But oh! when the green
Island shores are at rest,
When the last glowing ray
Fades away from the west,
With silence and moonlight
About and above it,
Then, then, most of all,
Oh! I love it, I love it!

LEADING THE CALVES.

From the Irish.

ONE evening mild, in summer weather,
My calves in the wild wood tending,
I saw a maid, in whom together

All beauty's charms were blending-
"Permit our flocks to mix," I said,
""Tis what a maiden mild would,
And when the shades of night are fled

We'll lead our calves from the wild wood.

"There grows a tree in the wild wood's breast,
We'll stay till morn beneath it,
Where songs of birds invite to rest,

And leaves and flowers enwreath it-
Mild, modest maid, 'tis not amiss;

"Twas thus we met in childhood;

To thee at morn my hand I'll kiss,*

And lead the calves through the wild wood!

"With calves I sought the pastures wild;

They've stray'd beyond my keeping

At home my father calls his child,
And my dear mother's weeping-

The forester, if here they stray,

Perhaps, in friendship mild, would

Permit our stay till the dawn of day,

When we'll lead our calves from the wild wood."

* The literal meaning of this line, in the original, is, you will receive a kiss from me out of the top of my hand. It shows that the custom of kissing hands in salutation has prevailed among the Irish peasantry.

THE FIRST CUCKOO IN SPRING.

J. F. WALLER, LL.D.

This song is written to a charming air, called "My Bonnie Cuckoo," given in "Bunting's Ancient Music of Ireland" (Dublin, 1840). The cuckoo's musical interval is given in the air, and the Italic passages in the song are most ingeniously adapted to the melody.

ONE sweet eve in spring, as the daylight died,
Mave sat in her bow'r by her father's side;
(Cuckoo, Cuckoo !) so soft and so clear,
Sang the bonnie cuckoo from a thicket near :
(Cuckoo, Cuckoo !) "Do listen, my dear,

Tis the first cuckoo's note I have heard this year."

The maiden smiled archly, then sighed "Tis long
I've waited and watched for that sweet bird's song;
(Cuckoo, Cuckoo !) Ere winter he'll roam
With some beloved mate to his distant home."
(Cuckoo, Cuckoo !) "Ah, would I might roam

With that bonnie cuckoo to his distant home."

The old man he frowned at the maid, and said,
"What puts such wild thoughts in your foolish head?"
(Cuckoo, Cuckoo !) "No maid should desire

To roam from her own native land and sire."
(Cuckoo, Cuckoo !) "I don't love a note

That comes from that foreign bird's weary throat."

“The blackbird and throstle, I love their song,
They cheer us through summer and autumn long;
(Cuckoo, Cuckoo !) And then they ne'er roam,
But they mate and they live all the year at home: "
(Cuckoo, Cuckoo !) ""Tis still the same note
That comes from that foreign bird's weary throat.

The old man he sleeps in the drowsy air,
While soft from his side steals his daughter fair.
(Cuckoo, Cuckoo !) There's a bird in the grove
That sings a sweet song all young maidens love.
(Cuckoo, Cuckoo !) Says the bird from the grove—
"I'm weary cuckooing this hour, my love."

The old man he dreams that the cuckoo sings
Close up to his ears very wondrous things:
(Cuckoo, Cuckoo !) "I love your dear Mave,
And won her young heart just without your leave.”
(Cuckoo, Cuckoo !) "She is willing to roam
From her own beloved nest to my distant home."

Y

Half in fear, half in anger, her sire awakes,
As her lip on his brow a soft farewell takes.
(Cuckoo, Cuckoo !) The old man is alone,

For vision, and cuckoo, and child are gone :
(Cuckoo Cuckoo !) A sweet voice whispers near—
"We'll be back with the cuckoo in spring next year."

THE HAUNTED SPRING.

SAMUEL LOVER.

It is said Fays have the power to assume various shapes for the purpose of luring mortals into Fairyland. Hunters seem to have been particularly the objects of the ladyfairies' fancies.

GAILY through the mountain glen
The hunter's horn did ring,

As the milk-white doe
Escaped his bow,

Down by the haunted spring;
In vain his silver horn he wound,-
'Twas echo answered back :

For neither groom nor baying hound
Was on the hunter's track;

In vain he sought the milk-white doe
That made him stray, and 'scaped his bow,
For, save himself, no living thing

Was by the silent haunted spring.

The purple heath-bells, blooming fair,
Their fragrance round did fling,
As the hunter lay,

At close of day,

Down by the haunted spring;
A lady fair, in robe of white,
To greet the hunter came;
She kiss'd a cup with jewels bright,
And pledged him by his name;
"Oh, lady fair!" the hunter cried,
"Be thou my love, my blooming bride-
A bride that well might grace a king!
Fair lady of the haunted spring."

In the fountain clear she stoop'd,
And forth she drew a ring;
And that loved knight

His faith did plight

Down by the haunted spring :

But since that day his chase did stray,
The hunter ne'er was seen,

And legends tell, he now doth dwell
Within the hills so green; *

But still the milk-white doe appears,
And wakes the peasants' evening fears,
While distant bugles faintly ring
Around the lonely haunted spring.

MAURYEEN.

THE Cottage is here as of old I remember,
The pathway is worn as it always hath been;

On the turf piled hearth there still lives a bright ember,
But where is Mauryeen?

The same pleasant prospect still lies before me,-
The river-the mountain-the valley of green;
And heaven itself (a bright blessing!) is o'er me:
But where is Mauryeen?

Lost! lost! like a dream that hath come and departed (Ah, why are the loved and the lost ever seen?)

She has fallen-hath flown-with a lover false-heartedSo mourn for Mauryeen!

And she who so loved her is slain-(the poor mother!) Struck dead in a day by a shadow unseen;

And the home we once loved is the home of anotherAnd lost is Mauryeen!

Sweet Shannon, a moment by thee let me ponder-
A moment look back on the things that have been;
Then away to the world, where the ruin'd ones wander,
To seek for Mauryeen!

Pale peasant, perhaps, 'neath the frown of high heaven,
She roams the dark deserts of sorrow unseen,
Unpitied-unknown; but I-I shall know even
The ghost of Mauryeen!

* In Ireland, the fairies are said to abide in the "

green hills."

Andrew Cherry was born in Limerick, January 11, 1762. He received a respectable education at a grammar school there was intended for holy orders, but his father meeting with misfortunes, Cherry was bound to a printer. He went on the stage, and, after all the vicissitudes attending a stroller's life, made reputation, and graduated from the provinces up to Dublin, and thence to London, and was received with much ap plause. He became manager of the Swansea theatre; and there, in my boyhood, I saw Edmund Kean perform before he made his great name in London. Cherry produced ten dramatic pieces, of which the incidental songs are of fair average merit; but the one that follows is not only Cherry's best, but among the very best of its class, possessing a tenderness of sentiment rare in this class of composition, and touching the feelings after a manner that reminds us of that other celebrated sporting song, "The High-mettled Racer," of Dibdin.

You all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well;

The bell just done tolling was honest Tom's knell;

A more able sportsman ne'er followed a hound,

Through a country well known to him fifty miles round.

No hound ever open'd with Tom near the wood,

But he'd challenge the tone, and could tell if 'twere good;
And all with attention would eagerly mark,

When he cheer'd up the pack, "Hark! to Rookwood, hark! hark!
High!-wind him! and cross him;