He was wild, insane for vengeance-ay! and preached it till Tyrone

Was ruddy, ready, wild, too, with "Red hands" to clutch their own.

“The Scots are on the border, Shane! Ye Saints, he makes no breath;

I remember when that cry would wake him up almost
from death.

Art truly dead and cold? O Chief! art thou to
Ulster lost?

"Dost hear-dost hear? By Randolph led, the
troops the Foyle have crossed!"

He's truly dead! He must be dead! nor is his ghost about

And yet no tomb could hold his spirit tame to such a shout:

The pale face droopeth northward-ah! his soul must
loom up there,

By old Armagh, or Antrim's glynns, Lough Foyle, or
Bann the Fair!

I'll speed me Ulster-wards-your ghost must wander
there, proud Shane,

In search of some O'Neill, through whom to throb its hate again.

GEORGE FRANCIS SAVAGE-
ARMSTRONG
(1845- )

Ο

GAY PROVENCE

I

'ER Provence breathing, nimble air,
Blown keen by dale and sea,

Who throws the throbbing bosom bare And breathes himself in thee,

II

Who feels thee clear on cheek and brows,
And quaffs thee through the lips,
With love and light and music glows
From foot to finger-tips.

III

He lives a king, in court and hall,
'Mid wail of wildering lyres;

A priest, by carven cloister-wall
Or dim cathedral-choirs ;

IV

A knight, with airy lance in rest,
That rides in lonely vale;
A page, by queenly hand caressed,
By gate or vineyard-pale.

V

He loiters in a golden light,

Is led with dulcet lure

By ghostly town, by towered height,
A tuneful troubadour.

VI

He pines for soft imagined eyes
Where fictive fervor beams,

And woes with phantom tears and sighs
The faery dame of dreams.

VII

O'er Provence breathing, nimble air,
Blown keen by dale and sea,
O subtle, playful spirit rare,
O wanton witchery,

VIII

Well, well I love that land of thine,
Its peaks and ferny caves,

And fields of olive, orange, vine,
Blue bays, and breaking waves !

THE MYSTERY

"EAR after year

YEAR

The leaf and the shoot;
The babe and the nestling,

The worm at the root;
The bride at the altar,

CHARLES DAWSON SHANLY

(1811-1875)

CIVIL WAR

IFLEMAN, shoot me a fancy shot

"RTStraight at

Straight at the heart of yon prowling vidette ;

Ring me a ball in the glittering spot

That shines on his breast like an amulet !

"Ah, captain! here goes for a fine-drawn bead, There's music around when my barrel's, in tune! Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped,

And dead from his horse fell the ringing dragoon.

"Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, and snatch From your victim some trinket to handsel first

blood;

A button, a loop, or that luminous patch

That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud!"

"O captain! I staggered, and sunk on my track,

When I gazed on the face of that fallen vidette, For he looked so like you, as he lay on his back,

That my heart rose upon me, and masters me yet.

"But I snatched off the trinket, the locket of gold,
An inch from the centre my lead broke its way,
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold,
Of a beautiful lady in bridal array."