'Death to ev'ry foe and traitor! Well they fought for poor Old Ireland, MAIRE MY GIRL Air- Mairgread ni Chealleadh' OVER the dim blue hills Strays a wild river, Over the dim blue hills Rests my heart ever. Jewels and pearl, Dwells she in beauty there, Maire my girl. Down upon Claris heath Shines the soft berry, Droops the red cherry. Softer the curl Straying adown thy cheeks, Maire my girl. 'Twas on an April eve That I first met her; Many an eve shall pass Pronounced, Maurya. Since my young heart has been She is too kind and fond Ever to grieve me, E'er to deceive me. Or Desmond's earl, Life would be dark, wanting Maire my girl. Over the dim blue hills Strays a wild river, Over the dim blue hills Rests my heart ever; Dearer and brighter than Jewels or pearl, Dwells she in beauty there, Maire my girl. ELLEN O'LEARY THE Fenian movement differed from that of 1848 in being singularly unproductive of poetry- a fact which is all the more remarkable because one of the leaders of the movement and editor of its journal, The Irish People, was a born lover of letters. This was Mr. John O'Leary, brother of Ellen O'Leary, from whose small volume-LAYS OF COUNTRY, HOME AND FRIENDS (1891)-two pieces are here given. Miss O'Leary was born in Tipperary, 1831, and from about her twentieth year was a contributor to various periodicals, including of course her brother's journal. She took an active part in the Fenian conspiracy after the arrest of Stephens, whose escape she materially assisted. Her brother was sentenced to twenty years' penal servitude in 1865, and returned to Ireland after five years of imprisonment and fourteen of exile. She then joined him in Dublin. She died in 1889, after a painful illness borne with her wonted gentleness and fortitude. Her poems have been described by the editor of her volume as 'simple fieldflowers which blossomed above the subterranean workings of a grim conspiracy.' To GOD AND IRELAND TRUE I SIT beside my darling's grave, And tho' my tears fall thick and fast, 'I love my God o'er all,' he said, Who pledged me her white hand: No tender nurse his hard bed smoothed Or softly raised his head; He fell asleep and woke in heaven Yet why should I my darling rue? Oh! 'tis a glorious memory; MY OLD HOME LADY LODGE A POOR old cottage tottering to its fall; A plot in front, bright green, amid decay, Where my wee pets, whene'er they came to tea, Laughed, danced, and played, and shouted in high glee ; A rusty paling and a broken gate Shut out the world and bounded my estate. Dusty and damp within, and rather bare ; What was the charm, the glamour that o'erspread But she is gone who made home for me there, JOHN FRANCIS O'DONNELL BORN in Limerick, 1837, J. F. O'Donnell plunged very early into journalism, writing for innumerable papers in Ireland, England, and the United States of America. He was one of the prominent contributors to Mr. O'Leary's Irish People, and was a warm sympathiser with the Fenian movement. In 1873 he obtained an appointment in the office of the Agent-General for New Zealand, but died in the following year, aged thirty-seven. His POEMS were published by the Southwark Irish Literary Club, with an introduction by Richard Dowling, in 1891. He wrote apparently with great energy and at lightning speed, throwing his idea into the first words that came. The general level of his work is therefore not so high as one might expect from the following song, in which the impetuosity and spirit of the impromptu are happily united with a beautiful technique. A SPINNING SONG My love to fight the Saxon goes, And bravely shines his sword of steel; A heron's feather decks his brows, His steed is blacker than the sloe, And shout for joy of war. Tinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle; let the white wool drift and dwindle. Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love's coat of steel. Hark! the timid, turning treadle crooning soft, old-fashioned ditties To the low, slow murmur of the brown round wheel. My love is pledged to Ireland's fight; My love would die for Ireland's weal, To win her back her ancient right, |