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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Book of Irish Verse, by William Butler Yeats
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: A Book of Irish Verse
+ Selected from modern writers with an introduction and notes
+ by W. B. Yeats
+
+Author: William Butler Yeats
+
+Release Date: October 25, 2011 [EBook #37845]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BOOK OF IRISH VERSE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Brian Foley, Ron Stephens and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
+file was produced from images generously made available
+by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+ A BOOK OF IRISH VERSE
+
+
+
+
+ A BOOK OF
+
+ IRISH VERSE
+
+ SELECTED FROM MODERN WRITERS
+ WITH AN INTRODUCTION
+ AND NOTES
+ BY W.B. YEATS
+
+ METHUEN AND CO.
+ 36 ESSEX STREET, W.C. LONDON
+ 1900
+
+ _Revised Edition_
+
+
+ W.H. WHITE AND CO. LTD.
+ RIVERSIDE PRESS, EDINBURGH
+
+
+ TO THE MEMBERS
+
+ OF
+
+ THE NATIONAL LITERARY SOCIETY OF DUBLIN
+
+ AND THE
+
+ IRISH LITERARY SOCIETY OF LONDON CONTENTS
+
+
+ PAGE
+
+ Preface xiii
+
+ Modern Irish Poetry xvii
+
+ Old Age _Oliver Goldsmith_ (1725-1774) 1
+
+ The Village Preacher " " " " 2
+
+ The Deserter's Meditation _John Philpot Curran_ (1750--1817) 3
+
+ 'Thou canst not boast' _Richard Brinsley Sheridan_ (1751-1816) 4
+
+ Kathleen O'More _James Nugent Reynolds_ ( -1802) 5
+
+ The Groves of Blarney _Richard Alfred Milliken_ (1767-1815) 6
+
+ The Light of other Days _Thomas Moore_ (1779-1852) 10
+
+ 'At the Mid Hour of
+ Night' " " " " 11
+
+ The Burial of Sir John
+ Moore _Rev. Charles Wolfe_ (1791-1823) 12
+
+ The Convict of Clonmel _Jeremiah Joseph Callanan_ (1795-1839) 14
+
+ The Outlaw of Loch Lene " " " 16
+
+ Dirge of O'Sullivan Bear " " " 17
+
+ Love Song _George Darley_ (1795-1846) 20
+
+ The Whistlin' Thief _Samuel Lover_ (1797-1868) 22
+
+ Soggarth Aroon _John Banim_ (1798-1842) 24
+
+ Dark Rosaleen _James Clarence Mangan_ (1803-1849) 27
+
+ Lament for the Princes
+ of Tyrone and Tyrconnell " " " 31
+ A Lamentation for the
+ Death of Sir Maurice
+ Fitzgerald " " " 41
+
+ The Woman of Three
+ Cows _James Clarence Mangan_ (1803-1849) 43
+
+ Prince Alfrid's Itinerary
+ through Ireland " " " 47
+
+ O'Hussey's Ode to The
+ Maguire " " " 50
+
+ The Nameless One " " " 55
+
+ Siberia " " " 57
+
+ Hy-Brasail _Gerald Griffin_ (1803-1840) 59
+
+ Mo Craoibhin Cno _Edward Walsh_ (1805-1850) 61
+
+ Mairgréad Ni Chealleadh " " " " 63
+
+ From the Cold Sod
+ that's o'er you " " " " 65
+
+ The Fairy Nurse " " " " 67
+
+ A cuisle geal mo chroidhe _Michael Doheny_ (1805-1863) 69
+
+ Lament of the Irish
+ Emigrant _Lady Dufferin_ (1807-1867) 71
+
+ The Welshmen of
+ Tirawley _Sir Samuel Ferguson_ (1810-1886) 74
+
+ Aideen's Grave " " " " " 91
+
+ Deirdre's Lament for
+ the Sons of Usnach " " " " " 99
+
+ The Fair Hills of Ireland " " " " " 102
+
+ Lament over the Ruins
+ of the Abbey of Timoleague " " " " " 104
+
+ The Fairy Well of Lagnanay " " " " " 107
+
+ On the Death of Thomas
+ Davis " " " " " 111
+
+ The County of Mayo _George Fox_ 115
+
+ The Wedding of the
+ Clans _Aubrey de Vere_ (1814) 117
+
+ The Little Black Rose _Aubrey de Vere_ (1814) 119
+ Song " " " " 120
+
+ The Bard Ethell " " " " 121
+
+ Lament for the Death
+ of Eoghan Ruadh
+ O'Neill _Thomas Davis_ (1814-1845) 135
+
+ Maire Bhan Astór " " " " 138
+
+ O! the Marriage " " " " 140
+
+ A Plea for Love " " " " 142
+
+ Remembrance _Emily Brontë_ (1818-1848) 143
+
+ A Fragment from 'The
+ Prisoner: a Fragment' " " " " 145
+
+ Last Lines " " " " 147
+
+ The Memory of the Dead _John Kells Ingram_ (? 1820) 148
+
+ The Winding Banks of
+ Erne _William Allingham_ (1824-1889) 150
+
+ The Fairies " " " " 157
+
+ The Abbot of Inisfalen. " " " " 160
+
+ Twilight Voices " " " " 164
+
+ 'Four Ducks on a Pond' " " " " 166
+
+ The Lover and Birds " " " " 167
+
+ The Celts _Thomas D'Arcy McGee_ (1825-1868) 169
+ Salutation to the Celts " " " 172
+
+ The Gobban Saor " " " 174
+
+ Patrick Sheehan _Charles J. Kickham_ (1825-1882) 176
+
+ The Irish Peasant Girl " " " " " 180
+
+ To God and Ireland
+ True _Ellen O'Leary_ (1831-1889) 182
+
+ The Banshee _John Todhunter_ (1836) 183
+
+ Aghadoe " " " 186
+
+ A Mad Song _Hester Sigerson_ 188
+
+ Lady Margaret's Song _Edward Dowden_ (1843) 188
+
+ Song _Arthur O'Shaughnessy_ (1844-1881) 189
+
+ Father O'Flynn _Alfred Perceval Graves_ (1846) 191
+
+ Song _Rosa Gilbert_ 192
+
+ Requiescat _Oscar Wilde_ (1855) 193
+
+ The Lament of Queen
+ Maev _Thomas William Rolleston_ (1857) 195
+
+ The Dead at Clonmacnois " " " " 197
+
+ The Spell-struck " " " " 198
+
+ 'Were you on the
+ Mountain?' _Douglas Hyde_ 199
+
+ 'My Grief on the Sea' " " 200
+
+ My Love, O, she is my
+ Love " " 201
+
+ I shall not die for thee " " 204
+
+ Riddles " " 205
+
+ Lough Bray _Rose Kavanagh_ (1861-1891) 206
+
+ The Children of Lir _Katharine Tynan Hinkson_ 209
+
+ St. Francis to the Birds " " " 212
+
+ Sheep and Lambs " " " 215
+
+ The Gardener Sage " " " 216
+
+ The Dark Man _Nora Hopper_ 218
+
+ The Fairy Fiddler " " 219
+
+ Our Thrones Decay _A.E._ 220
+
+ Immortality " 221
+
+ The Great Breath " 221
+
+ Sung on a By-way " 222
+
+ Dream Love " 223
+
+ Illusion " 223
+
+ Janus " 224
+
+ Connla's Well " 225A
+
+ Names _John Eglinton_ 226A
+
+ That _Charles Weekes_ 227A
+
+ Think " " 227A
+
+ Te Martyrum Candidatus _Lionel Johnson_ 228A
+
+ The Church of a Dream " " 229A
+
+ Ways of War " " 230A
+
+ The Red Wind _Lionel Johnson_ 231A
+
+ Celtic Speech " " 232A
+
+ To Morfydd " " 225
+
+ Can Doov Deelish _Dora Sigerson_ 226
+
+
+ANONYMOUS
+
+ Shule Aroon 231
+
+ The Shan Van Vocht 232
+
+ The Wearing of the Green 235
+
+ The Rakes of Mallow 237
+
+ Johnny, I hardly knew ye 238
+
+ Kitty of Coleraine 241
+
+ Lament of Morian Shehone for Miss Mary Bourke 242
+
+ The Geraldine's Daughter 246
+
+ By Memory Inspired 247
+
+ A Folk Verse 249
+
+ Notes 250
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE
+
+
+I have not found it possible to revise this book as completely as I
+should have wished. I have corrected a bad mistake of a copyist, and
+added a few pages of new verses towards the end, and softened some
+phrases in the introduction which seemed a little petulant in form, and
+written in a few more to describe writers who have appeared during the
+last four years, and that is about all. I compiled it towards the end of
+a long indignant argument, carried on in the committee rooms of our
+literary societies, and in certain newspapers between a few writers of
+our new movement, who judged Irish literature by literary standards, and
+a number of people, a few of whom were writers, who judged it by its
+patriotism and by its political effect; and I hope my opinions may have
+value as part of an argument which may awaken again. The Young Ireland
+writers wrote to give the peasantry a literature in English in place of
+the literature they were losing with Gaelic, and these methods, which
+have shaped the literary thought of Ireland to our time, could not be
+the same as the methods of a movement which, so far as it is more than
+an instinctive expression of certain moods of the soul, endeavours to
+create a reading class among the more leisured classes, which will
+preoccupy itself with Ireland and the needs of Ireland. The peasants in
+eastern counties have their Young Ireland poetry, which is always good
+teaching and sometimes good poetry, and the peasants of the western
+counties have beautiful poems and stories in Gaelic, while our more
+leisured classes read little about any country, and nothing about
+Ireland. We cannot move these classes from an apathy, come from their
+separation from the land they live in, by writing about politics or
+about Gaelic, but we may move them by becoming men of letters and
+expressing primary emotions and truths in ways appropriate to this
+country. One carries on the traditions of Thomas Davis, towards whom our
+eyes must always turn, not less than the traditions of good literature,
+which are the morality of the man of letters, when one is content, like
+A.E. with fewer readers that one may follow a more hidden beauty; or
+when one endeavours, as I have endeavoured in this book, to separate
+what has literary value from what has only a patriotic and political
+value, no matter how sacred it has become to us.
+
+The reader who would begin a serious study of modern Irish literature
+should do so with Mr Stopford Brooke's and Mr Rolleston's exhaustive
+anthology.
+ W.B.Y.
+_August 15, 1899_
+
+
+
+
+MODERN IRISH POETRY
+
+
+The Irish Celt is sociable, as may be known from his proverb, 'Strife is
+better than loneliness,' and the Irish poets of the nineteenth century
+have made songs abundantly when friends and rebels have been at hand to
+applaud. The Irish poets of the eighteenth century found both at a
+Limerick hostelry, above whose door was written a rhyming welcome in
+Gaelic to all passing poets, whether their pockets were full or empty.
+Its owner, himself a famous poet, entertained his fellows as long as his
+money lasted, and then took to minding the hens and chickens of an old
+peasant woman for a living, and ended his days in rags, but not, one
+imagines, without content. Among his friends and guests had been
+O'Sullivan the Red, O'Sullivan the Gaelic, O'Heffernan the blind, and
+many another, and their songs had made the people, crushed by the
+disasters of the Boyne and Aughrim, remember their ancient greatness.
+The bardic order, with its perfect artifice and imperfect art, had gone
+down in the wars of the seventeenth century, and poetry had found
+shelter amid the turf-smoke of the cabins. The powers that history
+commemorates are but the coarse effects of influences delicate and vague
+as the beginning of twilight, and these influences were to be woven like
+a web about the hearts of men by farm-labourers, pedlars,
+potato-diggers, hedge-schoolmasters, and grinders at the quern, poor
+wastrels who put the troubles of their native land, or their own happy
+or unhappy loves, into songs of an extreme beauty. But in the midst of
+this beauty was a flitting incoherence, a fitful dying out of the sense,
+as though the passion had become too great for words, as must needs be
+when life is the master and not the slave of the singer.
+
+English-speaking Ireland had meanwhile no poetic voice, for Goldsmith
+had chosen to celebrate English scenery and manners; and Swift was but
+an Irishman by what Mr Balfour has called the visitation of God, and
+much against his will; and Congreve by education and early association;
+while Parnell, Denham, and Roscommon were poets but to their own time.
+Nor did the coming with the new century of the fame of Moore set the
+balance even, for all but all of his Irish melodies are artificial and
+mechanical when separated from the music that gave them wings. Whatever
+he had of high poetry is in 'The Light of other Days,' and in 'At the
+Mid Hour of Night,' which express what Matthew Arnold has taught us to
+call 'the Celtic melancholy,' with so much of delicate beauty in the
+meaning and in the wavering or steady rhythm that one knows not where to
+find their like in literature. His more artificial and mechanical verse,
+because of the ancient music that makes it seem natural and vivid, and
+because it has remembered so many beloved names and events and places,
+has had the influence which might have belonged to these exquisite
+verses had he written none but these. An honest style did not come into
+English-speaking Ireland, until Callanan wrote three or four naïve
+translations from the Gaelic. 'Shule Aroon' and 'Kathleen O'More' had
+indeed been written for a good while, but had no more influence than
+Moore's best verses. Now, however, the lead of Callanan was followed by
+a number of translators, and they in turn by the poets of 'Young
+Ireland,' who mingled a little learned from the Gaelic ballad-writers
+with a great deal learned from Scott, Macaulay, and Campbell, and turned
+poetry once again into a principal means for spreading ideas of
+nationality and patriotism. They were full of earnestness, but never
+understood that though a poet may govern his life by his enthusiasms, he
+must, when he sits down at his desk, but use them as the potter the
+clay. Their thoughts were a little insincere, because they lived in the
+half illusions of their admirable ideals; and their rhythms not seldom
+mechanical, because their purpose was served when they had satisfied the
+dull ears of the common man. They had no time to listen to the voice of
+the insatiable artist, who stands erect, or lies asleep waiting until a
+breath arouses him, in the heart of every craftsman. Life was their
+master, as it had been the master of the poets who gathered in the
+Limerick hostelry, though it conquered them not by unreasoned love for a
+woman, or for native land, but by reasoned enthusiasm, and practical
+energy. No man was more sincere, no man had a less mechanical mind than
+Thomas Davis, and yet he is often a little insincere and mechanical in
+his verse. When he sat down to write he had so great a desire to make
+the peasantry courageous and powerful that he half believed them already
+'the finest peasantry upon the earth,' and wrote not a few such verses
+as
+
+ 'Lead him to fight for native land,
+ His is no courage cold and wary;
+ The troops live not that could withstand
+ The headlong charge of Tipperary,'
+
+and to-day we are paying the reckoning with much bombast. His little
+book has many things of this kind, and yet we honour it for its public
+spirit, and recognise its powerful influence with gratitude. He was in
+the main an orator influencing men's acts, and not a poet shaping their
+emotions, and the bulk of his influence has been good. He was, indeed, a
+poet of much tenderness in the simple love-songs 'The Marriage,' 'A Plea
+for Love,' and 'Mary Bhan Astór,' and, but for his ideal of a Fisherman,
+defying a foreign soldiery, would have been as good in 'The Boatman of
+Kinsale'; and once or twice when he touched upon some historic sorrow he
+forgot his hopes for the future and his lessons for the present, and
+made moving verse. His contemporary, Clarence Mangan, kept out of public
+life and its half illusions by a passion for books, and for drink and
+opium, made an imaginative and powerful style. He translated from the
+German, and imitated Oriental poetry, but little that he did on any but
+Irish subjects is permanently interesting. He is usually classed with
+the Young Ireland poets, because he contributed to their periodicals and
+shared their political views; but his style was formed before their
+movement began, and he found it the more easy for this reason perhaps to
+give sincere expression to the mood which he had chosen, the only
+sincerity literature knows of; and with happiness and cultivation might
+have displaced Moore. But as it was, whenever he had no fine ancient
+song to inspire him, he fell into rhetoric which was only lifted out of
+commonplace by an arid intensity. In his 'Irish National Hymn,' 'Soul
+and Country,' and the like, we look into a mind full of parched sands
+where the sweet dews have never fallen. A miserable man may think well
+and express himself with great vehemence, but he cannot make beautiful
+things, for Aphrodite never rises from any but a tide of joy. Mangan
+knew nothing of the happiness of the outer man, and it was only when
+prolonging the tragic exultation of some dead bard, that he knew the
+unearthly happiness which clouds the outer man with sorrow, and is the
+fountain of impassioned art. Like those who had gone before him, he was
+the slave of life, for he had nothing of the self-knowledge, the power
+of selection, the harmony of mind, which enables the poet to be its
+master, and to mould the world to a trumpet for his lips. But O'Hussey's
+Ode over his outcast chief must live for generations because of the
+passion that moves through its powerful images and its mournful,
+wayward, and fierce rhythms.
+
+ 'Though he were even a wolf ranging the round green woods,
+ Though he were even a pleasant salmon in the unchainable sea,
+ Though he were a wild mountain eagle, he could scarce bear, he,
+ This sharp, sore sleet, these howling floods.'
+
+Edward Walsh, a village schoolmaster, who hovered, like Mangan, on the
+edge of the Young Ireland movement, did many beautiful translations from
+the Gaelic; and Michael Doheny, while out 'on his keeping' in the
+mountains after the collapse at Ballingarry, made one of the most moving
+of ballads; but in the main the poets who gathered about Thomas Davis,
+and whose work has come down to us in 'The Spirit of the Nation,' were
+of practical and political, not of literary importance.
+
+Meanwhile Samuel Ferguson, William Allingham, and Mr Aubrey de Vere were
+working apart from politics, Ferguson selecting his subjects from the
+traditions of the Bardic age, and Allingham from those of his native
+Ballyshannon, and Mr Aubrey de Vere wavering between English, Irish, and
+Catholic tradition. They were wiser than Young Ireland in the choice of
+their models, for, while drawing not less from purely Irish sources,
+they turned to the great poets of the world, Mr de Vere owing something
+of his gravity to Wordsworth, Ferguson much of his simplicity to Homer,
+while Allingham had trained an ear, too delicate to catch the tune of
+but a single master, upon the lyric poetry of many lands. Allingham was
+the best artist, but Ferguson had the more ample imagination, the more
+epic aim. He had not the subtlety of feeling, the variety of cadence of
+a great lyric poet, but he has touched, here and there, an epic vastness
+and naïveté, as in the description in 'Congal' of the mire-stiffened
+mantle of the giant spectre Mananan macLir, striking against his calves
+with as loud a noise as the mainsail of a ship makes, 'when with the
+coil of all its ropes it beats the sounding mast.' He is frequently
+dull, for he often lacked the 'minutely appropriate words' necessary to
+embody those fine changes of feeling which enthral the attention; but
+his sense of weight and size, of action and tumult, has set him apart
+and solitary, an epic figure in a lyric age. Allingham, whose pleasant
+destiny has made him the poet of his native town, and put 'The Winding
+Banks of Erne' into the mouths of the ballad-singers of Ballyshannon,
+is, on the other hand, a master of 'minutely appropriate words,' and can
+wring from the luxurious sadness of the lover, from the austere sadness
+of old age, the last golden drop of beauty; but amid action and tumult
+he can but fold his hands. He is the poet of the melancholy peasantry of
+the West, and, as years go on, and voluminous histories and copious
+romances drop under the horizon, will take his place among those minor
+immortals who have put their souls into little songs to humble the
+proud. The poetry of Mr Aubrey de Vere has less architecture than the
+poetry of Ferguson and Allingham, and more meditation. Indeed, his few
+but ever memorable successes are enchanted islands in grey seas of
+stately impersonal reverie and description, which drift by and leave no
+definite recollection. One needs, perhaps, to perfectly enjoy him, a
+Dominican habit, a cloister, and a breviary.
+
+These three poets published much of their best work before and during
+the Fenian movement, which, like 'Young Ireland,' had its poets, though
+but a small number. Charles Kickham, one of the 'triumvirate' that
+controlled it in Ireland; John Casey, a clerk in a flour-mill; and Ellen
+O'Leary, the sister of Mr John O'Leary, were at times very excellent.
+Their verse lacks, curiously enough, the oratorical vehemence of Young
+Ireland, and is plaintive and idyllic. The agrarian movement that
+followed produced but little poetry, and of that little all is forgotten
+but a vehement poem by Fanny Parnell, and a couple of songs by Mr T.D.
+Sullivan, who is a good song-writer, though not, as the writer has read
+on an election placard, 'one of the greatest poets who ever moved the
+heart of man.' But while Nationalist verse has ceased to be a portion of
+the propaganda of a party, it has been written, and is being written,
+under the influence of the Nationalist newspapers and of Young Ireland
+societies and the like. With an exacting conscience, and better models
+than Thomas Moore and the Young Irelanders, such beautiful enthusiasm
+could not fail to make some beautiful verses. But, as things are, the
+rhythms are mechanical, and the metaphors conventional; and inspiration
+is too often worshipped as a Familiar who labours while you sleep, or
+forget, or do many worthy things which are not spiritual things. For
+the most part, the Irishman of our times loves so deeply those arts
+which build up a gallant personality, rapid writing, ready talking,
+effective speaking to crowds, that he has no thought for the arts which
+consume the personality in solitude. He loves the mortal arts which have
+given him a lure to take the hearts of men, and shrinks from the
+immortal, which could but divide him from his fellows. And in this
+century, he who does not strive to be a perfect craftsman achieves
+nothing. The poor peasant of the eighteenth century could make fine
+ballads by abandoning himself to the joy or sorrow of the moment, as the
+reeds abandon themselves to the wind which sighs through them, because
+he had about him a world where all was old enough to be steeped in
+emotion. But we cannot take to ourselves, by merely thrusting out our
+hands, all we need of pomp and symbol, and if we have not the desire of
+artistic perfection for an ark, the deluge of incoherence, vulgarity,
+and triviality will pass over our heads. If we had no other symbols but
+the tumult of the sea, the rusted gold of the thatch, the redness of the
+quicken-berry, and had never known the rhetoric of the platform and of
+the newspaper, we could do without laborious selection and rejection;
+but, even then, though we might do much that would be delightful, that
+would inspire coming times, it would not have the manner of the greatest
+poetry.
+
+Here and there, the Nationalist newspapers and the Young Ireland
+societies have trained a writer who, though busy with the old models,
+has some imaginative energy; while Mr Lionel Johnson, Mrs Hinkson, Miss
+Nora Hopper, and A.E., the successors of Allingham and Ferguson and Mr
+de Vere, are more anxious to influence and understand Irish thought than
+any of their predecessors who did not take the substance of their poetry
+from politics. They are distinguished too by their deliberate art, and
+with their preoccupation with spiritual passions and memories. Mr Lionel
+Johnson and Mrs Hinkson are both Catholic and devout, but Mr Lionel
+Johnson's poetry is lofty and austere, and, like Mr de Vere's, never
+long forgets the greatness of his Church and the interior life whose
+expression it is, while Mrs Hinkson is happiest when she embodies
+emotions, that have the innocence of childhood, in symbols and metaphors
+from the green world about her. She has no reverie nor speculation, but
+a devout tenderness like that of S. Francis for weak instinctive things,
+old gardeners, old fishermen, birds among the leaves, birds tossed upon
+the waters. Miss Hopper belongs to that school of writers which embodies
+passions, that are not the less spiritual because no Church has put them
+into prayers, in stories and symbols from old Celtic poetry and
+mythology. The poetry of A.E., at its best, finds its symbols and its
+stories in the soul itself, and has a more disembodied ecstasy than any
+poetry of our time. He is the chief poet of the school of Irish mystics,
+which has shaped Mr Charles Weekes, who published recently, but withdrew
+immediately, a curious and subtle book, and Mr John Eglinton, who is
+best known for the orchestral harmonies of his 'Two Essays on the
+Remnant,' and certain younger writers who have heard the words, 'If ye
+know these things, happy are ye if ye do them,' and thought the labours
+that bring the mystic vision more important than the labours of any
+craft.
+
+Except some few Catholic and mystical poets and Prof. Dowden in one or
+two poems, no Irishman living in Ireland has sung excellently of any but
+a theme from Irish experience, Irish history, or Irish tradition.
+Trinity College, which desires to be English, has been the mother of
+many verse-writers and of few poets; and this can only be because she
+has set herself against the national genius, and taught her children to
+imitate alien styles and choose out alien themes, for it is not possible
+to believe that the educated Irishman alone is prosaic and uninventive.
+Her few poets have been awakened by the influence of the farm-labourers,
+potato-diggers, pedlars, and hedge-schoolmasters of the eighteenth
+century, and their imitators in this, and not by a scholastic life,
+which, for reasons easy for all to understand and for many to forgive,
+has refused the ideals of Ireland, while those of England are but
+far-off murmurs. An enemy to all enthusiasms, because all enthusiasms
+seemed her enemies, she has taught her children to look neither to the
+world about them, nor into their own souls where some dangerous fire
+might slumber.
+
+To remember that in Ireland the professional and landed classes have
+been through the mould of Trinity College or of English Universities,
+and are ignorant of the very names of the best writers in this book, is
+to know how strong a wind blows from the ancient legends of Ireland, how
+vigorous an impulse to create is in her heart to-day. Deserted by the
+classes from among whom have come the bulk of the world's intellect, she
+struggles on, gradually ridding herself of incoherence and triviality,
+and slowly building up a literature in English which, whether important
+or unimportant, grows always more unlike others; nor does it seem as if
+she would long lack a living literature in Gaelic, for the movement for
+the preservation of Gaelic, which has been so much more successful than
+anybody foresaw, has already its poets. Dr Hyde, who can only be
+represented here by some of his beautiful translations, has written
+Gaelic poems which pass from mouth to mouth in the west of Ireland. The
+country people have themselves fitted them to ancient airs, and many
+that can neither read nor write, sing them in Donegal and Connemara and
+Galway. I have, indeed, but little doubt that Ireland, communing with
+herself in Gaelic more and more, but speaking to foreign countries in
+English, will lead many that are sick with theories and with trivial
+emotion, to some sweet well-waters of primeval poetry.
+ W.B.Y.
+
+
+The editor thanks Mr Aubrey de Vere, Mr T.W. Rolleston, Dr J. Todhunter,
+Mr Alfred Perceval Graves, Dr Douglas Hyde, Mr Lionel Johnson, A.E., Mr
+Charles Weekes, Mr John Eglinton, Mrs Hinkson, Miss Dora Sigerson (Mrs
+Clement Shortes), and Miss Nora Hopper for permission to quote from
+their poems, Lady Ferguson and Mrs Allingham for leave to give poems by
+Sir Samuel Ferguson and William Allingham, and Messrs Chatto & Windus
+for permission to include a song of Arthur O'Shaughnessy's. Two writers
+are excluded whom he would gladly have included--Casey, because the
+copyright holders have refused permission, and Mr George Armstrong,
+because his 'Songs of Wicklow,' when interesting, are too long for this
+book.
+
+
+
+
+OLD AGE
+
+_From the 'Deserted Village'_
+
+
+ In all my wanderings round this world of care,
+ In all my griefs--and God has given my share--
+ I still had hopes my later hours to crown,
+ Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
+ To husband out life's taper at the close
+ And keep the flame from wasting by repose;
+ I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
+ Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,
+ Around my fire an evening group to draw,
+ And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;
+ And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue,
+ Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,
+ I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
+ Here to return--and die at home at last.
+
+ _Oliver Goldsmith_
+
+
+
+
+THE VILLAGE PREACHER
+
+_From the 'Deserted Village'_
+
+
+ Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd,
+ And still where many a garden flower grows wild;
+ There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
+ The village Preacher's modest mansion rose.
+ A man he was to all the country dear,
+ And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
+ Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
+ Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change, his place;
+ Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for power,
+ By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
+ Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
+ More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise.
+ His house was known to all the vagrant train,
+ He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain;
+ The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
+ Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
+ The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
+ Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;
+ The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
+ Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;
+ Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,
+ Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.
+ Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
+ And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
+ Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
+ He pity gave ere charity began.
+
+ _Oliver Goldsmith_
+
+
+
+
+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 wayworn ranger,
+ In every 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!
+
+ _John Philpot Curran_
+
+
+
+
+THOU CANST NOT BOAST
+
+
+ Thou canst not boast of Fortune's store,
+ My love, while me they wealthy call:
+ But I was glad to find thee poor,
+ For with my heart I'd give thee all,
+ And then the grateful youth shall own,
+ I loved him for himself alone.
+
+ But when his worth my hand shall gain,
+ No word or look of mine shall show
+ That I the smallest thought retain
+ Of what my bounty did bestow:
+ Yet still his grateful heart shall own,
+ I loved him for himself alone.
+
+ _Richard Brinsley Sheridan_
+
+
+
+
+KATHLEEN O'MORE
+
+
+ My love, still I think that I see her once more,
+ But, alas! she has left me her loss to deplore--
+ My own little Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,
+ My Kathleen O'More!
+
+ Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue,
+ Her colour still changing, her smiles ever new--
+ So pretty was Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen,
+ My Kathleen O'More!
+
+ She milked the dun cow, that ne'er offered to stir;
+ Though wicked to all, it was gentle to her--
+ So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,
+ My Kathleen O'More!
+
+ She sat at the door one cold afternoon,
+ To hear the wind blow, and to gaze on the moon,
+ So pensive was Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,
+ My Kathleen O'More!
+
+ Cold was the night-breeze that sighed round her bower,
+ It chilled my poor Kathleen, she drooped from that hour:
+ And I lost my poor Kathleen, my own little Kathleen,
+ My Kathleen O'More.
+
+ The Bird of all birds that I love the best,
+ Is the Robin that in the churchyard builds his nest;
+ For he seems to watch Kathleen, hops lightly o'er Kathleen,
+ My Kathleen O'More.
+
+ _James Nugent Reynolds_
+
+
+
+
+THE GROVES OF BLARNEY
+
+
+ The groves of Blarney
+ They look so charming
+ Down by the purling
+ Of sweet, silent brooks,
+ Being banked with posies
+ That spontaneous grow there,
+ Planted in order
+ By the sweet rock close.
+ 'Tis there's the daisy
+ And the sweet carnation,
+ The blooming pink,
+ And the rose so fair,
+ The daffydowndilly,
+ Likewise the lily,
+ All flowers that scent
+ The sweet, fragrant air.
+
+ 'Tis Lady Jeffers
+ That owns this station;
+ Like Alexander,
+ Or Queen Helen fair.
+ There's no commander
+ In all the nation,
+ For emulation,
+ Can with her compare.
+ Such walls surround her
+ That no nine-pounder
+ Could dare to plunder
+ Her place of strength;
+ But Oliver Cromwell
+ Her he did pommell,
+ And made a breach
+ In her battlement.
+
+ There's gravel walks there
+ For speculation
+ And conversation
+ In sweet solitude.
+ 'Tis there the lover
+ May hear the dove, or
+ The gentle plover
+ In the afternoon;
+ And if a lady
+ Would be so engaging
+ As to walk alone in
+ Those shady bowers,
+ 'Tis there the courtier
+ He may transport her
+ Into some fort, or
+ All under ground.
+
+ For 'tis there's a cave where
+ No daylight enters,
+ But cats and badgers
+ Are for ever bred;
+ Being mossed by nature,
+ That makes it sweeter
+ Than a coach-and-six or
+ A feather bed.
+ 'Tis there the lake is,
+ Well stored with perches,
+ And comely eels in
+ The verdant mud;
+ Beside the leeches,
+ And groves of beeches,
+ Standing in order
+ For to guard the flood.
+
+ There's statues gracing
+ This noble place in--
+ All heathen gods
+ And nymphs so fair;
+ Bold Neptune, Plutarch,
+ And Nicodemus,
+ All standing naked
+ In the open air.
+ So now to finish
+ This brave narration,
+ Which my poor genii
+ Could not entwine;
+ But were I Homer
+ Or Nebuchadnezzar,
+ 'Tis in every feature
+ I would make it shine.
+
+ _Richard Alfred Milliken_
+
+
+
+
+THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS
+
+
+ Oft in the stilly night,
+ Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+ Fond Memory brings the light
+ Of other days around me:
+ The smiles, the tears
+ Of boyhood's years,
+ The words of love then spoken;
+ The eyes that shone
+ Now dimm'd and gone,
+ The cheerful homes now broken!
+ Then in the stilly night,
+ Ere slumber's chain hath bound me,
+ Sad memory brings the light
+ Of other days around me.
+
+ When I remember all
+ The friends so linked together
+ I've seen around me fall
+ Like leaves in wintry weather,
+ I feel like one
+ Who treads alone
+ Some banquet-hall deserted,
+ Whose lights are fled,
+ Whose garlands dead,
+ And all but he departed.
+ Then in the stilly night,
+ Ere slumber's chain hath bound me,
+ Sad Memory brings the light
+ Of other days around me.
+
+ _Thomas Moore_
+
+
+
+
+AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT
+
+
+ At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
+ To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;
+ And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air
+ To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,
+ And tell me our love is remembered even in the sky!
+
+ Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear
+ When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear;
+ And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,
+ I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the kingdom of souls
+ Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
+
+ _Thomas Moore_
+
+
+
+
+THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
+
+
+ Not a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,
+ As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
+ Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
+ O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
+
+ We buried him darkly at dead of night,
+ The sods with our bayonets turning,
+ By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
+ And the lantern dimly burning.
+
+ No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
+ Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
+ But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
+ With his martial cloak around him.
+
+ Few and short were the prayers we said,
+ And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
+ But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
+ And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
+
+ We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
+ And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
+ That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
+ And we far away on the billow!
+
+ Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
+ And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,--
+ But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
+ In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
+
+ But half of our heavy task was done,
+ When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
+ And we heard the distant and random gun
+ That the foe was sullenly firing.
+
+ Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
+ From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
+ We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone--
+ But we left him alone in his glory.
+
+ _Rev. Charles Wolfe_
+
+
+
+
+THE CONVICT OF CLONMELL
+
+_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 gaol 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.
+
+ 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 gaol 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_.
+
+ _Jeremiah Joseph Callanan_
+
+
+
+
+THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ O, many a day have I made good ale in the glen,
+ That came not of stream or malt;--like the brewing of men.
+ My bed was the ground; my roof, the greenwood above,
+ And the wealth that I sought one far kind glance from my love.
+
+ Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field,
+ That I was not near from terror my angel to shield.
+ She stretched forth her arms,--her mantle she flung to the wind,
+ And swam o'er Loch Lene, her outlawed lover to find.
+
+ O would that a freezing sleet-wing'd tempest did sweep,
+ And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep;
+ I'd ask not a ship, or a bark, or pinnace, to save,--
+ With her hand round my waist, I'd fear not the wind or the wave.
+
+ 'Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringes its sides,
+ The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides;--
+ I think as at eve she wanders its mazes along,
+ The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of her song.
+
+ _Jeremiah Joseph Callanan_
+
+
+
+
+DIRGE OF O'SULLIVAN BEAR
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ 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!
+ 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 for ever!
+
+ In the hole which the vile hands
+ Of soldiers had made thee,
+ Unhonour'd, 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!
+
+ Dear head of my darling,
+ How gory and pale,
+ These aged eyes see thee,
+ High spiked on their gaol!
+ 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 thy billows were dyed
+ With the red wounds of fear
+ Of Muiertach Oge,
+ Our O'Sullivan Bear!
+
+ _Jeremiah Joseph Callanan_
+
+
+
+
+LOVE SONG
+
+
+ Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers,
+ Lulled 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 forests 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 faithfulest and fairest
+ Bleeds with its death-wound its wound of love for thee!
+
+ _George Darley_
+
+
+
+
+THE WHISTLIN' THIEF
+
+
+ When Pat came over the hill,
+ His colleen fair to see,
+ His whistle low, but shrill,
+ The signal was to be;
+
+ (_Pat whistles._)
+
+ 'Mary,' the mother said,
+ 'Some one is whistling sure;'
+ Says Mary, ''Tis only the wind
+ Is whistling through the door.'
+
+ (_Pat whistles a bit of a popular air._)
+
+ 'I've lived a long time, Mary,
+ In this wide world, my dear,
+ But a door to whistle like _that_
+ I never yet did hear.'
+
+ 'But, mother, you know the fiddle
+ Hangs close beside the chink,
+ And the wind upon the strings
+ Is playing the tune I think.'
+
+ (_The pig grunts._)
+
+ 'Mary, I hear the pig,
+ Unaisy in his mind.'
+ 'But, mother, you know, they say
+ The pigs can see the wind.'
+
+ 'That's true enough _in the day_,
+ But I think you may remark,
+ That pigs no more nor we
+ Can see anything in the dark.'
+
+ (_The dog barks._)
+
+ 'The dog is barking now,
+ The fiddle can't play the tune.'
+ 'But, mother, the dogs will bark
+ Whenever they see the moon.'
+
+ 'But how could he see the moon,
+ When, you know, the dog is blind?
+ Blind dogs won't bark at the moon,
+ Nor fiddles be played by the wind.
+
+ 'I'm not such a fool as you think,
+ I know very well it is Pat:--
+ Shut your mouth, you whistlin' thief,
+ And go along home out o' that!
+
+ 'And you be off to your bed,
+ Don't play upon me your jeers;
+ For though I have lost my eyes,
+ I haven't lost my ears!'
+
+ _Samuel Lover_
+
+
+
+
+SOGGARTH AROON
+
+
+ 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
+ Old Ireland's slavery,
+ Soggarth aroon.
+
+ Why not her poorest man,
+ Soggarth aroon,
+ Try and do all he can,
+ Soggarth aroon,
+ Her commands to fulfil
+ Of his own heart and will,
+ Side by side with you still
+ 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!
+
+ Who, in the winter's night,
+ Soggarth aroon,
+ When the cold blast did bite,
+ Soggarth aroon,
+ Came to my cabin-door,
+ And, on my 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!
+
+ _John Banim_
+
+
+
+
+DARK ROSALEEN
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ O my Dark Rosaleen,
+ Do not sigh, do not weep!
+ The priests are on the ocean green.
+ They march along the deep.
+ There's wine from the royal Pope,
+ Upon the ocean green;
+ And Spanish ale shall give you hope,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+ My own Rosaleen!
+ Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,
+ Shall give you health, and help, and hope,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+
+ Over hills, and through dales,
+ Have I roamed for your sake;
+ All yesterday I sailed with sails
+ On river and on lake,
+ The Erne, at its highest flood,
+ I dashed across unseen,
+ For there was lightning in my blood,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+ My own Rosaleen!
+ O there was lightning in my blood,
+ Red lightning lightened through my blood,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+
+ All day long in unrest
+ To and fro do I move,
+ The very heart within my breast
+ Is wasted for you, Love!
+ The heart in my bosom faints
+ To think of you, my queen!
+ My life of life, my saint of saints,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+ My own Rosaleen!
+ To hear your sweet and sad complaints,
+ My life, my love, my saint of saints,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+
+ Woe and pain, pain and woe,
+ Are my lot night and noon;
+ To see your bright face clouded so,
+ Like to the mournful moon.
+ But yet will I rear your throne
+ Again in golden sheen:
+ 'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+ My own Rosaleen!
+ 'Tis you shall have the golden throne,
+ 'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+
+ Over dews, over sands,
+ Will I fly for your weal:
+ Your holy, delicate white hands
+ Shall girdle me with steel.
+ At home, in your emerald bowers,
+ From morning's dawn till e'en,
+ You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+ My fond Rosaleen!
+ You'll think of me through daylight's hours,
+ My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+
+ I could scale the blue air,
+ I could plough the high hills,
+ O, I could kneel all night in prayer,
+ To heal your many ills.
+ And one beamy smile from you
+ Would float like light between
+ My toils and me, my own, my true,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+ My fond Rosaleen!
+ Would give me life and soul anew,
+ A second life, a soul anew,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+
+ O! the Erne shall run red
+ With redundance of blood,
+ The earth shall rock beneath our tread,
+ And flames wrap hill and wood,
+ And gun-peal, and slogan cry,
+ Wake many a glen serene,
+ Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+ My own Rosaleen!
+ The Judgment Hour must first be nigh
+ Ere you can fade, ere you can die,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+
+ _James Clarence Mangan_
+
+
+
+
+LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OF TYRONE AND TYRCONNELL
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ O woman of the Piercing Wail,
+ Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay
+ With sigh and groan,
+ Would God thou wert among the Gael!
+ Thou wouldst not then from day to day
+ Weep thus alone.
+ 'Twere long before, around a grave
+ In green Tyrconnell, one could find
+ This loneliness;
+ Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave
+ Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined
+ Companionless.
+
+ Beside the wave in Donegal,
+ In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore,
+ Or Killillee.
+ Or where the sunny waters fall
+ At Assaroe, near Erna's shore,
+ This could not be.
+ On Derry's plains--in rich Drumclieff--
+ Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned
+ In olden years,
+ No day could pass but woman's grief
+ Would rain upon the burial-ground
+ Fresh floods of tears!
+
+ O, no!--from Shannon, Boyne, and Suir,
+ From high Dunluce's castle-walls,
+ From Lissadill,
+ Would flock alike both rich and poor,
+ One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls
+ To Tara's hill;
+ And some would come from Barrow-side,
+ And many a maid would leave her home,
+ On Leitrim's plains,
+ And by melodious Banna's tide,
+ And by the Mourne and Erne, to come
+ And swell thy strains!
+
+ O, horses' hoofs would trample down
+ The Mount whereon the martyr-saint
+ Was crucified.
+ From glen and hill, from plain and town,
+ One loud lament, one thrilling plaint,
+ Would echo wide.
+ There would not soon be found, I ween,
+ One foot of ground among those bands
+ For museful thought,
+ So many shriekers of the _keen_
+ Would cry aloud and clap their hands,
+ All woe distraught!
+
+ Two princes of the line of Conn
+ Sleep in their cells of clay beside
+ O'Donnell Roe;
+ Three royal youths, alas! are gone,
+ Who lived for Erin's weal, but died
+ For Erin's woe;
+ Ah! could the men of Ireland read
+ The names these noteless burial-stones
+ Display to view,
+ Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed,
+ Their tears gush forth again, their groans
+ Resound anew!
+
+ The youths whose relics moulder here
+ Were sprung from Hugh, high Prince and Lord
+ Of Aileach's lands;
+ Thy noble brothers, justly dear,
+ Thy nephew, long to be deplored
+ By Ulster's bands.
+ Theirs were not souls wherein dull Time
+ Could domicile Decay or house
+ Decrepitude!
+ They passed from Earth ere Manhood's prime,
+ Ere years had power to dim their brows
+ Or chill their blood.
+
+ And who can marvel o'er thy grief,
+ Or who can blame thy flowing tears,
+ That knows their source?
+ O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief,
+ Cut off amid his vernal years,
+ Lies here a corse
+ Beside his brother Cathbar, whom
+ Tirconnell of the Helmets mourns
+ In deep despair--
+ For valour, truth, and comely bloom,
+ For all that greatens and adorns
+ A peerless pair.
+
+ O, had these twain, and he, the third,
+ The Lord of Mourne, O'Niall's son,
+ Their mate in death--
+ A prince in look, in deed and word--
+ Had these three heroes yielded on
+ The field their breath,
+ O, had they fallen on Criffan's plain,
+ There would not be a town or clan
+ From shore to sea,
+ But would with shrieks bewail the slain,
+ Or chant aloud the exulting _rann_
+ Of Jubilee!
+
+ When high the shout of battle rose,
+ On fields where Freedom's torch still burned
+ Through Erin's gloom,
+ If one, if barely one of those
+ Were slain, all Ulster would have mourned
+ The hero's doom!
+ If at Athboy, where hosts of brave
+ Ulidian horsemen sank beneath
+ The shock of spears,
+ Young Hugh O'Neill had found a grave,
+ Long must the North have wept his death
+ With heart-wrung tears!
+
+ If on the day of Ballach-myre
+ The Lord of Mourne had met thus young,
+ A warrior's fate,
+ In vain would such as thou desire
+ To mourn, alone, the champion sprung
+ From Niall the Great!
+ No marvel this--for all the dead,
+ Heaped on the field, pile over pile,
+ At Mullach-brack,
+ Were scarce an _eric_ for his head,
+ If death had stayed his footsteps while
+ On victory's track!
+
+ If on the Day of Hostages
+ The fruit had from the parent bough
+ Been rudely torn
+ In sight of Munster's bands--Mac-Nee's--
+ Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow,
+ Could ill have borne.
+ If on the day of Ballach-boy
+ Some arm had laid, by foul surprise,
+ The chieftain low,
+ Even our victorious shout of joy
+
+ Would soon give place to rueful cries
+ And groans of woe!
+
+ If on the day the Saxon host
+ Were forced to fly--a day so great
+ For Ashanee--
+ The Chief had been untimely lost,
+ Our conquering troops should moderate
+ Their mirthful glee.
+ There would not lack on Lifford's day,
+ From Galway, from the glens of Boyle,
+ From Limerick's towers,
+ A marshalled file, a long array
+ Of mourners to bedew the soil
+ With tears in showers!
+
+ If on the day a sterner fate
+ Compelled his flight from Athenree,
+ His blood had flowed,
+ What numbers all disconsolate,
+ Would come unasked, and share with thee
+ Affliction's load!
+ If Derry's crimson field had seen
+ His life-blood offered up, though 'twere
+ On Victory's shrine,
+ A thousand cries would swell the _keen_,
+ A thousand voices of despair
+ Would echo thine.
+
+ O, had the fierce Dalcassian swarm
+ That bloody night on Fergus' banks
+ But slain our chief,
+ When rose his camp in wild alarm--
+ How would the triumph of his ranks
+ Be dashed with grief!
+ How would the troops of Murbach mourn
+ If on the Curlew Mountains' day,
+ Which England rued,
+ Some Saxon hand had left them lorn,
+ By shedding there, amid the fray,
+ Their prince's blood!
+
+ Red would have been our warriors' eyes
+ Had Roderick found on Sligo field
+ A gory grave,
+ No Northern Chief would soon arise,
+ So sage to guide, so strong to shield,
+ So swift to save.
+ Long would Leith-Cuinn have wept if Hugh
+ Had met the death he oft had dealt
+ Among the foe;
+ But, had our Roderick fallen too,
+ All Erin must, alas! have felt
+ The deadly blow!
+
+ What do I say? Ah, woe is me!
+ Already we bewail in vain
+ Their fatal fall!
+ And Erin, once the Great and Free,
+ Now vainly mourns her breakless chain,
+ And iron thrall!
+ Then, daughter of O'Donnell! dry
+ Thine overflowing eyes, and turn
+ Thy heart aside;
+ For Adam's race is born to die,
+ And sternly the sepulchral urn
+ Mocks human pride!
+
+ Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne,
+ Nor place thy trust in arm of clay--
+ But on thy knees
+ Uplift thy soul to God alone,
+ For all things go their destined way
+ As He decrees.
+ Embrace the faithful Crucifix,
+ And seek the path of pain and prayer
+ Thy Saviour trod!
+ Nor let thy spirit intermix
+ With earthly hope and worldly care
+ Its groans to God!
+
+ And Thou, O mighty Lord! whose ways
+ Are far above our feeble minds
+ To understand,
+ Sustain us in these doleful days,
+ And render light the chain that binds
+ Our fallen land!
+ Look down upon our dreary state,
+ And through the ages that may still
+ Roll sadly on,
+ Watch Thou o'er hapless Erin's fate,
+ And shield at least from darker ill
+ The blood of Conn!
+
+ _James Clarence Mangan_
+
+
+
+
+A LAMENTATION FOR THE DEATH OF SIR MAURICE FITZGERALD, KNIGHT OF KERRY
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ There was lifted up one voice of woe,
+ One lament of more than mortal grief,
+ Through the wide South to and fro,
+ For a fallen Chief.
+ In the dead of night that cry thrilled through me,
+ I looked out upon the midnight air;
+ Mine own soul was all as gloomy,
+ And I knelt in prayer.
+
+ O'er Loch Gur, that night, once--twice--yea, thrice--
+ Passed a wail of anguish for the Brave,
+ That half curled into ice
+ The moon-mirroring wave.
+ Then uprose a many-toned wild hymn in
+ Choral swell from Ogra's dark ravine,
+ And Moguly's Phantom Women
+ Mourned the Geraldine!
+
+ Far on Carah Mona's emerald plains,
+ Shrieks and sighs were blended many hours,
+ And Fermoy, in fitful strains,
+ Answered from her towers.
+ Youghal, Keenalmeaky, Eemokilly,
+ Mourned in concert, and their piercing _keen_
+ Woke to wondering life the stilly
+ Glens of Inchiqueen.
+
+ From Loughmoe to yellow Dunanore
+ There was fear; the traders of Tralee
+ Gathered up their golden store,
+ And prepared to flee;
+ For, in ship and hall, from night till morning
+ Showed the first faint beamings of the sun,
+ All the foreigners heard the warning
+ Of the Dreaded One!
+
+ 'This,' they spake, 'portendeth death to us,
+ If we fly not swiftly from our fate!'
+ Self-conceited idiots! thus
+ Ravingly to prate!
+ Not for base-born higgling Saxon trucksters
+ Ring laments like those by shore and sea!
+ Not for churls with souls of hucksters
+ Waileth our Banshee!
+ For the high Milesian race alone
+ Ever flows the music of her woe!
+ For slain heir to bygone throne,
+ And for Chief laid low!
+ Hark!... Again, methinks, I hear her weeping
+ Yonder! Is she near me now, as then?
+ Or was but the night-wind sweeping
+ Down the hollow glen?
+
+ _James Clarence Mangan_
+
+
+
+
+THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ O, Woman of Three Cows, _agragh!_ don't let your
+ tongue thus rattle!
+ O, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may
+ have cattle.
+ I have seen--and, here's my hand to you, I only say
+ what's true--
+ A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud
+ as you.
+
+ Good luck to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't be
+ their despiser;
+ For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the
+ very miser;
+ And death soon strips the proudest wreath from
+ haughty human brows,
+ Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good Woman
+ of Three Cows!
+
+ See where Momonia's heroes lie, proud Owen More's
+ descendants,
+ 'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the
+ grand attendants!
+ If _they_ were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal
+ bows,
+ Can _you_ be proud, can _you_ be stiff, my Woman
+ of Three Cows?
+
+ The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the
+ land to mourning;
+ _Mavrone!_ for they were banished, with no hope of
+ their returning--
+ Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were
+ driven to house?
+ Yet _you_ can give yourself these airs, O Woman
+ of Three Cows!
+
+ O, think of Donnel of the Ships, the Chief whom
+ nothing daunted--
+ See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled,
+ unchanted!
+ He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder
+ cannot rouse--
+ Then ask yourself, should _you_ be proud, good Woman
+ of Three Cows?
+
+ O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names
+ are shrined in story--
+ Think how their high achievements once made Erin's
+ greatest glory--
+ Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and
+ Cyprus boughs,
+ And so, for all your pride, will yours, O Woman
+ of Three Cows!
+
+ Th' O'Carrols, also, famed when fame was only for
+ the boldest,
+ Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and
+ oldest;
+ Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or
+ carouse?
+ Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman
+ of Three Cows!
+
+ Your neighbour's poor, and you, it seems, are big
+ with vain ideas,
+ Because, _inagh!_ you've got three cows, one more, I see,
+ than _she_ has;
+ That tongue of yours wags more at times than
+ charity allows--
+ But, if you're strong, be merciful, great Woman
+ of Three Cows!
+
+
+THE SUMMING-UP.
+
+ Now, there you go! You still, of course, keep up
+ your scornful bearing,
+ And I'm too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak
+ I'm wearing,
+ If I had but _four_ cows myself, even though you were
+ my spouse,
+ I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman
+ of Three Cows!
+
+ _James Clarence Mangan_
+
+
+
+
+PRINCE ALFRID'S ITINERARY THROUGH IRELAND
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ I found in Innisfail the fair,
+ In Ireland, while in exile there,
+ Women of worth, both grave and gay men,
+ Many clerics and many laymen.
+
+ I travelled its fruitful provinces round
+ And in every one of the five I found,
+ Alike in church and in palace hall,
+ Abundant apparel, and food for all.
+
+ Gold and silver I found, and money,
+ Plenty of wheat and plenty of honey;
+ I found God's people rich in pity,
+ Found many a feast and many a city.
+
+ I also found in Armagh, the splendid,
+ Meekness, wisdom, and prudence blended,
+ Fasting, as Christ hath recommended,
+ And noble councillors untranscended.
+
+ I found in each great church moreo'er,
+ Whether on island or on shore
+ Piety, learning, fond affection,
+ Holy welcome and kind protection.
+
+ I found thy good lay monks and brothers
+ Ever beseeching help for others,
+ And in their keeping the holy word
+ Pure as it came from Jesus the Lord.
+
+ I found in Munster unfettered of any,
+ Kings and queens and poets a many--
+ Poets were skilled in music and measure,
+ Prosperous doings, mirth and pleasure.
+
+ I found in Connaught the just, redundance
+ Of riches, milk in lavish abundance,
+ Hospitality, vigour, fame,
+ In Cruachan's land of heroic name.
+
+ I found in the county of Connall the glorious
+ Bravest heroes, ever victorious;
+ Fair-complexioned men and warlike,
+ Ireland's lights, the high, the starlike.
+
+ I found in Ulster, from hill to glen,
+ Hardy warriors, resolute men;
+ Beauty that bloomed when youth was gone,
+ And strength transmitted from sire to son.
+
+ I found in the noble district of Boyle
+
+ (_MS. here illegible._)
+
+ Brehons, erenachs, weapons bright,
+ And horsemen bold and sudden in fight.
+
+ I found in Leinster the smooth and sleek,
+ From Dublin to Slewmargy's peak;
+ Flourishing pastures, valour, health,
+ Long-living worthies, commerce, wealth.
+
+ I found, besides, from Ara to Glea,
+ In the broad rich country of Ossorie,
+ Sweet fruits, good laws for all and each,
+ Great chess players, men of truthful speech.
+
+ I found in Meath's fair principality,
+ Virtue, vigour, and hospitality;
+ Candour, joyfulness, bravery, purity,
+ Ireland's bulwark and security.
+
+ I found strict morals in age and youth,
+ I found historians recording truth;
+ The things I sing of in verse unsmooth,
+ I found them all--I have written sooth.
+
+ _James Clarence Mangan_
+
+
+
+
+O'HUSSEY'S ODE TO THE MAGUIRE
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ Where is my Chief, my Master, this bleak night, _mavrone_!
+ O, cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak night for Hugh,
+ Its showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one through and through,
+ Pierceth one to the very bone!
+
+ Rolls real thunder? Or was that red, livid light
+ Only a meteor? I scarce know; but through the midnight dim
+ The pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the hate that persecutes _him_
+ Nothing hath crueler venomy might.
+
+ An awful, a tremendous night is this, meseems!
+ The flood-gates of the river of heaven, I think, have been
+ burst wide--
+ Down from the overcharged clouds, like unto headlong ocean's tide,
+ Descends grey rain in roaring streams.
+
+ Though he were even a wolf ranging the round green woods,
+ Though he were even a pleasant salmon in the unchainable sea,
+ Though he were a wild mountain eagle, he could scarce bear, he,
+ This sharp, sore sleet, these howling floods.
+
+ O mournful is my soul this night for Hugh Maguire!
+ Darkly, as in a dream he strays! Before him and behind
+ Triumphs the tyrannous anger of the wounding wind,
+ The wounding wind, that burns as fire!
+
+ It is my bitter grief--it cuts me to the heart--
+ That in the country of Clan Darry this should be his fate!
+ O, woe is me, where is he? Wandering, houseless, desolate,
+ Alone, without or guide or chart!
+
+ Medreams I see just now his face, the strawberry-bright,
+ Uplifted to the blackened heavens, while the tempestuous winds
+ Blow fiercely over and round him, and the smiting
+ sleet-shower blinds
+ The hero of Galang to-night!
+
+ Large, large affliction unto me and mine it is,
+ That one of his majestic bearing, his fair, stately form,
+ Should thus be tortured and o'erborne--that this unsparing storm
+ Should wreak its wrath on head like his!
+
+ That his great hand, so oft the avenger of the oppressed,
+ Should this chill churlish night, perchance, be paralyzed by frost--
+ While through some icicle-hung thicket--as one lorn and lost--
+ He walks and wanders without rest.
+
+ The tempest-driven torrent deluges the mead,
+ It overflows the low banks of the rivulets and ponds--
+ The lawns and pasture-grounds lie locked in icy bonds
+ So that the cattle cannot feed.
+
+ The pale bright margins of the streams are seen by none,
+ Rushes and sweeps along the untamable flood on every side--
+ It penetrates and fills the cottagers' dwellings far and wide--
+ Water and land are blent in one.
+
+ Through some dark wood, 'mid bones of monsters, Hugh now strays,
+ As he confronts the storm with anguished heart, but manly brow--
+ O, what a sword-wound to that tender heart of his were now
+ A backward glance of peaceful days.
+
+ But other thoughts are his--thoughts that can still inspire
+ With joy and onward-bounding hope the bosom of Mac-Nee--
+ Thoughts of his warriors charging like bright billows the sea,
+ Borne on the wind's wings, flashing fire!
+
+ And though frost glaze to-night the clear dew of his eyes,
+ And white ice-gauntlets glove his noble fine fair fingers o'er,
+ A warm dress is to him that lightning garb he ever wore,
+ The lightning of the soul, not skies.
+
+
+AVRAN
+
+ Hugh marched forth to the fight--I grieved to see him so depart;
+ And lo! to-night he wanders frozen, rain-drenched, sad, betrayed--
+ _But the memory of the limewhite mansions his right hand hath laid
+ In ashes, warms the hero's heart_!
+
+ _James Clarence Mangan_
+
+
+
+
+THE NAMELESS ONE
+
+
+ Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river,
+ That sweeps along to the mighty sea;
+ God will inspire me while I deliver
+ My soul to thee!
+
+ Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening
+ Amid the last homes of youth and eld,
+ That there was once one whose blood ran lightning
+ No eye beheld.
+
+ Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour,
+ How shone for _him_, through its griefs and gloom,
+ No star of all heaven sends to light our
+ Path to the tomb.
+
+ Roll on, my song, and to after ages
+ Tell how, disdaining all earth can give,
+ He would have taught men, from wisdom's pages,
+ The way to live.
+
+ And tell how trampled, derided, hated,
+ And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong,
+ He fled for shelter to God, who mated
+ His soul with song--
+
+ With song which alway, sublime or vapid,
+ Flowed like a rill in the morning-beam,
+ Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid--
+ A mountain stream.
+
+ Tell how this Nameless, condemned for years long
+ To herd with demons from hell beneath,
+ Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, long
+ For even death.
+
+ Go on to tell how, with genius wasted,
+ Betrayed in friendship, befooled in love,
+ With spirit shipwrecked, and young hopes blasted,
+ He still, still strove.
+
+ Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others,
+ And some whose hands should have wrought for _him_;
+ (If children live not for sires and mothers,)
+ His mind grew dim.
+
+ And he fell far through that pit abysmal
+ The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns;
+ And pawned his soul for the devil's dismal
+ Stock of returns.
+
+ But yet redeemed it in days of darkness,
+ And shapes and signs of the final wrath,
+ When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness,
+ Stood on his path.
+
+ And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow,
+ And want, and sickness, and houseless nights,
+ He bides in calmness the silent morrow,
+ That no ray lights.
+
+ And lives he still, then? Yes! Old and hoary
+ At thirty-nine, from despair and woe,
+ He lives enduring what future story
+ Will never know.
+
+ Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble,
+ Deep in your bosoms! There let him dwell!
+ He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble,
+ Here and in hell!
+
+ _James Clarence Mangan_
+
+
+
+
+SIBERIA
+
+
+ In Siberia's wastes
+ The Ice-wind's breath
+ Woundeth like the toothèd steel.
+ Lost Siberia doth reveal
+ Only blight and death.
+
+ Blight and death alone.
+ No Summer shines.
+ Night is interblent with Day.
+ In Siberia's wastes alway
+ The blood blackens, the heart pines.
+
+ In Siberia's wastes
+ No tears are shed,
+ For they freeze within the brain.
+ Nought is felt but dullest pain,
+ Pain acute, yet dead;
+
+ Pain as in a dream,
+ When years go by
+ Funeral-paced, yet fugitive,
+ When man lives, and doth not live,
+ Doth not live--nor die.
+
+ In Siberia's wastes
+ Are sands and rocks.
+ Nothing blooms of green or soft,
+ But the snowpeaks rise aloft
+ And the gaunt ice-blocks.
+
+ And the exile there
+ Is one with those;
+ They are part, and he is part,
+ For the sands are in his heart,
+ And the killing snows.
+
+ Therefore, in those wastes
+ None curse the Czar.
+ Each man's tongue is cloven by
+ The North Blast, who heweth nigh
+ With sharp scymitar.
+
+ And such doom he drees,
+ Till hunger gnawn,
+ And cold-slain, he at length sinks there,
+ Yet scarce more a corpse than ere
+ His last breath was drawn.
+
+ _James Clarence Mangan_
+
+
+
+
+HY-BRASAIL
+
+
+ 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_ 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!
+
+ 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;
+ Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track,
+ And to Ara again he looked timidly back;
+ O! 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.
+ Bash fool! for a vision of fanciful bliss
+ To barter thy calm life of labour and peace.
+ The warning of reason was spoken in vain,
+ He never re-visited Ara again!
+ Night falls on the deep, amidst tempest and spray,
+ And he died on the waters, away, far away!
+
+ _Gerald Griffin_
+
+
+
+
+MO CRAOIBHIN CNO
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ My heart is far from Liffey's tide
+ And Dublin town;
+ It strays beyond the Southern side
+ Of Cnoc-Maol-Donn,
+ Where Capa-chuinn hath woodlands green,
+ Where Amhan-Mhor's waters flow,
+ Where dwell unsung, unsought, unseen
+ _Mo craoibhin cno_,
+ Low clustering in her leafy screen,
+ _Mo craoibhin cno_!
+
+ The high-bred dames of Dublin town
+ Are rich and fair,
+ With wavy plume and silken gown,
+ And stately air;
+ Can plumes compare thy dark brown hair?
+ Can silks thy neck of snow?
+ Or measur'd pace thine artless grace?
+ _Mo craoibhin cno_,
+ When harebells scarcely show thy trace,
+ _Mo craoibhin cno_!
+
+ I've heard the songs by Liffey's wave
+ That maidens sung--
+ They sung their land the Saxon's slave,
+ In Saxon tongue--
+ O! bring me here that Gaelic dear
+ Which cursed the Saxon foe,
+ When thou didst charm my raptured ear,
+ _Mo craoibhin cno_!
+ And none but God's good angels near,
+ _Mo craoibhin cno_!
+
+ I've wandered by the rolling Lee!
+ And Lene's green bowers--
+ I've seen the Shannon's wide-spread sea
+ And Limerick's towers--
+ And Liffey's tide, where halls of pride
+ Frown o'er the flood below;
+ My wild heart strays to Amhan-mhor's side,
+ _Mo craoibhin cno_!
+ With love and thee for aye to bide,
+ _Mo craoibhin cno_!
+
+ _Edward Walsh_
+
+
+
+
+MAIRGRÉAD NI CHEALLEADH
+
+
+ At the dance in the village thy white foot was fleetest;
+ Thy voice in the concert of maidens was sweetest;
+ The swell of thy white breast made rich lovers follow;
+ And thy raven hair bound them, young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.
+
+ Thy neck was, lost maid, than the _ceanabhan_ whiter,
+ And the glow of thy cheek than the _monadan_ brighter;
+ But death's chain hath bound thee, thine eye's glazed and hollow,
+ That shone like a sunburst, young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.
+
+ No more shall mine ear drink thy melody swelling;
+ Nor thy beamy eye brighten the outlaw's dark dwelling;
+ Or thy soft heaving bosom my destiny hallow,
+ When thine arms twine around me, young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.
+
+ The moss couch I brought thee to-day from the mountain,
+ Has drank the last drop of thy young heart's red fountain--
+ For this good scian beside me stuck deep and run hollow
+ In thy bosom of treason, young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.
+
+ With strings of rich pearls thy white neck was laden,
+ And thy fingers with spoils of the Sassanach maiden:
+ Such rich silks enrob'd not the proud dames of Mallow--
+ Such pure gold they wore not as Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.
+
+ Alas! that my loved one her outlaw would injure--
+ Alas! that he e'er proved her treason's avenger!
+ That this right hand should make thee a bed cold and hollow,
+ When in Death's sleep it laid thee, Young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh!
+
+ And while to this lone cave my deep grief I'm venting,
+ The Saxon's keen bandog my footstep is scenting,
+ But true men await me afar in Duhallow,
+ Farewell, cave of slaughter, and Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.
+
+ _Edward Walsh_
+
+
+
+
+FROM THE COLD SOD THAT'S O'ER YOU
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ From the cold sod that's o'er you
+ I never shall sever;
+ Were my hands twined in yours, Love,
+ I'd hold them for ever.
+ My fondest, my fairest,
+ We may now sleep together!
+ I've the cold earth's damp odour,
+ And I'm worn from the weather.
+
+ This heart filled with fondness
+ Is wounded and weary;
+ A dark gulf beneath it
+ Yawns jet-black and dreary.
+ When death comes, a victor,
+ In mercy to greet me,
+ On the wings of the whirlwind
+ In the wild wastes you'll meet me.
+
+ When the folk of my household
+ Suppose I am sleeping,
+ On your cold grave till morning
+ The lone watch I'm keeping.
+ My grief to the night wind
+ For the mild maid to render,
+ Who was my betrothed
+ Since infancy tender.
+
+ Remember the lone night
+ I last spent with you, Love,
+ Beneath the dark sloe-tree
+ When the icy wind blew, Love.
+ High praise to thy Saviour
+ No sin-stain had found you,
+ That your virginal glory
+ Shines brightly around you.
+
+ The priests and the friars
+ Are ceaselessly chiding,
+ That I love a young maiden
+ In life not abiding.
+ O! I'd shelter and shield you
+ If wild storms were swelling!
+ And O, my wrecked hope,
+ That the cold earth's your dwelling.
+
+ _Edward Walsh_
+
+
+
+
+THE FAIRY NURSE
+
+
+ Sweet babe! a golden cradle holds thee,
+ And soft the snow-white fleece enfolds thee;
+ In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping,
+ Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping.
+ Shuheen sho, lulo lo
+
+ When mothers languish broken-hearted,
+ When young wives are from husbands parted,
+ Ah! little think the keeners lonely,
+ They weep some time-worn fairy only.
+ Shuheen sho, lulo lo!
+
+ Within our magic halls of brightness,
+ Trips many a foot of snowy whiteness;
+ Stolen maidens, queens of fairy--
+ And kings and chiefs a sluagh shee airy.
+ Shuheen sho, lulo lo!
+
+ Rest thee, babe! I love thee dearly,
+ And as thy mortal mother nearly;
+ Ours is the swiftest steed and proudest,
+ That moves where the tramp of the host is loudest.
+ Shuheen sho, lulo lo!
+
+ Rest thee, babe! for soon thy slumbers
+ Shall flee at the magic koelshie's numbers;
+ In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping,
+ Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping.
+ Shuheen sho, lulo lo!
+
+ _Edward Walsh_
+
+
+
+
+A CUISLE GEAL MO CHROIDHE
+
+
+ The long, long wished-for hour has come,
+ Yet come, astor, in vain;
+ And left thee but the wailing hum
+ Of sorrow and of pain:
+ My light of life, my lonely love!
+ Thy portion sure must be
+ Man's scorn below, God's wrath above--
+ A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!
+
+ I've given thee manhood's 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
+ O'er Lua's fairy lake.
+ 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 brief 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 prayed for 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 tried, alas! and those
+ Who'd peril all for thee
+ Were curs'd 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 failed
+ Or those who'd die for thee;
+ Who loved thee truly have not failed,
+ A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!
+
+ _Michael Doheny_
+
+
+
+
+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 love-light in your eye.
+
+ The _place_ is little changed, Mary,
+ The day is bright as then,
+ The lark's loud song is in my ear,
+ 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, O! they love the better still,
+ The few our Father sends!
+ And you were all _I_ 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 even on _your_ lip,
+ And the kind look on your brow--
+ I bless you, Mary, for that same,
+ Though you cannot hear me now.
+
+ 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--
+ O! 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.
+
+ _Lady Dufferin_
+
+
+
+
+THE WELSHMEN OF TIRAWLEY
+
+
+ Scorney Bwee, the Barretts' bailiff, lewd and lame,
+ To lift the Lynott's taxes when he came,
+ Rudely drew a young maid to him!
+ Then the Lynotts rose and slew him,
+ And in Tubber-na-Scorney threw him--
+ Small your blame,
+ Sons of Lynott!
+ Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ Then the Barretts to the Lynotts gave a choice,
+ Saying, 'Hear, ye murderous brood, men and boys,
+ Choose ye now, without delay,
+ Will ye lose your eyesight, say,
+ Or your manhoods, here to-day?
+ Sad your choice,
+ Sons of Lynott!
+ Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ Then the little boys of the Lynotts, weeping, said,
+ 'Only leave us our eyesight in our head.'
+ But the bearded Lynotts then
+ Quickly answered back again,
+ 'Take our eyes, but leave us men,
+ Alive or dead,
+ Sons of Wattin!'
+ Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ So the Barretts with sewing-needles sharp and smooth,
+ Let the light out of the eyes of every youth,
+ And of every bearded man,
+ Of the broken Lynott clan;
+ Then their darkened faces wan
+ Turning south
+ To the river--
+ Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ O'er the slippery stepping-stones of Clochan-na-n'all
+ They drove them, laughing loud at every fall,
+ As their wandering footsteps dark
+ Failed to reach the slippery mark,
+ And the swift stream swallowed stark,
+ One and all
+ As they stumbled--
+ From the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ Of all the blinded Lynotts one alone
+ Walk'd erect from stepping-stone to stone:
+ So back again they brought you,
+ And a second time they wrought you
+ With their needles; but never got you
+ Once to groan,
+ Emon Lynott,
+ For the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ But with prompt-projected footsteps sure as ever,
+ Emon Lynott again cross'd the river.
+ Though Duvowen was rising fast,
+ And the shaking stones o'ercast
+ By cold floods boiling past;
+ Yet you never,
+ Emon Lynott,
+ Faltered once before your foemen of Tirawley.
+
+ But, turning on Ballintubber bank, you stood,
+ And the Barretts thus bespoke o'er the flood--
+ 'O, ye foolish sons of Wattin,
+ Small amends are these you've gotten,
+ For, while Scorna Boy lies rotten,
+ I am good
+ For vengeance!'
+ Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ 'For 'tis neither in eye nor eyesight that a man
+ Bears the fortunes of himself and his clan,
+ But in the manly mind,
+ These darken'd orbs behind,
+ That your needles could never find
+ Though they ran
+ Through my heart-strings!'
+ Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ 'But, little your women's needles do I reck;
+ For the night from heaven never fell so black,
+ But Tirawley, and abroad
+ From the Moy to Cuan-an-fod,
+ I could walk it every sod,
+ Path and track,
+ Ford and togher,
+ Seeking vengeance on you, Barretts of Tirawley!
+
+ 'The night when Dathy O'Dowda broke your camp,
+ What Barrett among you was it held the lamp--
+ Showed the way to those two feet,
+ When through wintry wind and sleet,
+ I guided your blind retreat
+ In the swamp
+ Of Beäl-an-asa?
+ O ye vengeance-destined ingrates of Tirawley!'
+
+ So leaving loud-shriek-echoing Garranard,
+ The Lynott like a red dog hunted hard,
+ With his wife and children seven,
+ 'Mong the beasts and fowls of heaven
+ In the hollows of Glen Nephin,
+ Light-debarred,
+ Made his dwelling,
+ Planning vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.
+
+ And ere the bright-orb'd year its course had run,
+ On his brown round-knotted knee he nursed a son,
+ A child of light, with eyes
+ As clear as are the skies
+ In summer, when sunrise
+ Has begun;
+ So the Lynott
+ Nursed his vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.
+
+ And, as ever the bright boy grew in strength and size,
+ Made him perfect in each manly exercise,
+ The salmon in the flood,
+ The dun deer in the wood,
+ The eagle in the cloud
+ To surprise
+ On Ben Nephin,
+ Far above the foggy fields of Tirawley.
+
+ With the yellow-knotted spear-shaft, with the bow,
+ With the steel, prompt to deal shot and blow,
+ He taught him from year to year
+ And train'd him, without a peer,
+ For a perfect cavalier,
+ Hoping so--
+ Far his forethought--
+ For vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.
+
+ And, when mounted on his proud-bounding steed,
+ Emon Oge sat a cavalier indeed;
+ Like the ear upon the wheat
+ When winds in Autumn beat
+ On the bending stems, his seat;
+ And the speed
+ Of his courser
+ Was the wind from Barna-na-gee o'er Tirawley!
+
+ Now when fifteen sunny summers thus were spent,
+ (He perfected in all accomplishment)--
+ The Lynott said, 'My child,
+ We are over long exiled
+ From mankind in this wild--
+ --Time we went
+ Through the mountain
+ To the countries lying over-against Tirawley.'
+
+ So, out over mountain-moors, and mosses brown,
+ And green steam-gathering vales, they journey'd down:
+ Till, shining like a star,
+ Through the dusky gleams afar,
+ The bailey of Castlebar,
+ And the town
+ Of MacWilliam
+ Rose bright before the wanderers of Tirawley.
+
+ 'Look southward, my boy, and tell me as we go,
+ What see'st thou by the loch-head below?'
+ 'O, a stone-house strong and great,
+ And a horse-host at the gate,
+ And a captain in armour of plate--
+ Grand the show!
+ Great the glancing!
+ High the heroes of this land below Tirawley.
+
+ 'And a beautiful Bantierna by his side,
+ Yellow gold on all her gown-sleeves wide;
+ And in her hand a pearl
+ Of a young, little, fair-haired girl.'
+ Said the Lynott, 'It is the Earl!
+ Let us ride
+ To his presence.'
+ And before him came the exiles of Tirawley.
+
+ 'God save thee, MacWilliam,' the Lynott thus began;
+ 'God save all here besides of this clan;
+ For gossips dear to me
+ Are all in company--
+ For in these four bones ye see
+ A kindly man
+ Of the Britons--
+ Emon Lynott of Garranard of Tirawley.
+
+ 'And hither, as kindly gossip-law allows,
+ I come to claim a scion of thy house
+ To foster; for thy race,
+ Since William Conquer's days,
+ Have ever been wont to place,
+ With some spouse
+ Of a Briton,
+ A MacWilliam Oge, to foster in Tirawley.
+
+ 'And to show thee in what sort our youth are taught
+ I have hither to thy home of valour brought
+ This one son of my age,
+ For a sample and a pledge
+ For the equal tutelage,
+ In right thought,
+ Word, and action,
+ Of whatever son ye give into Tirawley.'
+
+ When MacWilliam beheld the brave boy ride and run,
+ Saw the spear-shaft from his white shoulder spun--
+ With a sigh, and with a smile,
+ He said,--'I would give the spoil
+ Of a county, that Tibbot Moyle,
+ My own son,
+ Were accomplish'd
+ Like this branch of the kindly Britons of Tirawley.'
+
+ When the Lady MacWilliam she heard him speak,
+ And saw the ruddy roses on his cheek,
+ She said, 'I would give a purse
+ Of red gold to the nurse
+ That would rear my Tibbot no worse;
+ But I seek
+ Hitherto vainly--
+ Heaven grant that I now have found her in Tirawley!'
+
+ So they said to the Lynott, 'Here, take our bird!
+ And as pledge for the keeping of thy word,
+ Let this scion here remain
+ Till thou comest back again:
+ Meanwhile the fitting train
+ Of a lord
+ Shall attend thee
+ With the lordly heir of Connaught into Tirawley.'
+ So back to strong-throng-gathering Garranard,
+ Like a lord of the country with his guard,
+ Came the Lynott, before them all,
+ Once again over Clochan-na-n'all
+ Steady and striding, erect and tall,
+ And his ward
+ On his shoulders
+ To the wonder of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ Then a diligent foster-father you would deem
+ The Lynott, teaching Tibbot, by mead and stream,
+ To cast the spear, to ride,
+ To stem the rushing tide,
+ With what feats of body beside,
+ Might beseem
+ A MacWilliam,
+ Fostered free among the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ But the lesson of hell he taught him in heart and mind,
+ For to what desire soever he inclined,
+ Of anger, lust, or pride,
+ He had it gratified,
+ Till he ranged the circle wide
+ Of a blind
+ Self-indulgence,
+ Ere he came to youthful manhood in Tirawley.
+
+ Then, even as when a hunter slips a hound,
+ Lynott loosed him--God's leashes all unbound--
+ In the pride of power and station,
+ And the strength of youthful passion,
+ On the daughters of thy nation,
+ All around,
+ Wattin Barrett!
+ O! the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley!
+
+ Bitter grief and burning anger, rage and shame,
+ Filled the houses of the Barretts where'er he came;
+ Till the young men of the Back,
+ Drew by night upon his track,
+ And slew him at Cornassack.
+ Small your blame,
+ Sons of Wattin!
+ Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ Said the Lynott, 'The day of my vengeance is drawing near,
+ The day for which, through many a long dark year,
+ I have toiled through grief and sin--
+ Call ye now the Brehons in,
+ And let the plea begin
+ Over the bier
+ Of MacWilliam,
+ For an eric upon the Barretts of Tirawley!'
+
+ Then the Brehons to MacWilliam Burke decreed
+ An eric upon Clan Barrett for the deed;
+ And the Lynott's share of the fine,
+ As foster-father, was nine
+ Ploughlands and nine score kine;
+ But no need
+ Had the Lynott,
+ Neither care, for land or cattle in Tirawley.
+
+ But rising, while all sat silent on the spot,
+ He said, 'The law says--doth it not?--
+ If the foster-sire elect
+ His portion to reject,
+ He may then the right exact
+ To applot
+ The short eric.'
+ ''Tis the law,' replied the Brehons of Tirawley.
+
+ Said the Lynott, 'I once before had a choice
+ Proposed me, wherein law had little voice;
+ But now I choose, and say,
+ As lawfully I may,
+ I applot the mulct to-day;
+ So rejoice
+ In your ploughlands
+ And your cattle which I renounce throughout Tirawley.
+
+ 'And thus I applot the mulct: I divide
+ The land throughout Clan Barrett on every side
+ Equally, that no place
+ May be without the face
+ Of a foe of Wattin's race--
+ That the pride
+ Of the Barretts
+ May be humbled hence for ever throughout Tirawley.
+
+ 'I adjudge a seat in every Barrett's hall
+ To MacWilliam: in every stable I give a stall
+ To MacWilliam: and, beside,
+ Whenever a Burke shall ride
+ Through Tirawley, I provide
+ At his call
+ Needful grooming,
+ Without charge from any Brughaidh of Tirawley.
+
+ 'Thus lawfully I avenge me for the throes
+ Ye lawlessly caused me and caused those
+ Unhappy shame-faced ones
+ Who, their mothers expected once,
+ Would have been the sires of sons--
+ O'er whose woes
+ Often weeping,
+ I have groaned in my exile from Tirawley.
+
+ 'I demand not of you your manhoods; but I take--
+ For the Burkes will take it--your Freedom! for the sake
+ Of which all manhood's given
+ And all good under heaven,
+ And, without which, better even
+ You should make
+ Yourselves barren,
+ Than see your children slaves throughout Tirawley!
+
+ 'Neither take I your eyesight from you; as you took
+ Mine and ours: I would have you daily look
+ On one another's eyes
+ When the strangers tyrannize
+ By your hearths, and blushes arise,
+ That ye brook
+ Without vengeance
+ The insults of troops of Tibbots throughout Tirawley!
+
+ 'The vengeance I designed, now is done,
+ And the days of me and mine nearly run--
+ For, for this, I have broken faith,
+ Teaching him who lies beneath
+ This pall, to merit death;
+ And my son
+ To his father
+ Stands pledged for other teaching in Tirawley.'
+
+ Said MacWilliam--'Father and son, hang them high!'
+ And the Lynott they hang'd speedily;
+ But across the salt water,
+ To Scotland, with the daughter
+ Of MacWilliam--well you got her!
+ Did you fly
+ Edmund Lindsay,
+ The gentlest of all the Welshmen of Tirawley!
+
+ 'Tis thus the ancient Ollaves of Erin tell
+ How, through lewdness and revenge, it befell
+ That the sons of William Conquer
+ Came over the sons of Wattin,
+ Throughout all the bounds and borders
+ Of the lands of Auley Mac Fiachra;
+ Till the Saxon Oliver Cromwell,
+ And his valiant, Bible-guided,
+ Free heretics of Clan London
+ Coming in, in their succession,
+ Rooted out both Burke and Barrett,
+ And in their empty places
+ New stems of freedom planted,
+ With many a goodly sapling
+ Of manliness and virtue;
+ Which while their children cherish,
+ Kindly Irish of the Irish,
+ Neither Saxons nor Italians,
+ May the mighty God of Freedom
+ Speed them well,
+ Never taking
+ Further vengeance on his people of Tirawley.
+
+ _Sir Samuel Ferguson_
+
+
+
+
+AIDEEN'S GRAVE
+
+
+ They heaved the stone; they heap'd the cairn.
+ Said Ossian, 'In a queenly grave
+ We leave her, 'mong her fields of fern,
+ Between the cliff and wave.
+
+ 'The cliff behind stands clear and bare,
+ And bare, above, the heathery steep
+ Scales the clear heaven's expanse, to where
+ The Danaan Druids sleep.
+
+ 'And all the sands that, left and right,
+ The grassy isthmus-ridge confine,
+ In yellow bars lie bare and bright
+ Among the sparkling brine.
+
+ 'A clear pure air pervades the scene,
+ In loneliness and awe secure;
+ Meet spot to sepulchre a Queen
+ Who in her life was pure.
+
+ 'Here, far from camp and chase removed,
+ Apart in Nature's quiet room,
+ The music that alive she loved
+ Shall cheer her in the tomb.
+
+ 'The humming of the noontide bees,
+ The lark's loud carol all day long,
+ And, borne on evening's salted breeze,
+ The clanking sea-bird's song,
+
+ 'Shall round her airy chamber float,
+ And with the whispering winds and streams,
+ Attune to Nature's tenderest note
+ The tenor of her dreams.
+
+ 'And oft, at tranquil eve's decline,
+ When full tides lip the Old Green Plain,
+ The lowing of Moynalty's kine
+ Shall round her breathe again.
+
+ 'In sweet remembrance of the days
+ When, duteous, in the lowly vale,
+ Unconscious of my Oscar's gaze,
+ She fill'd the fragrant pail,
+
+ 'And, duteous, from the running brook
+ Drew water for the bath; nor deem'd
+ A king did on her labour look,
+ And she a fairy seem'd.
+
+ 'But when the wintry frosts begin,
+ And in their long-drawn, lofty flight,
+ The wild geese with their airy din
+ Distend the ear of night,
+
+ 'And when the fierce De Danaan ghosts
+ At midnight from their peak come down,
+ When all around the enchanted coasts
+ Despairing strangers drown;
+
+ 'When, mingling with the wreckful wail,
+ From low Clontarf's wave-trampled floor
+ Comes booming up the burthen'd gale
+ The angry Sand-Bull's roar;
+
+ 'Or, angrier than the sea, the shout
+ Of Erin's hosts in wrath combined,
+ When Terror heads Oppression's rout,
+ And Freedom cheers behind:--
+
+ 'Then o'er our lady's placid dream,
+ Where safe from storms she sleeps, may steal
+ Such joy as will not misbeseem
+ A Queen of men to feel:
+
+ 'Such thrill of free, defiant pride,
+ As rapt her in her battle-car
+ At Gavra, when by Oscar's side
+ She rode the ridge of war,
+
+ 'Exulting, down the shouting troops,
+ And through the thick confronting kings,
+ With hands on all their javelin loops
+ And shafts on all their strings;
+
+ 'E'er closed the inseparable crowds,
+ No more to part for me, and show,
+ As bursts the sun through scattering clouds,
+ My Oscar issuing so.
+
+ 'No more, dispelling battle's gloom,
+ Shall son for me from fight return;
+ The great green rath's ten-acred tomb
+ Lies heavy on his urn.
+
+ 'A cup of bodkin-pencill'd clay
+ Holds Oscar; mighty heart and limb
+ One handful now of ashes grey:
+ And she has died for him.
+
+ 'And here, hard by her natal bower
+ On lone Ben Edar's side, we strive
+ With lifted rock and sign of power
+ To keep her name alive.
+
+ 'That while from circling year to year,
+ Her Ogham-letter'd stone is seen,
+ The Gael shall say, "Our Fenians here
+ Entombed their loved Aideen."
+
+ 'The Ogham from her pillar-stone
+ In tract of time will wear away;
+ Her name at last be only known
+ In Ossian's echo'd lay.
+
+ 'The long-forgotten lay I sing
+ May only ages hence revive,
+ (As eagle with a wounded wing
+ To soar again might strive,)
+
+ 'Imperfect, in an alien speech,
+ When, wandering here, some child of chance
+ Through pangs of keen delight shall reach
+ The gift of utterance,--
+
+ 'To speak the air, the sky to speak,
+ The freshness of the hill to tell,
+ Who, roaming bare Ben Edar's peak
+ And Aideen's briary dell,
+
+ 'And gazing on the Cromlech vast,
+ And on the mountain and the sea,
+ Shall catch communion with the past
+ And mix himself with me.
+
+ 'Child of the Future's doubtful night,
+ Whate'er your speech, whoe'er your sires,
+ Sing while you may with frank delight
+ The song your hour inspires.
+
+ 'Sing while you may, nor grieve to know
+ The song you sing shall also die;
+ Atharna's lay has perish'd so,
+ Though once it thrill'd this sky,
+
+ 'Above us, from his rocky chair,
+ There, where Ben Edar's landward crest
+ O'er eastern Bregia bends, to where
+ Dun Almon crowns the west:
+
+ 'And all that felt the fretted air
+ Throughout the song-distempered clime,
+ Did droop, till suppliant Leinster's prayer
+ Appeased the vengeful rhyme.
+
+ 'Ah me, or e'er the hour arrive
+ Shall bid my long-forgotten tones,
+ Unknown One, on your lips revive
+ Here by these moss-grown stones,
+
+ 'What change shall o'er the scene have crossed;
+ What conquering lords anew have come
+ What lore-arm'd, mightier Druid host
+ From Gaul or distant Rome!
+
+ 'What arts of death, what ways of life,
+ What creeds unknown to bard or seer,
+ Shall round your careless steps be rife,
+ Who pause and ponder here;
+
+ 'And, haply, where yon curlew calls
+ Athwart the marsh, 'mid groves and bowers,
+ See rise some mighty chieftain's halls
+ With unimagined towers:
+
+ 'And baying hounds, and coursers bright,
+ And burnish'd cars of dazzling sheen,
+ With courtly train of dame and knight,
+ Where now the fern is green.
+
+ 'Or, by yon prostrate altar-stone
+ May kneel, perchance, and, free from blame,
+ New holy men with rites unknown
+ New names of God proclaim.
+
+ 'Let change as may the Name of Awe,
+ Let right surcease and altar pall,
+ The same One God remains, a law
+ For ever and for all.
+
+ 'Let change as may the face of earth,
+ Let alter all the social frame,
+ For mortal men the warp of birth
+ And death are still the same.
+
+ 'And still, as life and time wear on,
+ The children of the waning days,
+ (Though strength be from their shoulders gone
+ To lift the loads we raise,)
+
+ 'Shall weep to do the burial rites
+ Of lost ones loved; and fondly found,
+ In shadow of the gathering nights,
+ The monumental mound.
+
+ 'Farewell! the strength of men is worn:
+ The night approaches dark and chill:
+ Sleep, till perchance an endless morn
+ Descend the glittering hill.'
+
+ Of Oscar and Aideen bereft,
+ So Ossian's song. The Fenians sped
+ Three mighty shouts to heaven; and left
+ Ben Edar to the dead.
+
+ _Sir Samuel Ferguson_
+
+
+
+
+DEIRDRE'S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF USNACH
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ The lions of the hill are gone,
+ And I am left alone--alone--
+ Dig the grave both wide and deep,
+ For I am sick, and fain would sleep!
+
+ The falcons of the wood are flown,
+ And I am left alone--alone--
+ Dig the grave both deep and wide,
+ And let us slumber side by side.
+
+ The dragons of the rock are sleeping,
+ Sleep that wakes not for our weeping--
+ Dig the grave, and make it ready,
+ Lay me on my true-love's body.
+
+ Lay their spears and bucklers bright
+ By the warriors' sides aright;
+ Many a day the three before me
+ On their linkèd bucklers bore me.
+
+ Lay upon the low grave floor,
+ 'Neath each head, the blue claymore;
+ Many a time the noble three
+ Reddened these blue blades for me.
+
+ Lay the collars, as is meet,
+ Of their greyhounds at their feet;
+ Many a time for me have they
+ Brought the tall red deer to bay.
+
+ In the falcon's jesses throw,
+ Hook and arrow, line and bow;
+ Never again, by stream or plain,
+ Shall the gentle woodsmen go.
+
+ Sweet companions, ye were ever--
+ Harsh to me, your sister, never;
+ Woods and wilds, and misty valleys,
+ Were with you as good's a palace.
+
+ O, to hear my true-love singing,
+ Sweet as sound of trumpets ringing;
+ Like the sway of ocean swelling
+ Rolled his deep voice round our dwelling.
+
+ O! to hear the echoes pealing
+ Round our green and fairy sheeling,
+ When the three, with soaring chorus,
+ Passed the silent skylark o'er us.
+
+ Echo now, sleep, morn and even--
+ Lark alone enchant the heaven!
+ Ardan's lips are scant of breath,
+ Neesa's tongue is cold in death.
+
+ Stag, exult on glen and mountain--
+ Salmon, leap from loch to fountain--
+ Heron, in the free air warm ye--
+ Usnach's sons no more will harm ye!
+
+ Erin's stay no more you are,
+ Rulers of the ridge of war;
+ Never more 'twill be your fate
+ To keep the beam of battle straight!
+
+ Woe is me! by fraud and wrong,
+ Traitors false and tyrants strong,
+ Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold,
+ For Barach's feast and Conor's gold!
+
+ Woe to Eman, roof and wall!
+ Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall!
+ Tenfold woe and black dishonour
+ To the foul and false Clan Conor!
+
+ Dig the grave both wide and deep,
+ Sick I am, and fain would sleep!
+ Dig the grave and make it ready,
+ Lay me on my true-love's body.
+
+ _Sir Samuel Ferguson_
+
+
+
+
+THE FAIR HILLS OF IRELAND
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,
+ _Uileacan dubh O!_
+ Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;
+ _Uileacan dubh O!_
+ There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,
+ 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,
+ _Uileacan dubh O!_
+ Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish sea;
+ _Uileacan 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;
+ _Uileacan dubh O!_
+ The butter and the cream do wondrously abound,
+ _Uileacan 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 forest grand,
+ On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
+
+ _Sir Samuel Ferguson_
+
+
+
+
+LAMENT OVER THE RUINS OF THE ABBEY OF TIMOLEAGUE
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ Lone and weary as I wander'd 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 spring 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.
+
+ Still the ancient seat was standing, built against the buttress
+ grey,
+ Where the clergy used to welcome weary trav'llers 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,
+ Many a storm since then has beaten on the grey 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 were once the country's boast,
+ Houseless now in weary wandering are you scattered, saintly host;
+ 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 daw's 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;
+ Nought see I beneath your shelter, save a heap of clayey bones.
+
+ O! the hardship, O! the hatred, tyranny, and cruel war,
+ Persecution and oppression, that have left you as you are!
+ I myself once also prosper'd;--mine is, too, an alter'd plight;
+ Trouble, care, and age have left me good for nought but grief
+ to-night.
+
+ Gone my motion and my vigour--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 could lie--
+ Death's deliverance were welcome--Father, let the old man die.
+
+ _Sir Samuel Ferguson_
+
+
+
+
+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 Slemish 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!
+ (Mournfully, sing mournfully)--
+ The Fairies are a silent race,
+ And pale as lily flowers to see:
+ I care not for a blanchèd 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--
+ 'Twas 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:
+ --The Fairy Well of Lagnanay--
+ Lie nearer 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,
+ Come with me to the hill I pray,
+ And I will prove that blessed freet!'
+ They rose with soft
+ 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 grey,
+ 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 breasts she laves
+ The gliding glance that will not stay
+ Of subtly-streaming fairy waves:--
+ And now the charm three brackens craves,
+ She plucks them in their fring'd 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 eyes of mortal look upon!
+ O! can it be the guard was gone,
+ That better guard than shield or wall?
+ Who knows on earth save Jurlagh Daune?
+ (Save us all from Fairy thrall!)
+ Behold the banks are green and bare,
+ No pit is here wherein to fall:
+ Aye--at the fount you well may stare,
+ But nought 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.
+
+ _Sir Samuel Ferguson_
+
+
+
+
+ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS DAVIS
+
+
+ I walked through Ballinderry in the Spring-time,
+ When the bud was on the tree;
+ And I said, in every fresh-ploughed field beholding
+ The sowers striding free,
+ Scattering broad-cast forth the corn in golden plenty
+ On the quick seed-clasping soil,
+ Even such, this day, among the fresh-stirred hearts of Erin,
+ Thomas Davis, is thy toil!
+
+ I sat by Ballyshannon in the summer,
+ And saw the salmon leap;
+ And I said, as I beheld the gallant creatures
+ Spring glittering from the deep,
+ Through the spray, and through the prone heaps striving onward
+ To the calm clear streams above,
+ So seekest thou thy native founts of freedom, Thomas Davis,
+ In thy brightness of strength and love!
+
+ I stood on Derrybawn in the Autumn,
+ I heard the eagle call,
+ With a clangorous cry of wrath and lamentation
+ That filled the wide mountain hall,
+ O'er the bare deserted place of his plundered eyrie;
+ And I said, as he screamed and soared,
+ So callest thou, thou wrathful-soaring Thomas Davis,
+ For a nation's rights restored!
+
+ And, alas! to think but now, and thou art lying,
+ Dear Davis, dead at thy mother's knee;
+ And I, no mother near, on my own sick-bed,
+ That face on earth shall never see:
+ I may lie and try to feel that I am not dreaming,
+ I may lie and try to say 'Thy will be done'--
+ But a hundred such as I will never comfort Erin
+ For the loss of the noble son!
+
+ Young husbandman of Erin's fruitful seed-time,
+ In the fresh track of danger's plough!
+ Who will walk the heavy, toilsome, perilous furrow
+ Girt with freedom's seed-sheets now?
+ Who will banish with the wholesome crop of knowledge
+ The flaunting weed and the bitter thorn,
+ Now that thou thyself art but a seed for hopeful planting
+ Against the resurrection morn?
+
+ Young salmon of the flood-time of freedom
+ That swells round Erin's shore!
+ Thou wilt leap against their loud oppressive torrent
+ Of bigotry and hate no more:
+ Drawn downward by their prone material instinct,
+ Let them thunder on their rocks and foam--
+ Thou hast leapt, aspiring soul, to founts beyond their raging,
+ Where troubled waters never come!
+
+ But I grieve not, eagle of the empty eyrie,
+ That thy wrathful cry is still;
+ And that the songs alone of peaceful mourners
+ Are heard to-day on Erin's hill;
+ Better far, if brothers' war be destined for us
+ (God avert that horrid day I pray!)
+ That ere our hands be stained with slaughter fratricidal
+ Thy warm heart should be cold in clay.
+
+ But my trust is strong in God, who made us brothers,
+ That He will not suffer those right hands
+ Which thou hast joined in holier rites than wedlock,
+ To draw opposing brands.
+ O, many a tuneful tongue that thou madest vocal
+ Would lie cold and silent then;
+ And songless long once more, should often-widowed Erin
+ Mourn the loss of her brave young men.
+
+ O, brave young men, my love, my pride, my promise,
+ 'Tis on you my hopes are set,
+ In manliness, in kindliness, in justice,
+ To make Erin a nation yet:
+ Self-respecting, self-relying, self-advancing,
+ In union or in severance, free and strong--
+ And if God grant this, then, under God, to Thomas Davis
+ Let the greater praise belong.
+
+ _Sir Samuel Ferguson_
+
+
+
+
+THE COUNTY OF MAYO
+
+_From the Irish of Thomas Lavelle_
+
+
+ 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--
+ 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 of 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.
+
+ _George Fox_
+
+
+
+
+THE WEDDING OF THE CLANS
+
+_A Girl's Babble_
+
+
+ I go to knit two clans together;
+ Our clan and this clan unseen of yore:--
+ Our clan fears nought! but I go, O whither?
+ This day I go from my mother's door.
+
+ Thou, red-breast, singest the old song over,
+ Though many a time thou hast sung it before;
+ They never sent thee to some strange new lover:--
+ I sing a new song by my mother's door.
+
+ I stepped from my little room down by the ladder,
+ The ladder that never so shook before;
+ I was sad last night; to-day I am sadder,
+ Because I go from my mother's door.
+
+ The last snow melts upon bush and bramble;
+ The gold bars shine on the forest's floor;
+ Shake not, thou leaf! it is I must tremble
+ Because I go from my mother's door.
+
+ From a Spanish sailor a dagger I bought me;
+ I trailed a rose-tree our grey bawn o'er;
+ The creed and my letters our old bard taught me;
+ My days were sweet by my mother's door.
+
+ My little white goat that with raised feet huggest
+ The oak stock, thy horns in the ivies frore,
+ Could I wrestle like thee--how the wreaths thou tuggest!--
+ I never would move from my mother's door.
+
+ O weep no longer, my nurse and mother!
+ My foster-sister, weep not so sore!
+ You cannot come with me, Ir, my brother--
+ Alone I go from my mother's door.
+
+ Farewell, my wolf-hound that slew MacOwing
+ As he caught me and far through the thickets bore:
+ My heifer, Alb, in the green vale lowing,
+ My cygnet's nest upon Lorna's shore!
+
+ He has killed ten chiefs, this chief that plights me,
+ His hand is like that of the giant Balor;
+ But I fear his kiss, and his beard affrights me,
+ And the great stone dragon above his door.
+
+ Had I daughters nine, with me they should tarry;
+ They should sing old songs; they should dance at my door;
+ They should grind at the quern;--no need to marry;
+ O when will this marriage-day be o'er?
+
+ Had I buried, like Moirín, three mates already,
+ I might say: 'Three husbands! then why not four?'
+ But my hand is cold and my foot unsteady,
+ Because I never was married before!
+
+ _Aubrey de Vere_
+
+
+
+
+THE LITTLE BLACK ROSE
+
+
+ The Little Black Rose 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.
+
+ 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.
+
+ _Aubrey de Vere_
+
+
+
+
+SONG
+
+
+ She says: 'Poor Friend, you waste a treasure
+ Which you can ne'er regain--
+ Time, health, and glory, for the pleasure
+ Of toying with a chain.'
+ But then her voice so tender grows,
+ So kind and so caressing;
+ Each murmur from her lips that flows
+ Comes to me like a blessing.
+
+ Sometimes she says: 'Sweet Friend, I grieve you--
+ Alas, it gives me pain!
+ What can I? Ah, might I relieve you,
+ You ne'er had mourned in vain!'
+ And then her little hand she presses
+ Upon her heart, and sighs;
+ While tears, whose source not yet she guesses,
+ Grow larger in her eyes.
+
+ _Aubrey de Vere_
+
+
+
+
+THE BARD ETHELL
+
+_Ireland in the Thirteenth Century_
+
+
+ I am Ethell, the son of Conn:
+ Here I bide at the foot of the hill:
+ I am clansman to Brian, and servant to none:
+ Whom I hated, I hate: whom I loved, I love still.
+ Blind am I. On milk I live,
+ And meat, God sends it, on each Saint's Day;
+ Though Donald Mac Art--may he never thrive--
+ Last Shrovetide drove half my kine away.
+
+ At the brown hill's base by the pale blue lake
+ I dwell and see the things I saw:
+ The heron flap heavily up from the brake;
+ The crow fly homeward with twig or straw
+ The wild duck a silver line in wake
+ Cutting the calm mere to far Bunaw.
+ And the things that I heard, though deaf, I hear,
+ From the tower in the island the feastful cheer;
+ The horn from the wood; the plunge of the stag,
+ With the loud hounds after him down from the crag.
+ Sweet is the chase, but the battle is sweeter,
+ More healthy, more joyous, for true men meeter!
+
+ My hand is weak! it once was strong:
+ My heart burns still with its ancient fire.
+ If any man smites me he does me wrong,
+ For I was the bard of Brian Mac Guire.
+ If any man slay me--not unaware,
+ By no chance blow, nor in wine and revel,
+ I have stored beforehand, a curse in my prayer
+ For his kith and kindred; his deed is evil.
+
+ There never was king, and never will be,
+ In battle or banquet like Malachi!
+ The seers his reign had predicted long;
+ He honoured the bards, and gave gold for song.
+ If rebels arose, he put out their eyes;
+ If robbers plundered or burned the fanes,
+ He hung them in chaplets, like rosaries,
+ That others beholding might take more pains!
+ There was none to women more reverent-minded,
+ For he held his mother, and Mary, dear;
+ If any man wronged them, that man he blinded,
+ Or straight amerced him of hand or ear.
+ There was none who founded more convents--none;
+ In his palace the old and poor were fed;
+ The orphan might walk, or the widow's son,
+ Without groom or page to his throne or bed.
+ In his council he mused, with great brows divine,
+ And eyes like the eyes of the musing kine,
+ Upholding a sceptre o'er which men said,
+ Seven spirits of wisdom like fire-tongues played.
+ He drained ten lakes, and he built ten bridges;
+ He bought a gold book for a thousand cows;
+ He slew ten princes who brake their pledges;
+ With the bribed and the base he scorned to carouse.
+ He was sweet and awful; through all his reign
+ God gave great harvests to vale and plain;
+ From his nurse's milk he was kind and brave;
+ And when he went down to his well-wept grave,
+ Through the triumph of penance his soul arose
+ To God and the saints. Not so his foes.
+
+ The King that came after, ah woe, woe, woe!
+ He doubted his friend, and he trusted his foe,
+ He bought and he sold: his kingdom old
+ He pledged and pawned, to avenge a spite:
+ No Bard or prophet his birth foretold:
+ He was guarded and warded both day and night:
+ He counselled with fools and had boors at his feast:
+ He was cruel to Christian and kind to beast:
+ Men smiled when they talked of him far o'er the wave:
+ Well paid were the mourners that wept at his grave.
+ God plagued for his sake his people sore:
+ They sinned; for the people should watch and pray,
+ That their prayers like angels at window and door,
+ May keep from the King the bad thought away!
+
+ The sun has risen: on lip and brow,
+ He greets me--I feel it--with golden wand:
+ Ah, bright-faced Norna! I see thee now:
+ Where first I saw thee I see thee stand!
+ From the trellis the girl looked down on me:
+ Her maidens stood near; it was late in spring;
+ The grey priest laughed, as she cried in glee,
+ 'Good Bard, a song in my honour sing.'
+ I sang her praise in a loud-voiced hymn,
+ To God who had fashioned her face and limb,
+ For the praise of the clan, and the land's behoof:
+ So she flung me a flower from the trellis roof.
+ Ere long I saw her the hill descending,
+ O'er the lake the May morning rose moist and slow,
+ She prayed me, her smile with the sweet voice blending,
+ To teach her all that a woman should know.
+ Panting she stood; she was out of breath;
+ The wave of her little breast was shaking;
+ From eyes still childish, and dark as death,
+ Came womanhood's dawn through a dew-cloud breaking.
+ Norna was never long time the same;
+ By a spirit so strong was her slight form moulded,
+ The curves swelled out from the flower-like frame
+ In joy; in grief to a bud she folded:
+ As she listened, her eyes grew bright and large,
+ Like springs rain-fed that dilate their marge.
+ So I taught her the hymn of Patrick the Apostle,
+ And the marvels of Bridget and Columbkille;
+ Ere long she sang like the lark or the throstle,
+ Sang the deeds of the servants of God's high will:
+ I told her of Brendan, who found afar
+ Another world 'neath the western star;
+ Of our three great bishops in Lindisfarne isle;
+ Of St. Fursey the wondrous, Fiacre without guile;
+ Of Sedulius, hymn-maker when hymns were rare;
+ Of Scotus the subtle, who clove a hair
+ Into sixty parts, and had marge to spare.
+ To her brother I spake of Oisin and Fionn,
+ And they wept at the death of great Oisin's son.
+ I taught the heart of the boy to revel
+ In tales of old greatness that never tire;
+ And the virgin's, up-springing from earth's low level,
+ To wed with heaven like the altar fire.
+ I taught her all that a woman should know,
+ And that none should teach her worse lore, I gave her
+ A dagger keen, and taught her the blow
+ That subdues the knave to discreet behaviour.
+ A sand-stone there on my knee she set,
+ And sharpened its point--I can see her yet
+ I held back her hair and she sharpen'd the edge,
+ While the wind piped low through the reeds and sedge.
+
+ She died in the convent on Ina's height:--
+ I saw her the day that she took the veil:
+ As slender she stood as the Paschal light,
+ As tall and slender and bright and pale!
+ I saw her: and dropped as dead: bereaven
+ Is earth when her holy ones leave her for heaven.
+ Her brother fell in the fight at Begh,
+ May they plead for me both on my dying day!
+
+ All praise to the man who brought us the Faith!
+ 'Tis a staff by day and our pillow in death!
+ All praise I say to that blessed youth,
+ Who heard in a dream from Tyrawley's strand
+ That wail, 'Put forth o'er the sea thy hand:
+ In the dark we die: give us hope and Truth!'
+ But Patrick built not on Iorras' shore
+ That convent where now the Franciscans dwell:
+ Columba was mighty in prayer and war:
+ But the young monk preaches as loud as his bell,
+ That love must rule all, and all wrongs be forgiven,
+ Or else he is sure we shall reach not heaven!
+ This doctrine I count right cruel and hard,
+ And when I am laid in the old churchyard,
+ The habit of Francis I will not wear:
+ Nor wear I his cord or his cloth of hair
+ In secret. Men dwindle: till psalm and prayer
+ Had softened the land no Dane dwelt there!
+
+ I forgive old Cathbar who sank my boat:
+ Must I pardon Feargal who slew my son:
+ Or the pirate, Strongbow, who burned Granote,
+ They tell me, and in it nine priests, a nun,
+ And worse--St. Finian's old crozier staff?
+ At forgiveness like that, I spit and laugh!
+ My chief in his wine-cups forgave twelve men:
+ And of these a dozen rebelled again.
+ There never was chief more brave than he!
+ The night he was born Loch Gar up-burst:
+ He was bard-loving, gift-making, fond of glee,
+ The last to fly, to advance the first.
+ He was like the top spray upon Uladh's oak,
+ He was like the tap-root of Argial's pine:
+ He was secret and sudden: as lightning his stroke:
+ There was none that could fathom his hid design.
+ He slept not: if any man scorned his alliance
+ He struck the first blow for a frank defiance,
+ With that look in his face, half night, half light,
+ Like the lake just blackened yet ridged with white!
+ There were comely wonders before he died:
+ The eagle barked, and the Banshee cried,
+ The witch-elm wept with a blighted bud,
+ The spray of the torrent was red with blood:
+ The chief returned from the mountains bound,
+ Forgot to ask after Bran his hound.
+ We knew he would die: three days were o'er,
+ He died. We _waked_ him for three days more:
+ One by one, upon brow and breast,
+ The whole clan kissed him: In peace may he rest!
+
+ I sang his dirge, I could sing that time
+ Four thousand staves of ancestral rhyme:
+ To-day I can scarcely sing the half:
+ Of old I was corn, and I now am chaff!
+ My song to-day is a breeze that shakes
+ Feebly the down on the cygnet's breast;
+ 'Twas then a billow the beach that rakes,
+ Or a storm that buffets the mountain's crest.
+ Whatever I bit with a venomed song,
+ Grew sick, were it beast, or tree, or man:
+ The wronged one sued me to right his wrong
+ With the flail of the Satire and fierce Ode's fan.
+ I sang to the chieftains: each stock I traced,
+ Lest lines should grow tangled through fraud or haste.
+ To princes I sang in a loftier tone
+ Of Moran the just who refused a throne;
+ Of Moran, whose torque would close, and choke
+ The wry-necked witness that falsely spoke.
+ I taught them how to win love and hate,
+ Not love from all; and to shun debate.
+ To maids in the bower I sang of love:
+ And of war at the feastings in bawn or grove.
+
+ Great is our Order: but greater far
+ Were its pomp and power in the days of old,
+ When the five Chief Bards in peace or war
+ Had thirty bards each in his train enrolled:
+ When Ollave Fodla in Tara's hall
+ Fed bards and kings; when the boy King Nial
+ Was trained by Torna; when Britain and Gaul
+ Sent crowns of laurel to Dallan Forgial.
+ To-day we can launch the clans into fight;
+ That day we could freeze them in mid career!
+ Whatever man knows was our realm by right:
+ The lore without music no Gael would hear.
+ Old Cormac the brave blind king was bard
+ Ere fame rose yet of O'Daly and Ward.
+ The son of Milesius was bard--'Go back
+ My People,' he sang, 'ye have done a wrong!
+ Nine waves go back o'er the green sea track,
+ Let your foes their castles and coasts make strong.
+ To the island you came by stealth and at night:
+ She is ours if we win her, in all men's sight;'
+ For that first song's sake let our bards hold fast
+ To Truth and Justice from first to last!
+ 'Tis over! some think we erred through pride,
+ Though Columba the vengeance turned aside.
+ Too strong we were not: too rich we were:
+ Give wealth to knaves: 'tis the true man's snare.
+
+ But now men lie: they are just no more;
+ They forsake the old ways; they quest for new;
+ They pry and they snuff after strange false lore,
+ As dogs hunt vermin: it never was true:--
+ I have scorned it for twenty years--this babble,
+ That eastward and southward, a Saxon rabble
+ Have won great battles and rule large lands,
+ And plight with daughters of ours their hands.
+ We know the bold Norman o'erset their throne
+ Long since. Our lands! let them guard their own.
+
+ How long He leaves me--the great God--here!
+ Have I sinned some sin, or has God forgotten?
+ This year, I think, is my hundredth year;
+ I am like a bad apple unripe and rotten!
+ They shall lift me ere long, they shall lay me--the clan,--
+ By the strength of men on Mount Cruachan!
+ God has much to think of! How much He hath seen,
+ And how much is gone by that once hath been!
+ On sandy hills where the rabbits burrow,
+ Are Raths of Kings' men, named not now;
+ On mountain-tops I have tracked the furrow,
+ And found in forests the buried plough.
+ For one now living the strong land then
+ Gave kindly food and raiment to ten.
+ No doubt they waxed proud and their God defied:
+ So their harvest He blighted and burned their hoard;
+ Or He sent them plagues, or He sent the sword,
+ Or He sent them lightning and so they died,
+ Like Dathi the King on the dark Alp's side.
+ Ah me! that man who is made of dust,
+ Should have pride towards God! 'Tis a demon's spleen!
+ I have often feared lest God the All-just,
+ Should bend from heaven and sweep earth clean:
+ Should sweep us all into corners and holes,
+ Like dust of the house-floor both bodies and souls!
+ I have often feared He would send some wind
+ In wrath; and the nation wake up stone blind.
+ In age or in youth we have all wrought ill:
+ I say not our great King Nial did well,
+ Although he was Lord of the Pledges Nine,
+ Where besides subduing this land of Eire,
+ He raised in Armorica banner and sign,
+ And wasted the British coast with fire.
+ Perhaps in His mercy the Lord will say,
+ 'These men, God's help, 'twas a rough boy-play!'
+ He is certain, that young Franciscan Priest--
+ God sees great sin where men see least;
+ Yet this were to give unto God the eye--
+ Unmeet the thought, of the humming fly!
+ I trust there are small things He scorns to see
+ In the lowly who cry to Him piteously.
+ Our hope is Christ: I have wept full oft,
+ He came not to Eire in Oisin's time;
+ Though love and those new monks would make men soft,
+ If they were not hardened by war and rhyme.
+ I have done my part: my end draws nigh:
+ I shall leave old Eire with a smile and sigh,
+ She will miss me not as I missed my son,
+ Yet for her and her praise were my best deeds done.
+ Man's deeds! Man's deeds! they are shades that fleet,
+ Or ripples like those that break at my feet.
+ The deeds of my chief and the deeds of my king
+ Grow hazy, far seen, in the hills in spring.
+ Nothing is great save the death on the cross!
+ But Pilate and Herod I hate, and know
+ Had Fionn lived then he had laid them low,
+ Though the world thereby had sustained great loss.
+ My blindness and deafness and aching back
+ With meekness I bear for that suffering's sake;
+ And the Lent-fast for Mary's sake I love,
+ And the honour of Him, the Man Above!
+ My songs are all over now:--so best!
+ They are laid in the heavenly Singer's breast,
+ Who never sings but a star is born:
+ May we hear His song in the endless morn!
+ I give glory to God for our battles won
+ By wood or river, on bay or creek:
+ For Norna--who died; for my father, Conn:
+ For feasts, and the chase on the mountains bleak:
+ I bewail my sins, both unknown and known,
+ And of those I have injured forgiveness seek.
+ The men that were wicked to me and mine
+ (Not quenching a wrong, nor in war nor wine),
+ I forgive and absolve them all, save three:
+ May Christ in His mercy be kind to me!
+
+ _Aubrey de Vere_
+
+
+
+
+LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF EOGHAN RUADH O'NEILL
+
+
+ 'Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Eoghan Ruadh O'Neill?'
+ 'Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet with steel.'
+ 'May God wither up their hearts! May their blood cease to flow!
+ May they walk in living death, who poisoned Eoghan Ruadh!
+
+ 'Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words.'
+ 'From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords:
+ But the weapon of the Sassanach met him on his way,
+ And he died at Cloch Uachtar, upon St. Leonard's day.
+
+ 'Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One! Wail, wail ye for the Dead!
+ Quench the hearth, and hold the breath--with ashes strew the head.
+ How tenderly we loved him! How deeply we deplore!
+ Holy Saviour! but to think we shall never see him more!
+
+ 'Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall,
+ Sure we never won a battle--'twas Owen won them all.
+ Had he lived--had he lived--our dear country had been free;
+ But he's dead, but he's dead, and 'tis slaves we'll ever be.
+
+ 'O'Farrell and Clanricarde, Preston and Red Hugh,
+ Audley and MacMahon--ye are valiant, wise, and true;
+ But--what are ye all to our darling who is gone?
+ The Rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle's corner stone!
+
+ 'Wail, wail him through the Island! Weep, weep for our pride!
+ Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died!
+ Weep the Victor of Beinn Burb--weep him, young and old;
+ Weep for him, ye women--your Beautiful lies cold!
+
+ 'We thought you would not die--we were sure you would not go,
+ And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow--
+ Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky--
+ O! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die?
+
+ 'Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill! bright was your eye,
+ O! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die?
+ Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with God on high,
+ But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Eoghan!--why did you die?'
+
+ _Thomas Davis_
+
+
+
+
+MAIRE BHAN ASTÓR
+
+
+ In a valley far away,
+ With my _Maire bhan astór_,
+ Short would be the summer-day,
+ Ever loving more and more;
+ Winter days would all grow long,
+ With the light her heart would pour,
+ With her kisses and her song,
+ And her loving _mait go leór_.
+ Fond is _Maire bhan astór_,
+ Fair is _Maire bhan astór_,
+ Sweet as ripple on the shore,
+ Sings my _Maire bhan astór_.
+
+ 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 astór_,
+ Tried is _Maire bhan astór_,
+ Had I wings I'd never soar
+ From my _Maire bhan astór_.
+
+ 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 _mait go leór_,
+ There shall shine the happy eyes
+ Of my _Maire bhan astór_.
+ Mild is _Maire bhan astór_,
+ Mine is _Maire bhan astór_,
+ Saints will watch about the door
+ Of my _Maire bhan astór_.
+
+ _Thomas Davis_
+
+
+
+
+O! THE MARRIAGE
+
+AIR--_The Swaggering Jig_
+
+
+ O! the marriage, the marriage,
+ With love and _mo bhuachaill_ for me,
+ The ladies that ride in a carriage
+ Might envy my marriage to me;
+ 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, O! 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;
+ O! sure 'twill be happy for both
+ The day of our marriage to see.
+ Then, O! the marriage, etc.
+
+ His kinsmen are honest and kind,
+ The neighbours 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 a dance, and a hand
+ In the cause of his country to join.
+ Then, O! 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.
+ Then, O! the marriage, the marriage,
+ With love and _mo bhuachaill_ for me,
+ The ladies that ride in a carriage
+ Might envy my marriage to me.
+
+ _Thomas Davis_
+
+
+
+
+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.
+
+ _Thomas Davis_
+
+
+
+
+REMEMBRANCE
+
+
+ Cold in the earth--and the deep snow piled above thee,
+ Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
+ Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
+ Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?
+
+ Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
+ Over the mountains, on that northern shore,
+ Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
+ Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?
+
+ Cold in the earth--and fifteen wild Decembers,
+ From these brown hills, have melted into spring!
+ Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers
+ After such years of change and suffering!
+
+ Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
+ While the world's tide is bearing me along;
+ Other desires and other hopes beset me,
+ Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong;
+
+ No later light has lighted up my heaven,
+ No second morn has ever shone for me;
+ All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
+ All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.
+
+ But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,
+ And even Despair was powerless to destroy;
+ Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
+ Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy.
+
+ Then did I check the tears of useless passion--
+ Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
+ Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten,
+ Down to that tomb already more than mine.
+
+ And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,
+ Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;
+ Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish
+ How could I seek the empty world again?
+
+ _Emily Brontë_
+
+
+
+
+A FRAGMENT FROM 'THE PRISONER: A FRAGMENT'
+
+
+ Still, let my tyrants know, I am not doomed to wear
+ Year after year in gloom, and desolate despair;
+ A messenger of Hope comes every night to me,
+ And offers for short life, eternal liberty.
+
+ He comes with Western winds, with evening's wandering airs,
+ With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars.
+ Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire,
+ And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire.
+
+ Desire for nothing known in my maturer years,
+ When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears.
+ When, if my spirit's sky was full of flashes warm,
+ I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunderstorm.
+
+ But first, a hush of peace--a soundless calm descends;
+ The struggle of distress, and fierce impatience ends.
+ Mute music soothes my breast--unuttered harmony
+ That I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me.
+
+ Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals;
+ My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels:
+ Its wings are almost free--its home, its harbour found,
+ Measuring the gulf, it stoops, and dares the final bound.
+
+ O, dreadful is the check--intense the agony--
+ When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see;
+ When the pulse begins to throb,--the brain to think again,
+ The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.
+
+ Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less,
+ The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless;
+ And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine,
+ If it but herald death, the vision is divine.
+
+ _Emily Brontë_
+
+
+
+
+LAST LINES
+
+
+ No coward soul is mine,
+ No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere:
+ I see Heaven's glories shine,
+ And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.
+
+ O God, within my breast,
+ Almighty, ever-present Deity!
+ Life--that in me has rest,
+ As I--undying Life--have power in Thee.
+
+ Vain are the thousand creeds
+ That move men's hearts: unutterably vain;
+ Worthless as withered weeds,
+ Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,
+
+ To waken doubt in one
+ Holding so fast to Thine infinity;
+ So surely anchored on
+ The steadfast rock of immortality,
+
+ With wide-embracing love
+ Thy spirit animates eternal years,
+ Pervades and broods above,
+ Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.
+
+ Though earth and man were gone,
+ And suns and universes ceased to be,
+ And Thou were left alone,
+ Every existence would exist in Thee.
+
+ There is not room for Death,
+ Nor atom that his might could render void:
+ Thou--Thou art Being and Breath,
+ And what Thou art may never be destroyed.
+
+ _Emily Brontë_
+
+
+
+
+THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD
+
+
+ Who fears to speak of Ninety-eight?
+ Who blushes at the name?
+ When 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;
+ All 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.
+
+ 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.
+
+ _John Kells Ingram_
+
+
+
+
+THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE; OR, THE EMIGRANT'S ADIEU TO BALLYSHANNY
+
+
+ Adieu to Ballyshanny! 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,
+ 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 Ballyshanny, 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 Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!
+
+ 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,
+ From rocky Inis Saimer to Coolnargit sandhills 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!
+
+ Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them that pull an oar,
+ A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point to Mullaghmore;
+ 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;
+ 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!
+
+ 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!
+
+ The thrush will call through Camlin groves the live-long summer day;
+ The waters run by mossy cliff, and banks 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 river-side they go, where I have often been,--
+ O never shall I see again the days that I have seen!
+ A thousand chances are to one I never may return,--
+ Adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!
+
+ 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!
+
+ Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Purt,
+ 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 Ballyshanny 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 past;
+ 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 Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne.
+
+ _William Allingham_
+
+
+
+
+THE FAIRIES
+
+
+ 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 bleak mountain lake,
+ With frogs for their watch-dogs,
+ All night awake.
+
+ High on the hill-top
+ The old King sits;
+ He is now so old and gray
+ He's nigh lost his wits.
+ With a bridge of white mist
+ Columbkill he crosses,
+ On his stately journeys
+ From Sleeveleague to Rosses;
+ Or going up with 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.
+ If 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
+ For fear of little men;
+ Wee folk, good folk,
+ Trooping all together;
+ Green jacket, red cap,
+ And white owl's feather!
+
+ _William Allingham_
+
+
+
+
+THE ABBOT OF INISFALEN
+
+_A Killarney Legend_
+
+
+ The Abbot of Inisfalen awoke ere dawn of day;
+ Under the dewy green leaves went he forth to pray.
+ The lake around his island lay smooth and dark and deep,
+ And wrapped in a misty stillness the mountains were all asleep.
+ Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac when the dawn was dim and gray,
+ The prayers of his holy office he faithfully 'gan say.
+ Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac while the dawn was waxing red;
+ And for his sins' forgiveness a solemn prayer he said:
+ Low kneel'd that holy Abbot while the dawn was waking clear,
+ And he prayed with loving-kindness for his convent-brethren dear.
+ Low kneel'd the blessed Abbot while the dawn was waxing bright;
+ He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland, he pray'd with all his might.
+ Low kneel'd that good old Father while the sun began to dart;
+ He pray'd a prayer for all men, he pray'd it from his heart.
+ His blissful soul was in Heaven, tho' a breathing man was he;
+ He was out of time's dominion, so far as the living may be.
+
+ The Abbot of Inisfalen arose upon his feet;
+ He heard a small bird singing, and O but it sung sweet!
+ It sung upon a holly-bush, this little snow-white bird;
+ A song so full of gladness he never before had heard,
+ It sung upon a hazel, it sung upon a thorn;
+ He had never heard such music since the hour that he was born.
+ It sung upon a sycamore, it sung upon a briar;
+ To follow the song and hearken the Abbot would never tire.
+ Till at last he well bethought him, he might no longer stay;
+ So he bless'd the little white singing-bird, and gladly went
+ his way.
+
+ But, when he came to his Abbey, he found a wondrous wondrous change;
+ He saw no friendly faces there, for every face was strange.
+ The strange men spoke unto him; and he heard from all and each
+ The foreign tongue of the Sassenach, not wholesome Irish speech.
+ Then the oldest monk came forward, in Irish tongue spake he:
+ 'Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress, and who hath given
+ it to thee?'
+ 'I wear the holy Augustine's dress, and Cormac is my name,
+ The Abbot of this good Abbey by grace of God I am.
+
+ I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day; and when my prayers
+ were said,
+ I hearken'd awhile to a little bird, that sang above my head.'
+ The monks to him made answer, 'Two hundred years have gone o'er,
+ Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate, and never was
+ heard of more.
+ Matthias now is our Abbot, and twenty have pass'd away.
+ The stranger is lord of Ireland; we live in an evil day.
+ Days will come and go,' he said, 'and the world will pass away:
+ In Heaven a day is a thousand years, a thousand years are a day.'
+
+ 'Now give me absolution; for my time is come,' said he.
+ And they gave him absolution, as speedily as might be.
+ Then, close outside the window, the sweetest song they heard
+ That ever yet since the world began was utter'd by any bird.
+ The monks look'd out and saw the bird, its feathers all white
+ and clean;
+ And then in a moment, beside it, another white bird was seen.
+ Those two they sang together, waved their white wings, and fled;
+ Flew aloft and vanish'd; but the good old man was dead.
+ They buried his blessed body where lake and green-sward meet,
+ A carven cross above his head, a holly-bush at his feet;
+ Where spreads the beautiful water to gay or cloudy skies,
+ And the purple peaks of Killarney from ancient woods arise.
+
+ _William Allingham_
+
+
+
+
+TWILIGHT VOICES
+
+
+ Now, at the hour when ignorant mortals
+ Drowse in the shade of their whirling sphere,
+ Heaven and Hell from invisible portals
+ Breathing comfort and ghastly fear,
+ Voices I hear;
+ I hear strange voices, flitting, calling,
+ Wavering by on the dusky blast,--
+ 'Come, let us go, for the night is falling;
+ Come, let us go, for the day is past!'
+
+ Troops of joys are they, now departed?
+ Winged hopes that no longer stay?
+ Guardian spirits grown weary-hearted?
+ Powers that have linger'd their latest day?
+ What do they say?
+ What do they sing? I hear them calling,
+ Whispering, gathering, flying fast,--
+ 'Come, come, for the night is falling;
+ Come, come, for the day is past!'
+
+ Sing they to me?--'Thy taper's wasted;
+ Mortal, thy sands of life run low;
+ Thine hours like a flock of birds have hasted:
+ Time is ending;--we go, we go.'
+ Sing they so?
+ Mystical voices, floating, calling;
+ Dim farewells--the last, the last?
+ 'Come, come away, the night is falling;
+ Come, come away, the day is past.'
+
+ See, I am ready, Twilight voices!
+ Child of the spirit-world am I;
+ How should I fear you? my soul rejoices,
+ O speak plainer! O draw nigh!
+ Fain would I fly!
+ Tell me your message, Ye who are calling
+ Out of the dimness vague and vast;
+ Lift me, take me,--the night is falling;
+ Quick, let us go,--the day is past.
+
+ _William Allingham_
+
+
+
+
+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!
+
+ _William Allingham_
+
+
+
+
+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, methought, with pity, some as if in jest.
+ To every word
+ Of every bird
+ I listen'd, or replied as it behove.
+
+ Scream'd 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.
+
+ Then I, 'The man forlorn
+ Hears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft.'
+ 'And what'll _he_ do? What'll _he_ do?' scoff'd
+ The Blackbird, standing, in 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 mock'd the Thrush, 'Die! die!
+ O, 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-ee now! see-ee now!' (he drawl'd) 'Back! back!
+ back! R-r-r-run away!'
+ O 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 make flight.'
+
+ 'There's something, something sad
+ I half remember'--piped a broken strain.
+ Well sung, sweet Robin! Robin sung again.
+ '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.
+
+ _William Allingham_
+
+
+
+
+THE CELTS
+
+
+ Long, long ago, beyond the misty space
+ Of twice a thousand years,
+ In Erin old there dwelt a mighty race
+ Taller than Roman spears;
+ Like oaks and towers, they had a giant grace,
+ Were fleet as deers:
+ With winds and waves they made their biding-place,
+ The Western shepherd seers.
+
+ Their ocean-god was _Mananan Mac Lir_,
+ Whose angry lips
+ In their white foam full often would inter
+ Whole fleets of ships:
+ _Crom_ was their day-god, and their thunderer
+ Made morning and eclipse:
+ _Bride_ was their queen of song, and unto her
+ They pray'd with fire-touch'd lips.
+
+ Great were their acts, their passions, and their sports;
+ With clay and stone
+ They piled on strath and shore those mystic forts,
+ Not yet undone;
+ On cairn-crown'd hills they held their council courts;
+ While youths--alone--
+ With giant-dogs, explored the elks' resorts,
+ And brought them down.
+
+ Of these was _Finn_, the father of the bard
+ Whose ancient song
+ Over the clamour of all change is heard,
+ Sweet-voiced and strong.
+ Finn once o'ertook Granu, the golden-hair'd,
+ The fleet and young:
+ From her, the lovely, and from him, the feared,
+ The primal poet sprung--
+
+ _Ossian!_--two thousand years of mist and change
+ Surround thy name;
+ Thy Finnian heroes now no longer range
+ The hills of Fame.
+ The very name of Finn and Gael sound strange;
+ Yet thine the same
+ By miscall'd lake and desecrated grange
+ Remains, and shall remain!
+
+ The Druid's altar and the Druid's creed
+ We scarce can trace;
+ There is not left an undisputed deed
+ Of all your race--
+ Save your majestic Song, which hath their speed,
+ And strength, and grace:
+ In that sole song they live, and love, and bleed--
+ It bears them on through space.
+
+ Inspirèd giant, shall we e'er behold,
+ In our own time,
+ One fit to speak your spirit on the wold,
+ Or seize your rhyme?
+ One pupil of the past, as mighty-soul'd
+ As in the prime
+ Were the fond, fair, and beautiful, and bold--
+ They of your song sublime?
+
+ _Thomas D'Arcy McGee_
+
+
+
+
+SALUTATION TO THE CELTS
+
+
+ Hail to our Celtic brethren wherever they may be,
+ In the far woods of Oregon, or o'er the Atlantic sea;
+ Whether they guard the banner of St. George, in Indian vales,
+ Or spread beneath the nightless North experimental sails--
+ One in name, and in fame,
+ Are the sea-divided Gaels.
+
+ Though fallen the state of Erin, and changed the Scottish land,
+ Though small the power of Mona, though unwaked Llewellyn's band,
+ Though Ambrose Merlin's prophecies are held as idle tales,
+ Though Iona's ruined cloisters are swept by northern gales:
+ One in name, and in fame,
+ Are the sea-divided Gaels.
+
+ In Northern Spain and Italy our brethren also dwell,
+ And brave are the traditions of their fathers that they tell:
+ The Eagle or the Crescent in the dawn of history pales
+ Before the advancing banners of the great Rome-conquering Gaels.
+ One in name, and in fame,
+ Are the sea-divided Gaels.
+
+ A greeting and a promise unto them all we send;
+ Their character our charter is, their glory is our end--
+ Their friend shall be our friend, our foe whoe'er assails
+ The glory or the story of the sea-divided Gaels.
+ One in name, and in fame,
+ Are the sea-divided Gaels.
+
+ _Thomas D'Arcy McGee_
+
+
+
+
+THE GOBBAN SAOR
+
+
+ He stepped a man, out on the ways of men,
+ And no one knew his sept, or rank, or name;
+ Like a strong stream far issuing from a glen,
+ From some source unexplored the Master came;
+ Gossips there were who, wondrous keen of ken,
+ Surmised that he must be a child of shame;
+ Others declared him of the Druids, then--
+ Thro' Patrick's labours--fallen from power and fame.
+
+ He lived apart, wrapt up in many plans;
+ He wooed not women, tasted not of wine;
+ He shunned the sports and councils of the clans;
+ Nor ever knelt at a frequented shrine.
+ His orisons were old poetic ranns
+ Which the new Olamhs deem'd an evil sign;
+ To most he seemed one of those Pagan Khans
+ Whose mystic vigour knows no cold decline.
+
+ He was the builder of the wondrous Towers,
+ Which, tall and straight and exquisitely round,
+ Rise monumental round this isle of ours,
+ Index-like, marking spots of holy ground.
+ In glooming silent glens, in lowland bowers,
+ On river banks, these _Cloichteachs_ old abound,
+ Where Art, enraptured, meditates long hours
+ And Science ponders, wondering and spell-bound.
+
+ Lo, wheresoe'er these pillar-towers aspire,
+ Heroes and holy men repose below;
+ The bones of some, gleaned from a Pagan pyre,
+ Others in armour lie, as for a foe;
+ It was the mighty Master's life-desire
+ To chronicle his great ancestors so;
+ What holier duty, what achievement higher
+ Remains to us, than this he thus doth show?
+
+ Yet he, the builder, died an unknown death;
+ His labours done, no man beheld him more;
+ 'Twas thought his body faded like a breath--
+ Or, like a sea-mist, floated off Life's shore.
+ Doubt overhangs his fate--and faith--and birth:
+ His works alone attest his life and love,
+ They are the only witnesses he hath,
+ All else Egyptian darkness covers o'er.
+
+ Men called him Gobban Saor, and many a tale
+ Yet lingers in the byways of the land,
+ Of how he cleft the rock, and down the vale
+ Led the bright river, child-like, in his hand;
+ Of how on giant ships he spread great sail
+ And many marvels else, by him first planned,
+ And tho' these legends fail, in Innisfail
+ His name and Towers for centuries still shall stand.
+
+ _Thomas D'Arcy McGee_
+
+
+
+
+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 blessed the friends who made their graves
+ In the Glen of Aherlow.
+
+ 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!
+ O blessed God, it was not dark,
+ It was the broad daylight!
+ And when I found that I was _blind_,
+ My tears began to flow;
+ I 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 gaol;
+ Struck blind within the trenches,
+ Where I never feared the foe;
+ And now I'll never see again
+ My own sweet Aherlow.
+
+ A poor neglected mendicant,
+ I wandered through the street;
+ My nine months' pension now being out,
+ I beg from all I meet:
+ As I joined my country's tyrants,
+ My face I'll never show
+ Among the kind old neighbours
+ In the Glen of Aherlow.
+
+ Then, Irish youths, dear countrymen,
+ Take heed of what I say;
+ For if you join the English ranks,
+ You'll surely rue the day;
+ And whenever you are tempted
+ A-soldiering to go,
+ Remember poor blind Sheehan
+ Of the Glen of Aherlow.
+
+ _Charles J. Kickham_
+
+
+
+
+THE IRISH PEASANT GIRL
+
+
+ She lived beside the Anner,
+ At the foot of Sliev-na-mon,
+ A gentle peasant girl,
+ With mild eyes like the dawn;
+ Her lips were dewy rosebuds;
+ Her teeth of pearls rare;
+ And a snow-drift 'neath a beechen bough
+ Her neck and nut-brown hair.
+
+ How pleasant 'twas to meet her
+ On Sunday, when the bell
+ Was filling with its mellow tones
+ Lone wood and grassy dell!
+ And when at eve young maidens
+ Strayed the river-bank along,
+ The widow's brown-haired daughter
+ Was loveliest of the throng.
+
+ O brave, brave Irish girls--
+ We well may call you brave!--
+ Sure the least of all your perils
+ Is the stormy ocean wave,
+ When you leave our quiet valleys,
+ And cross the Atlantic's foam,
+ To hoard your hard-won earnings
+ For the helpless ones at home.
+
+ 'Write word to my own dear mother--
+ Say, we'll meet with God above;
+ And tell my little brothers
+ I send them all my love;
+ May the angels ever guard them,
+ Is their dying sister's prayer'--
+ And folded in the letter
+ Was a braid of nut-brown hair.
+
+ Ah, cold, and well-nigh callous,
+ This weary heart has grown
+ For thy helpless fate, dear Ireland,
+ And for sorrows of my own;
+ Yet a tear my eye will moisten
+ When by Anner's side I stray,
+ For the lily of the mountain foot
+ That withered far away.
+
+ _Charles J. Kickham_
+
+
+
+
+TO GOD AND IRELAND TRUE
+
+
+ I sit beside my darling's grave,
+ Who in the prison died,
+ And tho' my tears fall thick and fast,
+ I think of him with pride:--
+ Ay, softly fall my tears like dew,
+ For one to God and Ireland true.
+
+ 'I love my God o'er all,' he said,
+ 'And then I love my land,
+ And next I love my Lily sweet,
+ Who pledged me her white hand:--
+ To each--to all--I'm ever true,
+ To God--to Ireland and to you.'
+
+ No tender nurse his hard bed smoothed
+ Or softly raised his head:--
+ He fell asleep and woke in heaven
+ Ere I knew he was dead;--
+ Yet why should I my darling rue?
+ He was to God and Ireland true.
+
+ O, 'tis a glorious memory;
+ I'm prouder than a queen
+ To sit beside my hero's grave
+ And think on what has been:--
+ And O, my darling, I am true
+ To God--to Ireland and to you!
+
+ _Ellen O'Leary_
+
+
+
+
+THE BANSHEE
+
+
+ Green, in the wizard arms,
+ Of the foam-bearded Atlantic,
+ An isle of old enchantment,
+ A melancholy isle,
+ Enchanted and dreaming lies;
+ And there, by Shannon's flowing,
+ In the moonlight, spectre thin,
+ The spectre Erin sits.
+
+ An aged desolation
+ She sits by old Shannon's flowing,
+ A mother of many children,
+ Of children exiled and dead,
+ In her home, with bent head, homeless,
+ Clasping her knees she sits,
+ Keening, keening!
+
+ And at her keene the fairy-grass
+ Trembles on dun and barrow;
+ Around the foot of her ancient crosses
+ The grave-grass shakes and the nettle swings;
+ In haunted glens the meadow-sweet
+ Flings to the night-wind
+ Her mystic mournful perfume;
+ The sad spearmint by holy wells
+ Breathes melancholy balm.
+
+ Sometimes she lifts her head,
+ With blue eyes tearless,
+ And gazes athwart the reek of night
+ Upon things long past,
+ Upon things to come.
+
+ And sometimes, when the moon
+ Brings tempest upon the deep,
+ And roused Atlantic thunders from his caverns in the West,
+ The wolf-hound at her feet
+ Springs up with a mighty bay,
+ And chords of mystery sound from the wild harp at her side,
+ Strung from the heart of poets;
+ And she flies on the verge of the tempest
+ Around her shuddering isle,
+ With grey hair streaming:
+ A meteor of evil omen,
+ The spectre of hope forlorn,
+ Keening, keening!
+
+ She keenes, and the strings of her wild harp shiver
+ On the gusts of night:
+ O'er the four waters she keenes--over Moyle she keenes,
+ O'er the Sea of Milith, and the Strait of Strongbow,
+ And the Ocean of Columbus.
+
+ And the Fianna hear, and the ghosts of her cloudy hovering heroes;
+ And the swan, Fianoula, wails o'er the waters of Inisfail,
+ Chanting her song of destiny,
+ The rune of the weaving Fates.
+
+ And the nations hear in the void and quaking time of night,
+ Sad unto dawning, dirges,
+ Solemn dirges,
+ And snatches of bardic song;
+ Their souls quake in the void and quaking time of night,
+ And they dream of the weird of kings,
+ And tyrannies moulting, sick
+ In the dreadful wind of change.
+
+ Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exiles, wail no more,
+ Banshee of the world--no more!
+ Thy sorrows are the world's, thou art no more alone;
+ Thy wrongs, the world's.
+
+ _John Todhunter_
+
+
+
+
+AGHADOE
+
+
+ There's a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
+ There's a green and silent glade in Aghadoe,
+ Where we met, my Love and I, Love's fair planet in the sky,
+ O'er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe.
+
+ There's a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
+ There's a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe,
+ Where I hid from the eyes of the red-coats and their spies
+ That year the trouble came to Aghadoe.
+
+ O! my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
+ On Shaun Dhuv, my mother's son in Aghadoe,
+ When your throat fries in hell's drouth salt the flame
+ be in your mouth,
+ For the treachery you did in Aghadoe!
+
+ For they tracked me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
+ When the price was on his head in Aghadoe;
+ O'er the mountain through the wood, as I stole to him with food,
+ When in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe.
+
+ But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe;
+ With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe,
+ There he lay, the head--my breast keeps the warmth where
+ once 'twould rest--
+ Gone, to win the traitor's gold, from Aghadoe!
+
+ I walked to Mallow Town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
+ Brought his head from the gaol's gate to Aghadoe,
+ Then I covered him with fern, and I piled on him the cairn.
+ Like an Irish King he sleeps in Aghadoe.
+
+ O! to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe!
+ There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe!
+ Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I,
+ Your own love, cold on your cairn in Aghadoe.
+
+ _John Todhunter_
+
+
+
+
+A MAD SONG
+
+
+ I hear the wind a-blowing,
+ I hear the corn a-growing,
+ I hear the Virgin praying,
+ I hear what she is saying.
+
+ _Hester Sigerson_
+
+
+
+
+LADY MARGARET'S SONG
+
+
+ Girls, when I am gone away,
+ On this bosom strew
+ Only flowers meek and pale,
+ And the yew.
+
+ 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.
+
+ _Edward Dowden_
+
+
+
+
+SONG
+
+
+ I made another garden, yea,
+ For my new Love.
+ I left the dead rose where it lay
+ And set the new above.
+ Why did my Summer not begin?
+ Why did my heart not haste?
+ My old Love came and walked therein
+ And laid the garden waste.
+
+ She entered with her weary smile,
+ Just as of old:
+ She looked around a little while
+ And shivered with the cold.
+ Her passing touch was death to all,
+ Her passing look a blight;
+ She made the white rose-petals fall,
+ And turned the red rose white.
+
+ Her pale robe clinging to the grass
+ Seemed like a snake
+ That bit the grass and ground, alas!
+ And a sad trail did make.
+ She went up slowly to the gate,
+ And then, just as of yore,
+ She turned back at the last to wait
+ And say farewell once more.
+
+ _Arthur O'Shaughnessy_
+
+
+
+
+FATHER O'FLYNN
+
+
+ Of priests we can offer a charming variety,
+ Far renowned for larnin' and piety,
+ Still I'd advance you, without impropriety,
+ Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.
+ Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,
+ _Slainte_, and _slainte_, and _slainte_ agin.
+ Powerfullest preacher,
+ And tindherest teacher,
+ And kindliest creature in Old Donegal.
+
+ Talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity,
+ Far renowned for Greek and Latinity,
+ Gad! and the divils and all at Divinity,
+ Father O'Flynn would make hares of them all.
+ Come, I venture to give you my word,
+ Never the likes of his logic was heard,
+ Down from mythology,
+ Into thayology,
+ Troth and conchology, if he'd the call.
+
+ Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way with you,
+ All the old sinners are wishful to pray with you,
+ All the young children are wild for to play with you,
+ You've such a way with you, Father _avick_!
+ Still for all you're so gentle a soul,
+ Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control;
+ Checking the crazy ones,
+ Coaxing unaisy ones,
+ Lifting the lazy ones on with the stick.
+
+ And though quite avoiding all foolish frivolity,
+ Still at all seasons of innocent jollity,
+ Where is the play-boy can claim an equality
+ At comicality, Father, with you?
+ Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest,
+ Till this remark set him off with the rest:
+ 'Is it leave gaiety
+ All to the laity?
+ Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too?'
+
+ _Alfred Perceval Graves_
+
+
+
+
+SONG
+
+
+ The 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.
+
+ 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.
+
+ _Rosa Gilbert_
+
+
+
+
+REQUIESCAT
+
+
+ Tread lightly, she is near
+ Under the snow,
+ Speak gently, she can hear
+ The daisies grow.
+
+ All her bright golden hair,
+ Tarnished with rust,
+ She that was young and fair
+ Fallen to dust.
+
+ Lily-like, white as snow,
+ She hardly knew
+ She was a woman, so
+ Sweetly she grew.
+
+ Coffin-board, heavy stone
+ Lie on her breast,
+ I vex my heart alone,
+ She is at rest.
+
+ Peace, Peace, she cannot hear
+ Lyre or sonnet,
+ All my life's buried here,
+ Heap earth upon it.
+
+ _Oscar Wilde_
+
+
+
+
+THE LAMENT OF QUEEN MAEV
+
+_From the Irish of the Book of Leinster_
+
+
+ Raise the cromlech high!
+ Mac Moghcorb is slain,
+ And other men's renown
+ Has leave to live again.
+
+ Cold at last he lies
+ 'Neath the burial stone.
+ All the blood he shed
+ Could not save his own.
+
+ Stately, strong he went,
+ Through his nobles all,
+ When we paced together
+ Up the banquet-hall.
+
+ Dazzling white as lime,
+ Was his body fair,
+ Cherry-red his cheeks,
+ Raven-black his hair.
+
+ Razor-sharp his spear,
+ And the shield he bore,
+ High as champion's head--
+ His arm was like an oar.
+
+ Never aught but truth
+ Spake my noble king;
+ Valour all his trust
+ In all his warfaring.
+
+ As the forkèd pole
+ Holds the roof-tree's weight,
+ So my hero's arm
+ Held the battle straight.
+
+ Terror went before him,
+ Death behind his back,
+ Well the wolves of Erinn
+ Knew his chariot's track.
+
+ Seven bloody battles
+ He broke upon his foes,
+ In each a hundred heroes
+ Fell beneath his blows.
+
+ Once he fought at Fossud,
+ Thrice at Ath-finn-fail.
+ 'Twas my king that conquered
+ At bloody Ath-an-Scail.
+
+ At the Boundary Stream
+ Fought the Royal Hound,
+ And for Bernas battle
+ Stands his name renowned.
+
+ Here he fought with Leinster--
+ Last of all his frays--
+ On the Hill of Cucorb's Fate
+ High his cromlech raise.
+
+ _T.W. Rolleston_
+
+
+
+
+THE DEAD AT CLONMACNOIS
+
+_From the Irish of Enoch O'Gillan_
+
+
+ In a quiet watered land, a land of roses,
+ Stands Saint Kieran's city fair;
+ And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations
+ Slumber there.
+
+ There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest
+ Of the clan of Conn,
+ Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham
+ And the sacred knot thereon.
+
+ There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,
+ There the sons of Cairbrè sleep--
+ Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran's plain of crosses
+ Now their final hosting keep.
+
+ And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia,
+ And right many a lord of Breagh;
+ Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill,
+ Kind in hall and fierce in fray.
+
+ Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter
+ In the red earth lies at rest;
+ Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers,
+ Many a swan-white breast.
+
+ _T.W. Rolleston_
+
+
+
+
+THE SPELL-STRUCK
+
+
+ She walks as she were moving
+ Some mystic dance to tread,
+ So falls her gliding footstep,
+ So leans her listening head;
+
+ For once to fairy harping
+ She danced upon the hill,
+ And through her brain and bosom
+ The music pulses still.
+
+ Her eyes are bright and tearless,
+ But wide with yearning pain;
+ She longs for nothing earthly,
+ But O! to hear again
+
+ The sound that held her listening
+ Upon her moonlit path!
+ The rippling fairy music
+ That filled the lonely rath.
+
+ Her lips, that once have tasted
+ The fairy banquet's bliss,
+ Shall glad no mortal lover
+ With maiden smile or kiss.
+
+ She's dead to all things living
+ Since that November Eve;
+ And when she dies in autumn
+ No living thing will grieve.
+
+ _T.W. Rolleston_
+
+
+
+
+WERE YOU ON THE MOUNTAIN?
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ O, were you on the mountain, or saw you my love?
+ Or saw you my own one, my queen and my dove?
+ Or saw you the maiden with the step firm and free?
+ And say, is she pining in sorrow like me?
+
+ I was upon 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.
+
+ _Douglas Hyde_
+
+
+
+
+MY GRIEF ON THE SEA
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ My 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 wear,
+ In the province of Leinster,
+ Or County of Clare?
+
+ Were I and my darling--
+ O, heart-bitter wound!--
+ On board of the ship
+ For America bound.
+
+ 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.
+
+ _Douglas Hyde_
+
+
+
+
+MY LOVE, O, SHE IS MY LOVE
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ She casts a spell, O, 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, O, she my store,
+ Whose grey eye wounded me so sore,
+ Who will not place in mine her palm,
+ Who will not calm me any more.
+
+ She is my pet, O, 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, O, 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.
+
+ She is my dear, O, 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, O, 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, O, 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 is my grief, O, 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, O, my desire,
+ More glorious than the bright sun's fire;
+ Who more 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,
+ But if she soften not her eye,
+ Then life and I shall surely part.
+
+ _Douglas Hyde_
+
+
+
+
+I SHALL NOT DIE FOR THEE
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ For thee I shall not die,
+ Woman high of fame and name;
+ Foolish men thou mayest slay,
+ I and they are not the same.
+
+ Why should I expire
+ For the fire of any eye,
+ Slender waist, or swan-like limb,
+ Is't for them that I should die?
+
+ The round breasts, the fresh skin,
+ Cheeks crimson, hair so 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 from 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.
+
+ _Douglas Hyde_
+
+
+
+
+RIDDLES
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ A great, great house it is,
+ A golden candlestick it is,
+ Guess it rightly,
+ Let it not go by thee.
+ _Heaven_.
+
+ There's a garden that I ken,
+ Full of little gentlemen,
+ Little caps of blue they wear,
+ And green ribbons very fair.
+ _Flax_.
+
+ He comes to ye amidst the brine
+ The butterfly of the sun,
+ The man of the coat so blue and fine,
+ With red thread his shirt is done.
+ _A Lobster_.
+
+ You see it come in on the shoulders of men,
+ Like a thread of the silk it will leave us again.
+ _Turf_.
+
+ _Douglas Hyde_
+
+
+
+
+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 waves were thrown;
+ While mosses, green and gray and pink,
+ Grew thickly round each smooth dark stone.
+
+ 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.
+
+ O, little lonely mountain spot!
+ Your place within my heart will be
+ Apart from all Life's busy lot
+ A true, sweet, solemn memory.
+
+ _Rose Kavanagh_
+
+
+
+
+THE CHILDREN OF LIR
+
+
+ Out upon the sand-dunes thrive the coarse long grasses,
+ Herons standing knee-deep in the brackish pool,
+ Overhead the sunset fire and flame amasses,
+ And the moon to Eastward rises pale and cool:
+ Rose and green around her, silver-grey and pearly,
+ Chequered with the black rooks flying home to bed;
+ For, to wake at daybreak birds must couch them early,
+ And the day's a long one since the dawn was red.
+
+ On the chilly lakelet, in that pleasant gloaming,
+ See the sad swans sailing: they shall have no rest:
+ Never a voice to greet them save the bittern's booming
+ Where the ghostly sallows sway against the West.
+ 'Sister,' saith the grey swan, 'Sister, I am weary,'
+ Turning to the white swan wet, despairing eyes;
+ 'O,' she saith, 'my young one.' 'O,' she saith, 'my dearie,'
+ Casts her wings about him with a storm of cries.
+
+ Woe for Lir's sweet children whom their vile step-mother
+ Glamoured with her witch-spells for a thousand years;
+ Died their father raving--on his throne another--
+ Blind before the end came from his burning tears.
+ She--the fiends possess her, torture her for ever,
+ Gone is all the glory of the race of Lir;
+ Gone and long-forgotten like a dream of fever:
+ But the swans remember all the days that were.
+
+ Hugh, the black and white swan with the beauteous feathers;
+ Fiachra, the black swan with the emerald breast;
+ Conn, the youngest, dearest, sheltered in all weathers,
+ Him his snow-white sister loves the tenderest.
+ These her mother gave her as she lay a-dying,
+ To her faithful keeping, faithful hath she been,
+ With her wings spread o'er them when the tempest's crying,
+ And her songs so hopeful when the sky's serene.
+
+ Other swans have nests made 'mid the reeds and rushes,
+ Lined with downy feathers where the cygnets sleep
+ Dreaming, if a bird dreams, till the daylight blushes,
+ Then they sail out swiftly on the current deep,
+ With the proud swan-father, tall, and strong, and stately,
+ And the mild swan-mother, grave with household cares,
+ All well-born and comely, all rejoicing greatly:
+ Full of honest pleasure is a life like theirs.
+
+ But alas! for my swans, with the human nature,
+ Sick with human longings, starved with human ties,
+ With their hearts all human, cramped in a bird's stature,
+ And the human weeping in the bird's soft eyes.
+ Never shall my swans build nests in some green river,
+ Never fly to southward in the autumn grey,
+ Rear no tender children, love no mates for ever,
+ Robbed alike of bird's joys and of man's are they.
+
+ Babbled Conn the youngest, 'Sister, I remember
+ At my father's palace how I went in silk,
+ Ate the juicy deer-flesh roasted from the ember,
+ Drank from golden goblets my child's draught of milk.
+ Once I rode a-hunting, laughed to see the hurly,
+ Shouted at the ball-play, on the lake did row;
+ You had for your beauty gauds that shone so rarely':
+ 'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.'
+
+ 'Sister,' saith Fiachra, 'well do I remember
+ How the flaming torches lit the banquet hall,
+ And the fire leaped skyward in the mid-December,
+ And amid the rushes slept our staghounds tall.
+ By our father's right hand you sat shyly gazing,
+ Smiling half and sighing, with your eyes aglow,
+ As the bards sang loudly, all your beauty praising';
+ 'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.'
+
+ 'Sister,' then saith Hugh, 'most do I remember
+ One I called my brother, you, earth's goodliest man,
+ Strong as forest oaks are where the wild vines clamber,
+ First at feast or hunting, in the battle's van.
+ Angus, you were handsome, wise and true and tender,
+ Loved by every comrade, feared by every foe:
+ Low, low lies your beauty, all forgot your splendour':
+ 'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.'
+
+ Dews are in the clear air, and the roselight paling,
+ Over sands and sedges shines the evening star,
+ And the moon's disk high in heaven is sailing,
+ Silvered all the spear-heads of the rushes are--
+ Housed warm are all things as the night grows colder,
+ Water-fowl and sky-fowl dreamless in the nest,
+ But the swans go drifting, drooping wings and shoulder,
+ Cleaving the still waters where the fishes rest.
+
+ _Katharine Tynan Hinkson_
+
+
+
+
+ST. FRANCIS TO THE BIRDS
+
+
+ Little sisters, the birds,
+ We must praise God, you and I--
+ You with songs that fill the sky;
+ I, with halting words.
+
+ All things tell His praise,
+ Woods and waters thereof sing,
+ Summer, winter, autumn, spring,
+ And the nights and days.
+
+ Yea, and cold and heat,
+ And the sun, and stars, and moon,
+ Sea with her monotonous tune,
+ Rain and hail and sleet.
+
+ And the winds of heaven,
+ And the solemn hills of blue,
+ And the brown earth and the dew,
+ And the thunder even,
+
+ And the flowers' sweet breath,--
+ All things make one glorious voice;
+ Life with fleeting pains and joys
+ And our brother--Death.
+
+ Little flowers of air,
+ With your feathers soft and sleek
+ And your bright brown eyes and meek,
+ He hath made you fair.
+
+ He hath taught to you
+ Skill to weave on tree and thatch
+ Nests where happy mothers hatch
+ Speckled eggs of blue.
+
+ And hath children given:
+ When the soft heads overbrim
+ The brown nests; then thank ye Him
+ In the clouds of heaven.
+
+ Also in your lives,
+ Live His laws who loveth you.
+ Husbands, be ye kind and true;
+ Be homekeeping wives.
+
+ Love not gossiping;
+ Stay at home and keep the nest;
+ Fly not here and there in quest
+ Of the newest thing.
+
+ Live as brethren live;
+ Love be in each heart and mouth;
+ Be not envious, be not wroth,
+ Be not slow to give.
+
+ When ye build the nest
+ Quarrel not o'er straw or wool;
+ He who hath, be bountiful
+ To the neediest.
+
+ Be not puffed or vain
+ Of your beauty or your worth,
+ Of your children or your birth,
+ Or the praise you gain.
+
+ Eat not greedily:
+ Sometimes, for sweet mercy's sake,
+ Worm or insect spare to take;
+ Let it crawl or fly.
+
+ See ye sing not near
+ To our church on holy day,
+ Lest the human-folk should stray
+ From their prayer to hear.
+
+ Now depart in peace,
+ In God's name I bless each one;
+ May your days be long i' the sun
+ And your joys increase.
+
+ And remember me,
+ Your poor brother Francis, who
+ Loveth you, and thanketh you
+ For this courtesy.
+
+ Sometimes when ye sing,
+ Name my name, that He may take
+ Pity for the dear song's sake
+ On my shortcoming.
+
+ _Katharine Tynan Hinkson_
+
+
+
+
+SHEEP AND LAMBS
+
+
+ All in the April morning,
+ April airs were abroad;
+ The sheep with their little lambs
+ Passed me by on the road.
+
+ The sheep with their little lambs
+ Passed me by on the road;
+ All in the April evening,
+ I thought on the Lamb of God.
+
+ The lambs were weary, and crying
+ With a weak human cry,
+ I thought on the Lamb of God
+ Going meekly to die.
+
+ Up in the blue, blue mountains
+ Dewy pastures are sweet:
+ Rest for the little bodies,
+ Rest for the little feet.
+
+ Rest for the Lamb of God
+ Up on the hill-top green,
+ Only a cross of shame
+ Two stark crosses between.
+
+ All in the April evening,
+ April airs were abroad;
+ I saw the sheep with their lambs,
+ And thought on the Lamb of God.
+
+ _Katharine Tynan Hinkson_
+
+
+
+
+THE GARDENER SAGE
+
+
+ Here in the garden-bed,
+ Hoeing the celery,
+ Wonders the Lord has made
+ Pass ever before me.
+ I saw the young birds build,
+ And swallows come and go,
+ And summer grow and gild,
+ And winter die in snow.
+
+ Many a thing I note,
+ And store it in my mind;
+ For all my ragged coat,
+ That scarce will stop the wind.
+ I light my pipe and draw,
+ And, leaning on my spade,
+ I marvel with much awe
+ O'er all the Lord hath made.
+
+ Now, here's a curious thing:
+ Upon the first of March,
+ The crow goes house-building,
+ In the elms and in the larch.
+ And be it shine or snow,
+ Though many winds carouse,
+ That day the artful crow
+ Begins to build his house.
+
+ But then--the wonder's big!--
+ _If Sunday fall that day_
+ _Nor straw, nor scraw, nor twig,
+ Till Monday will he lay._
+ His black wings to his side,
+ He'll drone upon his perch,
+ Subdued and holy-eyed,
+ As though he were at church.
+
+ The crow's a gentleman
+ Not greatly to my mind,
+ He'll steal what seeds he can,
+ And all you hide he'll find.
+ Yet though he's bully and sneak,
+ To small birds bird of prey--
+ He counts the days of the week,
+ And keeps the Sabbath day.
+
+ _Katharine Tynan Hinkson_
+
+
+
+
+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.
+
+ 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:
+ But 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.
+
+ _Nora Hopper_
+
+
+
+
+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.
+
+ 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 plough.
+
+ _Nora Hopper_
+
+
+
+
+OUR THRONES DECAY
+
+
+ I said, my pleasure shall not move;
+ It is not fixed in things apart:
+ Seeking not love--but yet to love--
+ I put my trust in mine own heart.
+
+ I knew the fountain of the deep
+ Wells up with living joy, unfed;
+ Such joys the lonely heart may keep,
+ And love grow rich with love unwed.
+
+ Still flows the ancient fount sublime;
+ But, ah, for my heart shed tears, shed tears;
+ Not it, but love, has scorn of time;
+ It turns to dust beneath the years.
+
+ _A.E._
+
+
+
+
+IMMORTALITY
+
+
+ We must pass like smoke or live within the spirit's fire;
+ For we can no more than smoke unto the flame return
+ If our thought has changed to dream, our will unto desire,
+ As smoke we vanish though the fire may burn.
+
+ Lights of infinite pity star the grey dusk of our days:
+ Surely here is soul: with it we have eternal breath:
+ In the fire of love we live, or pass by many ways,
+ By unnumbered ways of dream to death.
+
+ _A.E._
+
+
+
+
+THE GREAT BREATH
+
+
+ Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose,
+ Withers once more the old blue flower of day:
+ There where the ether like a diamond glows
+ Its petals fade away.
+
+ A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;
+ Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;
+ The great deep thrills for through it everywhere
+ The breath of Beauty blows.
+
+ I saw how all the trembling ages past,
+ Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,
+ Neared to the hour when Beauty breathes her last
+ And knows herself in death.
+
+ _A.E._
+
+
+
+
+SUNG ON A BY-WAY
+
+
+ What of all the will to do?
+ It has vanished long ago,
+ For a dream-shaft pierced it through
+ From the Unknown Archer's bow.
+
+ What of all the soul to think?
+ Some one offered it a cup
+ Filled with a diviner drink,
+ And the flame has burned it up.
+
+ What of all the hope to climb?
+ Only in the self we grope
+ To the misty end of time:
+ Truth has put an end to hope.
+
+ What of all the heart to love?
+ Sadder than for will or soul,
+ No light lured it on above;
+ Love has found itself the whole.
+
+ _A.E._
+
+
+
+
+DREAM LOVE
+
+
+ I did not deem it half so sweet
+ To feel thy gentle hand,
+ As in a dream thy soul to greet
+ Across wide leagues of land.
+
+ Untouched more near to draw to you
+ Where, amid radiant skies,
+ Glimmered thy plumes of iris hue,
+ My Bird of Paradise.
+
+ Let me dream only with my heart,
+ Love first, and after see:
+ Know thy diviner counterpart
+ Before I kneel to thee.
+
+ So in thy motions all expressed
+ Thy angel I may view:
+ I shall not in thy beauty rest,
+ But Beauty's ray on you.
+
+ _A.E._
+
+
+
+
+ILLUSION
+
+
+ What is the love of shadowy lips
+ That know not what they seek or press,
+ From whom the lure for ever slips
+ And fails their phantom tenderness?
+
+ The mystery and light of eyes
+ That near to mine grow dim and cold;
+ They move afar in ancient skies
+ Mid flame and mystic darkness rolled.
+
+ O beauty, as thy heart o'erflows
+ In tender yielding unto me,
+ A vast desire awakes and grows
+ Unto forgetfulness of thee.
+
+ _A.E._
+
+
+
+
+JANUS
+
+
+ Image of beauty, when I gaze on thee,
+ Trembling I waken to a mystery,
+ How through one door we go to life or death
+ By spirit kindled or the sensual breath.
+
+ Image of beauty, when my way I go;
+ No single joy or sorrow do I know:
+ Elate for freedom leaps the starry power,
+ The life which passes mourns its wasted hour.
+
+ And, ah, to think how thin the veil that lies
+ Between the pain of hell and paradise!
+ Where the cool grass my aching head embowers
+ God sings the lovely carol of the flowers.
+
+ _A.E._
+
+
+
+
+CONNLA'S WELL
+
+
+ A cabin on the mountain side hid in a grassy nook,
+ With door and windows open wide where friendly stars may look;
+ The rabbit shy can patter in; the winds may enter free
+ Who throng around the mountain throne in living ecstasy.
+
+ And when the sun sets dimmed in eve and purple fills the air,
+ I think the sacred hazel tree is dropping berries there
+ From starry fruitage waved aloft where Connla's well o'erflows;
+ For sure the immortal waters run through every wind that blows.
+
+ I think when night towers up aloft and shakes the trembling dew,
+ How every high and lonely thought that thrills my spirit through
+ Is but a shining berry dropped down through the purple air,
+ And from the magic tree of life the fruit falls everywhere.
+
+ _A.E._
+
+
+
+
+NAMES
+
+
+ No temple crowned the shaggy capes,
+ No safety soothed the kind,
+ The clouds unfabled shifted shapes,
+ And nameless roamed the wind.
+
+ The stars, the circling heights of heaven,
+ The mountains bright with snows
+ Looked down, and sadly man at even
+ Lay down and sad he rose.
+
+ Till ages brought the hour again,
+ When fell a windless morn,
+ And, child of agonistic pain
+ And bliss, the Word was born.
+
+ Which grew from all it gazed upon,
+ And spread thro' soil and sphere,
+ And shrunk the whole into the one,
+ And fetched the farthest here.
+
+ High is the summer's night, but deep
+ The hidden mind unfolds:
+ Within it does an image sleep
+ Of all that it beholds.
+
+ Alas! when man with busy brow,
+ His conquering names hath set
+ To planet, plant, and worm, who now
+ Will teach us to forget?
+
+ What poet now, when wisdoms fail,
+ Another theme shall dare--
+ The Nameless, and remove the veil
+ Which hides it everywhere?
+
+ _John Eglinton_
+
+
+
+
+THAT
+
+
+ What is that beyond thy life,
+ And beyond all life around,
+ Which, when thy quick brain is still,
+ Nods to thee from the stars?
+ Lo, it says, thou hast found
+ Me, the lonely, lonely one.
+
+ _Charles Weekes_
+
+
+
+
+THINK
+
+
+ Think, the ragged turf-boy urges
+ O'er the dusty road his asses;
+ Think, on sea-shore far the lonely
+ Heron wings along the sand;
+
+ Think, in woodland under oak-boughs
+ Now the streaming sunbeam passes;
+ And bethink thee thou art servant
+ To the same all-moving hand.
+
+ _Charles Weekes_
+
+
+
+
+TE MARTYRUM CANDIDATUS
+
+
+ Ah, see the fair chivalry come, the companions of Christ!
+ White Horsemen, who ride on white horses, the Knights of God!
+ They, for their Lord and their Lover who sacrificed
+ All, save the sweetness of treading, where he first trod!
+
+ These through the darkness of death, the dominion of night,
+ Swept, and they woke in white places at morning tide:
+ They saw with their eyes, and sang for joy of the sight,
+ They saw with their eyes the Eyes of the Crucified.
+
+ Now, whithersoever He goeth, with Him they go:
+ White Horsemen, who ride on white horses, oh fair to see!
+ They ride, where the Rivers of Paradise flash and flow,
+ White Horsemen, with Christ their Captain: for ever He!
+
+ _Lionel Johnson_
+
+
+
+
+THE CHURCH OF A DREAM
+
+
+ Sadly the dead leaves rustle in the whistling wind,
+ Around the weather-worn gray church, low down the vale:
+ The Saints in golden vesture shake before the gale;
+ The glorious windows shake, where still they dwell enshrined;
+ Old Saints, by long dead, shrivelled hands, long since designed:
+ There still, although the world autumnal be, and pale,
+ Still in their golden vesture the old saints prevail;
+ Alone with Christ, desolate else, left by mankind.
+ Only one ancient Priest offers the sacrifice,
+ Murmuring holy Latin immemorial:
+ Swaying with tremulous hands the old censer full of spice,
+ In gray, sweet incense clouds; blue, sweet clouds mystical:
+ To him, in place of men, for he is old, suffice
+ Melancholy remembrances and vesperal.
+
+ _Lionel Johnson_
+
+
+
+
+WAYS OF WAR
+
+
+ A terrible and splendid trust
+ Heartens the host of Inisfail:
+ Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust,
+ A lightning glory of the Gael.
+
+ 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 Inisfail,
+ 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 Inisfail,
+ Shall come the majesty and awe
+ Of martial truth, that must prevail,
+ To lay on all the eternal law.
+
+ _Lionel Johnson_
+
+
+
+
+THE RED WIND
+
+
+ Red Wind from out the East:
+ Red wind of blight and blood!
+ Ah, when wilt thou have ceased
+ Thy bitter, stormy flood?
+
+ Red Wind from over sea,
+ Scourging our holy land!
+ What angel loosened thee
+ Out of his iron hand?
+
+ 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 Inisfail rejoice
+ In her Hesperian peace.
+
+ _Lionel Johnson_
+
+
+
+
+CELTIC SPEECH
+
+
+ Never forgetful silence fall on thee,
+ Nor younger voices overtake thee,
+ Nor echoes from thine ancient hills forsake thee,
+ Old music heard by Mona of the sea:
+ And where with moving melodies there break thee,
+ Pastoral Conway, venerable Dee.
+
+ Like music lives, nor may that music die,
+ Still in the far, fair Gaelic places:
+ The speech, so wistful with its kindly graces,
+ Holy Croagh Patrick knows, and holy Hy:
+ The speech, that wakes the soul in withered faces,
+ And wakes remembrance of great things gone by.
+
+ Like music by the desolate Land's End,
+ Mournful forgetfulness hath broken:
+ No more words kindred to the winds are spoken,
+ Where upon iron cliffs whole seas expend
+ That strength, whereof the unalterable token
+ Remains wild music, even to the world's end.
+
+ _Lionel Johnson_
+
+
+
+
+TO MORFYDD
+
+
+ A voice on the winds,
+ A voice on the waters,
+ Wanders and cries:
+
+ _O! what are the winds?
+ And what are the waters?
+ Mine are your eyes._
+
+ Western the winds are,
+ And western the waters,
+ Where the light lies:
+
+ _O! 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:
+
+ _O! 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._
+
+ _Lionel Johnson_
+
+
+
+
+CAN DOOV DEELISH
+
+
+ Can doov deelish, beside the sea
+ I stand and stretch my hands to thee
+ Across the world.
+ The riderless horses race to shore
+ With thundering hoofs and shuddering, hoar,
+ Blown manes uncurled.
+
+ Can doov deelish, I cry to thee
+ Beyond the world, beneath the sea,
+ Thou being dead.
+ Where hast thou hidden from the beat
+ Of crushing hoofs and tearing feet
+ Thy dear black head?
+
+ God bless the woman, whoever she be,
+ From the tossing waves will recover thee
+ And lashing wind.
+ Who will take thee out of the wind and storm,
+ Dry thy wet face on her bosom warm
+ And lips so kind?
+
+ I not to know. It is hard to pray,
+ But I shall for this woman from day to day,
+ 'Comfort my dead,
+ The sport of the winds and the play of the sea.'
+ I loved thee too well for this thing to be,
+ O dear black head!
+
+ _Dora Sigerson_
+
+
+
+
+ ANONYMOUS
+
+
+
+
+SHULE AROON
+
+ I would I were on yonder hill,
+ 'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,
+ And every tear would turn a mill,
+ _Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.
+ Shule, shule, shule aroon,
+ Shule go succir, agus shule go cuin,
+ Shule go den durrus agus eligh lum,
+ Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn._
+
+ I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,
+ I'll sell my only spinning-wheel,
+ To buy for my love a sword of steel,
+ _Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn._
+
+ _Chorus._
+
+ I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red,
+ And around the world I'll beg my bread,
+ Until my parents shall wish me dead,
+ _Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn._
+
+ _Chorus._
+
+ I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,
+ I wish I had my heart again,
+ And vainly think I'd not complain,
+ _Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn._
+
+ _Chorus._
+
+ But now my love has gone to France,
+ To try his fortune to advance;
+ If he e'er come back 'tis but a chance,
+ _Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn._
+
+ _Chorus._
+
+
+
+
+THE SHAN VAN VOCHT
+
+ O! the French are on the sea,
+ Says the _shan van vocht_;
+ The French are on the sea,
+ Says the _shan van vocht_;
+ O! the French are in the bay,
+ They'll be here without delay,
+ And the Orange will decay,
+ Says the _shan van vocht_.
+
+ _Chorus._
+
+ O! the French are in the bay,
+ They'll be here by break of day,
+ And the Orange will decay,
+ Says the _shan van vocht_.
+
+ And their camp it shall be where?
+ Says the _shan van vocht_;
+ Their camp it shall be where?
+ Says the _shan van vocht_;
+ On the Currach of Kildare,
+ The boys they will be there,
+ With their pikes in good repair,
+ Says the _shan van vocht_.
+
+ To the Currach of Kildare
+ The boys they will repair,
+ And Lord Edward will be there,
+ Says the _shan van vocht_.
+
+ Then what will the yeomen do?
+ Says the _shan van vocht_;
+ What will the yeomen do?
+ Says the _shan van vocht_;
+ What _should_ the yeomen do
+ But throw off the red and blue,
+ And swear that they'll be true
+ To the _shan van vocht_?
+
+ What _should_ the yeomen do
+ But throw off the red and blue,
+ And swear that they'll be true
+ To the _shan van vocht_?
+
+ And what colour will they wear?
+ Says the _shan van vocht_;
+ What colour will they wear?
+ Says the _shan van vocht_;
+ What colour should be seen
+ Where our fathers' homes have been,
+ But our own immortal Green?
+ Says the _shan van vocht_.
+
+ What colour should be seen
+ Where our fathers' homes have been,
+ But our own immortal Green?
+ Says the _shan van vocht_.
+
+ And will Ireland then be free?
+ Says the _shan van vocht_;
+ Will Ireland then be free?
+ Says the _shan van vocht_;
+ Yes! Ireland SHALL be free,
+ From the centre to the sea;
+ Then hurra! for Liberty!
+ Says the _shan van vocht_.
+
+ Yes! Ireland SHALL be free,
+ From the centre to the sea;
+ Then hurra! for Liberty!
+ Says the _shan van vocht_.
+
+
+
+THE WEARING OF THE GREEN
+
+
+ O Paddy dear, and did you hear the news that's going round?
+ The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground;
+ St. Patrick's day no more we'll keep, his colours can't be seen,
+ For there's a bloody law agin the wearing of the green.
+ I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,
+ And he said, 'How's poor old Ireland, and how does she stand?'
+ She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen,
+ They are hanging men and women for the wearing of the green.
+
+ Then if the colour we must wear be England's cruel red,
+ Let it remind us of the blood that Ireland has shed.
+ You may take the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod,
+ But 'twill take root and flourish there, though under foot
+ 'tis trod.
+ When law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they grow,
+ And when the leaves in summer-time their verdure dare not show,
+ Then I will change the colour that I wear in my caubeen,
+ But 'till that day, please God, I'll stick to wearing of the green.
+
+
+
+
+THE RAKES OF MALLOW
+
+
+ Beauing, belleing, dancing, drinking,
+ Breaking windows, damning, sinking,
+ Ever raking, never thinking,
+ Live the rakes of Mallow.
+
+ Spending faster than it comes,
+ Beating waiters, bailiffs, duns,
+ Bacchus's true-begotten sons,
+ Live the rakes of Mallow.
+
+ One time nought but claret drinking,
+ Then like politicians thinking
+ To raise the sinking funds when sinking,
+ Live the rakes of Mallow.
+
+ When at home with dadda dying,
+ Still for Mallow water crying;
+ But where there's good claret plying,
+ Live the rakes of Mallow.
+
+ Living short, but merry lives;
+ Going where the devil drives;
+ Having sweethearts, but no wives,
+ Live the rakes of Mallow.
+
+ Racking tenants, stewards teasing,
+ Swiftly spending, slowly raising,
+ Wishing to spend all their days in
+ Raking as at Mallow.
+
+ Then to end this raking life
+ They get sober, take a wife,
+ Ever after live in strife,
+ And wish again for Mallow.
+
+
+
+
+JOHNNY, I HARDLY KNEW YE
+
+_Street Ballad_
+
+
+ While going the road to sweet Athy,
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ While going the road to sweet Athy,
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ While going the road to sweet Athy,
+ A stick in my hand and a drop in my eye,
+ A doleful damsel I heard cry:--
+ 'Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
+ With drums and guns and guns and drums
+ The enemy nearly slew ye,
+ My darling dear, you look so queer,
+ Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
+
+ 'Where are your eyes that looked so mild?
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ Where are your eyes that looked so mild?
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ Where are your eyes that looked so mild,
+ When my poor heart you first beguiled?
+ Why did you run from me and the child?
+ Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
+ With drums, etc.
+
+ 'Where are the legs with which you run?
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ Where are the legs with which you run?
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ Where are the legs with which you run,
+ When you went to carry a gun?--
+ Indeed, your dancing days are done!
+ Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye
+ With drums, etc.
+
+ 'It grieved my heart to see you sail,
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ It grieved my heart to see you sail,
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ It grieved my heart to see you sail,
+ Though from my heart you took leg bail,--
+ Like a cod you're doubled up head and tail.
+ Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
+ With drums, etc.
+
+ 'You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg,
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg,
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg,
+ You're an eyeless, noseless, chickenless egg;
+ You'll have to be put in a bowl to beg:
+ Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
+ With drums, etc.
+
+ 'I'm happy for to see you home,
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ I'm happy for to see you home,
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ I'm happy for to see you home,
+ All from the island of Sulloon,
+ So low in flesh, so high in bone,
+ Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
+ With drums, etc.
+
+ 'But sad as it is to see you so,
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ But sad as it is to see you so,
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ But sad as it is to see you so,
+ And to think of you now as an object of woe,
+ Your Peggy'll still keep ye on as her beau;
+ Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
+
+ 'With drums and guns and guns and drums,
+ The enemy nearly slew ye,
+ My darling dear, you look so queer,
+ Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!'
+
+
+
+
+KITTY OF COLERAINE
+
+
+ As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping
+ With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine,
+ When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled,
+ And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain.
+ O! what shall I do now! 'Twas looking at you, now;
+ Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again;
+ 'Twas the pride of my dairy! O Barney O'Cleary,
+ You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine!
+
+ I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her,
+ That such a misfortune should give her such pain;
+ A kiss then I gave her, and ere I did leave her,
+ She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again.
+ 'Twas haymaking season--I can't tell the reason--
+ Misfortunes will never come single 'tis plain;
+ For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster
+ The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.
+
+
+
+
+LAMENT OF MORIAN SHEHONE FOR MISS MARY ROURKE
+
+_From an Irish keen_
+
+
+ 'There's darkness in thy dwelling-place, and silence reigns above,
+ And Mary's voice is heard no more, like the soft voice of love.
+ Yes! thou art gone, my Mary dear! and Morian Shehone
+ Is left to sing his song of woe, and wail for thee alone.
+ O! snow-white were thy virtues--the beautiful, the young,
+ The old with pleasure bent to hear the music of thy tongue:
+ The young with rapture gazed on thee, and their hearts in
+ love were bound,
+ For thou wast brighter than the sun that sheds its light around.
+ My soul is dark, O Mary dear! thy sun of beauty's set;
+ The sorrowful are dumb for thee--the grieved their tears forget;
+ And I am left to pour my woe above thy grave alone;
+ For dear wert thou to the fond heart of Morian Shehone.
+ Fast-flowing tears above the grave of the rich man are shed,
+ But they are dried when the cold stone shuts in his narrow bed;
+ Not so with my heart's faithful love--the dark grave cannot hide
+ From Morian's eyes thy form of grace, of loveliness, and pride.
+ Thou didst not fall like the sere leaf, when autumn's chill
+ winds blow--
+ 'Twas a tempest and a storm-blast that has laid my Mary low.
+ Hadst thou not friends that loved thee well? hadst thou not
+ garments rare?
+ Wast thou not happy, Mary? wast thou not young and fair?
+ Then why should the dread spoiler come, my heart's peace to destroy,
+ Or the grim tyrant tear from me my all of earthly joy?
+ O! am I left to pour my woes above thy grave alone?
+ Thou idol of the faithful heart of Morian Shehone!
+ Sweet were thy looks and sweet thy smiles, and kind wast thou
+ to all;
+ The withering scowl of envy on thy fortunes dared not fall;
+ For thee thy friends lament and mourn, and never cease to weep--
+ O! that their lamentations could awake thee from thy sleep!
+ O! that thy peerless form again could meet my loving clasp!
+ O! that the cold damp hand of Death could loose his iron grasp!
+ Yet, when the valley's daughters meet beneath the tall elm tree,
+ And talk of Mary as a dream that never more shall be,
+ Then may thy spirit float around, like music in the air,
+ And pour upon their virgin souls a blessing and a prayer.
+ O! am I left to pour my wail above thy grave alone?'
+ Then sinks in silence the lament of Morian Shehone!
+
+
+
+
+THE GERALDINE'S DAUGHTER
+
+
+ Speak low!--speak low--the banshee is crying;
+ Hark! hark to the echo!--she's dying! 'she's dying.'
+ What shadow flits dark'ning the face of the water?
+ 'Tis the swan of the lake--'tis _the Geraldine's Daughter_.
+
+ Hush, hush! have you heard what the banshee said?
+ O! list to the echo! she's dead! 'she's dead!'
+ No shadow now dims the face of the water;
+ Gone, gone is the wraith of _the Geraldine's Daughter_.
+
+ The step of yon train is heavy and slow,
+ There's wringing of hands, there's breathing of woe;
+ What melody rolls over mountain and water?
+ 'Tis the funeral chant of _the Geraldine's Daughter_.
+
+ The requiem sounds like the plaintive moan
+ Which the wind makes over the sepulchre's stone;
+ 'O, why did she die? our hearts' blood had bought her!
+ O, why did she die, _the Geraldine's Daughter_?'
+ The thistle-beard floats--the wild roses wave
+ With the blast that sweeps over the newly-made grave;
+ The stars dimly twinkle, and hoarse falls the water,
+ While night-birds are wailing _the Geraldine's Daughter_.
+
+
+
+
+BY MEMORY INSPIRED
+
+_Street Ballad_
+
+
+ By Memory inspired,
+ And love of country fired,
+ The deeds of Men I love to dwell upon;
+ And the patriotic glow
+ Of my spirit must bestow
+ A tribute to O'Connell that is gone, boys, gone!
+ Here's a memory to the friends that are gone.
+
+ In October 'Ninety-seven--
+ May his soul find rest in Heaven--
+ William Orr to execution was led on:
+ The jury, drunk, agreed
+ That Irish was his creed;
+ For perjury and threats drove them on, boys, on:
+ Here's the memory of John Mitchell that is gone.
+
+ In 'Ninety-Eight--the month July--
+ The informer's pay was high;
+ When Reynolds gave the gallows brave MacCann;
+ But MacCann was Reynolds' first--
+ One could not allay his thirst;
+ So he brought up Bond and Byrne, that are gone, boys, gone.
+ Here's the memory of the friends that are gone!
+
+ We saw a nation's tears
+ Shed for John and Henry Shears;
+ Betrayed by Judas, Captain Armstrong;
+ We may forgive, but yet
+ We never can forget
+ The poisoning of Maguire that is gone, boys, gone--
+ Our high Star and true Apostle that is gone!
+
+ How did Lord Edward die?
+ Like a man, without a sigh;
+ But he left his handiwork on Major Swan!
+ But Sirr, with steel-clad breast,
+ And coward heart at best,
+ Left us cause to mourn Lord Edward that is gone, boys, gone:
+ Here's the memory of our friends that are gone!
+
+ September, Eighteen-three,
+ Closed this cruel history,
+ When Emmett's blood the scaffold flowed upon
+ O, had their spirits been wise,
+ They might then realize
+ Their freedom--but we drink to Mitchell that is gone, boys, gone:
+ Here's the memory of the friends that are gone!
+
+
+
+
+A FOLK VERSE
+
+
+ When you were an acorn on the tree top,
+ Then was I an eagle cock;
+ Now that you are a withered old block,
+ Still am I an eagle cock.
+
+
+
+
+NOTES
+
+
+Page xxi, lines 21 to 25. A well-known poet of the Fenian times has made
+the curious boast--'Talking of work--since Sunday, two cols. notes, two
+cols. London gossip, and a leader one col., and one col. of verse for
+the _Nation_. For _Catholic Opinion_, two pages of notes and a leader.
+For _Illustrated Magazine_, three poems and a five col. story.'
+
+Page 1. 'The deserted village' is Lissoy, near Ballymahon, and Sir
+Walter Scott tells of a hawthorn there which has been cut up into
+toothpicks by Goldsmith enthusiasts; but the feeling and atmosphere of
+the poem are unmistakably English.
+
+Page 8. Some verses in 'The Epicurean' were put into French by Théophile
+Gautier for the French translation, and back again into English by Mr.
+Robert Bridges. If any Irish reader who thinks Moore a great poet, will
+compare his verses with the results of this double distillation, and
+notice the gradual disappearance of their vague rhythms and loose
+phrases, he will be the less angry with the introduction to this book.
+Moore wrote as follows--
+
+ You, who would try
+ Yon terrible track,
+ To live or to die,
+ But ne'er to turn back.
+
+ You, who aspire
+ To be purified there,
+ By the terror of fire,
+ Of water, and air,--
+
+ If danger, and pain,
+ And death you despise,
+ On--for again
+ Into light you shall rise:
+
+ Rise into light
+ With the secret divine,
+ Now shrouded from sight
+ By a veil of the shrine.
+
+These lines are certainly less amazing than the scrannel piping of his
+usual anapæsts; but few will hold them to be 'of their own arduous
+fullness reverent'! Théophile Gautier sets them to his instrument in
+this fashion,
+
+ Vous qui voulez courir
+ La terrible carrière,
+ Il faut vivre ou mourir,
+ Sans regard en arrière:
+
+ Vous qui voulez tenter
+ L'onde, l'air, et la flamme,
+ Terreurs à surmonter
+ Pour épurer votre âme,
+
+ Si, méprisant la mort,
+ Votre foi reste entière,
+ En avant!--le coeur fort
+ Reverra la lumière.
+
+ Et lira sur l'autel
+ Le mot du grand mystère,
+ Qu'au profane mortel
+ Dérobe un voile austère.
+
+Then comes Mr. Robert Bridges, and lifts them into the rapture and
+precision of poetry--
+
+ O youth whose hope is high,
+ Who dost to truth aspire,
+ Whether thou live or die,
+ O look not back nor tire.
+
+ Thou that art bold to fly
+ Through tempest, flood, and fire,
+ Nor dost not shrink to try
+ Thy heart in torments dire:
+
+ If thou canst Death defy,
+ If thy faith is entire,
+ Press onward, for thine eye
+ Shall see thy heart's desire.
+
+ Beauty and love are nigh,
+ And with their deathless quire--
+ Soon shall thine eager cry
+ Be numbered and expire.
+
+Page 27. 'Dark Rosaleen' is one of the old names of Ireland. Mangan's
+translation is very free; as a rule when he tried to translate
+literally, as in 'The Munster Bards,' all glimmer of inspiration left
+him.
+
+Page 32, line 20. 'This passage is not exactly a blunder, though at
+first it may seem one: the poet supposes the grave itself transferred to
+Ireland, and he naturally includes in the transference the whole of the
+immediate locality about the grave' (Mangan note).
+
+Page 47, line 6. The two Meaths once formed a distinct province.
+
+Page 55, line 7. This poem is an account of Mangan's own life, and is, I
+think, redeemed out of rhetoric by its intensity. The following poem,
+'Siberia,' describes, perhaps, his own life under a symbol.
+
+Page 59. Hy Brasail, or Teer-Nan-Oge, is the island of the blessed, the
+paradise of ancient Ireland. It is still thought to be seen from time to
+time glimmering far off.
+
+Page 61. _Mo Craoibhin Cno_ means my cluster of nuts, and is pronounced
+_Mo Chreevin Knò_.
+
+Page 64. Mr. O'Keefe has sent the writer a Gaelic version of this poem,
+possibly by Walsh himself. A correspondent of his got it from an old
+peasant who had not a word of English. A well-known Gaelic scholar
+pronounces it a translation, and not the original of the present poem.
+_Mairgréad ni Chealleadh_ is pronounced _Mairgréd nei Kealley_. The
+_Ceanabhan_, pronounced _Kanovan_, is the bog cotton, and the _Monadan_
+is a plant with a red berry found on marshy mountains.
+
+Page 69. _A cuisle geal mo chroidhe_, pronounced _A cushla gal mo chre_,
+means 'bright pulse of my heart.'
+
+Page 74. Sir Samuel Ferguson introduces the poem as follows:--
+
+Several Welsh families, associates in the invasion of Strongbow, settled
+in the West of Ireland. Of these, the principal, whose names have been
+preserved by the Irish antiquarians, were the Walshes, Joyces, Heils (_a
+quibus_ MacHale), Lawlesses, Tolmyns, Lynotts, and Barretts, which last
+draw their pedigree from Walynes, son of Guyndally, the _Ard Maor_, or
+High Steward of the Lordship of Camelot, and had their chief seats in
+the territory of the two Bacs, in the barony of Tirawley, and county of
+Mayo. _Clochan-na-n'all_, i. e. 'The Blind Men's Stepping-stones,' are
+still pointed out on the Duvowen river, about four miles north of
+Crossmolina, in the townland of Garranard; and _Tubber-na-Scorney_, or
+'Scrags Well,' in the opposite townland of Carns, in the same barony.
+For a curious _terrier_ or applotment of the Mac William's revenue, as
+acquired under the circumstances stated in the legend preserved by Mac
+Firbis, see Dr. O'Donovan's highly-learned and interesting 'Genealogies,
+&c. of Hy. Fiachrach,' in the publications of the _Irish Archæological
+Society_--a great monument of antiquarian and topographical erudition.
+
+Page 90, line 6. 'William Conquer' was William Fitzadelm De Burgh, the
+Conqueror of Connaught.
+
+Page 91, line 4. Sir Samuel Ferguson introduces the poem as follows:--
+
+Aideen, daughter of Angus of Ben-Edar (now the Hill of Howth), died of
+grief for the loss of her husband, Oscar, son of Ossian, who was slain
+at the battle of Gavra (_Gowra_, near Tara in Meath), A.D. 284. Oscar
+was entombed in the rath or earthen fortress that occupied part of the
+field of battle, the rest of the slain being cast in a pit outside.
+Aideen is said to have been buried on Howth, near the mansion of her
+father, and poetical tradition represents the Fenian heroes as present
+at her obsequies. The Cromlech in Howth Park has been supposed to be her
+sepulchre. It stands under the summits from which the poet Atharne is
+said to have launched his invectives against the people of Leinster,
+until, by the blighting effect of his satires, they were compelled to
+make him atonement for the death of his son.
+
+Page 99. 'There was then no man in the host of Ulster that could be
+found who would put the sons of Usnach to death, so loved were they of
+the people and nobles. But in the house of Conor was one called Mainé
+Rough Hand, son of the king of Lochlen, and Naesi had slain his father
+and two brothers, and he undertook to be their executioners. So the sons
+of Usnach were then slain, and the men of Ulster, when they beheld their
+death, sent forth their heavy shouts of sorrow and lamentation. Then
+Deirdre fell down beside their bodies wailing and weeping, and she tore
+her hair and garments and bestowed kisses on their lifeless lips and
+bitterly bemoaned them. And a grave was opened for them, and Deirdre,
+standing by it, with her hair dishevelled and shedding tears abundantly,
+chanted their funeral song.' (_Hibernian Nights' Entertainment_.)
+
+Page 102. _Uileacan Dubh O_', pronounced _Uileacaun Doov O_, is a phrase
+of lamentation.
+
+Page 108, line 16. 'Anna Grace' is the heroine of another ballad by
+Ferguson. She also was stolen by the Fairies.
+
+Page 112, line 6. Thomas Davis had an Irish father and a Welsh mother,
+and Emily Brontë an Irish father and a Cornish mother, and there seems
+no reason for including the first and excluding the second. I find,
+perhaps fancifully, an Irish vehemence in 'Remembrance.' Several of the
+Irish poets have been of mixed Irish-Celtic and British-Celtic blood.
+William Blake has been recently claimed as of Irish descent, upon the
+evidence of Dr. Carter Blake; and if, in the course of years, that claim
+becomes generally accepted, he should be included also in Irish
+anthologies.
+
+Page 119, line 13. 'The little Black Rose' is but another form of 'Dark
+Rosaleen,' and has a like significance. 'The Silk of the Kine' is also
+an old name for Ireland.
+
+Page 138. _Maire Bhan Astór_ is pronounced _Mauria vaun a-stór_, and
+means 'Fair Mary, my treasure.'
+
+Page 140. _Mo bhuachaill_, pronounced _mo Vohil_, means 'my boy.'
+
+Page 174. The Goban Saor, the mason Goban, is a familiar personage in
+Irish folk-lore, and the reputed builder of the round towers.
+
+Page 191. _Slainté_, ['your] health.'
+
+Page 207. 'And their step-mother, being jealous of their father's great
+love for them, cast upon the king's children, by sorcery, the shape of
+swans, and bade them go roaming, even till Patrick's mass-bell should
+sound in Erin; but no farther in time than that did her power
+extend.'--_The Fate of the Children of Lir_.
+
+Page 222. The wind was one of the deities of the Pagan Irish. 'The
+murmuring of the Red Wind from the East,' says an old poem, 'is heard in
+its course by the strong as well as the weak; it is the wind that wastes
+the bottom of the trees, and injurious to man is that red wind.'
+
+Page 226. _Can Doov Deelish_ means 'dear black head.'
+
+Page 231. The chorus is pronounced _Shoo-il, shoo-il, shoo-il, a rooin,
+Shoo-il go socair, ogus shoo-il go kiune, Shoo-il go den durrus ogus
+euli liom, Iss go de too, mo vourneen, slaun_, and means--
+
+ 'Move, move, move, O treasure,
+ Move quietly and move gently,
+ Move to the door, and fly with me,
+ And mayest thou go, my darling, safe!'
+
+Page 232. _Shan van vocht_, meaning 'little old woman', is a name for
+Ireland.
+
+Page 235. This is not the most ancient form of the ballad, but it is the
+form into which it was recast by Boucicault, and which has long taken
+the place of all others.
+
+Page 237, line 2. 'Sinking,' violent swearing.
+
+THE END
+
+
+
+
+=IRISH BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR.=
+
+_VERSE._
+
+ THE COUNTESS KATHLEEN.
+ THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE.
+ THE WANDERINGS OF OISIN.
+
+_PROSE._
+
+ THE CELTIC TWILIGHT.
+ JOHN SHERMAN AND DHOYA.
+
+_ANTHOLOGIES._
+
+ IRISH FAIRY AND FOLK TALES.
+ IRISH FAIRY STORIES.
+ STORIES FROM CARLETON.
+ IRISH TALES.
+
+RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, LONDON & BUNGAY.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's A Book of Irish Verse, by William Butler Yeats
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BOOK OF IRISH VERSE ***
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+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Book of Irish Verse, by William Butler Yeats
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: A Book of Irish Verse
+ Selected from modern writers with an introduction and notes
+ by W. B. Yeats
+
+Author: William Butler Yeats
+
+Release Date: October 25, 2011 [EBook #37845]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BOOK OF IRISH VERSE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Brian Foley, Ron Stephens and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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+
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+
+</pre>
+
+<h1>A BOOK OF</h1>
+
+<h1>IRISH VERSE</h1>
+
+
+<h3>SELECTED FROM MODERN WRITERS</h3>
+<h3>WITH AN INTRODUCTION</h3>
+<h3>AND NOTES</h3>
+<h2>BY W.B. YEATS</h2>
+<div class="p6" />
+<h3>METHUEN AND CO.</h3>
+<h3>36 ESSEX STREET, W.C.</h3>
+<h3>LONDON</h3>
+<h3>
+1900</h3>
+
+<h4><i>Revised Edition</i></h4>
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<p class="center">
+W.H. WHITE AND CO. LTD.<br />
+RIVERSIDE PRESS, EDINBURGH<br />
+</p>
+<div class="p6" />
+
+<p class="center"><big>TO THE MEMBERS</big>
+
+<br />OF<br />
+
+THE NATIONAL LITERARY SOCIETY OF DUBLIN<br />
+
+AND THE<br />
+
+IRISH LITERARY SOCIETY OF LONDON</p>
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
+
+
+
+
+
+<div class="center">
+<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="TOC">
+<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"></td><td align="right"><span class="smcap">PAGE</span></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Preface</td><td align="left"></td><td align="right"><a href="#PREFACE">xiii</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Modern Irish Poetry</td><td align="left"></td><td align="right"><a href="#MODERN_IRISH_POETRY">xvii</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Old Age</td><td align="left"><i>Oliver Goldsmith</i> (1725-1774)</td><td align="right"><a href="#OLD_AGE">1</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Village Preacher</td><td align="left"><i>Oliver Goldsmith</i> (1725-1774)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_VILLAGE_PREACHER">2</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Deserter's Meditation</td><td align="left"><i>John Philpot Curran</i> (1750&mdash;1817)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_DESERTERS_MEDITATION">3</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">'Thou canst not boast'</td><td align="left"><i>Richard Brinsley Sheridan</i> (1751-1816)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THOU_CANST_NOT_BOAST">4</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Kathleen O'More</td><td align="left"><i>James Nugent Reynolds</i> (&nbsp;-1802)</td><td align="right"><a href="#KATHLEEN_OMORE">5</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Groves of Blarney</td><td align="left"><i>Richard Alfred Milliken</i> (1767-1815)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_GROVES_OF_BLARNEY">6</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Light of other Days</td><td align="left"><i>Thomas Moore</i> (1779-1852)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_LIGHT_OF_OTHER_DAYS">10</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">'At the Mid Hour of Night'</td><td align="left"><i>Thomas Moore</i> (1779-1852)</td><td align="right"><a href="#AT_THE_MID_HOUR_OF_NIGHT">11</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Burial of Sir John Moore</td><td align="left"><i>Rev. Charles Wolfe</i> (1791-1823)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_BURIAL_OF_SIR_JOHN_MOORE">12</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Convict of Clonmel</td><td align="left"><i>Jeremiah Joseph Callanan</i> (1795-1839)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_CONVICT_OF_CLONMELL">14</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Outlaw of Loch Lene</td><td align="left"><i>Jeremiah Joseph Callanan</i> (1795-1839)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_OUTLAW_OF_LOCH_LENE">16</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Dirge of O'Sullivan Bear</td><td align="left"><i>Jeremiah Joseph Callanan</i> (1795-1839)</td><td align="right"><a href="#DIRGE_OF_OSULLIVAN_BEAR">17</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Love Song</td><td align="left"><i>George Darley</i> (1795-1846)</td><td align="right"><a href="#LOVE_SONG">20</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Whistlin' Thief</td><td align="left"><i>Samuel Lover</i> (1797-1868)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_WHISTLIN_THIEF">22</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Soggarth Aroon</td><td align="left"><i>John Banim</i> (1798-1842)</td><td align="right"><a href="#SOGGARTH_AROON">24</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Dark Rosaleen</td><td align="left"><i>James Clarence Mangan</i> (1803-1849)</td><td align="right"><a href="#DARK_ROSALEEN">27</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Lament for the Princes</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">of Tyrone and Tyrconnell</td><td align="left"><i>James Clarence Mangan</i> (1803-1849)</td><td align="right"><a href="#LAMENT_FOR_THE_PRINCES_OF_TYRONE_AND">31</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">A Lamentation for the</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Death of Sir Maurice</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Fitzgerald</td><td align="left"><i>James Clarence Mangan</i> (1803-1849)</td><td align="right"><a href="#A_LAMENTATION_FOR_THE_DEATH_OF_SIR">41</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td align="left"><span class="pagenum">[viii]</span></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td align="left">The Woman of Three Cows</td><td align="left"><i>James Clarence Mangan</i> (1803-1849)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_WOMAN_OF_THREE_COWS">43</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Prince Alfrid's Itinerary</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">through Ireland</td><td align="left"><i>James Clarence Mangan</i> (1803-1849)</td><td align="right"><a href="#PRINCE_ALFRIDS_ITINERARY_THROUGH">47</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">O'Hussey's Ode to The</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Maguire</td><td align="left"><i>James Clarence Mangan</i> (1803-1849)</td><td align="right"><a href="#OHUSSEYS_ODE_TO_THE_MAGUIRE">50</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Nameless One</td><td align="left"><i>James Clarence Mangan</i> (1803-1849)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_NAMELESS_ONE">55</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Siberia</td><td align="left"><i>James Clarence Mangan</i> (1803-1849)</td><td align="right"><a href="#SIBERIA">57</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Hy-Brasail</td><td align="left"><i>Gerald Griffin</i> (1803-1840)</td><td align="right"><a href="#HY-BRASAIL">59</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Mo Craoibhin Cno</td><td align="left"><i>Edward Walsh</i> (1805-1850)</td><td align="right"><a href="#MO_CRAOIBHIN_CNO">61</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Mairgréad Ni Chealleadh</td><td align="left"><i>Edward Walsh</i> (1805-1850)</td><td align="right"><a href="#MAIRGREAD_NI_CHEALLEADH">63</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">From the Cold Sod</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">that's o'er you</td><td align="left"><i>Edward Walsh</i> (1805-1850)</td><td align="right"><a href="#FROM_THE_COLD_SOD_THATS_OER_YOU">65</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Fairy Nurse</td><td align="left"><i>Edward Walsh</i> (1805-1850)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_FAIRY_NURSE">67</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">A cuisle geal mo chroidhe</td><td align="left"><i>Michael Doheny</i> (1805-1863)</td><td align="right"><a href="#A_CUISLE_GEAL_MO_CHROIDHE">69</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Lament of the Irish</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Emigrant</td><td align="left"><i>Lady Dufferin</i> (1807-1867)</td><td align="right"><a href="#LAMENT_OF_THE_IRISH_EMIGRANT">71</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Welshmen of</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Tirawley</td><td align="left"><i>Sir Samuel Ferguson</i> (1810-1886)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_WELSHMEN_OF_TIRAWLEY">74</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Aideen's Grave</td><td align="left"><i>Sir Samuel Ferguson</i> (1810-1886)</td><td align="right"><a href="#AIDEENS_GRAVE">91</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Deirdre's Lament for</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">the Sons of Usnach</td><td align="left"><i>Sir Samuel Ferguson</i> (1810-1886)</td><td align="right"><a href="#DEIRDRES_LAMENT_FOR_THE_SONS_OF">99</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Fair Hills of Ireland</td><td align="left"><i>Sir Samuel Ferguson</i> (1810-1886)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_FAIR_HILLS_OF_IRELAND">102</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Lament over the Ruins</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">of the Abbey of Timoleague</td><td align="left"><i>Sir Samuel Ferguson</i> (1810-1886)</td><td align="right"><a href="#LAMENT_OVER_THE_RUINS_OF_THE_ABBEY">104</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Fairy Well of Lagnanay</td><td align="left"><i>Sir Samuel Ferguson</i> (1810-1886)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_FAIRY_WELL_OF_LAGNANAY">107</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">On the Death of Thomas</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Davis</td><td align="left"><i>Sir Samuel Ferguson</i> (1810-1886)</td><td align="right"><a href="#ON_THE_DEATH_OF_THOMAS_DAVIS">111</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The County of Mayo</td><td align="left"><i>George Fox</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_COUNTY_OF_MAYO">115</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Wedding of the</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Clans</td><td align="left"><i>Aubrey de Vere</i> (1814)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_WEDDING_OF_THE_CLANS">117</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td align="left"><span class="pagenum">[ix]</span></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td align="left">The Little Black Rose</td><td align="left"><i>Aubrey de Vere</i> (1814)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_LITTLE_BLACK_ROSE">119</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Song</td><td align="left"><i>Aubrey de Vere</i> (1814)</td><td align="right"><a href="#SONG1">120</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Bard Ethell</td><td align="left"><i>Aubrey de Vere</i> (1814)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_BARD_ETHELL">121</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Lament for the Death</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">of Eoghan Ruadh</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">O'Neill</td><td align="left"><i>Thomas Davis</i> (1814-1845)</td><td align="right"><a href="#LAMENT_FOR_THE_DEATH_OF_EOGHAN">135</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Maire Bhan Astór</td><td align="left"><i>Thomas Davis</i> (1814-1845)</td><td align="right"><a href="#MAIRE_BHAN_ASTOR">138</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">O! the Marriage</td><td align="left"><i>Thomas Davis</i> (1814-1845)</td><td align="right"><a href="#O_THE_MARRIAGE">140</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">A Plea for Love</td><td align="left"><i>Thomas Davis</i> (1814-1845)</td><td align="right"><a href="#A_PLEA_FOR_LOVE">142</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Remembrance</td><td align="left"><i>Emily Brontë</i> (1818-1848)</td><td align="right"><a href="#REMEMBRANCE">143</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">A Fragment from 'The</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Prisoner: a Fragment'</td><td align="left"><i>Emily Brontë</i> (1818-1848)</td><td align="right"><a href="#A_FRAGMENT_FROM_THE_PRISONER_A">145</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Last Lines</td><td align="left"><i>Emily Brontë</i> (1818-1848)</td><td align="right"><a href="#LAST_LINES">147</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Memory of the Dead</td><td align="left"><i>John Kells Ingram</i> (? 1820)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_MEMORY_OF_THE_DEAD">148</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Winding Banks of</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Erne</td><td align="left"><i>William Allingham</i> (1824-1889)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_WINDING_BANKS_OF_ERNE_OR_THE">150</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Fairies</td><td align="left"><i>William Allingham</i> (1824-1889)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_FAIRIES">157</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Abbot of Inisf&#257;len.</td><td align="left"><i>William Allingham</i> (1824-1889)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_ABBOT_OF_INISFALEN">160</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Twilight Voices</td><td align="left"><i>William Allingham</i> (1824-1889)</td><td align="right"><a href="#TWILIGHT_VOICES">164</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">'Four Ducks on a Pond'</td><td align="left"><i>William Allingham</i> (1824-1889)</td><td align="right"><a href="#FOUR_DUCKS_ON_A_POND">166</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Lover and Birds</td><td align="left"><i>William Allingham</i> (1824-1889)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_LOVER_AND_BIRDS">167</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Celts</td><td align="left"><i>Thomas D'Arcy McGee</i> (1825-1868)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_CELTS">169</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Salutation to the Celts</td><td align="left"><i>Thomas D'Arcy McGee</i> (1825-1868)</td><td align="right"><a href="#SALUTATION_TO_THE_CELTS">172</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Gobban Saor</td><td align="left"><i>Thomas D'Arcy McGee</i> (1825-1868)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_GOBBAN_SAOR">174</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Patrick Sheehan</td><td align="left"><i>Charles J. Kickham</i> (1825-1882)</td><td align="right"><a href="#PATRICK_SHEEHAN">176</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Irish Peasant Girl</td><td align="left"><i>Charles J. Kickham</i> (1825-1882)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_IRISH_PEASANT_GIRL">180</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">To God and Ireland True</td><td align="left"><i>Ellen O'Leary</i> (1831-1889)</td><td align="right"><a href="#TO_GOD_AND_IRELAND_TRUE">182</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Banshee</td><td align="left"><i>John Todhunter</i> (1836)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_BANSHEE">183</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Aghadoe</td><td align="left"><i>John Todhunter</i> (1836)</td><td align="right"><a href="#AGHADOE">186</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">A Mad Song</td><td align="left"><i>Hester Sigerson</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#A_MAD_SONG">188</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Lady Margaret's Song</td><td align="left"><i>Edward Dowden</i> (1843)</td><td align="right"><a href="#LADY_MARGARETS_SONG">188</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Song</td><td align="left"><i>Arthur O'Shaughnessy</i> (1844-1881)</td><td align="right"><a href="#SONG2">189</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Father O'Flynn</td><td align="left"><i>Alfred Perceval Graves</i> (1846)</td><td align="right"><a href="#FATHER_OFLYNN">191</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td align="left"><span class="pagenum">[x]</span></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td align="left">Song</td><td align="left"><i>Rosa Gilbert</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#SONG3">192</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Requiescat</td><td align="left"><i>Oscar Wilde</i> (1855)</td><td align="right"><a href="#REQUIESCAT">193</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Lament of Queen</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Maev</td><td align="left"><i>Thomas William Rolleston</i> (1857)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_LAMENT_OF_QUEEN_MAEV">195</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Dead at Clonmacnois</td><td align="left"><i>Thomas William Rolleston</i> (1857)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_DEAD_AT_CLONMACNOIS">197</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Spell-struck</td><td align="left"><i>Thomas William Rolleston</i> (1857)</td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_SPELL-STRUCK">198</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">'Were you on the</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Mountain?'</td><td align="left"><i>Douglas Hyde</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#WERE_YOU_ON_THE_MOUNTAIN">199</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">'My Grief on the Sea'</td><td align="left"><i>Douglas Hyde</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#MY_GRIEF_ON_THE_SEA">200</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">My Love, O, she is my</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Love</td><td align="left"><i>Douglas Hyde</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#MY_LOVE_O_SHE_IS_MY_LOVE">201</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">I shall not die for thee</td><td align="left"><i>Douglas Hyde</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#I_SHALL_NOT_DIE_FOR_THEE">204</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Riddles</td><td align="left"><i>Douglas Hyde</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#RIDDLES">205</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Lough Bray</td><td align="left"><i>Rose Kavanagh</i> (1861-1891)</td><td align="right"><a href="#LOUGH_BRAY">206</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Children of Lir</td><td align="left"><i>Katharine Tynan Hinkson</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_CHILDREN_OF_LIR">209</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">St. Francis to the Birds</td><td align="left"><i>Katharine Tynan Hinkson</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#ST_FRANCIS_TO_THE_BIRDS">212</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Sheep and Lambs</td><td align="left"><i>Katharine Tynan Hinkson</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#SHEEP_AND_LAMBS">215</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Gardener Sage</td><td align="left"><i>Katharine Tynan Hinkson</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_GARDENER_SAGE">216</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Dark Man</td><td align="left"><i>Nora Hopper</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_DARK_MAN">218</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Fairy Fiddler</td><td align="left"><i>Nora Hopper</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_FAIRY_FIDDLER">219</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Our Thrones Decay</td><td align="left"><i>A.E.</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#OUR_THRONES_DECAY">220</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Immortality</td><td align="left"><i>A.E.</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#IMMORTALITY">221</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Great Breath</td><td align="left"><i>A.E.</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_GREAT_BREATH">221</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Sung on a By-way</td><td align="left"><i>A.E.</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#SUNG_ON_A_BY-WAY">222</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Dream Love</td><td align="left"><i>A.E.</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#DREAM_LOVE">223</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Illusion</td><td align="left"><i>A.E.</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#ILLUSION">223</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Janus</td><td align="left"><i>A.E.</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#JANUS">224</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Connla's Well</td><td align="left"><i>A.E.</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#CONNLAS_WELL">225</a><small>A</small></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Names</td><td align="left"><i>John Eglinton</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#NAMES">226</a><small>A</small></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">That</td><td align="left"><i>Charles Weekes</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#THAT">227</a><small>A</small></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Think</td><td align="left"><i>Charles Weekes</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#THINK">227</a><small>A</small></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Te Martyrum Candidatus</td><td align="left"><i>Lionel Johnson</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#TE_MARTYRUM_CANDIDATUS">228</a><small>A</small></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Church of a Dream</td><td align="left"><i>Lionel Johnson</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_CHURCH_OF_A_DREAM">229</a><small>A</small></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Ways of War</td><td align="left"><i>Lionel Johnson</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#WAYS_OF_WAR">230</a><small>A</small></td><td align="left"><span class="pagenum">[xi]</span></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td align="left">The Red Wind</td><td align="left"><i>Lionel Johnson</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_RED_WIND">231</a><small>A</small></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Celtic Speech</td><td align="left"><i>Lionel Johnson</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#CELTIC_SPEECH">232</a><small>A</small></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">To Morfydd</td><td align="left"><i>Lionel Johnson</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#TO_MORFYDD">225</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Can Doov Deelish</td><td align="left"><i>Dora Sigerson</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#CAN_DOOV_DEELISH">226</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"></td><td align="left"><big>ANONYMOUS</big></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left"></td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Shule Aroon</td><td align="right"></td><td align="right"><a href="#SHULE_AROON">231</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Shan Van Vocht</td><td align="right"></td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_SHAN_VAN_VOCHT">232</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Wearing of the Green</td><td align="right"></td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_WEARING_OF_THE_GREEN">235</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Rakes of Mallow</td><td align="right"></td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_RAKES_OF_MALLOW">237</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Johnny, I hardly knew ye</td><td align="right"></td><td align="right"><a href="#JOHNNY_I_HARDLY_KNEW_YE">238</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Kitty of Coleraine</td><td align="right"></td><td align="right"><a href="#KITTY_OF_COLERAINE">241</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Lament of Morian Shehone for Miss Mary Bourke</td><td align="right"></td><td align="right"><a href="#LAMENT_OF_MORIAN_SHEHONE_FOR_MISS">242</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">The Geraldine's Daughter</td><td align="right"></td><td align="right"><a href="#THE_GERALDINES_DAUGHTER">246</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">By Memory Inspired</td><td align="right"></td><td align="right"><a href="#BY_MEMORY_INSPIRED">247</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">A Folk Verse</td><td align="right"></td><td align="right"><a href="#A_FOLK_VERSE">249</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+<tr><td align="left">Notes</td><td align="right"></td><td align="right"><a href="#NOTES">250</a>&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
+</table></div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<p><span class="pagenum">[xii]</span></p>
+<h2><a name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE"></a>PREFACE</h2>
+
+
+<p><big>I</big> HAVE not found it possible to revise this book
+as completely as I should have wished. I have
+corrected a bad mistake of a copyist, and added
+a few pages of new verses towards the end, and
+softened some phrases in the introduction which
+seemed a little petulant in form, and written in
+a few more to describe writers who have appeared
+during the last four years, and that is
+about all. I compiled it towards the end of a
+long indignant argument, carried on in the committee
+rooms of our literary societies, and in
+certain newspapers between a few writers of our
+new movement, who judged Irish literature by
+literary standards, and a number of people, a
+few of whom were writers, who judged it by its
+patriotism and by its political effect; and I hope
+my opinions may have value as part of an argument
+which may awaken again. The Young
+Ireland writers wrote to give the peasantry a
+literature in English in place of the literature<span class="pagenum">[xiv]</span>
+they were losing with Gaelic, and these methods,
+which have shaped the literary thought of Ireland
+to our time, could not be the same as the methods
+of a movement which, so far as it is more than
+an instinctive expression of certain moods of the
+soul, endeavours to create a reading class among
+the more leisured classes, which will preoccupy
+itself with Ireland and the needs of Ireland. The
+peasants in eastern counties have their Young
+Ireland poetry, which is always good teaching and
+sometimes good poetry, and the peasants of
+the western counties have beautiful poems and
+stories in Gaelic, while our more leisured classes
+read little about any country, and nothing about
+Ireland. We cannot move these classes from an
+apathy, come from their separation from the land
+they live in, by writing about politics or about
+Gaelic, but we may move them by becoming
+men of letters and expressing primary emotions
+and truths in ways appropriate to this country.
+One carries on the traditions of Thomas Davis,
+towards whom our eyes must always turn, not
+less than the traditions of good literature, which
+are the morality of the man of letters, when one
+is content, like A.E. with fewer readers that one
+may follow a more hidden beauty; or when one<span class="pagenum">[xv]</span>
+endeavours, as I have endeavoured in this book,
+to separate what has literary value from what
+has only a patriotic and political value, no matter
+how sacred it has become to us.</p>
+
+<p class="ind">The reader who would begin a serious study
+of modern Irish literature should do so with Mr
+Stopford Brooke's and Mr Rolleston's exhaustive
+anthology.</p>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+W.B.Y.
+</p>
+
+<p><i>August 15, 1899</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum">[xvii]</span></p>
+<h2><a name="MODERN_IRISH_POETRY" id="MODERN_IRISH_POETRY"></a>MODERN IRISH POETRY</h2>
+<p><big>T</big>HE Irish Celt is sociable, as may be known
+from his proverb, 'Strife is better than loneliness,'
+and the Irish poets of the nineteenth
+century have made songs abundantly when
+friends and rebels have been at hand to applaud.
+The Irish poets of the eighteenth century found
+both at a Limerick hostelry, above whose door
+was written a rhyming welcome in Gaelic to
+all passing poets, whether their pockets were
+full or empty. Its owner, himself a famous
+poet, entertained his fellows as long as his
+money lasted, and then took to minding the
+hens and chickens of an old peasant woman for
+a living, and ended his days in rags, but not,
+one imagines, without content. Among his
+friends and guests had been O'Sullivan the
+Red, O'Sullivan the Gaelic, O'Heffernan the
+blind, and many another, and their songs had
+made the people, crushed by the disasters of the
+Boyne and Aughrim, remember their ancient
+greatness. The bardic order, with its perfect
+artifice and imperfect art, had gone down<span class="pagenum">[xviii]</span>
+in the wars of the seventeenth century, and
+poetry had found shelter amid the turf-smoke
+of the cabins. The powers that history commemorates
+are but the coarse effects of influences
+delicate and vague as the beginning of twilight,
+and these influences were to be woven like a
+web about the hearts of men by farm-labourers,
+pedlars, potato-diggers, hedge-schoolmasters, and
+grinders at the quern, poor wastrels who put
+the troubles of their native land, or their own
+happy or unhappy loves, into songs of an extreme
+beauty. But in the midst of this beauty was
+a flitting incoherence, a fitful dying out of the
+sense, as though the passion had become too
+great for words, as must needs be when life is
+the master and not the slave of the singer.</p>
+
+<p class="ind">English-speaking Ireland had meanwhile no
+poetic voice, for Goldsmith had chosen to celebrate
+English scenery and manners; and Swift was but
+an Irishman by what Mr Balfour has called the
+visitation of God, and much against his will; and
+Congreve by education and early association;
+while Parnell, Denham, and Roscommon were
+poets but to their own time. Nor did the coming
+with the new century of the fame of <a name="Moore" id="Moore"></a>Moore set
+the balance even, for all but all of his Irish
+melodies are artificial and mechanical when<span class="pagenum">[xix]</span>
+separated from the music that gave them wings.
+Whatever he had of high poetry is in 'The Light
+of other Days,' and in 'At the Mid Hour of
+Night,' which express what Matthew Arnold has
+taught us to call 'the Celtic melancholy,' with so
+much of delicate beauty in the meaning and in
+the wavering or steady rhythm that one knows
+not where to find their like in literature. His
+more artificial and mechanical verse, because
+of the ancient music that makes it seem natural
+and vivid, and because it has remembered so
+many beloved names and events and places, has
+had the influence which might have belonged to
+these exquisite verses had he written none but
+these. An honest style did not come into
+English-speaking Ireland, until Callanan wrote
+three or four naïve translations from the
+Gaelic. 'Shule Aroon' and 'Kathleen O'More'
+had indeed been written for a good while,
+but had no more influence than Moore's best
+verses. Now, however, the lead of Callanan
+was followed by a number of translators, and
+they in turn by the poets of 'Young Ireland,'
+who mingled a little learned from the Gaelic
+ballad-writers with a great deal learned from
+Scott, Macaulay, and Campbell, and turned poetry
+once again into a principal means for spreading<span class="pagenum">[xx]</span>
+ideas of nationality and patriotism. They were
+full of earnestness, but never understood that
+though a poet may govern his life by his
+enthusiasms, he must, when he sits down at his
+desk, but use them as the potter the clay. Their
+thoughts were a little insincere, because they
+lived in the half illusions of their admirable
+ideals; and their rhythms not seldom mechanical,
+because their purpose was served when they had
+satisfied the dull ears of the common man. They
+had no time to listen to the voice of the insatiable
+artist, who stands erect, or lies asleep waiting
+until a breath arouses him, in the heart of every
+craftsman. Life was their master, as it had been
+the master of the poets who gathered in the
+Limerick hostelry, though it conquered them
+not by unreasoned love for a woman, or for
+native land, but by reasoned enthusiasm, and
+practical energy. No man was more sincere,
+no man had a less mechanical mind than Thomas
+Davis, and yet he is often a little insincere and
+mechanical in his verse. When he sat down to
+write he had so great a desire to make the
+peasantry courageous and powerful that he half
+believed them already 'the finest peasantry upon
+the earth,' and wrote not a few such verses
+as<span class="pagenum">[xxi]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Lead him to fight for native land,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">His is no courage cold and wary;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The troops live not that could withstand<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The headlong charge of Tipperary,'<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+
+<p>and to-day we are paying the reckoning with
+much bombast. His little book has many
+things of this kind, and yet we honour it for
+its public spirit, and recognise its powerful
+influence with gratitude. He was in the main
+an orator influencing men's acts, and not a poet
+shaping their emotions, and the bulk of his influence
+has been good. He was, indeed, a poet
+of much tenderness in the simple love-songs
+'The Marriage,' 'A Plea for Love,' and 'Mary
+Bhan Astór,' and, but for his ideal of a Fisherman,
+defying a foreign soldiery, would have
+been as good in 'The Boatman of Kinsale'; and
+once or twice when he touched upon some historic
+sorrow he forgot his hopes for the future and his
+lessons for the present, and made moving verse.
+His contemporary, <a name="Clarence_Mangan" id="Clarence_Mangan"></a>Clarence Mangan, kept out
+of public life and its half illusions by a passion
+for books, and for drink and opium, made an
+imaginative and powerful style. He translated
+from the German, and imitated Oriental poetry,
+but little that he did on any but Irish subjects
+is permanently interesting. He is usually classed<span class="pagenum">[xxii]</span>
+with the Young Ireland poets, because he contributed
+to their periodicals and shared their
+political views; but his style was formed before
+their movement began, and he found it the more
+easy for this reason perhaps to give sincere
+expression to the mood which he had chosen,
+the only sincerity literature knows of; and with
+happiness and cultivation might have displaced
+Moore. But as it was, whenever he had no fine
+ancient song to inspire him, he fell into rhetoric
+which was only lifted out of commonplace by
+an arid intensity. In his 'Irish National Hymn,'
+'Soul and Country,' and the like, we look into a
+mind full of parched sands where the sweet dews
+have never fallen. A miserable man may think
+well and express himself with great vehemence,
+but he cannot make beautiful things, for Aphrodite
+never rises from any but a tide of joy. Mangan
+knew nothing of the happiness of the outer man,
+and it was only when prolonging the tragic
+exultation of some dead bard, that he knew the
+unearthly happiness which clouds the outer man
+with sorrow, and is the fountain of impassioned
+art. Like those who had gone before him, he
+was the slave of life, for he had nothing of the
+self-knowledge, the power of selection, the
+harmony of mind, which enables the poet to<span class="pagenum">[xxiii]</span>
+be its master, and to mould the world to a
+trumpet for his lips. But O'Hussey's Ode
+over his outcast chief must live for generations
+because of the passion that moves through its
+powerful images and its mournful, wayward, and
+fierce rhythms.</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">'Though he were even a wolf ranging the round green woods,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though he were even a pleasant salmon in the unchainable sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though he were a wild mountain eagle, he could scarce bear, he,<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">This sharp, sore sleet, these howling floods.'<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+
+<p class="ind">Edward Walsh, a village schoolmaster, who
+hovered, like Mangan, on the edge of the Young
+Ireland movement, did many beautiful translations
+from the Gaelic; and Michael Doheny, while out
+'on his keeping' in the mountains after the
+collapse at Ballingarry, made one of the most
+moving of ballads; but in the main the poets
+who gathered about Thomas Davis, and whose
+work has come down to us in 'The Spirit of the
+Nation,' were of practical and political, not of
+literary importance.</p>
+
+<p class="ind">Meanwhile Samuel Ferguson, William Allingham,
+and Mr Aubrey de Vere were working apart
+from politics, Ferguson selecting his subjects<span class="pagenum">[xxiv]</span>
+from the traditions of the Bardic age, and Allingham
+from those of his native Ballyshannon, and
+Mr Aubrey de Vere wavering between English,
+Irish, and Catholic tradition. They were wiser
+than Young Ireland in the choice of their models,
+for, while drawing not less from purely Irish
+sources, they turned to the great poets of the
+world, Mr de Vere owing something of his gravity
+to Wordsworth, Ferguson much of his simplicity
+to Homer, while Allingham had trained an ear,
+too delicate to catch the tune of but a single
+master, upon the lyric poetry of many lands.
+Allingham was the best artist, but Ferguson had
+the more ample imagination, the more epic aim.
+He had not the subtlety of feeling, the variety
+of cadence of a great lyric poet, but he has
+touched, here and there, an epic vastness and
+naïveté, as in the description in 'Congal' of
+the mire-stiffened mantle of the giant spectre
+Mananan macLir, striking against his calves with
+as loud a noise as the mainsail of a ship makes,
+'when with the coil of all its ropes it beats the
+sounding mast.' He is frequently dull, for he
+often lacked the 'minutely appropriate words'
+necessary to embody those fine changes of feeling
+which enthral the attention; but his sense of
+weight and size, of action and tumult, has set<span class="pagenum">[xxv]</span>
+him apart and solitary, an epic figure in a lyric
+age. Allingham, whose pleasant destiny has
+made him the poet of his native town, and put
+'The Winding Banks of Erne' into the mouths
+of the ballad-singers of Ballyshannon, is, on the
+other hand, a master of 'minutely appropriate
+words,' and can wring from the luxurious sadness
+of the lover, from the austere sadness of old age,
+the last golden drop of beauty; but amid action
+and tumult he can but fold his hands. He is the
+poet of the melancholy peasantry of the West,
+and, as years go on, and voluminous histories and
+copious romances drop under the horizon, will
+take his place among those minor immortals who
+have put their souls into little songs to humble
+the proud. The poetry of Mr Aubrey de Vere
+has less architecture than the poetry of Ferguson
+and Allingham, and more meditation. Indeed,
+his few but ever memorable successes are enchanted
+islands in grey seas of stately impersonal
+reverie and description, which drift by and leave
+no definite recollection. One needs, perhaps, to
+perfectly enjoy him, a Dominican habit, a cloister,
+and a breviary.</p>
+
+<p class="ind">These three poets published much of their best
+work before and during the Fenian movement,
+which, like 'Young Ireland,' had its poets, though<span class="pagenum">[xxvi]</span>
+but a small number. Charles Kickham, one of the
+'triumvirate' that controlled it in Ireland; John
+Casey, a clerk in a flour-mill; and Ellen O'Leary,
+the sister of Mr John O'Leary, were at times very
+excellent. Their verse lacks, curiously enough,
+the oratorical vehemence of Young Ireland, and
+is plaintive and idyllic. The agrarian movement
+that followed produced but little poetry, and of
+that little all is forgotten but a vehement poem
+by Fanny Parnell, and a couple of songs by
+Mr T.D. Sullivan, who is a good song-writer,
+though not, as the writer has read on an election
+placard, 'one of the greatest poets who ever
+moved the heart of man.' But while Nationalist
+verse has ceased to be a portion of the propaganda
+of a party, it has been written, and is being
+written, under the influence of the Nationalist
+newspapers and of Young Ireland societies and
+the like. With an exacting conscience, and
+better models than Thomas Moore and the
+Young Irelanders, such beautiful enthusiasm
+could not fail to make some beautiful verses.
+But, as things are, the rhythms are mechanical,
+and the metaphors conventional; and inspiration
+is too often worshipped as a Familiar who
+labours while you sleep, or forget, or do many
+worthy things which are not spiritual things.<span class="pagenum">[xxvii]</span>
+For the most part, the Irishman of our times
+loves so deeply those arts which build up a
+gallant personality, rapid writing, ready talking,
+effective speaking to crowds, that he has no
+thought for the arts which consume the personality
+in solitude. He loves the mortal arts
+which have given him a lure to take the hearts
+of men, and shrinks from the immortal, which
+could but divide him from his fellows. And in
+this century, he who does not strive to be a
+perfect craftsman achieves nothing. The poor
+peasant of the eighteenth century could make
+fine ballads by abandoning himself to the joy
+or sorrow of the moment, as the reeds abandon
+themselves to the wind which sighs through them,
+because he had about him a world where all was
+old enough to be steeped in emotion. But we
+cannot take to ourselves, by merely thrusting
+out our hands, all we need of pomp and symbol,
+and if we have not the desire of artistic perfection
+for an ark, the deluge of incoherence, vulgarity,
+and triviality will pass over our heads. If we
+had no other symbols but the tumult of the sea,
+the rusted gold of the thatch, the redness of
+the quicken-berry, and had never known the
+rhetoric of the platform and of the newspaper,
+we could do without laborious selection and<span class="pagenum">[xxviii]</span>
+rejection; but, even then, though we might do
+much that would be delightful, that would inspire
+coming times, it would not have the
+manner of the greatest poetry.</p>
+
+<p class="ind">Here and there, the Nationalist newspapers and
+the Young Ireland societies have trained a writer
+who, though busy with the old models, has some
+imaginative energy; while Mr Lionel Johnson,
+Mrs Hinkson, Miss Nora Hopper, and A.E.,
+the successors of Allingham and Ferguson and
+Mr de Vere, are more anxious to influence
+and understand Irish thought than any of their
+predecessors who did not take the substance of
+their poetry from politics. They are distinguished
+too by their deliberate art, and with their preoccupation
+with spiritual passions and memories.
+Mr Lionel Johnson and Mrs Hinkson are both
+Catholic and devout, but Mr Lionel Johnson's
+poetry is lofty and austere, and, like Mr de Vere's,
+never long forgets the greatness of his Church
+and the interior life whose expression it is, while
+Mrs Hinkson is happiest when she embodies
+emotions, that have the innocence of childhood,
+in symbols and metaphors from the green world
+about her. She has no reverie nor speculation,
+but a devout tenderness like that of S. Francis
+for weak instinctive things, old gardeners, old<span class="pagenum">[xxix]</span>
+fishermen, birds among the leaves, birds tossed
+upon the waters. Miss Hopper belongs to that
+school of writers which embodies passions, that
+are not the less spiritual because no Church has
+put them into prayers, in stories and symbols from
+old Celtic poetry and mythology. The poetry
+of A.E., at its best, finds its symbols and its
+stories in the soul itself, and has a more disembodied
+ecstasy than any poetry of our time.
+He is the chief poet of the school of Irish
+mystics, which has shaped Mr Charles Weekes,
+who published recently, but withdrew immediately,
+a curious and subtle book, and Mr John Eglinton,
+who is best known for the orchestral harmonies
+of his 'Two Essays on the Remnant,' and certain
+younger writers who have heard the words, 'If
+ye know these things, happy are ye if ye do
+them,' and thought the labours that bring the
+mystic vision more important than the labours
+of any craft.</p>
+
+<p class="ind">Except some few Catholic and mystical poets
+and Prof. Dowden in one or two poems, no
+Irishman living in Ireland has sung excellently
+of any but a theme from Irish experience, Irish
+history, or Irish tradition. Trinity College, which
+desires to be English, has been the mother of many
+verse-writers and of few poets; and this can<span class="pagenum">[xxx]</span>
+only be because she has set herself against the
+national genius, and taught her children to imitate
+alien styles and choose out alien themes, for it
+is not possible to believe that the educated
+Irishman alone is prosaic and uninventive. Her
+few poets have been awakened by the influence
+of the farm-labourers, potato-diggers, pedlars, and
+hedge-schoolmasters of the eighteenth century,
+and their imitators in this, and not by a scholastic
+life, which, for reasons easy for all to understand
+and for many to forgive, has refused the ideals of
+Ireland, while those of England are but far-off
+murmurs. An enemy to all enthusiasms, because
+all enthusiasms seemed her enemies, she has
+taught her children to look neither to the world
+about them, nor into their own souls where
+some dangerous fire might slumber.</p>
+
+<p class="ind">To remember that in Ireland the professional
+and landed classes have been through the mould
+of Trinity College or of English Universities,
+and are ignorant of the very names of the best
+writers in this book, is to know how strong a
+wind blows from the ancient legends of Ireland,
+how vigorous an impulse to create is in her
+heart to-day. Deserted by the classes from
+among whom have come the bulk of the world's
+intellect, she struggles on, gradually ridding<span class="pagenum">[xxxi]</span>
+herself of incoherence and triviality, and slowly
+building up a literature in English which, whether
+important or unimportant, grows always more
+unlike others; nor does it seem as if she would
+long lack a living literature in Gaelic, for the
+movement for the preservation of Gaelic, which
+has been so much more successful than
+anybody foresaw, has already its poets. Dr
+Hyde, who can only be represented here by
+some of his beautiful translations, has written
+Gaelic poems which pass from mouth to mouth
+in the west of Ireland. The country people
+have themselves fitted them to ancient airs,
+and many that can neither read nor write,
+sing them in Donegal and Connemara and
+Galway. I have, indeed, but little doubt that
+Ireland, communing with herself in Gaelic more
+and more, but speaking to foreign countries in
+English, will lead many that are sick with
+theories and with trivial emotion, to some sweet
+well-waters of primeval poetry.</p>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+W.B.Y.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum">[xxxii]</span></p>
+
+
+<p class="ind"><span class="smcap">The</span> editor thanks Mr Aubrey de Vere, Mr T.W.
+Rolleston, Dr J. Todhunter, Mr Alfred Perceval Graves,
+Dr Douglas Hyde, Mr Lionel Johnson, A.E., Mr Charles
+Weekes, Mr John Eglinton, Mrs Hinkson, Miss Dora
+Sigerson (Mrs Clement Shortes), and Miss Nora Hopper
+for permission to quote from their poems, Lady Ferguson
+and Mrs Allingham for leave to give poems by Sir
+Samuel Ferguson and William Allingham, and Messrs
+Chatto &amp; Windus for permission to include a song of
+Arthur O'Shaughnessy's. Two writers are excluded whom
+he would gladly have included&mdash;Casey, because the copyright
+holders have refused permission, and Mr George
+Armstrong, because his 'Songs of Wicklow,' when interesting,
+are too long for this book.</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<p><span class="pagenum">[1]</span></p>
+<h2><a name="OLD_AGE" id="OLD_AGE"></a>OLD AGE</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the '<a name="Deserted_Village" id="Deserted_Village"></a>Deserted Village'</i></p>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">In all my wanderings round this world of care,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In all my griefs&mdash;and God has given my share&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I still had hopes my later hours to crown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To husband out life's taper at the close<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And keep the flame from wasting by repose;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Around my fire an evening group to draw,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I still had hopes, my long vexations past,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Here to return&mdash;and die at home at last.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Oliver Goldsmith</i>
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" /><p><span class="pagenum">[2]</span></p>
+<h2><a name="THE_VILLAGE_PREACHER" id="THE_VILLAGE_PREACHER"></a>THE VILLAGE PREACHER</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the 'Deserted Village'</i></p>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And still where many a garden flower grows wild;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The village Preacher's modest mansion rose.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A man he was to all the country dear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And passing rich with forty pounds a year;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Remote from towns he ran his godly race,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change, his place;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for power,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His house was known to all the vagrant train,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[3]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And quite forgot their vices in their woe;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Careless their merits or their faults to scan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He pity gave ere charity began.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Oliver Goldsmith</i>
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_DESERTERS_MEDITATION" id="THE_DESERTERS_MEDITATION"></a>THE DESERTER'S MEDITATION</h2>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">If sadly thinking, with spirits sinking,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Could, more than drinking, my cares compose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A cure for sorrow from sighs I'd borrow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And hope to-morrow would end my woes.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">But as in wailing there's nought availing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And Death unfailing will strike the blow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then for that reason, and for a season,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Let us be merry before we go!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">To joy a stranger, a wayworn ranger,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In every danger my course I've run;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Now hope all ending, and death befriending,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">His last aid lending, my cares are done;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[4]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No more a rover, or hapless lover&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My griefs are over&mdash;my glass runs low;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then for that reason, and for a season,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Let us be merry before we go!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>John Philpot Curran</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THOU_CANST_NOT_BOAST" id="THOU_CANST_NOT_BOAST"></a>THOU CANST NOT BOAST</h2>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Thou canst not boast of Fortune's store,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My love, while me they wealthy call:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But I was glad to find thee poor,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">For with my heart I'd give thee all,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And then the grateful youth shall own,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I loved him for himself alone.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">But when his worth my hand shall gain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">No word or look of mine shall show<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That I the smallest thought retain<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of what my bounty did bestow:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Yet still his grateful heart shall own,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I loved him for himself alone.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Richard Brinsley Sheridan</i></p>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<p><span class="pagenum">[5]</span></p>
+<h2><a name="KATHLEEN_OMORE" id="KATHLEEN_OMORE"></a>KATHLEEN O'MORE</h2>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">My love, still I think that I see her once more,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But, alas! she has left me her loss to deplore&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My own little Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">My Kathleen O'More!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Her colour still changing, her smiles ever new&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">So pretty was Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">My Kathleen O'More!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">She milked the dun cow, that ne'er offered to stir;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though wicked to all, it was gentle to her&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">My Kathleen O'More!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">She sat at the door one cold afternoon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To hear the wind blow, and to gaze on the moon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">So pensive was Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">My Kathleen O'More!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Cold was the night-breeze that sighed round her bower,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It chilled my poor Kathleen, she drooped from that hour:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And I lost my poor Kathleen, my own little Kathleen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">My Kathleen O'More.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Bird of all birds that I love the best,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Is the Robin that in the churchyard builds his nest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For he seems to watch Kathleen, hops lightly o'er Kathleen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">My Kathleen O'More.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>James Nugent Reynolds</i>
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_GROVES_OF_BLARNEY" id="THE_GROVES_OF_BLARNEY"></a>THE GROVES OF BLARNEY</h2>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The groves of Blarney<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They look so charming<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Down by the purling<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of sweet, silent brooks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Being banked with posies<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That spontaneous grow there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Planted in order<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">By the sweet rock close.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[7]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Tis there's the daisy<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the sweet carnation,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The blooming pink,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the rose so fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The daffydowndilly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Likewise the lily,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All flowers that scent<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The sweet, fragrant air.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Tis Lady Jeffers<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That owns this station;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like Alexander,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Or Queen Helen fair.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There's no commander<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In all the nation,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For emulation,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Can with her compare.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Such walls surround her<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That no nine-pounder<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Could dare to plunder<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Her place of strength;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But Oliver Cromwell<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Her he did pommell,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[8]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And made a breach<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In her battlement.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i1">There's gravel walks there<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For speculation<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And conversation<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In sweet solitude.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Tis there the lover<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">May hear the dove, or<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The gentle plover<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In the afternoon;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And if a lady<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Would be so engaging<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As to walk alone in<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Those shady bowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Tis there the courtier<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He may transport her<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Into some fort, or<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">All under ground.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">For 'tis there's a cave where<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No daylight enters,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But cats and badgers<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Are for ever bred;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[9]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Being mossed by nature,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That makes it sweeter<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Than a coach-and-six or<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">A feather bed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Tis there the lake is,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Well stored with perches,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And comely eels in<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The verdant mud;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Beside the leeches,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And groves of beeches,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Standing in order<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For to guard the flood.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">There's statues gracing<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">This noble place in&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All heathen gods<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And nymphs so fair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Bold Neptune, Plutarch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And Nicodemus,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All standing naked<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In the open air.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So now to finish<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">This brave narration,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[10]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Which my poor genii<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Could not entwine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But were I Homer<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or Nebuchadnezzar,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Tis in every feature<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I would make it shine.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Richard Alfred Milliken</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_LIGHT_OF_OTHER_DAYS" id="THE_LIGHT_OF_OTHER_DAYS"></a>THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS</h2>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Oft in the stilly night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Ere slumber's chain has bound me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Fond Memory brings the light<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of other days around me:<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">The smiles, the tears<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Of boyhood's years,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The words of love then spoken;<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">The eyes that shone<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Now dimm'd and gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The cheerful homes now broken!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then in the stilly night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Ere slumber's chain hath bound me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sad memory brings the light<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of other days around me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[11]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When I remember all<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The friends so linked together<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I've seen around me fall<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Like leaves in wintry weather,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">I feel like one<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Who treads alone<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Some banquet-hall deserted,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Whose lights are fled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Whose garlands dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And all but he departed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then in the stilly night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Ere slumber's chain hath bound me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sad Memory brings the light<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of other days around me.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Thomas Moore</i>
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="AT_THE_MID_HOUR_OF_NIGHT" id="AT_THE_MID_HOUR_OF_NIGHT"></a>AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT&nbsp;&nbsp;</h2>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[12]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And tell me our love is remembered even in the sky!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the kingdom of souls<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Thomas Moore</i>
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_BURIAL_OF_SIR_JOHN_MOORE" id="THE_BURIAL_OF_SIR_JOHN_MOORE"></a>THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE</h2>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Not a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">As his corse to the rampart we hurried;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">O'er the grave where our hero we buried.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[13]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">We buried him darkly at dead of night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The sods with our bayonets turning,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the lantern dimly burning.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">No useless coffin enclosed his breast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With his martial cloak around him.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Few and short were the prayers we said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And we spoke not a word of sorrow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And we bitterly thought of the morrow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And we far away on the billow!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In the grave where a Briton has laid him.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[14]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But half of our heavy task was done,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">When the clock struck the hour for retiring;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And we heard the distant and random gun<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That the foe was sullenly firing.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Slowly and sadly we laid him down,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">From the field of his fame fresh and gory;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">But we left him alone in his glory.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;"><br />
+<i>Rev. Charles Wolfe</i>
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_CONVICT_OF_CLONMELL" id="THE_CONVICT_OF_CLONMELL"></a>THE CONVICT OF CLONMELL</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</i></p>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">How hard is my fortune,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And vain my repining!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The strong rope of fate<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For this young neck is twining.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My strength is departed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My cheek sunk and sallow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While I languish in chains,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In the gaol of <i>Cluanmeala</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[15]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No boy in the village<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Was ever yet milder,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I'd play with a child,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And my sport would be wilder.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I'd dance without tiring<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">From morning till even,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the goal-ball I'd strike<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To the lightning of Heaven.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">At my bed-foot decaying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My hurlbat is lying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through the boys of the village<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My goal-ball is flying;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My horse 'mong the neighbours<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Neglected may fallow,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While I pine in my chains,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In the gaol of <i>Cluanmeala</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Next Sunday the patron<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">At home will be keeping,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the young active hurlers<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The field will be sweeping.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[16]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With the dance of fair maidens<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The evening they'll hallow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While this heart, once so gay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Shall be cold in <i>Cluanmeala</i>.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;"><br />
+<i>Jeremiah Joseph Callanan</i>
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_OUTLAW_OF_LOCH_LENE" id="THE_OUTLAW_OF_LOCH_LENE"></a>THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O, many a day have I made good ale in the glen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That came not of stream or malt;&mdash;like the brewing of men.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My bed was the ground; my roof, the greenwood above,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the wealth that I sought one far kind glance from my love.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That I was not near from terror my angel to shield.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She stretched forth her arms,&mdash;her mantle she flung to the wind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And swam o'er Loch Lene, her outlawed lover to find.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[17]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O would that a freezing sleet-wing'd tempest did sweep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I'd ask not a ship, or a bark, or pinnace, to save,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With her hand round my waist, I'd fear not the wind or the wave.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringes its sides,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I think as at eve she wanders its mazes along,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of her song.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;"><br />
+<i>Jeremiah Joseph Callanan</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="DIRGE_OF_OSULLIVAN_BEAR" id="DIRGE_OF_OSULLIVAN_BEAR"></a>DIRGE OF O'SULLIVAN BEAR</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish</i></p>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The sun on Ivera<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">No longer shines brightly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The voice of her music<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">No longer is sprightly;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[18]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No more to her maidens<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The light dance is dear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Since the death of our darling<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">O'Sullivan Bear.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Scully! thou false one,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">You basely betrayed him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In his strong hour of need,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">When thy right hand should aid him;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He fed thee&mdash;he clad thee&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">You had all could delight thee:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">You left him&mdash;you sold him&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">May Heaven requite thee!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Scully! may all kinds<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of evil attend thee!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On thy dark road of life<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">May no kind one befriend thee!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">May fevers long burn thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And agues long freeze thee!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">May the strong hand of God<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In His red anger seize thee!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Had he died calmly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I would not deplore him;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[19]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or if the wild strife<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of the sea-war closed o'er him:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But with ropes round his white limbs<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Through ocean to trail him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like a fish after slaughter&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">'Tis therefore I wail him.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Long may the curse<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of his people pursue them;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Scully, that sold him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And soldier that slew him!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">One glimpse of heaven's light<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">May they see never!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">May the hearthstone of hell<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Be their best bed for ever!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">In the hole which the vile hands<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of soldiers had made thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Unhonour'd, unshrouded,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And headless they laid thee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No sigh to regret thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">No eye to rain o'er thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No dirge to lament thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">No friend to deplore thee!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[20]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Dear head of my darling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">How gory and pale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">These aged eyes see thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">High spiked on their gaol!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That cheek in the summer sun<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Ne'er shall grow warm;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor that eye e'er catch light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">But the flash of the storm.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">A curse, blessed ocean,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Is on thy green water,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From the haven of Cork<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To Ivera of slaughter:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Since thy billows were dyed<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With the red wounds of fear<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of Muiertach Oge,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Our O'Sullivan Bear!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Jeremiah Joseph Callanan</i>
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="LOVE_SONG" id="LOVE_SONG"></a>LOVE SONG</h2>
+
+
+<div class="poemblock2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i1">Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through her hair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[21]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Breathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To wind round the willow banks that lure him from above;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O that in tears, from my rocky prison streaming,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I too could glide to the bower of my love!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Ah, where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To her lost mate's call in the forests far away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Come then, my bird! For the peace thou ever bearest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Still heaven's messenger of comfort to me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Come, this fond bosom, O faithfulest and fairest<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Bleeds with its death-wound its wound of love for thee!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>George Darley</i>
+<span class="pagenum">[22]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_WHISTLIN_THIEF" id="THE_WHISTLIN_THIEF"></a>THE WHISTLIN' THIEF</h2>
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i1">When Pat came over the hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">His colleen fair to see,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His whistle low, but shrill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The signal was to be;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span style="margin-left: 10em;">(<i>Pat whistles.</i>)<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Mary,' the mother said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">'Some one is whistling sure;'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Says Mary, '&lsquo;Tis only the wind<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Is whistling through the door.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">(<i>Pat whistles a bit of a popular air.</i>)<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'I've lived a long time, Mary,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In this wide world, my dear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But a door to whistle like <i>that</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I never yet did hear.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'But, mother, you know the fiddle<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Hangs close beside the chink,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the wind upon the strings<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Is playing the tune I think.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span style="margin-left: 9em;">(<i>The pig grunts.</i>)<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[23]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Mary, I hear the pig,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Unaisy in his mind.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'But, mother, you know, they say<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The pigs can see the wind.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'That's true enough <i>in the day</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">But I think you may remark,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That pigs no more nor we<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Can see anything in the dark.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span style="margin-left: 9em;">(<i>The dog barks.</i>)<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'The dog is barking now,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The fiddle can't play the tune.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'But, mother, the dogs will bark<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Whenever they see the moon.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'But how could he see the moon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">When, you know, the dog is blind?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Blind dogs won't bark at the moon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Nor fiddles be played by the wind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'I'm not such a fool as you think,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I know very well it is Pat:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shut your mouth, you whistlin' thief,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And go along home out o' that!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[24]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'And you be off to your bed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Don't play upon me your jeers;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For though I have lost my eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I haven't lost my ears!'<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Samuel Lover</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="SOGGARTH_AROON" id="SOGGARTH_AROON"></a>SOGGARTH AROON</h2>
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i1">Am I the slave they say,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Soggarth aroon?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Since you did show the way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Soggarth aroon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Their</i> slave no more to be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While they would work with me<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Old Ireland's slavery,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Soggarth aroon.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Why not her poorest man,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Soggarth aroon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Try and do all he can,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Soggarth aroon,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[25]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Her commands to fulfil<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of his own heart and will,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Side by side with you still<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Soggarth aroon?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Loyal and brave to you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Soggarth aroon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yet be not slave to you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Soggarth aroon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor, out of fear to you&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Stand up so near to you&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Och! out of fear to <i>you</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Soggarth aroon!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Who, in the winter's night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Soggarth aroon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When the cold blast did bite,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Soggarth aroon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Came to my cabin-door,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And, on my earthen-floor,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Knelt by me, sick and poor,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Soggarth aroon?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Who, on the marriage day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Soggarth aroon,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[26]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Made the poor cabin gay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Soggarth aroon?&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And did both laugh and sing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Making our hearts to ring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">At the poor christening,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Soggarth aroon?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Who, as friend only met,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Soggarth aroon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Never did flout me yet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Soggarth aroon?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And when my heart was dim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Gave, while his eye did brim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What I should give to him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Soggarth aroon?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Och! you, and only you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Soggarth aroon!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And for this I was true to you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Soggarth aroon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In love they'll never shake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When for old Ireland's sake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">We a true part did take,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Soggarth aroon!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>John Banim</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum">[27]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="DARK_ROSALEEN" id="DARK_ROSALEEN"></a>DARK ROSALEEN</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O my Dark Rosaleen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Do not sigh, do not weep!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The priests are on the ocean green.<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">They march along the deep.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There's wine from the royal Pope,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Upon the ocean green;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And Spanish ale shall give you hope,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My Dark Rosaleen!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My own Rosaleen!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall give you health, and help, and hope,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My Dark Rosaleen!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Over hills, and through dales,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Have I roamed for your sake;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All yesterday I sailed with sails<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">On river and on lake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The Erne, at its highest flood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I dashed across unseen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For there was lightning in my blood,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[28]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My Dark Rosaleen!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My own Rosaleen!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O there was lightning in my blood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Red lightning lightened through my blood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My Dark Rosaleen!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">All day long in unrest<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To and fro do I move,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The very heart within my breast<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Is wasted for you, Love!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The heart in my bosom faints<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To think of you, my queen!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My life of life, my saint of saints,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My Dark Rosaleen!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My own Rosaleen!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To hear your sweet and sad complaints,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My life, my love, my saint of saints,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My Dark Rosaleen!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Woe and pain, pain and woe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Are my lot night and noon;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To see your bright face clouded so,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Like to the mournful moon.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[29]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But yet will I rear your throne<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Again in golden sheen:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My Dark Rosaleen!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My own Rosaleen!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Tis you shall have the golden throne,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My Dark Rosaleen!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Over dews, over sands,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Will I fly for your weal:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Your holy, delicate white hands<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Shall girdle me with steel.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">At home, in your emerald bowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">From morning's dawn till e'en,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My Dark Rosaleen!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My fond Rosaleen!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">You'll think of me through daylight's hours,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My Dark Rosaleen!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I could scale the blue air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I could plough the high hills,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[30]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O, I could kneel all night in prayer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To heal your many ills.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And one beamy smile from you<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Would float like light between<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My toils and me, my own, my true,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My Dark Rosaleen!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My fond Rosaleen!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Would give me life and soul anew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A second life, a soul anew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My Dark Rosaleen!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O! the Erne shall run red<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With redundance of blood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The earth shall rock beneath our tread,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And flames wrap hill and wood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And gun-peal, and slogan cry,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Wake many a glen serene,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My Dark Rosaleen!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My own Rosaleen!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The Judgment Hour must first be nigh<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ere you can fade, ere you can die,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My Dark Rosaleen!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>James Clarence Mangan</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum">[31]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="LAMENT_FOR_THE_PRINCES_OF_TYRONE_AND" id="LAMENT_FOR_THE_PRINCES_OF_TYRONE_AND"></a>LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OF TYRONE AND</h2>
+<h2>TYRCONNELL
+</h2>
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O woman of the Piercing Wail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">With sigh and groan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Would God thou wert among the Gael!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Thou wouldst not then from day to day<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Weep thus alone.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Twere long before, around a grave<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In green Tyrconnell, one could find<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">This loneliness;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Companionless.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Beside the wave in Donegal,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Or Killillee.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or where the sunny waters fall<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">At Assaroe, near Erna's shore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">This could not be.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="p32" id="p32"></a>[32]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On Derry's plains&mdash;in rich Drumclieff&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">In olden years,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No day could pass but woman's grief<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Would rain upon the burial-ground<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Fresh floods of tears!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O, no!&mdash;from Shannon, Boyne, and Suir,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">From high Dunluce's castle-walls,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">From Lissadill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Would flock alike both rich and poor,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">To Tara's hill;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And some would come from Barrow-side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And many a maid would leave her home,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">On Leitrim's plains,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And by melodious Banna's tide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And by the Mourne and Erne, to come<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">And swell thy strains!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O, horses' hoofs would trample down<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The Mount whereon the martyr-saint<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Was crucified.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From glen and hill, from plain and town,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">One loud lament, one thrilling plaint,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[33]<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Would echo wide.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There would not soon be found, I ween,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">One foot of ground among those bands<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">For museful thought,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So many shriekers of the <i>keen</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Would cry aloud and clap their hands,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">All woe distraught!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Two princes of the line of Conn<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Sleep in their cells of clay beside<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">O'Donnell Roe;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Three royal youths, alas! are gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who lived for Erin's weal, but died<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">For Erin's woe;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ah! could the men of Ireland read<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The names these noteless burial-stones<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Display to view,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Their tears gush forth again, their groans<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Resound anew!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The youths whose relics moulder here<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Were sprung from Hugh, high Prince and Lord<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Of Aileach's lands;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[34]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thy noble brothers, justly dear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Thy nephew, long to be deplored<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">By Ulster's bands.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Theirs were not souls wherein dull Time<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Could domicile Decay or house<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Decrepitude!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They passed from Earth ere Manhood's prime,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Ere years had power to dim their brows<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Or chill their blood.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And who can marvel o'er thy grief,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Or who can blame thy flowing tears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">That knows their source?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Cut off amid his vernal years,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Lies here a corse<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Beside his brother Cathbar, whom<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Tirconnell of the Helmets mourns<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">In deep despair&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For valour, truth, and comely bloom,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For all that greatens and adorns<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">A peerless pair.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O, had these twain, and he, the third,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The Lord of Mourne, O'Niall's son,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[35]<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Their mate in death&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A prince in look, in deed and word&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Had these three heroes yielded on<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">The field their breath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O, had they fallen on Criffan's plain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">There would not be a town or clan<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">From shore to sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But would with shrieks bewail the slain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Or chant aloud the exulting <i>rann</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Of Jubilee!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">When high the shout of battle rose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">On fields where Freedom's torch still burned<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Through Erin's gloom,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If one, if barely one of those<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Were slain, all Ulster would have mourned<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">The hero's doom!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If at Athboy, where hosts of brave<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Ulidian horsemen sank beneath<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">The shock of spears,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Young Hugh O'Neill had found a grave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Long must the North have wept his death<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">With heart-wrung tears!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[36]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If on the day of Ballach-myre<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The Lord of Mourne had met thus young,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">A warrior's fate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In vain would such as thou desire<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To mourn, alone, the champion sprung<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">From Niall the Great!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No marvel this&mdash;for all the dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Heaped on the field, pile over pile,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">At Mullach-brack,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Were scarce an <i>eric</i> for his head,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">If death had stayed his footsteps while<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">On victory's track!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">If on the Day of Hostages<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The fruit had from the parent bough<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Been rudely torn<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In sight of Munster's bands&mdash;Mac-Nee's&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Could ill have borne.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If on the day of Ballach-boy<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Some arm had laid, by foul surprise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">The chieftain low,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Even our victorious shout of joy<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[37]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Would soon give place to rueful cries<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">And groans of woe!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">If on the day the Saxon host<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Were forced to fly&mdash;a day so great<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">For Ashanee&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The Chief had been untimely lost,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Our conquering troops should moderate<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Their mirthful glee.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There would not lack on Lifford's day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">From Galway, from the glens of Boyle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">From Limerick's towers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A marshalled file, a long array<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of mourners to bedew the soil<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">With tears in showers!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">If on the day a sterner fate<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Compelled his flight from Athenree,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">His blood had flowed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What numbers all disconsolate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Would come unasked, and share with thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Affliction's load!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If Derry's crimson field had seen<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">His life-blood offered up, though 'twere<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[38]<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">On Victory's shrine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A thousand cries would swell the <i>keen</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">A thousand voices of despair<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Would echo thine.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O, had the fierce Dalcassian swarm<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That bloody night on Fergus' banks<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">But slain our chief,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When rose his camp in wild alarm&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">How would the triumph of his ranks<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Be dashed with grief!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">How would the troops of Murbach mourn<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">If on the Curlew Mountains' day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Which England rued,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Some Saxon hand had left them lorn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">By shedding there, amid the fray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i8">Their prince's blood!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Red would have been our warriors' eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Had Roderick found on Sligo field<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">A gory grave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No Northern Chief would soon arise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">So sage to guide, so strong to shield,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">So swift to save.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[39]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Long would Leith-Cuinn have wept if Hugh<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Had met the death he oft had dealt<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Among the foe;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But, had our Roderick fallen too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">All Erin must, alas! have felt<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">The deadly blow!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">What do I say? Ah, woe is me!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Already we bewail in vain<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Their fatal fall!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And Erin, once the Great and Free,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Now vainly mourns her breakless chain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">And iron thrall!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then, daughter of O'Donnell! dry<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Thine overflowing eyes, and turn<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Thy heart aside;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For Adam's race is born to die,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And sternly the sepulchral urn<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Mocks human pride!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Nor place thy trust in arm of clay&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">But on thy knees<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Uplift thy soul to God alone,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[40]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For all things go their destined way<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">As He decrees.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Embrace the faithful Crucifix,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And seek the path of pain and prayer<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Thy Saviour trod!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor let thy spirit intermix<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With earthly hope and worldly care<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Its groans to God!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And Thou, O mighty Lord! whose ways<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Are far above our feeble minds<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">To understand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sustain us in these doleful days,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And render light the chain that binds<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Our fallen land!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Look down upon our dreary state,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And through the ages that may still<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Roll sadly on,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Watch Thou o'er hapless Erin's fate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And shield at least from darker ill<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">The blood of Conn!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>James Clarence Mangan</i>
+<span class="pagenum">[41]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="A_LAMENTATION_FOR_THE_DEATH_OF_SIR" id="A_LAMENTATION_FOR_THE_DEATH_OF_SIR"></a>A LAMENTATION FOR THE DEATH OF SIR</h2>
+<h2>MAURICE FITZGERALD, KNIGHT OF KERRY</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">There was lifted up one voice of woe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">One lament of more than mortal grief,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through the wide South to and fro,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For a fallen Chief.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the dead of night that cry thrilled through me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I looked out upon the midnight air;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Mine own soul was all as gloomy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And I knelt in prayer.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O'er Loch Gur, that night, once&mdash;twice&mdash;yea, thrice&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Passed a wail of anguish for the Brave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That half curled into ice<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The moon-mirroring wave.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then uprose a many-toned wild hymn in<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Choral swell from Ogra's dark ravine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And Moguly's Phantom Women<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Mourned the Geraldine!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Far on Carah Mona's emerald plains,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Shrieks and sighs were blended many hours,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[42]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And Fermoy, in fitful strains,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Answered from her towers.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Youghal, Keenalmeaky, Eemokilly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Mourned in concert, and their piercing <i>keen</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Woke to wondering life the stilly<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Glens of Inchiqueen.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">From Loughmoe to yellow Dunanore<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">There was fear; the traders of Tralee<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Gathered up their golden store,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And prepared to flee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For, in ship and hall, from night till morning<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Showed the first faint beamings of the sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All the foreigners heard the warning<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of the Dreaded One!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'This,' they spake, 'portendeth death to us,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">If we fly not swiftly from our fate!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Self-conceited idiots! thus<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Ravingly to prate!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Not for base-born higgling Saxon trucksters<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Ring laments like those by shore and sea!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Not for churls with souls of hucksters<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Waileth our Banshee!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[43]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For the high Milesian race alone<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Ever flows the music of her woe!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For slain heir to bygone throne,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And for Chief laid low!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Hark!... Again, methinks, I hear her weeping<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Yonder! Is she near me now, as then?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or was but the night-wind sweeping<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Down the hollow glen?<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>James Clarence Mangan</i>
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_WOMAN_OF_THREE_COWS" id="THE_WOMAN_OF_THREE_COWS"></a>THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O, Woman of Three Cows, <i>agragh!</i> don't let your tongue thus rattle!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I have seen&mdash;and, here's my hand to you, I only say what's true&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Good luck to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't be their despiser;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[44]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">See where Momonia's heroes lie, proud Owen More's descendants, <br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If <i>they</i> were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Can <i>you</i> be proud, can <i>you</i> be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Mavrone!</i> for they were banished, with no hope of their returning&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yet <i>you</i> can give yourself these airs, O Woman of Three Cows!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[45]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O, think of Donnel of the Ships, the Chief whom nothing daunted&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then ask yourself, should <i>you</i> be proud, good Woman of Three Cows?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in story&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Think how their high achievements once made Erin's greatest glory&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and Cyprus boughs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And so, for all your pride, will yours, O Woman of Three Cows!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Th' O'Carrols, also, famed when fame was only for the boldest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and oldest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse?<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[46]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Your neighbour's poor, and you, it seems, are big with vain ideas,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Because, <i>inagh!</i> you've got three cows, one more, I see, than <i>she</i> has;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That tongue of yours wags more at times than charity allows&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But, if you're strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+
+<p class="center">THE SUMMING-UP.</p>
+
+
+<div class="poemblock3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Now, there you go! You still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I'm too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak I'm wearing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If I had but <i>four</i> cows myself, even though you were my spouse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>James Clarence Mangan</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum">[<a name="p47" id="p47"></a>47]</span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="PRINCE_ALFRIDS_ITINERARY_THROUGH" id="PRINCE_ALFRIDS_ITINERARY_THROUGH"></a>PRINCE ALFRID'S ITINERARY THROUGH</h2>
+<h2>IRELAND</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I found in Innisfail the fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In Ireland, while in exile there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Women of worth, both grave and gay men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Many clerics and many laymen.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I travelled its fruitful provinces round<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And in every one of the five I found,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Alike in church and in palace hall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Abundant apparel, and food for all.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Gold and silver I found, and money,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Plenty of wheat and plenty of honey;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I found God's people rich in pity,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Found many a feast and many a city.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I also found in Armagh, the splendid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Meekness, wisdom, and prudence blended,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Fasting, as Christ hath recommended,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And noble councillors untranscended.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I found in each great church moreo'er,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Whether on island or on shore<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[48]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Piety, learning, fond affection,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Holy welcome and kind protection.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I found thy good lay monks and brothers<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ever beseeching help for others,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And in their keeping the holy word<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Pure as it came from Jesus the Lord.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I found in Munster unfettered of any,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Kings and queens and poets a many&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Poets were skilled in music and measure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Prosperous doings, mirth and pleasure.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I found in Connaught the just, redundance<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of riches, milk in lavish abundance,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Hospitality, vigour, fame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In Cruachan's land of heroic name.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I found in the county of Connall the glorious<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Bravest heroes, ever victorious;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Fair-complexioned men and warlike,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ireland's lights, the high, the starlike.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I found in Ulster, from hill to glen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Hardy warriors, resolute men;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[49]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Beauty that bloomed when youth was gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And strength transmitted from sire to son.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I found in the noble district of Boyle<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+
+
+<span class="i8">(<i>MS. here illegible.</i>)<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+
+
+<span class="i1">Brehons, erenachs, weapons bright,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And horsemen bold and sudden in fight.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I found in Leinster the smooth and sleek,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From Dublin to Slewmargy's peak;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Flourishing pastures, valour, health,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Long-living worthies, commerce, wealth.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I found, besides, from Ara to Glea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the broad rich country of Ossorie,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sweet fruits, good laws for all and each,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Great chess players, men of truthful speech.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I found in Meath's fair principality,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Virtue, vigour, and hospitality;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Candour, joyfulness, bravery, purity,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ireland's bulwark and security.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I found strict morals in age and youth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I found historians recording truth;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[50]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The things I sing of in verse unsmooth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I found them all&mdash;I have written sooth.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>James Clarence Mangan</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="OHUSSEYS_ODE_TO_THE_MAGUIRE" id="OHUSSEYS_ODE_TO_THE_MAGUIRE"></a>O'HUSSEY'S ODE TO THE MAGUIRE</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Where is my Chief, my Master, this bleak night, <i>mavrone</i>!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O, cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak night for Hugh,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Its showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one through and through,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Pierceth one to the very bone!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Rolls real thunder? Or was that red, livid light<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Only a meteor? I scarce know; but through the midnight dim<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the hate that persecutes <i>him</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nothing hath crueler venomy might.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">An awful, a tremendous night is this, meseems!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The flood-gates of the river of heaven, I think, have been burst wide&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[51]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Down from the overcharged clouds, like unto headlong ocean's tide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Descends grey rain in roaring streams.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Though he were even a wolf ranging the round green woods,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though he were even a pleasant salmon in the unchainable sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though he were a wild mountain eagle, he could scarce bear, he,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">This sharp, sore sleet, these howling floods.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O mournful is my soul this night for Hugh Maguire!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Darkly, as in a dream he strays! Before him and behind<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Triumphs the tyrannous anger of the wounding wind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The wounding wind, that burns as fire!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">It is my bitter grief&mdash;it cuts me to the heart&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That in the country of Clan Darry this should be his fate!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O, woe is me, where is he? Wandering, houseless, desolate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Alone, without or guide or chart!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[52]<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Medreams I see just now his face, the strawberry-bright,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Uplifted to the blackened heavens, while the tempestuous winds<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Blow fiercely over and round him, and the smiting sleet-shower blinds<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The hero of Galang to-night!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Large, large affliction unto me and mine it is,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That one of his majestic bearing, his fair, stately form,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Should thus be tortured and o'erborne&mdash;that this unsparing storm<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Should wreak its wrath on head like his!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">That his great hand, so oft the avenger of the oppressed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Should this chill churlish night, perchance, be paralyzed by frost&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While through some icicle-hung thicket&mdash;as one lorn and lost&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He walks and wanders without rest.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The tempest-driven torrent deluges the mead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It overflows the low banks of the rivulets and ponds&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[53]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The lawns and pasture-grounds lie locked in icy bonds<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So that the cattle cannot feed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The pale bright margins of the streams are seen by none,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Rushes and sweeps along the untamable flood on every side&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It penetrates and fills the cottagers' dwellings far and wide&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Water and land are blent in one.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Through some dark wood, 'mid bones of monsters, Hugh now strays,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As he confronts the storm with anguished heart, but manly brow&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O, what a sword-wound to that tender heart of his were now<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A backward glance of peaceful days.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">But other thoughts are his&mdash;thoughts that can still inspire<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With joy and onward-bounding hope the bosom of Mac-Nee&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[54]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thoughts of his warriors charging like bright billows the sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Borne on the wind's wings, flashing fire!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And though frost glaze to-night the clear dew of his eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And white ice-gauntlets glove his noble fine fair fingers o'er,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A warm dress is to him that lightning garb he ever wore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The lightning of the soul, not skies.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+
+
+<span style="margin-left: 10em;">AVRAN<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i1">Hugh marched forth to the fight&mdash;I grieved to see him so depart;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And lo! to-night he wanders frozen, rain-drenched, sad, betrayed&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>But the memory of the limewhite mansions his right hand hath laid</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>In ashes, warms the hero's heart</i>!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>James Clarence Mangan</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="p55" id="p55"></a>[55]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_NAMELESS_ONE" id="THE_NAMELESS_ONE"></a>THE NAMELESS ONE</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That sweeps along to the mighty sea;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">God will inspire me while I deliver<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">My soul to thee!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Amid the last homes of youth and eld,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That there was once one whose blood ran lightning<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">No eye beheld.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">How shone for <i>him</i>, through its griefs and gloom,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No star of all heaven sends to light our<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">Path to the tomb.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Roll on, my song, and to after ages<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Tell how, disdaining all earth can give,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He would have taught men, from wisdom's pages,<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">The way to live.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And tell how trampled, derided, hated,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He fled for shelter to God, who mated<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">His soul with song&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[56]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With song which alway, sublime or vapid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Flowed like a rill in the morning-beam,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">A mountain stream.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Tell how this Nameless, condemned for years long<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To herd with demons from hell beneath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, long<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">For even death.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Go on to tell how, with genius wasted,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Betrayed in friendship, befooled in love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With spirit shipwrecked, and young hopes blasted,<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">He still, still strove.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And some whose hands should have wrought for <i>him</i>;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">(If children live not for sires and mothers,)<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">His mind grew dim.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And he fell far through that pit abysmal<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And pawned his soul for the devil's dismal<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">Stock of returns.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[57]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But yet redeemed it in days of darkness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And shapes and signs of the final wrath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">Stood on his path.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And want, and sickness, and houseless nights,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He bides in calmness the silent morrow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">That no ray lights.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And lives he still, then? Yes! Old and hoary<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">At thirty-nine, from despair and woe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He lives enduring what future story<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">Will never know.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Deep in your bosoms! There let him dwell!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble,<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">Here and in hell!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>James Clarence Mangan</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="SIBERIA" id="SIBERIA"></a>SIBERIA</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">In Siberia's wastes<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The Ice-wind's breath<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[58]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Woundeth like the toothèd steel.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lost Siberia doth reveal<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Only blight and death.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Blight and death alone.<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">No Summer shines.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Night is interblent with Day.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In Siberia's wastes alway<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The blood blackens, the heart pines.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">In Siberia's wastes<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">No tears are shed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For they freeze within the brain.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nought is felt but dullest pain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Pain acute, yet dead;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Pain as in a dream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">When years go by<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Funeral-paced, yet fugitive,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When man lives, and doth not live,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Doth not live&mdash;nor die.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">In Siberia's wastes<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Are sands and rocks.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nothing blooms of green or soft,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="p59" id="p59"></a>[59]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But the snowpeaks rise aloft<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the gaunt ice-blocks.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And the exile there<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Is one with those;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They are part, and he is part,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For the sands are in his heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the killing snows.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Therefore, in those wastes<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">None curse the Czar.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Each man's tongue is cloven by<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The North Blast, who heweth nigh<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With sharp scymitar.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And such doom he drees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Till hunger gnawn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And cold-slain, he at length sinks there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yet scarce more a corpse than ere<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">His last breath was drawn.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>James Clarence Mangan</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="HY-BRASAIL" id="HY-BRASAIL"></a>HY-BRASAIL</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[60]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And they called it <i>Hy-Brasail</i> the isle of the blest.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From year unto year on the ocean's blue rim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And it looked like an Eden, away, far away!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From Ara, the holy, he turned to the West,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For though Ara was holy, <i>Hy-Brasail</i> was blest.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He heard not the voices that called from the shore&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Home, kindred, and safety, he left on that day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And he sped to <i>Hy-Brasail</i>, away, far away!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O'er the faint rim of distance, reflected its smile;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy shore<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And to Ara again he looked timidly back;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O! far on the verge of the ocean it lay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="p61" id="p61"></a>[61]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Rash dreamer, return! O ye winds of the main,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Bash fool! for a vision of fanciful bliss<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To barter thy calm life of labour and peace.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The warning of reason was spoken in vain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He never re-visited Ara again!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Night falls on the deep, amidst tempest and spray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And he died on the waters, away, far away!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Gerald Griffin</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="MO_CRAOIBHIN_CNO" id="MO_CRAOIBHIN_CNO"></a>MO CRAOIBHIN CNO</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">My heart is far from Liffey's tide<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">And Dublin town;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It strays beyond the Southern side<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">Of Cnoc-Maol-Donn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where Capa-chuinn hath woodlands green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Where Amhan-Mhor's waters flow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where dwell unsung, unsought, unseen<br /></span>
+<span class="i7"><i>Mo craoibhin cno</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Low clustering in her leafy screen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i7"><i>Mo craoibhin cno</i>!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[62]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The high-bred dames of Dublin town<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">Are rich and fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With wavy plume and silken gown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">And stately air;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Can plumes compare thy dark brown hair?<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Can silks thy neck of snow?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or measur'd pace thine artless grace?<br /></span>
+<span class="i7"><i>Mo craoibhin cno</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When harebells scarcely show thy trace,<br /></span>
+<span class="i7"><i>Mo craoibhin cno</i>!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I've heard the songs by Liffey's wave<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">That maidens sung&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They sung their land the Saxon's slave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">In Saxon tongue&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O! bring me here that Gaelic dear<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Which cursed the Saxon foe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When thou didst charm my raptured ear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i7"><i>Mo craoibhin cno</i>!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And none but God's good angels near,<br /></span>
+<span class="i7"><i>Mo craoibhin cno</i>!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I've wandered by the rolling Lee!<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">And Lene's green bowers&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[63]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I've seen the Shannon's wide-spread sea<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">And Limerick's towers&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And Liffey's tide, where halls of pride<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Frown o'er the flood below;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My wild heart strays to Amhan-mhor's side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i7"><i>Mo craoibhin cno</i>!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With love and thee for aye to bide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i7"><i>Mo craoibhin cno</i>!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Edward Walsh</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="MAIRGREAD_NI_CHEALLEADH" id="MAIRGREAD_NI_CHEALLEADH"></a>MAIRGRÉAD NI CHEALLEADH</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">At the dance in the village thy white foot was fleetest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thy voice in the concert of maidens was sweetest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The swell of thy white breast made rich lovers follow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And thy raven hair bound them, young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Thy neck was, lost maid, than the <i>ceanabhan</i> whiter,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the glow of thy cheek than the <i>monadan</i> brighter;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="p64" id="p64"></a>[64]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But death's chain hath bound thee, thine eye's glazed and hollow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That shone like a sunburst, young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">No more shall mine ear drink thy melody swelling;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor thy beamy eye brighten the outlaw's dark dwelling;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or thy soft heaving bosom my destiny hallow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When thine arms twine around me, young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The moss couch I brought thee to-day from the mountain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Has drank the last drop of thy young heart's red fountain&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For this good scian beside me stuck deep and run hollow<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In thy bosom of treason, young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">With strings of rich pearls thy white neck was laden,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And thy fingers with spoils of the Sassanach maiden:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Such rich silks enrob'd not the proud dames of Mallow&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[65]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Such pure gold they wore not as Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Alas! that my loved one her outlaw would injure&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Alas! that he e'er proved her treason's avenger!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That this right hand should make thee a bed cold and hollow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When in Death's sleep it laid thee, Young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And while to this lone cave my deep grief I'm venting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The Saxon's keen bandog my footstep is scenting,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But true men await me afar in Duhallow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Farewell, cave of slaughter, and Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Edward Walsh</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="FROM_THE_COLD_SOD_THATS_OER_YOU" id="FROM_THE_COLD_SOD_THATS_OER_YOU"></a>FROM THE COLD SOD THAT'S O'ER YOU</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish</i></p>
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">From the cold sod that's o'er you<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I never shall sever;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Were my hands twined in yours, Love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I'd hold them for ever.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[66]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My fondest, my fairest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">We may now sleep together!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I've the cold earth's damp odour,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And I'm worn from the weather.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">This heart filled with fondness<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Is wounded and weary;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A dark gulf beneath it<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Yawns jet-black and dreary.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When death comes, a victor,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In mercy to greet me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On the wings of the whirlwind<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In the wild wastes you'll meet me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">When the folk of my household<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Suppose I am sleeping,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On your cold grave till morning<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The lone watch I'm keeping.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My grief to the night wind<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For the mild maid to render,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who was my betrothed<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Since infancy tender.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Remember the lone night<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I last spent with you, Love,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[67]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Beneath the dark sloe-tree<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">When the icy wind blew, Love.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">High praise to thy Saviour<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">No sin-stain had found you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That your virginal glory<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Shines brightly around you.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The priests and the friars<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Are ceaselessly chiding,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That I love a young maiden<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In life not abiding.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O! I'd shelter and shield you<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">If wild storms were swelling!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And O, my wrecked hope,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That the cold earth's your dwelling.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Edward Walsh</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_FAIRY_NURSE" id="THE_FAIRY_NURSE"></a>THE FAIRY NURSE</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Sweet babe! a golden cradle holds thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And soft the snow-white fleece enfolds thee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping.<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 7.5em;">Shuheen sho, lulo lo<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[68]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When mothers languish broken-hearted,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When young wives are from husbands parted,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ah! little think the keeners lonely,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They weep some time-worn fairy only.<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 7.5em;">Shuheen sho, lulo lo!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Within our magic halls of brightness,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Trips many a foot of snowy whiteness;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Stolen maidens, queens of fairy&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And kings and chiefs a sluagh shee airy.<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 7.5em;">Shuheen sho, lulo lo!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Rest thee, babe! I love thee dearly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And as thy mortal mother nearly;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ours is the swiftest steed and proudest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That moves where the tramp of the host is loudest.<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 7.5em;">Shuheen sho, lulo lo!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Rest thee, babe! for soon thy slumbers<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall flee at the magic koelshie's numbers;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping.<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 7.5em;">Shuheen sho, lulo lo!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Edward Walsh</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="p69" id="p69"></a>[69]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="A_CUISLE_GEAL_MO_CHROIDHE" id="A_CUISLE_GEAL_MO_CHROIDHE"></a>A CUISLE GEAL MO CHROIDHE</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The long, long wished-for hour has come,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Yet come, astor, in vain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And left thee but the wailing hum<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of sorrow and of pain:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My light of life, my lonely love!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Thy portion sure must be<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Man's scorn below, God's wrath above&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I've given thee manhood's early prime,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And manhood's teeming years;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I've blessed thee in my merriest time,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And shed with thee my tears;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And, mother, though thou cast away<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The child who'd die for thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My fondest wishes still should pray<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For cuisle geal mo chroidhe!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">For thee I've tracked the mountain's sides,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And slept within the brake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">More lonely than the swan that glides<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">O'er Lua's fairy lake.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[70]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The rich have spurned me from their door,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Because I'd make thee free;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yet still I love thee more and more,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I've run the Outlaw's brief career,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And borne his load of ill;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His rocky couch&mdash;his dreamy fear&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With fixed, sustaining will;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And should his last dark chance befall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Even that shall welcome be;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In Death I'd love thee best of all,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Twas prayed for thee the world around,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">'Twas hoped for thee by all,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That with one gallant sunward bound<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Thou'dst burst long ages' thrall;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thy faith was tried, alas! and those<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who'd peril all for thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Were curs'd and branded as thy foes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">What fate is thine, unhappy Isle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">When even the trusted few<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[71]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Would pay thee back with hate and guile,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">When most they should be true!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Twas not my strength or spirit failed<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Or those who'd die for thee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who loved thee truly have not failed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Michael Doheny</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="LAMENT_OF_THE_IRISH_EMIGRANT" id="LAMENT_OF_THE_IRISH_EMIGRANT"></a>LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Where we sat side by side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On a bright May mornin', long ago,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">When first you were my bride:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The corn was springin' fresh and green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the lark sang loud and high&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the red was on your lip, Mary,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the love-light in your eye.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The <i>place</i> is little changed, Mary,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The day is bright as then,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The lark's loud song is in my ear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the corn is green again;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[72]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And your breath, warm on my cheek;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I still keep list'nin' for the words<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">You never more will speak.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Tis but a step down yonder lane,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the little church stands near&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The church where we were wed, Mary,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I see the spire from here.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But the graveyard lies between, Mary,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And my step might break your rest&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With your baby on your breast.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I'm very lonely now, Mary,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For the poor make no new friends;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But, O! they love the better still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The few our Father sends!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And you were all <i>I</i> had, Mary,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My blessin' and my pride!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There's nothin' left to care for now,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Since my poor Mary died.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That still kept hoping on,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[73]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When the trust in God had left my soul,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And my arm's young strength was gone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There was comfort even on <i>your</i> lip,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the kind look on your brow&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I bless you, Mary, for that same,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Though you cannot hear me now.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I thank you for the patient smile<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">When your heart was fit to break,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When the hunger pain was gnawin' there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And you hid it for <i>my</i> sake;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I bless you for the pleasant word,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">When your heart was sad and sore&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Where grief can't reach you more!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I'm biddin' you a long farewell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My Mary&mdash;kind and true!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But I'll not forget <i>you</i>, darling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In the land I'm goin' to:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They say there's bread and work for all,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the sun shines always there&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But I'll not forget old Ireland,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Were it fifty times as fair!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="p74" id="p74"></a>[74]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And often in those grand old woods<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I'll sit and shut my eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And my heart will travel back again<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To the place where Mary lies;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I'll think I see the little stile<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Where we sat side by side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">When first you were my bride.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Lady Dufferin</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_WELSHMEN_OF_TIRAWLEY" id="THE_WELSHMEN_OF_TIRAWLEY"></a>THE WELSHMEN OF TIRAWLEY</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Scorney Bwee, the Barretts' bailiff, lewd and lame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To lift the Lynott's taxes when he came,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Rudely drew a young maid to him!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then the Lynotts rose and slew him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And in Tubber-na-Scorney threw him&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Small your blame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Sons of Lynott!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Then the Barretts to the Lynotts gave a choice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Saying, 'Hear, ye murderous brood, men and boys,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[75]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Choose ye now, without delay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Will ye lose your eyesight, say,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or your manhoods, here to-day?<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Sad your choice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Sons of Lynott!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Then the little boys of the Lynotts, weeping, said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Only leave us our eyesight in our head.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But the bearded Lynotts then<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Quickly answered back again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Take our eyes, but leave us men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Alive or dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Sons of Wattin!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">So the Barretts with sewing-needles sharp and smooth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Let the light out of the eyes of every youth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And of every bearded man,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of the broken Lynott clan;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then their darkened faces wan<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Turning south<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">To the river&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[76]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O'er the slippery stepping-stones of Clochan-na-n'all<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They drove them, laughing loud at every fall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As their wandering footsteps dark<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Failed to reach the slippery mark,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the swift stream swallowed stark,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">One and all<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">As they stumbled&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Of all the blinded Lynotts one alone<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Walk'd erect from stepping-stone to stone:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So back again they brought you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And a second time they wrought you<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With their needles; but never got you<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Once to groan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Emon Lynott,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">But with prompt-projected footsteps sure as ever,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Emon Lynott again cross'd the river.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though Duvowen was rising fast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the shaking stones o'ercast<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By cold floods boiling past;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[77]<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Yet you never,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Emon Lynott,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Faltered once before your foemen of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">But, turning on Ballintubber bank, you stood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the Barretts thus bespoke o'er the flood&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'O, ye foolish sons of Wattin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Small amends are these you've gotten,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For, while Scorna Boy lies rotten,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">I am good<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">For vengeance!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'For 'tis neither in eye nor eyesight that a man<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Bears the fortunes of himself and his clan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But in the manly mind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">These darken'd orbs behind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That your needles could never find<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Though they ran<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Through my heart-strings!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'But, little your women's needles do I reck;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For the night from heaven never fell so black,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But Tirawley, and abroad<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[78]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From the Moy to Cuan-an-fod,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I could walk it every sod,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Path and track,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Ford and togher,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Seeking vengeance on you, Barretts of Tirawley!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'The night when Dathy O'Dowda broke your camp,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What Barrett among you was it held the lamp&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Showed the way to those two feet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When through wintry wind and sleet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I guided your blind retreat<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">In the swamp<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Of Beäl-an-asa?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O ye vengeance-destined ingrates of Tirawley!'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">So leaving loud-shriek-echoing Garranard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The Lynott like a red dog hunted hard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With his wife and children seven,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Mong the beasts and fowls of heaven<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the hollows of Glen Nephin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Light-debarred,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Made his dwelling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Planning vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And ere the bright-orb'd year its course had run,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On his brown round-knotted knee he nursed a son,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[79]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A child of light, with eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As clear as are the skies<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In summer, when sunrise<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Has begun;<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">So the Lynott<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nursed his vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And, as ever the bright boy grew in strength and size,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Made him perfect in each manly exercise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The salmon in the flood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The dun deer in the wood,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The eagle in the cloud<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">To surprise<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">On Ben Nephin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Far above the foggy fields of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">With the yellow-knotted spear-shaft, with the bow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With the steel, prompt to deal shot and blow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He taught him from year to year<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And train'd him, without a peer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For a perfect cavalier,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Hoping so&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Far his forethought&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[80]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And, when mounted on his proud-bounding steed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Emon Oge sat a cavalier indeed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like the ear upon the wheat<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When winds in Autumn beat<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On the bending stems, his seat;<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">And the speed<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Of his courser<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Was the wind from Barna-na-gee o'er Tirawley!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Now when fifteen sunny summers thus were spent,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">(He perfected in all accomplishment)&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The Lynott said, 'My child,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">We are over long exiled<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From mankind in this wild&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">&mdash;Time we went<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Through the mountain<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To the countries lying over-against Tirawley.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">So, out over mountain-moors, and mosses brown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And green steam-gathering vales, they journey'd down:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Till, shining like a star,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through the dusky gleams afar,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The bailey of Castlebar,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[81]<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">And the town<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Of MacWilliam<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Rose bright before the wanderers of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Look southward, my boy, and tell me as we go,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What see'st thou by the loch-head below?'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'O, a stone-house strong and great,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And a horse-host at the gate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And a captain in armour of plate&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Grand the show!<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Great the glancing!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">High the heroes of this land below Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'And a beautiful Bantierna by his side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yellow gold on all her gown-sleeves wide;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And in her hand a pearl<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of a young, little, fair-haired girl.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Said the Lynott, 'It is the Earl!<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Let us ride<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">To his presence.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And before him came the exiles of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'God save thee, MacWilliam,' the Lynott thus began;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'God save all here besides of this clan;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For gossips dear to me<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[82]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Are all in company&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For in these four bones ye see<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">A kindly man<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Of the Britons&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Emon Lynott of Garranard of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'And hither, as kindly gossip-law allows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I come to claim a scion of thy house<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To foster; for thy race,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Since William Conquer's days,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Have ever been wont to place,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">With some spouse<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Of a Briton,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A MacWilliam Oge, to foster in Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'And to show thee in what sort our youth are taught<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I have hither to thy home of valour brought<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">This one son of my age,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For a sample and a pledge<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For the equal tutelage,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">In right thought,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Word, and action,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of whatever son ye give into Tirawley.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">When MacWilliam beheld the brave boy ride and run,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Saw the spear-shaft from his white shoulder spun&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[83]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With a sigh, and with a smile,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He said,&mdash;'I would give the spoil<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of a county, that Tibbot Moyle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">My own son,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Were accomplish'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like this branch of the kindly Britons of Tirawley.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">When the Lady MacWilliam she heard him speak,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And saw the ruddy roses on his cheek,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She said, 'I would give a purse<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of red gold to the nurse<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That would rear my Tibbot no worse;<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">But I seek<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Hitherto vainly&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Heaven grant that I now have found her in Tirawley!'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">So they said to the Lynott, 'Here, take our bird!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And as pledge for the keeping of thy word,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Let this scion here remain<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Till thou comest back again:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Meanwhile the fitting train<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Of a lord<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Shall attend thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With the lordly heir of Connaught into Tirawley.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[84]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So back to strong-throng-gathering Garranard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like a lord of the country with his guard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Came the Lynott, before them all,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Once again over Clochan-na-n'all<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Steady and striding, erect and tall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">And his ward<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">On his shoulders<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To the wonder of the Welshmen of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Then a diligent foster-father you would deem<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The Lynott, teaching Tibbot, by mead and stream,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To cast the spear, to ride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To stem the rushing tide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With what feats of body beside,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Might beseem<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">A MacWilliam,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Fostered free among the Welshmen of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">But the lesson of hell he taught him in heart and mind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For to what desire soever he inclined,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of anger, lust, or pride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He had it gratified,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Till he ranged the circle wide<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[85]<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Of a blind<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Self-indulgence,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ere he came to youthful manhood in Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Then, even as when a hunter slips a hound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lynott loosed him&mdash;God's leashes all unbound&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the pride of power and station,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the strength of youthful passion,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On the daughters of thy nation,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">All around,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Wattin Barrett!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O! the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Bitter grief and burning anger, rage and shame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Filled the houses of the Barretts where'er he came;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Till the young men of the Back,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Drew by night upon his track,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And slew him at Cornassack.<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Small your blame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Sons of Wattin!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Said the Lynott, 'The day of my vengeance is drawing near,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[86]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The day for which, through many a long dark year,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I have toiled through grief and sin&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Call ye now the Brehons in,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And let the plea begin<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Over the bier<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Of MacWilliam,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For an eric upon the Barretts of Tirawley!'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Then the Brehons to MacWilliam Burke decreed<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An eric upon Clan Barrett for the deed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the Lynott's share of the fine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As foster-father, was nine<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ploughlands and nine score kine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">But no need<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Had the Lynott,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Neither care, for land or cattle in Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">But rising, while all sat silent on the spot,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He said, 'The law says&mdash;doth it not?&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If the foster-sire elect<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His portion to reject,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He may then the right exact<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">To applot<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">The short eric.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'&lsquo;Tis the law,' replied the Brehons of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[87]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Said the Lynott, 'I once before had a choice<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Proposed me, wherein law had little voice;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But now I choose, and say,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As lawfully I may,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I applot the mulct to-day;<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">So rejoice<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">In your ploughlands<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And your cattle which I renounce throughout Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'And thus I applot the mulct: I divide<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The land throughout Clan Barrett on every side<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Equally, that no place<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">May be without the face<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of a foe of Wattin's race&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">That the pride<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Of the Barretts<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">May be humbled hence for ever throughout Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'I adjudge a seat in every Barrett's hall<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To MacWilliam: in every stable I give a stall<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To MacWilliam: and, beside,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Whenever a Burke shall ride<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[88]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through Tirawley, I provide<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">At his call<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Needful grooming,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Without charge from any Brughaidh of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Thus lawfully I avenge me for the throes<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ye lawlessly caused me and caused those<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Unhappy shame-faced ones<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who, their mothers expected once,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Would have been the sires of sons&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">O'er whose woes<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Often weeping,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I have groaned in my exile from Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'I demand not of you your manhoods; but I take&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For the Burkes will take it&mdash;your Freedom! for the sake<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of which all manhood's given<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And all good under heaven,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And, without which, better even<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">You should make<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Yourselves barren,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Than see your children slaves throughout Tirawley!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[89]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Neither take I your eyesight from you; as you took<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Mine and ours: I would have you daily look<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On one another's eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When the strangers tyrannize<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By your hearths, and blushes arise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">That ye brook<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Without vengeance<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The insults of troops of Tibbots throughout Tirawley!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'The vengeance I designed, now is done,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the days of me and mine nearly run&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For, for this, I have broken faith,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Teaching him who lies beneath<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">This pall, to merit death;<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">And my son<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">To his father<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Stands pledged for other teaching in Tirawley.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Said MacWilliam&mdash;'Father and son, hang them high!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the Lynott they hang'd speedily;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But across the salt water,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To Scotland, with the daughter<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="p90" id="p90"></a>[90]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of MacWilliam&mdash;well you got her!<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Did you fly<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Edmund Lindsay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The gentlest of all the Welshmen of Tirawley!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Tis thus the ancient Ollaves of Erin tell<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">How, through lewdness and revenge, it befell<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That the sons of William Conquer<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Came over the sons of Wattin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Throughout all the bounds and borders<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of the lands of Auley Mac Fiachra;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Till the Saxon Oliver Cromwell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And his valiant, Bible-guided,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Free heretics of Clan London<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Coming in, in their succession,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Rooted out both Burke and Barrett,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And in their empty places<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">New stems of freedom planted,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With many a goodly sapling<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of manliness and virtue;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Which while their children cherish,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Kindly Irish of the Irish,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Neither Saxons nor Italians,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[91]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">May the mighty God of Freedom<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Speed them well,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Never taking<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Further vengeance on his people of Tirawley.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Sir Samuel Ferguson</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="AIDEENS_GRAVE" id="AIDEENS_GRAVE"></a>AIDEEN'S GRAVE</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">They heaved the stone; they heap'd the cairn.<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Said Ossian, 'In a queenly grave<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">We leave her, 'mong her fields of fern,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Between the cliff and wave.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'The cliff behind stands clear and bare,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And bare, above, the heathery steep<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Scales the clear heaven's expanse, to where<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The Danaan Druids sleep.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'And all the sands that, left and right,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The grassy isthmus-ridge confine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In yellow bars lie bare and bright<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Among the sparkling brine.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'A clear pure air pervades the scene,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[92]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In loneliness and awe secure;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Meet spot to sepulchre a Queen<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who in her life was pure.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Here, far from camp and chase removed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Apart in Nature's quiet room,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The music that alive she loved<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Shall cheer her in the tomb.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'The humming of the noontide bees,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The lark's loud carol all day long,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And, borne on evening's salted breeze,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The clanking sea-bird's song,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Shall round her airy chamber float,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And with the whispering winds and streams,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Attune to Nature's tenderest note<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The tenor of her dreams.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'And oft, at tranquil eve's decline,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">When full tides lip the Old Green Plain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The lowing of Moynalty's kine<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Shall round her breathe again.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'In sweet remembrance of the days<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">When, duteous, in the lowly vale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Unconscious of my Oscar's gaze,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">She fill'd the fragrant pail,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[93]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'And, duteous, from the running brook<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Drew water for the bath; nor deem'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A king did on her labour look,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And she a fairy seem'd.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'But when the wintry frosts begin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And in their long-drawn, lofty flight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The wild geese with their airy din<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Distend the ear of night,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'And when the fierce De Danaan ghosts<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">At midnight from their peak come down,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When all around the enchanted coasts<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Despairing strangers drown;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'When, mingling with the wreckful wail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">From low Clontarf's wave-trampled floor<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Comes booming up the burthen'd gale<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The angry Sand-Bull's roar;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Or, angrier than the sea, the shout<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of Erin's hosts in wrath combined,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When Terror heads Oppression's rout,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And Freedom cheers behind:&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Then o'er our lady's placid dream,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[94]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Where safe from storms she sleeps, may steal<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Such joy as will not misbeseem<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">A Queen of men to feel:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Such thrill of free, defiant pride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">As rapt her in her battle-car<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">At Gavra, when by Oscar's side<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">She rode the ridge of war,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Exulting, down the shouting troops,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And through the thick confronting kings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With hands on all their javelin loops<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And shafts on all their strings;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'E'er closed the inseparable crowds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">No more to part for me, and show,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As bursts the sun through scattering clouds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My Oscar issuing so.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'No more, dispelling battle's gloom,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Shall son for me from fight return;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The great green rath's ten-acred tomb<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Lies heavy on his urn.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'A cup of bodkin-pencill'd clay<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Holds Oscar; mighty heart and limb<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">One handful now of ashes grey:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And she has died for him.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[95]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'And here, hard by her natal bower<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">On lone Ben Edar's side, we strive<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With lifted rock and sign of power<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To keep her name alive.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'That while from circling year to year,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Her Ogham-letter'd stone is seen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The Gael shall say, "Our Fenians here<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Entombed their loved Aideen."<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'The Ogham from her pillar-stone<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In tract of time will wear away;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Her name at last be only known<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In Ossian's echo'd lay.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'The long-forgotten lay I sing<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">May only ages hence revive,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">(As eagle with a wounded wing<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To soar again might strive,)<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Imperfect, in an alien speech,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">When, wandering here, some child of chance<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through pangs of keen delight shall reach<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The gift of utterance,&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'To speak the air, the sky to speak,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[96]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The freshness of the hill to tell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who, roaming bare Ben Edar's peak<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And Aideen's briary dell,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'And gazing on the Cromlech vast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And on the mountain and the sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall catch communion with the past<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And mix himself with me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Child of the Future's doubtful night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Whate'er your speech, whoe'er your sires,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sing while you may with frank delight<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The song your hour inspires.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Sing while you may, nor grieve to know<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The song you sing shall also die;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Atharna's lay has perish'd so,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Though once it thrill'd this sky,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Above us, from his rocky chair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">There, where Ben Edar's landward crest<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O'er eastern Bregia bends, to where<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Dun Almon crowns the west:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'And all that felt the fretted air<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Throughout the song-distempered clime,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Did droop, till suppliant Leinster's prayer<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Appeased the vengeful rhyme.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[97]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Ah me, or e'er the hour arrive<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Shall bid my long-forgotten tones,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Unknown One, on your lips revive<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Here by these moss-grown stones,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'What change shall o'er the scene have crossed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">What conquering lords anew have come<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What lore-arm'd, mightier Druid host<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">From Gaul or distant Rome!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'What arts of death, what ways of life,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">What creeds unknown to bard or seer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall round your careless steps be rife,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who pause and ponder here;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'And, haply, where yon curlew calls<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Athwart the marsh, 'mid groves and bowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">See rise some mighty chieftain's halls<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With unimagined towers:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'And baying hounds, and coursers bright,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And burnish'd cars of dazzling sheen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With courtly train of dame and knight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Where now the fern is green.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Or, by yon prostrate altar-stone<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[98]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">May kneel, perchance, and, free from blame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">New holy men with rites unknown<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">New names of God proclaim.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Let change as may the Name of Awe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Let right surcease and altar pall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The same One God remains, a law<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For ever and for all.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Let change as may the face of earth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Let alter all the social frame,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For mortal men the warp of birth<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And death are still the same.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'And still, as life and time wear on,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The children of the waning days,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">(Though strength be from their shoulders gone<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To lift the loads we raise,)<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Shall weep to do the burial rites<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of lost ones loved; and fondly found,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In shadow of the gathering nights,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The monumental mound.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Farewell! the strength of men is worn:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The night approaches dark and chill:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sleep, till perchance an endless morn<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Descend the glittering hill.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[99]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of Oscar and Aideen bereft,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">So Ossian's song. The Fenians sped<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Three mighty shouts to heaven; and left<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Ben Edar to the dead.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Sir Samuel Ferguson</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="DEIRDRES_LAMENT_FOR_THE_SONS_OF" id="DEIRDRES_LAMENT_FOR_THE_SONS_OF"></a>DEIRDRE'S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF</h2>
+<h2>USNACH</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The lions of the hill are gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I am left alone&mdash;alone&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Dig the grave both wide and deep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For I am sick, and fain would sleep!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The falcons of the wood are flown,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I am left alone&mdash;alone&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Dig the grave both deep and wide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And let us slumber side by side.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The dragons of the rock are sleeping,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sleep that wakes not for our weeping&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Dig the grave, and make it ready,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lay me on my true-love's body.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Lay their spears and bucklers bright<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[100]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By the warriors' sides aright;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Many a day the three before me<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On their linkèd bucklers bore me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Lay upon the low grave floor,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Neath each head, the blue claymore;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Many a time the noble three<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Reddened these blue blades for me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Lay the collars, as is meet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of their greyhounds at their feet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Many a time for me have they<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Brought the tall red deer to bay.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">In the falcon's jesses throw,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Hook and arrow, line and bow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Never again, by stream or plain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall the gentle woodsmen go.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Sweet companions, ye were ever&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Harsh to me, your sister, never;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Woods and wilds, and misty valleys,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Were with you as good's a palace.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O, to hear my true-love singing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sweet as sound of trumpets ringing;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like the sway of ocean swelling<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Rolled his deep voice round our dwelling.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[101]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O! to hear the echoes pealing<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Round our green and fairy sheeling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When the three, with soaring chorus,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Passed the silent skylark o'er us.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Echo now, sleep, morn and even&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lark alone enchant the heaven!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ardan's lips are scant of breath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Neesa's tongue is cold in death.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Stag, exult on glen and mountain&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Salmon, leap from loch to fountain&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Heron, in the free air warm ye&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Usnach's sons no more will harm ye!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Erin's stay no more you are,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Rulers of the ridge of war;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Never more 'twill be your fate<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To keep the beam of battle straight!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Woe is me! by fraud and wrong,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Traitors false and tyrants strong,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For Barach's feast and Conor's gold!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Woe to Eman, roof and wall!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[102]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Tenfold woe and black dishonour<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To the foul and false Clan Conor!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Dig the grave both wide and deep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sick I am, and fain would sleep!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Dig the grave and make it ready,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lay me on my true-love's body.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Sir Samuel Ferguson</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_FAIR_HILLS_OF_IRELAND" id="THE_FAIR_HILLS_OF_IRELAND"></a>THE FAIR HILLS OF IRELAND</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 10em"><i>Uileacan dubh O!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 10em"><i>Uileacan dubh O!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i' the yellow sand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">On the fair hills of holy Ireland.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[103]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Curled he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee,<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 10em"><i>Uileacan dubh O!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish sea;<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 10em"><i>Uileacan dubh O!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For the fair hills of holy Ireland.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground;<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 10em"><i>Uileacan dubh O!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The butter and the cream do wondrously abound,<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 10em"><i>Uileacan dubh O!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the cuckoo's calling daily his note of music bland,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song 'i the forest grand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">On the fair hills of holy Ireland.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Sir Samuel Ferguson</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum">[104]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="LAMENT_OVER_THE_RUINS_OF_THE_ABBEY" id="LAMENT_OVER_THE_RUINS_OF_THE_ABBEY"></a>LAMENT OVER THE RUINS OF THE ABBEY</h2>
+<h2>OF TIMOLEAGUE
+</h2>
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Lone and weary as I wander'd by the bleak shore of the sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Meditating and reflecting on the world's hard destiny,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Forth the moon and stars 'gan glimmer, in the quiet tide beneath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For on slumbering spring and blossom breathed not out of heaven a breath.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">On I went in sad dejection, careless where my footsteps bore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Till a ruined church before me opened wide its ancient door,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Till I stood before the portals, where of old were wont to be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For the blind, the halt, and leper, alms and hospitality.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Still the ancient seat was standing, built against the buttress grey,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where the clergy used to welcome weary trav'llers on their way;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[105]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There I sat me down in sadness, 'neath my cheek I placed my hand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Till the tears fell hot and briny down upon the grassy land.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">There, I said in woful sorrow, weeping bitterly the while,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Was a time when joy and gladness reigned within this ruined pile;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Was a time when bells were tinkling, clergy preaching peace abroad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Psalms a-singing, music ringing praises to the mighty God.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Empty aisle, deserted chancel, tower tottering to your fall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Many a storm since then has beaten on the grey head of your wall!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Many a bitter storm and tempest has your roof-tree turned away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Since you first were formed a temple to the Lord of night and day.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[106]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Holy house of ivied gables, that were once the country's boast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Houseless now in weary wandering are you scattered, saintly host;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lone you are to-day, and dismal,&mdash;joyful psalms no more are heard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where, within your choir, her vesper screeches the cat-headed bird.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Ivy from your eaves is growing, nettles round your green hearth-stone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Foxes howl, where, in your corners, dropping waters make their moan.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where the lark to early matins used your clergy forth to call,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There, alas! no tongue is stirring, save the daw's upon the wall.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Refectory cold and empty, dormitory bleak and bare,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where are now your pious uses, simple bed and frugal fare?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Gone your abbot, rule and order, broken down your altar stones;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nought see I beneath your shelter, save a heap of clayey bones.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[107]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O! the hardship, O! the hatred, tyranny, and cruel war,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Persecution and oppression, that have left you as you are!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I myself once also prosper'd;&mdash;mine is, too, an alter'd plight;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Trouble, care, and age have left me good for nought but grief to-night.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Gone my motion and my vigour&mdash;gone the use of eye and ear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">At my feet lie friends and children, powerless and corrupting here;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Woe is written on my visage, in a nut my heart could lie&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Death's deliverance were welcome&mdash;Father, let the old man die.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Sir Samuel Ferguson</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_FAIRY_WELL_OF_LAGNANAY" id="THE_FAIRY_WELL_OF_LAGNANAY"></a>THE FAIRY WELL OF LAGNANAY</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Mournfully, sing mournfully&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">'O listen, Ellen, sister dear:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Is there no help at all for me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">But only ceaseless sigh and tear?<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[108]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Why did not he who left me here,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With stolen hope steal memory?<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">O listen, Ellen, sister dear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">(Mournfully, sing mournfully)&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I'll go away to Slemish hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I'll pluck the fairy hawthorn-tree,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And let the spirits work their will;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I care not if for good or ill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So they but lay the memory<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Which all my heart is haunting still!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">(Mournfully, sing mournfully)&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The Fairies are a silent race,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And pale as lily flowers to see:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I care not for a blanchèd face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Nor wandering in a dreaming place,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So I but banish memory:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I wish I were with Anna Grace!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Mournfully, sing mournfully!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Hearken to my tale of woe&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">'Twas thus to weeping Ellen Con,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Her sister said in accents low,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Her only sister, Una bawn:<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[109]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">'Twas in their bed before the dawn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And Ellen answered sad and slow,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">'O Una, Una, be not drawn<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">(Hearken to my tale of woe)&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To this unholy grief I pray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Which makes me sick at heart to know,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And I will help you if I may:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">&mdash;The Fairy Well of Lagnanay&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lie nearer me, I tremble so,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Una, I've heard wise women say<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">(Hearken to my tale of woe)&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That if before the dews arise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">True maiden in its icy flow<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With pure hand bathe her bosom thrice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Three lady-brackens pluck likewise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And three times round the fountain go,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">She straight forgets her tears and sighs.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Hearken to my tale of woe!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">All, alas! and well-away!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">'O, sister Ellen, sister sweet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Come with me to the hill I pray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And I will prove that blessed freet!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">They rose with soft<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[110]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They left their mother where she lay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Their mother and her care discreet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">(All, alas! and well-away!)<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And soon they reached the Fairy Well,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The mountain's eye, clear, cold, and grey,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Wide open in the dreary fell:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">How long they stood 'twere vain to tell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">At last upon the point of day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Bawn Una bares her bosom's swell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">(All, alas! and well-away!)<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Thrice o'er her shrinking breasts she laves<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The gliding glance that will not stay<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of subtly-streaming fairy waves:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And now the charm three brackens craves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She plucks them in their fring'd array:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Now round the well her fate she braves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All, alas! and well-away!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Save us all from Fairy thrall!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Ellen sees her face the rim<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Twice and thrice, and that is all&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Fount and hill and maiden swim<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">All together melting dim!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[111]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Una! Una!' thou may'st call,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Sister sad! but lith or limb<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">(Save us all from Fairy thrall!)<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Never again of Una bawn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where now she walks in dreamy hall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Shall eyes of mortal look upon!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">O! can it be the guard was gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That better guard than shield or wall?<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who knows on earth save Jurlagh Daune?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">(Save us all from Fairy thrall!)<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Behold the banks are green and bare,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No pit is here wherein to fall:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Aye&mdash;at the fount you well may stare,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">But nought save pebbles smooth is there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And small straws twirling one and all.<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Hie thee home, and be thy prayer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Save us all from Fairy thrall.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Sir Samuel Ferguson</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="ON_THE_DEATH_OF_THOMAS_DAVIS" id="ON_THE_DEATH_OF_THOMAS_DAVIS"></a>ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS DAVIS</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I walked through Ballinderry in the Spring-time,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[112]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">When the bud was on the tree;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I said, in every fresh-ploughed field beholding<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The sowers striding free,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Scattering broad-cast forth the corn in golden plenty<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">On the quick seed-clasping soil,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Even such, this day, among the fresh-stirred hearts of Erin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Thomas Davis, is thy toil!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I sat by Ballyshannon in the summer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And saw the salmon leap;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I said, as I beheld the gallant creatures<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Spring glittering from the deep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through the spray, and through the prone heaps striving onward<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To the calm clear streams above,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So seekest thou thy native founts of freedom, Thomas Davis,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In thy brightness of strength and love!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I stood on Derrybawn in the Autumn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I heard the eagle call,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With a clangorous cry of wrath and lamentation<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[113]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That filled the wide mountain hall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O'er the bare deserted place of his plundered eyrie;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And I said, as he screamed and soared,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So callest thou, thou wrathful-soaring Thomas Davis,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For a nation's rights restored!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And, alas! to think but now, and thou art lying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Dear Davis, dead at thy mother's knee;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I, no mother near, on my own sick-bed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That face on earth shall never see:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I may lie and try to feel that I am not dreaming,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I may lie and try to say 'Thy will be done'&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But a hundred such as I will never comfort Erin<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For the loss of the noble son!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Young husbandman of Erin's fruitful seed-time,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In the fresh track of danger's plough!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who will walk the heavy, toilsome, perilous furrow<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Girt with freedom's seed-sheets now?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who will banish with the wholesome crop of knowledge<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The flaunting weed and the bitter thorn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Now that thou thyself art but a seed for hopeful planting<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Against the resurrection morn?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[114]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Young salmon of the flood-time of freedom<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That swells round Erin's shore!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thou wilt leap against their loud oppressive torrent<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of bigotry and hate no more:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Drawn downward by their prone material instinct,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Let them thunder on their rocks and foam&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thou hast leapt, aspiring soul, to founts beyond their raging,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Where troubled waters never come!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">But I grieve not, eagle of the empty eyrie,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That thy wrathful cry is still;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And that the songs alone of peaceful mourners<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Are heard to-day on Erin's hill;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Better far, if brothers' war be destined for us<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">(God avert that horrid day I pray!)<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That ere our hands be stained with slaughter fratricidal<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Thy warm heart should be cold in clay.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">But my trust is strong in God, who made us brothers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That He will not suffer those right hands<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Which thou hast joined in holier rites than wedlock,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[115]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To draw opposing brands.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O, many a tuneful tongue that thou madest vocal<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Would lie cold and silent then;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And songless long once more, should often-widowed Erin<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Mourn the loss of her brave young men.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O, brave young men, my love, my pride, my promise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">'Tis on you my hopes are set,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In manliness, in kindliness, in justice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To make Erin a nation yet:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Self-respecting, self-relying, self-advancing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In union or in severance, free and strong&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And if God grant this, then, under God, to Thomas Davis<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Let the greater praise belong.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Sir Samuel Ferguson</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_COUNTY_OF_MAYO" id="THE_COUNTY_OF_MAYO"></a>THE COUNTY OF MAYO</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish of Thomas Lavelle</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">On the deck of Patrick Lynch's boat I sat in woful plight,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[116]<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Through my sighing all the weary day, and weeping all the night;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">By the blessed sun! 'tis royally I'd sing thy praise, Mayo!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did much abound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now I'm forced to go,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">They are altered girls in Irrul now; 'tis proud they're grown and high,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">With their hair-bags and their top-knots, for I pass their buckles by&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But it's little now I heed their airs, for God will have it so,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">That I must depart for foreign lands, and leave my sweet Mayo.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[117]<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl of Irrul still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And that Brian Duff no longer rules as Lord upon the hill:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And that Colonel Hugh MacGrady should be lying dead and low,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the county of Mayo.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>George Fox</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_WEDDING_OF_THE_CLANS" id="THE_WEDDING_OF_THE_CLANS"></a>THE WEDDING OF THE CLANS</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>A Girl's Babble</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span>I go to knit two clans together;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Our clan and this clan unseen of yore:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Our clan fears nought! but I go, O whither?<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">This day I go from my mother's door.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Thou, red-breast, singest the old song over,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Though many a time thou hast sung it before;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They never sent thee to some strange new lover:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I sing a new song by my mother's door.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I stepped from my little room down by the ladder,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The ladder that never so shook before;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I was sad last night; to-day I am sadder,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[118]<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Because I go from my mother's door.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">The last snow melts upon bush and bramble;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The gold bars shine on the forest's floor;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Shake not, thou leaf! it is I must tremble<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Because I go from my mother's door.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">From a Spanish sailor a dagger I bought me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I trailed a rose-tree our grey bawn o'er;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The creed and my letters our old bard taught me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My days were sweet by my mother's door.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">My little white goat that with raised feet huggest<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The oak stock, thy horns in the ivies frore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Could I wrestle like thee&mdash;how the wreaths thou tuggest!&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I never would move from my mother's door.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">O weep no longer, my nurse and mother!<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My foster-sister, weep not so sore!<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">You cannot come with me, Ir, my brother&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Alone I go from my mother's door.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Farewell, my wolf-hound that slew MacOwing<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">As he caught me and far through the thickets bore:<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">My heifer, Alb, in the green vale lowing,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[119]<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">My cygnet's nest upon Lorna's shore!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">He has killed ten chiefs, this chief that plights me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">His hand is like that of the giant Balor;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But I fear his kiss, and his beard affrights me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And the great stone dragon above his door.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Had I daughters nine, with me they should tarry;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">They should sing old songs; they should dance at my door;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">They should grind at the quern;&mdash;no need to marry;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">O when will this marriage-day be o'er?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Had I buried, like Moirín, three mates already,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">I might say: 'Three husbands! then why not four?'<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">But my hand is cold and my foot unsteady,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Because I never was married before!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Aubrey de Vere</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_LITTLE_BLACK_ROSE" id="THE_LITTLE_BLACK_ROSE"></a>THE LITTLE BLACK ROSE</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The Little Black Rose shall be red at last;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">What made it black but the March wind dry,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast?<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[120]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">It shall redden the hills when June is nigh.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">What drove her forth but the dragon-fly?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the golden vale she shall feed full fast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With her mild gold horn and her slow, dark eye.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The pine long bleeding, it shall not die!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">This song is secret. Mine ear it passed<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In a wind o'er the plains at Athenry.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Aubrey de Vere</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="SONG1" id="SONG1"></a>SONG</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">She says: 'Poor Friend, you waste a treasure<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Which you can ne'er regain&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Time, health, and glory, for the pleasure<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of toying with a chain.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But then her voice so tender grows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">So kind and so caressing;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Each murmur from her lips that flows<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Comes to me like a blessing.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Sometimes she says: 'Sweet Friend, I grieve you&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[121]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Alas, it gives me pain!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What can I? Ah, might I relieve you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">You ne'er had mourned in vain!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And then her little hand she presses<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Upon her heart, and sighs;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While tears, whose source not yet she guesses,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Grow larger in her eyes.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Aubrey de Vere</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_BARD_ETHELL" id="THE_BARD_ETHELL"></a>THE BARD ETHELL</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>Ireland in the Thirteenth Century</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I am Ethell, the son of Conn:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Here I bide at the foot of the hill:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I am clansman to Brian, and servant to none:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Whom I hated, I hate: whom I loved, I love still.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Blind am I. On milk I live,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And meat, God sends it, on each Saint's Day;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though Donald Mac Art&mdash;may he never thrive&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Last Shrovetide drove half my kine away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">At the brown hill's base by the pale blue lake<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I dwell and see the things I saw:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The heron flap heavily up from the brake;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[122]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The crow fly homeward with twig or straw<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The wild duck a silver line in wake<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Cutting the calm mere to far Bunaw.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the things that I heard, though deaf, I hear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From the tower in the island the feastful cheer;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The horn from the wood; the plunge of the stag,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With the loud hounds after him down from the crag.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sweet is the chase, but the battle is sweeter,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">More healthy, more joyous, for true men meeter!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">My hand is weak! it once was strong:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My heart burns still with its ancient fire.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If any man smites me he does me wrong,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For I was the bard of Brian Mac Guire.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If any man slay me&mdash;not unaware,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">By no chance blow, nor in wine and revel,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I have stored beforehand, a curse in my prayer<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For his kith and kindred; his deed is evil.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">There never was king, and never will be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In battle or banquet like Malachi!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The seers his reign had predicted long;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He honoured the bards, and gave gold for song.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[123]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If rebels arose, he put out their eyes;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">If robbers plundered or burned the fanes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He hung them in chaplets, like rosaries,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That others beholding might take more pains!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There was none to women more reverent-minded,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For he held his mother, and Mary, dear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If any man wronged them, that man he blinded,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Or straight amerced him of hand or ear.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There was none who founded more convents&mdash;none;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In his palace the old and poor were fed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The orphan might walk, or the widow's son,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Without groom or page to his throne or bed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In his council he mused, with great brows divine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And eyes like the eyes of the musing kine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Upholding a sceptre o'er which men said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Seven spirits of wisdom like fire-tongues played.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He drained ten lakes, and he built ten bridges;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">He bought a gold book for a thousand cows;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He slew ten princes who brake their pledges;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With the bribed and the base he scorned to carouse.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He was sweet and awful; through all his reign<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">God gave great harvests to vale and plain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From his nurse's milk he was kind and brave;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[124]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And when he went down to his well-wept grave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through the triumph of penance his soul arose<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To God and the saints. Not so his foes.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The King that came after, ah woe, woe, woe!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He doubted his friend, and he trusted his foe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He bought and he sold: his kingdom old<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">He pledged and pawned, to avenge a spite:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No Bard or prophet his birth foretold:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">He was guarded and warded both day and night:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He counselled with fools and had boors at his feast:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He was cruel to Christian and kind to beast:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Men smiled when they talked of him far o'er the wave:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Well paid were the mourners that wept at his grave.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">God plagued for his sake his people sore:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">They sinned; for the people should watch and pray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That their prayers like angels at window and door,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">May keep from the King the bad thought away!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The sun has risen: on lip and brow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">He greets me&mdash;I feel it&mdash;with golden wand:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ah, bright-faced Norna! I see thee now:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Where first I saw thee I see thee stand!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From the trellis the girl looked down on me:<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[125]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Her maidens stood near; it was late in spring;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The grey priest laughed, as she cried in glee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">'Good Bard, a song in my honour sing.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I sang her praise in a loud-voiced hymn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To God who had fashioned her face and limb,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For the praise of the clan, and the land's behoof:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So she flung me a flower from the trellis roof.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ere long I saw her the hill descending,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">O'er the lake the May morning rose moist and slow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She prayed me, her smile with the sweet voice blending,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To teach her all that a woman should know.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Panting she stood; she was out of breath;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The wave of her little breast was shaking;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From eyes still childish, and dark as death,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Came womanhood's dawn through a dew-cloud breaking.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Norna was never long time the same;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">By a spirit so strong was her slight form moulded,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The curves swelled out from the flower-like frame<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In joy; in grief to a bud she folded:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As she listened, her eyes grew bright and large,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like springs rain-fed that dilate their marge.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[126]</span>
+<span class="i1">So I taught her the hymn of Patrick the Apostle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the marvels of Bridget and Columbkille;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ere long she sang like the lark or the throstle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Sang the deeds of the servants of God's high will:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I told her of Brendan, who found afar<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Another world 'neath the western star;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of our three great bishops in Lindisfarne isle;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of St. Fursey the wondrous, Fiacre without guile;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of Sedulius, hymn-maker when hymns were rare;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of Scotus the subtle, who clove a hair<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Into sixty parts, and had marge to spare.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To her brother I spake of Oisin and Fionn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And they wept at the death of great Oisin's son.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I taught the heart of the boy to revel<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In tales of old greatness that never tire;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the virgin's, up-springing from earth's low level,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To wed with heaven like the altar fire.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I taught her all that a woman should know,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And that none should teach her worse lore, I gave her<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A dagger keen, and taught her the blow<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That subdues the knave to discreet behaviour.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A sand-stone there on my knee she set,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[127]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And sharpened its point&mdash;I can see her yet<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I held back her hair and she sharpen'd the edge,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While the wind piped low through the reeds and sedge.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">She died in the convent on Ina's height:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I saw her the day that she took the veil:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As slender she stood as the Paschal light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">As tall and slender and bright and pale!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I saw her: and dropped as dead: bereaven<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Is earth when her holy ones leave her for heaven.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Her brother fell in the fight at Begh,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">May they plead for me both on my dying day!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">All praise to the man who brought us the Faith!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Tis a staff by day and our pillow in death!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All praise I say to that blessed youth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who heard in a dream from Tyrawley's strand<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That wail, 'Put forth o'er the sea thy hand:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the dark we die: give us hope and Truth!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But Patrick built not on Iorras' shore<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That convent where now the Franciscans dwell:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Columba was mighty in prayer and war:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But the young monk preaches as loud as his bell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That love must rule all, and all wrongs be forgiven,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[128]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or else he is sure we shall reach not heaven!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">This doctrine I count right cruel and hard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And when I am laid in the old churchyard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The habit of Francis I will not wear:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor wear I his cord or his cloth of hair<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In secret. Men dwindle: till psalm and prayer<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Had softened the land no Dane dwelt there!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I forgive old Cathbar who sank my boat:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Must I pardon Feargal who slew my son:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or the pirate, Strongbow, who burned Granote,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">They tell me, and in it nine priests, a nun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And worse&mdash;St. Finian's old crozier staff?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">At forgiveness like that, I spit and laugh!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My chief in his wine-cups forgave twelve men:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And of these a dozen rebelled again.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There never was chief more brave than he!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The night he was born Loch Gar up-burst:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He was bard-loving, gift-making, fond of glee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The last to fly, to advance the first.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He was like the top spray upon Uladh's oak,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">He was like the tap-root of Argial's pine:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He was secret and sudden: as lightning his stroke:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">There was none that could fathom his hid design.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[129]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He slept not: if any man scorned his alliance<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He struck the first blow for a frank defiance,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With that look in his face, half night, half light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like the lake just blackened yet ridged with white!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There were comely wonders before he died:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The eagle barked, and the Banshee cried,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The witch-elm wept with a blighted bud,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The spray of the torrent was red with blood:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The chief returned from the mountains bound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Forgot to ask after Bran his hound.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">We knew he would die: three days were o'er,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He died. We <i>waked</i> him for three days more:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">One by one, upon brow and breast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The whole clan kissed him: In peace may he rest!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I sang his dirge, I could sing that time<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Four thousand staves of ancestral rhyme:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To-day I can scarcely sing the half:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of old I was corn, and I now am chaff!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My song to-day is a breeze that shakes<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Feebly the down on the cygnet's breast;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Twas then a billow the beach that rakes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Or a storm that buffets the mountain's crest.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Whatever I bit with a venomed song,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[130]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Grew sick, were it beast, or tree, or man:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The wronged one sued me to right his wrong<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With the flail of the Satire and fierce Ode's fan.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I sang to the chieftains: each stock I traced,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lest lines should grow tangled through fraud or haste.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To princes I sang in a loftier tone<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of Moran the just who refused a throne;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of Moran, whose torque would close, and choke<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The wry-necked witness that falsely spoke.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I taught them how to win love and hate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Not love from all; and to shun debate.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To maids in the bower I sang of love:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And of war at the feastings in bawn or grove.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Great is our Order: but greater far<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Were its pomp and power in the days of old,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When the five Chief Bards in peace or war<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Had thirty bards each in his train enrolled:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When Ollave Fodla in Tara's hall<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Fed bards and kings; when the boy King Nial<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Was trained by Torna; when Britain and Gaul<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Sent crowns of laurel to Dallan Forgial.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To-day we can launch the clans into fight;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That day we could freeze them in mid career!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[131]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Whatever man knows was our realm by right:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The lore without music no Gael would hear.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Old Cormac the brave blind king was bard<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ere fame rose yet of O'Daly and Ward.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The son of Milesius was bard&mdash;'Go back<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My People,' he sang, 'ye have done a wrong!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nine waves go back o'er the green sea track,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Let your foes their castles and coasts make strong.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To the island you came by stealth and at night:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She is ours if we win her, in all men's sight;'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For that first song's sake let our bards hold fast<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To Truth and Justice from first to last!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Tis over! some think we erred through pride,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though Columba the vengeance turned aside.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Too strong we were not: too rich we were:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Give wealth to knaves: 'tis the true man's snare.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">But now men lie: they are just no more;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">They forsake the old ways; they quest for new;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They pry and they snuff after strange false lore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">As dogs hunt vermin: it never was true:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I have scorned it for twenty years&mdash;this babble,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That eastward and southward, a Saxon rabble<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Have won great battles and rule large lands,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[132]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And plight with daughters of ours their hands.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">We know the bold Norman o'erset their throne<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Long since. Our lands! let them guard their own.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">How long He leaves me&mdash;the great God&mdash;here!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Have I sinned some sin, or has God forgotten?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">This year, I think, is my hundredth year;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I am like a bad apple unripe and rotten!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They shall lift me ere long, they shall lay me&mdash;the clan,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By the strength of men on Mount Cruachan!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">God has much to think of! How much He hath seen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And how much is gone by that once hath been!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On sandy hills where the rabbits burrow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Are Raths of Kings' men, named not now;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On mountain-tops I have tracked the furrow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And found in forests the buried plough.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For one now living the strong land then<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Gave kindly food and raiment to ten.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No doubt they waxed proud and their God defied:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">So their harvest He blighted and burned their hoard;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Or He sent them plagues, or He sent the sword,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or He sent them lightning and so they died,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[133]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like Dathi the King on the dark Alp's side.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ah me! that man who is made of dust,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Should have pride towards God! 'Tis a demon's spleen!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I have often feared lest God the All-just,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Should bend from heaven and sweep earth clean:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Should sweep us all into corners and holes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like dust of the house-floor both bodies and souls!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I have often feared He would send some wind<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In wrath; and the nation wake up stone blind.<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In age or in youth we have all wrought ill:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I say not our great King Nial did well,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Although he was Lord of the Pledges Nine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Where besides subduing this land of Eire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He raised in Armorica banner and sign,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And wasted the British coast with fire.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Perhaps in His mercy the Lord will say,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'These men, God's help, 'twas a rough boy-play!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He is certain, that young Franciscan Priest&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">God sees great sin where men see least;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yet this were to give unto God the eye&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Unmeet the thought, of the humming fly!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I trust there are small things He scorns to see<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[134]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the lowly who cry to Him piteously.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Our hope is Christ: I have wept full oft,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">He came not to Eire in Oisin's time;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though love and those new monks would make men soft,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">If they were not hardened by war and rhyme.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I have done my part: my end draws nigh:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I shall leave old Eire with a smile and sigh,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She will miss me not as I missed my son,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yet for her and her praise were my best deeds done.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Man's deeds! Man's deeds! they are shades that fleet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or ripples like those that break at my feet.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The deeds of my chief and the deeds of my king<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Grow hazy, far seen, in the hills in spring.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nothing is great save the death on the cross!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">But Pilate and Herod I hate, and know<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Had Fionn lived then he had laid them low,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though the world thereby had sustained great loss.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My blindness and deafness and aching back<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With meekness I bear for that suffering's sake;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the Lent-fast for Mary's sake I love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the honour of Him, the Man Above!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[135]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My songs are all over now:&mdash;so best!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They are laid in the heavenly Singer's breast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who never sings but a star is born:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">May we hear His song in the endless morn!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I give glory to God for our battles won<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">By wood or river, on bay or creek:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For Norna&mdash;who died; for my father, Conn:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For feasts, and the chase on the mountains bleak:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I bewail my sins, both unknown and known,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And of those I have injured forgiveness seek.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The men that were wicked to me and mine<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">(Not quenching a wrong, nor in war nor wine),<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I forgive and absolve them all, save three:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">May Christ in His mercy be kind to me!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Aubrey de Vere</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="LAMENT_FOR_THE_DEATH_OF_EOGHAN" id="LAMENT_FOR_THE_DEATH_OF_EOGHAN"></a>LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF EOGHAN</h2>
+<h2>RUADH O'NEILL</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Eoghan Ruadh O'Neill?'<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[136]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet with steel.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'May God wither up their hearts! May their blood cease to flow!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">May they walk in living death, who poisoned Eoghan Ruadh!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But the weapon of the Sassanach met him on his way,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And he died at Cloch Uachtar, upon St. Leonard's day.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One! Wail, wail ye for the Dead!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Quench the hearth, and hold the breath&mdash;with ashes strew the head.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">How tenderly we loved him! How deeply we deplore!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Holy Saviour! but to think we shall never see him more!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[137]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sure we never won a battle&mdash;'twas Owen won them all.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Had he lived&mdash;had he lived&mdash;our dear country had been free;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But he's dead, but he's dead, and 'tis slaves we'll ever be.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'O'Farrell and Clanricarde, Preston and Red Hugh,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Audley and MacMahon&mdash;ye are valiant, wise, and true;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But&mdash;what are ye all to our darling who is gone?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The Rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle's corner stone!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Wail, wail him through the Island! Weep, weep for our pride!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Weep the Victor of Beinn Burb&mdash;weep him, young and old;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Weep for him, ye women&mdash;your Beautiful lies cold!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[138]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'We thought you would not die&mdash;we were sure you would not go,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill! bright was your eye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with God on high,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Eoghan!&mdash;why did you die?'<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Thomas Davis</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="MAIRE_BHAN_ASTOR" id="MAIRE_BHAN_ASTOR"></a>MAIRE BHAN ASTÓR</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">In a valley far away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With my <i>Maire bhan astór</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Short would be the summer-day,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[139]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Ever loving more and more;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Winter days would all grow long,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With the light her heart would pour,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With her kisses and her song,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And her loving <i>mait go leór</i>.<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Fond is <i>Maire bhan astór</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Fair is <i>Maire bhan astór</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Sweet as ripple on the shore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Sings my <i>Maire bhan astór</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O! her sire is very proud,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And her mother cold as stone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But her brother bravely vowed<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">She should be my bride alone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For he knew I loved her well,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And he knew she loved me too,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So he sought their pride to quell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">But 'twas all in vain to sue.<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">True is <i>Maire bhan astór</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Tried is <i>Maire bhan astór</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Had I wings I'd never soar<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">From my <i>Maire bhan astór</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">There are lands where manly toil<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[140]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Surely reaps the crop it sows,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Glorious woods and teeming soil,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Where the broad Missouri flows:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through the trees the smoke shall rise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">From our hearth with <i>mait go leór</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There shall shine the happy eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of my <i>Maire bhan astór</i>.<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Mild is <i>Maire bhan astór</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Mine is <i>Maire bhan astór</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Saints will watch about the door<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Of my <i>Maire bhan astór</i>.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Thomas Davis</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="O_THE_MARRIAGE" id="O_THE_MARRIAGE"></a>O! THE MARRIAGE</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Air</span>&mdash;<i>The Swaggering Jig</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O! the marriage, the marriage,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With love and <i>mo bhuachaill</i> for me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The ladies that ride in a carriage<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Might envy my marriage to me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For Eoghan is straight as a tower,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And tender and loving and true,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He told me more love in an hour<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Than the Squires of the county could do.<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Then, O! the marriage, etc.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[141]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His hair is a shower of soft gold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">His eye is as clear as the day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His conscience and vote were unsold<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">When others were carried away;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His word is as good as an oath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And freely 'twas given to me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O! sure 'twill be happy for both<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The day of our marriage to see.<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Then, O! the marriage, etc.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">His kinsmen are honest and kind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The neighbours think much of his skill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And Eoghan's the lad to my mind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Though he owns neither castle nor mill.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But he has a tilloch of land,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">A horse, and a stocking of coin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A foot for a dance, and a hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In the cause of his country to join.<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Then, O! the marriage, etc.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">We meet in the market and fair&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">We meet in the morning and night&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He sits on the half of my chair,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[142]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And my people are wild with delight.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yet I long through the winter to skim,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Though Eoghan longs more, I can see,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When I will be married to him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And he will be married to me.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then, O! the marriage, the marriage,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With love and <i>mo bhuachaill</i> for me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The ladies that ride in a carriage<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Might envy my marriage to me.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Thomas Davis</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="A_PLEA_FOR_LOVE" id="A_PLEA_FOR_LOVE"></a>A PLEA FOR LOVE</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The summer brook flows in the bed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The winter torrent tore asunder;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The skylark's gentle wings are spread<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Where walk the lightning and the thunder;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And thus you'll find the sternest soul<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The gayest tenderness concealing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And minds that seem to mock control,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Are ordered by some fairy feeling.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Then, maiden! start not from the hand<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[143]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That's hardened by the swaying sabre&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The pulse beneath may be as bland<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">As evening after day of labour:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And, maiden! start not from the brow<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That thought has knit, and passion darkened&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In twilight hours, 'neath forest bough,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The tenderest tales are often hearkened.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Thomas Davis</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="REMEMBRANCE" id="REMEMBRANCE"></a>REMEMBRANCE</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Cold in the earth&mdash;and the deep snow piled above thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Over the mountains, on that northern shore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Cold in the earth&mdash;and fifteen wild Decembers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">From these brown hills, have melted into spring!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">After such years of change and suffering!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[144]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">While the world's tide is bearing me along;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Other desires and other hopes beset me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">No later light has lighted up my heaven,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">No second morn has ever shone for me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And even Despair was powerless to destroy;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Then did I check the tears of useless passion&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Down to that tomb already more than mine.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">How could I seek the empty world again?<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Emily Brontë</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum">[145]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="A_FRAGMENT_FROM_THE_PRISONER_A" id="A_FRAGMENT_FROM_THE_PRISONER_A"></a>A FRAGMENT FROM 'THE PRISONER: A</h2>
+<h2>FRAGMENT'</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Still, let my tyrants know, I am not doomed to wear<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Year after year in gloom, and desolate despair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A messenger of Hope comes every night to me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And offers for short life, eternal liberty.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">He comes with Western winds, with evening's wandering airs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Desire for nothing known in my maturer years,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When, if my spirit's sky was full of flashes warm,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunderstorm.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">But first, a hush of peace&mdash;a soundless calm descends;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[146]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The struggle of distress, and fierce impatience ends.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Mute music soothes my breast&mdash;unuttered harmony<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Its wings are almost free&mdash;its home, its harbour found,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Measuring the gulf, it stoops, and dares the final bound.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O, dreadful is the check&mdash;intense the agony&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When the pulse begins to throb,&mdash;the brain to think again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If it but herald death, the vision is divine.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Emily Brontë</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum">[147]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="LAST_LINES" id="LAST_LINES"></a>LAST LINES</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">No coward soul is mine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I see Heaven's glories shine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">O God, within my breast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Almighty, ever-present Deity!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Life&mdash;that in me has rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As I&mdash;undying Life&mdash;have power in Thee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">Vain are the thousand creeds<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That move men's hearts: unutterably vain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Worthless as withered weeds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">To waken doubt in one<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Holding so fast to Thine infinity;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">So surely anchored on<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The steadfast rock of immortality,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">With wide-embracing love<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thy spirit animates eternal years,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Pervades and broods above,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[148]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Though earth and man were gone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And suns and universes ceased to be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And Thou were left alone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Every existence would exist in Thee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">There is not room for Death,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor atom that his might could render void:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Thou&mdash;Thou art Being and Breath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And what Thou art may never be destroyed.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Emily Brontë</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_MEMORY_OF_THE_DEAD" id="THE_MEMORY_OF_THE_DEAD"></a>THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Who fears to speak of Ninety-eight?<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who blushes at the name?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When cowards mock the patriot's fate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who hangs his head for shame?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He's all a knave or half a slave<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who slights his country thus;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But a true man, like you, man,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Will fill your glass with us.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">We drink the memory of the brave,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[149]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The faithful and the few&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Some lie far off beyond the wave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Some sleep in Ireland, too;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All, all are gone&mdash;but still lives on<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The fame of those who died;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All true men, like you, men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Remember them with pride.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Some on the shores of distant lands<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Their weary hearts have laid,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And by the stranger's heedless hands<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Their lonely graves were made;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But, though their clay be far away<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Beyond the Atlantic foam,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In true men, like you, men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Their spirit's still at home.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The dust of some is Irish earth;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Among their own they rest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the same land that gave them birth<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Has caught them to her breast;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And we will pray that from their clay<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Full many a race may start<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of true men, like you, men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To act as brave a part.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[150]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They rose in dark and evil days<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To right their native land;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They kindled here a living blaze<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That nothing shall withstand.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Alas! that Might can vanquish Right&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3"><i>They</i> fell, and passed away;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But true men, like you, men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Are plenty here to-day.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Then here's their memory&mdash;may it be<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For us a guiding light,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To cheer our strife for liberty,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And teach us to unite!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through good and ill, be Ireland's still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Though sad as theirs your fate;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And true men, be you, men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Like those of Ninety-Eight.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>John Kells Ingram</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_WINDING_BANKS_OF_ERNE_OR_THE" id="THE_WINDING_BANKS_OF_ERNE_OR_THE"></a>THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE; OR, THE</h2>
+<h2>EMIGRANT'S ADIEU TO BALLYSHANNY</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Adieu to Ballyshanny! where I was bred and born;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[151]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as night and morn;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There's not a house or window, there's not a field or hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But East or West, in foreign lands, I'll recollect them still.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I leave my warm heart with you, tho' my back I'm forced to turn&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter down the Mall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon to the fall.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The boat comes straining on her net, and heavily she creeps,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Cast off, cast off&mdash;she feels the oars, and to her berth she sweeps;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Now fore and aft keep hauling, and gathering up the clew,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[152]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the crew.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit, and many a joke and 'yarn':&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the tide,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When all the green-hill'd harbour is full from side to side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round the Abbey Bay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From rocky Inis Saimer to Coolnargit sandhills gray;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While far upon the southern line, to guard it like a wall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The Leitrim mountains clothed in blue gaze calmly over all,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And watch the ship sail up or down, the red flag at her stern;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding banks of Erne!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them that pull an oar,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point to Mullaghmore;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League, that ocean-mountain steep,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[153]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred in the deep;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round by Tullen strand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Level and long, and white with waves, where gull and curlew stand;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Head out to sea when on your lee the breakers you discern!&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Adieu to all the billowy coast, and winding banks of Erne!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Farewell, Coolmore,&mdash;Bundoran! and your summer crowds that run<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From inland homes to see with joy th' Atlantic setting sun;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among the waves;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt the gloomy caves;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the crabs, the fish;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[154]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Young men and maids to meet and smile, and form a tender wish;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The sick and old in search of health, for all things have their turn&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I must quit my native shore, and the winding banks of Erne!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Farewell to every white cascade from the Harbour to Belleek,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And every pool where fins may rest, and ivy-shaded creek;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash and holly grow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The one split yew-tree gazing on the curving flood below;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The Lough that winds through islands under Turaw mountain green;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And Castle Caldwell's stretching woods, with tranquil bays between;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And Breesie Hill, and many a pond among the heath and fern;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For I must say adieu&mdash;adieu to the winding banks of Erne!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[155]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The thrush will call through Camlin groves the live-long summer day;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The waters run by mossy cliff, and banks with wild flowers gay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The girls will bring their work and sing beneath a twisted thorn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or stray with sweethearts down the path among the growing corn;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Along the river-side they go, where I have often been,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O never shall I see again the days that I have seen!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A thousand chances are to one I never may return,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Adieu to evening dances, when merry neighbours meet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the fiddle says to boys and girls, 'Get up and shake your feet!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To <i>shanachus</i> and wise old talk of Erin's days gone by&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who trench'd the rath on such a hill, and where the bones may lie<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[156]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of saint, or king, or warrior chief; with tales of fairy power,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the twilight hour.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Adieu, my dear companions on the winding banks of Erne!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Purt,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather,&mdash;I wish no one any hurt;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane, the Mall, and Portnasun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the sea.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and often fondly turn<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To think of Ballyshanny and the winding banks of Erne!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">If ever I'm a money'd man, I mean, please God, to cast<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[157]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My golden anchor in the place where youthful years were past;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though heads that now are black and brown must meanwhile gather gray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop away&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waters wide.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And if the Lord allows me, I surely will return<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To my native Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>William Allingham</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_FAIRIES" id="THE_FAIRIES"></a>THE FAIRIES</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Up the airy mountain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Down the rushy glen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">We daren't go a-hunting<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For fear of little men;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Wee folk, good folk,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Trooping all together;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Green jacket, red cap,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[158]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And white owl's feather!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Down along the rocky shore<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Some make their home,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They live on crispy pancakes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of yellow tide-foam;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Some in the reeds<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of the bleak mountain lake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With frogs for their watch-dogs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">All night awake.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">High on the hill-top<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The old King sits;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He is now so old and gray<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">He's nigh lost his wits.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With a bridge of white mist<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Columbkill he crosses,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On his stately journeys<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">From Sleeveleague to Rosses;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or going up with music<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">On cold starry nights,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To sup with the Queen<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of the gay Northern Lights.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">They stole little Bridget<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[159]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For seven years long;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When she came down again<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Her friends were all gone.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They took her lightly back,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Between the night and morrow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They thought that she was fast asleep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">But she was dead with sorrow.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They have kept her ever since<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Deep within the lake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On a bed of flag-leaves,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Watching till she wake.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">By the craggy hillside<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Through the mosses bare,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They have planted thorn-trees<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For pleasure here and there.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If any man so daring<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">As dig them up in spite,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He shall find their sharpest thorns<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In his bed at night.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Up the airy mountain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Down the rushy glen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">We daren't go a-hunting<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[160]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For fear of little men;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Wee folk, good folk,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Trooping all together;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Green jacket, red cap,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And white owl's feather!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>William Allingham</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_ABBOT_OF_INISFALEN" id="THE_ABBOT_OF_INISFALEN"></a>THE ABBOT OF INISFALEN</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>A Killarney Legend</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock4"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The Abbot of Inisf&#257;len awoke ere dawn of day;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Under the dewy green leaves went he forth to pray.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The lake around his island lay smooth and dark and deep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And wrapped in a misty stillness the mountains were all asleep.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac when the dawn was dim and gray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The prayers of his holy office he faithfully 'gan say.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac while the dawn was waxing red;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And for his sins' forgiveness a solemn prayer he said:<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[161]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Low kneel'd that holy Abbot while the dawn was waking clear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And he prayed with loving-kindness for his convent-brethren dear.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Low kneel'd the blessed Abbot while the dawn was waxing bright;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland, he pray'd with all his might.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Low kneel'd that good old Father while the sun began to dart;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He pray'd a prayer for all men, he pray'd it from his heart.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His blissful soul was in Heaven, tho' a breathing man was he;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He was out of time's dominion, so far as the living may be.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The Abbot of Inisf&#257;len arose upon his feet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He heard a small bird singing, and O but it sung sweet!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It sung upon a holly-bush, this little snow-white bird;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A song so full of gladness he never before had heard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It sung upon a hazel, it sung upon a thorn;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[162]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He had never heard such music since the hour that he was born.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It sung upon a sycamore, it sung upon a briar;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To follow the song and hearken the Abbot would never tire.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Till at last he well bethought him, he might no longer stay;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So he bless'd the little white singing-bird, and gladly went his way.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">But, when he came to his Abbey, he found a wondrous wondrous change;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He saw no friendly faces there, for every face was strange.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The strange men spoke unto him; and he heard from all and each<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The foreign tongue of the Sassenach, not wholesome Irish speech.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then the oldest monk came forward, in Irish tongue spake he:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress, and who hath given it to thee?'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'I wear the holy Augustine's dress, and Cormac is my name,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[163]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The Abbot of this good Abbey by grace of God I am.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day; and when my prayers were said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I hearken'd awhile to a little bird, that sang above my head.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The monks to him made answer, 'Two hundred years have gone o'er,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate, and never was heard of more.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Matthias now is our Abbot, and twenty have pass'd away.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The stranger is lord of Ireland; we live in an evil day.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Days will come and go,' he said, 'and the world will pass away:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In Heaven a day is a thousand years, a thousand years are a day.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Now give me absolution; for my time is come,' said he.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And they gave him absolution, as speedily as might be.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[164]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then, close outside the window, the sweetest song they heard<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That ever yet since the world began was utter'd by any bird.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The monks look'd out and saw the bird, its feathers all white and clean;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And then in a moment, beside it, another white bird was seen.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Those two they sang together, waved their white wings, and fled;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Flew aloft and vanish'd; but the good old man was dead.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They buried his blessed body where lake and green-sward meet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A carven cross above his head, a holly-bush at his feet;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where spreads the beautiful water to gay or cloudy skies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the purple peaks of Killarney from ancient woods arise.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>William Allingham</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="TWILIGHT_VOICES" id="TWILIGHT_VOICES"></a>TWILIGHT VOICES</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Now, at the hour when ignorant mortals<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Drowse in the shade of their whirling sphere,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[165]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Heaven and Hell from invisible portals<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Breathing comfort and ghastly fear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Voices I hear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I hear strange voices, flitting, calling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Wavering by on the dusky blast,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Come, let us go, for the night is falling;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Come, let us go, for the day is past!'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Troops of joys are they, now departed?<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Winged hopes that no longer stay?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Guardian spirits grown weary-hearted?<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Powers that have linger'd their latest day?<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">What do they say?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What do they sing? I hear them calling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Whispering, gathering, flying fast,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Come, come, for the night is falling;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Come, come, for the day is past!'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Sing they to me?&mdash;'Thy taper's wasted;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Mortal, thy sands of life run low;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thine hours like a flock of birds have hasted:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Time is ending;&mdash;we go, we go.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Sing they so?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Mystical voices, floating, calling;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[166]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Dim farewells&mdash;the last, the last?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Come, come away, the night is falling;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Come, come away, the day is past.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">See, I am ready, Twilight voices!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Child of the spirit-world am I;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">How should I fear you? my soul rejoices,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">O speak plainer! O draw nigh!<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Fain would I fly!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Tell me your message, Ye who are calling<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Out of the dimness vague and vast;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lift me, take me,&mdash;the night is falling;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Quick, let us go,&mdash;the day is past.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>William Allingham</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="FOUR_DUCKS_ON_A_POND" id="FOUR_DUCKS_ON_A_POND"></a>FOUR DUCKS ON A POND</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Four ducks on a pond,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A grass-bank beyond,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A blue sky of spring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">White clouds on the wing:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What a little thing<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To remember for years&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To remember with tears!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>William Allingham</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum">[167]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_LOVER_AND_BIRDS" id="THE_LOVER_AND_BIRDS"></a>THE LOVER AND BIRDS</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">Within a budding grove,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In April's ear sang every bird his best,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But not a song to pleasure my unrest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in jest.<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">To every word<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">Of every bird<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I listen'd, or replied as it behove.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">Scream'd Chaffinch, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Pretty lovey, come and meet me here!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Chaffinch,' quoth I, 'be dumb awhile, in fear<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Thy darling prove no better than a cheat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And never come, or fly when wintry days appear.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">Yet from a twig,<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">With voice so big,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The little fowl his utterance did repeat.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">Then I, 'The man forlorn<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Hears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'And what'll <i>he</i> do? What'll <i>he</i> do?' scoff'd<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[168]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The Blackbird, standing, in ancient thorn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then spread his sooty wings and flitted to the croft<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">With cackling laugh;<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">Whom I, being half<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Enraged, called after, giving back his scorn.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">Worse mock'd the Thrush, 'Die! die!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O, could he do it? could he do it? Nay!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Be quick! be quick! Here, here, here!' (went his lay).<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">'Take heed! take heed!' then, 'Why? why? why? why? why?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">See-ee now! see-ee now!' (he drawl'd) 'Back! back! back! R-r-r-run away!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">O Thrush, be still!<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">Or at thy will<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Seek some less sad interpreter than I.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">'Air, air! blue air and white!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Whither I flee, whither, O whither, O whither I flee!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">(Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the lea)<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">'Hills, countries, many waters glittering bright<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Whither I see, whither I see! deeper, deeper, deeper, whither I see, see, see!'<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[169]<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">'Gay Lark,' I said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">'The song that's bred<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In happy nest may well to heaven make flight.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">'There's something, something sad<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I half remember'&mdash;piped a broken strain.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Well sung, sweet Robin! Robin sung again.<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">'Spring's opening cheerily, cheerily! be we glad!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Which moved, I wist not why, me melancholy mad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">Till now, grown meek,<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">With wetted cheek,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Most comforting and gentle thoughts I had.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>William Allingham</i>
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_CELTS" id="THE_CELTS"></a>THE CELTS</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Long, long ago, beyond the misty space<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of twice a thousand years,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In Erin old there dwelt a mighty race<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Taller than Roman spears;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like oaks and towers, they had a giant grace,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Were fleet as deers:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With winds and waves they made their biding-place,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[170]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The Western shepherd seers.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Their ocean-god was <i>Mananan Mac Lir</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Whose angry lips<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In their white foam full often would inter<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Whole fleets of ships:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Crom</i> was their day-god, and their thunderer<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Made morning and eclipse:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Bride</i> was their queen of song, and unto her<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">They pray'd with fire-touch'd lips.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Great were their acts, their passions, and their sports;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With clay and stone<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They piled on strath and shore those mystic forts,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Not yet undone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On cairn-crown'd hills they held their council courts;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">While youths&mdash;alone&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With giant-dogs, explored the elks' resorts,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And brought them down.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Of these was <i>Finn</i>, the father of the bard<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Whose ancient song<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Over the clamour of all change is heard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Sweet-voiced and strong.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Finn once o'ertook Granu, the golden-hair'd,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[171]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The fleet and young:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From her, the lovely, and from him, the feared,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The primal poet sprung&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1"><i>Ossian!</i>&mdash;two thousand years of mist and change<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Surround thy name;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thy Finnian heroes now no longer range<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The hills of Fame.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The very name of Finn and Gael sound strange;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Yet thine the same<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By miscall'd lake and desecrated grange<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Remains, and shall remain!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The Druid's altar and the Druid's creed<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">We scarce can trace;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There is not left an undisputed deed<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of all your race&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Save your majestic Song, which hath their speed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And strength, and grace:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In that sole song they live, and love, and bleed&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">It bears them on through space.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Inspirèd giant, shall we e'er behold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In our own time,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">One fit to speak your spirit on the wold,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[172]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Or seize your rhyme?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">One pupil of the past, as mighty-soul'd<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">As in the prime<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Were the fond, fair, and beautiful, and bold&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">They of your song sublime?<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Thomas D'Arcy McGee</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="SALUTATION_TO_THE_CELTS" id="SALUTATION_TO_THE_CELTS"></a>SALUTATION TO THE CELTS</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Hail to our Celtic brethren wherever they may be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the far woods of Oregon, or o'er the Atlantic sea;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Whether they guard the banner of St. George, in Indian vales,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or spread beneath the nightless North experimental sails&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 9em;">One in name, and in fame,<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 11em;">Are the sea-divided Gaels.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Though fallen the state of Erin, and changed the Scottish land,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though small the power of Mona, though unwaked Llewellyn's band,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[173]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though Ambrose Merlin's prophecies are held as idle tales,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though Iona's ruined cloisters are swept by northern gales:<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 9em;">One in name, and in fame,<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 11em;">Are the sea-divided Gaels.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">In Northern Spain and Italy our brethren also dwell,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And brave are the traditions of their fathers that they tell:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The Eagle or the Crescent in the dawn of history pales<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Before the advancing banners of the great Rome-conquering Gaels.<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 9em;">One in name, and in fame,<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 11em;">Are the sea-divided Gaels.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">A greeting and a promise unto them all we send;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Their character our charter is, their glory is our end&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Their friend shall be our friend, our foe whoe'er assails<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The glory or the story of the sea-divided Gaels.<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 9em;">One in name, and in fame,<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 11em;">Are the sea-divided Gaels.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Thomas D'Arcy McGee</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum">[174]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_GOBBAN_SAOR" id="THE_GOBBAN_SAOR"></a>THE GOBBAN SAOR</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">He stepped a man, out on the ways of men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And no one knew his sept, or rank, or name;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like a strong stream far issuing from a glen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">From some source unexplored the Master came;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Gossips there were who, wondrous keen of ken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Surmised that he must be a child of shame;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Others declared him of the Druids, then&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Thro' Patrick's labours&mdash;fallen from power and fame.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">He lived apart, wrapt up in many plans;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">He wooed not women, tasted not of wine;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He shunned the sports and councils of the clans;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Nor ever knelt at a frequented shrine.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His orisons were old poetic ranns<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Which the new Olamhs deem'd an evil sign;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To most he seemed one of those Pagan Khans<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Whose mystic vigour knows no cold decline.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">He was the builder of the wondrous Towers,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[175]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Which, tall and straight and exquisitely round,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Rise monumental round this isle of ours,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Index-like, marking spots of holy ground.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In glooming silent glens, in lowland bowers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">On river banks, these <i>Cloichteachs</i> old abound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where Art, enraptured, meditates long hours<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And Science ponders, wondering and spell-bound.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Lo, wheresoe'er these pillar-towers aspire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Heroes and holy men repose below;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The bones of some, gleaned from a Pagan pyre,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Others in armour lie, as for a foe;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It was the mighty Master's life-desire<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To chronicle his great ancestors so;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What holier duty, what achievement higher<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Remains to us, than this he thus doth show?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Yet he, the builder, died an unknown death;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">His labours done, no man beheld him more;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Twas thought his body faded like a breath&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Or, like a sea-mist, floated off Life's shore.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Doubt overhangs his fate&mdash;and faith&mdash;and birth:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">His works alone attest his life and love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They are the only witnesses he hath,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[176]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">All else Egyptian darkness covers o'er.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Men called him Gobban Saor, and many a tale<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Yet lingers in the byways of the land,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of how he cleft the rock, and down the vale<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Led the bright river, child-like, in his hand;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of how on giant ships he spread great sail<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And many marvels else, by him first planned,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And tho' these legends fail, in Innisfail<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">His name and Towers for centuries still shall stand.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Thomas D'Arcy McGee</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="PATRICK_SHEEHAN" id="PATRICK_SHEEHAN"></a>PATRICK SHEEHAN</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">My name is Patrick Sheehan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My years are thirty-four,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Tipperary is my native place,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Not far from Galtymore;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I came of honest parents,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">But now they're lying low;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And many a pleasant day I spent<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In the Glen of Aherlow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">My father died; I closed his eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[177]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3"><i>Outside</i> our cabin-door;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The landlord and the sheriff too<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Were there the day before!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And then my loving mother,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And sisters three also,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Were forced to go with broken hearts<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">From the Glen of Aherlow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">For three long months, in search of work,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I wandered far and near;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I went then to the poor-house,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For to see my mother dear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The news I heard nigh broke my heart;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">But still, in all my woe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I blessed the friends who made their graves<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In the Glen of Aherlow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Bereft of home and kith and kin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With plenty all around,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I starved within my cabin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And slept upon the ground;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But cruel as my lot was,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I ne'er did hardship know<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Till I joined the English army,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[178]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Far away from Aherlow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Rouse up, there,' says the Corporal,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">'You lazy Hirish hound;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Why don't you hear, you sleepy dog,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The call "to arms" sound?'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Alas, I had been dreaming<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of days long, long ago;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I woke before Sebastopol,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And not in Aherlow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I groped to find my musket&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">How dark I thought the night!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O blessed God, it was not dark,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">It was the broad daylight!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And when I found that I was <i>blind</i>,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My tears began to flow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I longed for even a pauper's grave<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In the Glen of Aherlow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O blessed Virgin Mary,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Mine is a mournful tale;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A poor blind prisoner here I am,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In Dublin's dreary gaol;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Struck blind within the trenches,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[179]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Where I never feared the foe;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And now I'll never see again<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My own sweet Aherlow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">A poor neglected mendicant,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I wandered through the street;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My nine months' pension now being out,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I beg from all I meet:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As I joined my country's tyrants,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">My face I'll never show<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Among the kind old neighbours<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In the Glen of Aherlow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Then, Irish youths, dear countrymen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Take heed of what I say;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For if you join the English ranks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">You'll surely rue the day;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And whenever you are tempted<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">A-soldiering to go,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Remember poor blind Sheehan<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of the Glen of Aherlow.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Charles J. Kickham</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum">[180]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_IRISH_PEASANT_GIRL" id="THE_IRISH_PEASANT_GIRL"></a>THE IRISH PEASANT GIRL</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">She lived beside the Anner,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">At the foot of Sliev-na-mon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A gentle peasant girl,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With mild eyes like the dawn;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Her lips were dewy rosebuds;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Her teeth of pearls rare;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And a snow-drift 'neath a beechen bough<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Her neck and nut-brown hair.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">How pleasant 'twas to meet her<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">On Sunday, when the bell<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Was filling with its mellow tones<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Lone wood and grassy dell!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And when at eve young maidens<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Strayed the river-bank along,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The widow's brown-haired daughter<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Was loveliest of the throng.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O brave, brave Irish girls&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">We well may call you brave!&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sure the least of all your perils<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[181]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Is the stormy ocean wave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When you leave our quiet valleys,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And cross the Atlantic's foam,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To hoard your hard-won earnings<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For the helpless ones at home.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Write word to my own dear mother&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Say, we'll meet with God above;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And tell my little brothers<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I send them all my love;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">May the angels ever guard them,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Is their dying sister's prayer'&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And folded in the letter<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Was a braid of nut-brown hair.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Ah, cold, and well-nigh callous,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">This weary heart has grown<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For thy helpless fate, dear Ireland,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And for sorrows of my own;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yet a tear my eye will moisten<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">When by Anner's side I stray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For the lily of the mountain foot<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That withered far away.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Charles J. Kickham</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum">[182]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="TO_GOD_AND_IRELAND_TRUE" id="TO_GOD_AND_IRELAND_TRUE"></a>TO GOD AND IRELAND TRUE</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I sit beside my darling's grave,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who in the prison died,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And tho' my tears fall thick and fast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I think of him with pride:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ay, softly fall my tears like dew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For one to God and Ireland true.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'I love my God o'er all,' he said,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">'And then I love my land,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And next I love my Lily sweet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who pledged me her white hand:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To each&mdash;to all&mdash;I'm ever true,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To God&mdash;to Ireland and to you.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">No tender nurse his hard bed smoothed<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Or softly raised his head:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He fell asleep and woke in heaven<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Ere I knew he was dead;&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yet why should I my darling rue?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He was to God and Ireland true.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O, 'tis a glorious memory;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[183]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I'm prouder than a queen<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To sit beside my hero's grave<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And think on what has been:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And O, my darling, I am true<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To God&mdash;to Ireland and to you!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Ellen O'Leary</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_BANSHEE" id="THE_BANSHEE"></a>THE BANSHEE</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Green, in the wizard arms,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of the foam-bearded Atlantic,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">An isle of old enchantment,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A melancholy isle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Enchanted and dreaming lies;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And there, by Shannon's flowing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the moonlight, spectre thin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The spectre Erin sits.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">An aged desolation<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She sits by old Shannon's flowing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A mother of many children,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of children exiled and dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In her home, with bent head, homeless,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Clasping her knees she sits,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Keening, keening!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[184]</span>
+<span class="i1">And at her keene the fairy-grass<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Trembles on dun and barrow;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Around the foot of her ancient crosses<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The grave-grass shakes and the nettle swings;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In haunted glens the meadow-sweet<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Flings to the night-wind<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Her mystic mournful perfume;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The sad spearmint by holy wells<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Breathes melancholy balm.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Sometimes she lifts her head,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With blue eyes tearless,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And gazes athwart the reek of night<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Upon things long past,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Upon things to come.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And sometimes, when the moon<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Brings tempest upon the deep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And roused Atlantic thunders from his caverns in the West,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The wolf-hound at her feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Springs up with a mighty bay,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[185]</span>
+<span class="i1">And chords of mystery sound from the wild harp at her side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Strung from the heart of poets;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And she flies on the verge of the tempest<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Around her shuddering isle,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With grey hair streaming:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A meteor of evil omen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The spectre of hope forlorn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Keening, keening!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">She keenes, and the strings of her wild harp shiver<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On the gusts of night:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O'er the four waters she keenes&mdash;over Moyle she keenes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O'er the Sea of Milith, and the Strait of Strongbow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the Ocean of Columbus.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And the Fianna hear, and the ghosts of her cloudy hovering heroes;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the swan, Fianoula, wails o'er the waters of Inisfail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Chanting her song of destiny,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The rune of the weaving Fates.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And the nations hear in the void and quaking time of night,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[186]</span>
+<span class="i1">Sad unto dawning, dirges,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Solemn dirges,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And snatches of bardic song;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Their souls quake in the void and quaking time of night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And they dream of the weird of kings,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And tyrannies moulting, sick<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the dreadful wind of change.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exiles, wail no more,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Banshee of the world&mdash;no more!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thy sorrows are the world's, thou art no more alone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thy wrongs, the world's.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>John Todhunter</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="AGHADOE" id="AGHADOE"></a>AGHADOE</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock4"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">There's a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There's a green and silent glade in Aghadoe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where we met, my Love and I, Love's fair planet in the sky,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O'er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">There's a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[187]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There's a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where I hid from the eyes of the red-coats and their spies<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That year the trouble came to Aghadoe.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O! my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On Shaun Dhuv, my mother's son in Aghadoe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When your throat fries in hell's drouth salt the flame be in your mouth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For the treachery you did in Aghadoe!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">For they tracked me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When the price was on his head in Aghadoe;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O'er the mountain through the wood, as I stole to him with food,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There he lay, the head&mdash;my breast keeps the warmth where once 'twould rest&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Gone, to win the traitor's gold, from Aghadoe!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I walked to Mallow Town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[188]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Brought his head from the gaol's gate to Aghadoe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then I covered him with fern, and I piled on him the cairn.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like an Irish King he sleeps in Aghadoe.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O! to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Your own love, cold on your cairn in Aghadoe.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>John Todhunter</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="A_MAD_SONG" id="A_MAD_SONG"></a>A MAD SONG</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">I hear the wind a-blowing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I hear the corn a-growing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I hear the Virgin praying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">I hear what she is saying.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Hester Sigerson</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="LADY_MARGARETS_SONG" id="LADY_MARGARETS_SONG"></a>LADY MARGARET'S SONG</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Girls, when I am gone away,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">On this bosom strew<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Only flowers meek and pale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the yew.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[189]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lay these hands down by my side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Let my face be bare;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Bind a kerchief round the face,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Smooth my hair.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Let my bier be borne at dawn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Summer grows so sweet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Deep into the forest green<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Where boughs meet.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Then pass away, and let me lie<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">One long, warm, sweet day<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There alone, with face upturned,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">One sweet day.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">While the morning light grows broad,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">While noon sleepeth sound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While the evening falls and faints,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">While the world goes round.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Edward Dowden</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="SONG2" id="SONG2"></a>SONG</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I made another garden, yea,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[190]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For my new Love.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I left the dead rose where it lay<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And set the new above.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Why did my Summer not begin?<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Why did my heart not haste?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My old Love came and walked therein<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And laid the garden waste.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">She entered with her weary smile,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Just as of old:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She looked around a little while<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And shivered with the cold.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Her passing touch was death to all,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Her passing look a blight;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She made the white rose-petals fall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And turned the red rose white.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Her pale robe clinging to the grass<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Seemed like a snake<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That bit the grass and ground, alas!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And a sad trail did make.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She went up slowly to the gate,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And then, just as of yore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She turned back at the last to wait<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And say farewell once more.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Arthur O'Shaughnessy</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum">[191]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="FATHER_OFLYNN" id="FATHER_OFLYNN"></a>FATHER O'FLYNN</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Of priests we can offer a charming variety,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Far renowned for larnin' and piety,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Still I'd advance you, without impropriety,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i7"><i>Slainte</i>, and <i>slainte</i>, and <i>slainte</i> agin.<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Powerfullest preacher,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">And tindherest teacher,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And kindliest creature in Old Donegal.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Far renowned for Greek and Latinity,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Gad! and the divils and all at Divinity,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Father O'Flynn would make hares of them all.<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">Come, I venture to give you my word,<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">Never the likes of his logic was heard,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Down from mythology,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Into thayology,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Troth and conchology, if he'd the call.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way with you,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[192]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All the old sinners are wishful to pray with you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All the young children are wild for to play with you,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">You've such a way with you, Father <i>avick</i>!<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">Still for all you're so gentle a soul,<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control;<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Checking the crazy ones,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Coaxing unaisy ones,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Lifting the lazy ones on with the stick.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And though quite avoiding all foolish frivolity,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Still at all seasons of innocent jollity,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where is the play-boy can claim an equality<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">At comicality, Father, with you?<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">Till this remark set him off with the rest:<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">'Is it leave gaiety<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">All to the laity?<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too?'<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Alfred Perceval Graves</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="SONG3" id="SONG3"></a>SONG</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The silent bird is hid in the boughs,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[193]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The scythe is hid in the corn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The lazy oxen wink and drowse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The grateful sheep are shorn.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Redder and redder burns the rose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The lily was ne'er so pale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Stiller and stiller the river flows<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Along the path to the vale.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">A little door is hid in the boughs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">A face is hiding within;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When birds are silent and oxen drowse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Why should a maiden spin?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Slower and slower turns the wheel,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The face turns red and pale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Brighter and brighter the looks that steal,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Along the path to the vale.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Rosa Gilbert</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="REQUIESCAT" id="REQUIESCAT"></a>REQUIESCAT</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Tread lightly, she is near<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Under the snow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Speak gently, she can hear<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The daisies grow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[194]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All her bright golden hair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Tarnished with rust,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She that was young and fair<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Fallen to dust.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Lily-like, white as snow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">She hardly knew<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She was a woman, so<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Sweetly she grew.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Coffin-board, heavy stone<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Lie on her breast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I vex my heart alone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">She is at rest.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Peace, Peace, she cannot hear<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Lyre or sonnet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All my life's buried here,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Heap earth upon it.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Oscar Wilde</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_LAMENT_OF_QUEEN_MAEV" id="THE_LAMENT_OF_QUEEN_MAEV"></a>THE LAMENT OF QUEEN MAEV</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish of the Book of Leinster</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Raise the cromlech high!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[195]<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Mac Moghcorb is slain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And other men's renown<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Has leave to live again.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Cold at last he lies<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">'Neath the burial stone.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All the blood he shed<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Could not save his own.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Stately, strong he went,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Through his nobles all,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">When we paced together<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Up the banquet-hall.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Dazzling white as lime,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Was his body fair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Cherry-red his cheeks,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Raven-black his hair.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Razor-sharp his spear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And the shield he bore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">High as champion's head&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">His arm was like an oar.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Never aught but truth<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[196]<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Spake my noble king;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Valour all his trust<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">In all his warfaring.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">As the forkèd pole<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Holds the roof-tree's weight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">So my hero's arm<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Held the battle straight.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Terror went before him,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Death behind his back,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Well the wolves of Erinn<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Knew his chariot's track.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Seven bloody battles<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">He broke upon his foes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">In each a hundred heroes<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Fell beneath his blows.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Once he fought at Fossud,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thrice at Ath-finn-fail.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">'Twas my king that conquered<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">At bloody Ath-an-Scail.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">At the Boundary Stream<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[197]<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Fought the Royal Hound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">And for Bernas battle<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Stands his name renowned.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Here he fought with Leinster&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Last of all his frays&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">On the Hill of Cucorb's Fate<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">High his cromlech raise.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>T.W. Rolleston</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_DEAD_AT_CLONMACNOIS" id="THE_DEAD_AT_CLONMACNOIS"></a>THE DEAD AT CLONMACNOIS</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish of Enoch O'Gillan</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">In a quiet watered land, a land of roses,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Stands Saint Kieran's city fair;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Slumber there.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of the clan of Conn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the sacred knot thereon.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[198]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">There the sons of Cairbrè sleep&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran's plain of crosses<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Now their final hosting keep.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And right many a lord of Breagh;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Kind in hall and fierce in fray.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In the red earth lies at rest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Many a swan-white breast.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>T.W. Rolleston</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_SPELL-STRUCK" id="THE_SPELL-STRUCK"></a>THE SPELL-STRUCK</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">She walks as she were moving<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Some mystic dance to tread,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So falls her gliding footstep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">So leans her listening head;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">For once to fairy harping<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">She danced upon the hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And through her brain and bosom<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The music pulses still.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[199]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Her eyes are bright and tearless,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">But wide with yearning pain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She longs for nothing earthly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">But O! to hear again<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The sound that held her listening<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Upon her moonlit path!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The rippling fairy music<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That filled the lonely rath.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Her lips, that once have tasted<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The fairy banquet's bliss,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall glad no mortal lover<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With maiden smile or kiss.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">She's dead to all things living<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Since that November Eve;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And when she dies in autumn<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">No living thing will grieve.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>T.W. Rolleston</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="WERE_YOU_ON_THE_MOUNTAIN" id="WERE_YOU_ON_THE_MOUNTAIN"></a>WERE YOU ON THE MOUNTAIN?</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O, were you on the mountain, or saw you my love?<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[200]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or saw you my own one, my queen and my dove?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or saw you the maiden with the step firm and free?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And say, is she pining in sorrow like me?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I was upon the mountain, and saw there your love,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I saw there your own one, your queen and your dove;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I saw there the maiden with the step firm and free<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And she was <i>not</i> pining in sorrow like thee.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Douglas Hyde</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="MY_GRIEF_ON_THE_SEA" id="MY_GRIEF_ON_THE_SEA"></a>MY GRIEF ON THE SEA</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">My grief on the sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">How the waves of it roll!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For they heave between me<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the love of my soul!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Abandoned, forsaken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To grief and to care,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Will the sea ever waken<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Relief from despair?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">My grief and my trouble<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[201]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Would he and I wear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the province of Leinster,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Or County of Clare?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Were I and my darling&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">O, heart-bitter wound!&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On board of the ship<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For America bound.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">On a green bed of rushes<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">All last night I lay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I flung it abroad<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With the heat of the day.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And my love came behind me&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">He came from the south;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His breast to my bosom,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">His mouth to my mouth.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Douglas Hyde</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="MY_LOVE_O_SHE_IS_MY_LOVE" id="MY_LOVE_O_SHE_IS_MY_LOVE"></a>MY LOVE, O, SHE IS MY LOVE</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">She casts a spell, O, casts a spell,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[202]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Which haunts me more than I can tell.<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Dearer because she makes me ill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Than who would will to make me well.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">She is my store, O, she my store,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Whose grey eye wounded me so sore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who will not place in mine her palm,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who will not calm me any more.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">She is my pet, O, she my pet,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Whom I can never more forget;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who would not lose by me one moan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Nor stone upon my cairn set,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">She is my roon, O, she my roon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who tells me nothing, leaves me soon;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who would not lose by me one sigh,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Were death and I within one room.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">She is my dear, O, she my dear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who cares not whether I be here.<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who would not weep when I am dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who makes me shed the silent tear.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Hard my case, O, hard my case,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[203]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">How have I lived so long a space,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">She does not trust me any more,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">But I adore her silent face.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">She is my choice, O, she my choice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who never made me to rejoice;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who caused my heart to ache so oft,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who put no softness in her voice.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Great is my grief, O, great my grief,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Neglected, scorned beyond belief,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">By her who looks at me askance,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">By her who grants me no relief.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">She's my desire, O, my desire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">More glorious than the bright sun's fire;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Who more than wind&mdash;blown ice more cold,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Had I the boldness to sit by her.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">She it is who stole my heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">But left a void and aching smart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">But if she soften not her eye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Then life and I shall surely part.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Douglas Hyde</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum">[204]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="I_SHALL_NOT_DIE_FOR_THEE" id="I_SHALL_NOT_DIE_FOR_THEE"></a>I SHALL NOT DIE FOR THEE</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">For thee I shall not die,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Woman high of fame and name;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Foolish men thou mayest slay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I and they are not the same.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Why should I expire<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">For the fire of any eye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Slender waist, or swan-like limb,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Is't for them that I should die?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The round breasts, the fresh skin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Cheeks crimson, hair so long and rich;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Indeed, indeed, I shall not die,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Please God, not I, for any such.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The golden hair, the forehead thin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The chaste mien, the gracious ease,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The rounded heel, the languid tone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Fools alone find death from these.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[205]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Thy thin palm like foam of sea;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thy white neck, thy blue eye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I shall not die for thee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Woman, graceful as the swan,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">A wise man did nurture me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Little palm, white neck, bright eye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I shall not die for ye.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Douglas Hyde</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="RIDDLES" id="RIDDLES"></a>RIDDLES</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>From the Irish</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">A great, great house it is,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A golden candlestick it is,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Guess it rightly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Let it not go by thee.<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 9.5em;"><i>Heaven</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">There's a garden that I ken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Full of little gentlemen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Little caps of blue they wear,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And green ribbons very fair.<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 9.5em;"><i>Flax</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">He comes to ye amidst the brine<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[206]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The butterfly of the sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The man of the coat so blue and fine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With red thread his shirt is done.<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 9.5em;"><i>A Lobster</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">You see it come in on the shoulders of men,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like a thread of the silk it will leave us again.<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 9.5em;"><i>Turf</i>.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Douglas Hyde</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="LOUGH_BRAY" id="LOUGH_BRAY"></a>LOUGH BRAY</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">A little lonely moorland lake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Its waters brown and cool and deep&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The cliff, the hills behind it make<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">A picture for my heart to keep.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">For rock and heather, wave and strand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Wore tints I never saw them wear;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The June sunshine was o'er the land,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Before, 'twas never half so fair!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The amber ripples sang all day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And singing spilled their crowns of white<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Upon the beach, in thin pale spray<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That streaked the sober sand with light.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[207]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The amber ripples sang their song,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">When suddenly from far o'erhead<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A lark's pure voice mixed with the throng<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of lovely things about us spread.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Some flowers were there, so near the brink<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Their shadows in the waves were thrown;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While mosses, green and gray and pink,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Grew thickly round each smooth dark stone.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And, over all, the summer sky,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Shut out the town we left behind;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Twas joy to stand in silence by,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">One bright chain linking mind to mind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O, little lonely mountain spot!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Your place within my heart will be<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Apart from all Life's busy lot<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">A true, sweet, solemn memory.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Rose Kavanagh</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_CHILDREN_OF_LIR" id="THE_CHILDREN_OF_LIR"></a>THE CHILDREN OF LIR</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Out upon the sand-dunes thrive the coarse long grasses,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[208]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Herons standing knee-deep in the brackish pool,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Overhead the sunset fire and flame amasses,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the moon to Eastward rises pale and cool:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Rose and green around her, silver-grey and pearly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Chequered with the black rooks flying home to bed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For, to wake at daybreak birds must couch them early,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the day's a long one since the dawn was red.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">On the chilly lakelet, in that pleasant gloaming,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">See the sad swans sailing: they shall have no rest:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Never a voice to greet them save the bittern's booming<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Where the ghostly sallows sway against the West.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Sister,' saith the grey swan, 'Sister, I am weary,'<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Turning to the white swan wet, despairing eyes;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'O,' she saith, 'my young one.' 'O,' she saith, 'my dearie,'<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Casts her wings about him with a storm of cries.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Woe for Lir's sweet children whom their vile step-mother<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Glamoured with her witch-spells for a thousand years;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Died their father raving&mdash;on his throne another&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Blind before the end came from his burning tears.<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[209]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She&mdash;the fiends possess her, torture her for ever,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Gone is all the glory of the race of Lir;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Gone and long-forgotten like a dream of fever:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">But the swans remember all the days that were.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Hugh, the black and white swan with the beauteous feathers;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Fiachra, the black swan with the emerald breast;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Conn, the youngest, dearest, sheltered in all weathers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Him his snow-white sister loves the tenderest.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">These her mother gave her as she lay a-dying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To her faithful keeping, faithful hath she been,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With her wings spread o'er them when the tempest's crying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And her songs so hopeful when the sky's serene.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Other swans have nests made 'mid the reeds and rushes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Lined with downy feathers where the cygnets sleep<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Dreaming, if a bird dreams, till the daylight blushes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Then they sail out swiftly on the current deep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With the proud swan-father, tall, and strong, and stately,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[210]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the mild swan-mother, grave with household cares,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All well-born and comely, all rejoicing greatly:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Full of honest pleasure is a life like theirs.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">But alas! for my swans, with the human nature,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Sick with human longings, starved with human ties,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With their hearts all human, cramped in a bird's stature,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the human weeping in the bird's soft eyes.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Never shall my swans build nests in some green river,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Never fly to southward in the autumn grey,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Rear no tender children, love no mates for ever,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Robbed alike of bird's joys and of man's are they.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Babbled Conn the youngest, 'Sister, I remember<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">At my father's palace how I went in silk,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ate the juicy deer-flesh roasted from the ember,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Drank from golden goblets my child's draught of milk.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Once I rode a-hunting, laughed to see the hurly,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Shouted at the ball-play, on the lake did row;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">You had for your beauty gauds that shone so rarely':<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Sister,' saith Fiachra, 'well do I remember<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">How the flaming torches lit the banquet hall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the fire leaped skyward in the mid-December,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[211]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And amid the rushes slept our staghounds tall.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By our father's right hand you sat shyly gazing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Smiling half and sighing, with your eyes aglow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As the bards sang loudly, all your beauty praising';<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Sister,' then saith Hugh, 'most do I remember<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">One I called my brother, you, earth's goodliest man,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Strong as forest oaks are where the wild vines clamber,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">First at feast or hunting, in the battle's van.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Angus, you were handsome, wise and true and tender,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Loved by every comrade, feared by every foe:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Low, low lies your beauty, all forgot your splendour':<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.'<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Dews are in the clear air, and the roselight paling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Over sands and sedges shines the evening star,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the moon's disk high in heaven is sailing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Silvered all the spear-heads of the rushes are&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Housed warm are all things as the night grows colder,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Water-fowl and sky-fowl dreamless in the nest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But the swans go drifting, drooping wings and shoulder,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Cleaving the still waters where the fishes rest.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Katharine Tynan Hinkson</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum">[212]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="ST_FRANCIS_TO_THE_BIRDS" id="ST_FRANCIS_TO_THE_BIRDS"></a>ST. FRANCIS TO THE BIRDS</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Little sisters, the birds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">We must praise God, you and I&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">You with songs that fill the sky;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I, with halting words.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">All things tell His praise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Woods and waters thereof sing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Summer, winter, autumn, spring,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the nights and days.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Yea, and cold and heat,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the sun, and stars, and moon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Sea with her monotonous tune,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Rain and hail and sleet.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And the winds of heaven,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the solemn hills of blue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the brown earth and the dew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the thunder even,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And the flowers' sweet breath,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">All things make one glorious voice;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Life with fleeting pains and joys<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And our brother&mdash;Death.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[213]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Little flowers of air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With your feathers soft and sleek<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And your bright brown eyes and meek,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He hath made you fair.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">He hath taught to you<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Skill to weave on tree and thatch<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Nests where happy mothers hatch<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Speckled eggs of blue.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And hath children given:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">When the soft heads overbrim<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The brown nests; then thank ye Him<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the clouds of heaven.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Also in your lives,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Live His laws who loveth you.<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Husbands, be ye kind and true;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Be homekeeping wives.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Love not gossiping;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Stay at home and keep the nest;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Fly not here and there in quest<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of the newest thing.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Live as brethren live;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Love be in each heart and mouth;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Be not envious, be not wroth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Be not slow to give.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[214]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When ye build the nest<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Quarrel not o'er straw or wool;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">He who hath, be bountiful<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To the neediest.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Be not puffed or vain<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of your beauty or your worth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of your children or your birth,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or the praise you gain.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Eat not greedily:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Sometimes, for sweet mercy's sake,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Worm or insect spare to take;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Let it crawl or fly.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">See ye sing not near<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To our church on holy day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Lest the human-folk should stray<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From their prayer to hear.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Now depart in peace,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In God's name I bless each one;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">May your days be long i' the sun<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And your joys increase.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And remember me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Your poor brother Francis, who<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Loveth you, and thanketh you<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For this courtesy.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[215]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sometimes when ye sing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Name my name, that He may take<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Pity for the dear song's sake<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On my shortcoming.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Katharine Tynan Hinkson</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="SHEEP_AND_LAMBS" id="SHEEP_AND_LAMBS"></a>SHEEP AND LAMBS</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">All in the April morning,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">April airs were abroad;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The sheep with their little lambs<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Passed me by on the road.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The sheep with their little lambs<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Passed me by on the road;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All in the April evening,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I thought on the Lamb of God.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The lambs were weary, and crying<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With a weak human cry,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I thought on the Lamb of God<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Going meekly to die.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Up in the blue, blue mountains<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Dewy pastures are sweet:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Rest for the little bodies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Rest for the little feet.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[216]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Rest for the Lamb of God<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Up on the hill-top green,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Only a cross of shame<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Two stark crosses between.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">All in the April evening,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">April airs were abroad;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I saw the sheep with their lambs,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And thought on the Lamb of God.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Katharine Tynan Hinkson</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_GARDENER_SAGE" id="THE_GARDENER_SAGE"></a>THE GARDENER SAGE</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Here in the garden-bed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Hoeing the celery,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Wonders the Lord has made<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Pass ever before me.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I saw the young birds build,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And swallows come and go,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And summer grow and gild,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And winter die in snow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Many a thing I note,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And store it in my mind;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For all my ragged coat,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[217]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That scarce will stop the wind.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I light my pipe and draw,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And, leaning on my spade,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I marvel with much awe<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">O'er all the Lord hath made.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Now, here's a curious thing:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Upon the first of March,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The crow goes house-building,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In the elms and in the larch.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And be it shine or snow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Though many winds carouse,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That day the artful crow<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Begins to build his house.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">But then&mdash;the wonder's big!&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3"><i>If Sunday fall that day</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Nor straw, nor scraw, nor twig,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i3"><i>Till Monday will he lay.</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1">His black wings to his side,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">He'll drone upon his perch,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Subdued and holy-eyed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">As though he were at church.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The crow's a gentleman<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Not greatly to my mind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He'll steal what seeds he can,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[218]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And all you hide he'll find.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yet though he's bully and sneak,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To small birds bird of prey&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">He counts the days of the week,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And keeps the Sabbath day.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Katharine Tynan Hinkson</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_DARK_MAN" id="THE_DARK_MAN"></a>THE DARK MAN</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Rose o' the world, she came to my bed<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And changed the dreams of my heart and head:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For joy of mine she left grief of hers<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And garlanded me with a crown of furze.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Rose o' the world, they go out and in,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And watch me dream and my mother spin:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And they pity the tears on my sleeping face<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While my soul's away in a fairy place.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Rose o' the world, they have words galore,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And wide's the swing of my mother's door:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But soft they speak of my darkened eyes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But what do they know, who are all so wise?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Rose o' the world, the pain you give<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Is worth all days that a man may live:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Worth all shy prayers that the colleens say<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On the night that darkens the wedding day.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[219]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Rose o' the world, what man would wed<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When he might dream of your face instead?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Might go to his grave with the blessed pain<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of hungering after your face again?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Rose o' the world, they may talk their fill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For dreams are good, and my life stands still<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While their lives' red ashes the gossips stir,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But my fiddle knows: and I talk to her.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Nora Hopper</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_FAIRY_FIDDLER" id="THE_FAIRY_FIDDLER"></a>THE FAIRY FIDDLER</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Tis I go fiddling, fiddling,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">By weedy ways forlorn:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I make the blackbird's music<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Ere in his breast 'tis born:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The sleeping larks I waken<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Twixt the midnight and the morn.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">No man alive has seen me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">But women hear me play<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sometimes at door or window,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Fiddling the souls away,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The child's soul and the colleen's<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Out of the covering clay.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[220]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">None of my fairy kinsmen<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Make music with me now:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Alone the raths I wander<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Or ride the whitethorn bough;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But the wild swans they know me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the horse that draws the plough.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Nora Hopper</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="OUR_THRONES_DECAY" id="OUR_THRONES_DECAY"></a>OUR THRONES DECAY</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I said, my pleasure shall not move;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">It is not fixed in things apart:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Seeking not love&mdash;but yet to love&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">I put my trust in mine own heart.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I knew the fountain of the deep<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Wells up with living joy, unfed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Such joys the lonely heart may keep,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And love grow rich with love unwed.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Still flows the ancient fount sublime;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">But, ah, for my heart shed tears, shed tears;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Not it, but love, has scorn of time;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">It turns to dust beneath the years.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>A.E.</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum">[221]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="IMMORTALITY" id="IMMORTALITY"></a>IMMORTALITY</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">We must pass like smoke or live within the spirit's fire;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For we can no more than smoke unto the flame return<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If our thought has changed to dream, our will unto desire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">As smoke we vanish though the fire may burn.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Lights of infinite pity star the grey dusk of our days:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Surely here is soul: with it we have eternal breath:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In the fire of love we live, or pass by many ways,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">By unnumbered ways of dream to death.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>A.E.</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_GREAT_BREATH" id="THE_GREAT_BREATH"></a>THE GREAT BREATH</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Withers once more the old blue flower of day:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There where the ether like a diamond glows<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Its petals fade away.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The great deep thrills for through it everywhere<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">The breath of Beauty blows.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[222]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I saw how all the trembling ages past,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Neared to the hour when Beauty breathes her last<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">And knows herself in death.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>A.E.</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="SUNG_ON_A_BY-WAY" id="SUNG_ON_A_BY-WAY"></a>SUNG ON A BY-WAY</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">What of all the will to do?<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">It has vanished long ago,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For a dream-shaft pierced it through<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">From the Unknown Archer's bow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">What of all the soul to think?<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Some one offered it a cup<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Filled with a diviner drink,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And the flame has burned it up.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">What of all the hope to climb?<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Only in the self we grope<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To the misty end of time:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Truth has put an end to hope.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">What of all the heart to love?<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Sadder than for will or soul,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No light lured it on above;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Love has found itself the whole.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>A.E.</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum">[223]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="DREAM_LOVE" id="DREAM_LOVE"></a>DREAM LOVE</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I did not deem it half so sweet<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To feel thy gentle hand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">As in a dream thy soul to greet<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Across wide leagues of land.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Untouched more near to draw to you<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where, amid radiant skies,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Glimmered thy plumes of iris hue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My Bird of Paradise.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Let me dream only with my heart,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Love first, and after see:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Know thy diviner counterpart<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Before I kneel to thee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">So in thy motions all expressed<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thy angel I may view:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I shall not in thy beauty rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But Beauty's ray on you.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>A.E.</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="ILLUSION" id="ILLUSION"></a>ILLUSION</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">What is the love of shadowy lips<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That know not what they seek or press,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From whom the lure for ever slips<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And fails their phantom tenderness?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[224]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The mystery and light of eyes<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That near to mine grow dim and cold;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They move afar in ancient skies<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Mid flame and mystic darkness rolled.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O beauty, as thy heart o'erflows<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In tender yielding unto me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A vast desire awakes and grows<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Unto forgetfulness of thee.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>A.E.</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="JANUS" id="JANUS"></a>JANUS</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Image of beauty, when I gaze on thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Trembling I waken to a mystery,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">How through one door we go to life or death<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By spirit kindled or the sensual breath.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Image of beauty, when my way I go;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No single joy or sorrow do I know:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Elate for freedom leaps the starry power,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The life which passes mourns its wasted hour.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And, ah, to think how thin the veil that lies<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Between the pain of hell and paradise!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where the cool grass my aching head embowers<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">God sings the lovely carol of the flowers.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>A.E.</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum">[225A]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="CONNLAS_WELL" id="CONNLAS_WELL"></a>CONNLA'S WELL</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">A cabin on the mountain side hid in a grassy nook,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With door and windows open wide where friendly stars may look;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The rabbit shy can patter in; the winds may enter free<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who throng around the mountain throne in living ecstasy.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And when the sun sets dimmed in eve and purple fills the air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I think the sacred hazel tree is dropping berries there<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From starry fruitage waved aloft where Connla's well o'erflows;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For sure the immortal waters run through every wind that blows.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I think when night towers up aloft and shakes the trembling dew,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">How every high and lonely thought that thrills my spirit through<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Is but a shining berry dropped down through the purple air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And from the magic tree of life the fruit falls everywhere.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>A.E.</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum">[226A]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="NAMES" id="NAMES"></a>NAMES</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">No temple crowned the shaggy capes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">No safety soothed the kind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The clouds unfabled shifted shapes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And nameless roamed the wind.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The stars, the circling heights of heaven,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The mountains bright with snows<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Looked down, and sadly man at even<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Lay down and sad he rose.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Till ages brought the hour again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">When fell a windless morn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And, child of agonistic pain<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And bliss, the Word was born.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Which grew from all it gazed upon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And spread thro' soil and sphere,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And shrunk the whole into the one,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And fetched the farthest here.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">High is the summer's night, but deep<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The hidden mind unfolds:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Within it does an image sleep<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of all that it beholds.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Alas! when man with busy brow,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[227A]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">His conquering names hath set<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To planet, plant, and worm, who now<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Will teach us to forget?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">What poet now, when wisdoms fail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Another theme shall dare&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The Nameless, and remove the veil<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Which hides it everywhere?<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>John Eglinton</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THAT" id="THAT"></a>THAT</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">What is that beyond thy life,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And beyond all life around,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Which, when thy quick brain is still,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nods to thee from the stars?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Lo, it says, thou hast found<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Me, the lonely, lonely one.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Charles Weekes</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THINK" id="THINK"></a>THINK</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Think, the ragged turf-boy urges<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">O'er the dusty road his asses;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Think, on sea-shore far the lonely<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Heron wings along the sand;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Think, in woodland under oak-boughs<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Now the streaming sunbeam passes;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And bethink thee thou art servant<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To the same all-moving hand.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Charles Weekes</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum">[228A]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="TE_MARTYRUM_CANDIDATUS" id="TE_MARTYRUM_CANDIDATUS"></a>TE MARTYRUM CANDIDATUS</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Ah, see the fair chivalry come, the companions of Christ!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">White Horsemen, who ride on white horses, the Knights of God!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They, for their Lord and their Lover who sacrificed<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All, save the sweetness of treading, where he first trod!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">These through the darkness of death, the dominion of night,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Swept, and they woke in white places at morning tide:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They saw with their eyes, and sang for joy of the sight,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They saw with their eyes the Eyes of the Crucified.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Now, whithersoever He goeth, with Him they go:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">White Horsemen, who ride on white horses, oh fair to see!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They ride, where the Rivers of Paradise flash and flow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">White Horsemen, with Christ their Captain: for ever He!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Lionel Johnson</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum">[229A]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_CHURCH_OF_A_DREAM" id="THE_CHURCH_OF_A_DREAM"></a>THE CHURCH OF A DREAM</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Sadly the dead leaves rustle in the whistling wind,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Around the weather-worn gray church, low down the vale:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The Saints in golden vesture shake before the gale;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The glorious windows shake, where still they dwell enshrined;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Old Saints, by long dead, shrivelled hands, long since designed:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There still, although the world autumnal be, and pale,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Still in their golden vesture the old saints prevail;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Alone with Christ, desolate else, left by mankind.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Only one ancient Priest offers the sacrifice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Murmuring holy Latin immemorial:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Swaying with tremulous hands the old censer full of spice,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">In gray, sweet incense clouds; blue, sweet clouds mystical:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To him, in place of men, for he is old, suffice<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Melancholy remembrances and vesperal.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Lionel Johnson</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum">[230A]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="WAYS_OF_WAR" id="WAYS_OF_WAR"></a>WAYS OF WAR</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">A terrible and splendid trust<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Heartens the host of Inisfail:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">A lightning glory of the Gael.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Croagh Patrick is the place of prayers,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And Tara the assembling place:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But each sweet wind of Ireland bears<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The trump of battle on its race.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">From Dursey Isle to Donegal,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">From Howth to Achill, the glad noise<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Rings: and the heirs of glory fall,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Or victory crowns their fighting joys.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">A dream! a dream! an ancient dream!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Yet, ere peace come to Inisfail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Some weapons on some field must gleam,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Some burning glory fire the Gael.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">That field may lie beneath the sun,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Fair for the treading of an host:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That field in realms of thought be won,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And armed minds do their uttermost:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Some way, to faithful Inisfail,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[231A]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Shall come the majesty and awe<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of martial truth, that must prevail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To lay on all the eternal law.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Lionel Johnson</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_RED_WIND" id="THE_RED_WIND"></a>THE RED WIND</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Red Wind from out the East:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Red wind of blight and blood!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ah, when wilt thou have ceased<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Thy bitter, stormy flood?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Red Wind from over sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Scourging our holy land!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What angel loosened thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Out of his iron hand?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Red Wind! whose word of might<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Winged thee with wings of flame?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O fire of mournful night!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">What is thy Master's name?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Red Wind! who bade thee burn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Branding our hearts? Who bade<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thee on and never turn,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Till waste our souls were laid?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Red Wind! from out the West<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Pour Winds of Paradise:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Winds of eternal rest,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That weary souls entice.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[232A]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Wind of the East! Red Wind!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Thou scorchest the soft breath<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of Paradise the kind:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Red Wind of burning death!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O Red Wind! hear God's voice:<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Hear thou, and fall, and cease.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Let Inisfail rejoice<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">In her Hesperian peace.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Lionel Johnson</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="CELTIC_SPEECH" id="CELTIC_SPEECH"></a>CELTIC SPEECH</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Never forgetful silence fall on thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Nor younger voices overtake thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor echoes from thine ancient hills forsake thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Old music heard by Mona of the sea:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And where with moving melodies there break thee,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Pastoral Conway, venerable Dee.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Like music lives, nor may that music die,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Still in the far, fair Gaelic places:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The speech, so wistful with its kindly graces,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Holy Croagh Patrick knows, and holy Hy:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The speech, that wakes the soul in withered faces,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And wakes remembrance of great things gone by.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Like music by the desolate Land's End,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[225]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Mournful forgetfulness hath broken:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No more words kindred to the winds are spoken,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Where upon iron cliffs whole seas expend<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">That strength, whereof the unalterable token<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Remains wild music, even to the world's end.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Lionel Johnson</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="TO_MORFYDD" id="TO_MORFYDD"></a>TO MORFYDD</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">A voice on the winds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A voice on the waters,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Wanders and cries:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1"><i>O! what are the winds?</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>And what are the waters?</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i5"><i>Mine are your eyes.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Western the winds are,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And western the waters,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Where the light lies:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1"><i>O! what are the winds?</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>And what are the waters?</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i5"><i>Mine are your eyes.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[226]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Cold, cold, grow the winds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And dark grow the waters,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Where the sun dies:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1"><i>O! what are the winds?</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>And what are the waters?</i>/<br /></span>
+<span class="i5"><i>Mine are your eyes.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And down the night winds,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And down the night waters<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">The music flies:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1"><i>O! what are the winds?</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>And what are the waters?</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Cold be the winds,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>And wild be the waters,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i5"><i>So mine be your eyes.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Lionel Johnson</i><br />
+</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="CAN_DOOV_DEELISH" id="CAN_DOOV_DEELISH"></a>CAN DOOV DEELISH</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Can doov deelish, beside the sea<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I stand and stretch my hands to thee<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[227]<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">Across the world.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The riderless horses race to shore<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With thundering hoofs and shuddering, hoar,<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">Blown manes uncurled.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Can doov deelish, I cry to thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Beyond the world, beneath the sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">Thou being dead.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where hast thou hidden from the beat<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Of crushing hoofs and tearing feet<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">Thy dear black head?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">God bless the woman, whoever she be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From the tossing waves will recover thee<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">And lashing wind.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who will take thee out of the wind and storm,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Dry thy wet face on her bosom warm<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">And lips so kind?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I not to know. It is hard to pray,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But I shall for this woman from day to day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">'Comfort my dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The sport of the winds and the play of the sea.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I loved thee too well for this thing to be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i13">O dear black head!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p style="text-align: right;">
+<i>Dora Sigerson</i><br />
+<span class="pagenum">[228]</span></p>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h1>ANONYMOUS</h1>
+<p><span class="pagenum">[231]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="SHULE_AROON" id="SHULE_AROON"></a>SHULE AROON</h2>
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I would I were on yonder hill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And every tear would turn a mill,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shule, shule, shule aroon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shule go succir, agus shule go cuin,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shule go den durrus agus eligh lum,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I'll sell my only spinning-wheel,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To buy for my love a sword of steel,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span style="margin-left: 13em"><i>Chorus.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And around the world I'll beg my bread,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Until my parents shall wish me dead,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span style="margin-left: 13em"><i>Chorus.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[232]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I wish I had my heart again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And vainly think I'd not complain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span style="margin-left: 13em"><i>Chorus.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">But now my love has gone to France,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To try his fortune to advance;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If he e'er come back 'tis but a chance,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i>Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span style="margin-left: 13em"><i>Chorus.</i><br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_SHAN_VAN_VOCHT" id="THE_SHAN_VAN_VOCHT"></a>THE SHAN VAN VOCHT</h2>
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O! the French are on the sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Says the <i>shan van vocht</i>;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The French are on the sea,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Says the <i>shan van vocht</i>;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O! the French are in the bay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They'll be here without delay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And the Orange will decay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Says the <i>shan van vocht</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[233]<br /></span>
+<span class="i13"><i>Chorus.</i><br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i5">O! the French are in the bay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">They'll be here by break of day,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">And the Orange will decay,<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">Says the <i>shan van vocht</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And their camp it shall be where?<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Says the <i>shan van vocht</i>;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Their camp it shall be where?<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Says the <i>shan van vocht</i>;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On the Currach of Kildare,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The boys they will be there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With their pikes in good repair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Says the <i>shan van vocht</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i5">To the Currach of Kildare<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">The boys they will repair,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">And Lord Edward will be there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">Says the <i>shan van vocht</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Then what will the yeomen do?<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Says the <i>shan van vocht</i>;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What will the yeomen do?<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Says the <i>shan van vocht</i>;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[234]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What <i>should</i> the yeomen do<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But throw off the red and blue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And swear that they'll be true<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To the <i>shan van vocht</i>?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i5">What <i>should</i> the yeomen do<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">But throw off the red and blue,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">And swear that they'll be true<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">To the <i>shan van vocht</i>?<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And what colour will they wear?<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Says the <i>shan van vocht</i>;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What colour will they wear?<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Says the <i>shan van vocht</i>;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What colour should be seen<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where our fathers' homes have been,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But our own immortal Green?<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Says the <i>shan van vocht</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i5">What colour should be seen<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Where our fathers' homes have been,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">But our own immortal Green?<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">Says the <i>shan van vocht</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">And will Ireland then be free?<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[235]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Says the <i>shan van vocht</i>;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Will Ireland then be free?<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Says the <i>shan van vocht</i>;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yes! Ireland <span class="smaller">SHALL</span> be free,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From the centre to the sea;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then hurra! for Liberty!<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Says the <i>shan van vocht</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i5">Yes! Ireland <span class="smaller">SHALL</span> be free,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">From the centre to the sea;<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">Then hurra! for Liberty!<br /></span>
+<span class="i7">Says the <i>shan van vocht</i>.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_WEARING_OF_THE_GREEN" id="THE_WEARING_OF_THE_GREEN"></a>THE WEARING OF THE GREEN</h2>
+
+<p class="center">THE WEARING OF THE GREEN</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O Paddy dear, and did you hear the news that's going round?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">St. Patrick's day no more we'll keep, his colours can't be seen,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[236]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For there's a bloody law agin the wearing of the green.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And he said, 'How's poor old Ireland, and how does she stand?'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They are hanging men and women for the wearing of the green.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Then if the colour we must wear be England's cruel red,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Let it remind us of the blood that Ireland has shed.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">You may take the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But 'twill take root and flourish there, though under foot 'tis trod.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they grow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And when the leaves in summer-time their verdure dare not show,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then I will change the colour that I wear in my caubeen,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But 'till that day, please God, I'll stick to wearing of the green.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+<p><span class="pagenum">[237]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_RAKES_OF_MALLOW" id="THE_RAKES_OF_MALLOW"></a>THE RAKES OF MALLOW</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock1"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Beauing, belleing, dancing, drinking,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Breaking windows, damning, sinking,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ever raking, never thinking,<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 10em">Live the rakes of Mallow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Spending faster than it comes,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Beating waiters, bailiffs, duns,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Bacchus's true-begotten sons,<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 10em">Live the rakes of Mallow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">One time nought but claret drinking,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then like politicians thinking<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To raise the sinking funds when sinking,<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 10em">Live the rakes of Mallow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">When at home with dadda dying,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Still for Mallow water crying;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But where there's good claret plying,<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 10em">Live the rakes of Mallow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Living short, but merry lives;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[238]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Going where the devil drives;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Having sweethearts, but no wives,<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 10em">Live the rakes of Mallow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Racking tenants, stewards teasing,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Swiftly spending, slowly raising,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Wishing to spend all their days in<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 12em">Raking as at Mallow.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Then to end this raking life<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">They get sober, take a wife,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Ever after live in strife,<br /></span>
+<span style="margin-left: 10em">And wish again for Mallow.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="JOHNNY_I_HARDLY_KNEW_YE" id="JOHNNY_I_HARDLY_KNEW_YE"></a>JOHNNY, I HARDLY KNEW YE</h2>
+
+<p class="center"><i>Street Ballad</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">While going the road to sweet Athy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Hurroo! hurroo!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While going the road to sweet Athy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Hurroo! hurroo!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While going the road to sweet Athy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A stick in my hand and a drop in my eye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A doleful damsel I heard cry:&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[239]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With drums and guns and guns and drums<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">The enemy nearly slew ye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">My darling dear, you look so queer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Where are your eyes that looked so mild?<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Hurroo! hurroo!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where are your eyes that looked so mild?<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Hurroo! hurroo!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where are your eyes that looked so mild,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When my poor heart you first beguiled?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Why did you run from me and the child?<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With drums, etc.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Where are the legs with which you run?<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Hurroo! hurroo!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where are the legs with which you run?<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Hurroo! hurroo!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Where are the legs with which you run,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When you went to carry a gun?&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Indeed, your dancing days are done!<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With drums, etc.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[240]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'It grieved my heart to see you sail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Hurroo! hurroo!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It grieved my heart to see you sail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Hurroo! hurroo!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">It grieved my heart to see you sail,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Though from my heart you took leg bail,&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Like a cod you're doubled up head and tail.<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With drums, etc.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Hurroo! hurroo!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Hurroo! hurroo!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">You're an eyeless, noseless, chickenless egg;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">You'll have to be put in a bowl to beg:<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With drums, etc.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'I'm happy for to see you home,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Hurroo! hurroo!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I'm happy for to see you home,<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[241]<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Hurroo! hurroo!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">I'm happy for to see you home,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">All from the island of Sulloon,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So low in flesh, so high in bone,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With drums, etc.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'But sad as it is to see you so,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Hurroo! hurroo!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But sad as it is to see you so,<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Hurroo! hurroo!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But sad as it is to see you so,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And to think of you now as an object of woe,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Your Peggy'll still keep ye on as her beau;<br /></span>
+<span class="i9">Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'With drums and guns and guns and drums,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">The enemy nearly slew ye,<br /></span>
+<span class="i5">My darling dear, you look so queer,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!'<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="KITTY_OF_COLERAINE" id="KITTY_OF_COLERAINE"></a>KITTY OF COLERAINE</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[242]<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O! what shall I do now! 'Twas looking at you, now;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Twas the pride of my dairy! O Barney O'Cleary,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">That such a misfortune should give her such pain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A kiss then I gave her, and ere I did leave her,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Twas haymaking season&mdash;I can't tell the reason&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Misfortunes will never come single 'tis plain;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="LAMENT_OF_MORIAN_SHEHONE_FOR_MISS" id="LAMENT_OF_MORIAN_SHEHONE_FOR_MISS"></a>LAMENT OF MORIAN SHEHONE FOR MISS</h2>
+<h2>MARY ROURKE</h2>
+
+<p class="tdc"><i>From an Irish keen</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[243]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'There's darkness in thy dwelling-place, and silence reigns above,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And Mary's voice is heard no more, like the soft voice of love.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yes! thou art gone, my Mary dear! and Morian Shehone<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Is left to sing his song of woe, and wail for thee alone.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O! snow-white were thy virtues&mdash;the beautiful, the young,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The old with pleasure bent to hear the music of thy tongue:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The young with rapture gazed on thee, and their hearts in love were bound,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For thou wast brighter than the sun that sheds its light around.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">My soul is dark, O Mary dear! thy sun of beauty's set;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The sorrowful are dumb for thee&mdash;the grieved their tears forget;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And I am left to pour my woe above thy grave alone;<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[244]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For dear wert thou to the fond heart of Morian Shehone.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Fast-flowing tears above the grave of the rich man are shed,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But they are dried when the cold stone shuts in his narrow bed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Not so with my heart's faithful love&mdash;the dark grave cannot hide<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">From Morian's eyes thy form of grace, of loveliness, and pride.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thou didst not fall like the sere leaf, when autumn's chill winds blow&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Twas a tempest and a storm-blast that has laid my Mary low.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Hadst thou not friends that loved thee well? hadst thou not garments rare?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Wast thou not happy, Mary? wast thou not young and fair?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then why should the dread spoiler come, my heart's peace to destroy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Or the grim tyrant tear from me my all of earthly joy?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O! am I left to pour my woes above thy grave alone?<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[245]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thou idol of the faithful heart of Morian Shehone!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sweet were thy looks and sweet thy smiles, and kind wast thou to all;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The withering scowl of envy on thy fortunes dared not fall;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For thee thy friends lament and mourn, and never cease to weep&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O! that their lamentations could awake thee from thy sleep!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O! that thy peerless form again could meet my loving clasp!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O! that the cold damp hand of Death could loose his iron grasp!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Yet, when the valley's daughters meet beneath the tall elm tree,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And talk of Mary as a dream that never more shall be,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then may thy spirit float around, like music in the air,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And pour upon their virgin souls a blessing and a prayer.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O! am I left to pour my wail above thy grave alone?'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Then sinks in silence the lament of Morian Shehone!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum">[246]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="THE_GERALDINES_DAUGHTER" id="THE_GERALDINES_DAUGHTER"></a>THE GERALDINE'S DAUGHTER</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Speak low!&mdash;speak low&mdash;the banshee is crying;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Hark! hark to the echo!&mdash;she's dying! 'she's dying.'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What shadow flits dark'ning the face of the water?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Tis the swan of the lake&mdash;'tis <i>the Geraldine's Daughter</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Hush, hush! have you heard what the banshee said?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O! list to the echo! she's dead! 'she's dead!'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">No shadow now dims the face of the water;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Gone, gone is the wraith of <i>the Geraldine's Daughter</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The step of yon train is heavy and slow,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There's wringing of hands, there's breathing of woe;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">What melody rolls over mountain and water?<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'Tis the funeral chant of <i>the Geraldine's Daughter</i>.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">The requiem sounds like the plaintive moan<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Which the wind makes over the sepulchre's stone;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">'O, why did she die? our hearts' blood had bought her!<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[247]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O, why did she die, <i>the Geraldine's Daughter</i>?'<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The thistle-beard floats&mdash;the wild roses wave<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">With the blast that sweeps over the newly-made grave;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The stars dimly twinkle, and hoarse falls the water,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">While night-birds are wailing <i>the Geraldine's Daughter</i>.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="BY_MEMORY_INSPIRED" id="BY_MEMORY_INSPIRED"></a>BY MEMORY INSPIRED</h2>
+
+<p class="tdc"><i>Street Ballad</i></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock3"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i11">By Memory inspired,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">And love of country fired,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The deeds of Men I love to dwell upon;<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">And the patriotic glow<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Of my spirit must bestow<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">A tribute to O'Connell that is gone, boys, gone!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Here's a memory to the friends that are gone.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i11">In October 'Ninety-seven&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">May his soul find rest in Heaven&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">William Orr to execution was led on:<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">The jury, drunk, agreed<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">That Irish was his creed;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For perjury and threats drove them on, boys, on:<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[248]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Here's the memory of John Mitchell that is gone.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i11">In 'Ninety-Eight&mdash;the month July&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">The informer's pay was high;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When Reynolds gave the gallows brave MacCann;<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">But MacCann was Reynolds' first&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">One could not allay his thirst;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">So he brought up Bond and Byrne, that are gone, boys, gone.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Here's the memory of the friends that are gone!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i11">We saw a nation's tears<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Shed for John and Henry Shears;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Betrayed by Judas, Captain Armstrong;<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">We may forgive, but yet<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">We never can forget<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The poisoning of Maguire that is gone, boys, gone&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Our high Star and true Apostle that is gone!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i11">How did Lord Edward die?<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Like a man, without a sigh;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">But he left his handiwork on Major Swan!<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">But Sirr, with steel-clad breast,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">And coward heart at best,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Left us cause to mourn Lord Edward that is gone, boys, gone:<br /></span>
+<span class="pagenum">[249]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Here's the memory of our friends that are gone!<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i11">September, Eighteen-three,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">Closed this cruel history,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">When Emmett's blood the scaffold flowed upon<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">O, had their spirits been wise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i11">They might then realize<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Their freedom&mdash;but we drink to Mitchell that is gone, boys, gone:<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Here's the memory of the friends that are gone!<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="A_FOLK_VERSE" id="A_FOLK_VERSE"></a>A FOLK VERSE</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">When you were an acorn on the tree top,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Then was I an eagle cock;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Now that you are a withered old block,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Still am I an eagle cock.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum">[250]</span></p>
+
+
+
+<div class="p6" />
+<h2><a name="NOTES" id="NOTES"></a>NOTES</h2>
+
+
+<p>Page xxi, lines 21 to 25. <a href="#Clarence_Mangan">A well-known poet</a> of the
+Fenian times has made the curious boast&mdash;'Talking of
+work&mdash;since Sunday, two cols. notes, two cols. London
+gossip, and a leader one col., and one col. of verse for the
+<i>Nation</i>. For <i>Catholic Opinion</i>, two pages of notes and a
+leader. For <i>Illustrated Magazine</i>, three poems and a five col.
+story.'</p>
+
+<p>Page 1. '<a href="#Deserted_Village">The deserted village</a>' is Lissoy, near Ballymahon,
+and Sir Walter Scott tells of a hawthorn there
+which has been cut up into toothpicks by Goldsmith
+enthusiasts; but the feeling and atmosphere of the poem
+are unmistakably English.</p>
+
+<p>Page xix. Some verses in 'The Epicurean' were put into
+French by Théophile Gautier for the French translation,
+and back again into English by Mr. Robert Bridges. If
+any Irish reader who thinks <a href="#Moore">Moore</a> a great poet, will compare
+his verses with the results of this double distillation,
+and notice the gradual disappearance of their vague
+rhythms and loose phrases, he will be the less angry with
+the introduction to this book. Moore wrote as follows&mdash;</p>
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">You, who would try<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Yon terrible track,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">To live or to die,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">But ne'er to turn back.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[251]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">You, who aspire<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">To be purified there,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">By the terror of fire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Of water, and air,&mdash;<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">If danger, and pain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">And death you despise,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">On&mdash;for again<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">Into light you shall rise:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Rise into light<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">With the secret divine,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Now shrouded from sight<br /></span>
+<span class="i3">By a veil of the shrine.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+<p>These lines are certainly less amazing than the scrannel
+piping of his usual anapæsts; but few will hold them to be
+'of their own arduous fullness reverent'! Théophile
+Gautier sets them to his instrument in this fashion,</p>
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Vous qui voulez courir<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">La terrible carrière,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Il faut vivre ou mourir,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Sans regard en arrière:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Vous qui voulez tenter<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">L'onde, l'air, et la flamme,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Terreurs à surmonter<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Pour épurer votre âme,<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Si, méprisant la mort,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Votre foi reste entière,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">En avant!&mdash;le c&oelig;ur fort<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Reverra la lumière.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="pagenum">[252]<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Et lira sur l'autel<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Le mot du grand mystère,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Qu'au profane mortel<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Dérobe un voile austère.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+<p>Then comes Mr. Robert Bridges, and lifts them into the
+rapture and precision of poetry&mdash;</p>
+
+
+<div class="poemblocks2"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">O youth whose hope is high,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Who dost to truth aspire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Whether thou live or die,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">O look not back nor tire.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Thou that art bold to fly<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Through tempest, flood, and fire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Nor dost not shrink to try<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Thy heart in torments dire:<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">If thou canst Death defy,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If thy faith is entire,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Press onward, for thine eye<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Shall see thy heart's desire.<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">Beauty and love are nigh,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">And with their deathless quire&mdash;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Soon shall thine eager cry<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Be numbered and expire.<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+
+<p>Page 27. <a href="#DARK_ROSALEEN">'Dark Rosaleen</a>' is one of the old names of
+Ireland. Mangan's translation is very free; as a rule when
+he tried to translate literally, as in 'The Munster Bards,' all
+glimmer of inspiration left him.</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#p32">32</a>, line 20. 'This passage is not exactly a blunder,
+though at first it may seem one: the poet supposes the
+grave itself transferred to Ireland, and he naturally includes<span class="pagenum">[253]</span>
+in the transference the whole of the immediate locality about
+the grave' (Mangan note).</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#p47">47</a>, line 6. The two Meaths once formed a distinct
+province.</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#p55">55</a>, line 7. This poem is an account of Mangan's
+own life, and is, I think, redeemed out of rhetoric by its
+intensity. The following poem, 'Siberia,' describes, perhaps,
+his own life under a symbol.</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#p59">59</a>. Hy Brasail, or Teer-Nan-Oge, is the island of
+the blessed, the paradise of ancient Ireland. It is still
+thought to be seen from time to time glimmering far off.</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#p61">61</a>. <i>Mo Craoibhin Cno</i> means my cluster of nuts,
+and is pronounced <i>Mo Chreevin Knò</i>.</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#p64">64</a>. Mr. O'Keefe has sent the writer a Gaelic
+version of this poem, possibly by Walsh himself. A correspondent
+of his got it from an old peasant who had not a
+word of English. A well-known Gaelic scholar pronounces
+it a translation, and not the original of the present poem.
+<i>Mairgréad ni Chealleadh</i> is pronounced <i>Mairgréd nei
+Kealley</i>. The <i>Ceanabhan</i>, pronounced <i>Kanovan</i>, is the
+bog cotton, and the <i>Monadan</i> is a plant with a red berry
+found on marshy mountains.</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#p69">69</a>. <i>A cuisle geal mo chroidhe</i>, pronounced <i>A cushla
+gal mo chre</i>, means 'bright pulse of my heart.'</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#p74">74</a>. Sir Samuel Ferguson introduces the poem
+as follows:&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>Several Welsh families, associates in the invasion of
+Strongbow, settled in the West of Ireland. Of these, the
+principal, whose names have been preserved by the Irish
+antiquarians, were the Walshes, Joyces, Heils (<i>a quibus</i>
+MacHale), Lawlesses, Tolmyns, Lynotts, and Barretts,
+which last draw their pedigree from Walynes, son of<span class="pagenum">[254]</span>
+Guyndally, the <i>Ard Maor</i>, or High Steward of the
+Lordship of Camelot, and had their chief seats in the
+territory of the two Bacs, in the barony of Tirawley, and
+county of Mayo. <i>Clochan-na-n'all</i>, i. e. 'The Blind Men's
+Stepping-stones,' are still pointed out on the Duvowen
+river, about four miles north of Crossmolina, in the townland
+of Garranard; and <i>Tubber-na-Scorney</i>, or 'Scrags
+Well,' in the opposite townland of Carns, in the same
+barony. For a curious <i>terrier</i> or applotment of the Mac
+William's revenue, as acquired under the circumstances
+stated in the legend preserved by Mac Firbis, see Dr.
+O'Donovan's highly-learned and interesting 'Genealogies,
+&amp;c. of Hy. Fiachrach,' in the publications of the <i>Irish
+Archæological Society</i>&mdash;a great monument of antiquarian
+and topographical erudition.</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#p90">90</a>, line 6. 'William Conquer' was William Fitzadelm
+De Burgh, the Conqueror of Connaught.</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#AIDEENS_GRAVE">91</a>, line 4. Sir Samuel Ferguson introduces the
+poem as follows:&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>Aideen, daughter of Angus of Ben-Edar (now the Hill
+of Howth), died of grief for the loss of her husband, Oscar,
+son of Ossian, who was slain at the battle of Gavra (<i>Gowra</i>,
+near Tara in Meath), A.D. 284. Oscar was entombed in
+the rath or earthen fortress that occupied part of the field
+of battle, the rest of the slain being cast in a pit outside.
+Aideen is said to have been buried on Howth, near the
+mansion of her father, and poetical tradition represents the
+Fenian heroes as present at her obsequies. The Cromlech
+in Howth Park has been supposed to be her sepulchre. It
+stands under the summits from which the poet Atharne is
+said to have launched his invectives against the people of
+Leinster, until, by the blighting effect of his satires, they<span class="pagenum">[255]</span>
+were compelled to make him atonement for the death of
+his son.</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#DEIRDRES_LAMENT_FOR_THE_SONS_OF">99</a>. 'There was then no man in the host of Ulster
+that could be found who would put the sons of Usnach to
+death, so loved were they of the people and nobles. But
+in the house of Conor was one called Mainé Rough Hand,
+son of the king of Lochlen, and Naesi had slain his father
+and two brothers, and he undertook to be their executioners.
+So the sons of Usnach were then slain, and the men of
+Ulster, when they beheld their death, sent forth their
+heavy shouts of sorrow and lamentation. Then Deirdre
+fell down beside their bodies wailing and weeping, and she
+tore her hair and garments and bestowed kisses on their
+lifeless lips and bitterly bemoaned them. And a grave was
+opened for them, and Deirdre, standing by it, with her
+hair dishevelled and shedding tears abundantly, chanted
+their funeral song.' (<i>Hibernian Nights' Entertainment</i>.)</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#THE_FAIR_HILLS_OF_IRELAND">102</a>. <i>Uileacan Dubh O</i>', pronounced <i>Uileacaun
+Doov O</i>, is a phrase of lamentation.</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#THE_FAIRY_WELL_OF_LAGNANAY">108</a>, line 16. 'Anna Grace' is the heroine of another
+ballad by Ferguson. She also was stolen by the Fairies.</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#ON_THE_DEATH_OF_THOMAS_DAVIS">112</a>, line 6. Thomas Davis had an Irish father
+and a Welsh mother, and Emily Brontë an Irish father
+and a Cornish mother, and there seems no reason for
+including the first and excluding the second. I find,
+perhaps fancifully, an Irish vehemence in 'Remembrance.'
+Several of the Irish poets have been of mixed Irish-Celtic
+and British-Celtic blood. William Blake has been recently
+claimed as of Irish descent, upon the evidence of Dr.
+Carter Blake; and if, in the course of years, that claim
+becomes generally accepted, he should be included also in
+Irish anthologies.<span class="pagenum">[256]</span></p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#THE_LITTLE_BLACK_ROSE">119</a>, line 13. 'The little Black Rose' is but another
+form of 'Dark Rosaleen,' and has a like significance. 'The
+Silk of the Kine' is also an old name for Ireland.</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#MAIRE_BHAN_ASTOR">138</a>. <i>Maire Bhan Astór</i> is pronounced <i>Mauria
+vaun a-stór</i>, and means 'Fair Mary, my treasure.'</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#O_THE_MARRIAGE">140</a>. <i>Mo bhuachaill</i>, pronounced <i>mo Vohil</i>, means
+'my boy.'</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#THE_GOBBAN_SAOR">174</a>. The Goban Saor, the mason Goban, is a
+familiar personage in Irish folk-lore, and the reputed
+builder of the round towers.</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#FATHER_OFLYNN">191</a>. <i>Slainté</i>, ['your] health.'</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#THE_CHILDREN_OF_LIR">207</a>. 'And their step-mother, being jealous of their
+father's great love for them, cast upon the king's children,
+by sorcery, the shape of swans, and bade them go roaming,
+even till Patrick's mass-bell should sound in Erin; but no
+farther in time than that did her power extend.'&mdash;<i>The Fate
+of the Children of Lir</i>.</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#THE_GREAT_BREATH">222</a>. The wind was one of the deities of the
+Pagan Irish. 'The murmuring of the Red Wind from the
+East,' says an old poem, 'is heard in its course by the strong
+as well as the weak; it is the wind that wastes the bottom
+of the trees, and injurious to man is that red wind.'</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#CAN_DOOV_DEELISH">226</a>. <i>Can Doov Deelish</i> means 'dear black head.'</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#SHULE_AROON">231</a>. The chorus is pronounced <i>Shoo-il, shoo-il,
+shoo-il, a rooin, Shoo-il go socair, ogus shoo-il go kiune,
+Shoo-il go den durrus ogus euli liom, Iss go de too, mo
+vourneen, slaun</i>, and means&mdash;</p>
+
+
+<div class="poemblock"><div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">'Move, move, move, O treasure,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Move quietly and move gently,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Move to the door, and fly with me,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">And mayest thou go, my darling, safe!'<br /></span>
+</div></div></div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum">[257]</span></p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#THE_SHAN_VAN_VOCHT">232</a>. <i>Shan van vocht</i>, meaning 'little old woman',
+is a name for Ireland.</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#THE_WEARING_OF_THE_GREEN">235</a>. This is not the most ancient form of the
+ballad, but it is the form into which it was recast by
+Boucicault, and which has long taken the place of all
+others.</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#THE_RAKES_OF_MALLOW">237</a>, line 2. 'Sinking,' violent swearing.</p>
+<div class="p4" />
+<p class="tdc">THE END</p>
+<div class="p6" />
+
+<p class="tdc"><b>IRISH BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR.</b></p>
+
+<p class="tdc"><i>VERSE.</i></p>
+
+<p class="tdc">
+THE COUNTESS KATHLEEN.<br />
+THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE.<br />
+THE WANDERINGS OF OISIN.<br />
+</p>
+
+<p class="tdc"><i>PROSE.</i></p>
+
+<p class="tdc">
+THE CELTIC TWILIGHT.<br />
+JOHN SHERMAN AND DHOYA.<br />
+</p>
+
+<p class="tdc"><i>ANTHOLOGIES.</i></p>
+
+<p class="tdc">
+IRISH FAIRY AND FOLK TALES.<br />
+IRISH FAIRY STORIES.<br />
+STORIES FROM CARLETON.<br />
+IRISH TALES.<br />
+</p>
+<div class="p6" />
+<p class="tdc"><span class="smcap">Richard Clay &amp; Sons, Limited,<br />
+London &amp; Bungay.</span></p>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's A Book of Irish Verse, by William Butler Yeats
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BOOK OF IRISH VERSE ***
+
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Book of Irish Verse, by William Butler Yeats
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: A Book of Irish Verse
+ Selected from modern writers with an introduction and notes
+ by W. B. Yeats
+
+Author: William Butler Yeats
+
+Release Date: October 25, 2011 [EBook #37845]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BOOK OF IRISH VERSE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Brian Foley, Ron Stephens and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
+file was produced from images generously made available
+by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+ A BOOK OF IRISH VERSE
+
+
+
+
+ A BOOK OF
+
+ IRISH VERSE
+
+ SELECTED FROM MODERN WRITERS
+ WITH AN INTRODUCTION
+ AND NOTES
+ BY W.B. YEATS
+
+ METHUEN AND CO.
+ 36 ESSEX STREET, W.C. LONDON
+ 1900
+
+ _Revised Edition_
+
+
+ W.H. WHITE AND CO. LTD.
+ RIVERSIDE PRESS, EDINBURGH
+
+
+ TO THE MEMBERS
+
+ OF
+
+ THE NATIONAL LITERARY SOCIETY OF DUBLIN
+
+ AND THE
+
+ IRISH LITERARY SOCIETY OF LONDON CONTENTS
+
+
+ PAGE
+
+ Preface xiii
+
+ Modern Irish Poetry xvii
+
+ Old Age _Oliver Goldsmith_ (1725-1774) 1
+
+ The Village Preacher " " " " 2
+
+ The Deserter's Meditation _John Philpot Curran_ (1750--1817) 3
+
+ 'Thou canst not boast' _Richard Brinsley Sheridan_ (1751-1816) 4
+
+ Kathleen O'More _James Nugent Reynolds_ ( -1802) 5
+
+ The Groves of Blarney _Richard Alfred Milliken_ (1767-1815) 6
+
+ The Light of other Days _Thomas Moore_ (1779-1852) 10
+
+ 'At the Mid Hour of
+ Night' " " " " 11
+
+ The Burial of Sir John
+ Moore _Rev. Charles Wolfe_ (1791-1823) 12
+
+ The Convict of Clonmel _Jeremiah Joseph Callanan_ (1795-1839) 14
+
+ The Outlaw of Loch Lene " " " 16
+
+ Dirge of O'Sullivan Bear " " " 17
+
+ Love Song _George Darley_ (1795-1846) 20
+
+ The Whistlin' Thief _Samuel Lover_ (1797-1868) 22
+
+ Soggarth Aroon _John Banim_ (1798-1842) 24
+
+ Dark Rosaleen _James Clarence Mangan_ (1803-1849) 27
+
+ Lament for the Princes
+ of Tyrone and Tyrconnell " " " 31
+ A Lamentation for the
+ Death of Sir Maurice
+ Fitzgerald " " " 41
+
+ The Woman of Three
+ Cows _James Clarence Mangan_ (1803-1849) 43
+
+ Prince Alfrid's Itinerary
+ through Ireland " " " 47
+
+ O'Hussey's Ode to The
+ Maguire " " " 50
+
+ The Nameless One " " " 55
+
+ Siberia " " " 57
+
+ Hy-Brasail _Gerald Griffin_ (1803-1840) 59
+
+ Mo Craoibhin Cno _Edward Walsh_ (1805-1850) 61
+
+ Mairgread Ni Chealleadh " " " " 63
+
+ From the Cold Sod
+ that's o'er you " " " " 65
+
+ The Fairy Nurse " " " " 67
+
+ A cuisle geal mo chroidhe _Michael Doheny_ (1805-1863) 69
+
+ Lament of the Irish
+ Emigrant _Lady Dufferin_ (1807-1867) 71
+
+ The Welshmen of
+ Tirawley _Sir Samuel Ferguson_ (1810-1886) 74
+
+ Aideen's Grave " " " " " 91
+
+ Deirdre's Lament for
+ the Sons of Usnach " " " " " 99
+
+ The Fair Hills of Ireland " " " " " 102
+
+ Lament over the Ruins
+ of the Abbey of Timoleague " " " " " 104
+
+ The Fairy Well of Lagnanay " " " " " 107
+
+ On the Death of Thomas
+ Davis " " " " " 111
+
+ The County of Mayo _George Fox_ 115
+
+ The Wedding of the
+ Clans _Aubrey de Vere_ (1814) 117
+
+ The Little Black Rose _Aubrey de Vere_ (1814) 119
+ Song " " " " 120
+
+ The Bard Ethell " " " " 121
+
+ Lament for the Death
+ of Eoghan Ruadh
+ O'Neill _Thomas Davis_ (1814-1845) 135
+
+ Maire Bhan Astor " " " " 138
+
+ O! the Marriage " " " " 140
+
+ A Plea for Love " " " " 142
+
+ Remembrance _Emily Bronte_ (1818-1848) 143
+
+ A Fragment from 'The
+ Prisoner: a Fragment' " " " " 145
+
+ Last Lines " " " " 147
+
+ The Memory of the Dead _John Kells Ingram_ (? 1820) 148
+
+ The Winding Banks of
+ Erne _William Allingham_ (1824-1889) 150
+
+ The Fairies " " " " 157
+
+ The Abbot of Inisfalen. " " " " 160
+
+ Twilight Voices " " " " 164
+
+ 'Four Ducks on a Pond' " " " " 166
+
+ The Lover and Birds " " " " 167
+
+ The Celts _Thomas D'Arcy McGee_ (1825-1868) 169
+ Salutation to the Celts " " " 172
+
+ The Gobban Saor " " " 174
+
+ Patrick Sheehan _Charles J. Kickham_ (1825-1882) 176
+
+ The Irish Peasant Girl " " " " " 180
+
+ To God and Ireland
+ True _Ellen O'Leary_ (1831-1889) 182
+
+ The Banshee _John Todhunter_ (1836) 183
+
+ Aghadoe " " " 186
+
+ A Mad Song _Hester Sigerson_ 188
+
+ Lady Margaret's Song _Edward Dowden_ (1843) 188
+
+ Song _Arthur O'Shaughnessy_ (1844-1881) 189
+
+ Father O'Flynn _Alfred Perceval Graves_ (1846) 191
+
+ Song _Rosa Gilbert_ 192
+
+ Requiescat _Oscar Wilde_ (1855) 193
+
+ The Lament of Queen
+ Maev _Thomas William Rolleston_ (1857) 195
+
+ The Dead at Clonmacnois " " " " 197
+
+ The Spell-struck " " " " 198
+
+ 'Were you on the
+ Mountain?' _Douglas Hyde_ 199
+
+ 'My Grief on the Sea' " " 200
+
+ My Love, O, she is my
+ Love " " 201
+
+ I shall not die for thee " " 204
+
+ Riddles " " 205
+
+ Lough Bray _Rose Kavanagh_ (1861-1891) 206
+
+ The Children of Lir _Katharine Tynan Hinkson_ 209
+
+ St. Francis to the Birds " " " 212
+
+ Sheep and Lambs " " " 215
+
+ The Gardener Sage " " " 216
+
+ The Dark Man _Nora Hopper_ 218
+
+ The Fairy Fiddler " " 219
+
+ Our Thrones Decay _A.E._ 220
+
+ Immortality " 221
+
+ The Great Breath " 221
+
+ Sung on a By-way " 222
+
+ Dream Love " 223
+
+ Illusion " 223
+
+ Janus " 224
+
+ Connla's Well " 225A
+
+ Names _John Eglinton_ 226A
+
+ That _Charles Weekes_ 227A
+
+ Think " " 227A
+
+ Te Martyrum Candidatus _Lionel Johnson_ 228A
+
+ The Church of a Dream " " 229A
+
+ Ways of War " " 230A
+
+ The Red Wind _Lionel Johnson_ 231A
+
+ Celtic Speech " " 232A
+
+ To Morfydd " " 225
+
+ Can Doov Deelish _Dora Sigerson_ 226
+
+
+ANONYMOUS
+
+ Shule Aroon 231
+
+ The Shan Van Vocht 232
+
+ The Wearing of the Green 235
+
+ The Rakes of Mallow 237
+
+ Johnny, I hardly knew ye 238
+
+ Kitty of Coleraine 241
+
+ Lament of Morian Shehone for Miss Mary Bourke 242
+
+ The Geraldine's Daughter 246
+
+ By Memory Inspired 247
+
+ A Folk Verse 249
+
+ Notes 250
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE
+
+
+I have not found it possible to revise this book as completely as I
+should have wished. I have corrected a bad mistake of a copyist, and
+added a few pages of new verses towards the end, and softened some
+phrases in the introduction which seemed a little petulant in form, and
+written in a few more to describe writers who have appeared during the
+last four years, and that is about all. I compiled it towards the end of
+a long indignant argument, carried on in the committee rooms of our
+literary societies, and in certain newspapers between a few writers of
+our new movement, who judged Irish literature by literary standards, and
+a number of people, a few of whom were writers, who judged it by its
+patriotism and by its political effect; and I hope my opinions may have
+value as part of an argument which may awaken again. The Young Ireland
+writers wrote to give the peasantry a literature in English in place of
+the literature they were losing with Gaelic, and these methods, which
+have shaped the literary thought of Ireland to our time, could not be
+the same as the methods of a movement which, so far as it is more than
+an instinctive expression of certain moods of the soul, endeavours to
+create a reading class among the more leisured classes, which will
+preoccupy itself with Ireland and the needs of Ireland. The peasants in
+eastern counties have their Young Ireland poetry, which is always good
+teaching and sometimes good poetry, and the peasants of the western
+counties have beautiful poems and stories in Gaelic, while our more
+leisured classes read little about any country, and nothing about
+Ireland. We cannot move these classes from an apathy, come from their
+separation from the land they live in, by writing about politics or
+about Gaelic, but we may move them by becoming men of letters and
+expressing primary emotions and truths in ways appropriate to this
+country. One carries on the traditions of Thomas Davis, towards whom our
+eyes must always turn, not less than the traditions of good literature,
+which are the morality of the man of letters, when one is content, like
+A.E. with fewer readers that one may follow a more hidden beauty; or
+when one endeavours, as I have endeavoured in this book, to separate
+what has literary value from what has only a patriotic and political
+value, no matter how sacred it has become to us.
+
+The reader who would begin a serious study of modern Irish literature
+should do so with Mr Stopford Brooke's and Mr Rolleston's exhaustive
+anthology.
+ W.B.Y.
+_August 15, 1899_
+
+
+
+
+MODERN IRISH POETRY
+
+
+The Irish Celt is sociable, as may be known from his proverb, 'Strife is
+better than loneliness,' and the Irish poets of the nineteenth century
+have made songs abundantly when friends and rebels have been at hand to
+applaud. The Irish poets of the eighteenth century found both at a
+Limerick hostelry, above whose door was written a rhyming welcome in
+Gaelic to all passing poets, whether their pockets were full or empty.
+Its owner, himself a famous poet, entertained his fellows as long as his
+money lasted, and then took to minding the hens and chickens of an old
+peasant woman for a living, and ended his days in rags, but not, one
+imagines, without content. Among his friends and guests had been
+O'Sullivan the Red, O'Sullivan the Gaelic, O'Heffernan the blind, and
+many another, and their songs had made the people, crushed by the
+disasters of the Boyne and Aughrim, remember their ancient greatness.
+The bardic order, with its perfect artifice and imperfect art, had gone
+down in the wars of the seventeenth century, and poetry had found
+shelter amid the turf-smoke of the cabins. The powers that history
+commemorates are but the coarse effects of influences delicate and vague
+as the beginning of twilight, and these influences were to be woven like
+a web about the hearts of men by farm-labourers, pedlars,
+potato-diggers, hedge-schoolmasters, and grinders at the quern, poor
+wastrels who put the troubles of their native land, or their own happy
+or unhappy loves, into songs of an extreme beauty. But in the midst of
+this beauty was a flitting incoherence, a fitful dying out of the sense,
+as though the passion had become too great for words, as must needs be
+when life is the master and not the slave of the singer.
+
+English-speaking Ireland had meanwhile no poetic voice, for Goldsmith
+had chosen to celebrate English scenery and manners; and Swift was but
+an Irishman by what Mr Balfour has called the visitation of God, and
+much against his will; and Congreve by education and early association;
+while Parnell, Denham, and Roscommon were poets but to their own time.
+Nor did the coming with the new century of the fame of Moore set the
+balance even, for all but all of his Irish melodies are artificial and
+mechanical when separated from the music that gave them wings. Whatever
+he had of high poetry is in 'The Light of other Days,' and in 'At the
+Mid Hour of Night,' which express what Matthew Arnold has taught us to
+call 'the Celtic melancholy,' with so much of delicate beauty in the
+meaning and in the wavering or steady rhythm that one knows not where to
+find their like in literature. His more artificial and mechanical verse,
+because of the ancient music that makes it seem natural and vivid, and
+because it has remembered so many beloved names and events and places,
+has had the influence which might have belonged to these exquisite
+verses had he written none but these. An honest style did not come into
+English-speaking Ireland, until Callanan wrote three or four naive
+translations from the Gaelic. 'Shule Aroon' and 'Kathleen O'More' had
+indeed been written for a good while, but had no more influence than
+Moore's best verses. Now, however, the lead of Callanan was followed by
+a number of translators, and they in turn by the poets of 'Young
+Ireland,' who mingled a little learned from the Gaelic ballad-writers
+with a great deal learned from Scott, Macaulay, and Campbell, and turned
+poetry once again into a principal means for spreading ideas of
+nationality and patriotism. They were full of earnestness, but never
+understood that though a poet may govern his life by his enthusiasms, he
+must, when he sits down at his desk, but use them as the potter the
+clay. Their thoughts were a little insincere, because they lived in the
+half illusions of their admirable ideals; and their rhythms not seldom
+mechanical, because their purpose was served when they had satisfied the
+dull ears of the common man. They had no time to listen to the voice of
+the insatiable artist, who stands erect, or lies asleep waiting until a
+breath arouses him, in the heart of every craftsman. Life was their
+master, as it had been the master of the poets who gathered in the
+Limerick hostelry, though it conquered them not by unreasoned love for a
+woman, or for native land, but by reasoned enthusiasm, and practical
+energy. No man was more sincere, no man had a less mechanical mind than
+Thomas Davis, and yet he is often a little insincere and mechanical in
+his verse. When he sat down to write he had so great a desire to make
+the peasantry courageous and powerful that he half believed them already
+'the finest peasantry upon the earth,' and wrote not a few such verses
+as
+
+ 'Lead him to fight for native land,
+ His is no courage cold and wary;
+ The troops live not that could withstand
+ The headlong charge of Tipperary,'
+
+and to-day we are paying the reckoning with much bombast. His little
+book has many things of this kind, and yet we honour it for its public
+spirit, and recognise its powerful influence with gratitude. He was in
+the main an orator influencing men's acts, and not a poet shaping their
+emotions, and the bulk of his influence has been good. He was, indeed, a
+poet of much tenderness in the simple love-songs 'The Marriage,' 'A Plea
+for Love,' and 'Mary Bhan Astor,' and, but for his ideal of a Fisherman,
+defying a foreign soldiery, would have been as good in 'The Boatman of
+Kinsale'; and once or twice when he touched upon some historic sorrow he
+forgot his hopes for the future and his lessons for the present, and
+made moving verse. His contemporary, Clarence Mangan, kept out of public
+life and its half illusions by a passion for books, and for drink and
+opium, made an imaginative and powerful style. He translated from the
+German, and imitated Oriental poetry, but little that he did on any but
+Irish subjects is permanently interesting. He is usually classed with
+the Young Ireland poets, because he contributed to their periodicals and
+shared their political views; but his style was formed before their
+movement began, and he found it the more easy for this reason perhaps to
+give sincere expression to the mood which he had chosen, the only
+sincerity literature knows of; and with happiness and cultivation might
+have displaced Moore. But as it was, whenever he had no fine ancient
+song to inspire him, he fell into rhetoric which was only lifted out of
+commonplace by an arid intensity. In his 'Irish National Hymn,' 'Soul
+and Country,' and the like, we look into a mind full of parched sands
+where the sweet dews have never fallen. A miserable man may think well
+and express himself with great vehemence, but he cannot make beautiful
+things, for Aphrodite never rises from any but a tide of joy. Mangan
+knew nothing of the happiness of the outer man, and it was only when
+prolonging the tragic exultation of some dead bard, that he knew the
+unearthly happiness which clouds the outer man with sorrow, and is the
+fountain of impassioned art. Like those who had gone before him, he was
+the slave of life, for he had nothing of the self-knowledge, the power
+of selection, the harmony of mind, which enables the poet to be its
+master, and to mould the world to a trumpet for his lips. But O'Hussey's
+Ode over his outcast chief must live for generations because of the
+passion that moves through its powerful images and its mournful,
+wayward, and fierce rhythms.
+
+ 'Though he were even a wolf ranging the round green woods,
+ Though he were even a pleasant salmon in the unchainable sea,
+ Though he were a wild mountain eagle, he could scarce bear, he,
+ This sharp, sore sleet, these howling floods.'
+
+Edward Walsh, a village schoolmaster, who hovered, like Mangan, on the
+edge of the Young Ireland movement, did many beautiful translations from
+the Gaelic; and Michael Doheny, while out 'on his keeping' in the
+mountains after the collapse at Ballingarry, made one of the most moving
+of ballads; but in the main the poets who gathered about Thomas Davis,
+and whose work has come down to us in 'The Spirit of the Nation,' were
+of practical and political, not of literary importance.
+
+Meanwhile Samuel Ferguson, William Allingham, and Mr Aubrey de Vere were
+working apart from politics, Ferguson selecting his subjects from the
+traditions of the Bardic age, and Allingham from those of his native
+Ballyshannon, and Mr Aubrey de Vere wavering between English, Irish, and
+Catholic tradition. They were wiser than Young Ireland in the choice of
+their models, for, while drawing not less from purely Irish sources,
+they turned to the great poets of the world, Mr de Vere owing something
+of his gravity to Wordsworth, Ferguson much of his simplicity to Homer,
+while Allingham had trained an ear, too delicate to catch the tune of
+but a single master, upon the lyric poetry of many lands. Allingham was
+the best artist, but Ferguson had the more ample imagination, the more
+epic aim. He had not the subtlety of feeling, the variety of cadence of
+a great lyric poet, but he has touched, here and there, an epic vastness
+and naivete, as in the description in 'Congal' of the mire-stiffened
+mantle of the giant spectre Mananan macLir, striking against his calves
+with as loud a noise as the mainsail of a ship makes, 'when with the
+coil of all its ropes it beats the sounding mast.' He is frequently
+dull, for he often lacked the 'minutely appropriate words' necessary to
+embody those fine changes of feeling which enthral the attention; but
+his sense of weight and size, of action and tumult, has set him apart
+and solitary, an epic figure in a lyric age. Allingham, whose pleasant
+destiny has made him the poet of his native town, and put 'The Winding
+Banks of Erne' into the mouths of the ballad-singers of Ballyshannon,
+is, on the other hand, a master of 'minutely appropriate words,' and can
+wring from the luxurious sadness of the lover, from the austere sadness
+of old age, the last golden drop of beauty; but amid action and tumult
+he can but fold his hands. He is the poet of the melancholy peasantry of
+the West, and, as years go on, and voluminous histories and copious
+romances drop under the horizon, will take his place among those minor
+immortals who have put their souls into little songs to humble the
+proud. The poetry of Mr Aubrey de Vere has less architecture than the
+poetry of Ferguson and Allingham, and more meditation. Indeed, his few
+but ever memorable successes are enchanted islands in grey seas of
+stately impersonal reverie and description, which drift by and leave no
+definite recollection. One needs, perhaps, to perfectly enjoy him, a
+Dominican habit, a cloister, and a breviary.
+
+These three poets published much of their best work before and during
+the Fenian movement, which, like 'Young Ireland,' had its poets, though
+but a small number. Charles Kickham, one of the 'triumvirate' that
+controlled it in Ireland; John Casey, a clerk in a flour-mill; and Ellen
+O'Leary, the sister of Mr John O'Leary, were at times very excellent.
+Their verse lacks, curiously enough, the oratorical vehemence of Young
+Ireland, and is plaintive and idyllic. The agrarian movement that
+followed produced but little poetry, and of that little all is forgotten
+but a vehement poem by Fanny Parnell, and a couple of songs by Mr T.D.
+Sullivan, who is a good song-writer, though not, as the writer has read
+on an election placard, 'one of the greatest poets who ever moved the
+heart of man.' But while Nationalist verse has ceased to be a portion of
+the propaganda of a party, it has been written, and is being written,
+under the influence of the Nationalist newspapers and of Young Ireland
+societies and the like. With an exacting conscience, and better models
+than Thomas Moore and the Young Irelanders, such beautiful enthusiasm
+could not fail to make some beautiful verses. But, as things are, the
+rhythms are mechanical, and the metaphors conventional; and inspiration
+is too often worshipped as a Familiar who labours while you sleep, or
+forget, or do many worthy things which are not spiritual things. For
+the most part, the Irishman of our times loves so deeply those arts
+which build up a gallant personality, rapid writing, ready talking,
+effective speaking to crowds, that he has no thought for the arts which
+consume the personality in solitude. He loves the mortal arts which have
+given him a lure to take the hearts of men, and shrinks from the
+immortal, which could but divide him from his fellows. And in this
+century, he who does not strive to be a perfect craftsman achieves
+nothing. The poor peasant of the eighteenth century could make fine
+ballads by abandoning himself to the joy or sorrow of the moment, as the
+reeds abandon themselves to the wind which sighs through them, because
+he had about him a world where all was old enough to be steeped in
+emotion. But we cannot take to ourselves, by merely thrusting out our
+hands, all we need of pomp and symbol, and if we have not the desire of
+artistic perfection for an ark, the deluge of incoherence, vulgarity,
+and triviality will pass over our heads. If we had no other symbols but
+the tumult of the sea, the rusted gold of the thatch, the redness of the
+quicken-berry, and had never known the rhetoric of the platform and of
+the newspaper, we could do without laborious selection and rejection;
+but, even then, though we might do much that would be delightful, that
+would inspire coming times, it would not have the manner of the greatest
+poetry.
+
+Here and there, the Nationalist newspapers and the Young Ireland
+societies have trained a writer who, though busy with the old models,
+has some imaginative energy; while Mr Lionel Johnson, Mrs Hinkson, Miss
+Nora Hopper, and A.E., the successors of Allingham and Ferguson and Mr
+de Vere, are more anxious to influence and understand Irish thought than
+any of their predecessors who did not take the substance of their poetry
+from politics. They are distinguished too by their deliberate art, and
+with their preoccupation with spiritual passions and memories. Mr Lionel
+Johnson and Mrs Hinkson are both Catholic and devout, but Mr Lionel
+Johnson's poetry is lofty and austere, and, like Mr de Vere's, never
+long forgets the greatness of his Church and the interior life whose
+expression it is, while Mrs Hinkson is happiest when she embodies
+emotions, that have the innocence of childhood, in symbols and metaphors
+from the green world about her. She has no reverie nor speculation, but
+a devout tenderness like that of S. Francis for weak instinctive things,
+old gardeners, old fishermen, birds among the leaves, birds tossed upon
+the waters. Miss Hopper belongs to that school of writers which embodies
+passions, that are not the less spiritual because no Church has put them
+into prayers, in stories and symbols from old Celtic poetry and
+mythology. The poetry of A.E., at its best, finds its symbols and its
+stories in the soul itself, and has a more disembodied ecstasy than any
+poetry of our time. He is the chief poet of the school of Irish mystics,
+which has shaped Mr Charles Weekes, who published recently, but withdrew
+immediately, a curious and subtle book, and Mr John Eglinton, who is
+best known for the orchestral harmonies of his 'Two Essays on the
+Remnant,' and certain younger writers who have heard the words, 'If ye
+know these things, happy are ye if ye do them,' and thought the labours
+that bring the mystic vision more important than the labours of any
+craft.
+
+Except some few Catholic and mystical poets and Prof. Dowden in one or
+two poems, no Irishman living in Ireland has sung excellently of any but
+a theme from Irish experience, Irish history, or Irish tradition.
+Trinity College, which desires to be English, has been the mother of
+many verse-writers and of few poets; and this can only be because she
+has set herself against the national genius, and taught her children to
+imitate alien styles and choose out alien themes, for it is not possible
+to believe that the educated Irishman alone is prosaic and uninventive.
+Her few poets have been awakened by the influence of the farm-labourers,
+potato-diggers, pedlars, and hedge-schoolmasters of the eighteenth
+century, and their imitators in this, and not by a scholastic life,
+which, for reasons easy for all to understand and for many to forgive,
+has refused the ideals of Ireland, while those of England are but
+far-off murmurs. An enemy to all enthusiasms, because all enthusiasms
+seemed her enemies, she has taught her children to look neither to the
+world about them, nor into their own souls where some dangerous fire
+might slumber.
+
+To remember that in Ireland the professional and landed classes have
+been through the mould of Trinity College or of English Universities,
+and are ignorant of the very names of the best writers in this book, is
+to know how strong a wind blows from the ancient legends of Ireland, how
+vigorous an impulse to create is in her heart to-day. Deserted by the
+classes from among whom have come the bulk of the world's intellect, she
+struggles on, gradually ridding herself of incoherence and triviality,
+and slowly building up a literature in English which, whether important
+or unimportant, grows always more unlike others; nor does it seem as if
+she would long lack a living literature in Gaelic, for the movement for
+the preservation of Gaelic, which has been so much more successful than
+anybody foresaw, has already its poets. Dr Hyde, who can only be
+represented here by some of his beautiful translations, has written
+Gaelic poems which pass from mouth to mouth in the west of Ireland. The
+country people have themselves fitted them to ancient airs, and many
+that can neither read nor write, sing them in Donegal and Connemara and
+Galway. I have, indeed, but little doubt that Ireland, communing with
+herself in Gaelic more and more, but speaking to foreign countries in
+English, will lead many that are sick with theories and with trivial
+emotion, to some sweet well-waters of primeval poetry.
+ W.B.Y.
+
+
+The editor thanks Mr Aubrey de Vere, Mr T.W. Rolleston, Dr J. Todhunter,
+Mr Alfred Perceval Graves, Dr Douglas Hyde, Mr Lionel Johnson, A.E., Mr
+Charles Weekes, Mr John Eglinton, Mrs Hinkson, Miss Dora Sigerson (Mrs
+Clement Shortes), and Miss Nora Hopper for permission to quote from
+their poems, Lady Ferguson and Mrs Allingham for leave to give poems by
+Sir Samuel Ferguson and William Allingham, and Messrs Chatto & Windus
+for permission to include a song of Arthur O'Shaughnessy's. Two writers
+are excluded whom he would gladly have included--Casey, because the
+copyright holders have refused permission, and Mr George Armstrong,
+because his 'Songs of Wicklow,' when interesting, are too long for this
+book.
+
+
+
+
+OLD AGE
+
+_From the 'Deserted Village'_
+
+
+ In all my wanderings round this world of care,
+ In all my griefs--and God has given my share--
+ I still had hopes my later hours to crown,
+ Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
+ To husband out life's taper at the close
+ And keep the flame from wasting by repose;
+ I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
+ Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,
+ Around my fire an evening group to draw,
+ And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;
+ And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue,
+ Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,
+ I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
+ Here to return--and die at home at last.
+
+ _Oliver Goldsmith_
+
+
+
+
+THE VILLAGE PREACHER
+
+_From the 'Deserted Village'_
+
+
+ Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd,
+ And still where many a garden flower grows wild;
+ There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
+ The village Preacher's modest mansion rose.
+ A man he was to all the country dear,
+ And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
+ Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
+ Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change, his place;
+ Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for power,
+ By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
+ Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
+ More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise.
+ His house was known to all the vagrant train,
+ He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain;
+ The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
+ Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
+ The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
+ Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;
+ The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
+ Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;
+ Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,
+ Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.
+ Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
+ And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
+ Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
+ He pity gave ere charity began.
+
+ _Oliver Goldsmith_
+
+
+
+
+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 wayworn ranger,
+ In every 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!
+
+ _John Philpot Curran_
+
+
+
+
+THOU CANST NOT BOAST
+
+
+ Thou canst not boast of Fortune's store,
+ My love, while me they wealthy call:
+ But I was glad to find thee poor,
+ For with my heart I'd give thee all,
+ And then the grateful youth shall own,
+ I loved him for himself alone.
+
+ But when his worth my hand shall gain,
+ No word or look of mine shall show
+ That I the smallest thought retain
+ Of what my bounty did bestow:
+ Yet still his grateful heart shall own,
+ I loved him for himself alone.
+
+ _Richard Brinsley Sheridan_
+
+
+
+
+KATHLEEN O'MORE
+
+
+ My love, still I think that I see her once more,
+ But, alas! she has left me her loss to deplore--
+ My own little Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,
+ My Kathleen O'More!
+
+ Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue,
+ Her colour still changing, her smiles ever new--
+ So pretty was Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen,
+ My Kathleen O'More!
+
+ She milked the dun cow, that ne'er offered to stir;
+ Though wicked to all, it was gentle to her--
+ So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,
+ My Kathleen O'More!
+
+ She sat at the door one cold afternoon,
+ To hear the wind blow, and to gaze on the moon,
+ So pensive was Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,
+ My Kathleen O'More!
+
+ Cold was the night-breeze that sighed round her bower,
+ It chilled my poor Kathleen, she drooped from that hour:
+ And I lost my poor Kathleen, my own little Kathleen,
+ My Kathleen O'More.
+
+ The Bird of all birds that I love the best,
+ Is the Robin that in the churchyard builds his nest;
+ For he seems to watch Kathleen, hops lightly o'er Kathleen,
+ My Kathleen O'More.
+
+ _James Nugent Reynolds_
+
+
+
+
+THE GROVES OF BLARNEY
+
+
+ The groves of Blarney
+ They look so charming
+ Down by the purling
+ Of sweet, silent brooks,
+ Being banked with posies
+ That spontaneous grow there,
+ Planted in order
+ By the sweet rock close.
+ 'Tis there's the daisy
+ And the sweet carnation,
+ The blooming pink,
+ And the rose so fair,
+ The daffydowndilly,
+ Likewise the lily,
+ All flowers that scent
+ The sweet, fragrant air.
+
+ 'Tis Lady Jeffers
+ That owns this station;
+ Like Alexander,
+ Or Queen Helen fair.
+ There's no commander
+ In all the nation,
+ For emulation,
+ Can with her compare.
+ Such walls surround her
+ That no nine-pounder
+ Could dare to plunder
+ Her place of strength;
+ But Oliver Cromwell
+ Her he did pommell,
+ And made a breach
+ In her battlement.
+
+ There's gravel walks there
+ For speculation
+ And conversation
+ In sweet solitude.
+ 'Tis there the lover
+ May hear the dove, or
+ The gentle plover
+ In the afternoon;
+ And if a lady
+ Would be so engaging
+ As to walk alone in
+ Those shady bowers,
+ 'Tis there the courtier
+ He may transport her
+ Into some fort, or
+ All under ground.
+
+ For 'tis there's a cave where
+ No daylight enters,
+ But cats and badgers
+ Are for ever bred;
+ Being mossed by nature,
+ That makes it sweeter
+ Than a coach-and-six or
+ A feather bed.
+ 'Tis there the lake is,
+ Well stored with perches,
+ And comely eels in
+ The verdant mud;
+ Beside the leeches,
+ And groves of beeches,
+ Standing in order
+ For to guard the flood.
+
+ There's statues gracing
+ This noble place in--
+ All heathen gods
+ And nymphs so fair;
+ Bold Neptune, Plutarch,
+ And Nicodemus,
+ All standing naked
+ In the open air.
+ So now to finish
+ This brave narration,
+ Which my poor genii
+ Could not entwine;
+ But were I Homer
+ Or Nebuchadnezzar,
+ 'Tis in every feature
+ I would make it shine.
+
+ _Richard Alfred Milliken_
+
+
+
+
+THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS
+
+
+ Oft in the stilly night,
+ Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+ Fond Memory brings the light
+ Of other days around me:
+ The smiles, the tears
+ Of boyhood's years,
+ The words of love then spoken;
+ The eyes that shone
+ Now dimm'd and gone,
+ The cheerful homes now broken!
+ Then in the stilly night,
+ Ere slumber's chain hath bound me,
+ Sad memory brings the light
+ Of other days around me.
+
+ When I remember all
+ The friends so linked together
+ I've seen around me fall
+ Like leaves in wintry weather,
+ I feel like one
+ Who treads alone
+ Some banquet-hall deserted,
+ Whose lights are fled,
+ Whose garlands dead,
+ And all but he departed.
+ Then in the stilly night,
+ Ere slumber's chain hath bound me,
+ Sad Memory brings the light
+ Of other days around me.
+
+ _Thomas Moore_
+
+
+
+
+AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT
+
+
+ At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
+ To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;
+ And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air
+ To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,
+ And tell me our love is remembered even in the sky!
+
+ Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear
+ When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear;
+ And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,
+ I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the kingdom of souls
+ Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
+
+ _Thomas Moore_
+
+
+
+
+THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
+
+
+ Not a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,
+ As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
+ Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
+ O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
+
+ We buried him darkly at dead of night,
+ The sods with our bayonets turning,
+ By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
+ And the lantern dimly burning.
+
+ No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
+ Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
+ But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
+ With his martial cloak around him.
+
+ Few and short were the prayers we said,
+ And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
+ But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
+ And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
+
+ We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
+ And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
+ That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
+ And we far away on the billow!
+
+ Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
+ And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,--
+ But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
+ In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
+
+ But half of our heavy task was done,
+ When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
+ And we heard the distant and random gun
+ That the foe was sullenly firing.
+
+ Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
+ From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
+ We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone--
+ But we left him alone in his glory.
+
+ _Rev. Charles Wolfe_
+
+
+
+
+THE CONVICT OF CLONMELL
+
+_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 gaol 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.
+
+ 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 gaol 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_.
+
+ _Jeremiah Joseph Callanan_
+
+
+
+
+THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ O, many a day have I made good ale in the glen,
+ That came not of stream or malt;--like the brewing of men.
+ My bed was the ground; my roof, the greenwood above,
+ And the wealth that I sought one far kind glance from my love.
+
+ Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field,
+ That I was not near from terror my angel to shield.
+ She stretched forth her arms,--her mantle she flung to the wind,
+ And swam o'er Loch Lene, her outlawed lover to find.
+
+ O would that a freezing sleet-wing'd tempest did sweep,
+ And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep;
+ I'd ask not a ship, or a bark, or pinnace, to save,--
+ With her hand round my waist, I'd fear not the wind or the wave.
+
+ 'Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringes its sides,
+ The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides;--
+ I think as at eve she wanders its mazes along,
+ The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of her song.
+
+ _Jeremiah Joseph Callanan_
+
+
+
+
+DIRGE OF O'SULLIVAN BEAR
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ 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!
+ 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 for ever!
+
+ In the hole which the vile hands
+ Of soldiers had made thee,
+ Unhonour'd, 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!
+
+ Dear head of my darling,
+ How gory and pale,
+ These aged eyes see thee,
+ High spiked on their gaol!
+ 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 thy billows were dyed
+ With the red wounds of fear
+ Of Muiertach Oge,
+ Our O'Sullivan Bear!
+
+ _Jeremiah Joseph Callanan_
+
+
+
+
+LOVE SONG
+
+
+ Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers,
+ Lulled 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 forests 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 faithfulest and fairest
+ Bleeds with its death-wound its wound of love for thee!
+
+ _George Darley_
+
+
+
+
+THE WHISTLIN' THIEF
+
+
+ When Pat came over the hill,
+ His colleen fair to see,
+ His whistle low, but shrill,
+ The signal was to be;
+
+ (_Pat whistles._)
+
+ 'Mary,' the mother said,
+ 'Some one is whistling sure;'
+ Says Mary, ''Tis only the wind
+ Is whistling through the door.'
+
+ (_Pat whistles a bit of a popular air._)
+
+ 'I've lived a long time, Mary,
+ In this wide world, my dear,
+ But a door to whistle like _that_
+ I never yet did hear.'
+
+ 'But, mother, you know the fiddle
+ Hangs close beside the chink,
+ And the wind upon the strings
+ Is playing the tune I think.'
+
+ (_The pig grunts._)
+
+ 'Mary, I hear the pig,
+ Unaisy in his mind.'
+ 'But, mother, you know, they say
+ The pigs can see the wind.'
+
+ 'That's true enough _in the day_,
+ But I think you may remark,
+ That pigs no more nor we
+ Can see anything in the dark.'
+
+ (_The dog barks._)
+
+ 'The dog is barking now,
+ The fiddle can't play the tune.'
+ 'But, mother, the dogs will bark
+ Whenever they see the moon.'
+
+ 'But how could he see the moon,
+ When, you know, the dog is blind?
+ Blind dogs won't bark at the moon,
+ Nor fiddles be played by the wind.
+
+ 'I'm not such a fool as you think,
+ I know very well it is Pat:--
+ Shut your mouth, you whistlin' thief,
+ And go along home out o' that!
+
+ 'And you be off to your bed,
+ Don't play upon me your jeers;
+ For though I have lost my eyes,
+ I haven't lost my ears!'
+
+ _Samuel Lover_
+
+
+
+
+SOGGARTH AROON
+
+
+ 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
+ Old Ireland's slavery,
+ Soggarth aroon.
+
+ Why not her poorest man,
+ Soggarth aroon,
+ Try and do all he can,
+ Soggarth aroon,
+ Her commands to fulfil
+ Of his own heart and will,
+ Side by side with you still
+ 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!
+
+ Who, in the winter's night,
+ Soggarth aroon,
+ When the cold blast did bite,
+ Soggarth aroon,
+ Came to my cabin-door,
+ And, on my 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!
+
+ _John Banim_
+
+
+
+
+DARK ROSALEEN
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ O my Dark Rosaleen,
+ Do not sigh, do not weep!
+ The priests are on the ocean green.
+ They march along the deep.
+ There's wine from the royal Pope,
+ Upon the ocean green;
+ And Spanish ale shall give you hope,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+ My own Rosaleen!
+ Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,
+ Shall give you health, and help, and hope,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+
+ Over hills, and through dales,
+ Have I roamed for your sake;
+ All yesterday I sailed with sails
+ On river and on lake,
+ The Erne, at its highest flood,
+ I dashed across unseen,
+ For there was lightning in my blood,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+ My own Rosaleen!
+ O there was lightning in my blood,
+ Red lightning lightened through my blood,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+
+ All day long in unrest
+ To and fro do I move,
+ The very heart within my breast
+ Is wasted for you, Love!
+ The heart in my bosom faints
+ To think of you, my queen!
+ My life of life, my saint of saints,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+ My own Rosaleen!
+ To hear your sweet and sad complaints,
+ My life, my love, my saint of saints,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+
+ Woe and pain, pain and woe,
+ Are my lot night and noon;
+ To see your bright face clouded so,
+ Like to the mournful moon.
+ But yet will I rear your throne
+ Again in golden sheen:
+ 'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+ My own Rosaleen!
+ 'Tis you shall have the golden throne,
+ 'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+
+ Over dews, over sands,
+ Will I fly for your weal:
+ Your holy, delicate white hands
+ Shall girdle me with steel.
+ At home, in your emerald bowers,
+ From morning's dawn till e'en,
+ You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+ My fond Rosaleen!
+ You'll think of me through daylight's hours,
+ My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+
+ I could scale the blue air,
+ I could plough the high hills,
+ O, I could kneel all night in prayer,
+ To heal your many ills.
+ And one beamy smile from you
+ Would float like light between
+ My toils and me, my own, my true,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+ My fond Rosaleen!
+ Would give me life and soul anew,
+ A second life, a soul anew,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+
+ O! the Erne shall run red
+ With redundance of blood,
+ The earth shall rock beneath our tread,
+ And flames wrap hill and wood,
+ And gun-peal, and slogan cry,
+ Wake many a glen serene,
+ Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+ My own Rosaleen!
+ The Judgment Hour must first be nigh
+ Ere you can fade, ere you can die,
+ My Dark Rosaleen!
+
+ _James Clarence Mangan_
+
+
+
+
+LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OF TYRONE AND TYRCONNELL
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ O woman of the Piercing Wail,
+ Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay
+ With sigh and groan,
+ Would God thou wert among the Gael!
+ Thou wouldst not then from day to day
+ Weep thus alone.
+ 'Twere long before, around a grave
+ In green Tyrconnell, one could find
+ This loneliness;
+ Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave
+ Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined
+ Companionless.
+
+ Beside the wave in Donegal,
+ In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore,
+ Or Killillee.
+ Or where the sunny waters fall
+ At Assaroe, near Erna's shore,
+ This could not be.
+ On Derry's plains--in rich Drumclieff--
+ Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned
+ In olden years,
+ No day could pass but woman's grief
+ Would rain upon the burial-ground
+ Fresh floods of tears!
+
+ O, no!--from Shannon, Boyne, and Suir,
+ From high Dunluce's castle-walls,
+ From Lissadill,
+ Would flock alike both rich and poor,
+ One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls
+ To Tara's hill;
+ And some would come from Barrow-side,
+ And many a maid would leave her home,
+ On Leitrim's plains,
+ And by melodious Banna's tide,
+ And by the Mourne and Erne, to come
+ And swell thy strains!
+
+ O, horses' hoofs would trample down
+ The Mount whereon the martyr-saint
+ Was crucified.
+ From glen and hill, from plain and town,
+ One loud lament, one thrilling plaint,
+ Would echo wide.
+ There would not soon be found, I ween,
+ One foot of ground among those bands
+ For museful thought,
+ So many shriekers of the _keen_
+ Would cry aloud and clap their hands,
+ All woe distraught!
+
+ Two princes of the line of Conn
+ Sleep in their cells of clay beside
+ O'Donnell Roe;
+ Three royal youths, alas! are gone,
+ Who lived for Erin's weal, but died
+ For Erin's woe;
+ Ah! could the men of Ireland read
+ The names these noteless burial-stones
+ Display to view,
+ Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed,
+ Their tears gush forth again, their groans
+ Resound anew!
+
+ The youths whose relics moulder here
+ Were sprung from Hugh, high Prince and Lord
+ Of Aileach's lands;
+ Thy noble brothers, justly dear,
+ Thy nephew, long to be deplored
+ By Ulster's bands.
+ Theirs were not souls wherein dull Time
+ Could domicile Decay or house
+ Decrepitude!
+ They passed from Earth ere Manhood's prime,
+ Ere years had power to dim their brows
+ Or chill their blood.
+
+ And who can marvel o'er thy grief,
+ Or who can blame thy flowing tears,
+ That knows their source?
+ O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief,
+ Cut off amid his vernal years,
+ Lies here a corse
+ Beside his brother Cathbar, whom
+ Tirconnell of the Helmets mourns
+ In deep despair--
+ For valour, truth, and comely bloom,
+ For all that greatens and adorns
+ A peerless pair.
+
+ O, had these twain, and he, the third,
+ The Lord of Mourne, O'Niall's son,
+ Their mate in death--
+ A prince in look, in deed and word--
+ Had these three heroes yielded on
+ The field their breath,
+ O, had they fallen on Criffan's plain,
+ There would not be a town or clan
+ From shore to sea,
+ But would with shrieks bewail the slain,
+ Or chant aloud the exulting _rann_
+ Of Jubilee!
+
+ When high the shout of battle rose,
+ On fields where Freedom's torch still burned
+ Through Erin's gloom,
+ If one, if barely one of those
+ Were slain, all Ulster would have mourned
+ The hero's doom!
+ If at Athboy, where hosts of brave
+ Ulidian horsemen sank beneath
+ The shock of spears,
+ Young Hugh O'Neill had found a grave,
+ Long must the North have wept his death
+ With heart-wrung tears!
+
+ If on the day of Ballach-myre
+ The Lord of Mourne had met thus young,
+ A warrior's fate,
+ In vain would such as thou desire
+ To mourn, alone, the champion sprung
+ From Niall the Great!
+ No marvel this--for all the dead,
+ Heaped on the field, pile over pile,
+ At Mullach-brack,
+ Were scarce an _eric_ for his head,
+ If death had stayed his footsteps while
+ On victory's track!
+
+ If on the Day of Hostages
+ The fruit had from the parent bough
+ Been rudely torn
+ In sight of Munster's bands--Mac-Nee's--
+ Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow,
+ Could ill have borne.
+ If on the day of Ballach-boy
+ Some arm had laid, by foul surprise,
+ The chieftain low,
+ Even our victorious shout of joy
+
+ Would soon give place to rueful cries
+ And groans of woe!
+
+ If on the day the Saxon host
+ Were forced to fly--a day so great
+ For Ashanee--
+ The Chief had been untimely lost,
+ Our conquering troops should moderate
+ Their mirthful glee.
+ There would not lack on Lifford's day,
+ From Galway, from the glens of Boyle,
+ From Limerick's towers,
+ A marshalled file, a long array
+ Of mourners to bedew the soil
+ With tears in showers!
+
+ If on the day a sterner fate
+ Compelled his flight from Athenree,
+ His blood had flowed,
+ What numbers all disconsolate,
+ Would come unasked, and share with thee
+ Affliction's load!
+ If Derry's crimson field had seen
+ His life-blood offered up, though 'twere
+ On Victory's shrine,
+ A thousand cries would swell the _keen_,
+ A thousand voices of despair
+ Would echo thine.
+
+ O, had the fierce Dalcassian swarm
+ That bloody night on Fergus' banks
+ But slain our chief,
+ When rose his camp in wild alarm--
+ How would the triumph of his ranks
+ Be dashed with grief!
+ How would the troops of Murbach mourn
+ If on the Curlew Mountains' day,
+ Which England rued,
+ Some Saxon hand had left them lorn,
+ By shedding there, amid the fray,
+ Their prince's blood!
+
+ Red would have been our warriors' eyes
+ Had Roderick found on Sligo field
+ A gory grave,
+ No Northern Chief would soon arise,
+ So sage to guide, so strong to shield,
+ So swift to save.
+ Long would Leith-Cuinn have wept if Hugh
+ Had met the death he oft had dealt
+ Among the foe;
+ But, had our Roderick fallen too,
+ All Erin must, alas! have felt
+ The deadly blow!
+
+ What do I say? Ah, woe is me!
+ Already we bewail in vain
+ Their fatal fall!
+ And Erin, once the Great and Free,
+ Now vainly mourns her breakless chain,
+ And iron thrall!
+ Then, daughter of O'Donnell! dry
+ Thine overflowing eyes, and turn
+ Thy heart aside;
+ For Adam's race is born to die,
+ And sternly the sepulchral urn
+ Mocks human pride!
+
+ Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne,
+ Nor place thy trust in arm of clay--
+ But on thy knees
+ Uplift thy soul to God alone,
+ For all things go their destined way
+ As He decrees.
+ Embrace the faithful Crucifix,
+ And seek the path of pain and prayer
+ Thy Saviour trod!
+ Nor let thy spirit intermix
+ With earthly hope and worldly care
+ Its groans to God!
+
+ And Thou, O mighty Lord! whose ways
+ Are far above our feeble minds
+ To understand,
+ Sustain us in these doleful days,
+ And render light the chain that binds
+ Our fallen land!
+ Look down upon our dreary state,
+ And through the ages that may still
+ Roll sadly on,
+ Watch Thou o'er hapless Erin's fate,
+ And shield at least from darker ill
+ The blood of Conn!
+
+ _James Clarence Mangan_
+
+
+
+
+A LAMENTATION FOR THE DEATH OF SIR MAURICE FITZGERALD, KNIGHT OF KERRY
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ There was lifted up one voice of woe,
+ One lament of more than mortal grief,
+ Through the wide South to and fro,
+ For a fallen Chief.
+ In the dead of night that cry thrilled through me,
+ I looked out upon the midnight air;
+ Mine own soul was all as gloomy,
+ And I knelt in prayer.
+
+ O'er Loch Gur, that night, once--twice--yea, thrice--
+ Passed a wail of anguish for the Brave,
+ That half curled into ice
+ The moon-mirroring wave.
+ Then uprose a many-toned wild hymn in
+ Choral swell from Ogra's dark ravine,
+ And Moguly's Phantom Women
+ Mourned the Geraldine!
+
+ Far on Carah Mona's emerald plains,
+ Shrieks and sighs were blended many hours,
+ And Fermoy, in fitful strains,
+ Answered from her towers.
+ Youghal, Keenalmeaky, Eemokilly,
+ Mourned in concert, and their piercing _keen_
+ Woke to wondering life the stilly
+ Glens of Inchiqueen.
+
+ From Loughmoe to yellow Dunanore
+ There was fear; the traders of Tralee
+ Gathered up their golden store,
+ And prepared to flee;
+ For, in ship and hall, from night till morning
+ Showed the first faint beamings of the sun,
+ All the foreigners heard the warning
+ Of the Dreaded One!
+
+ 'This,' they spake, 'portendeth death to us,
+ If we fly not swiftly from our fate!'
+ Self-conceited idiots! thus
+ Ravingly to prate!
+ Not for base-born higgling Saxon trucksters
+ Ring laments like those by shore and sea!
+ Not for churls with souls of hucksters
+ Waileth our Banshee!
+ For the high Milesian race alone
+ Ever flows the music of her woe!
+ For slain heir to bygone throne,
+ And for Chief laid low!
+ Hark!... Again, methinks, I hear her weeping
+ Yonder! Is she near me now, as then?
+ Or was but the night-wind sweeping
+ Down the hollow glen?
+
+ _James Clarence Mangan_
+
+
+
+
+THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ O, Woman of Three Cows, _agragh!_ don't let your
+ tongue thus rattle!
+ O, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may
+ have cattle.
+ I have seen--and, here's my hand to you, I only say
+ what's true--
+ A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud
+ as you.
+
+ Good luck to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't be
+ their despiser;
+ For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the
+ very miser;
+ And death soon strips the proudest wreath from
+ haughty human brows,
+ Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good Woman
+ of Three Cows!
+
+ See where Momonia's heroes lie, proud Owen More's
+ descendants,
+ 'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the
+ grand attendants!
+ If _they_ were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal
+ bows,
+ Can _you_ be proud, can _you_ be stiff, my Woman
+ of Three Cows?
+
+ The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the
+ land to mourning;
+ _Mavrone!_ for they were banished, with no hope of
+ their returning--
+ Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were
+ driven to house?
+ Yet _you_ can give yourself these airs, O Woman
+ of Three Cows!
+
+ O, think of Donnel of the Ships, the Chief whom
+ nothing daunted--
+ See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled,
+ unchanted!
+ He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder
+ cannot rouse--
+ Then ask yourself, should _you_ be proud, good Woman
+ of Three Cows?
+
+ O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names
+ are shrined in story--
+ Think how their high achievements once made Erin's
+ greatest glory--
+ Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and
+ Cyprus boughs,
+ And so, for all your pride, will yours, O Woman
+ of Three Cows!
+
+ Th' O'Carrols, also, famed when fame was only for
+ the boldest,
+ Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and
+ oldest;
+ Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or
+ carouse?
+ Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman
+ of Three Cows!
+
+ Your neighbour's poor, and you, it seems, are big
+ with vain ideas,
+ Because, _inagh!_ you've got three cows, one more, I see,
+ than _she_ has;
+ That tongue of yours wags more at times than
+ charity allows--
+ But, if you're strong, be merciful, great Woman
+ of Three Cows!
+
+
+THE SUMMING-UP.
+
+ Now, there you go! You still, of course, keep up
+ your scornful bearing,
+ And I'm too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak
+ I'm wearing,
+ If I had but _four_ cows myself, even though you were
+ my spouse,
+ I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman
+ of Three Cows!
+
+ _James Clarence Mangan_
+
+
+
+
+PRINCE ALFRID'S ITINERARY THROUGH IRELAND
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ I found in Innisfail the fair,
+ In Ireland, while in exile there,
+ Women of worth, both grave and gay men,
+ Many clerics and many laymen.
+
+ I travelled its fruitful provinces round
+ And in every one of the five I found,
+ Alike in church and in palace hall,
+ Abundant apparel, and food for all.
+
+ Gold and silver I found, and money,
+ Plenty of wheat and plenty of honey;
+ I found God's people rich in pity,
+ Found many a feast and many a city.
+
+ I also found in Armagh, the splendid,
+ Meekness, wisdom, and prudence blended,
+ Fasting, as Christ hath recommended,
+ And noble councillors untranscended.
+
+ I found in each great church moreo'er,
+ Whether on island or on shore
+ Piety, learning, fond affection,
+ Holy welcome and kind protection.
+
+ I found thy good lay monks and brothers
+ Ever beseeching help for others,
+ And in their keeping the holy word
+ Pure as it came from Jesus the Lord.
+
+ I found in Munster unfettered of any,
+ Kings and queens and poets a many--
+ Poets were skilled in music and measure,
+ Prosperous doings, mirth and pleasure.
+
+ I found in Connaught the just, redundance
+ Of riches, milk in lavish abundance,
+ Hospitality, vigour, fame,
+ In Cruachan's land of heroic name.
+
+ I found in the county of Connall the glorious
+ Bravest heroes, ever victorious;
+ Fair-complexioned men and warlike,
+ Ireland's lights, the high, the starlike.
+
+ I found in Ulster, from hill to glen,
+ Hardy warriors, resolute men;
+ Beauty that bloomed when youth was gone,
+ And strength transmitted from sire to son.
+
+ I found in the noble district of Boyle
+
+ (_MS. here illegible._)
+
+ Brehons, erenachs, weapons bright,
+ And horsemen bold and sudden in fight.
+
+ I found in Leinster the smooth and sleek,
+ From Dublin to Slewmargy's peak;
+ Flourishing pastures, valour, health,
+ Long-living worthies, commerce, wealth.
+
+ I found, besides, from Ara to Glea,
+ In the broad rich country of Ossorie,
+ Sweet fruits, good laws for all and each,
+ Great chess players, men of truthful speech.
+
+ I found in Meath's fair principality,
+ Virtue, vigour, and hospitality;
+ Candour, joyfulness, bravery, purity,
+ Ireland's bulwark and security.
+
+ I found strict morals in age and youth,
+ I found historians recording truth;
+ The things I sing of in verse unsmooth,
+ I found them all--I have written sooth.
+
+ _James Clarence Mangan_
+
+
+
+
+O'HUSSEY'S ODE TO THE MAGUIRE
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ Where is my Chief, my Master, this bleak night, _mavrone_!
+ O, cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak night for Hugh,
+ Its showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one through and through,
+ Pierceth one to the very bone!
+
+ Rolls real thunder? Or was that red, livid light
+ Only a meteor? I scarce know; but through the midnight dim
+ The pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the hate that persecutes _him_
+ Nothing hath crueler venomy might.
+
+ An awful, a tremendous night is this, meseems!
+ The flood-gates of the river of heaven, I think, have been
+ burst wide--
+ Down from the overcharged clouds, like unto headlong ocean's tide,
+ Descends grey rain in roaring streams.
+
+ Though he were even a wolf ranging the round green woods,
+ Though he were even a pleasant salmon in the unchainable sea,
+ Though he were a wild mountain eagle, he could scarce bear, he,
+ This sharp, sore sleet, these howling floods.
+
+ O mournful is my soul this night for Hugh Maguire!
+ Darkly, as in a dream he strays! Before him and behind
+ Triumphs the tyrannous anger of the wounding wind,
+ The wounding wind, that burns as fire!
+
+ It is my bitter grief--it cuts me to the heart--
+ That in the country of Clan Darry this should be his fate!
+ O, woe is me, where is he? Wandering, houseless, desolate,
+ Alone, without or guide or chart!
+
+ Medreams I see just now his face, the strawberry-bright,
+ Uplifted to the blackened heavens, while the tempestuous winds
+ Blow fiercely over and round him, and the smiting
+ sleet-shower blinds
+ The hero of Galang to-night!
+
+ Large, large affliction unto me and mine it is,
+ That one of his majestic bearing, his fair, stately form,
+ Should thus be tortured and o'erborne--that this unsparing storm
+ Should wreak its wrath on head like his!
+
+ That his great hand, so oft the avenger of the oppressed,
+ Should this chill churlish night, perchance, be paralyzed by frost--
+ While through some icicle-hung thicket--as one lorn and lost--
+ He walks and wanders without rest.
+
+ The tempest-driven torrent deluges the mead,
+ It overflows the low banks of the rivulets and ponds--
+ The lawns and pasture-grounds lie locked in icy bonds
+ So that the cattle cannot feed.
+
+ The pale bright margins of the streams are seen by none,
+ Rushes and sweeps along the untamable flood on every side--
+ It penetrates and fills the cottagers' dwellings far and wide--
+ Water and land are blent in one.
+
+ Through some dark wood, 'mid bones of monsters, Hugh now strays,
+ As he confronts the storm with anguished heart, but manly brow--
+ O, what a sword-wound to that tender heart of his were now
+ A backward glance of peaceful days.
+
+ But other thoughts are his--thoughts that can still inspire
+ With joy and onward-bounding hope the bosom of Mac-Nee--
+ Thoughts of his warriors charging like bright billows the sea,
+ Borne on the wind's wings, flashing fire!
+
+ And though frost glaze to-night the clear dew of his eyes,
+ And white ice-gauntlets glove his noble fine fair fingers o'er,
+ A warm dress is to him that lightning garb he ever wore,
+ The lightning of the soul, not skies.
+
+
+AVRAN
+
+ Hugh marched forth to the fight--I grieved to see him so depart;
+ And lo! to-night he wanders frozen, rain-drenched, sad, betrayed--
+ _But the memory of the limewhite mansions his right hand hath laid
+ In ashes, warms the hero's heart_!
+
+ _James Clarence Mangan_
+
+
+
+
+THE NAMELESS ONE
+
+
+ Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river,
+ That sweeps along to the mighty sea;
+ God will inspire me while I deliver
+ My soul to thee!
+
+ Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening
+ Amid the last homes of youth and eld,
+ That there was once one whose blood ran lightning
+ No eye beheld.
+
+ Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour,
+ How shone for _him_, through its griefs and gloom,
+ No star of all heaven sends to light our
+ Path to the tomb.
+
+ Roll on, my song, and to after ages
+ Tell how, disdaining all earth can give,
+ He would have taught men, from wisdom's pages,
+ The way to live.
+
+ And tell how trampled, derided, hated,
+ And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong,
+ He fled for shelter to God, who mated
+ His soul with song--
+
+ With song which alway, sublime or vapid,
+ Flowed like a rill in the morning-beam,
+ Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid--
+ A mountain stream.
+
+ Tell how this Nameless, condemned for years long
+ To herd with demons from hell beneath,
+ Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, long
+ For even death.
+
+ Go on to tell how, with genius wasted,
+ Betrayed in friendship, befooled in love,
+ With spirit shipwrecked, and young hopes blasted,
+ He still, still strove.
+
+ Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others,
+ And some whose hands should have wrought for _him_;
+ (If children live not for sires and mothers,)
+ His mind grew dim.
+
+ And he fell far through that pit abysmal
+ The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns;
+ And pawned his soul for the devil's dismal
+ Stock of returns.
+
+ But yet redeemed it in days of darkness,
+ And shapes and signs of the final wrath,
+ When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness,
+ Stood on his path.
+
+ And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow,
+ And want, and sickness, and houseless nights,
+ He bides in calmness the silent morrow,
+ That no ray lights.
+
+ And lives he still, then? Yes! Old and hoary
+ At thirty-nine, from despair and woe,
+ He lives enduring what future story
+ Will never know.
+
+ Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble,
+ Deep in your bosoms! There let him dwell!
+ He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble,
+ Here and in hell!
+
+ _James Clarence Mangan_
+
+
+
+
+SIBERIA
+
+
+ In Siberia's wastes
+ The Ice-wind's breath
+ Woundeth like the toothed steel.
+ Lost Siberia doth reveal
+ Only blight and death.
+
+ Blight and death alone.
+ No Summer shines.
+ Night is interblent with Day.
+ In Siberia's wastes alway
+ The blood blackens, the heart pines.
+
+ In Siberia's wastes
+ No tears are shed,
+ For they freeze within the brain.
+ Nought is felt but dullest pain,
+ Pain acute, yet dead;
+
+ Pain as in a dream,
+ When years go by
+ Funeral-paced, yet fugitive,
+ When man lives, and doth not live,
+ Doth not live--nor die.
+
+ In Siberia's wastes
+ Are sands and rocks.
+ Nothing blooms of green or soft,
+ But the snowpeaks rise aloft
+ And the gaunt ice-blocks.
+
+ And the exile there
+ Is one with those;
+ They are part, and he is part,
+ For the sands are in his heart,
+ And the killing snows.
+
+ Therefore, in those wastes
+ None curse the Czar.
+ Each man's tongue is cloven by
+ The North Blast, who heweth nigh
+ With sharp scymitar.
+
+ And such doom he drees,
+ Till hunger gnawn,
+ And cold-slain, he at length sinks there,
+ Yet scarce more a corpse than ere
+ His last breath was drawn.
+
+ _James Clarence Mangan_
+
+
+
+
+HY-BRASAIL
+
+
+ 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_ 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!
+
+ 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;
+ Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track,
+ And to Ara again he looked timidly back;
+ O! 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.
+ Bash fool! for a vision of fanciful bliss
+ To barter thy calm life of labour and peace.
+ The warning of reason was spoken in vain,
+ He never re-visited Ara again!
+ Night falls on the deep, amidst tempest and spray,
+ And he died on the waters, away, far away!
+
+ _Gerald Griffin_
+
+
+
+
+MO CRAOIBHIN CNO
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ My heart is far from Liffey's tide
+ And Dublin town;
+ It strays beyond the Southern side
+ Of Cnoc-Maol-Donn,
+ Where Capa-chuinn hath woodlands green,
+ Where Amhan-Mhor's waters flow,
+ Where dwell unsung, unsought, unseen
+ _Mo craoibhin cno_,
+ Low clustering in her leafy screen,
+ _Mo craoibhin cno_!
+
+ The high-bred dames of Dublin town
+ Are rich and fair,
+ With wavy plume and silken gown,
+ And stately air;
+ Can plumes compare thy dark brown hair?
+ Can silks thy neck of snow?
+ Or measur'd pace thine artless grace?
+ _Mo craoibhin cno_,
+ When harebells scarcely show thy trace,
+ _Mo craoibhin cno_!
+
+ I've heard the songs by Liffey's wave
+ That maidens sung--
+ They sung their land the Saxon's slave,
+ In Saxon tongue--
+ O! bring me here that Gaelic dear
+ Which cursed the Saxon foe,
+ When thou didst charm my raptured ear,
+ _Mo craoibhin cno_!
+ And none but God's good angels near,
+ _Mo craoibhin cno_!
+
+ I've wandered by the rolling Lee!
+ And Lene's green bowers--
+ I've seen the Shannon's wide-spread sea
+ And Limerick's towers--
+ And Liffey's tide, where halls of pride
+ Frown o'er the flood below;
+ My wild heart strays to Amhan-mhor's side,
+ _Mo craoibhin cno_!
+ With love and thee for aye to bide,
+ _Mo craoibhin cno_!
+
+ _Edward Walsh_
+
+
+
+
+MAIRGREAD NI CHEALLEADH
+
+
+ At the dance in the village thy white foot was fleetest;
+ Thy voice in the concert of maidens was sweetest;
+ The swell of thy white breast made rich lovers follow;
+ And thy raven hair bound them, young Mairgread ni Chealleadh.
+
+ Thy neck was, lost maid, than the _ceanabhan_ whiter,
+ And the glow of thy cheek than the _monadan_ brighter;
+ But death's chain hath bound thee, thine eye's glazed and hollow,
+ That shone like a sunburst, young Mairgread ni Chealleadh.
+
+ No more shall mine ear drink thy melody swelling;
+ Nor thy beamy eye brighten the outlaw's dark dwelling;
+ Or thy soft heaving bosom my destiny hallow,
+ When thine arms twine around me, young Mairgread ni Chealleadh.
+
+ The moss couch I brought thee to-day from the mountain,
+ Has drank the last drop of thy young heart's red fountain--
+ For this good scian beside me stuck deep and run hollow
+ In thy bosom of treason, young Mairgread ni Chealleadh.
+
+ With strings of rich pearls thy white neck was laden,
+ And thy fingers with spoils of the Sassanach maiden:
+ Such rich silks enrob'd not the proud dames of Mallow--
+ Such pure gold they wore not as Mairgread ni Chealleadh.
+
+ Alas! that my loved one her outlaw would injure--
+ Alas! that he e'er proved her treason's avenger!
+ That this right hand should make thee a bed cold and hollow,
+ When in Death's sleep it laid thee, Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh!
+
+ And while to this lone cave my deep grief I'm venting,
+ The Saxon's keen bandog my footstep is scenting,
+ But true men await me afar in Duhallow,
+ Farewell, cave of slaughter, and Mairgread ni Chealleadh.
+
+ _Edward Walsh_
+
+
+
+
+FROM THE COLD SOD THAT'S O'ER YOU
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ From the cold sod that's o'er you
+ I never shall sever;
+ Were my hands twined in yours, Love,
+ I'd hold them for ever.
+ My fondest, my fairest,
+ We may now sleep together!
+ I've the cold earth's damp odour,
+ And I'm worn from the weather.
+
+ This heart filled with fondness
+ Is wounded and weary;
+ A dark gulf beneath it
+ Yawns jet-black and dreary.
+ When death comes, a victor,
+ In mercy to greet me,
+ On the wings of the whirlwind
+ In the wild wastes you'll meet me.
+
+ When the folk of my household
+ Suppose I am sleeping,
+ On your cold grave till morning
+ The lone watch I'm keeping.
+ My grief to the night wind
+ For the mild maid to render,
+ Who was my betrothed
+ Since infancy tender.
+
+ Remember the lone night
+ I last spent with you, Love,
+ Beneath the dark sloe-tree
+ When the icy wind blew, Love.
+ High praise to thy Saviour
+ No sin-stain had found you,
+ That your virginal glory
+ Shines brightly around you.
+
+ The priests and the friars
+ Are ceaselessly chiding,
+ That I love a young maiden
+ In life not abiding.
+ O! I'd shelter and shield you
+ If wild storms were swelling!
+ And O, my wrecked hope,
+ That the cold earth's your dwelling.
+
+ _Edward Walsh_
+
+
+
+
+THE FAIRY NURSE
+
+
+ Sweet babe! a golden cradle holds thee,
+ And soft the snow-white fleece enfolds thee;
+ In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping,
+ Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping.
+ Shuheen sho, lulo lo
+
+ When mothers languish broken-hearted,
+ When young wives are from husbands parted,
+ Ah! little think the keeners lonely,
+ They weep some time-worn fairy only.
+ Shuheen sho, lulo lo!
+
+ Within our magic halls of brightness,
+ Trips many a foot of snowy whiteness;
+ Stolen maidens, queens of fairy--
+ And kings and chiefs a sluagh shee airy.
+ Shuheen sho, lulo lo!
+
+ Rest thee, babe! I love thee dearly,
+ And as thy mortal mother nearly;
+ Ours is the swiftest steed and proudest,
+ That moves where the tramp of the host is loudest.
+ Shuheen sho, lulo lo!
+
+ Rest thee, babe! for soon thy slumbers
+ Shall flee at the magic koelshie's numbers;
+ In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping,
+ Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping.
+ Shuheen sho, lulo lo!
+
+ _Edward Walsh_
+
+
+
+
+A CUISLE GEAL MO CHROIDHE
+
+
+ The long, long wished-for hour has come,
+ Yet come, astor, in vain;
+ And left thee but the wailing hum
+ Of sorrow and of pain:
+ My light of life, my lonely love!
+ Thy portion sure must be
+ Man's scorn below, God's wrath above--
+ A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!
+
+ I've given thee manhood's 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
+ O'er Lua's fairy lake.
+ 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 brief 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 prayed for 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 tried, alas! and those
+ Who'd peril all for thee
+ Were curs'd 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 failed
+ Or those who'd die for thee;
+ Who loved thee truly have not failed,
+ A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!
+
+ _Michael Doheny_
+
+
+
+
+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 love-light in your eye.
+
+ The _place_ is little changed, Mary,
+ The day is bright as then,
+ The lark's loud song is in my ear,
+ 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, O! they love the better still,
+ The few our Father sends!
+ And you were all _I_ 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 even on _your_ lip,
+ And the kind look on your brow--
+ I bless you, Mary, for that same,
+ Though you cannot hear me now.
+
+ 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--
+ O! 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.
+
+ _Lady Dufferin_
+
+
+
+
+THE WELSHMEN OF TIRAWLEY
+
+
+ Scorney Bwee, the Barretts' bailiff, lewd and lame,
+ To lift the Lynott's taxes when he came,
+ Rudely drew a young maid to him!
+ Then the Lynotts rose and slew him,
+ And in Tubber-na-Scorney threw him--
+ Small your blame,
+ Sons of Lynott!
+ Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ Then the Barretts to the Lynotts gave a choice,
+ Saying, 'Hear, ye murderous brood, men and boys,
+ Choose ye now, without delay,
+ Will ye lose your eyesight, say,
+ Or your manhoods, here to-day?
+ Sad your choice,
+ Sons of Lynott!
+ Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ Then the little boys of the Lynotts, weeping, said,
+ 'Only leave us our eyesight in our head.'
+ But the bearded Lynotts then
+ Quickly answered back again,
+ 'Take our eyes, but leave us men,
+ Alive or dead,
+ Sons of Wattin!'
+ Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ So the Barretts with sewing-needles sharp and smooth,
+ Let the light out of the eyes of every youth,
+ And of every bearded man,
+ Of the broken Lynott clan;
+ Then their darkened faces wan
+ Turning south
+ To the river--
+ Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ O'er the slippery stepping-stones of Clochan-na-n'all
+ They drove them, laughing loud at every fall,
+ As their wandering footsteps dark
+ Failed to reach the slippery mark,
+ And the swift stream swallowed stark,
+ One and all
+ As they stumbled--
+ From the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ Of all the blinded Lynotts one alone
+ Walk'd erect from stepping-stone to stone:
+ So back again they brought you,
+ And a second time they wrought you
+ With their needles; but never got you
+ Once to groan,
+ Emon Lynott,
+ For the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ But with prompt-projected footsteps sure as ever,
+ Emon Lynott again cross'd the river.
+ Though Duvowen was rising fast,
+ And the shaking stones o'ercast
+ By cold floods boiling past;
+ Yet you never,
+ Emon Lynott,
+ Faltered once before your foemen of Tirawley.
+
+ But, turning on Ballintubber bank, you stood,
+ And the Barretts thus bespoke o'er the flood--
+ 'O, ye foolish sons of Wattin,
+ Small amends are these you've gotten,
+ For, while Scorna Boy lies rotten,
+ I am good
+ For vengeance!'
+ Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ 'For 'tis neither in eye nor eyesight that a man
+ Bears the fortunes of himself and his clan,
+ But in the manly mind,
+ These darken'd orbs behind,
+ That your needles could never find
+ Though they ran
+ Through my heart-strings!'
+ Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ 'But, little your women's needles do I reck;
+ For the night from heaven never fell so black,
+ But Tirawley, and abroad
+ From the Moy to Cuan-an-fod,
+ I could walk it every sod,
+ Path and track,
+ Ford and togher,
+ Seeking vengeance on you, Barretts of Tirawley!
+
+ 'The night when Dathy O'Dowda broke your camp,
+ What Barrett among you was it held the lamp--
+ Showed the way to those two feet,
+ When through wintry wind and sleet,
+ I guided your blind retreat
+ In the swamp
+ Of Beael-an-asa?
+ O ye vengeance-destined ingrates of Tirawley!'
+
+ So leaving loud-shriek-echoing Garranard,
+ The Lynott like a red dog hunted hard,
+ With his wife and children seven,
+ 'Mong the beasts and fowls of heaven
+ In the hollows of Glen Nephin,
+ Light-debarred,
+ Made his dwelling,
+ Planning vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.
+
+ And ere the bright-orb'd year its course had run,
+ On his brown round-knotted knee he nursed a son,
+ A child of light, with eyes
+ As clear as are the skies
+ In summer, when sunrise
+ Has begun;
+ So the Lynott
+ Nursed his vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.
+
+ And, as ever the bright boy grew in strength and size,
+ Made him perfect in each manly exercise,
+ The salmon in the flood,
+ The dun deer in the wood,
+ The eagle in the cloud
+ To surprise
+ On Ben Nephin,
+ Far above the foggy fields of Tirawley.
+
+ With the yellow-knotted spear-shaft, with the bow,
+ With the steel, prompt to deal shot and blow,
+ He taught him from year to year
+ And train'd him, without a peer,
+ For a perfect cavalier,
+ Hoping so--
+ Far his forethought--
+ For vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.
+
+ And, when mounted on his proud-bounding steed,
+ Emon Oge sat a cavalier indeed;
+ Like the ear upon the wheat
+ When winds in Autumn beat
+ On the bending stems, his seat;
+ And the speed
+ Of his courser
+ Was the wind from Barna-na-gee o'er Tirawley!
+
+ Now when fifteen sunny summers thus were spent,
+ (He perfected in all accomplishment)--
+ The Lynott said, 'My child,
+ We are over long exiled
+ From mankind in this wild--
+ --Time we went
+ Through the mountain
+ To the countries lying over-against Tirawley.'
+
+ So, out over mountain-moors, and mosses brown,
+ And green steam-gathering vales, they journey'd down:
+ Till, shining like a star,
+ Through the dusky gleams afar,
+ The bailey of Castlebar,
+ And the town
+ Of MacWilliam
+ Rose bright before the wanderers of Tirawley.
+
+ 'Look southward, my boy, and tell me as we go,
+ What see'st thou by the loch-head below?'
+ 'O, a stone-house strong and great,
+ And a horse-host at the gate,
+ And a captain in armour of plate--
+ Grand the show!
+ Great the glancing!
+ High the heroes of this land below Tirawley.
+
+ 'And a beautiful Bantierna by his side,
+ Yellow gold on all her gown-sleeves wide;
+ And in her hand a pearl
+ Of a young, little, fair-haired girl.'
+ Said the Lynott, 'It is the Earl!
+ Let us ride
+ To his presence.'
+ And before him came the exiles of Tirawley.
+
+ 'God save thee, MacWilliam,' the Lynott thus began;
+ 'God save all here besides of this clan;
+ For gossips dear to me
+ Are all in company--
+ For in these four bones ye see
+ A kindly man
+ Of the Britons--
+ Emon Lynott of Garranard of Tirawley.
+
+ 'And hither, as kindly gossip-law allows,
+ I come to claim a scion of thy house
+ To foster; for thy race,
+ Since William Conquer's days,
+ Have ever been wont to place,
+ With some spouse
+ Of a Briton,
+ A MacWilliam Oge, to foster in Tirawley.
+
+ 'And to show thee in what sort our youth are taught
+ I have hither to thy home of valour brought
+ This one son of my age,
+ For a sample and a pledge
+ For the equal tutelage,
+ In right thought,
+ Word, and action,
+ Of whatever son ye give into Tirawley.'
+
+ When MacWilliam beheld the brave boy ride and run,
+ Saw the spear-shaft from his white shoulder spun--
+ With a sigh, and with a smile,
+ He said,--'I would give the spoil
+ Of a county, that Tibbot Moyle,
+ My own son,
+ Were accomplish'd
+ Like this branch of the kindly Britons of Tirawley.'
+
+ When the Lady MacWilliam she heard him speak,
+ And saw the ruddy roses on his cheek,
+ She said, 'I would give a purse
+ Of red gold to the nurse
+ That would rear my Tibbot no worse;
+ But I seek
+ Hitherto vainly--
+ Heaven grant that I now have found her in Tirawley!'
+
+ So they said to the Lynott, 'Here, take our bird!
+ And as pledge for the keeping of thy word,
+ Let this scion here remain
+ Till thou comest back again:
+ Meanwhile the fitting train
+ Of a lord
+ Shall attend thee
+ With the lordly heir of Connaught into Tirawley.'
+ So back to strong-throng-gathering Garranard,
+ Like a lord of the country with his guard,
+ Came the Lynott, before them all,
+ Once again over Clochan-na-n'all
+ Steady and striding, erect and tall,
+ And his ward
+ On his shoulders
+ To the wonder of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ Then a diligent foster-father you would deem
+ The Lynott, teaching Tibbot, by mead and stream,
+ To cast the spear, to ride,
+ To stem the rushing tide,
+ With what feats of body beside,
+ Might beseem
+ A MacWilliam,
+ Fostered free among the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ But the lesson of hell he taught him in heart and mind,
+ For to what desire soever he inclined,
+ Of anger, lust, or pride,
+ He had it gratified,
+ Till he ranged the circle wide
+ Of a blind
+ Self-indulgence,
+ Ere he came to youthful manhood in Tirawley.
+
+ Then, even as when a hunter slips a hound,
+ Lynott loosed him--God's leashes all unbound--
+ In the pride of power and station,
+ And the strength of youthful passion,
+ On the daughters of thy nation,
+ All around,
+ Wattin Barrett!
+ O! the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley!
+
+ Bitter grief and burning anger, rage and shame,
+ Filled the houses of the Barretts where'er he came;
+ Till the young men of the Back,
+ Drew by night upon his track,
+ And slew him at Cornassack.
+ Small your blame,
+ Sons of Wattin!
+ Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
+
+ Said the Lynott, 'The day of my vengeance is drawing near,
+ The day for which, through many a long dark year,
+ I have toiled through grief and sin--
+ Call ye now the Brehons in,
+ And let the plea begin
+ Over the bier
+ Of MacWilliam,
+ For an eric upon the Barretts of Tirawley!'
+
+ Then the Brehons to MacWilliam Burke decreed
+ An eric upon Clan Barrett for the deed;
+ And the Lynott's share of the fine,
+ As foster-father, was nine
+ Ploughlands and nine score kine;
+ But no need
+ Had the Lynott,
+ Neither care, for land or cattle in Tirawley.
+
+ But rising, while all sat silent on the spot,
+ He said, 'The law says--doth it not?--
+ If the foster-sire elect
+ His portion to reject,
+ He may then the right exact
+ To applot
+ The short eric.'
+ ''Tis the law,' replied the Brehons of Tirawley.
+
+ Said the Lynott, 'I once before had a choice
+ Proposed me, wherein law had little voice;
+ But now I choose, and say,
+ As lawfully I may,
+ I applot the mulct to-day;
+ So rejoice
+ In your ploughlands
+ And your cattle which I renounce throughout Tirawley.
+
+ 'And thus I applot the mulct: I divide
+ The land throughout Clan Barrett on every side
+ Equally, that no place
+ May be without the face
+ Of a foe of Wattin's race--
+ That the pride
+ Of the Barretts
+ May be humbled hence for ever throughout Tirawley.
+
+ 'I adjudge a seat in every Barrett's hall
+ To MacWilliam: in every stable I give a stall
+ To MacWilliam: and, beside,
+ Whenever a Burke shall ride
+ Through Tirawley, I provide
+ At his call
+ Needful grooming,
+ Without charge from any Brughaidh of Tirawley.
+
+ 'Thus lawfully I avenge me for the throes
+ Ye lawlessly caused me and caused those
+ Unhappy shame-faced ones
+ Who, their mothers expected once,
+ Would have been the sires of sons--
+ O'er whose woes
+ Often weeping,
+ I have groaned in my exile from Tirawley.
+
+ 'I demand not of you your manhoods; but I take--
+ For the Burkes will take it--your Freedom! for the sake
+ Of which all manhood's given
+ And all good under heaven,
+ And, without which, better even
+ You should make
+ Yourselves barren,
+ Than see your children slaves throughout Tirawley!
+
+ 'Neither take I your eyesight from you; as you took
+ Mine and ours: I would have you daily look
+ On one another's eyes
+ When the strangers tyrannize
+ By your hearths, and blushes arise,
+ That ye brook
+ Without vengeance
+ The insults of troops of Tibbots throughout Tirawley!
+
+ 'The vengeance I designed, now is done,
+ And the days of me and mine nearly run--
+ For, for this, I have broken faith,
+ Teaching him who lies beneath
+ This pall, to merit death;
+ And my son
+ To his father
+ Stands pledged for other teaching in Tirawley.'
+
+ Said MacWilliam--'Father and son, hang them high!'
+ And the Lynott they hang'd speedily;
+ But across the salt water,
+ To Scotland, with the daughter
+ Of MacWilliam--well you got her!
+ Did you fly
+ Edmund Lindsay,
+ The gentlest of all the Welshmen of Tirawley!
+
+ 'Tis thus the ancient Ollaves of Erin tell
+ How, through lewdness and revenge, it befell
+ That the sons of William Conquer
+ Came over the sons of Wattin,
+ Throughout all the bounds and borders
+ Of the lands of Auley Mac Fiachra;
+ Till the Saxon Oliver Cromwell,
+ And his valiant, Bible-guided,
+ Free heretics of Clan London
+ Coming in, in their succession,
+ Rooted out both Burke and Barrett,
+ And in their empty places
+ New stems of freedom planted,
+ With many a goodly sapling
+ Of manliness and virtue;
+ Which while their children cherish,
+ Kindly Irish of the Irish,
+ Neither Saxons nor Italians,
+ May the mighty God of Freedom
+ Speed them well,
+ Never taking
+ Further vengeance on his people of Tirawley.
+
+ _Sir Samuel Ferguson_
+
+
+
+
+AIDEEN'S GRAVE
+
+
+ They heaved the stone; they heap'd the cairn.
+ Said Ossian, 'In a queenly grave
+ We leave her, 'mong her fields of fern,
+ Between the cliff and wave.
+
+ 'The cliff behind stands clear and bare,
+ And bare, above, the heathery steep
+ Scales the clear heaven's expanse, to where
+ The Danaan Druids sleep.
+
+ 'And all the sands that, left and right,
+ The grassy isthmus-ridge confine,
+ In yellow bars lie bare and bright
+ Among the sparkling brine.
+
+ 'A clear pure air pervades the scene,
+ In loneliness and awe secure;
+ Meet spot to sepulchre a Queen
+ Who in her life was pure.
+
+ 'Here, far from camp and chase removed,
+ Apart in Nature's quiet room,
+ The music that alive she loved
+ Shall cheer her in the tomb.
+
+ 'The humming of the noontide bees,
+ The lark's loud carol all day long,
+ And, borne on evening's salted breeze,
+ The clanking sea-bird's song,
+
+ 'Shall round her airy chamber float,
+ And with the whispering winds and streams,
+ Attune to Nature's tenderest note
+ The tenor of her dreams.
+
+ 'And oft, at tranquil eve's decline,
+ When full tides lip the Old Green Plain,
+ The lowing of Moynalty's kine
+ Shall round her breathe again.
+
+ 'In sweet remembrance of the days
+ When, duteous, in the lowly vale,
+ Unconscious of my Oscar's gaze,
+ She fill'd the fragrant pail,
+
+ 'And, duteous, from the running brook
+ Drew water for the bath; nor deem'd
+ A king did on her labour look,
+ And she a fairy seem'd.
+
+ 'But when the wintry frosts begin,
+ And in their long-drawn, lofty flight,
+ The wild geese with their airy din
+ Distend the ear of night,
+
+ 'And when the fierce De Danaan ghosts
+ At midnight from their peak come down,
+ When all around the enchanted coasts
+ Despairing strangers drown;
+
+ 'When, mingling with the wreckful wail,
+ From low Clontarf's wave-trampled floor
+ Comes booming up the burthen'd gale
+ The angry Sand-Bull's roar;
+
+ 'Or, angrier than the sea, the shout
+ Of Erin's hosts in wrath combined,
+ When Terror heads Oppression's rout,
+ And Freedom cheers behind:--
+
+ 'Then o'er our lady's placid dream,
+ Where safe from storms she sleeps, may steal
+ Such joy as will not misbeseem
+ A Queen of men to feel:
+
+ 'Such thrill of free, defiant pride,
+ As rapt her in her battle-car
+ At Gavra, when by Oscar's side
+ She rode the ridge of war,
+
+ 'Exulting, down the shouting troops,
+ And through the thick confronting kings,
+ With hands on all their javelin loops
+ And shafts on all their strings;
+
+ 'E'er closed the inseparable crowds,
+ No more to part for me, and show,
+ As bursts the sun through scattering clouds,
+ My Oscar issuing so.
+
+ 'No more, dispelling battle's gloom,
+ Shall son for me from fight return;
+ The great green rath's ten-acred tomb
+ Lies heavy on his urn.
+
+ 'A cup of bodkin-pencill'd clay
+ Holds Oscar; mighty heart and limb
+ One handful now of ashes grey:
+ And she has died for him.
+
+ 'And here, hard by her natal bower
+ On lone Ben Edar's side, we strive
+ With lifted rock and sign of power
+ To keep her name alive.
+
+ 'That while from circling year to year,
+ Her Ogham-letter'd stone is seen,
+ The Gael shall say, "Our Fenians here
+ Entombed their loved Aideen."
+
+ 'The Ogham from her pillar-stone
+ In tract of time will wear away;
+ Her name at last be only known
+ In Ossian's echo'd lay.
+
+ 'The long-forgotten lay I sing
+ May only ages hence revive,
+ (As eagle with a wounded wing
+ To soar again might strive,)
+
+ 'Imperfect, in an alien speech,
+ When, wandering here, some child of chance
+ Through pangs of keen delight shall reach
+ The gift of utterance,--
+
+ 'To speak the air, the sky to speak,
+ The freshness of the hill to tell,
+ Who, roaming bare Ben Edar's peak
+ And Aideen's briary dell,
+
+ 'And gazing on the Cromlech vast,
+ And on the mountain and the sea,
+ Shall catch communion with the past
+ And mix himself with me.
+
+ 'Child of the Future's doubtful night,
+ Whate'er your speech, whoe'er your sires,
+ Sing while you may with frank delight
+ The song your hour inspires.
+
+ 'Sing while you may, nor grieve to know
+ The song you sing shall also die;
+ Atharna's lay has perish'd so,
+ Though once it thrill'd this sky,
+
+ 'Above us, from his rocky chair,
+ There, where Ben Edar's landward crest
+ O'er eastern Bregia bends, to where
+ Dun Almon crowns the west:
+
+ 'And all that felt the fretted air
+ Throughout the song-distempered clime,
+ Did droop, till suppliant Leinster's prayer
+ Appeased the vengeful rhyme.
+
+ 'Ah me, or e'er the hour arrive
+ Shall bid my long-forgotten tones,
+ Unknown One, on your lips revive
+ Here by these moss-grown stones,
+
+ 'What change shall o'er the scene have crossed;
+ What conquering lords anew have come
+ What lore-arm'd, mightier Druid host
+ From Gaul or distant Rome!
+
+ 'What arts of death, what ways of life,
+ What creeds unknown to bard or seer,
+ Shall round your careless steps be rife,
+ Who pause and ponder here;
+
+ 'And, haply, where yon curlew calls
+ Athwart the marsh, 'mid groves and bowers,
+ See rise some mighty chieftain's halls
+ With unimagined towers:
+
+ 'And baying hounds, and coursers bright,
+ And burnish'd cars of dazzling sheen,
+ With courtly train of dame and knight,
+ Where now the fern is green.
+
+ 'Or, by yon prostrate altar-stone
+ May kneel, perchance, and, free from blame,
+ New holy men with rites unknown
+ New names of God proclaim.
+
+ 'Let change as may the Name of Awe,
+ Let right surcease and altar pall,
+ The same One God remains, a law
+ For ever and for all.
+
+ 'Let change as may the face of earth,
+ Let alter all the social frame,
+ For mortal men the warp of birth
+ And death are still the same.
+
+ 'And still, as life and time wear on,
+ The children of the waning days,
+ (Though strength be from their shoulders gone
+ To lift the loads we raise,)
+
+ 'Shall weep to do the burial rites
+ Of lost ones loved; and fondly found,
+ In shadow of the gathering nights,
+ The monumental mound.
+
+ 'Farewell! the strength of men is worn:
+ The night approaches dark and chill:
+ Sleep, till perchance an endless morn
+ Descend the glittering hill.'
+
+ Of Oscar and Aideen bereft,
+ So Ossian's song. The Fenians sped
+ Three mighty shouts to heaven; and left
+ Ben Edar to the dead.
+
+ _Sir Samuel Ferguson_
+
+
+
+
+DEIRDRE'S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF USNACH
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ The lions of the hill are gone,
+ And I am left alone--alone--
+ Dig the grave both wide and deep,
+ For I am sick, and fain would sleep!
+
+ The falcons of the wood are flown,
+ And I am left alone--alone--
+ Dig the grave both deep and wide,
+ And let us slumber side by side.
+
+ The dragons of the rock are sleeping,
+ Sleep that wakes not for our weeping--
+ Dig the grave, and make it ready,
+ Lay me on my true-love's body.
+
+ Lay their spears and bucklers bright
+ By the warriors' sides aright;
+ Many a day the three before me
+ On their linked bucklers bore me.
+
+ Lay upon the low grave floor,
+ 'Neath each head, the blue claymore;
+ Many a time the noble three
+ Reddened these blue blades for me.
+
+ Lay the collars, as is meet,
+ Of their greyhounds at their feet;
+ Many a time for me have they
+ Brought the tall red deer to bay.
+
+ In the falcon's jesses throw,
+ Hook and arrow, line and bow;
+ Never again, by stream or plain,
+ Shall the gentle woodsmen go.
+
+ Sweet companions, ye were ever--
+ Harsh to me, your sister, never;
+ Woods and wilds, and misty valleys,
+ Were with you as good's a palace.
+
+ O, to hear my true-love singing,
+ Sweet as sound of trumpets ringing;
+ Like the sway of ocean swelling
+ Rolled his deep voice round our dwelling.
+
+ O! to hear the echoes pealing
+ Round our green and fairy sheeling,
+ When the three, with soaring chorus,
+ Passed the silent skylark o'er us.
+
+ Echo now, sleep, morn and even--
+ Lark alone enchant the heaven!
+ Ardan's lips are scant of breath,
+ Neesa's tongue is cold in death.
+
+ Stag, exult on glen and mountain--
+ Salmon, leap from loch to fountain--
+ Heron, in the free air warm ye--
+ Usnach's sons no more will harm ye!
+
+ Erin's stay no more you are,
+ Rulers of the ridge of war;
+ Never more 'twill be your fate
+ To keep the beam of battle straight!
+
+ Woe is me! by fraud and wrong,
+ Traitors false and tyrants strong,
+ Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold,
+ For Barach's feast and Conor's gold!
+
+ Woe to Eman, roof and wall!
+ Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall!
+ Tenfold woe and black dishonour
+ To the foul and false Clan Conor!
+
+ Dig the grave both wide and deep,
+ Sick I am, and fain would sleep!
+ Dig the grave and make it ready,
+ Lay me on my true-love's body.
+
+ _Sir Samuel Ferguson_
+
+
+
+
+THE FAIR HILLS OF IRELAND
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,
+ _Uileacan dubh O!_
+ Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;
+ _Uileacan dubh O!_
+ There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,
+ 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,
+ _Uileacan dubh O!_
+ Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish sea;
+ _Uileacan 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;
+ _Uileacan dubh O!_
+ The butter and the cream do wondrously abound,
+ _Uileacan 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 forest grand,
+ On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
+
+ _Sir Samuel Ferguson_
+
+
+
+
+LAMENT OVER THE RUINS OF THE ABBEY OF TIMOLEAGUE
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ Lone and weary as I wander'd 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 spring 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.
+
+ Still the ancient seat was standing, built against the buttress
+ grey,
+ Where the clergy used to welcome weary trav'llers 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,
+ Many a storm since then has beaten on the grey 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 were once the country's boast,
+ Houseless now in weary wandering are you scattered, saintly host;
+ 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 daw's 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;
+ Nought see I beneath your shelter, save a heap of clayey bones.
+
+ O! the hardship, O! the hatred, tyranny, and cruel war,
+ Persecution and oppression, that have left you as you are!
+ I myself once also prosper'd;--mine is, too, an alter'd plight;
+ Trouble, care, and age have left me good for nought but grief
+ to-night.
+
+ Gone my motion and my vigour--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 could lie--
+ Death's deliverance were welcome--Father, let the old man die.
+
+ _Sir Samuel Ferguson_
+
+
+
+
+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 Slemish 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!
+ (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--
+ 'Twas 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:
+ --The Fairy Well of Lagnanay--
+ Lie nearer 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,
+ Come with me to the hill I pray,
+ And I will prove that blessed freet!'
+ They rose with soft
+ 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 grey,
+ 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 breasts she laves
+ The gliding glance that will not stay
+ Of subtly-streaming fairy waves:--
+ And now the charm three brackens craves,
+ She plucks them in their fring'd 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 eyes of mortal look upon!
+ O! can it be the guard was gone,
+ That better guard than shield or wall?
+ Who knows on earth save Jurlagh Daune?
+ (Save us all from Fairy thrall!)
+ Behold the banks are green and bare,
+ No pit is here wherein to fall:
+ Aye--at the fount you well may stare,
+ But nought 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.
+
+ _Sir Samuel Ferguson_
+
+
+
+
+ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS DAVIS
+
+
+ I walked through Ballinderry in the Spring-time,
+ When the bud was on the tree;
+ And I said, in every fresh-ploughed field beholding
+ The sowers striding free,
+ Scattering broad-cast forth the corn in golden plenty
+ On the quick seed-clasping soil,
+ Even such, this day, among the fresh-stirred hearts of Erin,
+ Thomas Davis, is thy toil!
+
+ I sat by Ballyshannon in the summer,
+ And saw the salmon leap;
+ And I said, as I beheld the gallant creatures
+ Spring glittering from the deep,
+ Through the spray, and through the prone heaps striving onward
+ To the calm clear streams above,
+ So seekest thou thy native founts of freedom, Thomas Davis,
+ In thy brightness of strength and love!
+
+ I stood on Derrybawn in the Autumn,
+ I heard the eagle call,
+ With a clangorous cry of wrath and lamentation
+ That filled the wide mountain hall,
+ O'er the bare deserted place of his plundered eyrie;
+ And I said, as he screamed and soared,
+ So callest thou, thou wrathful-soaring Thomas Davis,
+ For a nation's rights restored!
+
+ And, alas! to think but now, and thou art lying,
+ Dear Davis, dead at thy mother's knee;
+ And I, no mother near, on my own sick-bed,
+ That face on earth shall never see:
+ I may lie and try to feel that I am not dreaming,
+ I may lie and try to say 'Thy will be done'--
+ But a hundred such as I will never comfort Erin
+ For the loss of the noble son!
+
+ Young husbandman of Erin's fruitful seed-time,
+ In the fresh track of danger's plough!
+ Who will walk the heavy, toilsome, perilous furrow
+ Girt with freedom's seed-sheets now?
+ Who will banish with the wholesome crop of knowledge
+ The flaunting weed and the bitter thorn,
+ Now that thou thyself art but a seed for hopeful planting
+ Against the resurrection morn?
+
+ Young salmon of the flood-time of freedom
+ That swells round Erin's shore!
+ Thou wilt leap against their loud oppressive torrent
+ Of bigotry and hate no more:
+ Drawn downward by their prone material instinct,
+ Let them thunder on their rocks and foam--
+ Thou hast leapt, aspiring soul, to founts beyond their raging,
+ Where troubled waters never come!
+
+ But I grieve not, eagle of the empty eyrie,
+ That thy wrathful cry is still;
+ And that the songs alone of peaceful mourners
+ Are heard to-day on Erin's hill;
+ Better far, if brothers' war be destined for us
+ (God avert that horrid day I pray!)
+ That ere our hands be stained with slaughter fratricidal
+ Thy warm heart should be cold in clay.
+
+ But my trust is strong in God, who made us brothers,
+ That He will not suffer those right hands
+ Which thou hast joined in holier rites than wedlock,
+ To draw opposing brands.
+ O, many a tuneful tongue that thou madest vocal
+ Would lie cold and silent then;
+ And songless long once more, should often-widowed Erin
+ Mourn the loss of her brave young men.
+
+ O, brave young men, my love, my pride, my promise,
+ 'Tis on you my hopes are set,
+ In manliness, in kindliness, in justice,
+ To make Erin a nation yet:
+ Self-respecting, self-relying, self-advancing,
+ In union or in severance, free and strong--
+ And if God grant this, then, under God, to Thomas Davis
+ Let the greater praise belong.
+
+ _Sir Samuel Ferguson_
+
+
+
+
+THE COUNTY OF MAYO
+
+_From the Irish of Thomas Lavelle_
+
+
+ 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--
+ 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 of 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.
+
+ _George Fox_
+
+
+
+
+THE WEDDING OF THE CLANS
+
+_A Girl's Babble_
+
+
+ I go to knit two clans together;
+ Our clan and this clan unseen of yore:--
+ Our clan fears nought! but I go, O whither?
+ This day I go from my mother's door.
+
+ Thou, red-breast, singest the old song over,
+ Though many a time thou hast sung it before;
+ They never sent thee to some strange new lover:--
+ I sing a new song by my mother's door.
+
+ I stepped from my little room down by the ladder,
+ The ladder that never so shook before;
+ I was sad last night; to-day I am sadder,
+ Because I go from my mother's door.
+
+ The last snow melts upon bush and bramble;
+ The gold bars shine on the forest's floor;
+ Shake not, thou leaf! it is I must tremble
+ Because I go from my mother's door.
+
+ From a Spanish sailor a dagger I bought me;
+ I trailed a rose-tree our grey bawn o'er;
+ The creed and my letters our old bard taught me;
+ My days were sweet by my mother's door.
+
+ My little white goat that with raised feet huggest
+ The oak stock, thy horns in the ivies frore,
+ Could I wrestle like thee--how the wreaths thou tuggest!--
+ I never would move from my mother's door.
+
+ O weep no longer, my nurse and mother!
+ My foster-sister, weep not so sore!
+ You cannot come with me, Ir, my brother--
+ Alone I go from my mother's door.
+
+ Farewell, my wolf-hound that slew MacOwing
+ As he caught me and far through the thickets bore:
+ My heifer, Alb, in the green vale lowing,
+ My cygnet's nest upon Lorna's shore!
+
+ He has killed ten chiefs, this chief that plights me,
+ His hand is like that of the giant Balor;
+ But I fear his kiss, and his beard affrights me,
+ And the great stone dragon above his door.
+
+ Had I daughters nine, with me they should tarry;
+ They should sing old songs; they should dance at my door;
+ They should grind at the quern;--no need to marry;
+ O when will this marriage-day be o'er?
+
+ Had I buried, like Moirin, three mates already,
+ I might say: 'Three husbands! then why not four?'
+ But my hand is cold and my foot unsteady,
+ Because I never was married before!
+
+ _Aubrey de Vere_
+
+
+
+
+THE LITTLE BLACK ROSE
+
+
+ The Little Black Rose 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.
+
+ 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.
+
+ _Aubrey de Vere_
+
+
+
+
+SONG
+
+
+ She says: 'Poor Friend, you waste a treasure
+ Which you can ne'er regain--
+ Time, health, and glory, for the pleasure
+ Of toying with a chain.'
+ But then her voice so tender grows,
+ So kind and so caressing;
+ Each murmur from her lips that flows
+ Comes to me like a blessing.
+
+ Sometimes she says: 'Sweet Friend, I grieve you--
+ Alas, it gives me pain!
+ What can I? Ah, might I relieve you,
+ You ne'er had mourned in vain!'
+ And then her little hand she presses
+ Upon her heart, and sighs;
+ While tears, whose source not yet she guesses,
+ Grow larger in her eyes.
+
+ _Aubrey de Vere_
+
+
+
+
+THE BARD ETHELL
+
+_Ireland in the Thirteenth Century_
+
+
+ I am Ethell, the son of Conn:
+ Here I bide at the foot of the hill:
+ I am clansman to Brian, and servant to none:
+ Whom I hated, I hate: whom I loved, I love still.
+ Blind am I. On milk I live,
+ And meat, God sends it, on each Saint's Day;
+ Though Donald Mac Art--may he never thrive--
+ Last Shrovetide drove half my kine away.
+
+ At the brown hill's base by the pale blue lake
+ I dwell and see the things I saw:
+ The heron flap heavily up from the brake;
+ The crow fly homeward with twig or straw
+ The wild duck a silver line in wake
+ Cutting the calm mere to far Bunaw.
+ And the things that I heard, though deaf, I hear,
+ From the tower in the island the feastful cheer;
+ The horn from the wood; the plunge of the stag,
+ With the loud hounds after him down from the crag.
+ Sweet is the chase, but the battle is sweeter,
+ More healthy, more joyous, for true men meeter!
+
+ My hand is weak! it once was strong:
+ My heart burns still with its ancient fire.
+ If any man smites me he does me wrong,
+ For I was the bard of Brian Mac Guire.
+ If any man slay me--not unaware,
+ By no chance blow, nor in wine and revel,
+ I have stored beforehand, a curse in my prayer
+ For his kith and kindred; his deed is evil.
+
+ There never was king, and never will be,
+ In battle or banquet like Malachi!
+ The seers his reign had predicted long;
+ He honoured the bards, and gave gold for song.
+ If rebels arose, he put out their eyes;
+ If robbers plundered or burned the fanes,
+ He hung them in chaplets, like rosaries,
+ That others beholding might take more pains!
+ There was none to women more reverent-minded,
+ For he held his mother, and Mary, dear;
+ If any man wronged them, that man he blinded,
+ Or straight amerced him of hand or ear.
+ There was none who founded more convents--none;
+ In his palace the old and poor were fed;
+ The orphan might walk, or the widow's son,
+ Without groom or page to his throne or bed.
+ In his council he mused, with great brows divine,
+ And eyes like the eyes of the musing kine,
+ Upholding a sceptre o'er which men said,
+ Seven spirits of wisdom like fire-tongues played.
+ He drained ten lakes, and he built ten bridges;
+ He bought a gold book for a thousand cows;
+ He slew ten princes who brake their pledges;
+ With the bribed and the base he scorned to carouse.
+ He was sweet and awful; through all his reign
+ God gave great harvests to vale and plain;
+ From his nurse's milk he was kind and brave;
+ And when he went down to his well-wept grave,
+ Through the triumph of penance his soul arose
+ To God and the saints. Not so his foes.
+
+ The King that came after, ah woe, woe, woe!
+ He doubted his friend, and he trusted his foe,
+ He bought and he sold: his kingdom old
+ He pledged and pawned, to avenge a spite:
+ No Bard or prophet his birth foretold:
+ He was guarded and warded both day and night:
+ He counselled with fools and had boors at his feast:
+ He was cruel to Christian and kind to beast:
+ Men smiled when they talked of him far o'er the wave:
+ Well paid were the mourners that wept at his grave.
+ God plagued for his sake his people sore:
+ They sinned; for the people should watch and pray,
+ That their prayers like angels at window and door,
+ May keep from the King the bad thought away!
+
+ The sun has risen: on lip and brow,
+ He greets me--I feel it--with golden wand:
+ Ah, bright-faced Norna! I see thee now:
+ Where first I saw thee I see thee stand!
+ From the trellis the girl looked down on me:
+ Her maidens stood near; it was late in spring;
+ The grey priest laughed, as she cried in glee,
+ 'Good Bard, a song in my honour sing.'
+ I sang her praise in a loud-voiced hymn,
+ To God who had fashioned her face and limb,
+ For the praise of the clan, and the land's behoof:
+ So she flung me a flower from the trellis roof.
+ Ere long I saw her the hill descending,
+ O'er the lake the May morning rose moist and slow,
+ She prayed me, her smile with the sweet voice blending,
+ To teach her all that a woman should know.
+ Panting she stood; she was out of breath;
+ The wave of her little breast was shaking;
+ From eyes still childish, and dark as death,
+ Came womanhood's dawn through a dew-cloud breaking.
+ Norna was never long time the same;
+ By a spirit so strong was her slight form moulded,
+ The curves swelled out from the flower-like frame
+ In joy; in grief to a bud she folded:
+ As she listened, her eyes grew bright and large,
+ Like springs rain-fed that dilate their marge.
+ So I taught her the hymn of Patrick the Apostle,
+ And the marvels of Bridget and Columbkille;
+ Ere long she sang like the lark or the throstle,
+ Sang the deeds of the servants of God's high will:
+ I told her of Brendan, who found afar
+ Another world 'neath the western star;
+ Of our three great bishops in Lindisfarne isle;
+ Of St. Fursey the wondrous, Fiacre without guile;
+ Of Sedulius, hymn-maker when hymns were rare;
+ Of Scotus the subtle, who clove a hair
+ Into sixty parts, and had marge to spare.
+ To her brother I spake of Oisin and Fionn,
+ And they wept at the death of great Oisin's son.
+ I taught the heart of the boy to revel
+ In tales of old greatness that never tire;
+ And the virgin's, up-springing from earth's low level,
+ To wed with heaven like the altar fire.
+ I taught her all that a woman should know,
+ And that none should teach her worse lore, I gave her
+ A dagger keen, and taught her the blow
+ That subdues the knave to discreet behaviour.
+ A sand-stone there on my knee she set,
+ And sharpened its point--I can see her yet
+ I held back her hair and she sharpen'd the edge,
+ While the wind piped low through the reeds and sedge.
+
+ She died in the convent on Ina's height:--
+ I saw her the day that she took the veil:
+ As slender she stood as the Paschal light,
+ As tall and slender and bright and pale!
+ I saw her: and dropped as dead: bereaven
+ Is earth when her holy ones leave her for heaven.
+ Her brother fell in the fight at Begh,
+ May they plead for me both on my dying day!
+
+ All praise to the man who brought us the Faith!
+ 'Tis a staff by day and our pillow in death!
+ All praise I say to that blessed youth,
+ Who heard in a dream from Tyrawley's strand
+ That wail, 'Put forth o'er the sea thy hand:
+ In the dark we die: give us hope and Truth!'
+ But Patrick built not on Iorras' shore
+ That convent where now the Franciscans dwell:
+ Columba was mighty in prayer and war:
+ But the young monk preaches as loud as his bell,
+ That love must rule all, and all wrongs be forgiven,
+ Or else he is sure we shall reach not heaven!
+ This doctrine I count right cruel and hard,
+ And when I am laid in the old churchyard,
+ The habit of Francis I will not wear:
+ Nor wear I his cord or his cloth of hair
+ In secret. Men dwindle: till psalm and prayer
+ Had softened the land no Dane dwelt there!
+
+ I forgive old Cathbar who sank my boat:
+ Must I pardon Feargal who slew my son:
+ Or the pirate, Strongbow, who burned Granote,
+ They tell me, and in it nine priests, a nun,
+ And worse--St. Finian's old crozier staff?
+ At forgiveness like that, I spit and laugh!
+ My chief in his wine-cups forgave twelve men:
+ And of these a dozen rebelled again.
+ There never was chief more brave than he!
+ The night he was born Loch Gar up-burst:
+ He was bard-loving, gift-making, fond of glee,
+ The last to fly, to advance the first.
+ He was like the top spray upon Uladh's oak,
+ He was like the tap-root of Argial's pine:
+ He was secret and sudden: as lightning his stroke:
+ There was none that could fathom his hid design.
+ He slept not: if any man scorned his alliance
+ He struck the first blow for a frank defiance,
+ With that look in his face, half night, half light,
+ Like the lake just blackened yet ridged with white!
+ There were comely wonders before he died:
+ The eagle barked, and the Banshee cried,
+ The witch-elm wept with a blighted bud,
+ The spray of the torrent was red with blood:
+ The chief returned from the mountains bound,
+ Forgot to ask after Bran his hound.
+ We knew he would die: three days were o'er,
+ He died. We _waked_ him for three days more:
+ One by one, upon brow and breast,
+ The whole clan kissed him: In peace may he rest!
+
+ I sang his dirge, I could sing that time
+ Four thousand staves of ancestral rhyme:
+ To-day I can scarcely sing the half:
+ Of old I was corn, and I now am chaff!
+ My song to-day is a breeze that shakes
+ Feebly the down on the cygnet's breast;
+ 'Twas then a billow the beach that rakes,
+ Or a storm that buffets the mountain's crest.
+ Whatever I bit with a venomed song,
+ Grew sick, were it beast, or tree, or man:
+ The wronged one sued me to right his wrong
+ With the flail of the Satire and fierce Ode's fan.
+ I sang to the chieftains: each stock I traced,
+ Lest lines should grow tangled through fraud or haste.
+ To princes I sang in a loftier tone
+ Of Moran the just who refused a throne;
+ Of Moran, whose torque would close, and choke
+ The wry-necked witness that falsely spoke.
+ I taught them how to win love and hate,
+ Not love from all; and to shun debate.
+ To maids in the bower I sang of love:
+ And of war at the feastings in bawn or grove.
+
+ Great is our Order: but greater far
+ Were its pomp and power in the days of old,
+ When the five Chief Bards in peace or war
+ Had thirty bards each in his train enrolled:
+ When Ollave Fodla in Tara's hall
+ Fed bards and kings; when the boy King Nial
+ Was trained by Torna; when Britain and Gaul
+ Sent crowns of laurel to Dallan Forgial.
+ To-day we can launch the clans into fight;
+ That day we could freeze them in mid career!
+ Whatever man knows was our realm by right:
+ The lore without music no Gael would hear.
+ Old Cormac the brave blind king was bard
+ Ere fame rose yet of O'Daly and Ward.
+ The son of Milesius was bard--'Go back
+ My People,' he sang, 'ye have done a wrong!
+ Nine waves go back o'er the green sea track,
+ Let your foes their castles and coasts make strong.
+ To the island you came by stealth and at night:
+ She is ours if we win her, in all men's sight;'
+ For that first song's sake let our bards hold fast
+ To Truth and Justice from first to last!
+ 'Tis over! some think we erred through pride,
+ Though Columba the vengeance turned aside.
+ Too strong we were not: too rich we were:
+ Give wealth to knaves: 'tis the true man's snare.
+
+ But now men lie: they are just no more;
+ They forsake the old ways; they quest for new;
+ They pry and they snuff after strange false lore,
+ As dogs hunt vermin: it never was true:--
+ I have scorned it for twenty years--this babble,
+ That eastward and southward, a Saxon rabble
+ Have won great battles and rule large lands,
+ And plight with daughters of ours their hands.
+ We know the bold Norman o'erset their throne
+ Long since. Our lands! let them guard their own.
+
+ How long He leaves me--the great God--here!
+ Have I sinned some sin, or has God forgotten?
+ This year, I think, is my hundredth year;
+ I am like a bad apple unripe and rotten!
+ They shall lift me ere long, they shall lay me--the clan,--
+ By the strength of men on Mount Cruachan!
+ God has much to think of! How much He hath seen,
+ And how much is gone by that once hath been!
+ On sandy hills where the rabbits burrow,
+ Are Raths of Kings' men, named not now;
+ On mountain-tops I have tracked the furrow,
+ And found in forests the buried plough.
+ For one now living the strong land then
+ Gave kindly food and raiment to ten.
+ No doubt they waxed proud and their God defied:
+ So their harvest He blighted and burned their hoard;
+ Or He sent them plagues, or He sent the sword,
+ Or He sent them lightning and so they died,
+ Like Dathi the King on the dark Alp's side.
+ Ah me! that man who is made of dust,
+ Should have pride towards God! 'Tis a demon's spleen!
+ I have often feared lest God the All-just,
+ Should bend from heaven and sweep earth clean:
+ Should sweep us all into corners and holes,
+ Like dust of the house-floor both bodies and souls!
+ I have often feared He would send some wind
+ In wrath; and the nation wake up stone blind.
+ In age or in youth we have all wrought ill:
+ I say not our great King Nial did well,
+ Although he was Lord of the Pledges Nine,
+ Where besides subduing this land of Eire,
+ He raised in Armorica banner and sign,
+ And wasted the British coast with fire.
+ Perhaps in His mercy the Lord will say,
+ 'These men, God's help, 'twas a rough boy-play!'
+ He is certain, that young Franciscan Priest--
+ God sees great sin where men see least;
+ Yet this were to give unto God the eye--
+ Unmeet the thought, of the humming fly!
+ I trust there are small things He scorns to see
+ In the lowly who cry to Him piteously.
+ Our hope is Christ: I have wept full oft,
+ He came not to Eire in Oisin's time;
+ Though love and those new monks would make men soft,
+ If they were not hardened by war and rhyme.
+ I have done my part: my end draws nigh:
+ I shall leave old Eire with a smile and sigh,
+ She will miss me not as I missed my son,
+ Yet for her and her praise were my best deeds done.
+ Man's deeds! Man's deeds! they are shades that fleet,
+ Or ripples like those that break at my feet.
+ The deeds of my chief and the deeds of my king
+ Grow hazy, far seen, in the hills in spring.
+ Nothing is great save the death on the cross!
+ But Pilate and Herod I hate, and know
+ Had Fionn lived then he had laid them low,
+ Though the world thereby had sustained great loss.
+ My blindness and deafness and aching back
+ With meekness I bear for that suffering's sake;
+ And the Lent-fast for Mary's sake I love,
+ And the honour of Him, the Man Above!
+ My songs are all over now:--so best!
+ They are laid in the heavenly Singer's breast,
+ Who never sings but a star is born:
+ May we hear His song in the endless morn!
+ I give glory to God for our battles won
+ By wood or river, on bay or creek:
+ For Norna--who died; for my father, Conn:
+ For feasts, and the chase on the mountains bleak:
+ I bewail my sins, both unknown and known,
+ And of those I have injured forgiveness seek.
+ The men that were wicked to me and mine
+ (Not quenching a wrong, nor in war nor wine),
+ I forgive and absolve them all, save three:
+ May Christ in His mercy be kind to me!
+
+ _Aubrey de Vere_
+
+
+
+
+LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF EOGHAN RUADH O'NEILL
+
+
+ 'Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Eoghan Ruadh O'Neill?'
+ 'Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet with steel.'
+ 'May God wither up their hearts! May their blood cease to flow!
+ May they walk in living death, who poisoned Eoghan Ruadh!
+
+ 'Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words.'
+ 'From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords:
+ But the weapon of the Sassanach met him on his way,
+ And he died at Cloch Uachtar, upon St. Leonard's day.
+
+ 'Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One! Wail, wail ye for the Dead!
+ Quench the hearth, and hold the breath--with ashes strew the head.
+ How tenderly we loved him! How deeply we deplore!
+ Holy Saviour! but to think we shall never see him more!
+
+ 'Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall,
+ Sure we never won a battle--'twas Owen won them all.
+ Had he lived--had he lived--our dear country had been free;
+ But he's dead, but he's dead, and 'tis slaves we'll ever be.
+
+ 'O'Farrell and Clanricarde, Preston and Red Hugh,
+ Audley and MacMahon--ye are valiant, wise, and true;
+ But--what are ye all to our darling who is gone?
+ The Rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle's corner stone!
+
+ 'Wail, wail him through the Island! Weep, weep for our pride!
+ Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died!
+ Weep the Victor of Beinn Burb--weep him, young and old;
+ Weep for him, ye women--your Beautiful lies cold!
+
+ 'We thought you would not die--we were sure you would not go,
+ And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow--
+ Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky--
+ O! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die?
+
+ 'Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill! bright was your eye,
+ O! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die?
+ Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with God on high,
+ But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Eoghan!--why did you die?'
+
+ _Thomas Davis_
+
+
+
+
+MAIRE BHAN ASTOR
+
+
+ In a valley far away,
+ With my _Maire bhan astor_,
+ Short would be the summer-day,
+ Ever loving more and more;
+ Winter days would all grow long,
+ With the light her heart would pour,
+ With her kisses and her song,
+ And her loving _mait go leor_.
+ Fond is _Maire bhan astor_,
+ Fair is _Maire bhan astor_,
+ Sweet as ripple on the shore,
+ Sings my _Maire bhan astor_.
+
+ 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 astor_,
+ Tried is _Maire bhan astor_,
+ Had I wings I'd never soar
+ From my _Maire bhan astor_.
+
+ 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 _mait go leor_,
+ There shall shine the happy eyes
+ Of my _Maire bhan astor_.
+ Mild is _Maire bhan astor_,
+ Mine is _Maire bhan astor_,
+ Saints will watch about the door
+ Of my _Maire bhan astor_.
+
+ _Thomas Davis_
+
+
+
+
+O! THE MARRIAGE
+
+AIR--_The Swaggering Jig_
+
+
+ O! the marriage, the marriage,
+ With love and _mo bhuachaill_ for me,
+ The ladies that ride in a carriage
+ Might envy my marriage to me;
+ 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, O! 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;
+ O! sure 'twill be happy for both
+ The day of our marriage to see.
+ Then, O! the marriage, etc.
+
+ His kinsmen are honest and kind,
+ The neighbours 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 a dance, and a hand
+ In the cause of his country to join.
+ Then, O! 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.
+ Then, O! the marriage, the marriage,
+ With love and _mo bhuachaill_ for me,
+ The ladies that ride in a carriage
+ Might envy my marriage to me.
+
+ _Thomas Davis_
+
+
+
+
+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.
+
+ _Thomas Davis_
+
+
+
+
+REMEMBRANCE
+
+
+ Cold in the earth--and the deep snow piled above thee,
+ Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
+ Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
+ Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?
+
+ Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
+ Over the mountains, on that northern shore,
+ Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
+ Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?
+
+ Cold in the earth--and fifteen wild Decembers,
+ From these brown hills, have melted into spring!
+ Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers
+ After such years of change and suffering!
+
+ Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
+ While the world's tide is bearing me along;
+ Other desires and other hopes beset me,
+ Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong;
+
+ No later light has lighted up my heaven,
+ No second morn has ever shone for me;
+ All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
+ All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.
+
+ But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,
+ And even Despair was powerless to destroy;
+ Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
+ Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy.
+
+ Then did I check the tears of useless passion--
+ Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
+ Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten,
+ Down to that tomb already more than mine.
+
+ And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,
+ Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;
+ Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish
+ How could I seek the empty world again?
+
+ _Emily Bronte_
+
+
+
+
+A FRAGMENT FROM 'THE PRISONER: A FRAGMENT'
+
+
+ Still, let my tyrants know, I am not doomed to wear
+ Year after year in gloom, and desolate despair;
+ A messenger of Hope comes every night to me,
+ And offers for short life, eternal liberty.
+
+ He comes with Western winds, with evening's wandering airs,
+ With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars.
+ Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire,
+ And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire.
+
+ Desire for nothing known in my maturer years,
+ When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears.
+ When, if my spirit's sky was full of flashes warm,
+ I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunderstorm.
+
+ But first, a hush of peace--a soundless calm descends;
+ The struggle of distress, and fierce impatience ends.
+ Mute music soothes my breast--unuttered harmony
+ That I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me.
+
+ Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals;
+ My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels:
+ Its wings are almost free--its home, its harbour found,
+ Measuring the gulf, it stoops, and dares the final bound.
+
+ O, dreadful is the check--intense the agony--
+ When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see;
+ When the pulse begins to throb,--the brain to think again,
+ The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.
+
+ Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less,
+ The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless;
+ And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine,
+ If it but herald death, the vision is divine.
+
+ _Emily Bronte_
+
+
+
+
+LAST LINES
+
+
+ No coward soul is mine,
+ No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere:
+ I see Heaven's glories shine,
+ And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.
+
+ O God, within my breast,
+ Almighty, ever-present Deity!
+ Life--that in me has rest,
+ As I--undying Life--have power in Thee.
+
+ Vain are the thousand creeds
+ That move men's hearts: unutterably vain;
+ Worthless as withered weeds,
+ Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,
+
+ To waken doubt in one
+ Holding so fast to Thine infinity;
+ So surely anchored on
+ The steadfast rock of immortality,
+
+ With wide-embracing love
+ Thy spirit animates eternal years,
+ Pervades and broods above,
+ Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.
+
+ Though earth and man were gone,
+ And suns and universes ceased to be,
+ And Thou were left alone,
+ Every existence would exist in Thee.
+
+ There is not room for Death,
+ Nor atom that his might could render void:
+ Thou--Thou art Being and Breath,
+ And what Thou art may never be destroyed.
+
+ _Emily Bronte_
+
+
+
+
+THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD
+
+
+ Who fears to speak of Ninety-eight?
+ Who blushes at the name?
+ When 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;
+ All 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.
+
+ 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.
+
+ _John Kells Ingram_
+
+
+
+
+THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE; OR, THE EMIGRANT'S ADIEU TO BALLYSHANNY
+
+
+ Adieu to Ballyshanny! 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,
+ 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 Ballyshanny, 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 Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!
+
+ 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,
+ From rocky Inis Saimer to Coolnargit sandhills 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!
+
+ Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them that pull an oar,
+ A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point to Mullaghmore;
+ 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;
+ 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!
+
+ 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!
+
+ The thrush will call through Camlin groves the live-long summer day;
+ The waters run by mossy cliff, and banks 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 river-side they go, where I have often been,--
+ O never shall I see again the days that I have seen!
+ A thousand chances are to one I never may return,--
+ Adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!
+
+ 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!
+
+ Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Purt,
+ 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 Ballyshanny 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 past;
+ 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 Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne.
+
+ _William Allingham_
+
+
+
+
+THE FAIRIES
+
+
+ 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 bleak mountain lake,
+ With frogs for their watch-dogs,
+ All night awake.
+
+ High on the hill-top
+ The old King sits;
+ He is now so old and gray
+ He's nigh lost his wits.
+ With a bridge of white mist
+ Columbkill he crosses,
+ On his stately journeys
+ From Sleeveleague to Rosses;
+ Or going up with 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.
+ If 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
+ For fear of little men;
+ Wee folk, good folk,
+ Trooping all together;
+ Green jacket, red cap,
+ And white owl's feather!
+
+ _William Allingham_
+
+
+
+
+THE ABBOT OF INISFALEN
+
+_A Killarney Legend_
+
+
+ The Abbot of Inisfalen awoke ere dawn of day;
+ Under the dewy green leaves went he forth to pray.
+ The lake around his island lay smooth and dark and deep,
+ And wrapped in a misty stillness the mountains were all asleep.
+ Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac when the dawn was dim and gray,
+ The prayers of his holy office he faithfully 'gan say.
+ Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac while the dawn was waxing red;
+ And for his sins' forgiveness a solemn prayer he said:
+ Low kneel'd that holy Abbot while the dawn was waking clear,
+ And he prayed with loving-kindness for his convent-brethren dear.
+ Low kneel'd the blessed Abbot while the dawn was waxing bright;
+ He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland, he pray'd with all his might.
+ Low kneel'd that good old Father while the sun began to dart;
+ He pray'd a prayer for all men, he pray'd it from his heart.
+ His blissful soul was in Heaven, tho' a breathing man was he;
+ He was out of time's dominion, so far as the living may be.
+
+ The Abbot of Inisfalen arose upon his feet;
+ He heard a small bird singing, and O but it sung sweet!
+ It sung upon a holly-bush, this little snow-white bird;
+ A song so full of gladness he never before had heard,
+ It sung upon a hazel, it sung upon a thorn;
+ He had never heard such music since the hour that he was born.
+ It sung upon a sycamore, it sung upon a briar;
+ To follow the song and hearken the Abbot would never tire.
+ Till at last he well bethought him, he might no longer stay;
+ So he bless'd the little white singing-bird, and gladly went
+ his way.
+
+ But, when he came to his Abbey, he found a wondrous wondrous change;
+ He saw no friendly faces there, for every face was strange.
+ The strange men spoke unto him; and he heard from all and each
+ The foreign tongue of the Sassenach, not wholesome Irish speech.
+ Then the oldest monk came forward, in Irish tongue spake he:
+ 'Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress, and who hath given
+ it to thee?'
+ 'I wear the holy Augustine's dress, and Cormac is my name,
+ The Abbot of this good Abbey by grace of God I am.
+
+ I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day; and when my prayers
+ were said,
+ I hearken'd awhile to a little bird, that sang above my head.'
+ The monks to him made answer, 'Two hundred years have gone o'er,
+ Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate, and never was
+ heard of more.
+ Matthias now is our Abbot, and twenty have pass'd away.
+ The stranger is lord of Ireland; we live in an evil day.
+ Days will come and go,' he said, 'and the world will pass away:
+ In Heaven a day is a thousand years, a thousand years are a day.'
+
+ 'Now give me absolution; for my time is come,' said he.
+ And they gave him absolution, as speedily as might be.
+ Then, close outside the window, the sweetest song they heard
+ That ever yet since the world began was utter'd by any bird.
+ The monks look'd out and saw the bird, its feathers all white
+ and clean;
+ And then in a moment, beside it, another white bird was seen.
+ Those two they sang together, waved their white wings, and fled;
+ Flew aloft and vanish'd; but the good old man was dead.
+ They buried his blessed body where lake and green-sward meet,
+ A carven cross above his head, a holly-bush at his feet;
+ Where spreads the beautiful water to gay or cloudy skies,
+ And the purple peaks of Killarney from ancient woods arise.
+
+ _William Allingham_
+
+
+
+
+TWILIGHT VOICES
+
+
+ Now, at the hour when ignorant mortals
+ Drowse in the shade of their whirling sphere,
+ Heaven and Hell from invisible portals
+ Breathing comfort and ghastly fear,
+ Voices I hear;
+ I hear strange voices, flitting, calling,
+ Wavering by on the dusky blast,--
+ 'Come, let us go, for the night is falling;
+ Come, let us go, for the day is past!'
+
+ Troops of joys are they, now departed?
+ Winged hopes that no longer stay?
+ Guardian spirits grown weary-hearted?
+ Powers that have linger'd their latest day?
+ What do they say?
+ What do they sing? I hear them calling,
+ Whispering, gathering, flying fast,--
+ 'Come, come, for the night is falling;
+ Come, come, for the day is past!'
+
+ Sing they to me?--'Thy taper's wasted;
+ Mortal, thy sands of life run low;
+ Thine hours like a flock of birds have hasted:
+ Time is ending;--we go, we go.'
+ Sing they so?
+ Mystical voices, floating, calling;
+ Dim farewells--the last, the last?
+ 'Come, come away, the night is falling;
+ Come, come away, the day is past.'
+
+ See, I am ready, Twilight voices!
+ Child of the spirit-world am I;
+ How should I fear you? my soul rejoices,
+ O speak plainer! O draw nigh!
+ Fain would I fly!
+ Tell me your message, Ye who are calling
+ Out of the dimness vague and vast;
+ Lift me, take me,--the night is falling;
+ Quick, let us go,--the day is past.
+
+ _William Allingham_
+
+
+
+
+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!
+
+ _William Allingham_
+
+
+
+
+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, methought, with pity, some as if in jest.
+ To every word
+ Of every bird
+ I listen'd, or replied as it behove.
+
+ Scream'd 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.
+
+ Then I, 'The man forlorn
+ Hears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft.'
+ 'And what'll _he_ do? What'll _he_ do?' scoff'd
+ The Blackbird, standing, in 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 mock'd the Thrush, 'Die! die!
+ O, 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-ee now! see-ee now!' (he drawl'd) 'Back! back!
+ back! R-r-r-run away!'
+ O 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 make flight.'
+
+ 'There's something, something sad
+ I half remember'--piped a broken strain.
+ Well sung, sweet Robin! Robin sung again.
+ '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.
+
+ _William Allingham_
+
+
+
+
+THE CELTS
+
+
+ Long, long ago, beyond the misty space
+ Of twice a thousand years,
+ In Erin old there dwelt a mighty race
+ Taller than Roman spears;
+ Like oaks and towers, they had a giant grace,
+ Were fleet as deers:
+ With winds and waves they made their biding-place,
+ The Western shepherd seers.
+
+ Their ocean-god was _Mananan Mac Lir_,
+ Whose angry lips
+ In their white foam full often would inter
+ Whole fleets of ships:
+ _Crom_ was their day-god, and their thunderer
+ Made morning and eclipse:
+ _Bride_ was their queen of song, and unto her
+ They pray'd with fire-touch'd lips.
+
+ Great were their acts, their passions, and their sports;
+ With clay and stone
+ They piled on strath and shore those mystic forts,
+ Not yet undone;
+ On cairn-crown'd hills they held their council courts;
+ While youths--alone--
+ With giant-dogs, explored the elks' resorts,
+ And brought them down.
+
+ Of these was _Finn_, the father of the bard
+ Whose ancient song
+ Over the clamour of all change is heard,
+ Sweet-voiced and strong.
+ Finn once o'ertook Granu, the golden-hair'd,
+ The fleet and young:
+ From her, the lovely, and from him, the feared,
+ The primal poet sprung--
+
+ _Ossian!_--two thousand years of mist and change
+ Surround thy name;
+ Thy Finnian heroes now no longer range
+ The hills of Fame.
+ The very name of Finn and Gael sound strange;
+ Yet thine the same
+ By miscall'd lake and desecrated grange
+ Remains, and shall remain!
+
+ The Druid's altar and the Druid's creed
+ We scarce can trace;
+ There is not left an undisputed deed
+ Of all your race--
+ Save your majestic Song, which hath their speed,
+ And strength, and grace:
+ In that sole song they live, and love, and bleed--
+ It bears them on through space.
+
+ Inspired giant, shall we e'er behold,
+ In our own time,
+ One fit to speak your spirit on the wold,
+ Or seize your rhyme?
+ One pupil of the past, as mighty-soul'd
+ As in the prime
+ Were the fond, fair, and beautiful, and bold--
+ They of your song sublime?
+
+ _Thomas D'Arcy McGee_
+
+
+
+
+SALUTATION TO THE CELTS
+
+
+ Hail to our Celtic brethren wherever they may be,
+ In the far woods of Oregon, or o'er the Atlantic sea;
+ Whether they guard the banner of St. George, in Indian vales,
+ Or spread beneath the nightless North experimental sails--
+ One in name, and in fame,
+ Are the sea-divided Gaels.
+
+ Though fallen the state of Erin, and changed the Scottish land,
+ Though small the power of Mona, though unwaked Llewellyn's band,
+ Though Ambrose Merlin's prophecies are held as idle tales,
+ Though Iona's ruined cloisters are swept by northern gales:
+ One in name, and in fame,
+ Are the sea-divided Gaels.
+
+ In Northern Spain and Italy our brethren also dwell,
+ And brave are the traditions of their fathers that they tell:
+ The Eagle or the Crescent in the dawn of history pales
+ Before the advancing banners of the great Rome-conquering Gaels.
+ One in name, and in fame,
+ Are the sea-divided Gaels.
+
+ A greeting and a promise unto them all we send;
+ Their character our charter is, their glory is our end--
+ Their friend shall be our friend, our foe whoe'er assails
+ The glory or the story of the sea-divided Gaels.
+ One in name, and in fame,
+ Are the sea-divided Gaels.
+
+ _Thomas D'Arcy McGee_
+
+
+
+
+THE GOBBAN SAOR
+
+
+ He stepped a man, out on the ways of men,
+ And no one knew his sept, or rank, or name;
+ Like a strong stream far issuing from a glen,
+ From some source unexplored the Master came;
+ Gossips there were who, wondrous keen of ken,
+ Surmised that he must be a child of shame;
+ Others declared him of the Druids, then--
+ Thro' Patrick's labours--fallen from power and fame.
+
+ He lived apart, wrapt up in many plans;
+ He wooed not women, tasted not of wine;
+ He shunned the sports and councils of the clans;
+ Nor ever knelt at a frequented shrine.
+ His orisons were old poetic ranns
+ Which the new Olamhs deem'd an evil sign;
+ To most he seemed one of those Pagan Khans
+ Whose mystic vigour knows no cold decline.
+
+ He was the builder of the wondrous Towers,
+ Which, tall and straight and exquisitely round,
+ Rise monumental round this isle of ours,
+ Index-like, marking spots of holy ground.
+ In glooming silent glens, in lowland bowers,
+ On river banks, these _Cloichteachs_ old abound,
+ Where Art, enraptured, meditates long hours
+ And Science ponders, wondering and spell-bound.
+
+ Lo, wheresoe'er these pillar-towers aspire,
+ Heroes and holy men repose below;
+ The bones of some, gleaned from a Pagan pyre,
+ Others in armour lie, as for a foe;
+ It was the mighty Master's life-desire
+ To chronicle his great ancestors so;
+ What holier duty, what achievement higher
+ Remains to us, than this he thus doth show?
+
+ Yet he, the builder, died an unknown death;
+ His labours done, no man beheld him more;
+ 'Twas thought his body faded like a breath--
+ Or, like a sea-mist, floated off Life's shore.
+ Doubt overhangs his fate--and faith--and birth:
+ His works alone attest his life and love,
+ They are the only witnesses he hath,
+ All else Egyptian darkness covers o'er.
+
+ Men called him Gobban Saor, and many a tale
+ Yet lingers in the byways of the land,
+ Of how he cleft the rock, and down the vale
+ Led the bright river, child-like, in his hand;
+ Of how on giant ships he spread great sail
+ And many marvels else, by him first planned,
+ And tho' these legends fail, in Innisfail
+ His name and Towers for centuries still shall stand.
+
+ _Thomas D'Arcy McGee_
+
+
+
+
+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 blessed the friends who made their graves
+ In the Glen of Aherlow.
+
+ 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!
+ O blessed God, it was not dark,
+ It was the broad daylight!
+ And when I found that I was _blind_,
+ My tears began to flow;
+ I 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 gaol;
+ Struck blind within the trenches,
+ Where I never feared the foe;
+ And now I'll never see again
+ My own sweet Aherlow.
+
+ A poor neglected mendicant,
+ I wandered through the street;
+ My nine months' pension now being out,
+ I beg from all I meet:
+ As I joined my country's tyrants,
+ My face I'll never show
+ Among the kind old neighbours
+ In the Glen of Aherlow.
+
+ Then, Irish youths, dear countrymen,
+ Take heed of what I say;
+ For if you join the English ranks,
+ You'll surely rue the day;
+ And whenever you are tempted
+ A-soldiering to go,
+ Remember poor blind Sheehan
+ Of the Glen of Aherlow.
+
+ _Charles J. Kickham_
+
+
+
+
+THE IRISH PEASANT GIRL
+
+
+ She lived beside the Anner,
+ At the foot of Sliev-na-mon,
+ A gentle peasant girl,
+ With mild eyes like the dawn;
+ Her lips were dewy rosebuds;
+ Her teeth of pearls rare;
+ And a snow-drift 'neath a beechen bough
+ Her neck and nut-brown hair.
+
+ How pleasant 'twas to meet her
+ On Sunday, when the bell
+ Was filling with its mellow tones
+ Lone wood and grassy dell!
+ And when at eve young maidens
+ Strayed the river-bank along,
+ The widow's brown-haired daughter
+ Was loveliest of the throng.
+
+ O brave, brave Irish girls--
+ We well may call you brave!--
+ Sure the least of all your perils
+ Is the stormy ocean wave,
+ When you leave our quiet valleys,
+ And cross the Atlantic's foam,
+ To hoard your hard-won earnings
+ For the helpless ones at home.
+
+ 'Write word to my own dear mother--
+ Say, we'll meet with God above;
+ And tell my little brothers
+ I send them all my love;
+ May the angels ever guard them,
+ Is their dying sister's prayer'--
+ And folded in the letter
+ Was a braid of nut-brown hair.
+
+ Ah, cold, and well-nigh callous,
+ This weary heart has grown
+ For thy helpless fate, dear Ireland,
+ And for sorrows of my own;
+ Yet a tear my eye will moisten
+ When by Anner's side I stray,
+ For the lily of the mountain foot
+ That withered far away.
+
+ _Charles J. Kickham_
+
+
+
+
+TO GOD AND IRELAND TRUE
+
+
+ I sit beside my darling's grave,
+ Who in the prison died,
+ And tho' my tears fall thick and fast,
+ I think of him with pride:--
+ Ay, softly fall my tears like dew,
+ For one to God and Ireland true.
+
+ 'I love my God o'er all,' he said,
+ 'And then I love my land,
+ And next I love my Lily sweet,
+ Who pledged me her white hand:--
+ To each--to all--I'm ever true,
+ To God--to Ireland and to you.'
+
+ No tender nurse his hard bed smoothed
+ Or softly raised his head:--
+ He fell asleep and woke in heaven
+ Ere I knew he was dead;--
+ Yet why should I my darling rue?
+ He was to God and Ireland true.
+
+ O, 'tis a glorious memory;
+ I'm prouder than a queen
+ To sit beside my hero's grave
+ And think on what has been:--
+ And O, my darling, I am true
+ To God--to Ireland and to you!
+
+ _Ellen O'Leary_
+
+
+
+
+THE BANSHEE
+
+
+ Green, in the wizard arms,
+ Of the foam-bearded Atlantic,
+ An isle of old enchantment,
+ A melancholy isle,
+ Enchanted and dreaming lies;
+ And there, by Shannon's flowing,
+ In the moonlight, spectre thin,
+ The spectre Erin sits.
+
+ An aged desolation
+ She sits by old Shannon's flowing,
+ A mother of many children,
+ Of children exiled and dead,
+ In her home, with bent head, homeless,
+ Clasping her knees she sits,
+ Keening, keening!
+
+ And at her keene the fairy-grass
+ Trembles on dun and barrow;
+ Around the foot of her ancient crosses
+ The grave-grass shakes and the nettle swings;
+ In haunted glens the meadow-sweet
+ Flings to the night-wind
+ Her mystic mournful perfume;
+ The sad spearmint by holy wells
+ Breathes melancholy balm.
+
+ Sometimes she lifts her head,
+ With blue eyes tearless,
+ And gazes athwart the reek of night
+ Upon things long past,
+ Upon things to come.
+
+ And sometimes, when the moon
+ Brings tempest upon the deep,
+ And roused Atlantic thunders from his caverns in the West,
+ The wolf-hound at her feet
+ Springs up with a mighty bay,
+ And chords of mystery sound from the wild harp at her side,
+ Strung from the heart of poets;
+ And she flies on the verge of the tempest
+ Around her shuddering isle,
+ With grey hair streaming:
+ A meteor of evil omen,
+ The spectre of hope forlorn,
+ Keening, keening!
+
+ She keenes, and the strings of her wild harp shiver
+ On the gusts of night:
+ O'er the four waters she keenes--over Moyle she keenes,
+ O'er the Sea of Milith, and the Strait of Strongbow,
+ And the Ocean of Columbus.
+
+ And the Fianna hear, and the ghosts of her cloudy hovering heroes;
+ And the swan, Fianoula, wails o'er the waters of Inisfail,
+ Chanting her song of destiny,
+ The rune of the weaving Fates.
+
+ And the nations hear in the void and quaking time of night,
+ Sad unto dawning, dirges,
+ Solemn dirges,
+ And snatches of bardic song;
+ Their souls quake in the void and quaking time of night,
+ And they dream of the weird of kings,
+ And tyrannies moulting, sick
+ In the dreadful wind of change.
+
+ Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exiles, wail no more,
+ Banshee of the world--no more!
+ Thy sorrows are the world's, thou art no more alone;
+ Thy wrongs, the world's.
+
+ _John Todhunter_
+
+
+
+
+AGHADOE
+
+
+ There's a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
+ There's a green and silent glade in Aghadoe,
+ Where we met, my Love and I, Love's fair planet in the sky,
+ O'er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe.
+
+ There's a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
+ There's a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe,
+ Where I hid from the eyes of the red-coats and their spies
+ That year the trouble came to Aghadoe.
+
+ O! my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
+ On Shaun Dhuv, my mother's son in Aghadoe,
+ When your throat fries in hell's drouth salt the flame
+ be in your mouth,
+ For the treachery you did in Aghadoe!
+
+ For they tracked me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
+ When the price was on his head in Aghadoe;
+ O'er the mountain through the wood, as I stole to him with food,
+ When in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe.
+
+ But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe;
+ With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe,
+ There he lay, the head--my breast keeps the warmth where
+ once 'twould rest--
+ Gone, to win the traitor's gold, from Aghadoe!
+
+ I walked to Mallow Town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
+ Brought his head from the gaol's gate to Aghadoe,
+ Then I covered him with fern, and I piled on him the cairn.
+ Like an Irish King he sleeps in Aghadoe.
+
+ O! to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe!
+ There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe!
+ Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I,
+ Your own love, cold on your cairn in Aghadoe.
+
+ _John Todhunter_
+
+
+
+
+A MAD SONG
+
+
+ I hear the wind a-blowing,
+ I hear the corn a-growing,
+ I hear the Virgin praying,
+ I hear what she is saying.
+
+ _Hester Sigerson_
+
+
+
+
+LADY MARGARET'S SONG
+
+
+ Girls, when I am gone away,
+ On this bosom strew
+ Only flowers meek and pale,
+ And the yew.
+
+ 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.
+
+ _Edward Dowden_
+
+
+
+
+SONG
+
+
+ I made another garden, yea,
+ For my new Love.
+ I left the dead rose where it lay
+ And set the new above.
+ Why did my Summer not begin?
+ Why did my heart not haste?
+ My old Love came and walked therein
+ And laid the garden waste.
+
+ She entered with her weary smile,
+ Just as of old:
+ She looked around a little while
+ And shivered with the cold.
+ Her passing touch was death to all,
+ Her passing look a blight;
+ She made the white rose-petals fall,
+ And turned the red rose white.
+
+ Her pale robe clinging to the grass
+ Seemed like a snake
+ That bit the grass and ground, alas!
+ And a sad trail did make.
+ She went up slowly to the gate,
+ And then, just as of yore,
+ She turned back at the last to wait
+ And say farewell once more.
+
+ _Arthur O'Shaughnessy_
+
+
+
+
+FATHER O'FLYNN
+
+
+ Of priests we can offer a charming variety,
+ Far renowned for larnin' and piety,
+ Still I'd advance you, without impropriety,
+ Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.
+ Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,
+ _Slainte_, and _slainte_, and _slainte_ agin.
+ Powerfullest preacher,
+ And tindherest teacher,
+ And kindliest creature in Old Donegal.
+
+ Talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity,
+ Far renowned for Greek and Latinity,
+ Gad! and the divils and all at Divinity,
+ Father O'Flynn would make hares of them all.
+ Come, I venture to give you my word,
+ Never the likes of his logic was heard,
+ Down from mythology,
+ Into thayology,
+ Troth and conchology, if he'd the call.
+
+ Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way with you,
+ All the old sinners are wishful to pray with you,
+ All the young children are wild for to play with you,
+ You've such a way with you, Father _avick_!
+ Still for all you're so gentle a soul,
+ Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control;
+ Checking the crazy ones,
+ Coaxing unaisy ones,
+ Lifting the lazy ones on with the stick.
+
+ And though quite avoiding all foolish frivolity,
+ Still at all seasons of innocent jollity,
+ Where is the play-boy can claim an equality
+ At comicality, Father, with you?
+ Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest,
+ Till this remark set him off with the rest:
+ 'Is it leave gaiety
+ All to the laity?
+ Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too?'
+
+ _Alfred Perceval Graves_
+
+
+
+
+SONG
+
+
+ The 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.
+
+ 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.
+
+ _Rosa Gilbert_
+
+
+
+
+REQUIESCAT
+
+
+ Tread lightly, she is near
+ Under the snow,
+ Speak gently, she can hear
+ The daisies grow.
+
+ All her bright golden hair,
+ Tarnished with rust,
+ She that was young and fair
+ Fallen to dust.
+
+ Lily-like, white as snow,
+ She hardly knew
+ She was a woman, so
+ Sweetly she grew.
+
+ Coffin-board, heavy stone
+ Lie on her breast,
+ I vex my heart alone,
+ She is at rest.
+
+ Peace, Peace, she cannot hear
+ Lyre or sonnet,
+ All my life's buried here,
+ Heap earth upon it.
+
+ _Oscar Wilde_
+
+
+
+
+THE LAMENT OF QUEEN MAEV
+
+_From the Irish of the Book of Leinster_
+
+
+ Raise the cromlech high!
+ Mac Moghcorb is slain,
+ And other men's renown
+ Has leave to live again.
+
+ Cold at last he lies
+ 'Neath the burial stone.
+ All the blood he shed
+ Could not save his own.
+
+ Stately, strong he went,
+ Through his nobles all,
+ When we paced together
+ Up the banquet-hall.
+
+ Dazzling white as lime,
+ Was his body fair,
+ Cherry-red his cheeks,
+ Raven-black his hair.
+
+ Razor-sharp his spear,
+ And the shield he bore,
+ High as champion's head--
+ His arm was like an oar.
+
+ Never aught but truth
+ Spake my noble king;
+ Valour all his trust
+ In all his warfaring.
+
+ As the forked pole
+ Holds the roof-tree's weight,
+ So my hero's arm
+ Held the battle straight.
+
+ Terror went before him,
+ Death behind his back,
+ Well the wolves of Erinn
+ Knew his chariot's track.
+
+ Seven bloody battles
+ He broke upon his foes,
+ In each a hundred heroes
+ Fell beneath his blows.
+
+ Once he fought at Fossud,
+ Thrice at Ath-finn-fail.
+ 'Twas my king that conquered
+ At bloody Ath-an-Scail.
+
+ At the Boundary Stream
+ Fought the Royal Hound,
+ And for Bernas battle
+ Stands his name renowned.
+
+ Here he fought with Leinster--
+ Last of all his frays--
+ On the Hill of Cucorb's Fate
+ High his cromlech raise.
+
+ _T.W. Rolleston_
+
+
+
+
+THE DEAD AT CLONMACNOIS
+
+_From the Irish of Enoch O'Gillan_
+
+
+ In a quiet watered land, a land of roses,
+ Stands Saint Kieran's city fair;
+ And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations
+ Slumber there.
+
+ There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest
+ Of the clan of Conn,
+ Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham
+ And the sacred knot thereon.
+
+ There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,
+ There the sons of Cairbre sleep--
+ Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran's plain of crosses
+ Now their final hosting keep.
+
+ And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia,
+ And right many a lord of Breagh;
+ Deep the sod above Clan Creide and Clan Conaill,
+ Kind in hall and fierce in fray.
+
+ Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter
+ In the red earth lies at rest;
+ Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers,
+ Many a swan-white breast.
+
+ _T.W. Rolleston_
+
+
+
+
+THE SPELL-STRUCK
+
+
+ She walks as she were moving
+ Some mystic dance to tread,
+ So falls her gliding footstep,
+ So leans her listening head;
+
+ For once to fairy harping
+ She danced upon the hill,
+ And through her brain and bosom
+ The music pulses still.
+
+ Her eyes are bright and tearless,
+ But wide with yearning pain;
+ She longs for nothing earthly,
+ But O! to hear again
+
+ The sound that held her listening
+ Upon her moonlit path!
+ The rippling fairy music
+ That filled the lonely rath.
+
+ Her lips, that once have tasted
+ The fairy banquet's bliss,
+ Shall glad no mortal lover
+ With maiden smile or kiss.
+
+ She's dead to all things living
+ Since that November Eve;
+ And when she dies in autumn
+ No living thing will grieve.
+
+ _T.W. Rolleston_
+
+
+
+
+WERE YOU ON THE MOUNTAIN?
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ O, were you on the mountain, or saw you my love?
+ Or saw you my own one, my queen and my dove?
+ Or saw you the maiden with the step firm and free?
+ And say, is she pining in sorrow like me?
+
+ I was upon 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.
+
+ _Douglas Hyde_
+
+
+
+
+MY GRIEF ON THE SEA
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ My 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 wear,
+ In the province of Leinster,
+ Or County of Clare?
+
+ Were I and my darling--
+ O, heart-bitter wound!--
+ On board of the ship
+ For America bound.
+
+ 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.
+
+ _Douglas Hyde_
+
+
+
+
+MY LOVE, O, SHE IS MY LOVE
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ She casts a spell, O, 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, O, she my store,
+ Whose grey eye wounded me so sore,
+ Who will not place in mine her palm,
+ Who will not calm me any more.
+
+ She is my pet, O, 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, O, 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.
+
+ She is my dear, O, 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, O, 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, O, 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 is my grief, O, 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, O, my desire,
+ More glorious than the bright sun's fire;
+ Who more 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,
+ But if she soften not her eye,
+ Then life and I shall surely part.
+
+ _Douglas Hyde_
+
+
+
+
+I SHALL NOT DIE FOR THEE
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ For thee I shall not die,
+ Woman high of fame and name;
+ Foolish men thou mayest slay,
+ I and they are not the same.
+
+ Why should I expire
+ For the fire of any eye,
+ Slender waist, or swan-like limb,
+ Is't for them that I should die?
+
+ The round breasts, the fresh skin,
+ Cheeks crimson, hair so 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 from 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.
+
+ _Douglas Hyde_
+
+
+
+
+RIDDLES
+
+_From the Irish_
+
+
+ A great, great house it is,
+ A golden candlestick it is,
+ Guess it rightly,
+ Let it not go by thee.
+ _Heaven_.
+
+ There's a garden that I ken,
+ Full of little gentlemen,
+ Little caps of blue they wear,
+ And green ribbons very fair.
+ _Flax_.
+
+ He comes to ye amidst the brine
+ The butterfly of the sun,
+ The man of the coat so blue and fine,
+ With red thread his shirt is done.
+ _A Lobster_.
+
+ You see it come in on the shoulders of men,
+ Like a thread of the silk it will leave us again.
+ _Turf_.
+
+ _Douglas Hyde_
+
+
+
+
+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 waves were thrown;
+ While mosses, green and gray and pink,
+ Grew thickly round each smooth dark stone.
+
+ 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.
+
+ O, little lonely mountain spot!
+ Your place within my heart will be
+ Apart from all Life's busy lot
+ A true, sweet, solemn memory.
+
+ _Rose Kavanagh_
+
+
+
+
+THE CHILDREN OF LIR
+
+
+ Out upon the sand-dunes thrive the coarse long grasses,
+ Herons standing knee-deep in the brackish pool,
+ Overhead the sunset fire and flame amasses,
+ And the moon to Eastward rises pale and cool:
+ Rose and green around her, silver-grey and pearly,
+ Chequered with the black rooks flying home to bed;
+ For, to wake at daybreak birds must couch them early,
+ And the day's a long one since the dawn was red.
+
+ On the chilly lakelet, in that pleasant gloaming,
+ See the sad swans sailing: they shall have no rest:
+ Never a voice to greet them save the bittern's booming
+ Where the ghostly sallows sway against the West.
+ 'Sister,' saith the grey swan, 'Sister, I am weary,'
+ Turning to the white swan wet, despairing eyes;
+ 'O,' she saith, 'my young one.' 'O,' she saith, 'my dearie,'
+ Casts her wings about him with a storm of cries.
+
+ Woe for Lir's sweet children whom their vile step-mother
+ Glamoured with her witch-spells for a thousand years;
+ Died their father raving--on his throne another--
+ Blind before the end came from his burning tears.
+ She--the fiends possess her, torture her for ever,
+ Gone is all the glory of the race of Lir;
+ Gone and long-forgotten like a dream of fever:
+ But the swans remember all the days that were.
+
+ Hugh, the black and white swan with the beauteous feathers;
+ Fiachra, the black swan with the emerald breast;
+ Conn, the youngest, dearest, sheltered in all weathers,
+ Him his snow-white sister loves the tenderest.
+ These her mother gave her as she lay a-dying,
+ To her faithful keeping, faithful hath she been,
+ With her wings spread o'er them when the tempest's crying,
+ And her songs so hopeful when the sky's serene.
+
+ Other swans have nests made 'mid the reeds and rushes,
+ Lined with downy feathers where the cygnets sleep
+ Dreaming, if a bird dreams, till the daylight blushes,
+ Then they sail out swiftly on the current deep,
+ With the proud swan-father, tall, and strong, and stately,
+ And the mild swan-mother, grave with household cares,
+ All well-born and comely, all rejoicing greatly:
+ Full of honest pleasure is a life like theirs.
+
+ But alas! for my swans, with the human nature,
+ Sick with human longings, starved with human ties,
+ With their hearts all human, cramped in a bird's stature,
+ And the human weeping in the bird's soft eyes.
+ Never shall my swans build nests in some green river,
+ Never fly to southward in the autumn grey,
+ Rear no tender children, love no mates for ever,
+ Robbed alike of bird's joys and of man's are they.
+
+ Babbled Conn the youngest, 'Sister, I remember
+ At my father's palace how I went in silk,
+ Ate the juicy deer-flesh roasted from the ember,
+ Drank from golden goblets my child's draught of milk.
+ Once I rode a-hunting, laughed to see the hurly,
+ Shouted at the ball-play, on the lake did row;
+ You had for your beauty gauds that shone so rarely':
+ 'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.'
+
+ 'Sister,' saith Fiachra, 'well do I remember
+ How the flaming torches lit the banquet hall,
+ And the fire leaped skyward in the mid-December,
+ And amid the rushes slept our staghounds tall.
+ By our father's right hand you sat shyly gazing,
+ Smiling half and sighing, with your eyes aglow,
+ As the bards sang loudly, all your beauty praising';
+ 'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.'
+
+ 'Sister,' then saith Hugh, 'most do I remember
+ One I called my brother, you, earth's goodliest man,
+ Strong as forest oaks are where the wild vines clamber,
+ First at feast or hunting, in the battle's van.
+ Angus, you were handsome, wise and true and tender,
+ Loved by every comrade, feared by every foe:
+ Low, low lies your beauty, all forgot your splendour':
+ 'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.'
+
+ Dews are in the clear air, and the roselight paling,
+ Over sands and sedges shines the evening star,
+ And the moon's disk high in heaven is sailing,
+ Silvered all the spear-heads of the rushes are--
+ Housed warm are all things as the night grows colder,
+ Water-fowl and sky-fowl dreamless in the nest,
+ But the swans go drifting, drooping wings and shoulder,
+ Cleaving the still waters where the fishes rest.
+
+ _Katharine Tynan Hinkson_
+
+
+
+
+ST. FRANCIS TO THE BIRDS
+
+
+ Little sisters, the birds,
+ We must praise God, you and I--
+ You with songs that fill the sky;
+ I, with halting words.
+
+ All things tell His praise,
+ Woods and waters thereof sing,
+ Summer, winter, autumn, spring,
+ And the nights and days.
+
+ Yea, and cold and heat,
+ And the sun, and stars, and moon,
+ Sea with her monotonous tune,
+ Rain and hail and sleet.
+
+ And the winds of heaven,
+ And the solemn hills of blue,
+ And the brown earth and the dew,
+ And the thunder even,
+
+ And the flowers' sweet breath,--
+ All things make one glorious voice;
+ Life with fleeting pains and joys
+ And our brother--Death.
+
+ Little flowers of air,
+ With your feathers soft and sleek
+ And your bright brown eyes and meek,
+ He hath made you fair.
+
+ He hath taught to you
+ Skill to weave on tree and thatch
+ Nests where happy mothers hatch
+ Speckled eggs of blue.
+
+ And hath children given:
+ When the soft heads overbrim
+ The brown nests; then thank ye Him
+ In the clouds of heaven.
+
+ Also in your lives,
+ Live His laws who loveth you.
+ Husbands, be ye kind and true;
+ Be homekeeping wives.
+
+ Love not gossiping;
+ Stay at home and keep the nest;
+ Fly not here and there in quest
+ Of the newest thing.
+
+ Live as brethren live;
+ Love be in each heart and mouth;
+ Be not envious, be not wroth,
+ Be not slow to give.
+
+ When ye build the nest
+ Quarrel not o'er straw or wool;
+ He who hath, be bountiful
+ To the neediest.
+
+ Be not puffed or vain
+ Of your beauty or your worth,
+ Of your children or your birth,
+ Or the praise you gain.
+
+ Eat not greedily:
+ Sometimes, for sweet mercy's sake,
+ Worm or insect spare to take;
+ Let it crawl or fly.
+
+ See ye sing not near
+ To our church on holy day,
+ Lest the human-folk should stray
+ From their prayer to hear.
+
+ Now depart in peace,
+ In God's name I bless each one;
+ May your days be long i' the sun
+ And your joys increase.
+
+ And remember me,
+ Your poor brother Francis, who
+ Loveth you, and thanketh you
+ For this courtesy.
+
+ Sometimes when ye sing,
+ Name my name, that He may take
+ Pity for the dear song's sake
+ On my shortcoming.
+
+ _Katharine Tynan Hinkson_
+
+
+
+
+SHEEP AND LAMBS
+
+
+ All in the April morning,
+ April airs were abroad;
+ The sheep with their little lambs
+ Passed me by on the road.
+
+ The sheep with their little lambs
+ Passed me by on the road;
+ All in the April evening,
+ I thought on the Lamb of God.
+
+ The lambs were weary, and crying
+ With a weak human cry,
+ I thought on the Lamb of God
+ Going meekly to die.
+
+ Up in the blue, blue mountains
+ Dewy pastures are sweet:
+ Rest for the little bodies,
+ Rest for the little feet.
+
+ Rest for the Lamb of God
+ Up on the hill-top green,
+ Only a cross of shame
+ Two stark crosses between.
+
+ All in the April evening,
+ April airs were abroad;
+ I saw the sheep with their lambs,
+ And thought on the Lamb of God.
+
+ _Katharine Tynan Hinkson_
+
+
+
+
+THE GARDENER SAGE
+
+
+ Here in the garden-bed,
+ Hoeing the celery,
+ Wonders the Lord has made
+ Pass ever before me.
+ I saw the young birds build,
+ And swallows come and go,
+ And summer grow and gild,
+ And winter die in snow.
+
+ Many a thing I note,
+ And store it in my mind;
+ For all my ragged coat,
+ That scarce will stop the wind.
+ I light my pipe and draw,
+ And, leaning on my spade,
+ I marvel with much awe
+ O'er all the Lord hath made.
+
+ Now, here's a curious thing:
+ Upon the first of March,
+ The crow goes house-building,
+ In the elms and in the larch.
+ And be it shine or snow,
+ Though many winds carouse,
+ That day the artful crow
+ Begins to build his house.
+
+ But then--the wonder's big!--
+ _If Sunday fall that day_
+ _Nor straw, nor scraw, nor twig,
+ Till Monday will he lay._
+ His black wings to his side,
+ He'll drone upon his perch,
+ Subdued and holy-eyed,
+ As though he were at church.
+
+ The crow's a gentleman
+ Not greatly to my mind,
+ He'll steal what seeds he can,
+ And all you hide he'll find.
+ Yet though he's bully and sneak,
+ To small birds bird of prey--
+ He counts the days of the week,
+ And keeps the Sabbath day.
+
+ _Katharine Tynan Hinkson_
+
+
+
+
+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.
+
+ 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:
+ But 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.
+
+ _Nora Hopper_
+
+
+
+
+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.
+
+ 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 plough.
+
+ _Nora Hopper_
+
+
+
+
+OUR THRONES DECAY
+
+
+ I said, my pleasure shall not move;
+ It is not fixed in things apart:
+ Seeking not love--but yet to love--
+ I put my trust in mine own heart.
+
+ I knew the fountain of the deep
+ Wells up with living joy, unfed;
+ Such joys the lonely heart may keep,
+ And love grow rich with love unwed.
+
+ Still flows the ancient fount sublime;
+ But, ah, for my heart shed tears, shed tears;
+ Not it, but love, has scorn of time;
+ It turns to dust beneath the years.
+
+ _A.E._
+
+
+
+
+IMMORTALITY
+
+
+ We must pass like smoke or live within the spirit's fire;
+ For we can no more than smoke unto the flame return
+ If our thought has changed to dream, our will unto desire,
+ As smoke we vanish though the fire may burn.
+
+ Lights of infinite pity star the grey dusk of our days:
+ Surely here is soul: with it we have eternal breath:
+ In the fire of love we live, or pass by many ways,
+ By unnumbered ways of dream to death.
+
+ _A.E._
+
+
+
+
+THE GREAT BREATH
+
+
+ Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose,
+ Withers once more the old blue flower of day:
+ There where the ether like a diamond glows
+ Its petals fade away.
+
+ A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;
+ Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;
+ The great deep thrills for through it everywhere
+ The breath of Beauty blows.
+
+ I saw how all the trembling ages past,
+ Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,
+ Neared to the hour when Beauty breathes her last
+ And knows herself in death.
+
+ _A.E._
+
+
+
+
+SUNG ON A BY-WAY
+
+
+ What of all the will to do?
+ It has vanished long ago,
+ For a dream-shaft pierced it through
+ From the Unknown Archer's bow.
+
+ What of all the soul to think?
+ Some one offered it a cup
+ Filled with a diviner drink,
+ And the flame has burned it up.
+
+ What of all the hope to climb?
+ Only in the self we grope
+ To the misty end of time:
+ Truth has put an end to hope.
+
+ What of all the heart to love?
+ Sadder than for will or soul,
+ No light lured it on above;
+ Love has found itself the whole.
+
+ _A.E._
+
+
+
+
+DREAM LOVE
+
+
+ I did not deem it half so sweet
+ To feel thy gentle hand,
+ As in a dream thy soul to greet
+ Across wide leagues of land.
+
+ Untouched more near to draw to you
+ Where, amid radiant skies,
+ Glimmered thy plumes of iris hue,
+ My Bird of Paradise.
+
+ Let me dream only with my heart,
+ Love first, and after see:
+ Know thy diviner counterpart
+ Before I kneel to thee.
+
+ So in thy motions all expressed
+ Thy angel I may view:
+ I shall not in thy beauty rest,
+ But Beauty's ray on you.
+
+ _A.E._
+
+
+
+
+ILLUSION
+
+
+ What is the love of shadowy lips
+ That know not what they seek or press,
+ From whom the lure for ever slips
+ And fails their phantom tenderness?
+
+ The mystery and light of eyes
+ That near to mine grow dim and cold;
+ They move afar in ancient skies
+ Mid flame and mystic darkness rolled.
+
+ O beauty, as thy heart o'erflows
+ In tender yielding unto me,
+ A vast desire awakes and grows
+ Unto forgetfulness of thee.
+
+ _A.E._
+
+
+
+
+JANUS
+
+
+ Image of beauty, when I gaze on thee,
+ Trembling I waken to a mystery,
+ How through one door we go to life or death
+ By spirit kindled or the sensual breath.
+
+ Image of beauty, when my way I go;
+ No single joy or sorrow do I know:
+ Elate for freedom leaps the starry power,
+ The life which passes mourns its wasted hour.
+
+ And, ah, to think how thin the veil that lies
+ Between the pain of hell and paradise!
+ Where the cool grass my aching head embowers
+ God sings the lovely carol of the flowers.
+
+ _A.E._
+
+
+
+
+CONNLA'S WELL
+
+
+ A cabin on the mountain side hid in a grassy nook,
+ With door and windows open wide where friendly stars may look;
+ The rabbit shy can patter in; the winds may enter free
+ Who throng around the mountain throne in living ecstasy.
+
+ And when the sun sets dimmed in eve and purple fills the air,
+ I think the sacred hazel tree is dropping berries there
+ From starry fruitage waved aloft where Connla's well o'erflows;
+ For sure the immortal waters run through every wind that blows.
+
+ I think when night towers up aloft and shakes the trembling dew,
+ How every high and lonely thought that thrills my spirit through
+ Is but a shining berry dropped down through the purple air,
+ And from the magic tree of life the fruit falls everywhere.
+
+ _A.E._
+
+
+
+
+NAMES
+
+
+ No temple crowned the shaggy capes,
+ No safety soothed the kind,
+ The clouds unfabled shifted shapes,
+ And nameless roamed the wind.
+
+ The stars, the circling heights of heaven,
+ The mountains bright with snows
+ Looked down, and sadly man at even
+ Lay down and sad he rose.
+
+ Till ages brought the hour again,
+ When fell a windless morn,
+ And, child of agonistic pain
+ And bliss, the Word was born.
+
+ Which grew from all it gazed upon,
+ And spread thro' soil and sphere,
+ And shrunk the whole into the one,
+ And fetched the farthest here.
+
+ High is the summer's night, but deep
+ The hidden mind unfolds:
+ Within it does an image sleep
+ Of all that it beholds.
+
+ Alas! when man with busy brow,
+ His conquering names hath set
+ To planet, plant, and worm, who now
+ Will teach us to forget?
+
+ What poet now, when wisdoms fail,
+ Another theme shall dare--
+ The Nameless, and remove the veil
+ Which hides it everywhere?
+
+ _John Eglinton_
+
+
+
+
+THAT
+
+
+ What is that beyond thy life,
+ And beyond all life around,
+ Which, when thy quick brain is still,
+ Nods to thee from the stars?
+ Lo, it says, thou hast found
+ Me, the lonely, lonely one.
+
+ _Charles Weekes_
+
+
+
+
+THINK
+
+
+ Think, the ragged turf-boy urges
+ O'er the dusty road his asses;
+ Think, on sea-shore far the lonely
+ Heron wings along the sand;
+
+ Think, in woodland under oak-boughs
+ Now the streaming sunbeam passes;
+ And bethink thee thou art servant
+ To the same all-moving hand.
+
+ _Charles Weekes_
+
+
+
+
+TE MARTYRUM CANDIDATUS
+
+
+ Ah, see the fair chivalry come, the companions of Christ!
+ White Horsemen, who ride on white horses, the Knights of God!
+ They, for their Lord and their Lover who sacrificed
+ All, save the sweetness of treading, where he first trod!
+
+ These through the darkness of death, the dominion of night,
+ Swept, and they woke in white places at morning tide:
+ They saw with their eyes, and sang for joy of the sight,
+ They saw with their eyes the Eyes of the Crucified.
+
+ Now, whithersoever He goeth, with Him they go:
+ White Horsemen, who ride on white horses, oh fair to see!
+ They ride, where the Rivers of Paradise flash and flow,
+ White Horsemen, with Christ their Captain: for ever He!
+
+ _Lionel Johnson_
+
+
+
+
+THE CHURCH OF A DREAM
+
+
+ Sadly the dead leaves rustle in the whistling wind,
+ Around the weather-worn gray church, low down the vale:
+ The Saints in golden vesture shake before the gale;
+ The glorious windows shake, where still they dwell enshrined;
+ Old Saints, by long dead, shrivelled hands, long since designed:
+ There still, although the world autumnal be, and pale,
+ Still in their golden vesture the old saints prevail;
+ Alone with Christ, desolate else, left by mankind.
+ Only one ancient Priest offers the sacrifice,
+ Murmuring holy Latin immemorial:
+ Swaying with tremulous hands the old censer full of spice,
+ In gray, sweet incense clouds; blue, sweet clouds mystical:
+ To him, in place of men, for he is old, suffice
+ Melancholy remembrances and vesperal.
+
+ _Lionel Johnson_
+
+
+
+
+WAYS OF WAR
+
+
+ A terrible and splendid trust
+ Heartens the host of Inisfail:
+ Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust,
+ A lightning glory of the Gael.
+
+ 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 Inisfail,
+ 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 Inisfail,
+ Shall come the majesty and awe
+ Of martial truth, that must prevail,
+ To lay on all the eternal law.
+
+ _Lionel Johnson_
+
+
+
+
+THE RED WIND
+
+
+ Red Wind from out the East:
+ Red wind of blight and blood!
+ Ah, when wilt thou have ceased
+ Thy bitter, stormy flood?
+
+ Red Wind from over sea,
+ Scourging our holy land!
+ What angel loosened thee
+ Out of his iron hand?
+
+ 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 Inisfail rejoice
+ In her Hesperian peace.
+
+ _Lionel Johnson_
+
+
+
+
+CELTIC SPEECH
+
+
+ Never forgetful silence fall on thee,
+ Nor younger voices overtake thee,
+ Nor echoes from thine ancient hills forsake thee,
+ Old music heard by Mona of the sea:
+ And where with moving melodies there break thee,
+ Pastoral Conway, venerable Dee.
+
+ Like music lives, nor may that music die,
+ Still in the far, fair Gaelic places:
+ The speech, so wistful with its kindly graces,
+ Holy Croagh Patrick knows, and holy Hy:
+ The speech, that wakes the soul in withered faces,
+ And wakes remembrance of great things gone by.
+
+ Like music by the desolate Land's End,
+ Mournful forgetfulness hath broken:
+ No more words kindred to the winds are spoken,
+ Where upon iron cliffs whole seas expend
+ That strength, whereof the unalterable token
+ Remains wild music, even to the world's end.
+
+ _Lionel Johnson_
+
+
+
+
+TO MORFYDD
+
+
+ A voice on the winds,
+ A voice on the waters,
+ Wanders and cries:
+
+ _O! what are the winds?
+ And what are the waters?
+ Mine are your eyes._
+
+ Western the winds are,
+ And western the waters,
+ Where the light lies:
+
+ _O! 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:
+
+ _O! 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._
+
+ _Lionel Johnson_
+
+
+
+
+CAN DOOV DEELISH
+
+
+ Can doov deelish, beside the sea
+ I stand and stretch my hands to thee
+ Across the world.
+ The riderless horses race to shore
+ With thundering hoofs and shuddering, hoar,
+ Blown manes uncurled.
+
+ Can doov deelish, I cry to thee
+ Beyond the world, beneath the sea,
+ Thou being dead.
+ Where hast thou hidden from the beat
+ Of crushing hoofs and tearing feet
+ Thy dear black head?
+
+ God bless the woman, whoever she be,
+ From the tossing waves will recover thee
+ And lashing wind.
+ Who will take thee out of the wind and storm,
+ Dry thy wet face on her bosom warm
+ And lips so kind?
+
+ I not to know. It is hard to pray,
+ But I shall for this woman from day to day,
+ 'Comfort my dead,
+ The sport of the winds and the play of the sea.'
+ I loved thee too well for this thing to be,
+ O dear black head!
+
+ _Dora Sigerson_
+
+
+
+
+ ANONYMOUS
+
+
+
+
+SHULE AROON
+
+ I would I were on yonder hill,
+ 'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,
+ And every tear would turn a mill,
+ _Is go de tu mo vuirnin slan.
+ Shule, shule, shule aroon,
+ Shule go succir, agus shule go cuin,
+ Shule go den durrus agus eligh lum,
+ Is go de tu mo vuirnin slan._
+
+ I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,
+ I'll sell my only spinning-wheel,
+ To buy for my love a sword of steel,
+ _Is go de tu mo vuirnin slan._
+
+ _Chorus._
+
+ I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red,
+ And around the world I'll beg my bread,
+ Until my parents shall wish me dead,
+ _Is go de tu mo vuirnin slan._
+
+ _Chorus._
+
+ I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,
+ I wish I had my heart again,
+ And vainly think I'd not complain,
+ _Is go de tu mo vuirnin slan._
+
+ _Chorus._
+
+ But now my love has gone to France,
+ To try his fortune to advance;
+ If he e'er come back 'tis but a chance,
+ _Is go de tu mo vuirnin slan._
+
+ _Chorus._
+
+
+
+
+THE SHAN VAN VOCHT
+
+ O! the French are on the sea,
+ Says the _shan van vocht_;
+ The French are on the sea,
+ Says the _shan van vocht_;
+ O! the French are in the bay,
+ They'll be here without delay,
+ And the Orange will decay,
+ Says the _shan van vocht_.
+
+ _Chorus._
+
+ O! the French are in the bay,
+ They'll be here by break of day,
+ And the Orange will decay,
+ Says the _shan van vocht_.
+
+ And their camp it shall be where?
+ Says the _shan van vocht_;
+ Their camp it shall be where?
+ Says the _shan van vocht_;
+ On the Currach of Kildare,
+ The boys they will be there,
+ With their pikes in good repair,
+ Says the _shan van vocht_.
+
+ To the Currach of Kildare
+ The boys they will repair,
+ And Lord Edward will be there,
+ Says the _shan van vocht_.
+
+ Then what will the yeomen do?
+ Says the _shan van vocht_;
+ What will the yeomen do?
+ Says the _shan van vocht_;
+ What _should_ the yeomen do
+ But throw off the red and blue,
+ And swear that they'll be true
+ To the _shan van vocht_?
+
+ What _should_ the yeomen do
+ But throw off the red and blue,
+ And swear that they'll be true
+ To the _shan van vocht_?
+
+ And what colour will they wear?
+ Says the _shan van vocht_;
+ What colour will they wear?
+ Says the _shan van vocht_;
+ What colour should be seen
+ Where our fathers' homes have been,
+ But our own immortal Green?
+ Says the _shan van vocht_.
+
+ What colour should be seen
+ Where our fathers' homes have been,
+ But our own immortal Green?
+ Says the _shan van vocht_.
+
+ And will Ireland then be free?
+ Says the _shan van vocht_;
+ Will Ireland then be free?
+ Says the _shan van vocht_;
+ Yes! Ireland SHALL be free,
+ From the centre to the sea;
+ Then hurra! for Liberty!
+ Says the _shan van vocht_.
+
+ Yes! Ireland SHALL be free,
+ From the centre to the sea;
+ Then hurra! for Liberty!
+ Says the _shan van vocht_.
+
+
+
+THE WEARING OF THE GREEN
+
+
+ O Paddy dear, and did you hear the news that's going round?
+ The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground;
+ St. Patrick's day no more we'll keep, his colours can't be seen,
+ For there's a bloody law agin the wearing of the green.
+ I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,
+ And he said, 'How's poor old Ireland, and how does she stand?'
+ She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen,
+ They are hanging men and women for the wearing of the green.
+
+ Then if the colour we must wear be England's cruel red,
+ Let it remind us of the blood that Ireland has shed.
+ You may take the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod,
+ But 'twill take root and flourish there, though under foot
+ 'tis trod.
+ When law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they grow,
+ And when the leaves in summer-time their verdure dare not show,
+ Then I will change the colour that I wear in my caubeen,
+ But 'till that day, please God, I'll stick to wearing of the green.
+
+
+
+
+THE RAKES OF MALLOW
+
+
+ Beauing, belleing, dancing, drinking,
+ Breaking windows, damning, sinking,
+ Ever raking, never thinking,
+ Live the rakes of Mallow.
+
+ Spending faster than it comes,
+ Beating waiters, bailiffs, duns,
+ Bacchus's true-begotten sons,
+ Live the rakes of Mallow.
+
+ One time nought but claret drinking,
+ Then like politicians thinking
+ To raise the sinking funds when sinking,
+ Live the rakes of Mallow.
+
+ When at home with dadda dying,
+ Still for Mallow water crying;
+ But where there's good claret plying,
+ Live the rakes of Mallow.
+
+ Living short, but merry lives;
+ Going where the devil drives;
+ Having sweethearts, but no wives,
+ Live the rakes of Mallow.
+
+ Racking tenants, stewards teasing,
+ Swiftly spending, slowly raising,
+ Wishing to spend all their days in
+ Raking as at Mallow.
+
+ Then to end this raking life
+ They get sober, take a wife,
+ Ever after live in strife,
+ And wish again for Mallow.
+
+
+
+
+JOHNNY, I HARDLY KNEW YE
+
+_Street Ballad_
+
+
+ While going the road to sweet Athy,
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ While going the road to sweet Athy,
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ While going the road to sweet Athy,
+ A stick in my hand and a drop in my eye,
+ A doleful damsel I heard cry:--
+ 'Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
+ With drums and guns and guns and drums
+ The enemy nearly slew ye,
+ My darling dear, you look so queer,
+ Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
+
+ 'Where are your eyes that looked so mild?
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ Where are your eyes that looked so mild?
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ Where are your eyes that looked so mild,
+ When my poor heart you first beguiled?
+ Why did you run from me and the child?
+ Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
+ With drums, etc.
+
+ 'Where are the legs with which you run?
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ Where are the legs with which you run?
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ Where are the legs with which you run,
+ When you went to carry a gun?--
+ Indeed, your dancing days are done!
+ Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye
+ With drums, etc.
+
+ 'It grieved my heart to see you sail,
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ It grieved my heart to see you sail,
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ It grieved my heart to see you sail,
+ Though from my heart you took leg bail,--
+ Like a cod you're doubled up head and tail.
+ Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
+ With drums, etc.
+
+ 'You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg,
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg,
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg,
+ You're an eyeless, noseless, chickenless egg;
+ You'll have to be put in a bowl to beg:
+ Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
+ With drums, etc.
+
+ 'I'm happy for to see you home,
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ I'm happy for to see you home,
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ I'm happy for to see you home,
+ All from the island of Sulloon,
+ So low in flesh, so high in bone,
+ Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
+ With drums, etc.
+
+ 'But sad as it is to see you so,
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ But sad as it is to see you so,
+ Hurroo! hurroo!
+ But sad as it is to see you so,
+ And to think of you now as an object of woe,
+ Your Peggy'll still keep ye on as her beau;
+ Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
+
+ 'With drums and guns and guns and drums,
+ The enemy nearly slew ye,
+ My darling dear, you look so queer,
+ Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!'
+
+
+
+
+KITTY OF COLERAINE
+
+
+ As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping
+ With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine,
+ When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled,
+ And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain.
+ O! what shall I do now! 'Twas looking at you, now;
+ Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again;
+ 'Twas the pride of my dairy! O Barney O'Cleary,
+ You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine!
+
+ I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her,
+ That such a misfortune should give her such pain;
+ A kiss then I gave her, and ere I did leave her,
+ She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again.
+ 'Twas haymaking season--I can't tell the reason--
+ Misfortunes will never come single 'tis plain;
+ For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster
+ The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.
+
+
+
+
+LAMENT OF MORIAN SHEHONE FOR MISS MARY ROURKE
+
+_From an Irish keen_
+
+
+ 'There's darkness in thy dwelling-place, and silence reigns above,
+ And Mary's voice is heard no more, like the soft voice of love.
+ Yes! thou art gone, my Mary dear! and Morian Shehone
+ Is left to sing his song of woe, and wail for thee alone.
+ O! snow-white were thy virtues--the beautiful, the young,
+ The old with pleasure bent to hear the music of thy tongue:
+ The young with rapture gazed on thee, and their hearts in
+ love were bound,
+ For thou wast brighter than the sun that sheds its light around.
+ My soul is dark, O Mary dear! thy sun of beauty's set;
+ The sorrowful are dumb for thee--the grieved their tears forget;
+ And I am left to pour my woe above thy grave alone;
+ For dear wert thou to the fond heart of Morian Shehone.
+ Fast-flowing tears above the grave of the rich man are shed,
+ But they are dried when the cold stone shuts in his narrow bed;
+ Not so with my heart's faithful love--the dark grave cannot hide
+ From Morian's eyes thy form of grace, of loveliness, and pride.
+ Thou didst not fall like the sere leaf, when autumn's chill
+ winds blow--
+ 'Twas a tempest and a storm-blast that has laid my Mary low.
+ Hadst thou not friends that loved thee well? hadst thou not
+ garments rare?
+ Wast thou not happy, Mary? wast thou not young and fair?
+ Then why should the dread spoiler come, my heart's peace to destroy,
+ Or the grim tyrant tear from me my all of earthly joy?
+ O! am I left to pour my woes above thy grave alone?
+ Thou idol of the faithful heart of Morian Shehone!
+ Sweet were thy looks and sweet thy smiles, and kind wast thou
+ to all;
+ The withering scowl of envy on thy fortunes dared not fall;
+ For thee thy friends lament and mourn, and never cease to weep--
+ O! that their lamentations could awake thee from thy sleep!
+ O! that thy peerless form again could meet my loving clasp!
+ O! that the cold damp hand of Death could loose his iron grasp!
+ Yet, when the valley's daughters meet beneath the tall elm tree,
+ And talk of Mary as a dream that never more shall be,
+ Then may thy spirit float around, like music in the air,
+ And pour upon their virgin souls a blessing and a prayer.
+ O! am I left to pour my wail above thy grave alone?'
+ Then sinks in silence the lament of Morian Shehone!
+
+
+
+
+THE GERALDINE'S DAUGHTER
+
+
+ Speak low!--speak low--the banshee is crying;
+ Hark! hark to the echo!--she's dying! 'she's dying.'
+ What shadow flits dark'ning the face of the water?
+ 'Tis the swan of the lake--'tis _the Geraldine's Daughter_.
+
+ Hush, hush! have you heard what the banshee said?
+ O! list to the echo! she's dead! 'she's dead!'
+ No shadow now dims the face of the water;
+ Gone, gone is the wraith of _the Geraldine's Daughter_.
+
+ The step of yon train is heavy and slow,
+ There's wringing of hands, there's breathing of woe;
+ What melody rolls over mountain and water?
+ 'Tis the funeral chant of _the Geraldine's Daughter_.
+
+ The requiem sounds like the plaintive moan
+ Which the wind makes over the sepulchre's stone;
+ 'O, why did she die? our hearts' blood had bought her!
+ O, why did she die, _the Geraldine's Daughter_?'
+ The thistle-beard floats--the wild roses wave
+ With the blast that sweeps over the newly-made grave;
+ The stars dimly twinkle, and hoarse falls the water,
+ While night-birds are wailing _the Geraldine's Daughter_.
+
+
+
+
+BY MEMORY INSPIRED
+
+_Street Ballad_
+
+
+ By Memory inspired,
+ And love of country fired,
+ The deeds of Men I love to dwell upon;
+ And the patriotic glow
+ Of my spirit must bestow
+ A tribute to O'Connell that is gone, boys, gone!
+ Here's a memory to the friends that are gone.
+
+ In October 'Ninety-seven--
+ May his soul find rest in Heaven--
+ William Orr to execution was led on:
+ The jury, drunk, agreed
+ That Irish was his creed;
+ For perjury and threats drove them on, boys, on:
+ Here's the memory of John Mitchell that is gone.
+
+ In 'Ninety-Eight--the month July--
+ The informer's pay was high;
+ When Reynolds gave the gallows brave MacCann;
+ But MacCann was Reynolds' first--
+ One could not allay his thirst;
+ So he brought up Bond and Byrne, that are gone, boys, gone.
+ Here's the memory of the friends that are gone!
+
+ We saw a nation's tears
+ Shed for John and Henry Shears;
+ Betrayed by Judas, Captain Armstrong;
+ We may forgive, but yet
+ We never can forget
+ The poisoning of Maguire that is gone, boys, gone--
+ Our high Star and true Apostle that is gone!
+
+ How did Lord Edward die?
+ Like a man, without a sigh;
+ But he left his handiwork on Major Swan!
+ But Sirr, with steel-clad breast,
+ And coward heart at best,
+ Left us cause to mourn Lord Edward that is gone, boys, gone:
+ Here's the memory of our friends that are gone!
+
+ September, Eighteen-three,
+ Closed this cruel history,
+ When Emmett's blood the scaffold flowed upon
+ O, had their spirits been wise,
+ They might then realize
+ Their freedom--but we drink to Mitchell that is gone, boys, gone:
+ Here's the memory of the friends that are gone!
+
+
+
+
+A FOLK VERSE
+
+
+ When you were an acorn on the tree top,
+ Then was I an eagle cock;
+ Now that you are a withered old block,
+ Still am I an eagle cock.
+
+
+
+
+NOTES
+
+
+Page xxi, lines 21 to 25. A well-known poet of the Fenian times has made
+the curious boast--'Talking of work--since Sunday, two cols. notes, two
+cols. London gossip, and a leader one col., and one col. of verse for
+the _Nation_. For _Catholic Opinion_, two pages of notes and a leader.
+For _Illustrated Magazine_, three poems and a five col. story.'
+
+Page 1. 'The deserted village' is Lissoy, near Ballymahon, and Sir
+Walter Scott tells of a hawthorn there which has been cut up into
+toothpicks by Goldsmith enthusiasts; but the feeling and atmosphere of
+the poem are unmistakably English.
+
+Page 8. Some verses in 'The Epicurean' were put into French by Theophile
+Gautier for the French translation, and back again into English by Mr.
+Robert Bridges. If any Irish reader who thinks Moore a great poet, will
+compare his verses with the results of this double distillation, and
+notice the gradual disappearance of their vague rhythms and loose
+phrases, he will be the less angry with the introduction to this book.
+Moore wrote as follows--
+
+ You, who would try
+ Yon terrible track,
+ To live or to die,
+ But ne'er to turn back.
+
+ You, who aspire
+ To be purified there,
+ By the terror of fire,
+ Of water, and air,--
+
+ If danger, and pain,
+ And death you despise,
+ On--for again
+ Into light you shall rise:
+
+ Rise into light
+ With the secret divine,
+ Now shrouded from sight
+ By a veil of the shrine.
+
+These lines are certainly less amazing than the scrannel piping of his
+usual anapaests; but few will hold them to be 'of their own arduous
+fullness reverent'! Theophile Gautier sets them to his instrument in
+this fashion,
+
+ Vous qui voulez courir
+ La terrible carriere,
+ Il faut vivre ou mourir,
+ Sans regard en arriere:
+
+ Vous qui voulez tenter
+ L'onde, l'air, et la flamme,
+ Terreurs a surmonter
+ Pour epurer votre ame,
+
+ Si, meprisant la mort,
+ Votre foi reste entiere,
+ En avant!--le coeur fort
+ Reverra la lumiere.
+
+ Et lira sur l'autel
+ Le mot du grand mystere,
+ Qu'au profane mortel
+ Derobe un voile austere.
+
+Then comes Mr. Robert Bridges, and lifts them into the rapture and
+precision of poetry--
+
+ O youth whose hope is high,
+ Who dost to truth aspire,
+ Whether thou live or die,
+ O look not back nor tire.
+
+ Thou that art bold to fly
+ Through tempest, flood, and fire,
+ Nor dost not shrink to try
+ Thy heart in torments dire:
+
+ If thou canst Death defy,
+ If thy faith is entire,
+ Press onward, for thine eye
+ Shall see thy heart's desire.
+
+ Beauty and love are nigh,
+ And with their deathless quire--
+ Soon shall thine eager cry
+ Be numbered and expire.
+
+Page 27. 'Dark Rosaleen' is one of the old names of Ireland. Mangan's
+translation is very free; as a rule when he tried to translate
+literally, as in 'The Munster Bards,' all glimmer of inspiration left
+him.
+
+Page 32, line 20. 'This passage is not exactly a blunder, though at
+first it may seem one: the poet supposes the grave itself transferred to
+Ireland, and he naturally includes in the transference the whole of the
+immediate locality about the grave' (Mangan note).
+
+Page 47, line 6. The two Meaths once formed a distinct province.
+
+Page 55, line 7. This poem is an account of Mangan's own life, and is, I
+think, redeemed out of rhetoric by its intensity. The following poem,
+'Siberia,' describes, perhaps, his own life under a symbol.
+
+Page 59. Hy Brasail, or Teer-Nan-Oge, is the island of the blessed, the
+paradise of ancient Ireland. It is still thought to be seen from time to
+time glimmering far off.
+
+Page 61. _Mo Craoibhin Cno_ means my cluster of nuts, and is pronounced
+_Mo Chreevin Kno_.
+
+Page 64. Mr. O'Keefe has sent the writer a Gaelic version of this poem,
+possibly by Walsh himself. A correspondent of his got it from an old
+peasant who had not a word of English. A well-known Gaelic scholar
+pronounces it a translation, and not the original of the present poem.
+_Mairgread ni Chealleadh_ is pronounced _Mairgred nei Kealley_. The
+_Ceanabhan_, pronounced _Kanovan_, is the bog cotton, and the _Monadan_
+is a plant with a red berry found on marshy mountains.
+
+Page 69. _A cuisle geal mo chroidhe_, pronounced _A cushla gal mo chre_,
+means 'bright pulse of my heart.'
+
+Page 74. Sir Samuel Ferguson introduces the poem as follows:--
+
+Several Welsh families, associates in the invasion of Strongbow, settled
+in the West of Ireland. Of these, the principal, whose names have been
+preserved by the Irish antiquarians, were the Walshes, Joyces, Heils (_a
+quibus_ MacHale), Lawlesses, Tolmyns, Lynotts, and Barretts, which last
+draw their pedigree from Walynes, son of Guyndally, the _Ard Maor_, or
+High Steward of the Lordship of Camelot, and had their chief seats in
+the territory of the two Bacs, in the barony of Tirawley, and county of
+Mayo. _Clochan-na-n'all_, i. e. 'The Blind Men's Stepping-stones,' are
+still pointed out on the Duvowen river, about four miles north of
+Crossmolina, in the townland of Garranard; and _Tubber-na-Scorney_, or
+'Scrags Well,' in the opposite townland of Carns, in the same barony.
+For a curious _terrier_ or applotment of the Mac William's revenue, as
+acquired under the circumstances stated in the legend preserved by Mac
+Firbis, see Dr. O'Donovan's highly-learned and interesting 'Genealogies,
+&c. of Hy. Fiachrach,' in the publications of the _Irish Archaeological
+Society_--a great monument of antiquarian and topographical erudition.
+
+Page 90, line 6. 'William Conquer' was William Fitzadelm De Burgh, the
+Conqueror of Connaught.
+
+Page 91, line 4. Sir Samuel Ferguson introduces the poem as follows:--
+
+Aideen, daughter of Angus of Ben-Edar (now the Hill of Howth), died of
+grief for the loss of her husband, Oscar, son of Ossian, who was slain
+at the battle of Gavra (_Gowra_, near Tara in Meath), A.D. 284. Oscar
+was entombed in the rath or earthen fortress that occupied part of the
+field of battle, the rest of the slain being cast in a pit outside.
+Aideen is said to have been buried on Howth, near the mansion of her
+father, and poetical tradition represents the Fenian heroes as present
+at her obsequies. The Cromlech in Howth Park has been supposed to be her
+sepulchre. It stands under the summits from which the poet Atharne is
+said to have launched his invectives against the people of Leinster,
+until, by the blighting effect of his satires, they were compelled to
+make him atonement for the death of his son.
+
+Page 99. 'There was then no man in the host of Ulster that could be
+found who would put the sons of Usnach to death, so loved were they of
+the people and nobles. But in the house of Conor was one called Maine
+Rough Hand, son of the king of Lochlen, and Naesi had slain his father
+and two brothers, and he undertook to be their executioners. So the sons
+of Usnach were then slain, and the men of Ulster, when they beheld their
+death, sent forth their heavy shouts of sorrow and lamentation. Then
+Deirdre fell down beside their bodies wailing and weeping, and she tore
+her hair and garments and bestowed kisses on their lifeless lips and
+bitterly bemoaned them. And a grave was opened for them, and Deirdre,
+standing by it, with her hair dishevelled and shedding tears abundantly,
+chanted their funeral song.' (_Hibernian Nights' Entertainment_.)
+
+Page 102. _Uileacan Dubh O_', pronounced _Uileacaun Doov O_, is a phrase
+of lamentation.
+
+Page 108, line 16. 'Anna Grace' is the heroine of another ballad by
+Ferguson. She also was stolen by the Fairies.
+
+Page 112, line 6. Thomas Davis had an Irish father and a Welsh mother,
+and Emily Bronte an Irish father and a Cornish mother, and there seems
+no reason for including the first and excluding the second. I find,
+perhaps fancifully, an Irish vehemence in 'Remembrance.' Several of the
+Irish poets have been of mixed Irish-Celtic and British-Celtic blood.
+William Blake has been recently claimed as of Irish descent, upon the
+evidence of Dr. Carter Blake; and if, in the course of years, that claim
+becomes generally accepted, he should be included also in Irish
+anthologies.
+
+Page 119, line 13. 'The little Black Rose' is but another form of 'Dark
+Rosaleen,' and has a like significance. 'The Silk of the Kine' is also
+an old name for Ireland.
+
+Page 138. _Maire Bhan Astor_ is pronounced _Mauria vaun a-stor_, and
+means 'Fair Mary, my treasure.'
+
+Page 140. _Mo bhuachaill_, pronounced _mo Vohil_, means 'my boy.'
+
+Page 174. The Goban Saor, the mason Goban, is a familiar personage in
+Irish folk-lore, and the reputed builder of the round towers.
+
+Page 191. _Slainte_, ['your] health.'
+
+Page 207. 'And their step-mother, being jealous of their father's great
+love for them, cast upon the king's children, by sorcery, the shape of
+swans, and bade them go roaming, even till Patrick's mass-bell should
+sound in Erin; but no farther in time than that did her power
+extend.'--_The Fate of the Children of Lir_.
+
+Page 222. The wind was one of the deities of the Pagan Irish. 'The
+murmuring of the Red Wind from the East,' says an old poem, 'is heard in
+its course by the strong as well as the weak; it is the wind that wastes
+the bottom of the trees, and injurious to man is that red wind.'
+
+Page 226. _Can Doov Deelish_ means 'dear black head.'
+
+Page 231. The chorus is pronounced _Shoo-il, shoo-il, shoo-il, a rooin,
+Shoo-il go socair, ogus shoo-il go kiune, Shoo-il go den durrus ogus
+euli liom, Iss go de too, mo vourneen, slaun_, and means--
+
+ 'Move, move, move, O treasure,
+ Move quietly and move gently,
+ Move to the door, and fly with me,
+ And mayest thou go, my darling, safe!'
+
+Page 232. _Shan van vocht_, meaning 'little old woman', is a name for
+Ireland.
+
+Page 235. This is not the most ancient form of the ballad, but it is the
+form into which it was recast by Boucicault, and which has long taken
+the place of all others.
+
+Page 237, line 2. 'Sinking,' violent swearing.
+
+THE END
+
+
+
+
+=IRISH BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR.=
+
+_VERSE._
+
+ THE COUNTESS KATHLEEN.
+ THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE.
+ THE WANDERINGS OF OISIN.
+
+_PROSE._
+
+ THE CELTIC TWILIGHT.
+ JOHN SHERMAN AND DHOYA.
+
+_ANTHOLOGIES._
+
+ IRISH FAIRY AND FOLK TALES.
+ IRISH FAIRY STORIES.
+ STORIES FROM CARLETON.
+ IRISH TALES.
+
+RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, LONDON & BUNGAY.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's A Book of Irish Verse, by William Butler Yeats
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BOOK OF IRISH VERSE ***
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