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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.
MAIRE BHAN ASTOIR*-"FAIR MARY MY TREASURE.”
IRISH EMIGRANT SONG.
In a valley far away,
With my Maire bhan astoir,
Ever loving more and more.
* Pronounced Maur-ya Vaun Asthore.
Winter days would all grow long
With the light her heart would pour,
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,
True is Maire bhan astoir,
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.
* Much plenty, or in abundance.
Mild is 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,
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 !”