Dearer, far dearer than ever to me, My darling, you'll be on the brave gallows tree. "'Tis holy, agra, from the bravest and best-- Go! go! from my heart, and be join'd with the rest, _Alanna, machree! O Alanita, machree!_ Sure a 'stag' * and a traitor you never will be." There's no look of a traitor upon the young brow That's raised to the tempters so haughtily now; No traitor e'er held up the firm head so high-- No traitor e'er show'd such a proud flashing eye. On the high gallows tree! on the brave gallows tree! Where smil'd leaves and blossoms, his sad doom met he! But it never bore blossom so pure or so fair, As the heart of the martyr that hangs from it there. * "_Stag_," an informer. THE LAKE OF COOLFIN |To the Lake of Coolfin the companions soon came, And the first man they met was the keeper of game:-- "Turn back Willy Leonard, return back again; There is deep and false water in the Lake of Coolfin!" Young Willy plunged in, and he swam the lake round; He swam to an island--'twas soft marshy ground: "O, comrade, dear comrade, do not venture in; There is deep and false water in the Lake of Coolfin!" 'Twas early that morning his sister arose; And up to her mother's bed-chamber she goes:-- "O, I dreamed a sad dream about Willy last night; He was dressed in a shroud--in a shroud of snow-white!" 'Twas early that morning his mother came there; She was wringing her hands--she was tearing her hair. O, woful the hour your dear Willy plunged in:-- There is deep and false water in the Lake of Coolfin! And I saw a fair maid, standing fast by the shore; Her face it was pale--she was weeping full sore; In deep anguish she gazed where young Willy plunged in:-- Ah! there's deep and false water in the Lake of Coolfin! _Old Ballad. Recomposed by_ P. W. Joyce. BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE |By that Lake, whose gloomy shore Skylark never warbles o'er, Where the cliff hangs high and steep, Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep. "Here, at least," he calmly said, "Woman ne'er shall find my bed." Ah! the good Saint little knew What that wily sex can do. 'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew,-- Eyes of most unholy blue! She had lov'd him well and long, Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong. Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly, Still he heard her light foot nigh; East or west, where'er he turn'd, Still her eyes before him burn'd. On the bold cliff's bosom cast, Tranquil now he sleeps at last; Dreams of heav'n, nor thinks that e'er Woman's smile can haunt him there. But nor earth nor heaven is free From her power, if fond she be: Even now, while calm he sleeps, Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps. Fearless she had track'd his feet To this rocky, wild retreat; And when morning met his view,