And still through the bog, through the brake, and the mireland, From one root should branch, like the shamrock of Ireland, The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock, The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland! Andrew Cherry [1762-1812] MY LAND SHE is a rich and rare land; No men than hers are braver- And think my lot divine. She's not a dull or cold land; Could beauty ever guard her, Oh! she's a fresh and fair land, Yes, she's a rare and fair land This native land of mine. Thomas Osborne Davis [1814-1845] FAINNE GAEL AN LAE "Until the day break and the shadows flee away ERE the long roll of the ages end And the days of time are done, His own appointed One, Whose soul must wait the hour of Fate, His name be known to none; But his feet shall stand on the Irish land In darkness of our captive night, Whilst storms the watch-tower shake, Until through clouds of threatening hate, The first red beam of the sun-burst gleam Oh! perfect, pure, exalted One, As night to noon goes swift and soon, May years now roll away And bring the hour of thy conquering power And the dawning of the day! Alice Milligan [18 IRELAND IRELAND, oh Ireland! center of my longings, As the shining salmon, homeless in the sea-depths, Hears the river call him, scents out the land, Leaps and rejoices in the meeting of the waters, Breasts weir and torrent, nests in the sand; Lives there and loves; yet with the year's returning, Sweeps back again to the ripple of the tideway, Wanderer am I like the salmon of the rivers; London is my ocean, murmurous and deep, Pearly are the skies in the country of my fathers, "HILLS O' MY HEART" HILLS o' my heart! I have come to you at calling of my one love and only, The hearth of my fathers wanting me is lonely, And empty is the place I filled at gathering of the feast. Hills o' my heart! You have cradled him I love in your green quiet hollows, Your wavering winds have hushed him to soft forgetful sleep, Below dusk boughs where bird-voice after bird-voice follows In shafts of silver melody that split the hearkening deep. Hills o' my heart! Let the herdsman who walks in your high haunted places Give him strength and courage, and weave his dreams alway: Let your cairn-heaped hero-dead reveal their grand exultant faces, And the Gentle Folk be good to him betwixt the dark and day. Hills o' my heart! And I would the Green Harper might wake his soul to singing With music of the golden wires heard when the world was new, That from his lips an echo of its sweetness may come ringing, A song of pure and noble hopes-a song of all things true. Hills o' my heart! For sake of the yellow head that drew me wandering over Your misty crests from my own home where sorrow bided then, I set my seven blessings on your kindly heather cover, Ethna Carbery [? -1902] SCOTLAND YET GAE bring my guid auld harp ance mair, Gae bring it free and fast, For I maun sing anither sang, Ere a' my glee be past; And trow ye as I sing, my lads, The burden o't shall be, Auld Scotland's howes and Scotland's knowes, And Scotland's hills for me; We'll drink a cup to Scotland yet, Wi' a' the honors three. The heath waves wild upon her hills, As they dance doun the dells; That's girded by the sea; Then Scotland's vales and Scotland's dales, We'll drink a cup to Scotland yet, Wi' a' the honors three. The thistle wags upon the fields, And looking to the lift, my lads, He sang this doughty glee, Auld Scotland's right and Scotland's might, We'll drink a cup for Scotland yet, Wi' a' the honors three. They tell o' lands wi' brighter skies, For I've nae skill o' lands, my lads, That kenna to be free; Then Scotland's right and Scotland's might, And Scotland's hills for me; We'll drink a cup to Scotland yet, Wi' a' the honors three. Henry Scott Riddell [1798–1870] THE WATCH ON THE RHINE * A VOICE resounds like thunder-peal, Firm stand thy sons to watch the Rhine! They stand a hundred thousand strong, The dead of a heroic race From heaven look down and meet their gaze; "While flows one drop of German blood, *For the original of this poem see page 3583. |