mountain storm, rush on these fiery 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 smoke,

With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza!

"Revenge, remember Limerick! dash down the Sacsanach!"

VI.

Like lions leaping at a fold when mad with hunger's pang,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 the 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!

Like lions leaping at a fold when mad with hunger's pang,

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 the 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 DUGANNON CONVENTION.

1782.

The church of Dungannon is full to the door,And sabre and spur clash at times on the floor,While helmet and shako are ranged all along,Yet no book of devotion is seen in the throng.In the front of the altar no minister stands,But the crimson-clad chief of these warrior bands;And, though solemn the looks and the voices around,You'd listen in vain for a litany's sound.Say! what do they hear in the temple of prayer?Oh! why in the fold has the lion his lair?

The church of Dungannon is full to the door,

And sabre and spur clash at times on the floor,

While helmet and shako are ranged all along,

Yet no book of devotion is seen in the throng.

In the front of the altar no minister stands,

But the crimson-clad chief of these warrior bands;

And, though solemn the looks and the voices around,

You'd listen in vain for a litany's sound.

Say! what do they hear in the temple of prayer?

Oh! why in the fold has the lion his lair?

II.

Sad, wounded, and wan was the face of our isle,By English oppression and falsehood and guile;Yet when to invade it a foreign fleet steered,To guard it for England the North volunteered.From the citizen-soldiers the foe fled aghast—Still they stood to their guns when the danger had passed,For the voice of America came o'er the wave,Crying: Woe to the tyrant, and hope to the slave!Indignation and shame through their regiments speed:They have arms in their hands, and what more do they need?

Sad, wounded, and wan was the face of our isle,

By English oppression and falsehood and guile;

Yet when to invade it a foreign fleet steered,

To guard it for England the North volunteered.

From the citizen-soldiers the foe fled aghast—

Still they stood to their guns when the danger had passed,

For the voice of America came o'er the wave,

Crying: Woe to the tyrant, and hope to the slave!

Indignation and shame through their regiments speed:

They have arms in their hands, and what more do they need?

III.

O'er the green hills of Ulster their banners are spread,The cities of Leinster resound to their tread,The valleys of Munster with ardour are stirred,And the plains of wild Connaught their bugles have heard;A Protestant front-rank and Catholic rere—For—forbidden the arms of freemen to bear—Yet foemen and friend are full sure, if need be,The slave for his country will stand by the free.By green flags supported, the Orange flags wave,And the soldier half turns to unfetter the slave!

O'er the green hills of Ulster their banners are spread,

The cities of Leinster resound to their tread,

The valleys of Munster with ardour are stirred,

And the plains of wild Connaught their bugles have heard;

A Protestant front-rank and Catholic rere—

For—forbidden the arms of freemen to bear—

Yet foemen and friend are full sure, if need be,

The slave for his country will stand by the free.

By green flags supported, the Orange flags wave,

And the soldier half turns to unfetter the slave!

IV.

More honoured that church of Dungannon is now,Than when at its altar communicants bow;More welcome to heaven than anthem or prayerAre the rites and the thoughts of the warriors there;In the name of all Ireland the Delegates swore:"We've suffered too long, and we'll suffer no more—Unconquered by Force, we were vanquished by Fraud;And now, in God's temple, we vow unto GodThat never again shall the Englishman bindHis chains on our limbs, or his laws on our mind."

More honoured that church of Dungannon is now,

Than when at its altar communicants bow;

More welcome to heaven than anthem or prayer

Are the rites and the thoughts of the warriors there;

In the name of all Ireland the Delegates swore:

"We've suffered too long, and we'll suffer no more—

Unconquered by Force, we were vanquished by Fraud;

And now, in God's temple, we vow unto God

That never again shall the Englishman bind

His chains on our limbs, or his laws on our mind."

The church of Dungannon is empty once more—No plumes on the altar, no clash on the floor,But the councils of England are fluttered to see,In the cause of their country, the Irish agree;So they give as a boon what they dare not withhold,And Ireland, a nation, leaps up as of old,With a name, and a trade, and a flag of her own,And an army to fight for the people and throne.But woe worth the day if to falsehood or fearsShe surrenders the guns of her brave Volunteers!

The church of Dungannon is empty once more—

No plumes on the altar, no clash on the floor,

But the councils of England are fluttered to see,

In the cause of their country, the Irish agree;

So they give as a boon what they dare not withhold,

And Ireland, a nation, leaps up as of old,

With a name, and a trade, and a flag of her own,

And an army to fight for the people and throne.

But woe worth the day if to falsehood or fears

She surrenders the guns of her brave Volunteers!

TONE'S GRAVE.

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.

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.

II.

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 the patriot's meed;

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 the patriot's meed;

III.

"For in him the heart of a woman combinedWith a heroic life and a governing mind—A martyr for Ireland—his grave has no stone—His name seldom named, and his virtues unknown."

"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."

IV.

I was woke from my dream by the voices and treadOf 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 Tone.

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 Tone.

There were students and peasants, the wise and the brave,And an old man who knew him from cradle to grave,And children who thought me hard-hearted; for theyOn that sanctified sod were forbidden to play.

There were students and peasants, the wise and the brave,

And an old man who knew him from cradle to grave,

And children who thought me hard-hearted; for they

On that sanctified sod were forbidden to play.

VI.

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."

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."

VII.

My heart overflowed, and I clasped his old hand,And I blessed him, and blessed every one of his band:"Sweet! sweet! 'tis to find that such faith can remainTo the cause, and the man so long vanquished and slain."

My heart overflowed, and I clasped his old hand,

And I blessed him, and blessed every one of his band:

"Sweet! sweet! 'tis to find that such faith can remain

To the cause, and the man so long vanquished and slain."

VIII.

In Bodenstown Churchyard there is a green grave,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.

In Bodenstown Churchyard there is a green grave,

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.

NATIONALITY.

A Nation's voice, a nation's voice—It is a solemn thing!It bids the bondage-sick rejoice—'Tis stronger than a king.'Tis like the light of many stars,The sound of many waves,Which brightly look through prison bars,And sweetly sound in caves.Yet is it noblest, godliest known,When righteous triumph swells its tone.

A Nation's voice, a nation's voice—

It is a solemn thing!

It bids the bondage-sick rejoice—

'Tis stronger than a king.

'Tis like the light of many stars,

The sound of many waves,

Which brightly look through prison bars,

And sweetly sound in caves.

Yet is it noblest, godliest known,

When righteous triumph swells its tone.

II.

A nation's flag, a nation's flag—If wickedly unrolled,May foes in adverse battle dragIts every fold from fold.in the cause of Liberty,Guard it 'gainst Earth and Hell;Guard it till Death or Victory—Look you, you guard it well!No saint or king has tomb so proudAs he whose flag becomes his shroud.

A nation's flag, a nation's flag—

If wickedly unrolled,

May foes in adverse battle drag

Its every fold from fold.

in the cause of Liberty,

Guard it 'gainst Earth and Hell;

Guard it till Death or Victory—

Look you, you guard it well!

No saint or king has tomb so proud

As he whose flag becomes his shroud.

III.

A nation's right, a nation's right—God gave it, and gave, too,A nation's sword, a nation's might,Danger to guard it through.'Tis freedom from a foreign yoke,'Tis just and equal laws,Which deal unto the humblest folk,As in a noble's cause.On nations fixed in right and truth,God would bestow eternal youth.

A nation's right, a nation's right—

God gave it, and gave, too,

A nation's sword, a nation's might,

Danger to guard it through.

'Tis freedom from a foreign yoke,

'Tis just and equal laws,

Which deal unto the humblest folk,

As in a noble's cause.

On nations fixed in right and truth,

God would bestow eternal youth.

IV.

May Ireland's voice be ever heardAmid the world's applause!And never be her flag-staff stirred,But in an honest cause!May Freedom be her very breath,Be Justice ever dear;And never an ennobled deathMay son of Ireland fear!So the Lord God will ever smile,With guardian grace, upon our isle.

May Ireland's voice be ever heard

Amid the world's applause!

And never be her flag-staff stirred,

But in an honest cause!

May Freedom be her very breath,

Be Justice ever dear;

And never an ennobled death

May son of Ireland fear!

So the Lord God will ever smile,

With guardian grace, upon our isle.

SELF-RELIANCE.

Though savage force and subtle schemes,And alien rule, through ages lasting,Have swept your land like lava streams,Its wealth and name and nature blasting;Rot not, therefore, in dull despair,Nor moan at destiny in far lands!Face not your foe with bosom bare,Nor hide your chains in pleasure's garlands.The wise man arms to combat wrong,The brave man clears a den of lions,The true man spurns the Helot's song;The freeman's friend is Self-Reliance!

Though savage force and subtle schemes,

And alien rule, through ages lasting,

Have swept your land like lava streams,

Its wealth and name and nature blasting;

Rot not, therefore, in dull despair,

Nor moan at destiny in far lands!

Face not your foe with bosom bare,

Nor hide your chains in pleasure's garlands.

The wise man arms to combat wrong,

The brave man clears a den of lions,

The true man spurns the Helot's song;

The freeman's friend is Self-Reliance!

II.

Though France that gave your exiles bread,Your priests a home, your hopes a station,Or that young land where first was spreadThe starry flag of Liberation,—Should heed your wrongs some future day,And send you voice or sword to plead 'em,With helpful love their help repay,But trust not even to them for Freedom.A Nation freed by foreign aidIs but a corpse by wanton scienceConvulsed like life, then flung to fade—The life itself is Self-Reliance!

Though France that gave your exiles bread,

Your priests a home, your hopes a station,

Or that young land where first was spread

The starry flag of Liberation,—

Should heed your wrongs some future day,

And send you voice or sword to plead 'em,

With helpful love their help repay,

But trust not even to them for Freedom.

A Nation freed by foreign aid

Is but a corpse by wanton science

Convulsed like life, then flung to fade—

The life itself is Self-Reliance!

III.

Oh! see your quailing tyrant runTo courteous lies, and Roman agents,His terror, lest Dungannon's sunShould rise again with riper radiance.Oh! hark the Freeman's welcome cheer,And hark your brother sufferers sobbingOh! mark the universe grow clear,Oh! mark your spirit's royal throbbing—'Tis Freedom's God that sends such signs,As pledges of his blest alliance;He gives bright hopes to brave designs,And lends his bolts to Self-Reliance!

Oh! see your quailing tyrant run

To courteous lies, and Roman agents,

His terror, lest Dungannon's sun

Should rise again with riper radiance.

Oh! hark the Freeman's welcome cheer,

And hark your brother sufferers sobbing

Oh! mark the universe grow clear,

Oh! mark your spirit's royal throbbing—

'Tis Freedom's God that sends such signs,

As pledges of his blest alliance;

He gives bright hopes to brave designs,

And lends his bolts to Self-Reliance!

IV.

Then, flung alone, or hand in hand,In mirthful hour, or spirit solemn;In lowly toil, or high command,In social hall, or charging column:In tempting wealth, and trying woe,In struggling with a mob's dictation;In bearing back a foreign foe,In training up a troubled nation:Still hold to Truth, abound in Love,Refusing every base compliance—Your Praise within, your Prize above,And live and die inSelf-Reliance!

Then, flung alone, or hand in hand,

In mirthful hour, or spirit solemn;

In lowly toil, or high command,

In social hall, or charging column:

In tempting wealth, and trying woe,

In struggling with a mob's dictation;

In bearing back a foreign foe,

In training up a troubled nation:

Still hold to Truth, abound in Love,

Refusing every base compliance—

Your Praise within, your Prize above,

And live and die inSelf-Reliance!

THE BURIAL.[82]

Why rings the knell of the funeral bell from a hundred village shrines?Through broad Fingall, where hasten all those long and ordered lines?With tear and sigh they're passing by—the matron and the maid—Has a hero died—is a nation's pride in that cold coffin laid?With frown and curse, behind the hearse, dark men go tramping on—Has a tyrant died, that they cannot hide their wrath till the rites are done?

Why rings the knell of the funeral bell from a hundred village shrines?

Through broad Fingall, where hasten all those long and ordered lines?

With tear and sigh they're passing by—the matron and the maid—

Has a hero died—is a nation's pride in that cold coffin laid?

With frown and curse, behind the hearse, dark men go tramping on—

Has a tyrant died, that they cannot hide their wrath till the rites are done?

the chant.

"Ululu! ululu!high on the wind,There's a home for the slave where no fetters can bind.Woe, woe to his slayers!"—comes wildly along,With the trampling of feet and the funeral song.And now more clearIt swells on the ear;Breathe low, and listen, 'tis solemn to hear."Ululu! ululu!wail for the dead.Green grow the grass of Fingall on his head;And spring-flowers blossom, 'ere elsewhere appearing,And shamrocks grow thick on the Martyr for Erin.Ululu! ululu!soft fall the dewOn the feet and the head of the martyred and true."For awhile they treadIn silence dread—Then muttering and moaning go the crowd,Surging and swaying like mountain cloud,And again the wail comes fearfully loud.

"Ululu! ululu!high on the wind,There's a home for the slave where no fetters can bind.Woe, woe to his slayers!"—comes wildly along,With the trampling of feet and the funeral song.

"Ululu! ululu!high on the wind,

There's a home for the slave where no fetters can bind.

Woe, woe to his slayers!"—comes wildly along,

With the trampling of feet and the funeral song.

And now more clearIt swells on the ear;Breathe low, and listen, 'tis solemn to hear.

And now more clear

It swells on the ear;

Breathe low, and listen, 'tis solemn to hear.

"Ululu! ululu!wail for the dead.Green grow the grass of Fingall on his head;And spring-flowers blossom, 'ere elsewhere appearing,And shamrocks grow thick on the Martyr for Erin.Ululu! ululu!soft fall the dewOn the feet and the head of the martyred and true."

"Ululu! ululu!wail for the dead.

Green grow the grass of Fingall on his head;

And spring-flowers blossom, 'ere elsewhere appearing,

And shamrocks grow thick on the Martyr for Erin.

Ululu! ululu!soft fall the dew

On the feet and the head of the martyred and true."

For awhile they treadIn silence dread—Then muttering and moaning go the crowd,Surging and swaying like mountain cloud,And again the wail comes fearfully loud.

For awhile they tread

In silence dread—

Then muttering and moaning go the crowd,

Surging and swaying like mountain cloud,

And again the wail comes fearfully loud.

the chant.

"Ululu! ululu!kind was his heart!Walk slower, walk slower, too soon we shall part.The faithful and pious, the Priest of the Lord,His pilgrimage over, he has his reward.By the bed of the sick lowly kneeling,To God with the raised cross appealing—He seems still to kneel, and he seems still to pray,And the sins of the dying seem passing away."In the prisoner's cell, and the cabin so dreary,Our constant consoler, he never grew weary;But he's gone to his rest,And he's now with the bless'd,Where tyrant and traitor no longer molest—Ululu! ululu!wail for the dead!Ululu! ululu!here is his bed!"Short was the ritual, simple the prayer,Deep was the silence, and every head bare;The Priest alone standing, they knelt all around,Myriads on myriads, like rocks on the ground.Kneeling and motionless—"Dust unto dust.He died as becometh the faithful and just—Placing in God his reliance and trust."Kneeling and motionless—"ashes to ashes"—Hollow the clay on the coffin-lid dashes;Kneeling and motionless, wildly they pray,But they pray in their souls, for no gesture have they;Stern and standing—oh! look on them now.Like trees to one tempest the multitude bow;Like the swell of the ocean is rising their vow:

"Ululu! ululu!kind was his heart!

Walk slower, walk slower, too soon we shall part.

The faithful and pious, the Priest of the Lord,

His pilgrimage over, he has his reward.

By the bed of the sick lowly kneeling,

To God with the raised cross appealing—

He seems still to kneel, and he seems still to pray,

And the sins of the dying seem passing away.

"In the prisoner's cell, and the cabin so dreary,Our constant consoler, he never grew weary;But he's gone to his rest,And he's now with the bless'd,Where tyrant and traitor no longer molest—Ululu! ululu!wail for the dead!Ululu! ululu!here is his bed!"

"In the prisoner's cell, and the cabin so dreary,

Our constant consoler, he never grew weary;

But he's gone to his rest,

And he's now with the bless'd,

Where tyrant and traitor no longer molest—

Ululu! ululu!wail for the dead!

Ululu! ululu!here is his bed!"

Short was the ritual, simple the prayer,Deep was the silence, and every head bare;The Priest alone standing, they knelt all around,Myriads on myriads, like rocks on the ground.Kneeling and motionless—"Dust unto dust.He died as becometh the faithful and just—Placing in God his reliance and trust."

Short was the ritual, simple the prayer,

Deep was the silence, and every head bare;

The Priest alone standing, they knelt all around,

Myriads on myriads, like rocks on the ground.

Kneeling and motionless—"Dust unto dust.

He died as becometh the faithful and just—

Placing in God his reliance and trust."

Kneeling and motionless—"ashes to ashes"—Hollow the clay on the coffin-lid dashes;Kneeling and motionless, wildly they pray,But they pray in their souls, for no gesture have they;Stern and standing—oh! look on them now.Like trees to one tempest the multitude bow;Like the swell of the ocean is rising their vow:

Kneeling and motionless—"ashes to ashes"—

Hollow the clay on the coffin-lid dashes;

Kneeling and motionless, wildly they pray,

But they pray in their souls, for no gesture have they;

Stern and standing—oh! look on them now.

Like trees to one tempest the multitude bow;

Like the swell of the ocean is rising their vow:

the vow.

"We have bent and borne, though we saw him torn from his home by the tyrant's crew—And we bent and bore, when he came once more, though suffering had pierced him through:And now he is laid beyond our aid, because to Ireland true—A martyred man—the tyrant's ban, the pious patriot slew."And shall we bear and bend for ever,And shall no time our bondage severAnd shall we kneel, but battle never,"For our own soil?"And shall our tyrants safely reignOn thrones built up of slaves and slain,And nought to us and ours remain"But chains and toil?"No! round this grave our oath we plight,To watch, and labour, and unite,Till banded be the nation's might—"Its spirit steeled,"And then, collecting all our force,We'll cross oppression in its course,And die—or all our rights enforce,"On battle field."Like an ebbing sea that will come again,Slowly retired that host of men;Methinks they'll keep some other dayThe oath they swore on the martyr's clay.

"We have bent and borne, though we saw him torn from his home by the tyrant's crew—

And we bent and bore, when he came once more, though suffering had pierced him through:

And now he is laid beyond our aid, because to Ireland true—

A martyred man—the tyrant's ban, the pious patriot slew.

"And shall we bear and bend for ever,

And shall no time our bondage sever

And shall we kneel, but battle never,

"For our own soil?

"And shall our tyrants safely reign

On thrones built up of slaves and slain,

And nought to us and ours remain

"But chains and toil?

"No! round this grave our oath we plight,

To watch, and labour, and unite,

Till banded be the nation's might—

"Its spirit steeled,

"And then, collecting all our force,

We'll cross oppression in its course,

And die—or all our rights enforce,

"On battle field."

Like an ebbing sea that will come again,Slowly retired that host of men;Methinks they'll keep some other dayThe oath they swore on the martyr's clay.

Like an ebbing sea that will come again,

Slowly retired that host of men;

Methinks they'll keep some other day

The oath they swore on the martyr's clay.

WE MUST NOT FAIL.

We must not fail, we must not fail,However fraud or force assail;By honour, pride, and policy,By Heaven itself!—we must be free.

We must not fail, we must not fail,

However fraud or force assail;

By honour, pride, and policy,

By Heaven itself!—we must be free.

II.

Time had already thinned our chain,Time would have dulled our sense of pain;By service long, and suppliance vile,We might have won our owner's smile.

Time had already thinned our chain,

Time would have dulled our sense of pain;

By service long, and suppliance vile,

We might have won our owner's smile.

III.

We spurned the thought, our prison burst,And dared the despot to the worst;Renewed the strife of centuries,And flung our banner to the breeze.

We spurned the thought, our prison burst,

And dared the despot to the worst;

Renewed the strife of centuries,

And flung our banner to the breeze.

IV.

We called the ends of earth to viewThe gallant deeds we swore to do;They knew us wronged, they knew us brave,And all we asked they freely gave.

We called the ends of earth to view

The gallant deeds we swore to do;

They knew us wronged, they knew us brave,

And all we asked they freely gave.

We took the starving peasant's miteTo aid in winning back his right,We took the priceless trust of youth;Their freedom must redeem our truth.

We took the starving peasant's mite

To aid in winning back his right,

We took the priceless trust of youth;

Their freedom must redeem our truth.

VI.

We promised loud, and boasted high,"To break our country's chains, or die;"And, should we quail, that country's nameWill be the synonym of shame.

We promised loud, and boasted high,

"To break our country's chains, or die;"

And, should we quail, that country's name

Will be the synonym of shame.

VII.

Earth is not deep enough to hideThe coward slave who shrinks aside;Hell is not hot enough to scatheThe ruffian wretch who breaks his faith.

Earth is not deep enough to hide

The coward slave who shrinks aside;

Hell is not hot enough to scathe

The ruffian wretch who breaks his faith.

VIII.

But—calm, my soul!—we promised trueHer destined work our land shall do;Thought, courage, patience will prevail!We shall not fail—we shall not fail!

But—calm, my soul!—we promised true

Her destined work our land shall do;

Thought, courage, patience will prevail!

We shall not fail—we shall not fail!

O'CONNELL'S STATUE.

Lines to Hogan.

Chisel the likeness of The Chief,Not in gaiety, nor grief;Change not by your art to stone,Ireland's laugh, or Ireland's moan.Dark her tale, and none can tellIts fearful chronicle so well.Her frame is bent—her wounds are deep—Who, like him, her woes can weep?He can be gentle as a bride,While none can rule with kinglier pride;Calm to hear, and wise to prove,Yet gay as lark in soaring love.Well it were, posterityShould have some image of his glee;That easy humour, blossomingLike the thousand flowers of spring!Glorious the marble which could showHis bursting sympathy for woe:Could catch the pathos, flowing wild,Like mother's milk to craving child.And oh! how princely were the artCould mould his mien, or tell his heartWhen sitting sole on Tara's hill,While hung a million on his will!Yet, not in gaiety, nor grief,Chisel the image of our Chief,Nor even in that haughty hourWhen a nation owned his power.But would you by your art unrollHis own, and Ireland's secret soul,And give to other times to scanThe greatest greatness of the man?Fierce defiance let him beHurling at our enemy—From a base as fair and sureAs our love is true and pure;Let his statue rise as tallAnd firm as a castle wall;On his broad brow let there beA type of Ireland's history;Pious, generous, deep and warm,Strong and changeful as a storm;Let whole centuries of wrongUpon his recollection throng—Strongbow's force, and Henry's wile,Tudor's wrath, and Stuart's guile,And iron Strafford's tiger jaws,And brutal Brunswick's penal laws;Not forgetting Saxon faith,Not forgetting Norman scath,Not forgetting William's word,Not forgetting Cromwell's sword.Let the Union's fetter vile—The shame and ruin of our isle—Let the blood of 'Ninety-EightAnd our present blighting fate—Let the poor mechanic's lot,And the peasant's ruined cot,Plundered wealth and glory flown,Ancient honours overthrown—Let trampled altar, rifled urn,Knit his look to purpose stern.Mould all this into one thought,Like wizard cloud with thunder fraught;Still let our glories through it gleam,Like fair flowers through a flooded stream,Or like a flashing wave at night,Bright,—'mid the solemn darkness, bright.Let the memory of old daysShine through the statesman's anxious face—Dathi's power, and Brian's fame,And headlong Sarsfield's sword of flame;And the spirit of Red Hugh,And the pride of 'Eighty-Two,And the victories he won,And the hope that leads him on!Let whole armies seem to flyFrom his threatening hand and eye.Be the strength of all the landLike a falchion in his hand,And be his gesture sternly grand.A braggart tyrant swore to smiteA people struggling for their right;O'Connell dared him to the field,Content to die but never yield;Fancy such a soul as his,In a moment such as this,Like cataract, or foaming tide,Or army charging in its pride.Thus he spoke, and thus he stood,Proffering in our cause his blood.Thus his country loves him best—To image this is your behest.Chisel thus, and thus alone,If to man you'd change the stone.

Chisel the likeness of The Chief,

Not in gaiety, nor grief;

Change not by your art to stone,

Ireland's laugh, or Ireland's moan.

Dark her tale, and none can tell

Its fearful chronicle so well.

Her frame is bent—her wounds are deep—

Who, like him, her woes can weep?

He can be gentle as a bride,While none can rule with kinglier pride;Calm to hear, and wise to prove,Yet gay as lark in soaring love.Well it were, posterityShould have some image of his glee;That easy humour, blossomingLike the thousand flowers of spring!Glorious the marble which could showHis bursting sympathy for woe:Could catch the pathos, flowing wild,Like mother's milk to craving child.

He can be gentle as a bride,

While none can rule with kinglier pride;

Calm to hear, and wise to prove,

Yet gay as lark in soaring love.

Well it were, posterity

Should have some image of his glee;

That easy humour, blossoming

Like the thousand flowers of spring!

Glorious the marble which could show

His bursting sympathy for woe:

Could catch the pathos, flowing wild,

Like mother's milk to craving child.

And oh! how princely were the artCould mould his mien, or tell his heartWhen sitting sole on Tara's hill,While hung a million on his will!Yet, not in gaiety, nor grief,Chisel the image of our Chief,Nor even in that haughty hourWhen a nation owned his power.

And oh! how princely were the art

Could mould his mien, or tell his heart

When sitting sole on Tara's hill,

While hung a million on his will!

Yet, not in gaiety, nor grief,

Chisel the image of our Chief,

Nor even in that haughty hour

When a nation owned his power.

But would you by your art unrollHis own, and Ireland's secret soul,And give to other times to scanThe greatest greatness of the man?Fierce defiance let him beHurling at our enemy—From a base as fair and sureAs our love is true and pure;Let his statue rise as tallAnd firm as a castle wall;On his broad brow let there beA type of Ireland's history;Pious, generous, deep and warm,Strong and changeful as a storm;Let whole centuries of wrongUpon his recollection throng—Strongbow's force, and Henry's wile,Tudor's wrath, and Stuart's guile,And iron Strafford's tiger jaws,And brutal Brunswick's penal laws;Not forgetting Saxon faith,Not forgetting Norman scath,Not forgetting William's word,Not forgetting Cromwell's sword.Let the Union's fetter vile—The shame and ruin of our isle—Let the blood of 'Ninety-EightAnd our present blighting fate—Let the poor mechanic's lot,And the peasant's ruined cot,Plundered wealth and glory flown,Ancient honours overthrown—Let trampled altar, rifled urn,Knit his look to purpose stern.

But would you by your art unroll

His own, and Ireland's secret soul,

And give to other times to scan

The greatest greatness of the man?

Fierce defiance let him be

Hurling at our enemy—

From a base as fair and sure

As our love is true and pure;

Let his statue rise as tall

And firm as a castle wall;

On his broad brow let there be

A type of Ireland's history;

Pious, generous, deep and warm,

Strong and changeful as a storm;

Let whole centuries of wrong

Upon his recollection throng—

Strongbow's force, and Henry's wile,

Tudor's wrath, and Stuart's guile,

And iron Strafford's tiger jaws,

And brutal Brunswick's penal laws;

Not forgetting Saxon faith,

Not forgetting Norman scath,

Not forgetting William's word,

Not forgetting Cromwell's sword.

Let the Union's fetter vile—

The shame and ruin of our isle—

Let the blood of 'Ninety-Eight

And our present blighting fate—

Let the poor mechanic's lot,

And the peasant's ruined cot,

Plundered wealth and glory flown,

Ancient honours overthrown—

Let trampled altar, rifled urn,

Knit his look to purpose stern.

Mould all this into one thought,Like wizard cloud with thunder fraught;Still let our glories through it gleam,Like fair flowers through a flooded stream,Or like a flashing wave at night,Bright,—'mid the solemn darkness, bright.Let the memory of old daysShine through the statesman's anxious face—Dathi's power, and Brian's fame,And headlong Sarsfield's sword of flame;And the spirit of Red Hugh,And the pride of 'Eighty-Two,And the victories he won,And the hope that leads him on!

Mould all this into one thought,

Like wizard cloud with thunder fraught;

Still let our glories through it gleam,

Like fair flowers through a flooded stream,

Or like a flashing wave at night,

Bright,—'mid the solemn darkness, bright.

Let the memory of old days

Shine through the statesman's anxious face—

Dathi's power, and Brian's fame,

And headlong Sarsfield's sword of flame;

And the spirit of Red Hugh,

And the pride of 'Eighty-Two,

And the victories he won,

And the hope that leads him on!

Let whole armies seem to flyFrom his threatening hand and eye.Be the strength of all the landLike a falchion in his hand,And be his gesture sternly grand.A braggart tyrant swore to smiteA people struggling for their right;O'Connell dared him to the field,Content to die but never yield;Fancy such a soul as his,In a moment such as this,Like cataract, or foaming tide,Or army charging in its pride.Thus he spoke, and thus he stood,Proffering in our cause his blood.Thus his country loves him best—To image this is your behest.Chisel thus, and thus alone,If to man you'd change the stone.

Let whole armies seem to fly

From his threatening hand and eye.

Be the strength of all the land

Like a falchion in his hand,

And be his gesture sternly grand.

A braggart tyrant swore to smite

A people struggling for their right;

O'Connell dared him to the field,

Content to die but never yield;

Fancy such a soul as his,

In a moment such as this,

Like cataract, or foaming tide,

Or army charging in its pride.

Thus he spoke, and thus he stood,

Proffering in our cause his blood.

Thus his country loves him best—

To image this is your behest.

Chisel thus, and thus alone,

If to man you'd change the stone.

THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED.

Air—Irish Molly O!

Back to Index Next