The
Golden Treasury
of
Irish Songs and Lyrics
Edited by
CHARLES WELSH
Volume One
NEW YORK
Dodge Publishing Company
40-42 EAST igTH STREET
Copyright,
DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY
TO
THEODORE ROOSEVELT
PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
THIS WORK IS DEDICATED
AS A MARK OF APPRECIATION OF
HIS ENCOURAGEMENT OF THE STUDY
OF IRISH LITERATURE IN AMERICA
PREFACE
THIS anthology, as its name implies, aims to pre-
sent some of the best examples of Irish songs
and lyrics from the Bards who wrote in their mother
tongue, when Ireland was the island of saints and
scholars and the school of the West ; the folk songs,
street ballads, the great wealth of patriotic poetry
called forth by the suppression and oppression of
centuries, the humorous and convivial verse with
which Irish literature abounds, the pathetic, romantic
and sentimental poetry for which the Irish have al-
ways been famous, and the elusive, refined, tender
and mystical voices which breathe in the poetry of the
Irish Renascence of to-day.
Songs and lyrics must necessarily be an elastic term,
especially when applied to Irish verse, since nearly all
Irish poetry is lyrical and nearly all Irish poetry is
song ; even in narrative, descriptive and didactic
poetry, the Irishman more often than not takes on a
lyric tone. Hence, although the longer poems of
Goldsmith and Moore have been excluded because
they do not exactly answer to the title of this collec-
tion, many others may be found herein which, while
not being strictly songs or lyrics, possess in some de-
gree the characteristics of one or the other,
v
vi PREFACE
Indeed the line can never be drawn with absolute
accuracy and it is possible that many pieces have been
here included which may be considered neither songs
nor lyrics, but the editor while hoping generally to
please the scholarly and critical reader, desires also to
gratify the larger public who will expect to find in
such a collection, those verses which have endeared
themselves to the hearts of the Irish people and which
they would not willingly let die.
There is probably no body of poetry in the world
which lends itself less readily to literary criticism and
classification than that which has sprung from the
great heart of the Irish people. They have ever been,
like the holy men of old, who spake as they were
moved by the Holy Ghost. As a rule the poets of
Ireland have appeared to care little for forms except
those of rhyme and rhythm, feeling dominating ever.
There is little effect of the labor limce to be felt in
the great body of Irish poetry ; even in those polished
and complicated verses, full of vowel rhymes and
alliterations characteristic of the early writers in their
native Irish some of which have been so felicitously
rendered by Dr. Douglas Hyde, there is scarcely any
sensation of the fetters of form. From the first Bard
who told in burning and Homeric phrase the story of
the fights of the Iberian Chiefs or of the grand stand
which Brian Boru made against the Danish invasion,
to the burning songs and ballads of the young Ireland-
PREFACE vii
ers and to the love songs of Moore and the mystical
imaginings of the poets of the modern revival, there
is always a sense of spontaneousness left on the mind
of the reader ; action, sentiment and feeling have ever
been the pulsating notes of Irish poetry as they have
always been the dominant features of the Irish char-
acter, shaping and moulding the destinies of the race.
No collection of Irish songs and lyrics would be
complete without some examples of the convivial
songs, which had their vogue in the genial days of
Lever, Lover and Moore. The fashion which gave
them birth has passed away and there are many
features of it which it would be well to forget, but it
represents a distinct period in the national life and
a character and spirit of the people which is as per-
manent as its hills and its valleys, its rivers and its
bogs.
But no lengthy disquisition on the characteristics
and history of Irish poetry need be attempted here.
More competent authorities have dealt with the sub-
ject m its many and varied aspects and the poetry of
Ireland by common consent now holds a high and
distinguished place among the literatures of the world.
An anthology loses half its value unless it be also a
work of ready reference, hence the plan has been
adopted of arranging the contents of this volume
alphabetically, according to the names of the authors
and the translators from the Gaelic, anonymous poetry
viii PREFACE
finding a place in the alphabetical order under the
title of Street Ballads, Hedge Songs and Anonymous
verse.
For those who wish to study the groups into which
Irish songs and lyrics naturally fall, the apparatus fur-
nished at the end of the volume will be found readily
practicable. The thousand and one gems of Irish
poetry contained herein are classified in the indexes in
such a manner that the student can easily find every
group with which he may wish to acquaint himself.
The folk songs, the Bardic songs, the love songs, the
humorous and convivial songs and the sacred poetry,
as well as many other minor subdivisions will be
found in their places.
The translations from the Gaelic by different hands
included in the volume are indexed under the names of
their translators ; and so far as the authorship is known,
under the names of the writers ; they are also indexed
in the general group of Gaelic authors. A few trans-
lations of the same poems by different hands will be
found as for example : " The famous hills of Eire O,"
of which no less than three different versions are given.
In garnering this collection the editor has had the
advantage of the critical judgment of some of the fore-
most Irish scholars and poets among whom may be
mentioned with grateful thanks : Dr. Douglas Hyde,
Mr. Stephen Lucius Gwynn, Francis Joseph Bigger
and D. J, Q'Donoghue as well as some of the best
PREFACE ix
English and Irish scholars on this side of the Atlantic,
and among these thanks are especially due to Professor
F. N. Robinson, who occupies the Celtic chair at
Harvard University, Dr. Maurice F. Egan of the
Catholic University in Washington, the Rev. C. P.
Gavan, Messrs. John D. Crimmins, Patrick Ford,
Eugene Geary, John J. Rooney, James Ryan, and
S. J. Richardson.
CHARLES WELSH.
Winthrop, Mass., June, igod.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
(VOLUME I)
ALEXANDER, CECIL FRANCES . . i
Dreams l
The Burial of Moses 2
The Irish Mother's Lament 4
The Legend of Stumpie's Brae 7
There is a Green Hill 13
ALEXANDER, WILLIAM 14
Very Far Away *4
ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM 15
Abbey Asaroe 15
Across the Sea 17
A Dream 17
Among the Heather 19
Four Ducks on a Pond 20
Half-Waking 20
Lovely Mary Donnelly 21
Spring is Come 23
The Ban-Shee 25
The Fairies 27
The Leprecaun, or Fairy Shoemaker 29
The Lover and Birds 3 1
The Milkmaid 33
The Ruined Chapel 35
The Sailor 36
The Winding Banks of Erne 37
Windlass Song 43
Winning 44
Wishing 45
ANSTER, JOHN 46
The Fairy Child 46
xi
xii CONTENTS
ARMSTRONG, JOHN FRANCIS 48
Adieu 48
The Blind Student 48
BANIM, JOHN 50
Aileen . 50
Soggarth Aroon 51
The Fetch 53
The Irish Mother in the Penal Days 54
BARLOW, JANE 56
The Flitting of the Fairies 56
BARRY, MICHAEL JOSEPH 59
The Place Where Man Should Die 59
The Sword 60
BEAMISH, FLORENCE 63
Sleep On 63
BERKELEY, GEORGE, Bishop of Cloyne 64
On the Prospect of Planting Arts and Learning in
America 64
BlCKERSTAFF, ISAAC 66
Song 66
Two Songs 66
BLAKE, MARY ELIZABETH 69
The Dawning o' the Year 69
The First Steps 71
BOUCICAULT, DION . . . . 74
Song . . . .. 74
BOYD, THOMAS 76
To the Leanan Sidhe 76
BOYLE, WILLIAM 78
Philandering 78
BRENAN, JOSEPH , 80
Come to Me, Dearest 80
CONTENTS xiii
BROOKE, CHARLOTTE 82
Pulse of My Heart 82
BROOKE, STOPFORD AUGUSTUS 83
The Noble Lay of Aillinn 83
BROWNE, FRANCES 87
O the Pleasant Days of Old ! 87
The Last Friends 89
What Hath Time Taken 9
BUGGY, KEVIN T ,. . 92
The Saxon Shilling 92
CALLANAN, JAMES JOSEPH 94
And Must We Part 94
Dirge of O'Sullivan Bear 95
Gougane Barra 97
O Say, My Brown Drimin 100
The Convict of Clonmel 101
The Lament of O'Gnive 102
CAMPBELL, JOSEPH 105
Newtownbreda IO 5
The Friar's Bush 106
The Garden of the Bees 109
The Lament of Patraic Mor MacCruimin over His
Sons "o
The Nine Glens of Aon-Druim 112
CAMPION, JOHN T "4
Emmet's Death "4
CANNING, GEORGE 116
Epitaph 116
Song H7
The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Grinder . . 119
CANTON, WILLIAM 121
Laus Infantum 121
CARLETON, WILLIAM 122
A Sigh for Knockmany 122
xiv CONTENTS
CASEY, JOHN KEEGAN 124
Donal Kenny 124
Gracie Og Machree 126
Maire My Girl 127
The Rising of the Moon 128
CHERRY, ANDREW 131
The Bay of Biscay 131
The Green Little Shamrock of Ireland 132
Tom Moody 133
CHESSON, MRS. W. H., (Nora Hopper) 135
Niam 135
The Cuckoo Sings in the Heart of Winter 137
The Dark Man 137
The Faery Fool 138
The Fairy Fiddler 139
The Gray Fog 140
The King of Ireland's Son 141
CLARKE, J. B., 143
Eman-ac-Knuck to Eva 143
CLARKE, JOSEPH IGNATIUS CONSTANTINE 146
Rough Rider O'Neill 146
The Fighting Race 148
CODE, HENRY BRERETON 151
The Sprig of Shillelah 151
COLEMAN, PATRICK JAMES 153
Bindin' the Oats 153
Seed-Time . . . 154
COLUM, PADRAIC 157
A Drover 157
Dream and Shadow 158
The Bells 159
The Flower 159
CONGREVE, WILLIAM . . . ; 161
Amoret .* 161
Extracts from the " Mourning Bride " 161
CONTENTS xv
CONNOLLY, DANIEL 163
Compensation 163
Memories of the Erne 165
Trout Fishing 169
CONNOLLY, JAMES 173
The Song of Ilann 173
CONOLLY, LUKE AYLMER 174
The Enchanted Island 174
CRAWFORD, MRS. JULIA 176
Dermot Astore 176
Kathleen Mavourneen 177
CROKER, T. CROFTON 178
Caoine on Maurice Fitzgerald, Knight of Kerry . . 178
The Lord of Dunkerron 180
CROLY, REV. GEORGE 184
Leonidas l &4
The Island of Atlantis 185
CURRAN, HENRY GRATTAN 188
A Lament 188
CURRAN, JOHN PHILPOT .... I9 1
Cushla-ma-chree . . I9 1
The Deserter's Meditation 192
The Monks of the Screw 192
D' ALTON, JOHN 195
Claragh's Lament 195
DARLEY, GEORGE 198
Song 198
Song of the Summer Winds 199
To Helene 200
True Loveliness 201
DAVIS, FRANCIS 203
My Kallagh Dhu Asthore 203
Nanny 205
xvi CONTENTS
DAVIS, THOMAS OSBORNE 207
A Christmas Scene, or Love in the Country .... 207
A Nation Once Again 209
A Plea for Love 210
Fontenoy 211
Maire Bhan a Stor 214
My Grave 216
My Land 217
Oh ! the Marriage 217
The Girl of Dunbwy 219
The Welcome 220
The West's Asleep , ',. 221
DAWSON, ARTHUR 223
Bumpers, Squire Jones ,,.... 223
DE VERE, SIR AUBREY 227
Liberty of the Press 227
The Children Band 227
The Shannon 228
DE VERE, AUBREY T , 229
Dirge of Rory O'More 229
Flowers I Would Bring 230
Sad is Our Youth 230
Song 231
Sorrow 232
The Little Black Rose 232
DOHENY, MICHAEL 234
A Cushla Gal mo Chree ............ 234
DOLLARD, REV. JAMES B 236
Irish Mist and Sunshine . 236
The Fallin' o' the Rain ... 237
When the West Wind Blows 239
DOWDEN, EDWARD 241
Awakening 241
Lady Margaret's Song 241
Song 242
CONTENTS xvii
BOWLING, BARTHOLOMEW 244
The Brigade at Fontenoy 244
DOWNING, ELLEN MARY PATRICK 247
The Old Church at Lismore . 247
DRENNAN, DR. WILLIAM ... 250
Erin .... .... 250
The Wake of William Orr . . 252
DRENNAN, WILLIAM, JR 254
The Battle of Beal-an-atha-buidh 254
DRUMMOND, REV. W. H 257
Cuchullin's Chariot 257
DUFFERIN, LADY HELEN 259
Katey's Letter 259
Lament of the Irish Emigrant 260
DUFFET, THOMAS , 263
Come All You Pale Lovers 263
DUFFY, SIR CHARLES GAVAN 265
Innishowen 265
The Irish Rapparees 267
The Muster of the North .'..''. 270
EGAN, MAURICE F 275
By Right Divine 275
The Shamrock 275
EMMET, ROBERT 277
Lines 277
FAHY, FRANCIS A 279
Irish Molly O . .... 279
The Bog Road "...'.'.'.'...'I .' .' .' 280
The Donovans . 283
The Quid Plaid Shawl ....'. 284
xviii CONTENTS
FERGUSON, SIR SAMUEL 287
Cean Dubh Deelish 287
Drimmin Dhu 287
Lament Over the Ruins of the Abbey of Timoleague, 288
Mild Mabel Kelly 291
Owen Bawn 292
Pastheen Fion 294
The Coolun 296
The Fair Hills of Ireland 298
The Fairy Thorn 299
The Fairy Well of Lagnanay 302
The Forging of the Anchor 305
The Lapful of Nuts 310
FITZGERALD, MAURICE 311
Moonlight on New York Bay 311
To Douglas Hyde 312
FITZSIMON, ELLEN 314
The Song of the Irish Emigrant in America .... 314
FLECKNOE, RICHARD 317
Of Drinking 3*7
FORREST, J. L 318
The Banshee's Song 3 l8
FORRESTER, ELLEN 3 21
The Widow's Message to Her Son 321
Fox, GEORGE 3 2 4
The County of Mayo . . . 3 2 4
FRAZER, JEAN DE JEAN 3 26
Brosna's Banks . . 3 2 ^
Song for July I2th, 1843 3 28
FURLONG, ALICE ..... 33
The Dreamer 33
The Trees . 33 1
CONTENTS xix
FURLONG, MARY 333
An Irish Love-Song 333
Glen-na-Smoel 335
FURLONG, THOMAS 337
Bridget Cruise 337
Eileen Aroon 339
Maggy Laidir 340
Roisin Dubh ... 343
GALLAGHER, F. O'NEILL 345
The Sea Madness 345
GALLAGHER, W. D 34^
The Laborer 346
GEOGHEGAN, ARTHUR GERALD 348
After Aughrim 34&
The Mountain Fern 34^
GILBERT, LADY (Rosa Mulholland) 351
Kilfenora 351
Saint Brigid 352
Shamrocks .... 353
Song 353
The Builders 354
The Wild Geese 357
GOLDSMITH, OLIVER 360
An Elegy 360
Memory 361
The Hermit 361
Tony Lumpkm's Song
Woman
GORE-BOOTH, EVA 3 6 9
From East to West 369
The Little Waves of Breffny 3 6 9
To Maeve 37
xx CONTENTS
GRAVES, A. P 372
An Irish Grace 372
Father O'Flynn ....... 373
Irish Eyes . . 375
Kitty Bhan 375
Like a Stone in the Street . . 376
The Blue, Blue Smoke 377
She Is My Love 379
The Irish Spinning- Wheel 380
GRAVES, C. L 382
Ad Aristiden Obfuscatum 382
Ad Aristium Fuscum 383
GREENE, GEORGE ARTHUR 386
On Great Sugarloaf 386
Spring-Time 387
GRIFFIN, GERALD 389
Eileen Aroon 389
Gile Machree 391
Hy-Brasail : the Isle of the Blest 393
The Wake of the Absent . 394
GWYNN, STEPHEN LUCIAS 396
A Lay of Ossian and Patrick 396
Ireland 43
Mater Severa 44
HALPINE, CHARLES GRAHAM 47
'Not a Star From the Flag Shall Fade 407
HOBSON, BULMER 49
The Deluge 49
Ulad 410
HOGAN, MICHAEL . 412
Draherin O Machree . . . 4"
CONTENTS xxi
HYDE, DOUGLAS 414
From a Poem by Teige MacDaire 414
I Shall Not Die for Thee ... 415
Little Child, I Call Thee 416
My Grief on the Sea 417
My Love oh! She is My Love 418
O Were You on the Mountain 420
Ringleted Youth of My Love 420
The Brow of Nefin 421
The Red Man's Wife ... 423
The Sign of the Cross Forever . 424
INGRAM, JOHN KELLS 426
The Memory of the Dead 426
IRWIN, THOMAS CAULFIELD 428
A Window Song 428
The Emigrant's Voyage 430
The Potato-Digger's Song 432
JOHNSON, LIONEL 435
The Dark Angel . 435
The Last Music 437
The Red Wind 438
To Morfydd 439
Ways of War 440
JOYCE, ROBERT DWYER 442
Crossing the Blackwater 442
The Blacksmith of Limerick 444
The Wind That Shakes the Barley 447
KAVANAGH, ROSE 449
Lough Bray 449
St. Michan's Churchyard . 450
The Northern Blackwater 451
KEEGAN, JOHN . 454
Caoch the Piper 454
KEELING, ELSA D'ESTERRE 458
Love Making in Paddy Land 458
xxii CONTENTS
KENEALY, EDWARD , 459
Love's Warning 459
KENEALY, WILLIAM ';'.. 461
The Last Request 461
The Moon Behind the Hill . . 462
KENNEDY, WILLIAM 464
The Poet's Heart 464
KENNEY, JAMES 466
Why Are You Wandering Here 466
KEOHLER, THOMAS 467
Apology 467
Autumn 468
The Devotee 468
KICKHAM, CHARLES J 470
My Ulick 470
Patrick Sheehan ..;.... 472
Rory of the Hill 474
LANE, DENNY 477
Kate of Arraglen 477
LARMINIE, WILLIAM 480
Consolation 480
LAWLESS, EMILY 482
A Retort 482
LEAMY, EDMUND ... 484
A Royal Love 484
LEFANU, JOSEPH SHERIDAN 486
Abhrain an Bhuideil 486
Shamus O'Brien 489
The GOLDEN TREASURY
of IRISH SONGS and LYRICS
CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER
(1818-1895)
DREAMS
BEYOND, beyond the mountain line,
The gray-stone and the boulder,
Beyond the growth of dark green pine,
That crowns its western shoulder,
There lies that fairy-land of mine,
Unseen of a beholder.
Its fruits are all like rubies rare ;
Its streams are clear as glasses ;
There golden castles hang in air,
And purple grapes in masses,
And noble knights and ladies fair
Come riding down the passes.
Ah me ! they say if I could stand
Upon those mountain ledges,
I should but see on either hand
Plain fields and dusty hedges;
And yet I know my fairy-land
Lies somewhere o'er their edges.
2 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
THE BURIAL OF MOSES
BY Nebo's lonely mountain, on this side Jordan's
wave,
In a vale, in the land of Moab, there lies a
lonely grave;
And no man knows that sepulchre, and no man saw
it e'er;
For the angels of God upturned the sod, and laid the
dead man there.
That was the grandest funeral that ever passed on
earth ;
But no man heard the trampling, or saw the train go
forth
Noiselessly, as the Daylight comes back when Night
is done,
And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek grows into
the great sun.
Noiselessly, as the spring-time her crown of verdure
weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills open their thousand
leaves ;
So, without sound of music, or voice of them that
wept,
Silently down from the mountain's crown, the great
procession swept.
Perchance the bald old eagle, on gray Beth-Peer's
height,
Out of his lonely eyrie, looked on the wondrous
sight;
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 3
Perchance the lion stalking still shuns that hallowed
spot,
For beast and bird have seen and heard that which
man knoweth not !
But when the Warrior dieth, his comrades in the war,
With arms reversed and muffled drum, follow his
funeral car ;
They show the banners taken, they tell his battles won,
And after him lead his masterless steed, while peals
the minute-gun.
Amid the noblest of the land we lay the Sage to rest,
And give the Bard an honored place, with costly
marble drest,
In the great minster transept, where lights like glories
fall,
And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings, along
the emblazoned wall.
This was the truest warrior that ever buckled sword ;
This the most gifted poet that ever breathed a word ;
And never earth's philosopher traced with his golden
pen,
On the deathless page, truths half so sage as he wrote
down for men.
And had he not high honor, the hillside for a pall ?
To lie in state, while angels wait, with stars for tapers
tali?
And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes, over his
bier to wave !
And God's own hand, in that lonely land, to lay him
in the grave !
4 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
In that strange grave without a name, whence his
uncoffined clay
Shall break again, O wondrous thought ! before the
judgment day,
And stand, with glory wrapt around, on the hills he
never trod,
And speak of the strife that won our life, with the in-
carnate Son of God.
O lonely grave in Moab's land ! O dark Beth -Peer's
hill!
Speak to these curious hearts of ours, and teach them
to be still.
God hath his mysteries of grace, ways that we cannot
tell;
He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep of him he
loved so well.
THE IRISH MOTHER'S LAMENT
" She watched for the return of her son from America in her
house by the Foyle, near Derry."
T
HERE'S no one on the long white road
The night is closing o'er;
O mother ! cease to look abroad
And let me shut the door.
Now here and there a twinkling light
Comes out along the bay ;
The little ships lie still and white,
And no one comes this way."
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS
She turned her straining eyes within ;
She sighed both long and low.
" Shut up the door ; take out the pin,
Then, if it must be so.
"But, daughter, set the wick alight,
And put it in the pane ;
If any should come home to-night,
He'll see it through the rain.
" Nay, leave the pin beneath the latch ;
If some one push the door,
Across my broken dreams I'll hear
His footstep on the floor."
She crouched within the ingle nook,
She spread her fingers sere,
Her failed eyes, had a far-off look,
Despite her fourscore year.
And if in youth they had been fair,
Twas not the charm they had,
Not the old beauty lingering there,
But something weird and sad.
The daughter, in the firelight pale,
A woman gray and wan,
Sat listening, while half dream, half wail,
Her words went wandering on ;
"O river that dost never halt
Till down beyond the bar
Thou meet'st the breakers green and salt
That bore my lads afar
THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
" O sea betwixt our slighted isle
And that wide bounteous West
That has such magic in her smile
To lure away our best
"Bring back, bring back the guiding keelj
Bring fast the home-bound ship ;
Mine eyes look out ; I faint to feel
The touch of hand and lip.
"And is that land so much more fair,
So much more rich that shore
Than this, where, prodigal of care,
I nursed the sons I bore ?
" I nursed them at my yielding breast,
I reared them at my knee,
They left me for the golden West ;
They left me for the sea.
*' With hungry heart, and eyes that strove
In vain their eyes to meet,
And all my lavish mother's love
Beat backward to my feet
"Like that broad stream that runs, and raves,
And floweth grandly out,
But the salt billows catch its waves,
And fling them all about
" The bitter world washed out my claim ;
In childhood it was dear,
But youth forgets, and manhood came,
And dashed it far and near.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS
" But when I think of the old time,
Soft fingers, eyes that met,
In spite of age, in spite of clime,
I wonder they forget.
" And if they live, their life is strong ;
Forgotten here I die ;
I question with my heart, and long,
And cannot answer why,
" Till by Christ's grace I walk in white
Where his redeemed go,
And know the reason of God's right,
Or never care to know.
" But out-bound ships come home again ;
They sail 'neath sun and moon.
Put thou the candle in the pane ;
They may be coming soon."
" Calm lie the lights below the town ;
There's not a ship in sight;
O mother 1 cease, and lay you down ;
They will not come to-night."
THE LEGEND OF STUMPIE'S BRAE 1
H
EARD ye no tell o' the Stumpie's Brae ?
Sit down, sit down, young friend,
I'll make your flesh to creep to-day,
And your hair to stan' on end.
1 This embodies an actual legend attached to a lonely spot on
the border of the County of Donegal. The language of the
ballad is the peculiar semi-Scottish dialect spoken in the North
of Ireland. Author.
THE GOLDEN TKEASURT OF
Young man, 'tis hard to strive wi' sin,
And the hardest strife of a',
Is where the greed o' gain creeps in,
And drives God's grace awa'.
Oh, it's quick to do, but it's lang to rue,
When the punishment comes at last,
And we would give the world to undo
The deed that's done and past.
Over yon strip of meadow land,
And over the burnie bright,
Dinna ye mark the fir-trees stand,
Around yon gable white ?
I mind it weel, in my younger days
The story yet was rife :
There dwelt within that lonely place
A farmer and his wife.
They sat together, all alone,
One blessed Autumn night,
When the trees without, and hedge, and stone,
Were white in the sweet moonlight.
The boys and girls were gone down all
A wee to the blacksmith's wake;
There pass'd ane on by the window small,
And guv the door a shake.
The man he up and open'd the door
When he had spoken a bit,
A pedlar man stepp'd into the floor,
Down he tumbled the pack he bore,
Right heavy pack was it.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS
" Gude save us a'," says the wife, wi' a smile,
" But yours is a thrivin' trade."
"Ay, ay, I've wander'd mony a mile,
And plenty have I made."
The man sat on by the dull fire flame,
When the pedlar went to rest ;
Close to his ear the Devil came,
And slipp'd intil his breast.
He look'd at his wife by the dim firelight,
And she was as bad as he
" Could we no' murder thon man the night?"
"Ay could we, ready," quo' she.
He took the pickaxe without a word,
Whence it stood, ahint the door ;
As he pass'd in, the sleeper stirr'd,
That never waken' d more.
" He's dead ! " says the auld man, coming back
" What o' the corp, my dear ? "
" We'll bury him snug in his ain bit pack,
Never ye mind for the loss of the sack,
I've ta'en out a' the gear."
" The pack's owre short by twa gude span,
What'll we do ! " quo' he
" Ou, you're a doited, unthoughtfu' man,
We'll cut him off at the knee."
io THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
They shorten'd the corp, and they pack'd him
tight,
Wi' his legs in a pickle hay ;
Over the burn, in the sweet moonlight,
They carried him till this brae.
They shovell'd a hole right speedily,
They laid him in on his back
" A right pair are ye," quo' the PEDLAR, quo' he,
Sitting bolt upright in the pack.
" Ye think ye've laid me snugly here,
And none shall know my station ;
But I'll hant ye far, and I'll hant ye near,
Father and son, wi' terror and fear,
To the nineteenth generation."
The twa were sittin' the vera next night,
When the dog began to cower,
And they knew, by the pale blue firelight,
That the Evil One had power.
It has stricken nine, just nine o' the clock
The hour when the man lay dead ;
There came to the outer door a knock,
And a heavy, heavy tread.
The old man's head swam round and round,
The woman's blood 'gan freeze,
For it was not like a natural sound,
But like some one stumping o'er the ground
On the banes of his twa bare knees.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS
And through the door, like a sough of air,
And stump, stump, round the twa,
Wi' his bloody head, and his knee banes bare-
They'd maist ha'e died of awe !
The wife's black locks ere morn grew white,
They say, as the mountain snaws ;
The man was as straight as a staff that night,
But he stoop' d when the morning rose.
Still, year and day, as the clock struck NINE,
The hour when they did the sin,
The wee bit dog began to whine,
And the ghaist came clattering in.
Ae night there was a fearful flood
Three days the skies had pour'd ;
And white wi' foam, and black wi' mud,
The burn in fury roar'd.
Quo' she " Gude man, ye need na turn
Sae pale in the dim firelight ;
The Stumpie canna cross the burn
He'll no' be here the night.
"For it's o'er the bank, and it's o'er the linn,
And it's up to the meadow ridge "
" Ay," quo' the Stumpie hirpling in,
And he gied the wife a slap on the chin,
" But I cam' round by the bridge ! "
And stump, stump, stump, to his plays again,
And o'er the stools and chairs ;
Ye'd surely hae thought ten women and men
Were dancing there in pairs.
12 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
They sold their gear, and over the sea
To a foreign land they went,
Over the sea but vvha can flee
His appointed punishment ?
The ship swam over the water clear,
Wi' the help o' the eastern breeze;
But the vera first sound in guilty fear,
O'er the wide, smooth deck, that fell on their ear
Was the tapping o' them twa knees.
In the woods of wild America
Their weary feet they set ;
But Stumpie was there the first, they say,
And he haunted them onto their dying day,
And he follows their children yet.
I haud ye, never the voice of blood
Call'd from the earth in vain;
And never has crime won worldly good,
But it brought its after-pain.
This is the story o' Stumpie' s Brae,
And the murderers' fearin' fate :
Young man, your face is turn'd that way,
Ye' 11 be ganging the night that gate.
Ye' 11 ken it weel, through the few fir-trees,
The house where they wont to dwell ;
Gin ye meet ane there, as daylight flees,
Stumping about on the banes of his knees
It'll just be Stumpie himsel*.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 13
THERE IS A GREEN HILL
T
HERE is a green hill far away,
Without a city wall,
Where the dear Lord was crucified,
Who died to save us all.
We may not know, we cannot tell
What pains he had to bear,
But we believe it was for us
He hung and suffered there.
He died that we might be forgiven,
He died to make us good,
That we might go at last to heaven,
Saved by his precious blood.
There was no other good enough
To pay the price of sin ;
He only could unlock the gate
Of heaven and let us in.
O dearly, dearly has he loved,
And we must love him too,
And trust in his redeeming blood,
And try his works to do.
i 4 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
WILLIAM ALEXANDER (1824 )
VERY FAR AWAY
ONE touch there is of magic white,
Surpassing southern mountain's snow
That to far sails the dying light
Lends, where the dark ships onward go
Upon the golden highway broad
That leads up to the isles of God.
One touch of light more magic yet,
Of rarer snow 'neath moon or star,
Where, with her graceful sails all set,
Some happy vessel seen afar,
As if in an enchanted sleep
Steers o'er the tremulous stretching deep.
O ship ! O sail ! far must ye be
Ere gleams like that upon ye light.
O'er golden spaces of the sea,
From mysteries of the lucent night,
Such touch comes never to the boat
Wherein across the waves we float.
O gleams, more magic and divine,
Life's whitest sail ye still refuse,
And flying on before us shine
Upon some distant bark ye choose.
By night or day, across the spray,
That sail is very far away.
' IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 15
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM(i824-i8S9)
ABBEY ASAROE
GRAY, gray is Abbey Asaroe, by Ballyshanny
town,
It has neither door nor window, the walls are
broken down ;
The carven stones lie scattered in briars and nettle-
bed ;
The only feet are those that come at burial of the
dead.
A little rocky rivulet runs murmuring to the tide,
Singing a song of ancient days, in sorrow, not in
pride ;
The bore-tree and the lightsome ash across the portal
grow,
And heaven itself is now the roof of Abbey Asaroe.
It looks beyond the harbor-stream to Gulban mountain
blue;
It hears the voice of Erna's fall, Atlantic breakers
too;
High ships go sailing past it ; the sturdy clank of oars
Brings in the salmon-boat to haul a net upon the
shores ;
And this way to his home-creek, when the summer
day is done,
Slow sculls the weary fisherman across the setting sun ;
While green with corn is Sheegus Hill, his cottage
white below ;
But gray at every season is Abbey Asaroe.
1 6 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
There stood one day a poor old man above its broken
bridge ;
He heard no running rivulet, he saw no mountain
ridge ;
He turned his back on Sheegus Hill, and viewed with
misty sight
The abbey walls, the burial-ground with crosses
ghostly white ;
Under a weary weight of years he bowed upon his
staff,
Perusing in the present time the former's epitaph;
For, gray and wasted like the walls, a figure full of
woe,
This man was of the blood of them who founded
Asaroe.
From Derry to Dundrowas Tower, Tirconnell broad
was theirs ;
Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine, and holy
abbot's prayers ;
With chanting always in the house which they had
builded high
To God and to Saint Bernard, whereto they came to
die.
At worst, no workhouse grave for him ! the ruins of
his race
Shall rest among the ruined stones of this their saintly
place.
The fond old man was weeping ; and tremulous and
slow
Along the rough and crooked lane he crept from
Asaroe.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 17
ACROSS THE SEA
I WALKED in the lonesome evening,
And who so sad as I,
When I saw the young men and maidens
Merrily passing by.
To thee, my love, to thee
So fain would I come to thee !
While the ripples fold upon sands of gold
And I look across the sea.
I stretch out my hands j who will clasp them ?
I call, thou repliest no word :
O why should heart-longing be weaker
Than the waving wings of a bird !
To thee, my love, to thee
So fain would I come to thee !
For the tide's at rest from east to west,
And I look across the sea.
There's joy in the hopeful morning,
There's peace in the parting day,
There's sorrow with every lover
Whose true love is far away,
To thee, my love, to thee
So fain would I come to thee !
And the water's so bright in a still moonlight,
As I look across the sea.
A DREAM
I HEARD the dogs howl in the moonlight night ;
I went to the window to see the sight ;
All the Dead that ever I knew
Going one by one and two by two.
i8 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
On they passed, and on they passed ;
Townsfellows all, from first to last j
Born in the moonlight of the lane,
Quenched in the heavy shadow again.
Schoolmates, marching as when we played
At soldiers once but now more staid ;
Those were the strangest sight to me
Who were drowned, I knew, in the awful sea.
Straight and handsome folk ; bent and weak, too
Some that I loved, and gasped to speak to
Some but a day in their churchyard bed ;
Some that I had not known were dead.
A long, long crowd where each seemed lonely,
Yet of them all there was one, one only,
Raised a head or looked my way.
She lingered a moment, she might not stay.
How long since I saw that fair pale face !
Ah ! Mother dear ! might I only place
My head on thy breast, a moment to rest,
While thy hand on my tearful cheek was prest !
On, on, a moving bridge they made
Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade,
Young and old, women and men ;
Many long-forgot, but remembered then.
And first there came a bitter laughter ;
A sound of tears the moment after ;
And then a music so lofty and gay,
That every morning, day by day,
I strive to recall it if I may.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 19
AMONG THE HEATHER
ONE morning, walking out, I o'ertook a modest
colleen,
When the wind was blowing cool and the
harvest leaves were falling.
"Is our road perchance the same ? Might we travel
on together ? ' '
"Oh, I keep the mountainside," she replied, "among
the heather."
" Your mountain air is sweet when the days are long
and sunny,
When the grass grows round the rocks, and the whin-
bloom smells like honey ;
But the winter's coming fast with its foggy, snowy
weather,
And you'll find it bleak and chill on your hill among
the heather."
She praised her mountain home, and I'll praise it too
with reason,
For where Molly is there's sunshine and flowers at
every season.
Be the moorland black or white, does it signify a
feather ?
Now I know the way by heart, every part among the
heather.
The sun goes down in haste, and the night falls thick
and stormy,
Yet I'd travel twenty miles for the welcome that's
before me ;
20 THE GOLDEN TREMURT OF
Singing "Hi for Eskydun ! " in the teeth of wind
and weather,
Love' 11 warm me as I go through the snow among the
heather.
FOUR DUCKS ON A POND
FOUR ducks on a pond,
A grass-bank beyond,
A blue sky of spring,
White clouds on the wing :
What a little thing
To remember for years,
To remember with tears !
I
HALF-WAKING
THOUGHT it was the little bed
I slept in long ago ;
A straight white curtain at the head,
And two smooth knobs below.
I thought I saw the nursery fire,
And in a chair well known
My mother sat, and did not tire
With reading all alone.
If I should make the slightest sound
To show that I'm awake,
She'd rise, and lap the blankets round,
My pillow softly shake ;
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 21
Kiss me, and turn ray face to see
The shadows on the wall,
And then sing "Rousseau's Dream " to me,
Till fast asleep I fall.
But this is not my little bed ;
That time is far away ;
With strangers now I live instead,
From dreary day to day.
LOVELY MARY DONNELLY
OH, lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the
best!
If fifty girls were round you I'd hardly see the
rest.
Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it
will,
Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me
still.
Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock,
How clear they are, how dark they are ! and they give
me many a shock.
Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a
show'r,
Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its
pow'r.
Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows
lifted up,
Her chin is neat and pert, and smooth, just like a
china cup,
22 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF .
Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine ;
It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a
twine.
The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all
before,
No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the
floor;
But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was
gay!
She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart
away.
When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so
complete,
The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet ;
The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so
much praised,
But blessed his luck to not be deaf when once her
voice she raised.
And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung,
Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside
my tongue ;
But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on
both your hands,
And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger
stands.
Oh, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in
town;
The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 23
If some great lord should come this way, and see your
beauty bright,
And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.
O might we live together in a lofty palace hall,
Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains
fall!
O might we live together in a cottage mean and
small ;
With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only
wall!
O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress.
It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it
less.
The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor
and low ;
But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may
go!
SPRING IS COME
YE scan the timid verdure,
Along the hills of Spring,
Blue skies and gentle breezes,
And soft clouds wandering !
The quire of birds on budding spray,
Loud larks in ether sing ;
A fresher pulse, a wider day,
Give joy to everything.
24 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
The gay translucent morning
Lies glittering on the sea,
The noonday sprinkles shadows
Athwart the daisied lea ;
The round sun's falling scarlet rim
In vapour hideth he ;
The darkling hours are cool and dim
As vernal night should be.
Our Earth has not grown aged,
With all her countless years ;
She works, and never wearies,
Is glad and nothing fears :
The glow of air, broad land and wave,
In season reappears ;
And shall, when slumber in the grave
These human smiles and tears.
Oh, rich in songs and colors,
Thou joy-reviving Spring !
Some hopes are chill'd with winter
Whose term thou canst not bring,
Some voices answer not thy call
When sky and woodland ring,
Some faces come not back at all
With primrose-blossoming.
The distant flying swallow
The upward-yearning seed,
Find Nature's promise faithful,
Attain their humble meed.
Great Parent ! thou hast also form'd
These hearts which throb and bleed ;
With love, truth, hope, their life hast warm'd,
And what is best, decreed.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 25
THE BAN-SHEE
A BALLAD OF ANCIENT ERIN
" T TEARD'ST thou over the Fortress wild geese
flying and crying ?
Was it a gray wolf's howl? wind in the
forest sighing ?
Wail from the sea as of wreck ? Hast heard it,
Comrade?" " Not so.
Here, all's still as the grave, above, around, and
below.
" The Warriors lie in battalion, spear and shield be-
side them,
Tranquil, whatever lot in the coming fray shall be-
tide them.
See, where he rests, the Glory of Erin, our Kingly
Youth !
Closed his lion's eyes, and in sleep a smile on his
mouth."
" The cry, the dreadful cry ! I know it louder and
nearer,
Circling our Dun the Ban-shee ! my heart is
frozen to hear her !
Saw you not in the darkness a spectral glimmer of
white
Flitting away? I saw it ! evil her message to-
night.
" Constant, but never welcome, she, to the line of our
Chief;
Bodeful, baleful, fateful, voice of terror and grief.
26 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
Dimly burneth the lamp hush ! again that horrible
cry !
If a thousand lives could save thee, Tierna, thou
shouldest not die."
Now ! what whisper ye, Clansmen ? I wake. Be
your words of me ?
Wherefore gaze on each other ? I too have heard
the Ban-shee.
Death is her message : but ye, be silent. Death
comes to no man
Sweet as to him who in fighting crushes his country's
foeman.
Streak of dawn in the sky morning of battle. The
Stranger
Camps on our salt-sea strand below, and recks not
his danger.
Victory ! that was my dream : one that shall fill
men's ears
In story and song of harp after a thousand years.
" Give me my helmet and sword. Whale-tusk, gold-
wrought, I clutch thee !
Blade, Flesh-Biter, fail me not this time ! Yea,
when I touch thee,
Shivers of joy run through me. Sing aloud as I
swing thee !
Glut of enemies' blood, meseemeth, to-day shall bring
thee.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 27
"Sound the horn ! Behold, the Sun is beginning to
rise.
Whoso seeth him set, ours is the victor's prize,
When the foam along the sand shall no longer be
white but red
Spoils and a mighty feast for the Living, a earn for
the Dead."
THE FAIRIES
A CHILD'S SONG
UP the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men.
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together ;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather !
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam ;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.
High on the hilltop
The old King sits ;
He is now so old and gray,
He's nigh lost his wits.
28 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieve-League to Rosses ;
Or going up with the music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again,
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow ;
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hillside,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees,
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite,
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
IRISH SONGS AND L TRIGS 29
For fear of little men.
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together ;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather !
THE LEPRECAUN, OR FAIRY SHOEMAKER
A RHYME FOR CHILDREN
LITTLE cowboy, what have you heard,
Up on the lonely rath's green mound?
Only the plaintive yellow-bird
Singing in sultry fields around ?
Chary, chary, chary, chee-e !
Only the grasshopper and the bee ?
" Tip-tap, rip-rap,
Tick-a-tack-too !
Scarlet leather sewn together,
This will make a shoe.
Left, right, pull it tight,
Summer days are warm;
Underground in winter,
Laughing at the storm ! "
Lay your ear close to the hill :
Do you not. catch the tiny clamor,
Busy click of an elfin hammer,
Voice of the Leprecaun singing shrill
As he merrily plies his trade ?
He's a span
And a quarter in height :
Get him in sight, hold him fast,
And you're a made
Man !
3 o THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
You watch your cattle the summer day,
Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay ;
How should you like to roll in your carriage
And look for a duchess's daughter in marriage ?
Seize the shoemaker, so you may !
" Big boots a-hunting,
Sandals in the hall,
White for a wedding-feast,
And pink for a ball :
This way, that way,
So we make a shoe,
Getting rich every stitch,
Tick- tack-too ! "
Nine-and-ninety treasure crocks,
This keen miser-fairy hath,
Hid in mountain, wood, and rocks,
Ruin and round-tower, cave and rath,
And where the cormorants build;
From times of old
Guarded by him ;
Each of them filled
Full to the brim
With gold !
I caught him at work one day myself,
In the castle-ditch where the .foxglove grows;
A wrinkled, wizened, and bearded elf,
Spectacles stuck on the top of his nose,
Silver buckles to his hose,
Leather apron, shoe in his lap ;
" Rip-rap, tip-tap,
Tick-tack-too !
A grig stepped upon my cap,
Away the moth flew.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 31
Buskins for a fairy prince,
Brogues for his son,
Pay me well, pay me well,
When the job's done."
The rogue was mine beyond a doubt,
I stared at him ; he stared at me 1
" Servant, sir ! " " Humph ! " said he,
And pulled a snuff-box out.
He took a long pinch, looked better pleased,
The queer little Leprecaun ;
Offered the box with a whimsical grace,
Pouf ! he flung the dust in my face,
And, while I sneezed,
Was gone !
THE LOVER AND BIRDS
WITHIN a budding grove,
In April's ear sang every bird his best,
But not a song to pleasure my unrest,
Or 'touch the tears unwept of bitter love ;
Some spake, methou'ght, with pity, some as if in jest.
To every word,
Of every bird,
I listened or replied as it behove.
Screamed Chaffinch, " Sweet, sweet, sweet !
Pretty lovey, come and meet me here ! "
" Chaffinch," quoth I, "be dumb awhile, in fear
Thy darling prove no better than a cheat
And never come, or fly, when wintry days appear."
Yet from a twig,
With voice so big,
The little fowl his utterance did repeat.
32 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
Then I, "The man forlorn,
Hears earth send up a foolish noise aloft."
' < And what'll he do ? What'll he do ? " scoffed
The Blackbird, standing in an ancient thorn,
Then spread his sooty wings and flitted to the croft,
With cackling laugh,
Whom, I, being half
Enraged, called after, giving back his scorn.
Worse mocked the Thrush, " Die ! die !
Oh, could he do it ? Could he do it ? Nay !
Be quick ! be quick ! Here, here, here ! ' ' (went his
lay)
" Take heed ! take heed ! " then, " Why? Why?
Why? Why? Why?
See-See now! see-ee now!" (he drawled) "Back!
Back ! Back ! R-r-r-run away ! "
Oh, Thrush, be still,
Or at thy will
Seek some less sad interpreter than I !
" Air ! air ! blue air and white !
Whither I flee, whither, O whither, O whither I flee ! "
(Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the lea)
"Hills, countries, many waters glittering bright
Whither I see, whither I see ! Deeper, deeper, deeper,
whither I see, see, see ! "
"Gay Lark," I said,
"The song that's bred
In happy nest may well to heaven take flight !"
" There's something, something sad,
I half remember, " piped a broken strain;
Well sung, sweet Robin ! Robin, sing again.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 33
"Spring's opening cheerily, cheerily! be we
glad ! "
Which moved, I wist not why, me melancholy mad,
Till now, grown meek,
With wetted cheek,
Most comforting and gentle thoughts I had.
O
THE MILKMAID
H, where are you going so early ? he said ;
Good luck go with you, my pretty maid ;
To tell you my mind I'm half afraid
But I wish I were your sweetheart.
When the morning sun is shining low,
And the cocks in every farmyard crow,
I'll carry your pail,
O'er hill and dale,
And I'll go with you a-milking.
I'm going a-milking, sir, says she,
Through the dew, and across the lea ;
You ne'er would even yourself to me,
Or take me for your sweetheart.
When the morning sun, etc.
Now give me your rriilking-stool a while,
To carry it down to yonder stile ;
I'm wishing every step a mile,
And myself your only sweetheart.
When the morning sun, etc.
34 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
Oh, here's the stile in under the tree,
And there's the path in the grass for me,
And I thank you kindly, sir, says she,
And wish you a better sweetheart.
When the morning sun, etc.
Now give me your milking-pail, says he,
And while we're going across the lea,
Pray reckon your master's cows to me,
Although I'm not your sweetheart.
When the morning sun, etc.
Two of them red, and two of them white,
Two of them yellow, and silky bright :
She told him her master's cows aright,
Though he was not her sweetheart.
When the morning sun, etc.
She sat and milk'd in the morning sun,
And when her milking was over and done,
She found him waiting, all as one
As if he were her sweetheart.
When the morning sun, etc.
He freely offer'd her his heart and hand :
Now she has a farm at her command,
And cows of her own to graze the land :
Success to all true sweethearts !
When the morning sun, etc.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 35
THE RUINED CHAPEL
BY the shore, a plot of ground
Clips a ruined chapel round,
Buttressed with a grassy mound,
Where Day and Night and Day go by,
And bring no touch of human sound.
Washing of the lonely seas,
Shaking of the guardian trees,
Piping of the salted breeze ;
Day and Night and Day go by,
To the endless tune of these.
Or when, as winds and waters keep
A hush more dead than any sleep,
Still morns to stiller evenings creep,
And Day and Night and Day go by ;
Here the silence is most deep.
The empty ruins, lapsed again
Into Nature's wide domain,
Sow themselves with seed and grain
As Day and Night and Day go by ;
And hoard June's sun and April's rain.
Here fresh funeral tears were shed ;
Now the graves are also dead ;
And suckers from the ash-tree spread,
While Day and Night and Day go by
And stars move calmly overhead.
36 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
THE SAILOR
THOU that hast a daughter
For one to woo and wed,
Give her to a husband
With snow upon his head ;
Oh, give her to an old man,
Though little joy it be,
Before the best young sailor
That sails upon the sea !
How luckless is the sailor
When sick and like to die !
He sees no tender mother,
No sweetheart standing by.
Only the captain speaks to him
Stand up, stand up, young man
And steer the ship to haven,
As none beside thee can.
Thou sayest to nie, "Stand up, stand up; "
I say to thee, take hold
Lift me a little from the deck,
My hands and feet are cold.
And let my head, I pray thee
With handkerchief be bound :
There, take my love's own handkerchief,
And tie it tightly round.
Now bring the chart, the doleful chart ;
See where these mountains meet
The clouds are thick around their head,
The mists around their feet :
Cast anchor here ; 'tis deep and safe
Within the rocky cleft
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 37
The little anchor on the right
The great one on the left.
And now to thee, O captain,
Most earnestly I pray,
That they may never bury me
In church or cloister gray;
But on the windy sea-beach,
At the ending of the land,
All on the surfy sea-beach,
Deep down into the sand.
For there will come the sailors,
Their voices I shall hear,
And at casting of the anchor
The yo-ho loud and clear;
And at hauling of the anchor
The yo-ho and the cheer
Farewell my love, for to thy bay
I nevermore may steer.
THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE;
OR, THE EMIGRANT'S ADIEU TO BALLY-
SHANNON
A LOCAL BALLAD
ADIEU to Belashanny ! where I was bred and
born;
Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as
night and morn
The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one
is known,
38 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
And not a face in all the place but partly seems my
own ;
There's not a house or window, there's not a field or
hill,
But, east or west, in foreign lands, I'll recollect them
still.
I leave my warm heart with you, tho' my back I'm
forced to turn
So adieu to Belashanny, and the winding banks of
Erne!
No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter down the
Mall,
When the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon to the
fall.
The boat comes straining on her net, and heavily she
creeps.
Cast off ! cast off ! she feels the oars, and to her berth
she sweeps ;
Now fore and aft keep hauling, and gathering up the
clew,
Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the crew.
Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit, and many a joke
and "yarn "
Adieu to Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne !
in
The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the tide,
When all the green- hill' d harbour is full from side to
side
From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round the Abbey
Bay,
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 39
From rocky Inis Saimer to Coolnargit sand-hills gray ;
While far upon the southern line, to guard it like a
wall,
The Leitrim mountains clothed in blue, gaze calmly
over all,
And watch the ship sail up or down, the red flag at
her stern
Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding banks of
Erne!
IV
Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them that pull an
oar,
A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point to Mul-
laghmore ;
From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League, that ocean-
mountain steep,
Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred in the
deep,
From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round by
Tullen strand,
Level and long, and white with waves, where gull and
curlew stand ;
Head out to sea when on your lee the breakers you
discern
Adieu to all the billowy coast and winding banks of
Erne!
Farewell, Coolmore ! Bundoran ! and your summer
crowds that run
From inland homes to see with joy th' Atlantic-setting
sun ;
40 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among
the waves ;
To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt the
gloomy caves ;
To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the
crabs, the fish ;
Young men and maids to meet and smile, and form a
tender wish ;
The sick and old in search of health, for all things
have their turn
And I must quit my native shore and the winding
banks of Erne !
VI
Farewell to every white cascade from the Harbour to
Belleek,
And every pool where fins may rest, and ivy-shaded
creek ;
The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash and
holly grow,
The one split yew-tree gazing on the curving flood
below ;
The Lough, that winds through islands under Turaw
mountain green ;
And Castle Caldwell's stretching woods, with tranquil
bays between ;
And Breesie Hill, and many a pond among the heath
and fern
For I must say adieu adieu to the winding banks of
Erne!
VII
The thrush will call through Camlin groves the live-
long summer day ;
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 41
The waters run by mossy cliff, and bank with wild
flowers gay ;
The girls will bring their work and sing beneath a
twisted thorn,
Or stray with sweethearts down the path among the
growing corn ;
Along the riverside they go, where I have often
been
Oh ! never shall I see again the days that I have
seen !
A thousand chances are to one I never may return
Adieu to Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne.
VIII
Adieu to evening dances, when merry neighbours
meet,
And the fiddle says to boys and girls : " Get up and
shake your feet ! "
To "shanachus" and wise old talk of Erin's days
gone by
Who trench' d the rath on such a hill, and where the
bones may lie
Of saint, or king, or warrior chief; with tales of fairy
power,
And tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the twilight
hour.
The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn
Adieu, my dear .companions on the winding banks of
Erne !
IX
Now measure from the Commons down, to each end
of the Purt,
42 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather I wish no one
any hurt ;
The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane, the Mall,
and Portnasun,
If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one.
I hope that man and womankind will do the same by
me;
For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the sea.
My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and often fondly
turn
To think of Belashanny, and the winding banks of
Erne.
If ever I'm a money 'd man, I mean, please God, to
cast
My golden anchor in the place where youthful years
were pass'd ;
Though heads that now are black and brown must
meanwhile gather gray,
New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop
away
Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world
beside ;
It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through
lands and waters wide.
And if the Lord allows me, I surely will return
To my native Belashanny, and the. winding banks of
Erne.
H
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 43
WINDLASS SONG
EAVE at the windlass ! Heave O, cheerly,
men !
Heave all at once, with a will !
The tide's quickly making,
Our cordage is creaking,
The water has put on a frill,
Heave O !
Fare-you-well, sweethearts ! Heave O, cheerly, men !
Shore gambarado and sport !
The good ship all ready,
Each dog-vane is steady,
The wind blowing dead out of port,
Heave O !
Once in blue water Heave O, cheerly, men !
Blow it from north or from south ;
She'll stand to it tightly,
And curtsy politely,
And carry a bone in her mouth,
Heave O !
Short cruise or long cruise Heave O, cheerly, men 1
Jolly Jack Tar thinks it one,
No latitude dreads he
Of White, Black, or Red sea,
Great icebergs, or tropical sun,
Heave O !
44 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
One other turn, and Heave O, cheerly, men !
Heave, and good-bye to the shore !
Our money, how went it ?
We shared it and spent it ;
Next year we'll come back with some more,
Heave O !
H
WINNING
ER blue eyes they beam and they twinkle,
Her lips have made smiling more fair;
On cheek and on brow there's no wrinkle,
But thousands of curls in her hair.
She's little, you don't wish her taller;
Just half through the teens is her age ;
And baby or lady to call her,
Were something to puzzle a sage !
Her walk is far better than dancing ;
She speaks as another might sing ;
And all by an innocent chancing,
Like lambkins and birds in the spring.
Unskill'd in the airs of the city,
She's perfect in natural grace;
She's gentle and truthful and witty,
And ne'er spends a thought on her face
Her face, with the fine glow that's in it,
As fresh as an apple-tree bloom ;
And oh ! when she comes, in a minute,
Like sunbeams she brightens the room.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 45
As taking in mind and in feature,
How many will sigh for her sake !
I wonder the sweet little creature
What sort of a wife she would make.
WISHING
RING-TING ! I wish I were a Primrose
A bright yellow Primrose blowing in the
Spring !
The stooping boughs above me,
The wandering bee to love me,
The fern and moss to keep across,
And the Elm-tree for our king !
Nay nay ! I wish I were an Elm-tree,
A great lofty Elm-tree, with green leaves gay I
The wind would set them dancing,
The sun and moonshine glance in,
The Birds would house among the boughs,
And sweetly sing !
O no ! I wish I were a Robin,
A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go ;
Through forest, field or garden,
And ask no leave or pardon,
Till winter comes with icy thumbs
To ruffle up our wing.
Well tell ! Where should I fly to,
Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell ?
Before a day was over,
Home comes the rover,
For Mother's kiss sweeter this
Than any other thing !
46 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
JOHN ANSTER
(1798-1867)
T
THE FAIRY CHILD
HE summer sun was sinking
With a mild light, calm and mellow ;
It shone on my little boy's bonnie cheeks,
And his loose locks of yellow.
The robin was singing sweetly,
And his song was sad and tender,
And my little boy's eyes, while he heard the song,
Smiled with a sweet, soft splendor.
My little boy lay on my bosom
While his soul the song was quaffing ;
The joy of his soul had tinged his cheek,
And his heart and his eye were laughing.
I sate alone in my cottage,
The midnight needle plying ;
I feared for my child, for the rush's light
In the socket now was dying ;
Then came a hand to my lonely latch,
Like the wind at midnight moaning ;
I knelt to pray, but rose again
For I heard my little boy groaning.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 47
I crossed my brow and I crossed my breast,
But that night my child departed,
They left a weakling in his stead,
And I am broken-hearted !
O, it cannot be my own sweet boy,
For his eyes are dim and hollow,
My little boy is gone is gone,
And his mother soon will follow.
The dirge for the dead will be sung for me,
And the mass be chanted meetly,
And I shall sleep with my little boy,
In the moonlight churchyard sweetly.
48 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
JOHN FRANCIS ARMSTRONG
(1841-1865)
I
ADIEU
HEAR a distant clarion blare,
The smoldering battle flames anew ;
A noise of onset shakes the air
Dear woods and quiet vales, adieu !
Weird crag, where I was wont to gaze
On the far sea's aerial hue,
Below a veil of glimmering haze
At morning's breezy prime adieu !
Clear runnel, bubbling under boughs
Of odorous lime and darkling yew,
Where I have lain on banks of flowers
And dreamed the livelong noon adieu 1
And, ah ! ye lights and shades that ray
Those orbs of brightest summer blue,
That haunted me by night and day
For happy moons adieu ! adieu !
THE BLIND STUDENT
ON Euripides 1 plays we debated,
In College, one chill winter night ;
A student rose up, while we waited
For more intellectual light.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 49
As he stood, pale and anxious, before us,
Three words, like a soft summer wind,
Went past us and through us and o'er us
A whisper low-breathed : " He is blind ! "
And in many a face there was pity,
In many an eye there were tears ;
For his words were not buoyant or witty,
As fitted his fresh summer years.
And he spoke once or twice, as none other
Could speak, of a woman's pure ways
He remembered the face of his mother
Ere darkness had blighted his days.
50 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
JOHN BANIM
(1798-1844)
T
AILEEN
IS not for love of gold I go,
'Tis not for love of fame ;
Though fortune should her smile bestow,
And I may win a name,
Aileen ;
And I may win a name.
And yet it is for gold I go,
And yet it is for fame,
That they may deck another brow,
And bless another name,
Aileen ;
And bless another name.
For this, but this, I go : for this
I lose thy love awhile,
And all the soft and quiet bliss
Of thy young faithful smile,
Aileen ;
Of thy young faithful smile.
And I go to brave a world I hate,
And woo it o'er and o'er,
And tempt a wave and try a fate,
Upon a stranger shore,
Aileen ;
Upon a stranger shore.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 51
Oh, when the bays are all my own,
I know a heart will care,
Oh, when the gold is wooed and won,
1 know a brow shall wear,
Aileen ;
I know a brow shall wear.
And when with both returned again,
My native land to see,
I know a smile will meet me then,
And a hand will welcome me,
Aileen ;
A hand will welcome me.
SOGGARTH AROON 1
AM I the slave they say,
Soggarth aroon ?
Since you did show the way,
Soggarth aroon,
Their slave no more to be.
While they would work with me
Ireland's slavery,
Soggarth aroon /
Loyal and brave to you,
Soggarth aroon,
Yet be not slave to you,
Soggarth aroon,
Nor, out of fear to you,
Stand up so near to you
Och ! out of fear to you,
Soggarth aroon !
1 Soggarth aroon, " Priest, dear."
52 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
Who, in the winter's night,
Soggarth aroon,
When the cold blast did bite,
Soggarth aroon,
Came to my cabin door,
a And, on the earthen floor,
* Knelt by me, sick and poor,
Soggarth aroon ?
Who, on the marriage day,
Soggarth aroon,
Made the poor cabin gay,
Soggarth aroon ?
And did both laugh and sing,
Making our hearts to ring,
At the poor christening,
Soggarth aroon ?
Who, as friend only met,
Soggarth aroon,
Never did flout me yet,
Soggarth aroon ?
And when my heart was dim
Gave, while his eye did brim,
What I should give to him,
Soggarth aroon ?
Och, you and only you,
Soggarth aroon !
And for this I was true to you,
Soggarth aroon ;
In love they'll never shake,
When for Old Ireland's sake
We a true part did take,
Soggarth aroon /
T
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 53
THE FETCH >
HE mother died when the child was born,
And left me her baby tp keep ;
I rocked its cradle the night and morn,
And silent hung o'er it to weep.
'Twas a sickly child through its infancy,
Its cheeks were so ashy pale,
Till it broke from my arms to walk in glee
Out in the sharp, fresh gale.
And then my little girl grew strong,
And laughed the hours away;
Or sung me the merry lark's mountain song,
Which he taught her at break of day.
When she wreathed her hair in thicket bowers,
With the hedge-rose and harebell blue,
I called her my May in her crown of flowers,
With her smile so soft and new.
And the rose, I thought, never shamed her cheek,
But rosy and rosier made it ;
And her eye of blue did more brightly break
Through the bluebell that strove to shade it.
One evening I left her asleep in her smiles,
And walked through the mountains lonely ;
I was far from my darling, ah ! many long miles,
And I thought of her, and her only.
1 The Fetch is the apparition of a person 'doomed to death.
54 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
She darkened my path like a troubled dream,
In that solitude far and drear ;
I spoke to my child, but she did not seem
To hearken with human ear.
She only looked with a dead, dead eye,
And a wan, wan cheek of sorrow.
I knew her Fetch ; she was called to die.
And she died upon the morrow.
THE IRISH MOTHER IN THE PENAL DAYS
NOW welcome, welcome, baby-boy, unto a
mother's fears,
The pleasure of her sufferings, the rainbow of
her tears,
The object of your father's hope, in all he hopes
to do,
A future man of his own land, to live him o'er anew !
How fondly on thy little brow a mother's eye would
trace,
And in thy little limbs, and in each feature of thy face,
His beauty, worth, and manliness, and everything
that's his,
Except, my boy, the answering mark of where the
fetter is !
Oh ! many a weary hundred years his sires that fetter
wore,
And he has worn it since the day that him his mother
bore;
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 55
And now, my son, it waits on you, the moment you
are born,
The old hereditary badge of suffering and scorn !
Alas, my boy so beautiful ! alas, my love so brave !
And must your gallant Irish limbs still drag it to the
grave ?
And you, my son, yet have a son, foredoomed a slave
to be,
Whose mother still must weep o'er him the tears I
weep o'er thee !
56 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
JANE BARLOW
(1857- )
THE FLITTING OF THE FAIRIES
From the " End of Elfintown"
THEN Oberon spake the word of might
That set the enchanted cars in sight ;
But love I lack, to tell aright
Where these had waited hidden.
Perchance the clear airs round us rolled
In secret cells did them enfold,
Like evening dew that none behold
Till to the sward 'tis slidden.
And who can say what wizardize
Had fashioned them in marvelous wise,
And given them power to stoop and rise
More high than thought hath traveled ?
Somewhat of cloud their frames consist,
But more of meteor's luminous mist,
All girt with strands of seven-hued twist
From rainbow's verge unraveled.
'Tis said, and I believe it well,
That whoso mounts their magic selle,
Goes, if he list, invisible
Beneath the broadest moonlight ;
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 57
That virtue comes of Faery-fern,
Lone-lived where hill-slopes starward turn
Thro' frore night hours that bid it burn
Flame-fronded in the moonlight ;
For this holds true too true, alas !
The sky that eve was clear as glass,
Yet no man saw the Faeries pass
Where azure pathways glisten ;
And true it is too true, ay me
That nevermore on lawn or lea
Shall mortal man a Faery see,
Though long he look and listen.
Only the twilit woods among
A wild-winged breeze hath sometimes flung
Dim echoes borne from strains soft-sung
Beyond sky-reaches hollow ;
Still further, fainter up the height,
Receding past the deep-zoned night
Far chant of Fays who lead that flight,
Faint call of Fays who follow :
(Fays following.') Red -rose mists o'erdrift
Moth-moon's glimmering white,
Lit by sheen-silled west
Barred with fiery bar ;
Fleeting, following swift,
Whither across the night
Seek we bourne of rest ?
(Fays leading.) Afar.
58 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF
(Fays following.) Vailing crest on crest
Down the shadowy height,
Earth with shores and seas
Dropt, a dwindling gleam.
Dusk, and bowery nest,
Dawn, and dells dew-bright,
What shall bide of these ?
{Fays leading.) A dream.
(Fays following.) Fled, ah ! fled, our sight.
Yea, but thrills of fire
Throbbed adown yon deep,
Faint and very far
Who shall rede aright ?
Say, what wafts us nigher,
Beckoning up the steep ?
(Fays leading. ) A star.
(Fays following.') List, a star ! a star !
Oh, our goal of light !
Yet the winged shades sweep,
Yet the void looms vast.
Weary our wild dreams are :
When shall cease our flight
Soft on shores of sleep ?
(Fays leading.) At last.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 59
MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY
(1817-1889)
THE PLACE WHERE MAN SHOULD DIE
HOW little recks it where men lie,
When once the moment's past
In which the dim and glazing eye
Has looked on earth its last,
Whether beneath the sculptured urn
The Coffined form shall rest,
Or in its nakedness return
Back to its mother's breast !
Death is a common friend or foe,
As different men may hold,
And at his summons each must go,
The timid and the bold ;
But when the spirit, free and warm,
Deserts it, as it must,
What matter where the lifeless form
Dissolves again to dust ?
The soldier falls 'mid corses piled
Upon the battle-plain,
Where reinless war-steeds gallop wild
Above the mangled slain ;
But though his corse be grim to see,
Hoof- trampled on the sod,
What recks it, when the spirit free
Has soared aloft to God ?
60 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
The coward's dying eyes may close
Upon his downy bed,
And softest hands his limbs compose,
Or garments o'er them spread.
But ye who shun the bloody fray,
When fall the mangled brave,
Go strip his coffin-lid away,
And see him in his grave !
'Twere sweet, indeed, to close our eyes,
With those we cherish near,
And, wafted upwards by their sighs,
Soar to some calmer sphere.
But whether on the scaffold high,
Or in the battle's van,
The fittest place where man can die
Is where he dies for man !
THE SWORD
WHAT rights the brave ?
The sword !
What frees the slave?
The sword !
What cleaves in twain
The despot's chain,
And makes his gyves and dungeons vain ?
The sword !
CHORUS
Then cease thy proud task never
While rests a link to sever !
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 61
Guard of the free,
We'll cherish thee,
And keep thee bright forever !
What checks the knave ?
The sword !
What smites to save?
The sword !
What wreaks the wrong
Unpunished long,
At last, upon the guilty strong ?
The sword !
CHORUS
Then cease thy proud task never, etc.
What shelters Right?
The sword !
What makes it might ?
The sword !
What strikes the crown
Of tyrants down,
And answers with its flash their frown ?
The sword !
CHORUS
Then cease thy proud task never, etc.
Still be thou true,
Good sword !
We'll die or do,
Good sword !
62 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
Leap forth to light
If tyrants smite,
And trust our arms to wield thee right,
Good sword !
CHORUS
Yes ! cease thy proud task never
While rests a link to sever !
Guard of the free,
We'll cherish thee,
And keep thee bright forever !
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 63
FLORENCE BEAMISH
(Living)
SLEEP ON
SLEEP on, for I know 'tis of me you are dreaming,
Sleep on, till the sun comes to give you a call,
Though the pride of my heart is to see your eye
beaming,
Yet still to be dreamt of is better than all.
For then 'tis to yours that my heart's always speaking,
And then 'tis the spell that enchains it gives way,
And reveals all the love that I never, when waking,
Could get round my tongue in the daylight to say.
Yes, sleep on, mavourneen, my joy, and my treasure,
Not often does sleep get a comrade so fair,
And no wonder it is that his eye takes a pleasure
To watch by your pillow while you slumber there.
Then sleep softly sleep, till the day-dawn is breaking,
And peeps in to give you a smile and a call,
For though great as my joy is to see you when waking.
Yet still to be dreamt of is better than all I
64 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
GEORGE BERKELEY, BISHOP OF CLO YN E
(1684-1753)
ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANTING ARTS
AND LEARNING IN AMERICA
T
HE Muse, disgusted at an age and clime
Barren of every glorious theme,
In distant lands now waits a better time
Producing subjects worthy fame :
In happy climes, where from the genial sun
And virgin earth such scenes ensue,
The force of art by nature seems outdone,
And fancied beauties by the true.
In happy climes, the seat of innocence,
Where nature guides and virtue rules ;
When men shall not impose for truth and sense
The pedantry of courts and schools ;
There shall be sung another golden age,
The rise of empire and of arts,
The good and great inspiring epic rage
The wisest heads and noblest hearts.
Not such as Europe breeds in her decay
Such as she bred when fresh and young,
When heavenly flame did animate her clay,
By future poets shall be sung.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 65
Westward the course of empire takes its way,
The four first acts already past ;
A fifth shall close the drama with the day
Time's noblest offspring is the last.
66 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
ISAAC BICKERSTAFF
(1735-1812)
SONG
From " Love in a Village "
THERE was a jolly miller once,
Lived on the river Dee ;
He worked and sang, from morn to
night ;
No lark so blithe as he.
And this the burden of his song,
Forever used to be,
" I care for nobody, not I,
If no one cares for me. ' '
TWO SONGS
From " Thomas and Sally, or the Sailor's Return "
I
Y time how happy once and gay !
Oh ! blithe I was as blithe could be :
But now I'm sad, ah, well-a-day !
For my true love is gone to sea.
M
The lads pursue, I strive to shun ;
Though all their arts are lost on me ;
For I can never love but one,
And he, alas ! has gone to sea.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 67
They bid me to the wake, the fair,
To dances on the neighb'ring lea :
But how can I in pleasure share,
While my true love is out at sea ?
The flowers droop till light's return,
The pigeon mourns its absent she ;
So will I droop, so will I mourn,
Till my true love comes back from sea.
II
How happy is the sailor's life,
From coast to coast to roam ;
In every port he finds a wife,
In every land a home.
He loves to range, he's nowhere strange;
He ne'er will turn his back
To friend or foe ; no, masters, no ;
My life for honest Jack.
If saucy foes dare make a noise,
And to the sword appeal ;
We out, and quickly larn 'em, boys,
With whom they have to deal.
We know no craft but 'fore and aft,
Lay on our strokes amain ;
Then, if they're stout, for 't'other bout,
We drub 'em o'er again.
Or fair or foul, let Fortune blow,
Our hearts are never dull ;
The pocket that to-day ebbs low,
To-morrow shall be full ;
68 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
For if so be, we want, d' ye see ?
A pluck of this here stuff,
In Indi a, and Americ a,
We'je sure to find enough.
Then bless the king, and bless the state,
And bless our captains all ;
And ne'er may chance unfortunate
The British fleet befall.
But prosp'rous gales, where'er she sails,
And ever may she ride,
Of sea and shore, till time's no more,
The terror and the pride.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 69
MARY ELIZABETH BLAKE, nee McGRATH
(1840- )
THE DAWNING O' THE YEAR
ALL ye who love the spring-time and who but
loves it well
When the little birds do sing, and the buds be-
gin to swell !
Think not ye ken its beauty, or know its face so
dear,
Till ye look upon old Ireland in the dawning o* the
year !
For where in all the earth is there any joy like this,
When the skylark sings and soars like a spirit into
bliss,
While the thrushes in the bush strain their small brown
mottled throats,
Making all the air rejoice with their clear and mellow
notes ;
And the blackbird on the hedge in the golden sunset
glow
Trills with saucy, side- tipped head to the bonny nest
below ;
And the dancing wind slips down through the leaves
of the boreen,
And all the world rejoices in the wearing o' the green !
70 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
For 'tis green, green, green, where the ruined towers
are gray,
And it's green, green, green, all the happy night and
day;
Green of leaf and green of sod, green of ivy on the
wall,
And the blessed Irish shamrock with the fairest green
of all.
There the primrose breath is sweet, and the yellow
gorse is set
A crown of shining gold on the headlands brown and
wet;
Not a nook of all the land but the daisies make to
glow,
And the happy violets pray in their hidden cells below.
And it's there the earth is merry, like a young thing
newly made
Running wild amid the blossoms in the field and in
the glade,
Babbling ever into music under skies with soft clouds
piled,
Like the laughter and the tears in the blue eyes of a
child.
But the green, green, green, O 'tis that is blithe and
fair!
In the fells and on the hills, gay and gladsome as the
air,
Lying warm above the bog, floating brave on crag and
glen,
Thrusting forty banners high where another land has
ten.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 71
Sure Mother Nature knows of her sore and heavy
grief,
And thus with soft caress would give solace and relief;
Would fold her close in loveliness to keep her from
the cold,
And clasp the mantle o'er her heart with emeralds and
gold.
So ye who love the spring-time, and who but loves
it well
When the little birds do sing, and the buds begin to
swell !
Think not ye ken its beauty or know its face so dear
Till ye meet it in old Ireland in the dawning o' the
year !
THE FIRST STEPS
TO-NIGHT as the tender gloaming
Was sinking in evening's gloom,
And only the blaze of the firelight
Brightened the dark'ning room,
I laughed with the gay heart gladness
That only to mothers is known,
For the beautiful brown-eyed baby
Took his first steps alone !
Hurriedly running to meet him
Came trooping the household band,
Joyous, loving, and eager
To reach him a helping hand,
72 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
To watch him with silent rapture,
To cheer him with happy noise,
My one little fair-faced daughter
And four brown romping boys.
Leaving the sheltering arms
That fain would bid him rest
Close to the love and the longing,
Near to the mother's breast,
Wild with daring and laughter,
Looking askance at me,
He stumbled across through the shadows
To rest at his father's knee.
Baby, my dainty darling,
Stepping so brave and bright
With flutter of lace and ribbon
Out of my arms to-night,
Helped in thy pretty ambition
With tenderness blessed to see,
Sheltered, upheld, and protected -
How will the last steps be ?
See, we are all beside you,
Urging and beckoning on,
Watching lest aught betide you
Till the safe, near goal is won,
Guiding the faltering footsteps
That tremble and fear to fall
How will it be, my darling,
With the last sad step of all ?
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 73
Nay ! shall I dare to question,
Knowing that One more fond
Than all our tenderest loving
Will guide the weak feet beyond !
And knowing beside, my dearest,
That whenever the summons, 'twill be
But a stumbling step through the shadow-
Then rest at the Father's knee !
74 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
DION BOUCICAULT
(1822-1890)
SONG
Supposed to be sung by a young woman, whose child had
died in Ireland.
I
'M very happy where I am,
Far across the say
I'm very happy far from home,
In North Amerikay.
It's lonely in the night when Pat
Is sleeping by my side.
I lie awake, and no one knows
The big tears that I've cried.
For a little voice still calls me back
To my far, far counthrie,
And nobody can hear it spake
Oh ! nobody but me.
There is a little spot of ground
Behind the chapel wall ;
It's nothing but a tiny mound,
Without a stone at all ;
It rises like my heart just now,
It makes a dawny hill ;
It's from below the voice comes out,
I cannot kape it still.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 75
Oh ! little Voice, ye call me back
To my far, far counthrie,
And nobody can hear ye spake
Oh ! nobody but me.
76 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
THOMAS BOYD
(1867- )
W
TO THE LEANAN SIDHE '
HERE is thy lovely perilous abode?
In what strange phantom-land
Glimmer the fairy turrets whereto rode
The ill-starred poet band ?
Say, in the Isle of Youth hast thou thy home,
The sweetest singer there,
Stealing on winged steed across the foam
Through the moonlit air ?
Or, where the mists of bluebell float beneath
The red stems of the pine,
And sunbeams strike thro' shadow, dost thou breathe
The word that makes him thine ?
Or by the gloomy peaks of Erigal,
Haunted by storm and cloud,
Wing past, and to thy lover there let fall
His singing-robe and shroud ?
Or is thy palace entered thro' some cliff
When radiant tides are full,
And round thy lover's wandering, starlit skiff,
Coil in luxurious lull ?
Leandn Sidhe (Lenawn Shee), "The Fairy Bride v "
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 77
And would he, entering on the brimming flood,
See caverns vast in height,
And diamond columns, crowned with leaf and bud,
Glow in long lanes of light,
And there, the pearl of that great glittering shell
Trembling, behold thee lone,
Now weaving in slow dance an awful spell,
Now still upon thy throne ?
Thy beauty ! ah, the eyes that pierce him thro'
Then melt as in a dream ;
The voice that sings the mysteries of the blue
And all that Be and Seem !
Thy lovely motions answering to the rhyme
That ancient Nature sings,
That keeps the stars in cadence for all time,
And echoes thro' all things !
Whether he sees thee thus, or in his dreams,
Thy light makes all lights dim ;
An aching solitude from henceforth seems
The world of men to him.
Thy luring song, above the sensuous roar,
He follows with delight,
Shutting behind him Life's last gloomy door,
And fares into the Night.
78 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
WILLIAM BOYLE
(1853- )
PHILANDERING
MAUREEN, acushla, ah ! why such a frown on
you!
Sure, 'tis your own purty smiles should be
there,
Under those ringlets that make such a crown on you,
As the sweet angels themselves seem to wear,
When from the picthers in church they look down on
you,
Kneeling in prayer.
Troth, no, you needn't, there isn't a drop on me,
Barrin' one half-one to keep out the cowld ;
And, Maureen, if you'll throw a smile on the top o'
me,
Half-one was never so sweet, I'll make bowld.
But, if you like, dear, at once put a stop on me
Life with a scowld.
Red-haired Kate Ryan? Don't mention her name to
me !
I've a taste, Maureen darlin', whatever I do.
But I kissed her ? Ah, now, would you even that
same to me ?
Ye saw me ! Well, well, if ye did, sure it's true,
But I don't want herself or her cows, and small blame
to me
When I know you.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 79
There now, aroon, put an ind to this strife o' me
Poor frightened heart, my own Maureen, my duck ;
Troth, till the day comes when you'll be made wife o'
me,
Night, noon, and mornin', my heart'll be bruck.
Kiss me, acushla / My darlin' ! The life o' me !
One more for luck !
8o THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
JOSEPH BRENAN
(1828-1857)
COME TO ME, DEAREST
COME to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee;
Day-time and night-time I'm thinking about thee;
Night-time and day-time in dreams I behold thee,
Unwelcome the waking that ceases to fold thee.
Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten,
Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten,
Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly,
Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy.
Swallows shall flit round the desolate ruin,
Telling of spring and its joyous renewing ;
And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold treasure,
Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure ;
O Spring of my spirit ! O May of my bosom !
Shine out on my soul till it burgeon and blossom
The waste of my life has a rose-root within it,
And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it.
Figure that moves like a song through the even
Features lit up by a reflex of heaven
Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother,
Where sunshine and shadows are chasing each other ;
Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple,
And opening their eyes from the heart of a dimple
O thanks to the Saviour that even thy seeming
Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming 1
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 81
You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened ;
Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened ?
As octave to octave and rhyme unto rhyme, love,
Our hearts always answer in tune and in time, love ;
I cannot weep but your tears will be flowing
You cannot smile but my cheeks will be glowing
I would not die without you at my side, love
You will not linger when I shall have died, love.
Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow ;
Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow ,
Strong, swift, and fond as the words that I speak, love,
With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek,
love.
Come, for my heart in your absence is dreary ;
Haste, for my spirit is sickened and weary ;
Come to the arms that alone should caress thee ;
Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee !
82 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF
CHARLOTTE BROOKE
(1740-1793)
PULSE OF MY HEART
Miss Brooke did much to rescue ancient Irish poetry from
oblivion, although her classic style of language obscured the
local colour and national distinctiveness of the original. This
fragment is more literal than some of her work.
AS the sweet blackberry's modest bloom,
Fair flowering, greets the sight,
Or strawberries in their rich perfume
Fragrance and bloom unite :
So this fair plant of tender youth
In outward charms can vie,
And from within the soul of truth,
Soft beaming, fills her eye.
Pulse of my heart ! dear source of care,
Stolen sighs, and loved-breathed vows !
Sweeter than when through scented air
Gay bloom the apple boughs !
With thee no day can winter seem,
Nor frost nor blast can chill ;
Thou the soft breeze, the cheering beam,
That keeps it summer still.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 83
STOPFORD AUGUSTUS BROOKE
(1832- )
THE NOBLE LAY OF AILLINN
After an Irish tale from the " Book of Leinsler."
iRINCE BAILfe of Ulster rode out in the morn
To meet his love at the ford ;
And he loved her better than lands or life,
And dearer than his sword.
And she was Aillinn, fair as the sea,
The Prince of Leinster's daughter,
And she longed for him more than a wounded man,
Who sees death, longs for water.
They sent a message each to each :
" Oh, meet me near or far ; "
And the ford divided the kingdoms two,
And the kings were both at war.
And the Prince came first to the water's pass,
And oh, he thought no ill :
When he saw with pain a great gray man
Come striding o'er the hill.
His cloak was the ragged thunder-cloud,
And his cap the whirling snow,
And his eyes were the lightning in the storm,
And his horn he 'gan to blow.
84 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
" What news, what news, thou great gray man ?
I fear 'tis ill with me."
" Oh, Aillinn is dead, and her lips are cold,
And she died for loving thee."
And he looked and saw no more the man,
But a trail of driving rain.
" Woe ! woe ! " he cried, and took his sword
And drave his heart in twain.
And out of his blood burst forth a spring,
And a yew-tree out of his breast ;
And it grew so deep, and it grew so high,
The doves came there to rest.
But Aillinn was coming to keep her tryst,
The hour her lover fell ;
And she rode as fast as the western wind
Across the heathery hill.
Behind her flew her loosened hair,
Her happy heart did beat ;
When she was 'ware of a cloud of storm
Came driving down the street.
And out of it stepped a great gray man,
And his cap was peaked with snow *
The fire of death was in his eyes,
And he 'gan his horn to blow.
" What news, what news, thou great gray man ?
And is it ill to me ? "
"Oh, Baile the Prince is dead at the ford,
And he died for loving thee."
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 85
Pale, pale she grew, and two large tears
Dropped down like heavy rain,
And she fell to earth with a woeful cry,
For she broke her heart in twain.
And out of her tears two fountains rose
That watered all the ground,
And out of her heart an apple-tree grew
That heard the water's sound.
Oh, woe were the kings, and woe were the queens,
And woe were the people all ;
And the poets sang their love and their death
In cottage and in hall.
And the men of Ulster a tablet made
From the wood of Baile's tree,
And the men of Leinster did the like
Of Aillinn's apple-tree.
And on the one the poets wrote
The lover-tales of Leinster,
And on the other all the deeds
That lovers wrought in Ulster.
Now when a hundred years had gone
The King of all the land
Kept feast at Tara, and he bade
His poets sing a strand.
They sang the sweet unhappy tale,
The noble Aillinn's lay.
" Go, bring the tablets," cried the King
" For I have wept to-day."
86 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
But when he held in his right hand
The wood of Baile's tree
And in his left the tablet smooth
From Aillinn's apple-tree,
The lovers in the wood who kept
Love-longing ever true,
Knew one another, and at once
From the hands of the king they flew.
As ivy to the oak they clung,
Their kiss no man could sever
Oh, joy for lovers parted long
To meet, at last, forever !
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 87
FRANCES BROWNE
(1816-1879)
O THE PLEASANT DAYS OF OLD !
OTHE pleasant days of old, which so often people
praise !
True, they wanted all the luxuries that grace
our modern days :
Bare floors were strewed with rushes, the walls let in
the cold ;
O ! how they must have shivered in those pleasant
days of old !
O ! those ancient lords of old, how magnificent they
were !
They threw down and imprisoned kings, to thwart
them who might dare ?
They ruled their serfs right sternly ; they took from
Jew their gold,
Above both law and equity were those great lords of
old!
O the gallant knights of old, for their valour so re-
nowned !
With sword and lance and armour strong they scoured
the country round ;
And whenever aught to tempt them they met by wood
or wold,
By right of sword they seized the prize, those gallant
knights of old !
88 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF
O the gentle dames of old ! who, quite free from fear
or pain,
Could gaze on joust and tournament, and see their
champion slain ;
They lived on good beefsteaks and ale, which made
them strong and bold,
O more like men than women were those gentle dames
of old !
O those mighty towers of old ! with their turrets, moat
and keep,
Their battlements and bastions, their dungeons dark
and deep.
Full many a baron held his court within the castle
hold;
And many a captive languished there, in those strong
towers of old !
O the troubadours of old ! with the gentle minstrelsie
Of hope and joy, or deep despair, whiche'er their lot
may be ;
For years they served their lady-loves ere they their
passions told,
O wondrous patience must have had those trouba-
dours of old !
those blessed times of old ! with their chivalry and
state !
1 love to read their chronicles, which such brave deeds
relate ;
I love to sing their ancient rhymes, to hear their
legends told,
But, Heaven be thanked ! I lived not in those blessed
times of old !
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 89
THE LAST FRIENDS
One of the United Irishmen, who lately returned to his native
country after many years of exile, being asked what had in-
duced him to visit Ireland, when all his friends were gone,
answered, ' I came back to see the mountains." Author's note.
I COME to my country, but not with the hope
That brightened my youth like the cloud light-
ing bow ;
For the vigour of soul that seemed mighty to cope
With time and with fortune hath fled from me now,
And love that illumined my wanderings of yore
Hath perished, and left but a weary regret
For the star that can rise on my midnight no more,
But the hills of my country they welcome me yet.
The hue of their verdure was fresh with me still,
When my path was afar by the Tanais' lone track ;
From the wide-spreading deserts and ruins that fill
The lands of old story, they summoned me back ;
They rose on my dreams through the shades of the
West,
They breathed upon sands which the dew never wet;
For the echoes were hushed in the home I loved best,
And I knew that the mountains would welcome me
yet.
The dust of my kindred is scattered afar,
They lie in the desert, the wild, and the wave;
For serving the strangers through wandering and war,
The isle of their memory could grant them no grave.
And I, I return with the memory of years
Whose hope rose so high, though in sorrow it set ;
They have left on my soul but the trace of their tears,
But our mountains remember their promises yet.
90 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
O where are the brave hearts that bounded of old ?
And where are the faces my childhood has seen ?
For fair brows are furrowed, and hearts have grown
cold,
But our streams are still bright, and our hills are
still green.
Ay, green as they rose to the eyes of my youth,
When brothers in heart fti their shadows we met ;
And the hills have no memory of shadow or death,
For their summits are sacred to liberty yet.
Like ocean retiring the morning mists now
Roll back from the mountains that girdle our land ;
And sunlight encircles each heath-covered brow
For which time hath no furrow and tyrants no brand.
O thus let it be with the hearts of the isle !
Efface the dark seal that oppression has set ;
Give back the lost glory again to the soil,
For the hills of my country remember it yet.
WHAT HATH TIME TAKEN?
WHAT hath Time taken ? Stars, that shone
On the early years of earth,
And the ancient hills they looked upon,
Where a thousand streams had birth ;
Forests that were the young world's dower,
With their long-unfading trees ;
And the halls of wealth, and the thrones of power
He hath taken more than these.
He hath taken away the heart of youth,
And its gladness, which hath been
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 91
Like the summer sunshine o'er our path,
Making the desert green ;
The shrines of an early hope and love,
And the flowers of every clime,
The wise, the beautiful, the brave,
Thou hast taken from us, Time !
What hath Time left us ? desolate
Cities, and temples lone,
And the mighty works of genius, yet
Glorious, when all are gone ;
And the lights of memory, lingering long,
As the eve on western seas
Treasures of science, thought, and song
He hath left us more than these.
He hath left us a lesson of the past,
In the shades of perished years ;
He hath left us the heart's high places waste,
And its rainbows fallen in tears.
But there's hope for the earth and her children still,
Unwithered by woe or crime,
And a heritage of rest for all,
Thou hast left us these, oh Time !
92 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
KEVIN T. BUGGY
(1816-1843)
THE SAXON SHILLING 1
HARK ! a martial sound is heard
The march of soldiers, fifing, drumming ;
Eyes are staring, hearts are stirred
For bold recruits the brave are coming,
Ribands flaunting, feathers gay
The sounds and sights are surely thrilling.
Dazzled village youths to-day
Will crowd to take the Saxon Shilling.
Ye whose spirits will not bow
In peace to parish tyrants longer
Ye, who wear the villein brow,
And ye who pine in hopeless hunger
Fools, without the brave man's faith
All slaves and starvelings who are willing
To sell themselves to shame and death
Accept the fatal Saxon Shilling.
1 Refers to the English custom when recruiting for the army.
The acceptance of a shilling (twenty-five cents) from the recruit-
ing sergeant constitutes the act of enlisting, and in the old days
many a poor fellow has been so plied with drink that he has
awakened from his sleep to find a shilling in his hand and the
Queen's colours (ribbons of red, white, and blue) pinned to his
hat or on his breast; sure signs that he had " 'listed for a soger,"
even though he had forgotten about it. C. W.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 93
Ere you from your mountains go
To feel the scourge of foreign fever,
Swear to serve the faithless foe
That lures you from your land forever !
Swear henceforth its tools to be
To slaughter trained by ceaseless drilling
Honour, home, and liberty,
Abandoned for a Saxon Shilling.
Go to find, mid crime and toil,
The doom to which such guilt is hurried ;
Go to leave on Indian soil
Your bones to bleach, accursed, unburied !
Go to crush the just and brave,
Whose wrongs with wrath the world is filling ;
Go to slay each brother slave
Or spurn the blood-stained Saxon Shilling !
Irish hearts ! why should you bleed
To swell the tide of British glory
Aiding despots in their need,
Who've changed our green so oft to gory /
None, save those who wish to see
The noblest killed, the meanest killing,
And true hearts severed from the free,
Will take again the Saxon Shilling!
Irish youths ! reserve your strength
Until an hour of glorious duty,
When Freedom's smile shall cheer at length
The land of bravery and beauty.
Bribes and threats, oh, heed no more
Let nought but Justice make you willing
To leave your own dear Island shore,
For those who send the Saxon Shilling.
94 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN
. (1795-1829)
AND MUST WE PART?
AND must we part ? then fare thee well !
But he that wails it he can tell
How dear thou wert, how dear thou art
And ever must be, to this heart :
But now 'tis vain it cannot be ;
Farewell ! and think no more on me.
Oh ! yes this heart would sooner break
Than one unholy thought awake;
I'd sooner slumber into clay
Than cloud thy spirit's beauteous ray;
Go, free as air as angel free,
And, lady, think no more on me.
Oh ! did we meet when brighter star
Sent its fair promise from afar,
I then might hope to call thee mine
The minstrel's heart and harp were thine ;
But now 'tis past it cannot be;
Farewell ! and think no more on me.
Or do ! but let it be the hour
When mercy's all-atoning power
From His high throne of glory hears,
Of souls like thine, the prayers, the tears ;
Then, whilst you bend the suppliant knee,
Then then, O lady ! think on me.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 95
DIRGE OF O' SULLIVAN BEAR
From the Irish.
One of the Sullivans of Bearhaven, who went by the name of
Morty Oge, fell under the vengeance of the law. He was be-
trayed by a confidential servant, named Scully, and was shot by
his pursuers. They tied his body to a. boat, and dragged it
through the sea from Bearhaven to Cork, where his head was
cut off and fixed on the county jail, where it remained for
several years. Such is the story current among the people of
Bearhaven. The dirge is supposed to have been the compo-
sition of O'Sullivan's aged nurse. From the authors note.
THE sun on Ivera
No longer shines brightly,
The voice of her music
No longer is sprightly,
No more to her maidens
The light dance is dear,
Since the death of our darling
O' Sullivan Bear.
Scully ! thou false one,
You basely betrayed him,
In his strong hour of need,
When thy right hand should aid him ;
He fed thee he clad thee
You had all could delight thee :
You left him you sold him
May Heaven requite thee !
Scully ! may all kinds
Of evil attend thee !
On thy dark road of life
May no kind one befriend thee !
96 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
May fevers long burn thee,
And agues long freeze thee !
May the strong hand of God
In His red anger seize thee !
Had he died calmly
I would not deplore him,
Or if the wild strife
Of the sea-war closed o'er him ;
But with ropes round his white limbs
Through ocean to trail him,
Like a fish after slaughter
'Tis therefore I wail him.
Long may the curse
Of his people pursue them :
Scully that sold him,
And soldier that slew him !
One glimpse of heaven's light
May they see never !
May the hearthstone of hell
Be their best bed forever !
In the hole which the vile hands
Of soldiers had made thee,
Unhonoured, unshrouded,
And headless they laid thee ;
No sigh to regret thee,
No eye to rain o'er thee,
No dirge to lament thee,
No friend to deplore thee !
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 97
Dear head of my darling,
How gory and pale
These aged eyes see thee,
High spiked on their jail !
That cheek in the summer sun
Ne'er shall grow warm;
Nor that eye e'er catch light,
But the flash of the storm.
A curse, blessed ocean,
Is on thy green water,
From the haven of Cork
To Ivera of slaughter :
Since the billows were dyed
With thy red wounds of fear,
Of Muiertach Oge,
Our O'Sullivan Bear !
GOUGANE BARRA '
THERE is a green island in lone Gougane Barra,
Whence Allu of songs rushes forth like an
r arrow ;
In deep-valleyed Desmond a thousand wild fountains
Come down to that lake, from their home in the
mountains.
There grows the wild ash; and a time-stricken
willow
1 Gougane Barra is a small lake about two miles in cir-
cumference, formed by the numerous streams which descend
from the mountains that divide the counties of Cork and
Kerry.
98 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow,
As, like some gay child that sad monitor scorning,
It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning.
And its zone of dark hills oh ! to see them all
bright' ning,
When the tempest flings out its red banner of light-
ning,
And the waters come down, 'mid the thunder's deep
rattle,
Like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle :
And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming,
And wildly from Malloc l the eagles are screaming :
Oh, where is the dwelling, in valley or highland,
So meet for a bard as this lone little island ?
How oft, when the summer sun rested on Clara/
And lit the blue headland of sullen Ivera,
Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the
ocean,
And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion,
And thought on the bards who, oft gathering together,
In the cleft of thy rocks, and the depth of thy heather,
Dwelt far from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter,
As they raised their last song by the rush of thy
water !
High sons of the lyre ! oh, how proud was the feeling
To dream while alone through that solitude stealing ;
Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number,
I alone waked the strain of her harp from its slumber,
1 A mountain over the lake. 2 Cape Clear.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 99
And gleaned the gray legend that long had been
sleeping.
Where oblivion's dull mist o'er its beauty was creep-
ing,
From the love which I felt for my country's sad story,
When to love her was shame, to revile her was glory !
Least bard of the free ! were it mine to inherit
The fire of thy harp and the wing of thy spirit,
With the wrongs which, like thee, to my own land
have bound me,
Did your mantle of song throw its radiance around me ;
Yet, yet on those bold cliffs might Liberty rally,
And abroad send her cry o'er the sleep of each valley.
But rouse thee, vain dreamer ! no fond fancy cherish,
Thy vision of Freedom in bloodshed must perish.
I soon shall be gone though my name may be spoken
When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken
Some minstrel will come in the summer eve's gleam-
ing*
When Freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming,
To bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion,
Where calm Avonbuee seeks the kisses of ocean,
And a wild wreath to plant from the banks of that
river
O'er the heart and the harp that are silent forever.
ioo THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
O SAY, MY BROWN DRIMIN l
Translated from the Irish.
Osay, my brown Drimin, thou silk of the kine, 2
Where, where are thy strong ones, last hope of
thy line?
Too deep and too long is the slumber they take,
At the loud call of freedom, why don't they awake ?
My strong ones have fallen from the bright eye of
day
All darkly they sleep in their dwelling of clay ;
The cold turf is o'er them ; they hear not my cries,
And since Louis no aid gives I cannot arise.
O I where art thou, Louis, our eyes are on thee ?
Are thy lofty ships walking in strength o'er the sea ?
In freedom's last strife if you linger or quail,
No morn e'er shall break on the night of the Gael.
But should the king's son, now bereft of his right,
Come, proud in his strength, for his country to fight ;
Like leaves on the trees will new people arise,
And deep from their mountains shout back to my
cries.
1 Drimin is the favourite name of a cow, by which Ireland
is here allegorically denoted. The five ends of Erin are the
five kingdoms Munster, Leinster, Ulster, Connaught, and
Meath into which the island was divided under the Milesian
dynasty. Callanan,
2 Silk of the cows, an idiomatic expression for the most beauti-
ful of cattle.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 101
When the prince, now an exile, shall come for his own,
The isles of his father, his rights and his throne,
My people in battle the Saxons will meet,
And kick them before, like old shoes from their feet.
O'er mountains and valleys they'll press on their
rout,
The five ends of Erin shall ring to their shout ;
My sons all united shall bless the glad day
When the flint-hearted Saxons they've chased far
away.
THE CONVICT OF CLONMEL
From the Irish.
HOW hard is my fortune,
And vain my repining !
The strong rope of fate
For this young neck is twining.
My strength is departed ;
My cheek sunk and sallow ;
While I languish in chains,
In the jail of Cluanmeala.
No boy in the village
Was ever yet milder,
I'd play with a child,
And my sport would be wilder.
I'd dance without tiring
From morning till even,
And the goal-ball I'd strike
To the lightning of Heaven.
102 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
At my bed-foot decaying,
My hurlbat is lying,
Through the boys of the village
My goal-ball is flying ;
My horse 'mong the neighbours
Neglected may fallow,
While I pine in my chains,
In the jail of Cluanmeala.
Next Sunday the patron
At home will be keeping,
And the young active hurlers
The field will be sweeping.
With the dance of fair maidens
The evening they'll hallow,
While this heart, once so gay,
Shall be cold in Cluanmeala.
THE LAMENT OF O'GNIVE '
Translated from the. Irish.
HOW dimmed is the glory that circled the Gael
And fall'n the high people of green Innisfail ; a
The sword of the Saxon is red with their gore ;
And the mighty of nations is mighty no more !
1 Fearflatha CPGniamh was family olanih or bard to the
O'Neil of Clanoboy about the year 1556. The poem of which
these lines are the translation commences with " Ma thruagh
mar ataid' Goadhil." M. F. McCarthy.
2 Innisfail, the island of destiny, one of the names of Ire-
land.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 103
Like a bark on the ocean, long shattered and tost,
On the land of your fathers at length you are lost ;
The hand of the spoiler is stretched on your plains,
And you're doomed from your cradles to bondage and
chains. t
O where is the beauty that beamed on thy brow ?
Strong hand in the battle, how weak art thou now !
That heart is now broken that never would quail,
And thy high songs are turned into weeping and wail.
Bright shades of our sires ! from your home in the
. skies
O blast not your sons with the scorn of your eyes !
Proud spirit of Gollam, 1 how red is thy cheek,
For thy freemen are slaves, and thy mighty are weak !
O'Neil of the Hostages; 2 Con, 3 whose high name
On a hundred red battles has floated to fame,
Let the long grass still sigh undisturbed o'er thy
sleep ;
Arise not to shame us, awake not to weep.
In thy broad wing of darkness enfold us, O night !
Withhold, O bright sun, the reproach of thy light !
1 Gollam, a name of Milesius, the Spanish progenitor of the
Irish O's and Macs.
2 Nial of the Nine Hostages, the heroic monarch of Ireland in
the fourth century, and ancestor of the O'Neil family.
3 Con Cead CatJia, Con of the Hundred Fights, monarch of
the island in the second century. Although the fighter of a
hundred battles, he was not the victor of a hundred fields ; his
valorous rival Owen, King of Munster, compelled him to a di-
vision of the kingdom.
104 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
For freedom or valour no more canst thou see
In the home of the brave, in the isle of the free.
Affliction's dark waters your spirits have bowed,
And oppression hath wrapped all your land in its
shroud,
Since first from the Brehon's 1 pure justice you strayed
And bent to those laws the proud Saxon has made.
We know not our country, so strange is her face ;
Her sons, once her glory, are now her disgrace ;
Gone, gone is the beauty of fair Innisfail,
For the stranger now rules in the land of the Gael.
Where, where are the woods that oft rung to your
cheer,
Where you waked the wild chase of the wolf and the
deer?
Can those dark heights, with ramparts all frowning
and riven,
Be the hills where your forests waved brightly in
heaven ?
O bondsmen of Egypt, no Moses appears
To light your dark steps thro' this desert of tears !
Degraded and lost ones, no Hector is nigh
To lead you to freedom, or teach you to die !
Brehons, the hereditary judges of the Irish septs.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 105
JOSEPH CAMPBELL
(Living)
NEWTOWNBREDA
''"TMS pretty tae be in Ballylesson,
'Tis pretty tae be in green Malone ;
'Tis prettier tae be in Newtownbreda,
Becking under the eaves in June.
The cummers are out wi' their knitting and spinning,
The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa',
And o'er the white road the clachan caddies
Play at their marlies and goaling-ba'.
O ! fair are the fields o' Ballylesson,
And fair are the faes o' green Malone ;
But fairer the flowers o' Newtownbreda,
Wet wi' dew in the eves o' June.
'Tis pleasant tae saunter the gray clachan thoro'
When day sinks mellow o'er Divis hill.
And feel their fragrance sae softly breathing
Frae croft and causey and window-sill.
O ! brave are the haughs o' Ballylesson,
And brave are the halds o' green Malone ;
But braver the hames o' Newtownbreda,
Twined about wi' the pinks o' June.
And just as the face is sae kindly withouten,
The heart within is as guid as gold
Wi' new Fair ballants and merry music,
And cracks cam' down frae the days of old.
io6 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
'Tis pretty tae be in Ballylesson,
And pretty tae be in green Malone ;
'Tis prettier tae be in Nevvtownbreda,
Becking under the eaves in June.
The cummers are out wi' their knitting and spinning,
The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa',
And o'er the white road the clachan caddies
Play at their marlies and goaling-ba'.
THE FRIAR'S BUSH
The Friar's Bush gives name to the old Catholic burying-
ground situate on the left-hand side of the road leading out
from Beul-feirste to Srath-milis, on the rise of the hill just before
you come to Mount Pleasant. I never knew how the place got
its name until told by my mother, who is a repository of all the
quaint traditional stories of Lagan Vale. I tell her story in
versified form below.
IN penal times, as peasants tell,
A friar came with book and bell
To chaunt his Mass each Sabbath morn
Beneath Srath-milis' trysting-thorn.
He came in sun, he came in flood
From Ard-mic Nasca's holy wood,
Where Niall built his monastery
To house the scripts of Clann-Aedha-buidhe.
But that was in the golden age
When Ulaid fostered saint and sage,
Ere gorbies grasped their mensal-lands
Or filed their books with bloody hands.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 107
This priest was of the family
That own the name Mic Giollamhuire ;
In rebel days at Baile-Daithi
His faith was banned by Saxon law.
And so, all sick at sight of blood,
He hied him to the holy wood
Where Mall's presbyters of old
Preached God's-spell to the Gaelic fold
And there in spite of hue and cry
The tonsured one found sanctuary ;
And, moving featly like a bird,
Among his folk he ministered.
And, as our northern legends tell,
He came with candle, book and bell
To chaunt his Mass each Sabbath morn
Beneath Srath-milis' trysting-thorn.
This thorn grew green upon a hill
Above Srath-milis' straits, and still
Grows there for every soul' to see
That honours hoar antiquity.
The folk who deemed their fathers' faith
More dear than life, and laughed at death,
Came thither every Sabbath morn
To worship God beneath the thorn.
And, sailing up by Loch-an-laegh
Betwixt the shores of Clann-Aedha-buidhe,
The holy priest would meet them there
To lead their hearts in fragrant prayer.
io8 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
Week in, week out, he crossed the ford
To Fearsad town, and dared the sword
Of those who mocked his churchly cloth,
And sought his bones to make them broth.
But, guarded by the grace of God,
Unharmed he went his weary road,
Till of a darkling Lammas day
A planter took his life away.
He slew him by the trysting-tree
At chosen opportunity
His hand upheld the Sacred Blood
That flowed unto the common good !
Nor arm nor voice of any there
Was raised to quell the murtherer ;
For shame each peasant's heart was numb,
For fear each woman's soul was dumb.
With double blood upon his head
The planter to his castle sped ;
And o'er their shepherd's body pale
The people raised the funeral-wail.
They laid him after sunset-blush
Beneath the ancient trysting-bush,
And on his head they set the sod
O'er which the sacring-cup had flowed.
They wandered long without a guide,
And of their number many died,
And ere they passed they begged to be
Laid resting by the " Friar's Tree."
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 109
'Twas thus, if legend tell it true,
A lowly graveyard round it grew ;
A holy spot it is, in faith,
Where one might wish to lie in death.
And still on moldered stone and grass
The thorn-tree sees the shadows pass,
Nor shows a sign of slow decay,
For 'twill be quick till Judgment-day !
THE GARDEN OF THE BEES
THERE is a clearing in the maze of flowers
That closes in my father's House of Happi-
ness ;
And Summer dews it with her softest showers,
The while she suns it with an eye of tenderness.
And on its plat of shaven fairy-grass
My bees are housed in hives of beechen wood,
Filling the languorous 'air with lazy drone
Till moth-time comes with melancholy mood,
Deepening the shadow on the dial-stone,
And drifts of purple o'er the mountain pass.
And often there of quiet Summer eves
We gather, Seaghan and Seumas, Feidhlim Og and
j
My Gaelic school to sit within the leaves,
And listen to the red-bees' twilight lullaby.
And Seaghan will take a poem from his breast,
Chanting it to the purple sunken sun,
no THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
Until the merging glow of day and night
And murmurous drone and singer's voice are one,
And Dana's secret eyes from heaven's height
Look down upon our little world at rest.
THE LAMENT OF PATRAIC MOR MAC-
CRUIM1N OVER HIS SONS
The MacCruimins were hereditary pipers to the MacLeods
of Skye (Inis-Scathach). The crest of the clan is a hand hold-
ing a pipe chanter, with the motto COGADH NO SITH " Peace
or War." Many stories are told of the clan. Patraic Mor, who
lived in the middle of the seventeenth century, was frequently
accompanied to kirk and market by seven grown-up sons, all
of whom died within one twelve-months. It was on their ac-
count that the sorrowing parent composed the affecting piohai-
reacht called CUMHADH NO CLOINNE, or " Lament for the
Children."
I AM Patraic Mor MacCruimin,
Son of Domhnall of the Shroud,
Piper, like my kind before me,
To the household of MacLeod.
Death is in the seed of Cruimin ;
All my music is a wail \
Early graves await the poets
And the pipers of the Gael.
Samhain gleans the golden harvests
Duly in their tide and time,
But the body's fruit is blasted
Barely past the Bealtein prime.
Cethlenn claims the fairest fighters
Fitly for her own, her own,
But my seven sons are stricken
Where no battle-pipe is blown.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS in
Flowers of the forest fallen
On the sliding summer stream
Light and life and love are with me,
Then are vanished into dream.
Berried branches of the rowan
Rifled in the wizard wind
Clan and generation leave me,
Lonely on the heath behind.
Who will soothe a father's sorrow
When his seven sons are gone ?
Who will watch him in his sleeping ?
Who will wake him at the dawn ?
Like the salmon of the river,
Rusting in the salty sea,
I will lie adream, and listen
For the call to come to me.
Like the eagle of the eyrie,
Kidnapped of its callow brood,
I will seek the windy valley,
I will search the misty wood.
Seven sons are taken from me
In the compass of a year ;
Every bone is bose within me,
All my blood is white with fear.
Seven youths of brawn and beauty
Moulder in their mountain bed,
Up in storied Inis-Scathach
Where their fathers reaped their bread.
ii2 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
Nevermore upon the mountain,
Nevermore in fair or field
Shall ye see the seven champions
Of the silver-mantled shield.
I will play the " Cumhadh na Cloinne,"
Wildest of the rowth of tunes
Gathered by the love of mortal
From the olden druid-runes.
Wail ye ! Night is on the water ;
Wind and wave are roaring loud
Caoine for the fallen children
Of the piper of MacLeod.
THE NINE GLENS OF AON-DRUIM l
THERE is fire in the heart of the Nine Glens
within,
That Oisin, the ardent-souled, would live
again to light :
The seed of fire that molders there in darkness chill
and dim
Must blow to bloom flame-bright.
* Gleann-taise, the glen of the fetch or ghost.
Gleann-seisg, the glen of the green sedge.
Gleann-Duine, the glen of the Abhainn-Duine River.
Gleann-corp, the glen of the dead bodies.
Gleannan ( Glean n-aithin), the glen of the little ford.
Gleann-baile-Eamain, the glen of the town of Eaman.
Gleann-araimh, the glen of the ploughman.
Gleann-gorm, the blue glen.
Gleann-cloiche, the glen of the stone.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 113
Gleann-taise sings the fairy-songs she knew of yore ;
Thro' Gleann-seisg, exulting, the brown-streamed
rivers leap ;
And, stirred by the finer breath that fills her bosom
hoar,
Glean n-Duine looks up from her sleep.
Strange sounds of shrilly music are rife in the wind
That breathes down Gleann-araimh from the long-
forgotten years;
'Tis the pipes of Somhairle Buidhe leading out his
Gaelic kind
That ring in her wondering ears.
Gleann-corp marks the cry, and Gleannan green
Takes up the quickening ether within her zone of
hills ;
And Gleann-baile-Eamain looks like a battler's queen
When her pulse at his piobreacht thrills.
Gleann-gorm is out to meet the risen dawn
In summer busk of purple broom and lichen gray;
And swift as the phantom ships of Manannan
The shadows of Gleann-cloiche fleet away.
There is fire in the heart of the Nine Glens within,
That Oisin, the magic-tongued, is come again to
light :
The seed of fire that moulders there in darkness chill
and dim
Will blow to bloom flame- bright.
ii4 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
JOHN T. CAMPION
(1814- )
EMMET'S DEATH
" TJE dies to-day," said the heartless judge,
Whilst he sate him down to the feast,
And a smile was upon his ashy lip
As he uttered a ribald jest ;
For a demon dwelt where his heart should be,
That lived upon blood and sin,
And oft as that vile judge gave him food
The demon throbbed within.
" He dies to-day," said the jailer grim,
Whilst a tear was in his eye;
" But why should I feel so grieved for him /
Sure, I've seen many die !
Last night I went to his stony cell,
With the scanty prison fare
He was sitting at a table rude,
Plaiting a lock of hair !
And he look'd so mild, with his pale, pale face,
And he spoke in so kind a way,
That my old breast heaved with a smothering feel,
And I knew not what to say ! "
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 115
" He dies to-day," thought a fair, sweet girl
She lacked the life to speak,
For sorrow had almost frozen her blood,
And white were her lip and cheek
Despair had drank up her last wild tear,
And her brow was damp and chill,
And they often felt at her heart with fear,
For its ebb was all but still.
n6 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
GEORGE CANNING
(1770-1827)
EPITAPH
For the tombstone erected over the Marquis of Anglesea's
leg, lost at Waterloo.
H
ERE rests, and let no saucy knave
Presume to sneer and laugh,
To learn that moldering in the grave
Is laid a British Calf.
For he who writes these lines is sure,
That those who read the whole
Will find such laugh was premature,
For here, too, lies a sole.
And here five little ones repose,
Twin born with other five,
Unheeded by their brother toes,
Who all are now alive.
A leg and foot to speak more plain,
Rests here of one commanding ;
Who though his wits he might retain,
Lost half his understanding.
And when the guns, with thunder fraught,
Poured bullets thick as hail,
Could only in this way be taught
To give the foe leg-bail.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 117
And now in England, just as gay
As in the battle brave,
Goes to a rout, review or play,
With one foot in the grave.
Fortune in vain here showed her spite,
For he will still be found,
Should England's sons engage in fight,
Resolved to stand his ground.
But Fortune's pardon I must beg;
She meant not to disarm,
For when she lopped the hero's leg,
She did not seek his harm,
And but indulg'd a harmless whim ;
Since he could walk with one
She saw two legs were lost on him,
Who never meant to run.
SONG
From " The Rover ; or the Double Arrangement"
W
HENE'ER with haggard eyes I view
This dungeon that I'm rotting in,
I think of those companions true
Who studied with me at the U
niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.
Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue,
Which once my love sat knotting in !
ii8 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
Alas ! Matilda then was true !
At least I thought so at the U
niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.
Barbs ! barbs ! alas ! how swift you flew,
Her neat post-wagon trotting in !
Ye bore Matilda from my view ;
Forlorn I languished at the U
niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.
This faded form ! this pallid hue !
This blood rny veins is clotting in !
My years are many they were few
When first I entered at the U
niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.
There first for thee my passion grew,
Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen !
Thou wast the daughter of my tu-
tor, law professor at the U
niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.
1 Sun, moon, and thou, vain world, adieu !
That kings and priests are plotting in :
Here doomed to starve on water gru-
el, never shall I see the U
niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.
1 This verse is said to have been added by the younger Pitt.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 119
THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE
KNIFE-GRINDER
FRIEND OF HUMANITY
N
EEDY Knife-grinder ! whither are you going ?
Rough is the road; your wheel is out of order
Bleak blows the blast ; your hat has got a hole
in't.
So have your breeches !
Weary Knife-grinder ! little think the proud ones
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike
Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day, " Knives
and
Scissors to grind O ! "
Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives ?
Did some rich man tyrannically use you ?
Was it some squire ? or parson of the parish?
Or the attorney ?
Was it the squire, for killing of his game ? or
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining ?
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little
All in a lawsuit ?
Have you not read the "Rights of Man," by Tom
Paine ?
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your
Pitiful story.
120 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
KNIFE-GRINDER
Story ? God bless you ! I have none to tell, sir :
Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
Torn in a scuffle.
Constables came up for to take me into
Custody ; they took me before the justice;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish
Stocks for a vagrant.
I should be glad to drink your honour's health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence ;
But for my part, I never love to meddle
With politics, sir.
FRIEND OF HUMANITY
I give thee sixpence ! I will see thee damned first
Wretch ! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to
vengeance !
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,
Spiritless outcast !
[Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and
exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and uni-
versal philanthropy. ~\
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 121
WILLIAM CANTON
(1845- )
LAUS INFANTIUM
IN praise of little children I will say
God first made man, then found a better way
For woman, but his third way was the best.
Of all created things, the loveliest
And most divine are children. Nothing here
Can be to us more gracious or more dear.
And though, when God saw all his works were good,
There was no rosy flower of babyhood,
'Twas said of children in a later day
That none could enter Heaven save such as they.
The earth, which feels the flowering of a thorn,
Was glad, O little child, when you were born;
The earth, which thrills when skylarks scale the blue,
Soared up itself to God's own Heaven in you ;
nd Heaven, which loves to lean down and to glass
Its beauty in each dewdrop on the grass,
Heaven laughed to find your face so pure and fair,
And left, O little child, its reflex there.
122 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
WILLIAM CARLETON
(1798-1869)
A SIGH FOR KNOCKMANY
TAKE, proud ambition, take thy fill
Of pleasures won through toil or crime ;
Go, learning, climb thy rugged hill,
And give thy name to future time.
Philosophy, be keen to see
Whate'er is just, or false, or vain ;
Take each thy meed, but oh, give me
To range my mountain glens again.
Pure was the breeze that fanned my cheek,
As o'er Knockmany's brow I went ;
When every lovely dell could speak
In airy music, vision-sent.
False world, I hate thy cares and thee ;
I hate the treacherous haunts of men ;
Give back my early heart to me,
Give back to me my mountain glen.
How light my youthful visions shone
When spanned by Fancy's radiant form !
But now her glittering bow is gone,
And leaves me but the cloud and storm ;
With wasted form and cheek all pale,
With heart long seared by grief and pain,
Dunroe, I'll seek thy native gale,
I'll tread my mountain glens again.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS, 123
Thy breeze once more may fan my blood,
The valleys all are lovely still ;
And I may stand as once I stood,
In lonely musings on thy hill.
But ah ! the spell is gone. No art
In crowded town, or native plain,
Can teach a crushed and breaking heart
To pipe the songs of youth again.
124 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
JOHN KEEGAN CASEY
(1846-1870)
DONAL KENNY
piper, play the 'Shaskan Reel,'
Or else the ' Lasses on the heather.'
And, Mary, lay aside your wheel
Until we dance once more together.
At fair and pattern l oft before
Of reels and jigs we've tripped full many;
But ne'er again this loved old floor
Will feel the foot of Donal Kenny."
Softly she rose and took his hand,
And softly glided through the measure,
While, clustering round, the village band
Looked half in sorrow, half in pleasure.
Warm blessings flowed from every lip
As ceased the dancers' airy motion :
O Blessed Virgin ! guide the ship
Which bears bold Donal o'er the ocean !
" Now God be with you all ! " he sighed,
Adown his face the bright tears flowing
"God guard you well, avic" they cried,
" Upon the strange path you are going."
1 Pattern, patron saint, a saint's day*
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 125
So full his breast, he scarce could speak,
With burning grasp the stretched hands taking,
He pressed a kiss on every cheek,
And sobbed as if his heart was breaking.
"Boys, don't forget me when I'm gone,
For sake of all the days passed over
The days you spent on heath and bawn
With Donal Ruadh, the rattlin' rover.
Mary, agra, your soft brown eye
Has willed my fate " (he whispered lowly) ;
"Another holds thy heart : good-bye !
Heaven grant you both its blessings holy ! "
A kiss upon her brow of snow;
A rush across the moonlit meadow,
Whose broom -clad hazels, trembling slow,
The mossy boreen wrapped in shadow ;
Away o'er Tully's bounding rill,
And far beyond the Inny river;
One cheer on Carrick's rocky hill,
And Donal Kenny's gone forever.
The breezes whistled through the sails,
O'er Gal way Bay the ship was heaving,
And smothered groans and bursting wails
Told all the grief and pain of leaving.
One form among that exiled band
Of parting sorrow gave no token,
Still was his breath, and cold his hand :
For Donal Kenny's heart was broken.
126 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
GRACIE OG MACHREE '
SONG OF THE " WILD GEESE"
I PLACED the silver in her palm,
By Inny's smiling tide,
And vowed, ere summer time came on,
To claim her as a bride.
But when the summer time came on,
I dwelt beyond the sea ;
Yet still my heart is ever true
To Grade Og Machree.
O bonnie are the woods of Targ,
And green thy hills, Rathmore,
And soft the sunlight ever falls
On Darre's sloping shore ;
And there the eyes I love in tears
Shine ever mournfully,
While I am far, and far away
From Grade Og Machree.
When battle-steeds were neighing loud,
With bright blades in the air,
Next to my inmost heart I wore
A bright tress of her hair.
When stirrup-cups were lifted up
To lips, with soldier glee,
One toast I always fondly pledged,
'Twas Grade Og Machree.
1 Grade 6g mo-chroidhe, young Gracie of my heart.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 127
O I may never, never clasp
Again, her lily hand,
And I may find a soldier's grave
Upon a foreign strand ;
But when the heart pulse beats the last,
And death takes hold of me,
One word shall part my dying lips,
Thy name, As tor Machree. 1
MAIRE MY GIRL
Air " Mairgread ni Chealleadh"
OVER the dim blue hills
Strays a wild river,
Over the dim blue hills
Rests my heart ever.
Dearer and brighter than
Jewels and pearl,
Dwells she in beauty there,
Maire a my girl.
Down upon Claris heath
Shines the soft berry,
On the brown harvest tree
Droops the red cherry.
Sweeter thy honey lips,
Softer the curl
Straying adown thy cheeks,
Maire my girl.
A-stdir mo-chroidhe, O treasure of my heart,
'Pronounced, Maurya.
128 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
'Twas on an April eve
That I first met her ;
Many an eve shall pass
Ere I forget her.
Since my young heart has been
Wrapped in a whirl,
Thinking and dreaming of
Maire my girl.
She is too kind and fond
Ever to grieve me,
She has too pure a heart
E'er to deceive me.
Were I Tyrconnell's chief
Or Desmond's earl,
Life would be dark, wanting
Maire my girl.
Over the dim blue hills
Strays a wild river,
Over the dim blue hills
Rests my heart ever ;
Dearer and brighter than
Jewels or pearl,
Dwells she in beauty there,
Maire my girl.
THE RISING OF THE MOON
(A. D. 1798)
H, then, tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall,
Tell me why you hurry so ? "
" Hush ! ma bouchal, hush, and listen ; "
And his cheeks were all a-glow :
I bear ordhers from the Captain
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 129
Get you ready quick and soon ;
For the pikes must be together
At the risin' of the moon."
"Oh, then, tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall,
Where the gath'rin' is to be? "
" In the ould spot by the river,
Right well known to you and me;
One word more for signal token
Whistle up the marchin' tune,
With your pike upon your shoulder,
By the risin' of the moon."
Out from many a mud-wall cabin
Eyes were watching thro 1 that night ;
Many a manly chest was throbbing
For the blessed warning light.
Murmurs passed along the valleys,
Like the banshee 's lonely croon,
And a thousand blades were flashing
At the risin' of the moon.
There, beside the singing river,
That dark mass of men were seen
Far above the shining weapons
Hung their own beloved " Green " ;
" Death to ev'ry foe and traitor !
Forward ! strike the marchin' tune,
And hurrah, my boys, for freedom !
'Tis the risin' of the moon."
Well they fought for poor Old Ireland,
And full bitter was their fate ;
130 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
(Oh ! what glorious pride and sorrow
Fill the name of 'Ninety-Eight !)
Yet, thank God, e'en still are beating
Hearts in manhood's burning noon,
Who would follow in their footsteps
At the risin' of the moon !
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 131
ANDREW CHERRY
(1762-1812)
THE BAY OF BISCAY
LOUD roared the dreadful thunder,
The rain a deluge showers,
The clouds were rent asunder
By lightning's vivid powers :
The night both drear and dark,
Our poor devoted bark,
Till next day there she lay
In the Bay of Biscay, O !
Now dashed upon the billow,
Our opening timbers creak ;
Each fears a wat'ry pillow,
None stops the dreadful leak ;
To cling to slipp'ry shrouds
Each breathless seaman crowds,
As she lay till next day
In the Bay of Biscay, O !
At length the wished-for morrow
Broke thro' the hazy sky ;
Absorbed in silent sorrow,
Each heaved a bitter sigh ;
The dismal wreck to view
Struck horror to the crew,
As she lay on that day
In the Bay of Biscay, O !
132 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF
Her yielding timbers sever,
Her pitchy seams are rent,
When Heaven, all-bounteous ever,
Its boundless mercy sent ;
A sail in sight appears,
We hail her with three cheers :
Now we sail with the gale
From the Bay of Biscay, O !
THE GREENLITTLE SHAMROCK OF IRELAND
THERE'S a dear little plant that grows in our isle,
'Twas Saint Patrick himself, sure, that set it ;
And the sun on his labour with pleasure did
smile,
And with dew from his eye often wet it.
It thrives through the bog, through the brake, through
the mireland ;
And he called it the dear little shamrock of Ireland,
The sweet little shamrock, the dear little sham-
rock,
The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland.
This dear little plant still grows in our land,
Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin,
Whose smiles can bewitch, whose eyes can command,
In each climate that they may appear in ;
And shine through the bog, through the brake, through
the mireland ;
Just like their own dear little shamrock of Ireland,
The sweet little shamrock, the dear little sham-
rock,
The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 133
This dear little plant that springs from our soil,
When its three little leaves are extended,
Denotes from one stalk we together should toil,
And ourselves by ourselves be befriended ;
And still through the bog, through the brake, through
the mireland,
From one root should branch, like the shamrock of
Ireland,
The sweet little shamrock, the dear little sham-
rock,
The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland.
TOM MOODY
YOU all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well ;
The bell just done tolling was honest Tom's
knell ;
A more able sportsman ne'er followed a hound,
Through a country well known to him fifty miles round.
No hound ever opened with Tom near the wood
But he'd challenge the tone, and could tell if 'twere
good;
And all with attention would eagerly mark,
When he cheered up the pack. "Hark! to Rook-
wood, hark ! hark !
High ! wind him ! and cross him;
Now, Rattler, boy ! Hark ! "
Six crafty earth- stoppers, in hunter's green drest,
Supported poor Tom to an " earth " made for rest;
His horse, which he styled his Old Soul, next appeared,
On whose forehead the brush of the last fox was
reared ;
134 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
Whip, cap, boots, and spurs in a trophy were bound,
And here and there followed an old straggling hound.
Ah ! no more at his voice yonder vales will they trace,
Nor the welkin resound to the burst in the chase !
With " High over ! now press him !
Tally-ho ! Tally-ho !"
Thus Tom spoke his friends ere he gave up his breath,
" Since I see you're resolved to be in at the death,
One favor bestow 'tis the last I shall crave,
Give a rattling view-hollow thrice over my grave;
And unless at that warning I lift up my head,
My boys, you may fairly conclude I am dead ! "
Honest Tom was obeyed, and the shout rent the sky,
For every voice joined in the tally-ho cry,
Tally-ho ! Hark forward !
Tally-ho ! Tally-ho 1
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 135
MRS. W. H. CHESSON (NORA HOPPER)
(1871-1906)
NIAM
MOUTH of the rose and hair like a cloud
After my feet the wind grows loud :
The red East Wind whose rumour has gone
From Tir-nan-Og * to Tir-na-Tonn. 2
Under my feet the windflower grows,
After my feet the shadows run,
Over my feet the long grass blows.
All things hail me and call me on
Out of the darkness into the sun,
Love and Beauty and Youth in one.
Under my feet the windflower grows.
Men called me Niam when first arose
My splendid star : but what now ye call
Me, do I heed if I hear at all ?
Look in my eyes are they gray or blue ?
They are the eyes that the Fenians knew,
When out of the sunshine, into the shade,
I called to Oisin, and he obeyed.
Across Fionn's banner my dark hair flew,
And safe in its leash my love I drew.
i the Country of Youth.
2 Tir-na-tonn, the Land under the Sea.
136 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
I called to Oisin and he obeyed
Out of the sunshine into the shade,
Though the words were out and the warhorns blew
And wisdom and pride my voice gainsaid.
But a hundred years, or a thousand years,
I kept my lover from hopes and fears
In Druid dark on my arm he slept.
Shall I not keep men even as I kept ?
'Twixt a man and his wisdom let blow my hair,
The man is beside me, and wisdom's where ?
The Fenians died and the high Gods die,
But spring's immortal, and so am I.
I am young, I am swift, I am fair to see,
My blood is the sap running new in the tree.
Shall I not keep men even as I kept
Oisin free from his falling sept ?
Who shall deny me, or who gainsay,
For the world is beginning anew to-day ?
Youth is glad, for the world is wide ;
Tarry, O Youth ! Love is here at thy side.
The world is beginning anew to-day ;
Fire is awake in each clod of clay ;
The ragweeds know what has never been told
By the old to the young, or the young to the old.
The hawthorns tell it in broad daylight ;
The evening primrose awaits the night,
Her beautiful secret she shuts in close
Till the last late bee goes home from the rose.
And I am the secret, the flower, and the tree ;
I am Beauty ; O Youth, I have blossomed for thee.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 137
THE CUCKOO SINGS IN THE HEART OF
WINTER
THE cuckoo sings in the heart of winter,
And all for Mauryeen he tunes his song ;
How Mauryeen's hair is the honey's color.
(He sings of her all the winter long !)
Her long loose hair's of the honey's color,
The wild sweet honey that wild bees make.
The sun herself is ashamed before her,
The moon is pale for her gold cool's sake.
She bound her hair, of the honey's colour,
With flowers of yarrow and quicken green
And now one binds it with leaves of willow,
And cypress lies where my head has been.
Now robins sing beside Pastheen's doorway,
And wrens for bounty that Grania gave :
The cuckoo sings in the heart of winter ;
He sings all day beside Mauryeen's grave.
THE DARK MAN
ROSE o' the World, she came to my bed
And changed the dreams of my heart and
head ;
For joy of mine she left grief of hers,
And garlanded me with a crown of furze.
138 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
Rose o ? the World, they go out and in,
And watch me dream and my mother spin :
And they pity the tears on my sleeping face
While my soul's away in a fairy place.
Rose o' the World, they have words galore,
And wide's the swing of my mother's door :
And soft they speak of my darkened eyes
But what do they know, who are all so wise ?
Rose o' the World, the pain you give
Is worth all days that a man may live
Worth all shy prayers that the colleens say
On the night that darkens the wedding-day.
Rose o' the World, what man would wed
When he might dream of your face instead ?
Might go to his grave with the blessed pain
Of hungering after your face again ?
Rose o' the World, they may talk their fill,
For dreams are good, and my life stands still
While their lives' red ashes the gossips stir ;
But my fiddle knows and I talk to her.
THE FAERY FOOL
IF I'm the Faery fool, Dalua
Ay me, the Faery fool !
How do I know what the rushes say,
Sighing and shuddering all the day
Over their shadowy pool ?
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 139
How do I know what the North Wind cries
Herding his flocks of snow ?
The menace that lies in the Hunter's eyes
How do I know ?
If I'm the Faery fool, Dalua
Ay me, the Faery fool !
I cry to them that sent me here
To laugh and jest, to geek and fleer,
To scorn at law and rule :
" Why did ye also give to me
Beauty and peace to know.
The ears to hear and the eyes to see
And the hands that let all go ? "
I cry to them that bade me jest :
< < Why made ye me so slight,
And put a heart within my breast,
An evil gift, an evil guest,
To spoil me for delight ?
Made for mere laughter, answer why
Must I have eyes for dool ?
Take from me tears, or let me die.
For I am sick of wisdom, I,
Dalua, the Faery fool."
THE FAIRY FIDDLER
TIS I go fiddling, fiddling,
By weedy ways forlorn :
I make the blackbird's music
Ere in his breast 'tis born ;
The sleeping larks I waken
'Twixt the midnight and the morn.
140 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
No man alive has seen me,
But women hear me play
Sometimes at door or window,
Fiddling the souls away
The child's soul and the colleen's
Out of the covering clay.
None of my fairy kinsmen
Make music with me now :
Alone the raths I wander,
Or ride the whitethorn bough ;
But the wild swans they know me,
And the horse that draws the plow.
THE GRAY FOG
'""T^HERE'S a gray fog over Dublin of the curses,
It blinds my eyes, mavrone ; and stops my
breath,
And I travel slow that once could run the swiftest,
And I fear ere I meet Mauryeen I'll meet Death.
There's a gray fog over Dublin of the curses,
And a gray fog dogs my footsteps as they go,
And its long and sore to tread, the road to Connaught.
Is it fault of brogues or feet I fare so slow ?
There's a gray fog over Dublin of the curses,
But the Connaught wind will blow it from my way.
And a Connaught girl will kiss it from my memory
If the Death that walks beside me will delay.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 141
(There's a gray fog over Dublin of the curses,
And no wind comes to break its stillness deep :
And a Connaughtman lies on the road to Connaught
And Mauryeen will not kiss him from his sleep
Ululu !)
N
THE KING OF IRELAND'S SON
OW all away to Tir na n'Og are many roads
that run,
But he has ta'en the longest lane, the King of
Ireland's son.
There's roads of hate, and roads of love, and many a
middle way,
And castles keep the valleys deep where happy lovers
stray
Where Aongus goes there's many a rose burns red mid
shadows dun,
No rose there is will draw his kiss, the King of Ire-
land's son.
And yonder, where the sun is high, Love laughs amid
the hay,
But" smile and sigh have passed him by, and never
make delay.
And here (and O ! the sun is low !) they're glad for
harvest won,
But naught he cares for wheat or tares, the King of
Ireland's son I
i 4 2 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
And you have flung love's apple by, and I'm to pluck
it yet :
But what are fruits of gramarye with druid dews beset ?
Oh what are magic fruits to him who meets the Lianan-
sidhe
Or hears athwart the distance dim Fionn's horn blow
drowsily !
He follows on forever when all your chase is done
He follows after shadows, the King of Ireland's son.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 143
J. B. CLARKE
(Living)
EMAN-AC-KNUCK TO EVA
ON the white hawthorn's bloom, in purpling
streak,
I see the fairy-ring of morning break,
On the green valley's brow the golden glows,
Kissing the crimson of the opening rose,
Knits with her thousand smiles its damask dyes,
And laughs the season on our hearts and eyes.
Rise, Eva, rise ! fair spirit of my breast,
In whom I live, forsake the down of rest.
Lovelier than morn, carnationed in soft hues,
Sweeter than rifled roses in the dews
Of dawn divinely weeping and more fair
Than the coy flowers fann'd by mountain air ;
More modest than the morning's blushing smile.
Rise, Eva, ris ! pride of our Western Isle
The sky's blue beauties lose their sunny grace
Before the calm, soft splendours of thy face.
Thy breath is sweeter than the apple bloom,
When spring's musk'd spirit bathes it in perfume;
The rock's wild honey steeps thy rubied lip
Rise, Eva, rise ! I long these sweets to sip.
i 4 4 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF
The polish' d ringlets of thy jetty locks
Shame the black raven's on the sun-gild rocks;
Thy neck can boast a whiter, lovelier glow,
Than the wild cygnet's silvery plume of snow.
And from thy bosom, the soft throne of bliss,
The witch of love, in all her blessedness,
Heaves all her spells, wings all her feathered darts,
And dips her arrows in adoring hearts.
Rise, Eva, rise ! the sun sheds his sweet ray,
Am'rous to kiss thee rise, my love ! we'll stray
Across the mountain, on the blossomy heath,
The heath- bloom holds for thee its odorous breath.
From the tall crag, aspiring to the skies,
I'll pick for thee the strings of strawberries;
The yellow nuts, too, from the hazel-tree
Soul of my heart ! I'll strip to give to thee :
As thy red lips the berries shall be bright,
And the sweet nuts shall be as rife and white
And milky, as the love-begotten tide
That fills thy spotless bosom, my sweet bride.
Queen of the smile of joy ! shall I not kiss
Thee in the moss-grown cot, bless'd bower of bliss
Shall not thy rapturous lover clasp thy charms,
And fold his Eva in his loving arms
Shall Inniscather's wood again attest
Thy beauties strain'd unto this burning breast?
Absent how long ! Ah ! when wilt thou return ?
When shall this wither'd bosom cease to mourn?
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 145
Eva, why stay so long ? why leave me lone,
In the deep valley, to the cold gray stone
Pouring my plaints ? O come, divinest fair !
Chase from my breast the demon of despair.
The winds are witness to my deep distress,
Like the lone wanderer of the wilderness,
For thee I languish and for thee I sigh
My Eva, come, or thy poor swain shall die !
And didst thou hear my melancholy lay ?
And art thou coming, love ? My Eva ! say ?
Thou daughter of a meek-eyed dame, thy face
Is lovelier than thy mother's, in soft grace.
O yes ! thou comest, Eva ! to my sight
An angel minister of heavenly light :
The sons of frozen climes can never see
Summer's bright smile so glad as I see thee :
Thy steps to me are lovelier than the ray
That rose night's cheek with the blush of day.
146 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
JOSEPH IGNATIUS CONSTANTINE
CLARKE
(1846- )
ROUGH RIDER O'NEILL 1
First recited by the author at the Annual Dinner of the New
York Friendly Sons of St. Patrick, March 17, 1905, at which
President Roosevelt was the guest.
WHEN the cresset of war blazed over the land,
And a call ran fierce thro' the West,
Saying " Rough Riders, come to the roll of
the drum,"
They came with their bravest and best,
With a clatter of hoofs and a stormy hail
Sinewy, lean, tall and brown ;
Hunters and fighters and men of the trail,
From hills and plains, from college and town ;
With the cowboys' yell and the redman's whoop,
Sons of thunder and swingers of steel ;
And, leading his own Arizona troop,
Rode glad and fearless " Bucky " O'Neill.
In the ranks there was Irish blood galore,
As it ever is sure to be
When the Union flag is flung to the fore,
And the fight is to make men free.
There were Kellys and Murphys and Burkes and
Doyles
1 Copyright by J. I, C. Clarke. By permission.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 147
The colonel owned an O'Brien strain
And the lift of the race made a glow on each face
When they met on the Texan plain ;
But the man of them all, with the iron will
Man and soldier from crown to heel ;
A leader and master in games that kill
Was soft- voiced Captain " Bucky " O'Neill.
On the watch in the valley or charging .the height,
In a plunge 'cross the steep ravine,
San Juan or Las Guasimas, battle or fight,
Or a rush thro' the jungle screen,
Where the wave of the war took the battling host
The Rough Riders fronted the storm,
And their dead on the rocks of red glory tossed
Amid spray with their life-blood warm.
What wonder, then, holding his chivalrous vow
To stoop not, nor crouch not, nor kneel,
That Death in hot anger struck full on the brow
Of the dauntless "Bucky" O'Neill.
O battle that tries out the hearts of the strong,
To your test he had answered true,
Who bent not his head and balked but at wrong,
Nor murmured what billet he drew.
In the cast of the terrible dice of doom
It came fair to his hand as well
To mount the high crest where the great laurels
bloom,
Or to die at the foot where he fell.
And of such are the victors, and these alone
Shall be stamped with the hero seal,
And stirrup to stirrup they'll ride to the throne,
From the colonel to " Bucky " O'Neill.
148 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
THE FIGHTING RACE '
EAD out the names ! " and Burke sat back,
And Kelly drooped his head.
While Shea they call him Scholar Jack
Went down the list of the dead.
Officers, seamen, gunners, marines,
The crews of the gig and yawl,
The bearded man and the lad in his teens,
Carpenters, coal passers all.
Then, knocking the ashes from out his pipe,
Said Burke in an offhand way :
" We're all in that dead man's list, by Cripe !
Kelly and Burke and Shea. ' '
" Well, here's to the Maine, and I'm sorry for Spain,"
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.
" Wherever there's Kellys there's trouble," said Burke.
" Wherever fighting's the game,
Or a spice of danger in grown man's work,"
Said Kelly, " you'll find my name."
"And do we fall short," said Burke, getting mad,
" When it's touch and go for life ? "
Said Shea, "It's thirty-odd years, bedad,
Since I charged to drum and fife
Up Marye's Heights, and my old canteen
Stopped a rebel ball on its way.
There were blossoms of blood on our sprigs of green
Kelly and Burke and Shea
And the dead didn't brag." "Well, here's to the
flag ! "
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.
1 Copyright by J. I. C. Clarke. By permission.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 149
"I wish 'twas in Ireland, for there's the place,"
Said Burke, "that we'd die by right,
In the cradle of our soldier race,
After one good stand-up fight.
My grandfather fell on Vinegar Hill,
And fighting was not his trade ;
But his rusty pike's in the cabin still,
With Hessian blood on the blade."
"Aye, aye," said Kelly, " the pikes were great
When the word was ' clear the way ! '
We were thick on the roll in ninety-eight
Kelly and Burke and Shea."
" Well, here's to the pike and the sword and the
like ! "
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.
And Shea, the scholar, with rising joy,
Said, " We were at Ramillies ;
We left our bones at Fontenoy
And up in the Pyrenees ;
Before Dunkirk, on Landen's plain,
Cremona, Lille, and Ghent,
We're all over Austria, France, and Spain,
Wherever they pitched a tent.
We've died for England from Waterloo
To Egypt and Dargai;
And still there's enough for a corps or crew,
Kelly and Burke and Shea."
" Well, here is to good honest fighting blood ! "
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.
" Oh, the fighting races don't die out,
If they seldom die in bed,
For love is first in their hearts, no doubt,"
150 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
Said Burke; then Kelly said :
" When Michael, the Irish Archangel, stands,
The angel with the sword,
And the battle-dead from a hundred lands
Are ranged in one big horde,
Our line, that for Gabriel's trumpet waits,
Will stretch three deep that day,
From Jehoshaphat to the Golden Gates
Kelly and Burke and Shea."
"Well, here's thank God for the race and the sod ! "
Said Kelly and Burke and Shea.
IRISH SONGS JND LTRICS 151
HENRY BRERETON CODE
( -1830)
THE SPRIG OF SHILLELAH
OH ! love is the soul of a neat Irishman,
He loves all that is lovely, loves all that he can,
With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so
green !
His heart is good-humoured, 'tis honest and sound,
No envy or malice is there to be found ;
He courts and he marries, he drinks and he fights,
For love, all for love, for in that he delights,
With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green !
Who has e'er had the luck to see Donnybrook Fair ?
An Irishman, all in his glory, is there,
With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green !
His clothes spick and span new, without e'er a speck,
A neat Barcelona tied round his white neck;
He goes to a tent, and he spends half-a-crown,
He meets with a friend, and for love knocks him
down,
With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green !
At evening returning, as homeward he goes,
His heart soft with whiskey, his head soft with blows,
From a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green !
He meets with his Sheelah, 1 who, frowning a smile,
1 Sheelah, sweetheart.
152 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
Cries, " Get ye gone, Pat," yet consents all the while.
To the priest soon they go, and a year after that
A baby cries out, " How d'ye do, father Pat,.
With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green ! "
Bless the country, say I, that gave Patrick his birth,
Bless the land of the oak, and its neighbouring earth,
Where grow the shillelah and shamrock so green !
May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the
Shannon,
Drub the foes who dare plant on our confines a
cannon ;
United and happy, at Loyalty's shrine,
May the rose and the thistle long flourish and twine
Round the sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green !
IRISH SONGS AND LTR1CS 153
PATRICK JAMES COLEMAN
(1867- )
BINDIN' THE OATS
BINDIN' the oats in sweet September,
Don't you remember
That evening, dear ?
Ah ! but you bound my heart complately,
Fair and nately,
Snug in the snood of your silken hair !
Swung the sickles, you followed after
With musical laughter
And witchin* eye.
I tried to reap, but each swathe I took, love,
Spoiled the stock, love,
For your smile had bothered my head awry !
Such an elegant, graceful binder,
Where could I find her
All Ireland through ?
Worn't the stout, young, strappin' fellows
. Fairly jealous,
Dyin', asthore machree, for you ?
Talk o' Persephone pluckin' the posies,
Or the red roses,
In Henna's plain !
154 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
You wor sweeter, with cheeks so red, love,
And beautiful head, love,
Gatherin' up the golden grain.
Bindin' the oats in sweet September,
Don't you remember
The stolen pogue ? l
How could I help but there deliver
My heart forever
To such a beautiful little rogue ?
Bindin' the oats, 'twas there you found me,
There you bound me
That harvest day !
Ah ! that I in your blessed bond, love.
Fair and fond, love,
Happy, forever and ever, stay !
SEED-TIME
THE top of the mornin' to you, Mick,
Isn't it fine an' dhry an' still ?
Just an elegant day, avic,
To stick the toleys on Tullagh hill.
The field is turned, an' every clod
In ridge an' furrow is fresh an' brown ;
So let's away, with the help o' God,
By the heel o' the evenin' we'll have them down.
1 Pogue, kiss.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 155
As long as there's plenty o' milk to churn,
An' plenty o' pyaties in ridge an' furrow,
By the winter fire we'll laugh to scorn
The frown o' famine an' scowl o' sorrow.
There's a time to work, an' a time to talk ;
So, Patsy, my boy, your pratin' shtop !
By Midsummer Day, blossom an' stalk,
We'll feast our eyes on a right good crop.
Oh, the purple blossoms, so full o' joy,
Burstin' up from our Irish loam,
They're betther than gold to the peasant boy ;
They crown him king in his Irish home !
As long as the cows have milk to churn,
With plenty o' pyaties in ridge an' furrow,
By the winter hearth we'll laugh to scorn
The frown o' famine an' scowl o' sorrow.
in
A year ago we wor full o' hope,
For the stalks wor green by the First o' May,
But the brown blight fell over field an' slope,
An' the poreens l rotted by Lady Day.
You'd dig a ridge for a creel in vain ;
But he left us still our dacint friends ;
If it comes again we won't complain
His will be done ! it's the besht he sends !
As long as we've plenty o' milk to churn,
An' plenty o' pyaties in ridge an' furrow,
1 Poreens, small potatoes.
156 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
By the winter fire we'll laugh to scorn
The frown o' famine an' scowl o' sorrow.
IV
An' whin the turfs in the haggard piled,
We'll come, plase God ! with our spades and loys
It's busy ye'll be, then, Brigid, my child,
Fillin' the baskets behind the boys.
So shtick thim deep in Ould Ireland's clay
It's nearly dusk, an' there's work galore;
It's time enough in the winter to play,
When the crop is safe on our cabin floor.
As long as the cows have milk to churn,
With plenty o' pyaties in ridge an' furrow,
By the winter hearth we'll laugh to scorn
The frown o' famine an' scowl o' sorrow.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 157
PADRAIC COLUM
(Living)
A DROVER
T
O Meath of the Pastures,
From wet hills by the sea,
Through Leitrim and Longford
Go my cattle and me.
I hear in the darkness
Their slipping and breathing,
I name them the byways
They're to pass without heeding.
Then the wet, winding roads,
Brown bogs with black water,
And my thoughts on white ships
And the King o' Spam's daughter.
O farmer, strong farmer,
You can spend at the fair,
But your face you must turn
To your crops and your care !
And soldiers, red soldiers,
You've seen many lands,
But you march two by two,
And by captain's commands.
158 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
O the smell of the beasts,
The wet wind in the morn,
And the proud and hard earth
Never broken for corn !
And the crowds at the fair,
The herds, loosened and blind ;
Loud words and dark faces,
And the wild blood behind.
(O strong men with your best
I would strive breast to breast ;
I could quiet your herds
With my words, with my words.)
I will bring you, my kine,
Where there's grass to the knee,
But you'll think of scant croppings,
Harsh with salt of the sea.
DREAM AND SHADOW
YOUR face has not the bloom I gave
My dream of you, my dream of you !
Your eyes have not her eyes' deep hue,
Nor has your hair the gold I wrought
Out of my dreams for head of her
M Bhron ! I thought that dream sheen caught
From hair of you, from hair of you !
Pale lips, pale hair, 'tis not your fault :
A shadow of a dream are you !
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 159
THE BELLS
RING, little bells, tormenting tunes,
Your peal calls up my scoffs and sneers ;
Lo, all the bitter words I've said
Come back and sting me while you ring.
O forest-bird, forget your songs,
No more built up with these a world
Of swaying trees and falling streams.
O forest-bird, with gold hairs bound,
Built up no more your forest -world,
With song caught from the trees and streams.
THE FLOWER
SUNSET and silence ; a man ; around him earth
savage, earth broken :
Beside him two horses, a plow !
Earth savage, earth broken, the brutes, the dawn-man
there in the sunset I
And the plow that is twin to the sword, that is founder
of cities !
" Brute-tamer, plow -maker, earth-breaker ! Canst
hear ? There are ages between us !
Is it praying you are as you stand there, alone in the
sunset ?
" Surely our sky-born gods can be nought to you,
Earth-child and Earth-master !
Surely your thoughts are of Pan, or of Wotan or
Dana !
160 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
"Yet why give thought to the gods? Has Pan led
your brutes where they stumble ?
Has Wotan put hands to your plow or Dana numbed
pain of the child-bed ?
" What matter your foolish reply, O man standing
lone and bowed earthward.
Your task it is a day near its close. Give thanks to
the night-giving God."
Slowly the darkness falls, the broken lands blend with
the savage,
The brute-tamer stands by the brutes, by a head's
breadth only above them !
A head's breadth, ay, but therein is Hell's depth and
the height up to Heaven,
And the thrones of the gods, and their halls and their
chariots, purples and splendours.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 161
WILLIAM CONGREVE
(1670-1729)
AMORET
k AIR Amoret is gone astray ;
Pursue and seek her, ev'ry lover;
I'll tell the signs by which you may
The wandering shepherdess discover.
Coquet and coy at once her air,
Both studied, though both seem neglected ;
Careless she is with artful care,
Affecting to seem unaffected.
With skill her eyes dart every glance,
Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them ;
For she'd persuade they wound by chance,
Though certain aim and art direct them.
She likes herself, yet others hates
For that within herself she prizes;
And, while she laughs at them, forgets
She is the thing that she despises.
EXTRACTS FROM THE " MOURNING BRIDE "
MUSIC has charms to soothe a savage breast,
To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.
I've read, that things inanimate have moved,
And, as with living souls, have been informed
By magic numbers and persuasive sound.
162 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
Vile and ingrate ! too late thou shalt repent
The base injustice thou hast done my love :
Yes, thou shalt know, spite of thy past distress,
And all those ills which thou so long hast mourned
Heav'n has no rage like love to hatred turned,
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.
Seest thou how just the hand of heav'n has been ?
Let us, who through our innocence survive,
Still in the paths of honour persevere,
And not from past or present ills despair ;
For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds ;
And though a late, a sure reward succeeds.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 163
DANIEL CONNOLLY
(1836-1890)
COMPENSATION
YES, the years are passing quickly ; months seem
days and days but hours.
Gloom is o'er us, dearth around us, ere we've
gathered summer's flowers.
And the swiftly changing seasons, sped by time's un-
wearied wing,
Mingle suns and snows together, hastening on from
spring to spring.
'Twas not so, my friend and comrade, when to us the
world was new,
Then the fields were ever blooming and the skies were
always blue
And a yearning spirit filled us to leave youth behind
and stand
Firm on manhood's highway, scanning all the prom-
ised golden land.
Ah, those years of wistful dreaming ! Had we known
what things should be
In the future's plains and valleys, on its surging,
storm- beat sea,
Would desire have spurred us onward, from the simple
ways which then
Blossomed round us, to the thorn set paths that tire
the feet of men ?
1 64 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
Naught behind had power to hold us ; all before had
charms to woo.
Hope to me held forth her garlands, Love her rose-
wreathed crown to you ;
Hope has vanished, Love has perished ; dust lies deep
on rose and bay,
Yet though storm and gloom beset us, sunshine oft has
warmed our way.
Many a face has smiled upon us, brightening hours
that else were drear,
Many an eye with kindness kindled, sparkling friend-
ship, glancing cheer;
O'er the scenes now fading from us, many a drifting
cloud has strayed,
Yet my friend, when all is balanced, we have seen
more sun than shade.
Dreams are gone, the world is real ; this we've learned
and this we know :
Though we build Utopian mansions, still our feet must
tread below ;
All the gloss and glow that fancy spreads to lure the
steps of youth,
Fast recede and faster vanish, driven by staid, prosaic
truth.
Now with grave-eyed age advancing, heralded by
silvery gleams,
Though the locks that late were ebon, every season
shorter seems ;
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 165
Spring makes fluttering haste for summer, autumn
grasps the flowers of June,
Winter's fretful shadows flit before September's mel-
low moon.
Ours is not a new experience; nay 'tis much as other
men's ;
Since time's earliest cycle human hearts have pon-
dered, nows and thens ;
This, at least, the years have taught us : roses bloom
where snow has lain,
And the sun, though darkness 'whelm it, shines and
glorifies again.
MEMORIES OF THE ERNE
THE summer days are darker now, the wintery
days more drear,
And leaf and flower in glen and bower, more
sombre seem and sere,
Than when in boyhood's sunny days, which knew no
hour of shade,
Along thy banks, O stately Erne, with idle steps I
strayed !
'Twas five and twenty years ago and long years they
have been,
Yet freshly still before me spreads the fair, familiar
scene.
The blooming slopes, the billowy fields, the winding
paths and ways,
The woodlands near, the hills afar, all veiled in mystic
haze.
i66 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
And gliding grandly to the sea, with many a flash and
gleam
And many a curve by swelling shores the dear old
storied stream,
That flows and frets o'er ford and fall, to meet the
waves below,
And murmurs still the song it sang a thousand years
ago.
To thee, Belleek, where anglers came from all the
country round,
And simple lives of lowly toil by simple joys were
crowned ;
And thee, Rose-isle, whose ivy-crested crumbling
tower hath stood,
Through centuries a warder gray above the foamy
flood.
And thee, Tetuny, blandly calm, within whose solemn
shade
The mingled dust of sire and son in peaceful rest is
laid.
Corlea's green vale, Cliff's stately halls, Laputa's
emerald grove ;
Fair Camlin woods and Kathleen's Fall long famed in
lays of love.
To Ballyshannon's shingly strand and bright Bundoran
Bay
To each and every dear old spot doth memory fondly
stray !
Much changed, I fear, is all the scene, yet grandly
dost thou flow,
O stately stream, as erst thou didst a thousand years
ago !
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 167
A mother parted from her child whose absence spans
the years,
Sees not, when gazing fond and far, with vision
dimmed by tears,
A stalwart form, with bearded face and vigorous,
manly ways,
But still beholds the darling boy she clasped in happy
days;
The boy may be to manhood grown, and all his ways
be strange,
But to the mother's wistful eye Time's hand hath
wrought no change ;
And thus doth faithful memory still preserve the
favourite scene,
And picture o'er each cherished charm, though long
years intervene ;
Mayhap the scene is sadly changed and many a charm
decayed,
But o'er the lamp that memory holds no darkening
hand is laid.
New footsteps press thy banks, O Erne, but still thy
waters flow
With rhythmic murmur as they did a thousand years
ago !
Since last like soothing strains at eve, their rippling
cadence fell,
On ears not then attuned to notes of prouder, loftier
swell.
I've stood where Hudson's mighty tide, sweeps down-
ward to the sea,
And gazed on Mississippi's grand expanse of majesty;
Potomac's war-scarred shore I've seen by summer
bloom made fair
168 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
And climbed the hills which sentinel the lordly Dela-
ware;
By many a sylvan stream I've strayed, and many a
mossy shore
Where varying splendors glorified the emerald land-
scape o'er.
To each and all in north and south, and east and
bounteous west,
I freely grant a generous meed and hold their charms
confessed ;
But still to thee my heart returns, and all its currents
flow,
Dear Erne, still murmuring as thou didst a thousand
years ago.
Alas ! that from the peaceful vale where calm con-
tentment smiled,
And simple pleasures, sweetly pure, the passing hours
beguiled.
Alas ! that thence thy children's steps, in youth or
age should turn,
No more to press thy blooming banks and flowery
paths O Erne !
But chance and fate, hath thus decreed, and were I
now to stand
Upon thy shores, this face might be, a strange one in
the land.
The kindly friends, the comrades dear, whom last I
saw through tears,
Are changed, I ween as much as I, by five and twenty
years !
And some in calm Tetuny sleep, and some have
strayed afar,
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 169
To dree or die 'neath tropic sun or glittering northern
star.
But thou bright Erne, thy course doth run to meet
the waves below,
And chanteth still the song they he'ard a thousand
years ago.
TROUT FISHING
ACROSS the fields and through the dew
Still sparkling on the blossoming clover,
We lightly trudge, with all the blue
Broad arch of morning beaming over ;
The woods before are dark and cool,
With here and there a golden glimmer,
And over many a wayside pool
A gleam, a flash, a shade, a shimmer.
By .winding paths and mossy lanes,
All brightly fringed with flower and berry,
We pass, nor pause to note the strains,
Of woodland warblers blithe and merry.
Our thoughts are bent on "cast" and "play."
We hardly heed the splendor o'er us,
But haste with quickening steps away
To reach the glorious sport before us.
With lisping, low-voiced monotone,
The brook flows by in curves and sallies,
And bears its rippling music down
To daisied slopes and verdant valleys;
i;o THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
Through serried pines the sunlight falls,
Like grains of gold thro' emerald drifted,
And near, the cleft and towering walls
Of ledge and cliff to heaven are lifted.
Soft winds blow down from ridge and grove
Where balsam boughs are gently swaying,
And round a silvery beech above
Two heedless squirrels briskly playing.
But now to work with rod and line,
And dainty flies on trusted leader ;
We'll take the first auspicious sign,
And cast below yon slanting cedar.
A gleam, a splash ! By George, he's fast !
A lusty fellow and how he rushes,
Now here, now there, now swiftly past
A bend of fern, and alder-bushes !
The whistling line spins merrily out ;
He leaps and flings a sparkling torrent
Of crystals round, then wheels about
And heads straight up the foamy current !
Behind a boulder now he darts,
And now across to deep recesses
Beneath a balmy bank, then starts
For sheltering beds of tangled cresses ;
But vain, all vain, subdued at last,
He yields and faintly gasps and flounders;
'Tis o'er your sportive hour is past,
O royal prince of plump two-pounders !
Again with feathery touch the flies
Dance lightly over pool and shallow,
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 171
And, darting through reflected skies,
The wary trout retreat or follow ;
A "coachman " now their fancy takes,
Or now a " miller " or now a " hackle "
And many a plungin' beauty breaks,
To try our skill and test our tackle.
Still higher, higher mounts the sun,
The morn hastes on and noon is nearing ;
Now varying sounds come borne upon
The breeze that blows o'er copse and clearing :
The far cock-crow, the jangling bell
That tells where browsing herds are straying ;
The quail's clear pipe in lonely dell,
The woodman's call, the hounds' deep braying.
Still down the grassy marge we go,
Now list'ning to the tall trees moaning,
Now catching from a glade below
A drowsy mill's perpetual droning.
Still on : the miller's brown-faced boy
Stands knee-keep in the shining water,
And near, with startled glance and coy,
The miller's comely, dark-eyed daughter.
So through the long, bright balmy days
In shade and sun alternate ranging
We speed the hastening hours away,
Where scene and sound are ever changing,
Till all the hills are dashed with gold,
That pales eve's dimly dawning crescent,
And twilight falls on field and wold,
Like veiling gauze o'er forms quiescent.
1 72 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
Soft, soothing calm of summer woods,
Of streams that chant in rhythmic numbers,
Of fragrant, flowery solitudes
Where peace with folded pinions slumbers,
Full oft to thee doth fancy take
Her airy flight from burdened highways,
To roam again by brook or lake,
Or dream in leafy paths and byways.
IRISH SONGS AND LFRICS 173
JAMES CONNOLLY
{Living)
I
THE SONG OF ILANN
From " Ilann and Aine"
LOVED the High King's Daughter;
Ah, she was fair to see !
Nine royal champions sought her
For queenly company.
Brooches and silks they brought her
And gems from oversea,
But Aine, the High King's Daughter,
Received them haughtily.
A cunning charm I wrought her
Of gold and findruinie,
As Danaan lore I taught her
Under the hazel-tree.
But far away one brought her
To a great dun by the sea,
And there the High King's Daughter
Drooped wan for misery.
And all in vain I sought her
That was so fair to see,
For Aine, the High King's Daughter,
Had died for love of me.
i 7 4 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
LUKE AYLMER CONOLLY
( -1833)
T
THE ENCHANTED ISLAND
O Rathlin's Isle I chanced to sail
When summer breezes softly blew,
And there I heard so sweet a tale
That oft I wished it could be true.
They said, at eve, when rude winds sleep,
And hushed is ev'ry turbid swell,
A mermaid rises from the deep,
And sweetly tunes her magic shell.
And while she plays, rock, dell, and cave,
In dying falls the sound retain,
As if some choral spirits gave
Their aid to swell her witching strain.
Then, summoned by that dulcet note,
Uprising to th' admiring view,
A fairy island seems to float
With tints of many a gorgeous hue.
And glittering fanes, and lofty towers,
All on this fairy isle are seen :
And waving trees, and shady bowers,
With more than mortal verdure green.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 175
And as it moves, the western sky
Glows with a thousand varying rays ;
And the calm sea, tinged with each dye,
Seems like a golden flood of haze.
They also say, if earth or stone
From verdant Erin's hallowed land
Were on this magic island thrown,
Forever fixed it then would stand.
But when for this some little boat
In silence ventures from the shore
The mermaid sinks hushed is the note
The fairy isle is seen no more.
i?6 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
MRS. JULIA CRAWFORD
(i8oo?-i885?)
DERMOT ASTORE
OH ! Dermot Astore ! between waking and sleeping
I heard thy dear voice, and I wept to its lay ;
Every pulse of my heart the sweet measure was
keeping
Till Killarney's wild echoes had borne it away.
Oh ! tell me, my own love, is this our last meeting ?
Shall we wander no more in Killarney's green
bow'rs,
To watch the bright sun o'er the dim hills retreating,
And the wild stag at rest in his bed of spring
flow'rs?
Oh ! Dermot Astore, etc.
Oh 1 Dermot Astore I how this fond heart would
flutter,
When I met thee by night in the shady boreen,
And heard thine own voice in a soft whisper utter
Those words of endearment, " Mavourneen col-
leen ! "
I know we must part, but oh ! say not forever,
That it may be for years adds enough to my pain ;
But I'll cling to the hope, that though now we must
sever,
In some blessed hour I shall meet thee again.
Oh ! Dermot Astore, etc.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 177
KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN
KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN ! the gray dawn
is breaking,
The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill ;
The lark from her light wing the bright dew is
shaking,
Kathleen Mavourneen ! what, slumbering still ?
Oh, hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever?
Oh ! hast thou forgotten this day we must part?
It may be for years, and it may be forever !
Oh, why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart ?
Oh ! why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen ?
Kathleen Mavourneen, awake from thy slumbers I
The blue mountains glow in the sun's golden light ;
Ah, where is the spell that once hung on my numbers ?
Arise in thy beauty, thou star of my night !
Mavourneen, Mavourneen, my sad tears are falling,
To think that from Erin and thee I must part !
It may be for years, and it may be forever !
Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart ?
Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen ?
178 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
T. CROFTON CROKER
(1798-1854)
CAOINE ON MAURICE FITZGERALD, KNIGHT
OF KERRY
The following keen on the death of Maurice Fitzgerald,
Knight of Kerry, who was killed in Flanders about the year
1672, contains an allusion to the superstition of the Banshee,
common in Irish legend.
I HAD heard lamentations
And sad warning cries
From the Banshees of many
Broad districts arise.
I besought thee, O Christ,
To protect me from pain ;
I prayed, but my prayers
They were offered in vain.
Acria from her closely
Hid nest did awake
The women of wailing
At Sur's rosy lake.
From Glen Fogra of woods
Came a mournful whine,
And all Kerry's hags
Wept the lost Geraldine.
The Banshees of Youghall
And stately Mogeely
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 179
Were joined in their grief
By wide Imokilly.
Carah Mona in gloom
Of deep sorrow appears,
And all Kilnameaky's
Absorbed into tears.
The prosperous Saxons
Were seized with affright ;
In Tralee they packed up
And made ready for flight ;
For there a shrill voice
At the door of each hall
Was heard, and they fancied
Foretelling their fall.
At Dingle the merchants
In terror forsook
Their ships and their business ;
They trembled and shook ;
Some fled to concealment,
The fools, thus to fly !
For no trader a Banshee
Will utter a cry.
The Banshee of Dunqueen
In sweet song did deplore
To the spirit that watches
On dark Dun-an-oir,
And Ennismore's maid
By the Peal's gloomy wave
With her clear voice did mourn
For the death of the brave.
i8o THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
On stormy Slieve Mis
Spread the cry far and wide,
From steep Slieve Finnalenn
The wild eagle replied.
'Mong the Reeks, like the
Thunder-peal's echoing shout,
It bursts, and deep bellows
Bright Brandon gives out.
Such warring, I thought,
Could be only for him ;
The blood shower that made
The gay harvest field dim,
The fiery tailed star
That a comet men call,
Were omens of his
As of great Caesar's fall.
The localities mentioned are lakes, mountains, and glens in
the South of Ireland, in the counties of Cork, Limerick, and
Kerry.
THE LORD OF DUNKERRON
From " Fairy Legends"
THE lord of Dunkerron O' Sullivan More,
Why seeks he at midnight the sea-beaten shore ?
His bark lies in haven, his hounds are asleep ;
No foes are abroad on the land or the deep.
Yet nightly the lord of Dunkerron is known
On the wild shore to watch and to wander alone;
For a beautiful spirit of ocean, 'tis said,
The lord of Dunkerron would win to his bed.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 181
When, by moonlight, the waters were hushed to
repose.
That beautiful spirit of ocean arose ;
Her hair, full of luster, just floated and fell
O'er her bosom, that heaved with a billowy swell.
Long, long had he loved her long vainly essayed
To lure from her dwelling the coy ocean maid ;
And long had he wandered and watched by the tide,
To claim the fair spirit O'Sullivan's bride !
The maiden she gazed on the creature of earth,
Whose voice in her breast to a feeling gave birth :
Then smiled ; and abashed as a maiden might be,
Looking down, gently sank to her home in the sea.
Though gentle that smile, as the moonlight above,
O' Sullivan felt 'twas the dawning of love,
And hope came on hope, spreading over his mind,
As the eddy of circles her wake left behind.
The lord of Dunkerron he plunged in the waves,
And sought, through the fierce rush of waters, their
caves ;
The gloom of whose depths, studded over with spars,
Had the glitter of midnight when lit up by stars.
Who can tell or can fancy the treasures that sleep
Intombed in the wonderful womb of the deep ?
The pearls and the gems, as if valueless thrown
To lie 'mid the sea- wreck concealed and unknown.
182 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
Down, down went the maid, still the chieftain pur-
sued ;
Who flies must be followed ere she can be wooed.
Untempted by treasures, unawed by alarms,
The maiden at length he has clasped in his arms !
They rose from the deep by a smooth-spreading
strand,
Whence beauty and verdure stretched over the land.
'Twas an isle of enchantment ! and lightly the breeze,
With a musical murmur, just crept through the trees.
The haze-woven shroud of that newly-born isle
Softly faded away from, a magical pile,
A palace of crystal, whose bright-beaming sheen
Had the tints of the rainbow red, yellow, and green.
And grottoes, fantastic in hue and in form,
Were there, as flung up the wild sport of the storm ;
Yet all was so cloudless, so lovely, and calm,
It seemed but a region of sunshine and balm.
" Here, here shall we dwell in a dream of delight,
Where the glories of earth and of ocean unite !
Yet, loved son of earth ! I must from thee away ;
There are laws which e'en spirits are bound to obey !
" Once more must I visit the chief of my race,
His sanction to gain ere I meet thy embrace.
In a moment I dive to the chambers beneath :
One cause can detain me one only 'tis death ! "
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 183
They parted in sorrow, with vows true and fond \
The language of promise had nothing beyond.
His soul all on fire, with anxiety burns :
The moment is gone but no maiden returns.
What sounds from the deep meet his terrified ear
What accents of rage and of grief does he hear ?
What sees he ? what change has come over the flood
What tinges its green with a jetty of blood?
Can he doubt what the gush of warm blood would ex-
plain ?
That she sought the consent of her monarch in vain !
For see all around, in white foam and froth,
The waves of the ocean boil up in their wrath !
The palace of crystal has melted in air,
And the dyes of the rainbow no longer are there ;
And grottoes with vapour and clouds are o'ercast,
The sunshine is darkness the vision has past 1
Loud, loud was the call of his serfs for their chief;
They sought him with accents of wailing and grief:
He heard, and he struggled a wave to the shore,
Exhausted and faint, bears O' Sullivan More !
184 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
REV. GEORGE CROLY
(1780-1860)
LEONIDAS
SHOUT for the mighty men,
Who died along this shore
Who died within this mountain's glen !
For never nobler chieftain's head
Was laid on Valor's crimson bed,
Nor ever prouder gore
Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day
Upon thy strand, Thermopylae !
Shout for the mighty men,
Who on the Persian tents,
Like lions from their midnight den
Bounding on the slumbering deer,
Rush'd a storm of sword and spear;
Like the roused elements,
Let loose from an immortal hand,
To chasten or to crush a land !
But there are none to hear;
Greece is a hopeless slave.
LEONIDAS ! no hand is near
To lift thy fiery falchion now;
No warrior makes the warrior's vow
Upon thy sea-wash 'd grave.
The voice that should be rais'd by men,
Must now be given by wave and glen.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 185
And it is given ! the surge
The tree, the rock, the sand
On Freedom's kneeling spirit urge,
In sounds that speak but to the free,
The memory of thine and thee !
The vision of thy band
Still gleams within the glorious dell
Where their gore hallow 'd as it fell !
And is thy grandeur done ?
Mother of men like these !
Has not thy outcry gone,
Where Justice has an ear to hear ?
Be holy ! God shall guide thy spear ;
Till in thy crimson'd seas
Are plunged the chain and scimitar,
GREECE shall be a new-born Star !
THE ISLAND OF ATLANTIS
" For at that time the Atlantic Sea was navigable, and had an
island before that mouth which is called by you Pillars of Her-
cules. But this island was greater than both Lybya and all
Asia together, and afforded an easy passage to other neighbour-
ing islands, as it was easy to pass from those islands to all the
continent which borders on this Atlantic Sea. . . . But, in
succeeding times, prodigious earthquakes and deluges taking
place, and bringing with them desolation in the space of one
day and night, all that warlike race of Athenians was at once
merged under the earth ; and the Atlantic island itself, being
absorbed in the sea, entirely disappeared." Plato's Timceus.
H ! thou Atlantic, dark and deep,
Thou wilderness of waves,
Where all the tribes of earth might sleep
In their uncrowded graves !
O
186 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
The sunbeams on thy bosom wake,
Yet never light thy gloom ;
The tempests burst, yet never shake
Thy depths, thou mighty tomb !
Thou thing of mystery, stern and drear,
Thy secrets who hath told ?
The warrior and his sword are there,
The merchant and his gold.
There lie their myriads in thy pall,
Secure from steel and storm ;
And he, the feaster of them all,
The canker-worm.
Yet on this wave the mountain's brow
Once glowed in morning's beam ;
And, like an arrow from the bow,
Out sprang the stream :
And on its bank the olive grove,
And the peach's luxury,
And the damask rose the night-bird's love
Perfumed the sky.
Where art thou, proud Atlantis, now ?
Where are thy bright and brave ?
Priest, people, warriors' living flow ?
Look on that wave.
Crime deepened on the recreant land,
Long guilty, long forgiven ;
There power upreared the bloody hand,
There scoffed at Heaven.
IRISH SONGS AND LTR1CS 187
The word went forth the word of woe
The judgment-thunders pealed ;
The fiery earthquake blazed below ;
Its doom was sealed.
Now on his halls of ivory
Lie giant weed and ocean slime,
Burying from man's and angel's eye
The land of crime.
i88 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
HENRY GRATTAN CURRAN
(1800-1876)
A LAMENT l
From the Irish of John O' Neachtan.
DARK source of my anguish ! deep wound of a
land
Whose young and defenseless the loss will
deplore ;
The munificent spirit, the liberal hand,
Still stretched the full bounty it prompted to pour.
The stone is laid o'er thee ! the fair glossy braid,
The high brow, the light cheek with its roseate
glow;
The bright form, and the berry that dwelt and could
fade
On these lips, thou sage giver, all, all are laid low.
Like a swan on the billows, she moved in her grace,
Snow-white were her limbs, and with beauty replete,
And time on that pure brow had left no more trace
Than if he had sped with her own fairy feet.
i This poem is a lament for Mary D'Este, Queen of James II.
She died at St. Germain, April 26, 1718. Her son, called
James Francis Edward, was the Chevalier De St. George, so
much beloved by the Irish.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 189
Whatever of purity, glory, hath ever
Been linked with the name, lovely Mary, was
thine ;
Woe, woe, that the tomb, ruthless tyrant, should
sever
The tie which our spirits half broken resign.
Than Caesar of hosts the true darling of Rome,
Far prouder was James where pure spirits are met,
The virgin, the saint though heav'n's radiance
illume
Their brows Erin's wrongs can o'ershadow them
yet.
And rank be the poison, the plagues that distil
Through the heart of the spoiler that laid them in
dust,
The rapt bard with the glory the nations shall fill,
With the fame of his patrons, the generous, the just.
Wherever the beam of the morning is shed,
With its light the full fame of our loved ones hath
shone,
The deep curse of our sorrow shall burst on his head
That hath hurled them, the pride of our hearts,
from their throne.
The midday is dark with unnatural gloom
And a spectral lament wildly shrieked in the air
Tells all hearts that our princess lies cold in the
tomb,
Bids the old and the young bend in agony there 1
1 9 o THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
Faint the lowing of kine o'er the seared yellow lawn !
And tuneless the warbler that droops on the spray !
The bright tenants that flashed through the current
are gone,
For the princess we honoured is laid in the clay.
Darkly brooding alone o'er his bondage and shame,
By the shore in mute agony wanders the Gael,
And sad is my spirit, and clouded my -dream,
For my king, for the star, my devotion would hail.
What woe beyond this hath dark fortune to wreak ?
What wrath o'er the land yet remains to be hurled ?
They turn them to Rome ! but despairing they shriek,
For Spain's flag in defeat and defection is furled.
Though our sorrows avail not, our hope is not lost
For the Father is mighty ! the highest remains 1
The loosed waters rushed down upon Pharaoh's wide
host,
But the billows crouch back from the foot He
sustains.
Just Power I that for Moses the wave did'st divide,
Look down on the land where thy followers pine ;
Look dow'n upon Erin, and crush the dark pride
Of the scourge of thy people, the foes of thy shrine.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 191
JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN
(1750-1817)
CUSHLA-MA-CHREE
DEAR Erin, how sweetly thy green bosom rises,
An emerald set in the ring of the sea,
Each blade of thy meadows my faithful heart
prizes,
Thou Queen of the West, the world's cushla-ma-
chree*
Thy gates open wide to the poor and the stranger,
There smiles hospitality, hearty and free ;
Thy friendship is seen in the moment of danger,
And the wanderer is welcomed with cushla-ma-chree.
Thy sons they are brave, but, the battle once over, ,
In brotherly peace with their foes they agree, )
And the roseate cheeks of thy daughters discover
The soul-speaking flush that says cushla-ma-chree.
Then flourish forever, my dear native Erin,
While sadly I wander an exile from thee,
And firm as thy mountains, no injury fearing,
May Heaven defend its own cushla-ma-chree.
1 Cushla-ma-chree^ Pulse of my heart
192 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
THE DESERTER'S MEDITATION
IF sadly thinking, with spirits sinking,
Could more than drinking my cares compose,
A cure for sorrow from sighs I'd borrow,
And hope to-morrow would end my woes.
But as in wailing there's nought availing,
And Death unfailing will strike the blow,
Then for that reason, and for a season,
Let us be merry before we go !
To joy a stranger, a way-worn ranger,
In ev'ry danger my course I've run ;
Now hope all ending, and death befriending,
His last aid lending, my cares are done ;
No more a rover, or hapless lover,
My griefs are over my glass runs low ;
Then for that reason, and for a season,
Let us be merry before we go !
THE MONKS OF THE SCREW 1
WHEN Saint Patrick this order established,
He called us the " Monks of the Screw " ;
Good rules he revealed to our Abbot
To guide us in what we should do ;
But first he replenished our fountain
With liquor the best in the sky ;
And he said, on the word of a saint,
That the fountain should never run dry.
1 The " Order of St. Patrick," or Monks of the Screw,"
was a convivial society, intended to discover and encourage
the wit, humour, and intellectual power of its members.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 193
Each year, when your octaves approach,
In full chapter convened let me find you ;
And when to the Convent you come,
Leave your favourite temptation behind you.
And be not a glass in your Convent,
Unless on a festival found ;
And, this rule to enforce, I ordain it
One festival all the year round.
My brethren, be chaste, till you're tempted ;
While sober, be grave and discreet \
And humble your bodies with fasting,
As oft as you've nothing to eat.
Yet, in honour of fasting, one lean face
Among you I'd always require ;
If the Abbot should please, he may wear it,
If not, let it come to the Prior.
Come, let each take his chalice, my brethren,
And with due devotion prepare,
The Convent, as it was called, or place of meeting, was in
St. Kevin Street, Dublin, and it was the custom for the mem-
bers to assemble every Saturday evening during the law term.
They had also another meeting-place near Rathfarnham, Cur-
ran 's country seat, which he appropriately called The Priory, he
being elected Prior. The furniture of the festive apartment in
Dublin was completely monkish, and at the meetings all the
members appeared in the habit of the order, a black tabinet
domino. The members of the club were nearly all distinguished
men, including Lord Mornington (composer of the celebrated
glee "Here in Cool Grot"), the Marquis of Townshend (when
Viceroy), Yelverton (afterwards Lord Avonmore), Dr. O'Leary,
Grattan, Flood, George Ogle, Judge Johnson, Hussey Burgh,
Lord Kilwarden, and the Earl of Arran. It lasted till 1795.
See, also, the story with this title by Charles J. Lever.
194 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
With hands and with voices uplifted,
Our hymn to conclude with a prayer.
May this chapter oft joyously meet,
And this gladsome libation renew,
To the Saint, and the Founder, and Abbot,
And Prior, and Monks of the Screw !
I
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 195
JOHN D'ALTON
(1792-1867)
CLARAGH'S LAMENT
Translated from the Irish of John MacDonnell
THE tears are ever in my wasted eye,
My heart is crushed, and my thoughts are
sad ;
For the son of chivalry was forced to fly,
And no tidings come from the soldier lad.
Chorus. My heart it danced when he was near,
My hero ! my Caesar ! my Chevalier !
But while he wanders o'er the sea
Joy can never be joy to me.
Silent and sad pines the lone cuckoo,
Our chieftains hang o'er the grave of joy ;
Their tears fall heavy as the summer's dew
For the lord of their hearts the banished boy.
Mute are the minstrels that sang of him,
The harp forgets its thrilling tone :
The brightest eyes of the land are dim,
For the pride of their aching sight is gone.
The sun refused to lend his light,
And clouds obscured the face of day ;
The tiger's whelps preyed day and night,
For the lion of the forest was far away.
196 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
The gallant, graceful, young Chevalier,
Whose look is bonny as his heart is gay ;
His sword in battle flashes death and fear,
While he hews through falling foes his way.
O'er his blushing cheeks his blue eyes shine
Like dewdrops glitt'ring on the rose's leaf;
Mars and Cupid all in him combine,
The blooming lover and the godlike chief.
His curling locks in wavy grace,
Like beams on youthful Phoebus' brow,
Flit wild and golden o'er his speaking face,
And down his ivory shoulders flow.
Like Engus is he in his youthful days,
Or Mac Cein, whose deeds all Erin knows,
Mac Dary's chiefs, of deathless praise,
Who hung like fate on their routed foes.
Like Connall the besieger, pride of his race,
Or Fergus, son of a glorious sire,
Or blameless Connor, son of courteous Nais,
The chief of the Red Branch Lord of the Lyre.
The cuckoo's voice is not heard on the gale,
Nor the cry of the hounds in the nutty grove,
Nor the hunter's cheering through the dewy vale,
Since far far away is the youth of our love.
The name of my darling none must declare,
Though his fame be like sunshine from shore to
shore ;
But, oh, may Heaven Heaven hear my prayer !
And waft the hero to my arms once more.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 197
Chorus. My heart it danced when he was near,
Ah ! now my woe is the young Chevalier ;
'Tis a pang that solace ne'er can know,
That he should be banished by a rightless
foe.
198 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
GEORGE BARLEY
(1785-1846)
SONG
SWEET in her green dell the flower of beauty
slumbers,
Lull'd by the faint breezes sighing through her
hair;
Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers
Breathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air.
Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming
To wind round the willow banks that lure him from
above ;
O that in tears, from my rocky prison, streaming,
I too could glide to the bower of my love !
Ah ! where the woodbines with sleepy arms have
wound her,
Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay,
Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo
round her,
To her lost mate's call in the forest far away.
Come then, my bird ! For the peace thou ever
bearest,
Still Heaven's messenger of comfort to me
Come, this fond bosom, O faithfullest and fairest,
Bleeds with its death-wound, its wound of love for
thee!
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 199
SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS
u
P the dale and down the bourne,
O'er the meadow swift we fly ;,
Now we sing, and now we mourn,
Now we whistle, now we sigh.
By the grassy- fringed river,
Through the murmuring reeds we sweep ;
'Mid the lily-leaves we quiver,
To their very hearts we creep.
Now the maiden rose is blushing
At the frolic things we say,
While aside her cheek we're rushing,
Like some truant bees at play.
Through the blooming graves we rustle,
Kissing every bud we pass,
As we did it in the bustle,
Scarcely knowing how it was.
Down the glen, across the mountain,
O'er the yellow heath we roam,
Whirling round about the fountain,
Till its little breakers foam.
Bending down the weeping willows,
While our vesper hymn we sigh ;
Then unto our rosy pillows
On our weary wings we hie.
200 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
^ ^ ___
There of idlenesses dreaming,
Scarce from waking we refrain,
Moments long as ages deeming
Till we're at our play again.
TO HELENE
On a gift-ring carelessly lost.
I SEND a ring a little band
Of emerald and ruby stone,
And bade it, sparkling on thy hand,
Tell thee sweet tales of one
Whose constant memory
Was full of loveliness, and thee.
A shell was graven on its gold
'Twas Cupid 'fin'd without his wings
To Helene once it would have told
More than was ever told by rings :
But now all's past and gone
Her love is buried with that stone.
Thou shalt not see the tears that start
From eyes by thoughts like these beguiled ;
Thou shalt not know the beating heart,
Ever a victim and a child :
Yet Helene, love, believe
The heart that never could deceive.
I'll hear thy voice of melody
In the sweet whispers of the air ;
IRTSH SONGS AND LYRICS 201
I'll see the brightness of thine eye
In the blue evening's dewy star ;
In crystal streams thy purity ;
And look on heaven to look on thee.
I
TRUE LOVELINESS
T is not beauty I demand,
A crystal brow, the moon's despair,
Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand,
Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair.
Tell me not of your starry eyes,
Your lips that seem on roses fed,
Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies,
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed.
A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks,
Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours,
A breath that softer music speaks
Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,
These are but gauds. Nay, what are lips ?
Coral beneath the ocean-stream,
Whose brink when your adventurer slips,
Full oft he perisheth on them.
And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft
That wave hot youths to fields of blood ?
Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft,
Do Greece or Ilium any good ?
202 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
Eyes can with baleful ardour burn ;
Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed ;
There's many a white hand holds an urn
With lovers' hearts to dust consumed.
For crystal brows there's nought within,
They are but empty cells for pride ;
He who the Siren's hair would win
Is mostly strangled in the tide.
Give me, instead of beauty's bust,
A tender heart, a loyal mind,
Which with temptation I would trust,
Yet never linked with error find
One in whose gentle bosom I
Could pour my secret heart of woes,
Like the care-burthened honey-fly
That hides his murmurs in the rose.
My earthly comforter ! whose love
So indefeasible might be,
That when my spirit wormed above,
Hers could not stay for sympathy.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 203
FRANCIS DAVIS
(1745-1810)
MY KALLAGH DHU ASTHORE
AGAIN the flowery feet of June have tracked our
cottage side ;
And o'er the waves the timid moon steals,
smiling like a bride :
But what were June or flowers to me, or waves, or
rrioon, or more,
If evening came and brought not thee my Kallagh
dhu asthore !
Let others prize their lordly lands, and sceptres
gemmed with blood,
More dear to me the honest hands that earn my babes
their food :
And little reck we queens or kings when daily
labour's o'er;
And by the evening embers sings my Kallagh dhu
asthore.
And when he sings, his every song is sacred freedom's
own :
And like his voice his arm is strong, for labour nursed
the bone :
And then his step, and such an eye ! ah, fancy !
touch no more ;
My spirit swims in holy joy o'er Kallagh dhu asthore !
204 ^HE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF
His voice is firm, his knee is proud when pomp's im-
perious tone
Would have the free-born spirit bowed, that right
should bow alone;
For well does Kallagh know his due, nor ever seeks
he more ;
Would heaven mankind were all alike you, my
Kallagh dhu asthore !
And Kallagh is an Irishman in sinew, soul and bone ;
Not e'en the veins of old Slieveban are purer than his
own :
The wing of foe has swept our skies, the foreign foe
our shore,
But stain or change thy race defies, my Kallagh dhu
asthore !
What wonder, then, each word he said fell o'er my
maiden day,
Like breathing o'er the cradle-bed where mothers kiss
and pray;
Though dear your form, your cheek, and eye, I loved
those virtues more,
Whose bloom nor ills nor years destroy, my Kallagh
dhu asthore !
Oh, could this heart, this throbbing thing, be made a
regal chair,
I'd rend its every swelling string, to seat you, Kallagh,
there :
And oh, if honest worth the kingly bauble bore,
No slave wert thou, my blood, my bone, my Kallagh
dhu asthore !
IRISH SONGS 4ND LTRICS 205
NANNY
OFOR an hour when the day is breaking
Down by the shore when the tide is making !
Fair as a white cloud thou, love, near me,
None but the waves and thyself to hear me !
O to my breast how these arms would press thee !
Wildly my heart in its joy would bless thee !
O how the soul thou hast won would woo thee,
Girl of the snow neck ! closer to me !
O for an hour as the day advances,
Out where the breeze on the broom-brush dances,
Watching the lark, with the sun ray o'er us,
Winging the notes of his heaven-taught chorus !
O to be there and my love before me,
Soft as a moonbeam smiling o'er me !
Thou wouldst but love, and I would woo thee,
Girl of the dark eye ! closer to me.
O for an hour where the sun first found us,
Out in the eve with its red sheets round us,
Brushing the dew from the gale's soft winglets,
Pearly and sweet, with thy long, dark ringlets !
O to be there on the sward beside thee,
Telling my tale though I know you'd chide me !
Sweet were thy voice though it should undo me,
Girl of the dark locks ! closer to me.
O for an hour by night or by day, love,
Just as the heavens and thou might say, love !
Far from the stare of the cold-eyed many,
Bound in the breath of my dove-souled Nanny !
206 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
O for the pure chains that have bound me,
Warm from thy red lips circling round me !
O in my soul, as the light above me,
Queen of the pure hearts ! do I love thee !
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 207
THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS
(1814-1845)
A CHRISTMAS SCENE, OR LOVE IN THE
COUNTRY
THE hill blast comes howling through leaf-rifted
trees
That late were as harp-strings to each gentle
breeze ;
The strangers and cousins and every one flown,
While we sit happy- hearted together alone.
Some are off to the mountain, and some to the fair,
The snow is on their cheek, on mine your black hair ;
Papa with his farming is busy to-day,
And mamma's too good-natured to ramble this way.
in
The girls are gone are they not ? into town,
To fetch bows and bonnets, perchance a beau, down ;
Ah ! tell them, dear Kate, 'tis not fair to coquette
Though you, you bold lassie, are fond of it yet !
208 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
IV
You're not do you say? Just remember last night,
You gave Harry a rose, and you dubbed him your
knight ;
Poor lad ! if he loved you but no, darling ! no,
You're too thoughtful and good to fret any one so.
The painters are raving of light and of shade,
And Harry, the poet, of lake, and of glade ;
While the light of your eye and your soft wavy form
Suit a proser like me, by the hearth bright and warm.
VI
The snow on those hills is uncommonly grand,
But you know, Kate, it's not half so white as your
hand,
And say what you will of the gray Christmas sky,
Still I slightly prefer my dark girl's gray eye.
VII
Be quiet, and sing me "The Bonny Cuckoo,"
For it bids us the summer and winter love through ;
And then I'll read out an old ballad that shows
How Tyranny perished, and Liberty rose.
VIII
My Kate ! I'm so happy your voice whispers soft,
And your cheek flushed wilder from kissing so oft,
For town or for country, for mountains or farms,
What care I? My darling's entwined in my arms.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 209
A NATION ONCE AGAIN
WHEN boyhood's fire was in my blood,
1 read of ancient freemen,
For Greece and Rome who bravely stood,
Three Hundred men and Three men. 1
And then I prayed I yet might see
Our fetters rent in twain,
And Ireland, long a province, be
A Nation once again.
And, from that time, through wildest woe
That hope has shone, a far light ;
Nor could love's brightest summer glow
Outshine that solemn starlight :
It seemed to watch above my head
In forum, field, and'fane;
Its angel voice sang round my bed,
"A Nation once again."
It whispered, too, that "freedom's ark
And service high and hbly,
Would be profaned by feelings dark,
And passions vain or lowly :
For freedom comes from God's right hand,
And needs a godly train ;
And righteous men must make our land
A Nation once again."
1 The Three Hundred Greeks who died at Thermopylae, and
the Three Romans who kept the Sublician Bridge. Davis,
210 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
So, as I grew from boy to man,
I bent me to that bidding
My spirit of each selfish plan
And cruel passion ridding ;
For, thus I hoped some day to aid
Oh I can such hope be vain ?
When my dear country shall be made
A Nation once again.
A PLEA FOR LOVE
THE summer brook flows in the bed,
The winter torrent tore asunder ;
The skylark's gentle wings are spread
Where walk the lightning and the thunder ;
And thus you'll find the sternest soul
The gayest tenderness concealing,
And minds that seem to mock control,
Are ordered by some fairy feeling.
Then, maiden ! start not from the hand
That's hardened by the swaying sabre
The pulse beneath may be as bland
As evening after day of labour :
And, maiden ! Start not from the brow
That thought has knit, and passion darkened
In. twilight hours, 'neath forest bough,
The tenderest tales are often hearkened.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 211
FONTENOY l
THRICE at the huts of Fontenoy the English col-
umn failed,
And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch
in vain assailed ;
For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking
battery,
And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch
auxiliary.
As vainly, through De Barri's wood, the British sol-
diers burst,
The French artillery drove them back, diminished and
dispersed.
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious
eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to
try.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals
ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at
eventide.
Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread,
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at
their head ;
Steady they step a-down the slope steady they climb
the hill;
1 The battle of Fontenoy, fought in Flanders in 1745 between
the French and the Allies English, Dutch, and Austrians in
which the Allies were worsted. The Irish Brigade fought by
the side of the French, and won great renown by their splendid
conduct in the field.
212 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
Steady they load steady they fire, moving right on-
ward still,
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace
blast,
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets
showering fast ;
And on the open plain above they rose, and kept their
course,
With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hos-
tile force :
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow
their ranks
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Hol-
land's ocean banks.
More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs
rush round ;
As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew
the ground ;
Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still on
they marched and fired
Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired.
11 Push on my household cavalry ! " King Louis madly
cried :
To death they rush, but rude their shock not un-
avenged they died.
On through the camp the column trod King Louis
turns his rein :
"Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the Irish
troops remain ; ' '
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo,
Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement,
and true.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 213
"Lord Clare," he said, "you have your wish, there
are your Saxon foes ! ' '
The marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes !
How fierce the look these exiles wear, who' re wont to
be so gay,
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts
to-day
The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ
could dry,
Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their
women's parting cry,
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their coun-
try overthrown,
Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on him
alone.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere,
Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud
exiles were.
O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he com-
mands,
"Fix bay ' nets " "charge," Like mountain storm,
rush on these fiery bands I
Thin is the English column now, and faint their vol-
ieys grow,
Yet, must'ring all the strength they have, they make a
gallant show.
They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that bat-
tle-wind
Their bayonets the breakers' foam; like rocks, the
men behind 1
One volley crashes from their line, when, through the
surging smoke,
2i 4 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the head-
long Irish broke.
On Fontenoy, on Fonteno.y, hark to that fierce huzza !
< 'Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the
Sacsanach 1 ' '
Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's
pang,
Right up against the English line the Irish exiles
sprang :
Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns are
filled with gore;
Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and tram-
pled flags they tore ;
The English strove with desperate strength, paused,
rallied, staggered, fled
The green hillside is matted close with dying and with
dead.
Across the plain and far away passed on that hideous
wrack,
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun,
With bloody plumes the Irish stand the field is fought
and won !
I
MAIRE BHAN A STOR
N a valley far away
With my Maire bhan a stor*
Short would be the summer day,
Ever loving more and more.
1 Maire bhan a stor, Fair Mary my treasure, pronounced
Maurya vaun astore.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 215
Winter days would all grow long,
With the light her heart would pour
With her kisses and her song,
And her loving maith go leor.*
Fond is Maire bhan a stor,
Fair is Maire bhan a stor,
Sweet as ripple on the shore
Sings my Maire bhan a star.
O her sire is very proud,
And her mother cold as stone,
But her brother bravely vowed
She should be my bride alone ;
For he knew I loved her well,
And he knew she loved me too.
So he sought their pride to quell,
But 'twas all in vain to sue.
True is Maire bhan a stor,
Tried is Maire bhan a stor,
Had I wings I'd never soar
From my Maire bhan a stor.
There are lands where manly toil
Surely reaps the crop it sows,
Glorious woods and teeming soil,
Where the broad Missouri flows ;
Through the trees the smoke shall rise
From our hearth with maith go leor,
There shall shine the happy eyes
Of my Maire bhan a stor.
Mild is Maire bhan a stor,
Mine is Maire bhan a stor,
Saints will watch about the door
Of my Maire bhan a stor.
1 Maith go leor, in abundance.
216 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
MY GRAVE
SHALL they bury me in the deep,
Where wind -forgetting waters sleep ?
Shall they dig a grave for me,
Under the greenwood tree ?
Or on the wild heath,
Where the wilder breath
Of the storm doth blow ?
Oh, no ! oh, no !
Shall they bury me in the palace tombs,
Or under the shade of cathedral domes ?
Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore ;
Yet not there nor in Greece, though I love it more.
In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find ?
Shall my ashes career on the world-seeing wind?
Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound,
Where coffinless thousands lie under the ground?
Just as they fall they are buried so
Oh, no ! oh, no !
No ! on an Irish green hillside,
On an opening lawn but not too wide ;
For I love the drip of the wetted trees
I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze,
To freshen the turf; put no tombstone there,
But green sods decked with daisies fair ;
Nor sods too deep, but so that the dew
The matted grass-roots may trickle through.
Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind :
" He served his country, and loved his kind."
Oh ! 'twere merry unto the grave to go,
If one were sure to be buried so.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 217
MY LAND
SHE is a rich and rare land ;
O she's a fresh and fair land ;
She is a dear and rare land
This native land of mine.
No men than hers are braver
Her women's hearts ne'er waver ;
I'd freely die to save her,
And think my lot divine.
She's not a dull or cold land ;
No ! she's a warm and bold land ;
O she's a true and old land
This native land of mine.
Could beauty ever guard her,
And virtue still reward her,
No foe would cross her border
No friend within it pine !
O she's a fresh and fair land,
O she's a true and rare land !
Yes, she.'s a rare and fair land
This native land of mine.
OH! THE MARRIAGE
H ! the marriage, the marriage,
With love and mo bhuachaill* for me,
The ladies that ride in a carriage
Might envy my marriage to me ;
O
1 Mo bhuachaill, ma bouchal, my boy.
218 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
For Eoghan is straight as a tower,
And tender and loving and true,
He told me more love in an hour
Than the squires of the county could do.
Then, Oh ! the marriage, etc.
His hair is a shower of soft gold,
His eye is as clear as the day,
His conscience and vote were unsold
When others were carried away;
His word is as good as an oath,
And freely 'twas given to me ;
Oh ! sure 'twill be happy for both
The day of our marriage to see.
Then, Oh ! the marriage, etc.
His kinsmen are honest and kind,
The neighbors think much of his skill,
And Eoghan's the lad to my mind,
Though he owns neither castle nor mill.
But he has a tilloch of land,
A horse, and a stocking of coin,
A foot for the dance, and a hand
In the cause of his country to join.
Then, Oh ! the marriage, etc.
We meet in the market and fair
We meet in the morning and night
He sits on the half of my chair,
And my people are wild with delight.
Yet I long through the winter to skim,
Though Eoghan longs more I can see,
When I will be married to him,
And he will be married to me.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 219
Then, Oh ! the marriage, the marriage,
With love and mo bhuachaill for me,
The ladies that ride in a carriage
Might envy my marriage to me.
THE GIRL OF DUNBWY
} r I MS pretty to see the girl of Dunbwy
Stepping the mountain statelily
Though ragged her gown and naked her feet,
No lady in Ireland to match her is meet.
Poor is her diet, and hardly she lies
Yet a monarch might kneel for a glance of her eyes;
The child of a peasant yet England's proud Queen
Has less rank in her heart and less grace in her mien.
Her brow 'neath her raven hair gleams, just as if
A breaker spread white 'neath a shadowy cliff -
And love and devotion and energy speak
From her beauty-proud eye and her passion-pale
cheek.
But, pale as her cheek is, there's fruit on her lip,
And her teeth flash as white as the crescent moon's
tip,
And her form and her step, like the red-deer's, go
past
As lightsome, as lovely, as haughty, as fast.
I saw her but once, and I looked in her eye,
And she knew that I worshiped in passing her by.
220 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
The saint of the wayside she granted my prayer,
Though we spoke not a word ; for her mother was
there.
I never can think upon Bantry's bright hills,
But her image starts up, and my longing eye fills ;
And I whisper her softly : " Again, love, we'll meet !
And I'll lie in your bosom, and live at your feet."
THE WELCOME
COME in the evening, or come in the morning,
Come when you're looked for, or come with-
out warning,
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you,
And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore
you.
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted,
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted,
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,
And the linnets are singing, "True lovers, don't
sever ! "
I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear, if you choose
them:
Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom.
I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you ;
I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you.
O your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed
farmer,
Or saber and shield to a knight without armor ;
I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me,
Then, wandering, I'll wish you, in silence, to love
me.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 221
We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrie;
We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy ;
We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river,
Till you'll ask of your darling what gift you can give
her.
O she'll whisper you, "Love as unchangeably
beaming,
And trust, when in secret, most tunefully stream-
ing,
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver
As our souls flow in one down eternity's river."
So come in the evening, or come in the morning,
Come when you're looked for, or come without warn-
ing?
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you,
And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore
you.
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted,
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted,
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,
And the linnets are singing, " True lovers, don't
sever ! "
THE WEST'S ASLEEP
WHEN all beside a vigil keep,
The West's asleep, the West's asleep.
Alas ! and well may Erin weep,
When Connaught lies in slumber deep.
There lake and plain smile fair and free,
'Mid rocks their guardian chivalry.
Sing ! oh ! let me learn liberty
From crashing wind- and lashing sea.
222 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
That chainless wave and lovely land
Freedom and Nationhood demand ;
Be sure the great God never planned
For slumbering slaves a home so grand.
And long a brave and haughty race
Honored and sentineled the place
Sing, oh ! not even their sons' disgrace
Can quite destroy their glory's trace.
For often, in O'Connor's van,
To triumph dashed each Connaught clan,
And fleet as deer the Normans ran
Through Curlieu's Pass and Ardrahan,
And later times saw deeds as brave ;
And glory guards Clanricarde's grave
Sing, oh ! they died their land to save,
At Aughrim's slopes and Shannon's wave.
And if, when all a vigil keep,
The West's asleep, the West's asleep
Alas ! and well may Erin weep,
That Connaught lies in slumber deep.
But hark ! some voice like thunder spake :
" The West's awake ! the West's awake ! "
Sing, oh ! hurrah ! let England quake;
We'll watch till death for Erin's sake.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 223
ARTHUR DAWSON
(1700-1775)
BUMPERS, SQUIRE JONES
Y
"E good fellows all,
Who love to be told where good
claret's in store,
Attend to the call
Of one who's ne'er frighted,
But greatly delighted
With six bottles more.
Be sure you don't pass
The good house, Moneyglass,
Which the jolly red god so peculiarly owns,
'Twill well suit your humor
For, pray, what would you more,
Than mirth with good claret, and bumpers, Squire
Jones ?
Ye lovers who pine
For lasses that oft prove as cruel as fair,
Who whimper and whine
For lilies and roses,
With eyes, lips, and noses,
Or tip of an ear !
Come hither, I'll show ye
How Phillis and Chloe
224 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF
No more shall occasion such sighs and such groans ;
For what mortal's so stupid
As not to quit Cupid,
When called to good claret, and bumpers, Squire
Jones ?
Ye poets who write,
And brag of your drinking famed Helicon's brook,
Though all you get by it
Is a dinner ofttimes,
In reward for your rhymes,
With Humphry the Duke,
Learn Bacchus to follow,
And quit your Apollo,
Forsake all the Muses, those senseless old crones :
Our jingling of glasses
Your rhyming surpasses
When crowned with good claret, and bumpers, Squire
Jones.
Ye soldiers so stout,
With plenty of oaths, though no plenty of coin,
Who make such a rout
Of all your commanders,
Who served us in Flanders,
And eke at the Boyne,
Come leave off your rattling
Of sieging and battling,
And know you'd much better to sleep in whole bones ;
Were you sent to Gibraltar,
Your notes you'd soon alter,
And wish for good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 225
Ye clergy so wise,
Who mysteries profound can demonstrate so clear,
How worthy to rise !
You preach once a week,
But your tithes never seek
Above once in a year !
Come here without failing,
And leave off your railing
'Gainst bishops providing for dull stupid drones;
Says the text so divine,
11 What is life without wine? "
Then away with the claret, a bumper, Squire Jones !
Ye lawyers so just,
Be the cause what it will, who so learnedly plead,
How worthy of trust !
You know black from white,
You prefer wrong to right,
As you chance to befee'd :
Leave musty reports
And forsake the king's courts,
Where dulness and discord have set up their thrones ;
Burn Salkeld and Ventris, *
And all your damned entries,
And away with the claret, a bumper, Squire Jones !
Ye physical tribe
Whose knowledge consists in hard words and grimace,
Whene'er you prescribe,
Have at your devotion,
Pills, bolus, or potion,
Be what will the case ;
1 Law commentators of the time.
226 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
Pray where is the need
To purge, blister and bleed ?
When, ailing yourselves, the whole faculty owns
That the forms of old Galen
Are not so prevailing
As mirth with good claret, and bumpers, Squire
Jones !
Ye fox-hunters eke,
That follow the call of the horn and the hound,
Who your ladies forsake
Before they're awake,
To beat up the brake
Where the vermin is found :
Leave Piper and Blueman,
Shrill Duchess and Trueman,
No music is found in such dissonant tones !
Would you ravish your ears
With the songs of the spheres,
Hark away to the claret, a bumper, Squire Jones !
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 227
SIR AUBREY DE VERE
(1788-1846)
LIBERTY OF THE PRESS
SOME laws there are too sacred for the hand
Of man to approach : recorded in the blood
Of patriots, before which, as the Rood
Of faith, devotional we take our stand ;
Time-hallowed laws ! Magnificently planned
When Freedom was the nurse of public good,
And Power paternal : laws that have withstood
All storms, unshaken bulwarks of the land !
Free will, frank speech, an undissembling mind,
Without which Freedom dies and laws are vain,
On such we found our rights, to such we cling ;
In them shall power his surest safeguard find.
Tread them not down in passion or disdain ;
Make a man a reptile, he will turn and sting.
THE CHILDREN BAND
ALL holy influence dwells within
The breast of childhood : instincts fresh from
God
Inspire it, ere the heart beneath the rod
Of grief hath bled, or caught the plague of sin.
How mighty was that fervor which could win
Its way to infant souls ! and was the sod
Of Palestine by infant Croises trod ?
228 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF
Like Joseph went they forth, or Benjamin,
In all their touching beauty to redeem ?
And did their soft lips kiss the Sepulchre ?
Alas ! the lovely pageant as a dream
Faded ! They sank not through ignoble fear,
They felt not Moslem steel. By mountain, stream,
In sands, in fens, they died no mother near !
THE SHANNON
RIVER of billows, to whose mighty heart
The tide-wave rushes of the Atlantic Sea ;
River of quiet depths, by cultured lea,
Romantic wood or city's crowded mart ;
River of old poetic founts, which start
From their lone mountain-cradles, wild and free,
Nursed with the fawns, lulled by the woodlark's
glee,
And cushat's hymeneal song apart ;
River of chieftains, whose baronial halls,
Like veteran warders, watch each wave- worn steep,
Portumna's towers, Bunratty's royal walls,
Carrick's stern rock, the Geraldine's gray keep
River of dark mementoes ! must I close
My lips with Limerick's wrong, with Aughrim's woes?
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 229
AUBREY T. DE VERE
(1814-1902)
DIRGE OF RORY O'MORE
A. D. 1642
UP the sea-saddened valley, at evening's decline,
A heifer walks lowing "the Silk of the
Kine;"
From the deep to the mountains she roams, and again
From the mountain's green urn to the purple-rimmed
main.
What seek'st thou, sad mother? Thine own is not
thine !
He dropped from the headland he sank in the
brine !
'Twas a dream ! but in dreams at thy foot did he
follow
Through the meadow-sweet on by the marish and
mallow !
Was he thine ? Have they slain him ? Thou seek'st
him, not knowing
Thyself, too, art theirs thy sweet breath and sad
lowing !
Thy gold horn is theirs, thy dark eye and thy silk,
And that which torments thee, thy milk, is their milk !
230 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
'Tvvas no dream, Mother Land ! 'Twas no dream,
Innisfail !
Hope dreams, but grief dreams not the grief of the
Gael!
From Leix and Ikerrin to Donegal's shore
Rolls the dirge of thy last and thy bravest O'More !
FLOWERS I WOULD BRING
FLOWERS I would bring if flowers could make
thee fairer,
And music, if the Muse were dear to thee ;
(For loving these would make thee love the bearer)
But the sweetest songs forget their melody,
And loveliest flowers would but conceal the wearer:
A rose I marked, and might have plucked ; but she
Blushed as she bent ; imploring me to spare her,
Nor spoil her beauty by such rivalry.
Alas ! and with what gifts shall I pursue thee,
What offerings bring, what treasures lay before thee ;
When earth with all her floral train doth woo thee,
And all old poets and old songs adore thee ;
And love to thee is naught ; from passionate mood
Secured by joy's complacent plenitude !
SAD IS OUR YOUTH, FOR IT IS EVER GOING
SAD is our youth, for it is ever going,
Crumbling away, beneath our very feet;
Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing
In current unperceived, because so fleet;
Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing,
But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat ;
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 231
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing,
And still, O still their dying breath is sweet ;
And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us
Of that which made our childhood sweeter still ;
And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us
A nearer good to cure an older ill ;
And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them,
Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies
them !
SONG
SEEK not the tree of silkiest bark
And balmiest bud,
To carve her name while yet 'tis dark
Upon the wood !
The world is full of noble tasks
And wreaths hard won : .
Each work demands strong hearts, strong hands,
Till day is done.
Sing not that violet-veined skin,
That cheek's pale roses,
The lily of that form wherein
Her soul reposes !
Forth to the fight, true man ! true knight 1
The clash of arms
Shall more prevail than whispered tale,
To win her charms.
The warrior for the True, the Right,
Fights in Love's name ;
The love that lures thee from that fight
Lures thee to shame :
232 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
That love which lifts the heart, yet leaves
The spirit free,
That love, or none, is fit for one
Man-shaped like thee.
SORROW
COUNT each affliction, whether light or grave,
God's messenger sent down to thee; do thou
With courtesy receive him ; rise and bow;
And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, crave
Permission first his heavenly feet to lave ;
Then lay before him all thou hast : allow
No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow,
Or mar thy hospitality : no wave ;
Or mortal tumult to obliterate
The soul's marmoreal calmness ; grief should be
Like joy majestic, equable, sedate,
Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free ;
Strong to consume small troubles ; to commend
Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the
end.
THE LITTLE BLACK ROSE
THE Little Black Rose l shall be red at last ;
What made it black but the March wind dry,
And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast?
It shall redden the hills when June is nigh !
The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last ;
What drove her forth but the dragon fly ?
In the golden vale she shall feed full fast,
With her mild gold horn and her slow dark eye.
1 Mystical names of Ireland frequently occur in Gaelic poetry
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 233
The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last !
The pine long- bleeding, it shall not die !
This song is secret. Mine ear it passed
In a wind o'er the plains at Athenry.
234 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
MICHAEL DOHENY
(1805-1863)
A CUSHLA GAL MO CHREE 1
THE long, long wished-for hour has come,
Yet come, as tor ; in vain ;
And left thee but the wailing hum
Of sorrow and of pain ;
My light of life, my only love !
Thy portion, sure, must be
Man's scorn below, God's wrath above-
A cuisle geal mo chroidhe /
I've given for thee my early prime,
And manhood's teeming years;
I've blessed thee in my merriest time,
And shed with thee my tears ;
And, mother, though thou cast away
The child who'd die for thee,
My fondest wishes still should pray
For cuisle geal mo chroidhe !
For thee I've tracked the mountain's sides,
And slept within the brake,
More lonely than the swan that glides
On Lua's fairy lake.
1 A cushla gal mo chree, bright vein of my heart.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 235
The rich have spurned me from their door,
Because I'd make thee free ;
Yet still I love thee more and more,
A cuisle geal mo chroidhe !
I've run the outlaw's wild career,
And borne his load of ill ;
His rocky couch his dreamy fear
With fixed, sustaining will ;
And should his last dark chance befall,
Even that shall welcome be ;
In death I'd love thee best of all,
A cuisle geal mo chroidhe !
'Twas told of thee the world around,
'Twas hoped for thee by all,
That with one gallant sunward bound
Thou'dst burst long ages' thrall ;
Thy faith was tied, alas ! and those
Who periled all for thee
Were cursed and branded as thy foes,
A cuisle geal mo chroidhe !
What fate is thine, unhappy Isle,
When even the trusted few
Would pay thee back with hate and guile,
When most they should be true !
'Twas not my strength or spirit quailed,
Or those who'd die for thee
Who loved thee truly have not failed,
A cuisle geal mo chroidhe !
236 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
REV. JAMES B. BOLLARD
(1872- )
IRISH MIST AND SUNSHINE
A prelude.
SOFT mist on Irish mountain,
Bright sun on field and dell,
Swift tides of joy or sorrow
In Celtic hearts that swell ;
Green glen and haunted woodland,
Loved homes by laughing streams,
Firm faith and matchless manhood,
Lo ! these my varied themes.
Round tower and ivied abbey,
Low whispering of the past,
Around Life's early pathway
Their dreamful shadows cast.
Wild wind-blasts sighing voiceful
Far o'er the moorland lone,
Brought throbbing fairy music
To thrill with mystic tone.
Gray mist and flashing sunshine
That fleck the gorse-land brown :
High deed and cloudy legend
Of Eire's old renown ;
The saints' and martyrs' yearnings,
The patriot's rhapsodies,
With tim'rous touch uncertain,
I strike the harp to these.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 237
Fair land of Mist and Sunshine,
The distant exile thrills,
In dream of home and kindred
To see thy holy hills.
Should song of mine flow clearer
Old scenes and skies of blue,
Old hopes that crown life dearer,
I hold my trust made true.
THE FALLIN' O' THE RAIN
GOOD-BYE to County Carlow, 'tis the lonesome
place to me,
Sure every week is like a month, and every
month like three.
The mist is coming wet and cold, but now I won't
complain,
I'm going home, and little reck the fallin' o' the rain.
'Twas foolishness that brought me here, I wonder at
it now ;
Too proud was I to work the spade or follow up the
plow;
But little work and gold galore won't heal the heart
o' pain
And I'm off to old Kilkenny thro' the fallin' o' the
rain.
'Twas foolishness that brought me here, 'twas madness
made me stay,
With not a hillside slopin' green to rest my eyes all
day,
238 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
But Allen's bog outstretchin' like the level, blindin'
main,
And ne'er burst o' sunshine for the fallin' o' the rain.
A plague upon the landlord crew, they're everywhere
the same :
If Ireland's deep in poverty, we know to whom the
blame ;
Black greed is in their grasping hearts, they'd rob us
root and grain,
Just judgment fall upon 'em with the fallin' o' the
rain.
The lads are tall and hearty here, their faces good to
see,
And God will sure reward 'em all their kindness
unto me,
But when I feigned their merry dance, and heard the
pipers play
My heart nigh burst with longin' for the faces far
away.
I wonder if 'tis but a dream a hundred times a day,
And draw my hand across my eyes to drive it all
away;
Then faint and dim I see the hills beyond this weary
plain,
They call my wild heart ever thro' the fallin' o' the
rain.
But soon I'll breathe the heather breath on brown
Knockbrocken's side
And see a silver-shining stream across the valleys
glide;
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 239
No rest shall taste these weary limbs, or sleep the
throbbin' brain,
Till Suir's flood shows gleamin' thro' the fallin' o' the
rain.
WHEN THE WEST WIND BLOWS
I AM leaving of Kilyonan,
An' I'm goin' ten mile away
To the back of Nephin mountain,
Where the gentle rivers play.
I must flee the wicked ocean
That has caused my woe of woes,
For its cry in' waves they rack me
When the west wind blows.
'Tis the torture of a mother
When her treasured ones are lost,
An' she sees the bitter water
Where their cold limbs are tossed !
Oh, black the hour they sailed away,
The angry clouds arose,
An' their bed is hard an' troubled
When the west wind blows !
I heard the Banshee wailin',
An' woke in heavy fright,
I said, "My Neil and Moran,
Oh, go not out to-night.
For I heard the Banshee cryin'
Where the haunted hazel grows,
An' 'tis evil sound her keenin
When the west wind blows ! "
240 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
My gold-haired Moran kissed me,
(Oh ! bleeding heart so sore !)
" 'Tis back we'll be at mornin'
With a brimming boat galore ;
'Tis home we'll come at mornin',
When the full tide flows."
Ah ! his words are with me ever
While the west wind blows.
I'm leavin' of Kilyonan,
An' the ocean's wicked waves,
My keenest woe that never
I may kneel o'er their graves.
But I'll pray to God, our Father,
He will grant their souls repose ;
He will ease my bitter sorrow
While the west wind blows !
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 241
EDWARD DOWDEN
(1843- )
AWAKENING
WITH brain o'erworn, with heart a summer clod,
With eye so practiced in each form around,
And all forms mean, to glance above the
ground
Irks it, each day of many days we plod,
Tongue-tied and deaf, along life's common road.
But suddenly, we know not how, a sound
Of living streams, an odor, a flower crowned
With dew, a lark upspringing from the sod
And we awake. O joy and deep amaze !
Beneath the everlasting hills we stand,
We hear the voices of the morning seas,
And earnest prophesyings in the land,
While from the open heaven leans forth at gaze
The encompassing great cloud of witnesses.
G
LADY MARGARET'S SONG
IRLS, when I am gone away,
On this bosom strew
Only flowers meek and pale,
And the yew.
242 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
Lay these hands down by my side,
Let my face be bare ;
Bind a kerchief round the face,
Smooth my hair.
Let my bier be borne at dawn,
Summer grows so sweet,
Deep into the forest green
Where boughs meet.
Then pass away, and let me lie
One long, warm, sweet day .
There alone, with face upturned,
One sweet day.
While the morning light grows broad,
While noon sleepeth sound,
While the evening falls and faints,
While the world goes round.
SONG
From " Windle- Straws"
WERE life to last forever, love,
We might go hand in hand,
And pause and pull the flowers that blow
In all the idle land,
And we might lie in sunny fields
And while the hours away
With fallings-out and fallings-in
For half a, summer day.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 243
But since we two must sever, love,
Since some dim hour we part,
I have no tune to give thee much
But quickly take my heart,
"Forever thine," and "thine my love,"
O Death may come apace.
What more of love could life bestow,
Dearest, than this embrace.
244 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING
(1823-1863)
THE BRIGADE AT FONTENOY
May n, 1745.
BY our camp-fires rose a murmur,
At the dawning of the day,
And the tread of many footsteps
Spoke the advent of the fray ;
And, as we took our places,
Few and stern were our words,
While some were tightening horse-girths
And some were girding swords.
The trumpet blast has sounded
Our footmen to array
The willing steed has bounded,
Impatient for the fray
The green flag is unfolded,
While rose the cry of joy
Heaven speed dear Ireland's banner
To-day at Fontenoy ! "
We looked upon that banner,
And the memory arose.
Of our homes and perished kindred
Where the Lee or Shannon flows ;
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 245
We looked upon that banner,
And we swore to God on high
To smite to-day the Saxon's might
To conquer or to die.
Loud swells the charging trumpet
'Tis a voice from our own land
God of battles ! God of vengeance !
Guide to-day the patriot's brand !
There are stains to wash away,
There are memories to destroy,
In the best blood of the Briton
To-day at Fontenoy.
Plunge deep the fiery rowels
In a thousand reeking flanks
Down, chivalry of Ireland,
Down on the British ranks !
Now shall their serried columns
Beneath our sabres reel
Through their ranks, then, with the war-horse
Through their bosoms with the steel.
With one shout for good King Louis
And the fair land of the vine,
Like the wrathful Alpine tempest
We swept upon their line
Then ran along the battle-field
Triumphant our hurrah,
And we smote them down, still cheering,
"rin, slangthagal go bragh /" *
1 Erin . . . bragh, Erin, your bright health forever.
246 THE GOLDEN T&EASURT OF
As prized as is the blessing
From an aged father's lip
As welcome as the haven
To the tempest-driven ship
As dear as to the lover
The smile of gentle maid
Is this day of long- sought vengeance
To the swords of the Brigade.
See their shattered forces flying,
A broken, routed line
See, England, what brave laurels
For your brow to-day we twine.
Oh, thrice blest the hour that witnessed
The Briton turn to flee
From the chivalry of Erin,
And France' $ fleur-de-lis.
As we lay beside our camp-fires,
When the sun had passed away,
And thought upon our brethren
That had perished in the fray
We prayed to God to grant us,
And then we'd die with joy,
One day upon our own dear land
Like this of Fontenoy.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 247
ELLEN MARY PATRICK DOWNING
(1828-1869)
THE OLD CHURCH AT LISMORE
This poem, inscribed in the manuscript " My Last Verses,"
was the last written by " Mary " before entering on her noviti-
ate in 1849.
OLD Church, thou still art Catholic ! e'en
dream they as they may
That the new rites and worship have swept the
old away ;
There is no form of beauty raised by Nature, or by
art,
That preaches not God's saving truths to man's ador-
ing heart !
In vain they tore the altar down ; in vain they flung
aside
The mournful emblem of the death which our sweet
Saviour died ;
In vain they left no single trace of saint or angel
here
Still angel-spirits haunt the ground, and to the soul
appear.
I marvel how, in scenes like these, so coldly they can
pray,
hold sweet commui:
knelt down as they ;
pray,
Nor hold sweet commune with the dead who once
248 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
Yet not as they, in sad mistrust or sceptic doubt
for, oh,
They looked in hope to the blessed saints, these dead
of long ago.
And, then, the churchyard, soft and calm, spread out
beyond the scene
With sunshine warm and soothing shade and trees
upon its green ;
Ah ! though their cruel Church forbid, are there no
hearts will pray
For the poor souls that trembling left that cold and
speechless clay ?
My God ! I am a Catholic ! I grew into the ways
Of my dear Church since first my voice could lisp a
word of praise;
But oft I think though my first youth were taught and
trained awrong,
I still had learnt the one true faith from Nature and
from song !
For still, whenever dear friends die, it is such joy to
know
They are not all beyond the care that healed their
wounds below,
That we can pray them into peace, and speed them to
the shore
Where clouds and cares and thorny griefs shall vex
their hearts no more.
And the sweet saints, so meek below, so merciful
above ;
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 249
And the pure angels, watching still with such untiring
love;
And the kind Virgin, Queen of Heaven, with all her
mother's care,
Who prays for earth, because she knows what break-
ing hearts are there !
Oh, let us lose no single link that our dear Church has
bound,
To keep our hearts more close to Heaven, on earth's
ungenial ground ;
But trust in saint and martyr yet, and o'er their
hallowed clay,
Long after we have ceased to weep, kneel faithful
down to pray.
So shall the land for us be still the Sainted Isle of old,
Where hymn and incense rise to Heaven, and holy
beads are told ;
And even the ground they tore from God, in years of
crime and woe,
Instinctive with His truth and love, shall breathe of
long ago !
250 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
DR. WILLIAM DRENNAN
(1754-1820)
ERIN
WHEN Erin first rose from the dark swelling
flood
God blessed the green Island, and saw it was
good;
The em'rald of Europe, it sparkled and shone
In the ring of the world the most precious stone.
In her sun, in her soil, in her station thrice blest,
With her back towards Britain, her face to the West,
Erin stands proudly insular on her steep shore,
And strikes her high harp 'mid the ocean's deep roar.
But when its soft tones seem to mourn and to weep,
The dark chain of silence is thrown o'er the deep;
At the thought of the past the tears gush from her eyes
And the pulse of her heart makes her white bosom rise.
Oh ! sons of green Erin, lament o'er the time
When religion was war and our country a crime ;
When man in God's image inverted his plan,
And molded his God in the image of man ;
When the int'rest of State wrought the general woe,
The stranger a friend and the native a foe;
While the mother rejoiced o'er her children oppressed
And clasped the invader more close to her breast ;
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 251
When with Pale for the body and Pale for the soul,
Church and State joined in compact to conquer the
whole,
And, as Shannon was stained with Milesian blood,
Eyed each other askance and pronounced it was good.
By the groans that ascend from your forefathers' grave
For their country thus left to the brute and the slave,
Drive the demon of Bigotry home to his den,
And where Britain made brutes now let Erin make men.
Let my sons, like the leaves of the shamrock, unite
A partition of sects from one footstalk of right ;
Give each his full share of the earth and the sky,
Nor fatten the slave where the serpent would die.
Alas ! for poor Erin that some are still seen
Who would dye the grass red from their hatred to Green :
Yet, oh ! when you're up and they're down, let them
live,
Then yield them that mercy which they would not
give.
Arm of Erin, be strong ! but be gentle as brave !
And, uplifted to strike, be as ready to save !
Let no feeling of vengeance presume to defile
The cause or the men of the Emerald Isle.
The cause it is good, and the men they are true,
And the Green shall outlive both the Orange and Blue !
And the triumphs of Erin her daughters shall share
With the full swelling chest and the fair flowing hair.
Their bosom heaves high for the worthy and brave,
But no coward shall rest in that soft-swelling wave.
Men of Erin ! awake, and make haste to be blest !
Rise, Arch of the Ocean and Queen of the West !
252 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
THE WAKE OF WILLIAM ORR
THERE our murdered brother lies ;
Wake him not with woman's cries;
Mourn the way that manhood ought
Sit in silent trance of thought.
Write his merits on your mind ;
Morals pure and manners kind ;
In his head, as on a hill,
Virtue placed her citadel.
Why cut off in palmy youth ?
Truth he spoke, and acted truth.
"Countrymen, UNITE," he cried,
And died for what our Saviour died.
God of peace and God of love !
Let it not Thy vengeance move
Let it not thy lightnings draw
A nation guillotined by law.
Hapless Nation, rent and torn,
Thou wert early taught to mourn ;
Warfare of six hundred years !
Epochs marked with blood and tears !
Hunted thro' thy native grounds,
Or flung reward to human hounds,
Each one pulled and tore his share,
Heedless of thy deep despair.
Hapless Nation ! hapless Land !
Heap of uncementing sand !
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 253
Crumbled by a foreign weight :
And by worse, domestic hate.
God of mercy ! God of peace !
Make this mad confusion cease ;
O : er the mental chaos move,
Through it SPEAK the light of love.
Monstrous and unhappy sight !
Brothers' blood will not unite;
Holy oil and holy water
Mix,' and fill the world with slaughter.
Who is she with aspect wild ?
The widowed mother with her child
Child new stirring in the womb !
Husband waiting for the tomb !
Angel of this sacred place,
Calm her soul and whisper peace
Cord, or axe, or guillotine,
Make the sentence not the sin.
Here we watch our brother's sleep :
Watch with us, but do not weep :
Watch with us thro' dead of night
But expect the morning light.
Conquer fortune persevere !
Lo ! it breaks, the morning clear !
The cheerful cock awakes the skies,
The day is come arise ! arise !
254 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
WILLIAM DRENNAN, JR.
(1802-1873)
THE BATTLE OF BEAL-AN-ATHA-BUIDH
BY O'Neill close beleaguered, the spirits might
droop
Of the Saxon three hundred shut up in their
coop,
Till Bagenal drew forth his Toledo, and swore,
On the sword of a soldier to succor Portmore.
His veteran troops, in the foreign wars tried
Their features how bronzed, and how haughty their
stride
Stept steadily on ; it was thrilling to see
The thunder-cloud brooding o'er BEAL-AN-ATHA-
BUIDH.
The flash of their armor, inlaid with fine gold,
Gleaming matchlocks and cannons that mutteringly
rolled
With the tramp and the clank of those stern cuirassiers,
Dyed in the blood of the Flemish and French cavaliers.
And are the mere Irish, with pikes and with darts
With but glib-covered heads, and but rib-guarded
hearts
1 Beal-an-atha-buidh literally means the Mouth of the Yellow
Ford, and is pronounced Beal-un-ath-buie.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 255
Half-naked, half-fed, with few muskets, no guns
The battle to dare against England's stout sons ?
Poor Bonnochts? and wild Gallowglasses, and Kern
Let them war with rude brambles, sharp furze, and
dry fern ;
Wirrastrue"' for their wives for their babies ochanie?
If they wait for the Saxon at BEAL-AN-ATHA-
BUIDH.
Yet O'Neill standeth firm few and brief his com-
mands
" Ye have hearts in your bosoms, and pikes in your
hands ;
Try how far ye can push them, my children, at once ;
Fag-a-Bealach ! 4 and down with horse, foot, and
great guns.
" They have gold and gay arms they have biscuit and
bread ;
Now, sons of my soul, we'll be found and be fed ; "
And he clutched his claymore, and "look yonder."
laughed he,
" What a grand commissariat for BEAL-AN-ATHA-
BUIDH."
Near the chief, a grim tyke, an O'Shanaghan stood,
His nostrils dilated seemed snuffing for blood ;
Rough and ready to spring, like the wiry wolf-hound
Of lerne, who, tossing his pike with a bound,
1 Bonnocht, a billeted soldier.
2 Wirrastrue (A Mhuire as trtiagfi], Oh ! Mary, what sorrow !
8 Ochanie ochone, woe.
4 Fag-a-Bealach, clear the way.
2.s6 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF
Cried, " My hand to the Sassenach ! ne'er may I hurl
Another to earth if I call him a churl !
He finds me in clothing, in booty, in bread
My Chief, won't O'Shanaghan give him a bed? "
" Land of Owen, aboo ! " and the Irish rushed on
The foe fired but one volley their gunners are gone ;
Before the bare bosoms the steel-coats have fled,
Or, despite casque or corslet, lie dying and dead.
And brave Harry Bagenal, he fell while he fought
With many gay gallants they slept as men ought ;
Their faces to Heaven there were others, alack !
By pikes overtaken, and taken aback.
And my Irish got clothing, coin, colors, great store,
Arms, forage, and provender plunder go leaf ! 1
They munched the white manchets they champed
the brown chine,
Futile luah ! a for that day, how the natives did dine !
The Chieftain looked on, when O'Shanaghan rose,
And cried, " Hearken, O'Neill ! I've a health to pro-
pose
'To our Sassenach hosts ' " and all quaffed in huge
glee.
With " Cead mile failte go* BEAL-AN-ATHA-
BUIDH! "
1 Go leor, in abundance.
2 Fuilleluah, joyous exclamation.
3 Cead mile failte go, a hundred thousand welcomes to.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 257
REV. W. H. DRUMMOND
(1778-1865)
CUCHULLIN'S CHARIOT
The original, of which this is a considerably amplified ver-
sion, is from an old Irish romance entitled, " The Breach of
the Plain of Muirhevney."
THE car, light-moving, I behold,
Adorned with gems and studs of gold ;
Ruled by the hand of skilful guide,
Swiftly and swiftly see it glide !
Sharp-formed before, through dense array
Of foes to cut its onward way ;
While o'er its firm-fixed seat behind
Swells the green awning in the wind.
It mates in speed the swallow's flight,
Or roebuck bounding fleet and light,
Or fairy breeze of viewless wing,
That in the joyous day of spring
Flies o'er the champaign's grassy bed,
And up the cairn-crowned mountain's head.
Comes thundering on, unmatched in speed,
The gallant gray, high-bounding steed ;
His four firm hoofs, at every bound,
Scarce seem to touch the solid ground,
Outflashing from their flinty frame
Flash upon flash of ruddy flame.
258 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF
The other steed, of equal pace,
Well shaped to conquer in the race ;
Of slender limb, firm-knit, and strong,
His small, light head he lifts on high,
Impetuous as he scours along ;
Red lightning glances from his eye ;
Flung on his curving neck and chest
Toss his crisped manes like warrior's crest
Of the wild chafer's dark-brown hues,
The color that his flanks imbues.
The charioteer, of aspect fair,
In front high-seated rides ;
He holds the polished reins with care,
And safe and swiftly guides,
With pliant will and practiced hand,
Obedient to his lord's command.
That splendid chief, whose visage glows
As brilliant as the crimson rose.
Around his brows, in twisted fold,
A purple satin band is rolled,
All sparkling bright with gems and gold :
And such his majesty and grace
As speak him born of royal race ;
Worthy, by deeds of high renown,
To win and wear a monarch's crown.
The following is McPherson's description of Cuchullin's car:
" The car, the car of war comes on, like the flame of death ! the
rapid car of Cuchullin, the noble son of Semo ! It bends be-
hind like a wave near a rock, like the sun-streaked mist of the
heath. Its sides are embossed with stones, and sparkle like
the sea round the boat of night. Of polished yew is its beam ;
its seat of the smoothest bone. The sides are replenished with
spears; the bottom is the footstool of heroes." Fingal, Book I.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 259
LADY HELEN DUFFERIN
(1807-1867)
KATEY'S LETTER
OCH, girls dear, did you ever hear,
I wrote my love a letter ?
And altho' he cannot read,
I thought 'twas all the better.
For why should he be puzzled
\Vith hard spelling in the matter,
When the waning was so plain ?
That I loved him faithfully,
And he knows it oh, he knows it-
Without one word from me.
I wrote it, and I folded it,
And put a seal upon it,
'Twas a seal almost as big
As the crown of my best bonnet ;
For I would not have the postmaster
Make his remarks upon it,
As I'd said inside the letter
That I loved him faithfully,
And he knows it oh, he knows it -
Without one word from me.
My heart was full, but when I wrote
I dare not put it half in ;
The neighbors know 1 love him,
260 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
And they're mighty fond of chaffing,
So I dare not write his name outside,
For fear they would be laughing,
So I wrote " From little Kate to one
Whom she loves faithfully,"
And he knows it oh, he knows it
Without one word from me.
Now, girls, would you believe it,
That postman, so consated,
No answer will he bring me,
So long as I have waited ;
But maybe there mayn't be one,
For the reason that I stated
That my love can neither read nor write,
But loves me faithfully,
And I know where'er my love is,
That he is true to me.
LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT
I'M sittin' on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side,
On a bright May mornin',.long ago,
When first you were my bride :
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the lovelight in your eye.
The //0<r<? is little changed, Mary ;
The day is bright as then ;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 261
And the corn is green again ;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek,
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You never more will speak.
Tis but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near
The church where we were wed, Mary ;
I see the spire from here.
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest
For I've laid you, darling ! down to sleep
With your baby on your breast.
I'm very lonely now, Mary,
For the poor make no new friends :
But, oh ! they love the better still,
The few our Father sends !
And you were all /had, Mary
My blessin' and my pride !
There's nothin' left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.
Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on
When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arm's young strength was gone ;
There was comfort ever on your lip
And the kind look on your brow
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear rne now.
262 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there,
And you hid it for my sake ;
I bless you for the pleasant word
When your heart was sad and sore
Oh ! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more !
I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary kind and true !
But I'll not forget you, darling,
In the land I'm goin' to :
They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there
But I'll not forget Old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair !
And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies ;
And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side,
And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn,
When first you were my bride.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 263
THOMAS BUFFET
(Circa 1676)
COME ALL YOU PALE LOVERS
COME all you pale lovers that sigh and complain,
While your beautiful tyrants but laugh at your
pain,
Come practice with me
To be happy and free,
In spite of inconstancy, pride, or disdain.
I see and I love, and the bliss I enjoy
No rival can lessen nor envy destroy.
My mistress so fair is, no language or art
Can describe her perfection in every part ;
Her mien's so genteel,
With such ease she can kill,
Each look with new passion she captures my heart.
Her smiles, the kind message of love from her eyes,
When she frowns 'tis from others her flame to disguise.
Thus her scorn or her spite
I convert to delight,
As the bee gathers honey wherever he flies.
My vows she receives from her lover unknown,
And I fancy kind answers although I have none.
264 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
How blest should I be
If our hearts did agree,
Since already I find so much pleasure alone.
I see and I love, and the bliss I enjoy
No rival can lessen nor envy destroy.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 265
SIR CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY
(1816-1903)
INNISHOWEN
GOD bless the gray mountains of dark Donegal,
God bless Royal Aileach, the pride of them
all;
For she sits evermore like a queen on her throne,
And smiles on the valley of Green Innishowen.
And fair are the valleys of Green Innishowen,
And hardy the fishers that call them their own
A race that nor traitor nor coward have known
Enjoy the fair valleys of Green Innishowen.
Oh ! simple and bold are the bosoms they bear,
Like the hills that with silence and nature they share ;
For our God, who hath planted their home near his
own,
Breathed his spirit abroad upon fair Innishowen.
Then praise to our Father for wild Innishowen,
Where fiercely forever the surges are thrown
Nor weather nor fortune a tempest hath blown
Could shake the strong bosoms of brave In-
nishowen.
See the bountiful Couldah * careering along
A type of their manhood so stately and strong
1 Couldah, Culdaff, the chief river in the Innishowen moun-
tains.
266 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
On the weary forever its tide is bestovvn,
.So they' share with the stranger in fair Innishowen.
God guard the kind homesteads of fair Innishowen.
Which manhood and virtue have chos'n for their
own;
Not long shall that nation in slavery groan,
That rears the tall peasants of fair Innishowen.
Like that oak of St. Bride which nor Devil nor Dane,
Nor Saxon nor Dutchman could rend from her fane,
They have clung by the creed and the cause of their
own
Through the midnight of danger in true Innishowen.
Then shout for the glories of old Innishowen,
The stronghold that foemen have never o'er-
thrown
The soul and the spirit, the blood and the bone,
That guard the green valleys of true Innishowen.
No purer of old was the tongue of the Gael,
When the charging aboo made the foreigner quail;
When it gladdens the stranger in welcome's soft tone.
In the home-loving cabins of kind Innishowen,
Oh ! flourish, ye homesteads of kind Innishowen,
Where seeds of a people's redemption are sown ;
Right soon shall the fruit of that sowing have
grown,
To bless the kind homesteads of green Innishowen.
When they tell us the tale of a spell-stricken band,
All entranced, with their bridles and broadswords in
hand,
Who await but the word to give Erin her own,
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 267
They can read you that riddle in proud Innishowen.
Hurra for the Spaemen 1 of proud Innishowen !
Long live the wild Seers of stout Innishowen !
May Mary, our mother, be deaf to their moan
Who love not the promise of proud Innishowen !
THE IRISH RAPPAREES
A peasant ballad
" When Limerick was surrendered and the bulk of the Irish
army took service with Louis XIV, a multitude of the old
soldiers of the Boyne, Aughrim, and Limerick, preferred re-
maining in the country at the risk of righting for their daily
bread ; and with them some gentlemen, loath to part from their
estates or their sweethearts. The English army and the English
law drove them by degrees to the hills, where they were long
a terror to the new and old settlers from England, and a secret
pride and comfort to the trampled peasantry, who loved them
even for their excesses. It was all they had left to take pride
in." Author's note.
RICH SHEMUS he has gone to France and left
his crown behind :
111 luck be theirs, both day and night, put
runnin' in his mind !
Lord Lucan 2 followed after, with his slashers brave
and true,
1 Spamen, an Ulster and Scotch term signifying a person
gifted with " second sight " a prophet.
2 After the Treaty of Limerick, Patrick Sarsfield, Lord Lucan,
sailed with the Brigade to France, and was killed while leading
his countrymen to victory at the battle of Landen, in the Low
Countries, July 29, 1693.
268 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF
And now the doleful keen is raised " What will poor
Ireland do?
What must poor Ireland do ?
Our luck, they say, has gone to France. What can
poor Ireland do?"
Oh, never fear for Ireland, for she has so'gers still,
For Remy's boys are in the wood, and Rory's on the
hill;
And never had poor Ireland more loyal hearts than
these
May God be kind and good to them, the faithful
Rapparees !
The fearless Rapparees !
The jewel waar ye, Rory, with your Irish Rapparees !
Oh, black's your heart, Clan Oliver, and coulder than
the clay !
Oh, high's your head, Clan Sassenach, since Sarsfield's
gone away !
It's little love you bear to us for sake of long ago
But howld your hand, for Ireland still can strike a
deadly blow
Can strike a mortal blow
Och ! dar-a-Chriost ! 'tis she that still could strike
the deadly blow !
The master's bawn, the master's seat, a surly bodach l
fills;
The master's son, an outlawed man, is riding on the
hills ;
1 Bodach, a severe, inhospitable man ; a churl.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 269
But, God be praised, that round him throng, as
thick as summer bees,
The swords that guarded Limerick walls his faithful
Rapparees !
His lovin' Rapparees !
Who daar say, " No " to Rory Oge, who heads the
Rapparees !
Black Billy Grimes, of Latnamard, he racked us long
and sore
God rest the faithful hearts he broke; we'll never see
them more !
But I'll go bail he'll break no more while Truagh has
gallows-trees,
For why? he met one lonesome night the awful
Rapparees !
The angry Rapparees !
They never sin no more, my boys, who cross the
Rapparees.
Now, Sassenach and Cromweller, take heed of what
I say
Keep down your black and angry looks that scorn us
night and day ;
For there's a just and wrathful Judge that every
action sees,
And he'll make strong, to right our wrong, the faith-
ful Rapparees !
The fearless Rapparees !
The men that rode at Sarsfield's side, the changeless
Rapparees !
270 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH
" We deny and have always denied the alleged massacre of
1641. But that the people rose under their chiefs, seized the
English towns and expelled the English settlers, and in doing
so committed many excesses, is undeniable as is equally their
desperate provocation. The ballad here printed is not meant
as an apology for these excesses, which we condemn and
lament, but as a true representation of the feelings of the in-
surgents in the first madness of success." Author's note.
JOY ! joy ! the day is come at last, the day of hope
and pride
And see ! our crackling bonfires light old Bann's
rejoicing tide,
And gladsome bell and bugle-horn from Newry's
captured towers,
Hark ! how they tell the Saxon swine this land is purs
is OURS !
Glory to God ! my eyes have seen the ransomed fields
of Down,
My ears have drunk the joyful news, " Stout Phelim
hath his own."
Oh ! may they see and hear no more ! oh ! may
they rot to clay !
When they forget to triumph in the conquest of to-
day.
Now, now we'll teach the shameless Scot to purge his
thievish maw ;
Now, now the court may fall to pray, for Justice is the
Law;
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 271
Now shall the Undertaker x square, for once, his loose
accounts
We* II strike, brave boys, a fair result, from all his
false amounts.
Come, trample down their robber rule, and smite its
venal spawn,
Their foreign laws, their foreign Church, their ermine
and their lawn,
With all the specious fry of fraud that robbed us of
our own ;
And plant our ancient laws again beneath our lineal
throne.
Our standard flies o'er fifty towers, o'er twice ten
thousand men ;
Down have we plucked the pirate Red, never to rise
again ;
The Green alone shall stream above our native field
and flood
The spotless Green, save where its folds are gemmed
with Saxon blood !
Pity ! 2 no, no, you dare not, priest not you, our
Father, dare
Preach to us now that godless creed the murderer's
blood to spare ;
1 The Scotch and English adventurers planted in Ulster by
James I were called " Undertakers."
" 2 Leland, the Protestant historian, states that the Catholic
priests " labored zealously to moderate the excesses of war,"
and frequently protected the English by concealing them in
their places of worship and even under their altars.
272 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
To spare his blood, while tombless still our slaughtered
kin implore
"Graves and revenge" from Gobbin cliffs and
Carrick's bloody shore ! l
Pity ! could we "forget, forgive," if we were clods
of clay,
Our martyred priests, our banished chiefs, our race in
dark decay,
And, worse than all you know it, priest the daugh-
ters of our land
With wrongs we blushed to name until the sword was
in our hand ?
Pity ! well, if you needs must whine, let pity have its
way
Pity for all our comrades true, far from our side to-
day :
The prison-bound who rot in chains, the faithful dead
who poured
Their blood 'neath Temple's lawless axe or Parson's
ruffian sword.
They smote us with the swearer's oath and with the
murderer's knife ;
We in the open field will fight fairly for land and
life;
But, by the dead and all their wrongs, and by our
hopes to-day,
One of us twain shall fight their last, or be it we or
they.
1 The scene of the massacre of the unoffending inhabitants of
Island Magee by the garrison of Carrickfergus.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 273
r
They banned our faith, they banned our lives, they
trod us into earth,
Until our very patience stirred their bitter hearts to
mirth.
Even this great flame that wraps them now, not we
but they have bred :
Yes, this is their own work ; and now their work be
on their head !
Nay, Father, tell us not of help from Leinster's
Norman peers,
If we shall shape our holy cause to match their selfish
fears
Helpless and hopeless be their cause who brook a
vain delay !
Our ship is launched, our flag's afloat, whether they
come or stay.
Let silken Howth and savage Slane still kiss their
tyrant's rod,
And pale Dunsany still prefer his master to his God ;
Little we'd miss their fathers' sons, the Marchmen of
the Pale,
If Irish hearts and Irish hands had Spanish blade and
mail !
Then let them stay to bow and fawn, or fight with
cunning words ;
I fear no more their courtly arts than England's hire-
ling swords ;
Nathless. their creed, they hate us still, as the de-
spoiler hates ;
Could they love us, and love their prey, our kinsmen's
lost estates ?
274 ^HE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
Our rude array's a jagged rock to smash the spoiler's
power
Or, need we aid, his aid we have who doomed this
gracious hour ;
Of yore he led his Hebrew host to peace through
strife and pain,
And us he leads the self-same path the self-same goal
to gain.
Down from the sacred hills whereon a saint l com-
muned with God,
Up from the vale where Bagenal's blood manured tht
reeking sod,
Out from the stately woods of Truagh M'Kenna's
plundered home,
Like Malin's waves, as fierce and fast, our faithful
clansmen come.
Then, brethren, on ! O'Neill's dear shade would
frown to see you pause
Our banished Hugh, our martyred Hugh, is watching
o'er your cause
His generous error lost the land he deemed the
Norman true ;
Oh, forward, friends, it must not lose the land again
in you !
1 St. Patrick, whose favorite retreat was Lecale, in the County
Down.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 275
MAURICE F. EGAN
(1832- )
BY RIGHT DIVINE
IN this free land I know a tyrant king
Who rules supreme a kingdom all his own,
Who reigns supreme by right divine alone,
Who governs slaves that always cringe and sing,
" He walks ! He talks ! " in most admiring tone;
They quail with fear if he but makes a moan,
And wild confusion comes if he but fling
Away his sceptre coral, jingling thing !
He is a king, though loving anarchy,
A tyrant king, whom our fond land obeys,
A tyrant king, yet scarce a mimic man ;
And this whole land is bound in monarchy,
All mother-hearts some little ruler sways,
If harder fathers be republican.
THE SHAMROCK
WHEN April rains make flowers bloom
And Johnny-jump-ups come to light,
And clouds of color and perfume
Float from the orchards pink and white,
I see my shamrock in the rain,
An emerald spray with raindrops set,
Like jewels on Spring's coronet,
So fair, and yet it breathes of pain.
276 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
The shamrock on an older shore
Sprang from a rich and sacred soil
Where saint and hero lived of yore,
And where their sons in sorrow toil ;
And here, transplanted, it to me
Seems weeping for the soil it left
And diamonds that all others see
Are tears drawn from its heart bereft.
When April rain makes flowers grow,
And sparkles on their tiny buds
That in June nights will over-blow
And fill the world with scented floods,
The lonely shamrock in our land
So fine among the clover leaves
For the old springtimes often grieves
I feel its tears upon my hand.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 277
ROBERT EMMET
(1778-1803)
Lines written on Arbor Hill burying-ground, Dublin, where
the bodies of insurgents shot in 1798 were interred.
NO rising column marks this spot,
Where many a victim lies ;
But oh ! the blood which here has streamed,
To Heaven for justice cries.
It claims it on the oppressor's head,
Who joys in human woe,
Who drinks the tears by misery shed,
And mocks them as they flow.
It claims it on the callous judge,
Whose hands in blood are dyed,
Who arms injustice with the sword,
The balance throws aside.
It claims it for this ruined isle,
Her wretched children's grave ;
Where, withered Freedom droops her head,
And man exists a slave.
O sacred Justice ! free this land
From tyranny abhorred ;
Resume thy balance and thy seat
Resume but sheathe thy sword.
278 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
No retribution should we seek
Too long has horror reigned ;
By mercy marked may freedom rise,
By cruelty unstained.
Nor shall a tyrant's ashes mix
With those our martyred dead ;
This is the place where Erin's sons
In Erin's cause have bled.
And those who here are laid at rest,
Oh ! hallowed be each name ;
Their memories are forever blest
Consigned to endless fame.
Unconsecrated is this ground,
Unblest by holy hands ;
No bell here tolls its solemn sound,
No monument here stands.
But here the patriot's tears are shed,
The poor man's blessing given ;
These consecrate the virtuous dead,
These waft their fame to heaven.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 279
FRANCIS A. FAHY
(1854- )
IRISH MOLLY O.
OH ! fairer than the lily tall, and sweeter than the
rose,
As modest as the violet in dewy dell that
blows ;
With heart as warm as summer noon, and pure as
winter snow
The pride of Erin's isle is she, dear Irish Molly O !
No linnet of the hazel grove than she more sweetly
sang,
No sorrow could be resting where her guileless laughter
rang,
No hall of light could half so bright as that poor cabin
glow
Where shone the face of love and grace of Irish
Molly O !
But fever's breath struck down in death her father
strong and brave,
And who should now his little ones from want and
sorrow save ?
" Oh, never fear, my mother dear, across the seas
I'll go,
And win for ye a new home there," said Irish
Molly O !
280 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
And far away 'mid strangers cold she toiled for many
a year,
And no one heard the heart-wrung sigh or saw the
silent tear,
But letters fond the seas beyond would kind and con-
stant go,
With gold won dear, and words of cheer, from Irish
Molly O !
And one by one she sent for all the loved ones o'er the
foam,
And one by one she welcomed them to her fond heart
and home,
And last and best her arms caressed the aged head of
snow
"Oh, mother, we'll be happy now!" said Irish
Molly O !
Alas ! long years of toil and tears had chilled her
young heart's glow,
And grief and care had blanched her hair and stilled
her pulse's flow,
And when the spring bade wild birds sing and buds in
beauty blow
They made your grave where willows wave, poor Irish
Molly O !
"THE BOG ROAD"
Lisdoonvarna
COULD I travel afar now
From Ban try to Barna,
'Tis to Lisdoonvarna
My way I would find ;
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 281
For there, one bright summer,
Myself, a newcomer,
Found mirth, fun, and hurnor
That ne'er leaves my mind.
Oh, those who each season,
Without rhyme or reason,
Cross far foreign seas on
To light the heart's load,
Know nought of the pleasure,
Without stint or measure,
That waits them with leisure
Along the Bog Road.
All sorts and conditions,
All trades and positions,
Of men on all missions,
Are there to be found ;
There are jobbers and teachers,
And pedlars and preachers,
And delicate creatures
From all Erin round ;
There are blooming young maidens,
And hearts heavy laden,
And stout dames that no sign
Of fading yet showed ;
While dearly-dowered daughters
Are trying the waters,
And sighing for partners
Alpng the Bog Road.
'Tis there every morning,
Dull drowsiness scorning,
Stout lads without warning
Roam over the hills,
282 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF
While matron and widdy
(Lamenting "poor Biddy")
Take draughts that would rid ye,
'Tis said, from all ills.
There farmers together
Discuss on the heather
The markets, the weather,
The last crops they sowed j
While children are sporting,
Young couples resorting
Are cozily courting
Along the Bog Road.
Of priests there's a legion
From every known region,
The hotels besieging
For shakedowns in vain
Dean, Bishop, and Canon,
From Liffey to Shannon,
For reasons no man on
This earth could explain ;
Some quietly straying,
Their Offices saying
Some jolly and gay in
The long cars a load ;
Some solemnly stalking,
Some eagerly talking
You'll meet them all walking
Along the Bog Road.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 283
THE DONOVANS
IF you would like to see the height of hospitality,
The cream of kindly welcome, and the core of
cordiality :
Joys of all the olden time you're wishing to recall
again ?
Come down to Donovans, and there you'll meet them
all again.
Cead milefdilte * they'll give you down at Donovans,
As cheery as the springtime and Irish as the can-
nawaun ' 2
The wish of my heart is, if ever I had any one
That every luck that lightens life may light upon
the Donovans.
As soon as e'er you lift the latch, the little ones are
meeting you ;
Soon as you're beneath the thatch, oh ! kindly looks
are greeting you :
Scarcely are you ready to be holding out the fist to
them,
When down by the fireside you're sitting in the midst
of them.
Ceade mile fdilte they'll give you down at Dono-
vans, etc.
There sits the cailin deas 8 oh ! where on earth's the
peer of her ?
1 Cead mile fdilte t a hundred thousand welcomes.
2 Cannaivaun, bog-cotton.
3 Cailin deas, pretty girl.
284 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
The modest face, the gentle grace, the humor and the
cheer of her
Eyes like the summer skies when twin stars beam above
in them,
Oh ! proud will be the boy that's to light the lamp of
love in them.
Cead milefdilte they'll give you down at Donovans,
etc.
Then when you rise to go, it's " Ah, then, now sit
down again ! "
" Isn't it the haste you're in? " and " Won't you soon
come round again ? ' '
Your caubeen and your overcoat you'd better put
astray from them,
'Twill take you all your time to try and tear yourself
away from them.
Cead milejailte they'll give you down at Donovans,
etc.
THE OULD PLAID SHAWL
NOT far from old Kinvara, in the merry month
of May,
When birds were singing cheerily, there came
across my way,
As if from out the sky above an angel chanced to fall,
A little Irish cailin in an ould plaid shawl.
She tripped along right joyously, a basket on her
arm;
And ! oh, her face, and, oh ! her grace, the soul of
saint would charm \
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 285
Her brown hair rippled o'er her brow, but greatest
charm of all
Was her modest blue eyes beaming 'neath her ould
plaid shawl.
I courteously saluted her "God save you, miss,"
says I ;
"God save you kindly, sir,' 1 said she, and shyly
passed me by ;
Off went my heart along with her, a captive in her
thrall,
Imprisoned in the corner of her ould plaid shawl.
Enchanted with her beauty rare, I gazed in pure de-
light,
Till round an angle of the road she vanished from my
sight ;
But ever since I sighing say, as I that scene recall,
" The grace of God about you and your ould plaid
shawl."
I've heard of highway robbers that, with pistols and
with knives,
Make trembling travelers yield them up their money
or their lives,
But think of me that handed out my heart and head
and all
To a simple little cailin in an ould plaid shawl !
Oh ! graceful the mantillas that the signorinas wear,
And tasteful are the bonnets of Parisian ladies fair,
But never cloak or hood or robe, in palace, bow'r, or
hall,
286 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
Clad half such witching beauty as that ould plaid
shawl.
Oh ! some men sigh for riches, and some men live for
fame,
And some on history's pages hope to win a glorious
name;
My aims are not ambitious, and my wishes are but
small
You might wrap them all together in an ould plaid
shawl.
I'll seek her all through Gal way, and I'll seek her all
through Clare,
I'll search for tale or tidings of my traveler every-
where,
For peace of mind I'll never find until my own I call
That little Irish cailin in her ould plaid shawl.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 287
SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON
(1810-1866)
CEAN DUBH DEELISH 1
PUT your head, darling, darling, darling,
Your darling black head my heart above ;
O mouth of honey with the thyme for fragrance,
Who with heart in breast could deny you love?
O many and many a young girl for me is pining,
Letting her locks of gold to the cold winds free,
For me, the foremost of the gay young fellows,
But I'd leave a hundred, pure love, for thee.
Then put your head, darling, darling, darling,
Your darling black head my heart above ;
O mouth of honey with the thyme for fragrance,
Who with heart in breast could deny you love?
DRIMMIN DHU
Translated from Irish,
Drimmin Dhu Dheelish, the dear black cow, was another
pseudonym for Ireland, and there is a very sweet and plaintive
air of that name.
AH, Drimmin dhu dheelish, a pride of the flow, 3
Ah where are your folks ? are they living or no ?
They're down in the ground, 'neath the sod ly-
ing low,
Expecting King James with the crown on his brow.
1 Cean dubh deelish, dear black head.
2 The grassy part of a bog.
288 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
But if I could get sight of the crown on his brov/,
By day and night traveling to London I'd go;
Over mountains of mist and soft mosses below,
Till it beat on the kettle drums Drimmin dhu O.
Welcome home, welcome home, Drimmin dhu O !
Good was your sweet milk for drinking, I trow;
With your face like a rose, and your dewlap of snow,
I'll part from you never, Drimmin dhu O !
LAMENT OVER THE RUINS OF THE
ABBEY OF TIMOLEAGUE
L
ONE and weary as I wandered
By the bleak shore of the sea,
Meditating and reflecting
On the world's hard destiny;
Forth the moon and stars 'gan glimmer
In the quiet tide beneath,
For on slumbering spray and blossom
Breathed not out of heaven a breath.
On I went in sad dejection,
Careless where my footsteps bore
Till a ruined church before me
Opened wide its ancient door,
Till I stood before the portals,
Where of old were wont to be,
For the blind, the halt, and leper,
Alms and hospitality.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 289
Still the ancient seat was standing
Built against the buttress gray
Where the clergy used to welcome
Weary travelers on their way.
There I sat me down in sadness,
'Neath my cheek I placed my hand,
Till the tears fell hot and briny
Down upon the grassy land.
There, I said in woful sorrow,
Weeping bitterly the while,
Was a time when joy and gladness
Reigned within this ruined pile :
Was a time when bells were tinkling,
Clergy preaching peace abroad,
Psalms a-singing, music ringing
Praises to the mighty God.
Empty aisle, deserted chancel,
Tower tottering to your fall,
Mctny a storm since then has beaten
On the gray head of your wall !
Many a bitter storm and tempest
Has your roof-tree turned away,
Since you first were formed a temple
To the Lord of night and day.
Holy house of ivied gables,
That wert once the country's pride,
Houseless now in weary wandering
Roam your inmates far and wide.
2 9 o THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
Lone you are to-day, and dismal,
Joyful psalms no more are heard
Where, within your choir, her vesper
Screeches the cat-headed bird.
Ivy from your eaves is growing,
Nettles round your green hearth-stone,
Foxes howl, where, in your corners,
Dropping waters make their moan.
Where the lark to early matins
Used your clergy forth to call,
There ! alas no tongue is stirring,
Save the daws' upon the wall.
Refectory cold and empty,
Dormitory bleak and bare,
Where are now your pious uses,
Simple bed and frugal fare?
Gone your abbot, rule, and order,
Broken down your altar stones ;
Naught see I beneath your shelter *
Save a heap of clayey bones.
Oh ! the hardship, oh ! the hatred,
Tyranny, and cruel war,
Persecution and oppression,
That have left you as you are !
I myself once also prospered ;
Mine is, too, an altered plight.
Trouble, care, and age have left me
Good for naught but grief to-night.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 291
Gone, my motion and my vigor,
Gone, the use of eye and ear ;
At my feet lie friends and children,
Powerless and corrupting here.
Woe is written on my visage
In a nut my heart would lie
Death's deliverance were welcome
Father, let the old man die.
MILD MABEL KELLY
From the Irish of T. O* Car o Ian.
WHOEVER the youth who by Heaven's decree
Has his happy right hand 'neath that bright
head of thine,
'Tis certain that he
From all sorrow is free,
Till the day of his death, if a life so divine
Should not raise him in bliss above mortal degree.
Mild Mabel Ni Kelly, bright coolun of curls !
All stately and pure as the swan on the lake.
Her mouth of white teeth is a palace of pearls,
And the youth of the land are love-sick for her sake.
No strain of the sweetest e'er heard in the land
That she knows not to sing, in a voice so enchanting,
That the cranes on the sand
Fall asleep where they stand.
Oh, for her blooms the rose, and the lily ne'er wait-
ing
To shed its mild lustre on bosom or hand.
292 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF .
The dewy blue blossom that hangs on the spray
More blue than her eyes human eye never saw.
Deceit never lurked in its beautiful ray.
Dear lady, I drink to you, slainte go bragh ! l
To gaze on her beauty the young hunter lies
'Mong the branches that shadow her path in the
grove.
But alas, if her eyes
The rash gazer surprise,
All eyesight departs from the victim of love,
And the blind youth steals home with his heart full of
sighs.
O pride of the Gael of the lily-white palm !
O coolun of curls to the grass at your feet !
At the goal of delight and of honor I am
To boast such a theme for a song so unmeet.
OWEN BAWN
This refers to the rigid prohibition of the intermarriage with
the native Irish by William de Burghs, Earl of Ulster, in A. D.
1333, which led to the Irish return from beyond the river Bawn
and the expulsion of the English from all Ulster.
MY Owen Bawn's hair is of thread of gold spun ;
Of gold in the shadow, of light in the sun ;
All curled in a coolun the bright tresses are
They make his head radiant with beams like a star !
My Owen Bawn's mantle is long and is wide,
To wrap me up safe from the storm by his side :
1 Slainte go bragh, your health forever.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 293
And I'd rather face snowdrift, and winter-wind there,
Than lie among daisies and sunshine elsewhere.
My Owen Bawn Quinn is a bold fisherman,
He tracks the dun quarry with arrow and spear
Where wild woods are waving, and deep waters flow,
Oh, there goes my love with the dun-dappled roe.
My Owen Bawn Quinn is a bard of the best,
He spears the strong salmon in midst of the Bann ;
And rocked in the tempest on stormy Lough Neagh,
Draws up the red trout through the bursting of spray.
My Owen Bawn Quinn is a hunter of deer,
He wakes me with singing, he sings me to rest ;
And the cruit 1 'neath his fingers rings up with a sound,
As though angels harped o'er us, and fays underground.
They tell me the stranger has given command,
That crommeal z and coolun shall cease in the land,
That all our youths' tresses of yellow be shorn,
And bonnets, instead, of a new fashion worn.
That mantles like Owen Bawn's shield us no more,
That hunting and fishing henceforth we give o'er,
That the net and the arrow aside must be laid,
For hammer and trowel, and mattock and spade.
That the echoes of music must sleep in their caves,
That the slave must forget his own tongue for a slave's,
That the sound of our lips must be strange in our ears,
And our bleeding hands toil in the dew of our tears.
1 Cruit, a small harp.
* Crommeal, mustache.
294 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
Oh, sweetheart and comfort ! with thee by my side,
I could love and live happy, whatever betide ;
But thou, in such bondage, wouldst die ere a day
Away to Tir-oen, then, Owen, away !
There are wild woods and mountains, and streams
deep and clear,
There are loughs in Tir-oen as lovely as here ;
There are silver harps ringing in Yellow Hugh's hall,
And a bower by the forest side, sweetest of all ! -
We will dwell by the sunshiny skirts of the brake,
Where the sycamore shadows glow deep in the lake ;
And the snowy swan stirring the green shadows there,
Afloat on the water, seems floating in air.
Away to Tir-oen, then, Owen, away !
We will leave them the dust from our feet for a prey,
And our dwelling in ashes and flames for a spoil
'Twill be long ere they quench them with streams of
the Foyle !
PASTHEEN FION
From the Irish.
OH, my fair Pastheen is my heart's delight;
Her gay heart laughs in her blue eye bright ;
Like the apple blossom her bosom white,
And her neck like the swan's on a March morn bright !
Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me ! come
with me !
Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet !
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 295
And oh ! I would go through snow and sleet
If you would come with me, my brown girl, sweet !
Love of my heart, my fair Pastheen !
Her cheeks are as red as the rose's sheen,
But my lips have tasted no more, I ween,
Than the glass I drank to the health of my queen !
Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me ! etc.
Were I in the town, where' s mirth and glee,
Or 'twixt two barrels of barley bree,
With my fair Pastheen upon my knee,
'Tis I would drink to her pleasantly !
Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me ! etc.
Nine nights I lay in longing and pain,
Betwixt two bushes, beneath the rain,
Thinking to see you, love, once again ;
But whistle and call were all in vain 1
Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me ! etc.
I'll leave my people, both friend and foe ;
From all the girls in the world I'll go ;
But from you, sweetheart, oh, never ! oh, no !
Till I lie in the coffin stretched, cold and low !
Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me ! etc.
296 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
THE COOLUN 1
Translated from the Irish of Maurice Dugan or O'' Dugan.
OH AD you seen the Coolun,
Walking down by the cuckoo's street,
With the dew of the meadow shining
On her milk-white twinkling feet.
O my love she is, and my cailin bg?
And she dwells in Bal'nagar;
And she bears the palm of beauty bright,
From the fairest that in Erin are.
In Bal'nagar is the Coolun,
Like the berry on the bough her cheek ;
Bright beauty dwells forever
On her fair neck and ringlets sleek ;
O sweeter is her mouth's soft music
Than the lark or thrush at dawn,
Or the blackbird in the greenwood singing
Farewell to the setting sun.
Rise up, my boy ! make ready
My horse, for I forth would ride,
To follow the modest damsel,
Where she walks on the green hillside :
For e'er since our youth were we plighted.
In faith, troth, and wedlock true
O she's sweeter to me nine times over,
Than organ or cuckoo !
1 Anchuil-fhionn, maiden of fair flowing locks
2 Cailin 6g, young girl.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 297
O ever since my childhood
I loved the fair and darling child ;
But our people came between us,
And with lucre our pure love defiled :
O my woe it is, and my bitter pain,
And I weep it night and day,
That the cailin ban of my early love
Is torn from my heart away.
Sweetheart and faithful treasure,
Be constant still, and true ;
Nor for want of herds and houses
Leave one who would ne'er leave you.
I'll pledge you the blessed Bible,
Without an eke within,
That the faithful God will provide for us,
Without thanks to kith or kin.
O love, do you remember
When we lay all night alone,
Beneath the ash in the winter storm,
When the oak wood round did groan ?
No shelter then from the blast had we,
The bitter blast or sleet,
But your gown to wrap about our heads s
And my coat around our feet.
298 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
THE FAIR HILLS OF IRELAND
From the Irish.
A very close translation, in the original meter, of an Irish
song of unknown authorship dating from the end of the seven-
teenth century. The refrain means " O sad lament."
A PLENTEOUS place is Ireland for hospitable
cheer,
Uileacdn dubh O /
Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow
barley ear,
Uileacdn dubh O !
There is honey in the trees where her misty vales ex-
pand,
And her forest paths in summer are. by falling waters
fanned ;
There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i' the
yellow sand
On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Curled he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee,
Uileacdn dubh O !
Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea,
Uileacdn dubh O !
And I will make my journey, if life and health but
stand,
Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant
strand,
And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and
high command.
For the fair hills 'of holy Ireland.
Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground,
Uileacdn dubh O !
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 299
The butter and the cream do wondrously abound, ,
Uileacdn dubh O !
The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,
And the cuckoo's calling daily his note of music bland,
And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i' the
forests grand
On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
THE FAIRY THORN
An Ulster ballad.
" /^^ET up, our Anna dear, from the weary spin-
I ~w ning wheel ;
For your father's on the hill, and your
mother is asleep :
Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a highland
reel
Around the fairy thorn on the steep."
At Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens cried,'
Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green ;
And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside,
The fairest of the four, I ween.
They're glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve,
Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare ;
The heavy sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave,
And the crags in the ghostly air j
And linking hand in hand and singing as they go,
The maids along the hillside have ta'en their fear
less way,
300 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF
Till they come to where the rowan-trees in lonely
beauty grow,
Beside the Fairy Hawthorn gray.
The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim,
Like matron with her twin granddaughters on her
knee ;
The rowan -berries cluster o'er her low head gray and
dim
In ruddy kisses sweet to see.
The merry maidens four have ranged them in a row,
Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem,
And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds they
go,
O never carolled bird like them !
But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze
That drinks away their voices in echoless repose,
And dreamily the evening has stilled the haunted braes,
And dreamier the gloaming grows.
And sinking one by one, like lark notes from the sky
When the falcon's shadow saileth across the open
shaw,
Are hushed the maidens' voices, as cowering down
they lie
In the flutter of their sudden awe.
For from the air above and the grassy ground beneath,
And from the mountain -ashes and the old white-
thorn between,
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 301
A power of faint enchantment doth through their be-
ings breathe,
And they sink down together on the green.
They sink together silent, and, stealing side by side,
They fling their lovely arms o'er their drooping
necks so fair,
Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide,
For their shrinking necks again are bare.
Thus clasped and prostrate all, with their heads to-
gether bowed,
Soft o'er their bosoms' beating the only human
sound
They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd,
Like a river in the air, gliding round.
No scream can any raise, no prayer can any say,
But wild, wild the terror of the speechless three,
For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away,
. By whom they dare not look to see.
They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of
gold,
And the curls elastic falling as her head withdraws ;
They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms
unfold,
But they may not look to see the cause.
For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies
Through all that night of anguish and perilous
amaze ;
302 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering
eyes,
Or their limbs from the cold ground raise,
Till out of night the earth has rolled her dewy side,
With every haunted mountain and streamy vale
below ;
When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning
tide,
The maidens' trance dissolveth so.
Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may,
And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in
vain,
They pined away and died within the year and day,
And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again.
THE FAIRY WELL OF LAGNANAY
MOURNFULLY, sing mournfully !
" O listen, Ellen, sister dear !
Is there no help at all for me,
But only ceaseless sigh and tear ?
Why did not he, who left me here,
With stolen hope steal memory ?
O listen, Ellen, sister dear !
(Mournfully, sing mournfully !)
I'll go away to Sleamish hill
I'll pluck the fairy hawthorn-tree,
And let the spirits work their will ;
I care not if for good or ill,
So they but lay the memory
Which all my heart is haunting still.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 303
(Mournfully, sing mournfully !)
The Fairies are a silent race,
And pale as lily flowers to see ;
I care not for a blanched face,
Nor wandering in a dreaming place,
So I but banish memory,
I wish I were with Anna Grace.
(Mournfully, sing mournfully !)
" Hearken to my tale of woe ! "
'Twa$ thus to weeping Ellen Con,
Her sister said in accents low,
Her only sister, Una bawn ;
'Twas in their bed before the dawn,
And Ellen answered, sad and slow,
" O Una, Una, be not drawn
(Hearken to my tale of woe !)
To this unholy grief I pray,
Which makes me sick at heart to know,
And I will help you if I may 3
-^The Fairy Well of Lagnanay
Lie hearer me, I tremble so, -^
Una, I've heard wise women say
(Hearken to my tale of woe !)
That if before the dews arise
True maiden in its icy flow
With pure hand bathe her bosom thrice,
Three lady brackens pluck likewise,
And three times round the fountain go,
She straight forgets her tears and sighs."
(Hearken to my tale of woe !)
All, alas ! and well away! '
" O sister Ellen, sister sweet,
THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
Come with me to the hill I pray,
And I will prove that blessed freet."
They rose with soft and silent feet,
They left their mother where she lay
Their mother and her care discreet,
(All, alas ! and well away ! )
And soon they reached the Fairy Well,
The mountain's eye, clear, cold, and gray,
Wide open in the dreary fell ;
How long they stood 'twere vain to tell.
At last upon the point of day,
Bawn Una bares her bosom's swell,
(All, alas! and well away !)
Thrice o'er her shrinking breast she laves
The gliding glance that will not stay
Of subtly-streaming fairy waves ;
And now the charmed three brackens craves
She plucks them in their fringed array ;
Now round the well her fate she braves.
(All, alas ! and well away !)
Save us all from Fairy thrall ;
Ellen sees her face the rim
Twice and thrice and that is all,
Fount and hill and maiden swim,
All together melting dim !
"Una, Una," thou may'st call,
Sister sad, but lith or limb
(Save us all from Fairy thrall)
Never again of Una bawn
Where now she walks in dreamy hall
Shall eye of mortal look upon ;
O can it be the guard was gone,
That better guard than shield or wall ?
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 305
Who knows on earth save Jurlaugh Daune ?
(Save us all from Fairy thrall.
Behold the banks are green and bare,
No pit is here wherein to fall ;
Ay, at the fount you well may stare,
But naught save pebbles smooth is there,
And small straws twirling, one and all.
Hie thee home, and be thy prayer,
Save us all from Fairy thrall !
THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR
COME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged ; 'tis at a
white heat now :
The bellows ceased, the flames decreased \ tho'
on the forge's brow
The little flames still fitfully play thro' the sable mound ;
And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking
round,
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only
bare;
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the
windlass there.
The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound
heaves below ;
And red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every
throe :
It rises, roars, rends all outright O Vulcan, what a
glow !
'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright ; the high sun
shines not so !
306 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful
show;
The roof ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy
lurid row
Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before
the foe ;
As, quivering thro' his fleece of flame, the sailing
monster, slow
Sinks on the anvil all about, the faces fiery glow
" Hurrah ! " they shout, "leap out leap out; " bang,
bang, the sledges go :
Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and
low;
A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing
blow;
The leathern mail rebounds the hail ; the rattling cin-
ders strow
The ground around; at every bound the sweltering
fountains flow,
And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke
pant "ho !"
Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out and lay on
load !
Let's forge a goodly anchor a bower thick and broad ;
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode;
And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road
The low reef roaring on her lee the roll of ocean
poured
From stem to stern, sea after sea ; the mainmast by
the board ;
The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove
at the chains !
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 307
But courage still, brave mariners the Bower yet re-
mains,
And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye
pitch sky high,
Then moves his head, as tho' he said, " Fear nothing
here am I ! "
Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep
time;
Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's
chime ;
But, while ye sling your sledges, sing and let the
burden be,
The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we !
Strike in, strike in the sparks begin to dull their
rustling red ;
Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will
soon be sped ;
Our anchor soon must change its bed of fiery rich
array,
For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch
of clay ;
Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry crafts-
men here,
For the yeo-heave-o', and the heave-away, and the
sighing seaman's cheer;
When, weighing slow at eve they go far, far from
love and home ;
And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean
foam.
3 o8 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last ;
A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was
cast.
O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life
like me,
What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the
deep green sea !
O deep-sea Diver, who might then behold such sights
as thou ?
The hoary-monster's palaces ! methinks what joy 'twere
now
To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the
whales,
And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their
scourging tails !
Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea uni-
corn,
And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his
ivory horn ;
To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn ;
And for the ghastly grinning shark to laugh his jaws
to scorn :
To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Nor-
wegian isles
He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed miles,
Till, snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls;
Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished
shoals
Of his back-browsing ocean-calves ; or, haply in a cove,
Shell-strewn, and consecrate of old to some UndinS
love,
To find the long-haired mermaidens ; or, hard-by icy
lands,
To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 309
O broad-armed Fisher of the deep, whose sports can
equal thine ?
The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy
cable line ;
And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by
day,
Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game
to play
But shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name I
gave
A fisher's joy is to destroy thine office is to save.
O lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but un-
derstand
Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that
dripping band,
Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about
thee bend,
With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their
ancient friend
Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger
steps round thee,
Thine iron side would swell with pride ; thou'dst leap
within the sea !
Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant
strand,
To shed their blood so freely for the love of Father-
land
Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church-
yard grave,
So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave
310 THE GOLDEN TRMASURT OF
Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly
sung,
Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes
among !
THE LAPFUL OF NUTS
WHENE'ER I see soft hazel eyes,
And nut-brown curls,
I think of those bright days I spent
Among the Limerick girls ;
When up through Gratia woods I went
Nutting with thee;
And we plucked the glossy, clustering fruit
From many a bending tree.
Beneath the hazel boughs we sat,
Thou, love, and I,
And the gathered nuts lay in thy lap,
Below thy downcast eye.
But little we thought of the store we'd won,
I, love, or thou,
For our hearts were full, and we dare not own
The love that's spoken now.
O there's wars for willing hearts in Spain,
And high Germanic !
And I'll come back, if I ever come back,
With knightly fame and fee,
And I'll come back, if I ever come back,
Faithful to thee,
That sat, with thy white lap full of nuts,
Beneath the hazel-tree.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 311
MAURICE FITZGERALD
(Living)
MOONLIGHT ON NEW YORK BAY
OH, say is that beautiful moon that I see
Serenely adorning the Heavens above,
Whose beams are refulgently shining on me,
Is it shining as bright on the land that I love?
The land where I first saw the moon's silver light,
The land that I cherish wherever I stray
Oh, say, is that moon shining brightly to-night
On the green hills of Ireland, away, far away ?
How calm and how placid the ocean appears
See, the moon and the stars are reflected below.
The reflection brings back like a flash through the
years
The dreams of my boyhood, the days long ago ;
The days when I fancied that everything bright
Was lasting and real, how delusive were they !
Oh, beautiful Moon ! art thou shining to-night
On the green hills of Ireland, away, far away ?
Oh, beautiful Moon ! if thou'rt shining as well
On that green little island away o'er the sea,
To the dear cherished friends who in Ireland dwell
With friendship and love bear a token from me.
For oh, were I clasped in Death's cold hand to-night,
312 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
Even there with the last breath these fond words I'd
say :
"Oh, beautiful Moon, shine peaceful and bright
On the green hills of Ireland, away, far away ! "
TO DOUGLAS HYDE
FROM the banks of Androscoggin,
Where the pine is bending o'er,
To the farthest headland marking
California's fertile shore ;
From the boundless plains of Texas
No Niagara's foaming tide,
With a hundred thousand welcomes
Exiles greet you, Douglas Hyde.
Long we've listened to the pleading
Of the men who failed to show
How their words alone could purchase
Freedom from a heartless foe ;
Meekly craving for the justice
Always thwarted, long denied
Thank the Lord that heaven sent us
Men like you, our Douglas Hyde.
You, who knew of Erin's glory,
You, who saw her latent power,
You, who searched the mountain craggy,
Wooded glen and leafy bower
For the relics of her genius
And the tokens of her pride ;
You, who wove a native garland,
You, who crowned her, Douglas Hyde !
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 313
Now the dismal clouds are drifting
And the star of hope appears,
Lighting Erin's road to freedom
After all the weary years ;
Now the olden tongue is spoken,
And across the ocean wide
You are bringing news to cheer us
From the old land, Douglas Hyde.
From the banks of Androscoggin,
Where the pine is bending o'er,
To the farthest headland marking
California's fertile shore ;
From the boundless plains of Texas
To Niagara's foaming tide,
Hear the shout and hear the greeting
" Welcome, welcome, Douglas Hyde ! "
3H THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
ELLEN FITZSIMON
(1805-1883)
THE SONG OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT IN
AMERICA
OR THE WOODS OF CAILLINO
MY heart is heavy in my breast, my ears are full
of tears,
My memory is wandering back to long de-
parted years,
To those bright days long, long ago,
When naught I dreamed of sordid care or worldly woe,
But roamed, a gay, light-hearted boy, the woods of
Caillmo.
There, in the spring-time of my life and spring-time
of the year,
I've watched the snowdrop start from earth, the first
young buds appear,
The sparkling stream o'er pebbles flow,
The modest violet and golden primrose grow,
Within thy deep and mossy dells, beloved Caillino.
'Twas there I wooed my Mary Dhuv and won her for
my bride,
Who bore me three fair daughters and four sons, my
age'.s pride;
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 315
Though cruel fortune was our foe,
And steeped us to the lips in bitter want and woe,
Yet cling our hearts to those sad days we passed near
Caillino.
At length, by misery bowed to earth, we left our native
strand,
And crossed the wide Atlantic to this free and happy
land ;
Though toils we had to undergo,
Yet soon content and happy peace 'twas ours to know,
And plenty such as never blessed our hearts, near
Caillino.
And Heaven a blessing has bestowed more precious far
than wealth,
Has spared us to each other, full of years, yet strong
in health ;
Across the threshold when we go,
We see our children's children round us grow,
Like sapling oaks within thy woods, far distant
Caillino.
Yet sadness clouds our hearts to think that, when we
are no more,
Our bones must find a resting place far, far from
Erin's shore ;
For us, no funeral, sad and slow,
Within the ancient abbey's burial mound will go,
No, we must slumber far from home, far, far from
Caillino.
Yet, O if spirits e'er can leave the appointed place of
rest,
316 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
Once more will I revisit thee, dear Isle that I love
best!
O'er thy green vales will hover slow,
And many a tearful parting blessing will bestow
On all, but most of all, on thee, beloved Caillino !
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 317
RICHARD FLECKNOE
( -1678)
OF DRINKING
THE fountains drink caves subterrene,
The rivulets drink the fountains dry ;
Brooks drink those rivulets again,
And them some river gliding by ;
Until some gulping sea drink them,
And ocean drinks up that again.
Of ocean then does drink the sky ;
When having brewed it into rain,
The earth with drink it does supply,
And plants to drink up that again.
When turned to liquor in the vine,
'Tis our turn next to drink the wine.
By this who does not plainly see, .
How into our throats at once is hurled
Whilst merrily we drinking be
The quintessence of all the world ?
Whilst all drink then in land, air, sea,
Let us too drink as well as they.
318 THE GOLDEN TREASVRT OF
J. L. FORREST
(Living)
THE BANSHEE'S SONG
" y^V'ER the wild heath I roam,
II On the night wind I come ;
And Beauty shall pale
At the voice of my wail !
Husk ! hark to my tidings of gloom and of sorrow !
Go, weep tears of blood, for Och ! d'eag an
chorra /
" With the stranger the brave
Hath now found him a grave ;
And in beauty and bloom
He hath sunk to the tomb !
Oh, never for Desmond shall beam forth a morrow ;
For in death cold he lies Och / d'eag an chorra /
" Woe, woe, wild and deep !
Wake, fair one, and weep !
Wail, wail, wail, wildly wail
At the voice of my tale !
Go, go ! henceforth life is a burden and sorrow !
For thy heart's pulse is stricken Och! d'eag an
chorra ! ' '
Shrieking the Phantom fled. I came and found
The maiden lying lifeless on the ground.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 319
Long, long she lay insensible. At length
Some feeble symptoms of returning strength
Were manifest, and she could faintly tell
What on that sad and weary night befell.
'Twas vain to reason with her. She would hear
No reason from me. Still the ready tear
Would follow the sad story, and her cheek
Grow pallid at the thought of that unearthly shriek.
A month elaps'd and then, alas 1 we knew
That the dread vision was too sadly true,
She smiled again no more ; but from that hour
Wither'd and droop' d like to a blighted flower.
Hourly she wasted : yet her cheek grew bright
With a deep crimson circle and a light
Unearthly sparkled in her beaming eyes.
Fondly I hoped alas ! . I was unwise
To dream the beauty of that crimson blush,
Was aught but what it was, Consumption's hectic
flush.
She died and oh, my grief was deep and wild
I grieved for dark-hair 'd ELLEN was my child !
In yon lone glen they buried her, and there
Oft do I go alone to breathe a prayer
For her departed spirit. It may be
She hears and blesses me. 'Twere agony
To think it otherwise. When the moon's light,
Her lowly grave doth rest upon, and bright
Its rays gleam over it, then doth it seem
As if her spirit hover' d in that beam,
And smiled in peace upon me. Deem ye not
My words unhallow'd. 'Tis a blessed thought
320 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
Which fondly I have cherish'd. I have clung
To this bright hope since first my heart was wrung
Under my sad bereavement. Soon, ah ! soon,
(And I would crave it as a blessed boon !)
My bones shall rest with hers, my spirit soar
To meet my dark-hair' d child upon a happier shore !
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 321
ELLEN FORRESTER
(1828-1883)
THE WIDOW'S MESSAGE TO HER SON .
" T^) EMEMBER, Denis, all I bade you say ;
rv. Tell him we're well and happy, thank the
Lord;
But of our troubles, since he went away,
You'll mind, avick, and never say a word !
Of cares and troubles, sure, we've all our share;
The finest summer isn't always fair.
"Tell him the spotted heifer calved in May;
She died, poor thing ; but that you needn't mind ;
Nor how the constant rain destroyed the hay ;
But tell him God to us was ever kind ;
And when the fever spread the country o'er,
His mercy kept the ' sickness ' from our door.
" Be sure you tell him how the neighbors came
And cut the corn ; and stored it in the barn ;
'Twould be as well to mention them by name
Pat Murphy, Ned M'Cabe, and James M'Carn,
And big Tim Daly from behind the hill ;
But say agra l O say I miss him still !
lAgradA, Olovel
322 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OP
" They came with ready hands our toil to share
'Twas then I missed him most my own right
hand ;
I felt, although kind hearts were round me there,
The kindest heart beat in a foreign land.
Strong hand ! brave heart ! O severed far from
me
By many a weary league of shore and sea !
" And tell him she was with us he'll know who :
Mavourneen? hasn't she the winsome eyes?
The darkest, deepest, brightest, bonniest blue,
I ever saw except in summer skies.
And such black hair ! it is the blackest hair
That ever rippled over neck so fair.
"Tell him old Pincher fretted many a day
And moped, poor dog, 'twas well he didn't die;
Crouched by the roadside, how he watched the way,
And sniffed the travelers as they passed him by
Hail, rain, or sunshine, sure 'twas all the same,
He listened for the foot that never came.
" Tell him the house is lonesome-like, and cold,
The fire itself seems robbed of half its light ;
But maybe 'tis my eyes are growing old,
And things look dim before my failing sight :
For all that, tell him 'twas myself that spun
The shirts you bring, and stitched them every
one.
1 Mo-mhuirnin, my darling.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 323
" Give him my blessing, morning, noon, and night ;
Tell him my prayers are offered for his good,
That he may keep his Maker still in sight,
And firmly stand, as his brave father stood,
True to his name, his country, and his God,
Faithful at home, and steadfast still abroad."
324 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF
GEORGE FOX
(Unknown)
THE COUNTY OF MAYO
From the Irish of Thomas Flavell
ON the deck of Patrick Lynch's boat I sat in
woful plight,
Through my sighing all the weary day and
weeping all the night.
Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I
go,
By the blessed sun, 'tis royally I'd sing thy praise,
Mayo.
When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did
much abound,
In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale
went round.
'Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now
I'm forced to go,
And must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my
own Mayo.
They are altered girls in Irrul now ; 'tis proud they're
grown and high,
With their hair-bags and their top-knots for I pass
their buckles by.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 325
But it's little now I heed their airs, for God will have
it so,
That I must depart for foreign lands, and leave my
sweet Mayo.
'Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl in
Irrul still,
And that Brian Duff no longer rules as Lord upon
the Hill ;
And that Colonel Hugh MacGrady should be lying
dead and low,
And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the county of
Mayo.
326 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
JEAN DE JEAN FRAZER
(1809-1852)
BROSNA'S BANKS
YES, yes, I idled many an hour
(Oh ! would that I could idle now,
In wooing back the wither'd flower
Of health into my wasted brow !)
But from my life's o'ershadowing close,
My unimpassioned spirit ranks
Among its happiest moments those
I idled on the Brosna's Banks.
For there upon my boyhood broke
The dreamy voice of nature first ;
And every word the vision spoke,
How deeply has my spirit nursed !
A woman's love, a lyre, or pen,
A rescued land, a nation's thanks,
A friendship with the world, and then
A grave upon the Brosna's Banks.
For these I sued, and sought, and strove,
But now my youthful days are gone,
In vain, in vain for woman's love
Is still a blessing to be won ;
And still my country's cheek is wet,
The still-unbroken fetter clanks,
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 327
And I may not forsake her yet
To die upon the Brosna's Banks.
Yet idle as those visions seem.
They were a strange and faithful guide,
When heaven itself had scarce a gleam
To light my darken'd life beside ;
And if from grosser guilt escaped
I feel no dying dread, the thanks
Are due unto the Power that shaped
My visions on the Brosna's Banks.
And love, I feel, will come at last,
Albeit too late to comfort me ;
And fetters from the land be cast,
Though I may not survive to see.
If then the gifted, good, and brave,
Admit me to their glorious ranks,
My memory may, tho' not my grave,
Be green upon the Brosna's Banks.
328 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
SONG FOR JULY j 2 TH, 1843
Air " Boyne Water "
COME ! pledge again thy heart and hand
One grasp that ne'er shall sever ;
Our watchword be " Our native land ! "
Our motto " Love forever ! "
And let the Orange lily be
Thy badge, my patriot-brother
The everlasting Green for me ;
And we for one another.
Behold how green the gallant stem
On which the flower is blowing ;
How in one heavenly breeze and beam
Both flower and stem are glowing.
The same good soil, sustaining both,
Makes both united flourish ;
But cannot give the Orange growth,
And cease the green to nourish.
Yea, more the hand that plucks the flow'r
Will vainly strive to cherish ;
The stem blooms on but in that hour
The flower begins to perish.
Regard them, then, of equal worth
While lasts their genial weather ;
The time's at hand when into earth
The two shall sink together.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 329
Ev'n thus be, in our country's cause,
Our party feelings blended ;
Till lasting peace, from equal laws,
On both shall have descended.
Till then the Orange lily be
Thy badge, my patriot-brother
The everlasting Green for me ;
And we for one another.
330 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF
ALICE FURLONG
(18/5- )
THE DREAMER
A WIND that dies on the meadows lush,
Trembling stars in the breathless hush !
The maiden's sleeping face doth bloom
A sad, white lily in the gloom.
Along the limpid horizon borne
The first gold breathing of the morn !
A lovely dawn of dreams doth creep
Athwart the darkness of her sleep.
In the dim shadow of the eaves
A quiet stir of lifted leaves !
As in the old, beloved days,
She wandereth by happy ways.
With half-awakened twitterings,
The young birds preen their folded wings !
She giveth a forget-me-not
To him who long ago forgot.
Athwart the meadowy, dewy-sweet,
A wind comes wandering on light feet !
For her the wind is from the south,
His kiss is kind upon her mouth.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 331
In the bird's house of emerald
The sun is weaving webs of gold !
He never coldly went apart !
She never broke her passionate heart !
Pipeth clear from the orchard close
A thrush in the bowers of white and rose !
She waketh praying : " God is good,
With visions for my solitude."
For full delight of birds and flowers
The long day spins its golden hours.
She serves the household destinies ;
The dream is happy in her eyes.
T
THE TREES
HESE be God's fair high palaces,
Walled with fine leafen trellises,
Interstarred with the warm and luminous
azure ;
Sunlights run laughing through,
And rains and honey-dew
Scatter pale pearls at every green embrasure.
The tangled twist and twine
Of his soaring staircases have mosses fine
For emerald pavement, and each leafy chamber
Is atmosphered with amber.
Athwart the mellow air
The twinkling threads of gossamer
Shimmer and shine
In many a rainbow line.
332 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
The chaffinch is God's little page.
O joy ant vassalage !
" You will ! You will ! " he sayeth the whole day
long,
In sweet monotonous song :
Poised on the window-sills of outmost leaves
He watches where the tremulous sunlight weaves
Its golden webbing over the palpitant grass,
While the summer butterfly, winged of the blue-
veined snow,
Floats by on aerial tides as clear as glass ;
Like a fairy ship with its delicate sails ablow.
From the break of morn,
Herein the blackbird is God's courtier,
With gold tongue ever astir,
Piping and praising
On his beaked horn.
To do his Seigneur duty
In mellow fluency and dulcet phrasing,
In paeans of passing beauty ;
As a chanting priest,
Chanting his matins in the wane o' the night,
While slow great winds of vibrant light
Sweep up the lilied East.
The dumb thing is God's guest,
And ever tired creature seeking rest ;
The sheep, grown weary browsing,
The cattle, drouthy with heat,
One after one, lagging on listless feet,
Seek the green shadow of God's pleasant housing ;
While the thousand winged wights of bough and air
Do find God's palace fair !
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 333
MARY FURLONG
(1868-1898)
AN IRISH LOVE-SONG
I love you, and I love you, and I love you, O my
honey !
It isn't for your goodly lands, it isn't for your
money ;
It isn't for your father's cows, your mother's yellow
butter,
The love that's in my heart for you no words of mine
may utter !
The whole world is gone wrong with me since yester-
morning early,
Above the shoulder of Sliav Ruadh the sun was peep-
ing barely,
Your light feet scarcely stirred the dew among the
scented clover ;
O happy dew, O happy grass, those little feet went
over !
The breeze had coaxed your nut-brown hair beneath
the white sunbonnet,
The sunbeams kissed the corn-flowers blue that you
had fastened on it,
And danced and danced, and quivered down your
gown of colored cotton ;
And when I looked upon your face I fear I'd quite
forgotten
334 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
It was not you I came to see this morning but another,
But who could look on that brown head, and ask for
Tom, the brother ?
Your blue eyes have bewitched me quite, the eatin'
and the dhrinkin*
Have lost the grah l they used to have, of you I'm al-
ways thinkin'.
The white of wheat is on your cheek, the scarlet of
the berry
There sweetly blends : on each soft lip the smile comes
quick and merry ;
And oh ! the blue, blue eyes that shine beneath their
silken lashes
My word ! it is for sake of them my bread is turned
to ashes !
But sure this foolish tongue of mine won't get to tell
its story
Oh, how I wish I had the talk of my fine cousin Rory !
Who's just as glib as if he ate the highest English
Grammar,
And if he loved a thousand times it would not make
him stammer.
And yet I almost think she cares for sometimes how
she blushes !
And so this pleasant eve of May, when all the larks
and thrushes
Are singing their sweet songs of love, I'll try an' tell
my story,
Although I cannot sing like them, or speak like cousin
Rory.
Grah, taste.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 335
GLEN-NA-SMOEL
IN the heart of high blue hills
Where the silence thrills and thrills,
In the Valley of the Thrushes :
From the golden low furze-bushes
On the mountain wind's light feet
Comes a perfume faint and sweet.
Where the hills stand blue and gray
In the sunshine miles away,
Rises a small streamlet brawling,
On the silence calling, calling ;
Flows by fern and foxglove tall
And green mosses curled and small.
Through the valley it goes swift,
'Tis the mountain's wayward gift;
Dancing onward, laughing, leaping,
Amber eddies gayly sweeping
Round the big stones grayly-white
In the sunny summer light !
In the Thrushes' mystic glen
Are the only dwellers men ?
When the ghostly moonlight glimmers
And the singing river shimmers,
Do the fairies never come
Are their nimble feet grown numb ?
Ah ! I think the fairies fled
When the mountain people said :
" In this crystal-watered valley
Skill and labor both shall rally,
336 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
Mighty earthen walls shall build
And the valley shall be filled,
"Filled with clear pellucid rills
That are born within the hills,
They shall gather all these fountains
Flowing sweetly from the mountains,
Cunningly shall bear them down
To the distant thirsty town ! "
No green rushes grow beside
The dark waters as they glide
From the Valley of the Thrushes ;
But the scent of the furze-bushes
And the breath of heath -clad hill
Dwell within their bosom still.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 337
THOMAS FURLONG
(1794-1827)
BRIDGET CRUISE
From the Irish of O' Carolan
OH ! turn thee to me, my only love,
Let not despair confound me ;
Turn, and may blessings from above
In life and death surround thee.
This fond heart throbs for thee alone
Oh ! leave me not to languish ;
Look on these eyes, whence sleep hath flown,
Bethink thee of my anguish :
My hopes, my thoughts, my destiny
All dwell, all rest, sweet girl, on thee.
Young bud of beauty, forever bright,
The proudest must bow before thee :
Source of my sorrow and my delight
Oh ! must I in vain adore thee ?
Where, where, through earth's extended round,
Where may such loveliness be found ?
Talk not of fair ones known of yore ;
Speak not of Deirdre the renowned
She whose gay glance each minstrel hailed
Nor she whom the daring Dardan bore
From her fond husband's longing arms ;
Name not the dame whose fatal charms,
When weighed against a world, prevailed ;
338 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
To each might blooming beauty fall,
Lovely, thrice lovely, might they be ;
But the gifts and graces of each and all
Are mingled, sweet maid, in thee !
How the entranced ear fondly lingers
On the turns of thy thrilling song 1
How brightens each eye as thy fair white fingers
O'er the chords fly gently along !
The noble, the learned, the aged, the vain,
Gaze on the songstress, and bless the strain.
How winning, dear girl, is thine air,
How glossy thy golden hair !
Oh ! loved one, come back again,
With thy train of adorers about thee
Oh ! come, for in grief and in gloom we remain
Life is not life without thee.
My memory wanders my thoughts have strayed
My gathering sorrows oppress me
Oh ! look on thy victim, bright peerless maid,
Say one kind word to bless me.
Why, why on thy beauty must I dwell,
When each tortured heart knows its power too well ?
Or why need I say that favored and blessed
Must be the proud land that bore thee ?
Oh ! dull is the eye and cold the breast
That remains unmoved before thee.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 339
EILEEN AROON l
I'LL love thee evermore,
Eileen Aroon !
I'll bless thee o'er and o'er,
Eileen Aroon !
Oh, for thy sake I'll tread
Where the plains of Mayo spread,
By hope still fondly led,
Eileen Aroon !
Oh, how may I gain thee,
Eileen Aroon ?
Shall feasting entertain thee,
Eileen Aroon ?
I would range the world wide,
With love alone to guide,
To win thee for my bride,
Eileen Aroon !
Then wilt thou come away.
Eileen Aroon ?
Oh, wilt thou come to stay,
Eileen Aroon ?
Oh, oh, yes, with thee,
I will wander far and free,
And thy only love shall be,
Eileen Aroon !
A hundred thousand welcomes,
Eileen Aroon !
A hundred thousand welcomes,
Eileen Aroon ?
'This Hardiman calls in his " Irish Minstrelsy'' the old
Eileen Aroon."
340 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF
Oh, welcome evermore,
With welcomes yet in store,
Till love and life are o'er,
Eileen Aroon !
MAGGY LAIDIR
From the Irish of John O' Neachtan
Here's first the toast, the pride and boast,
Our darling Maggy Laidir ;
Let old and young, with ready tongue
And open heart, applaud her.
Again prepare here's to the Fair
Whose smiles with joy have crowned us,
Then drain .the bowl for each gay soul
That's drinking here around us.
Come, friends, don't fail to toast O'Neil,
Whose race our rights defended ;
Maguire the true, O'Donnell too,
From eastern sires descended.
Up ! up again the tribe of Maine
In danger never failed us,
With Leinster's spear forever near,
When foemen have assailed us.
The madder fill with right good will,
There's sure no joy like drinking
Our Bishop's name this draught must claim,
Come let me have no shrinking.
His name is dear, and with him here
We'll join old Father Peter,
And as he steers thro' life's long years,
May life to him seem sweeter.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 341
Come mark the call, and drink to all
Old Ireland's tribes so glorious,
Who still have stood, in fields of blood,
Unbroken and victorious :
Long as of old may Connaught hold
Her boast of peerless beauty ;
And Leinster show to friend and foe
Her sons all prompt for duty.
A curse for those who dare oppose
Our country's claim for freedom ;
May none appear the .knaves to hear,
Or none who hear 'em heed 'em :
May famine fall upon them all,
May pests and plagues confound them,
And heartfelt care, and black despair,
Till life's last hour surround them.
May lasting joys attend the boys
Who love the land that bore us,
Still may they share such friendly fare
As this that spreads before us.
May social cheer, like that we've here,
Forever stand to greet them ;
And hearts as sound as those around
Be ready still to meet them.
Come, raise the voice ! rejoice, rejoice,
Fast, fast, the dawn's advancing,
My eyes grow dim, but every limb
Seems quite agog for dancing.
Sweet girls begin, 'tis shame and sin
To see the time we're losing.
342 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
Come, lads, be gay trip, trip away,
While those who sit keep boozing.
Where's Thady Oge? up, Dan, you rogue,
Why stand you snilly-shally?
There's Mora here, and Una's here,
And yonder's sporting Sally.
Now frisk it round aye, there's the sound
Our sires were fond of hearing ;
The harp rings clear hear, gossip, hear !
O sure such notes are cheering !
Your health, my friend ! till life shall end
May no bad chance betide us ;
Oh, may we still, our grief to kill,
Have drink like this beside us !
A fig for care ! but who's that there
That's of a quarrel thinking?
Put out the clown or knock him down
We're here for fun and drinking.
Tie up his tongue am I not sprung
From chiefs that all must honor
The princely Gael, the great O'Neil,
O'Kelly and O'Connor,
O'Brien the strong, Maguire, whose song
Has won the praise of nations ;
O' Moore the tough, and big Branduff,
These are my blood relations !
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 343
ROISIN DUBH l
OH ! my sweet little rose, cease to pine for the
past,
For the friends that came eastward shall see
thee at last ;
They bring blessings and favors the past never knew
To pour forth in gladness on my Roisin Dubh.
Long, long, with my dearest, through strange scenes
I've gone,
O'er mountains and broad valleys I still have toiled
on;
O'er the Erne I have sailed as the rough gales blew,
While the harp poured its music for my Roisin Dubh.
Though wearied, oh ! my fair one I do not slight my
song,
For my heart dearly loves thee, and hath loved thee
long ;
In sadness and in sorrow I still shall be true,
And cling with wild fondness round my Roisin Dubh.
1 This song is a translation. Mr. Hardiman in his " Irish
Minstrelsy," says of it : " Roisin Dubh (Little Black Rose) is
an allegorical ballad in which strong political feelings are con-
veyed as a personal address from a lover to his fair one. The
allegorical meaning has been long since forgotten, and the
verses are now remembered and sung as a plaintive love ditty.
It was composed in the reign of Elizabeth of England, to cele-
brate our Irish hero, Hugh Ruadh O' Donnell of Tirconnell.
By Roisin Dubh, supposed to be a beloved female, is meant
Ireland."
344 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
There's no flower that e'er bloomed can my rose excel,
There's no tongue that e'er moved half my love can
tell,
Had I strength, had I skill the wide world to subdue,
Oh ! the queen of that wide world should be Roisin
Dubh.
Had I power, oh ! my loved one, but to plead thy
right,
I should speak out in boldness for my heart's delight ;
I would tell to all round me how my fondness grew,
And bid them bless the beauty of my Roisin Dubh.
The mountains, high and misty, through the moors
must go,
The rivers shall run backwards, and the lakes over-
flow,
And the wild waves of old ocean wear a crimson hue,
Ere the world sees the ruin of my Roisin Dubh.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 345
F. O'NEILL GALLAGHER
(Living)
THE SEA MADNESS
I HAVE come far from the sound of the thresh, the
sight of the living sea,
To a place of cribbed and narrow ways, where
only the wind is free ;
But the leap of the sea is in my blood, and always,
night and day,
I hear the lap and wash of the waves, the hiss of the
flying spray.
When the loosened winds of the tempest wake far
thunder on the deep
I can hear the siren music calling through the veil of
sleep ;
Through the thronging city highways comes the hol-
low ocean roar,
And I sicken for the long green surge, the lonely
foam-wet shore.
I know a storm-lashed headland, where the broken
hillside dips
In a sombre flame of heather to the ocean's singing
lips.
I must go ; the sea has called me, as a mistress to her
swain ;
From the immemorial tumult I shall drink of peace
again.
346 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
W. D. GALLAGHER
(Living.)
THE LABORER
STAND up erect ! Thou hast the form,
And likeness of thy God ! who more ?
A soul as dauntless 'mid the storm
Of daily life a heart as warm
And pure, as breast e'er wore.
What then ? Thou art as true a man
As moves the human mass among ;
As much a part of the great plan
That with creation's dawn began
As any of the throng.
Who is thine enemy ? The high
In station, or in wealth the chief
The great, who coldly pass thee by,
With proud step and averted eye ?
Nay ! nurse not such belief.
If true unto thyself thou wast,
What were the proud one's scorn to thee ?
A feather, which thou mightest cast
Aside as idly as the blast
The light leaf from the tree.
No : uncurb'd passions, low desires,
Absence of noble self-respect,
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 347
Death, in the breast's consuming fires,
To that high nature which aspires
Forever, till thus check' d,
These are thine enemies thy worst ;
They chain thee to thy lowly lot ;
Thy labor and thy life occurs' d.
Oh, stand erect, and from them burst,
And longer suffer not !
Thou art thyself thine enemy !
The great ! what better they than thou ?
As theirs, is not thy will as free ?
Has God with equal favors thee
Neglected to endow ?
True; wealth thou hast not 'tis but dust !
Nor place, uncertain as the wind !
But that thou hast, which, with thy crust
And water, may despise the lust
Of both, a noble mind !
With this, and passions under ban,
True faith, and holy trust in God,
Thou art the peer of any man.
Look up, then ; that thy little span
Of life may well be trod !
348 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
ARTHUR GERALD GEOGHEGAN
(1810-1889)
AFTER AUGHRIM
DO you remember, long ago,
Kathaleen ?
When your lover whispered low,
" Shall I stay or shall I go,
Kathaleen? "
And you answered proudly, " Go !
And join King James and strike a blow
For the Green !"
Mavrone, your hair is white as snow,
Kathaleen ;
Your heart is sad and full of woe.
Do you repent you made him go,
Kathaleen ?
And quick you answer proudly, " No !
For better die with Sarsfield so
Than live a slave without a blow
For the Green ! "
THE MOUNTAIN FERN
OH, the fern, the fern, the Irish hill fern,
That girds our blue lakes from Lough Ine to
Lough Erne,
That waves on our crags like the plume of a king,
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 349
And bends like a nun over clear well and spring.
The fairies' tall palm-tree, the heath bird's fresh nest,
And the couch the red-deer deems the sweetest and
best ;
With the free winds to fan it, and dew-drops to gem,
Oh, what can ye match with its beautiful stem ?
From the shrine of St. Finbar, by lone Avon-bwee,
To the halls of Dunluce, with its towers by the sea,
From the hill of Knockthu to the rath of Moyvore,
Like a chaplet that circles our green island o'er,
In the bawn of the chief, by the anchorite's cell,
On the hilltop or greenwood, by streamlet or well,
With a spell on each leaf which no mortal can learn,
Oh, there never was plant like the Irish hill fern !
Oh, the fern, the fern, the Irish hill fern,
That shelters the weary, or wild roe, or kern ;
Through the glens of Kilcoe rose a shout on the gale,
As the Saxons rushed forth in their wrath from the
Pale,
With bandog and blood-hound, all savage to see,
To hunt through Cluncalla the wild rapparee.
Hark ! a cry from yon dell on the startled ear rings,
And forth from the wood the young fugitive springs,
Through the copse, o'er the bog, and oh, saints be his
guide !
His fleet step now falters, there's blood on his sides ;
Yet onward he strains, climbs the cliff, fords the
stream,
And sinks on the hilltop, 'mid bracken leaves green ;
And thick o'er his brow are the fresh clusters piled,
And they cover his form as the mother her child,
350 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
And the Saxon is baffled. They never discern
Where it shelters and saves him, the Irish hill fern.
Oh, the fern, the fern, the Irish hill fern,
That pours a wild keen o'er the hero's gray cairn,
Go hear it at midnight, when stars are all out,
And the wind o'er the hillside is moaning about,
With a rustle and stir, and a low wailing tone
That thrills through the heart with its whispering lone ;
And ponder its meaning, when haply you stray
Where the halls of the stranger in ruin decay ;
With night-owls for warders, the goshawk for guest,
And their dais of honor by cattle-hoof pressed,
With its foss choked with rushes, and spider webs
flung
Over walls where the marchmen their red weapons
hung,
With a curse on their name, and a sigh for the hour
That tarries so long. Look what waves on the tower
With an omen and sign, and an augury stern,
'Tis the green flag of Time, 'tis the Irish hill fern.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 351
LADY GILBERT
Rosa Mulholland
(1855- )
KILFENORA
A DREAM lives in the purple on thy hills,
A spirit haunteth thee forevermore
Kilfenora !
Out of that dream she cometh when she wills,
That spirit, and walketh on thy wild seashore,
Kilfenora !
A small white sea-bird on thy wave below
Sits long and broods and rocks upon thy flood
Kilfenora !
The storm within my heart how can she know*
Yet she doth know and all hath understood,
Kilfenora !
The violet and the song-bird have their nests
In thy green lap, and they are sweet in thee,
Kilfenora !
But sweeter far the dream within my breast,
Scenting my thoughts and singing piteously,
Kilfenora !
O sweeter far the dream that lived and died,
A summer's life and then a winter's grave,
Kilfenora !
352 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
In thy fair valley and on thy strong tide,
That gave and took, and taking all, yet gave,
Kilfenora !
SAINT BRIGID
^"Tt /FID dewy pastures girdled with blue air,
I y I Where ruddy kine the limpid waters drink,
Through violet-purpled woods of green Kil-
dare,
'Neath rainbow skies, by tinkling rivulet's brink,
O Brigid, young, thy tender, snow-white feet
In days of old on breezy morns and eves
Wandered through labyrinths of sun and shade,
Thy face so innocent-sweet
Shining with love that neither joys nor grieves
Save as the angels, meek and holy maid !
With white fire in thy hand that burned no man,
But cleansed and warmed where'er its rays might
fall,
Nor ever wasted low, or needed fan,
Thou walk'dst at eve among the oak-trees tall.
There thou didst chant thy vespers, while each star
Grew brighter listening through the leafy screen.
Then ceased the song-bird all his love-notes soft,
His music near or far,
Hushing his passion 'mid the sombre green
To let thy peaceful whispers float aloft.
And still from heavenly choirs thou steal'st by night
To tell sweet Aves in the woods unseen,
To tend the shrine- lamps with fay flambeau white
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 353
And set thy tender footprints in the green.
Thus sing our birds with holy note and pure,
As though the loves of angels were their theme ;
Thus burn to throbbing flame our sacred fires
With heats that still endure ;
Thence hath our daffodil its golden gleam,
From thy dear mindfulness that never tires !
I
SHAMROCKS
WEAR a shamrock in my heart.
Three in one, one in three
Truth and love and faith,
Tears and pain and death ;
O sweet my shamrock is to me !
Lay me in my hollow bed,
Grow the shamrocks over me.
Three in one, one in three,
Faith and hope and charity,
Peace and rest and silence be
With me where you lay my head :
O dear the shamrocks are to me !
SONG
E silent bird is hid in the boughs,
The scythe is hid in the corn,
The lazy oxen wink and drowse,
The grateful sheep are shorn ;
Redder and redder burns the rose,
The lily was ne'er so pale,
Stiller and stiller the river flows
Along the path to the vale.
354 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
A little door is hid in the boughs,
A face is hiding within ;
When birds are silent and oxen drowse
Why should a maiden spin ?
Slower and slower turns the wheel,
The face turns red and pale,
Brighter and brighter the looks that steal
Along the path to the vale.
THE BUILDERS
I SAW the builders laying
Stones on the grassy sod,
And people praised them, saying
" A fane to the mighty God
Shall rise aloft in glory,
Pillars and arches wide,
Windows stained with the story
Of Christ the Crucified."
I saw the broken boulders
Lie in the waving grass,
Flung down from bending shoulders.
And said, "Our lives must pass
Ere wide cathedral spreading
Can span this mossy field
Where kine are slowly treading
And flowers their honey yield.
" Oh, dreaming builders, tarry !
Unchain your souls from toil,
Leave the rock in the quarry,
The bloom upon the soil ;
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 355
For life is short, my brothers,
And labor wastes it sore,
Why toil to gladden others
When you shall breathe no more ?
" Oh ! come with footstep springing,
With empty hands and free,
And tread the green earth singing
1 The world was made for me ! '
Pray amid nature's sweetness
In pillared forest glade,
Content with the incompleteness
Of fanes that the Lord has made ! "
The builders, never heeding,
Kept piling stone on stone,
Their hands with toil were bleeding
I went my way alone.
Prayed in the forest temple
And ate the wild-bee's store;
My life was pure and simple
What would the Lord have more ?
The years, like one long morning,
They all flew swiftly by ;
Old age with little warning
Came creeping softly nigh.
Now (be we all forgiven !)
I longed to see, alas !
What the builders had raised to heaven
Instead of the tender grass.
I heard a sweet bell ringing
Over the world so wide;
356 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
I heard a sound of singing
Across the eventide.
What sight my soul bewilders
Beneath the sunset's glow?
The fane that the dreaming builders
Were building long ago !
'Tis not the sculptured portal,
Or windows jeweled wide,
With joy of the life immortal,
And woes of him who died,
That fill my soul with wonder,
And drain my heart of tears,
And ask with voice of thunder,
Where are thy wasted years !
But a thousand thousand creatures
Kneel down where grew the sod,
And hear with glowing features
The words that breathe of God.
Alone and empty-handed,
1 wait by the open door :
Such work hath the Lord commended,
And I can work no more !
The builders never heeding
They lie and take their rest,
And hands no longer bleeding
Are folded on each breast
The grass waves o'er them sleeping,
And flowerets red and white
Where I kneel above them weeping,
And whisper, " You were right."
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 357
THE WILD GEESE
I HAD no sail to cross the sea,
A brave white bird went forth from me,
My heart was hid beneath his wing :
strong white bird, come back in spring !
1 watched the wild geese rise and cry
Across the flaring western sky ;
Their winnowing pinions clove the light,
Then vanished, and came down the night.
I laid me low, my day was done,
I longed not for the morrow's sun,
But closely swathed in swoon of sleep,
Forgot to hope, forgot to weep.
The moon, through veils of gloomy red,
A warm yet dusky radiance shed
All down our valley's golden stream,
And flushed my slumber with a dream.
Her mystic torch lit up my brain ;
My spirit rose and lived amain,
And followed through the windy spray
That bird upon its watery way.
" O wild white bird, O wait for me!
My soul hath wings to fly with thee :
On foam waves, lengthening out afar,
We'll ride towards the western star.
"O'er glimmering plains, through forest gloom,
To track a wanderer's feet I come ;
358 THE GOLDEN TRE^SURT OF
'Mid lonely swamp, by haunted brake,
I'll pass unfrighted for his sake.
"Alone, afar, his footsteps roam,
The stars his roof, the tent his home.
Saw'st thou what way the wild geese flew
To sunward through the thick night dew ?
" Carry my soul where he abides,
And pierce the mystery that hides
His presence, and through time and space
Look with mine eyes upon his face."
Beside his prairie fire he rests,
All feathered things are in their nests :
" What strange wild bird is this," he saith,
" Still fragrant with the ocean's breath?
" Perch on my hand, thou briny thing,
And let me stroke thy shy wet wing ;
What message in thy soft eye thrills ?
I see again my native hills,
" And vale, the river's silver streak,
The mist upon the blue, blue peak,
The shadows gray, the golden sheaves,
The mossy walls, the russet eaves.
" I greet the friends I've loved and lost,
Do all forget ? No, tempest-tost,
That braved for me the ocean's foam,
Some heart remembers me at home.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 359
"Ere spring's return I will be there,
Thou strange sea-fragrant messenger ! "
I wake and weep ; the moon shines sweet,
O dream too short ! O bird too fleet !
360 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
(1728-1774)
AN ELEGY
On the glory of her sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize.
GOOD people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word -
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom passed her door,
And always found her kind ;
She freely lent to all the poor
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighborhood to please
With manners wondrous winning ;
And never followed wicked ways
Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumbered in her pew
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more ;
The King himself has followed her
When she has walked before.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 361
But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all ;
The doctors found, when she was dead
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent Street well may say,
That had she lived a twelvemonth more
She had not died to-day.
MEMORY
O MEMORY, thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain :
Thou, like the world, th' oppress'd oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe :
And he who wants each other blessing
In thee must ever find a foe.
T
THE HERMIT
From the Vicar of Wakefield.
URN gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.
"For here forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow ;
362 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
Where wilds immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go."
" Forbear my son," the Hermit cries,
" To tempt the dangerous gloom
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.
" Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open still ;
And though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.
" Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows ;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.
" No flocks that range the valley free
To slaughter I condemn ;
Taught by that Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them ;
" But from the mountain's grassy side
A guiltless feast I b'ing ;
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring.
"Then pilgrim turn, thy cares forego;
All earth- born cares are wrong :
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long."
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 363
Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell ;
The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure,
The lonely mansion lay ;
A refuge to the neighboring poor,
And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimmed his little fire
And cheered his pensive guest ;
And spread his vegetable store,
And gayly pressed and smiled ;
And, skilled in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguiled.
Around, in sympathetic mirth,
Its tricks the kitten tries ;
The cricket chirrups on the hearth :
The crackling fagot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart
To soothe the stranger's woe \
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.
364 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
His rising cares the Hermit spied,
With answering care opprest ;
" And whence, unhappy youth," he cried,
" The sorrows of thy breast ?
"From better habitations spurned,
Reluctant dost thou rove ?
Or grieve for friendship unreturned,
Or unregarded love ?
" Alas ! the joys that fortune brings
Are trifling, and decay ;
And those who prize the paltry things
More trifling still than they.
" And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep ;
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
And leaves the wretch to weep ?
" And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair one's jest :
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.
" For shame, fond youth ! thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex," he said;
But while he spoke, a rising blush
His lovelorn guest betrayed.
Surprised, he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view :
Like colors o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 365
The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms ',
The lovely stranger stands confest
A maid in all her charms.
"And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn," she cried;
"Whose feet, unhallowed thus intrude
Where heaven and you reside.
" But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray ;
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.
" My father lived beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he ;
And all his wealth was marked as mine,
He had but only me.
" To win me from his tender arms,
Unnumbered suitors came ;
Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feigned, a flame.
"Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove ;
Among the rest young Edwin bowed,
But never talked of love.
" In humble, simplest habit clad,
No wealth or power had he ;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these we/e all to me.
366 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
" And when beside me in the dale
He caroled lays of love,
His breath lent fragrance to the gale
And music to the grove.
" The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refined,
Could naught of purity display
To emulate his mind.
" The dew, the blossoms of the tree,
With charms inconstant shine ;
Their charms were his, but, woe to me !
Their constancy was mine.
"For still Juried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain ;
And while his passion touched my heart,
I triumphed in his pain ;
"Till, quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride ;
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret, where he died.
" But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay ;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.
"And there forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die ;
'Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I."
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 367
" Forbid it, Heaven," the Hermit cried,
And elapsed her to his breast ;
The wondering fair one turned to chide,
'Twas Edwin's self that pressed.
"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,
My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long lost Edwin here,
Restored to love and thee.
" Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And every care resign';
And shall we never, never part,
My life, my all that's mine ?
" No, never from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true;
The sigh that rends thy constant heart
Shall break thy Edwin's too."
TONY LUMPKIN'S SONG
LET schoolmasters puzzle their brain
With grammar, and nonsense, and
learning ;
Good liquor, I stoutly maintain,
Gives genus a better discerning.
Let them brag of their heathenish gods,
Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians ;
Their Quis, and their Quaes, and their Quods,
They're all but a parcel of Pigeons.
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.
368 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF
When Methodist preachers come down,
A-preaching that drinking is sinful,
I'll wager the rascals a crown,
They always preach best with a skinful.
But when you come down with your pence
For a slice of their scurvy religion,
I'll leave it to all men of sense,
But you, my good friend, are the pigeon.
Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.
Then come, put the jorum about,
And let us be merry and clever,
Our hearts and our liquors are stout,
Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons forever.
Let some cry up woodcock or hare,
Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons
But of all the birds in the air,
Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons.
Toroddle, Toroddle, toroll.
WOMAN
HEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy ?
What art can wash her tears away ?
W
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from ev'ry eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom is to die.
IRISH SONGS JND LTRICS 369
EVA GORE-BOOTH
(Living)
FROM EAST TO WEST
GREAT ships glided into the port :
Surely the ships of the gods laden with dreams :
And men said, " It is well ;
They have brought their dreams to us as of old,
And now new tales shall be told."
But the gods stood on the decks aghast ;
They saw the earth an iron port ;
The air a silver citadel,
The sky a fortress built of solid gold.
Then Prani said, " Here is no place for our dreams."
So they flung the great sails over the mast,
And sailed out slowly across the seas,
Till they came to a twilight land in the west
Where old unquiet mysteries
And pale discrowned spirits dwell ;
Where the wind sings a song with a golden lilt
And the air flows by in silver streams.
There, in wild wastes of the world they built
An ivory castle for their dreams.
THE LITTLE WAVES OF BREFFNY
THE Grand Road from the mountain goes shining
to the sea,
And there is traffic in it, and many a horse
and cart ;
370 THE GOLDEN TREJSURF OF
But the little roads of Cloonagh are deeper far to me,
And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling
through my heart.
A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o'er the
hill,
And there's glory in it, and terror on the wind ;
But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and
still,
And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my
mind.
The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on
their way,
Shining green and silver with the hidden herring
shoal ;
But the Little Waves of Breffny have drowned my
heart in spray,
And the Little Waves of Breffny go stumbling
through my soul.
TO MAEVE
NOT for thee, O Maeve, is the song of the Wan-
dering Harper sung,
For men have put lies on thy lips, and treason
and shrieking fear ;
Because thou wert brave, they say thou wert bitter
and false of tongue :
They mock at thy weakness now, who once fled
from thy flaming spear.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 371
Now thou art cold on the mountain, buried and silent
and blind,
Dumb as the hills and the stars, blind as the waves
of the sea.
A clatter of treacherous tongues goes sailing along the
wind,
And many an evil thought is spoken in hatred of
thee.
Was it Fergus whose envious breath first cast o'er thy
shining name
A poison of venomous words in the midst of the
mourning host,
Till thy glory shone before them a wicked and perilous
flame,
And thy beauty seemed but a snare, thy valor an
empty boast ?
They have buried thy golden deeds under the cairn
on the hill,
And no one shall sing of thy hero soul in the days
to come ;
For the sky is blue with silence, and the stars are very
still,
The sea lies dreaming about thee ; even the moun-
tains are dumb.
372 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
A. P. GRAVES
(1846- )
AN IRISH GRACE
FR beauty's blaze
Let Pagans praise
The features of Aglaia.
Admire agape
The maiden shape
Consummate in Thalia.
Last hail in thee
Euphrosyne
Allied the sov'ran powers,
Of form and face
No heathen Grace
Can match this Grace of ours.
Blue are her eyes, as though the skies,
Were ever blue above them,
And dark their, full fringed canopies
As if the night-fays wove them.
Two roses kiss to mold her mouth,
Her ear's a lily blossom,
Her blush a sunset in the south,
And drifted snow her bosom.
O
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 373
Her voice is gay, but soft and low,
The sweetest of all trebles,
A silver brook, that in its flow,
Chimes over pearly pebbles.
A happy heart, a temper bright,
Her radiant smile expresses ;
And, like a wealth of golden light,
Rain down her sunny tresses.
Earth's desert clime,
Whose sands are time,
Will prove a glad oasis
If 'tis my fate
My friends, to mate
With such a girl as Grace is.
FATHER O'FLYNN
F priests we can offer a charmin' variety,
Far renowned for larnin' and piety ;
Still, I'd advance ye widout impropriety,
Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.
CHORUS.
Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,
Sldinte, and sldinte, and slainte agin ;
Powerfulest preacher, and
Tinderest teacher, and
Kindliest creature in ould Donegal.
374 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
Don't talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity
Famous forever at Greek and Latinity,
Faix ! and the divils and all at Divinity
Father O'Flynn 'd make hares of them all !
Come, I vinture to give you my word,
Niver the likes of his logic was heard,
Down from mythology
Into thayology,
Troth ! and conchology if he'd the call.
Och ! Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way
wid you,
All the ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you,
All the young childer are wild for to play wid you,
You've such a way wid you, Father avick !
Still, for all you've so gentle a soul,
Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control,
Checking the crazy ones,
Coaxin' onaisy ones,
Liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick.
And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity
Still, at all seasons of innocent jollity,
Where was the play-boy could claim an equality
At comicality, Father, wid you ?
Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest,
Till this remark set him off wid the rest :
" Is it lave gaiety
All to the laity ?
Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too ? "
I
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 375
IRISH EYES
RISK eyes ! Irish eyes !
Eyes that most of all can move me !
Lift one look
From my book
Through your lashes dark, and prove me
In my worship, oh, how wise !
Other orbs, be content !
In your honor, not dispraisal
Most I prize
Irish eyes,
Since were not your ebon, hazel,
Violet, all to light them lent ?
Then no mischief, merry eyes !
Stars of thought, no jealous fancies
Can 1 err
To prefer
This sweet union of your glances,
Sparkling, darkling Irish eyes ?
B
KITTY BHAN
EFORE the first ray of blushing day,
Who should come but Kitty Bahn,
With her cheek like the rose on a bed of
snows,
And her bosom beneath like the sailing swan.
I looked and looked till my heart was gone.
376 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
With the foot of the fawn she crossed the lawn,
Half confiding and half in fear ;
And her eyes of blue they thrilled me through,
One blessed minute ; then, like the deer,
Away she darted, and left me here.
O sun, you are late at your golden gate,
For you've nothing to show beneath the sky
To compare to the lass, who crossed the grass
Of the shamrock field, ere the dew was dry,
And the glance she gave me as she went by.
LIKE A STONE IN THE STREET
I'M left all alone like a stone at the side of the street,
With no kind " good day " on the way from the
many I meet.
Still with looks cold and high they go by, not one
brow now unbends,
None hold out his hand of the band of my fair-weather
friends.
They helped me to spend to the end all my fine shin-
ing store,
They drank to my health and my wealth till both were
no more.
And now they are off with a scoff as they leave me
behind,
"When you've ate the rich fruit, underfoot with the
bare bitter rind."
There's rest deep and still on yon hill by our old
Chapel's side ;
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 377
Where I laid long ago, to my woe, my young one
year's bride.
Then Ochone ! for relief from my grief into madness
I flew:
Would to God ere that day in the clay I'd been
covered with you.
THE BLUE, BLUE SMOKE
OH, many and many a time
In the dim old days,
When the chapel's distant chime
Pealed the hour of evening praise,
I've bowed my head in prayer ;
Then shouldered scythe or bill,
And traveled, free of care,
To my home across the hill ;
Whilst the blue, blue smoke
Of my cottage in the coom,
Softly wreathing,
Sweetly breathing,
Waved my thousand welcomes home.
For oft and oft I've stood,
Delighted in the dew,
Looking down across the wood,
Where it stole into my view
Sweet spirit of the sod,
Of our own Irish Earth,
Going gently up to God
From the poor man's hearth.
O the blue, blue smoke
378 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
Of my cottage in the coom,
Softly wreathing,
Sweetly breathing
My thousand welcomes home.
But I hurried swiftly on,
When Herself from the door
Came swimming like a swan
Beside the Shannon shore ;
And after her in haste,
On pretty, pattering feet,
Our rosy cherubs raced
Their daddy dear to meet ;
Whilst the blue, blue smoke
Of my cottage in the coom,
Softly wreathing,
Sweetly breathing,
Waved my thousand welcomes home.
But the times are sorely changed
Since those dim old days,
And far, far I've ranged
From those dear old ways ;
And my colleen's golden hair
To silver all has grown,
And our little cherub pair
Have cherubs of their own ;
And the black, black smoke,
Like a heavy funeral plume,
Darkly wreathing,
Fearful breathing,
Crowns the city with its gloom.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 379
But 'tis our comfort sweet
Through the long toil of life,
That we'll turn with tired feet
From the noise and the strife,
And wander slowly back
In the soft western glow,
Hand in hand by the track
That we trod long ago ;
Till the blue, blue smoke
Of my cottage in the coom,
Softly wreathing,
Sweetly breathing,
Waves our thousand welcomes home.
THE IRISH SPINNING-WHEEL
SHOW me a sight
Bates for delight
An ould Irish wheel wid a young
Irish girl at it.
Oh, no !
Nothing you'll show
Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it.
Look at her there
Night in her hair,
The blue ray of day from her eye laughin' out on us !
Faix, an' a foot,
Perfect of cut,
Peepin' to put an end to all doubt in us.
That there's a sight
Bates for delight
An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it
380 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
Oh, no 1
Nothin' you'll show
Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it.
See ! the lamb's wool
Turns coarse an' dull
By them soft, beautiful weeshy white hands of her.
Down goes her heel,
Roun' runs the wheel,
Purrin' wid pleasure to take the commands of her.
Then show me a sight
Bates for delight
An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it.
Oh, no !
Nothin' you'll show
Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it.
Talk of Three Fates,
Seated on sates,
Spinnin' and shearin' away till they've done for me !
You may want three
For your massacree,
But one Fate for me, boys and only the one for me !
And isn't that fate
Pictured com plate
An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it?
Oh, no !
Nothin' you'll show
Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 381
SHE IS MY LOVE
In the measure of the original Gaelic love song.
SHE is my love beyond all thought,
Though she hath wrought my deepest
dole;
Yet dearer for the cruel pain
Than one who fain would make me whole.
She is my glittering gem of gems,
Who yet contemns my fortune bright ;
Whose cheek but glows with redder scorn
Since mine has worn a stricken white.
She is my sun and moon and star,
Who yet so far and cold doth keep,
She would not even o'er my bier
One tender tear of pity weep.
Into my heart unsought she came,
A wasting flame, a haunting care \
Into my heart of hearts, ah, why ?
And left a sigh forever there.
382 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
C. L. GRAVES
(Living)
AD ARISTIUM FUSCUM :
INTEGER vitae scleresque purus
Non eget Mauris jaculus neque arcu
Nee venenatis gravida sagittis,
Fusee, pharetra,
Sive per Syrtes iter aestuosas
Sive factums per inhospitalem
Caucasam vel quae loca fabulosus
Lambet Hydaspes.
Nam qua me silva lupus in Sabina
Dum meam Canto Lalagen et ultra
Terminum curis vagor expeditis,
Fugit inermim,
Quale portatum neque militaris
Daunias latis alet aesculetis
Nee Juliae tellus generat, iionem
Arida nutrix.
* Horace, Ode,
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 383
C. L. GRAVES
(Living)
AD ARISTIDEN OBFUSCATUM '
IF clear be your conscience, my Morley,
No bullet-proof coat you'll require,
Though often dispirited sorely
By Erin's Invincible ire ;
Nay further, discarding coercion,
You may with impunity fare
On a midsummer moonlight excursion
Unarmed through the County of Clare.
Look at me. As the breeze of the zephyr
I strolled forth of late to enjoy,
A vicious and virulent heifer
I was humming the " Dear Irish Boy "
Came fiercely galumphing beside me ;
But suddenly, soothed by my lay,
The animal amiably eyed me,
And cantered serenely away.
1 From The Hawarden, Horace.
384 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF
Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis
Arbor sestiva recreatur aura,
Quod latus mundi nebulae raalusque
Jupiter urget ;
Pone sub curru nimium propinqui
Soils in terra domibus negata
Dulce ridentum Lalagen amabo
Dulce loquentem.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 385
O wild is Hibernia's Taurus l
And Ceilings' chimerical Cow, 2
And neither demure nor decorous
Is the Tammany Boss, 3 but I vow
That even in Chamberlain's garden *
No wickeder brute you'll espy
Than the horrible heifer of Hawarden,
Who fled from my Emerald Eye.
Were I bound within range of a rifle
In Dopping's implacable grip ;
Though I flew to the summit of Eiffel
To give Ashmead-Bartlett the slip ;
Were I doomed to despair on Sahara,
Or sentenced to dine with the Shah,
Still I'd chant, to the tune of Ta-ra-ra,
The praises of Erin-go-bragh.
1 The Irish Bull.
2 " Three acres and a Cow."
3 Tammany Boss or the Tiger.
4 Mr. A. Chamberlain, M. P., was once gored by a bull in his
garden.
386 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
GEORGE ARTHUR GREENE
(1853- )
ON GREAT SUGARLOAF
WHERE Sugarloaf with bare and ruinous
wedge
Cleaves the gray air to view the darkening
sea,
We stood on high, and heard the north wind flee
Through clouds storm-heavy fallen from ledge to
ledge.
Then sudden "Look!" we cried. The far black
edge
Of south horizon oped in sunbright glee,
And a broad water shone, one moment free,
Ere darkness veiled again the wavering sedge.
Such is the Poet's inspiration, still
Too evanescent ! coming but to go :
Such the great passion showing good in ill,
Quick brightnesses, love-lights too soon burnt low ;
And such man's life, which flashes Heaven's will
Between two glooms a transitory glow.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 387
SPRING-TIME
THE winter fleeteth like a dream,
The rain is past and o'er ;
The sea is lit with sunny gleam,
The hills are white no more.
Full-flowered the lilac hedges stand,
The throstle sings all day,
But there's no spring in all the land
When Eileen is away.
Green are the copses on the hill ;
The cuckoo, hid from sight,
Haunts all the ringing valleys still
With echoes of delight ;
His name is like a memory
Repeated day by day,
But memories all are sad to me
When Eileen is away.
The yellow cowslips here and there
Shake in the balmy breeze ;
There is no perfume in the air,
Far-brought from southern seas ;
There is a brooding melody
In forest, hill, and bay,
But in my soul no harmony
When Eileen is away.
The birds remember in their song
Their dwellings o'er the foam ;
The cuckoo will not tarry long,
The swift returneth home :
388 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
The very wind, so full and free,
Forgets not ocean's spray,
And, Eileen, I forget not thee
When thou art far away.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 389
GERALD GRIFFIN
(1803-1840)
EILEEN AROON 1
WHEN, like the early rose,
Eileen aroon !
Beauty in childhood blows,
Eileen aroon !
When, like a diadem,
Buds blush around the stem, .
Which is the fairest gem ?
Eileen aroon !
Is it the laughing eye ?
Eileen aroon !
Is it the timid sigh ?
Eileen aroon !
Is it the tender tone,
Soft as the stringed heart's moan ?
Oh ! it is Truth alone,
Eileen aroon !
When, like the rising day,
Eileen aroon !
Love sends his early ray,
Eileen aroon /
1 Eibhlin a ruin, Eileen, my treasure.
390 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
What makes his dawning glow
Changeless through joy or woe ?
Only the constant know,
Eileen aroon /
I know a valley fair,
Eileen aroon !
I knew a cottage there,
Eileen aroon !
Far in that valley's shade
I knew a gentle maid,
Flower of a hazel glade,
Eileen aroon !
Who in the song so sweet?
Eileen aroon !
Who in the dance so fleet?
Eileen aroon !
Dear were her charms to me,
Dearer her laughter free,
Dearest her constancy,
Eileen aroon !
Youth must with time decay,
Eileen aroon !
Beauty must fade away,
Eileen aroon !
Castles are sacked in war,
Chieftains are scattered far,
Truth is a fixed star,
Eileen aroon !
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 391
GILE MACHREE
Z.fi 1 Machree,
Sit down by me,
We now are joined and ne'er shall sever \
This hearth's our own,
Our hearts are one,
And peace is ours forever !
When I was poor,
Your father's door
Was closed against your constant lover ;
With care and pain
I tried in vain
My fortunes to recover.
I said, "To other lands I'd roam,
Where fate may smile on me, love ; "
I said, " Farewell, my own old home ! "
And I said, "Farewell to thee, love ! "
Sing, Gile machree, etc.
I might have said,
My mountain maid,
Come live with me, your own true lover
I know a spot,
A silent cot,
Your friends can ne'er discover,
Where gently flows the waveless tide
By one small garden only ;
Where the heron waves his wings so wide,
And the linnets sing so lonely !
Sing, Gile machree, etc.
392 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
I might have said,
My mountain maid,
A father's right was never given
True hearts to curse
With tyrant force
That have been blest in heaven.
But then I said, "In after years,
When thoughts of home shall find her,
My love may mourn with secret tears
Her friends thus left behind her."
Sing, Gile machree, etc.
Oh, no, I said,
My own dear maid,
For me, though all forlorn, forever
That heart of thine
Shall ne'er repine
O'er slighted duty never.
From home and thee, though wandering far
A dreary fate be mine, love ;
I'd rather live in endless war
Than buy my peace with thine, love.
Sing, Gile machree, etc.
Far, far away,
By night and day,
I toiled to win a golden treasure ;
And golden gains
Repaid my pains
In fair and shining measure.
I sought again my native land,
Thy father welcomed me, love ;
I poured my gold into his hand,
And my guerdon found in thee, love.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 393
Sing, Gile machree,
Sit down by me,
We now are joined and ne'er shall sever ;
This hearth's our own,
Our hearts are one,
And peace is ours forever !
HY-BRASAIL: THE ISLE OF THE BLEST
ON the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye
dwell,
A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell ;
Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest,
And they called it Hy-Brasail t the isle of the blest.
From year unto year on the ocean's blue rim,
The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim ;
The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay.
And it looked like an Eden, away, far away 1
A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale,
In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail ;
From Ara, the holy, he turned to the west,
For though Ara was holy, Hy-Brasail was blest.
He heard not the voices that called from the shore
He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar;
Home, kindred, and safety, he left on that day.
And he sped to Hy-Brasail, away, far away !
Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle,
O'er the faint rim of distance, reflected its smile ;
Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy shore
Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before j
394 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track,
And to Ara again he looked timidly back ;
Oh ! far on the verge of the ocean it lay,
Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away !
Rash dreamer, return ! O ye winds of the main,
Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again.
Rash fool ! for a vision of fanciful bliss,
To barter thy calm life of labor and peace.
The warning of reason was spoke in vain ;
He never revisited Ara again !
Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray,
And he died on the waters away, far away !
THE WAKE OF THE ABSENT
THE dismal yew and cypress tall
Wave o'er the churchyard lone,
Where rest our friends and fathers all,
Beneath the funeral stone.
Unvexed in holy ground they sleep,
Oh ! early lost ! o'er thee
No sorrowing friend shall ever weep,
Nor stranger bend the knee.
Mo Chuma ! l lorn am I !
Hoarse dashing rolls the salt sea wave
Over our perished darling's grave.
The winds the sullen deep that tore
His death-song chanted loud,
1 Mo Chuma : My grief; or, Woe is me.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 395
The weeds that line the clifted shore
Were all his burial shroud.
For friendly wail and holy dirge,
And long lament of love,
Around him roared the angry surge,
The curlew screamed above.
Mo Chuma ! lorn am I !
My grief would turn to rapture now,
Might I but touch that pallid brow.
The stream -born bubbles soonest burst
That earliest left the source ;
Buds earliest blown are faded first
In Nature's wonted course.
With guarded pace her seasons creep,
By slow decay expire ;
The young above the aged weep,
The son above the sire.
Mo Chuma ! lorn am I !
That death a backward course should hold,
To smite the young and spare the old.
396 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
STEPHEN LUCIUS GWYNN
(Living)
A LAY OF OSSIAN AND PATRICK
I
TELL you an ancient story
Learnt on an Irish strand
Of lonely Ossian returning
Belated from fairyland
To a land grown meek and holy,
To a land of mass and bell,
Under the hope of heaven,
Under the dread of hell :
It tells how the bard and warrior,
Last of a giant race,
Wrestled a year with Patrick,
Answering face to face,
Mating the praise of meekness,
With vaunt of the warrior school,
And the glory of God the Father
With the glory of Finn MacCool ;
Until at last the hero,
Through fasting and through prayer,
Came to the faith of Christians,
And turned from the things that were.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 397
When the holy bread was broken,
And the water wet on his brow,
And the last of the fierce Fianna
Had spoken the Christian vow,
In a sudden glory Patrick
Seeing the fierce grown mild,
Laughed with joy on his convert,
Like father on first-born child.
" Well was for you, O Ossian,
You came to the light," he said ;
" And now I will show you the torment
From which to our God you fled."
Then with a pass of his crozier
He put a spell on the air,
And there fell a mist on the eyeballs
Of Ossian standing there.
Shapes loomed up through the darkness,
And "Now," says the saint, "look well;
See your friends the Fianna,
And all their trouble in hell. ' '
Ossian stared through the darkness,
Saw, as the mist grew clear,
Legions of swarth-hued warriors
Raging with sword and spear :
Footmen, huge and misshapen,
Stiffened with snarling ire ;
Chariots with hell-black stallions
Champing a spume of fire,
398 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF
And all of the grim-faced battle,
With clash and yell and neigh,
Dashed on a knot of warriors
Set in a rank at bay.
Ossian looked, and he knew them,
Knew each man of them well,
Knew his friends, the Fianna,
There in the pit of hell.
There was his very father,
Leader of all their bands,
Finn, the terrible wrestler,
Griping with giant hands ;
Oscar with edged blade smiting,
Caoilte with charging lance,
And Diarmuid poising his javelin,
Nimble as in the dance ;
Conan, the crop-eared stabber,
Aiming a slant-way stroke,
And the fiery Lugach leaping
Where the brunt of battle broke.
But in front of all by a furlong,
There in the hell-light pale,
Was the champion, Gull MacMorna,
Winding a monstrous flail.
And still the flail as he swung it
Sang through the maddened air,
Singing the deeds of heroes,
A song of the days that were.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 399
It swung with the shrilling of pipers,
It smote with a thud of drums,
It leapt and it whirled in battle,
Crying, "Gull MacMorna comes."
It leapt and it smote, and the devils
Shrieked under every blow ;
With the very wind of its whistling
Warriors were stricken low.
It swept a path through the army
Wide as a winter flood,
And down that lane the Fianna
Charged in a wash of blood.
Patrick gazed upon Ossian :
But Ossian watched to descry
The surf and the tide of battle
Turn as in days gone by.
And lo ! at the sudden onslaught
The fighters of Eirie made,
And under the flail of MacMorna,
The host of the foemen swayed,
Broke ; and Ossian, breathless,
Heard the exultant yell
Of his comrades hurling the devils
Back to the wall of hell.
And the sword-blades reaped like sickles,
And the javelins hissed like hail,
And louder and ever louder
Rose the song of the flail,
400 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
As whirling in air the striker
Sang clear, or thudded dull,
When, woe ! the tug ' on a sudden
Snapped in the grasp of Gull.
Hand-staff and striker parted ;
The song of the flail was dumb,
On the heart of Ossian, listening,
Fell that silence numb.
And oh ! for a time uncounted
He watched with straining eyes
The tide of the devils' battle
Quicken and turn and rise.
He watched the Fianna's onset
Waver and hang in doubt,
He watched his leaderless comrades
Swept in a struggling rout.
But Gull, with a shield before him,
Crouched on the battleground,
And there in the track of slaughter
Tore at what he found,
Until in the crash and tumult,
And dashed with a bloody rain,
He had knotted his flail together
With sinews out of the slain.
1 Tug, sometimes called trace, the leathern thong which holds
the two parts of a flail together.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 401
Then, as the gasping Fianna
Felt their endeavor fail,
Chanting their ancient valor
Rose the voice of the flail.
And again in the stagnant ebbing
Of their blood began to flow
The flood of a surging courage,
The hope of a crowning blow ;
And the heart of their comrades watching,
Stirred with joy to behold
Feats of his bygone manhood,
Strokes that he knew of old.
Again he beheld the stubborn
Setting of targe to targe,
Again he beheld the rally
Swell to a shattering charge.
And surely now the Fianna
Must slaughter and whelm the foe
In a fierce and final triumph,
Lords of the realm below,
As they leapt in a loosened phalanx,
Climbing on heaps of slain :
And again Gull's wizard weapon
Flew on a stroke in twain.
For a time and times uncounted
Ossian endured the sight
Of the endless swaying tumult,
The ebb and flow of the fight.
402 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
His face grew lean with sorrow,
And hunger stared from his eyes,
And the laboring breath from his bosom
Broke in heavy sighs.
Patrick watched, and he wondered,
And at last in pity spoke :
" Vexed is your look, O Ossian,
As your very heart were broke.
" Courage, O new-made Christian :
Great is my joy in you :
I would like it ill on a day of grace
My son should have aught to rue.
" Therefore for these your comrades
I give you a wish to-day
That shall lift them out of their torment
Into some better way.
" Speak ! be bold in your asking,
Christ is strong to redeem."
Ossian turned to him sudden,
Like one awaked from a dream.
His eye was fierce as an eagle's,
And his voice had a trumpet's ring,
As when at the Fenian banquets
He lifted his harp to sing.
"I ask no help of the Father,
I ask no help of the Son,
Nor of the Holy.Spirit,
Ever Three in One.
I
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 403
" This for my only asking,
And then let might prevail,-
Patrick, give Gull MacMorna
An iron fug to his flail."
Patrick is dead, and Ossian ;
Gull to his place is gone ;
But the words and the deeds of heroes
Linger in twilight on,
In a twilight of fireside tellings
Lit by the poet's lay,
Lighting the gloom of hardship,
The night of a needy day.
And still the Gael, as he listens
In a land of mass and bell,
Under the hope of heaven,
Under the dread of hell,
Thinks long, like age-spent Ossian,
For the things that are no more,
For the clash of meeting weapons,
And the mad delight of war.
IRELAND
RELAND, oh, Ireland ! centre of my longings,
Country of my fathers, home of my heart !
Overseas you call me : Why an exile from me ?
Wherefore sea-severed, long leagues apart ?
404 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
As the shining salmon, homeless in the sea depths,
Hears the river call him, scents out the land,
Leaps and rejoices in the meeting of the waters,
Breasts weir and torrent, nests in the sand ;
Lives there and loves ; yet with the years returning,
Rusting in the river, pines for the sea,
Sweeps back again to the ripple of the tideway,
Roamer of the waters, vagabond and free
Wanderer am I like the salmon of the rivers ;
London is my ocean, murmurous and deep,
Tossing and vast ; yet through the roar of London
Comes to me thy summons, calls me in sleep.
Pearly are the skies in the country of my fathers,
Purple are thy mountains, home of my heart.
Mother of my yearning, love of all my longings,
Keep me in remembrance, long leagues apart.
MATER SEVERA
WHERE the huge Atlantic swings heavy water
eastward,
Ireland, square to meet it, shoulders off the
seas;
Wild are all her coasts with stress of cliff and billow,
On her northern moorland is little sheltered ease.
Well is with the salmon, ranger of her rivers :
Well is with the mackerel shoaling in each bay,
Dear is all the land to the lonely snipe and curlew :
Ay, but for its manfolk ! a bitter lot have they.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 405
Thankless is the soil : men trench, and delve, and labor
Black and spongy peat amid barren knowes of stone :
Then to win a living overseas they travel,
And their women gather, if God pleases, what was
sown.
Harvesters, a-homing from the golden tilth of England,
Where they sweat to cope with increase of teeming
years,
Find too oft returning, sick with others' plenty,
Sunless autumn dank upon green and spindling ears.
Or a tainted south wind brings upon the root-crop
Stench of rotting fibre and green leaf turning black :
Famine, never distant,, stalks nearer now and nearer,
Bids them rake like crows amid mussel- beds and
wrack.
Bleak and gray to man is the countenance of Nature ;
Bleak her soil below him, bleak her sky above ;
Wherefore, then, by man is her rare smile so cherished ?
Paid her niggard bounty with so lavish love ?
Not the slopes of Rhine with such yearning are re-
membered ;
Not your Kentish orchards, not your Devon lanes.
'Tis as though her sons for that ungentle mother
Knew a mother's tenderness, felt a mother's pains.
Many an outward-bound, as the ship heads under Tory,
Clings with anguished eyes to the barren Fanad
shore.
406 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
Many a homeward-bound, as they lift the frowning
Foreland,
Pants to leap the league to his desolate Gweedore.
There about the ways God's air is free and spacious :
Warm are chimney-corners there, warm the kindly
heart.
There the soul of man takes root, and through its travail
Grips the rocky anchorage till the life-strings part.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 407
CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE
(1829-1868)
NOT A STAR FROM THE FLAG SHALL FADE
OCH ! a rare ould flag was the flag we bore,
'Twas a bully ould flag, an' nice;
It had sthripes in plenty, an' shtars galore
'Twas the broth of a purty device.
Faix, we carried it South, an' we carried it far,
An' around it our bivouacs made ;
An' we swore by the shamrock that never a shtar
From its azure field should fade.
Ay, this was the oath, I tell you thrue,
That was sworn in the souls of our Boys in Blue.
The fight it grows thick, an' our boys they fall,
An' the shells like a banshee scream ;
An' the flag it is torn by many a ball,
But to yield it we never dhream.
Though pierced by bullets, yet still it bears
All the shtars in its tatthered field,
An' again the brigade, like to one man swears,
" Not a shtar from the flag we yield ! "
'Twas the deep, hot oath, I tell you thrue,
That lay close to the hearts of our Boys in Blue.
Shure, the fight it was won afther many a year,
But two-thirds of the boys who bore
4 o8 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
That flag from their wives and sweethearts dear
Returned to their homes no more.
They died by the bullet disease had power,
An' to death they were rudely tossed ;
But the thought came warm in their dying hour,
" Not a shtar from the flag is lost ! "
Then they said their pathers and aves through,
An', like Irishmen, died did our Boys in Blue.
But now they tell us some shtars are gone,
Torn out by the rebel gale ;
That the shtars we fought for, the states we won,
Are still out of the Union's pale.
May their sowls in the dioul's hot kitchen glow
Who sing such a lyin' shtrain ;
By the dead in their graves, it shall not be so
They shall have what they died to gain !
All the shtars in our flag shall still shine through
The grass growing soft o'er our Dead in Blue !
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 409
BULMER HOBSON
(Living)
THE DELUGE
ONCE Manannan Mac Lir his deep blue mantle
'cast
Over the hearts of men, and over all the land ;
And he came to the land of men, borne on an icy blast.
The wind drifted the waves, and the waves washed
on the strand
Till water and earth were blent. The pale sky and
the sea
Met on the mountain tops, and the trembling stars
were quenched.
And the frightened hosts of men thought to the west
to flee ;
But far to the west, and further, all the land was
drenched.
Then the clans of men were drowned, women and
warriors strong ;
Children tossed on the waves, maidens with loosened
hair
Drifted about on the waters ; and the sea washed for
long
Over the land where the hosts of men once had a
dwelling fair.
But Fintan roamed through the flood, and he alone
of men
4io THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
Watched the rise of the sea, watched it tower and
fall,
Ebb, and flow, and fail, and sink from the land again,
Leaving the dead in its track, and silence over all.
Then he gathered the bodies of men, gathered them
one by one
From the desolated land; and he built a mighty
pyre,
And he laid them side by side, wife, and father, and
son.
And there in the starlight pale he lit the funeral fire.
And the smoke- wreath curled away; and over the
moonlit sea
It went, in the dead of night, till it came to the
Isles in the West.
And out of the smoke each man took the shape that
he used to be ;
And there they dwell on the sunset's rim, in the
&mset roam and rest.
ULAD
IN the north is the strength of the wind, of the whirl-
wind ;
In the south there are murmuring waters ;
The east has a caoine for its song ;
In the west is strengthless love.
The waters grow troubled and cease soon,
But the wind is a-sway on the hills
Forever, forever.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 411
The caoine sings memories, memories,
Thoughts and deeds that are dead.
Oh, 1 sing to the wind and the storm
The storm that like Fomor running
Leaps from hilltop to hilltop.
The waters are stirred by the wind,
And love drinks strength from its blowing :
The sorrow of memory shrinks back ;
Like a shroud it is dropped and forgotten.
Memory shorn of your sorrow,
Love reborn of the storm,
Water touched by the wind,
The wind is your master, is strongest !
412 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
MICHAEL HOGAN
(1832- )
DRAHERIN O MACHREE 1
I GRIEVE when I think on the dear, happy days of
youth,
When all the bright dreams of this faithless world
seemed truth ;
When I strayed thro' the woodland, as gay as a mid-
summer bee,
In brotherly love with my Draherin O Machree.
Together we lay in the sweet-scented meadows to rest,
Together we watched the gay lark as he sung o'er his
nest,
Together we plucked the red fruit of the fragrant haw-
tree,
And I loved, as a sweetheart, my Draherin O Machree !
His form it was straight as the hazel that grows in the
glen,
His manners were courteous, and social, and gay
amongst men ;
His bosom was white as the lily on summer's green
lea
And God's brightest image was Draherin O Machree !
1 Draherin O Machree^ little brother of my heart.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 413
Oh ! sweet were his words as the honey that falls in
the night,
And his young smiling face like May-bloom was fresh,
and as bright;
His eyes were like dew on the flower of the sweet ap-
ple-tree ;
My heart's -spring and summer was Draherin O
Machree !
He went to the wars when proud England united with
France ;
His regiment was first in the red battle-charge to ad-
vance ;
But when night drew its veil o'er the glory and life-
wasting fray,
Pale, bleeding, and cold lay my Draherin O Machree !
Oh ! if I were there, I'd watch over my darling's last
breath,
I'd wipe his cold brow, and I'd soften his pillow of
death ;
I'd pour the hot tears of my heart's melting anguish
o'er thee !
Oh, blossom of beauty ! my Draherin O Machree !
Now I'm left to weep, like the sorrowful bird of the
night,
This earth and its pleasures no more shall afford me
delight ;
The dark narrow grave is the only sad refuge for me,
Since I lost my heart's darling my Draherin O
Machree !
414 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
DOUGLAS HYDE
(1860- )
FROM A POEM BY TEIGE MAC DAIRE
From the Irish, a translation in the meter of the original
" ^^T^IS not War we Want to Wage
With THomond THinned by outrage.
SLIGHT not Poets' Poignant spur
Of RIGHT ye Owe it hOnor.
11 Can there Cope a Man with Me
In Burning hearts Bitterly,
At my BLows men BLUSH I wis,
Bright FLUSH their Furious Faces.
" Store of blister-Raising Ranns
These are my Weighty Weapons,
Poisoned, STriking STRONG through men,
They Live not LONG so striken.
" SHelter from my SHafts or rest
Is not in Furthest Forest,
Far they FALL, words Soft as Snow,
No WALL can WARD my arrow.
"To QUench in QUarrels good deeds,
To Raise up WRongs in hundreds,
To NAIL a NAME on a man,
I FAIL not FAME my weapon."
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 415
I SHALL NOT DIE FOR THEE
From the Irish
FOR thee I shall not die,
Woman high of name and fame ;
Foolish men thou mayest slay,
I and they are not the same.
Why should a man expire
For the fire of any eye ?
Slender waist or swan-like limb,
Is it for them that I should die ?
The round breasts, the fresh skin,
Crimson cheeks, hair long and rich,
Indeed, indeed, I shall not die,
Please God, not I, for any such.
The golden hair, the forehead thin,
The chaste mien, the gracious ease,
The rounded heel, the languid tone,
Fools alone find death in these.
Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm,
Thy thin palm-like foam of sea ;
Thy white neck, thy blue eye,
I shall not die for thee.
Woman graceful as the swan,
A wise man did nurture me.
Little palm, white neck, bright eye,
I shall not die for ye.
416 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
LITTLE CHILD, I CALL THEE
From the Irish
LITTLE child, I call thee fair,
Clad in hair of golden hue,
Every lock in ringlets falling
Down, to almost kiss the dew.
Slow gray eye and languid mien,
Brows as thin as stroke of quill,
Cheeks of white with scarlet through them,
Och ! it's through them I am ill.
Luscious mouth, delicious breath,
Chalk-white teeth, and very small,
Lovely nose and little chin,
White neck, thin she is swan-like all.
Pure white hand and shapely finger,
Limbs that linger like a song ;
Music speaks in every motion
Of my sea-mew warm and young.
Rounded breasts and lime-white bosom,
Like a blossom, touched of none,
Stately form and slender waist,
Far more graceful than the swan.
Alas for me ! I would I were
With her of the soft-fingered palm,
In Waterford to steal a kiss,
Or by the Liss whose airs are balm.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 417
MY GRIEF ON THE SEA l
Translated by Douglas Hyde
M
Y grief on the sea,
How the waves of it roll !
For they heave between me
And the love of my soul !
Abandoned, forsaken,
To grief and to care,
Will the sea ever waken
Relief from despair ?
My grief and my trouble !
Would he and I were
In the province of Leinster
Or county of Clare.
Were I and my darling
Oh, heart-bitter wound !
On board of the ship
For America bound.
1 Literally : My grief on the sea, It is it that is big. It is it
that is going between me And my thousand treasures. I was
left at home Making grief, Without any hope of (going) over
sea with me, Forever and aye. My grief that I am not, And
my white moorneen, In the province of Leinster Or County of
Clare. My sorrow 1 am not, And my thousand loves On board
of a ship Voyaging to America. A bed of rushes Was under
me last night And I threw it out With the heat of the day. My
love came To my side, Shoulder to shoulder And mouth on
mouth. Love Song's of Connacht.
418 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
.I i
On a green bed of rushes
All last night I lay,
And I flung it abroad
With the heat of the day.
And my love came behind me
He came from the South ;
His breast to my bosom.
His mouth to my mouth.
MY LOVE OH ! SHE IS MY LOVE
From the Irish
SHE casts a spell oh ! casts a spell,
Which haunts me more than I can tell.
Dearer, because she makes me ill,
Than who would will to make me well.
She is my store oh ! she my store, '
Whose gray eye wounded me so sore,
Who will not place in mine her palm,
Who will not calm me any more.
She is my pet oh ! she my pet,
Whom I can never more forget,
Who would not lose by me one moan,
Nor stone upon my cairn set.
She is my roon l oh ! she my roon,
Who tells me nothing, leaves me soon .
Who would not lose by me one sigh,
Were death and I within one room.
1 Ruin : secret treasure, love.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 419
She is my dear oh ! she my dear,
Who cares not whether I be here,
Who would not weep when I am dead,
Who makes me shed the silent tear.
Hard my case oh ! hard my case.
How have I lived so long a space ?
She does not trust me any more,
But I adore her silent face.
She is my choice oh ! she my choice,
Who never made me to rejoice,
Who caused my heart to ache so oft,
Who put no softness in her voice.
Great my grief oh ! great my grief,
Neglected, scorned beyond belief,
By her who looks at me askance,
By her who grants me no relief.
She's my desire oh ! my desire,
More glorious than the bright sun's fire ;
Who were than wind-blown ice more cold,
Had I the boldness to sit by her.
She it is who stole my heart,
But left a void and aching smart ;
And if she soften not her eye,
Then life and I shall shortly part.
420 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
O WERE YOU ON THE MOUNTAIN?
From the Irish
Owere you on the mountain, and saw you my
Love?
And saw you my own one, my queen and my
dove?
And saw you the maiden with the step firm and free?
say, was she pining in sorrow like me ?
1 was up on the mountain and saw there your Love,
I saw there your own one, your queen and your dove;
I saw there the maiden with the step firm and free,
And she was not pining in sorrow like thee.
RINGLETED YOUTH OF MY LOVE
Translated by Douglas Hyde in "Love Songs of Connacht "
RINGLETED youth of my love,
With thy locks bound loosely behind thee,
You passed by the road above,
But you never came in to 'find me ;
Where were the harm for you
If you came for a little to see me ;
Your kiss is a wakening dew
Were I ever so ill or so dreamy.
If I had golden store
I would make a nice little boreen
To lead straight up to his door,
The door of the house of my storeen ;
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 421
Hoping to God not to miss
The sound of his footfall in it,
I have waited so long for his kiss
That for days I have slept not a minute.
I thought, O my love ! you were so
As the moon is, or sun on a fountain,
And I thought after that you were snow,
The cold snow on top of the mountain ;
And I thought after that you were more
Like God's lamp shining to find me,
Or the bright star of knowledge before,
And the star of knowledge behind me.
You promised me high -heeled shoes,
And satin and silk, my storeen,
And to follow me, never to lose,
Though the ocean were round us roaring ;
Like a bush in a gap in a wall
I am now left lonely without thee,
And this house, I grow dead of, is all
That I see around or about me.
THE BROW OF NEFIN
Translated by Douglas Hyde in Love Songs of Connacht "
DID I stand on the bald top of Nefin
And my hundred-times loved one with me,
We should nestle together as safe in
Its shade as the birds on a tree.
From your lips such a music is shaken,
422 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
When you speak it awakens my pain,
And my eyelids by sleep are forsaken,
And I seek for my slumber in vain.
But were I on the fields of the ocean
I should sport on its infinite room,
I should plow through the billows' commotion
Though my friends should look dark at my doom.
For the flower of all maidens of magic
Is beside me where'er I may be,
And my heart like a coal is extinguished,
Not a woman takes pity on me.
How well for the birds in all weather,
They rise up on high in the air,
And then sleep upon one bough together
Without sorrow or trouble or care ;
But so it is not in this world
For myself and my thousand-times fair,
For, away, far apart from each other,
Each day rises barren and bare.
Say, what dost thou think of the heavens
When the heat overmasters the day,
Or what when the steam of the tide
Rises up in the face of the bay ?
Even so is the man who has given
An inordinate love-gift away,
Like a tree on a mountain all riven
Without blossom or leaflet or spray.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 423
THE RED MAN'S WIFE
Translated by Douglas Hyde in " Love Songs of Connacht "
9 'TT^IS what they say,
Thy little heel fits in a shoe,
'Tis what they say,
Thy little mouth kisses well, too.
'Tis what they say,
Thousand loves that you leave me to rue ;
That the tailor went the way
That the wife of the Red man knew.
Nine months did I spend
In a prison closed tightly and bound ;
Bolts on my smalls *
And a thousand locks frowning around ;
But o'er the tide
I would leap with the leap of a swan,
Could I once set my side
By the bride of the red-haired man.
I thought, O my life,
That one house between us love would be ;
And I thought I would find
You once coaxing my child on your knee ;
But now the curse of the High One
On him let it be,
And on all of the band of the liars
Who put silence between you and me.
1 There are three " smalls," the wrists, elbows, and ankles.
In Irish romantic literature we often meet mention of men being
bound " with the binding of the three smalls."
424 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
There grows a tree in the garden
With blossoms that tremble and shake,
I lay my hand on its bark
And I feel that my heart must break.
On one wish alone
My soul through the long months ran,
One little kiss
From the wife of the Red-haired man.
But the day of doom shall come,
And hills and harbors be rent ;
A mist shall fall on the sun
From the dark clouds heavily sent ;
The sea shall be dry,
And earth under mourning and ban ;
Then loud shall he cry
For the wife of the Red-haired man.
THE SIGN OF THE CROSS FOREVER
I came across this religious poem in Irish among the manu-
scripts of William Smith O'Brien, the Irish Leader, at Caher-
moyle. It was attributed to a Father O'Meehan. Douglas
Hyde in " Religious Songs of Connacht"
FROM the foes of my land, from the foes of my
faith,
From the foes who would us dissever,
O Lord, preserve me in life, in death,
With the Sign of the Cross forever.
By death on the Cross was the race restored,
For vain was our endeavor ;
Henceforward blessed, O blessed Lord,
Be the Sign of the Cross forever.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 425
Rent were the rocks, the sun did fade
The darkening world did quiver,
When on the tree our Saviour made
The Sign of the Cross forever.
Therefore I mourn for him whose heart
Shall neither shrink nor shiver,
Whose tears of sorrow refuse to start
At the Sign of the Cross forever.
Swiftly we pass to the unknown land,
Down like an ebbing river,
But the devils themselves cannot withstand
The Sign of the Cross forever.
When the hour shall come that shall make us dust,
When the soul and the body sever,
Fearful the fear if we may not trust
In the Sign of the Cross forever.
426 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
JOHN KELLS INGRAM
(1823- )
THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD
WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight ?
Who blushes at the name ?
When the cowards mock the patriot's fate,
Who hangs his head for shame ?
He's all a knave or half a slave
Who slights his country thus :
But a true man, like you, man,
Will fill your glass with us.
We drink the memory of the brave,
The faithful and the few
Some lie far off beyond the wave,
Some sleep in Ireland, too ;
All, all are gone but still lives on
The fame of those who died ;
And true men, like you, men,
Remember them with pride.
Some on the shores of distant lands
Their weary hearts have laid,
And by the stranger's heedless hands
Their lonely graves were made;
But though their clay be far away
Beyond the Atlantic foam,
In true men, like you, men,
Their spirit's still at home.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 427
The dust of some is Irish earth ;
Among their own they rest ;
And the same land that gave them birth
Has caught them to her breast ;
And we will pray that from their clay
Full many a race may start
Of true men, like you, men,
To act as brave a part.
They rose in dark and evil days
To right their native land ;
They kindled here a living blaze
That nothing shall withstand.
Alas ! that Might can vanquish Right
They fell, and passed away ;
But true men, like you, men,
Are plenty here to-day.
Then here's their memory may it be
For us a guiding light,
To cheer our strife for liberty,
And teach us to unite !
Through good and ill, be Ireland's still,
Though sad as theirs, your fate ;
And true men, be you, men,
Like those of Ninety-Eight.
428 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
THOMAS CAULFIELD IRWIN
(1823-1892)
A WINDOW SONG
WITHIN the window of this white,
Low, ivy-roofed, retired abode,
We look through sunset's sinking light
Along the lone and dusty road
That leads unto the river's bridge,
Where stand two sycamores broad and green,
Whence from their rising grassy ridge
The low rays lengthen shade and sheen.
The village panes reflect the glow,
And all about the scene is still,
Save, by the foamy dam below,
The drumming wheel of the whitewashed mill
A radiant quiet fills the air,
And gleam the dews along the turf:
While the great wheel, bound
On its drowsy round,
Goes snoring through the gusts of surf.
A-south, beyond the hamlet, lie
The low, blue hills in mingling mist,
With furl of cloud along the sky,
And ravines rich as amethyst,
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 429
And mellow edges golden-ored
As sinks the round sun in the flood,
And high up wings the crow line toward
Old turrets in the distant wood ;
Awhile from some twilighted roof
The blue smoke rises o'er the thatch ;
By cots along the green aloof
Some home-come laborer lifts the latch ;
Or housewife sings her child to sleep,
Or calls her fowl- flock from the turf,
While the mill-wheel, bound
On its drowsy round,
Goes snoring through the gusts of surf.
Still at our open window, where
Gleams on the leaves the lamp new lit,
For hours we read old books, and share
Their thoughts and pictures, love and wit :
As midnight nears, its quiet ray
Thrown on the garden's hedges faint,
Pales, as the moon, from clouds of gray,
Looks down serenely as a saint.
We hear a few drops of a shower,
Laying the dust for morning feet,
Patter upon the corner bower,
Then, ceasing, send an air as sweet.
Arid as we close the window down,
And close the volumes read so long,
Even the wheel's snore
Is heard no more,
And scarce the runnel's swirling song.
430 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
THE EMIGRANT'S VOYAGE
EVENING
THE white sails are filled, and the wind from the
shore
Blows sad from the hills we shall visit no more ;
And our ship slowly moves o'er the ocean at rest,
From the land of our hearts, in the light of the West.
Though few are the friends on the land's sinking rim,
Yet our eyes, straining into the sunset, grow dim ;
We are leaving forever the walks where we strayed,
And the graves where the dust of our dearest is laid.
Now twilight has covered the isle in its gloom ;
Dark the village, and lost the old place of the tomb ;
And we see but yon dusk mountain line in the light,
We have watched from our cottage doors many a
night.
Ah ! the stars on the ocean are glimmering nigh,
Like the eyes of the dead looking up at the sky ;
And our ship speeds along, as heart-wearied we sleep,
'Mid the waters of God and the clouds of the deep.
MORNING
Full stretched are the sails, dim and dewy the spars ;
On the spray-wetted deck falls the light of the stars,
And the blue lonely morning breaks coldly, as we,
In the wind, cleave the hurrying heaps of the sea.
All alone in the world, without riches below,
We have memories that wander wherever we go ;
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 431
And wild sorrow reasons, 'mid tears falling fast,
That the present may still draw its light from the past.
Oft of mornings to come from our windows we'll
bend,
And look on the sun, that bright following friend ;
Still fondly remembering his glory has shone
On the land that we love, and the friends who are
gone.
Oft at even, when labor is o'er for a while,
Will our hearts travel back to our own blessed isle,
Across the great sea we have traversed in gloom,
And hover in prayer by the old lonely tomb.
Yes, spirits beloved, though your home were as far
From our world-wearied hearts as the loneliest star,
Our prayers shall arise for ye from the far clime,
O many and many and many a time !
We will hear the sweet voice that on earth sound no
more
Still murmuring for us from the heaven's happy
shore ;
We will hear those dim footsteps at gray silent morn,
That paced our lost home long before we were born.
Old scenes, where we wandered together, will rise ;
The fair window landscape, the soft, rainy skies,
The old green-patched hill, where the dewy light
plays,
Where your shadows oft passed on the old summer
days.
432 THE GOLDEN TREASUR.T OF
Not alone, not alone, will we labor and roam :
Where your memories linger we still have a home,
And shall still tread, in fancy, the paths you have
trod,
Until death leads us up to our dear ones and God.
THE POTATO-DIGGER'S SONG
COME, Connal, acushla, turn the clay,
And show the lumpers the light, gossoon !
For we must toil this autumn day,
With Heaven's help, till rise of the moon.
Our corn is stacked, our hay secure,
Thank God ! and nothing, my boy, remains,
But to pile the potatoes safe on the flure,
Before the coming November rains.
The peasant's mine is his harvest still ;
So now, my lads, let's work with a will;
Work hand and foot,
Work spade and hand,
Work spade and hand
f Through the crumbly mould;
The blessed fruit
That grows at the root
Is the real gold
Of Ireland.
Och ! I wish that Maurice and Mary dear
Were singing beside us this soft day ;
Of course they're far better off than here :
But whether they're happier who can say?
I've heard when it's morn with us, 'tis night
With them on the far Australian shore;
Well, Heaven be about them with visions bright,
IRISH SONGS AND L TRIGS 433
And send them childer and money galore.
With us there's many a mouth to fill,
And so, my boy, let's work with a will ;
Work hand and foot,
Work spade and hand,
Work spade and hand
Through the brown dry mould ;
The blessed fruit
That grows at the root
Is the real gold
Of Ireland.
Ah, then, Paddy O'Reardan, you thundering Turk,
Is it coorting you are in the blessed noon.
Come over here, Katty, and mind your work,
Or I'll see if your mother can't change your tune.
Well, youth will be youth, as you know, Mike,
Sixteen and twenty for each were meant ;
But, Pat, in the name of the fairies, avick,
Defer your proposals till after Lent ;
And as love in this country lives mostly still
On potatoes dig, boy, dig with a will ;
Work hand and foot,
Work spade and hand,
Work spade and hand
Through the harvest mould ;
The blessed fruit
That grows at the root
Is the real gold
Of Ireland.
Down the bridle road the neighbors ride,
Through the light ash shade, by the wheaten sheaves;
And the children sing on the mountainside
434 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
In the sweet blue smoke of the burning leaves.
As the great sun sets in glory furled,
Faith, it's grand to think, as I watch his face,
As he never sets on the English world,
He never, lad, sets on the Irish race.
In the West, in the South, new Irelands still
Grow up in his light. Come, work with a will ;
Work hand and foot,
Work spade and hand,
Work spade and hand
Through the native mould ;
The blessed fruit
That grows at the root
Is the real gold
Of Ireland.
But look ! the round moon, yellow as corn,
Comes up from the sea in the deep blue calm ;
It scarcely seems a day since morn ;
Well, the heel of the evening to you, ma'am !
God bless the moon ! for many a night,
As I restless lay on a troubled bed,
When rent was due, her quietest light
Has flattered with dreams my poor old head.
But see the basket remains to fill :
Come, girls, be alive; boys, dig with a will;
Work hand and foot,
Work spade and hand,
Work spade and hand
Through the moonlit mould ;
The blessed fruit
That grows at the root
Is the real gold
Of Ireland.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 435
LIONEL JOHNSON
(1867-1902)
THE DARK ANGEL
ARK Angel, with thine aching lust
To rid the world of penitence :
Malicious Angel, who still dost
My soul such subtile violence !
D
Because of thee, no thought, no thing,
Abides for me undesecrate :
Dark Angel, ever on the wing,
Who never reachest me too late !
When music sounds, then changest thou
Its silvery to a sultry fire \
Nor will thine envious heart allow
Delight untortured by desire.
Through thee, the gracious Muses turn
To Furies, O mine Enemy !
And all the things of beauty burn
With flames of evil ecstasy.
Because of thee, the land of dreams
Becomes a gathering- place of fears;
Until tormented slumber seems
One vehemence of useless tears.
436 "THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF
When sunlight glows upon the flowers,
Or ripples down the dancing sea,
Thou with thy troop of passionate powers
Beleaguerest, bewilderest me.
Within the breath of autumn woods,
Within the winter silences,
Thy venomous spirit stirs and broods,
O Master of impieties !
The ardor of red flame is thine,
And thine the steely soul of ice ;
Thou poisonest the fair design
Of Nature with unfair device.
Apples of ashes, golden bright ;
Waters of bitterness, how sweet !
banquet of a foul delight,
Prepared by thee, dark Paraclete !
Thou art the whisper in the gloom,
The hinting tone, the haunting laugh ;
Thou art the adorner of my tomb,
The minstrel of mine epitaph.
1 fight thee, in the Holy Name !
Yet what thou dost is what God saith.
Tempter ! should I escape thy flame,
Thou wilt have helped my soul from Death
The second Death, that never dies,
That cannot die, when time is dead ;
Live Death, wherein the lost soul cries,
Eternally uncomforted.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 437
Dark Angel, with thine aching lust !
Of two defeats, of two despairs :
Less dread, a change to drifting dust,
Than thine eternity of cares.
Do what thou wilt, thou shalt not so,
Dark Angel ! triumph over me :
Lonely unto the Lone I go ;
Divine, to the Divinity.
THE LAST MUSIC
CALMLY, breathe calmly all your music, maids !
Breathe a calm music over my dead queen.
All your lives long, you have not heard nor
seen
Fairer than she, whose hair in sombre braids
With beauty overshades
Her brow broad and serene.
Surely she hath lain so an hundred years :
Peace is upon her, old as the world's heart.
Breathe gently, music ! Music done, depart :
And leave me in her presence to my tears,
With music in mine ears ;
For sorrow hath its art.
Music, more music, sad and slow ! She lies
Dead : and more beautiful than early morn.
Discrowned am I, and of her looks forlorn :
Alone vain memories immortalize
The way of her soft eyes,
Her virginal voice low borne.
438 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
The balm of gracious death now laps her round
As once life gave her grace beyond her peers.
Strange ! that I loved this lady of the spheres,
To sleep by her at last in common ground :
When kindly death hath bound
Mine eyes, and sealed mine ears.
Maidens ! make a low music : merely make
Silence a melody, no more. This day,
She travels down a pale and lonely way :
Now for a gentle comfort, let her take
Such music for her sake,
As mourning love can play.
Holy my queen lies in the arms of death :
Music moves over her still face, and I
Lean breathing love over her. She will lie
In earth thus calmly, under the wind's breath
The twilight wind that saith :
Rest / worthy found to die.
THE RED WIND
ED WIND from out the East :
Red Wind of blight and blood
Ah, when wilt thou have ceased
Thy bitter, stormy flood ?
R
Red Wind from over sea,
Scourging our holy land !
What angel loosened thee
Out of his iron hand ?
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 439
Red Wind, whose word of might
Winged thee with wings of flame?
O fire of mournful night !
What is thy Master's name?
Red Wind ! who bade thee burn,
Branding our hearts ? Who bade
Thee on and never turn,
Till waste our souls were laid ?
Red Wind ! from out the West
Pour Winds of Paradise :
Winds of eternal rest,
That weary souls entice.
Wind of the East ! Red Wind !
Thou scorchest the soft breath
Of Paradise the kind :
Red Wind of burning death !
O Red Wind ! hear God's voice :
Hear thou, and fall, and cease.
Let Innisfail rejoice
In her Hesperian peace.
A
TO MORFYDD
VOICE of the winds,
A voice by the waters,
Wanders and cries :
Oh ! what are the winds ?
And what are the waters ?
Mine are your eyes.
440 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
Western the winds are,
And western the waters,
Where the light lies :
Oh / what are the winds ?
And what are the waters ?
Mine are your eyes.
Cold, cold grow the winds,
And dark grow the waters,
Where the sun dies :
Oh / what are the winds ?
And what are the waters ?
Mine are your eyes.
And down the night winds
And down the night waters,
The music flies :
O ! what are the winds ?
And what are the waters ?
Cold be the winds,
And wild be the waters,
So mine be your eyes.
WAYS OF WAR
\ TERRIBLE and splendid trust
Heartens the host of Innisfail :
Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust,
A lightning glory of the Gael.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 441
Croagh Patrick is the place of prayers,
And Tara the assembling-place :
But each sweet wind of Ireland bears
The trump of battle on its race.
From Dursey Isle to Donegal,
From Howth to Achill, the glad noise
Rings : and the heirs of glory fall,
Or victory crowns their fighting joys.
A dream ! a dream ! an ancient dream !
Yet, ere peace come to Innisfail,
Some weapons on some field must gleam,
Some burning glory fire the Gael.
That field may lie beneath the sun,
Fair for the treading of an host :
That field in realms of thought be won,
And armed minds do their uttermost :
Some way to faithful Innisfail
Shall come the majesty and awe
Of martial truth, that must prevail
To lay on all the eternal law.
442 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
ROBERT DWYER JOYCE
(1830-1883)
CROSSING THE BLACKWATER
A. D. 1603
WE stood so steady,
All under fire,
We stood so steady,
Our long spears ready
To vent our ire ;
To dash on the Saxon,
Our mortal foe,
And lay him low
In the bloody mire.
'Twas by Black water,
When snows were white,
'Twas by Black water,
Our foes for the slaughter
Stood full in sight ;
But we were ready
With our long spears,
And we had no fears
But we'd win the fight.
Their bullets came whistling
Upon our rank,
Their bullets came whistling,
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 443
Their spears were bristling
On th' other bank :
Yet we stood steady,
And each good blade,
Ere the morn did fade,
At their life-blood drank.
" Hurrah ! for Freedom ! "
Came from our van,
''Hurrah ! for Freedom !
Our swords we'll feed 'em
As best we can
With vengeance we'll feed 'em !
Then down we crashed,
Through the wild ford dashed,
And the fray began.
Horses to horses
And man to man :
O'er dying horses,
And blood and corses,
O' Sullivan,
Our general, thundered,
And we were not slack
To slay at his back
Till the fight began.
O how we scattered
The foemen then,
Slaughtered and scattered,
And chased and shattered,
By shore and glen !
To the wall of Moyallo
444 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OP
Few fled that day :
Will they bar our way
When we come again ?
Our dead freres we buried,
They were but few,
Our dead freres we buried
Where the dark waves hurried,
And flashed and flew :
O sweet be their slumber
Who thus have died
In the battle's tide,
Innisfail, for you !
THE BLACKSMITH OF LIMERICK
HE grasped his ponderous hammer ; he could not
stand it more,
To hear the bombshells bursting and the
thundering battle's roar.
He said : " The breach they're mounting, the Dutch-
man's murdering crew
I'll try my hammer on their heads and see what that
can do !
" Now, swarthy Ned and Moran, make up that iron
well;
'Tis Sarsfield's horse that wants the shoes, so mind not
shot or shell."
"Ah, sure," cried both, "the horse can wait for
Sarsfield's on the wall,
And where you go we'll follow, with you to stand or
fall 1 "
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 445
The blacksmith raised his hammer, and rushed into
the street,
His 'prentice boys behind him, the ruthless foe to
meet
High on the breach of Limerick, with dauntless hearts
they stood
Where the bombshells burst and shot fell thick, and
redly ran the blood.
" Now look you, brown-haired Moran, and mark you,
swarthy Ned ;
This day we'll prove the thickness of many a Dutch-
man's head !
Hurrah ! upon their bloody path they're mounting
gallantly ;
And now the first that tops the breach, leave him to
this and me ! "
The first that gained the rampart, he was a captain
brave !
A captain of the Grenadiers, with blood-stained dirk
and glaive ;
He pointed and he parried, but it was all in vain,
For fast through skull and helmet the hammer found
his brain !
The next that topped the rampart, he was a colonel
bold,
Bright through the murk of battle his helmet flashed
with gold.
"Gold is no match for iron !" the doughty black-
smith said,
As with that ponderous hammer he cracked his foe-
man's head !
446 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
"Hurrah for gallant Limerick!" black Ned and
Moran cried,
As on the Dutchmen's leaden heads their hammers
well they plied ;
A bombshell burst between them one fell without a
groan,
One leaped into the lurid air, and down the breach
was thrown !
" Brave smith ! brave smith ! " cried Sarsfield, " be-
ware the treacherous mine
Brave smith ! brave smith ! fall backward, or surely
death is thine ! "
The smith sprang up the rampart and leaped the
blood-stained wall,
As high into the shuddering air went foemen, breach
and all 1
Up like a red volcano they thundered wild and high,
Spear, gun, and shattered standard, and foemen
through the sky ;
And dark and bloody was the shower that round the
blacksmith fell
He thought upon his 'prentice boys, they were avenged
well !
On foeman and defenders a silence gathered down,
'Twas broken by a triumph -shout that shook the
ancient town ;
As out its heroes sallied, and bravely charged and
slew,
And taught King William and his men what Irish
hearts can do !
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 447
Down rushed the swarthy blacksmith unto the river
side,
He hammered on the foes' pontoon, to sink it in the
tide;
The timber it was tough and strong, it took no crack
or strain
"Mavrone, 'twon't break," the blacksmith roared;
"I'll try their heads again ! "
The blacksmith sought his smithy, and blew his bellows
strong ;
He shod the steed of Sarsfield, but o'er it sang no
song:
" Ochon ! my boys are dead," he cried; " their loss
I'll long deplore,
But comfort's in my heart their graves are red with
foreign gore ! "
THE WIND THAT SHAKES THE BARLEY
I sat within the valley green,
I sat me with my true love ;
My sad heart strove the two between,
The old love and the new love ;
The old for her, the new that made
Me think on Ireland dearly,
While soft the wind blew down the glade,
And shook the golden barley.
'Twas hard the woeful words to frame
To break the ties that bound us ;
448 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
But harder still to bear the shame
Of foreign chains around us.
And so I said, " The mountain glen
I'll seek at morning early,
And join the brave United Men,"
While soft winds shook the barley.
While sad I kissed away her tears,
My fond arms around her flinging,
The foeman's shot burst on our ears,
From out the wildwood ringing ;
The bullet pierced my true love's side,
In life's young spring so early,
And on my breast in blood she died,
When soft winds shook the barley.
But blood for blood without remorse
I've ta'en at Oulart Hollow ;
I've placed my true love's clay-cold corse
Where I full soon will follow;
And round her grave I wander drear,
Noon, night, and morning early,
With breaking heart where'er I hear
The wind that shakes the barley !
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 449
ROSE KAVANAGH
(1860-1891)
LOUGH BRAY
A LITTLE lonely moorland lake,
Its waters brown and cool and deep -
The cliff, the hills behind it make
A picture for my heart to keep.
For rock and heather, wave and strand,
Wore tints I never saw them wear ;
The June sunshine was o'er the land,
Before, 'twas never half so fair !
The amber ripples sang all day,
And singing spilled their crowns of white
Upon the beach, in thin pale spray
That streaked the sober sand with light.
The amber ripples sang their song,
When suddenly from far o'erhead
A lark's pure voice mixed with the throng
Of lovely things about us spread.
Some flowers were there, so near the brink
Their shadows in the wave were thrown ;
While mosses, green and gray and pink,
Grew thickly round each smooth dark stone.
450 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
And over all, the summer sky,
Shut out the town we left behind ;
'Twas joy to stand in silence by,
One bright chain linking mind to mind.
Oh, little lonely mountain spot !
Your place within my heart will be
Apart from all Life's busy lot
A true, sweet, solemn memory.
I
ST. MICHAN'S CHURCHYARD
NSIDE the city's throbbing heart
One spot I know set well apart
From life's hard highway, life's loud mart.
Each Dublin lane and street and square
Around might echo; but in there
The sound stole soft as whispered prayer.
A little, lonely, green graveyard,
The old churchyard its solemn guard,
The gate with naught but sunbeams barred ;
While other sunbeams went and came
Above the stone which waits the name
His land must write with Freedom's flame. 1
The slender elm above that stone,
Its summer wreath of leaves had thrown
Around the heart so quiet grown.
1 Referring to the grave of Robert Emmet.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 451
A robin the bare boughs among,
Let loose his little soul in song
Quick liquid gushes fresh and strong !
And quiet heart, and bird and tree,
Seemed linked in some strange sympathy
Too fine for mortal eye to see
But full of balm and soothing sweet,
For those who sought that calm retreat ;
For aching breast and weary feet.
Each crowded street and thoroughfare
Was echoing round it yet in there
The peace of Heaven was everywhere !
THE NORTHERN BLACKWATER
OTHE broom banks of the river are fair,
Now the wild brier is blossoming there
Now when the green banks so calmly repose,
Lulled by the river's strange chant as it goes,
Laughing beneath the gold eyes of the broom,
Flashing so free where the heather's in bloom,
Blushing all o'er at the kiss of the sun,
Tranquil again at the gaze of a nun.
Is it, my river, a sob or a song
Beats from that heart as you hurry along ?
Once in the twilight I thought it farewell,
Just a good-bye to both mountain and dell.
452 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
Here the first daisies break free from the sod,
Stars looking up with their first glance to God !
Here, ere the first days of April are done,
Stand the swart cherry trees robed with the sun ;
In the deep woodland the windflowers blow ;
Where young grass is springing, the crocuses glow,
Down the green glen is the primrose's light,
Soft shines the hawthorn's raiment of white;
Round the rough knees of the crab-tree a ring
Of daffodils dance for joy of the spring ;
And then my bright river, so full and so free,
Sings as it wanders through woodland and lea.
Fed with a thousand invisible rills,
Girdled around with the awe of the hills,
High in the mountains you spring to the light,
Pure as the dawn from the dark ring of night.
Well may the fairies keep revelry round,
There where you cleave the thin air at a bound,
And rush on the crag with your arms outspread
Only a fairy could step where you tread
'Mid the deep echoes you pause to arouse,
'Mid the grim rocks with the frown on their brows,
Type of young Freedom, bold river, to me ;
Leaping the crags, sweeping down to Lough Neagh.
Many a ruin, both abbey and cot,
Sees in your mirror a desolate lot.
Many an ear lying shut far away
Hearkened the tune that your dark ripples play
One I remember her better than all
She knew every legend of cabin and hall ;
Wept when the Law and the Famine-time met,
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 453
Sang how the Red Hand was radiantly set
Over the victors who fought at the Ford l
Over the sweep of O'Neill's Spanish sword
O our own river ! where is she to-night?
Where are the exiles whose homes are in sight ?
Once in the Maytime your carol so sweet
Found out my heart in the midst of the street.
Ah ! how I listened, and you murmured low
Hope, wide as earth and as white as the snow ;
Hope that, alas ! like the foam on your breast,
Broke and was drifted away from its rest.
Peace did not pass from your bonny broom shore,
Lost though the hope unto me evermore,
Lost, like your song for I think it a sigh
Stirs that deep heart when I listen" anigh.
Only at dusk does it sound like farewell,
Just a good-bye to myself and the dell.
1 The Ford, Beal-an-atha-Buidhe. See Dr. Drennan's poem
with this title.
454 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
JOHN KEEGAN
(1809-1849)
CAOCH 1 THE PIPER
ONE winter's day, long, long ago,
When I was a little fellow,
A piper wandered to our door,
Gray-headed, blind, and yellow :
And, oh ! how glad was my young heart,
Though earth and sky looked dreary,
To see the stranger and his dog
Poor "Pinch" and Caoch O'Leary.
And when he stowed away his " bag,"
Crossed -barred with green and yellow,
I thought and said, " In Ireland's ground
There's not so fine a fellow."
And Fineen Burke, and Shaun Magee,
And Eily, Kate, and Mary,
Rushed in, with panting haste, to "see"
And "welcome" Caoch O'Leary.
Oh ! God be with those happy times !
Oh ! God be with my childhood !
When I, bareheaded, roamed all day
Bird-nesting in the wild wood.
I'll not forget those sunny hours,
1 Caoch, blind.
JRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 455
However years may vary j
I'll not forget my early friends,
Nor honest Caoch O'Leary.
Poor Caoch and " Pinch " slept well that night,
And in the morning early
He called me up to hear him play
" The wind that shakes the barley ; "
And then he stroked my flaxen hair,
And cried, " God mark my deary I "
And how I wept when he said, "Farewell,
And think of Caoch O'Leary ! "
And seasons came and went, and still
Old Caoch was not forgotten,
Although we thought him dead and gone,
And in the cold grave rotten ;
And often, when 1 walked and talked
With Eily, Kate*, and Mary,
We thought of childhood's rosy hours,
And prayed for Caoch O'Leary.
Well twenty summers had gone past,
And June's red sun was sinking,
When I, a man, sat by my door,
Of twenty sad things thinking.
A little dog came up the way,
His gait was slow and weary,
And at his tail a lame man limped
'Twas " Pinch" and Caoch O'Leary !
Old Caoch, but, oh ! how woebegone !
His form is bowed and bending,
456 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
His fleshless hands are stiff and wan,
Ay time is even blending
The colors on his threadbare " bag "
And " Pinch " is twice as hairy
And " thin-spare" as when first I saw
Himself and Caoch O'Leary.
" God's blessing here ! " the wanderer cried,
" Far, far be hell's black viper;
Does anybody hereabouts
Remember Caoch the Piper ? "
With swelling heart I grasped his hand;
The old man murmured, " Deary,
Are you the silky-headed child
That loved poor Caoch O'Leary? "
" Yes, yes," I said the wanderer wept
As if his heart was breaking
"And where, a vie machfee," he sobbed,
" Is all the merry-making
1 found here twenty years ago ? ' '
" My tale," I sighed, " might weary;
Enough to say there's none but me
To welcome Caoch O'Leary."
" Vo, vo, vo ! " the old man cried,
And wrung his hands in sorrow,
" Pray let me in, as tore machree,
And I'll go home to-morrow.
My ' peace is made ' ; I'll calmly leave
This world so cold and dreary ;
And you shall keep my pipes and dog,
And pray for Caoch O'Leary."
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 459
EDWARD KENEALY
LOVE'S WARNING
FAIR lady once, with her young lover walked,
Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ;
Through a garden, and sweetly they laughed
and talked,
While the dews fell over the mulberry-tree.
A
She gave him a rose while he sighed for a kiss,
Gillyflower, gentle rosemary;
Quoth he, as he took it, "I kiss thee in this,"
While the dews fall over the mulberry-tree.
She gave him a lily less white than her breast,
Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ;
Quoth he, " 'twill remind me of one I love best ; "
While the dews fall over the mulberry- tree.
She gave him a two faces under a hood,
Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ;
" How blest you could make me," quoth he, "if you
would,"
While the dews fall over the mulberry-tree.
She saw a forget-me-not flower in the grass,
Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ;
Ah ! why did the lady that little flower pass ?
While the dews fell over the mulberry-tree.
460 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
The young lover saw that she passed it, and sigh'd,
Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ;
They say his heart broke, and he certainly died,
While the dews fell over the mulberry-tree.
Now all you fair ladies, take warning by this,
Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ;
And never refuse your young lovers a kiss,
While the dews fall over the mulberry-tree.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 461
WILLIAM KENEALY
(1828-1876)
THE LAST REQUEST
YOU'RE going away, Alanna, over the stormy
sea,
And never more I'll see you oh ! never, As there
machree !
Mavrone ! I'm sick with sorrow sorrow as black as
night :
Mabouchal goes to-morrow, by the blessed morning's
light.
Oh ! once I thought, Alanna, you'd bear me to the
grave,
By the side of your angel sisters, before you'd cross the
wave :
Down to the green old churchyard, where the tree's
dark shadows fall
But now, Achorra, you're going, you'll not be there
at all.
The strangers' hands must lay me down to my silent
sleep,
And Shemus, you'll not know it beyond the rolling
deep.
Oh ! D heeling ! dheeling ! Avourneen, why do you
go away,
Till you'll see the poor old mother stretch'd in the
churchyard clay?
462 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
My heart is breaking, Alanna, but I mustn't tell
you so
For I see by your dark, dark sorrow, that your own
poor heart is low.
I thought I'd bear it better, to cheer you on your way ;
But, Achorra ! achorra ! you're going, and I'll soon
be in the clay ! .
God's blessing be with you, Shemus sure, you'll come
back again,
When your curls of brown are snowy, to rest with your
mother then ;
Down in the green old churchyard, where the tree's
dark shadows fall
Asthorach ! in the strangers' land you couldn't sleep
at all 1
THE MOON BEHIND THE HILL
THE KILKENNY EXILE'S CHRISTMAS SONG
I WATCHED last night the rising moon
Upon a foreign strand,
Till memories came, like flowers of June,
Of home and fatherland ;
I dreamt I was a child once more
Beside the rippling rill,
Where first I saw in days of yore
The moon behind the hill.
It brought me back the visions grand
That purpled boyhood's dreams;
Its youthful loves, its happy land,
As bright as morning's beams.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 463
It brought me back my own sweet Nore,
The castle and the mill,
Until my eyes could see no more
The moon behind the hill.
It brought me back a mother's love,
Until, in accents wild,
I prayed her from her home above
To guard her lonely child ;
It brought me one across the wave,
To live in memory still
It brought me back my Kathleen's grave,
The moon behind the hill.
464 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF
WILLIAM KENNEDY
(Living]
THE POET'S HEART
THOU know'st it not, love, when light looks are
around thee,
When music awakens its liveliest tone,
When pleasure in chains of enchantment hath bound
thee,
Thou know'st not how truly this heart is thine own.
It is not while all are about thee in gladness,
While shining in light from thy young spirit's
shrine,
But in moments devoted to silence and sadness,
That thou'lt e'er know the value of feelings like
mine.
Should grief touch thy cheek, or misfortune o'ertake
thee,
How soon would thy mates of the summer decay !
They first of the whole fickle flock to forsake thee,
Who flattered thee most when thy bosom was gay.
What though I seem cold while their incense is
burning,
In the depths of my soul I have cherished a flame
To cheer the loved one should the night time of
mourning
E'er send its far shadows to darken her name.
IRISH SONGS AND L TRIGS 465
Then leave the gay crowd though my cottage is
lonely,
Gay halls without hearts are far lonelier still ;
Then say thou'lt be mine, Mary, always and only,
And I'll be thy shelter whate'er be thine ill.
As the fond mother clings to her fair little blossom
The closer when blight hath appeared on its bloom,
So thou Love the dearer shall be to this bosom ;
The deeper thy sorrow, the darker thy doom.
466 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
JAMES KENNEY
(1780-1849)
WHY ARE YOU WANDERING HERE?
WHY are you wandering here, I pray?
An old man asked a maid one day.
Looking for poppies, so bright and red,
Father, said she, I'm hither led.
Fie ! fie ! she heard him cry,
Poppies, 'tis known to all who rove,
Grow in the field, and not in the grove
Grow in the field and not in the grove.
Tell me again, the old man said,
Why are you loitering here, fair maid?
The nightingale's song, so sweet and clear,
Father, said she, I come to hear.
Fie ! fie ! she heard him cry,
Nightingales all, so people say,
Warble by night, and not by day
Warble by night and not by day.
The sage looked grave, the maiden shy,
When Lubin jumped o'er the stile hard by;
The sage looked graver, the maid more glum,
Lubin he twiddled his ringer and thumb.
Fie ! fie ! the old man's cry ;
Poppies like these, I own, are rare,
And of such nightingales' songs beware
And of such nightingales' songs beware.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 467
I
THOMAS KEOHLER
(Living)
APOLOGY
N the garden of my youth
Where the flowers' pale perfumes swayed,
Passion called me and I went
Fearfully yet undismayed.
In the garden left my dreams
Of a life that might have grown
Silently to interweave
With the spirit world alone.
Why should I thus meekly yield
At the first sound of a voice ;
At the beckoning of a finger
Rush like one without a choice ?
Could the heart that nursed reared
All my youth's pale bloom of dreams,
Also bear this flaring foliage
With its blossoms' fiery gleams ?
Surely not a chance desire
Lent my feet the will to go ;
But a deeper thinking, sinking
To the soul of things below :
468 THE GOLDEN TREdSURT OF
But a deeper blending, twining,
With the bright ones on their way
And a fiercer fire divining
In the buried heart of clay.
And as peace can ne'er be mine
Until every way is trod,
With a heart sincere I go
Passion's cloud-strewn path to God.
AUTUMN
O SEASON of the withering of the leaves,
That seek their last repose on earth's cold
breast,
O let me hear the sorrows of thy voice
Calling all things to loveliness and rest.
In thy soft clouds grown gray with misery,
Thy desolate branches flaunting the gaunt skies,
Surely there dwells a sweetness of despair
For lonely hearts and weary tear-stained eyes.
For dumbly dressed, in sober light arrayed,
Breathing a hidden mystery and fear,
The pomp and pageants of eternity
Loom through the withering ritual of the year.
THE DEVOTEE
THE autumn wind sighs through the trees,
Disturbing all my garnered ease,
The brown leaves stir a fluttering thought
With half-repented memories fraught.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 469
Dear God, how sweet the pain of sin
That opens doors to let Thee in.
How strange that Nature too should know
The ecstasy of sin's wild glow ;
How strange that in this way my soul
Should feel its union with the whole.
And yet may God not thus impart
Himself unto the seeking heart ?
470 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
CHARLES J. KICKHAM
(1830-1882)
MY ULICK
MY Ulick is sturdy and strong,
And light is his foot on the heather,
And truth has been wed to his tongue
Since first we were talking together.
And though he is lord of no lands,
Nor castle, nor cattle, nor dairy,
My Ulick has health and his hands,
And a heart-load of love for his Mary,
And what could a maiden wish more ?
One night at the heel of the eve,
I mind it was snowing and blowing,
My mother was knitting, I b'lieve,
For me I was sitting and sewing ;
My father had read o'er the news,
And sat there a humming, "We'll wake him,"
When Ulick stepped in at the door,
As white as the weather could make him :
True love never cooled with the frost.
He shook the snow out from his frieze,
And drew a chair up to my father,
My heart lifted up to my eyes
To see the two sitting together ;
They talked of our isle and her wrongs
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 471
Till both were as mad as starvation :
Then Ulick sang three or four songs,
And closed with " Hurra for the Nation ! "
O Ulick, an Irishman still !
My father took him by the hand,
Their hearts melted into each other ;
While tears that she could not command
Broke loose from the eyes of my mother.
" Ah, Freedom ! " she cried, " wirra sthrue,
A woman can say little in it ;
But were it to come by you two,
I've a guess at the way you would win it,
It would not be by weeping, I swear."
472 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
PATRICK SHEEHAN
MY name is Patrick Sheehan,
My years are thirty-four ;
Tipperary is my native place,
Not far from Galtymore :
I came of honest parents,
But now they're lying low;
And many a pleasant day I spent
In the Glen of Aherlow.
My father died ; I closed his eyes
Outside our cabin door ;
The landlord and the sheriff too
Were there the day before !
And then my loving mother,
And sisters three also,
Were forced to go with broken hearts
From the Glen of Aherlow.
For three long months, in search of work,
I wandered far and near ;
I went then to the poor-house,
For to see my mother dear ;
The news I heard nigh broke my heart ;
But still, in all my woe,
I bless the friends who made their graves
In the Glen of Aherlow.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 473
Bereft of home and kith and kin,
With plenty all around,
I starved within my cabin,
And slept upon the ground ;
But cruel as my lot was,
I ne'er did hardship know
'Till I joined the English army,
Far away from Aherlow.
"Rouse up there," says the corporal,
" You lazy Hirish hound ;
Why don't you hear, you sleepy dog,
The call ' to arms ' sound ? ' '
Alas, I had been dreaming
Of days long, long ago ;
I woke before Sebastopol,
And not in Aherlow.
I groped to find my musket
How dark I thought the night !
blessed God, it was not dark,
It was broad daylight !
And when I found that I was blind,
My tears began to flow ;
1 longed for even a pauper's grave
In the Glen of Aherlow.
O blessed Virgin Mary,
Mine is a mournful tale ;
A poor blind prisoner here I am,
In Dublin's dreary jail ;
Struck blind within the trenches,
Where I never feared the foe ;
And now I'll never see again
My own sweet Aherlow !
474 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
RORY OF THE HILL
" r I ^HAT rake up near the rafters,
Why leave it there so long ?
The handle, of the best ash,
Is smooth and straight and strong ;
And, mother, will you tell me,
Why did my father frown
When to make the hay, in summer-time
I climbed to take it down ? "
She looked into her husband's eyes,
While her own with light did fill,
" You'll shortly know the reason, boy! "
Said Rory of the Hill.
The midnight moon is lightning up
The slopes of Sliav-na-man,
Whose foot affrights the startled hares
So long before the dawn ?
He stopped just where the Anner's stream
Winds up the woods anear,
Then whistled low and looked around
To see the coast was clear.
The sheeling door flew open
In he stepped with right good-will
"God save all here and bless your WORK,"
Said Rory of the Hill.
Right hearty was the welcome
That greeted him, I ween,
For years gone by he fully proved
How well he loved the Green ;
And there was one amongst them
Who grasped him by the hand
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 475
One who through all that weary time
Roamed on a foreign strand ;
He brought them news from gallant friends
That made their heart-strings thrill
" J/y sow! 7 I never doubted them ! "
Said Rory of the Hill.
They sat around the humble board
Till dawning of the day,
And yet not song nor shout I heard
No revelers were they :
Some brows flushed red with gladness,
While some were grimly pale ;
But pale or red, from out those eyes
Flashed souls that never quail !
" And sing us now about the vow,
They swore for to fulfil "
" You'll read it yet in history,"
Said Rory of the Hill.
Next day the ashen handle
He took down from where it hung,
The toothed rake, full scornfully,
Into the fire he flung ;
And in its stead a shining blade
Is gleaming once again
(Oh ! for a hundred thousand of
Such weapons and such men !)
Right soldierly he wielded it,
And going through his drill
" Attention " " charge " " front, point "
"advance"
Cried Rory of the Hill.
476 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
She looked at him with woman's pride,
With pride and woman's fears;
She flew to him, she clung to him,
And dried away her tears ;
He feels her pulse beat truly,
While her arms around him twine
" Now God be praised for your stout heart,
Brave little wife of mine. ' '
He swung his first-born in the air,
While joy his heart did fill
" You'll be a FREEMAN yet, my boy,"
Said Rory of the Hill.
Oh ! knowledge is a wondrous power,
And stronger than the wind ;
And thrones shall fall, and despots bow,
Before the might of mind ;
The poet and the orator
The heart of man can sway,
And would to the kind heavens
That Wolfe Tone were here to-day !
Yet trust me, friends, dear Ireland's strength
Her truest strength is still
The rough-and-ready roving boys,
Like Rory of the Hill.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 477
DENNY LANE
(1818-1896)
KATE OF ARRAGLEN
WHEN first I saw thee, Kate,
That summer ev'ning late,
Down at the orchard gate
Of Arraglen,
I felt I'd ne'er before
Seen one so fair, asthore,
I feared I'd never more
See thee again
I stopped and gazed at thee,
My footfall luckily
Reached not thy ear, though we
Stood there so near ;
While from thy lips a strain,
Soft as the summer rain,
Sad as a lover's pain
Fell on my ear.
I've heard the lark in June,
The harp's wild plaintive tune,
The thrush, that aye too soon
Gives o'er his strain
I've heard in hushed delight,
The mellow horn at night,
Waking the echoes light
Of old Loch Lene;
478 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
But neither echoing horn,
Nor thrush upon the thorn,
Nor lark at early morn,
Hymning in air,
Nor harper's lay divine,
E'er witched this heart of mine,
Like that sweet voice of thine,
That ev'ning there.
And when some rustling, dear,
Fell on thy listening ear,
You thought your brother near,
And named his name,
I could not answer, though,
As luck would have it so,
His name and mine, you know,
Were both the same
Hearing no answering sound,
You glanced in doubt around,
With timid look, and found
It was not he ;
Turning away your head,
And blushing rosy red,
Like a wild fawn you fled
Far, far from me.
The swan upon the lake,
The wild rose in the brake,
The golden clouds that make
The west their throne,
The wild ash by the stream,
The full moon's silver beam,
The ev'ning star's soft gleam,
Shining alone ;
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 479
The lily robed in white,
All, all are fair and bright ;
But ne'er on earth was sight
So bright, so fair,
As that one glimpse of thee,
That I caught then, machree,
It stole my heart from me
That ev'ning there.
And now you're mine alone,
That heart is all my own
That heart that ne'er hath known
A flame before.
That form of mold divine,
That snowy hand of thine
Those locks of gold are mine
Forevermore.
Was lover ever seen
As blest as thine, Kathleen ?
Hath lover ever been
More fond, more true ?
Thine is my ev'ry vow !
Forever dear as now !
Queen of my heart be thou !
Mo cailin ruadh ! J
1 Mo . . . ruadh, my golden-haired girl.
480 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
WILLIAM LARMINIE
(1850-1900)
CONSOLATION
YES, let us speak, with lips confirming
The inner pledge that eyes reveal
Bright eyes that death shall dim forever,
And lips that silence soon shall seal.
Yes, let us make our claim recorded
Against the powers of earth and sky,
And that cold boon their laws award us
Just once to live and once to die.
Thou sayest that fate is frosty nothing,
But love the flame of souls that are :
" Two spirits approach, and at their touching,
Behold ! an everlasting star. ' '
High thoughts, O love : well, let us speak them 1
Yet bravely face at least this fate :
To know the dreams of us that dream them
On blind, unknowing things await.
If years from winter's chill recover,
If fields are green and rivers run,
If thou and I behold each other,
Hangs it not all on yonder sun ?
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 481
So while that mighty lord is gracious
With prodigal beams to flood the skies,
Let us be glad that he can spare us
The light to kindle lover's eyes.
And die assured, should life's new wonder
In any world our slumbers break,
These the first words that each will utter :
" Beloved, art thou too awake? "
482 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
EMILY LAWLESS
(Living)
A RETORT
From With the Wild Geese.
N
OT hers your vast imperial mart,
Where myriad hopes on fears are hurled,
Where furious rivals meet and part
To woo a world.
Not hers your vast imperial town,
Your mighty mammoth piles of gain,
Your loaded vessels sweeping down
To glut the main.
Unused, unseen, her rivers flow,
From mountain tarn to ocean tide ;
Wide vacant leagues the sunbeams show,
The rain-clouds hide.
You swept them vacant ! Your decree
Bid all her budding commerce cease ;
You drove her from your subject sea,
To starve in peace !
Well, be it peace ! Resigned they flow,
No laden fleet ad own them glides,
But wheeling salmon sometimes show
Their silvered sides.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 483
And sometimes through the long still day
The breeding herons slowly rise,
Lifting gray tranquil wings away,
To tranquil skies.
Stud all your shores with prosperous towns !
Blacken your hillsides, mile on mile !
Redden with bricks your patient downs !
And proudly smile !
A day will come before you guess,
A day when men, with clearer light,
Will rue that deed beyond redress,
Will loathe that sight.
And, loathing, fly the hateful place,
And, shuddering, quit the hideous thing,
For where unblackened rivers race,
And skylarks sing.
For where, remote from smoke and noise,
Old Leisure sits knee-deep in grass ;
Where simple days bring simple joys,
And lovers pass.
I see her in those coming days,
Still young, still gay ; her unbound hair
Crowned with a crown of starlike rays,
Serenely fair.
I see an envied haunt of peace,
Calm and untouched ; remote from roar,
Where wearied men may from their burdens cease
On a still shore.
484 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF
EDMUND LEAMY
(1848- )
A ROYAL LOVE
I LOVED a love a royal love
In the golden long ago ;
And she was fair as fair could be,
The foam upon the broken sea,
The sheen of sun, or moon, or star,
The sparkle from the diamond spar,
Not half so rare and radiant are
As my own love my royal love
In the golden long ago.
And she had stately palace halls
In the golden long ago ;
And warriors, men of stainless swords,
Were seated at her festive boards,
Fierce champions of her lightest words,
While hymned the bard the chieftains' praise,
And sang their deeds of battle days,
To cheer my love my royal love
In the golden long ago.
IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 485
in
She wore a stately diadem
In the golden long ago,
Wrought by a cunning craftsman's hand
And fashioned from a battle brand ;
As fit for the queen of a soldier land,
Her sceptre was a sabre keen,
Her robe a robe of radiant green,
My queenly love my royal love
In the golden long ago.
IV
Alas for my love my royal love
Of the golden long ago !
For gone are all her warrior bands,
And rusted are her battle brands,
And broken her sabre bright and keen,
And torn her robe of radiant green,
A slave where she was stainless queen
My loyal love my royal love
Of the golden long ago.
But there is hope for my royal love
Of the golden long ago ;
Beyond the broad and shining sea
Ga'thers a stubborn chivalry
That yet will come to make her free,
And hedge her round with gleaming spears,
And crown her queen for all the years,
My only love my royal love
Of the golden long ago.
486 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU
(1814-1872)
ABHRAIN AN BHUIDEIL
Address of a Drunkard to a Bottle of Whiskey
FROM what dripping cell, through what fairy
glen,
Where 'mid old rocks and ruins the fox makes
his den,
Over what lonesome mountain,
Acuishle mo chroidhe !
Where gauger never has trod,
Sweet as the flowery sod,
Wild as the breath
Of the breeze on the heath,
And sparkling all o'er like the moon-lighted fountain^
Are you come to me
Sorrowful me ?
Dancing inspiring
My wild blood firm' ;
Oh ! terrible glory
Oh ! beautiful siren
Come, tell the old story
Come, light up my fancy, and open my heart.
Oh, beautiful ruin
My life my undoin'
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 487
Soft and fierce as a pantheress,
Dream of my longing, and wreck of soul,
I never knew love till I loved you, enchantress !
At first, when I knew you, 'twas only flirtation,
The touch of a lip and the flash of an eye ;
But 'tis different now 'tis desperation !
I worship before you
I curse and adore you,
And without you I'd die.
Wirrasthrue !
I wish 'twas again
The happy time when
I cared little about you,
Could do well without you,
But would just laugh and view you ;
'Tis little I knew you !
Oh ! terrible darling,
How have you sought me,
Enchanted, and caught me ?
See, now, where you've brought me
To sleep by the roadside, and dress out in rags.
Think how you found me ;
Dreams come around me
The dew of my childhood and life's morning beam ;
Now I sleep by the roadside, a wretch all in rags.
My heart that sang merrily when I was young
Swells up like a billow and bursts in despair ;
And the wreck of my hopes on sweet memory flung,
And cries on the air,
Are all that is left of the dream.
4 88 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
Wirrasthrue !
My father and mother,
The priest, and my brother
Not a one has a good word for you.
But I can't part you, darling ; their preaching's all
. vain ;
You'll burn in my heart till these thin pulses stop ;
And the wild cup of life in your fragrance I'll drain
To the last brilliant drop.
Then oblivion will cover
The shame that is over,
The brain that was mad, and the heart that was sore ;
Then, beautiful witch,
I'll be found in a ditch,
With your kiss on my cold lips, and never rise more.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 489
SHAMUS O'BRIEN 1
A Tale of Ninety-eight, as related by an Irish Peasant
JUST after the war, in the year Ninety-Eight,
As soon as the boys were all scattered and bate,
'Twas the custom, whenever a peasant was caught,
To hang him by trial barring such as was shot.
There was trial by jury goin' on by daylight,
And the martial law hangin* the lavings by night :
It's them was hard times for an honest gossoon :
If he missed in the judges, he'd meet a Dragoon ;
And whether the judge or the soldiers gave sentence,
The divil a much time they allowed for repentance.
An' the many's the fine Boy was then on his keeping,
With small share of restin', or atin', or sleepin',
An' because they loved Erin, and scorned to sell it,
A prey for the bloodhound, a mark for the bullet,
Unsheltered by night, and unrested by day,
With the heath for their barrack, revenge for their pay.
An' the bravest and hardiest Boy of them all
1 W. R. Le Fanu in his Seventy Years of Irish Life, 1903,
says: " (It) was written in a very few days in the year 1840,
and sent me day by day by my brother as he wrote it. I
quickly learned it by heart, and now and then recited it. The
scraps of paper on which it was written were lost, and years
after, when my brother wished for a copy, I had to write it out
from memory for him. One other copy I gave to Samuel
Lover, who recited it in America, and notwithstanding his dis-
claimer of the authorship it was more than once attributed to
him."
490 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF
Was Shamus O'Brien, from the town of Glengall.
His limbs were well set, and his body was light,
An* the keen fanged hound hadn't teeth half so white.
But his face was as pale as the face of the dead,
And his cheek never warmed with the blush of the
red;
And, for all that, he wasn't an ugly young Boy,
For the devil himself couldn't blaze with his eye,
So funny and so wicked, so dark and so bright,
Like a fire-flash that crosses the depth of the night.
And he was the best mower that ever has been,
And the illigantest hurler that ever was seen ;
In fincin' he gave Patrick Mooney a cut,
And in jumpin' he bate Tom Malony a foot.
For lightness of foot there wasn't his peer,
For, begorra, you'd think he'd outrun the red deer;
And his dancin' was such that the men used to stare,
And the women turned crazy, he had done it so
quare
And, begorra, the whole world l gave in to him there.
And it's he was the boy that was hard to be caught ;
And it's often he ran, and it's often he fought,
And it's many's the one can remember quite well
The quare things he done ; and it's often 1 heerd tell
How he frightened the magistrate in Cahirbally,
And escaped through the sojers in Aherlow valley,
And leathered the yeomen, himself agin four,
And stretched the two strongest on old Galtimore.
1 In Gaelic the consonant r is given its full value before
another consonant, producing the effect of a dissyllable ; e. g.
tarbh, pronounced " thorruv " (a bull); compare the French
taureau. This practice, like many other Gaelic locutions, has
been carried into English ; hence worruld " for world " ;
" firrum " for " firm," etc.
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 491
But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must
rest,
And treachery prey on the blood of the best,
And many a brave action of power and pride,
And many a hard night on the mountain's bleak side,
And a thousand great dangers and toils overpast,
In the darkness of night he was taken at last.
Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon,
For the door of the prison must close on you soon ;
And take your last look at her dim lovely light,
That falls on the mountain and valley this night ;
One look at the village, one look at the flood,
And one at the sheltering, far-distant wood.
Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill,
And farewell to the friends that will think of you still ;
Farewell to the hurlin', the pattern, and wake,
An' farewell to the girl that would die for your sake.
Well, twelve soldiers brought him to Maryboro' jail,
And the turnkey received him, refusin' all bail ;
The fleet limbs were chained, and the strong hands
were bound,
And he laid down his length on the cold prison
ground.
And the dreams of his childhood came over him there,
As gentle and soft as the sweet summer air ;
And happy remembrances crowding on ever,
As fast the foam-flakes drift down the river,
Bringing fresh to his heart merry days long gone by,
Till the tears gathered heavy and thick in his eye.
But the tears didn't fall, for the pride of his heart
Wouldn't suffer one drop down his pale cheek to start ;
And he sprang to his feet in the dark prison cave,
492 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
And he swore with the fierceness that misery gave,
By the hopes of the good, by the cause of the brave,
That when he was moldering in his cold grave
His enemies never should have it to boast
His scorn of their vengeance one moment was lost y
His bosom might bleed, but his cheek should be dry.
For undaunted he'd lived, and undaunted he'd die.
Well, as soon as a few weeks were over and gone,
The terrible day of the trial came on.
There was such a crowd there was scarce room to
stand,
With soldiers on guard, and dragoons sword in hand ;
And the court-house so full that the people was
bothered,
And attorneys and criers on the point of being smoth-
ered ;
And counselors almost given over for dead,
And the jury sittin' up in their box overhead ;
And the judge settled out, so determined and big,
With his gown on his back, and an illigant new wig.
And silence was called, and the minute it was said,
The court was as still as the heart of the dead,
And they heard but the opening of one prison lock,
And Shamus O'Brien came into the dock.
For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng,
And he looked on the bars, so firm and so strong,
And he saw that he hadn't a hope nor a friend,
A chance to escape nor a word to defend ;
And he folded his arms as he stood there alone,
As calm and as cold as a statue of stone.
And they read a big writin', a yard long at laste,
And Jim didn't understand it or mind it a taste.
And the judge took a big pinch of snuff, and he says,
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 493
"Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, if you plase?"
And they all held their breath in silence of dread ;
And Shamus O'Brien made answer and said,
" My lord, if you ask me if in my lifetime
I thought any treason, or done any crime
That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here,
The hot blush of shame or the coldness of fear,
Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-
blow,
Before God and the world I would answer you, No ! '
But if you would ask me, as I think it like,
If in the rebellion I carried a pike,
And fought for old Ireland from the first to the close,
And shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes,
I answer you, * YES,' and I tell you again,
Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory that then
In her cause I was willin' my veins should run dry,
And that now for her sake I am ready to die."
Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright,
And the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light ;
By my soul, it's himself was the crabbed old chap,
In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap.
Then Shamus's mother, in the crowd standing by,
Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry :
" Oh ! judge, darlin', don't oh, don't say the word !
The crathur is young, have mercy, my lord !
He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin* ;
You don't know him, my lord oh, don't give him to
ruin !
He's the kindliest crathur, the tenderest hearted,
Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted !
Judge, mavourneen, forgive him ! forgive him, my
lord!
And God will forgive you. Oh ! don't say the word ! "
494 T HE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
That was the first minute O'Brien was shaken,
When he saw that he wasn't quite forgot or forsaken;
And down his pale cheeks, at the words of his mother,
The big tears were runnin' fast, one after th' other ;
And he tried hard to hide them or wipe them away,
But in vain, for his hands were too fast bound that
day.
And two or three times he endeavored to spake,
But the strong, manly voice used to falter and break,
Till at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride,
He conquered and mastered his grief's swelling tide.
And, says he, " Mother darlin', don't break your poor
heart,
For, sooner or later, the dearest must part.
And God knows it's better than wandering in fear
On the bleak, trackless mountain among the wjld deer,
To lie in the grave, where the head, hand, and breast
From thought, labor, and sorrow forever shall rest.
Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more,
Don't make me seem broken in this my last hour;
For I wish, when my head is lyin' under the raven,
No true man can say that I died like a craven ! "
Then towards the judge Shamus bowed down his head,
And that minute the solemn death sentence was said.
The morning was bright, and the mists rose on high,
And the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky.
But why are the men standin' idle so late ?
And why do the crowds gather fast in the street?
What come they to talk of? What come they to see?
And why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree ?
Now, Shamus O'Brien, pray fervent and fast;
May the saints take your soul ! for this day is your
last;
IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 495
Pray fast, and pray strong, for the moment is nigh
When, strong, proud, and great as you are, you must
die.
And faster and faster the crowd gathered there
Boys, horses, gingerbread, just like a fair;
And whiskey was sellin', and cussamuck 1 too,
And ould men and young women enjoyin' the view ;
And ould Tim Mulvaney he made the remark,
"There wasn't such a sight since the time-of Noah's
ark!
And, begorra, 'twas true for him, the devil such a
scruge,
Such divarshin and crowds was known since the
deluge !
Ten thousand was gathered there, if there was one,
All waitin' till such time as the hangin* 'id come on.
At last they drew open the big prison gate,
And out came the sheriffs and soldiers in state,
And a cart in the middle, and Shamus was in it,
Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute.
And as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien,
With prayin' and blessin' an' all the girls cryin',
A wild wailin' sound came on by degrees,
Like the sound of the lonesome wind bio win' through
trees.
On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone,
And the cart and the soldiers go steadily on ;
And at every side swellin' around of the cart,
A wild sorrowful sound that would open your heart.
Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand,
And the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand ;
Ctissamucky leavings.
496 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF
And the priest gives his blessing and goes down on the
ground,
And Sharaus O'Brien throws one last look around;
Then the hangman drew near, and the people grew
still,
Young faces turned sickly and warm hearts grew chill.
And all being ready, his neck was made bare,
For the gripe of the life-stranglin' cord to prepare ;
And the good priest had left him, having said his last
prayer.
But the good priest done more, for his hands he un-
bound,
And with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the
ground !
Bang ! bang ! go the carbines and clash go the sabers !
" He's not down I he's alive still ! Now stand to him,
neighbors !
Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd !
By the heavens he is free ! " than thunder more loud,
By one shout from the people the heavens were
shaken
One shout that the dead of the world might awaken.
Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang,
But if you want hangin', yourself you must hang,
For to-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherglow glen,
And the devil's in the dice if you catch him again.
The soldiers run this way the hangmen run that,
And Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat ;
And the sheriffs were both of them punished severely,
And fined like the devil, because Jim done them
fairly.
St. Michael's College
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WELSH, CHARLES
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The f olden treasury of .I8
Irish songs and lyrics. W4
Volume I
