LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. 
 
 Class 
 
SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
SONGS 
 
 OF KlLLARNEY 
 
 ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES 
 
 SECOND EDITION 
 
 OF THE 
 
 ( UNIVERSITY ) 
 
 
 LONDON 
 DALDY, ISBISTER & CO. 
 
 56, LUDGATE HILL 
 
 1877 
 
 \^The right of Translation is reserved.} 
 
- < 
 
MY FATHER AND MOTHER, 
 
 MY FIRST VOLUME OF POEMS. 
 
 189235 
 

PREFACE. 
 
 BY way of Preface, I have only to say that the 
 following Poems are the result of many years of 
 happy acquaintance with the Kerry peasantry, and 
 the beautiful country that is their home, and mine; 
 and to thank the Proprietors of " Punch/' " Eraser's 
 Magazine," " The Gentleman's Magazine," " Cassell's 
 Magazines," and other periodicals, for permitting rne 
 to republish in this volume certain poems of mine 
 that first appeared in their pages. 
 
 ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES. 
 
 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, 
 April io//fc, 1873. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 Page 
 
 THE ROSE OF KILLARNEY .... . . I 
 
 THE GIRL WITH THE COWS 9 
 
 FIXIN' THE DAY . . 40 
 
 THE FOSTER SISTERS . . . . . . . 44 
 
 O'FARRELL THE FIDDLER 48 
 
 LONESOME LOVERS . . . . . - 55 
 
 THE LIMERICK LASSES 62 
 
 THE POTATO BLOSSOM 68 
 
 THE INVENTION OF WINE 77 
 
 THE IRISH SPINNING WHEEL 85 
 
 THE FAIRY PIG 91 
 
 SPRING VOICES. 
 
 SPRING'S SUMMONS 113 
 
 THE CLIFFS OF GLENDORE 124 
 
 THE POET'S SPRING 128 
 
 THE IRISH EXILE'S LOVE 13! 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 * x 
 
 Page 
 
 THE MAY OF THE YEAR 133 
 
 SONNET TO A HAWTHORN 135 
 
 SONNET TO A LABURNUM IN A DUBLIN GARDEN . 136 
 DAWN AT BALLINVOIRIG . . . . . .137 
 
 THE KINGDOM OF KERRY . . . . . 140 
 
 MOODS AND MELODIES. 
 
 PARKNASILLA 147 
 
 SHE LEANT UPON THE RUSTIC BRIDGE . . . . 148 
 
 THE FIRST ROSE 149 
 
 THE ROSE-TREE IN FULL BEARING . . . . 150 
 
 THE FADED ROSE 152 
 
 " IRISH EYES" 154 
 
 SLEEPLESS 156 
 
 AN IRISH GRACE 157 
 
 SAD THRUSH. l6o 
 
 GLAD THRUSH ... * 163 
 
 THE HUNTER BRAVE 166 
 
 IRISH LULLABY . 167 
 
 MIGHT LOVING MAIDS 169 
 
 WHEN SHE ANSWERED ME HER VOICE WAS LOW . '171 
 
 AUTUMN DIRGE 173 
 
 SONG 175 
 
SONGS OF KlLLARNEY. 
 
 THE ROSE OF KlLLARNEY. 
 
 VE been soft in a small way 
 On the girleens of Galway, 
 And the Limerick lasses have made 
 me feel quare ; 
 But there's no use denyin' 
 No girl I've set eye on 
 Wid the Rose of Killarney at all could compare. 
 
 O, where 
 Can her like be found ? 
 
 Nowhere, 
 The country round, 
 
SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 Spins at her wheel 
 
 Daughter as true, 
 Sets in the reel, 
 
 Wid a slide of the shoe, 
 a slinderer, 
 tinderer, 
 purtier, 
 
 wittier colleen, than you 
 Rose, aroo ! 
 
 Her hair mocks the sunshine, 
 And the soft silver moonshine 
 Neck and arm of the colleen completely eclipse ; 
 Whilst the nose of the jewel 
 Slants straight as Cam Tual 
 From the heaven in her eye to her heather-sweet lips. 
 
 O, where 
 Can her like be found ? 
 
 Nowhere, 
 The country round, 
 
THE ROSE OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 Spins at her wheel 
 
 Daughter as true, 
 Sets in the reel, 
 
 Wid a slide of the shoe, 
 a slinderer, 
 tinderer, 
 purtier, 
 
 wittier colleen, than you 
 Rose, aroo ! 
 
 Did your eyes ever follow 
 The wings of the swallow 
 
 Here and there, light as air, o'er the meadow field glance ? 
 For if not youVe no notion 
 Of the exquisite motion 
 Of her sweet little feet as they dart in the dance. 
 
 O, where 
 Can her like be found ? 
 
 Nowhere, 
 The country round, 
 
 B 2 
 
SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 Spins at her wheel 
 
 Daughter as true, 
 Sets in the reel, 
 
 Wid a slide of the shoe, 
 a slinderer, 
 tinderer, 
 purtier, 
 
 wittier colleen, than you 
 Rose, aroo ! 
 
 If y'enquire why the nightingale 
 Still shuns the invitin' gale 
 That wafts every song-bird but her to the West. 
 Faix she knows, I suppose, 
 Ould Killarney ? s a Rose 
 That would sing any Bulbul to sleep in her nest. 
 
 O, where 
 Can her like be found ? 
 
 Nowhere, 
 The country round, 
 
THE ROSE OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 Spins at her wheel 
 
 Daughter as true, 
 Sets in the reel, 
 
 Wid a slide of the shoe, 
 a slinderer, 
 tinderer, 
 purtier, 
 
 wittier colleen, than you 
 Rose, aroo ! 
 
 When her voice gives the warnin' 
 For the milkin' in the mornin' 
 
 Ev'n the cow known for hornin' comes runnin' to her 
 The lambs play about her [pail ; 
 
 And the small bonneens snout her, 
 Whilst their parints salute her wid a twisht of the tail. 
 
 O, where 
 Can her like be found ? 
 
 Nowhere, 
 The country round, 
 
SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 Spins at her wheel 
 
 Daughter as true, 
 Sets in the reel, 
 
 Wid a slide of the shoe, 
 a slinderer, 
 tinderer, 
 purtier, 
 
 wittier colleen, than you 
 Rose, aroo ! 
 
 When at noon from our labour 
 We draw neighbour wid neighbour 
 From the heat of the sun to the shilter of the tree, 
 Wid spuds fresh from the bilin' 
 And new milk you come smilin', 
 All the boys' hearts beguiling alanah machree ! 
 
 O, where 
 Can her like be found ? 
 
 Nowhere, 
 The country round, 
 
THE ROSE OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 Spins at her wheel 
 
 Daughter as true, 
 Sets in the reel, 
 
 Wid a slide of the shoe, 
 a slinderer, 
 tinderer, 
 purtier, 
 
 wittier colleen, than you 
 Rose, aroo ! . 
 
 But there's one sweeter hour 
 When the hot day is o'er 
 
 And we rest at the door wid the bright moon above, 
 And she sittin' in the middle, 
 When she's guessed Larry's riddle 
 Cries, " Now for your fiddle, Shiel Dhuv, Shiel Dhuv.'' 
 
 O, where 
 Can her like be found ? 
 
 Nowhere, 
 The country round, 
 
SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 Spins at her wheel 
 
 Daughter as true, 
 Sets in the reel, 
 
 Wid a slide of the shoe, 
 a slinderer, 
 tinderer, 
 purtier, 
 
 wittier colleen, than you 
 Rose, aroo ! 
 
THE GIRL WITH THE COWS. 
 
 SHIEL, O Shiel, 
 We're dead from the reel, 
 And destroyed at the way that our 
 colleens are teazing us ; 
 
 So tell us a story 
 
 Of love or of glory, 
 
 To soften their hearts and to set them on pleasing us. ;; 
 
 " Is it tired toe and heel 
 
 Of planxty and reel ? 
 
 And your sweethearts are cross to you boys, is it so ? 
 
 Then make way in the middle 
 
 For me and the fiddle, 
 
 And I'll tell you the tale of the Colleen na Mo." 
 
SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 O the happiest orphan that ever was seen, 
 
 Was Nora Maguire at the age of eighteen ; 
 
 Her father and mother both died at her birth, 
 
 So grief for their sakes didn't trouble her mirth. 
 
 Nora Maguire was the flower of the girls, 
 
 Wid her laughin' blue eye and her sunny bright curls, 
 
 Wid her mouth's merry dimple, her head's purty 
 
 ; poise, 
 And a foot that played puck right and left wid the 
 
 boys : 
 
 Yes ! her looks were a fortun' ; yet curous to tell 
 Sweet Nora Maguire was an heiress as well, 
 For her father had left his dear child at his death 
 Half a hundred of cows at the side of the heath, 
 Where Nora na Mo in a handsome slate house 
 Wid her granny looked after the sheep and the cows ; 
 For behind all the fun that her features evince, 
 Mistress Nora Maguire has lashins of sinse ; 
 But though Nora was careful she never was mean, 
 But dear as the dew to the hot summer plain, 
 
THE GIRL WITH THE COWS. 11 
 
 She'd go stealin' the poor and the sick to relieve, 
 Unbeknownst in the hush of the dawn or the eve : 
 And no girl in the service at chapel took part 
 Who followed the priest wid a faithfuller heart, 
 And no sound in the anthem rose truer and higher 
 Than the fresh fervent voice of sweet Nora Maguire : 
 But that didn't make darlin' Nora desire 
 To adjourn to the convent on lavin' the choir ; 
 No ! It's thinkin' I am, where's the use to conceal ? 
 Her first thought after chapel was Patrick O'Neale, 
 Wid his dark handsome looks, and his deep earnest 
 
 voice, 
 The pet of the colleens the pride of the boys. 
 
 For there wasn't a boy in Dunkerron was able 
 To dance on the ground as he could on the table ; 
 Or sing in ould Irish wid beautif Her shakes, 
 Sweeter songs or laments at our weddings and wakes ; 
 Or tell by the fire of a dark winter's night 
 Tales that crowded us closer together for fright. 
 
SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 And where's the turf cuttin' or boghole so broad, 
 But he'd clear like a hare hoppin' off of the road ; 
 At what fence would he falter or alter his steps, 
 And who could approach him at throwin' three leaps ; 
 And on Sunday at hurley, who rooshed on the ball 
 Wid such fury as Pat, through the thick of them all, 
 Or when it came buzzin' like a bee through the air 
 Caught it cleaner, and pucked it as strong or as fair? 
 
 But for all these distractions the boy wasn't spoilt, 
 And no honest poor Irishman ever has toiled 
 For the wife and the childer wid heartier zeal 
 Than did Pat for his mother, good Widow O'Neale ; 
 
 For his father God rest him ! had drooped down and 
 
 died 
 When the praties turned black through the whole 
 
 country-side. 
 
 And soon after his uncle Cornelius, I've heard, 
 From New York to his brother and sister sent word, 
 
THE GIRL WITH THE COWS. 13 
 
 That the passage of both he was wishful to pay, 
 And they'd find a new home on his side of the say. 
 So they went wid their poor mother's blessin* and 
 
 tears, 
 
 Micky, twelve, but a stout little lad for his years, 
 And Honora, the darlin' sweet child of eleven, 
 All alone but in safety wid the blessing of heaven. 
 
 Now Widow O'Neale, the brave woman had once 
 For a twelvemonth been novice and lived wid the nuns, 
 Though when that was out I've no time for the tale 
 She took Patrick's father instead of the veil 
 Well for nun and for novice, there's time and to spare 
 For the needle and thread from devotion and prayer 
 And that time was well spent by the Colleen who now 
 Has no cause to repent her noviciate vow ; 
 For though many's the night she's gone fastin' to bed, 
 Little Patrick to treat to some meat or some bread, 
 Though it's many's the beautiful sunshiny day 
 She's sewed herself blind for his schoolin' to pay, 
 
14 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 Still an' all sure she managed to struggle along 
 Till her Patrick, now growin' up hearty and strong, 
 
 Came home from the haggard one night in July, 
 
 i 
 
 Shoutin,' " Mother mavrone ; bid your needle good- 
 bye ! 
 
 I'm to have a man's wages on the Master's estate, 
 
 And help teach at the night school Mother, isn't it 
 great ! " 
 
 So when the spuds whitened in the gardens again 
 Young Patrick O'Neale, now the pride of the men, 
 Foot to foot down the ridge wid O'Flaherty pressed, 
 Who of all pratee-diggers was counted the best ; 
 And after inspectin' the mowers at work 
 In his glebe on the hill, Parson Fetherston Bourke, 
 " Why, Patrick O'Neale, boy," said he, wid a laugh, 
 " Why, Patrick, you're worth any man and a half," 
 For your clane cliver coorse wid your scythe through 
 
 the grass 
 Was a picture, more power to you, Patrick, it was. 
 
THE GIRL WITH THE COWS. 15 
 
 And yourselves would be pleased to have heard him at 
 
 night 
 
 In the Master's new school-house, so smart and polite, 
 Explainin' the earth's longitudinal plan 
 To a wild-headed stump of a mountainy man, 
 Or settin' a sum in Algebbra, begor, 
 To the priest's crabbed nephew and one or two more. 
 
 But when it struck ten by the clock overhead 
 
 " Good-night " to the boys our young schoolmaster 
 
 said; 
 Gathered up " The Six Books " and the slates for the 
 
 night, 
 Locked the door and made off, wid a screech ot 
 
 delight, 
 Through the deep mountain gloom to the darlin' red 
 
 star 
 
 Of his mother's turf fire winkin' welcome from far. 
 Five minutes no more you allowed to that mile, 
 Then into the cabin you'd swing through the stile, 
 
1 6 SONGS Of KILLARNEY. 
 
 Catch and kiss the good widdy wid a wonderful 
 
 smack 
 
 Before she well knew that her boyo was back. 
 Then down to the milk and the murphies you'd sit, 
 While the dog wagged his tail and looked up for a bit, 
 And the thief of a cat on the table sprang up, 
 Knowin' well you could never refuse her a sup ; 
 For the proverb runs true, to my thinkin', at laste, 
 That man's a good man that's the friend of the baste. 
 
 Well, I've hinted that even as home through the grass 
 Mistress Nora went trippin' direct out of mass, 
 Across the girl's mind there'd be sure for to steal 
 Some notion or other of Patrick O'Neale. 
 
 Now wasn't that strange, for though sweethearts for 
 
 ever, 
 
 Yerra yes, though the best of the boys on the river, 
 From the Captain commandin' the Bay wid his cutter 
 To the proudest on shore, they were all in a flutter 
 
THE GIRL WITH THE COWS. 17 
 
 Though a huckster might furnish three iligant stalls 
 Wid the brooches and bonnets, the dresses and shawls 
 That the cleverest courters from far and from near 
 Had given her, galore, at each fair in the year ; 
 Though none who'd not seen it could have any iday 
 Of the spring trout and salmon they sent her on 
 
 Friday ; 
 
 Though they put her the question in every way out 
 In poems so romantic or merely by mouf, 
 In English and Irish and as I've heard tell, 
 One bould hedge-schoolmaster in Latin as well 
 And though, which you'll count the most curous of 
 
 all, 
 
 Not a look nor a word had he ever let fall 
 That could lave her the laste right in raison to feel 
 She'd put the comether on Patrick O'Neale 
 PYaps now 'twas the jealousy vexed her to-day, 
 To see Patrick funnin' wid Fanny O'Shea, 
 Or to meet him to-morrow, the full of his cap 
 Of purple whorts pourin' in Mary Moore's lap ; 
 
 c 
 
1 8 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 While his manners to her were so courtly and grand, 
 
 Holdin' out on the crops wid his hat in his hand, 
 
 Or discussin' her cows wid a dignity such as 
 
 A Prince of the Blood would employ to a duchess ; 
 
 Or perhaps 'twas the pride, that wid Nora was high 
 
 That of all who were soft on her, sorra a boy, 
 
 For looks or for manners, could match wid O'Neale 
 
 And yet his the one heart that the girl couldn't steal. 
 
 But whativer the raison begannies 'twas so, 
 When the county came courtin' the Colleen na Mo, 
 Her thoughts they kept runnin', surprisin' to say, 
 Most of all on the man that was laste in her way. 
 
 But all you sweet girls who attend to my tale, 
 Lest by this you think coldly of Patrick O'Neale, 
 Faith, I'm forced to confess that when Nora 
 
 believed 
 
 Patrick's heart was his own, sure herself was de- 
 ceived 
 
THE GIRL WITH THE COWS. 19 
 
 For of all of her suitors so rich and so high, 
 None loved her as deep as that poor pisant boy. 
 
 But why hadn't he courage his heart to declare, 
 And to up wid his story and axe her to share 
 His fortune for ever ? I answer you, sure, 
 ; Twas the pride that prevented him, being so poor 
 
 Yes ! that was the cause why, at bonfire or patron, 
 When the rest all came round complimenting and 
 
 flatter*!!', 
 To her friendly " Good day ! " " Good day kindly, to 
 
 you," 
 
 Was your only remark to her all the dance through. 
 And that was the raison, one night at Adair's, 
 When after a jig through the scarceness of chairs 
 The girls should sit down on the knees of the men 
 Till such time as the music should start up again, 
 Each girl wid her partner and Nora wid you, 
 You must preten' your seat wasn't aqual to two, 
 
20 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 And sit down on the floor wid her planked up behind, 
 Though I know well which seat had been most to her 
 mind. 
 
 But when quite out of hearing, unseen and alone, 
 To himself he'd go over each look and each tone 
 Of Nora's he'd treasured away in his mind, 
 At some moment she'd fretted to think him unkind ; 
 And as he went clippin' the briar wid his bill, 
 Or rowed up the river, or reaped on the hill, 
 Some fancy of Nora would come to him still. 
 The arbutus fruit now, or a stretch of the sky 
 Would recall her red lip or her laughin' blue eye, 
 The heath flower to-day of her blushes would hint, 
 And to-morrow the furze took her tresses' own tint 
 The spring leaped with her laugh over pebbles of pearl, 
 And the sailing swan signed him his white-bosomed 
 
 girl, 
 
 While " Nora " for ever his oar on the bay, 
 And " Nora" his spade in the garden used say, 
 
THE GIRL WITH THE COWS. 21 
 
 And " Nora," still " Nora," to the times she loved best, 
 His heart it kept beating the time in his breast. 
 
 So that pair of young people their feelings used 
 
 smother, 
 Widout each thinkin' either could care for the other. 
 
 But the rude blow at last will afford you a hint 
 Of the fire that's concealed in the core of the flint ; 
 And the beautiful brim that's unnoticed by day, 
 On the gloomiest night glitters most on the say, 
 And so even its secretest feeling'll start 
 In the hour of distress from the haughtiest heart. 
 
 And 'twas so with these two. 
 
 . Now the mornin' was fair, 
 
 Wid the mountains distinct from Dunloe to Kenmare, 
 But at noon the white cloud Carn Tual had kissed, 
 And soon after the Saw melted off in the mist, 
 
22 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 And lower still lower the mist it crept down, 
 
 Till its curtain had covered up Atthin and Beown, 
 
 And lower still lower it swept for the plain, 
 
 While you heard Bullig breaker start roarin' for rain. 
 
 'Twas a Saturday, surely, wid only the Sunday, 
 Betune it and the fair on the followin' Monday. 
 And, signs by, down each dark boreen then, for ever, 
 And from out every fog-steamin' ford on the river, 
 Cows and sheep they came starting till the roads were 
 
 alive, 
 For the world like a swarm of bees smoked from a 
 
 hive. 
 
 Well ! that very same Saturday, long before even 
 The lark mounted up wid his matins to heaven, 
 O'Neale had been facin' as if it was day, 
 Surely, but sad, up the mountainy way 
 Back out of Glen Caragh, where he'd had a call 
 To his mother's own brother's son's funeral 
 
THE GIRL WITH THE COWS. 23 
 
 Surely, but sad, you may think, at the start, 
 
 Till the light of the sun began warmin' his heart ; 
 
 And yerra, ye'll not think the worse of the boy, 
 
 If I tell you, before every dew-drop was dry, 
 
 His tears for the cousin no longer used fall ; 
 
 And ye won't blame him much, if ye blame him at all, 
 
 When I'm forced to confess that at noon upon 
 
 Gloragh 
 
 His thoughts they had turned round completely to Nora; 
 Till sure an' he shocked himself singin' a song 
 Of the Colleen na Mo, as he travelled along. 
 
 So he trassed away dreamin' of Nora na Mo, 
 While the mist it crept down to the valleys below 
 Unknownst to O'Neale, for each inch of the way 
 He'd have travelled as surely by night as by day. 
 Still an' all at long last on the edge of a bog 
 There puffed in his face such a powderin' fog, 
 That he gave a great start and looked doubtin'ly down, 
 To be sure he'd made off the right track to the town ; 
 
24 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 And he just then could see to the left of his path, 
 
 Roundin' out of the vapour the ould Irish Rath, 
 
 And says he wid a smile, " Why I might be a hound 
 
 For facin' so fair for the Barony's bound, 
 
 But I'd best hurry on then, or Mother machree, 
 
 It's in dread for me out in the mist but you'll be." 
 
 So he started to run, when he heard from above 
 
 The voice of the girl that had stolen his love : 
 
 " Magrina, magrina, magrinashin oge, 
 
 Come hither, my Laidir, come Kitty, you rogue, 
 
 Come up, Blackbird, come, Snow, to the beautiful 
 
 house? 
 " 'Tis the Colleen na Mo," he said, " callin' her cows." 
 
 But her voice sounded sadly and strange in his ear, 
 And the heart of O'Neale began knockin' for fear, 
 And he looked and he saw risin' up from below, 
 The Shadow of the Shape of the Colleen na Mo 
 Growin' greater for ever, till a monster of black, 
 Like the Spirit of Death, it stood out of the track ; 
 
THE GIRL WITH THE COWS. 25 
 
 
 
 And O'Neale knew the warnin' and shouted, " Stand 
 
 back. 
 
 Stand back for your life ! " but the shadow went still, 
 Wid its arms wavin' wild on the brow of the hill, 
 Then it trembled, and balanced, and staggered, and 
 
 fell, 
 Down, down wid the moan of a muffled death-bell. 
 
 And as a man held by a horrible dream 
 Wrastles hard, till at last he starts up wid a scream 
 So he stood there, how long himself never could tell 
 For the mist of a sudden seemed changed by a spell 
 To a fierce fiend that caught him unknownst from 
 
 behind, 
 
 And held him hard breathin', and his eyes starin' blind, 
 Wid cruel white hands knotted into his neck, - 
 And a hiss in his ears like a poisonous snake 
 Till he wakes up at last wid a terrible groan 
 And finds himself there on the mountain alone 
 Wid the white mist around driftin' dreamily on. 
 
26 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 " And was it a dream, after all, then ? " he cried, 
 When a sheep-dog it ran barkin' up to his side ; 
 And the dread it returned at the voice of the dog, 
 And he stooped down and looked at it into the fog, 
 And he knew it was Nora's, and his heart it stood 
 
 still. 
 
 " Now, what are you doin', Jack, here on the hill ? 
 Where's your Nora, mavrone ? " and the dog in reply 
 Starts whinin' and draggin' away at the boy. 
 And he knew it had answered as plain as if spoke, 
 And says he, " Jack, I'm wid you, though my heart it 
 
 is broke." 
 
 So, lay in' a sorrowful hand on its head, 
 The poor boy went after the dumb creature led 
 From Drumtine to Coomassig, as still as the dead. 
 Here the dog was at fault, but soon wid a bound 
 Followed on a fresh foot-print, his nose to the ground. 
 And Patrick looked closer and strained through the 
 
 dark, 
 And knew it was Nora's by the straight slender mark. 
 
THE GIRL WITH THE COWS. 27 
 
 And he stooped down and kissed it, and Jack he 
 
 stood still 
 
 On the top of Coomassig and barked wid a will. 
 And " Nora," Pat shouted, " O, Nora na Mo, 
 Is it clifted you are on the mountain below 1 
 O answer, acushla ; " but sorra a word, 
 But only the voice of an eagle he heard, 
 Wheelin' in through the terrible darkness beneath, 
 And he shuddered and sobbed, " It comes scentin' her 
 
 death, 
 
 And not as much light as to stone it away. 
 O, God, that the darkness would turn into day ! " 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 " Come, Jack, we'll go down to the foot of the rock 
 And protect the poor corpse from the ravenous flock;" 
 And he coaxed him to come, but the dog wouldn't stir, 
 So alone down the clift Pat went searchin' for her ; 
 
 But as he was going, a far hullahoo 
 
 Rose out of the distance, and into his view 
 
28 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 Red torches came wavin' their way up the hill, 
 
 And he laughed a wild laugh, through his wanderin' 
 
 will, 
 And he cried, "Is it wake-lights yez are drawin' 
 
 near ? 
 
 Hurry up, then, and show me the corpse of my dear. " 
 And the red lights approached, and a voice wid the 
 
 light, 
 
 " Who are ye in distress on the mountain to-night 1 " 
 And he answered, " Come up, for our name it is Death, 
 Wid the eagle above and the white-worm beneath ; 
 But the death-lights that hover by night o'er the grave 
 Will restore us our dead, when your torches can save" 
 
 " What is it, O'Neale, man ? How wildly you rave/' 
 And the hand of Murt Shea, the best friend that he 
 
 had, 
 
 Was lovingly laid on the arm of the lad. 
 " O, Murt, give me hould of that splinter/' he said, 
 " And let me look down on the face of the dead, 
 
THE GIRL WITH THE COWS. 29 
 
 For Nora Maguire, Murt, my own secret love, 
 Has fallen from the clift of Coomassig above." 
 " Is it she, wirra, wirra, the pride of us all ? 
 Do you say that the darlin's been killed by a fall ? 
 Ologone, my poor Pat, and you loved her at heart." 
 
 Then O'Neill groaned again, " Sure I've searched 
 
 every part, 
 
 And no sign of her here at the foot of the clift." 
 And the rest they came up, and the bushes they sift, 
 But sorra a trace to the right or the left. 
 
 Then O'Neale shouted, " Come, every man of ye lift 
 His fire altogether." And one said, " I see 
 Somethin' hangin' high up from the juniper tree." 
 " 'Tis herself," shouted Pat, wid his hand to his brow, 
 " How far from the top is that juniper bough?" 
 " Ten foot of a fall," said a mountain gossoon, 
 " Wid no tussocks betune them ? " 
 
 " Wid nothin' betune." 
 
30 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 " Have yez ere a rope handy, boys ?" 
 
 " Divle a rope ! 
 And not nearer nor Sneem for the likes you could 
 
 hope." 
 
 " Come hither, gossoon, and be off wid this splinter, 
 For 'tis you know the mountain ; away widout hinder 
 To the nearest good haggard, and strip the sugane, 
 Not forgettin' a sop of the freshest finane. 
 Brustig, brustig, alanah ! " and hardly the rest 
 Had followed O'Neale up the vapoury crest, 
 To the spot that the faithful, wise hound wouldn't pass, 
 When the boy he was back wid the hayropes and grass. 
 
 Then says Pat, leanin' down wid a splinter of light, 
 " God bless the good dog after all he was right 
 Ten foot underneath us she's plainly in sight. 
 Now give hither the ropes, and hould on while I twist/' 
 So he caught the suganes up like threads in his fist, 
 And twined them and jined them a thirty foot length, 
 Fourplait to a thickness of terrible strength. 
 
THE GIRL WITH THE COWS. 31 
 
 Then roped it around the two biggest boys there, 
 To see was it fit for supportin' a pair. 
 And he easily lifted the two through the air, 
 Up and down, till he'd proved it well able to bear. 
 " Now make the rope fast to me, boys, while I go 
 Down the side of the clift for the Colleen na Mo. 
 Livin' or dead tho' I'm hopeful for all, 
 There's life in her still tho' she's kilt from the 
 fall." 
 
 Then he turns to one side, and he whispers Murt Shea, 
 " If I'm killed from the clift of Coomassig to-day, 
 Gome promise me faithful you'll stand to the mother 
 Like a son, till she's help from the sister and brother. 
 And give her this kiss, and I'll meet her again 
 In the place where's no poverty, sorrow or pain." 
 And he promised and all they shook hands wid 
 
 O'Neale, 
 And he cheered them and said, " Have no dread that 
 
 we'll fail, 
 
32 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 For I'd not be afeard, why, to balance the Pope 
 Himself from the clift by so hearty a rope." 
 
 So a torch in his hand, and a stick in his teeth, 
 
 And his coat round his throat the boys lowered him 
 
 beneath. 
 
 And all but Hurt Shea, then, they couldn't make out 
 The coat round his throat, and the stick in his mout'. 
 
 But it wasn't for long they'd the doubt in their mind, 
 For they saw his torch quenched wid a noise like the 
 
 wind, 
 
 And " Steady above," came his voice from below. 
 Then heavy wings flapped wid a scream and a blow. 
 " 'Tis the eagles," they cried, "at the Colleen na Mo." 
 But an old man amongst them spoke up and he said, 
 " 'Tis the eagles for sartin, but not at the dead, 
 For they'll not touch the corpse murther, but for the 
 
 mist, 
 J Tis I could have told you that this was their nest/ 
 
THE GIRL WITH THE COWS. 33 
 
 "It's O'Neale that they're at pull him back, or they'll 
 
 tear 
 
 The poor boy to pieces below in the air." 
 And they shouted together the eagles to scare. 
 And they called to O'Neale from the edge of the 
 
 height, 
 
 " She's dead, Pat, she's dead, never mind her to-night. 
 But come back, or the eagles '11 pick out your 
 
 sight." 
 
 And they made for to pull ; but he cries, " If you do, 
 I give you my oath that I'll cut the rope through." 
 And they b'lieved him, and waited wid hearts beatin' 
 
 loud, 
 Screechin' down at the birds through the vapoury 
 
 cloud, 
 
 Showerin' splinters for ever to give the boy light, 
 And warnin' him watch to the left or the right, 
 As each eagle in turn it would fly at his head, 
 Till he dropped one below in the darkness for dead, 
 And the other flew off wid' a yell through the night. 
 
34 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 Then they felt the rope slacken as he crossed to the 
 
 bough, 
 
 Then tighten again and he called to them " Now !" 
 And they knew that the dangerous moment was 
 
 come. 
 
 So wid wrist draggin' shoulder, tight finger to thumb, 
 And tooth crushing tooth in the silence of death, 
 They drew up the two from the blackness beneath. 
 
 There'd been a long stretch of delightful spring 
 
 weather, 
 
 But this was the day beat the rest altogether, 
 Over mountain and valley and river Oyeh ! 
 There was never for ever so darlin' a day 
 Wid its purty pale primroses shrinkin so shy 
 From the bachelor butterfly's kiss-and-go-by, 
 And wid hawthorns like bridesmaids come out in the 
 
 air, 
 Arrangin' white wreaths in their iligant hair. 
 
THE GIRL WITH THE COWS. 35 
 
 And so thought a fiddler, fiddle on back, 
 
 Steppin' for town by the mountainy track. 
 
 " But/' says he, " what's the raison the people are 
 
 dressed, 
 
 All wid shoes on their feet, in their holiday best ? 
 Tisn't Sunday, then barrin' the priests were astray, 
 Ere yesterday mornin' off out at Rossbeigh ; 
 And a Saint's Day it's not, for I know them by 
 
 heart, 
 
 The whole box an ; dice they observe in this part. . 
 Must be then, begorra, I make no mistake, 
 In concludin 7 it's either a weddin' or wake; 
 Though I shouldn't have thought the worst omadhaun 
 
 round 
 7 D have chosen such weather for goin' underground." 
 
 When who should come hurryin' down the boreen 
 But Honor O'Connor dressed out like a queen, 
 Wid her hair in one wonderful plait, and upon it 
 Like a bird on its nest a sweet bit of a bonnet 
 
 D 2 
 
36 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 And a green sash that showed her fine figure for'nint, 
 And flouncin' behind her, the beautif'llest print, 
 Folded into her hand, just enough for a hint 
 Of as tidy an ankle as ever set step 
 
 So the girl she came on, wid the laugh on her lip, 
 Till she sighted the fiddler, and " Shiel, dear," said she, 
 (For I should have remarked that the fiddler was 
 
 me) 
 
 " What a stranger you are tho' returnin' aright, 
 For we've terrible want of your fiddle to-night ; " 
 " But what wonderful doin's are goin' on below, 
 Honor, acora ? " 
 
 " Ah ! nonsense ! You know 
 Why, Nora Maguire's to be married to-day." 
 " Glory be to God ! Is it true what you say ? 
 Well, Nora na Mo, but I'm wishin' you joy: 
 And who, in the name of good fortune's, the boy ? " 
 " Arrah who should it be, then, but Mr. O'Neale ? 
 But you're bothered, I see." So she up wid the tale 
 
THE GIRL WITH THE COWS. 37 
 
 Of the Colleen na Mo that I've told to yez all, 
 Explainin' how Nora wasn't kilt by the fall, 
 Though she took the brain fever immadiate on that, 
 And how she wint ravin' for ever on Pat 
 And her love, and the pity the boy was so poor, 
 And how hopeful from this of performin' her cure, 
 Good Doctor O'Kydd, ere the crisis came on, 
 Goes off to consider wid ould Father John 
 And how the two wint wid one mind to the Squire 
 To tell him the danger of Nora Maguire 
 And the Master, said he, " IVe my eye on the lad, 
 And I want a sub-agent. He'll suit me bedad 
 I'll send for him up to the Castle to-day." 
 And he got no refusal from Pat, you may say. 
 And how the good Doctor told Nora, the night 
 When the crisis was on her by accident quite 
 About Patrick. Then how a great longin' for life, 
 And maybe the notion she'd yet be his wife, 
 Came over the girl and the terrible flood 
 Of the fever subsided away from her blood ; 
 
38 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 And though yerrah so wasted to see her you'd cry 
 In a month she was up, and av coorse Patrick by ; 
 And, concluding how hardly the winter was out, 
 When through all of Dunkerron 'twas rumoured about, 
 Nora 'd taken O'Neale, and there wasn't a doubt 
 When the good priest he published them three weeks 
 
 ago, 
 And to-day they'll be married in the chapel below. 
 
 Then the marriage-bell started as Honor and I 
 Stepped into the town wid our hearts full of joy ; 
 So off we two darted, and just at the porch 
 Met Nora, the darlin', drivin' up to the church, 
 And Pat, you may guess, wasn't long in the lurch. 
 And a power of company surely were there, 
 Of the highest and lowest all down from Kenmare, 
 For the Squire and the Quality seated around, 
 Side by side wid the lowliest pisant you found. 
 And the whole string of sweethearts who'd courted in 
 vain 
 
THE GIRL WITH THE COWS. 39 
 
 (For not a man of them would give Nora pain 
 By seemin' heartbroken or wishful to slight 
 Her choice of O'Neale) had agreed to unite 
 To see the girl's weddin' and surely for this, too, 
 Whin ould Father John had them married and blessed, 
 
 too, 
 
 They each had her thanks Yerra yes ! and a kiss, too. 
 And somehow myself was mixed up wid that lot, 
 And stole the best kiss that I ever yet got. 
 " Arrah ! Shiel, is it you ? Why, none of us knew 
 Yourself was a sweetheart of Nora's here, too." 
 "Was it Shiel, why, that kissed me?" " 'Twas so; 
 
 then, bedad : 
 Hould his hands for me, Murphy." " Now would you, 
 
 my lad?" 
 
 " Mercy, Nora, and whisper ! 'Twas just in advance 
 That I took it for playin' to-night at your dance." 
 
FIXIN' THE DAY. 
 
 PATRICK. 
 
 RRAH, answer me now, sweet Kitty 
 
 Mulreddin, 
 
 Why won't you be fixin' the day of our 
 weddin' ? 
 
 KITTY. 
 
 Now, Patrick O'Brien, what a hurry you're in, 
 Can't you wait till the summer comes round to begin ? 
 
 PATRICK. 
 
 O no, Kitty machree, in all sinse and raison, 
 The winter's the properest marryin' saison ; 
 
FIXIW THE DAY. 41 
 
 For to comfort oneself from the frost and the rain, 
 There's nothin' like weddin' in winter, 'tis plain. 
 
 KITTY. 
 
 If it's only protection you want from the cowld, 
 There's a parish that's called the Equator, I'm tould, 
 That for single young men is kept hot through the year. 
 Where's the use of your marryin' ? off wid you there ! 
 
 PATRICK* 
 
 But there's also a spot not so pleasantly warmed, 
 Set aside for ould maids, if I'm rightly informed, 
 Where some mornin' if still she can't make up her 
 
 mind, 
 A misfortunate colleen, called Kathleen, you'll find. 
 
 Is it threatnin' you are that I'll die an ould maid, 
 Who refused, for your sake, Mr. Laurence M'Quaide ? 
 Faix ! I think I'll forgive him ; for this I'll be bound, 
 He'd wait like a lamb till the summer came round. 
 
42 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 PATRICK. 
 
 Now it's thinkin' I am that this same Mr. Larry 
 Is what makes you so slow in agreein 7 to marry. 
 
 KITTY. 
 
 And your wish to be settled wid me in such haste 
 Does' t prove that you'r jealous of him in the laste ? 
 
 PATRICK. 
 
 Well, we'll not say that Kitty'll die an ould maid. 
 
 KITTY. 
 And we'll bother no more about Larry Mc'Quaide. 
 
 PATRICK. 
 
 But, Kitty machree, sure then weddins in spring, 
 When the Long Fast is out, are as common a thing 
 As the turfs in a rick, or the stones on a wall, 
 Faith ! you might just as well not be married at all. 
 But a weddin', consider, at this side of Lent, 
 Would be thought such a far more surprisin' event,- 
 
FIXIN* THE DAY. 43 
 
 So delightful to all at this dull time of year. 
 Now say " yes ! " for the sake of the neighbours, my 
 dear ! 
 
 KITTY. 
 
 No, Patrick, we'll wed when the woods and the grass 
 Wave a welcome of purtiest green, as we pass 
 Through the sweet cowslip meadow, and up by the mill, 
 To the Chapel itself on the side of the hill, 
 Where the thorn, that' s now sighin' a widow's lamint, 
 In a bridesmaid's costume '11 be smilin' contint, 
 And the thrush and the blackbird pipe, " Haste to the 
 
 weddin', 
 Of Patrick O'Brien and Kitty Mulreddin." 
 
 PATRICK. 
 
 Will you really promise that, Kitty, you rogue ? 
 
 Whisper, Patrick, The contract I'll seal wid- apogue. 
 
 [Kissing him. 
 
THE FOSTER SISTERS. 
 
 HEN your mother lay dyin' 
 And passed to her rest, 
 The same gentle breast 
 Both our wants was supplying 
 If for only that feelin' 
 
 I'd be yours, Lady Alice, 
 Though my home's but a shealin', 
 And the roof of a palace 
 Covers you, Lady Alice ! 
 
 Yes ! to feel but that of you, 
 
 Foster-sister, acora, 
 
 Would have left to your Nora 
 No choice but to love you. 
 
THE FOSTER SISTERS. 45 
 
 Even if your fair breast 
 
 Hid a heart full of malice, 
 Instead of the best 
 
 In shealin' or palace, 
 
 My poor Lady Alice ! 
 
 Yet just as the dew 
 On a lily-leaf slender 
 Lies tremblin' so tender 
 And trustful and true, 
 
 Till the sun's selfish power, 
 Most sudden and cruel, 
 Wastes away the white jewel 
 And withers the flower, 
 So it was with poor Alice. 
 
 For you trusted his love, 
 
 As simply conndin' 
 
 His honour and pride in, 
 As in heaven above ; 
 
46 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 And you married, mavrone, 
 Lord Arthur, Lord Arthur ; 
 
 Though now, ologone, 
 In your grave you'd be rather 
 
 Than his wife, Lady Alice ! 
 
 So that though I had once 
 A foolish ambition 
 For your noble condition, 
 Like a foolish young dunce, 
 Had I known, as I do, 
 
 What then was preparin' 
 For me and for you, 
 
 That wish I'd been sparin' 
 My poor Lady Alice. 
 
 And instead, then, for you 
 Half my hopes I'd forsaken, 
 Half your troubles I'd taken, 
 
 If only, aroo, 
 
THE FOSTER SISTERS. 47 
 
 Through that you'd been born 
 
 Wid me in our shealin', 
 Safe away from his scorn 
 
 And black bitter feeling 
 My poor Lady Alice ! 
 
O'FARRELL THE FIDDLER. 
 
 OW, thin, what has become 
 
 OfThady O'Farrell? 
 The honest poor man, 
 What's delayin' him, why ? 
 O, the thrush might be dumb, 
 And the lark cease to carol, 
 Whin his music began 
 To comether the sky. 
 
 Three summers have gone 
 
 Since we've missed you, O'Farrell, 
 From the weddin', and patron, 
 
 And fair on the green. 
 
GFARRELL THE FIDDLER. 49 
 
 In an hour to St. John 
 
 We'll light up the tar-barrel, 
 But ourselves we're not flatter'n' 
 
 That thin you'll be seen. 
 
 O Thady, we've watched 
 
 And we've waited for ever, 
 To see your ould self 
 
 Steppin' into the town 
 Wid your corduroys patched 
 
 So clane and so clever, 
 And the pride of a Guelph 
 
 In your smile or your frown 
 
 Till some one used say, 
 
 " Here's Thady O'Farrell ; " 
 And " God bless the good man ! 
 
 Let's go meet him," we cried; 
 And wid this from their play, 
 
 And wid that from their quarrel, 
 
 E 
 
50 SONGS OF KILLARNEV. 
 
 All the little ones ran 
 To be first at your side. 
 
 Soon amongst us you'd stand, 
 
 Wid the ould people's blessin', 
 As they lean'd from the door 
 
 To look out at you pass ; 
 Wid the colleen's kiss-hand, 
 
 And the childer's caressin', 
 And the boys fightin', sure, 
 
 Which'd stand your first glass. 
 
 Thin you'd give us the news 
 
 Out of Cork and Killarney 
 Had O'Flynn married yet ? 
 
 Was ould Mack still at work ?- 
 Shine's political views 
 
 Barry's last bit of blarney 
 And the boys you had met 
 
 On their way to New York. 
 
&FARRELL THE FIDDLER. 51 
 
 And whin from the sight 
 
 Of our say-frontin' village 
 The far-frownin' Blasquet 
 
 Stole into the shade, 
 And the warnin' of night 
 
 Called up from the tillage 
 The girl wid her basket, 
 
 The boy wid his spade, 
 
 By the glowin' turf-fire, 
 
 Or the harvest moon's glory, 
 In the close-crowded ring 
 
 That around you we made, 
 We'd no other desire 
 
 Than your heart-thrillin' story, 
 Or the song that you'd sing, 
 
 Or the tune that you played. 
 
 Till you'd axe, wid a leap 
 
 From your seat in the middle, 
 
52 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 And a shuffle and slide 
 Of your foot on the floor, 
 
 " Will we try a jig-step, 
 
 Boys and girls, to the fiddle." 
 
 " Faugh a ballagh," we cried r 
 " For a jig to be sure." 
 
 For whinever you'd start 
 
 Jig or planxty so merry, 
 Wid their caperin' twirls 
 
 And their rollickin' runs, 
 Where's the heel or the heart 
 
 In the kingdom of Kerry 
 Of the boys and the girls 
 
 Wasn't wid you at once ? 
 
 So you'd tune wid a sound 
 That arose as delightin' 
 
 As our own colleen's voice, 
 So sweet and so clear, 
 
CPFARRELL THE FIDDLER. 53 
 
 As she coyly wint round, 
 
 Wid a curtsey invitin' 
 The best of the boys 
 
 For the fan to prepare. 
 
 For a minute or so, 
 
 Till the couples were ready, 
 On your shoulder and chin 
 
 The fiddle lay quiet ; 
 Then down came your bow 
 
 So quick and so steady, 
 And away we should spin 
 
 To the left or the right ! 
 
 Thin how Micky Dease 
 
 Forged steps was a wonder, 
 And well might our women 
 
 Of Roseen be proud 
 Such a face, such a grace, 
 
 And her darlin' feet under 
 
54 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 Like two swallows skimmin' 
 The skirts of a cloud. 
 
 Thin, Thady, ochone ! 
 
 Come back, for widout you 
 We are never as gay 
 
 As we were in the past, 
 
 O Thady, mavrone, 
 
 Why, thin, I wouldn't doubt you. 
 Huzzah ! boys, huzzah ! 
 
 Here's O'Farrell at last ! 
 
LONESOME LOVERS. 
 
 SHE. 
 
 >CHONE! Patrick Blake, 
 
 You're off up to Dublin, 
 And sure for your sake 
 I'm the terrible trouble in ; 
 For I thought that I knew 
 
 What my " Yes -" and my " No " meant, 
 Till I tried it on you 
 
 That misfortunate moment. 
 But somehow I find, 
 
 Since I sent Pat away, 
 Must be in my mind 
 I was wishful he'd stay. 
 
56 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 While ago the young rogue 
 
 Came and softly stooped over, 
 And gave me a pogue 
 
 As I stretched in the clover : 
 How I boxed his two ears, 
 
 And axed him " How dare he ? " 
 Now I'd let him for years 
 J Tis the way women vary ; 
 For somehow I find, 
 
 Since I sent Pat away, 
 Must be in my mind 
 I was wishful he'd stay. 
 
 Oh, why wouldn't he wait, 
 
 To put his comether 
 Upon me complete, 
 
 When we both were together 
 But no ! Patrick, no ; 
 
 You must have me consentin' 
 
LONESOME LOVERS. 57 
 
 Too early, and so 
 
 Kitty's late for repentin'. 
 
 For somehow I find, 
 
 Since I've sent Pat away, 
 Must be in my mind 
 I was wishful he'd stay. 
 
 Oh ! Kitty O'Hea, 
 
 I'm the terrible trouble in, 
 For you're at Rossbeigh 
 
 And myself is in Dublin, 
 Through mistaking, bedad ! 
 
 Your blushes and that trick 
 Of sighing you had 
 
 Showed a softness for Patrick ; 
 And yet from my mind 
 
 A voice seems to speak : 
 " Go back, and you! II find 
 
 That shdsfond of you, Blake / " 
 
5S SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 Oh ! Dublin is grand, 
 
 As all must acknowledge, 
 Wid the Bank on one hand, 
 On the other the College. 
 I'd be proud to be Mayor 
 
 Of so splendid a city, 
 But I'd far sooner share 
 A cabin wid Kitty ; 
 
 And I may so some day, 
 
 For that voice in my mind 
 Keeps seeming to say : 
 "After all she'll be kind:' 
 
 Oh ! Dublin is fine 
 
 Wid her ships on the river, 
 And her iligant line 
 
 Of bridges for ever. 
 ^But, Kitty, my dear, 
 
 I'd exchange them this minute 
 
LONESOME LOVERS. 59 
 
 For our small little pier 
 
 And my boat, and you in it. 
 
 And I may so some day, 
 
 For that voice in my mind 
 Keeps seeming to say : 
 "After all she'll be kind: 1 
 
 Here youVe beautiful squares 
 
 For all to be gay in, 
 Promenading in pairs, 
 
 Wid the band music playing ; 
 But if I'd my choice, 
 
 Where our green hollies glisten, 
 To Kitty's sweet voice 
 I'd much rather listen. 
 
 And I may so some day, 
 
 For that voice in my mind 
 Keeps seeming to say : 
 " After all she'll be kind." 
 
60 SONGS Of KILLARNEY. 
 
 Here's a wonderful Park, 
 
 Where the wild beasts are feedin', 
 For the world like Noah's Ark 
 
 Or the Garden of Eden ! 
 But, faix ! of the two, 
 I'd rather be sittin' 
 Manoeuvring, aroo ! 
 
 Wid your comical kitten. 
 
 And I may so some day, 
 
 For that voice in my mind 
 Keeps seeming to say : 
 " After all shell be kind. " 
 
 Yes, Dublin's a Queen, 
 
 Wid her gardens and waters, 
 
 And her buildings between, 
 
 For her sons and her daughters ; 
 
 In learning so great, 
 So lovely and witty ; 
 
LONESOME LOVERS. 61 
 
 But she isn't complete 
 At all widout Kitty. 
 
 And that voice in my mind, 
 " Go back to the South ! " 
 So I will then and find 
 
 What you mean from her mouth. 
 
THE LIMERICK LASSES. 
 
 AVE you ere a new song, 
 
 My Limerick Poet, 
 To help us along 
 Wid this terrible boat 
 Away over to Tork ? " 
 "Arrah, I understand 
 For all of your work 
 
 'Twill tighten you, boys, 
 To cargo that sand 
 To the overside strand 
 Wid the current so strong, 
 Unless you've a song 
 A song to lighten and brighten you, boys. 
 
THE LIMERICK LASSES. 63 
 
 Be listenin' then, 
 My brave Kerry men, 
 
 And the new song, 
 
 And the true song 
 Of the Limerick Lasses 'tis I will begin.' 
 
 O Limerick dear, 
 It's far and it's near 
 
 I've travelled the round of this circular sphere ; 
 Still an' all to my mind, 
 No colleens you'll find 
 As lovely and modest, as merry and kind, 
 As our Limerick Lasses ; 
 Our Limerick Lasses 
 So lovely and modest, so merry and kind. 
 So row, 
 
 Strong and slow, 
 Chorusing after me as we go, 
 Still in all to my mind 
 No colleens you'll find, 
 
 
64 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 As lovely and modest, as merry and kind, 
 
 As our Limerick Lasses, 
 
 Our Limerick Lasses, 
 So lovely and modest, so merry and kind. 
 
 O your English colleen 
 Has the wonderful mien 
 Of a goddess in marble, all grand and serene ; 
 And, though slow to unbend, 
 Win her once for your friend, 
 And no alter or falter she's yours to the end. 
 But O ! row, 
 Strong and slow, 
 Chorusing after me as we go, 
 Still an' all to my mind, 
 No colleens you'll find 
 As lovely and modest as merry and kind, 
 As our Limerick Lasses, 
 Our Limerick Lasses, 
 So lovely and modest, so merry and kind. 
 
THE LIMERICK LASSES. 65 
 
 Of the French demoiselle 
 Delighted I'll tell, 
 
 For her sparkle and grace suit us Irishmen well ; 
 And, taken complete, 
 From her head to her feet, 
 She's the perfectest picture of polish you'll meet. 
 But O ! row, 
 Strong and slow, 
 Chorusing after me as we go, 
 Still an' all to my mind, 
 No colleens you'll find 
 As lovely and modest, as merry and kind, 
 As our Limerick Lasses, 
 Our Limerick Lasses, 
 So lovely and modest, so merry and kind. 
 
 O, Donna of Spain, 
 It's the darlingest pain 
 
 From your dark eyes I've suffered again and again, 
 When you'd gracefully glide, 
 
66 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 Like a swan at my side, 
 Or sing till with rapture the woodbird replied. 
 
 But O ! row, 
 
 Strong and slow, 
 Chorusing after me as we go, 
 
 Still an' all to my mind, 
 
 No colleens you'll find, 
 As lovely and modest, as merry and kind, 
 
 As our Limerick Lasses, 
 
 Our Limerick Lasses, 
 So lovely and modest, so merry and kind. 
 
 Now my Maryland girl, 
 With your sunshiny curl, 
 
 Your sweet spirit eyes, and complexion of pearl ; 
 And the goodness and grace, 
 That illumine your face, 
 
 You're the purtiest approach to my Limerick Lass. 
 For O ! row, 
 Strong and slow, 
 
THE LTMERICK LASSES. 67 
 
 Chorusing after me as we go, 
 
 Still an 7 all to my mind, 
 
 No maiden you'll find, 
 As lovely and modest, as merry and kind ; 
 
 As our Limerick Lasses, 
 
 Our Limerick Lasses, 
 So lovely and modest, and merry and kind. 
 
 F 2 
 
THE POTATO BLOSSOM. 
 
 > S fiddle in hand 
 
 I crossed the land, 
 Wid homesick heart so weighty, 
 I chanced to meet 
 A girl so sweet, 
 
 That she turned my grief to gai'ty. 
 Now what cause for pause 
 Had her purty feet ? 
 Faix, the beautiful flower of the pratee. 
 
 Then more power to the flower of the pratee, 
 The beautiful flower of the pratee, 
 
THE POTATO BLOSSOM. 69 
 
 For fixin' the feet 
 Of that colleen sweet 
 On the road to Cincinnati. 
 
 You'd imagine her eye 
 
 Was a bit of blue sky, 
 And her cheek had a darlin' dimple. 
 
 Her footstep faltered ; 
 
 She blushed, and altered 
 Her shawl wid a timid trimble. 
 
 " And oh, sir, what's the blossom 
 
 You wear on your bosom ? " 
 She asked most sweet and simple. 
 
 I looked in her face 
 
 To see could I trace 
 Any hint of lurkin' levity ; 
 
 But there wasn't a line 
 
 Of her features fine 
 But expressed the gentlest gravity. 
 
70 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 So quite at my aise 
 At her innocent ways, 
 Wid sorra a sign of brevity, 
 
 Says I, " Don't you know 
 
 Where these blossoms blow, 
 And their name of fame, mavourneen ? 
 
 I'd be believin' 
 
 You were deceivin' 
 Shiel Dhuv this summer mornin', 
 
 If your eyes didn't shine 
 
 So frank on mine, 
 Such a schemin' amusement scornin'. 
 
 Now I don't deny 
 
 'Twould be asy why 
 Clane off widout any reflection 
 
 Barely to name 
 
 The plant of fame 
 Whose flower is your eyes' attraction ; 
 
THE POTATO BLOSSOM. 71 
 
 Asy for me, 
 But to you, machree, 
 Not the slenderest satisfaction ; 
 
 For somehow I know 
 
 If I answered you so, 
 You'd be mad, you could disrimimber, 
 
 In what garden or bower 
 
 You'd seen this flower 
 Or adornin' what forest timber, 
 
 Or where to seek 
 
 For its fruit unique 
 From June until November. 
 
 Since thin, I reply, 
 
 You take such joy 
 In this blossom I love so dearly, 
 
 Wid a bow like this 
 
 Shall I lave you, miss, 
 Whin I've mentioned the name of it merely ; 
 
72 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 Or take your choice, 
 Wid music and voice, 
 Shall I sing you its history clearly ? " 
 
 " Oh, the song, kind sir, 
 
 I'd much prefer," 
 She answered wid eager gai'ty. 
 
 So we two and the fiddle 
 
 Turned off from the middle 
 Of the road to Cincinnati, 
 
 And from under the shade 
 
 That the maples made 
 I sang her 
 
 THE SONG OF THE PRATEE. 
 
 When after the Winter alarmin', 
 The Spring steps in so charmin', 
 So fresh and arch 
 In the middle of March, 
 Wid her hand St. Patrick's arm on. 
 
THE POTATO BLOSSOM. 73 
 
 Let us all, let us all be goin', 
 Agra, to assist at your sowing 
 
 The girls to spread 
 
 Your iligant bed, 
 And the boys to set the hoe in. 
 
 Then good speed to your seed ! God's grace and 
 
 increase. 
 Never more in our need may you blacken wid the 
 
 blight j 
 
 But when Summer is o'er in our gardens, astore, 
 May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid de- 
 light. 
 
 So rest and sleep, my jewel, 
 Safe from the tempest cruel ; 
 
 Till violets spring 
 
 And skylarks sing 
 From Mourne to Cam Tual. 
 Then wake and build your bower 
 
74 SONGS Of KILLARNEY. 
 
 Through April sun and shower, 
 
 To bless the earth 
 
 That gave you birth, 
 Through many a sultry hour. 
 
 Then good luck to your leaf. And ochone, ologone, 
 Never more to our grief may they blacken wid the 
 
 blight, 
 But when Summer is o'er in our gardens, astore, 
 
 May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid 
 delight. 
 
 Thus smile with glad increasing 
 Till to St. John we're raisin' 
 
 Through Erin's isle 
 
 The pleasant pile 
 That sets the bonfire blazin'. 
 O 'tis then that the Midsummer fairy, 
 Abroad on his sly vagary, 
 
 Wid purple and white, 
 
THE POTATO BLOSSOM. 75 
 
 As he passes by night, 
 Your emerald leaf shall vary. 
 
 Then more power to your flower, and your merry green 
 
 leaf, 
 Never more to our grief may they blacken wid the 
 
 blight ; 
 
 But when Summer is o'er, in our gardens, astore, 
 May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight. 
 
 And once again, Mavourneen, 
 Some mellow Autumn mornm', 
 
 At red sunrise 
 
 Both girls and boys 
 To your garden ridge we're turnin'. 
 Then under your foliage fadin' 
 Each man of us sets his spade in, 
 
 While the colleen bawn 
 
 Her brown kishane 
 Full up wid your fruit is lad in'. 
 
76 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 Then good luck to your leaf ! more power to your 
 
 flower ! 
 Never more to our grief may they blacken wid the 
 
 blight ; 
 
 But when Summer is o'er, in our gardens, astore, 
 May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight. 
 
 Then we rose, we two, 
 
 In dread of the dew, 
 And she blushed to her beautiful bosom, 
 
 As soft 'she said, 
 
 " Now I'll never forget 
 This flower's the Potato Blossom." 
 
THE INVENTION OF WINE. 
 
 S one day I was restin' 
 
 Mount Mangerton's crest on, 
 An ould hedge schoolmaster so 
 larned and fine ; 
 My comrade on the mountain, 
 Began thus recounting 
 In this poem so romantic, THE INVENTION OF WINE. 
 
 Before Bacchus could talk 
 Or dacently walk, 
 
 Down Olympus he leaped from the arms of his 
 nurse, 
 
78 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 But though three years in all 
 Were consumed by the fall, 
 He might have gone further and fared a deal worse ; 
 
 For he chanced, you must know, 
 
 On a fruit and flower show, 
 In some parish below, at the Autumn Assizes, 
 
 Where Solon and Croesus, 
 
 Who'd been hearin' the cases, 
 By the people's consint were adjudgin' the prizes. 
 
 " Fruit prize Number One 
 
 There's no question upon 
 We award it," they cried, in a breath, " to the divle ! 
 
 By the powers of the delft 
 
 On your Lowness's shelf, 
 Who's this Skylarking Elf wid his manners uncivil ? " 
 
 For, widout even a ticket, 
 That deity wicked 
 
THE INVENTION OF WINE. 79 
 
 Falling whack in their midst in a posture ungainly, 
 Pucked the bunch of prize grapes 
 Into all sorts of shapes, 
 
 And made them two judges go on most profanely. 
 
 " O, the deuce ! " shouted Solon, 
 
 " He's not left a whole un ! " 
 
 "It's the juice thin, indeed/' echoed Croesus half- 
 cryin' ; 
 
 For a squirt of that same, 
 
 Like the scorch of a flame, 
 Was playing its game the ould Patriarch's eye in. 
 
 Thin Solon said, " Tie him, 
 
 At our pleasure we'll try him. 
 Walk him off to the gaol, if he's able to stand it ; 
 
 If not why thin get, sure, 
 
 The loan of a stretcher, 
 
 And convey him away do yez hear me command 
 it?" 
 
8o SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 But Croesus, long life to you, 
 
 Widout sorrow or strife to you, 
 
 And a peaceable wife to you, that continted you'll 
 die! 
 
 Just thin you'd the luck 
 
 The forefinger to suck 
 That you'd previously stuck wid despair in your eye. 
 
 No more that eye hurt you 
 For the excellent virtue 
 
 Of the necther you'd sipped cured its smarting at 
 once, 
 
 And you shouted to Solon, 
 " Stop your polis patrollin', 
 
 Where's the sinse your ould poll in, you ignorant 
 dunce. 
 
 Is it whip into quod 
 A celestial god, 
 For I'll prove in a crack that the craythur's divine." 
 
THE INVENTION OF WINE. 81 
 
 "Look here ! have a sup," 
 Some more juice he sopped up 
 
 In a silver prize cup, and THEY FIRST TASTED 
 WINE. 
 
 Said Solon, " Be Japers, 
 
 Put this in the papers, 
 For this child wid his capers is divine widout doubt, 
 
 Let's kneel down before him, 
 
 And humbly adore him 
 
 Then we'll mix a good jorum of the drink he's made 
 out." 
 
 Now the whole of this time 
 
 That Spalpeen Sublime 
 Was preparing his mind for a good coorse of howling, 
 
 For you've noticed, no doubt, 
 
 That the childer don't shout 
 
 Till a minute or more on their heads they've been 
 rowling. 
 
82 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 " Milleah murther ! " at last, 
 
 He shouted aghast, 
 
 " My blood's flowing as fast as a fountain of wa- 
 ther; 
 
 It'll soon be all spilt, 
 
 And then I'll be kilt" 
 Mistaking the juice of the grapes for his slaughter. 
 
 Thin glancing around 
 
 He them gintlemen found 
 Their lips to the ground most adoringly placed, 
 
 Though I'm thinking the tipple, 
 
 Continuin' to ripple, 
 
 Round that sacred young cripple, their devotion 
 increased. 
 
 " By Noah's Ark and the Flood, 
 They're drinking my blood. 
 
 O you black vagabones," shouted Bacchus, "take 
 that ! " 
 
THE INVENTION OF WINE. 83 
 
 Here wid infantile curses 
 He up wid his thyrsus, 
 And knocked the entire cavalcade of them flat. 
 
 But soon to his joy 
 
 That Celestial Boy, 
 
 Comprehendin' the carnage that reddened the 
 ground, 
 
 Extending his pardon 
 
 To all in the garden, 
 Exclaimed wid a smile, as a crater he crowned, 
 
 " My bould girls and boys, 
 
 Be using your eyes, 
 For you now recognise the god Bacchus in me. 
 
 Come, what do you say 
 
 To a slight dajoonay, 
 
 Wid cowld punch and champagne, for I'm on for a 
 spree ? " 
 
 G 2 
 
84 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 So, widout further pressing, 
 
 Or the bother of dressing, 
 Down to the table they sat wid that haythen divine, 
 
 And began celebrating, 
 
 Wid the choicest of ating, 
 And drinking like winking, THE INVINTION OF WINE. 
 
THE IRISH SPINNING WHEEL. 
 
 'ING me a song, 
 Shiel, Shiel 
 
 As my foot on the, reel 
 Goes guidin' the wheel 
 Along. 
 
 For I keep better time 
 To a musical rhyme, 
 Than without." 
 
 No doubt 
 But Roseen, yourself start a tune 
 
86 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 For I've heard 
 How a bird 
 
 That sings by the light of the moon, 
 Away over the ocean, 
 Once took up a notion, 
 
 The vain little elf, that he'd fly 
 To Ireland itself on the sly, 
 And prove all the songs of our sky 
 Wid the tone 
 Of his own, 
 
 Could never at all at all vie 
 And he thought himself surely the best, 
 And 'twas true for him pVaps of the rest ; 
 But we've all understood 
 Meetin* you in the wood, 
 As you warbled ' The Land of the West.' 
 He should say, 
 He'd no chance 
 
 Wid you. 
 So away 
 
THE IRISH SPINNING WHEEL. 87 
 
 Into France 
 He flew." 
 
 " Behave, Shiel, 
 
 Yerra, don't you feel 
 
 How your blarneyin' talk is delayin' my reel ; 
 
 If you won't sing a song, 
 
 As I'm spinnin' along, 
 Be off for you 're idlin' myself and the wheel." 
 
 " Is it so ? 
 O! Vo! 
 If off I should go 
 
 Widout that I make you the music, machree 
 Down here, 
 My dear, 
 From this seat 
 At your feet, 
 I'll up wid the song that's the dearest to me." 
 
SONGS Of KILLARNE* 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Show me a sight, 
 
 Bates for delight 
 An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it. 
 
 O! No! 
 
 Nothin' you'll show, 
 Aquals her sittin' and takin j a twirl at it. 
 
 Look at her there, 
 
 Night in her hair 
 The blue ray of day from her eye laughin' out en us ! 
 
 Faix, an' a foot, 
 
 Perfect of cut, 
 Peepin' to put an end to all doubt in us 
 
 That there's a sight, 
 Bates for delight 
 An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it. 
 
1 'HE IRISH SPINNING WHEEL. 
 
 O ! No ! 
 
 Nothin' you'll show, 
 Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. 
 
 See ! the lamb's wool 
 
 Turns coarse an' dull 
 >> 
 
 By them soft, beautiful, weeshy, white hands of her. 
 
 Down goes her heel, 
 Roun' runs the wheel, 
 Purrin' wid pleasure to take the commands of her. 
 
 Then show me a sight, 
 
 Bates for delight 
 An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it. 
 
 O! No! 
 
 Nothin' you'll show, 
 Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. 
 
 Talk of Three Fates, 
 Seated on seats. 
 
 X^ 
 
 OF Th ' 
 U K/ 1 \/ cr ri 
 
 vx cl j^w 
 
 THE ^ \ 
 
 cr r ,-. . - . \ 
 
90 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 Spinnin' and shearin' away till they've done for me. 
 
 You may want three 
 
 For your massacree, 
 But one fate for me, boys, and only the one for me. 
 
 And 
 
 Isn't that fate, 
 
 Pictured complate, 
 An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it ? 
 
 O ! No! 
 
 Nothin' you'll show, 
 Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. 
 
THE FAIRY PIG. 
 
 EARS ago Connor Glanny, 
 The honest poor man he 
 Felt the bitter distress, 
 
 You may easily guess, 
 
 Whin I tell you he'd lost 
 
 All his fruit from the frost 
 
 (An' his apples the way 
 
 His rint he used pay), 
 
 An' his young wife confined, 
 
 An' still on his mind 
 
 An' their first little son, 
 
 The weakliest one ; 
 
92 SONGS OF KILLARNE^. 
 
 An' so, you may say, 
 The sight of that orchard 
 The little man tortured, 
 Wid sorra a pippin 
 Smilin' off of its kippin 
 To meet quarter-day. 
 
 Well ! the night barrin' two 
 That the rint it was due, 
 
 He up and away, 
 Before it was dawn, 
 To his cousin Jer Shea, 
 Beyant Derrynane, 
 To see could he borrow 
 
 The money agin 
 That day after to-morrow ; 
 
 But Jer wasn't in, 
 But across at Eyries 
 Wid a boat-load of trees, 
 So Glanny turned back 
 
THE FAIRY PIG. 93 
 
 By the mountainy track, 
 An' the head hangin' down, 
 Was trassin' for town, 
 Whin he chanced in Bunow, 
 On a small little sow, 
 On the naked rock lyin', 
 An' jist about dyin'. 
 It was awful hot weather, 
 An' Glanny was bate, 
 An' to Sneem altogether, 
 Was six mile complate. 
 Still an' all for that same, 
 For the baste has its claim, 
 On the honest man's mind, 
 " I'll not lave you behind," 
 Says he, " in the sun, 
 
 On that scorchin' hot shelf, 
 Or to bacon itself 
 You'll shortly be done/' 
 
94 SONGS Of KILLARNEY. 
 
 So off of the rock, 
 
 The two arms around her, 
 
 That bonneen he took, 
 An' faith an' he found her 
 
 A good weighty block, 
 
 An' was right glad to ground her 
 
 In the shade of the hedge, 
 
 At the dusty road's edge. 
 
 Then says he, " Faix, I think 
 I'll bring you a drink, 
 You poor little baste, 
 You'd die softer at laste." 
 
 So back to a fountain, 
 
 Where himself had just been, 
 
 He stretched up the mountain 
 For that little bonneen, 
 
 As if 'twas his daughter ; 
 An' filled his caubeen 
 
THE FAIRY PIG. 95 
 
 Full up wid spring wather. 
 
 Thin turned slowly back 
 
 Like a snail on his track, 
 For fear he'd be spillin' 
 
 The drink, if he ran, 
 Though the heat it was killin' 
 
 To a bareheaded man. 
 
 Thin the sow for that sup 
 Lookin' thankfully up, 
 Now what do you think ? 
 Before you could wink, 
 Sucked it down in one drink, 
 Gave herself a good rowl, 
 An ; thin, on my sowl ! 
 Starts up, why, as frisky 
 As if she'd had whisky, 
 Racin' an' chasin' 
 
 Her tail wid her snout, 
 In a style so amazin', 
 
.96 SONGS OF K1LLARNEY. 
 
 Aroun' an' about, 
 That though Glanny felt sure, 
 An' surer each minute, 
 There was somethin' quare in it, 
 Performin' her cure ; 
 
 He should still folly afther 
 
 That bonneen so droll, 
 His sides splittin' wid laughther, 
 At each caracole. 
 
 So the sow held her path 
 To an ould Irish rath, 
 Thin roundin' about 
 Wid a shake of her snout, 
 Signin' where she was goin ; , 
 She made off for an owen 
 Gladiatoring her way, 
 Wid her tail in the air, 
 Through such briars and furze, 
 As a fool, why, would say, 
 
THE FAIRY PIG. 97 
 
 In five minutes 'd flay her 
 Wid that soft skin of hers, 
 
 Or prickle the baste 
 
 To a hedgehog at laste. 
 
 " Hould on," Glanny shouted, 
 " Or by that holly-tree, 
 Suicided you'll be," 
 
 An' made for to catch her, 
 But through it she snouted 
 Wid sorra a scratch, sure, 
 Just as if it was wool 
 She was giving a pull ; 
 An' Glanny should follow 
 
 The pig, av ye plaze, 
 Right in through that holly 
 
 On his hands an' his knees ; 
 Till she came to a cave, 
 
 Flagged above wid gallauns, 
 An' the ould ogham Creve 
 
SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 On the edge of the stones, 
 As he saw, whin his sight 
 Understood the dim light 
 Of that hole underground. 
 But no symptom around, 
 Left, centre, or right, 
 Of the little bonneen 
 That had guided him in. 
 
 Till liftin' his eyes, 
 He sees wid surprise, 
 Herself by the curl, 
 Of her comical tail, 
 
 Swingin' down from the roof, 
 In a wonderful whirl. 
 
 Well ! to have a sure proof 
 The appearance was raal, 
 Glanny grips her forenint ; 
 Whin widout the laste hint 
 Of so awful a wonder, 
 
THE FAIRY PIG. 99 
 
 Through the thick of a storm 
 Of terrible thunder, 
 By lightnin' 
 Most fright' nin' 
 He sees her transform, 
 Transform an' transform, 
 Till a beautiful fairy, 
 
 Complete in her charms, 
 Wid a laugh, O how merry, 
 
 She leapt from his arms 
 To the moss, that the minute 
 She set her foot in it, 
 
 Turned to velvet no less 
 Of a green like her dress. 
 While sofies and chairs, 
 
 An 7 harps and pianees, 
 Promenadin' in pairs, 
 
 Took their places, begannies, 
 As if walked to their stands 
 By invisible hands. 
 
 H 2 
 
SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 Thin goold plate an' cup, 
 Came galloping up, 
 The purtiest of papers 
 Spread the four walls, be japers, 
 An' a crimson silk curtain 
 Crowned a chamber for sartin, 
 At laste, I'd presume, 
 
 Widout any bravado, 
 Batin' out the drawing-room 
 Of the Jap'nese Mikado. 
 An 7 as you bewilder 
 Ourselves an' the childer, 
 Up in London wid your 
 Prestidigitateur, 
 
 And his droll conjuration, 
 That was just Glanny's station 
 Cryin' out at each wonder 
 As if at a show, 
 " O vo ! O vo " 
 "O thunder, O thunder!" 
 
THE FAIRY PIG. 
 
 " O glory be to God ! 
 
 By my sowl, but that's odd ! " 
 
 Till immediately after 
 Some such star-gazin' speech, 
 There arose such a screech 
 
 Of shrill little laughter, 
 That he faced sudden round, 
 An 7 , begorra, there found 
 A whole fairy squadroon, 
 Ivery single small one 
 Its sides splittin' wid fun 
 Wid the former bonneen 
 In front for their queen ; 
 Who, beckn'in for silence, 
 " Pray pardon their violence, 
 
 Mr. Connor," says she, 
 " For really my elves 
 
 Will be makin' too free 
 Sometimes wid themselves 
 
 Will ye whisht, all of ye ! " 
 
102 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 Thin she whispers to Glanny, 
 " In the whole of this part 
 
 There never was any 
 As gentle at heart 
 As you, 
 Aroo. 
 
 Signs by and because 
 'Tis enchanted I was, 
 Away up in Bunow, 
 In the form of a sow, 
 A small little sow, 
 On the scorchhV rock lyin', 
 An' just about dyin' 
 Of the drought, you may say ; 
 For each one hottest day 
 Through the last fifty year 
 Wid not one to appear, 
 To or out of the city, 
 To show any pity 
 To the little bonneen, 
 
THE FAIRY PIG. 103 
 
 For that spell shouldrft cease 
 
 ' Till one came to release 
 
 By liftiri "me down 
 
 To the road from the town, 
 
 And climbiit the hill 
 
 His caubeenfor to fill 
 
 Full up wid spring wather 
 For me, 
 Machree, 
 
 As if for his daughther] 
 Till, Glanny, you came, 
 And accomplished that same 
 An' I'm free to my joy 
 Through the manes of you, boy 
 
 Now what can I do 
 To ricompinse you ? 
 Any wish that you have 
 I'll give, as you gave, 
 Name it, 
 
104 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 An' claim it 
 
 From me," 
 
 Says she. 
 
 " With no ' by your lave/ or 
 Condition, or favour 
 I'll grant it, Machree." 
 
 " Thank you kindly," says he, 
 " But I think you'll agree 
 You never could grant 
 All the wishes I want, 
 Whin I tell you I've come 
 From the sorrafullest home 
 The young wife confined, 
 An 5 still on my mind 
 An' the small little son 
 The sickliest one, 
 An' my apples all lost 
 By the crudest frost. 
 An' my fruit the one way 
 
THE FAIRY PIG. 105 
 
 The rint I can pay 
 An' it due, to my sorrow, 
 The day afther to-morrow." 
 Says she, " Then cheer up, 
 An 7 I'll manage it all 
 But its fastin' you look 
 For the bit and the sup ; 
 So " she here gave a call 
 To her fairy French cook 
 " You'll stay here, an' dine 
 On my mate and my wine ; 
 Then you'll feel more the man 
 To consider my plan." 
 
 Thin a table arose 
 Wid a cloth like the snows, 
 And upon it goold dishes 
 Full of soups and of fishes ; 
 And mates and sweetmates 
 Hot an' cowld on the plates, 
 
io6 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 An' a soft pair of sates. 
 So she, why, and Connor 
 
 To that dinner sat down, 
 While, glory ! on my honor ! 
 
 Aroun' an 7 aroun' 
 Wine and Guiness's stout 
 Kept pourin' itself out ; 
 An' the beautiful pratee 
 
 Burstin' out of its jacket 
 In the height of its gai'ty 
 
 Bounced up O ! and crack it, 
 Melted off in the mout' 
 
 So soft and delicious 
 
 An' delightful side dishes, 
 Fish and fowl, they came skelpin', 
 
 An' mutton and pork, 
 Presentin' a helpin' 
 
 To each knife and each fork. 
 Till, of all on the table, 
 Glanny Connor was able 
 
THE FAIRY PIG. 107 
 
 To manage no more. 
 Then says she, " Now, astore, 
 I won't lend you the goold, 
 For we both might be fooled 
 By its changing itself, 
 Whin stored up on your shelf, 
 To dock-leaves or grass 
 As is often the case. 
 But I've got a surprise, 
 Will gladden your eyes 
 When you're back at your home. 
 But come, Glanny, come ; 
 Since so plainly you show 
 Your impatience to go 
 Tharram pogue ! an' good-bye ! " 
 An' gives him a kiss. 
 
 Says Glanny, " Why, why, 
 What's the manin' of this ? ; 
 
io8 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 " O thunder, O thunder, 
 What this that I'm under ? " 
 " Your orchard" so sweet 
 
 It seemed for to say, 
 Then below at his feet 
 
 Died far-far away. 
 
 ? Twas the set of the day, 
 
 And the sun's last ray 
 Showed him each leafy 
 Spray was heavy 
 
 Wid a smilin' store 
 
 Of apples galore 
 
 O just the way, 
 
 For the world, like a bevy 
 
 A beautiful bevy 
 Of girls in a play, 
 Of hide an' seek, 
 
 Whom you find at last, after searchin' all day, 
 Wid the laugh on the lip and the smile on the 
 cheek. 
 
THE FAIRY PIG. 109 
 
 So each purty pippen 
 Curtsey'd off of its kippen' 
 Bright and blushin' 
 All over the tree, 
 And hark ! see ! 
 Who comes hushin' 
 Brave and rosy 
 As the rest 
 
 With a shosheen, ho ! so sweet and cozy 
 A hearty child upon her breast 
 Upon my life 
 Tis Glanny's wife 
 An' Glanny's boy, 
 O joy ! O joy ! 
 
SPRING VOICES. 
 
SPRING'S SUMMONS. 
 
 ARK ! the Spring again 
 
 From their bowers hidden 
 All her tender train 
 Blithesomely has bidden. 
 
 " Wake, O wake ! for now at last 
 Cruel Winter's reign is past." 
 
 So her little babes the buds 
 Rosy-red with innocent sleep 
 
 From their cradles in the woods 
 Pretty wonderers upward peep 
 
114 SPRING VOICES. 
 
 Through the unfathomed firmament ; 
 Now with earthward gaze intent 
 Eager mark how far below 
 Golden flowers and flowers of snow 
 Gladden -all the garden-row, 
 Or like stars on quiet seas 
 Daisies light the verdant leas ; 
 Whilst the faithful robins sing, 
 " Cruel Winter turns to Spring." 
 
 Then that Thorn too fond for waiting 
 
 Leaf with blossom antedating 
 
 All his naked ebon branches 
 
 With sweet snows abundant blanches. 
 
 These therefore the breezy showers 
 
 Sweep like far-seen avalanches 
 
 Sudden from our Island Bowers, 
 
 Nor let their silver magic stay 
 
 To match the blossomed hawthorn-spray. 
 
 Next in fragrant order meet, 
 
SPRING'S SUMMONS. 115 
 
 To the Season's summons sweet, 
 Violet, primrose, daffodilly, 
 Cowslip, harebell, white wood-lily, 
 All around by bank and field, 
 Sweeping common, dell concealed, 
 Their soft charms to Zephyr yield. 
 He forthwith most false of Airs 
 With the bees his secret shares. 
 Therefore these with sudden sheen, 
 Glancing golden o'er the green, 
 Deftly store from cup and bell, 
 Clear quintessent hydromel. 
 Now on instant raptures bent, 
 Of aught else improvident, 
 All in robes of rainbow dye, 
 Nature's fool the butterfly 
 Up and down in rash unthrift, 
 To and fro with ceaseless shift, 
 
 On, on, from flower to flower, for aye delights to 
 drift. 
 
119 SPRING VOICES. 
 
 See ! the cautious Oak at last, 
 Owning angry Winter past, 
 Spreads his smiling leaves in haste, 
 Lest the roving woodsman dread, 
 Haply holding him for dead, 
 Plying horrid wound on wound, 
 With gleaming axe should bear him groaning to the 
 
 ground. 
 
 Then with emulous blossoms gay, 
 Snowy chestnut snowy may 
 Laugh by every woodland way, 
 Then the blushing lilac kisses 
 His laburnum's golden tresses. 
 And, while sheep-bells mingle sweet 
 With the new-born lambkin's bleat, 
 Loud the pairing thrushes sing, 
 " Winter-time has turned to Spiing." 
 
 Now to Man that happy Voice 
 Cries in turn, " Rejoice ! Rejoice 
 
SUMMONS. 117 
 
 Come, O come ! for now at last, 
 
 Lo, the Tyrant-King has passed. 
 Fear no more his snows and frost, 
 
 Reck not of his tempests rude, 
 Winter o'er the seas has crossed, 
 
 And his storms are all subdued/' 
 
 Hush, oh hush ! for first she calls 
 In a voice most full of pity, 
 
 Soft and clear, 
 
 " Mourners dear, 
 From the cold unlovely walls 
 
 Of your cruel, cruel city, 
 Softly steal to me, and make your moan 
 
 All alone ; 
 
 So shall your exceeding bitter grief 
 Find a fond relief. 
 
 " Come also an open band, 
 Hand in hand, 
 
u8 SPRING VOICES. 
 
 From your winter durance dreary, 
 Whosoever weak and weary, 
 Languish in the land ! 
 Press from out your sombre cities, 
 
 Sick and poor, 
 
 For your cure 
 I have sights and smells and ditties 
 
 Manifold 
 
 Potent, oh ! my friends, to please you, 
 Or a happy while to ease you, 
 
 Young and old, 
 
 Of your pain. 
 
 " Come again. 
 
 Fair and strong, 
 
 Grave and thoughtless, join the throng. 5 
 
 " Hasten here, 
 Children dear ! 
 Haste, and with your shrill deligh 
 
SPRINGES SUMMONS. 119 
 
 Fill the greenest of my glades ; 
 Whilst in gladdest giddiest flight 
 
 Flying beams and flickering shades, 
 Sharing in your frolic mirth, 
 Go dancing, dancing with you o'er the daisied earth. 
 
 " Come anon, ye lovers true, 
 
 With the falling of my dew, 
 
 Come, and past my faintly-figured hawthorn-row 
 
 To and fro 
 
 Turn with happy steps and slow ; 
 
 Till some soft-embowered retreat 
 
 Tempt aside your willing feet ; 
 
 There, whilst Love a friendly shade, 
 
 Weaves in your abashment's aid, 
 
 Trembling youth to timorous maid, 
 
 With emboldened lips confess, 
 
 All your bosom's dear distress. 
 
 " Nor withhold, my allies three, 
 
SPRING VOICES. 
 
 Painter, Minstrel, Poet fond, 
 Your sweet services from me. 
 
 " See ! oh see ! 
 
 Artist true, 
 
 At the wafture of my wand, 
 Lake and wood and hill beyond, 
 
 Purple, green, and blue, 
 Morn's first blush, 
 Eve's last flush, 
 
 Laughingly 
 
 Challenge you ! 
 Lightest, brightest, boldest Brush 
 
 From the crowded city's hum, 
 
 Come ! 
 
 Come counterfeit with art complete 
 All my changeful colours sweet. 
 
 " Next draw near, 
 Minstrel dear 
 
SPRING'S SUMMONS. 
 
 Come, O come ! for Nature's Choir 
 
 This thine Art shall best inspire. 
 Hear her opera ! love its stress ; 
 
 All her stage this upland green, 
 
 Hero true and heroine 
 Yonder hind and shepherdess. 
 Hark ! O hark each voice repeat 
 
 Passion's pleading, 
 
 Feigned unheeding 
 Now in mutual rapture meet ; 
 These amidst a comrade chorus 
 
 Clear, sonorous, 
 These shall be our happy singers ; 
 Whiles that hidden Harper sweet, 
 
 With his eager, airy ringers, 
 Tightly straining for his pleasure the long tresses of 
 
 the pine, 
 Sweeps them to those lovers' voices in a melody 
 
 divine. 
 Whence now shall our viol-notes 
 
122 SPRING VOICES. 
 
 Lightly laugh or wildly wail ? 
 From your gay and grieving throats, 
 
 Tuneful lark and nightingale ! 
 Now for flageolet and flute 
 
 Thrush and blackbird be not mute ! 
 Now for trump and clarion clear 
 Low ye oxen, bell ye deer 
 Now with silver cymbal shocks, 
 Clash ye sudden-echoing rocks ! 
 Nor cease, O sea, at vastest interval 
 Sounding from deep to deep thine awful organ-call. 
 
 " Last of all, delighted straying 
 
 From thy fevered fellow-throng, 
 Come, O Poet, pensive weighing 
 
 Words of song 
 
 Come ! my landscape fresh and fair, 
 Choir enchanting, perfumed air 
 All their essences most rare 
 
 Thee shall lend 
 
SPRING'S SUMMONS. 123 
 
 Aye and so divinely blend 
 
 With thy fancy's loving theme, 
 
 That when thou art dead and laid 
 
 In the quiet Churchyard shade, 
 O'er that gently flowing stream 
 
 From the quiet ingle nook 
 Village youth and village maid, 
 With the winter woodfire's aid, 
 
 May list the lark or mountain brook 
 
 Singing from thy faithful book 
 May see with half-closed musing eyes 
 My waving woods, my shifting skies, 
 And almost feel upon their brow 
 My zephyr breathe as soft as now." 
 
THE CLIFFS OF GLENDORE. 
 
 HE comes, she comes, the Season's 
 
 Queen ! " 
 
 The faithful robins pipe, and preen 
 Their ruffled plumes, associate lean 
 
 The lime and larch, 
 Lifted in one long, lustrous, green 
 Triumphal arch. 
 
 " She comes, she comes ! " on herald wing, 
 Before her thrush and blackbird sing; 
 Then in she sweeps, the sovereign Spring, 
 
 While at her side, 
 Love, with an arrow on his string, 
 
 Doth laughing ride. 
 
THE CLIFFS OF GLENDORE. 125 
 
 Around them troop a virgin train, 
 With mystic dance and magic strain, 
 Loose-linked in one careering chain 
 
 Of lovely mirth. 
 " So Spring," he sang, " returns to reign 
 
 The willing Earth. 
 
 " So Spring returns, and, with her, Love, 
 Whom small sweet larks in heaven above, 
 Coy butterfly, coo-cooing dove, 
 
 Fond youth and maid 
 Ay, all glad hearts are telling of, 
 
 But mine,' 7 he said. 
 
 " Yet how divinelier bird and bee, 
 And wind and wave would sing to me, 
 How lovelier far by lawn and lea 
 
 Thy spring would prove, 
 Wert thou not still estranged from me, 
 
 O longed-for Love ! " 
 
126 SPRING VOICES. 
 
 So that dear Irish April day, 
 Above his blue Atlantic bay, 
 Embowered by arbutus and may, 
 
 A poet cried ; 
 When " come !" it sang; and " I obey, 
 
 Sweet brook," he sighed. 
 
 And strange as lips and eyes, that seem 
 
 Calling, gazing, through a dream, 
 
 With summon's sweet and beckoning beam 
 
 That brook ran ever, 
 Swelling to a stately stream, 
 
 A rushing river. 
 
 And " come ! " it cried again to him, 
 So clear, that o'er the grassy rim 
 He gazed into the waters dim ; 
 
 But nought espied, 
 Save bull-flags swaying great and grim 
 
 Athwart the tide. 
 
THE CLIFFS OF GLENDORE. 127 
 
 And " come ! " it called him o'er and o'er, 
 Love's voice upon the Atlantic shore ; 
 And "come ! " it cried to him once more, 
 
 Then laughed " Too late," 
 As mid the cliffs of wild Glendore, 
 
 He found his fate. 
 
THE POET'S SPRING. 
 
 1 ITH an aching heart and a brain out- 
 weary, 
 
 From his trembling fingers he tossed 
 the pen, 
 
 And climbed to the roof of his attic eyrie, 
 And gazed far down on the city of men, 
 And cried from above to the thronging people, 
 " Oh, little as ye seem, and vain and slight, 
 Ye are smaller, slighter " and he turned to the 
 
 steeple 
 
 " Meaner and vainer in your Maker's sight ! " 
 " YEA/' the bell chimed from the sacred height. 
 
THE POET'S SPRING, 129 
 
 " When death," he sighed, " left my pillow lonely, 
 And my whole life loveless, hither I came 
 
 From our New World sierras comforted only 
 By a far-heard echo of fame and name, 
 
 The siren voice of a Phantom Shrouded ; 
 
 But the Mystic Shape is with clouds o'erclouded, 
 
 And her sweet strain silent. Proclaim, proclaim, 
 What may it mean ? Is it well, oh bell ? " 
 And the voice from the steeple replied, " IT is 
 WELL." 
 
 Once again he called to the Spirit in the Spire : 
 "If Fame forsake me as Love forsook, 
 
 What is left of all of my heart's desire 
 But a buried bride and a foolish book ? " 
 
 The bell no more made answer hollow, 
 But a fresh voice fell on the poet's ear, 
 
 A voice from the west, crying, "Follow me, follow 
 Flowers waken, birds warble, and streams run clear, 
 Follow me, follow, for the Spring is here J" 
 
130 SPUING VOICES. 
 
 So the poet followed the sweet-voiced zephyr 
 To a gay green valley in the heart of the hills, 
 
 At his feet there leaped a laughing river 
 Crowned with thorn-blossom and daffodils : 
 
 Two robins aloft on an elm were singing, 
 
 Two wild doves over the stream were winging, 
 
 And this song was wafted from welkin and rills 
 And bird and blossom " Sad soul, be whole 
 With a hope that shall strengthen as the seasons roll." 
 
THE IRISH EXILE'S LOVE. 
 
 ITH pensive eyes she passed the 
 
 church, 
 
 And up the leafy woodland came ; 
 Until she reached the silver birch 
 
 Where, long ago, he carved her name. 
 
 And " Oh ! " she sighed, as soft she kissed 
 
 With loving lips that gentle tree, 
 : Alone, alone, I keep the tryst, 
 Return to Ireland, love, and me. 
 
132 SPRIA T G VOICES. 
 
 " Return ! Columbia's realm afar, 
 
 Where year by year your feet delay, 
 We cannot match for moon or star 
 By silver night or golden day. 
 
 " Her birds are brighter far of wing 
 
 A richer lustre lights her flowers ; 
 Yet still they say no bird can sing 
 Or blossom breathe as sweet as ours. 
 
 " Return ! Her levin-flashes dire 
 
 Affright not here. We never know 
 Her awful rushing prairie-fire 
 The silent horror of her snow. 
 
 " Return ! Her heart is wise and bold 
 
 Her borders beautiful and free 
 Yet still the New is not the Old, 
 Return to Ireland, love, and me." 
 
THE MAY OF THE YEAR. 
 
 SHOW me a season as mild and as 
 
 merry 
 
 As the May of the year in the 
 Kingdom of Kerry. 
 
 As the May of the year, as the May of the year, 
 When the eyes of Atlantic, as crystal-clear 
 As Heaven's own blue, are beaming on you ; 
 
 And the sun moves slowly for love of the 
 
 flowers 
 Such flowers, with the wild bees all a-hum, 
 
 And delights to linger above the bowers 
 Those very bowers, so dark and dumb, 
 
134 SPRING VOICES. 
 
 And sorrowful stripped for O, how long ? 
 But now how green ! how full of song ! 
 And the good sun gazes, with golden gaze. 
 Oi} the evergreens of our woodland ways : 
 A gaze so glad arbutus and holly 
 Forget their wintry melancholy 
 In diamond laughter, and he delays 
 The happy heedless course of the hours, 
 And looks with a lingering love-look down 
 To do his duty 
 To Irish beauty ; 
 
 And looks again, with a royal frown, 
 Steadfast and stern, our boys to burn, 
 To burn our boys, to a braver brown. 
 
 So the good sun his course delays, 
 
 For he loves to lengthen our sweet spring days. 
 
SONNET 
 
 TO A HAWTHORN. 
 
 * HEN Spring returns, after so sad delay, 
 And little birds no longer pipe 
 
 " Alas ! " 
 
 Oft as a-field from copse to copse I pass, 
 I mark thee, fairest, quickening day by day 
 From bud to leaf from leaf to blossom gay ; 
 
 Till, as a queen, the lovely village lass 
 Wreathes for her crown thy pearliest-petalled spray, 
 Thy greenest wilding sceptres for her sway. 
 
 Be with us still, beseech thee, Maiden May ; 
 
 Still to thy stream stoop through the springing grass. 
 
 Aye ! linger still, a bride before thy glass. 
 And still too soon shall dusk the nuptial day 
 
 When thy virginity, that so beauteous was, 
 In Summer's amorous arms shall blushing melt away. 
 
SONNET 
 
 TO A LABURNUM IN A DUBLIN GARDEN. 
 
 OST thou, despairful that thy lot is laid 
 Far from the wild wood, the romantic 
 
 hill, 
 
 In rich dishevel ment of sorrow spill 
 Thy long locks lustrous kiss thine own sweet shade 
 Narcissus-like, or with the Argive maid 
 To golden glamour yield thee half afraid ? 
 An exile's longings for some orient lea 
 Lavish belike these glittering hoards of grief. 
 I know not. Yet, before their summer brief 
 
 Forsakes our island woods, Laburnum Tree, 
 Again thou seem'st to blossom tears of gold. 
 Nearer we draw, yet all that we behold 
 
 Is but the splendour of thy faded leaf 
 No hue of health the flush that all too soon is cold. 
 
DAWN AT BALLINVOIRIG. 
 
 IS scarcely four by the village clock, 
 The dew is heavy the air is 
 
 cool 
 
 A mist goes up from the glassy pool 
 Through the dim field ranges a phantom flock, 
 No sound is heard but the magpie's mock. 
 
 Very low is the sun in the sky, 
 
 It needeth no eagle now to regard him. 
 Is there not one lark left to reward him 
 
 With the shivering joy of his long sweet cry? 
 
 For his face shines sadly, I know not why. 
 
138 SPRING VOICES. 
 
 Through the ivied ruins of yonder elm 
 There glides and gazes a sadder face 
 Spectre queen of a vanished race 
 ; Tis the full moon shrunk to a fleeting film, 
 And she lingers for love of her ancient realm. 
 
 These are but idle fancies, I know, 
 
 Framed to solace a secret grief. 
 
 Look again scorning such false relief 
 Dwarf not Nature to match thy woe. 
 Look again ! Whence do these fancies flow ? 
 
 What is the moon but a lamp of fire 
 
 That God shall relume in His season ? The sun 
 Like a giant rejoices his race to run, 
 
 With flaming feet that never tire, 
 
 On the azure path of the starry choir. 
 
 The lark has sung ere I left my bed, 
 
 And hark ! far aloft from those ladders of Ikh 
 
DAWN AT BALLINVOIRIG. 139 
 
 Many songs, not one only, the morn delight ; 
 Then, Sad Heart, dream not that Nature is dead, 
 But seek from her strength and comfort instead. 
 
THE KINGDOM OF KERRY. 
 
 AN INVITATION TO IRELAND. 
 
 COME to us and learn to own 
 Unless your heart's as hard as 
 
 stone 
 
 There's not a realm around the sphere 
 With Our Kingdom can compare. 
 
 For how could river, lake, and sea 
 In softer sister hues agree ? 
 Or hills of passionate purple-glow 
 Far and near more proudly flow ? 
 
THE KINGDOM OF KERRY. 141 
 
 And where will summer kiss awake 
 Lovelier flowers by lawn or brake ? 
 Or brighter berries blush between 
 Foliage of a fresher green ? 
 
 And if you miss from modern days 
 Sweet simple-hearted human ways, 
 Come ! own such ancient virtues rare 
 In our kingdom cherished are. 
 
 The open hospitable door, 
 The poor man's pittance to the poor, 
 Unfaltering friendship, loyal love 
 Joys your greatest sigh to prove. 
 
 O come to us ! At break of day 
 We'll breast the billows of the bay ; 
 Then range afar with rod or gun, 
 Sportsmen keen, till set of sun. 
 
H2 SPRIAfG VOICES. 
 
 Or our advent'rous nymphs beside 
 With eager oarage take the tide 
 To mountains fresh and forests new, 
 Borne along the Atlantic blue. 
 
 Pausing awhile, our quest achieved, 
 On velvet mosses over-leaved 
 With shelter from the solar glare 
 Gipsy-wise our feast to share. 
 
 O then or when a moonlit main 
 Together tempts us home again, 
 And dipping dreamy oars we go, 
 Softly singing, laughing low 
 
 Then most of all beware ! beware ! 
 The starry eyes, the night of hair 
 Each darkling grace of face and mould, 
 Silver voices, hearts of gold. 
 
THE KINGDOM OF KERRY. 143 
 
 So come to us and gladly own 
 Unless your heart's as hard as stone 
 That not one kingdom in the sphere 
 With our Kerry can compare. 
 
MOODS AND MELODIES. 
 
PARKNASILLA. 
 
 TO AN ARTIST. 
 
 WHO could limn the landscape that we 
 
 love 
 The rocky garden's variegated wreath 
 
 The limes that skirt the oaks 'and pines beneath 
 Ocean before, the summer sky above ? 
 
 Who could pourtray the mountains' purple smiles 
 And all the opal hues of earth and heaven, 
 
 Foam-fringing forests heather-tufted Isles ; 
 The roseate dawn purpureal pomps of even 
 
 And young Atlantic's petulant shifting wiles ? 
 Who could do aught but mar the true expression 
 
 Where all is change ? Then why a record shape 
 Of scenes whose nature glories in succession 
 
 From wood to wave from wave to distant cape 
 Like the young poet's dream, fair beyond all possession? 
 
SHE LEANT UPON THE RUSTIC 
 BRIDGE. 
 
 HE leant upon the Rustic Bridge, 
 With all her spirit in her eyes, 
 Far off the mountains, ridge on ridge, 
 Flowed westward through the autumn skies. 
 
 The blue sea kissed its golden weeds, 
 In wreaths the blue smoke took the air 
 
 Flushed were the forests green the meads 
 She said, " This earth is passing fair." 
 
THE FIRST ROSE. 
 
 A MELODY. 
 
 'HE rose that in the springtide ventures 
 
 forth 
 
 To woo the Zephyr, vrith her crimson 
 smiles 
 
 And odorous wiles, 
 
 Too often chances on the cruel North ; 
 For every kiss of his cold lips, 
 With poisonous blight her beauty nips. 
 Till one by one with downcast head 
 She weeps away her petals red, 
 And with the last, bereft of life and light 
 Sighs forth her passionate soul on the dark lap of night. 
 
THE ROSE-TREE IN FULL BEARING. 
 
 AN IRISH MELODY. 
 
 ROSE-TREE in full bearing, 
 
 When rude storms had stripped the 
 
 bowers ; 
 How oft with thee despairing, 
 
 I've sighed through the long dark hours ; 
 Till Spring, so hard of wooing, 
 
 Hope's own green spell upon thee cast, 
 And Kate, her coldness ruing, 
 With sweet pity turned at last. 
 
 Then April smiled to cheer us, 
 Or mocked grief with golden rain, 
 
THE ROSE-TREE IN FULL BEARING. 151 
 
 While Kate drew laughing near us, 
 Or frowned past with dear disdain ; 
 
 'Till, was it yester even, 
 
 Beneath thy faint red flowers divine, 
 
 With Love's one star in heaven, 
 Her lips leant at last to mine ? 
 
 And when I fondly told her, 
 
 O, Rose, all our stormy grief ; 
 And how my hope grew bolder, 
 
 With thy every opening leaf ; 
 She answered, " for so sharing, 
 
 Dear heart, Love's weary winter hour, 
 The Rose-tree in full bearing, 
 
 Shall build us our summer bower. 
 
THE FADED ROSE. 
 
 'HROW the window open wider; let the 
 
 cool air kiss my brows ; 
 See, the stars alone are shining; hark ! 
 the rustling of the boughs ; 
 
 On a night, oh, how how like this, love, we breathed 
 our virgin vows ! 
 
 And the dear old arbour, shall I never never see it 
 
 more ? 
 With its pleasant rustic seats, and scaly cones, and 
 
 pebbled floor, 
 And the rose that peeped upon us, dearest, through 
 
 the open door. 
 
THE FADED ROSE. 153 
 
 " Yield, outri vailed, yield this forfeit, rash one, to a 
 
 Rose more fair ; " 
 Light he laughed and turning twined its brightest 
 
 blossom in my hair. 
 Love, unclasp this cherished locket; see, the withered 
 
 flower is there ! 
 
 Little, thought I, when I set it fondly in this shrine 
 
 of gold, 
 That thy Rose would fade as fast, her cheek as soon 
 
 turn wan and cold. 
 Take her in thy precious arms, and let her die within 
 
 their fold. 
 
"IRISH EYES." 
 
 RISK Eyes ! Irish Eyes, 
 
 Eyes that most of all can move me ! 
 
 Lift one look 
 From my book, 
 
 Through your lashes dark, and prove me 
 In my worship O how wise ! 
 
 Other orbs, be content ! 
 
 In your honor, not dispraisal 
 
 Most I prize, 
 
 Irish Eyes 
 
 Since were not your ebon, hazel, 
 Violet all to light them lerit ? 
 
' IRISH EYES." 155 
 
 Then no mischief, Merry Eyes ! 
 Stars of Thought, no jealous fancies ! 
 
 Can I err 
 
 To prefer 
 This sweet union of your glances, 
 
 Sparkling, darkling Irish Eyes ? 
 
SLEEPLESS. 
 
 A SONNET. 
 
 ALE Queen, that from thy bower Elysian, 
 In slow, sweet state supremely issuing 
 
 forth, 
 
 Of thy dear pity to the day-worn man, 
 Dispensest dreams through all the darkened earth, 
 Hast thou no ray of softliest-silvered span, 
 
 To tempt coy Slumber hither? O, if thou hast, 
 By all the love of thy Endymion, 
 Spare it, that I, even I, may rest at last 
 Yea ! that for me, sad Present, cruel Past, 
 
 Dark Future blend in blest oblivion, 
 Speed Slumber, Slumber to these aching eyes, 
 That he with wings of balmiest breath may fan 
 My cares to rest, confuse each haunting plan, 
 And steal my spirit with a sweet surprise. 
 
AN IRISH GRACE. 
 
 1 OR beauty's blaze 
 Let Pagans praise 
 
 The features of Aglaia, 
 Admire agape 
 The maiden shape 
 
 Consummate in Thalia, 
 Last hail in thee, 
 Euphrosyne, 
 
 Allied the sovran powers 
 Of form and face 
 No heathen Grace 
 
 Can match this Grace of ours. 
 
158 MOODS AND MELODIES. 
 
 Blue are her eyes, as though the skies 
 Were ever blue above them, 
 
 And dark their full-fringed canopies, 
 As if the night fays wove them. 
 
 Two roses kiss to mould her mouth, 
 Her ear's a lily blossom, 
 
 Her blush a sunset in the south, 
 And drifted snow her bosom. 
 
 Her voice is gay, but soft and low, 
 The sweetest of all trebles, 
 
 A silver brook that, in its flow, 
 Chimes over pearly pebbles. 
 
 A happy heart, a temper bright, 
 Her radiant smile expresses ; 
 
 And, like a wealth of golden light, 
 Rain down her sunny tresses. 
 
AN IRISH GRACE. 159 
 
 Earth's desert clime, 
 Whose sands are Time, 
 
 Will prove a glad oasis, 
 If 'tis my fate, 
 My friends, to mate 
 
 With such a girl as Grace is. 
 
SAD THRUSH. 
 
 THRUSH, that pourest far and near, 
 From some dark bower thy passionate 
 
 song, 
 Thou speakest sadder to my ear 
 
 To-day than all the feathered throng. 
 
 For when, alas ! in search of food 
 The mother bird had left her young, 
 
 With axe in hand, a woodsman rude, 
 I roved my leafy shades among ; 
 
SAD THRUSH. 161 
 
 Till, cruel chance ! my critic eye 
 
 Discerned a wildering beechen bough ; 
 
 I heaved the sturdy steel on high, 
 
 And with three strokes I struck it through. 
 
 It trembled, tottered, crashed, and fell, 
 
 And turning, tossed upon the air 
 Four throstles, scarce escaped the shell, 
 
 With downy breasts and pinions bare ; 
 
 Whilst wildly wheeling o'er their fall, 
 
 Returned, alas ! one moment late, 
 The parent thrush, with piteous call, 
 
 Bewailed her children's cruel fate. 
 
 Each bird, with wafts of warmest breath, 
 
 I strove to stir to life again ; 
 But oh ! so rude the rock beneath 
 
 All, all the little ones were slain. 
 
 M 
 
1 62 MOODS AND MELODIES. 
 
 In their own nest, that scarce was cold, 
 Their tender corses I inurned ; 
 
 Then made their grave of garden mould. 
 And homeward melancholy turned. 
 
 And this is why in cadence clear, 
 Pouring afar her passionate song, 
 
 One thrush speaks sadder to my ear 
 To-day than all the feathered throng. 
 
GLAD THRUSH. 
 
 USH ! O hush ! 
 
 For the yellow-throated thrush 
 Comes winging fleetly 
 Whither ? Hither, 
 
 The yellow-throated, mellow-noted thrush 
 Comes winging fleetly. 
 Singing, how sweetly, 
 
 " Kwee-kwee kwee-kwee, 
 Trill-lilla-la." 
 
 Then hush ! O hush ! 
 My pipe of holly 
 
1 64 MOODS AND MELODIES. 
 
 Most melancholy ; 
 For our sad song 
 Would greatly wrong 
 His carol jolly ; 
 
 " Kwee-kwee kwee-kwee, 
 
 Trill-lilla-la." 
 
 He, perching thus, 
 Pipes back to us, 
 " Light-hearted swain, 
 Thy jocund flute 
 To-day is mute. 
 O why refrain 
 Its mirthful strain 
 To pour ; when I 
 From this tree nigh, 
 Am piping plain, 
 
 ' Kwee-kwee kwee-kwee, 
 Trill-lilla-la ? ' " 
 
GLAD THRUSH. 165 
 
 And I reply, 
 
 " Sweet bird, because 
 
 Grief only was 
 In my flute's sigh, 
 Till you came by ; 
 
 But your kwee-kwee 
 
 Of gushing glee, 
 Bids sorrow fly. 
 
 So, overhead, 
 
 Sing on kwee-kwee, 
 Trill-lilla-la, I 
 
 Till day is dead." 
 
THE HUNTER BRAVE. 
 
 O kiss farewell," the hunter cries, 
 And forth upon his courser flies. 
 "Farewell !" his wife and children wave 
 " Farewell ! farewell ! our hunter brave." 
 
 Beware the lion's deadly leap 
 A flash a fall a heaving heap 
 And, lo ! the monster in his cave 
 Lies dead before the hunter brave. 
 
 " To horse to horse ! " again he cries, 
 And homeward, homeward, homeward flies. 
 Whilst " welcome ! " wife and children wave, 
 " Welcome, once more, our hunter brave ! " 
 
IRISH LULLABY. 
 
 D rock my own sweet childie to rest in a 
 cradle of gold on a bough of the 
 willow, 
 
 To the sho sheen ho ; of the wind of the west and the 
 shularoo of the soft sea billow. 
 Sleep, baby dear, 
 Sleep without fear, 
 Mother is here beside your pillow. 
 
 I'd put my own sweet childie to sleep in a silver boat 
 
 on the beautiful river, 
 Where a shosheen whisper the white cascades, and a 
 
 shularoo the green flags shiver. 
 
1 68 MOODS AND MELODIES. 
 
 Sleep, baby dear, 
 Sleep without fear, 
 Mother is here with you for ever. 
 
 *-- 
 
 Shularoo ! to the rise and fall of mother's bosom 'tis 
 
 sleep has bound you, 
 
 And O, my child, what cozier nest for rosier rest could 
 love have found you ? 
 Sleep, baby dear, 
 Sleep without fear, 
 Mother's two arms are clasped around you. 
 
MIGHT LOVING MAIDS. 
 
 IRISH MELODY. 
 
 IGHT loving maids confess 
 
 Their bosoms' dear distress, 
 To youths as fond-avowed could 
 they but speak, 
 The words of my adieu 
 Had not been light and few ; 
 The smile had turned to tears upon my cheek. 
 
 O yes ! might maidens tell 
 With their last wild farewell, 
 How truest hearts oft ache unclaimed behind, 
 
1 70 MOODS AND MELODIES. 
 
 I who so dearly loved 
 Had not seemed all unmoved 
 
 Toward thee my own true love confessed were for- 
 tune kind. 
 
 t 
 
 Yet though perforce we part, 
 
 Ere faithful heart to heart 
 Could own the tender rapture each inspired, 
 
 Absence will but approve 
 
 The honour of thy love, 
 And make my hope the more to be desired. 
 
 Yes ! though perforce we part, 
 
 Ere faithful heart to heart 
 Could own the tender rapture each inspired, 
 
 Absence will but approve 
 
 The honour of thy love, 
 And make my hope in thee the more to be desired. 
 
WHEN SHE ANSWERED ME HER 
 VOICE WAS LOW. 
 
 IRISH MELODY. 
 
 HEN she answered me her voice was 
 
 low but, oh ! 
 
 Not, Erin, thine own harp's im- 
 passioned chord 
 
 With prouder bliss e'er bade my bosom glow, 
 Than she has kindled by that one sweet word. 
 
 When the colleen's eyes looked back the love in mine, 
 
 My Erin, never after darkest night 
 With bluer welcome o'er the ocean line 
 
 Thy shore has started on my patriot sight. 
 
172 MOODS AND MELODIES. 
 
 And, Erin, bid thy son as soon believe 
 Thy song expired, thy star of promise set, 
 
 As dream my darling's eyes could e'er deceive, 
 Her lips their low sweet answer all forget. 
 
 I 
 I 
 
AUTUMN DIRGE. 
 
 ' ALLEN with the fallen leaf ! 
 
 All the woods are bowed with grief, 
 And the sky, without relief, 
 O'er the earth with tears replieth. 
 We are also bowed with grief, 
 And from tears have no relief : 
 Death is on our aged chief ; 
 Dumb and motionless he lieth. 
 
 Now the earth all beauty scorning, 
 With no blooms her breast adorning, 
 Wrapped in cypress robes is mourning 
 For the summer's lost delight ; 
 
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. 
 
Sor 
 
 f killarney. 
 
 6 1 
 
 
 
 
 *1:4 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ! 
 
 
 
 4 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ^n 
 
 ,: 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 235 __ 1 
 
 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 /.. 3JJ ^r 
 Xi*ft : -t Q' 
 
 
 
 .8RARY