But, "Lucius," says she,

Since you've now made so free, You may marry your Molly Malone, Ohone!

You may marry your Molly Malone.”

There's a moral contained in my song,
Not wrong,

And, one comfort, it's not very long,
But strong:

If for widows you die,

Learn to kiss, not to sigh

For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone!

Ohone !

Oh! they're very like Mistress Malone!

THE POPE HE LEADS A HAPPY LIFE

Τ

From the German

HE Pope he leads a happy life,

He knows no cares nor marriage strife;
He drinks the best of Rhenish wine-

I would the Pope's gay lot were mine.

But yet not happy in his life.

He loves no maid or wedded wife,
Nor child hath he to cheer his hope—

I would not wish to be the Pope.

The Sultan better pleases me,
He leads a life of jollity

Has wives as many as he will

I would the Sultan's throne then fill.

But yet he's not a happy man
He must obey the Alcoran :

And dares not taste one drop of wine -
I would not that his lot were mine.

So here I take my lowly stand,
I'll drink my own, my native land;
I'll kiss my maiden's lips divine,
And drink the best of Rhenish wine.

And when my maiden kisses me
I'll fancy I the Sultan be;

And when my cheering glass I tope
I'll fancy then I am the Pope.

JOHN LOCKE
(1847-1889)

THE EXILE'S RETURN, OR MORNING ON THE IRISH COAST

TH' an on the hills of Ireland!

H' anám an Dhia.1 But there it is.

God's angels lifting the night's black veil
From the fair, sweet face of my sireland!
O Ireland isn't it grand you look

Like a bride in her rich adornin'?
And with all the pent-up love of my heart
I bid you the top o' the mornin'!

This one short hour pays lavishly back
For many a year of mourning;
I'd almost venture another flight,
There's so much joy in returning-
Watching out for the hallowed shore,
All other attractions scornin':
O Ireland! don't you hear me shout?
I bid you the top o' the mornin'.

Ho, ho! upon Cleena's shelving strand
The surges are grandly beating,
And Kerry is pushing her headlands out

1Th' anám an Dhia, my soul to God.

To give us the kindly greeting; In to the shore the seabirds fly

On pinions that know no drooping,

And out of the cliffs, with welcomes charged, A million of waves come trooping.

O kindly, generous, Irish land

So leal and fair and loving!

No wonder the wandering Celt should think
And dream of you in his roving.

The alien home may have gems and gold
Shadows may never have gloomed it;
But the heart will sigh for the absent land
Where the love-light first illumed it.

And doesn't old Cove look charming there,
Watching the wild waves' motion,
Leaning her back up against the hills,
And the tip of her toes in the ocean?
I wonder I don't hear Shandon's bells
Ah! maybe their chiming's over,
For it's many a year since I began
The life of a Western rover.

For thirty summers, asthore machree,
Those hills I now feast my eyes on
Ne'er met my vision save when they rose
Over memory's dim horizon.

E'en so, 'twas grand and fair they seemed
In the landscape spread before me;

But dreams are dreams, and my eyes would ope
To see Texas' sky still o'er me.

Oh! often upon the Texan plains,

When the day and the chase were over, My thoughts would fly o'er the weary wave, And around this coast-line hover;

And the prayer would rise that some future dayAll danger and doubting scornin'—

I'd help to win for my native land

The light of Young Liberty's mornin'!

Now fuller and truer the shore line shows-
Was ever a scene so splendid!

I feel the breath of the Munster breeze;
Thank God that my exile's ended!
Old scenes, old songs, old friends again,
The vale and cot I was born in
O Ireland! up from my heart of hearts
I bid you the top o' the mornin'!