THE IRISH RAPPAREES

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RIGH Shemus1 he has gone to France, and left his crown behind Ill luck be theirs, both day and night, put running in his mind!

Lord Lucan followed after with his Slashers brave and true,

And now the doleful keen is raised "What will poor Ireland do? What must poor Ireland do? Our luck," they say, "has gone to France - what can poor Ireland do?"

O, never fear for Ireland, for she has soldiers still,

For Rory's boys are in the wood, and Remy's on the hill !

And never had poor Ireland more loyal hearts than these

May God be kind and good to them, the faithful Rapparees !

The fearless Rapparees! The jewel were you, Rory, with your Irish Rapparees!

O, black's your heart, Clan Oliver, and colder than the clay!

O, high 's your head, Clan Sassenach, since Sarsfield's gone away!

It's little love you bear to us for sake of

long ago;

But hold your hand, for Ireland still can strike a deadly blow

Can strike a mortal blow: Och, duar-na-Críosd! 't is she that still could strike a deadly blow!

The Master's bawn, the Master's seat, a surly bodagh fills;

The Master's son, an outlawed man, is riding on the hills.

But God be prais'd that round him throng, as thick as summer bees,

The swords that guarded Limerick wall his loyal Rapparees!

His loving Rapparees!

Who dare say no to Rory Oge, with all his Rapparees?

Black Billy Grimes of Latnamard, he rack'd us long and sore

God rest the faithful hearts he broke ! -
we 'll never see them more;
But I'll go bail he 'll break no more, while
Truagh has gallows-trees;

For why?-he met, one lonesome night,
the fearless Rapparees!
The angry Rapparees!

They never sin no more, my boys, who cross the Rapparees !

Now, Sassenach and Cromweller, take heed of what I say,

Keep down your black and angry looks that scorn us night and day: For there's a just and wrathful Judge that every action sees,

And He'll make strong, to right our wrong, the faithful Rapparees!

The fearless Rapparees!

The men that rode at Sarsfield's side, the · roving Rapparees!

If thou lovest, where 's the test ? Wilt thou strike a blow for it?

Has the past no goading sting

That can make thee rouse for it? Does thy land's reviving spring, Full of buds and blossoming, Fail to make thy cold heart cling, Breathing lover's vows for it? With the circling ocean's ring

Thou wert made a spouse for it.

Hast thou kept as thou shouldst keep
Thy affections warm for it,
Letting no cold feeling creep
Like an ice-breath o'er the deep,
Freezing to a stony sleep

Hopes the heart would form for it, Glories that like rainbows peep Through the darkening storm for it?

Son of this down-trodden land,

Aid us in the fight for it.
We seek to make it great and grand,
Its shipless bays, its naked strand,
By canvas-swelling breezes fanned :
Oh, what a glorious sight for it,
The past expiring like a brand

In morning's rosy light for it!

Think, this dear old land is thine,

And thou a traitor slave of it: Think how the Switzer leads his kine, When pale the evening star doth shine

His song has home in every line,
Freedom in every stave of it ;
Think how the German loves his Rhine
And worships every wave of it!

Our own dear land is bright as theirs,
But oh! our hearts are cold for it
Awake! we are not slaves, but heirs.
Our fatherland requires our cares,
Our speech with men, with God our prayers;
Spurn blood-stain'd Judas gold for it:
Let us do all that honor dares

Be earnest, faithful, bold for it!

THE IRISH WOLF-HOUND FROM “THE FORAY OF CON O'DONNELL As fly the shadows o'er the grass,

He flies with step as light and sure, He hunts the wolf through Tostan pass, And starts the deer by Lisanoure. The music of the Sabbath bells,

O Con! has not a sweeter sound Than when along the valley swells

The cry of John Mac Donnell's hound.

His stature tall, his body long,

His back like night, his breast like snow, His fore-leg pillar-like and strong, His hind-leg like a bended bow; Rough curling hair, head long and thin, His ear a leaf so small and round; Not Bran, the favorite dog of Fin,

Could rival John Mac Donnell's hound.

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD

WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?
Who blushes at the name?
When cowards mock the patriot's fate,
Who hangs his head for shame ?
He's all a knave or half a slave

Who slights his country thus ;
But a true man, like you, man,
Will fill your glass with us.

We drink the memory of the brave,
The faithful and the few:
Some lie far off beyond the wave,

Some sleep in Ireland, too;
All, all are gone but still lives on

The fame of those who died:
All true men, like you, men,

Remember them with pride.

Some on the shores of distant lands
Their weary hearts have laid,
And by the stranger's heedless hands
Their lonely graves were made;
But, though their clay be far away
Beyond the Atlantic foam,
In true men, like you, men,
Their spirit 's still at home.

Apollo's self might pause to hear Her bird-like carol when she sings.

I would not give my Irish wife
For all the dames of the Saxon land;
I would not give my Irish wife

For the Queen of France's hand;
For she to me is dearer

Than castles strong, or lands, or life : In death I would be near her,

And rise beside my Irish wife.

THE EXILE'S DEVOTION

IF I forswear the art divine

That glorifies the dead,

What comfort then can I call mine,

What solace seek instead?

For from my birth our country's fame
Was life to me, and love;
And for each loyal Irish name
Some garland still I wove.

I'd rather be the bird that sings
Above the martyr's grave,

Than fold in fortune's cage my wings
And feel my soul a slave;

I'd rather turn one simple verse
True to the Gaelic ear

Than sapphic odes I might rehearse With senates listening near.

Oh, native land! dost ever mark,
When the world's din is drown'd
Betwixt the daylight and the dark,
A wandering solemn sound
That on the western wind is borne
Across thy dewy breast?

It is the voice of those who mourn
For thee, in the far West.

For them and theirs I oft essay
Thy ancient art of song,
And often sadly turn away,
Deeming my rashness wrong;
For well I ween, a loving will
Is all the art I own:

Ah me! could love suffice for skill,
What triumphs I had known!

My native land! my native land!
Live in my memory still!

Break on my brain, ye surges grand !
Stand up, mist-cover'd hill !

Still on the mirror of the mind

The scenes I love, I see:

Would I could fly on the western wind, My native land, to thee!