Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds began to singThey see not now the milking-maids-deserted is the spring! Midsummer day- this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town— These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown ;

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-he'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 Baltimore.

'Tis two long years since sunk 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 Dungarvan-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 brought the Norman o'er-
Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore.

THE GIRL OF DUNBWY

'TIS pretty to see the girl of Dunbwy

Stepping the mountain statelily—

Though ragged her gown and naked her feet,

No lady in Ireland to match her is meet.

Poor is her diet, and hardly she lies

Yet a monarch might kneel for a glance of her eyes;

The child of a peasant-yet England's proud Queen Has less rank in her heart and less grace in her mien.

Her brow 'neath her raven hair gleams, just as if
A breaker spread white 'neath a shadowy cliff-
And love and devotion and energy speak

From her beauty-proud eye and her passion-pale cheek.

But, pale as her cheek is, there's fruit on her lip,
And her teeth flash as white as the crescent moon's tip,
And her form and her step, like the red-deer's, go past—
As lightsome, as lovely, as haughty, as fast.

I saw her but once, and I looked in her eye,

And she knew that I worshipped in passing her by.
The saint of the wayside she granted my prayer
Though we spoke not a word; for her mother was there.

I never can think upon Bantry's bright hills,
But her image starts up, and my longing eye fills;
And I whisper her softly: 'Again, love, we'll meet !
And I'll lie in your bosom, and live at your feet.'

NATIONALITY

A NATION'S voice, a nation's voice

It is a solemn thing!

It bids the bondage-sick rejoice

'Tis stronger than a king.
'Tis like the light of many stars,

The sound of many waves;

Which brightly look through prison-bars

And sweetly sound in caves.

Yet is it noblest, godliest known,

When righteous triumph swells its tone.

A nation's flag, a nation's flag —

If wickedly unrolled,
May foes in adverse battle drag
Its every fold from fold.

But in the cause of Liberty,

Guard it 'gainst Earth and Hell;
Guard it till Death or Victory-

Look you, you guard it well!
No saint or king has tomb so proud
As he whose flag becomes his shroud.

A nation's right, a nation's right—
God gave it, and gave, too,
A nation's sword, a nation's might,
Danger to guard it through.
'Tis freedom from a foreign yoke,
'Tis just and equal laws,

Which deal unto the humblest folk
As in a noble's cause.

On nations fixed in right and truth
God would bestow eternal youth.

May Ireland's voice be ever heard
Amid the world's applause !
And never be her flag-staff stirred
But in an honest cause !

May freedom be her very breath,
Be Justice ever dear :
And never an ennobled death

May son of Ireland fear!

So the Lord God will ever smile,

With guardian grace, upon our isle.

JOHN DE JEAN FRAZER

BORN in the King's County about 1809, and wrote largely for The Nation, The Irish Felon, &c. He was a cabinetmaker by trade. Died in Dublin 1852. His 'Song for July 12th represents with much literary grace and skill the form of thought prevalent among The Nation writers towards Orangeism.

SONG FOR JULY 12TH, 1843

Air-Boyne Water'

COME! pledge again thy heart and hand--
One grasp that ne'er shall sever;
Our watchword be-'Our native land!'

Our motto-Love for ever!'

And let the Orange lily be

Thy badge, my patriot-brother-
The everlasting Green for me;
And we for one another.

Behold how green the gallant stem
On which the flower is blowing;
How in one heavenly breeze and beam
Both flower and stem are glowing.
The same good soil, sustaining both,
Makes both united flourish;
But cannot give the Orange growth,
And cease the green to nourish.

Yea, more-the hand that plucks the flow'r
Will vainly strive to cherish;

The stem blooms on--but in that hour
The flower begins to perish.
Regard them, then, of equal worth

While lasts their genial weather;
The time's at hand when into earth
The two shall sink together.

Ev'n thus be, in our country's cause,
Our party feelings blended;
Till lasting peace, from equal laws,
On both shall have descended.

Till then the Orange lily be

Thy badge, my patriot-brother

The everlasting Green for me;

And we for one another.

JOHN O'HAGAN

O'HAGAN (born at Newry 1822) entered the ranks of The Nation writers when a young barrister fresh from Trinity College, Dublin, and contributed to that journal much spirited verse over the signature 'Sliabh Cuilinn' (Slieve Cullanthe mountain vulgarly known as the Great Sugarloaf). 'A boyish face, a frank smile, and a readiness to engage in badinage' were, according to Sir C. G. Duffy, the first characteristics that impressed themselves on his associates; but he soon showed gifts of character and intellect that made him one of the most influential and trusted members of the Young Ireland party. After a distinguished career at the Bar he was appointed by Mr. Gladstone first chairman of the Irish Land Commission, and died in 1890.

THE SONG OF ROLAND, translated from the French, 1880; THE CHILDREN'S BALLAD ROSARY, 1890.

OURSELVES ALONE

THE work that should to-day be wrought,

Defer not till to-morrow;

The help that should within be sought,
Scorn from without to borrow.
Old maxims these-yet stout and true-
They speak in trumpet tone,

To do at once what is to do,

And trust OURSELVES ALONE.

Too long our Irish hearts we schooled
In patient hope to bide,

By dreams of English justice fooled
And English tongues that lied.
That hour of weak delusion's past—
The empty dream has flown :
Our hope and strength, we find at last,
Is in OURSELVES ALONE.