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HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
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He died for his land on the high gallows tree. With the dark tyrant's cord 'round him cast;
He died as all should who would work to be free. Defiant and true to the last.
Oh, heaven! I pray, ere I rest in the grave, I may see by the Liffey's gray tide
The green flag of Ireland triumphantly wave O'er the spot where our brave hero died. |
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EXILE'S LAMENT,
Beneath a far-off Australian sky an Irish exile lay,
The sand from out his glass of life was ebbing fast away;
The friends that stood around his bed his eyes could scarcely see,
His thoughts which soon would be at rest were far across the sea.
In spirit once again he stood upon his native sod,
Where as a child and as a man his foot had lightly trod;
In fancy he could feel upon his brow the mountain air,
And from his lips there Issued forth tie exile's prayer:
Chorus.—
Lay me on the hillside, with my face toward the west, Toward that sacred island, the land that I love best; Let a hunch of shamrocks green be planted o'er my grave, My dying prayer is: God bless the island of the brave. Eviction foul and cruel sent him far across the foam, From that sweet spot which Irishmen, where'er they may be, call home; The land whose hails have felt the tread of princes and of kings, Whose harp once wooed the world is now a mass of broken string*, They were forced to leave the land which gave their fathers birth, As strangers and as outcasts to wander o'er the earth; The time came back to him again when he was but a child, "With mem'ries of sweet rambles thro' her wood and valleys wild. Bach eye was wet with briny tears, his words had touched the heart. For they were exiles, too, and time had failed to heal their smart; In every clime beneath the sky the Irish race is seen. Yet still their every thought is fixed upon that isle of green. He calls his friends around him, for the end Is drawing near, And from his pale and haggard cheek they wiped away a tear; Another victim of misrule has felt the hand of death, God bless you, Ireland, were the words which filled his dying breath. |
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WHEN THOU ART NIGH.
When thou art nigh it seems a new creation round; The sun hath fairer beams, the lute a softer sound, Tho' thee alone I see and hear alone thy sigh; 'TIs light, 'tis song to me, 'tis all when thou art nigh.
When thou art nigh no thought of grief comes o'er my heart; I only think—could aught but joy be where thou art? Life seems a waste of breath when far from thee I sigh; And death—aye, even death, were sweet if thou wert nigh. |
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THE VOW OF TIPPERARY.
From Carrlck streets to Shannon shore From Slievenamon to Balllndeary From Longford-pass to Galtymore— Come, hear The Vow of Tipperary.
"Too long we fought for Britain's cause, And of our blood were never chary; She paid us back with tyrant's laws. And thinned The Homes of Tipperary.
"But never more we'll win such thanks: We swear by God, and Virgin Mary, Never to 'list In British ranks;" And that's The Vow of Tipperary. |
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