Miss Kitty O'Hara, the nice little milliner, There was lashins of punch and wine for the ladies, The Nolans, the Dolans, and all the O'Gradys Songs they sung as plenty as water, From The Harp that once through Tara's ould Hall,' They were starting all sorts of nonsensical dances, But Julia and I soon scatthered their fancies, Och mavrone! 't was then she got glad o' me: We danced till we thought the old ceilin' would fall, (For I spent a whole fortnight in Doolan's Academy Learning a step for Lanigan's ball). The boys were all merry, the girls were all hearty, 66 When an accident happened-young Terence McCarthy In the midst of the row Miss Kerrigan fainted- When he saw his dear colleen stretched out by the wall, And smashed all the china at Lanigan's ball. Oh, boys, but then was the ructions Myself got a lick from big Phelim McHugh, But I soon replied to his kind introductions, And kicked up a terrible hullabaloo. 1 Old Casey the piper was near being strangled, A LAY OF THE FAMINE. Hush! hear you how the night wind keens around the craggy reek? Its voice peals high above the waves that thunder in the creek. "Aroon! aroon! arouse thee, and hie thee o'er the moor! Ten miles away there 's bread, they say, to feed the starving poor. "God save thee, Eileen bawn astor, and guide thy naked feet, And keep the fainting life in us till thou come back with meat. "God send the moon to show thee light upon the way so drear, And mind thou well the rocky dell, and heed the rushy mere." She kissed her father's palsied hand, her mother's pallid cheek, And whirled out on the driving storm beyond the craggy reek. All night she tracks, with bleeding feet, the rugged mountain way, And townsfolks meet her in the street at flushing of the day. But God is kinder on the moor than man is in the town, And Eileen quails before the stranger's harsh rebuke and frown. Night's gloom enwraps the hills once more and hides a slender form That shudders o'er the moor again before the driving storm. No bread is in her wallet stored, but on the lonesome heath She lifts her empty hands to God, and prays for speedy death. Yet struggles onward, faint and blind, and numb to hope or fear, Unmindful of the rocky dell or of the rushy mere. But, ululu! what sight is this?-what forms come by the reek? As white and thin as evening mist upon the mountain's peak. Mist-like they glide across the heath-a weird and ghostly band; The foremost crosses Eileen's path, and grasps her by the hand. "Dear daughter, thou has suffered sore, but we are well and free; For God has ta'en our life from us, nor wills it long to thee. 66 So hie thee to our cabin lone, and dig a grave so deep, And underneath the golden gorse our corpses lay to sleep "Else they will come and smash the walls upon our moldering bones, And screaming mountain birds will tear our flesh from out the stones. "And, daughter, haste to do thy work, so thou mayest quickly come, And take with us our grateful rest, and share our peaceful home." The sun behind the distant hills far-sinking down to sleep; A maiden on the lonesome moor, digging a grave so deep; The moon above the craggy reek, silvering moor and wave, And the pale corpse of a maiden young stretched on a newmade grave. MACKENNA'S DREAM. One night of late I chanced to stray, 'T was on a bank I sat me down, Lulled me fast asleep. I dreamt I saw brave Brian Boru, His saber bright with wrath he drew; I thought brave Sarsfield drew up nigh, My sword again on Aughrim's plain I thought St. Ruth stood on the ground, He raised a Cross, and thus did say, The Brave O'Byrne he was there, Brought Wicklow, Carlow, and Kildare O'Reilly, on the hill of Screene, He drew his sword both bright and keen, Of Erin's sons and daughters brave, Then Father Murphy he did say, Our country's fate, it does depend I thought each band played 'Patrick's Day,' With cap and feather white and gay, With drums and trumpets loud and shrill, The pikemen did the valley fill, To strike the fatal blow. When, all at once, appeared in sight Both front, and rear, and left, and right, The chieftains pitched their camps with skill, A Frenchman brave rose up and said— Come, draw your swords along with me, Dear Erin's daughters must be free Along the line they raised a shout, Crying, "Quick march, right about!" With bayonets fixed they all marched out The enemy were no-ways shy, With thundering cannon planted nigh; Now thousands on the bank did lie, The enemy made such a square As drove our cavalry to despair, |