THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS was born in Mallow, County Cork, Ireland, in 1814. He was educated at Trinity College, Dublin, and was called to the Irish bar in 1840. He was conspicuous in the Young Ireland party, and was one of the founders of the famous "Nation," the organ of that party, commenced in 1842. Charles Gavan Duffy was the working editor, and he declared that good songs and ballads were absolutely necessary to the enthusiasm which its columns were intended

FONTENOY.

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 dispersed.

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 came his chosen troops like clouds at eventide.

to inspire. Davis, who had never made a rhyme, undertook to write them, simply because no one else would. The result was a series of spirited lyrics, some of which rank with the best of their kind in the language. He died in Dublin, September 16, 1845. He was the author of a life of Curran and an essay upon Irish Song. A collection of his poems was published in New York in 1860, and later a volume containing both his poems and his essays.

They break as breaks the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean-banks.

More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round;

As stubble to the lava-tide, French squadrons strew the ground;

Bombshell 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.

deplore!

Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow,

Yet mustering all the strength they have, they make a gallant show.

They dress their ranks upon the hill, to face that battle-wind!

Their bayonets the breakers' foam, like rocks the men behind!

One volley crashes from their line, when through the surging smoke,

With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce

huzza!

"Revenge! remember Limerick ! dash down the Sacsanagh!"

Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang,

Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang;

Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their

guns are filled with gore;

Through scattered ranks and severed files and trampled flags they tore.

The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, scattered, fled;

The green hillside is matted close with dying and with dead.

Across the plain and far away passed on that hideous wrack,

While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the

him more.

BRIGHT red is the sun on the waves of Lough Sheelin,

A cool gentle breeze from the mountain is stealing,

While fair round its islets the small ripples play, But fairer than all is the Flower of Finae.

Her hair is like night, and her eyes like gray morning,

She trips on the heather as if its touch scorning,

Eight long years have passed, till she 's nigh broken-hearted,

Her reel, and her rock, and her flax she has parted;

She sails with the "Wild Geese" to Flanders away,

And leaves her sad parents alone in Finae.

Lord Clare on the field of Ramillies is charging, Before him the Sasanach squadrons enlargingBehind him the Cravats their sections displayBeside him rides Fergus and shouts for Finac.

On the slopes of La Judoigne the Frenchmen are flying,

Lord Clare and his squadrons, the foe still defying,

Outnumbered and wounded, retreat in array; And bleeding rides Fergus and thinks of Finae.

In the cloisters of Ypres a banner is swaying, And by it a pale weeping maiden is praying; That flag's the sole trophy of Ramillies' fray, This nun is poor Eily, the Flower of Finae.

THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.

[Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in South Munster. It grew up round a castle of O'Driscoll's, and was, after his ruin, colonized by the English. On the 20th of June, 1631. the crew of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead of the night, sacked the town, and bore off into slavery all who were not too old, or too young, or too fierce, for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman, whom they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years after he was convicted, and executed for the crime. Baltimore never recovered from this.]

479

THE summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles,

The summer's sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles

Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird;

And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean-tide is heard:

The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play;

The

gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to pray

And full of love and peace and rest-its daily labor o'er

Upon that cosey creek there lay the town of Baltimore.

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there;

No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth

or sea or air.

The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of the calm;

The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm.

So still the night, these two long barks round Dunashad that glide

Must

trust their oars-methinks not fewagainst the ebbing tide

Oh, some sweet mission of true love must urge

them to the shore

They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore!

All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street,

And these must be the lover's friends, with gently-gliding feet.

A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! "The roof is in a flame!"

From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid and sire and dame,

And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall,

And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl;

The yell of "Allah!" breaks above the prayer and shriek and roar.

O blessèd God, the Algerine is lord of Balti

more!

Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword;

Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gored;

Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grandbabes clutching wild;

Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child.

But see, yon pirate strangling lies, and crushed with splashing heel,

While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel;

Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store,

There's one hearth well avengèd in the sack of Baltimore!

them!

Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom;

I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire

you;

I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire

you.

Oh! your step 's like the rain to the summervexed farmer,

Or sabre and shield to a knight without ar mor;

I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me,

Then, wandering, I'll wish you in silence to love me.

We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyry;

We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy;

We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river,

Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her,

Oh, she'll whisper you, "Love, as unchangeably beaming,

And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming;

Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver,

As our souls flow in one down eternity's river."

So come in the evening, or come in the morning;

Come when you 're looked for, or come without warning:

Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you!

Light is my heart since the day we were

plighted;

Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;

The green of the trees looks far greener than

MAIRE BHAN ASTÓR.

IN a valley far away

With my Maire bhan astór, Short would be the summer day, Ever loving more and more; Winter days would all grow long, With the light her heart would pour, With her kisses and her song, And her loving mait go leor. Fond is Maire bhan astór, Fair is Maire bhan astór, Sweet as ripple on the shore Sings my Maire bhan astór.

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 be sought their pride to quell,
But 't was all in vain to sue.

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

There are lands where manly toil
Surely reaps the crop it sows,
Glorious woods and teeming soil,

Where the broad Missouri flows;
Through the trees the smoke shall rise,
From our hearth with mait go leor,
There shall shine the happy eyes
Of my Maire bhan astór.

Mild is Maire bhan astór,

Mine is Maire bhan astór,

Saints will watch about the door
Of my Maire bhan astór.

THE BRIDE OF MALLOW.

'Twas dying they thought her, And kindly they brought her To the banks of Blackwater,

Where her forefathers lie; 'T was the place of her childhood, And they hoped that its wild-wood And air soft and mild would

Soothe her spirit to die.

But she met on its border
A lad who adored her-
No rich man, nor lord, or
A coward, or slave;

But one who had worn
A green coat, and borne
A pike from Slieve Mourne,

With the patriots brave.

Oh! the banks of the stream are
Than emeralds greener;
And how should they wean her
From loving the earth?
While the song-birds so sweet,
And the waves at their feet,
And each young pair they meet,
Are all flushing with mirth.

And she listed his talk,
"And he shared in her walk-
And how could she baulk

One so gallant and true?

But why tell the rest?
Her love she confest,
And sunk on his breast,
Like the eventide dew.

Ah! now her cheek glows
With the tint of the rose,
And her healthful blood flows
Just as fresh as the stream;
And her eye flashes bright,
And her footstep is light,

VOL. III.-31

And sickness and blight Fled away like a dream.

And soon by his side
She kneels a sweet bride,
In maidenly pride

And maidenly fears;
And their children were fair,
And their home knew no care,
Save that all homesteads were
Not as happy as theirs.

THE BANKS OF THE LEE.

481

Оn, the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, And love in a cottage for Mary and me! There's not in the land a lovelier tide,

And I'm sure that there's no one so fair as my bride.

She's modest and meek,

There's a down on her cheek,
And her skin is as sleek

As a butterfly's wing;

Then her step would scarce show
On the fresh-fallen snow,

And her whisper is low,

But as clear as the spring.

Oh, the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee,
And love in a cottage for Mary and me!
I know not how love is happy elsewhere,

I know not how any but lovers are there.

Oh, so green is the grass, so clear is the stream
So mild is the mist and so rich is the beam,
That beauty should never to other lands roam,
But make on the banks of our river its home!
When, dripping with dew,

The roses peep through,
'Tis to look in at you

They are growing so fast;

While the scent of the flowers

Must be hoarded for hours,

'Tis poured in such showers
When my Mary goes past.

Oh, the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee,
And love in a cottage for Mary and me!
Oh, Mary for me, Mary for me,

And 't is little I'd sigh for the banks of the
Lee!

EMMELINE TALBOT.

'T WAS a September day;
In Glenismole,
Emmeline Talbot lay
On a green knoll.
She was a lovely thing,
Fleet as a falcon's wing,
Only fifteen that spring-
Soft was her soul.

Danger and dreamless sleep
Much did she scorn,
And from her father's keep
Stole out that morn.
Toward Glenismole she hies;
Sweetly the valley lies,