that you are travelling towards the meadow of the dead.'

Some of his poems of places, usually places in Mayo, the only ones he
had ever looked on--for smallpox took his sight away in his
childhood--have much charm. 'Cnocin Saibhir,' 'the Plentiful Little
Hill,' must have sounded like a dream of Tir-nan-og to many a poor
farmer in a sodden-thatched cottage:--

'After the Christmas, with the help of Christ, I will never stop if
I am alive; I will go to the sharp-edged little hill; for it is a
fine place, without fog falling; a blessed place that the sun
shines on, and the wind doesn't rise there or any thing of the
sort.

'And if you were a year there, you would get no rest, only sitting
up at night and eternally drinking.

'The lamb and the sheep are there; the cow and the calf are there;
fine lands are there without heath and without bog. Ploughing and
seed-sowing in the right month, and plough and harrow prepared and
ready; the rent that is called for there, they have means to pay
it. There is oats and flax and large-eared barley.... There are
beautiful valleys with good growth in them, and hay. Rods grow
there, and bushes and tufts, white fields are there, and respect
for trees; shade and shelter from wind and rain; priests and friars
reading their book; spending and getting is there, and nothing
scarce.'

In another song in the same manner on 'Cilleaden,' he says:--