The Mountain Fern

Hurrah for the Fern ! — the Irish hill Fern ! —
That girds our blue lakes from Lough Ine to Lough Erne,
That waves on our crags like the plume of a king,
And bends, like a nun, over clear well and spring ;
The fairy's tall palm tree, the heath-bird's fresh nest,
And the couch the red deer deems the sweetest and best,
With the free winds to fan it, and dew-drops to gem, —
O what can ye match with its beautiful stem ?
From the shrine of Saint Finbar, by lone Avonbuie,
To the halls of Dunluce, with its towers by the sea,
From the hill of Knockthu to the rath of Moyvore,
Like a chaplet it circles our green island o'er, —
In the bawn of the chief, by the anchorite's cell,
On the hill-top, or greenwood, by streamlet or well,
With a spell on each leaf, which no mortal can learn, —
O there never was plant like the Irish hill Fern !

Hurrah for the Fern ! — the Irish hill Fern ! —
That shelters the weary, or wild roe, or kern.
Through the glens of Kilcoe rose a shout on the gale,
As the Saxons rushed forth, in their wrath, from the Pale,
With bandog and blood-hound, all savage to see,
To hunt through Clunealla the wild Rapparee !
Hark ! a cry from yon dell on the startled ear rings,
And forth from the wood the young fugitive springs,
Through the copse, o'er the bog, and, O saints, be his guide !
His fleet step now falters — there's blood on his side !
Yet onward he strains, climbs the cliff, fords the stream,
And sinks on the hill-top mid bracken leaves green,
And thick o'er his brow are their fresh clusters piled,
And they cover his form, as a mother her child ;
And the Saxon is baffled ! — they never discern
Where it shelters and saves him — the Irish hill Fern !

Hurrah for the Fern ! — the Irish hill Fern ! —
That pours a wild keen o'er the hero's grey cairn ;
Go, hear it at midnight, when stars are all out,
And the wind o'er the hill-side is moaning about,
With a rustle and stir, and a low wailing tone
That thrills through the heart with its whispering lone ;
And ponder its meaning, when haply you stray
Where the halls of the stranger in ruin decay.
With night owls for warders, the goshawk for guest,
And their dais of honour by cattle-hoofs prest —
With its fosse choked with rushes, and spider-webs flung,
Over walls where the marchmen their red weapons hung,
With a curse on their name, and a sigh for the hour
That tarries so long — look ! what waves on the tower !
With an omen and sign, and an augury stern,
'Tis the Green Flag of Time ! — 'tis the Irish hill Fern !