And still through the bog, through the brake, and the

mireland,

From one root should branch, like the shamrock of Ireland,

The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock,

The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland! Andrew Cherry [1762-1812]

MY LAND

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.

No men than hers are braver-
Her women's hearts ne'er waver;
I'd freely die to save her,
And think my lot divine.

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.

Could beauty ever guard her,
And virtue still reward her,
No foe would cross her border-
No friend within it pine.

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.

Thomas Osborne Davis [1814-1845]

FAINNE GAEL AN LAE

"Until the day break and the shadows flee away

ERE the long roll of the ages end

And the days of time are done,
The Lord shall unto Erin send

His own appointed One,

Whose soul must wait the hour of Fate,

His name be known to none;

But his feet shall stand on the Irish land
In the rising of the sun.

In darkness of our captive night,

Whilst storms the watch-tower shake,
Some shall not sleep, but vigil keep
Until the morning break;

Until through clouds of threatening hate,
The seas of sorrow o'er,

The first red beam of the sun-burst gleam
Illumines Erin's shore.

Oh! perfect, pure, exalted One,
For whom in prayer we wait,
Of Irish-born thou happiest son
And noblest of the great;

As night to noon goes swift and soon,

May years now roll away

And bring the hour of thy conquering power

And the dawning of the day!

IRELAND, oh Ireland! center of my longings,
Country of my fathers, home of my heart!
Overseas you call me: Why an exile from me?
Wherefore sea-severed, long leagues apart?

As the shining salmon, homeless in the sea-depths, Hears the river call him, scents out the land, Leaps and rejoices in the meeting of the waters, Breasts weir and torrent, nests in the sand;

Lives there and loves; yet with the year's returning,
Rusting in the river, pines for the sea,

Sweeps back again to the ripple of the tideway,
Roamer of the waters, vagabond and free;-

Wanderer am I like the salmon of the rivers;

London is my ocean, murmurous and deep,
Tossing and vast; yet through the roar of London
Comes to me thy summons, calls me in sleep.

Pearly are the skies in the country of my fathers,
Purple are thy mountains, home of my heart.
Mother of my yearning, love of all my longings,
Keep me in remembrance, long leagues apart.
Stephen Lucius Gwynn [1865-

"HILLS O' MY HEART"

HILLS o' my heart!

I have come to you at calling of my one love and only,
I have left behind the cruel scarlet wind of the east,
The hearth of my fathers wanting me is lonely,

And empty is the place I filled at gathering of the feast.

Hills o' my heart!

You have cradled him I love in your green quiet hollows, Your wavering winds have hushed him to soft forgetful sleep,

Below dusk boughs where bird-voice after bird-voice follows In shafts of silver melody that split the hearkening deep.

Hills o' my heart!

Let the herdsman who walks in your high haunted places Give him strength and courage, and weave his dreams alway:

Let your cairn-heaped hero-dead reveal their grand exultant faces,

And the Gentle Folk be good to him betwixt the dark and day.

Hills o' my heart!

And I would the Green Harper might wake his soul to singing With music of the golden wires heard when the world

was new,

That from his lips an echo of its sweetness may come ringing, A song of pure and noble hopes-a song of all things true.

Hills o' my heart!

For sake of the yellow head that drew me wandering over Your misty crests from my own home where sorrow bided then,

I set my seven blessings on your kindly heather cover,
On every starry moorland loch, and every shadowy glen,
Hills o' my heart!

Ethna Carbery [? -1902]

SCOTLAND YET

GAE bring my guid auld harp ance mair,

Gae bring it free and fast,

For I maun sing anither sang,

Ere a' my glee be past;

And trow ye as I sing, my lads,

The burden o't shall be,

Auld Scotland's howes and Scotland's knowes,

And Scotland's hills for me;
We'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,

Wi' a' the honors three.

The heath waves wild upon her hills,
And, foaming frae the fells,
Her fountains sing o' freedom still,

As they dance doun the dells;
And weel I lo'e the land, my lads,

That's girded by the sea;

Then Scotland's vales and Scotland's dales,

And Scotland's hills for me;

We'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,

Wi' a' the honors three.

The thistle wags upon the fields,
Where Wallace bore his blade,
That gave her foemen's dearest bluid
To dye her auld gray plaid;
And looking to the lift, my lads,

He sang this doughty glee,

Auld Scotland's right and Scotland's might,

And Scotland's hills for me;

We'll drink a cup for Scotland yet,

Wi' a' the honors three.

They tell o' lands wi' brighter skies,
Where freedom's voice ne'er rang;
Gie me the hills where Ossian lies,
And Coila's minstrel sang;

For I've nae skill o' lands, my lads,

That kenna to be free;

Then Scotland's right and Scotland's might,

And Scotland's hills for me;

We'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,

Wi' a' the honors three.

Henry Scott Riddell [1798-1870]

THE WATCH ON THE RHINE *

A VOICE resounds like thunder-peal,
'Mid clashing waves and clang of steel:-
"The Rhine, the Rhine, the German Rhine!
Who guards to-day my stream divine?"
Chorus-Dear Fatherland, no danger thine:

Firm stand thy sons to watch the Rhine!

They stand a hundred thousand strong,
Quick to avenge their country's wrong;
With filial love their bosoms swell,
They'll guard the sacred landmark well!

The dead of a heroic race

From heaven look down and meet their gaze;
They swear with dauntless heart, “O Rhine,
Be German as this breast of mine!

"While flows one drop of German blood,
Or sword remains to guard thy flood,
While rifle rests in patriot hand,-
No foe shall tread thy sacred strand!

*For the original of this poem see page 3583.