What form do they carry

Aloft on his shield?
And where does he tarry,
The lord of the field?

Ye saw him at morning
How gallant and gay!
In bridal adorning,

The star of the day:
Now weep for the lover-
His triumph is sped,

His hope it is over!

The chieftain is dead!

But O for the maiden

Who mourns for that chief,

With heart overladen

And rending with grief! She sinks on the meadow

In one morning-tide,

A wife and a widow,

A maid and a bride!

Ye maidens attending,
Forbear to condole !
Your comfort is rending
The depths of her soul.
True-true, 'twas a story
For ages of pride;
He died in his glory-

But, oh, he has died!

The war-cloak she raises
All mournfully now,
And steadfastly gazes

Upon the cold brow.

That glance may for ever
Unalter'd remain,

But the bridegroom will never

Return it again.

The dead-bells are tolling

In sad Malahide, The death-wail is rolling Along the sea-side; The crowds, heavy-hearted, Withdraw from the green, For the sun has departed That brighten'd the scene!

Even yet in that valley,

Though years have roll'd by, When through the wild sally The sea-breezes sigh, The peasant, with sorrow,

Beholds in the shade

The tomb where the morrow
Saw Hussy convey'd.

How scant was the warning,

How briefly reveal'd,

Before on that morning

Death's chalice was fill'd!

The hero who drunk it

There moulders in gloom,

And the form of Maud Plunket
Weeps over his tomb.

The stranger who wanders
Along the lone vale
Still sighs while he ponders
On that heavy tale :
"Thus passes each pleasure
That earth can supply-
Thus joy has its measure—
We live but to die!"

GERALD GRIFFIN.

ONE winter's day long, long ago,
When I was a little fellow,
A piper wandered to our door,
Gray-headed, blind, and yellow.
And O how glad was my young heart,
Though earth and sky looked dreary,

To see the stranger and his dog,

Poor Pinch and Caoch O'Leary !

And when he stowed away his bag

Crossbarred with green and yellow,

I thought and said, "In Ireland's ground,
There's not so fine a fellow."
And Fineen Burke and Shane Magee,
And Eily, Kate, and Mary,
Rushed in with panting haste to see
And welcome Caoch O'Leary.

O, God be with those happy times,
O, God be with my childhood,
When I, bare-headed, roamed all day
Bird-nesting in the wild wood!
I'll not forget those sunny hours
However years may vary;
I'll not forget my early friends,
Nor honest Caoch O'Leary.

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, you the silken-headed child

Are

That loved poor Caoch O'Leary?"