y,
And the call of the gulls that is eerie and dreary and dour,
And the sound of the surge as it breaks on the beach of the bay.

I can remember the thatch of the cot and the byre,
And the green of the garth just under the dip of the fells,
And the low of the kine, and the settle that stood by the fire,
And the reek of the peat, and the redolent heathery smells.

And I long for it all though the roses around me are red,
And the arch of the sky overhead has bright blue for a lure,
And glad were the heart of me, glad, if my feet could but tread
The path, as of old, that led upward and over the moor!

ABBEYDORNEY

Abbeydorney, Abbeydorney,
Long ago thy race was run,
Prone thou art 'mid thickets thorny,
Shrine of Kyrie Eleison!

Scarcely now a wild rose petal
The neglected cloister owns,
And the flaunting dock and nettle
Wave above the chancel stones.

Once through Kerry twilights tender
Vesper bells their anthems tolled,
And 'mid chants, in churchly splendor,
Princely abbots were enrolled.

Tall Fitz Maurice with his crozier,
O'Clonarchy of Lismore,
They are less now than the osier
Swaying by the Cashen's shore!

Only when the moon is hidden,
Only when the moor-winds rave,
Eerily arise unbidden
Ghostly transept, ghostly nave.

Only when the night grows denser
March the bent monks one by one,
Singing to the sway of censer,
_Kyrie--Kyrie Eleison!_

So, amid thy thickets thorny,
All thy state and glory seem,
Abbeydorney, Abbeydorney,
Like a dim and fleeting dream!

A SONG FOR JOYCE'S COUNTRY

O a song for Joyce's Country, where the grim wild mountains be,
And the wind wails over the moorland as the wind wails over the sea,
Where the new moon's silver sickle sees little of grain to reap,
And the wraith of the mist goes creeping as soft as the feet of sleep!

O a song for Joyce's Country, and the lonely loughs that lie,
Wrapt in the cloak of silence, under the great gray sky;
For the glens that have held in keeping for more than a thousand springs
The ancient Druid wonders and the secrets of the kings!

O a song for Joyce's Country, and the graves of the mightiest men
That ever had birth in Erin! Will their like e'er come again?
Men of the thews of titans, of the strong, unwavering hand,
Who wrested a meagre guerdon from the breast of this lean lan