To shanachas and wise old talk of Erin's days gone by Who trench'd the rath on such a hill, and where the bones may lie

Of saint, or king, or warrior chief; with tales of fairy

power,

And tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the twilight hour.
The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn-
Adieu, my dear companions on the winding banks of Erne!

Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Purt,

Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather,-I wish no one any hurt;

The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane, the Mall and

Portnasun,

If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one.

I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me;
For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the sea.

My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and often fondly turn
To think of Belashanny and the winding banks of Erne!

If ever I'm a money'd man, I mean, please God, to cast My golden anchor in the place where youthful years were past;

Though heads that now are black and brown must meanwhile gather grey,

New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop away—
Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside;
It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and
waters wide.

And if the Lord allows me, I surely will return

To my native Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne! WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

Corrymeela

OVER here in England I'm helpin' wi' the hay,
And I wisht I was in Ireland the livelong day;
Weary on the English hay, an' sorra take the wheat!
Och! Corrymeela, an' the blue sky over it.

There's a deep dumb river flowin' by beyont the heavy trees,
This livin' air is moithered wi' the hummin' o' the bees;
I wisht I'd hear the Claddagh burn go runnin' through the
heat,

Past Corrymeela, wi' the blue sky over it.

The people that's in England is richer nor the Jews,

There's not the smallest young gossoon but thravels in his shoes!

I'd give the pipe between me teeth to see a barefut child, Och! Corrymeela, an' the low south wind.

Here's hands so full o' money an' hearts so full o' care, By the luck o' love! I'd still go light for all I did go bare. "God save ye, colleen dhas," I said; the girl she thought me wild!

Fair Corrymeela, an' the low south wind.

D'ye mind me now, the song at night is mortial hard to raise,

The girls are heavy goin' here, the boys are ill to plase; When ones't I'm out this workin' hive, 'tis I'll be back again

Aye, Corrymeela, in the same soft rain.

The puff o' smoke from one ould roof before an English town!

For a shaugh wid Andy Feelan here I'd give a silver crown, For a curl o' hair like Mollie's ye'll ask the like in vain, Sweet Corrymeela, an' the same soft rain.

MOIRA O'NEILL.

The Irish Peasant Girl

SHE lived beside the Anner,

At the foot of Slievna-man,

A gentle peasant girl,

With mild eyes like the dawn;

Her lips were dewy rosebuds;

Her teeth of pearls rare;

And a snow-drift 'neath a beechen bough Her neck and nut-brown hair.

How pleasant 'twas to meet her
On Sunday, when the bell
Was filling with its mellow tones
Lone wood and grassy dell
And when at eve young maidens
Strayed the river bank along,
The widow's brown-haired daughter
Was loveliest of the throng.

O brave, brave Irish girls-
We well may call you brave!-
Sure the least of all your perils
Is the stormy ocean wave,
When you leave our quiet valleys,
And cross the Atlantic's foam,
To hoard your hard-won earnings
For the helpless ones at home.

"Write word to my own dear mother-
Say, we'll meet with God above;
And tell my little brothers
I send them all my love;

May the angels ever guard them,
Is their dying sister's prayer"—
And folded in a letter

Was a braid of nut-brown hair.

Ah, cold and well-nigh callous,
This weary heart has grown
For thy helpless fate, dear Ireland,
And for sorrows of my own;

Yet a tear my eye will moister,
When by Anner side I stray,
For the lily of the mountain foot
That withered far away.

CHARLES JOSEPH KICKHAM.