"The banshee's cry is loud and long, At eve she weeps her funeral song, "Then the fatal kiss is given;-the last Of Turlough's race and name is past, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. "Leech, say not that thy skill is vain; Oh, calm the power of his frenzied brain, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The leech has failed, and the hoary priest With pious shrift his soul released, The shanachies now are assembled all, And the songs of praise, in Sir Turlough's hall, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. And there is trophy, banner, and plume, And the pomp of death, with its darkest gloom, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The month is clos'd, and Green Truagha's pride, Killeevy, O Killeevy! Is married to death-and, side by side, He slumbers now with his churchyard bride, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. THE FAIRY WELL. FORTH from a sparkling well A little stream went bubbling, The ripples on its breast As billows on the ocean. Music so soft and sweet, Or share in earthly gladness, Each evening near that well The fairies round her flitting. The lov'd one of her heart, In her glad hour of beauty; And fell he in the field, The Spirit of that well Oft viewed the grief-struck maiden, Whose breast with care did swell, Whose heart with grief was laden; And while a tear would stray From her soft eyes in pity, To her at close of day She sang this plaintive ditty. "Why, fair one of the earth, Cease, cease, those bitter sighs, And see his lov'd one fading, Lo! as yon silvery star May soon in storms be shrouded, And its soft rays afar To us be overclouded. Even so, thy heart's despair Would dim his dazzling brightness, And shade with clouds of care His robe of snowy whiteness." Died on the maiden's ear The song of the kind fairy; Then ceased the gushing tear, And oft she came again To thank the Well's fair daughter, In which such truths she taught her; In mild and peaceful gladness- Who changed to joy such sadness. And thus, when all is pain To earth with hopeless sorrow, HY-BRASAIL-THE ISLE OF THE BLEST. BY GERALD GRIFFIN. [From the Isles of Aran and the west continent, often appears visible that inchanted island called O'Brasil, and in Irish Beg-ara, or the Lesser Aran, set down in cards of navigation. Whether it be reall and firm land, kept hidden by speciall ordinance of God, as the terrestriall paradise, or else some illusion of airy clouds appearing on the surface of the sea, or the craft of evill spirits, is more than our judgments can sound out. There is, westward of Aran, a wild island of huge rocks, (Skira Rocks) the receptacle of a deale of seales thereon yearly slaughtered. These rocks sometimes appear to be a great city far off, full of houses, castles, towers, and chimneys; sometimes full of blazing flames, smoak, and people running to and fro. Another day you would see nothing but a number of ships, with their sailes and riggings; then so many great stakes or reekes of corn and turf; and this not only on fair sun-shining dayes, whereby it might be thought the reflection of the sun-beamse, on the vapours arising about it, had been the cause, but alsoe on dark and cloudy days.O'Flaherty's West Connaught, Irish Archeological Society's Publications, page 68.] On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell, A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale, Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle, away! Rash dreamer, return! O, ye winds of the main, To barter thy calm life of labour and peace. Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray, |