Every face was illuminated, every soul expanded, and the Professor, burning with his own enthusiasm, laid down the book. Then Miss Alida, smiling, but yet with tears in her large gray eyes, turned to a pretty young woman who had a roll of music in her lap. “Mrs. Dunreath,” she said, “we cannot bear any more of Mr. Browning’s strong wine; give us one of your songs of Old Ireland—some that you found in Munster, among the good lay monks and brothers. And the lady lifted her mandolin, and touched a few strings to her strange musical recitative:
“A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer;
Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear.
There is honey in the trees, where her misty vales expand;
And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned;
There is dew at high noontide there, and springs in the yellow sand
On the fair hills of holy Ireland!
“Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground;
The butter and the cream do wondrously abound;