Full often when our fathers saw the Red above the Green,They rose in rude but fierce array, with sabre, pike andscian,And over many a noble town, and many a field of dead,They proudly set the Irish Green above the English Red.
Full often when our fathers saw the Red above the Green,They rose in rude but fierce array, with sabre, pike andscian,And over many a noble town, and many a field of dead,They proudly set the Irish Green above the English Red.
Full often when our fathers saw the Red above the Green,
They rose in rude but fierce array, with sabre, pike andscian,
And over many a noble town, and many a field of dead,
They proudly set the Irish Green above the English Red.
II.
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.
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.
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.
III.
And they who saw, in after times, the Red above the GreenWere 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.
And they who saw, in after times, the Red above the GreenWere 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.
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.
IV.
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.
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.
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.
V.
So when the strife began again, our darling Irish GreenWas 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."
So when the strife began again, our darling Irish GreenWas 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."
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."
VI.
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 spreadAbove the land once dark with blood—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 spreadAbove the land once dark with blood—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!
VII.
The jealous English tyrant now has banned 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 deadThan force our hearts to leave the Green, and cotton to the Red!
The jealous English tyrant now has banned 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 deadThan force our hearts to leave the Green, and cotton to the Red!
The jealous English tyrant now has banned 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!
VIII.
We'll trust ourselves, for God is good, and blesses those who leanOn their brave hearts, and not upon an earthly king or queen;And, freely as we lift our hands, we vow our blood to shedOnce and for evermore to raise the Green above the Red.
We'll trust ourselves, for God is good, and blesses those who leanOn their brave hearts, and not upon an earthly king or queen;And, freely as we lift our hands, we vow our blood to shedOnce and for evermore to raise the Green above the Red.
We'll trust ourselves, for God is good, and blesses those who lean
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 for evermore to raise the Green above the Red.
THE VOW OF TIPPERARY.
I.
From Carrick streets to Shannon shore,From Slievenamon to Ballindeary,From Longford Pass to Gaillte Mór,Come hear The Vow of Tipperary.
From Carrick streets to Shannon shore,From Slievenamon to Ballindeary,From Longford Pass to Gaillte Mór,Come hear The Vow of Tipperary.
From Carrick streets to Shannon shore,
From Slievenamon to Ballindeary,
From Longford Pass to Gaillte Mór,
Come hear The Vow of Tipperary.
II.
Too long we fought for Britain's cause,And of our blood were never chary;She paid us back with tyrant laws,And thinned The Homes of Tipperary.
Too long we fought for Britain's cause,And of our blood were never chary;She paid us back with tyrant laws,And thinned The Homes of Tipperary.
Too long we fought for Britain's cause,
And of our blood were never chary;
She paid us back with tyrant laws,
And thinned The Homes of Tipperary.
III.
Too long with rash and single arm,The peasant strove to guard his eyrie,Till Irish blood bedewed each farm,And Ireland wept for Tipperary.
Too long with rash and single arm,The peasant strove to guard his eyrie,Till Irish blood bedewed each farm,And Ireland wept for Tipperary.
Too long with rash and single arm,
The peasant strove to guard his eyrie,
Till Irish blood bedewed each farm,
And Ireland wept for Tipperary.
IV.
But never more we'll lift a hand—We swear by God and Virgin Mary!Except in war for Native Land,Andthat'sThe Vow of Tipperary!
But never more we'll lift a hand—We swear by God and Virgin Mary!Except in war for Native Land,Andthat'sThe Vow of Tipperary!
But never more we'll lift a hand—
We swear by God and Virgin Mary!
Except in war for Native Land,
Andthat'sThe Vow of Tipperary!
TIPPERARY.
I.
Let Britain boast her British hosts,About them all right little care we;Not British seas nor British coastsCan match the Man of Tipperary!
Let Britain boast her British hosts,About them all right little care we;Not British seas nor British coastsCan match the Man of Tipperary!
Let Britain boast her British hosts,
About them all right little care we;
Not British seas nor British coasts
Can match the Man of Tipperary!
II.
Tall is his form, his heart is warm,His spirit light as any fairy—His wrath is fearful as the stormThat sweeps the Hills of Tipperary!
Tall is his form, his heart is warm,His spirit light as any fairy—His wrath is fearful as the stormThat sweeps the Hills of Tipperary!
Tall is his form, his heart is warm,
His spirit light as any fairy—
His wrath is fearful as the storm
That sweeps the Hills of Tipperary!
III.
Lead him to fight for native land,His is no courage cold and wary;The troops live not on earth would standThe headlong charge of Tipperary!
Lead him to fight for native land,His is no courage cold and wary;The troops live not on earth would standThe headlong charge of Tipperary!
Lead him to fight for native land,
His is no courage cold and wary;
The troops live not on earth would stand
The headlong charge of Tipperary!
IV.
Yet meet him in his cabin rude,Or dancing with his dark-haired Mary,You'd swear they knew no other moodBut Mirth and Love in Tipperary!
Yet meet him in his cabin rude,Or dancing with his dark-haired Mary,You'd swear they knew no other moodBut Mirth and Love in Tipperary!
Yet meet him in his cabin rude,
Or dancing with his dark-haired Mary,
You'd swear they knew no other mood
But Mirth and Love in Tipperary!
V.
You're free to share his scanty meal,His plighted word he'll never vary—In vain they tried with gold and steelTo shake the Faith of Tipperary!
You're free to share his scanty meal,His plighted word he'll never vary—In vain they tried with gold and steelTo shake the Faith of Tipperary!
You're free to share his scanty meal,
His plighted word he'll never vary—
In vain they tried with gold and steel
To shake the Faith of Tipperary!
VI.
Soft is hiscailin'ssunny eye,Her mien is mild, her step is airy,Her heart is fond, her soul is high—Oh! she's the Pride of Tipperary!
Soft is hiscailin'ssunny eye,Her mien is mild, her step is airy,Her heart is fond, her soul is high—Oh! she's the Pride of Tipperary!
Soft is hiscailin'ssunny eye,
Her mien is mild, her step is airy,
Her heart is fond, her soul is high—
Oh! she's the Pride of Tipperary!
VII.
Let Britain brag her motley rag;We'll lift the Green more proud and airy—Be mine the lot to bear that flag,And head the Men of Tipperary!
Let Britain brag her motley rag;We'll lift the Green more proud and airy—Be mine the lot to bear that flag,And head the Men of Tipperary!
Let Britain brag her motley rag;
We'll lift the Green more proud and airy—
Be mine the lot to bear that flag,
And head the Men of Tipperary!
VIII.
Though Britain boasts her British hosts,About them all right little care we—Give us, to guard our native coasts,The matchless Men of Tipperary!
Though Britain boasts her British hosts,About them all right little care we—Give us, to guard our native coasts,The matchless Men of Tipperary!
Though Britain boasts her British hosts,
About them all right little care we—
Give us, to guard our native coasts,
The matchless Men of Tipperary!
THE WEST'S ASLEEP.
Air—The Brink of the White Rocks.
I.
When all beside a vigil keep,The West's asleep, the West's asleep—Alas! and well may Erin weep,When Connaught lies in slumber deep.There lake and plain smile fair and free,'Mid rocks—their guardian chivalry—Sing oh! let man learn libertyFrom crashing wind and lashing sea.
When all beside a vigil keep,The West's asleep, the West's asleep—Alas! and well may Erin weep,When Connaught lies in slumber deep.There lake and plain smile fair and free,'Mid rocks—their guardian chivalry—Sing oh! let man learn libertyFrom crashing wind and lashing sea.
When all beside a vigil keep,
The West's asleep, the West's asleep—
Alas! and well may Erin weep,
When Connaught lies in slumber deep.
There lake and plain smile fair and free,
'Mid rocks—their guardian chivalry—
Sing oh! let man learn liberty
From crashing wind and lashing sea.
II.
That chainless wave and lovely landFreedom and Nationhood demand—Be sure, the great God never planned,For slumbering slaves, a home so grand.And, long, a brave and haughty raceHonoured and sentinelled the place—Sing oh! not even their sons' disgraceCan quite destroy their glory's trace.
That chainless wave and lovely landFreedom and Nationhood demand—Be sure, the great God never planned,For slumbering slaves, a home so grand.And, long, a brave and haughty raceHonoured and sentinelled the place—Sing oh! not even their sons' disgraceCan quite destroy their glory's trace.
That chainless wave and lovely land
Freedom and Nationhood demand—
Be sure, the great God never planned,
For slumbering slaves, a home so grand.
And, long, a brave and haughty race
Honoured and sentinelled the place—
Sing oh! not even their sons' disgrace
Can quite destroy their glory's trace.
III.
For often, in O'Connor's van,To triumph dashed each Connaught clan—And fleet as deer the Normans ranThrough Corlieu's Pass and Ardrahan.And later times saw deeds as brave;And glory guards Clanricarde's grave—Sing oh! they died their land to save,At Aughrim's slopes and Shannon's wave.
For often, in O'Connor's van,To triumph dashed each Connaught clan—And fleet as deer the Normans ranThrough Corlieu's Pass and Ardrahan.And later times saw deeds as brave;And glory guards Clanricarde's grave—Sing oh! they died their land to save,At Aughrim's slopes and Shannon's wave.
For often, in O'Connor's van,
To triumph dashed each Connaught clan—
And fleet as deer the Normans ran
Through Corlieu's Pass and Ardrahan.
And later times saw deeds as brave;
And glory guards Clanricarde's grave—
Sing oh! they died their land to save,
At Aughrim's slopes and Shannon's wave.
IV.
And if, when all a vigil keep,The West's asleep, the West's asleep—Alas! and well may Erin weep,That Connaught lies in slumber deep.But, hark! some voice like thunder spake:"The West's awake! the West's awake!"—"Sing oh! hurra! let England quake,We'll watch till death for Erin's sake!"
And if, when all a vigil keep,The West's asleep, the West's asleep—Alas! and well may Erin weep,That Connaught lies in slumber deep.But, hark! some voice like thunder spake:"The West's awake! the West's awake!"—"Sing oh! hurra! let England quake,We'll watch till death for Erin's sake!"
And if, when all a vigil keep,
The West's asleep, the West's asleep—
Alas! and well may Erin weep,
That Connaught lies in slumber deep.
But, hark! some voice like thunder spake:
"The West's awake! the West's awake!"—
"Sing oh! hurra! let England quake,
We'll watch till death for Erin's sake!"
A SONG FOR THE IRISH MILITIA.
Air—The Peacock.
I.
The tribune's tongue and poet's penMay sow the seed in prostrate men;But 'tis the soldier's sword aloneCan reap the crop so bravely sown!No more I'll sing nor idly pine,But train my soul to lead a line—A soldier's life's the life for me—A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
The tribune's tongue and poet's penMay sow the seed in prostrate men;But 'tis the soldier's sword aloneCan reap the crop so bravely sown!No more I'll sing nor idly pine,But train my soul to lead a line—A soldier's life's the life for me—A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
The tribune's tongue and poet's pen
May sow the seed in prostrate men;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the crop so bravely sown!
No more I'll sing nor idly pine,
But train my soul to lead a line—
A soldier's life's the life for me—
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
II.
No foe would fear your thunder words,If 'twere not for your lightning swords—If tyrants yield when millions pray,'Tis less they link in war array;Nor peace itself is safe, but whenThe sword is sheathed by fighting men—A soldier's life's the life for me—A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
No foe would fear your thunder words,If 'twere not for your lightning swords—If tyrants yield when millions pray,'Tis less they link in war array;Nor peace itself is safe, but whenThe sword is sheathed by fighting men—A soldier's life's the life for me—A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
No foe would fear your thunder words,
If 'twere not for your lightning swords—
If tyrants yield when millions pray,
'Tis less they link in war array;
Nor peace itself is safe, but when
The sword is sheathed by fighting men—
A soldier's life's the life for me—
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
III.
The rifle brown and sabre brightCan freely speak and nobly write—What prophets preached the truth so wellAsHofer, Brian, Bruce, andTell?God guard the creed these heroes taught—That blood-bought Freedom's cheaply boughtA soldier's life's the life for me—A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
The rifle brown and sabre brightCan freely speak and nobly write—What prophets preached the truth so wellAsHofer, Brian, Bruce, andTell?God guard the creed these heroes taught—That blood-bought Freedom's cheaply boughtA soldier's life's the life for me—A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
The rifle brown and sabre bright
Can freely speak and nobly write—
What prophets preached the truth so well
AsHofer, Brian, Bruce, andTell?
God guard the creed these heroes taught—
That blood-bought Freedom's cheaply bought
A soldier's life's the life for me—
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
IV.
Then, welcome be the bivouac,The hardy stand, and fierce attack,Where pikes will tame their carbineers,And rifles thin their bay'neteers,And every field the island throughWill show "what Irishmen can do!"A soldier's life's the life for me—A soldier's death so Ireland's free!
Then, welcome be the bivouac,The hardy stand, and fierce attack,Where pikes will tame their carbineers,And rifles thin their bay'neteers,And every field the island throughWill show "what Irishmen can do!"A soldier's life's the life for me—A soldier's death so Ireland's free!
Then, welcome be the bivouac,
The hardy stand, and fierce attack,
Where pikes will tame their carbineers,
And rifles thin their bay'neteers,
And every field the island through
Will show "what Irishmen can do!"
A soldier's life's the life for me—
A soldier's death so Ireland's free!
V.
Yet, 'tis not strength and 'tis not steelAlone can make the English reel;But wisdom, working day by day,Till comes the time for passion's sway—The patient dint and powder shock,Can blast an empire like a rock.A soldier's life's the life for me—A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
Yet, 'tis not strength and 'tis not steelAlone can make the English reel;But wisdom, working day by day,Till comes the time for passion's sway—The patient dint and powder shock,Can blast an empire like a rock.A soldier's life's the life for me—A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
Yet, 'tis not strength and 'tis not steel
Alone can make the English reel;
But wisdom, working day by day,
Till comes the time for passion's sway—
The patient dint and powder shock,
Can blast an empire like a rock.
A soldier's life's the life for me—
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
VI.
The tribune's tongue and poet's penMay sow the seed in slavish men;But 'tis the soldier's sword aloneCan reap the harvest when 'tis grown.No more I'll sing, no more I'll pine,But train my soul to lead a line—A soldier's life's the life for me—A soldier's death, so Ireland's free.
The tribune's tongue and poet's penMay sow the seed in slavish men;But 'tis the soldier's sword aloneCan reap the harvest when 'tis grown.No more I'll sing, no more I'll pine,But train my soul to lead a line—A soldier's life's the life for me—A soldier's death, so Ireland's free.
The tribune's tongue and poet's pen
May sow the seed in slavish men;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the harvest when 'tis grown.
No more I'll sing, no more I'll pine,
But train my soul to lead a line—
A soldier's life's the life for me—
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free.
OUR OWN AGAIN.
I.
Let the coward shrink aside,We'll have our own again;Let the brawling slave deride—Here's for our own again!Let the tyrant bribe and lie,March, threaten, fortify,Loose his lawyer and his spy—Yet we'll have our own again!Let him soothe in silken tone,Scold from a foreign throne:Let him come with bugles blown—We shall have our own again!Let us to our purpose bide,We'll have our own again!Let the game be fairly tried,We'll have our own again!
Let the coward shrink aside,We'll have our own again;Let the brawling slave deride—Here's for our own again!Let the tyrant bribe and lie,March, threaten, fortify,Loose his lawyer and his spy—Yet we'll have our own again!Let him soothe in silken tone,Scold from a foreign throne:Let him come with bugles blown—We shall have our own again!Let us to our purpose bide,We'll have our own again!Let the game be fairly tried,We'll have our own again!
Let the coward shrink aside,
We'll have our own again;
Let the brawling slave deride—
Here's for our own again!
Let the tyrant bribe and lie,
March, threaten, fortify,
Loose his lawyer and his spy—
Yet we'll have our own again!
Let him soothe in silken tone,
Scold from a foreign throne:
Let him come with bugles blown—
We shall have our own again!
Let us to our purpose bide,
We'll have our own again!
Let the game be fairly tried,
We'll have our own again!
II.
Send the cry throughout the land,"Who's for our own again?"Summon all men to our band,—Why not our own again?Rich and poor, and old and young,Sharp sword, and fiery tongue,Soul and sinew firmly strung—All to get our own again!Brothers strive by brotherhood—Trees in a stormy wood—Riches come from Nationhood—Sha'n't we have our own again?Munster's woe is Ulster's bane!Join for our own again—Tyrants rob as well as reign—We'll have our own again!
Send the cry throughout the land,"Who's for our own again?"Summon all men to our band,—Why not our own again?Rich and poor, and old and young,Sharp sword, and fiery tongue,Soul and sinew firmly strung—All to get our own again!Brothers strive by brotherhood—Trees in a stormy wood—Riches come from Nationhood—Sha'n't we have our own again?Munster's woe is Ulster's bane!Join for our own again—Tyrants rob as well as reign—We'll have our own again!
Send the cry throughout the land,
"Who's for our own again?"
Summon all men to our band,—
Why not our own again?
Rich and poor, and old and young,
Sharp sword, and fiery tongue,
Soul and sinew firmly strung—
All to get our own again!
Brothers strive by brotherhood—
Trees in a stormy wood—
Riches come from Nationhood—
Sha'n't we have our own again?
Munster's woe is Ulster's bane!
Join for our own again—
Tyrants rob as well as reign—
We'll have our own again!
III.
Oft our fathers' hearts it stirred,"Rise for our own again!"Often passed the signal word,"Strike for our own again!"Rudely, rashly, and untaught,Uprose they, ere they ought,Failing, though they nobly fought—Dying for their own again!Mind will rule and muscle yieldIn senate, ship, and field:When we've skill our strength to wield,Let us take our own again!By the slave his chain is wrought—Strive for our own again.Thunder is less strong than thought—We'll have our own again!
Oft our fathers' hearts it stirred,"Rise for our own again!"Often passed the signal word,"Strike for our own again!"Rudely, rashly, and untaught,Uprose they, ere they ought,Failing, though they nobly fought—Dying for their own again!Mind will rule and muscle yieldIn senate, ship, and field:When we've skill our strength to wield,Let us take our own again!By the slave his chain is wrought—Strive for our own again.Thunder is less strong than thought—We'll have our own again!
Oft our fathers' hearts it stirred,
"Rise for our own again!"
Often passed the signal word,
"Strike for our own again!"
Rudely, rashly, and untaught,
Uprose they, ere they ought,
Failing, though they nobly fought—
Dying for their own again!
Mind will rule and muscle yield
In senate, ship, and field:
When we've skill our strength to wield,
Let us take our own again!
By the slave his chain is wrought—
Strive for our own again.
Thunder is less strong than thought—
We'll have our own again!
IV.
Calm as granite to our foes,Stand for our own again;Till his wrath to madness grows,Firm for our own again.Bravely hope, and wisely wait,Toil, join, and educate;Man is master of his fate;We'll enjoy our own again!With a keen constrained thirst—Powder's calm ere it burst—Making ready for the worst—So we'll get our own again.Let us to our purpose bide,We'll have our own again!God is on the righteous side,We'll have our own again!
Calm as granite to our foes,Stand for our own again;Till his wrath to madness grows,Firm for our own again.Bravely hope, and wisely wait,Toil, join, and educate;Man is master of his fate;We'll enjoy our own again!With a keen constrained thirst—Powder's calm ere it burst—Making ready for the worst—So we'll get our own again.Let us to our purpose bide,We'll have our own again!God is on the righteous side,We'll have our own again!
Calm as granite to our foes,
Stand for our own again;
Till his wrath to madness grows,
Firm for our own again.
Bravely hope, and wisely wait,
Toil, join, and educate;
Man is master of his fate;
We'll enjoy our own again!
With a keen constrained thirst—
Powder's calm ere it burst—
Making ready for the worst—
So we'll get our own again.
Let us to our purpose bide,
We'll have our own again!
God is on the righteous side,
We'll have our own again!
CELTS AND SAXONS.[83]
I.
We hate the Saxon and the Dane,We hate the Norman men—We cursed their greed for blood and gain,We curse them now again.Yet start not, Irish-born man!If you're to Ireland true,We heed not blood, nor creed, nor clan—We have no curse for you.
We hate the Saxon and the Dane,We hate the Norman men—We cursed their greed for blood and gain,We curse them now again.Yet start not, Irish-born man!If you're to Ireland true,We heed not blood, nor creed, nor clan—We have no curse for you.
We hate the Saxon and the Dane,
We hate the Norman men—
We cursed their greed for blood and gain,
We curse them now again.
Yet start not, Irish-born man!
If you're to Ireland true,
We heed not blood, nor creed, nor clan—
We have no curse for you.
II.
We have no curse for you or yours,But Friendship's ready grasp,And Faith to stand by you and yoursUnto our latest gasp—To stand by you against all foes,Howe'er, or whence they come,With traitor arts, or bribes, or blows,From England, France, or Rome.
We have no curse for you or yours,But Friendship's ready grasp,And Faith to stand by you and yoursUnto our latest gasp—To stand by you against all foes,Howe'er, or whence they come,With traitor arts, or bribes, or blows,From England, France, or Rome.
We have no curse for you or yours,
But Friendship's ready grasp,
And Faith to stand by you and yours
Unto our latest gasp—
To stand by you against all foes,
Howe'er, or whence they come,
With traitor arts, or bribes, or blows,
From England, France, or Rome.
III.
What matter that at different shrinesWe pray unto one God?What matter that at different timesYour fathers won this sod?In fortune and in name we're boundBy stronger links than steel;And neither can be safe nor soundBut in the other's weal.
What matter that at different shrinesWe pray unto one God?What matter that at different timesYour fathers won this sod?In fortune and in name we're boundBy stronger links than steel;And neither can be safe nor soundBut in the other's weal.
What matter that at different shrines
We pray unto one God?
What matter that at different times
Your fathers won this sod?
In fortune and in name we're bound
By stronger links than steel;
And neither can be safe nor sound
But in the other's weal.
IV.
As Nubian rocks, and Ethiop sandLong drifting down the Nile,Built up old Egypt's fertile landFor many a hundred mile,So Pagan clans to Ireland came,And clans of Christendom,Yet joined their wisdom and their fameTo build a nation from.
As Nubian rocks, and Ethiop sandLong drifting down the Nile,Built up old Egypt's fertile landFor many a hundred mile,So Pagan clans to Ireland came,And clans of Christendom,Yet joined their wisdom and their fameTo build a nation from.
As Nubian rocks, and Ethiop sand
Long drifting down the Nile,
Built up old Egypt's fertile land
For many a hundred mile,
So Pagan clans to Ireland came,
And clans of Christendom,
Yet joined their wisdom and their fame
To build a nation from.
V.
Here came the brown Phœnician,The man of trade and toil—Here came the proud Milesian,A hungering for spoil;And the Firbolg and the Cymry,And the hard, enduring Dane,And the iron Lords of Normandy,With the Saxons in their train.
Here came the brown Phœnician,The man of trade and toil—Here came the proud Milesian,A hungering for spoil;And the Firbolg and the Cymry,And the hard, enduring Dane,And the iron Lords of Normandy,With the Saxons in their train.
Here came the brown Phœnician,
The man of trade and toil—
Here came the proud Milesian,
A hungering for spoil;
And the Firbolg and the Cymry,
And the hard, enduring Dane,
And the iron Lords of Normandy,
With the Saxons in their train.
VI.
And oh! it were a gallant deedTo show before mankind,How every race and every creedMight be by love combined—Might be combined, yet not forgetThe fountains whence they rose,As, filled by many a rivulet,The stately Shannon flows.
And oh! it were a gallant deedTo show before mankind,How every race and every creedMight be by love combined—Might be combined, yet not forgetThe fountains whence they rose,As, filled by many a rivulet,The stately Shannon flows.
And oh! it were a gallant deed
To show before mankind,
How every race and every creed
Might be by love combined—
Might be combined, yet not forget
The fountains whence they rose,
As, filled by many a rivulet,
The stately Shannon flows.
VII.
Nor would we wreak our ancient feudOn Belgian or on Dane,Nor visit in a hostile moodThe hearths of Gaul or Spain;But long as on our country liesThe Anglo-Norman yoke,Their tyranny we'll stigmatize,And God's revenge invoke.
Nor would we wreak our ancient feudOn Belgian or on Dane,Nor visit in a hostile moodThe hearths of Gaul or Spain;But long as on our country liesThe Anglo-Norman yoke,Their tyranny we'll stigmatize,And God's revenge invoke.
Nor would we wreak our ancient feud
On Belgian or on Dane,
Nor visit in a hostile mood
The hearths of Gaul or Spain;
But long as on our country lies
The Anglo-Norman yoke,
Their tyranny we'll stigmatize,
And God's revenge invoke.
VIII.
We do not hate, we never cursed,Nor spoke a foeman's wordAgainst a man in Ireland nursed,Howe'er we thought he erred;So start not, Irish-born man,If you're to Ireland true,We heed not race, nor creed, nor clan,We've hearts and hands for you.
We do not hate, we never cursed,Nor spoke a foeman's wordAgainst a man in Ireland nursed,Howe'er we thought he erred;So start not, Irish-born man,If you're to Ireland true,We heed not race, nor creed, nor clan,We've hearts and hands for you.
We do not hate, we never cursed,
Nor spoke a foeman's word
Against a man in Ireland nursed,
Howe'er we thought he erred;
So start not, Irish-born man,
If you're to Ireland true,
We heed not race, nor creed, nor clan,
We've hearts and hands for you.
ORANGE AND GREEN WILL CARRY THE DAY.
Air—The Protestant Boys.
I.
Ireland! rejoice, and England! deplore—Faction and feud are passing away.'Twas a low voice, but 'tis a loud roar,"Orange and Green will carry the day."Orange! Orange!Green and Orange!Pitted together in many a fray—Lions in fight!And linked in their might,Orange and Green will carry the day.Orange! Orange!Green and Orange!Wave them together o'er mountain and bay.Orange and Green!Our King and our Queen!"Orange and Green will carry the day!"
Ireland! rejoice, and England! deplore—Faction and feud are passing away.'Twas a low voice, but 'tis a loud roar,"Orange and Green will carry the day."Orange! Orange!Green and Orange!Pitted together in many a fray—Lions in fight!And linked in their might,Orange and Green will carry the day.Orange! Orange!Green and Orange!Wave them together o'er mountain and bay.Orange and Green!Our King and our Queen!"Orange and Green will carry the day!"
Ireland! rejoice, and England! deplore—
Faction and feud are passing away.
'Twas a low voice, but 'tis a loud roar,
"Orange and Green will carry the day."
Orange! Orange!
Green and Orange!
Pitted together in many a fray—
Lions in fight!
And linked in their might,
Orange and Green will carry the day.
Orange! Orange!
Green and Orange!
Wave them together o'er mountain and bay.
Orange and Green!
Our King and our Queen!
"Orange and Green will carry the day!"
II.
Rusty the swords our fathers unsheathed—William and James are turned to clay—Long did we till the wrath they bequeathed,Red was the crop, and bitter the pay!Freedom fled us!Knaves misled us!Under the feet of the foemen we lay—Riches and strengthWe'll win them at length,For Orange and Green will carry the day!Landlords fooled us;England ruled us,Hounding our passions to make us their prey;But, in their spite,The IrishUnite,And Orange and Green will carry the day!
Rusty the swords our fathers unsheathed—William and James are turned to clay—Long did we till the wrath they bequeathed,Red was the crop, and bitter the pay!Freedom fled us!Knaves misled us!Under the feet of the foemen we lay—Riches and strengthWe'll win them at length,For Orange and Green will carry the day!Landlords fooled us;England ruled us,Hounding our passions to make us their prey;But, in their spite,The IrishUnite,And Orange and Green will carry the day!
Rusty the swords our fathers unsheathed—
William and James are turned to clay—
Long did we till the wrath they bequeathed,
Red was the crop, and bitter the pay!
Freedom fled us!
Knaves misled us!
Under the feet of the foemen we lay—
Riches and strength
We'll win them at length,
For Orange and Green will carry the day!
Landlords fooled us;
England ruled us,
Hounding our passions to make us their prey;
But, in their spite,
The IrishUnite,
And Orange and Green will carry the day!
III.
Fruitful our soil where honest men starve;Empty the mart, and shipless the bay;Out of our want the Oligarchs carve;Foreigners fatten on our decay!Disunited,Therefore blighted,Ruined and rent by the Englishman's sway;Party and creedFor once have agreed—Orange and Green will carry the day!Boyne's old water,Red with slaughter!Now is as pure as an infant at play;So, in our souls,Its history rolls,And Orange and Green will carry the day!
Fruitful our soil where honest men starve;Empty the mart, and shipless the bay;Out of our want the Oligarchs carve;Foreigners fatten on our decay!Disunited,Therefore blighted,Ruined and rent by the Englishman's sway;Party and creedFor once have agreed—Orange and Green will carry the day!Boyne's old water,Red with slaughter!Now is as pure as an infant at play;So, in our souls,Its history rolls,And Orange and Green will carry the day!
Fruitful our soil where honest men starve;
Empty the mart, and shipless the bay;
Out of our want the Oligarchs carve;
Foreigners fatten on our decay!
Disunited,
Therefore blighted,
Ruined and rent by the Englishman's sway;
Party and creed
For once have agreed—
Orange and Green will carry the day!
Boyne's old water,
Red with slaughter!
Now is as pure as an infant at play;
So, in our souls,
Its history rolls,
And Orange and Green will carry the day!
IV.
English deceit can rule us no more;Bigots and knaves are scattered like spray—Deep was the oath the Orangeman swore,"Orange and Green must carry the day!"Orange! Orange!Bless the Orange!Tories and Whigs grew pale with dismay,When from the NorthBurst the cry forth,"Orange and Green will carry the day!"No surrender!No Pretender!Never to falter and never betray—With an Amen,We swear it again,Orange and Green shall carry the day.
English deceit can rule us no more;Bigots and knaves are scattered like spray—Deep was the oath the Orangeman swore,"Orange and Green must carry the day!"Orange! Orange!Bless the Orange!Tories and Whigs grew pale with dismay,When from the NorthBurst the cry forth,"Orange and Green will carry the day!"No surrender!No Pretender!Never to falter and never betray—With an Amen,We swear it again,Orange and Green shall carry the day.
English deceit can rule us no more;
Bigots and knaves are scattered like spray—
Deep was the oath the Orangeman swore,
"Orange and Green must carry the day!"
Orange! Orange!
Bless the Orange!
Tories and Whigs grew pale with dismay,
When from the North
Burst the cry forth,
"Orange and Green will carry the day!"
No surrender!
No Pretender!
Never to falter and never betray—
With an Amen,
We swear it again,
Orange and Green shall carry the day.
THE LOST PATH.
Air—Grádh mo chroidhe.
I.
Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be,All comfort else has flown;For every hope was false to me,And here I am, alone.What thoughts were mine in early youth!Like some old Irish song,Brimful of love, and life, and truth,My spirit gushed along.
Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be,All comfort else has flown;For every hope was false to me,And here I am, alone.What thoughts were mine in early youth!Like some old Irish song,Brimful of love, and life, and truth,My spirit gushed along.
Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be,
All comfort else has flown;
For every hope was false to me,
And here I am, alone.
What thoughts were mine in early youth!
Like some old Irish song,
Brimful of love, and life, and truth,
My spirit gushed along.
II.
I hoped to right my native isle,I hoped a soldier's fame,I hoped to rest in woman's smileAnd win a minstrel's name—Oh! little have I served my land,No laurels press my brow,I have no woman's heart or hand,Nor minstrel honours now.
I hoped to right my native isle,I hoped a soldier's fame,I hoped to rest in woman's smileAnd win a minstrel's name—Oh! little have I served my land,No laurels press my brow,I have no woman's heart or hand,Nor minstrel honours now.
I hoped to right my native isle,
I hoped a soldier's fame,
I hoped to rest in woman's smile
And win a minstrel's name—
Oh! little have I served my land,
No laurels press my brow,
I have no woman's heart or hand,
Nor minstrel honours now.
III.
But fancy has a magic power,It brings me wreath and crown,And woman's love, the self-same hourIt smites oppression down.Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be,I have no joy beside;Oh! throng around, and be to mePower, country, fame, and bride.
But fancy has a magic power,It brings me wreath and crown,And woman's love, the self-same hourIt smites oppression down.Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be,I have no joy beside;Oh! throng around, and be to mePower, country, fame, and bride.
But fancy has a magic power,
It brings me wreath and crown,
And woman's love, the self-same hour
It smites oppression down.
Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be,
I have no joy beside;
Oh! throng around, and be to me
Power, country, fame, and bride.
THE GIRL OF DUNBWY.
I.
'Tis pretty to see the girl of DunbwyStepping the mountain statelily—Though ragged her gown, and naked her feet,No lady in Ireland to match her is meet.
'Tis pretty to see the girl of DunbwyStepping the mountain statelily—Though ragged her gown, and naked her feet,No lady in Ireland to match her is meet.
'Tis pretty to see the girl of Dunbwy
Stepping the mountain statelily—
Though ragged her gown, and naked her feet,
No lady in Ireland to match her is meet.
II.
Poor is her diet, and hardly she lies—Yet a monarch might kneel for a glance of her eyes.The child of a peasant—yet England's proud QueenHas less rank in her heart, and less grace in her mien.
Poor is her diet, and hardly she lies—Yet a monarch might kneel for a glance of her eyes.The child of a peasant—yet England's proud QueenHas less rank in her heart, and less grace in her mien.
Poor is her diet, and hardly she lies—
Yet a monarch might kneel for a glance of her eyes.
The child of a peasant—yet England's proud Queen
Has less rank in her heart, and less grace in her mien.
III.
Her brow 'neath her raven hair gleams, just as ifA breaker spread white 'neath a shadowy cliff—And love, and devotion, and energy speakFrom her beauty-proud eye, and her passion-pale cheek.
Her brow 'neath her raven hair gleams, just as ifA breaker spread white 'neath a shadowy cliff—And love, and devotion, and energy speakFrom her beauty-proud eye, and her passion-pale cheek.
Her brow 'neath her raven hair gleams, just as if
A breaker spread white 'neath a shadowy cliff—
And love, and devotion, and energy speak
From her beauty-proud eye, and her passion-pale cheek.
IV.
But, pale as her cheek is, there's fruit on her lip,And her teeth flash as white as the crescent moon's tip,And her form and her step like the red-deer's go past—As lightsome, as lovely, as haughty, as fast.
But, pale as her cheek is, there's fruit on her lip,And her teeth flash as white as the crescent moon's tip,And her form and her step like the red-deer's go past—As lightsome, as lovely, as haughty, as fast.
But, pale as her cheek is, there's fruit on her lip,
And her teeth flash as white as the crescent moon's tip,
And her form and her step like the red-deer's go past—
As lightsome, as lovely, as haughty, as fast.
V.
I saw her but once, and I looked in her eye,And she knew that I worshipped in passing her by;The saint of the wayside—she granted my prayer,Though we spoke not a word, for her mother was there.
I saw her but once, and I looked in her eye,And she knew that I worshipped in passing her by;The saint of the wayside—she granted my prayer,Though we spoke not a word, for her mother was there.
I saw her but once, and I looked in her eye,
And she knew that I worshipped in passing her by;
The saint of the wayside—she granted my prayer,
Though we spoke not a word, for her mother was there.
VI.
I never can think upon Bantry's bright hills,But her image starts up, and my longing eye fills;And I whisper her softly, "Again, love, we'll meet!And I'll lie in your bosom, and live at your feet."
I never can think upon Bantry's bright hills,But her image starts up, and my longing eye fills;And I whisper her softly, "Again, love, we'll meet!And I'll lie in your bosom, and live at your feet."
I never can think upon Bantry's bright hills,
But her image starts up, and my longing eye fills;
And I whisper her softly, "Again, love, we'll meet!
And I'll lie in your bosom, and live at your feet."
BLIND MARY.
Air—Blind Mary.
I.
There flows from her spirit such love and delight,That the face of Blind Mary is radiant with light—As the gleam from a homestead through darkness will showOr the moon glimmer soft through the fast falling snow.
There flows from her spirit such love and delight,That the face of Blind Mary is radiant with light—As the gleam from a homestead through darkness will showOr the moon glimmer soft through the fast falling snow.
There flows from her spirit such love and delight,
That the face of Blind Mary is radiant with light—
As the gleam from a homestead through darkness will show
Or the moon glimmer soft through the fast falling snow.
II.
Yet there's a keen sorrow comes o'er her at times,As an Indian might feel in our northerly climes!And she talks of the sunset, like parting of friends,And the starlight, as love, that not changes nor ends.
Yet there's a keen sorrow comes o'er her at times,As an Indian might feel in our northerly climes!And she talks of the sunset, like parting of friends,And the starlight, as love, that not changes nor ends.
Yet there's a keen sorrow comes o'er her at times,
As an Indian might feel in our northerly climes!
And she talks of the sunset, like parting of friends,
And the starlight, as love, that not changes nor ends.
III.
Ah! grieve not, sweet maiden, for star or for sun,For the mountains that tower or the rivers that run—For beauty and grandeur, and glory, and light,Are seen by the spirit, and not by the sight.
Ah! grieve not, sweet maiden, for star or for sun,For the mountains that tower or the rivers that run—For beauty and grandeur, and glory, and light,Are seen by the spirit, and not by the sight.
Ah! grieve not, sweet maiden, for star or for sun,
For the mountains that tower or the rivers that run—
For beauty and grandeur, and glory, and light,
Are seen by the spirit, and not by the sight.
IV.
In vain for the thoughtless are sunburst and shade,In vain for the heartless flowers blossom and fade;While the darkness that seems your sweet being to boundIs one of the guardians, an Eden around!
In vain for the thoughtless are sunburst and shade,In vain for the heartless flowers blossom and fade;While the darkness that seems your sweet being to boundIs one of the guardians, an Eden around!
In vain for the thoughtless are sunburst and shade,
In vain for the heartless flowers blossom and fade;
While the darkness that seems your sweet being to bound
Is one of the guardians, an Eden around!
OH! THE MARRIAGE.
Air—The Swaggering Jig.
I.
Oh! the marriage, the marriage,With love andmo bhuachaillfor me,The ladies that ride in a carriageMight envy my marriage to me;For Eoghan[84]is straight as a tower,And tender, and loving, and true;He told me more love in an hourThan the Squires of the county could do.Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.
Oh! the marriage, the marriage,With love andmo bhuachaillfor me,The ladies that ride in a carriageMight envy my marriage to me;For Eoghan[84]is straight as a tower,And tender, and loving, and true;He told me more love in an hourThan the Squires of the county could do.Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.
Oh! the marriage, the marriage,
With love andmo bhuachaillfor me,
The ladies that ride in a carriage
Might envy my marriage to me;
For Eoghan[84]is straight as a tower,
And tender, and loving, and true;
He told me more love in an hour
Than the Squires of the county could do.
Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.
II.
His hair is a shower of soft gold,His eye is as clear as the day,His conscience and vote were unsoldWhen others were carried away;His word is as good as an oath,And freely 'twas given to me;Oh! sure, 'twill be happy for bothThe day of our marriage to see.Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.
His hair is a shower of soft gold,His eye is as clear as the day,His conscience and vote were unsoldWhen others were carried away;His word is as good as an oath,And freely 'twas given to me;Oh! sure, 'twill be happy for bothThe day of our marriage to see.Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.
His hair is a shower of soft gold,
His eye is as clear as the day,
His conscience and vote were unsold
When others were carried away;
His word is as good as an oath,
And freely 'twas given to me;
Oh! sure, 'twill be happy for both
The day of our marriage to see.
Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.
III.
His kinsmen are honest and kind,The neighbours think much of his skill,And Eoghan's the lad to my mind,Though he owns neither castle nor mill.But he has a tilloch of land,A horse, and a stocking of coin,A foot for a dance, and a handIn the cause of his country to join.Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.
His kinsmen are honest and kind,The neighbours think much of his skill,And Eoghan's the lad to my mind,Though he owns neither castle nor mill.But he has a tilloch of land,A horse, and a stocking of coin,A foot for a dance, and a handIn the cause of his country to join.Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.
His kinsmen are honest and kind,
The neighbours think much of his skill,
And Eoghan's the lad to my mind,
Though he owns neither castle nor mill.
But he has a tilloch of land,
A horse, and a stocking of coin,
A foot for a dance, and a hand
In the cause of his country to join.
Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.
IV.
We meet in the market and fair—We meet in the morning and night—He sits on the half of my chair,And my people are wild with delight;Yet I long through the winter to skim,Though Eoghan longs more I can see,When I will be married to him,And he will be married to me.Then, Oh! the marriage, the marriage,With love andmo bhuachaillfor me,The ladies that ride in a carriage,Might envy my marriage to me.
We meet in the market and fair—We meet in the morning and night—He sits on the half of my chair,And my people are wild with delight;Yet I long through the winter to skim,Though Eoghan longs more I can see,When I will be married to him,And he will be married to me.Then, Oh! the marriage, the marriage,With love andmo bhuachaillfor me,The ladies that ride in a carriage,Might envy my marriage to me.
We meet in the market and fair—
We meet in the morning and night—
He sits on the half of my chair,
And my people are wild with delight;
Yet I long through the winter to skim,
Though Eoghan longs more I can see,
When I will be married to him,
And he will be married to me.
Then, Oh! the marriage, the marriage,
With love andmo bhuachaillfor me,
The ladies that ride in a carriage,
Might envy my marriage to me.
THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE.
Air—An Cota Caol.
I.
His kiss is sweet, his word is kind,His love is rich to me;I could not in a palace findA truer heart than he.The eagle shelters not his nestFrom hurricane and hail,More bravely than he guards my breast—The Boatman of Kinsale.
His kiss is sweet, his word is kind,His love is rich to me;I could not in a palace findA truer heart than he.The eagle shelters not his nestFrom hurricane and hail,More bravely than he guards my breast—The Boatman of Kinsale.
His kiss is sweet, his word is kind,
His love is rich to me;
I could not in a palace find
A truer heart than he.
The eagle shelters not his nest
From hurricane and hail,
More bravely than he guards my breast—
The Boatman of Kinsale.
II.
The wind that round the Fastnet sweepsIs not a whit more pure—The goat that down Cnoc Sheehy leapsHas not a foot more sure.No firmer hand nor freer eyeE'er faced an autumn gale—De Courcy's heart is not so high—The Boatman of Kinsale.
The wind that round the Fastnet sweepsIs not a whit more pure—The goat that down Cnoc Sheehy leapsHas not a foot more sure.No firmer hand nor freer eyeE'er faced an autumn gale—De Courcy's heart is not so high—The Boatman of Kinsale.
The wind that round the Fastnet sweeps
Is not a whit more pure—
The goat that down Cnoc Sheehy leaps
Has not a foot more sure.
No firmer hand nor freer eye
E'er faced an autumn gale—
De Courcy's heart is not so high—
The Boatman of Kinsale.
III.
The brawling squires may heed him not,The dainty stranger sneer—But who will dare to hurt our cotWhen Myles O'Hea is here?The scarlet soldiers pass along;They'd like, but fear to rail;His blood is hot, his blow is strong—The Boatman of Kinsale.
The brawling squires may heed him not,The dainty stranger sneer—But who will dare to hurt our cotWhen Myles O'Hea is here?The scarlet soldiers pass along;They'd like, but fear to rail;His blood is hot, his blow is strong—The Boatman of Kinsale.
The brawling squires may heed him not,
The dainty stranger sneer—
But who will dare to hurt our cot
When Myles O'Hea is here?
The scarlet soldiers pass along;
They'd like, but fear to rail;
His blood is hot, his blow is strong—
The Boatman of Kinsale.
IV.
His hooker's in the Scilly vanWhen seines are in the foam;But money never made the man,Nor wealth a happy home.So, blest with love and liberty,While he can trim a sail,He'll trust in God, and cling to me—The Boatman of Kinsale.
His hooker's in the Scilly vanWhen seines are in the foam;But money never made the man,Nor wealth a happy home.So, blest with love and liberty,While he can trim a sail,He'll trust in God, and cling to me—The Boatman of Kinsale.
His hooker's in the Scilly van
When seines are in the foam;
But money never made the man,
Nor wealth a happy home.
So, blest with love and liberty,
While he can trim a sail,
He'll trust in God, and cling to me—
The Boatman of Kinsale.
LOVE AND WAR.
I.
How soft is the moon on Glengariff,The rocks seem to melt with the light:Oh! would I were there with dear Fanny,To tell her that love is as bright;And nobly the sun of JulyO'er the waters of Adragoole shines—Oh! would that I saw the green bannerBlaze there over conquering lines.
How soft is the moon on Glengariff,The rocks seem to melt with the light:Oh! would I were there with dear Fanny,To tell her that love is as bright;And nobly the sun of JulyO'er the waters of Adragoole shines—Oh! would that I saw the green bannerBlaze there over conquering lines.
How soft is the moon on Glengariff,
The rocks seem to melt with the light:
Oh! would I were there with dear Fanny,
To tell her that love is as bright;
And nobly the sun of July
O'er the waters of Adragoole shines—
Oh! would that I saw the green banner
Blaze there over conquering lines.
II.
Oh! love is more fair than the moonlight,And glory more grand than the sun:And there is no rest for a brave heart,Till its bride and its laurels are won;But next to the burst of our banner,And the smile of dear Fanny, I craveThe moon on the rocks of Glengariff—The sun upon Adragoole's wave.
Oh! love is more fair than the moonlight,And glory more grand than the sun:And there is no rest for a brave heart,Till its bride and its laurels are won;But next to the burst of our banner,And the smile of dear Fanny, I craveThe moon on the rocks of Glengariff—The sun upon Adragoole's wave.
Oh! love is more fair than the moonlight,
And glory more grand than the sun:
And there is no rest for a brave heart,
Till its bride and its laurels are won;
But next to the burst of our banner,
And the smile of dear Fanny, I crave
The moon on the rocks of Glengariff—
The sun upon Adragoole's wave.
MY LAND.
I.
She is a rich and rare land;Oh! she's a fresh and fair land;She is a dear and rare land—This native land of mine.
She is a rich and rare land;Oh! she's a fresh and fair land;She is a dear and rare land—This native land of mine.
She is a rich and rare land;
Oh! she's a fresh and fair land;
She is a dear and rare land—
This native land of mine.
II.
No men than her's are braver—Her women's hearts ne'er waver;I'd freely die to save her,And think my lot divine.
No men than her's are braver—Her women's hearts ne'er waver;I'd freely die to save her,And think my lot divine.
No men than her's are braver—
Her women's hearts ne'er waver;
I'd freely die to save her,
And think my lot divine.
III.
She's not a dull or cold land;No! she's a warm and bold land;Oh! she's a true and old land—This native land of mine.
She's not a dull or cold land;No! she's a warm and bold land;Oh! she's a true and old land—This native land of mine.
She's not a dull or cold land;
No! she's a warm and bold land;
Oh! she's a true and old land—
This native land of mine.
IV.
Could beauty ever guard her,And virtue still reward her,No foe would cross her border—No friend within it pine!
Could beauty ever guard her,And virtue still reward her,No foe would cross her border—No friend within it pine!
Could beauty ever guard her,
And virtue still reward her,
No foe would cross her border—
No friend within it pine!
V.
Oh! she's a fresh and fair land;Oh! she's a true and rare land;Yes! she's a rare and fair land—This native land of mine.
Oh! she's a fresh and fair land;Oh! she's a true and rare land;Yes! she's a rare and fair land—This native land of mine.
Oh! she's a fresh and fair land;
Oh! she's a true and rare land;
Yes! she's a rare and fair land—
This native land of mine.
THE RIGHT ROAD.
I.
Let the feeble-hearted pine,Let the sickly spirit whine,But work and win be thine,While you've life.God smiles upon the bold—So, when your flag's unrolled,Bear it bravely till you're coldIn the strife.
Let the feeble-hearted pine,Let the sickly spirit whine,But work and win be thine,While you've life.God smiles upon the bold—So, when your flag's unrolled,Bear it bravely till you're coldIn the strife.
Let the feeble-hearted pine,
Let the sickly spirit whine,
But work and win be thine,
While you've life.
God smiles upon the bold—
So, when your flag's unrolled,
Bear it bravely till you're cold
In the strife.
II.
If to rank or fame you soar,Out your spirit frankly pour—Men will serve you and adore,Like a king.Woo your girl with honest pride,Till you've won her for your bride—Then to her, through time and tide,Ever cling.
If to rank or fame you soar,Out your spirit frankly pour—Men will serve you and adore,Like a king.Woo your girl with honest pride,Till you've won her for your bride—Then to her, through time and tide,Ever cling.
If to rank or fame you soar,
Out your spirit frankly pour—
Men will serve you and adore,
Like a king.
Woo your girl with honest pride,
Till you've won her for your bride—
Then to her, through time and tide,
Ever cling.
III.
Never under wrongs despair;Labour long, and everywhere,Link your countrymen, prepare,And strike home.Thus have great men ever wrought,Thus must greatness still be sought,Thus laboured, loved, and foughtGreece and Rome.
Never under wrongs despair;Labour long, and everywhere,Link your countrymen, prepare,And strike home.Thus have great men ever wrought,Thus must greatness still be sought,Thus laboured, loved, and foughtGreece and Rome.
Never under wrongs despair;
Labour long, and everywhere,
Link your countrymen, prepare,
And strike home.
Thus have great men ever wrought,
Thus must greatness still be sought,
Thus laboured, loved, and fought
Greece and Rome.
MY GRAVE.
Shall they bury me in the deep,Where wind-forgetting waters sleep?Shall they dig a grave for me,Under the green-wood tree?Or on the wild heath,Where the wilder breathOf the storm doth blow?Oh, no! oh, no!Shall they bury me in the Palace Tombs,Or under the shade of Cathedral domes?Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore;Yet not there—nor in Greece, though I love it more,In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find?Shall my ashes career on the world-seeing wind?Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound,Where coffinless thousands lie under the ground?Just as they fall they are buried so—Oh, no! oh, no!No! on an Irish green hill-side,On an opening lawn—but not too wide;For I love the drip of the wetted trees—I love not the gales, but a gentle breezeTo freshen the turf—put no tombstone there,But green sods decked with daisies fair;Nor sods too deep, but so that the dew,The matted grass-roots may trickle through.Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind,"He served his country, and loved his kind."Oh! 'twere merry unto the grave to go,If one were sure to be buried so.
Shall they bury me in the deep,Where wind-forgetting waters sleep?Shall they dig a grave for me,Under the green-wood tree?Or on the wild heath,Where the wilder breathOf the storm doth blow?Oh, no! oh, no!
Shall they bury me in the deep,
Where wind-forgetting waters sleep?
Shall they dig a grave for me,
Under the green-wood tree?
Or on the wild heath,
Where the wilder breath
Of the storm doth blow?
Oh, no! oh, no!
Shall they bury me in the Palace Tombs,Or under the shade of Cathedral domes?Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore;Yet not there—nor in Greece, though I love it more,In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find?Shall my ashes career on the world-seeing wind?Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound,Where coffinless thousands lie under the ground?Just as they fall they are buried so—Oh, no! oh, no!
Shall they bury me in the Palace Tombs,
Or under the shade of Cathedral domes?
Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore;
Yet not there—nor in Greece, though I love it more,
In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find?
Shall my ashes career on the world-seeing wind?
Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound,
Where coffinless thousands lie under the ground?
Just as they fall they are buried so—
Oh, no! oh, no!
No! on an Irish green hill-side,On an opening lawn—but not too wide;For I love the drip of the wetted trees—I love not the gales, but a gentle breezeTo freshen the turf—put no tombstone there,But green sods decked with daisies fair;Nor sods too deep, but so that the dew,The matted grass-roots may trickle through.Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind,"He served his country, and loved his kind."
No! on an Irish green hill-side,
On an opening lawn—but not too wide;
For I love the drip of the wetted trees—
I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze
To freshen the turf—put no tombstone there,
But green sods decked with daisies fair;
Nor sods too deep, but so that the dew,
The matted grass-roots may trickle through.
Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind,
"He served his country, and loved his kind."
Oh! 'twere merry unto the grave to go,If one were sure to be buried so.
Oh! 'twere merry unto the grave to go,
If one were sure to be buried so.
Footnotes
1 (Return)This work, with the inclusion of the full text of the more important of the Acts of the Parliament of James II., and with an Introduction by Sir Charles Gavan Duffy, was reprinted from theDublin Monthly Magazineof 1843 by Mr. Fisher Unwin in 1891 as the first volume of the 'New Irish Library.' It is now out of print.
2 (Return)Mr. Mongan's School on Lower Mount Street.
3 (Return)"Life of Davis," p. 286.
4 (Return)"Life of Davis," pp. 218, 219.
5 (Return)King's "State of the Protestants." Harris's "Life of King William," folio, Dublin, 1749, book 8. Leland's "History of Ireland," vol. 3, book 6, chaps. 5 and 6. Lesley's "Answer to King's State of the Protestants," London, 1692. Curry's "Review of the Civil Wars of Ireland." Plowden's "Historical Review of Ireland; also History of Ireland," vol. i., c. 9. Jones's "Reply to an anonymous writer from Belfast, signed Portia," Dublin, 1792.
6 (Return)Thorpe's MSS.
7 (Return)London, 2 vols. 4to, edited by Rev. J. Clarke.
8 (Return)Paris, 1825, 3 vols. 8vo.
9 (Return)Spenser's "View"; Fynes Moryson's "Itinerary"; Captain Lee's "Memoir"; Harris's "Letters"; and Carte's "Ormonde."
10 (Return)See the proofs of this collected in Carey's "Vindiciæ Hibernicæ."
11 (Return)Milton's "Eikonoclastes"; Warner's "History of the Rebellion"; Carey's "Vindiciæ"; and Pamphlets, Libraries of Trinity College and the Dublin Society.
12 (Return)Sir W. Petty's "Political Anatomy of Ireland"; Lawrence's "Interest of Ireland"; "Curry's Review"; "Carte's Life and Letters of Ormonde," &c.
13 (Return)Hallam's "Constitutional History," v. 3, p. 588, 3rd edition.
14 (Return)Speke's "Memoirs."
15 (Return)See the Declaration of Union, dated 21st March, 1688, in the Appendix to Walker's "Account of the Siege of Derry."
16 (Return)These acts were done in good faith by the people, instigated by the devices of the nobles. A letter, now admitted to have been forged, was dispersed by Lord Mount Alexander, announcing the design of the Roman Catholics to murder the Protestants.
17 (Return)See as to this, Melfort's letter to Pottinger, the sovereign of Belfast; "History of Belfast," pp. 72-3; Lesleyproves, on Williamite authority, that the Protestants were worse treated by William's army than by James's. See Dr. Gorges in Lesley's Appendix.
18 (Return)He was appointed in 1686 (see Appendix B). T. W. R.
19 (Return)In July, 1691, William had offered these terms: 1st. The free public exercise of the Roman Catholic Religion. 2nd. Half the churches in the kingdom. 3rd. Half the employments, civil and military, if they pleased. 4th. Half their properties, as held prior to Cromwell's conquest. The terms were at once refused. The suppressed proclamation doubtless offered at least as much. (Harris's "William," and Plowden, b. 2.)