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SPIRIT OF THE NATION.

25

V.

The green flag on the air,
Sons of Erin and despair,
To the breach in serried column quick advance.
On the summit we may fall:
Hand in hand, my comrades all,
Let us drink a last adieu to merry France, France, France;
Let us drink a last adieu to merry France.

VI.

To Erin, comrades, too,
And her sunny skies of blue,
A goblet commingled with tears!
With the fleur-de-lis divine,
The green shamrock shall entwine;
But the Ancient^[1] see the Sunburst rears, rears, rears;
The Ancient see the Sun-burst rears.

THE VOICE OF TARA.

DATE UNKNOWN.^[2]

I.

O! that my voice could waken the hearts that slumber cold!—

The chiefs that time hath taken, the warrior kings of old—

↑ Standard bearer.
↑ The original Irish of this song has been preserved in the extensive mountain tract that stretches far into the adjacent counties of Limerick, Cork, and Kerry, between the towns of Newcastle, Abbeyfeale, and Castleisland. I have vainly endeavoured to learn the author's name, but the original bears strong marks of its being the production of a Munster bard of the seventeenth century. I took it down, viva voce, from a Baccach, who moved a very respectable repertory of wool, butter, and antiquarian lore, among the simple dwellers of the glens. He sung it to that very warlike air, vulgarly named "The Poacher," in a kind of recitative, with his eyes closed, as if to shut out exterior objects from his inspired vision, and leaning on the top of his staff, as he swayed his body to and fro to the martial sounds. I have rendered the words as literally as possible, hopeless of preserving the abrupt and striking spirit of the Gælic.

[1] Standard bearer.

[2] The original Irish of this song has been preserved in the extensive mountain tract that stretches far into the adjacent counties of Limerick, Cork, and Kerry, between the towns of Newcastle, Abbeyfeale, and Castleisland. I have vainly endeavoured to learn the author's name, but the original bears strong marks of its being the production of a Munster bard of the seventeenth century. I took it down, viva voce, from a Baccach, who moved a very respectable repertory of wool, butter, and antiquarian lore, among the simple dwellers of the glens. He sung it to that very warlike air, vulgarly named "The Poacher," in a kind of recitative, with his eyes closed, as if to shut out exterior objects from his inspired vision, and leaning on the top of his staff, as he swayed his body to and fro to the martial sounds. I have rendered the words as literally as possible, hopeless of preserving the abrupt and striking spirit of the Gælic.

[1]

[2]