Once I loved a maiden fair, _Over the hills and far away_. Lands she had and lovers to spare, _Over the hills and far away_. And I was stooped and troubled sore, And my face was pale, and the coat I wore Was thin as my supper the night before. _Over the hills and far away_. ..... To-morrow, Mavourneen a sleeveen weds, _Over the hills and far away_; With corn in haggard and cattle in shed, _Over the hills and far away_. And I who have lost her--the dear, the rare, Well, I got me this ballad to sing at the fair, 'Twill bring enough money to drown my care, _Over the hills and far away_. It is an arresting fact, however, that the spirit of nationality is strong in the work of these poets. True, one may distinguish between a national sense, keen and directly expressed, and the almost subconscious influence of race. The first is a theme deliberately chosen by the poet and variously treated by him. It is a conscious and direct expression--of aspiration or regret. Racial influence is something deeper and more constant: something, too, which quite confounds the sceptic on this particular subject. Whether from inheritance or environment, it has 'bred true' in these poets; and it will be found to pervade their work like an atmosphere. It belongs inalienably to themselves: it is of the essence of their genius, and it is revealed everywhere, in little things as in great, in cadency and idiom as well as in an attitude to life and a certain range of ideas. But though we may make the distinction, it will hardly do to disengage the strands, because they are so closely bound together. We may only note the predominance of one or the other, with an occasional complete and perfect combination. Perhaps the work in which they are least obvious is the slim volume of Miss Ella Young. But, even here, and choosing two poems where the artistic instinct has completely subdued its material, we shall find some of the signs that we are looking for; and not altogether _because_ we are looking for them. Thus a sonnet, called "The Virgin Mother," suggests its origin in its very title and, moreover, it is occupied with a thought of death and a sense of blissful quietude which are familiar in Irish poetry. Now Day's worn out, and Dusk has claimed a share Of earth and sky and all the things that be, I lay my tired head against your knee, And feel your fingers smooth my tangled hair. I loved you once, when I had heart to dare, And sought you over many a land and sea; Yet all the while you waited here for me In a sweet stillness shut away from care. I have no longing now, no dreams of bliss. But drowsed in peace through the soft gloom I wait Until the stars be kindled by God's breath; For then you'll bend above me with the kiss Earth's children long for when the hour grows late, Mother of Consolation, Sovereign Death.