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 5 
 
 THE BOOK 
 
 OF 
 
 IRISH BALLADS 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 DENIS FLORENCE MAC^-'^RTHY, M.R.I.A 
 
 AUTHOR OP DPwAMA-S AND AUTOS 
 rsuH TH£ SPA>'li)H OF CALBiJiOK, ETC. 
 
 A. NEW EDITION, 
 
 KEVISED AND COBKtCTED, 
 
 WITH ADDITIONAL P0E3IS AND A PEEfACE; 
 
 JAilES DUFFY AXD CO., Limited, 
 15 Wellingto:.- Quay,
 
 ! 
 
 PRDTTED BY 
 
 BDMUND BUR KB & CO., 
 
 D fc 62 GBKAI JiXUAND Slt.iiEX, i)L;BLi;i.
 
 
 I SAMUEL FERGUSON ESQ., LL.D., Q.C., M.E.I.A. 
 
 DEPUTY-KEEPER OF THE PUBLIC RECORDS 
 OF IRELAND, 
 
 TO W-HOM '«THE BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS " WaS 
 ORIGINALLY DKDICATED, 
 
 g THIS LITTLE VOLUME, 
 
 "♦ !.\ A NEW AND REVISED EDITION, IS AGAUT 
 
 UJ 
 
 AVITH EVERY FEELING OF AFFECTION AND 
 ESTEEil, 
 
 liY HIS FRIEND 
 
 ^ THE EDITOR. 
 
 ;iSl^^'i -.
 
 CONTE^^TS. 
 
 Dedication, - • 
 
 Index of Adthors, 
 Advertisement, - 
 Preface, 
 Introduction, 
 
 Names of Ballads. 
 Thomas Davis, His Life : His Deatli 
 
 His Work: 
 The Old Story, 
 The Fairy Well of Lagnanay, 
 The Bay of Dublin, 
 Hy-Brasail, 
 riie Mountain Sprite, 
 The City of Gold, 
 
 Thubber-na-Shie; or, the Fairj' Well, 
 Fairy Revels, 
 fhe Enchanted Island, 
 Tba Fairies' Passage, 
 The Phantom City, 
 Kate of Kenmare, - 
 Arranmore, 
 The Island of Atlantis, 
 The Haunted Spring, 
 Alice and Una, 
 The Fetch, 
 Cusheen Loo, 
 Ihe Burial, 
 The O'NeUl, 
 
 The Wake of the Absent, - 
 Kathleen's Fetch, - 
 The Doom of the Mirror, 
 The Fairy Nurse, - 
 Earl Desmond and the Banshee, 
 The Bridal Wake, - 
 The Caoine 
 
 AutJiors' Samet. 
 
 Samuel Ferguson, LL.D., 
 
 . 
 
 Samuel Ferguson, LT..D., 
 D, F. Mac-Carthy, 
 Gerald Griffin, 
 Ihomas Moore, 
 Anonymons, 
 James Teeling, 
 Anonymous, - 
 Anonymous, 
 Clarence Mangan, 
 Gerald Griffin, - 
 D. F. Mac-Carthy 
 Thomas Moore, 
 Rev. G. Croly, - 
 Samuel Lover, - - 
 
 D. F. Mac-Carthy 
 John Banim, - 
 J. J. Callanan, - 
 Rev. J. Wills, - 
 Anonymous, - 
 Gerald Griffin, - 
 Anonymous, 
 B. Simmons, 
 Edward Walsh, 
 Anonymous. 
 Gerald Griffin, • 
 Crofton Croker
 
 VI 
 
 COXTENTK. 
 
 Names of Ballads. 
 
 A.D. 
 
 Aulh'^!< Na.ncM. 
 
 Pa(j'> 
 
 .he Saga of King Olaf and bis 
 
 
 
 
 Dog, 
 
 1000 
 
 Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee, - 
 
 88 
 
 Lamentation of Mac Liag for 
 
 
 
 
 Kincora, - - - 
 
 1015 
 
 Clarence Mangan, 
 
 93 
 
 The Death of King Magnus Bare- 
 
 
 
 
 foot, - 
 
 1102 
 
 Thomas D'Arcy JM'Gee, - 
 
 95 
 
 The Battle of Knocktuagh, 
 
 U69 
 
 Anonymous (G,), 
 
 98 
 
 A Vision of Connaught in the 
 
 
 
 
 13th Century, 
 
 1224 
 
 Clarence Mangan. 
 
 104 
 
 The Battle of Credran, 
 
 1257 
 
 Edward Walsh, 
 
 106 
 
 The Battle of Ardnocher, - 
 
 1328 
 
 Anonymous, (G.), 
 
 109 
 
 The Battle of Tyrrell's-Pass, - 
 
 1597 
 
 AnonjTuous, (G.), 
 
 111 
 
 The Death of Schomberg, 
 
 1690 
 
 Digby Pilot Starkey, LL D 
 
 ., 118 
 
 The Battle of the Boyne, ' - 
 
 1690 
 
 Colonel Blacker, 
 
 li'l 
 
 The River Boj-ne, 
 
 
 "lliomas D'Arcy M'Gee, - 
 
 l2^ 
 
 The Pillar Towers of Ireland, - 
 
 
 D. F. Mac-Carthy 
 
 12« 
 
 Timoleague, 
 
 - 
 
 Samuel Ferguson, LL.D , 
 
 '28 
 
 Avondhu, 
 
 - 
 
 J. J. Callanan, - 
 
 131 
 
 The Rock of Cashel, 
 
 - 
 
 Rev. Dr. Murray, 
 
 V6-2 
 
 Loch Ina, 
 
 - 
 
 Anonymous. - 
 
 1.3.1 
 
 The Returned Exile, 
 
 - 
 
 B. Simmons, 
 
 13f 
 
 Gleufinishk, 
 
 - 
 
 Joseph O'Leary, 
 
 13S 
 
 The Mountain Fern, 
 
 - 
 
 Anonymous (G.), 
 
 139 
 
 To the Memory of Father Prout. 
 
 - 
 
 D. F. Mac-Carthy, 
 
 141 
 
 Those Shandon Bells, 
 
 . 
 
 D. F. Mac-Carthy, 
 
 143 
 
 Adare, - 
 
 . 
 
 Gerald Griffin, - 
 
 144 
 
 Deirdra's Farewell to Alba, - 
 
 . 
 
 Samuel Ferguson, 
 
 145 
 
 A Sigh for Knockmany, 
 
 
 WUliam Carleton, 
 
 146 
 
 Tipperary 
 
 - 
 
 Anonymous, - 
 
 147 
 
 The Welshmen of Tirawley, 
 
 - 
 
 Samuel Ferguson, LL.D., 
 
 148 
 
 The Outlaw of Loch Lene, - 
 
 - 
 
 J. J. Callanan, - 
 
 159 
 
 Aileen the Huntress, 
 
 - 
 
 Edward Walsh, 
 
 160 
 
 Shane Dymas' Daughter, 
 
 - 
 
 Anonymous, - 
 
 163 
 
 O'Sullivan Beare. - 
 
 - 
 
 Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee, - 
 
 16( 
 
 The Robber of Femey, • 
 
 - 
 
 Anonymous, - 
 
 169 
 
 Waiting for the May, 
 
 > 
 
 D. F. JIac-Carthy, 
 
 171 
 
 The Virgin Mary's Bank, - 
 
 • 
 
 J. J. Callanan, - 
 
 172 
 
 Owen Bawn, - - 
 
 • 
 
 Samuel Ferguson, LL.D., 
 
 174 
 
 Ailleen, - 
 
 . 
 
 J. Banim, 
 
 176 
 
 Eman-ac-Knuck to Eva, 
 
 - 
 
 J. B. Clarke, - 
 
 177 
 
 O'DonneU and the Fair Fitzgerald. - 
 
 Hon. Gavan Duffy, 
 
 17S 
 
 The Coolun, 
 
 - 
 
 Samuel Ferguson, LL.D^ 
 
 181 
 
 Brighidin Ban Mo Store, 
 
 - 
 
 Edward Walsh, 
 
 183 
 
 The LamcnUtion of Felix McCarthy, - 
 
 J J. Callanan, - 
 
 184
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 7fi 
 
 Namet of Balladi. 
 
 
 Authors" yames. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Pastheen Fion, 
 
 . 
 
 Samuel Ferguson. LL.D., 
 
 187 
 
 The Patriot's Bride, 
 
 - 
 
 Hon. Gavan Drffy, 
 
 189 
 
 The Coulin Forbidden, 
 
 . 
 
 Carroll Malone, 
 
 191 
 
 The Irish Emigrant's Mother, 
 
 - 
 
 D. F. Mac-Carthy, 
 
 193 
 
 The Muster of the North, - 
 
 - 
 
 Hon. Gavan r)u£fy, 
 
 197 
 
 Dark Rosaleen, 
 
 . 
 
 Clarence ilargan, 
 
 201 
 
 Drimin Dhu, 
 
 . 
 
 Samuel Ferguson, LL.D., 
 
 :;04 
 
 Shane Bwee, 
 
 - 
 
 Clarence Margan, 
 
 205 
 
 The Voice of Labour, 
 
 • 
 
 Hon. Gavan Duffy, 
 
 2)7 
 
 the "Wexford Insurgent, 
 
 - 
 
 Anon}Tnous, 
 
 209 
 
 Ihe Dream of John M'DonneU, 
 
 - 
 
 Clarence Mangan, 
 
 211 
 
 The Orangeman's Wife, 
 
 - 
 
 Carroll Malone, 
 
 213 
 
 the Irish Chiefs, - 
 
 . 
 
 Hon. Gavan Duffy, 
 
 215 
 
 Darrynane, 
 
 . 
 
 D. F. Jlac-Carthy, 
 
 217 
 
 Lament for the Sons of Usnach, 
 
 . 
 
 Samuel Ferguson, LL.D., 
 
 220 
 
 The Penal Days, - 
 
 - 
 
 — 
 
 222 
 
 Carolan and Bridget Cruise, 
 
 - 
 
 Samuel Lover, - 
 
 22'i 
 
 The Streams, 
 
 > 
 
 Mrs. Do-wnlng, - 
 
 22S 
 
 Irish Mary, 
 
 . 
 
 J. Banim, 
 
 230 
 
 The Last Friends, - 
 
 - 
 
 Frances Browne, 
 
 231 
 
 The Irish Exiles, - 
 
 - 
 
 Marin MacDerraott, 
 
 233 
 
 A Shamrock from the Irish Shore, 
 
 - 
 
 D. F. Mac Carthy, 
 
 236 
 
 Spring Flowers from Ireland, 
 
 - 
 
 D. F. ilac-Carchy, 
 
 239 
 
 ■Wings for Home, - 
 
 - 
 
 D. F. Mac-Carthy, 
 
 242 
 
 Italian Myrtles, - 
 
 - 
 
 D. F. Mac-Carrhy. 
 
 243 
 
 Not Known, 
 
 - 
 
 D. F. Mac-Carthy, 
 
 244 
 
 The Paschal Fire of St Patrick, 
 
 - 
 
 D. F. Mac-Carthy, 
 
 247 
 
 Oyer the Sea, 
 
 - 
 
 D. F, Mac-Carthy, 
 
 24S 
 
 The Convict and the Cross, 
 
 . 
 
 Anonymous (M.), 
 
 2.50 
 
 The Celtic Tonguo, 
 
 - 
 
 Eer. Michael MuHla. 
 
 •253
 
 INDEX OF AUTHOKS 
 
 A ' Page 
 
 Amontnous : 
 
 
 The Old Story (0.), 
 
 29 
 
 The City of Gold, 
 
 39 
 
 Fairv Revels, - 
 
 43 
 
 The Enchanted Island, - 
 
 44 
 
 The OWeill, - 
 
 72 
 
 Kathleen's Fetch, 
 
 77 
 
 Ej.rl Desmond and the 
 
 
 Banshee, 
 
 83 
 
 Battle of Knocktuagh 
 
 
 (G.), 
 
 98 
 
 Battle of Ardnocher(G ), 
 
 109 
 
 The Battle of Tyrrell's- 
 
 
 Pass (G.), - 
 
 111 
 
 Loch Ina, 
 
 135 
 
 The Mountain Fern (G.), 
 
 139 
 
 Tipperan', 
 
 147 
 
 Shane Dymas' Daughter, 
 
 163 
 
 The Robber of Ferney, - 
 
 169 
 
 The Wexford Insurgent, 
 
 209 
 
 Tlie Penal Days (0.), - 
 
 222 
 
 The Convict and the 
 
 
 Cross (M.), - - 
 
 250 
 
 B 
 
 AKnr, Jom?; 
 
 
 The Fetch, 
 
 69 
 
 Aiileen, 
 
 176 
 
 Irish Mary, - 
 
 230 
 
 BtA';KEK, Colokel: 
 
 
 The Battle of the Rjyue, 
 
 121 
 
 Bko-a'ke, Fkancks : 
 
 
 1 "he Last Friends, 
 
 231 
 
 C 
 
 Cal'-ajtan, J. J. 
 
 
 Ctisheen Lo!\ • 
 
 70 
 
 A^cadlii, 
 
 13> 
 
 Callanan, J J. (continued). 
 
 The Outlaw of Loch 
 Lene, - - 159 
 
 The Virgin Mary's Bank, 172 
 
 The Lamentation of Felix 
 M'Carthy, - - 184 
 
 Carleton, William: 
 
 A Sigh for Knockmany, 14^ 
 Clarke, J. B.: 
 
 Eman-ac-Knuck to Era, 177 
 Crokkr, Ckofton: 
 
 The Keen. - - 87 
 
 Crolt, Rev. George : 
 
 The Island of Atlantis, - «3 
 
 DoTVMVG. Mrs.: 
 
 The Streams, - - 208 
 
 DCFFT, THK H(.)N. GAVAX ? 
 
 O'Donnell and the Fair 
 
 Fitzgerald, - - 179 
 
 The Patriot's Bride, - 1S9 
 The Muster of the 
 
 North, - - 197 
 
 The Voice of Labour, - 20' 
 
 The Irish Chiefs, - 21d 
 
 Febousoit, Samdel, LL.D.: 
 'i'be Fair)- Well of Lag 
 
 nanay, - - 82 
 
 ttomas D«irls, His Li'e: 
 
 His Death: His W>rk: 27
 
 niDEX OP AUTHORS. 
 
 rF.RGUSOH. SaMTBL, LLJ). Pcf/S 
 
 (contlDTied). 
 
 Deirdra's F»rewell to 
 
 Alba, - - 145 
 The Welshmen of Tl raw- 
 ley, - - 14? 
 Owen Ba-^ra, - - 174 
 The Coolun, - - 181 
 Paatheen Fion, 187 
 DrimlnDVi - - 204 
 Deirdra s Lament foe* the 
 Sona of UsnacL, - 220 
 
 G 
 
 ORirmt, G5Ral:>: 
 
 Ky-Bra.saiL, - - 37 
 
 The Phantom City, - 48 
 
 The Wake of the Absent, 76 
 
 The Bridal Wake, - 86 
 
 Ad*re, - - 144 
 
 Lover, SAwrEL: 
 
 The Haunted Sprirg, - 53 
 Carolan and Bridget 
 Cruise, - - ^27 
 
 MacCakttit, D. Floebnck, 
 
 II. R.I. A. 
 
 The Bay of Dnhlin, - 35 
 Kate of Kenmare, 49 
 Alice and Una, 55 
 Tee Pillar lowers of Ire- 
 land, - - 126 
 To the Memory of Father 
 
 Prout, • - 141 
 
 Those Shandon Bells, - 143 
 
 Waiting for the May, - 171 
 The Irish Emigrant's 
 
 Mother, - - 193 
 
 Danynane, - - 217 
 A Shamrock from the 
 
 Irish snore, - - 238 
 Spring Flowers from lie- 
 land, - - 2.3y 
 Wings for Home, - - 242 
 Italian My^tle^ - - 243 
 ** No: RnowTi," - - 244 
 The Pi.sclial Fire p? St 
 
 Patrick. - - 247 
 
 Over ;hc Sea. - - 248 
 
 M 
 
 /»a;7« 
 
 I ilACDEBMOTT, MaRTTK: 
 
 f lie Irish Exilea, - Kl 
 
 ! M'Gek, Tbomas D'Arct: 
 
 We Saza of King Olaf 
 
 and his Dog, - 88 
 
 The Death of King Mag- 
 
 nns Barefoot, - 95 
 
 The River Boyne, - 124 
 
 O'Stillivan Beare, - 166 
 
 Malove, Carroll fM'BTTRyET): 
 The Coulin, Forbidden, - 191 
 The Orangeman's Wife, 213 
 Manoak, Clarence: 
 
 The Fairie's Passage, - 45 
 1 Lamentation of Mac 
 
 I Liag for Kincora, - 93 
 
 A Vision of Connanght 
 
 in the 13th Centur>-, l'>4 
 
 Dark Rosaleen, - 201 
 
 Shane Bwee, - - 20.5 
 
 The Dream of John Mac 
 
 Donnell, - - 211 
 
 Moore, Thomas: 
 
 The Jfonntain Sprite, - S3 
 Arranmore. - - 61 
 
 ?.:-JLLi-, Rev. M. : 
 
 The Celtic Tongne, - 253 
 Mcrp-aT, Rev. Dr.: 
 
 The Rock of Ct^hel, • 132 
 
 O'Leart, Josevh : 
 Glenflnishk, - 
 
 un 
 
 Snmoys, B. 
 
 The Doom of the Mirror, 78 
 The Returned Exile, - 136 
 Starkkt, Digb,- Pilot: 
 
 The Death of Schomberg, 118 
 
 TKELrs'o, James: 
 
 Thubber-no-Sh3c, oi jhe 
 Fairj- Well, - - 40 
 
 W 
 
 Walsh, Edttard: 
 
 The Fairy Nurse, - 82 
 
 Battle of Credran, - 106 
 
 Aileen :he Huntress, - 160 
 
 Bri^hilliiBis-m&-3tore 183 
 
 Wills, P.iT. J., 
 
 Tne Bar'xl, - - **
 
 ADVEPJISEMENT 
 
 TO THE FIKST EDITION, 1846. 
 
 "The Book op Irish Ballads," is intended as a sequel to "The 
 i)AiXAX> PoETfiT OF Ieeland." I tTust It will be found not unworthy 
 3f taking its place beside that volume. It has been my most anzioiu 
 trish that this collection of native ballads should be altogether divested 
 sf a sectarian or party complexion, and that every class of -which The 
 Irish Nation Is composed should be poetically represented therein. 
 Should there be in those ballads which admit of the introduction of 
 religious or political sentiment, a preponderance of one kind orer 
 teother, the inequality Is to be attributed to the abundance or scan.- 
 tiess of my materials, -v ^ not to zzy T)r9jadice or bias of my own.
 
 PREFACE 
 
 [1869.] 
 
 •' The Book of Ikish Ballads " was first published ia 
 1846 as a companion volume to "The Ballad Poetrt 
 or Ireland," then recently edited with so much taste and 
 ability by Mr., now the Hon. Gavan Duffy. The near 
 relationsliip of the two books naturally secured for the 
 latter a portion of the unprecedented success which had 
 been at once attained by the former. Like its elder brother, 
 it was received with eager welcome in many successive 
 editions at home, and with it eventually emigrated to the 
 United States, where the original stereotype plates, though 
 now much worn and defaced, are still in their way doing good 
 service. The book, however, had some grave defects, which 
 I have been long anxious to remove, and it was therefore 
 with much pleasure that I acquiesced in the wish conveyed 
 to me by the excellent and patriotic publisher, that I should 
 revise and recast, if I thought proper, this the second 
 collection of ballads in English, by native Irish •';vriters, that 
 had ever been attempted. Xot to speak of minor inac- 
 curacies, principally typographical, which might have been 
 silently emended, *'The Book or Irish Ballads" (as, 
 for shortness sake, they must be called) laboured under the 
 disadvantage of containing several poems which, however 
 axcellent as rythmical tales or emotional lyrics, were either 
 absolutely im-Irish in expression, or, when the sentiment 
 and language were local, the form and treatment were 
 opposed to that rapidity of movement and of metre, without 
 which no poem can be said to be a ballad. As an example 
 of the first class, I may mention the poem with which the 
 volume originally opened. It was the "Fairy Tale" of 
 Parnell. This poem, whicb should, as it were, have struck 
 the key-note of the whole book, was written, as the author 
 LimseH says, ' in the ancient EngbfQi style."— a style that
 
 12 PREFACC. 
 
 has never had a local habitation in this country. Others 
 that had not this obvious defect of language could not, iu 
 any sense of the word, be considered ballads. Of these, 
 perhaps "The Saint's Tenant," by Thomas Furlong, was 
 the most striking example. It is a painful story, and all 
 the more painful that it is true. It is told, too, with a 
 bitterness that may weU be excused in one who had the 
 misfortune of living at a time when such a system of 
 intolerance and injustice was fostered. and enforced by the 
 so-called government of the country ; but it is as Uttle of a 
 ballad as one of the tales of Crabbe. How the same subject 
 could be thrown into a ballad form and vivitied by a ballad 
 Bpirit, was e%ddenced in the volume itself by the poem of 
 •'The Penal Days," written by the author of the exquisite 
 Idyll, "The Old Storj^" which, for the first time correctly 
 printed, I have the pleasure of introducing into the present 
 edition. Why, or on what principle I acted in intro- 
 ducing these and a few other poems, to which a similar 
 objection would apply, I cannot at this moment deter- 
 mine. It was not for want of materials, for most of the 
 ballads by which they are now replaced were then written. 
 Scanty as the supply was some twenty-five years ago, com- 
 pared with the abundant harvests of Irish song thar now 
 await to be gathered into granaries and so preserved, neither 
 Mr. Dufiy nor I had any serious difficulty in making our 
 collections. Our principal merit lay in beginning the work 
 at all In this way I have often found a pleasure in fancy- 
 ing that in our more limited sphere we acted something like 
 Juan de Timoneda and others, who in Valencia, or Se\dlle, 
 during the sixteenth century, commenced those precious 
 little Romancer OS and Caiicioneros, out of which eventually 
 the Romancero General or great Ballad- book of Spain was 
 compiled The materials for such a complete collection in 
 Ireland are every day accumulating, and I have no doubt, 
 that when the fit time arrives, an Irish Duran will be found 
 as competent and enthusiastic as the Spaniard, in arranging 
 and elucidating the rich stories of Irish Ballad Poetry 
 which will then be at his disposal.* To return to my own 
 
 •For the present "The Ballads of Ireland," bo admlrahlj edited by 
 Edward Hayes, (James Duffy, Dublin and London) must be considered 
 yur '* Romancero General" But Irish song has already overflo^^ii even 
 tiie ample limits of that pablicaticn, and ia srer seeking a t**''\ wldfie 
 and A deeper channeL
 
 PEETACT!:. 13 
 
 /ittle volume, having the opportunity of reuioving the 
 defects I have alluded to, I thought I would be failmg in 
 my chief duty as an editor if I failed to do so. 1 have, 
 therefore, rejected every poem that could not fairly be con- 
 sidered from its form or sentiment an Irish Ballad, Having 
 thus referred to the class of poems which I have removed 
 from the present edition, it remains for me only to allude to 
 a few of those that take their place. I have already men- 
 tioned ' ' The Old Story " — a sweet and tender IdyU, the 
 very purity of which alone would make it Irish. Parnell's 
 *' Fairy Tale" gives way, though not exactly in the same 
 position, to " The Fairies' Passage " of Mangan, which will 
 be new to most of my readere, and which, though founded 
 on a German original, is so characteristic of the writer, as 
 weU as "the good people" it describes in such a lively 
 way, that I have no hesitation in claiming it as an Irish 
 ballad, and have had no scruple in altering a few letters to 
 adapt it to this coimtry. As I have said, the first poem 
 in such a collection as this should strike, as it were, the key- 
 note of the volume. This note is now struck, and struck 
 effectively, by the elegy on Thomas Davis, which is not 
 only a most pathetic lamentation on his death, but a power- 
 ful figurative picture of his life and of his work. In the 
 title which I have given it (for in the long prose article 
 where hitherto it has been lost, it has none), I have drawn 
 attention to the three aspects of his career which the poem 
 presents with such feUcity and power. As to its literary 
 merits, it seems to me as if the very spirit of the ancient 
 GaeHc Bards breathes in this fine composition. As a speci- 
 men of Anglo-Irish versification, it is, I think, the most 
 successful and vigorous effort of its author, for, though pub- 
 lished anonymously, there can be no possible doubt as to 
 who he is. The style is as marked and unmistakeable as 
 a ballad by Browning. The Battle of TyrreWn-Pass, by 
 the author of "The Monks of Kilcrea," supplies the 
 place of Grana Uaile and Elizabeth, a picturesque and 
 pleasing poem, but written in the Spenserian stanza, a mea- 
 sure which Scott himself could not bend to the requirements 
 of the ballad. I "have retained the historical baUads from 
 Scandinavian Sagas, by the gifted and iU-fated M'Gee, 
 though ballads by him more directly Irish in language and 
 subject could be found, principally because those I allude 
 to are not in the selectiosia from his ^rjoQuis given by
 
 14 PEEFACE. 
 
 Mr. Hayes in '* The Ballads of Ireland.'* Thave, nowever 
 added his melodious and thoughtful poem of T ice River Boyne 
 ts a sort of moral to the Orange Ballad on The Battle of the 
 Boyne^ by Colonel Blacker, which I have retained. With 
 regard to my own pieces, I have withdrawn two of my 
 most popular and best-known lyrics to nuike room for 
 poems more in accordance with the strict r\iles I have 
 prescribed to myself in preparing this new edition. Two 
 or three smaller pieces are omitted, as po&neaamg no parti- 
 ticular Irish interest ; their place being supplied by poems 
 which, from their subjects, are sure of meeting with a 
 wider and more general sympathy ; aud which are for the 
 first time included in any of our ballad books. The ori- 
 ginal Introduction I have left pretty much as it was. Had 
 I to write it now, "the years that bring the philosophic 
 miud," would doubtless have moderated somewhat of its 
 enthusiasm ; but, as the book will principally be in the 
 hands of the young, I think it better stUl to appeal to 
 those feelings which they possess, and which I myself 
 would be sorry to have outgrown. "With these changes, 
 and with these observations, I take my final leave of 
 " The Book of Irish Ballads." 
 
 D. F. MAC-OAJiTHY. 
 
 74, Uijptr Gardiner -St., Dublin^ 
 UtJune, lS(i9.
 
 rNTRODUCTION. 
 
 It lias been said, by a well-knowu authority, that tlic 
 ballads of a ])eople are more influential than their laws, aud 
 perhaps he might have added, more valuable than their 
 annals. The most comprehensive survey that the eye of 
 genius can take in — the most ponderous folio that ever 
 owed its existence to the united efforts of industry and 
 dulness, must fail in gi^'ing a perfect idea of the character 
 of a people, unless it be based upon the revelations they 
 themselves have made, or the confessions they have uttered. 
 Without these, history is indeed but the " old almanack " 
 that an illustrious countryman ol ours* has called it ; a 
 mere dry dead catalogue of dates and facts, useless either 
 as a picture of the past, or as a lesson for the future. A 
 people of passionate impulses, of throbbing affections, of 
 dauntless heroism, will invariably not only have done things 
 worthy of being recorded, but will also have recorded them. 
 Myriads of human beings cannot be moved about noise- 
 lessly, like an army of shadows. The sullen sound of their 
 advancing will be heard afar off ; and those wh see them 
 not, will listen to the shriU music of their fifes and the 
 merry echoes of their bugles. The great heavings of a 
 people's heart, and, from time to time, the necessary purify- 
 mg of the social atmosphere, will make themselves felt and 
 heard and seen, so that all men may take cognizance there- 
 of—as the waves of the ocean dash against each other 
 with a war-cry, or as the electric spirit proclaimeth its salu- 
 tary mission in a voice of thunder. 
 
 In almost all countries the Ballad has been the instru- 
 ment by which the triumphs, the joys, or the sorrows of a 
 pejple have been proclaimed. 
 
 Its ua^ have been numerous ; its capabilities are bound* 
 
 * ZxiiU Piunkstt
 
 16 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Long ago, in the fresh youth and cathusiasm of tho 
 world, how harmonious were its modulations — its reve- 
 lations how divine ! Then it sang of gods and heroes, and 
 the milk-expanded warm breasts of the beneficent mother ; 
 and the gift of Ceres, and the oUve of Minerva, and the 
 purple clusters of the son of Semele. Then it was, that 
 "standing on a pleasant lea," men could 
 
 " Have glimpses that would make them less forlorn. 
 Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn."* 
 
 Then it was that the earth was truly peopled. Neither was 
 the air void, nor were the waters desolate. Shapes of 
 beauty — 
 
 •* Schon^ Wesen aus dem Ffibellaod "t— 
 
 wandered familiarly with men ; and nymphs and shep^ 
 herds, and fauns and hamadryads, danced together beneath 
 the eye of Jove himself in the shadow of blue Olympus, or 
 beside the Venus -bearing foam of the sparkling isle- 
 surrounding Hellespont. Had not poetry preserved this 
 memory of the golden age — had not Hesiod and Homer 
 built their beautiful and majestic structures on the original 
 ballads that were probably floating among the peojjle, — 
 how dark, and gloomy, and indistinct would be our ideas 
 of the old -world ; What visions that have been delight- 
 ing the eye of man these three thousand years would have 
 been lost ; Of what examples of devotion, of heroism, of 
 love of country, would the sincere and zealous of all nations 
 have been deprived. 
 
 Poetry, after aU, is the only indestructible gift that 
 genius can bequeath to the world. The shield of Achilles, 
 though the work of a god, has disappeared from the world, 
 but the bounding words in which it has been described are 
 immortal. This very shield itself as Schiller remarks, is 
 the type of the poet's mind, and of aJl true poetrj'. J On 
 
 • Wordsworth. 
 
 I " Lovely beings from the Fable land."— Schuxbb. 
 
 J " A« the god and the genius, whose birth was of Jcve, 
 In one type all creation reveal'd, 
 When the ocean, the earth, and the star realm above, 
 
 Lay comprcfs'd in the orb of a shield, — 
 So the poet, a shape and a type of the All, 
 Troni a sound, that is mute in a moment, can callt" 
 IVruoi "TUa Four Ages of the World."— Bulwer'a Traualatico.]
 
 INTEODtJCTIOIT. 17 
 
 it, we are told, were figured, not only representations of 
 cities, implements of husbandry, com-tields and vineyards, 
 sheep and oxen, and other things adapted to particular lo- 
 calities, and which may vary under different circumstances, 
 — but the great fabricator had also introduced representa- 
 tions of the imchangeable wonders of creation, which are 
 the same yesterday, to-day, and to-morrow, — 
 
 "For in it he represented earth— in it the sea and sky- 
 In it the never-wearied sun — the moon, exactly round ; 
 Vnd all those stars with which the brows of ample heaven are crown'd!" • 
 
 Thus a genuine poem must be tnie not only to the charac- 
 ter of the age in which it is written, but in accordance 
 with the principles of nature and of truth, which are un- 
 changeable. 
 
 The Latins, a people very different from the Greeks, 
 added but little to the beauty of the mythology they bor- 
 rowed, or to the literature they imitated. AA'ith the ex- 
 ception of Egeria, — * 'a beautiful thought, and softly bodied 
 forth," — there are none of their native divinities that in- 
 terest us much. Their early history, so full of stem, 
 Unbending justice, self-denial, and heroism, is considerer? 
 either allegorical or wholly fabulous, and founded upon the 
 memory of rude ballads, which had ceased to exist even at 
 the time when their earliest annals were written, t In their 
 latter years, the lyrics of Horace redeemed the character 
 of their literature from the reproach of servile imitation ; 
 and some of these, and a few of the shorter tales of Ovid, 
 are the only poems they have left us partaking, however 
 remotely, of the character of Ballad Poetry, but much 
 closer to the modern than to the ancient Homeric standard. 
 After this there is no trace of the ballad spirit in Latin 
 literature. Its writers became more servile and lass vigor- 
 ous in their imitation, until, in the reign of Theodosius, the 
 race of old Koman poets became extinct in the person of 
 Claudian. 
 
 While this lamentable but natural decline of intellectual 
 vigour, consequent upon the effeminacy and excesses of 
 Imperial Home, was developing itself along the sunny 
 shores of the Mediterranean, a new order of thingt waa 
 
 • Iliad, Book xriii., Chapman's TranBlation. 
 
 t It ifl almost superfluous to remind the reader that Macaulay'a " Lays 
 SMi Legend* gf Ancient Bftme " are founded on this supjiosition. 
 
 B
 
 maturing amid the mountains and forests of northern and 
 westera Europe. The human mind— which, in these re- 
 mote regions, like their wintry seas, had been perpetually 
 frozen — now began to melt and dissolve into brilliancy and 
 activity. Those who lived upon the stormy shores of tb" 
 ocean followed the Sea Kings in their adventurous expedi- 
 tions among the islands. Those who lived amid the dark 
 forests of the interior, marched in search of brighter skiea 
 and more fnutful plains, towards the genial regions of the 
 south. And it was in these expeditions, particularly the 
 former, that the Bards of the Sea Kings gave the ballad 
 its modem shape and character. The sagas composed by 
 them, to commemorate the triumj)hs or to bewail thedisa^- 
 teR of their chiefs in ''Icy leme"— the Scottish islands 
 and Iceland — strongly resemble, both in structure and de- 
 sign, the more ^ngorous of the modem ballads. A new 
 race of divinities and a new race of heroes superseded the 
 old classical models. Thor and Wodin succeeded Mare and 
 the son of Priam, and. like the songs in which they were 
 commemorated, what they lost in interest and beauty was 
 comf»ensated for by vigor and durability. The black and 
 chilly waters of the northern seas were not a fitting birth- 
 place for the Aphrodisian Venus ; instead of the queen of 
 love and gladness, the mighty kraken and the winged dragon 
 were their children, who in many a stormy ballad have 
 played their fearful and important parts ever since. 
 
 Again, in the sunny South, but not in exhausted Italy 
 did the harmony of song arise. Spain, that magnificent 
 conntry, combining together the grandeur and the beauty 
 of the North and South — the bold mountains and cavemed 
 shores of Xorway, and the enchantino graces of Parthe- 
 nope — had already, even in the most palmy days of Latin 
 literature, contributed some of the most boasted names to 
 the catalogue of Eoman writers. Lucan, who sang of 
 Pharsaiia ; the two Senecas, the younger of whom is the 
 only Roman tragic writer who has come down to us ; and 
 Marrial, whose wit and licentiousness at once enlivened and 
 disgraced the reign of Domitian, were natives of Spain ; 
 the three former of C-orduba. and the latter of Aragon. 
 Bat it was in the eighth century that the splendour and 
 interest of Spanish history oommence. In that century 
 the Saracens conquered Spain, and introduced into it, 
 along with a knowledge of I'^ttcrs and the sciences superior
 
 INTRODtrCTIOW. 19 
 
 to what was possessed by any other people th«u vn Kurope, 
 all the splendour and imagination of Oriental poetry. 
 About the end of the twelfth century the celebrated poem 
 of "TheCid" was written, commemorating the valorous 
 exploits and adventures of the hero, Eodrigo de Bivar. 
 Since that period Spain has been pre-eminently rich ia 
 ballad poetry. Its grand, sonorous language, so musical 
 as to have earned the epithet of " the poetry of speech," 
 has been employed to good purpose ; and nobler ballads 
 than the Spanish, in ])raise of heroism, of virtue, of piety, 
 and of love, the world has never seen. The capabilities of 
 the ballad have there been put to the severest test. Those 
 of the heroic class, which detail the struggles of the old 
 Spaniards with the Goth or with the Saracen, like Chevy 
 Chase, ' ' stir the heart as if with a trumpet ;" while the sigh^ 
 ing of a summer breeze in Andalusia is not more soft and 
 gentle than the harmony of the passionate ballads that to 
 this day are sung beneath the curtained balconies of moon- 
 lit Sevilla. Gracilasso, Lope', Calderon, Cervantes — great 
 names are these, of which Spain and human nature may 
 be proud. 
 
 The Ballad Poetry of England and Scotland has been 
 very copious and very excellent for several centuries ; and 
 the ballads of each contrast not so much in merit as in 
 character. In the song, which may be called the very 
 essence and spirit of the ballad, or the musical utterance 
 of feeling and passion in the very proxysm of their presence, 
 Scotland has immeasurably the superiority. In that Py. 
 thian moment, when the mind is in its state of utmost 
 activity, and the dominancy of passion is supreme, the 
 concentrated expression of both is song; and its appear- 
 ance and the frequency of its return depend principally 
 upon the character and constitution of each people. Tho 
 ballad, on the contrary, requires not the same degree of 
 excitement — narrative, which is almost an essential ])()rtion 
 of it, being incompatible with that mental and sensuous 
 excitation which gives birth to the song, and which is but 
 momentary in its abiding. And thus the different succes? 
 of the two, in the different nations of Europe, is as marked 
 and distinct as the races of which they are composed. In 
 Italy and France, in Scotland and Ireland — all nations 
 Bprungirom the one family — the song has been cultivated 
 mih. tiie greatoat suooess ; whereas in the northern nations,
 
 20 INTROBTJCTION. 
 
 in Germany and in England, the natural expression of the 
 poetical instincts of the peo})lehas been through the calmer 
 and more lengthened channel of the ballad. Spain has suc- 
 ceeded better in both, perhaps, than any otner nation — 
 the dominion of the Goths leaving after it much of the 
 solemnity of thought and feeling of the Germanic races, 
 while the lyric cai)abilities of the language are such as to 
 render the expression of high-wrought sentiment easy and 
 obvious. In England the ballads are generally of a quiet 
 and pastoral beauty — quite in character with the rural and 
 sylvan charms of its scenery. The Robin Hood ballads, 
 which so delight us in boyhood, and which give us visions 
 of ' ' Merry Sherwood " — 
 
 In snmnier time, ■when leaves grow green, 
 And birds sing on eyerj' tree, 
 
 that we never forget, and which are only replaced by the 
 still more exquisite glimpses that Shakspeare opens to ua 
 of The Forest of Ardennes — all partake of this character. 
 In them there is many a merry trick played, and many a 
 mad adventure — 
 
 <' Of brave little John, 
 
 Of Friar Tuck and Will Scarlet, 
 
 Loxley, and Maid Marion." 
 
 Bold Robin and Allin-a-Dale, or the "Jolly Tanner" 
 Arthur-a-Blaud, have many a good contest with stout 
 quarter-staffs— right merry to read and well described; 
 but the writers scarcely ever forget, even for a few stanzas, 
 the beauty of the summer woods where their heroes dwell, 
 and satisfy their own hearts, and will delight their readers 
 for all time, by this frequent recurrence to the unchangeable 
 and everlasting delights of nature. Indeed, this continued 
 reference to the beauty of the external world, which we 
 meet in the old English poets, particularly in Chaucer 
 (whose pictures of many a "May Mom-lng" are still so 
 fresh after many years), may be the reason that they are 
 read even now, notwithstanding the difficulties of an anti- 
 quated and obsolete dialect. 
 
 The Scotch ballads are less numerous and less varied 
 than the English j but in point of perfection— in the par- 
 ticular class, at least, of aentiraent and the aifectiuud— ;iisy
 
 INTEODTJCnON. 21 
 
 are not only superior to these, but, as I humbly conceive, to 
 any ballads that have ever been written. Their simplicity 
 never degenerates into bald commonplace, nor their homeli- 
 ness into vulgarity ; and they are as far removed from 
 maudlin sentimentality in their passionate heartiness, as 
 from frigid conceits and pettiness in their illustrations. 
 The very hearts of the Scottish people bound in their 
 ballads ; we can listen to the ever-varying changes of its 
 pulsation ; now heavy and slow as the tides of Loch Lomond, 
 now rapid and bounding as the billows of the Clyde. Tha 
 "bonny blue e'en" of the lassie glance through her 
 waving hair like a stream through the overhanging heather; 
 and her arch reply or her merry laugh rings on our ears like 
 the song of the mavis or the throstle. The ballads of a few of 
 her humblest children have rendered Scotland dear to the 
 hearts of all whose affections are worth possessing ; they 
 have couverted (to the mind at least) her desolate heaths and 
 barren mountains, into smiling gardens and olive-bearing 
 hills ; and have constructed amongst mists and storms, and 
 the howling of the lashed Northern Ocean, an Arcadia 
 dearer than that of yore, where * ' the shepherd's boy piped 
 as though he should never be old."* Although my space 
 here is veiy limited, I cannot refrain from presenting to 
 some of my readers, perhaps for the first time, a specimen of 
 these ballads, taken almost at random, in support of what 
 1 have asserted, and as a model (in connection with those 
 written in a kindred spirit by some of our own countrymen 
 — GriflBn, Callanan, Davis, and Mr. Ferguson) of this most 
 exquisite department of Ballad Poetry ; — 
 
 MARY OF CASTLE-CARY.f 
 
 Saw ye ray wee thing, saw ye my ain thing, 
 
 Saw ye my trus-iove down on yon lea- 
 Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming, 
 
 Sought she the bumie where flowers the haw-trcj? 
 Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-white, 
 
 Dark is the blue of her soft rolling e'e ; 
 Bed, red are her ripe lips, and sweeter than rosea, 
 
 \Vhere could my wee thing wander f rae me ? 
 
 1 saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thinjj, 
 Nor saw I your true-love down by yon lea ; 
 
 • Sir Philip Sidney. 
 t Written by Hector MacNeUl; born 1746, died 1818.
 
 3^2 INTRODUCTIOS*. 
 
 But I met my bonnio thing late In the gloaming, 
 Down by the burnie where flowers the haw-tre« ; 
 
 Mer hair it was lint-white, ker skin it was milk-wJl/tt;, 
 Dark was the blue of her soft rolling e'e ; 
 
 ^ed, red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses, 
 Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me. 
 
 It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain thing, 
 
 It was nae my true-love ye met by the tree ; 
 Proud is her leul heart, and modest her natiire, 
 
 She never loved ony till ance she loved me, 
 Her name it was Mary— she's frae Castle-Cary, 
 
 Aft has she sat when a bairn on my knee ; 
 Fair as your face is, were't fifty times fairer, 
 
 Young bragger, she ne'er wad gie kisses to thee. 
 
 It was then your Mary ; she's frae Castle-Cary, 
 
 It was then your true-love I met by the tree ; 
 Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature, 
 
 Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me. 
 Sair gloomed his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew, 
 
 Wild Hashed the fire frae his red rolling e'e ; 
 Ye'se rue sair this morning your boasts and your bcoruiutf 
 
 Defend ye, fause traitor, f u' loudly ye lee. 
 
 Away ■wi' beguiling, cried the youth, smiling — 
 
 Off went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee, 
 The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing, 
 
 Fair stood the loved maid Mi' the dark rolling e'e 
 Is it ray wee thing, is it my ain thing, 
 
 Is it my true-love here that I see ? 
 Jamie, forgi'e me, your heart's constant to me, 
 
 I'll never mair wander, dear- laddie, frae thee.* 
 
 The most modern, and perhai)s the most important claw? 
 of ballads, remains to be alluded to— namely, the German. 
 The sudden awakening, the rapid maturity, the enduring 
 vitality, and the acknowledged supremacy of German 
 literature, are facts as wonderful as they are consoHng. 
 Little better than a century ago, with the exception of a 
 few theological and historical writers, the Germans were 
 more destitute of a native literattire, and were more depen- 
 dant on other countries, particularly i'rance, for intellectual 
 supphes, than we have ever been ; and now their worka 
 crowd the book markets of the w^orld. Little more than a 
 
 [• Bal'iads turning on a similar deception are to be found In the Ramaic 
 Spanish, Portuguese, Breton, German, and Italian language. The Spanish 
 Ballad, Caballero d* lejat tierrat, may be referred to. See Dura..'; 
 BA/mancero General, 1, p. 175 Ed.J
 
 INTEODITCTION. 23 
 
 century ago a German prince, Frederick, the Great, a phi* 
 losopher and a patron of philosophers, pronounced hia 
 native language but fit for horses, — little dreaming of tha 
 angels and angelic women — of the Katherines, the Tecklas, 
 and the Undines — from whose ins|)ired lips that rough, 
 "aervous language would flow so hamioniously that all men 
 would listen to the melody thereof. In no intellectual 
 field have the Germans of the past and present centuries 
 been defeated. Their drama is superior to any other that 
 has appeared in Europe during the same period — for I pre- 
 sume there can be no comparison between the Shaksperiau 
 power of Schiller and the soft graces of Metastasio, or even 
 the more maculine classicalities of Alfieri. Their histories are 
 the mines in which even the most industrious writers search 
 for the precious ore of trutL Their philosophy has beeu 
 either a beacon or an igyiis fatuus to the inquiring intellects 
 of Europe ; while some of their artists have come off victo- 
 rious even in the Eternal Metropolis of art itself. In every 
 department of literature, German intellect has been renew- 
 ing the almost exhausted fountains of the world. Like the 
 Egyptian river, the great German Rhine has been over- 
 flovring the earth, and fruits, and flowers, and wa\nng corn 
 are springing luxuriantly in all lands. In the ballad the 
 Germans have pre-eminently succeeded. It is with them 
 somewhat of a short epic, in which the romance and chivalry 
 of the middle ages find a suitable vehicle for their illustra- 
 tion. They seldom treat of humble life and simple passion, 
 like the Scotch ; or indi\'idual heroism, like the Spanish. 
 They are more historical and legendary than directly sen- 
 timental or heroic ; but through all runs a vein of philo- 
 sophical abstraction and thoughtful melancholy, which 
 in:parts to them a peculiar and enduring charm. There is 
 scarcely an historical event of any importance — a legend 
 possessing the slightest interest — a superstition not desti- 
 tute of grace, sublimity, or terror — a river or a mountain 
 that has anything to recommend it, that has not found an 
 illustrator, an admirer, and a laureate among the German 
 Balladists. And the consequence is, that not only is the 
 German intellect honoured and respected, but the German 
 land is also strengthened and enriched. The separate 
 though confederated nations of Germany have been bound 
 together aa one people, by the universal language of theu
 
 24 IWTPODTJCTIOH. 
 
 poetry ;* and year after year pilgrims and students from 
 strange lands wander thither, not attracted so much by the 
 
 gloom of her woody mountains and the magic windings of 
 er Rhine, as because {thanks to poetry) through the 
 former the wild Jager still hunts and the -wdtches dance on 
 Walpargisf nights, and because the latter has been made 
 the crystal barrier of a free people, and the emblem, in its 
 depth, its strength, and its beauty, of the German character 
 and intellect. 
 
 It only remains for me to advert to what has been done, 
 and what I conceive may be done, in Ireland with the 
 ballad. If we recollect the constant state of warfare — the 
 revolution upon revolution— the political struggles, and the 
 generally unsettled condition of the people ever since the 
 invasion, it is matter of surprise that there could be found 
 any persons with hearts or intellects sufficiently strong to 
 escajje from the realities around them into the abE;traction3 
 and idealities of poetry ; but that there were many who did 
 so, and with a power and beauty for which they get little 
 credit, must be evident from Mr. Duffy's " Ballad Poetry," 
 and, I trust, also from this volume. 1 speak now, of 
 course, of our native Gaelic writers. To us there can 
 scarcely be anything more interesting or more valuable 
 than these snatches and fragments of old songs and ballads, 
 which are chapters of a nation's autobiography. Without 
 these how difficult would it be for the best disposed and 
 the most patriotic amongst us to free our minds from th« 
 false impressions which the study (superficial as it was) oi 
 the history of our country, as told by those who were not 
 her children or her friends, had made upon us. Instead 
 of the rude savage kerns that anti-Irish historians represent 
 our forefathers to have been, for ever hovering with 
 murderous intent roimd the fortresses of the Pale, we see 
 them, in their own ballads, away in their green valleys 
 and inaccesiiible mountains, as fathers, as brothers, ag 
 
 • ** Where'er resounds the German tongue — 
 Where ^"Jerman hymns to God are sung — 
 There, gallant brother, take thy st-and! 
 That is the German's Fatherland ;" 
 
 [ilaiigan's " Anthologia Germanica." vol i\., p. 180.] 
 ^ Walporglc u the uAine of « «ai>&^ Ls whom the 1st of May is dedl- 
 catett-.
 
 iNrEouuciiON. 25 
 
 lovers, and as husbands, leading the old patriarchal life 
 with their wives and children, while the air is musical with 
 the melody of their harps and the lowing of their cattle 
 we see them hunting the red deer over the brown moun- 
 tains, or spearing the salmon in the pleasant rivers, — or, 
 borne on their swift horses, descending in many a gallant 
 foray on the startled intruders of the Pale. What is of 
 more importance, we look into the hearts and minds of 
 these people — we see what they love with such passion — 
 what they hate with such intensity — what they revere with 
 such sacred tidelity. We tind they had love— they had 
 loyalty — they had religion — they had constancy — they had 
 an undying devotion for the ' ' green hills of holy Ireland, " 
 and as such they are entitled to our resoect, our aflfections, 
 and our imitation. The best ballads tiey have left us are 
 those of the affections, and they are, according to Mr. 
 Ferguson, of the utmost possible intensity of passion com- 
 patible with the most perfect purity. Even in their 
 political ballads, where a thin disguise was necessary, the 
 allegory has been so perfect, and the wail of sorrow, or the 
 yearning of affection, "4o exquisitely imitated (as in the 
 instance of the Ro'mn Dhu, or "Dark Rosaleen"), as to 
 make so excellent a critic and so true a poet as Mr. Fer- 
 guson doubt if they be in reality political ballads at all. 
 
 Upon the subject of our Anglo-Irish Ballads, I have 
 nothing to add to what Mr. Duffy has so ably and so tmly 
 written in his Introduction to the "Ballad Poetry o* 
 Ireland." That there is a distinct character and a j^culiar 
 charm in the best ballads of this class, which the highest 
 genius, unaccompanied by thorough Irish feeling, and a 
 thorough Irish education, would fail to impart to them 
 must be evident to everyone who has read that volume 
 To those among us, and to the generations who are yet to 
 be among us, whose mother tongue is, and of necessity 
 must be, the English and not the Irish, the establishing of 
 this fact is of the utmost importance, and of the greatest 
 consolation — that we can be thoroughly Irish in our feelings 
 without ceasing to be English in our speech ; that we can 
 be faithful to the land of our birth, without being ungrate- 
 ful to that literature which has been " the nursing mother 
 of our minds;" that we can develop the intellectual re- 
 5;ource3 of our country, and establish for ourselves a distinct 
 and separate existence in the world of letters, -without
 
 SJ6 rNTKODUCTlOjs. 
 
 depriving ourselves of the advantages of the widely-diffused 
 and genius-consecrated language of England, are facts that 
 I conceive cannot be too widely disseminated. This 
 peculiar character of our poetry is, however, not easily 
 imparted. An Irish word or an Irish phrase, even appo- 
 sitely introduced, will not be sufficient ; it must pervade 
 the entire poem, and must be seen and felt in the con- 
 struction, the sentiment, and the expression. Our writers 
 would do well to consider the advantages, even in point of 
 success and popularity, which would be likely to attend the 
 working of this peculiar vein of Anglo-Irish literature. If 
 they write, as they are too much in the habit of doing, in 
 the weak, worn-out style of the majority of contemporary 
 English authors, they will infallibly be lost in the crowd 
 of easy writers and smooth versifiers, whose name is legion, 
 on the other side of the channel; whereas, if they endea- 
 vour to be racy of their native soil, use their native idiom, 
 illustrate the character of their country, treasure her 
 legends, eternalize her traditions, people her scenery, and 
 ennoble her s'^perstitions, the very novelty wiU attract 
 attention and secure success. 
 
 ISi^
 
 BOOK OF IPJSir BiLLADS. 
 
 THO.MAS DAVIS. 
 
 Hia WOkK. 
 
 BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, IL-D., Q.C., M.R.I.A. 
 
 I walked through Ballindeny in the S^jring-time, 
 
 When the bud was on the tree ; 
 And I said, in every fresh-ploughed field beholding 
 
 The sowero striding free, 
 Scattering broad ca.st 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 
 stiiving 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, 
 
 And I heard the eagle call. 
 With a clangorous cry of wrath and lamentation 
 
 That filled the wide mountain hall.
 
 28 BOOK OP IKISH BALLADb. 
 
 O'er tlie bare deserted place of Ms plundered eyrie ; 
 
 And I said, as he screamed and soared, 
 So callest tliou, thou A\aathful-soaring Thomas Davi«^j 
 
 For a nation's rights restored 1 
 
 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 viill be done " — 
 But a hundred such as I Avill never comfort Erin 
 
 For the loss of the noble son ! 
 
 Voung 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 thyseK art but a seed for hopeful 
 planting 
 
 Against the resurrection morn ] 
 
 Young salmon of the flood-tide of freedoim 
 
 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, 
 
 Wliere troubled waters never come ! 
 
 But I grieve not, eagle ot the empty eyrie, 
 
 That thy wrathful cry is still ; 
 And that the songs alone of peaceful moumers 
 
 Are heard to-day on Erin's hill ;
 
 BOOK OF IKISH BALLADS. 29 
 
 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. 
 Oh. many a tuneful tongue that thou mad'st vocal 
 
 Would lie cold and silent then ; 
 And songless long once more, should often- widowed 
 Erin 
 
 Mourn the loss of her brave young men. 
 
 Oh, 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, seK-advancing, 
 
 In union or in severance, free and strong — 
 And if God grant this, then, under God, to Thoma-r' 
 Davis, 
 
 Let the greater praise belong. 
 
 THE OLD STORY. 
 
 *' Old as the universe, yet not outworn." — The IfavC 
 
 He came across the meadow-pass. 
 
 That surnmer-eve of eves, 
 The sunlight streamed along the grass, 
 
 And glanced amid the leaves ; 
 And from the shrubbery below, 
 
 And from the garden trees, 
 He heard the thrushes' music flow, 
 
 And humming of the bees ; 
 The garden-gate was swung apart — 
 
 The space was brief between ; 
 But there, for throbbing of his heait. 
 
 He paused perforce to lean.
 
 30 BOOK OP rRISH BALLADS. 
 
 Ho leaned upon the garden-gate ; 
 
 He looked, and scarce lie breathed; 
 Within the little porch she sate, 
 
 With woodbine overwreathed ; 
 Her eyes upon her work were bent, 
 
 Unconscious who was nigh ; 
 But oft the needle slowly went, 
 
 And oft did idle lie ; 
 And ever to her lips arose 
 
 Sweet fragments faintly sung, 
 But ever, ere the notes could close, 
 
 She hushed them on her tongue. 
 
 Her fancies as they come and go. 
 
 Her pure face speaks the while, 
 For now it is a flitting glow, 
 
 And now a breaking smile ; 
 And now it is a graver shade 
 
 When holier thoughts are there — 
 An Angel's pinion might be stayed 
 
 To see a sight so fair ; 
 But still they hid her looks of light, 
 
 Those downcast eyelids pale — 
 Two lovely clouds so silken white. 
 
 Two lovelier stars that veiL 
 
 The sun at length his burning edge 
 
 Had rested on the hill, 
 And save one thrush from out the liedga, 
 
 Both bower and grove were still. 
 The sun had almost bade farewell ; 
 
 But one reluctant ray 
 Still loved within that porch to dwell, 
 
 As charmed there to stay — 
 It stole aslant the pear-tree bongh, 
 
 And through the woodbine fringe, 
 And kissed the maiden's neck and brow, 
 
 And bathed her in its tinge. 
 
 Oh ! beauty of my heart, he said. 
 Oh I darling, darling mine.
 
 BOOK 0? lElSH SALLIDS. 31 
 
 Was ever light of evening shed 
 
 On loveliness like thine ] _ 
 Why should I ever leave this spot, 
 
 But gaze until I die ] 
 A moment from that bursting thought 
 
 She felt his footstep nigh. 
 One sudden, lifted glance — but one, 
 
 A tremor and a start, 
 So gently was their greeting done 
 
 That who would guess their heart 
 
 Long, long the sun had sunken doAvn, 
 
 And all his golden trail 
 Had died away to lines of broT^Ti, 
 
 In duskier hues that fail. 
 The grasshopper was chirping shrill — 
 
 No other li%dng sound 
 Accompanied the tiny rill 
 
 That gurgled under ground — 
 Xo other living sound, unless 
 
 Some spirit bent to hear 
 Low words of human tenderness, 
 
 And mingling whispers near. 
 
 The stars, like pallid gems at first, 
 
 Deep in the liquid sky, 
 Now forth upon the darkness burst. 
 
 Sole kings and lights on high ; 
 In splendour, myriad-fold, supreme—^ 
 
 No rival moonlight strove. 
 Nor lovelier e'er was Hesper's beam, 
 
 Nor more majestic Jove. 
 But what if hearts there beat that night 
 
 That recked not of the skies, 
 Or only felt their imaged light 
 
 In one another's eyes. 
 
 And if two worlds of hidden thought 
 And fostered passion met.
 
 32 BOOK OP IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 WMcli, passing human language, sought 
 
 And found an utterance yet ; 
 And if they trembled like to flowers 
 
 That droop across a stream, 
 The while the silent starry hours 
 
 Glide o'er them like a dream ; 
 And if, when came the parting time, 
 
 They faltered still and clung ; 
 WJiat is it all 1 — an ancient rhyme 
 
 Ten thousand times besung — 
 That part of Paradise which man 
 
 Without the portal knows — 
 Which' hath been since the world began, 
 
 And shall be till its close. 
 
 0- 
 
 1846 
 
 THE FAIRY WELL OF LAGNANAY. 
 
 BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, LL.D., M.R.LA. 
 
 Mournfully, sing mournfully — 
 " listen, Ellen, sister dear : 
 
 Is there no help at all for me. 
 But only ceaseless sigh and tear 1 
 Why did not he who left me here. 
 
 With stolen hope steal memory] 
 
 listen, EUen, sister dear, 
 (]\Iounfully, sing mournfully) — 
 
 I'll go away to Sleamish hill, 
 I'll pluck the fairy hawthorn-tree, _ 
 And let the spirits work their will ; 
 
 1 care not if for good or iU, 
 So they but lay the memory 
 
 Which all my heart is haunting still 1 
 (MoumfuUy, sing mournfully) — 
 
 The Fairies are a silent race, 
 And pale as Hly flowers to see :
 
 BOOK OF lEISH BALLADS. 33 
 
 I care not for a blanched face, 
 Nor wandering in a dreaming place 
 
 So I but banish memory : — 
 I wish 1 were with Anna Grace !" 
 
 Mournfully, sing mournfully ! 
 
 II. 
 
 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 da\\ n. 
 And Ellen answered sad and slow, — 
 
 " Oh Una, Una, be not drawn 
 (Hearken to my tale of woe) — 
 
 To this unhol}^ grief I pray, 
 "'/Thich makes me sick at heart to know, 
 
 And I will help you if I may : 
 
 — The Fairy We'll of Lagnanay— 
 Lie nearer me, I tremble so, — 
 
 Una, I've heard wise women sa;/ 
 (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 lLk:e\sise, 
 And three times ro^iind the fountain go, 
 
 She straight forgets her tears and sighs."' 
 Hearken tx) my tale of woe 1 
 
 in. 
 
 Ail. ulas ! and well-away ! 
 
 '^Oh, sister Ellen, sister sweet, 
 Gome with me to the hill I pray, 
 
 And I will prove that blessed freet 1" 
 
 They rose with soft and silent feet, 
 They left their mothOT where she lay, 
 
 Their mother and her car© discree*, 
 (AH, alas L and weU-away !) 
 
 6
 
 3^ BOOK OP IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 And soon they reached the Fairy Weil, 
 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 ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Save us all from Fairy thrall ! 
 
 Ellen sees her face the rim 
 Twice and thrice, and that is all — 
 
 Fount and hill and maiden swim 
 
 All together melting dim ! 
 " Una ! Una !" thou may'st call, 
 
 Sister sad ! but lith or limb 
 (Save us all from Fairy thrall !) 
 
 Never again of Una bawn, 
 Where now she walks in dreamy hall, 
 
 Shall eye of mortal look upon ! 
 
 Oh ! can it be the guard "was gone, 
 That better guard than shield or wall ? 
 
 Who knows on earth save Jurlagh Dauiie ! 
 (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 pray'r. 
 Save us all from Faiiy thrall.
 
 BOOK OF IE ISA BALLADS. 
 
 THE BAY OF DUBLIN. 
 
 BY DENIS FLOEENCE MAC-CASTHY, M.R.LA. 
 I. 
 
 !^'Iy native Bay, for many a year 
 IVe loved thee witli a trembling fear, 
 Lest thou, though dear and very dear, 
 
 A nd beauteous as a vision, 
 Shouldit have some rival far away- 
 Some matchless wonder of a bay — 
 Whose sparkling waters ever play 
 
 'Neath azure skies elysian. 
 
 n. 
 
 'Tis Love, methought, blind Love that pour<; 
 The rippling magic round these shores— 
 For whatsoever Love adores 
 
 Becomes what Love desireth : 
 ' Tis ignorance of aught beside 
 That throws enchantment o'er the tide, 
 And makes my heart respond with pride 
 
 To what mine eye admireth. 
 
 nL 
 
 And thus, unto our mutual loss. 
 Whene'er I paced the sloping moss 
 Of green Killiney, or across 
 
 The intervening waters — 
 Up Howth's brown sides my feet would wend 
 Tc see thy sinuous bosom bend. 
 Or view thine outstretch'd arms extend 
 
 To clasp thine islet daughters ; 
 
 IV. 
 
 Then would this spectre of my f<=;ar 
 Beside me stand— how calm and clear 
 Slept underneath, the green waves, neat 
 The tide-worn rocks' recesses ;
 
 36 JOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 Or -when they woke, and leapt from land. 
 Like startled sea-nymphs, hand in haud, 
 Seeking the southern silver strand 
 With floating emerald tresses ; 
 
 It lay o'er all, a moral mist. 
 
 Even on the hills, when evening kist 
 
 The granite peaks to amethyst, 
 
 I felt its fatal shadow ; — 
 It darkened o'er the brightest rills. 
 It lower'd upon the sunniest hills. 
 And hid the wingdd song that fills 
 
 The moorland and the meadow 
 
 VL 
 
 But now that I have been to view 
 All even Nature's self can do, 
 And from Gaeta's arch of blue 
 
 Borne many a fond memento ; 
 And from each fair and famous scene, 
 Where Beauty is, and Power hath been. 
 Along the golden shores between 
 
 Misenum and Sorrento: 
 
 VIL 
 
 I can look proudly in thy face. 
 
 Fair daughter of a hardier race, 
 
 And feel thy winning well-known gra.De. 
 
 Without my old misgiving ; 
 And as I kneel upon thy strand, 
 And kiss thy once unvalued hand, 
 Proclaim earth holds no loveUer land. 
 
 Where life is worth the litring.
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 37 
 
 HY-BRASAU. -THE ISLE OF THE BLEST. 
 
 BY GEEALD GEIFFIN. 
 
 ["The people of Arran fancy that at certain periods they see Hy- 
 Brnsail elevated far to the west in their watery horizon. This had been 
 the universal tradition of the ancient Irish, who supposed that a great 
 part of Ireland had heen swallowed by the sea, and that the sunken part 
 often rose. a:.d was seen hanging in the horizon ! Stich was the popular 
 notion. The Jly-hrnsail of the Irish is evidently a part of the Atlantia 
 of Plato,* who, in his "Timasus.'says that that island was totally swallow 
 ed up by a prodigious earthquake. Of some such shocks the Isles of 
 Arran, the promontories of Antrim, and some of the western islands of 
 Scotland, bear evident rc\a.rk%.-ffFloMrtjis Ukatch of [ft". Inland oi 
 Arran] 
 
 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 Jtly-Brasail the isle of the blest., 
 From year unto year on the ocean's blue rim, 
 The beautiful spectre shovrr-d lovely and dim ; 
 The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay, 
 And it looked like an Eden, away, far away 1 
 
 A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale, 
 In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail ; 
 From Ara, the holy, he turned to the west, 
 For though Ara was holy, Hy-Brasail was blest. 
 He heard not the voices that called from the shore- 
 He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar ; 
 Home, kindred, and safety^ he left on that day. 
 And he sped to Hy-Brrxsail, away, far away ! 
 
 Mom 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 shadow^' shore 
 Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as beforj ; 
 Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track. 
 And to Ara again he looked timidly back. ; 
 Oh ! far on the verge of the ocean it lay, 
 Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away ! 
 
 • For A ballad on this •nbjcct, by the Rer. G. Croly, see page »2.
 
 38 BOOK OP IBISH BALLADS. 
 
 Rash dreamer, return ! O, ye winds of the main. 
 Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again. 
 Eash 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 fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray, 
 And he died on the waters, away, far away ! 
 
 [A curious 4to tract relating to this tradition is in the possession of 
 the editor. It is called " The Western Wonder, or BrazeeL, an Inchant- 
 ed Island discovered; wifh a relation of Two Ship-wracks in a dreadful 
 Sea-siorm iu that discovery. London, printed for N, C, ilDCLXXIV." 
 —Ed. 1869.] 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN" SPRITK 
 
 BY THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 In yonder valley there dwelt, alone, 
 A youth, whose moments had calmly flown, 
 'Till spells came o'er him, and, day and night. 
 He was haunted and watch'd by a Mountain Sprite 
 
 As once, by moonlight, he wandered o'er 
 The golden sands of that island shore ; 
 A foot-print sparkled before his sight — 
 'Twas the fairy foot of the ^Mountain Sprite ! 
 
 Beside a fountain, one sunny day, 
 
 As bending over the stream he lay. 
 
 There peeped down o'er him two eyes of light. 
 
 And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite. 
 
 He tum'd, but^ lo ! like a startled bird, 
 That spirit fle^ ! — and the youth but heard 
 Sweet music, such as marks the flight 
 Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite 
 
 One night, still haunted by that bright look. 
 
 The boy, bewilder d, his pencil took. 
 
 And, guided only by memory's light, 
 
 Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprits.
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 39 
 
 " Oh, thou, who lovest the shadow," cried 
 A voice, low whispering by his side, 
 " Now turn and see" — here the youth's delight 
 Seal'd the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite. 
 
 " Of all the Spirits of land and sea," 
 
 Then wrapt he murmur'd, " there's none like thee : 
 
 " And oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus light 
 
 " In this lonely bower, sweet Mountain Sprite !" 
 
 THE CITY OF GOLD. 
 
 [This is another ballad on the beautiful fable of a phantom Island iz 
 the Atlantic] 
 
 Years onward have swept, 
 
 Aye ! long ages have rolled — 
 Since the billows first slept 
 
 O'er the City of Gold ! 
 
 'Neath its eddy of white 
 
 \Vhere the green wave is swelling. 
 
 In their halls of delight 
 Are the fai^y tribes dweUing. 
 
 And but seldom the eye 
 
 Of a mortal may scan. 
 Where those 'palaces high 
 
 Rise unaided by man. 
 
 Yet, at times the waves sever, 
 
 And then you may view 
 The yellow walls ever 
 
 'Neath the ocean's deep bine. 
 
 But I warn thee, man ! 
 
 Never seek to behold, 
 AVhere the crj^stal streams ran 
 
 In the City of Gold !
 
 40 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 Like a beauty with guile, 
 
 Wlien some young knight has found her 
 There is death in her smile, 
 
 And dark ruin around her ! 
 
 Like a Poet's first dream 
 
 In Ms longings for glory ; 
 A dagger whose gleam 
 
 With the life-blood is gory. 
 
 Like wishes possessed, 
 And for which we have panted, 
 
 When we find us unblest, 
 Tho' our prayers have been granted. 
 
 Like ought that's forbidden 
 
 Weak man to behold, 
 Death and sorrow are hid in 
 
 The City of Gold. 
 
 Kash youth ! dost thou view it, 
 
 The ransom thou'lt pay, 
 Alas ! thou must rue it, 
 
 Death takes thee to-day ! 
 
 CobAT^-nA-SiA ;* 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE FAIKY W*ELL. 
 
 BY JAMES TEELING. 
 
 [Amongst the many old and fanciful auperstltions emb died in the 
 traditions of our peasantry, some of the most poetical are those con- 
 nected with spring wells, which in Ireland have been invested with 
 something of a sacred character ever since the days of Druidical worship. 
 It is in some parts of the country an article of popular belief, that the 
 desecration of a spring by any unworthy use is invariably followed by 
 some misfortune to the offender; and that the well itself, which is re. 
 garded as the source of fruitfulness and prosperity, moves altogether 
 out of the field in which the violation had been committed.— Z>h6. UnU 
 versit;/ Mag., vol. viii., p, 447.] 
 
 * Thubber-na-Shie,
 
 • 
 
 book: op IRISH BALLADS. 41 
 
 Oh ! Peggy Bawn was innocent, 
 
 And wild as any roe ; 
 Her cheek was like the summer rose, 
 
 Her neck was like the snow : 
 
 And every eye was in her head 
 
 So beautiful and bright, 
 You'd almost think they'd light her through 
 
 Glencarrigy by night. 
 
 Among the hills and mountains, 
 
 Above her mother's home. 
 The long and weary summer day 
 
 Young Peggy Blake would roam ; 
 
 And not a girl in the town, 
 
 From Dhua to Glenlur, 
 Could wander through the mountain's heath 
 
 Or climb the rocks with her. 
 
 The Lammas sun was shinin' on 
 
 The meadows all so brown ; 
 The neighbours gathered far and near 
 
 To cut the ripe crops down ; 
 
 And pleasant was the momin', 
 
 And dewy was the dawn, 
 And gay and lightsome-hearted 
 
 To th*' sunny fields they^re gone. 
 
 The joke was passing lightly, 
 
 And the laugh was loud and free ; 
 
 There was neither care nor trouble 
 To disturb their hearty glee ; 
 
 When, says Peggy, resting in among 
 
 The sweet and scented hay, 
 " 1 wonder is there one would brave 
 
 The Fairy-weU to-day !"
 
 ■12 BOOK OP IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 She looked up with her laughin' eyes 
 
 So soft at Wniy Rhu ; 
 Och murdher ! that she didn't need 
 
 His warnin' kind and true ! 
 
 But all the boys and girls laughed, 
 And Willy Rhu looked shy ; 
 God help you, Willy ! sure they saw 
 The throuble in your eye. 
 
 " Now, by my faith !" young Connell say' 
 
 I like your notion well — 
 There's a power more than gospel 
 In what crazy gossips telL" 
 
 Oh, my heavy hatred fall upon 
 Young GonneU of Sliabh-Mast ! 
 
 He took the cruel vengeance 
 For his scorned love at last. 
 
 The jokin' and the jibin' 
 
 And the banterin' went on, 
 One girl dared another. 
 
 And they all dared Peggy Bawn. 
 
 Till leaping up, away she flew 
 
 Down to the hollow green — 
 Her bright locks, floating in the wind 
 
 Like golden lights were seen. 
 
 They saw her at the Fairy well — 
 
 Their laughin' died away, 
 They saw her stoop above its brink 
 
 With heart as cold as clay. 
 
 Oh ! mother, mother, never stand 
 
 Upon your cabin floor ! 
 You heard the cry that through your heart 
 
 Will ring for evermore ;
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 43 
 
 For when slie came up from the well, 
 
 Xo one could stand her look ! 
 Her ej^e was wild — her cheek was pale — 
 
 They saw her mind was shook : 
 
 And the gaze she cast around her 
 
 Was so ghastly and so sad — 
 ■' Christ preserve us 1" shouted all, 
 
 " Poor Peggy Blake's gone mad !" 
 
 Tlie moon was up — the stars were out, 
 
 And shining through the sky, 
 When young and old stood mourning round 
 
 To see their darling die. 
 
 Poor Peggy from the death-bed rose — 
 
 Her face was pale and cold, 
 And down about her shoulders hung 
 
 The lovely locks of gold. 
 
 " All you thaf s here this night," she said, 
 
 " Take warnin' by my fate, 
 Whoever braves the Fairies' wrath, 
 
 Their sorrow comes too late." 
 
 The tear was startin' in her eye, 
 
 She clasp'd her throbbin' head, 
 And when the sun next mornin' rose 
 
 Poor Peggy BaTSTi lay dead. 
 
 FAIEY REVELS. 
 
 The fairies are dancing by brake and bower, 
 For this in their land is the merriest hour. 
 
 Their steps are soft, and their robes are light, 
 And they trip it at ease in the clear moonlight. 
 
 Their queen is in youth and in beauty there. 
 And the daughters of earth are not half so fair.
 
 44 BOOK OF IRISH BaLLADS, 
 
 Her glance is quick, and her eyes are bright, 
 But they glitter with wild and unearthly light. 
 
 Her brow is all calm, and her looks are kind, 
 
 But the look that she gives leaves but pain behind. 
 
 Her voice is soft, and her smiles are sweet, 
 But woe to thee who such smiles shall meet. 
 
 She will meet thee at dusk like a lady fair, 
 But go not, for danger awaits thee there. 
 
 She will take thee to ramble by grove and by glen, 
 And the friends of thy youth shall not know thee again. 
 
 THE ENCHANTED ISLAND. 
 
 [The tradition in this beautiful little ballad is almost the same as tlist 
 on which " The City of Gold," "Hy-Brasail," and other poems in this c i- 
 lection are founded, except in point of locality ; the scene of the latt r 
 ballads being placed in the Atlantic, to the west of the Isles of Arran, 
 while "the Enchanted Island" is supposed to be in the neighbourhood 
 of Rathlin Island, off the north coast of th<; county Antrim. The name 
 of the island, which has been spelled a different way by almost every 
 writer on the subject, is supposed to be derived from Ragh-erin, or " the 
 Fort of Erin," as its situation, commanding the Irish coast, might make 
 It, not unaptly, be styled " the fortress of Ireland."— 3ee Leonardo To- 
 pographia EibernicaJ] 
 
 To Rathlin's Isle I chanced to sail. 
 When summer breezes softly blew, 
 
 And there I heard so sweet a tale. 
 That oft I wished it could be true. 
 
 They said, at eve, when rude winds sleep, 
 Ajid hushed is eVry turbid swell, 
 
 A mermaid rises from the deep. 
 And sweetly tunes her magic sheU. 
 
 And while she plays, rock, dell, and cave, 
 In dying falls the sound retain. 
 
 As if some choral spirits gave 
 
 Their aid to swell her witching strain.
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 46 
 
 Then, summoned by that dulcet note, 
 
 Uprising to th' admiring view, 
 iL fairy island seems to float 
 
 With tints of many a gorgeous hue. 
 
 And glittering fanes, and lofty towers, 
 
 All on this fairy isle are seen ; 
 And waving trees, and shady bower?, 
 
 AVith more than mortal verdure green. 
 
 And as it moves, the western sky 
 
 Glows with a thousand varying rays ; 
 
 And the calm sea, tinged with each dye. 
 Seems like a golden flood of blaze. 
 
 They also say, if earth or stone, 
 From verdant Erin's hallowed land, 
 
 Were on this magic island thrown, 
 For ever fixed, it then would stand. 
 
 But, A\hen for this, some little boat 
 In silence ventures from the shore — 
 
 The mermaid sinks — hushed is the note. 
 The fairy isle is seen no more. 
 
 THE FAIRIES' PASSAGE. 
 
 ?.Y CLARENCE MANGAK". 
 I. 
 
 Tapp, tapp ! Eapp, rapp ! " Get up, G^fer Ferry- 
 mam" 
 " Eh] who is there r' The clock strikes ITiree. 
 " Get up — do, Gafler ! you are tihe very man. 
 We have been long — long, longing to see." 
 The ferryman rises, growling and grumbling, 
 And goes f um-fumbling, and stumbling, and tumbling^ 
 Over the wares in his wB,y to the doot 
 But he sees no more 
 Tlmn he saw before.
 
 4C BOOK OF miSfl BALLADS. 
 
 Till a voice is heard — " O Ferryman, dear ! 
 Here we are waiting, all of us here ! 
 We are a wee, wee colony, we ; 
 Some two hundred in all, or three. 
 Ferry us over the river Lee 
 
 Ere dawn of day, 
 
 And we will pay 
 
 The most we may, 
 
 In our own wee way ! * 
 
 n. 
 
 " Who are you 'i 'Whence came you ? What place are 
 you going to 1 " 
 " 0, we have dwelt over long in this land. 
 The people get cross, and are growing so knowing, too ; 
 Nothing at all but they now understand ; 
 We are daily vanishing under the thunder 
 Of some huge engine or iron wonder ; 
 That iron — 0, it has entered our souls 1 " 
 
 "Your souls? O, Goles! 
 
 You queer little drolls ! 
 
 Do you mean V " Good Gaffer, do aid us with 
 
 speed, 
 For our time, like our stature, is short indeed ! 
 And a very long way we have to go, 
 Eight or ten thousand miles or so, 
 Hither and thither, and to and fro. 
 With our pots and pans, 
 And little gold cans ; 
 But our light caravans 
 Run swifter than Man's ! " 
 
 nL 
 
 ** Well, well, you may come ! " said the Ferryman, 
 affably ; 
 " Patrick ! turn out, and get ready the barge ! " 
 Then again to the little folk : " Though you seera 
 laughably 
 Small, I don't mind, if your coppers be lar^e."
 
 }JOOK OF IRISH BALLAD«i. 47 
 
 O, dear ! what a rushing, what pushing, what 
 
 crushing 
 (The waterman making vain efforts at hushing 
 The hubbub the while) there followed these 
 words ! 
 
 What clapping of boards ! 
 
 What strapping of cords ! 
 What stowing away of children and wives, 
 And platters, and mugs, and spoons, and knivea ! 
 Till all had safely got into the boat, 
 And the Ferryman clad in his tip -top coat, 
 And his wee Httle f arers were fairly afloat 1 
 
 Then ding ! ding ! ding ! 
 
 And kling ! kling ! kling ! 
 
 How the coppers did ring 
 
 In the tin pitcherling 1 
 
 TV. 
 
 Off then went the boat, at first very pleasantly, 
 
 Smoothly, and soforth, but after a while 
 It swayed and it swagged this way and that way, and 
 presently 
 Chest after chest, and pile aiter pile, 
 Of the little folk's goods began tossing and rolling, 
 And pitching like fun, beyond fairy controlling !^ 
 0, Mab ! if the hubbub was great before. 
 It was now some two or three million times more ; 
 Crash went the wee crocks, and the clocks, and 
 
 the locks 
 Of each little wee box were stove in by hard 
 knocks : 
 And then there were oaths, and prayers, and 
 
 cries — 
 * Take care !"— " see there !"— " oh, dear ! my 
 
 eyes !'"' 
 " I am Idlled" — " I am drowned^ — with groans 
 and sighs ; 
 
 Till to land they drew : 
 "Yeoheo! Pull to 1 
 Tiller-rope, thro* and thro ! * 
 And all's right anew.
 
 48 BOOK OF IRISB BALLADS. 
 
 V. 
 
 " Now, jump upon shore, ye queer little oddities ! 
 
 ... Eh ! what is this 1 Where are they at all 1 
 WTiere are they, and where are their tiny commodities? 
 Well ! as I live ! " He looks blank as a wall. 
 The poor Ferryman ! E,ound him, and round him 
 
 he gazes, 
 But only gets deepKer lost in the mazes 
 Of utter bewilderment ! All, all are gone — 
 And he stands alone, 
 'Like a statue of stone, 
 In a doldrum of wonder. He turns to steer, 
 And a tinkling laugh salutes his ear 
 Vy^ith other odd sounds : " Ha ! ha 1 ha ! ha ! 
 Tol, lol; zid, ziddle — quee, quee — bah ! bah ! 
 Fizzigigiggidy ! psha ! sha ! sha ! " 
 " 0, ye thieves ! ye thieves, ye rascally thieves I" 
 
 The good man cries. He turns to his pitcher, 
 And there, alas ! to his horror perceives. 
 That the little folk's mode of making hiiu 
 richer, 
 Has been to pay him with — withered leaves ! 
 
 THE PHAI^TOM CITY 
 
 BY GERALD GKIFPIN. 
 
 A STORY I heard on the clifis of the west, 
 
 That oft, through the breakers dividing, 
 A city is seen on the ocean's wild breast 
 
 In turreted majesty riding. 
 But brief is the glimpse of that phantom so bright, 
 
 Soon close the white waters to screen it ; 
 And thebodement, they say, of the wonderful sight, 
 
 Is death to the eyes that have seen it. 
 
 I said, when they told me the wonderful tale, 
 
 My country, is this not thy story 1 
 Thus oft through the breakers of discord we hail 
 
 A Dromiae of peace and of glory.
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 49 
 
 Soon gulphed in those waters of hatred again 
 
 No longer our fancy can find it, 
 And woe to our hearts for the vision so vain. 
 
 For ruin and death come behind it. 
 
 KATE OF KEmiAEE. 
 
 BY DENIS FLOEEXCE MAC-CAHTHY, iT.E.I.A. 
 
 Oh ! many bright eyes full of goodness and gladness, 
 
 "Where the pure soul looks out, and the heart loves 
 to shine, 
 And many cheeks pale with the soft hue of sadness, 
 
 Have I worshipped in silence and felt them di^dne I 
 But hope in its gleamings, or love in its dreamings, 
 
 Ne'er fashioned a being so faultless and fair. 
 As the lily-cheeked beauty, the rose of the Roughty,* 
 
 The fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare ! 
 
 It was all but a moment, her radiant existence. 
 
 Her presence, her absence, all crowded on me ; 
 But time has not a^es, and earth has not distance 
 
 To sever, sweet vision, my spirit from thee ! 
 Again am I straying where children are playing — 
 
 Bright is the sunshine and balmy the air. 
 Mountains are heathy, and there do I see thee, 
 
 Sweet fawn of the valley, young Kate of Kenmare ! 
 
 Thine arbutus beareth full many a cluster^ 
 
 Of white waxen blossoms, like lilies in air ; 
 But, oh ! thy pale cheek hath a delicate lustre, 
 
 No blossoms can rival, no lily doth wear ; 
 To that cheek softly flushing, to thy Kp brightly 
 blushing. 
 
 Oh ! what are the berries that bright tree doth bear? 
 Peerless in beauty, that rose of the Roughty, 
 
 That fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare ! 
 
 The rlTcr Ronghty discharges it«elf at the h«ad of the great rivw w 
 tey of Kemaare.
 
 50 BOOK OF miSH BAI.I.ADB. 
 
 Oh ! T^eauty, some spell from kind Nature thou bearest, 
 
 Some magic of tone or enchantment of eye, 
 That hearts that are hardest, from forms that are 
 fairest, 
 
 Receive such impressions as never can die ! 
 The foot of the fairy, though lightsome and airy, 
 
 Can stamp on the hard rock* the shape it doth wear, 
 Art cannot trace it nor ages efface it — 
 
 And such are thy glances, sweet Kate of Kenmare ! 
 
 To him who far-travels how sad is the feeling — 
 
 How the light of his mind is overshadowed and dim. 
 When the scenes he most loves, like the river's soft 
 stealing, 
 All fade as a vision and vanish from him I 
 Yet he bears from each far land a flower for that 
 garland, 
 That memory weaves of the bright and the fair ; 
 \Vhile this sigh I am breathing my garland is wreath- 
 
 ■ And the rose of that garland is Kate of Kenmare ! 
 
 In lonely Lougli Quinlan in summer's soft hours, 
 
 Fair islands are floating that move with the tide, 
 AVhich, sterile at first, are soon covered with flowers, 
 
 And thus o'er the bright waters fairy-like glide ! t 
 Thus the mind the most vacant is quickly awakened, 
 
 And the heart bears a harvest that late was so bare, 
 Of him who in roving finds objects in loving. 
 
 Like the fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare ! 
 
 • In the vicinity of Kenmare Is a rock called The Fairy Rod, ou 
 which the marks" of several feet are deeply impressed; they are, of 
 course, supposed to have been the work of fairies. 
 
 t Dr. Smith in his History of Kerry, says— "Near this place is a con- 
 siderable fresh-water lake, called Lough Quinlan, in which are some 
 small floating islands much admired by the country people. These islands 
 swim from side to side of the lake, and are usually composed at first of 
 a long kind of grass, which, being blown off the adjacent gi'ounds about 
 the middle of September, and floating about, collect slime and other 
 stulf, and so yearly increase till they have come to have grass and other 
 T*getables grown upon tb«m."
 
 HOOTl OP T-RI.^H BALLAr»<5. '51 
 
 Sweet Kate of KeirmaTe, thongh I ne'er may behold 
 thee — 
 
 Though the pride and the joy of another yon be — 
 Though strange lips may praise thee and strange arms 
 enfold thee, 
 
 A blessing, dear Kate, be on them and on thee I 
 One feeling I cherish that never can perish — 
 
 One talisman proof to the dark -uizard care — 
 The fervent and dutiful love of the Beautiful, 
 
 Of which thou art a type, gentle Kate of Kenmare ! 
 
 A R R A X M R E . 
 
 BY THOMAS MOOPvE. 
 
 ["The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that in a clear day 
 they can see fmm this coast Hy-ljrasail, or the Inchanted Islar.d, the 
 Paradise of the Pagan Irish, and conccrnins which tliey relate a nuinbec 
 of romantic stories." — BeauforCs Ancient Topography'of IrelandJ] 
 
 Oh ! Arranmore, loved Arranmore, 
 
 How oft I dream of thee ; 
 And of those days when, by thy shore, 
 
 I wander'd young and free. 
 Full many a path I've tried, since then, 
 
 Through pleasure's flow'ry maze, 
 But ne'er could find that bliss again 
 
 I felt in those sweet days. 
 
 How blithe upon the breezy cliffs 
 
 At sunny morn I've stood. 
 With heart as bounding as the skiffs 
 
 That danced along thy flood ; 
 Or when the western wave grew bright 
 
 With daylight's parting wing. 
 Have sought that Eden in its light, 
 
 Which dreaming poets sing. 
 
 That Eden, where th' immortal brave 
 
 Dwell in a land serene — 
 WTiose bowers beyond the shing wave. 
 
 At sunset oft are seen :
 
 52 BOOK OP IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 Ah, dream, too full of saddening truth ! 
 
 Those mansions o'er the main 
 Are like the hopes I built in youth, 
 
 As sunny and as vain 1 
 
 THE ISLAM) OF ATLANTIS. 
 
 BY THB EEV. GEORGE CROLY, 
 
 Author of Salathiel, &c. 
 
 ["For at that time the Atlantic Sea vras navifrahle, and had an IslaniJ 
 before that mouth which is called by you the pill'T"s of nercnles. IJiit 
 this island was greater than hoth Libya and all Asia tojjetlier, and 
 afforded an easy passage to other neighbonring islands, as it was easy to 
 pass from those islands to all the continent which borders on ttiia 
 Atlantic Sea. * * * But, in succeeding times, prodigious earthquakes 
 and deluges taking place, and bringing with them desolation in the 
 space of one day and night, all that warlike race of Athenians was at 
 once merged under the earth; and the Atlantic island itself, beiug 
 d.b8orbed in the sea, entirely disappeared." — Plato's Titnceus.] 
 
 Ofl ! thou Atlantic, dark and deep, 
 
 Thou wilderness of waves, 
 Where all the tribes of earth might sleep 
 
 In their uncrowded graves ! 
 
 The sunbeams on thy bosom wake, 
 
 Yet never light thy gloom ; 
 The tempests burst, yet never shake 
 
 Thy depths, thou mighty tomb ! 
 
 Thou thing of mystery, stem and drear, 
 
 Thy secrets who hath told 1 
 The warrior and his sword are there. 
 
 The merchant and his gold 
 
 There He their myriads in thy pall. 
 
 Secure from steel and etonn • 
 And he, the f easter on them alL 
 
 T1l« cjaoker-'wcrm.
 
 500K OF IBISH BALLADS.. 53 
 
 Yet on this %vave the mountain's brow 
 Once glow'd in morning's beam ; 
 
 And, like an arrow from the bow, 
 Out sprang the stream j 
 
 And on its bank the olive grove, 
 
 And the peach's luxury, 
 And the damask rose — the nightbird's lo 
 
 Perfumed the sky. 
 
 "Where art thou, proud Atlantis, now 1 
 Where are thy bright and brave — 
 
 Priest, people, warriors' living flow 1 
 Look on that wave. 
 
 Crime deepen'd on the recreant land, 
 
 Long guilty, long forgiven ; 
 There, power uprear'd the bloody hand, 
 
 There scolf' d at Heaven. 
 
 The word went forth — the word of woe — 
 
 The judgment thunders pealed ; 
 The fiery earthquake blazed below ; 
 
 Its doom was seal'd. 
 
 Now on its halls of ivory 
 
 Lie giant weed and ocean slime, 
 Burj^ng from man's and angel's eye 
 
 The land of crime. 
 
 THE HAUNTED SPEINa 
 
 BY SAMUEL LOVEE, 
 
 [Ttis said, Favs have the power to asjume various shapes for the 
 P'lU-pose of luring mortals into Fairyland; liuiiters seem to liave "bot^ 
 psi'ticulariy the objects of the lady failles' fancies.] 
 
 Gaily through the mountain glen 
 The hunter's horn did ring, 
 
 As the milk-white doe 
 
 Escaped his bow, 
 Down hj the haunted spring.
 
 .54 BOOi: OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 In vain Ms silver horn he wound, — 
 
 'Twas echo answered back ; 
 For neither groom nor baying hound 
 
 Were on the hunter's track ; 
 In vain he sought the milk-white doe 
 That made him stray, and 'scaped his bow ; 
 For, save himself, no living thing 
 Was by the silent haunted spring. 
 
 The purple heath-beUs, blooming fair, 
 
 Their fragrance round did fling, 
 As 'the hunter lay 
 At close of day, 
 
 Down by the haunted spring. 
 
 A lady fair, in robe of white. 
 To greet the hunter came ; 
 
 She kiss'd a cup with jewels bright, 
 And pledged him by his name ; 
 " Oh, lady fair," the hunter cried, 
 "Be thou my love, my blooming bride, 
 " A bride that well might grace a king 
 " Fair lady of the haunted spring." 
 
 In the fountain clear she stoop'd. 
 
 And forth she drew a ring ; 
 And that loved Knight 
 His faith did phght 
 
 Down by the haunted spring. 
 But since that day his chase did stray, 
 
 The hunter ne'er was seen, 
 And legends tell, he now doth dwell 
 
 Within the hills so green f'' 
 But still the milk-white doe appears, 
 And wakes the peasants' evening fears, 
 While distant bugles faintly ring 
 Around the lonely haunted spring. 
 
 • Fays and fairies are supposed to have their dwelling-places wltlila 
 OJ green hiUs.
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALL A D?!* |g 
 
 ALICE AXD UNA. 
 A TALE OF " Ceitn-*:.ri-e1c."t 
 
 BY DENIS FLORENCE 3IAC-CARTHY, M.R.I A. 
 
 [The pass of C^im-an-eich (the path of the deer) lies to the south- 
 west of Inchageela, in the direction of Bantry Bay. The tourist will 
 commit a grievous error if he omit to visit it. I'erJiaps in no part of 
 the kingdom is there to be found a place so utterly desolate and gloomy. 
 A mountain has been divided by some convulsion of nature ; and the 
 narrow pass, about two miles in length, is overhimg on either side by 
 perpendicular maiites cloth'-d in v.ild ivy and underwood, with, occasion- 
 ally, a stunted yew-tree or aibutus growing among them. At every step 
 advance seems impossible- some huge rock jutting out into the path; 
 and, on sweeping round it, seeming to conduct only to some barrier still 
 more insurmountable; while from all sides rush down the "wild foun- 
 tains," and, forming for themselves a rugged channel, make their way 
 unward— the first tributary offering to the gentle and fruitful Lee : 
 '• Here, amidst heaps 
 
 Of mountain wrecks, on either sides thrown high, 
 
 The wide- spread traces of its wateiy might, 
 
 The tortuous channel womid." 
 Nowhere has nature assumed a more appalling aspect, or manifested a 
 more stern resolve to dwell in her own loneliness and grandeur undis- 
 turbed by any living thing ; for even the birds seem to shun a solitude 
 BO awful, and the hum of bee or chirp of grasshopper is never heard 
 within its precincts.— ^aZrs Ireland, vol. i, p. 117.] 
 
 A.H ! the pleasant time hath vanished, ere our wfetched 
 
 doubtings banished. 
 All the graceful spirit people, children of the earth and 
 
 Whom in days now dim and olden, when the world 
 
 was fresh and golden, 
 Every mortal could behold in haunted rath, and tower, 
 
 and tree — 
 They have vanished, they are banished— ah ! how sad 
 
 the loss for thee, 
 
 Lonely C^im-an-eich ! 
 
 Still some scenes are yet enchanted by the charms that 
 
 Nature granted, 
 Still are peopled, still are haunted, by a graceful spirit 
 
 band. 
 
 t C^m-an-eich (the path of the deer), pronounced, Keim-aa-ec.
 
 56 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 Peace and Beauty have their dwelling where the infant 
 
 streams are welling — 
 "Where the mournful waves are knelling on Glcngariff's 
 
 coral strand ; * 
 Or where, on Elllarney's mountains, Grace and Tenor 
 
 smiling stand, 
 
 Like sisters, hand in hand ! 
 
 Still we have a new romance in fire-ships, through the 
 tamed seas glancing. 
 
 And the snorting and the prancing of the mighty en- 
 gine steed ; 
 
 Still, Astolpho-like, we wander through the boundless 
 azure yonder. 
 
 Realizing what seemed fonder than the magic tales we 
 read — 
 
 Tales of wild Arabian wonder, where the fancy all is 
 freed — 
 
 Wilder far, indeed ! 
 
 Now that Earth once more hath woken, and the trance 
 
 of Time is broken ! 
 And the sweet word — Hope — is spoken, soft and surS, 
 
 though none know how, — 
 Coiild we — could we only see all these, the glories of 
 
 the Real, 
 Blended with the lost Ideal, happy were the old world 
 
 now — 
 Woman in its fond believing — ^man with iron arm and 
 
 brow- 
 Faith and Work its vow ! 
 
 Yes 1 the past shines clear and pleasant, and there's 
 
 glory in the present ; 
 And the future, like a crescent, lights the deepening 
 
 sky of Time j 
 
 * In the bay of Glengariff, and towards the N.W. parts of Bantry Ba- 
 they dredge up laxge quantities of coral sand." -^nu/A'i Coa^, vol. 
 p. 286.
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 57 
 
 And that sky will yet grow iDrighter, if the Worker 
 
 and the Writer, 
 If the Sceptre and the Mitre join in sacred bonds 
 
 sublime, 
 With two glories shining o'er them, up the coming 
 
 years they'll clhnb 
 
 Earth's great evening as its prime ! 
 
 With a sigh for what is fading, but, oh ! earth, with 
 
 no upbraiding ; 
 For we feel that time is braiding newer, fresher flowers 
 
 for thee — 
 We will speak, despite our grieving, words of Loving 
 
 and Believing, 
 Tales we vowed when we were leaving awful C^im-an- 
 
 eich— 
 Where the sever'd rocks resemble fragments of a frozen 
 
 se^ 
 
 And the wild deer flee I 
 
 'Tis the hour when flowers are shrinking, when the 
 
 weary sun is sinking, 
 And his thirsty steeds are drinking in the cooling 
 
 western sea ; 
 When young Maurice lightly goeth, where the tiny 
 
 streamlet floweth, 
 And the struggling moonlight showeth where his path 
 
 must be — 
 Path whereon the wild goats wander fearlessly and free 
 Through dark Ceim-an-eich. 
 
 As a hunter, danger daring, with his dogs the brown 
 
 moss sharing, 
 jittle thinking, little caring, long a wayward youth 
 
 lived he ; 
 But his bounding heart waa regal, and he looked as 
 
 looks the eagle.
 
 58 BOOK OP IRISH 3ALLADS. 
 
 And he flew as flies the beagle, who the panting stag 
 
 doth see — 
 Love, who spares a fellow-archer, long had let him 
 
 wander free 
 
 Through wild C6im-an-eich ! 
 
 But at length the hour drew nigher when his heart 
 
 shoidd feel that fire ; 
 Up the mountain high and higher had he hunted from 
 
 the dawn ; 
 Till the weeping fawn descended, where the earth and 
 
 ocean blended, 
 And with hope its slow way wended to a little grassy 
 
 lawn — 
 It is safe, for gentle Alice to her saving breast hath 
 
 drawn 
 
 Her almost sister fawn. 
 
 Alice was a chieftain's daughter, and, though many 
 
 suitors sought her, 
 She so loved Glengarifi'^s water that she let her lovers 
 
 pine ; ^ ^ 
 
 Her eye was beauty's palace, and her cheek an ivory 
 
 chalice, 
 Tlirough which the blood of Alice gleamed soft as 
 
 rosiest "svine, 
 And her lips like lusmore blossoms which the fairies 
 
 intertwine, f 
 
 And her heart a golden mine. 
 
 She was gentler, she was shyer than the sweet fawn 
 
 that stood by her. 
 And her eyes emit a fire soft and tender as her soul ; 
 Love's dewy light doth drown her, and the braided 
 
 locks that crown her 
 Than Autumn's trees are browner, when the golden 
 
 shadows roll, 
 Through the forests in the evening, when cathedral 
 
 tijirrets toll, 
 
 And the purple sun advanceth to its goal 
 
 t The luwnore (or fairy-cap)- UW*^iv. the ereat li*"-^. DigitalU 
 Purpurea
 
 book: of IRISH BALLAP?. 59 
 
 Her cottage was a dwelling all regal hoii-e;: excelling, 
 But, ah ! beyond the telling was the beauty round it 
 
 spread — 
 The wave and sunshine playing, like sisters each 
 
 arra;^4ng — 
 Far down the sea-plants swaying upon their coral bed, 
 As languid as the tresses on a sleeping maiden's head, 
 When the summer breeze is dead 
 
 Xeed we say that Maurice loved her, and that no 
 
 blush reproved her 
 When her throbbing bosom moved her to give the 
 
 heart she gave ; 
 That by dawn-light and by twilight, and oh ! blessed 
 
 moon, by thy light — 
 When the twinkling stars on high light the wanderer 
 
 o'er the wave — 
 His steps unconscious led him where Glengariff's 
 
 waters lave 
 
 Each mossy bank and cave. 
 
 He thitherward is wending — o'er the vale is night 
 
 descending — 
 Quick his step, but quicker sending his herald thoughts 
 
 before ; 
 By rocks and streams before him, proud and hopeful 
 
 on he bore him ; 
 One star was shinbg e'er him — in his heart of hearts 
 
 two more — 
 And two other eyes, far brighter than a human head 
 
 e'er wore, 
 
 Unseen were shining o'er. 
 
 These eyes are not of woman — no brightness merely 
 
 human 
 Could, planet-like, illumine the place in which they 
 
 shone ; 
 But nature's bright works vary — there are beings, light 
 
 and airy,
 
 60 BOOK OP IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 Whom mortal lips call fairy, and Una she is one — 
 Sweet sisters of the moonbeams and daughters of the 
 sun, 
 
 Who along the curling cool waves run. 
 
 ^s summer lightning dances amid the heavens' 
 
 expanses, 
 Thus shone the burning glances, of those flashing 
 
 fairy eyes ; 
 Three splendours there were shining — ^three passions 
 
 intertwining — 
 Despair and hope combining their deep contrasted 
 
 dyes 
 With jealousy's green lustre, as troubled ocean vies 
 With the blue of summer skies ! 
 
 She was a fairy creature, of heavenly form and 
 feature — 
 
 Not Venus' self could teach her a newer, sweetei 
 grace — 
 
 Not Venus' self could lend her an eye so dark and 
 tender, ^ 
 
 Half softness and half splendour, as lit her lily face ; 
 
 And, as the stars' sweet motion maketh music through- 
 out space. 
 
 There was music in her pace. 
 
 But when at times she started, and her blushing lips 
 
 were parted, 
 And a pearly lustre darted from her teeth so ivory 
 
 white. 
 You'd think you saw the gliding of two rosy clouds 
 
 dividing. 
 And the crescent they were hiding gleam forth upon 
 
 your sight — 
 Through these lips, as through the portals of a heaveo 
 
 pure and bright. 
 
 Came a breathing of delight ! 
 
 Though many an elf-king loved her, and elf-dames 
 grave reproved her,
 
 BOOK OF LEISH BALLADS. 61 
 
 The hnnter's daring moved her, more wildly every 
 
 hour ; 
 Unseen she roamed beside him, to guard him and to 
 
 guide him. 
 But now she must divide him from her human rival's 
 
 power. 
 Ah ! Alice — gentle Alice ! the storm begins to lower 
 That may crush Glengariff 's flower ! 
 
 The moon that late was gleaming, as calm as child- 
 hood's dreaming, 
 
 Is hid, and, wildly screaming, the stormy winds arise ; 
 
 And the clouds flee quick and faster before their sullen 
 master, 
 
 And the shadows of disaster are falling from the 
 skies — 
 
 Strange sights and sounds are rising — but Maurice be 
 thou -wise, 
 
 Nor heed the tempting cries. 
 
 If ever mortal needed that council, surely he did ; 
 But the wile has now succeeded — he wanders from his 
 
 path — 
 The cloud its lightning sendeth, and its bolt the stout 
 
 oak rendeth, 
 And the arbutus back bendeth in the whirlwind, as a 
 
 hth! 
 Now and then the moon looks out, but, alas 1 its pale 
 
 face hath 
 
 A dreadful look of wrath. 
 
 In vain his strength he squanders— at each step he 
 
 wider wanders — 
 Now he pauses — now he ponders where his present 
 
 path may lead ; 
 And, as he round is gazing, he sees— a sight amazing! — 
 Beneath him, calmly grazing, a noble jet-black steed. 
 "Now, Heaven be praised!" cried Maurice, "for thiij 
 
 succour in my need — 
 
 From this labyrinth I'm freed l"
 
 6'2 BOOK OF IKtan BALLADS. 
 
 Upon its back he leapeth, but a shudder throngh him 
 
 creepeth, 
 As the mighty monster sweepeth like a torrent through 
 
 the dell ; 
 His mane, so softly flo\ving, is now a meteor 
 
 blowing, 
 And his burning eyes are glowing with the light of an 
 
 inward hell — 
 And the red breath of his nostrils, like steam where 
 
 the lightning fell. 
 
 And his hoofs have a thunder kneU ! 
 
 What words have we for painting the momentary 
 
 fainting 
 That the rider's heart is tainting, as decay doth taint 
 
 a corse 1 
 But who will stoop to chiding, in a fancied courage 
 
 priding, - 
 When we know that he is riding the fearful Phooka 
 
 Horse *? 
 Ah ! his heart beats quick and faster than the smit- 
 
 ings of remorse 
 
 As he sweepeth through the wild grass 
 and gorse ! 
 
 
 
 As the avalanche comes crashing, 'mid the scattered 
 
 streamJets splashing, 
 Thus backward wildly dashing, flew the horse through 
 
 C6im-an-eich — 
 Through that glen so wild and narrow, back he darted 
 
 like an arrow — 
 Round, round by Gougane Barra, and the fountains 
 
 of the Lee, 
 O'er the Giant's Grave he leapeth, and he seems to 
 
 own in fee 
 
 The mountains and the rivers and the 
 sea !
 
 BOOK OP IRISH BALLAD& 63 
 
 From his flashing hoofs who slmlL lock the eagle 
 
 homes of Malloc,* 
 When he bounds, as bounds the Miallocaf in its wild 
 
 and murmuring tide 1 
 But as winter leadeth Flora, or the night leads on 
 
 Aurora, 
 Or as shines green GlashengloraJ along the black 
 
 hill's side — 
 Thus, beside that demon monster, white and gentle 
 
 as a bride, 
 
 A tender fawn is seen to glide. 
 
 It is the fawn that fled him, and that late to Alice led 
 
 him — 
 But now it does not dread him, as it feigned to do before, 
 When down the mountain gliding, in that sheltered 
 
 meadow hiding — 
 It left his heart abiding by wild Glengariff's shore — 
 For it was a gentle Fairy who the fawn's lightf orm wore, 
 And who watched sweet Alice o'er. 
 
 But the steed is backward prancing where late it was 
 
 advancing. 
 And his flashing eyes are glancing, like the sun upon 
 
 Loch Foyle — 
 The hardest granite crushing, through the thickest 
 
 brambles brushing — 
 Now like a shadow rushing up the sides of Slieve-na- 
 
 goil!§ 
 And the fawn beside him gUding o'er the rough and 
 
 broken soil. 
 
 Without fear and without toiL 
 
 • "Wildly from Malloc the eagles are screaming."— CaWanan'« 
 Ooiigane Barra. 
 
 t Mialloch, "the mnrmtiring river" at Glengariff.— -Smt'iA's CorJe. 
 
 X Glashenglora, a mountain torrent, which finds its way into the 
 Atlantic Ocean through Glengariff, in the west of the county of Cork. 
 The name, literally translated, signifies the " the noisy green water." — 
 Barry's Songs of Ireland, p. 173. 
 
 § Ihe most remarkable and beautiful mountain at Glengariff is the 
 noble conical one, whose ancient name is Sliabh-na-goil ('■ the mountain 
 of the wild people"). The common-place epithet of "Sugar Loaf" has 
 here, as elsewhere, unworthily usurped the fine old musical names -vriich 
 our anceitor* gaT« to their bills.
 
 6^ BOOK OP IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 T hrough woods, the sweet birds' leaf home, he msheth 
 to the sea foam — 
 
 Long, long the fairies' chief home, when the summer 
 nights are cool. 
 
 And the blue sea like a Syren, with its waves the 
 steed environ. 
 
 Which hiss Hke furnace iron when plunged within a 
 pool, 
 
 Then along among the islands where the water- 
 nymphs bear rule. 
 
 Through the bay to AdragooL 
 
 JTow he rises o'er Bearhaven, where he hangeth like a 
 
 raven — 
 Ah ! ^laurice, though no craven, how terrible for thee 1 
 To see the misty shading of the mighty mountains 
 
 fading. 
 And t ly winged fire-steed wading through the clouds 
 
 as through a sea ! 
 N"ow he feels the earth beneath him— he k loosen'd— 
 
 he is free, 
 
 And asleep in C^im-an-eich. ^ 
 
 Away the wild steed leapeth, while his rider calmly 
 
 sleep eth 
 Beneath a rock which keepeth the entrance to the 
 
 glen, 
 Which standeth like a castle, where are dweUing lord 
 
 and vassal, 
 Where within are wine and wassail, and without are 
 
 warrior men — 
 But save the sleeping Maurice, this castle cliff had 
 
 then 
 
 No mortal denizen ! * 
 
 Now Maurice is awaking, for the solid earth is shaking 
 And a sunny light is breaking through the slowly 
 opening stone — 
 
 • There la a great square rocs, literally resembling the description 
 tn the text, which stands near the Glengariff entrance to the pass of 
 Ctfim-an eich.
 
 iiOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 65 
 
 And a fair page at the portal, crieth, " Welcome 
 
 welcome ! mortal, 
 Leave thy world (at best a short ill), for the pleasant 
 
 world we own — 
 There are joys by thee untasted, there are glories yet 
 
 unknown — 
 
 Come kneel at Una's throne." 
 
 With a sullen sound of thunder, the great rock falls 
 
 asunder, 
 He looks around in wonder, and with ravishment 
 
 awhile — 
 For the air his sense is chaining, with as exquisite a 
 
 paining. 
 As when summer clouds are raining o'er a flowery 
 
 Indian isle — 
 And the faces that surround him, oh ! how exquisite 
 
 their smile, 
 
 So free of mortal care and guile. 
 
 These forms, oh! they are finer — these faces are diviner 
 
 Than Phidias even thine are, with all thy magic art ; 
 
 For beyond an artist's guessing, and beyond a bard's 
 expressing. 
 
 Is the face that truth is dressing with the feelings of 
 the heart ; 
 
 Two worlds are there together — Earth and Heaver- 
 have each a part — 
 
 And such, divinest Una, thou art ! 
 
 And then the dazzling lustre of the hall in which they 
 
 muster — 
 Where brightest diamonds cluster on the flashing 
 
 walls around ; 
 And the fijdng and advancing, and the sighing and 
 
 the glancing, 
 And the music and the dancing on the flower-inwoveQ 
 
 ground, 
 And the laughing and the feasting, and the quaffing 
 
 and the sound, 
 
 In which their voices all are drowned.
 
 66 BOOK OF miSH BALLADS. 
 
 But the murmur now is hushing — there's a pushing 
 
 and a rushing, 
 There's a crowding and a crushing, through that 
 
 golden, fairy place. 
 Where a snowy veil is lifting, like the slow and silent 
 
 shifting 
 Of a shining vapour drifting across the moon's pale 
 
 face — 
 For there sits gentle Una, fairest queen of fairy race, 
 In her beauty, and her majesty and grace. 
 
 The moon by stars attended, on her pearly throne 
 
 ascended. 
 Is not more purely splendid than this fairy-girted 
 
 queen ; 
 And when her lips had spoken, 'mid the charmed 
 
 silence broken. 
 You'd think you had awoken in some bright ElysiaiL 
 
 scene ; 
 For her voice than the lark's was sweeter, that sings 
 
 in joy between 
 
 The heavens and the meadows green. 
 
 But her cheeks — ah ! what are roses, — what are clouds 
 
 where eve reposes, — 
 What are hues that dawn discloses, — to the blushes 
 
 spreading there 1 
 And what the sparkling motion of a star within the 
 
 ocean, 
 To the crystal soft emotion that her lustrous dark e^es 
 
 ■wear? 
 And the tresses of a moonless and a starless night are 
 
 fair 
 
 To the blackness of her raven hair. 
 
 ** Ah ! Mortal, hearts have panted for what to thee is 
 
 granted — 
 To see the halls enchanted of the spirit world revealed; 
 And yet no glimpse assuages the feverish doubt that 
 
 rages
 
 BOOK OF lEISH BALLADS. 67 
 
 In the hearts of bards and sages wherewith they may 
 be healed ; 
 
 For this have pilgrims wandered — for this have vota- 
 ries kneeled — 
 
 For this, too, has blood bedewed the field. 
 
 *And now that thou beholdest, what the wisest and 
 
 the oldest, 
 What the bravest and the boldest, have never yet 
 
 descried — 
 Wilt thou come and share our being, be a part of what 
 
 thou'rt seeing, 
 And flee as we are fleeing, through the boundless 
 
 ether wide ] 
 Or along the silver ocean, or down deep where pearls 
 
 hide] 
 
 And I, who am a queen, will be thy bride. 
 
 " As an essence thou wilt enter the world's mysterious 
 centre" — 
 
 And then the fairy bent her, imploring to the youth — 
 
 " Thou'lt be free of death's cold ghastness, and, with 
 a comet's fastness. 
 
 Thou canst wander through the vastness to the Para- 
 dise of Truth, 
 
 Each day a new joy bringing, which will never leave, 
 in sooth. 
 
 The slightest stain of weariness and ruth." 
 
 As he listened to the speal^r, his heart grew weak and 
 
 weaker — 
 Ah ! memory, go seek her, that maiden by the wave, 
 Who with terror and amazement is looking from hex 
 
 casement. 
 Where the billows at the basement of her nestled 
 
 cottage rave 
 At the moon, which struggles onward through the 
 
 tempest, like the brave, 
 
 And which sinks within the clouds as in a 
 grave-.
 
 68 BOOK OF IRISH BAXLADS. 
 
 All maidens Mill abhor us — and it's very painful for u'; 
 To tell how faithless Maurice forgot his plighted vow 
 He thinks not of the breaking of the heart he late wag 
 
 seeking — 
 He but listens to her speaking, and but gazes on her 
 
 brow — 
 And his heart has all consented, and his lips are ready 
 
 now 
 
 With the awful, and irrevocable vow. 
 
 While the word is there abiding, lo ! the crowd is now 
 
 dividing, ' 
 And, with sweet and gentle gliding, in before hini 
 
 came a fawn ; 
 It was the same that fled him, and that seemed so much 
 
 to dread him. 
 When it down in triumph led him to GlengariflTs grassy 
 
 lawn, 
 When, from rock to rock descending, to sweet AHce 
 
 he was drawn, 
 
 As through C^im-an-eich he hunted from 
 the dawn. 
 
 The magic chain is broken — no fairy vow is spoken — 
 From his trance he hath awoken, and once again is free; 
 And gone is Una's palace, and vain the v»ild steed's 
 
 malice, 
 And again to gentle Alice down he wends through 
 
 C6im-an-eich : 
 The moon is calmly shining over mountain, stream, 
 
 and tree, 
 
 And the yellow sea-plants glisten through 
 the sea. 
 
 The sun his gold is flinging, the happy birds are sing- 
 ing, 
 
 And bells are gaily ringing along GlengarijQfs sea ; 
 
 And crowds in many a galley to the happy marriage 
 rally
 
 BOOK 01 IRISH BALLADS, 69 
 
 Of tLe maiden of the valley and the youth of C^im- 
 
 an-eich ; 
 Old eyes with joy are weeping, as all ask on bended 
 
 knee, 
 
 A blessing, gentle Alice, upon thee ! 
 
 THE FETCH. 
 
 BY JOHN BANIM. 
 
 [In Ireland, a Fetch is the supernatural facsimile of some individual, 
 who comes to insure to its original a happy longevity, or immediate 
 dissolution. If seen in the morning, the one event is predicted; if in 
 the evening, the other.— ^anm.] 
 
 The mother died when the child was bom, 
 
 And left me her baby to keep ; 
 I rocked its cradle the night and mom, 
 
 Or, silent, hung o'er it to weep. 
 
 'Twas a sickly child through its infancy, 
 
 Its cheeks were so ashy pale ; 
 Till it broke from my arms to walk in glee, 
 Out in the sharp, fresh gale. 
 
 And then my little girl grew strong, 
 
 And laughed the hours away ; 
 Or sung me the merry lark's mountain song, 
 
 Which he taught her at break of day. 
 
 When she wreathed her hair in thicket bowers. 
 With the hedge-rose and harebell blue, 
 
 I called her my May, in her crown of flowers. 
 And her smile so soft and new. 
 
 j^.nd the rose, I thought, never shamed her cheek, 
 
 But rosy and rosier made it ; 
 And her eye of blue did more brightly break, 
 
 Through the bluebell that strove tc shade it.
 
 70 Book OP IRISH; BALLADS. 
 
 One evening I left her asleep in her smiles, 
 And walked through the mountains lonely j 
 
 I was far from my darling, ah ! many long miles, 
 And I thought of her, and her only ! 
 
 She darkened my path, like a troubled dream, 
 
 In that solitude far and drear ; 
 I spoke to my child ! but she did not seem 
 
 To hearken with human ear. 
 
 She only looked with a dead, dead eye, 
 And a wan, wan cheek of sorrow : 
 
 1 knew her Fetch !~she was called to die. 
 And she died upon the morrow. 
 
 CUSHEEN LOO. 
 
 TRANSLATED FKOM THE IRISH. 
 
 BY J. J. CALLANAN. 
 
 [This song is supposed to have been sung by a young bride, who was 
 forcibly detained in one of those forts whicli are so common in Ireland, 
 and to Avhicli the good people are very fond of resorting. Under pre- 
 tence of liushing her child to rest, she retired to the outside margin of 
 the fort, and addressed the burthen of her song to a young woman whom 
 she saw at a short distance, and whom she requested to inform her hus- 
 band of her condition, and to desire him to bring the steel knife to dis 
 solve the enchantment.] 
 
 Sleep, my child ! for the rustling trees, 
 Stirr'd by the breath of summer breeze, 
 And fairy songs of sweetest note. 
 Around us gently float. 
 
 Sleep ! for the weeping flowers have shed 
 Their fragrant tears upon thy head, 
 The voice of love hath sooth'd thy rest, 
 And thy pillow is a mother's breast. 
 
 Sleep, my child ! 
 
 Weary hath pass'd the time forlorn, 
 Since to your mansion I was borne, 
 Tho' bright the feast of its airy halls, 
 And the voice of mirth resounds from its walls. 
 Sleep, my child !
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 71 
 
 Full many a maid and blooming bride 
 Within that splendid dome abide, — 
 And many a hoar and shriYell'd sage, 
 And many a matron boVd with age. 
 
 Sleep, my child ! 
 
 Oh ! thou who hearest this song of fear, 
 To the mourner's home these tidings bear. 
 Bid him bring the knife of the magic blade, 
 At whose lightning-flash the charm will fadei 
 Sleep, my child ! 
 
 Haste ! for to-morrow's sun will see 
 The hateful spell renewed for me ; 
 Nor can I from that home depart, 
 Till life shall leave my withering heart. 
 
 Sleep, my child ! 
 
 Sleep, my child ! for the rustling trees, 
 Stirr'd by the breath of summer breeze, 
 And fairy songs of sweetest note, 
 Around us gently float. 
 
 THE BURIAL. 
 
 BY THE REV. JAMES WILLS. 
 
 A FAINT breeze is playing with flowers on the hill. 
 The blue vault of summer is cloudless and still ; 
 And the vale with the wild bloom of nature is gay. 
 But the far hills are breathing a sorrowful lay ! 
 
 As winds on the ClairseacKs sad chords when they 
 
 stream. 
 As the voice of the dead on the mourner's dark dream ! 
 Far away, far away, from grey distance it breaks, 
 First known to the breast by the sadness it wakes. 
 
 Now lower, now louder, and longer it mourns, — 
 Now faintly it falls, and now fitful returns ; 
 Now near, and now nearer, it swells on the ear, 
 The wild ululua. the death-sone is ne»^ L
 
 72 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 With slow steps, sad burthen, and wild-uttered wail. 
 Maid, matron, and cotter wind up frona the vale ; 
 And loud lamentations salute the grey liill, 
 Where their fathers are sleeping, the silent and still ! 
 
 Wild, wildly that wail ringeth back on the air, 
 From that lone place of tombs, as if spirits were there 
 O'er the silent, the still, and the cold they deplore, 
 They weep for the tearless, whose sorrows are o'er. 
 
 THE O'NEILL. 
 
 [Since this ballad wks written, all necessaiy light has been thrown 
 upon the character and exploits of Aodh O'Neill, by Mr. Mitchell in his 
 most admirable and fearless life of that prince; audby theRev. C. P. 
 Meehan, in his important historical work on " TVie Fate and Fortunes of 
 O'Neill and O'Donel" To some of my readers, however, the original 
 explanation given by the author of the ballad (in the Belfast Magazine) 
 may be useful, and I therefore retain it with some abridgment. It is to 
 the latter part of the tradition alluded to that this poem owes its origin. 
 ' ' Hugh O'Neill, representative and chief of the powerful family of that 
 aame, in the year 1587, accepted of a patent from Queen Elizabeth, 
 creating him Earl of Tir-Owen ; in the eyes of his kinsmen and followers 
 this acceptance was an act of submission, and the title itself a degra- 
 dation; The O'Neiirbeing a royal name, and conferring on its holder 
 kingly authority. The mark of favour bestowed by Elizabeth was held 
 by the Earl until 1595, in the spring of which year he suddenly called an 
 assembly of the chiefs of his cottntry, formally renounced the act of 
 fiubmission, and resumed the original distinguished appellation of his fore- 
 fathers—The O'Neill. The cause of this alteration in his conduct has 
 been variously accounted for ; but an old tradition, which is still cuirent 
 in the country where he flourished, attributes it wholly to the interfe- 
 rence of a supernatural agent. After relating in a simple style what is 
 stated above, it tells that for three nights previous to the calling of the 
 assembly, the Banshee, or gnardian spirit of the family, was heard in his 
 castle of Dun gannon, upbraiding him with his submission, conjuring him 
 to throw off the odious epithet with which his enemies had branded him, 
 rousing him to a sense of his danger by describing the sufferings of som 
 of the neighbouring chiefs, charging him to arm, and promising hiia 
 assistance."] 
 
 " Can ought of glory or renown, 
 " To thee from Saxon titles spring 1 
 
 " Thy name a kingdom and a crown. 
 " Tir-owen's chieftain, Ulster's King !" 
 
 These were the sounds that on thy ear, 
 
 Tir-owen's startled Earl, arose. 
 That blanch'd thy altered cheek with fear, 
 
 And from thy pillow chas'd repose.
 
 BOOK OF lEISH BALLADS. 73 
 
 In vain was clos'd that weary eye, 
 In vain that prayer for peaceful sleep ; 
 
 For still a viewless spirit nigh 
 Broke forth in accents loud and deep : 
 
 " Can ought of glory or reno^vn, 
 " To thee from Saxon titles spring 1 
 
 " Thy name a kingdom and a crown, 
 " Tir-owen's chieftain, Ulster's king ! 
 
 " Oft did thy eager youthful ear 
 
 " Bend to the tale of Thomond's shame, ^ 
 
 " And, in thy pride of blood did swear 
 " To hold with life thy glorious name ! 
 
 " Yet thou didst leave thy native land, 
 " For honours on a foreign shore, 
 
 " And for submission's purchased brand, 
 " Barter'd the name thy fathers bore ! 
 
 ** Where are those fathers' glories gone 1 
 " The pride of ages that have been ! 
 
 " ^'V^lile tamely bows their traitor son, 
 " The vassal of a Saxon Queen : 
 
 " While still within a dungeon's waUs, 
 
 " Ardmira's fetter'd prince reclines,! 
 " While TMaoile for her chieftain calls,! 
 " Who in a distant prison pines : 
 
 " While from that corse, yet reeking warm, 
 " O'er his own fields the hie-streams flow, 
 
 ♦ In the reign of Henry the Eighth, the palace of Cluan-road, near 
 Ennls, in the count)' of Clare, the magnificent mangion of the chief of 
 the O'Briens, was burned to the ground hy those of his own blood, in 
 revenge for his having accepted of the comparatively degrading title 
 of Earl of Thomond. 
 
 t O'Dogherty of Ardmir, who was seized and tturowumto prison by t'.ie 
 Lord Deputy Fitzwilliam. 
 
 X O'Toole of TMaoile, father to the wife of O'Neill, also impri.soi.ea by 
 Fitzwilliai.i.
 
 74 POOK OP IRISH iiALLADS. 
 
 " Well may'st thou start ! that mangled form 
 " Once was thy friend, MacMahon Koe.* 
 
 " Forget'st thou that a vessel came 
 " To Cineal's strand, in gaudy pride, 
 
 " Fraught with each store of valued name. 
 " That nature gave or art supplied : 
 
 " No voice to bid the youth beware, 
 " Of banquets by the Saxon spread ; 
 
 "He tasted, and the treacherous snare 
 " Clos'd o'er the young O'Donnell's head,-*- 
 
 " Hopeless, desponding, still he lies, 
 " No aid his griefs to soothe or end ; 
 
 ** And oft in vain his languid eyes 
 
 " Turn bright'ning on his father's friend : 
 
 " Who was that friend ]--a chief of power, 
 " The guardian of a kingdom's weal, 
 
 " Tir-owen's pride and Ulster's flower, 
 " A prince, a hero, The O'Neill ! 
 
 " He, at whose war-horn's potent blast, 
 " Twice twenty chiefs in battle tried, 
 
 " Unsheath'd the sword in warlike haste, 
 "And rang'd their thousands on his side. 
 
 " But now he dreads the paths to tread, 
 That lead to honours, power, and fame j 
 
 ** And stands, each nobler feeling dead, 
 " Nameless, who own'd a monarch's name. 
 
 • Hngh Roe MacMahon, chief of Monaghau, who was tried befoiti 
 Fitzwilliam, by a jury of common soldiers, and butchered at his castle 
 door. 
 
 t O'Donnell, son of the Chief of Tyrconnel, who was decoyed on board 
 a vessel and carried prisoner to Dublin, where he was detained from his 
 fourteenth until his twentieth year, when he made a desperate effort to 
 escape, and succeeded.
 
 BOOK OF lEISH BALLADS. 76 
 
 " Shall Ardmir's prince for ever groan, 
 " And I'Maoile's chief still fetter'd lie 1 
 
 " None for MacMahon's blood atone ] 
 " Nought cheer O'Donnell's languid eye ] 
 
 " To thee they turn, on thee they rest : 
 " Release the chain'd, revenge the dead, 
 
 ** Or soon the halls thy sires possess'd, 
 " Shall echo to a stranger's tread ! 
 
 " And in the sacred chair of stone, * 
 " The base Ne Gavelocf shalt thou see ; 
 
 " Receive the name, the power, the throne, 
 " That once was dear as life to thee ! 
 
 " Arise ! for on his native plains 
 " His father's warriors marshall'd round,— 
 
 " O'Donnell, freed from Saxon chains, 
 " Shall soon the signal trumpet sound : 
 
 " And soon, thy sacred cause to aid, 
 " The brave 0'Cahan,J at thy call, 
 
 " Shall brandish high the flaming blade, 
 " That filled the grasp of Cuie-na-gall : 
 
 " Resume thy name, in arms arise, 
 " Tear from thy breast the Saxon star, 
 
 " And let the coming midnight skies 
 " Be crimson'd with thy fires of war ! 
 
 " And bid around the echoing land 
 " The war-horn raise thy vassal powers ; 
 
 " And, once again, the Bloody Hand § 
 " Waive on Dungannon's royal towers !" 
 
 * The chair of stone on ■which the chiefs of the O'Neills were solemnly 
 invested with the power and titles of chief of Tir-owen, and paramount 
 pxince of Ulster. 
 
 t Hu;?h O'Nial, illegitimate son of Jo'.in, formerly chief of Tir-owen, 
 iumamed Ne Gaveloc, or the fettered, from his having been bom during 
 the captivity of his mother. 
 
 t O'Cahan of Cinachta, descended from the famous Cuie-na-gall, or 
 the " Terror of the Stranger," \\ ho was celebrated for his exploits against 
 the English. 
 
 § The bloody hand in the crest of the name of O'Neill
 
 76 ^^Jx^K OF LRISU BALLADS. 
 
 THE WAKE OF THE ABSENT. 
 
 BY GERALD GEIFFIN. 
 
 [It is a custom among the peasantry In some parts of Ireland, when 
 any member of a family has been lost at sea (or in any other way which 
 renders the performance of the customary funeral rite impossible), to 
 celebrate the " wake,' exactly in the same way, as if the corpse were 
 actually present.] 
 
 The dismal yew, and cypress tall, 
 
 Waive o'er the diurchyard lone. 
 Where rest our friends and fathers all, 
 
 Beneath the funeral stone. 
 Unvexed in holy ground they sleep, 
 
 Oh early lost ! e'er thee 
 No sorrowing friend shall ever weep, 
 
 Nor stranger bend the knee, 
 
 mo cutriA ! * lorn am I ! 
 Hoarse dashing rolls the salt-sea wave, 
 Over our perished darling's grave — 
 
 The winds the sullen deep that tore. 
 
 His death-song chanted loud. 
 The weeds that line the clif ted shore 
 
 Were all his burial shroud. 
 For friendly wail and holy dirge. 
 
 And long lament of love. 
 Around him roared the angry surge. 
 
 The curlew screamed above, 
 
 ino cuiriA ! lorn am I 
 My grief would turn to rapture now, 
 Might I but touch that pallid brow. 
 
 The stream-born bubbles soonest burst 
 
 That earliest left the source : 
 Buds earliest blown are faded first. 
 
 In nature's wonted course ! 
 
 * Mo Chuma -ily grief, or, Woe is rael — Ed.
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 77 
 
 With guarded pace her seasons creep, 
 
 By slow decay expire ; 
 The young above the aged weep, 
 
 The son above the sire : 
 
 mo CutTiA ! lorn am 1 ! 
 That death a backward course should hold, 
 To smite the young, and spare the old. 
 
 KATHLEENS FETCH. 
 
 |The Fetch is supposed to be the exact form and resemblance, as to 
 ;\lr, stature, features, and dress, of a certain person, who is soon to 
 oepart this world. It is also supposed to appear to the particular friend 
 of the doomed one, and to flit before him without any warning or inti- 
 yiation, but merely the mystery of the appearance at a place and time 
 ■where and when the real being could not be or appear. It is most 
 frequently thought to be seen when the fated object is about to die a 
 sudden death by unforeseen means, and then it is said to be particularly 
 disturbed and agitated in its motions. Unlike the superstition of the 
 Banshee,* there is no accounting for the coming of this forerunner of 
 death; there is no tracing it to any defined origin; but that it does 
 come, a shadowy phantom of doom and terror, and often comes, is 
 finnly believed by our peasantry, and many curious stories and cir- 
 .Jumstances are related to confirm the truth of the position — Author's 
 
 NOTK.] 
 
 The reaper's weary task was done, 
 And down to repose sunk the autumn sun ; 
 And the crimson clouds, in the rich-hued west 
 Were folding like rose-leaves round his rest. 
 My heart was light, and I hummed a tune, 
 As I hied me home by the harvest moon ; 
 And I bless'd her soft and tender ray, 
 That rose to lighten my lone pathway. 
 
 Then I thought on my Kathleen's winning smile, 
 (And I felt my heai-t grow sad the while,) 
 Of her cheek, like the fading rose-clouds glowing, 
 Of her hair, like the dying sun-light flowing ; 
 And her words, like the song of a summer bird. 
 And her air and step, like the fawn's, when stirred 
 By the hunter's horn, as it b'oometh o'er 
 The woody glens of the steep Sliabh-mor.
 
 78 BOOK OF IRKH BALIADi?. 
 
 The broad Lough Msfek* beneath me lay, 
 Like a sheet of foam in the silver ray ; 
 And its yellow shores were round it rolled, 
 As a gem enclosed by its fretted gold. 
 And there, where the old oaks mark the spot, 
 Arose my Kathleen's sheltered cot ; 
 And I bounded on, for my hopes were high. 
 Though still at my heart rose the boding sigh. 
 
 The silver moon was veiled by a cloud, 
 And the darkness fell on my soul like a shroud ; 
 And a figure ,in white was seen afar, 
 To flit on my path like a twinkling star. 
 I rushed, I ran, — 'twas my Kathleen dear ; 
 But why does she fly 1 has she aught to fear ? 
 I called, but in vain — like the fleeting beam. 
 She melted away with the flowing stream. 
 
 I came to her father's cottage door, 
 
 But the sounds of wailing were on his floor ; 
 
 And the keener's voice rose loud and wild, 
 
 And a mother bewailed her darling child, 
 
 jNIy heart grew chill — I could not draw 
 
 The latch : I knew 'twas her Fetch I saw ! 
 
 Yes, Kathleen, fair Kathleen, that sad night died, 
 
 The fond pulse of my soul, its hope, its pride. 
 
 THE DOOM OF THE MIRROR. 
 
 BY B. SIMMONS. 
 
 [The Btiperstition, that whoever breaks a looking-glass is d^tlned to 
 misfortune, is widely entertained in Ireland. The little story related in 
 these verses is not altogether imaginative.— Authok's Noib.] 
 
 Fair Judith Lee — a woful pair. 
 
 Were steed and rider weary, 
 When, winding down from mountains bare, 
 
 By crag and fastness dreaiy, 
 
 • A large and beantiful lake, bounded bv the counties of Mayo and 
 G«Uj/ay.
 
 BOOK OF miSH BALLAI>e, 79 
 
 I first beheld her— where the path 
 
 Resigned its sterner traces 
 lu a green depth of woods, like Wrath 
 
 Subdued by Love's embraces. 
 
 By the oak-shadowed well she stood, 
 
 Her rounded arms uplifted, 
 To bind the curls whose golden flood 
 
 Had from its fillets drifted, — 
 Whilst stooping o'er the fount to fill 
 
 The rustic urn beside her, 
 Her face to evening's beauty still 
 
 Imparting beauty wider. 
 
 She told me of the road I missed — 
 
 Gave me to drink— and even, 
 At parting, waived the hand she kissed, 
 
 White as a star in heaven ; 
 But iiever smiled — though prompt and warm 
 
 I paid, in duteous phi-ases, 
 The tribute that so fair a form 
 
 From minstrel ever raises. 
 
 The gladness murmured to her cheek, 
 
 U]&olded not its roses — 
 That bluest mom will never break 
 
 That in her eye reposes. 
 Some gentle woe, with dove-like ^vi^g3, 
 
 Had o'er her cast a shadow, 
 Soft as the sky of April flings 
 
 Upon a vernal meadow. 
 
 In vain, with venial art to sound 
 
 The springs of that affliction, 
 I hinted of my craft — renowned 
 
 For omen and prediction : 
 In vain assuming mystic power, 
 
 Her fortune to discover, 
 I guessed its golden items o'er, 
 
 And closed them with—a lover
 
 so BOOK OF IRISH BAJ^ADS. 
 
 It failed for once — that final word — 
 
 A maiden's brow to brighten. 
 The cloud within her soul unstirred, 
 
 Eefused to flash or lighten. 
 She felt and thanked the artifice, 
 
 Beneath whose faint disguising 
 I would have prompted hope and peace, 
 
 With accents sympathising 
 
 But no — she said (the while her face 
 
 A summer- wave resembled, 
 Outsparkling from some leafy place, 
 
 Then back to darkness trembled) — 
 For her was neither living hope 
 
 Nor loving heart allotted, 
 Joy had but drawn her horoscope 
 
 For Sorrow's hand to blot it. 
 
 Her words made silveiy stop — for lo ! 
 
 Peals of sweet laughter ringing ! ^ 
 And through that wood's green solitudes 
 
 Glad village-damsels winging ! 
 As though that mirth some feeling jarred, 
 
 The maiden, pensive-hearted, 
 Murmured farewell, and through the dell 
 
 In loneliness departed. 
 
 With breeze-tossed locks and gleaming feet. 
 
 And store of slender pitchers, 
 O'er the dim lawns, like rushing fawns, 
 
 Come the fair Water-f etchers • 
 And there, while round that well's grey oak 
 
 Cluster'd the sudden glory, 
 Fair Judith Lee, from guileless lips 
 
 I heard thy simple storj^ 
 
 Of humble lot — ^the legends wild 
 
 Believed by that condition, 
 Had mingled with her spirit mild 
 
 Their haunting superstition.
 
 BOOK OF IKISH BALLADS. 81 
 
 Whicli grew to gi'ief, when o'er her youth 
 
 The doom descended, spoken 
 On those who see beneath their touch 
 
 The fatal MiiTor broken. 
 
 ** Never ix life to prosper more." 
 
 And so, from life sequestered, 
 With dim forebodings brooding o'er 
 
 The shafted fate that festered 
 Deep in the white depths of her soul, 
 
 The patient girl awaited 
 Ill's viewless train — her days to pain 
 
 And duty consecrated. 
 
 At times she deemed the coming woe 
 
 Through others' heart i would reach her, 
 Till every tie that twined her low, 
 
 Upon the lap of Nature. 
 Her once-loved head un.vatched, unknown 
 
 Should sink in meek <lejection, 
 Hushed as some Quiet ( arved in stone 
 
 Above entombed affec cion. 
 
 E'en her young Jieart's i istinctive want 
 
 To be beloved and losing, 
 Inexorably vigilant. 
 
 She checked with coir, reproving. 
 For still she saw, shoulc tempests fro^A'n. 
 
 That treacherous and or sever, 
 And Hope's whole priceless freight go down 
 
 A shipwrecked thing :or ever. 
 
 So pined that gracious j orm away, 
 
 Her bliss-fraught life untasted ; 
 A breeze-harp whose di inest voice 
 
 On lonely winds is w isted. 
 And such the tale to m( conveyed 
 
 In laughing tones or lowly, 
 As still mat rosy crowd was swayed 
 
 By mirth or melancholy.
 
 82 BOOK OF IRlSIi BALLADS. 
 
 IVe seen since then the churchyard nook. 
 
 AVhere Judith Lee lies sleeping ; 
 The wild ash loves it, and a brook 
 
 Through emerald mosses creeping , 
 For that lost maiden ever there 
 
 A low sweet mass is singing, 
 While all around, like nuns at prayer, 
 
 Pale water-flowers are springing. 
 
 Poor Girl ! Pve thought, as there reclined 
 
 I drank the sunset's glory — 
 Thy tale to meditative mind 
 
 Is but' an allegory ; 
 Once shatter inborn Truth divine. 
 
 The soul's transparent mirror, 
 Where Heaven's reflection loved to shine. 
 
 And what remains but terror ? 
 
 Terror and Woe ; — Faith's holy face 
 
 No more our hearts relieving — 
 Fades from the past each early grace 
 
 The future brings but grieving ; 
 However fast life's blessings fall 
 
 In lavish sunshine o'er us, 
 That Broken Glass distorts them all 
 
 Whose fragments glare before us. 
 
 THE FAIRY NURSE. 
 
 BY EDWAKD WALSH, 
 
 Sweet babe ! a golden cradle holds thee, 
 And soft the snow-white fleece enfolds thee ; 
 In airy bower Pll watch thy sleeping, 
 Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping. 
 Shuheen, she, lulo lo ! 
 
 When mothers languish broken-hearted. 
 When young "svives are from husbands parted, 
 Ah ! little think the keeners lonely, 
 They weep some time-worn fairy only. 
 Shulieen sho. lulo lo !
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 83 
 
 Witliin our magic halls of brightness, 
 Trips many a foot of snowj^ whiteness ; 
 Stolen maidens, queens of fairy — 
 ■^.nd kings and chiefs a sluagh shee* airy. 
 Shuheen ^ho, lulo lo ! 
 
 Kest 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 ! 
 
 JRest thee, babe ! for soon thy slumbers 
 Shall flee at the magic koelshie's t numbei-s ; 
 In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping, 
 Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping, 
 Shuheen sho, lulo lo 1 
 
 EAKL DESMOND AND THE BANSHEE.l 
 
 Now cheer thee on, my gallant steed, 
 There's a weary way before us — 
 
 Across the mountain swiftly speed, 
 For the storm is gathering o'er us. 
 
 Away, away, the horseman rides ; 
 
 His bounding steed's dark form 
 Seem'd o'er the soft black moss to glide— 
 
 A spirit of the storm ! 
 
 Now, rolling in the troubled sky, 
 The thunder's loudly crashing ; _ 
 
 And through the dark clouds driving by, 
 The moon's pale light is flashing. 
 
 In sheets of foam the mountain flood 
 
 Comes roaring down the glen ; 
 On the steep bank one moment stood 
 
 The horse and rider then.
 
 84 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 One desperate bound the courser gave, 
 And plunged into the stream ; 
 
 A.nd snorting, stemm'd the boiling wave, 
 By the lightning's quivering gleam. 
 
 The flood is pass'd — the bank is gain'd — 
 
 Away -with headlong speed ; 
 A fleeter horse than Desmond rein'd 
 
 Ne'er served at lover's need. 
 
 His scatter'd train, in eager haste, 
 
 Far, far behind him ride ; 
 Alone he's crossed the mountain waste, 
 
 To meet his promised bride. 
 
 The clouds across the moon's dim form 
 
 Are fast and faster saihng, 
 And sounds are heard on the sweeping storn 
 
 Of wild unearthly wailing. 
 
 At first low moanings seem'd to die 
 
 Away, and faintly languish ; 
 Then swell into the piercing cry 
 
 Of deep, heart-bursting anguish. 
 
 Beneath an oak, whose branches bare 
 
 Were crashing in the storm, 
 With wringing hands and streaming hair, 
 
 There sat a female form. 
 
 To pass that oak in vain he tried ; 
 
 His steed refus'd to stir. 
 Though furious 'gainst his panting side 
 
 Was struck the bloody spur. 
 
 The moon^ by driving clouds o'ercast, 
 
 Withheld its fitful gleam ; 
 And louder than the tempest blast 
 
 Was heard the banshee s scream-
 
 BOOK OP IRISH BALtiADS. 85 
 
 And when the moon unveiled once more, 
 
 And shoVd her paly light, 
 Then nought was seen save the branches hoar 
 
 Of the oak-tree's blasted might. 
 
 That shrieking form had vanished 
 
 From out that lonely place ; 
 And, like a dreamy vision, fled, 
 
 Nor left one single trace. 
 
 Earl Desmond gazed — his bosom swell'd 
 
 With grief and sad foreboding ; 
 Then on his fiery way he held, 
 
 His courser madly goading. 
 
 For well that wailing voice he knew. 
 
 And onward hurrying fast, 
 O'er hills and dales impetuous flew, 
 
 And reach'd his home at last. 
 
 Beneath his wearied courser's hoof 
 
 The trembling drawbridge clangs. 
 And Desmond sees his ov^m good roof, 
 
 But darkness o'er it hangs. 
 
 He pass'd beneath the gloomy gate, 
 
 No guiding tapers burn ; 
 No vassals in the court-yard wait, 
 
 To welcome his return. 
 
 The hearth is cold in the lonely hall, 
 
 No banquet decks the board • 
 No page stands ready at the call. 
 
 To 'tend his wearied lord. 
 
 But all within is dark and drear, 
 
 IS o sights or sounds of gladness — 
 Nought broke the stillness on the ear 
 
 Save a sudden burst of sadness.
 
 66 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 Then slowly swell'd the keener's strain 
 With loud lament and weeping, 
 
 For round a corse a mournful train 
 The sad death-watch were keeping. 
 
 Aghast he stood, bereft of power, 
 
 Hope's fairy visions fled ; 
 His fears confirmed ; his beauteous flower — 
 
 His fair-hair'd bride was dead ! 
 
 THE BKIDAL WAKE. 
 
 BY GERALD GRIFFIN. 
 
 The priest stood at the marriage board, 
 
 The marriage cake was made, 
 With meat the marriage chest was stored, 
 
 Decked was the marriage bed. 
 The old man sat beside the fire, 
 
 The mother sat by him, 
 The white bride was in gay attire. 
 
 But her dark eye was dim. 
 
 UMah ! Ululah ! 
 The night falls quick, the sun is set, 
 Her love is on the water yet. 
 
 I saw a red cloud in the west. 
 
 Against the morning Ught, 
 Heaven shield the youth that she loves besc 
 
 From evil chance to-night. 
 The door flings wide ! loud moans the gale. 
 
 Wild fear her bosom fills. 
 It is, it is the Banshee's wail ! 
 
 Over the darkened hills. 
 
 Ululah ! Ululah ! 
 The day is past ! the night is dark ! 
 The waves are mounting round his b^-rk.
 
 BOOK OP IRISH BALLADS. 87 
 
 Tlie guests sit round the bridal bed, 
 
 And break the bridal cake ; 
 But they sit by the dead man's head, 
 
 A.nd hold his wedding wake. 
 The bride is praying in her room, 
 
 The place is silent all ! 
 A fearlul call ! a sudden doom ! 
 
 Bridal and funeral. 
 
 Ululah ! Ululah ! 
 A youth to Kilfiehera 's* ta'en, 
 That never will return again. 
 
 THE KEEN.t 
 
 BY CEOFTON CllOKMB. 
 
 Maidens, sing no more in gladness 
 To your merrv spinning-wheels, 
 
 Join the keener s voice of sadness — 
 Feel for what a mother feels ! 
 
 See the space within my dwelling — 
 'Tis the cold, blank space of death ; 
 
 'Twas the Banshee'sJ voice came swelling 
 Slowly o'er the midnight heath. 
 
 Keeners, let your song not falter — 
 He was as the hawthorn fair. 
 
 Lowly at the Virgin's altar 
 Will his mother kneel in prayer. 
 
 Prayer is good to calm the spirit, 
 When the keen:}: is sweetly sun^ : 
 
 Death, though mortal flesh inherit, 
 Why should age lament the young ? 
 
 'Twas the Banshee's lonely wailing ;— 
 Well I knew the voice of death, 
 
 On the night-wind slowly sailing 
 O'er the bleak and gloomy heath ! 
 
 * The name of a churchyard near Y'lV^ee. 
 ' An CAOitie. " t beAnpse
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 THE SAGA OF KING OLAF OF NOKWA!i[ 
 AND HIS DOG. 
 
 A.D. 1,000. 
 
 BY THOMAS d'aECY M'GEE. 
 [Olaf Tryggvesson was king over all Norway from about a.d. 995 to 
 A-i>. 1,000." His Saga, the sixth In Snorro Sturleson's Heimskringla, 
 is very curious and suggestive. Among other incidents it contains the 
 episode which suggested this ballad. It may be remarked that the 
 Chronicles of the North-men, of the several nations, throw much re- 
 flected light on our own more statistical annals. All through the 9th, 
 lOth, and 11th centuries, that restless race frown along the back-ground 
 of our history, filling us with the same awful interest we feel in watching 
 the advance" of one thunder-cloud towards another, 'i'iiey certainly 
 destroyed many native materials for our early history, but in their own 
 accounts of theii" expeditions into Ireland they have left us much we may 
 use.] 
 
 [Of the Early Reign of King Olaf, sumamed Tryggvesson.] 
 
 King Olaff, Harald Haarfager's heir, at last had 
 
 reached the throne, 
 Though his mother bore him in the wilds by a moun- 
 tain lakelet lone ; 
 Through many a land and danger to his right the king 
 
 had past, 
 Uprearing still thro' darkest days, as pines against the 
 
 blast ; 
 Yet now, when peace smiled on his throne, he cast 
 
 his thoughts afar, 
 And sailed from out the Baltic Sea in search of western 
 
 war — 
 His galley was that " Sea-Serpent " renowned in Sagas 
 
 old. 
 His banner bore two ravens grim— his green mail 
 
 gleamed with g< >ld— 
 The king's ship and tl e king himself were glorious to 
 
 behold. 
 
 [Of the Sea King's manner of Life.] 
 
 King Olaf was a rover true, his throne was in hig 
 barque. 
 
 The blue sea was his royal bath, stars gemm'i his cur- 
 tains dark •
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADs. ' B9 
 
 The red Sun woke him in the morn, and sailed he e'er 
 f SO far, 
 
 The untired courier of his way was the ancient Polar 
 
 star, 
 't seemed as though the very winds, the clouds, the 
 
 tides, and waves. 
 Like the sea-side smiths and vikings, were his lieges 
 
 and his slaves. 
 His premier was a pilot old, of bronzed cheek and 
 
 falcon eye, 
 A. man, albeit who well loved life, yet nothing fear'd 
 
 to die, 
 Who little knew of crowns or courts, and less to crouch 
 
 or lie. 
 
 [How king Olaf made a descent on Antrim, and carried off the herds 
 thereof.] 
 
 Where Antrim's adamantine shore defies the northern 
 
 deep. 
 O'er red bay's broad and buoyant breast, how sv/ift 
 
 the galleys sweep. 
 The moon is hidden in her height, the night clouds ya 
 
 may see 
 Flitting, like ocean owlets, from the cavern'd shore set 
 
 free. 
 The full tide slumbers by the cliffs a- weary of it.-^ toil. 
 The goat-herds :.nd their flocks repose upon the upland 
 
 soil : — 
 The sea-king slowly walks the shore unto his instincts 
 
 true, 
 While up and down the valley'd land climbeth his 
 
 corsair crew, 
 Noiseless as morning mist ascends, or falls the evening 
 
 dew. 
 
 ^The king la addressed by a cIowti, having a marvellous cunning dog in 
 his company.] 
 
 Now looking to land, and now to sea, the king walked 
 on his way, 
 
 Until the faint face of the morn gleam'd on the dark- 
 some bay :
 
 «fO 
 
 BOOK OP IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 A noble herd of captured kine rank round its ebb- 
 dried beach ; 
 
 The galleys fast received them in, when lo ! with eager 
 speech, 
 
 A clown comes headlong from the hills, begging his 
 oxen three, 
 
 And two white-footed heifers, from the SoVran of the 
 Sea. 
 
 His hurried prayer the king allowed as soon as it he 
 heard. 
 
 The wolf-hound of the dauntless herd, obedient to his 
 word, ' 
 
 Counts out and drives apart his five from the many- 
 headed herd. 
 
 [King Olaf cffereth to purchase the peasant's dog, Virho bestows it on 
 him •with a condition.] 
 
 " By Odin, King of Men !" marvelling, the Monarch 
 
 spoke, 
 " m give thee, peasant, for thy dog, ten steers of bettei 
 
 yoke 
 Than thine own five." The hearty peasant said : 
 " King of the Ships, the dog is thine ; yet if I must 
 
 be paid, 
 Vow, by your raven banner, never again to sack 
 Our valley in the hours of night ; we dread no day 
 
 aTuaci£. 
 Mere wondered the fierce Pagan still to hear a clo^vn 
 
 so say, 
 And mused he for a moment, as was his kingly way, 
 If that he should not carry both the mai and dog 
 
 away. 
 
 [King Olaf taketh the vow, and saileth from the shore with the dog.' 
 
 The sea-king to the clown made vow, and on his finger 
 
 placed 
 An olden ring, the sceptred hand of his great sires had 
 
 graced, ^ 
 And round his neck he flung a chain of ^ajold. pure 
 
 from the mine.
 
 BOOK OF lEISH BALLADS. 91 
 
 vVliich, ere another moon, was laid upon St. Colomb's 
 
 shrine. 
 Then with his dog he left the shore : his sails swell to 
 
 the blast ; 
 Poor " Vig " hath howled a mournful cry to the bright 
 
 shore as they past. 
 Now brighter beamed the sunrise, and wider spread 
 
 the tide ; 
 Away, away to the Scottish shore the Danish galleys 
 
 hied, 
 There, revelling with their kindred, six days they did 
 
 abide. 
 
 [The treason of the Jotnhsburg Vikings calleth home the king.] 
 The seventh* news came from Norway, the Vikings 
 
 had rebelled, 
 Homeward, homeward, fast as fate, the royal sails are 
 
 swelled. 
 Off Heligoland, Jarl Thorer, and Kaud the witch they 
 
 meet ; 
 
 But a mystic wind bears the evil one, unharmed, fai 
 
 from the fleet. 
 Jarl Thorer to the land retreats, the fierce King follows 
 
 on, 
 Slaying the Traitor's strange compeer, who fast and 
 
 far doth run. 
 After him flung King Olaf, his never-missing spear ; 
 But Thorer (he was named Hiort,t and swifter than 
 
 the deer,) 
 In the distance took it up, and answered with a jeei 
 
 [Thorer Hiort treacherously killeth the King's Dog.j 
 
 The Wolf-Dog then the Monarch loosed, the Traitor 
 
 trembled sore, 
 Vig holds him on the forest's verge, the King speeds 
 
 from the shore. 
 Trembled yet more the Caitiff, to think what he should 
 
 do, 
 
 ♦ The Seventh, meaning the Seventh day. 
 t Literally, a Deer.
 
 92 BOOK OF miSH BALLADS. 
 
 He drew his glaive, and with a blow, pierced Ms captor 
 through : 
 
 And when the King came to the place, his noble dog 
 lay dead, 
 
 His red mouth foamy white, and his white breast crim- 
 son red. 
 
 " God's curse upon you, Thorer" — 'twas from the heart, 
 I ween. 
 
 Of the grieved King this ban burst out beside the 
 forest green. 
 
 The Traitor vanished into the woods, and never 
 
 again was seen. 
 
 [How King Olaf and his Dog were buried nigh unto each other, by the 
 
 Sea.] 
 
 Two cairns rise by Drontheim-fiord, with two grey 
 
 stones hard by, 
 Sculptured with Eunic characters, plain to the lore- 
 read eye. 
 And there the King and here his Dog from all their 
 
 toils repose. 
 And over their cairns the salt sea wind night and day 
 
 it blows ; 
 And close to these they point you the ribs of a galley's 
 
 wreck. 
 With a forked tongue in the curling crest, and half of 
 
 % scaly neck, 
 And s( me late sailing scalds have told that along the 
 
 jhore side grey 
 They aave often heard a kindly voice and a huge 
 
 lound's echoing bay, 
 And some have seen the Traitor to the pine woods 
 
 running away.
 
 jJOoiL OF IRISH BALLAX>3. 93 
 
 KINCORA, 
 
 Lamentation of Mac Liag for Kincora.~A.I). 1015. 
 
 TEiXSLATED FKOM THE LUISH, 
 
 £>Y JAMES CLAEEIs-CE MANGAN. 
 
 ;This poem is ascribed to the celebrated poet Mao Ltag, the secretary 
 of the renowned monarch Brian Boru, who, as is well kno-s\Ti, fell at the 
 battle of Clontarf in 1014, and the subject of it is a lat'^-smtation for the 
 fallen condition of Kincora, the palace of that monarch, consequent on 
 his death. 
 
 The decease of Mao Liag is recorded, in the " Annals of the Four 
 Masters," an, having taken place in 1015. A great number of his poems 
 are still in existence, but none of them have obtained a popularity so 
 widely extended as his " Lament." 
 
 Of the palace of Kincora, which was situated on the banks of the 
 Shannon, near Killaloe, the mound and moat alone remain.] 
 
 Oh, where, Kincora ! is Brian the Great 1 
 
 And where is the beauty that once was thine ? 
 
 Oh, where are the princes and nobles that sate 
 At the feast in thy halls, and drank the red wine 
 Where, oh, Kincora. 
 
 Oh, where, Kincora ! are thy valorous lords 1 
 Oh, whither, thou Hospitable ! are they gone ? 
 
 Oh, where are the Dalcassians of the golden swords ?t 
 And where are the warriors Brian led on 1 
 
 Where, oh, Kincora'? 
 
 And where is Morogh, the descendant of kings ; 
 
 The defeat er of a hundred — the daringly brave — 
 Who set but slight store by jewels and rings ; 
 
 Who swam down the torrent and laughed at its wave? 
 Where, oh, Kincora] 
 
 And where is Donogh. King Brian's son ? _ 
 And where is Conaing, the beautiful chief ? 
 
 And Kian and Core "? Alas ! they are gone ; 
 They have left me this night alone with my grief] 
 Left me, Kincora ! 
 
 * Cinco^. 
 
 ♦ (Colg-n or) or th«» Swords qf Gold, i.e^ of tlie GoldhiiU^^ Swordfc
 
 94 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 And where are the chiefs with whom Brian went forth, 
 The never-vanquished sons of Erin the brave, 
 
 The great King of Onaght, renowned for his worth, 
 And the hosts of Baskinn from the western wave? 
 Where, oh, Kincora'? 
 
 Oh. where is Duvlann of the Swift-footed Steeds 1 
 And where is Kian, who was son of Molloy 1 
 
 And where is King Lonergan, the fame of whose deeds 
 In the red battle-field no time can destroy 1 
 
 Where, oh, Kincora? 
 
 And where is that youth of majestic height, 
 The faith-keeping Prince of the Scots ? Even he, 
 
 As wide as his fame was, as great as was his might. 
 Was tributary, oh Kincora, to thee ! 
 
 Thee, oh, Kincora ! 
 
 They are gone, those heroes of royal birth, 
 Who plundered no churches, and broke no trust ; 
 
 'Tis weary for me to be living on earth 
 When they, oh Kincora, be low in the dust ! 
 
 Low, oh, Kincora! 
 
 Oh, never again will Princes appear. 
 
 To rival the Dalcassians of the Cleaving Swords ; 
 I can never dream of meeting afar or anear, 
 
 In the east or the west, such heroes and lords ! 
 Never, Kincora I 
 
 Oh, dear are the images my memory calls up 
 Of Brian Boru ! — how he never would miss 
 
 To give me at the banquet the first bright cup^ 1 
 Ah ! why did he heap on me honour like this! 
 Why, oh, Kincoral 
 
 I am Mac Liag, and my home is on the Lake : 
 Thither often, to that palace whose beauty is fled, 
 
 Came Brian, to ask me, and I went for his sake, 
 Oh, my grief 1 that I should live, and Brian be dead 
 Dead, oh, Kincosa 1
 
 BOOK OF IRISH iiALLADS. 95 
 
 rHE Dii:ATH OF KING MAGNUS BAREFOOT. 
 A.D. 1102. 
 
 BY THOMAS D'ARCY M'gES. 
 
 [King Magnus Barefoot became joint King of Norway wth Hakon 
 Dlatson, in 1093. But Hakon, in chasing a ptarmigan over the Dovie- 
 aeld, cauglit an ague, of which he died. After this, Magnus reigned 
 ilone for ten years. In this time he made many voyages into the west, 
 jonquering all he attacked, whether in the Isles or on the Scottish or 
 EngUsh shores. In 1102 he was slain in Ulster by an Iiish force, near 
 :he sea shore. In Miss Brooke's "Keliqiies of Irish Poetry ' is a trans- 
 ition of an Irish poem on this event, " the author of which," that lady 
 )b£erves, "is said to have belonged to the family of the O'Neills." This 
 3oem agrees viith. Sturleson as to the date of the fight and its restilt, but 
 liffers in the details. I have followed the latter for the facts of Mag- 
 lus's previous life, as well as for the immediate cause of his death, 
 [t is scarcely necessary to add that at this period the Dane« were 
 Dhristians, in doctrine, if not in practice.] 
 
 ' On the eve of St. Bartholomew off Uladh's shore we 
 
 W 
 (Thus the importuned Scald began his tale of woe), 
 ' And faintly round our fleet fell the August evening 
 gray, 
 And sadly the sunset winds did blow. 
 
 *"' 1 stood beside our Monarch then — deep care was on 
 his brow — 
 ' I hear no horn,' he sighed ' from the shore : 
 Why tarry still my errand-men 1 — 'tis time they were 
 here now, 
 And that to some less guarded coast we bore,' 
 
 ' Into the vernal west our errand-men had gone — 
 To Muirkeartach, the ally of the King 
 
 IVhose daughter late was wed to Earl Siguid, his son) 
 The dower of the bridegroom to bring.
 
 96 BOOK or IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 " Twas midinght in the firmament, ten thouand stars 
 were there, 
 And from the darksome sea looked up other ten, 
 I lay beside our Monarch, he was sleepless, and the 
 care 
 On his brow had grown gloomier then. 
 
 " As the Sim awaking bright its beaming lustre shed, 
 
 From his conch rose the King slowly up, 
 ' Elldiarn, what ! — thou awake ! I must landward go,* 
 he said, 
 And with you or the saints I shall sup.' 
 
 " The while the sun arose, in his galley thro' the fleet 
 Our noble Magnus went, and the earls all awoke. 
 
 And each prepared for land — the late errand-men to 
 meet, 
 Or to free them from the Irish yoke. 
 
 " It was a noble army ascending the green hills, 
 
 As ever kingly master led — 
 The memory of their marching my mournful bos(^ 
 thrills, 
 
 And my ears catch the echoes of their tread. 
 
 "Two hours had passed away, and I wandered on 
 the strand, 
 jLjOud cries from afar smote my ear ; 
 I climb'd the seaward mountain and looked upon the 
 land, 
 Wliere, in sooth, I saw a sight of fear. 
 
 "As winter-rocks all jagged with the leafless anns of 
 rines, 
 StooJ. the Irish host of spears on their path — 
 As the winter streams down dash thro' the terrible 
 ravines, 
 So our men sought the shore white with wrath.
 
 BOOK OF LRISH BALLADS. 97 
 
 *The arrow liights, at intervals, were thicker o'er the 
 fiekl, 
 Than the sea-birds o'er Jura's rocks, 
 Vhile the banners in the darkness were lost— shield 
 on shield 
 Within it clashed in thunderous shocks, 
 
 '* At last one hoarse/V^rraA broke thro' the battle-cloud, 
 
 Like the roar of a billov/ in a cave ; 
 x\nd the darkness was uplifted like a plague city^s 
 shroud. 
 
 And there lifeless lay our Monarch brave. 
 
 " And dead beside the King lay Earl Erling's son, 
 
 And Erving, and Ulf, the free ; 
 And loud the Irish cried to see what they had done, 
 
 But they could cry as loud as we. 
 
 " Oh ! Norway, iSTorway, wilt thou ever more behold 
 
 A King, like thy last, in worth ] 
 \'VTiose heart feared not the world — whose hands were 
 full of gold, 
 
 For the numberless Scalds of the North. 
 
 "Ah ! well do I remember how he swept the western 
 seas 
 Like the wind in its wintry mood — 
 How he reared young Sigurd's throne upon the Or- 
 cades, 
 And the Isles of the South subdued — 
 
 In his galley o'er Cantire, how we bore him from 
 
 the main — 
 How ]Mona in a week he won ; 
 By him, how Chester's Earl in Anglesea was slain — 
 Oh ! Norway, that his course is run !" 
 
 G
 
 98 BOOK OF IHISH BALLADS. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF KXOCKTUAGR* 
 
 A.D. 1189. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE MONKS OF KILCREA." 
 
 (.About this time (1189) the Anglo-Norman power in Ireland received 
 a severe check by the death of Sir Armoricns Tristram, brother-in-la-vv, 
 and, after the chivalrous fashion of the day, sworn comrade of Sir John 
 De Courcey. Having gone with a strong force to Connaught on an 
 expedition, he was attacked yrith a far superior army by Cathal O'Connor,* 
 sumamed "The Red Handed," and slain, with all his followers.] 
 
 Close hemm'd by foes, in Ulster Mils, within lain 
 
 castle pent, 
 For aid unto the west countrie Sir John De Courcej 
 
 sent; 
 And, for the sake of knightly vow, and friendship old 
 
 and tried, 
 He prayed that Sir Armor Tristram would to his 
 
 rescue ride. 
 
 Then grieved full sore that noble knight, when he 
 
 those tidings heard, 
 And deep a vow he made, with full many a holy 
 
 word — 
 That, aid him Heaven and good St. Laurence, full 
 
 vengeance should await 
 The knaves who did De Courcey wrong, and brought 
 
 him to this strait. 
 
 And a goodly sight it was, o'er Clare-Galway's glassy 
 
 plain, 
 To see the bold Sir Tristram pass, with all his gallant 
 
 train : 
 For thirty knights came with him there, all kinsmen 
 
 of his blood, 
 And seven score spears and ten, right valiant men 
 
 and good. 
 
 * Cnoc-CUA'O, "The Hill of Axes," lies within a few mllei c. 
 Galway. 
 t For «n exquisite ballad on " Cathal O'Connor," see p. 104.
 
 BOOK OF IKT3H BAXLADS. Of) 
 
 ind clasping close, Tvitli sturdy arms, each horseman 
 
 by the waist, 
 Behind each firm-fixed saddle there, a footman light 
 
 was placed ; 
 And fast they spurred in sweeping trot, as if in utmost 
 
 need, 
 Their harness ringing loudly round, and foam upon 
 
 each steed. 
 
 They cross the stream — they reach the wood — the 
 
 bending boughs give way, 
 And fling upon their waving plumes light showers of 
 
 sparkling spray • 
 But when theypass'd tnat leafy copse, and topp'd the 
 
 hillock's crest, 
 Then jumped each footman down — each horseman 
 
 laid his lance in rest. 
 
 For far and wide as eye could reach, a mighty host wa.s 
 
 seen 
 Of Irish kernes and gallowglass, with hobbelera 
 
 between. 
 And proudly waving in the front fierce Cathal's stan 
 
 dard flies. 
 With manymore of Connaught's chiefs, and Desmond's 
 
 tribes likewise. 
 
 Then to a knight Sir Tristram spake, with fearless eye 
 
 and brow — 
 " Sir Hugolin, advance my flag, and do this errand 
 
 now; 
 Go, seek the leader of yon host, and greet him fair 
 
 from me, 
 And ask, why thus, with armed men, he blocks my 
 
 passage free ]" 
 
 Then stout Sir Hugolin prick'd forth, upon his gallant 
 
 grey, 
 ihe banner in his good right hand, and thus aloud 
 
 did say : —
 
 100 BOOK OF lEISH BALLADS. 
 
 " Ho ! Irish chiefs ! Sir Armor Tristram greets ye 
 
 fair, by me, 
 And bids me ask. why thus in arms ye block his pas« 
 
 sage free V 
 
 Then stept fierce Cathal to the front, his chieftains 
 
 standing nigh : 
 " Proud stranger, take our answer back, and this our 
 
 reason why : — 
 Our wolves are gaunt for lack of food — our eagles 
 
 pine away. 
 And to glut them with your flesh, lo ! we stop you 
 
 here this day !" 
 
 * Now, gramercy for the thought !" calm Sir Hugolin 
 
 replied. 
 And with a steadfast look and mien that wrathful 
 
 cliief he eyed : — 
 ' Yet, should your wild birds covet not the daintj; 
 
 fare you name. 
 Then, by the rood, our Nonnan swords shall carvo 
 
 them better game \" 
 
 Then turned his horse, and back he rode unto the 
 little band 
 
 That, halted on the Mil, in firm and martial order 
 stand ; 
 
 When told his tale, then divers knights began to coun- 
 sel take. 
 
 How best they could their peril shun, and safe deli- 
 verance make. 
 
 " Against such odds, all human might is valueless !" 
 
 they cried ; 
 " And better 'twere at once to turn, and thro' the 
 
 thicket ride." 
 When, liigh o'er all, Sir Tristram spake, in accents 
 
 bold and free : — 
 " Let all depart who fear to fight this battle out with 
 
 me ;
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLAJ3S. 101 
 
 " For never yet shall mortal .say, I left him in his need, 
 Or brought him into danger's grasp — then trusted to 
 
 my steed ! 
 And, come what will, whate'er betide, let all depart 
 
 who may, 
 I'll share my comrades' lot, and v/ith them stand or 
 
 faU this day T' 
 
 Then drooped with burning shame fuU many a knightly 
 
 crest, 
 And nobler feelings answering swell'd throughout 
 
 each throbbing breast ; 
 And stout >Sir Hugolin spoke first : — " Whate'er our 
 
 lot may be ; 
 Come weal, come woe, 'fore Heaven, we'll stand or 
 
 fall this day with thee !" 
 
 Then from his horse Sir Tristram lit, and drew his 
 
 shining blade, 
 A.nd gazing on the noble beast, right mournfully he 
 
 said : — 
 " Thro' many a bloody field thou hast borne me safe 
 
 and well, 
 And never knight had truer friend than thou, fieet 
 
 Roancelle ! 
 
 ■ ' When wounded sore, and left for dead, oil far Knock- 
 
 gcira's plain, 
 No friendly aid or vassal near — yet, thou did'st still 
 
 remain ! 
 Close to thy master there thou mad'st thy rough and 
 
 fearful bed, 
 And on thy side, that night, my steed, I laid my aching 
 
 head 1 
 
 " Yet now, my gallant horse, we part ! thy proud career 
 
 is o'er. 
 And never shalt thou bound beneath an armed ridel 
 
 rr.ore."
 
 102 BOOK OF llUSM UAi^IiADS. 
 
 He spoke, aud kiss'd the blade— then pierced his 
 
 charger's glossy side, 
 And madly plunging in the air, the noble course:' 
 
 died. 
 
 Tlien every hor.seman in his band, dismounting, did 
 
 the same, 
 And in that company no steed alive was left, but twain; 
 On one there rode De Courcey's squire, who came 
 
 from Ulster wild ; 
 Upon the other young Oswald sate, Sir Tristram's 
 
 only child. 
 
 The father kiss'd his son, then spoke, while tears his 
 eyelids fill : 
 
 " Good Hamo, take my boj^, aud spur with him to 
 yonder hill ; 
 
 Go, watch from thence, till all is o'er ; then, north- 
 ward haste in flight, 
 
 :Vnd say, that Tristram in his harness died, like a 
 worthy knight." 
 
 Now pealed along the foeman's ranks a shrill and 
 
 wild halloo ! 
 While boldly back defiance loud the Norman bugles 
 
 blew ; 
 And bounding up the hill, like hounds, at hunted 
 
 quarry set, 
 The Irish kernes came fiercely on, and fiercely were 
 
 they met. 
 
 Then rose the roar of battle loud — the shout — the 
 
 cheer — the cry ! 
 The clank of ringing steel, the gasping groans of those 
 
 who die • 
 Fet onward still the Norman band, right fearless cufe 
 
 their way, 
 As move the mowers o'er the sward upon a summer's 
 
 day.
 
 BOOK OF nil H BALLA©^. 103 
 
 For round tliem there, like sliorn grass the foe, in 
 
 hundreds bleed ; 
 Yet, fast as e'er they fall, each side, do hundreds more 
 
 succeed 
 With naked breasts, undaunted meet the spears of 
 
 steel-clad men. 
 And sturdily, with axe and skein, repay their blows 
 
 again. 
 
 Xow, crushed with odds, their phalanx broke, each 
 
 Norman fights alone, 
 And few are left throughout the field, and they arc 
 
 feeble grown ; 
 But, high o'er all, Sir Tristram's voice is like a trumpet 
 
 heard. 
 And still, where'er he strikes, the f oemen sink beneath 
 
 his sword. 
 
 But once he raised his beaver up— alas ! it was to try 
 If Hamo and his boy yet tarried on the moimi-ain 
 
 nigh; 
 When sharp an arrow from the foe, pierced right thro' 
 
 his brain, 
 And sank the gallant knight a corpse upon the bloody 
 
 plain. 
 
 Then failed the fight, for gathering round his lifeless 
 
 body there, 
 The remnant of his gallant band fought fiercely in 
 
 despair ; 
 And one by one they wounded fell— yet with their 
 
 latest breath. 
 Their Norman war-cry shouted bold, then sank in silent 
 
 death. 
 
 And thus Sir Tristram died ; than whom no mortal 
 
 knight could be 
 More brave in list or battlo-field, — in banquet-hall 
 
 more free ;
 
 104 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 The flower of noble courtesy — of Norman peers tht 
 
 pride • 
 Oh, not in Christendom's wide realms can be his loss 
 
 supplied. 
 
 Sad tidings these to tell, in far Downpatrick's lofty 
 
 towers, 
 And sadder news to bear to lone Ivora's silent bowers ; 
 Yet shout ye not, ye Irish kernes — good cause have ye 
 
 to rue j 
 For a bloody fight and stern was the battle of cnoc- 
 
 A VISION OF CONNAUGHT* IN THE 
 THIRTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 BY JAMES CLARENCE MINGAN. 
 
 "Et mol, j'ai ete aussi en Arcadie."— And I, 1, too, have been a 
 l.esLmev.— Inscription on a Painting by Poussin. 
 
 1 WALKED entranced 
 Through a land of morn ; 
 The sun. with wond'rous excess of light, 
 Shone down and glanced 
 Over seas of corn, 
 And lustrous gardens a-left and right 
 Even in the clime 
 Of resplendent Spain 
 Beams no such sun upon such a land ; 
 But it was the time, 
 'Twas in the reign, 
 Of C^hal M6r of the Wine-red Hand.t 
 
 ♦ COflACC. 
 
 t The Irish and Oriental poets both agi-ee in attributing favourable v: 
 uufiivourable weather and abundant or deficient harvests to the good oi 
 bad quaUties of the reigning monarch. What the character of Cahal was 
 wrill be seen below.— (Manoan.)
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 105 
 
 Anon stood nigh 
 By my side a man 
 Of princely aspect and port sublime, 
 Him queried I, 
 " O, my Lord and Khan,* 
 What clime is this, and what golden time V 
 When he—'- The clime 
 Is a clime to praise, 
 The clime is Erin's, the green and bland ; 
 And it is the time, 
 These be the days, 
 Of Cahal M6r of the Wine-red Hand !" 
 
 Then I saw thrones, 
 And circling hres. 
 And a dome rose near me, as by a spell, 
 Whence flowed the tones 
 Of silver lyres. 
 And many voices in wreathed swell ; 
 And their thrilling chime 
 Fell on mine ears 
 As the heavenly hymn of an angel-band — 
 " It is now the time, 
 These be the years. 
 Of CAhal M6r of the Wine-red Hand !" 
 
 I sought the haU, 
 And, behold ! — a change 
 From light to darkness, from joy to woe ! 
 Kings, nobles, all, 
 Looked aghast and strange; 
 The minstrel-group sate in dumbest show ! 
 Had some great crime 
 Wrought this dread amaze. 
 This terror ? None seemed to understand ! 
 'Twas then the time. 
 We were in the days. 
 Of Cdhal M6r of the Wine-red Hand. 
 
 • Identical with the Irish Ceann, Head, or Cliief ; but I the rathei 
 ^ve him the Oriental title, as really fancying myself in one of the re- 
 gious of Araby the Blest— (Mangan,)
 
 106 BOOK Oi' IKISU UALLADS. 
 
 I again walked forth ; 
 But lo ! the sky 
 Showed fleckt with blood, and an alien sun 
 Glared from the north, 
 And there stood on high, 
 Amid his shorn beams, a skeleton 1 * 
 
 It was by the stream 
 Of the castled Maine, 
 One autumn eve, in the Teuton's Ian J, 
 That 1 dreamed this dream 
 Of the time and reign 
 Of Cdhal M6r of the Wine-red Hand ! 
 
 BATTLE OF CREDRAN. 
 
 A.D. 1257. 
 
 BY EDWAKD WALSH. 
 
 [A brilliant battle was fought by Geoffrey O'Donnell, Lord of Tircoa 
 Hell, against the Lord Justice of Ireland, Maurice Pltzgerald, and the 
 English of Connaught, at Credran Cille, Roseede, in the territory of 
 Carburry, north of Sligo, in defence of his principality. A fierce and 
 terrible conflict took place, in which bodies were hacked, heroes dis- 
 abled, and the strength of both sides exhausted. The men of Tirconnell 
 maintained their ground, and completely overthrew the English forces 
 in the engagement, and defeated them with great slaughter; but Geoffrey 
 himself was severely wounded, having encountei*ed in the fight Maui'ice 
 Fitzgerald, in single combat, in which they mortally wounded each 
 ther. — Annals of the Four Masters.] 
 
 From the ^lens of his fathers O'Donnell comes forth, 
 With all Cinel-Conaill,t fierce septs of the North — 
 O'Boyle and O'Daly, O'Dugan, and they 
 That own, by the wild waves, O'Doherty^s sway. 
 
 * " It was but natural that these portentous appearances should thus 
 be exhibited on this occasion, for they were the heralds of A very great 
 calamity that befel the Connacians in this year— namely, tne death of 
 Cathal of the Red Hand, son of Torlogh Mor of the Wine, and king oE 
 Connaught, a prince of most amiable qualities, and into who&e heart 
 God had infused more piety and goodness than into the hearts of any 
 of his contemporaries."— .4nna?4 of the Four Masters, A.D. 1224. 
 
 t Cinel-Conaill—1h.Q descendants of Conall-Gulban, the son of Nia\. 
 of the Nine Hostages, Monarch of Ireland in the fourth century. The 
 principality was named Tir-Chonaile, or Tyrconnell, whic> *'«<>.luded the 
 county r>onegal, and its chiefs were the O'DonneHa.
 
 1300K OF IRISH iJAl^LADS. 107 
 
 Clan Connor, brave sons of the diadem'd Nial], 
 Has pour'd the tall clansmen from mountain and vale— 
 M'Sweeny's sharp axes, to battle oft bore. 
 Flash bright in the sun-light by high Dunamore. 
 
 Through Innis-Mac-Durin,"* through Berry's dark 
 
 brakes, 
 Glentocher of tempests, Sleibh-snacht of the lakes, 
 Bundoran of dark spells, Loch-Swilly's rich glen. 
 The red deer rush wild at the war-shout of men ! 
 
 ! why through Tir-Chonaill, from Cuil-dubh's dark 
 
 steep, 
 To Samer'sf green border the fierce masses sweep. 
 Living torrents o'er-leaping their own river shore. 
 In the red sea of battle to mingle their roar 1 
 
 Stretch thy vision far southward, and seek for reply 
 Where blaze of the hamlets glares red on the sky — 
 Wtere the shiieks of the hopeless rise high to their God, 
 Where the foot of the Sassanach spoiler has trod ! 
 
 Sweeping on like a tempest, the Gall-Oglach J stern 
 Contends for the van with the swift-footed kern — 
 There's blood for that burning, and joy for that wail— 
 The avenger is hot on the spoiler's red trail ! 
 
 The Saxon hath gather'd on Credran's far heights. 
 His groves of long lances, the flower of his knights— 
 His SLwful cross-bowmen, whose long iron hail 
 Finds, through Cota § and Sciath, the bare heart of 
 the Gael ! 
 
 The long lance is brittle — the mailed ranks reel 
 Where the Gall-Oglach's axe hews the harness of steel, 
 
 * Districts in DonegaL 
 
 t Samer — The ancient name of Loch Earne. 
 
 i GaU-Oglach, or (ra^/ougfZai.s-Tlie heavy-armed foot soldier. Kern, 
 or Ceithernach—The light- anned soldier. 
 
 § Cota — The saffron-dyed sliirt of the kern, consisting of many yaru- 
 cf yellow linen thickly plaited. Sciaih - Tb** •«ficker shield, aa its name 
 imports.
 
 108 toOOK OF IRISH Ballads. 
 
 And truer to its aim in the breast of a foeman, 
 Is the pike of a kern than the shaft of a bowman. 
 
 One prayer to St. Columb* — the battle-steel clashes— 
 The tide of fierce conflict tumultuously dashes ; 
 Surging onward, high-heaving its billow of blood, 
 While war-shout and death-groan swell high o'er the 
 flood! 
 
 As meet the wDd billows the deep-centr'd rock, 
 Met glorious Clan Conell the fierce Saxon's shock ; 
 As the wrath of the clouds flash'd the axe of Clan- 
 
 Conell, 
 Till the Saxon lay strewn 'neath the might of O'Donnell ! 
 
 One warrior alone holds the wide bloody field, 
 With barbed black charger and long lance and shield- 
 Grim, savage, and gory he meets their advance. 
 His broad shield up-liiting and crouching his lance. 
 
 Then forth to the van of that fierce rushing throng - 
 Rode a chieftain of tall spear and battle-axe strong, 
 His bracca,t and geochal, J and cochars§ red fold, 
 And war-horse's housings, were radiant in gold ! 
 
 Say who is this chief spurring forth to the fray. 
 
 The wave of whose spear holds yon armed array 1 
 And he who stands scorning the thousands that sweep, 
 An army of wolves over shepherdless sheep 1 
 
 • St. Colum, or Colum-Cille, the dove of the Church— The patron saint 
 of TjTConnell, descended from Conall Gulban. 
 
 t Bracca— So called, from being striped witli various colours, was th3 
 tight-fitting Iruis. It covered the ancles, legs, and thighs, rising as high 
 as the loins, and fitted so tight to the limbs as to discover every muscle 
 and motion of the parts which it covered.— Walker on Dress of the Irish. 
 
 t Geochal~lhe jacket made of gilded leather, and which was sometimes 
 embroidered -with silk. — Ibid. 
 
 § Codial—A sort of cloak with a large hanging collar of different colours. 
 This garment re£.::Iied to the middle of the thigh, and was fringed with 
 a border like shi^'ged hair, and being brought over the shoulders was 
 fastened on the treast by a clasp, buckle, or brooch of silver or gold. 
 In battle they w:upped the cochal several times roimd the left arm a-j a 
 shield,— /''id.
 
 BOOK OF IKTSH BALLADS. 109 
 
 The shield of the nation, brave Geoffrey O'Donnell 
 (Clar-Foclhla's firm prop is the proud race of Conall),* 
 And Maurice Fitzgerald, the scorner of danger, 
 The scourge of the Gael, and the strength of the stranger. 
 
 The laiinch'd spear hath torn through target and mail - - 
 The couch'd lance hath borne to his crupper the Gael— 
 The steeds driven backwards all helplessly reel ; 
 But the lance that lies broken hath blood on its steel ! 
 
 And now fierce O'Donnell thy battle-axe wield — 
 The broad-sword is shiver'd, and cloven the shield, 
 The keen steel sweeps grinding through proud crest 
 
 and crown — 
 Ciar-Fodla hath triumphed— the Saxon is down ! 
 
 THE BATTLE OF ARDNOCHER. 
 
 A.D. 1328. 
 BY THE AUTHOE OF " THE MONKS OF KILCREA." 
 
 [A.D. 1328, MacGeoghegan gave a great overthrow to the English, in 
 which three thousand five hundred of them, together with theD'Altons, 
 were sHain.— Annals of the Four Masters. 
 
 This battle, in which the English forces met such tremendous defeat, 
 was fought near Mullingar, on the day before the feast of St. Laurence 
 — namely, the 9th August. The Irish clans were commanded by William 
 MacGeoghesran, Lord of Kenil Feacha, in Wcstmeath, comprising the pre- 
 sent baronies of Moycashel and Rathconratli. The English forces were 
 commanded by Lord Thos. Butler, the Petits, Tuites, Nangles, Delemers, 
 Ac. The battle took place at the Hill of AMnocher.— Ibid, p. 116. 
 
 On the eve of St. Laurence, at the cross of Glenfad, 
 Both of chieftains and bonaghts what a muster we had, 
 Thick as bees, round the hea ;.iier, on the side of Slieve 
 
 Bloom, 
 To the try sting they gatli^r by the light of the moon. 
 
 * This is the translation of the first line of apcem of two hundred and 
 forty-eight verses, -vvrittcn by Firgal eg Mac-an-Bhaird on Dorninick 
 O'Donnei'- in the year IG.^o. The original line is— 
 "Gaibhle Fodhla fui! Chonaill." 
 
 — See O'Reilh's Account of Iriih W>^''rs.
 
 110 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 For the Butler from Ormond with a hosting he came, 
 And harried Moycashel with havoc and flame, 
 Not a hoof or a hayrick, nor corn blade to feed on, 
 Had he left in the wide land, right up to Dunbreedon. 
 
 Then gathered MacGeoghegan, the high prince of 
 
 Donore, 
 With O'Connor from Croghan, and O'Dempsys ga 
 
 lore ;* 
 A.nd, my soul, how we shouted, as dash'd in with 
 
 their men. 
 Bold MacCoghlan from Clara, O'Mulloy from the glen. 
 
 And not long did we loiter where the four toghersf 
 
 met, 
 But his saddle each tightened, and his spurs closer 
 
 set, 
 By the skylight that flashes all their red burnings 
 
 back. 
 And by black gore and ashes fast the rievers we 
 
 track. 
 
 'Till we came to Ardnocher, and its steep slope we gain, 
 And stretch'd there, beneath us, saw their host in the 
 
 plain ; 
 And high shouted our leader ('twas the brave Williani 
 
 Roe)— 
 " By the red hand of Nial, 'tis the Sassanach foe \" 
 
 "Now, low level your spears, grasp each battle-axe 
 
 firm, 
 And for God and our Ladye strike ye downright and 
 
 stern ; 
 For our homes and our altars charge ye steadfast and 
 
 true. 
 And onr watchword be vengeance, and Lamh Dearg 
 
 Aboo^rt 
 
 * 50 VeO|V (in abundance). t Co6A]\f (roads). 
 
 X Vaiti "OeAt^B ^J^bvi (the red hand for erer).
 
 BOOK OF IKTSH BALLADS. Ill 
 
 Oh, then down like a torrent with ^.farrah we swept, 
 And full stout was the Saxon who his saddle-tree kept ; 
 For we dash'd thro' their horsemen till they reel'd 
 
 from the stroke, 
 And their spears, like dry twigs, with our axes we 
 
 broke. 
 
 With our plunder we found them, our fleet garrons and 
 
 kine, 
 And each chalice and cruet they had snatch'd from 
 
 God's shrine. 
 But a red debt we paid them, the Sassanach raiders. 
 As we scattered their spearmen, slew chieftains and 
 
 leaders. 
 
 In the Pale there is weeping and watchings in vain. 
 De Lacy and D' Alton, can ye reckon your slain ] 
 Where's your chieftain, fierce Xangle "? Has De Net- 
 
 terville fled ] 
 Ask the Molingar eagles, whom their carcasses fed ] 
 
 Ho ! ye riders from Ormond, will ye brag in your hall, 
 How your lord was struck down with his mail'd 
 
 knights and all 1 
 Swim at midnight the Shannon, beard the wolf in hia 
 
 den, 
 Ere you ride to Moycashel on a foray again ! 
 
 BATTLE OF TYRRELL'S-PASS. 
 1597. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " THE MONKS OF KILCEEA." 
 
 [In the valuable notes to the Annals of the Four Masters, the following 
 account of the battle of Tyrrell's-pass is given at page 621 : — " The Cap- 
 tain Tyrrell mentioned in the Annals vras Richard TyrreU, a gentleman 
 of the Anglo-Norman family of the Tyrrells, Lords of FertuUa-jh, in 
 Westmeath. He was one of the most valiant and celebrated commanders 
 of the Irish in the war agairist Elizabeth, and during a period of twelve 
 years had many coiiflicts with tLe English f^ices in various parts of Ire- 
 land; he was p'articu,'::'.y f amour for bold and hazaidou? exploits, and
 
 Jl2 BOOK OF tPA^Jl BALLADS. 
 
 rapid expeditions. Copious accounts of him are given by Fyne.** Mor- 
 rison, MacGeoghegan, and others. After the reduction of Irelaad ha 
 retired to Spain. The battle of Tyrrell's-pass is described by Mac- 
 Geoghegan, and mentioned by Leland, and other historians, tt was 
 fought in the summer of 1597, at a place afterwards called Tyrrell's- 
 pass, now the name of a town in the barony of FertuUagh, \n the 
 county of Westmeath. When Hugh O'Neill, Earl of Tyrone, heard 
 that the English forces were preparing to advance into Ulster, under th3 
 Lord Deputy Borrough, he detached Captain Tyrrell at the head of 400 
 chosen men, to act in Meath and Leinster, and by thus engaging some 
 of the English forces, to cause a diversion, and prevent their joinii\g the 
 Lord Deputy, or co-operate with Sir Conyers Clifford. The Angl(*-Irish 
 of Meath, to the number of 1,000 men, assembled under the banner of 
 Barnwell, Baron of Trimleston, intending to proceed and join the. Lord 
 Deputy. Tyrrell was encamped with his small force la FertuUagh, and 
 was joined by young O'Conor Faily of the King's County. The Baron 
 of Trimleston, having heard where Tyrrell was posted, formed the pro- 
 ject of taking him by surprise, and for that purpose despatched his son 
 at the head of the assembled troops. Tyrrell having received informa- 
 tion of their advance, immediately put himself in a posture of defence, 
 and making a feint of flying before them as they advanced, drew them 
 into a defile covered with trees, which place has since been called Tyr- 
 rell's-pass, and having detached half of his men, under the command of 
 O'Conor, they were posted in ambush, in a hollow adjoining the road, 
 When the English were passing, O'Conor and his men sallied out from 
 their ambuscade, and with their drums and fifes played Tyrrell's march, 
 •ffhich was the signal agreed upon for the attack. Tyrrell then rushed 
 out on them in front., and the English being thus hemmed in on both 
 sides were cut to pieces, the carnage being so great that out of their 
 entire force only one soldier escaped, and, having fled through a marsh, 
 carried the news to MuUingar. O'Conor displayed amazing valour, and 
 being a man of great strength and activity, hewed down many of their 
 men with his own hand ; while the heroic Tyrrell, at the head of his men, 
 repeatedly rushed into the thick of the battle. Young Barnwell being 
 taken prisoner, his life was spared, but he was delivered to O'Neill. A 
 curious circumstance is mentioned by MacGeoghegan, that from the heat 
 and excessive action of the sword-arm the hand of O'Conor became so 
 swelled that it could not be extricated from the guard of his sabre until 
 the handle was cut through with a file."] 
 
 The Baron bold of Trimbleston hath gone in proud 
 
 array- 
 To drive aiar from fair Westmeath the Irish kerns 
 
 away, 
 And there is mounting brisk of steeds and donning 
 
 shirts of mail, 
 And spurring hard to Mullingar 'mong riders of the 
 
 Pale. 
 
 For, flocking round his banner there, from east to -west 
 
 there came, 
 Full many knights and gentlemen of English blood 
 
 and name,
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 113 
 
 All prompt to hate the Irish race, all syoilers of the 
 
 land, 
 And mustered soon a thousand spears that Baron in 
 
 his band. 
 
 For trooping iu rode NetterviUes and D'Altons not a 
 
 few, 
 And thick as reeds pranced Nugent's spears, a fierce 
 
 and godless crew ; 
 And Nagle's pennon flutters fair, and, pricking o'er 
 
 the plain. 
 Dashed Tuite of Sonna's mail-clad men, and Dillon's 
 
 from Glen Shane. 
 
 A goodly feast the Baron gave in Nagle's ancient hall, 
 And to his board he summons there his chiefs and 
 
 captains all ; 
 And round the red wine circles fast, with noisy boast 
 
 and brag 
 How they would hunt the Irish kerns like any Crat- 
 
 loe stag. 
 
 Bat 'mid their glee a horseman spurr'd all breathless 
 
 to the gate. 
 And from the warder there he crav'd to see Lord 
 
 Barnwell straight ; 
 And when he stept the castle haU, then cried the Baron, 
 
 " Ho ! 
 You are De Petif s body-squire, why stops your master 
 
 so r 
 
 " Sir Piers De Petit ne'er held back," that wounded 
 
 man replied, 
 " When friend or foeman called him on, or there was 
 
 need to ride ; 
 But vainly now you lack him here, for, on the bloody 
 
 sod, 
 The noble knight Lies stark and stiff — his soul is with 
 
 hia God. „
 
 114 BOOK OF IftlSli BALLADS. 
 
 '•For yesterday, in passing through Fertullah's wooded 
 
 glen, 
 Fierce Tyrrell met my master's band, and slew the 
 
 good knight then ; 
 And, wounded sore with axe and skian, I barely 
 
 'scaped with life, 
 To bear to you the dismal news, and warn you of the 
 
 strife. 
 
 " MacGeoghegan's flag is on the hills ! O'Reilly's up 
 
 at Fore ! 
 And all the chiefs have flown to arms, from Allen t(. 
 
 Donore, 
 And as I rode by Granard's moat, right plainly might 
 
 I see 
 O'Ferall's clans were sweeping down from distant 
 
 Annalee." 
 
 Then started up young Barnwell there, all hot with 
 
 Spanish wine — 
 " Revenge," he cries, " for Petit's death, and be that 
 
 labour mine ; 
 For, by the blessed rood I swear, when I Wat Tyrrell 
 
 see, 
 I'll hunt to death the rebel bold, and hang him on a 
 
 tree !" 
 
 Then rose a shout throughout the hall, that made the 
 
 rafters ring. 
 And stirr'd o'er head the banners there, like aspen 
 
 leaves in spring ; 
 And vows were made, and wine-cups quaft, with proud 
 
 and bitter scorn, 
 To hunt to death Fertullah's clans upon the coming 
 
 morn. 
 
 These tidings unto Tyrrell came upon that self -same 
 
 day, 
 Where. o?^r»ed amid the hazel boughs, he at Lough 
 
 Eimeilay.
 
 BOOK OF IKISH jsALLADS. 115 
 
 '' And they will hunt us so," he cried — " why, let them 
 
 if they yiill ; 
 But first we'U teach them greenwood craft, to catch 
 
 us, ere they kiU." 
 
 And hot next morn the horsemen came, Young Bam- 
 well at their head ; 
 
 3ut when they reached the calm lake banks, behold ! 
 their prey was fled ! 
 
 /vnd loud they cursed, as wheeling round they left 
 that tranquil shore, 
 
 .\nd sought the wood of Garraclune, and searched it 
 o'er and o'er. 
 
 A.nd down the slopes, and o'er the fields, and up the 
 
 steeps they strain, 
 And through Moylanna's trackless bog, where mauy 
 
 steeds remain, 
 Till wearied aU, at set of sun, they halt in sorry plight^ 
 A.nd on the heath, beside his steed, each horseman 
 
 passed the night. 
 
 Next morn, while yet the white mists lay, all brooding 
 
 on the hill. 
 Bold Tyrrell to his comrade spake, a friend in every 
 
 ill — 
 " O'Conor, take ye ten score men, and speed ye to the 
 
 dell, 
 vVhere winds the path to Kinnegad — you know that 
 
 togher weU. 
 
 '* And couch ye close amid the heath, and blades of 
 
 waving fern, 
 So glint of steel, or glimpse of man, no Saxon ma} 
 
 discern, 
 Until ye hear my bugle blown, and up O'Conor, then, 
 And bid the drums strike Tyrrell's March, and charge 
 
 ye with your men."
 
 1 16 BOOK OF IKISH BALLADS. 
 
 "Now, by Lis soul who sleeps at Gong," O'Cono^. 
 
 proud replied, 
 *' It grieves me sore before those dogs, to have my 
 
 head to hide ; 
 But lest, perchance, in scorn they might go brag il 
 
 thro' the Pale, 
 ['U do my best that few shall live to carry round the 
 
 tale." 
 
 The mist roil'd ofl", and " Gallants up !" young Barn. 
 
 well loudly crie.s, 
 ■•B:-' Bective's shrine, from off the hill, the rebe. 
 
 traitor flies ; 
 Now momit ye all, fair gentlemen — lay bridle loose 
 
 on mane, 
 And spur your steeds T\ith rowels sharp — we'll catch 
 
 him on the plain." 
 
 Then bounded to their saddles quick a thousand eager 
 
 men, 
 And on they rushed in hot pursuit to Darra's wooded 
 
 glen. 
 But gallants bold, tho' fair ye ride, here slacken speed 
 
 ye may— 
 The chase is o'er ! — the hunt is up !— the quarry stands 
 
 at bay ! 
 
 For halted on a gentle slope, bold Tyrrell placed his 
 
 hand, 
 And prou'ily stept he to the front, his banner in his 
 
 hand, 
 And planed it deep within the earth, all plainly in 
 
 their ^iew, 
 And waved aloft his trusty sword, and loud his bugle 
 
 blew. 
 
 Saint Colman ! 'twas a fearful sight, while drum and 
 
 trumpet played, 
 to see the bound from out the brake that fierce 
 
 0'Oo2*'"' made,
 
 BOOK OF lElSH BALLADS. 117 
 
 As waving high his s^ord in air he smote the flaunt 
 
 ing crest 
 Of proud Sir Hugh De Geneville,* and clove him tc 
 
 the chest ! 
 
 " On, comrades, on !" young Barnwell cries, " and 
 
 spur ye to the plain, 
 ^Vhere we may best our lances use !" That counsel is 
 
 in vain. 
 For down swept Tyrrell's gallant band, with shout 
 
 and wild halloo. 
 And a hundred steeds are masterless since first his 
 
 bugle blew ! 
 
 From front to flank the Irish charge in battle order 
 
 all. 
 While pent like sheep in shepherd's fold the Saxon 
 
 riders fall ; 
 Their lances long are little use, their numbers block 
 
 the way. 
 And mad with pain their plunging steeds add terror 
 
 to the fray ! 
 
 And of the haughty host that rode that morning 
 
 through the dell. 
 But one has 'scaped with life and limb his comrades' 
 
 fate to tell ; 
 The rest all in their harness died, amid the thickets 
 
 there. 
 Yet fighting to the latest gasp, like foxes in a snare ! 
 
 The Baron bold of Trimbleston has fied in sore dismay. 
 Like beaten hound at dead of night from MuUingar 
 
 away, 
 \Yhile wild from Boyne to Brusna's banks there 
 
 spreads a voice of wail, 
 Mavrone ! the sky that night was red with burnings 
 
 in the Pale ! 
 
 • The De Genevilles succeeded the De Lacys u Lords of wreath
 
 118 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 And late next day to Dublin town the dismal tidings 
 
 came, 
 A.nd Kevin's-Port and Watergate are lit with beacons 
 
 twain, 
 A.nd scouts spur out, and on the walls there stands a 
 
 fearful crowd, 
 WTiile high o'er all Saint Mary's bell tolls out alarums 
 
 loud! 
 
 But far away beyond the Pale from Dunluce to Dun- 
 
 t»oy, 
 From every Irish hall and rath there bursts a shout 
 
 of joy, 
 As eager Asklas hurry past o'er mountain, moor, and 
 
 glen. 
 And tell in each the battle won by Tyrrell and his 
 
 men. 
 
 Bold Walter sleeps in Spanish earth ; long years have 
 
 passed away — 
 Yet Tyrrell's-pass is called that spot, ay, to this very 
 
 day. 
 And still is told as marvel strange, how from his 
 
 swollen hand. 
 When ceased the fight the blacksmith filed O'Conor's 
 
 trusty brand ! 
 
 THE DEATH OF SCHOMBERG. 
 
 A.D. 1690. 
 BY DIGBY PILOT STAEKEY, LL.D., 
 Accountant-General, Court of Chancery. 
 ["Frederick Sclionberg, or Schomberg, first developed his warlike 
 talents under the command of Henry and William If., of Orange; after- 
 wards obtained several victories over the Spaniards; reinstated on the 
 throne the house of Braganza; defeated in England the last hopes of 
 the Stuarts ; and finally died at the advanced age of eighty-two, at the 
 battle of the Boyne, in 1690."] 
 
 'TwAS on the day when kings did fight beside the 
 
 Boyne's dark water. 
 And thunder roar'd from every height, and earth was 
 
 red with slaughter, —
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 119 
 
 That morn an aged chieftain stood apart from mus- 
 tering bands, 
 
 And, from a height that crown'd the flood, surveyed 
 broad Erin's lands. 
 
 His hand upon his sword-hilt leant, his war-horse 
 
 stood oeside, 
 And anxiously his eyes were bent across the rolling 
 
 tide : 
 He thought of what a changeful fate had borne him 
 
 from the land 
 '-VTiere frown'd his father's castle-gate,* high o'er the 
 
 Ehenish strand. 
 
 A.nd plac'd before his opening view a realm where 
 
 strangers bled, 
 WTiere he, a leader, scarcely knew the tongue of those 
 
 he led! 
 He looked upon his chequered life, from boyhood's 
 
 earliest time, 
 Through scenes of tumult and of strife, endur'd in 
 
 every clime. 
 
 To where the snows of eighty years usurped the 
 
 raven's stand. 
 And still the din was in his ears, the broadsword in 
 
 his hand ! 
 He turned him to futurity, beyond the battle plain, 
 But then a shadow from on high hung o'er the heaps 
 of slain ; — 
 
 And through the darkness of the cloud, the chiefs 
 
 prophetic glance 
 Beheld, with winding-sheet and shroud, his fatal hour 
 
 advance : 
 
 • Schonberg, or "the mount of beauty," is one of the most magnificent 
 <-;f the many now ruinouK oastles that overhang the Rhine. It had been 
 the residence of the chiefs of a noble family oif that name, -which existed 
 as far back as the time of Charlemagne, and of which the Duke of 
 Schomberg was a member.
 
 120 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 He quaird not, as he felt him near th' inevitablt 
 
 stroke, 
 But, dashing off one rising tear, 'twas thus the old 
 
 man spoke : 
 
 " God of my fathers ! death is nigh, my soul is not 
 deceived — 
 
 My hour is come, and I would die the conqueror I 
 have liv'd ! 
 
 For thee, for freedom, have I stood — for both I fall to- 
 day ; ' 
 
 Give me but victory for my blood, the price I gladly 
 pay! 
 
 " Forbid the future to restore a Stuart's despot-gloom, 
 Or that, by freemen dreaded more, the tyranny of 
 
 Eome ! 
 From either curse, let Erin freed, as prosperous ages 
 
 run, 
 Acknowledge what a glorious deed upon this day was 
 
 done !" 
 
 He said : fate granted lia<f his prayer. His steed he 
 straight bestrode. 
 
 And fell, as on the routed rear of James's host he roda 
 
 He sleeps in a cathedral's gloom,* amongst the mighty 
 dead. 
 
 And frequent, o'er his hallow'd tomb, regardful pil- 
 grims tread. 
 
 The other half, though fate deny, we'll strive for, on? 
 and all. 
 
 And William's — Schomberg's spirits nigh, well gain- 
 or, fighting, fall ! 
 
 1833. 
 
 ♦ Cltf-ist Cljiirch, Dublts..
 
 BOOK OF TRTssn BALLADS. 121 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE BOYXE. 
 
 A.D. 1690. 
 BY COLONEL BLACKER. 
 
 It was upon a smnmer's morn, unclouded rose tlie sun, 
 
 And lightly o'er the waving com their way the breezes 
 won ; 
 
 Sparkling beneath that orient beam, 'mid banks of ver- 
 dure gay, 
 
 Its eastward course a silver stream held smilingly away. 
 
 A kingly host upon its side a monarch camp'd around, 
 
 Its southern upland far and wide their white pavilions 
 crowned ; 
 
 Not long that sky unclouded show'd, nor long beneath 
 the ray 
 
 That gentle stream in silver flowed, to meet the new- 
 bom day. 
 
 Through yonder fairy-haunted glen, from out that dark 
 
 ravine,"* 
 In heard the tread of marching men, the gleam of arms 
 
 is seen ; 
 And plashing forth in bright array along yon verdant 
 
 banks. 
 All eager for tlic coming fray, are rang'd the martial 
 
 ranks. 
 
 Peals the loud gun—its thunders boom the echoing 
 
 vales along, 
 WTiile curtain'd in its sulph^i^us gloom moves on the 
 
 gallant throng ; 
 And foot and horse in mingled mass, regardless all of 
 
 Hfe, 
 With furious ardour onward pass to join the deadly 
 
 strife. 
 
 King Williams Glaa. n»ir Townley Hall.
 
 122 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 Nor strange that with such ardent flame each glowing 
 
 heart beats high, 
 Their battle word was William's name, and " Death or 
 
 Liberty !" 
 Then, Oldbridge, then thy peaceful bowers with sounds 
 
 unwonted rang, 
 And Tredagh, 'mid thy distant towers, was heard th 
 
 mighty clang ; 
 
 The silver stream is crimson'd wide, and clogg'd with 
 
 many a corse, 
 As floating down its gentle tide come mingled man and 
 
 horse. 
 Now fiercer grows the battle's rage, the guarded stream 
 
 is cross'd. 
 And furious, hand to hand engage each bold contend! ng 
 
 host ; 
 
 He falls — the veteran hero falls,* renowned along the 
 
 Khine — 
 And he whose name, while Derr/s walls endure, shall 
 
 brightly shine.f 
 Oh ! would to heaVn that churchman bold, his nrms 
 
 with triumph blest. 
 The soldier spirit had controlled that fir'd his pious 
 
 breast 
 
 And he, the chief of yonder brave and persecuted 
 
 band,t 
 Who foremost rush'd amid the wave, and gain'd the 
 
 hostile strand : 
 He bleeds, brave Caillemote— he bleeds — 'tis closed 
 
 his bright career, 
 Yet still that band to glorious deeds his dying accents 
 
 cheer. 
 
 • Duke Schomberg. t Walker, the gallant defender of Deny. 
 Caillemote, who sonaniancied a regiment of Huguenots.
 
 i500K OF IR-L.^H BALLADS. 123 
 
 And now tliat well-contested strand successive 
 
 columns gain, 
 While backward James's yielding band are borne 
 
 across the plain, 
 [n vain the sword green Erin draws, and life away 
 
 doth fling — 
 Oh ! worthy of a better cause and of a bolder king. 
 
 In vain thy bearing bold is shown upon that blood- 
 
 stain'd ground ; 
 Thy toVring hopes are overthrown, thy choicest fall 
 
 around ; 
 Nor, sham'd, abandon thou the fray, nor blush, though 
 
 conqiier'd there, 
 A. power against thee fights to-day no mortal arm may 
 
 dare. 
 
 Nay, look not to that distant height in hope of coming 
 
 aid — 
 The dastard thence has ta'en his flight, and left his 
 
 men betray'd. 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! the victoT shout is heard on high 
 
 Dunore • 
 Down Flattens vale, in hurried rout, thy shattered 
 
 masses pour. 
 
 But manjr a gallant spirit there retreats across the 
 plain, 
 
 Who, change but kings, would gladly dare that battle- 
 field again.* 
 
 Enough ! enough ! the victor cries; your fierce pursuit 
 forbear, 
 
 Let grateful prayer to heaven arise, and vanquished 
 freemen spare. 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! for liberty, for her the sword we 
 drew. 
 
 And dar'd the battle, while on high our Orange ban- 
 ners flew; 
 
 • This alludes to the expression attributed to Sarsfield— " Only 
 chanee kings, and we "vlU fight the battle over again.'
 
 124 BOOK OF lEISH BALLADS. 
 
 Woe worth the hour — woe worth the state, when men 
 
 shall cease to join 
 With grateful hearts to celebrate the glories of the 
 Boyne ! 
 
 THE RIVER BOYNE. 
 
 BY THOMAS d'aRCY m'gEE. 
 
 Child of Loch Ramor, gently seaward stealing, 
 In thy placid depths hast thou no feeling 
 
 Of the stormy gusts of other days ? 
 Does thy heart, oh, gentle nun-faced river, 
 Passing Schomberg's obelisk, not quiver, 
 
 While the shadow on thy bosom weighs 1 
 
 Thou hast heard the sounds of martial clangour. 
 Seen fraternal forces clash in anger, 
 
 In thy Sabbath vaUey, River Boyne ! 
 Here have ancient Ulster's hardy forces 
 Dressed their ranks and fed their travelled horses, 
 
 Tara's hosting as they rode to join. 
 
 Forgettest thou that silent Summer morning. 
 When William's bugles sounded sudden warning. 
 
 And James's answered, chivalrously clear ! 
 When rank to rank gave the death-signal duly. 
 And volley answered volley quick and truly. 
 
 And shouted mandates met the eager ear ? 
 
 The thrush and linnet fled beyond the mountains, 
 The fish in Inver Colpa sought their fountains. 
 
 The unchased deer scampered through Tredagh's*' 
 gates ; 
 St. Mary's bells in their high places trembled. 
 And made a mournful music which resembled 
 
 A hoceless prayer to the unpitying Fates. 
 
 * Tredach, now Drogheda.
 
 BOOR OP IRISH BALLADS. 125 
 
 All ! well for Ireland had the battle ended 
 
 TVTien James forsook what William well defended, 
 
 Crown, friends, and kingly cause : 
 Well, if the peace thy bosom did recover 
 Had breathed its benediction broadly over 
 
 Our race, and rites, and laws. 
 
 Not in thy depths, not in thy fount, Loch Ramor ! 
 Were brewed the bitter strife and cruel clamour 
 
 Our wisest long have mourned ; 
 Toul Faction falsely made thy gentle current 
 To Christian ears a stream and name abhorrent. 
 
 And all thy waters into poison turn'd. 
 
 But, as of old God's Prophet sweetened Mara, 
 Even so, blue bound of Ulster and of Tara, 
 
 Thy waters to our Exodus give life ; 
 Thrice holy hands thy lineal foes have wedded, 
 And healing olives in thy breast embedded, 
 
 And banished far the littleness of strife. 
 
 Before thee we have made a solemn Foedus, 
 
 And for Chief Witness called on Him who made us, 
 
 Quenching before His eyes the brands of hate ; 
 Our pact is made, for Motherhood and imion, 
 For equal laws to class and to communion — 
 
 Our wounds to staunch — our land to liberate. 
 
 Our trust is not in musket or in sabre — 
 Our faith is in the fruitfulness of labour. 
 
 The soul-stirred, willing soil ; 
 In Homes and granaries by justice guarded, 
 In fields from blighting winds and agents warded, 
 
 In franchised skill and manumitted toil. 
 
 Grant us, O God, the soil, and sun, and seasons ! 
 Avert Despair, the worst of moral treasons, 
 
 Make vaunting words be vile. 
 Grant us, we pray, but wisdom, peace, and patience, 
 And we wiU yet re-lift among the nations 
 
 Our fair and f-O.len bt»t iinforsaken lalo.
 
 126 BOOK OF IKiSH BALLADS. 
 
 THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND. 
 
 BY DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY, M.R.LA. 
 
 The pillar towers of Ireland, how wondroiosly they 
 
 stand 
 By the lakes and rushing rivers through the valleys ol 
 
 our land ; 
 In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their headb 
 
 sublime, 
 These grey old pillar temples — these conquerors of 
 
 time! 
 
 Beside these grey old pillars, how perishing and weak 
 The Roman's arch of triumph, and the temple of the 
 
 Greek, 
 And the gold domes of Byzantium, and the pointed 
 
 Gothic spires. 
 All are gone, one by one, but the temples of our sires ' 
 
 The column, with its capital, is level with the dust. 
 And the proud halls of the mighty and the calm homes 
 
 of the just ; 
 For the proudest works of man, as certainly, but slower, 
 Pass like the grass at the sharp scythe of the mower ! 
 
 But the grass grows again when in majesty and mirth, 
 On the wing of the Spring comes the Goddess of the 
 
 Earth ; 
 But for man in this world no spring-tide e'er returns 
 To the labours of his hands or the ashes of his urns ! 
 
 Two favourites hath Time — the pyramids of Nile, 
 And the old mystic temples of our own dear isle ; 
 As the breeze o'er the seas, where the halcyon has itt, 
 
 nest, 
 Thus time o'er Egypt's tombs and the temples of the 
 
 West I
 
 BOOK OF iitlSH BALLAX)?. 127 
 
 The names of their founders have vanished in the 
 
 gloom, ^ ^ 
 
 Like the dry branch in the fire or the body in the 
 tomb ; 
 
 But to-day, in the ray, their shadows still they cast— 
 
 These temples of forgotten gods — these relics of the 
 past ! 
 
 Around these walls have wandered the Briton and 
 
 the Dane — 
 The captives of Armorica, the cavaliers of Spain — 
 Pbcenician and !Milesian, and the plundering Norman 
 
 Peers — 
 And the swordsmen of brave Brian, and the chiefs of 
 
 later years ! 
 
 Jiow many different rites, have these grey old temples 
 
 known 'i 
 To the mind what dreams are written in these 
 
 chronicles of stone ! 
 \\^hat terror and what error, what gleams of love and 
 
 truth. 
 Have flashed from these walls since the world was in 
 
 its youth ? 
 
 Here blazed the sacred tire, and when the sim \\aij 
 
 gone, 
 As a star from afar to the traveller it shone ; 
 And the warm blood of the victim have these grey u:d 
 
 temples drunk, 
 And the death-song of the Druid and the matin of 
 
 the Monk. 
 
 Here was placed the holy chalice that held the sacred 
 
 wine. 
 And the gold cross from the altar, and the relics from 
 
 the shrine. 
 And the mitre shining brighter with it? diamonds 
 
 than the East, 
 And the crozier of the Pontiff, and the vestments of 
 
 the Priest !
 
 128 iSOOK OF IRISH DAliLADS. 
 
 Where blazed the sacred fire, rang out the vesper 
 
 beU — 
 Where the fugitive found shelter, became the hermit's 
 
 cell ; 
 And hope hung out its symbol to the innocent and 
 
 good. 
 For the Cross o'er the moss of the pointed summit 
 
 stood ! 
 
 There may it stand for ever, while this symbol dotl] 
 
 impart 
 To the mind one glorious vision, or one proud throb 
 
 to the heart ; 
 While the breast needeth rest may these grey old 
 
 temples last, 
 Bright prophets of the future, as preachers of the past ! 
 
 LAMENT OVER THE RUINS OF THE ABBEY OF 
 TIMOLEAGUE.* 
 
 TEANSLATED FROM THE IKISH. 
 
 BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, LL.D., M.R.I.A. 
 
 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 blosom breathed not 
 
 out of heaven a breath. 
 
 On I went in sad dejection, careless where my foot- 
 steps bore, 
 
 Till a ruined church before me opened wide its ancient 
 door, — 
 
 * UeAC m otAJA. (Teach Malaga.)—'* The House of St. Molaga"— 
 now called Timoleague, in Munster. Mangan has also translated this 
 poem very finely. According to him, the author was John OTinlleu a 
 native of Cork, who diad in the year laifi —Ed.
 
 BOOK OF IRI'^H BALLADa. 129 
 
 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, bmlt against the 
 
 buttress gTe}'", 
 Where the clergy used to welcome weary trav'Uers on 
 
 their way ; 
 There I sat me down in sadness, 'neath my cheek ] 
 
 placed my hand, 
 Till the tears fell hot and briny down upon the grassy 
 
 land. 
 
 There, I said in woful sorrow, weeping bitteAy 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 conn- 
 try'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, Ler vesper screeches the 
 cat-headed bird. 
 
 1
 
 130 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 Ivy from your eaves is growing, nettles round your 
 
 green hearthstone, 
 Winds howl where, in your comers, dropping waters 
 
 make their moan. 
 Where the lark to early matins used your clergy forth 
 
 to call, 
 There, alas ! no tongue is stirring, save the daws upon 
 
 the wall 
 
 Refectory cold and empty,'dormitory bleak and bare •, 
 Where are now your pious uses, simple bed and frugal 
 
 fare? 
 Gone your abbot, rule, and order, broken down your 
 
 altar stones ; 
 Nought I see beneath your shelter, save a heap of 
 
 clayey bones. 
 
 Oh! the hardship — oh! the hatred, tyranny, and cruel 
 
 war. 
 Persecution and oppression that have left you as you 
 
 are! 
 I myself once also prospered ; — mine is, too, an altered 
 
 plight; 
 )le 
 
 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 would 
 
 lie- 
 Death's deliverance were welcome — Father, let the old 
 
 man die.
 
 BOOK OF TRIHH BALLADi5. 131 
 
 AVONDHU. 
 
 BY J. J. CALLANAN. 
 
 [Avondhu— The Blaekwater, Avrmduff of Spenser. There are several 
 rivers of this name in the counties of Cork and Kerry, hut the one here 
 mentioned ishy far the most considerable. It rises in a mountain called 
 Meenganine, in the latter county, and discharges itself into the sea at 
 Youghal. For the length of its course, and the beauty and variety of 
 scenery throtigh which it flows, it is superior to any river in Munster.] 
 
 Oh, Avondhu, I wish I were 
 
 As once upon that mountain bare, 
 
 Where thy young waters laugh and shine 
 
 On the wild breast of Meenganine. 
 
 I wish I were by Cleada's* hill, 
 
 Or by Glenruachra's rushy rill; 
 
 But no ! I never more shall view 
 
 Those scenes I loved by Avondhu. 
 
 Farewell, ye soft and purple streaks 
 Of evening on the beauteous Reeks ;t 
 Farewell ye mists, that loved to ride 
 On CahirDearna's stormy side. 
 Farewell, November's moaning breeze^ 
 Wild minstrel of the dying trees : 
 Clara ! a fond farewell to you. 
 No more we meet by Avondhu. 
 
 No more — but thou, glorious hill. 
 Lift to the moon thy forehead still; 
 Flow on, flow on^ thou dark swift nver, 
 Upon thy free wild course for ever. 
 Exult young hearts in lifetime's spring, 
 And taste the joys pure love can bring; 
 But wanderer, go, they're not for you — 
 Farewell, farewell, sweet Avondhu. 
 
 ♦ Cleada ajid Cahlrbeama (the hill of the four gaps) form part of the 
 chain of mountains which stretches westward from Millstreet to 
 KiUarney. 
 
 t Macgillicuddy't Reeks, in the neighboorhood of Killarney.
 
 132 BOOK OF IRISH BALLAUa. 
 
 THE ROCK OF CASHEL. 
 
 BY THE P.EV. DR MURRAY. 
 
 Fair wsls that eve, as if from earth away 
 
 All trace of sin and sorrow 
 Passed, in the light of the eternal day. 
 
 That knows nor night nor morrow. 
 
 The pale and shadowy mountains, in the dim 
 
 And glowing distance piled ! 
 A sea of light along the horizon's rim, 
 
 Unbroken, undefiled ! 
 
 Blue sky, and cloud, and grove, and hill, and glen. 
 
 The form and face of man 
 Beamed with unwonted beauty, as if then 
 
 New earth and heaven begar. 
 
 Yet heavy grief was on me, and I gazed 
 
 On thee through gushing tears, 
 Thou relic of a glory that once blazed 
 
 So bright in bygone years ! 
 
 Wreck of a ruin ! lovelier, holier far. 
 
 Thy ghastly hues of death, 
 Than the cold forms of newer temples are — > 
 
 Shrines of a priestless faith. 
 
 In lust and rapine, treachery and blood. 
 
 Its iron domes were built ; 
 Jarkly they frown, where God's own altars stood, 
 
 In hatred and in guilt. 
 
 But to make thee, of loving hearts the love. 
 
 Was coined to living stone ; 
 Truth, peace, and piety together strove 
 
 To form thee for their own.
 
 BOOK OP miSh BALLji.DS. 133 
 
 Aud thou wast their.s, and they within thee met, 
 
 And did thy presence fill; 
 And their sweet light, even while thine own is set, 
 
 Hovers around thee stilL 
 
 'Tis not work of mind, or hand, or eye, 
 
 _ Builder's or sculptor's skill, 
 Thy site, thy beauty, or thy majesty— 
 Not these my bosom thrilL 
 
 'Tis that a glorious monument thou art, 
 
 Of the true faith of old, 
 When faith was one in all the nation's heart, 
 
 Purer than purest gold. 
 
 A light, when darkness on the nations dwelt. 
 
 In Erin found a home — 
 The mind of Greece, the warm heart of the Celt, 
 
 The bravery of Rome. 
 
 i^ut, ! the pearl, the gem, the glory of her youth. 
 That shone upon her brow : 
 
 She clung for ever to the Chair oi Truth- 
 Clings to it now ! 
 
 Love of my love, and temple of my God ! 
 
 How would I now clasp thee 
 Close to my heart, and, even as thou wast trod, 
 
 So with thee trodden be ! 
 
 0, for one hour a thousand years ago, 
 
 Within thy precincts dim. 
 To hear the chant, in deep and measured flow, 
 Of psalmody and hymn ! 
 
 To see of priests the long and white array, 
 
 Around thy silver shrines — 
 The people kneeling prostrate far away, 
 
 In thick and cnequer'd lines.
 
 134 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 To see the Prince of Cashel o'er the rest, 
 
 Their prelate and their king, 
 The sacred bread and chalice by him blest, 
 
 Earth's holiest offering. 
 
 To hear, in piety's own Celtic tongue, 
 
 The most heart-touching prayer 
 That fervent suppliants e'er was heard among,— 
 
 0, to be then and there ! 
 
 There was a time all this within thy walls 
 
 Was felt, and heard, and seen ; 
 Faint image only now thy sight recals 
 
 Of all that once hath been. 
 
 The creedless, heartless, murderous robber came, 
 
 And never since that time 
 Round thy torn altars burned the sacred flame, 
 
 Or rose the chant sublime. 
 
 Thy glory in a crimson tide went down, 
 
 Beneath the cloven hoof — 
 Altar and priest, mitre, and cope, and crown, 
 
 And choir, and arch, and roof. 
 
 0, but to see thee, when thou wilt rise again — 
 
 For thou again wilt rise. 
 And with the splendours of thy second reign 
 
 Dazzle a nation's eyes ! 
 
 Children of those who made thee what thou wast, 
 
 Shall lift thee from the tomb. 
 And clothe thee, for the spoiling of the past, 
 
 In more celestial bloom. 
 
 And psalm, and hymn, and gold, and precious stones 
 
 And gems beyond all price, 
 And priest, and altar, o'er the martyr's bones. 
 
 And daily sacrifice.
 
 BOOK Of IKISH BALLADS. 135 
 
 And endless prayer, and crucifix, and shrine, 
 
 And ail religion's dower, 
 And thronging worshippers shall yet be thine — 
 
 0, but to see that hour ! 
 
 And who shall smite thee then 1— and who shall see 
 
 Thy second glory o'er ] 
 When they who make thee free themselves are free, 
 
 To fall no more. 
 
 LOCH INA. 
 
 A beautiful Salt-water Lake, in the County of Cork, near BalHmort. 
 
 I KNOW a lake where the cool waves break, 
 
 And softly fall on the silver sand — 
 And no steps intrude on that solitude, 
 
 And no voice, save mine, distm-bs the strand. 
 
 And a mountain bold like a giant of old 
 Turned to stone by some magic spell, 
 
 CFprears in might his misty height, 
 And his craggy sides are wooded well. 
 
 In the midst doth smile a little Isle, 
 And its verdure shames the emerald's green — 
 
 On its grassy side, in ruined pride, 
 A castle of old is darkling seen. 
 
 On its lofty crest the wild crane's nest, 
 In its haJls the sheep good shelter find : 
 
 And the ivy shades where a hundred blades ^ 
 Were hung, when the owners in sleep reclined. 
 
 That chieftain of old could he now behold 
 
 His lordly tower a shepherd's pen, 
 His corpse, long dead, from its narrow bed 
 
 Would rise, v^^th anger and shame again.
 
 136 book: of irish ballads. 
 
 'Tis sweet to gaze when the suu's bright rays 
 Are cooling themselves in the trembling wave^ - 
 
 But 'tis sweeter far when the evening star 
 Shines like a smile at Friendship's grave. 
 
 There the hoUow shells, through their wreathed cells, 
 
 Make music on the silent shore, 
 As the summer breeze, through the distant trees, 
 
 Murmurs in fragant breathings o'er. 
 
 And the sea- weed shines, Like the hidden mines 
 
 Of the fairy cities beneath the sea ; 
 And the wave- washed stones are bright as the thrones 
 
 Of the ancient Kings of Araby. 
 
 K it were my lot in that fairy spot 
 To live for ever, and dream 'twere mine, 
 
 Courts might woo, and kings pursue. 
 Ere I would leave thee — Loved Loch-Ine. 
 
 THE RETURNED EXILE. 
 
 BY B. SIMMONS. 
 
 Blue Corrin ! how softly the evening light goes, 
 Fading far o'er thy summit from ruby to rose, 
 As if loth to deprive the deep woodlands below 
 Of the love and the glory they drink in its glow : 
 Oh, home-looking Hill ! how beloved dost thou rise 
 Once more to my sight through the shadowy skies. 
 Watching still, in thy sheltering grandeur unfurled, 
 The landscape to me that so long was the world. 
 Fair evening — blest evening ! one moment delay 
 Till the tears of the Pilgrim are dried in thy ray — 
 Till he feels that through years of long absence, not one 
 Of his friends — the lone rock and grey ruin — is gone. 
 Not one :— as I wind the sheer fastnesses through, 
 The valley of boyhood is bright in my view ! 
 Onoe again my glad spirit its fetterless flight
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 137 
 
 May wing through a sphere of -aiiclouded delight, 
 O'er one maze of broad orchard, green meadow, and 
 
 slope — 
 From whose tints I once pictured the pinions of hope ; 
 Still the hamlet gleams white— still the church yewh, 
 
 are weeping, 
 Where the sleep of the peaceful my fathers are sleep- 
 ing. 
 The vane tells, as usual, its fib from the miLL, 
 But the wheel tumbles loudly and merrily stdl, 
 And the tower of the Roches stands lonely as ever, 
 With its grim shadow rusting the gold of the river. 
 
 My own pleasant Eiver, bloom-skirted, behold, 
 Now sleeping in shade, now refulgently rolled, 
 Where long through the landscape it tranquilly flows, 
 Scarcely breaking, Glen-coorah, thy glorious repose ! 
 By the Park's lovely pathways it lingers and shines, 
 Where the cushat's low call, and the murmur of pines, 
 And the lips of the lily seem wooing its stay 
 '^lid their odorous dells ; — but 'tis off and away. 
 Rushing out through the clustering oaks, in whose 
 
 shade, 
 Like a bird in the branches, an arbour T made. 
 Where the blue eyes of Eve often closed o'er the book, 
 While I read of stout Sinbad, or voyaged with Cook. 
 
 Wild haunt of the Harper ! I stand by thy spring, 
 Whose waters of silver still sparkle and fling 
 Their wealth at my feet, — and I catch the deep glow, 
 As in long-vanished hours, of the lilacs that blow 
 By the low cottage porch — and the same crescent moun 
 That then ploughed, like a pinnace, the purple of June. 
 Is white on Glen-duff, and all blooms as unchanged 
 As if years had not passed since thy greenwood I 
 
 ranged — 
 As if ONE were not fled, who imparted a soul 
 Of divinest enchantment and grace to the whole, 
 Whose being was bright as that fair moon above, 
 And all deep and all pure as thy waters her love
 
 138 BOOK: OF laina. baj^lau^ 
 
 Thou long-vanished Angel ! whose faithfulness threw 
 O'er my gloomy existence'one glorified hue ! 
 Dost thou still, as of yore, when the evening grows dim, 
 And the blackbird by Downing is hushing its hymn, 
 Remember the bower by the Funcheon's blue side 
 Where the whispers were soft as the kiss of the tide] 
 Dost thou stni think, with pity and peace on thy brow, 
 Of him who, toil-harassed and time-shaken now, 
 Wlule the last light of day, Hke his hopes, has departed, 
 On the turf thou hast hallowed, sinks down weary- 
 hearted. 
 And calls on tny name, and the night-breeze that sighs 
 Through the boughs that once blest thee is all that 
 replies 1 
 
 But thy summit, far Corrin, is fading Ln grey. 
 And the moonlight grows mellow on lonely Cloughlea ; 
 And the laugh of the young, as they loiter about 
 Through the elm-shaded alleys, rings joyously out : 
 Happy souls ! they have yet the dark chalice to taste, 
 And like others to wander life's desolate waste — 
 To hold wassail with sin, or keep vigil with woe ; 
 But the same fount of yearning, wherever they go. 
 Welling up in their heart-depths, to turn at the last 
 (As the stag when the barb in his bosom is fast) 
 To their lair in the Mils, on their childhood that rose 
 A.nd find the sole blessing I seek for — eepose ! 
 
 GLENFINISHK* 
 
 BY JOSEPH O'LEARY. 
 
 Glenfinishk ! where thy waters mix with Araglen's 
 
 wild tide, 
 'Tis sweet at hush of evening to wander by thy side ! 
 'Tis sweet to hear the night- winds sigh along Macrona's 
 
 wood, 
 And mingle their wild music with the murmur of thy 
 
 flood! 
 
 • Glenfinishk (the glen of thA fair waters^, in the county of C!crk.
 
 BOOR OF IKISH BALLADS. 13^ 
 
 Tis sweet, when in the deep-blue vault the morn is 
 
 shining bright, 
 To watch where thy clear waters are breaking into light; 
 To mark the starry sparks that o'er thy smoother 
 
 surface gleam, 
 As if some fairy hand were flinging diamonds on thy 
 
 stream ! 
 
 Oh ! if departed spirits e'er to this dark world return, 
 Tis in some lonely, lovely spot like this they would 
 
 sojourn ; 
 Whate'er their mystic rites may be, no human eye is 
 
 here, 
 Save mine to mark their mystery — no human voice is 
 
 near. 
 
 At such an hour, in such a scene, I could forget my 
 
 birth— 
 I could forget I e'er have been, or am, a thino- of earth ; 
 Shake off the fleshly bonds that hold my soul in thrall, 
 
 and be. 
 Even like themselves, a spirit, as boundless and as free ! 
 
 Ye shadowy race ! if we believe the tales of legends old, 
 Ye sometimes hold high converse with those of mortal 
 
 mould : 
 Oh ! come, whilst now my soul is free, and bear me in 
 
 your train. 
 Ne'er to return to misery and this dark world again ! 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN FERN. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOE OF " THE MONKS OP KILCREA." 
 
 Oh, the Fern ! the Fern !— the Irish hiU Fern !— 
 That girds our blue lakes from Lough Ine* to Lough 
 
 Erne, 
 That waves on our crags, like the plume of a king, 
 And bends, like a nun, over clear well and spring ! 
 
 • Lough Ine, a singularly romantic lake in the western mountains 0/ 
 Cork; of Lough Erne, I hope, to Irishmeu it is unnecessary to speai.
 
 140 BOOK OF IFviSH BALLADS. 
 
 The fairy's tall palm tree ! the heath-bird's fresh nest 
 And the couch the red deer deems the sweetest andbestj 
 With the free mnds to fan it, and dew-drops to gem, — 
 Oh, w^hat can ye match with its beautiful stem 1 
 From the shrine of Saint Finbar, by lone Avonbuie, 
 To the halls of Dunluce, with its towers by the sea, 
 From the hill of Knockthu to the rath of Moyvore, 
 Like a chaplet it circles our green island o'er, — 
 In the bawn of the chief, by the anchorite's cell, 
 On the hill-top, or gi-eenwood, by streamlet or well, 
 With a spell on each leaf, which no mortal can learn,'^ — 
 Oh, there never was plant like the Irish hill Fern ! 
 
 Oh, the Fern ! the Fern !— the Irish hill Fern !— 
 That shelters the weary, or wild roe, or kern. 
 Thro' the glens of Kilcoe rose a shout on the gale, 
 As the Saxons rushed forth, in their wrath, from the 
 
 Pale, 
 With bandog and blood-hound, all savage to see, 
 To hunt thro' CluneaUa the vmd Rapparee ! 
 Hark ! a cry from yon dell on the startled ear rings, 
 And forth from the wood the young fugitive springs, 
 Thro' the copse, o'er the bog, and, oh, saints be his 
 
 guide ! 
 His fleet step now falters — there's blood on his side ! 
 Yet onward he strains, climbs the cliff, fords the stream, 
 And sinks on the hill-top, mid brachen leaves green, 
 And thick o'er his brow are their fresh clusters piled, 
 And they cover his form, as a mother her child ; 
 And the Saxon is baffled ! — they never discern 
 WTiere it shelters and saves him — the Irish hill Fern ! 
 
 Oh, the Fern ! the Fern !— the Irish hill Fern !— 
 That pours a wild keen o'er the hero's grey cairn ; 
 Go, hear it at midnight, when stars are all out, 
 And the wind o'er the hill-side is moaning about, 
 With a rustle and stir, and a low wailing tone 
 That thriUs thro' the heart with its whispering lone ; 
 
 • The fortunate discoverer of the feru seed is supposed to obtain (ha 
 power of rendering himself invlaible at vletsi;^
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 141 
 
 And ponder its meaning, when liaply you stray 
 Where the halls of the stranger in ruin decay. 
 With night owls for warders, the goshawk for guest, 
 And their dais* of honour by cattle-hoofs prest — 
 With its fosse choked with rushes, and spider-web? 
 
 flung, 
 Over walls where the marchmen their red weapons 
 
 hung. 
 With a curse on their name, and a sigh for the hour 
 That tarries so long— look ! what waves on the tower ] 
 With an omen and sign, and an augury stern, 
 'Tis the Green Flag of Time !— 'tis the Irish hill Fern 1 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF FATHER PROUT. 
 
 BY DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY, M.R.LA. 
 I. 
 
 In deep dejection, but with affection, 
 
 I often think of those pleasant times, 
 In the days of Fraser,t ere I touched a razor, 
 How I read and revell'd in thy racy rhymes. 
 When in wine and wassail, we to thee were vassal, 
 Of Watergrass-hill, O renowned P.P. ! 
 May the bells of Shandon 
 Toll blithe and bland on 
 The pleasant waters of thy memory ! 
 
 n. 
 
 Full many a ditty, bo' h wise and witty. 
 In this social city have I heard since then — 
 
 (With the glass before me, how the dream comes o'er 
 me, 
 Of those Attic suppers, and those vanished men), 
 
 ' The dais was an elevated portlonof the great hall or dining-room, set 
 .part in feudal times for those of gentle blood, and was, in consequence, 
 -©yarded with peculiar feelings of veneration and respect. 
 
 t " Fra»er"» Mfco-'rin* " whera th» "Prout Par^r^ ' fir'st appeared.
 
 14a BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 But no song hath woken, whether sung or spoken. 
 Or hath left a token of such joy in me — 
 
 As " The Bells of Shandon 
 
 That sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters of the river Lee.** 
 
 ni. 
 
 The songs melodious, which— a new Harmodius — 
 
 " Young Ireland " wreathed round its rebel sword, 
 With their deep vibrations and aspirations, 
 
 Fling a glorious madness o'er the festive board; 
 But to me seems sweeter, with a tone completer, 
 The melodious metre that we owe to thee — 
 Of the Bells of Shandon 
 That sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters of the river Lea 
 
 rr. 
 
 There's a grave that rises o'er thy sward, Devizes, 
 
 Where Moore lies sleeping from his land afar,* 
 
 And a white stone flashes over Goldsmith's ashes 
 
 In the quiet cloisters by Temple Bar ; 
 So where'er thou sleepest, with a love that's deepest, 
 Shall thy land remember thy sweet song and thee. 
 While the Bells of Shandon 
 Shall sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 
 
 May 25, 1866. 
 
 * In Bromham churchyard, flye miles ionth of Devifes. The spire of 
 Bromham Church is seen from the front of Sloperton Cottage ; and, in 
 deed, from that point is the only building in yiew. Both cottage and 
 tomb Tvere visited by the writer of these lines on the 28th of May, 1867 
 Moore's birth-day. •' Father Prout'a " acquaintance he had the pleasure 
 of making at Paris, in 1868
 
 BOOK OF IRISU isALLADS. 143 
 
 THOSE SHAXDON BELLS. 
 
 BY DENIS FLOEENCE MAC-CAETHY., M.R.I. A. 
 
 "The remains of the Rev. Francis Mahony have been laid in the 
 family burial-place, in St. Anne Shandon Churchyard, the 'Belb,' -which 
 he has rendered famous, tolling the knell of the poet, who sang of their 
 STcet chimes." 
 
 Those Shandon bells 1 those Shandon beUs ! 
 Whose STveet sad tone now sobs, now swells — 
 Who comes to seek this hallowed ground, 
 And sleep within their sacred sound 1 
 
 u. 
 
 'Tis one who heard these chimes when young. 
 And who in age their praises sung, 
 Within whose breast their music made 
 A dream of home where'er he strayed. 
 
 III. 
 
 And oh ! if bells have power to-day, 
 To drive all evil things away, 
 Let doubt be dumb, and envy cease — 
 And round his grave reign holy peace. 
 
 IV. 
 
 True love doth love in turn beget. 
 And now these bells repay the debt ; 
 Whene'er they sound, their music tells 
 Of hiiu who sang sweet Shandon bells ! 
 
 May 30, 1866.
 
 144 BOOa. OP IRISH BALLADS, 
 
 A DARE* 
 
 BY GERALD GRIFFIN. 
 
 Oh, sweet Adare ! oh, lovely vale ! 
 
 Oh, soft retreat of sylvan splendour ! 
 Nor summer sun, nor morning gale 
 
 E'er hailed a scpne raore softly tender. 
 How shall I tell the thousand charms 
 
 Within thy verdant bosom dwelling, 
 Where, lulled in Nature's fost'ring arms. 
 
 Soft peace abides and joy excelling ! 
 
 Ye morning airs, how sweet at dawn 
 
 The slumbering boughs your song awaken, 
 Or linger o'er the silent lawn. 
 
 With odour of the harebell taken. 
 1 tou rising sun, how richly gleams 
 
 Thy smile from far Knockfierna's mountain, 
 er waving woods and bounding streams. 
 
 And many a grove and glancing fountain. 
 
 Ye clouds of noon, how freshly there. 
 
 When summer heats the open meadows, 
 O'er parched hill and valley fair, 
 
 All cooly lie your veiling shadows. 
 Ye rolling shades and vapours grey. 
 
 Slow creeping o'er the golden heaven, 
 How soft ye seal the eye of day. 
 
 And wreath the dusky brow of even. 
 
 In sweet Adare, the jocmid spring 
 His notes of odorous joy is breathing, 
 
 The wild birds in the woodland sing, 
 The wild flowers in the vale are breathing 
 
 * This be*tttlfnl *nd int«re«tln|{ locality ig about eight talles frwn 
 Limerick.
 
 BOOi: OF IRISH BALLADS. 145 
 
 There winds the Mague, as silver clear, 
 Among the elms so sweetly flowing ; 
 
 There, fragrant in the early year, 
 Wild roses on the banks are blowing. 
 
 The wild duck seeks the sedgy bank, 
 
 Or dives beneath the glistening billow. 
 Where graceful droop and clustering dank 
 
 The osier bright and rustling willo^\ . 
 The hawthorn scents the leafy dale, 
 
 In thicket lone the stag is belling, 
 And sweet along the echoing vale 
 
 The sound of vernal joy is swelling. 
 
 DEIRDKE'S FAEEWELL TO ALBA.* 
 
 BY SAMUEL FEBGUSON, LL.D., M.E.LA. 
 
 Farewell to fair Alba, high house of the sun, 
 Farewell to the mountain, the cliff, and the dun ; 
 Dun-Sweeny, adieu ! for my love cannot stay, 
 And tarry I may not when love cries away. 
 
 Glen Vashan! Glen Vashan! where roebucks run free, 
 Where my love used to feast on the red deer with me ; 
 Where, rocked on thy waters while stormy winds blew, 
 My love used to slumber, Glen "V'ashan, adieu ! 
 
 Glendaro ! Glendaro ! where birchen boughs wee[) 
 Honey dew at high noon o'er the nightingale's sleep, 
 Where my love used to lead me to hear the cuckoo 
 'Mong the high hazel bushes, Glendaro, adieu ! 
 
 Glen Urchy ! Glen Urchy ! where loudly and long 
 My love used to wake up the woods with his song, 
 Wbile the son of the rock, from the depths of the dell, 
 Laughed sweetly in answer, Glen Urchy. farewell I
 
 146 BOOK OF lEISH BALLADS. 
 
 Glen Etive ! Glen Etive ! where dappled does roam, 
 Where I leave the green sheeling I first called a home ; 
 Where with me and my true-love delighted to dwell, 
 The sun made his mansion, Glen Etive, farewell ! 
 
 Farewell to Inch Draynach, adieu to the roar 
 Of the blue billows bursting in light on the shore ; 
 Dun Fiagh, farewell ! for my love cannot stay. 
 And tarry I may not when love cries away. 
 
 A SIGH FOR KNOCKMANY. 
 
 BY WILLIAM CAELETON. 
 
 Take, proud ambition, take thy fill 
 
 Of pleasures won through toil or crime ; 
 Go, learning, climb thy rugged hill. 
 
 And give thy name to future time : 
 Philosophy, be keen to see 
 
 "Whate'er is just, or false, or vain, 
 Take each thy meed, but, oh ! give me 
 
 To range my mountain glens again. 
 
 Pure was the breeze that fann'd my cheek, 
 
 As o'er Knockman/s brow I went ; 
 When every lonely dell could speak 
 
 In airy music, vision sent : 
 False world, I hate thy cares and thee, 
 
 I hate the treacherous haunts of men ; 
 Give back my early heart to me, 
 
 Give back to me my mountain glen. 
 
 How light my youthful visions shone, 
 
 When spann'd by fancy's radiant form ; 
 But now her glittering bow is gone, 
 
 And leaves me but the cloud and storm ! 
 With wasted form, and cheek all pale — 
 
 With heart long scared by grief and pain ; 
 Dunroe, PU seek thy native gale, 
 
 m tread my mountain glens again.
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 147 
 
 Tny breeze once more may fan my blood, 
 
 Thy vallies all, are lovely still ; 
 And I may stand, where oft I stood, 
 
 In lonely musings on thy hill. 
 But ah ! the spell is gone ; — no art 
 
 In crowded town, or native plain, 
 Can teach a crush'd and breaking heart 
 
 To pipe the song of youth again. 
 
 TIPPERARF. 
 
 Were you ever in sweet Tipperary, where the fields 
 
 are so sunny and green. 
 And the heath-brown Slieve-bloom and the Galtees 
 
 look down with so proud a mien 1 • 
 'Tis there you would see more beauty than is on all 
 
 Irish ground — 
 God bless you, my sweet Tipperary, for where could 
 
 your match be found ? 
 
 They say that your hand is fearful, that darkness is 
 
 in your eye : 
 But I'll not let them dare to talk so black and bitter 
 
 a lie. 
 Oh ! no, macushla storin ! bright, brighfc^ and warm 
 
 are you. 
 With hearts as bold as the men of old, to yourselves 
 
 and yoiu country true. 
 
 And when there is gloom upon you, bid them think 
 
 who has brought it there — 
 Sure a frown or a word of hatred was not made for 
 
 your face so fair ; 
 you've a hand for the grasp of friendship — another to 
 
 make them quake. 
 And they're welcome to whichsoever it pleases them 
 
 *nost to take.
 
 148 BOOK OF IKISU BALLADS, 
 
 iSliall our homes, like the hutaof Connaught, be crum 
 
 bled before our eyes "? 
 Shall we fly, like a flock of wild geese, from all that 
 
 we love and prize '] 
 Xo ! by those who were here before us, no churl shall 
 
 our tyrant be ; 
 Our land it is theirs by plunder, but, by Brigid, our 
 
 selves are free. 
 
 N ! we do not forget the greatness did once to sweet 
 
 Eire belong ; 
 Xo treason or craven spirit was ever our race among ; 
 And no frown or no word of hatred we give — but tr 
 
 ^ pay them back , 
 In evil we only follow our enemies' darksome track. 
 
 Oh ! come for a while among us, and give us the 
 friendly hand, 
 
 And you'll see that old Tipperary is a loving and glad- 
 some land ; 
 
 From Upper to Lower Ormond, bright welcomes and 
 smiles will spring — 
 
 On the plains of Tipperary the stranger is like a king. 
 
 THE WELSHMEN OF TIRAWLEY. 
 
 BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, LL.D., M.K.I.A. 
 
 [Several Welsh families, associates in the inyasion of StrongtioW, 
 settled in the west of Ireland. Of these, the principal, -vrhose names 
 have been preserved by the Irish antiquarians, were ttie Walshes, Joyces, 
 Hells (a quibus MacHale), Lawlesses, Tolmyns, Lyniitts, and Barretts, 
 vrhich last draw their pedigree from Walynes, son of G uyndally, the Ard 
 Moor, or High Steward of the Lordship of Camelot, and had their chief 
 ?eats in the territory of the two Bacs, in the barony of Tirawley, and 
 founty 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 Garrauard^ and Tubber-nO' 
 Scomey, or " Scrags Well," in the opposite townland of Cams, 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, <fec of Hy Fiachrach," in the publications of 
 the Irith Arehceolopical Sceiety—tk great monument ot antiquarian and 
 topognpkt^*^ «<: aditlQii. j
 
 BOOK OF lETSH BALLADS. 149 
 
 ScoRNEY B'svEE, the Barretts' bailiff, lewd and lame, 
 To lift the Lynott's taxes when he came, 
 Kudely 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 LjTiott ! 
 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 Kttle 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 vengence 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 pwift stream swaliowed stark,
 
 150 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 One and all, 
 As they stumbled — 
 Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawle;' 
 
 Out of all the blinded T,ynotts, one alone 
 Walked 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 L}Tiott, 
 For the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley. 
 
 But with prompt-projected footsteps sure as ever, 
 Emon Lynott again crossed 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 loemen of Tirawley ; 
 
 But, turning on Ballintubber bank, you stood. 
 And the Barretts thus bespoke o'er the flood — 
 "' Oh, ye foolish sons of Wattin, 
 f^mall amends are mese you've gotten, 
 For, while Scorney Bwee 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 himseK or of his clan j 
 
 But in the manly mind 
 
 dnd in loins with vengeance lined, 
 
 iTiat your needles could never find. 
 Though they ran 
 Through my heartstrings !" 
 
 feing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 151 
 
 ■' 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 Beal-an-asa 1 
 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 chUd 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,
 
 152 BOOK OF IRISH BALLA1> 
 
 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 f rom_ year to year. 
 And trained 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 st^ed, 
 Emon Oge sat a cavalier indeed ; 
 Like the ear upon the wheat 
 When winds in autumn be^-i 
 On the bending stems, his seat ; 
 
 And the speed 
 
 Of his courser 
 Was the wind from Bama-na-gee o'er Tirawley ! 
 
 Now when fifteen sunny summers thus were spent, 
 (He perfected in all accomplishment) — 
 The Lynott said, " My chHd, 
 We are over long exiled 
 From mankind in this wild — 
 
 Time we went 
 
 O'er the mountain 
 To the countries lying over-against Tirawley." 
 
 So out over mountain-moors, and mosses brown. 
 And green stream-gathering vales, they journeyed 
 
 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.
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 153 
 
 "Look southward, my boy, and tell me as we go, 
 
 Whsit see'st thou by the loch-head below." 
 
 •' Oh, 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 Ljmott, " It is the Earl ! 
 
 Let us ride 
 
 To his presence." 
 And before him came the exiles of Tirawley. 
 
 " God save thee, MacWilliam," the Lynott thua 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 
 
 » William Fii* Adelm de Burgbo, the conoueror of Connaught.
 
 154 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 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 accomplished 
 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, 
 Game the Lynott, before them all. 
 Once again over Clochan-na-n'all, 
 Steady-striding, erect, and tall. 
 
 And his ward 
 
 On his shoulders ; 
 To the wonder of the Welshman of Ticawley
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 155 
 
 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, 
 A.nd the strength of youthful passion, 
 On the daughters of thy nation, 
 
 All around, 
 
 Wattin Barrett ! 
 Oh ! the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley 1 
 
 Bitter grief and burning anger, rage and shame. 
 Filled the houses of the Barretts where'er he came ; 
 Till the young men of the Bac 
 Drew by night upon his track, 
 And slew him at Comassack — 
 
 Small your blame, 
 
 Sons of Wat^n ! 
 Sing the vengeance of the "Welshmen of Tirawley. 
 
 Said the Lynott, " The day of my vengeance is draw 
 
 ing near, 
 The day for which, through many a long dark year,
 
 156 BOOK OF IRISH BALLAT)S. 
 
 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 MacWilliaDi Burk 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 Tirawlej 
 
 '' 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,
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 157 
 
 " 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 Ms 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 Burks will take it — your Freedom 1 for the 
 
 sake 
 Of which aU 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
 
 158 BOOK or IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 This pall, to merit death ; 
 
 And my son 
 
 To his father 
 Stands pledged for other teaching in Tirawley." 
 
 Said MacWilliam — "Father and son, hang thew 
 
 high !" 
 And the Lynott they hanged speedily ; 
 But across the salt-sea 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 befel 
 
 That the sons of William Conquer 
 
 Came over the sons of Wattin, 
 
 Throughout all the bounds and borders 
 
 Of the land of Auley MacFiachra ; 
 
 Till the Saxon Oliver Cromwell 
 
 And his valiant, Bible-guided, 
 
 Free heretics of Clan London 
 
 Coming in, in their succession, 
 
 Rooted out both Burk and Barrett, 
 
 And in their empty places 
 
 New stems of freedom planted, 
 
 With many a goodly sapling 
 
 Of manliness and virtue ; 
 
 Which whUe 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 \ 
 
 [Note by the Editor, 1869 : The author of this spuited Ballad in .-epub- 
 lisMng The Welshmen of Tirawley in his "Laya of the Western Oael* 
 p. 70, has changed several lines, some of them being among the most 
 vigorous in the poem. For the purposes of comparison, I have thought it 
 would be more interesting to give the ballad as it oriizin&lly appeared.]
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 159 
 
 THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE. 
 
 BY J. J. CALLANAN. 
 
 0, MANY a day have I made good ale in tHe glen, 
 That came not of stream, or malt ;— Kke the bre^ving 
 
 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 
 
 would that a freezing sleet-wing'd tempest did sweep, 
 And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep ; 
 
 I 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;— 
 
 1 think as at eve she wanders its mazes along, 
 
 The birds go to .sleep by the swaet wild twist of hei 
 son^.
 
 1<50 «ooK OF IRISH Ballads. 
 
 AILEEN THE HUNTRESS. 
 
 BY EDWARD WALSH. 
 
 [The incident related in the following ballad happened about the year 
 173L Aileen, or Ellen, was daughter of M'Cartie, of Clidane, an estate 
 originally bestowed upon this respectable branch of the family of M-Cart: 3 
 More, by James, the seventh Earl of Desmond, and which, passing sals 
 thi'ough the confiscations of Elizabeth, Cromwell, and William, remained 
 in their possession until the beginning of the present centurj'. Aileer^ 
 vvho is celebrated in the traditions of the people for her love of hunting, 
 was the wife of James O'Connor, of Cluain-Tairbh, grandson of David, 
 the founder of the Siol-t Da, a well-known sept at this day in Kerry. 
 This David was grandson • to Thomas MacTeige O'Connor, of Ahala* 
 hauna, head of the second house of O'Connor Kerry, who, forfeiting in 
 1666, escaped destruction by taking shelter among his relations, tht 
 Nagles of Monanimy.— Author's Note.} 
 
 Falk Aileen M'Cartie, O'Connor's young bride, 
 Forsakes her white pillow with matronly pride, 
 And 'alls forth her maidens (their number was nine. 
 To the bavrn of her mansion, a-milking the kine. 
 They came at her bidding, in kirtle and gown, 
 And braided hair, jetty, and golden, and brown, 
 And form like the palm-tree, and step like the fawn, 
 A.nd bloom like the wild rose that circled the bawn. 
 
 As the Guebre's round tower o'er the fane of Ardfea^ — 
 As the white hind of Brandon by young roes begirt — 
 As the moon in her glory 'mid bright stars outhung— 
 Stood Aileen M'Cartie her maidens among. 
 Beneath the rich kerchief, which matrons may wear, 
 Stray'd ringleted tresses of beautiful hair ; 
 They waVd on her fair neck, as darkly as though 
 'Twere the raven's wing shining o'er Mangerton's snow! 
 
 A circlet of pearls o'er her white bosom lay. 
 Erst worn by thy proud Queen, O'Connor the gay,* 
 And now to the beautiful Aileen come down, 
 The rarest that ever shed light in the Laune.f 
 
 * 0" Connor, sumamed " SugacJi," or the Gay, was a celebrated chief 
 of this race, who flourished in the fifteenth century. 
 
 t The river Laune flows from the Lakes of Killam«y, and the cele- 
 brated Kerry Pearl* aie foimd in its s aters. 
 
 (
 
 BOOK OF IRlSrl isALLADS. 161 
 
 The iiiauy-fring'd. /«//</////' '^•* that floated behind, 
 < iave its hues to the suiiiight, its folds to the wind — 
 The brooch that refrain'd it some forefather bold 
 Had torn from a sea-king in battle-field old ! 
 
 Around her went bounding two wolf-dogs of speed, 
 So tall in their stature, so pure in their breed ; 
 "VMiile the maidens awake to the new milk's soft fall. 
 A song of O'Connor in Carraig's proud hall. 
 As the milk came outpouring, and the song came out- 
 sung, 
 O'er the wall 'mid the maidens a red-deer out-sprung— 
 Then cheer'd the fair lady — then rush'dthe mad hound, 
 And away with the wild stag in air-lifted bound. 
 
 The gem-isiSten'dfaUuinn is dash'd on the bawn — 
 One spring o'er the tall fence— and Aileen is gone; 
 But morning's rous'd echoes to the deep dells proclaim 
 The course of that wild stag, the dogs, and the dame ! 
 By Cluain Tairbh's green border, o'er moorland and 
 
 height, 
 The red-deer shapes downward the rush of his flight — 
 In sunlight his antlers all gloriously flash. 
 And onward the wolf-dogs and fair huntress dash ! 
 
 By Sliabh-Mis now winding (rare hunting I ween !) 
 He gains the dark valley of Scota the queenf 
 Who found in its bosom a cairn-lifted grave, 
 When Sliabh-Mis first flo w'd with the blood of the brave 1 
 By Colli- Cuaigh's J green shelter, the hollow rocks ring— 
 Coill-Cuaigh, of the cuckoo's first song in the spring, 
 Coill-Cuaigh of the tall oak aiid gale-scenting spray — 
 God's curse on the tyrants that wrought thy decay ! 
 
 * "Falluiim" — The Irisli mantle. 
 
 t The first battle fought between the Mileaiaus and the Tuatha de 
 Danans for the empire of Ireland was at Sliabh-Mis, in Kerry, in which 
 Scota, an Egyptian princess, and the relict of Milesius, was slain. A 
 ralley on the north side of Sliabh-Mis, called Glean Scoithin, or the rale 
 of Scota, is said to be the place of her interment The ancient chronicle* 
 assert that this battle was fought 1,300 years before the Christian era. 
 
 t " Coill-Cuaigh"— TTie Wood of the Cuckoo, so called from being tho 
 favourite haunt of the bird of .summer, is now :; oleaii detolat« moor. 
 The axe of the stranger .laid its honours low. 
 
 L
 
 162 BOOK. OP iParsH BALLADS. 
 
 Now Maing^8 lovely border is gloriously won, 
 Now the towers of the island* gleam bright in the sun, 
 And now Ceall-an Amanach'sf portals are pass'd, 
 Where headless the Desmond found refuge at last 1 
 By Ard-na greachj mountain, and Avonmore's head, 
 To the Earl's proud pavilion the panting deer fled — 
 Where Desmond's tall clansmen spread banners of 
 
 pride, 
 And rush'd to the battle, and gloriously died ! 
 
 The huntress is coming, slow, breathless, and pale. 
 Her raven locks streaming all wild in the gale ; 
 She stops — and the breezes bring balm to her brow — 
 But wolf-dog and wild deer, oh ! where are they now ] 
 On E^idhl4n-Tigh-an-EArla, by Avonmore's weD, 
 His bounding heart broken, the hunted deer fell ; 
 And o'er him the brave hounds all gallantly died, 
 In death still victorious — their fangs in his side ! 
 
 'Tis evening — the breezes beat cold on her breast, 
 And Aileen must seek her far home in the west ; 
 Yet weeping, sh 'tigers where the mist- wreaths are 
 
 chill, 
 O'er the red-deer and tall dogs that lie on the hill ! 
 Whose harp at the banquet told distant and wide, 
 This feat of fair Aileen, O'Connor's young bride 1 — 
 O^Daly's — whose guerdon, tradition hath told. 
 Was a purple-crown'cl wine-cup of beautiful gold ! 
 
 * " Castle Island," or the " Island of Kerry"'— The stronghold of the 
 Fitzgeralds. 
 
 t It was in this churchyard that the headless remains of the unfor- 
 tunate Gerald, the 16th Earl of Desmond, were privately interred. The 
 head was carefully pickled, and sent over to the EngUsh queen, who had 
 it fixed on London-bridge. This mighty chieftain possessed more than 
 670,000 acres of land, and had a train of 600 gentlemen of his own name 
 and race. At the source of the BlackM-ater, where he sought refuge from 
 his inexorable foes, is a mountain called " Reidhlan-Tigh-an-Earla," or 
 " The Plain of the Earl's House." He was slain near Castle Island on 
 nth November, 1583. 
 
 % ♦* Ard-na greach"— The height of the spoils or armies.
 
 BOOK OF IRISB BAf.l.ADS 163 
 
 SHANE DYMAS' DAUGHTEPu 
 
 [t was the eve of holy St. Bride, 
 
 The Abbey bells were ringing, 
 A.nd the meek-eyed nuns at eventide 
 
 The vesper hynms were singing. 
 Alone, by the well of good St. Bride, 
 
 A novice fair was kneeling ! 
 And there seem'd not o'er her soul to glide 
 
 One shade of earthly feeling. 
 
 For ne'e? did that clear and sainted well 
 
 Reflect, from its crystal water, 
 A form more fair than the shadow that fell 
 
 From CXiall's lovely daughter. 
 Her eye was bright as the blue concave, 
 
 And beaming with devotion ; 
 Her bosom fair as the foam on the wavA 
 
 Of Erin's rolling ocean. 
 
 Yet ! forgive her that starting tear : 
 
 From home and kindred riven, 
 Fair Kathleen, many a long, long year, 
 
 ]\Iust be the Bride of Heaven. 
 Her beads were told, and the moonlight shon- 
 
 Sweetly on Callan Water, 
 When her path was cross'd by a holy nun ; — 
 
 " Benedicte, fair daughter l"' 
 
 Fair Kathleen started — well did she know— 
 
 O what will not love discover ! 
 Her countrj^s scourge, and her father's foe, — 
 
 'Twas the voice of her Saxon lover. 
 *' Raymond!" — " Oh hush, my Kathleen dear, 
 
 My path's beset with danger ; 
 But cast not, love, those looks of fear 
 
 Upon thy dark-hair'd stranger.
 
 164 BOOK op IRIBii UALLAL>S. 
 
 '' My red roan steed s in you Culdee grove, 
 
 My bark is out at sea, love ! 
 My boat is moored in the ocean cove ; 
 
 Then haste away ^^dth me, love ! 
 " My father has sworn my hand shall be 
 
 To Sidney's daughter given ; 
 And thine, to-morrow ^\ill offer thee 
 
 A sacrifice to heaven. 
 
 " But away, my love, away with me ! 
 
 The breeze to the west is blowing ; 
 And thither, across the dark-blue sea, 
 
 Are England's bravest going.* 
 "To a land where the breeeze from the orange bowers 
 
 Comes over the exile's sorrow. 
 Like the light- wing'd dreams of his early hours 
 
 Or his hope of a happier morrow. 
 
 " And there, in some valley^s loneliness, 
 
 By wood and mountain shaded. 
 We'll live in the light of wedded bliss, 
 
 Till the lamp of life be faded. 
 " Then thither with me, my Kathleen, fly I 
 
 The storms of life we'll weather. 
 Till in bliss beneath the western sky, 
 
 We Hve, love, die together !" — 
 
 Die, Saxon, now !" — At that fiend-hke yell 
 
 An hundred swords are gleaming : 
 Down the bubbling stream, from the tainted well, 
 
 His heart's best blood is streaming. 
 In vain does he doff the hood so white, 
 
 And vain his falchion flashing : _ 
 Five murderous brands through his corslet bright 
 
 Within his heart are clashing ! 
 
 His last groan echoing through the grove, 
 
 His life blood on the water. 
 He dies, — ^thy first and thy only love, 
 
 O'Niall's hapless daughter ! 
 
 • Alluding to the settlei.7iwit oi Virgina, by iir Walter Raleigh.
 
 BOOK OF ItlTSH T?ALLADS. 165 
 
 Vain, vain, was the shield of that breast of snow ! 
 
 In vain that eye would sustain him, 
 Through his Kathleen's heart the nnirrlerous blow 
 
 Too deadly aimed, has slain him. 
 
 The spirit fled with the red, red blood 
 
 Fast gushing from her bosom ; 
 The blast of death has blighted the bud 
 
 Of Erin's loveliest blossom ! 
 'Tis mom ; — in the deepest doubt and dread 
 
 The gloomy hours are rolling ; 
 No sound save the requiem for the dead, 
 
 Or knell of the death-bell tolling. 
 
 Tis dead of night — not a sound is heard, 
 
 Save from the night wind sighing ; 
 Or the mournful moan of the midnight bird, 
 
 To yon pale planet crv-ing. 
 Who names the name of his murder'd child ] 
 
 What spears to the moon are glancing 1 
 Tis the vengful cry of Shane Dymas wild,t 
 
 His bonnacht-men advancing. 
 
 Saw ye that cloud o'er the moonlight cast, 
 
 Fire from its blackness breaking '? 
 Heard ye that cry on the midnight blast, 
 
 The voice of terror shrieking ] 
 'Tis the fire from Ardsaillach's* willow'd height, 
 
 Tower and temple falling ; 
 'Tis the groan of death, and the cry of fright, 
 
 From monks for mercy calling ! 
 
 * For an account of this Serce tnt high-souled chieftain, see Stuart's 
 Historical Memoirs of the city of Armagh. 
 t "The Height zf Willows." the aacient name of Armagh'
 
 166 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 TfTE LAST O'SULLIYAN BE ARK 
 
 BY THOMAS D'AECY m'GEE. 
 
 [Philip O'Sullivan Beare, a brave captain, and the author of many 
 works relating to Ireland, commanded a ship-of-war for Pliilip rv. of 
 Spain. In his " Catholic History," published at Lisbon in 1609, he has 
 preserved the sad story of his family." It is in brief thus :— In 1602 his 
 father's castle of Dunbuidhe. being demolished by cannonade, his 
 family — consisting of a wife, son, and two daughters— emigrated to 
 Spain, where his youngest brother, Donald, joined him professionally, 
 but was soon after killed in an engagement with the Turks. The old 
 chief, at the age of one hundred, died at Corunna, and was soon followed 
 by his l^ng-wedded wife. One daughter entered a convent and took the 
 veil ; the other, returning to Ireland, was lost at sea. In this version the 
 real names have been preserved.] 
 
 A.LL alone — all alone, where the gladsome vi' ^ is groTr^ 
 
 ing— 
 AU alone by the bank of the Tagus darkly flowing, 
 No morning brings a hope for Mm, nor any evening 
 
 cheer. 
 To O'Sullivan Beare thro' the seasons of the year. 
 
 He is thinking — ever thinking of the hour he left Dun- 
 
 buie, 
 ELis father's staff fell from his hand, his mother wild 
 
 was she ; 
 His brave young brother hid his face, his lovely sisters 
 
 twain, 
 How they wrung their maiden hands to see him sail 
 
 away for Spain. 
 
 rhey were Helen bright and Norah staid, who in their 
 father's hall. 
 
 Like sun and shadow, frolicked round the grave ar- 
 morial wall ; 
 
 In Compostella's cloisters he found many a pictured 
 saint, 
 
 But, the Spirits boylmod canonised- no human hand 
 can paint.
 
 BOOK OP IRISH BALLADS. 167 
 
 All alone— all alone, where the gladsome vine is grow- 
 ing- 
 All alone by the bank of the Ta^us darkly flowing— 
 No morning brings a hope for him, nor any evening 
 
 cheer, 
 To O'Sullivan Beare thro' the seasons of the year. 
 
 Oh ! sure he ought to take a ship and sail back to Dun- 
 
 buie — 
 He ought to sail back, back again to that castle o'er 
 
 the sea ; 
 His father, mother, brother, his lovely sisters twain, 
 'Tis they would raise the roof with joy to see him back 
 
 from Spain. 
 
 Hush 1 hush ! I cannot tell it — the tale will make me 
 
 wild — 
 He left it, that grey castle, in age abnost a child ; 
 Seven long years with Saint James's Friars he conned 
 
 the page of might — 
 Seven long years for Ms father's roof was sighing every 
 
 night. 
 
 Then came a caravel from the north, deep freighted, 
 
 full of woe. 
 His houseless family it held, for their castle it lay low. 
 Saint James's shrine, thro' ages famed as pilgrim haunt 
 
 of yore. 
 Saw never wanderers so wronged upon its scalloped 
 
 shore. 
 
 Yet it was sweet— their first grief past— to watch those 
 two fond girls 
 
 Sit by the sea, as mermaid might hold watch o'er 
 hidden pearls — 
 
 To see them sit and try to sing for that sire and mother 
 old, 
 
 O'er whose heads full five score winters their thicken- 
 ing snows had rr)lled.
 
 168 BOOK OF lEISH BALLADS. 
 
 To hear them sing and pray in song for tliemin deadly 
 
 work, 
 Their gallant brothers battling for Spain against the 
 
 Turk— 
 Coninna's port at length they reach, and seaward ever 
 
 stare, 
 Wondering what belates the ship their brothers home 
 
 should bear. 
 
 Joy! joy!— it comes — their Philip lives !— ah ! Donald 
 
 is no more ; 
 Like half a hope one son kneels dovra the exiled two 
 
 before ; 
 They spoke no requiem for the dead, nor blessing for 
 
 the living ; 
 The tearless heart of parentage has broken with itp 
 
 gri:>Ying. 
 
 Two pillars of a mined pile — two old trees of the land — 
 Two voyagers on a sea of grief, long suffrers hand in 
 
 hand. 
 Thus at the woful tidings told left life and all its tears, 
 So died the wife of many a spring, the chief of an 
 
 hundred years. 
 
 One sister is a black-veiled nun of Saint Ursula, in 
 
 Spain, 
 And one sleeps coldly far beneath the troubled 
 
 Irish main ; 
 'Tis Helen bright who ventured to the arms of her 
 
 true lover, 
 But Cleena's* stormy waves now roll the radiant girl 
 
 over. 
 
 All alone — all alone, where the gladsome vine is 
 
 growing — 
 All alone by the banks of the Tagus darkly flowing. 
 No morning brings a hope for him, nor any evening 
 
 cheer. 
 To O'Sullivan Beare thro' the seasons of the year. 
 
 • The w»'-es off tlie coaat of Cork, so 'villed.
 
 BOOK OF nilSH BALLAD-. IFf) 
 
 THE ROBBER OF FERXEY 
 
 Ihe robber in his rocky hold from dawn of morning 
 
 lay, 
 And wearily and drearily the noontide passed away— 
 The sun went down, and darkness fell in silence on 
 
 the earth : 
 And now from out their wild retreat the robber band 
 
 came forth. 
 
 Tliat night by many a castle old, and many a haunted 
 
 glen, 
 ^lacMahon and his outlaws rode, all wild and ruthless 
 
 men ; 
 Before them Lath-an-albany in midnight beauty lay — 
 Ah ! woe is me ! from all its fields the robber swept 
 
 his prey. 
 
 And thus the country far and near, MacMahon held in 
 
 awe, 
 And through this ancient barony, the robbers word 
 
 was law : 
 In castle hall it chilled the sound of revelry and mirth. 
 But it lighted up with gladness still the lonely widow's 
 
 hearth. 
 
 The robber bold, within his hold, from dawn of morn- 
 ing lies, 
 
 And gazes on the sinking sun with weary heart and 
 eyes ; 
 
 Till through the dark and starless night, by tower and 
 ruin grey, 
 
 And far from all his faithful band he held his lonely 
 way. 
 
 Alone among his enemies the outlawed chieftain stood. 
 With haughty eye, and fearless heart, and broadsword 
 
 keen and good ; 
 But his wild career is over, the castles of the land 
 Henceforth will need nor watch nor ward against the 
 
 outlaw'?, band.
 
 170 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 And now upon his homeward track, with heavy heart 
 
 he goes — 
 No more in wild and midnight raid to burst upon his 
 
 foes ; 
 No more to lead his faithful band through Ferney's 
 
 valleys old. 
 No more within his mountain lair, carousal brave to 
 
 hold. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! the light that guides both horse and ridei 
 
 on, 
 From many a kindling roof-tree burst, and many a 
 
 dying groan ^ 
 And many an agoiii2dng shriek rings through the lurid 
 
 air. 
 Oh ! fearful is the carnage wrought within the robber's. 
 
 lair. 
 
 There's silence in the castle where the last Mac Mahoq 
 
 lies, 
 His heart is dull, the light of life has faded from his 
 
 eyes; 
 But who can tell what dreams of woe — what visions 
 
 of the dead — 
 What fond and broken-hearted forms surround the 
 
 outlaVs bed 1 
 
 Or who can tell what influence such blessed dreams 
 
 impart, 
 Or why they still come thronging round the dying 
 
 sinner's heart 1 — 
 Whate'er they be, the simple faith is rational and good. 
 They come in that last hour to lead the wandering soul 
 
 to God.
 
 BOOK OF IRTSH BALLADS. 171 
 
 WAITING FOR THE MAY. 
 
 BY DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY, M.R.I. A 
 
 Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, 
 Waiting for the INIay— 
 Waiting for the pleasant rambles, 
 Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, 
 With the woodbine alternating, 
 
 Scent the dewy way. 
 Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, 
 Waiting for the May. 
 
 Ah 1 my heart is sick with longing, 
 Longing for the May — 
 Longing to escape from study, 
 To the young face fair and ruddy. 
 And the thousand charms belonging 
 
 To the summer's day. 
 Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, 
 Longing for the May. 
 
 Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, 
 Sighing for the May — 
 Sighing for their sure returning, 
 When the summer beams are burning, 
 Hopes and flowers that dead or dying 
 
 All the winter lay. 
 Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing. 
 Sighing for the May. 
 
 Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing 
 Throbbing for the May — 
 Throbbing for the sea- side billows, 
 Or the water-wooing willows j 
 Wliere in laughing and in sobbing 
 
 Glide the streams away. 
 Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing, 
 Throbbinc for the May.
 
 172 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 Waiting sad, dejected, weary, 
 Waiting for the May. 
 Spring goes by with wasted warnings. 
 Moonlit evenings, simbright mornings ; 
 Summer comes, yet dark and dreary 
 
 Life still ebbs away : 
 
 Man is ever weary, weary, 
 
 Waiting for the May ! 
 
 THE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK. 
 
 EY J. J. CALLANAN. 
 
 rrrom the foot of Incliidouy Island, an elevated tract of sand run 
 out into the sea, and terminates in a high green bank, which forms 
 pleasing contrast with the little desert behind it, and the black solitary 
 rock immediately under. Tradition tells that the Virgin came one night 
 to this hillock to pray, and was discovered kneeling tliere by the crew of 
 a vessel that was coming to anchor near the place. They laughed at her 
 piety, and made some merry and unbecoming remarks on her beauty, 
 upon which a storm arose and destroyed the ship and her crew. Since 
 that time no vessel has been known to anchor near it. Author's Note.] 
 
 The evening star rose beauteous above the fading day 
 As to the lone and silent beach the Virgin came to pray, 
 And hill and wave shone brightly in the moonlight's 
 
 mellow fall ; 
 But the bank of green where Mary knelt was brightest 
 
 of them all. 
 
 Slow moving o'er the waters, a gallant bark appear'd, 
 And her joyous crew look'd from the deck as to the 
 
 land she near'd; 
 To the calm and shelter'd haven she floated like a swan, 
 And her wings of snow o'er the waves below in pride 
 
 and beauty shone. 
 
 The master saw our Lady as he stood upon the prow, 
 And mark'd the whiteness of her robe and the radiance 
 
 of her brow • 
 Her arms were folded gracefully upon her stainless 
 
 breast. 
 And her eyes look'd up among the stars to Him her 
 
 soul lov'd best
 
 BOOK OP IKISH BALLADS. 173 
 
 He show'd her to his sailors, and he hail'd her with a 
 
 cheer, 
 And on the kneeling "Virgin they gazed with laugh and 
 
 jeer ; 
 And madly swore, a form so fair they never saw before; 
 And they curs'd the faint and lagging breeze that kept 
 
 them from the shore. 
 
 The ocean from its bosom shook off the moonlight 
 
 sheen. 
 And up its wrathful billows rose to -sdndicate their 
 
 Queen; 
 And a cloud came o'er the heavens, and a darkness 
 
 o'er the land, 
 And the scoffing crew beheld no more that Lady on 
 
 the strand. 
 
 Out burst the pealing thunder, and the light'iiiug 
 
 leap'd about ; 
 And rushing with his watery war, the tempest gave a 
 
 shout ; 
 And that vessel from a mountain wave came down 
 
 with thund'ring shock; 
 And her timbers flew like scatter'd spray on Inchi- 
 
 dony's rock. 
 
 Then loud from all that guilty crew one shriek rose 
 
 wild and high ; 
 But the angry surge swept over them, and hush'd 
 
 their gurgling cry ; 
 And -with a hoarse exulting tone the tempest passed 
 
 away, 
 And down, still chafing from theii strife, th* indignant 
 
 waters lay. 
 
 When the calm and purple morning shone out on high 
 
 Duumore, 
 Full many a mangled corpse was seen on Inchidony^s 
 
 shore ; 
 And to this day the fisherman shows where the scoffers 
 
 sank : 
 And %till he calls that hillock green, "theVircrin Mary's 
 
 bauiltf"
 
 174 BOOK OP IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 OWEN BAWN. 
 
 3Y SAlSnJEL FERGUSON, LL.D., M,R.I.A. 
 
 [In Blackwood s ilagasine, vol. 34, there is a long and interestir.g stoiy 
 by Dr. Fergusou. entitled The Return of Cianthoy. The events in the 
 narrative are placed in the summer of 1333 ; and the hero of the tale is 
 0"Xeill, " the youngest of the Princes of ClaneLoy." The scene is laid, 
 piincipaUy, in 'the county Antrim ; and this ballad is supposed to have 
 been simg in the tent of O'Neill, on Slemisli, near Ballymena, on the first 
 night after he had crossed the Baun, the boundary of the British Pale. 
 Ihe person suppose^ to sing is "Turlough," the Prince's harper.] 
 
 My Owen Bawn's hair is of thread of gold spun : 
 Of gold in the shadow, of light in the sun ; 
 All curled in a coolun the bright tresses are — 
 They make his head radiant with beams like a star ! 
 
 My Owen Bawn's mantle is long and is wide, 
 To wrap me up safe from the storm by his side ; 
 And rd rather face snow-drift and winter wind there. 
 Than lie among daisies and sunshine elsewhere. 
 
 My Owen Bawn Con* is a hunter of deer, 
 He tracks the dun quarry vdxh arrow and spear — 
 SVhere wild woods are waving, and deep waters flov/. 
 Ah, there goes my love, with the dun-dappled roe. 
 
 My Owen Bawn Con Ls a bold fisherman, 
 He spears the strong salmon in midst of the Bann ; 
 And rock'd in the tempest on stormy Lough Neagh, 
 Draws up the red trout through the bursting of spray, 
 
 My Owen Bawn Con is a bard of the best, 
 He wakes me with singing, he sings me to rest ; 
 And the cruit 'neath his fingers rings up with a sound, 
 As though angels harped o'er us, and fays under- 
 ground. 
 
 • So in the original ; but printed Quin by the author, in " Layf r,f (he
 
 BOOK OF IR15H BALLADS. 175 
 
 They tell me the stranger has given couunand, 
 That crommeal and coolun shall cease in the land, 
 That all our youth's tresses of yellow be shorn, 
 And bonnets, instead, of a new fashion, worn ; 
 
 That mantles like Owen Bawn's shield us no morev 
 That hunting and fishing henceforth we give o'er, 
 That the net and the arrow aside must be laid, 
 For hammer and trowel, and mattock and spade j 
 
 That the echoes of music must sleep in their caves, 
 That the slave must forget his own tongue for a slave's, 
 That the sounds of our lips must be strange in our 
 
 ears, 
 And our bleeding hands toil in the dew of our tears. 
 
 Oh sweetheart and comfort ! with thee by my side, 
 I could love and live happy, whatever betide ; 
 But thou, in such bondage, wouldst die ere a day— 
 Away to Tir-oen, then, Owen, away ! 
 
 There are wild woods and mountains, and stream^ 
 
 deep and clear, 
 There are loughs in Tir-oen as lovely as here ; 
 There are silver harps ringing in Yellow Hugh's hall, 
 And a bower by the forest side, sweetest of all ! 
 
 We Avill dwell by the sunshiny skirts of the brake, 
 Where the sycamore shadows grow deep in the lake ; 
 lAnd the snowy swan stirring the green shadows there, 
 \float on the water, seems floating in air. 
 
 ^'arewell, then, black Slemish, green Collon adieu, 
 >Iy heart is a-breaking at thinking of you ; 
 3ut tariy we dare not, when freedom hath gone — 
 y.way to Tir-oen, then, Owen Bawn Con !* 
 
 / This stanza, in consequence, peiliHps, of substituting Quis for CoK> 
 rejected by the author in Lays of th« Westorn Gael, p. 93. — Ed.
 
 176 book: or imisa ballads. 
 
 Away to Tir-oen, then Owen away ! 
 We will leave them the dust from our feet for a prey 
 And our dwelling in ashes and flames for a spoil — 
 'T^vill be long ere they quench them with streams of 
 the Foyle ! 
 
 AILLEEN. 
 
 BY JOHN BANIM. 
 
 'Tis not for love of gold I go, 
 'Tis not for love of fame ; 
 
 Tho' fortune should her smile bestow 
 And 1 may win a name, 
 
 Ailleen, 
 And I may win a name. 
 
 And yet it is for gold I go, 
 
 And yet it is for fame, 
 That they may deck another brow, 
 
 And bless another name, 
 
 Ailleen, 
 
 And bless another name. 
 
 For this, but this, I go — for this 
 
 I lose thy love awhile ; 
 And all the soft and quiet bliss 
 
 Of thy young, faithful smile, 
 
 Ailleen, 
 
 Of thy young, faithful smile. 
 
 And I go to brave a w^orld I hate, 
 
 And woo it o'er and o'er, 
 And tempt a wave, and try a fate 
 
 Upon a stranger shore, 
 
 Ailleen, 
 
 Upon a stanger shore.
 
 BOOK OF iEl&ii BALLADS. 177 
 
 Oh ! when the bays are all my owii, 
 
 I know a heart will care ! 
 Oh ! when the gold is wooed and won, 
 
 I know a brow shall wear, 
 
 Ailleen, 
 
 I know a brow shall wear 1 
 
 And when with both rettimed again, 
 
 !My native land to see, 
 I know a smile will meet me there, 
 
 And a hand will welcome me, 
 
 Ailleen, 
 
 And a hand will welcome me I 
 
 EMAN-AC-KNUCK TO EVA."* 
 
 BY J. B. CLARKE. 
 
 On the white hawthorn's bloom, in purpling streak, 
 I see the fairy-ring of morning break, 
 On the green valley's brow she golden glows. 
 Kissing the crimson of the opening rose, — 
 Knits with her thousand smiles its damask dyes, 
 And laughs the season on our hearts and eyes — 
 Rise, Eva, rise ! fair spirit of my breast, 
 In whom I live, forsake the down of rest ; 
 
 Lovelier than mom, carnationed in soft hues, 
 Sweeter than rifled roses in the dews 
 Of dawn divinely weeping — and more fair 
 Than the coy flowers f ann'd by mountain air ; 
 More modest than the morning's blushing smile. 
 Rise, Eva, rise ! pride of our Western Isle — 
 The sk/s blue beauties lose their sunny grace 
 Before the cahn, soft splendours of thy face ; 
 
 Thy breath is sweeter than the apple bloom, 
 When spring's musk'd spirit bathes it in perfume ; 
 
 • Etnan-ac-Knuck, or Ned of the Hill, a celebrated minstrel freebooter, 
 who has been made the hero of a romance by Mrs. Peck. Tl;i9 poem it 
 •ddressed to hia wife. vr
 
 178 BOOK CI. iilKH BALLADS. 
 
 The rock's wild honey steeps thy rabied lip — 
 Rise, Eva, rise ! — I long these sweets to sip. 
 The polish'd ringlets of thy jetty locks 
 Shame the black ravens on their sun-gilt rocks . 
 Thy neck can boast a whiter, lovelier glow, 
 Than the wild cygnef s silvery plume of snow. 
 
 And from thy bosom, the soft throne of bliss, 
 The witch of love, in all. her blessedness, 
 Heaves all her spells, wings aU her feather'd dart' 
 And dips her arrows in adoring hearts. 
 Piise, Eva, rise ! the sun sheds his sweet ray, 
 Am'rous to kiss thee — rise, my love ! we'll stray 
 Across the mountain, — on the blossomy heath, 
 The heath-bloom holds for thee its odorous breath ; 
 
 From the tall crag, aspiring to the skies, 
 I'll pick for thee the strings of strawberries ; 
 The yellow nuts, too, from the hazel tree — 
 Soul of my heart ! — I'll strip to give to thee : 
 As thy red lips the berries shall be bright, 
 And the sweet nuts shaU be as ripe and white 
 And milky as the love-begotten tide 
 That fills thy spotless bosom, my sweet bride ! 
 
 Queen of the smile of joy ! shall I not kiss 
 
 Thee in the moss-grown cot, bless'd bower of bliss— 
 
 ShaU not thy rapturous lover clasp thy charms, 
 
 And fold his Eva in his longing arms — 
 
 ShaU Inniscather's wood again attest 
 
 Thy beauties strain'd unto this burning breast ? 
 
 Absent how long ! Ah ! when wUt thou return ] 
 
 'VYhen shaU this wither'd bosom cease to mourn I 
 
 Eva ! why stay so long 1 why leave me lone 
 In the deep valley, to the cold grey stone 
 Pouring my plaints 1 come, divinest fair ! 
 Chase from my breast the demon of despair. 
 The winds are witness to my deep distress, 
 Like the lone wanderer of the -wUderness ; 
 For thee I languish and for thee I sigh — 
 My E\^ come, or thy poor swain shaU die !
 
 » 
 
 I 
 
 BOOK OP IKfSII BALLADS. 179 
 
 And didst thou hear my melancholy lay? 
 And art thou coming, love ] My Eva ! say 1 
 Thou daughter of a meek-eyed dame, thy face 
 Is lovelier than thy mother's, in soft grace. 
 yes ! thou comest, Eva ! to my sight 
 An angel minister of heavenly light : — 
 The sons of frozen climes can never see 
 Summer's bright smile so glad as I see thee : 
 Thy steps to me are lovelier than the ray 
 Of roses on nighf s cheek— the blush of day. 
 
 O'DONNELL ANX) THE FAIR FITZGERALD 
 
 BY THE HOX. GAVAN DUFFY. 
 
 A fawn that flies with sudden spring, 
 
 A ^vild bird fluttering on the wing.^ 
 
 A passing gleam of April sun, 
 
 She flashed upon me and was gone I 
 
 No chance did that dear face restore, 
 
 Nor then — nor now — nor evennore. 
 
 But sure, I see her in my dreams, 
 
 With eyes where love's first dawning beams; 
 
 And tones, like Irish music, say — 
 
 " You ask to love me, and you may ;" 
 
 And so I know she mZZ be mine. 
 
 That rose of princely Geraldine. 
 
 A voice that thriUs with modest doubt, 
 A tale of love can iU pour out ; 
 But, oh ! when love wore manly guise. 
 And warrior feats woke woman's sighs — 
 With Irish sword, on Irish soil, 
 I might have won that kingly spoil. 
 But then, perchance, the Desmond race 
 Had deemed to mate with mine disgrace ; 
 For mine's that strain of native blood 
 That last the Norman lance withstood
 
 180 BOOK OF IBISH BALLADS. 
 
 And still when mountain war was waged, 
 Their sparths among the Normans raged, 
 And burst through many a serried line 
 Of Lacy, Burke, and Geraldine. 
 
 And yet methinks in battle press, 
 
 My love, I could not love you less ; 
 
 For, oh ! 'twere sweet brave deeds to do 
 
 For our old, sainted land, and you ! 
 
 To sweep, a storm, through Barrensmore, 
 
 With Docwra's scattered ranks before, 
 
 Like chaff upon our northern blast ; 
 
 Nor rest till Bann's broad waves are passed, 
 
 Till Inbhar sees our flashing line. 
 
 Till Darha's lordly towers are mine, 
 
 And backward borne, as seal and sign, 
 
 The fairest maid of Geraldine. 
 
 But, Holy Bride,* how sweeter still 
 
 A hunted cliief on Faughart hill. 
 
 With all the raging Pale behind, 
 
 So sweet, so strange a foe to find ! 
 
 Soft love to plant where terror sprung, 
 
 With honey speech of Irish tongue ; 
 
 Again to dare Clan-Geralt's swords 
 
 For hope of some sweet, stolen words. 
 
 Till many a danger passed and gone, 
 
 My suit has sped, my Bride is won — 
 
 She's proud Clan-Connell's Queen and mine, 
 
 Young Geraldine, of Geraldine. 
 
 But sure that time is dead and gone 
 When worth alone such love had won. 
 For hearts are cold, and hands are bought, 
 And faith, and lore, and love are nought ? 
 Ah, trust me, no ! The pure and true 
 The genial past may still renew ; 
 
 * St. Bride, or Brigid.
 
 Book of ihish bxllajjzu 181 
 
 Still love as then ; and still no less 
 Strong hearts shall snatch a brave success, 
 And to their end right onward go, 
 As Erna's tide to Assaroe.* 
 
 Oh ! Saints 3iay strive for Martyr's crown, 
 And warriors watch by leaguered town, 
 But poor is all their toil to mine, 
 Till won's my Bride— my Geraldine ! 
 
 THE COOLUN.+ 
 
 TEANSLATED FROM THE IRISH. 
 
 BY SAMUEL FEEGUSOX, LL.D., M.R.I.A. 
 
 Oh. had you seen the Coolun, 
 
 Walking down by the cuckoo's street ,t 
 With the dew of the meadows shining 
 
 On her milk-white twinlding feet. 
 Oh, my love she is, and my coleen oge, 
 
 And she dwells in Bal'uagar ; 
 And she bears the palm of beauty bright 
 
 From the fairest that in Erin are. 
 
 In Bal'nagar is the Coolun, 
 
 Like the berry on the bough her cheek ; 
 Bright beauty dwells for ever 
 
 On her fair neck and ringlets sleek : 
 Oh, sweeter is her mouth's soft music 
 
 Than the lark or thrush at dawn, 
 Or the blackbird in the greenwood singing 
 
 Farewell to the setting sun. 
 
 * A v.aterfall in Tyrconnell, the O'Donnell's comity. 
 
 t -Un Chuil--phlOr>n.— 27ie Coolun, the Slaiden of fair flowing 
 Locks. 
 
 i This word is incorrectly and unintelligibly printed in the original. I 
 am helped, I believe, to the proper word by the following passage in Mr. 
 Ferguson's first article on Hardiman's Minstrelsy {Universi'y JIagatine, 
 Tol. iii. i47)— "The bagpipes are drawing their last breath from a few 
 consamptire lun?:s, and French-horns hare been Iieard in ' the street of 
 the cuckoos.'" 1845.
 
 182 BOOK OP IRISH B ALLANS. 
 
 Rise up, 1113^ boy ! make ready 
 
 My torse, for I forth Avould ride, 
 To follow the modest damsel, 
 
 Where she walks on the green hill side : 
 For e'er since our youth were we plighted, 
 
 In faith, troth, and wedlock true — 
 Oh, she's sweeter to me than nine times ovei 
 
 Than organ or cuckoo ! 
 
 Oh, ever since my childhood 
 
 I loved the fair and darling child, 
 But our people came between us. 
 
 And with lucre our pure love defiled : 
 Oh, my woe it is, and my bitter pain, 
 
 And I weep it night and day, 
 That the coleeti hawn of my early love 
 
 Is torn from my heart awaj^ 
 
 Sweet-heart and faithful treasure, 
 
 Be constant still, and true ; 
 Nor for want of herds and houses 
 
 Leave one who would ne'er leave you. 
 I'll pledge you the blessed Bible, 
 
 Without and eke within. 
 That the faithful God will provide for us, 
 
 Without thanks to kith or kin; 
 
 Oh, love, do you remember 
 
 When we lay aU night alone, 
 Beneath the ash in the winter-storm. 
 
 When the oak wood round did groan ? 
 No shelter then from the blast had we, 
 
 The bitter blast or sleet. 
 But your gown to wrap about our heads 
 
 And my coat around our feet. 
 
 [This poem is called an "laisu Kusric BalIiAD," by Dr. Ferguson, 
 hia Laya of the Western Gael, p. 211.— Ed^
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADd. 183 
 
 BRIGHIDIN BAN MO STORE.* 
 
 BY EDWAKD WALSH. 
 
 [Brigidin ban mo store is, in English, /air young bride, or Bridget my 
 treasure. The proper sound of this phrase is not easily found by tlie 
 mere English-speaking Irish. The following is the best help I cau 
 afford them in the case: — '' Bree-dheen-hawn-Tnusthore."' The proper 
 name Brighit, or Bride, signifies a fiery dart, and was the name of th« 
 goddess of poetry in the pagan days of Ireland.— Authoe's Note.] 
 
 I AM a wand'ring minstrel man, 
 
 And Love my only theme, 
 IVe stray'd beside the pleasant Bann, 
 
 And eke the Shannon's stream ; 
 I've pip'd and play'd to vriie and maid 
 
 By Barrow, Suir, and Nore, 
 But never met a maiden yet 
 
 Like b^ijitun t)<xn 111 o Sco|\. 
 
 My girl hath ringlets rich and rare, 
 
 By Nature's fingers wove — 
 Loch-Carra's swan is not so fair 
 
 As is her breast of lovo ; 
 And when she moves, in Sunday sheen, 
 
 Beyond our cottage door, 
 I'd scorn the high-born Saxon queen 
 
 For "biMji-om "bo^ti mo scoja 
 
 It is not that thy smile is sweet, 
 
 And soft thy voice of song — 
 It is not that thou fleest to meet 
 
 }.iy comings lone and long ! 
 But that doth rest beneath thy breast, 
 
 A heart of purest core. 
 Whose pulse is known to me alone, 
 tTlo "b-iMpn b<Mi Afco|\. 
 
 * bp5i"oin bAti 111© Scop.
 
 184 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS- 
 
 CHE LAMENTATION OF FELIX M'CAETHY. 
 
 TSAKSLATED FEOM THE IKISH. 
 
 P.Y J. J. CALLANAN. 
 
 [From the inquiries we have made (says the author) concerning the 
 tragical circumstance that gave rise to the followng effusion, we learn 
 that FeUx M'Carthy had heeu compelled, during a period of disturbance 
 and persecution, to fly for safety to a mountamous region, in the western 
 part of this county (Cork). He was accompanied in his flight by a wife 
 and four children, and found an asylum in a lone and secluded glen, 
 where he constructed a rude kind of habitation as a temporaiy residence. 
 One night, during the absence of himself and his wife, this ill-contrived 
 structure suddenly gave way, and buried the four childieu, who were 
 asleep at the time, in its ruins. What the feelings of the father were 
 Avill be best learned from the following lamentation— Authok's Kotk.] 
 
 I'll sing my children's death-song, tho' 
 My voice is faint and low ; 
 Mine is the heart that's desolate — 
 'Tis I wiU mourn their fate, 
 
 I'll sing their death-song, tho' the dart 
 Is rankling in my heart : 
 No friend is here my pangs to soothe, 
 In this deep solitude. 
 
 Weep not the widow's grief to see, 
 When wild with agony ! 
 Nor mourn to hear the Bridegroom rave, 
 Above hia partner's grave. 
 
 But weep for one whose bitter wail, 
 Is poured up)on the gale. 
 Like the shrill bird that flutters nigh 
 The nest, where its crushed offspring lie. 
 
 Yes ! I wiU sing this song of woe, 
 TiU life's last spark shaU glow, 
 Like the swan floating on the surge, 
 That murmurs its u-nwillin^ ddrf^
 
 BOOK OF lEISH BALLADS. 185 
 
 Thou Callaglian, devoid of sin — 
 And Charles of the silken skin. 
 Mary and Anne, my peerless flower, 
 Entombed within an hour. 
 
 My four sweet children fair and brave, 
 Laid in one grave — 
 W^ound of my soul, that I should say 
 Your death-song in one day ! 
 
 Vain was the blood of Elver's race. 
 And every' opening grace, 
 And youth undarkened by a cloud — 
 Against an early shroud ! 
 
 Mute are the tongues that sung for me, 
 
 In joyful harmony : — 
 
 Cold are the lips whose welcome kiss 
 
 To me was heavenly bliss. 
 
 Oh ! but for him whose head was bow'd 
 'Mid Calvary^s mocking crowd — 
 Soon would I fly the painful day, 
 And follow in their way. 
 
 Yet mourned not He in voiceless gloom, 
 O'er Lazarus in the tomb — 
 Piushed not the flood from his dimm'd eyea ? 
 Heav'd not his breast with sighs ] 
 
 Yes, fo^ his kindred from the day, ' 
 That earthward darkling lay, — 
 Then do not chide that I should mourn 
 For them that won't return. 
 
 And mourned not the pure Virgin, when 
 Her Son, transfixed by men, 
 Writh'd in the throes of his dark agony 1 
 Then hln .-ne nut mew
 
 Ib6 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 At midnight's hour of silence deep, 
 Seal'd in their balmy sleep, 
 Oh ! crushing grief, — oh ! scathing blow, 
 My loVd ones were laid low. 
 
 Methought, when bow'd this head vnth. time. 
 Around me they would twine, 
 Nor reck'd that I should mourn their lot 
 A thing of nought. 
 
 'Twas meet to him, affection they should prove 
 ^^Tio gave them all his love, 
 And to old age the right concede. 
 Their path to lead. 
 
 Beauty and strength have left my brow, 
 Nor care nor wisdom have I now ; 
 Little the blow of death I dread 
 Since all my hopes have fled. 
 
 No more — no more shaU music's voice 
 My heart rejoice— 
 LdJie a brain- stricken fool, whose ear 
 Is clos'd 'gainst earthly cheer. 
 
 When wailing at the dead of night, 
 They cross my aching sight — 
 They come, and beck'ning me away, 
 They chide my long delay. 
 
 At midnight hour — at mom — at eve, 
 My sight they do not leave ; 
 Withiii\-abroad — their looks of love, 
 Around me move. 
 
 Oh ! in their visits no affection's lost ! 
 I love the pathways by their shadows crofcs'd 
 Soon, by the will of heaven's King, 
 To their embrace I'U spring.
 
 BOOK Ok' IKISH BALLADS. 187 
 
 I pity her who never more will know 
 Contentment here below : 
 Who fed them at the fountain of her breast, 
 And hush'd their infant rest. 
 
 Her faded eyes, her anguish speak — 
 And her clasp'd hands, so weak ! 
 'Tis she, alas ! of Erin's daughters 
 Hath seen* the ruin of slaughters.-^ 
 
 PASTHEEN EION.j 
 
 IRISH RUSTIC SONG. 
 
 BY SAMUEL Fi:ElGUSON, LL.D., M.R.LA. 
 
 Lin Hardiman's "Irish Minstrelsy," voL i., p. 330, there is a note upou 
 the original of Paistheen Fion. Tlie name may be translated either fair 
 youth or fair maiden, and the writer supposes it to hare a politica' 
 meaning, and to refer to the son of James IL — Ed. 
 
 Oh, my fair Pastheen is ray heart's delight ; 
 
 Her gay heart laughs in her blue eye bright ; 
 
 Like the apple blossom her bosom white. 
 
 And her neck like the swan's on a March morn bright ! 
 
 Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me ! come 
 with me ! 
 
 Oro, come Avith me ! brown girl, sweet ! 
 
 And, oh ! I would go through snow and sleet 
 
 If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet ' 
 
 Love of my heart, my fair Pastheen ! 
 
 Her cheeks are as red as the rose's sheen, 
 
 But my lips have tasted no more, I ween, 
 
 Than the glass I drank to the health of my queen ! 
 
 ' This last expression may appear strang'e to the English reader, but 
 it is a literal translation of the original.— ^Author's Note. 
 
 tThis poem is taken from Bolster's Quarterly Magazine, vol. i., 
 Cork, 1826. It is not included in the collection of Callanan's Poems, 
 pubhshed in 1829, in London.— "Cusheen Loo," p. 78, is al?o taken from 
 the same mag-aziue, and it is like'wiBe omitted from that collection. 
 X Fion is printed Finn in The Lajjs of ih4 Western GaU^ p. 204.
 
 188 BOOK OF lElSB BALL,Al?i9. 
 
 Then, Ore, come with me ! come with me ! come 
 
 with me ! 
 Oio, come* with me ! brown girl, sweet 1 
 And, oh ! I would go through snow and sleet 
 If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet ! 
 
 Were I in the town, where's mirth and glee, 
 Or 'twixt two barrels of barley bree. 
 With my fair Pastheen upon my knee, 
 'Tis I would drink to her pleasantly ! 
 
 Then, Oro, coine with me ! come with me 1 come 
 with me ! 
 
 Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet ! 
 
 And, oh ! I would go through snow and sleet 
 
 If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet ! 
 
 Nine nights I lay in longing and pain. 
 Betwixt two bushes, beneath the rain. 
 Thinking to see you, love, once again ; 
 But whistle and call were all in vain ! 
 
 Then, Oro, come with me ! come mth me ! come 
 with me ! 
 
 Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet ! 
 
 And, oh ! I would go through snow and sleet 
 
 If you would come with me, brown girl sweet ! 
 
 I'll leave my people, both friend and foe ; 
 From all the girls in the world 111 go ; 
 But from you, sweetheart, oh, never ! oh, no ! 
 Till I lie in the coffin, stretched, cold and low ! 
 
 Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me ! come 
 with me ! 
 
 Oro, come mth me ! brown girl, sweet ! 
 
 And, oh ! I would go through snow and sleet 
 
 If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet ! 
 
 ^The emphasis is on -"Come," Author's Note—^ee Lays of the 
 Western Gael, p. 204.
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BAXLADS. 18^ 
 
 THE PATRIOT'S BRIDE. 
 
 BY THE HON. GAVAN DUFFY. 
 
 ,0h ! give me back tliat royal dream 
 
 ]My fancy wronglit, 
 When I have seen your sunny eyes 
 
 Grow moist with thought ; 
 And fondly hop'd, dear Love, your heart from mine 
 
 Its spell had caught ; 
 And laid me down to dream that dream divine, 
 
 But true methought, 
 Of how my life's long task would be, to make yoi<,ri 
 blessed as it ought. 
 
 To learn to love sweet ISTature more 
 
 For your sweet sake. 
 To watch with you — dear friend, with you ! — 
 
 Its wonders break ; 
 The sparkling Spring in that bright face to see 
 
 Its mirror make — 
 On summer morns to hear the sweet birds sing 
 
 By linn and lake ; 
 And know your voice, j'our magic voice, could still v; 
 grander music wake ! 
 
 On some old shell-strewn rock to sit 
 
 In Autumn eves. 
 Where grey Killiney cools the torrid air 
 
 Hot autumn weaves ; 
 Or by that Holy Well in mountain lone, 
 
 Where Faith believes 
 (Fain would I b'Ueve) its secret, darling, wish 
 
 The heart achieves. 
 Yet, oh, its Saint was not more pure than she to wtom 
 
 My fond heart cleaves. 
 
 To see the dank mid- winter night 
 
 Pass like a noon, 
 Sultry with thought from minds that teemed, 
 And glowed like June :
 
 190 BOOK OB IKISH BALLADS. 
 
 Whereto would pass in sculp'd and pictured train 
 
 Art's magic boon ; 
 And Music thrill with many a haughty strain, 
 
 And dear old tune, 
 Till hearts grew sad to hear the destined hour to part 
 
 had come so soon. 
 
 To wake the old weird world that sleeps 
 
 In Irish lore ; 
 The strains sweet foreign Spenser sung 
 
 By Mulla's shore ; 
 Dear Curran's airy thoughts, like purple birds 
 
 That shine and soar ; 
 Tone's fiery hopes, and all the deathless words 
 
 That Grattan swore ; 
 The songs that once our own dear Davis snng ; ah, 
 me ! to sing no more. 
 
 To search with mother-love the gifts 
 
 Our land can boast — 
 Soft Ema's isles, ISTeagh's wooded slopes, 
 
 Clare's iron coast ; 
 Kildare, whose legends grey our bosoms stir 
 
 With fay and ghost ; 
 Grey Mourn e, green Antrim, purple Glenmalur — 
 
 Lene's fairy host ; 
 With raids to many a foreign land to learn to love 
 dear Ireland most. 
 
 And all those proud old victor-fields 
 
 We thrill to name ; 
 "Whose mem'ries are the stars that light 
 
 Long nights of shame ; 
 The Cairn, the Dun, the Kath, the Tower, the Keep, 
 
 That still proclaim 
 In chronicles of clay and stone, how true, how deep, 
 
 Was Eire's fame, 
 Oh ! we shall see them all. with her, that dear, dear 
 
 friend we two have loved thfi same.
 
 BOOK Or IRISH BALLADS. 191 
 
 Yet ah ! how truer, tenderer still 
 
 Methought did seem 
 That scene of tranquil joy, that happy home, 
 
 By Dodder's stream ; 
 The morning smile, that grew a fix^d star 
 
 With love-lit beam, 
 The ringing laugh, locked hands, and all the far 
 
 And shining stream 
 Of daily love, that made our daily life diviner than a 
 
 dream. 
 
 For still to me dear Friend, dear Love, 
 
 Or both — dear Wife, 
 Your image comes with serious thoughts. 
 
 But tender, rife ; , 
 No idle plaything to caress or chide 
 
 In sport or strife ; 
 But my best chosen friend, companion, guide, 
 
 To walk through life 
 Link'd hand in hand— two equal, loving friends, true 
 husband and true wife. 
 
 THE COULIN FORBIDDEN. 
 
 BY CARROLL MALONE. 
 
 [In the twenty- eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII. an act was made 
 respecting the habits and dress in general of the Irish, whereby all persons 
 were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wear- 
 ing glibbes, or Coulins Gong locks) on their heads, or hair on their upper 
 lip, called Crommeal. On this occasion a song was written by one of our 
 bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give the preference to her dear 
 Coulin (or the youth with the flowing locks), to all strangers (by which 
 the English were meant), or those who wore their habits. Of this song 
 the air alone has reached us, and is universally admired.— Walker, as 
 quoted in Moore's Melodies. 
 
 It so happens, however, on turning to the above statute, that no 
 mention is to be found therein of the Coulin. But in the year 1295, a 
 ParUament was held in Dublin ; and then an act was passed which more 
 than expressly names the Coulin, and minutely describes it for its more 
 effectual prohibition. This, the only statute made in Ireland that names 
 the Coulin, was passed two hundred and forty-two years before the act 
 cited by Mr. Moore ; and, in consequence of it. some of the Iri.sh cliieftains 
 who lived near the seat of English government, or wished to keep up
 
 192 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 Intercourse with the English districts, did, In or soon after that year, 1295, 
 cut off their Coulins, and a distinct memorial of the event was made in 
 writing by the OflScers of the Crown. It was on this occasion that the 
 bard, ever adhesive to national habits, endeavoured to tire the patriotism 
 of a conforming cheif tain ; and, in the character of some favourite virgin, 
 declares her preference for her lover with the Coulin, before him who 
 complaisantly assumed the adornments of foreign fsishion.— Dublin P«nny 
 Journal^] 
 
 The last time she looked in the face of her dear, 
 She breathed not a sigh, and she shed not a tear ; 
 But she took up his harp, and she kissed his cold cheek — 
 "'Tis the first, and the last, for thy Norah to seek." 
 
 For beauty and bravery Cathan was known, 
 And the long flowing coulin he wore in Tyrone ; 
 The sweetest of singers and harpers was he. 
 All over the North, from the Bann to the sea. 
 
 O'er the marshes of Dublin he often would rove, 
 To the glens of O'Toole, where he met with his love ; 
 And at parting they pledged that, next midsummer's 
 
 day, 
 He would come for the last time, and bear her away. 
 
 The king had forbidden the men of O'Neal, 
 With the coulin adorned, to come o'er the pale ; 
 But Norah was Irish, and said, in her pride, 
 " If he wear not his coulin, I'll ne'er be his bride." 
 
 The bride has grown pale as the robe that she wears, 
 For the Lammas is come, and no bridegroom appears ; 
 And she barkens and gazes when all are at rest. 
 For the sound of his harp, and the sheen of his vest. 
 
 Her palfrey is piUioned, and she has gone forth 
 On the long rugged road'that leads down to the North ;— 
 Where Eblana's strong castle frowns darkly and drear, 
 Is the head of her Cathan upraised on a spear. 
 
 The Lords of the Castle had murdered him there, 
 And all for the wearing that poor lock of hair :^ 
 For the word she had spoken in mirth or in pride, 
 Her lover, too fond and too faithful, had died
 
 BOOK OF lElHH BALLA-DS. 193 
 
 'Twas then that she looked on the face of her dear, 
 She breathed not a sigh, and she dropped not a tear 
 She took np his harp, and she kissed his cold cheek 
 " Farewell ! 'tis the first for thy Xorah to seek." 
 
 Vnd afterward, oft would the wilderness ring, 
 As, at night, in sad strains, to that harp she wonld sing 
 Her heartbreaking tones, — we remember them well- 
 But the words of her wailing, no mortal can tell. 
 
 THE IRISH EMIGRANT'S MOTHER. 
 
 BY DENIS FLOEENCE MAC-CARTHY, M.R.I.A. 
 
 " Oh ! come, my mother, come away, across the sea- 
 green water ; 
 
 Oh ! come with me, and come with him, the husband 
 of thy daughter ; 
 
 Oh ! come with us, and come "v\dth them, the sister and 
 the brother, 
 
 Who. prattling, climb thine aged knees, and call thy 
 daughter — mother. 
 
 " Oh ! come, and leave this land of death — this isle oi 
 
 desolation — 
 This speck upon the sun-bright face of God's sublime 
 
 creation, 
 Since now o'er all our fatal stars the most malign 
 
 hath risen, 
 When Labour seeks the Poorhouse, and Innocence 
 
 the Prison. 
 
 "'Tis true, o'er all the sun-brown fields the huskj 
 
 wheat is bending ; 
 'Tis true, God's blessed hand at last a better time u 
 
 sending • 
 "Dfl true, the island's ag§d face looks happier and 
 
 younger. 
 But in the best of days we've known the sickness and 
 
 tlie hunger. ^.^
 
 194 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADb. 
 
 " When health breathed out in every breeze, too oft 
 
 we've known the fever — 
 Too oft, my mother, have we felt the hand of the 
 
 bereaver ; 
 Too well remember many a time the mournful task 
 
 that brought him, 
 When freshness fanned the Summer air, and cooled 
 
 the glow of Autumn. 
 
 " But then the trial, though severe, still testified our 
 
 patience,' 
 We bowed with mingled hope and fear to God's wise 
 
 dispensations ; 
 We felt the gloomiest time was both a promise and a 
 
 warning, 
 Just as the darkest hour of night is herald of the 
 
 morning. 
 
 *' But now through all the black expanse no hopeful 
 morning breaketh — 
 
 No bird of promise in our hearts, the gladsome song 
 awaketh ; 
 
 No far-off gleams of good light up the hills of ex- 
 pectation — 
 
 Nought but the gloom that might precede the world's 
 annihilation. 
 
 ** So, mother, turn thine aged feet, and let our children 
 
 lead 'em 
 Down to the ship that wafts us soon to plenty and to 
 
 freedom ; 
 Forgetting nought of all the past, yet all the past 
 
 forgiving ; 
 Come, let us leave the dying land, and fly unto the 
 
 living. 
 
 " They tell us, they who read and think of Ireland's I 
 
 ancient story. 
 How once its Kmerald Flag flung out a Sunburst's 
 
 fleeting glory
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALL APS. 195 
 
 Oh ! if that sun will pierce no more the darK clouds 
 
 that efface it, 
 Fly where the rising Stars of Heaven commingle to 
 
 replace it 
 
 " So, come, my mother, come away, across the sea- 
 green water ; 
 
 Oh ! come with us, and come with him, the husband 
 of thy daughter ; 
 
 Oh ! come with us, and come with them, the sister 
 and the brother, 
 
 "Who, prattling, cHmb thine aged knees, and call thy 
 daughter— mother. " 
 
 •* Ah ! go, my children, go away— obey this inspiration; 
 Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youthful 
 
 expectation ; 
 Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the 
 
 expectant prairies ; 
 Go, in the sacred name of God, and the Blessed 
 Virgin Mary's. 
 
 " But though I feel how sharp the pang from thee 
 
 and thine to sever, 
 To look upon these darling ones the last time and for 
 
 ever ; 
 Yet in this sad and dark old land, by desolation 
 
 haunted, 
 My heart has struck its roots too deep ever to be 
 
 transplanted 
 
 " A thousand fibres still have life, although the trunk 
 
 is dying — 
 They twine around the yet green grave where thy 
 
 father's bones are Ijdng ; 
 Ah ! from that sad and sweet embrace no soil on earth 
 
 can loose 'em. 
 Though golden harvests gleam on its breast, and 
 
 golden sands in its bosom.
 
 7.90 BOOK OF T-RTSn BALLADS. 
 
 * Others are twined around the stone, where ivy 
 
 blossoms smother 
 The crumbling lines that trace thy names, my father 
 
 and my mother ; 
 God's blessing be upon their souls— God grant, my 
 
 old heart prayeth, 
 Their names be written in the Book whose writing 
 
 ne'er decayetL 
 
 * Alas I my prayers would never warm within those 
 
 great cold buildings, 
 Those grand cathedral churches with their marbles 
 
 and their gildings ; 
 For fitter than the proudest dome that would hang in 
 
 si)lendour o'er me, 
 Is the simple chapel's white-washed wall, where my 
 
 people knelt before me. 
 
 " No doubt it is a glorious land to which you now are 
 
 going, 
 Like that which God bestowed of old, with milk and 
 
 honey flowing ; 
 But where are the blessed saints of God, whose lives 
 
 of his law remind me. 
 Like Patrick, Brigid, and Columbkille, in the land 
 
 I'd leave behind mel 
 
 " f5o leave me here, my children, with my old ways 
 
 and old notions ; 
 Leave me here in peace, with my memories and 
 
 devotions : 
 Leave me in sigiit of your father's grave, and as tht 
 
 heavens allied us, 
 Let not, since we were joined in life, even the grave 
 
 divide us. 
 
 " There's not a week but I can hear how you prosper 
 
 better and better, 
 For the mighty fireship» o'er the sea wiil bring the 
 
 expected letter ;
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLAD'S. 197 
 
 And if I need auglit for my simple wants, my food or 
 
 my winter firing, 
 Thou'lt gladly spare from thy growing store a little 
 
 for my requiring. 
 
 " Bemember with a pitying love the hapless land that 
 
 bore you ; 
 At every festal season be its gentle form before you ; 
 When the Christmas candle is lighted, and the holly 
 
 and ivy glisten, 
 Let your eye look back for a vanished face — for a 
 
 voice that is silent, listen ! 
 
 '■' So go, my children, go away — obey this inspiration ; 
 Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youthful 
 
 expectation ; 
 Go, clear the forests, climb, the hills, and plough the 
 
 expectant prairies ; 
 Go, in the sacred name o£ God, and the Blessed 
 
 Virgin Mary's." 
 
 THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH. 
 
 A.D. 1641. 
 BY THE HON. GAVAN DUFFY. 
 
 (Wc deny, and have always denied, the alleged massacre of 1641. But 
 that the people rose under their Chiefs, seized the English towns, and ex- 
 pelled the English settlers, and in doing so committed many excesses, is 
 undeniable— as is equally the desperate provocation. The ballad here 
 printed is not meant as an apology for these excesses, which we condemn 
 and lament, but as a true representation of the feelings of the insurgents 
 in the first madness of success.] 
 
 Joy ! joy ! the day is come at last, the day of hope and 
 pride. 
 
 And see ! our crackling bonfires light old Banna's joy- 
 ful tide. 
 
 And gladsome bell, and bugle horn, from Inbhar's'* 
 captured Towers, 
 
 Hark ! how they tell the Saxon swine, this land is ours, 
 
 IS OUKS ! 
 
 ♦ li'ewry.
 
 198 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 Glory to God ! my eyes have seen the ransomed fields 
 
 of Down, 
 My ears have drunk the joyful news, "Stout Feidhlim* 
 
 hath his own." 
 Oh ! may they see and hear no more, oh ! may they 
 
 rot to clay, 
 When they forget to triumph in the conquest of to-day. 
 
 Now, now we'll teach the shameless Scot to purge his 
 
 thievish maw, 
 Now, now the courts may fall to pray, for justice is the 
 
 law, 
 Now shall the Undertakerf square for once his loose 
 
 accounts. 
 We'll strike, brave boys, a fair result, from all his false 
 
 amounts. 
 
 Come, trample down their robber rule, and smite its 
 
 venal spawn, 
 Their foreign laws, their foreign church, their ermine 
 
 and their lawn. 
 With all the specious fry of fraud that robb'd us of our 
 
 own; 
 And plant our ancient laws again, beneath our lineal 
 
 throne. 
 
 Our standard flies o'er fifty towers, o'er twice ten thou- 
 sand men • 
 
 Down have we pluck'd the pirate Eed, never to rise 
 again : 
 
 The Green alone shall stream above our native field 
 and flood — 
 
 The spotless Green, save where its folds are gemmed 
 with Saxon blood ! 
 
 ♦ Phelim. 
 
 t The Scotch and English adventurers planted in Ulster by James L 
 were called Undertakers.
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 199 
 
 Pity !* no, no ; you dare not, Priest — not you, our 
 Father, dare 
 
 Preach to us now that Godless creed — the murderer's 
 blood to spare ; 
 
 To spare his blood, while tombless still our slaughtered 
 kin implore 
 
 " Graves and revenge" from Gobbin-Clifiis and Car- 
 rick's bloody shore !t 
 
 Pity— could we " forget — forgive," if we were clods of 
 
 clay, 
 Our martyr'd priests, our banished chiefs, our race in 
 
 dark decay. 
 And worse than all— you know it, Priest — the daughters 
 
 of our land, 
 With wrongs we blushed to name until the sword was 
 
 in our hand ! 
 
 Pity ! well, if you needs must whine, let pity have its 
 way, 
 
 Pity for all our comrades true, far from our side to- 
 day ; 
 
 The prison-bound who rot in chains, the faithful dead 
 who poured 
 
 Their blood 'neath Temple's lawless axe or Parson's 
 ruffian sword. 
 
 They smote us with the swearer's oath, and with the 
 
 murderer's knife, 
 We in the open field will fight, fairly for land and life ; 
 But, by the Dead and all their wrongs, and by our 
 
 hopes to-day, 
 One of us twain shall fight their last, or be it we or 
 
 they— 
 
 * Leland, the Protestant Historian, states that the Catholic Priest* 
 ^ laboured zealously to moderate the excesses of war ;" and frequently 
 protected the English by concealing them in their places of worship, and 
 even under their altars. 
 
 t The scene of the dreadful massacre of th» unoffending inhabitants of 
 Island Magee by the garrison of Carrickfeigus.
 
 200 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 They banned our faith, they banned our lives, they 
 
 trod us into earth, 
 Until our very patience stirred their bitter hearts to 
 
 mirth ; 
 Even this gi-eat flame that wraps them now, not we 
 
 but they have bred • 
 Yes, this is their own work, and now, their work be on 
 
 their head. 
 
 Nay, Father, tell us not of help from Leinster's Nor- 
 man Peers, 
 
 If that we shape our holy cause to match their selfish 
 fears — 
 
 Helpless and hopeless be their cause, who brook a vain 
 delay. 
 
 Our ship is launched, our flag's afloat, whether they 
 come or stay. 
 
 Let silken Howth and savage Slane still kiss theii 
 
 tyrant's rod, 
 A.nd pale Dunsany still prefer his Master to his God ; 
 Little we heed their father's sons the Marchmen of the 
 
 Pale, 
 if Lish hearts and Irish hands have Spanish blades 
 
 and mail 1 
 
 Then, let them stay to bow and fawn, or fight with 
 cunning words ; 
 
 I fear me more their courtly arts than England's hire- 
 ling swords ; 
 
 Natheless their creed they hate us stUl, as the De- 
 spoiler hates. 
 
 Could they love us and love their prey — our kinsmen's 
 lost estates ! 
 
 Our rude array's a jagged rock to smash the spoiler's 
 
 power, 
 Or need we aid, His aid we have who doomed this 
 
 gracious hour ;
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 201 
 
 Of yore He led his Hebrew host to peace through 
 
 strife and pain, 
 And us He leads the self-same path, the self-same goal 
 
 to gain. 
 
 Down from the sacred hills whereon a Saint* com- 
 muned with God, 
 
 Up from the vale where Bagnell's blood manured the 
 reeking sod. 
 
 Out from the stately woods of Triuch,t M'Kenna's 
 plundered home, 
 
 Like Malin's waves, as fierce and fast, our faithful 
 clansmen come. 
 
 Then, brethren, cm ! — O'Neill's dear shade would frown 
 to see you pause — 
 
 Our banished Hugh, our martyred Hugh, he's watch- 
 ing o'er your cause — 
 
 His gen'rous error lost the land — he deem'd the 
 Norman true, 
 
 Oh, forward ! friends, it must not lose the land again 
 in you ! 
 
 DRIMIN DHU. 
 
 A JACOBITE EELIC— TRA^-SLATED FBOM THE IBI6H. 
 
 BY SAMlTEL FERGUSON, LIuD., M.R.I.A. 
 
 A.H, Drimin Dhu deelish, ah pride of the flow,!l: 
 Ah, where are your folks, are they living or no ? 
 They're doA\Ti in the ground, 'neath the sod lying low, 
 Expecting King James with the crown on his brow. 
 
 But if I could get sight of the crown on his brow, 
 By night and day travelling to London I'd go ; 
 Over mountains of mist and soft mosses below, 
 Till I'd beat on the kettle-drumB, Drimin Dhubh, O . 
 
 Welcome home, welcome home, Drimin Dhubh, ! 
 Good was your sweet milk for drinking, I trow ; 
 With your face like a rose, and your dew-lap of snow, 
 m part from you never, ah, Drimin Dhubh, ! 
 
 • St. Patrick, ■wcliose favourite retreat was Leatli Chathail (Leceal 
 CathaVs half), in the county Dovra. 
 t Improperly written Tniagh. $ The soft grassy part of the bog.
 
 202 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 DARK ROSALEEN. 
 
 TEAKSLATED FKOM THE IRISH. 
 
 BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 [This impassioned ballad, entitled in the original Koisin Duh (or The 
 Black Little Rose), vas written in the reign of Elizabeth by one of the 
 poets of the celebrated Tirconnellian chieftain, Hugh the Red O'Donnell. 
 It purports to be an allegorical address from Hugh to Ireland on the 
 subject of liis love and straggles for her, and his resolve to raise her 
 again to the glorious position she held as a nation before the irruption of 
 the Saxon and Norman spoilers. The true character and meaning of the 
 figurati^'e allusions with which it abounds, and to two only of which 1 
 need refer here — viz., the " Roman ■wine" and " Spanish ale" mentioned 
 in the first stanza— the intelligent reader will, of course, And uo diffi- 
 culty in understanding.] 
 
 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 o^yn 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 ! 
 Oh ! there was lightning in my blood, 
 Red lightning lightened through my blood, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen I
 
 BOOK OF IKISH BALLADS. 203 
 
 aU clay long, in unrest, 
 
 To and fro, do I move, 
 The very soul 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 Eosaleen ! 
 
 My own Rosaleen ! 
 To hear your sweet and sad complaints ; 
 My life, my love, my saint of saints, 
 
 My Dark Eosaleen ! 
 
 Woe and pain, ^ain 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 Eosaleen ! 
 
 My own Eosaleen ! 
 'Tis you shall have the golden throne 
 'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, 
 
 My Dark Eosaleen ! 
 
 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, 
 f ou'U pray for me, my flower of flowers. 
 
 My Dark Eosaleen ! 
 
 My fond Eosaleen ! 
 You'll think of me through daylight's houra 
 My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, 
 . ^[y Dark Eosaleen !
 
 204 BOOK OP IRISH BALLaDsS 
 
 I coiild scale the blue air, 
 
 I could plough the high hills, 
 Oh, 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 ! 
 Woidd give me life and soul anew, 
 A second life, a soul anew, 
 
 My Dark Rosaleen ! 
 
 ! 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 Jlosaleen ! 
 
 My own Rosaleen ! 
 The Judgment Hour must first be nigb, 
 Ere you can fade, ere you can die, 
 
 My Dark Rosalesa !
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS, 205 
 
 SHAISTE BWEE ; OR, THE CAPTIVITY OF 
 THE GAEL. 
 
 GEIBIO^N NA-X-GAOIDEIL.* 
 
 BY JAMES CLARKN-CE MAI^-GAN. 
 
 [A Translation of the Jacobite song called " Ge'ibionn na-n-Gaoideil,' 
 written by 0-\ven Roe O'SuUivan, a Kerry pcet, -who flourished abont ths 
 middle of the last centiuy.t] 
 
 'TwAS by sunset I walked and wandered 
 Over hill sides and over moors, 
 With a many sighs and tears 
 Slink in sadness, I darkly pondered 
 All the wrongs our lost land endures 
 In these latter night-black years. 
 " How," I mused, " has her worth departed ! 
 What a ruin her fame is now ! 
 We, once freest of the Free, 
 We are trampled and broken-hearted, 
 Yea, even our Princes themselves must bow 
 Low before the vile Shane Bwee [''"X 
 
 Nigh a stream, in a gra fj holbw, 
 Tired, at length, I ^ay down to rest ; 
 There the birc^s and oaimy air 
 Bade new reveries and cheerier follow. 
 Waking newly vv itlim my breast 
 Thoughts that cheated my despair. 
 Was I waking or was I dreaming ? 
 I glanced up^ and behold ! there shone 
 Such a vision over me J 
 A young girl, bright as Erin's beaming 
 Guardian spirit— ^now sad and lone, 
 Through the Spoiling of Shane Bwee ! 
 
 * 5eibionn nA-n-^Aoi'oei'L. 
 
 t His death, it ha€ been stated by the late Mr. Edward Walshe. occurred 
 in the year 1784. We may, therefore, suppose this song to have been 
 written by the author in his youth— perhaps about the year 1740. 
 
 t Seagan Btiidhe, Yellow John, a name applied first to the Prince of 
 Orange, and afterwards to his adherents generally.
 
 206 BOOK or IRISH BALLAne 
 
 O, for pencil to paint the golden 
 Locks that waved in luxariant sheen 
 To her feet of stilly light ! 
 '^ot the Fleece that in ages olden 
 Jason bore o'er the ocean green 
 Into Hellas, gleamed so bright.) 
 And the eyebrows thin-arch'd over 
 Her mild eyes, and more, even more 
 Beautiful, methonght, to see 
 Than those rainbows that wont to hover 
 Cer our blue island-lakes of yore. 
 Ere the Spoiling by Shane Bwee ! 
 
 '• Bard !" she spake, " deem not this unreal. 
 1 was niece of a Pair whose peers 
 None shall see on Earth again — 
 ^ONGUS Con, and the Dark O'Niall,* 
 Rulers over leme in years 
 When her sons as yet were Men. 
 Times have darkened ; and now our holy 
 Altars crumble and castles fall ; 
 
 Our groans ring through Christen dee. 
 Still, despond not ! HE comes, though slowly. 
 He. the Man, who shall disenthral 
 The PROUD CAPTIVE of Shane Bwee f 
 
 Here she vanished ; and I, in sorrow 
 Blent with joy, rose and went my way 
 Homeward over moor and MIL 
 O, Great God ! Thou from whom we borrow 
 Life and strength, unto Thee I pray ! 
 Thou, who swayest at Thy wul 
 Hearts and councils, thralls, tyrajjts, freemen, 
 Wake through Europe the ancient soul, 
 And on every shore and sea. 
 From the Blackw^ater to the Dniemen, 
 Freedom's Bell will ere long time toll 
 The deep death-knell of Shane Bwee! 
 
 • ^'iall Dubli.
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 207 
 
 THE VOICE OF LABOUR 
 
 X CHANT OF THE CITT MEETINGS. 
 
 A.D. 1843. 
 BY THE HON. GAVAN DUFFY. 
 
 Ye who despoil the sons of toil, saw ye this sight 
 
 to-day, 
 When stalwart trade in long brigade, beyond a king's 
 
 array, 
 Marched in the blessed light of heaven, beneath the 
 
 open sky. 
 Strong in the might of sacred eight, that none dare 
 
 ask them why 1 
 These are the slaves, the needy knaves, ye spit upon 
 
 with scorn — 
 The spawn of earth, of nameless birth, and basely bred 
 
 as born ; 
 Yet know, ye soft and silken lords, were we the thing 
 
 ye say. 
 Your broad domains, your coffered gains, your lives 
 
 were ours to-day ! 
 
 Measure that rank, from flank to flank ; 'tis fifty thou- 
 sand strong ; 
 And mark you here, in front and i-ear, brigades as deep 
 
 and long ; 
 And know that never blade of foe, or Arran's deadly 
 
 breeze. 
 Tried bv assay of storm or fray, more dauntless hearts 
 
 tnan these ; 
 The sinewy smith, little he recks of his own child— 
 
 the sword ; 
 The men of gear, think you they fear their handiwork 
 
 —a Lord? 
 And undismayed, yon sons of trade might see the 
 
 battle's front. 
 Who bravely bore, nor bowed before, the deadlier face 
 
 of wuit
 
 208 BOOK OP IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 What lack we here of show and form that lure you 
 
 slaves, to death? 
 Not serried bands, nor sinewy hands, nor music'3 
 
 martial breath ; 
 And if we broke the slavish yoke our suppliant race 
 
 endure, 
 No robbers we — but chivalry — the Army of the Poor. 
 Shame on ye now, ye Lordly crew, that do your bet- 
 ters wrong — 
 /V"e are no base and braggart mob, but merciful and 
 
 strong. ' 
 Your henchmen vain, your vassal train, would fly our 
 
 first defiance ; 
 In us — in our strong, tranquil breasts — abides your 
 
 sole relialice. 
 
 Ay ! keep them all, castle and hall, cofi'ers and costly 
 
 jewels — 
 Keep your vile gain, and in its train the passions that 
 
 it fuels. 
 We envy not your lordly lot--its bloom or its decay- 
 
 ance ; 
 But ye have that we claim as ours-~our right in long 
 
 abeyance : 
 Leisure to live, leisure to love, leisure to taste our 
 
 freedom — 
 Oh ! suffring poor, oh ! patient poor, how bitterly you 
 
 need them ! 
 "Ever to moil, ever to toil," that is your social charter. 
 And city slave or peasant serf, the toiler is its martyr. 
 
 Where Frank and Tuscan shed their sweat the goodly 
 
 crop is theirs — 
 If Norway's toil make rich the soil, she eats the fruit 
 
 she rears — 
 O'er Maine's green sward there rules no lord, saving 
 
 the Lord on high ; 
 But we are serfs in our own land — proud masters, tell 
 
 us whyi
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 209 
 
 The German burgher and his men, brother with bro- 
 thers live, 
 
 \Vhile toil must wait without your gate what gracious 
 crusts you give. 
 
 Long in your sight, for our own right, we've bent 
 and still we bend ; — 
 
 Why did we bow 1 why do we now 1, — Proud masters 
 this must end. 
 
 Perish the past — a generous land is this fair land of 
 
 ours. 
 And enmity may no man see between its Towns and 
 
 Towers. 
 Come, join our bands — here take our hands — now 
 
 shame on him that lingers. 
 Merchant or Peer, you have no fear from labour's 
 
 blistered fingers. 
 Come, join at last — perish the past — its traitors, its 
 
 seceders — 
 Proud names and old, frank hearts and bold, come 
 
 join and be our Leaders. 
 But know, ye lords, that be your swords with us or 
 
 with our Wronger, 
 Heaven be our guide, we Toilers bide this lot of shame 
 
 no longer. 
 
 THE WEXFORD INSURGENT. 
 
 TKAUSLATBD FBOM TUB IRISH. 
 
 The heroes of Wexford have burst through their 
 
 cliains. 
 And the voice of the freeman is loud o'er her plains— 
 The Sassanachs are broken, their horsemen have fled, 
 And the pride of their host on the mountain lie dead. 
 
 o
 
 210 BOOK OF IRISH BALLA1>S. 
 
 For roused is the blood of tlie bold JShilmaleer, 
 The pride of the conflict when foemen are near — 
 And the heroes of Bargy and Bantry are there, 
 In the shock ever foremost, in flight in the rear. 
 
 Oh ! soon will the hearths of the traitors be lone, 
 And their halls but re-echo the shiiek and the groan. 
 And the red flame shall burst thro' their roof to the 
 
 sky, 
 For the Hour of our freedom and vengeance is nigh. 
 
 The men of the mountain are down in the vale, 
 And the flags of Shelburny are loose to the gale — 
 And tho' gentle the Forth, yet her sons never slight, 
 For the nuldest in peace are oft boldest in fight. 
 
 The cold-blooded Sassanach is low on the hill. 
 Like the red rock he presses, as lone and as chill — 
 There, pulseless and cold, the pale beams of the moon 
 Show the deep-riven breast of the fallen dragoon. 
 
 And low lies his charger, his bosom all torn. 
 And from the dark helmet the horse-hair is shorn, 
 ^nd the hearts of the great, and the brave, and the 
 
 proud, 
 Have been trampled in death when the battle was loud. 
 
 Oh ! long in fair England each maiden may mourn— 
 The pride of her bosom will never return ; 
 His nearfs blood is scattered — his last prayer is said — 
 And the dark raven flaps his v/ild wing o'er the dead. 
 
 Yes, long she may call him from battle in vain — 
 The sight of her lover she ne'er shall regain : 
 All cold is his bosom, and crimson his brow. 
 And the night wind is sighing its dirge o'f^ him now
 
 liOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 2U 
 
 THE DREAM OF JOHN MACDONNELL. 
 
 TEA.NSLATED FKOM THE IRISH. 
 
 BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 [John llacDonnell, usually called MacDonnell Claragh, from hit, 
 family residence, was a native of the county of Cork, and may be classec' 
 among the first of the purely Irish poets of the last century. He was 
 born in 1691, and died in 1754. His poems are remarkable for tlieir 
 energy, their piety of tone, and the patriotic spirit they everywhere 
 manifest. The following is one of them, and deserves to be regarded as 
 a very curious topograpliical " Jacobite relic."] 
 
 I LAY in unrest — old thoughts of pain, 
 
 That I struggled in vain to smother, 
 Like midnight spectres haunted my brain — 
 
 Dark fantasies chased each other ; 
 When, lo ! a figure— who might it be 1 
 
 A tall fair figure stood near me ! 
 AVho might it be *? An unreal Banshee '? 
 
 Or an angel sent to cheer me 1 
 
 Though years have rolled since then, yet now 
 
 My memory thrillingly lingers 
 On her awful charms, her waxen brow, 
 
 Her pale translucent fingers ; — 
 Her eyes that mirrored a wonder world, 
 
 Her mien of unearthly mildness, 
 And her waving raven tresses that curled 
 
 To the ground in beautiful wildness. 
 
 " Whence comest thou, Spirit T I asked, methought 
 
 " Thou art not one of the Banished ]" 
 Alas, for me ! she answered nought, 
 
 But rose aloft and vanished ; 
 And a radiance, like to a glory, beamed 
 
 In the light she left behind her; 
 Long time I wept, and at last me-dreamed 
 
 I left my shieling to find her. 
 
 And first I turned to the thund'rous North 
 
 To Gruagach's mansion kingly ; 
 Untouching the earth, I then sped fortb 
 
 To Tnver-lough, and the shingly
 
 qi2 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 Aud shimng strand of the fishful Erne, 
 And thence to Croghan the golden, 
 
 Of whose resplendent palace ye learn 
 So many a marvel olden ! 
 
 I saw the Moiirna's billows flow — 
 
 I passed the walls of Shenady, 
 And stood in the hero-thronged Ardroe, 
 
 Embossed amid greenwoods shady ; 
 And visited that proud pile that stands 
 
 Above the Boyne's broad waters, _ 
 Where ^ugus dwells with his warrior bands 
 
 And the fairest of Ulster's daughters. 
 
 To the halls of Mac-Lir, to Creevi'oe's height. 
 
 To Tara, the glory of Erin, 
 To the fairy palace that glances bright 
 
 On the peak of the blue Cnocfeerin, 
 I vainly hied. I went west and east — 
 
 I travelled seaward and shoreward — 
 But thus was I greeted in field and at feasfc- 
 
 " Thy way lies onward and forward !" 
 
 At last I reached, I wist not how, 
 
 The royal towers of Ival, 
 Which, under the cliff's gigantic brow, 
 
 Still rise "without a rival ; 
 And here were Thomond's chieftains all, 
 
 With armour, and swords, and lances ; 
 And here sweet music filled the hall. 
 
 And damsels charmed with dances. 
 
 And here, at length, on a silvery throne, 
 
 Half seated, half reclining, 
 With forehead white as the marble stone- 
 
 And garments so starrily shining, 
 And features beyond the poet's pen — 
 
 The sweetest, saddest features — 
 A^eared before me once again, 
 
 That fairest of Living Crea^^uro.s I
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 213 
 
 " Draw near, O mortal !" she said, with a sigh, 
 
 " And hear my mournful story ! 
 The guardian Spirit of Erin am I, 
 
 But dimmed is mine ancient glory. 
 My priests are banished, my warriors wear 
 
 No longer Victory's garland ; 
 And my Child,* my Son, my beloved Heir, 
 
 Is an exile in a far land !" 
 
 I heard no more — I saw no more — 
 
 The bands of slumber were broken ; 
 And palace and hero, and river and shore, 
 
 Had vanished, and left no token. 
 Dissolved was the spell that had bound my will. 
 
 And my fancy thus for a season : 
 But a sorrow therefore hangs over me still, 
 
 Despite of the teachings of Reason ! 
 
 THE OEANGEMAN^S WIFE. 
 
 BY CARROLL MALONB. 
 
 I WANDER by the limpid shore. 
 When fields and flowr'ets bloom , 
 
 But, oh ! my heart is sad and sore — 
 Mv soul is sunk in gloom — 
 All day I ciy ohone ! ohone > 
 I weep from night till morn — 
 
 I wish that I were dead and gone, 
 Or never had been born. 
 
 My father dwelt beside Tyrone, 
 
 And with him children five ; 
 But I to Charlemont had gone, 
 
 At service there to live. 
 O brothers fond ! sister dear I 
 
 How ill I paid your love ! 
 O father ! father ! how I fear 
 
 To meet thy soul above ! 
 
 • Charles Stnart.
 
 114 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 My mother left us long ago ; 
 
 A lovely corpse was she, — 
 But we had longer days of woe 
 
 In this sad world to be. 
 My weary days will soon be done — 
 
 I pine in grief forlorn ; 
 I wish that 1 were dead and gone, 
 
 Or never had been born. 
 
 It was the year of ninety-eight ; 
 
 The wreckers came about ; 
 They burned my father's stack of wheat. 
 
 And drove my brothers out ; 
 They forced my sister to their lust — 
 
 God grant my father rest ! 
 For the captain of the wreckers thrust 
 
 A bayonet through his breast. 
 
 It was a dreadful, dreadful year ; 
 
 And I was blindly led, 
 In love, and loneliness, and fear, 
 
 A loyal man to wed ; 
 And still my heart is his alone, 
 
 It breaks, but cannot turn : 
 I wish that I were dead and gone, 
 
 Or never had been born. 
 
 Next year we lived in quiet love, 
 
 And kissed our infant boy ; 
 And peace had spread her wings above 
 
 Our dweUing at the Moy. 
 And then my wajnvom brothers came 
 
 To share our peace and rest ; 
 And poor lost Eose, to hide her shame 
 
 And sorrow in my breast. 
 
 They came, but soon they turned and fled- 
 
 Preserve my soul, O God ! 
 It was my husband's hand, they said. 
 
 That shed my father's blood-
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. Sl6 
 
 All day I cry ohone ! ohone ! 
 
 I vreep from night till mom ; 
 And oh, that I were dead and gone, 
 
 Or never had been born ! 
 
 THE IRISH CHIEFS. 
 
 BY THE HOX. GAVAN DUFFY. 
 
 Oh ! to have lived like an Irish Chief, when hearts 
 
 were fresh and true. 
 And a manly thought, like a pealing bell, would 
 
 quicken them through and through ; 
 And the seed of a gen'rous hope right soon to a fiery 
 
 action grew, 
 .\nd men would have scorned to talk, and talk, and 
 never a deed to do. 
 
 Oh ! the iron grasp. 
 And the kindly clasp. 
 And the laugh so fond and gay ; 
 And the roaring board, 
 And the ready sword, 
 Were the types of that vanished day. 
 
 Oh ! to have lived as Brian lived, and to die as Brian died; 
 His land to win with the sword, and smile,* as a 
 
 warrior wins his bride. 
 To knit its force in a kingly host, and rule it with 
 
 kingly pride. 
 And still in the girt of its guardian swords over victor 
 fields to ride ; 
 
 And when age was past, 
 And when death came fast, 
 To look with a softened eye 
 On a happy race 
 Who had loved his face. 
 And to die as a king should die. 
 
 ♦ Our great Brian Is called an usurper, inasmnch as he combined, by 
 I'orce and policy, the scattered and jealons pcwers of the island into one 
 scvereigot , is'd rul»d U ^rxyaa^^ by tb« D e n.ff^\fc of being the fittest 
 ruler
 
 21 C BOOK OF miSH BALLADS. 
 
 Oil ! to liave lived dear Owen's life — to live for a 
 
 solemn end, 
 To strive for the ruling strength and skill God's saints 
 
 to the Chosen send • 
 And to come at length, with that holy strength, the 
 
 bondage of fraud to rend. 
 And pour the light of God's freedom in where 
 Tyrants and Slaves were denned ; 
 And to bear the brand 
 With an equal hand, 
 Like a -soldier oi Truth and Right, 
 And, oh ! Saints to die, 
 While our flag flew high, 
 Nor to look on its fall or flight. 
 
 Oh ! to have lived as Grattan lived, in the glow of hi - 
 
 manly years, 
 To thunder again those iron words that thrill like the 
 
 clash of spears ; 
 Once more to blend for a holy end, our peasants, and 
 
 priests, and peers, 
 Till England raged, like a baffled fiend, at the tramiJ 
 of our Volunteers. 
 
 And, oh ! best of all, 
 Far rather to fall 
 (With a blesseder fate than he), 
 On a conqu'ring field, 
 Than one right to yield. 
 Of the Island so proud and free ! 
 
 Yet, scorn to cry on the days of old, when hearts were 
 
 fresh and true. 
 If hearts be weak, oh ! chiefly then the Missioned their 
 
 work must do ; 
 Nor wants our day its own fit way, the want is in you 
 
 and you\ 
 For these eyes have seen as kingly a ELing as ever dear 
 
 Erin kr^ew.
 
 ROOK op rRISH BALLADS. 217 
 
 And with Brian's will, 
 
 And with Owen's skill, 
 And with glorious Grattan's love, 
 
 He had freed ns soon — 
 
 But death darkened his noon, 
 And he sits with the saints above. 
 
 )h 1 could you live as Davis lived — kind Heaven be 
 
 his bed ! 
 \\"ith an eye to guide, and a hand to rule, and a calm 
 
 and"^ kingly head, 
 And a heart from whence, like a Holy Well, the soul 
 
 of his land was fed — 
 No need to cry on the days of old that your holiest 
 hope be sped. 
 
 Then scorn to pray 
 For a by-past day — 
 The whine of the sightless dumb ! 
 To the true and wise 
 Let a king arise, 
 And. a holier day is come ! 
 
 DAEE.YNAXE. 
 
 BY DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CAETHY, M.E.I. A. 
 
 [Written in 1844, after a visit to Darrynane Abbey.] 
 I. 
 
 y^^lere foams the white torrent, and rushes the rill, 
 Down the murmuring slopes of the echoing hill — 
 \yhere the eagle looks out from his cloud-crested crags, 
 And the caverns resound with the panting of stags — 
 Where the brow of the mountain is purple with heath. 
 And the mighty Atlantic rolls proudly beneath, 
 With the foam of its waves like the sno^;^ fenane*— 
 Oh ! that is the region of ^vild Darrynane ! 
 
 » fenane.— " In the mountains of Slievelougher, and other parts of 
 this county, the country people, towards the end of June, cut the coarse 
 noixntain grass, called by them r'enane ; towards August this grass grows 
 vhite." — Smith's Kerry.
 
 218 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 IL 
 
 Oh ! fair are the islets of tranquil GlengariflF, 
 And wild are the sacred recesses of Scariff — 
 And beautv, and wildness, and grandeur, commingl* 
 By Bantrys broad bosom, and wave-wasted Dingle ; 
 But wild as the wildest, and fair as the fairest, 
 And lit by a lustre that thou alone wearest - 
 And dear to the eye and the free heart of man 
 Are the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane ! 
 
 in. 
 And who is the Chief of this lordly domain 1 
 Does a slave hold the land where a monarch might 
 
 reign] 
 Oh ! nOj by St. Finbar,* nor cowards, nor slaves, 
 Could hve in the sound of these free, dashing, waves j 
 A Chieftain, the greatest the world has e'er known- 
 Laurel his coronet — true hearts his throne — 
 Knowledge his sceptre — a Nation his clan — 
 O'Conneli, the Chieftain of proud Darrynane ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 A thousand bright streams on the mountains awake, 
 Whose waters unite in O'Donoghue's Lake — 
 Streams of Glanfiesk and the dark Gishadine 
 Filling the heart of that valley divine ! 
 Then rushing in one mighty artery down 
 To the limitlesa^pcean by murmuring Lowne if 
 Thus Nature unfolds in her mystical plan 
 A type of the Chieftain of wild Darrynane I 
 
 V. 
 
 In Mm every pulse of our bosoms unite — 
 Our hatred of wrong and our worship of right — 
 The hopes that we cherish, the ills we deplore. 
 All centre within his heart's innermost core, 
 
 • The abbey on the grounds of Darrynane was founded In the seventh 
 century by the monks of St. Finbar. 
 
 t The river Lowne is the only outlet by which all the streams that 
 form the Lakes of Killarney discharge themselves into the s««- /.an, or 
 Loume, in the old Irish signifying full.
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 219 
 
 Which, gathered in one mi^htv current, are flung 
 1^0 the ends of the earth from his thunder-toned 
 
 tongue ! 
 I'ill the Indian looks up. and the valiant Affghan 
 Draws his sword at the echo from far Darrynane ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 But here he is only the friend and the father, 
 
 Who from children's sweet lips truest wisdom can 
 
 gather, 
 And seeks from the large heart of Nature to borrow 
 Rest for the present and strength for the morrow ! 
 Oh ! who that e'er saw him with children about him, 
 And heard his soft tones of affection, could doubt him ] 
 My life on the truth of the heart of that man 
 That throbs like the Chieftain's of wild Darrynane ! 
 
 vn. 
 
 Oh ! wild Darrynane, on thy ocean- washed shore. 
 Shall the glad song of mariners echo once more ? 
 Shall the merchants, and minstrels, and maidens of 
 
 Spain, 
 Once again in their swift ships come over the main ? 
 Shall the soft lute be heard, and the gay youths of 
 
 France 
 Lead our blue-eyed young maidens again to the dance ] 
 Graceful and shy as thy fawns, I^illenane,* 
 Are the mind-moulded maidens of far Darrynane ! 
 
 vnL 
 
 Dear land of the South, as my mind wandered o'er 
 All the joys I have felt by thy magical shore. 
 From those lakes of enchantment by oak-clad Glena 
 To the mountainous passes of bold Iveragh ! 
 
 • " KUlenane lies to the east of Cahir. It has many mountains to- 
 •vards the sea. These mountains are frequented by herds of fallow deer, 
 that range About in perfect security."— ^mj^A'i Kerrv.
 
 220 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 Like birds which are lured to a haven of rest, 
 By those rocks far away on the ocean's bright breast*-— 
 Thus my thoughts loved to linger, as memory ran 
 O'er the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane ! 
 
 1844. 
 
 DEIRDRA'S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF 
 USNACH. 
 
 BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, LL.D., M.'R,.LA. 
 
 ['* Then was there 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. Put in the horse of Conor was one called Maini, 
 Rough Hand, son of the King of Lochliii, and Naisi had slain his father 
 and two brothers, and he undertook to be their executioner. So the 
 sons of Usnach were there slain, and the men of Ulster, when they 
 beheld their death, sent forth their heavy shouts of sorrow and lamenta 
 tion. Then Deirdra 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 -ras opened for them, 
 and Deirdra, standing by it, with her hair dishevelled, and shedding 
 t&!»rs abundantly, chanted their funeral song."t] 
 
 The lions of the hiU 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. 
 
 * The Skellig Rocks. In describing one of them, Keating says " That 
 there is a certain attractive virtue in the soil which draws down all tin 
 birds which attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to light upon the 
 rock." 
 
 t Hibernian Nights' Entertainments, University Magazine, voL It 
 p. 686. 
 
 I
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. S2I 
 
 Lay their spears and bucklers bright 
 By the warriors' sides aright ; 
 Many a day the thi'ee before me 
 On their linked bucklers bore me. 
 
 Lay -upon the low grave fioor, 
 'Neath each head, the blue claymoie ; 
 Many a time the noble three 
 Reddened these blue blades foi* 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 an good's a palace. 
 
 Oh, 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. 
 
 Oh ! to hear the echoes pealing 
 Round our green and fairy sheeling, 
 "When the three, vdih soaring chorus, 
 Passed the silent skylark o'er us. 
 
 Echo now, sleep, morn and even — 
 Lark alone enchant the heaven 1 
 Ardan's lips are scant of breath, 
 Neesa's tonicue is cold in death.
 
 222 BOOK OF IKISH BALLADS. 
 
 Stag, exult on glen and mountain ! 
 Salmon, leap from loch to fountain ! 
 Heron, in the free air warm ye ! 
 Usnach's sons no more \\ill harm ye I 
 
 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 I 
 
 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 ! 
 
 THE PENAL DAYS. 
 
 [" In Scotland what a work have the four-and-twenty letters to show 
 for themselves ! The naiui-al enemies of vice, and folly, and slavery; 
 the great soMers, but the still greater weeders of the human 60iL"—John 
 Pliilpot Curran.'\ 
 
 In that dark time of cruel wrong, when on our 
 
 country's breast, 
 A dreary load, a ruthless code, with wasting terrors 
 
 press'd — 
 Our gentry stripp'd of land and clan, sent exiles o'er the 
 
 main, 
 To turn the scales on foreign fields for foreign 
 
 monarchs' gain ;
 
 BOOK OF lUISH BALLADS. 223 
 
 Our people trod like vermin down, all fenceless flung 
 
 to sate 
 Extortion, lust, and brutal whim, and rancorous bigot 
 
 hate — 
 Our priesthood tracked from cave to hut, like felons 
 
 chased and lashed, 
 And from their ministering hands the lifted chalice 
 
 dashed — 
 Tn that black tima-^ law- wrought crime, of stifling 
 
 woe and thrall. 
 There stood supreme one foul device, one engine worse 
 
 than all : 
 Him whom they wished to keep a slave, they souglit 
 
 to make a brute — 
 They banned the light of heaven — they bade instriic 
 
 tion's voice be mute. 
 
 God's second priest — the Teacher — sent to feed men's 
 
 mind with lore— 
 They marked a price upon his head, as on the priest's 
 
 before. 
 Well — well they knew that never, face to face beneath 
 
 the sky, 
 Could tyranny and knowledge meet, but one of them 
 
 should die : 
 That lettered slaves will link their might until their 
 
 murmurs grow 
 To that imperious thunder-peal which despots quail 
 
 to know ; 
 IJhat men who learn will learn their strength — the 
 
 weakness of their lords — 
 Till all the bonds that gird them round are snapt Hke 
 
 Sampson's cords. 
 This well they knew, and called the power of .igno- 
 rance to aid : 
 Bo might, they deemed, an abject race of soulless serfs 
 
 be made — 
 When Irish memories, hopes, and thoughts, were 
 
 withered, branch and stem — 
 Ai race of abject, soulless serfs, to hew and draw for them.
 
 «224 BOOK OF miSh. BALLADo. 
 
 All, God is good and nature tjtroug — they let not tJius 
 decay 
 
 The seeds that deep in Irish breasts of Irish feeling 
 lay: 
 
 Still sun and rain made emerald green the loveliest 
 fields on earth, 
 
 And gave the type of deathless hope, the little sham- 
 rock, birth ; 
 
 Still faithful to their Holy Church, her diresfe straits 
 among. 
 
 To one another faithful still, the priests and people 
 clung, - ♦ 
 
 And Christ was worshipped, and received with trem- 
 bling haste and fear. 
 
 In field and shed, with posted scouts to warn of blood- 
 hounds near ; 
 
 StiU, crouching 'neath the sheltering hedge, or stretched 
 on mountain fern, 
 
 The teacher and his pupils met, feloniously — to learn ; 
 
 Still round the peasant's heart of hearts his darling 
 music twined, 
 
 A fount of Irish sobs or smiles in every note enshrined. 
 
 And still beside the smouldering turf were fond tradi- 
 tions told 
 
 Of heavenly saints and princely chiefs — the power and 
 faith of old. 
 
 Deep lay the seeds, yet rankest weeds sprang mingled 
 
 — could they fail ? 
 For what were freedom's blessed worth, if slavery 
 
 wrought not bale 1 
 As thrall, and want and ignorance, stiU deep and 
 
 deeper grew, 
 What marvel weakness, gloom, and strife fell dark 
 
 amongst us too ; 
 And servile thoughts, that measure not the inborn 
 
 wealth of man — 
 And servile cringe, and subterfuge to scape our master's 
 
 ban ;
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 225 
 
 And drunkeness — our sense of woe a little wWle to 
 
 steep — 
 ^id aimless feud, and murderous plot — oh, one could 
 
 pause and -^eep 1 
 j\Iid all the darkness, faith in Heaven still shone a 
 
 saving ray, 
 A-nd Heaven o'er our redemption watched, and chose 
 
 its own good day. 
 Two men were sent us— one for years, with Titan 
 
 strength of soul, 
 To beard our foes, to peal our wrongs, to band us and 
 
 control. 
 The other at a later time, on gentler mision came. 
 To make our noblest glory spring from out our saddest 
 
 shame ! 
 On all our wondrous, upward course hath Heaven its 
 
 finger set, 
 A.nd we — but, oh, my countrymen, there's much before 
 
 us yet ! 
 
 Eow sorrowful the useless powers our glorious Island 
 
 jdelds — 
 Our countless havens desolate, our waste of barreu 
 
 fields ; 
 '?he all unused mechanic might our rushing streams 
 
 afford, 
 The buried treasures of our mines, our sea's unvalued 
 
 hoard ! 
 But, oh, there is one piteous waste, whence all the rest 
 
 have grown — 
 One worst neglect, the mind of man left desert and 
 
 unsown. 
 Send Knowledge forth to scatter wide, and deep to 
 
 cast its seeds, 
 ihe nurse of energy and hope, of manly thoughts 
 
 and deeds. 
 T iCt it ^o forth : right soon will spring those forces in 
 
 its train 
 hat vanquish Nature's stubborn strength, that riflo 
 
 e-arth and main—
 
 '22(i BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 Itself a nobler harvest far than Autumn tints witli 
 
 gold, 
 A higher wealth, a surer gain than wave and mine 
 
 enfold. 
 Let it go forth unstained, and purged from Pride's 
 
 unholy leaven, 
 With fearless forehead raised to Man, but humbly 
 
 bent to Heaven j 
 
 Deep let it sink in Irish hearts the story of their isle, 
 And waken thoughts of- tcnderest love, and burning 
 
 wrath the while ; 
 And press upon us, one by one, the fruits of English 
 
 sway. 
 And blend the wrongs of bygone times vdth this our 
 
 fight to day ; 
 And show our Father's constancy by truest instinct led, 
 To loathe and battle with the power that on their sub- 
 stance fed ; 
 A.nd let it place beside our own the world's vast page, 
 
 to tell 
 That never lived the nation yet could rule anothei 
 
 well. 
 Thus, thus our cause shall gather strength ; no feeling 
 
 vague and blind, 
 But stamped by passion on the heart, by reason on the 
 
 mind. 
 Let it go forth — a mightier foe to England's power 
 
 than all 
 The rifles of America— the armaments of Gaul ! 
 It shall go forth, and woe to them that bar or thwart 
 
 its way — 
 'Tis God's own light — all Heavenly bright— we care 
 
 not who says nay
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 22T 
 
 CAROLAN AND BRIDGET CRUISE. 
 
 BY SAMUEL LOVER. 
 
 [It is related of Carol an, the Irish bard, that when depi-ived of sighi 
 Rnd after the lapse of twenty years, he recognized his first love by the 
 touch of her hand. The Lady's name was Bridget Cmise; and though 
 not a pretty name, it desers-es to be recorded, as belonging to the woma'i 
 A. ho could inspire such a passion. — Author's Note.] 
 
 " True love can ne'er forget ; 
 Fondly as when we met, 
 Dearest, I love thee yet. 
 
 My darling one !" 
 Thus sung a minstrel gay 
 His sweet impassion'd laj^, 
 C>own by the ocean's spray, 
 
 At set of sun ; 
 But wither'd was the minstrel's sight, 
 Mom to him was dark as night ; 
 Yet his heart was full of light 
 
 As he thus his lay begun. 
 
 ** True love can ne'er forget ; 
 Fondly as when we met, 
 Dearest, I love thee yet. 
 
 My darling one ! 
 Long years are past and o'er, 
 Sinc^ from this fatal shore, 
 Cold hearts and cold winds bore 
 
 My love from me." 
 Scarcely the minstrel spoke, 
 When quick, with flashing stroke, 
 A boat's light oar the silence broke 
 
 O'er the sea. 
 
 Soon upon her native strand 
 Doth a lovely lady land, 
 While the minstrel's love-taught hand 
 Did o'er his "wdld harp run :
 
 228 B00¥: OF TBtgn balladsl 
 
 " True love can ne'er forget i 
 Fondly as when we met. 
 Dearest, I love thee yet, 
 
 My darling one !" 
 Where the minstrel sat alons^ 
 There, that lady fair hath gonf. 
 Within his hand she placed her own ; 
 
 The bard dropp'd on his knee. 
 
 From his lips soft blessings came, 
 He kiss'd her hand with truest flame, 
 In trembling tones he named — her name, 
 
 Though he could not see ; 
 But oh ! the touch the bard could tell 
 Of that dear hand, remember'd well 
 Ah ! by many a secret spell 
 
 Can true love find her own I 
 For true love can ne'er forget ; 
 Fondly as when they met ; 
 He loved his lady yet, 
 
 His darling one. 
 
 THE STREAMS. 
 
 BY MRS. DOWNING. 
 
 [This poem Is taken from a volume entitled Scraps from the Mountaini 
 by Christabel, published in Dublin in 1840. It contains many beautiful 
 rjieces, in which Mrs. Downing has succeeded in uniting much of the 
 ^ace and harmony of Mrs. Hemans, to the tenderness and passicn of 
 L E. L. What is still better, they are thoroughly Irish in sent'ment 
 sad expression.] 
 
 The streams, the dancing streams, 
 
 How they roll and shine, 
 Like youth's fairest dreams, 
 
 When youth is most divine ! 
 Clearness where their bed is 
 
 'Mid pebbles in glosp^y ranks, 
 Brightness on their eddies, 
 
 Blosso^is on their banks.
 
 BOOK OF iniSH BALLADS. 
 
 Look within the valley, 
 
 Many a charm is there — 
 The winding, shaded alley. 
 
 The woodbine glist'ning fair ; 
 The berries' crimson flush, 
 
 The wild birds' cadence low 
 But, chief of all, the gush 
 
 Of the streamlet's singing flow. 
 
 Stand beneath the mountains, 
 
 And down each craggy side,' 
 From their secret fountains. 
 
 See lines of silver glide — 
 Mark how the ripples fling 
 
 Their sparkles round, and say 
 If there is anything 
 
 More beautiful than they. 
 
 List in night's deep hushing. 
 
 The season time of dreams, 
 "What are these come rushing ^ 
 
 The troubled, sleepless streams! 
 ^ow their waters flashing, 
 
 Like starry-spangled hairs- 
 Rolling, bounding, dashing— 
 
 What music like to theirs 1 
 
 Oh! in the sheltered glen, 
 Or on the hill-side fair, 
 When spring flowers bloom, or when 
 
 ihe summer birds are there 
 In all that we may see, 
 
 'Neath mom's or evening's beams, 
 taa aught in nature be 
 
 More lovely than the streaiii^ ^ 
 
 229
 
 230 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADR. 
 
 IKISH MARY. 
 
 BY JOHN BANIM. 
 
 Far away from Erin's strand, 
 
 And valleys wide and sounding waters, 
 Still she is, in every land. 
 
 One of Erin's real daughters : 
 Oh ! to meet her here is like 
 
 A dream of home and natal mountains. 
 On our hearts their voices strike — 
 
 We hear the gushing of their fountains ! 
 Yes ! our Irish Mary dear ! 
 
 Our own, our real Irish Mary ! 
 A flower of home, fresh blooming come, 
 
 Art thou to us, our Irish Mary ! 
 
 Round about us here we see 
 
 Bright eyes like hers, and sunny faces, 
 Charming all ! if all were free 
 
 Of foreign airs, of boiTOwed graces. 
 Mary's eye it flashes truth ! 
 
 And Maiy's spirit, Mary's nature, 
 " Irish Lady," fresh in youth, 
 
 Have beamed o'er every look and feature ! 
 Yes ! our Irish Mary dear ! 
 
 When La Tournure doth make us weary, 
 W e have you, to turn unto 
 
 For native grace, our Irish MarJ^ 
 
 Sighs of home ! — her Erin's songs 
 O'er aU their songs we love to listen ;' 
 
 Tears of home ! — her Erin's wrongs 
 Subdue our kindred eyes to glisten I 
 
 Oh ! should woe to gloom consign 
 The clftar fire-side of love and honour,
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 231 
 
 You will see a holier sign 
 
 Of Irish Mary bright upon her ! 
 Yes ! our Irish Mary dear 
 
 Will light that home, though e'er so dreary- 
 Shining stiU o'er clouds of ill, 
 
 Sweet star of life, our Irish Mary ! 
 
 THE LAST FEIENDS. 
 
 BY FRANCES BEOWN. 
 
 [One of the United Irishmen, who lately returned to his countrj-, after 
 many years of exile, being asked what had induced him to revisit Ire- 
 land when all his friends were gone, he answered, " I came back to see 
 the mountains."] 
 
 I CAME to my country, but not with the hope 
 
 That brightened my youth like the cloud-lighting 
 bow 
 For the region of soul that seemed mighty to cope 
 
 With time and with fortune, had fled from me now ; 
 A nd love, that illumined my wanderings of yore. 
 
 Hath perished, and left but a weary regret 
 For the star that can rise on my midnight no more — 
 
 But the hills of my country they welcome me yet ! 
 
 The hue of their verdure was fresh with me still, 
 
 When my path was afar by the Tanais' lone track ; 
 From the wide-spreading deserts and ruins that fill 
 
 The land of old story, they summoned me back ; 
 They rose on my dreams through the shades of the 
 west, 
 
 They breathed upon sands which the dew never wet, 
 For the echoes wereTiushed in the home I loved best — 
 
 But I knew that the mountains would welcome me 
 yet! 
 
 The dust of my kindred is scattered afar, 
 They lie in the desert, the wild, and the wave : 
 
 For ser\^ng the strangers through wandering ana war. 
 The isle of their m^" lory could grant tham no grave,
 
 23i BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 And I, I return with the memory of years, 
 Whose hope rose so high though its sorrow is set ; 
 
 They have left on my soul but the trace of their tears— 
 But our mountains remember their promises yet ! 
 
 Oh ! where are the brave hearts that bounded of old, 
 
 And where are the faces my childhood hath seen 1 
 For fair brows are furrowed, and hearts have grown 
 cold, 
 
 But our streams are stiU bright, and our hills are 
 still green ; 
 Ay, green as they rose to the eyes of my youth. 
 
 When brothers in heart in their shadows we met ; 
 And the hiUs have no memory of sorrow or death, 
 
 For their summits are sacred to liberty yet ! 
 
 Like ocean retiring, the morning mists now 
 
 RoH back from the mountains that girdle our land ; 
 And sunlight encircles each heath-covered brow 
 
 For which time had no furrow and tyrants no brand ! 
 Oh, thus let it be with the hearts of the isle. 
 
 Efface the dark seal that oppression hath set ; 
 Give back the lost glory again to the soil, 
 
 For the hills of my country remember it yet. 
 
 THE IRISH EXILES. 
 
 A OHBUniA* OAKOX.. 
 
 BY MAETIN MAO DEEMOTT. 
 
 When round the festive Christmas board, or by the 
 Christmas hearth, 
 
 That glorious mingled draught is pour'd— wine, me- 
 lody, and mirth 1 
 
 When friends long absen*, tell, low-toned, their joys 
 and sorrows o'er,
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADs. ^33 
 
 And hand grasps hand, and eyelids fill, and lips meet 
 
 lips once more — 
 Oh 1 in that hour 'twere kindly done, some woman's 
 
 voice would say — 
 "Forget not those who're sad to-night — ^poor exiles, 
 
 far away !" 
 
 Alas ! for them this morning's sun saw many a moist 
 
 eye pour 
 Its gushing love, with longings vain, the waste Atlantic 
 
 o'er ; 
 And when he turned his lion-eye this ev'ning from the 
 
 West, 
 The Indian shores were lined with those who watched 
 
 his couched crest ; 
 But not to share his glory, then, or gladden in hia ray. 
 They bent their gaze upon his path — those exiles, far 
 
 away ! 
 
 It was — oh ! how the heart will cheat 1 — because they 
 
 thought, beyond 
 His glowing couch lay that Green Isle of which their 
 
 hearts were fond ; 
 And fancy brought old scenes of home into each 
 
 welling eye, 
 And through each breast poured many a thought that 
 
 filled it like a sigh ! 
 'Twas then — 'twas then, aU warm with love, they knelt 
 
 them down to pray 
 For Irish homes and kith and kin — poor exiles, fi- 
 
 away ! 
 
 And then the mother blest her son, the lover blest the 
 
 maid, 
 And then the soldier was a child, and wept the whilst 
 
 he prayed, 
 And then the student's palM cheek flushed red as 
 
 summer rose. 
 And patriot souls forgot their grief to weep for Erin's 
 
 woes ;
 
 23^ BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 And, oh ! but then warm vows were breathed, that 
 
 come what might or may, 
 They'd right the suffering isle they loved— those exiles, 
 
 far away ! 
 
 A.nd some there were around the board, like loving 
 brothers met, 
 
 The few and fond and joyous hearts that never can 
 forget ; 
 
 They pledged — " The girls we left at home, God bless 
 them !" and they gave, 
 
 " The memory of our absent friends, the tender and 
 the brave 1" 
 
 Then up, erect, with nine times nine—hip, hip, hip- 
 hurrah ! 
 
 Drank — " Erin slantha gal go-hraghr* those exiles, 
 far away. 
 
 Then, oh ! to hear the sweet old strains of Irish music 
 
 rise^ 
 Like gushmg memories of home, beneath far foreign 
 
 skies — 
 Beneath the spreading calabash, beneath the trellised 
 
 vine. 
 The bright Italian myrtle bower, or dark Canadian 
 
 pine — 
 Oh ! don't these old familiar tones— now sad, and 
 
 now so gay- 
 Speak out your very, very hearts — ^poor exiles, far away 
 
 But, Heavens ! how many sleep afar, all heedless of 
 
 these strains— 
 Tired wanderers ! who sought repose through Europe 
 
 battle plains — 
 In strong, fierce, headlong fight they fell— as ships go 
 
 down in storms — 
 They fell — and human whirlwinds swept across their 
 
 shattered forms !
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 235 
 
 iS'o shroud, but glory, wrapt tliem round ; uor pra/r 
 
 nor tear had they — 
 Save the wandering winds and the heavy clouds — 
 
 poor exiles, far away ! 
 
 And might the singer claim a sigh, he, too, could tell 
 
 how, tost 
 Upon the stranger's dreary shore, his heart's best 
 
 hopes were lost — 
 How he, too, pined to hear the tones of friendship 
 
 ^eet his ear, 
 A.iid pined to walk the river side, to youthful musing 
 
 dear, 
 And pined, with yearning silent love, amongst his oivr 
 
 to stay — 
 A.las ! it is so sad to be an exUe far away ! 
 
 Then, oh ! when round the Christmas board, or by 
 
 the Christmas hearth, 
 That glorious mingled draught is poured — wine, 
 
 melody, and mirth ! 
 AVhen friends long absent tell, low-toned, their joys 
 
 and sorrows o'er, 
 And hand grasps hand, and eye-lids fill, and Hps meet 
 
 lips once more— 
 In that bright hour, perhaps — perhaps, some woman's 
 
 voice would say — 
 " Think — think on those who weep to-night, poor 
 
 exiles, far away I
 
 236 BOOK OF IKIiiH BALLADS. 
 
 A SHAMROCK FROM THE IRISH SHORE. 
 
 (On receiving a Shamrock in a Letter from Ireland.) 
 
 BY DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CAKTHY, M.R.I.A. 
 
 I. 
 
 O, Postman ! speed thy tardy gait- 
 Go quicker round from door to door ; 
 
 For thee I watch, for thee I wait, 
 Like many a weary wanderer more. 
 
 Thou bringest news of bale and bliss- 
 Some Hfe begun, some life well o'er. 
 
 He stops — he rings ! — Heaven ! what's this 1 
 A Shamrock from the Irish shore ! 
 
 n. 
 
 Dear emblem of my native land, 
 
 By fresh fond words kept fresh and green ; 
 The pressure of an unfelt nand — 
 
 The kisses of a lip unseen ; 
 A throb from my dead mother's heart — 
 
 My father's smile revived once more — 
 Oh, youth ! oh, love ! oh, hope thou art, 
 
 Sweet Shamrock from the Irish shore ! 
 
 m. 
 
 Enchanter, with thy wand of power. 
 
 Thou mak'st the past be present still : 
 The emerald lawn— the lime-leaved bower— 
 
 The circling shore — the sunHt hill ; 
 The grass, in winter's wintriest hours. 
 
 By dewy daisies dimpled o'er, 
 Half hiding, 'neath their trembling flowers. 
 
 The Shamrock of the Irish shore !
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 237 
 
 IT. 
 
 And thus, where'er my footsteps strayed, 
 
 By queenly Florence, kingly Rome — 
 By Padua's long and lone arcade — 
 
 By Ischia's fires and Adria's foam — 
 By Spezzia's fatal waves that kissed 
 
 My Poet sailing calmly o'er ; 
 By all, by each, I mourned and missed 
 
 The Shamrock of the Irish shore ! 
 
 V. 
 
 \ saw the palm-tree «tand aloof. 
 
 Irresolute 'twixt t^e sand and sea \ 
 I saw upon the trell22ed root 
 
 Outspread the wine that was to be ; 
 A giant-flowered and glorious tree 
 
 I saw the tall magnolia soar : 
 But there, even there, I longed for thefc. 
 
 Poor Shamrock of the Irish shore ! 
 
 VT. 
 
 Now on the ramparts of Boulogne, 
 
 As lately by the lonely Ranee, 
 At evening as I watch the sun, 
 
 I look ! I dream ! Can this be France ? 
 Not Albion's cliffs, how near they be, 
 
 He seems to love to linger o'er ; 
 But gilds, by a remoter sea, 
 
 The Shamrock on the Irish shore ! 
 
 VTI. 
 
 Pm with him in that wholesome clime — 
 
 That fruitful soil, that verdurous sod — 
 Where hearts unstained by vulgar crime 
 
 Have still a simple faith in God. 
 Hearts that in pleasure and in pain, 
 
 The more they're trod rebound the more. 
 Like thee, when wet with Heaven's own rain, 
 
 O, Shamrock of the Irish shore 1
 
 ^38 UOOK OP IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Memorial of my native land, 
 
 True emblem of my land and race — 
 Thy small and tender leaves expand 
 
 But only in thy native place. 
 Thou needest for thyself and seed 
 
 Soft dews around, kind sunshine o'er ; 
 Transplanted, thou'rt the merest weed, 
 
 Shamrock of the Irish shore 1 
 
 IX. 
 
 Here on the tawny fields of France, 
 
 Or in the rank, red English clay, 
 Thou showest a stronger form, perchance ; 
 
 A bolder front thou may'st display, 
 More able to resist the scythe 
 
 That cut so keen, so sharp before ; 
 But then thou art no more the blithe 
 
 Bright Shamrock of the Irish shore ! 
 
 Ah, me ! to think thy scorns, thy slights, 
 
 Thy trampled tears, thy nameless grave 
 On Fredericksburg's ensanguined heights, 
 
 Or by Pot6mac's purple wave ! 
 Ah, me ! to think that power malign 
 
 Thus turns thy sweet green sap to gore, 
 And what calm rapture might be thine, 
 
 Sweet Shamrock of the Irish shore ! 
 
 XL 
 
 Struggling, and yet for strife unmeet, 
 
 True type of trustful love thou art ; 
 Thou liest the whole year at my feet, 
 
 To live but one day at my heart. 
 One day of festal pride to lie 
 
 Upon the loved one's heart — ^what more t 
 Upon the loved one's heart to die, 
 
 O Shamrock of the Irish shore !
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 239 
 
 XII. 
 
 And shall I not return thy love 1 
 
 And shalt thou not, as thou shouidst, be 
 Placed on thy son's proud heart above 
 
 The red rose or the fleur-de-lis ] 
 Yes, from these heights the waters beat, 
 
 I vow to press thy cheek once more, 
 And lie for ever at thy feet, 
 
 O Shamrock of the Irish shore ! 
 
 Bonlogne-snr-Mer, March 17, 1866. 
 
 SPUING FLOWERS FROM IRELAND. 
 
 BY DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY , M.R.I. A. 
 
 On receiTing an early crocus and some violets in a second letter from 
 Ireland. 
 
 Within the letter's rustling fold 
 
 T find once more, a glad surprise — 
 A little tiny cup of gold — 
 
 Two little lovely violet eyes ; 
 A cup of gold with emeralds set. 
 
 Once filled with wine from happier spheres ; 
 Two Little eyes so lately wet 
 
 With spring's delicious dewy tears. 
 
 Oh ! little eyes that wept and laughed, 
 
 Now bright with smiles, with tears now dim— 
 Oh ! little cup that once was quaffed 
 
 By fay-queens fluttering round thy rim. 
 I press each silken fringe's fold — 
 
 Sweet little eyes once more ye shine — 
 1 kiss thy lip, oh ! cup of gold, 
 
 And find thee full of memory's wine.
 
 240 T?O0K OP IRISH BAXLADS. 
 
 Within their violet depths I gaze, 
 
 And see as in the camera's gloom, i 
 
 The Island with its belt of bays, 
 
 Its chieftained heights all capped with broom— 
 Which as the living lens it fills, 
 
 Now seems a giant charmed to sleep — 
 Now a broad shield embossed with hills 
 
 Upon the bosom of the deep. 
 
 Wh6n vnll the slumbering giant wake 1 
 
 When wiU the shield defend and guard 1 
 Ah, me ! prophetic gleams forsake 
 
 The once vsrapt eyes of seer or bard. 
 Enough, if shunning Samson's fate, 
 
 It doth not aU its vigour jdeld ; 
 Enough, if plenteous peace, though late, 
 
 May rest beneath the sheltering shield. 
 
 I see the long and lone defiles 
 
 Of Keimaneigh's bold rocks uphurled, 
 I see the golden fruited isles 
 
 That gem the queen-lakes of the world ; 
 I see — a gladder sight to me — 
 
 By soft Shanganagh's silver strand, 
 The breaking of a sapphire sea 
 
 Upon the golden-fretted sand. 
 
 Swiftly the tunnel's rock-hewn pass,* 
 
 Swiftly the fiery train runs through — 
 Oh ! what a glittering sheet of glass ! 
 
 Oh ! what enchantment meets my view ! 
 With eyes insatiate I pursue, 
 
 Till Bray's bright headland bounds the scene— 
 Tis Baise, by a softer blue ! 
 
 Gaeta, by a gladder green I 
 
 * The Railway Tunnel at Dalkey.
 
 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 241 
 
 By tasselled groves, o'er meadows fair, 
 
 I'm carried in my blissful dream, 
 To where — a monarch in the air — 
 
 The pointed mountain reigns supreme ; 
 There in a spot remote and wild, 
 
 I see once more the rustic seat, 
 Where Carrigoona, like a child, 
 
 Sits at the mightier mountain's feet. 
 
 There by the gentler mountain's slope, 
 
 That happiest year of many a year, 
 That first swift year of love and hope, 
 
 With her then dear and ever dear. 
 I sat upon the rustic seat — 
 
 The seat an aged bay-tree crowns, 
 And saw outspreading from our feet 
 
 The golden glory of the Downs. 
 
 The furze-crowned heights, the glorious glen, 
 
 The white-walled chapel glistening near. 
 The house of God, the homes of men, 
 
 The fragrant hay, the ripening ear ; 
 There where there seemed nor sin, nor crime, 
 
 There in God's sweet and wholesome air — 
 Strange book to read at such a time — 
 
 We read of Vanity's false Fair. 
 
 We read the painful pages through — 
 
 Perceived the skill, admired vhe art, 
 Felt them if true, not wholly true — 
 
 A truer truth was in our heart. 
 Save fear and love of One, hath proved 
 
 The sage, how vain is all below ; 
 And one was there who feared and loved, 
 
 And one who loved that she was so. 
 
 The vision spreads, the memories grow. 
 Fair phantoms crowd the more I gaze. 
 
 Oh ! cup of gold, with wine o'erflow, 
 111 dnnk to those departed days :
 
 242 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 And when I drain the golden cup 
 To them, to those I ne'er can see. 
 
 With wine of hope I'll fill it up, 
 And drink to days that yet may ba 
 
 Fve drank the future and the past. 
 Now for a draught of warmer wine — 
 
 One draught the sweetest and the last- 
 Lady, I'll drink to thee and thine. 
 
 These flowers that to my breast I fold, 
 Into my very heart have grown — 
 
 To thee I drain the cup of gold. 
 And think the violet eyes thine own. 
 
 Boulogne, March, 1865. 
 
 WINGS FOK HOME. 
 
 BY DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CAETHY, M.R.LA, 
 
 My heart hath taken wings for home ; 
 
 Away ! away ! it Cannot stay. 
 My heart hath taken wings for home. 
 Nor all that's best of Greece or Rome 
 
 Can stop its way. 
 My heart hath taken wings for home, 
 Away 1 
 
 My heart hath taken wings for home, 
 O Swallow, Swallow, lead the way 1 
 
 little bird ! fly north with me, 
 
 1 have a home beside the sea 
 Where thou canst sing and play. 
 
 My heart hath taken wings for home, 
 Away!
 
 BOOK OF lEISH BALTiA-DS. 243 
 
 My heart liath taken wings for home, 
 But thou, O little bird ! vrilt stay ; 
 
 Thou hast thy young ones with thee here, 
 
 Thy mate floats with thee through the clear 
 Italian depths of day. 
 
 My heart hath taken "svings for home, 
 Away ! 
 
 My heart hath taken wdngs for home, 
 
 Away ! away ! it cannot stay. 
 One spring from Brunelleschi's dome, 
 To Venice by the Adrian foam, 
 
 Then westward be my way. 
 My heart hath taken wings for home, 
 Away ! 
 
 Florence, June, 1862. 
 
 ITALIAN MYRTLES. 
 
 (AS TYPICAL OF IDEAL IRIBH MAIDESHOOU ) 
 
 BY DENIS FLOEEXCE 3IAC-CARTHY, M.R.I.A. 
 
 [Suggested by seeing, for the first time, fire-tlies in the myrtle-hedges 
 at Spezzia.] 
 
 By many a soft Ligurian bay 
 The myrtles g^listeu green and bright, 
 
 Gleam with their flowers of snow by day, 
 And glow with fire-flies through the nigiit, 
 
 And yet, despite the cold and heat. 
 
 Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. 
 
 IL 
 
 There is an Island in the West, 
 Where living myrtles bloom and blow, 
 
 Hearts where the fire-fly Love may rest 
 Within a Paradise of snow — 
 
 Which yet, despite the cold and heat. 
 
 Are ever fresh, and jDure, apd sweet.
 
 S44 BOOK OF IKISH BALLADS^. 
 
 IIL 
 
 Deep in that gentle breast of thine — 
 
 Like fire and snow Avithin the pearl- 
 Let purity and love combine, 
 
 O warm, pure-hearted L-ish girl ! 
 And in the cold and in the heat 
 Be ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thv bosom bears as pure a snow 
 As e'er Italia's bowers can boast, 
 
 And though no fire-fly lends its glow- 
 As on the soft Ligurian coast — 
 
 'Tis warmed by an internal heat 
 
 Which ever keeps it pure and sweet. 
 
 V. 
 
 The fire-flies lade on misty eves — 
 The inner fires alone endure ; 
 
 Like to the rain that wets the leaves, 
 Thy very sorrows keep thee pure— 
 
 They temper a too ardent heat — 
 
 And keeps thee ever pure and sweet. 
 
 La Spezia, lStf2. 
 
 "NOT KNOWN." 
 
 BY DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CAETHY, M.R.I.A- 
 
 On reeeiving through the Post-Office a Returned Letter from an old 
 residence, marked on the envelope " Not Known." 
 
 A beauteous summer-home had I 
 
 As e'er a bard set eyes on, — 
 A glorious sweep of sea and sky 
 
 Neair hills and far horizon.
 
 BOOK OF niiSii BA.LLAT>S. 245 
 
 Like Naples was the lovely bay, 
 
 The lovely hill like Rio— 
 And there I lived for many a day 
 
 In Campo de Estlo. 
 
 It seemed as if the magic scene 
 
 No human skill had planted ; 
 The trees remained for ever green, 
 
 As if they were enchanted : 
 And so I said to Sweetest-eyes, 
 
 My dear, I think that vja owe 
 To fairy hands this paradise 
 
 Of Campo de Estlo. 
 
 How swiftly flew the hours away ! 
 
 I read and rhymed and revelled ; 
 In interchange of work and play, 
 
 I built, and drained, and levelled ; 
 " The Pope " so " happy," days gone by 
 
 (Unlike our ninth rope Piol 
 Was far less happy then than I 
 
 In Campo de Estlo. 
 
 For children grew in that sweet place, 
 As in the grape wine gathers— 
 
 Their mother's eyes in each bright face- 
 In each light heart, their father's : 
 
 Their father, who by some was thought 
 A Kterary Uo, 
 
 Ne'er dreamed he'd be so soon forgot 
 In Campo de Estlo. 
 
 But so it was :— Of hope bereft, 
 
 A year had scarce gone over, 
 Since he that sweetest place had left. 
 
 And gone — we'll say — to Dover, 
 When letters came where he had flown, 
 
 Returned him from the " P. 0.," 
 On which was writ, Heavens ! " Xot Known 
 
 In Ci^:v[po de Estio " I
 
 246 BOOK or IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 " Not known' where he had lived so long, 
 
 And which his love created, 
 Where scarce a shrub that now is strong 
 
 But had its place debated ; 
 Where scarce a flower that now is shown, 
 
 But shows his care : Dio ! 
 And now to be described, " Not known 
 
 In Campo de Estio !" 
 
 That pillar from the Causeway brought— 
 
 This fern from Connemara — 
 That pine so long and widely sought — 
 
 Thi^ Cedrus deodara — 
 That bust (if Shakespeare's doth survi^'c. 
 
 And busts had brains and hrid), 
 Might keep his name at least alive 
 
 In Campo de Estlo. 
 
 When Homer.went from place to place, 
 
 The glorious siege reciting 
 (Of course I pre-suppose the case 
 
 Of reading and of writing), 
 IVe little doubt the Bard divine 
 
 His letters got from Scio, 
 Inscribed " Not known," Ah ! me, like mine 
 
 From Campo de Estlo. 
 
 The poet, howsoe'er inspired, 
 
 Must brave neglect and danger ; 
 ■"'A'^hen Philip Massinger expired 
 
 The death-list said " a stranger !" 
 A stranger ! yes on earth, but let 
 
 The poet sing laus Deo ! — 
 Heaven's glorious summer waits him yet — 
 
 God's " Campo de Est<o "
 
 EOOli. OF miSH BALLADS. 247 
 
 THE PASCHAL FIKE OF ST. PATRICK * 
 
 BY DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY, M.R.LA. 
 
 On Tara's hill the daylight dies— 
 
 On Tara's plain 'tis dead : 
 " 'Till Baal's unkindled fires shall rise. 
 
 No fire must flame instead." 
 'Tis thus the king commanding speak.-, 
 
 Commands and speaks in vain — 
 For lo ! a fire defiant breaks, 
 
 From out the woods of Slane. 
 
 For there in prayer is Patrick bent, 
 
 With Christ his soul is knit, 
 And there before his simple tent 
 
 The Paschal fire is lit. 
 " What means this flame that through the night 
 
 Illumines all the vale 1 
 What rebel hand a fire dare light 
 
 Before the fires of Baal T' 
 
 O king ! when Baal's dark reign is o'er, 
 
 When thou thyself art gone; 
 This tire will light the Irish shore, 
 • And lead its people on : 
 Will lead them on full many a night 
 
 Through which they're doomed to go 
 Like that Y,-hich led the Israelite 
 
 From bondage and from woe. 
 
 This fire, this sacred fire of God, 
 
 Young hearts shall bear afar 
 To lands no human foot hath trod, 
 
 Beneath the western star. 
 
 » See Lanigan's EcfUsiasticalHisiory of Ireland, t. i., p. 224
 
 248 BOOK OP IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 To lands where Faith's bright fl;\g, unfurled 
 By those who here have knelt, 
 Shall give unto a newer world 
 The sceptre of the Celt. 
 
 And thus 'twill be, that there and here, 
 
 In hovel or in hall, 
 One night in each revolving year 
 
 This memory shall recall. 
 One hour of brightness in their night, 
 
 Where'er the Gael may roam. 
 When love this festal fire shall light 
 
 For Patrick and for Home 1 
 
 St. Patrick's Day, 1867. 
 
 OVER THE SEA. 
 
 BY DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY, M.R.I. A. 
 
 Sad eyes ! why are ye steadfastly gazing 
 
 Over the Sea 1 
 Is it the flock of the Ocean-Shepherd grazing 
 
 Like lambs on the lea 1 
 Is it the dawn on the orient billows blazing 
 
 AUureth ye ? 
 
 Sad heart ! why art thou tremblingly beating — 
 
 What troubleth thee ^ 
 There where the waves from the fathomless water 
 comes greeting, 
 
 Wild with their glee ! , 
 Or rush from the rocks, like a routed battaUon retreat - 
 
 Over (he sea !
 
 BOOK or IHISH BALLAD 3. 249 
 
 Sad feet I why are ye constantly stra>dng 
 
 Down by the sea ] 
 There, where the winds in the sandy harbour are play- 
 ing 
 
 Child-like and free — 
 What is the charm, whose potent enchantment obey- 
 ing, 
 
 There charmeth ye ] 
 
 Oh ! sweet is the dawn, and bright are the colours it 
 glows in ! 
 
 Yet not to me ! 
 To the beauty of God's bright creation my bosom is 
 frozen, 
 
 Nought can I see ! 
 Since She has departed — the dear one, the loved one. 
 the chosen, 
 
 Over the Sea ! 
 
 Pleasant it was when the billows did struggle and 
 wrestle, 
 
 Pleasant to see ! 
 Pleasant to climb the tall cliffs where the sea-birda 
 nestle, 
 
 When near to thee ! 
 Nought can I now behold but the track of thy vessel 
 Over the Sea ! 
 
 Long as a Lapland winter, which no pleasant sunlight 
 cheereth, 
 
 The summer shall be ; 
 Vainly shall autumn be gay, in the rich robes it 
 weareth, 
 
 Vainly for me ! 
 No joy can I feel till the prow of thy ves^tel appeareth 
 Over *Ji? Sea!
 
 250 BOOK OP IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 Sweeter than Summer, wliich tenderly, motherly 
 bringeth 
 
 Flowers to the bee ! 
 Sweeter than autumn, which bounteously, lovingly 
 flingeth 
 
 Fruits on the tree ! 
 Shall be winter, when homeward returning thy swift 
 vessel wingeth 
 
 Over the Sea ! 
 
 THE CONVICT AND THE CROSS. 
 
 " Oh ! let me wear the little cross, the little cross that 
 
 once I wore. 
 When oft, a happy boy, I roamed along the Lee's 
 
 lamenting shore ; 
 And as I heard the stream glide by, that sobbed U 
 
 leave so sweet a land, 
 A more lamenting human tide swept onward to th« 
 
 distant strand ; 
 Even then I vowed, come weal, come woe, if faintest 
 
 hope should ever gleam 
 That life and verdure here at home might spring from 
 
 that now wasted stream. 
 That I would take my humble part — ^that I the 
 
 glorious risk would share,^ 
 And what the patriot heart inspired the patriot hand 
 
 would do and dare. 
 But ah ! I faint, mine eyes grow dim in thinking &. 
 
 the days of yore — 
 Oh ! let me wear the little cross that once a happy 
 
 child I wore !
 
 BOOK OP miBH BALLADS. 251 
 
 IL 
 
 '• 'Twill tell me of a mother's love ; forgive me, O thou 
 
 sacred sign ! 
 Twill tell me more than mother's love — ^'twill tell me 
 
 of a love divine ; 
 'Twill tell me of a captive bound, a captive bound by 
 
 ruthless hands — 
 The thorny crown, the draught of gall, the ruffian 
 
 jeers of ribald bands — 
 The shame, the agony, the death ! ah, me ! the years 
 
 have rolled and rolled, 
 And still in this most awful type, unselfish love 
 
 thy fate behold ! 
 These it will tell, and oh ! perchance, a softer thought 
 
 'twill whisper too — 
 Father, forgive, forgive even them^ for ah ! they kno^ 
 
 not what they do. 
 But ah 1 1 faint, mine eyes grow dim, my lease of life 
 
 is well nigh o'er — 
 Oh ! let me wear the little cross, that once a happy 
 
 child I wore !" 
 
 ra. 
 
 The cross was sent ; some kindly heart, that heard 
 
 the captive's dying prayer, 
 Left at the gate the little cross smooth-folded round 
 
 with loving care ; 
 Ooarse hands, and cold the sacred fold with scorn 
 
 and careless languor broke, 
 Ajid found, enshrined in snowy fleece, a little cross of 
 
 Irish oak. 
 " Ho ! ho !" they cried, " what emblem's this 1 what 
 
 popish charm is this we see It 
 Some talisman, perchance, it is to set the Irish rebel 
 
 free I"
 
 252 BOOK OF TETSH BALLADS. 
 
 And so it is, although ye mock, beyond your bolts, 
 
 beyond your bars, 
 'Twill lead his soul enfranchished forth, above the 
 
 sun, above the stars ; 
 For though ye kept it from his hands, within hs 
 
 faithful heart he bore 
 The little cross, the saving cross, that once a happy 
 
 child he wore. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A curse be on such heartless rules, and shame to them 
 
 who such could shape, 
 Could bring to life such monstrous forms, such 
 
 worms of twaddle and of tape — 
 Scourge, if ye will, the honest backs of those wh: 
 
 scorn your lash, and ye — 
 But torture not the soul with thongs, and leave the 
 
 immortal spirit free. 
 From Tobolsk's mines, from Ethiop's plains, from 
 
 Abyssinian tyrants learn 
 That men are not machines, nor move by springs, 
 
 that you alone discern— 
 Imprison, exile, hang all those your ruthless laws 
 
 have foemen made ; 
 But let the soul, in going forth, be strengthened by 
 
 Religion's aid. 
 Not yours to judge the priceless worth, not yours to 
 
 scan the countless store 
 Of grace and hope the cross can give, the cross a 
 
 Christian child once wore. 
 
 1866.
 
 BOOK OF IKIBU JJALLADb. 253 
 
 THE CELTIC TONGUE. 
 
 BY REV. MICHAEL MULLIN. 
 
 [Born in the I'aribh of Kilmore, co. Galway, 1833. Died at Chicago, 
 Midi., April 23, 1869.] 
 
 'Tis fading,^ oh, 'tis fading ! like leaves upon tlie trees 1 
 in murmuring tone 'tis dying, like the wail upon the 
 
 breeze ! 
 'Tis s^viftly disappearing, as footprints on the shore 
 Where the Barrow, and the Erne, and Loch Swilly's 
 
 waters roar — 
 Where the parting sunbeam kisses Loch Corrib in the 
 
 West, 
 A-nd Ocean, like a mother, clasps the Shannon to her 
 
 breast ! 
 The language of old Erin, of her history and name — 
 Of her monarchs and her heroes — her glory and her 
 
 fame — 
 The sacred shrine where rested, thro' sunshine and 
 
 thro' gloom. 
 The spirit of her martjrrs, as their bodies in the tomb. 
 The time- wrought shell, where murmufd, 'mid centu- 
 ries of wrong, 
 The secret voice of Freedom in annal and in song — 
 Is slowly, surely sinking, into silent death at last. 
 To live but in the memories of tho.se who love the Pa^t. 
 
 The olden tongue is sinking like a patriarch to rest, 
 Whose youth beheld the Tyrian* on our Irish coasts a 
 
 guest; 
 Ere the Roman or the Saxon, the Norman or the 
 
 Dane, 
 Had first set foot in Britain, o'er trampled heaps of 
 
 slain; 
 
 * An old Irish tradition says that dnring the commerce of the Tyriana 
 ■with Ireland, one of the Princes of Tyre waa inyited orer by the 
 Monarch of Irelan'1, and got married to one of the Irish princeiWf 
 during his jojourn thera.
 
 254 BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 Whose manhood saw the Druid rite at forest-tree and 
 
 rock, 
 And savage tribes of Britain round the Shrines of 
 
 Zernebock ;* 
 And for generations witnessed all the glories of the 
 
 Gael, 
 Since our Celtic sires sung war-songs round the sacred 
 
 fires of Baal ; 
 The tongues that saw its infancy are ranked among 
 
 the dead, 
 And from their graves have risen those now spoken in 
 
 their stead. 
 The glories of old Erin, with their liberty have gone, 
 Yet their halo linger'd round her, while the Gaelic 
 
 speech liv'd on ; 
 For 'mid the desert of her woe, a monument more 
 
 vast 
 Than all her pillar-towers, it stood — that old Tongue 
 
 of the Past ! 
 
 'Tis leaving, and for ever, the soil that gave it birth, 
 Soon, — very soon, its moving tones shall ne'er be heard 
 
 on earth, 
 O'er the island dimly fading, as a circle o'er the wave, 
 Receding, as its people lisp the language of the slave,t 
 And with it too seem fading as sunset into night 
 The scattered rays of hberty that lingered in its light, 
 For ah ! tho' long, wdth filial love, it clung to mother- 
 land, 
 And Irishmen were Irish still, in language, heart and 
 
 hand ; 
 T'instal its Saxon Ilival,t proscribed it soon be- 
 came. 
 And Irishmen are Irish now in nothing but in 
 name : 
 
 * Zernelirock and Odin were two of the gods of the early Britons, 
 t Tacitus says,— "The language of the conqueror in the mouth of the 
 
 conquered is ever the language of the s\a.\e."— Germania. 
 t Acts of Parliament were enacted to destroy the Irish, and to en 
 
 courage the growth of the English language.
 
 BOOK OF liliSH BALLADS. 255 
 
 The Saxou chain our rights and tongues alike doth 
 
 hold in thrall, 
 Save where amid the Connaught wilds and hills of 
 
 Donegal— 
 fVnd by the shores of Munster, like the broad Atlantic 
 
 blast, 
 ISie olden language lingers yet, and binds us to the Past. 
 
 Thro' cold neglect 'tis dying now; a stranger on our 
 
 shore ! 
 No Tara's hall re-echoes to its music as of yore — 
 No Lawrence* fires the Celtic clans round leaguered 
 
 Athacleef— 
 No Shannon wafts from Limerick's towers their war 
 
 song to the sea. 
 Ah ! magic Tongue, that round us wove its spells so 
 
 soft and dear ! 
 Ah ! pleasant Tongue, whose murmurs were as music 
 
 to the ear. 
 Ah ! glorious Tongue, whose accents could each Celtic 
 
 heart enthral ! 
 Ah ! rushing Tongue, that sounded like the swollen 
 
 torrent's fall ! 
 The tongue that in the Senate was lightning flashing 
 
 bright — 
 Whose echo in the battle was the thunder in its might ! 
 That Tongue, which once in chieftain's hall poured 
 
 loud the minstrel lay, 
 As chieftain, serf, or minstrel old is silent there to-day ! 
 That Tongue whose shout dismayed the foe at Kong 
 
 and Mullaghmastjt 
 Like those who nobly perished there is numbered with 
 
 the Past ! 
 
 » St. Lawrence OToole, Archbishop of Dublin, succeeded in organiz- 
 'iig the Irish chieftains under Roderick O'Connor, Kitg of Connaught, 
 j^inst the first band of adventurers under Strongbow. 
 
 t Athaclee, Athacleith, the Irish name of Dublin. Baile-atfi-Cliath, 
 iterally means the Toicn of the ford of hurdles. 
 
 t " Nothing so affrighted the enemy at the raid of Mnllaghmast, as 
 the unintelligible password in the Irish tongue, with which the Irish 
 troops burst upon the foe."— Green Book.
 
 256 iiOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 The Celtic Tongue is passing, and we stand cold^ 
 
 by, _ ^ 
 
 Without a pang within the heart, a tear within the 
 
 eye — 
 "Without one pulse for Freedom stirred, one effort 
 
 made to save 
 The Language of our Fathers from dark oblivion'is 
 
 grave ! 
 Oh, Erin ) vain your efforts — your prayers for Free 
 
 dom's crown. 
 Whilst offered in .the language of the foe that clove it 
 
 down ; 
 Be sure that tyrants ever with an art from darkness 
 
 sprung, 
 Would make the conquered nation slaves alike in 
 
 limb and tongue ; 
 Russia's great Czar ne'er stood secure o'er Poland's 
 
 shatter'd frame, 
 Until he trampled from her heart the tongue that bora 
 
 her name. 
 Oh, Irishmen, be Irish still ! stand for the dear old 
 
 tongue 
 \^^lich, as ivy to a ruin, to your native land has clung ! 
 Oh, snatch this relic from the wreck ! the only and 
 
 the last, 
 And cherish in your heart of hearts tjie language of 
 
 the Past ! 
 
 THE END^ 
 
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