tal is cautioned not to speak to them nor to touch, but to pass
by quickly with averted eye.--Old tale.

The Enchantress

I FEAR Eileen, the wild Eileen--
The eyes she lifts to mine,
That laugh and laugh and never tell
The half that they divine!

She draws me to her lonely cot
Ayont the Tulloch Hill;
And, laughing, draws me to her door
And, laughing, holds me still.

I bless myself and bless myself,
But in the holy sign,
There seems to be no heart of love,
To still the pain in mine.

The morning, bright above the moor,
Is bright no more for me--
A weary bit of burning pain
Is where my heart should be!

For since the wild, sweet laugh of her
Has drawn me to her snare,
The only sunlight in the world
Is shining from her hair.

Yet well I know, ah, well I know
Why 'tis so sweet and wild--
She slept beneath a faery thorn,
She is a faery child!

And so I leave my mother lone,
No meal to fill the pot,
And follow, follow wild Eileen.
If so I will or not.

I fear to meet her in the glen,
Or seek her by the shore;
I fear to lift her cabin's latch,
But--should she come no more!--

O Eileen Og, O wild Eileen,
My heart is wracked with fear
Lest you should meet your faery kin,
And, laughing, leave me here!

The Banshee

THE Banshee cries on the rising wind
"O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!"
The dead to free and the quick to bind--
(Close fast the shutter and draw the blind!)
"O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!"

Why are you paler my dearest dear?
"O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!"
'Tis but the wind in the elm tree near--
(Acushla, hush! lest the Banshee hear!)
"O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!"

See, how the crackling fire up-springs,
"O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!"
Up and up on its flame-red wings;
Hark, how the cheerful kettle sings!
"O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!"

Core of my heart! How cold your lips!
"O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!"
White as the spray the wild wind whips,
Still as your icy finger tips!
"O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!"

On the rising wind the Banshee cries--
"O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!"
I kiss your hair. I kiss your eyes--
The kettle is dumb; the red flame dies!
"Ochone! Ochone! Ochone!"

The Witch

HER hair was gold and warm it lay
Upon the pallor of her brow;
Her eyes were deep, aye, deep and gray--
And in their depths he drowned his vow.

She wandered where the sands were wet,
Weaving the sea-weed for a crown,
And there at eve a monk she met--
A holy monk in cowl and gow