She said the daisies blushed For the kiss that I had ta'en; I winna stay under your plaidie, But, on an after Sunday, When cloud there was not ane, (We chanced to meet in the lane) Why dinna ye wear your plaidie? Charles Sibley [?] KITTY NEIL "Ан, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel, Half the parish is there, and the dance is beginning. The sun is gone down, but the full harvest-moon Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley, While all the air rings with the soft, loving things Each little bird sings in the green shaded alley." With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while, Her eye in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing; 'Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues, So she couldn't but choose to go off to the dancing. And now on the green the glad groups are seen, Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing; And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil,— Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought of refusing. Now, Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee, And with flourish so free sets each couple in motion; With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter the ground, The maids move around just like swans on the ocean: "The Dule's i' This Bonnet o' Mine" 757 Cheeks bright as the rose-feet light as the doe's, Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing Search the world all around, from the sky to the ground, No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing! Sweet Kate! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue, Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly, Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form, Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb wildly? Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart, Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love; The sight leaves his eye, as he cries with a sigh, "Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love !” John Francis Waller [1810-1894] "THE DULE'S I' THIS BONNET O' MINE" THE dule's i' this bonnet o' mine; My ribbins'll never be reet; Aw're gooin' for wayter to th' well,- When he took my two honds into his, But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung,- Though it isn't a thing one should own,- Neaw, Mally, aw've towd tho my mind; As ever stepped eawt into th' sun; Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed, An' mak th' best o' th' job when it's done!" Eh, dear, but it's time to be gwon, Aw shouldn't like Jamie to wait; Aw connut for shame be too soon, An' aw wouldn't for th' world be too late; Dost think 'at my bonnet'll do? "Be off, lass,-thae looks very weel; He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo!" Edwin Waugh [1817-1890] THE OULD PLAID SHAWL NOT far from old Kinvara, in the merry month of May, She tripped along right joyously, a basket on her arm; Her brown hair rippled o'er her brow, but greatest charm of all Was her modest blue eyes beaming 'neath her ould plaid shawl. I courteously saluted her "God save you, miss," says I; "God save you kindly, sir," said she, and shyly passed me by; Little Mary Cassidy 759 Off went my heart along with her, a captive in her thrall, Imprisoned in the corner of her ɔuld plaid shawl. Enchanted with her beauty rare, I gazed in pure delight, I've heard of highway robbers that with pistols and with knives, Make trembling travelers yield them up their money or their lives, But think of me that handed out my heart and head and all To a simple little cailin in an ould plaid shawl. Oh! graceful the mantillas that the signorinas wear, But never cloak, or hood, or robe, in palace, bower, or hall, Oh! some men sigh for riches, and some men live for fame, And some on history's pages hope to win a glorious name: My aims are not ambitious, and my wishes are but smallYou might wrap them all together in an ould plaid shawl. I'll seek her all through Galway, and I'll seek her all through I'll search for tale or tidings of my traveler everywhere, LITTLE MARY CASSIDY Oн, 'tis little Mary Cassidy's the cause of all my, misery, And the raison that I am not now the boy I used to be; Oh, she bates the beauties all that we read about in history, And sure half the country-side is as hot for her as me. Travel Ireland up and down, hill, village, vale and townFairer than the Cailin Donn, you're looking for in vain; Oh, I'd rather live in poverty with little Mary Cassidy Than emperor, without her, be of Germany or Spain. 'Twas at the dance at Darmody's that first I caught a sight of her, And heard her sing the "Droighnean Donn," till tears came in my eyes, And ever since that blessed hour I'm dreaming day and night of her; The devil a wink of sleep at all I get from bed to rise. Cheeks like the rose in June, song like the lark in tune, Working, resting, night or noon, she never leaves my mind; Oh, till singing by my cabin fire sits little Mary Cassidy, 'Tis little aise or happiness I'm sure I'll ever find. What is wealth, what is fame, what is all that people fight about To a kind word from her lips or a love-glance from her eye? Oh, though troubles throng my breast, sure they'd soon go to the right-about If I thought the curly head of her would rest there by and by. Take all I own to-day, kith, kin, and care away, Ship them all across the say, or to the frozen zone: THE ROAD "Now where are ye goin'," ses I, "wid the shawl Would ye not wait for McMullen's machine, Oh, you wid the wind-soft gray eye wid a wile in it, |