THE LAMENT OF THE IRISH MAIDEN ON Carrigdhoun the heath is brown, The clouds are dark o'er Ardnalee, My hawk is flown-Ochone machree! The heath was brown on Carrigdhoun, When Donnell swore-aye, o'er and o'er- Soft April showers and bright May flowers I spent with my brave Donnell then? But I'll follow you, my Donnell Dhu, 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 ground— God 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; No we do not forget the greatness did once to sweet Eire belong ; Oh! come for a while among us, and give us the friendly hand, On the plains of Tipperary the stranger is like a king. JOHN KEEGAN 1849. He and other BORN in Queen's County about 1809, and died in was a frequent contributor to The Nation periodicals. He was of peasant origin, and was educated at one of those hedge-schools which have done more than is commonly recognised for the cultivation of Irish intellect. His poems are usually more distinguished for the simplicity and pathetic grace of the 'Dark Girl' than for the rough enegy which marks this Harvest Hymn.' THE IRISH REAPER'S HARVEST HYMN ALL hail Holy Mary, our hope and our joy! Be with me, O Mary! From the home of my fathers in anguish I go, My sweet, holy Mary! The bodach, he never dare call me a knave. From my mother's mud sheeling an outcast I fly, And hear me, sweet Mary! For union and peace to Old Ireland I pray. The land that I fly from is fertile and fair, And more than I ask or I wish for is there, But I must not taste the good things that I see- O sweet Mother Mary! Who keeps my rough hand from red murder but thee? But, sure, in the end our dear freedom we'll gain, Our own blessed Mary! Light liberty's flame in the hut of the slave! THE DARK GIRL' BY THE HOLY WELL' I think it was in the midsummer of 1832 that I joined a party of the peasantry of my native village, who were en route to a pilgrimage' at St. John's Well, near the town of Kilkenny. The journey (about twenty-five Irish miles) was commenced early in the afternoon, and it was considerably after sunset when we reached our destination. My companions immediately set about the fulfilment of their vows, whilst I, who was but a mere boy, sat down on the green grass, tired and in ill-humour, after my long and painful tramp over a hundred stony hills and a thousand rugged fields, under the burning sun of a midsummer afternoon. I was utterly unable to perform any act of devotion, nor, I must confess, was I very much disposed to do so, even were I able; so I seated myself quietly amid the groups of beggars, cripples, 'dark people,' and the other various classes of pilgrims who thronged around the sacred fountain. Among the crowd I had marked two pilgrims, who, from the moment I saw them, arrested my particular attention. One of these was an aged female, decently clad the other was a very fine young girl, dressed in a gown, shawl and bonnet of faded black satin. The girl was of a tall and noble figure strikingly beautiful, but stone blind. I learned that they were natives of the county of Wexford; that the girl had lost her sight in brain fever, in her childhood; that all human means had been tried for her cure, but in vain; and that now, as a last resource, they had travelled all the way to pray at the shrine of St. John, and bathe her sightless orbs in the healing waters of his well. It is believed that when Heaven wills the performance of cures, the sky opens above the well, at the hour of midnight, and Christ, the Virgin Mother, and St. John descend in the form of three snow-whites, and descend with the Taken literally from a conversation with a young peasant on his way to reap the harvest in England. rapidity of lightning into the depths of the fountain. No person but those destined to be cured can see this miraculous phenomenon, but everybody can hear the musical sound of their wings as they rush into the well and agitate the waters! I cannot describe how sad I felt myself, too, at the poor girl's anguish, for I had almost arrived at the hope that, though another 'miracle' was never wrought at St. John's Well, Heaven would relent on this occasion, and restore that sweet Wexford girl to her long-lost sight. She returned, however, as she came a Dark Girl '-and I heard afterwards that she took ill and died before she reached home.-Author's note. 'MOTHER! is that the passing bell? Or, yet, the midnight chime? 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! 'I'm dumb! my heart forgets to throb ; I hear but tone of warning bell, For holy priest or nun; On earth, God's face I'll never see! 'Mother! my hopes are gone again; God's glory in the crimson clouds - That perfumed breeze- or do you see The Virgin, or St. John? 'Ah, no! ah, no! Well, God of Peace, Oh, make me patient with my doom |