I seek new friends, and I am told
That they are rich in lands and gold.
Ah! will they love me like the old?
O wirra-sthru ! O wirra-sthru !

Farewell, dear friends! we meet no more!
O wirra-sthru! O wirra-sthru !
My husband's horse is at the door!
O wirra-sthru! O wirra-sthru !
Ah, love! ah, love! be kind to me,
For by this breaking heart you see
How dearly I have purchased thee!
O wirra-sthru! O wirra-sthru !

III.

Old times! old times! the gay old times,
When I was young and free,

And heard the merry Easter chimes
Under the sally tree.

My Sunday palm beside me placed,

My cross upon my hand,

A heart at rest within my breast,

And sunshine on the land!

Old times! old times!

It is not that my fortunes flee,
Nor that my cheek is pale,

I mourn whene'er I think of thee,
My darling native vale.

A wiser head I have, I know,

Than when I loitered there, But in my wisdom there is woe, And in my knowledge care.

Old times! old times!

I've lived to know my share of joy,
To feel my share of pain,

To learn that friendship's self can cloy,

To love and love in vain.

To feel a pang and wear a smile,

To tire of other climes,

To like my own unhappy isle,

And sing the gay old times.

Old times! old times!

And sure the land is nothing changed,
The birds are singing still,

The flowers are springing where we ranged,
There's sunshine on the hill;

ر

The sally, waving o'er my head,
Still sweetly shades my frame;
But, ah, those happy days are fled,
And I am not the same.

Old times! old times!

Oh, come again, ye merry times,

Sweet, sunny, fresh and calm,

And let me hear those Easter chimes,
And wear my Sunday palm.

If I could cry away mine eyes,

My tears would flow in vain;
If I could waste my heart in sighs
They'll never come again.

A personal feeling probably dictated the following fine stanzas; one of Gerald Griffin's sisters having joined the Sisters of Charity in Dublin:

She once was a lady of honor and wealth,

Bright glowed on her features the roses of health,
Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold,
And her motion shook perfume from every fold;
Joy reveled around her, love shone at her side,
And gay was her smile as the glance of a bride,
And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall,
When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul.

She felt in her spirit the summons of grace,
That called her to live for the suffering race,
And heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home,
Rose quickly, like Mary, and answered "I come!"
She put from her person the trappings of pride,
And passed from her home with the joy of a bride,
Nor wept at the threshold as onward she moved,

For her heart was on fire in the cause that she loved.

Lost ever to fashion, to vanity lost,

That beauty that once was the song and the toast;
No more in the ball-room that figure we meet,
But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat.
Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name,
For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame;
Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth,
For she barters for Heaven the glory of earth.

Those feet, that to music could gracefully move,
Now bear her alone on the mission of love;

7

Those hands, that once dangled the perfume or gem,
Are tending the helpless or lifted for them;

That voice, that once echoed the song of the vain,

Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain;

And the hair, that was shining with diamond and pearl,
Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl.

Her down-bed a pallet, her trinkets a bead,
Her luster one taper that serves her to read,
Her sculpture the crucifix nailed by her bed,
Her paintings one print of the thorn-crowned head,
Her cushion the pavement that wearies her knees,
Her music the psalm or the sigh of disease,
The delicate lady lives mortified there,

And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer.

Yet not to the service of heart and of mind
Are the cares of that Heaven-minded virgin confined,
Like Him whom she loves, to the mansion of grief
She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief;
She strengthens the weary, she comforts the weak,
And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick;
Where want and affliction on mortals attend,
The Sister of Charity there is a friend.

Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath,
Like an angel she moves 'mid the vapor of death;
Where rings the loud musket and flashes the sword,
Unfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord.
How sweetly she bends o'er each plague-tainted face
With looks that are lighted with holiest grace!
How kindly she dresses each suffering limb,
For she sees in the wounded the image of Him!

Behold her, ye worldly! behold her, ye vain!

Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain,
Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days-
Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise!

Ye lazy philosophers, self-seeking men,

Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen,

How stands in the balance your eloquence weighed

With the life and the deeds of that delicate maid ?

I add another charming bridal song, the vein in which he excelled, and which he loved so well, omitting only an Irish refrain, that pedantry of patriotism which disfigures so many of these. lovely lyrics:

My Mary of the curling hair,

The laughing teeth and bashful air,