SPEED thee boy! the battle cry
Already echoes through the glen:
And freemen's swords are flashing high
In Erin's sacred cause again;
From rocky dale, from sunny vale,
From rugged mountain's craggy brow,
Her warrior sons, in gleaming mail,
Are rushing at the signal now.

Speed thee boy! thy hand is weak,
'Twas never yet in battle tried;
The down of youth is on thy cheek,
But think on how thy father died.
Away-the clans are rushing by;
The Saxon thunders on the plains;
O'Nial's fire is in thine eye:

McCaura's blood is in thy veins.

Nay, check not, boy, those manly tears! The heart that often fiercest provesThat braves the death-field without fearsMay weep to part from those it loves.

And heed not mine, they've fall'n before,
When from my side thy father fled;
Remember 'mid the battle's roar

The sacred cause for which he bled.

Away, boy! be thy bosom strong;
Again is pealed the signal word,
And, now, the foeman pours along-
And, now, the clash of war is heard!
Away!-amid the battle wild,

O'Nial's glittering steel will tell,

When brandished by McCaura's* child

Speed thee, my boy!-farewell!-farewell!

* Mrs. Downing loves the theme of MacCarthy, McCaura being MacCarthy.

A SOLDIER TO-NIGHT IS OUR GUEST.

GERALD GRIFFIN.

At a time like the present, when our heroes of the Crimea have been received with such affectionate welcome, and banquetted in the principal cities of the kingdom, on their return, these lines have an additional value in the temporary interest which thus attaches to them. How our Irish bard would have rejoiced had he been a living witness of that Crimean banquet given in Dublin to the returned conquerors, that banquet upon which I cannot resist congratulating my native city, as being the largest, the most complete, handsomely provided, and most complimentary in all respects to the army, of all the similar testimonials throughout the kingdom. There the highest in the land sat down to the same feast with the private soldier. The Lord Lieutenant of Ireland* proposed the toast to their honour, and that address was so surpassingly fine as to put all others of the kind into the shade.

FAN, fan the gay hearth, and fling back the barr'd door,
Strew, strew the fresh rushes around on the floor,

And blithe be the welcome in every breast

For a soldier-a soldier to-night is our guest.

All honour to him who, when danger afar
Had lighted for ruin his ominous star,
Left pleasure, and country, and kindred behind,
And sped to the shock on the wings of the wind.

If you value the blessings that shine at our hearth-
The wife's smiling welcome, the infant's sweet mirth—
While they charm us at eve, let us think upon those
Who have bought with their blood our domestic repose.

*The Right Honourable the Earl of Carlisle.

Then share with the soldier your hearth and your home,
And warm be your greeting whene'er he shall come;
Let love light a welcome in every breast

For a soldier-a soldier to-night is our guest.

O'BYRNE'S BARD TO THE CLANS OF WICKLOW.

Translated from the Irish, by SAMUEL FERGUSON, M.R.I.A.

GOD be with the Irish host!
Never be their battle lost!
For, in battle, never yet
Have they basely earned defeat.

Host of armour, red and bright,
May ye fight a valiant fight!
For the green spot of the earth,
For the land that gave you birth.

Who in Erin's cause would stand
Brother of avenging band,
He must wed immortal quarrel,
Pain and sweat, and bloody peril.

On the mountain bare and steep,
Snatching short but pleasant sleep,
Then, ere sunrise, from his eyrie,
Swooping on the Saxon quarry."
What although you've failed to keep
Liffey's plain or Tara's steep,

Cashel's pleasant streams to save,
Or the meads of Cruachan Maev.

*The Clans of Wicklow were very troublesome neighbours to the English Pale. Their impending power and hardy mountaineer resistance are noticed by Spencer. He says, "They are so far emboldened that they threaten peril even to Dublin, over whose neck they continually hang." He then alludes to "the great strength and fastness of Glen Malor" (Glenmalure, county Wicklow), and further on he commemorates one Feagh Mac-Hugh as having drawn unto him "many thieves and outlaws, which fled to the succour of that Glynn as to a sanctuary," and laments that Feagh Mac-Hugh, by the assistance of his brave mountaineers, whom Spencer would degrade by the title of thieves and outlaws, "has got unto himself a great name among the Irish, and hath through many unhappy occasions increased his said name and the opinion of his greatness, insomuch, that now he is become a dangerous enemy to deal withal."-Spenser's View of the State of Ireland. One of the "unhappy occasions," as the courtly Spencer calls them, by which Glenmalure was celebrated, was the signal defeat of the gallant and unfortunate Essex.

+ Clan Ranelagh.-One of the southern outlets of Dublin, leading towards Wicklow, still retains the name of the gallant clan.

Have them in thy holy keeping,
God be with them lying sleeping,
God be with them standing fighting, ‡
Erin's foes in battle smiting!

One cannot help remembering that famous prayer of the old Scotchwoman"God be wi' Hamilton's regiment-right or wrang!!!"

THE GRAVE OF MAC CAURA.

Mrs. DowNING.

At Callan, a pass on an unfrequented road leading from Glanerought (the vale of the Roughty) to Bantry, the country people point out a flat stone by the pathway, which they name as the burial-place of Daniel Mac Carthy, who fell there in an engagement with the Fitzgeralds in 1261. The stone still preserves the traces of characters, which are, however, illegible. From the scanty records of the period, it would appear that this battle was no inconsiderable one. The Geraldines were defeated, and their leader, Thomas Fitzgerald, and his son, eighteen barons, fifteen knights, and many others of his adherents, slain. But the honour and advantage of victory were dearly purchased by the exulting natives, owing to the death of their brave and noble chieftain.

AND this is thy grave, Mac Caura,
Here by the pathway lone,

Where the thorn blossoms are bending
Over thy mouldered stone.

Alas! for the sons of glory;

Oh! thou of the darkened brow,

And the eagle plume, and the belted clans,
Is it here thou art sleeping now?

Oh! wild is the spot, Mac Caura,
In which they have laid thee low-
The field where thy people triumphed
Over a slaughtered foe;

And loud was the Banshee's wailing,
And deep was the clansmen's sorrow,

When, with bloody hands and burning tears,

They buried thee here, Mac Caura.

And now thy dwelling is lonely—
King of the rushing horde;

And now thy battles are over

Chief of the shining sword;

And the rolling thunder echoes

O'er torrent and mountain free,
But, alas! and alas! Mac Caura,
It will not awaken thee.