OI may never, never clasp

Again, her lily hand,

And I may find a soldier's grave

Upon a foreign strand;

But when the heart pulse beats the last,
And death takes hold of me,

One word shall part my dying lips,
Thy name, Astor Machree.

i A-stóir mo-chroídhe, O treasure of my heart.

2 Pronounced, Maurya.

'Twas on an April eve

That I first met her;
Many an eve shall pass
Ere I forget her.

Since my young heart has been
Wrapped in a whirl,

Thinking and dreaming of

Maire

my girl.

She is too kind and fond

Ever to grieve me,
She has too pure a heart
E'er to deceive me.
Were I Tyrconnell's chief

Or Desmond's earl,

Life would be dark, wanting
Maire my girl.

Over the dim blue hills

Strays a wild river,
Over the dim blue hills

Rests my heart ever;
Dearer and brighter than
Jewels or pearl,

Dwells she in beauty there,

Maire my girl.

THE RISING OF THE MOON

(A. D. 1798)

H, then, tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall,
Tell me why you hurry so?"
"Hush! ma bouchal, hush, and listen ; '
And his cheeks were all a-glow:

"I bear ordhers from the Captain —

Get you ready quick and soon ;
For the pikes must be together
At the risin' of the moon."

66

'Oh, then, tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, Where the gath'rin' is to be?" "In the ould spot by the river,

Right well known to you and me; One word more—for signal token Whistle up the marchin' tune, With your pike upon your shoulder, By the risin' of the moon."

Out from many a mud-wall cabin
Eyes were watching thro' that night;
Many a manly chest was throbbing
For the blessed warning light.
Murmurs passed along the valleys,
Like the banshee's lonely croon,
And a thousand blades were flashing
At the risin' of the moon.

There, beside the singing river,

That dark mass of men were seen Far above the shining weapons

Hung their own beloved "Green"; "Death to ev'ry foe and traitor!

Forward! strike the marchin' tune, And hurrah, my boys, for freedom! 'Tis the risin' of the moon."

Well they fought for poor Old Ireland, And full bitter was their fate;

(Oh what glorious pride and sorrow Fill the name of 'Ninety-Eight!) Yet, thank God, e'en still are beating Hearts in manhood's burning noon, Who would follow in their footsteps At the risin' of the moon!

L

ANDREW CHERRY

(1762-1812)

THE BAY OF BISCAY

OUD roared the dreadful thunder,
The rain a deluge 'showers,

The clouds were rent asunder
By lightning's vivid powers:
The night both drear and dark,
Our poor devoted bark,
Till next day there she lay
In the Bay of Biscay, O!

Now dashed upon the billow,
Our opening timbers creak;
Each fears a wat❜ry pillow,

None stops the dreadful leak;
To cling to slipp'ry shrouds
Each breathless seaman crowds,
As she lay till next day

In the Bay of Biscay, O!

At length the wished-for morrow
Broke thro' the hazy sky;
Absorbed in silent sorrow,
Each heaved a bitter sigh;
The dismal wreck to view
Struck horror to the crew,
As she lay on that day

In the Bay of Biscay, O!