Girls, when I am gone away, On this bosom strew Only flowers meek and pale, And the yew.

Lay these hands down by my side, Let my face be bare; Bind a kerchief round the face, Smooth my hair.

Let my bier be borne at dawn, Summer grows so sweet, Deep into the forest green Where boughs meet.

Then pa.s.s away, and let me lie One long, warm, sweet day There alone, with face upturned, One sweet day.

While the morning light grows broad, While noon sleepeth sound, While the evening falls and faints, While the world goes round.

_Edward Dowden_

SONG

I made another garden, yea, For my new Love.

I left the dead rose where it lay And set the new above.

Why did my Summer not begin?

Why did my heart not haste?

My old Love came and walked therein And laid the garden waste.

She entered with her weary smile, Just as of old: She looked around a little while And shivered with the cold.

Her pa.s.sing touch was death to all, Her pa.s.sing look a blight; She made the white rose-petals fall, And turned the red rose white.

Her pale robe clinging to the gra.s.s Seemed like a snake That bit the gra.s.s and ground, alas!

And a sad trail did make.

She went up slowly to the gate, And then, just as of yore, She turned back at the last to wait And say farewell once more.

_Arthur O'Shaughnessy_

FATHER O'FLYNN

Of priests we can offer a charming variety, Far renowned for larnin' and piety, Still I'd advance you, without impropriety, Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.

Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn, _Slainte_, and _slainte_, and _slainte_ agin.

Powerfullest preacher, And tindherest teacher, And kindliest creature in Old Donegal.

Talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity, Far renowned for Greek and Latinity, Gad! and the divils and all at Divinity, Father O'Flynn would make hares of them all.

Come, I venture to give you my word, Never the likes of his logic was heard, Down from mythology, Into thayology, Troth and conchology, if he'd the call.

Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way with you, All the old sinners are wishful to pray with you, All the young children are wild for to play with you, You've such a way with you, Father _avick_!

Still for all you're so gentle a soul, Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control; Checking the crazy ones, Coaxing unaisy ones, Lifting the lazy ones on with the stick.

And though quite avoiding all foolish frivolity, Still at all seasons of innocent jollity, Where is the play-boy can claim an equality At comicality, Father, with you?

Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest, Till this remark set him off with the rest: 'Is it leave gaiety All to the laity?

Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too?'

_Alfred Perceval Graves_

SONG

The silent bird is hid in the boughs, The scythe is hid in the corn, The lazy oxen wink and drowse, The grateful sheep are shorn.

Redder and redder burns the rose, The lily was ne'er so pale, Stiller and stiller the river flows Along the path to the vale.

A little door is hid in the boughs, A face is hiding within; When birds are silent and oxen drowse, Why should a maiden spin?

Slower and slower turns the wheel, The face turns red and pale, Brighter and brighter the looks that steal, Along the path to the vale.

_Rosa Gilbert_

REQUIESCAT

Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair, Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone, She is at rest.

Peace, Peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life's buried here, Heap earth upon it.

_Oscar Wilde_

THE LAMENT OF QUEEN MAEV

_From the Irish of the Book of Leinster_

Raise the cromlech high!

Mac Moghcorb is slain, And other men's renown Has leave to live again.

Cold at last he lies 'Neath the burial stone.