THE MISTLETOE BOUGH

THE mistletoe hung in the castle hall,

The holly branch shone on the old oak wall;
And the baron's retainers were blithe and gay,
And keeping their Christmas holiday.

The baron beheld with a father's pride

His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride;
While she with her bright eyes seemed to be
The star of the goodly company.

"I'm weary of dancing now," she cried;
"Here tarry a moment, I'll hide, I'll hide!
And, Lovell, be sure thou'rt first to trace
The clew to my secret lurking-place."
Away she ran, and her friends began

Each tower to search, and each nook to scan;
And young Lovell cried, "O, where dost thou hide?
I'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride."

They sought her that night, and they sought her next day, And they sought her in vain while a week passed away;

In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot,

Young Lovell sought wildly, but found her not.
And years flew by, and their grief at last
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past;
And when Lovell appeared, the children cried,
"See! the old man weeps for his fairy bride."

At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid,
Was found in the castle,—they raised the lid,
And a skeleton form lay moldering there
In the bridal wreath of that lady fair!

O, sad was her fate!-in sportive jest
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest.
It closed with a spring!--and, dreadful doom,
The bride lay clasped in her living tomb!

Thomas Haynes Bayly [1797-1839]

THE ABBOT OF INISFALEN

I

THE Abbot of Inisfalen

Awoke ere dawn of day; Under the dewy green leaves Went he forth to pray.

The lake around his island

Lay smooth and dark and deep, And, wrapped in a misty stillness, The mountains were all asleep.

Low kneeled the Abbot Cormac, When the dawn was dim and gray;

The prayers of his holy office

He faithfully 'gan say.

Low kneeled the Abbot Cormac,

When the dawn was waxing red,

And for his sins' forgiveness

A solemn prayer he said.

Low kneeled that holy Abbot

When the dawn was waxing clear; And he prayed with loving-kindness For his convent brethren dear.

Low kneeled that blessed Abbot, When the dawn was waxing bright; He prayed a great prayer for Ireland, He prayed with all his might.

Low kneeled that good old father,
While the sun began to dart;
He prayed a prayer for all mankind,
He prayed it from his heart.

II

The Abbot of Inisfalen

Arose upon his feet;

He heard a small bird singing,
And, oh, but it sung sweet!

He heard a white bird singing well
Within a holly-tree;

A song so sweet and happy
Never before heard he.

It sung upon a hazel,

It sung upon a thorn;

He had never heard such music
Since the hour that he was born.

It sung upon a sycamore,
It sung upon a briar;

To follow the song and hearken
This Abbot could never tire.

Till at last he well bethought him

He might no longer stay;

So he blessed the little white singing-bird,

And gladly went his way.

III

But when he came to his Abbey walls,

He found a wondrous change;

He saw no friendly faces there,
For every face was strange.

The stranger spoke unto him;

And he heard from all and each The foreign tone of the Sassenach, Not wholesome Irish speech.

Then the oldest monk came forward,
In Irish tongue spake he:

"Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress,

And who hath given it thee?"

"I wear the holy Augustine's dress,

And Cormac is my name,

The Abbot of this good Abbey
By grace of God I am.

"I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day;
And when my prayers were said,

I hearkened awhile to a little bird
That sung above my head."

The monks to him made answer,

"Two hundred years have gone o'er,

Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate, And never was heard of more.

"Matthias now is our Abbot,
And twenty have passed away.
The stranger is lord of Ireland;
We live in an evil day."

IV

"Now give me absolution;

For my time is come," said he.
And they gave him absolution
As speedily as might be.

Then, close outside the window,
The sweetest song they heard
That ever yet since the world began
Was uttered by any bird.

The monks looked out and saw the bird,
Its feathers all white and clean;
And there in a moment, beside it,
Another white bird was seen.

Those two they sang together,

Waved their white wings, and fled;

Flew aloft, and vanished;

But the good old man was dead.

They buried his blessed body
Where lake and greensward meet;
A carven cross above his head,
A holly-bush at his feet;

Where spreads the beautiful water
To gay or cloudy skies,

And the purple peaks of Killarney

From ancient woods arise.

William Allingham [1824-1889]

THE CAVALIER'S ESCAPE

TRAMPLE! trample! went the roan,

Trap! trap! went the gray;

But pad! pad! PAD! like a thing that was mad,

My chestnut broke away.

It was just five miles from Salisbury town,
And but one hour to day.

Thud! THUD! came on the heavy roan,
Rap! RAP! the mettled gray;

But my chestnut mare was of blood so rare,
That she showed them all the way.

Spur on! spur on!-I doffed my hat,
And wished them all good-day.

They splashed through miry rut and pool,-
Splintered through fence and rail;

But chestnut Kate switched over the gate,-
I saw them droop and trail.

To Salisbury town-but a mile of down,
Once over this brook and rail.

Trap! trap! I heard their echoing hoofs
Past the walls of mossy stone;
The roan flew on at a staggering pace,
But blood is better than bone.

I patted old Kate, and gave her the spur,
For I knew it was all my own.