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. For God for the cause ! -for the Church! for the laws! For Charles, king of England, and Rupert of the Rhine! Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the 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, He sees the round towers of other days THOMAS MOORE. HALLS. THE harp that once through Tara's halls Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls So sleeps the pride of former days, No more to chiefs and ladies bright The chord alone that breaks at night THOMAS Moore. SHAN VAN VOCHT. O, THE French are on the say! Says the Shan Van Vocht; O, the French are in the bay! And where will they have their camp? Says the Shan Van Vocht; To the Currach of Kildare 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? It's them was hard times for an honest gossoon! goon; An' whether the sodgers or judges gev sentence, 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 so white; But his face was as pale as the face of the dead, the red; An' for all that he was n't an ugly young b'y, An' he was the best mower that ever has been, An' the women turn crazy, he donc it so quare ; there. An' it's he was the boy that was hard to be An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought, How he lathered the yeomen, himself agin' four, more. But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer An' treachery prey on the blood iv the best; An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast, Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon, soon, An' take your last look at her dim, lovely light, Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin', an' wake, 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; As fast as the foam-flakes dhrift down on the 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, 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, That when he was moldering in the cold grave, 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' silence was called, an' the minute 't was said An' Shamus O'Brien kem into the dock. "O judge! darlin', don't, O, don't say the word! You don't know him, my lord, — O, don't give 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, 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, 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 For, sooner or later, the dearest must part; An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien, On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone, 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, 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. 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 The sodgers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that, Ha! your sabers may clash, and your carbines 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 one, |