I forgot to say why it is that the good, and learned, and pious Abbot of Clonenagh is forced from his holy rest to sing the Mass at midnight each successive Christmas Eve in the old ruins of Cromogue Church, I will mention it now

"I do not say how the truth may be,

I tell the tale as it was told to me."

It is because of his anathema against the Whelans. The curse he pronounced against that devoted race cannot be removed until the tower of the old church falls, and as a set-off against that malediction, the saint must offer Mass every Christmas for the souls of the departed members of that family, until the period shall arrive for their release from their singular misfortunes.

BALLAD.

The March cock flapped his noble wing,
(Oh, do not despise my olden lay)
And the bell of Cloneagh was heard to ring,
For it was the dawn of the Christmas Day!
How many dim years have since rolled by,
I cannot just now pretend to say,

But cocks were crowing, and bells were ringing,
To welcome the Holy Christmas Day.

The north-winds moaned about tower and tree;
The storm-imp danced with the elfin fay,
But storms were hushed, and fiends were fled
Before the blush of the Christmas Day
On "Catholic" hearths the fires were red,

In "Catholic" windows were tapers gay,
And eyes were bright, and hearts were light,
As they used to be on Christmas Day.

An old man sat by his bogwood blaze;—

An old man-worn, and blind, and greyAnd he counted his beads, and kissed the Cross, · "In honour of God and Christmas Day." And now he would lift his sightless balls

Towards Heaven, and then would fondly pray, "God bless ourselves!-God bless this house!

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God put us safe over this Christmas Day!"

Oh, where are you going? ma bouchal baun, Come, answer my question;-don't say 'nay.' Oh, do you not think of the Holy Mass ?

Or do you forget it is Christmas Day?" "I do not despise the Holy Mass;

I do not forget when we ought to pray; But I wish-if it was God's holy will

I was laid in the grave this Christmas Day!

"My heart is as black as the 'Bending Tower!' My blood is as chill as the churchyard clay! There's a cross' at our door!-I known it as well As I know it's the dawn of Christmas Day! Yet go, my son, where the angels go;—

Go kneel with the white-robed priest, and say-'God's Will be done!-God rest my soul !

If I sleep in death on this Christmas Day!'" The young man smiled (what a grim, sad smile) As he huddled himself in his cloak of grey; And he kissed the old man's withered lips,

And wished him-"A Happy Christmas Day!" The white snow lay upon "inch" and moor,

The moon was immersed in the deep, cold sea, As the pilgrim strode from his father's door, Blessing the saints and Christmas Day.

He shaped his path by St. Fintan's Tower-
(I often was there 'tis a lonely way)
And he mumbled his prayers as he stumbled along,
For each friar and monk of the olden day.
But that crimson flame from the rifted tower-

'Tis thrilling to mark its fantastic playAnd the wailing chime of that booming bell!

What a strange, sad peal for a Christmas Day! He crossed his breast, and he crossed his brow; He knelt in the snow, though he will not pray; For now he remembered the Phantom Priest,

And the mimic Mass upon Christmas Day!
He will not help at the lonely Mass-

His father is BLIND and himself is GREY,
And his heart is wroth with the vengeful saint,
And he spurns his Mass upon Christmas Day
Cromogue was a "vale of tears" that night.

The Banshee came with her ghostly lay!
And the shrivelled "keener" clapped her hands,
And cried "Ochone-what a Christmas Day!"
The "Dark Man" mourns his sleeping child-

He thinks! and he thinks! tho' he must not say! But he knows there's blocd on St. Fintan's Tower; And he knows it was shed upon Christmas Day!

A grave was dug by St. Fintan's Tower;

(The clay of Cromogue, it is holy clay) And the blind man's light was laid in the dust The third day after Christmas Day!

No Mass was for his unshriven soul!

Nor requiem dirge, nor burial lay.

But the village maidens came and cried

For him who died on that Christmas Day!

TO-MORROW.

A little yet! my Norah dear,
My soul is sick to leave you;
But, darling dash away that tear,
My flitting must not grieve you,
Though Erin stoops her branded brow,
Though Patrick sups of sorrow,
The faithful heart must not despair-
We never saw to-morrow!
The blackest dye will fade at last;
Then why not courage borrow ?
An honest man will ever hope
For brighter hours to-morrow,
To-morrow!

Cheer up, my Norah-never doubt
Of better luck to-morrow.

Last night, this willing arm was strong,
Erroo! its nerve and lightness!
Last week you saw my whetted blade,
And shuddered at its brightness:
And then I told you Limerick's hills
Would redden up in glory-
To-night! ochone! of flying slaves,
In all my damning story!

But, wait awhile-my Norah dear,
We'll tramp on shame and sorrow;
And Munster's weeping skies will smile
Like some young bride, to-morrow,
To-morrow!

So sure as God made Heaven and earth, Our day will dawn to-morrow!

'Tis sad to mark the winter rose

In winter's snow-drifts buried!
We're sad when to an early grave

We watch the strong man hurried;
But sadder far than all to see
A nation's courage dying,

And gallant men, like coward rogues,
All o'er the wide earth flying;
But, mark it! he who trusts in God
Is never left in sorrow-

And who believes in Nationhood
Will prove his faith to-morrow!
To-morrow!

Enough will kneel at Freedom's shrine
To sacrifice to-morrow.

We must not mock the fallen orbs
That warmed our souls to fire;
Nor shall we curse the serpent tongues
That bade our hopes expire.

Whilst we are slaves, we're all to blame!
Then let the work be ours

To dissipate the damning gloom

Which on our country lowers.

So wake again !-when honor calls,
We have no time to borrow.

It little matters why we fell
If we arise to-morrow!

To-morrow!

Some angel whispers in my ear,

You'll do it all to-morrow!