I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses,
All day, the commotion of sinewy, mane-tossing horses;
All night from their cells the importunate tramping and neighing,
We spur to a land of no name, outracing the storm wind;
We leap to the infinite dark, like the sparks from the anvil,
Thou leadest! O God! All’s well with thy troopers that follow.
It was only natural that the daughter of an Irish patriot should sing of her father’s land, and that in a style racy of that land. It was a hazardous experiment, as many an Irish American singer has learned in sorrow. That Miss Guiney has come out of the trying ordeal successfully, may be seen in the following little snatch, full of the aroma of green Erin:
An Irish Peasant Song.
I try to knead and spin, but my life is low the while;