The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 67

KITTY NEIL

"Ah, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel, Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning; Come trip down with me to the sycamore-tree, Half the parish is there, and the dance is beginning.

The sun is gone down, but the full harvest-moon s.h.i.+nes sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley, While all the air rings with the soft, loving things Each little bird sings in the green shaded alley."

With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while, Her eye in the gla.s.s, as she bound her hair, glancing; 'Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues, So she couldn't but choose to go off to the dancing.

And now on the green the glad groups are seen, Each gay-hearted lad with the la.s.s of his choosing; And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil,-- Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought of refusing.

Now, Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee, And with flourish so free sets each couple in motion; With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter the ground, The maids move around just like swans on the ocean: Cheeks bright as the rose--feet light as the doe's, Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing-- Search the world all around, from the sky to the ground, No such sight can be found as an Irish la.s.s dancing!

Sweet Kate! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue, Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly, Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form, Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb wildly?

Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart, Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love; The sight leaves his eye, as he cries with a sigh, "Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love!"

John Francis Waller [1810-1894]

"THE DULE'S I' THIS BONNET O' MINE"

The dule's i' this bonnet o' mine; My ribbins'll never be reet; Here, Mally, aw'm like to be fine, For Jamie'll be comin' to-neet; He met me i' th' lone t'other day,-- Aw're gooin' for wayter to th' well,-- An' he begged that aw'd wed him i' May;-- Bi th' ma.s.s, iv he'll let me, aw will!

When he took my two honds into his, Good Lord, heaw they trembled between; An' aw durstn't look up in his face, Becose on him seein' my e'en; My cheek went as red as a rose;-- There's never a mortal can tell Heaw happy aw felt; for, thea knows, One couldn't ha' axed him theirsel'.

But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung,-- To let it eawt wouldn't be reet,-- For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrung, So aw towd him aw'd tell him to-neet; But Mally, thae knows very weel,-- Though it isn't a thing one should own,-- Iv aw'd th' pikein' o' th' world to mysel', Aw'd oather ha' Jamie or noan.

Neaw, Mally, aw've towd tho my mind; What would to do iv't wur thee?

"Aw'd tak him just while he're inclined, An' a farrantly bargain he'd be; For Jamie's as gradely a lad As ever stepped eawt into th' sun;-- Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed, An' mak th' best o' th' job when it's done!"

Eh, dear, but it's time to be gwon,-- Aw shouldn't like Jamie to wait; Aw connut for shame be too soon, An' aw wouldn't for th' world be too late; Aw'm a' ov a tremble to th' heel,-- Dost think 'at my bonnet'll do?-- "Be off, la.s.s,--thae looks very weel; He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo!"

Edwin Waugh [1817-1890]

THE OULD PLAID SHAWL

Not far from old Kinvara, in the merry month of May, When birds were singing cheerily, there came across my way, As if from out the sky above an angel chanced to fall, A little Irish cailin in an ould plaid shawl.

She tripped along right joyously, a basket on her arm; And oh! her face; and oh! her grace, the soul of saint would charm: Her brown hair rippled o'er her brow, but greatest charm of all Was her modest blue eyes beaming 'neath her ould plaid shawl.

I courteously saluted her--"G.o.d save you, miss," says I; "G.o.d save you kindly, sir," said she, and shyly pa.s.sed me by; Off went my heart along with her, a captive in her thrall, Imprisoned in the corner of her ould plaid shawl.

Enchanted with her beauty rare, I gazed in pure delight, Till round an angle of the road she vanished from my sight; But ever since I sighing say, as I that scene recall, "The grace of G.o.d about you and your ould plaid shawl."

I've heard of highway robbers that with pistols and with knives, Make trembling travelers yield them up their money or their lives, But think of me that handed out my heart and head and all To a simple little cailin in an ould plaid shawl.

Oh! graceful the mantillas that the signorinas wear, And tasteful are the bonnets of Parisian ladies fair, But never cloak, or hood, or robe, in palace, bower, or hall, Clad half such witching beauty as that ould plaid shawl.

Oh! some men sigh for riches, and some men live for fame, And some on history's pages hope to win a glorious name: My aims are not ambitious, and my wishes are but small-- You might wrap them all together in an ould plaid shawl.

I'll seek her all through Galway, and I'll seek her all through Clare, I'll search for tale or tidings of my traveler everywhere, For peace of mind I'll never find until my own I call That little Irish cailin in her ould plaid shawl.

Francis A. Fahy [1854-

LITTLE MARY Ca.s.sIDY

Oh, 'tis little Mary Ca.s.sidy's the cause of all my misery, And the raison that I am not now the boy I used to be; Oh, she bates the beauties all that we read about in history, And sure half the country-side is as hot for her as me.

Travel Ireland up and down, hill, village, vale and town-- Fairer than the Cailin Donn, you're looking for in vain; Oh, I'd rather live in poverty with little Mary Ca.s.sidy Than emperor, without her, be of Germany or Spain.

'Twas at the dance at Darmody's that first I caught a sight of her, And heard her sing the "Droighnean Donn," till tears came in my eyes, And ever since that blessed hour I'm dreaming day and night of her; The devil a wink of sleep at all I get from bed to rise.

Cheeks like the rose in June, song like the lark in tune, Working, resting, night or noon, she never leaves my mind; Oh, till singing by my cabin fire sits little Mary Ca.s.sidy, 'Tis little aise or happiness I'm sure I'll ever find.

What is wealth, what is fame, what is all that people fight about To a kind word from her lips or a love-glance from her eye?

Oh, though troubles throng my breast, sure they'd soon go to the right-about If I thought the curly head of her would rest there by and by.

Take all I own to-day, kith, kin, and care away, s.h.i.+p them all across the say, or to the frozen zone: Lave me an orphan bare--but lave me Mary Ca.s.sidy, I never would feel lonesome with the two of us alone.

Francis A. Fahy [1854-

THE ROAD

"Now where are ye goin'," ses I, "wid the shawl An' cotton umbrella an' basket an' all?

Would ye not wait for McMullen's machine, Wid that iligant instep befittin' a queen?

Oh, you wid the wind-soft gray eye wid a wile in it, You wid the lip wid the troublesome smile in it, Sure, the road's wet, ivery rain-muddied mile in it--"

"Ah, the Saints'll be kapin' me petticoats clean!"

"But," ses I, "would ye like it to meet Clancy's bull, Or the tinks poachin' rabbits above Slieve-na-coul?

An' the ford at Kilmaddy is big wid the snows, An' the whisht Little People that wear the green close, They'd run from the bog to be makin' a catch o' ye, The king o' them's wishful o' weddin' the match o' ye, 'Twould be long, if they did, ere ye lifted the latch o' ye--"

"What fairy's to touch her that sings as she goes!"

"Ah, where are ye goin', ses I, "wid the shawl, An' the gray eyes a-dreamin' beneath it an' all?

The road by the mountain's a long one, depend Ye'll be done for, alannah, ere reachin' the end; Ye'll be bate wid the wind on each back-breakin' bit on it, Wet wid the puddles and lamed wid the grit on it,-- Since lonesome ye're layin' yer delicut fit on it--"

"Sure whin's a road lonesome that's stepped wid a friend?"

That's stepped wid a friend?

Who did Bridgy intend?

Still 'twas me that went wid her right on to the end!

Patrick R. Chalmers [18