Chapter 4

They brought him to the Watergate, Hard bound with hempen span. As though they held a lion there, And not a 'fenceless man. They set him high upon a cart-- The hangman rode below-- They drew his hands behind his back, And bared his noble brow. Then, as a hound is slipped from leash, They cheered the common throng, And blew the note with yell and shout, And bade him pass along.

It would have made a brave man's heart Grow sad and sick that day. To watch the keen, malignant eyes Bent down on that array. There stood the Whig west-country lords In balcony and bow; There sat their gaunt and withered dames, And their daughters all a-row. And every open window Was full as full might be With black-robed Covenanting carles, That goodly sport to see!

But when he came, though pale and wan, He looked so great and high, So noble was his manly front, So calm his steadfast eye;-- The rabble rout forbore to shout, And each man held his breath, For well they knew the hero's soul Was face to face with death. And then a mournful shudder Through all the people crept, And some that came to scoff at him Now turned aside and wept.

But onward--always onward, In silence and in gloom, The dreary pageant labored, Till it reached the house of doom. Then first a woman's voice was heard In jeer and laughter loud, And an angry cry and a hiss arose From the heart of the tossing crowd: Then, as the Graeme looked upward, He saw the ugly smile Of him who sold his king for gold-- The master-fiend Argyle!

The Marquis gazed a moment, And nothing did he say, But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale, And he turned his eyes away. The painted harlot by his side, She shook through every limb, For a roar like thunder swept the street, And hands were clenched at him; And a Saxon soldier cried aloud, "Back, coward, from thy place! For seven long years thou hast not dared To look him in the face."

Had I been there with sword in hand, And fifty Camerons by, That day through high Dunedin's streets Had pealed the slogan-cry. Not all their troops of trampling horse, Nor might of mailèd men-- Not all the rebels in the south Had borne us backward then! Once more his foot on Highland heath Had trod as free as air, Or I, and all who bore my name, Been laid around him there!

It might not be. They placed him next Within the solemn hall, Where once the Scottish kings were throned Amidst their nobles all. But there was dust of vulgar feet On that polluted floor, And perjured traitors filled the place Where good men sate before. With savage glee came Warriston To read the murderous doom; And then uprose the great Montrose In the middle of the room:

"Now, by my faith as belted knight And by the name I bear, And by the bright St. Andrew's cross That waves above us there-- Yea, by a greater, mightier oath-- And O that such should be!-- By that dark stream of royal blood That lies 'twixt you and me-- I have not sought in battle-field A wreath of such renown, Nor dared I hope on my dying day To win the martyr's crown!

"There is a chamber far away Where sleep the good and brave, But a better place ye have named for me Than by my father's grave. For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might, This hand has always striven, And ye raise it up for a witness still In the eye of earth and heaven. Then nail my head on yonder tower-- Give every town a limb-- And God who made shall gather them: I go from you to Him!"

The morning dawned full darkly, The rain came flashing down, And the jagged streak of the levin bolt Lit up the gloomy town. The thunder crashed across the heaven, The fatal hour was come; Yet aye broke in, with muffled beat, The 'larum of the drum. There was madness on the earth below And anger in the sky, And young and old, and rich and poor, Came forth to see him die.

Ah God! that ghastly gibbet! How dismal 'tis to see The great tall spectral skeleton, The ladder and the tree! Hark! hark! it is the clash of arms,-- The bells begin to toll,-- "He is coming! he is coming! God's mercy on his soul!" One last long peal of thunder,-- The clouds are cleared away. And the glorious sun once more looks down Amidst the dazzling day.

"He is coming! he is coming!" Like a bridegroom from his room Came the hero from his prison To the scaffold and the doom. There was glory on his forehead, There was lustre in his eye, And he never walked to battle More proudly than to die. There was color in his visage, Though the cheeks of all were wan; And they marvelled as they saw him pass, That great and goodly man!

He mounted up the scaffold, And he turned him to the crowd; But they dared not trust the people, So he might not speak aloud. But he looked upon the heavens, And they were clear and blue, And in the liquid ether The eye of God shone through: Yet a black and murky battlement Lay resting on the hill, As though the thunder slept within,-- All else was calm and still.

The grim Geneva ministers With anxious scowl drew near, As you have seen the ravens flock Around the dying deer. He would not deign them word nor sign, But alone he bent the knee; And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace Beneath the gallows-tree. Then, radiant and serene, he rose, And cast his cloak away; For he had ta'en his latest look Of earth and sun and day.

A beam of light fell o'er him, Like a glory round the shriven, And he climbed the lofty ladder As it were the path to heaven. Then came a flash from out the cloud, And a stunning thunder-roll; And no man dared to look aloft,-- Fear was on every soul. There was another heavy sound, A hush, and then a groan; And darkness swept across the sky,-- The work of death was done!

WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN.

* * * * *

BORDER BALLAD.

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale! Why the de'il dinna ye march forward in order? March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale! All the Blue Bonnets are over the Border! Many a banner spread Flutters above your head, Many a crest that is famous in story!-- Mount and make ready, then, Sons of the mountain glen, Fight for the queen and our old Scottish glory.

Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing; Come from the glen of the buck and the roe; Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing; Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. Trumpets are sounding; War-steeds are bounding; Stand to your arms, and march in good order, England shall many a day Tell of the bloody fray, When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

* * * * *

THE EXILE'S SONG.

Oh! why left I my hame? Why did I cross the deep? Oh! why left I the land Where my forefathers sleep? I sigh for Scotia's shore, And I gaze across the sea, But I canna get a blink O' my ain countrie.

The palm-tree waveth high, And fair the myrtle springs; And, to the Indian maid, The bulbul sweetly sings. But I dinna see the broom Wi' its tassels on the lee, Nor hear the lintie's sang O' my ain countrie.

Oh! here no Sabbath bell Awakes the Sabbath morn, Nor song of reapers heard Among the yellow corn: For the tyrant's voice is here, And the wail of slaverie; But the sun of freedom shines In my ain countrie.

There's a hope for every woe, And a balm for every pain, But the first joys o' our heart Come never back again. There's a track upon the deep, And a path across the sea: But the weary ne'er return To their ain countrie.

ROBERT GILFILLAN.

* * * * *

THE IRISHMAN.

The savage loves his native shore, Though rude the soil and chill the air; Then well may Erin's sons adore Their isle which nature formed so fair, What flood reflects a shore so sweet As Shannon great or pastoral Bann? Or who a friend or foe can meet So generous as an Irishman?

His hand is rash, his heart is warm, But honesty is still his guide; None more repents a deed of harm, And none forgives with nobler pride; He may be duped, but won't be dared-- More fit to practise than to plan; He dearly earns his poor reward, And spends it like an Irishman.

If strange or poor, for you he'll pay, And guide to where you safe may be; If you're his guest, while e'er you stay, His cottage holds a jubilee. His inmost soul he will unlock, And if he may _your_ secrets scan, Your confidence he scorns to mock, For faithful is an Irishman.

By honor bound in woe or weal, Whate'er she bids he dares to do; Try him with bribes--they won't prevail; Prove him in fire--you'll find him true. He seeks not safety, let his post Be where it ought in danger's van; And if the field of fame be lost, It won't be by an Irishman.

Erin! loved land! from age to age, Be thou more great, more famed, and free, May peace be thine, or shouldst thou wage Defensive war, cheap victory. May plenty bloom in every field Which gentle breezes softly fan, And cheerful smiles serenely gild The home of every Irishman.

JAMES ORR.

* * * * *

TURLOUGH MACSWEENEY.

_A health to you, Piper, And your pipes silver-tongued, clear and sweet in their crooning_!

Full of the music they gathered at morn On your high heather hills from the lark on the wing, From the blackbird at eve on the blossoming thorn, From the little green linnet whose plaining they sing, And the joy and the hope in the heart of the Spring, O, Turlough MacSweeney!

Play us our Eire's most sorrowful songs, As she sits by her reeds near the wash of the wave, That the coldest may thrill at the count of her wrongs, That the sword may flash forth from the scabbard to save, And the wide land awake at the wrath of the brave, O, Turlough MacSweeney!

Play as the bards played in days long ago, When O'Donnell, arrayed for the foray or feast, With your kinsmen from Bannat and Fannat and Doe, With piping and harping, and blessing of priest, Rode out in the blaze of the sun from the East, O, Turlough MacSweeney!

Play as they played in that rapturous hour When the clans heard in gladness his young fiery call Who burst from the gloom of the Sassenach tower, And sped to the welcome in dear Donegal, Then on to his hailing as chieftain of all-- O, Turlough MacSweeney!

Play as they played, when, a trumpet of war, His voice for the rally, pealed up to the blue, And the kerns from the hills and the glens and the scaur Marched after the banner of conquering Hugh-- Led into the fray by a piper like you, O, Turlough MacSweeney!

And surely no note of such music shall fail, Wherever the speech of our Eire is heard, To foster the hope of the passionate Gael, To fan the old hatred, relentless when stirred, To strengthen our souls for the strife to be dared, O, Turlough MacSweeney!

_May your pipes, silver-tongued, clear and sweet in their crooning, Keep the magic they captured at dawning and even From the blackbird at home, and the lark on its journey, From the thrush on its spray, and the little green linnet. A health to you, Piper!_

ANNA MACMANUS (_Ethna Carbery_).

* * * * *

A SPINNING SONG.

My love to fight the Saxon goes, And bravely shines his sword of steel; A heron's feather decks his brows, And a spur on either heel; His steed is blacker than the sloe, And fleeter than the falling star; Amid the surging ranks he'll go And shout for joy of war. Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle; let the white wool drift and dwindle. Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love's coat of steel. Hark! the timid, turning treadle crooning soft, old-fashioned ditties To the low, slow murmur of the brown round wheel.

My love is pledged to Ireland's fight; My love would die for Ireland's weal, To win her back her ancient right, And make her foemen reel. Oh! close I'll clasp him to my breast When homeward from the war he comes; The fires shall light the mountain's crest, The valley peal with drums. Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle; let the white wool drift and dwindle. Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love's coat of steel. Hark! the timid, turning treadle crooning soft old-fashioned ditties To the low, slow murmur of the brown round wheel.

JOHN FRANCIS O'DONNELL.

* * * * *

THE WEARING OF THE GREEN.[A]

[Footnote A: Variation of an old street song of about 1798. Sung in Dion Boucicault's play "The Shan Van Voght."]

O Paddy dear, an' did you hear the news that's goin' round? The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground; St. Patrick's Day no more we'll keep; his colors can't be seen: For there's a cruel law agin' the wearin' of the green. I met with Napper Tandy, and he tuk me by the hand, And he said, "How's poor ould Ireland, and how does she stand?" She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen: They are hangin' men and women there for wearin' of the green.

An' if the color we must wear is England's cruel red, Sure Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they have shed. Then pull the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod, And never fear, 'twill take root there, though 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 color dare not show, Then I will change the color, too, I wear in my caubeen; But till that day, please God, I'll stick to wearin' of the green.

But if at last our color should be torn from Ireland's heart, Her sons with shame and sorrow from the dear old isle will part: I've heard a whisper of a land that lies beyond the sea, Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom's day. O Erin, must we leave you, driven by a tyrant's hand? Must we ask a mother's blessin' from a strange and distant land? Where the cruel cross of England shall nevermore be seen, And where, please God, we'll live and die still wearin' of the green.

* * * * *

MY NATIVE LAND.

It chanced to me upon a time to sail Across the Southern ocean to and fro; And, landing at fair isles, by stream and vale Of sensuous blessing did we ofttimes go. And months of dreamy joys, like joys in sleep, Or like a clear, calm stream o'er mossy stone, Unnoted passed our hearts with voiceless sweep, And left us yearning still for lands unknown.

And when we found one,--for 'tis soon to find In thousand-isled Cathay another isle,-- For one short noon its treasures filled the mind, And then again we yearned, and ceased to smile. And so it was from isle to isle we passed, Like wanton bees or boys on flowers or lips; And when that all was tasted, then at last We thirsted still for draughts instead of sips.

I learned from this there is no Southern land Can fill with love the hearts of Northern men. Sick minds need change; but, when in health they stand 'Neath foreign skies, their love flies home agen. And thus with me it was: the yearning turned From laden airs of cinnamon away, And stretched far westward, while the full heart burned With love for Ireland, looking on Cathay!

My first dear love, all dearer for thy grief! My land, that has no peer in all the sea For verdure, vale, or river, flower or leaf,-- If first to no man else, thou'rt first to me. New loves may come with duties, but the first Is deepest yet,--the mother's breath and smiles; Like that kind face and breast where I was nursed Is my poor land, the Niobe of isles.

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

* * * * *

BLESS THE DEAR OLD VERDANT LAND.

Bless the dear old verdant land! Brother, wert thou born of it? As thy shadow life doth stand Twining round its rosy band. Did an Irish mother's hand Guide thee in the morn of it? Did a father's first command Teach thee love or scorn of it?

Thou who tread'st its fertile breast, Dost thou feel a glow for it? Thou of all its charms possest. Living on its first and best, Art thou but a thankless guest Or a traitor foe for it, 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-stained Judas gold for it: Let us do all that honor dares-- Be earnest, faithful, bold for it!

DENIS FLORENCE MAC CARTHY.

* * * * *

IRELAND.

[1847.]

They are dying! they are dying! where the golden corn is growing; They are dying! they are dying! where the crowded herds are lowing: They are gasping for existence where the streams of life are flowing, And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing!

God of justice! God of power! Do we dream? Can it be, In this land, at this hour, With the blossom on the tree, In the gladsome month of May, When the young lambs play, When Nature looks around On her waking children now, The seed within the ground, The bud upon the bough? Is it right, is it fair, That we perish of despair In this land, on this soil, Where our destiny is set, Which we cultured with our toil, And watered with our sweat? We have ploughed, we have sown But the crop was not our own; We have reaped, but harpy hands Swept the harvest from our lands; We were perishing for food, When lo! in pitying mood, Our kindly rulers gave The fat fluid of the slave, While our corn filled the manger Of the war-horse of the stranger!

God of mercy! must this last? Is this land preordained, For the present and the past And the future, to be chained,-- To be ravaged, to be drained, To be robbed, to be spoiled, To be hushed, to be whipt, Its soaring pinions clipt, And its every effort foiled?

Do our numbers multiply But to perish and to die? Is this all our destiny below,-- That our bodies, as they rot, May fertilize the spot Where the harvests of the stranger grow? If this be, indeed, our fate, Far, far better now, though late, That we seek some other land and try some other zone; The coldest, bleakest shore Will surely yield us more Than the storehouse of the stranger that we dare not call our own.

Kindly brothers of the West, Who from Liberty's full breast Have fed us, who are orphans beneath a step-dame's frown, Behold our happy state, And weep your wretched fate That you share not in the splendors of our empire and our crown!

Kindly brothers of the East,-- Thou great tiaraed priest, Thou sanctified Rienzi of Rome and of the earth,-- Or thou who bear'st control Over golden Istambol, Who felt for our misfortunes and helped us in our dearth,--

Turn here your wondering eyes, Call your wisest of the wise, Your muftis and your ministers, your men of deepest lore; Let the sagest of your sages Ope our island's mystic pages, And explain unto your highness the wonders of our shore.

A fruitful, teeming soil, Where the patient peasants toil Beneath the summer's sun and the watery winter sky; Where they tend the golden grain Till it bends upon the plain, Then reap it for the stranger, and turn aside to die;

Where they watch their flocks increase, And store the snowy fleece Till they send it to their masters to be woven o'er the waves; Where, having sent their meat For the foreigner to eat, Their mission is fulfilled, and they creep into their graves.

'Tis for this they are dying where the golden corn is growing, 'Tis for this they are dying where the crowded herds are lowing, 'Tis for this they are dying where the streams of life are flowing, And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing!

DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY.

* * * * *

IRELAND.

A SEASIDE PORTRAIT.

A great, still Shape, alone, She sits (her harp has fallen) on the sand, And sees her children, one by one, depart:-- Her cloak (that hides what sins beside her own!) Wrapped fold on fold about her. Lo, She comforts her fierce heart, As wailing some, and some gay-singing go, With the far vision of that Greater Land Deep in the Atlantic skies, Saint Brandan's Paradise! Another Woman there, Mighty and wondrous fair, Stands on her shore-rock:--one uplifted hand Holds a quick-piercing light That keeps long sea-ways bright; She beckons with the other, saying "Come, O landless, shelterless, Sharp-faced with hunger, worn with long distress:-- Come hither, finding home! Lo, my new fields of harvest, open, free, By winds of blessing blown, Whose golden corn-blades shake from sea to sea-- Fields without walls that all the people own!"

JOHN JAMES PIATT

* * * * *

EXILE OF ERIN.

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.

Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger; The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again in the green sunny bowers Where my forefathers lived shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!