PRINTED IN IRELAND.

SONGSTER. THE BOLD ENIAN MEN Pa~dh O~Don..ogh~e

WHEN SHALL THE .' AY BREAK IN ERIN P

DEAR . OLD- ELAND . THE DEAR LITTLE SHAMROCK

S A.NE~S IlEA

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD

AT BOOLAVOGUE AS THE SUN WAS SETTING . )

The Maid of Slievenamon THE FAIRY TEMPTER

BRIGHIDIN BAN MO STOIR

PADDIES · EVERl\10RE

...A..gh~d.c>e

OH, STEER MY BARQUE

JIMMY mo ritiLe sr;on

BENDEMEER'S STREAM

THE IRISHMAN .

THE HEATHER GLEN .

LAMENT for ~ 'FEAR NA MUINNTIRE"

THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE

NUGENT & Co., Pu.blishers~ 45 Middle Abbey St., Du.blin.

THE IRISH CONCERT SONG BOOK, 1I 11 1 1 11}1I 11111n1"",IIIlIIIIII~ .. ....nWOM:Nnaa..-na: ...... __ ,.-___ ---------_--..,..----------------r---------------

Paddies EVermOl'lD,

By 8\.t41) Cut\.tnn. Air-" Paddies Evermorv."

The hour is past to fawn or crouch As lIuppliants for OUI right;

Let word and deed unshrinking vouch The banded millions' might:

Let them who scorned the fountain rill Now dread the torrent's roar,

And hear our echoed chorus still, We're Paddies evermore.

What though they menace-suffering men

Their threats and them despise; Or promise justice once again­

We know their words are lies: We stand resolved those rights to claim

They robbed us of before: Our Olfll dear nation and our name,

As Paddies evermore.

Look round-the Frenchman governs France,

The Spaniard rules in Spain, The gallant Pole but waits his chance

To break the Russian chain; The strife for freedom here begun

We never will give o'er, Nor own a land on earth but ane­

We're Paddies evermore.

That strong and single love to crush The despot ever tried-

A fount it was whose living gush His hated arts defied.

'Tis fresh &8 when his foot accursed Was planted on our shore,

And now and still, as from the first, We're Paddies evermore.

Wha.t reeked we though six hundred yea.rs

Have o'er our thraldom rolled P The soul that roused O'Connor's spears

Still lives as true and bold. The tide of foreign power to stem

Our fathers bled of yore; And we stand h ere to-day, like them,

True Paddiea eYllrm6re.

Where'lI our allegiance P With the land For which they nobly died;

Our duty P By our cause to stand, Whatever chance betide;

'~ur cherished hope P 'I'o heal the woes 'I'hat rankle at her core;

Our scorn and hatred P To her foes, Like Paddies evermore.

The hour is past to fawn or crouch As suppliants for our right;

Let word and deed un shrinking vouch 'rhe banded millions' might;

Let them who scorned the fountain rill Now dread the torrent's roar,

And hear our echoed chorus still, We're Paddies evermore.

Love Thee, Dearest.

By THOlLAS MOORS.

Love, thee, dearest, love thee I Yes, by yonder star I swear,

Which thro' clouds above thee Shine. so sadly fair.

Though too oft dim With tear. like him,

Like him my truth will shine; And love thee, dearest, love thee!

Yes-till death I'm thine!

Leave thee, dearest, leave thee! No-that star is not more true;

When my vows deceive thee, He will wander, too.

A cloud of night May veil its light,

And death -8ha.ll darken mine; But leave, thee, dearest, leave thee I.

No-till death I'm thine!

To get her peasants into snug- home­steads, with well-tilled fields and placid hearths-to develop the ingenuity of her a.rtists, and the docile industry of her artisans-to make for her own instruc­tion a literature wherein our climate, history and passions shall brea.the-to gain conscious strength and integrity, and the high post of holy freedom-these • re Irela.nd'l W&nta.-THOIU.S DAVD.

The Fairy Tempter.

By SAMUEL LOVBR. A fair girl was sltting in the greenwood

shade. List'ning to the music the song birds

made, . When sweeter by far than the birds on

the tree, A voice murmured near bel", ." Oh, (lame,

love, with me--In earth or air, A. form so fair

I have not seen as thee, Then come, love, with me, come, love,

with me.

H With a star for thy home, in a. palace of light,

Thou wilt add a fresh grace to the beauty of night;

Or, if wealth be thy wish, thine are treasures untold,

I will show the birthplace of jewels and gold-

And pearly caves Beneath the waves,

All these, all these are thine, If thou wilt be mine, love, if thou wilt be

mine."

Thus whispered a Fairy to tempt the fair girl,

But vain was his promise of gold and of pearl;

For she said, " Tho' thy gifts to a poor girl were dear,

My father, my mother, my sisters are here:

Oh, what would be Thy gifts to me

Of earth, and sea, and air, If my heart were not there, if my heart

were not there P "

The Memory of the Dead.

By J. K. INGRAM. Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight P ..

Who blushes at the name P When cowards mock the patriot's fate,

Who hangs his head for shame I He's all a knave or half a slave

Who slights his country thus; But a true man, like you, man,

Will fill your glass with us.

We drink the memory of the brave, The faithful and the few-

Some lie far off beyond the wave, Some sleep in Ireland, too;

All, all are gone-but still lives on The fame of those who died;

All true men, like you, men, Remember them with pride.

Some on the ehores of distant lands Their weary hearts have laid,

And by the stranger's heedless hands Their lonely graves were made;

But, though their clay be far away Beyond the Atlantic foam,

In true men, like you men, Their spirit's still at home.

The dust of some is Irish earth, Among their own they rest;

And the same lalld that gave them birll , Has caught them to her breast;

And we will pray that from their clay Full many a race may start

Of true men, like you, men, To act as brave a part.

They rose in dark and evil days To right their native land:

They kindled here a living blaze That nothing shall withstand.

Alas I that Might can vanquish Right­':'hey fell, and passed away; .

But true men, like you, men, Are plenty here to-day.

Then here's their memory-may it be For us a guiding light,

To cheer our strife for liberty And teach us to unite! _

Through good and ill, be Ireland still, Though sad as theira your fa.te,

And true men be YOll. men, Like thole of Nin.,ty-E~ht..

The Irishman.

By J..ums ORR.

Air-" t:e4'04tm m4'r 4t\. \.tom."

The savage loves his native shore, Though rude the soil and chill the air:

Well then may Erin's sons adore Their isle which nature formed so fair!

What flood reflects a shore so sweet As Shannon great, or past'ral Bann P

Or who a friend or foe can meet, So gen'rous as an Irishman P

His hand is rash-his heart is warm, But principle is still his guide:

NOlle more regrets a deed of harm, And none forgives with nobler pride.

lie may be duped, but won't be dared; Fitter to practice than to plan;

He dearly earns his poor reward, And spends it like an Irishman.

1£ strange or poor, for you he'll pay, And guide to where you safe may be :

If you're his guest, while e'er you stay His cottage holds a jubilee. s inmost soul he will unlock, And if he should your secrets scan;

Your confidence he scorns to mock, For faithful is an Irishman.

By honour bound, in woe or weal, Whate'er she bids he dares to do;

Tempt him with bribes, he will not fail; Try him in fire, you'll find him true.

He seeks not safety, let his post Be where it ought, in danger's van:

And if the field of fame be lost, It won't be by an Irishman.

Erin! loved land, from age to age, Be thou more great, more fam' d and

free! May peace be thine, or shouldst thou

wage Defensive war-cheap victory.

May plenty flow in every field, Which gentle breezes softly fan;

And cheerful smiles serenely gild 1'h8 breast of ev'ry Irishman.

The Boatman of Kinsale.

By THOMAS DA ns. Air-" <1n Cot:" C401.. ..

His kiss is sweet, his word is kind, His love is rich to me;

I could not in a palace fh,d 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.

Thewind that round the Fastnets'weeps Is not a whit more pure;

'I'he goat that down Cnoe Sheehy leaps Has not a foot more sure.

No firmer hand nor· freer eye E'er faced an autumn gale-

De Courcey's heart is not 80 high­The Boatman of Kinsale.

The brawling squires lllay heed him not, The dainty ~tranger sneer-

But who will dare to hurt our cot, When Myles 0' Hell. is here P

The scarlet s?ldiers pa s along: They'd likq, but fear to rail;

His blood is hot, his blow is strong­The Boatman of Kinsale.

His hooker's in the Scilly van, When seines are in the foam;

But money never made the man, N or 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'I'he Boatman of Kinsale.

Through the long drear night I lie a.wake, for the sorrows of Innisfail.

My bleeding heart is r.eu.dy to break; I cannot but weep a.nd wa.il.

Oh, shame and grief and wonder! her Bans crouch lowly under

The footstool of the paltriest foe That ever yet ha.th wr0llirht them

woe . -J. C. lbllClU.

nMMY mo rilll.e SI.Oh,

tltt4-o4tn 4n t:4C4 ro 'O 'tmi:ls U4tm SI'';'i mo c\.ett,

nl i:lOC!'4.-o re 4 04t\.e So 'Ot:4t'''l'r'-o re CUllr4'n t:r40s4.t,

'nU4tll 4 ttOC!'4t-o re 4 tl6.te le fUtns"n 110-';'1''0 'n4 COtfl

COtri1f1eoc4'O le mtl e-'re Jimmy mo mile rt:ofl.

tli-oe4nn m'4t4tfl 'r mo mU:4.1' 45 be4!,­fl4-O 'r 65 bflUtSln llOm !,eln

t::';'.m S.uputste Ct4p6.ste PlOcu,s-ce cfI~.-ot:e 4m f40;S4l : .

tus me t:4ttne401 'Oo'n 'Ou,ne u'O b.1 s,le 'r'OoO ';',Lne-rnou,

<1ct: CU4t-o re 'I' 001''0 lu,nse-'re J imlllY mo mile rt:ofl .

R4;S4'O , lub co,lle 'r cd,trcMl 6nn 6" CUt'O e,le 'Oe'm f60S.>.L,

1 n-.;..t: nd. be.-o 40lnne d t 40"l'rd-o u4m nU4-odct: n';' rSeul,

<15 bun 4n efl4tnn C.!.I,td,n m"fI d Or"r6nn 4nn reufl So leoI',

A' t:404'1't: t:4ttne"m '00'" 'Ou,ne u'O'-re Jimmy mo miLe rt:0l'.

Bendemeer's Stream.

By THolLAS MOORE.

Air-" Carraigdhoun."

There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's Stream,

And the nightingale sings round it all the day long;

In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream

To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song.

That bower and its music I never forget, But oft when alone, in the bloom of

the year, I think, is the nightingale singing there.

yet, Are the roses still bright by the calm

13endemeer.

No, the roses soon withered that hung o'er the wave,

But some blossoms were gathered while freshly they shone;

And a dew was distill'd from their tlowers that gave

All the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone.

Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,

An essence that breathes of it many a year;

Thus bright to my soul a.s 'twas then to myeyes,

Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer.

Brighidin Ban mo Stoir.

By EDW ARD W ALSH.

Air-" tlfl.St'Oin tl';'n."

I am a wandering minstrel man And Love my only theme,

I've strayed beside the plea.sant BanD. And eke the Shannon's stroam ;

I've piped and played to wife and maii By Barrow, Suir, and Nore,

But never met a maiden yet Like tll't;s,'Oln b';'n mo rt:o'fI.

My girl hath ringlets rich and rare, By Nature's fingers wove­

Loch-Carra's swan is not so fair As i8 her breast of love;

And when she moves in Sunday sheel, Beyond our cottage door,

I'd scorn the high-born Saxon queen For tll',s,'Oin b';'n mo rt:o,l'.

It is not that thy smile is 8weet, And soft thy voice of song­

It is not that thou fliest to meet My cornings lone and long!

But that doth rest beneath thy breu.E A heart of purest core,

WhOle pulse is known to me a.lone, btllSt'Oln b4.n mo rt:6tlt.

Shane's Head,

By John SaT..,e.

(Shane O' Neill-called Shane the Proud-was one of the greatest Chiefs of the O'Neills of Tirowen and a terror to the English, whom he outwitted both in arws and diplomacy . They made several attempts to poison him, and when these failed, had him assassinated at Cushendun in Antrim. Three days afterwards they caused his grav~ to be opened and the head severed from his body and sent to Dublin, where it was placed on a spike at the Castle gates . A clansmalll seeing this gruesome obj ect, by muunlight, thus addresses it:-

God's wrath upon the Saxon! may they Ilitlver know the pride

Of dyini on the battle-field, their brolren spear be8ide;

When victory gilds the gory .o.roud of every fallen brave,

Or death no tales of conquered clans can whisper to his irave.

Mal .. very light from Cross of Christ, that saves the heart of man,

Be hId in clouds of blood before it ~each the Sax on clan;

For sure, 0 God !-and You know all, wl.lOse thought for all sulliced­

r" expia te these Saxon sins they'd want ano ther Christ.

10 it th us, 0 Shane the hanghty! Shllne the valiant that we meet!

Have wy eyes been lit by Heaven but to \':uide me to defea t?

Have J no chief or you no clan, to give m both defence,

Or must 1. too, be .tatued here with t hy cold eloquence?

Thy IIhastly head grins scorn upon old Dublin's Castle tower,

Thy Ihaigy hair is wind-tossed, and thy brow seems rough with power;

Thy wrathful lips like sentinels, by foulest t reachery, stung, .

I,ook r age upon the world of wrong, but cha! n thy fiery tongue.

b.at ton g- ue, whose Ulster accent woke th ... ghost of Columcille,

Whos .. wa rri or wor t!s fenced round with spears the oaks of Deny Hill;

Whos" reckless tones gave life and death to vassals and to knaves,

And hunted hordes of Saxons into holy Irish gra ves.

The Scotch marauders whitened when hiS war-cry met their ear.,

And the death-bird, like a vengeance, pOised above hie stormy cheers;

Ay, Shane, across the thundering sea out-chanting it, your tougue

Flung wild un-Saxou war-whooping, th .. Saxon Court alliong.

Just think, 0 Shane! the same mOOl1 shines on Lilfey as on Foyle,

A.nd liihts the ruthless knaves on both. our kinsmen to despoil ;

A.nd yuu the voice, hope, bIlH)JI-axe, th e shIeld of us and ours,

A murdered, trunk less, blinding sigh I above these Dublin towers.

Thy tace is paler than the moon; m)" bea rt is paler still-

~Iy hcl1rt? 1 had no heart-'twas your, -'t was yours! to keep or kill.

And yuu kept it safe for Ireland, Chief - your life, your soul, your pride;

But they 80u~ht it in thy bosom; Shan ~ -with proud O'Neill it died.

You "ere turbulent and haughty, proud aud keen as Spanish steel-

But wbo had right of these, if not our lJbr.e r 's Chief, O'Neill,

Who rpared aloft the Bloody Hand uutil it paled the sun,

A.nd sh ed sllch glory on Tyrone as chief had never done?

lJe was" turbulent " with traitors; h c' was" haughty" with the foe;

I [e Wl<~ .. cruel," sny ye, Saxon! Ay h" <l enlt ye blow for blow!

!le w.... " rough ': and "wild "-and \\"\,,, ' s not wild to see his hearth · III uue razed?

lTe WaR .. Ill e ,. c il es~ as fire "-ay, yr· klUdlet! hiUJ- lte blazed!

lIe was" proud "-yes, proud of birth · ril{bt and because he Uung away

Y uu r Saxon atnrs of princedom, as th e rock does mocking spray,

110 Wa" wild , insane for vengeance-a) , " rod pr "llched it till Tyrone

WR. roddy, ready, ,rild, too ... ith .. Red 11,"Hie," to clut:A t.lo .. Jr o-a.

THE IRISH CONCERT SONGSTER.

I "The Scots are on the border, Shane!" , Ye Saints, he makes no breath :

I remember when that cry would wake him up almost from death .

Art truly dead and cold? 0 Chief! art thou to Ulster lost?

"Dost hear, dost hear ? By Randolph led, the troops the Foyle have crossed !.I)

He's truly dead! he must be dead! nor is his ghost about-

And yet no tomb could hold his spirit tame to such a shout:

The pale face droopeth northward-ah! his soul must loom up there.

By old Armagh, or Antrim's glynns, Lough Foyle, or Hann the Fair !

I'll sp-~ ~ !e Ulster-wards-your ghost mUf '" I·· .. uder there, proud Shane,

In .earch of some O'Neill, through whom to th~ob its hate again.

Dear Old Ireland, By T. D. Sullivan.

Deep in Canadian woods we've met, From one bright island flown;

Great is the land we tread, but yet Our hearts are with our own.

And ere we leave this shanty small, While fades the autumn day:

We'U toast old Ireland, Dear old Ireland, IreJand, boys, hurra!

We've heard her faults a hundred times,

The new ones and the old, In songs and sermons, rants and

rhymes, Enlarged some fifty-fold.

But ta ke them all, th e gret.t and sma ll . And this we've got to say:

Here's dear old Ireland, Good old Ireland, Ireland, boys, hurra I

We know that brave and good men tried

To snap her rusty chain-That patriots suffered, martyrs died,

And all, 'tis said, in vain; But no; boys, no! a glance will show

llow far they've won their I\"ay-~ Here's good old Ireland, Loved old Ireland! Ireland, hoys, hurra!

We've seen the wedding and the wake, The patron and the fair;

And lithe young frames at the dear old games

In the kindly Irish air; And the loud" hurroo," we have Acard

it, too, And the thundering " clear the way!"

H ere's gay old Ireland! Dea r old Ireland! Irelan.d, boys, hurra!

A ud well we know, in the cooL, grey eves,

When the hard day's work is o'er, Uow soft and sweet are the words that

greet The friends who meet once more;

With "Mary, mo chroidhe!"" My Pat! 'tis he!"

And" My own hea.rt night and day!" Ah, fond old Ireland! Dear old Ireland! Ireland, boys, hurra I

And happy and bright are the groups that pass

From their peaceful homea, for miles O'er fields, and r oads, and hills to MaB~

When Sunday morning smiles! And deep the zeal their true hearts

feeL, When low they kneel and pray.

Oh, dear old Ireland! Blest old Ireland! Ireland, boys, hurra I

I:lu t deep in Canadian woods we've me( . And we never may see again,

That dear old isle where our hearts are set,

And our first fond hopes remain! But, come, fill up another cup,

And with every sup let's say: .. Here's loved old Ireland!

Good old Ireland! Ireland, boys, hurra!"

Oh kindly, generous Irish land, Se leal and fai r and Loving,

~o wundN the wand oring CAll should think

And dream ot )'ou ill aia roviq.

blonn CUI rime .&5 FUR.c.ll 'O.d.m.

J:'0nn-" Oft in the Stilly Night, ..

bionn cutlnne 's 1'U r';'lt. "O.6m, n " ' rollre "O'f 6S 1'6"0 0 me,

nU4'11 liim ,m' t.u' ~ e S4n cOfl, l{ol1n u ul 1'''' CO"Ol4-o u.6mr6..

n" t:tl';'t. -o4m '"0'11 S';"f1e'r sol S"n 51'';'-0 "00 tuS me'm o,se.

n4 r 61nl'UlrS fOI" r';' rs",t n4 Scloc, II' t:';'1nt:e'n t:rullt: 41' 1'eO-O 'nolr·

SII;"O cu,mne '5 1'ul'';'ll "04m, n " rOlllre "O'f';'s 1'4"0 0 me,

nU"11' liim Im' lUI;se 54n C01' ROil;' uu l 1'';' cO"O l4-o -o!.mr40

nu.>,1' cu mms,m m'ucl';'n SUll't:, .&r c.i'II"O,1:> tUIl: om' olse,

C.;. tit .r n.6 lUIse f4n t.oS, n' "1' UUIlle4Ii.611' 1:01' f4n lirOSm41',

6 bim "041' llOm Im' 40n4f1.6C 1 n';'ruf Itt:e mOfl f"e4-o,

54n 1:>l.i. t 5"~ 1'50t In ';'11:l'e4t> "Out>, 54tl "';'1-0 41' bit 'm' ComS4f1.

SII;U cUlmlle 's 1'UfI';'ll "O.6m, n.6 rOlllre "O'f';'5 ".6"0 0 me,

nU411' Mm Im' lUIse s.n cOfl Roun -ou t 1'';' CO"01.4-o u.6mr.6,

The Bold Fenian Men,

By John Scanlan .

Air-" O'Donnell Abu."

See who comes over the red-blossom et! heather,

Their green banners kissing the pure mountain air,

Heads erect, eyes to front, stepping proudly together,

Sure freedom ' sits thron'd on each proud spirit there.

Down the hills twining, Their ble8"ed steel shiuing,

Like rivers of beauty they How fruw each glen,

' b~rom mounta in a nd valley, 'Tis Liberty's rally-

Out and make way for tbe bold Feni!)." len.

Our praye rs and uur ( 'I1 rs h".\"e been scofJed and derid ed ,

They've shu t out God's sunlight from spirit and mind.

Our foes were united, and we were divided,

We met nnt! th ey scattered us all tu the wind .

But ouce more returning, Witbin our veins burning,

The finis that illumined dark Ahedow t;l eu;

We raise the old cry anew, Slogau of Con and Uugh­

Out and ruake way for the bold Fen.ian men!

We've men frow the Nore, from the Su ir, alld Ihe Shannon,

Let the tyrants eome for th, we'll bring force against force-

Our pen is the sword and our voice is th~ ca nnon,

RiHe for ri Oe, !lnd hors.· nil''' i nst horse. We've made the false Sn xon

yield Many a red battle field :

(lod on our side we will triumph again; Pay them back woe for woe, Gi"e th ~m back blow for blow­

Out aod make way for the bold Fenian men!

Side by lide for the caose have our ·forefathers baW ed.

When our hills \" . ,·pr echo'd the tread of a slave,

On many green hills whol'e I he leaden hail rattled,

Through thl! red gap of " Io ry they march'd to their grave.

And those who inherit

The Maid of SlievenamoJJ

By Charles Kickhalll . Alone, all alone. by the wave- wash 'd

strand , Ant! a lune in the crowded ball;

The ha ll it is gay, and the waves are gl'uud,

Hu t my heart 18 n ot here at all: It fli es fa r away, by night and b)' day,

To the tilUes Illld the joys that a~ e gone,

And I never call forget the maiden m~ t

In th e valley nea r Sl ievenaOl on .

It was not the grace of her queenly alT, Nor her cheek of the mso's gluw,

N or her soft black eyes, 1101' her 80w . ing hair,

Nor was it hll' lily-white brow . 'Twas the soul ot truth, and of melting

ruth, And the smile like Il .'Immer dawn ,

That sto le my heart away, one mild summer day.

In the valley nea r Slievenamoo .

In the festive hall. by the star-watch'd shore,

My restless spIrit cries: "My love, oh my love, shall ·1 ne'er

see you mure, And, my land, will you ever uprise ?"

By night and by doy I ever, ever pray , While lonely my life flows on,

'1'0 see our flag unrolled, and my true love to unfold,

In the valley near Slievenamon.

When Shall the Da.y Brea.k in Erin?

Dy Downing.

When shall the day break in Erin, When shall her day-stnr arise

Out of the East . respl~ndeut To glRdden watchful ~.\' ('s r

When shall her "'Tongs become righted, And the sad past forgotten be.

T hat will be her destiny.

Chorus. (reland is Irf'lan<l through juy and

througb tear., d.ope never faue.. through the long

dreary years; Each age bath rieen countlcss brava

hearts pass away, nut their 8pirit still lives on In the

men of to-day. ·

r ... ive ye the life of the brave, then; '~rnthers go on hand in hand,

~Q.use oot in douht or 80rrow, In for the deal old land.

What though the mighty be fall en , Hope still triumphs o'er the grave.

Your hands may be winning the laurels, Crowning the glories you cravp.

Ireland shall surely awaken Out of her speU of despair.

Chorus.

Glowing her cheek_Death's empire Was never planted there.

Youth in her bright eyes is gleaming, Liberty's ring In her voi ce

That calli to her Ions o'er the wide world

[n natioDbon<f ' . name to rejoice. CIlorn.

. 0 Steer my Barque.

Oh, I have roamed in ma.ny lands, And many fr ieuds I've met ;

Not one fair scene or kindly smit.. Can t hi s fond heart forget.

But I'll confess that I'm con.tent.

Will Their name and thei r spirit,

march / neath the banners li berty then,

All who love Saxon law, Native or Sassanach,

No more I wish to roam, of Oh, steer my barque to Erin's Isle.

l!'or Erin is my home.

Must out and make way for the bold Fenian men.

Let England have her own and hold Her rightful goods by righteous

power-We cuvet not ber lands or gold, W~ only 8eek tor what is our • .

[f En;;land was my place of birth, I'd love her tran '1 u il shore;

Tf bonnie Scotland was my home, Her mountains I'd adore.

Though pleasant days in both I've i l " . I dream of days to come:

Oh. 8t~tlr my harque to Erin's IsII •. For P.rin ie my hom ...

•

Paudh O'Donoghue.

By m d C ~lnes"'u.·

(A Meu.th episode of 1798.)

Tl,e Yeos were in Dunshaughlin and the Bessians in Dunreagh,

And ~pread thro' fair Moynalty were the Fencibles of R eay,

While Roden's bloody Hunters ranged from Skreen to Mullachoo,

Whcn },.1mrnered were the pike-heads first by Paudh O'Donoghue.

Bold Padraig was as strong a boy as ever hammer swung, .

And the finest hurler that y@u'd find the lads of Meath among,

And when the wrestling match W&l! o'er no man could boast he threw

The dark-haired smith of Curragha, young Paudh O'Donoghue.

Young Padraig lived a happy life, and gaily sang each day,

Beside his ringing anvil, some sweet old Irish lay,

Or walked light-heartedly at eve through the woods of lone Kilbrue,

With her who'd given her pure hea.rt'. love to P audh O'Donoghue.

But 'Nincty-Eight's dark season came and Irish hearts were sore,

The pitch-cap, shear~ Etnd triangle the patient fo lk outwore,

The blacksmith thought of Erin and found he'd work to do.

.. I'll forge some steel for freedom," said Paudh O'Donoghue.

Though the Yeos were in Dunshallghlin and the Hessians in Dunreagh,

And spread thro' fair Moynalty were the Fencibles of !teay,

Though Roden's bloody Hunters ranged from Skreen to !If nllachoo,

The pike-hends keen were hammered out by Palldh O'Donoghue.

A .. nd so each night in Curragha was heard the anvil's ring,

While scouting on th e road ways were Bugh a.nd Pl'elim King,

With Gi llie's Pat and Foley's Mat, a.nd 1I1ickey Gilsenan, too,

Wh ile in the forge for lreland worked }'oung Paudh O' Donoghue.

Uut a traitor crept among them, and the secret soon was sold

To the ca\Jtain of the Yeomen for the re"dy !:.in.xOIl gold,

And a t roo p dllRhed ou t one evening from L1 ,e wooJ s oE d:trk Kilbrue,

A.nd soon a rebel prisoner bound was Paudh O'Donoghue.

Now. P aJ raig Og, pray fervenLly, your earthly course has run;

T he captain he has sworn you'll not sce t ho morrow's sun ;

The mu ~ kets they are ready and each yeoman's aim is true-

\) e;lth stands beside thy shoulder, young Paudh O'Uonoghue.

" Down on your knees, you rebel dog," the Yeoman captain roared,

A.s high auove his helm et's crest he wavcd his gleaming sword.

.. Dowu 011 your knees to meet your doom. such is the rebel's due,"

Out straight as pike-shaft 'fore them stood young Paudh O'Donoghue.

And there upon the roadway, where ill childh ood he had played,

Before the cruel yeomen stood Padraig undismayed.

.. I kneel but to my God above, I ne'er shall bow to you;

You can shoot me as I'm standing," said Paudh O'Donoghue.

Tile captain gazed upon him, then lowered the keen-edged blade.

. ".A rebel uold as this," he said, .. 'Us fitting to degrade:

Uere, men," he cried, "unbilld him; my charger \V·ants !I. shoe.

The King shall have a workmlUl ill lohi!! P;.tI.<lb O'DonolrhulI."

THE IRISH CONCERT SONG BOOK. . ' Now Paudh into his forge has gone, the !

yeomen guard the door, I And soon the ponderous uellows is hen I' ll ;

. to snort and roar. I By ANDRlnv CHEJ<RY. The captaUl stands with reins in hand There's a dear little plant t.hat grows in '

wh ilo Padraig fits the shoe, our isle, And when 't is on full short the sL;ri.ft. 'Twas Saint Patrick himsetf, sure, that

he'll give O'Donoghue. set it; The la& t strong nai l is firmly clinched, i And ~he su~ on his la.bour ",-ith pleasure

the captain's horse is shod. I' did a.mlle, "Now, rebel bold, thine hour hath come, A~d with dew from his "ye often wet

prepare to meet thy God." ! l~. . , But why holds he the horse's hoof, 1 (t shines thro . the bog, thro' the braktl,

there's no more work to do ! and the ffilreland, W1IY clutches he his hammer ~o, young : And he call'd it the dear little Sham·

Paudh O'Donoghue P : rock of Ireland,

A leap, a roar, & smothered groan-the captain drops the rein,

'rhe dear little Shamrock. the sweet little Shamrock,

The dear little, sweet litu.. Shamrock of Ireland. And falls to earth with hammer.head

sunk deeply in his brai , And lightly in the si1.ddle, fast racing That dear little plant still JlTOWI in our

towards Kilbrue, land, Upon the captain's charger sits bold Fresh and fair as the 04aughters of

Paudh O'Donoghue. Erin, A volley from the pistols, a rush of Whose smiles can bewitch. and whose

horses' feet- eyes can command Be:s gone, and none can capture th e In each cl~mate t~ey ever Appear in.

captaill's ch!trger fleet; I For th ey shme thro . the hog, thro' the And on the night wind backwards comes I J t~I .. ~ketha?d the md Irel~nd,

a mocking, loud" Balloo '" I us 1 e elr own ear little Shamrock

Th tell h of Ireland·

at s .t e yeom en they have lost . ' Y

oung Paudh O'D I The dea.r httle Shamrook, the sweet ouog lUe. little Shamrock,

Bold Padraig fought at Tara-you know the nation's tale; .

Tho' borne down in that str aggle not hopelesR is the Gael,

For still in Meath's fair COUI1 I,y there are brave la.ds not a few

Who would follow in t he footsteps of bold Pandh 0'Uonoghn8.

At Boolavogue as the Sun was Setting,

Dy P. J. M'CAI.L. Air-" Youghal Barbol1r."

At iloolavogue as the IIWl W&8 setting O'er t.he bright Ma.y meadows of Shel.

malier, . A rebel hand set the heather hlazing I

And brought the neighbon rs from f.'\r I Etnd near.

Then Father Mllrphy, from old Kil. cormack. j

Spurred up the roch with a warning ' cry, !

" Ann! arm !" he cried, .. for I've Come to ! lead yon,

For Irela,nd's fr~edom we fight or die.n

• He led us on ·gJl.in ~t the coming soldiers, And the coward ly yeomen we put to

flight;. 'T was at the Barrow the boys of Wexfor:d

Showed Bookey's regiment how meD could fight.

Look out for hirelings, King George of England,

Search I9very kingdom that breathe. &

slave, For Father Murphy of the County

Wexford Sweeps o'er tile land like a mighty

wave.

We took Camolin and Enniscorthy, I

And Werford storming drove out 01 r foes; ..

'Twas at Slieve Kiltha ou r pikes wertl I

reeking With the crimson stream of till' beatel!

yeos. At Tubberneering and Ballyellis

The dear little, sweet little Sham­rock of Ireland.

That doar little plant that ~rings from our soil,

WI' en its three little l~veB are ex-tended; -'

De notes from one stem .e together should toil, .

And ourselves by our..,lves be be­friended.

And still thro' the bog, thru' the brake, and the mireland,

From one root should bl'8.l1ch like the Shamrock of Ireland,

Th~ deat little Shamrock, the sweet little Shamrock,

The dear little, sweet littJe Shamrock of Ireland.

The Heather Glen.

By GEORGB SIGBasoN.

There blooms a bonnie l1ower, Up the heather glen;

Tho' bright ill sun, in shower 'Tis just as bright aga.ln .

I never can pass by it, I never dar' go nigh it, ·My heart it won't be q1llo!t,

Up the heather glen.

Sing 0 ! the blooming heather! 0, the heather gl"n !

Where fairest fairie~ gather To lure in mortal men.

I never can pass by it, I never dar' go nigh It, My heart it won't 1>4 quiet,

Up the heather gl .. n.

There sings a bon nie liD..bet, Up the heather glen,

The voice has magic in it Too sweet for mortal men I

It brings joy down befoN us, Wi' winsome, mellow churus But fli es far, too far, o'e, us,

Up the heather glen. Sing, O! the bloomil4l' heather, &c.

Full many a llessian lay in his gore. I

Ah, Father Murphy, had aid come over I 0, might I pull the Bo""r 'l'he green Bag floated from shore·to . That's blooming in th.t glen,

By m "c ~,"c5"tL.

("Written on hearing of Rooney'& death. May 6, 1901.)

o Mother Irdand! 0 grief-bowed Mother!

'Tis dark the cloud on your heart to· day, -

o r " '1';ol' 5e,,1'! I>'j,ve we lost the brot],er Who strove to guide us on Freedom's

wayP The ringing voice and the heart un­

daunted, The hands that toiled for the loved

old land, The brain, by visions of Freedom

haunted, Are stilled, '" m",t",,!', 'neath Deat,h's

dread band.

Our" Fe",,1' "'" mu,"m;'l'e" ill death's cold slumber,

o God I to think he lies low to-day­Another martyrtb swell the number

Of those who sank by .the rugged way-

The rugged way th at leads on to glory, Wllere Freedom sits on her throne of

light, And waits for Banba of mournful story,

To break the shackles of tyrant might.

.,. 't,t",m m",otl nU","",">, loved" FedI' "d mU1nnc11"',"

o would to God you had lived to see From Connacht's shores to your native

Leinster, The land you cherished from thral­

dom free. o 1"""1';01' se.\I' ! we shall Bee you never

'While marching onward tow'rds Fret'· dom's day;

But your songs and spirit shall live for ever,

Tho' your heart is cold in the church. yard clay.

Ag had 0 e,

(A Ballad of '98)

There's a gl ade in Aghadoe, Aghadol'. Aghadoe,

There's a Rweet and silent glade ill Aghadoe ;

:Where we met, my love and T. love", bright planet in the sky,

In that sweet and sil.mt glade ill Aghadoe.

There's a glen ill Aghadoe, Aghadoe Aghadoe,

• There's a deep all~ secret glen in Aghadoe ;

mere I hid him from the eyea of the redcoats and their spies,

That year the trouble came to Agha· doe.

But they tracked me to th&t glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,

When the price was on his head in Agliadoe,

O'er the mountains, through the wood, as I stole to him with food,

And their bullets found his heart in Aghadoe.

r wa lked to Mallow Town from Agha­doe, Aghadoe,

Brought his head from the jail's gats to Aghadoe,

Then I covered him with fern, and I pileJ on him the cairn:

Like an Irish king he sleeps in Agha. doe.

shore! I No sorrows t:hat could 1,\o1\'er At Vinegar Hill, o'er the pleasant Slane], ! Would make me sad lI.I(ain ! The balhld-singe l;~ ' lays, though often

Our heroes vainly stood back to baclr" I And might I catch that linnet" uncouth and hal t ing, are still the pro· And the yeos at Tullow took Fathel l My heart-my hope arl- ID it' duct of th e land, true to its feelings a.nd

Murphy '1' 0, heaven itself I'd win ,t, faithful to its accents. Their-grammar Up the heather glen! is not often the best, nor th eir diction

And burned his body upon the rack. I the most elegant, but their lavs have G d t 1 b

I Sing, O! the bl oo mlbg' heather &c. ' o gra.n you gory, rave Fath(!r i kept alive memories that otherwIse must Murphy, : have perished, and their services to the

And open heaven to all your men; 1 W ' h if cause of Nationality can justify us in The cause tIlat called you may call to' I e rfe .one

d at eH,rt 1011 be Ireland's overlooking mnch of the absurdities 01

nen , their work. They are still with us, and morrow There are bv.t two ",rlOat _HUIII in tile ollfll,i not to be disregarded.-WILLIAlI

lI' -other fijj'ht for the i'reen l4fain. _cl I ROONJ:Y.