THE

Ballad Poetry of Ereland.

GILLE MACHREE.

BY GERALD GRIFFIN.

Author of "The Collegians," &c.

[Gerald Griffin stands in the first rank of Irish novelists. If the natural bent of his genius had not been crossed by weak counsel and baffled hopes, he might have become our greatest native poet. Poetry was his first inspiration, and he loved it to the last; but it was a passion only, it never became an Art to him. While he was still a boy drifting in his boat on the Shannon, and planning a career of great achievements, he had already designed a series of tragedies, to which it is now certain, his powers were fully adequate. But a life of feverish anxieties, of slavish drudgery for London booksellers and London newspapers, of killing uncertainty and disappointments, aggravated by his own anxious and sensitive nature, left him no leisure, for the develop ment of his great designs. After toiling for ten years he retreated from the world, took refuge in the society of Christian Brothers, and devoted himself to works of morality and education, till a fever fell upon him in 1840, of which he died in the prime of his powers. Since his death one of the tragedies designed in his boyhood, and completed among the tumult of his distracting engagements, was produced on the London stage, and pronounced to be "the greatest drama of our times." His poems have been since collected in a volume, and attained to instant popularity. These are but fragments of his projected works. But they afford sure indications that if it had been his fate to live at home, in peace, honour, and enjoyment, his attainment to the first place among our dramatic poets, was easy and certain.]

Gille machree, *

Sit down by me,

We now are joined and ne'er shall sever;
This hearth's our own

Our hearts are one

And peace is ours for ever!

* gile mo ¿rói DE, brightener of my heart

When I was poor,

Your father's door

Was closed against your constant lover;
With care and pain,

I tried in vain

My fortunes to recover.

I said, 'To other lands I'll roam,
'Where Fate may smile on me, love;
I said, 'Farewell, my own old home!'
And I said, 'Farewell to thee, love!'
Sing Gille machree, &c.

I might have said,

My mountain maid,

Come live with me, your own true lover;
I know a spot,

A silent cot,

Your friends can ne'er discover, Where gently flows the waveless tide By one small garden only;

Where the heron waves his wings so wide, And the linnet sings so lonely!

Sing Gille machree, &c.

I might have said,

My mountain maid,

A father's right was never given

True hearts to curse

With tyrant force

That have been blest in heaven.

But then, I said, 'In after years,

When thoughts of home shall find her!

My love may mourn with secret tears
Her friends, thus left behind her.'
Sing Gille machree, &c.

Oh, no, I said,

My own dear maid,

For me, though all forlorn, for ever,
That heart of thine

Shall ne'er repine

O'er slighted duty-never.

From home and thee though wandering far
A dreary fate be mine, love;
I'd rather live in endless wal,

Than buy my peace with thine, love.
Sing Gille machree, &c.

Far, far away,

By night and day,

I toiled to win a golden treasure;

And golden gains

Repaid my pains

In fair and shining measure.
I sought again my native land,
Thy father welcomed me, love;

I poured my gold into his hand,

And my guerdon found in thee, love;
Sing Gille machree

Sit down by me,

We now are joined, and ne'er shall sever;

This hearth's our own,

Our hearts are one,

And peace is ours for ever.

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

BY THE HON. MRS. PRICE BLACKWOOD.

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side

On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride:
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high-
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek,
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary,
I see the spire from here.

But the grave-yard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest—
For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep
With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends,
But, oh! they love the better still,
The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessin' and my pride:
There's nothin' left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

Your's was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,

And my arm's young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow-
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger pain was gnawin' there,
And you hid it, for my sake!
I bless you for the pleasant word,
When your heart was sad and sore-
Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary
Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary-kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling!
In the land I'm goin' to;

They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there-
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile

Where we sat side by side:

And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride.