SONGS 
 
 AND 
 
 MORE 
 
 SONGS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE 
 
 GLENS 
 
 OF 
 
 ANTRIM 
 
 MOIRA: 
 
 O'NEILL
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
 Songs of 
 The Glens of Antrim 
 
 and 
 
 More Songs of 
 The Glens of Antrim
 
 \> 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO 
 DALLAS ATLANTA SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO.. LIMITED 
 
 LONDON BOMBAY CALCUTTA 
 MELBOURNE 
 
 MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. 
 
 TORONTO
 
 Songs of the Glens of Antrim and 
 More Songs of the Glens of Antrim 
 
 BY 
 
 MOIRA O'NEILL 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE ELF ERRANT," ETC., ETC. 
 
 Two VOLUMES IN ONE 
 
 gorfe 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 1922 
 
 All rights reserved
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1921 AND 1922, 
 BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 
 
 Set up and printed. Published February, 1922. 
 
 Press of 
 
 J. J. Little & Ives Company 
 New York, U. S. A.
 
 si 
 ' 
 
 TO 
 
 w. c. s. 
 
 O There' a house upon the sea-sand, a white house an' low, 
 
 The gulls are flyin' over it, the red roses blow. 
 By night the waves are breakin', an' the moon is on the 
 
 sea; 
 ^ Sure all that I love are there, all that love me, 
 
 ^ Only one. 
 
 ? There' a house upon the prairie in the lone North- West, 
 
 In the flowery, silent summer, on a green hill's breast ; 
 
 Where mountains stretch across the sky the world's end 
 
 must be, 
 An' none that I love are there, none that love me, 
 
 Only one. 
 
 I dreamt of gentle Ireland beneath the Northern Light, 
 ^ The waves that broke on Ireland were callin' me by 
 
 <* night ; 
 
 v*; Till back across the salt sea, back against the sun 
 
 I took the way the birds know, an' woke in Cushen- 
 \^ dun, 
 
 Not with you. 
 
 Oh, what about the roses then, an' what about the strand ! 
 
 For now 'tis wantin' back I am to that lone land; 
 'Tis the other house I'm seein' on the green hill's breast, 
 An' a trail across the prairie that's goin' south an' 
 west, 
 
 Back to you.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 These "Songs of the Glens of Antrim" were 
 written by a Glenswoman in the dialect of the 
 Glens, and chiefly for the pleasure of other Glens- 
 people. 
 
 By the courtesy of the Editors of 'Blackwood' 
 and the 'Spectator' they are republished here. 
 
 MOIRA O'NEILL. 
 
 (vii)
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE SONG OF GLEN DUN i 
 
 CORRYMEELA ........ 4 
 
 MARRIAGE . 7 
 
 SEA WRACK 9 
 
 A BROKEN SONG u 
 
 THE FAIRY LOUGH 12 
 
 A SONG OF GLENANN 14 
 
 "FORGETTIN' " 16 
 
 DENNY'S DAUGHTER 18 
 
 LOST 20 
 
 "CUTTIN' RUSHES" 21 
 
 "THE OULD LAD" 24 
 
 THE RACHRAY MAN 27 
 
 BIRDS 29 
 
 JOHNEEN 31 
 
 "BEAUTY'S A FLOWER" 34 
 
 THE BOY FROM BALLYTEARIM ... 36 
 
 I MIND THE DAY 39 
 
 GRACE FOR LIGHT 41 
 
 (ix)
 
 THE GRAND MATCH 43 
 
 THE SAILOR MAN 45 
 
 AT SEA 48 
 
 "LOOKIN' BACK" 50 
 
 THE NORTH-WESTCANADA .... 52 
 
 BACK TO IRELAND S4 
 
 (x)
 
 Songs of 
 The Glens of Antrim
 
 THE SONG OF GLEN DUN. 
 
 Sure this is blessed Erin an' this the same glen, 
 The gold is on the whin-bush, the wather sings 
 
 again, 
 
 The Fairy Thorn's in flower, an' what ails my 
 heart then? 
 
 Flower o' the May, 
 
 Flower o' the May, 
 
 What about the May time, an' he far away ! 
 
 Summer loves the green glen, the white bird loves 
 
 the sea, 
 An' the wind must kiss the heather top, an' the red 
 
 bell hides a bee; 
 
 (i)
 
 As the bee is dear to the honey-flower, so one is 
 dear to me. 
 
 Flower o' the rose, 
 Flower o' the rose, 
 A thorn pricked me one day, but nobody knows. 
 
 The bracken up the braeside has rusted in the 
 
 air, 
 Three birches lean together, so silver limbed an' 
 
 fair, 
 
 Och ! golden leaves are flyin' fast, but the scarlet 
 roan is rare. 
 
 Berry o' the roan, 
 Berry o' the roan, 
 
 The wind sighs among the trees, but I sigh 
 alone. 
 
 I knit beside the turf fire, I spin upon the wheel, 
 Winter nights for thinkin' long, round runs the 
 reel. . . . 
 
 (2)
 
 But he never knew, he never knew that here for 
 him I'd kneel. 
 
 Sparkle o' the fire, 
 Sparkle o' the fire, 
 
 Mother Mary, keep my love, an' send me my 
 desire ! 
 
 (3)
 
 CORRYMEELA. 
 
 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' v 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 bummin' 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, 
 
 (4)
 
 There' 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. 
 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 one'st I'm out this workin' hive, 'tis I'll 
 
 be back again 
 Ay, Corrymeela, in the same soft rain. 
 
 (5)
 
 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. 
 
 (6)
 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 I met an' ould caillach I knowed right well on the 
 
 brow o' Carnashee: 
 
 "The top o' the mornin' !" I says to her. "God 
 save ye!" she 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 yerself, 
 Laid on the shelf, 
 (7)
 
 Now is yer 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 fear'd o' the could," says I, "but I'm 
 f ear'd to give up me way. 
 Good or bad, 
 Sorry or glad, 
 
 "Tis 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." 
 
 The poor ould caillach went down the hill shakin' 
 
 her finger at me. 
 
 " 'Tis on top o' the world ye think yerself still, an' 
 that's what it is," says she. 
 But thon was the day 
 Dan Macllray 
 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. 
 (8)
 
 SEA WRACK. 
 
 The wrack was dark an' shiny where it floated in 
 
 the sea, 
 There was no one in the brown boat but only him 
 
 an' me; 
 
 Him to cut the sea wrack, me to mind the boat, 
 An' not a word between us the hours we were 
 afloat. 
 
 The wet wrack, 
 
 The sea wrack, 
 
 The wrack was strong to cut. 
 
 We laid it on the grey rocks to wither in the sun, 
 An' what should call my lad then, to sail from 
 Cushendun? 
 
 (9)
 
 With a low moon, a full tide, a swell upon the 
 
 deep, 
 Him to sail the old boat, me to fall asleep. 
 
 The dry wrack, 
 
 The sea wrack, 
 
 The wrack was dead so soon. 
 
 There' a fire low upon the rocks to burn the 
 
 wrack to kelp, 
 There' a boat gone down upon the Moyle, an' 
 
 sorra one to help ! 
 
 Him beneath the salt sea, me upon the shore, 
 By sunlight or moonlight we'll lift the wrack no 
 more. 
 
 The dark wrack, 
 
 The sea wrack, 
 
 The wrack may drift ashore.
 
 A BROKEN SONG. 
 
 'Where am I from?' From the green hills of Erin. 
 'Have I no song then?' My songs are all sung. 
 'What o' my love?' Tis alone I am farm'. 
 Old grows my heart, an' my voice yet is young. 
 
 '// she was tall?' Like a king's own daughter. 
 'If she was fair?' Like a mornin' o' May. 
 When she'd come laughin' 'twas the runnin' 
 
 wather, 
 When she'd come blushin' 'twas the break o' day. 
 
 'Where did she dwell?' Where one'st I had my 
 
 dwellin'. 
 'Who loved her best?' There' no one now will 
 
 know. 
 'Where is she gone?' Och, why would I be 
 
 tellin'! 
 
 Where she is gone there I can never go. 
 (ii)
 
 THE FAIRY LOUGH. 
 
 Loughareema ! Loughareema 
 
 Lies so high among the heather ; 
 A little lough, a dark lough, 
 
 The wather's black an' deep. 
 Ould herons go a-fishin' there 
 
 An' sea-gulls all together 
 Float roun* the one green island 
 
 On the fairy lough asleep. 
 
 Loughareema, Loughareema ; 
 
 When the sun goes down at seven, 
 When the hills are dark an' airy, 
 
 'Tis a curlew whistles sweet ! 
 Then somethin' rustles all the reeds 
 
 That stand so thick an' even; 
 
 (12)
 
 A little wave runs up the shore 
 An' flees, as if on feet. 
 
 Loughareema, Loughareema ! 
 
 Stars come out, an' stars are hidin' ; 
 The wather whispers on the stones, 
 
 The flittherin' moths are free. 
 One'st before the mornin' light 
 
 The Horsemen will come ridin' 
 Roun' an' roun' the fairy lough, 
 
 An' no one there to see. 
 
 (13)
 
 A SONG OF GLENANN. 
 
 Och, when we lived in ould Glenann 
 
 Meself could lift a song ! 
 An' ne'er an hour by day or dark 
 
 Would I be thinkin' long. 
 
 The weary wind might take the roof, 
 The rain might lay the corn; 
 
 We'd up an' look for betther luck 
 About the morrow's morn. 
 
 But since we come away from there 
 
 An' far across the say, 
 I still have wrought, an' still have thought 
 
 The way I'm doin' the day. 
 (14)
 
 An' now we're quarely betther fixed, 
 In troth ! there' nothin' wrong : 
 
 But me an' mine, by rain an' shine 
 We do be thinkin' long. 
 
 (15)
 
 "FORGETTINV 
 
 The night when last I saw my lad 
 His eyes were bright an' wet. 
 
 He took my two hands in his own, 
 " 'Tis well," says he, "we're met. 
 
 Asthore machree! the likes o' me 
 I bid ye now forget." 
 
 \ 
 
 Ah, sure the same's a thriflin' thing, 
 
 'Tis more I'd do for him! 
 I mind the night I promised well, 
 
 Away on Ballindim. 
 An' every little while or so 
 
 I thry forgettin' Jim. 
 
 It shouldn't take that long to do 
 An' him not very tall : 
 (16)
 
 Tis quare the way I'll hear his voice, 
 
 A boy that's out o' call, 
 An' whiles I'll see him stand as plain 
 
 As e'er a six-fut wall. 
 
 
 Och, never fear, my jewel ! 
 
 I'd forget ye now this minute, 
 If I only had a notion 
 
 O' the way I should begin it; 
 But first an' last it isn't known 
 
 The heap o' throuble's in it. 
 
 Meself began the night ye went 
 
 An' hasn't done it yet; 
 I'm nearly fit to give it up. 
 
 For where's the use to fret? 
 An' the memory's fairly spoilt on me 
 
 Wid mindin' to forget. 
 
 d7)
 
 DENNY'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Denny's daughter stood a minute in the field I 
 
 be to pass, 
 All as quiet as her shadow lyin' by her on the 
 
 grass ; 
 In her hand a switch o' hazel from the nut tree's 
 
 crooked root, 
 
 Well I mind the crown o' clover crumpled 
 undher one bare foot. 
 For the look of her, 
 The look of her 
 Comes back on me to-day, 
 Wi' the eyes of her, 
 The eyes of her 
 That took me on the way. 
 (18)
 
 Though I seen poor Denny's daughter white an' 
 
 stiff upon her bed, 
 
 Yet I be to think there's sunlight fallin' some- 
 where on her head: 
 She'll be singin' Ave Mary where the flowers 
 
 never wilt, 
 
 She, the girl my own hands covered wi' the 
 narrow daisy-quilt. . . . 
 For the love of her, 
 The love of her 
 That would not be my wife : 
 An' the loss of her, 
 The loss of her 
 Has left me lone for life, 
 
 (19)
 
 LOST. 
 
 Listen, oh my jewel, I would say, 
 
 Only wait to' I can get the word : 
 Sure I thought I had it sweet an' gay 
 
 Like the bravest song o' summer bird. 
 Faith ! I knew it well an' very well 
 
 When this hour the rain begun to fall 
 Now the sorra one o' me can tell 
 
 What about it was at all, at all. 
 
 Listen, oh my jewel, I was wrong, 
 
 Never, never lived a word so sad ; 
 Not the heavy sea that drives along 
 
 Bears such weighty throuble as it had. 
 Och anee! wi' ne'er a voice to cry, 
 
 Like the weary cloud or drownin' moon 
 So it sank, or so was carried by : 
 
 N' :er told is all forgot so soon. 
 
 (20)
 
 "CUTTIN' RUSHES." 
 
 Oh maybe it was yesterday, or fifty years ago ! 
 Meself was risin' early on a day for cuttin' 
 
 rushes, 
 Walkin' up the Brabla' burn, still the sun was 
 
 low, 
 Now I'd hear the burn run an' then I'd hear the 
 
 thrushes. 
 Young, still young! an' drenchin' wet the 
 
 grass, 
 Wet the golden honeysuckle hangin' sweetly 
 
 down; 
 
 Here, lad, here! will ye follow where I pass, 
 An' find me cuttin' rushes on the mountain. 
 
 Then was it only yesterday, or fifty years or so? 
 
 (21)
 
 Rip pin' round the bog pools high among the 
 
 heather, 
 The hook it made me hand sore, I had to leave 
 
 it go, 
 'Twas he that cut the rushes then for me to 
 
 bind together. 
 
 Come, dear, come ! an' back along the burn. 
 See the darlin' honeysuckle hangin' like a 
 
 crown. 
 Quick, one kiss, sure, there' some one at the 
 
 turn! 
 
 "Oh, we're afther cuttin' rushes on the moun- 
 tain." 
 
 Yesterday, yesterday, or fifty years ago. . . . 
 I waken out o' dreams when I hear the summer 
 
 thrushes. 
 Oh, that's the Brabla' burn, I can hear it sing an* 
 
 flow, 
 
 For all that's fair, I'd sooner see a bunch o' 
 green rushes. 
 
 (22)
 
 Run, burn, run! can ye mind when we were 
 
 young ? 
 The honeysuckle hangs above, the pool is dark 
 
 an' brown: 
 
 Sing, burn, sing! can ye mind the song ye sung 
 The day we cut the rushes on the mountain? 
 
 (23)
 
 "THE OULD LAD." 
 
 I mind meself a wee boy wi' no plain talk, 
 An' standin' not the height o' two peats ; 
 There was things meself consated 'or the time that 
 
 I could walk, 
 
 An' who's to tell when wit an' childer meets ? 
 'Twas the daisies down in the low grass, 
 
 The stars high up in the skies, 
 The first I knowed of a mother's face 
 Wi' the kind love in her eyes, 
 
 Och, och ! 
 The kind love in her eyes. 
 
 I went the way of other lads that's neither good 
 
 nor bad, 
 An' still, d'ye see, a lad has far to go ; 
 
 (24)
 
 But the things meself consated when I wasn't sick 
 
 nor sad, 
 
 They're aisy told, an' little use to know. 
 'Twas whiles a boat on the say beyont, 
 
 An' whiles a girl on the shore, 
 An' whiles a scrape o' the fiddle-strings, 
 Or maybe an odd thing more 
 
 In troth ! 
 Maybe an odd thing more. 
 
 A man, they say, in spite of all, is betther for a 
 
 wife, 
 
 In-undher this ould roof I live me lone ; 
 I never seen the woman yet I wanted all me 
 
 life, 
 
 An' I never made me pillow on a stone. 
 "Pis "fancy buys the ribbon" an' all, 
 
 An' fancy sticks to the young; 
 But a man of his years can do wi' a pipe 
 Can smoke an' hould his tongue, 
 
 D'ye mind, 
 
 Smoke an' hould his tongue. 
 (25)
 
 Ye see me now an ould man, his work near done, 
 
 Sure the hair upon me head's gone white ; 
 But the things meself consated 'or the time that I 
 
 could run, 
 
 They're the nearest to me heart this night. 
 Just the daisies down in the low grass, 
 
 The stars high up in the skies, 
 The first I knowed of a mother's face 
 Wi' the kind love in her eyes, 
 
 Och, och! 
 The kind love in her eyes. 
 
 (26)
 
 THE RACHRAY MAN. 
 
 Och, what was it got me at all that time 
 To promise I'd marry a Rachray man? 
 An' now he'll not listen to rason or rhyme, 
 He's strivin' to hurry me all that he can. 
 "Come on, an' ye be to come on !" says he, 
 "Ye're bound for the Island, to live wi' me." 
 
 See Rachray Island beyont in the bay, 
 An' the dear knows what they be doin' out there 
 But fishin' an' fightin' an' tearin' away, 
 An' who's to hindher, an' what do they care? 
 The goodness can tell what 'ud happen to me 
 When Rachray 'ud have me, anee, anee! 
 
 I might have took Pether from over the hill, 
 A dacent poacher, the kind poor boy : 
 (27)
 
 Could I keep the ould places about me still 
 I'd never set foot out o' sweet Bally voy. 
 My sorra on Rachray, the could sea-caves, 
 An' blackneck divers, an' weary ould waves ! 
 
 I'll never win back now, whatever may fall, 
 So give me good luck, for ye'Il see me no more ; 
 Sure an Island man is the mischief an' all 
 An' me that never was married before ! 
 
 Oh think o' my fate when ye dance at a fair, 
 In Rachray there' no Christianity there. 
 
 (28)
 
 BIRDS. 
 
 Sure maybe ye've heard the storm-thrush 
 
 Whistlin' bould in March, 
 Before there' a primrose peepin' out, 
 
 Or a wee red cone on the larch ; 
 Whistlin' the sun to come out o' the cloud, 
 
 An' the wind to come over the sea, 
 But for all he can whistle so clear an' loud, 
 
 He's never the bird for me. 
 
 Sure maybe ye've seen the song-thrush 
 
 After an April rain 
 Slip from in-undher the drippin' leaves, 
 
 Wishful to sing again ; 
 An' low wi' love when he's near the nest, 
 (29)
 
 An' loud from the top o' the tree, 
 But for all he can flutter the heart in your breast 
 He's never the bird for me. 
 
 Sure maybe ye've heard the cushadoo 
 
 Callin' his mate in May, 
 When one sweet thought is the whole of his life, 
 
 An' he tells it the one sweet way. 
 But my heart is sore at the cushadoo 
 
 Filled wid his own soft glee, 
 Over an' over his "me an' you !" 
 
 He's never the bird for me. 
 
 Sure maybe ye've heard the red-breast 
 
 Singin' his lone on a thorn, 
 Mindin' himself o' the dear days lost, 
 
 Brave wid his heart forlorn. 
 The time is in dark November, 
 
 An' no spring hopes has he : 
 "Remember," he sings, "remember!" 
 
 Ay, thon's the wee bird for me. 
 
 (30)
 
 JOHNEEN. 
 
 Sure he's five months old, an' he's two foot long, 
 
 Baby Johneen; 
 Watch yerself now, for he's terrible sthrong, 
 
 Baby Johneen. 
 
 An' his fists 'ill be 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' nobody can rightly tell the colour of his 
 eyes, 
 
 This Johneen; 
 
 For they're partly o' the earth an' still they're 
 partly o' the skies, 
 
 Like Johneen. 
 (30
 
 So far as he's thravelled 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; 
 
 Tis you that are the daisy, an' you that are the 
 pet, 
 
 Wee Johneen. 
 (32)
 
 Here's to your health, an' we'll dhrink it to-night. 
 Slainte gal, avic machree! live an' do right, 
 Slainte gal avourneen! may your days be bright, 
 
 Johneen ! 
 
 (33)
 
 "BEAUTY'S A FLOWER." 
 
 Youth's for an hour, 
 
 Beauty's a flower, 
 
 But love is the jewel that wins the world. 
 
 Youth's for an hour, an' the taste o' life is sweet, 
 Ailes was a girl that stepped on two bare feet ; 
 In all my days I never seen the one as fair as she, 
 I'd have lost my life for Ailes, an' she never cared 
 for me. 
 
 Beauty's a flower, an' the days o' life are long, 
 There' little knowin' who may live to sing an- 
 other song; 
 
 For Ailes was the fairest, but another is my wife, 
 An' Mary God be good to her ! is all I love in 
 life. 
 
 (34)
 
 Youth's for an hour, 
 
 Beauty's a flower, 
 
 But love is the jewel that wins the world. 
 
 (35)
 
 THE BOY FROM BALLYTEARIM 
 
 He was born in Ballytearim, where there' little 
 
 work to do, 
 An' the longer he was livin* there the poorer still 
 
 he grew; 
 Says he till all belongin' him, "Now happy may ye 
 
 be! 
 But I'm off to find me fortune," sure he says, says 
 
 he. 
 
 "All the gold in Ballytearim is what's stickin to 
 
 the whin ; 
 All the crows in Ballytearim has a way o' gettin' 
 
 thin." 
 So the people did be praisin' him the year he wint 
 
 away, 
 "Troth, I'll hould ye can do it," sure they says, 
 
 says they. 
 
 (36)
 
 Och, the boy 'ud still be thinkin' long, an' he 
 
 across the foam, 
 An' the two ould hearts be thinkin' long that 
 
 waited for him home: 
 But a girl that sat her lone an' whiles, her head 
 
 upon her knee, 
 Would be sighin' low for sorra, not a word says 
 
 she. 
 
 He won home to Ballytearim, an' the two were 
 
 livin' yet, 
 When he heard where she was lyin' now the eyes 
 
 of him were wet; 
 "Faith, here's me two fists full o' gold, an' little 
 
 good to me 
 When I'll never meet an' kiss her," sure he says, 
 
 says he. 
 
 Then the boy from Ballytearim set his face an- 
 other road, 
 
 An' whatever luck has followed him was never 
 rightly knowed: 
 
 (37)
 
 But still it's truth I'm tellin' ye or may I never 
 
 sin! 
 All the gold in Ballytearim is what's stickin' to 
 
 the whin. 
 
 (38)
 
 I MIND THE DAY. 
 
 I mind the day I'd wish I was a say-gull flyin' far, 
 
 For then I'd fly an' find you in the West; 
 An' I'd wish I was a little rose as sweet as roses 
 
 are, 
 For then you'd maybe wear it on your breast, 
 
 Achray! 
 You'd maybe take an' wear it on your breast. 
 
 I'd wish I could be living near, to love you day 
 
 an' night, 
 
 To let no throuble touch you or annoy; 
 I'd wish I could be dyin' here to rise a spirit light, 
 If Them above 'ud let me bring you joy, 
 
 Achray! 
 If Them above 'ud let me win you joy. 
 
 An' now I wish no wishes, nor ever fall a tear, 
 Nor take a thought beyont the way I'm led : 
 (39)
 
 I mind the day that's over-by, an' bless the day 
 
 that's here, 
 There be to come a day when we'll be dead, 
 
 Achray! 
 A longer, lighter day when we'll be dead. 
 
 (40)
 
 GRACE FOR LIGHT. 
 
 When we were little childer we had a quare wee 
 
 house, 
 Away up in the heather by the head o' Brabla' 
 
 burn; 
 The hares we'd see them scootin', an' we'd hear 
 
 the crowin' grouse, 
 
 An' when we'd all be in at night ye'd not get 
 room to turn. 
 
 The youngest two She'd put to bed, their faces to 
 
 the wall, 
 
 An' the lave of us could sit aroun', just any- 
 where we might; 
 
 Herself 'ud take the rush-dip an' light it for us all, 
 An' "God be thanked!" she would say, "now 
 we have a light." 
 
 (41)
 
 Then we be to quet the laughin' an' pushin' on 
 
 the floor, 
 An' think on One who called us to come and be 
 
 forgiven ; 
 Himself 'ud put his pipe down, an' say the good 
 
 word more, 
 
 "May the Lamb o' God lead us all to the Light 
 o' Heaven!" 
 
 There' a wheen things that used to be an' now 
 
 has had their day, 
 The nine Glens of Antrim can show ye many a 
 
 sight ; 
 But not the quare wee house where we lived up 
 
 Brabla' way, 
 
 Nor a child in all the nine Glens that knows the 
 grace for light. 
 
 (42)
 
 THE GRAND MATCH. 
 
 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 grey-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 thrifle, he tould her. 
 
 She brought him her good-lookin' gold to admire, 
 She brought him her good-lookin' cows to his 
 byre, 
 
 (43)
 
 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; 
 
 With 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. 
 
 (44)
 
 THE SAILOR MAN. 
 
 Sure a terrible time I was out o' the way, 
 
 Over the sea, over the sea, 
 Till I come back to Ireland one sunny day, 
 
 Betther for me, betther for me 
 The first time me foot got the feel o' the ground 
 
 I was sthrollin' along in an Irish city, 
 That hasn't its aquil the world around 
 
 For the air that is sweet an' the girls that are 
 pretty. 
 
 Light on their feet now they passed me an' sped, 
 Give you me word, give you me word, 
 
 Every girl wid a turn o' the head 
 Just like a bird, just like a bird ; 
 (45)
 
 An' the lashes so thick round their beautiful eyes 
 Shinin' to tell you it's fair time o' day wid them, 
 
 Back in me heart wid a kind o' surprise 
 I think how the Irish girls has the way wid 
 them! 
 
 Och man alive ! but it's little ye know 
 
 That never was there, never was there. 
 Look where ye like for them, long may ye go, 
 
 What do I care? what do I care? 
 Plenty as blackberries where will ye find 
 
 Rare pretty girls not by two nor by three o' 
 
 them? 
 Only just there where they grow, dy'e mind 
 
 Still like the blackberries, more than ye see o' 
 them. 
 
 Long, long away, an' no matther how far, 
 Tis the girls that I miss, the girls that I miss : 
 
 Women are round ye wherever ye are 
 Not worth a kiss, not worth a kiss. 
 (46)
 
 Over in Ireland many's the one, 
 
 Well do I know, that has nothing to say wid 
 
 them, 
 Sweeter than anythin' undher the sun, 
 
 Och, 'tis the Irish girls has the way wid them ! 
 
 (47)
 
 AT SEA. 
 
 'Tis the long blue Head o' Garron 
 
 From the sea, 
 Och, we're sailin' past the Garron 
 
 On the sea. 
 
 Now Glen Ariff lies behind, 
 Where the waters fall an' wind 
 By the willows o' Glen Ariff to the sea. 
 
 Ould Luirgedan rises green 
 
 By the sea, 
 
 Ay, he stands between the glens 
 An' the sea. 
 
 Now we're past the darklin' caves, 
 Where the breakin' summer waves 
 Wandher in wi' their trouble from the sea. 
 (48)
 
 But Cushendun lies nearer 
 
 To the sea, 
 An' thon's a shore is dearer 
 
 Still to me, 
 
 For the land that I am leavin' 
 Sure the heart I have is grievin', 
 But the ship has set her sails for the sea. 
 
 Och, what's this is deeper 
 
 Than the sea? 
 
 An' what's this is stronger 
 
 Nor the sea? 
 
 When the call is "all or none," 
 
 An' the answer "all for one," 
 
 Then we be to sail away across the sea. 
 
 (49)
 
 "LOOKIN' BACK." 
 
 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 an' day where the waves are green. 
 Struth na Moile, the wind goes sighin' 
 Over the waste o' wathers green. 
 
 Slemish an' Trostan, dark wi' heather, 
 High are the Rockies, airy-blue; 
 Sure ye have 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 ! 
 
 Lone Glen Dun an' the wild glen flowers, 
 Little ye know if the prairie is sweet. 
 Roses for miles, an' redder than ours 
 (50)
 
 Spring here undher the horses' feet, 
 
 Ay, an' the black-eyed gold sunflowers, 
 
 Not as the glen flowers small an' sweet. 
 
 Wathers o' Moyle, I hear ye callin' 
 Clearer for half o' the world between, 
 Antrim hills an' the wet rain fallin' 
 Whiles ye are nearer than snow-tops keen: 
 Dreams o' the night an' a night wind callin'- 
 What is the half o' the world between ? 
 
 (50
 
 THE NORTH-WESTCANADA. 
 
 Oh would ye hear, and would ye hear 
 
 Of the windy, wide North- West? 
 
 Faith ! 'tis a land as green as the sea, 
 
 That rolls as far and rolls as free, 
 
 With drifts of flowers, so many there be, 
 Where the cattle roam and rest. 
 
 Oh could ye see, and could ye see 
 
 The great gold skies so clear, 
 The rivers that race through the pine-shade dark, 
 The mountainous snows that take no mark, 
 Sun-lit and high on the Rockies stark, 
 
 So far they seem as near. 
 
 Then could ye feel, and could ye feel 
 How fresh is a Western night ! 
 (52)
 
 When the long land-breezes rise and pass 
 And sigh in the rustling prairie grass, 
 When the dark-blue skies are clear as glass, 
 And the same old stars are bright. 
 
 But could ye know, and for ever know 
 
 The word of the young North- West ! 
 A word she breathes to the true and bold, 
 A word misknown to the false and cold, 
 A word that never was spoken or sold, 
 But the one that knows is blest. 
 
 (53)
 
 BACK TO IRELAND. 
 
 Oh tell me, will I ever win to Ireland again, 
 
 Astore! from the far North- West? 
 Have we given all the rainbows, an' green woods 
 
 an' rain, 
 
 For the suns an' the snows o' the West ? 
 "Them that goes to Ireland must thravel night an' 
 
 day, 
 An' them that goes to Ireland must sail across the 
 
 say, 
 For the len'th of here to Ireland is half the world 
 
 away 
 
 An' you'll lave your heart behind you in the West. 
 Set your face for Ireland, 
 Kiss your friends in Ireland, 
 But lave your heart behind you in the West." 
 (54)
 
 On a dim an' shiny mornin' the ship she comes to 
 
 land, 
 
 Early, oh early in the mornin', 
 The silver wathers o' the Foyle go slidin' to the 
 
 strand. 
 
 Whisperin', "Ye're welcome in the mornin'." 
 There's darkness on the holy hills I know are 
 
 close aroun', 
 But the stars are shinin' up the sky, the stars are 
 
 shinin' down, 
 They make a golden cross above, they make a 
 
 golden crown, 
 
 An' meself could tell ye why, in the mornin'. 
 Sure an' this is Ireland, 
 Thank God for Ireland! 
 I'm comin' back to Ireland the mornin'. 
 
 (55)
 
 More Songs of 
 The Glens of Antrim
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 These "Songs of the Glens of Antrim" have 
 nearly all, like their predecessors, appeared in 
 the pages of 'Blackwood's Magazine.' So have 
 the "Songs from North- West Canada." 
 
 The "Translations from Italian Poets" were 
 written for a review of the 'Oxford Book of 
 Italian Verse/ which appeared in 'Blackwood's 
 Magazine' for April 1911. 
 
 Of the many unknown friends who have sent 
 me letters and messages, I desire most to thank 
 the one who told me of a young soldier who took 
 my little book with him to the trenches, and read 
 the 'Songs' to a comrade, before he gave his 
 life on the field "for Freedom and Honour." 
 
 MOIRA O'NEILL. 
 
 (Hi)
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE LITTLE SON .... . *f *; . 57 
 
 PADDY THE SLITHERS . . , . .' . . 59 
 
 DIVIDED 62 
 
 A LATE WOOING . ... ... 64 
 
 NEVER MARRIED . . . . . . 66 
 
 HER SISTER 68 
 
 ONLY ONE 71 
 
 A BUD IN THE FROST 74 
 
 THE BLACKBIRD 76 
 
 NEVER LET ON ! 78 
 
 A ROSE IN DECEMBER 81 
 
 THE OULD TUNES 83 
 
 TIDY ANNIE 86 
 
 THE EMIGRANT'S LETTER 88 
 
 ALTANEIGH 91 
 
 SONGS FROM NORTH-WEST CANADA 
 
 ON THE PRAIRIE 95 
 
 A MAY SONG 98 
 
 WILLOW CREEK 100 
 
 (v)
 
 SPRING ON THE RANCHE 
 
 PART I. THE LAST OF WINTER . . 102 
 
 PART II. THE FIRST OF SPRING . . 104 
 
 A HUSH SONG 106 
 
 TRANSLATIONS FROM ITALIAN POETS. 
 
 LAMENTO 109 
 
 THE CRUSADE no 
 
 ITALIA MIA in 
 
 MY ITALY 112 
 
 MADRIGALE 113 
 
 MADRIGAL 114 
 
 SONETTO 116 
 
 SONNET 117 
 
 CANZONE 118 
 
 SONG 119 
 
 LA VITA SOLITARIA 121 
 
 THE SOLITARY LIFE 122 
 
 L'INFINITO 123 
 
 THE INFINITE 124 
 
 LA SPIGOLATRICE 125 
 
 THE GLEANER . . 126 
 
 (vi)
 
 THE LITTLE SON. 
 
 When my little son is born on a sunny summer 
 
 morn, 
 I'll take him sleepin' in my arms to wake beside 
 
 the sea, 
 For the windy wathers blue would be dancin' if 
 
 they knew, 
 
 An' the weeny waves that wet the sand come 
 creepin' up to me. 
 
 When my little son is here in the noonday warm 
 
 an' clear, 
 I'll carry him so kindly up the glen to Craiga' 
 
 Wood; 
 In a green an' tremblin' shadow there I'll hush 
 
 my tender laddo, 
 
 An' the flittin' birds 'ill quet their songs as if 
 they understood. 
 
 (57)
 
 When my pretty son's awake, och, the care o' him 
 
 I'll take! 
 An' we'll never pass a gentle place between the 
 
 dark an' day ; 
 If he's lovely in his sleep on his face a veil I'll 
 
 keep, 
 
 Or the wee folk an' the good folk might be 
 wantin' him away. 
 
 When my darlin' comes to me he will lie upon my 
 
 knee, 
 Though the world should be my pillow he must 
 
 know no harder place. 
 Sure a queen's son may be cold in a cradle all o' 
 
 gold, 
 
 But my arm shall be about him an' my kiss 
 upon his face. 
 
 (58)
 
 PADDY THE SLITHERS. 
 (Words to an old Irish tune.) 
 
 Ochone! don't be tellin' me to fiddle or to play, 
 Ochone ! 'tis a pity that I lived to see this day. 
 I'm fit to break my fiddle, or I'm fit to take an* 
 
 die, 
 Wirra ! Paddy the Slithers, could a woman make 
 
 ye cry? 
 I asked her for another dhrink, an' sure I'd 
 
 played an hour, 
 Oh, who could think that music sweet would turn 
 
 a woman sour? 
 An' the company so pleasant sittin' back agin' the 
 
 wall, 
 But me bould Biddy Brogan ups an' says before 
 
 them all, 
 
 (59)
 
 "I'll give ye no more. There' a well in the 
 
 garden, 
 'Tis there ye may dhrink, an' not pay a far den." 
 
 I am Paddy the Slithers, an' my father was the 
 
 same, 
 
 For I kep' his ould fiddle an' I won his ould name, 
 That never said a false word or played a false 
 
 note, 
 But the manners o' thon woman has me chokin' 
 
 in the throat. 
 I had played her "Baltigoran," an' "The Pedlar 
 
 wid his Pack," 
 "The Wind that Shakes the Barley," an' "When 
 
 Tony's Comin' Back." 
 'Twas "The Rockin o' the Cradle" I was goin' to 
 
 give her next, 
 An' troth ! if I had wasted that, 'tis worse I would 
 
 be vext, 
 Wid her "Not another dhrop ! There' a well in 
 
 the garden, 
 
 'Tis there ye may dhrink, an' not pay a farden." 
 (60)
 
 Good-bye, Biddy Brogan! now I'll tramp it 
 
 through the rain, 
 Good-bye, Biddy Brogan! for I'll never come 
 
 again. 
 I wouldn't let my fiddle sweet be soundin' in your 
 
 place, 
 You're the only one that ever brought the red 
 
 into my face. 
 You'll be wantin' music badly for your weddin', 
 
 yet to be, 
 An' faith! ye may do wantin' for all ye'll get 
 
 from me. 
 If the man you're coaxin' now could know the 
 
 crossness of your mind. 
 He'd be trampin' through the rain wid me an' 
 
 lavin' you behind, 
 Wid your "Not another dhrop! There' a well 
 
 in the garden, 
 "Tis there ye can dhrink, an 3 not pay a far den." 
 
 (61)
 
 DIVIDED. 
 
 Tis well I know ye, Slieve Cross, ye windy stony 
 
 hill, 
 An' I'm tired, och! I'm tired with lookin' on ye 
 
 still ; 
 
 For here I live the near side, an' he is on the far, 
 An' all your heights an' hollows are between us, 
 
 so they are, 
 
 Och anee! 
 
 But if 'twere only Slieve Cross to climb from 
 foot to crown, 
 
 I'd soon be up an' over that, I'd soon be runnin' 
 down; 
 
 Then sure the great ould sea itself is there be- 
 yond to bar, 
 
 An' all its weary wathers are between us, so they 
 are, 
 
 Och anee! 
 (62)
 
 But what about the wather when I'd have ould 
 
 Paddy's boat? 
 Is it me that would be f ear'd to grip the oars an' 
 
 go afloat? 
 Oh, I could find him by the light o' sun or moon 
 
 or star, 
 But there' coulder things than salt waves between 
 
 us, so they are, 
 
 Och-anee ! 
 
 For well I know he'll never have the heart to 
 
 come to me, 
 An' love is wild as any wave that wanders on the 
 
 sea; 
 
 / 
 
 Tis the same if he is near me, 'tis the same if he 
 
 is far, 
 His thoughts are hard an' ever hard between us, 
 
 so they are, 
 
 Och anee! 
 
 (63)
 
 A LATE WOOING. 
 
 Am I the young man that you sent for to see ? 
 
 An' tell me what is it you're wantin* with me? 
 " 'Tis you that I sent for, 'tis you that I need, 
 An' what I am wantin' you know it indeed." 
 
 Then spare me the tale an' I'll save you the blush, 
 For all you would offer I'd care not a rush. 
 "Sure then it was false what you said long ago, 
 An' moved me to love you to bring me to woe." 
 
 I said that I loved you as dear as my life, 
 You mocked when I wanted to make you my 
 
 wife. 
 
 "Forget it, forget it! That's over an' bye. 
 
 An' if I must lose you I'm soon like to die" 
 
 (64)
 
 Oh, never be thinkin' you'll win me to rue, 
 If you live or you die or whatever you do ! 
 You killed the young love that you cared not to 
 
 save, 
 I'll smile when the young grass is green on your 
 
 grave. 
 
 (65)
 
 NEVER MARRIED. 
 
 My mother had three daughters, an' the ouldest 
 
 one was me, 
 
 The other two was married in their youth; 
 Tis well for them that likes it, but by all that I 
 
 could see 
 It 'ud never fit meself, an' there's the truth. 
 
 Oh, never think I'm wantin' to miscall the race o' 
 
 men, 
 
 There' not a taste o' harm in them, the cratures ! 
 They're meddlesome, an' quarrelsome, an' trouble- 
 some, but then 
 The Man Above He put it in their natures. 
 
 I'd never be uncivil, sure an' marriage must be 
 
 right, 
 
 Or what 'ud bring the childer to the fore? 
 (66)
 
 Wid their screechin' an' their roarin' an' balorin' 
 
 day an' night, 
 Me sister Ann has five, an' Jane has more. 
 
 I couldn't work wid childer, an' the men's a bigger 
 
 kind, 
 
 But muddy an' mischeevous like the small ; 
 Ye've got to larn them betther, an' ye've got to 
 
 make them mind, 
 An' ye've got to keep them aisy afther all. 
 
 I'm betther doin' wi' dumb things, a weeny black- 
 faced lamb, 
 
 Or the yaller goosey-goslin's on the knowe; 
 The neighbours think I'm sensible wi' sick ones, 
 
 so I am, 
 Sure 'twas me that saved the life o' Mullens' cow. 
 
 Aye, ye'll often hear them say a woman cannot 
 
 bide her lone, 
 
 An' it's fifty years alone that I have bided; 
 They're very apt to say no woman yet could guide 
 
 her own, 
 
 But them that God guides is well guided ! 
 (67)
 
 HER SISTER. 
 
 "Brigid is a Caution, sure!" What's that ye say? 
 
 Is it my sister then, Brigid Macllray ? 
 
 Caution or no Caution, listen what I'm tellin' 
 
 ye ... 
 Childer, hould yer noise there, faix! there' no 
 
 quellin' ye! . . . 
 
 Och, well, I've said it now this many a long day, 
 'Tis the quare pity o' Brigid Macllray. 
 
 An' she that was the beauty, an' never married 
 
 yet! 
 An' fifty years gone over her, but do ye think 
 
 she'll fret? 
 Sorra one o' Brigid then, that's not the sort of 
 
 her, 
 Ne'er a hate would she care though not a man had 
 
 thought of her. 
 
 (68)
 
 Heaps o' men she might 'a had. . . . Here, get 
 
 out o' that, 
 Mick, ye rogue! desthroyin' o' the poor ould cat! 
 
 Ah, no use o' talkin! Sure a woman's born to 
 
 wed, 
 An' not go wastin' all her life by waitin' till she's 
 
 dead. 
 Haven't we the men to mind, that couldn't for the 
 
 lives o' them 
 Keep their right end uppermost, only for the 
 
 wives o' them? 
 
 Stick to yer pipe, Tim, an' give me no talk now! 
 There's the door fore'nenst ye, man! out ye can 
 
 walk now. 
 
 B rigid, poor Brigid will never have a child, 
 An' she you'd think a mother born, so gentle an' 
 
 so mild. . . . 
 Danny, is it puttin' little Biddy's eyes out ye're 
 
 after, 
 Swishin' wid yer rod there, an' splittin' wid yer 
 
 laughter? 
 
 (69)
 
 Come along the whole o' yes, in out o' the wet, 
 Or may I never but ye'll soon see what ye'll get! 
 
 She to have no man at all. . . . Musha, look at 
 
 Tim ! 
 
 Off an' up the road he is, an' wet enough to swim, 
 An' his tea sittin' waitin' on him, there he'll sthreel 
 
 about now, 
 Amn't I the heart-scalded woman out an' out 
 
 now? 
 Here I've lived an' wrought -for him all the ways 
 
 I can, 
 But the Goodness grant me patience, for I'd need 
 
 it wid that man! 
 
 What was I savin' then? Brigid lives her lone, 
 Ne'er a one about the house, quiet as a stone. . . . 
 Lave a-go the pig's tail, boys, an' quet the squealin' 
 
 now, 
 Mind! I've got a sally switch that only wants the 
 
 peelin' now. . . . 
 
 Ah, just to think of her, 'deed an' well-a-day! 
 Tis the quare pity o' Brigid Macllray. 
 (70)
 
 ONLY ONE. 
 
 There' five-an'-fifty islands maybe, take the world 
 
 aroun', 
 An' the sun he be to light them all afore his 
 
 goin' down; 
 But when he looks on Ireland 'tis then he shines 
 
 the best, 
 An' he wants to see no other, an' he sinks into 
 
 the West 
 
 For the sun would sleep beside her in the 
 West. 
 
 There' many a lough in Ireland, an' one I know is 
 
 small, 
 
 An' a little house beside it where the childer 
 run an' call ;
 
 An' wather there an' heather there, an' sorra thing 
 
 to see, 
 But a quare an' lonesome place it is that holds 
 
 the girl for me, 
 
 She's walkin' by the lough-side, an' thinkin' 
 long for me. 
 
 If I'd step up the loanin', the childer they would 
 
 fly, 
 
 They're very strange in them parts where no 
 
 one's passin' by; 
 They'd scatter out like pettericks, an' hide among 
 
 the heather, 
 Their sister standin' by the door, an' in we'd 
 
 go together, 
 
 To spake the word would aise our hearts, the 
 two of us together. 
 
 Then why go heavy-hearted, man, an' why live 
 
 here your lone ? 
 
 The sun he loves a green isle, but keeps the sky 
 his own; 
 
 (72)
 
 He's down in love this evenin', he's far away the 
 
 morn, 
 A man will lave his fancy an' the place where 
 
 he was born, 
 
 Aye, a wheen things behind him in the place 
 where he was born. 
 
 But for all that the best does be still-an'-ever one, 
 Oh, ne'er another Ireland can smile beneath the 
 
 sun! 
 For all the loughs in Ireland, for all the glens 
 
 there be, 
 The one lough, the one glen, the one girl for 
 
 me; 
 
 She's walkin' by the wather-side, an' thinkin' 
 long for me. 
 
 (73)
 
 A BUD IN THE FROST. 
 
 Blow on the embers, an' sigh at the sparkles! 
 
 My mother she bid me be wise in time. 
 
 Ashes are white an' the red fire darkles : 
 
 I lost the words, but I know the rhyme. 
 
 It may be true, 
 
 An' it may be true, 
 
 'Tis much to me, 'tis little to you! 
 
 Oh, look if a boat comes over the water, 
 
 An' call on my mother who told her daughter 
 
 That "Love is all crost, like a bud in the frost." 
 
 Love has undone me, an' why would you wonder ! 
 My mother she bid me be wise in time. 
 The waters have met, an' my head has gone under, 
 But far, far away there are bells that chime 
 (74)
 
 How love is no liar, 
 
 Oh, love is no liar, 
 
 "That's only a bird singin' there on the briar. 
 
 You'd better be lookin' no more at the water, 
 
 But give me your hand an' come home, my 
 
 daughter, 
 For love is all crost, like a bud in the frost." 
 
 (75)
 
 THE BLACKBIRD. 
 (Words to an old Irish tune.) 
 
 There' a sweet bird singing in the narrow glen, 
 
 The blackbird clear with a golden bill, 
 He'll call me af ther him, an' then 
 
 He'll flit an' lave me still. 
 A bird I had was one'st my own, 
 
 Oh dear, my colleen dhu to me! 
 My nest is cold, my bird has flown, 
 
 An' the blackbird sings to me. 
 
 Oh, never will I tell her name, 
 
 I'll only sing that her heart was true; 
 
 My blackbird ! ne'er a thing's the same 
 Since I was losin' you. 
 (76)
 
 "Tis lonesome in the narrow glen, 
 An' rain-drops fallin' from the tree' 
 
 But whiles I think I hear her when 
 The blackbird sings to me. 
 
 I'll make a cradle of my breast, 
 
 Her image all its child shall be ; 
 My throbbin' heart shall rock to rest 
 
 The care that's wastin' me. 
 A Night of sleep shall end my pain, 
 
 A sunny Morn shall set me free; 
 An' when I wake I'll hear again 
 
 My blackbird sing to me. 
 
 (77)
 
 NEVER LET ON! 
 
 When I was just a youngster an' the whole of us 
 
 was young, 
 
 An' childer will be still tormentin' other, 
 I larned a thrick to watch it out an' still to hould 
 
 me tongue, 
 
 An' sure enough it saved a heap o' bother. 
 I mind the time that Micky had his sister by the 
 
 hair, 
 The day she took an' broke his rod, an' Pat was 
 
 skelpin' Mick, 
 An' Jane had hould o' Patsy by the legs, an' Tim 
 
 was there, 
 Says I, "I think I see me Da," that saved us all 
 
 the stick. 
 
 (78)
 
 Tis the only way o' doin', just till not be lettin* 
 
 on! 
 
 Were ye ever at a fair in Cushendall ? 
 'Twas there I nearly lost me life, an' sure I'd only 
 
 gone 
 
 For to buy a likely heifer in the fall. 
 Well, I bought her, then I sould her, an' I done 
 
 a thriflin' deal 
 
 Wi' poor ould John MacGonnell o' Rafoam; 
 But the bruiser Big MacDonnell knocked the head 
 
 off John MacGonnell, 
 So at the latter end of all I dhruv the heifer home. 
 
 I was lookin' after Nancy, but of course I'd not 
 
 let on, 
 
 An' she was lettin' on she didn't care ; 
 The women think theirselves as cute, an' faith, 
 
 they're never done 
 
 Wi' their simple sort o' schamin' in the air. 
 Well, that's a tale I'll tell to none, but now we're 
 
 man an' wife, 
 
 An' she quarely likes to manage an' to rule; 
 (79)
 
 I'm not the man to cross her, so we lead a quiet 
 
 life, 
 For he isn't all a wise man that wouldn't play the 
 
 fool. 
 
 Ah, where's the use o' talkin'? Ye should never 
 
 draw the sod, 
 
 Ye should never stop a beggar in his dhrink, 
 Ye should see an' lift your own load an' put your 
 
 trust in God: 
 
 Tis He will make the ship to sail or sink. 
 But och! the world is full o' fools that won't be 
 
 said or led, 
 
 Now may I never live to rear a son 
 If I would not insense him ere he'd be to earn his 
 
 bread, 
 Till "keep a quiet sough, me boy, an' never you 
 
 let on!" 
 
 (80)
 
 A ROSE IN DECEMBER. 
 
 Well can I mind your mother, the pity it is she's 
 
 gone, 
 An' her sort is lost out of Ireland, women like her 
 
 there's none ! 
 Blue were the eyes an' kindly, soft an' slow was 
 
 the tongue, 
 I mind her words the betther for that, an' the 
 
 quare ould songs she sung. 
 She had many a poor one's blessin', an' blessin' 
 
 she'd give golor, 
 Aye, a rose in December was growin' by her door. 
 
 But you were all the daughter she had, an' faith, 
 
 'twas just as well! 
 For if it wasn't for manners now, straight to your 
 
 face I'd tell 
 
 (81)
 
 That two like you is too many, an' one is more 
 
 than enough, 
 But rightly I know for an ould man's talk you'll 
 
 care not a pinch o' snuff. 
 For looks you were never the peel of her, for 
 
 larnin', I may be a fool, 
 But I wouldn't give much for the larnin' that's 
 
 got at the National School. 
 
 Young people should be conducted, but that's 
 
 where they're all asthray, 
 There were none o' this loiterin' home from fairs 
 
 in Father M'Carthy's day; 
 'Twas he would ha' had their lives for less, so he 
 
 would then, who but he ! 
 Your mother he called "the flower o' Layde," 
 
 an' none minds that but me. 
 An' she had the voice of a song-thrush, but you 
 
 have the laugh of a jay, 
 Och, she was a rose in December, but you are a 
 
 frost in May! 
 
 (82)
 
 THE OULD TUNES. 
 
 A boy we had belongin' us, an' och, but he was 
 
 gay, 
 An' we'd sooner hear him singin' than we'd hear 
 
 the birds in May, 
 For a bullfinch was a fool to him, an' all ye had 
 
 to do, 
 Only name tue song ye wanted an' he'd sing it 
 
 for ye through, 
 Wid his "Up now There !" an' his "Look about 
 
 an' thry for it," 
 Faith, he had the quarest songs of any ye could 
 
 find, 
 "Poppies in the Corn" too, an' "Molly, never 
 
 Cry for it!" 
 "A Pretty Girl I Courted," an' "There's Trouble 
 
 in the Wind." 
 
 (83)
 
 Music is deludherin', ye'll hear the people say, 
 Ah, the more they be deludhered then, the betther 
 
 is their case ; 
 I would sooner miss my dhrink than never hear a 
 
 riddle play, 
 An* since Hughie up an' left us this has been 
 
 another place. 
 Arrah, come back, lad ! an' we'll love you when 
 
 you sing for us, 
 Sure we're gettin' oulder an' ye'll maybe come 
 
 too late. 
 Sing "Girl Dear!" an' "The Bees among the 
 
 Ling" for us; 
 
 I could shake a foot to hear "The Pigeon on 
 the Gate." 
 
 Oh, Hughie had the music, but there come on him 
 
 a change, 
 He should ha' stayed the boy he was an' never 
 
 grown a man; 
 I seen the shadow on his face before his time to 
 
 range, 
 
 (84)
 
 An' I knew he sung for sorrow as a winter robin 
 
 can. 
 But that's not the way! oh, I'd feel my heart 
 
 grow light again, 
 Hughie, if I'd hear you at "The Pleasant 
 
 Summer Rain"; 
 Ould sweet tunes, sure my wrong 'ud all come 
 
 right again, 
 Listenin' for an hour I'd forget the feel o' pain. 
 
 (85)
 
 TIDY ANNIE. 
 
 I am not carin' much to hear what the young men 
 
 dancin' say, 
 An' I think there is little sense in them, but let 
 
 them go their way. 
 For I have many another thing, an' it is not 
 
 marriage I mind ! 
 Nor yet to be meetin' below the road, nor yet to 
 
 be lookin' behind ; 
 For the like o' that is foolishness, an' it happens 
 
 every day. 
 
 Then I think it is very well for me to be livin' in 
 
 ould Parkure, 
 An' the way that I am it fits me best, for a 
 
 mother's love is sure. 
 (86)
 
 The half o' the wives are sharp-tongued, the half 
 
 are desthroyed with work, 
 Ah, the height o' botheration it is to be married 
 
 on a Turk, 
 But what about that? If he's ten Turks, when 
 
 it's done you can get no cure. 
 
 'Tis "Tidy Annie" they give me, they know that 
 
 I can't be bet 
 For a steady girl, an' a dacent shawl, an' walkin' 
 
 clean in the wet. 
 They don't see many that do like me, with the 
 
 house to keep an' all, 
 An' ducks to feed an' a goat to milk, an' to mind 
 
 the mother's call, 
 But isn't it now the quarest thing that nobody's 
 
 asked me yet! 
 
 (87)
 
 THE EMIGRANT'S LETTER. 
 
 I hope this finds all well at home, as it leaves me 
 
 at present, 
 An' sure I am, my mother dear, that you've been 
 
 thinkin' long! 
 But don't you fret, I'm livin' still, an' so is Andy 
 
 Besant ; 
 We didn't mind the ship so much, but she was 
 
 awful throng. 
 
 I wisht ye'd see the place we're in, the name is 
 
 wrote above, 
 Ye'd say 'twas just unearthly, wi' the blazin' o' 
 
 the sun; 
 The drink we get is barefut tea, an' not for gold 
 
 or love 
 Could ye rise an' post a letter here as ye would in 
 
 Cushendun. 
 
 (88)
 
 My uncle says he minds you well, an' why would 
 
 you not come? 
 Be sure he'd send a ticket, an' he'd build a house 
 
 some place ; 
 But the blacks 'ud have you scared by nights, 
 
 an' women's best at home; 
 He's a kindly sort of a decent man, wi' a great 
 
 big sod of a face. 
 
 Ye've likely seen Rosanna? . . . did she ask or 
 
 did she care ? 
 But ye needn't say I named her, for I wouldn't 
 
 go that far. 
 Tis only Andy wants to know, an' "Faith," says 
 
 he, " 'tis quare 
 An' she so comely as she is, an' she so long wi' 
 
 her da!" 
 
 Who feeds my old dog Dusty now, an' what place 
 
 does he lie? 
 Ye'll mind not fill the cart too full, to spoil that 
 
 pony's shape. 
 
 (8 9 )
 
 I doubt Tom Boyd's forgot me, an' the rest will 
 
 by-an'-by, 
 He said he'd write so constant, an' he never sent 
 
 a scrape. 
 
 So now no more, my mother dear, for I've no 
 
 more to tell. 
 I see you at your spinnin'-wheel beside the red 
 
 turf fire, 
 An' my little brother Alick there, I still liked him 
 
 so well! 
 When I win back to yous again I'll get my heart's 
 
 desire. 
 
 (90)
 
 ALTANEIGH 
 
 There a place I used to know, 
 
 Where the bendin' birches grow 
 
 By the bright wather still-an'-ever fallin', 
 
 An' the fern is smellin' sweet 
 
 Up the brae about your feet, 
 
 An' a voice within the wather-voice is callin', 
 
 If you waited all the day 
 
 Till the light was gone away, 
 
 An' the dark an' dewy clouds were slowly shif tin', 
 
 Oh, a little, little moon 
 
 There would glimmer on you soon, 
 
 An' all among the stars go downward driftin'. 
 
 Will I ever rise an' go 
 To the glen I used to know, 
 To the sweet fern an' golden wather droppin' ? 
 (91)
 
 Up the brae an' by the burn 
 See them stand at every turn, 
 Green birch crowns the one another toppin' ? 
 
 Now grant I may not see, 
 
 No, never would I be 
 
 Where the ferns dip, the dark pools bubble : 
 
 When we've loved too long to praise, 
 
 God be with the old dear days ! 
 
 But the peace of that glen my heart would trouble. 
 
 (92)
 
 Songs from North-West Canada
 
 ON THE PRAIRIE. 
 
 Back on the great pale prairie that stretches out 
 
 to the sky, 
 Bare to the winds and sunlight, glistening, grassy 
 
 and dry; 
 You're back from the sweet old country, the island 
 
 green and far, 
 You and Alberta had said Good-bye "for ever," 
 
 but here you are. 
 
 No tree to cast a coolness on all the land bare- 
 browed, 
 
 Only a drifting shadow moves from a drifting, 
 wide-winged cloud; 
 
 Open and undeceiving is the bright, unfriendly 
 space, 
 
 You're miles from a spring of water, and miles 
 from another face. 
 
 (95)
 
 The prairie's not for shelter, but it's plain to 
 
 understand, 
 The winds are ever circling, and the sunshine 
 
 warms the land; 
 This air is strong as ocean, this noon-light falls in 
 
 showers 
 On crowds of the shimmering grasses, on millions 
 
 of yellow flowers. 
 
 You've little cause for gladness, but your heart is 
 
 up and glad, 
 No more it counts old sorrows, nor murmurs 
 
 "once I had ": 
 
 The best you had was never lost, for the best was 
 
 never known, 
 Now if you will, a day shall rise that lights you to 
 
 your own. 
 
 The old cayuse you're riding, whose lordly name is 
 
 Buck, 
 Can lope as far as the next horse and take you to 
 
 your luck ; 
 
 (96)
 
 It may be a Mexican saddle is the highest seat 
 
 you'll fill, 
 But it's all in being ready, for the way is through 
 
 the will. 
 
 Oh, lift your head and see again the Rockies 
 
 where they rise, 
 More shining than the morning cloud, more stable 
 
 than the skies; 
 And look again to Southward for the waters that 
 
 you know, 
 Between his flats and cut-banks the ice-fed River 
 
 Bow. 
 
 (97)
 
 A MAY SONG. 
 
 The hills were dry and withered, the skies were 
 
 dark with snow 
 
 When I let you go, dear love, when I let you go. 
 The storms came down and swept us, breath of 
 
 the bitter North, 
 We rode through a blind white fury as the driven 
 
 snows came forth, 
 And we held our peace for the most part, for the 
 
 land lay under wrath. 
 This when I let you go, dear love, after I let 
 
 you go. 
 
 When skies grew soft in April, and cloudy as for 
 
 rain, 
 
 I called to you, "Come again, dear love!" I 
 called to you, "Come again !" 
 (98)
 
 The winter has gone for all but me, and a spring 
 
 wind blows from the west ; 
 The Easter buds are opening pale, but they come 
 
 for a sign of the rest; 
 The birds from the South are back with us, but 
 
 mine is an empty nest. 
 So I called to you, "Come again, dear love!" I 
 
 called to you, "Come again !" 
 
 The ache of winter has gone from me, I wake 
 
 with the heart of May ; 
 We that were two are one, dear love; while it 
 
 is called to-day. 
 Ride with me where we used to ride, and look on 
 
 the mountains snow> and still, 
 On the gold-flowered willows catching the light, 
 
 on the little blue lake at the foot of the hill ; 
 But look at me longest, first and last ; love but 
 
 me, and the rest as you will. 
 We that were two are one, dear love ! Look in 
 
 my eyes to-day. 
 
 (99)
 
 WILLOW CREEK. 
 
 The tent is pitched for sleeping in where cotton- 
 woods are green, 
 
 And Willow Creek is running, rippling, singing all 
 the way; 
 
 The misty hills are dim and far, the last the sun 
 has seen, 
 
 And birds and leaves and silver fish are sleeping 
 after play. 
 
 The day is slowly dying in a twilight grey, 
 
 And evening birds sing sweet for thanks that this 
 one day has been. 
 
 The stars are out in clusters, but the moon was 
 
 never seen, 
 And Willow Creek is running, rippling, singing 
 
 all the night; 
 
 (100)
 
 With a breath of balm-of-Gilead comes the breeze 
 
 at morning keen, 
 
 The cloudy east is broken by a single rift of light. 
 The night is slowly dying in a day-dawn grey, 
 And morning birds sing sweet for thanks that this 
 
 one night has been.
 
 SPRING ON THE RANCHE. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 THE LAST OF WINTER. 
 
 Oh, not for us the primrose faint, the south wind's 
 
 hush-a-low, 
 Through shining aisles of the beech-trees that 
 
 knew us years ago ! 
 Here there's a long, long silence, and the dumbly 
 
 falling snow. 
 
 The prairie rolls away, away, the hills are covered 
 
 deep, 
 The water-springs in the coulees are sleeping a 
 
 frozen sleep, 
 The sun-dogs glimmer for a storm ; how long can 
 
 winter keep ? 
 
 (102)
 
 Among the hungry cattle it's weary work to ride 
 And see the weak-knee'd mothers go stumbling 
 
 side by side, 
 Nuzzling under the crusted snow for where new 
 
 grass may hide. 
 
 There's not a blade of green yet, the last year's 
 
 growth is rank, 
 Sodden and brown beneath the snow on hill and 
 
 bottom and bank; 
 Every horse is a brute this month, and every man 
 
 is a crank. 
 
 Only the evening hours are good, when two can 
 
 sit apart 
 Within the light of the fire they love, curing the 
 
 winter's smart; 
 The hand is warm in another hand, the heart is 
 
 safe with a heart. 
 
 (103)
 
 SPRING ON THE RANCHE 
 
 PART II. 
 
 THE FIRST OF SPRING. 
 
 There was a sound of whistling wings over the 
 house last night, 
 
 And the wild duck dropped in the creek below, 
 resting upon their flight; 
 
 Now the mallard with his emerald neck is swim- 
 ming round in the light. 
 
 A warm wind from the mountains came pouring 
 
 like a tide, 
 The strong chinook has broken the heart of 
 
 winter's icy pride, 
 And the snow has all gone up like smoke from a 
 
 prairie sunny and wide. 
 (104)
 
 Here are grey buds of the "crocus," but shut and 
 silvery dim, 
 
 Along the creek there are mouse-ears on the wil- 
 lows red and slim ; 
 
 A blue tit feeds there upside down in the manner 
 approved by him. 
 
 Hill snows melt and rush in streams bubbling and 
 
 dark as wine ; 
 Cattle are drifting out of the hills well do we 
 
 know that sign! 
 And the soft clouds rolling across the blue have a 
 
 beauty half divine. 
 
 New grass and sweet will soon be here, and the 
 
 patient herds grow strong; 
 We will forget the cruel frost and all the winter's 
 
 wrong ; 
 None can be glad as we are glad unless they have 
 
 waited as long. 
 
 (105)
 
 A HUSH SONG. 
 
 Sleep, little child, sleep softly here, 
 Angels of God are watching near; 
 Thou shalt be safe lay down thy head ! 
 With their white wings above thee spread. 
 
 Sleep, little child, nor fear the night, 
 After the dark comes morning light. 
 Angels return their Home to see, 
 God looketh down and loveth thee. 
 
 (106)
 
 Translations from Italian Poets
 
 LAMENTO. 
 
 Gia mai non mi conf orto 
 Ne mi vo' rallegrare: 
 Le navi sono al porto, 
 E vogliono collare. 
 Vassene la piu gente 
 In terra d' oltra mare: 
 Ed io, lassa dolente, 
 Como deg' io fare? 
 
 La croce salva la gente, 
 E me face disviare: 
 La croce mi fa dolente, 
 Non mi val Dio pregare. 
 Oi croce pellegrina, 
 Perche m' hai si distrutta ? 
 Oi me, lassa tapina, 
 Ch' i' ardo e 'ncendo tutta ! 
 
 RINALDO D'AQUINO. 
 (109)
 
 THE CRUSADE. 
 
 Sec. xiii. 
 
 Never can I forget my woe, 
 And comfort naught avails : 
 The ships are in the port below, 
 Waiting to hoist their sails. 
 The men are all for sailing 
 To lands beyond the sea, 
 And I alone am wailing, 
 What will become of me? 
 
 The Cross that saves all living, 
 Has set my steps astray: 
 The Cross such grief is giving, 
 To God I cannot pray. 
 Oh, Cross of pilgrims faring, 
 What of my lonely strife! 
 The grief my heart is bearing 
 Will waste away my life. 
 
 (1 10)
 
 ITALIA MIA. 
 
 Non e questo il terren ch' i' toccai pria? 
 Non e questo '1 mio nido, 
 Ove nudrito f ui si dolcemente ? 
 Non e questa la patria in ch' io mi fido, 
 Madre benigna e pia, 
 Che copre 1' uno e 1' altro mio parente? 
 Per Dio, questo la mente 
 Talor vi mova ; e con pieta guardate 
 Le lagrime del popol doloroso, 
 Che sol da voi riposo 
 Dopo Dio spera ; e pur che voi mostriate 
 Segno alcun di pietate, 
 Virtu contra furore 
 
 Prendera 1' arme, e fia '1 combatter corto : 
 Che 1' antico valore 
 Negl' italici cor non e ancor morto. 
 
 FRANCESCO PETRARCA. 
 (in)
 
 MY ITALY. 
 
 Is not this land the same where first I stood? 
 Is it not here, the nest 
 
 Where I was nursed so sweetly day and night? 
 Is not this fatherland my own wherein my faith 
 
 I rest, 
 
 Mother benign and good, 
 That covers now both parents from my sight? 
 Oh, that at last this might 
 For God's sake move your minds to feel 
 Compassion for a people's tears and woes. 
 Who but for God can hope repose 
 From none but you ! Let their appeal 
 Call forth your pity now to heal, 
 Else men to stop this fury's way 
 Will take up arms, and short will be the strife : 
 The valour of an ancient day 
 Still in Italian hearts can wake to life.
 
 MADRIGALE. 
 
 Cantate meco, innamorati augelli, 
 
 Poi che vosco a cantare Amor me invita ; 
 
 E vui, bei rivi e snelli, 
 
 Per la piaggia fiorita 
 
 Tenete a le mie rime el tuon suave. 
 La belta, de ch' io canto, e si infinite, 
 
 Che '1 cor ardir non have 
 
 Pigliar lo incarno solo ; 
 
 Che egli e debole e stance, e '1 peso e grave. 
 Vaghi augelletti, vui ne gite a volo 
 
 Perche forsi credete 
 
 Che il mio cor senta duolo, 
 
 E la gioia ch' io sento non sapeta. 
 Vaghi augelletti, odete ; 
 
 Che quanto gira in tondo 
 
 II mar, e quanto spira ciascun vento, 
 
 Non e piacer nel mondo 
 
 Che agguagliar si potesse a quel ch' io sento. 
 
 BOIARDO. 
 (H3)
 
 MADRIGAL. 
 
 Sing now with me, ye wooing birds in bowers, 
 Since Love has bidden me to join your singing, 
 And all among the flowers 
 That on your banks are springing, 
 Fair streams, lend to my rhymes your own soft 
 
 tone. 
 
 Of beauty infinite my songs are ringing, 
 No heart that lives alone 
 Could lift such load on high ; 
 For the tired heart is fainting and the weight 
 
 like stone. 
 
 Fair little song-birds, still before me flying, 
 Is it that here below 
 Ye deem my heart is sighing, 
 And the joy I have within me ye can never 
 know? 
 
 (114)
 
 Fair little song-birds, think ye so? 
 Hearken ! the seas that bound us 
 In all their circles have no treasure, 
 Nor has the earth, nor have the winds around us 
 One joy that's equal to my deep heart's pleasure. 
 
 (US)
 
 SONETTO. 
 
 Come creder debb' io che tu in ciel oda, 
 Signer benigno, i miei, non caldi preghi, 
 Se gridando la lingua che mi sleghi, 
 Tu vedi quanto il cor nel laccio goda? 
 
 Tu ch' il vero cognosci, me ne snoda, 
 E non mirar ch' ogni mio senso il nieghi : 
 Ma prima il fa che di me carco pieghi 
 Caronte il legno alia dannata proda. 
 
 Iscusi 1' error mio, Signore eterno, 
 L' usanza ria che par che si mi copra 
 Gli occhi, che '1 ben dal mal poco discerno. 
 
 L' aver pieta d' un cor pentito, anch' opra 
 di mortal : sol trarlo dall' inferno 
 Mal grado suo, puoi tu, Signer, di sopra. 
 
 ARIOSTO. 
 (lid)
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Can I believe in heaven they reach Thine ear, 
 O Lord benign, my prayers that are so cold, 
 When my tongue cries on Thee to loose the hold 
 Which yet Thou see'st my secret heart holds 
 dear? 
 
 Thou Who dost know the truth, release me here, 
 And heed not though my senses, rebels bold, 
 Deny Thee : hasten ! When my corpse is cold, 
 Let me not in that barque with Charon steer. 
 
 Forgive me all, eternal Lord ! too well 
 Hath evil custom blinded my clear sight 
 Till good from ill I scarcely now can tell. 
 
 A heart that's penitent can ask with right 
 
 A mortal's pardon, but to draw hearts from hell 
 Against their will Thou only hast the might. 
 
 (H7)
 
 CANZONE. 
 
 Vaghe Ninfe del Po, Ninfe sorelle, 
 E voi dei boschi e voi d' onda marina 
 E voi de' fonti e de 1' alpestri cime, 
 Tessiam or care ghirlandette e belle 
 A questa giovinetta peregrina : 
 Voi di fronde e di fiori ed io di rime; 
 E mentre io sua belta lodo ed onoro 
 Cingete a Laura voi le trecce d' oro. 
 
 Cingete a Laura voi le trecce d' oro 
 De 1' arboscello onde s' ha preso il nome, 
 O pur de' fiori a' quali il pregio ha tolto ; 
 E le vermiglie rose e' e'l verde alloro 
 Le faccian ombra a 1' odorate chiome 
 Ed a le rose del fiorito volto ; 
 E de 1' auro e del lauro e de' be' fiori 
 Sparga 1' aura nell' aria i dolci odori. 
 
 TASSO. 
 (118)
 
 SONG. 
 
 Lovely Nymphs, ye sister Nymphs of the river Po, 
 
 And ye from out the green wood and where the 
 sea-waves beat, 
 
 And ye who live by fountains and on hill-tops 
 high, 
 
 Let us weave dear garlands of the fairest flow- 
 ers that blow 
 
 All for this wandering maiden, young and 
 sweet. 
 
 Ye shall weave the buds and leaves, the 
 rhymes will I ; 
 
 And while I sing her beauty and praise it to the 
 height, 
 
 Crown ye the locks of Laura's hair so golden- 
 bright. 
 
 (H9)
 
 Crown ye the locks of Laura's hair so golden- 
 bright 
 
 With leaves from off the slender tree whose 
 name she still doth bear, 
 
 Or else with flowers that seem less rare now 
 she is in this place, 
 
 And let the crimson roses and green-leaved 
 laurel light 
 
 Make shade above the sweetness of her flower- 
 scented hair, 
 
 And shade her cheek rose-tinted and all her 
 flower-like face, 
 
 Until the fragrant laurel and the breath of 
 blossoms spread 
 
 Are lifted on the gentle air and wafted over' 
 head. 
 
 (120)
 
 LA VITA SOLITARIA. 
 
 Talor m' assido in solitaria parte 
 
 Sovra un rialto, al margine d' un lago 
 Di taciturne piante incoronato. 
 Ivi, quando il meriggio in ciel si volve, 
 La sua tranquilla imago il Sol dipinge 
 Ed erba e f oglia non si crolla al vento, 
 E non onda incresparsi, e non cicala 
 Strider, ne batter penna augello in ramo, 
 Ne farfalla ronzar, ne voce o moto 
 Da presso ne da lunge odi ne vedi. 
 Tien quelle rive altissima quiete : 
 Ond' io quasi me stesso e il mondo oblio 
 Sedendo immoto ; e gia mi par che sciolte 
 Giaccian le membra mie, ne spirto o senso 
 Piu le commova, e lor quiete antica 
 Co' silenzi del loco si confonda. 
 
 LEOPARDI. 
 
 (121)
 
 THE SOLITARY LIFE. 
 
 Sometimes I choose a solitary place 
 
 Above a slope that borders on a lake, 
 
 Set round with silent trees as with a crown. 
 
 Here, when the noon is past, the westering sun 
 
 Paints his own tranquil image in the lake, 
 
 Nor blade nor leaf stirs in the passing breeze, 
 
 And never ripple breaks, no grasshopper 
 
 Shrills, no bird-wing stirs on bough, 
 
 No butterfly wanders, nor any voice or motion 
 
 Is either heard or seen, from near or far. 
 
 In deepest quiet all those shores are held : 
 
 Till I forget the world, almost forget myself 
 
 Sitting unmoved, until at last it seems 
 
 That freed in death these limbs of mine are lying 
 
 That neither sense nor spirit can move them more, 
 
 That they are back in their primeval quiet, 
 
 Mingling with all the silences around. 
 . 
 
 (122)
 
 L'INFINITO 
 
 Sempre caro mi fu quest 'ermo colle, 
 E questa siepe, che da tanta parte 
 Dell' ultimo orizzonte il guardo esclude. 
 Ma sedendo e mirando, interminati 
 Spazi di la da quella, e sovrumani 
 Silenzi, e profondissima quiete 
 To nel pensier mi fingo ; ove per poco 
 II cor non si spaura. E come il vento 
 Odo stormir tra queste piante, io quello 
 Infinite silenzio a questa voce 
 Vo comparando : e mi sowien 1' eterno, 
 E le morte stagioni, e la presente 
 E viva, e il suon di lei. Cosi tra questa 
 Immensita s' annega il pensier mio : 
 E il nauf ragar m' e dolce in questo mare. 
 
 LEOPARDI. 
 (123)
 
 THE INFINITE. 
 
 This lonely hill was ever dear to me, 
 
 With this one hedgerow, shutting out of sight 
 
 So great a part of all the far horizon. 
 
 But when I sit and gaze, interminable 
 
 Spaces beyond that bound, and superhuman 
 
 Silences, and quietude profoundest 
 
 I fancy in my thought, till by degrees 
 
 My heart forgets its awe. And as the wind 
 
 Rises and storms among the trees, this voice 
 
 I hear contrasting with that infinite silence, 
 
 And it reminds me of eternity, of seasons dead 
 
 and gone, 
 
 And of this present living time, with all its noise. 
 Thus lies my thought, drown'd in immensity, 
 And shipwreck in that sea is sweet to me. 
 
 (124)
 
 LA SPIGOLATRICE. 
 
 Eran trecento e non voller fuggire, 
 Parean tre mila e vollero morire; 
 Ma vollero morir col f erro in mano 
 E avanti a loro correa sangue il piano ; 
 Fin che pugnar vid' io, per lor pregai, 
 Ma un tratto venni men, ne-piu guardai : 
 Io non vedeva piu f ra mezzo a loro 
 Quegli occhi azzurri e quei capelli d' oro . . 
 Eran trecento, eran giovani e forti, 
 E sono morti ! 
 
 LUIGI MERCANTINI. 
 
 (125)
 
 THE GLEANER. 
 
 They were three hundred and they would not fly, 
 They seemed three thousand and they chose to 
 
 die; 
 But they chose to die each with his sword in 
 
 his hand, 
 And the blood ran before them, drenching the 
 
 land; 
 While I could see the fight, I knelt for them to 
 
 pray, 
 But all at once I fainted, and saw no more 
 
 that day; 
 
 'Twas when I missed suddenly out of the fight 
 The head with the golden hair and blue eyes 
 
 bright. . . . 
 
 They were three hundred, they were young 
 and strong, 
 
 And they are dead ! 
 (126)
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below 
 
 00r 2 4 
 NOV 2 8 
 
 'DEC 4 
 5 1939 
 
 
 Form L-9-15TW-7,'31 

 
 uc sou 
 
 
 UNIVERSITY of CALIFORNIA 
 
 AT 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 LIBRARY