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HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
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IRISH WAK-SONG.
Bright sun! before whose glorious ray
Our pagan fathers bent the knee; Whose pillar altars yet can say,
When time was young our sires were free; Who see'st how fallen their offsprings be,
Our matron's tears, our patriot's gore; We swear before high Heav'n and thee
The Saxon holds us slaves no morel The clalrseach wild, whose trembling string
Had long the "song of sorrow" spoke, Shall bid the wild Rosg-Cata sing,
The curse and crime of Saxon yoke. And by each heart his bondage broke,
Each exile's sigh on distant shore. Each martyr 'neath the headman's stroke,
The Saxon holds us slaves no morel Send the loud warcry o'er the main;
Your sunburst to the breezes spread; That slogan rends the heav'n in twain.
The earth reels back beneath your tread. Ye Saxon despots, hear, and dread!
Your march o'er patriots hearts is o'er; That shout hath told, that tramp hath said,
Our country's sons are slaves no more! |
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FAIREST! PUT ON AWHILE.
Fairest, put on awhile these pinions of light I bring thee,
And o'er thine own green isle in fancy let me wing thee.
Never did Ariel's plume at golden sunset hover
O'er such scenes of bloom as I shall waft thee over.
Fields where the spring delays and fearlessly meets the ardour
Of the warm summer's gaze with only her tears to guard her.
Rocks thro' myrtle boughs In grace majestic frowning,
Like some bold warrior's brows that Love hath just been crowning.
Islets so freshly fair that never hath bird come nigh them,
But from his course through air he hath been won down by them.
Types, sweet maid, of thee, whose look, whose blush inviting,
Never did Love yet see, from Heav'n, without alighting.
Lakes where the pearl lies hid and caves where the gem is sleeping,
Bright as the tears thy lid lets fall in lonely weeping.
Glens where ocean comes to 'scape the wild wind's rancour,
Harbours, worthiest homes, where Freedom's fleet can anchor.
Then If while scenes so grand, so beautiful, shine before thee,
Pride for thy own dear land should haply be stealing o'er thee,
Oh, let grief come first, o'er pride itself victorious,
Thinking how man hath curst what Heav'n hath made so glorious. |
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FAR IN THE MOUNTAINS.
Far in the mountains with you, my Eveleen, I would be loving and true, my Eveleen;
Then climb the mountains: with mel Long have I dwelt by the forest river side, Where the bright ripples flash and quiver wide, There the fleet hours shall blissful ever glide
O'er us, sweet Gragal Machree! There on my rocky throne, my Eveleen, Ever, ever alone, my Eveleen,
I sit dreaming of thee; High on the fern-clad rocks reclining there, Though the wild birds their songs are twining fair. Then I hear and I see thy shining hair,
Still, still, sweet Gragal Machree! |
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