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? Thou wert made a spouse for it. Hast thou kept as thou shouldst keep 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. 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; 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. THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight? We drink the memory of the brave, Remember them with pride. Some on the shores of distant lands The dust of some is Irish earth; To act as brave a part. They rose in dark and evil days But true men, like you, men, Then here's their memory-may it be To cheer our strife for liberty, And teach us to unite! Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, Like those of Ninety-Eight. Must scourge it yet again, inspire and raise Men like the heroic race of other days, Fear! wherefore should the Celtic people fear Their Church's fate? The Destin'd Island, all whose seedy clay 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 the Queen of France's hand; 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, What pleasure in a royal life, 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 the Queen of France's hand; 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 What comfort then can I call mine, For from my birth our country's fame I'd rather be the bird that sings Above the martyr's grave, Than fold in fortune's cage my wings I'd rather turn one simple verse 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 Ah me! could love suffice for skill, My native land! my native land! Break on my brain, ye surges grand ! 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! 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 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 |