But God be praised, that round him throng, as thick as summer bees,

The swords that guarded Limerick wall his loyal Rapparees!

His lovin' Rapparees !

Who dare say no to Rory Oge with all his Rapparees?

Black Billy Grimes of Latramore, he racked us long and

sore

God rest the faithful hearts he broke! we 'll never see them more!

But I'll go bail he 'll break no more, while Turagh has gallows-trees.

For why?- he met one lonesome night the fearless Rapparees!

The angry Rapparees!

They'll never sin no more, my boys, who cross the Rapparees!

SWEET SYBIL.

My Love is as fresh as the morning sky,
My Love is as soft as the summer air,
My Love is as true as the Saints on high,
And never was saint so fair!

Oh, glad is my heart when I name her name,

For it sounds like a song to me

I'll love you, it sings, nor heed their blame,
For you love me, Astor Machree!

Sweet Sybil! sweet Sybil! my heart is wild
With the fairy spell that her eyes have lit ;
I sit in a dream where my Love has smiled
I kiss where her name is writ!

Oh, darling, I fly like a dreamy boy;

The toil that is joy to the strong and true, The life that the brave for their land employ I squander in dreams of you.

The face of my Love has the changeful light

That gladdens the sparkling sky of spring;
The voice of my Love is a strange delight,
As when birds in the May-time sing.

Oh, hope of my heart! oh, light of my life!
Oh, come to me, darling, with peace and rest!
Oh, come like the Summer, my own sweet wife,
To your home in my longing breast!

Be blessed with the home sweet Sybil will sway
With the glance of her soft and queenly eyes;
Oh! happy the love young Sybil will pay
With the breath of her tender sighs.

That home is the hope of my waking dreams
That love fills my eyes with pride

There's light in their glance, there's joy in their

beams,
When I think of my

own young bride.

LADY WILDE.

THE VOICE OF THE POOR.

WAS sorrow ever like to our sorrow?

Oh! God above!

Will our night never change into a morrow
Of joy and love?

A deadly gloom is on us, waking, sleeping,
Like the darkness at noontide

That fell upon the pallid mother, weeping
By the Crucified.

Before us die our brothers of starvation;

Around are cries of famine and despair!
Where is hope for us, or comfort, or salvation ·
Where - oh! where?

If the angels ever hearken, downward bending,
They are weeping, we are sure,

At the litanies of human groans ascending
From the crushed hearts of the poor.

When the human rests in love upon the human,

All grief is light;

But who bends one kind glance to illumine

Our life-long night?

The air around is ringing with their laughter —
God has only made the rich to smile;
But we in our rags, and want, and woe
Weeping the while.

we follow after,

And the laughter seems but uttered to deride us,
When, oh! when

Will fall the frozen barriers that divide us

From other men?

Will ignorance for ever thus enslave us,

Will misery for ever lay us low?

All are eager with their insults; but to save us
None, none, we know.

We never knew a childhood's mirth and gladness,
Nor the proud heart of youth free and brave;
Oh, a deathlike dream of wretchedness and sadness
Is life's weary journey to the grave.

Day by day we lower sink and lower,

Till the godlike soul within

Fails crushed beneath the fearful demon power
Of poverty and sin.

So we toil on, on with fever burning

In heart and brain,

So we toil on, on through bitter scorning,

Want, woe, and pain.

We dare not raise our eyes to the blue Heaven

We dare not breathe the fresh air God has given
One hour in peace.

We must toil though the light of life is burning,
Oh, how dim!

We must toil on our sick-bed feebly turning

Our eyes to Him,

Who alone can hear the pale lip faintly saying,
With scarce-moved breath,

While the paler hands uplifted and the praying,
'Lord, grant us Death!'

MAN'S MISSION.

HUMAN lives are silent teaching

Be they earnest, mild, and true
Noble deeds are noblest preaching

From the consecrated few.

Poet-Priests their anthems singing,
Hero-swords on corselet ringing,

When Truth's banner is unfurled; Youthful preachers, genius-gifted, Pouring forth their souls uplifted,

Till their preaching stirs the world.

Each must work as God has given
Hero hand or poet soul

Work is duty while we live in

This weird world of sin and dole.

Gentle spirits, lowly kneeling,

Lift their white hands up appealing,
To the Throne of Heaven's King-
Stronger natures, culminating,
In great actions incarnating
What another can but sing.

Pure and meek-eyed as an angel, We must strive must agonize; We must preach the saint's evangel

Ere we claim the saintly prize — Work for all for work is holy We fulfil our mission solely

When, like Heaven's arch above, Blend our souls in one emblazon, And the social diapason

Sounds the perfect chord of love.

Life is combat, life is striving,
Such our destiny below
Like a scythed chariot driving
Through an onward pressing foe.
Deepest sorrow, scorn, and trial
Will but teach us self-denial;