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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. |
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Her eyes are as biack as Kilkenny's large coal. Which through my bosom has burnt a large hole; Her mind, like Its river, is mild, clear and pure, But her heart Is mare bard than Its marble, I'm sure.
Kilkenny's a pretty town, and shines where it stands, And the more I think of it the more my heart warms, If I was at Kilkenny, I should then be at home, For there I got sweethearts, but here can get none.
I'll build my love a castle on Kilkenny's free ground, Neither lords, dukes, nor squires, shall ever pull it dowD, And if any one should ask you to tell him my name, "I am an Irish exile and from Kilkenny I came. |
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TO IRELAND.
When dullness shall chain the wild harp that would praise thee, When its last sigh of freedom Is heard on thy shore,
When its raptures shall bless the false heart that betrays thee— Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more!
When thy sons are less tame than their own ocean waters, When their last flash of wit and of genius is o'er,
When virtue and beauty forsake thy young daughters, Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more!
When the sun that now holds its bright path o'er thy mountains Forgets the green fields that he smiled on before,
When no moonlight shall sleep on thy lakes and thy fountains— Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love the© no more!
When the name of the Saxon and tyrant shall sever, When the freedom you lost you no longer deplore,
When the thoughts of your wrongs shall be sleeping forever— Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more! |
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HERE'S TO YOU, OLD LAND.
Here's to you, old land, and the blue skies above you—
Blue skies and green hills that like true lovers meet; The men of our race, deathless race, who don't love you,
Are slaves in the dust at the foreigners feet! Let them riot in chains who so basely inherit
Their master's contempt and the hate of the true, While the noble of heart and the gallant of spirit
Engirdle the earth in proud fealty 'to. you-!-
Oh, England, accurst! What new wiles canst thou fashion
To shape us again to thy rapine and greed? We've borne thy fell power and have drunk of thy passion
'Till hatred of both is our national creed! Be it gold for thy spy, or new fetters to bind us.
New bribes for the church, or new strength for the state, Whatever it be, sword or cell, thou shalt find us
Grown wise in our council and strong in our hate.
Has our centurled march to the scaffold and prison,
To exile aud grief, made your conquest secure? Behold! all the dead—martyred dead—have arisen,
In us both their faith and their vengeance endure. 'Twixt your pride aud your fear you refused us concession,
But we wear not your chain, tho' each link were of gold; Undismayed by your power, we deny you possession
In a land blood-enfranchised by freemen of old. |
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