Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing;_The World's Best Poetry, Volume 08: National Spirit

Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;

Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing;

Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.

Trumpets are sounding;

War-steeds are bounding;

Stand to your arms, and march in good order,

England shall many a day

Tell of the bloody fray,

When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

* * * * *

THE EXILE'S SONG.

Oh! why left I my hame?

Why did I cross the deep?

Oh! why left I the land

Where my forefathers sleep?

I sigh for Scotia's shore,

And I gaze across the sea,

But I canna get a blink

O' my ain countrie.

The palm-tree waveth high,

And fair the myrtle springs;

And, to the Indian maid,

The bulbul sweetly sings.

But I dinna see the broom

Wi' its tassels on the lee,

Nor hear the lintie's sang

O' my ain countrie.

Oh! here no Sabbath bell

Awakes the Sabbath morn,

Nor song of reapers heard

Among the yellow corn:

For the tyrant's voice is here,

And the wail of slaverie;

But the sun of freedom shines

In my ain countrie.

There's a hope for every woe,

And a balm for every pain,

But the first joys o' our heart

Come never back again.

There's a track upon the deep,

And a path across the sea:

But the weary ne'er return

To their ain countrie.

ROBERT GILFILLAN.

* * * * *

THE IRISHMAN.

The savage loves his native shore,

Though rude the soil and chill the air;

Then well may Erin's sons adore

Their isle which nature formed so fair,

What flood reflects a shore so sweet

As Shannon great or pastoral Bann?

Or who a friend or foe can meet

So generous as an Irishman?

His hand is rash, his heart is warm,

But honesty is still his guide;

None more repents a deed of harm,

And none forgives with nobler pride;

He may be duped, but won't be dared--

More fit to practise than to plan;

He dearly earns his poor reward,

And spends it like an Irishman.

If strange or poor, for you he'll pay,

And guide to where you safe may be;

If you're his guest, while e'er you stay,

His cottage holds a jubilee.

His inmost soul he will unlock,

And if he may _your_ secrets scan,

Your confidence he scorns to mock,

For faithful is an Irishman.

By honor bound in woe or weal,

Whate'er she bids he dares to do;

Try him with bribes--they won't prevail;

Prove him in fire--you'll find him true.

He seeks not safety, let his post

Be where it ought in danger's van;

And if the field of fame be lost,

It won't be by an Irishman.

Erin! loved land! from age to age,

Be thou more great, more famed, and free,

May peace be thine, or shouldst thou wage

Defensive war, cheap victory.

May plenty bloom in every field

Which gentle breezes softly fan,

And cheerful smiles serenely gild

The home of every Irishman.

JAMES ORR.

* * * * *

TURLOUGH MACSWEENEY.

_A health to you, Piper,

And your pipes silver-tongued, clear and sweet in their crooning_!

Full of the music they gathered at morn

On your high heather hills from the lark on the wing,

From the blackbird at eve on the blossoming thorn,

From the little green linnet whose plaining they sing,

And the joy and the hope in the heart of the Spring,

O, Turlough MacSweeney!

Play us our Eire's most sorrowful songs,

As she sits by her reeds near the wash of the wave,

That the coldest may thrill at the count of her wrongs,

That the sword may flash forth from the scabbard to save,

And the wide land awake at the wrath of the brave,

O, Turlough MacSweeney!

Play as the bards played in days long ago,

When O'Donnell, arrayed for the foray or feast,

With your kinsmen from Bannat and Fannat and Doe,

With piping and harping, and blessing of priest,

Rode out in the blaze of the sun from the East,

O, Turlough MacSweeney!

Play as they played in that rapturous hour

When the clans heard in gladness his young fiery call

Who burst from the gloom of the Sassenach tower,

And sped to the welcome in dear Donegal,

Then on to his hailing as chieftain of all--

O, Turlough MacSweeney!

Play as they played, when, a trumpet of war,

His voice for the rally, pealed up to the blue,

And the kerns from the hills and the glens and the scaur

Marched after the banner of conquering Hugh--

Led into the fray by a piper like you,

O, Turlough MacSweeney!

And surely no note of such music shall fail,

Wherever the speech of our Eire is heard,

To foster the hope of the passionate Gael,

To fan the old hatred, relentless when stirred,

To strengthen our souls for the strife to be dared,

O, Turlough MacSweeney!

_May your pipes, silver-tongued, clear and sweet in their crooning,

Keep the magic they captured at dawning and even

From the blackbird at home, and the lark on its journey,

From the thrush on its spray, and the little green linnet.

A health to you, Piper!_

ANNA MACMANUS (_Ethna Carbery_).

* * * * *

A SPINNING SONG.

My love to fight the Saxon goes,

And bravely shines his sword of steel;

A heron's feather decks his brows,

And a spur on either heel;

His steed is blacker than the sloe,

And fleeter than the falling star;

Amid the surging ranks he'll go

And shout for joy of war.

Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle; let the white wool drift and dwindle.

Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love's coat of steel.

Hark! the timid, turning treadle crooning soft, old-fashioned ditties

To the low, slow murmur of the brown round wheel.

My love is pledged to Ireland's fight;

My love would die for Ireland's weal,

To win her back her ancient right,

And make her foemen reel.

Oh! close I'll clasp him to my breast

When homeward from the war he comes;

The fires shall light the mountain's crest,

The valley peal with drums.

Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle; let the white wool drift and dwindle.

Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love's coat of steel.

Hark! the timid, turning treadle crooning soft old-fashioned ditties

To the low, slow murmur of the brown round wheel.

JOHN FRANCIS O'DONNELL.

* * * * *

THE WEARING OF THE GREEN.[A]

[Footnote A: Variation of an old street song of about 1798. Sung in Dion

Boucicault's play "The Shan Van Voght."]

O Paddy dear, an' did you hear the news that's goin' round?

The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground;

St. Patrick's Day no more we'll keep; his colors can't be seen:

For there's a cruel law agin' the wearin' of the green.

I met with Napper Tandy, and he tuk me by the hand,

And he said, "How's poor ould Ireland, and how does she stand?"

She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen:

They are hangin' men and women there for wearin' of the green.

An' if the color we must wear is England's cruel red,

Sure Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they have shed.

Then pull the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod,

And never fear, 'twill take root there, though under foot 'tis trod.

When law can stop the blades of grass from growin' as they grow,

And when the leaves in summer-time their color dare not show,

Then I will change the color, too, I wear in my caubeen;

But till that day, please God, I'll stick to wearin' of the green.

But if at last our color should be torn from Ireland's heart,

Her sons with shame and sorrow from the dear old isle will part:

I've heard a whisper of a land that lies beyond the sea,

Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom's day.

O Erin, must we leave you, driven by a tyrant's hand?

Must we ask a mother's blessin' from a strange and distant land?

Where the cruel cross of England shall nevermore be seen,

And where, please God, we'll live and die still wearin' of the green.

* * * * *

MY NATIVE LAND.

It chanced to me upon a time to sail

Across the Southern ocean to and fro;

And, landing at fair isles, by stream and vale

Of sensuous blessing did we ofttimes go.

And months of dreamy joys, like joys in sleep,

Or like a clear, calm stream o'er mossy stone,

Unnoted passed our hearts with voiceless sweep,

And left us yearning still for lands unknown.

And when we found one,--for 'tis soon to find

In thousand-isled Cathay another isle,--

For one short noon its treasures filled the mind,

And then again we yearned, and ceased to smile.

And so it was from isle to isle we passed,

Like wanton bees or boys on flowers or lips;

And when that all was tasted, then at last

We thirsted still for draughts instead of sips.

I learned from this there is no Southern land

Can fill with love the hearts of Northern men.

Sick minds need change; but, when in health they stand

'Neath foreign skies, their love flies home agen.

And thus with me it was: the yearning turned

From laden airs of cinnamon away,

And stretched far westward, while the full heart burned

With love for Ireland, looking on Cathay!

My first dear love, all dearer for thy grief!

My land, that has no peer in all the sea

For verdure, vale, or river, flower or leaf,--

If first to no man else, thou'rt first to me.

New loves may come with duties, but the first

Is deepest yet,--the mother's breath and smiles;

Like that kind face and breast where I was nursed

Is my poor land, the Niobe of isles.

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

* * * * *

BLESS THE DEAR OLD VERDANT LAND.

Bless the dear old verdant land!

Brother, wert thou born of it?

As thy shadow life doth stand

Twining round its rosy band.

Did an Irish mother's hand

Guide thee in the morn of it?

Did a father's first command

Teach thee love or scorn of it?

Thou who tread'st its fertile breast,

Dost thou feel a glow for it?

Thou of all its charms possest.

Living on its first and best,

Art thou but a thankless guest

Or a traitor foe for it,

If thou lovest, where's the test?

Wilt thou strike a blow for it?

Has the past no goading sting

That can make thee rouse for it?

Does thy land's reviving spring,

Full of buds and blossoming,

Fail to make thy cold heart cling,

Breathing lover's vows for it?

With the circling ocean's ring

Thou wert made a spouse for it.

Hast thou kept as thou shouldst keep

Thy affections warm for it,

Letting no cold feeling creep

Like an ice-breath o'er the deep,

Freezing to a stony sleep

Hopes the heart would form for it,

Glories that like rainbows peep

Through the darkening storm for it?

Son of this down-trodden land,

Aid us in the fight for it.

We seek to make it great and grand,

Its shipless bays, its naked strand,

By canvas-swelling breezes fanned:

Oh, what a glorious sight for it,

The past expiring like a brand

In morning's rosy light for it!

Think, this dear old land is thine,

And thou a traitor slave of it:

Think how the Switzer leads his kine,

When pale the evening star doth shine;

His song has home in every line,

Freedom in every stave of it;

Think how the German loves his Rhine

And worships every wave of it!

Our own dear land is bright as theirs,

But oh! our hearts are cold for it;

Awake! we are not slaves, but heirs.

Our fatherland requires our cares,

Our speech with men, with God our prayers;

Spurn blood-stained Judas gold for it:

Let us do all that honor dares--

Be earnest, faithful, bold for it!

DENIS FLORENCE MAC CARTHY.

* * * * *

IRELAND.

[1847.]

They are dying! they are dying! where the golden corn is growing;

They are dying! they are dying! where the crowded herds are lowing:

They are gasping for existence where the streams of life are flowing,

And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing!

God of justice! God of power!

Do we dream? Can it be,

In this land, at this hour,

With the blossom on the tree,

In the gladsome month of May,

When the young lambs play,

When Nature looks around

On her waking children now,

The seed within the ground,

The bud upon the bough?

Is it right, is it fair,

That we perish of despair

In this land, on this soil,

Where our destiny is set,

Which we cultured with our toil,

And watered with our sweat?

We have ploughed, we have sown

But the crop was not our own;

We have reaped, but harpy hands

Swept the harvest from our lands;

We were perishing for food,

When lo! in pitying mood,

Our kindly rulers gave

The fat fluid of the slave,

While our corn filled the manger

Of the war-horse of the stranger!

God of mercy! must this last?

Is this land preordained,

For the present and the past

And the future, to be chained,--

To be ravaged, to be drained,

To be robbed, to be spoiled,

To be hushed, to be whipt,

Its soaring pinions clipt,

And its every effort foiled?

Do our numbers multiply

But to perish and to die?

Is this all our destiny below,--

That our bodies, as they rot,

May fertilize the spot

Where the harvests of the stranger grow?

If this be, indeed, our fate,

Far, far better now, though late,

That we seek some other land and try some other zone;

The coldest, bleakest shore

Will surely yield us more

Than the storehouse of the stranger that we dare not call our own.

Kindly brothers of the West,

Who from Liberty's full breast

Have fed us, who are orphans beneath a step-dame's frown,

Behold our happy state,

And weep your wretched fate

That you share not in the splendors of our empire and our crown!

Kindly brothers of the East,--

Thou great tiaraed priest,

Thou sanctified Rienzi of Rome and of the earth,--

Or thou who bear'st control

Over golden Istambol,

Who felt for our misfortunes and helped us in our dearth,--

Turn here your wondering eyes,

Call your wisest of the wise,

Your muftis and your ministers, your men of deepest lore;

Let the sagest of your sages

Ope our island's mystic pages,

And explain unto your highness the wonders of our shore.

A fruitful, teeming soil,

Where the patient peasants toil

Beneath the summer's sun and the watery winter sky;

Where they tend the golden grain

Till it bends upon the plain,

Then reap it for the stranger, and turn aside to die;

Where they watch their flocks increase,

And store the snowy fleece

Till they send it to their masters to be woven o'er the waves;

Where, having sent their meat

For the foreigner to eat,

Their mission is fulfilled, and they creep into their graves.

'Tis for this they are dying where the golden corn is growing,

'Tis for this they are dying where the crowded herds are lowing,

'Tis for this they are dying where the streams of life are flowing,

And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing!

DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY.

* * * * *

IRELAND.

A SEASIDE PORTRAIT.

A great, still Shape, alone,

She sits (her harp has fallen) on the sand,

And sees her children, one by one, depart:--

Her cloak (that hides what sins beside her own!)

Wrapped fold on fold about her. Lo,

She comforts her fierce heart,

As wailing some, and some gay-singing go,

With the far vision of that Greater Land

Deep in the Atlantic skies,

Saint Brandan's Paradise!

Another Woman there,

Mighty and wondrous fair,

Stands on her shore-rock:--one uplifted hand

Holds a quick-piercing light

That keeps long sea-ways bright;

She beckons with the other, saying "Come,

O landless, shelterless,

Sharp-faced with hunger, worn with long distress:--

Come hither, finding home!

Lo, my new fields of harvest, open, free,

By winds of blessing blown,

Whose golden corn-blades shake from sea to sea--

Fields without walls that all the people own!"

JOHN JAMES PIATT

* * * * *

EXILE OF ERIN.

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;

For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.

But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,

For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,

Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,

He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.

Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger;

The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,

But I have no refuge from famine and danger,

A home and a country remain not to me.

Never again in the green sunny bowers

Where my forefathers lived shall I spend the sweet hours,

Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,

And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!

Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,

In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;

But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!

O cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me

In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me?

Never again shall my brothers embrace me?

They died to defend me, or live to deplore!

Where is my cabin door, fast by the wildwood?

Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall?

Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all?

O my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure,

Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?

Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,

But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing,

One dying wish my lone bosom can draw,--

Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!

Land of my forefathers, Erin go bragh!

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,

Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean!

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,--

Erin mavourneen, Erin go bragh![A]

[Footnote A: Ireland my darling, Ireland forever!]

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

AFTER DEATH.

Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country?

Shall mine eyes behold thy glory?

Or shall the darkness close around them, ere the

sun-blaze breaks at last upon thy story?

When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle,

as a sweet new sister hail thee,

Shall these lips be sealed in callous death and

silence, that have known but to bewail thee?

Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy praises,

when all men their tribute bring thee?

Shall the mouth be clay that sang thee in thy

squalor, when all poets' mouths shall sing thee?

Ah, the harpings and the salvos and the shoutings

of thy exiled sons returning!

I should hear, though dead and mouldered, and

the grave-damps should not chill my bosom's burning.

Ah, the tramp of feet victorious! I should hear

them 'mid the shamrocks and the mosses,

And my heart should toss within the shroud and

quiver as a captive dreamer tosses.

I should turn and rend the cere-clothes round me,

giant sinews I should borrow--

Crying, "O my brothers, I have also loved her in

her loneliness and sorrow.

"Let me join with you the jubilant procession;

let me chant with you her story;

Then contented I shall go back to the shamrocks,

now mine eyes have seen her glory!"

FRANCES ISABEL PARNELL.

* * * * *

CANADA NOT LAST.

AT VENICE.

Lo Venice, gay with color, lights and song,

Calls from St. Mark's with ancient voice and strange:

I am the Witch of Cities! glide along

My silver streets that never wear by change

Of years: forget the years, and pain, and wrong,

And ever sorrow reigning men among.

Know I can soothe thee, please and marry thee

To my illusions. Old and siren strong,

I smile immortal, while the mortals flee

Who whiten on to death in wooing me.

AT FLORENCE.

Say, what more fair by Arno's bridgèd gleam

Than Florence, viewed from San Miniato's slope

At eventide, when west along the stream

The last of day reflects a silver hope!--

Lo, all else softened in the twilight beam:--

The city's mass blent in one hazy cream,

The brown Dome 'midst it, and the Lily tower,

And stern Old Tower more near, and hills that seem

Afar, like clouds to fade, and hills of power

On this side greenly dark with cypress, vine and bower.

AT ROME.

End of desire to stray I feel would come

Though Italy were all fair skies to me,

Though France's fields went mad with flowery foam

And Blanc put on a special majesty,

Not all could match the growing thought of home

Nor tempt to exile. Look I not on Rome--

This ancient, modern, mediæval queen--

Yet still sigh westward over hill and dome,

Imperial ruin and villa's princely scene

Lovely with pictured saints and marble gods serene.

REFLECTION.

Rome, Florence, Venice--noble, fair and quaint,

They reign in robes of magic round me here;

But fading, blotted, dim, a picture faint,

With spell more silent, only pleads a tear.

Plead not! Thou hast my heart, O picture dim!

I see the fields, I see the autumn hand

Of God upon the maples! Answer Him

With weird, translucent glories, ye that stand

Like spirits in scarlet and in amethyst!

I see the sun break over you: the mist

On hills that lift from iron bases grand

Their heads superb!--the dream, it is my native land.

WILLIAM DOUW SCHUYLER-LIGHTHALL.

* * * * *

CANADA.

O child of Nations, giant-limbed,

Who stand'st among the nations now,

Unheeded, unadored, unhymned,

With unanointed brow:

How long the ignoble sloth, how long

The trust in greatness not thine own?

Surely the lion's brood is strong

To front the world alone!

How long the indolence, ere thou dare

Achieve thy destiny, seize thy fame;

Ere our proud eyes behold thee bear

A nation's franchise, nation's name?

The Saxon force, the Celtic fire,

These are thy manhood's heritage!

Why rest with babes and slaves? Seek higher

The place of race and age.

I see to every wind unfurled

The flag that bears the Maple-Wreath;

Thy swift keels furrow round the world

Its blood-red folds beneath;

Thy swift keels cleave the furthest seas;

Thy white sails swell with alien gales;

To stream on each remotest breeze

The black smoke of thy pipes exhales.

O Falterer, let thy past convince

Thy future: all the growth, the gain,

The fame since Cartier knew thee, since

Thy shores beheld Champlain!

Montcalm and Wolfe! Wolfe and Montcalm!

Quebec, thy storied citadel

Attest in burning song and psalm

How here thy heroes fell!

O Thou that bor'st the battle's brunt

At Queenstown, and at Lundy's Lane:

On whose scant ranks but iron front

The battle broke in vain!

Whose was the danger, whose the day,

From whose triumphant throats the cheers,

At Chrysler's Farm, at Chateauguay,

Storming like clarion-bursts our ears?

On soft Pacific slopes,--beside

Strange floods that northward rave and fall,

Where chafes Acadia's chainless tide,--

Thy sons await thy call.

They wait; but some in exile, some

With strangers housed, in stranger lands;

And some Canadian lips are dumb

Beneath Egyptian sands.

O mystic Nile! Thy secret yields

Before us; thy most ancient dreams

Are mixed with far Canadian fields

And murmur of Canadian streams.

But thou, my Country, dream not thou!

Wake, and behold how night is done,--

How on thy breast, and o'er thy brow,

Bursts the uprising sun!

CHARLES G.D. ROBERTS.

* * * * *

WHAT IS THE GERMAN'S FATHERLAND?