The corn was springing fresh and green,

The lark sang loud and high,

The red was on your lip, Mary,
The love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
The corn is green again;

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
Your breath warm on my cheek,
And I still keep listening for the words
You never more may speak.

"Tis but a step down yonder lane,
The little Church stands near-
The Church where we were wed, Mary-
I see the spire from here;

But the graveyard lies between, Mary,-
My step might break your rest,-
Where you, my darling, lie asleep,
With your baby
baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,-
The poor make no new friends;-
But, O! they love the better still
The few our Father sends.
And you were all I had, Mary,

My blessing and my pride;
There's nothing left to care for now
Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,
When trust in God had left my soul,
And half my strength was gone.
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow.
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you can't hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break;
When the hunger pain was gnawing there,
You hid it for my sake.

I bless you for the pleasant word
When your heart was sad and sore.
O! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary-kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling,
In the land I'm going to.

They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there;
But I'll not forget old Ireland,

Were it fifty times as fair.

And when amid those grand old woods

I sit and shut my eyes,

My heart will travel back again

To where my Mary lies;

I'll think I see the little stile

Where we sat, side by side,

And the springing corn and the bright May

Host of armour, red and bright,
May ye fight a valiant fight!
For the green spot of the earth,
For the land that gave you birth.

Like a wild beast in his den,
Lies the chief by hill and glen,
While the strangers, proud and savage,
Creean's richest valleys ravage.

When old Leinster's sons of fame,
Heads of many a warlike name,
Redden their victorious hilts,
On the Gaul, my soul exults.

When the grim Gaul, who have come,
Hither o'er the ocean foam,

From the fight victorious go,

Then my heart sinks deadly low.

Bless the blades our warriors draw,
God be with Clan Ranelagh!
But my soul is weak for fear,
Thinking of their danger here.

Have them in Thy holy keeping,
God be with them lying sleeping,
God be with them standing fighting,
Erin's foes in battle smiting!

Sir Samuel Ferguson.

CLXXVI

THE HILLS OF IRELAND

(From the Irish)

A PLENTEOUS place is Ireland for hospitable cheer, Uileacán dubh O!

Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear,

Uileacán dubh O!

P

There is honey in the trees where her misty vales

expand,

And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters

fann'd,

There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i' the yellow sand

On the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Curl'd he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee, Uileacán dubh O!

Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea, Uileacán dubh O!

And I will make my journey, if life and health but

stand,

Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant

strand,

And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,

For the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Sir Samuel Ferguson.

CLXXVII

MY LAND

SHE is a rich and rare land;
O! she's a fresh and fair land;
She is a dear and rare land-
This native land of mine.

No men than hers are braver-
Her women's hearts ne'er waver;
I'd freely die to save her,

And think my lot divine.

She's not a dull or cold land;
No! she's a warm and bold land;
O! she's a true and old land-
This native land of mine.

Could beauty ever guard her,
And virtue still reward her,
No foe would cross her border-
No friend within it pine!

O, she's a fresh and fair land;
O, she's a true and rare land!
Yes, she's a rare and fair land—
This native land of mine.

CLXXVIII

Thomas Davis.

THE DEAD CHIEF

'DID they dare, did they dare to slay Owen Roe O'Neill?'

'Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet with steel.'

'May God wither up their hearts! May their blood cease to flow!

May they walk in living death, who poisoned Owen Roe!

Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words.'

'From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords;

But the weapon of the Sacsanach met him on his

way,

And he died at Cloc Uachtar upon St. Leonard's

Day.'

'Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One! Wail, wail ye for the Dead;

Quench the hearth, and hold the breath-with ashes strew the head.

How tenderly we loved him! How deeply we deplore!

Holy Saviour! but to think we shall never see him

more.