GLENFINISHK.

THE FAIRY WELL,

GLENFINISHK! where thy waters mix with Araglen's wild tide, Ou! Peggy Bawn was innocent, "Tis sweet at hush of evening to wander by thy side!

And wild as any roe; "Tis sweet to hear the night-winds sigh along Macrona's wood, Her cheek was like the summer rose, And mingle their wild music with the murmur of thy flood! Her neck was like the snow: 'Tis sweet, when in the deep-blue vault the morn is shining and every eye was in her head bright,

So beautiful and bright, To watch where thy clear waters are breaking into light; You'd almost think they'd light her through To mark the starry sparks that o'er thy smoother surface gleam,

Glencarrigy, by night. As if some fairy hand were flinging diamonds on thy stream!

Among the hills and mountains, Oh! if departed spirits e'er this dark world return,

Above her mother's home, 'Tis in some lonely, lovely spot like this they would sojourn;

The long and weary summer day What'er their mystic rites may be, no human eye is here,

Young Peggy Blake would roam;
Save mine to mark their mystery-no human voice is near.

And not a girl in the town
At such an hour, in such a scene, I could forget my birth-
I could forget I e'er have been, or am, a thing of tarth;

From Dhua to Glenlur,
Shake off the tleshly bonds that hold my soul in thrall, and be, Could wander through the mountain's heath

Or climb the rocks with her.
Even like themselves, à spirit, as boundless and as free!
Ye shadowy race! if we believe the tales of legends o!d,

The Lammas sun was shinin' on
Ye sometimes hold high converse with those of morial mould: The meadows all so brown;
Oh! come, whilst now my soul is free, and bear me in your train, The neighbors gathered far and near
Ne'er to return to misery and this dark world again!

To cut the ripe crops down;
TERRY O’ROON AND HIS WONDERFUL TUNE. And pleasant was the mornin',

And dewy was the dawn,
Och! there ne'er was a piper lie Terry O'Roon,
Sure he bother'd them all with his wonderful tune;

And gay and lightsome-hearted

To the sunny fields they're gone.
And the like of that same, when it came in his head,
It never was equallid by living or dead.

The joke was passing lightly,
And this is the reason—a long time ago,

And the laugh was loud and free; As Terry's own family histories show,

There was neither care nor trouble A Fairy once brought to his grandfather's cot

To disturb their hearty glee; The very same pipes that Terry has got ; " And sure,” said his father, who took up the trade, “ St. Patrick himself on thesame may have played;

When, says Peggy, resting in among But none of the p pe-playing house of O'Roon,

The sweet and scented hay,

"I wonder is there one would brave Like Terry could strike up the wonderful tune. Och, bothering, wheedling Terry O’Roon,

The Fairywell to-day! ” He eharm'd every heart with his wonderful tune.

She looked up with her laughin' eyes "Tis said when he struck up his pipes by the shore,

So soft at Willy Rhu; That the fishes danced jigs, and the sea ceased to roar,

Och murdher! that she didn't need
That the rocs split with laughing, that herring and sprats

His warnin' kind and true!
Should foot it with shell-fish, and round fish, and flats;
Be that as it may, Terry swears it's true;

But all the boys and girls laughed,
But he might have been dreaming, betwixt me and you;

And Willy Rhu looked shy; On a taste of the creature—that caused him ti think,

God help you, Willy! sure they saw (For pipers have ever been jewels to drink,)

The throuble in your eye.
And Terry himself when the whisky was strong,
He ne'er played so well, nor so loud, nor so long,

“Now, by my faith!” young Connell says, Till he set them all dancing-sly Terry O'Roon,

“I like your motion wellAnd whatever he play'd 'twas a wonderful tune.

There's a power more than gospel
Och, bothering, wheedling, etc.

In what crazy gossips tell.”
There was never a wake, nor a fight, nor a fair,

Oh, my heavy hatred fell upon But Terry O'Roon he was sure to be there;

Young Connell of Sliabh-Mast! And many's the match that was made, I'll be bound,

He took the cruel vengeance
When his wonderful pipes drew the lasses around;

For his scorned love at last.
But Terry himself was a rogue, and it's true
It was all one to him whether black eyes or blue;

The jokin' and the jibin’
For when his flirtations some beauty would vex,

And the banterin' went on, “ Arrah, honey!” he'd say “ 'aint I true to the sex?”

One girl dared another,
And so he went on with his wheedling ways,

And they all dared Peggy Bawn.
And his pipe-playing tricks, to the end of his days;
But there ne'er was a piper like Terry O'Roon,

Till leaping up, away she flew
That was gifted like him with a wonderful tune!

Down to the hollow greenOch, bothering, wheedling Terry O'Roon,

Her bright locks, floating in the wind, Sure he won ev'ry heart with his wonderful tune!

Like golden lights were seen.

THE FAIRY WELL.-Continued.

FORTUNE IN THE FIRE.
They saw her at the Fairy well-
Their laughin' died away,

“ SWEET Norah, come here, and look into the fire, They saw her stoop above its brink

Perhaps in its embers good luck we may see; With heart as cold as clay.

But don't come too near, or your glances so burning

Will putit clean out, lie the sunbeams, machree.
Oh! mother, mother, never stand
Upon your cabin floor!

"Just look 'twixt the bars where that black sod is smoking; You heard the cry that through your heart There's a sweet litle valley with rivers and trees, Will ring for evermore;

And a house on the bank quite as big as the squire's—

Who knows but some day we'll have something like these ? For when she came up from the well, No one could stand her look!

“ And now there's a coach with four galloping horses, Her eye was wild-her cheek was palem

A coachman to drive, and a footman behind-They saw her mind was shook:

That shows that some day we will keep a fine carriage,

And ily through the streets with the speed of the wind." And the gaze she cast around her

Was so ghastly and so sad“O Christ preserve us!” shouted all, As Dermot was speaking, the rain-drops came hissing “Poor Peggy Blake's gone mad!”

Down through the chimney; the fire went out;

While mansion and river, and horses and carriage,
The moon was up--the stars were out,

All vanished in smoke-wreaths that whirled about.
And shining through the sky,
When young and old stood mourning round Then Norah to Dermot this speech softly whispered-
To see their dariing die.

" "Twere better to do than to idly desire;

And one little cot by the roadside is better Poor Peggy from the death-bed rose

Than a palace with servants and coach-in the fire!” Her face was pale and cold, And down about her shoulders hung The lovely locks of gold.

PAT AND THE PIG. “ All you that's here this night,” said, Take warnin' by my fate,

'Twas near Limerick town lived bould Paddy O'Linn, Whoever braves the fairies' wrath,

No boy a shillelah so nately could spin; Their sorrow comes too late.”

But och! down his throat, when the whisky he'd tossed,

Sly Paddy oft found things before they were lost. The tear was startin' in her eye,

From the cabin of Widdy O'Connor one day, She clasp'd her throbbin' head,

A fat little pig, as pigs will, got astray; And when the sun next mornin' rose

Says Pat, “ You're blind drunk, it's my feelin's you shock; Poor Peggy Bawn lay dead.

Then he fell o'er the pig, as he gave him a knock;

* Och, piggy," says he, “ 'tis good manners you need; LOCH INA.

It's myself you've near kilt, you disgraceto your breed.

But my bacon I've saved, so to give you your due, I KNOW a lake where the cool waves break, It's cured you shall be—I'll make bacon of you."

And softly fall on the silver sandAnd no steps intrude on thatsolitude,

The grunter Pat cured, and soon put out of sight, And voice, save mine, disturbs the But the ghost of that pig haunted Pat day and night; strand.

So at last to his riv’rence he went and confessed,

Having that on his mind that he couldn't digest. And a mountain bold like a giant of old “ Och, Pat!” said the priest,“ only think of the day

Turned to stone by some magic spell, When the widdy shall charge you with stealing away Uprears in might its misty height,

The pig that she looked to for paying her rint." And his craggy sides are wooded well.

* Och, murder ! says Pat, “it's of that I repint,

And so, if you plaze absolution to say, In the midst doth smile a little Isle,

It's a blessed thirteen that I'm willing to pay, And its verdure shames the emerald's Or I'll marry the widdy to make her atone: green

Since 'twas her flesh I took, I'll be bone of her bone.”
On its grassy side, in ruined pride,
A castle of old is darkling seen.

“ You know that can't be—you would cheat me, O’Linn,

To compound with a felony's surely a sin; On its lofty crest the wild crane's nest,

And as to repintance, sure what will you say, In its halls the sheep good shelter find;

When the widdy accuses you at the last day? And the ivy shades where a hundred blades

Says Pat, Will your riv'rence answer me true, Were hung, when the owners in sleep re- When that time it shall come will the pig be there too?" clined.

“ He will," said the priest, “all your guilt to make plain,

Cheek by jowl with the pig you will stand once again." That chieftain of old could he now behold

" Then,” says Pat, it's all right, absolution or not, His lordly tower a shepherd's pen,

For when that time comes I an answer have got, His corpse, long dead, from its narrow bed As the pig will be there, I have only to say,

Would rise, with anger and shame again. • Take your dirty ould pig'-so your riv'rence good day."

no

at you,

RORY'S KISSING SCHOOL.-Continued.

THE SONS OF HIBERNIA. “ Troth! my Bridget,” says I, perhaps ye can mind

BRAVE sons of Hibernia, your shamrocks display,

For ever made sacred on St. Patrick's day;
When ye to the kissing were greatly inclined;
Ye kissed me and kissed me at Donnybrook

'Tis a type of religion, the badge of our saint,

And a plant of that soil which no venom can taint. fair, And now, by the jabers, ye’re pulling my hair.

Both Venus and Mars to that land lay a claim Begone, you old fool, wid a rumpus like this!

Their title is own'd and recorded by fame; I'm only a-larning your sister to kiss! "

But St. Patrick to friendship has hallow'd the ground,

And made hospitality ever abound. NANCY, THE PRIDE OF THE WEST. We have dark lovely looks on the shores where Then with shamrocks and myrtles let's garnish the bowl, the Spanish

In converse convivial and sweet How of soul, From their gay ships came gallantly forth, To our saint make oblations of generous wine And the sweet shrinking violets sooner will What saint would have more?—sure 'tis worship divine! vanish

Tho' jovial and festive in seeming excess, Than modest blue eyes from our north;

We've hearts sympathetic of others' distress. But oh! if the fairest of fair-daughtered Erin

May our shamrock continue to dourish and prove Gathered round at her golden request,

An emblem of charity, friendship, and love. There's not one of them all that she'd think worth comparing

May the blights of disunion no longer remain, With Nancy, the pride of the west.

Our shamrock to wither, its glories to stain; You'd suspect her the statue the Greek fell in May it flourish for ever, we heaven invoke, love with,

Kindly shelter'd and fenc'd by the brave Irish oak. If you chanced on her musing alone,

A SWEET IRISH GIRL IS THE DARLING FOR ME. Or some goddess great Jove was offended above with,

If they talk about ladies, I'll tell them the plan And chilled to a sculpture of stone;

Of myself-to be sure, I'm a nate Irishman.
But you'd think her ‘no colorless, classical There is neither sultana nor foreign ma’amselle,
statue,

That has charms to please me, or can coax me so well
When she turned from hier pensive repose, As the sweet Irisb girl so charming to see ;
With her glowing gray eyes glancing timidly Och, a sweet Irish girl is the darling for me.

And sing filliloo, fire away, frisky she'll be-
And the blush of a beautiful rose.

Och: a sweet Irish girl is the darling for me; Have you heard Nancy sigh? then you've

l'or she's pretty, she's witty, caught the sad echo

She's hoaxing, she's coaxing, From the wind-harp enchantingly borne.

She's smiling, beguiling to see, to see: Have you heard the girl laugh? then you've

She rattles, she prattles, heard the first cuckoo

She dances, and prancesChant summer's delightful return.

Och! a sweet Irish girl is the darling for me. And the songs that poor ignorant country-folk Now some girls they are little, and some they are tall, fancy,

Och! others are big, sure, and others are small; The lark's liquid raptures on high,

And some that are teasing, are bandy, I tell; Are just old Irish airs from the sweet lips of Still none can please me, or can coax me so well Nancy,

As the dear Irish girl, so charming to seeFlowing up and refreshing the sky.

Och! a sweet Irish girl is the darling for me. And though her foot dances so soft from the And sing filliloo, etc.

heather To the dew-twinkling tussocks of grass,

THE FAIRY BOY.* It but warms the bright drops to slip closer together

A MOTHER came when stars were paling, To image the exquisite lass;

Wailing round a lonely spring;

Thus she cried while tears were falling,
We've no men left among us, so lost to emotion,
Or scornful, or cold to her sex,

Calling on the fairy king:
Who'd resist her, if Nancy once took up the

" Why with spells my child caressing, notion

Courting him with fairy joy; To set that soft foot on their necks.

Why destroy a mother's blessing, Yet, for all that the bee flies for honey-dew

Wherefore steal my fairy boy? fragrant

“O'er the mountain, through a wild wood, To the half-opened flower of her lips;

Where his childhood loved to play; And the butterfly pauses, the purple-eyed va

Where the flowers are freshly springing, grant,

There I wander day by day.
To play with her pink finger-tips;
From all human lovers she locks up the treas- “ There I wander, growing fonder

Of the child that made my joy;
A thousand are starving to taste,

On the echoes wildly calling, And the fairies alone know the magical meas

To restore my fairy boy.

ure

ure

Of the ravishing round of her waist.

# When a beautiful child pines and dies, the Irish peasant believes the healthy infant has been stolen by the fairies, and a sickly elt left in its place. SWEET KILKENNY TOWN.

THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG.

stool on,

I was working in the fields near fair Boston city,

MELLOW the moonlight to shine is beginning; Thinking sadly of Kilkenny-and a girl that's there;

Close by the window young Eileen is spinning; When a friend came and tould me—late enough and more's the Bent o'er the fire her blind grandmother, pity!

sitting, “ There's a letter waitin' for ye, in the postman's care!" Is crooning and moaning, and drowsily knitOh! my heart was in my mouth, all the while that he was ting; spaking,

“ Eileen achora, I hear some one tapping.” For I knew it was from Katy!-she's the girl that can spell ! 'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass And I couldn't speak for crying, for my heart had nigh been flapping.” breaking,

Eileen, I surely hear some one sighing." With longing for a word from the girl that I love well.

“ 'Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer Oh! I knew it was from Katey. Who could it be but Katey ?

wind dying.” The poor girl that loves me well, in sweet Kilkenny Town.

Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Oh! 'twas soon I reached the place, and I thanked them for the

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the

foot's stirring; trouble

Sprightly and lightly and airily ringing, They wor taking with my letter, a-sorting with such care;

Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden And they asked was it a single? and I tould them 'twas a double!

singing. For wasn't it worth twice as much as any letter there? Then they sorted and they searched, but something seemed the matter,

“ What's that noise that I hear at the window,

I wonder? And my heart it stopped beating when I thought what it might be:

“ 'Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush

under." Och! boys, would you believe it? they had gone and lost my letter,

“What makes you be shoving and moving your My poor Katey's letter that had come so far to me. For I knew, etc.

And singing all wrong the old song of the Coo

lun ? ”

There's a form at the casement-the form of I trimbled like an aspen, but I said, “ 'Tis fun your making,

her true loveOf the poor foolish Paddy, that's so azy to craze;

And he whispers, with face bent, “ I'm waitOch! gintlemen, then look again, maybe you wor mistaken,

for you, love. For letters, as you know, boys, are as like as pase!

Get up on the stool, through the lattice step Then they bade me sarch myself when they saw my deep de- lightly; jection,

We'll rove in the grove while the moon's. But, och! who could sarch when the tears blind the sight?

shining brightly."
Moreover (as I tould them) I'd another strong objection,
In regard to niver larning to read nor to write,

Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,
For I wasn't cute like Katey, my own darling Katey,

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the etc.

foot's stirring; Sprightly and lightly and airly ringing,

Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden Then they laughed in my face, and they asked me (tho' in

singing kindness), What good would letters do me that I couldn't understand. And I answered, “Were they cursed with deafness and with The maid shakes her hand, on her lips lays blindness,

her fingers, Would they care less for the clasp of a dear loved hand ?"

Steals up from the seat-longs to go, and yet Oh! the folks that read and write (though they're so mighty A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grand

lingers; clever),

mother, See nothin' but the words, and they're soon read through; But Katy's unread letter would be speaking to me ever

Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with

the other. Of the dear love that she bears me, for it shows she is true! Oh! well I know my Katey, my own darling Katey,

Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round, The poor girl that loves me well, in sweet Kilkenny Town. Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel 3

round;

Noiseless and light to the lattice above her TERRY MALONE.

The maid steps, then leaps to the arms of her

lover. ONE ev’ning from market returning, Just thinking of what I'll not name;

Slower-and slower-and slower the wheel May be some of ye guess, ah! now don't ye?

swings; I'or 'tis few have not thought of the same.

Lower—and lower-and lower the reel rings; But my heart is as open as sunshine,

Ere the wheel and the reel stopped their A secret lies heavy as stone;

ringing and moving, So I'll even confess, without blushing,

Through the grove the young lovers by moonI was thinking of Terry Malone.

light are roving.