1 NOVEMBER 1902, Page 32

POETRY,

THE BLACKBIRD"

(LINES WRITTEN TO AN OLD IRISH AIR.)

THERE' a sweet bird singin' in the Narrow Gign,

He sings so clear with a golden bill, He'll call me afther him, an' then He'll flit an' lave me still.

A bird I had was onc'st my own,

Oh dear my colleen dhu to me !

My nest is cold, my bird has flown,—

The sweet-voiced bird was she.

Oh never think I'd tell her name, I'll only sing that her heart was true; My blackbird ! ne'er a thing's the same Since I was losin' you.

I'll make a cradle of my breast, Your image all its child.shall be: My throbbin' heart shall rock to rest The care that's wastin' me.

MOII.A. O'NEILL.