POETRY.
A SONG OF KILLARNEY.
BY the Lakes of Killarney, one morning in May,
On my pipe of green holly I warbled away, While a blackbird, high up on the arbutus-tree, Gave back my gay music with gushes of glee, When my Eileen's voice stole From the thicket of holly, And turned just the whole Of our fluting to folly, And softly along Through the myrtle and heather The maid and her song Swept upon us together.
'Twas an old Irish tale, full of passionate trust, Of two faithful lovers long laid in the dust, And her eyes, as she sang, looked so far, far away, She went by me, nor knew she went by, where I lay.
And myself and the grass, And the deeshy* red daisies Should let our dear pass, Only whisp'ring her praises, Till the lass and her lay Through the myrtle and heather Like a dream died away O'er the mountain together.
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.
* Little.
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