III.

The short lived triumph soon was past,
And then thy golden prospects faded,
Home, lov'd ones, life were on the cast,
And all were ruined or degraded,

Degraded! degraded!

Home, lov'd ones, life were on the cast,
And all were ruined or degraded.

IV.

Yes, wake! but not with flashing brand,
With trumpets' clang and banners flying,
On gore-stained fields to take your stand,
And charge o'er neighbours, dead and dying,
Dying! dying!

On gore-stained fields to take your stand,
And charge o'er neighbours dead and dying.

V.

No; 'tis your greatest son that waves
The olive branch o'er sect and station,
And cries: "Oh, be for ever slaves,
Or join with me and be a nation!
Nation! nation!"

And cries: "Oh, be for ever slaves,
Or join with me and be a nation!"' 41

No 15.

THE SUMMER IS COME BACK AGAIN.

I.

THE summer is come back again,
To leaf, and flower, and tree;
The birds are singing in the glen,

The streams leap bright with glee;

But summer's beams, or summer's flowers, Alas! cannot renew

The chieftains of those fine old times,

The Dane and Saxon slew.

II.

The glens, the glades are little changed,
Our mountains are as grand

As when our princes o'er them ranged
The monarchs of our land.

But, oh! the slavery of years

Has dimmed the nation's brow, O'Donnell's, Sarsfield's, Edward's spearsWhere are those heroes now?

III.

O'Donnell sleeps in foreign clay,12

Sarsfield on Landen fell;

43

Lord Edward's spirit passed away
In Newgate's dungeon cell.44

Oh, then the nation's heart was rent,
Her banners sunk in gore,
She stood a rifled monument,
Her nation-voice was o'er,

IV.

Yet freedom's spirit never dies,
But like a secret spring,
Whose waters in the desert rise,
Fresh, clear, and bright of wing;
And 'midst the lifeless, arid sands,
Spreads vegetation round,
So her bright spirit, too, expands,
Above the heroes' mound.

V.

Yes, while one worshipper remains
Beside our ivied shrines,

There also, amid broken chains,
The light of freedom shines!
And though the deadly "Crom-a-boo "
And pibrock's clang is past,

The millions are to Erin true,

And love her to the last.

No. 16.

TO MARY O'DONNELL,*

In reply to her Song of Invitation to Tyrconnell.

SAD is thy tale, poor maid of the woody-wild,
Dead are thy warrior-chiefs of Tyrconnell,
Silent the halls where valiant Cuchullin smiled,
Yet sweet is the harp of our Mary O'Donnell !
There to the pale moonbeams,

Down by thy winding streams,

Thoughts of the past o'er thy music are stealing,
Deep as the sighs that start

Fresh from the wounded heart,

All the rich gems of thy pure soul revealing.

II.

Bright are the deeds of thy fathers in story,
High on the list was bold Ullin in fame,
Glittering round with a halo of glory,

Far flashed their vengeance in terror and flame !
But of that glorious day

All has now passed away,

* Mary O'Donnell was the assumed name of one of the songwriters of the Wexford Independent;

Save the high spirit that lives in thy numbers;
Oh! let it wake the slave,

Standing on Freedom's grave,

Once more to rise from his lethargic slumbers.

III.

Old Wexford was first 'gainst the freeman to rally,
And met the invader with hackbut and brand,
Lost freedom's last battle-cry rang through our
valley,

The last of the free were the men of our land.

Some of them fighting fell

Guarding their native dell,

Others now rest in the land of the stranger:
Green shall their memory be,

Held by the bold and free,

Patriot spirits who blenched not at danger.

IV.

While memories like these brightly round us are

shining,

With strains from thy harp to inspire and to cheer; Oh! where is the Helot for liberty pining,

Would halt in his powerful and glorious career; And while one link remains,

Cormac's, MacOssian's strains, 45