LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side
On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride.

The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high,
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek:
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You never more will speak.

"Tis but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands nearThe church where we were wed, Mary; I see the spire from here.

But the graveyard lies between, Mary,

And my step might break your restFor I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on,

93

When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was

gone; There was comfort ever on your lip,

And the kind look on your brow
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger pain was gnawin' there,
And you hid it for my sake;

I bless you for the pleasant word,

When your heart was sad and sore Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm biddin' you a long farewell,

My Mary -kind and true! But I'll not forget you, darling, In the land I'm goin' to:

They say there 's bread and work for all,

And the sun shines always there, But I'll not forget old Ireland,

Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,

And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile

Where we sat side by side,

And the springin' corn, and the bright May

morn,

When first you were my bride.

WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER

WE have been friends together,

In sunshine and in shade;

Since first beneath the chestnut-trees
In infancy we played.

But coldness dwells within thy heart,
A cloud is on thy brow;

We have been friends together-
Shall a light word part us now?

We have been gay together;
We have laugh'd at little jests;

The king blew a blast on his bugle horn; (Silence!)

No answer came; but faint and forlorn
An echo return'd on the cold gray morn,
Like the breath of a spirit sighing.
The castle portal stood grimly wide;
None welcom'd the king from that weary
ride;

For dead, in the light of the dawning day,
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay,
Who had yearn'd for his voice while
dying!

The panting steed, with a drooping crest, Stood weary.

The king return'd from her chamber of rest, The thick sobs choking in his breast;

And, that dumb companion eyeing, The tears gush'd forth which he strove to check;

He bowed his head on his charger's neck:
"O steed- - that every nerve didst strain,
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain
To the halls where my love lay dying!"

LOVE NOT

Love not, love not! ye hapless sons of clay! Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers

Things that are made to fade and fall away
Ere they have blossom'd for a few short
hours.
Love not!

Love not! the thing ye love may change: The rosy lip may cease to smile on you, The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange,

The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. Love not!

Love not! the thing you love may die, May perish from the gay and gladsome earth;

The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its birth. Love not!

Love not! oh warning vainly said
In present hours as in the years gone by;
Love flings a halo round the dear ones'
head,

Faultless, immortal, till they change or die
Love not!

KITTY NEIL

"AH, sweet_Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel,

Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning;

Come trip down with me to the sycamoretree,

Half the parish is there, and the dance is beginning.

The sun is gone down, but the full harvest

moon

A SPINNING-WHEEL SONG MELLOW the moonlight to shine is beginning;

Close by the window young Eileen is spinning;

Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting,

Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting:

"Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." ""Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping."

"Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." "'Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying."

Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring;

Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

"What's that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder?"

"Tis the little birds chirping the hollybush under."

Ere the reel and the wheel stopp'd their ringing and moving,

her fingers,

moonlight are roving.

For, from the air above and the grassy ground beneath,

And from the mountain-ashes and the old white thorn between,

A power of faint enchantment doth through their beings breathe,

And they sink down together on the green.

They sink together silent, and, stealing side by side,

They fling their lovely arms o'er their drooping necks so fair,

Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide,

For their shrinking necks again are bare.

Thus clasp'd and prostrate all, with their heads together bow'd,

Soft o'er their bosoms beating - the only human sound

They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd,

Like a river in the air, gliding round.

Nor scream can any raise, nor prayer can

any say,

But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless three,

For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently

away,

By whom they dare not look to see.

They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold,

And the curls elastic falling, as her head withdraws;

They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms unfold,

But they dare not look to see the

cause:

For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies

Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze ;

And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes,

Or their limbs from the cold ground raise,

Till out of night the earth has roll'd her dewy side,

With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below;

When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning-tide,

The maidens' trance dissolveth so.

Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they

may,

And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious

friends in vain :

They pin'd away and died within the year and day,

And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again.