Imatges de pàgina
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Lay these hands down by my side,

Let my face be bare;

Bind a kerchief round the face,

Smooth my hair.

Let my bier be borne at dawn,
Summer grows so sweet,
Deep into the forest green
Where boughs meet.

Then pass away, and let me lie
One long, warm, sweet day
There alone, with face upturned,
One sweet day.

While the morning light grows broad,
While noon sleepeth sound,
While the evening falls and faints,
While the world goes round.

W

SONG

From "Windle-Straws."

ERE life to last forever, love,

We might go hand in hand,

And pause and pull the flowers that blow
In all the idle land,

And we might lie in sunny fields
And while the hours away
With fallings-out and fallings-in

For half a summer day.

But since we two must sever, love,

Since some dim hour we part,

I have no tune to give thee much But quickly take my heart, "Forever thine," and "thine my love,"O Death may come apace. What more of love could life bestow, Dearest, than this embrace.

BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING

(1823-1863)

THE BRIGADE AT FONTENOY
May 11, 1745.

Y our camp-fires rose a murmur,

B At the dawning of the day,

And the tread of many footsteps Spoke the advent of the fray; And, as we took our places,

Few and stern were our words, While some were tightening horse-girths And some were girding swords.

The trumpet blast has sounded
Our footmen to array —
The willing steed has bounded,
Impatient for the fray-

The green flag is unfolded,
While rose the cry of joy —
"Heaven speed dear Ireland's banner
To-day at Fontenoy ! "

We looked upon that banner,
And the memory arose.

Of our homes and perished kindred

Where the Lee or Shannon flows;

We looked upon that banner,

And we swore to God on high
To smite to-day the Saxon's might-
To conquer or to die.

Loud swells the charging trumpet

'Tis a voice from our own land
God of battles! God of vengeance!
Guide to-day the patriot's brand!
There are stains to wash away,

There are memories to destroy,
In the best blood of the Briton
To-day at Fontenoy.

1 Erin

Plunge deep the fiery rowels

In a thousand reeking flanks —
Down, chivalry of Ireland,

Down on the British ranks !
Now shall their serried columns

Beneath our sabres reel

Through their ranks, then, with the war-horse
Through their bosoms with the steel.

With one shout for good King Louis
And the fair land of the vine,
Like the wrathful Alpine tempest
We swept upon their line—
Then ran along the battle-field
Triumphant our hurrah,

And we smote them down, still cheering,
"Erin, slangthagal go bragh !"'1

bragh, Erin, your bright health forever.

As prized as is the blessing
From an aged father's lip-
As welcome as the haven

To the tempest-driven ship -
As dear as to the lover

The smile of gentle maid

Is this day of long-sought vengeance To the swords of the Brigade.

See their shattered forces flying,
A broken, routed line —

See, England, what brave laurels
For your brow to-day we twine.
Oh, thrice blest the hour that witnessed
The Briton turn to flee
From the chivalry of Erin,
And France's fleur-de-lis.

As we lay beside our camp-fires,
When the sun had passed away,
And thought upon our brethren
That had perished in the fray-
We prayed to God to grant us,
And then we'd die with joy,
One day upon our own dear land
Like this of Fontenoy.

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