Poor Caoch and Pinch slept well that night, And in the morning early He called me up to hear him play "The wind that shakes the barley." And then he stroked my flaxen hair, And cried, "God mark my deary!" And how I wept when he said, "Farewell, And think of Caoch O'Leary!" And seasons came and went, and still Old Caoch was not forgotten, Although I thought him dead and gone, And in the cold clay rotten; And often when I walked and danced With Eily, Kate, and Mary, We spoke of childhood's rosy hours, And prayed for Caoch O'Leary. Well--twenty summers had gone past, And June's red sun was sinking, When I, a man, sat by my door, Of twenty sad things thinking. A little dog came up the way, His gait was slow and weary, And at his tail a lame man limped, 'Twas Pinch and Caoch O'Leary. Old Caoch! but ah! how woe-begone! His form is bowed and bending, His fleshless hands are stiff and wan, Ay, time is even blending The colours on his threadbare bag, And Pinch is twice as hairy And thin-spare as when first I saw Himself and Caoch O'Leary. "God's blessing here!" the wanderer cried, "Far, far be hell, black viper; Does anybody hereabouts Remember Caoch, the piper?" With swelling heart I grasped his hand; The old man murmured, "Deary, Are you the silken-headed child That loved poor Caoch O'Leary?" [Illustration: 0224] "Yes, yes!" I said. The wanderer wept As if his heart was breaking; "And where, _avic machree_" * he said, "Is all the merry-making I found here twenty years ago?" "My tale," I sighed, "might weary: Enough to say, there's none but me To welcome Caoch O'Leary." "_Vo, vo, vo!_" the old man cried, And wrung his hands in sorrow; "Pray lead me in, _astore machree_, And I'll _go home_ to-morrow. My peace is made, I'll calmly leave This world so cold and dreary, And you shall keep my pipes and dog, And pray for Caoch O'Leary." With Pinch I watched his bed that night; Next day his wish was granted,-- He died, and Father James was brought, And the requiem mass was chanted. The neighbours came;--we dug his grave, Near Eily, Kate, and Mary, And there he sleeps his last sweet sleep,-- God rest you, Caoch O'Leary! J. Keegan. * _Vic ma chree_, Son of my heart. [Illustration: 0226] THE FAIRY THORN |Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning-wheel; For your father's on the hill, and your mother is asleep: Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a highland reel Around the fairy thorn on the steep." At Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens cried, Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green; And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside, The fairest of the four, I ween.