How solemn sad by Shannon's flood
The blush of morning sun appears !
To men who gave for us their blood,
Ah! what can woman give but tears ?
How still the field of battle lies!

No shout upon the breeze has blown!
We heard our dying country's cries,
We sit deserted and alone.

Ogh hone, ogh hone, ogh hone, ogh hone,
Ah! what can woman give but tears?

Why thus collected on the strand

Whom yet the God of mercy saves ?

Will ye forsake your native land?

Will you desert your brothers' graves ?

*This song of Dr. Drennan's celebrates the occasion alluded to in the note (†) to the "Flower of Finae," (p. 270,) when the garrison of Limerick, in a body, left their native land. The Shannon being named in the song, signally marks the occasion to which the action of the song refers; added to which, the wailing of the women coincides with what is said to have happened on that melancholy occasion, when the moment of embarkation arrived.

Their graves give forth a fearful groan-
Oh! guard your orphans and your wives;
Like us, make Erin's cause your own,
Like us, for her yield up your lives.

Ogh hone, ogh hone, ogh hone, ogh hone,
Like us, for her yield up your lives.

KATHALEEN NY-HOULAHAN.*

A Jacobite relic-translated from the Irish. By JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.

LONG they pine in weary woe, the nobles of our land,
Long they wander to and fro, proscribed, alas! and banned;
Feastless, houseless, altarless, they bear the exile's brand;

But their hope is in the coming-to of Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan!

Think her not a ghastly hag, too hideous to be seen,
Call her not unseemly names, our matchless Kathaleen;
Young she is, and fair she is, and would be crowned a queen,

Were the king's son at home here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan!
Sweet and mild would look her face, O none so sweet and mild,
Could she crush the foes by whom her beauty is reviled;
Woollen plaids would grace herself and robes of silk her child,

If the king's son were living here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan!

Sore disgrace it is to see the arbitress of thrones,
Vassal to a Saxoneen of cold and sapless bones!
Bitter anguish wrings our souls-with heavy sighs and groans
We wait the Young Deliverer of Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan!

Let us pray to Him who holds life's issues in His hands—
Him who formed the mighty globe, with all its thousand lands;
Girdling them with seas and mountains, rivers deep, and strands,
To cast a look of pity upon Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan !

He who over sands and waves led Israel along

He who fed, with heavenly bread, that chosen tribe and throng— He who stood by Moses when his foes were fierce and strong

May He show forth His might in saving Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan!

* One of the many names by which Ireland was typified.

THE BLACKBIRD.

This queer old bit is undoubtedly Irish, although it has appeared in a Scottish collection. Its Hibernian origin could not be questioned, for a moment, by any one familiar with the phraseology and peculiar structure of Anglo-Irish songs; besides which, there are no Scotticisms in the verses; and the air, moreover, to which it is sung, is Irish, and given in Bunting's last collection (Ancient Music of Ireland: Dub. 1840), under the title of "The Blackbird" (an londubh), and a noble air it is.

In Ireland "The Blackbird" was well understood to mean Prince Charles Edward, and the flight or song of a bird was a poetic pretence for lamenting the exiled Stuart, common to Ireland and Scotland. In the "Jacobite Relics" of the latter, there is that most pathetic song, "Wae's me for Prince Charlie," with the peculiarities of Scottish dialect throughout:

"A wee bird cam' to our ha' door,

He warbled sweet and clearly,

An' aye the o'ercome o' his sang

Was "Wae's me for Prince Charlie."

I have noticed, elsewhere, that Ireland has nothing to be proud of in Jacobite songs, while the "Jacobite Relics" of Scotland are among the very treasures of her minstrelsy.

ONCE on a morning of sweet recreation,

I heard a fair lady a-making her moan,
With sighing and sobbing, and sad lamentation,
Aye singing, "My Blackbird for ever is flown!
He's all my heart's treasure, my joy, and my pleasure,
So justly, my love, my heart follows thee;
And I am resolved, in foul or fair weather,
To seek out my Blackbird, wherever he be.

"I will go, a stranger to peril and danger,
My heart is so loyal in every degree;

For he's constant and kind, and courageous in mind:
Good luck to my Blackbird, wherever he be!
In Scotland he's loved and dearly approved,

In England a stranger he seemeth to be;
But his name I'll advance in Ireland or France.
Good luck to my Blackbird, wherever he be.

"The birds of the forest are all met together
The turtle is chosen to dwell with the dove,
And I am resolved in foul or fair weather,

Once in the spring-time to seek out my love.
But since fickle Fortune, which still proves uncertain,
Hath caused this parting between him and me,
His right I'll proclaim, and who dares me blame?
Good luck to my Blackbird, wherever he be."

This soldier is supposed to be one of the many whom the penal laws forced to fight under

foreign banners, and we may imagine the battle-field to have been in Flanders.

'TWAS a glorious day, worth a warrior's telling,
Two kings had fought, and the fight was done,
When, 'midst the shout of victory swelling,
A soldier fell on the field he won.
He thought of kings and of royal quarrels,
And thought of glory, without a smile:

For what had he to do with laurels ?

He was only one of the rank and file.

But he pull'd out his little cruiskeen*

And drank to his pretty colleen.†

"Oh darling!" says he, "when I die You won't be a widow-for why? Ah! you never would have me, vourneen."+

A raven tress from his bosom taking,

That now was stain'd with his life-stream shed,
A fervent pray'r o'er that ringlet making,
He blessings sought on the lov'd one's head.

And visions fair of his native mountains
Arose-enchanting his fading sight,
Their emerald valleys and crystal fountains
Were never shining more fair and bright ;
And grasping his little cruiskeen,

He pledg'd the dear island of green;

"Though far from thy valleys I die,
Dearest isle, to my heart thou art nigh,

As though absent I never had been."

A tear now fell-for, as life was sinking,
The pride that guarded his manly eye

Was weaker grown-and his last fond thinking
Brought heaven, and home, and his true love nigh.
But, with the fire of his gallant nation,

He scorn'd to surrender without a blow!

He made with death capitulation,

And with warlike honours he still would go!
For, draining his little cruiskeen,

He drank to his cruel colleen,

To the emerald land of his birth

And lifeless he sank to the earth

Brave a soldier as ever was seen.

THE FLOWER OF FINAE,

THOMAS DAvis.

This charming ballad, in its descriptiveness, its tenderness, and dramatic power, is well worthy of the author's high reputation.

BRIGHT red is the sun on the waves of Lough Sheelin,
A cool gentle breeze from the mountain is stealing,
While fair round its islets the small ripples play,
But fairer than all is the Flower of Finae.

Her hair is like night, and her eyes like grey morning,
She trips on the heather as if its touch scorning,
Yet her heart and her lips are as mild as May day,
Sweet Eily Mac Mahon, the Flower of Finae.

But who down the hill side than red deer runs fleeter?
And who on the lake side is hastening to greet her?
Who, but Fergus O'Farrell, the fiery and gay,
The darling and pride of the Flower of Finae.