REV. W. H. DRUMMOND

(1778-1865)

CUCHULLIN'S CHARIOT

The original, of which this is a considerably amplified version, is from an old Irish romance entitled, "The Breach of the Plain of Muirhevney."

Τ

HE car, light-moving, I behold,

Adorned with gems and studs of gold;
Ruled by the hand of skilful guide,

Swiftly and swiftly-see it glide!
Sharp-formed before, through dense array
Of foes to cut its onward way;
While o'er its firm-fixed seat behind
Swells the green awning in the wind.
It mates in speed the swallow's flight,
Or roebuck bounding fleet and light,
Or fairy breeze of viewless wing,
That in the joyous day of spring
Flies o'er the champaign's grassy bed,
And up the cairn-crowned mountain's head.

Comes thundering on, unmatched in speed,
The gallant gray, high-bounding steed;
His four firm hoofs, at every bound,
Scarce seem to touch the solid ground,
Outflashing from their flinty frame
Flash upon flash of ruddy flame.

The other steed, of equal pace,
Well shaped to conquer in the race;
Of slender limb, firm-knit, and strong,
His small, light head he lifts on high,
Impetuous as he scours along;

Red lightning glances from his eye;
Flung on his curving neck and chest
Toss his crisped manes like warrior's crest
Of the wild chafer's dark-brown hues,
The color that his flanks imbues.
The charioteer, of aspect fair,

In front high-seated rides;

He holds the polished reins with care,
And safe and swiftly guides,

With pliant will and practiced hand,
Obedient to his lord's command.
That splendid chief, whose visage glows
As brilliant as the crimson rose.
Around his brows, in twisted fold,
A purple satin band is rolled,

All sparkling bright with gems and gold :
And such his majesty and grace
As speak him born of royal race;
Worthy, by deeds of high renown,

To win and wear a monarch's crown.

The following is McPherson's description of Cuchullin's car: "The car, the car of war comes on, like the flame of death! the rapid car of Cuchullin, the noble son of Semo! It bends behind like a wave near a rock, like the sun-streaked mist of the heath. Its sides are embossed with stones, and sparkle like the sea round the boat of night. Of polished yew is its beam; its seat of the smoothest bone. The sides are replenished with spears; the bottom is the footstool of heroes."-Fingal, Book I.

LADY HELEN DUFFERIN

O

(1807-1867)

KATEY'S LETTER

CH, girls dear, did you ever hear, I wrote my love a letter ? And altho' he cannot read, I thought 'twas all the better. For why should he be puzzled With hard spelling in the matter, When the maning was so plain? That I loved him faithfully,

And he knows it-oh, he knows it Without one word from me.

I wrote it, and I folded it,
And put a seal upon it,

'Twas a seal almost as big

As the crown of my best bonnet ; For I would not have the postmaster Make his remarks upon it,

As I'd said inside the letter

That I loved him faithfully,

And he knows it—oh, he knows it – Without one word from me.

My heart was full, but when I wrote
I dare not put it half in;

The neighbors know I love him,

And they're mighty fond of chaffing,
So I dare not write his name outside,
For fear they would be laughing,
So I wrote "From little Kate to one
Whom she loves faithfully,'

And he knows it-oh, he knows it
Without one word from me.

Now, girls, would you believe it,
That postman, so consated,
No answer will he bring me,
So long as I have waited;
But maybe there mayn't be one,

For the reason that I stated

That my love can neither read nor write,

But loves me faithfully,

And I know where'er my love is,
That he is true to me.

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT

'M sittin' on the stile, Mary,

I'

Where we sat side by side,

On a bright May mornin', long ago,
When first you were my bride:

The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high -
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the lovelight in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary;
The day is bright as then ;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,

And the corn is green again;

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek,
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near
The church where we were wed, Mary;
I see the spire from here.

But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest -
For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep
With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends:
But, oh! they love the better still,
The few our Father sends !
And you were all I had, Mary-

My blessin' and my pride!

There's nothin' left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on

When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arm's young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip

And the kind look on your brow· I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now.