But not to share his glory, then, or gladden in his ray, They bent their gaze upon his path-those exiles, far away.

It was-oh; how the heart will cheat; because they thought, beyond

His glowing couch lay that Green Isle of which their hearts were fond;

And fancy brought old scenes of home into each welling eye,

And through each breast poured many a thought that filled it like a sigh.

'Twas then 'twas then, all warm with love, they knelt them down to pray

For Irish home and kith and kin-poor exiles, far away.

And then the mother blest her son, the lover blest the maid,

And then the soldier was a child, and wept the whilst he prayed,

And then the student's pallid cheek flushed red as

summer rose,

And patriot souls forgot their grief to weep for Erin's

woes.

And, oh, but then warm vows were breathed, that come what might or may,

They'd right the suffering isle they loved-those exiles,

far away.

And some who were around the board, like loving brothers met,

The few and fond and joyous hearts that never can forget;

They pledged—“The girls we left at home, God bless them!" and they gave,

"The memory of our absent friends, the tender and the brave!"

Then up, erect, with nine times nine—hip, hip, hip— hurray!

Drank—“Erin slantha gal go bragh,”—those exiles, far away.

Then oh; to hear the sweet old strains of Irish music rise,

Like memories of home, beneath far foreign skies, Beneath the spreading calabash, beneath the trellised

vine,

The bright Italian myrtle bower, or dark Canadian

pine

Oh! don't these old familiar tones-now sad, and now

so gay

Speak out your very, very hearts,-poor exiles, far away!"

But, Heavens! how many sleep afar, all heedless of these strains

Tired wanderers, who sought repose through Europe's battle plains;

In strong, fierce, headlong fight they fell-as ships go down in storms;

They fell-and human whirlwinds swept across their shattered forms.

No shroud, but glory, wrapt them round; nor prayer, nor tear had they,

Save the wandering winds and the heavy clouds-poor exiles, far away.

And might the singer claim a sigh, he too, could tell how, tost

Upon the stranger's dreary shore, his heart's best hopes were lost;

How he, too, pined to hear the tones of friendship greet his ear,

And pined, to walk the riverside, to youthful musing dear,

And pined, with yearning silent love, amongst his own to stay

Alas; it is so sad to be an exile far away.

Then, oh! when round the Christmas board, or by the Christmas hearth,

That glorious mingled draught is poured,-wine, melody and mirth

When friends long absent tell, low-toned, their joys and sorrows o'er,

And hand grasps hand, and eyelids fill, and lips meet lips once more

In that bright hour, perhaps-perhaps, some woman's voice would say

"Think-think, on those who weep to-night, poor exiles, far away."

NEIL M'DEVITT

BATTLE OF DUNDALK

O, they come, they come; but all too late—their

Lo king is on the wave,

Bound to the mast of a Danish ship, the pirate
Northman's slave.

Dundalk, on thy shore is often heard the roar of the boiling sea,

But wilder far is the madd'ning shout that now is heard by thee;

The voice of the soldier's rage when the foe with the prize is fled,

And the bursting yell of pale despair when hope itself is dead;

Then o'er that warrior-band in wrath a deathlike silence

pass'd

As they gazed when Sitrick's sails unfurl'd swell'd proudly to the blast.

And must he go? Shall Monomia's king serve in a hostile land?

Oh, for one ship! with Irish hearts, to crush that Danish band!

But hark! a cheer-and the list'ning hills give back the joyous sound.

A sail-a sail is seen away where the skies the waters

bound.

There's a pause anew-each searching eye is on that sail afar;

Again the cheer rings loud and high-'tis Monomia's ship of war.

Boldly they come o'er the swelling tide, their men as wild and free

As winds that play on the mountain's side, or waves that course the sea.

And well they come to free their king from robbers of the main ;

His sceptre ne'er a tyrant's rod, nor his rule a tyrant's chain.

And onward towards the foe they steer—a sight sublimely grand

War's stern array hath there an awe it never knows on land.

Soon many a sword salutes the sun, drawn in that deadly strife,

From many a heart that bounded high soon flows the tide of life.

The king-the king-to free the king bold Fionn hews his way,

And woe to him who meets his sword on this eventful

day.

The king is won; but the lion heart that sets his master free

Is deeply pierced-as he cuts the cord his life-blood dyes the sea.

Brave Fionn's head is held on high, the Irish to appal, But they rush more fiercely to the fight, led on by young Fingall.

Sternly, foot to foot and sword to sword, for death or life they meet,

And brave, though few, they long withstand the hordes of Sitrick's fleet;