Puslapio vaizdai
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Ere the reel and the wheel stopp'd their ringing and moving,

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays Through the grove the young lovers by

her fingers,

moonlight are roving.

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No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air!

The massive capes and ruin'd towers seem conscious of the calm;

The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm.

So still the night, these two long barques round Dunashad that glide

Must trust their oars, methinks not few, against the ebbing tide.

Oh, some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore!

They bring some lover to his bride who sighs in Baltimore.

All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street,

And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet

A stifled gasp, a dreamy noise! "The roof is in a flame!"

From out their beds and to their doors rush

maid and sire and dame,

And meet upon the threshold stone the gleaming sabre's fall,

And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl.

The yell of "Allah!" breaks above the prayer, and shriek, and roar :

O blessed God! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore !

Then flung the youth his naked hand against

the shearing sword;

Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gor'd; Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching wild; Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child:

But see! yon pirate strangled lies, and crush'd with splashing heel, While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel :

Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store,

There's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore.

Midsummer morn in woodland nigh the birds begin to sing,

They see not now the milking maids, — deserted is the spring;

Midsummer day this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town,

These hookers cross'd from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown;

They only found the smoking walls with neighbors' blood besprent,

And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went, Then dash'd to sea, and pass'd Cape Clear, and saw, five leagues before, The pirate-galley vanishing that ravaged Baltimore.

Oh, some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed; This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed.

Oh, some are for the arsenals by beauteous Dardanelles ;

And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells.

The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey:

She's safe-she's dead she stabb'd him in the midst of his Serai !

And when to die a death of fire that noble maid they bore,

She only smiled, O'Driscoll's child; she thought of Baltimore.

'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band,

And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand,

Where high upon a gallows-tree a yelling wretch is seen :

'T is Hackett of Dungarvan-he who steer'd the Algerine!

He fell amid a sullen shout with scarce a passing prayer,

For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there.

Some mutter'd of MacMurchadh, who brought the Norman o'er ;

Some curs'd him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore.

THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE
His kiss is sweet, his word is kind,
His love is rich to me;

I could not in a palace find
A truer heart than he.

The eagle shelters not his nest

From hurricane and hail

More bravely than he guards my breastThe Boatman of Kinsale.

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Sir Charles Gavan Duffy

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O, never fear for Ireland, for she has soldiers still,

For Rory's boys are in the wood, and Remy's on the hill!

And never had poor Ireland more loyal hearts than these

May God be kind and good to them, the faithful Rapparees!

The fearless Rapparees! The jewel were you, Rory, with your Irish Rapparees!

O, black's your heart, Clan Oliver, and colder than the clay!

O, high 's your head, Clan Sassenach, since Sarsfield 's gone away!

It's little love you bear to us for sake of long ago;

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But hold your hand, for Ireland still can strike a deadly blowCan strike a mortal blow: Och, duar-na-Críosd! 't is she that still could strike a deadly blow!

The Master's bawn, the Master's seat, a surly bodagh fills ;

The

Master's son, an outlawed man, is riding on the hills.

But God be prais'd that round him throng, as thick as summer bees,

The swords that guarded Limerick wall — his loyal Rapparees!

His loving Rapparees!

Who dare say no to Rory Oge, with all his Rapparees?

Black Billy Grimes of Latnamard, he rack'd us long and sore

God rest the faithful hearts he broke ! —
we 'll never see them more;
But I'll go bail he'll break no more, while
Truagh has gallows-trees ;

For why?-he met, one lonesome night, the fearless Rapparees!

The angry Rapparees!

They never sin no more, my boys, who cross the Rapparees!

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