THE IRISH WOLF-HOUND.
As fly the shadows o'er the grass,
He flies with step as light and sure.
He hunts the wolf through Tostan Pass,
And starts the deer by Lisanoure.
The music of the Sabbath bells,
O Con! has not a sweeter sound,
Than when along the valley swells
The cry of John McDonnell's hound.
His stature tall, his body long,
His back like night, his breast like snow,
His fore leg pillar-like and strong,
His hind leg bended like a bow;
Rough, curling hair, head long and thin,
His ear a leaf so small and round;
Not Bran, the favorite dog of Fin,
Could rival John McDonnell's hound.
Denis Florence Maccarthy.
SIX FEET.
My little rough dog and I
Live a life that is rather rare,
We have so many good walks to take,
And so few bad things to bear;
So much that gladdens and recreates,
So little of wear and tear.
Sometimes it blows and rains,
But still the six feet ply;
No care at all to the following four
If the leading two knows why,
'Tis a pleasure to have six feet we think,
My little rough dog and I.
And we travel all one way;
'Tis a thing we should never do,
To reckon the two without the four,
Or the four without the two;
It would not be right if any one tried,
Because it would not be true.