In famous eighty-eight, A plumed and belted lover Came to the Ferry Gate. She summoned to defend her Our sires,--a beardless race,-- They shouted, No surrender! And slammed it in his face. Then in a quiet tone, boys, They told him 'twas their will That the Maiden on her throne, boys, Should be a Maiden still. Next, crushing all before him, A kingly wooer came; (The royal banner o'er him Blushed crimson deep for shame;) He showed the Pope's commission, Nor dreamed to be refused; She pitied his condition, But begged to stand excused. In short, the fact is known, boys, She chased him from the hill, For the Maiden on the throne, boys, Would be a Maiden still. On our brave sires descending, 'Twas then the tempest broke, Their peaceful dwellings rending, 'Mid blood and flame and smoke. That hallowed grave-yard yonder, Swells with the slaughtered dead,-- O brothers, pause and ponder! It was for us they bled; And while their gifts we own, boys, The fane that tops the hill, O, the Maiden on her throne, boys, Shall be a Maiden still! Nor wily tongue shall move us, Nor tyrant arm affright; We'll look to One above us, Who ne'er forsook the right; Who will may crouch and tender The birthright of the free, But, brothers, No surrender, No compromise for me! We want no barrier stone, boys, No gates to guard the hill, Yet the Maiden on her throne, boys, Shall be a Maiden still. ----Charlotte Elizabeth (_Tonna_). SIR TURLOUGH; OR, THE CHURCHYARD BRIDE [Illustration: 0196] |The bride, she bound her golden hair-- Killeevy, O Killeevy! And her step was light as the breezy air When it bends the morning flowers so fair, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. And oh, but her eyes they danc'd so bright, Killeevy, O Killeevy! As she longed for the dawn of to-morrow's light, Her bridal vows of love to plight, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The bridegroom is come with youthful brow, Killeevy, O Killeevy! To receive from his Eva her virgin vow; "Why tarries the bride of my bosom now?" By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. A cry! a cry!'twas her maidens spoke, Killeevy, O Killeevy! "Your bride is asleep--she has not awoke, And the sleep she sleeps will never be broke," By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. Sir Turlough sank down with a heavy moan, Killeevy, O Killeevy! And his cheek became like the marble stone-- "Oh, the pulse of my heart is for ever gone!" By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The keen is loud, it comes again, Killeevy, O Killeevy! And rises sad from the funeral train, As in sorrow it winds along the plain, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. And oh, but the plumes of white were fair, Killeevy, O Killeevy!