Chapter 21: , forbidding the importation of foreign coals, was designed (10)

II.

We have no curse for you or yours,
But Friendship's ready grasp,
And Faith to stand by you and yours
Unto our latest gasp--
To stand by you against all foes,
Howe'er, or whence they come,
With traitor arts, or bribes, or blows,
From England, France, or Rome.

III.

What matter that at different shrines
We pray unto one God?
What matter that at different times
Your fathers won this sod?
In fortune and in name we're bound
By stronger links than steel;
And neither can be safe nor sound
But in the other's weal.

IV.

As Nubian rocks, and Ethiop sand
Long drifting down the Nile,
Built up old Egypt's fertile land
For many a hundred mile,
So Pagan clans to Ireland came,
And clans of Christendom,
Yet joined their wisdom and their fame
To build a nation from.

V.

Here came the brown Phoenician,
The man of trade and toil--
Here came the proud Milesian,
A hungering for spoil;
And the Firbolg and the Cymry,
And the hard, enduring Dane,
And the iron Lords of Normandy,
With the Saxons in their train.

VI.

And oh! it were a gallant deed
To show before mankind,
How every race and every creed
Might be by love combined--
Might be combined, yet not forget
The fountains whence they rose,
As, filled by many a rivulet,
The stately Shannon flows.

VII.

Nor would we wreak our ancient feud
On Belgian or on Dane,
Nor visit in a hostile mood
The hearths of Gaul or Spain;
But long as on our country lies
The Anglo-Norman yoke,
Their tyranny we'll stigmatize,
And God's revenge invoke.

VIII.

We do not hate, we never cursed,
Nor spoke a foeman's word
Against a man in Ireland nursed,
Howe'er we thought he erred;
So start not, Irish-born man,
If you're to Ireland true,
We heed not race, nor creed, nor clan,
We've hearts and hands for you.

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[83] Written in reply to some very beautiful verses printed in the
_Evening Mail_, deprecating and defying the assumed hostility
of the Irish Celts to the _Irish_ Saxons.

ORANGE AND GREEN WILL CARRY THE DAY.

AIR--_The Protestant Boys._

I.

Ireland! rejoice, and England! deplore--
Faction and feud are passing away.
'Twas a low voice, but 'tis a loud roar,
"Orange and Green will carry the day."
Orange! Orange!
Green and Orange!
Pitted together in many a fray--
Lions in fight!
And linked in their might,
Orange and Green will carry the day.
Orange! Orange!
Green and Orange!
Wave them together o'er mountain and bay.
Orange and Green!
Our King and our Queen!
"Orange and Green will carry the day!"

II.

Rusty the swords our fathers unsheathed--
William and James are turned to clay--
Long did we till the wrath they bequeathed,
Red was the crop, and bitter the pay!
Freedom fled us!
Knaves misled us!
Under the feet of the foemen we lay--
Riches and strength
We'll win them at length,
For Orange and Green will carry the day!
Landlords fooled us;
England ruled us,
Hounding our passions to make us their prey;
But, in their spite,
The Irish UNITE,
And Orange and Green will carry the day!

III.

Fruitful our soil where honest men starve;
Empty the mart, and shipless the bay;
Out of our want the Oligarchs carve;
Foreigners fatten on our decay!
Disunited,
Therefore blighted,
Ruined and rent by the Englishman's sway;
Party and creed
For once have agreed--
Orange and Green will carry the day!
Boyne's old water,
Red with slaughter!
Now is as pure as an infant at play;
So, in our souls,
Its history rolls,
And Orange and Green will carry the day!

IV.

English deceit can rule us no more;
Bigots and knaves are scattered like spray--
Deep was the oath the Orangeman swore,
"Orange and Green must carry the day!"
Orange! Orange!
Bless the Orange!
Tories and Whigs grew pale with dismay,
When from the North
Burst the cry forth,
"Orange and Green will carry the day!"
No surrender!
No Pretender!
Never to falter and never betray--
With an Amen,
We swear it again,
ORANGE AND GREEN SHALL CARRY THE DAY.

THE LOST PATH.

AIR--_Gradh mo chroidhe._

I.

Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be,
All comfort else has flown;
For every hope was false to me,
And here I am, alone.
What thoughts were mine in early youth!
Like some old Irish song,
Brimful of love, and life, and truth,
My spirit gushed along.

II.

I hoped to right my native isle,
I hoped a soldier's fame,
I hoped to rest in woman's smile
And win a minstrel's name--
Oh! little have I served my land,
No laurels press my brow,
I have no woman's heart or hand,
Nor minstrel honours now.

III.

But fancy has a magic power,
It brings me wreath and crown,
And woman's love, the self-same hour
It smites oppression down.
Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be,
I have no joy beside;
Oh! throng around, and be to me
Power, country, fame, and bride.

THE GIRL OF DUNBWY.

I.

'Tis pretty to see the girl of Dunbwy Stepping the mountain statelily-- Though ragged her gown, and naked her feet, No lady in Ireland to match her is meet.

II.

Poor is her diet, and hardly she lies-- Yet a monarch might kneel for a glance of her eyes. The child of a peasant--yet England's proud Queen Has less rank in her heart, and less grace in her mien.

III.

Her brow 'neath her raven hair gleams, just as if A breaker spread white 'neath a shadowy cliff-- And love, and devotion, and energy speak From her beauty-proud eye, and her passion-pale cheek.

IV.

But, pale as her cheek is, there's fruit on her lip, And her teeth flash as white as the crescent moon's tip, And her form and her step like the red-deer's go past-- As lightsome, as lovely, as haughty, as fast.

V.

I saw her but once, and I looked in her eye, And she knew that I worshipped in passing her by; The saint of the wayside--she granted my prayer, Though we spoke not a word, for her mother was there.

VI.

I never can think upon Bantry's bright hills, But her image starts up, and my longing eye fills; And I whisper her softly, "Again, love, we'll meet! And I'll lie in your bosom, and live at your feet."

BLIND MARY.

AIR--_Blind Mary._

I.

There flows from her spirit such love and delight, That the face of Blind Mary is radiant with light-- As the gleam from a homestead through darkness will show Or the moon glimmer soft through the fast falling snow.

II.

Yet there's a keen sorrow comes o'er her at times, As an Indian might feel in our northerly climes! And she talks of the sunset, like parting of friends, And the starlight, as love, that not changes nor ends.

III.

Ah! grieve not, sweet maiden, for star or for sun, For the mountains that tower or the rivers that run-- For beauty and grandeur, and glory, and light, Are seen by the spirit, and not by the sight.

IV.

In vain for the thoughtless are sunburst and shade, In vain for the heartless flowers blossom and fade; While the darkness that seems your sweet being to bound Is one of the guardians, an Eden around!

OH! THE MARRIAGE.

AIR--_The Swaggering Jig._

I.

Oh! the marriage, the marriage,
With love and _mo bhuachaill_ for me,
The ladies that ride in a carriage
Might envy my marriage to me;
For Eoghan[84] is straight as a tower,
And tender, and loving, and true;
He told me more love in an hour
Than the Squires of the county could do.
Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.

II.

His hair is a shower of soft gold,
His eye is as clear as the day,
His conscience and vote were unsold
When others were carried away;
His word is as good as an oath,
And freely 'twas given to me;
Oh! sure, 'twill be happy for both
The day of our marriage to see.
Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.

III.

His kinsmen are honest and kind,
The neighbours think much of his skill,
And Eoghan's the lad to my mind,
Though he owns neither castle nor mill.
But he has a tilloch of land,
A horse, and a stocking of coin,
A foot for a dance, and a hand
In the cause of his country to join.
Then, Oh! the marriage, etc.

IV.

We meet in the market and fair--
We meet in the morning and night--
He sits on the half of my chair,
And my people are wild with delight;
Yet I long through the winter to skim,
Though Eoghan longs more I can see,
When I will be married to him,
And he will be married to me.
Then, Oh! the marriage, the marriage,
With love and _mo bhuachaill_ for me,
The ladies that ride in a carriage,
Might envy my marriage to me.

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[84] _Vulgo_, Owen, a name frequent among the Cymry (Welsh).

THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE.

AIR--_An Cota Caol._

I.

His kiss is sweet, his word is kind,
His love is rich to me;
I could not in a palace find
A truer heart than he.
The eagle shelters not his nest
From hurricane and hail,
More bravely than he guards my breast--
The Boatman of Kinsale.

II.

The wind that round the Fastnet sweeps
Is not a whit more pure--
The goat that down Cnoc Sheehy leaps
Has not a foot more sure.
No firmer hand nor freer eye
E'er faced an autumn gale--
De Courcy's heart is not so high--
The Boatman of Kinsale.

III.

The brawling squires may heed him not,
The dainty stranger sneer--
But who will dare to hurt our cot
When Myles O'Hea is here?
The scarlet soldiers pass along;
They'd like, but fear to rail;
His blood is hot, his blow is strong--
The Boatman of Kinsale.

IV.

His hooker's in the Scilly van
When seines are in the foam;
But money never made the man,
Nor wealth a happy home.
So, blest with love and liberty,
While he can trim a sail,
He'll trust in God, and cling to me--
The Boatman of Kinsale.

LOVE AND WAR.

I.

How soft is the moon on Glengariff,
The rocks seem to melt with the light:
Oh! would I were there with dear Fanny,
To tell her that love is as bright;
And nobly the sun of July
O'er the waters of Adragoole shines--
Oh! would that I saw the green banner
Blaze there over conquering lines.

II.

Oh! love is more fair than the moonlight,
And glory more grand than the sun:
And there is no rest for a brave heart,
Till its bride and its laurels are won;
But next to the burst of our banner,
And the smile of dear Fanny, I crave
The moon on the rocks of Glengariff--
The sun upon Adragoole's wave.

MY LAND.

I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

V.

Oh! she's a fresh and fair land; Oh! she's a true and rare land; Yes! she's a rare and fair land-- This native land of mine.

THE RIGHT ROAD.

I.

Let the feeble-hearted pine, Let the sickly spirit whine, But work and win be thine, While you've life. God smiles upon the bold-- So, when your flag's unrolled, Bear it bravely till you're cold In the strife.

II.

If to rank or fame you soar, Out your spirit frankly pour-- Men will serve you and adore, Like a king. Woo your girl with honest pride, Till you've won her for your bride-- Then to her, through time and tide, Ever cling.

III.

Never under wrongs despair; Labour long, and everywhere, Link your countrymen, prepare, And strike home. Thus have great men ever wrought, Thus must greatness still be sought, Thus laboured, loved, and fought Greece and Rome.

MY GRAVE.

Shall they bury me in the deep, Where wind-forgetting waters sleep? Shall they dig a grave for me, Under the green-wood tree? Or on the wild heath, Where the wilder breath Of the storm doth blow? Oh, no! oh, no!

Shall they bury me in the Palace Tombs, Or under the shade of Cathedral domes? Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore; Yet not there--nor in Greece, though I love it more, In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find? Shall my ashes career on the world-seeing wind? Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound, Where coffinless thousands lie under the ground? Just as they fall they are buried so-- Oh, no! oh, no!

No! on an Irish green hill-side, On an opening lawn--but not too wide; For I love the drip of the wetted trees-- I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze To freshen the turf--put no tombstone there, But green sods decked with daisies fair; Nor sods too deep, but so that the dew, The matted grass-roots may trickle through. Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind, "HE SERVED HIS COUNTRY, AND LOVED HIS KIND."

Oh! 'twere merry unto the grave to go, If one were sure to be buried so.