USA > Rhode Island > Providence County > Woonsocket > History of the Catholic church in Woonsocket and vicinity, from the celebration of the first mass in 1828, to the present time, with a condensed account of the early history of the church in the United States > Part 19
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And bore the brunt on every field
Where traitors dar'd their strength to wield,
'Gainst Liberty's protecting shield, Ireland ! Till Celtic bayonets made them yield, Ireland, my Ireland !
This land where Freedom's eagle soars, Ireland, my Ireland ! Has lured us to her fertile shores, Ireland, my Ireland ! And bound us here by solemn tie To spurn the law we sought to fly,
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That oath we pledge to God on high, Ireland ! To Him who rules the earth and sky Ireland, my Ireland !
But now this land disdains to stand, Ireland, my Ireland ! In our defence 'gainst Briton's band, Ireland, my Ireland ! And coldly looks whilst many a man, Who shed his blood in battle's van
For her, now wears the felon's chain, Ireland ! Hard labor and a felon's chain, Ireland, my Ireland !
The Roman's boast was, that he was- Ireland, my Ireland !
A Roman by proud Roman laws, Ireland, my Ireland ! But Roman statesmen were not those Wlio bow'd their heads to Freeman's foes,
As Massachusetts Sumner does To England ! Who caused this land a thousand woes? England, false England !
My countrymen, unite, combine ! For Ireland, my Ireland !
And let us shout along our line For Ireland, my Ireland ! Be not by politicians fool'd,
Beware those bought with British gold, And soon our ruler shall be ruled, Dear Ireland ! And our land by us controll'd, Dear Ireland, our Ireland !
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MOTHER, DEAR.
[Inscribed to my mother.]
Oh! mother, dear, I think of thee In this my exile, far away From that dear home beyond the sea, Where I've seen many a blissful day. I think of thee and of the smile That lit thy face on my return From absence of a little while ; But now long absence bids you mourn.
I think of all the anxious care With which you watched my lowly bed,
When pain or sickness laid me there, And of the tears affection shed. How sweet and lowly was your voice. How soothingly it spoke to me,
In tones that bade my heart rejoice, No matter what my pain might be.
I've learned to know thee since those bright days. What's lost not having mother near,
When grief or sickness on me preys. The weary homesick heart to cheer.
I've learned to know, but vainly sought. A voice or hand like yours to find, To soothe the pain, or ease the thought That wrecks the frame, or tills the mind. No hand like to a mother's hand, No voice like hers to cheer the heart,
When o'er the darkening clouds expand. Its music bids them all depart.
Ah ! dear to me shall be the hour, When we shall meet, shall meet again, Defying all of earthly power To part us whilst our lives remain. Ye winds that o'er the ocean roam, When quickly from my native shore, The bark that bears o'er the white foam, Mother to me, to part no more.
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REFLECTIONS ON THE DEATH OF A BROTHER.
"Let us seek out some desolate shade, And there weep our sad bosoms empty." - Shakespeare.
And you are dead, my darling brother, You whom I have so much loved, Ah! how can I my feelings smother? How has God my heart reproved? Our hearts in love were one since childhood. In our distant native land ;
Where we've roamed by lake and wildwood, Close together hand-in-hand ;
Where our parents loved and bless'd us. As we knelt at night and pray'd, And with the good-night kiss embraced us, 'Neath our cottage roof-tree's shade.
I little thought in life's bright morning, When pleasures past were yours and mine. That death so soon with scarce a warning, Should come and blast a life like thine. Can you behold me and your mother, In this world of care and woe,
Can you behold me and your brother. All heart broken here below? Can you behold our dear child's anguish. Hennie whom you loved so well,
When with plaintive look and language Where you've gone he asks me tell? I answer to that land supernal, Beyond the earth-beyond the skies.
To live with God in life eternal, Where tears no more shall dim the eyes.
But he asks me why you've gone there? Could here no longer stay ? To smooth our path of wordly care. To cheer us on our lonely way ?
When thus he speaks our hours are bitter. Thinking on the happy past- And the present and the future
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Sombre shadows round us cast. Ah! sad thoughts unwelcome to me, You fling around me fearful scenes, Dark and woeful-drear and gloomy- That are not of childhood's dreams. But why should thus the wail of sorrow Wring our hearts, and mark our brows, As we are told a glorious morrow Awaits us, where we'll find repose. Eternal hope, with glory dressed, Points us to that far-off shore,
" Where the weary are at rest," And the sorrowing weep no more. But yet the loss of thee, my brother, Still shall fill my heart with pain, As this world to me no other Friends like you can give again.
AN EXILE'S DAY-DREAM.
Far o'er the Atlantic's blue and boundless wave, In a fair, rich and fertile, sunny Isle, Hallowed by a loved and lovely sister's grave, There was my home, lit by that dear one's smile.
But she is gone, and still that home is there, And hallowed yet by dear ones still on earth ; There once I've knelt, in days long gone, in prayer And sad forebodings of the future felt.
Oh ! I was happy once, but now no more The cup of joy is filled or quaffed by me, For when the heart is saddened to its core, Joy vainly seeks to set the spirit free.
But, brooding still in bondage pine and live, And inly feel the bitter, scorching thought,- And plodding o'er the years that life still gives, Then pine and die; such is our weary lot.
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Once in the path of distant years, now flown, My heart beat happy, full of childhood's glee ; But then there was a home I called mine own,- But now no home on earth remains for me.
The air I breathe, the blue, etherial sky, And stars that glisten in that azure vault, - The rivers, forests, lakes, that 'round me lie, Seem so to me from what I've seen of naught.
For all seem strange, and all are strange to me, Their beauty and their grandeur I despise ; The island home beyond the surging sea, My heart's hope, buried in oblivion lies.
In exile now I wander sad and alone- The dear, departing objects of my pride Have brought with them the joys which now I moan : The balm of cherished love to me's denied.
The little joy, or hope, or love, I feel, Springs from the source that yet remain on earth ;
Parents of mine who have escaped death's sea, In that bright home in which they give me birth.
Arouse ! my drooping spirit ! look around, And pause no more on sickening thoughts like these,
Awake to life ! Freedom may yet be found
For thee, and home, and love, and friends beyond the seas.
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A DREAM OF HOPE.
" I had a dream, which was not all a dream."-Byron.
I had a dream-me thought I soar'd away, Far o'er the ocean's dashing waves and foam, To where the tyrant bears imperious sway, In Erin of my childhood's happy home. The sun hliad sunk resplendent from the sky, And evening shadows rested on the land ; The wind had murmured the Day's departing siglı, And scenes seem'd touch'd as by a magic wand ;- I stood upon Killarney's beauteous shore, And zephyrs lull'd the rippling waves to rest ; Enraptured, there I stood, as still I gazed the more, On visions mirror'd on the water's breast. The full moon shed the lustre of her rays On scenes so grand, with weird effulgence thrown, And memory nourished thoughts of other days,
And of dear Erin's wrongs, as there I stood alone. But hark ! a sound awakes the echoes wild, Of rocks and glens, and caves where fairies dwell, And died along the lakes which, sleeping, smil'd, Now murmuring low, then wildly would it swell. It was the song of Erin in her chains,
Which marr'd the stillness of the peaceful night- Now breathing low, then heard in hopeful strains, Symphonious on the air in its ascending flight.
This is the song our suffering Erin sung, In cadence clear the melody arose ;
And through the glens the wilding echoes rung, Wherein the red deer rests, and the arbutus grows :
"'O! far away, in a sunny land, Beyond the Atlantic waves, Where mountains rise and lakes expand. My children find their graves. O! far away, in a Southern clime, Where palm trees tower on high, They sink beneatlı the spreading lime, And breathe their latest sigh.
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Columbia ! fair land of Freedom's shrine, Bright home of my exiled race, My children in thee a refuge find From bondage, a resting place. They stand beneath a banner fair, Whose folds have made them free ;
They stand two hundred thousand there, And all in arms for me.
They fight for Freedom's flag to wave, Which gave them freemen's homes- O ! long may that banner wave, On land and where ocean foams.
The strife shall cease, and peace shall come Then Hope shall smile on me, For my sons shall back to their island home, And make their Erin free.
O! cheer for the sight of the glistening steel, And the sound of the cannon's voice, Whose death-stroke the Briton soon shall feel- Rejoice, ye, my children, rejoice !"
*
The spirit of my dream then wended past, But Erin's song hung 'round me when awake, And cheered my heart with Hope, the brightest, perhaps That e're shall dawn for sorrowing Erin's sake. [last,
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A TRIBUTE OF FRIENDSHIP.
[After partaking of a dinner at the home of General and Mrs. Arnold Wakefield, North Smithfield, on the afternoon of March 21, 1885, Major Smyth penned the following :]
It was not all your bounteous fare In dishes suited to a king, Nor music of the bonnie lass, Whose notes still in my memory sing.
It was a welcome of the heart ; The smiles that lit your happy home,
And spoke to me in throbbing chords, That looked the words : " We're glad you've come."
It was the light I've often seen In days gone by, when darkness lung
Upon my wayward path of life, And wide its threat'ning shadows flung.
When words of cheer from other lips That should have spoken, silent were : No hand to raise, no voice to guide My weary soul in its despair.
You were to me as now you are, Dear friends in sunshine and in tears ; The cherished beacon light of Hope, Through many changeful, fleeting years.
No wonder then, that in my soul I treasure fondest love for you, Whom I have found in every change Unchanging, constant, pure and true.
Within your home I've pleasure quaffed That elsewhere I have sought in vain : To me that place is sacred ground, And still forever shall remain.
O, may your lives as happy be As my heart's fervent prayers implore, And fortune, peace and pleasure blend With all your hours till life is o'er.
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And when earth's pilgrimage is done, And angels lead to Heaven the way, May we there meet to part no more, Where light eternal shines for aye.
TO IRISH FENIANS, FROM A BROTHER IN EXILE.
Beyond the wave where the Shannon flows A noble band their faith are keeping, In steel alone to conquer foes, And dry the tears that Erin's weeping : For well they know that talk is vain, And only airy sounds at best- The offspring of the coward's brain, Or puffings from a weakly chest ; And that the freedom of our land Alone we'll win with sabres reeking, With blood of Briton's dastard band, That life in headlong flight are seeking. They know that on each bloody field, Where battle wages most severe, The ranks must break, must die or yield, Before an Irish charge and cheer. Then courage, men-the hour's at hand Of vengeance for six hundred years Of wrongs inflicted on our land By English kings and English peers. The exiles that with vengeance went, With deeper vengeance will return, On retributive justice bent,
And John Bull may have reason to mourn. Hurrah ! hurrah ! for the coming fray, With Erin's Sunburst streaming o'er us, And gallant hearts to charge that day, While foes fly far and fast before us.
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A LIFE IN THE WOODS FOR ME.
AIR -- " A Life on the Ocean Wave."
A life in the woods for me, A home in the forest shade, With the wild deer bounding free, Where the fauns their haunts have made ; Once more ere daylight dies, To hear the wild birds' song. Where zephyrs breathe their sighs Softly the trees among ;
Where blossoms brightly bloom Upon fair sylvan bowers,
And floats a sweet perfume From budding leaves and flowers.
A life in the woods for me, A home where the sunbeams rest,
The last we are doom'd to see, Ere he sinks in the golden West,
Where wafts the fragrant air, At early dawn of morn, O'er flowers blooming fair, That dew-drops doth adorn,
Sparkling like gems of light, Or phosphorous on the deep, Or tears shed in delight, That beauty's bright eyes weep.
A life in the woods for me, When autumn leaves doth fly,
And the crickets' merry glee With the fading year must die. I love the woods and wilds, Far from earth's servile throng,
Where calm Contentment smiles, List'ning the woodland's song. Then a life in the woods for me, A home in the forest shade, With the wild deer bounding free, Where fauns their haunts have made.
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Miscellaneous Selections.
[" The authorship of the poem entitled 'The Beautifu Snow' is no longer in doubt," wrote Major Smyth, " although there are many claimants to the title, among whom are Henry W. Faxon, Dora Shaw, or Mrs. La Baum, J. W. Watson and Annie Keely. I am convinced that the poem was written by Miss Keely, and in order to verify this assertion I will give the poem, and endeavor to prove by the accompanying gem, as well as by Miss Keely's own statement, that the poem is really hers, and that all others claiming the authorship stand in the light of literary pilferers :"]
THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW.
Oh ! the snow ! the beautiful snow !
Filling the sky and the earth below ;
Over the house-tops, over the street, Over the heads of the people you meet, Dancing,
Flirting, Skimming along,
Beautiful snow ! it can do nothing wrong.
Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek,
Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak ;
Beautiful snow from Heaven above !
Oh! the snow! the beautiful snow ! How the flakes gather and laugh as they go, Whirling about in their maddening fun- It plays in its glee with everyone- Chasing,
Laughing, Hurrying by, It lights on the face and it sparkles the eye, And the dogs, with a bark and a bound, Snap at the crystals that eddy around-
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The town is alive and its heart in a glow, To welcome the coming of beautiful snow.
How wildly the crowd goes swaying along, Hailing each other with humor and song ! How the gay sledges like meteors flash by, Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye ! Ringing, Swinging, Dashing they go,
Over the crest of the beautiful snow-
Snow so pure when it falls from the sky, As to make one regret to see it lie To be trampled and tracked by the thousands of feet, Till it blends with the filth in the horrible street.
Once I was as pure as the snow, but I fell ; Fell like the snowflakes from Heaven to hell ; Fell to be trampled as filth in the street ; Fell to be scoffed, to be spit on and beat ; Pleading,
Cursing,
Dreading to die,
Selling my soul to whoever would buy ;
Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread ;
Hating the living and fearing the dead. Merciful God! Have I fallen so low?
And yet I was once like the beautiful snow !
Once I was fair as the beautiful snow,
With an eye like a crystal, a heart like its glow ; Once I was loved for my innocent grace- Flattered and sought for the charms of my face. Father,
Mother, Sister, all, God and myself I have lost by my fall ; The veriest wretch that goes shivering by Will make a wide swoop lest I wander too nigh ;
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For all that is on or above me I know There is nothing as pure as the beautiful snow.
How strange it should be that this beautiful snow Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go! How strange it should be when night comes again, If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain ! Fainting,
Freezing, Dying alone,
Too wicked for prayer, too weak for a moan To be heard in the streets of the crazy town, Gone mad in the joy of the snow coming down ; To be and to die in my terrible woe,
With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow.
Helpless and foul as the trampled snow, Sinner, despair not, Christ stoopeth low To rescue the soul that is lost in its sin, And raise it to life and enjoyment again. Groaning,
Bleeding, Dying for thee, The Crucified hung on the accursed tree; His accents of mercy hung soft in thine ear- Is there mercy for me? Will he heed my prayer? O God ! in the stream that for sinners flow, Wash me and I shall be whiter than the beautiful snow ,
[This is the companion gem written by the above named au- thor, Annie Keely, May 23, 1872, and which appeared in the New Orleans Morning Star.]
WEARY OF LIFE.
" I am miserable, and am bowed down even to the end : I go sorrowfully all the day long "-Psalms III and VI.
Weary of life and weary of sin, The ceaseless strife and worldly din, Struggling ever to act a part,
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Veiling my soul and shrouding my heart, Hating the world, and longing to be Alone, at rest, untrammeled and free, Struggling ever in ceaseless strife- Father of Heaven, I'm weary of life.
Weary of life that once was so fair, That precious gem, that jewel rare ; Life, with its changing sunny hours, Its golden smiles and wealth of flowers ; Life of my infant childish years, With its rippling smiles and sparkling tears ; Years that knew naught of anger or strife- Father in Heaven, I'm weary of life.
Weary of life that once was so bright, With its rainbow hues of dazzling light, The light of my girlhood's early days, With gorgeous glare of its noonday blaze ; Ah! deeming my life but one endless day, Nor counting the hours that passed away, Hours with joy, and pleasure once rife- Yet, Father in Heaven, I'm weary of life.
Weary of life, its sin and its crime, Its poisonous breath and its noisome slime, Oh, sin! oh, crime, how bitter to taste The tempting point of the desert waste ! That fruit so fair and bright to the eye, On the lips will fade, and in ashes die, Filling the heart with woe and strife, Till, Father in Heaven, I'm weary of life.
Weary of life that has grown so dark, Pining away in this poisoned ark, Weary dear Lord, as the captive dove, Longing to soar to the light above, Seeking some spot where my foot may rest, From the deluge of sin in the human breast,
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Battling ever in care and strife- Father in Heaven I'm weary of life.
Weary of life, shall one so lost, So temptest-driven, so widely toss'd, Dare to weep, as Magdalen wept, When in lowly sorrow a sinner she crept, And knelt at Thy feet in tears and sighs, And sought but a glance from Thy sacred eyes,
The glance that dispelled all sin and strife, When her heart was sick and weary of life.
Weary of life, but oh! in thy love I look for a truer light above,
That life that fades not nor passes away,
The dawning sun of eternal day, The morning that breaks o'er the tempest wave,
And shines through the gloom of the yawning grave,
Cheering us on through woe and strife, With the lasting joys of a brighter life.
Weary of life, and weary of sin, This worldly strife and worldly din, Looking in hope for the promised land,
Watching the veil on its golden strand ; Watching the veil so misty and bright,
Shrouding its shores from my yearning sight,
Watching the hand that shall send it away,
Giving one life and endless day.
ANNIE KEELY, Authoress of " Beautiful Snow."
The authoress, who has not only written the above beautiful poems, but by so doing has created an inquisitive sensation among the lovers of poetry, was born in New Ross, Ireland, and still lives to vindicate her own right to the possession of them. J. W. S.
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THE BELLS OF SHANDON.
With deep affection and recollection I often think of those Shandon bells, Whose sound so wild would, in days of childhood, Fling round my cradle their magic spells. On this I ponder, where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee ; With thy bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in, Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine ;
While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate, But all their music spoke nought like thine : For memory dwelling on each proud swelling Of thy belfry knelling its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon, Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
I've heard bells tolling " old Adrian's Mole " in, Their thunder rolling from the Vatican,
And cymbals glorious, swing uproarious In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame. But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly. O ! the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
There's a bell in Moscow, while in tower and kiosko In St. Sophia the Turkman gets,
And loud in air, calls men to prayer . From the tapering summit of tall minarets.
Such empty phantom, I freely grant them ; But there's an anthem more dear to me, 'Tis the bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
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GOD BLESS OUR IRISH GIRLS.
God bless our noble Irish girls, God bless them all to-day ; We'll send the prayers all over the land, For other lips to say ; For when the tyrant's hand was laid Upon the true and brave,
In the tender pride of womanhood They rose they rose to help and save.
Then here's to our own dear Irish girls, Here's to our maiden band, Who yet are seen to wear the green, In the cause of the dear old land.
What time a foeman's hireling crew Surrounded Limeriek's wall, The maids of Limerick bravely stood To answer manhood's call. The spirit's not departed yet With the faithful who have died
For freedom's cause-our own dear hearts Still muster by our side.
Then here's to our own brave Irish girls, Here's to the maiden band, Who still are seen to wear the green In the cause of the poor old land.
And walking in the funeral throng Which told a nation's woe, Ye showed the spirit changeless yet Of the days of long ago. The rain might fall, the wild wind sweep O'er bridge and street and square, But firm as soldiers in the ranks So pressed ye onward there. Then here's to our own true Irish girls, Here's to the maiden band,
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Who yet are seen to wear the green In the cause of the dear old land.
Oh ! may the starry eyes that looked On mourning Freedom's sign,
Yet flash their glorious light upon A nation's marshalled line. And may the prayer which maidenlips Have sent to the God above,
Bear to our stricken motherland The golden crown of love. Then here's to the noble Irish girls, God bless the maiden band, Who yet are seen to wear the green In the cause of the dear old land.
-Dublin Nation.
THE DAIRY MAID.
The girl engaged in moulding bread Shall make some sweetheart flutter,
With hope to get that dairy maid To make the bread and butter.
She may not play the game croquet, Or French and German stutter,
If well she knows the curd from whey, And makes sweet bread and butter.
In meal or cream she's elbow deep, And cannot stop to putter ; But says if he will sow and reap, She's make his bread and butter.
The dairy maid, the farmer's wife, Shall be the toast we utter ; Alone, man leads a crusty life, Without good bread and butter.
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CONSTANCY.
To a Poetical Friend, J. W. Smyth, Woonsocket :
Welcome and sweet as the lark's lay of morning, Balm-breathing music came wafted to me ; Dear as the grove songs in spring's glad returning, When zephyrs gambol o'er forest and lea. Gem of the poet's brain, Sound in mine ear again, Thrilling with wild, chainless rapture the soul ; Heart-healing melody ; Bliss-bearing symphony- Sounds that can cheer me in darkness and dole.
Banks of the Blackstone ! recorded in story, Dwells on your slopes one of genius and fame,
Whose verses sublime crown your precinets with glory -- Beloved-though by worldlings unheeded his name. Bright son of minstrelsy, Hail to thy harmony ! Solace and joy are the fruits of thy lays ; Life's sky unclouded be, Blessings descend on thee, Shielding thee round till the close of thy days.
Hate may incite hollow hearts to rebellion, Malice may turn the friend into foe ; Envy within may usurp friendship's dwelling ; Slander accomplish pure love's overthrow ; But true and constantly, E'en to eternity, Through life's varied changes, in shadow and sun, This heart in amity, Still shall it grow for thee, True to the ties of the years that are gone.
- P. Carpenter, Pawtucket, R. I.
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THE IRISH BRIGADE.
Fearless and frank and gay, Cheering, they marched away, Down to the battle field marched the brave-hearted ; Down where the sabres flashed, Where the wild riders dashed, And from the cannon's mouth hell's lightning darted.
Facing the deadly guns, In rushed Erin's sons, In 'midst the rolling smoke, lightning and thunder ; Volley on volley flew, Fiercer the battle grew, And the dead bodies lay, torn asunder.
Charge on the rebel flanks ! Charge on his reeling ranks !
Scale the embattled walls ; see, his lines waver ! Charge they again, again, Charge they in vain, in vain- Thousands lie sleeping for ever and ever.
O, God ! that thrilling cry- Death, death, or victory ! Again charge they, foremost, Erin's undaunted ; Met the foe face to face, Saved us from deep disgrace, Stood, as they ever stood-where they were wanted.
Night came : the living few From the strong works withdrew-
Wept o'er their comrades dead, recrossed the river. Peace to each noble soul,- High up on glory's scroll Their names will live-live for ever and ever.
-Richard Siattery.
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TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND MEN !
Honor the brave who battle still For Irish right in English lands ! No rule except their quenchless will, No power save in their naked hands. Who wage by day, and wage by night, In groups of three or bands of ten One savage, undespairing fight Against two hundred thousand men.
No pomp of war their eyes to blind, No blare of music as they go, Witlı just such weapons as they find, In desperate onset on the foe. They seize the pike, the torch, the scythe- Unequal contest,-but what then? With steadfast eyes and spirits blythe They face two hundred thousand men !
The jails are yawning through the land, The scaffold's fatal click is heard- But still moves on the scanty band, By jail and scaffold undeterred. A moment's pause to wail the last Who fell in Freedom's fight-and then, With teeth firm-set, and breathing fast, They face two hundred thousand men !
Obscure, unmarked, with none to praise Their fealty to a trampled land- Yet never knights in Arthur's days For desperate cause made firmer stand. They wage no public war, 'tis true, They strike and fly, and strike,-what then? "Tis only thus these faithful few Can front two hundred thousand men !
You call them ignorant, rash and wild- But who can tell how patriots feel
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With centuries of torments piled Above the land to which they kneel? And who has made them what we find- Like tigers lurking in their den, And breaking forth, with fury blind, To beard two hundred thousand men?
Who made their lives so hard to bear They care not how their lives are lost ! Their land a symbol of despair- A wreck on ruin's ocean tossed ! We, happier here, may carp and sneer, And judge them harshly-but what then? No glove for those who have for foes To face two hundred thousand men !
Honor the brave! Let England rave Against them as a savage band- We know their foes, we know their woes, And hail them as a hero-band. With iron will they battle still, In groups of three or files of ten-
Nor care we by what savage skill They fight two hundred thousand men !
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WHEN YOU WERE SEVENTEEN.
When the hay was mown, Mary, In the years long ago, And while the western sky was rich With sunset's rosy glow, Then hand in hand close-linked we passed The dewy ricks between, And I was one-and-twenty, May, And you were seventeen.
The spring was in our hearts, And all its hopes were ours ; And we were children in the fields, Among the opening flowers, Aye ! Life was like a Summer day Amid the woodlands green, For I was one-and-twenty, May, And you were seventeen.
The years have come and gone, Mary, With sunshine and with shade, And silvered is the silken hair, That o'er your shoulders strayed In many a soft and wayward tress- The fairest ever seen- When I was one-and-twenty, May, And you were seventeen.
Though gently changing Time, Mary, Has touched you in his flight, Your voice has still the old sweet tone, Your eye the old love light ; And years can never, never change The heart you gave, I ween, When I was one-and-twenty, May, And you were seventeen,
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OUR BABY.
Did you ever see our baby, Little " Tot," With her eyes so sparkling bright, And her skin so lily white. Lips and cheeks of rosy white ?- Tell you what, She is just the sweetest baby In the lot.
Ah ! she is our little darling, And to me All her little ways are witty ; When she sings her ditty,
Every word is just as pretty As can be ; Not another in the city Sweet as she.
You don't think so-you ne'er saw her ! Wish you could See her with her playthings clattering,
Hear her little tongue a chattering,
Little dancing feet come pattering, Think you would Love her just as well as I do- If you could.
Every mother's baby darling, I suppose, Is as sweet and bright a blossom, Is a treasure to her bosom,
Is as cheering and endearing As my "Rose." Heavenly Father, spare them to us Till life's close,
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I AM DREAMING, EVER DREAMING.
I am dreaming, ever dreaming, Of an Isle divinely fair, Where the golden sunlight's gleaming On the countless beauties there, And gilding with a radiant smile The blooming valleys o'er,- I am dreaming, fondly dreaming Of my darling native shore.
I am dreaming of her mountains grand, Her vales, and bowers green, Where grassy lakes and rivulets Are mingling with the scene : Where Nature flings her vernal wings The hills and valleys o'er,- I am dreaming, always dreaming, Of my darling native shore.
I'm dreaming of the holy wells, The mounds and towers gray, And fairy dells, where ruined shrines, Are mouldering in decay,- Those relics of a glorious past, That Time cannot restore, Come flitting through my visions Of my darling native shore.
I'm dreaming of the sylvan streams That murmur through the trees, Where flowers raise their crimson plumes, To kiss the morning breeze ; Of classic halls, and castle walls, Dear Erin's pride of yore- What wonder I'd be dreaming Of my darling native shore !
I'm dreaming of her banish'd sons, Wide scattered o'er the main, Shedding their blood in every cause, While still she writhes in pain. Oh, heavens ! what a grievous sight, To see them in their gore, Sinking to rest far from their blest, Their darling native shore.
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A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW.
The surging sea of human life forever onward rolls, Bearing to the eternal shore each day its freight of souls ; But though our barque sails bravely on, pale Death sits at the prow, And few shall know we ever lived, a hundred years from now.
Oh ! mighty human brotherhood, why fiercely war and strive, While God's great world lias ample space for everything alive? Broad fields uncultured and unclaimed, are waiting for the plow Of progress, that should make them bloom a hundred years from now.
Why should we toil so earnestly in life's short, narrow span, On golden stairs to climb so high above our brother man? Why blindly at an earthly shrine our souls in homage bow? Our goods will rust, ourselves be dust a hundred years from now.
Why prize so much the world's applause? why dread so much its blame?
A fleeting echo is its voice of censure or of fame ;
The praise that thrills the heart, the scorn that dyes with shame the brow,
Will be as long forgotten dreams a hundred years from now.
Earth's empires rise and fall, O, Time ! like breakers on thy shore, They rush upon thy rocks of doom, are seen-and seen no more ; The starry wilderness of worlds that gem night's radiant brow, Will light the skies for other eyes a hundred years from now.
Oh! Thou, before whose sleepless eyes the past and future stand An open page, like babes we cling to Thy protecting hand ; Change, sorrow, death, are nought to us if we may safely bow Beneath the shadow of Thy throne, a hundred years from now.
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