Had he died calmly, I would not deplore him; Or if the wild strife Of the sea-war closed o'er him: But with ropes round his white limbs Through ocean to trail him, Like a fish after slaughter-- 'Tis therefore I wail him. Long may the curse Of his people pursue them; Scully, that sold him, And soldier that slew him! One glimpse of heaven's light May they see never! May the hearthstone of hell Be their best bed for ever! In the hole which the vile hands Of soldiers had made thee, Unhonour'd, unshrouded, And headless they laid thee; No sigh to regret thee, No eye to rain o'er thee, No dirge to lament thee, No friend to deplore thee! Dear head of my darling, How gory and pale, These aged eyes see thee, High spiked on their gaol! That cheek in the summer sun Ne'er shall grow warm; Nor that eye e'er catch light, But the flash of the storm. A curse, blessed ocean, Is on thy green water, From the haven of Cork To Ivera of slaughter: Since thy billows were dyed With the red wounds of fear Of Muiertach Oge, Our O'Sullivan Bear! _Jeremiah Joseph Callanan_ LOVE SONG Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through her hair; Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers Breathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air. Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming To wind round the willow banks that lure him from above; O that in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, I too could glide to the bower of my love! Ah, where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her, Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay, Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her, To her lost mate's call in the forests far away. Come then, my bird! For the peace thou ever bearest, Still heaven's messenger of comfort to me, Come, this fond bosom, O faithfulest and fairest Bleeds with its death-wound its wound of love for thee! _George Darley_ THE WHISTLIN' THIEF When Pat came over the hill, His colleen fair to see, His whistle low, but shrill, The signal was to be; (_Pat whistles._) 'Mary,' the mother said, 'Some one is whistling sure;' Says Mary, ''Tis only the wind Is whistling through the door.' (_Pat whistles a bit of a popular air._) 'I've lived a long time, Mary, In this wide world, my dear, But a door to whistle like _that_ I never yet did hear.' 'But, mother, you know the fiddle Hangs close beside the chink, And the wind upon the strings Is playing the tune I think.'