The lady of Antrim rose with the morn,

And donn'd her grandest gear;

And her heart beat fast, when a sounding horn

Announced a suitor near;

Hers was a heart so full of pride,

That love had little room,

Good faith, I would not wish me such bride,

For all her beautiful bloom.

One suitor there came from the Scottish shore,

Long, and lithe, and grim,

And a younger one from Dunluce hoar,

And the lady inclined to him.

"But hearken ye, nobles both," she said,

As soon as they sat to dine—

"The hand must prove its chieftainry,

That putteth a ring on mine.

"But not in the lists with armed hands,

Must this devoir be done,

Yet he who wins my broad, broad lands

Their lady may count as won.

Ye both were born upon the shore,—

Were bred upon the sea,

Now let me see you ply the oar,

For the land you love—and me!

"The chief that first can reach the strand

May mount at morn and ride,

And his long day's ride shall bound his land,

And I will be his bride!"

M'Quillan felt hope in every vein

As the bold, bright lady spoke—

And McDonald glanced over his rival again,

And bow'd with a bargeman's stroke.

'Tis summer upon the Antrim shore—

The shore of shores it is—

Where the white old rocks deep caves arch o'er,

Unfathom'd by man I wis—

Where the basalt breast of our isle flings back

The Scandinavian surge,

To howl through its native Scaggerack,

Chanting the Viking's dirge.

'Tis summer—the long white lines of foam

Roll lazily to the beach,

And man and maid from every home

Their eyes o'er the waters stretch.

On Glenarm's lofty battlements

Sitteth the lady fair,

And the warm west wind blows softly

Through the links of her golden hair.

The boats in the distant offing

Are marshaird prow to prow;

The boatmen cease their scoffing,

And bend to the rowlocks now;

Like glory-guided steeds they start—

Away o'er the waves they bound;

Each rower can hear the beating heart

Of his brother boatman sound.

Nearer! nearer! on they come,

Row, McDonald, row!

For Antrim's princely castle home,

Its lands, and its lady, row!

The chief that first can grasp the strand

May mount at morn and ride,

And his long day's ride shall bound his land,

And she shall be his bride!

He saw his rival gain apace,

He felt the spray in his wake—

He thought of her who watch'd the race

Most dear for her dowry sake!

Then he drew his skein from out its sheath,

And lopt off his left hand,

And pale and fierce, as a chief in death,

He hurl'd it to the strand!

"The chief that first can grasp the strand,

May mount at morn and ride;"

Oh, fleet is the steed which the bloody hand,

Through Antrim's glens doth guide!

And legends tell that the proud ladye

Would fain have been unbann'd,

For the chieftain who proved his chieftainry

Lorded both wife and land.

——-T. D. M'Gee.

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