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said-in what people call a pig's whisper-" Me Easther's eggs on you, Mat. I wondher what way is the otther this mornin'?"

"The way I left him, I suppose; wid his neck broke an' he hanging be the heels," said her brother, his thin, otherwise healthy, young face, twinkling all over with satisfaction at the memory of his last evening's exploit.

The family were soon all awake, and as neatly attired as possible under the circumstances. In honor of the day, poor old Gran, with much pride, tied a new checked bib upon Patsy, the price of which she had earned by knitting, and looked with love and admiration upon his curly head and shining face, notwithstanding her aching sides. She made him kneel down and say his prayers, and he stumbled through his Pater and Ave pretty well, considering his years; though his thoughts were on the otter, and his eyes kept turning towards the door.

"Mind your prayers, sir," said his grandmother.

"He have awful long whishkers," responded Patsy, upon which she gave him a cuff on the ear, and he finished his prayers in tears; but quickly consoled himself by running out to see the otter. From whence, however, he returned in a few moments crying lustily, and stating in indignant tones, interspersed with sobs, that "Mat bate him 'cause he on'y dust put his finger on his whishkers."

"Begob! thin, if you could put your finger on Mat's whisker you could do more than I could anyhow!" said his father from out a thick lather of soap which covered the lower half of his face.

"Aye, troth," laughed old Gran.

"Tosn't Mat's whiskers, on'y the otther's," grumbled Patsy in an injured tone.



MOIRA O'NEILL," who was Miss Nesta Higginson, comes of an old Ulster family. She is married to Mr. Walter Skrine; they lived for some years on a ranch in Canada, but they are now settled in Ireland. The poems of "Moira O'Neill" have mostly made their first appearance in Blackwood's and The Spectator. The authoress has also published two prose stories- The Elf-Errant' and 'An Easter Vacation.' "Her poetry," says a writer in 'A Treasury of Irish Poetry,' "is Irish of the Irish-tender, wistful, hovering on the borderland between tears and laughter, and as musical as an old Gaelic melody. It springs straight from life, a genuine growth of the Antrim glens."


I met an ould caillach I knowed right well on the brow o' Carnashee :

"God save ye!" she

"The top o' the mornin'!" I says to her.

says to me:

"An' och! if it's you,

Tell me true,

When are ye goin' to marry?"

"I'm here," says I, "to be married to-morrow, Wi' the man to find an' the money to borrow."

"As sure as ye 're young an' fair," says she, one day ye'll be


ugly an' ould.

If ye haven't a husband, who 'll care," says she, "to call ye in out o' the could?

Left to yourself,

Laid on the shelf,

Now is your time to marry.

Musha! don't tell me ye 'll be married to-morrow,
Wi' the man to find an' the money to borrow."

"I may be dead ere I'm ould," says I, "for nobody knows their day.

I never was feared o' the could," says I, "but I'm feared to

give up me way.

Good or bad,

Sorry or glad,

"T is mine no more when I marry.

So here stand I, to be married to-morrow,

Wi' the man to find an' the money to borrow."

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The poor ould caillach went down the hill shakin' her finger at


""T is on top o' the world ye think yerself still, an' that's what it is," says she.

But thon was the day
Dan MacIlray

Had me promise to marry.

So here stand I, to be married to-morrow,

The man he is found, but the money 's to borrow.



Dennis was hearty when Dennis was young,
High was his step in the jig that he sprung,
He had the looks an' the sootherin tongue,-

An' he wanted a girl wid a fortune.

Nannie was gray-eyed an' Nannie was tall,
Fair was the face hid in-undher her shawl,
Troth! an' he liked her the best o' them all,-

But she'd not a traneen to her fortune.

He be to look out for a likelier match,
So he married a girl that was counted a catch,
An' as ugly as need be, the dark little patch,—
But that was a trifle, he tould her.

She brought him her good-lookin' gold to admire,
She brought him her good-lookin' cows to his byre,
But far from good-lookin' she sat by his fire,—

An' paid him that "thrifle" he tould her.

He met pretty Nan when a month had gone by,
An' he thought like a fool to get round her he'd try;
Wid a smile on her lip an' a spark in her eye,

She said, "How is the woman that owns ye?"

Och, never be tellin' the life that he 's led!
Sure many 's the night that he'll wish himself dead,
For the sake o' two eyes in a pretty girl's head,-

An' the tongue o' the woman that owns him.


Over here in England I'm helpin' wi' the hay,
An' 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

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


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


Far 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, 't is I'll be back

Ay, 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.


Sure, he 's five months, an' he 's two foot long,
Baby Johneen;
Watch yerself now, for he 's terrible sthrong,
Baby Johneen.

An' his fists 'ill he up if ye make any slips,
He has finger-ends like the daisy-tips,

But he'll have ye attend to the words of his lips,

Will Johneen.


There's nobody can rightly tell the color of his eyes,
This Johneen;

For they're partly o' the earth an' still they 're partly o' the skies,

Like Johneen.

So far as he's thraveled he 's been laughin' all the way,
For the little soul is quare an' wise, the little heart is gay;
An' he likes the merry daffodils-he thinks they'd do to play
With Johneen.

He'll sail a boat yet,

if he only has his luck,
Young Johneen;
For he takes to the wather like any little duck,
Boy Johneen;

Sure, them are the hands now to pull on a rope,
An' nate feet for walkin the deck on a slope,
But the ship she must wait a wee while yet, I hope,
For Johneen.

For we couldn't do wantin' him, not just yet-
Och, Johneen,

'T is you that are the daisy, an' you that are the pet,
Wee Johneen.

Here's to your health, an' we'll dhrink it to-night,
Sláinte gal, avic machree! live an' do right!
Sláinte gal, avourneen! may your days be bright,


Wathers o' Moyle an' the white gulls flyin',
Since I was near ye what have I seen?
Deep great seas, an' a sthrong wind sighin'

Night and day where the waves are green.
Struth na Moile, the wing goes sighin'
Over a waste o' wathers green.

Sternish an' Trostan, dark wi' heather,
High are the Rockies, airy-blue;
Sure, ye haye snows in the winter weather,

Here they're lyin' the long year through.
Snows are fair in the summer weather,

Och, an' the shadows between are blue!

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