A lark, from the gold-blossom'd furze that grew near her,
Now rose, and with energy caroll'd his lay;

"Hush, hush!" she continued, "the trumpet sounds clearer;
The horsemen approach! Erin's daughters, away!
Ah! soldiers, 'twas foul, while the cabin was burning,
And o'er a pale father a wretch had been mourning—
Go, hide with the sea-mew, ye maids, and take warning,
Those ruffians have ruin'd poor Mary le More.

66 Away, bring the ointment: O God! see those gashes!
Alas! my poor brother, come dry the big tear;
Anon we'll have vengeance for these dreadful lashes;
Already the screech-owl and raven appear.

By day the green grave, that lies under the willow,
With wild flow'rs I'll strew, and by night make my pillow,
Till the ooze and dark sea-weed, beneath the curl'd billow,
Shall furnish a death-bed for Mary le More."

Thus rav'd the poor maniac, in tones more heart-rending
Than sanity's voice ever pour'd on my ear,

When, lo! on the waste, and their march tow'rds her bending,
A troop of fierce cavalry chanc'd to appear;

"O, ye fiends!" she exclaim'd, and with wild horror started;
Then through the tall fern, loudly screaming, she darted;
With an overcharg'd bosom I slowly departed,
And sigh'd for the wrongs of poor Mary le More..

"HARRY'S SWORD."

The following spirited and tender lines, which are attributed to a distinguished Presbyterian clergyman, are supposed to be addressed to the sword of Harry M'Cracken by his sister. Harry M'Cracken was engaged, and distinguished himself by his courage, in open battle; was subsequently taken prisoner, and died heroically on the scaffold,-where, up to the last moment, he was made conscious of the unflinching love and Spartan fortitude of that very sister. Scott makes us wonder at the heroism of Flora M'Ivor in making the shroud for her brother Fergus. How near fiction may come to truth!-or did Scott derive his incident from fact? To what a fearful pitch must nerve be wrought by such times of excitement!

'TIS the sword of my Harry-its own native hue-
The emerald handle and steel's glossy blue:
I know the curv'd sweep of the well-temper'd blade,
With shamrock of gold and sweet myrtle inlaid.
How oft has it shone on the mountains afar,
When it marshall'd the sons of green Erin for war-
The avenger of wrong and the scourge of the foe!
But the hand that could wield it, alas! is laid low.

How long has it slumber'd secure in the sheath!

And years have roll'd on since it flash'd on the heath;
From its hilt the green shamrocks that once bloom'd so gay,
Fair emblems of freedom, have all died away.
The tooth of fell Time has been trying the blade,
And a spot of dark rust marks the pressure it made;
How it drinks up my tears, as it shar'd in my woe-
For the hand that could wield it, alas! is laid low.

Oh! would that these tears might its splendour restore!
But ne'er can it shine as it oft shone before,

When, like heaven's fires, it the conflict began,

And Harry and Victory blaz'd in the van:

Then rout and dismay urg'd the proud Saxon horde,
And death mark'd each whirl of the conquering sword-
But no more shall it hurl such despair on the foe,
Since the hand that could wield it, alas! is laid low.

THE PATRIOT MOTHER.

A Ballad of '98.

"COME, tell us the name of the rebelly crew
Who lifted the pike on the Curragh with you;
Come, tell us their treason, and then you'll be free,
Or by heavens you shall swing from the high gallows tree."

"Alanna! alanna!* the shadow of shame

Has never yet fallen upon one of your name,

And, oh! may the food from my bosom you drew,

In your veins turn to poison, if you turn untrue.

"The foul words-oh! let them not blacken your tongue, That would prove to your friends and your country a wrong, Or the curse of a mother, so bitter and dread,

With the wrath of the Lord-may they fall on your head!

"I have no one but you in the whole world wide,
Yet, false to your pledge, you'd ne'er stand at my side;
If a traitor you liv'd, you'd be farther away

From my heart than, if true, you were wrapp'd in the clay.

"Oh! deeper and darker the mourning would be

For your falsehood so base, than your death proud and free;
Dearer, far dearer than ever to me,

My darling, you'll be on the brave gallows tree.

*Alaneacht signifies beauty:-the exclamation is therefore equivalent to the English "My beautiful!" and the subsequent text proves she might have added, "my brave!"

"'Tis holy, agra!† with the bravest and best
Go! go! from my heart, and be join'd with the rest;
Alanna ma chree! O, alanna ma chree!‡

Sure astag'§ and a traitor you never will be."

brow

There's no look of a traitor upon the young
That's raised to the tempters so haughtily now;
No traitor e'er held up the firm head so high-
No traitor e'er show'd such a proud flashing eye.

On the high gallows tree! on the brave gallows tree!
Where smil'd leaves and blossoms, his sad doom met he;
But it never bore blossom so pure or so fair,

As the heart of the martyr that hangs from it there.

† My love.

Beauty of my heart.

§ An informer.

The heroism described in the foregoing lines was not uncommon. My father witnessed a case somewhat similar: a mother stood by while her young son (little more than a boy) was undergoing the agony of the lash, exhorting him never to disgrace himself by becoming an informer.

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

These lines are from that remarkable volume entitled "The Spirit of the Nation;" and are remarkable among things of mark. Much in that volume abounds in high poetic qualities, but the period in which it appeared is too near our own times not to suggest the question to an editor how far it is wise to make extracts bearing upon a period of great political excitement, in which the feelings of the present generation were engaged. But, in this particular section of the volume, devoted especially to political songs, of all parties, the following is entitled to a place for its high literary merit. It is vigorous, tender, and enthusiastic; ; and the free flow of the versification vouches for the spontaniety of this spiritstirring song.

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-
All 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 the 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 passed 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 their's your fate;

And true men be you, men,

Like those of Ninety-Eight.

EDWARD LYSAGHT. Air, "Let the Toast Pass."

In this song Lysaght prefigures, in a vein of bitter mirth, the impending ruin of Dublin by the projected measure of the Union.

How justly alarmed is each Dublin cit

That he'll soon be transformed to a clown, sir!

By a magical move of that conjurer, Pitt,

The country is coming to town, sir!

Give Pitt, and Dundas, and Jenky a glass,

Who'd ride on John Bull, and make Paddy an Ass.

Thro' Capel-street soon as you'll rurally range,
You'll scarce recognise it the same street;
Choice turnips shall grow in your Royal Exchange,
And fine cabbages down along Dame-street.*
Give Pitt, &c.

Wild oats in the college won't want to be till'd;
And hemp in the Four-Courts may thrive, sir!
Your markets again shall with muttons be fill'd—
By St. Patrick, they'll graze there alive, sir!
Give Pitt, &c.

In the Parliament House, quite alive, shall there be
All the vermin the island e'er gathers;

Full of rooks, as before, Daly's club-house you'll see,
But the pigeons won't have any feathers.
Give Pitt, &c.

Our Custom House quay, full of weeds, oh, rare sport
But the Ministers' minions, kind elves, sir!
Will give us free leave all our goods to export, †
When we've got none at home for ourselves, sir!
Give Pitt, &c.

Says an alderman-" Corn will soon grow in your shops;
This Union must work our enslavement."
"That's true" says the Sheriff, "for plenty of crops ‡
Already I've seen on the pavement."

Give Pitt, &c.

Ye brave loyal yeoman dress'd gaily in red,
This Ministers' plan must elate us;

And well may John Bull, when he's robbed us of bread,
Call poor Ireland "the land of potatoes."

Give Pitt, &c.

*Dame-street and Capel-street, two great thoroughfares; the former was then the "Bond-street" of Dublin.

+ The limitation of exports and imports was a source of great discontent.

Those of the democratic party wore short hair-hence they were called "crops' or

66 croppies." The croppy of Ireland was equivalent to the English "roundhead" of a century and a half before. In both these cases the people cut short their hair and their allegiance together.