THE HARPER.
On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,
No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;
No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.
When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,
She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart),
“Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away;
And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.”
Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure,
And he constantly loved me, although I was poor;
When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away,
I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.
When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,
And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,
How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey,
And he licked me for kindness—my poor dog Tray.
Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.
Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind
Can I find one to guide me, so faithful, and kind;
To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.
SONG
TO THE EVENING STAR.
Star that bringest home the bee,
And sett’st the weary labourer free!
If any star shed peace, ’tis thou,
That send’st it from above,
Appearing when Heaven’s breath and brow
Are sweet as hers we love.
Come to the luxuriant skies,
Whilst the landscape’s odours rise,
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,
And songs, when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirred
Curls yellow in the sun.
Star of love’s soft interviews,
Parted lovers on thee muse;
Their remembrancer in Heaven
Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to be riven
By absence from the heart.
SONG.
“MEN OF ENGLAND.”
Men of England! who inherit
Rights that cost your sires their blood!
Men whose undegenerate spirit
Has been proved on land and flood:—
By the foes ye’ve fought uncounted,
By the glorious deeds ye’ve done,
Trophies captured—breaches mounted,
Navies conquered—kingdoms won!
Yet, remember, England gathers
Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame,
If the patriotism of your fathers
Glow not in your hearts the same.
What are monuments of bravery,
Where no public virtues bloom?
What avail in lands of slavery,
Trophied temples, arch, and tomb?
Pageants!—Let the world revere us
For our people’s rights and laws,
And the breasts of civic heroes
Bared in Freedom’s holy cause.
Yours are Hampden’s, Russell’s glory,
Sydney’s matchless shade is yours,—
Martyrs in heroic story,
Worth a hundred Agincourts!
We’re the sons of sires that baffled
Crowned and mitred tyranny:—
They defied the field and scaffold
For their birthrights—so will we!