THE IRISH RAPPAREES

RIGH Shemus1 he has gone to France, and left his crown behind;

Ill luck be theirs, both day and night, put running in his mind!

Lord Lucan followed after with his Slashers brave and true,

And now the doleful keen is raised "What will poor Ireland do? What must poor Ireland do?

Our luck," they say, "has gone to France what can poor Ireland do?"

O, never fear for Ireland, for she has soldiers still,

For Rory's boys are in the wood, and Remy's on the hill !

And never had poor Ireland more loyal hearts than these

May God be kind and good to them, the faithful Rapparees!

The fearless Rapparees! The jewel were you, Rory, with your Irish Rapparees!

O, black's your heart, Clan Oliver, and colder than the clay!

O, high's your head, Clan Sassenach, since Sarsfield 's gone away!

It's little love you bear to us for sake of long ago;

The Master's bawn, the Master's seat, a surly bodagh fills;

The Master's son, an outlawed man, is riding on the hills.

But God be prais'd that round him throng, as thick as summer bees,

The swords that guarded Limerick wall his loyal Rapparees!

His loving Rapparees!

Who dare say no to Rory Oge, with all his Rapparees?

Black Billy Grimes of Latnamard, he rack'd us long and sore

God rest the faithful hearts he broke !
we 'll never see them more;
But I'll go bail he 'll break no more, while
Truagh has gallows-trees;

For why?-he met, one lonesome night,
the fearless Rapparees!
The angry Rapparees!

They never sin no more, my boys, who cross the Rapparees !

Now, Sassenach and Cromweller, take heed of what I say,

Keep down your black and angry looks that scorn us night and day:

For there's a just and wrathful Judge that every action sees,

And He'll make strong, to right our wrong, the faithful Rapparees !

The fearless Rapparees!

The men that rode at Sarsfield's side, the roving Rapparees!

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD

WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?
Who blushes at the name?
When cowards mock the patriot's fate,
Who hangs his head for shame ?
He's all a knave or half a slave
Who slights his country thus;
But a true man, like you, man,
Will fill your glass with us.

We drink the memory of the brave,
The faithful and the few:
Some lie far off beyond the wave,
Some sleep in Ireland, too;
All, all are gone - but still lives on
The fame of those who died:
All true men, like you, men,

Remember them with pride.

Some on the shores of distant lands
Their weary hearts have laid,
And by the stranger's heedless hands
Their lonely graves were made;
But, though their clay be far away
Beyond the Atlantic foam,
In true men, like you, men,
Their spirit's still at home.

The dust of some is Irish earth;
Among their own they rest;
And the same land that gave them birth
Has caught them to her breast;
And we will pray that from their clay
Full many a race may start
Of true men, like you, men,
To act as brave a part.

They rose in dark and evil days
To right their native land;

They kindled here a living blaze
That nothing shall withstand.
Alas, that Might can vanquish Right!
They fell, and pass'd away;

But true men, like you, men,
Are plenty here to-day.

Then here's their memory-may it be
For us a guiding light,

To cheer our strife for liberty,

And teach us to unite!

Through good and ill, be Ireland's still,
Though sad as theirs your fate;
And true men be you, men,

Like those of Ninety-Eight.