’Tis by Tim the dear saints’ll set sthore,
And ’ull thrate him to whisky galore: 
For they ’ve only to sip
But the tip of his lip
An’ bedad! they’ll be askin’ for more—­
Asthore—­
By the powers, they’ll be shoutin’ ‘Ancore!’

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.