"Forbid it, Heaven," the Hermit cried, And clapsed her to his breast;

The wondering fair one turned to chide,'Twas Edwin's self that pressed.

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,
My charmer, turn to see

Thy own, thy long lost Edwin here,
Restored to love and thee.

"Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And every care resign;

And shall we never, never part,

My life, my all that's mine?

No, never from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true;

The sigh that rends thy constant heart
Shall break thy Edwin's too."

L'

TONY LUMPKIN'S SONG

ET schoolmasters puzzle their brain
With grammar, and nonsense, and
learning;

Good liquor, I stoutly maintain,

Gives genus a better discerning.

Let them brag of their heathenish gods,

Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians;

Their Quis, and their Quæs, and their Quods,

They're all but a parcel of Pigeons.

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.

When Methodist preachers come down,
A-preaching that drinking is sinful,
I'll wager the rascals a crown,

They always preach best with a skinful.
But when you come down with your pence
For a slice of their scurvy religion,
I'll leave it to all men of sense,

But you, my good friend, are the pigeon.
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.

Then come, put the jorum about,
And let us be merry and clever,
Our hearts and our liquors are stout,

Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons forever.

Let some cry up woodcock or hare,

Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons;

But of all the birds in the air,

Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons.
Toroddle, Toroddle, toroll.

WOMAN

HEN lovely woman stoops to folly,

W And finds too late that men betray,

What charm can soothe her melancholy?

What art can wash her tears away?

The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from ev'ry eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom is-to die.

G

EVA GORE-BOOTH
(Living)

FROM EAST TO WEST

REAT ships glided into the port:

Surely the ships of the gods laden with dreams:
And men said, "It is well;

They have brought their dreams to us as of old,
And now new tales shall be told."

But the gods stood on the decks aghast ;

They saw the earth an iron port;

The air a silver citadel,

The sky a fortress built of solid gold.

Then Prani said, "Here is no place for our dreams."

So they flung the great sails over the mast,

And sailed out slowly across the seas,

Till they came to a twilight land in the west
Where old unquiet mysteries

And pale discrowned spirits dwell;

Where the wind sings a song with a golden lilt

And the air flows by in silver streams.

There, in wild wastes of the world they built

An ivory castle for their dreams.

THE LITTLE WAVES OF BREFFNY

HE Grand Road from the mountain goes shining to the sea,

THE

And there is traffic in it, and many a horse

and cart;

But the little roads of Cloonagh are deeper far to me, And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart.

A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o'er the hill,

And there's glory in it, and terror on the wind; But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still,

And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind.

The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way,

Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal;

But the Little Waves of Breffny have drowned my heart in spray,

And the Little Waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul.

TO MAEVE

OT for thee, O Maeve, is the song of the Wan

NOT dering Harper sung,

For men have put lies on thy lips, and treason and shrieking fear;

Because thou wert brave, they say thou wert bitter and false of tongue :

They mock at thy weakness now, who once fled from thy flaming spear.

Now thou art cold on the mountain, buried and silent

and blind,

Dumb as the hills and the stars, blind as the waves

of the sea.

A clatter of treacherous tongues goes sailing along the wind,

And many an evil thought is spoken in hatred of thee.

Was it Fergus whose envious breath first cast o'er thy shining name

A poison of venomous words in the midst of the mourning host,

Till thy glory shone before them a wicked and perilous flame,

And thy beauty seemed but a snare, thy valor an empty boast?

They have buried thy golden deeds under the cairn on the hill,

And no one shall sing of thy hero soul in the days

to come;

For the sky is blue with silence, and the stars are very

still,

The sea lies dreaming about thee; even the moun

tains are dumb.