sea,
And stranger colleens are dancing light
Where Kitty O'Neil once danced with me.

O the Antrim glens and the thrushes' song,
And the hedges white with blossoming may,
Many a colleen tripping along,
But none so fair as the one away:
"Musha, God save you!" I to them say,
"God save you kindly!" they answer me;
I shiver and wake, in the dawning grey,
And Kitty O'Neil lies over the sea.

O a bit of a dance in an Irish street—
Hogan was there, and Hennessy,
Many a colleen fair and sweet,
And Kitty O'Neil she danced with me;
Kitty O'Neil, with eyes of brown,
And feet as light as the flakes of snow.
Was it last year, O Kitty aroon,
Or was it a hundred years ago?

SPRING IN THE CITY

Outside my garret window, set
Amid the city's dust and blare,
One bit of green is growing yet—
A gnarled old hawthorn tree stands there

A little bird sings in its bough,
Where may-buds break as white as foam;
It breaks my heart to hear him now,
For O, he sings the songs of home.

His wings are of the hodden grey,
A little lilting thing is he;
He pipes a carol blythe and gay;
But sad the thoughts he brings to me.

Once more the Irish hills rise green,
The lark springs to the sun once more,
Once more I tread the old boreen
And see you at the cabin door.

The young May moon her cresset burns
In misty skies of Irish blue,
And for an hour my spirit turns
From dreary streets to dream of you

O little, lilting birdeen, cease!
You stab my heart with every strain
Bringing me back old memories
Of days that will not come again.

THE WILD GEESE

O pleasant are the fields of France, her vine-clad hills aglow,
And broad and smooth her rivers are, as singing on they go,—
Durance and Seine and Loire and Rhone—but not for us they flow.

And sweetly on a Frenchman's ear the songs of France may ring,
But not for us their melody who still amid their swing
The sobbing beat alone can hear of songs we used to sing.

For, as the streams of Babylon, though broad and fair they swept,
Were waters of captivity, whereby the Hebrews wept,
Dreaming of dear Jerusalem, where their forefathers slept—

So dreaming by the waves of France we think on Sion too,
Heartsick with longing for the streams we and our fathers knew—
Liffey and Lee and Avonmore and tawny Avondhu.

And turning homeward yearning eyes that ne'er shall see her strand,
We tune our harps and strike once more the chords with faltering hand,
And sing again the song of home, far in a lonely land.

"If we forget Jerusalem!" Ah, well we know the song—
Our waters of captivity, bitter their waves and strong,
And faint our hearts for weariness, how long, O Lord, how long?

A SONG OF MEMORY

Here as I sit in the dark and ponder,
Watching the firelight dance and gleam,
What brings them back to my mind, I wonder?
Those old days of laughter and dream.
Dear old days, when we roamed together
All the pathways that cross Slieve Rue,
Caring for naught in the sunny weather,
Laughing together, I and you.

Voice of the west wind, calling, calling,
Sobbing beat of the Irish rain,
Whispering leaves and waters falling,
Ay, and you by my side again;
Out of the past I hear them ringing—
All the songs of the days of old;
Hear the lark on the hillside singing,
See the gleam of the gorse's gold.

Till, as I sit in the firelight dreaming,
Watching the shadows grow apace,
Out of the long dead years comes gleaming
There in the flames your laughing face;
All the days that are past and over
Gone in the turf smoke, curling blue,
And from their wreckage I recover
Song and sunshine and youth and you.

IN MEMORY OF A FAILURE

O Kathaleen ni Houlihan, in blood and ashes lie
The dreams we dreamed, the faith we held, the hopes we builded high;
Once more the path that Emmet trod our bleeding feet must press,
Once more our hearts must bear the load of failure and distress;
But though the dream in ruin fell, yet this much still is true—
O Kathaleen ni Houlihan, at least we died for you.

O Kathaleen ni Houlihan, the hills with Spring are fair,
And fragrant blows the daffodil and violets scent the air,
Once more from out the morning sky the lark's gay challenge rings,
Mounting the blue to Heaven's gate, but not for us he sings,
And summer comes, and autumn tints with bronze and gold the fern,
And bees hum in the heather bloom, but we shall not return.

O Kathaleen ni Houlihan, give us nor praise nor blame,
Only a little Irish dust to cover up our shame;
Only a sod of Irish ground our broken dream to hide,
Where some may pause and say a prayer and "'Twas for her they died;"
For though we brought you grief and pain, yet this much still is true—
O Kathaleen ni Houlihan, at least we died for you.

THE UNCHRISTENED CHILD

Alanna! Alanna! within the churchyard's round
There's many graves of childer' there, they lie in holy ground;
But yours is on the mountain side beneath the hawthorn tree—
O fleet one, my sweet one, that's gone so far from me.

Alanna! Alanna! When that small mound was made,
No mass was sung, no bell was rung, no priest above it prayed;
Unchristened childer's souls, they say, may ne'er see Heaven's light—
O lone one, my own one, where strays your soul to-night?

Alanna! Alanna! This life's a weary one,
And there's little time for thinking when the hours of work are done,
And the others have forgotten, but there's times I sit apart,
O fair one, my dear one, and hold you in my heart.

Alanna! Alanna! If I were Mary mild,
And heard outside the gates of Heaven a little crying child,
What though its brow the chrisom lacked, I'd lift the golden pin,
O bright one, my white one, and bid you enter in.

Alanna! Alanna! The mountain side is bare,
And the winds they do be blowing and the snows be lying there,
And unchristened childer's souls, they say, may ne'er see
Heaven's light—
O lone one, my own one, where strays your soul to-night?