Puslapio vaizdai
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If thou lovest, where's the test? Wilt thou strike a blow for it?

Has the past no goading sting

That can make thee rouse for it?
Does thy land's reviving spring,
Full of buds and blossoming,
Fail to make thy cold heart cling,
Breathing lover's vows for it?
With the circling ocean's ring

Thou wert made a spouse for it.

Hast thou kept as thou shouldst keep
Thy affections warm for it,
Letting no cold feeling creep
Like an ice-breath o'er the deep,
Freezing to a stony sleep

Hopes the heart would form for it, Glories that like rainbows peep Through the darkening storm for it?

Son of this down-trodden land,

Aid us in the fight for it.
We seek to make it great and grand,
Its shipless bays, its naked strand,
By canvas-swelling breezes fauned:
Oh, what a glorious sight for it,
The past expiring like a brand

In morning's rosy light for it!

Think, this dear old land is thine,

And thou a traitor slave of it: Think how the Switzer leads his kine, When pale the evening star doth shine;

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THE IRISH WOLF-HOUND FROM 66 THE FORAY OF CON O'DONNELL " As fly the shadows o'er the grass,

He flies with step as light and sure, He hunts the wolf through Tostan pass, And starts the deer by Lisanoure. The music of the Sabbath bells,

O Con! has not a sweeter sound Than when along the valley swells The cry of John Mac Donnell's hound. His stature tall, his body long,

His back like night, his breast like snow, His fore-leg pillar-like and strong,

His hind-leg like a bended bow; Rough curling hair, head long and thin, His ear a leaf so small and round; Not Bran, the favorite dog of Fin,

Could rival John Mac Donnell's hound.

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THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD

WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?
Who blushes at the name?
When cowards mock the patriot's fate,
Who hangs his head for shame?
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 shores 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 land that gave them birth
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, that Might can vanquish Right!
They fell, and pass'd 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's still,
Though sad as theirs your fate;
And true men be you, men,

Like those of Ninety-Eight.

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Must scourge it yet again, inspire and raise
To emprise high

Men like the heroic race of other days,
Who joyed to die.

Fear! wherefore should the Celtic people fear

Their Church's fate?
The day is not - - the day was never near
Could desolate

The Destin'd Island, all whose seedy clay
Is holy ground:

Its cross shall stand till that predestin'd day

When Erin's self is drown'd.

THE IRISH WIFE

I WOULD not give my Irish wife
For all the dames of the Saxon land;
I would not give my Irish wife

For the Queen of France's hand;
For she to me is dearer

Than castles strong, or lands, or life: An outlaw-so I'm near her

To love till death my Irish wife.

O what would be this home of mine,
A ruin'd, hermit-haunted place,
But for the light that nightly shines
Upon its walls from Kathleen's face!
What comfort in a mine of gold,

What pleasure in a royal life,
If the heart within lay dead and cold,
If I could not wed my Irish wife?

I knew the law forbade the banns;

I knew my king abhorr'd her race; Who never bent before their clans

Must bow before their ladies' grace. Take all my forfeited domain,

I cannot wage with kinsmen strife: Take knightly gear and noble name, And I will keep my Irish wife.

My Irish wife has clear blue eyes,

My heaven by day, my stars by night; And twin-like truth and fondness lie

Within her swelling bosom white My Irish wife has golden hair, Apollo's harp had once such strings,

Apollo's self might pause to hear Her bird-like carol when she sings.

I would not give my Irish wife
For all the dames of the Saxon land;
I would not give my Irish wife

For the Queen of France's hand;
For she to me is dearer

Than castles strong, or lands, or life : In death I would be near her,

And rise beside my Irish wife.

THE EXILE'S DEVOTION

IF I forswear the art divine
That glorifies the dead,

What comfort then can I call mine,
What solace seek instead?

For from my birth our country's fame
Was life to me, and love;
And for each loyal Irish name
Some garland still I wove.

I'd rather be the bird that sings

Above the martyr's grave,

Than fold in fortune's cage my wings
And feel my soul a slave;

I'd rather turn one simple verse
True to the Gaelic ear

Than sapphic odes I might rehearse With senates listening near.

Oh, native land! dost ever mark,

When the world's din is drown'd Betwixt the daylight and the dark, A wandering solemn sound That on the western wind is borne Across thy dewy breast?

It is the voice of those who mourn For thee, in the far West.

For them and theirs I oft essay
Thy ancient art of song,
And often sadly turn away,
Deeming my rashness wrong;
For well I ween, a loving will
Is all the art I own:

Ah me! could love suffice for skill,
What triumphs I had known!

My native land! my native land!
Live in my memory still!

Break on my brain, ye surges grand !
Stand up, mist-cover'd hill!

Still on the mirror of the mind

The scenes I love, I see :

Would I could fly on the western wind, My native land, to thee!

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Mary Eva kelly

WERE you ever in sweet Tipperary, where the fields are so sunny and green, And the heath-brown Slieve-bloom and the Galtees look down with so proud a mien ?

'Tis there you would see more beauty than is on all Irish ground — God bless you, my sweet Tipperary! for where could your match be found?

They say that your hand is fearful, that darkness is in your eye;

But I'll not let them dare to talk so black and bitter a lie.

O, no! macushla storin, bright, bright, and

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Sure a frown or a word of hatred was not made for your face so fair;

You've a hand for the grasp of friendship another to make them quake, And they're welcome to whichsoever it pleases them to take.

Shall our homes, like the huts of Connaught, be crumbled before our eyes? Shall we fly, like a flock of wild geese, from all that we love and prize? No! by those that were here before us, no churl shall our tyrant be, Our land it is theirs by plunder — but, by Brigid, ourselves are free!

No! we do not forget the greatness did once to sweet Eiré belong; No treason or craven spirit was ever our

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