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 Private Library 
 
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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
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 MUSIC 
 UBRARX
 
 Irish Songs and Ballads
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 SONGS OF KILLARNEY. 
 
 Second Edition, price 3$. (>if. 
 ISBISTER & CO., 56, LUDGATE HILL, LONDON, E.C. 
 
 & ^election of (Opinions from Kir lirtttsf) 
 
 ENGLISH. 
 
 "These ' Songs of Killarney' are natural music. It is impossible to read 
 them in a dull moment without having the incubus of care removed from the 
 mind. Song itself, in its best sense, seems to be almost dying out amongst us. 
 ... In the conviction that the writer of ' Songs of Killarney' is to be classed 
 amongst its renovators, we now part from him, with the desire of finding his 
 talents ripened when next we meet with him." Eraser's Magazine, August, 
 1873. 
 
 " The poetical humour of the book touches with just that delicate ease and 
 vivacity which it is so difficult for ordinary mortals to attain, subjects which 
 interest the heart but it only touches them, and plays with them with a 
 sportiveness that enhances the tenderness of the touch. Irish poetic humour is 
 almost unrivalled, and could hardly be better represented than in ' Songs of 
 Killarney.' " The Spectator, January 3rd, 1874. 
 
 "We have seldom read any poems which are more thoroughly Irish in the 
 best sense." The A thetuzum, 1873. 
 
 " Some of the ' Songs of Killarney ' have a freshness, naturalness, and 
 humour which are irresistible. We have read the book with unmixed pleasure." 
 The Daily News, October 6th, 1873. 
 
 IRISH. 
 
 " The author's humour is quite characteristic of the people, and his love tales 
 are certain to win him popularity." Freeman's Journal, June 3rd, 1873. 
 
 " ' The Rose of Killarney,' ' Fixin' the Day,' ' The Potato Blossom,' and 
 'The Invention of Wine,' may fairly claim a place in any future 'Golden 
 Treasury of Irish Poetry.' " The Irish Times, July 14th, 1873. 
 
 " The reader will discern indications of high poetic talent." Dublin Daily 
 Express, May sist, 1873. 
 
 "A series of Irish lyrics which supply a real want. . . . Fresh as winds 
 blowing over heather, full of glow and colour, and fraught with a genuine sense 
 of nature." Cork Constitution, 1873. 
 
 "In simplicity," Mr. Graves "possesses at least an advantage over our 
 greatest song-writers Moore and Lover." Limerick Reporter, May 2oth, 
 1873. 
 
 SCOTCH. 
 
 " Not only witty, but humorous, and lit up with flashes of genuine poetry." 
 The Scotsman, June I3th, 1873. 
 
 " Lively, sparkling, and descriptive of an arch, humorous, but true-hearted 
 people." Edinburgh Courant, June i6th, 1873.
 
 Irish Songs and Ballads 
 
 ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES 
 
 AUTHOR OF "SONGS OF KILLARNEY" 
 
 ALEXANDER IRELAND AND CO. 
 1880
 
 TTie Rights of Translation and of Reproduction 
 are Reserved
 
 Music 
 Library 
 
 9K 
 412$ 
 
 TO MY UNCLE, 
 
 ROBERT PERCEVAL GRAVES, 
 
 THE INDULGENT CRITIC 
 OF MY BOYISH VERSES, 
 
 THE HELPFUL COUNSELLOR 
 OF MY EARLY MANHOOD, 
 
 Cfjis Volume 
 
 IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 
 
 1427-114
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 DEDICATION - . - v 
 
 PREFACE --.... j x 
 SONGS AND BALLADS --...! 
 
 RUSTIC POEMS - . 69 
 
 ANGLO-IRISH BALLADS . I0 5 
 
 FROM THE CELTIC I2 3 
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES . 153 
 
 Music - 201 
 
 MUSICAL NOTE . 202 
 
 NOTES 241 
 
 INDEX - - - - 271
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 MOST of the Songs and Ballads in this volume, if not actually 
 composed to the music of old Irish airs, owe to them their 
 prime impulse and complete character. I speak in the main of 
 airs in Bunting's collection, which have been left untouched by 
 Moore, and of others in Petrie's and Hoffmann's collections, 
 published after the last of the poet's Irish melodies, which 
 will t/ierefore be fresh to all but specialists in Irish music. 
 Whenever the Celtic or Anglo-Irish words to these airs or 
 fragments of them remained, I have not for a moment scrupled 
 to press into my service whatever appeared to me poetical in 
 the original; though in such cases I have taken care in the 
 notes at the end of this volume to give my readers an oppor- 
 tunity of comparing my version with these older forms. 
 
 Under this head will be found such songs of occupation as 
 the Smiths Song, the Mill Song, and Spinning and Weaving 
 Songs ; Fishing, Hunting, and Farming Ballads ; Convivial 
 Songs to the Jig and Planxty, and a Festal Chorus ; the 
 Loobeen, or Irish Amcebcean ; Love Songs and Love Ballads, 
 Lullabies and Lamentations. In order that the reader may 
 be able to realize the character of the more remarkable Irish 
 airs to which my songs are written, seven and twenty of them 
 are printed in a musical appendix to this volume. 
 
 Some half-dozen of these, arranged as songs by Mr. Joseph 
 Robinson, have been published separately by Messrs. Cramer,
 
 x PREFACE. 
 
 Wood, and Co., of Westmorland Street, Dublin, and it is 
 probable that others will see the light shortly. 
 
 With regard to the poems of an Idyllic character in my 
 book, I cannot do more than say that they are the outcome of 
 an affectionate study of Irish peasant- life among the moun- 
 tains of Kerry. 
 
 A few Bardic Lyrics are presented in Terse closely trans- 
 lated from the Celtic, and a long poem, " The Fairy Branch," 
 based upon a somewhat homely prose original, a reference to 
 which will be found in the notes, is put forward as an 
 experiment in the poetical treatment of early Irish talcs. 
 
 I desire here to acknowledge my deep indebtedness to 
 Dr. P. W. Joyce, the author of " Old Celtic Romances" and 
 "Irish Names of Places," for the invaluable aid which, as a 
 Celtic scholar, a literary critic, and a leading authority in 
 Irish music and song, he has rendered me throughout the 
 course of this work. 
 
 ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES, 
 
 20, Greeiihead Road, Huddersfield. 
 jMay, 1880.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS.
 
 THE LITTLE RED LARK. 
 
 OH, swan of slenderness, 
 Dove of tenderness, 
 
 Jewel of joys, arise ! 
 The little red lark 
 Like a rosy spark 
 
 Of song to his sunburst flies. 
 But till thou art risen 
 Earth is a prison 
 
 Full of my lonesome sighs ; 
 Then awake and discover 
 To thy fond lover 
 
 The morn of thy matchless eyes. 
 
 The dawn is dark to me 
 Hark ! oh, hark to me, 
 
 Pulse of my heart, I pray ! 
 And out of thy hiding 
 With blushes gliding, 
 
 Dazzle me with thy day.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Ah, then, once more to thee 
 Flying I'll pour to thee 
 
 Passion so sweet and gay, 
 The lark shall listen, 
 And dewdrops glisten, 
 
 Laughing on every spray.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 LOVE'S WISHES. 
 
 WOULD I were Erin's apple-blossom o'er you, 
 
 Or Erin's rose in all its beauty blown, 
 To drop my richest petals down before you, 
 
 Within the garden where you walk alone ; 
 In hope you'd turn and pluck a little posy, 
 
 With loving fingers through my foliage pressed, 
 And kiss it close and set it blushing rosy 
 
 To sigh out all its sweetness on your breast. 
 
 Would T might take the pigeon's flight towards you, 
 
 And perch beside your window-pane above, 
 And murmur how my heart of hearts it hoards you, 
 
 O hundred thousand treasures of my love ; 
 In hope you'd stretch your slender hand and take me, 
 
 And smooth my wildly-fluttering wings to rest, 
 And lift me to your loving lips and make me 
 
 My bower of blisses in your loving breast.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 I ONCE LOVED A BOY. 
 
 I ONCE loved a boy, and a bold Irish boy, 
 
 Far away in the hills of the West ; 
 Ah ! the love of that boy was my jewel of joy. 
 
 And I built him a bower in my breast, 
 In my breast ; 
 
 And I built him a bower in my breast. 
 
 I once loved a boy, and I trusted him true, 
 And I built him a bower in my breast ; 
 
 But away, wirrasthrue ! the rover he flew, 
 And robbed my poor heart of its rest, 
 
 Of its rest ; 
 And robbed my poor heart of its rest. 
 
 The spring-time returns, and the sweet speckled thrush 
 
 Murmurs soft to his mate on her nest, 
 But for. ever there's fallen a sorrowful hush 
 
 O'er the bower that I built in my breast, 
 In my breast ; 
 
 O'er the desolate bower in my breast.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 THE BANKS OF THE DAISIES. 
 
 WHEN first I saw young Molly 
 
 Stretched beneath the holly, 
 Fast asleep, forenint her sheep, one dreamy summer's day, 
 
 With daisies laughing round her, 
 
 Hand and foot I bound her, 
 Then kissed her on her blooming cheek, and softly stole away. 
 
 But, as with blushes burning 
 
 Tip-toe I was turning, 
 From sleep she starts, and on me darts a dreadful lightning ray : 
 
 My foolish flowery fetters 
 
 Scornfully she scatters, 
 And like a winter sunbeam she coldly sweeps away. 
 
 But Love, young Love, comes stooping 
 
 O'er my daisies drooping, 
 And oh ! each flower with fairy power the rosy boy renews ; 
 
 Then twines each charming cluster 
 
 In links of starry lustre, 
 And with the chain enchanting my colleen proud pursues.
 
 8 SOWGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 And soon I met young Molly 
 
 Musing melancholy, 
 With downcast eyes and starting sighs, along the meadow bank : 
 
 And oh ! her swelling bosom 
 
 Was wreathed with daisy blossom, 
 Like stars in summer heaven, as in my arms she sank.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 HERRING IS KING. 
 
 LET all the fish that swim the sea, 
 Salmon and turbot, cod and ling, 
 
 Bow down the head, and bend the knee 
 
 To herring, their king ! to herring, their king 
 
 Sing, Hugamarfein an sowra lin\ 
 
 'Tis we have brought the summer in. 
 
 The sun sank down so round and red 
 
 Upon the bay, upon the bay ; 
 The sails shook idle overhead, 
 
 Becalmed we lay, becalmed we lay ; 
 Sing, Hugamarfein an sowra lin\ 
 'Tis we have brought the summer in. 
 
 Till Shawn the eagle dropped on deck 
 The bright-eyed boy, the bright-eyed boy ; 
 
 Tis he has spied your silver track, 
 Herring, our joy, herring, our joy ; 
 
 Sing, Hugamarfein an sowra //', 
 
 ' Tis we have brought the summer in.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 It was in with the sails and away to shore, 
 With the rise and swing, the rise and swing 
 
 Of two stout lads at each smoking oar, 
 After herring, our king, herring, our king ; 
 
 .Sing, Hugamar fein an sowra lin\ 
 
 'Tts we have brought the summer in. 
 
 The Manx and the Cornish raised the shout, 
 And joined the chase and joined the chase ; 
 
 But their fleets they fouled as they went about, 
 And we won the race, we won the race ; 
 
 Sing, Hugamar fein an sowra lin\ 
 
 'Tz's we have brought the summer in. 
 
 For we turned and faced you full to land, 
 Down the goleen long, the goleen long, 
 
 And, after you, slipped from strand to strand 
 Our nets so strong, our nets so strong ; 
 
 Sing, Hugamar fein an sowra liri , 
 
 'Tis we have brought the summer in. 
 
 Then we called to our sweethearts and our wives, 
 " Come welcome us home, welcome us home,'' 
 
 Till they ran to meet us for their lives 
 Into the foam, into the foam ;
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Sing, Hugamar fein an sowra /in', 
 'Tis we have brought the summer in. 
 
 O the kissing of hands and waving of caps 
 From girl and boy, from girl and boy, 
 
 While you leapt by scores in the lasses' laps. 
 Herring, our joy, herring, our joy ; 
 
 Sing, Hugamar fein an sowra lin\ 
 
 'Tis we have brought the summer in.
 
 12 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 HUSH SONG. 
 
 I WOULD hush my lovely laddo, 
 In the green arbutus' shadow, 
 O'er the fragrant, flowering meadow, 
 In the smiling spring-time. 
 Shoheen sho lo, 
 Shoheen hoo lo ! 
 
 I'd hush my boy beside the fountain, 
 By the soothing, silvery fountain, 
 On the pleasant, purple mountain, 
 In the sultry summer. 
 Shoheen sho lo, 
 Shoheen hoo lo ! 
 
 I would smooth my darling's pillow, 
 By the blue Atlantic billow, 
 On the shores of Parknasilla, 
 In the golden autumn. 
 
 Shoheen sho lo, 
 
 Shoheen hoo lo !
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 I would soothe my child to slumber, 
 By the rosy, rustling ember, 
 Through the days of dark December, 
 In the stormy winter. 
 
 Shoheen sho lo, 
 
 Shoheen hoo lo ! 
 
 May no cruel fairy charm thee ! 
 May no dread banshee alarm thee ! 
 Flood, nor fire, nor sickness harm thee ! 
 Winter, spring, and summer,- 
 Summer, autumn, winter, 
 Shoheen sho lo, 
 Shoheen hoo lo /
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 THE FOGGY DEW. 
 
 OH ! a wan cloud was drawn 
 
 O'er the dim, weeping dawn, 
 As to Shannon's side I returned at last ; 
 
 And the heart in my breast 
 
 For the girl I loved best 
 Was beating ah beating, how loud and fast ! 
 
 While the doubts and the fears 
 
 Of the long, aching years 
 Seemed mingling their voices with the moaning flood ; 
 
 Till full in my path, 
 
 Like a wild water-wraith, 
 My true love's shadow lamenting stood. 
 
 But the sudden sun kissed 
 
 The cold, cruel mist 
 Into dancing showers of diamond dew ; 
 
 The dark flowing stream 
 
 Laughed back to his beam, 
 And the lark soared singing aloft in the blue ;
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 15 
 
 While no phantom of night, 
 
 But a form of delight 
 Ran with arms outspread to her darling boy : 
 
 And the girl I love best 
 
 On my wild, throbbing breast 
 Hid her thousand treasures, with a cry of joy.
 
 1 6 SONGS AND BALLADS, 
 
 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 A LOVELY lass with modest mien 
 
 Stole out one morning early ; 
 The dew-drops glancing o'er the green 
 
 Made all her pathway pearly. 
 Young Lawrence struck with Cupid's dart, 
 
 Cupid's dart distressing, 
 As through the fields he saw her start, 
 
 Sighed, " She's gone confessing ! 
 O vo ! 'twould ease my heart 
 
 To earn the father's blessing." 
 
 The Father, with a twinkling eye, 
 
 He watched my boyo cunning, 
 Unnoticed by his colleen's eye 
 
 Behind the bushes running. 
 " How well," he laughed, " young Lawrence there, 
 
 After all my pressing, 
 With his sweetheart, I declare, 
 
 Comes at last confessing.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Oho ! I'll just take care 
 To give the lad a lesson." 
 
 The pleasant priest unbarred the door, 
 
 As solemn as a shadow, 
 " How slow," cried he, " you've come before. 
 
 How hot-foot now, my laddo. 
 The serious steal with looks sedate, 
 
 Seeking to be shriven, 
 But you, you're in no fitting state 
 
 Now to be forgiven, 
 So go within and wait 
 
 With all your thoughts on heaven." 
 
 The fair one following in a while 
 
 Made out her faults with meekness ; 
 The priest then asked her with a smile 
 
 Had she no other weakness, 
 And led with that young Lawrence in ; 
 
 Her cheeks were now confessing. 
 " Well, since 'tis after all a sin 
 
 Easy of redressing, 
 Here, dear, I'd best begin 
 
 To give you both my blessing."
 
 i8 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME. 
 
 THE route has come, we march away, 
 
 Our colours dance before us, 
 But sorrow's cloud made dark the day 
 
 That from our sweethearts tore us ; 
 My own dear lass she sobbed " adieu," 
 
 Her loving arms entwined me, 
 And oft she prayed me to be true 
 
 To the girl I left behind me. 
 
 Yes ! I'll be true ; when steel to steel 
 
 The ranks of war are rolling, 
 And round us every cannon peal 
 
 A funeral knell is tolling ; 
 Then if from out the battle flame 
 
 A fatal ball should find me, 
 My dying lips shall bless the name 
 
 Of the girl I left behind me.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 19 
 
 But, if in triumph I return 
 
 To tell a soldier's story, 
 Though proudly on my breast should burn 
 
 The golden cross of glory, 
 No other maid with magic art 
 
 Shall break the links that bind me 
 For ever to the faithful heart 
 
 Of the girl I left behind me.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 EVA TUOHILL. 
 
 WHO'S not heard of Eva Tuohill, 
 Munster's purest, proudest jewel 
 Queen of Limerick's lovely maidens, 
 
 Cork's colleens, and Gal way girls 
 With her slender shape that's swimmin' 
 Like a swan among the women, 
 With her voice of silver cadence, 
 
 And her crown of clustering curls ? 
 
 O ! the eyes of Eva Tuohill ! 
 Now, why wouldn't Cromwell cruel, 
 Just have called two centuries later 
 
 With his cannon at Tervoe ? 
 For, one flash of angry azure 
 Through that silky black embrasure, 
 And away old Noll should scatter 
 With his army out of view. 
 
 Is't describe you Eva Tuohill 
 With the dozenth rapier duel,
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Fought to fix her sweet complexion 
 
 And the colour of her hair ? 
 Is it picture you her figure, 
 That's compelled so many a trigger 
 Take the deadliest direction 
 
 Through the early morning air ? 
 
 Well, no wonder, Eva Tuohill ! 
 Since you're just one glorious jewel 
 Lit with lovely flying flushes 
 
 From delightful lip to brow ; 
 Now in dreams your eyes they darkle, 
 Now with joy they dance and sparkle ; 
 Now your cheek is bathed in blushes, 
 Drowned in dimpled laughter now. 
 
 But your beauty, Eva Tuohill, 
 Is no opal false and cruel ; 
 Nor the meteor star deceiving, 
 Flashing ruin from above. 
 No ! but some divinest splendour, 
 Out of angels' tear-drops tender 
 Crystalled, in one Iris weaving 
 
 Faith and Hope and Virgin Love.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 'TIS I CAN WEAVE WOOLLEN 
 AND LINEN. 
 
 'Tis I can weave woollen and linen, 
 The finest folk wear on their backs ; 
 
 So, girls, come give over your spinnin', 
 And wind off your wool and your flax ! 
 
 Five year at my woollen and linen 
 I've woven from mornin' to night, 
 
 With a heart that beat heavy beginnin', 
 But is leapin' for ever more light. 
 
 For with guineas full up is the stockin', 
 Sewed safe in the tick of my bed, 
 
 And 'tis soon that I'll rest without rockin', 
 Since at Shrove with my Willy I'll wed.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 23 
 
 MAUREEN, MAUREEN! 
 
 OH ! Maureen, Maureen, have you forgotten 
 
 The fond confession that you made to me, 
 While round us fluttered the white bog cotton, 
 
 And o'er us waved the wild arbutus tree ? 
 Like bits of sky bo-peeping through the bower, 
 
 No sooner were your blue eyes sought than flown, 
 Till white and fluttering as the cotton flower 
 
 Your slender hand it slipped into my own. 
 
 Oh ! Maureen, Maureen, do you remember 
 
 The faithful promise that you pledged to me 
 The night we parted in black December 
 
 Beneath the tempest-tossed arbutus tree, 
 When faster than the drops from heaven flowing 
 
 Your heavy tears they showered with ceaseless start,. 
 And wilder than the storm-wind round us blowing 
 
 Your bitter sobs they smote upon my heart ?
 
 24 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Oh ! Maureen, Maureen, for your love only 
 
 I left my father and mother dear ; 
 Within the churchyard they're lying lonely, 
 
 'Tis from their tombstone I've travelled here. 
 Their only son, you sent me o'er the billow, 
 
 Ochone ! though kneeling they implored me stay ; 
 They sickened with no child to smooth their pillow ; 
 
 They died Are you as dead to me as they? 
 
 Oh ! Maureen, must then the love I bore you 
 
 Seven lonesome summers of longing trust 
 Turn like the fortune I've gathered for you, 
 
 Like treacherous fairy treasure, into dust ? 
 But Maureen bawn asthore, your proud lips quiver ; 
 
 Into your scornful eyes the tears they start ; 
 Your rebel hand returns to mine for ever ; 
 
 Oh ! Maureen, Maureen, never more we'll part.
 
 SOA T GS AND BALLADS. 25 
 
 WHEN I ROSE IN THE MORNING. 
 
 WHEN I rose in the morning, 
 
 My heart full of woe, 
 I implored all the song birds 
 
 Why their mates on the bough 
 To their pleading gave heeding, 
 
 While Kate still said " No ;" 
 But they made no kind answer 
 
 To a heart full of woe. 
 
 Till the wood-quest at noon, 
 
 From the forest below, 
 He taught me his secret 
 
 So tender and low 
 Of stealing fond feeling 
 
 With sweet notes of woe, 
 Coo-cooing so soft 
 
 Through the green leafy row.
 
 26 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 The long shadows fell, 
 
 And the sun he sank low, 
 And again I was pleading 
 
 In the mild evening glow : 
 "Ah ! Kitty, have pity!" 
 
 Then how could she say " No." 
 So for ever I'm free 
 
 From a heart full of woe.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 THE MILL SONG. 
 
 CORN is a-sowing 
 
 Over the hill, 
 The stream is a-flowing, 
 Round goes the mill. 
 
 Winding and grinding, 
 
 Round goes the mill ; 
 
 Winding and grinding 
 
 Should never stand still. 
 The hands that are strongest 
 
 Are welcome here, 
 And those that work longest 
 Earn the best cheer. 
 
 The green corn is hinting 
 
 Over the hill, 
 Lasses tormenting 
 
 The lads to their fill. 
 
 Winding and grinding, 6<r.
 
 28 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 The gold corn is glinting 
 
 Over the hill ; 
 Lasses consenting, 
 
 Lads have their will. 
 
 Winding and grinding, &c. 
 
 Corn is a-carrying 
 
 Into the mill, 
 Young folk are marrying 
 
 Over the hill. 
 
 Winding and grinding, dfC. 
 
 From the hands of the shaker 
 Again goes the corn, 
 
 The old to God's acre 
 Gently are borne. 
 
 Winding and grinding, er*c. 
 
 The green corn is glistening 
 Once more with the spring ; 
 
 Children are christening, 
 Glad mothers sing. 
 
 Winding and grinding, &>c. 
 
 Thus our life runs around, 
 Like the mill with its corn,
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 29 
 
 Young folk are marrying, 
 Old folk are burying, 
 Young folk are born. 
 
 Winding and grinding, 
 
 Round goes ike mill ; 
 
 Winding and grinding 
 
 Should never stand still. 
 The hands that are strongest 
 
 Are welcome here, 
 And they that work longest 
 Earn the best cheer.
 
 30 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 'TIS A PITY I CAN'T SEE MY LOVE. 
 
 ON his flute of gold the blackbird bold 
 Love's tale to his melting mate has told, 
 
 And now the thieves have started ; 
 And o'er the ground, in fluttering round, 
 Enamoured fly, whilst you and I 
 
 In lonesome pain are parted. 
 
 But when hearts beat true through the night of sorrow, 
 They're blest the more when the magic morrow 
 
 Its rosy ray has darted. 
 Fortune may wave her wings and fly, 
 But she'll flutter back again by and by, 
 
 And crown the constant-hearted. 
 
 These birds that pair in the April air 
 Forget their faith on the branches bare, 
 
 By autumn blasts affrighted, 
 And to fresh loves sing with the start of spring ; 
 When you and I with a golden ring 
 
 In joy shall be united.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 31 
 
 For when hearts beat true through the night of sorrow, 
 They're blest the most when the marriage morrow 
 
 Its lamp of love has lighted. 
 Fortune may wave her wings and fly, 
 But she'll flutter back to us by and by, 
 And crown the troth we've plighted.
 
 32 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 WITH THE NORTH. 
 
 WITH lip contemptuous curling, 
 
 She cried, " Is freedom's flag above 
 Fold on fold unfurling, 
 
 And Patrick pleading love ? 
 Oh ! yes, when patriots hand in hand 
 Unite to free their foster-land 
 From slavery's accursed band, 
 
 What true man woos a woman ? 
 Then with my bitter scorning 
 
 Go, live dishonoured, die a slave, 
 Or march to-morrow morning 
 
 To battle with the brave." 
 
 " We'll steal a march on sorrow," 
 
 Our Captain sighed, a soldier grey, 
 
 " Sound the drum to-morrow 
 Before the dawn of day."
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 33 
 
 But ere the drum's first muffled beat 
 The women crowded down the street, 
 How many never more to meet 
 
 Their death-devoted heroes. 
 Then as I passed her dwelling, 
 
 My proud one o'er her casement frame, 
 The sobs her bosom swelling, 
 
 Leant forth and sighed my name. 
 
 Oh ! have you seen Atlantic 
 
 Advance his green, resistless line 
 Against the cliffs gigantic, 
 
 And bury them in brine ? 
 Thus on our stubborn foe we fell, 
 Death's lightning darting from our steel, 
 Whilst round us every cannon peal 
 
 A hero's requiem thundered ! 
 And still with forward faces 
 
 Went down in death our dauntless men, 
 And still into their places 
 
 As gallant hearts stepped in. 
 
 Till to a sunburst glorious, 
 
 That all the field of battle fired,
 
 34 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Before our van victorious 
 
 The sullen South retired. 
 Then peace returned, and from the war 
 Our banner bright with many a star 
 'Twas mine to flutter from afar 
 
 In triumph to our city ; 
 Till I at last could wreathe it 
 
 Around my true love's throbbing heart, 
 And we two kissed beneath it, 
 
 Oh ! never more to part.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 35 
 
 NANCY, THE PRIDE OF THE WEST. 
 
 WE have dark lovely looks on the shores where the Spanish 
 
 From their gay ships came gallantly forth, 
 And the sweet shrinking violets sooner will vanish 
 
 Than modest blue eyes from our north ; 
 But oh ! if the fairest of fair-daughtered Erin 
 
 Gathered round at her golden request, 
 There's not one of them all that she'd think worth comparing 
 
 With Nancy, the pride of the west. 
 
 You'd suspect her the statue the Greek fell in love with, 
 
 If you chanced on her musing alone, 
 Or some goddess great Jove was offended above with, 
 
 And chilled to a sculpture of stone ; 
 But you'd think her no colourless, classical statue, 
 
 When she turned from her pensive repose, 
 With her glowing grey eyes glancing timidly at you, 
 
 And the blush of a beautiful rose. 
 
 Have you heard Nancy sigh ? then you've caught the sad echo 
 From the wind harp enchantingly borne.
 
 36 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Have you heard the girl laugh ? then you've heard the first 
 cuckoo 
 
 Carol summer's delightful return. 
 And the songs that poor ignorant country folk fancy 
 
 The lark's liquid raptures on high, 
 Are just old Irish airs from the sweet lips of Nancy, 
 
 Flowing up and refreshing the sky. 
 
 And though her foot dances so soft from the heather 
 
 To the dew-twinkling tussocks of grass, 
 It but warns the bright drops to slip closer together 
 
 To image the exquisite lass ; 
 We've no men left among us, so lost to emotion, 
 
 Or scornful, or cold to her sex, 
 Who'd resist her, if Nancy once took up the notion 
 
 To set that soft foot on their necks. 
 
 Yet, for all that the bee flies for honey-dew fragrant 
 
 To the half-opened flower of her lips, 
 And the butterfly pauses, the purple-eyed vagrant, 
 
 To play with her pink finger-tips ; 
 From all human lovers she locks up the treasure 
 
 A thousand are starving to taste, 
 And the fairies alone know the magical measure 
 
 Of the ravishing round of her waist.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 37 
 
 JENNY, I'M NOT JESTING. 
 
 " AH, Jenny, I'm not jesting, 
 Believe what I'm protesting, 
 And yield what I'm requesting 
 
 These seven years through." 
 " Ah, Lawrence, I may grieve you ; 
 Yet, if I can't relieve you, 
 Sure, why should I deceive you 
 
 With words untrue. 
 But, since you must be courtin', 
 There's Rosy and her fortune, 
 'Tis rumoured your consortin' 
 
 With her of late. 
 Or there's your cousin Kitty, 
 So charming and so witty, 
 She'd wed you out of pity, 
 
 Kind Kate"
 
 38 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 " Fie ! Jenny, since I knew you, 
 Of all the lads that woo you, 
 None's been so faithful to you, 
 
 If truth were told ; 
 Even when yourself was dartin' 
 Fond looks at fickle Martin, 
 Till off the thief went startin' 
 
 For Sheela's gold." 
 . " And, if you've known me longest, 
 Why should your love be strongest, 
 And his that's now the youngest, 
 
 For that be worst ?" 
 " Fire, Jenny, quickest kindled 
 Is always soonest dwindled, 
 And thread the swiftest spindled 
 
 Snaps first" 
 
 " If that's your wisdom, Larry, 
 The longer I can tarry, 
 The luckier I shall marry 
 At long, long last." 
 " I've knowft of girls amusing, 
 Their minds, the men refusing, 
 Till none were left for choosing 
 At long, long last."
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 " Well, since it seems that marriage 
 Is still the safest carriage, 
 And all the world disparage 
 
 The spinster lone ; 
 Since you might still forsake me, 
 I think I'll let you take me. 
 Yes ! Larry, you may make me 
 Your own ! "
 
 40 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 THE HOUR WE PARTED. 
 
 THE hour we parted, 
 When broken-hearted 
 You clung around me, 
 
 Maureen, aroo, 
 I swore I'd treasure, 
 Thro' pain and pleasure, 
 Thro' health and sickness, 
 
 My love for you. 
 
 And still that jewel, 
 Thro' changes cruel 
 Of fickle Fortune 
 
 I'll jealous guard ; 
 Still let her vary, 
 The jade contrary, 
 If but my Mary 
 
 Be my reward.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 41 
 
 Yes ! scorn and anger, 
 Distress and languor, 
 They're welcome willing, 
 
 The long day thro', 
 Could I feel certain 
 That ev'ning's curtain 
 But clos'd us nearer, 
 
 Maureen, aroo ! 
 
 The dreamy shadows 
 Along the meadows 
 Go softly stealing, 
 
 And falls the dew ; 
 And o'er the billows, 
 Like faithful swallows, 
 All, all my thoughts, dear, 
 
 Fly home to you. 
 
 With touches silken, 
 I see you milkin' 
 The Grossest Kerry 
 
 In Adragole ; 
 And like a fairy, 
 You're singing, Mary,
 
 4 2 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Till every keeler 
 Is foaming full. 
 
 The night is falling, 
 And you are calling 
 The cattle homeward, 
 
 With coaxing tone ; 
 In God's own keeping, 
 Awake or sleeping, 
 'Tis now I leave you, 
 
 Maureen, mavrone !
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 43 
 
 THE SMITH'S SONG. 
 
 DING dong, didilium ! the big sledge is swinging, 
 Ding dong, didilium ! the little hammer's ringing, 
 Ding dong, didilium ! set the bellows snoring : 
 Ding dong, didilium ! the red fire is roaring." 
 
 Hush, boys, and hark, boys, I hear a pair eloping, 
 Hush, boys, and hark, boys, they'll go free, I'm hoping, 
 Ding dong, didilium ! I hear a shoe clinking, 
 Ding dong, didilium ! there's need of nails, I'm thinking." 
 
 For Heaven's sake, a shoe, smith!" "Your honor, here 'tis 
 
 ready ; 
 
 Woa, mare, and so, mare, and steady, girl, steady ! 
 Ding dong, didilium ! off goes the carriage, 
 Ding dong, didilium ! good luck be with the marriage." 
 
 Hush, boys, and hark, boys, I hear the kettle-drumming, 
 Drimin dhu, drimin dhu,' King James's horse are coming : 
 Up, on the thatch, where my pretty pikes are hidden, 
 And have them all handy and bright when you're bidden."
 
 44 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, the pikes, smith ! " " They're here 
 
 for your picking, 
 
 Long pikes and strong pikes, and pikes for Dutchmen- 
 sticking ! 
 
 Ding dong, didilium ! cursing in their cruppers, 
 Here jog the Mynherrs, 'tis time for our suppers."
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 45 
 
 MO MOIREEN DHU. 
 
 WHEN I sailed away 
 
 To win wealth for you 
 O'er the stormy sea, 
 
 O mo moireen dhu ! 
 On the western wave 
 A black pirate knave 
 Bore me off his slave 
 
 From mo moireen dhu ! 
 And I should work 
 For the tyrant Turk, 
 
 In cruel chains, beneath the scorching sun, 
 And never hear, when the dreadful week was done, 
 Bells for Christian prayer 
 Calling through the air. 
 
 Till a Moslem maid, 
 
 For the love of me, 
 With her artful add, 
 
 Stole and set me free.
 
 46 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 But no soft collogue 
 With that charming rogue, 
 Mo moireen oge, 
 
 Turned my heart from thee, 
 And I'm home at last 
 O'er the ocean vast, 
 
 My good red gold, in gaily glittering store, 
 Into mo moireen' s modest lap to pour ; 
 While with magic swell 
 Wakes our marriage bell.
 
 SONGS- AND BALLADS. 47 
 
 PLERACA. 
 
 BEIMEEDH a gole ! 
 
 Fill up the bowl, 
 
 Let us console 
 Dull care with a glass, boys ! 
 
 Shall it be wine, 
 
 Fragrant and fine, 
 
 Fresh smuggled from Spain underneath a mattrass, boys ? 
 No ! all of those pleasant 
 
 Casks out of Cadiz 
 Leave as a present, 
 
 Lads, for the ladies ! 
 But for ourselves, sure 
 
 What should we say 
 But Whiskey for ever ! 
 
 Till dawning of day. 
 
 Beimeedh a gole I 
 Wasn't it droll,
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 He that first stole 
 Fire from Heaven's grate, boys, 
 
 Look now, was left, 
 
 Chained to a cleft, 
 
 A century through, for an eagle to ate, boys ! 
 St. Pat, though, when stealing 
 
 Fire from that quarter, 
 Kept it concealing 
 
 Snug under water ; 
 Till he'd conveyed it 
 
 Safe to the ground, 
 Then looked, and, begorra, 
 
 'Twas whiskey he found. 
 
 Beimeedh a gole! 
 
 Each with his poll 
 
 Quite in control, 
 For all its containing ; 
 
 Smiling we sit, 
 
 Warming our wit 
 
 With nectar the Gods might begrudge us the draining. 
 Now, ere we go snoozing 
 
 Under the clothes, 
 Don't be refusing 
 
 One health I propose.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 49 
 
 Here's to the darling, 
 
 Pale as the dew, 
 That pounds Purple Bacchus 
 
 And all of his crew !
 
 50 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 SONG OF THE GHOST. 
 
 WHEN all were dreaming 
 
 But Pastheen Power, 
 A light came streaming 
 
 Beneath her bower : 
 A heavy foot 
 
 At her door delayed, 
 A heavy hand 
 
 On the latch was laid. 
 
 " Now who dare venture, 
 
 At this dark hour, 
 Unbid to enter 
 
 My maiden bower?" 
 " Dear Pastheen, open 
 
 The door to me, 
 And your true lover 
 You'll surely see."
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 51 
 
 " My own true lover, 
 So tall and brave, 
 Lives exiled over 
 
 The angry wave." 
 " Your true love's body 
 
 Lies on the bier, 
 His faithful spirit 
 Is with you here." 
 
 " His look was cheerful, 
 
 His voice was gay ; 
 Your speech is fearful, 
 
 Your face is grey ; 
 And sad and sunken 
 
 Your eye of blue, 
 But Patrick, Patrick, 
 
 Alas! 'tis you!" 
 
 Ere dawn was breaking 
 
 She heard below 
 The two cocks shaking 
 Their wings to crow. 
 " Oh, hush you, hush you, 
 Both red and grey,
 
 52 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Or you will hurry 
 My love away. 
 
 " Oh, hush your crowing, 
 
 Both grey and red, 
 Or he'll be going 
 
 To join the dead ; 
 Oh, cease from calling 
 
 His ghost to the mould, 
 And I'll come crowning 
 
 Your combs with gold." 
 
 When all were dreaming 
 
 But Pastheen Power, 
 A light went streaming 
 
 From out her bower ; 
 And on the morrow, 
 
 When they awoke, 
 They knew that sorrow 
 
 Her heart had broke.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 53 
 
 COLLEEN OGE ASTHORE. 
 
 WHEN I marched away to war, 
 How you kissed me o'er and o'er : 
 
 Weeping, pressed me ; 
 
 Sobbing, blessed me; 
 Colleen, colleen oge asthore. 
 
 I was wounded, wounded sore, 
 Dead, your father falsely swore ; 
 
 Mad to harry 
 
 You to marry 
 One with miser-gold in store. 
 
 Ah ! but when you dreamed me dead, 
 Forth you flew a wildered maid : 
 
 Ever grieving, 
 
 Ever weaving 
 Willow, willow for your head.
 
 54 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 " Nay, he lives," your mother said, 
 But you only shook your head ; 
 " Why deceive me ? 
 
 Ah ! believe me, 
 Mother, mother, he is dead." 
 
 So you pined and pined away, 
 Till, when in the winter grey 
 
 Home I hasted, 
 
 Wan and wasted, 
 Colleen, colleen oge, you lay. 
 
 " Tis his lonesome ghost," you said, 
 " Come to call me to the dead ; " 
 " Nay, discover 
 
 Your dear lover 
 Longing now at last to wed." 
 
 Then your cheek, so pale before, 
 With the rose of hope once more, 
 
 Faintly, slowly, 
 
 Brightly, wholly, 
 Blossomed, colleen oge asthore.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 55 
 
 Till upon the chapel floor, 
 
 Side by side, we knelt and swore, 
 
 Duty dearest, 
 
 Love sincerest, 
 Colleen, colleen oge asthore.
 
 56 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF THE EARLS. 
 
 To other shores across the sea 
 
 We speed with swelling sail ; 
 Yet still there lingers on our lee 
 
 A phantom Innisfail. 
 Oh fear, fear not, gentle ghost, 
 
 Your sons shall turn untrue ! 
 Though fain to fly your lovely coast, 
 
 They leave their hearts with you. 
 
 As slowly into distance dim 
 
 Your shadow sinks and dies, 
 So o'er the ocean's utmost rim 
 
 Another realm shall rise ; 
 New hills shall swell, new vales expand, 
 
 New rivers winding flow, 
 But could we for a foster land 
 
 Your mother-love forego ?
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Shall mighty Espan's martial praise 
 
 Our patriot pulses still, 
 And o'er your memory's fervent rays 
 
 Forever cast a chill ? 
 Oh, no ! we live for your relief, 
 
 Till home from alien earth 
 We share the smile that gilds your grief, 
 
 The tear that gems your mirth. 
 
 57
 
 58 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 KITTY BHAN. 
 
 BEFORE the first ray of blushing day, 
 Who should come by but Kitty bhan, 
 
 With her cheek like the rose on a bed of snows, 
 And her bosom beneath like the sailing swan. 
 I looked and looked till my heart was gone. 
 
 With the foot of the fawn she crossed the lawn, 
 
 Half confiding and half in fear ; 
 And her eyes of blue they thrilled me through, 
 
 One blessed minute ; then like the deer, 
 
 Away she darted, and left me here. 
 
 Oh ! Sun, you are late at your golden gate, 
 For you've nothing to show beneath the sky 
 
 To compare to the lass who crossed the grass 
 Of the shamrock field ere the dew was dry, 
 And the glance that she gave me as she went by.
 
 SOJVGS AND BALLADS. 59 
 
 THE WHITE BLOSSOM 'S OFF 
 THE BOG. 
 
 THE white blossom 's off the bog, and the leaves are off the trees. 
 And the singing birds have scattered across the stormy seas : 
 
 And oh ! 'tis winter, 
 
 Wild, wild winter ! 
 With the lonesome wind sighing for ever through the trees. 
 
 How green the leaves were springing ! how glad the birds were 
 
 singing ! 
 When I rested in the meadow with my head on Patrick's knees ; 
 
 And oh ! 'twas spring time, 
 
 Sweet, sweet spring time ! 
 With the daisies all dancing before in the breeze. 
 
 With the spring the fresh leaves they'll laugh upon the trees, 
 And the birds they'll flutter back with their songs across the seas, 
 But I'll never rest again with my head on Patrick's knees ; 
 
 And for me 'twill be winter, 
 
 All the year winter, 
 With the lonesome wind sighing for ever through the trees.
 
 60 SOA'GS AND BALLADS. 
 
 WITH FLUTTERING JOY. 
 
 How happy for the little birds 
 
 From tree to tree, away and hither, 
 To pour their pretty, warbling words, 
 
 And fly with fluttering joy together ! 
 But let the sun rejoice the skies, 
 
 Or sullen clouds his glory smother, 
 With heavy hearts we still must rise 
 
 Far, far away from one another. 
 
 Now leave those foolish, feathered things, 
 
 O Fortune, Fortune, fond and cruel ! 
 And fit two pair of trusty wings 
 
 Upon myself and Mary jewel, 
 That she and I from earth may start, 
 
 And skim the sky on angel feather, 
 Till from mid-heaven, heart to heart 
 
 With fluttering joy we fall together.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. f,i 
 
 A SAILOR LOVED A FARMER'S 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 A SAILOR once wooed a farmer's daughter, 
 
 The fairest lass in all the country side. 
 She loved him well ; but when he besought her 
 
 With beating, beating heart to be his bride, 
 " A sailor lad," she said, " I'll never, never wed, 
 
 And live a wife and widow all in one ; 
 O no, my charmer shall be a farmer, 
 
 Returning faithful with the set of sun." 
 
 At danger's call, across the water 
 
 The sailor wen* but left his heart behind ; 
 Fresh lovers whispered the farmer's daughter ; 
 
 Yet when they prayed her to confess her mind, 
 " A farmer's lad," she said, " I'll never, never wed, 
 
 When heroes bleed to guard their native strand. 
 Till war is over I need no lover : 
 
 Then let the stoutest soldier claim my hand."
 
 62 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 When peace returned, escaped from slaughter, 
 
 With stars and crosses home our warriors came, 
 And some went wooing the farmer's daughter, 
 
 But none could charm the lass to change her name; 
 Until once more from far a gallant, gallant tar 
 
 Began with beating heart his love to tell ; 
 And sweetly turning, with blushes burning, 
 
 She sighed : "Since first we met I've loved you well !'
 
 SOWGS AND BALLADS. 63 
 
 THE REAPER'S REVENGE. 
 
 OFTEN I dream of the day, asthore, 
 
 With secret sighs and laughter, 
 When you went reaping the oats before, 
 
 And I came gathering after. 
 And tenderly, tenderly with the corn 
 
 Looks of love you threw me ; 
 Till I stood up with eyes of scorn 
 
 And withered your hopes to woo me. 
 
 Often and often I'm dreaming still, 
 
 With tears and smiles together, 
 Of the month I stretched so weak and ill 
 
 In the wild and wintry weather. 
 While tenderly, tenderly, you would tap 
 
 To know the news of Nora ; 
 Till I grew fonder of your rap 
 
 Than my father's voice, acora !
 
 64 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 But most I remember the plan concealed 
 
 That through the spring amused you, 
 To watch till you found me in the field 
 
 Where in autumn I refused you, 
 Then earnestly, earnestly, in my eyes 
 
 To gaze, till I returned you 
 The look of looks and the sigh of sighs, 
 
 On the spot where once I spurned you.
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS. 65 
 
 THE BLUE, BLUE SMOKE. 
 
 OH, many and many a time 
 
 In the dim old days, 
 When the chapel's distant chime 
 
 Pealed the hour of evening praise, 
 I've bowed my head in prayer ; 
 
 Then shouldered scythe or bill, 
 And travelled free of care 
 To my home across the hill ; 
 Whilst the blue, blue smoke 
 Of my cottage in the coom, 
 Softly wreathing, 
 Sweetly breathing, 
 Waved my thousand welcomes home. 
 
 For oft and oft I've stood, 
 
 Delighted in the dew, 
 Looking down across the wood, 
 
 Where it stole into my view 
 Sweet spirit of the sod, 
 
 Of our own Irish earth, 
 
 F
 
 66 SONGS AND BALLADS. 
 
 Going gently up to God 
 
 From the poor man's hearth. 
 O, the blue, blue smoke 
 Of my cottage in the coom, 
 Softly wreathing, 
 Sweetly breathing, 
 My thousand welcomes home. 
 
 But I hurried swiftly on, 
 
 When Herself from the door 
 Came swimming like a swan 
 
 Beside the Shannon shore ; 
 And after her in haste, 
 
 On pretty, pattering feet, 
 Our rosy cherubs raced 
 Their daddy dear to meet ; 
 
 While the blue, blue smoke 
 Of my 'cottage in the coom, 
 Softly wreathing, 
 Sweetly breathing, 
 Waved my thousand welcomes home. 
 
 But the times are sorely changed 
 Since those dim old days,
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS, 67 
 
 And far, far I've ranged 
 
 From those dear old ways ; 
 And my colleen's golden hair 
 
 To silver all has grown, 
 And our little cherub pair 
 Have cherubs of their own ; 
 
 And the black, black smoke, 
 
 Like a heavy funeral plume, 
 
 Darkly wreathing, 
 
 Fearful breathing, 
 
 Crowns the city with its gloom. 
 
 But 'tis our comfort sweet, 
 
 Through the long toil of life, 
 That we'll turn with tired feet 
 
 From the noise and the strife, 
 And wander slowly back 
 
 In the soft western glow; 
 Hand in hand by the track 
 That we trod long ago ; 
 
 Till the blue, blue smoke 
 Of our cottage in the coom, 
 Softly wreathing, 
 Sweetly breathing, 
 Waves our thousand welcomes home.
 
 RUSTIC POEMS.
 
 FATHER O'FLYNN. 
 
 OF priests we can offer a charmin' variety, 
 Far renowned for larnin' and piety ; 
 Still, I'd advance ye widout impropriety, 
 Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn, 
 Slainte, and slainte, and slainte agin ; 
 
 Power fulest preacher, and 
 
 Tinderest teacher, and 
 Kindliest creature in ould Donegal. 
 
 Don't talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity, 
 Famous for ever at Greek and Latinity, 
 Faix and the divels and all at Divinity,
 
 72 RUSTIC POEMS. 
 
 Father O'Flynn 'd make hares of them all ! 
 Come, I vinture to give ye my word, 
 Never the likes of his logic was heard, 
 Down from mythology 
 Into thayology, 
 Troth ! and conchology if he'd the call. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn, 
 Slainte, and slainte, and slainte agin ; 
 
 Powerfulest preacher, and 
 
 Tinderest teacher, and 
 Kindliest creature in ould Donegal. 
 
 Och ! Father O'Flynn you've the wonderful way wid you. 
 All ould sinners are -wishful to pray wid you, 
 All the young childer are wild for to play wid you, 
 You've such a way wid you, Father avick ! 
 Still for all you've so gentle a soul, 
 Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control : 
 Checking the crazy ones, 
 Coaxin' onaisy ones, 
 Liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick.
 
 RUSTIC POEMS. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Herts a health to you, Father O'Flynn, 
 Slainte, and slainte, and slainte agin ; 
 
 Powerfulest preacher, and 
 
 Tinderest teacher, and 
 Kindliest creature in ould Donegal. 
 
 And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity, 
 Still at all seasons of innocent jollity, 
 Where was the play-boy could claim an equality 
 At comicality, Father, wid you ? 
 
 Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest, 
 Till this remark set him off wid the rest : 
 " Is it lave gaiety 
 All to the laity ? 
 Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too ?" 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn, 
 Slainte, and slainte, and slainte agin ; 
 
 Powerfulest preacher, and 
 
 Tinderest teacher, and 
 Kindliest creature in ould Donegal.
 
 RUSTIC POEMS. 
 
 MOLLEEN OGE. 
 
 MOLLEEN oge, my Molleen oge, 
 Go put on your natest brogue, 
 And slip into your smartest gown, 
 You rosy little rogue ; 
 For a message kind I bear 
 To yourself from ould Adair, 
 That Pat the piper 's come around, 
 And there'll be dancin' there. 
 
 Oh, my Molleen, 
 
 Oh, my colleen, 
 
 We'll dance to Pat, 
 
 And after that 
 Collogue upon one chair. 
 
 Molleen dear, I'd not presume, 
 To encroach into your room, 
 But I'd forgot a fairin' 
 
 I'd brought you from Macroom ;
 
 RUSTIC POEMS. 75 
 
 So open, and I swear 
 Not one peep upon you ; there ! 
 Tis a silver net to gather 
 
 At the glass your goolden hair. 
 
 Oh, my Molleen, 
 
 Oh, my colleen, 
 
 We'll dance to Pat, 
 
 And after that 
 Collogue upon one chair. 
 
 Molleen pet, my Molleen pet, 
 Faix, I'm fairly in a fret 
 At the time you're tittivatin' ; 
 Molleen, aren't you ready yet ? 
 Now net and gown and brogue 
 Are you sure you're quite the vogue ? 
 But, bedad, you look so lovely, 
 I'll forgive you, Molleen oge. 
 
 Oh, my Molleen, 
 
 Oh, my colleen, 
 
 We'll dance to Pat, 
 
 And after that 
 Upon one chair collogue.
 
 76 RUSTIC POEMS. 
 
 TWO IRISH IDYLLS. 
 
 I. RIDING DOUBLE. 
 
 TROTTIN' to the fair, 
 
 Me and Moll Malony, 
 Sated, I declare, 
 
 On a single pony ; 
 How am I to know that 
 
 Molly's safe behind, 
 Wid our heads, in oh ! that 
 
 Awk'ard way inclined ? 
 By her gintle breathin', 
 
 Whispered past my ear, 
 And her white arms wreathin : 
 
 Warm around me here. 
 Trottin' to the fair, 
 
 Me and Moll Malony, 
 Sated, I declare, 
 
 On a single pony. 
 
 Yerrig ! Masther Jack, 
 Lift your fore-legs higher,
 
 RUSTIC POEMS. 77 
 
 Or a rousin' crack 
 
 Surely you'll require. 
 " Ah ! " says Moll, " I'm frightened 
 
 That the pony '11 start," 
 And her hands she tightened 
 
 On my happy heart ; 
 Till, widout reflecting 
 
 'Twasn't quite the vogue, 
 Somehow, I'm suspectin' 
 
 That I snatched a pogue. 
 Trottin' to the fair, 
 
 Me and Moll Malony r 
 Sated, I declare, 
 
 On a single pony. 
 
 II. RIDING TREBLE. 
 
 Joultin' to the fair, 
 
 Three upon the pony, 
 That so lately were 
 
 Me and Moll Malony. 
 " How can three be on, boy ? 
 
 Sure, the wife and you, 
 Though you should be , boy, 
 
 Can't be more nor two."
 
 78 RUSTIC POEMS. 
 
 Arrah, now, then may be 
 
 You've got eyes to see 
 That this purty baby 
 
 Adds us up to three. 
 Joultin' to the fair 
 
 Three upon the pony, 
 That so lately were 
 
 Me and Moll Malony. 
 
 Come, give over, Jack, 
 
 Cap'rin' and curvettin', 
 All that's on your back 
 
 Foolishly forgettin'; 
 For I've tuk the notion 
 
 Wan may cant'rin' go, 
 Trottin' is a motion 
 
 I'd extind to two ; 
 But to travel steady 
 
 Matches best wid three, 
 And we're that already, 
 
 Mistress Moll and me. 
 Joultin' to the fair 
 
 Three upon the pony, 
 That so lately were 
 
 Me and Moll Malony.
 
 RUSTIC POEMS. 79 
 
 FAN FITZGERL. 
 
 WIRRA, wirra ! ologone ! 
 
 Can't ye lave a lad alone, 
 Fill he's proved there's no tradition left of any other girl, 
 
 Not even Trojan Helen, 
 
 In beauty all excellin', 
 Vho's been up to half the divlement of Fan Fitzgerl. 
 
 Wid her brows of silky black 
 
 Arched above for the attack, 
 Hler eyes they dart such azure death on poor admirin' man : 
 
 Masther Cupid, point your arrows, 
 
 From this out, agin the sparrows, 
 For your bested at Love's archery by young Miss Fan. 
 
 See what showers of goolden thread 
 
 Lift and fall upon her head, 
 Fhe likes of such a trammel-net at say was niver spread : 
 
 For whin accurately reckoned, 
 
 'Twas computed that each second 
 Of her curls has cot a Kerryman and kilt him dead.
 
 8o RUSTIC POEMS. 
 
 Now mintion, if ye will, 
 
 Brandon Mount and Hungry Hill, 
 Or Ma'g'llicuddy's Reeks renowned for cripplin' all they 
 
 Still the country side confisses 
 
 None of all its precipices 
 Cause a quarther of the carnage of the nose of Fan. 
 
 But your shatthered hearts suppose 
 
 Safely steered apast her nose, 
 She's a current and a reef beyant to wreck them rovin' si 
 
 My maning it is simple, 
 
 For that current is her dimple, 
 And the cruel reef 'twill coax ye to 's her coral lips. 
 
 I might inform ye further 
 
 Of her bosom's snowy murther, 
 
 And an ankle ambuscadin' through her gown's delightful 
 But what need, when all the village 
 Has forsook its peaceful tillage, 
 
 And flown to war and pillage all for Fan Fitzgerl !
 
 RUSTIC POEMS. 8 1 
 
 BAT OF THE BRIDGE. 
 
 ON the bridge of Dereen, 
 
 Away up by Killarney, 
 You'll be sure to be seein' 
 
 Poor Batsy O'Kearney 
 A big stick in the air 
 
 So lazily swingin', 
 Smokin' and jokin' 
 
 And carelessly singin' 
 Some snatch of a song, 
 
 Out over the river, 
 As it rushes along 
 
 For iver and iver 
 To the Bay of Kenmare. 
 
 Six feet six 
 Is the fix 
 Of his height, 
 Honour bright !
 
 82 RUSTIC POEMS. 
 
 Forty-eight the diminsion 
 Round his ribs by my inchin' ; 
 It's murther to say 
 Such a man's thrun away. 
 
 He's the last to delay 
 
 And the earliest comer 
 On the bridge by the bay, 
 
 Winter and summer. 
 Do you question why so ? 
 
 What keeps him for iver 
 Smokin' and jokin' 
 
 And out on the river 
 That rushes below, 
 
 Serenadin' so gaily ? 
 'Twas the cowardly blow 
 
 Of a tinker's shillelagh 
 Left the proper man so. 
 
 But you're wonderin', why, 
 How at all it could happen 
 
 Such a broth of a boy 
 
 Got the scandalous rappin'. 
 
 'Twas September fair day, 
 And the Adragole faction
 
 RUSTIC POEMS. 83 
 
 Wid Dereen for the green 
 
 And the bridge were in action ; 
 And from off the bridge road, 
 
 Wid his cudgel so clever, 
 Bat was leatherin' a load 
 
 Of Cork men for ever, 
 Just as if it was play. 
 
 When up from beneath, 
 
 Still further and further, 
 Houldin' tight in his teeth 
 
 A stick that was murther, 
 That black tinker stole, 
 
 By the ivy boughs clingin', 
 On the edge of the bridge 
 
 The knees softly swingin* ; 
 And, unknowns! at his back, 
 
 From the wall of the river 
 Fetched O'Kearney a crack, 
 
 That left him for iver 
 Wid a poor, puzzled poll. 
 
 Did he fall ? Not at all ! 
 But he picked off that tinker
 
 84. RUSTIC POEMS. 
 
 Like a snail from the wall ; 
 
 And before you could think, or 
 Repate your own name, 
 
 Cot the stick from the ruffi'n, 
 Knocked him dead on the head, 
 
 And widout shroud or coffin 
 Tossed him into the tide. 
 
 And his black corpse for ever 
 From Ireland should glide, 
 
 For her good soil could never 
 Cover up such a shame. 
 
 Thin backward agin, 
 
 Wid a bitter screech flyin', 
 On the Adragole men, 
 
 Just as they were cryin', 
 " The bridge is our own." 
 
 In their thick, like a flail, he 
 Swung, till it sung, 
 
 The tinker's shillelagh ; 
 So that staggerin' down, 
 
 Broken and batthered, 
 Out of the town 
 
 All Adragole scatthered 
 Before Batsy alone.
 
 RUSTIC POEMS. 85 
 
 Ever since which, 
 
 Poor Bat's only iday 
 Is to sit on the bridge, 
 
 Wet day or dry day, 
 Wid that stick in his fist ; 
 
 And no tinkerin' fellas 
 Dare to come there 
 
 Wid their pots and their bellas, 
 And all Adragole 
 
 Takes the ford down the river, 
 For fear that the fool 
 
 On the bridge-end for iver 
 Should give them a twist 
 
 So he's come by a name, 
 
 The English of which, sir, 
 Translatin' that same, 
 
 Is " Bat of the Bridge," sir. 
 But the hour's growin' late ; 
 
 Good night, and safe journey ! 
 It's afloat in your boat 
 
 You should be, Doctor Corney. 
 By myself, now, bad scran 
 
 To the tribe of the tinkers,
 
 86 RUSTIC POEMS. 
 
 For they've left a good man, 
 
 Like a horse widout blinkers, 
 All bothered and bate. 
 
 Six feet six 
 
 Is the height 
 Of poor Batsy to-night, 
 Forty-eight the diminsion 
 Round his ribs by my inchin' ; 
 It's murther, I say, 
 Such a man's thrun away.
 
 KUSTIC POEMS. 87 
 
 THE LIGHT IN THE SNOW. 
 
 OH Pat, the bitter day when you bravely parted from us, 
 The mother and myself on the cruel quays of Cork : 
 
 When you took the long kiss, and you gave the faithful promise 
 That you'd soon bring us over to be wid you at New York. 
 
 But the times they grew worse through the wild, weary winter, 
 And my needle all we had to find livin' for us two ; 
 
 While the mother drooped and drooped till I knelt down fore- 
 
 nint her 
 And closed her dyin' eyes, dear, but still no word of you. 
 
 Then the neighbours thought you false to me but I knew you 
 better, 
 
 Though the bud became the leaf, and the corn began to start ; 
 And the swallow she flew back, and still sorra letter, 
 
 But I sewed on and on, Pat, and kep' a stout heart.
 
 88 RUSTIC POEMS. 
 
 Till the leaves they decayed, and the rook and the starlin' 
 Returned to the stubble, and I'd put by enough 
 
 To start at long last in search of my darlin' 
 Alone across the ocean so unruly and rough. 
 
 Until at the end, very weak and very weary, 
 
 I reached the overside, and started on my search ; 
 
 But no account for ever of Patrick for his Mary, 
 
 By advertisin' for you, dear, or callin' you in church. 
 
 Yet still I struggled on, though my heart was almost broken 
 And my feet torn entirely on the rough, rugged stone ; 
 
 Till that day it came round, signs by and by token, 
 The day five year that we parted you, mavrone. 
 
 Oh ! the snow it was sweepin' through the dark, silent city, 
 And the cruel wind it cut through my thin, tattered gown. 
 
 Still I prayed the good God on his daughter to take pity ; 
 When a sudden, strange light shone forenint me up the 
 town. 
 
 And the light it led on till at last right oppossite 
 A large, lonely house it vanished as I stood ; 
 
 Wid my heart axing wildly of me, was it, oh, was it 
 A warnin' of ill or a token of good.
 
 RUSTIC POEMS. 89 
 
 When the light kindled up agin, brighter and bigger, 
 And the shadow of a woman across the windy passed ; 
 
 While close, close, and closer to her stole a man's figure, 
 And I fainted, as you caught me in your true arms at last. 
 
 Then Pat, my own Pat, I saw that you were altered 
 To the shadow of yourself by the fever on the brain ! 
 
 While " Mary, Mary darlin'," at last your lips they faltered, 
 " You've given your poor Patrick his mem'ry back again." 
 
 And the good, gentle priest, when he conies, is never weary 
 
 Of sayin', as he spakes of that light in the snow, 
 " The Lord heard your prayer, and in pity for you, Mary, 
 Restored Pat the raison that he lost long ago."
 
 90 RUSTIC POEMS. 
 
 WHAT IS LIFE WIDOUT A WIFE? 
 
 FESTAL CHORUS. 
 
 THE BOYS. 
 WHAT is life widout a wife ? 
 
 THE GIRLS. 
 
 Tis the bee widout his honey; 
 'Tis the hoard by misers stored ; 
 
 'Tis the spendthrift's waste of money ; 
 Spring and all her song-birds mute j 
 
 Summer wid no rosy flowers ; 
 Autumn robbed of all his fruit ; 
 
 Winter and no fireside hours. 
 
 THE GIRLS. 
 What is life widout a husband ? 
 
 THE BOYS. 
 
 Poetry widout an iday ; 
 Powdther, and the shot forgot ; 
 Fish and it foriver Friday ;
 
 RUSTIC POEMS. 91 
 
 Musha ! night widout a moon ; 
 
 Faix ! and fever widout physic ; 
 Troth ! and music out of tune ; 
 
 'Dad ! and dancin' widout music. 
 
 THE GIRLS. 
 
 Then, give over playin' rover, 
 
 Lads, wid Jacky-Lanthern Folly, 
 Fondly turnin' to the burnin' 
 
 Of Love's beacon bright and holy. 
 
 THE BOYS. 
 
 Now, girls, dear, whisper here ! 
 
 Where '11 we find his guidin' beacon. 
 
 THE GIRLS. 
 
 In the skies of woman's eyes 
 Fondly look, and one will waken. 
 
 THE BOYS. 
 
 Och ! then you coquettes unthrue, 
 
 To one lad at last be list'nin', 
 Whilst your rose of beauty blows 
 
 Whilst like goold your hair is glist'nin',
 
 92 RUSTIC POEMS. 
 
 Yes ! your charms into our arms 
 Yield, whilst you can still be patrons, 
 
 Or too late you'll mourn your fate, 
 Poor ould maids among the matrons.
 
 RUSTIC POEMS. 93 
 
 THE WRECK OF THE AIDEEN. 
 
 Is it cure me, docther, darlin'? an ould boy of siventy-four, 
 Afther soakin' off Berehaven three and thirty hour and more, 
 Wid no other navigation underneath me but an oar. 
 
 God incrase ye, but it's only half myself is livin' still, 
 
 An' there's mountin' slow but surely to my heart the dyin' chill ; 
 
 God incrase ye for your goodness, but I'm past all mortial skill. 
 
 But ye'll surely let them lift me, won't you, docther, from below? 
 Ye'll let them lift me surely very soft and very slow 
 To see my ould ship, Aideen, wanst agin before I go ? 
 
 Lay my head upon your shoulder ; thank ye kindly, docther, 
 
 dear. 
 
 Take me now ; God bless ye, cap'n ! now together ! sorra fear ! 
 Have no dread that yell distress me now, agin, ochone ! I 
 
 see her.
 
 94 RUSTIC POEMS. 
 
 Ologone ! my Aideen's Aideen, christened by her laughin' lips, 
 Wid a sprinkle from her finger as ye started from the slips, 
 Thirty year ago come Shrovetide, like a swan among the ships. 
 
 
 
 And we both were constant to ye till the bitter, bitter day, 
 Whin the typhus took my darlin', and she pined and pined away, 
 Till yourself s the only sweetheart that was left me on the say. 
 
 So through fair and foul we'd travel, you and I thin, usen't we ; 
 The same ould coorse from Galway Bay, by Limerick and 
 
 Tralee, 
 Till this storm it shook me overboard, and murthered you, 
 
 machree. 
 
 But now, agra, the unruly wind has flown into the west, 
 And the silver moon is shinin' soft upon the ocean's breast, 
 Like Aideen's smilin' spirit come to call us to our rest. 
 
 Still the sight is growin' darker, and I cannot rightly hear ; 
 The say's too cold for one so old ; O, save me, cap'n, dear ! 
 Now its growin' bright and warm agin, and Aideen, Aideen's 
 here.
 
 RUSTIC POEMS. 95 
 
 THE HANDSOME WITCH. 
 
 " HAVE I seen a witch, your honour ? 
 
 'Deed I often have that same ; 
 But the worst was Morna Connor, 
 
 Called ' The Handsome Witch ' by name. 
 She was tall, no woman taller 
 
 Ever cross'd your cur'ous sight, 
 And to see her pass, you'd call her 
 
 Higher nor her proper height : 
 For though Time his constant quarrel 
 
 Waged upon her cheek and lip ; 
 Though he stole their laughin' coral 
 
 And destroyed their lovely clip ; 
 Though he robbed the sculptured roundness 
 
 From her ivory neck and arm, 
 Wasted up the soft profoundness 
 
 Of her bosom's swellin' charm ;
 
 96 RUSTIC POEMS. 
 
 Silvered her black head wid sprinkles 
 
 Of his shinin' winter snow ; 
 Yes ! and wrote his warnin' wrinkles 
 
 On her bold, unbendin' brow 
 Time himself, that still unsparin' 
 
 Bows the lordliest in the land, 
 Could not curb the haughty bearin' 
 
 Of that woman great and grand. 
 No ! nor thin one curlin' cluster 
 
 Of her long, luxuriant hair : 
 No ! nor quinch the steady lustre 
 
 Of her eyes' contimptuous stare. 
 Many a cow wid swellin' udder, 
 
 As the crafty crone went by, 
 Took one cowld, unchristian shudder, 
 
 Dad ! and ran complately dry ; 
 While the witch she crossed the clover, 
 
 Steadyin' on her skull wid care 
 A full keeler frothin' over, 
 
 As if milked from out the air. 
 Many a colleen in the dairy 
 
 Still should wave the churn-staff round, 
 Scatterin' salt that crabbed fairy 
 
 Wid her canthrips to confound :
 
 RUSTIC POEMS. 97 
 
 But in vain she'd thry for butter, 
 
 Till she hadn't strength to stand ; 
 While through clear, enchanted water 
 
 Morna drew the dead-man's hand. 
 But I beg your honour's pardon, 
 
 I'll conclude some other day; 
 For the calf is in the garden, 
 
 And the heifer 's at the hay."
 
 RUSTIC POEMS. 
 
 SAVING THE TURF. 
 
 CUTTIN' the turf, cuttin' the turf, with our feet on the shinin' 
 
 slan ! 
 Cuttin' the turf, cuttin' the turf, till the cows come home to 
 
 the bawn ! 
 
 Footin' the turf, footin' the turf, footin' and turnin' our best, 
 Footin' the turf, turnin' the turf, till the rook flies home to 
 
 her nest ! 
 
 Settin' the turf, settin' the turf, hither and over the land, 
 Settin' the turf, settin' the turf, till the say-turn sinks on the 
 
 strand ! 
 Drawin' the turf, drawin' the turf, with our ponies and asses 
 
 away, 
 Drawin' the turf, drawin' the turf, till the boats are out in 
 
 the bay ! 
 
 Rickin' the turf, rickin' the turf, safe in the haggard at last, 
 To keep and to comfort us all from the rage of the rain and 
 
 the blast.
 
 RUSTIC POEMS. 99 
 
 LOOBEEN. 
 
 BRIDGID. 
 
 ERE the sun began to peep, 
 Out I wandered through our orchard. 
 
 ROSY. 
 
 Since you couldn't quiet sleep, 
 
 By the thoughts of Torlogh tortured ; 
 
 For 'tis rumoured how of late, 
 By his manly beauty melted, 
 
 With your pippen, plump and straight 
 At the boy in vain you pelted. 
 
 BRIDGID. 
 
 Yes ! Saint Bridgid, for my sake 
 
 Interferin' with that apple, 
 Rolled it on to Rory Blake, 
 
 And we're goin' to the chapel
 
 I00 RUSTIC POEMS. 
 
 ROSY. 
 So you've handsome Rory fast ! 
 
 Girls, go set the secret spreading 
 That when solemn Lent is past 
 
 We shall dance at Bridgid's weddin' ! 
 Now, since all her news is out, 
 
 Nora, see can you discover, 
 Eastward, westward, north, or sout', 
 
 Where's the boy I'd make my lover ? 
 
 NORA. 
 Murt na mo you wish to wed. 
 
 ROSY. 
 
 Now that notion just be sparin' ! 
 With a hornet at my head 
 
 I'd as soon hop over Erin. 
 Come, I'll give a handsome hint, 
 
 Girls, should set you rightly guessin'. 
 How is this ? To school I wint, 
 
 Till my master learnt my lesson. 
 
 NORA. 
 
 At the night-school I've the whole 
 With her make-believe-be-learnin',
 
 RUSTIC POEMS. 
 
 Tis the model-teacher's poll 
 That complately she's been turnin'. 
 
 ROSY, 
 Yes ! I've clever Phelim fast. 
 
 NORA. 
 
 Girls, go set the secret spreading 
 That when solemn Lent is past 
 We shall dance at Rosy's weddin' !
 
 102 RUSTIC POEMS. 
 
 THE BLACK '46. 
 
 A RETROSPECT. 
 
 Our away across the river, 
 
 Where the purple mountains meet, 
 There's as green a wood as iver, 
 
 Fenced you from the flamin' heat. 
 And opposite, up the mountain, 
 
 Seven ancient cells ye'll see, 
 And, below, a holy fountain 
 
 Sheltered by a sacred tree ; 
 While between, across the tillage, 
 
 Two boreens full up wid broom 
 Draw ye down into a village 
 
 All in ruin on the coom ; 
 For the most heart-breakin' story 
 
 Of the fearful famine year 
 On the silent wreck before ye 
 
 You may read charactered clear.
 
 RUSTIC POEMS. 
 
 Yous are young, too young for ever 
 
 To rec'llect the bitter blight, 
 How it crep across the River 
 
 Unbeknownst beneath the right ; 
 Till we woke up in the mornin', 
 
 And beheld our country's curse 
 Wave abroad its heavy warnin', 
 
 Like the white plumes of a hearse. 
 
 To our gardens, heavy-hearted, 
 
 In that dreadful summer's dawn, 
 Young and ould away we started 
 
 Wid the basket and the slan. 
 But the heart within the bosom 
 
 Gave one leap of awful dread 
 At each darlin' pratee blossom, 
 
 White and purple, lyin' dead. 
 Down we dug, but only scattered 
 
 Poisoned spuds along the slope ; 
 Though each ridge in vain it flattered 
 
 Our poor hearts' revivin' hope. 
 But the desperate toil we'd double 
 
 On into the evenin' shades ; 
 Till the earth to share our trouble 
 
 Shook beneath our groanin* spades ;
 
 104 
 
 RUSTIC POEMS. 
 
 Till a mist across the meadows 
 
 From the graveyard rose and spread, 
 And 'twas rumoured ghostly shadows, 
 
 Phantoms of our fathers dead, 
 Moved among us, wildly sharin' 
 
 In the women's sobs and sighs, 
 And our stony, still despairin', 
 
 Till night covered up the skies. 
 Thin we knew for bitter certain 
 
 That the vinom-breathin' cloud, 
 Closin' still its cruel curtain, 
 
 Surely yet would be our shroud 
 And the fearful sights did folly, 
 
 Och ! no voice could rightly tell, 
 But that constant, melancholy 
 
 Murmur of the passin' bell ; 
 Till to toll it none among us 
 
 Strong enough at last was found, 
 And a silence overhung us 
 
 Awfuller nor any sound.
 
 ANGLO-IRISH BALLADS.
 
 SHUILE AGRA. 
 
 (See NOTES.) 
 
 His hair was black, his eye was blue ; 
 His arm was stout, his word was true ; 
 I wish in my heart I was with you, 
 
 Gotheen mavourneen slaun. 
 Shuile, shuile, shuile agra, 
 Only death can ease my woe, 
 Since the lad of my heart from me did go, 
 Gotheen mavourneen slaun. 
 
 Tis oft I sat on my true love's knee ; 
 Many a fond story he told to me ; 
 He told me things that ne'er shall be, 
 
 Gotheen mavourneen slaun. 
 Shuile, shuile, shuile agra, 
 Only death can ease my woe, 
 Since the lad of my heart from me did go, 
 Gotheen mavourneen slaun.
 
 io8 ANGLO-IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 I sold my rock, I sold my reel ; 
 
 When my flax was spun, I sold my wheel, 
 
 To buy my love a sword of steel, 
 
 Gotheen mavourneen slaun. 
 Shuile, shuile, shuile agra, 
 Only death can ease my woe, 
 Since the lad of my heart from me did go, 
 Gotheen mavourneen slaun. 
 
 But when King James was forced to flee, 
 The Wild Geese spread their wings to sea, 
 And bore mabouchal far from me, 
 
 Gotheen mavourneen slaun. 
 Shuile, shuile, shuile agra, 
 Only death can ease my woe, 
 Since the lad of my heart from me did go, 
 Gotheen mavourneen slaun. 
 
 I saw them sail from Brandon hill, 
 Then down I sat and cried my fill, 
 That every tear would turn a mill, 
 
 Gotheen mavourneen slaun. 
 Shuile, shuile, shuile agra,
 
 ANGLO-IRISH BALLADS. 109 
 
 Only death can ease my woe, 
 Since the lad of my heart from me did go, 
 Gotheen mavourneen slaun. 
 
 I wish the King would return to reign, 
 And bring my true love back again ; 
 I wish, and wish, but I wish in vain, 
 
 Gotheen mavourneen slaun. 
 Shuile, shuile, shuile agra, 
 Only death can ease my woe, 
 Since the lad of my heart from me did go, 
 Gotheen mavourneen slaun. 
 
 Ill dye my petticoat, I'll dye it red, 
 And round the world I'll beg my bread, 
 Till I find my love alive or dead, 
 
 Gotheen mavourneen slaun. 
 Shuile, shuile, shuile agra. 
 Only death can ease my woe, 
 Since the lad of my heart from me did go, 
 Gotheen mavourneen slaun.
 
 ANGLO-IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 GRAGALMACHREE. 
 
 (See NOTES.) 
 
 AT the foot of Newry Mountain, to a stream in the wood 
 One day I went fishing, and the take was so good 
 That the very first moment my angle was out 
 My hook it was fast in a fine plunging trout. 
 
 But as down stream I stepped, with my soul full of sport, 
 On a sudden I chanced on a charming resort : 
 Where the beeches were bending in beautiful bowers 
 O'er a velvet-green carpet embroidered with flowers. 
 
 And from under that arbour, so cool and so deep, 
 
 A colleen's voice chanted that made my heart leap, 
 
 For the song that she sang was, " My Lawrence, come hither, 
 
 For upon my secret heart you Ve put your comether." 
 
 I threw down my angle, and, in through the shade, 
 Stole soft to the side of that young, blooming maid : 
 O, she's slender in the waist and her face is fair to see, 
 And her name in plain Irish is, Gragalmachree.
 
 ANGLO-IRISH BALLADS. in 
 
 For her tears and her sobs she scarcely could say, 
 
 " Ah, Lawrence ! ah, Lawrence ! what carried you this way 
 
 To overhear the secret long lodged in my breast, 
 
 And leave me for ever disgraced and distressed ? " 
 
 Now, comfort you, comfort you, Gragalmachree, 
 For that little, sweet song was Heaven's music to me, 
 And God's blessing for ever attend on the thought 
 That took me fishing trout, till I found myself caught. 
 
 And the moon she may darken and the stars lose their light 
 And the green plains of Erin they may blacken with blight, 
 And her mountains all melt in the middle of the sea, 
 If I ever prove false to my Gragalmachree.
 
 112 ANGLO-IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 'TWAS PRETTY TO BE IN 
 BALLINDERRY. 
 
 (.See NOTES.) 
 
 TWAS pretty to be in Ballinderry, 
 
 'Twas pretty to be in Aghalee, 
 'Twas prettier to be in little Ram's Island, 
 
 Trysting under the ivy tree ! 
 Ochone, ochone ! 
 Ochone, ochone ! 
 
 For often I roved in little Ram's Island, 
 Side by side with Phelimy Hyland, 
 And still he'd court me and I'd be coy, 
 Though at heart I loved him, my handsome boy ! 
 
 " I'm going," he sighed, "from Ballinderry 
 
 Out and across the stormy sea ; 
 
 Then if in your heart you love me, Mary, 
 
 Open your arms at last to me." 
 
 Ochone, ochone ! 
 
 Ochone, ochone !
 
 ANGLO-IRISH BALLADS. 113 
 
 I opened my arms ; how well he knew me ! 
 I opened my arms and took him to me ; 
 And there, in the gloom of the groaning mast, 
 We kissed our first and we kissed our last ! 
 
 Twas happy to be in little Ram's I'sland, 
 
 But now 'tis sad as sad can be ; 
 For the ship that sailed with Phelimy Hyland 
 
 Is sunk for ever beneath the sea. 
 Ochone, ochone ! 
 Ochone, ochone ! 
 
 And 'tis oh ! but I wear the weeping willow. 
 And wander alone by the lonesome billow, 
 And cry to him over the cruel sea, 
 " Phelimy Hyland, come back to me ! "
 
 II4 ANGLO-IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 MY BONNY CUCKOO. 
 
 (See NOTES.) 
 
 MY boriny cuckoo, come whisper true ! 
 Around the world I'd rove with you ; 
 I'd rove with you until the next spring, 
 And still my cuckoo would sweetly sing, 
 "Cuckoo ! cuckoo !" until the next spring; 
 "Cuckoo ! cuckoo !" until the next spring. 
 
 The ash and the hazel shall mourning say, 
 " Oh, merry cuckoo, don't fly away ! 
 The winter wind is rude and keen ; 
 Oh, cuckoo, stay and keep us green ! 
 Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! oh stay ! oh stay ! 
 And make the season for ever May !" 
 
 The thrush and the robin shall sadly cry, 
 " Our bonny cuckoo, oh, do not fly ! 
 For when you spread your speckled wing 
 We have no longer heart to sing. 
 Cuckoo, cuckoo, still lead our tune, 
 And make the season for ever June !"
 
 ANGLO-IRISH BALLADS. 115 
 
 The lads and the lasses together stand, 
 And call their cuckoo from off the strand, 
 " How can you leave us, bird of love, 
 With the green below and the blue above ? 
 Oh no ! oh no ! you shall not go, 
 With the blue above and the green below."
 
 Ii6 ANGLO-IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 THE WILLOW TREE. 
 
 (See NOTES.) 
 
 OH, take me to your arms, love, for we alas must part ; 
 Oh, take me to your arms, love, for the pain is at my heart. 
 She hears not, she cares not, but coldly keeps from me, 
 While here I lie, alone to die, beneath the willow tree. 
 
 My love has blooming beauty, my cheek is deadly wan ; 
 My love has countless riches, my gallant fortune's gone. 
 This ribbon fair, that bound her hair, is all that's left to me, 
 While here I lie, alone to die, beneath the willow tree. 
 
 I once had gold and silver I thought would never end : 
 I once had gold and silver, and I thought I had a friend : 
 My wealth is sped, my friend has fled and stolen my love 
 
 from me ; 
 While here I lie, alone to die, beneath the willow tree.
 
 ANGLO-IRISH BALLADS. 117 
 
 JACK THE JOLLY PLOUGHBOY. 
 
 (See NOTES.) 
 
 As Jack the jolly ploughboy was ploughing through his land, 
 He turned his share and shouted to bid his horses stand, 
 Then down beside his team he sat, contented as a king, 
 And Jack he sang his song so sweet he made the mountains rin 
 
 With his Ta-ran-nan nanty na, 
 
 Sing ta-ran-nan nanty na, 
 While the mountains all ringing re-echoed the singing 
 
 Of Ta- ran-nan nanty na. 
 
 'Tis said old England's sailors, when wintry tempests roar, 
 Will plough the stormy waters, and pray for those on shore ; 
 But through the angry winter the share, the share for me, 
 To drive a steady furrow, and pray for those at sea. 
 
 With my Ta-ran-nan nanty na, &>c. 
 
 When heaven above is bluest, and earth most green below, 
 Away from wife and sweetheart the fisherman must go ; 
 But golden seed I'll scatter beside the girl I love, 
 And smile to hear the cuckoo, and sigh to hear the dove, 
 With my Ta-ran-nan nanty na, &c.
 
 Ii8 ANGLO-IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 'Tis oft the hardy fishers a scanty harvest earn, 
 And gallant tars from glory on wooden legs return, 
 But a bursting crop for ever shall dance before my flail ; 
 For I'll live and die a farmer all in the Golden Vale. 
 
 With my Ta-ran-nan nanty not, ore.
 
 ANGLO-IRISH BALLADS. 119 
 
 JENNY. 
 
 (See NOTES.) 
 
 WITH laughing looks I once arose, 
 
 How dark soe'er the day ; 
 Now sadly every sunburst shows, 
 
 For joy has fled away, Jenny ; 
 
 For joy has fled away ! 
 
 Nor flocks nor herds nor store of gold, 
 
 Nor broad estate have I ; 
 If beauty must be bought and sold, 
 
 Alas ! I cannot buy, Jenny ; 
 
 Alas ! I cannot buy. 
 
 Yet I'll be rich, if you'll be kind, 
 
 And once again agree 
 To bear me still in loving mind 
 
 Till I've a home for thee, Jenny ; 
 
 A home till death for thee.
 
 120 ANGLO-IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 THE FOX HUNT. 
 
 (See NOTES.) 
 
 THE first morning of March in the year '33, 
 There was frolic and fun in our own country* : 
 The King's County hunt over meadows and rocks, 
 Most nobly set out in the search of a fox. 
 
 Hullahoo ! harkaway ! hullahoo ! harkaway ! 
 
 Hullahoo ! harkaway, boys ! away, harkaway ! 
 
 When they started bold Reynard he faced Tullamore, 
 Through Wicklow and Arklow along the seashore ; 
 There he brisked up his brush with a laugh, and says he, 
 " Tis mighty refreshing this breeze from the sea." 
 
 Hullahoo ! harkaway ! hullahoo ! harkaway ! 
 
 Hullahoo ! harkaway, boys ! away, harkaway ! 
 
 With the hounds at his heels every inch of the way, 
 He led us by sunset right into Roscrea ; 
 Here he ran up a chimney and out of the top, 
 The rogue he cried out for the hunters to stop 
 
 From their loud harkaway ! hullahoo ! harkaway ! 
 
 Hullahoo ! harkaway, boys ! away, harkaway !
 
 ANGLO-IRISH BALLADS. 121 
 
 " 'Tvvas a long thirsty stretch since we left the seashore, 
 But, lads, here you've gallons of claret galore ; 
 Myself will make free just to slip out of view, 
 And take a small pull at my own mountain dew." 
 
 So no more hitllahoo ! hullahoo ! harkaway ! 
 
 Hullahoo ! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway ! 
 
 
 
 One hundred and twenty good sportsmen went down, 
 And sought him from Ballyland into Blyboyne ; 
 We swore that we'd watch him the length of the night, 
 So Reynard, sly Reynard, lay hid till the light. 
 
 Hullahoo ! harkaway I hullahoo ! harkaivay ! 
 
 Hullahoo ! harkaway, boys ! away, harkaway ! 
 
 But the hills they re-echoed right early next morn 
 With the cry of the hounds and the call of the horn, 
 And in spite of his action, his craft, and his skill, 
 Our fine fox was taken on top of the hill. 
 
 Hullahoo! harkaway ! hullahoo I harkaway ! 
 
 Hullahoo ! harkaway, boys ! away, harkaway ! 
 
 When Reynard he knew that his death was so nigh, 
 For pen, ink, and paper he called with a sigh ; 
 And all his dear wishes on earth to fulfil, 
 With these few dying words he declared his last will,
 
 122 ANGLO-IRISH BALLADS. 
 
 While we ceased harkaway ! hullahoo ! harkaway ! 
 Hullahoo ! harkaway, boys ! away, harkaway ! 
 
 " Here's to you, Mr. Casey, my Curraghmore estate, 
 And to you, young O'Brien, my money and plate, 
 And to you, Thomas Dennihy, my whip, spurs, and cap, 
 For no leap was so cross that you'd look for a gap." 
 And of what he made mention they found it no blank, 
 For he gave them a cheque on the National Bank.
 
 FROM THE CELTIC.
 
 THE FAIRY BRANCH. 
 
 A BARDIC TALE.. 
 (See NOTES.) 
 
 IT chanced upon a time, a magic time, 
 That Cormac, son of Art, arch-king of Erin, 
 Strode, musing, from his dun in Liathdrum, 
 When, lo! a noble youth upon the green, 
 And in his hand a glittering, fairy branch 
 With nine bright apples of red gold thereon. 
 
 This was, indeed, the wonder-working bough, 
 That whoso shook, men wounded unto death 
 And women travail-tortured sunk to sleep, 
 Soothed by the low, delicious lullaby 
 Those golden apples uttered. Nay, no want, 
 No woe, no weariness endures on earth 
 That swiftly stabs or slowly wastes the soul, 
 But this sweet branch once shaken wholly hides 
 In soft oblivion. 
 
 Therefore, spake the king, 
 
 " Declare thy coming ! Is that branch thine own ? " 
 " Yea, sire," the youth replied. " Would'st part with it ?' 
 " Aye, truly would I, so I won its worth."
 
 126 FROM THE CELTIC. 
 
 " What is the price them a&est ?" " The award 
 Of mine own mouth." " Tis thine, yet name it me." 
 
 " Then, king, I claim thy wife, thy son, thy daughter, 
 Chaste Eithne, gallant Cairbre", winsome Ailbhe." 
 
 " Great was the price upon thy fairy branch, 
 Yet, for I pledged to thee thy mouth's award, 
 I fain must grant it all." 
 
 Therewith the youth 
 
 Resigned the magic bough to Cormac's care, 
 And this the monarch bore within his dun 
 To Eithne", and to Cairbre", and to Ailbhe. 
 
 "A beauteous treasure hast thou brought us, father," 
 Cried Ailbhe' straight. " Small wonder," sighed the kin 
 " Seeing it cost so dear." " What gave you for it?" 
 " Thy brother, mother, and thyself, O Ailbh^." 
 " That price were piteous, if thy words be true,'' 
 Said Eithnd ; " for we trust that all the earth 
 Contains no treasure thou would'st change us for." 
 " Alas ! I plight you all my kingly word 
 That I have given you for this Fairy Bough : " 
 King Cormac answered weeping, and declared 
 The coming of the Bearer of the Branch. 
 
 Now when they proved the bitter tidings true,
 
 FROM THE CELTIC. 127 
 
 Queen Eithne" searched the sorrow-smitten face 
 Of Cormac, and for pity held her peace ; 
 And Cairbr took her hand in his and spake not ; 
 But Ailbhe' snatched a gleaming knife, and shore 
 Close to her head her bright, abundant hair, 
 With " Father, often hast thou called these curls 
 Thy golden-branching joy thus, thus they fall 
 Before the branch of gold that masters them." 
 
 Then dark distress obscured the eyes of all, 
 And broke in bitter rain upon their cheeks, 
 And choked the cheerful family of words 
 With grievous sighs and great heart-bursting groans, 
 Till Cormac caught the wonder-working bough 
 And shook it softly o'er them, and forthwith, 
 Soothed by the low, delicious lullaby 
 Those golden apples uttered, they forgot 
 What ill had happ'd them, and arose and went 
 With smiles to meet the Bearer of the Branch. 
 Howbeit with tears King Cormac strode before. 
 
 When lo the youth ! Then Cormac : " See thy price, 
 The heavy price I pledged thee for this branch." 
 " Well hast thou kept thy promise ; wherefore take 
 A blessing for thy truth's sake ; aye, a blessing 
 Shall win thee victory." Thus they went their way
 
 128 FROM THE CELTIC. 
 
 The youth and his companions glad at heart : 
 The other wifeless, childless, full of woe. 
 
 Now on the morrow, when that mournful news 
 Was noised abroad through Erin, loud laments 
 Arose from all the land, but in Teamhair 
 The loudest, from the princes round the throne 
 To lowliest labourer in the royal fields ; 
 So dear beloved was Eithne for her wealth 
 Of queenly wit and wisdom dearer still 
 For constant deeds of thoughtfullest charity ; 
 So dear beloved was Cairbre for his might 
 Of manly youth, not lightly roused to wrath, 
 Yet swift and sure to succour the oppressed ; 
 So dear beloved was Ailbh for her dower 
 Of artless beauty and her voice of song, 
 That held the blackbirds hushed in Derrycarn. 
 
 These, therefore, all the land with many tears 
 Bewailing wept ; and tho' their monarch yearned 
 To share with them his sorrow, ne'ertheless 
 In pity for his people, once again 
 He raised the fairy branch of glittering gold 
 And shook it in their midst, and so subdued 
 Their grief with glamour, till they smiled again.
 
 FROM THE CELTIC. 129 
 
 Yet Cormac's grief possessed him more and more, 
 Seeing he mourned alone ; and though in court 
 He ever kept a seeming cheerful face, 
 Nor lived less instant in his daily round 
 Of royal duty : yet the thoughtful days 
 Of law and chess and judgment lightest lay 
 Upon his suffering spirit. Heavily went 
 The weekly wassail ; sadly shone the dawns 
 Of race and chase, tho' bright to all beside. 
 But darkest gloomed the long, lone day of love ; 
 For then within his palace, without food, 
 He mused, a mournful man ; or wandering 
 From chamber on to chamber, smote 
 His bosom at the silent spinning wheel, 
 The stringless harp, or touched with trembling hand 
 The empty torque of gold, the empty fails 
 That last had clasped the lovely neck and arms, 
 The round white neck and snowy dimpled arms 
 Of Eithn ; or, with heavy foot, awoke 
 A groan from Cairbre"'s armour on the wall 
 A groan his sonless heart gave deeply back ; 
 Or in the distance heard some damsel singing 
 A favourite song of Ailbhe"'s, and drew forth 
 Her golden hair and bathed it in his tears.
 
 ,30 FROM THE CELTIC. 
 
 At last the king's high-ollamh thus began : 
 " O Cormac, son of Art and son of Conn 
 The hundred-battled, let our souls declare 
 What long hath lain a burthen on our peace. 
 We see thee seeming cheerful on the days 
 Of weekly wassail, chess, and race and chase, 
 Yet to the careful eye concealing grief : 
 We mark thee on the morns of law and judgment 
 Discreetly question and deliberate weave 
 Thy ordered thoughts in well-knit weighty speech, 
 Yet miss thee, as of old, on thy discourses 
 Broidering the opal flowers of eloquence, 
 Or flashing through them, to the listener's joy, 
 The diamond ray of reason-dazzling wit. 
 Nay, when that suitor seeking penalty 
 Exceeding great for satire on himself 
 So bitter true, that when big-bellied, bald 
 With blunder-breeding tongue, he raging rose 
 Before the Brehon who rehearsed the rantt, 
 A shout of long, side-shaking laughter broke 
 From all the young at once, till here and there 
 Flashing a furious glance, the satirised 
 Retreated with his paunch toward thee, king, 
 Yet, careless of his trailing scabbard, tripped, 
 And backward staggering with blind hands in air
 
 FROM THE CELTIC. 131 
 
 Caught thy chief cook by his long foxy beard 
 
 Behind the door, and fistful of red hair 
 
 Plumped howling on the pavement. Then ourselves, 
 
 The elders, might no more restrain the mirth 
 
 That swelled our cheeks to bursting. Out it blew 
 
 In bass so brazen or such bleating treble, 
 
 All laughed the louder save thyself alone, 
 
 Only one smile, one faintly flickering smile 
 
 Of dim December sunshine lit thy lips. 
 
 Now in the name of all thy loving people, 
 
 Princes and Lords and Commons, I am come 
 
 Beseeching thee that I may take the Branch 
 
 And shake it o'er thy head and so subdue 
 
 Thy grief with glamour, that the memory 
 
 Of all thine evil loss may from thy mind 
 
 Fade utterly, and again thou may'st arise 
 
 And take to wife the fairest, purest Princess 
 
 Wide-bordered Erin boasts, and sow anew 
 
 Seed-royal that shall richly round thee rise 
 
 Thy manhood's hope, thy flowering fence of age." 
 
 Yet Cormac yielded not his people's prayer, 
 But root-fast in his barren grief endured, 
 Until the leaden-pacing year revolved 
 To the dark day that left him desolate.
 
 1 32 FROM THE CELTIC. 
 
 Then he arose and thrust the Fairy Branch 
 
 Into his bosom and went forth alone 
 
 To that sad region where his Three had left him ; 
 
 When straight a magic mist gathered and gloomed 
 
 Nor melted, till there smote upon his ear 
 
 The sound of manly voices sweetly singing 
 
 To harp and timpan touched with tuneful skill, 
 
 And look, a noble company of youths 
 
 With five slain harts and fifty wearied hounds 
 
 Beneath a mighty hunting-booth carousing 
 
 Upon the mountain. These with gracious greeting 
 
 Rising received him, and their chief approached, 
 
 And in an hospitable hand took his, 
 
 And led him to the seat of utmost honour 
 
 Beside him, and besought him to partake 
 
 Their banquet, ever host-like urging him 
 
 To each its choicest dainties. But the soul 
 
 Of Cormac craved no meats, tho' much he praised them, 
 
 And ever guest-like feigned an unfelt hunger : 
 
 Yet as they spake and jested, and sang and harped, 
 
 Scarce tasting food, he quaffed the circling cup, 
 
 Red with the grape and sweet with heather honey, 
 
 Until his heart grew merry and he forgat 
 
 The Fairy Branch ; then swift his host put forth 
 
 A secret hand to where it shook and sparkled
 
 FROM THE CELTIC. \ 
 
 Within his bosom, when lo ! the three gold apples 
 
 That hung the lowest of the nine rang forth 
 
 A tuneless warning, and the monarch caught 
 
 The robber's wrist, and wrung the bough therefrom, 
 
 And shook it o'er him and his company, 
 
 And forthwith they fell grovelling to the ground 
 
 In the similitude of filthy swine ; 
 
 And Cormac knew that he had scarce escaped 
 
 The Cup of Cursing, that of the face of man, 
 
 Stamped with God's image, makes a bestial front, 
 
 And of the mouth, wherefrom His prayer and praise 
 
 Should chiefly flow a monster's ravening maw. 
 
 Again a mist of magic gathering gloomed 
 Around the king, nor passed from off his path 
 Until a moon of harvest thrilled it through 
 With golden glimmering glory, and he was 'ware 
 Of one apparelled as a princess, crouched 
 Wild weeping on the earth, her reckless hands 
 Rending her radiant hair. And Cormac's heart 
 Was melted, and he asked her of her grief. 
 Then with bowed head she poured a lamentation 
 Of her young hero-lover fallen in fight. 
 And Cormac met her woe with words of solace, 
 And she took comfort and turned to him a face
 
 I 3 4 FROM THE CELTIC. 
 
 Whiter than any swan upon the wave 
 A form of fairer fashion. Then the king 
 Looked closelier at her, and with wonder viewed 
 Her yellow curls, clustering like rings of gold 
 Around her waist, and marked her tearful eyes 
 Dart through their dusky fringes a dewy beam 
 Bluer than ever evening's weeping star 
 Shed through the curtain of a summer's cloud : 
 When suddenly she oped them full on him 
 With wistful gaze, and as she looked a blush 
 Took her pale visage, while her slender hand 
 Stole throbbing into his. A mighty spell 
 Possessed his soul, and nearer still and nearer 
 He drew her, till he breathed her red lips' balm, 
 And passionately had pressed them to his own 
 When lo ! the midmost row of apples rang 
 The warning of the Branch, and in his breast 
 He caught the woman's thievish hand upon it, 
 And wrung it from her grasp, and o'er her head 
 Shook it, and of a sudden her soft, white palm 
 Shrivelled, her lovely apple-blossom cheeks 
 Withered away, her eyes of heavenly blue 
 Grew blear and evil, all her swan-like shape 
 Dwindled and shrank ; till at the last there writhed 
 Whining before him a little crook-back witch.
 
 FROM THE CELTIC. 135 
 
 Once more the magic mist obscured his course, 
 Nor passed until the sun with purple beam 
 Piercing its cloud displayed a goodly group 
 Of sages seated, all with eager speech 
 In such dispute, none knew or seemed to know 
 Cormac had joined him to their company, 
 Until an end was made to their discourse 
 Sophistical of love and life and death. 
 Then with a courteous welcome they inquired 
 His mind upon their thoughts, and led him on, 
 Lauding his judgment, gravely to propound 
 And keenly argue ; till at last he grew 
 So soul-enamoured of their sophistries 
 That when the sage in chief with flattering tongue 
 Besought him bide with them continually 
 Such need, such heavy need had they of one 
 In wit so shrewd, in eloquence so lofty 
 He fain had fared with them, but ere he spoke, 
 The young Branch-bearer's words came back to him : 
 " Well hast thou kept thy promise ; wherefore take 
 A blessing for thy truth's sake aye, a blessing 
 Shall win thee victory" while a tuneless peal 
 Rang from the topmost row of golden apples 
 Upon the Fairy Bough, and Cormac caught 
 The elder's thievish hand within his bosom
 
 I3 6 FROM THE CELTIC. 
 
 Upon the Branch, and wrung it fiercely from him, 
 And shook it o'er him and his sophist crew, 
 And lo ! they vanished gibbering before him, 
 A grinning troop of fleshless skeletons. 
 
 Again the King of Erin went his ways, 
 Nor now had been long journeying, when there stretched 
 An hundred-acred field before him, bright 
 With stocks of golden corn ; three spear-casts further, 
 Crowning a sudden, green, far-looking mound, 
 A mansion, many windowed, sunset-flattered 
 To topaz, ruby, amethyst, shone and sparkled 
 A thousand welcomes, while, behind, a forest 
 Laughed back all emerald. Through the field of corn 
 He swiftly strode, with noble heart presaging 
 His goal at last, and climbed the hill and sought 
 The mansion, took the hand-log in his hand 
 And boldly knocked. Immediate to the wall 
 The door sprang open of its own accord, 
 While from within a mighty summons came, 
 " In God's name, enter ! " Straight he entered in, 
 Following the voice, and reached a royal hall, 
 Huge, black-oak-raftered, silver-pillared, hung 
 Its circuit through with brightly burnished arms,
 
 FROM THE CELTIC. 137 
 
 Elk-antlers, giant boar-tusks, jewelled beakers 
 
 By seven great archways pierced, with couches seven. 
 
 Silk canopied, yew-carven, fine-fur-covered, 
 
 Betwixt each twain ; a royal champion's seat 
 
 Of beaten gold before its blazing hearth, 
 
 And on the seat a princely Chieftain, clad 
 
 In many-coloured raiment, at his side 
 
 A bright apparelled Princess. 
 
 These arose 
 At Cormac's coming, and bespake him thus : 
 
 " Whoe'er thou art, oh Stranger, 'tis no hour 
 To further fare on foot, seeing the sun 
 Is well-nigh set ; then sit thee down with us 
 And share our banquet, and abide the night 
 Beneath our roof, till rosy morn return." 
 Then Cormac, son of Art, sat gladly down. 
 
 " Go forth now to the grove," the woman cried, 
 
 " Oh goodman of the house ; thy spear in hand, 
 For lo ! there lacks sufficiency of meat 
 To sate our want." Therewith the chief arose, 
 His hunting spear in hand, and fared abroad, 
 Nor tarried long without ; but soon returned, 
 A great wood-ranging, acorn-crushing boar, 
 Fresh skinned and cleaned and quartered, on his back, 
 And in his hand a mighty log of pine,
 
 138 FROM THE CELTIC. 
 
 And cast them down before the fire ; and thus 
 To Cormac and the Princess smiling spake : 
 " There have ye meat, now cook it for yourselves." 
 " After what manner?" asked the son of Art. 
 " That I will teach thee," saith his host ; " Arise, 
 And make four quarters of this log of pine, 
 Then lay a quarter log upon the fire, 
 And o'er it one full quarter of the boar, 
 And tell a tale of truth, however short, 
 Above it, and that quarter shall be roast." 
 
 Then Cormac rose and caught a glittering axe, 
 And proved it keen and true, and eyed the wood, 
 And stepping backwards swung the biting steel 
 Once from his shoulder, and the great log fell 
 Clean cleft in twain ; twice, thrice, and smote in half 
 Each equal portion. 
 
 Next the woman laid 
 A quarter faggot on the leaping fire, 
 And o'er it one full quarter of the swine. 
 
 Then Cormac spake : " Since each hath borne his part, 
 Twere ill-befitting that the one, a guest, 
 Should further tell a tale of truth for two 
 His host and hostess." " Right thou art, forsooth," 
 The prince replied. " And now methinks thy speech, 
 Matched with thy noble mien, bewrays thee royal ;
 
 FROM THE CELTIC. 139 
 
 Therefore my story first. 
 
 That boar is one 
 
 Of seven, yet could I feed the world with them ; 
 For I have but to take his bones abroad, 
 And bury them beneath a sacred tree, 
 And, look, the sod begins to sway and surge, 
 Till sudden, from his scarce dug sepulchre, 
 The monstrous beast breaks bellowing away." 
 That tale was true ; and lo ! the flesh was roast. 
 
 " Tell now thy tale, fair princess," saith the king. 
 
 " I will," quoth she, " but do thou first lay down 
 Thy quarter log upon the leaping fire, 
 And o'er it one full quarter of the boar." 
 So it was done. 
 
 " Seven cows are mine," saith she, 
 
 " Snow white from horn to hoof, and not a day 
 Dawns or declines but these with matchless milk 
 Fill seven full kieves, and here's my hand to you, 
 My kine could milk enough to satisfy 
 The souls of all the sons of earth assembled 
 Athirst on yonder plain." 
 
 That tale was true. 
 And lo ! her quarter of the boar was roast. 
 
 Then Cormac : " If thy tale be true indeed 
 Thy husband there is Mananan, thyself
 
 1 40 FROM THE CELTIC. 
 
 His wedded wife ; for on the face of earth 
 Exists there not the owner of such treasures 
 Save Mananan alone, for to Tir Tairrngire 
 He went to seek thy hand and won it well, 
 And therewithal to dower, these wondrous cows, 
 And coughed upon them till he quite constrained 
 Their udders to his will." 
 
 " Full wisely now 
 Hast thou divined us both ! " cried Mananan. 
 
 " But tell a story for thy quarter now." 
 
 " Ay ! sure," saith Cormac, " yet do thou lay down 
 Thy faggot now upon the leaping fire, 
 And over it thy quarter of the swine." 
 So it was done, and thus the King outspake : 
 
 " I come, indeed, upon an anxious quest, 
 For 'tis the year to-day my wife and son 
 And daughter, three most dear on earth to me, 
 Were borne afar." "By whom?" asked Mananan. 
 
 " A youth," the King replied, " there came to me, 
 Bearing a golden branch, for which my heart 
 Conceived so deep desire, I granted him 
 The full award of his own mouth for it, 
 The which he thus pronounced against my peace : 
 ' Therefore I claim thy wife, thy son, thy daughter, - 
 Chaste Eithne*, gallant Cairbre", winsome AilbheV "
 
 FROM THE CELTIC. 141 
 
 " If what thou sayest be true," cried Mananan, 
 " Thyself art Cormac, son of Art, the son 
 Of hundred-battled Conn." " That same am I," 
 Quoth Cormac, " and in quest of these I come. ;> 
 
 That tale was true, and lo ! his quarter roast. 
 
 " Eat now thy meat," bespake him Mananan. 
 
 " I never yet broke bread," the King replied, 
 
 " Having two only in my company." 
 
 " Would'st thou consume it with three more, O Cormac ?'' 
 
 "Yea, good mine host, were they but dear to me." 
 
 Then Mananan arose and oped the door, 
 The farthest from his hearth, and straight led in 
 Chaste Eithne", gallant Cairbre", winsome Ailbhe, 
 And these in utter rapture around him clinging 
 The King embraced with tears and sobs of joy. 
 
 Thereafter Cormac and his queen and children 
 Sat down to meat, and on the festal board 
 A table-cloth of snowy silk was spread. 
 
 " Tis a full precious thing thou see'st before thee, 
 O Cormac, son of Art," saith Mananan ; 
 
 " For never yet was food so delicate 
 But thrice demanded of this charmed cloth 
 Straight stands thereon." " Nay, that indeed is well,"
 
 I 4 2 FROM THE CELTIC. 
 
 Quoth Cormac. Then the other smiling thrust 
 His hand into his girdle and drew forth 
 A golden cup and set it on his palm. 
 
 " A magic marvel is this cup of mine, 
 Seeing no drink can be desired therefrom 
 But look, the same leaps bubbling to its brim ! " 
 
 " That too is well, O Mananan ! " " Moreover, 
 'Tis of the virtues of this magic cup 
 That when a lying tale is told before it, 
 Lo ! it lies broken. Tell a tale of truth, 
 And on the instant it is whole again." 
 
 " Let that be proved, O Mananan ! " " Then give ear, 
 O Cormac ! This thy wife I bore from thee 
 In sooth hath had another husband since." 
 Therewith in pieces lay the fairy cup. 
 
 " A lying tale ! " his princess answered him ; 
 
 " Nor man nor woman hath she seen, save us 
 And these her children dear." That tale was true, 
 And straight the fairy cup was whole again. 
 
 " Priceless possessions verily are these, 
 O Mananan," saith Cormac. " Thine henceforth, 
 Two precious tokens, Cormac, of my friendship, 
 To wit, the charmed cloth and magic cup ; 
 The Fairy Branch, moreover, treasure still. 
 And now the banquet waits us, and believe
 
 FROM THE CRITIC. 143 
 
 That hadst thou here an host in multitude 
 Not one should miss of hospitable cheer. 
 And in this cup I pledge thee, for I searched 
 Thine inmost soul with spells, that thou and these 
 Might share this joyful feast of fellowship." 
 
 Thereafterward they supped right royally ; 
 For not a meat they thought on but that cloth 
 Forthwith displayed, nor any drink desired 
 But straight it sparkled in that magic cup. 
 And for that fairy feast to Mananan 
 The Four gave thanks exceeding, and arose 
 And bade their Hosts good night, and laid them down 
 On kingly couches richly strewn for them, 
 And swiftly fell on slumber and sweet sleep, 
 And where they woke upon the morrow morn 
 Was in their pleasant palace Liathdrum.
 
 I 4 4 FROM THE CELTIC. 
 
 BELTANE 
 
 (See NOTES.) 
 
 OH, mild May day, in Fodla's clime 
 
 Of fairy colour, the laughing prime 
 
 Of leafy summer from year to year, 
 
 I would that Leagha were with me here 
 
 To lie and listen down in a dell 
 
 To Banba's blackbirds warbling well, 
 
 And her cuckoos crying with constant strain 
 
 Welcome, welcome the bright Beltane ; 
 
 When the swallows are skimming the shore, 
 
 And the swift steed stoops to the fountain, 
 And the weak, fair bog-down grows on the moor, 
 
 And the heath spreads her hair on the mountain, 
 And the signs of heaven are in consternation, 
 
 And the rushing planets such radiance pour, 
 That the sea lies lulled, and the generation 
 
 Of flowers awakes once more.
 
 FROM THE CELTIC. 145 
 
 PATRICK AND OISIN. 
 
 (See NOTES.) 
 
 " OISIN, Oisin, too long is thy slumber. 
 Oisin, arise, and give ear to the chant : 
 Thy force hath forsook thee, thy battles are over, 
 And without us, old man, thou would'st perish of want." 
 
 " My force hath forsook me, my battles are over ; 
 Since alas the famed empire of Finn is no more, 
 And without you indeed 'tis for want I should perish, 
 But since Finn sweetest music is music no more." 
 
 " Nay, silly old man, for all of thy vaunting, 
 Of the loud Dord-Finn chorus, the timpan and horn, 
 Thou hast never heard music like matin bells ringing, 
 Or solemn psalms sung in the still summer morn." 
 
 " Though greatly thou praisest the chants of the clerics, 
 I had rather lie listening down in the dale 
 To the voice of the cuckoo of Letter Lee calling ; 
 Or the very sweet thrushes of green Gleann-a-Sgail ;
 
 146 FROM THE CELTIC. 
 
 " Or the song of the blackbird of Derrycarn gushing 
 So full and so free in the woods of the West ; 
 (Oh, Patrick, no hymn under heaven could approach it ! 
 Ah, would that I only were under his nest !) 
 
 " And I'd far liefer hearken the eagle's fierce whistle, 
 From lone Glennamoo or the Ridge by the stream, 
 Or list the loud thunder of rushing Tra-Rury, 
 Or catch on rough Irrus the seagull's scream. 
 
 " And I'd bid long goodbye to the bells of the clerics, 
 Could I once again follow o'er mountain and moor 
 The tune of the twelve fleetest wolf hounds of Erin 
 Let loose with their faces away from the Suir. 
 
 " And Cnu, little Cnu of my bosom, where art thou ? 
 O small fairy dwarf, to the Finians so dear, 
 Whose harp ever soothed all our sorrows to slumber, 
 Ah, Cnu, little Cnu, how I would you were here. 
 
 " Where is now your betrothed one, oh, Cnu, where is Blathnaid, 
 Who stood up in beauty to sing when you played ; 
 For the mouth of no mortal such sweetness could utter, 
 As the soft, rosy mouth of that magical maid."
 
 FROM THE CELTIC. 147 
 
 CUCULLAIN'S LAMENT OVER 
 FERDIAH. 
 
 OH, mightiest of the host of Maev, 
 Ferdiah, sweetest mouth of song, 
 Heroic arm most swift and strong 
 
 To slaughter or to save. 
 
 O curls, O softly rustling wreath 
 
 Of yellow curls that round him rolled, 
 One beauteous belt of glistering gold, 
 
 Who laid you low in death ? 
 
 Blue eyes that beamed with friendship bright 
 Upon me through the battle press, 
 Or o'er the mimic field of chess, 
 
 Who quenched your kingly light ? 
 
 Alas, Ferdiah, overthrown 
 
 By this red hand at last you fell ! 
 My bosom's brother, was it well ? 
 
 Ochone, ochone, ochone !
 
 148 FROM THE CELTIC. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE FAIRY KING. 
 
 QUEEN of women, oh come away, 
 Come to my kingdom strange to see ; 
 
 Where tresses flow with a golden glow, 
 And white as snow is the fair body. 
 
 Under the arching of ebon brows, 
 
 Eyes of azure the soul enthral, 
 And a speech of songs to the mouth belongs, 
 
 And sorrowful sighing shall ne'er befall. 
 
 Bright are the blooms of Innisfail, 
 Green her forests wave in the west : 
 
 But brighter flowers and greener bowers 
 Shall all be ours in that country blest. 
 
 Can her streams compare to the runnels rare 
 
 Of yellow honey and rosy wine 
 That softly slip to the longing lip 
 
 With magic flow through that land of mine ?
 
 FROM THE CELTIC. 149 
 
 We roam the earth in its grief and mirth, 
 
 But move unseen of all therein, 
 For before their gaze there hangs a haze, 
 
 The heavy haze of their mortal sin. 
 
 But our age wastes not, our beauty tastes not 
 
 Evil's apple nor droops nor dies ; 
 Death slays us never, but love for ever 
 
 With stainless ardour illumes our eyes. 
 
 Then, queen of women, oh come away, 
 
 Come and sit on my fairy throne, 
 In a realm of rest with spirits blest, 
 
 Where sin and sorrow are all unknown.
 
 150 FROM THE CELTIC. 
 
 O'CURNAN'S SONG. 
 
 MARY bhan asthore, 
 
 That through my bosom's core 
 Hast pierced me past the Isle of Fodla's healing ; 
 By Heaven, 'tis my belief, 
 Had you but known my grief, 
 Long since to me with succour you'd been stealing. 
 
 With tears the night I waste ; 
 
 No food by day I taste, 
 But wander weak and silent as a shadow ! 
 
 Ah ! if I may not find 
 
 My Mary true and kind, 
 My mother soon must weep, a sonless widow. 
 
 1 know not night from day : 
 
 " Cuckoo ! " the thrushes say ! 
 But how can it be May in dark December ? 
 
 My friends look strange and wild ; 
 
 But hasten, Mary mild, 
 And well my heart its mistress shall remember.
 
 FROM THE CELTIC. 151 
 
 No herb or skill of hand 
 
 My cure can now command, 
 From you, O Flower of Love, alone I'll seek it ; 
 
 Then hasten, hasten here, 
 
 My own and only dear, 
 And in your secret ear I'll softly speak it. 
 
 One sweet kiss from your mouth 
 
 Would quench my burning drouth, 
 And lift me back to life ; ah ! yield it to me ; 
 
 Or make for me my bed 
 
 Among the mouldering dead, 
 Where the winding worms may crawl and channel through me. 
 
 Ah ! better buried so 
 
 Than like a ghost to go, 
 All music, dance, and sport with sighs forsaking ; 
 
 A witless, wandering man 
 
 For the love of Mary bhan, 
 With the heart within my bosom slowly breaking.
 
 152 FROM THE CELTIC. 
 
 CAOINE. 
 
 COLD, dark, and dumb lies my boy on his bed ; 
 Cold, dark, and silent the night dews are shed ; 
 Hot, swift, and fierce fall my tears for the dead ! 
 
 His footprints lay light in the dew of the dawn 
 
 As the straight, slender track of the young mountain fawn ; 
 
 But I'll ne'er again follow them over the lawn. 
 
 His manly cheek blushed with the sun's rising ray, 
 And he shone in his strength like the sun at midday ; 
 But a cloud of black darkness has hid him away. 
 
 And that black cloud for ever shall cling to the skies : 
 
 And never, ah, never, I'll see him arise, 
 
 Lost warmth of my bosom, lost light of my eyes !
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES.
 
 SONG. 
 
 SOME go smiling through the grey time. 
 
 Under naked, songless bowers : 
 Some go mourning all the May time, 
 'Mid the laughing leaves and flowers. 
 Why is this, 
 Rosy Bliss 
 
 Comes to kiss Winter grey ? 
 Why, ah ! why 
 Doth Sorrow sigh 
 On the lap of lovely May ? 
 
 Happy Love, with song and smiling, 
 
 Through the withered woodland goes 
 Hapless Love hath no beguiling 
 From the redbreast or the rose. 
 This is why 
 Woods may sigh,
 
 I 5 6 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Flowers die and hearts be gay : 
 
 This, alas ! 
 
 The piteous pass 
 That leaves us mourning all the May.
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 157 
 
 FROM THE RED ROSE. 
 
 FROM the red rose to the apple-blossom, 
 
 From the apple-blossom to the blue sky, 
 Looking up still in the spring-tide, 
 When none else is by, 
 For a love born 
 On a May morn, 
 Long, long ago, I sigh. 
 
 From the blue sky to the apple-blossom, 
 
 And the roses in row, 
 Looking down still in the spring-tide, 
 Through my garden I go, 
 For a love lost 
 In a spring frost, 
 Singing Heigh ho, heigh ho !
 
 158 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 O BRANCH OF FRAGRANT 
 BLOSSOM. 
 
 O BRANCH of fragrant blossom, 
 
 How the heart in my bosom 
 Lay heaving before you with hopeless sigh ; 
 
 Till your voice grew low and tender, 
 
 And a soft, love-lit splendour 
 Shone out to save me from your dark, dreamy eye. 
 
 O branch of rosy blossom, 
 
 Radiant bride of my bosom, 
 My heart heaves no longer with hopeless sigh ; 
 
 For you 're the blessed shadow 
 
 Upon my burning meadow, 
 My sunshine in winter, and my love till I die.
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 159 
 
 ONE LOVING SMILE. 
 
 O, WHITE and red, 
 
 Above your head 
 The arbutus flowers and berries grow ; 
 
 And underneath 
 
 The blushing heath 
 I've found for luck the heath of snow ; 
 
 And sure 'tis fine 
 
 The foamy line 
 That laughs across the purple bay ; 
 
 But, ah, let slip 
 
 From your ripe lip 
 One loving smile, and where are they ?
 
 160 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 SNOW DRIFT. 
 
 SIGH on, sad wind, 
 
 O'er hill and forest, 
 With thee my spirit 
 
 Would fain go forth : 
 Thus unconfined, 
 
 When grief was sorest, 
 I should inherit 
 
 The dreary north. 
 
 With thee I'd sail 
 
 On viewless pinion 
 O'er snowy spaces 
 
 Where man is not ; 
 And all things wail 
 
 The frost's dominion, 
 And summer's graces 
 
 Are all forgot. 
 
 For my great grief, 
 All solace scorning,
 
 SOtfGS AND SKETCHES. 161 
 
 Abhors the heaven 
 
 She's left a hell : 
 O'er flower and leaf, 
 
 The purple morning, 
 The golden even, 
 
 She spreads a spell. 
 
 Till human speech 
 
 Seems false and hollow 
 In man and woman 
 
 God's image lost. 
 Then I beseech 
 
 That I may follow 
 To haunts inhuman 
 
 Of snow and frost. 
 
 More true and chaste, 
 
 Thou bitter Norland, 
 Than southern languor, 
 
 Hot-blooded jars ; 
 Thy wintry waste, 
 
 Thy solemn foreland, 
 Aurora's anger 
 
 Amongst the stars.
 
 1 62 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Sigh on, sad wind, 
 
 O'er hill and forest, 
 With thee my spirit 
 
 Would fain go forth ; 
 Thus unconfined, 
 
 When grief was sorest, 
 I should inherit 
 
 The dreary north.
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 163 
 
 SHAMROCK LEAVES. 
 
 OH ! if for every tear 
 
 That from our exiled eyes 
 Has fallen, Erin dear, 
 
 A shamrock could arise, 
 We'd weave a garland green 
 
 Should stretch the ocean through, 
 All, all the way between 
 
 Our aching hearts and you !
 
 164 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 SNOW STAINS. 
 
 THE snow had fallen, and fallen from heaven, 
 
 Unnoticed in the night, 
 As o'er the sleeping sons of God 
 
 Floated the manna white ; 
 And still though small flowers crystalline 
 
 Blanched all the earth beneath, 
 Angels with busy hands above 
 
 Renewed the airy wreath ; 
 When, white amid the falling flakes, 
 
 And fairer far than they, 
 Beside her wintry casement hoar 
 
 A dying woman lay. 
 " More pure than yonder virgin snow 
 
 From God comes gently down 
 I left my happy country home," 
 
 She sighed, " to seek the town. 
 More foul than yonder drift shall turn, 
 
 Before the sun is high, 
 Down-trodden and defiled of men, 
 
 More foul," she wept, " am I.
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 165 
 
 Yet, as in midday might confessed, 
 
 Thy good sun's face of fire 
 Draws the chaste spirit of the snow 
 
 To meet him from the mire, 
 Lord, from this leprous life in death 
 
 Lift me, Thy Magdalene, 
 That rapt into Redeeming Light 
 
 I may once more be clean."
 
 1 66 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 A SONG OF THE SEASONS. 
 
 OH ! the Spring's delight 
 
 Is the cowslip bright, 
 As she laughs to the warbling linnet, 
 
 And a whistling thrush 
 
 On a white May bush, 
 And his mate on her nest within it. 
 
 Summer she shows 
 
 Her rose, her rose ! 
 And oh ! all the happy night long 
 
 The nightingale woos her ; 
 
 At dawn the lark sues her, 
 With the crystal surprise of his song. 
 
 King Autumn's crown 
 
 Is the barley brown, 
 Red over with rosy fruit ; 
 
 And the yellow trees, 
 
 As they sigh in the breeze, 
 Are the strings of his solemn lute.
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 167 
 
 Old Winter's breath 
 
 Is cold as death, 
 'Tis lonesome he's left the earth ; 
 
 Yet the thrush he sings, 
 
 And the rose she springs 
 From the flame of his fairy hearth.
 
 168 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 MAUREEN. 
 
 BLUE eyes 'mid ebon lashes lost, 
 Gold hair o'er silver shoulders tossed, 
 Lips crimson coral ivory-crossed 
 Maureen ! 
 
 To-day to confidence beguiled ; 
 To-morrow haughty, wayward, wild ; 
 A woman half and half a child 
 Maureen.
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 169 
 
 SPRING'S SECRETS. 
 
 As once I paused on poet wing 
 
 In the green heart of a grove, 
 I met the Spirit of the Spring, 
 
 With her great eyes lit of Love. 
 
 She took me gently by the hand, 
 And whispered in my anxious ear 
 
 Secrets none may understand, 
 
 Till she make their meaning clear : 
 
 " Why the primrose looks so pale ; 
 
 Why the rose is set with thorns ; 
 Why the magic nightingale 
 
 Through the darkness mourns and mourns." 
 
 She ceased : a leafy murmur sighed 
 Softly through the listening trees. 
 
 Anon she uttered, eager-eyed, 
 These her joyful mysteries :
 
 I7 o SONGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 " How the angels, as they pass 
 
 With their vesture pure and white 
 O'er the shadowy garden grass, 
 Touch the lilies into light : 
 
 " Or with hidden hands of love 
 
 Guide the throstle's wavering wings, 
 But show their faces bright above, 
 Only where the skylark sings."
 
 SOA'GS AND SKETCHES. 171 
 
 THE REJECTED LOVER. 
 
 ON Innisfallen's fairy isle, 
 Amid the blooming bushes, 
 
 We leant upon the lover's stile, 
 And listened to the thrushes ; 
 
 When first I sighed to see her smile, 
 And smiled to see her blushes. 
 
 Her hair was bright as beaten gold, 
 And soft as spider's spinning ; 
 
 Her cheek out-bloomed the apple old 
 That set our parents sinning ; 
 
 And in her eyes you might behold 
 My joys and griefs beginning. 
 
 In Innisfallen's fairy grove 
 I hushed my happy wooing, 
 
 To listen to the brooding dove 
 Amid the branches cooing ; 
 
 But oh ! how short those hours of love, 
 How long their bitter rueing !
 
 172 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Poor cushat thy complaining breast 
 With woe like mine is heaving ; 
 
 With thee I mourn a fruitless quest, 
 For ah ! with art deceiving, 
 
 The cuckoo-bird has robbed my nest, 
 And left me wildly grieving.
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 173 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL BAY. 
 
 (A CADENCE OF KENMARE RIVER.) 
 
 I LIFTED mine eyes and beheld him lying, that Harper old, 
 
 on the green sea-grass, 
 And I said in my heart, " I will rise and seek a lonelier 
 
 spot, O mother dear; 
 For this thy sea and these thy woods, and those thy violet 
 
 hills and vales, 
 At the coming of others, estrange from my soul all their 
 
 low, sweet communings." 
 So I arose. Now he spake no word, but he glanced a 
 
 glance, and his spirit met mine, 
 And swifter than speech, and surer far, thus he answered 
 
 my secret thought. 
 "Avoid not ! I hush not her rich revealings, for I am hers, 
 
 aye, even as thou ; 
 Avoid not, for surely she drew us together, her dearest 
 
 children, for only this, 
 To breathe to us both some tenderer tidings than ever she 
 
 whispered each soul apart."
 
 174 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 I looked in his face, and I believed the eloquent blue of 
 
 the old man's eye, 
 And I knew, by the ruddy rose of his cheek, and the full, 
 
 white flower of his flowing hair, 
 A son, indeed, of Nature's love. I looked, and I loved 
 
 him for her sake, 
 And returned again to my seat in silence, and side by side 
 
 on the soft sea-grass, 
 With the bluest blue of heaven above us, we sat at gaze 
 
 on the Beautiful Bay. 
 Gazing, gazing, oh delight ! for the sea-turn blew from the 
 
 ocean beyond, 
 And ever before his full, sweet voice the Arbutus Islands, 
 
 for utter joy, 
 Shivered in every sparkling leaf, and called, " He comes ! " 
 
 to the wooing waves. 
 And these leaped back with a silver laugh, and cried it to 
 
 all of their crystal clan, 
 And the white smile spread, and hither and thither, with 
 
 dark, swift fingers pointed to shore 
 The wind-flaws darted o'er the dreaming azure, and the 
 
 ripples danced after in a diamond dance, 
 And nearer and nearer the rapture ran, till the cool air 
 
 kissed on the craving cheek.
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 175 
 
 O breathing balm ! O sweet sea-spice ! O wind of the west, 
 
 that most I love ! 
 Now the Sea had risen, and wrestled and lost and wrestled 
 
 and won with the struggling Shore 
 For the golden spoils they win and lose with the Moon 
 
 above for arbitress ; 
 Till only one thin, red torque remained for Ocean's 
 
 triumphant conquesting. 
 Then the sea-turn fluttered with fainting wings, fluttered, 
 
 fluttered, failed, and fell; 
 And the Sun strode down from mountain to mountain, 
 
 kissing their foreheads with his farewell kiss 
 To a happy rose that flushed through heaven, and thrilled 
 
 and trembled out of sight. 
 Then the sweet night fell, and the soft stars shone, and we 
 
 sang, " Good night ! " to the Beautiful Bay.
 
 1 76 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 AMBROSE AND UNA. 
 
 IT was the good Sir Ambrose 
 
 Came spurring to the sea, 
 And to woo the beauteous Una 
 
 From his castle high rode he. 
 
 They plighted their troth together, 
 And sealed it with seals of gold, 
 
 But a month and a day thereafter 
 The good knight slept in the mould. 
 
 Now, alas ! for the Lady Una, 
 
 She made such bitter moan 
 That the dead Sir Ambrose heard her 
 
 From his grave in the churchyard lone. 
 
 Up rose the dead Sir Ambrose, 
 
 All in his shroud of white, 
 And to his true love's bower 
 
 Stole softly through the night.
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 177 
 
 He tapped at his true love's bower, 
 With his hand so long and thin ; 
 " I pray thee, dearest Una, 
 
 Let thy loving bridegroom in." 
 
 But his dear lady answered, 
 
 " I cannot ope the door 
 Till Jesu's name thou namest, 
 
 As thou wast wont before. : ' 
 
 " Rise, oh ! rise, dear Una, 
 
 Nor fear to unbar the door ; 
 I can name the blessed Jesu 
 As I was wont before/' 
 
 Up rose the weeping Una, 
 
 And her bower opened wide, 
 And the dead Sir Ambrose entered 
 
 And sat by her bedside. 
 
 With her golden comb his true love 
 
 Combed out his tresses dear, 
 And each fair lock, as she kissed it, 
 
 She bathed with the bitter tear.
 
 I7 8 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 And " Oh ! tell me, dearest Ambrose, 
 
 By thy Una's love," she said, 
 " How fares it since they laid thee 
 In thy dark and lonesome bed ?" 
 
 " Whenever thy sorrow, Una, 
 
 Is soothed in sacred prayer, 
 Forthwith my gloomy coffin 
 Is filled with roses fair. 
 
 " But whenever, oh ! my Una, 
 Thy grief is wild and loud, 
 Those soft and fragrant roses 
 Turn to tears upon my shroud. 
 
 " Dost hear the red cock crowing ? 
 
 I must no longer stay ; 
 'Tis the hour the churchyard claims us, 
 The sad hour before the day." 
 
 So the good Sir Ambrose turned him, 
 Deep sighing from the door, 
 
 And to the lonely churchyard 
 Went silently once more.
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 179 
 
 But Una followed after, 
 
 And clasped her true love's hand, 
 And forth they fared together 
 
 To the dark and dreadful land. 
 
 They could not speak for sorrow ; 
 
 The grave too soon was nigh ; 
 And Sir Ambrose' fair hair faded 
 
 As flames to ashes die. 
 
 Till, as they stood together, 
 
 Where the dead man's tomb was made, 
 Whilst his cheeks grew wan and hollow, 
 
 Sir Ambrose faintly said : 
 
 " Look up to the sky, my Una, 
 
 For my moments swiftly fail ; 
 Look up and tell me truly 
 Is this the dawning pale ?" 
 
 She turned her sad face from him 
 
 Toward the coming light, 
 When straight the good Sir Ambrose 
 
 Softly melted from her sight.
 
 i8o SONGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 To her bower went poor Una, 
 And prayed to Jesu blest, 
 
 That ere the year was over 
 She, too, might be at rest. 
 
 But the month and the day thereafter 
 
 Upon her bier she lay, 
 And now, with good Sir Ambrose, 
 
 Awaits the Judgment Day.
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 181 
 
 ORPHEUS TO PLUTO. 
 
 OH Thou, whom alone of Immortals 
 
 But to name is a fear among men, 
 Through the gloom of whose terrible portals 
 
 Is no turning again, 
 When, ghost after ghost, to thy regions 
 
 Unlovely to flee we are fain, 
 As the wild winter-swans flock in legions 
 
 Remote o'er the main ! 
 
 I come not with insult Titanic 
 
 To thy consort as Tityos came, 
 Whom to Lust, a perpetual panic, 
 
 Thy retributive flame 
 At her feet laid immense in his anguish ; 
 
 Nor clothed on with Herakles' might, 
 Am I here thy Three-headed to vanquish, 
 
 Dread Monarch of Night !
 
 182 SOJVGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 I, alas, am that Orpheus ill-fortuned, 
 
 Who with song, in his pleasant youth flown, 
 Wooed flowers from waste places, importuned 
 
 Clear streams from the stone ; 
 And with magic maturer united 
 
 Man to man in the graces of art, 
 Till Eros drew bow, and delighted 
 
 Two souls with his smart. 
 
 Spring sisterly smiled on my wooing, 
 
 Summer motherly welcomed my wife ; 
 But a foe, Autumn entered, subduing 
 
 All sweetness of life. 
 For alas, like a pure lily-blossom 
 
 Transfixed by the brier of the brake, 
 She has fallen, the bride of my bosom, 
 
 A spoil to the snake 
 
 Evil beast, that for slaughter lay slunken 
 Subtle-eyed at the shadowy ford, 
 
 What time, scarce escaped from the drunken 
 Unchaste Honey-Lord, 
 
 Up the slope of the Hebrus she hurried, 
 Witless quite of a new foe beneath,
 
 SOJVGS AND SKETCHES, 183 
 
 Till his fangs in her fair flesh he buried 
 The darter of Death. 
 
 Grief-distraught by her side on the morrow, 
 
 With rent raiment and locks dust-defiled, 
 Low I lay, till there stole on my sorrow 
 
 The voice of a child. 
 " Take comfort, sad son of Apollo ! 
 
 Arise, nothing fearing, and lay 
 Thy hand to thy lute-strings, and follow, 
 
 For Love leads the way." 
 
 From the corse my despairful clasp sunders ; 
 
 Hope-flushed the dear harp I invade ; 
 Earth shakes at the sound, the air thunders, 
 
 And the deeps are dismayed. 
 Yea ! the Day Sire above thee, thy brother, 
 
 Tellus old, and the Lord of the Main, 
 Weird laughter with strange sighings smother, 
 
 Mirth with moanings of pain ; 
 
 Whilst a God to thine awful dominion 
 
 Greatly guided my feet from above, 
 The All-wise, All-pervasive-of-pinion, 
 
 Omnipotent Lovel
 
 184 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 On we fared ! Orcus opened to list us ! 
 
 On we fared ! Death herself dropped a tear ! 
 Charon, Cerberus, may not resist us, 
 
 And unharmed we are here. 
 
 Now, O King, for the cause of our mission 
 
 Thou hast heard ; knowing also the worth 
 Of the lost one, at Love's own petition 
 
 Redeem her to earth ! 
 Love, who steered thy black steeds to the meadows 
 
 Of Enna, and won thee the bride, 
 Who now queens it o'er congregate shadows, 
 
 Enthroned at thy side ! 
 Love, the ally, through whom thou prolongest 
 
 Bliss supreme in these joyless abodes ! 
 Love ! Love ! still the weakest, the strongest, 
 
 Eldest, youngest of Gods !
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 185 
 
 SONG: TO E. P. 
 
 WHEN our little Queen was born, 
 Winter first with furious pother 
 
 Flew to fix his icy scorn 
 
 On the infant and the mother. 
 
 But in such a loving fashion 
 
 Side by side he found them laid, 
 
 That to pity all his passion 
 Melting quite, he softly said : 
 
 " Child and mother sleep unharmed ! 
 
 See how vanquished by your beauty 
 Winter's dreadful self disarmed 
 Kneels to do you dearest duty." 
 
 Then a courser blast bestriding, 
 Winter waved his wild adieu, 
 
 And the gentle spring came guiding 
 To the couch her zephyrs blue.
 
 1 86 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Leaning there, the imperial maid, 
 From the crystal car that bore her, 
 
 Lightly her flower-sceptre laid 
 On the lovely babe before her, 
 
 Whisp'ring, " Since thy wiles have driven 
 Winter from my budding bowers, 
 
 Every grace I e'er have given, 
 Mortal maiden, shall be yours. 
 
 " See ! I touch with violets two 
 Lisa's lids, in token tender 
 Of the eyes of modest blue 
 
 That shall most enchantment lend her. 
 
 " Next I lay these mountain daisies, 
 
 Clustering close with crimson tips 
 Round their petals' pearly graces, 
 For a sign on Lisa's lips. 
 
 " Now her tiny cheek I tint 
 
 With this trailing apple blossom, 
 And these snowdrops for a hint 
 Drop into her dainty bosom.
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 187 
 
 " Last for Lisa's heart this pansy ! " 
 
 Here she stooped and whispering spoke. 
 Ere she sped, so fond a fancy 
 That our Lisa smiling woke.
 
 1 88 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 
 
 " WHEN Robin's a big man, what will wee Robin be ? " 
 So he peeped, half afraid, 
 
 From the cozy little nest that in mother's gown he'd made, 
 Our plump, rosy Robin, he peeped out and said : 
 
 " A sailor I will be, 
 
 To sail upon the sea, 
 
 But papa and mamma, won't you sail along with me ? " 
 
 " No ! the captain of the ship wouldn't let mamma sail, 
 He'd only take me." 
 
 " Then oh ! what a cruel man the captain must be, 
 Not to take my dear mamma to sail upon the sea. 
 
 So, papa, I'll be instead, 
 
 A soldier all in red, 
 
 With a sword in my hand and a helmet on my head
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 189 
 
 "And I'll fight, fight, fight, for papa and for mamma." 
 " But if you were killed ? " " Then I'd fly 
 Far away above the clouds O, so, so high, 
 Till I came to our Father on his throne in the sky, 
 
 And ask to be instead 
 
 Of a soldier all in red, 
 
 An angel all in white to keep watch beside your bed."
 
 190 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 MYRTILLA. 
 
 MYRTILLA boasts a marble brow 
 
 By ebon tresses softly swept, 
 Myrtilla's mouth is Cupid's bow 
 
 In rosy nectar newly dipped, 
 And heaven's own azure lights her eyes, 
 
 Her cheek bids roses blush in vain ; 
 Say, shall the lovely nymph surprise 
 
 This bosom with her conquering chain ? 
 
 Nay, I mistrust the studied skill 
 
 That twines her tresses' silken snare ; 
 The honied sigh her lips distil 
 
 Is heaved with too consummate care ; 
 Her eyes, with all too amorous art, 
 
 Now shun, and now upon me shine ; 
 Too well thou hast rehearsed thy part, 
 
 Myrtilla, ever to be mine !
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 191 
 
 LOVE'S SURPRISE. 
 
 HE sang as he lay on Mangerton mountain, 
 
 That Irish knight who had never known love, 
 " What song so sweet as the chiming fountain ? 
 
 What blue so blue as the heaven above?" 
 Fond heart ! for nearer and nearer drew 
 A sweeter voice and an eye more blue. 
 
 " O what can blush by the purple heather ? 
 
 What gold with the gorse-flower dare compare?'' 
 He turned, fond heart, and found them together, 
 
 On her glowing cheek and her glittering hair, 
 Now what for the knight are the hill-flower's dyes, 
 The fountain's voice and the sapphire skies ? 
 
 She had lost her path, that lovely lady, 
 Whose heart had never a lord confessed ; 
 
 O bright she blushed, and gently prayed he 
 Would guide her over the mountain crest ; 
 
 And little loth was the gallant knight 
 
 To squire the steps of that lady bright.
 
 192 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 So he took her hand, and they passed together, 
 The knight and the lady unlearned of love, 
 
 Through the golden gorse and the purple heather 
 O laughingly beamed the blue above, 
 
 And the fountain sang as their feet went by, 
 
 The sibyl fountain, "for aye, for aye."
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 193 
 
 AMCEB^AN. 
 
 HE. 
 
 THE sky has lost the happy lustre 
 It borrowed from her azure eyes, 
 
 The unruly winds around me bluster, 
 Unsoftened by her balmy sighs, 
 
 And for my true love's loss alone 
 
 The thronging town 's a desert grown. 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Along the glen and o'er the heather, 
 With spring's return once more I stray 
 
 Through scenes where oft we've roved together 
 At rosy dawn and gloaming grey ; 
 
 But all these former haunts of bliss, 
 
 Love, without thee their beauty miss ! 
 
 HE. 
 
 By arch triumphal, lordly tower, 
 
 With thoughts like these I soothe my way
 
 I 9 4 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 " What sculptured flower could match her bower 
 
 With wreaths of living roses gay ? 
 And piles superb, and courtly hall, 
 For her sweet cot I'd change you all." 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Now blooms each freshest, fairest blossom, 
 By woodland wild and garden wall, 
 
 Yet pressed unto this aching bosom, 
 
 These faint blue stars are worth them all. 
 
 For being too sad to speak the thought, 
 
 With these he sighed, " Forget me not." 
 
 HE. 
 
 In art supreme, around us, o'er us, 
 Sweet Southern voices rise and float, 
 
 Or swells sublime the lofty chorus, 
 Or dies on one voluptuous note 
 
 But how can mimic transports move, 
 
 After her unfeigned words of love ? 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Let skylarks spring to meet the morrow 
 With lays of jubilant delight,
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 195 
 
 And Philomela's voice of sorrow 
 
 Most passionate plead the livelong night : 
 If of sweet music I have choice, 
 Waft me one echo of his voice. 
 
 HE. 
 
 Oh ! what are city pomp and pride r 
 If Celia be not by my side ? 
 
 SHE. 
 
 Oh ! would that I my way might win 
 To that sweet town he sojourns in *
 
 SOtfGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 LOVE'S SONG. 
 
 LOVE is a boundless bliss : 
 
 All they who share it 
 With lover's look and lover's kiss, 
 
 Surely shall declare it. 
 
 Love is a precious pain : 
 
 No skill can heal it, 
 When they who sigh but sigh in vain 
 
 In their hearts conceal it. 
 
 Love with the crown of life 
 His king and queen covers, 
 
 When gallant man and gentle wife 
 Still are steadfast lovers. 
 
 Ah ! and when envious Death 
 
 One life shall smother, 
 Love with his willow-wreath 
 Crowns that constant other.
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 197 
 
 Young men and maids, for love 
 
 Seek, till ye find it, 
 And having found, win Heaven above 
 
 About your hearts to bind it.
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 COMPANIONS. 
 
 SMILE farewell to Sorrow : 
 Give to Joy good-morrow : 
 And charge him to continue 
 A quiet reign within you. 
 
 Smile farewell to Gladness, 
 Take the hand of Sadness, 
 And wistfully beseech her 
 To be your tender teacher. 
 
 So shall both befriend you, 
 And to the grave attend you ; 
 There Sorrow from you sever, 
 Joy go with you ever.
 
 SOMGS AND SKETCHES. 199 
 
 GOOD NIGHT. 
 
 GOOD night ! good night ! our feast is ended, 
 By young and old with smiles attended ; 
 Where Wit and Worth and Beauty blended, 
 To speed the hours with dance and song. 
 Beauty's smile 
 Free from guile, 
 Wit that shone 
 Wounding none : 
 
 And manly Worth and Woman true, 
 Good night ! and joy go home with you. 
 
 Good night ! and may your minstrel's numbers 
 Still echo on amid your slumbers, 
 To spell-bind every care that cumbers 
 The lover's heart, the mother's breast. 
 
 Beauty, Mirth, 
 
 Wit and Worth
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Fall to sleep 
 Calm and deep, 
 
 Nor rouse, till rosy Morrow call, 
 "Awake, and joy go with you all !"
 
 MUSIC
 
 NOTE. 
 
 Of the following Irish airs only those specified in the 
 Notes at the end of this volume have been harmonised and 
 published as songs to my words. 
 
 Allowance should therefore be made in the case of the 
 other poems in the Musical Appendix, which, though occa- 
 sionally altered to suit the music better, doubtless, here and 
 there require some further modification for the purposes of 
 modern vocalisation. 
 
 A. P. G.
 
 THE LITTLE RED LARK. 
 
 
 Oh, swan of slenderness, 
 Dove of tenderness, 
 
 Jewel of joys, arise ! 
 The little red lark 
 Like a rosy spark 
 
 Of song to his sunburst flies. 
 But till thou art risen 
 Earth is a prison 
 
 Full of my lonesome sighs ; 
 Then awake and discover 
 To thy fond lover 
 
 The mom of thy matchless eyes ! 
 
 The dawn is dark to me ; 
 Hark ! oh, hark to me, 
 
 Pulse of my heart, I pray ! 
 And out of thy hiding 
 With blushes gliding, 
 
 Dazzle me with thy day. 
 Ah, then, once more to thee 
 Flying I'll pour to thee 
 
 Passion so sweet and gay, 
 The lark shall listen, 
 And dewdrops glisten, 
 
 Laughing on every spray.
 
 204 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 LOVE'S WISHES. 
 
 
 -~ iv 
 
 ^S- 
 
 
 ? 
 
 "\ iv N 
 
 
 
 
 
 Would I were Erin's apple-blossom o'er you, 
 
 Or Erin's rose in all its beauty blown, 
 To drop my richest petals down, before you, 
 
 Within the garden where you walk alone ; 
 In hope you'd turn and pluck a little posy, 
 
 With loving fingers through my foliage pressed, 
 And kiss it close and set it blushing rosy 
 
 To sigh out all its sweetness on your breast. 
 
 Would I might take the pigeon's flight towards you, 
 
 And perch beside your window-pane above, 
 And murmur how my heart of hearts it hoards you, 
 
 O hundred thousand treasures of my love ; 
 In hope you'd stretch your slender hand and take me, 
 
 And smooth my wildly-fluttering wings to rest, 
 And lift me to your loving lips and make me 
 
 My bower of blisses in your loving breast.
 
 tfUS 1 C. 
 
 205 
 
 I ONCE LOVED A BOY. 
 
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 I once loved a boy, and a bold Irish boy, 
 
 Far away in the hills of the West ; 
 Ah ! the love of that boy was my jewel of joy, 
 
 And I built him a bower in my breast, 
 In my breast ; 
 
 And I built him a bower in my breast. 
 
 I once loved a boy, and I trusted him true, 
 And I built him a bower in my breast ; 
 
 But away, wirrasthrue ! the rover he flew, 
 And robbed my poor heart of its rest, 
 
 Of its rest ; 
 And robbed my poor heart of its rest. 
 
 The spring-time returns, and the sweet speckled thrush 
 
 Murmurs soft to his mate on her nest, 
 But for ever there's fallen a sorrowful hush 
 
 O'er the bower that I built in my breast, 
 In my breast ; 
 
 O'er the desolate bower in my breast.
 
 206 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 HUSH SONG. 
 
 I would hush my lovely laddo, 
 In the green arbutus' shadow, 
 O'er the fragrant, flowering meadow, 
 In the smiling spring-time. 
 
 Shoheen sho lo, Shoheen hoo lo ! 
 
 I'd hush my boy beside the fountain, 
 By the soothing, silvery fountain, 
 On the pleasant, purple mountain, 
 In the sultry summer. 
 
 Shoheen sho lo, Shoheen hoo lo I 
 
 I would smooth my darling's pillow, 
 By the blue Atlantic billow, 
 On the shores of Parknasilla, 
 In the golden autumn. 
 
 Shoheen sho lo, Shoheen hoo lo I 
 
 I would soothe my child to slumber, 
 By the rosy, rustling ember, 
 Through the days of dark December, 
 In the stormy winter. 
 
 Shoheen sho lo, Shoheen hoo lot 
 
 May no cruel fairy charm thee ! 
 
 May no dread banshee alarm thee ! 
 
 Flood, nor fire, nor sickness harm thee ! 
 Winter, spring, and summer, 
 Summer, autumn, winter, 
 
 Shoheen sho lo, Shoheen hoo lo I
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 207 
 
 THE FOGGY DEW. 
 
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 Oh ! a wan cloud was drawn 
 
 O'er the dim, weeping dawn, 
 As to Shannon's side I returned at last ; 
 
 And the heart in my breast 
 
 For the girl I loved best 
 Was beating ah beating, how loud and fast ! 
 
 While the doubts and the fears 
 
 Of the long, aching years 
 Seemed mingling their voices with the moaning flood ; 
 
 Till full in my path, 
 
 Like a wild water-wraith, 
 My true love's shadow lamenting stood. 
 
 But the sudden sun kissed 
 
 The cold, cruel mist 
 Into dancing showers of diamond dew ; 
 
 The dark flowing stream 
 
 Laughed back to his beam, 
 And the lark soared singing aloft in the blue ; 
 
 While no phantom of night, 
 
 But a form of delight 
 Ran with arms outspread to her darling boy : 
 
 And the girl I love best 
 
 On my wild, throbbing breast 
 Hid her thousand treasures, with a cry of joy.
 
 208 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 A lovely lass with modest mien 
 
 Stole out one morning early ; 
 The dew-drops glancing o'er the green 
 
 Made all her pathway pearly. 
 Young Lawrence struck with Cupid's dart, 
 
 Cupid's dart distressing, 
 As through the fields he saw her start, 
 
 Sighed, " She's gone confessing ! 
 O vo ! 'twould ease my heart 
 
 To earn the father's blessing." 
 
 The Father, with a twinkling eye, 
 
 He watched my boyo cunning, 
 Unnoticed by his colleen's eye 
 
 Behind the bushes running. 
 " How well," he laughed, "young Lawrence there, 
 
 After all my pressing, 
 With his sweetheart, I declare, 
 
 Comes at last confessing. 
 Oho ! I'll just take care 
 
 To give the lad a lesson."
 
 MUSIC. 209 
 
 The pleasant priest unbarred the door, 
 
 As solemn as a shadow, 
 "How slow," cried he, "you've come before, 
 
 How hot-foot now, my laddo. 
 The serious steal with looks sedate, 
 
 Seeking to be shriven, 
 But you, you're in no fitting state 
 
 Now to be forgiven, 
 So go within and wait 
 
 With all your thoughts on heaven. " 
 
 The fair one following in a while 
 
 Made out her faults with meekness ; 
 The priest then asked her with a smile 
 
 Had she no other weakness, 
 And led with that young Lawrence in ; 
 
 Her cheeks were now confessing. 
 "Well, since 'tis after all a sin 
 
 Easy of redressing, 
 Here, dear, I'd best begin 
 
 To give you both my blessing,"
 
 219 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 MAUREEN, MAUREEN ! 
 
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 Oh ! Maureen, Maureen, have you forgotten 
 
 The fond confession that you made to me, 
 While round us fluttered the white bog cotton, 
 
 And o'er us waved the wild arbutus tree ? 
 Like bits of sky bo-peeping through the bower, 
 
 No sooner were your blue eyes sought than flown, 
 Till white and fluttering as the cotton flower 
 
 Your slender hand it slipped into my own. 
 
 Oh ! Maureen, Maureen, do you remember 
 
 The faithful promise that you pledged to me 
 The night we parted in black December 
 
 Beneath the tempest-tossed arbutus tree, 
 When faster than the drops from heaven flowing 
 
 Your heavy tears they showered with ceaseless start, 
 And wilder than the storm-wind round us blowing 
 
 Your bitter sobs they smote upon my heart ?
 
 MUSIC. 211 
 
 Oh ! Maureen, Maureen, for your love only 
 
 I left my father and mother dear ; 
 Within the churchyard they're lying lonely, 
 
 'Tis from their tombstone I've travelled here. 
 Their only son, you sent me o'er the billow, 
 
 Ochone ! though kneeling they implored me stay ; 
 They sickened with no child to smooth their pillow ; 
 
 They died. Are you as dead to me as they ? 
 
 Oh ! Maureen, must then the Jove I bore you 
 
 Seven lonesome summers of longing trust 
 Turn like the fortune I've gathered for you, 
 
 Like treacherous fairy treasure, into dust ? 
 But Maureen bawn asthore, your proud lips quiver ; 
 
 Into your scornful eyes the tears they start ; 
 Your rebel hand returns to mine for ever ; 
 
 Oh ! Maureen, Maureen, never more we'll part.
 
 212 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 WHEN I ROSE IN THE MORNING. 
 
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 When I rose in the morning, 
 
 My heart full of woe, 
 I implored all the song birds 
 
 Why their mates on the bough 
 To their pleading gave heeding, 
 
 While Kate still said "No ;" 
 But they made no kind answer 
 
 To a heart full of woe. 
 
 Till the wood-quest at noon, 
 
 From the forest below, 
 He taught me his secret 
 
 So tender and low 
 Of stealing fond feeling 
 
 With sweet notes of woe, 
 Coo-cooing so soft 
 
 Through the green leafy row. 
 
 The long shadows fell. 
 
 And the sun he sank low, 
 And again I was pleading 
 
 In the im'ld evening glow : 
 "Ah! Kitty, have pity !" 
 
 Then how could she say "No." 
 So for ever I'm free 
 
 From a heart full of woe.
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 213 
 
 'TIS A PITY I CANT SEE MY LOVE. 
 
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 On his flute of gold the blackbird bold 
 Love's tale to his melting mate has told, 
 
 And now the thieves have started ; 
 And o'er the ground, in fluttering round, 
 Enamoured fly, whilst you and I 
 
 In lonesome pain are parted. 
 
 But when hearts beat true through the night of sorrow, 
 They're blest the more when the magic morrow 
 
 Its rosy ray has darted. 
 Fortune may wave her wings and fly, 
 But she'll flutter back again by and by, 
 
 And crown the constant-hearted. 
 
 These birds that pair in the April air 
 Forget their faith on the branches bare, 
 
 By autumn blasts affrighted, 
 And to fresh loves sing with the start of spring ; 
 When you and I with a golden ring 
 
 In joy shall be united. 
 
 For when hearts beat true through the night of sorrow, 
 They're blest the most when the marriage morrow 
 
 Its lamp of love has lighted. 
 Fortune may wave her wings and fly, 
 But she'll flutter back to us by and by, 
 
 And crown the troth we've plighted.
 
 214 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 WITH THE NORTH. 
 
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 With lip contemptuous curling, 
 
 She cried, ' ' Is our flag above 
 Fold on fold unfurling, 
 
 And Patrick pleading love ? 
 Oh ! yes, when patriots hand in hand 
 Unite to free their foster-land 
 From slavery's accursed band, 
 
 What true man woos a woman ? 
 Then with my bitter scorning 
 
 Go, live and die a slave, 
 Or in the morning 
 
 March out with the brave."
 
 MUSIC. 215 
 
 " We'll steal a march on sorrow," 
 
 He sighed, our Captain grey, 
 " Sound the drum to-morrow 
 
 Before the dawn of day." 
 But ere the drum's first muffled beat 
 The women crowded down the street, 
 How many never more to meet 
 
 Their death-devoted heroes. 
 Thus as we left the city 
 
 My proud one weeping came 
 Full of sweet pity, 
 
 And blessed, and blessed my name. 
 
 Oh ! have you seen Atlantic 
 
 Advance his green, resistless line 
 Against the cliffs gigantic, 
 
 And bury them in brine ? 
 Thus on our stubborn foe we fell, 
 Death's lightning darting from our steel, 
 Whilst round us every cannon peal 
 
 A hero's requiem thundered t 
 And still with forward faces 
 
 Went down our dauntless men, 
 And still to their places 
 
 As gallant hearts stepped in. 
 
 Till to a sunburst glorious, 
 
 That all the field of battle fired, 
 Before our van victorious 
 
 The sullen South retired. 
 Then peace returned, and from the war 
 Our banner bright with many a star 
 *Twas mine to flutter from afar 
 
 In triumph to our city ; 
 Till I at last could wreathe it 
 
 Around my true love's heart, 
 And we kissed beneath it, 
 
 Oh ! never more to part
 
 216 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 JENNY, I'M NOT JESTING. 
 
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 "Ah, Jenny, I'm not jesting, 
 Believe what I'm protesting, 
 And yield what I'm requesting 
 
 These seven years through." 
 "Ah, Lawrence, I may grieve you ; 
 Yet, if I can't relieve you, 
 Sure, why should I deceive you 
 
 With words untrue. 
 But, since you must be courtin', 
 There's Rosy and her fortune, 
 'Tis rumoured your consortin' 
 
 With her of late. 
 Or there's your cousin Kitty, 
 So charming and so witty, 
 She'd wed you out of pity, 
 
 Kind Kate." 
 
 "Fie! Jenny, since I knew you, 
 Of all the lads that woo you, 
 None's been so faithful to you, 
 
 If truth were told ; 
 Even when yourself was dartin' 
 Fond looks at fickle Martin, 
 Till off the thief went startin' 
 
 For Sheela's gold." 
 "And, if you've known me longest, 
 Why should your love be strongest, 
 And his that's now the youngest, 
 
 For that be worst ?" 
 "Fire, Jenny, quickest kindled 
 Is always soonest dwindled, 
 And thread the swiftest spindled 
 Snaps first."
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 217 
 
 "If that's your wisdom, Larry, 
 The longer I can tarry, 
 The luckier I shall marry 
 
 At long, long last." 
 "I've known of girls amusing, 
 Their minds, the men refusing, 
 Till none were left for choosing 
 At long, long last." 
 
 "Well, since it seems that marriage 
 Is still the safest carriage, 
 And all the world disparage 
 
 The spinster lone ; 
 Since you might still forsake me, 
 I think I'll let you take me. 
 Yes ! Larry, you may make me 
 
 Your own J"
 
 218 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 THE HOUR WE PARTED. 
 
 CT- V- 
 
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 The hour we parted, 
 When broken-hearted 
 You clung around me, 
 
 Maureen, aroo, 
 I swore I'd treasure, 
 Thro' pain and pleasure, 
 Thro' health and sickness, 
 
 My love for you. 
 And still that jewel, 
 Thro' changes cruel 
 Of fickle Fortune 
 
 I'll jealous guard ; 
 Still let her vary, 
 The jade contrary, 
 If but my Mary 
 
 Be my reward. 
 
 Yes ! scorn and anger, 
 Distress and languor, 
 They're welcome willing, 
 
 The long day thro', 
 Could I feel certain 
 That ev'ning's curtain 
 But clos'd us nearer, 
 
 Maureen, aroo ! 
 
 The dreamy shadows 
 Along the meadows 
 Go softly stealing, 
 
 And falls the dew ; 
 And o'er the billows, 
 Like faithful swallows, 
 All, all my thoughts, dear, 
 
 Fly home to you. 
 
 With touches silken, 
 I see you milking 
 The Grossest Kerry 
 
 In Adragole ; 
 And like a fairy 
 You're singing, Mary, 
 Till every keeler 
 
 Is foaming full. 
 The night is falling, 
 And you are calling 
 The cattle homeward, 
 
 With coaxing tone ; 
 In God's own keeping, 
 Awake or sleeping, 
 'Tis now I leave you, 
 
 Maureen, mavrone !
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 219 
 
 THE SMITH'S SONG. 
 
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 "Ding dong, didilium! the big sledge is swinging, 
 Ding dong, didilium ! the little hammer's ringing, 
 Ding dong, didilium ! set the bellows snoring : 
 Ding dong, didilium ! the red fire is roaring. 
 Hush, boys, and hark, boys, I hear a pair eloping, 
 Hush, boys, and hark, boys, they'll go free, I'm hoping, 
 Ding dong, didilium ! I hear a shoe clinking, 
 Ding dong, didilium ! there's need of nails, I'm thinking. 
 Ding dong, didilium I the big sledge is swinging, 
 Ding dong, didilium I the little hammer's ringing" 
 
 "For Heaven's sake, a shoe, smith 1" "Your honor, here 'tis ready; 
 Woa, mare, and so, mare, and steady, girl, steady ! 
 Ding dong, didilium ! off goes the carriage, 
 Ding dong, didilium ! good luck be with the marriage. Ding dong, &c. 
 
 "Hush, boys, and hark, boys, I hear the kettle drumming, 
 'Drimin dhu, drimin dhu,' King James's horse are coming; 
 Up, on the thatch, where my pretty pikes are hidden, 
 And have them all handy and bright when you're bidden. "Ding dong, 6v. 
 
 "For Heaven's sake, the pikes, smith!" "They're here for your picking, 
 Long pikes and strong pikes, and pikes for Dutchmen-sticking! 
 Ding dong, didilium ! cursing in their cruppers, 
 Here jog the Mynherrs, 'tis time for our suppers." Ding dong, <Srv.
 
 220 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 PLERACA. 
 
 
 
 
 Beimeedh a gole I 
 
 Fill up the bowl, 
 
 Let us console 
 Dull care with a glass, boys ! 
 
 Shall it be wine, 
 
 Fragrant and fine, 
 
 Fresh smuggled from Spain underneath a mattrass, boys? 
 No ! all of those pleasant 
 
 Casks out of Cadiz 
 Leave as a present, 
 
 Lads, for the ladies ! 
 But for ourselves, sure 
 
 What should we say 
 But Whiskey for ever ! 
 
 Till dawning of day.
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 Beimeedh a golel 
 
 Wasn't it droll, 
 
 He that first stole 
 Fire from Heaven's grate, boys, 
 
 Look now, was left, 
 
 Chained to a cleft, 
 
 A century through, for an aigle to ate, boys ! 
 St. Pat, though, when stealing 
 
 Fire from that quarter, 
 Kept it concealing 
 
 Snug under water ; 
 Till he'd conveyed it 
 
 Safe to the ground, 
 Then looked, and, begorra, 
 
 'Twas whiskey he found. 
 
 Beimeedh a gole I 
 
 Each with his poll 
 
 Quite in control, 
 For all its containing ; 
 
 Smiling we sit, 
 
 Warming our wit 
 
 With nectar the Gods might begrudge us the draining. 
 Now, ere we go snoozing 
 
 Under the clothes, 
 Don't be refusing 
 
 One health I propose. 
 Here's to the darling, 
 
 Pale as the dew, 
 That pounds Purple Bacchus 
 
 And all of his crew !
 
 222 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 SONG OF THE GHOST. 
 
 When all were dreaming 
 
 But Pastheen Power, 
 A light came streaming 
 
 Beneath her bower : 
 A heavy foot 
 
 At her door delayed, 
 A heavy hand 
 
 On the latch was laid. 
 
 "Now who dare venture, 
 
 At this dark hour, 
 Unbid to enter 
 
 My maiden bower ?" 
 "Dear Pastheen, open 
 
 The door to me, 
 And your true lover 
 
 You'll surely see. " 
 
 "My own true lover, 
 So tall and brave, 
 Lives exiled over 
 
 The angry wave. " 
 "Your true love's body 
 
 Lies on the bier, 
 His faithful spirit 
 Is with you here. " 
 
 "His look was cheerful, 
 His voice was gay; 
 Your speech is fearful, 
 Your face is grey ; 
 
 And sad and sunken 
 
 Your eye of blue, 
 But Patrick, Patrick, 
 
 Alas ! 'tis you !" 
 
 Ere dawn was breaking 
 
 She heard below 
 The two cocks shaking 
 
 Their wings to crow. 
 'Oh, hush you, hush you, 
 
 Both red and grey, 
 Or you will hurry 
 
 My love away. 
 
 'Oh, hush your crowing, 
 
 Both grey and red, 
 Or he'll be going 
 
 To join the dead; 
 Oh, cease from calling 
 
 His ghost to the mould, 
 And I'll come crowning 
 
 Your combs with gold." 
 
 When all were dreaming 
 
 But Pastheen Power, 
 A light went streaming 
 
 From out her bower ; 
 And on the morrow, 
 
 When they awoke, 
 They knew that sorrow 
 
 Her heart had broke.
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 223 
 
 COLLEEN OGE ASTHORE. 
 
 When I marched away to war, 
 How you kissed me o'er and o'er : 
 
 Weeping, pressed me ; 
 
 Sobbing, blessed me ; 
 Colleen, colleen oge asthore. 
 
 I was wounded, wounded sore, 
 Dead, your father falsely swore ; 
 
 Mad to harry 
 
 You to marry 
 One with miser-gold in store. 
 
 Ah ! but when you dreamed me dead, 
 Forth you flew a wildered maid : 
 
 Ever grieving, 
 
 Ever weaving 
 Willow, willow for your head. 
 
 'Nay, he lives," your mother said, 
 But you only shook your head ; 
 "Why deceive me? 
 
 Ah ! believe me, 
 Mother, mother, he is dead." 
 
 So you pined and pined away, 
 Till, when in the winter grey 
 
 Home I hasted, 
 
 Wan and wasted, 
 Colleen, colleen oge, you lay. 
 
 "Tis his lonesome ghost, "you said, 
 "Come to call me to the dead;" 
 "Nay, discover 
 
 Your dear lover 
 Longing now at last to wed. " 
 
 Then your cheek, so pale before, 
 With the rose of hope once more, 
 
 Faintly, slowly, 
 
 Brightly, wholly, 
 Blossomed, colleen oge asthore. 
 
 Till upon the chapel floor, 
 
 Side by side, we knelt and swore, 
 
 Duty dearest, 
 
 Love sincerest, 
 Colleen, colleen oge asthore.
 
 224 
 
 MUSIC, 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF THE EARLS 
 
 
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 PS 
 
 
 To other shores across the sea 
 
 We speed with swelling sail ; 
 Yet still there lingers on our lee 
 
 A phantom Innisfail. 
 Oh fear, fear not, gentle ghost, 
 
 Your sons shall turn untrue ! 
 Though fain to fly your lovely coast, 
 
 They leave their hearts with you. 
 
 As slowly into distance dim 
 
 Your shadow sinks and dies, 
 So o'er the ocean's utmost rim 
 
 Another realm shall rise ; 
 New hills shall swell, new vales expand, 
 
 New rivers winding flow, 
 But could we for a foster land 
 
 Your mother-love forego ? 
 
 Shall mighty Espan's martial praise 
 
 Our patriot pulses still, 
 And o'er your memory's fervent rays 
 
 For ever cast a chill ? 
 Oh, no! we live for your relief, 
 
 Till home from alien earth 
 We share the smile that gilds your grief, 
 
 The tear that gems your mirth.
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 A SAILOR LOVED A FARMER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 2.1 
 
 IT 
 
 A sailor once wooed a farmer's daughter, 
 
 The fairest lass in all the country side. 
 She loved him well ; but when he besought her 
 
 With beating, beating heart to be his bride, 
 "A sailor lad," she said, "I'll never, never wed, 
 
 And live a wife and widow all in one ; 
 O no, my charmer shall be a farmer, 
 
 Returning faithful with the set of sun."
 
 226 MUSIC. 
 
 At danger's call, across the water 
 
 The sailor went, but left his heart behind ; 
 Fresh lovers whispered the farmer's daughter ; 
 
 Yet when they prayed her to confess her mind, 
 "A farmer's lad," she said, " I'll never, never wed, 
 
 When heroes bleed to guard their native strand. 
 Till war is over I need no lover : 
 
 Then let the stoutest soldier claim my hand." 
 
 When peace returned, escaped from slaughter, 
 . With stars and crosses home our warriors came, 
 
 And some went wooing the farmer's daughter, 
 
 But none could charm the lass to change her name ; 
 Until once more from far a gallant, gallant tar 
 
 Began with beating heart his love to tell ; 
 And sweetly turning, with blushes burning, 
 
 She sighed: "Since first we met I've loved you well J'
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 227 
 
 FATHER O'FLYNN. 
 
 Of priests we can offer a charmin' variety, 
 Far renowned for larnin' and piety ; 
 Still, I'd advance ye widout impropriety, 
 Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Here's a liealth to you, Father G 1 Flynn, 
 Slaintt, and slainli, and slaintt agin ; 
 
 Powerfulest preacher, and 
 
 Tinderest teacher, and 
 Kindliest creature in ould Donegal. 
 
 Don't talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity, 
 Famous for ever at Greek and Latinity, 
 Faix and the divels and all at Divinity, 
 Father O'Flynn 'd make hares of them all ! 
 Come, I vinture to give ye my word, 
 Never the likes of his logic was heard, 
 Down from mythology 
 Into thayology, 
 Troth I and conchology if he'd the call. Chorus.
 
 228 MUSIC. 
 
 Och ! Father O'Flynn you've the wonderful way wid you, 
 All ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you, 
 All the young childer are wild for to play wid you. 
 You've such a way wid you, Father avick ! 
 Still for all you've so gentle a soul, 
 Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control ; 
 Checking the crazy ones, 
 Coaxin' onaisy ones, 
 Liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick. Chorus. 
 
 And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity, 
 Still at all seasons of innocent jollity, 
 Where was the play-boy could claim an equality 
 At comicality, Father, wid you ? 
 
 Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest, 
 Till this remark set him off wid the rest : 
 " Is it lave gaiety 
 All to the laity ? 
 Cannot the clergy be Irishmen too?" Chorus.
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 229 
 
 TWAS PRETTY TO BE IN BALLINDERRY. 
 
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 tung an octave lower. 
 
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 Twas pretty to be in Ballinderry, 
 'Twas pretty to be in Aghalee, 
 Twas prettier to be in little Ram's Island, 
 Trysting under the ivy tree I 
 
 Ochone, ochone ! 
 
 Ochone, ochone! 
 
 For often I roved in little Ram's Island, 
 Side by side with Phelimy Hyland, 
 And still he'd court me and I'd be coy, 
 Though at heart I loved him, my handsome boy ! 
 
 "I'm going," he sighed, "from Ballinderry 
 
 Out and across the stormy sea ; 
 
 Then if in your heart you love me, Mary, 
 
 Open your arms at last to me." 
 
 Ochone, ochone ! 
 
 Ochone, ochone ! 
 
 I opened my arms ; how well he knew me ! 
 I opened my arms and took him to me ; 
 And there, in the gloom of the groaning mast, 
 \Ve kissed our first and we kissed our last!
 
 230 MUSIC. 
 
 Twas happy to be in little Ram's Island, 
 
 But now 'tis sad as sad can be ; 
 
 For the ship that sailed with Phelimy Hyland 
 
 Is sunk for ever beneath the sea. 
 
 Ochone, ochone ! 
 
 Ochone, ochone ! 
 
 And 'tis oh ! but I wear the weeping willow, 
 And wander alone by the lonesome billow, 
 And cry to him over the cruel sea, 
 "Phelimy Hyland, come back to me !"
 
 M US 1 C. 
 
 231 
 
 MY BONNY CUCKOO. 
 
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 My bonny cuckoo, come whisper true ! 
 Around the world I'd rove with you ; 
 I'd rove with you until the next spring, 
 And still my cuckoo would sweetly sing, 
 "Cuckoo ! cuckoo I" until the next spring ; 
 "Cuckoo ! cuckoo !" until the next spring. 
 
 The ash and the hazel shall mourning say, 
 "Oh, merry cuckoo, don't fly away 1 
 The winter wind is rude and keen ; 
 Oh, cuckoo, stay and keep us green ! 
 Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! oh stay ! oh stay 1 
 And make the season for ever May !" 
 
 The thrush and the robin shall sadly cry, - 
 "Our bonny cuckoo, oh, do not fly ! 
 For when you spread your speckled wing 
 We have no longer heart to sing. 
 Cuckoo, cuckoo, still lead our tune, 
 And make the season for ever June !" 
 
 The lads and the lasses together stand, 
 And call their cuckoo from off the strand, 
 41 How can you leave us, bird of love, 
 With the green below and the blue above ? 
 Oh no I oh no ! you shall not go, 
 With the blue above and the green below."
 
 232 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 JACK THE JOLLY PLOUGHBOY. 
 
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 As Jack the jolly ploughboy was ploughing through his land, 
 He turned his share and shouted to bid his horses stand, 
 Then down beside his team he sat, contented as a king, 
 And Jack he sang his song so sweet he made the mountains ring 
 
 With his Ta-ran-nan nanty na, 
 
 Sing ta-ran-nan nanty na, 
 While the mountains all ringing re-echoed the singing 
 
 Of ta-ran-nan nanty na. 
 
 'Tis said old England's sailors, when wintry tempests roar, 
 Will plough the stormy waters, and pray for those on shore ; 
 But through the angry winter the share, the share for me, 
 To drive a steady furrow, and pray for those at sea. 
 
 With my Ta-ran-nan nanty na, &c., &c.
 
 MUSIC. 233 
 
 When heaven above is bluest, and earth most green below, 
 Away from wife and sweetheart the fisherman must go, 
 But golden seed I'll scatter beside the girl I love 
 And smile to hear the cuckoo and sigh to hear the dove, 
 
 With my Ta-ran-nan nanty na, &c., &c. 
 
 'Tis oft the hardy tishers a scanty harvest earn 
 And gallant tars from glory on wooden legs return, 
 But a bursting crop for ever shall dance before my flail, 
 For I'll live and die a farmer all in the Golden Vale. 
 
 With my Ta-ran-nan nanty na, &c., &c.
 
 234 
 
 M US 1 C. 
 
 C AO I N E. 
 
 
 TTrj I . J r> I J J Ij 1-jJ^^^^ 
 
 n 
 
 if 
 
 ** 
 
 Cold, dark, and dumb lies my boy on his bed ; 
 Cold, dark, and silent the night dews are shed ; 
 Hot, swift, and fierce fall my tears for the dead ! 
 
 His footprints lay light in the dew of the dawn 
 
 As the straight, slender track of the young mountain fawn 
 
 But I'll ne'er again follow them over the lawn. 
 
 His manly cheek blushed with the sun's rising ray, 
 And he shone in his strength like the sun at midday ; 
 But a cloud of black darkness has hid him away. 
 
 And that black cloud for ever shall cling to the skies : 
 
 And never, ah, never, I'll see him arise, 
 
 Lost warmth of my bosom, lost light of my eyes 1
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 235 
 
 THE REJECTED LOVER. 
 
 
 
 
 
 On Innisfallen's fairy isle, 
 
 Amid the blooming bushes, O ! 
 
 We leant upon the lover's stile, 
 And listened to the thrushes, O ! 
 
 When first I sighed to see her smile, 
 And smiled to see her blushes, O ! 
 
 Her hair was bright as beaten gold, 
 And soft as spider's spinning, O ! 
 
 Her cheek out-bloomed the apple old 
 That set our parents sinning, O ! 
 
 And in her eyes you might behold 
 My joys and griefs beginning, O ! 
 
 In Innisfallen's fairy grove 
 I hushed my happy wooing, O ! 
 
 To listen to the brooding dove 
 Amid the branches cooing, O t 
 
 But oh ! how short those hours of love, 
 How long their bitter rueing, oh ! 
 
 Poor cushat thy complaining breast 
 With woe like mine is heaving, oh ! 
 
 With thee I mourn a fruitless quest, 
 For ah ! with art deceiving, oh ! 
 
 The cuckoo-bird has robbed my nest, 
 And left me wildly grieving, oh !
 
 236 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 IRISH SPINNING WHEEL SONG. 
 
 
 m 
 
 Show me a sight 
 
 Bates for delight 
 An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it 
 
 O! No! 
 
 Nothin' you'll show 
 Aquals her sittin' and takin' a twirl at it. 
 
 Look at her there, 
 
 Night in her hair 
 The blue ray of day from her eye laughin' out on us \ 
 
 Faix, an' a foot, 
 
 Perfect of cut, 
 Peepin' to put an end to all doubt in us 
 
 That there's a sight 
 
 Bates for delight 
 An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it. 
 
 O ! No! 
 
 Nothin' you'll show 
 Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. 
 
 How the lamb's wool 
 
 Turns coarse an' dull 
 By them soft, beautiful, weeshy, white hands of her ; 
 
 Down goes her heel, 
 
 Roun' runs the reel, 
 Purrin' wid pleasure to take the commands of her.
 
 MUSIC. 237 
 
 Then show me a sight 
 
 Bates for delight 
 An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it. 
 
 O! No! 
 
 Nothin' you'll show 
 Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. 
 
 Talk of Three Fates, 
 
 Seated on seats, 
 Spinnin' and shearin' away till they've done for me. 
 
 You may want three 
 
 For your massacree ; 
 But one fate for me, boys, and only the one for me. 
 
 And 
 
 Isn't that fate, 
 
 Pictured complate, 
 An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it ? 
 
 O! No! 
 
 Nothin' you'll show 
 Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it .
 
 238 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 IRISH LULLABY. 
 
 te 
 
 3=3P 
 
 
 ^ 1 
 
 
 
 ^' 1* 
 
 
 
 
 ^ ~ 
 
 * 
 
 
 
 r 1 
 
 -i*-i 
 
 
 LJ 
 
 I'd rock my own sweet childie to rest in a cradle of gold on a bough of 
 
 the willow, 
 
 To the shoheen sho of the wind of the west and the sho hoo lo of the soft 
 sea billow. 
 
 Sleep, baby dear, 
 Sleep without fear, 
 Mother is here beside your pillow. 
 
 I'd put my own sweet childie to sleep in a silver boat on the beautiful 
 
 river, 
 
 Where a shoheen whisper the white cascades, and a sho hoo lo the green 
 flags shiver. 
 
 Sleep, baby dear, 
 Sleep without fear, 
 Mother is here with you for ever. 
 
 Sho hoo lo! to the rise and fall of mother's bosom 'tis sleep has bound 
 
 you, 
 
 And O, my child, what cozier nest for rosier rest could love have found 
 you? 
 
 Sleep, baby dear, 
 Sleep without fear, 
 Mother's two arms are clasped around you.
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 239 
 
 GOOD NIGHT. 
 
 in 
 
 ' 
 
 r-*-P *-* 
 
 I' ' ' * ' I 
 
 Now ! good night ! our feast is ending, 
 Where in laughing troops attending ; 
 Wit and worth and beauty blending 
 Sped the hours with dance and song. 
 Beauty's smile 
 Free from guile, 
 Wit that shone 
 Wounding none : 
 
 And manly worth and woman true, 
 Good night ! and joy go home with you. 
 
 Good night ! and may your minstrel's numbers 
 Echoing on amid your slumbers, 
 Spell-bind every care that cumbers 
 Lover's heart, and mother's breast. 
 
 Beauty, mirth, 
 
 Wit and worth 
 
 Fall to sleep 
 
 Calm and deep, 
 
 Nor rouse, till rosy morrow call, 
 " Awake, and joy go with you all !"
 
 NOTES.
 
 Or iitnir Lxrti Earfc. 
 
 CSV* MUSICAL. APPENDIX, p. 203.) 
 E 
 
 This poem was suggested by the following passage from Miss 
 Brooke's now rare " Reliques of Irish Poetry,"' p. 232. " In 
 another song, a lover, tenderly reproaching his mistress, asks 
 her, why she keeps morning so long indoors ? and bids her come 
 out, and bring him the day." Its title, "The Little Red Lark," 
 is given in Hoffmann's collection of Irish music * as the name of 
 an old melody. 
 
 ilobc's 
 
 (See MUSICAL APPENDIX, p. 204.) 
 
 5. These words are written to a melody in Petrie's collection of Irish 
 music. The first verse is founded upon a Celtic song, of which 
 the two following stanzas in translation have been furnished me 
 by my friend Dr. Joyce : 
 
 Would God I were a little apple, 
 
 Or one of the small daisies, 
 Or a rose in the garden 
 
 Where thou art accustomed to walk alone ; 
 
 In hope that thou wouldst pluck from me 
 
 Some wee little branch, 
 Which thou wouldst hold in thy right hand 
 
 Or in the breast of thy robe. 
 
 The second verse is original. My words, arranged as a song by 
 Dr. Hiles to the old air printed in the appendix, are published 
 by Forsyth Brothers, of London and Manchester. 
 
 I n Hobcd a liar. 
 
 (See MUSICAL APPENDIX, p. aoj.) 
 
 6. Suggested by and written to an air of this name in Petrie's collec- 
 tion. The words of the original song are as follows : 
 
 1 George Bonham, Dublin, MDCCLXXXIX. 
 
 2 "Ancient Music of Ireland," from the Petrie collection, arranged for the 
 pianoforte by F. Hoffmann, Dublin : Pigott and Co., na, Grafton Street. 1877. 
 
 s "The Petrie Collection of the Ancient Music of Ireland," vol. i. Dublin: 
 Printed at the University Press, for the Society for the Preservation and Publication 
 of the Melodies of Ireland. By M. H. Gill. 1855.
 
 244 NOTES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I once lov'd a boy, and a bonny, bonny boy, 
 
 Who'd come and go at my request ; 
 I lov'd him so well, and so very very well, 
 
 That I built him a bower in my breast 
 In my breast, 
 
 That I built him a bower in my breast. 
 
 I once lov'd a boy, and a bonny, bonny boy, 
 And a boy that I thought was my own ; 
 
 But he loves another girl better than me, 
 And has taken his flight and is gone 
 
 And is gone, 
 And has taken his flight and is gone. 
 
 The girl that has taken my own bonny boy, 
 Let her make of him all that she can, 
 
 For whether he loves me or he loves me not, 
 I'll walk with my love now and then 
 
 Now and then, 
 I'll walk with my love now and then. 
 
 6. Wirrasthrue " O Mary and sorrow !" 
 
 Or iSan&s of tfir Daisies. 
 
 7. Suggested by a song of this name, but not written directly to the 
 
 music of it. 
 Forenint = before, in front of. 
 
 is Sing. 
 
 <J. Suggested by a song of this name in Horncastle's " Irish Enter- 
 tainment," which opens in the. same way and has the same Irish 
 refrain, the second line of which translates the first. Otherwise 
 the poem is original. 
 Skaion, Irish for "John." 
 
 to. Goleen = creek. 
 
 Song. 
 
 (See MUSICAL APPENDIX, p. 206.) 
 
 12. Written to an old Irish lullaby in Petrie's collection. The last 
 stanza alone is suggested by a verse in the Celtic original, of 
 which the following is a literal translation : 
 
 Sleep, my child, and be it the sleep of safety, 
 And out of your sleep may you rise in health ; 
 May neither cholic nor death-stitch strike you, 
 The infant's disease, or the ugly small-pox.
 
 NOTES. 245 
 
 FACE 
 
 12. Laddo, a playful form of the word " lad." Cf. boyo. 
 
 The refrain has no more precise meaning than " Hush-a-bye." 
 
 13. Banshee. Literally "a woman from the fairy-hills": a sad spirit 
 
 who is often heard wailing at night, when a member of the family 
 is about to die. 
 
 Clje JFoggs Brto. 
 
 (See MUSICAL APPENDIX, p. 207.) 
 
 14. Suggested by and written to an air of this name in Bunting's col- 
 lection. l There are rustic words to it, but they are not of any 
 literary value. My own words were written before I met with 
 them. 
 
 (See MUSICAL APPENDIX, p. 208.) 
 
 16. Written to an air in Bunting's collection of Irish music beginning 
 
 with the words 
 
 A lovely lass to a friar came 
 To confess one morning early. 
 
 and suggested by them. I have not been able to procure the rest 
 of the old ballad. 
 O vo 1 an Irish exclamation expressive of sorrow or surprise. 
 
 17. Hot-foot, a good old English expression implying great haste, 
 
 commonly used in Munster. 
 
 Or <&irl I left brfitnD me. 
 
 1 8. There are several well-known versions of this song. I need hardly 
 say, therefore, that my words are original except so far as the 
 situation of the singer and the refrain are concerned. 
 The route, pronounced "rout" by the soldiers = marching orders. 
 
 Tuof]ill. 
 
 20. Music has been written to this song by Charles Salaman, and is 
 published by Novello, Ewer, and Co., I, Berners Street, 
 London, W. 
 
 1 "The Ancient Music of Ireland," arranged for the pianoforte by Edward 
 Bunting. Dublin : Hodges and Smith. 1840.
 
 246 NOTES. 
 
 Tts ]'-. can tocabe WAooUrn antr iiuirn. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 22. Written to and suggested by an air, "Tis I can weave linen and 
 woollen" in Bunting's collection. I have not come across any 
 other words belonging to the original ballad. 
 
 , ^Baureen. 
 
 (See MUSICAL APPENDIX, p. 210.) 
 
 23. Suggested by the two lines 
 
 Oh, Nancy, Nancy, don't you remember 
 The protestations that you made to me ? 
 
 which appear in Petrie's collection in connection with the air to 
 which I have written my words. 
 Arbutus, pronounced "arbutus" in the south of Ireland. 
 
 24. Maureen bawn asthore = fair-haired little Mary, my treasure. 
 
 81Bf)en 1 rose in tlie ^Burning. 
 
 (See MUSICAL APPENDIX, p. 212.) 
 
 25. Suggested by and written to an air with this title in Petrie's 
 
 collection. 
 Wood-quest wood-pigeon. 
 
 Ctie fHill Song. 
 
 27. Suggested by a shorter song, the refrain of which I alone make 
 use of, in Horncastle's " Irish Entertainment." 
 
 'ffita a pttg I ran't see ms lobe. 
 
 (See MUSICAL APPENDIX, p. 213.) 
 
 30. Suggested by and written to an air with this title in Bunting's 
 collection. I have not come across any other words belonging 
 to the original ballad. 
 
 tfie 
 
 (See MUSICAL APPENDIX, p. 214.) 
 
 32. An Irish- American ballad written to the air of the " Irish haut- 
 boy" (Petrie's collection), but entirely original.
 
 NOTES. 247 
 
 tfte $ri&e of tfie 
 
 I- AGE 
 
 35. Suggested by the title of a song, " Nancy, the Pride of the East, 1 ' 
 
 but not written to the air that goes by that name. 
 
 36. Tussocks = tufts. 
 
 For all that Notwithstanding that. 
 
 #ennp. I'm not Jesting. 
 
 (See MUSICAL APPENDIX, p. 216.) 
 
 37. Written to the air "Biddy, I'm not jesting," in Hoffmann's col- 
 
 lection, the title of which is all that I know of the words of the 
 song. 
 
 tTfir li>our toe Dartrtr. 
 
 (See MUSICAL APPENDIX, p. 218.) 
 
 40. Written to the air " I'd make my love a breast of glass" in Petrie's 
 
 and Hoffmann's collections of Irish music. 
 
 Aroo closely corresponds with the exclamations " O dear ! " " O 
 dear me !" 
 
 41. Distress = bodily suffering in Irish peasant parlance. 
 Kerry Kerry cow. 
 
 42. fCeeler wooden milking vessel. 
 
 <Tfir rmttfi's 
 
 (See MUSICAL APPENDIX, p. 219.) 
 
 43. Written to an air of which Dr. Petrie thus speaks: " 'The 
 Smith's Song ' has very evidently been suggested, like Handel's 
 'Harmonious Blacksmith,' by the measured time and varied 
 tones of his hammers striking upon the anvil." "Ancient 
 Music of Ireland," p. 171. He also thus quotes from a commu- 
 nication made to him on the subject of the same song by Pro- 
 fessor O'Curry : "The song and tune of ' Ding dong, didilium ! 
 Buail seo, seid jw,' must be one of great antiquity. I scarcely 
 ever heard it sung but to pacify a crying or cross infant ; and 
 then the woman sang it with a slow swinging motion of her body 
 backwards and forwards, and to either side, with the child in her 
 arms, with no intention, however, to put it to sleep. Sometimes 
 there was no swing of the body ; but then the foot went clown 
 on the heel and toe alternately, but in such a measure of time as 
 resembled, in some way, the striking of the iron on the smith's
 
 248 NOTES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 anvil, where he himself gave two blows with his lamh-ord, or 
 hand-hammer," the "little hammer" in my song, "for everyone 
 blow that the sledger gave with his ord mor t " my "big sledge,' 
 or sledge hammer. 
 
 43. " I hear the kettle-drumming, 
 
 ' Drimin dhu, drimin dhu.'' " 
 
 A reference to another old air, used as a party tune during the 
 war (1688-90), " The White-backed Black-haired Cow," repre- 
 senting, by a very strange metaphor, the cause of James II. (See 
 Bunting's collection. ) 
 
 My words are original, except in so far as they reflect a similar 
 reference to an elopement in T. Irwin's ballad "The Mountain 
 Forge," and are indebted to the refrain of the Celtic song, thus 
 translated by Professor O'Curry : 
 
 Ding dong, didilium ! 
 Strike this, blow this ; 
 
 with regard to which he has written : " It may be objected that the 
 words 'ding dong,' in the burden of this song, are modern ; but 
 such is not the fact, for where the ' Annals of the Four Masters 
 record, at the year 1015, the death of MacLiag, poet and secre- 
 tary to Brian Boru, they also record the following verse, which it 
 would appear was the last verse the poet composed while on his 
 death-bed, and which contains the very words in question : 
 
 O bell, which art my pillow's head, 
 
 To visit thee no friends come ; 
 Though thou makest thy 'ding dang,' 
 
 It is by thee the salt is measured." 
 
 fHo fttutrtun Ulju. 
 
 45. This title, which signifies " my black-haired darling," was sug- 
 
 gested by and written to an air in Petrie's collection, "Mo 
 muirnin oge." 
 
 46. Collogue colloquium, chat. 
 
 (See MUSICAL APPENDIX, p. 220.) 
 
 47. The above term is thus explained by Professor O'Curry : "Wherever 
 the word Pleraca occurs in any Irish song or rhyme of the last
 
 NOTES. 249 
 
 FACE 
 
 hundred years, it is in the sense of an abandonment to drinking, 
 dancing, singing, or love-making, carried out in all imaginable 
 riotous and reckless gaiety, and was, no doubt, looked upon as 
 the ball of the times then passing." Petrie's " Ancient Music of 
 Ireland," p. 16. 
 
 47. Beimeedh a gole I - " Let us be drinking," the first words of a 
 
 Cork drinking song, the music of which, noted from the whistling 
 of an Irish friend, will be found in the musical appendix. My 
 words are written to this air : but borrow only the first line of 
 each stanza from the Irish song. 
 Mattrass mattress. 
 
 48. He that first stole 
 
 Fire from. Heaven 1 s grate, boys = Prometheus. 
 
 Song of tfje tflfjoct. 
 
 (See MUSICAL APPENDIX, p. 222.) 
 50. Written to an air in Hoffmann's collection bearing this name. 
 
 And Til come crowning 
 Your combs with gold. 
 
 Suggested by this exquisite fragment supplied me by Dr. Joyce, 
 which occurs in a ballad descriptive of the visit of a lover's ghost 
 to his betrothed. Before daybreak, in order to keep him still 
 longer with her, she says : 
 
 " O my pretty cock, O my handsome cock, 
 
 I pray you do not crow before day, 
 And your comb shall be made of the very beaten gold, 
 And your wings of the silver so gray." 
 
 CoIIrrn <5>ge xlstftorr. 
 53. Air, " Callino Casturame, " Hoffmann's collection. 
 
 NOTE. "It is evidently to this tune that Shakespeare alludes 
 in the play of Henry V., act iv., scene 4, where Pistol, on meet- 
 ing a French soldier, exclaims, ' Quality ! Calen, O custure me.' 
 In the folio we find ' Calmie custure me,' which has been turned 
 in the modern editions into ' Call you me ? Construe me.' 
 Malone found among ' Sundry new Sonets in a handefull of 
 pleasant Delites 1584' a sonnet of a lover in praise of his lady 
 to 'Calen, O custure me,' sung at every line's end. In Mr.
 
 250 NOTES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Lover's 'Lyrics of Ireland,' he notices the resemblance of the 
 first word to the name 'Caillino,' speaking of Mrs. Fitzsimon's 
 beautiful poem, 'The Woods of Caillino,' and adds: 'Mr. 
 Boswell, in his edition of Shakespeare, says that Mr. Finnegan, 
 master of the school established in London for the education of 
 the Irish, says the words mean " Little girl of my heart for ever 
 and ever." ' Now this is not the meaning, and I cannot but 
 wonder that, with so much literary discussion as has taken place 
 on the subject, the true spelling and consequently the meaning of 
 the burden have remained till now undiscovered. The burden, 
 as given in the ' Handefull of pleasant Delites,' and copied by 
 Malone, is ' Calen O custure me,' which is an attempt to spell 
 and pretty nearly represents the sound of 'Colleen oge astore,' 
 and these words mean 'Young girl, my treasure.'" Stokes' 
 " Life of Petrie," p. 431, quoted by Hoffmann in his "Ancient 
 Music of Ireland," p. 137. 
 
 This interesting air is taken from Queen Elizabeth's Virginal 
 Book, and is published by Mr. W. Chappell in his " English 
 Music of the Olden Time." I have the permission of Messrs. 
 Chappell to reproduce it in my musical appendix, where it will 
 be found at p. 223. 
 
 of tfie 
 
 (See MUSICAL APPENDIX, p. 224.) 
 
 56. "Tyrone deliberately gave up the national cause, when resistance 
 was no longer possible ; and, submitting to the inevitable, pro- 
 posed to hold his earldom as an English subject." . . . "If 
 he had fallen sword in hand, the English might have felt the 
 sympathy due to a gallant foe ; but that six years of warfare, 
 costly and bloody, should have left Hugh O'Neill the Earl of 
 Tyrone, was a very unsatisfactory result." ... " Day by 
 day he must have learned, by a continuous course of litigation 
 and insult, that he was a marked man." ... " Exactly in 
 the same position as the earl was Rory O'Donnell, who, following 
 - the example of Tyrone, had submitted to, and received from, the 
 English Government the title of Earl of Tyrconnell. For some 
 years the two earls led a most uncomfortable and not a very 
 dignified life, until, in 1607, when O'Neill proposed to try his 
 grievances before James I. in London. Hearing, however, that
 
 NOTES. 251 
 
 PAGE 
 
 he would there be arrested on a charge of conspiracy, he availed 
 himself of the despatch by his friend Cuconaught Maguire of an 
 armed ship from Flanders to the north of Ireland to assist his 
 departure. The Earl of Tyrconnell resolved to accompany him ; 
 they both fled with their families, and succeeded in embarking in 
 Maguire's vessel in the Lough Swilly." Richey's "Lectures on 
 Irish History: Second Series," E. Ponsonby, 116, Grafton 
 Street, Dublin. 
 
 56. /tints/at'/, an ancient poetical name of Ireland. 
 
 57. Espan Spain. 
 
 Kitn> lifian. 
 
 58. Suggested by and written to an Irish ballad and air, " O Woman 
 
 of the House," in Petrie's collection ; indeed, an adaptation of 
 the original Celtic, thus translated by the late Edward Walsh : ' 
 
 Before the sun rose at yester-dawn, 
 
 I met a fair maid adown the lawn ; 
 
 The berry and snow to her cheek gave its glow, 
 
 And her bosom was fair as the sailing swan. 
 
 Then, pulse of my heart ! what gloom is thine ? 
 
 Her beautiful voice more hearts hath won 
 Than Orpheus' lyre of old had done ; 
 Her ripe eyes of blue were crystals of dew, 
 On the grass of the lawn before the sun. 
 And, pulse of my heart ! what gloom is thine ? 
 
 Kilty Bhan or Bawn Fair-haired Kitty. 
 
 *Tfir C iJUiitr tiloGSom '9 off tfir Bog. 
 
 59. Suggested by the first line of the following couplet, translated 
 
 from the Celtic on p. 8 of Petrie's collection : 
 
 " The white blossom is on the bogs and autumn is on the return, 
 And though marriage is a pretty, pretty thing, 'tis sorrowful 
 and tearful it has left me. 
 
 jFIuttmng #05. 
 
 60. The first of these two stanzas is founded upon the following verse, 
 translated thus by Dr. Joyce from the Irish : 
 
 1 " Irish Popular Songs, with English Metrical Translations," by the late 
 Edward Walsh. Dublin : Jame* M'Glashan. 1847.
 
 252 NOTES. 
 
 How delightful for the little birds 
 
 Who rise up on high, 
 Who are accustomed to warble with each other 
 
 On the same branch. 
 
 Not so is it with me and 
 
 My hundred thousand loves ; 
 It is far from each other 
 
 Each day finds us when it dawns. 
 
 The second stanza is original. 
 
 a Jbailor lobetr a .-(farmer's daughter. 
 
 (See MUSICAL APPENDIX, p. 225.) 
 
 61. Suggested by and written to an air in Bunting's collection. The 
 following four lines, for which I am indebted to Dr. Joyce, will 
 give an idea of the character of the popular ballad to this fine 
 tune : 
 
 A sailor courted a farmer's daughter 
 
 Who lived convanient to the Isle of Man. 
 Remark, good people, what followed after, 
 A long time courting and nothing done. 
 
 Cfie Reaper's 
 
 63. Suggested by and written to the air of "Beside the White Rock," 
 
 but founded upon no earlier words to that melody. 
 Accra = my friend. 
 
 Cfie iSIue, iSluc Jbmo&e. 
 
 65. This song was suggested in part by a letter written me by my 
 
 friend Dr. Joyce, in which the words "the dim old days" 
 occurred ; in part by a song by his brother, Dr. R. D. Joyce, 
 entitled the "Yellow, Yellow Hair." 
 
 The chapeFs distant chime The angelus bell. 
 
 Coom valley. 
 
 66. Herself the wife. Himself and herself are thus used in the 
 
 south of Ireland to imply the master and mistress of the house.
 
 NOTES. 253 
 
 .iFatfier 
 
 (.See MUSICAL APPENDIX, p. 227.) 
 PAGE 
 
 71. Slainti your health. 
 
 Trinity = Dublin University. 
 
 72. Make hares of them utterly rout and put to flight in argument, 
 
 a common Irish peasant phrase. 
 Avick = my son ; a palpable bull in the context. 
 
 /Hollmt ge. 
 
 74. The title means "Young little Molly." 
 Brogue = shoe. 
 
 75. The -vogue the fashion. 
 
 Ctoo Irtsf) HijjIIs. 
 
 76. Yerrigl an exclamation addressed to the pony = our "Jick !" or 
 
 "gee-up!" 
 
 77. Pogue kiss. 
 
 jTan jFttjgrrl. 
 
 79. Fitzgerl, a slovenly pronunciation of " Fitzgerald." 
 Wirra, wirra I ologone 1 exclamations of distress. . 
 Cot caught. 
 
 80. Apast past. 
 Beyant beyond. 
 
 Sat of ttr linfcgr. 
 
 8 1. Bat or JBatsy, the short for "Bartholomew." 
 
 82. Thrun away thrown away. 
 Proper man = fine, hearty man. 
 A broth of a boy a choice spirit. 
 
 Adragole, pronounced as though written " Adragool.'' 
 
 83. Unknownst unnoticed. 
 85. Iday idea. 
 
 Fellas = fellows. 
 
 Bellas bellows. 
 
 Give them a twist = hurt, injure. 
 
 Carney Cornelius. 
 
 Bad scran bad luck.
 
 254 NOTES. 
 
 f)t tLtgjjt in tfje 
 
 PAGE 
 
 87. Sorra letter not one letter, alas ! 
 Kep - kept. 
 
 88. The overside the opposite side. 
 
 Callin' you in church. Relatives and friends of Irish emigrants in 
 the States whom they have lost sight of are assisted in getting 
 tidings of them by the American priests, who, during service in 
 church, ask their congregations for information about them. 
 
 Mavrone my sorrow ! alas ! 
 
 89. Windy window. 
 
 OSlfiat is Htfe tofirout a 312atfo? 
 
 90. Festal Chorus. This poem partakes of the nature of the 
 
 "Loobeen," for an explanation of which see page 255- 
 
 &f)e SSawfe of tfie Sitent. 
 
 93. God incrase ye God prosper you. 
 Martial = mortal. 
 
 Distress me hurt me. 
 
 94. Ologone ! an exclamation of deep sorrow. 
 Machree = my heart. 
 
 Agra, a term of endearment ; dear love. 
 
 Cfie Han&some <[23ittf). 
 
 96. Many a colleen in the dairy, &*c. The waving of the churnstafT 
 
 and the scattering of salt were and, indeed, are counter-charms 
 employed to baffle the pranks supposed to be played by witches 
 and fairies upon Irish dairies. 
 
 97. Thry for butter ; i.e., lift the lid or save-all of the churn, and test 
 
 the milk for butter with a spoon. 
 
 Morna drew the dead-man's hand. " When no butter would come 
 the witch was at that moment in her cavern, seated on her heels 
 before a vessel of water, from which, by drawing a deadman's 
 hand through it, she appropriated the produce of other people's 
 honest labour." Thus write the brothers Banim in their tale of 
 "The Hare-hound and the Witch."
 
 PAGE 
 
 NOTES. 255 
 
 Jtabing tf>e Curf. 
 
 8. Slan (the a sounded long as in "far") = the narrow spade used 
 
 for cutting or digging up the turf or peat. 
 The bawn home-field for cattle. 
 Footin! laying out the sods of turf lengthways. Settin' = setting 
 
 up two or three of the peats endways against one another. 
 The say-turn the sea-breeze which commonly sets in on a fine 
 
 summer's afternoon. 
 Drav)M carting away the peat. 
 The boats are out in the bay ; i.e., for fishing purposes. 
 Haggard hay-yard. 
 
 ILoobrm. 
 
 99. "The Loobeen," writes Mr. Bunting, quoted by Dr. Petrie in his 
 "Ancient Music of Ireland," "is a peculiar species of chant, 
 having a well-marked time, and a frequently recurring chorus or 
 catch-word. It is sung at merry-makings and assemblages of the 
 young women, when they meet at 'spinnings' and ' quillings, ' 
 and is accompanied by extemporaneous verses of which each 
 singer successively furnishes a line. The intervention of the 
 chorus after each line gives time for the preparation of the suc- 
 ceeding one by the next singer, and thus the Loobeen goes round 
 until the chain of song is completed." 
 
 After comparing the Loobeen to the Highland Luinniochs, 
 Dr. Petrie thus quotes Professor O'Curry: "Sometimes the 
 group consisted of the daughters of the house, and neighbouring 
 poorer girls, who are engaged for hire at say in 1816 three- 
 pence a day each. Sometimes it was the comhar or reciprocal co- 
 operation of the daughters of two or more neighbouring families ; 
 but, in all cases, the work particularly wool-spinning was 
 carried on with an accompaniment of singing. . . . Generally 
 they sang, two at a time, extemporaneous verses to peculiar airs, 
 to none of which have I ever heard songs or verses of another 
 kind." 
 
 A specimen of the Loobeen is then added, every line of which 
 is preceded and followed by the crambe words Mallo /fro, and 
 eembo nero, Mallo lero, and eembo bawn, as follows : 
 
 " I traversed the wood when day was breaking." 
 " For John O'Carroll you wandered so early.
 
 256 NOTES. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 ' With gads begirt, let him plough through Erinn !" 
 
 ' You mannerless girl, he is your match for a husband." 
 
 ' I care not, leave off, get me my own love ! " 
 
 'Thomas O'Maddigan, take and be pleased with." 
 
 ' I take, and hail, and may I well wear my husband." 
 
 ' To the east or the west may you never be parted." 
 
 ' Go westward, go eastward, and find me my own love." 
 
 ' Donnell O'Flaherty, take and be pleased with." 
 
 ' It's Joan O'Kelly that would strike me in the face." 
 
 ' If the man is worth it, don't let her take him." 
 
 ' There's no tree in the wood that I could not find its equal." 
 
 My poem is founded on this translation from a Celtic original, 
 but is irregular as a Loobeen in that it dispenses with a refrain. 
 Neither is it written to a Loobeen air. 
 
 99. With your pippen, &*c. Preference on the part of a girl for a 
 young man amongst the Cork and Kerry peasantry was, if it is 
 not still, shown by throwing an apple at the object of affection. 
 Readers of Virgil will of course at once think of Malo me 
 Galatea petit. 
 
 100. Murt-na-mo ~ Murtogh of the cows, or with the good herd of 
 
 cattle. 
 
 101. The model teacher = a teacher in one of the Government Model 
 
 Schools. 
 
 CS Elacft '40. 
 
 102. A sacred tree. One of the old trees which are still objects of 
 
 reverence in different parts of Ireland, owing to their actual or 
 supposed connection with some early saint, or on some such 
 other religious ground. 
 Two boreens two little roads ; two deep lanes. 
 
 103. Yous = you. 
 Crep crept. 
 Unbeknownst = unnoticed. 
 Spuds potatoes. 
 
 104. Folly follow. 
 
 107. My version of this ballad is founded upon the two following 
 editions of it, which are printed side by side for comparison 
 with each other and with my own. The first of them was 
 obtained by me from the Library of the Royal Irish Academy ;
 
 NOTES. 
 
 257 
 
 the second is copied from a broadsheet picked up by my friend 
 Dr. Joyce : 
 
 SHUILE AGRA. 
 
 As I roved through my new garden bowers, 
 To gaze upon fast fading flowers. 
 And think upon the happiest hours 
 That fled in Summer's bloom. 
 Shuile, shuile, shuile agra, 
 Time can only ease my woe ; 
 Since the lad of my heart from me did go, 
 Gotheen mavourneen slaun. 
 
 Tis often I sat on my true love's knee. 
 And many a fond story he told me ; 
 He told me things that ne'er would be, 
 Gotheen mavourneen slaun. 
 
 Shuile, shuile, &c. 
 
 I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel, 
 When flax is spun I'll sell my wheel, 
 To buy my love a sword and shield, 
 Gotheen mavourneen slaun. 
 
 Shuile, shuile, &c. 
 
 I'll dye my petticoat, I'll dye it red, 
 And round the world I'll beg my bread. 
 That all my friends would wish me dead, 
 Gotheen mavourneen slaun. 
 
 Shuile, shuile, &c. 
 
 I wish I was on Brandon Hill, 
 Tis there I'll sit and cry my fill. 
 That every tear would turn a mill, 
 Gotheen mavourneen slaun. 
 
 Shuile, shuile, &c. 
 
 No more am I that blooming maid, 
 That used to rove the valley shade, 
 My youth and bloom are all decayed, 
 Gotheen mavourneen slaun. 
 
 Shuile, shuile, &c. 
 
 SHULE AGRAH. 
 
 Oft I roved my garden bowers, 
 To gaze upon fast fading (lowers, 
 And think upon past happy hours 
 That's fled like summer's bloom. 
 
 Shule, Shule, Shule arrah, 
 Time can never end my woe, 
 Since the lad of my heart did go, 
 
 Gudhe tough, gudhe tough, slaun. 
 
 No more am I that blooming maid, 
 That used to rove the valley's shade ; 
 My youth, my bloom, are both decayed, 
 And every charm is gone. 
 
 Shule, Shule, Shule, &c. 
 
 For now he's gone to other climes, 
 To seek one more pleasing to his mind ; 
 But ah, the maid he left behind 
 Shall love him best of all. 
 
 Shule, Shule, Shule, &c. 
 
 His eyes were black, his coat was blue, 
 His hair was fair, his heart was true ; 
 I wish in my heart I was with you, 
 Gudhe lough, gudhe tough, slnun. 
 
 Shule, Shule, Shule, &c. 
 The time can only ease my woe. 
 Since the lad of my heart from me did go. 
 Uska dhe, uska dhc, mavourneen 
 slaun. 
 
 Ill sell my rack, I'll sell my reel, 
 When my flax is out 111 sell my wheel, 
 To buy my love a sword and shield. 
 Gudhe tough, gudhe tough, &c. 
 
 I wish I was in yonder hill, 
 It's there I'd sit and cry my fill. 
 That every tear would turn a mill. 
 
 Gudhe tough, gudhe tough, slaun. 
 Shule, Shule, Shule, &c. 
 
 Oft I've sat on my love's knee, 
 Many a fond story he told to me ; 
 He said many things that ne'er will be. 
 Gudhe tough, gudhe tough, &c. 
 
 Ill dye my petticoat. III dye it red. 
 That round the world I may beg my bread. 
 And then my parents would wish me dead. 
 Gudhe tough, gudhe tough, slaun. 
 
 Shule, Shule, Shule, &c. 
 Time can only ease my woe. 
 Since the lad of my heart from me did go. 
 Uska dhe, Uska dhe, mavourneen 
 ilaun. 
 
 107. Go-thee-thu mavourneen slaun farewell, my darling. 
 Shule agra come, my love.
 
 258 NOTES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 108. / sold my rock, I sold my reel. " Rock" and " reel," two parts 
 
 of an Irish spinning-wheel. 
 The Wild Geese the Irish Jacobites who left their country for 
 
 service in the French army when the cause of James II. was 
 
 lost. 
 
 Mabmichal my boy. 
 That every tear would turn a mill = "so that" every tear, &c. 
 
 109. /'// dye my petticoat, &*c. Probably a red petticoat was the usual 
 
 mark of a beggar in the time when this ballad was written. 
 
 <5ragalmacf)tee. 
 
 no. Gra-gal-machree, in plain English " fair love of my heart.'' 
 
 Put your comether put your love spell, comether being a con- 
 traction of the words "come hither." 
 
 My song is founded on the following original, copied from a 
 collection of old ballads in the Library of the Royal Irish 
 Academy : 
 
 At the foot of Newry mountain there runs a clear stream ; 
 Fain would I marry pretty Polly by name ; 
 She's slender in the waist, for young men to see, 
 And her name in plain Irish is Gragalmachree. 
 
 'Twas on a summer's morning, as I walked along, 
 Down by a green valley, I heard a fine song ; 
 'Twas a fair damsel, with her voice most clear, 
 Saying, how blest would I be if my darling was here. 
 
 I then drew near to a shade that was green, 
 
 Where the leaves grew about her and she scarce could be seen ; 
 
 And it was her whole cry, my darling come away, 
 
 For without your loving company no longer can I stay. 
 
 The moon it may darken and shew no light, 
 And the bright stars of heaven fall down quite ; 
 And the rocks may melt, and the mountains move 
 If ever I prove false to the fair one I love. 
 
 If I were an empress and had the care of a crown, 
 And had all the money that's for it laid down, 
 I would freely remit it to the boy that I love, 
 And my mind I'd resign to the great God above. 
 
 Like a sheet of white paper is her neck and breast, 
 She's slender in the waist and her hair is brown, 
 She's a pattern of virtue wherever she goes, 
 And her cheeks I compare to the red blushing rose.
 
 NOTES. 259 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The ships on the ocean may go without sails, 
 And the smallest of fishes may turn into whales, 
 And in the midst of the ocean may grow apple trees, 
 If ever I prove false to my Gragalmachree. 
 
 'Ctoas Prrttg to te in ISalltn&errp. 
 112. Suggested by the stanza on p. 42 of Bunting's collection : 
 
 It's pretty to be in Ballinderry, 
 
 It s pretty to be in Aghalee, 
 It's prettier to be in bonny Ram's Island 
 
 Sitting under an ivy tree. 
 
 Ochone, &c. 
 
 Oh ! that I was in little Ram's Island, 
 Oh ! that I was with Phelimy Diamond. 
 He would whistle and I would sing, 
 Till we would make the whole island ring. 
 
 The scene of this ballad, as the names of the places men- 
 tioned in it will show, is laid on the shore of Loch Neagh. 
 
 /t-ip lioiiiip Curfcoo. 
 
 (See MUSICAL APPENDIX, p. 231.) 
 
 114. This ballad is based upon two stanzas to a song, "The Bonny 
 Cuckoo," in Bunting's collection, which runs as follows : 
 
 My Bonny Cuckoo, I tell thee true, 
 That through the groves I'll rove with you, 
 I'll rove with you until the next Spring, 
 And then my cuckoo shall sweetly sing, 
 Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! until the next spring ; 
 And then my cuckoo shall sweetly sing. 
 
 The Ash and the Hazel shall mourning say, 
 My bonny cuckoo, don't go away ; 
 Don't go away, but tarry here, 
 And make the season last all the year. 
 
 vTfir JJltlloto {Tree. 
 
 116. But slightly altered from the following, which I found in the 
 Library of the Royal Irish Academy : 
 
 Oh, take me to your arms, love, for keen the wind doth blow : 
 Oh, take me to your arms, love, so bitter is my woe ; 
 She hears me not, she cares not, nor will she list to me, 
 While here I lie, alone to die, beneath the willow tree.
 
 2 6o NOTES. 
 
 \ 
 
 PAGE 
 
 My love has wealth and beauty, and I, alas ! am poor ; 
 This ribband fair that bound her hair is all that's left to me. 
 While here I lie, alone to die, beneath the willow tree. 
 
 I once had gold and silver, and I thought e'en without end ; 
 I once had gold and silver, and I thought I had a friend ; 
 My wealth is lost, my friend is false, my love is stole from me, 
 While here I lie, alone to die, beneath the willow tree. 
 
 For an interesting note upon the air of "The Willow Tree," 
 see p. 75 of Dr. Joyce's "Ancient Irish Music," Gill and Co., 
 50, Upper Sackville Street, Dublin. 
 
 Jfacfe tf)e $oll8 $Ioug!jfios. 
 
 117. This poem is based upon the following verse, which will be found 
 printed on p. 20 of Bunting's collection : 
 
 'Twas Jack the Jolly Plough-boy was ploughing in his land, 
 Cried " Yough !" unto his horses, and boldly bid them stand. 
 Then Jack sat down upon his plough, and thus began to sing, 
 And Jack he sung his song so sweet he made the valleys ring. 
 
 With his Too-ran-nan-nanty na, 
 
 Sing Too-ran-nan-nanty na, 
 Sing Too-ran-nan, Too-ran-nan, Too-ran-nan, Too-ran-nan, 
 
 Too-ran-nan-nanty na. 
 
 1 1 8. The Golden Vale in Tipperary and Limerick. 
 
 119. Founded on the following ballad obtained by me in the Library 
 of the Royal Irish Academy : 
 
 At dawn I rose with jocund glee, 
 
 For joyful was the day, 
 That could this blessing give to me, 
 
 Now joy is fled away, Jenny. 
 Nor flocks nor herds, nor store of gold, 
 
 Nor house nor home have I ; 
 If beauty must be bought and sold, 
 
 Alas ! I cannot buy, Jenny. 
 
 Yet I am rich, if thou art kind, 
 
 So priz'd a smile from thee ; 
 True love alone our hearts shall bind, 
 
 Thou'rt all the world to me, Jenny. 
 Sweet, gentle maid, tho' patient, meek, 
 
 My lily drops a tear, 
 Ah ! raise thy drooping head, and seek 
 
 Soft peace and comfort here, Jenny.
 
 NO TES. 261 
 
 Cf)e jfox 
 
 PACK 
 
 1 20. I am indebted to Dr. Joyce for the following broadsheet vers'.on 
 of the ballad "Tally-ho! hark-a-way," the rollicking air to 
 which will be well known to many of my readers, and on 
 which, for I have not seen any other version of it, my lines are 
 founded : 
 
 TALLY HO! HARK AWAY. 
 
 It was on the first of March, in the year of thirty-three, 
 There was fun and recreation in our own country ; 
 The King's County sportsmen, o'er hills, dales, and rocks, 
 Most nobly set out in the search of a fox. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Tally ho ! hark away ! tally ho ! hark away; 
 Tally ho ! hark away ! my boys, away, hark away ! 
 
 When they started poor Reynard he fac'd to Tullamore, 
 Through Wicklow and Arklow, along the sea-shore, 
 They kept him in view the whole length of the way, 
 And closely pursued him through the streets of Roscrea. 
 
 When Reynard was started he faced down the hollow, 
 Where none but the huntsmen and hounds they could follow ; 
 The gentlemen cried "Watch him," saying " What shall we 
 
 do here ? 
 If the hills and dales don't stop them he will cross to Kildare." 
 
 There were one hundred and twenty sportsmen went down to 
 
 Ballyland, 
 
 From that to Blyboyne ' and Ballycumminsland ; 
 But Reynard, sly Reynard, arrived on that night, 
 And they said they would watch him until the daylight. 
 
 It was early next morning the hills they did appear, 
 With the echoes of the horn and the cry of the hounds ; 
 But in spite of his action, his craft, and his skill, 
 He was taken by young Donohoe going down Moranze. 
 
 When Reynard was taken his wishes to fulfil, 
 He called for pen, ink, and paper, to write his last will, 
 And what he made mention of you'll find it is no blank, 
 For he gave them a cheque on the National Bank. 
 
 HullaJioo, an Irish equivalent for "Tally ho I" 
 
 1 Broadsheet spelling for Ballyboync.
 
 262 NOTES. 
 
 13rancl). 
 
 PAGE 
 
 125. This poem is founded upon a prose tale, " How Cormac Mac Airt 
 
 got his Branch," a literal translation of which Celtic tale will 
 be found on p. 213 of "Transactions of the Ossianic Society 
 for the Year 1855," Vol. III. But there is an older version in 
 the Book of Ballymote. 
 
 Arch King of Erin, Ard Righ Erind ; i.e., "The paramount 
 King, or High King of Erin, who resided at Tara until the 
 middle of the seventh century," p. 231., Vol. I., of " Manners 
 and Customs of the Ancient Irish," by Professor O'Curry. 
 
 His Dun in Liathdrum his Royal Fort in Tara. 
 
 126. Cairbrb Cairbre Liffeachair. 
 
 128. That held the blackbirds hushed in Derrycarn. These birds are 
 
 rendered famous by Ossian. 
 
 129. His daily round 
 Of royal duty. 
 
 "There are now seven occupations in the law of a king : viz., 
 Sunday, at ale drinking, for he is not a lawful Flaith who does 
 not distribute ale every Sunday ; Monday, at legislation, for 
 the government of the tribe ; Tuesday, at chess ; Wednesday, 
 seeing grey-hounds coursing ; Thursday, at the pleasures of 
 love; Friday, at horse-racing; Saturday, at judgment." 
 O'Curry, " Manners and Customs of the Ancient Irish." 
 
 Torque = the neck-torque or gorget of spirally twisted gold. 
 
 Fails bracelets. 
 
 130. The king's high Ollamh the Chief Justice of the Airecht 
 
 Fodeisen or King's Court. 
 
 Penalty 
 Exceeding great for satire. 
 
 "From the remotest time down to our own," writes Professor 
 O'Curry, " the power of satire was dreaded in Erin, and the 
 ' enecland' or penalty for it was serious." 
 
 The Brehon -who rehearsed the Rann (or satire) the inferior 
 judge to the presiding Ollamh, one of the Brethem no Dobeir 
 who sat in the King's Court. See p. 272, Vol. I., of O'Curry's 
 " Manners and Customs of the Ancient Irish." 
 
 132. Timpan, a stringed instrument of music, but as to how it was 
 played and what it was like we are left in doubt.
 
 NOTES. 263 
 
 PAGE 
 
 134. Her yellow curls, clustering like rings of gold. 
 
 The passage in the " Lay of Oisin on the Land of Youths,'' 
 describing Niamh, has the following : 
 
 A gold ring was hanging down 
 
 From each yellow curl of her golden hair. 
 
 136. The hand-log = a wooden knocker. 
 
 A royal hall. The description of Mananan's palace is based 
 upon information on early Irish interiors to be found in Pro- 
 fessor O'Curry's work. 
 *37' A great wood-ranging- . . . boar. The wild boar is very 
 
 frequently alluded to in the Bardic Poems. 
 1 39. Jfieves or keeves tubs. 
 
 Mananan, the chief of the Dedannans, or Irish pagan deities, 
 was a sea-god, and gave his name to the Isle of Man. 
 
 Beltane. 
 
 144. Beltane = May -day. My lines are a verse rendering of the 
 following translation from a beautiful though obscure lyrical 
 fragment attributed to Finn Mac Cumhiall, the traditionary 
 leader of the Feni : 
 
 May day, delightful time ! how beautiful the color ! 
 The blackbirds sing their full lay, would that Laighaig were here ; 
 The cuckoos sing in constant strains, how welcome is the noble 
 Brilliance of the seasons ever; on the margin of the branchy woods 
 The summer suaill (swallows) skim the stream, the swift horses 
 
 seek the pool, 
 
 The heath spreads out its long hair, the weak fair bog-down grows. 
 Sudden consternation attacks the signs, the planets in their courses 
 
 running exert an influence : 
 The sea is lulled to rest, flowers cover the earth. 
 
 Mr. John O'Daly, as editor of the "Transactions of the 
 Ossianic Society for 1856," thus writes of this poem: "The 
 words of this fragment, which was considered to be the first 
 composition of Finn, after having eaten the salmon of the 
 Boyne, is very ancient and exceedingly obscure. The translation 
 is only offered for the consideration of Irish scholars, for it is 
 certain that the meaning of some of the lines is doubtful. 
 The poem obviously wants some lines at the end, and Mr. 
 Cleaver states that the remaining portion of the manuscript is 
 so defaced as to render it totally illegible."
 
 264 NOTES. 
 
 $atrtcfe antr tsin. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 145. Oisin, the Irish Ossian, after several centuries' sojourn in Fairy- 
 
 land, returns to Erin, riding on a magic steed, only to find his 
 heroic Finian comrades passed away from the land. By neg- 
 lecting to keep his feet from Irish soil, as enjoined by the 
 fairies, he suddenly shrinks from a stalwart champion into a 
 decrepit old man, and becomes until death a discontented 
 dependant of St. Patrick and his monks. 
 
 My poem is a translation of a few verses of a long Celtic 
 poem, the "Dialogue of Oisin and Patrick," which will be 
 found in the "Transactions of the Ossianic Society for 1856," 
 and to which I gladly refer my readers, not only on account of 
 its great poetical merits, but also because of its remarkable 
 psychological interest. 
 
 Dord-Finn chorus the Dord Fiansa, " which," writes Pro- 
 fessor O'Curry, " I should take to be a species of military 
 chorus or concert. " 
 
 Letter Lee. This place is not yet identified. 
 
 Gleann-a-Sgail the Glen of Seal. 
 
 146. Derrycarn, an oakwood in the county of Meath. 
 Glennamoo = the glen of victories. 
 
 The Ridge by the stream. Unidentified. 
 
 Tra-Kury = a loud surge in the Bay of Dundrum, co. Down. 
 
 Irrtis = Erris, a barony in the north-west of Mayo. 
 
 The Suir. "The first, the gentle Shure, that making way 
 By sweet Clonmell, adorns rich Waterford." 
 
 Spenser's "Fairy Queen," Bk. II., 
 canto xi., verse 43. 
 
 (ZTucuIIatn's lament ober 
 
 147. Ferdiah, chief of the Fir-bolgs, is tempted by the promise of 
 great possessions and the hand of Fionavar, daughter of Queen 
 Maev, whose whole army his best friend, Cucullain, the Cham- 
 pion of the Red Branch, is keeping at bay. to go out and do 
 battle with the hero. Cucullain slays him after a fierce struggle, 
 and thus laments over his corpse, taking in his hand the royal 
 brooch which the Queen had given him. (Observe Cucullain 
 and Ferdiah, though obliged to fight, were dear old friends) :
 
 NOTES. 265 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Alas ! oh, golden brooch ! 
 Oh, Ferdiah of the poets ! 
 Oh, stout hero of slaughtering blows : 
 Valiant was thine arm. 
 
 Thy yellow, flowing hair, 
 
 The curled, the beauteous jewel ; 
 Thy soft, foliated girdle 
 Upon thy side till death. 
 
 Delightful thy fellow-pupilship ; 
 Beaming, noble eyes ; 
 Thy shield with its golden rim ; 
 Thy chess which was worth riches. 
 
 Thy fall by my hand, 
 I feel it was not right. 
 It was not a friendly consummation. 
 Alas ! O golden brooch, alas ! 
 
 The whole of the story of Cucullain and Ferdiah is most 
 eloquently and touchingly told in the first volume of " The 
 History of Ireland," by Standish O'Grady ; Sampson Low and 
 Co., London. 
 
 Cfie Jfcong of tfje dfatn? Kin. 
 
 148. "This Midir (the Fairy King), like the rest of his race, was an 
 accomplished magician ; and, in a short time after the marriage 
 of Edain, he appeared in disguise at the palace of Tara. He 
 asked to play a game at chess with the monarch Eochaidh 
 Fedleach, and won the queen Edain as the stake." As he is 
 about to carry off the queen, he thus addresses her : 
 
 " O Befinn (Fair Woman), will you come with me 
 To a wonderful country which is mine, 
 Where the people's hair is of golden hue, 
 And their bodies the colour of virgin snow ? 
 There no grief or care is known ; 
 White are their teeth, black their eyelashes ; 
 Delight of the eye is the rank of our hosts, 
 With the hue of the fox-glove on every cheek. 
 Crimson are the flowers of every mead, 
 Gracefully speckled as the blackbird's egg ; 
 Though beautiful to see be the plains of Innisfail, 
 They are but commons compared to our great plains. 
 Though intoxicating to you be the ale-drink of Innisfail, 
 More intoxicating the ales of the great country ; 
 The only land to praise is the land of which I speak. 
 Where no one ever dies of decrepit age.
 
 266 NOTES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Soft sweet streams traverse the land ; 
 
 The choicest of mead and wine ; 
 
 Beautiful people without any blemish ; 
 
 Love without sin, without wickedness. 
 
 We can see the people upon all sides, 
 
 But by no one can we be seen ; 
 
 The cloud of Adam's transgression it is 
 
 That prevents them from seeing us. 
 
 O Woman ! should you come to my brave land, 
 
 It is golden hair will be on your head ; 
 
 Fresh pork, beer, new milk, and ale, 
 
 You there shall have with me, O Befinn !" 
 
 This remarkable story and poem are regarded by Professor 
 O'Curry, from whose writings I have made the above extracts, 
 as of great antiquity. The incident is most poetically worked 
 out in prose by Mr. Standish O'Grady, in a chapter entitled 
 "The Fairy Bride," in his " History of Ireland," Vol. I. 
 
 'durnan's jfcong. 
 
 1 50. To my friend, Dr. Joyce, I am indebted for the following brief 
 sketch (supplied to him by Mr. John Fleming, of Rathgormack, 
 in the county Waterford) of one of our most remarkable Irish 
 peasant poets, O'Curnan : 
 
 Poor O'Curnan's story was tragical enough. Hired by a 
 farmer in Modeligo, who had but one child, a little girl, 
 O'Curnan was given to understand that on her coming to a 
 marriageable age, her hand and the farm together would be 
 bestowed upon him, provided he served faithfully until then. 
 He served seven years, it is said, and, like the patriarch of old, 
 was cheated. Being sent to Cork to sell some loads of corn 
 and buy the wedding dress, etc., the young woman, during his 
 absence, was married to another man who had a fortune. 
 O'Curnan travelled day and night, but a long journey a century 
 ago could not be got over in a hurry. As he approached the 
 home of his betrothed early in the morning, he was met by the 
 wedding party going to their respective homes after the night, 
 and it is said that some of them made him the butt of their 
 ridicule. Entering the house, and learning how matters stood, 
 he threw into the fire the "favours" he had brought from Cork, 
 as well as his own wedding clothes, and for ever after roamed 
 over the country a madman but with his poetical powers 
 intact and always engaged in singing his own misfortunes and 
 the cruelty of his Mary. O'Curnan's story was known to every 
 man and woman in the county of Waterford fifty years ago, and 
 there are persons still living who have seen him.
 
 NOTES. 267 
 
 PACK 
 
 Dr. Joyce has also furnished me with the subjoined literal 
 translation of O'Curnan's most popular love lyric, versified by 
 me in the same measure as the original under the above 
 title : 
 
 Mary, sweet and fair, who left this sigh in the midst of my heart, 
 That the Island of F5dla would not heal, 
 
 1 would swear by my hand, hadst thou understood my case, 
 That thou would'st not let me die without relief. 
 
 I do not take an ounce of food, I do not sleep when I lie down, 
 There is no liveliness nor strength in me, but I am like a small 
 
 shadow ; 
 And unless I find time and opportunity to speak with the love of 
 
 my innermost heart, 
 I shall not be alive in a quarter nor in a month. 
 
 No one alive knows my trouble, or how to cure it, 
 
 Except only the maiden who has left me heart-sick ; 
 My cure is not to be found in sea or on strand, nor in herb nor in 
 
 skill of hand ; 
 My cure is nowhere to be found except with the Flower of 
 
 Youthfulness ! 
 I know not the cuckoo from the hen, I know not heat from cold, 
 
 I do not at any time recognise my friends ; 
 I know not night from day but well would my heart know its 
 
 True-love, 
 If she would only come in time, and save me ! 
 
 Save me, dear love, save me ! give me one sweet kiss from thy 
 mouth, 
 
 And lift me back again to thee from death ; 
 Or bespeak for me a narrow bed, in a close deal coffin, 
 
 In the company of the chafer and his kindred. 
 My life is not life, but death ; by voice is not voice, but mere breath ; 
 
 I have no colour, no life, no health ; 
 
 But I am tearful, sad, feeble, without music, without amusement, 
 without vigour, 
 
 In hard slavery and pain for love of thee ! 
 
 150. Mary baivn asthore fair-haired Mary, my treasure. 
 The Isle of Fodla - Ireland. 
 
 Caotnr, 
 
 (See MUSICAL APPENDIX, p. 934.) 
 
 152. This Caoine, keen or lamentation, is written to the music of the 
 "Ulster Goll," which will be found at length in Bunting's col- 
 lection. It is a verse translation or adaptation from one of
 
 268 NOTES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Crofton Croker's Irish Keens, which I find thus quoted at 
 p. 326 of Vol. I. of " Hayes' Ballads of Ireland :" 
 
 "Cold and silent is thy bed. Damp is the blessed dew of 
 night ; but the sun will bring warmth and heat in the morning, 
 and dry up the dew. But thy heart cannot feel heat from the 
 morning sun : no more will the print of your footsteps be seen 
 in the morning dew, on the mountains of Ivera, where you 
 have so often hunted the fox and the hare, ever foremost 
 amongst young men. Cold and silent is now thy bed. 
 
 " My sunshine you were. I loved you better than the sun 
 itself; and when I see the sun going down in the west, I think 
 of my boy and of my black night of sorrow. Like the rising 
 sun, he had a red glow on his cheek. He was as bright as the 
 sun at midday ; but a dark storm came on, and my sunshine 
 was lost to me for ever. My sunshine will never again come 
 back. No ! my boy cannot return. Cold and silent is his 
 bed." . . . 
 
 Jrnoto stains. 
 
 164. An American poem, " Beautiful Snow," has a good deal in 
 common with these lines. I had better, therefore, say that I 
 have never seen that poem, and that it was not repeated to me 
 until five years after my own was written. 
 
 S song of tfic 5-rasons. 
 
 1 66. Suggested by one of Barry Cornwall's lyrics, which is in the 
 same measure, and which devotes a stanza to each of the four 
 seasons. 
 
 Clje iSrjrrtflr Eobrr. 
 
 (See MUSICAL APPENDIX, p. 235.) 
 
 171. Suggested by these few lines in Bunting's collection to the air of 
 "The Rejected Lover:" 
 
 " Her hair was like the beaten gold, 
 
 Or like the spider's spinning ; 
 It was in her you might behold 
 My joys and woes beginning." 
 
 Ambrose auto Una. 
 
 176. This is a literal verse rendering of a prose translation of the Danish 
 ballad, " Aage and Else," furnished me by Mr. Peter Toft.
 
 NOTES. 269 
 
 Companions. 
 
 PACE 
 
 198. This song, under the title of "The Two Friends" has been set 
 
 to music by Mr. Joseph Robinson, and is published by Cramer, 
 Wood, and Co., Westmorland Street, Dublin. 
 
 <9oo& Jlig&t. 
 
 (See MUSICAL APPENDIX, p. 239.) 
 
 199. Suggested by and written to an air in Petrie's collection entitled, 
 
 " Good Night, and Joy be with you all."
 
 INDEX. 
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS : 
 
 The Little Red Lark ........ 
 
 Love's Wishes ........ 5 
 
 I Once Loved a Boy ...... . . g 
 
 The Banks of the Daisies ..... 7 
 
 Herring is King ........ q 
 
 Hush Song - . . - - - - . 12 
 
 The Foggy Dew - - - . . . . -14 
 
 The Confession ........ ,g 
 
 The Girl I left behind me ,8 
 
 EvaTuohill - - - 20 
 
 Tis I can weave Woollen and Linen - 22 
 Maureen, Maureen 
 
 When I rose in the Morning ....... 25 
 
 The Mill Song 27 
 
 Tis a pity I can't see my love ...... 30 
 
 With the North ........ 32 
 
 Nancy, the Pride of the West 
 
 Jenny, I'm not Jesting - - 37 
 
 The Hour we Parted - ...... 4O 
 
 The Smith's Song 43 
 Mo Muirnin Dhu ...... -45 
 
 Pleraca ......... 47 
 
 Song of the Ghost - - 50 
 
 Colleen Oge Asthore ...... 53 
 
 The Flight of the Earls - - 56 
 
 Kitty Bhan ...... 58 
 
 The White Blossom 's off the Bog - 59 
 
 With Fluttering Joy ....... 60 
 
 A Sailor loved a Farmer's Daughter - - . 61 
 
 The Reaper's Revenge ... 63 
 
 The Blue, Blue Smoke * 65 
 
 RUSTIC POEMS : 
 
 Father O'Flynn ....... 7 t 
 
 Molleen Oge .... - 74 
 
 Two Irish Idylls 76
 
 272 INDEX. 
 
 RUSTIC POEMS (continued) : 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Fan Fitzgerl - 
 
 - 79 
 
 Bat of the Bridge 
 
 81 
 
 The Light in the Snow 
 
 - 87 
 
 What is Life widout a Wife ? 
 
 90 
 
 The Wreck of the Aideen - 
 
 - 93 
 
 The Handsome Witch 
 
 95 
 
 Saving the Turf .... 
 
 . 98 
 
 Loobeen - 
 
 99 
 
 The Black '46 - 
 
 . 102 
 
 ANGLO-IRISH BALLADS : 
 
 
 Shuile Agra ..... 
 
 107 
 
 Gragalmachree 
 
 no 
 
 'Twas pretty to be in Ballinderry 
 
 112 
 
 My Bonny Cuckoo - 
 
 - "4 
 
 The Willow Tree - 
 
 116 
 
 Jack the Jolly Ploughboy 
 
 - 117 
 
 Jenny ...... 
 
 119 
 
 The Fox Hunt 
 
 - I2O 
 
 FROM THE CELTIC : 
 
 
 The Fairy Branch 
 
 125 
 
 Beltane ..... 
 
 - 144 
 
 Patrick and Oisin - 
 
 145 
 
 Cucullain's Lament over Ferdiah 
 
 - 147 
 
 The Song of the Fairy King ... 
 
 I 4 8 
 
 O'Curnan's Song ... 
 
 - 150 
 
 Caoine 
 
 152 
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES : 
 
 
 Song 
 
 . - 155 
 
 From the Red Rose - 
 
 '57 
 
 O Branch of Fragrant Blossom 
 
 - ' - - I 5 8 
 
 One Loving Smile 
 
 159 
 
 Snow Drift - . . . 
 
 - 160 
 
 Shamrock Leaves 
 
 163 
 
 Snow Stains - 
 
 . . - - 164 
 
 A Song of the Seasons - 
 
 166 
 
 Maureen - - - - f _ 
 
 - 168 
 
 Spring's Secrets - - - - 
 
 169 
 
 The Rejected Lover - 
 
 - 171 
 
 The Beautiful Bay 
 
 173 
 
 Ambrose and Una .... 
 
 . 176 
 
 Orpheus to Pluto - 
 Son? : To E. P. 
 
 181 
 - 185
 
 I 
 
 INDEX. 273 
 
 SONGS AND SKETCHES (continued) ; 
 
 Choosing a Profession - ... ,gg 
 
 Myrtilla . Igo 
 
 Love's Surprise .... - - - 191 
 
 Amoebaean ....... - - '93 
 
 Love's Song . ... 196 
 Companions ......... , 9 g 
 
 Good Night - - - 199 
 
 MUSIC: 
 
 The Little Red Lark ....... 
 
 Love's Wishes ....... 
 
 I Once Loved a Boy .... - 205 
 
 Hush Song ...... - - 206 
 
 The Foggy Dew ........ 2c/7 
 
 The Confession ...... - 208 
 
 Maureen, Maureen -------- I0 
 
 When I rose in the Morning ... I2 
 
 Tis a pity I can't see my love - -13 
 
 With the North .... - 14 
 
 Jenny, I'm not Jesting ... . 16 
 
 The Hour we Parted ... ,8 
 
 The Smith's Song - -19 
 
 Pleraca ......... 20 
 
 Song of the Ghost ... - 22 
 
 Colleen Oge Asthore ... 23 
 
 The Flight of the Earls - 24 
 
 A Sailor loved a Farmer's Daughter - 25 
 
 Father O'Flynn ... 2 7 
 
 Twas pretty to be in Ballinderry ... 29 
 
 My Bonny Cuckoo .... -31 
 
 Jack the Jolly Ploughboy 32 
 
 Caoine .... - 34 
 
 The Rejected Lover .... 35 
 
 Irish Spinning Wheel Song - -36 
 
 Irish Lullaby ... 38 
 Good Night .........39 
 
 NOTES : 
 
 The Little Red Lark ....... 343 
 
 Love's Wishes ........ 243 
 
 I Once Loved a Boy ....... 243 
 
 The Banks of the Daisies ..... . 244 
 
 Herring is King ........ 344 
 
 Hush Song ......... 244 
 
 The Foggy Dew ...... 245 
 
 The Confession .... - 245
 
 274 INDEX. 
 
 NOTES (continued) ; 
 
 PACK 
 
 The Girl I left behind me - - 245 
 
 Eva Tuohill - ... 245 
 
 Tis I can weave Woollen and Linen - - 246 
 
 Maureen, Maureen , - - - 246 
 
 When I rose in the Morning - - 246 
 
 The Mill Song - 246 
 
 Tis a pity I can't see my love ... - 246 
 
 With the North 246 
 
 Nancy, the Pride of the West - - - 247 
 
 Jenny, I'm not Jesting ... . 247 
 
 The Hour we Parted ..... - 247 
 
 The Smith's Song - - 247 
 
 Mo Muirnin Dhu - - - 248 
 
 Pleraca .... 248 
 
 Song of the Ghost - 249 
 
 Colleen Oge Asthore - - - 249 
 
 The Flight of the Earls ....--. 250 
 
 Kitty Bhan ----- ---251 
 
 The White Blossom 's off the Bog ... - 251 
 With Fluttering Joy--- -251 
 
 A Sailor loved a Farmer's Daughter ----- 2 j 2 
 
 The Reaper's Revenge - - - - 252 
 
 The Blue, Blue Smoke - - - - 252 
 
 Father O'Flynn - - ... 253 
 
 Molleen Oge ... . 253 
 
 Two Irish Idylls .... ... 253 
 
 Fan Fitzgerl ... . 253 
 
 Bat of the Bridge ........ 253 
 
 The Light in the Snow - - - 254 
 
 What is Life widout a Wife ? - 254 
 
 The Wreck of the Aideen - 254 
 
 The Handsome Witch - - - 254 
 
 Saving the Turf .... . 255 
 
 Loobeen - - - - - - - ... 255 
 
 The Black '46 -------- 256 
 
 Shuile Agra ---.-.--- 256 
 
 Gragalmachree -------- 258 
 
 Twas pretty to be in Ballinderry - - 259 
 
 My Bonny Cuckoo - - 259 
 
 The Willow Tree - - .... - - - - 259 
 
 Jack the Jolly Ploughboy - - - - - * - 260 
 
 Jenny ---------- 260 
 
 The Fox Hunt 261 
 
 The Fairy Branch ........ 262 
 
 Beltane - - - 263 
 
 Patrick and Oisin - - 264 
 
 Cucullain's Lament over Ferdiah - 264
 
 INDEX. 275 
 
 NOTES (continued); 
 
 The Song of the Fairy King - . . . . - 265 
 
 O'Curnan's Song ... ... jgg 
 
 Caoine .... . 2 g 7 
 
 Snow Stains --...... ^g 
 
 A Song of the Seasons - . 268 
 
 The Rejected Lover - - - - - - - 268 
 
 Ambrose and Una - - .... 2 gg 
 
 Companions - . 269 
 
 Good Night - - - - - 269 
 
 A. IRELAND AND CO., PRINTERS, PALL MALL, MANCHESTER.
 
 CORRIGENDA. 
 
 P. 3. Supply a comma at the end of line 13. 
 
 P. 13. Convert the comma at the end of line n into a full stop. 
 
 P. 20. Transfer comma from end of line 18 to end of line 17. 
 
 Pp. 45, 46. For "moireen" read "muirntn." 
 
 P. 77. Strike out comma at end of line 7. 
 
 P. 93. Cancel comma before " Aideen." 
 
 P. 103, line 4. For " right" read " night." 
 
 lines 10, 12. For "davra" read "shade," and for "slan" " spade. 
 Pp. 107-109. For "Gotheen" read " Go-thee-thu." 
 P. 109. Supply comma at end of line 16. 
 P. 121, line 8. For " Blyboyne" read " Ballyboyne." 
 P. 129, line 13. Before "smote" supply "wildly." 
 P. 130, line 3. For "hundred-battled" read "hundred-fighter."
 
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