A DENIS A. McCARTHY (Living) AH, SWEET IS TIPPERARY H, sweet is Tipperary in the spring-time of the year, When the hawthorn's whiter than the snow, When the feathered folk assemble and the air is all a-tremble With their singing and their winging to and fro. When queenly Slievenamon puts her verdant vesture on And smiles to hear the news the breezes bring; When the sun begins to glance on the rivulets that dance Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring! Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring-time of the year, When the mists are rising from the lea, When the golden vale is smiling with a beauty all beguiling And the Sair goes crooning to the sea; When the shadows and the showers only multiply the flowers That the lavish hand of May will fling; When in unfrequented ways, fairy music softly playsAh! sweet is Tipperary in the spring! Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring-time of the year, When life like the years is young, When the soul is just awaking, like a lily blossom breaking And love words linger on the tongue; When the blue of Irish skies is the hue of Irish eyes And love dreams cluster and cling Round the heart and round the brain, half of pleasure half of pain Ah! sweet is Tipperary in the spring! DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY BLESS THE DEAR OLD VERDANT LAND B LESS the dear old verdant land! Brother, wert thou born of it! Guide thee in the morn of it? Did a father's first command Teach thee love or scorn of it? Thou who tread'st its fertile breast, If thou lovest, where's the test? Has the past no goading sting That can make thee rouse for it? With the circling ocean's ring Hast thou kept as thou shouldst keep Hopes the heart would form for it, Glories that like rainbows peep Through the darkening storm for it? Son of this down-trodden land, We seek to make it great and grand, Think, this dear old land is thine, Think how the German loves his Rhine! Our own dear land is bright as theirs, But oh! our hearts are cold for it; Awake! we are not slaves but heirs. Our fatherland requires our cares, Our speech with men, with God our prayers Be earnest, faithful, bold for it! FROM THE CENTENARY ODE TO THE A ND as not only by the Calton Mountain, Is Scotland's bard remembered and revered, But wheresoe'er, like some o'erflowing fountain, Its hardy race a prosperous path has cleared, There, 'mid the roar of newly rising cities, His glorious name is heard on every tongue, There, to the music of immortal ditties, His lays of love, his patriot songs are sung. So not alone beside that Bay of beauty That guards the portals of his native town, Where, like two watchful sentinels on duty, Howth and Killiney from their heights looked down, But wheresoe'er the exiled race hath drifted, There shall his name be held in fond memento, Or where Niagara's thunder shakes the shore ;— |