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HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
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ERIN, MY COUNTRY.
Oh, Erin, my country! although thy harp slumbers,
And lies in oblivion in Tara's old hall, With scarce one kind hand to awaken its numbers,
Or sound a lone dirge to the Son of Pingal; The trophies of warfare may hang there neglected,
For dead are the warriors to whom they were known; But the harp of old Erin will still be respected,
While there lives but one bard to enliven its tone. Oh, Erin, my country! I love thy green bowers,
No music's to me like thy murmuring rills, Thy shamrock to me is the fairest of flowers.
And nought is more dear than thy daisy-clad hills; Thy caves, whether used by thy warriors or sages,
Are still sacred held in each Irishman's heart, And thy ivy-crowned turrets, the pride of past ages,
Though mouldering in ruins, do grandeur impart! Britannia may vaunt of her lion and armor,
And glory when she her old wooden walls views; Caledonia may boast of her pibroch and claymore, -
And pride in her philabeg, kilt and her hose. But where is the nation to rival old Erlni
Or where is the country such heroes can boast? In battle they're brave as the tiger or lion,
And bold as the eagle that flies 'round our coast! The breezes oft shake both the rose and the thistle.
While Erin's green shamrock lies hushed in the dale; In safety it rests, while the stormy winds whistle,
And grows undisturbed 'midst the moss of the vale; Then, hail! fairest island in Neptune's old ocean!
Thou land of Saint Patrick, my parent agra! Cold—cold must the heart be, and void of emotion
That loves not the music of "Erin-go-Bragh!" |
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THE IRISH RAPPAREES.
Righ Shemus he has gone to France, and left his crown behind—
111 luck be theirs, both day and night, put runnin' in his mind!
Lord Lucan followed after, with his Slashers brave and true,
And now the doleful keen is raised—"What will poor Ireland do? What must poor Ireland do?
Our luck," they say, "has gone to France—what can poor Ireland do?"
O, never fear for Ireland, for she has so'gers still,
For Rory's' boys are in the wood, and Remy's on tb_e hill;
And never had poor Ireland more loyal hearts than these—
May God be kind and good to them, the faithful Rapparees! The fearless Rapparees!
The jewel were you, Rory, with your Irish Rapparees!
Oh, black's your heart, Clan Oliver, and coulder than the clay!
Oh, high's your head, Clan Sassenach, since Sarsfield's gone away!
It's little love you bear to us, for sake of long ago,
But howid your hand, for Ireland still can strike a deadly blow-Can strike a mortal blow—
Och! dhar-a-Chreesth! 'tis Bhe that still could strike the deadly blow!
The Master's bawn, the Master's seat, a surly bodagh fills;
The Master's son, an outlawed man, is riding on the hills.
But, God be praised, that round him throng, as thick as summer bees,
The swords that guarded Limerick wall—his loyal Rapparees! His lovin' Rapparees.
Who dare say no to Rory Oge, with all his Rapparees?
Black Billy Grimes of Latnamard, he racked us long and sore—
God rest the faithful hearts he broke!—we'll never see them more!
But I'll go bail he'll break no more, while Truagh has gallows-trees,
For why?—he met, one lonesome night, the fearless Rapparees! The angry Rapparees!
They never sin no more, my boys, who cross the Rapparees! |
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