Lord Clare on the field of Ramillies is charging, Before him the Sasanach squadrons enlarging, Behind him the Cravats their sections display, Beside him rides Fergus and shouts for Finae.

On the slopes of La Judoigne the Frenchmen are flying,

Lord Clare and his squadrons the foe still defying, Outnumbered, and wounded, retreat in array; And bleeding rides Fergus and thinks of Finae.

In the cloisters of Ypres a banner is swaying, And by it a pale weeping maiden is praying; That flag's the sole trophy of Ramillies' fray, This nun is poor Eily, the Flower of Finae.

SHULE AROON.

THOMAS DAVIS.

[The following old Irish ballad has reference to the same event.]

I WOULD I were on yonder hill,
'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,
And every tear would turn a mill,
Is go de tu mo murnin slàn.

Shule, shule, shule aroon,

Shule go succir, agus shule go cuin,
Shule go den durrus augus cligh glum,
Is
go de tu mo murnin slàn.

I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,
I'll sell my only spinning-wheel,
To buy for my love a sword of steel,
Is go de tu mo murnin slàn.

I'll dye my petticoats, - -dye them red,
And round the world I'll beg my bread,
Until my parents shall wish me dead,
Is go de tu mo murnin slàn.

I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,
I wish I had my heart again,
And vainly think I'd not complain,
Is go de tu mo murnin slàn.

But now my love has gone to France,
To try his fortune to advance,
If he e'er come back 't is but a chance,
Is go de tu mo murnin slàn.

ANONYMOUS.

THE MAID'S LAMENT.

I LOVED him not; and yet, now he is gone,
I feel I am alone.

I checked him while he spoke; yet could he speak,

Alas! I would not check.

For reasons not to love him once I sought,

And wearied all my thought

To vex myself and him : I now would give
My love, could he but live

Who lately lived for me, and when he found
'T was vain, in holy ground

He hid his face amid the shades of death!

I waste for him my breath

Who wasted his for me; but mine returns,
And this lone bosom burns

With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,

And waking me to weep

Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years Wept he as bitter tears!

"Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer, "These may she never share!"

Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold

Than daisies in the mould,

Where children spell athwart the churchyard gate
His name and life's brief date.

Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be,
And O, pray, too, for me!

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

THE LANDLADY'S DAUGHTER. THREE students were travelling over the Rhine; They stopped when they came to the landlady's sign;

"Good landlady, have you good beer and wine? And where is that dear little daughter of thine?"

"My beer and wine are fresh and clear;
My daughter she lies on the cold death-bier!"
And when to the chamber they made their way,
There, dead, in a coal-black shrine, she lay.

The first he drew near, and the veil gently raised,
And on her pale face he mournfully gazed :
"Ah! wert thou but living yet," he said,
"I'd love thee from this time forth, fair maid !"

The second he slowly put back the shroud,
And turned him away and wept aloud:
"Ah! that thou liest in the cold death-bier!
Alas! I have loved thee for many a year!"

The third he once more uplifted the veil,
And kissed her upon her mouth so pale :

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry;

For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped her to my bosom !
The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life

Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But, O, fell death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early!

Now green 's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary !

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kissed sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly;
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.

"But Willie's gone, whom I thought on,
And does not hear me weeping;
Draws many a tear frae true love's e'e
When other maids are sleeping.

"Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,
The night I'll mak' it narrow,
For a' the livelang winter night
I lie twined o' my marrow.

"O, came ye by yon water-side?
Pou'd you the rose or lily?
Or came you by yon meadow green,
Or saw you my sweet Willie?"

She sought him up, she sought him down,
She sought him braid and narrow;

Syne, in the cleaving of a craig,

She found him drowned in Yarrow !

MARY'S DREAM.

ANONYMOUS.

THE moon had climbed the highest hill
Which rises o'er the source of Dee,
And from the eastern summit shed

Her silver light on tower and tree,
When Mary laid her down to sleep,

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, When, soft and slow, a voice was heard, Saying, "Mary, weep no more for me!"

She from her pillow gently raised

Her head, to ask who there might be,
And saw young Sandy shivering stand,
With visage pale, and hollow e'e.
"O Mary dear, cold is my clay;
It lies beneath a stormy sea.
Far, far from thee I sleep in death;
So, Mary, weep no more for me!

"Three stormy nights and stormy days
We tossed upon the raging main ;
And long we strove our bark to save,
But all our striving was in vain.
Even then, when horror chilled my blood,
My heart was filled with love for thee:
The storm is past, and I at rest;

So, Mary, weep no more for me! "O maiden dear, thyself prepare ;

We soon shall meet upon that shore,
Where love is free from doubt and care,

And thou and I shall part no more!"
Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled,
No more of Sandy could she see;
But soft the passing spirit said,

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side

On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride;
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high;
And the red was on your lip, Mary,

And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary;
The day is bright as then;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,

And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek;
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You nevermore will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary;
I see the spire from here.
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest,
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends; But, O, they love the better still

The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary,

My blessin' and my pride;
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,

And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip,

And the kind look on your brow,
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break, -

If ever you should come to Modena, Where among other trophies may be seen Tassoni's bucket (in its chain it hangs (72) Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina), Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate, Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, Will long detain you; but, before you go, Enter the house - forget it not, I pray And look awhile upon a picture there.

'Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth,

The last of that illustrious family;

She was an only child, - her name Ginevra, The joy, the pride, of an indulgent Father; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gayety,

Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the Nuptial Feast,
When all sate down, the Bride herself was wanting,
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
"Tis but to make a trial of our love!"
And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'T was but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas, she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could anything be guessed,
But that she was not!

Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking, Flung it away in battle with the Turk.

He who observes it, ere he passes on,

Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,