I've heard the songs by Liffey's wave That maidens sung-- They sung their land the Saxon's slave, In Saxon tongue-- O! bring me here that Gaelic dear Which cursed the Saxon foe, When thou didst charm my raptured ear, _Mo craoibhin cno_! And none but God's good angels near, _Mo craoibhin cno_! I've wandered by the rolling Lee! And Lene's green bowers-- I've seen the Shannon's wide-spread sea And Limerick's towers-- And Liffey's tide, where halls of pride Frown o'er the flood below; My wild heart strays to Amhan-mhor's side, _Mo craoibhin cno_! With love and thee for aye to bide, _Mo craoibhin cno_! _Edward Walsh_ MAIRGRÉAD NI CHEALLEADH At the dance in the village thy white foot was fleetest; Thy voice in the concert of maidens was sweetest; The swell of thy white breast made rich lovers follow; And thy raven hair bound them, young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh. Thy neck was, lost maid, than the _ceanabhan_ whiter, And the glow of thy cheek than the _monadan_ brighter; But death's chain hath bound thee, thine eye's glazed and hollow, That shone like a sunburst, young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh. No more shall mine ear drink thy melody swelling; Nor thy beamy eye brighten the outlaw's dark dwelling; Or thy soft heaving bosom my destiny hallow, When thine arms twine around me, young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh. The moss couch I brought thee to-day from the mountain, Has drank the last drop of thy young heart's red fountain-- For this good scian beside me stuck deep and run hollow In thy bosom of treason, young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh. With strings of rich pearls thy white neck was laden, And thy fingers with spoils of the Sassanach maiden: Such rich silks enrob'd not the proud dames of Mallow-- Such pure gold they wore not as Mairgréad ni Chealleadh. Alas! that my loved one her outlaw would injure-- Alas! that he e'er proved her treason's avenger! That this right hand should make thee a bed cold and hollow, When in Death's sleep it laid thee, Young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh! And while to this lone cave my deep grief I'm venting, The Saxon's keen bandog my footstep is scenting, But true men await me afar in Duhallow, Farewell, cave of slaughter, and Mairgréad ni Chealleadh. _Edward Walsh_ FROM THE COLD SOD THAT'S O'ER YOU _From the Irish_ From the cold sod that's o'er you I never shall sever; Were my hands twined in yours, Love, I'd hold them for ever. My fondest, my fairest, We may now sleep together! I've the cold earth's damp odour, And I'm worn from the weather.