I'm bidding you a long farewell, My Mary kind and true, But I'll not forget you, darling, In the land I'm going to. They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there, But I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times less fair. _LORD HOUGHTON_ SONG I WANDER'D by the brook-side, I wander'd by the mill,-- I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still; There was no burr of grasshopper, Nor chirp of any bird; But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. I sat beneath the elm-tree, I watch'd the long, long shade, And as it grew still longer I did not feel afraid; For I listen'd for a footfall, I listen'd for a word,-- But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. He came not,--no, he came not; The night came on alone; The little stars sat one by one Each on his golden throne; The evening air pass'd by my cheek, The leaves above were stirr'd,-- But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. Fast silent tears were flowing, When some one stood behind; A hand was on my shoulder, I knew its touch was kind: It drew me nearer, nearer; We did not speak a word,-- For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard. THE LONG-AGO ON that deep-retiring shore Frequent pearls of beauty lie, Where the passion-waves of yore Fiercely beat and mounted high: Sorrows that are sorrows still Lose the bitter taste of woe; Nothing's altogether ill In the griefs of Long-ago. Tombs where lonely love repines, Ghastly tenements of tears, Wear the look of happy shrines Through the golden mist of years Death, to those who trust in good, Vindicates his hardest blow; Oh! we would not, if we could, Wake the sleep of Long-ago! Though the doom of swift decay Shocks the soul where life is strong, Though for frailer hearts the day Lingers sad and overlong-- Still the weight will find a leaven, Still the spoiler's hand is slow, While the future has its heaven, And the past its Long-ago. _REV. CHARLES KINGSLEY_ THE SANDS OF DEE 'OH, Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee.' The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she. The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she. 'Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- A tress of golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea?' Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes of Dee. They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea. But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee. THREE FISHERS