'S gur mór an tuar cum cożad,
Cléir go buaidearċa a's poball,
Da reolad a g-cuantaib lomad,
Ann lar gleanna an t-sléib!

Is é mo ċreać majdne!
Nač b-uair mé bás gan peacad,
Sul a b-puair mé sgannaill,
Fa mo cuid féin!

'S a ljudaċt lá breaż fada,
D-t1g úblad cúṁra ar ċrannajb,
Duilleabar ar an n-dair,

Agus druċċ ar an b-féar!
'Nois taimse ruaigte óm' fearann,
A n-uaigneas b-fað óm' ċarajd,
Am' lujže go duairc faol sgartaib,
'Sa g-cuasaib an t-sléib!

'S muna b-faġad me suajṁneas feasda,
◊ daojne uaisle an bajle;

Tréigfid mé mo sealb,

Agus fagfad an saoġal!

JOHN O'DWYER OF THE GLEN.

Translated from the Irish.

BY DR. GEORGE SIGERSON.

AIR-" Seaghan O'Duibhir an Gleanna."

I've seen, full many a May-time,

Suns lead on the day-time,

Horns ring in that gay time

With birds' mellow call;

Badgers flee before us,
Wood-cock startle o'er us,

Guns make pleasant chorus,
Amid the echoes all;
The fox run high and higher,
Horsemen shouting nigher,
The peasant mourning by her
Fowl that mangled be.

Now they fell the wildwood ;-
Farewell, home of childhood!

Ah! John O'Dwyer, of Gleanna,*
Joy is not for thee!

*This poem is said to refer to a Colonel John O'Dwyer, a distinguished officer, who commanded in Tipperary and Waterford, about the middle of the seventeenth century, and subsequently emigrated to Spain with a large force of his warlike followers. The locality referred to is by some supposed to be the Glen of Aherlow, near Bansha: the late Col. Michael Doheny claimed that it was Glen Cullen. There are different versions of the song, which is very old.

It is my sorrow sorest,-
Woe! the falling forest!

The north wind gives me no rest,
And death's in the sky;

My faithful hound's tied tightly,
Never sporting lightly,

Who once could, day or nightly,
Win grief from the eye.

The antlered, noble-hearted
Stags are never started,

Never chased nor parted

From the furzy hills.

If Peace came, but a small way,
I'd journey down to Galway,
And leave though not for alway-
My Erin of ills.

The land of streamy valleys

Hath no Head, nor rallies ;

In city, camp or palace,

They never toast her name.

Alas! no warrior column,

From Cloyne to Stuac-naov-Columb;*
O'er plains now waste and solemn
The hares may rove tame.
Oh! when shall come the routing,
The English flight and flouting?
We hear no joyous shouting

From the blackbird† yet;

But more warlike grows the omen;-
Justice comes to no men;

Priests must flee the foemen,

To hilly caves and wet.

It is my daily ruin

That a sinless death's undoing
Came not, ere came the strewing
Of all my bright hopes.

Ah! many a pleasant day-time,
I've watched in Erin's May-time,

The sweet fruits scent that gay time,
And dew on oak and slopes.

Now, my lands are plunder;

Far my friends asunder;

I must hide me under

Heath and bramble screen.

If soon I cannot save me

By flight from foes that crave me,
O Death! at least I'll seek thee,
Our bitter foes between!

* Stuac-naov-Columb, the peak or hill of St. Columbkille, in Donegal.

+ The "Blackbird" was the term usually employed in Irish Jacobite ballads to indicate the exiled heir of the Stuarts.

THE DELIVERANCE OF BOSTON.

NEXT after the battle of Bunker Hill, the evacuation of Boston, which took place March 17, 1776, was the most conspicuous military event of the opening of the Revolution. Indeed, the flight of the British army was the first notable victory for the Revolutionists. Bunker Hill was almost an accidental episode. No flag was carried by the rebels, and the end to be gained by their resistance was only vaguely understood by the brave men who stood shoulder to shoulder on that blood-stained hill. But the Continental army on Dorchester Heights was commanded by Washington, and what he had called the "Union flag," a banner of red and white stripes, with the crosses of St. George and St. Andrew, was hoisted over the works. Concord, Lexington and Bunker Hill, were the opening signals of a long conflict. Bancroft says the forced evacuation of Boston was the first decisive victory of the industrious middling class over the most powerful representative of the medieval aristocracy."

When Washington began to complete the line which was to invest Boston, he had about nine thousand men. Lord Howe, commanding the British forces, was in town, with eight thousand men, and a powerful fleet, under Admiral Shuldham, was riding at anchor in the harbor. The British were strongly intrenched, well provisioned and amply supplied with ammunition. The patriots were short of powder, ill paid and short of rations. Howe had delayed his proposed attack on New York for the reason that he had not transports enough to move his army. Through the winter he had remained shut up in Boston, the wretched inhabitants of which town, harried and pinched though they were, remained defiant, hostile and resentful. The Tories of all the region around had gathered there for protection from the angry patriots; and it was not always possible for Howe to preserve the peace when these loyalists met their indignant fellow countrymen in the streets of Boston.

The British Ministry had urged the most crushing and severe measures toward the rebels. New England, earliest in the rebellion, was to be condignly punished. The resistance of the Colonists was to be ended there. Twenty thousand German mercenaries and recruits had been secured, and the ministers laughed at any suggestion of this being a long war, with a disastrous ending for Great Britain. Harmonious councils did not prevail among the American colonies, and many of the vol