WAR SONG OF O'DRISCOL.

By GERALD GRIFFIN

FROM the shieling that stands by the lone mountain river,
Hurry, hurry down, with the axe and the quiver;

From the deep-seated coom,* from the storm-beaten highland,
Hurry, hurry down to the shores of your island.
Hurry down, hurry down!
Hurry down, &c.

Galloglach and Kern, hurry down to the sea-
There the hungry raven's beak is gaping for a prey.
Farrah! to the onset! Farrah! to the shore!

Feast him with the pirate's flesh, the bird of gloom and gore
Hurry down, hurry down!
Hurry down, &c.

Hurry, for the slaves of Bel are mustering to meet ye;
Hurry by the beaten cliff, the Nordman longs to greet ye;
Hurry from the mountain! hurry, hurry from the plain!
Welcome him, and never let him leave our land again!
Hurry down, hurry down!
Hurry down, &c.

On the land a sulky wolf, and in the sea a shark,
Hew the ruffian spoiler down, and burn his gory bark!
Slayer of the unresisting! ravager profane!

Leave the white sea-tyrant's limbs to moulder on the plain.
Hurry down, hurry down
Hurry down, &c.

A close valley between abrupt hills.

THE LAND OF THE WEST.

SAMUEL LOver.

OH! come to the West, love-oh! come there with me;
'Tis a sweet land of verdure that springs from the sea,
Where fair Plenty smiles from her Emerald throne ;-
Oh, come to the West, and I'll make thee my own!
I'll guard thee, I'll tend thee, I'll love thee the best,
And you'll say there's no land like the land of the West!

The South has its roses and bright skies of blue,

But ours are more sweet with love's own changeful hue-
Half sunshine, half tears,-like the girl I love best;
Oh! what is the South to the beautiful West!

Then come to the West, and the rose on thy mouth
Will be sweeter to me than the flow'rs of the South!

The North has its snow-tow'rs of dazzling array,
All sparkling with gems in the ne'er-setting day;
There the Storm-king may dwell in the halls he loves best,
But the soft-breathing Zephyr he plays in the West.
Then come there with me, where no cold wind doth blow,
And thy neck will seem fairer to me than the snow!

The Sun, in the gorgeous East, chaseth the night
When he riseth, refresh'd, in his glory and might;
But where doth he go when he seeks his sweet rest?
Oh! doth he not haste to the beautiful West?
Then come there with me; 'tis the land I love best,
'Tis the land of my sires!-'tis my own darling West!

BAD LUCK TO THIS MARCHING.

CHARLES LEVER. From "Charles O'Malley."

Air, "Paddy O'Carroll."

BAD luck to this marching,
Pipeclaying and starching;

How neat one must be to be killed by the French!
I'm sick of parading,

Through wet and cold wading,

Or standing all night to be shot in a trench.
To the tune of a fife

They dispose of your life,

You surrender your soul to some illigant lilt;
Now I like "Garryowen'

When I hear it at home,

But its not half so sweet when you're going to be kilt.

Then though up late and early

Our pay comes so rarely,

The devil a farthing we've ever to spare;

They say some disaster

Befel the paymaster;

On my conscience I think that the money's not there.

* A favourite Irish air, and also a celebrated locality in the city of Limerick.

And, just think, what a blunder,
They won't let us plunder,

While the convents invite us to rob them, 'tis clear;
Though there isn't a village

But cries, "Come and pillage!"

Yet we leave all the mutton behind for Mounseer.*

Like a sailor that's nigh land,
I long for that island

Where even the kisses we steal if we please;
Where it is no disgrace

If you don't wash your face,

And you've nothing to do but to stand at your ease.
With no sergeant t' abuse us,

We fight to amuse us,

Sure its better beat Christians than kick a baboon;
How I'd dance like a fairy

To see ould Dunleary,†

And think twice ere I'd leave it to be a dragoon!

* A capital line this-the natural comment of a hungry soldier,-illustrating a fact honourable to the British army in the Peninsular war.

+ A landing place in Dublin Bay-now called Kingstown, in commemoration of the visit of George IV., as "Passage," in the Cove of Cork, goes by the higher "style and title" of "Queenstown," since the visit of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. Dunleary, of old, could afford shelter but to a few fishing-boats under a small pier. The harbour of Kingstown has anchorage within its capacious sweep of masonry for ships of war; in fact, it is one of the finest works in the British dominions.

MY NATIVE LAND.

Here is a song from an anonymous poet who should not be anonymous, for his name deserves a good mark. This book shows how rich Ireland is in poetic talent. Sprinkled through these leaves we have scores of examples, from the heights of fun to the depths of feeling, from anonymous pens. "Each mode of the lyre" is run through with an intuitive grace, by these amateur minstrels, that might make a professor envious.

WHY are thy sons, though good and brave,

A weak, divided band,

Lorn from the cradle to the grave,

My native land?

Why do the meanest of mankind

Rule thy green isle, with iron hand?

Canst thou no god-like leader find

Thy galling fetters to unbind

No Spartan band

My native land?

Still! still! they're doomed to writhe and weep,
And wildly wring the hopeless hand;
Far happier, should the wave o'ersweep
Thy velvet strand,

And whelm thee in the raging deep-
My native land!

* This reminds us of Moore's noble quatrain:

"Unprized are her sons till they learn to betray,

Unnoticed they live if they shame not their sires,

And the torch that would light them thro' dignity's way
Must be snatched from the pile where their country expires."

THE GIRLS OF THE WEST.

CHARLES LEVER. Air, "Thady ye Gander."

You may talk, if you please,
Of the brown Portuguese,

But, wherever you roam, wherever you roam,
You nothing will meet

Half so lovely or sweet

As the girls at home, the girls at home.
Their eyes are not sloes,
Nor so long is their nose,

But between me and you, between me and you,
They are just as alarming,

And ten times more charming,

With hazel and blue, with hazel and blue.

They don't ogle a man

O'er the top of their fan

Till his heart's in a flame, his heart's in a flame;
But though bashful and shy,
They've a look in their eye,

That just comes to the same, just comes to the same.
No mantillas they sport,

But a petticoat short

Shows an ancle the best, an ancle the best,
And a leg; but, O murther!

I dare not go further,

So here's to the West, so here's to the West.

FAIR-HILL'D, PLEASANT IRELAND.

From the Irish.

TAKE a blessing from the heart of a lonely griever
To fair-hill'd, pleasant Ireland,

To the glorious seed of Ir and Eivir,

*

In fair-hill'd, pleasant Ireland,

Where the voice of birds fills the wooded vale,
Like the morning harp o'er the fallen Gael-
And, oh! that I pine many long days' sail
From fair-hill'd, pleasant Ireland!

On the gentle heights are soft sweet fountains,
In fair-hill'd, pleasant Ireland;

I would choose o'er this land the bleakest mountains
In fair-hill'd, pleasant Ireland—
More sweet than fingers o'er strings of song,
The lowing of cattle the vales among,

And the sun smiling down upon old and young,
In fair-hill'd pleasant Ireland!

There are numerous hosts at the trumpet's warning,
In fair-hill'd, pleasant Ireland ;

And warriors bold, all danger scorning,

In fair-hill'd, pleasant Ireland

Oh, memory sad! oh, tale of grief!

They are crush'd by the stranger past all relief;
Nor tower nor town hath its native chief,†

In fair-hill'd, pleasant Ireland!

* Heber, Eibher, or Eivir, was the son of Ir, who was the second son of Milesius. A Milesian descent, of which the Irish are so proud, is something like the pride of a Saxon descent in England, (only some thousand years older); for the Milesians, like the Saxons, were invaders, overcome in time by stronger invaders than themselves. That they were invaders is evident from this passage: "Milesius remembered the remarkable prediction of the principal Druid, who foretold that the posterity of Gadelus should obtain the possession of a western island (which was Ireland), and there inhabit."-Keating. Moore celebrates this point in the ancient history of Ireland in his "Song of Innisfail" in the Irish Melodies, concluding with this verse:

"Then turn'd they unto the Eastern wave,

Where now their Day-God's eye

A look of such sunny omen gave

As lighted up sea and sky.

Nor frown was seen thro' sky or sea,

Nor tear o'er leaf or sod,

When first on their Isle of Destiny

Our great forefathers trod."

But though thus, according to Moore, the morning of our history was so bright, it turned out a very rainy evening for poor Ireland; —but it is clearing up; we may close our political umbrellas.

From this passage it is evident the song cannot be very old, though there is an antique air about it. The love of country and yearning for home are characteristically expressed, and certainly very touching, in this ballad.

P