In presenting this book Of poems to the public I do not pretend to be a Goldsmith, a Davis or a Moore. I have done the best I could, and, under the circumstances, I hope the kind reader will appreciate my work all the more. I have written some Of these poems in the dead hours Of the night, Often when my thoughts wandered far across the sea to the little church and the schoolhouse and vines, meadowland and wood, where I first saw the light Of day. More Of them were written on the broad Atlantic, nearing the land Of my birth and some were written when return ing to the land Of my adoption. The language used in this book may not sound parliamentary, but to me it Sounds very expressive, and therefore I Offer. No apology. When a boy Of seventeen I was forced to leave Ireland (not through any row with the family coachman, but owing to the despotic and tyrannical English laws), and I came to America to seek freedom under the glorious and starry banner of the greatest nation on the globe. For thirty years or more I have been a citizen Of this nation. Eight children were born to me here, and the saddest blow I ever received was when their mother, one of the best and noblest women that ever lived, passed away from them and me on the eighth day of January, 1899. She is now sleeping her last sleep in Calvary Cemetery, New York. May peace be hers. She was my joy and pride, and life without her has been a sad one to me.