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The brawling squires may heed him not

The dainty stranger sneer,

But who will dare to hurt our cot

When Miles O'Hea is here?
The scarlet soldiers pass along,

They'd like but fear to rail—
His blood is hot, his blow is strong,
The Boatman of Kinsale.

His hooker's in the Scilly van
When seines are in the foam;
But money never made the man,
Nor wealth a happy home.
So blest with love and liberty,
While he can trim a sail,

He'll trust in God, and cling to me,

The Boatman of Kinsale.

AN ERRAND.

JANE BARLOW.

I slept; and where her lonely flower-knots gleam My dear lost Love I saw anear my side,

Yet knew our fate; since in my dreamiest dream How should I once forget that Norah died?

But by a blossomed briar methought she stood

Whereon the rose's dawn was fair to see;

And: "Bend the spray," she said, "and this small bud

It lifts so high above us, pluck for me.
"This is the flower I ever loved of yore,
This little rose, that where its petals part
Is all a-flush within as if it bore

A rosier rose's shadow at its heart.”

Then, "O my love," I said, "needs must there be
In thy dread world unwist of mortal eyes
Full many a wondrous bloom, and worthier thee
Than aught that drinks the light of these dim
skies!"

"Most fair," quoth she, "untouched of change that mars,

I see them shine; yet this I chide in all, That steadfast bides their beauty as a star's, Nor ever a glow will fade, a leaf will fall.

"For so, Beloved, I still have vainly sought,
And missed in sheeniest sheen, in sweetest
sweet,

A symbol of the old life's bliss pain-fraught—
Thine yet-where all delight doth fail and fleet.

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"Hence, for the old days' sake, from that far land To clasp these flowers a weary way fare I, Because their deathward drooping in my hand Breathes memory of our love that shall not die."

'TWAS PRETTY TO BE IN
BALLINDERRY.

ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.

'Twas pretty to be in Ballinderry,

'Twas pretty to be in Aghalee,

'Twas prettier to be in little Ram's Island, Trysting under the ivy tree!

Ochone, ochone!

Ochone, ochone!

For often I roved in little Ram's Island,
Side by side with Phelimy Hyland,
And still he'd court me, and I'd be coy,
Though at heart I loved him, my handsome boy!

"I'm going," he sighed, "from Ballinderry
Out and across the stormy sea;

Then if in your heart you love me, Mary,
Open your arms at last to me."

Ochone, ochone!

Ochone, ochone!

I opened my arms, how well he knew me!
I opened my arms and took him to me;
And there in the gloom of the groaning mast
We kissed our first and we kissed our last.

"Twas happy to be in little Ram's Island,
But now 'tis as sad as sad can be;

For the ship that sailed with Phelimy Hyland Is sunk for ever beneath the sea.

Ochone, ochone!

Ochone, ochone!

And 'tis oh! but I wear the weeping willow
And wander alone by the lonesome billow,
And cry to him over the cruel sea,
"Phelimy Hyland, come back to me!"

UNDER MY WINDOW.

THOMAS WESTWOOD.

Under my window, under my window,
All in the Midsummer weather,
Three little girls with fluttering curls

Flit to and fro together:

There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen,
And Maud with her mantle of silver-green,
And Kate with her scarlet feather.

Under my window, under

my

window,

Leaning stealthily over,

Merry and clear, the voice I hear,

Of each glad-hearted rover.

Ah! shy little Kate, she steals my roses;

And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies, As merry as bees in clover.

Under my window, under window,

my

In the blue Midsummer weather,

Stealing slow, on a hushed tiptoe,

I catch them all together:

Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen,

And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, And Kate with the scarlet feather.

Under my window, under window,

my

And off through the orchard closes; While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts, They scamper and drop their posies; But dear little Kate takes naught amiss, And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss, And I give her all my roses.

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