But a wan and gory band

All apart and silent stand,

And they point th' accusing hand
At that hell-hound's crest!

Red streamlets, trickling slow,
O'er their clotted cuilins flow,
And still and awful woe,

On each pale brow weeps
Rich bowls bestrew the ground,
And broken harps around,
Whose once enchanting sound
In the bard's blood sleeps.

False Sydney! Knighthood's stain,
The trusting brave in vain
Thy guest-ride o'er the plain

To thy dark cow'rd snare.

Flow'r of Offaly and Lein,

They have come thy board to grace-
Fools to meet a faithless race

Save with true swords bare.

While cup and song abound
The triple lines surround

The closed and guarded mound,

In the night's dark noon.

Alas! to brave O'More,

Ere the revelry was o'er

They have spill'd thy young heart's gore,

Snatch'd from love too soon!

At the feast, unarmed all,
Priest, bard and chieftain fall
In the treacherous Saxon's hall,
O'er the bright wine-bowl;
And now nightly round the board,
With unsheath'd and reeking sword,
Strides the cruel felon lord

Of the blood-stain'd soul.

Since that hour the clouds that pass'd O'er the Rath of Mullaghmast,

One tear have never cast

On the gore-dyed sod;

For the shower of crimson rain,
That o'erflowed that fatal plain,
Cries aloud, and not in vain,
To the most high God.

Tho' the Saxon snake unfold
At thy feet his scales of gold,
And vow thee love untold,

Trust him not, Green Land!
Touch not with gloveless clasp
A coil'd and deadly asp,
But with strong and guarded grasp
In your steel-clad hand!

G

REV. JAMES WILLS
(Living)

THE MINSTREL'S WALK

REEN hills of the west, where I carolled along,
In the May-day of life, with my harp and my

song.

Though the winter of time o'er my spirit hath rolled, And the steps of the minstrel are weary and old. Though no more by those famous old haunts shall I

stray

Once the themes of my songs and the guides of my way,

That each had its story, and true-hearted friend -
Before I forget ye, life's journey shall end.

Oh! 'twas joy in the prime of life's morning to go
On the path where Clan Connell once followed Hugh
Roe,

O'er the hill of Ceiscorran, renowned Ballymote,
By the Boyle, or by Newport, all passes of note,
Where the foe their vain armaments haughtily kept;
But the foot of th' avenger went by while they
slept -

The hills told no tale-but the night-cloud was red,
And the friends of the Sasanach quaked at their tread.

By the plains of Rath Croghan, fields famous of yore, Though stronghold and seat of the kingly no more;

By Tulsk and Tamona, hill, valley, and plain,
To gray Ballintubber, O'Connor's domain;
Then ages rolled backward in lengthened array,
In song and old story, the long summer day;
And cloud-like, the glories of Connaught rolled by,
Till they sank in the horrors of grim Athenry!

Through the heaths of Kiltulagh, kind, simple, though rude,

To Aeliun's bright waters, where Willsborough stood; Ballinlough then spoke welcome from many a door, Where smiles lit kind faces that now smile no more! Then away to the Moyne, o'er the Moors of Mayo, Still onward, still welcomed by high and by lowBlake, Burke, and O'Malley, Lynch, Kirwan and Browne;

By forest, lake, mountain, through village and town.

And kind were the voices that guided my way 'Twas cead mile failte at closing of day,

When young hearts beat lightly, and labor was done, For joy tracked my steps as light follows the sun. Then tales pleased the hamlet, and news cheered the

hall,

And the tune of old times was still welcome to all;
The praise of thy glory, dear Land of the West
But thy praises are still, and thy kind bosoms rest.

My blessing rest with you, dear friends, though no

more

Shall the poor and the weary rejoice at your door; Though like stars to your homes I have seen you depart,

Still ye live, O ye live, in each vein of my heart!

Still the light of your looks on my darkness is thrown; Still your voices breathe round me when weary and lone;

Like shades ye come back with each feeling old strain

But the world shall ne'er look on your equals again.