Seldom descending to caricature, Daly exhibits the features and foibles of his characters without exploiting them; even the lightest passages in _McAroni Ballads_ (1919) are done with delicacy and a not too sentimental appreciation. THE SONG OF THE THRUSH Ah! the May was grand this mornin’! Shure, how could I feel forlorn in Such a land, when tree and flower tossed their kisses to the breeze? Could an Irish heart be quiet While the Spring was runnin’ riot, An’ the birds of free America were singin’ in the trees? In the songs that they were singin’ No familiar note was ringin’, But I strove to imitate them an’ I whistled like a lad. Oh, my heart was warm to love them For the very newness of them— For the ould songs that they helped me to forget—an’ I was glad. So I mocked the feathered choir To my hungry heart’s desire, An’ I gloried in the comradeship that made their joy my own. Till a new note sounded, stillin’ All the rest. A thrush was trillin’! Ah! the thrush I left behind me in the fields about Athlone! Where, upon the whitethorn swayin’, He was minstrel of the Mayin’, In my days of love an’ laughter that the years have laid at rest; Here again his notes were ringin’! But I’d lost the heart for singin’— Ah! the song I could not answer was the one I knew the best. MIA CARLOTTA Giuseppe, da barber, ees greata for “mash,” He gotta da bigga, da blacka mustache, Good clo’es an’ good styla an’ playnta good cash. W’enevra Giuseppe ees walk on da street, Da peopla dey talka, “how nobby! how neat! How softa da handa, how smalla da feet.” He raisa hees hat an’ he shaka hees curls, An’ smila weeth teetha so shiny like pearls; O! many da heart of da seelly young girls He gotta. Yes, playnta he gotta— But notta Carlotta! Giuseppe, da barber, he maka da eye, An’ lika de steam engine puffa an’ sigh, For catcha Carlotta w’en she ees go by. Carlotta she walka weeth nose in da air, An’ look through Giuseppe weeth far-away stare, As eef she no see dere ees som’body dere. Giuseppe, da barber, he gotta da cash, He gotta da clo’es an’ da bigga mustache, He gotta da seelly young girls for da “mash,” But notta— You bat my life, notta— Carlotta. I gotta! BETWEEN TWO LOVES