We drink the memory of the brave, The faithful and the few-- Some lie far off beyond the wave, Some sleep in Ireland, too; All, all are gone--but still lives on The fame of those who died; All true men, like you, men, Remember them with pride. Some on the shores of distant lands Their weary hearts have laid, And by the stranger's heedless hands Their lonely graves were made; But, though their clay be far away Beyond the Atlantic foam, In true men, like you, men, Their spirit's still at home. The dust of some is Irish earth; Among their own they rest; And the same land that gave them birth Has caught them to her breast; And we will pray that from their clay Full many a race may start Of true men, like you, men, To act as brave a part. They rose in dark and evil days To right their native land; They kindled here a living blaze That nothing shall withstand. Alas! that Might can vanquish Right-- _They_ fell, and passed away; But true men, like you, men, Are plenty here to-day. Then here's their memory--may it be For us a guiding light, To cheer our strife for liberty, And teach us to unite! Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, Though sad as theirs your fate; And true men, be you, men, Like those of Ninety-Eight. _John Kells Ingram_ THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE; OR, THE EMIGRANT'S ADIEU TO BALLYSHANNY Adieu to Ballyshanny! where I was bred and born; Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as night and morn; The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known, And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own; There's not a house or window, there's not a field or hill, But East or West, in foreign lands, I'll recollect them still. I leave my warm heart with you, tho' my back I'm forced to turn-- So adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne! No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter down the Mall, When the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon to the fall. The boat comes straining on her net, and heavily she creeps, Cast off, cast off--she feels the oars, and to her berth she sweeps; Now fore and aft keep hauling, and gathering up the clew, Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the crew. Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit, and many a joke and 'yarn':-- Adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!