From Derry to Bundrowas Tower, Tirconnell broad was theirs; Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine, and holy abbot's prayers; With chanting always in the house which they had builded high To God and to Saint Bernard,-- where at last they came to die. At worst, no workhouse grave for him! the ruins of his race Shall rest among the ruin'd stones of this their saintly place. The fond old man was weeping; and tremulous and slow Along the rough and crooked lane he crept from Asaroe. A DREAM I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night; I went to the window to see the sight; All the Dead that ever I knew Going one by one and two by two. On they pass'd, and on they pass'd; Townsfellows all, from first to last; Born in the moonlight of the lane, Quench'd in the heavy shadow again. Schoolmates, marching as when we play'd At soldiers once--but now more staid; Those were the strangest sight to me Who were drown'd, I knew, in the awful sea. Straight and handsome folk; bent and weak, too; Some that I loved, and gasp'd to speak to; Some but a day in their churchyard bed; Some that I had not known were dead. A long, long crowd--where each seem'd lonely, Yet of them all there was one, one only, Raised a head or look'd my way: She linger'd a moment--she might not stay. How long since I saw that fair pale face! Ah! Mother dear! might I only place My head on thy breast, a moment to rest, While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest! On, on, a moving bridge they made Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade, Young and old, women and men; Many long-forgot, but remember'd then. And first there came a bitter laughter; A sound of tears the moment after; And then a music so lofty and gay, That every morning, day by day, I strive to recall it if I may. THE FAIRIES Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather! Down along the rocky shore Some make their home, They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow tide-foam; Some in the reeds Of the black mountain lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake. High on the hill-top The old King sits; He is now so old and gray He's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights, To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern Lights.