"MOIRA O'NEILL'S " VERSES.* IN a very interesting lecture on

"Inter-migration between the Scotch and Irish" recently delivered before the Irish Literary Society, Mr. E. F. Vesey Knox gave some very significant facts and figures with reference to the settlement of the Scotch in Antrim and Down. There are, he stated, four hundred and twenty-six thousand Presbyterians in Ulster, of whom no fewer than, two hundred and eighty-six

9 (1) Songs from the Glens of Antrim. By Moira O'Neill. London : W. Blackwood and Sons. (3a. 6d.]

thousand were in the counties just named. He pointed out that the vast majority of the United Irishmen came from Antrim and Down, and that six out of twenty-four Presidents of the United States came of this Sooto-Irish stock, but he denied to them the possession of any literary ability. "They had no books except Burns and the Bible,— two most excellent books, but they had not written them." When we find a historian like Mr. Knox—himself a North of Ireland man—taking such a view, it is not to be wondered at that outside Ulster the general notion of Antrim is of a district which talks Scotch, makes linen, and in general stands for material and unromantic prosperity. To those who hold this view—and it is widespread in the three other provinces of Ireland—the verses of "Moira O'Neill" will come with something like the force of a revelation. For, although the dialect in which they are written is tinctured with Scotticisms—" burn," "wee," "thou," "a wheen," "brae- side "—they transport us from the Antrim of the loom, the mart, and the dockyard to the Antrim of the glens and the islands ; from prosperity to poverty ; from the home of industrialism to the abodes of a sparse peasantry, Roman Catholic in religion and Celtic in sentiment. To the political economist these glens and islands are profoundly unsatis- factory. They do not produce American Presidents or even Robinson and Cleavers ; to quote from one of these songs :—

"All the gold in Ballytearim is what's stickin' to the whin ; All the crows in Ballytearim has a way o' gettin' thin."

But with all its drawbacks, or perhaps because of them, this lesser Antrim has achieved what its prosperous and pre- dominant partner has failed to attain,—a distinctive utterance in lyrical song. We greatly doubt if the glensfolk read Barns, but surely Burns himself could hardly have improved on the "Song of Glen Dan," which stands first in this little volume : "Sure this is blessed Erin an' this the same glen.

The gold is on the whin-bush, the wather sings again,

The fairy thorn's in flower,—an' what ails my heart then ? Flower o' the May.

Flower o' the May, What about the May time, an' he far away !

Summer loves the green glen the white bird loves the sea, An' the wind must kiss the heather top, an' the red bell hides a bee ; As the bee is dear to the honey-flower, so one is dear to me. Flower o' the rose, Flower o' the rose, A thorn pricked me one day, but nobody knows.

The bracken up the braeside has rusted in the air, Three birches lean together, so silver limbed an' fair,

Oeh ! golden leaves are liyin' fast, but the scarlet roan is rare. Berry o' the roan, • Berry o' the roan, The wind sighs among the trees, but I sigh alone.

I knit beside the turf fire, I spin upon the wheel, Winter nights for thinkin' long, round runs the reel. . . . But he never knew, he never knew that here for him I'd kneel.

Sparkle o' the fire, Sparkle o' the fire, Mother Mary keep my love, an' send me my desire !"

Musicians are always complaining of the lack of good

words for musical setting ; we sincerely hope that when these beautiful lines—which almost sing themselves—are set to music, as they are sure to be sooner or later, the melody may not fall short of their haunting charm.

Another altogether charming piece, though deplorable in its economic heresies, is the song of the homesick harvest- man :—

Over here in England I'm helpin' Nei' the hay, An' I wisht I was in Ireland the livelong day ; Weary on the English hay, an' sorra take the wheat ! Och Corrymeda, an' the blue sky over it.

The people that's in England is richer nor the Jews, There, not the smallest young gossoon but thravels in his shoes !

I'd give the pipe between me teeth to see a barefut child,

Och! Corrymeeta an' the low south wind.

Here's bands so full o' money an' hearts so full o' care,

By the luck o' love ! I'd still go light for all I did go bare. 'God save ye, Colleen dims' I said; the girl she thought me wild.

Far Corrymeda, an' the low south wind.

D'ye mind me now, the song at night is mortial hard to raise, The girls are heavy goin' here, the boys are ill to plase ; When one'st rm out this workin' hive, 'tie I'll be back again- CotTymeda, in the same soft rain.

Though the plaintive or tender note prevails, there is no lack of humour in this little volume,—witness the poem in which the girl recounts her experiences in endeavouring to carry out her lover's request that she should forget him, with its quaint ending :—

" Meself began the night ye went An' hasn't done it yet ; I'm nearly fit to give it up, For where's the use to fret?—

An' the memory's fairly spoilt on me

Wid mindin' to forget."

Readers of the Spectator need not to be reminded of the half- laughing lament of the glenswoman who has promised to marry

an islander, though she "might have took Pether from ovet the hill, a ¢ poacher, the kind poor boy," or of the eulogy of 'Baby Johneen," which appeared in these columns. But they will be glad to encounter them again in company with other pieces of the same fresh, artless, and poignant charm.

The little book will hardly take twenty minutes to read, but it will take as many months to forget some of the verses in it. You learn them by heart without intending to, which is after all not a bad test of poetic quality.