POETRY .
SHAMROCKS
A striven of shamrocks, from the sod Saint Patrick trod, Brings dreams and visions back to me Across the sea.
An island rises moist and green, Where grey clouds lean, By spirits of the mighty dead - - Inhabited.
At night, upon an ancient fort The fairies sport, While some lone watcher in the haze Stands in amaze.
Queen Maev, the glory of the West, Starts on her quest ; Her fierce and fiery warriors boom Cuchullin's doom.
And Deirdre, soft as Irish skies, In whose wide eyes Sorrow and loveliness divine Forever shine.
The white-plumed billows shake the shore Of Malinmore, While far Hy Brazil glimmers dim On ocean's rim.
Yon ships against the sunset red, By Achill Head, Are Grainne's galleys as they go To smite the foe.
A bunch of shamrocks, from the sod Saint Patrick trod, Fragrant of that green Isle behind The salt, west wind I
J. CUTHBERT SCOTT.
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