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diff --git a/37213.txt b/37213.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b3ffb8a --- /dev/null +++ b/37213.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1389 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Reincarnations, by James Stephens + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Reincarnations + +Author: James Stephens + +Release Date: August 25, 2011 [EBook #37213] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REINCARNATIONS *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + + +REINCARNATIONS + + +BY + +JAMES STEPHENS + +AUTHOR OF + +'THE CHARWOMAN'S DAUGHTER,' 'THE HILL OF VISION' + 'THE CROCK OF GOLD,' ETC. + + + + +MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED + +ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON + +1918 + + + + +COPYRIGHT + + + + +TO + +ALICE STOPFORD GREEN + + + + +CONTENTS + + + Geoffrey Keating + Mary Hynes (after Raftery) + The Coolun do. + Peggy Mitchell do. + Nancy Walsh do. + The Red Man's Wife do. + Nancy Walsh do. + Anthony O'Daly do. + Mary Ruane do. + William O'Kelly do. + Sean O'Cosgair do. + The County Mayo do. + Eileen, Diarmuid and Teig (After O'Rahilly) + Honoro Butler and Lord Kenmare do. + Clann Cartie do. + The Land Of Fal (Anon.) + Inis Fal (after O'Rahilly) + Owen O'Neill (after Pierce Ferriter) + Egan O'Rahilly (after O'Rahilly) + Righteous Anger (after O'Bruadair) + The Weavers do. + Odell do. + The Apology do. + The Gang do. + The Geraldine's Cloak do. + Skim-Milk do. + Blue Blood do. + O'Bruaidar do. + Note + + + + + GEOFFREY KEATING + + O woman full of wiliness! + Although for love of me you pine, + Withhold your hand adventurous, + It holdeth nothing holding mine. + + Look on my head, how it is grey! + My body's weakness doth appear; + My blood is chill and thin; my day + Is done, and there is nothing here. + + Do not call me a foolish man, + Nor lean your lovely cheek to mine + O slender witch, our bodies can + Not mingle now, nor any time. + + So take your mouth from mine, your hand + From mine, ah, take your lips away! + Lest heat to will should ripen, and + All this be grave that had been gay. + + It is this curl, a silken nest, + And this grey eye bright as the dew, + And this round, lovely, snow-white breast + That draws desire in search of you. + + I would do all for you, meseems, + But this, tho' this were happiness! + I shall not mingle in your dreams, + O woman full of wiliness! + + + + + MARY HYNES + + She is the sky of the sun, + She is the dart + Of love, + She is the love of my heart, + She is a rune, + She is above + The women of the race of Eve + As the sun is above the moon. + + Lovely and airy the view from the hill + That looks down Ballylea; + But no good sight is good until + By great good luck you see + The Blossom of the Branches walking towards you + Airily. + + + + + THE COOLUN + + Come with me, under my coat, + And we will drink our fill + Of the milk of the white goat, + Or wine if it be thy will; + And we will talk until + Talk is a trouble, too, + Out on the side of the hill, + And nothing is left to do, + But an eye to look into an eye + And a hand in a hand to slip, + And a sigh to answer a sigh, + And a lip to find out a lip: + What if the night be black + And the air on the mountain chill, + Where the goat lies down in her track + And all but the fern is still! + Stay with me, under my coat, + And we will drink our fill + Of the milk of the white goat + Out on the side of the hill. + + + + + PEGGY MITCHELL + + As lily grows up easily, + In modest, gentle dignity + To sweet perfection, + So grew she, + As easily. + + Or as the rose that takes no care + Will open out on sunny air + Bloom after bloom, fair after fair, + Sweet after sweet; + Just so did she, + As carelessly. + + She is our torment without end, + She is our enemy and friend, + Our joy, our woe; + And she will send + Madness or glee + To you and me, + And endlessly. + + + + + NANCY WALSH + + I, without bite or sup, + If thou wert fated for me, + I would up + And would go after thee + Through mountains. + + A thousand thanks from me + To God have gone, + Because I have not lost my senses to thee, + Though it was hardly I escaped from thee, + O ringleted one! + + + + + THE RED MAN'S WIFE + + Then she arose + And walked in the valley + In her fine clothes. + + After great fire + Great frost + Comes following. + + Turgesius was lost + By the daughter of Maelsheachlin + The King. + + By Grainne, + Of high Ben Gulbain in the north, + Was Diarmuid lost. + + The strong sons of Ushna, + Who never submitted, + They fell by Deirdre. + + + + + NANCY WALSH + + It is not on her gown + She fears to tread; + It is her hair + Which tumbles down + And strays + About her ways + That she must care. + + And she lives nigh this place: + The dead would rise + If they could see her face; + The dead would rise + Only to hear her sing: + But death is blind, and gives not ear nor eye + To anything. + + We would leave behind + Both wife and child, + And house and home; + And wander blind, + And wander thus, + And ever roam, + If she would come to us + In Erris. + + Softly she said to me-- + Be patient till the night comes, + And I will go with thee. + + + + + ANTHONY O'DALY + + Since your limbs were laid out + The stars do not shine, + The fish leap not out + In the waves. + On our meadows the dew + Does not fall in the morn, + For O'Daly is dead: + Not a flower can be born, + Not a word can be said, + Not a tree have a leaf; + Anthony, after you + There is nothing to do, + There is nothing but grief. + + + + + MARY RUANE + + The sky-like girl whom we knew! + She dressed herself to go to the fair + In a dress of white and blue; + A white lace cap, and ribbons white + She wore in her hair; + She does not hear in the night + Her mother crying for her, + Where, + Deep down in the sea, + She rolls and lingers to and fro + Unweariedly. + + + + + WILLIAM O'KELLY + + The Protecting Tree + Of the men of the land of Fal! + What aileth thee, + And why is it that all + About thee grieves? + + Alas, O Tree of the Leaves! + Here is thy rhyme: + Thy bloom is lightened; + And if thy fruit be withered + Thy root hath not tightened + At the same time. + + Not since the Gael was sold + At Aughrim. Not since to cold, + Dull death went Owen Roe; + Not since the drowning of Clann Adam in the days of Noe + Brought men to hush, + Has such a tale of woe come to us + In such a rush. + + The true flower of the blood of the place is fallen: + The true clean-wheat of the Gael is reaped. + + Destruction be upon Death, + For he has come and taken from our tree + The topmost blackberry! + + + + + SEAN O'COSGAIR + + Pity it was that you should ever stand + In ship or boat, + Or that you went afloat + Inside that ship! + + The lusty steps you took! + The ways and journeys you knew how to wend + From London back to Beltra, + And this end! + + You who could swim so well! + What time you sported in the lifting tides + The girls swam out to you, and held your sides + When they were weary, for they knew they were + Safe, because you were there. + + Your little-mother thought that this was true + (And so she made no stir + Till you were found), + Although an hundred might be drowned, you + Would come back safe to her, + And not be drowned! + + + + + THE COUNTY MAYO + + Now with the coming in of the spring the days will stretch a bit, + And after the Feast of Brigid I shall hoist my flag and go, + For since the thought got into my head I can neither stand nor sit + Until I find myself in the middle of the County of Mayo. + + In Claremorris I would stop a night and sleep with decent men, + And then go on to Balla just beyond and drink galore, + And next to Kiltimagh for a visit of about a month, and then + I would only be a couple of miles away from Ballymore. + + I say and swear my heart lifts up like the lifting of a tide, + Rising up like the rising wind till fog or mist must go, + When I remember Carra and Gallen close beside, + And the Gap of the Two Bushes, and the wide plains of Mayo. + + To Killaden then, to the place where everything grows that is best, + There are raspberries there and strawberries there and all that + is good for men; + And if I were only there in the middle of my folk my heart could rest, + For age itself would leave me there and I'd be young again. + + + + + EILEEN, DIARMUID AND TEIG + + Be kind unto these three, O King! + For they were fragrant-skinned, cheerful and giving; + Three stainless pearls, three of mild, winning ways, + Three candles sending forth three pleasant rays, + Three vines, three doves, three apples from a bough, + Three graces in a house, three who refused nohow + Help to the needy, three of slenderness, + Three memories for the companionless, + Three strings of music, three deep holes in clay, + Three lovely children who loved Christ alway, + Three mouths, three hearts, three minds beneath a stone; + Ruin it is! three causes for the moan + That rises everywhere now they are gone: + Be kind, O King, unto this two and one! + + + + + HONORO BUTLER AND LORD KENMARE (1720) + + In bloom and bud the bees are busily + Storing against the winter their sweet hoard + That shall be rifled ere the autumn be + Past, or the winter comes with silver sword + To fright the bees, until the merry round + Tells them that sweets again are to be found. + + The lusty tide is flowing by in ease, + Telling of joy along its brimming way; + Far in its waters is an isle of trees + Whereto the sun will go at end of day, + As who in secret place and dear is hid, + And scarce can rouse him thence tho' he be chid. + + Now justice comes all trouble to repair, + And cheeks that had been wan are coloured well, + The untilled moor is comely, and the air + Hath a great round of song from bird in dell, + And bird on wing and bird on forest tree, + And from each place and space where bird may be. + + The languid are made strong, the strong grow stronger, + There is no grievance here, and no distress, + The woeful are not woeful any longer, + The rose hath put on her a finer dress, + And every girl to bloom adds bloom again, + And every man hath heart beyond all men. + + For the Star of Munster, Pearl of the Golden Bough, + Comes joyfully this day of days to wed + Her choice of all whom fame hath loved till now, + And who chose her from all that love instead: + The Joy of the Flock, the Bud of the Branch is she, + Crown of the Irish Pride and Chivalry. + + He is a chief and prince, well famed is he, + The love of thousands unto him does run; + And all days were before and all will be, + He was and will be loved by every one; + And she and he be loved by all no less + Who courage love, and love, and loveliness. + + The nobles of the province take their wine, + And drink a merry health to groom and bride; + They shall be drunken ere the sun decline, + And all their merrymaking lay aside + In deep, sweet sleep that seals a merry day + Until the dawn, when they shall ride away, + + Leaving those two who now are one behind. + O Moon! pour on the silence all thy beams, + And for this night be beautiful and kind; + Weave in their sleep thy best and dearest dreams; + And fortune them in their own land to be + Safe from all evil chance, and from all enmity. + + + + + CLANN CARTIE + + My heart is withered and my health is gone, + For they who were not easy put upon, + Masters of mirth and of fair clemency, + Masters of wealth and gentle charity, + They are all gone. Mac Caura Mor is dead, + Mac Caura of the Lee is finished, + Mac Caura of Kanturk joined clay to clay + And gat him gone, and bides as deep as they. + + Their years, their gentle deeds, their flags are furled, + And deeply down, under the stiffened world, + In chests of oaken wood are princes thrust, + To crumble day by day into the dust + A mouth might puff at; nor is left a trace + Of those who did of grace all that was grace. + + O Wave of Cliona, cease thy bellowing! + And let mine ears forget a while to ring + At thy long, lamentable misery: + The great are dead indeed, the great are dead; + And I, in little time, will stoop my head + And put it under, and will be forgot + With them, and be with them, and thus be not: + Ease thee, cease thy long keening, cry no more: + End is, and here is end, and end is sore, + And to all lamentation be there end: + If I might come on thee, O howling friend! + Knowing that sails were drumming on the sea + Westward to Eire, and that help would be + Trampling for her upon a Spanish deck, + I'd ram thy lamentation down thy neck. + + + + + THE LAND OF FAL + + If all must suffer equally, and pay + In equal share for that sin wrought by Eve, + O Thou, if Thou wilt deign to answer, say: + Why are the poor tormented? why made grieve + The innocent? why are the free enslaved? + Why have the wicked peace tho' void of ruth? + Why are there none to pity, when, dismayed, + And sick with fear, the lamb bleats to the tooth + That tears him down? why is the cry unheard + Of lonely anguish? why, when the land of Fal + Had loved Thee long and well, was she not spared + The ruin that hath stamped her under all + That mourn and die? + + + + + INIS FAL + + Now may we turn aside and dry our tears, + And comfort us, and lay aside our fears, + For all is gone--all comely quality, + All gentleness and hospitality, + All courtesy and merriment is gone; + Our virtues all are withered every one, + Our music vanished and our skill to sing: + Now may we quiet us and quit our moan, + Nothing is whole that could be broke; no thing + Remains to us of all that was our own. + + + + + OWEN O'NEILL + + If poesy have truth at all, + If some great lion of the Gael + Shall rule the lovely land of Fal; + O yellow mast and roaring sail! + Carry the leadership for me, + Writ in this letter, o'er the sea + To great O'Neill. + + + + + EGAN O'RAHILLY + + Here in a distant place I hold my tongue; + I am O'Rahilly: + When I was young, + Who now am young no more, + I did not eat things picked up from the shore. + The periwinkle, and the tough dogfish + At even-time have got into my dish! + The great, where are they now! the great had said-- + This is not seemly, bring to him instead + That which serves his and serves our dignity-- + And that was done. + + I am O'Rahilly: + Here in a distant place I hold my tongue, + Who once said all his say, when he was young! + + + + + RIGHTEOUS ANGER + + The lanky hank of a she in the inn over there + Nearly killed me for asking the loan of a glass of beer: + May the devil grip the whey-faced slut by the hair, + And beat bad manners out of her skin for a year. + + That parboiled imp, with the hardest jaw you will see + On virtue's path, and a voice that would rasp the dead, + Came roaring and raging the minute she looked at me, + And threw me out of the house on the back of my head! + + If I asked her master he'd give me a cask a day; + But she, with the beer at hand, not a gill would arrange! + May she marry a ghost and bear him a kitten, and may + The High King of Glory permit her to get the mange. + + + + + THE WEAVERS + + Many a time your father gave me aid + When I was down, and now I'm down again: + You mustn't take it bad or be dismayed + Because I say, young folk should help old men + And 'tis their duty to do that: Amen! + + I have no cows, no sheep, no cloak, no hat, + For those who used to give me things are dead + And my luck died with them: because of that + I won't pay you a farthing, but, instead, + I'll owe you till the dead rise from the dead. + + A farthing! that's not much, but, all the same, + I haven't half a farthing, for that grand + Big idiot called Fortune rigged the game + And gave me nothing, while she filled the hand + Of every stingy devil in the land. + + You weave, and I: you shirts: I weave instead + My careful verse--but you get paid at times! + The only rap I get is on my head: + But should it come again that men like rhymes + And pay for them, I'll pay you for your shirt. + + + + + ODELL + + My mind is sad and weary thinking how + The griffins of the Gael went over the sea + From noble Eire, and are fighting now + In France and Flanders and in Germany. + + If they, 'mid whom I sported without dread, + Were home I would not mind what foe might do, + Or fear tax-man Odell would seize my bed + To pay the hearth-rate that is overdue. + + I pray to Him who, in the haughty hour + Of Babel, threw confusion on each tongue, + That I may see our princes back in power, + And see Odell, the tax-collector, hung. + + + + + THE APOLOGY + + Do not be distant with me, do not be + Angry because I drank deep of your wine, + But treat that laughing matter laughingly + Because I am a poet, and incline + By nature and by art to jollity. + + Always I loved to see, I will aver, + The good red tide lip at the flagon's brim, + Sitting half fool and half philosopher, + Chatting with every kind of her and him, + And shrugged at sneer of money-gatherer. + + Often enough I trudge by hedge and wall, + Too often there's no money in my purse, + Nor malice in my mind ever at all, + And for my songs no person is the worse + But I who give all of my store to all. + + If busybody spoke to you of it, + Say, kindly man, if kindly man do live: + The poet only takes his sup and bit, + And say: It is no great return to give + For his unstinted gift of verse and wit. + + + + + THE GANG + + Our fathers must have sinned: we pay for it! + Through them the base-born tribe that sold their king + Sneaked into power, and in high places sit, + And do their will and wish in everything; + For they may rob and kill, grieve and disgrace + All who are left alive of Eiver's race. + + They seized with daring guile on rank and pelf, + And swore that they would never bend a knee + Unto the king: they robbed the Church herself: + They stole our princes' lands, and o'er the sea + They packed those princes, or drove them away + To barren rocks and fields that have no clay. + + That spawn of base mechanics! who could ne'er, + Though Doomsday came, by any art be made + Noble, are noble now, and have no care: + Snugly they sit and safe and unafraid + In stately places, proud as if the mud + And slime that swills their veins were princes' blood. + + Let us be wise and wary of that gang! + When they seem friendly know they have much wit, + And if it come that any man shall hang, + This neck will go unchoked, that nose unslit, + For, be things wry and crooked and to guess, + Those twisters are at home in twistiness. + + We know now what their plottings were about, + And how they planned, and what they meant to win; + 'Twas God, not us, that took their tangles out, + For no sleek eel inside an oily skin + Could slip with more address from harm than they + Can slip from punishment and get away. + + When trouble came it was their plan to get + Our friends into the boat they meant to leave, + And there was some one left to pay their debt, + And they were free again to lie and thieve: + So they could put the feet of the man they'd rob + Into the boots of the one that did the job. + + If burnt child does truly dread the flame, + If wounded soldier shrinks again to see + A steel point sloping to him, let the same + Experience teach our chiefs that they may be + Crafty in meeting craft, and may beware + Of brewer's bees and buzzers everywhere. + + Unto the Mind which pardons sin I pray, + I pray to Him who did permit our woe + But halted our destruction, that to-day + Kindness and love and trust and inward glow + Of vision light our hearts with light divine, + So that we know our way until the end of time. + + + + + THE GERALDINE'S CLOAK + + I will not heed the message which you bring: + That lovely lady gave her cloak to us, + And who'd believe she'd give away a thing + And ask it back again?--'tis fabulous! + + My parting from her gave me cause to grieve, + For she, that I was poor, had misty eyes; + If some Archangel blew it I'd believe + The message which you bring, not otherwise. + + I do not say this just to make a joke, + Nor would I rob her, but, 'tis verity, + So long as I could swagger in a cloak + I never cared how bad my luck could be. + + That lady, all perfection, knows the sting + Of poverty was thrust deep into me: + I don't believe she'd do this kind of thing, + Or treat a poet less than daintily. + + + + + SKIM-MILK + + A small part only of my grief I write; + And if I do not give you all the tale + It is because my gloom gets some respite + By just a small bewailing: I bewail + That I with sly and stupid folk must bide + Who steal my food and ruin my inside. + + Once I had books, each book beyond compare, + But now no book at all is left to me, + And I am spied and peeped on everywhere, + And my old head, stuffed with latinity, + And with the poet's load of grave and gay + Will not get me skim-milk for half a day. + + Wild horse or quiet, not a horse have I, + But to the forest every day I go + Bending beneath a load of wood, that high! + Which raises on my back a sorry row + Of raw, red blisters; so I cry, alack, + The rider that rides me will break my back. + + Ossian, when he was old and near his end, + Met Patrick by good luck, and he was stayed; + I am a poet too and seek a friend, + A prop, a staff, a comforter, an aid, + A Patrick who will lift me from despair, + In Cormac Uasal Mac Donagh of the golden hair. + + + + + BLUE BLOOD + + We thought at first, this man is a king for sure, + Or the branch of a mighty and ancient and famous lineage-- + That silly, sulky, illiterate, black-avised boor + Who was hatched by foreign vulgarity under a hedge. + + The good men of Clare were drinking his health in a flood, + And gazing with me in awe at the princely lad, + And asking each other from what bluest blueness of blood + His daddy was squeezed, and the pa of the da of his dad? + + We waited there, gaping and wondering, anxiously, + Until he'd stop eating and let the glad tidings out, + And the slack-jawed booby proved to the hilt that he + Was lout, son of lout, by old lout, and was da to a lout! + + + + + O'BRUAIDAR + + I will sing no more songs: the pride of my country I sang + Through forty long years of good rhyme, without any avail; + And no one cared even as much as the half of a hang + For the song or the singer, so here is an end to the tale. + + If a person should think I complain and have not got the cause, + Let him bring his eyes here and take a good look at my hand, + Let him say if a goose-quill has calloused this poor pair of paws + Or the spade that I grip on and dig with out there in the land? + + When the great ones were safe and renowned and were rooted and tough, + Though my mind went to them and took joy in the fortune of those, + And pride in their pride and their fame, they gave little enough, + Not as much as two boots for my feet, or an old suit of clothes. + + I ask of the Craftsman that fashioned the fly and the bird, + Of the Champion whose passion will lift me from death in a time, + Of the Spirit that melts icy hearts with the wind of a word, + That my people be worthy, and get, better singing than mine. + + I had hoped to live decent, when Ireland was quit of her care, + As a bailiff or steward perhaps in a house of degree, + But my end of the tale is, old brogues and old britches to wear, + So I'll sing no more songs for the men that care nothing for me. + + + + +NOTE + +This book ought to be called Loot or Plunder or Pieces of Eight or +Treasure-Trove, or some name which would indicate and get away from its +source, for although everything in it can be referred to the Irish of +from one hundred to three hundred years ago the word translation would +be a misdescription. There are really only two translations in it, +Keating's "O Woman full of Wiliness" and Raftery's "County Mayo." Some +of the poems owe no more than a phrase, a line, half a line, to the +Irish, and around these scraps I have blown a bubble of verse and made +my poem. In other cases, where the matter of the poem is almost +entirely taken from the Irish, I have yet followed my own instinct in +the arrangement of it, and the result might be called new poems. My +first idea was to make an anthology of people whom long ago our poets +had praised, so that, in another language and another time, these +honoured names might be heard again, even though in my own terms and +not in the historic context. I did not pursue this course, for I could +not control the material which came to me and which took no heed of my +plan and was just as interesting. It would therefore be a mistake to +consider that these verses are representative of the poets by whom they +are inspired. In the case of David O'Bruadair this is less true than +in any of the others, but, even in his case, although I have often +conveyed his matter almost verbatim, the selection is not +representative of the poet. One side only, and that the least, is +shown, for a greater pen than mine would be necessary if that tornado +of rage, eloquence, and humour were to be presented; but the poems +which I give might almost be taken as translations of one side of his +terrific muse. + +As regards Egan O'Rahilly a similar remark is necessary. No pen and no +language but his own could even distantly indicate a skill and melody +which might be spoken of as one of the wonders of the world. I have +done exactly as I pleased with his material. + +From Antoine O'Raftery I have taken more than from any of the others, +and have in nearly every instance treated his matter so familiarly that +a lover of Raftery (and who, having read a verse of his, does not love +him?) might not know I was indebted to this poet for my songs. His +work is different from that of Keating, O'Rahilly, or O'Bruadair, for +these were learned men, and were writing out of a tradition so hoary +with age and so complicated in convention that only learned and subtle +minds could attempt it. I have wondered would Keating or O'Rahilly +have been very scornful of Raftery's work? I think they might have +been angry at such an ignorance of all the rules, and would probably +have torn the paper on which his poems were written, and sat down to +compose a satire which would have raised blisters on that poor, blind, +wandering singer, the master of them all. + +In two of the poems which I tried to translate from Raftery I have +completely failed. Against one of them I broke an hundred pens in +vain; and in the other, "The County Mayo," I have been so close to +success and so far from succeeding that I may mourn a little about it. +The first three verses are not bad, but the last verse is the +completest miss: the simplicity of the original is there, its music is +not, and in the last two lines the poignance, which should come on the +reader as though a hand gripped at his heart, is absent. The other +failure I have not printed because I could get no way on it at all: it +would not even begin to translate. This is Raftery's reply to the man +who did not recognise him as he fiddled to a crowd, and asked "who is +the musician?" + + I am Raftery the poet, + Full of hope and love, + My eyes without sight, + My mind without torment, + + Going west on my journey + By the light of my heart, + Tired and weary + To the end of the road. + + Behold me now + With my back to a wall, + Playing music + To empty pockets. + +See Douglas Hyde's _Life of Raftery_. + +Dissimilar as these poets are from each other in time, education, and +temperament, they are alike in that they were all poor men, so poor +that there was often little difference between them and beggars. They +all sing of their poverty: Keating as a fact to be recorded among other +facts, O'Rahilly in a very stately and bitter complaint, and Raftery as +in the quotation above; but O'Bruadair lets out of him an unending, +rebellious bawl which would be the most desolating utterance ever made +by man if it was not also the most gleeful. + + + + +THE END + + + + +_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_. + + + + + + +BY JAMES STEPHENS + +The Charwoman's Daughter. Cr. 8vo. 4s. 6d. net. + +The Crock of Gold. Cr. 8vo. 6s. net. + +Here are Ladies. Cr. 8vo. 6s. net. + +The Demi-Gods. Cr. 8vo. 6s. net. + +Songs from the Clay. Poems. Cr. 8vo. 4s. 6d. net. + +The Adventures of Seumas Beg: The Rocky Road to Dublin. Cr. 8vo. 4s. +6d. net. + + + +SOME NEW BOOKS + +Moments of Vision and Miscellaneous Verses. By THOMAS HARDY. Cr. 8vo. +6s. net. + +Per Amica Silentia Lunae. By WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS. Cr. 8vo. 4s. 6d. +net. + +Whin: A volume of Poems. 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