DANCE LIGHT, FOR MY HEART IT LIES UNDER YOUR FEET, LOVE.

JOHN FRANCIS WALLER.

Dr. John Francis Waller, a resident of Dublin, is the author of a considerable number of poems and essays, in which the Irishism is rather artificial, dwelling upon puns and conceits after the style of Lover; but this and "The Spinning-Wheel Song" are really successful, in spite of their evident artificiality. The air is the emphatic and joyous one of "Huish the Cat from under the Table," which the song fits very closely.

"AH, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel!

Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning; Come trip down with me to the sycamore-tree,

Half the parish is there and the dance is beginning. The sun has gone down, but the full harvest moon Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley; While all the air rings with the soft loving things,

Each little bird sings in the green shaded alley."

With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while,
Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing :
'Tis hard to refuse, when a young
lover sues,
So she could n't but choose to go off to the dancing.
And now on the green the glad groups are seen,

Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing;
And Pat without fail leads out sweet Kitty Neil, —
Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought of refusing.

Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee,

And with flourish so free sets each couple in motion; With a cheer and a bound the lads patter the ground,

The maids move around just like swans on the ocean.

Cheeks bright as the rose, feet light as the doe's,

Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing,

Search the world all around, from the sky to the ground,
No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing.

Sweet Kate! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue,
Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly, —
Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form, -
Nor feel his heart warm and his pulses throb wildly?
Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart,

Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love; The sight leaves his eye, as he cries, with a sigh, "Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love!"

THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG.

JOHN FRANCIS WALLER.

MELLOW the moonlight to shine is beginning;
Close by the window young Eileen is spinning;
Bent o'er the fire her blind grandmother, sitting,
Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting:
"Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping."

"T is the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping."
"Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing."

""Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying."

Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring; Sprightly and lightly and airily ringing,

Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

"What's that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder?" ""T is the little birds chirping the holly-bush under."

"What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on, And singing all wrong the old song of the Coolun?"

There's a form at the casement, - the form of her truelove, And he whispers with face bent, "I'm waiting for you, love : Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly;

We'll rove in the grove, while the moon's shining brightly." Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring; Sprightly and lightly and airily ringing,

Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden's singing.

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers,
Steals up from the seat, longs to go, and yet lingers;

A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother,
Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other,
Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round,

Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound;
Noiseless and light to the lattice above her

The maid steps, then leaps to the arms of her lover.
Slower and slower- and slower the wheel swings;
Lower and lower

and lower the reel rings;

Ere the reel and the wheel stopped their ringing and

moving,

Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are

roving.

THE IRISH WIDOW'S MESSAGE TO HER SON IN AMERICA.

ELLEN FORRESTER.

Mrs. Ellen Forrester, the authoress of this poem, which is effective from its extreme simplicity and naturalness, is a native of Monaghan, but has been for some time a resident of Manchester, England. She has published two volumes of poetry, "Simple Strains," and, in conjunction with her son, Arthur M. Forrester, "Songs of the Rising Nation."

"REMEMBER, Dennis, all I bade you say,

Tell him we're well and happy, thank the Lord!
But of our troubles since he went away,

You'll mind, avick, and never say a word,—
Of cares and troubles sure we've all our share,
The finest summer is n't always fair.

"Tell him the spotted heifer calved in May, -
She died, poor thing, but that you needn't mind, -
Nor how the constant rain destroyed the hay;

But tell him, God to us was always kind:
And when the fever spread the country o'er,
His mercy kept the sickness from the door.

"Be sure you tell him how the neighbors came,
And cut the corn, and stored it in the barn;
'T would be as well to mention them by name, -
Pat Murphy, Ned McCabe, and James McCarn,
And big Tim Daly from behind the hill,-
But say, agra! O, say I missed him still!

"They came with ready hands our toil to share, –

'Twas then I missed him most, my own right hand!

I felt, although kind hearts were round me there,
The kindest heart beat in a foreign land.
Strong arm! brave heart! O, severed far from me
By many a weary mile of shore and sea!

"You'll tell him she was with us, (he'll know who,)
Mavourneen! has n't she the winsome eyes?
The darkest, deepest, brightest, bonniest blue,
That ever shone except in summer skies;
And such black hair!- it is the blackest hair
That ever rippled o'er a neck so fair.

"Tell him old Pincher fretted many a day, ·
Ah, poor old fellow, he had like to die!
Crouched by the roadside, how he watched the way,
And sniffed the travellers as they passed him by.
Hail, rain, or sunshine, sure 't was all the same,
He listened for the foot that never came.

"Tell him the house is lonesome-like and cold, The fire itself seems robbed of half its light: But maybe 't is my eyes are growing old,

And things grow dim before my failing sight; For all that, tell him 't was myself that spun The shirts you bring, and stitched them every one.

"Give him my blessing: morning, noon, and night, Tell him my prayers are offered for his good, That he may keep his Maker still in sight,

And firmly stand as his brave fathers stood, True to his name, his country, and his God, Faithful at home, and steadfast still abroad."