Down rushed the swarthy blacksmith unto the river

side,

He hammered on the foes' pontoon, to sink it in the

tide;

The timber it was tough and strong, it took no crack or strain

"Mavrone, 'twon't break," the blacksmith roared; "I'll try their heads again!"

*

*

*

The blacksmith sought his smithy, and blew his bellows

strong;

He shod the steed of Sarsfield, but o'er it sang no

song:

"Ochon! my boys are dead," he cried; "their loss I'll long deplore,

But comfort's in my heart-their graves are red with foreign gore!"

THE WIND THAT SHAKES THE BARLEY

I

sat within the valley green,

I sat me with my true love;

My sad heart strove the two between,
The old love and the new love;

The old for her, the new that made
Me think on Ireland dearly,

While soft the wind blew down the glade,
And shook the golden barley.

'Twas hard the woeful words to frame
To break the ties that bound us;

But harder still to bear the shame
Of foreign chains around us.
And so I said, "The mountain glen
I'll seek at morning early,

And join the brave United Men,"
While soft winds shook the barley.

While sad I kissed away her tears,
My fond arms around her flinging,
The foeman's shot burst on our ears,
From out the wildwood ringing;
The bullet pierced my true love's side,
In life's young spring so early,
And on my breast in blood she died,
When soft winds shook the barley.

But blood for blood without remorse
I've ta'en at Oulart Hollow;
I've placed my true love's clay-cold corse
Where I full soon will follow;
And round her grave I wander drear,
Noon, night, and morning early,
With breaking heart where'er I hear
The wind that shakes the barley!

A

ROSE KAVANAGH

(1860-1891)

LOUGH BRAY

LITTLE lonely moorland lake,

Its waters brown and cool and deep — The cliff, the hills behind it make

A picture for my heart to keep.

For rock and heather, wave and strand,
Wore tints I never saw them wear;
The June sunshine was o'er the land,
Before, 'twas never half so fair!

The amber ripples sang all day,

And singing spilled their crowns of white Upon the beach, in thin pale spray

That streaked the sober sand with light.

The amber ripples sang their song,

When suddenly from far o'erhead

A lark's pure voice mixed with the throng
Of lovely things about us spread.

Some flowers were there, so near the brink
Their shadows in the wave were thrown;

While mosses, green and gray and pink,

Grew thickly round each smooth dark stone.

And over all, the summer sky,

Shut out the town we left behind;

'Twas joy to stand in silence by,

One bright chain linking mind to mind.

Oh, little lonely mountain spot!

Your place within my heart will be

Apart from all Life's busy lot

A true, sweet, solemn memory.

ST. MICHAN'S CHURCHYARD

NSIDE the city's throbbing heart
One spot I know set well apart

From life's hard highway, life's loud mart.

Each Dublin lane and street and square
Around might echo; but in there

The sound stole soft as whispered prayer.

A little, lonely, green graveyard,
The old churchyard its solemn guard,

The gate with naught but sunbeams barred;

While other sunbeams went and came
Above the stone which waits the name
His land must write with Freedom's flame.1

The slender elm above that stone,

Its summer wreath of leaves had thrown
Around the heart so quiet grown.

1

Referring to the grave of Robert Emmet.

A robin the bare boughs among,
Let loose his little soul in song
Quick liquid gushes fresh and strong!

And quiet heart, and bird and tree,
Seemed linked in some strange sympathy
Too fine for mortal eye to see —

But full of balm and soothing sweet,
For those who sought that calm retreat;
For aching breast and weary feet.

Each crowded street and thoroughfare
Was echoing round it-yet in there
The peace of Heaven was everywhere!

THE NORTHERN BLACKWATER

THE broom banks of the river are fair,
Now the wild brier is blossoming there-
Now when the green banks so calmly repose,
Lulled by the river's strange chant as it goes,
Laughing beneath the gold eyes of the broom,
Flashing so free where the heather's in bloom,
Blushing all o'er at the kiss of the sun,
Tranquil again at the gaze of a nun.
Is it, my river, a sob or a song

Beats from that heart as you hurry along?
Once in the twilight I thought it farewell,
Just a good-bye to both mountain and dell.