Not alone, not alone, will we labor and roam :

Where your memories linger we still have a home, And shall still tread, in fancy, the paths you have trod,

Until death leads us up to our dear ones and God.

C

THE POTATO-DIGGER'S SONG

OME, Connal, acushla, turn the clay,

And show the lumpers the light, gossoon!
For we must toil this autumn day,

With Heaven's help, till rise of the moon.
Our corn is stacked, our hay secure,

Thank God and nothing, my boy, remains,
But to pile the potatoes safe on the flure,
Before the coming November rains.

The peasant's mine is his harvest still;
So now, my lads, let's work with a will ;-
Work hand and foot,

Work spade and hand,

Work spade and hand

Through the crumbly mould;

The blessed fruit

That grows at the root
Is the real gold

Of Ireland.

Och! I wish that Maurice and Mary dear
Were singing beside us this soft day;
Of course they're far better off than here:

But whether they're happier who can say?
I've heard when it's morn with us, 'tis night
With them on the far Australian shore ;-
Well, Heaven be about them with visions bright,

And send them childer and money galore.
With us there's many a mouth to fill,
And so, my boy, let's work with a will;-
Work hand and foot,

Work spade and hand,

Work spade and hand

Through the brown dry mould;

The blessed fruit

That grows at the root

Is the real gold

Of Ireland.

Ah, then, Paddy O'Reardan, you thundering Turk,
Is it coorting you are in the blessed noon.
Come over here, Katty, and mind your work,

Or I'll see if your mother can't change your tune.
Well, youth will be youth, as you know, Mike,
Sixteen and twenty for each were meant;
But, Pat, in the name of the fairies, avick,
Defer your proposals till after Lent;

And as love in this country lives mostly still
On potatoes-dig, boy, dig with a will;-
Work hand and foot,

Work spade and hand,

Work spade and hand

Through the harvest mould;

The blessed fruit

That grows at the root
Is the real gold

Of Ireland.

Down the bridle road the neighbors ride,

Through the light ash shade, by the wheaten sheaves;

And the children sing on the mountainside

In the sweet blue smoke of the burning leaves. As the great sun sets in glory furled,

Faith, it's grand to think, as I watch his face, As he never sets on the English world,

He never, lad, sets on the Irish race.

In the West, in the South, new Irelands still
Grow up in his light. Come, work with a will;-
Work hand and foot,

Work spade and hand,

Work spade and hand

Through the native mould;

The blessed fruit

That grows at the root
Is the real gold

Of Ireland.

But look!-the round moon, yellow as corn,
Comes up from the sea in the deep blue calm;
It scarcely seems a day since morn ;—

Well, the heel of the evening to you, ma'am !
God bless the moon! for many a night,

As I restless lay on a troubled bed,
When rent was due, her quietest light

Has flattered with dreams my poor old head.
But see-the basket remains to fill:

Come, girls, be alive;-boys, dig with a will;-
Work hand and foot,

Work spade and hand,

Work spade and hand

Through the moonlit mould;

The blessed fruit

That grows at the root

Is the real gold

Of Ireland.

D

LIONEL JOHNSON
(1867-1902)

THE DARK ANGEL

ARK Angel, with thine aching lust To rid the world of penitence: Malicious Angel, who still dost My soul such subtile violence!

Because of thee, no thought, no thing,

Abides for me undesecrate :

Dark Angel, ever on the wing,

Who never reachest me too late!

When music sounds, then changest thou
Its silvery to a sultry fire;

Nor will thine envious heart allow
Delight untortured by desire.

Through thee, the gracious Muses turn
To Furies, O mine Enemy!
And all the things of beauty burn
With flames of evil ecstasy.

Because of thee, the land of dreams
Becomes a gathering-place of fears;

Until tormented slumber seems

One vehemence of useless tears.

When sunlight glows upon the flowers,
Or ripples down the dancing sea,
Thou with thy troop of passionate powers
Beleaguerest, bewilderest me.

Within the breath of autumn woods,
Within the winter silences,
Thy venomous spirit stirs and broods,
Ŏ Master of impieties!

The ardor of red flame is thine,

And thine the steely soul of ice;
Thou poisonest the fair design
Of Nature with unfair device.

Apples of ashes, golden bright;
Waters of bitterness, how sweet!
O banquet of a foul delight,

Prepared by thee, dark Paraclete !

Thou art the whisper in the gloom,

The hinting tone, the haunting laugh;
Thou art the adorner of my tomb,
The minstrel of mine epitaph.

I fight thee, in the Holy Name!

Yet what thou dost is what God saith. Tempter! should I escape thy flame,

Thou wilt have helped my soul from Death

The second Death, that never dies,
That cannot die, when time is dead;
Live Death, wherein the lost soul cries,
Eternally uncomforted.