* * * * *

IN THE NORTHWEST.


"I'll not forget Old Ireland, were it fifty times as fair."

In myriads o'er the prairie
Bright flowers bloom strangely fair,
There's beauty in the clear blue sky,
There's sweetness in the air;
And loveliness, with lavish hand,
Decks dell and dingle gay;
Yet still I love my native land--
The Green Isle, far away.

The poplar quivers in the breeze,
And by the blue lake's side.
The regal iris, tall and fair,
Blooms in her native pride;
But I dream of the broad beeches' shade
In glens beside Lough Neagh
And my longing thoughts go back to thee,
O, Green Isle, far away!

Strange birds, in painted plumage gay,
In hundreds haunt the grove;
O'er marsh and moor, the loon and heron,
The coot and plover rove;
But I miss the lark's glad matin song,