Shamrock Leaves H! if for every tear That from our exiled eyes A shamrock could arise, Should stretch the ocean through, All, all the way between Our aching hearts and you. A. P. Graves. The Old Country OT tasselled palm or bended cypress wooing heights, Not heaven's myriad stars in lustre strewing Not the clear peak of dawn-encrimsoned snow, O fondling of the tempest and the ocean, The sun-glint and the shadow as they rove Thine the weird splendour of the restless billow The reedy mere that is the wild-swan's pillow, Spreads his grey wings upon the breezes cold, And we who draw our being from thy being, Droop with thy sorrows, brighten with thy mirth; O, from afar, with sad and straining eyes, Tired arms across the darkness and the foam We stretch to thy bluff capes and sombre skies, Beloved home! The nurslings of thy moorlands and thy mountains, G. F. Savage-Armstrong. The Passing of the Gael HEY are going, going, going from the valleys and the hills, They are leaving far behind them heathery moor and mountain rills, All the wealth of hawthorn hedges where the brown thrush sways and trills. They are going, shy-eyed colleens and lads so straight and tall, From the purple peaks of Kerry, from the crags of wild Imaal, From the greening plains of Mayo and the glens of Donegal. They are leaving pleasant places, shores with snowy sands outspread; Blue and lonely lakes a-stirring when the wind stirs overhead; Tender living hearts that love them, and the graves of kindred dead. They shall carry to the distant land a tear-drop in the eye, .. And some shall go uncomforted-their days an endless sigh For Kathaleen Ní Houlihan's sad face, until they die. Oh, Kathaleen Ní Houlihan, your road's a thorny way, And 't is a faithful soul would walk the flints with you for aye, Would walk the sharp and cruel flints until his locks grew grey. (B 838) 20 So some must wander to the East, and some must wander West; Some seek the white wastes of the North, and some a Southern nest: Yet never shall they sleep so sweet as on your mother breast. The whip of hunger scourged them from the glens and quiet moors, But there's a hunger of the heart that plenty never cures; And they shall pine to walk again the rough road that is yours. Within the city streets, hot, hurried, full of care, A sudden dream shall bring them a whiff of Irish air— A cool air, faintly-scented, blown soft from otherwhere. Oh, the cabins long-deserted!-Olden memories awakeOh, the pleasant, pleasant places!-Hush! the blackbird in the brake! Oh, the dear and kindly voices!-Now their hearts are fain to ache. They may win a golden store-sure the whins were golden too; And no foreign skies hold beauty like the rainy skies they knew; Nor any night-wind cool the brow as did the foggy dew. They are going, going, going, and we cannot bid them stay; The fields are now the strangers' where the strangers' cattle stray. Oh! Kathaleen Ni Houlihan, your way's a thorny way! Ethna Carbery. Corrymeela VER here in England I'm helpin' wi' the hay, day; Weary on the English hay, an' sorra take the wheat! Och! Corrymeela an' the blue sky over it. There' a deep dumb river flowin' by beyont the heavy trees, This livin' air is moithered wi' the bummin' o' the bees; I wisht I'd hear the Claddagh burn go runnin' through the heat Past Corrymeela, wi❞ the blue sky over it. The people that's in England is richer nor the Jews, There' not the smallest young gossoon but thravels in his shoes! I'd give the pipe between me teeth to see a barefut child, Och! Corrymeela an' the low south wind. Here's hands so full o' money an' hearts so full o' care, By the luck o' love! I'd still go light for all I did go bare. "God save ye, colleen dhas," I said: the girl she thought me wild. Far Corrymeela, an' the low south wind. D'ye mind me now, the song at night is mortial hard to raise, The girls are heavy goin' here, the boys are ill to plase; When one'st I'm out this workin' hive, 't is I'll be back again Ay, Corrymeela, in the same soft rain. |