TERESA MALONE.

'Twas in the year Ninety-Eight, that time of
blood and woe,
When many a Saxon reeled beneath a Rebel's
vengeful blow ;
And Brita n's troops before them flaw like chaff
before the gale,
As they heard the dreaded war cry of the sons
of Innisfail.
On June the six-and-twentieth, I've heard the
old people say,
The battle of Kilcummey had been fought and
lost that day,
The rebels they were routed, though they strove
with right good will,
And many a pikeman wandered that night upon
the hill !
The sun was brightly shining on this summer's
afternoon,
Like burnished gold was gleaming each helmeted
dragoon ;
Nine mounted Ancient Britons knocked at John
Murphy's gate,
Then burst the wicket open—no answer would
they wait.
Four were posted outside, the other five within,
'Twas short delay ; their hellish work the fiends
did soon begin ;
They heeded not the women's eries, they struck
the ready match,
And soon the blazes mounted high from rafter,
beam, and thatch.
Grimly smiled the bloodhounds, on each bearded
face a grin,
Little thinking on the vengeful foe that lay con-
cealed within—
For four of Wexford's bravest boys when ended
was the fray,
Sought shelter in a barn, and were hid beneath
the hay.
Said the leader of the Wexfords as he peeped
from out the door :
"Five troopers in the yard without, within we're
only four ;
In many a fray we fought them, boys, when num-
bered only to two,
Another blow for Ireland"—and the door he
open threw.
Five horses without riders are prancing through
the yard,
Four coursers 'neath the whip and spur were
pressing fast and hard,
To reach the shelter of the camp in yonder vale
below,
No head was turned to see if came the pikemen
quick or slow.
A maiden stopped from out the house, her hair
as raven's black ;
She picked a trooper's pistol up—leaped on a
horse's back,
Then, fast as ever racehorse yet was by a jockey
rode,
She spurred the noble charger down the Bally-
yellan road.
But when she came beside she tream that ripples
by the mill,
She turned around, and saw full close beside her
on the hill,
One the hunted troopers, who called on her

She ga im ready answer from the pistol in
her hand.
Then dashed she over ditch and dyke until she
gained the height,
Where the Rebel's silent watchfire was burnin
through the night.
From yonder ruined ivy tower in frigt the birds
have flown,
As they heard the cheer that greeted young
Teresa Malone.
She sleeps beneath the green sed in Ballinkillen
Chapelyard :
She saw the dawning of that light that nothing
can retard ;
She lived till old, she's passed away—peace to
her soul I pray :
We've maidens like her still, thank God, in
plenty here to day.

[NLS note: a graphic appears here - see image of page]

            Who fears to speak of '98.

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

            Air—" Auld Laug Syne."

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 of 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 clav be far away
Beyond the atlantic foam
In true men, like vou men
Their spirit's still at home

Lhe dust of some irish earth
Among their ow the 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 star
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,
Aias ! that might can vanquish—
They fell and pass' 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.