rose into a high, wild cadence)—­“and then how we did grapple! and sing out one to another! ahoy! yeho! aye; till I thought the whole crew of devils answered our hail from the hill-tops!—­But I hit you again and again, Harry! before you could master me,” continued the sailor, returning to the corpse, and once more taking its hand—­“until at last you struck,—­my old messmate!—­And now—­nothing remains for Tom Mills—­but to man the yard-arm!”

The narrator stood his trial at the ensuing assizes, and was executed for this avowed murder of his shipmate; Jeremiah appearing as a principal witness.  Our story may seem drawn either from imagination, or from mere village gossip:  its chief acts rest, however, upon the authority of members of the Irish bar, since risen to high professional eminence; and they can even vouch that at least Jeremiah asserted the truth of “The Publican’s Dream.”

     Ailleen

     ’Tis not for love of gold I go,
       ’Tis not for love of fame;
     Tho’ Fortune should her smile bestow,
       And I may win a name,
                         Ailleen,
       And I may win a name.

     And yet it is for gold I go,
       And yet it is for fame,—­
     That they may deck another brow
       And bless another name,
                         Ailleen,
       And bless another name.

     For this, but this, I go—­for this
       I lose thy love awhile;
     And all the soft and quiet bliss
       Of thy young, faithful smile,
                         Ailleen,
       Of thy young, faithful smile.

     And I go to brave a world I hate
       And woo it o’er and o’er,
     And tempt a wave and try a fate
       Upon a stranger shore,
                         Ailleen. 
       Upon a stranger shore.

     Oh! when the gold is wooed and won,
       I know a heart will care! 
     Oh! when the bays are all my own,
       I know a brow shall wear,
                         Ailleen,
       I know a brow shall wear.

     And when, with both returned again,
       My native land to see,
     I know a smile will meet me there
       And a hand will welcome me,
                         Ailleen,
       And a hand will welcome me!

Soggarth Aroon

("O Priest, O Love!”)

The Irish peasant’s address to his priest

Am I the slave they say,
Soggarth Aroon? 
Since you did show the way,
Soggarth Aroon,
Their slave no more to be,
While they would work with me
Ould Ireland’s slavery,
Soggarth Aroon?

Why not her poorest man,
Soggarth Aroon,
Try and do all he can,
Soggarth Aroon,
Her commands to fulfill
Of his own heart and will,
Side by side with you still,
Soggarth Aroon?