Nevermore upon the mountain,
Nevermore in fair or field
Shall ye see the seven champions
Of the silver-mantled shield.

I will play the "Cumhadh na Cloinne,"
Wildest of the rowth of tunes
Gathered by the love of mortal
From the olden druid-runes.

Wail ye! Night is on the water;
Wind and wave are roaring loud -

Caoine for the fallen children

Of the piper of MacLeod.

THE NINE GLENS OF AON-DRUIM1

HERE is fire in the heart of the Nine Glens within,

THER

That Oisin, the ardent-souled, would live

again to light:

The seed of fire that molders there in darkness chill

and dim

Must blow to bloom flame-bright.

1 Gleann-taise, the glen of the fetch or ghost.
Gleann-seisg, the glen of the green sedge.

Gleann-Duine, the glen of the Abhainn-Duine River.
Gleann corp, the glen of the dead bodies.

Gleannan (Gleann-aithin), the glen of the little ford.
Gleann-baile-Eamain, the glen of the town of Eaman.
Gleann-araimh, the glen of the ploughman.

Gleann-gorm, the blue glen.

Gleann-cloiche, the glen of the stone.

Gleann-taise sings the fairy-songs she knew of yore; Thro' Gleann-seisg, exulting, the brown-streamed rivers leap;

And, stirred by the finer breath that fills her bosom hoar,

Gleann-Duine looks up from her sleep.

Strange sounds of shrilly music are rife in the wind That breathes down Gleann-araimh from the long

forgotten years;

'Tis the pipes of Somhairle Buidhe leading out his Gaelic kind

That ring in her wondering ears.

Gleann-corp marks the cry, and Gleannan green Takes up the quickening ether within her zone of hills;

And Gleann-baile-Eamain looks like a battler's queen When her pulse at his piobreacht thrills.

Gleann-gorm is out to meet the risen dawn

In summer busk of purple broom and lichen gray; And swift as the phantom-ships of Manannan The shadows of Gleann-cloiche fleet away.

There is fire in the heart of the Nine Glens within, That Oisin, the magic-tongued, is come again to

light:

The seed of fire that moulders there in darkness chill

and dim

Will blow to bloom flame-bright,

“HE

EMMET'S DEATH

E dies to-day," said the heartless judge,
Whilst he sate him down to the feast,
And a smile was upon his ashy lip

As he uttered a ribald jest;

For a demon dwelt where his heart should be,
That lived upon blood and sin,

And oft as that vile judge gave him food
The demon throbbed within.

"He dies to-day," said the jailer grim,

Whilst a tear was in his eye;

"But why should I feel so grieved for him?

Sure, I've seen many die!

Last night I went to his stony cell,

With the scanty prison fare

He was sitting at a table rude,

Plaiting a lock of hair!

And he look'd so mild, with his pale, pale face,

And he spoke in so kind a way,

That my old breast heaved with a smothering feel,

And I knew not what to say!"

"He dies to day," thought a fair, sweet girl — She lacked the life to speak,

For sorrow had almost frozen her blood,
And white were her lip and cheek
Despair had drank up her last wild tear,
And her brow was damp and chill,
And they often felt at her heart with fear,
For its ebb was all but still.

GEORGE CANNING

(1770-1827)

EPITAPH

For the tombstone erected over the Marquis of Anglesea's leg, lost at Waterloo.

H

ERE rests, and let no saucy knave
Presume to sneer and laugh,

To learn that moldering in the grave
Is laid a British Calf.

For he who writes these lines is sure,
That those who read the whole
Will find such laugh was premature,
For here, too, lies a sole.

And here five little ones repose,
Twin born with other five,
Unheeded by their brother toes,
Who all are now alive.

A leg and foot to speak more plain,
Rests here of one commanding;
Who though his wits he might retain,
Lost half his understanding.

And when the guns, with thunder fraught,

Poured bullets thick as hail,

Could only in this way be taught

To give the foe leg-bail.