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Be to them destruction glooming — Be to them a vengeance looming, Hair-suspended aer their race, Like the sword of Democles. Let thy daring hand free us, Like that son of old Azeus, Who purged his land for evermore From the blood-stained Minotaur. Fear not death, but fear dishonour ; Yield thy country all but honour. What more fitting warriors shroud, Than the foeman s standard proud? Heed ye not their glozingwords, Fear ye not their myriad swords ; Never make ye peace with them Till ye chant their requiem.

I hear thy heart's pulsation Throbbing vengeance for our nation ; Ha!

A Scene at Glanmire. Air: " Cruiskeen Lawn. In shades that deepened still, Lay Cork beneath the hill, Its line of radiant diamonds shining bright. I grasp a friendly hand, And murmur, it is grand — The rainbow hues shall gild our dark clouds of night, And stars guide our little boat aright! The forest's gloomy bower Feeds the frail wood-sorrel's flower ; Night censors waft the sweetbrier's exquisite perfume, The primrose lifts its bright glance in the gloom. Fair heads with midnight tresses, Dear hearts with fond caresses, And eyes of light to cheer the gloomy room ; With childhood by our side, With little hands to guide, Affliction cannot make this earth a shrouded tomb ; The rays from heaven's planets pierce the gloom.

Brian Dillon. Sing, Robin Redbreast, sing ; While listening to thy minstrelsy, Through prison bars my soul will wing To Ireland over the sea. To boyhood's happy, happy days, To -budding life s flower-crowned morn ; Through wood, and glen of Ballyvolane, Bright with gold furze and blossomed thorn, Blithe straying with my early friends — From school and cares of world free — Lone wanderers now in many a land, And exiles, moored by many a sea.

Ah me! Imprisoned for a political offence. Sing, Robin Redbreast, sing, In twilight grey thy song to me, And my soul through prison bars will wing To Ireland over the sea. And what though riches flee from me? My heart holds pure delight ; Though little here the world may see, I'm lovely in his sight! What'balm is in his hearty love! How bright his ready wit!

Dear Harp of my Country

And mirth will smile and play Above, While at his feet I sit! He gave my mother's cottage hall Fair pictures, dear to me ; My father loved to see him call To bind the drooping tree. Now winter evenings are not long ; The busy needles fly ; And Tom outpours a pleasant song, While I am sitting by. And look at our young baby here, So round, and sleek, and fair ; I scarce can see for happy tear, That glitters in the air. The only fault in Tom I see, Two years ago did slip ; It was that he did marry me In his apprenticeship.

Our young hearts had life's early test, And managed with small fee. But soon, ah, soon, he freshens up, With babe upon his knee ; And drinks the fragrant, cheering cup, Prepared for him by me. And now I wish my sisterhood, What Heaven sent to me — A young and honest husband good, From vice and folly free. Air : " Edmund of the Hills.

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To Seamas and Seaan, two bright fearless men, My heart sends a hundred unchary. We used, long ago, to vault and to chase, And to run after swimming the river, And o'er smooth springy bogs the foot-ball to chase— Here's farewell to such longings for ever. Farewell to the river — my love, Lois na n-gall, — To each green where we spent out our leisure, To the high voice of glenns, to my countrymen all That we left in the old days of pleasure. My good health did flee since I came o'er the sea ; They ne'er talk of the days of our childhood, Of the goal, of the Gael, of the Brigid-tide ale — O, farewell to my home and the wildwood!

Old Munster farewell— hill, valley and dell, — My friends fare ye well altogether ; And to Culach for aye where we once were so gay, And could quaff, beside joy, a brave mether. Farewell the two Williams who mourn me yet, And Patrick, farewell to you, surely ; Farewell to the priests whom I left with regret, Farewell to their words spoken purely.

O'Brien, with us here was thy health all the year, And each day drank with deepest emotion ; Farewell from my soul to the torture and Hole, That drove the brave chiefs o'er the ocean. My Philip adieu! I've ne'er forgot you, And adieu to your neighbours and nearest ; Adieu, too, I send to my hill-dwelling friend, And forty farewells to my dearest.

Till the dark floods abate that us separate, I'll love thee with fondest devotion ; With hand on my glass, here's to the sweet lass! Under the broad blue hill, Up from the meadow — Half in the shadow ; Near a sweet whispering rUl, Never an instant still, But with a music-thrill, Bubbling on ever ; Under the broad blue hill, Nooked in and warm, Coped by a ferney frill, Lies the Hare's form. There, on a bed of moss, Is puss's pillow — Velvety yellow ; - Soft as the flower floss— ' Bright as the golden gloss- Rich as its anther-cross, Where the bees swarm.

Under the broad hill, Where the south-winds have will, Chasing the northern chill, Lies the Hare's form. Over her anxious head, Arches the brier, Higher and higher ; And the wild dog-rose, red, Densing the cosy shade, Hiding the bowery bed From the rude storm. Under the broad blue hill, Flanked by the tawney bell Of the field-asphodel, Lies the Hare's form. Just at poor puss's nose, Peeps in the wild broom, Making a mild gloom ; Courting the bramble-rose That with heart open glows, And then a-blushing throws Down a love-leaflet.

Under the broad blue hill, Down whirls the leaf, until, Twinkling and twirling still, On the fur, warm — On my poor puss's brow Pops the love signet now, Causing a precious row In the Hare's form. Up stand her ears erect!

In are her paws drawn — Staring her eyes grown ; As with the rose-leaf decked,. Frighted and crimson-flecked, And her quick heart-throb checked, Crouched in alarm Stands she, with fur astare, Shivering and faint with fear ; While, between either ear, Rests the red rose-leaf, Flushed at the harm! Thus, by a love token, Oft is peace broken— Often is fear woken, Like the Hare's form. Down in yon valley I once nsed to wander — Down in yon valley, when summer was green ; In that moss-covered valley, each day growing fonder Of the sweetest of maidens, my own loved Cathleen.

I've loved her since childhood, I'll love her for ever, For she's been an angel of comfort to me ; The ties that our hearts bind nothing can sever — The Rose of Kilclawan, my Cathleen Machree. She fell on my bosom, her tears like rain falling, She vowed she'd be faithful and constant to me ; With one fond embrace I then left her wailing, And parted from Erinn and Cathleen Machree.

By night or by day I think on my charmer, She is always before me, in joy or in pain ; The more I think on her my affection grows warmer, And I long for the hour when I'll see her again. But time it flies slowly, and sorrow hangs o'er me, And the way is far distant across the deep sea, But, oh! Lovely and dearest, when will the day come?

The Irish Volunteer (Testo) - David Kincaid - MTV Testi e canzoni

Blest is the hour that will bring thee to me ; Hope, blessed hope, whispers : Soon will your; May come, And a long line of summer months with Cathleen Machree. Jambs McKowen. Now, peepin' o'er the mountain — Now glintin' in the streams — Now kissin' the red heather-bell All with your winsome beams.

Oh Harp of Erin

Bonnie twinklin' starnies! Sae gentle and sae bright — Ye woo me and ye win me With your soft and silver light.

the harp of erin gallery place

When gloamin' sheds its tinge, And strings the crystal dew-drop Around the gowan's fringe — How often do I linger, With keen and anxious eye, To watch your bonnie faces Come glintin' frae the sky. Bright guardians of the skies — How can we dream of wickedness Beneath your sleepless eyes? Cold and pulseless is the heart, And deeply fraught with guile, That does na feel the " lowe o' love," When ye look down and smile.

Sae gentle and sae bright, — Ye woo me and ye win me With your soft and silver light. Henry McD. We have many tributes to The Departed — we are great in Laments ; here we are true to living worth — not ashamed to show how it moves us.

the harp of erin gallery place

Come to the hills where the heather is brown! Linnet of Lagan, what spell woven round thee, So long in the meshes of silence has bound thee? It gratifies us to be the first to intro- duce him to notice in a people s edition" of songs and ballads, such as this. There is graceful feeling and sufficient originality in all he does to attract and fix the attention. Dykes deck their foreheads with primroses pale, Sweet smelling savours ascend from each vale ; Daisies laugh out from the meadow's bright bosom, Round hillocks high-crowned with the gorse's gold blossom.