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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. l |
111 |
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She is coming, where we parted, where she wanders every day;
There's a gay surprise before her who thinks me far away! .
O, like hearing bugles triumph when the fight of Freedom's won,
Is the joy around your footsteps—my own Cailin Donn! * • O fair she is! O, rare she is! 0, dearer still to me! More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree, More welcome than the blossom to the weary dusty bee, Is your coming, O, my true love—my own Cailin Donn!
PAT MALLOY.
At sixteen years of age I was my mother's fair haired boy;
She kept a little huckster shcp, her name it was Malloy.
" I've fourteen children, Pat," says she, "which Heav'n to me has sent;
But childer ain't like pigs, you know; they can't pay the rent."
She gave me ev'ry shilling there was in the till,
And kiss'd me fifty times or more, as if she'd never get her fill,
"Oh! Heav'n bless you! Pat," says she, "and don't forget, my boy,
That Ould Ireland is your country, and your name is Pat Malloy!"
Oh! England is a purty place: of goold there is no lack—
I trudged from York to London wid me scythe upon me back,
The English girls are beautiful, their loves I don't decline; /
The eating and the drinking, too, is beautiful and fine;
But in a corner of me heart, which nobody can see,,
Two eyes of Irish blue are, always peeping out at me!
O' Molly darlin', never fear: I'm still your own dear boy—
Ould Ireland is me country, and me name is Pat Malloy!
From Ireland to America, across the seas, I roam:
And every shilling that I got, ah! sure I sent it home.
Me mother couldn't write, but, oh, there came from Father Boyce:
"Oh! Heav'n bless you! Pat," says she—I hear me mother's voice! *
But, now I'm going home again, as poor as I began,
To make a happy girl of Moll, and sure I think I can:
Me pockets they are empty, but me heart is flll'd wid joy:
For, Ould Ireland is me country, and me name is Pat Malloy.
SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1782.
Hurrah! 'tis done—our freedom's won—
Hurrah for the volunteers! No laws we own, but those alone
Of our Commons, Kings, and Peers The chain is broke—the Saxon yoke
From off our neck Is taken; Ireland awoke—Dungannon spoke—
With fear was England shaken
"When Grattan rose none dared oppose
The claim he made for freedom: They knew our swords, to back his words
Were ready, did he need themr^" Then let us raise, to Grattan*s praise
A proud and joyous anthem; And wealth, and grace, and length of days
May God, in mercy grant him!
Bless Harry Flood who nobly stood By us, through gloomy years!
Bless Charlemont, the brave and good, The Chief of the Volunteers!
The North began, the North held on The strife for native land;
Till Ireland rose and cowed her foes-God bless the Northern land!
And bless the men of patriot pen—
Swift, Molyneux, and Lucas; Bless sword and gun, which "Free Trade" won;
Bless God! who ne'er forsook ua! ' |
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