That chainless wave and lovely land
Freedom and Nationhood demand;
Be sure the great God never planned
For slumbering slaves a home so grand.
And long a brave and haughty race
Honored and sentineled the place —
Sing, oh! not even their sons' disgrace
Can quite destroy their glory's trace.

For often, in O'Connor's van,

To triumph dashed each Connaught clan,
And fleet as deer the Normans ran
Through Curlieu's Pass and Ardrahan,
And later times saw deeds as brave;
And glory guards Clanricarde's grave
Sing, oh! they died their land to save,
At Aughrim's slopes and Shannon's wave.

And if, when all a vigil keep,
The West's asleep, the West's asleep -
Alas! and well may Erin weep,

That Connaught lies in slumber deep.
But hark! some voice like thunder spake:
"The West's awake! the West's awake! 99
Sing, oh hurrah! let England quake;
We'll watch till death for Erin's sake.

ARTHUR DAWSON

(1700-1775)

BUMPERS, SQUIRE JONES

YE

good fellows all,

Who love to be told where good claret's in store,

Attend to the call

Of one who's ne'er frighted,
But greatly delighted

With six bottles more.

Be sure you don't

pass

The good house, Moneyglass,

Which the jolly red god so peculiarly owns, 'Twill well suit your humor—

For, pray, what would you more,

Than mirth with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones?

Ye lovers who pine

For lasses that oft prove as cruel as fair,

Who whimper and whine.

For lilies and roses,

With eyes, lips, and noses,

Or tip of an ear!

Come hither, I'll show ye
How Phillis and Chloe

No more shall occasion such sighs and such groans; For what mortal's so stupid

As not to quit Cupid,

When called to good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones?

Ye poets who write,

And brag of your drinking famed Helicon's brook,— Though all you get by it

Is a dinner ofttimes,

In reward for your rhymes,

With Humphry the Duke,

Learn Bacchus to follow,
And quit your Apollo,

Forsake all the Muses, those senseless old crones:

Our jingling of glasses

Your rhyming surpasses

When crowned with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones.

Ye soldiers so stout,

With plenty of oaths, though no plenty of coin,

Who make such a rout

Of all your commanders,
Who served us in Flanders,

And eke at the Boyne,

Come leave off your rattling

Of sieging and battling,

And know you'd much better to sleep in whole bones; Were you sent to Gibraltar,

Your notes you'd soon alter,

And wish for good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones.

Ye clergy so wise,

Who mysteries profound can demonstrate so clear,
How worthy to rise!

You preach once a week,

But your tithes never seek

Above once in a year!

Come here without failing,
And leave off your railing

'Gainst bishops providing for dull stupid drones;
Says the text so divine,

"What is life without wine?"

Then away with the claret,—a bumper, Squire Jones!

Ye lawyers so just,

Be the cause what it will, who so learnedly plead,

How worthy of trust!

You know black from white,

You prefer wrong to right,

As you chance to be fee'd:

Leave musty reports

And forsake the king's courts,

Where dulness and discord have set up their thrones; Burn Salkeld and Ventris,

And all your damned entries,

And away with the claret,—a bumper, Squire Jones!

Ye physical tribe

Whose knowledge consists in hard words and grimace, Whene'er you prescribe,

Have at your devotion,

Pills, bolus, or potion,

Be what will the case;

1 Law commentators of the time.

Pray where is the need

To purge, blister and bleed?

When, ailing yourselves, the whole faculty owns
That the forms of old Galen

Are not so prevailing

As mirth with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones!

Ye fox-hunters eke,

That follow the call of the horn and the hound,

Who your ladies forsake
Before they're awake,

To beat up the brake

Where the vermin is found:

Leave Piper and Blueman,

Shrill Duchess and Trueman,

No music is found in such dissonant tones!
Would you ravish your ears

With the songs of the spheres,

Hark away to the claret,-a bumper, Squire Jones!