THE IRISH PEASANT GIRL She lived beside the Anner, At the foot of Sliev-na-mon, A gentle peasant girl, With mild eyes like the dawn; Her lips were dewy rosebuds; Her teeth of pearls rare; And a snow-drift 'neath a beechen bough Her neck and nut-brown hair. How pleasant 'twas to meet her On Sunday, when the bell Was filling with its mellow tones Lone wood and grassy dell! And when at eve young maidens Strayed the river-bank along, The widow's brown-haired daughter Was loveliest of the throng. O brave, brave Irish girls-- We well may call you brave!-- Sure the least of all your perils Is the stormy ocean wave, When you leave our quiet valleys, And cross the Atlantic's foam, To hoard your hard-won earnings For the helpless ones at home. 'Write word to my own dear mother-- Say, we'll meet with God above; And tell my little brothers I send them all my love; May the angels ever guard them, Is their dying sister's prayer'-- And folded in the letter Was a braid of nut-brown hair. Ah, cold, and well-nigh callous, This weary heart has grown For thy helpless fate, dear Ireland, And for sorrows of my own; Yet a tear my eye will moisten When by Anner's side I stray, For the lily of the mountain foot That withered far away. _Charles J. Kickham_ TO GOD AND IRELAND TRUE I sit beside my darling's grave, Who in the prison died, And tho' my tears fall thick and fast, I think of him with pride:-- Ay, softly fall my tears like dew, For one to God and Ireland true. 'I love my God o'er all,' he said, 'And then I love my land, And next I love my Lily sweet, Who pledged me her white hand:-- To each--to all--I'm ever true, To God--to Ireland and to you.' No tender nurse his hard bed smoothed Or softly raised his head:-- He fell asleep and woke in heaven Ere I knew he was dead;-- Yet why should I my darling rue? He was to God and Ireland true. O, 'tis a glorious memory; I'm prouder than a queen To sit beside my hero's grave And think on what has been:-- And O, my darling, I am true To God--to Ireland and to you! _Ellen O'Leary_ THE BANSHEE Green, in the wizard arms, Of the foam-bearded Atlantic, An isle of old enchantment, A melancholy isle, Enchanted and dreaming lies; And there, by Shannon's flowing, In the moonlight, spectre thin, The spectre Erin sits. An aged desolation She sits by old Shannon's flowing, A mother of many children, Of children exiled and dead, In her home, with bent head, homeless, Clasping her knees she sits, Keening, keening!