THE KAVANAGH.

 A stone jug and a pewter mug, And a table set for three! A jug and a mug at every place, And a biscuit or two with Brie! Three stone jugs of Cruiskeen Lawn, And a cheese like crusted foam! The Kavanagh receives to-night! McMurrough is at home! We three and the barley-bree! And a health to the one away, Who drifts down careless Italy, God's wanderer and estray! For friends are more than Arno's store Of garnered charm, and he Were blither with us here the night Than Titian bids him be. Throw ope the window to the stars, And let the warm night in! Who knows what revelry in Mars May rhyme with rouse akin? Fill up and drain the loving cup And leave no drop to waste! The moon looks in to see what's up— Begad, she'd like a taste! What odds if Leinster's kingly roll Be now an idle thing? The world is his who takes his toll, A vagrant or a king. What though the crown be melted down, And the heir a gypsy roam? The Kavanagh receives to-night! McMurrough is at home! We three and the barley-bree! And the moonlight on the floor! Who were a man to do with less? What emperor has more? Three stone jugs of Cruiskeen Lawn, And three stout hearts to drain A slanter to the truth in the heart of youth And the joy of the love of men. 

A CAPTAIN OF THE PRESS-GANG.

 Shipmate, leave the ghostly shadows, Where thy boon companions throng! We will put to sea together Through the twilight with a song. Leering closer, rank and girding, In this Black Port where we bide, Reel a thousand flaring faces; But escape is on the tide. Let the tap-rooms of the city Reek till the red dawn comes round. There is better wine in plenty On the cruise where we are bound. I've aboard a hundred messmates Better than these 'long-shore knaves. There is wreckage on the shallows; It's the open sea that saves. Hark, lad, dost not hear it calling? That's the voice thy father knew, When he took the King's good cutlass In his grip, and fought it through. Who would palter at press-money When he heard that sea-cry vast? That's the call makes lords of lubbers, When they ship before the mast. Let thy cronies of the tavern Keep their kisses bought with gold; On the high seas there are regions Where the heart is never old, Where the great winds every morning Sweep the sea-floor clean and white, And upon the steel-blue arches Burnish the great stars of night; There the open hand will lose not, Nor the loosened tongue betray. Signed, and with our sailing orders, We will clear before the day; On the shining yards of heaven See a wider dawn unfurled.... The eternal slaves of beauty Are the masters of the world. 

THE 

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