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To the church where the bones of our fathers | And hark! like the roar of the billows on the decayed, shore, Where we fondly had deemed that our own The cry of battle rises along their charging line: should be laid.

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For God for the cause ! -for the Church! for the laws!

For Charles, king of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!

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Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the

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Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your | THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S hearts were gay and bold,

When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day;

And to-morrow shall the fox from her chambers in the rocks

Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.

Where be your tongues, that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate?

And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades?

Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths!

Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?

Down! down! forever down, with the miter and the crown!

With the Belial of the court, and the Mammon of the Pope!

There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail in Durham's stalls;

The Jesuit smites his bosom, the bishop rends his cope.

And she of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills,

And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword;

And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear

What the hand of God hath wrought for the houses and the word!

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD.

LET Erin remember the days of old,

Ere her faithless sons betrayed her;

When Malachi wore the collar of gold

Which he won from her proud invader; When her kings with standard of green unfurled Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger, Ere the emerald gem of the western world Was set in the crown of a stranger.

On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays,
When the clear cold eve's declining,

He sees the round towers of other days
In the wave beneath him shining!
Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime,
Catch a glimpse of the days that are over,
Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time
For the long-faded glories they cover!

THOMAS MOORE.

HALLS.

THE harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts that once beat high for praise
Now feel that pulse no more!

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;

The chord alone that breaks at night
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.

THOMAS Moore.

SHAN VAN VOCHT.

O, THE French are on the say!
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
The French are on the say,

Says the Shan Van Vocht;
O, the French are in the bay!
They'll be here without delay,
And the Orange will decay,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.

O, the French are in the bay!
They'll be here by break of day,
And the Orange will decay,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.

And where will they have their camp?
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
Where will they have their camp?

Says the Shan Van Vocht;
On the Currach of Kildare,
The boys they will be there
With their pikes in good repair,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.

To the Currach of Kildare
The boys they will repair,
And Lord Edward will be there,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.

Then what will the yeomen do?

Says the Shan Van Vocht; What will the yeomen do?

Says the Shan Van Vocht; What should the yeomen do, But throw off the red and blue, And swear that they 'll be true To the Shan Van Vocht?

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It's them was hard times for an honest gossoon!
If he missed in the judges, — he'd meet a dra-

goon;

An' whether the sodgers or judges gev sentence,
The divil a much time they allowed for repent-

ance.

An' it's many's the fine boy was then on his keepin'

Wid small share iv restin', or atin', or sleepin'; An' because they loved Erin, an' scorned to sell it,

An' the bravest an' hardiest boy iv them all
Was Shamus O'Brien, from the town iv Glingall.
His limbs were well set, an' his body was light,
An' the keen-fangèd hound had not teeth half

so white;

But his face was as pale as the face of the dead,
And his cheek never warmed with the blush of

the red;

An' for all that he was n't an ugly young b'y,
For the divil himself could n't blaze with his eye,
So droll an' so wicked, so dark and so bright,
Like a fire-flash that crosses the depth of the
night!

An' he was the best mower that ever has been,
An' the illigantest hurler that ever was seen;
An' his dancin' was sich that the men used to
stare,

An' the women turn crazy, he donc it so quare ;
An', by gorra, the whole world gev in to him

there.

An' it's he was the boy that was hard to be
caught,

An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought,
An' it's many the one can remember right well
The quare things he done: an' it's often I heerd
tell

How he lathered the yeomen, himself agin' four,
An' stretched the two strongest on old Galti-

more.

But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer
must rest,

An' treachery prey on the blood iv the best;
Afther many a brave action of power and pride,
An' many a hard night on the mountain's bleak
side,

An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast,
In the darkness of night he was taken at last.

Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon,
For the door of the prison must close on you

soon,

An' take your last look at her dim, lovely light,
That falls on the mountain and valley this night;
One look at the village, one look at the flood,
An' one at the shelthering, far-distant wood;
Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill,
An' farewell to the friends that will think of you
still;

Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin', an' wake,
And farewell to the girl that would die for your
sake.

An' twelve sodgers brought him to Maryborough jail,

A prey for the bloodhound, a mark for the bul- An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin' all bail;

let,

Unsheltered by night, and unrested by day,

With the heath for their barrack, revenge for

their pay;

The fleet limbs wor chained, an' the sthrong hands wor bound,

An' he laid down his length on the cowld prison

ground,

An' the dreams of his childhood kem over him | An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he

there

As gentle an' soft as the sweet summer air;
An' happy remembrances, crowding on ever,

As fast as the foam-flakes dhrift down on the
river,

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An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread, Bring fresh to his heart merry days long gone An' Shamus O'Brien made answer and said: by,

"My lord, if you ask me, if in my lifetime

Till the tears gathered heavy and thick in his I thought any treason, or did any crime

eye.

But the tears did n't fall, for the pride of his heart

That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here,

The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear, Would not suffer one drop down his pale cheek Though I stood by the grave to receive my death

to start;

An' he sprang to his feet in the dark prison cave, An' he swore with the fierceness that misery gave,

blow,

Before God and the world I would answer you,
No!

But if you would ask me, as I think it like,

By the hopes of the good, an' the cause of the If in the rebellion I carried a pike,
brave,

That when he was moldering in the cold grave,
His enemies never should have it to boast

An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to the close,

An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes,

His scorn of their vengeance one moment was I answer you, Yes; and I tell you again,

lost;

His bosom might bleed, but his cheek should be dhry,

For undaunted he 'd lived, and undaunted he'd die.

Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory that then

In her cause I was willing my veins should run dhry,

An' that now for her sake I am ready to die."

Well, as soon as a few weeks was over and gone, Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled The terrible day iv the thrial kem on; bright,

There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to An' the judge was n't sorry the job was made stand, light; An' sodgers on guard, an' dhragoons sword in By my sowl, it's himself was the crabbed ould hand; chap!

An' the court-house so full that the people were In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap. bothered,

Then Shamus' mother in the crowd standin' by,

An' attorneys an' criers on the point iv bein' Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry:

smothered;

An' counselors almost gev over for dead,
An' the jury sittin' up in their box overhead;
An' the judge settled out so detarmined an' big,
With his gown on his back, and an illegant new
wig;

An' silence was called, an' the minute 't was said
The court was as still as the heart of the dead;
An' they heard but the openin' of one prison
lock,

An' Shamus O'Brien kem into the dock.

"O judge! darlin', don't, O, don't say the word!
The crathur is young, have mercy, my lord;
He was foolish, he did n't know what he was
doin';

You don't know him, my lord, — O, don't give
him to ruin !

He's the kindliest crathur, the tendherest-hearted; Don't part us forever, we that's been so long parted.

Judge, mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord,

For one minute he turned his eye round on the An' God will forgive you—O, don't say the throng,

An' he looked at the bars, so firm and so strong,
An' he saw that he had not a hope or a friend,
A chance to escape, or a word to defend ;
An' he folded his arms as he stood there alone,
As calm and as cold as a statue of stone;
And they read a big writin', a yard long at laste,
An' Jim didn't understand it, nor mind it a

taste;

word!"

That was the first minute that O'Brien was shaken,

When he saw that he was not quite forgot or forsaken;

An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother,

The big tears wor runnin' fast, one afther the other;

An' two or three times he endeavored to spake, But the sthrong, manly voice seemed to falther and break;

At last they threw open the big prison gate,
An' out came the sheriffs and sodgers in state,
An' a cart in the middle, an' Shamus was in it,

But at last, by the strength of his high-mount- Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute.

ing pride,

He conquered and masthered his grief's swelling tide,

An', says he, "Mother, darlin', don't break
your poor heart!

For, sooner or later, the dearest must part;
And God knows it's betther than wandering in
fear

An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien,
Wid prayin' and blessin', and all the girls cryin',
A wild wailin' sound kem on by degrees,
Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin'
through trees.

On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone,
An' the cart an' the sodgers go steadily on ;
An' at every side swellin' around of the cart,

On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open your heart. wild deer, Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand,

To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his breast,

From thought, labor, and sorrow forever shall rest,
Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more!
Don't make me seem broken, in this, my last
hour;

For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the

raven,

No thrue man can say that I died like a craven !" Then towards the judge Shamus bent down his head,

hand;

An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground,

An' Shamus O'Brien throws one last look around. Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still,

Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turned chill;

An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare,

An' that minute the solemn death-sintence was For the gripe iv the life-strangling cord to presaid.

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Sich divarshin and crowds, was known since the delúge,

pare.

An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer.

But the good priest done more, for his hands he unbound,

And with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the ground;

Bang! bang! goes the carbines, and clash goes

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The sodgers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that,
An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat;
To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe Glin,
An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him
ag'in.

Ha! your sabers may clash, and your carbines
go bang,

But if you want hangin', it's yourself you must hang.

For thousands were gathered there, if there was He has mounted his horse, and soon he will be
In America, darlint, the land of the free.
Waitin' till such time as the hangin' id come on.
J. S. LE FANU.

one,

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