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 and stars
Where Slaney's ripples flow;
Oh could I see the sweet sun shine
My native hills upon,

I'd never love my God the less,
Nor Mary, nor St. John!

'But no, ah no! it cannot be !

Yet, mother! do not mourn—

Come, kneel again, and pray to God,
In peace, let us return;

The Dark Girl's doom must aye be mine-
But Heaven will light me on,

Until I find my way to God,

And Mary, and St. John!'

MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY

MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY was born in Cork about 1817, and wrote much verse for The Nation up to the time of the '48 insurrection. He treated the result of that attempt as final, and ceased his connection with the National movement. He became a police magistrate in Dublin, but after a time relinquished the appointment and went to live on the Continent. He died in 1889. His poems are spirited and energetic, but do not show signs of the brilliant wit which, as

Sir Charles G. Duffy tells us, used to delight his colleagues in The Nation office. While he was a police magistrate, a constable giving evidence before him against an Irish-American suspected of seditious designs swore that the prisoner wore 'a Republican hat.' 'A Republican hat!' exclaimed the counsel for the prisoner; 'does your worship know what that means?' 'I presume,' said his worship, 'a Republican hat means a hat without a crown.'

Wrote The Kishoge Papers' for The Dublin University Magazine. Published in 1854 A WATERLOO COMMEMORATION FOR 1854; LAYS OF THE WAR, 1856; HEINRICH AND LENORE, 1886. Edited SONGS OF IRELAND, 1845.

What shelters Right?
The sword!

What makes it might?

The sword!

What strikes the crown

Of tyrants down,

And answers with its flash their frown?
The sword!

CHORUS

Then cease thy proud task never, &c.

Still be thou true,

Good sword!

We'll die or do,

Good sword!

Leap forth to light

If tyrants smite,

And trust our arms to wield thee right,

Good sword!

CHORUS

Yes cease thy proud task never
While rests a link to sever!

Guard of the free,

We'll cherish thee,

And keep thee bright for ever!

MICHAEL TORMEY

THE REV. MICHAEL TORMEY was born in Westmeath 1820, and died in 1893. He edited The Tablet at one time, and was keenly interested in the Tenant League movement which succeeded the Famine, and was partly evoked by it. He was not distinguished as a poet, but 'The Ancient Race' has in it a surge of heartfelt anguish and wrath which renders not unfitly the master passion of the Irish peasant.

THE ANCIENT RACE

This poem was written at the era of the Irish Tenant League (1850-56), when the principles of the land struggle were first formulated.

WHAT shall become of the ancient race,

The noble Keltic island race?

Like cloud on cloud o'er the azure sky,

When winter storms are loud and high,
Their dark ships shadow the ocean's face--
What shall become of the Keltic race?

What shall befall the ancient race

The poor, unfriended, faithful race?

Where ploughman's song made the hamlet ring,
The hawk and the owlet flap their wing;
The village homes, oh, who can trace-
God of our persecuted race!

What shall befall the ancient race?
Is treason's stigma on their face?
Be they cowards or traitors? Go-
Ask the shade of England's foe ;
See the gems her crown that grace ;
They tell a tale of the ancient race.

They tell a tale of the ancient race-
Of matchless deeds in danger's face;
They speak of Britain's glory fed

With blood of Kelts, right bravely shed ;
Of India's spoil and Frank's disgrace—
Such tale they tell of the ancient race.

Then why cast out the ancient race?
Grim want dwelt with the ancient race,
And hell-born laws, with prison jaws ;
And greedy lords, with tiger maws,
Have swallowed-swallow still apace-
The limbs and blood of the ancient race.

Will no one shield the ancient race?

They fly their fathers' burial place;

M

The proud lords with the heavy purse,
Their fathers' shame-their people's curse-
Demons in heart, nobles in face-

They dig a grave for the ancient race!

What shall befall the ancient race?
Shall all forsake their dear birthplace,
Without one struggle strong to keep
The old soil where their fathers sleep?
The dearest land on earth's wide space-
Why leave it so, O ancient race?

What shall befall the ancient race?
Light up one hope for the ancient race;
Oh, priest of God—Soggarth Aroon !
Lead but the way, we'll go full soon ;
Is there a danger we will not face,
To keep old homes for the Irish race?

They shall not go, the ancient race-
They must not go, the ancient race!
Come, gallant Kelts, and take your stand-
And form a league to save the land;
The land of faith, the land of grace,
The land of Erin's ancient race!

They must not go, the ancient race!
They shall not go, the ancient race!
The cry swells loud from shore to shore,

From emerald vale to mountain hoar,

From altar high to market-place

'THEY SHALL NOT GO, the ancient race!'

THOMAS D'ARCY MCGEE

Of all the rhetorical qualities of poetry-rhythm and phrase and picturesque diction-McGee possessed a greater measure than any other of The Nation poets. But he wrote with a