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SONGSTER

TWENTYM·EN FR M DUBLIN TOWN SCENES THAT ARE BRIGHTEST EILEEN ALANNAH

GIVE ME A COT THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS

THE BAY of BISCAY THE WOODPECKER

. HASTE TO THE WEDDING BEAUTIFUL ISLE OF THE SEA

A LAY OF KILCOCK \ NORAH· O'NEILL

A DREAMT THAT

THE HARP IN THE AIR THE ROBIN'S SONG

BILLY BYRNE of BALLYMANUS LAMENT of the IRISH EMIGRANT BOILING 'UP THE KETTLE

. A FATHER'S LOVE OH,ERIN,MY COUNTRY

KING O'TOOLE AND SAINT KEVIN T_HE PEASANT'S BRIDE

LOVE -AND HOME DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY

NORAH, THE PRIDE OF KILDARE THE MOON HAS RAISED , . . /

NED OF THE HILL OH! WILT THOU BE MY BRIDE. , KATHLEEN

AN IRISHMAN'S TOAST THE FORGE

Brighter Days for Dear Ireland · NUGENT $ Co., Publishe .... s, 45 Middle Abbey St., Dublin..

J

THE IRISH EMERALD SONGSTER.

BRIGHTER DAYS FOR DEAR IRELAIMD

By W. C. HENNESY.

(Music at Pigott's, Grafton St., Dublin.)

Bright were the days in our land of old, Bright for the hero and the lover;

iIope for no future for Ireland, we're told, Days of her happiness are over.

Never despair, though such days may be gone, ,

Comfort will always banish sorrow; Fortune can give us the sun that has

8hone, Shining as brightly on the longed-for

monow. So then- . Farewell discomfort and dire distress­

Drive them ".way from our sireland ; and we'll-

Never repine, for the sun yet will shine, And bring brighter days to dear Ire­

land.

Irishmen toil away from their shore, Building the fortunes of another;

Why can't they work for the land they I "')re,

Re1t> ing the labours of a brother P Proud would she be if her sons far away

Toiled for the fortunes of their sire land ; N orked with such vigour at home that

we may Bring brighter days to dear beloved

Irela.nd, So then, &c.

HASTE TO THE WEDDING.

By P. J . M'CALL.

Air-" Haste to the Wedding."

(Taken by permission from Mr. M'Call'~ " Songs of Erin.")

I'd polished the pewther, I'd tidied the

A LAY OF IILCOCI.

By J AMES M. La WRY.

PatDunn Was admittedly one

Who came 01 a very old stock, From where

In the CoUnty Kildare, Stands the famous old town of Kilcock.

A place So devoid of all grace,

And wholly addicted to evil, ' It was said

Of the living and dead, All save he had gone straight to the Devil.

But he Never went on the spree,

And in virtue stood firm as a rock, Alone

He preserved a pure tone In that wicked town of Kilcock.

At last To eternity passed

From the troubles and sorrows of life Poor Pat,

Who left, just think of that, 'l'welve children and only one wife !

Well, well, They tolled out his death.knell,

And things went on the same as before, While he,

With all speed that might be, Presented himself at Heaven's door.

A knock Brought a turn of the lock,

And the Prince of Apostles came out; "Pray who,"

Said Saint Peter, " are you P And what business have you come about P"

. kitchen, "In troth," My dresser looked white as a stack in F or :::Saint Peter looked wroth,

the snow; . Said poor Pat , like a prisoner in doc • _.~ ....... ~.d here by the windo.w -=y...s.kirt ...L-~~--.~ _ _ __ ~"~-" ___ ___ """'~

stitehin', For I'm very !;leat with a needle to sew.

Said I, "What's the use 0 ' me mendin' my finery,

Till it is fit for a queen on her throne P For it's oh, dear, there .i:m't the sign 0' me

Gettin' a man and a place 0' my own."

Chorus. 'Twas Haste to the Weddin', and

Haste to the Weddin', I sang as I sat at the window alone;

Movrone, oh ! 'twas oft I was dreadin' I'd not get a man with a place 0'

my own.

''I'was nearly made up ' once between me and Larry,

That lives o'er the mountain 0' F orth , by the bounds,

With forty-five acres o'land and a quarry : He'd take me, and welcome, with ninety.

five pounds. When he couldn't get it, he said we'd

regret it, And then he got wed to a widow lTI

town; And it's oh, dear, I lost Larry Petit,

A sensible man with a house of his ~wn. (chor~s.)

found in my first cup 0' tea the next Monday,

A lucky red tea-leaf-some stranger to call ;

I tried seven times, and he travelled on Sunday,

I wondered who was it was coming at all.

Who was it but Lanty, last Sunday fCl: Nancy-

Re buried his mother last May in Kil · cone ;

And it's now, dear, I'll ma.rry my fancy­The boy 0' my heart with a. place of his

own. Chorus.

'Tis Haste to the W eddin', alid Haste to the W eddin',

Not long I'll be sittin' &nd singin' alone;

For soon, dear, with young Lanty Reddin,

I'll reign like a queen in a house 0 '

my own.

Wid a pass, and my name Is P at Dunn from the town of K ilcock."

"Kilco"k! " Said the saint , takin' stock,

And he shook his head, doubtiug the ·tory. Poor Dunn

Too soon thought he had won His reward in the kingd.om of glory.

"Kilcock! " Said the st \ll'dy old rock,

"There's a town of that name in no nation."

Says Pat, " Sir, be aisy in that,

'Tis a Midland Great Western station."

" 1'11 look," Said the saint. " in my hook."

And he turned back the key in the lock; But there,

In the County Kildare, Sw-e enough he discovered Kilcock.

"I see You've the oetter 0£" me,

Tho' I thought you were trying to mock; Come in,"

Said the saint wi th a grin, . "You're the first that'~ come here from

Kilcock."

THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.

The light of other days is faded, And all their glories past;

F or grief with heavy wing hath shaded The hopes too bright to last.

The world with morniug's mantre clouded, Shines forth with purer rays ;

Hut the heart ne'er feels ill sorrow shrouded

The light of other days.

The leaf which autumn tempests wither, The birds which .then take wing-,

When winter's ,viuds arc past come hither,

'fo welcome back the spring. The very ivy on the ruin,

In gloom full life displays ; But the heart alone sees no reuewing

The light of other days.

I DREAMT. THAT I DWELT.

I dreamt that 1 dwelt in marble halls . With vassals and serfs at my side, ' And of all who assembled within those

walls That I was the hope and the pride.

1 had riches too great to count, could boast Of a high ancestral name ;

But I also dreamt, which pleas'd me most, That you lov'd me still the same.

I dreamt t~at suitors sought my hand, That klllghts upon bended knee,

And with vows no maiden heart could withstand,

'l'hey pledg'd their faith to me. A.nd I dreamt that one of that noble host

Came forth my hand to claim; 3utI also dreamt, which charm'd me most,

That you lov'd me still the same.

THE ROBIN'S SONG.

By T. D. SULLIV AN.

Beside a little cabin, on a newly budding spray

Rang a little robiu at the dawning of the day.

Within the humble cabin were hearts oppress 'd with care,

But the robin's song of joyance came trilling on the air.

Ohorus. "Cheer up," sang the robin; "cheer

up, cheer up, see All the clouds are passing for you as

well as me ! "

Within the little cabin the question pres­sing sore,

Was how the wolf of hunger might be driven from the door,

And how to get the money for the rent

NED OF THE HILL.

By SAMUEL LOVER.

Dark is the evening, and silent the hour, Who is the minstrel by yonder lone tower P His harp all so tenderly touching with

skill ; Oh, who should it be but Ned of the HillP Who smgs, " Lady love, come to me now, Come and live merrily under the bough,

And I'll pillow thy head, Where the fairies tread,

li thou wilt but wed with N ed of the Hill."

Ned of the hill has no castle nor hall, Nor spearmen nor bowmen to come at his

call; But one little archer, of exquisite skill, Has shot a bright shaft for N ed of the

Hill. Who sings, " Lady love, come to me now, Come and live merrily under the bough;

And I'll pillow thy head, Where the fairies tread,

If thou wilt but wed with Ned of the Hill."

'Tis hard to escape from that fair lady's bower,

For high is the window and guarded the tower;

.. But there's always a WAY where there is a WILL,"

SO Eileen i8 off with Ned of the Hill! Who sings, "Lady love, thou art mine

now! We will live merrily under the bough,

And I'll pillow thy head, Where the fairies tread,

For Eileen is wed to N ed of the Hill! "

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

By LADy DUFFERIN.

/

he oming du, .... t".:-;:;:7r:~:-"£!r':~~:Ft.;;;W~~~~~~~iti~~~~i'~-......,--1 And how to help'tne childl'en, a.b; they were to do.

Chorus. " Cheer up," sang the robin; "cheer

up, cheer up, see The land grows full of plenty for you

as well as me."

The toiler in the cabin knit his features to a frown.

Re thought of all the cruelties that kept his country down;

He pray'd aloud to heaven to end her many woes,

To bless her friends with triumph and humble all her foes.

Chorus. .. Cheer up," sang the Robin; " cheer

up, cheer up, see Here comes the day of freedom for

you as well as me ! "

BEAUTIFUL ISLE OF THE SEA.

Beautiful isle of the sea, Smile on the brow of thy waters,

Dear are your mem'ries to me, Sweet as the songs of yO\ll' daughters.

Over your mountains and vales, Down by each murmuring river,

Cheer'd by the flower-loving gales, Oh! could I wander for ever.

Chorus. Land of the true and the old,

Home ever dear unto me; F O\l.l1 tains of pleasures untold,

Beautiful isle of the sea ; Fountain of pleasures untold,

Beautiful, beautiful isle of the sea.

Oft on your shell.girdled shore, Evening has found me reclining,

Visions of youth dreaming o'e'T, Down where the lighthouse was shin­

ing. Far from the gladness you gave,

Far from all joys worth possessing, Still, o'er the lone, weary wave,

Comes to the wa.nderer-your blessing. (Chorus.)

The place is little changed, Mary, The day is bright as then,

The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again;

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm ou my cheek,

An' I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yon,der lane, And the littie church stands near­

The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the apm: from here.

But the gt'"yard lies between, Mary, And my stAll;l might break your rest­

For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends;

But, ob! they love the better still The few our Father sends:

.A nd you were all I had, Mary, My blessin' and my pride!

There's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died.

Your's was the good brave heart, Mary . That still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul

And my arm's young strength wae gone.

There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow-

1 bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now.

I'm bidding you a long farewell, My Mary-kind and true!

But I'll not forget you, dlUlin', In the land I'm going to :

'fhey 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!

Ve ask for nought but what's our own From friend or foreign foe man ;

Ve're one in love, in blood or bone, . And yield or 'bend to no man.

THE IRISH EMERALD SONGSTER. ----------------------------~------------------- -----------------------------------------~--------

BJLL Y BYRNE OF BALL YMANUS.

(The followi ng is the old mountain ballad which chronicles the fate and has carried the name and fame of Billy B ym e to lands and people who have never looked on LugnaqniUa nor listened to the music of the Avonmore. A couple of verses have been omitted and the text sli &"htly altered in one or two instauces in oreter to rendet it more snitable for singing. The Matthew Davis mentioned in the ballad was an approver on Byrne's trial. Bid Dolan was a young girl of infamons character who was the most important member of the Wicklow" Battalion of Testimony.")

Billy Byrne of Bally~auus was a man of high renown ;

He was tried aud hanged in Wicklow as a traitor to the Crown;

He was taken in Dublin City and brought to Wicklow Jail,

And to our great misfortune for him they'd take no bail.

Now when they had him taken they home against him swore

That he a captain's title upon Mou nt Pleasant bore,

That he King George's army before all did review

And with one piece of cannon he marched on to Carrigrua.

It would make your bosoms bleed how the traitors did explain .

That Byrne worked well the cannon on Arklow's bloody plain.

They swore he led the pikemen on with hearty right goodwill

And on his retreat to Gorey three loyal men did kil l.

My curse ou Matthew Davis, 1 will not. curse h is soul;

Upon the stand at Wicklow he swore without control.

The devil has him fast in chains repenting' of his sin,

In lakes of fire and brimstone and sulphur =0-,",,",,_ th"El chin.

When the devil saw h~l1l com~g he sang a--p-l:ell: ant song,

Saying, "You're welCome,Matthew Davis l What kept you out so long P

Where is that traitor, Dixon, and cursed Bid Dolan, too P

Sure I've got a fine warm corner, Mat, for them as well as you! "

God rest you, Biily Byrne ! May his fame for ever shine

Through Holland, France, and Flanders, and all along the Rhine !

'l'he Lord have mercy on his soul and all such men as he

, Who stand up straight for Irelaud's cause and die fo r Liber ty !

THE WOODPECKER.

By THOMAS J'liOORE.

I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled

Above the green elms that a cottage waR near,

And I said, "If there's peace to be foun d in this' world,

A heart that is humble might hope for it there."

Ev'ry leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound

But a woodpecker tapn,ing the hollow beech tree. <

.. And here in this loue little wood," I exclaimed,

"With a maid that was lovely to soul and to eye,

Who would blush when I prais'd her, an d weep if I blam'd, '

How blest I could live and how calm 1. could die!

Ev'ry leaf was at rest, &c,

.. By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips

In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to reclin e,

And to know that I've sigh'd upon iuuo· cent lips,

Which ne'er had been sigh'd on by all Y but mine."

Ev'ry leaf was at rest, &c.

A FATHER'S LOVE.

The nectar cup may Yield delight, The heart sweet music move;

But, oh! no charm, however bright, Is like paternal love.

Aifection wears a silken chain, O'er deserts tho' we rove;

It gently draws us back again, Each link a father's love.

Yes, like the balm of op'ning flow'rs, Across the ocean foam

It floats with us to distant shores, It pilots back our home.

Alas! how oft in later years, Tho' changed the heart may prove,

Doth mem'ry's dream recall, thro' tears, .A father's early love.

BOILING UP THE KETTL'E.

By THOMAS F. REILLY.

Let poets sing of golden locks, Or dark ones like the ravens wing ;

Of blushing maids without their flocks, Or nymphs that roam the woods in

spring. I often o'er their follies smile,

As 'twirl my lips my pipe I settle ; The wreaths of smoke my thoughts begnil.

While Lizz is boiling up the kettle.

I feel as happy as a king When stirring up the embers bright:

But when I llear the kettle sing My heart is throbbing with delight.

1£ griefs upon my spirit lie-]j'or troubles oft the best will ne,ttle­

I watch the sympathetic eye Of Lizzie boiling up the kettle.

And when I see her graceful glide Across the room-may blessings haunt

hel'-A cunning joy I feel inside :

I know she's gone for the decauter. With grief no more I'm perplexed,

My spirits into calmness set tle; Ifor wr Know wha

W

NORAH, THE PRIDE OF KILDARE.

As beauteous as Flora is yharming young Norah,

The joy of my heart and the pride of Kildare.

I ne'er will deceive her, for sadly 'twould grieve her,

To find that I sighed for another less fair.

Her heart with truth teeming, her eye with smiles beaming,

What mortal could injure a blossom so rare

As N orah, dear N orah, the pride of Kil. dare,

Oh, Norah, dear NClrah, the pride of Kildare. ,

W'here'er I may be, love, I'll ne'er forget thee, lo ve,

Though beauties may smile, and try to ensna re ;

Yet nothing shall ever my heart frol11 thine sever,

Dear N orah, sweet N orah, the pride of Kildare.

Thy heart , with truth teeming, thy eye with smiles beaming,

What mortal co uld injure a blossom so rare

As Norah, dear Norah, the pride of Kil. dare,

Oh, Norah, dear Norah, the ,pride of Kildare.

THE MOON HAS RAISED.

'1'he moon has rais'd her lam p above, To light the way to thee, llIy love. Her rays upon the waters play, '1'0 tell me eyes more brigh t than they Are watchin g thro' the night , I come, I come, my heart's delight!

On 11ill and dale the mooubeams fall, And spreacl their silver light o'er all; But those bright eyes I soon shall see, Reserve their purest light for me. " ,Methillks they now invite; 1 come, I come, my heart's delight'!

TWENTY MEN FROM DUBLIN TOWN.

.A ir- " Clare's Dragoons." (In 1798, after the close of the insurrec·

tioa, mauy United Irishmen left Dublin <ll1d joined Michael Dwyer in the Wick· low mountains.)

Twenty men from Dublin town, Riding on the mountain side,

}j'earless of the Saxon frown, '1'wenty brothers true and tried.

Blood flows in the ' city streets, There the Green is lying low,

Here the emerald standard greets Eyes alike of friend and foe.

Chorus. F ly the city, brothers tried, Join us on the mountain side ; Where we've England's power defied,

Twenty men fro m Dublin tow n.

Twenty men {Tom Dublin town , Flill of love and full of hate,

Oh ! our chief, our Tone is down, Soul of God, a venge his fate!

Joy it is whene'er we meet Itedcoats in the mountain track,

Ah! as deer they must be fleet If they get to Dublin back.

Chorus.

Twenty men from Dublin town, Ev'ry night around the fire

Brimming methers toss we down 1'0 our O.aptain, Micha.el Dwyer.

Slainte, Michael, brave and true, Then there rings the wild" Hurrah!"

As we drink, dear land, to you, E ire, slainte geal go brath.

SCENES THAT ARE BRIGHTEST.

Scenes that are brightest May charm a while,

Hearts which are lightest And eyes that smile ;

Yet o'er them, above us, .I.;'I Q !la u r tJ ~a.U.l,

With none to love us, Ho w sad they seem!

With none, &c.

Words cannot scatter '1.'he thoughts we fear,

For, tho' they flatter, '1'hey mock the ear;

• Hopes will still deceive U8

With tearful cost, And when they leave us

'1.'he heart is lost. And when they, &c.

THE PEASANT' S BRIDE.

Air-" The Blooming Meadows."

I was a simple country girl That loved the morning dearly;

My only wealth a precious pearl I found one morning early.

1 rnilked my mother's only cow, My kind, poor, lovin' Drimin;

I never envied then or now '1.'he kine of richer women.

The sun shone out in bonny Jnne, .An d fragrant were the meadows;

A voice as sweet as an Irish tnne (I lmow it, was my 'l.'hady's)

Said, "Mary, dear, I fain would stay, But where's the use repining'P

[ must away to save my hay Now, while the sun is shining."

Now, Thady was as stout a blade As ever stood in leather;

With hook or scythe, with plough or spade,

He'd beat ten men together. He's just the man, ,t hought I, for me,

He's working late and early; He shall be mine if he be free,

He takes my fancy fairly.

I gave my hand, though I was young, .A nd heart, too, like a feather;

OUI' marriage song by the lark was sung When we were wed together.

A ml nlauy a noble lord, I'm told, .A nclll1any a noble lady, ,/

V'i' ould gladly give a crown of gold '1'0 be like me and Thady.

LOVE AND HOME AND NATIVE LAND.

By SAMUEL LOVER.

When o'er the silent deep we rove, More fondly then our thoughts will stray

To those we leave-to those we love, 'Whose prayers pursue our wat'ry way.

When in the lonely midnight hour 'rhe sailor takes his watchful stand,

His heart then feels the holiest power Of love and home and native land.

In vain may tropic climes display , Their glittering shores-their gorgeous

shells; '1'hough bright birds \villg their dazzling

way, And glorious Bowers adorn the dells,;

Though nature, there prolific, pours The treasures of her magic hand,

The eye, but not the heart, adores­The heart still beats for native land.

AN IRISHMAN'S TOAST.

Oh, don't think me selfish percha.nce I should sing

Of the dearest old spot upon earth; .And don't think me foolish should memory

bring , To my mind the dell-r land of my birth.

With its hills and its valleys, its mountains and vales,

Of which our forefathers would boast, o E a dear little island all covered with

greeu-A,h, but list and I'll give you an Irish.

man's toast.

Chorus. Here's to the land of the shamrock so

green, Here's to each boy and his darling

colleen, Here's to the ones we love dearest and

and most; Ma.y God speed old b:eland-that's an

";,,1.=_ ' s t oast.,

!\Iy mind's eye oft pictures my ola cabin home

Where it stood by the murmuring rill, . Where my playmates and 10ft together

did roam Through the castle that stood on the

hill. ' But the stout hand of time has destroyed

the old spot And the farm now lies barren and bare;

Around the old porch there is ivy entwined, But the birds seem to warble these words '

in the air. Chorus.

The church and the schoolhouse have long been replaced,

in the Glen Hotel dwells a new host; '1'he white.haired old vet' ran has long

, been at rest, And his wife has deserted her post.

King Death, the stern reaper, has called them away,

And their children have gone o'er the seas;

There is nothing but strangers around the old spot,

Still these words seem to waft to my ears on the breeze.

Chorus,

OH, WILT ' HOU BE MY BRIDE. KATHLEEN.

Oh! ,vilt thou be my bride, Kathleen, Though lonely I may be j

My only wealth is this ppor heart, Which beats alone for thee.

The gems that others bring, Kathleen, Upon thy brow to shine;

Oh, do they speak of love and truth Like this poor gift of mine.

Oh! wilt thou, &c.

I've not rich robes for thee, Kathleen, Thy beauty needs no dress ;

'1'he pride of queenly splendour fades Before thy loveliness.

I. have no banquet hall, Kathleen, To grace thy bridal day;

But I've a heart where thou wilt live Till life hath passed away.

Then. wilt thou, &c.

THE BAY OF BISCAY.

By ANDREW CHERRY.

(Andrew Cherry, the writer of the " Dear Little Shamrock," was born in Limerick in 1762, and apprenticed to a printer, but ~ventually went on t he stage. This is one :>f the very few sea-songs of Irish origin .)

L oud roar'd the dreadfui thunder, The rain a deluge showers,

The clouds were rent asunder By lightning's vivid powers:

The night both drear and dark, OUT poor devoted barque, 'l'ill next day, there she lay

In the Bay of Biscay, 0 !

Now dash'd upon t he billow, Our opening timbers creak :

Each fears a wat'ry pill ow, None stops the dreadful leak.

To cling to slipp'ry sm ouds Each breathless seaman crowds, As she lay, t ill nex',day,

In the Bay of Biscay, O !

At length the wish'd-for morrow Broke thro' the hazy sky ;

Absorb'd in silent sorrow, Each heav'd a bitter sigh.

'l'he dismal wreck to view Struck horror to the crew, As she lay, on that day,

In the Bay of Biscay, 0 !

Her yielding timbers sever, Her pitchy seams are rent,

When H eaven, all-bounteous ever , Its boundless mercy sent.

A sail in sight appears, W e hail her with three cheers: Now we sail, with the gale,

From the Bay of Biscay, 0 !

GIVE ME A COT.

Give me a cot in the valley I love,

THE IRISH EMERALD SONGSTER.

KING O'TOOLE AND SAINT KEVIN.

By J. KEARNEY.

Air-" Down in our Village."

.As Saint K evin once was t ravelling through a place called Glendalolll5h,

He chanced to meet with King O''Ioole, and asked him for a shough ;

Says the King," You're but a stral,lger, for your face I've never seen,

But if you have e'er it taste of wee~ I 'll lend you my dudheen."

While the saint was kindling up the llipe. the monarch gave a sigh,

.• I s there anything the matter," say. t he saint, "that makes you cry P "

Says the king, "I had a gan'der that was left me by my mother,

And this very <morn he cdcked his es with some disease or other! "

.. And are you crying for the gander, you unfortunate old goose?

Dry up yom' tears, in fretting sure tb"re's not the laste of use." ",

Says the saint, " What would you giv me if the gander I'd revive P" ,

Says the king. "I'll be your seTVanS all the days .that I'm ' alive."

"I'll cure him," says Saint Kevin, " b:l,t 1 want no servant mall ;'

OH I ERIN, MY COUNTRY.

Oh! Erin, my country, tho' strangers may roam

The hills and the valleys 1 OIl.Ul called my home ;

Thy lakes and thy mountain. (l0 longer 1 see,

r et warmly as ever my he&'r1; beats for thee.

Achlisla machree! my hewt beats for thee;

Erin, }l;rin, my heart beats for thee!

l1h, years have passed over si ... .l6 last time we met,

Yet,lived I a thousand, I coul..! not forget The true hearts that loved rnli, the bright

eyes that shone, LIke stars in the heaven, of days that are

gone. Acushla Ul&cree, &c.

Dear home of my youth, I lJ>Ay see thee no more, .

But memory treasures the brlght days of yore; ,

A.Ild my heart's latest wish, the last sigh of my breast,

Shall be given to thee, deareEoi land of the west. Acushla m ... ~hree, &c.

• EILEEN ALANNA8.

But if I'd make so bold to ask, I'd li P. a r;ileen alannah, Eileen astho,..., bit 0' land. 'l ite light of jllY soul and it~ 'lueen ever-

As you think so much about the bird, af I more. make him whole and sound, It seems years have lingered .. ince last we

Will you give to me the taste of land the did part, gander flies around P " Eleen alalmah, the pride of m.y heart.

"In troth I will an' welcome," says t he On! darling loved one, your dear smile 1 k· . h k ' miss, mg, " gIve w at you as :

The saint then bid him bring the bird and My lips seem to cling to tha. sweet part-he'd begin the task. ing kiss ;

The king went to the palace to fetch him Mavourneen, thy dear face I see at the out the bird, door,

'rhough he'd_not the least intention of Eleen alannah agus asthore.

THE FORIE.

By T. D. SULLIVAN.

Air-" Enniscorthy." Oh, if you'd like to learn, in a cheap and

cosy school, , The ins and out3 of politics, of home and

foreign rule ; How nations should be governed and

how empires rise and fall, Drop into Paddy Gowan's forge, and there

you'll hear it all.

Chorus. Oh, clink-clank, clink-clank, blow, bel­

lows, blow, Till the fire is spirting brightly, and

the iron is aglow; And his hammer on the anvil comes

ringing fast and free. And ~e clinches all his argumenu.

with One, Two, Tmee !

By force of honest intellect, unhelped by bookish skill,

H e settles social questions that might puzzle Rtuart Mill.

He knows how ta.fes should be raised and how they should be spent,

And how poor Ireland has been robbed and where her money went.

(Ohorus.)

Oh, many a boy now working to set dear Erin free,

In.Ireland, and in England, and far beyond the sea,

First learned his patriot lessons, and fell the proud desire

Of freedom kindle in.his soul » y Paddy's flashing fire. (Ohorus.)

Long life to Paddy Gowan, God save him from all harm;

God keep the spirit in his heart, the vigour in his arm.

God bless his roadside college, for our schools, alas! are few

Where Ireland's cause has teachers so A tent in the ~eenwood, a home in t he grove;

sticking to his word-: Faithful I'll be to the colle.n 1 adore, -__ ""'''_''il~. Ei ep 1 !l..!lJl eJ • ~!lt" _--1'>-...--:::,....j._.....&l..w.\Q;o_w~ ...... - --

~~~~~~~~~~~fm~~~~"m>~,~~~,ht3a~ln~t~~e~.~~n~fu~0~~e~g~a~n~aer fn)In .====~--______ ~ ___ __ If one faithful heart will but share it with arms of the king; .f:ileen alannah, Eileen astho,...,

me. H e first began to twig his beak, and I.hen The ocean's blue waters wash by the shore Our haunts shall be nature's own beautiful to stretch his wing. (/~ that dearland of shamrocl. where thou

bowers, He hooshed him up into the air- he ~:Jw cloth Il-bide, Our gems shall be nature's own beautiful thirty miles arolmd; Waiting the day when I'll .. 11 thee my

fI bride. . owers ; Says the saint, .. I'll thank your majesty rhere \ oo'd by the sunshine, and kissed for that little bit 0' ground:' ' God bless you, darling, I kWlw you are

by the gale, true, rhe proudest might envy our home in the- The king, to raise a ruction, faith he calleel 'J'rue to the boy who would "lie now for

vale. the saint a witch, , you ; Give me a cot, &c.

Lov'st thou to listen to music's sweet voice P

Oh, come to the woods, where the song­birds rejoice !

Or, would'st t.hou be free, to the forest repair,

'l'he stag in his freedom bOilllds merrily there.

\'Then summer is gone, and winter's chill hours

Have rifRed the greenwood and blightcLl the flowers,

Tho' ice-bound the brook and snow-cover'd the dale,

The proudest might sigh for our home in the vale.

'rhen give me a cot, &c.

HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD FRAMED.

By R. HRINSLEY S HERIDAN.

Air- " Molly Astore." rlad I a heart for falsehood framed,

1 ne'er could injure you; For, tho' your tongue no promise claim'd,

Your charms would make me true. rhen, lady , dread not here deceit,

Nor fear to suffer wrong, For friends in all the aged you'll meet,

And lovers in the young.

But when they find that YOll have bless'd Another with your heart,

They'll bid aspiring passion rest. .And act a brother's part.

Then, lady, dread not here deccit, Nor fear to suffer wrong,

For friends in all the aged you'll meet, And brothers in the younjf.

And he sent in for his six big sons to heave My heart is now bleeding in tts in nennost him in a ditch. core,

"N abocklish," says Saint K evin, " now I'll E ileen alannah agus asthore settle these young urchins ;" Soon I'll be back to the colll1en 1 adore,

He turned the king and his six sons int{) .Eileen alannah agus astholl9. , the Seven Churches !

Thus King O'Toole had suffered for his dishonest doings ;

The saint then left the gander there to guard about the ruins:

If you go there on a summer's day, between twelve and one o'clock,

You'll see that gander Hyin g round the vale of Glenda:lough.

Now I think there is -a moral good attached unto this song- .

'1'0 punish l}lE\n I think is right whenever they do wrong.

A pflor man may keep his word lDuch better than the folks that's grander,

For the king begrudged to pay the salllt when he cured his ould dead gander.

THE HARP IN THE' AIR.

I heal" it agai ll- 'tis the harp ill the air! It }Jallgs on the ,~alls

Of the old Moorish halls ; 'l'ho' none know its minstrel,

Or how it came there. Listen! listen !-there! there!­

'Tis the }larp in the air! ,

It telleLh of days that are faded and gone; It telleth or the brave, .

Of the lovely and fair, Of waniors grave,

Of a maidell's despair ! '{'here! there!

List, p ilgrim,list!-'tis the llaJ;p in the aU'J There ! there !-hst, :;tilgrim, &c.

DEAR HARP OF MY COUN1RY.

By THOMAS Moou. flear Harp of my Country! 01 darkness 1

found thee, The cold chain of silence 1.t.d hung o'er

t hee long; When proudly, my own i&und harp, I

unbound thee, And gave all thy chords VI light, free­

dom, and song ! The warm lay of love and tho< light notes

of gladness Have waken'd thy fondest., thy liveliest

thriU; .But so oft has~ thou echo'd the deep sigh

of sadness, That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from

thee still.

Dear Harp of my Country i farewell to thy numbers,

This sweet wreath of SOlIM' is the last we shall twine.

Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers,

'fill touch'd by some hand ho6s unworthy than mine.

If the pulse of the patriot, stoldier, or lover Have throbb'd at onr lay, 'tis t hy glory

alone; ! was but as the wind passing heedlessly

over, And all the ,vild sweetnes. f wak'd was

1:Jl"lt oWl'

Oh! I'm lonely to-night, love, without you,

And sigh for one glance of your eye, For sure there's a charm, love, about you,

Whenever I know you are nigh. Like the beam of the star when 'tis smiling,

Is the glance which your eye can't con. ceal,

And your voice is so sweet and beguiling. That I love you, sweet Norah O'Neill.

Ohorus. Oh, don't think that ever I'll doubt you,

My love I will never conceal ; Oh, I'm lonely to-night, love, without

you, My darling; sweet Norah O'Neill.

Oh, the nightingale sings in the wild wood, As if every note that he knew

Was learned from your sweet voice in childhood,

To remind me, sweet Norah, of you. But I think, love, so often about you,

And you don't know how happy I feel, But I'm lonely to-night, love, without you,

My darling, sweet Norah O'Neill. . (Chorus.)

TOM MOORE.

By T. D. SULLIVAN.

Air-" The Harp that Once." Oh, Tara's hill may waste away,

Th.a Shannon's source may fail, The mingled waters cease to play

Through fair Ovoca's vale; " Loved Arranmore " may fade from sight,

But you will still endure In Irish hearts, fresh, warm and bright, .

Enchanting songs of Moore.

Yea, even if our ancient race In time should cease to be,

And if our dear old native place Should sink in to the sea-

The world would save from out the wave, Aud hold thfl p:oi:lft; ;;eenre,

The harp you strung, the song!' you sung, Our own immortal Moore I