Proud of you, fond of you, having all right in you!
Quitting all else through my love and delight in you!
Glad is my heart, since 'tis beating so nigh to you!
Light is my step, for it always may fly to you!
Clasped in your arms, where no sorrow can reach to me,
Reading your eyes till new love they shall teach to me,

Though wild and weak till now,

By that blessed marriage vow,

More than the wisest know your heart shall preach to me.

THE OLD CHURCH AT LISMORE

This poem, inscribed in the MS. My Last Verses,' was the last written by 'Mary' before entering on her novitiate in 1849.

OLD Church, thou still art Catholic !-e'en dream they as they may

That the new rites and worship have swept the old away;

There is no form of beauty raised by Nature, or by art,

That preaches not God's saving truths to man's adoring heart!

In vain they tore the altar down; in vain they flung aside
The mournful emblem of the death which our sweet Saviour died;
In vain they left no single trace of saint or angel here-
Still angel-spirits haunt the ground, and to the soul appear.

I marvel how, in scenes like these, so coldly they can pray,

Nor hold sweet commune with the dead who once knelt down as
they ;

Yet not as they, in sad mistrust or sceptic doubt-for, oh,
They looked in hope to the blessèd saints, these dead of long ago.

And, then, the churchyard, soft and calm, spread out beyond the

scene

With sunshine warm and soothing shade and trees upon its green;
Ah! though their cruel Church forbid, are there no hearts will

pray

For the poor souls that trembling left that cold and speechless clay?

My God! I am a Catholic ! I grew into the ways

Of my dear Church since first my voice could lisp a word of

praise;

But oft I think though my first youth were taught and trained

awrong,

I still had learnt the one true faith from Nature and from song!

For still, whenever dear friends' die, it is such joy to know
They are not all beyond the care that healed their wounds below,
That we can pray them into peace, and speed them to the shore
Where clouds and cares and thorny griefs shall vex their hearts no

more.

And the sweet saints, so meek below, so merciful above;

And the pure angels, watching still with such untiring love ;
And the kind Virgin, Queen of Heaven, with all her mother's care,
Who prays for earth, because she knows what breaking hearts are
there!

Oh, let us lose no single link that our dear Church has bound,
To keep our hearts more close to Heaven, on earth's ungenial

ground;

But trust in saint and martyr yet, and o'er their hallowed clay, Long after we have ceased to weep, kneel faithful down to pray.

So shall the land for us be still the Sainted Isle of old,

Where hymn and incense rise to Heaven, and holy beads are told;

And even the ground they tore from God, in years of crime and woe,

Instinctive with His truth and love, shall breathe of long ago!

ARTHUR GERALD GEOGHEGAN

AUTHOR OF THE MONKS OF KILCREA, a collection of stories in verse, which for many years remained anonymous, and was much spoken of. It was first published in 1853, and a second

edition was issued, with other poems, in 1861. It was translated into French in 1858. Its author was born in Dublin on June 1, 1810, and entered the Excise in 1830. He became a collector of Inland Revenue in 1857, and retired in 1877. He died in Kensington on November 29, 1889, and was buried at Kensal Green. His poems appeared chiefly in The Nation and in other Dublin papers and magazines.

AFTER AUGHRIM

Do you remember, long ago,
Kathaleen?

When your lover whispered low,
'Shall I stay or shall I go,

Kathaleen?'

And you answered proudly, 'Go!
And join King James and strike a blow
For the Green !'

Mavrone, your hair is white as snow,
Kathaleen;

Your heart is sad and full of woe.
Do you repent you made him go,
Kathaleen?

And quick you answer proudly, 'No!
For better die with Sarsfield so

Than live a slave without a blow
For the Green !'

DENNY LANE

BORN in Cork in 1818, and died 1896 in that city, where he was a successful merchant and manufacturer. He is only known as a poet by two pieces, both of which appeared in The Nation in 1844 and 1845. The metrical structure of this poem, whether intentionally or otherwise, is curiously close to that of Gaelic verse.

THE LAMENT OF THE IRISH MAIDEN

ON Carrigdhoun the heath is brown,

The clouds are dark o'er Ardnalee,
And many a stream comes rushing down
To swell the angry Ownabwee.
The moaning blast is sweeping past
Through many a leafless tree,
And I'm alone-for he is gone-

My hawk is flown-Ochone machree!

The heath was brown on Carrigdhoun,
Bright shone the sun on Ardnalee,
The dark green trees bent, trembling, down
To kiss the slumbering Ownabwee.
That happy day, 'twas but last May—
'Tis like a dream to me-

When Donnell swore-aye, o'er and o'er-
We'd part no more-astor machree!

Soft April showers and bright May flowers
Will bring the summer back again,
But will they bring me back the hours

I spent with my brave Donnell then?
Tis but a chance, for he's gone to France,
To wear the fleur-de-lis,

But I'll follow you, my Donnell Dhu,
For still I'm true to you, machree!

MARY KELLY

BETTER known as 'Eva,' most of her poems having appeared during the early years of The Nation over that name. Born at Headfort, County Galway, about 1825, and now living in Australia, where her husband, Dr. Kevin Izod O'Doherty, is a successful physician. Her poems were published in a volume at San Francisco in 1877.

TIPPERARY

WERE you ever in sweet Tipperary, where the fields are so sunny

and green,

And the heath-brown Slieve-bloom and the Galtees look down

with so proud a mien?

'Tis there you would see more beauty than is on all Irish groundGod bless you, my sweet Tipperary, for where could your match be found?

They say that your hand is fearful, that darkness is in your eye :
But I'll not let them dare to talk so black and bitter a lie.
Oh no, macushla storin! bright, bright, and warm are you,
With hearts as bold as the men of old, to yourselves and your
country true.

And when there is gloom upon you, bid them think who has brought it there

Sure, a frown or a word of hatred was not made for your face so

fair;

You've a hand for the grasp of friendship-another to make them quake,

And they're welcome to whichsoever it pleases them most to take.

Shall our homes, like the huts of Connaught, be crumbled before our eyes?

Shall we fly, like a flock of wild geese, from all that we love and prize?

No! by those who were here before us, no churl shall our tyrant be;
Our land it is theirs by plunder, but, by Brigid, ourselves are free.

No! we do not forget the greatness did once to sweet Eire belong ;
No treason or craven spirit was ever our race among ;
And no frown or no word of hatred we give-but to pay them back;
In evil we only follow our enemies' darksome track.

Oh! come for a while among us, and give us the friendly hand, And you'll see that old Tipperary is a loving and gladsome land; From Upper to Lower Ormond, bright welcomes and smiles will spring

On the plains of Tipperary the stranger is like a king.