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SI |
HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
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THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED.
Full often when our fathers saw the Red above the Green,
They roBe In rude but fierce array, with aabre, pike, and sclan,
And over many a noble town, and many a field of dead,
They proudly aet the Irish Green above the English Red.
But in the end, throughout the land, the shameful sight was seen—
The English Red in triumph high above the Irish Green;
But well they died in breach and field, who, as their spirits fled,
Still saw the Green maintain its place above the English Red.
And they who saw, In after times, the Red above the Green,
Were withered as the grasa that dies beneath the forest screen;
Yet often by this healthy hope their sinking hearts were fed,
That, in aome day to eome, the Green should flutter o'er the Red.
Sure it was for this Lord Edward died, and Wolfe Tone sunk serene—
Because they could not bear to leave the Red above the Green;
And 'twas for thiB that Owen fought, and Sarsfleld nobly bled—
Because their eyes were hot to see the Green above the Red.
So, when the strife began again, our darling Irish Green
Was down upon the earth, while high the English Red was seen;
Yet still we hold our fearless course, for something in us said,
"Before the strife ia o'er you'll aee the Green above the Red."
And 'tis for this we think and toll, and knowledge strive to glean,
That we may pull the English Red below the Irish Green,
And leave our sons sweet Liberty, and smiling plenty spread
Above the land once dark with blood—the Green above the Red! |
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MY BOAT IS ON THE SHORE.
My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea; But, before I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee. Here's a sigh for those that love,
And a smile for those who hate, And whatever sky's above.
Here's a heart for every fate. Though the ocean roars around me.
Yet it still shall bear me on; Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won. Wer't the last drop in the well.
As I gasp upon the brink, Ere my sinking spirits fell,
'Tis to thee that I would drink. In this water as this wine,
The libations I would pour Should be peace to thee and thine.
And a health to thee, Tom Moore. |
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MAUREEN.
The cottage is here, as of old I remember,
The pathway is worn as It ever bath been: On the turf-piled hearth there still lives a bright ember; But,—where is Maureen?
The same pleasant prospect still shineth before me,—
The river—the mountain—the valley of green, And heaven itself (a bright blessing!) is o'er me! But,—where Is Maureen?
Lost! Lost!—Like a dream that hath come and departed;
(Ah, why are the loved and lost ever seen?) She hath fallen,—hath flown, with a lover false-hearted; So, mourn for Maureen! |
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