THE VOW OF TIPPERARY.
From Carrick streets to Shannon shore,
From Slievenamon to Ballindeary,
From Longford-pass to Galtymore--
Come hear The Vow of Tipperary.
"Too long we fought for Britain's cause,
And of our blood were never chary;
She paid us back with tyrant laws,
And thinned The Homes of Tipperary.
"But never more we'll win such thanks--
We swear by God and Virgin Mary,
Never to list in British ranks;"
And that's The Vow of Tipperary.
[1844, p. 16]
MY LAND.
I.
She is a rich and rare land;
Oh! she's a fresh and fair land;
She is a dear and rare land---
This native land of mine.
II
No men than her's are braver---
Her women's hearts ne'er waver;
I'd freely die to save her,
And think my lot divine.
III
She's not a dull or cold land;
No! she's a warm and bold land;
Oh! she's a true and old land---
This native land of mine.
IV
Could beauty ever guard her,
And virtue still reward her,
No foe would cross her border---
No friend within it pine!
V
Oh, she's a fresh and fair land;
Oh, she's a true and rare land!
Yes, she's a rare and fair land---
This native land of mine.
[1844, p. 28]
LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF OWEN ROE O'NEILL.
Time--10th Nov., 1649. Scene--Ormond's Camp, County Waterford.
Speakers--A Veteran of Owen O'Neill's clan, and one of the horsemen,
just arrived with an account of his death.
I
"Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Owen Roe O'Neill?'
'Yes! they slew with poison him, they feared to meet with steel."
"May God wither up their hearts! May their blood cease to flow!
May they walk in living death, who poisoned Owen Ruadh!
II
Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words."
'From Derry, with false Cromwell, he marched to measure swords;
But the weapon of the Saxon met him on his way,
And he died at Clough Oughter, upon Saint Leonard's day.'
III
"Wail, wail for The Mighty One! Wail, wail ye for the Dead;
Quench the hearth, and hold the breath---with ashes strew the head.
How tenderly we loved him! How deeply we deplore!
Oh! it makes me mad to think I shall never see him more.
IV
Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall!
Sure we never won a battle---'twas Owen won them all.
Had he lived---had he lived---our dear country had been free;
But he's dead, but he's dead, and 'tis slaves we'll ever be.
V
O'Farrell and Clanrickarde, Preston and Red Hugh,
Audley and Mac Mahon---ye are valiant, wise, and true;
But---what, what were ye all to our darling who is gone?
The Rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle's corner stone!
VI
Wail, wail him through the Island! Weep, weep for our pride!
Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died!
Weep the Victor of Bunburb---weep him, young man and old;
Weep for him, ye women---your Beautiful lies cold!
VII
We thought you would not die---we were sure you would not go,
And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow---
Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky,
Why did you leave us, Owen? Why, why did you die?
VIII
Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill! bright was your eye,
Oh! why did you leave us, Owen? why did you die?
Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with God on high;
But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Owen!---why did you die?"
[1844, p. 36]
MY GRAVE.
Shall they bury me in the deep,
Where wind-forgetting waters sleep?
Shall they dig a grave for me,
Under the green-wood tree?
Or on the wild heath,
Where the wilder breath
Of the storm doth blow?
Oh, no! oh, no!
Shall they bury me in the Palace Tombs,
Or under the shade of Cathedral domes?
Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore;
Yet not there---nor in Greece, though I love it more.
In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find?
Shall my ashes career on the world-seeing wind?
Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound,
Where coffinless thousands lie under the ground?
Just as they fall they are buried so---
Oh, no! oh, no!
No! on an Irish green hill-side,
On an opening lawn---but not too wide;
For I love the drip of the wetted trees---
I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze,
To freshen the turf---put no tombstone there,
But green sods decked with daisies fair;
Nor sods too deep: but so that the dew,
The matted grass-roots may trickle through.
Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind,
"He served his country, and loved his kind."
Oh! 'twere merry unto the grave to go,
If one were sure to be buried so.
[1844, p. 40]
O'SULLIVAN'S RETURN.
[The following ballad is founded on an ill-rembered story of an Irish chief returning after long absence on the Continent, and being wrecked and drowned close to his own castle.]
I.
O'Sullivan has come
Within sight of his home,
He had left it long years ago;
The tears are in his eyes,
And he prays the wind to rise,
As he looks tow'rds his castle from the prow, from the prow
As he looks towards his castle from the prow.
II.
For the day had been calm,
And slow the good ship swam,
And the evening gun had been fir'd;
He knows the hearts beat wild
Of mother, wife, and child,
And of clans who to see him long desired, long desired,
And of clans who to see him long desired.
III
Of the tender ones the clasp--
Of the gallant ones the grasp--
He thinks, until his tears fall warm:
And full seems his wide hall,
With friends from wall to wall,
Where their welcome shakes the banners, like a storm, like a storm,
Where their welcome shakes the banners like a storm.
IV
Then he sees another scene---
Norman churls on the green---
"O'Sullivan aboo!" is the cry;
For filled is his ship's hold
With arms and Spanish gold,
And he sees the snake-twined spear wave on high, wave on high;
And he sees the snake-twined spear wave on high.
V
"Finghín's race shall be freed
From the Norman's cruel breed---
My sires freed Bearra once before,
When the Barnwells were strewn
On the fields, like hay in June,
And but one of them escaped from our shore, from our shore
And but one of them escaped from our shore."
VI
And, warming in his dream,
He floats on victory's stream,
Till Desmond---till all Erin is free!
Then, how calmly he'd go down,
Full of years and of renown,
To his grave near that castle by the sea, by the sea,
To his grave near that castle by the sea!
VII
But the wind heard his word,
As though he were its lord,
And the ship is dash'd up the Bay.
Alas! for that proud barque,
The night has fallen dark,
'Tis too late to Adragool to bear away, bear away,
'Tis too late to Adragool to bear away.
VIII
Black and rough was the rock,
And terrible the shock,
As the good ship crashed asunder;
And bitter was the cry,
And the sea ran mountains high,
And the wind was as loud as the thunder, the thunder;
And the wind was as loud as the thunder.
IX
There's woe in Bearra,
There's woe in Glengarragh,
And from Bantry unto Dunkerron,
All Desmond hears their grief,
And wails above their chief---
"Is it thus, is it thus, that you return, you return---
Is it thus, is it thus , that you return?"
[1844, p. 64]
THE DEATH OF SARSFIELD.
[Sarsfield was killed at the Battle of Landen, in the Low Countries, on the 29th July, 1693. In that Battle William III was beaten by Marshal Luxembourg, with heavy losses on both sides.]
I
Sarsfield has sailed from Limerick Town--
He held it long for country and crown;
And ere he yielded, the Saxon swore
To spoil our homes and our shrines no more.
II
Sarsfield and all his chivalry
Are fighting for France in the Low Country--
At his fiery charge the Saxons reel;
They learnt at Limerick to dread the steel.
III
Sarsfield is dying on Landen's plain
His corslet hath met the ball in vain--
As his life-blood gushes into his hand,
He says, "Oh! that this was for fatherland!"
IV
Sarsfield is dead, yet no tears shed we---
He died in the arms of victory,
And his dying words shall edge the brand,
When we chase the foe from our native land!
[1844, p. 70]
SONG OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1782.
Air--"Boyne Water."
I.
Hurrah! 'tis done---our freedom's won---
Hurrah for the Volunteers!
No laws we own, but those alone
Of our Commons, King, and Peers.
II.
The chain is broke---the Saxon yoke
From off our neck is taken;
Ireland awoke---Dungannon spoke---
With fear was England shaken.
III.
When Grattan rose, none dar'd oppose
The claim he made for freedom;
They knew our swords, to back his words,
Were ready did he need them.
IV.
Then let us raise, to Grattan's praise,
A proud and joyous anthem;
And wealth, and grace, and length of days,
May God, in mercy grant him!
V.
Bless Harry Flood, who nobly stood
By us, through gloomy years!
Bless Charlemont, the brave and good,
The Chief of the Volunteers.
VI.
The North began; the North held on
The strife for native land;
Till Ireland rose, and cowed her foes---
God bless the Northern land!
VII.
And bless the men of patriot pen---
Swift Molyneux, and Lucas;
Bless sword and gun, which "Free Trade" won---
Bless God! who ne'er forsook us!
VIII.
And long may last, the friendship fast,
Which binds us all together;
While we agree, our foes shall flee
Like clouds in stormy weather.
IX.
Remember still, through good and ill,
How vain were prayers and tears---
How vain were words, till flashed the swords
Of the Irish Volunteers.
X.
By arms we've got the rights we sought
Through long and wretched years---
Hurrah! 'tis done, our Freedom's won---
Hurrah for the Volunteers!
[1843, Part II, p. 3]
THE WEST'S ASLEEP.
Air--"The brink of the White Rocks"
I.
When all beside a vigil keep,
The West's asleep, the West's asleep---
Sing oh! and well may Erin weep,
When Connaught lies in slumber deep.
II.
There lake and plain smile fair and free,
'Mid rocks---their guardian chivalry---
Sing oh! let man learn liberty
From crashing wind and lashing sea.
III.
That chainless wave and lovely land
Freedom and Nationhood demand,
Sing oh! the great God never plann'd,
For slumbering slaves, a home so grand.
IV.
And, long, a brave and haughty race
Honoured and sentinelled the place---
Sing oh! not even their sons' disgrace
Can quite destroy their glory's trace.
V.
For often, in O'Connor's van,
To triumph dash'd each Connaught clan---
Sing oh!, how fleet the Normans ran
Through Corlieu's Pass and Ardrahan!
VI.
And later times saw deeds as brave;
And glory guards Clanricarde's grave---
23 Sing oh! they died their land to save,
24 At Aughrim's slopes and Shannon's wave.
VII.
And if, when all a vigil keep,
The West's asleep, the West's asleep---
Sing oh! poor Erin well may weep,
That men so sprung are still asleep.
VIII.
But---hark!---some voice like thunder spake:
"The West's awake, the West's awake"---
Sing oh! hurra! let England quake,
"We'll watch till death for Erin's sake!"
[1843, Part II, p. 19]
A RALLY FOR IRELAND.
MAY, 1689.
I.
Shout it out, till it ring
From Benmore to Cape Clear;
For our country, and King,
And Religion so dear.
Rally, rally---Irishmen! rally;
Form round the flag, that wet with our tears,
And torn, and bloody, lay hid for long years,
And now once again in its pride re-appears.
See from The Castle our green banner waves!
Bearing fit motto for up-rising slaves!
For "Now or Never, Now and for Ever,"
Bids you to battle for triumph, or graves.
And the grave holds no slave,
Death unfetters the brave.
Then rally, rally, Irishmen! rally,
Shout"Now or Never, Now and for Ever,"
Fight to the last, and ye cannot be slaves!
II.
M'Carthy, and Hamilton--
Are they not here?
Talbot, Berwick, and Sheldon--
Why should we fear?
And French men--all staunch men,
Boisleau, and Pontée, Pusignan, and Rosen;
And soon we shall have the stout Count Lauzun,
And Baldearg O'Donnell--the promis'd and chosen.
From Shannon to Ban, from Liffey to Lee,
The country is rising for Liberty.
Though your arms are rude, if your courage be good,
As the traitors fled, shall the strangers flee
Afrom another Iveagh, and another Claudy.
Arm, peasant and lord;
Grasp musket and sword;
Grasp pike, scythe, or skein; give the war-horse the rein;
March, shoulder to shoulder, for Liberty!
III.
Old Schomberg and Churchill
Are coming here;
Bloody Kirk, and Dutch Will--
Yet never ye fear;
For our Feis has met--they're a princely set:
De Courcy, O'Neill, Plunkett, MacDonnell--
Burke, Byrne, Nagle, St. Lawrence, O 'Donnell--
The choice of the land from Cork to Tyrconnell!
They'll break the last link of the Saxon chain;
They'll give us back our lands again.
Then up ye and fight for your king and right--
Laws are vain, unless swords maintain;
If freedom you'd gain, be victors or slain.
Then rally, rally, Irishmen rally!
Fight "Now or Never,
Now and for Ever:"
Win freedom, and wear it, or die on the plain!
[1843, Part II, p. 42]