FARRAGUT, Farragut,

Old Heart of Oak,
Daring Dave Farragut,
Thunderbolt stroke,
Watches the hoary mist
Lift from the bay,
Till his flag, glory-kissed,
Greets the young day.

Far, by gray Morgan's walls,
Looms the black fleet.
Hark, deck to rampart calls
With the drums' beat!
Buoy your chains overboard,
While the steam hums;
Men! to the battlement,
Farragut comes.

See, as the hurricane

Hurtles in wrath
Squadrons of clouds amain
Back from its path!
Back to the parapet,
To the guns' lips,
Thunderbolt Farragut
Hurls the black ships.

De Lord spoke to Gabriel:
Say, go look behind de altar,
Take down de silver trumpet,
Go down to de sea-side,
Place one foot on de dry land,
Place de oder on de sea,
Raise your hand to heaven,
Declare by your Maker,
Dat time shall be no longer,

In dat great gittin'-up Mornin', etc.

Blow your trumpet, Gabriel.
Lord, how loud shall I blow it?
Blow it right calm and easy,
Do not alarm my people,
Tell dem to come to judgment,

In dat great gittin'-up Mornin', etc.

Gabriel, blow your trumpet.
Lord, how loud shall I blow it?
Loud as seven peals of thunder,
Wake de sleepin' nations.
Den you see poor sinner risin',
See de dry bones a creepin',

In dat great gittin'-up Mornin', etc.

Den you see de world on fire,
You see de moon a bleedin',
See de stars a fallin',
See de elements meltin',
See de forked lightnin',

Hear de rumblin' thunder.

IN a valley, centuries ago,

Grew a little fern-leaf, green and slender,

Veining delicate and fibres tender; Waving when the wind crept down so low; Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it,

Playful sunbeams darted in and found it,

Drops of dew stole in by night, and
crowned it,

But no foot of man e'er trod that way;
Earth was young and keeping holiday.

Monster fishes swam the silent main,

Stately forests waved their giant branches,

Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches,

Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain;

THE DAWNING O' THE YEAR ALL ye who love the springtime — and who but loves it well

When the little birds do sing, and the buds begin to swell!

Think not ye ken its beauty, or know its face so dear,

Till ye look upon old Ireland, in the dawning o' the year!

For where in all the earth is there any joy like this,

When the skylark sings and soars like a spirit into bliss,

While the thrushes in the bush strain their small brown mottled throats, Making all the air rejoice with their clear and mellow notes;