“Leave me to blossom where I sprung, A joy untarnished shall I seem; Pluck me, and you dispel the charm And blur the dream!” _The Bellman_ _Florence Earle Coates_ IRISH My father and mother were Irish, And I am Irish, too; I pipe you my bag of whistles, And it is Irish, too. ’Twill sing with you in the morning, And play with you at noon, And dance with you in the evening To a little Irish tune. For my father and mother were Irish, And I am Irish, too; And here is my bag of whistles, For it is Irish, too. _Boston Transcript_ _Edward J. O’Brien_ THE REGENTS’ EXAMINATION Muffled sounds of the city climbing to me at the window, Here in the summer noon-tide students busily writing, Children of quaint-clad immigrants, fresh from the hut and the Ghetto, Writing of pious Æneas and funeral rites of Anchises. Old-World credo and custom, alien accents and features, Plunged in the free-school hopper, grist for the Anglo-Saxons-- Old-World sweetness and light, and fiery struggle of heroes, Flashed on the blinking peasants, dull with the grime of their bondage! Race that are infant in knowledge, ancient in grief and traditions-- Lore that is tranquil with age and starry with gleams of the future-- What is the thing that will come from the might of the elements blending? Neuter and safe shall it be? Or a flame to burst us asunder? _Scribner’s Magazine_ _Jessie Wallace Hughan_ YANKEE DOODLE This poem is intended as a description of a sort of Blashfield mural painting on the sky. To be sung to the tune of Yankee Doodle, yet in a slower, more orotund fashion. It is presumably an exercise for an entertainment on the evening of Washington’s Birthday.