Chapter V: Part II: The Summer Palace stood by night (3)

The chancel is ready,

The portal stands wide

For the lord and the lady,

The bridegroom and bride.

What years, ere the latter,

Of earthly delight

The future shall scatter

O'er them in its flight!

What blissful caresses

Shall fortune bestow,

Ere those dark-flowing tresses

Fall white as the snow!

Before the high altar

Young Maud stands array'd;

With accents that falter

Her promise is made--

From mother and father

For ever to part,

For him and no other

To treasure her heart.

The words are repeated,

The bridal is done,

The rite is completed--

The two, they are one;

The vow, it is spoken

All pure from the heart,

That must not be broken

Till life shall depart.

Hark!'mid the gay clangour

That compass'd their car,

Loud accents in anger

Come mingling afar!

The foe's on the border,

His weapons resound

Where the lines in disorder

Unguarded are found.

As wakes the good shepherd,

The watchful and bold,

When the ounce or the leopard

Is seen in the fold,

So rises already

The chief in his mail,

While the new-married lady

Looks fainting and pale.

"Son, husband, and brother,

Arise to the strife,

For the sister and mother,

For children and wife!

O'er hill and o'er hollow,

O'er mountain and plain,

Up, true men, and follow!

Let dastards remain!"

Far rah! to the battle!

They form into line--

The shields, how they rattle!

The spears, how they shine!

Soon, soon shall the foeitian

His treachery rue--

On, burgher and yeoman,

To die or to do!

The eve is declining

In lone Malahide,

The maidens are twining

Gay wreaths for the bride!

She marks them unheeding--

Her heart is afar,

Where the clansmen are bleeding

For her in the war.

Hark! loud from the mountain

'Tis Victory's cry!

O'er woodland and fountain

It rings to the sky!

The foe has retreated!

He flies to the shore;

The spoiler's defeated--

The combat is o'er!

With foreheads unruffled

The conquerors come--

But why have they muffled

The lance and the drum?

What form do they carry

Aloft on his shield?

And where does he tarry,

The lord of the field?

Ye saw him at morning

How gallant and gay!

In bridal adorning,

The star of the day:

Now weep for the lover--

His triumph is sped,

His hope it is over!

The chieftain is dead!

But O for the maiden

Who mourns for that chief,

With heart overladen

And rending with grief!

She sinks on the meadow

In one morning-tide,

A wife and a widow,

A maid and a bride!

Ye maidens attending,

Forbear to condole!

Your comfort is rending

The depths of her soul.

True--true,'twas a story

For ages of pride;

He died in his glory--

But, oh, he _has_ died!

The war-cloak she raises

All mournfully now,

And steadfastly gazes

Upon the cold brow.

That glance may for ever

Unalter'd remain,

But the bridegroom will never

Return it again!

The dead-bells are tolling

In sad Malahide,

The death-wail is rolling

Along the sea-side;

The crowds, heavy-hearted,

Withdraw from the green,

For the sun has departed

That brighten'd the scene!

Even yet in that valley,

Though years have roll'd by,

When through the wild sally

The sea-breezes sigh,

The peasant, with sorrow,

Beholds in the shade

The tomb where the morrow

Saw Hussy convey'd.

How scant was the warning,

How briefly reveal'd,

Before on that morning

Death's chalice was fill'd!

The hero who drunk it

There moulders in gloom,

And the form of Maud Plunket

Weeps over his tomb.

The stranger who wanders

Along the lone vale

Still sighs while he ponders

On that heavy tale:

"Thus passes each pleasure

That earth can supply--

Thus joy has its measure--

We live but to die!"

----Gerald Griffin.

CAOCH, THE PIPER

|One winter's day long, long ago,

When I was a little fellow,

A piper wandered to our door,

Gray-headed, blind, and yellow.

And O how glad was my young heart,

Though earth and sky looked dreary,

To see the stranger and his dog,

Poor Pinch and Caoch O'Leary!

And when he stowed away his bag

Crossbarred with green and yellow,

I thought and said, "In Ireland's ground,

There's not so fine a fellow."

And Fineen Burke and Shane Magee,

And Eily, Kate, and Mary,

Rushed in with panting haste to see

And welcome Caoch O'Leary.

O, God be with those happy times,

O, God be with my childhood,

When I, bare-headed, roamed all day

Bird-nesting in the wild wood!

I'll not forget those sunny hours

However years may vary;

I'll not forget my early friends,

Nor honest Caoch O'Leary.

Poor Caoch and Pinch slept well that night,

And in the morning early

He called me up to hear him play

"The wind that shakes the barley."

And then he stroked my flaxen hair,

And cried, "God mark my deary!"

And how I wept when he said, "Farewell,

And think of Caoch O'Leary!"

And seasons came and went, and still

Old Caoch was not forgotten,

Although I thought him dead and gone,

And in the cold clay rotten;

And often when I walked and danced

With Eily, Kate, and Mary,

We spoke of childhood's rosy hours,

And prayed for Caoch O'Leary.

Well--twenty summers had gone past,

And June's red sun was sinking,

When I, a man, sat by my door,

Of twenty sad things thinking.

A little dog came up the way,

His gait was slow and weary,

And at his tail a lame man limped,

'Twas Pinch and Caoch O'Leary.

Old Caoch! but ah! how woe-begone!

His form is bowed and bending,

His fleshless hands are stiff and wan,

Ay, time is even blending

The colours on his threadbare bag,

And Pinch is twice as hairy

And thin-spare as when first I saw

Himself and Caoch O'Leary.

"God's blessing here!" the wanderer cried,

"Far, far be hell, black viper;

Does anybody hereabouts

Remember Caoch, the piper?"

With swelling heart I grasped his hand;

The old man murmured, "Deary,

Are you the silken-headed child

That loved poor Caoch O'Leary?"

"Yes, yes!" I said. The wanderer wept

As if his heart was breaking;

"And where, _avic machree_" * he said,

"Is all the merry-making

I found here twenty years ago?"

"My tale," I sighed, "might weary:

Enough to say, there's none but me

To welcome Caoch O'Leary."

"_Vo, vo, vo!_" the old man cried,

And wrung his hands in sorrow;

"Pray lead me in, _astore machree_,

And I'll _go home_ to-morrow.

My peace is made, I'll calmly leave

This world so cold and dreary,

And you shall keep my pipes and dog,

And pray for Caoch O'Leary."

With Pinch I watched his bed that night;

Next day his wish was granted,--

He died, and Father James was brought,

And the requiem mass was chanted.

The neighbours came;--we dug his grave,

Near Eily, Kate, and Mary,

And there he sleeps his last sweet sleep,--

God rest you, Caoch O'Leary!

J. Keegan.

* _Vic ma chree_, Son of my heart.

THE FAIRY THORN

|Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary

spinning-wheel;

For your father's on the hill, and your mother

is asleep:

Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a

highland reel

Around the fairy thorn on the steep."

At Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens

cried,

Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the

green;

And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel

aside,

The fairest of the four, I ween.

They're glancing through the glimmer of the

quiet eve,

Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare;

The heavy sliding stream in its sleepy song they

leave,

And the crags in the ghostly air;

And linking hand in hand, and singing as they go,

The maids along the hill-side have ta'en their

fearless way,

Till they come to where the rowan-trees in lonely

beauty grow

Beside the Fairy Hawthorn gray.

The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and

slim,

Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at

her knee;

The rowan-berries cluster o'er her low head

gray and dim

In ruddy kisses sweet to see.

The merry "maidens four have ranged them in a

row,

Between each lovely couple a stately rowan

stem,

And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds

they go,

Oh never carolled bird like them!

But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze

That drinks away their voices in echoless re-

pose,

And dreamily the evening has stilled the haunted

braes,

And dreamier the gloaming grows.

And sinking one by one, like lark notes from

the sky

When the falcon's shadow saileth across the

open shaw,

Are hushed the maiden's voices, as cowering

down they lie

In the flutter of their sudden awe.

For, from the air above, and the grassy ground

beneath,

And from the mountain-ashes and the old

Whitethorn between,

A power of faint enchantment doth through

their beings breathe,

And they sink down together on the

green.

They sink together silent, and stealing side by

side,

They fling their lovely arms o'er their drooping

necks so fair,

Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide,

For their shrinking necks again are bare.

Thus clasped and prostrate all, with their heads

together bowed,

Soft o'er their bosoms' beating--the only

human sound--

They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy

crowd,

Like a river in the air, gliding round.

No scream can any raise, no prayer can any say,

But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless

three--

For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently

away,

By whom they dare not look to see.

They feel their tresses twine with her parting

locks of gold,

And the curls elastic falling, as her head with-

draws;

They feel her sliding arms from their tranced

arms unfold,

But they may not look to see the cause:

For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment

lies

Through all that night of anguish and perilous

amaze;

And neither fear nor wonder can ope their

quivering eyes,

Or their limbs from the cold ground raise,

Till out of night the earth has rolled her dewy

side,

With every haunted mountain and streamy

vale below;

When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow

morning tide,

The maidens' trance dissolveth so.

Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may,

And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious

friends in vain--

They pined away and died within the year and

day,

And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again.

---Sir S. Ferguson.

THE BATTLE OF ARDNOCHER

|On the eve of St Laurence, at the cross of

Glenfad,

Both of chieftains and bonaghts what a muster

we had,

Thick as bees, round the heather, on the side

of Slieve Bloom,

To the try sting they gather by the light of the

moon.

For the Butler from Ormond with a hosting he

came,

And harried Moycashel with havoc and flame,

Not a hoof or a hayrick, nor corn blade to feed

on,

Had he left in the wide land, right up to

Dunbreedon.

Then gathered MacGeoghegan, the high prince

of Donore,

With O'Connor from Croghan, and O'Dempsys

_galore_;

And, my soul, how we shouted, as dash'd in

with their men,

Bold MacCoghlan from Clara, O'Mulloy from

the glen.

And not long did we loiter where the four

_toghers_ * met,

But his saddle each tightened, and his spurs

closer set,

By the skylight that flashes all their red burn-

ings back,

And by black gore and ashes fast the rievers

we track.

'Till we came to Ardnocher, and its steep slope

we gain,

And stretch'd there, beneath us, saw their host

in the plain;

And high shouted our leader ('twas the brave

William Roe)--

"By the red hand of Nial,'tis the Sassenach

foe!

"Now, low level your spears, grasp each battle-

axe firm,

And for God and our Ladye strike ye downright

and stern;

* Roads.

For our homes and our altars charge ye stead-

fast and true,

And our watchword be vengeance, and Lamb

_Dearg Aboo!_" *

Oh, then down like a torrent with a _farrah_ we

swept,

And full stout was the Saxon who his saddle-

tree kept;

For we dash'd thro' their horsemen till they

reel'd from the stroke,

And their spears, like dry twigs, with our axes

we broke.

With our plunder we found them, our fleet

garrons and kine,

And each chalice and cruet they had snatch'd

from God's shrine.

But a red debt we paid them, the Sassenach

raiders,

As we scatter'd their spearmen, slew chieftains

and leaders.

In the Pale there is weeping and watchings in

vain.

De Lacy and D'Alton, can ye reckon your slain?

Where's your chieftain, fierce Nangle? Has

De Netterville fled?

Ask the Molingar eagles, whom their carcasses

fed.

* The red hand for ever.

Ho! ye riders from Ormond, will ye brag in

your hall,

How your lord was struck down with his mail'd

knights and all?

Swim at midnight the Shannon, beard the wolf

in his den,

Ere you ride to Moycashel on a foray again!

----A. G. Geoghegan.

FONTENOY

|Thrice at the huts of Fontenoy the English

column failed,

And twice the lines of St Antoine the Dutch in

vain assailed;

For town and slope were filled with fort and

flanking battery,

And well they swept the English ranks and

Dutch auxiliary.

As vainly, through De Baari's wood, the British

soldiers burst,

The French artillery drove them back, diminished

and dispersed.

The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with

anxious eye,

And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance

to try.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals

ride!

And mustering come his chosen troops, like

clouds at eventide.

Six thousand English veterans in stately column

tread,

Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay

is at their head;

Steady they step a-down the slope--steady they

climb the hill--

Steady they load--steady they fire, moving right

onward still,

Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as though a

furnace blast,

Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and

bullets showering fast;

And on the open plain above they rose, and

kept their course,

With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked

at hostile force.

Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner

grow their ranks,

They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through

Holland's ocean banks.

More idly than the summer flies French tirailleurs

rush round;

As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons

strew the ground;

Bomb-shell, and grape, and round shot tore, still

on they marched and fired--

Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur

retired.

"Push on, my household cavalry," King Louis

madly cried:

To death they rush, but rude their shock--not

unavenged they died.

On through the camp the column trod--King

Louis turns his rein *,

"Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the

Irish troops remain;"

And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a

Waterloo,

Were not these exiles ready then, fresh,

vehement, and true.

"Lord Clare," he says, "you have your wish,

there are your Saxon foes;"

The marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously

he goes!

How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're

wont to be so gay!

The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their

hearts to-day--

The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas

writ could dry,

Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines,

their women's parting cry,

Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their

country overthrown--

Each looks as if revenge for all rested on him

alone.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet else-

where,

Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these

proud exiles were.

O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he

commands,

"Fix bayonets--charge." Like mountain storm,

rush on these fiery bands!

Thin is the English column now, and faint their

volleys grow,

Yet, mustering all the strength they have, they

make a gallant show.

They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that

battle-wind--

Their bayonets the breakers' foam; like rocks,

the men behind!

One volley crashes from their line, when, through

the surging smoke,

With empty guns clutched in their hands, the

headlong Irish broke.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce

huzza!

"Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down

the Sassenach."

Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with

hunger's pang,

Right up against the English line the Irish exiles

sprang:

Bright was their steel,'tis bloody now, their

guns are filled with gore;

Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and

trampled flags they tore;

The English strove with desperate strength,

paused, rallied, staggered, fled--

The green hill-side is matted close with dying

and with dead.

Across the plain and far away passed on that

hideous wrack,

While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their

track.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the

sun,

With bloody plumes the Irish stand--the field

is fought and won!

---T. Davis.

THE SACK OF BALTIMORE

|The summer sun is falling soft an Carbery's

hundred isles--

The summer's sun is gleaming still through

Gabriel's rough defiles--

Old Innisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a

moulting bird;

And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is

heard:

The hookers lie upon the beach; the children

cease their play;

The gossips leave the little inn; the households

kneel to pray--

And full of love, and peace, and rest--its daily

labour o'er--

Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of

Baltimore.

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with

midnight there;

No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth,

or sea, or air,

The massive capes, and ruined towers, seem

conscious of the calm;

The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing

heavy balm.

So still the night, these two long barques, round

Dunashad that glide

Must trust their oars--methinks not few--

against the ebbing tide--

Oh! some sweet mission of true love must urge

them to the shore--

They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs

in Baltimore!

All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky

street,

And these must be the lover's friends, with

gently gliding feet--

A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! "The roof is in

a flame!"

From out their beds, and to their doors, rush

maid, and sire, and dame--

And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleam-

ing sabre's fall,

And o'er each black and bearded face the white

or crimson shawl--

The yell of "Allah!" breaks above the prayer,

and shriek, and roar--

Oh, blessed God! the Algerine is lord of

Baltimore!

Then flung the youth his naked hand against the

shearing sword;

Then sprung the mother on the brand with which

her son was gor'd;

Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-

babes clutching wild;

Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled

with the child:

But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed

with splashing heel,

While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his

Syrian steel--

Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers

yield their store,

There's _one_ hearth well avengèd in the sack of

Baltimore!

Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds

began to sing--

They see not now the milking maids--deserted

is the spring!

Midsummer day--this gallant rides from distant

Bandon's town--

These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that

skiff from Affadown;

They only found the smoking walls, with

neighbours' blood besprent,

And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile

they wildly went--

Then dash'd to sea, and passed Cape Clear, and

saw five leagues before

The pirate-galleys vanishing that ravaged Balti-

more!-

Oh! some must tug the galley's oar, and some

must tend the steed--

This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that

a Bey's jerreed.

Oh! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous

Dardanelles;

And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy

dells.

The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen

for the Dey--

She's safe--she's dead--she stabb'd him in the

midst of his Serai;

And when, to die a death of fire, that noble maid

they bore,

She only smiled--O'Driscoll's child--she

thought of Baltimore.

Tis two long years since sunk the town be-

neath that bloody band,

And all around its trampled hearths a larger

concourse stand,

Where, high upon a gallows-tree, a yelling

wretch is seen--

'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan--he who steered the

Algerine!

He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a pass-

ing prayer,

For he had slain the kith and kin of many a

hundred there--

Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought

the Norman o'er--

Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in

Baltimore.

-T. Davis.

THE BALLAD OF THE BIER THAT CONQUERED

|Land which the Norman would make his own!

(Thus sang the Bard'mid a host o'erthrown,

While their white cheeks some on the clench'd

hand propp'd,

And from some the life-blood unheeded dropp'd)

There are men in thee that refuse to die,

Though they scorn to live, while a foe stands

nigh!

I.

O'Donnell lay sick with a grievous wound:

The leech had left him; the priest had come;

The clan sat weeping upon the ground,

Their banner furl'd, and their minstrels dumb.

II.

Then spake O'Donnell, the King: "Although

My hour draws nigh, and my dolours grow;

And although my sins I have now confess'd,

And desire in the Land, my charge, to rest,

Yet leave this realm, nor will I nor can,

While a stranger treads on her, child or man.

III.

"I will languish no longer a sick King here:

My bed is grievous; build up my Bier.

The white robe a King wears over me throw;

Bear me forth to the field where he camps--

your foe,

With the yellow torches and dirges low.

The heralds have brought his challenge and fled;

The answer they bore not I bear instead.

My people shall fight, my pain in sight,

And I shall sleep well when their wrong stands

right."

IV.

Then the clan rose up from the ground, and gave

ear,

And they fell'd great oak-trees and built a Bier;

Its plumes from the eagle's wing were shed,

And the wine-black samite above it spread

Inwov'n with sad emblems and texts divine,

And the braided bud of Tirconnell's pine,

And all that is meet for the great and brave

When past are the measured years God gave,

And a voice cries "Come" from the waiting

grave.

V.

When the Bier was ready they laid him thereon;

And the army forth bare him with wail and

moan:

With wail by the sea-lakes and rock-abysses;

With moan through the vapour-trail'd wilder-

nesses;

And men sore wounded themselves drew nigh

And said, "We will go with our King and

die;"

And women wept as the pomp pass'd by.

The yellow torches far off were seen;

No war-note peal'd through the gorges green;

But the black pines echo'd the mourners' keen.

VI.

What said the Invader, that pomp in sight?

"They sue for the pity they shall not win."

But the sick King sat on his Bier upright,

And said, "So well! I shall sleep to-night:--

Rest here my couch, and my peace begin."

VII.

Then the war-cry sounded--"Lamb-dearg

Aboo!"

And the whole clan rush'd to the battle plain:

They were thrice driven back, but they closed

anew

That an end might come to their King's

great pain.

'Twas a nation, not army, that onward rush'd,

'Twas a nation's blood from their wounds that

gush'd:

Bare-bosom'd they fought, and with joy were

slain;

Till evening their blood fell fast like rain;

But a shout swelled up o'er the setting sun,

And O'Donnell died, for the field was won.

So they buried their King upon Aileach's shore;

And in peace he slept;--O'Donnell More.

----Aubrey de Vere.

THE BALLAD OF "BONNY PORTMORE"

or, the Wicked Revenge.

I.

|Shall I breathe it? Hush!'twas dark:--

Silence!--few could understand:--

Needful deeds are done--not told.

In your ear a whisper! Hark!

'Twas a sworn, unwavering band

Marching through the midnight cold;

Rang the frost plain, stiff and stark:

By us, blind, the river rolled.

II.

Silence! we were silent then:

Shall we boast and brag to-day?

Just deeds, blabbed, have found their price!

Snow made dumb the trusty glen;

Now and then a starry ray

Showed the floating rafts of ice:

Worked our oath in heart and brain:

Twice we halted:--only twice.

III.

When we reached the city wall

On their posts the warders slept:

By the moat the rushes plained:

Hush! I tell you part, not all!

Through the water-weeds we crept;

Soon the sleepers' tower was gained.

My sister's son a tear let fall--

Righteous deeds by tears are stained.

IV.

Round us lay a sleeping city:--

Had they wakened, we had died:

Innocence sleeps well, they say.

Pirates, traitors, base banditti,

Blood upon their hands undried,

'Mid their spoils asleep they lay!

Murderers! Justice murders pity!

Night had brought their Judgment Day!

V.

In the castle, here and there,

'Twixt us and the dawning East

Flashed a light, or sank by fits:

"Patience, brothers! sin it were

Lords to startle at their feast,

Sin to scare the dancers' wits!"

Patient long in forest lair

The listening, fire-eyed tiger sits!

VI.

O the loud flames upward springing!

O that first fierce yell within,

And, without, that stormy laughter!

Like rooks across a sunset winging,

Dark they dashed through glare and din,

Under rain of beam and rafter!

O that death-shriek heavenward ringing!

O that wondrous silence after!

The fire-glare showed,'mid glaze and blister,

A boy's cheek wet with tears.'Twas base!

That boy was first-born of my sister;

Yet I smote him on the face!

Ah! but when the poplars quiver

In the hot noon, cold o'erhead,

Sometimes with a spasm I shiver;

Sometimes round me gaze with dread.

Ah! and when the silver willow

Whitens in the moonlight gale,

From my hectic, grassy pillow,

I hear, sometimes, that infant's wail!

--Aubrey de Vere.

A BALLAD OF SARSFIELD;

or, The Bursting of the Guns.

|Sarsfield rode out the Dutch to rout,

And to take and break their cannon;

To mass went he at half-past three,

And at four he cross'd the Shannon.

Tirconnel slept. In dream his thoughts

Old fields of victory ran on;

And the chieftains of Thomond in Limerick's

towers

Slept well by the banks of Shannon.

He rode ten miles and he cross'd the ford,

And couch'd in the wood and waited;

Till, left and right, on march'd in sight

That host which the true men hated.

"Charge!" Sarsfield cried; and the green hill-

side,

As they charged, replied in thunder;

They rode o'er the plain and they rode o'er the

slain,

And the rebel, rout lay under!

He burn'd the gear the knaves held dear,--

For his King he fought, not plunder;

With powder he cramm'd the guns, and ramm'd

Their mouths the red soil under.

The spark flash'd out--like a nation's shout

The sound into heaven ascended;

The hosts of the sky made to earth reply,

And the thunders twain were blended!

Sarsfield rode out the Dutch to rout,

And to take and break their cannon;--

A century after, Sarsfield's laughter

Was echoed from Dungannon.

----Aubrey de Vere.

A BALLAD OF ATHLONE;

or, How they broke down the Bridge

|Does any man dream that a Gael can fear?--

Of a thousand deeds let him learn but one!

The Shannon swept onward, broad and clear,

Between the leaguers and worn Athlone.

"Break down the bridge!"--Six warriors rushed

Through the storm of shot and the storm of

shell:

With late, but certain, victory flushed

The grim Dutch gunners eyed them well.

They wrenched at the planks 'mid a hail of fire:

They fell in death, their work half done:

The bridge stood fast; and nigh and nigher

The foe swarmed darkly, densely on.

"O who for Erin will strike a stroke?

Who hurl yon planks where the waters roar?"

Six warriors forth from their comrades broke,

And flung them upon that bridge once more.

Again at the rocking planks they dashed;

And four dropped dead; and two remained:

The huge beams groaned, and the arch down

crashed;--

Two stalwart swimmers the margin gained.

St Ruth in his stirrups stood up, and cried,

"I have seen no deed like that in France!"

With a toss of his head Sarsfield replied,

"They had luck, the dogs!'Twas a merry

chance!"

O many a year upon Shannon's side,

They sang upon moor and they sang upon

Of the twain that breasted that raging tide,

And the ten that shook bloody hands with

Death!

heath

----Aubrey de Vere,

LOVE'S WARNING

|A fair lady once, with her young lover walked,

Gillyflower, gentle rosemary;

Through a garden, and sweetly they laughed

and they talked,

While the dews fell over the mulberry tree.

She gave him a rose--while he sighed for a kiss,

Gillyflower, gentle rosemary;

Quoth he, as he took it, "I kiss thee in this,"

While the dews fall over the mulberry tree.

She gave him a lily less white than her breast,

Gillyflower, gentle rosemary;

Quoth he, "'Twill remind me of one I love best,"

While the dews fall over the mulberry tree.

She gave him a two faces under a hood,

Gillyflower, gentle rosemary;

"How blest you could make me," quoth he,

"if you would,"

While the dews fall over the mulberry tree.

She saw a forget-me-not flower in the grass,

Gillyflower, gentle rosemary;

Ah! why did the lady that little flower pass?

While the dews fell over the mulberry tree.

The young lover saw that she passed it, and

sigh'd,

Gillyflower, gentle rosemary;

They say his heart broke, and he certainly died,

While the dews fell over the mulberry tree.

Now all you fair ladies, take warning by this,

Gillyflower, gentle rosemary;

And never refuse your young lovers a kiss,

While the dews fall over the mulberry tree.

----Ed. Kenealy.

THE OLD STORY

... Old as the universe, yet not outworn."--_The Island_.

|He came across the meadow-pass,

That summer-eve of eves,

The sunlight streamed along the grass,

And glanced amid the leaves;

And from the shrubbery below,

And from the garden trees,

He heard the thrushes' music flow,

And humming of the bees;

The garden-gate was swung apart--

The space was brief between;

But there, for throbbing of his heart,

He paused perforce to lean.

He leaned upon the garden-gate;

He looked, and scarce he breathed

Within the little porch she sate,

With woodbine overwreathed;

Her eyes upon her work were bent,

Unconscious who was nigh;

But oft the needle slowly went,

And oft did idle lie;

And ever to her lips arose

Sweet fragments faintly sung,

But ever, ere the notes could close,

She hushed them on her tongue.

Her fancies as they come and go,

Her pure face speaks the while,

For now it is a flitting glow,

And now a breaking smile;

And now it is a graver shade

When holier thoughts are there--

An Angel's pinion might be stayed

To see a sight so fair;

But still they hid her looks of light,

Those downcast eyelids pale--

Two lovely clouds so silken white,

Two lovelier stars that veil.

The sun at length his burning edge

Had rested on the hill,

And save one thrush from out the hedge,

Both bower and grove were still.

The sun had almost bade farewell;

But one reluctant ray

Still loved within that porch to dwell,

As charmed there to stay--

It stole aslant the pear-tree bough,

And through the woodbine fringe,

And kissed the maiden's neck and brow,

And bathed her in its tinge.

"Oh! beauty of my heart," he said,

"Oh! darling, darling mine,

Was ever light of evening shed

On loveliness like thine?

Why should I ever leave this spot,

But gaze until I die?"

A moment from that bursting thought

She felt his footstep nigh.

One sudden, lifted glance--but one,

A tremor and a start,

So gently was their greeting done

That who would guess their heart?

Long, long the sun had sunken down,

And all his golden trail

Had died away to lines of brown,

In duskier hues that fail.

Googlt

The grasshopper was chirping shrill--

No other living sound

Accompanied the tiny rill

That gurgled under ground--

No other living sound, unless

Some spirit bent to hear

Low words of human tenderness,

And mingling whispers near.

The stars, like pallid gems at first,

Deep in the liquid sky,

Now forth upon the darkness burst,

Sole kings and lights on high;

In splendour myriad-fold, supreme--

No rival moonlight strove,

Nor lovelier e'er was Hesper's beam,

Nor more majestic Jove.

But what if hearts there beat that night

That recked not of the skies,

Or only felt their imaged light

In one another's eyes.

And if two worlds of hidden thought

And fostered passion met,

Which, passing human language, sought

And found an utterance yet;

And if they trembled like to flowers

That droop across a stream,

The while the silent starry hours

Glide o'er them like a dream;

And if, when came the parting time,

They faltered still and clung;

What is it all?--in ancient rhyme

Ten thousand times besung--

That part of Paradise which man

Without the portal knows--

Which hath been since the world began,

And shall be till its close.

----J. O'Hagan.

THE BROTHERS: HENRY AND JOHN SHEARS

|Tis midnight; falls the lamp-light dull and sickly

On a pale and anxious crowd,

Through the court, and round the judges,

thronging thickly,

With prayers none dare to speak aloud.

Two youths, two noble youths, stand prisoners

at the bar--

You can see them through the gloom--

In pride of life and manhood's beauty, there

they are

Awaiting their death doom.

All eyes an earnest watch on them are keeping,

Some, sobbing, turn away,

And the strongest men can hardly see for weeping,

So noble and so loved were they.

Their hands are locked together, those young

brothers,

As before the judge they stand--

They feel not the deep grief that moves the

others;

For they die for Fatherland.

They are pale, but it is not fear that whitens

On each proud high brow;

For the triumph of the martyr's glory brightens

Around them even now.

They sought to free their land from thrall of

stranger,--

Was it treason? Let them die;

But their blood will cry to heaven--the Avenger

Yet will hearken from on high.

Before them, shrinking, cowering, scarcely

human,

The base informer bends,

Who, Judas-like, could sell the blood of true

men,

While he clasped their hands as friends.

Ay, could fondle the young children of his victim,

Break bread with his young wife,

At the moment that, for gold, his perjured dictum

Sold the husband and the father's life.

There is silence in the midnight--eyes arekeeping

Troubled watch, till forth the jury come;

There is silence in the midnight--eyes are

weeping--

"Guilty!" is the fatal uttered doom,--

For a moment o'er the brothers' noble faces

Came a shadow sad to see,

Then silently they rose up in their places,

And embraced each other fervently.

Oh! the rudest heart might tremble at such sorrow,

The rudest cheek might blanch at such a scene;

Twice the judge essayed to speak the word--

to-morrow--

Twice faltered, as a woman he had been.

To-morrow!--Fain the elder would have spoken,

Prayed for respite, tho' it is not death he fears;

But thoughts of home and wife his heart hath

broken,

And his words are stopped by tears.

But the youngest--Oh! he speaks out bold and

clearly:--

"I have no ties of children or of wife;

Let me die--but spare the brother, who more

dearly

Is loved by me than life."

Pale martyrs,ye may cease; your days are numbered;

Next noon your sun of life goes down;

One day between the sentence and the scaffold--

One day between the torture and the crown!

A hymn of joy is rising from creation;

Bright the azure of the glorious summer sky;

But human hearts weep sore in lamentation,

For the brothers are led forth to die.

Aye; guard them with your cannon and your

lances--

So of old came martyrs to the stake;

Aye; guard them--see the people's flashing

glances,

For those noble two are dying for their sake.

Yet none spring forth their bonds to sever--

Ah! methinks, had I been there,

I'd have dared a thousand deaths ere ever

The sword should touch their hair.

It falls!--there is a shriek of lamentation

From the weeping crowd around;

They're stilled--the noblest hearts within the

nation--

The noblest heads lie bleeding on the ground.

Years have passed since that fatal scene of dying,

Yet life-like to this day

In their coffins still those severed heads are lying,

Kept by angels from decay.

Oh! they preach to us, those still and pallid

features--

Those pale lips yet implore us from their graves

To strive for our birthright as God's creatures,

Or die, if we can but live as slaves.

----Speranza (Lady Wilde).

THE WITCH-BRIDE

|A fair witch crept to a young man's side,

And he kiss'd her and took her for his bride.

But a Shape came in at the dead of night,

And fill'd the room with snowy light.

And he saw how in his arms there lay

A thing more frightful than mouth may say.

And he rose in haste, and follow'd the Shape

Till morning crown'd an eastern cape.

And he girded himself and follow'd still,

When sunset sainted the western hill.

But, mocking and thwarting, clung to his side,

Weary day!--the foul Witch-Bride

----Wm. Allingham.

THE MILKMAID

|O where are you going so early? he said;

Good luck go with you, my pretty maid;

To tell you my mind Im half afraid,

But I wish I were your sweetheart.

When the morning sun is shining low,

And the cocks in every farmyard crow,

I'll carry your pail,

O'er hill and dale,

And I'll go with you a-milking.

I'm going a-milking, sir, says she,

Through the dew, and across the lea;

You ne'er would even yourself to me,

Or take me for your sweetheart.

When the morning sun, &c.

Now give me your milking-stool awhile,

To carry it down to yonder stile;

I'm wishing every step a mile,

And myself your only sweetheart.

When the morning sun, &c.

O, here's the stile in-under the tree,

And there's the path in the grass for me,

And I thank you kindly, sir, says she,

And wish you a better sweetheart.

When the morning sun, &c.

Now give me your milking-pail, says he,

And while were going across the lea,

Pray reckon your master's cows to me,

Although I'm not your sweetheart.

When the morning sun, &c.

Two of them red, and two of them white,

Two of them yellow and silky bright,

She told him her master's cows aright,

Though he was not her sweetheart.

When the morning sun, &c.

She sat and milk'd in the morning sun,

And when her milking was over and done,

She found him waiting, all as one

As if he were her sweetheart.

When the morning sun, &c.

He freely offer'd his heart and hand;

Now she has a farm at her command,

And cows of her own to graze the land;

Success to all true sweethearts!

When the morning sun is shining low,

And the cocks in every farmyard crow,

I'll carry your pail

O'er hill and dale,

And I'll go with you a-milking,

---Wm. Allingham.

THE NOBLEMAN'S WEDDING

|I once was guest at a Nobleman's wedding;

Fair was the Bride, but she scarce had been

kind,

And now in our mirth, she had tears nigh the

shedding;

Her former true lover still runs in her mind.

Attired like a minstrel, her former true lover

Takes up his harp, and runs over the strings;

And there among strangers, his grief to discover,

A fair maiden's falsehood he bitterly sings.

"Now here is the token of gold that was broken;

Seven long years it was kept for your sake;

You gave it to me as a true lover's token;

No longer I'll wear it, asleep or awake."

She sat in her place by the head of the table,

The words of his ditty she mark'd them right

well;

To sit any longer this bride was not able,

So down at the bridegrooms feet she fell.

"O one, one request, my lord, one and no other,

O this one request will you grant it to me?

To lie for this night in the arms of my mother,

And ever, and ever thereafter with thee."

Her one, one request it was granted her fairly;

Pale were her cheeks as she went up to bed;

And the very next morning, early, early,

They rose and they found this young bride

was dead.

The bridegroom ran quickly, he held her, he

kiss'd her,

He spoke loud and low, and listen'd full fain;

He call'd on her waiting-maids round to assist

her,

But nothing could bring the lost breath back

again.

O carry her softly! the grave is made ready;

At head and at foot plant a laurel-bush green;

For she was a young and a sweet noble lady,

The fairest young bride that I ever have seen.

---Wm. Allingham.

St. Margaret's Eve

|I built my castle upon the sea-side,

_The waves roll so gaily O_,

Half on the land and half in the tide,

_Love me true!_

Within was silk, without was stone,

_The waves roll so gaily O_,

It lacks a queen, and that alone.

_Love me true!_

The gray old harper sung to me,

_The waves roll so gaily O_,

"Beware of the Damsel of the Sea!"

_Love me true!_

Saint Margaret's Eve it did befall,

_The waves roll so gaily O_,

The tide came creeping up the wall.

_Love me true!_

I open'd my gate; who there should stand--

_The waves roll so gaily O_,

But a fair lady, with a cup in her hand.

_Love me true!_

The cup was gold, and full of wine,

_The waves roll so gaily O_,

"Drink," said the lady, "and I will be thine."

_Love me true!_

"Enter my castle, lady fair,"

_The waves roll so gaily O_,

"You shall be queen of all that's there."

_Love me true!_

99 A gray old harper sung to me,"

_The waves roll so gaily O_,

"'Beware of the Damsel of the Sea!'"

_Love me true!_

19 In hall he harpeth many a year,"

_The waves roll so gaily O_,

"And we will sit his song to hear."

_Love me true!_

991 love thee deep, I love thee true,"

_The waves roll so gaily O_,

"But ah! I know not how to woo."

_Love me true!_

Down dash'd the cup, with a sudden shock,

_The waves roll so gaily O_,

The wine like blood ran over the rock.

_Love me true!_

She said no word, but shriek'd aloud,

The waves roll so gaily O,

And vanish'd away from where she stood.

_Love me true!_

I lock'd and barr'd my castle door,

_The waves roll so gaily O_,

Three summer days I grieved sore.

_Love me true!_

For myself a day and night,

_The waves roll so gaily O_,

And two to moan that lady bright.

_Love me true!_

----Wm. Allingham.

THE MAIDS OF ELFIN-MERE

|When the spinning-room was here,

Came Three Damsels, clothed in white,

With their spindles every night;

One and two and three fair Maidens,

Spinning to a pulsing cadence,

Singing songs of Elfin-Mere,

Till the eleventh hour was toll'd,

Then departed through the wold.

_Years ago, and years ago;

And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow_.

Three white Lilies, calm and clear,

And they were loved by every one;

Most of all, the Pastor's Son,

Listening to their gentle singing,

Felt his heart go from him, clinging

To these Maids of Elfin-Mere;

Sued each night to make them stay,

Sadden'd when they went away.

_Years ago, and years ago;

And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow_.

Hands that shook with love and fear

Dared put back the village clock,--

Flew the spindle, turn'd the rock,

Flow'd the song with subtle rounding,

Till the false "eleven" was sounding;

Then these Maids of Elfin-Mere

Swiftly, softly left the room,

Like three doves on snowy plume.

_Years ago, and years ago;

And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow_.

One that night who wander'd near

Heard lamentings by the shore,

Saw at dawn three stains of gore

In the waters fade and dwindle.

Nevermore with song and spindle

Saw we Maids of Elfin-Mere.

The Pastor's Son did pine and die;

Because true love should never lie.

_Years ago, and years ago;

And the tall reeds sigh as the wind doth blow_.

----Wm. Allingham.

THE FAITHLESS KNIGHT

|It is a careless pretty may, down by yon river-

side;

Her face, the whole world's pleasure, she gladly

hath espied;

And tossing back her golden hair, her singing

echoes wide;

When gaily to the grassy shore a youthful

knight doth ride.

And vaulting from his courser, that stoops the

head to drink,

And greeting well this Maiden fair, by running

waters brink,

He throws about her slender neck a chain of

costly link:

Too courteous he for glamourie, as any may

might think.

All through the flowery meadows, in the

summer evening warm,

The rippling river murmurs low, the dancing

midges swarm;

But far away the pretty may, nor makes the

least alarm,

Sits firm on lofty saddle-bow, within the young

knight's arm.

Now months are come, and months are gone,

with sunshine, breeze, and rain;

The song on grassy river-shore you shall not

hear again;

The proud knight spurs at tournament, in

Germany or Spain,

Or sues in silken bow'r to melt some lady's

high disdain.

And thus in idle hour he dreams--"I've

wander'd east and west;

I've whisper'd love in many an ear, in earnest or

in jest;

That summer day--that pretty may--perhaps

she loved me best?

I recollect her face, methinks, more often than

the rest."

----Wm Allingham.

MICHAEL DWYER

|At length brave Michael Dwyer and his un-

daunted men

Were hunted o'er the mountains, and tracked

into the glen;

The stealthy soldiers followed, with ready blade

and ball,

And swore to trap the outlaw that night in wild

Emall.

They prowled about the valley, and toward the

dawn of day

Discovered where the faithful and fearless

heroes lay;

Around the little cottage they formed into a ring,

And called out "Michael Dwyer! Surrender to

the King!"

Thus answered Michael Dwyer--"Into this

house we came

Unasked by those who own it; they cannot be

to blame;

Then let those guiltless people, unquestioned,

pass you through;

And when they've passed in safety, I'll tell you

what we'll do."

'Twas done. "And now," said Dwyer, "your

work you may begin;

You are a hundred outside--we're only four

within;

We've heard your haughty summons, and this

is our reply--

We're true United Irishmen--we'll fight until

we die."

Then burst the war's red lightning, then poured

the leaden rain;

The hills around re-echoed the thunder peals

again;

The soldiers falling round him brave Dwyer

sees with pride;

But, ah! one gallant comrade is wounded by his

side.

Yet there are three remaining, good battle still

to do;

Their hands are strong and steady, their aim is

quick and true--

But hark that furious shouting the savage

soldiers raise!

The house is fired around them!--the roof is in

a blaze!

And brighter every moment the lurid flame arose,

And louder swelled the laughter and cheering

of their foes;

Then spake the brave M'Alister, the weak and

wounded man--

"You can escape, my comrades, and this shall

be your plan.

"Place in my hands a musket, then lie upon the

floor,

I'll stand before the soldiers, and open wide the

door;

They'll pour into my bosom the fire of their array,

Then, while their guns are empty, dash through

them, and away!"

He stood before his foemen, revealed amidst

the flame;

From out their levelled pieces the wished-for

volley came;

Up sprang the three survivors, for whom the

hero died,

But only Michael Dwyer burst through the

ranks outside.

He baffled his pursuers, who followed like the

wind,

And swam the River Slaney, and left them far

behind;

But many a scarlet soldier he promised soon

should fall

For those, his gallant comrades, who died in

wild Emall.

----T. D. Sullivan.

RANDALL M'DONALD

|The lady of Antrim rose with the morn,

And donn'd her grandest gear;

And her heart beat fast, when a sounding horn

Announced a suitor near;

Hers was a heart so full of pride,

That love had little room,

Good faith, I would not wish me such bride,

For all her beautiful bloom.

One suitor there came from the Scottish shore,

Long, and lithe, and grim,

And a younger one from Dunluce hoar,

And the lady inclined to him.

"But hearken ye, nobles both," she said,

As soon as they sat to dine--

"The hand must prove its chieftainry,

That putteth a ring on mine.

"But not in the lists with armed hands,

Must this devoir be done,

Yet he who wins my broad, broad lands

Their lady may count as won.

Ye both were born upon the shore,--

Were bred upon the sea,

Now let me see you ply the oar,

For the land you love--and me!

"The chief that first can reach the strand

May mount at morn and ride,

And his long day's ride shall bound his land,

And I will be his bride!"

M'Quillan felt hope in every vein

As the bold, bright lady spoke--

And McDonald glanced over his rival again,

And bow'd with a bargeman's stroke.

'Tis summer upon the Antrim shore--

The shore of shores it is--

Where the white old rocks deep caves arch o'er,

Unfathom'd by man I wis--

Where the basalt breast of our isle flings back

The Scandinavian surge,

To howl through its native Scaggerack,

Chanting the Viking's dirge.

'Tis summer--the long white lines of foam

Roll lazily to the beach,

And man and maid from every home

Their eyes o'er the waters stretch.

On Glenarm's lofty battlements

Sitteth the lady fair,

And the warm west wind blows softly

Through the links of her golden hair.

The boats in the distant offing

Are marshaird prow to prow;

The boatmen cease their scoffing,

And bend to the rowlocks now;

Like glory-guided steeds they start--

Away o'er the waves they bound;

Each rower can hear the beating heart

Of his brother boatman sound.

Nearer! nearer! on they come,

Row, McDonald, row!

For Antrim's princely castle home,

Its lands, and its lady, row!

The chief that first can grasp the strand

May mount at morn and ride,

And his long day's ride shall bound his land,

And she shall be his bride!

He saw his rival gain apace,

He felt the spray in his wake--

He thought of her who watch'd the race

Most dear for her dowry sake!

Then he drew his skein from out its sheath,

And lopt off his left hand,

And pale and fierce, as a chief in death,

He hurl'd it to the strand!

"The chief that first can grasp the strand,

May mount at morn and ride;"

Oh, fleet is the steed which the bloody hand,

Through Antrim's glens doth guide!

And legends tell that the proud ladye

Would fain have been unbann'd,

For the chieftain who proved his chieftainry

Lorded both wife and land.

-----T. D. M'Gee.

THE DEMON OF THE GIBBET

|There was no west, there was no east,

No star abroad for eyes to see;

And Norman spurred his jaded beast

Hard by the terrible gallows-tree.

"O, Norman, haste across this waste,--

For something seems to follow me!"

"Cheer up, dear Maud, for, thanked be God,

We nigh have passed the gallows-tree!"

He kissed her lip: then--spur and whip!

And fast they fled across the lea!

But vain the heel, and rowel steel,--

For something leaped from the gallows-tree!

"Give me your cloak, your knightly cloak,

That wrapped you oft beyond the sea!

The wind is bold, my bones are old,

And I am cold on the gallows-tree."

"O holy God! O dearest Maud,

Quick, quick, some prayers--the best that be!

A bony hand my neck has spanned,

And tears my knightly cloak from me!"

"Give me your wine,--the red, red wine,

That in the flask hangs by your knee!

Ten summers burst on me accurst,

And I'm athirst on the gallows-tree!"

"O Maud, my life, my loving wife!

Have you no prayer to set us free?

My belt unclasps,--a demon grasps,

And drags my wine-flask from my knee!"

"Give me your bride, your bonnie bride,

That left her nest with you to flee!

O she hath flown to be my own,

For I'm alone on the gallows-tree!"

"Cling closer, Maud, and trust in God!

Cling close!--Ah, heaven, she slips from me!"

A prayer, a groan, and he alone

Rode on that night from the gallows-tree.

---Fitz-James O'Brien.

KILBRANNON

|My love, braid up thy golden locks,

And don thy silken shoon,

We'll sit upon Kilbrannon's rocks,

Where shines the silvery moon;

And bring thy little babe with thee,

For his dear father's sake,

The lands where he'll be lord to see,

By lone Kilbrannon lake."

She's braided up her golden locks,

She's donned her silken shoon,

And they're away to Kilbrannon's rocks

By the cold light of the moon;

Sir Hubert he took both wife and child

Upon that night of woe,

And hurled them over the rocks so wild,

To the lake's blue depths below.

And he has married another may,

With the locks of ebonie,

And her looks are sweet, and her heart is gay,

Yet a woeful wight is he;

He wakes the woods with his bugle horn,

But his heart is heavy and sore;

And he ever shuns those crags forlorn

By lone Kilbrannon shore.

For down in the lake the dead won't rest,

That vengeful murdered one;

With her little babe at her pulseless breast,

She walks the waters lone;

And she calls at night her murderer's name,

And will call for evermore,