208

ROBERTSON MATHESON

I durstna raise my een to see

If he even cared to glance at me;
His princely brow with care was crossed,
For his true men slain and kingdom lost.

Think not his hand was soft and white
Or his fingers a' with jewels dight,
Or round his wrists were ruffles grand,
When I got a kiss of the King's hand.

But dearer far to my twa een

Was the ragged sleeve of red and green
Owre that young weary hand that fain
With the guid broadsword had found its ain.

Farewell for ever! the distance grey
And the lapping ocean seemed to say-
For him a home in a foreign land,

And for me one kiss of the King's hand.
Sarah Robertson Matheson.

IV

IRELAND

CLXI

HOME

In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs-and God has given my share-
I still had hopes my later hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close
And keep the flame from wasting by repose;
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;

And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return-and die at home at last.

Oliver Goldsmith.

CLXII

THE WEARIN' O' THE GREEN

O, Paddy dear! an' did ye hear the news that's goin' round?

The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish

ground;

No more St. Patrick's Day we'll keep, his colour can't be seen,

For there's a cruel law agin the wearin' o' the green! I met wid Napper Tandy, and he took me by the

hand,

And he said, 'How's poor Ould Ireland, and how does she stand?'

She's the most disthressful country that iver yet

was seen,

For they're hangin' men and women there for wearin'

o' the green.

An' if the colour we must wear is England's cruel

red,

Let it remind us of the blood that Ireland has

shed;

Then pull the shamrock from your hat and throw it on the sod,―

And never fear, 'twill take root there, tho' under foot 'tis trod !

When law can stop the blades of grass from growin' as they grow,

And when the leaves in summer-time their colour dare not show,

Then I will change the colour, too, I wear in my caubeen,

But till that day, plaze God, I'll stick to wearin' o' the green.

Anonymous.

CLXIII

THE MINSTREL BOY

THE Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.
'Land of song!' said the warrior bard,
'Tho' all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!'

The Minstrel fell!--but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, 'No chain shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!

Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
They shall never sound in slavery.'

Thomas Moore.