IRISH MELODIES.

II.

KENMARE RIVER.

'Tis pretty to be in Ballinderry, 'Tis pretty to be in Ballindoon, But 'tis prettier far in County Kerry Coortin' under the bran' new moon, Aroon, Aroon!

'Twas there by the bosom of blue Killarney They came by the hundther' a-coortin' me; Sure I was the one to give back their blarney, An' merry was I to be fancy-free.

But niver a step in the lot was lighter, An' divvle a boulder among the bhoys, Than Phelim O'Shea, me dynamither, Me illigant arthist in clock-work toys.

'Twas all for love he would bring his figgers Of iminent statesmen, in toy machines, An' hould me hand as he pulled the thriggers An' scattered the thraytors to smithereens.

An' to see the Queen in her Crystial Pallus Fly up to the roof, an' the windeys broke! And all with divvle a trace of malus,— But he was the bhoy that enjoyed his joke!

Then O, but his cheek would flush, an' 'Bridget,' He 'd say, 'Will yez love me?' But I 'd be coy And answer him, 'Arrah now, dear, don't fidget!' Though at heart I loved him, me arthist bhoy!

One night we stood by the Kenmare river, An' 'Bridget, creina, now whist,' said he, 'I'll be goin' to-night, an' may be for iver; Open your arms at the last to me.'

'Twas there by the banks of the Kenmare river He took in his hands me white, white face, An' we kissed our first an' our last for iver— For Phelim O'Shea is disparsed in space.

'Twas pretty to be by blue Killarney, 'Twas pretty to hear the linnets's call, But whist! for I cannot attind their blarney, Nor whistle in answer at all, at all.

For the voice that he swore 'ud out-call the linnet's Is cracked intoirely, and out of chune, Since the clock-work missed it by thirteen minutes An' scattered me Phelim around the moon, Aroon, Aroon!

LADY JANE.

Sapphics.

Down the green hill-side fro' the castle window Lady Jane spied Bill Amaranth a-workin'; Day by day watched him go about his ample Nursery garden.

Cabbages thriv'd there, wi' a mort o' green-stuff— Kidney beans, broad beans, onions, tomatoes, Artichokes, seakale, vegetable marrows, Early potatoes.

Lady Jane cared not very much for all these: What she cared much for was a glimpse o' Willum Strippin' his brown arms wi' a view to horti- -Cultural effort.

Little guessed Willum, never extra-vain, that Up the green hill-side, i' the gloomy castle, Feminine eyes could so delight to view his Noble proportions.

Only one day while, in an innocent mood, Moppin' his brow ('cos 'twas a trifle sweaty) With a blue kerchief—lo, he spies a white 'un Coyly responding.

Oh, delightsome Love! Not a jot do you care For the restrictions set on human inter- -course by cold-blooded social refiners; Nor do I, neither.

Day by day, peepin' fro' behind the bean-sticks, Willum observed that scrap o' white a-wavin', Till his hot sighs out-growin' all repression Busted his weskit.

Lady Jane's guardian was a haughty Peer, who Clung to old creeds and had a nasty temper; Can we blame Willum that he hardly cared to Risk a refusal?

Year by year found him busy 'mid the bean-sticks, Wholly uncertain how on earth to take steps. Thus for eighteen years he beheld the maiden Wave fro' her window.

But the nineteenth spring, i' the Castle post-bag, Came by book-post Bill's catalogue o' seedlings Mark'd wi' blue ink at 'Paragraphs relatin' Mainly to Pumpkins.'

'W. A. can,' so the Lady Jane read, 'Strongly commend that very noble Gourd, the Lady Jane, first-class medal, ornamental; Grows to a great height.'

Scarce a year arter, by the scented hedgerows— Down the mown hill-side, fro' the castle gateway— Came a long train and, i' the midst, a black bier, Easily shouldered.

'Whose is yon corse that, thus adorned wi' gourd-leaves, Forth ye bear with slow step?' A mourner answer'd, ''Tis the poor clay-cold body Lady Jane grew Tired to abide in.'

'Delve my grave quick, then, for I die to-morrow. Delve it one furlong fro' the kidney bean-sticks, Where I may dream she's goin' on precisely As she was used to.'

Hardly died Bill when, fro' the Lady Jane's grave, Crept to his white death-bed a lovely pumpkin: Climb'd the house wall and over-arched his head wi' Billowy verdure.

Simple this tale!—but delicately perfumed As the sweet roadside honeysuckle. That's why, Difficult though its metre was to tackle, I'm glad I wrote it.

A TRIOLET.

To commemorate the virtue of Homoeopathy in restoring one apparently drowned.

Love, that in a tear was drown'd, Lives revived by a tear. Stella heard them mourn around Love that in a tear was drown'd, Came and coax'd his dripping swound, Wept 'The fault was mine, my dear!' Love, that in a tear was drown'd, Lives, revived by a tear.

AN OATH.

(From 'Troy Town'.)

A month ago Lysander pray'd To Jove, to Cupid, and to Venus, That he might die if he betray'd A single vow that pass'd between us.

Ah, careless gods, to hear so ill And cheat a maid on you relying! For false Lysander's thriving still, And 'tis Corinna lies a-dying.

UPON GRACIOSA, WALKING AND TALKING.

(From 'Troy Town'.)

When as abroad, to greet the morn, I mark my Graciosa walk, In homage bends the whisp'ring corn, Yet to confess Its awkwardness Must hang its head upon the stalk.

And when she talks, her lips do heal The wounds her lightest glances give:— In pity then be harsh, and deal Such wounds that I May hourly die, And, by a word restored, live.

WRITTEN UPON LOVE'S FRONTIER-POST.

(From 'Troy Town'.)

Toiling love, loose your pack, All your sighs and tears unbind: Care's a ware will break a back, Will not bend a maiden's mind.

In this State a man shall need Neither priest nor law giver: Those same lips that are his creed Shall confess their worshipper.

All the laws he must obey, Now in force and now repeal'd, Shift in eyes that shift as they, Till alike with kisses seal'd.

TITANIA.

By Lord T-n.

So bluff Sir Leolin gave the bride away: And when they married her, the little church Had seldom seen a costlier ritual. The coach and pair alone were two-pound-ten, And two-pound-ten apiece the wedding-cakes;— Three wedding-cakes. A Cupid poised a-top Of each hung shivering to the frosted loves Of two fond cushats on a field of ice, As who should say 'I see you!'—Such the joy When English-hearted Edwin swore his faith With Mariana of the Moated Grange.

For Edwin, plump head-waiter at The Cock, Grown sick of custom, spoilt of plenitude, Lacking the finer wit that saith, 'I wait, They come; and if I make them wait, they go,' Fell in a jaundiced humour petulant-green, Watched the dull clerk slow-rounding to his cheese, Flicked a full dozen flies that flecked the pane— All crystal-cheated of the fuller air, Blurted a free 'Good-day t'ye,' left and right, And shaped his gathering choler to this head:—

'Custom! And yet what profit of it all? The old order changeth yielding place to new, To me small change, and this the Counter-change Of custom beating on the self-same bar— Change out of chop. Ah me! the talk, the tip, The would-be-evening should-be-mourning suit, The forged solicitude for petty wants More petty still than they,—all these I loathe, Learning they lie who feign that all things come To him that waiteth. I have waited long, And now I go, to mate me with a bride Who is aweary waiting, even as I!'

But when the amorous moon of honeycomb Was over, ere the matron-flower of Love— Step-sister of To-morrow's marmalade— Swooned scentless, Mariana found her lord Did something jar the nicer feminine sense With usage, being all too fine and large, Instinct of warmth and colour, with a trick Of blunting 'Mariana's' keener edge To 'Mary Ann'—the same but not the same: Whereat she girded, tore her crisped hair, Called him 'Sir Churl,' and ever calling 'Churl!' Drave him to Science, then to Alcohol, To forge a thousand theories of the rocks, Then somewhat else for thousands dewy cool, Wherewith he sought a more Pacific isle And there found love, a duskier love than hers.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

By O—r K—m.

Wake! for the closed Pavilion doors have kept Their silence while the white-eyed Kaffir slept, And wailed the Nightingale with 'Jug, jug, jug!' Whereat, for empty cup, the White Rose wept.

Enter with me where yonder door hangs out Its Red Triangle to a world of drought, Inviting to the Palace of the Djinn, Where Death, Aladdin, waits as Chuckerout.

Methought, last night, that one in suit of woe Stood by the Tavern-door and whispered, 'Lo, The Pledge departed, what avails the Cup? Then take the Pledge and let the Wine-cup go.'

But I: 'For every thirsty soul that drains This Anodyne of Thought its rim contains— Free-will the can, Necessity the must, Pour off the must, and, see, the can remains.

'Then, pot or glass, why label it "With Care"? Or why your Sheepskin with my Gourd compare? Lo! here the Bar and I the only Judge:— O, Dog that bit me, I exact an hair!'

We are the Sum of things, who jot our score With Caesar's clay behind the Tavern door: And Alexander's armies—where are they, But gone to Pot—that Pot you push for more?

And this same Jug I empty, could it speak, Might whisper that itself had been a Beak And dealt me Fourteen Days 'without the Op.'— Your Worship, see, my lip is on your cheek.

Yourself condemned to three score years and ten, Say, did you judge the ways of other men? Why, now, sir, you are hourly filled with wine, And has the clay more licence now than then?

Life is a draught, good sir; its brevity Gives you and me our measures, and thereby Has docked your virtue to a tankard's span, And left of my criterion—a Cri'!

RETROSPECTION.

After C. S. C.

When the hunter-star Orion (Or, it may be, Charles his Wain) Tempts the tiny elves to try on All their little tricks again; When the earth is calmly breathing Draughts of slumber undefiled, And the sire, unused to teething, Seeks for errant pins his child;

When the moon is on the ocean, And our little sons and heirs From a natural emotion Wish the luminary theirs; Then a feeling hard to stifle, Even harder to define, Makes me feel I 'd give a trifle For the days of Auld Lang Syne.

James—for we have been as brothers (Are, to speak correctly, twins), Went about in one another's Clothing, bore each other's sins, Rose together, ere the pearly Tint of morn had left the heaven, And retired (absurdly early) Simultaneously at seven—

James, the days of yore were pleasant. Sweet to climb for alien pears Till the irritated peasant Came and took us unawares; Sweet to devastate his chickens, As the ambush'd catapult Scattered, and the very dickens Was the natural result;

Sweet to snare the thoughtless rabbit; Break the next-door neighbour's pane; Cultivate the smoker's habit On the not-innocuous cane; Leave the exercise unwritten; Systematically cut Morning school, to plunge the kitten In his bath, the water-butt.

Age, my James, that from the cheek of Beauty steals its rosy hue, Has not left us much to speak of: But 'tis not for this I rue. Beauty with its thousand graces, Hair and tints that will not fade, You may get from many places Practically ready-made.

No; it is the evanescence Of those lovelier tints of Hope— Bubbles, such as adolescence Joys to win from melted soap— Emphasizing the conclusion That the dreams of Youth remain Castles that are An delusion (Castles, that's to say, in Spain).

Age thinks 'fit,' and I say 'fiat.' Here I stand for Fortune's butt, As for Sunday swains to shy at Stands the stoic coco-nut. If you wish it put succinctly, Gone are all our little games; But I thought I 'd say distinctly What I feel about it, James.