Once more will I revisit thee, dear Isle that I love best !

O'er thy green vales will hover slow,

And many a tearful parting blessing will bestow

On all, but most of all, on thee, beloved Caillino !

T

RICHARD FLECKNOE
( -1678)

OF DRINKING

HE fountains drink caves subterrene,

The rivulets drink the fountains dry; Brooks drink those rivulets again, And them some river gliding by ; Until some gulping sea drink them, And ocean drinks up that again.

Of ocean then does drink the sky;
When having brewed it into rain,
The earth with drink it does supply,

And plants to drink up that again.
When turned to liquor in the vine,
'Tis our turn next to drink the wine.

By this who does not plainly see,

How into our throats at once is hurled Whilst merrily we drinking be

The quintessence of all the world? Whilst all drink then in land, air, sea, Let us too drink as well as they.

66

"O

J. L. FORREST
(Living)

THE BANSHEE'S SONG

'ER the wild heath I roam,

On the night wind I come;
And Beauty shall pale

At the voice of my wail!

Husk! hark to my tidings of gloom and of sorrow! Go, weep tears of blood, for-Och! d'eag an chorra!

"With the stranger the brave Hath now found him a grave; And in beauty and bloom

He hath sunk to the tomb !

Oh, never for Desmond shall beam forth a morrow; For in death cold he lies- Och! d'eag an chorra!

"Woe, woe, wild and deep!
Wake, fair one, and weep!
Wail, wail, wail, wildly wail
At the voice of my tale!

Go, go! henceforth life is a burden and sorrow!
For thy heart's pulse is stricken-Och! d'eag an
chorra!"

Shrieking the Phantom fled. I came and found
The maiden lying lifeless on the ground.

Long, long she lay insensible.

At length Some feeble symptoms of returning strength Were manifest, and she could faintly tell What on that sad and weary night befell. 'Twas vain to reason with her. She would hear No reason from me. Still the ready tear Would follow the sad story, and her cheek Grow pallid at the thought of that unearthly shriek.

A month elaps'd-and then, alas! we knew
That the dread vision was too sadly true,
She smiled again no more; but from that hour
Wither'd and droop'd like to a blighted flower.
Hourly she wasted: yet her cheek grew bright
With a deep crimson circle and a light
Unearthly sparkled in her beaming eyes.
Fondly I hoped-alas! I was unwise

To dream the beauty of that crimson blush,

Was aught but what it was, Consumption's hectic flush.

She died and oh, my grief was deep and wild
I grieved for dark-hair'd ELLEN was my child!

In yon lone glen they buried her, and there
Oft do I go alone to breathe a prayer
For her departed spirit. It may be
She hears and blesses me. 'Twere agony
To think it otherwise. When the moon's light,
Her lowly grave doth rest upon, and bright

Its rays gleam over it, then doth it seem
As if her spirit hover'd in that beam,
And smiled in peace upon me.

Deem ye not

My words unhallow'd. 'Tis a blessed thought

Which fondly I have cherish'd. I have clung
To this bright hope since first my heart was wrung
Under my sad bereavement. Soon, ah! soon,
(And I would crave it as a blessed boon !)

My bones shall rest with hers, my spirit soar

To meet my dark-hair'd child upon a happier shore!