Puslapio vaizdai
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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

warm are you,

With hearts as bold as the men of old, to

yourself and your country true.

And when there is gloom upon you, bid them think who brought it there

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 race among;

And no frown or word of hatred we give — but to pay them back; In evil we only follow our enemies' darksome track.

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The chatt'rèn birds, a-risèn high,
An' zinken low, did swiftly vlee
Vrom shrinkèn moss, a-growèn dry,
Upon the leänen apple tree.
An' there the dog, a-whippèn wide
His heäiry tail, an' comèn near,
Did fondly lay ageän your zide

His coal-black nose an' russet ear:
To win what I'd a-won avore,

Vrom your gay feäce, his woone smile

mwore.

An' while your mother bustled sprack,
A-gettèn supper out in hall,
An' cast her sheäde, a-whiv'rèn black
Avore the vire, upon the wall ;
Your brother come, wi' easy peäce,
In drough the slammèn geäte, along
The path, wi' healthy-bloomèn feäce,

A-whis'lèn shrill his last new zong:
An' when he come avore the door,
He met vrom you his woone smile mwore.

Now you that wer the daughter there,
Be mother on a husband's vloor,
An' mid ye meet wi' less o' ceäre

Than what your heärty mother bore ;
An' if abroad I have to rue

The bitter tongue, or wrongvul deed, Mid I come hwome to sheäre wi' you What's needvul free o' pinchèn need :

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An' vind that you ha' still in store

(2)

My evenèn meal, an' woone smile

What houn's, the squier's, Thomas? where, then, where?

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(3) Ees, that's his hwome. (1) He'll never reach his door.

(2) He wull. (1) He woon't. (3) Now, hark, d'ye heär em now? (2) O! here's a bwoy a-come athirt the brow

O' Knapton Hill. We'll ax en. (1) Here, my bwoy !

Canst tell us where's the heäre? (4) He's got awoy.

(2) Ees, got awoy, in coo'se, I never zeed A heäre a-scotèn on wi' half his speed. (1) Why, there, the dogs be wold, an' half a-done.

They can't catch anything wi' lags to run. (2) Vrom vu'st to last they had but little

chance

O' catchèn o''n. (3) They had a perty dance.

(1) No, catch en, no! I little thought they would;

He know'd his road too well to Knapton Wood.

(3) No! no! I wish the squier would let me feäre

On rabbits till his hounds do catch thik heäre.

THE CASTLE RUINS

A HAPPY day at Whitsuntide,
As soon's the zun begun to vall,

We all stroll'd up the steep hill-zide
To Meldon, gret an' small;
Out where the Castle wall stood high
A-mwoldren to the zunny sky.

An' there wi' Jenny took a stroll

Her youngest sister, Poll, so gay, Bezide John Hind, ah! merry soul,

An' mid her wedlock faÿ;
An' at our zides did play an' run
My little maïd an' smaller son.

Above the beäten mwold upsprung

The driven doust, a-spreadèn light,
An' on the new-leav'd thorn, a-hung,
Wer wool a-quiv'rèn white;
An' corn, a-sheenèn bright, did bow,
On slopen Meldon's zunny brow.

There, down the roofless wall did glow

The zun upon the grassy vloor,
An' weakly-wandrèn winds did blow,
Unhinder'd by a door;

An' smokeless now avore the zun
Did stan' the ivy-girded tun.

My bwoy did watch the daws' bright wings

A-flappen vrom their ivy bow'rs; My wife did watch my maïd's light springs,

Out here an' there vor flow'rs;
And John did zee noo tow'rs, the pleäce
Vor him had only Polly's feäce.

An' there, of all that pried about

The walls, I overlook'd em best, An' what o' that? Why, I meäde out Noo mwore than all the rest: That there wer woonce the nest of zome That wer a-gone avore we come.

When woonce above the tun the smoke
Did wreathy blue among the trees,
An' down below, the livèn vo'k

Did tweil as brisk as bees;
Or zit wi' weary knees, the while
The sky wer lightless to their tweil.

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