The sails shook idly overhead-
Becalmed we lay, becalmed we lay.

Sing, Thugamar féin an samhradh linn,
'Tis we have brought the summer in.
Till Shawn the eagle dropped on deck,
The bright-eyed boy, the bright-eyed boy;
'Tis he has spied your silver track,
Herring, our joy-herring, our joy.

Sing, Thugamar féin an samhradh l'n',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.
It was in with the sails and away to shore,
With the rise and swing, the rise and swing
Of two stout lads at each smoking oar,
After herring, our king-herring, our king.
Sing, Thugamar féin an samhradh linn,
'Tis we have brought the summer in.

The Manx and the Cornish raised the shout,
And joined the chase, and joined the chase,
But their fleets they fouled as they went about,
And we won the race, we won the race.

Sing, Thugamar féin an samhradh linn,
'Tis we have brought the summer in.

For we turned and faced you full to land,
Down the góleen long, the góleen1 long,
And after you slipped from strand to strand
Our nets so strong, our nets so strong.
Sing, Thugamar féin an samhradh linn,
'Tis we have brought the summer in.

Then we called to our sweethearts and our wives, 'Come, welcome us home-- welcome us home,'

Till they ran to meet us for their lives

Into the foam, into the foam.

Sing, Thugamar féin an samhradh linn,
'Tis we have brought the summer in.

' Creek.

Oh, the kissing of hands and waving of caps
From girl and boy, from girl and boy,
While you leapt by scores in the lasses' laps,
Herring, our joy-herring, our joy.

Sing, Thugamar féin an samhradh linn,
'Tis we have brought the summer in.

FRANCIS A. FAHY

BORN at Kinvara, County Galway, 1854, and entered the Civil Service in London (Board of Trade Department) 1873. Mr. Fahy has taken an active part in various Irish literary movements in London, especially in the formation of the Southwark Irish Literary Club and the Irish Literary Society which grew out of it. He wrote a play, The Last of thE O'LEARYS, at the age of sixteen, which was performed in his native town. He has contributed verses marked by much humour and grace to many Irish periodicals. His songs, of which a large number are well-known favourites in concert-rooms, have the merit of being eminently singable. His volume of IRISH SONGS AND POEMS appeared in 1887.

THE DONOVANS

IF you would like to see the height of hospitality,

The cream of kindly welcome, and the core of cordiality :
Joys of all the olden time--you're wishing to recall again?
Come down to Donovans, and there you'll meet them all again.

Céad mile fáilte they'll give you down at Donovans,

As cheery as the springtime and Irish as the cannawaun,'
The wish of my heart is, if ever I had any one-

That every luck that lightens life may light upon the Donovans.

As soon as e'er you lift the latch, the little ones are meeting you; Soon as you're beneath the thatch, oh! kindly looks are greeting

you;

Bog-cotton.

Scarcely are you ready to be holding out the fist to them,
When down by the fireside you're sitting in the midst of them.
Céad mile fáilte they'll give you down at Donovans, &c.

There sits the cailín deas1-oh! where on earth's the peer of her? The modest face, the gentle grace, the humour and the cheer of her

Eyes like the summer skies when twin stars beam above in them, Oh! proud will be the boy that's to light the lamp of love in them. Céad mile fáilte they'll give you down at Donovans, &c.

Then when you rise to go, it's 'Ah, then, now sit down again !' 'Isn't it the haste you're in?' and 'Won't you soon come round again?'

Your caubeen and your overcoat you'd better put astray from them, 'Twill take you all your time to try and tear yourself away from them, Céad mile fáilte they'll give you down at Donovans, &c.

IRISH MOLLY O

OH! fairer than the lily tall, and sweeter than the rose,

As modest as the violet in dewy dell that blows;

With heart as warm as summer noon, and pure as winter snow--
The pride of Erin's isle is she, dear Irish Molly O!

No linnet of the hazel grove than she more sweetly sang,
No sorrow could be resting where her guileless laughter rang,
No hall of light could half so bright as that poor cabin glow
Where shone the face of love and grace of Irish Molly O!

But fever's breath struck down in death her father strong and brave,

And who should now his little ones from want and sorrow save?
'Oh, never fear, my mother dear, across the seas I'll go,
And win for ye a new home there,' said Irish Molly O!

And far away 'mid strangers cold she toiled for many a year,
And no one heard the heart-wrung sigh or saw the silent tear,
But letters fond the seas beyond would kind and constant go,
With gold won dear, and words of cheer, from Irish Molly O!

1 Pretty girl.

And one by one she sent for all the loved ones o'er the foam,
And one by one she welcomed them to her fond heart and home,
And last and best her arms caressed the aged head of snow-
'Oh, mother, we'll be happy now!' said Irish Molly O!

Alas! long years of toil and tears had chilled her young heart's glow,

And grief and care had blanched her hair and stilled her pulse's flow,

And when the spring bade wild birds sing and buds in beauty blowThey made your grave where willows wave, poor Irish Molly O!

THE OULD PLAID SHAWL

NOT far from old Kinvara, in the merry month of May,
When birds were singing cheerily, there came across my way,
As if from out the sky above an angel chanced to fall,

A little Irish cailín in an ould plaid shawl.

She tripped along right joyously, a basket on her arm ;

And, oh her face, and, oh! her grace, the soul of saint would charm;

Her brown hair rippled o'er her brow, but greatest charm of all
Was her modest blue eyes beaming 'neath her ould plaid shawl.

I courteously saluted her- God save you, miss,' says I ;
'God save you, kindly sir,' said she, and shyly passed me by ;
Off went my heart along with her, a captive in her thrall,
Imprisoned in the corner of her ould plaid shawl.

Enchanted with her beauty rare, I gazed in pure delight,
Till round an angle of the road she vanished from my sight;
But ever since I sighing say, as I that scene recall,
'The grace of God about you and your ould plaid shawl.'

I've heard of highway robbers that, with pistols and with knives, Make trembling travellers yield them up their money or their

lives,

But think of me that handed out my heart and head and all
To a simple little cailín in an ould plaid shawl!

Oh! graceful the mantillas that the signorinas wear,
And tasteful are the bonnets of Parisian ladies fair,

But never cloak or hood or robe, in palace, bow'r, or hall,
Clad half such witching beauty as that ould plaid shawl.

Oh! some men sigh for riches, and some men live for fame,
And some on history's pages hope to win a glorious name;
My aims are not ambitious, and my wishes are but small—
You might wrap them all together in an ould plaid shawl.

I'll seek her all through Galway, and I'll seek her all through
Clare,

I'll search for tale or tidings of my traveller everywhere,
For peace of mind I'll never find until my own I call
That little Irish cailín in her ould plaid shawl.

MALACHY RYAN

A SCHOOLMASTER in County Carlow. He subsequently became librarian in the Record Office, Dublin. He published a volume of poems-ELSIE LEE, THE WHITETHORN TREE, AND OTHER POEMS-in 1872.

ROSE ADAIR

'TWAS in green-leafy springtime,
When the birds on every tree
Were breakin' all their little hearts
In a merry melody ;

An' the young buds hung like tassels
An' the flowers grew everywhere—
'Twas in green-leafy springtime

I met sweet Rose Adair.

O Rose Adair! O Rose Adair!

You are the radiant sun,

The blossomed trees, an' scented breeze,
An' song-birds all in one.

DD