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66 Tell him the house is lonesome-like and cold,

The fire itself seems robbed of half its light;

But, maybe, 't is my eyes are growing old,

And things look dim before my failing sight.

For all that, tell him 't was myself that spun

The shirts you bring, and stitched them every one.

"Give him my blessing, morning, noon, and night,

Tell him my prayers are offered for his good,

That he may keep his Maker still in sight, And firmly stand, as his rave father stood,

True to his name, his country, and his God,

Faithful at home, and steadfast still abroad."

THE CAILIN DEAS, AIR-"Colleen da's crootia na mo.


THE gold rain of eve was descending, Bright purple robed mountain and tree, As I through Glenmornein was wending, A wanderer from o'er the blue sea. 'Twas the lap of a west looking mountain,

Its woody slope bright with the glow, Where sang by a murmuring fountain,


Dark clouds where a gold tinge reposes But picture her brown, wavy hair, And her teeth look'd as if in a rose's

Red bosom a snow-flake gleamed fair, As her tones down the green dell went ringing,

The list'uing thrush mimicked them low,

And the brooklet harped soft to the singing


"An cailin deas cruidte nam-bo," should be pro nounced by the mere English reader as "collyeen dass crootia na mo"-it signifies, "The pretty girl of the milking of cows," or the pretty milkmaid.

"At last, o'er thy long night, dear Erin! Dawns the Sun of thy Freedom," sang she;

"But thy mountaineers still are despairing

Ah, he who mid bondmen was free, Ah, my Diarmid, the Patriot-hearted, Who would fire them with hope for the blow,

Far, Erin! from thee is he parted,

Far from COLLEEN DA'S CROOTIA NA MO Her tears, on a sudden, brimmed over, Her voice trembled low and less clear ; To listen, I stepped from my cover, But the bough-rustle broke on her ear; She started-she redden'd-"A Stoir. in ! *

My Diarmid!--Oh, can it be so ?" And I clasped to my glad heart sweet Moirin,


I am a Claddagh boatman bold,
And humble is my calling,
"Vulgo, Asthoreen."

† Of Tipperary.

From morn to night, from dark tc light,
In Galway Bay I'm trawling ;
I care not for the great man's frown,
I ask not for his pity;

My wants are few, my heart is true,
I sing a boatman's ditty.

I have a fair and gentle wife,
Her name is Eily Holway;
With many a wile, and joke, and smile,
I won the pride of Galway;
For twenty years, 'mid hopes and fears,
With her I've faithful tarried;
Her heart to-night is young and light,
As when we first were married.

I have a son, a gallant boy,
Unstained by spot or speckle;
He pulls and hauls and mends the trawls,
And miuds the other tackle;
His mother says, the boy like me,
Loves truth and hates all blarney.
The neighbors swear, in Galway Bay
There's not the like of Barney.

Thank God, I have another child,
Like Eily, lithe and slender;
She clasps my knee, and kisses me

With love so true and tender. Though oft will rage the howling blast Upon the angry water,

I ne'er complain of wind or rain,
For I think of my little daughter.

When Sunday brings the hours of rest,
That sweet reward of labors,
We cross the fields to early Mass
And walk home with our neighbors.
Oh! would the rest of Erin's sons
Were but like us united;
To swear I'm loth, but by my oath,
Her name should not be slighted.



THERE are ships upon the sea,

Says the Shan Van Vocht; There are good ships on the sea,

Says the Shan Vau Vocht, Oh they're sailing o'er the sea, From a land where all are free, With a freight that's dear to me, Says the Shan Van Vocht.

They are coming from the West,

Says the Shun Van Vocht;

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