How long has it slumber'd secure in the sheath !

And years have roll'd on since it flash'd on the heath;
From its hilt the green shamrocks that once bloom'd so gay,
Fair emblems of freedom, have all died away.

The tooth of fell Time has been trying the blade,
And a spot of dark rust marks the pressure it made;
How it drinks up my tears, as it shar'd in my woe-
For the hand that could wield it, alas! is laid low.

Oh! would that these tears might its splendour restore!
But ne'er can it shine as it oft shone before,

When, like heaven's fires, it the conflict began,

And Harry and Victory blaz'd in the van:

Then rout and dismay urg'd the proud Saxon horde,
And death mark'd each whirl of the conquering sword-
But no more shall it hurl such despair on the foe,
Since the hand that could wield it, alas! is laid low.

THE PATRIOT MOTHER.

A Ballad of '98

"COME, tell us the name of the rebelly crew
Who lifted the pike on the Curragh with you :
Come, tell us their treason, and then you'll be free,
Or by heavens you shall swing from the high gallows tree."

"Alanna! alanna!* the shadow of shame

Has never yet fallen upon one of your name,

And, oh! may the food from my bosom you drew,

In your veins turn to poison, if you turn untrue.

"The foul words-oh! let them not blacken your tongue, That would prove to your friends and your country a wrong, Or the curse of a mother, so bitter and dread,

With the wrath of the Lord-may they fall on your head!

"I have no one but you in the whole world wide,

Yet, false to your pledge, you'd ne'er stand at my side;

If a traitor you liv'd, you'd be farther away

From my heart than, if true, you were wrapp'd in the clay.

“Oh! deeper and darker the mourning would be

For your falsehood so base, than your death proud and free ;
Dearer, far dearer than ever to me,

My darling, you'll be on the brave gallows tree.

* Alaneacht signifies beauty:-the exclamation is therefore equivalent to the English

'My beautiful!" and the subsequent text proves she might have added, "my brave!"

"'Tis holy, agra!* with the bravest and best
Go! go! from my heart, and be join'd with the rest;
Alanna ma chree! O, alanna ma chree !+

brow

Sure a 'stag' and a traitor you never will be."
There's no look of a traitor upon the young
That's raised to the tempters so haughtily now;
No traitor e'er held up the firm head so high-
No traitor e'er show'd such a proud flashing eye.

On the high gallows tree! on the brave gallows tree !
Where smil'd leaves and blossoms, his sad doom met he;
But it never bore blossom so pure or so fair,

As the heart of the martyr that hangs from it there.

The heroism described in the foregoing lines was not uncommon. My father witnessed a case somewhat similar: a mother stood by while her young son (little more than a boy) was undergoing the agony of the lash, exhorting him never to disgrace himself by becoming an informer.

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

These lines are from that remarkable volume entitled "The Spirit of the Nation;" and are remarkable among things of mark. Much in that volume abounds in high poetic qualities, but the period in which it appeared is too near our own times not to suggest the question to an editor how far it is wise to make extracts bearing upon a period of great political excitement, in which the feelings of the present generation were engaged. But, in this particular section of the volume, devoted especially to political songs of all parties, the following is entitled to a place for its high literary merit. It is vigorous, tender, and enthusiastic; and the free flow of the versification vouches for the spontaniety of this spirit-stirring song.

* My love.

WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight—
Who blushes at the name ?

When cowards mock the patriot's fate,
Who hangs his head for shame ?
He's all a knave, or half a slave,
Who slights his country thus ;
But a true man, like you, man,
Will fill your glass with us.

We drink the memory of the brave,
The faithful and the few—
Some lie far off beyond the wave—
Some sleep in Ireland, too;
All-all are gone-but still lives on
The fame of those who died-
All true men, like you, men,
Remember them with pride.

Some on the shores of distant lands
Their weary hearts have laid,
And by the stranger's heedless hands
Their lonely graves were made;
But though their clay be far away
Beyond the Atlantic foam-
In true men, like you, men,
Their spirit's still at home.

The dust of some is Irish earth;
Among their own they rest;

And the same land that gave them birth
Has caught them to her breast;
And we will pray that from their clay
Full many a race may start

Of true men, like you, men,
To act as brave a part.

They rose in dark and evil days
To right their native land;
They kindled here a living blaze,
That nothing shall withstand,

Alas! that Might can vanquish Right—

They fell and passed away;

But true men, like you, men,

Are plenty here to-day.

Then here's their memory-may it be

For us a guiding light,

To cheer our strife for liberty,

And teach us to unite.

Through good and ill, be Ireland's still,

Though sad as their's your fate;

And true men be you, men,

Like those of Ninety-Eight.

In this song Lysaght prefigures, in a vein of bitter mirth, the impending ruin of Dublin by the projected measure of the Union.

How justly alarmed is each Dublin cit

That he'll soon be transformed to a clown, sir!

By a magical move of that conjurer, Pitt,

The country is coming to town, sir!

Give Pitt, and Dundas, and Jenky a glass,

Who'd ride on John Bull, and make Paddy an ass.

Thro' Capel Street soon as you'll rurally range,
You'll scarce recognise it the same street,
Choice turnips shall grow in your Royal Exchange,
And fine cabbages down along Dame-street.*
Give Pitt, &c.

Wild oats in the college won't want to be till'd;
And hemp in the Four-Courts may thrive, sir!
Your markets again shall with muttons be fill'’d—
By St. Patrick, they'll graze there alive, sir!
Give Pitt, &c.

In the Parliament House, quite alive, shall there be
All the vermin the island e'er gathers;

Full of rooks, as before, Daly's club-house you'll see,
But the pigeons won't have any feathers.
Give Pitt, &c.

Our Custom House quay, full of weeds, oh, rare sport!
But the Ministers' minions, kind elves, sir!
Will give us free leave all our goods to export, †
When we've got none at home for ourselves, sir!
Give Pitt, &c.

Says an alderman- "Corn will soon grow in your shops;

This Union must work our enslavement.'

"That's true" says the Sheriff, "for plenty of crops
Already I've seen on the pavement."
Give Pitt, &c.

Ye brave loyal yeomen dress'd gaily in red,

This Ministers' plan must elate us;

And well may John Bull, when he's robbed us of bread,
Call poor Ireland "the land of potatoes.

Give Pitt, &c.

* Dame Street and Capel Street, two great thoroughfares. The former was then the "Bond Street" of Dublin.

+ The limitation of exports and imports was a source of great discontent.

Those of the democratic party wore short hair-hence they were called "crops" or "croppies." The croppy of Ireland was equivalent to the English "roundhead" of a century and a half before. In both these cases the people cut short their hair and their allegiance together.

This ballad is said to have been founded on a fact which occurred in a remote country chapel at the time when exertions were made to put down faction-fights among the peasantry.

THE old man he knelt at the altar
His enemy's hand to take,

And at first his weak voice did falter,

And his feeble limbs did shake;

For his only brave boy, his glory,

Had been stretch'd at the old man's feet,

A corpse, all so haggard and gory,

By the hand which he now must greet.

And soon the old man stopp'd speaking,
And rage which had not gone by,
From under his brow came breaking
Up into his enemy's eye-

And now his limbs were not shaking,

But his clench'd hand his bosom cross'd,
And he look'd a fierce wish to be taking
Revenge for the boy he had lost!

But the old man he looked around him,
And thought of the place he was in,
And thought of the promise which bound him,
And thought that revenge was sin-