POETRY.
THE PORTAVOE POACHERS.
IT wee rabbits we were after in Portyvoe that night Lyin' snug between the whine there, up on the warren hill, A. red moon rose behind us that made the dark lake bright, An' you'd almost bin dead to breathe, the trees they stud that still.
Away acroat the sea-Lough the light on Blackhead flared,
Au' the Copeland cut the mist in two wi' a streak o' whirlhe flame ; The boy beside me shifted, an' sed he : " Where I was reared, They're that takin' up wi' sojerin' they've quet the poaohin' game."
"'Twas Athy," sed he, "I come from, to hire on Balloo Farm, Bowl! the men are none too plenty since this ould war began. An' its stbrange to think I'm out for sport, conversin' safe an' warm, Whin thim I own are khan'. 00111 I wislit I was a man."
Big Andy Logan looked at me, an' I couldn't meet his eye, But he stud up bold foment me, gripped his gun as sojers do ;
Sed he : "I've larnt my lesson off this wee lad from Athy, So, if Kitchener bee willin', here is me," sed he, " here's you."
Faoratams M, WILSON.
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