out had gathered to listen;
some had come in turf-boats from Aran, Irish-speakers, proud to show
that the language that has been called dead has never died; and glad at
the new life that is coming into it. Men in loose flannel-jackets sang
old songs, many sad ones, but not all; for one that was addressed to a
mother, who had broken off her daughter's marriage with the maker of the
song, turned more to anger than to grief; and there was the love song,
'Courteous Bridget,' made perhaps a hundred years ago, by wandering
Raftery.

A woman with madder-dyed petticoat sang the lament of an emigrant going
across the great sea, telling how she got up at daybreak to look at the
places she was going to leave, Ballinrobe and the rest; and how she
envied the birds that were free of the air, and the beasts that were
free of the mountain, and were not forced to go away. Another song that
was sung was the Jacobite one, with the refrain that has been put into
English--'Seaghan O'Dwyer a Gleanna, we're worsted in the game!'

Some poems were repeated also: Raftery's 'Argument with whiskey,' in
which he puts the joys and sorrows of its lovers only too impartially.
Another 'Argument' was between two men, herds, I think; each counting up
the virtues of his own province, Connaught or Munster. An old man gave a
long poem, a recital of Bible history; but the judges rang their bell
when he had got to the parable of the Prodigal Son, and was telling how
'the poor foolish boy went away from his home and from his father to
some far country'; and he left the platform saying indignantly: 'You
might have left me time to bring him back again.' And there was a poem
on 'The rising again of Ireland,' telling how, when she has risen,
'ships will be coming to her from France and from Spain, and from all
the countries; and there will be no rent on the land; and every poet
will be given a fee of twenty-one pounds.'

In the evening there were people waiting round the door to hear the
songs and the pipes again. An old man among them was speaking with many
gestures, his voice rising, and a crowd gathering about him. '_Tha se
beo, tha se beo_'--'he is living, he is living,' I heard him say over
and over again. I asked what he was saying, and was told: 'He says that
Parnell is alive yet.' I was pushed away from him by the crowd to where
a policeman was looking on. 'He says that Parnell is alive still,' I
said. 'There are many say that,' he answered. 'And, after