Like billows of the ocean,

He sees them hurry on-
And, 'mid the wild commotion,
An Orangeman alone.

"My hair," he said, "is hoary,
And feeble is my hand,

And I could tell a story

Would shame your cruel band. Full twenty years and over

Have changed my heart and brow,

And I am grown a lover

Of peace and concord now.

"It was not thus I greeted
Your brother of the Green;
When fainting and defeated
I freely took him in.

I pledged my word to save him,
From vengeance rushing on,
I kept the pledge I gave him,
Though he had kill'd my son."

That aged peasant heard him,
And knew him as he stood,
Remembrance kindly stir'd him,
And tender gratitude.
With gushing tears of pleasure,
He pierced the listening train,
"I'm here to pay the measure
Of kindness back again!"

Upon his bosom falling,

That old man's tears came down ;

Deep memory recalling

That cot and fatal town.

"The hand that would offend thee,
My being first shall end;
I'm living to defend thee,

My saviour and my friend!"

He said, and slowly turning,
Address'd the wondering crowd,
With fervent spirit burning,
He told the tale aloud.

Now pressed the warm beholders,
Their aged foe to greet;

They raised him on their shoulders

And chaired him through the street.

As he had saved that stranger,
From peril scowling dim,
So in his day of danger

Did Heav'n remember him.
By joyous crowds attended,

The worthy pair were seen,
And their flags that day were blended

Of Orange and of Green.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

BY REV. CHARLES WOLFE.

[Rev. Charles Wolfe was a native of Dublin, becarne a minister of the Established Church, and died in the prime of his manhood. Some of his letters, since published, are remarkable for earnestness and depth; but his verses, with the exception of a song gushing with tenderness ("My own friend, my own friend,") are very much inferior to this ballad. Several weak attempts have been made to rob him of the "Burial of Moore," but they were manifest impostures. The original copy in his own MS. lies in the Royal Irish Academy.]

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;

Not a soldier discharged his farewell-shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-
But we left him alone with his glory!

A LAMENT

FOR THE TIRONIAN AND TIRCONNELLIAN PRINCES BURIED AT ROME.

TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH,

BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.

[This is an Elegy on the death of the princes of Tyrone and Tyrconnell, who having fled with others from Ireland in the year 1607, and afterwards dying at Rome, were interred on St. Peter's Hill, in one grave. The poem is the production of O'Donnell's bard, Owen Roe Mac an Bhaird, or Ward, who accompanied the family in their exile, and is addressed to Nuala, O'Donnell's sister, who was also cne of the fugitives. As the circumstances connected with the flight of the Northern Earls, which led to the subsequent confiscation of the six Ulster Counties by James I., may not be immediately in the recollection of many of our readers, it may be proper briefly to state, that it was caused by the discovery of a letter directed to Sir William Ussher, Clerk of the Council, dropped in the Council-chamber on the 7th of May, and which accused the Northern chieftains generally of a conspiracy to overthow the government. The charge is now totally disbelieved. As an illustration of the poem, and as an interesting piece of hitherto unpublished literature in itself, we extract the account of the flight as recorded in the Annals of the Four Masters, and translated by Mr. O'Donovan:

Maguire (Cuconnaught) and Donogh, son of Mahon, who was son of the Bishop O'Brien, sailed in a ship to Ireland, and put in at the harbour of Swilly. They then took with them from Ireland the Earl O'Neill (Hugh, son of Fedoragh) and the Earl O'Donnell (Rory, son of Hugh, who was son of Magnus) and many others of the nobles of the province of Ulster. These are the persons who went with O'Neill, namely, his Countess, Catherina, daughter of Magennis, and her three sons; Hugh, the Baron, John and Brian; Art Oge, son of Cormac, who was son of the Baron; Ferdoragh, son of Con, who was son of O'Neill; Hugh Oge, son of Brian, who was son of Art O'Neill; and many others of his most intimate friends. These were they who went with the Earl O'Donnell, namely, Caffer, his brother, with his sister Nuala; Hugh, the Earl's child, wanting three weeks of being one year old; Rose, daughter of O'Doherty and wife of Caffer, with her son Hugh, aged two years and three months; his (Rory's) brother son Donnell Oge, son of Donnell, Naghtan son of Calvach, who was son of Donogh Cairbreach O'Donnell, and many others of his intimate friends. They embarked on the Festival of the Holy Cross in Autumn. This was a distinguished company; and it is certain that the sea has not borne ant the wind has not wafted in modern times a number of persons in one ship more eminent, illustrious, or noble, in point of genealogy, heroic deeds, valour, feats of arms, and brave achievements, than they. Would that God had but permitted them to remain in their patrimonial inheritances until the children should arrive at the age of manhood! Woe to the heart that meditated, woe to the mind that conceived, woe to the council that recommended

the project of this expedition, without knowing whether they should, to the end of their lives, be able to return to their native principalities or patrimonies."

The Earl of Tyrone, was the illustrious Hugh O'Neill, the Irish leader In the wars against Elizabeth. His life, by Mr. Mitchell, forms a volume in the present series.]

O, WOMAN of the Piercing Wail,

Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay
With sigh and groan,

Would God thou wert among the Gael!
Thou wouldst not then from day to day
Weep thus alone.

"Twere long before, around a grave
In green Tirconnell, one could find
This loneliness;

Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave
Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined
Companionless.

Beside the wave, in Donegall,

In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore,
Or Killilee,

Or where the sunny waters fall,

At Assaroe, near Erna's shore,
This could not be.

On Derry's plains-in rich Drumclieff-
Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned
In olden years,

No day could pass but woman's grief
Would rain upon the burial-ground
Fresh floods of tears!

O, no!-from Shannon, Boyne, and Suir,
From high Dunluce's castle walls,
From Lissadill,

Would flock alike both rich and poor,

One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls

To Tara's hill;