The Spirit of the Nation: Ballads and Songs by the Writers of "The Nation," Wth Original and Ancient Music, Arraged for the Voice and Piano-forte
J. Duffy, 1845 - Ballads, English - 347 pages
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arms band battle bear beauty bless blood bold brave breast brother cause chief comes dare dark dead dear death deep dream earth English Erin fair fear feel field fight flag foreign freedom friends give glory grave green guard hand hath head heart Heaven hill hope hour Hurrah Ireland Irish isle King land light live look Lord man's meet mind mountain native never o'er once Orange pass patriot peace plain poor Poss pride proud raise rock rose round Ruin rush Saxon seen shame shore slave song sons soon spirit stand strike strong sweet sword tears thee THOMAS thou thought tide Till true tyrant voice vulgo wave weep White wild wrong young
Page 46 - 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.
Page 213 - Barri's wood the British soldiers burst, The French artillery drove them back, diminished and dispersed. The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye, And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride! And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide.
Page 6 - We thought you would not die — we were sure you would not go, And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky Oh ! why did you leave us, Owen? Why did you die?
Page 214 - More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round; As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground; Bombshell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fired — Fast from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired. "Push on my household cavalry;" King Louis madly cried; To death they rush, but rude their shock — not unavenged they died.
Page 215 - Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang, Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang : Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore ; Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags they tore ; The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered...
Page 47 - 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.
Page 47 - 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 passed 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!
Page 270 - I'll adore you ! Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ; Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't sever ! " I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them!
Page 270 - Come in the evening, or come in the morning, Come when you're looked for or come without warning; Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you. Light is my heart since the day we were plighted, Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "True lovers, don't sever!
Page 38 - Under the greenwood tree? Or on the wild heath, Where the wilder breath Of the storm doth blow? Oh, no ! oh, no ! Shall they bury me in the palace tombs, Or under the shade of cathedral domes? Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore; Yet not there — nor in Greece, though I love it more.