THE PASSING OF THE GAEL.

Auckland Star, Volume XLIV, Issue 303, 20 December 1913, Page 15

THE PASSING OF THE GAEL.

They are going, going, going from the valleys and the hills. They are leaving far behind them heathery moor and mountain rills. All the wealth of hawthorn hedges where the brown thrush sways and thrills. They are going, shy-eyed colleens and lads so straight and tail, From the purple peaks of Kerry, from the crass of wild Imaal. From the greening plains of Mayo and the glens of Douegal. They are leaving pleasant places, shores with snowy sands outspread; Blue and lonely lakes a-stirring when the wind stirs overhead; Tender living hearts that love them, and the graves ot kindred dead. They shall carry to the distant land a teardrop in the eye, And some shall go uncomforted—their days an endless sigh For Kathleen XI Houlihan's sad face, until they die.

Oh, Kathleen Nl Houlihan, yonr road's a thorny way, And 'tis a faithful soul would walk the flints with you for aye. Would walk the sharp and cruel flints until his locks grew grey.

So some most wander to the Sast, and some must wander West; Some seek the white wastes of the North, and some a Southern nest; Yet never shall they sleep so sweet as on your mother breast.

The whip of hunger scourged them from the glens and quiet moors. •Bnt there's a -hunger of the heart that plenty never cures: And they shall pine to walk again the rough road that is yours.

Within the city streets, hot, hurried, full of care. A sudden dream shall bring them a whiff of Irish air— A cool air, faintly scented, blown soft from otherwhere.

Oh, the cabins, long deserted! —Olden memories awake— Oh, the pleasant, pleasant places-!— Hush! the blackbird In the brake! Oh, the dear and kindly voices!— Now their heaTts are fain to ache.

They may win a golden store—sure the whins were golden, too; And no foreign skies hold beanty liie the rainy skies they knew; Nor any night-wind cool the brows as did the foggy dew.

They are going, going, going, and we cannot hid them stay; The fields are now the strangers' where the strangers' cattle stray. Oh! Kathleen XI Houlihan, your way's a thorny way! —Ethne Carbery.