The Arkansaw traveler., 1888-02-11
WILL MY SOUL PASS THROUGH
 IRELAND?

EThe first three stanzas of the follow ing beautiful poem were written a number of years ago by Denis O'Sul- livan, of New York. The other stanzas attached, which form 6 dialogue be- tween the priest and the old woman who is dying, are so full of harmless wit, and are in no way intended to be profane or disrespectful to the holy ministry of the priesthood on the contrary, they contain a moral that will be perceived by the thoughtful reader.
 Oh, soggarth aroon sure know life is fleet Soon, soon in the strange earth my poor bones will lie; l have said my last prayer and received my And if the Sefsfi Iora's willing Pm ready to die. But soggarth arOonl can never again see The valleys and hills of my dear native land?
 When my soul takes it's flight from this dark Will it pass through old Ireland to join the blest land? Oh, soggarth aroon sure I know that in heaven
 The loved ones are waiting and watching for And the Lord knows how anxious am to be with them,
 In those realms of joy mid souls pure and Yet, soggarth pray, ere you leave me for. ever,
 Relieve the last doubt of poor dying soul, Whose hope next to God, is to know that when leaving
 Twill pass through old Ireland on the way Oh, soggarth aroonl have kept through all changes
 The thrice blessed shamrock to lay OCT my clayi
 And, oh, it has minded me, often and often, Of that bright smiling valley far, far away.
 Then tellm l pray you, will l ever again The place where it grew on my own native sod2
 When my body lies cold in the land of the Will my soul pass through Erin on it's way to our God? Arrah, bless you, my child sure, thought it heaven
 You wanted to go to the moment you died; And such Is the place on the ticket I'm giving,
 Buta coupon for Ireland I'll stick to it's Your soul shall he free as the wind OCT the prairies,
 And I'll land you at Cork on the banks of the Lee, And two little angels I'll give you, like fairies,
 To guide you all right over mountain and lea.
 Arrah, soggarth aroon, can't you do any bet know that my feelings may peril your grace;
 But, If you allowed me a voice in the matter, won't make il landing at any such place The spot that l long for is sweet County Derry; Among its fair people I was born and bred i; The Cerkies never much fancied while liv. And 1 don't want to visit them after I'm dead Let me fly to the hllls where my soul can make merry,
 plentiful grows In the counties of Cavan, Fcrmauagh and Derry
 I'll l,nger till called to a better repose, And the angels you give me will find it in To visit the shrnes in the Island of Saints i; If they bring from saint Patrick a small bit of writing
 They'll never have reason for any com. plaints. A soul, my dear child, that has pinions Need not be confined to province so small i; Through Ulster and Munster and Leinster and Connaught
 In less than jiHey you're over It all Then visit sweet Cork, where your soggarth was horn
 No doubt many new things have come into But one thing you'll find, that both night, noon As for centuries back, there's no change in the brogue. Good mother. assist me in this, my last hour;
 And soggarth aroon, lay your hand on my
 head;
 Sure, you're soggarth for all, and for all you
 have power,
 And take it for penance for what have
 said.
 And now, since you tell me through Ireland
 I'm passing,
 And finding the place so remarkably small, IR tn hn n Ia in Rrnl lStp That we know distinction in counties at all. - United Irtshmdn.