They sent a message each to each :
'Oh, meet me near or far;'

And the ford divided the kingdoms two,
And the kings were both at war.

And the Prince came first to the water's pass,

And oh, he thought no ill :

When he saw with pain a great grey man
Come striding o'er the hill.

His cloak was the ragged thunder-cloud,
And his cap the whirling snow,

And his eyes were the lightning in the storm,
And his horn he 'gan to blow.

'What news, what news, thou great grey man?

I fear 'tis ill with me.'

'Oh, Aillinn is dead, and her lips are cold,

And she died for loving thee.'

And he looked and saw no more the man,
But a trail of driving rain.

'Woe! woe!' he cried, and took his sword
And drave his heart in twain.

And out of his blood burst forth a spring,
And a yew-tree out of his breast;
And it grew so deep, and it grew so high,
The doves came there to rest.

But Aillinn was coming to keep her tryst,
The hour her lover fell;

And she rode as fast as the western wind
Across the heathery hill.

Behind her flew her loosened hair,

Her happy heart did beat ;

When she was 'ware of a cloud of storm
Came driving down the street.

And out of it stepped a great grey man,
And his cap was peaked with snow;
The fire of death was in his eyes,

And he 'gan his horn to blow.

'What news, what news, thou great grey man?

And is it ill to me?'

'Oh, Baile the Prince is dead at the ford,

And he died for loving thee.'

Pale, pale she grew, and two large tears
Dropped down like heavy rain,
And she fell to earth with a woeful cry,
For she broke her heart in twain.

And out of her tears two fountains rose
That watered all the ground,

And out of her heart an apple-tree grew

That heard the water's sound.

Oh, woe were the kings, and woe were the queens,

And woe were the people all;

And the poets sang their love and their death
In cottage and in hall.

And the men of Ulster a tablet made
From the wood of Bailè's tree,

And the men of Leinster did the like
Of Aillinn's apple-tree.

And on the one the poets wrote
The lover-tales of Leinster,
And on the other all the deeds

That lovers wrought in Ulster.

Now when a hundred years had gone
The King of all the land

Kept feast at Tara, and he bade

His poets sing a strand.

They sang the sweet unhappy tale,
The noble Aillinn's lay.

'Go, bring the tablets,' cried the King
'For I have wept to-day.'

But when he held in his right hand

The wood of Baile's tree

And in his left the tablet smooth
From Aillinn's apple-tree,

The lovers in the wood who kept
Love-longing ever true,

Knew one another, and at once
From the hands of the king they flew.

As ivy to the oak they clung,

Their kiss no man could sever

Oh, joy for lovers parted long

To meet, at last, for ever!

THE EARTH AND MAN

A LITTLE sun, a little rain,

A soft wind blowing from the west, And woods and fields are sweet again, And warmth within the mountain's breast.

So simple is the earth we tread,

So quick with love and life her frame, Ten thousand years have dawned and fled, And still her magic is the same.

A little love, a little trust,

A soft impulse, a sudden dream,

And life as dry as desert dust

Is fresher than a mountain stream.

So simple is the heart of man,

So ready for new hope and joy ; Ten thousand years since it began Have left it younger than a boy.

ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES

THERE is a story current, according to which Mr. A. P. Graves was once informed by a young gentleman whom he had casually met in a club-room that there was no one now living who could write really good and racy Irish songs—such songs, for instance, as "Father O'Flynn." Another would-be critic-a lady this time, doubtless otherwise well informed-was until corrected under the impression that Mr. Graves lived in the time of Queen Elizabeth. Nothing, I think, could afford more convincing testimony than do these anecdotes (for the authenticity of which the present writer can vouch) to the extent to which certain of Alfred Perceval Graves's songs and lyrics have passed into the general literary treasury of the Irish people and have been accepted as accurate embodiments of the national character in music and song.

Of these ballads and lyrics, mainly written for music and constituting no doubt the most popular and the most widely known portion of his literary work, I shall necessarily have something to say presently. But I wish to observe at the outset that to those who have studied Mr. Graves's work in its entirety, it is an inadequate estimate of his literary position which represents him as the successor of Samuel Lover, and which, having compared one or two of his songs with some of Lover's or with Charles Lever's 'Widow Malone,' dismisses him without further notice. Not only has he a distinctly individual note of his own, but there is in his work ample evidence of wider scope and greater variety. He may not have surpassed-perhaps he has not surpassed-his predecessors in the line which Lover made so peculiarly his own, and in which others have occasionally attained high excellence; it is high enough praise, in this respect, to place him at their side. But he has also given us work which they could not have done-or, at least, which they did not do—and exercised an influence to which they did not aspire.

Let us remember, in developing this proposition, that this is an age in which the cultivation of literature in dialect has attained, throughout all Europe, dimensions hitherto unknown. No one who has not had occasion to look into the matter has any idea of the number of dialects in Germany and in Italy alone which have been raised during the past half-century from the despised position of vulgar patois to something like the dignity of written literature. In Provence-to change the field of observation-we should be able to find the most notable instance of this re-integration, were it not doubtful whether Provençal had ever forfeited its rank as a separate language, and whether therefore the parallel to be drawn should not be between the Provençal and the Gaelic movements. But innumerable other cases may be pointed out in which the dialect is in reality an ancient though a neglected branch a poor cousin, so to speak-of the classical literary tongue, differing from the latter partly because it has preserved old forms and peculiarities which the language of the Court and the bookmen has suffered to fall into oblivion, partly because it has been influenced by the grammar, the idioms, and the vocabulary of another and often a more ancient language, with which it has come locally in contact This is precisely the position of the Anglo-Irish dialect, which, as spoken and written to-day, shows clear traces not only of the English of Elizabethan and even earlier days, but also of the manner of thought, and consequently of construction and wording, resultant upon the familiarity of the speaker or of his ancestors with the ancient Celtic tongue.

The study of such a dialect is at once a matter of scientific importance, and one of great and often loving interest to the native of the land where it is spoken; and the better an Irishman speaks English, the more he is enabled to appreciate the resources and the raciness of what may be called (apart from Gaelic, which is a separate tongue) his native dialect. Certainly, the reproduction of Anglo-Irish in books written. mainly in English began long ago, both in prose and in songs such as Lover's; but however accurate the representation of the