MAURICE FITZGERALD

(Living)

MOONLIGHT ON NEW YORK BAY

H, say is that beautiful moon that I see
Serenely adorning the Heavens above,
Whose beams are refulgently shining on me,
Is it shining as bright on the land that I love?
The land where I first saw the moon's silver light,
The land that I cherish wherever I stray
Oh, say, is that moon shining brightly to-night
On the green hills of Ireland, away, far away?

How calm and how placid the ocean appears

See, the moon and the stars are reflected below. The reflection brings back like a flash through the years

The dreams of my boyhood, the days long ago;
The days when I fancied that everything bright
Was lasting and real,-how delusive were they!
Oh, beautiful Moon! art thou shining to-night
On the green hills of Ireland, away, far away?

Oh, beautiful Moon! if thou'rt shining as well
On that green little island away o'er the sea,
To the dear cherished friends who in Ireland dwell
With friendship and love bear a token from me.
For oh, were I clasped in Death's cold hand to-night,

Even there with the last breath these fond words I'd say:

"Oh, beautiful Moon, shine peaceful and bright On the green hills of Ireland, away, far away!"

TO DOUGLAS HYDE

ROM the banks of Androscoggin,

F

Where the pine is bending o'er,
To the farthest headland marking
California's fertile shore;

From the boundless plains of Texas
No Niagara's foaming tide,
With a hundred thousand welcomes
Exiles greet you, Douglas Hyde.

Long we've listened to the pleading
Of the men who failed to show
How their words alone could purchase
Freedom from a heartless foe;
Meekly craving for the justice

Always thwarted, long denied -
Thank the Lord that heaven sent us
Men like you, our Douglas Hyde.

You, who knew of Erin's glory,

You, who saw her latent power,
You, who searched the mountain craggy,
Wooded glen and leafy bower

For the relics of her genius

And the tokens of her pride;

You, who wove a native garland,

You, who crowned her, Douglas Hyde!

Now the dismal clouds are drifting

And the star of hope appears, Lighting Erin's road to freedom

After all the weary years; Now the olden tongue is spoken, And across the ocean wide You are bringing news to cheer us

From the old land, Douglas Hyde.

From the banks of Androscoggin,

Where the pine is bending o'er,
To the farthest headland marking
California's fertile shore;
From the boundless plains of Texas
To Niagara's foaming tide,

-

Hear the shout and hear the greeting
"Welcome, welcome, Douglas Hyde!"

ELLEN FITZSIMON

(1805-1883)

THE SONG OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT IN AMERICA

M

OR THE WOODS OF CAILLINO

Y heart is heavy in my breast, my ears are full of tears,

My memory is wandering back to long departed years,

To those bright days long, long ago,

When naught I dreamed of sordid care or worldly woe, But roamed, a gay, light-hearted boy, the woods of Caillino.

There, in the spring-time of my life and spring-time

of the year,

I've watched the snowdrop start from earth, the first young buds appear,

The sparkling stream o'er pebbles flow,

The modest violet and golden primrose grow,

Within thy deep and mossy dells, beloved Caillino.

'Twas there I wooed my Mary Dhuv and won her for

my bride,

Who bore me three fáir daughters and four sons, my age's pride;

Though cruel fortune was our foe,

And steeped us to the lips in bitter want and woe,
Yet cling our hearts to those sad days we passed near
Caillino.

At length, by misery bowed to earth, we left our native strand,

And crossed the wide Atlantic to this free and happy

land;

Though toils we had to undergo,

Yet soon content and happy peace 'twas ours to know, And plenty such as never blessed our hearts, near Caillino.

And Heaven a blessing has bestowed more precious far than wealth,

Has spared us to each other, full of years, yet strong in health;

Across the threshold when we go,

We see our children's children round us grow,

Like sapling oaks within thy woods, far distant Caillino.

Yet sadness clouds our hearts to think that, when we are no more,

Our bones must find a resting place far, far from Erin's shore;

For us, no funeral, sad and slow,

Within the ancient abbey's burial mound will go,—
No, we must slumber far from home, far, far from
Caillino.

Yet, O if spirits e'er can leave the appointed place of

rest,