I’m bidding you a long farewell, My Mary--kind and true! But I’ll not forget you, darling, In the land I’m going to. They say there’s bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there; But I’ll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair. And when amid those grand old woods I sit and shut my eyes, My heart will travel back again To where my Mary lies; I’ll think I see the little stile Where we sat, side by side,-- And the springing corn and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride. _Lady Dufferin._ FERGUSON CLXXV O’BYRNE’S BARD TO THE CLANS OF WICKLOW (_From the Irish_) God be with the Irish host! Never be their battle lost! For, in battle, never yet Have they basely earned defeat. Host of armour, red and bright, May ye fight a valiant fight! For the green spot of the earth, For the land that gave you birth. Like a wild beast in his den, Lies the chief by hill and glen, While the strangers, proud and savage, Creean’s richest valleys ravage. When old Leinster’s sons of fame, Heads of many a warlike name, Redden their victorious hilts, On the Gaul, my soul exults. When the grim Gaul, who have come, Hither o’er the ocean foam, From the fight victorious go, Then my heart sinks deadly low. Bless the blades our warriors draw, God be with Clan Ranelagh! But my soul is weak for fear, Thinking of their danger here. Have them in Thy holy keeping, God be with them lying sleeping, God be with them standing fighting, Erin’s foes in battle smiting! _Sir Samuel Ferguson._ CLXXVI THE HILLS OF IRELAND (_From the Irish_) A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer, _Uileacán dubh O!_ Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear, _Uileacán dubh O!_ There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand, And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fann’d, There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i’ the yellow sand On the fair hills of holy Ireland. Curl’d he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee, _Uileacán dubh O!_ Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea, _Uileacán dubh O!_ And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand, Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand, And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command, For the fair hills of holy Ireland. _Sir Samuel Ferguson._ DAVIS CLXXVII MY LAND She is a rich and rare land; O! she’s a fresh and fair land; She is a dear and rare land-- This native land of mine. No men than hers are braver-- Her women’s hearts ne’er waver; I’d freely die to save her, And think my lot divine. She’s not a dull or cold land; No! she’s a warm and bold land; O! she’s a true and old land-- This native land of mine.