(And who dare tell her this?)
Enchanted by a woman's eyes,
Half-maddened by her kiss.

So as we go by Molly's door
We look towards the sea,
And say, "May God bring home your lad
Wherever he may be."

I pray it may be Molly's self
The banshee keens and cries,
For who dare breathe the tale to her,
Be it her man who dies?

But there is sorrow on the way,
For I tonight have seen
A banshee in the shadow pass
Along the dark boreen.


THE SEVEN WHISTLERS: ALICE E. GILLINGTON

Whistling strangely, whistling sadly, whistling sweet and
clear,
The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of
Porthmeor;
It was not in the morning, nor the noonday's golden
grace,
It was in the dead waste midnight, when the tide yelped
loud in the Race: