"'And that I'm behoulden to you,' says the King.

"'But will you gi' me all the ground the goose flewn over?' says Saint
Kavin.

"'I will,' says King O'Toole, 'and you're welkim to it,' says he,
'though it's the last acre I have to give.'

"'But you'll keep your word thrue?' says the saint.

"'As thrue as the sun,' says the King.

"'It's well for you,' says Saint Kavin, mighty sharp--'it's well for
you, King O'Toole, that you said that word,' says he; 'for if you didn't
say that word, _the divil receave the bit o' your goose id iver fly
agin_,' says Saint Kavin.

"'Oh, you needn't laugh,' said old Joe, 'for it's thruth I'm telling
you.'

"Well, whin the King was as good as his word, Saint Kavin was _plazed_
with him, and thin it was that he made himself known to the King.

"Well, my dear, that's the way that the place kem, all at wanst, into
the hands of Saint Kavin; for the goose flew round every individyial
acre o' King O'Toole's property, you see, _bein' let into the saycret_
by Saint Kavin, who was mighty _cute_; and so, when he _done_ the ould
King out iv his property for the glory of God, he was _plazed_ with him,
and he and the King was the best o' friends iver more afther (for the
poor ould King was _doatin'_, you see), and the King had his goose as
good as new to divart him as long as he lived; and the saint supported
him afther he kem into his property, as I tould you, until the day iv
his death--and that was soon afther; for the poor goose thought he was
ketchin' a throut one Friday; but, my jewel, it was a mistake he
made--and instead of a throut, it was a thievin' horse-eel! and, by gor,
instead iv the goose killin' a throut for the King's supper--by dad, the
eel killed the King's goose--and small blame to him; but he didn't ate
her, bekase he darn't ate what Saint Kavin laid his blessed hands on."

SAMUEL LOVER.

Lament of the Last Leprechaun

For the red shoon of the Shee,
For the falling o' the leaf,
For the wind among the reeds,
My grief.

For the sorrow of the sea,
For the song's unquickened seeds,
For the sleeping of the Shee,
My grief.

For dishonoured whitethorn-tree,
For the runes that no man reads
Where the grey stones face the sea,
My grief.

Lissakeole, that used to be
Filled with music night and noon,
For their ancient revelry,
My grief.

For the empty fairy shoon,
Hollow rath and yellow leaf,
Hands unk