The Grave Of The Martyrs.[D]

Far away from the home and the friends they love best, ’Mid murd’rers and felons all silent they rest; Not a cross, not a stone, marks the desolate spot Where the bones of our martyred ones crumble and rot!

In the cold prison ground, sad and lone, side by side, With their faces to Ireland, they sleep as they died; And the Angel of Liberty, hovering near, On the consecrate grave drops a pitying tear!

Surrounded by foemen, ’mid jeering and hate, True as steel to the last, they went forth to their fate, With a prayer for thy cause on the high gallows-tree-- Dear home of our fathers! they perished for thee!

When they took them away from that desolate place, They found death had left a bright smile on each face, So they buried them quickly, lest true men should see How the hosts of the tyrant were baffled by Three!

For still are they free, as no tyrant can bind The proud, chainless soul or the fetterless mind; And though the cold limbs may be laid in the grave, Soul and mind are enshrined in the hearts of the brave!

Long, long may our land guard and treasure each name, Till a nation made free hymns their glorious fame; And our grandsons shall tell that from yonder cold grave Sprang the spirit yet destined our nation to save!

DEATH’S VICTORY.

IN MEMORIAM JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY.

The Poet may grieve for his Art’s vacant throne; The Patriot mourn for a brave spirit flown; For the loss of a hero the Soldier may sigh, And the Church miss a star from her glorious sky.

But with these ’tis not death--for through every age, In the lore of the Student, in History’s page, In the stories they tell, the examples they give, Of Genius and Truth--he will live! he will live!

With the cypress the laurel of glory shall twine To deck the white shaft that will rise o’er his shrine; In sunshine a banner, in darkness a flame, To his land and his kindred shall long be his name.

But to those who have loved him, oh! what can replace The grasp of his hand or the light of his face, The true, tender friendship an angel might prize, That played round his lips and that shone in his eyes?

Ah! for us, faithful heart, he is lost in the grave Till he welcomes us, too, over death’s dismal wave; No solace can sweeten one tear that we shed-- He lives to the world, but to us he is dead.

THE GREEN FLAG AT FREDERICKSBURG.

Bear it up, bear it up, through the clouds of the battle, On, on, through the smoke and the glare; Though in hail-storms the balls from yon black ramparts rattle, We will plant it triumphantly there. Though now, by the eddying war-dust beclouded, ’Twas lost at the base of the hill, See again, on its summit, in flame-wreaths enshrouded, Our flag waves triumphantly still!

We have marched ’neath its folds over meadow and mountain, In sunshine and shower, side by side; To guard it we opened our hearts’ living fountain, Till it flowed in a hot crimson tide; And guard it we will for the dear ones who love us, Till death bids our warm hearts be chill, And our foes even then shall behold that above us Our flag waves triumphantly still!

’Tis the flag that our sires and our grandsires died under; The flag that our children shall bear When at home in the old land the cannon’s dread thunder Knells Tyranny’s doom on the air. ’Twill be born o’er the foam-crested waves of the ocean, And true hearts in Ireland shall thrill To see in the land of their love and devotion Our flag wave triumphantly still.

THE FLAG OF OUR LAND.

Come kinsmen, come clansmen, from South and from North, Hark! hark! the wild slogan of war pealing forth! It rings through each vale, and from peak unto peak The heather-clad mountains in thunder-tones speak; It calls on our loyal, our true, and our brave, From the whispering heath and the hollow-toned wave, With sabre and musket, and red battle-brand, To gather once more ’neath the Flag of our Land.

Shall the stranger still rule in the halls of our sires? Shall our waters still mirror the plunderers’ fires? Shall our manhood be lost, and our darling old sod By tyrants and traitors forever be trod? ’Mid the nations around us, oh, say, shall our name, Our cause, and our people be bywords for shame? No! We swear by the graves of our fathers to stand For freedom or death ’neath the Flag of our Land!

By the fame of our martyrs, the memory of those Who fell, side by side, ever fronting their foes; By the plunderers’ fires and the murderers’ steel; By the wrongs we have felt and the hatred we feel; By the scaffold’s red path and the dungeon’s dread gloom, And their myriad victims who call from the tomb, Meet the foe and strike home with a vengeance-nerved hand, Till his false blood shall crimson the Flag of our Land!

HURRAH FOR LIBERTY.

Arouse ye from your slumbering, Awake to life once more, The time for idle pleadings And for vain regrets is o’er; We’ll bend and crouch no more like hounds, But in a fight like men, With men’s brave hearts and men’s stout arms We’ll win our own again.

Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah for liberty! Till death we stand, To make our land A nation proud and free.

We bent unto the tyrant, And we prayed in vain for years, But now we’re going to try, boys, Rifle-balls instead of tears. Our sighs shall be the trumpet’s call, The rolling of the drum, And in future our petitions From the cannon’s mouth shall come.--Hurrah!

From Galway right to Wicklow, And from Cork to Donegal, We’ll march once more for liberty To win it or to fall. We’ll flaunt our flag from cliff and crag, And guard it with our steel; We’ll show our foes what deadly blows Each Irish arm can deal.--Hurrah!

In ages past the redcoats quailed Before our fathers’ might; Have we not still the courage left To battle for the right? Though cowards dread the troops in red, We’ll cross their steel with joy, And show that Irish valor was Not spent at Fontenoy.

The wily knave, the coward slave, To home and life may cling, But there’s no place for falsehood’s face Where gleaming sabres ring! We’ve thrown our gage, our lives we wage For Freedom and for Right; Appeals we’ve tried; now, God decide, Our last appeal is fight!

THE MESSENGER.