"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 brave 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 moun tain, Its woody slope bright with the glow, Where sang by a murmuring fountain, COLLEEN DA'S CROOTIA NA MO. 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 Of COLLEEN DA'S CROOTIA NA MO. "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 MÒ. 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, The COLLEEN DA'S CROOTIA NA MO. THE CLADDAGH BOATMAN. JEREMIAH J. DOWLING.† I am a Claddagh boatman bold, "Vulgo, Asthoreen." † Of Tipperary. From morn to night, from dark tc light, My wants are few, my heart is true, I have a fair and gentle wife, I have a son, a gallant boy, Thank God, I have another child, With love so true and tender. Though oft will rage the howling blast I ne'er complain of wind or rain, When Sunday brings the hours of rest, To swear I'm loth, but by my oath, THE SHAN VAN VOCHT. CHARLES J. KICKHAM. THERE are ships upon the sea, Says the Shan Van Vocht; There are good ships on the sea, Says the Shan Van Vocht, Oh they're sailing o'er the sea, Says the Shan Van Vocht. They are coming from the West, Says the Shun Van Vocht; |