Another Clare is here to lead
The worthy son of such a breed
The French expect some famous deed,
When Clare leads on his bold Dra
Our colonel comes from Brien's race;
His wounds are in his breast and face
The bearna baoghoil is still his place,
The foremost of his bold dragoons.
Vive la, &c., as 2d verse.
There's not a man in squadron here, Was ever known to flinch or fear ; Though first in charge and last in rear Have ever been Lord Clare's Dra
But see, we'll soon have work to do,
To shame our boasts, or prove them true,
For hither comes the English crew,
To sweep away Lord Clare's Dra-
goons.
Vive la, &c., as 1st verse.
O comrades, think how Ireland pines
Her exiled lords, her rifled shrines,
Her dearest hopes, her ordered lines,
And bursting charge of Clare's Dra-
goons.
Then fling your green flag to the sky,
Be Limerick your battle cry,
And charge till blood flows fetlock high, Around the track of Clare's Dragoons. Vive la, &c., as 2d verse.
THE WEARING OF THE GREEN
ONE blessing on my native isle !
One curse upon her foes!
While yet her skies above me smile,
Her breeze around me blows:
Now, never more my cheek be wet;
Nor sigh, nor altered mien,
Tell the dark tyrant I regret
The Wearing of the Green.
Sweet land! my parents loved you well;
They sleep within your breast;
With theirs for love no words can tell-
My bones must never rest.
And lonely must my true love stray,
That was our village queen,
When I am banished far away,
For the Wearing of the Green.
But, Mary, dry that bitter tear,
'T would break my heart to see •
And sweetly sleep my parents dear,
That cannot weep for me.
I'll think not of my distant tomb,
Nor seas rolled wide between,
But watch the hour, that yet will come,
For the Wearing of the Green.
O, I care not for the thistle,
And I care not for the rose,
For when the cold winds whistle
Neither down nor crimson shows;
But like hope to him that's friendless
Where no gaudy flower is seen,
By our graves, with love that 's endless,
Waves our own true-hearted Green.
O, sure God's world was wide enough,
And plentiful for all!
And ruined cabins were no stuff
To build a lordly hall;
They might have let the poor man live,
Yet all as lordly been;
But heaven its own good time will give For the Wearing of the Green.
As down on Banna's banks I strayed,
One evening in May,
The little birds, in blithest notes,
Made vocal every spray.
They sung their little tales of love;
They sung them o'er and o'er;
Ah! gramachree ma Collanoge,
Ma Molly astore.
The daisy pied, and all the sweets
The dawn of nature yields,
The primrose pale, the violet blue,
Lay scattered o'er the fields
s;
Such fragrance in the bosom lies
Of her whom I adore.
Ah, gramachree, &c.
I laid me down upon a bank,
Bewailing my sad fate,
That doomed me thus the slave of love,
And cruel Molly's hate.
How can she break the honest heart
That wears her in its core?
Ah, gramachree, &c.
You said you loved me, Molly dear;
Ah! why did I believe?
Yet who could think such tender words
Were meant but to deceive?
That love was all I asked on earth :
Nay, Heaven could give no more.
Ah, gramachree, &c.
O, had I all the flocks that graze
On yonder yellow hill,
Or lowed for me the num'rous herds
That yon green pastures fill,
With her I love I'd gladly share
My kine and fleecy store.
Ah, gramachree, &c.
Two turtle doves, above my head,
Sat courting on a bough;
I envied them their happiness,
To see them bill and coo:
Such fondness once for me she showed,
But now, alas! 't is o'er.
Ah, gramachree, &c.
Then fare thee well, my Molly dear;
Thy loss I e'er shall mourn :
Whilst life remains in Strephon's heart,
'T will beat for thee alone.
Though thou art false, may Heaven on thee
Its choicest blessings pour.
Ah, gramachree, &c.
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