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O Norah, lay your basket down,
And rest your weary hand,
Of our old Ireland.
There was a lord of Galaway,
A mighty lord was he;
A maid of low degree.
And so, in evil spite,
And fed her own with white.
She whipped the maids and starved the kern,1
And drove away the poor; “Ah, woe is me!" the old lord said,
“I rue my bargain sore !"
Beloved of old and young,
Of her the gleeman sung.
As Eve before her fall;
So harped he in the hall.
“O come to me, my daughter dear!
Come sit upon my knee,
Your mother's own I see !"
He kissed her forehead fair : “It is my darling Mary's brow,
It is my darling's hair !"
“Get up; get up,” quoth she, “I'll sell ye over Ireland,
I'll sell ye o'er the sea !”
That none her rank might know,
And gave her one of tow,3
And to a seaman sold
For ten good pounds in gold.
And tore his beard so gray ;
And so she had her way.
To fright the evil dame,
With funeral torches came.
And glimmering down the hill;
And there they all stood still!
“Get up, old man ! the wake-lights shine 1"
“Ye murthering witch," quoth he, “So I'm rid of your tongue, I little care
If they shine for you or me.”
My gold and land shall have !"
“No gold nor land I crave !
Give sweet Kathleen to me,
I'll bring her back to thee.” “My daughter is a lady born,
And you of low degree,
You bring her back to me."
And far and long sailed he, Until he came to Boston town,
Across the great salt sea.
The flower of Ireland ?
And by her snow-white hand !”
The maiden whom ye mean;
And she is called Kathleen.
Her hands are soft and white, Yet well by loving looks and ways
She doth her cost requite."
So up they walked through Boston town,
And met a maiden fair, A little basket on her arm
So snowy-white and bare. “Come hither, child, and say hast thou
This young man ever seen ?" They wept within each other's arms, The page and young
Kathleen. "O give to me this darling child,
And take my purse of gold.” “Nay, not by me,” her master said,
“Shall sweet Kathleen be sold. “ We loved her in the place of one
The Lord hath early ta'en ; But, since her heart's in Ireland,
We give her back again !”
As you go up Claremore
The pleasant Galway shore.
And a happy man is he,
J. G. Whittier.
DON QUIXOTE AND THE WINDMILLS.*
ENGAGED in this discourse, they came in sight of thirty or forty windmills which are in that plain ; and as soon as Don Quixote espied them, he said to his squire,1 “ Fortune disposes our affairs better than we ourselves could have desired : look yonder, friend Sancho Panza, where thou mayest discover somewhat more than thirty monstrous giants, whom I intend to encounter and slay; and with their spoils we will begin to enrich ourselves; for it is lawful war, and doing God good service to remove so wicked a generation from off the face of the earth." "What giants?” said Sancho Panza. “Those thou seest yonder," answered his master, “with their long arms; for some are wont to have them almost of the length of two leagues.” “Look, sir," answered Sancho, “those which appear yonder are not giants, but windmills; and what seem to be arms are the sails, which, whirled about by the wind, make the mill-stone go.” “It is very evident," answered Don Quixote, “ that thou art not versed in the business of adventures : they are giants; and if thou art afraid, get thee aside and pray, whilst I engage with them in fierce and unequal combat.” So saying, he clapped spurs to his steed, notwithstanding the cries his squire sent after him, assuring
By kind permission of Messrs. G. Routledge & Sons,