And never had poor Ireland more loyal hearts than these-
May God be kind and good to them, the faithful Rapparees !
The fearless Rapparees!

The jewel waar ye, Rory, with your Irish Rapparees !

Oh, black's your heart, Clan Oliver, and coulder than the clay!
Oh, high's your head, Clan Sassenach, since Sarsfield's gone away!
It's little love you bear to us for sake of long ago—

But howld your hand, for Ireland still can strike a deadly blow-
Can strike a mortal blow-

Och! dar-a-Chriost! 'tis she that still could strike the deadly blow!

The master's bawn, the master's seat, a surly bodach1 fills;

The master's son, an outlawed man, is riding on the hills; But, God be praised, that round him throng, as thick as summer bees,

The swords that guarded Limerick walls—his faithful Rapparees ! His lovin' Rapparees!

Who daar say 'No' to Rory Oge, who heads the Rapparees!

Black Billy Grimes, of Latnamard, he racked us long and sore-God rest the faithful hearts he broke ; we'll never see them more ! But I'll go bail he'll break no more while Truagh has gallows-trees, For why? he met one lonesome night the awful Rapparees!

The angry Rapparees!

They never sin no more, my boys, who cross the Rapparees.

Now, Sassenach and Cromweller, take heed of what I say—
Keep down your black and angry looks that scorn us night and
day;

For there's a just and wrathful Judge that every action sees,
And He'll make strong, to right our wrong, the faithful Rapparees !
The fearless Rapparees!

The men that rode at Sarsfield's side, the changeless Rapparees !

'Bodach: a severe, inhospitable man; a churl.

WILLIAM B. McBURNEY

VERY little is known of this writer, who was an early conHe is said to have died recently

tributor to The Nation.

in the United States.

He has also written under the name of

'Carroll Malone.'

THE CROPPY BOY

A BALLAD OF '98

'GOOD men and true! in this house who dwell,
To a stranger bouchal, I pray you tell

Is the Priest at home? or may he be seen?

I would speak a word with Father Green.'

'The Priest's at home, boy, and may be seen;
'Tis easy speaking with Father Green;
But you must wait, till I go and see
If the holy Father alone may be.'

The youth has entered an empty hall—
What a lonely sound has his light foot-fall!
And the gloomy chamber's chill and bare,
With a vested Priest in a lonely chair.

The youth has knelt to tell his sins.
'Nomine Dei,' the youth begins :

At 'mea culpa' he beats his breast,
And in broken murmurs he speaks the rest.

'At the siege of Ross did my father fall,

And at Gorey my loving brothers all.

I alone am left of my name and race;

I will go to Wexford and take their place.

I cursed three times since last Easter Day

At Mass-time once I went to play;

I passed the churchyard one day in haste,
And forgot to pray for my mother's rest.

'I bear no hate against living thing;
But I love my country above my King.
Now, Father! bless me, and let me go
To die, if God has ordained it so.'

The Priest said nought, but a rustling noise
Made the youth look above in wild surprise ;
The robes were off, and in scarlet there
Sat a yeoman captain with fiery glare.

With fiery glare and with fury hoarse,
Instead of blessing, he breathed a curse :

"Twas a good thought, boy, to come here and shrive;

For one short hour is your time to live.

Upon yon river three tenders float;

The Priest's in one, if he isn't shot;

We hold his house for our Lord the King,

And "Amen," say I-may all traitors swing!'
At Geneva barrack that young man died,
And at Passage they have his body laid.
Good people who live in peace and joy,
Breathe a prayer and a tear for the Croppy boy.

THE GOOD SHIP CASTLE DOWN

A REBEL CHAUNT, A.D. 1776

OH, how she plough'd the ocean, the good ship Castle Down,
That day we hung our colours out, the Harp without the Crown!
A gallant barque, she topp'd the wave, and fearless hearts were

we,

With guns and pikes and bayonets, a stalwart company.

'Twas a sixteen years from THUROT; and sweeping down the bay

The Siege of Carrickfergus' so merrily we did play :

And by the old castle's foot we went, with three right hearty

cheers,

And way'd aloft our green cockades, for we were Volunteers,

Volunteers!

Oh, we were in our prime that day, stout Irish Volunteers.

'Twas when we heav'd our anchor on the breast of smooth

Garmoyle

Our guns spoke out in thunder: 'Adieu, sweet Irish soil!
At Whiteabbey and Greencastle, and Holywood so gay,
Were hundreds waving handkerchiefs and many a loud huzza.
Our voices o'er the water struck the hollow mountains round-
Young Freedom, struggling at her birth, might utter such a sound.
By that green slope beside Belfast, we cheer'd and cheer'd it still-
For they had chang'd its name that year, and they call'd it
Bunker's Hill—

Bunker's Hill!

Oh, were our hands but with our hearts in the trench at Bunker's Hill!

Our ship clear'd out for Quebec; but thither little bent,

Up some New England river, to run her keel we meant ;

So we took a course due north as round the old Black Head we steer'd,

Till Ireland bore south-west by south, and Fingal's rock appear'd. Then on the poop stood Webster, while the ship hung flutteringly, About to take her tack across the wide, wide ocean sea

He pointed to th' Atlantic 'Sure, yon's no place for slaves: Haul down these British badges, for Freedom rules the wavesRules the waves!'

·

Three hundred strong men answered, shouting Freedom rules the waves !'

Then all together rose and brought the British ensign down.
And up we haul'd our Irish Green, without the British Crown.
Emblazoned there a Golden Harp like a maiden undefiled,

A shamrock wreath around her head, look'd o'er the sea and smiled.

A hundred days, with adverse wind, we kept our course afar,
On the hundredth day came bearing down a British sloop of war.
When they spied our flag they fired a gun, but as they near'd us
fast,

Old Andrew Jackson went aloft and nailed it to the mast-
To the mast!

A soldier was old Jackson, and he made our colours fast.

Patrick Henry was our captain, as brave as ever sailed.
'Now we must do or die,' said he, 'for the Green Flag is nailed.
Silently came the sloop along; and silently we lay

Flat, till with cheers and loud broadside the foe began the fray.
Then the boarders o'er the bulwarks, like shuttlecocks, we cast;
One close discharge from all our guns cut down the tapering mast.
'Now, British tars! St. George's Cross is trailing in the sea-
How d'ye like the greeting and the handsel of the Free?—
Of the Free!
How like you, lads, the greeting of the men who will be free?'

They answer'd us with cannon, as befitted well their fame;
And to shoot away our Irish flag each gunner took his aim ;
They ripp'd it up in ribbons till it fluttered in the air,
And riddled it with shot-holes till no Golden Harp was there;
But through the ragged holes the sky did glance and gleam in
light,

Just as the twinkling stars shine through God's unfurled flag at night.

With dropping fire we sang, 'Good-night, and fare ye well, brave

tars !'

Our captain looked aloft: 'By Heaven! the flag is Stripes and

Stars!'

Stripes and Stars!

So into Boston port we sailed, beneath the Stripes and Stars.

JOHN KELLS INGRAM

(See J. K. Ingram, Book VI.)

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD

WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?
Who blushes at the name?

When cowards mock the patriot's fate,

Who hangs his head for shame?