THE BELLS OF SHANDON WITH deep affection and recollection I often think of the Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, in days of childhood, Fling round my cradle their magic spells. On this I ponder, where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee ; That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. I have heard bells chiming full many a clime in, While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate, Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. I have heard bells tolling 'old Adrian's mole' in, Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. There's a bell in Moscow, while on tower and Kiosko In St. Sophia the Turkman gets, And loud in air calls men to prayer From the tapering summit of tall minarets. Such empty phantom I freely grant 'em, But there's an anthem more dear to me: 'Tis the bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. JOHN FRANCIS WALLER BORN in Limerick in 1809, and graduated LL.D. at Trinity College, Dublin, in 1852. He was called to the Irish Bar, but mainly occupied himself with literature. He wrote much verse and prose for The Dublin University Magazine, which he edited for a time, and received an official appointment in Dublin in 1867. He has written many poems, including some excellent lyrics, and is also the author and editor of other works. His poems are to be found in five different volumes-RAVENSCROFT HILL, 1852; THE DEAD BRIDAL, 1854; POEMS, 1854 ; OCCASIONAL ODES, 1864; PETER BROWN, 1872. THE SPINNING-WHEEL MELLOW the moonlight to shine is beginning, "Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping.' Eily, I surely hear somebody sighing.' "Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying.' Merrily, cheerily, noiselessly whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the wheel, while the foot's stirring; Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. 'What's that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder?' "Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under.' 'What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on, And singing, all wrong, that old song of "The Coolun "?' There's a form at the casement- the form of her true loveAnd he whispers, with face bent, 'I'm waiting for you, love; Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly, We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining brightly Merrily, cheerily, noiselessly whirring, &c. The maid shakes her head, on her lips lays her fingers, Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound; The maid steps-then leaps to the arms of her lover. Ere the reel and the wheel stopped their ringing and moving, Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving. KITTY NEIL AH, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel, Half the parish is there, and the dance is beginning. Shines sweetly and cool in the dew-whitened valley ; While all the air rings with the soft loving things Each little bird sings in the green-shaded alley. With a blush and a smile Kitty rose up the while, Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing ; 'Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues So she couldn't but choose to go off to the dancing. And now on the green the glad couples are seen, Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing; And Pat without fail leads out sweet Kitty NeilSomehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought of refusing. Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee, And with flourish so free sets each couple in motion; With a cheer and a bound the boys patter the ground, The maids move around just like swans on the ocean, Cheeks bright as the rose, feet light as the doe's, Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing ; Search the world all around, from the sky to the ground, Sweet Kate, who could view your bright eyes of deep blue, Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb wildly? Subdued by the smart of such painful, yet sweet love; WILLIAM CARLETON THE great Irish novelist was born at Prillisk, County Tyrone, in 1794; the son of a small farmer. He was educated chiefly by one Patrick Frayne, whose unfading portrait as Mat Kavanagh was afterwards drawn in 'The Hedge School.' He was at first, like many of the clever sons of Irish peasant families, intended for the priesthood. The experiences of his schooldays, the story how he became a Ribbonman, the Orange and Catholic disturbances, the merry-makings of the people, Carleton's fights, loves, early marriage, and adventures in search of education and livelihood, are told in his own inimitable manner in the AUTOBIOGRAPHY, lately edited by Mr. D. J. O'Donoghue. Having become a Protestant, he made his debut in literature as a contributor of stories of Irish peasant life to The Christian Examiner, lately started by Cæsar Otway. He contributed a few poems to the same magazine. Sir Turlough' appeared in 1839 in The National Magazine, edited by Charles Lever. After a life in which there was much of gaiety, much of gloom, and in spite of his literary success much struggle with penury, he died, famous and beloved, in 1869. Since 1848 he had been in receipt of a Civil List penson of 2007. a year. SIR TURLOUGH; OR, THE CHURCHYARD BRIDE' In the churchyard of Erigle Truagh, in the barony of Truagh, County Monaghan, there is said to be a Spirit which appears to persons whose families are there interred. Its appearance, which is generally made in the following manner, is uniformly fatal, being an omen of death to those who are so unhappy as to meet with it. When a funeral takes place, it watches the person who remains last in the graveyard, over whom it possesses a fascinating influence. If the loiterer be a young man, it takes the shape of a beautiful female, inspires him with a charmed passion, and exacts a promise to meet in the churchyard on a month from that day; this promise is sealed by a kiss, which communicates a deadly taint to the individual who receives it. It then disappears, and no sooner does the young man quit the churchyard than he remembers the history of the spectre - which is well known in the parish-sinks into despair, dies, and is buried in the place of appointment on the day when the promise was to have been fulfilled. If, on the contrary, it appears to a female, it assumes the form of a young man of exceeding elegance and beauty. Some years ago I was shown the grave of a young person, about eighteen years of age, who was said to have fallen a victim to it; and it is not more than ten months since a man in the same parish declared that he gave the promise and the fatal kiss, and consequently looked upon himself as lost. He took a fever, died, and was buried on the day appointed for the meeting, which was exactly a month from that of the interview. There are several cases of the same kind mentioned, but the two now alluded to are the only ones that came within my personal knowledge. It appears, however, that the spectre does not confine its operations to the churchyard, as there have been instances mentioned of its appearance at weddings and dances, where it never failed to secure its victims by dancing them into pleuritic fevers. I am unable to say whether this is a strictly local superstition, or whether it is considered peculiar to other churchyards in Ireland or elsewhere. In its female shape it somewhat resembles the Elle maids of Scandinavia; but I am acquainted with no account of fairies or apparitions in which the sex is said to be changed, except in that of the Devil himself. The country people say it is Death.-Author's note. 4 The bride she bound her golden hair Killeevy, O Killeevy! And her step was light as the breezy air When it bends the morning flowers so fair, The "Sir Turlough" of Carleton is perhaps the most successful legendary ballad of modern times.'-Mr. Theodore Martin, in The Dublin University Magazine, 1839. |