And Irish Nora's eyes are dim
For a singer dumb and gory;
And English Mary mourns for him
Who sang of "Annie Laurie."

Sleep, soldiers! still in honor'd rest
Your truth and valor wearing:
The bravest are the tenderest-

The loving are the daring.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

By permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Co., from Taylor's POETICAL WORKS.

IT'S A FAR, FAR CRY

It's a far, far cry to my own land,
A hundred leagues or more;
To moorlands where the fairies flit

In Rosses and Gweedore

Where white-maned waves come prancing up

To Dooran's rugged shore.

There's a cabin there by a holy well,

Once blessed by Columbcille,
And a holly bush and a fairy fort
On the slope of Glenties Hill,
Where the dancing feet of many winds
Go roving at their will.

My heart is sick of the level lands,
Where the wingless windmills be,

Where the long-nosed guns from dusk to dawn
Are speaking angrily;

But the little home by Glenties Hill,

Ah! that's the place for me.

A candle stuck on the muddy floor
Lights up the dug-out wall,
And I see in its flame the prancing sea,
And the mountains straight and tall;
For my heart is more than often back
By the hills of Donegal.

PATRICK MACGILL.

By permission, MacGill, SOLDIER SONGS, E. P. Dutton & Co.

KILLARNEY

By Killarney's lakes and fells,
Em'rald isles and winding bays,
Mountain paths and woodland dells,
Mem❜ry ever fondly strays.
Bounteous nature loves all lands,
Beauty wanders everywhere,
Foot-prints leaves on many strands,
But her home is surely there!
Angels fold their wings and rest,
In that Eden of the West,
Beauty's home, Killarney,
Ever fair Killarney.

Innisfallen's ruined shrine

May suggest a passing sigh;
But man's faith can ne'er decline
Such God's wonders floating by;
Castle Lough and Glenabay,
Mountains Tore and Eagle's Nest;
Still at Mucross you must pray
Tho' the monks are now at rest.

Angels wonder not that man
There would fain prolong life's span,

Beauty's home, Killarney,
Ever fair Killarney.

No place else can charm the eye
With such bright and varied tints;
Ev'ry rock that you pass by,
Verdure broiders or besprints.
Virgin there the green grass grows,
Ev'ry morn spring's natal day;
Bright-hued berries daff the snows,
Smiling winter's frown away.
Angels often pausing there,
Doubt if Eden were more fair,
Beauty's home, Killarney,
Ever fair Killarney.

M. W. BALfe.

THE SUN RISES BRIGHT IN FRANCE

The sun rises bright in France,

And fair sets he;

But he has tint the blythe blink he had
In my ain countree.

My lanely hearth burn'd bonnie,

An' smiled my ain Marie;

I've left a' my heart behin'

In my ain countree.

The bud comes back to summer,
And the blossom to the bee,
But I'll win back-oh never
To my ain countree.