_Sarah Robertson Matheson._ IV IRELAND GOLDSMITH CLXI HOME In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs--and God has given my share-- I still had hopes my later hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life’s taper at the close And keep the flame from wasting by repose; I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return--and die at home at last. _Oliver Goldsmith._ ANONYMOUS CLXII THE WEARIN’ O’ THE GREEN O, Paddy dear! an’ did ye hear the news that’s goin’ round? The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground; No more St. Patrick’s Day we’ll keep, his colour can’t be seen, For there’s a cruel law agin the wearin’ o’ the green! I met wid Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand, And he said, ‘How’s poor Ould Ireland, and how does she stand?’ She’s the most disthressful country that iver yet was seen, For they’re hangin’ men and women there for wearin’ o’ the green. An’ if the colour we must wear is England’s cruel red, Let it remind us of the blood that Ireland has shed; Then pull the shamrock from your hat and throw it on the sod,-- And never fear, ’twill take root there, tho’ under foot ’tis trod! When law can stop the blades of grass from growin’ as they grow, And when the leaves in summer-time their colour dare not show, Then I will change the colour, too, I wear in my caubeen, But till that day, plaze God, I’ll stick to wearin’ o’ the green. _Anonymous._ MOORE CLXIII THE MINSTREL BOY The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you’ll find him; His father’s sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him. ‘Land of song!’ said the warrior bard, ‘Tho’ all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee!’ The Minstrel fell!--but the foeman’s chain Could not bring his proud soul under; The harp he loved ne’er spoke again, For he tore its chords asunder; And said, ‘No chain shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery! Thy songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery.’ _Thomas Moore._ CLXIV A SONG OF THE IRISH Remember the glories of Brien the brave, Tho’ the days of the hero are o’er, Tho’ lost to Mononia, and cold in the grave, He returns to Kincora no more! That star of the field, which so often has pour’d Its beam on the battle, is set; But enough of its glory remains on each sword To light us to victory yet!