My heart is breaking, Alanna, but I mustn't tell you so

For I see by your dark, dark sorrow, that your own poor heart is low.

I thought I'd bear it better, to cheer you on your way; But, Achorra! achorra! you're going, and I'll soon be in the clay!

God's blessing be with you, Shemus-sure, you'll come back again,

When your curls of brown are snowy, to rest with your mother then;

Down in the green old churchyard, where the tree's dark shadows fall

Asthorach in the strangers' land you couldn't sleep at all!

THE MOON BEHIND THE HILL

THE KILKENNY EXILE'S CHRISTMAS SONG

I

WATCHED last night the rising moon
Upon a foreign strand,

Till memories came, like flowers of June,
Of home and fatherland;

I dreamt I was a child once more

Beside the rippling rill,

Where first I saw in days of yore
The moon behind the hill.

It brought me back the visions grand
That purpled boyhood's dreams;
Its youthful loves, its happy land,
As bright as morning's beams.

It brought me back my own sweet Nore,
The castle and the mill,

Until my eyes could see no more
The moon behind the hill.

It brought me back a mother's love,
Until, in accents wild,

I prayed her from her home above
To guard her lonely child;

It brought me one across the wave,
To live in memory still

It brought me back my Kathleen's grave,
The moon behind the hill.

WILLIAM KENNEDY

(Living)

THE POET'S HEART

HOU know'st it not, love, when light looks are around thee,

ΤΗ

When music awakens its liveliest tone,

When pleasure in chains of enchantment hath bound

thee,

Thou know'st not how truly this heart is thine own. It is not while all are about thee in gladness,

While shining in light from thy young spirit's shrine,

But in moments devoted to silence and sadness,

That thou'lt e'er know the value of feelings like mine.

Should grief touch thy cheek, or misfortune o'ertake thee,

How soon would thy mates of the summer decay! They first of the whole fickle flock to forsake thee, Who flattered thee most when thy bosom was gay. What though I seem cold while their incense is burning,

In the depths of my soul I have cherished a flame To cheer the loved one should the night time of

mourning

E'er send its far shadows to darken her name.

Then leave the gay crowd-though my cottage is

lonely,

Gay halls without hearts are far lonelier still; Then say thou'lt be mine, Mary, always and only, And I'll be thy shelter whate'er be thine ill. As the fond mother clings to her fair little blossom The closer when blight hath appeared on its bloom, So thou Love the dearer shall be to this bosom ; The deeper thy sorrow, the darker thy doom.

JAMES KENNEY
(1780-1849)

WHY ARE YOU WANDERING HERE?

WH

HY are you wandering here, I pray? An old man asked a maid one day. Looking for poppies, so bright and red, Father, said she, I'm hither led. Fie! fie! she heard him cry, Poppies, 'tis known to all who rove, Grow in the field, and not in the grove. Grow in the field and not in the grove.

Tell me again, the old man said,
Why are you loitering here, fair maid?
The nightingale's song, so sweet and clear,
Father, said she, I come to hear.
Fie! fie! she heard him cry,
Nightingales all, so people say,
Warble by night, and not by day-
Warble by night and not by day.

The sage looked grave, the maiden shy,
When Lubin jumped o'er the stile hard by;
The sage looked graver, the maid more glum,
Lubin he twiddled his finger and thumb.
Fie! fie! the old man's cry;

Poppies like these, I own, are rare,
And of such nightingales' songs beware -
And of such nightingales' songs beware.