Part 13

An’ if the colour we must wear is England’s cruel red, Let it remind us of the blood that Ireland has shed; Then pull the shamrock from your hat and throw it on the sod,-- And never fear, ’twill take root there, tho’ under foot ’tis trod! When law can stop the blades of grass from growin’ as they grow, And when the leaves in summer-time their colour dare not show, Then I will change the colour, too, I wear in my caubeen, But till that day, plaze God, I’ll stick to wearin’ o’ the green.

_Anonymous._

MOORE

CLXIII

THE MINSTREL BOY

The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you’ll find him; His father’s sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him. ‘Land of song!’ said the warrior bard, ‘Tho’ all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee!’

The Minstrel fell!--but the foeman’s chain Could not bring his proud soul under; The harp he loved ne’er spoke again, For he tore its chords asunder; And said, ‘No chain shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery! Thy songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery.’

_Thomas Moore._

CLXIV

A SONG OF THE IRISH

Remember the glories of Brien the brave, Tho’ the days of the hero are o’er, Tho’ lost to Mononia, and cold in the grave, He returns to Kincora no more! That star of the field, which so often has pour’d Its beam on the battle, is set; But enough of its glory remains on each sword To light us to victory yet!

Mononia! when Nature embellished the tint Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair, Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print The footstep of slavery there? No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign, Go, tell our invaders the Danes, That ’tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine Than to sleep but a moment in chains.

Forget not our wounded companions, who stood In the day of distress by our side; While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood, They stirred not, but conquered and died! The sun that now blesses our arms with his light, Saw them fall upon Ossory’s plain: Oh! let him not blush when he leaves us to-night To find that they fell there in vain!

_Thomas Moore._

CLXV

DEPARTED GLORY

The harp that once through Tara’s halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls, As if that soul were fled.-- So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory’s thrill is o’er, And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells; The chord alone, that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives, Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives.

_Thomas Moore._

CLXVI

THE CHOICE

O, where’s the slave so lowly, Condemn’d to chains unholy, Who, could he burst His bonds at first, Would pine beneath them slowly? What soul, whose wrongs degrade it, Would wait till time decay’d it, When thus its wing At once may spring To the throne of Him who made it?

Farewell, Erin,--farewell, all, Who live to weep our fall!

Less dear the laurel growing, Alive, untouch’d and blowing, Than that, whose braid Is pluck’d to shade The brows with victory glowing. We tread the land that bore us, Her green flag glitters o’er us, The friends we’ve tried Are by our side And the foe we hate before us.

Farewell, Erin,--farewell, all, Who live to weep our fall!

_Thomas Moore._

CLXVII

A SONG OF TRUE LOVE

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her, sighing: But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps, For her heart in the grave is lying.

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, Every note which he lov’d awaking;-- Ah! little they think who delight in her strains, How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.

He had liv’d for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwin’d him; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him.

O! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow; They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile from the west, From her own loved Island of Sorrow.

_Thomas Moore._

CLXVIII

TO ERIN

Erin, the tear and the smile in thine eyes, Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies! Shining through sorrow’s stream, Saddening through pleasure’s beam, Thy suns with doubtful gleam, Weep while they rise.

Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease, Erin, thy languid smile ne’er shall increase, Till, like the rainbow’s light, Thy various tints unite, And form in Heaven’s sight One arch of peace!

_Thomas Moore._

CLXIX

THE MINSTREL TO HIS HARP

Dear Harp of my country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o’er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have waken’d thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But, so oft hast thou echo’d the deep sigh of sadness, That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.

Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine! Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touch’d by some hand less unworthy than mine; If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbb’d at thy lay, ’tis thy glory alone; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I wak’d was thy own.

_Thomas Moore._

TONNA

CLXX

THE MAIDEN CITY

Where Foyle her swelling waters Rolls northward to the main, Here, Queen of Erin’s daughters, Fair Derry fixed her reign: A holy temple crowned her, And commerce graced her street, A rampart wall was round her, The river at her feet: And here she sat alone, boys, And looking from the hill, Vow’d the Maiden on her throne, boys, Would be a Maiden still.

From Antrim crossing over, In famous eighty-eight, A plumed and belted lover Came to the Ferry Gate; She summoned to defend her Our sires--a beardless race-- They shouted, ‘No surrender!’ And slamm’d it in his face. Then in a quiet tone, boys, They told him ’twas their will That the Maiden on her throne, boys, Should be a Maiden still.

Next, crushing all before him, A kingly wooer came (The royal banner o’er him Blushed crimson-deep for shame); He showed the Pope’s commission, Nor dreamed to be refused, She pitied his condition, But begged to stand excused. In short, the fact is known, boys, She chased him from the hill, For the Maiden on her throne, boys, Would be a Maiden still.

On our brave sires descending, ’Twas then the tempest broke, Their peaceful dwellings rending ’Mid blood, and flame, and smoke. That hallow’d graveyard yonder Swells with the slaughtered dead-- O, brothers! pause and ponder, It was for us they bled; And while their gifts we own, boys-- The fane that tops our hill, O, the Maiden on her throne, boys, Shall be a Maiden still.

Nor wily tongue shall move us, Nor tyrant arm affright, We’ll look to One above us, Who ne’er forsook the right; Who will may crouch and tender The birthright of the free, But, brothers, ‘No surrender!’ No compromise for me! We want no barrier stone, boys, No gates to guard the hill, Yet the Maiden on her throne, boys, Shall be a Maiden still!

_Charlotte Elizabeth Tonna._

MANGAN

CLXXI

KINCORA

(_From the Irish_)

O, where, Kincora! is Brien the Great? And where is the beauty that once was thine? O, where are the princes and nobles that sate At the feast in thy halls, and drank the red wine? Where, O, Kincora?

O, where, Kincora! are thy valorous lords? O, whither, thou Hospitable! are they gone? O, where are the Dalcassians of the golden swords? And where are the warriors Brien led on? Where, O, Kincora?

And where is Donogh, King Brien’s son? And where is Conàing, the beautiful chief? And Kiàn and Corc? Alas! they are gone; They have left me this night alone with my grief! Left me, Kincora!

O, where is Duvlann of the Swift-footed Steeds? And where is Kiàn, who was son of Molloy? And where is king Lonergan, fame of whose deeds In the red battle no time can destroy? Where, O, Kincora!

I am MacLaig, and my home is on the lake: Thither often, to that palace whose beauty is fled, Came Brien to ask me, and I went for his sake, O, my grief! that I should live and Brien be dead! Dead, O, Kincora!

_James Clarence Mangan._

CLXXII

DARK ROSALEEN

(_From the Irish_)

O! my Dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep! The priests are on the ocean green, They march along the deep. There’s wine from the royal Pope, Upon the ocean green; And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, Shall give you health, and help, and hope, My Dark Rosaleen!

Over hills, and through dales, Have I roamed for your sake; All yesterday I sailed with sails On river and on lake. The Erne at its highest flood I dashed across unseen, For there was lightning in my blood My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! O! there was lightning in my blood, Red lightning lightened through my blood, My Dark Rosaleen!

All day long, in unrest, To and fro do I move, The very soul within my breast Is wasted for you, love! The heart in my bosom faints To think of you, my Queen, My life of life, my saint of saints, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! To hear your sweet and sad complaints, My life, my love, my saint of saints, My Dark Rosaleen!

Woe and pain, pain and woe, Are my lot, night and noon, To see your bright face clouded so, Like to the mournful moon. But yet will I rear your throne Again in golden sheen; ’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! ’Tis you shall have the golden throne, ’Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, My Dark Rosaleen!

Over dews, over sands, Will I fly for your weal; Your holy, delicate white hands Shall girdle me with steel. At home, in your emerald bowers, From morning’s dawn till e’en, You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! You’ll think of me through daylight’s hours, My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, My Dark Rosaleen!

I could scale the blue air, I could plough the high hills, O! I could kneel all night in prayer, To heal your many ills! And one beamy smile from you Would float like light between My toils and me, my own, my true, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! Would give me life and soul anew, A second life, a soul anew, My Dark Rosaleen!

O! the Erne shall run red With redundance of blood, The earth shall rock beneath our tread, And flames wrap hill and wood, And gun-peal and slogan cry Wake many a glen serene, Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! The Judgment Hour must first be nigh, Ere you can fade, ere you can die, My Dark Rosaleen!

_James Clarence Mangan._

DUFFERIN

CLXXIII

THE BAY OF DUBLIN

O, Bay of Dublin! how my heart you’re troublin’, Your beauty haunts me like a fever dream; Like frozen fountains, that the sun sets bubblin’, My heart’s blood warms when I but hear your name; And never till this life’s pulsation ceases, My early, latest thought you’ll fail to be,-- O! none here knows how very fair that place is, And no one cares how dear it is to me. Sweet Wicklow mountains! the soft sunlight sleepin’ On your green uplands is a picture rare; You crowd around me like young maidens peepin’ And puzzlin’ me to say which is most fair, As tho’ you longed to see your own sweet faces Reflected in that smooth and silver sea. My fondest blessin’ on those lovely places, Tho’ no one cares how dear they are to me. How often when alone at work I’m sittin’ And musin’ sadly on the days of yore, I think I see my pretty Katie knittin’, The childer playin’ round the cabin door; I think I see the neighbours’ kindly faces All gathered round, their long-lost friend to see; Tho’ none here knows how very fair that place is, Heav’n knows how dear my poor home was to me.

_Lady Dufferin._

CLXXIV

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT

I’m sitting on the stile, Mary, Where we sat, side by side, That bright May morning long ago When first you were my bride. The corn was springing fresh and green, The lark sang loud and high, The red was on your lip, Mary, 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, The corn is green again; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, Your breath warm on my cheek, And I still keep listening for the words You never more may speak.

’Tis but a step down yonder lane, The little Church stands near-- The Church where we were wed, Mary-- I see the spire from here; But the graveyard lies between, Mary,-- My step might break your rest,-- Where you, my darling, lie asleep, With your baby on your breast.

I’m very lonely now, Mary,-- The poor make no new friends;-- But, O! they love the better still The few our Father sends. And you were all I had, Mary, My blessing and my pride; There’s nothing left to care for now Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When trust in God had left my soul, And half my 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 can’t hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break; When the hunger pain was gnawing there, You hid it for my sake. I bless you for the pleasant word When your heart was sad and sore. O! I’m thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can’t reach you more!

I’m bidding you a long farewell, My Mary--kind and true! But I’ll not forget you, darling, In the land I’m going 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 when amid those grand old woods I sit and shut my eyes, My heart will travel back again To where my Mary lies; I’ll think I see the little stile Where we sat, side by side,-- And the springing corn and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride.

_Lady Dufferin._

FERGUSON

CLXXV

O’BYRNE’S BARD TO THE CLANS OF WICKLOW

(_From the Irish_)

God be with the Irish host! Never be their battle lost! For, in battle, never yet Have they basely earned defeat.

Host of armour, red and bright, May ye fight a valiant fight! For the green spot of the earth, For the land that gave you birth.

Like a wild beast in his den, Lies the chief by hill and glen, While the strangers, proud and savage, Creean’s richest valleys ravage.

When old Leinster’s sons of fame, Heads of many a warlike name, Redden their victorious hilts, On the Gaul, my soul exults.

When the grim Gaul, who have come, Hither o’er the ocean foam, From the fight victorious go, Then my heart sinks deadly low.

Bless the blades our warriors draw, God be with Clan Ranelagh! But my soul is weak for fear, Thinking of their danger here.

Have them in Thy holy keeping, God be with them lying sleeping, God be with them standing fighting, Erin’s foes in battle smiting!

_Sir Samuel Ferguson._

CLXXVI

THE HILLS OF IRELAND

(_From the Irish_)

A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer, _Uileacán dubh O!_ Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear, _Uileacán dubh O!_ There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand, And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fann’d, There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i’ the yellow sand On the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Curl’d he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee, _Uileacán dubh O!_ Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea, _Uileacán dubh O!_ And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand, Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand, And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command, For the fair hills of holy Ireland.

_Sir Samuel Ferguson._

DAVIS

CLXXVII

MY LAND

She is a rich and rare land; O! she’s a fresh and fair land; She is a dear and rare land-- This native land of mine.

No men than hers are braver-- Her women’s hearts ne’er waver; I’d freely die to save her, And think my lot divine.

She’s not a dull or cold land; No! she’s a warm and bold land; O! she’s a true and old land-- This native land of mine.

Could beauty ever guard her, And virtue still reward her, No foe would cross her border-- No friend within it pine!

O, she’s a fresh and fair land; O, she’s a true and rare land! Yes, she’s a rare and fair land-- This native land of mine.

_Thomas Davis._

CLXXVIII

THE DEAD CHIEF

‘Did they dare, did they dare to slay Owen Roe O’Neill?’ ‘Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet with steel.’ ‘May God wither up their hearts! May their blood cease to flow! May they walk in living death, who poisoned Owen Roe!

Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words.’ ‘From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords; But the weapon of the Sacsanach met him on his way, And he died at Cloc Uachtar upon St. Leonard’s Day.’

‘Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One! Wail, wail ye for the Dead; Quench the hearth, and hold the breath--with ashes strew the head. How tenderly we loved him! How deeply we deplore! Holy Saviour! but to think we shall never see him more.

Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall, Sure we never won a battle--’twas Owen won them all. Had he lived--had he lived--our dear country had been free; But he’s dead, but he’s dead, and ’tis slaves we’ll ever be.

O’Farrell and Clanrickarde, Preston and Red Hugh, Audley and MacMahon--ye are valiant, wise, and true; But--what are ye all to our darling who is gone? The Rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle’s Cornerstone!

Wail, wail him through the Island! Weep, weep for our pride! Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died! Weep the Victor of Beinn Burb--weep him, young men and old; Weep for him, ye women--your Beautiful lies cold!

We thought you would not die--we were sure you would not go, And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell’s cruel blow-- Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky-- O! why did you leave us, Owen? why did you die?

Soft as woman’s was your voice, O’Neill! bright was your eye, O! why did you leave us, Owen? why did you die? Your troubles are all over, you’re at rest with God on high; But we’re slaves, and we’re orphans, Owen!--why did you die?’

_Thomas Davis._

DE VERE

CLXXIX

THE LITTLE BLACK ROSE

The Little Black Rose shall be red at last; What made it black but the March wind dry, And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast? It shall redden the hills when June is nigh!

The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last; What drove her forth but the dragon fly? In the golden vale she shall feed full fast, With her mild gold horn, and her slow, dark eye.

The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last! The pine long-bleeding, it shall not die! This song is secret. Mine ear it passed In a wind o’er the plains at Athenry.

_Aubrey de Vere._

INGRAM

CLXXX

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; And 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 th’ Atlantic foam, In true men, like you, men, Their spirit’s still at home.

The dust of some is Irish earth; Among their own they rest; And the same land that gave them birth Has caught them to her breast; And we will pray that from their clay Full many a race may start Of true men, like you, men, To act as brave a part.

They rose in dark and evil days To right their native land; They kindled here a living blaze That nothing shall withstand. Alas! that might can vanquish right-- They fell and pass’d away; But true men, like you, men, Are plenty here to-day.

Then here’s their memory! may it be For us a guiding light, To cheer our strife for liberty And teach us to unite. Through good and ill, be Ireland’s still, Though sad as theirs your fate, And true men, be you, men, Like those of Ninety-Eight!

_John Kells Ingram._

CLXXXI

NATIONAL PRESAGE

Unhappy Erin, what a lot was thine! Half-conquer’d by a greedy robber band; Ill govern’d now with lax, now ruthless hand; Mislead by zealots, wresting laws divine To sanction every dark or mad design; Lured by false lights of pseudo-patriot league Through crooked paths of faction and intrigue; And drugg’d with selfish flattery’s poison’d wine. Yet, reading all thy mournful history, Thy children, with a mystic faith sublime, Turn to the future, confident that Fate, Become at last thy friend, reserves for thee, To be thy portion in the coming time, They know not what--but surely something great.

_John Kells Ingram._

SIGERSON

CLXXXII

THE FLIGHT OF THE EARLS

(_From the Irish_)

Lo, our land this night is lone! Hear ye not sad Erin’s moan? Maidens weep and true men sorrow, Lone the Brave Race night and morrow.

Lone this night is Fola’s plain,-- Though the foemen swarm amain-- Far from Erin, generous-hearted, Far her Flower of Sons is parted.

Great the hardship! great the grief! Ulster wails Tirconaill’s Chief, From Emain west to Assarue Wails gallant, gentle, generous Hugh.

Children’s joy no more rejoices,-- Fetters silence Song’s sweet voices-- Change upon our chiefs, alas! Bare the altar, banned the Mass.

Homes are hearthless, harps in fetters, Guerdon’s none for men of letters, Banquets none, nor merry meetings, Hills ring not the chase’s greetings.

Songs of war make no heart stronger, Songs of peace inspire no longer,-- In great halls, at close of days, Sound no more our fathers’ lays.

Foemen camp in Neimid’s plains; Who shall break our heavy chains? What Naisi, son of Conn, shall prove A Moses to the land we love?

She has none who now can aid her, All have gone before the invader; Banba’s bonds and cruel cross Steal the very soul from us!

_George Sigerson._

CLXXXIII

LAMENT FOR EOGHAN RUA O’NEILL