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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. |
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Girt around with cruel foes,
Still the spirit proudly rose, For they thought of hearts that loved them, far and near
Of the millions, true and brave,
O'er the ocean's swelling wave. And the friends in holy Ireland ever dear.
"God save Ireland!" said they proudly;
"God save Ireland!" said they all;
"Whether on the scaffold high," etc.
Climbed they up the rugged stair,
Rung their voices out in prayer; Then, with England's fatal cord around them cast,
Close beneath the gallows tree,
Kissed like brothers lovingly, True to home and faith and freedom to the last.
"God save Ireland!" prayed they loudly;
"God save Ireland!" said they all;
"Whether on tie scaffold high," etc.
Never till the latest day
Shall the memory pass away Of the gallant lives thus given for our land;
But on the cause must go,
Amidst Joy, or weal, or woe, i
Till we've made our isle a nation free and grand.
"God save Ireland!" say we proudly;
"God save Ireland!" say we all;
"Whether on the scaffold high," etc. |
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EMMETT.
Though the minstrel of Erin, who chanted his fame, Hath said of her martyr, "Oh! breathe not his name!" Yet what bard of lerne the wild harp could wake. And forget the young hero who died for her sake?
Though the page of her history holds to our view Many names of the valiant, the fearless, the true, Yet sad memory turns away to recall The brightest, the noblest, the purest of all.
Oh, his was the heart that to fear was unknown, When the loud trump of Freedom through Erin was blown; How far calmer his fetterless sleep In the grave Than the clink of the chains on the limbs of a slave!
Though Columbia's first chieftain, and Brutus, and Tell, Are names to awaken bright Liberty's spell, Yet undlmmed by Its lustre should cloudless be seen The Patriot Chief of the Standard of Green.
And when the proud Sunburst of Erin, jmfurled, Proclaiming her free, shall illumlne^he world, Emblazoned shall be ion its folds, waving wide, The name of our hero, her martyr, her pride. |
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IRELAND.
Erin, sweet Erin! the halo of glory
That hangs on the brow of thy every green hill, As it falls on the page of thy fame-written story,
Reflects a warm glow on thy loveliness still. Oh, well may thy children to madnes adore thee;
Thy bards to recount thy rich beauties, despair— When there is not a star that at midnight shines o'er thee
But twinkles with joy to stand sentinel there.
Oh, who that has heard the loud wail of thy sorrow, But yearns, to the mourner, some balm to Impart?
Oh, who that has shared thy wild mirth but would borrow The charm that can kindle such joy to the heart? |
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