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!

WERE you ever in sweet Tipperary, where the fields are so sunny and green, And the heath-brown Slieve-bloom and the Galtees look down with so proud a mien ?

'Tis there you would see more beauty than is on all Irish ground

God bless you, my sweet Tipperary! for

where could your match be found ?

They say that your hand is fearful, that darkness is in your eye;

But I'll not let them dare to talk so black and bitter a lie.

O, no! macushla storin, bright, bright, and

Sure a frown or a word of hatred was not made for your face so fair;

You've a hand for the grasp of friendship - another to make them quake, And they're welcome to whichsoever it pleases them to take.

Shall our homes, like the huts of Connaught, be crumbled before our eyes?

Shall we fly, like a flock of wild geese, from all that we love and prize? No! by those that were here before us, no churl shall our tyrant be, Our land it is theirs by plunderBrigid, ourselves are free!

but, by

O, come for awhile among us and give us the friendly hand!

And you'll see that old Tipperary is a loving and gladsome land;

From Upper to Lower Ormonde, bright welcomes and smiles will spring : On the plains of Tipperary the stranger is like a king.

WERE I BUT HIS OWN WIFE

WERE I but his own wife, to guard and to guide him,

'Tis little of sorrow should fall on my dear;

I'd chant my low love-verses, stealing beside him,

So faint and so tender his heart would but hear;

I'd pull the wild blossoms from valley and highland,

And there at his feet I would lay them all down ;

I'd sing him the songs of our poor stricken island,

Till his heart was on fire with a love like my own.

There's a rose by his dwelling, — I'd tend

the lone treasure,

That he might have flowers when the summer would come;

There's a harp in his hall, I would wake its sweet measure,

For he must have music to brighten his home.

The chatt'rèn birds, a-risèn high,
An' zinken low, did swiftly vlee
Vrom shrinkèn moss, a-growèn dry,
Upon the leänen apple tree.
An' there the dog, a-whippèn wide
His heäiry tail, an' comèn near,
Did fondly lay ageän your
zide

His coal-black nose an' russet ear:
To win what I'd a-won avore,

Vrom your gay feäce, his woone smile

mwore.

An' while your mother bustled sprack,
A-gettèn supper out in hall,
An' cast her sheäde, a-whiv'rèn black
Avore the vire, upon the wall;
Your brother come, wi' easy peäce,
In drough the slammèn geäte, along
The path, wi' healthy-bloomèn feäce,

A-whis'lèn shrill his last new zong:
An' when he come avore the door,
He met vrom you his woone smile mwore.

Now you that wer the daughter there,
Be mother on a husband's vloor,
An' mid ye meet wi' less o' ceäre

Than what your hearty mother bore;
An' if abroad I have to rue

The bitter tongue, or wrongvul deed, Mid I come hwome to sheäre wi' you What's needvul free o' pinchèn need :

An' vind that you ha' still in store
My evenèn meal, an' woone smile

mwore.

BLACKMWORE MAIDENS

THE primrwose in the sheäde do blow,
The cowslip in the zun,

The thyme upon the down do grow,
The clote where streams do run;
An' where do pretty maidens grow
An' blow, but where the tow'r
Do rise among the bricken tuns,
In Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you could zee their comely gaït,
An' pretty feäces' smiles,
A-trippen on so light o' waïght,
An' steppèn off the stiles;
A-gwaïn to church, as bells do swing
An' ring 'ithin the tow'r,

You'd own the pretty maïdens' pleäce
Is Blackmwore by the Stour.

Thik tree. (3) The pollard? (1) Pol

lard! no! b'ye blind?

(2) There, I do zee em over-right thik

(3)

COW.

The red woone? (1) No, a mile beyand her now.

(3) Oh! there's the heäre, a-meäkèn for the drong.

(2) My goodness!

zweep along,

How the dogs do

A-poken out their pweinted noses' tips. (3) He can't allow hizzelf much time vor

slips!

They'll hab en, after all, I'll bet a

(1)

(2)

Done vor a crown. They woon't!

crown.

He's gwäin to groun'.

(3) He is! (1) He idden! (3) Ah! 't is

well his tooes

Ha' got noo corns, inside o’hobnail shoes.