THE SHOUT OF NED OF THE HILL.[2]

I

The hill! the hill! with its sparkling rill,
And its dawning air so light and pure,
Where the morning's eye scorns the mist, that lie
On the drowsy valley and the moor.
Here, with the eagle, I rise betimes;
Here, with the eagle, my state I keep;
The first we see of the morning sun,
And his last as he sets o'er the deep,
And there, while strife is rife below,
Here from the tyrant I am free:
Let shepherd slaves the valley praise,
But the hill! the hill for me!

[2] The songs in this work are published by Duff and Hodgson, 65,
Oxford Street.

II

The baron below in his castle dwells,
And his garden boasts the costly rose;
But mine is the keep of the mountain steep,
Where the matchless wild flower freely blows.
Let him fold his sheep, and his harvest reap--
I look down from my mountain throne;
And I choose and pick of the flock and the rick,
And what is his I can make my own.
Let the valley grow in its wealth below,
And the lord keep his high degree;
But higher am I in my liberty--
The hill! the hill for me!

O'Connor's song was greeted with what the music-publishers are pleased
to designate, on their title-pages, "distinguished applause;" and his
"health and song" were filled to and drank with enthusiasm.

"Whose lines are those?" asked the doctor.

"I don't know," said O'Connor.

"That's as much as to say they are your own," said Growling. "Ned,
don't be too modest--it is the worst fault a man can have who wants to
get on in this world."

"The call is with you, Ned," shouted Murphy from the head of the table;
"knock some one down for a song."

"Mr. Reddy, I hope, will favour us," said Edward, with a courteous
inclination of his head towards the gentleman he named, who returned a
very low bow, with many protestations that he would "do his best," &c.:
"but after Mr. O'Connor, really,"--and this was said with a certain
self-complacent smile, indicative of his being on very good terms with
himself. Now, James Reddy wrote rhymes--bless the mark!--and was
tolerably well convinced that, except Tom Moore (if he _did_ except
even him), there was not a man in the British dominions his equal at a
lyric. He sang, too, with a kill-me-quite air, as if no lady could
resist his strains; and to "give effect," as he called it, he began
e