Part 80

I courteously saluted her - "God save you, miss," says I; "God save you kindly, sir," said she, and shyly passed me by; Off went my heart along with her, a captive in her thrall, Imprisoned in the corner of her ould plaid shawl.

Enchanted with her beauty rare, I gazed in pure delight, Till round an angle of the road she vanished from my sight; But ever since I sighing say, as I that scene recall, "The grace of God about you and your ould plaid shawl."

I've heard of highway robbers that with pistols and with knives, Make trembling travelers yield them up their money or their lives, But think of me that handed out my heart and head and all To a simple little cailin in an ould plaid shawl.

Oh! graceful the mantillas that the signorinas wear, And tasteful are the bonnets of Parisian ladies fair, But never cloak, or hood, or robe, in palace, bower, or hall, Clad half such witching beauty as that ould plaid shawl.

Oh! some men sigh for riches, and some men live for fame, And some on history's pages hope to win a glorious name: My aims are not ambitious, and my wishes are but small - You might wrap them all together in an ould plaid shawl.

I'll seek her all through Galway, and I'll seek her all through Clare, I'll search for tale or tidings of my traveler everywhere, For peace of mind I'll never find until my own I call That little Irish cailin in her ould plaid shawl.

Francis A. Fahy [1854-

LITTLE MARY CASSIDY

Oh, 'tis little Mary Cassidy's the cause of all my misery, And the raison that I am not now the boy I used to be; Oh, she bates the beauties all that we read about in history, And sure half the country-side is as hot for her as me. Travel Ireland up and down, hill, village, vale and town - Fairer than the Cailin Donn, you're looking for in vain; Oh, I'd rather live in poverty with little Mary Cassidy Than emperor, without her, be of Germany or Spain.

'Twas at the dance at Darmody's that first I caught a sight of her, And heard her sing the "Droighnean Donn," till tears came in my eyes, And ever since that blessed hour I'm dreaming day and night of her; The devil a wink of sleep at all I get from bed to rise. Cheeks like the rose in June, song like the lark in tune, Working, resting, night or noon, she never leaves my mind; Oh, till singing by my cabin fire sits little Mary Cassidy, 'Tis little aise or happiness I'm sure I'll ever find.

What is wealth, what is fame, what is all that people fight about To a kind word from her lips or a love-glance from her eye? Oh, though troubles throng my breast, sure they'd soon go to the right-about If I thought the curly head of her would rest there by and by. Take all I own to-day, kith, kin, and care away, Ship them all across the say, or to the frozen zone: Lave me an orphan bare - but lave me Mary Cassidy, I never would feel lonesome with the two of us alone.

Francis A. Fahy [1854-

THE ROAD

"Now where are ye goin'," ses I, "wid the shawl An' cotton umbrella an' basket an' all? Would ye not wait for McMullen's machine, Wid that iligant instep befittin' a queen? Oh, you wid the wind-soft gray eye wid a wile in it, You wid the lip wid the troublesome smile in it, Sure, the road's wet, ivery rain-muddied mile in it -" "Ah, the Saints'll be kapin' me petticoats clean!"

"But," ses I, "would ye like it to meet Clancy's bull, Or the tinks poachin' rabbits above Slieve-na-coul? An' the ford at Kilmaddy is big wid the snows, An' the whisht Little People that wear the green close, They'd run from the bog to be makin' a catch o' ye, The king o' them's wishful o' weddin' the match o' ye, 'Twould be long, if they did, ere ye lifted the latch o' ye -" "What fairy's to touch her that sings as she goes!"

"Ah, where are ye goin', ses I, "wid the shawl, An' the gray eyes a-dreamin' beneath it an' all? The road by the mountain's a long one, depend Ye'll be done for, alannah, ere reachin' the end; Ye'll be bate wid the wind on each back-breakin' bit on it, Wet wid the puddles and lamed wid the grit on it, - Since lonesome ye're layin' yer delicut fit on it -" "Sure whin's a road lonesome that's stepped wid a friend?"

That's stepped wid a friend? Who did Bridgy intend? Still 'twas me that went wid her right on to the end!

Patrick R. Chalmers [18

TWICKENHAM FERRY

"Ahoy! and O-ho! and it's who's for the ferry?" (The briar's in bud and the sun going down) "And I'll row ye so quick and I'll row ye so steady, And 'tis but a penny to Twickenham Town." The ferryman's slim and the ferryman's young, With just a soft tang in the turn of his tongue; And he's fresh as a pippin and brown as a berry, And 'tis but a penny to Twickenham Town.

"Ahoy! and O-ho! and it's I'm for the ferry," (The briar's in bud and the sun going down) "And it's late as it is and I haven't a penny - Oh! how can I get me to Twickenham Town?" She'd a rose in her bonnet, and oh! she looked sweet As the little pink flower that grows in the wheat, With her cheeks like a rose and her lips like a cherry - It's sure but you're welcome to Twickenham Town.

"Ahoy! and O-ho!"- You're too late for the ferry, (The briar's in bud and the sun has gone down) And he's not rowing quick and he's not rowing steady; It seems quite a journey to Twickenham Town. "Ahoy! and O-ho!" you may call as you will; The young moon is rising o'er Petersham Hill; And, with Love like a rose in the stern of the wherry, There's danger in crossing to Twickenham Town.

Theophile Marzials [1850-

THE HUMOR OF LOVE

SONG

I prithee send me back my heart, Since I cannot have thine: For if from yours you will not part, Why then shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on't, let it lie, To find it were in vain, For thou hast a thief in either eye Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie, And yet not lodge together? O love, where is thy sympathy, If thus our breasts thou sever?