Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall, Sure we never won a battle-'twas Owen won them all.

Had he lived-had he lived our dear country had been free;

But he's dead, but he's dead, and 'tis slaves we'll ever be.

O'Farrell and Clanrickarde, Preston and Red Hugh, Audley and MacMahon-ye are valiant, wise, and

true;

But what are ye all to our darling who is gone? The Rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle's Cornerstone!

Wail, wail him through the Island! Weep, weep for our pride!

Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died!

Weep the Victor of Beinn Burb-weep him, young men and old;

Weep for him, ye women-your Beautiful lies cold!

We thought you would not die-we were sure you I would not go,

And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow

Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky

O! why did you leave us, Owen? why did you die?

Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill! bright was

your eye,

O! why did you leave us, Owen? why did you die? Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with God on high;

But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Owen !-why

did you

die?'

Thomas Davis.

CLXXIX

THE LITTLE BLACK ROSE

THE Little Black Rose shall be red at last;
What made it black but the March wind dry,
And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast?
It shall redden the hills when June is nigh!

The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last;

What drove her forth but the dragon fly? In the golden vale she shall feed full fast,

With her mild gold horn, and her slow, dark eye.

The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last!
The pine long-bleeding, it shall not die!
This song is secret. Mine ear it passed
In a wind o'er the plains at Athenry.

Aubrey de Vere.

CLXXX

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD

WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?
Who blushes at the name?

When cowards mock the patriot's fate,
Who hangs his head for shame?
He's all a knave or half a slave,
Who slights his country thus;
But a true man, like you, man,
Will fill your glass with us.

We drink the memory of the brave,
The faithful and the few:

Some lie far off beyond the wave,

Some sleep in Ireland, too.

All, all are gone; but still lives on
The fame of those who died;
And true men, like you men,
Remember them with pride.

Some on the shores of distant lands
Their weary hearts have laid,

And by the stranger's heedless hands
Their lonely graves were made;
But though their clay be far away
Beyond th' Atlantic foam,
In true men, like you, men,
Their spirit's still at home.

The dust of some is Irish earth;
Among their own they rest;

And the same land that gave them birth
Has caught them to her breast;

And we will pray that from their clay

Full many a race may start

Of true men, like you, men,
To act as brave a part.

They rose in dark and evil days

To right their native land;

They kindled here a living blaze

That nothing shall withstand.

Alas! that might can vanquish right

They fell and pass'd away;

But true men, like you, men,

Are plenty here to-day.

Then here's their memory! may it be

For us a guiding light,

To cheer our strife for liberty

And teach us to unite.

Through good and ill, be Ireland's still,

Though sad as theirs your fate,

And true men, be you, men,

Like those of Ninety-Eight!

John Kells Ingram.

CLXXXI

NATIONAL PRESAGE

UNHAPPY Erin, what a lot was thine!
Half-conquer'd by a greedy robber band;
Ill govern'd now with lax, now ruthless hand;
Mislead by zealots, wresting laws divine
To sanction every dark or mad design;
Lured by false lights of pseudo-patriot league
Through crooked paths of faction and intrigue;
And drugg'd with selfish flattery's poison'd wine.
Yet, reading all thy mournful history,
Thy children, with a mystic faith sublime,
Turn to the future, confident that Fate,
Become at last thy friend, reserves for thee,
To be thy portion in the coming time,

They know not what-but surely something great.
John Kells Ingram.

CLXXXII

THE FLIGHT OF THE EARLS

(From the Irish)

Lo, our land this night is lone !

Hear ye not sad Erin's moan?
Maidens weep and true men sorrow,
Lone the Brave Race night and morrow.

Lone this night is Fola's plain,-
Though the foemen swarm amain-
Far from Erin, generous-hearted,
Far her Flower of Sons is parted.

Great the hardship! great the grief!
Ulster wails Tirconaill's Chief,
From Emain west to Assarue

Wails gallant, gentle, generous Hugh.

Children's joy no more rejoices,—
Fetters silence Song's sweet voices-
Change upon our chiefs, alas!
Bare the altar, banned the Mass.

Homes are hearthless, harps in fetters,
Guerdon's none for men of letters,
Banquets none, nor merry meetings,
Hills ring not the chase's greetings.

Songs of war make no heart stronger,
Songs of peace inspire no longer,—
In great halls, at close of days,
Sound no more our fathers' lays.

Foemen camp in Neimid's plains;
Who shall break our heavy chains?
What Naisi, son of Conn, shall prove
A Moses to the land we love?

She has none who now can aid her,
All have gone before the invader;
Banba's bonds and cruel cross

Steal the very soul from us!

George Sigerson.

CLXXXIII

LAMENT FOR EOGHAN RUA O'NEILL (From the Irish)

How great the loss is thy loss to me!
A loss to all who had speech with thee :-
On earth can so hard a heart there be
As not to weep for the death of Eoghan?
Och, ochón! 'tis I am stricken,
Unto death the isle may sicken,
Thine the soul which all did quicken;
-And thou 'neath the sod!