Seest thou shadows sailing by,
As the dove, with startled eye,
Sees the falcon's shadow fly?

Hearest thou voices on the shore,
That our ears perceive no more,
Deafened by the cataract's roar?

Oh, thou child of many prayers!
Life hath quicksands-Life hath snares!
Cars and age come unawares!

Like the swell of some sweet tune,
Morning rises into noon,

May glides onward into June.

Childhood is the bough, where slumbered
Birds and blossoms many-numbered;
Age, the bough with snows encumbered.

Gather, then, each flower that grows,
When the young heart overflows,
To embalm that tent of snows.

Bear a lily in thy hand;

Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand.

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
In thy heart the dew of youth,
On thy lips the smile of truth.

Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal
Into wounds, that cannot heal,
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;

And that smile, like sunshine dark
Into a sunless heart,

many

For a smile of God thou art.

THE POTATO DIGGER'S SONG.

THE POTATO DIGGER'S SONG.

T. C. IRWIN.

COME, Connal, acushla, turn the clay,
And show the lumpers the light, gossoon,
For we must toil this autumn day,

With heaven's help, till rise of the moon.
Our corn is stacked, our hay secure,

Thank God! and nothing, my boy, remains
But to pile the potaties safe on the flure,
Before the coming November rains.

The peasant's mine is his harvest still;
So now, my lad, let's dig with a will:-
Work hand and foot,

Work spade and hand,

Work spade and hand

Through the crumbly mould;

The blessed fruit

That grows at the root
Is the real gold

Of Ireland!

Och! I wish that Maurice and Mary dear
Were singing beside us this soft day!
Of course they're far better off than here;
But whether they're happier, who can say ?
I've heard, when it's morn with us, it's night
With them on the far Australian shore ;-
Well, heaven be about them wid visions bright,
And send them childer and money galore.
With us there's many a mouth to fill,
And so, my boy, let's dig with a will:—
Work hand and foot, &c.

361

Ah, then, Paddy O'Reardan, you thundering Turk, Is it coorting you are in the blessed noon ? Come over here, Katty, and mind your work,

Or I'll see if your mother can't change your tune.

Well-youth will be youth, as you know, Mick,
Sixteen and twenty for each were meant;
But, Pat, in the name of the fairies, avic,
Defer your proposals till after Lent;

And as love in this island lives mostly still
On potatoes-dig, boy, dig with a will:-
Work hand and foot, &c.

Down the bridle road the neighbours ride,
Through the light ash shade, by the wheater

sheaves:

And the children sing on the mountain side,

In the sweet blue smoke of the burning leaves. As the great sun sets in glory furled,

Faith, it's grand to think as I watch his faceIf he never sets on the English World,

He never, lad, sets on the Irish Race.

In the west, in the south, New Irelands still
Grow up in his light;-come, work with a will—
Work hand and foot, &c.

But look!-the round moon, yellow as corn,
Comes up from the sea in the deep blue calm;
It scarcely seems a day since morn;

ma'am.

Well-the heel of the evening to you,
God bless the moon: for many a night,
As I restless lay on a troubled bed,
When rent was due-her quieting light
Has flattered with dreams my poor old head:-
But see-the baskets remain to fill!-

Come, girls, be alive;-boys, dig with a will:-
Work hand and foot, &c.

FATHER O'FLynn.

FATHER O'FLYNN.

ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.

Or priests we can offer a charmin' variety,
Far renowned for larnin' and piety;
Still, I'd advance ye widout impropriety,
Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.
CHORUS.

Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,
Slainté, and slainté, and slainté agin;
Powerfulest preacher, and
Tinderest teacher, and

Kindliest creature in ould Donegal.

363

Don't talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity,
Famous for ever at Greek and Latinity,
Faix, and the divels and all at divinity,
Father O'Flynn 'd make hares of them all!
Come, I vinture to give ye my word,
Never the likes of his logic was heard,
Down from mythology

Into thayology,

Troth! and conchology if he'd the call.

CHORUS.

Here's a health to you Father O'Flynn,
Slainté, and slainté, and slainté agin;
Powerfulest preacher, and
Tinderest teacher, and

Kindliest creature in ould Donegal.

Och! Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way wid you,

All ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you,
All the young childer are wild for to play wid you,
You've such a wav wid you, Father, avick!

Still for all you've so gentle a soul,

Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control;
Checking the crazy ones,

Coaxin' onaisy ones,

Liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick.

CHORUS.

Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,
Slainté, and slainté, and slainté agin;
Powerfulest preacher, and
Tinderest teacher, and

Kindliest creature in ould Donegal.

And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity,
Still at all seasons of innocent jollity,

Where was the play-boy could claim an equality
At comicality, Father, wid you?

Once the bishop looked grave at your jest,
Till this remark set him off wid the rest :
"Is it lave gaiety

All to the laity ?

Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too ?"

CHORUS.

Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,
Slainté, and slainté, and slainté agin;
Powerfulest preacher, and

Tinderest teacher, and

Kindliest creature in ould Donegal.

THE BLUE, BLUE SMOKE.

ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.

Он, many and many a time
In the dim old days,

When the chapel's distant chime

Pealed the hour of evening praise,