Yet think not, friends, that I repine
At my sad fate-if sad it be.
Think not the captive weakly pines,
That from his soul all joy hath flown.
Oh, no! the solemn starlight' shines
As brightly as it ever shone.

And though I've had my share of pain,
And sunken is my cheek and pale,
Yet, Gertrude, were it ours again

On St. John's Eve, in Compsey vale,
While loitering by the Anner stream
To view the mountain's purpled dome-
Waiting to see the bonfires gleam

All round our quiet hill-clasped home -

We'd talk of bygone blissful hours

And oh what blissful hours I've known!
It was a world of smiles and flowers,
That little home-world of our own.

And happy thoughts each heart would fill-
What else but happy could we be,
While Hope stood smiling on the hill
And in the valley, Memory?

ROBERT DWYER JOYCE

A VIGOROUS ballad-poet, who was born at Glenosheen, County Limerick, in 1830, and died in Dublin on October 24, 1883. He practised as a physician with much success in Boston, U.S.A. His poems are very numerous, and he published four volumes of verse, as well as a couple of volumes of stories. Some of his songs and ballads have much power. He was a frequent contributor to The Irish People, and may be reckoned as one of the poets of the Fenian movement. His most ambitious work is a version of the tale of 'Deirdre,' which had an immense success in the U.S.A. He was brother of Dr. P. W. Joyce, the well-known educationalist and collector of Irish music.

FINEEN THE ROVER

AN old castle towers o'er the billow
That thunders by Cleena's green land,
And there dwelt as gallant a rover

As ever grasped hilt by the hand.
Eight stately towers of the waters

Lie anchored in Baltimore Bay,
And over their twenty score sailors,
Oh! who but the Rover holds sway?
Then, ho for Fineen the Rover!
Fineen O'Driscoll the free!

Straight as the mast of his galley,
And wild as the wave of the sea!

The Saxons of Cork and Moyallo,

They harried his lands with their powers;

He gave them a taste of his cannon,

And drove them like wolves from his towers.

The men of Clan London brought over

Their strong fleet to make him a slave ;

They met him by Mizen's wild highland,

And the sharks crunched their bones 'neath the wave Then, ho! for Fineen the Rover,

Fineen O'Driscoll the free;

With step like the red stag of Beara,
And voice like the bold sounding sea.

Long time in that old battered castle,
Or out on the waves with his clan,
He feasted and ventured and conquered,
But ne'er struck his colours to man.
In a fight 'gainst the foes of his country
He died as a brave man should die ;

And he sleeps 'neath the waters of Cleena,
Where the waves sing his caoine to the sky.
Then, ho for Fineen the Rover,

Fineen O'Driscoll the free;

With eye like the osprey's at morning,

And smile like the sun on the sea.

P

THE BLACKSMITH OF LIMERICK

He grasped his ponderous hammer; he could not stand it more, To hear the bombshells bursting and the thundering battle's roar. He said: The breach they're mounting, the Dutchman's murdering crew

I'll try my hammer on their heads and see what that can do!

Now, swarthy Ned and Moran, make up that iron well;

'Tis Sarsfield's horse that wants the shoes, so mind not shot or shell.'

'Ah, sure,' cried both, 'the horse can wait-for Sarsfield's on the

wall,

And where you go we'll follow, with you to stand or fall!'

The blacksmith raised his hammer, and rushed into the street,
His 'prentice boys behind him, the ruthless foe to meet –
High on the breach of Limerick, with dauntless hearts they stood
Where the bombshells burst and shot fell thick, and redly ran the
blood.

'Now look you, brown-haired Moran, and mark you, swarthy Ned;
This day we'll prove the thickness of many a Dutchman's head !
Hurrah! upon their bloody path they're mounting gallantly;
And now the first that tops the breach, leave him to this and me!

The first that gained the rampart, he was a captain brave!
A captain of the Grenadiers, with blood-stained dirk and glaive;
He pointed and he parried, but it was all in vain,

For fast through skull and helmet the hammer found his brain!

The next that topp'd the rampart, he was a colonel bold,
Bright thro' the murk of battle his helmet flashed with gold.
'Gold is no match for iron!' the doughty blacksmith said,
As with that ponderous hammer he cracked his foeman's head!

'Hurrah for gallant Limerick !' black Ned and Moran cried,
As on the Dutchmen's leaden heads their hammers well they
plied;

A bombshell burst between them-one fell without a groan,
One leaped into the lurid air, and down the breach was thrown !

'Brave smith! brave smith!' cried Sarsfield, 'beware the treacherous mine-

Brave smith brave smith fall backward, or surely death is thine !'

The smith sprang up the rampart and leaped the blood-stained wall, As high into the shuddering air went foemen, breach and all !

Up like a red volcano they thundered wild and high,

Spear, gun, and shattered standard, and foemen thro' the sky; And dark and bloody was the shower that round the blacksmith fell

He thought upon his 'prentice boys, they were avenged well!

On foemen and defenders a silence gathered down,

'Twas broken by a triumph-shout that shook the ancient town; As out its heroes sallied, and bravely charged and slew,

And taught King William and his men what Irish hearts can do!

Down rushed the swarthy blacksmith unto the river side,
He hammered on the foes' pontoon, to sink it in the tide ;
The timber it was tough and strong, it took no crack or strain-
Mavrone, 'twon't break,' the blacksmith roared; 'I'll try their
heads again!'

The blacksmith sought his smithy, and blew his bellows strong;
He shod the steed of Sarsfield, but o'er it sang no song:
Ochon! my boys are dead,' he cried; 'their loss I'll long deplore,
But comfort's in my heart-their graves are red with foreign
gore !'

JOHN KEEGAN CASEY

SON of a peasant farmer, born near Mullingar, County Westmeath. He was imprisoned as a Fenian in 1867, and in consequence of his sufferings died in 1870, aged twenty-three. His funeral at Glasnevin is said to have been attended by fifty thousand people. He was one of the few poets produced

by the Fenian movement. That his poetry had fire and sweetness the following verses show, and these, with his youth and his fate, have greatly endeared him to his countrymen.

His POEMS have been published by Cameron Ferguson & Co., Glasgow.

THE RISING OF THE MOON
A.D. 1798

'OH, then, tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall,
Tell me why you hurry so?'
'Hush! ma bouchal, hush, and listen ;'
And his cheeks were all a-glow :
'I bear ordhers from the Captain--
Get you ready quick and soon ;
For the pikes must be together
At the risin' of the moon.'

'Oh, then, tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall,
Where the gathʼrin' is to be?'
'In the ould spot by the river,

Right well known to you and me ;
One word more for signal token
Whistle up the marchin' tune,
With your pike upon your shoulder,
By the risin' of the moon.'

Out from many a mud-wall cabin

Eyes were watching thro' that night;
Many a manly chest was throbbing
For the blessed warning light.
Murmurs passed along the valleys,
Like the banshee's lonely croon,
And a thousand blades were flashing
At the risin' of the moon.

There, beside the singing river,

That dark mass of men were seen

Far above the shining weapons

Hung their own beloved 'Green.'