Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather-I wish no one any hurt;

The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane, the Mall, and Portnasun,

If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one.

I hope that man and womankind will do the same by

me;

For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the sea. My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and often fondly

turn

To think of Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne.

X

If ever I'm a money'd man, I mean, please God, to

cast

My golden anchor in the place where youthful years were pass'd;

Though heads that now are black and brown must meanwhile gather gray,

New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop

away

Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world

beside;

It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waters wide.

And if the Lord allows me, I surely will return

To my native Belashanny, and the winding banks of

Erne.

WINDLASS SONG

EAVE at the windlass !-Heave O, cheerly, men !

HEA

Heave all at once, with a will!

The tide's quickly making,
Our cordage is creaking,
The water has put on a frill,
Heave O!

Fare-you-well, sweethearts!-Heave O, cheerly, men !
Shore gambarado and sport!
The good ship all ready,

Each dog-vane is steady,

The wind blowing dead out of port,
Heave O!

Once in blue water-Heave O, cheerly, men!
Blow it from north or from south;

She'll stand to it tightly,

And curtsy politely,

And carry a bone in her mouth,
Heave O!

Short cruise or long cruise-Heave O, cheerly, men ! Jolly Jack Tar thinks it one,

No latitude dreads he

Of White, Black, or Red sea,
Great icebergs, or tropical sun,
Heave O!

One other turn, and Heave O, cheerly, men !
Heave, and good-bye to the shore !
Our money, how went it?
We shared it and spent it;

Next year we'll come back with some more,
Heave O!

HE

WINNING

ER blue eyes they beam and they twinkle,
Her lips have made smiling more fair;
On cheek and on brow there's no wrinkle,
But thousands of curls in her hair.

She's little,—you don't wish her taller;
Just half through the teens is her age;
And baby or lady to call her,

Were something to puzzle a sage!

Her walk is far better than dancing;
She speaks as another might sing;

And all by an innocent chancing,

Like lambkins and birds in the spring.

Unskill'd in the airs of the city,

She's perfect in natural grace;

She's gentle and truthful and witty,

And ne'er spends a thought on her face

Her face, with the fine glow that's in it,
As fresh as an apple-tree bloom;
And oh when she comes, in a minute,

Like sunbeams she brightens the room.

As taking in mind and in feature,
How many will sigh for her sake!
I wonder the sweet little creature.
What sort of a wife she would make.

R

WISHING

ING-TING!

I wish I were a Primrose

A bright yellow Primrose blowing in the
Spring!

The stooping boughs above me,
The wandering bee to love me,
The fern and moss to keep across,
And the Elm-tree for our king!

Nay—nay!

I wish I were an Elm-tree,

A great lofty Elm-tree, with green leaves gay! The wind would set them dancing,

The sun and moonshine glance in,

The Birds would house among the boughs,
And sweetly sing!

O-no! I wish I were a Robin,

A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go;

Through forest, field or garden,

And ask no leave or pardon,

Till winter comes with icy thumbs

To ruffle up our wing.

Well-tell! Where should I fly to,

Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell?

Before a day was over,

Home comes the rover,

For Mother's kiss-sweeter this

Than any other thing!

JOHN ANSTER
(1798-1867)

THE FAIRY CHILD

HE summer sun was sinking

TH

With a mild light, calm and mellow;
It shone on my little boy's bonnie cheeks,
And his loose locks of yellow.

The robin was singing sweetly,

And his song was sad and tender,

And my little boy's eyes, while he heard the song, Smiled with a sweet, soft splendor.

My little boy lay on my

bosom

While his soul the song was quaffing; The joy of his soul had tinged his cheek, And his heart and his eye were laughing.

I sate alone in my cottage,

The midnight needle plying;

I feared for my child, for the rush's light
In the socket now was dying;

Then came a hand to my lonely latch,
Like the wind at midnight moaning;

I knelt to pray, but rose again

For I heard my little boy groaning.