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 That glorifies the dead, What comfort then can I call mine, What solace seek instead? 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 Deeming my rashness wrong; Is all the art I own: 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 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. The chatt'rèn birds, a-risèn high, His coal-black nose an' russet ear: Vrom your gay feäce, his woone smile mwore. An' while your mother bustled sprack, A-whis'lèn shrill his last new zong: Now you that wer the daughter there, Than what your heärty mother bore ; The bitter tongue, or wrongvul deed, Mid I come hwome to sheäre wi' you What's needvul free o' pinchèn need : 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? (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, We all stroll'd up the steep hill-zide An' there wi' Jenny took a stroll Her youngest sister, Poll, so gay, Bezide John Hind, ah! merry soul, An' mid her wedlock faÿ; Above the beäten mwold upsprung The driven doust, a-spreadèn light, There, down the roofless wall did glow The zun upon the grassy vloor, An' smokeless now avore the zun 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; 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 tweil as brisk as bees; |