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They only found the smoking walls with neighbours' blood

besprent, And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly

went, Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Clear, and saw five

leagues before, The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore.

Oh! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the

steed, This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's

jerreed. Oh! some are for the arsenals by beauteous Dardanelles, And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells. The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey; She's safe! she's dead! she stabbed him in the midst of his

serai! And, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore, She only smiled O’Driscoll's child ! - she thought of


'Tis two long years since sank the town beneath that bloody

band, And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand, Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling wretch is seen, 'Tis Hackett of Dungarvon, he who steered the Algerine. He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer, For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there. Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who had brought the Norman

o'er; Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore.

The more we study this ballad, the more extraordinary does it appear, that it should have been the work of an unpractised hand. Not only is it full of spirit and of melody, qualities not incompatible with inexperience in poetical composition, but the artistic merit is so great. Picture succeeds to picture, each perfect in itself, and each conducing to the effect of the whole. There is not a careless line, or a word out of place; and how the epithets paint : “fibrous sod," "heavy balm," “shearing sword !” The Oriental portion is as complete in what the French call local colour as the Irish.

He was learned, was Thomas Davis, and wrote of nothing that he could not have taught. It is something that he should have left a poem like this, altogether untinged by party politics, for the pride and admiration of all who share a common language, whether Celt or Saxon.



In a valley far away,

With my Maire bhan astoir,
Short would be the summer day,

Ever loving more and more.

* Pronounced Maur-ya Vaun Asthore.

Winter days would all grow long

With the light her heart would pour,
With her kisses and her song
And her loving maith go

Fond is Maire bhan astoir,
Fair is Maire bhan astoir,
Sweet as ripple on the shore
Sings my Maire bhan astoir.

Oh! her sire is very proud,

And her mother cold as stone; But her brother bravely vowed

She should be my bride alone; For he knew I loved her well,

And he knew she loved me too,
So he sought their pride to quell,
But 'twas all in vain to sue.

True is Maire bhan astoir,
Tried is Maire bhan astoir,
Had I wings I'd never soar
From my Maire bhan astoir.

it sows,

There are lands where


toil Surely reaps


crop Glorious woods and teeming soil

Where the broad Missouri flows; Through the trees the smoke shall rise

From our hearth with maith There shall shine the happy eyes

Of my Maire bhan astoir.

go leor,

* Much plenty, or in abundance.

Mild is Maire bhan astoir,
Mine is Maire bhan astoir,
Saints will watch about the door
Of my Maire bhan astoir.

I subjoin one of the lyrics, a ballad of the “ Brigade,” which produced so much effect, when printed on the broad sheet of the “Nation.”

It is a graphic and dramatic battle-song, full of life and action; too well calculated to excite that most excitable people, for whose gratification it was written.



Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed; And twice, the lines of Saint Antoine, the Dutch in vain

assailed; For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery, And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary. As vainly through De Barri's wood the British soldiers burst, The French artillery drove them back, diminished and dis

persed. The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye, And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride! And mustering comes his chosen troops like clouds at eventide.

Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread,
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their


Steady they step adown the slope, steady they mount the

hill, Steady they load, steady they fire, moving right onward

still, Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace blast, Through rampart, trench and palisade, and bullets showering


And on the open plain above they rose and kept their course, With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile

force : Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks, They break as breaks the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean


More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round; As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the

ground; Bomb shell and grape and round-shot tore, still on they marched

and fired; Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired. "Push on, my household cavalry !" King Louis madly cried : To death they rush, but rude their shock, not unavenged they

died. On, through the camp the column trod, King Louis turned his

rein: “Not yet, my liege,” Saxe interposed, “the Irish troops

remain.” And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo Had not these exiles ready been, fresh, vehement and true.

“Lord Clare,” he says, “you have your wish, there are your

Saxon foes !”
The Marshal almost smiles to see how furiously he goes !

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