New Song on

the Dreadful Engagement,
and Tremendous loss of
The Irish in America.
You Irishmen and women too, draw
near both young and old,
A doleful lamentation now to you I
will unfold,
One hundred gallant Irishmen we are
left for to deplore.
Whose bodios fell a victim upon fail
Columbia's shore.

It was at the siege of New Orleans
upon the 9th of May,
Our countrymen they suffered so
upon that fatal day,

They were engaged by five to one
when enarged on with the steel,
But Erin's sons did loudly cry—we'll
die before we'll yield.
They were repulsed—they conld not
stand—exertion proved in vain,

They strove to break the enemy's
force and drive them off the plain,
But, alas ! their number was too
small and gave them no fair play,
Not one of them did there escape up
on that awful day.
to see the streets that evening each
heart would rend with pain,
The human blood in rivers ran like
any flood or stream,
Men's heads blown off their bodies
most dismal for to see,
And wounded men did loudly cry with
pain and agony.

The Federals they did then advanee
and broke in through the town,
They trampled dead (and wounded
men thar lay upon the ground—
The wounded called for mercy, but
none they did recieve ;

They numbered them among the dead
and threw them in a grave,
Thtee hundred kill'd and wounded
that day lay in their grave—
One half of them were Irishmen far
from their native shore,
Poor orphans now may weep and cry,
and parents rue the day,
They let their lovely children go on
to America.

All you that hear those doleful lines
do not neglect to toil,
And labour for a livelihood on bless'd
Saint Patrick's Isle,
And think upon our countrymen that
left their native shore;
Their friends may mourn for their loss
They'll never see them more.

Now to conclude in those few lines,
with grief I'll say no more ;
o u know it was through poverty they
left their native shore;
They had no one to heal their wounds
« may angels them surround,
Before the throne of heaven may the
wear a brilliant crown.

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

O'Connell's Dead !

Written and composed by P. M'Cabe, Carlow

O'Connell's dead, alas! for Erin,
Her sorrows and her wrongs,
That patriot soul no more shall yoarn,
For the land of many songs.

flow are we changed—oh ! land of woe,
Since this great tribune died,
What countless evils to us flow ;
In this nnholy Saxon tide.

Ghastly famin's hedious form,
Stalks broadly through the land,
Fierce hunger with its knawing worm,
Walks most boldly hand-in-hand.

Extermination's iron rod,
The peasant's cabin sweeps,
And where the poor man prayed to Go
Now fatten flocks of sheep.

The best and bravest of her sons,
Are exile's far aWay,—
Maning the strangers battle guns,
In many a raging bloody fray,

Spirit of a gallant race,
Martyred in this worthless strife,
Speak to your brethren words of peace
Tell them to spare their brothers life.

Or if in battle, ye must fight,
Then fight with fearless heart and will,
For the cause of justice and of right,
On Tipperary's lofty hills.

And more across the broad Atlantic,
Leaving frirnds and home behind,
Oh! the thought that drives them frantio
Is that their rulers are so unkind.

Let us pray that a day may yet come,
When our exile's returning shall float
the green flag high,
And proudly bear it to their own shore
Where its sunburs shall wave to
God in sky.