Poem by Charlotte Elizabeth Tonna

The Maiden City

WHERE Foyle his swelling waters
  Rolls northward to the main,
Here, Queen of Erin’s daughters,
  Fair Derry fixed her reign:
A holy temple crowned her,
  And commerce graced her street,
A rampart wall was round her,
  The river at her feet;
And here she sate alone, boys,
  And, looking from the hill,
Vowed the maiden on her throne, boys,
  Would be a maiden still.

From Antrim crossing over,
  In famous eighty-eight,
A plumed and belted lover
  Came to the Ferry Gate:
She summoned to defend her
  Our sires, a beardless race,
They shouted “No surrender!”
  And slammed it in his face.
Then in a quiet tone, boys,
  They told him ’t was their will
That the maiden on her throne, boys,
  Should be a maiden still.

Next, crushing all before him,
  A kingly wooer came
(The royal banner o’er him
  Blushed crimson deep for shame);
He showed the Pope’s commission,
  Nor dreamed to be refused:
She pitied his condition,
  But begged to stand excused.
In short, the fact is known, boys,
  She chased him from the hill,
For the maiden on the throne, boys,
  Would be a maiden still.

On our brave sires descending,
  ’T was then the tempest broke,
Their peaceful dwellings rending,
  Mid blood and flame and smoke,
That hallowed graveyard yonder
  Swells with the slaughtered dead,—
O brothers! pause and ponder,
  It was for us they bled;
And while their gift we own, boys,—
  The fane that tops our hill,
O, the maiden on her throne, boys,
  Shall be a maiden still.

Nor wily tongue shall move us,
  Nor tyrant arm affright,
We ’ll look to One above us
  Who ne’er forsook the right;
Who will may crouch and tender
  The birthright of the free,
But, brothers, “no surrender,”
  No compromise for me!
We want no barrier stone, boys,
  No gates to guard the hill,
Yet the maiden on her throne, boys,
  Shall be a maiden still.

1. St. Patrick’s Day: With an Irish Shamrock

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