Here the deep bell its wonted warning rung, To prompt the lukewarm loitering one to pray; Here the full choir sent forth its stream of sound, And the raised censer flung rich fragrance far around.” How changed the scene! - how lonely now appears Through the rent roof the aged ivy creeps; Stretched on the floor the skulking fox is found; The drowsy owl beneath the altar sleeps, And the pert daws keep chattering all around; The hissing weasel lurks apart unseen, And slimy reptiles crawl where holy heads have been. In the refectory now no food remains; Prior, brethren, prayers, and fasts and forms are fled : Of each, of all, here rests not now a trace, Save in these time-bleached bones that whiten o'er the place. O that such power to baseness was decreed; O that mischance such triumphs should supply; That righteous Heaven should let the vile succeed, And leave the lonely virtuous one to die! O Justice, in the struggle where wert thou? I too have changed, - my days of joy are done, My limbs grow weak, and dimness shades mine eye; Friends, kindred, children, dropping one by one, Beneath these walls now mouldering round me lie. My look is sad, my heart has shrunk in grief, O Death, when wilt thou come and lend a wretch relief? John O'Cullane. Tr. Thomas Furlong. Tipperary. TIPPERARY. ET Britain boast her British hosts, LP About them all right little care we; Can match the man of Tipperary! Tall is his form, his heart is warm, That sweeps the hills of Tipperary! Lead him to fight for native land, Yet meet him in his cabin rude, Or dancing with his dark-haired Mary, You 're free to share his scanty meal, Soft is his cailin's sunny eye, Her mien is mild, her step is airy, Her heart is fond, her soul is high, O, she's the pride of Tipperary! Let Britain brag her motley rag; We'll lift the green more proud and airy; - Though Britain boasts her British hosts, Thomas Davis. THE HILLS OF SWEET TIPPERARY. MARY dear, 't is long ago Since hand in hand together We sat in pleasant Rossaroe, Amidst the blooming heather; Your eyes were like the lustre shed Your cheeks were like the roses red O, the hills, the hills so green, May heaven shine o'er them ever sheen, We sat while evening's light illumed Where heather bells and gorse flowers bloomed Like strains from haunts of faery, Our vespers for the closing day The bubbling well, the ruined cairn O, the hills, etc. What vows in that sweet spot we made Nor dreamed that joy could falsely fade, So blindly rapt in love were we, What hopes were doomed, what fortunes fell, Since you and I together Sat by St. Brendan's sunlit well, I wander far from Rossaroe, No longer blithe and airy, And on your grave the shamrocks grow, Mid green hills of Tipperary. O, the hills, the hills so green, The hills so high and airy, May heaven shine o'er them ever sheen, Robert Dwyer Joyce. Tor Conainn. THE LEGENDS. HEY fought ere sunrise at Tor Conainn; THEY All day they fought on the wild sea-shore. The sun dropped downward, they fought amain; The tide rose upward, they fought the more. |