All day long, in unrest,

To and fro, do I move;

The very soul within my breast
Is wasted for you, love!
The heart in my bosom faints

To think of you, my Queen,

My life of life, my saint of saints,
My Dark Rosaleen !

My own Rosaleen !

To hear your sweet and sad complaints,
My life, my love, my saint of saints,
My Dark Rosaleen!

Woe and pain, pain and woe,

Are my lot, night and noon,
To see your bright face clouded so,
Like to the mournful moon.

But yet will I rear your throne
Again in golden sheen;

"T is you shall reign, shall reign alone, My Dark Rosaleen !

My own Rosaleen!

'Tis you shall have the golden throne, "T is you shall reign and reign alone, My Dark Rosaleen!

Over dews, over sands,

Will I fly for your weal;
Your holy delicate white hands
Shall girdle me with steel.

At home in your emerald bowers,
From morning's dawn till e'en

You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers,

My Dark Rosaleen !

My fond Rosaleen!

You'll think of me through Daylight's hours,
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,
My Dark Rosaleen !

I could scale the blue air,

I could plough the high hills,
Oh! I could kneel all night in prayer,
To heal your many ills!
And one beamy smile from you

Would float like light between

My toils and me, my own, my true,
My Dark Rosaleen !

My fond Rosaleen!

Would give me life and soul anew,
A second life, a soul anew,
My Dark Rosaleen!

Oh! the Erne shall run red

With redundance of blood,

The earth shall rock beneath our tread,

And flames wrap hill and wood;

And gun-peal and slogan-cry

Wake many a glen serene,

Ere

you shall fade, ere you shall die,
My Dark Rosaleen !

My own Rosaleen!

The Judgment Hour must first be nigh,
Ere you can fade, ere you can die,

My Dark Rosaleen!

KEEN ON MAURICE FITZGERALD, KNIGHT OF

KERRY.

PEIRSE FERRITER. TRANS. BY T. CROFTON CROKER.

The following keen on the death of Maurice Fitzgerald, Knight of Kerry, who was killed in Flanders about the year 1672, contains an allusion to the superstition of the Banshee, common in Irish legend. The Banshees were aged women, who wailed by night when the heir of a noble family was about to die.

I HAD heard lamentations
And sad warning cries
From the Banshees of many
Broad districts arise.
I besought thee, O Christ,
To protect me from pain;
I prayed, but my prayers
They were offered in vain.

Acria from her closely
Hid nest did awake
The women of wailing
At Sur's rosy lake.
From Glen Fogra of woods
Came a mournful whine,

And all Kerry's hags

Wept the lost Geraldine.

The Banshees of Youghall

And stately Mogeely
Were joined in their grief
By wide Imokilly.

From steep Slieve Finnalenn
The wild eagle replied.
'Mong the Reeks, like the

Thunder-peal's echoing shout,
It bursts, and deep bellows
Bright Brandon gives out.

Such warring, I thought,
Could be only for him;

The blood shower that made

The gay harvest field dim,
The fiery tailed star

That a comet men call,
Were omens of his

As of great Cæsar's fall.

The localities mentioned are lakes, mountains, and glens in the South of Ireland, in the counties of Cork, Limerick, and Kerry.

A FAREWELL TO PATRICK SARSFIELD.

ANON. TRANS. BY J. C. MANGAN.

FAREWELL, O Patrick Sarsfield! May luck be on your path! Your camp is broken up, your work is marred for years; But you go to kindle into flame the king of France's wrath, Though you leave sick Eire in tears.

Och! ochone!

May the white sun and moon rain glory on your head,
All hero as you are, and holy man of God!

To you the Saxons owe a many an hour of dread,
In the land you have often trod,

Och! ochone!