That matters not. Let come what will; at last the end is sure,

And every heart that loves with truth is equal to endure.

TO-MORROW

Tennyson's one poem in Irish brogue; founded on a story told him by Aubrey de Vere.

I

HER, that yer Honor was spakin' to?
Whin, yer Honor? last year
Standin' here be the bridge, when last yer
Honor was here?

An' yer Honor ye gev her the top of the
mornin', 'To-morra,' says she.
What did they call her, yer Honor? They
call'd her Molly Magee.

An' yer Honor's the thrue ould blood that always manes to be kind, But there's rason in all things, yer Honor, for Molly was out of her mind.

Och, Molly Magee, wid the red o' the rose

An'

an' the white o' the may,

yer hair as black as the night, an' yer eyes as bright as the day!

Achora, yer laste little whishper was sweet as the lilt of a bird!

Acushla, ye set me heart batin' to music wid ivery word !

An' sorra the Queen wid her sceptre in sich an illigant han',

An' the fall of yer foot in the dance was as light as snow an the lan',

An' the sun kem out of a cloud whiniver ye walkt in the shtreet,

An' Shamus O'Shea was yer shadda, an' laid himself undher yer feet, An' I loved ye meself wid a heart an' a half, me darlin', and be

'Ud 'a shot his own sowl dead for a kiss of ye, Molly Magee.

V

40

But shure we wor betther frinds whin I crack'd his skull for her sake, An' he ped me back wid the best he could give at ould Donovan's wakeFor the boys wor about her agin whin Dan did n't come to the fore,