McCARTHY.
_New Year's Day_, 1909.
Mr. McCarthy is associate editor of _The Sacred Heart_, Boston, and a
most popular poet and lecturer.
His dear little book, _Voices from Erin_, adorned with the Irish harp
and the American shield fastened together by a series of true-love
knots, is dedicated "To all who in their love for the new land have
not forgotten the old." There is one of these poems which is always
called for whenever the author attends any public function where
recitations are in order, and I do not wonder at its popularity, for
it has the genuine Irish lilt and fascination:
"Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring time of the year,
When the hawthorn's whiter than the snow,
When the feathered folk assemble and the air is all a-tremble
With their singing and their winging to and fro;
When queenly Slieve-na-mon puts her verdant vesture on,
And smiles to hear the news the breezes bring;
When the sun begins to glance on the rivulets that dance;
Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring!"
I have always wanted to write a poem about my own "Breezy" and the
bunch of lilacs at the gate; but not being a poet I have had to keep
wanting; but just repeating this gaily tripping tribute over and over,
I suddenly seized my pencil and pad, and actually under the
inspiration, imitated (at a distance) half of this first verse.
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