THE FLOWER OF ALL MAIDENS.

My secrets shall rest in your bosom,
And yours in my heart shall remain ;
And if e'er they be told, O sweet Blossom,
May none be e'er whispered again!

Oh, loveliest! do not desert me!

My earliest love was for you;

And if thousands of woes should begirt me,
To you would I prove myself true!
Through my life you have been my consoler,
My comforter-never in vain ;

Had you failed to extinguish my dolour,
I should ever have languished in pain!

O fond one! I pine in dejection;

My bosom is pierced to the core-
Deny me not, love, your affection,

And mine shall be yours evermore.
As I chose you from even the beginning,
Look not on my love with disdain ;
If you slight me as hardly worth winning,
May maid ne'er again have a swain !

Oh, you who have robbed me of pleasure,
Will you, with your mind and your charms,
Scorn one who has wit without measure,
And take a mere dolt to your arms?
Your beauty, O damsel, believe me,
Is not for a clown to adore-

Oh, if you desert or deceive me,

May lover ne'er bow to you more!

Yours am I, my loveliest, wholly

Oh, heed not the blind and the base, Who say that because of my folly

I'll never have wealth, luck, or grace.

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How much the poor creatures mistake me!
I'll yet have green acres and gold;
But oh, if you coldly forsake me,

I'll soon be laid under the mould!

MANGAIRE SUGACH.

WHITE'S DAUGHTER OF THE DELL.

COME, let us trip away, love;

We must no longer stay, love;

Night soon will yield to day, love,

We'll bid these haunts farewell.

We'll quit the fields, and rather
New life in cities gather;
And I'll outwit your father,

The tall White of the Dell !

I am filled with melancholy
For all my bygone folly;
A wild blade and a jolly

I was, as most can tell.

But woes now throng me thickly,
I droop, all faint and sickly;
I'll die, or win her quickly,

White's Daughter of the Dell!

There's many a Kate and Sally
Who'd gladly stray and dally
Along with me in valley,

Or glade, or mossy cell.

Oh, were we in Thurles together,
And each had quaffed a mether,*
We'd sleep as on soft heather,

My Sweet One of the Dell!

MY CONNOR.

You bright, you blooming Fair, you!
'Tis next my heart I wear you!
The wondrous love I bear you

Has bound me like a spell!

Oh, both by land and ocean,
My soul is all commotion,
Yours is my deep devotion,

Dear Damsel of the Dell!

Oh, were I seated near her,

Where summer woods might cheer her,
While clearer still, and clearer,

The blackbird's notes would sweil;

I'd sing her praise and glory,

And tell some fairy story

Of olden ages hoary,

To White's Rose of the Dell!

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EOGHAN O'SULLIVAN.

MY CONNOR.

His eye is as black as the sloe,

And his skin is as white as its blossom--

He loves me; but hate to the foe

Has the innermost place in his bosom.

I forgive him, for sorrow unmixed,
His child, like himself, should inherit,

If hatred to chains had not fixed

The strong kernel-stone in his spirit.

The lark never soars but to sing

Nor sings but to soar; but my Connor Surpasses the lark on the wing,

Though walking the earth without honour!

The fetters-the fetters awake

Deep passionate songs that betoken
The part and the place he will take,
When bonds are held up to be broken.

He loves me more dearly than life,
Yet would he forsake me to-morrow,
And lose both his blood and his wife,
To free his loved island from sorrow;
And could I survive but to see

The land without shackle upon her,
I freely a widow would be,

Though dearly I doat on my Connor.

There is hope for the land where the ties

'Twixt husband and wife have been reckoned

As virtue the first, in strange eyes,

Yet are, in their own, but the second!

The sun never shines from the sky,

If the country be long in dishonour

With women, all braver than I

And men, all as brave as my Connor.

J. FRASER.

THE DARK GIRL' BY THE 'HOLY WELL.'

'MOTHER! is that the passing bell?

Or yet the midnight chime?
Or, rush of angels' golden wings?

Or is it near the Time

The time when God, they say, comes down

This weary world upon,

With Holy Mary at His right,

And at His left St. John!

THE DARK GIRL' BY THE 'HOLY WELL.'

'I'm dumb! my heart forgets to throb;

My blood forgets to run;
But vain my sighs-in vain I sob-
God's will must still be done.

I hear but tone of warning bell,
For holy priest or nun:

On earth, God's face I'll never see!
Nor Mary, nor St. John!

'Mother! my hopes are gone again;
My heart is black as ever.
Mother! I say, look forth once more,
And see can you discover

God's glory in the crimson clouds-
See does He ride upon

That perfumed breeze-or do you see
The Virgin, or St. John?

Ah, no! ah, no! Well, God of Peace,
Grant me Thy blessing still;

Oh, make me patient with my doom,
And happy at Thy will;

And guide my footsteps so on earth,
That, when I'm dead and gone,
My eyes may catch Thy shining light
With Mary, and St. John !

'Yet, mother, could I see thy smile,

Before we part below

Or watch the silver moon or stars
Where Slaney's ripples flow;

Oh, could I see the sweet sunshine
My native hills upon,

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