You Can Guess

THERE are grottos in Wicklow, and groves in


And the loveliest glens robed with shamrock in


And in fairy Killarney ’tis easy to find

Sweet retreats where a swain can unburden his


But of all the dear spots in our emerald isle,

Where verdure and sunshine crown life with a


There’s one boreen I love, for ’twas there I


I first met my fate, — what it was you can guess.

It was under the shade of its bordering trees,

One day I grew suddenly weak at the knees

At the thought of what seemed quite a terrible


And yet it was but a short question to ask.

’Twas over, and since, night and morning, I


The boreen that heard the soft whisper of “yes.”

And the breezes that toyed with each clustering tress;

And the question was this— but I’m sure you

can guess.

Arthur M. Forrester

The Well-Known Spot

A Poem by an Unknown late 19th Century Irish Poet

Again, with joy I view the waking shore,

Where mem’ries live for ever in their green,

And from the solemn graveyard’s checkered floor

Gaze fondly o’er the all-enchanting scene.

The same sad rooks awake their mocking cries,

And drooping willows weep the early grave,

As o’er the dead the restless spirit flies,

Tries vainly yet yon broken heart to save.

But, hush! sad soul, nor leave this hallowed spot,

Where peaceful slumber seals the closèd eye.

The lonely sleeper now awaken not

By the rude raving, or the deep-drawn sigh.

Oh, let me mourn (the fainting heart replies),

These new-made graves, which take my wond’ring sight;

Say, who beneath this little tombstone lies,

Or who this Angel guards through the long night.

When last I saw, no mounds lay heaving there,

No sexton rude had turned the resting sod.

Alas, how changed! The holy and the fair

Have sunk in death and triumphed in their God.

Then let me pause, if here my Maker stays,

And guards his saints from the inhuman foe.

His word is true; my trembling heart obeys;

Bless’d are the dead who to the Saviour go.

Now new refulgence breathes o’er all the scene;

Yon lark’s sweet warble now is sweeter still;

Yon blady grass stands out in purer green;

And softer music tinkles from the rill.

For why? O mark! The cause is written here;

The pale-faced marble tells the softened tale,

That sweeteneth the sigh, arrests the starting tear,

And lulls to silence the untimely wail.

The Mountain Walk

By and Unknown Irish Poet

From the haunts of busy life,

Homes of care, and paths of strife,

Up the breezy mountain way,

’Mid the upper fields of day,

Let me wander, far and lonely,

Without guide, save nature only;

And still ever as I go, Lose all thought of things below,

Cast all sorrow to the wind,

While the low vales sink behind:

Fetterless and spirit free

As the merry mountain bee.

Like a spirit, thought and eye

Buoyant between earth and sky,

There to bask in free pure light

On the joyous mountain height;

Dallying with the breeze and shower,

Claiming kin with every flower,

Catching iris dreams that glance

On the breath of circumstance.

Changing with the changeful scene—

Solemn, sombre, gay, serene:

As each change fresh wonders bring,

Weaving thought from every thing.

Oft let shadowy hollows fall,

And grey cliffs’ embattled wall

Crown the gloom with hoary height,

Where the raven wheels his flight.

Or green vale unfolding soft,

In the lonesome crags aloft

Shut the far down world from view.

There, long up ether’s darkening blue,

The eye may gaze for worlds unseen,

In the skyey void serene,

And weave visions strange and fair,

Of the starry empires there—

Spirits changeless, pure, and bright,

In their glorious vales of light;

Till some wild note break the spell

From sequester’d rural dell

Where the mountain goatherds dwell:

So to break the wild fond dream,

And to man bring down the theme;

For all earthly things impart

Thoughts of Man to human heart.

Then from towery crag on high,

If far city win the eye,

Glittering through the misty air,

’Twere a prospect meet and fair

For the lone sequestered gaze

O’er its wide uncertain maze,

Then to muse on wealth and fame,

And on every specious name

That gilds the dross of earth below,

Till, from reflection, wisdom grow.

Wisdom:—not that sense which cleaveth

To the world where all deceiveth;

Not grave prudence, hard, yet hollow—

In the beaten round to follow

Lengthened aims, in life’s short day,

While the ages glide away:

—But that moral, old and sage,

Said and sung in every age;

Old as man—yet ever new,

Heard by all, and known to few;

Murmur of Being’s wave, that still,

Unheeded as the babbling rill,

In the world’s noise, makes music only

’Midst the hush of deserts lonely.

Last, from o’er the seaward steep,

Let me view the spacious deep,

While the billows break and flow

In the caverned gloom below.

There let cloud and sunbeam flee

O’er the sunned and shadowy sea—

Light and dark in fleeting strife,

Like the vanities of life;

So to dream of joy and woe,

Imaged in the gliding show,

As they come, and as they fly,

To the verge of sea and sky;

So our joys and sorrows flee,

Onward to eternity.

Then away in spirit wrought

By the voluntary thought,

Where the heath is freshly springing,

Where the sky-borne lark is clinging

On mid air with lively song,

Which the echoing cliffs prolong;

O’er wild steep and dreamy hollow,

On, still onward let me follow.

While the airy morn is bright,

While rich noon is at its height,

Till eve falls with sober grey,

Freely let me roam away.