WHEN I SAT BY MY FAIR-THE LINNET. 251

Yet surely, though much of her passion is past,

Some sparks of affection remain ;

And the clouds, that her meek-beaming brow have o'er

cast,

May be melted in pity's soft rain.

If not, my wrung breast to distraction I bare;

For distraction itself is less hard than despair.

THOMAS DERMODY.

THE LINNET.

My fond social linnet, to thee

What dear winning charms did belong!
On my hand thou wouldst carol with glee,
On my bosom attend to my song.
Sweet bird, in return for my strain,
Thou warbled'st thine own o'er again.

Love, jealous a bird should thus share
My affections, shot speedy his dart:
To my swain now I sang every air;

The linnet soon took it to heart.
Sweet bird, in how plaintive a strain
Thou warbled'st thine own jealous pain!

But faithless my lover I found,

And in vain to forget him I tried:
The linnet perceived my heart's wound,
He sickened, he drooped, and he died.
Sweet bird, why to death yield the strain?
Thy song would have lightened my pain.
THOMAS DERMODY.

(Said to have been written when he was ten years old.)

MY BURIAL-PLACE.

Ан me! and must I like the tenant lie

Of this dark cell-all hushed the witching song? And will not Feeling bend his streaming eye

On my green sod, as slow he wends along, And, smiting his rapt bosom, softly sigh,

'His genius soared above the vulgar throng'?

Will he not fence my weedless turf around,
Sacred from dull-eyed Folly's vagrant feet;
And there, soft swelling in aërial sound,

Will he not list, at eve, to voices sweet;

Strew with the spring's first flowers the little mound, And often muse within the lone retreat?

Yes, though I not affect the immortal lay,
Nor bold effusions of the learned quill,
Nor often have I wound my tedious way

Up the steep summit of the muse's hill;
Yet, sometimes have I poured the incondite lay,
And sometimes have I felt the rapturous thrill.

Him, therefore, whom, even once, the sacred muse
Has blest, shall be to feeling ever dear;
And, soft as sweet, sad April's gleamy dews,
On my cold clay shall fall the genial tear;
While, pensive as the springing herb he views,
He cries, 'Though mute, there is a poet here!'
THOMAS DERMODY.

KATE OF GARNAVILLA.

253

KATE OF GARNAVILLA.

HAVE you been at Garnavilla ?
Have you seen at Garnavilla
Beauty's train trip o'er the plain
With lovely Kate of Garnavilla?
Oh, she's pure as virgin snows

Ere they light on woodland hill, O;
Sweet as dewdrop on wild rose
Is lovely Kate of Garnavilla !

Philomel, I've listened oft

To thy lay, nigh weeping willow:
Oh, the strains more sweet, more soft,
That flows from Kate of Garnavilla.
Have you been, etc.

As a noble ship I've seen,

Sailing o'er the swelling billow, So I've marked the graceful mien Of lovely Kate of Garnavilla. Have you been, etc.

If poet's prayers can banish cares

No cares shall come to Garnavilla;

Joy's bright rays shall gild her days,

And dove-like peace perch on her pillow.
Charming maid of Garnavilla!

Lovely maid of Garnavilla!
Beauty, grace, and virtue wait
On lovely Kate of Garnavilla.

EDWARD LYSAGHT.

THE SPRIG OF SHILLELAH.

OH! Love is the soul of a neat Irishman,
He loves all that is lovely, loves all that he can,

With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green! His heart is good-humoured, 'tis honest and sound, No envy or malice is there to be found;

He courts and he marries, he drinks and he fights,
For love, all for love, for in that he delights,

With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green !

Who has e'er had the luck to see Donnybrook Fair?
An Irishman, all in his glory, is there,

With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green!
His clothes spick and span new, without e'er a speck,
A neat Barcelona tied round his white neck;
He goes to a tent, and he spends half-a crown,

He meets with a friend, and for love knocks him down, With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green!

At evening returning, as homeward he goes,
His heart soft with whisky, his head soft with blows,
From a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green !
He meets with his Sheelah, who, frowning a smile,
Cries, 'Get you gone, Pat,' yet consents all the while.
To the priest they soon go, and nine months after that,
A baby cries out, 'How d'ye do, Father Pat,

With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green ?'

Bless the country, say I, that gave Patrick his birth, Bless the land of the oak, and its neighbouring earth, Where grow the shillelah, and shamrock so grcen !

KITTY OF COLERAINE.

255

May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the Shannon, Drub the foes who dare plant on our confines a cannon; United and happy, at Loyalty's shrine,

May the rose and the thistle long flourish and twine Round the sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green ! EDWARD LYSAGHT.

KITTY OF COLERAINE.

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping,

With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled, And all the sweet butter-milk watered the plain. 'Oh! what shall I do now? 'twas looking at you, now; Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again; 'Twas the pride of my dairy! O Barney M'Cleary, You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine !'

I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her,'
That such a misfortune should give her such pain;
A kiss then I gave her, and, ere I did leave her,

She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again. 'Twas hay-making season-I can't tell the reason— Misfortunes will never come single, 'tis plain;

For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster,
The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

EDWARD LYSAGHT.

BY CŒLIA'S ARBOUR.

By Cœlia's arbour, all the night,

Hang, humid wreath-the lover's vow;
And haply at the morning's light

My love will twine thee round her brow.