Why not her poorest man,
    Soggarth aroon,
  Try and do all he can,
    Soggarth aroon,
  Her commands to fulfil
  Of his own heart and will,
  Side by side with you still,
    Soggarth aroon?

  Loyal and brave to you,
    Soggarth aroon,
  Yet be not slave to you,
    Soggarth aroon,
  Nor, out of fear to you,
  Stand up so near to you—­
  Och! out of fear to you,
    Soggarth aroon!

  Who, in the winter’s night,
    Soggarth aroon,
  When the cold blasts did bite,
    Soggarth aroon,
  Came to my cabin-door,
  And on my earthen-floor
  Knelt by me, sick and poor,
    Soggarth aroon?

  Who, on the marriage day,
    Soggarth aroon,
  Made the poor cabin gay,
    Soggarth aroon,
  And did both laugh and sing,
  Making our hearts to ring
  At the poor christening,
    Soggarth aroon?

  Who, as friends only met,
    Soggarth aroon,
  Never did flout me yet,
    Soggarth aroon;
  And when my heart was dim,
  Gave, while his eye did brim,
  What I should give to him,
    Soggarth aroon?

  Och! you, and only you,
    Soggarth aroon! 
  And for this I was true to you,
    Soggarth aroon! 
  Our love they’ll never shake,
  When for ould Ireland’s sake
  We a true part did take,
    Soggarth aroon!

JOHN BANIM.

[Footnote A:  Priest, dear.]

* * * * *

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL.

  PRELUDE TO PART FIRST.

  Over his keys the musing organist,
    Beginning doubtfully and far away,
  First lets his fingers wander as they list,
    And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay;
  Then, as the touch of his loved instrument
    Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme,
  First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent
    Along the wavering vista of his dream.

* * * * *

      Not only around our infancy
      Doth heaven with all its splendors lie;
      Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,
      We Sinais climb and know it not.

  Over our manhood bend the skies;
    Against our fallen and traitor lives
  The great winds utter prophecies;
    With our faint hearts the mountain strives;
  Its arms outstretched, the druid wood
    Waits with its Benedicite;
  And to our age’s drowsy blood
    Still shouts the inspiring sea.

  Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us: 
    The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in. 
  The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us,
    We bargain for the graves we lie in;
  At the devil’s booth are all things sold,
  Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold;

  For a cap and bells our lives we pay,
    Bubbles we buy with a whole soul’s tasking: 
  ’Tis heaven alone that is given away,
    ’Tis only God may be had for the asking;
  No price is set on the lavish summer;
  June may be had by the poorest comer.