should be dear to students of folk-lore. The following is a version of "La Poussiere Sainte:" Sweeping an ancient chapel through the night (A ruin now), built 'neath a rocky height, The aged Coulm's old wife was muttering, As if some secret strange abroad to fling. "I brave, thee tempest, and will do alone What by my grand-dame in her youth was done, When at her beck (of Leon's land, the pride), The ocean, lion-headed, curbed its tide. "Sweep, sweep, my broom, until my charm uprears A force more strong than sighs, more strong than tears: Charm loved of heaven, which forces wind and wave, Though fierce and mad, our children's lives to save. "My angel knows, a Christian true am I; No Pagan, nor in league with sorcery. Hence I dispense to the four winds of God, To quell their rage, dust from the holy sod. "Sweep on my broom; by virtues such as these Oft through the air I scattered swarms of bees. And you, old Coulm, to-morrow shall be prest, You, and my children three, against my breast." In Enn-Tell's port meanwhile, the pier along Pressed forward, mute, dismayed, the anxious throng. And as the billows howl, the lightnings flash, And skies, lead-black, to earth seem like to dash; Neighbours clasped hand to hand, and each one prayed, Through superstition, speechless, while afraid. Still as the port a sail did safely reach, All shouting hurried forward to the beach: "Father, is't you? Speak, father is it true?" Others, "Hast seen my son?" "My brother, you?" "Brave man, the truth, whate'er has happened, say, Am I a widow?" Night in such dismay Dragged 'neath a sky without a moon or star. Thank God! Meanwhile all boats in safety are, And every hearth is blazing--all save one, The Columban's. But that was void and lone. But you, Coulm's wife, still battle with the storm, Fixed on the rocks, your task you still perform,-- You cast, towards east, towards west, and towards the north, And towards the south, your incantations forth. "Go, holy dust, 'gainst all the winds that fly. No sorceress, but a Christian true am I. By the lamp's light, when I the fire had lit, In God's own house, my hands collected it. "You from the statues of the saints I swept, And silken flags, still on the pillars kept, And the dark tombs, of those whose sons neglect, But you, with your white winding-sheet protect. "Go, holy dust! To stem the winds depart! Born beneath Christian feet, thou glorious art: When from the porch, I to the altar sped, I seemed upon some heavenly path to tread. "On you the deacons and the priests have trod, Pilgrims who live, forefathers 'neath the sod; Wood flowers, sweet grains of incense, saintly bones; By dawn you will restore my spouse and sons."