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GLENFINISHK! where thy waters mix with Araglen's wild tide,
"Tis sweet at hush of evening to wander by thy side!
"Tis sweet to hear the night-winds sigh along Macrona's wood,
And mingle their wild music with the murmur of thy flood!

"Tis sweet, when in the deep-blue vault the morn is shining bright,

To watch where thy clear waters are breaking into light;
To mark the starry sparks that o'er thy smoother surface gleam,
As if some fairy hand were flinging diamonds on thy stream!

Oh! if departed spirits e'er this dark world return,
'Tis in some lonely, lovely spot like this they would sojourn;
What'er their mystic rites may be, no human eye is here,
Save mine to mark their mystery-no human voice is near.

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At such an hour, in such a scene, I could forget my birth-
I could forget I e'er have been, or am, a thing of earth;
Shake off the fleshly bonds that hold my soul in thrall, and be, Could wander through the mountain's heath
Or climb the rocks with her.
Even like themselves, a spirit, as boundless and as free!

And sure," said his father, who took up the trade,


St. Patrick himself on thesame may have played;

But none of the p pe-playing house of O'Roon,
Like Terry could strike up the wonderful tune.
Och, bothering, wheedling Terry O'Roon,

He charm'd every heart with his wonderful tune.

"Tis said when he struck up his pipes by the shore,
That the fishes danced jigs, and the sea ceased to roar,
That the rocs split with laughing, that herring and sprats
Should foot it with shell-fish, and round fish, and flats;
Be that as it may, Terry swears it's true;
But he might have been dreaming, betwixt me and you;
On a taste of the creature that caused him ti think,
(For pipers have ever been jewels to drink,)
And Terry himself when the whisky was strong,
He ne'er played so well, nor so loud, nor so long,
Till he set them all dancing-sly Terry O'Roon,
And whatever he play'd 'twas a wonderful tune.
Och, bothering, wheedling, etc.

There was never a wake, nor a fight, nor a fair,
But Terry O'Roon he was sure to be there;
And many's the match that was made, I'll be bound,
When his wonderful pipes drew the lasses around;
But Terry himself was a rogue, and it's true

It was all one to him whether black eyes or blue;
For when his flirtations some beauty would vex,



OH! Peggy Bawn was innocent,
And wild as any roe;

Her cheek was like the summer rose,
Her neck was like the snow:

Arrah, honey!" he'd say "'aint I true to the sex?"
And so he went on with his wheedling ways,
And his pipe-playing tricks, to the end of his days;
But there ne'er was a piper like Terry O'Roon,
That was gifted like him with a wonderful tune!
Och, bothering, wheedling Terry O'Roon,
Sure he won ev'ry heart with his wonderful tune!

And every eye was in her head
So beautiful and bright,

You'd almost think they'd light her through
Glencarrigy. by night.

Among the hills and mountains,
Above her mother's home,

The long and weary summer day
Young Peggy Blake would roam;

And not a girl in the town
From Dhua to Glenlur,

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THE FAIRY WELL.-Continued.

They saw her at the Fairy well-
Their laughin' died away,
They saw her stoop above its brink
With heart as cold as clay.

Oh! mother, mother, never stand
Upon your cabin floor!
You heard the cry that through your heart
Will ring for evermore;

For when she came up from the well,
No one could stand her look!
Her eye was wild-her cheek was pale-
They saw her mind was shook:

And the gaze she cast around her
Was so ghastly and so sad-
"O Christ preserve us! shouted all,
'Poor Peggy Blake's gone mad!"


The moon was up-the stars were out,
And shining through the sky,
When young and old stood mourning round
To see their darling die.

Poor Peggy from the death-bed rose

Her face was pale and cold,

And down about her shoulders hung
The lovely locks of gold.

"All you that's here this night," she said,
"Take warnin' by my fate,
Whoever braves the fairies' wrath,

Their sorrow comes too late."

The tear was startin' in her eye,

She clasp'd her throbbin' head,
And when the sun next mornin' rose
Poor Peggy Bawn lay dead.


I KNOW a lake where the cool waves break,
And softly fall on the silver sand-
And no steps intrude on thatsolitude,
And no voice, save mine, disturbs


And a mountain bold like a giant of old
Turned to stone by some magic spell,
Uprears in might its misty height,

And his craggy sides are wooded well.


On its grassy side, in ruined pride,
A castle of old is darkling seen.

In the midst doth smile a little Isle,
And its verdure shames he emerald's

On its lofty crest the wild crane's nest,
In its halls the sheep good shelter find;
And the ivy shades where a hundred blades
Were hung, when the owners in sleep re-

That chieftain of old could he now behold
His lordly tower a shepherd's pen,
His corpse, long dead, from its narrow bed
Would rise, with anger and shame again.


"SWEET Norah, come here, and look into the fire,
Perhaps in its embers good luck we may see;
But don't come too near, or your glances so burning
Will putit clean out, lie the sunbeams, machree.

"Just look 'twixt the bars where that black sod is smoking;
There's a sweet litle valley with rivers and trees,
And a house on the bank quite as big as the squire's-
Who knows but some day we'll have something like these?

"And now there's a coach with four galloping horses,
A coachman to drive, and a footman behind-
That shows that some day we will keep a fine carriage,
And fly through the streets with the speed of the wind."

As Dermot was speaking, the rain-drops came hissing
Down through the chimney; the fire went out;
While mansion and river, and horses and carriage,

All vanished in smoke-wreaths that whirled about.

Then Norah to Dermot this speech softly whispered-
""Twere better to Do than to idly desire;
And one little cot by the roadside is better

Than a palace with servants and coach-in the fire!"

The grunter Pat cured, and soon put out of sight,
the But the ghost of that pig haunted Pat day and night;
So at last to his riv'rence he went and confessed,
Having that on his mind that he couldn't digest.
"Och, Pat!" said the priest, "only think of the day
When the widdy shall charge you with stealing away
The pig that she looked to for paying her rint."
"Och, murder! " says Pat, "it's of that I repint,
And so, if you plaze absolution to say,
It's a blessed thirteen that I'm willing to pay,
Or I'll marry the widdy to make her atone:
Since 'twas her flesh I took, I'll be bone of her bone."


"TWAS near Limerick town lived bould Paddy O'Linn,
No boy a shillelah so nately could spin;

But och! down his throat, when the whisky he'd tossed,
Sly Paddy oft found things before they were lost.
From the cabin of Widdy O'Connor one day,

A fat little pig, as pigs will, got astray;

Says Pat, "You're blind drunk, it's my feelin's you shock;
Then he fell o'er the pig, as he gave him a knock;
"Och, piggy," says he, "tis good manners you need;
It's myself you've near kilt, you disgraceto your breed.
But my bacon I've saved, so to give you your due,
It's cured you shall be-I'll make bacon of you."


You know that can't be-you would cheat me, O'Linn,
To compound with a felony's surely a sin;
And as to repintance, sure what will you say,
When the widdy accuses you at the last day?'
Says Pat, "Will your riv'rence answer me true,
When that time it shall come will the pig be there too?
"He will," said the priest, "all your guilt to make plain,
Cheek by jowl with the pig you will stand once again."
"Then," says Pat, 'it's all right, absolution or not,
For when that time comes I an answer have got,


As the pig will be there, I have only to say,


Take your dirty ould pig'-so your riv'rence good day."

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Chant summer's delightful return.

And the songs that poor ignorant country-folk

Flowing up and refreshing the sky.

And though her foot dances so soft from the heather

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BRAVE sons of Hibernia, your shamrocks display,
For ever made sacred on St. Patrick's day;
'Tis a type of religion, the badge of our saint,
And a plant of that soil which no venom can taint.


Of the ravishing round of her waist.

Both Venus and Mars to that land lay a claim
Their title is own'd and recorded by fame;

But St. Patrick to friendship has hallow'd the ground,
And made hospitality ever abound.


Now some girls they are little, and some they are tall,
Och! others are big, sure, and others are small;
And some that are teasing, are bandy, I tell;

The lark's liquid raptures on high,

Are just old Irish airs from the sweet lips of Still none can please me, or can coax me so well
As the dear Irish girl, so charming to see-
Och! a sweet Irish girl is the darling for me.
And sing filliloo, etc.


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She dances, and prances

Och! a sweet Irish girl is the darling for me.


A MOTHER came when stars were paling,
Wailing round a lonely spring;
Thus she cried while tears were falling,
Calling on the fairy king:

"Why with spells my child caressing,
Courting him with fairy joy;
Why destroy a mother's blessing,
Wherefore steal my fairy boy?

"O'er the mountain, through a wild wood,
Where his childhood loved to play;
Where the flowers are freshly springing,
There I wander day by day.

"There I wander, growing fonder

Of the child that made my joy;
On the echoes wildly calling,
To restore my fairy boy.

*When a beautiful child pines and dies, the Irish peasant believes the healthy infant has been stolen by the fairies, and a sickly elf left in its place.


I WAS working in the fields near fair Boston city,
Thinking sadly of Kilkenny-and a girl that's there;
When a friend came and tould me-late enough and more's the


"There's a letter waitin' for ye, in the postman's care!" Oh! my heart was in my mouth, all the while that he was spaking,

For I knew it was from Katy!-she's the girl that can spell! And I couldn't speak for crying, for my heart had nigh been breaking,

With longing for a word from the girl that I love well. Oh! I knew it was from Katey. Who could it be but Katey? The poor girl that loves me well, in sweet Kilkenny Town.

Oh! 'twas soon I reached the place, and I thanked them for the trouble

They wor taking with my letter, a-sorting with such care; And they asked "was it a single?" and I tould them 'twas a double!

For wasn't it worth twice as much as any letter there? Then they sorted and they searched, but something seemed the matter,

And my heart it stopped beating when I thought what it

might be:

Och! boys, would you believe it? they had gone and lost my


My poor Katey's letter that had come so far to me.
For I knew, etc.

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"What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on,

And singing all wrong the old song of the Coolun?"

There's a form at the casement-the form of her true love

And he whispers, with face bent, "I'm waitfor you, love.

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