And still there's enough for a corps or crew,
Kelly and Burke and Shea."

"Well, here's to good honest fighting-blood!"
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.

"Oh, the fighting races don't die out,

If they seldom die in bed,

For love is first in their hearts, no doubt,"
Said Burke; then Kelly said:

"When Michael, the Irish Archangel, stands,
The Angel with the sword,

And the battle-dead from a hundred lands
Are ranged in one big horde,

Our line, that for Gabriel's trumpet waits,
Will stretch three deep that day,

From Jehoshaphat to the Golden Gates—

Kelly and Burke and Shea."

"Well, here's thank God for the race and the sod!"

Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.

Joseph I. C. Clarke [1846

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;

Dream of battled fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking.

In our isle's enchanted hall,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,

Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing.

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Dream of fighting fields no more:

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armor's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the daybreak from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here,

Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping.

Huntsman, rest! the chase is done;

While our slumbrous spells assail ye,

Dream not, with the rising sun,

Bugles here shall sound reveille.

Sleep! the deer is in his den;

Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun,

For at dawning to assail ye

Here no bugles sound reveille.

Walter Scott [1771-1832)

"PEACE TO THE SLUMBERERS"

PEACE to the slumberers!

They lie on the battle-plain,

With no shroud to cover them;

The dew and the summer rain

And all that sweep over them.
Peace to the slumberers!

Vain was their bravery!—

The fallen oak lies where it lay

Across the wintry river;

But brave hearts, once swept away,

Are gone, alas! forever.

Vain was their bravery!

Woe to the conqueror!

Our limbs shall lie as cold as theirs

Of whom his sword bereft us,

Ere we forget the deep arrears Of vengeance they have left us! Woe to the conqueror!

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

THE MINSTREL-BOY

THE Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.

"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,
"Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The Minstrel fell!-but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder,

And said, "No chains shall sully thee,

Thou soul of love and bravery!

Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
They shall never sound in slavery!"

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

"IT IS GREAT FOR OUR COUNTRY TO DIE"

O, IT is great for our country to die, where ranks are contending!

Bright is the wreath of our fame; Glory awaits us for

aye,

Glory, that never is dim, shining on with light never ending,

Glory that never shall fade, never, O never, away!

O, it is sweet for our country to die! How softly reposes Warrior-youth on his bier, wet by the tears of his love, Wet by a mother's warm tears. They crown him with garlands of roses,

Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he triumphs. above.

Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who for country hath perished;

Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there with her smile;

There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cherished; Gods love the young who ascend pure from the funeral

pile.

Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river;

Not to the isles of the blest, over the blue, rolling sea; But on Olympian heights shall dwell the devoted forever; There shall assemble the good, there the wise, valiant, and free.

O, then, how great for our country to die, in the front rank to perish,

Firm with our breast to the foe, Victory's shout in our ear!

Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our memory cherish;

We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased the sweet music to hear.

James Gates Percival [1795-1856]

A BALLAD OF HEROES

Now all your victories are in vain-A. MARY F. ROBINSON

BECAUSE you passed, and now are not,-
Because, in some remoter day,

Your sacred dust from doubtful spot
Was blown of ancient airs away,—
Because you perished,-must men say
Your deeds were naught, and so profane
Your lives with that cold burden? Nay,
The deeds you wrought are not in vain!

Though, it may be, above the plot

That hid your once imperial clay,
No greener than o'er men forgot

The unregarding grasses sway;—
Though there no sweeter is the lay
From careless bird,-though you remain
Without distinction of decay,-

The deeds you wrought are not in vain!

No. For while yet in tower or cot
Your story stirs the pulses' play;

And men forget the sordid lot

The sordid care, of cities gray;