POETRY.
OUT IN THE DARK.
On, up the brae, and up and up, beyont the fairy thorn, It's there they hae my baby laid, that died when he was born. Afore the priest could christen him to save his soul, he died; It never lived at all, they said,—'twas livin' in my side. For many a day an' many a night, an' weary night and day, I kent him livin' at my heart, I carena what they say. For many a day an' many a night I wearied o' unrest, But now I'm sore to hae my wean back hidden in my breast. He'll sure be thinkin' long for me, an' wearyin' his lone Up in thou corner by the whine wi' neither cross nor stone; Ay, tho' I'd died wi' him itself, they wouldna let us be— The corner o' a field for him, the holy ground for me ; The poor, wee, helpless, Christless wean,—Och Mary, Mother
mild,
Sure, ye were unbaptised yoursel', have pity on a child. Th'are many a wean that lies wi' him, and none that got a name,
Th'are many a wife, hard put till it, was glad that dead they came, Ay, many a man that scarcely minds a child o' his lies there ; But, och ! its cruel hard to quit the first you'd ever bear. The graves are all that tiny that they'd hardly raise a mound, And couples o' a Sunday do be coortin' on thou ground, An' th'are none that thinks upon them ; but my heart '11 be there still, On the sod among the bracken an' the whins upon the hill. rd be feared to come o' night there, for the hill is fairy ground, But th'are maybe more nor fairies dancin' in the fairy round- Och, an' if I only thought it ! sure I'd let them do their worst, An' I'd go to see my baby, tho' I be to be accursed. But I'll never reach my wean now, neither here nor in the sod, An' I'm betther wi' the Christians an' the souls that's saved for God;— Och, to feel his fingers on me an' to clasp him when he smiled ! Sure ye'd think there'd be one heaven for the mother an' the child.
STEPHEN GWYNN.
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