Thomas Osborne Davis

Air--An Cota Caol.


I.

His kiss is sweet, his word is kind,
His love is rich to me;
I could not in a palace find
A truer heart than he.
The eagle shelters not his nest
From hurricane and hail,
More bravely than he guards my breast--
The Boatman of Kinsale.


II.

The wind that round the Fastnet sweeps
Is not a whit more pure--
The goat that down Cnoc Sheehy leaps
Has not a foot more sure.
No firmer hand nor freer eye
E'er faced an autumn gale--
De Courcy's heart is not so high--
The Boatman of Kinsale.


III.

The brawling squires may heed him not,
The dainty stranger sneer--
But who will dare to hurt our cot
When Myles O'Hea is here?
The scarlet soldiers pass along;<...

Why rings the knell of the funeral bell from a hundred village shrines?
Through broad Fingall, where hasten all those long and ordered lines?
With tear and sigh they're passing by--the matron and the maid--
Has a hero died--is a nation's pride in that cold coffin laid?
With frown and curse, behind the hearse, dark men go tramping on--
Has a tyrant died, that they cannot hide their wrath till the rites
are done?


THE CHANT.

"Ululu! ululu! high on the wind,
There's a home for the slave where no fetters can bind.
Woe, woe to his slayers!"--comes wildly along,
With the trampling of feet and the funeral song.

And now more clear
It swells on the ear;
Breathe low, and listen, 'tis solemn to hear.

"Ululu! ululu! wail for the dead....

I.

The church of Dungannon is full to the door,
And sabre and spur clash at times on the floor,
While helmet and shako are ranged all along,
Yet no book of devotion is seen in the throng.
In the front of the altar no minister stands,
But the crimson-clad chief of these warrior bands;
And, though solemn the looks and the voices around,
You'd listen in vain for a litany's sound.
Say! what do they hear in the temple of prayer?
Oh! why in the fold has the lion his lair?


II.

Sad, wounded, and wan was the face of our isle,
By English oppression and falsehood and guile;
Yet when to invade it a foreign fleet steered,
To guard it for England the North volunteered.
From the citizen-soldiers the foe fled aghast--
Still they stood to their gun...

I.

Bright red is the sun on the waves of Lough Sheelin,
A cool, gentle breeze from the mountain is stealing,
While fair round its islets the small ripples play,
But fairer than all is the Flower of Finae.


II.

Her hair is like night, and her eyes like grey morning,
She trips on the heather as if its touch scorning,
Yet her heart and her lips are as mild as May day,
Sweet Eily MacMahon, the Flower of Finae.


III.

But who down the hill-side than red deer runs fleeter?
And who on the lake-side is hastening to greet her?
Who but Fergus O'Farrell, the fiery and gay,
The darling and pride of the Flower of Finae?


IV.

One kiss and one clasp, and one wild look of gladness;
Ah! why do they change on a sudden...

I.

The Geraldines! the Geraldines!--'tis full a thousand years
Since, 'mid the Tuscan vineyards, bright flashed their battle-spears;
When Capet seized the crown of France, their iron shields were known,
And their sabre-dint struck terror on the banks of the Garonne:
Across the downs of Hastings they spurred hard by William's side,
And the grey sands of Palestine with Moslem blood they dyed;
But never then, nor thence, till now, has falsehood or disgrace
Been seen to soil Fitzgerald's plume, or mantle in his face.


II.

The Geraldines! the Geraldines!--'tis true, in Strongbow's van,
By lawless force, as conquerors, their Irish reign began;
And, oh! through many a dark campaign they proved their prowess stern,
In Leinster's plains and Munster's vales on k...

I.

'Tis pretty to see the girl of Dunbwy
Stepping the mountain statelily--
Though ragged her gown, and naked her feet,
No lady in Ireland to match her is meet.


II.

Poor is her diet, and hardly she lies--
Yet a monarch might kneel for a glance of her eyes.
The child of a peasant--yet England's proud Queen
Has less rank in her heart, and less grace in her mien.


III.

Her brow 'neath her raven hair gleams, just as if
A breaker spread white 'neath a shadowy cliff--
And love, and devotion, and energy speak
From her beauty-proud eye, and her passion-pale cheek.


IV.

But, pale as her cheek is, there's fruit on her lip,
And her teeth flash as white as the crescent moon's tip,
And her form and her step...

Air--Irish Molly O!


I.

Full often when our fathers saw the Red above the Green,
They rose in rude but fierce array, with sabre, pike and scian,
And over many a noble town, and many a field of dead,
They proudly set the Irish Green above the English Red.


II.

But in the end throughout the land, the shameful sight was seen--
The English Red in triumph high above the Irish Green;
But well they died in breach and field, who, as their spirits fled,
Still saw the Green maintain its place above the English Red.


III.

And they who saw, in after times, the Red above the Green
Were withered as the grass that dies beneath a forest screen;
Yet often by this healthy hope their sinking hearts were fed,
That, in so...

Air--Grádh mo chroidhe.


I.

Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be,
All comfort else has flown;
For every hope was false to me,
And here I am, alone.
What thoughts were mine in early youth!
Like some old Irish song,
Brimful of love, and life, and truth,
My spirit gushed along.


II.

I hoped to right my native isle,
I hoped a soldier's fame,
I hoped to rest in woman's smile
And win a minstrel's name--
Oh! little have I served my land,
No laurels press my brow,
I have no woman's heart or hand,
Nor minstrel honours now.


III.

But fancy has a magic power,
It brings me wreath and crown,
And woman's love, the self-same hour
It smites oppression down.
Sweet thoughts...

Air--The Wheelwright.


I.

Oh! weep those days, the penal days,
When Ireland hopelessly complained.
Oh! weep those days, the penal days,
When godless persecution reigned;
When year by year,
For serf and peer,
Fresh cruelties were made by law,
And filled with hate,
Our senate sate
To weld anew each fetter's flaw.
Oh! weep those days, those penal days--
Their memory still on Ireland weighs.


II.

They bribed the flock, they bribed the son,
To sell the priest and rob the sire;
Their dogs were taught alike to run
Upon the scent of wolf and friar.
Among the poor,
Or on the moor,
Were hid the pious and the true--
While traitor knave,
And recreant slave,
Had riches, rank, and retinue;

I.

Let the feeble-hearted pine,
Let the sickly spirit whine,
But work and win be thine,
While you've life.
God smiles upon the bold--
So, when your flag's unrolled,
Bear it bravely till you're cold
In the strife.


II.

If to rank or fame you soar,
Out your spirit frankly pour--
Men will serve you and adore,
Like a king.
Woo your girl with honest pride,
Till you've won her for your bride--
Then to her, through time and tide,
Ever cling.


III.

Never under wrongs despair;
Labour long, and everywhere,
Link your countrymen, prepare,
And strike home.
Thus have great men ever wrought,
Thus must greatness still be sought,
Thus laboured, loved, and fought
Greece and Rome.

I.

The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles--
The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles--
Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird;
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard;
The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play;
The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to pray--
And full of love and peace and rest--its daily labour o'er--
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore.


II.

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there;
No sound, except that throbbing wave in earth, or sea, or air.
The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of the calm;
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm.
So still the ni...

From Milan to Cremona Duke Villeroy rode,
And soft are the beds in his princely abode;
In billet and barrack the garrison sleep,
And loose is the watch which the sentinels keep:
'Tis the eve of St. David, and bitter the breeze
Of that mid-winter night on the flat Cremonese;
A fig for precaution!--Prince Eugene sits down
In winter cantonments round Mantua town!


II.

Yet through Ustiano, and out on the plain,
Horse, foot, and dragoons, are defiling amain.
"That flash!" said Prince Eugene: "Count Merci, push on"--
Like a rock from a precipice Merci is gone.
Proud mutters the Prince: "That is Cassioli's sign:
Ere the dawn of the morning Cremona'll be mine;
For Merci will open the gate of the Po,
But scant is the mercy Prince Vaudemont will shew!"<...

I.

From Carrick streets to Shannon shore,
From Slievenamon to Ballindeary,
From Longford Pass to Gaillte Mór,
Come hear The Vow of Tipperary.


II.

Too long we fought for Britain's cause,
And of our blood were never chary;
She paid us back with tyrant laws,
And thinned The Homes of Tipperary.


III.

Too long with rash and single arm,
The peasant strove to guard his eyrie,
Till Irish blood bedewed each farm,
And Ireland wept for Tipperary.


IV.

But never more we'll lift a hand--
We swear by God and Virgin Mary!
Except in war for Native Land,
And that's The Vow of Tipperary!

Air--The Brink of the White Rocks.


I.

When all beside a vigil keep,
The West's asleep, the West's asleep--
Alas! and well may Erin weep,
When Connaught lies in slumber deep.
There lake and plain smile fair and free,
'Mid rocks--their guardian chivalry--
Sing oh! let man learn liberty
From crashing wind and lashing sea.


II.

That chainless wave and lovely land
Freedom and Nationhood demand--
Be sure, the great God never planned,
For slumbering slaves, a home so grand.
And, long, a brave and haughty race
Honoured and sentinelled the place--
Sing oh! not even their sons' disgrace
Can quite destroy their glory's trace.


III.

For often, in O'Connor's van,
To triumph dashed each Conn...

I.

Let Britain boast her British hosts,
About them all right little care we;
Not British seas nor British coasts
Can match the Man of Tipperary!


II.

Tall is his form, his heart is warm,
His spirit light as any fairy--
His wrath is fearful as the storm
That sweeps the Hills of Tipperary!


III.

Lead him to fight for native land,
His is no courage cold and wary;
The troops live not on earth would stand
The headlong charge of Tipperary!


IV.

Yet meet him in his cabin rude,
Or dancing with his dark-haired Mary,
You'd swear they knew no other mood
But Mirth and Love in Tipperary!


V.

You're free to share his scanty meal,
His plighted word he'll never vary--
...

I.

In Bodenstown Churchyard there is a green grave,
And wildly along it the winter winds rave;
Small shelter, I ween, are the ruined walls there,
When the storm sweeps down on the plains of Kildare.


II.

Once I lay on that sod--it lies over Wolfe Tone--
And thought how he perished in prison alone,
His friends unavenged, and his country unfreed--
"Oh, bitter," I said, "is the patriot's meed;


III.

"For in him the heart of a woman combined
With a heroic life and a governing mind--
A martyr for Ireland--his grave has no stone--
His name seldom named, and his virtues unknown."


IV.

I was woke from my dream by the voices and tread
Of a band, who came into the home of the dead;
They carried no corpse...

I.

We must not fail, we must not fail,
However fraud or force assail;
By honour, pride, and policy,
By Heaven itself!--we must be free.


II.

Time had already thinned our chain,
Time would have dulled our sense of pain;
By service long, and suppliance vile,
We might have won our owner's smile.


III.

We spurned the thought, our prison burst,
And dared the despot to the worst;
Renewed the strife of centuries,
And flung our banner to the breeze.


IV.

We called the ends of earth to view
The gallant deeds we swore to do;
They knew us wronged, they knew us brave,
And all we asked they freely gave.


V.

We took the starving peasant's mite
To aid in winning back his r...