THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD

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 gla.s.s 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 sh.o.r.es 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 pa.s.sed 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 theirs your fate; And true men, be you, men, Like those of Ninety-Eight.

_John Kells Ingram_

THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE; OR, THE EMIGRANT'S ADIEU TO BALLYSHANNY

Adieu to Ballyshanny! where I was bred and born; Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as night and morn; The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known, And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own; There's not a house or window, there's not a field or hill, But East or West, in foreign lands, I'll recollect them still.

I leave my warm heart with you, tho' my back I'm forced to turn-- So adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!

No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter down the Mall, When the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon to the fall.

The boat comes straining on her net, and heavily she creeps, Cast off, cast off--she feels the oars, and to her berth she sweeps; Now fore and aft keep hauling, and gathering up the clew, Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the crew.

Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit, and many a joke and 'yarn':-- Adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!

The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the tide, When all the green-hill'd harbour is full from side to side, From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round the Abbey Bay, From rocky Inis Saimer to Coolnargit sandhills gray; While far upon the southern line, to guard it like a wall, The Leitrim mountains clothed in blue gaze calmly over all, And watch the ship sail up or down, the red flag at her stern;-- Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding banks of Erne!

Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them that pull an oar, A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point to Mullaghmore; From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League, that ocean-mountain steep, Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred in the deep; From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round by Tullen strand, Level and long, and white with waves, where gull and curlew stand; Head out to sea when on your lee the breakers you discern!-- Adieu to all the billowy coast, and winding banks of Erne!

Farewell, Coolmore,--Bundoran! and your summer crowds that run From inland homes to see with joy th' Atlantic setting sun; To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among the waves; To gather sh.e.l.ls on sandy beach, and tempt the gloomy caves; To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the crabs, the fish; Young men and maids to meet and smile, and form a tender wish; The sick and old in search of health, for all things have their turn-- And I must quit my native sh.o.r.e, and the winding banks of Erne!

Farewell to every white cascade from the Harbour to Belleek, And every pool where fins may rest, and ivy-shaded creek; The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash and holly grow, The one split yew-tree gazing on the curving flood below; The Lough that winds through islands under Turaw mountain green; And Castle Caldwell's stretching woods, with tranquil bays between; And Breesie Hill, and many a pond among the heath and fern;-- For I must say adieu--adieu to the winding banks of Erne!

The thrush will call through Camlin groves the live-long summer day; The waters run by mossy cliff, and banks with wild flowers gay; The girls will bring their work and sing beneath a twisted thorn, Or stray with sweethearts down the path among the growing corn; Along the river-side they go, where I have often been,-- O never shall I see again the days that I have seen!

A thousand chances are to one I never may return,-- Adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!

Adieu to evening dances, when merry neighbours meet, And the fiddle says to boys and girls, 'Get up and shake your feet!'

To _shanachus_ and wise old talk of Erin's days gone by-- Who trench'd the rath on such a hill, and where the bones may lie Of saint, or king, or warrior chief; with tales of fairy power, And tender ditties sweetly sung to pa.s.s the twilight hour.

The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn-- Adieu, my dear companions on the winding banks of Erne!

Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Purt, Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather,--I wish no one any hurt; The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane, the Mall, and Portnasun, If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one.

I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me; For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the sea.

My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and often fondly turn To think of Ballyshanny and the winding banks of Erne!

If ever I'm a money'd man, I mean, please G.o.d, to cast My golden anchor in the place where youthful years were past; Though heads that now are black and brown must meanwhile gather gray, New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop away-- Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside; It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waters wide.

And if the Lord allows me, I surely will return To my native Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne.

_William Allingham_

THE FAIRIES

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!

Down along the rocky sh.o.r.e Some make their home, They live on crispy pancakes, Of yellow tide-foam; Some in the reeds Of the bleak mountain lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake.

High on the hill-top The old King sits; He is now so old and gray He's nigh lost his wits.

With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys From Sleeveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights, To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again Her friends were all gone.

They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow, They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow.

They have kept her ever since Deep within the lake, On a bed of flag-leaves, Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hillside Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there.

If any man so daring As dig them up in spite, He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!

_William Allingham_

THE ABBOT OF INISFALEN

_A Killarney Legend_

The Abbot of Inisfalen awoke ere dawn of day; Under the dewy green leaves went he forth to pray.

The lake around his island lay smooth and dark and deep, And wrapped in a misty stillness the mountains were all asleep.

Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac when the dawn was dim and gray, The prayers of his holy office he faithfully 'gan say.

Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac while the dawn was waxing red; And for his sins' forgiveness a solemn prayer he said: Low kneel'd that holy Abbot while the dawn was waking clear, And he prayed with loving-kindness for his convent-brethren dear.

Low kneel'd the blessed Abbot while the dawn was waxing bright; He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland, he pray'd with all his might.

Low kneel'd that good old Father while the sun began to dart; He pray'd a prayer for all men, he pray'd it from his heart.

His blissful soul was in Heaven, tho' a breathing man was he; He was out of time's dominion, so far as the living may be.