Again came a knock to the abbey gate,
While sad the wind moaned through bower and tree, And Alleyn arose and opened the gate,
And entered the room a Rapparee.
And haggard and pale and begrimed was he, As he leant on a spear in drooping state;
His scanty garments scarcely reached his knee, Yet, though feeble and worn was his mien and gait, Still he glared on the Saxon with a look of hate.
Again came a knock to the abbey gate,
And a voice outside made a rueful din,
And Thade uprose and opened the gate;
And lo! he ushered a Gleeman in.
Threadbare his cloak, he was wet to the skin;
Yet the leer of his eye told a roguish mate,
And he winked around with a cunning grin,
As deep in the flagon he stuck his chin,
And scarce would the loon for a blessing wait,
When his kind host heaped the food on his plate.
And there long they sat by that bogwood fire,
The monks of Kilcrea and those travellers three,
And each as they sat by that bogwood fire
Told by turns their name and their history, -
The Saxon, the Gleeman, the Rapparee,--
And, gentles, once more, if ye do not tire,
I'll sing to you each in their due degree,
As of old a sennachie taught the lay to me.
THE French are on the say!
Says the Shan Van Vocht; The French are on the say,
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
O, the French are in the bay!
They'll be here without delay,
And the Orange will decay,
Says the Shan Van Vocht:
O, the French are in the bay!
They'll be here by break of day,
And the Orange will decay,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
And where will they have their camp?
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
Where will they have their camp?
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
On the Currach of Kildare,
The boys they will be there
With their pikes in good repair,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
To the Currach of Kildare
The boys they will repair,
And Lord Edward will be there,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
Then what will the yeomen do?
Says the Shan Van Vocht; What will the yeomen do?
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
What should the yeomen do,
But throw off the red and blue,
And swear that they'll be true
To the Shan Van Vocht ?
What should the yeomen do,
But throw off the red and blue,
And swear that they'll be true
To the Shan Van Vocht?
And what color will they wear?
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
What color will they wear?
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
What color should be seen,
Where our fathers' homes have been,
But our own immortal green?
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
What color should be seen,
Where our fathers' homes have been,
But our own immortal green?
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
And will Ireland then be free?
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
Will Ireland then be free?
Says the Shan Van Vocht; Yes! Ireland shall be free,
From the centre to the sea;
Then hurrah for liberty!
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
Yes! Ireland shall be free,
From the centre to the sea;
Then hurrah for liberty!
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
SHOULD you e'er meet with Kate Kearney,
Who lives near the lakes of Killarney,
Of her dark eyes beware, for love's witching snare
Lies hid in the glance of Kate Kearney.
For those eyes, so seducingly beaming,
Will kill ere of mischief you're dreaming;
And who dares to view her cheek's rosy hue
Must die by the spell of Kate Kearney!
At eve, should you meet this Kate Kearney,
On the balm-breathing banks of Killarney,
Of her smile, O, beware, for fatal's the snare
Concealed in the smile of Kate Kearney.
Though her hair o'er her snowy neck 's streaming,
Her looks with simplicity teeming,
Beware ere you sip the balm from her lip,
For fatal's the breath of Kate Kearney!
OF all the fair montlis that round the sun
In light-linked dance their circles run,
Sweet May, shine thou for me;
For still, when thy earliest beams arise,
That youth who beneath the blue lake lies,
Sweet May, returns to me.
Of all the bright haunts where daylight leaves
Its lingering smile on golden eves,
Fair lake, thou 'rt dearest to me;
For when the last April sun grows dim,
Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him
Who dwells, bright lake, in thee.
Of all the proud steeds that ever bore
Young plumed chiefs on sea or shore,
White steed, most joy to thee;
Who still, with the first young glance of spring,
From under that glorious lake dost bring
My love, my chief, to me.
While, white as the sail some bark unfurls
When newly launched, thy long mane curls,
Fair steed, as white and free;
And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers,
Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers
Around my love and thee.
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