'Death to ev'ry foe and traitor!
Forward! strike the marchin' tune,
And hurrah, my boys, for freedom!
'Tis the risin' of the moon.'

Well they fought for poor Old Ireland,
And full bitter was their fate;
(Oh! what glorious pride and sorrow
Fill the name of 'Ninety-Eight!)
Yet, thank God, e'en still are beating
Hearts in manhood's burning noon,
Who would follow in their footsteps
At the risin' of the moon!

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.
Dearer and brighter than

Jewels and pearl,

Dwells she in beauty there,

Maire my girl.

Down upon Claris heath

Shines the soft berry,
On the brown harvest tree

Droops the red cherry.
Sweeter thy honey lips,

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
Ere I forget her.

Pronounced, Maurya.

Since my young heart has been
Wrapped in a whirl,
Thinking and dreaming of
Maire my girl.

She is too kind and fond

Ever to grieve me,
She has too pure a heart

E'er to deceive me.
Were I Tyrconnell's chief

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,
Who in the prison died,

And tho' my tears fall thick and fast,
I think of him with pride:
Ay, softly fall my tears like dew,
For one to God and Ireland true.

'I love my God o'er all,' he said,
'And then I love my land,
And next I love my Lily sweet,

Who pledged me her white hand:
To each to all-I'm ever true;
To God-to Ireland-and to you.'

No tender nurse his hard bed smoothed

Or softly raised his head;

He fell asleep and woke in heaven
Ere I knew he was dead;

Yet why should I my darling rue?
He was to God and Ireland true.

Oh! 'tis a glorious memory;
I'm prouder than a queen
To sit beside my hero's grave,
And think on what has been :
And, oh, my darling, I am true
To God-to Ireland-and to you.

MY OLD HOME

LADY LODGE

A POOR old cottage tottering to its fall;
Some faded rose-trees scattered o'er the wall ;
Four wooden pillars all aslant one way ;

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 ;
Chokeful of books, here, there and everywhere;
Old-fashioned windows, and old doors that creaked,
Old ceilings cracked and grey, old walls that leaked ;
Old chairs and tables, and an ancient lady
Worked out in tapestry, all rather shady ;
Bright pictures, in gilt frames, the only colour,
Making the grimy wallpaper look duller.

What was the charm, the glamour that o'erspread
That dingy house and made it dear? The dead-
The dead-the gentle, loving, kind and sweet,
The truest, tenderest heart that ever beat.
While she was with me 'twas indeed a home,
Where every friend was welcome when they'd come.
Her soft eyes shone with gladness, and her grace
Refined and beautified the poor old place.

But she is gone who made home for me there,
Whose child-like laugh, whose light step on the stair
Filled me with joy and gladness, hope and cheer.
To heaven she soared, and left me lonely here.
The old house now has got a brand-new face;
The roses are uprooted; there's no trace
Of broken bough or blossom-no decay-
The past is dead-the world wags on alway.

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,
And a spur on either heel;

His steed is blacker than the sloe,
And fleeter than the falling star;
Amid the surging ranks he'll go

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,
And make her foemen reel.