'God save ye, colleen dhas,' I said: the girl she thought me wild! Far Corrymeela, an' the low south wind.

D'ye mind me now, the song at night is mortial hard to raise,
The girls are heavy goin' here, the boys are ill to plase ;
When ones't I'm out this workin' hive, 'tis I'll be back again—
Aye, Corrymeela, in the same soft rain.

The puff o' smoke from one ould roof before an English Town!
For a shaugh wid Andy Feelan here I'd give a silver crown,
For a curl o' hair like Mollie's ye'll ask the like in vain,
Sweet Corrymeeia, an' the same soft rain.

JOHNEEN

SURE, he's five months, an' he's two foot long,

Baby Johneen ;

Watch yerself now, for he's terrible sthrong,

Baby Johneen.

An' his fists 'ill he up if ye make any slips,

He has finger-ends like the daisy-tips,

But he'll have ye attend to the words of his lips,

Will Johneen.

There's nobody can rightly tell the colour of his eyes,
This Johneen;

For they're partly o' the earth an' still they're partly o' the skies,
Like Johneen.

So far as he's thravelled he's been laughin' all the way,

For the little soul is quare an' wise, the little heart is gay ;
An' he likes the merry daffodils-he thinks they'd do to play
With Johneen.

He'll sail a boat yet, if he only has his luck,

Young Johneen;

For he takes to the wather like any little duck,
Boy Johneen;

Sure, them are the hands now to pull on a rope,
An' nate feet for walkin the deck on a slope,
But the ship she must wait a wee while yet, I hope,
For Johneen.

For we couldn't do wantin' him, not just yet

Och, Johneen,

'Tis you that are the daisy, an' you that are the pet, Wee Johneen.

Here's to your health, an' we'll dhrink it to-night, Sláinte gal, avic machree! live an' do right! Sláinte gal avourneen! may your days be bright, Johneen!

LOOKIN' BACK

WATHERS O' Moyle an' the white gulls flyin',
Since I was near ye what have I seen?
Deep great seas, an' a sthrong wind sighin
Night and day where the waves are green.
Struth na Moile, the wind goes sighin'
Over a waste o' wathers green.

Sternish an' Trostan, dark wi' heather
High are the Rockies, airy-blue ;
Sure, ye have snows in the winter weather,
Here they're lyin' the long year through.
Snows are fair in the summer weather,

Och, an' the shadows between are blue!

Lone Glen Dun an' the wild glen-flowers,
Little ye know if the prairie is sweet.
Roses for miles, an' redder than ours,
Spring here undher the horses' feet-
Aye, an' the black-eyed gold sun-flowers,
Not as the glen-flowers small an' sweet.

Wathers o' Moyle, I hear ye callin'

Clearer for half o' the world between, Antrim hills an' the wet rain fallin'

Whiles ye are nearer than snow tops keen : Dreams o' the night an' a night wind callin', What is the half o' the world between?

DOUGLAS HYDE

DR. HYDE's best work as an Irish poet has been done either in the Gaelic language or in translations from modern Gaelic, in which he has rendered with wonderful accuracy the simplicity and tenderness of the peasant bards of the West, together with the beautiful metrical structure of their verses. He has devoted his life to the collection and publication of Gaelic songs and folk-tales, and to the organisation of a movement for the preservation of the ancient language. There is probably no contemporary name in Irish literature which is better known (on purely literary grounds) to the Irish people, and which has become more endeared to them than that of Douglas Hyde.

Douglas Hyde, LL.D., M.R.I.A., was born in County Sligo in 1860, and is a descendant of the Castle Hyde family of Cork. After a brilliant career in Trinity College, Dublin, he settled down to Gaelic studies. He has published collections of folk-tales (LEABHAR SGEULUIGHACHTA, 1889; COIS NA TEINEADH; OR, Beside the FIRE, 1890) and of poetry (LOVE-SONGS OF CONNACHT, 1893); and in 1899 produced a LITERARY HISTORY OF IRELAND which may be reckoned as the first attempt to write a comprehensive and connected history of Gaelic literature.

MY LOVE-OH! SHE IS MY LOVE

FROM THE IRISH

SHE casts a spell-oh! casts a spell,
Which haunts me more than I can tell,
Dearer, because she makes me ill,
Than who would will to make me well.

She is my store-oh! she my store,
Whose grey eye wounded me so sore,
Who will not place in mine her palm,
Who will not calm me any more.

She is my pet-oh! she my pet,
Whom I can never more forget,
Who would not lose by me one moan,
Nor stone upon my cairn set.

She is my roon -oh! she my roon,
Who tells me nothing, leaves me soon;
Who would not lose by me one sigh,

Were death and I within one room.

She is my dear-oh! she my dear,
Who cares not whether I be here,
Who would not weep when I am dead,
Who makes me shed the silent tear.

Hard my case--oh! hard my case.
How have I lived so long a space?
She does not trust me any more,
But I adore her silent face.

She is my choice--oh! she my choice,
Who never made me to rejoice,
Who caused my heart to ache so oft,
Who put no softness in her voice.

Great my grief-oh! great my grief,
Neglected, scorned beyond belief,
By her who looks at me askance,
By her who grants me no relief.

She's my desire-oh! my desire,
More glorious than the bright sun's fire;
Who were than wind-blown ice more cold,
Had I the boldness to sit by her

She it is who stole my heart,

But left a void and aching smart ;

And if she soften not her eye,
Then life and I shall shortly part.

Rúin: secret treasure, love.

RINGLETED YOUTH OF MY LOVE

FROM THE IRISH

RINGLETED youth of my love,

With thy locks bound loosely behind thee, You passed by the road above,

But you never came in to find me.
Where were the harm for you

If you came for a little to see me?
Your kiss is a wakening dew
Were I ever so ill or so dreamy.

If I had golden store

I would make a nice little boreen1

To lead straight up to his door

The door of the house of my storeen? Hoping to God not to miss

The sound of his footfall in it;

I have waited so long for his kiss

That for days I have slept not a minute.

I thought, O my love! you were so-
As the moon is, or sun on a fountain,
And I thought after that you were snow-
The cold snow on top of the mountain -
And I thought after that you were more
Like God's lamp shining to find me,
Or the bright star of knowledge before,
And the star of knowledge behind me.

You promised me high-heeled shoes,
And satin and silk, my storeen,

And to follow me, never to lose,

Though the ocean were round us roaring;

Like a bush in a gap in a wall

I am now left lonely without thee,

And this house I grow dead of, is all

That I see around or about me.