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17S IIYLAND'S MAMMOTH
O! hright shone the morning when first as my bride, love.
Thy foot, like a sunbeam, my threshold cross'd o'er, And blest on our hearth fell that soft eventide, love,
When first on my bosom thy heart lay, asthore! Restlessly now, on my lone pillow turning,
Wear the night-watches, still thinking on thee; And darker than night, breaks the light of the morning,
For my aching eyes And'thee not, Cushla-mo-chree! O, my loved one! my lost one! say, why didst thou leave m«
To linger on earth with my heart in the grave! O! would thy cold arms, love, might ope to receive me
To my rest 'neath the dark boughs that over thee wave. Stiil from our once hapy dwelling I roam, iove,
Evermore seeking, my own bride, for thee; Ah, Mary! wherever thou art is my home, love,
And I'll soon lie beside thee, my Cushla-mo-chree! |
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OH! PROUD WERE THE CHIEFTAINS.
Oh, proud were the chieftains of green Innisfail, As throoa gon ira na vara!
The stars of our sky, and the sait of our soil, As throoa gon ira na vara!
Their hearts were as soft as a child in the lap,
Yet they were "the men In the gap"—
And now that the cold clay their limbs doth enwrap-As throoa gon ira na vara!
'Gainst England long battling, at length they went down; As throoa gon Ira na vara!
But they left their deep tracks on the road of renown, As throoa gon Ira na vara!
We are heirs of their fame, if we're not of their race—
And deadly and deep our disgrace,
If we live o'er their sepulchres, abject and base;— As throoa gon ira na vara!
How fair were the maidens of fair Innlsfail!
As throoa gon Ira na vara! As fresh and as free as the sea-breeze from soil;
As throoa gon ira na vara! Oh! are not our maidens as fair and as pure? Can our music no longer allure? And can we but sob, as such wrongs we endure?
As throoa gon ira na vara! Their famous, their holy, their dear Innisfail,
As throoa gon Ira na vara! Shall it still be a prey for the stranger to spoil?
As throoa gon ira na vara! Sure, brave men would labour by night and by day To banish that stranger away; Or, dying for Ireland, the future would say,
As throoa gon ira na vara! |
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ROISIN DUBH.
Oh! my sweet little rose, cease to pine for the past,
For the friends that come eastward shall see thee at last;
They bring blessings, they bring favours which the past never knew,
To pour forth in gladness on my Roisin Dubh.
There's no flower that e'er bloom'd can my rose excel,
There's no tongue that e'er mov'd half my love can tell;
Had I strength, had I skill the wide world ta subdue,
Oh! the queen of that wide world should be Roisin Dubh.
The mountains, high and misty, tho' the moors must go,
The rivers run backward, and the lakes overflow;
And the wild waves of old ocean wear a crimson hue,
E'er the world sees the ruin of my Roisin Dubh. |
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