3 182201941 7880 ? of Califo rn Regional ry Facility UBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA N SAN DIEGO presented to the UNIVERSITY LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SAN DIEGO by The Estate of Anne Fisher SITY OF CALIFORNI 3 182201941 7880 / The Golden Treasury of Irish Songs and Lyrics Edited by CHARLES WELSH Volume One NEW YORK Dodge Publishing Company 40-42 EAST igTH STREET Copyright, jrpo?, by DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY TO THEODORE ROOSEVELT PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES THIS WORK IS DEDICATED AS A MARK OF APPRECIATION OF HIS ENCOURAGEMENT OF THE STUDY OF IRISH LITERATURE IN AMERICA PREFACE THIS anthology, as its name implies, aims to pre- sent some of the best examples of Irish songs and lyrics from the Bards who wrote in their mother tongue, when Ireland was the island of saints and scholars and the school of the West ; the folk songs, street ballads, the great wealth of patriotic poetry called forth by the suppression and oppression of centuries, the humorous and convivial verse with which Irish literature abounds, the pathetic, romantic and sentimental poetry for which the Irish have al- ways been famous, and the elusive, refined, tender and mystical voices which breathe in the poetry of the Irish Renascence of to-day. Songs and lyrics must necessarily be an elastic term, especially when applied to Irish verse, since nearly all Irish poetry is lyrical and nearly all Irish poetry is song ; even in narrative, descriptive and didactic poetry, the Irishman more often than not takes on a lyric tone. Hence, although the longer poems of Goldsmith and Moore have been excluded because they do not exactly answer to the title of this collec- tion, many others may be found herein which, while not being strictly songs or lyrics, possess in some de- gree the characteristics of one or the other, v vi PREFACE Indeed the line can never be drawn with absolute accuracy and it is possible that many pieces have been here included which may be considered neither songs nor lyrics, but the editor while hoping generally to please the scholarly and critical reader, desires also to gratify the larger public who will expect to find in such a collection, those verses which have endeared themselves to the hearts of the Irish people and which they would not willingly let die. There is probably no body of poetry in the world which lends itself less readily to literary criticism and classification than that which has sprung from the great heart of the Irish people. They have ever been, like the holy men of old, who spake as they were moved by the Holy Ghost. As a rule the poets of Ireland have appeared to care little for forms except those of rhyme and rhythm, feeling dominating ever. There is little effect of the labor lima to be felt in the great body of Irish poetry ; even in those polished and complicated verses, full of vowel rhymes and alliterations characteristic of the early writers in their native Irish some of which have been so felicitously rendered by Dr. Douglas Hyde, there is scarcely any sensation of the fetters of form. From the first Bard who told in burning and Homeric phrase the story of the fights of the Iberian Chiefs or of the grand stand which Brian Boru made against the Danish invasion, to the burning songs and ballads of the young Ireland- PREFACE vii ers and to the love songs of Moore and the mystical imaginings of the poets of the modern revival, there is always a sense of spontaneousness left on the mind of the reader ; action, sentiment and feeling have ever been the pulsating notes of Irish poetry as they have always been the dominant features of the Irish char- acter, shaping and moulding the destinies of the race. No collection of Irish songs and lyrics would be complete without some examples of the convivial songs, which had their vogue in the genial days of Lever, Lover and Moore. The fashion which gave them birth has passed away and there are many features of it which it would be well to forget, but it represents a distinct period in the national life and a character and spirit of the people which is as per- manent as its hills and its valleys, its rivers and its bogs. But no lengthy disquisition on the characteristics and history of Irish poetry need be attempted here. More competent authorities have dealt with the sub- ject in its many and varied aspects and the poetry of Ireland by common consent now holds a high and distinguished place among the literatures of the world. An anthology loses half its value unless it be also a work of ready reference, hence the plan has been adopted of arranging the contents of this volume alphabetically, according to the names of the authors and the translators from the Gaelic, anonymous poetry Vlll PREFACE finding a place in the alphabetical order under the title of Street Ballads, Hedge Songs and Anonymous verse. For those who wish to study the groups into which Irish songs and lyrics naturally fall, the apparatus fur- nished at the end of the volume will be found readily practicable. The thousand and one gems of Irish poetry contained herein are classified in the indexes in such a manner that the student can easily find every group with which he may wish to acquaint himself. The folk songs, the Bardic songs, the love songs, the humorous and convivial songs and the sacred poetry, as well as many other minor subdivisions will be found in their places. The translations from the Gaelic by different hands included in the volume are indexed under the names of their translators ; and so far as the authorship is known, under the names of the writers ; they are also indexed in the general group of Gaelic authors. A few trans- lations of the same poems by different hands will be found as for example : " The famous hills of Eire O," of which no less than three different versions are given. In garnering this collection the editor has had the advantage of the critical judgment of some of the fore- most Irish scholars and poets among whom may be mentioned with grateful thanks : Dr. Douglas Hyde, Mr. Stephen Lucius Gwynn, Francis Joseph Bigger and D. J. O'Donoghue as well as some of the best PREFACE ix English and Irish scholars on this side of the Atlantic, and among these thanks are especially due to Professor F. N. Robinson, who occupies the Celtic chair at Harvard University, Dr. Maurice F. Egan of the Catholic University in Washington, the Rev. C. P. Gavan, Messrs. John D. Crimmins, Patrick Ford, Eugene Geary, John J. Rooney, James Ryan, and S. J. Richardson. CHARLES WELSH. Winthrop, Mass., June, 1906. TABLE OF CONTENTS (VOLUME I) ALEXANDER, CECIL FRANCES I Dreams I The Burial of Moses 2 The Irish Mother's Lament 4 The Legend of Stumpie's Brae 7 There is a Green Hill 13 ALEXANDER, WILLIAM 14 Very Far Away 14 ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM 15 Abbey Asaroe 15 Across the Sea 17 A Dream 17 Among the Heather 19 Four Ducks on a Pond 20 Half-Waking 20 Lovely Mary Donnelly 21 Spring is Come 23 The Ban-Shee 25 The Fairies 27 The Leprecaun, or Fairy Shoemaker 29 The Lover and Birds 31 The Milkmaid 33 The Ruined Chapel 35 The Sailor 36 The Winding Banks of Erne 37 Windlass Song 43 Winning 44 Wishing 45 ANSTER, JOHN 46 The Fairy Child ' 46 xi xii CONTENTS ARMSTRONG, JOHN FRANCIS 48 Adieu 48 The Blind Student 48 BANIM, JOHN 50 Aileen 50 Soggarth Aroon 51 The Fetch 53 The Irish Mother in the Penal Days 54 BARLOW, JANE 56 The Flitting of the Fairies 56 BARRY, MICHAEL JOSEPH 59 The Place Where Man Should Die 59 The Sword 60 BEAMISH, FLORENCE 63 Sleep On 63 BERKELEY, GEORGE, Bishop of Cloyne 64 On the Prospect of Planting Arts and Learning in America 64 BlCKERSTAFF, ISAAC 66 Song 66 Two Songs 66 BLAKE, MARY ELIZABETH 69 The Dawning o' the Year 69 The First Steps 71 BOUCICAULT, DION . . . . 74 Song 74 BOYD, THOMAS 76 To the Leanan Sidhe 76 BOYLE, WILLIAM 78 Philandering 78 BRENAN, JOSEPH 80 Come to Me, Dearest 80 CONTENTS xiii BROOKE, CHARLOTTE 82 Pulse of My Heart 82 BROOKE, STOPFORD AUGUSTUS 83 The Noble Lay of Aillinn ' . 83 BROWNE, FRANCES 87 O the Pleasant Days of Old 1 87 The Last Friends 89 What Hath Time Taken 90 BUGGY, KEVIN T 92 The Saxon Shilling 92 CALLANAN, JAMES JOSEPH 94 And Must We Part 94 Dirge of O'Sullivan Bear 95 Gougane Barra 97 O Say, My Brown Drimin 100 The Convict of Clonmel 101 The Lament of O'Gnive 102 CAMPBELL, JOSEPH 105 Newtownbreda 105 The Friar's Bush 106 The Garden of the Bees 109 The Lament of Patraic Mor MacCruimin over His Sons no The Nine Glens of Aon-Druim 112 CAMPION, JOHN T 114 Emmet's Death 114 CANNING, GEORGE 116 Epitaph 116 Song 117 The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Grinder . . 1 19 CANTON, WILLIAM 121 Laus Infantum 121 CARLETON, WILLIAM 122 A Sigh for Knockmany 122 xiv CONTENTS CASEY, JOHN KEEGAN 124 Donal Kenny , 124 Gracie Og Machree 126 Maire My Girl 127 The Rising of the Moon ". 128 CHERRY, ANDREW 131 The Bay of Biscay 131 The Green Little Shamrock of Ireland 132 Tom Moody 133 CHESSON, MRS. W. H., (Nora Hopper) 135 Niam 135 The Cuckoo Sings in the Heart of Winter 137 The Dark Man 137 The Faery Fool 138 The Fairy Fiddler 139 The Gray Fog 140 The King of Ireland's Son 141 CLARKE, J. B., 143 Eman-ac-Knuck to Eva 143 CLARKE, JOSEPH IGNATIUS CONSTANTINK 146 Rough Rider O'Neill 146 The Fighting Race 148 CODE, HENRY BRERETON 151 The Sprig of Shillelah 151 COLEMAN, PATRICK JAMES 153 Bindin' the Oats 153 Seed-Time 154 COLUM, PADRAIC 157 A Drover 157 Dream and Shadow 158 The Bells 159 The Flower . . . . " 159 CONGREVE, WILLIAM 161 Amoret 161 Extracts from the " Mourning Bride " 161 CONTENTS xv CONNOLLY, DANIEL 163 Compensation 163 Memories of the Erne . 165 Trout Fishing 169 CONNOLLY, JAMES 173 The Song of Ilann 173 CONOLLY, LUKE AYLMER 174 The Enchanted Island 174 CRAWFORD, MRS. JULIA 176 Dermot Astore 176 Kathleen Mavourueen 177 CROKER, T. CROFTON 178 Caoine on Maurice Fitzgerald, Knight of Kerry . . 178 The Lord of Dunkerron 180 CROLY, REV. GEORGE 184 Leonidas 184 The Island of Atlantis 185 CURRAN, HENRY GRATTAN 188 A Lament 188 CURRAN, JOHN PHILPOT .... 191 Cushla-ma-chree . . 191 The Deserter's Meditation 192 The Monks of the Screw 192 D'ALTON, JOHN 195 Claragh's Lament 195 DARLEY, GEORGE 198 Song 198 Song of the Summer Winds 199 To Helene 200 True Loveliness 201 DAVis, FRANCIS 203 My Kallagh Dhu Asthore 203 Nanny 205 xvi CONTENTS DAVIS, THOMAS OSBORNE 207 A Christmas Scene, or Love in the Country .... 207 A Nation Once Again . 209 A Plea for Love 210 Fontenoy 211 Maire Bhan a Stor 214 My Grave 216 My Land 217 Oh ! the Marriage 217 The Girl of Dunbwy 219 The Welcome 220 The West's Asleep , 221 DAWSON, ARTHUR 223 Bumpers, Squire Jones 223 DE VERE, SIR AUBREY 227 Liberty of the Press 227 The Children Band . 227 The Shannon 228 DE VERE, AUBREY T , 229 Dirge of Rory O'More 229 Flowers I Would Bring 230 Sad is Our Youth 230 Song 231 Sorrow 232 The Little Black Rose 232 DOHENY, MICHAEL 234 A Cushla Gal mo Chree 234 DOLLARD, REV. JAMES B 236 Irish Mist and Sunshine . 236 The Tallin' o' the Rain 237 When the West Wind Blows 239 DOWDEN, EDWARD 241 Awakening 241 Lady Margaret's Song 241 Song ... 242 CONTENTS xvii DOWLING, BARTHOLOMEW 244 The Brigade at Fontenoy 244 DOWNING, ELLEN MARY PATRICK 247 The Old Church at Lismore 247 DRENNAN, DR. WILLIAM . . 250 Erin . . 250 The Wake of William Orr 252 DRENNAN, WILLIAM, JR 254 The Battle of Beal-an-atha-buidh 254 DRUMMOND, REV. W. H 257 Cuchullin's Chariot 257 DUFFERIN, LADY HELEN 259 Katey's Letter 259 Lament of the Irish Emigrant .... 260 DUFFET, THOMAS 263 Come All You Pale Lovers 263 DUFFY, SIR CHARLES GAVAN 265 Innishowen 265 The Irish Rapparees 267 The Muster of the North 270 EGAN, MAURICE F 275 By Right Divine 275 The Shamrock 275 EMMET, ROBERT 277 Lines 277 FAHY, FRANCIS A 279 Irish Molly O 279 " The Bog Road " .... 280 The Donovans 283 The Quid Plaid Shawl 284 xviii CONTENTS FERGUSON, SIR SAMUEL 287 Cean Dubh Deelish 287 Drimmin Dhu 287 Lament Over the Ruins of the Abbey of Timoleague, 288 Mild Mabel Kelly 291 Owen Bawn 292 Pastheen Fion 294 The Coolun . 296 The Fair Hills of Ireland .....*'.' 898 The Fairy Thorn 299 The Fairy Well of Lagnanay 302 The Forging of the Anchor . . 305 The Lapful of Nuts 310 FITZGERALD, MAURICE 311 Moonlight on New York Bay 311 To Douglas Hyde 312 FITZSIMON, ELLEN 314 The Song of the Irish Emigrant in America . . . . 314 FLECKNOE, RICHARD 317 Of Drinking 317 FORREST, J. L 318 The Banshee's Song 318 FORRESTER, ELLEN 321 The Widow's Message to Her Son 321 Fox, GEORGE 324 The County of Mayo 324 FRAZER, JEAN DE JEAN 326 Brosna's Banks 326 Song for July I2th, 1843 S 2 ^ FURLONG, ALICE 330 The Dreamer 330 The Trees 331 CONTENTS xix FURLONG, MARY 333 An Irish Love-Song 333 Glen-na-Smoel 335 FURLONG, THOMAS 337 Bridget Cruise 337 Eileen Aroon 339 Maggy Laidir 34 Roisin Dubh 343 GALLAGHER, F. O'NEILL 345 The Sea Madness 345 GALLAGHER, W. D 34& The Laborer 346 GEOGHEGAN, ARTHUR GERALD 348 After Aughrim 34$ The Mountain Fern 34^ GILBERT, LADY (Rosa Mulholland) 351 Kilfenora 351 Saint Brigid . . . 35 2 Shamrocks 353 Song 353 The Builders 354 The Wild Geese 357 GOLDSMITH, OLIVER 360 An Elegy . 360 Memory 361 The Hermit 361 Tony Lumpkin's Song 367 Woman 3^8 GORE-BOOTH, EVA 3 6 9 From East to West 3^9 The Little Waves of Breffhy 369 To Maeve 37 xx CONTENTS GRAVES, A. P 372 An Irish Grace .... 372 Father O'Flynn 373 Irish Eyes . . 375 Kitty Bhan 375 Like a Stone in the Street . . 376 The Blue, Blue Smoke 377 She Is My Love 379 The Irish Spinning- Wheel 380 GRAVES, C. L 382 Ad Aristiden Qbfuscatum 382 Ad Aristium Fuscum 383 GREENE, GEORGE ARTHUR 386 On Great Sugarloaf 386 Spring-Time 387 GRIFFIN, GERALD 389 Eileen Aroon 389 Gile Machree 391 Hy-Brasail : the Isle of the Blest 393 The Wake of the Absent 394 GWYNN, STEPHEN LUCIAS 396 A Lay of Ossian and Patrick 396 Ireland 43 Mater Severa 404 HALPINE, CHARLES GRAHAM 407 Not a Star From the Flag Shall Fade 407 HOBSON, BULMER 409 The Deluge ' 49 Ulad 41 HOGAN, MICHAEL 412 Draherin O Machree . 412 CONTENTS xxi HYDE, DOUGLAS 414 From a Poem by Teige MacDaire 414 I Shall Not Die for Thee 415 Little Child, I Call Thee 416 My Grief on the Sea 417 My Love oh! She is My Love 418 O Were You on the Mountain 420 Ringleted Youth of My Love 420 The Brow of Nefin 421 The Red Man's Wife 423 The Sign of the Cross Forever 424 INGRAM, JOHN KELLS 426 The Memory of the Dead 426 IRWIN, THOMAS CAULFIELD 428 A Window Song , 428 The Emigrant's Voyage 430 The Potato-Digger's Song 432 JOHNSON, LIONEL 435 The Dark Angel . 435 The Last Music 437 The Red Wind 438 To Morfydd 439 Ways of War 440 JOYCE, ROBERT DWYER 442 Crossing the Blackwater 442 The Blacksmith of Limerick 444 The Wind That Shakes the Barley 447 KAVANAGH, ROSE 449 Lough Bray 449 St. Michan's Churchyard . 450 The Northern Blackwater 451 KEEGAN, JOHN 454 Caoch the Piper 454 KEELING, ELSA D'ESTERRE 458 Love Making in Paddy Land 458 xxii CONTENTS KENEALY, EDWARD 459 Love's Warning 459 KENEALY, WILLIAM 461 The Last Request 461 The Moon Behind the Hill 462 KENNEDY, WILLIAM 464 The Poet's Heart 464 KENNEY, JAMES " 466 Why Are You Wandering Here 466 KEOHLER, THOMAS 467 Apology 467 Autumn 468 The Devotee 468 KICKHAM, CHARLES J 470 My Ulick 470 Patrick Sheehan 472 Rory of the Hill 474 LANE, DENNY 477 Kate of Arraglen 477 LARMINIE, WILLIAM 480 Consolation 480 LAWLESS, EMILY 482 A Retort , 482 LEAMY, EDMUND ... 484 A Royal Love t 484 LEFANU, JOSEPH SHERIDAN 486 Abnrain an Bhuideil 486 Shamus O'Brien .... 489 The GOLDEN TREASURY of IRISH SONGS and LYRICS CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER (1818-1895) DREAMS BEYOND, beyond the mountain line, The gray-stone and the boulder, Beyond the growth of dark green pine, That crowns its western shoulder, There lies that fairy-land of mine, Unseen of a beholder. Its fruits are all like rubies rare ; Its streams are clear as glasses ; There golden castles hang in air, And purple grapes in masses, And noble knights and ladies fair Come riding down the passes. Ah me ! they say if I could stand Upon those mountain ledges, I should but see on either hand Plain fields and dusty hedges; And yet I know my fairy-land Lies somewhere o'er their edges. 2 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF THE BURIAL OF MOSES BY Nebo's lonely mountain, on this side Jordan's wave, In a vale, in the land of Moab, there lies a lonely grave; And no man knows that sepulchre, and no man saw it e'er ; For the angels of God upturned the sod, and laid the dead man there. That was the grandest funeral that ever passed on earth ; But no man heard the trampling, or saw the train go forth Noiselessly, as the Daylight comes back when Night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek grows into the great sun. Noiselessly, as the spring-time her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills open their thousand leaves ; So, without sound of music, or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain's crown, the great procession swept. Perchance the bald old eagle, on gray Beth-Peor's height, Out of his lonely eyrie, looked on the wondrous sight; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 3 Perchance the lion stalking still shuns that hallowed spot, For beast and bird have seen and heard that which man knoweth not ! But when the Warrior dieth, his comrades in the war, With arms reversed and muffled drum, follow his funeral car ; They show the banners taken, they tell his battles won, And after him lead his masterless steed, while peals the minute-gun. Amid the noblest of the land we lay the Sage to rest, And give the Bard an honored place, with costly marble drest, In the great minster transept, where lights like glories fall, And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings, along the emblazoned wall. This was the truest warrior that ever buckled sword ; This the most gifted poet that ever breathed a word ; And never earth's philosopher traced with his golden pen, On the deathless page, truths half so sage as he wrote down for men. And had he not high honor, the hillside for a pall ? To lie in state, while angels wait, with stars for tapers tall? And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes, over his bier to wave ! And God's own hand, in that lonely land, to lay him in the grave ! 4 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF In that strange grave without a name, whence his uncoffined clay Shall break again, O wondrous thought ! before the judgment day, And stand, with glory wrapt around, on the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife that won our life, with the in- carnate Son of God. O lonely grave in Moab's land ! O dark Beth-Peor's hill! Speak to these curious hearts of ours, and teach them to be still. God hath his mysteries of grace, ways that we cannot tell; He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep of him he loved so well. THE IRISH MOTHER'S LAMENT " She watched for the return of her son from America in her house by the Foyle, near Derry." T HERE'S no one on the long white road The night is closing o'er ; O mother ! cease to look abroad And let me shut the door. " Now here and there a twinkling light Comes out along the bay ; The little ships lie still and white, And no one comes this way." IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS She turned her straining eyes within ; She sighed both long and low. " Shut up the door ; take out the pin, Then, if it must be so. "But, daughter, set the wick alight, And put it in the pane ; If any should come home to-night, He'll see it through the rain. " Nay, leave the pin beneath the latch ; If some one push the door, Across my broken dreams I'll hear His footstep on the floor." She crouched within the ingle nook, She spread her fingers sere, Her failed eyes had a far-off look, Despite her fourscore year. And if in youth they had been fair, 'Twas not the charm they had, Not the old beauty lingering there, But something weird and sad. The daughter, in the firelight pale, A woman gray and wan, Sat listening, while half dream, half wail, Her words went wandering on ; "O river that dost never halt Till down beyond the bar Thou meet'st the breakers green and salt That bore my lads afar THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF " O sea betwixt our slighted isle And that wide bounteous West That has such magic in her smile To lure away our best "Bring back, bring back the guiding keel; Bring fast the home-bound ship ; Mine eyes look out ; I faint to feel The touch of hand and lip. " And is that land so much more fair, So much more rich that shore Than this, where, prodigal of care, I nursed the sons I bore ? " I nursed them at my yielding breast, I reared them at my knee, They left me for the golden West ; They left me for the sea. ' With hungry heart, and eyes that strove In vain their eyes to meet, And all my lavish mother's love Beat backward to my feet "Like that broad stream that runs, and raves, And floweth grandly out, But the salt billows catch its waves, And fling them all about "The bitter world washed out my claim ; In childhood it was dear, But youth forgets, and manhood came, And dashed it far and near. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS "But when I think of the old time, Soft fingers, eyes that met, In spite of age, in spite of clime, I wonder they forget. " And if they live, their life is strong ; Forgotten here I die ; I question with my heart, and long, And cannot answer why, " Till by Christ's grace I walk in white Where his redeemed go, And know the reason of God's right, Or never care to know. "But out-bound ships come home again; They sail 'neath sun and moon. Put thou the candle in the pane ; They may be coming soon." " Calm lie the lights below the town ; There's not a ship in sight ; O mother I cease, and lay you down ; They will not come to-night." THE LEGEND OF STUMPIE'S BRAE 1 H EARD ye no tell o' the Stumpie's Brae ? Sit down, sit down, young friend, I'll make your flesh to creep to-day, And your hair to stan' on end. 1 This embodies an actual legend attached to a lonely spot on the border of the County of Donegal. The language of the ballad is the peculiar semi-Scottish dialect spoken in the North of Ireland. Author. THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF Young man, 'tis hard to strive wi' sin, And the hardest strife of a', Is where the greed o' gain creeps in, And drives God's grace awa'. Oh, it's quick to do, but it's lang to rue, When the punishment comes at last, And we would give the world to undo The deed that's done and past. Over yon strip of meadow land, And over the burnie bright, Dinna ye mark the.fir-trees stand, Around yon gable white ? I mind it weel, in my younger days The story yet was rife : There dwelt within that lonely place A farmer and his wife. They sat together, all alone, One blessed Autumn night, When the trees without, and hedge, and stone, Were white in the sweet moonlight. The boys and girls were gone down all A wee to the blacksmith's wake ; There pass'd ane on by the window small, And guv the door a shake. The man he up and open'd the door When he had spoken a bit, A pedlar man stepp'd into the floor, Down he tumbled the pack he bore, Right heavy pack was it. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS " Gude save us a'," says the wife, wi' a smile, " But yours is a thrivin' trade." "Ay, ay, I've wander'd mony a mile, And plenty have I made." The man sat on by the dull fire flame, When the pedlar went to rest ; Close to his ear the Devil came, And slipp'd intil his breast. He look'd at his wife by the dim firelight, And she was as bad as he " Could we no' murder thon man the night? " "Ay could we, ready," quo' she. He took the pickaxe without a word, Whence it stood, ahint the door ; As he pass'd in, the sleeper stirr'd, That never waken 'd more. " He's dead ! " says the auld man, coming back " What o' the corp, my dear ? " " We'll bury him snug in his ain bit pack, Never ye mind for the loss of the sack, I've ta'en out a' the gear." " The pack's owre short by twa gude span, What'll we do ! " quo' he " Ou, you're a doited, unthoughtfu' man, We'll cut him off at the knee." io THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF They shorten'd the corp, and they pack'd him tight, Wi' his legs in a pickle hay ; Over the burn, in the sweet moonlight, They carried him till this brae. They shovell'd a hole right speedily, They laid him in on his back " A right pair are ye," quo' the PEDLAR, quo' he, Sitting bolt upright in the pack. " Ye think ye've laid me snugly here, And none shall know my station ; But I'll hant ye far, and I'll hant ye near, Father and son, wi' terror and fear, To the nineteenth generation." The twa were sittin' the vera next night, When the dog began to cower, And they knew, by the pale blue firelight, That the Evil One had power. It has stricken nine, just nine o' the clock The hour when the man lay dead ; There came to the outer door a knock, And a heavy, heavy tread. The old man's head swam round and round, The woman's blood 'gan freeze, For it was not like a natural sound, But like some one stumping o'er the ground On the banes of his twa bare knees. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 11 And through the door, like a sough of air, And stump, stump, round the twa, Wi' his bloody head, and his knee banes bare They'd marst ha'e died of awe ! The wife's black locks ere morn grew white, They say, as the mountain snaws; The man was as straight as a staff that night, But he stoop'd when the morning rose. Still, year and day, as the clock struck NINE, The hour when they did the sin, The wee bit dog began to whine, And the ghaist came clattering in. Ae night there was a fearful flood Three days the skies had pour'd ; And white vvi' foam, and black wi' mud, The burn in fury roar'd. Quo' she " Gude man, ye need na turn Sae pale in the dim firelight ; The Stumpie canna cross the burn He'll no' be here the night. " For it's o'er the bank, and it's o'er the linn, And it's up to the meadow ridge " "Ay," quo' the Stumpie hirpling in, And he gied the wife a slap on the chin, " But I cam' round by the bridge ! " And stump, stump, stump, to his plays again, And o'er the stools and chairs ; Ye'd surely hae thought ten women and men Were dancing there in pairs. 12 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF They sold their gear, and over the sea To a foreign land they went, Over the sea but wha can flee His appointed punishment ? The ship swam over the water clear, Wi" the help o' the eastern breeze; But the vera first sound in guilty fear, O'er the wide, smooth deck, that fell on their ear Was the tapping o' them twa knees. In the woods of wild America Their weary feet they set ; But Stumpie was there the first, they say, And he haunted them onto their dying day, And he follows their children yet. I haud ye, never the voice of blood Call'd from the earth in vain; And never has crime won worldly good, But it brought its after-pain. This is the story o' Stumpie's Brae, And the murderers' fearin' fate : Young man, your face is turn'd that way, Ye" 11 be ganging the night that gate. Ye' 11 ken it weel, through the few fir-trees, The house where they wont to dwell ; Gin ye meet ane there, as daylight flees, Stumping about on the banes of his knees It'll just be Stumpie himsel'. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 13 THERE IS A GREEN HILL T HERE is a green hill far away, Without a city wall, Where the dear Lord was crucified, Who died to save us all. We may not know, we cannot tell What pains he had to bear, But we believe it was for us He hung and suffered there. He died that we might be forgiven, He died to make us good, That we might go at last to heaven, Saved by his precious blood. There was no other good enough To pay the price of sin ; He only could unlock the gate Of heaven and let us in. O dearly, dearly has he loved, And we must love him too, And trust in his redeeming blood, And try his works to do. 1 4 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF WILLIAM ALEXANDER (1824 ) VERY FAR AWAY ONE touch there is of magic white, Surpassing southern mountain's snow That to far sails the dying light Lends, where the dark ships onward go Upon the golden highway broad That leads up to the isles of God. One touch of light more magic yet, Of rarer snow 'neath moon or star, Where, with her graceful sails all set, Some happy vessel seen afar, As if in an enchanted sleep Steers o'er the tremulous stretching deep. O ship ! O sail ! far must ye be Ere gleams like that upon ye light. O'er golden spaces of the sea, From mysteries of the lucent night, Such touch comes never to the boat Wherein across the waves we float. O gleams, more magic and divine, Life's whitest sail ye still refuse, And flying on before us shine Upon some distant bark ye choose. By night or day, across the spray, That sail is very far away. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 15 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM (1824-1889) ABBEY ASAROE GRAY, gray is Abbey Asaroe, by Ballyshanny town, It has neither door nor window, the walls are broken down ; The carven stones lie scattered in briars and nettle- bed ; The only feet are those that come at burial of the dead. A little rocky rivulet runs murmuring to the tide, Singing a song of ancient days, in sorrow, not in pride ; The bore-tree and the lightsome ash across the portal grow, And heaven itself is now the roof of Abbey Asaroe. It looks beyond the harbor-stream to Gulban mountain blue; It hears the voice of Erna's fall, Atlantic breakers too; High ships go sailing past it ; the sturdy clank of oars Brings in the salmon-boat to haul a net upon the shores ; And this way to his home-creek, when the summer day is done, Slow sculls the weary fisherman across the setting sun ; While green with corn is Sheegus Hill, his cottage white below ; But gray at every season is Abbey Asaroe. 1 6 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF There stood one day a poor old man above its broken bridge ; He heard no running rivulet, he saw no mountain ridge ; He turned his back on Sheegus Hill, and viewed with misty sight The abbey walls, the burial-ground with crosses ghostly white ; Under a weary weight of years he bowed upon his staff, Perusing in the present time the former's epitaph ; For, gray and wasted like the walls, a figure full of woe, This man was of the blood of them who founded Asaroe. From Derry to Dundrowas Tower, Tirconnell broad was theirs ; Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine, and holy abbot's prayers ; With chanting always in the house which they had buiided high To God and to Saint Bernard, whereto they came to die. At worst, no workhouse grave for him ! the ruins of his race Shall rest among the ruined stones of this their saintly place. The fond old man was weeping ; and tremulous and slow Along the rough and crooked lane he crept from Asaroe. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 17 ACROSS THE SEA I WALKED in the lonesome evening, And who so sad as I, When I saw the young men and maidens Merrily passing by. To thee, my love, to thee So fain would I come to thee ! While the ripples fold upon sands of gold And I look across the sea. I stretch out my hands ; who will clasp them ? I call, thou repliest no word : O why should heart-longing be weaker Than the waving wings of a bird ! To thee, my love, to thee So fain would I come to thee ! For the tide's at rest from east to west, And I look across the sea. There's joy in the hopeful morning, There's peace in the parting day, There's sorrow with every lover Whose true love is far away, To thee, my love, to thee So fain would I come to thee ! And the water's so bright in a still moonlight, As I look across the sea. A DREAM I HEARD the dogs howl in the moonlight night ; I went to the window to see the sight ; All the Dead that ever I knew Going one by one and two by two. 1 8 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF On they passed, and on they passed ; Townsfellows all, from first to last ; Born in the moonlight of the lane, Quenched in the heavy shadow again. Schoolmates, marching as when we played At soldiers once but now more staid ; Those were the strangest sight to me Who were drowned, I knew, in the awful sea. Straight and handsome folk ; bent and weak, too ; Some that I loved, and gasped to speak to Some but a day in their churchyard bed ; Some that I had not known were dead. A long, long crowd where each seemed lonely, Yet of them all there was one, one only, Raised a head or looked my way. She lingered a moment, she might not stay. How long since I saw that fair pale face ! Ah ! Mother dear ! might I only place My head on thy breast, a moment to rest, While thy hand on my tearful cheek was prest ! On, on, a moving bridge they made Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade, Young and old, women and men ; Many long-forgot, but remembered then. And first there came a bitter laughter ; A sound of tears the moment after ; And then a music so lofty and gay, That every morning, day by day, I strive to recall it if I may. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 19 AMONG THE HEATHER ONE morning, walking out, I o'ertook a modest colleen, When the wind was blowing cool and the harvest leaves were falling. "Is our road perchance the same? Might we travel on together ? ' ' "Oh, I keep the mountainside," she replied, "among the heather." " Your mountain air is sweet when the days are long and sunny, When the grass grows round the rocks, and the whin- bloom smells like honey ; But the winter's coming fast with its foggy, snowy weather, And you'll find it bleak and chill on your hill among the heather." She praised her mountain home, and I'll praise it too with reason, For where Molly is there's sunshine and flowers at every season. Be the moorland black or white, does it signify a feather ? Now I know the way by heart, every part among the heather. The sun goes down in haste, and the night falls thick and stormy, Yet I'd travel twenty miles for the welcome that's before me; 20 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF Singing "Hi for Eskydun ! " in the teeth of wind and weather, Love' 11 warm me as I go through the snow among the heather. FOUR DUCKS ON A POND FOUR ducks on a pond, A grass-bank beyond, A blue sky of spring, White clouds on the wing : What a little thing To remember for years, To remember with tears ! I HALF-WAKING THOUGHT it was the little bed I slept in long ago ; A straight white curtain at the head, And two smooth knobs below. I thought I saw the nursery fire, And in a chair well known My mother sat, and did not tire With reading all alone. If I should make the slightest sound To show that I'm awake, She'd rise, and lap the blankets round, My pillow softly shake; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 21 Kiss me, and turn my face to see The shadows on the wall, And then sing "Rousseau's Dream " to me, Till fast asleep I fall. But this is not my little bed ; That time is far away ; With strangers now I live instead, From dreary day to day. LOVELY MARY DONNELLY OH, lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best! If fifty girls were round you I'd hardly see the rest. Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will, Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock, How clear they are, how dark they are ! and they give me many a shock. Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a show'r, Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its pow'r. Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up, Her chin is neat and pert, and smooth, just like a china cup, 22 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF Her hair's the brag of. Ireland, so weighty and so fine ; It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine. The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before, No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was gay! She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away. When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete, The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet ; The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised, But blessed his luck to not be deaf when once her voice she raised. And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung, Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue ; But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands, And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands. Oh, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in town; The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 23 If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. O might we live together in a lofty palace hall, Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall! O might we live together in a cottage mean and small ; With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall! O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress. It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less. The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low ; But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go! SPRING IS COME YE scan the timid verdure, Along the hills of Spring, Blue skies and gentle breezes, And soft clouds wandering ! The quire of birds on budding spray, Loud larks in ether sing ; A fresher pulse, a wider day, Give joy to everything. 24 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF The gay translucent morning Lies glittering on the sea, The noonday sprinkles shadows Athwart the daisied lea ; The round sun's falling scarlet rim In vapour hideth he ; The darkling hours are cool and dim As vernal night should be. Our Earth has not grown aged, With all her countless years ; She works, and never wearies, Is glad and nothing fears : The glow of air, broad land and wave, In season reappears ; And shall, when slumber in the grave These human smiles and tears. Oh, rich in songs and colors, Thou joy-reviving Spring ! Some hopes are chill'd with winter Whose term thou canst not bring, Some voices answer not thy call When sky and woodland ring, Some faces come not back at all With primrose-blossoming. The distant flying swallow The upward-yearning seed, Find Nature's promise faithful, Attain their humble meed. Great Parent ! thou hast also form'd These hearts which throb and bleed ; With love, truth, hope, their life hast warm'd, And what is best, decreed. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 25 THE BAN-SHEE A BALLAD OF ANCIENT ERIN " TTEARD'ST thou over the Fortress wild geese flying and crying ? Was it a gray wolf's howl? wind in the forest sighing ? Wail from the sea as of wreck ? Hast heard it, Comrade?" "Not so. Here, all's still as the grave, above, around, and below. " The Warriors lie in battalion, spear and shield be- side them, Tranquil, whatever lot in the coming fray shall be- tide them. See, where he rests,, the Glory of Erin, our Kingly Youth ! Closed his lion's eyes, and in sleep a smile on his mouth." " The cry, the dreadful cry ! I know it louder and nearer, Circling our Dun the Ban-shee ! my heart is frozen to hear her ! Saw you not in the darkness a spectral glimmer of white Flitting away ? I saw it 1 evil her message to- night. " Constant, but never welcome, she, to the line of our Chief; Bodeful, baleful, fateful, voice of terror and grief. 26 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF Dimly burneth the lamp hush ! again that horrible cry ! If a thousand lives could save thee, Tierna, thou shouldest not die." "Now! what whisper ye, Clansmen? I wake. Be your words of me ? Wherefore gaze on each other ? I too have heard the Ban-shee. Death is her message : but ye, be silent. Death comes to no man Sweet as to him who in fighting crushes his country's foeman. " Streak of dawn in the sky morning of battle. The Stranger Camps on our salt-sea strand below, and recks not his danger. Victory ! that was my dream : one that shall fill men's ears In story and song of harp after a thousand years. " Give me my helmet and sword. Whale-tusk, gold- wrought, I clutch thee ! Blade, Flesh-Biter, fail me not this time ! Yea, when I touch thee, Shivers of joy run through me. Sing aloud as I swing thee ! Glut of enemies' blood, meseemeth, to-day shall bring thee. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 27 "Sound the horn ! Behold, the Sun is beginning to rise. Whoso seeth him set, ours is the victor's prize, When the foam along the sand shall no longer be white but red Spoils and a mighty feast for the Living, a earn for the Dead." THE FAIRIES A CHILD'S SONG UP the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men. Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together ; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather ! Down along the rocky shore Some make their home They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow tide-foam ; Some in the reeds Of the black mountain-lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake. High on the hilltop The old King sits ; He is now so old and gray, He's nigh lost his wits. 28 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys From Slieve-League to Rosses ; Or going up with the music On cold starry nights, To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern Lights. They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again, Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow ; They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since Deep within the lake, On a bed of flag-leaves, Watching till she wake. By the craggy hillside, Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees, For pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring As dig them up in spite, He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night. Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 29 For fear of little men. Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together ; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather ! THE LEPRECAUN, OR FAIRY SHOEMAKER A RHYME FOR CHILDREN LITTLE cowboy, what have you heard, Up on the lonely rath's green mound? Only the plaintive yellow-bird Singing in sultry fields around ? Chary, chary, chary, chee-e ! Only the grasshopper and the bee ? " Tip-tap, rip-rap, Tick-a-tack-too ! Scarlet leather sewn together, This will make a shoe. Left, right, pull it tight, Summer days are warm; Underground in winter, Laughing at the storm ! " Lay your ear close to the hill : Do you not catch the tiny clamor, Busy click of an elfin hammer, Voice of the Leprecaun singing shrill As he merrily plies his trade ? He's a span And a quarter in height : Get him in sight, hold him fast, And you're a made Man ! 30 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF You watch your cattle the summer day, Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay ; How should you like to roll in your carriage And look for a duchess's daughter in marriage ? Seize the shoemaker, so you may ! " Big boots a-hunting, Sandals in the hall, White for a wedding-feast, And pink for a ball : This way, that way, So we make a shoe, Getting rich every stitch, Tick- tack-too ! " Nine-and-ninety treasure crocks, This keen miser-fairy hath, Hid in mountain, wood, and rocks, Ruin and round-tower, cave and rath, And where the cormorants build ; From times of old Guarded by him ; Each of them filled Full to the brim With gold ! I caught him at work one day myself, In the castle-ditch where the foxglove grows ; A wrinkled, wizened, and bearded elf, Spectacles stuck on the top of his nose, Silver buckles to his hose, Leather apron, shoe in his lap ; " Rip-rap, tip-tap, Tick-tack-too ! A grig stepped upon my cap, Away the moth flew.. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 31 Buskins for a fairy prince, Brogues for his son, Pay me well, pay me well, When the job's done." The rogue was mine beyond a doubt, I stared at him ; he stared at me 1 " Servant, sir ! " " Humph ! " said he, And pulled a snuff-box out. He took a long pinch, looked better pleased, The queer little Leprecaun ; Offered the box with a whimsical grace, Pouf ! he flung the dust in my face, And, while I sneezed, Was gone ! THE LOVER AND BIRDS WITHIN a budding grove, In April's ear sang every bird his best, But not a song to pleasure my unrest, Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love ; Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in jest. To every word, Of every bird, I listened or replied as it behove. Screamed Chaffinch, " Sweet, sweet, sweet ! Pretty lovey, come and meet me here 1 " "Chaffinch," quoth I, "be dumb awhile, in fear Thy darling prove no better than a cheat And never come, or fly, when wintry days appear." Yet from a twig, With voice so big, The little fowl his utterance did repeat. 32 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF Then I, "The man forlorn, Hears earth send up a foolish noise aloft." " And what'll he do? What'll he do? " scoffed The Blackbird, standing in an ancient thorn, Then spread his sooty wings and flitted to the croft, With cackling laugh, Whom, I, being half Enraged, called after, giving back his scorn. Worse mocked the Thrush, " Die ! die ! Oh, could he do it ? Could he do it ? Nay ! Be quick ! be quick ! Here, here, here ! ' ' (went his lay) "Take heed ! take heed ! " then, "Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? See-See now! see-ee now!" (he drawled) "Back! Back ! Back ! R-r-r-run away ! " Oh, Thrush, be still, Or at thy will Seek some less sad interpreter than I ! " Air ! air ! blue air and white ! Whither I flee, whither, O whither, O whither I flee ! " (Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the lea) " Hills, countries, many waters glittering bright Whither I see, whither I see ! Deeper, deeper, deeper, whither I see, see, see ! " "Gay Lark," I said, "The song that's bred In happy nest may well to heaven take flight!" " There's something, something sad, I half remember," piped a broken strain ; Well sung, sweet Robin ! Robin, sing again. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 33 "Spring's opening cheerily, cheerily! be we glad ! " Which moved, I wist not why, me melancholy mad, Till now, grown meek, With wetted cheek, Most comforting and gentle thoughts I had. o THE MILKMAID H, where are you going so early ? he said ; Good luck go with you, my pretty maid ; To tell you my mind I'm half afraid But I wish I were your sweetheart. When the morning sun is shining low, And the cocks in every farmyard crow, I'll carry your pail, O'er hill and dale, And I'll go with you a-milking. I'm going a-milking, sir, says she, Through the dew, and across the lea ; You ne'er would even yourself to me, Or take me for your sweetheart. When the morning sun, etc. Now give me your milking-stool a while, To carry it down to yonder stile ; I'm wishing every step a mile, And myself your only sweetheart. When the morning sun, etc. 34 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF Oh, here's the stile in under the tree, And there's the path in the grass for me, And I thank you kindly, sir, says she, And wish you a better sweetheart. When the morning sun, etc. Now give me your milking-pail, says he, And while we're going across the lea, Pray reckon your master's cows to me, Although I'm not your sweetheart. When the morning sun, etc. Two of them red, and two of them white, Two of them yellow, and silky bright : She told him her master's cows aright, Though he was not her sweetheart. When the morning sun, etc. She sat and milk'd in the morning sun, And when her milking was over and done, She found him waiting, all as one As if he were her sweetheart. When the morning sun, etc. He freely offer'd her his heart and hand : Now she has a farm at her command, And cows of her own to graze the land : Success to all true sweethearts ! When the morning sun, etc. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 35 THE RUINED CHAPEL BY the shore, a plot of ground Clips a ruined chapel round, Buttressed with a grassy mound, Where Day and Night and Day go by, And bring no touch of human sound. Washing of the lonely seas, Shaking of the guardian trees, Piping of the salted breeze ; Day and Night and Day go by, To the endless tune of these. Or when, as winds and waters keep A hush more dead than any sleep, Still morns to stiller evenings creep, And Day and Night and Day go by ; Here the silence is most deep. The empty ruins, lapsed again Into Nature's wide domain, Sow themselves with seed and grain As Day and Night and Day go by ; And hoard June's sun and April's rain. Here fresh funeral tears were shed ; Now the graves are also dead ; And suckers from the ash-tree spread, While Day and Night and Day go by And stars move calmly overhead. 36 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF THE SAILOR THOU that hast a daughter For one to woo and wed, Give her to a husband With snow upon his head ; Oh, give her to an old man, Though little joy it be, Before the best young sailor That sails upon the sea ! How luckless is the sailor When sick and like to die ! He sees no tender mother, No sweetheart standing by. Only the captain speaks to him Stand up, stand up, young man And steer the ship to haven, As none beside thee can. Thou sayest to me, "Stand up, stand up; " I say to thee, take hold Lift me a little from the deck, My hands and feet are cold. And let my head, I pray thee With handkerchief be bound : There, take my love's own handkerchief, And tie it tightly round. Now bring the chart, the doleful chart ; See where these mountains meet The clouds are thick around their head, The mists around their feet : Cast anchor here ; 'tis deep and safe * Within the rocky cleft 37 The little anchor on the right The great one on the left. And now to thee, O captain, Most earnestly I pray, That they may never bury me In church or cloister gray; But on the windy sea-beach, At the ending of the land, All on the surfy sea-beach, Deep down into the sand. For there will come the sailors, Their voices I shall hear, And at casting of the anchor The yo-ho loud and clear; And at hauling of the anchor The yo-ho and the cheer Farewell my love, for to thy bay I nevermore may steer. THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE ; OR, THE EMIGRANT'S ADIEU TO BALLY- SHANNON A LOCAL BALLAD ADIEU to Belashanny ! where I was bred and born; Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as night and morn The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known, 38 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own ; There's not a house or window, there's not a field or hill, But, east or west, in foreign lands, I'll recollect them still. I leave my warm heart with you, tho' my back I'm forced to turn So adieu to Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne! No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter down the Mall, When the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon to the fall. The boat comes straining on her net, and heavily she creeps. Cast off ! cast off ! she feels the oars, and to her berth she sweeps ; Now fore and aft keep hauling, and gathering up the clew, Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the crew. Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit, and many a joke and " yarn " Adieu to Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne ! in The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the tide, When all the green-hill'd harbour is full from side to side From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round the Abbey Bay, IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 39 From rocky Inis Saimer to Coolnargit sand-hills gray ; While far upon the southern line, to guard it like a wall, The Leitrim mountains clothed in blue, gaze calmly over all, And watch the ship sail up or down, the red flag at her stern Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding banks of Erne ! IV Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them that pull an oar, A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point to Mul- laghmore ; From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League, that ocean- mountain steep, Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred in the deep, From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round by Tullen strand, Level and long, and white with waves, where gull and curlew stand ; Head out to sea when on your lee the breakers you discern Adieu to all the billowy coast and winding banks of Erne ! Farewell, Coolmore ! Bundoran ! and your summer crowds that run From inland homes to see with joy th' Atlantic-setting sun : 40 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among the waves ; To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt the gloomy caves ; To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the crabs, the fish ; Young men and maids to meet and smile, and form a tender wish ; The sick and old in search of health, for all things have their turn And I must quit my native shore and the winding banks of Erne ! VI Farewell to every white cascade from the Harbour to Belleek, And every pool where fins may rest, and ivy-shaded creek ; The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash and holly grow, The one split yew-tree gazing on the curving flood below ; The Lough, that winds through islands under Turaw mountain green; And Castle Caldwell's stretching woods, with tranquil bays between ; And Breesie Hill, and many a pond among the heath and fern For I must say adieu adieu to the winding banks of Erne! VII The thrush will call through Camlin groves the live- long summer day ; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 41 The waters run by mossy cliff, and bank with wild flowers gay ; The girls will bring their work and sing beneath a twisted thorn, Or stray with sweethearts down the path among the growing corn ; Along the riverside they go, where I have often been Oh ! never shall I see again the days that I have seen ! A thousand chances are, to one I never may return Adieu to Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne. VIII Adieu to evening dances, when merry neighbours meet, And the fiddle says to boys and girls : " Get up and shake your feet ! " To "shanachus" and wise old talk of Erin's days gone by Who trench'd the rath on such a hill, and where the bones may lie Of saint, or king, or warrior chief; with tales of fairy power, And tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the twilight hour. The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn Adieu, my dear companions on the winding banks of Erne ! IX Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Purt, 42 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather I wish no one any hurt ; The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane, the Mall, and Portnasun, If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one. I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me ; For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the sea. My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and often fondly turn To think of Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne. If ever I'm a money' d man, I mean, please God, to cast My golden anchor in the place where youthful years were pass'd ; Though heads that now are black and brown must meanwhile gather gray, New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop away Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside ; It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waters wide. And if the Lord allows me, I surely will return To my native Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne. H IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 43 WINDLASS SONG EAVE at the windlass ! Heave O, cheerly, men ! Heave all at once, with a will ! The tide's quickly making, Our cordage is creaking, The water has put on a frill, Heave O ! Fare-you-well, sweethearts ! Heave O, cheerly, men ! Shore gambarado and sport ! The good ship all ready, Each dog-vane is steady, The wind blowing dead out of port, Heave O ! Once in blue water Heave O, cheerly, men ! Blow it from north or from south ; She'll stand to it tightly, And curtsy politely, And carry a bone in her mouth, Heave O ! Short cruise or long cruise Heave O, cheerly, men ! Jolly Jack Tar thinks it one, No latitude dreads he Of White, Black, or Red sea, Great icebergs, or tropical sun, Heave O ! 44 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF One other turn, and Heave O, cheerly, men ! Heave, and good-bye to the shore ! Our money, how went it ? We shared it and spent it ; Next year we'll come back with some more, Heave O ! H WINNING ER blue eyes they beam and they twinkle, Her lips have made smiling more fair; On cheek and on brow there's no wrinkle, But thousands of curls in her hair. She's little, you don't wish her taller; Just half through the teens is her age ; And baby or lady to call her, Were something to puzzle a sage ! Her walk is far better than dancing ; She speaks as another might sing ; And all by an innocent chancing, Like lambkins and birds in the spring. Unskill'd in the airs of the city, She's perfect in natural grace ; She's gentle and truthful and witty, And ne'er spends a thought on her face Her face, with the fine glow that's in it, As fresh as an apple-tree bloom ; And oh ! when she comes, in a minute, Like sunbeams she brightens the room. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 45 As taking in mind and in feature, How many will sigh for her sake ! I wonder the sweet little creature What sort of a wife she would make. WISHING RING-TING ! I wish I were a Primrose A bright yellow Primrose blowing in the Spring ! The stooping boughs above me, The wandering bee to love me, The fern and moss to keep across, And the Elm-tree for our king ! Nay nay ! I wish I were an Elm-tree, A great lofty Elm-tree, with green leaves gay 1 The wind would set them dancing, The sun and moonshine glance in, The Birds would house among the boughs, And sweetly sing ! O no ! I wish I were a Robin, A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go ; Through forest, field or garden, And ask no leave or pardon, Till winter comes with icy thumbs To ruffle up our wing. Well tell ! Where should I fly to, Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell ? Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For Mother's kiss sweeter this Than any other thing ! 46 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF JOHN ANSTER (1798-1867) T HE summer sun was sinking With a mild light, calm and mellow ; It shone on my little boy's bonnie cheeks, And his loose locks of yellow. The robin was singing sweetly, And his song was sad and tender, And my little boy's eyes, while he heard the song, Smiled with a sweet, soft splendor. My little boy lay on my bosom While his soul the song was quaffing; The joy of his soul had tinged his cheek, And his heart and his eye were laughing. I sate alone in my cottage, The midnight needle plying ; I feared for my child, for the rush's light In the socket now was dying ; Then came a hand to my lonely latch, Like the wind at midnight moaning ; I knelt to pray, but rose again For I heard my little boy groaning. IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 47 I crossed my brow and I crossed my breast, But that night my child departed, They left a weakling in his stead, And I am broken-hearted ! O, it cannot be my own sweet boy, For his eyes are dim and hollow, My little boy is gone is gone, And his mother soon will follow. The dirge for the dead will be sung for me, And the mass be chanted meetly, And I shall sleep with my little boy, In the moonlight churchyard sweetly. 48 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF JOHN FRANCIS ARMSTRONG (1841-1865) I ADIEU HEAR a distant clarion blare, The smoldering battle flames anew A noise of onset shakes the air Dear woods and quiet vales, adieu ! Weird crag, where I was wont to gaze On the far sea's aerial hue, Below a veil of glimmering haze At morning's breezy prime adieu I Clear runnel, bubbling under boughs Of odorous lime and darkling yew, Where I have lain on banks of flowers And dreamed the livelong noon adieu 1 And, ah ! ye lights and shades that ray Those orbs of brightest summer blue, That haunted me by night and day For happy moons adieu ! adieu ! ON Euripides' plays we debated, In College, one chill winter night ; A student rose up, while we waited For more intellectual light. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 49 As he stood, pale and anxious, before us, Three words, like a soft summer wind, Went past us and through us and o'er us A whisper low-breathed : " He is blind ! " And in many a face there was pity A In many an eye there were tears ; For his words were not buoyant or witty, As fitted his fresh summer years. And he spoke once or twice, as none other Could speak, of a woman's pure ways He remembered the face of his mother Ere darkness had blighted his days. 50 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF JOHN BANIM (1798-1844) AILEEN ''TT^IS not for love of gold I go, 'Tis not for love of fame ; Though fortune should her smile bestow, And I may win a name, Aileen ; And I may win a name. And yet it is for gold I go, And yet it is for fame, That they may deck another brow, And bless another name, Aileen ; And bless another name. For this, but this, I go : for this I lose thy love awhile, And all the soft and quiet bliss Of thy young faithful smile, Aileen ; Of thy young faithful smile. And I go to brave a world I hate, And woo it o'er and o'er, And tempt a wave and try a fate, Upon a stranger shore, Aileen ; Upon a stranger shore. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 51 Oh, when the bays are all my own, I know a heart will care, Oh, when the gold is wooed and won, 1 know a brow shall wear, Aileen ; I know a brow shall wear. And when with both returned again, My native land to see, I know a smile will meet me then, And a hand will welcome me, Aileen ; A hand will welcome me. SOGGARTH AROON 1 AM I the slave they say, Soggarth aroon ? Since you did show the way, Soggarth aroon, Their slave no more to be, While they would work with me Ireland's slavery, Soggarth aroon ! Loyal and brave to you, Soggarth aroon, Yet be not slave to you, Soggarth aroon, Nor, out of fear to you, Stand up so near to you Och ! out of fear to you, Soggarth aroon ! 1 Soggarth aroon, " Priest, dear." 52 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF Who, in the winter's night, Soggarth aroon, When the cold blast did bite, Soggarth aroon, Came to my cabin door, And, on the earthen floor, Knelt by me, sick and poor, Soggarth aroon ? Who, on the marriage day, Soggarth aroon, Made the poor cabin gay, Soggarth aroon ? And did both laugh and sing, Making our hearts to ring, At the poor christening, Soggarth aroon ? Who, as friend only met, Soggarth aroon, Never did flout me yet, Soggarth aroon ? And when my heart was dim Gave, while his eye did brim, What I should give to him, Soggarth aroon ? Och, you and only you, Soggarth aroon ! And for this I was true to you, Soggarth aroon ; In love they'll never shake, When for Old Ireland's sake We a true part did take, Soggarth aroon / T IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 53 THE FETCH ' HE mother died when the child was born, And left me her baby to keep ; I rocked its cradle the night and morn, And silent hung o'er it to weep. 'Twas a sickly child through its infancy, Its cheeks were so ashy pale, Till it broke from my arms to walk in glee Out in the sharp, fresh gale. And then my little girl grew strong, And laughed the hours away; Or sung me the merry lark's mountain song, Which he taught her at break of day. When she wreathed her hair in thicket bowers, With the hedge-rose and harebell blue, I called her my May in her crown of flowers, .With her smile so soft and new. And the rose, I thought, never shamed her cheek, But rosy and rosier made it ; And her eye of blue did more brightly break Through the bluebell that strove to shade it. One evening I left her asleep in her smiles, And walked through the mountains lonely ; I was far from my darling, ah ! many long miles, And I thought of her, and her only. 1 The Fetch is the apparition of a person doomed to death. 54 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF She darkened my path like a troubled dream, In that solitude far and drear ; I spoke to my child, but she did not seem To hearken with human ear. She only looked with a dead, dead eye, And a wan, wan cheek of sorrow. I knew her Fetch ; she was called to die, And she died upon the morrow. THE IRISH MOTHER IN THE PENAL DAYS NOW welcome, welcome, baby-boy, unto a mother's fears, The pleasure of her sufferings, the rainbow of her tears, The object of your father's hope, in all he hopes to do, A future man of his own land, to live him o'er anew ! How fondly on thy little brow "a mother's eye would trace, And in thy little limbs, and in each feature of thy face, His beauty, worth, and manliness, and everything that's his, Except, my boy, the answering mark of where the fetter is ! Oh ! many a weary hundred years his sires that fetter wore, And he has worn it since the day that him his mother bore; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 55 And now, my son, it waits on you, the moment you are born, The old hereditary badge of suffering and scorn ! Alas, my boy so beautiful ! alas, my love so brave ! And must your gallant Irish limbs still drag it to the grave ? And you, my son, yet have a son, foredoomed a slave to be, Whose mother still must weep o'er him the tears I weep o'er thee ! 56 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF JANE BARLOW (1857- ) THE FLITTING OF THE FAIRIES From the " End of Elfintown." ****** THEN Oberon spake the word of might That set the enchanted cars in sight ; But love I lack, to tell aright Where these had waited hidden. Perchance the clear airs round us rolled In secret cells did them enfold, Like evening dew that none behold Till to the sward 'tis slidden. And who can say what wizardize Had fashioned them in marvelous wise, And given them power to stoop and rise More high than thought hath traveled ? Somewhat of cloud their frames consist, But more of meteor's luminous mist, All girt with strands of seven-hued twist From rainbow's verge unraveled. 'Tis said, and I believe it well, That whoso mounts their magic selle, Goes, if he list, invisible Beneath the broadest moonlight ; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 57 That virtue comes of Faery-fern, Lone-lived where hill-slopes starward turn Thro' frore night hours that bid it burn Flame-fronded in the moonlight ; For this holds true too true, alas ! The sky that eve was clear as glass, Yet no man saw the Faeries pass Where azure pathways glisten ; And true it is too true, ay me That nevermore on lawn or lea Shall mortal man a Faery see, Though long he look and listen. Only the twilit woods among A wild-winged breeze hath sometimes flung Dim echoes borne from strains soft-sung Beyond sky-reaches hollow ; Still further, fainter up the height, Receding past the deep-zoned night Far chant of Fays who lead that flight, Faint call of Fays who follow : (Fays following.} Red-rose mists o'erdrift Moth-moon's glimmeringwhite, Lit by sheen-silled west Barred with fiery bar ; Fleeting, following swift, Whither across the night Seek we bourne of rest ? (fays leading.} Afar. 58 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF (Fays following.) Vailing crest on crest Down the shadowy height, Earth with shores and seas Dropt, a dwindling gleam. Dusk, and bowery nest, Dawn, and dells dew-bright, What shall bide of these? (Fays leading.) A dream. (Fays following.) Fled, ah ! fled, our sight. Yea, but thrills of fire Throbbed adown yon deep, Faint and very far Who shall rede aright ? Say, what wafts us nigher, Beckoning up the steep ? (Fays leading. ) A star. (Fays following.) List, a star ! a star ! Oh, our goal of light ! Yet the winged shades sweep, Yet the void looms vast. Weary our wild dreams are : When shall cease our flight Soft on shores of sleep ? (Fays leading.) At last. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 59 MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY (1817-1889) THE PLACE WHERE MAN SHOULD DIE HOW little recks it where men lie, When once the moment's past In which the dim and glazing eye Has looked on earth its last, Whether beneath the sculptured urn The Coffined form shall rest, Or in its nakedness return Back to its mother's breast ! Death is a common friend or foe, As different men may hold, And at his summons each must go, The timid and the bold ; But when the spirit, free and warm, Deserts it, as it must, What matter where the lifeless form Dissolves again to dust ? The soldier falls 'mid corses piled Upon the battle-plain, Where reinless war-steeds gallop wild Above the mangled slain ; But though his corse be grim to see, Hoof-trampled on the sod, What recks it, when the spirit free Has soared aloft to God ? 60 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF The coward's dying eyes may close Upon his downy bed, And softest hands his limbs compose, Or garments o'er them spread. But ye who shun the bloody fray, When fall the mangled brave, Go strip his coffin-lid away, And see him in his grave ! 'Twere sweet, indeed, to close our eyes, With those we cherish near, And, wafted upwards by their sighs, Soar to some calmer sphere. But whether on the scaffold high, Or in the battle's van, The fittest place where man can die Is where he dies for man ! THE SWORD WHAT rights the brave ? The sword ! What frees the slave? The sword ! What cleaves in twain The despot's chain, And makes his gyves and dungeons vain ? The sword ! CHORUS Then cease thy proud task never While rests a link to sever ! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 61 Guard of the free, We'll cherish thee, And keep thee bright forever 1 What checks the knave? The sword ! What smites to save ? The sword ! What wreaks the wrong Unpunished long, At last, upon the guilty strong ? The sword ! CHORUS Then cease thy proud task never, etc. What shelters Right ? The sword ! What makes it might ? The sword ! What strikes the crown Of tyrants down, And answers with its flash their frown ? The sword ! CHORUS Then cease thy proud task never, etc. Still be thou true, Good sword ! We'll die or do, Good sword ! 62 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF Leap forth to light If tyrants smite, And trust our arms to wield thee right, Good sword ! CHORUS Yes ! cease thy proud task never While rests a link to sever ! Guard of the free, We'll cherish thee,- And keep thee bright forever ! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 63 FLORENCE BEAMISH (Living) SLEEP ON SLEEP on, for I know 'tis of me you are dreaming, Sleep on, till the sun comes to give you a call, Though the pride of my heart is to see your eye beaming, Yet still to be dreamt of is better than all. For then 'tis to yours that my heart's always speaking, And then 'tis the spell that enchains it gives way, And reveals all the love that I never, when waking, Could get round my tongue in the daylight to say. Yes, sleep on, mavourneen, my joy, and my treasure, Not often does sleep get a comrade so fair, And no wonder it is that his eye takes a pleasure To watch by your pillow while you slumber there. Then sleep softly sleep, till the day-dawn is breaking, And peeps in to give you a smile and a call, For though great as my joy is to see you when waking. Yet still to be dreamt of is better than all 1 GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF GEORGE BERKELEY, BISHOP OF CLOYN E (1684-1753) ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANTING ARTS AND LEARNING IN AMERICA T HE Muse, disgusted at an age and clime Barren of every glorious theme, In distant lands now waits a better time Producing subjects worthy fame : In happy climes, where from the genial sun And virgin earth such scenes ensue, The force of art by nature seems outdone, And fancied beauties by the true. In happy climes, the seat of innocence, Where nature guides and virtue rules ; When men shall not impose for truth and sense The pedantry of courts and schools ; There shall be sung another golden age, The rise of empire and of arts, The good and great inspiring epic rage The wisest heads and noblest hearts. Not such as Europe breeds in her decay Such as she bred when fresh and young, When heavenly flame did animate her clay, By future poets shall be sung. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 65 Westward the course of empire takes its way, The four first acts already past ; A fifth shall close the drama with the day Time's noblest offspring is the last. 66 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF ISAAC BICKERSTAFF (1735-1812) SONG From " Love in a Village " THERE was a jolly miller once, Lived on the river Dee ; He worked and sang, from morn to night ; No lark so blithe as he. And this the burden of his song, Forever used to be, " I care for nobody, not I, If no one cares for me." TWO SONGS From " Thomas and Sally, or the Sailor's Return " M Y time how happy once and gay ! Oh ! blithe I was as blithe could be But now I'm sad, ah, well-a-day ! For my true love is gone to sea. The lads pursue, I strive to shun ; Though all their arts are lost on me ; For I can never love but one, And he, alas ! has gone to sea. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 67 They bid me to the wake, the fair, To dances on the neighboring lea : But how can I in pleasure share, . While my true love is out at sea ? The flowers droop till light's return, The pigeon mourns its absent she ; So will I droop, so will I mourn, Till my true love comes back from sea. II How happy is the sailor's life, From coast to coast to roam ; In every port he finds a wife, In every land a home. He loves to range, he's nowhere strange; He ne'er will turn his back To friend or foe ; no, masters, no ; My life for honest Jack. If saucy foes dare make a noise, And to the sword appeal ; We out, and quickly larn 'em, boys, With whom they have to deal. We know no craft but 'fore and aft, Lay on our strokes amain ; Then, if they're stout, for 't'other bout, We drub 'em o'er again. Or fair or foul, let Fortune blow, Our hearts are never dull ; The pocket that to-day ebbs low, To-morrow shall be full j 68 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF For if so be, we want, d' ye see ? A pluck of this here stuff, In Indi a, and Americ a, We're sure to find enough. Then bless the king, and bless the state, And bless our captains all ; And ne'er may chance unfortunate The British fleet befall. But prosp-'rous gales, where'er she sails, And ever may she ride, Of sea and shore, till time's no more, The terror and the pride. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 69 MARY ELIZABETH BLAKE, ncc McGRATH (1840- ) THE DAWNING O' THE YEAR ALL ye who love the spring-time and who but loves it well When the little birds do sing, and the buds be- gin to swell ! Think not ye ken its beauty, or know its face so dear, Till ye look upon old Ireland in the dawning o' the year ! For where in all the earth is there any joy like this, When the skylark sings and soars like a spirit into bliss, While the thrushes in the bush strain their small brown mottled throats, Making all the air rejoice with their clear and mellow notes ; And the blackbird on the hedge in the golden sunset glow Trills with saucy, side-tipped head to the bonny nest below ; And the dancing wind slips down through the leaves of the boreen , And all the world rejoices in the wearing o' the green ! yo THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF For 'tis green, green, green, where the ruined towers are gray, And it's green, green, green, all the happy night and day; Green of leaf and green of sod, green of ivy on the wall, And the blessed Irish shamrock with the fairest green of all. There the primrose breath is sweet, and the yellow gorse is set A crown of shining gold on the headlands brown and wet; Not a nook of all the land but the daisies make to glow, And the happy violets pray in their hidden cells below. And it's there the earth is merry, like a young thing newly made Running wild amid the blossoms in the field and in the glade, Babbling ever into music under skies with soft clouds piled, Like the laughter and the tears in the blue eyes of a child. But the green, green, green, O 'tis that is blithe and fair ! In the fells and on the hills, gay and gladsome as the air, Lying warm above the bog, floating brave on crag and glen, Thrusting forty banners high where another land has ten. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 71 Sure Mother Nature knows of her sore and heavy grief, And thus with soft caress would give solace and relief; Would fold her close in loveliness to keep her from the cold, And clasp the mantle o'er her heart with emeralds and gold. So ye who love the spring-time, and who but loves it well When the little birds do sing, and the buds begin to swell ! Think not ye ken its beauty or know its face so dear Till ye meet it in old Ireland in the dawning o' the year ! THE FIRST STEPS TO-NIGHT as the tender gloaming Was sinking in evening's gloom, And only the blaze of the firelight Brightened the dark'ning room, I laughed with the gay heart gladness That only to mothers is known, For the beautiful brown-eyed baby Took his first steps alone ! Hurriedly running to meet him Came trooping the household band, Joyous, loving, and eager To reach him a helping hand, 72 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF To watch him with silent rapture, To cheer him with happy noise, My one little fair-faced daughter And four brown romping boys. Leaving the sheltering arms That fain would bid him rest Close to the love and the longing, Near to the mother's breast, Wild with daring and laughter, Looking askance at me, He stumbled across through the shadows To rest at his father's knee. Baby, my dainty darling, Stepping so brave and bright With flutter of lace and ribbon Out of my arms to-night, Helped in thy pretty ambition With tenderness blessed to see, Sheltered, upheld, and protected - How will the last steps be ? See, we are all beside you, Urging and beckoning on, Watching lest aught betide you Till the safe, near goal is won, Guiding the faltering footsteps That tremble and fear to fall How will it be, my darling, With the last sad step of all ? IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 73 Nay ! shall I dare to question, Knowing that One more fond Than all our tenderest loving Will guide the weak feet beyond ! And knowing beside, my dearest, That whenever the summons, 'twill be But a stumbling step through the shadow Then rest at the Father's knee ! 74 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF DION BOUCICAULT (1822-1890) SONG Supposed to be sung by a young woman, whose child had died in Ireland. I 'M very happy where I am, Far across the say I'm very happy far from home, In North Amerikay. It's lonely in the night when Pat Is sleeping by my side. I lie awake, and no one knows The big tears that I've cried. For a little voice still calls me back To my far, far counthrie, And nobody can hear it spake Oh ! nobody but me. There is a little spot of ground Behind the chapel wall ; It's nothing but a tiny mound, Without a stone at all ; It rises like my heart just now, It makes a dawny hill ; It's from below the voice comes out, I cannot kape it still. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 75 Oh ! little Voice, ye call me back To my far, far counthrie, And nobody can hear ye spake Oh ! nobody but me. 76 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF THOMAS BOYD (1867- ) TO THE LEANAN SIDHE w HERE is thy lovely perilous abode ? In what strange phantom-land Glimmer the fairy turrets whereto rode The ill-starred poet band ? Say, in the Isle of Youth hast thou thy home, The sweetest singer there, Stealing on winged steed across the foam Through the moonlit air? Or, where the mists of bluebell float beneath The red stems of the pine, And sunbeams strike thro' shadow, dost thou breathe The word that makes him thine ? Or by the gloomy peaks of Erigal, Haunted by storm and cloud, Wing past, and to thy lover there let fall His singing-robe and shroud ? Or is thy palace entered thro' some cliff When radiant tides are full, And round thy lover's wandering, starlit skiff, Coil in luxurious lull ? > Leandn Sidhe (Lenawn SAfe), " The Fairy Bride." IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 77 And would he, entering on the brimming flood, See caverns vast in height, And diamond columns, crowned with leaf and bud, Glow in long lanes of light, And there, the pearl of that great glittering shell Trembling, behold thee lone, Now weaving in slow dance an awful spell, Now still upon thy throne ? Thy beauty ! ah, the eyes that pierce him thro' Then melt as in a dream ; The voice that sings the mysteries of the blue And all that Be and Seem ! Thy lovely motions answering to the rhyme That ancient Nature sings, That keeps the stars in cadence for all time, And echoes thro* all things ! Whether he sees thee thus, or in his dreams, Thy light makes all lights dim ; An aching solitude from henceforth seems The world of men to him. Thy luring song, above the sensuous roar, He follows with delight, Shutting behind him Life's last gloomy door. And fares into the Night. 78 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF WILLIAM BOYLE (1853- ) PHILANDERING MAUREEN, acushla, ah ! why such a frown on you! Sure, 'tis your own purty smiles should be there, Under those ringlets that make such a crown on you, 'As the sweet angels themselves seem to wear, When from the picthers in church they look down on you, Kneeling in prayer. Troth, no, you needn't, there isn't a drop on me, Barrin' one half-one to keep out the cowld ; And, Maureen, if you'll throw a smile on the top o' me, Half-one was never so sweet, I'll make bowld. But, if you like, dear, at once put a stop on me Life with a scowld. Red-haired Kate Ryan ? Don't mention her name to me ! I've a taste, Maureen darlin', whatever I do. But I kissed her ? Ah, now, would you even that same to me ? Ye saw me ! Well, well, if ye did, sure it's true, But I don't want herself or her cows, and small blame to me When I know you. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 79 There now, aroon, put an ind to this strife o' me Poor frightened heart, my own Maureen, my duck ; Troth, till the day comes when you'll be made wife o' me, Night, noon, and mornin', my heajt'll be bruck. Kiss me, acushla ! My darlin' ! The life o' me ! One more for luck ! 80 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF JOSEPH BRENAN (1828-1857) COME TO ME, DEAREST COME to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee; Day-time and night-time I'm thinking about thee; Night-time and day-time in dreams I behold thee, Unwelcome the waking that ceases to fold thee. Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten, Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten, Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly, Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy. Swallows shall flit round the desolate ruin, Telling of spring and its joyous renewing ; And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold treasure, Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure ; O Spring of my spirit ! O May of my bosom ! Shine out on my soul till it burgeon and blossom The waste of my life has a rose-root within it, And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. Figure that moves like a song through the even Features lit up by a reflex of heaven Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother, Where sunshine and shadows are chasing each other ; Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple, And opening their eyes from the heart of a dimple O thanks to the Saviour that even thy seeming Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming I IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 81 You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened ; Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened ? As octave to octave and rhyme unto rhyme, love, Our hearts always answer in tune and in time, love ; I cannot weep but your tears will be flowing You cannot smile but my cheeks will be glowing I would not die without you at my side, love You will not linger when I shall have died, love. Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow ; Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow , Strong, swift, and fond as the words that I speak, love, With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love. Come, for my heart in your absence is dreary ; Haste, for my spirit is sickened and weary ; Come to the arms that alone should caress thee ; Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee ! 82 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF CHARLOTTE BROOKE (1740-1793) PULSE OF MY HEART Miss Brooke did much to rescue ancient Irish poetry from oblivion, although her classic style of language obscured the local colour and national distinctiveness of the original. This fragment is more literal than some of her work. AS the sweet blackberry's modest bloom, Fair flowering, greets the sight, Or strawberries in their rich perfume Fragrance and bloom unite : So this fair plant of tender youth In outward charms can vie, And from within the soul of truth, Soft beaming, fills her eye. Pulse of my heart ! dear source of care, Stolen sighs, and loved-breathed vows ! Sweeter than when through scented air Gay bloom the apple boughs ! With thee no day can winter seem, Nor frost nor blast can chill ; Thou the soft breeze, the cheering beam, That keeps it summer still. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 83 STOPFORD AUGUSTUS BROOKE (1832- ) THE NOBLE LAY OF AILLINN After an Irish tale from the " Book of Leinster." iRINCE BA1LE of Ulster rode out in the morn To meet his love at the ford ; And he loved her better than lands or life, And dearer than his sword. And she was Aillinn, fair as the sea, The Prince of Leinster's daughter, And she longed for him more than a wounded man, Who sees death, longs for water. They sent a message each to each : " Oh, meet me near or far ; " And the ford divided the kingdoms two, And the kings were both at war. And the Prince came first to the water's pass, And oh, he thought no ill : When he saw with pain a great gray man Come striding o'er the hill. His cloak was the ragged thunder-cloud, And his cap the whirling snow, And his eyes were the lightning in the storm, And his horn he 'gan to blow. 84 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF "What news, what news, them great gray man ? I fear 'tis ill with me." " Oh, Aillinn is dead, and her lips are cold, And she died for loving thee." And he looked and saw no more the man, But a trail of driving rain. " Woe ! woe ! " he cried, and took his sword And drave his heart in twain. And out of his blood burst forth a spring, And a yew-tree out of hi.s breast ; And it grew so deep, and it grew so high, The doves came there to rest. But Aillinn was coming to keep her tryst, The hour her lover fell ; And she rode as fast as the western wind Across the heathery hill. Behind her flew her loosened hair, Her happy heart did beat ; When she was 'ware of a cloud of storm Came driving down the street. And out of it stepped a great gray man, And his cap was peaked with snow The fire of death was in his eyes, And he 'gan his horn to blow. " What news, what news, thou great gray man ? And is it ill to me ? " " Oh, Baile the Prince is dead at the ford, And he died for loving thee." IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 85 Pale, pale she grew, and two large tears Dropped down like heavy rain, And she fell to earth with a woeful cry, For she broke her heart in twain. And out of her tears two fountains rose That watered all the ground, And out of her heart an apple-tree grew That heard the water's sound. Oh, woe were the kings, and woe were the queens, And woe were the people all ; And the poets sang their love and their death In cottage and in hall. And the men of Ulster a tablet made From the wood of Baile's tree, And the men of Leinster did the like Of Aillinn's apple-tree. And on the one the poets wrote The lover-tales of Leinster, And on the other all the deeds That lovers wrought in Ulster. Now when a hundred years had gone The King of all the land Kept feast at Tara, and he bade His poets sing a strand. They sang the sweet unhappy tale, Tlit noble Aillinn's lay. " Go, bring the tablets," cried the King " For I have wept to-day." 86 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF But when he held in his right hand The wood of Baile's tree And in his left the tablet smooth From Aillinn's apple-tree, The lovers in the wood who kept Love-longing ever true, Knew one another, and at once From the hands of the king they flew. As ivy to the oak they clung, Their kiss no man could sever Oh, joy for lovers parted long To meet, at last, forever J IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 87 FRANCES BROWNE (1816-1879) O THE PLEASANT DAYS OF OLD! OTHE pleasant days of old, which so often people praise ! True, they wanted all the luxuries that grace our modern days : Bare floors were strewed with rushes, the walls let in the cold ; O ! how they must have shivered in those pleasant days of old ! O ! those ancient lords of old, how magnificent they were ! They threw down and imprisoned kings, to thwart them who might dare ? They ruled their serfs right sternly ; they took from Jew their gold, Above both law and equity were those great lords of old! O the gallant knights of old, for their valour so re- nowned ! With sword and lance and armour strong they scoured the country round ; And whenever aught to tempt them they met by wood or wold, By right of sword they seized the prize, those gallant knights of old ! 88 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF O the gentle dames of old ! who, quite free from fear or pain, Could gaze on joust and tournament, and see their champion slain ; They lived on good beefsteaks and ale, which made . them strong and bold, O more like men than women were those gentle dames of old ! O those mighty towers of old ! with their turrets, moat and keep, Their battlements and bastions, their dungeons dark and deep. Full many a baron held his court within the castle hold; And many a captive languished there, in those strong towers of old ! O the troubadours of old ! with the gentle minstrelsie Of hope and joy, or deep despair, whiche'er their lot may be; For years they served their lady-loves ere they their passions told, O wondrous patience must have had those trouba- dours of old ! those blessed times of old ! with their chivalry and state ! 1 love to read their chronicles, which such brave deeds relate ; I love to sing their ancient rhymes, to hear their legends told, But, Heaven be thanked ! I lived not in those blessed times of old ! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 89 THE LAST FRIENDS One of the United Irishmen, who lately returned to his native country after many years of exile, being asked what had in- duced him to visit Ireland, when all his friends were gone, answered, " I came back to see the mountains." Author's note. I COME to my country, but not with the hope That brightened my youth like the cloud light- ing bow ; For the vigour of soul that seemed mighty to cope With time and with fortune hath fled from me now, And love that illumined my wanderings of yore Hath perished, and left but a weary regret For the star that can rise on my midnight no more, But the hills of my country they welcome me yet. The hue of their verdure was fresh with me still, When my path was afar by the Tanais' lone track ; From the wide-spreading deserts and ruins that fill The lands of old story, they summoned me back ; They rose on my dreams through the shades of the West, They breathed upon sands which the dew never wet ; For the echoes were hushed in the home I loved best, And I knew that the mountains would welcome me yet. The dust of my kindred is scattered afar, They lie in the desert, the wild, and the wave; For serving the strangers through wandering and war, The isle of their memory could grant them no grave. And I, I return with the memory of years Whose hope rose so high, though in sorrow it set ; They have left on my soul but the trace of their tears, But our mountains remember their promises yet. 90 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF O where are the brave hearts that bounded of old ? And where are the faces my childhood has seen ? For fair brows are furrowed, and hearts have grown cold, But our streams are still bright, and our hills are still green. Ay, green as they rose to the eyes of my youth, When brothers in heart in their shadows we met ; And the hills have no memory of shadow or death, For their summits are sacred to liberty yet. Like ocean retiring the morning mists now Roll back from the mountains that girdle our land ; And sunlight encircles each heath-covered brow For which time hath no furrow and tyrants no brand. O thus let it be with the hearts of the isle ! Efface the dark seal that oppression has set ; Give back the lost glory again to the soil, For the hills of my country remember it yet. WHAT HATH TIME TAKEN? WHAT hath Time taken ? Stars, that shone On the early years of earth, And the ancient hills they looked upon, Where a thousand streams had 'birth ; Forests that were the young world's dower, With their long-unfading trees ; And the halls of wealth, and the thrones of power He hath taken more than these. He hath taken away the heart of youth, And its gladness, which hath been IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 91 Like the sutnmer sunshine o'er our path, Making the desert green ; The shrines of an early hope and love, And the flowers of every clime, The wise, the beautiful, the brave, Thou hast taken from us, Time ! What hath Time left us ? desolate Cities, and temples lone, And the mighty works of genius, yet Glorious, when all are gone ; And the lights of memory, lingering long, As the eve on western seas Treasures of science, thought, and song He hath left us more than these. He hath left us a lesson of the past, In the shades of perished years ; He hath left us the heart's high places waste, And its rainbows fallen in tears. But there's hope for the earth and her children still, Unwithered by woe or crime, And a heritage of rest for all, Thou hast left us these, oh Time 1 92 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF KEVIN T. BUGGY (1816-1843) THE SAXON SHILLING 1 HARK ! a martial sound is heard The march of soldiers, fifing, drumming ; Eyes are staring, hearts are stirred For bold recruits the brave are coming, Ribands flaunting, feathers gay The sounds and sights are surely thrilling. Dazzled village youths to-day Will crowd to take the Saxon Shilling. Ye whose spirits will not bow In peace to parish tyrants longer Ye, who wear the villein brow, And ye who pine in hopeless hunger Fools, without the brave man's faith All slaves and starvelings who are willing To sell themselves to shame and death Accept the fatal Saxon Shilling. 1 Refers to the English custom when recruiting for the army. The acceptance of a shilling (twenty-five cents) from the recruit- ing sergeant constitutes the act of enlisting, and in the old days many a poor fellow has been so plied with drink that he has awakened from his sleep to find a shilling in his hand and the Queen's colours (ribbons of red, white, and blue) pinned to his hat or on his breast; sure signs that he had " 'listed for a soger," even though he had forgotten about it. C. W. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 93 Ere you from your mountains go To feel the scourge of foreign fever, Swear to serve the faithless foe That lures you from your land forever ! Swear henceforth its tools to be To slaughter trained by ceaseless drilling Honour, home, and liberty, Abandoned for a Saxon Shilling. Go to find, mid crime and toil, The doom to which such guilt is hurried ; Go to leave on Indian soil Your bones to bleach, accursed, unburied ! Go to crush the just and brave, Whose wrongs with wrath the world is filling ; Go to slay each brother slave Or spurn the blood-stained Saxon Shilling ! Irish hearts ! why should you bleed To swell the tide of British glory Aiding despots in their need, Who've changed our green so oft to gory ! None, save those who wish to see The noblest killed, the meanest killing, And true hearts severed from the free, Will take again the Saxon Shilling! Irish youths ! reserve your strength Until an hour of glorious duty, When Freedom's smile shall cheer at length The land of bravery and beauty. Bribes and threats, oh, heed no more Let nought but Justice make you willing To leave your own dear Island shore, For those who send the Saxon Shilling. 94 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF JAMES JOSEPH CALLANAN (1795-1829) AND MUST WE PART? AND must we part ? then fare thee well ! But he that wails it he can tell How dear thou wert, how dear thou art And ever must be, to this heart : But now 'tis vain it cannot be ; Farewell ! and think no more on me. Oh ! yes this heart would sooner break Than one unholy thought awake ; I'd sooner slumber into clay Than cloud thy spirit's beauteous ray; Go, free as air as angel free, And, lady, think no more on me. Oh ! did we meet when brighter star Sent its fair promise from afar, I then might hope to call thee mine The minstrel's heart and harp were thine ; But now 'tis past it cannot be; Farewell ! and think no more on me. Or do ! but let it be the hour When mercy's all-atoning power From His high throne of glory hears, Of souls like thine, the prayers, the tears ; Then, whilst you bend the suppliant knee, Then then, O lady ! think on me. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 95 DIRGE OF O* SULLIVAN BEAR From the Irish. One of the Sullivans of Bearhaven, who went by the name of Morty Oge, fell under the vengeance of the law. He was be- trayed by a confidential servant, named Scully, and was shot by his pursuers. They tied his body to a boat, and dragged it through the sea from Bearhaven to Cork, where his head was cut off and fixed on the county jail, where it remained for several years. Such is the story current among the people of Bearhaven. The dirge is supposed to have been the compo- sition of O'Sullivan's aged nurse. From the author's note. THE sun on Ivera No longer shines brightly, The voice of her music No longer is sprightly, No more to her maidens The light dance is dear, Since the'death of our darling O'Sullivan Bear. Scully ! thou false one, You basely betrayed him, In his strong hour of need, When thy right hand should aid him \ He fed thee he clad thee You had all could delight thee : You left him you sold him May Heaven requite thee ! Scully ! may all kinds Of evil attend thee ! On thy dark road of life May no kind one befriend thee ! 96 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF May fevers long burn thee, And agues long freeze thee ! May the strong hand of God In His red anger seize thee ! Had he died calmly I would not deplore him, Or if the wild strife Of the sea-war closed o'er him ; But with ropes round his white limbs Through ocean to trail him, Like a fish after slaughter 'Tis therefore I wail him. Long may the curse Of his people pursue them : Scully that sold him, And soldier that slew him ! One glimpse of heaven's light May they see never ! May the hearthstone of hell Be their best bed forever ! In the hole which the vile hands Of soldiers had made thee, Unhonoured, unshrouded, And headless they laid thee ; No sigh to regret thee, No eye to rain o'er thee, No dirge to lament thee, No friend to deplore thee ! IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 97 Dear head of my darling, How gory and pale These aged eyes see thee, High spiked on their jail ! That cheek in the summer sun Ne'er shall grow warm ; Nor that eye e'er catch light, But the flash of the storm. A curse, blessed ocean, Is on thy green water, From the haven of Cork To Ivera of slaughter : Since the billows were dyed With thy red wounds of fear, Of Muiertach Oge, Our O'Sullivan Bear ! GOUGANE BARRA ' THERE is a green island in lone Gougane Barra, Whence Allu of songs rushes forth like an , arrow ; In deep-valleyed Desmond a thousand wild fountains Come down to that lake, from their home in the mountains. There grows the wild ash ; and a time-stricken willow 1 Gougane Barra is a small lake about two miles in cir- cumference, formed by the numerous streams which descend from the mountains that divide the counties of Cork and Kerry. 98 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow, As, like some gay child that sad monitor scorning, It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning. And its zone of dark hills oh ! to see them all bright' ning, When the tempest flings out its red banner of light- ning, And the waters come down, 'mid the thunder's deep rattle, Like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle : And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming, And wildly from Malloc * the eagles are screaming : Oh, where is the dwelling, in valley or highland, So meet for a bard as this lone little island ? How oft, when the summer sun rested on Clara,' And lit the blue headland of sullen Ivera, Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean, And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion, And thought on the bards who, oft gathering together, In the cleft of thy rocks, and the depth of thy heather, Dwelt far from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter, As they raised their last song by the rush of thy water ! High sons of the lyre ! oh, how proud was the feeling To dream while alone through that solitude stealing; Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number, I alone waked the strain of her harp from its slumber, 1 A mountain over the lake. J Cape Clear. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 99 And gleaned the gray legend that long had been sleeping, Where oblivion's dull mist o'er its beauty was creep- ing, From the love which I felt for my country's sad story, When to love her was shame, to revile her was glory ! Least bard of the free ! were it mine to inherit The fire of thy harp and the wing of thy spirit, With the wrongs which, like thee, to my own land have bound me, Did your mantle of song throw its radiance around me ; Yet, yet on those bold cliffs might Liberty rally, And abroad send her cry o'er the sleep of each valley. But rouse thee, vain dreamer ! no fond fancy cherish, Thy vision of Freedom in bloodshed must perish. I soon shall be gone though my name may be spoken When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken Some minstrel will come in the summer eve's gleam- ing* When Freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming, To bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion, Where calm Avonbuee seeks the kisses of ocean, And a wild wreath to plant from the banks of that river O'er the heart and the harp that are silent forever.' ioo THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF O SAY, MY BROWN DRIMIN l Translated from the Irish. Osay, my brown Drimin, thou silk of the kine, 2 Where, where are thy strong ones, last hope of thy line? Too deep and too long is the slumber they take, At the loud call of freedom, why don't they awake ? My strong ones have fallen from the bright eye of day All darkly they sleep in their dwelling of clay ; The cold turf is o'er them ; they hear not my cries, And since Louis no aid gives I cannot arise. O ! where art thou, Louis, our eyes are on thee ? Are thy lofty ships walking in strength o'er the sea ? In freedom's last strife if you linger or quail, No morn e'er shall break on the night of the Gael. But should the king's son, now bereft of his right, Come, proud in his strength, for his country to fight ; Like leaves on the trees will new people arise, And deep from their mountains shout back to my cries. 1 Drimin is the favourite name of a cow, by which Ireland is here allegorically denoted. The five ends of Erin are the five kingdoms Munster, Leinster, Ulster, Connaught, and Meath into which the island was divided under the Milesian dynasty. Callanan* 8 Silk of the cows, an idiomatic expression for the most beauti- ful of cattle. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 101 When the prince, now an exile, shall come for his own, The isles of his father, his rights and his throne, My people in battle the Saxons will meet, And kick them before, like old shoes from their feet. O'er mountains and valleys they'll press on their rout, The five ends of Erin shall ring to their shout ; My sons all united shall bless the glad day ' When the flint-hearted Saxons they've chased far away. THE CONVICT OF CLONMEL From the Irish. HOW hard is my fortune, And vain my repining ! The strong rope of fate For this young neck is twining. My strength is departed ; My cheek sunk and sallow ; While I languish in chains, In the jail of Cluanmeala. No boy in the village Was ever yet milder, I'd play with a child, And my sport would be wilder. I'd dance wfthout tiring From morning till even, And the goal-ball I'd strike To the lightning of Heaven. 102 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF At my bed-foot decaying, My hurlbat is lying, Through the boys of the village My goal-ball is flying ; My horse 'mong the neighbours Neglected may fallow, While I pine in my chains, In the jail of Cluanmeala. Next Sunday the patron At home will be keeping, And the young active hurlers The field will be sweeping. With the dance of fair maidens The evening they'll hallow, While this heart, once so gay, Shall be cold in Cluanmeala. THE LAMENT OF O'GNIVE ' Translated from the Irish. HOW dimmed is the glory that circled the Gael And fall'n the high people of green Innisfail ; * The sword of the Saxon is red with their gore ; And the mighty of nations is mighty no more ! 1 Fearflatha O' Gniamh was family olamh or bard to the O'Neil of Clanoboy about the year 1556. The poem of which these lines are the translation commences with " Ala thruagh mar ataid 1 Goadhil." M. F. McCarthy. 4 Innisfail, the island of destiny, one of the names of Ire- land. IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 103 Like a bark on the ocean, long shattered and tost, On the land of your fathers at length you are lost ; The hand of the spoiler is stretched on your plains, And you're doomed from your cradles to bondage and chains. O where is the beauty that beamed on thy brow ? Strong hand in the battle, how weak art thou now ! That heart is now broken that never would quail, And thy high songs are turned into weeping and wail. Bright shades of our sires ! from your home in the skies .O blast not your sons with the scorn of your eyes ! Proud spirit of Gollam, 1 how red is thy cheek, For thy freemen are slaves, and thy mighty are weak ! O'Neil of the Hostages; * Con, 3 whose high name On a hundred red battles has floated to fame, Let the long grass still sigh undisturbed o'er thy sleep ; Arise not to shame us, awake not to weep. In thy broad wing of darkness enfold us, O night ! Withhold, O bright sun, the reproach of thy light ! 1 Gollam, a name of Milesius, the Spanish progenitor of the Irish O's and Macs. 2 Nial of the Nine Hostages, the heroic monarch of Ireland in the fourth century, and ancestor of the O'Neil family. 3 Con Cead Caf/ia, Con of the Hundred Fights, monarch of the island in the second century. Although the fighter of a hundred battles, he was not the victor of a hundred fields; his valorous rival Owen, King of Minister, compelled him to a di- vision of the kingdom. 104 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF For freedom or valour no more canst thou see In the home of the brave, in the isle of the free. Affliction's dark waters your spirits have bowed, And oppression hath wrapped all your land in its shroud, Since first from the Brehon's l pure justice you strayed And bent to those laws the proud Saxon has made. We know not our country, so strange is her face ; Her sons, once her glory, are now her disgrace ; Gone, gone is the beauty of fair Innisfail, For the stranger now rules in the land of the Gael. Where, where are the woods that oft rung to your cheer, Where you waked the wild chase of the wolf and the deer? Can those dark heights, with ramparts all frowning and riven, Be the hills where your forests waved brightly in heaven ? O bondsmen of Egypt, no Moses appears To light your dark steps thro' this desert of tears ! Degraded and lost ones, no Hector is nigh To lead you to freedom, or teach you to die ! 1 Brehons, the hereditary judges of the Irish septs. IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 105 JOSEPH CAMPBELL (Living) NEWTOWNBREDA >r " "'IS pretty tae be in Ballylesson, 'Tis pretty tae be in green Malone; 'Tis prettier tae be in Newtownbreda, Becking under the eaves in June. The cummers are out wi' their knitting and spinning, The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa', And o'er the white road the clachan caddies Play at their marlies and goaling-ba'. O ! fair are the fields o' Ballylesson, And fair are the faes o' green Malone ; But fairer the flowers o' Newtownbreda, Wet wi' dew in the eves o' June. 'Tis pleasant tae saunter the gray clachan thoro' When day sinks mellow o'er Divis hill, And feel their fragrance sae softly breathing Frae croft and causey and window-sill. O ! brave are the haughs o' Ballylesson, And brave are the halds o' green Malone ; But braver the hames o' Newtownbreda, Twined about wi' the pinks o' June. And just as the face is sae kindly withouten, The heart within is as guid as gold Wi' new Fair ballants and merry music, And cracks cam' down frae the days of old. 106 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF 'Tis pretty tae be in Ballylesson, And pretty tae be in green Malone; 'Tis prettier tae be in Newtownbreda, Becking under the eaves in June. The cummers are out vvi' their knitting and spinning, The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa', And o'er the white road the clachan caddies Play at their niarlies and goaling-ba'. THE FRIAR'S BUSH The Friar's Bush gives name to the old Catholic burying- ground situate on the left-hand side of the road leading out from Beul-feirste to Srath-milis, on the rise of the hill just before you come to Mount Pleasant. I never knew how the place got its name until told by my mother, who is a repository of all the quaint traditional stories of Lagan Vale. I tell her story in versified form below. IN penal times, as peasants tell, A friar came with book and bell To chaunt his Mass each Sabbath morn Beneath Srath-milis' trysting-thorn. He came in sun, he came in flood From Ard-mic Nasca's holy wood, Where Niall built his monastery To house'the scripts of Clann-Aedha-buidhe. But that was in the golden age When Ulaid fostered saint and sage, Ere gorbies grasped their mensal-lands Or filed their books with bloody hands. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 107 This priest was of the family That own the name Mic Giollamhuire ; In rebel days at Baile-Daithi His faith was banned by Saxon law. And so, all sick at sight of blood, He hied him to the holy wood Where Niall's presbyters of old Preached God's-spell to the Gaelic fold And there in spite of hue and cry The tonsured one found sanctuary ; And, moving featly like a bird, Among his folk he ministered. And, as our northern legends tell, He came with candle, book and bell To chaunt his Mass each Sabbath morn Beneath Srath-milis' trysting-thorn. This thorn grew green upon a hill Above Srath-milis' straits, and still Grows there for every soul to see That honours hoar antiquity. The folk who deemed their fathers' faith More dear than life, and laughed at death, Came thither every Sabbath morn To worship God beneath the thorn. And, sailing up by Loch-an-laegh Betwixt the shores of Clann-Aeclha-buidhe, The holy priest would meet them there To lead their hearts in fragrant prayer. io8 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF Week in, week out, he crossed the ford To Fearsad town, and dared the sword Of those who mocked his churchly cloth, And sought his bones to make them broth. But, guarded by the grace of God, Unharmed he went his weary road, Till of a darkling Lammas day A planter took his life away. He slew him by the trysting-tree At chosen opportunity His hand upheld the Sacred Blood That flowed unto the common good ! Nor arm nor voice of any there Was raised to quell the murtherer ; For shame each peasant's heart was numb, For fear each woman's soul was dumb. With double blood upon his head The planter to his castle sped ; And o'er their shepherd's body pale The people raised the funeral-wail. They laid him after sunset-blush Beneath the ancient trysting-bush, And on his head they set the sod O'er which the sacring-cup had flowed. They wandered long without a guide, And of their number many died, And ere they passed they begged to be Laid resting by the "Friar's Tree." IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 109 'Twas thus, if legend tell it true, A lowly graveyard round it grew ; A holy spot it is, in faith, Where one might wish to lie in death. And still on moldered stone and grass The thorn-tree sees the shadows pass, Nor shows a sign of slow decay, For 'twill be quick till Judgment-day ! THE GARDEN OF THE BEES THERE is a clearing in the maze of flowers That closes in my father's House of Happi- ness ; And Summer dews it with her softest showers, The while she suns it with an eye of tenderness. And on its plat of shaven fairy-grass My bees are housed in hives of beechen wood, Filling the languorous air with lazy drone Till moth-time comes with melancholy mood, Deepening the shadow on the dial-stone, And drifts of purple o'er the mountain pass. And often there of quiet Summer eves We gather, Seaghan and Seumas, Feidhlim Og and . I My Gaelic school to sit within the leaves, And listen to the red-bees' twilight lullaby. And Seaghan will take a poem from his breast, Chanting it to the purple sunken sun, no THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF Until the merging glow of day and night And murmurous drone and singer's voice are one, And Dana's secret eyes from heaven's height Look down upon our little world at rest. THE LAMENT OF PATRAIC MOR MAC- CRUIMIN OVER HIS SONS The MacCruimins were hereditary pipers to the MacLeods of Skye (Inis Scathach). The crest of the clan is a hand hold- ing a pipe chanter, with the motto COGADH NO SITH " Peace or War." Many stories are told of the clan. Patraic Mor, who lived in the middle of the seventeenth century, was frequently accompanied to kirk and market by seven grown-up sons, all of whom died within one twelve-months. It was on their ac- count that the sorrowing parent composed the affecting piolai- reacht called CUMHADH NO CLOINNE, or " Lament for the Children." I AM Patraic Mor MacCruimin, Son of Domhnall of the Shroud, Piper, like my kind before me, To the household of MacLeod. Death is in the seed of Cruimin ; All my music is a wail ; Early graves await the poets And the pipers of the Gael. Samhain gleans the golden harvests Duly in their tide and time, But the body's fruit is blasted Barely past the Bealtein prime. Cethlenn claims the fairest fighters Fitly for her own, her own, But my seven sons are stricken Where no battle-pipe is blown. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS in Flowers of the forest fallen On the sliding summer stream Light and life and love are with me, Then are vanished into dream. Berried branches of the rowan Rifled in the wizard wind Clan and generation leave me, Lonely on the heath behind. Who will soothe a father's sorrow When his seven sons are gone? Who will watch him in his sleeping? Who will wake him at the dawn ? Like the salmon of the river, Rusting in the salty sea, I will lie adream, and listen For the call to come to me. Like the eagle of the eyrie, Kidnapped of its callow brood, I will seek the windy valley, I will search the misty wood. Seven sons are taken from me In the compass of a year ; Every bone is bose within me, All my blood is white with fear. Seven youths of brawn and beauty Moulder in their mountain bed, Up in storied Inis-Scathach Where their fathers reaped their bread. 1 1 2 THE G OLDEN TR EAS UR Y OF Nevermore upon the mountain, Nevermore in fair or field Shall ye see the seven champions Of the silver-mantled shield. I will play the " Cumhadh na Cloinne," Wildest of the rowth of tunes Gathered by the love of mortal From the olden druid-runes. Wail ye ! Night is on the water ; Wind and wave are roaring loud Caoine for the fallen children Of the piper of MacLeod. THE NINE GLENS OF AON-DRUIM THERE is fire in the heart of the Nine Glens within, That Oisin, the ardent-souled, would live again to light : The seed of fire that molders there in darkness chill and dim Must blow to bloom flame-bright. 1 Gleann-taise, the glen of the fetch or ghost. Gleann-seisg, the glen of the green sedge. Gleann-Duine, the glen of the Abhainn Duine River. Gleann corp, the glen of the dead bodies. Gleannan (Gleann-aithin), the glen of the little ford. Gleann-baile-Eamain, the glen of the town of Eaman. Gleann-araimh, the glen of the ploughman. Gleann-gorm, the blue glen. Gleann-cloiche, the glen of the stone. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 113 Gleann-taise sings the fairy-songs she knew of yore; Thro' Gieann-seisg, exulting, the brown-streamed rivers leap ; And, stirred by the finer breath that fills her bosom hoar, Glean n-Duine looks up from her sleep. Strange sounds of shrilly music are rife in the wind That breathes down Gleann-araimh from the long- forgotten years; 'Tis the pipes of Somhairle Buidhe leading out his Gaelic kind That ring in her wondering ears. Gleann-corp marks the cry, and Gleannan green Takes up the quickening ether within her zone of hills ; And Gleann-baile-Eamain looks like a battler's queen When her pulse at his piobreacht thrills. Gleann-gorm is out to meet the risen dawn In summer busk of purple broom and lichen gray; And swift as the phantom ships of Manannan The shadows of Gleann-cloiche fleet away. There is fire in the heart of the Nine Glens within, That Oisin, the magic-tongued, is come again to light : The seed of fire that moulders there in darkness chill and dim Will blow to bloom flame- bright. ii 4 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF JOHN T. CAMPION (1814- ) EMMET'S DEATH " TJE dies to-day," said the heartless judge, Whilst he sate him down to the feast, And a smile was upon his ashy lip As he uttered a ribald jest ; For a demon dwelt where his heart should be, That lived upon blood and sin, And oft as that vile judge gave him food The demon throbbed within. " He dies to-day," said the jailer grim, Whilst a tear was in his eye; "But why should I feel so grieved for him ? Sure, I've seen many die ! Last night I went to his stony cell, With the scanty prison fare He was sitting at a table rude, Plaiting a lock of hair ! And he look'd so mild, with his pale, pale face, And he spoke in so kind a way, That my old breast heaved with a smothering feel, And I knew not what to say ! " IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 115 " He dies to-day," thought a fair, sweet girl She lacked the life to speak, For sorrow had almost frozen her blood, And white were her lip and cheek Despair had drank up her last wild tear, And her brow was damp and chill, And they often felt at her heart with fear, For its ebb was all but still. n6 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF GEORGE CANNING (1770-1827) EPITAPH For the tombstone erected over the Marquis of Anglesea's leg, lost at Waterloo. H ERE rests, and let no saucy knave Presume to sneer and laugh, To learn that moldering in the grave Is laid a British Calf. For he who writes these lines is sure, That those who read the whole Will find such laugh was premature, For here, too, lies a sole. And here five little ones repose, Twin born with other five, Unheeded by their brother toes, Who all are now alive. A leg and foot to speak more plain, Rests here of one commanding ; Who though his wits he might retain, Lost half his understanding. And when the guns, with thunder fraught, Poured bullets thick as hail, Could only in this way be taught To give the foe leg-bail. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 117 And now in England, just as gay As in the battle brave, Goes to a rout, review or play, With one foot in the grave. Fortune in vain here showed her spite, For he will still be found, Should England's sons engage in fight, Resolved to stand his ground. But Fortune's pardon I must beg; She meant not to disarm, For when she lopped the hero's leg, She did not seek his harm, And but indulg'd a harmless whim ; Since he could walk with one She saw two legs were lost on him, Who never meant to run. SONG From " The Rover ; or the Double Arrangement." w HENE'ER with haggard eyes I view This dungeon that I'm rotting in, I think of those companions true Who studied with me at the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue, Which once my love sat knotting in ! n8 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF Alas ! Matilda then was true ! At least I thought so at the U Diversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. Barbs ! barbs ! alas ! how swift you flew, Her neat post-wagon trotting in ! Ye bore Matilda from my view ; Forlorn I languished at the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. This faded form ! this pallid hue ! This blood rny veins is clotting in ! My years are many they were few When first I entered at the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. There first for thee my passion grew, Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen ! Thou wast the daughter of my tu- tor, law professor at the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. 1 Sun, moon, and thou, vain world, adieu ! That kings and priests are plotting in : Here doomed to starve on water gru- el, never shall 1 see the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. 1 This verse is said to have been added by the younger Pitt. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 119 THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER FRIEND OF HUMANITY N EEDY Knife-grinder ! whither are you going ? Rough is the road; your wheel is out of order Bleak blows the blast ; your hat has got a hole in't. So have your breeches 1 Weary Knife-grinder ! little think the proud ones Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day, "Knives and Scissors to grind O ! " Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives ? Did some rich man tyrannically use you ? Was it some squire ? or parson of the parish ? Or the attorney ? Was it the squire, for killing of his game ? or Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining? Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little All in a lawsuit ? Have you not read the "Rights of Man," by Tom Paine ? Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your Pitiful story. 120 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF KNIFE-GRINDER Story ? God bless you ! I have none to tell, sir : Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers, This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle. Constables came up for to take me into Custody ; they took me before the justice ; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish Stocks for a vagrant. I should be glad to drink your honour's health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence ; But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir. FRIEND OF HUMANITY I give thee sixpence ! I will see thee damned first Wretch ! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance ! Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast ! [Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and uni- versal philanthropy.] IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 121 WILLIAM CANTON (1845- ) LAUS INFANTIUM IN praise of little children I will say God first made man, then found a better way For woman, but his third way was the best. Of all created things, the loveliest And most divine are children. Nothing here Can be to us more gracious or more dear. And though, when God saw all his works were good, There was no rosy flower of babyhood, 'Twas said of children in a later day That none could enter Heaven save such as they. The earth, which feels the flowering of a thorn, Was glad, O little child, when you were born ; The earth, which thrills when skylarks scale the blue, Soared up itself to God's own Heaven in, you ; And Heaven, which loves to lean down and to glass Its beauty in each dewdrop on the grass, Heaven laughed to find your face so pure and fair, And left, O little child, its reflex there. 122 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF WILLIAM CARLETON (1798-1869) A SIGH FOR KNOCKMANY TAKE, proud ambition, take thy fill Of pleasures won through toil or crime ; Go, learning, climb thy rugged hill, And give thy name to future time. Philosophy, be keen to see Whate'er is just, or false, or vain ; Take each thy meed, but oh, give me To range my mountain glens again. Pure was the breeze that fanned my cheek, As o'er Knockmany's brow I went; When every lovely dell could speak In airy music, vision -sent. False world, I hate thy cares and thee ; I hate the treacherous haunts of men ; Give back my early heart to me, Give back to me my mountain glen. How light my youthful visions shone When spanned by Fancy's radiant form ! But now her glittering bow is gone, And leaves me but the cloud and storm ; With wasted form and cheek all pale, With heart long seared by grief and pain, Dunroe, I'll seek thy native gale, I'll tread my mountain glens again. IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 123 Thy breeze once more may fan my blood, The valleys all are lovely still ; And I may stand as once I stood, In lonely musings on thy hill. But ah ! the spell is gone. No art In crowded town, or native plain, Can teach a crushed and breaking heart To pipe the songs of youth again. 124 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF JOHN KEEGAN CASEY (1846-1870) DONAL KENNY OME, piper, play the < Shaskan Reel,' Or else the ' Lasses on the heather,' And, Mary, lay aside your wheel Until we dance once more together. At fair and pattern l oft before Of reels and jigs we've tripped full many ; But ne'er again this loved old floor Will feel the foot of Donal Kenny." Softly she rose and took his hand, And softly glided through the measure, While, clustering round, the village band Looked half in sorrow, half in pleasure. Warm blessings flowed from every lip As ceased the dancers' airy motion : O Blessed Virgin ! guide the ship Which bears bold Donal o'er the ocean ! " Now God be with you all ! " he sighed, Adown his face the bright tears flowing "God guard you well, avic," they cried, "Upon the strange path you are going." 1 Pattern, patron saint, a saint's day. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 125 So full his breast, he scarce could speak, With burning grasp the stretched hands taking, He pressed a kiss on every cheek, And sobbed as if his heart was breaking. " Boys, don't forget me when I'm gone, For sake of all the days passed over The days you spent on heath and bawn With Donal Ruadh, the rattlin' rover. Mary, agra, your soft brown eye Has willed my fate " (he whispered lowly) ; " Another holds thy heart : good-bye ! Heaven grant you both its blessings holy ! " A kiss upon her brow of snow, A rush across the moonlit meadow, Whose broom-clad hazels, trembling slow, The mossy boreen wrapped in shadow ; Away o'er Tully's bounding rill, And far beyond the Inny river ; One cheer on Carrick's rocky hill, And Donal Kenny's gone forever. The breezes whistled through the sails, O'er Galway Bay the ship was heaving, And smothered groans and bursting wails Told all the grief and pain of leaving. One form among that exiled band Of parting sorrow gave no token, Still was his breath, and cold his hand : For Donal Kenny's heart was broken. 126 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF GRACIE OG MACHREE l SONG OF THE "WILD GEESE" I PLACED the silver in her palm, By Inny's smiling tide, And vowed, ere summer time came on, To claim her as a bride. But when the summer time came on, I dwelt beyond the sea ; Yet still my heart is ever true To Grade Og Machree. O bonnie are the woods of Targ, And green thy hills, Rath more, And soft the sunlight ever falls On Darre's sloping shore ; And there the eyes I love in tears Shine ever mournfully, While I am far, and far away From Grade Og Machree. When battle-steeds were neighing loud, With bright blades in the air, Next to my inmost heart I wore A bright tress of her hair. When stirrup-cups were lifted up To lips, with soldier glee, One toast I always fondly pledged, 'Twas Grade Og Machree. 1 Grade 6g mo-chroldhe, young Grade of my heart. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 127 O I may never, never clasp Again, her lily hand, And I may find a soldier's grave Upon a foreign strand ; But when the heart pulse beats the last, And death takes hold of me, One word shall part my dying lips, Thy name, As tor Machree? MAIRE MY GIRL Air " Mairgread ni Chealleadh" OVER the dim blue hills Strays a wild river, Over the dim blue hills Rests my heart ever. Dearer and brighter than Jewels and pearl, Dwells she in beauty there, Maire a my girl. Down upon Claris heath Shines the soft berry, On the brown harvest tree Droops the red cherry. Sweeter thy honey lips, Softer the curl Straying adown thy cheeks, Maire my girl. 1 A-stdir mo-chroidhe, O treasure of my heart. 8 Pronounced, Maurya. 128 THE GOLDEN TRBASUkT OF 'Twas on an April eve That I first met her j Many an eve shall pass Ere I forget her. Since my young heart has been Wrapped in a whirl, Thinking and dreaming of Maire my girl. She is too kind and fond Ever to grieve me, She has too pure a heart E'er to deceive me. Were I Tyrconnell's chief Or Desmond's earl, Life would be dark, wanting Maire my girl. Over the dim blue hills Strays a wild river, Over the dim blue hills Rests my heart ever ; Dearer and brighter than Jewels or pearl, Dwells she in beauty there, Maire my girl. THE RISING OF THE MOON (A. D. 1798) , then, tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, Tell me why you hurry so? " ' ' Hush ! ma bouchal, hush, and listen And his cheeks were all a-glow : " I bear ordhers from the Captain IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 129 Get you ready quick and soon ; For the pikes must be together At the risin' of the moon." "Oh, then, tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, Where the gath'rin' is to be? " " In the ould spot by the river, Right well known to you and me ; One word more for signal token Whistle up the marchin' tune, With your pike upon your shoulder, By the risin' of the moon." Out from many a mud-wall cabin Eyes were watching thro' that night; Many a manly chest was throbbing For the blessed warning light. Murmurs passed along the valleys, Like the banshee 's lonely croon, And a thousand blades were flashing At the risin' of the moon. There, beside the singing river, That dark mass of men were seen Far above the shining weapons Hung their own beloved " Green " ; " Death to ev'ry foe and traitor ! Forward ! strike the marchin' tune, And hurrah, my boys, for freedom ! 'Tis the risin' of the moon." Well they fought for poor Old Ireland, And full bitter was their fate ; 130 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF (Oh ! what glorious pride and sorrow Fill the name of 'Ninety-Eight !) Yet, thank God, e'en still are beating Hearts in manhood's burning noon, Who would follow in their footsteps At the risin' of the moon ! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 131 ANDREW CHERRY (1762-1812) THE BAY OF BISCAY LOUD roared the dreadful thunder, The rain a deluge showers, The clouds were rent asunder By lightning's vivid powers : The night both drear and dark, Our poor devoted bark, Till next day there she lay In the Bay of Biscay, O ! Now dashed upon the billow, Our opening timbers creak ; Each fears a wat'ry pillow, None stops the dreadful leak ; To cling to slipp'ry shrouds Each breathless seaman crowds, As she lay till next day In the Bay of Biscay, O ! At length the wished-for morrow Broke thro' the hazy sky ; Absorbed in silent sorrow, Each heaved a bitter sigh ; The dismal wreck to view Struck horror to the crew, As she lay on that day In the Bay of Biscay, O ! 132 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF Her yielding timbers sever, Her pilchy seams are rent, When Heaven, all-bounteous ever, Its boundless mercy sent ; A sail in sight appears, We hail her with three cheers : Now we sail with the gale From the Bay of Biscay, O ! THE GREEN LITTLE SHAMROCK OF IRELAND THERE'S a dear little plant that grows in our isle, 'Twas Saint Patrick himself, sure, that set it ; And the sun on his labour with pleasure did smile, And with dew from his eye often wet it. It thrives through the bog, through the brake, through the mireland ; And he called it the dear little shamrock of Ireland, The sweet little shamrock, the dear little sham- * rock, The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland. This dear little plant still grows in our land, Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin, Whose smiles can bewitch, whose eyes can command, In each climate that they may appear in ; And shine through the bog, through the brake, through the mireland ; Just like their own dear little shamrock of Ireland, The sweet little shamrock, the dear little sham- rock, The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 133 This dear little plant that springs from our soil, When its three little leaves are extended, Denotes from one stalk we together should toil, And ourselves by ourselves be befriended; And still through the bog, through the brake, through the mireland, From one root should branch, like the shamrock of Ireland, The sweet little shamrock, the dear little sham- rock, The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland. TOM MOODY YOU all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well ; The bell just done tolling was honest Tom's knell ; A more able sportsman ne'er followed a hound, Through a country well known to him fifty miles round. No hound ever opened with Tom near the wood But he'd challenge the tone, and could tell if 'twere good ; And all with attention would eagerly mark, When he cheered up the pack. " Hark ! to Rook- wood, hark ! hark ! High ! wind him ! and cross him ; Now, Rattler, boy ! Hark ! " Six crafty earth- stoppers, in hunter's green drest, Supported poor Tom to an " earth " made for rest ; His horse, which he styled his Old Soul, next appeared, On whose forehead the brush of the last fox was reared ; 134 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF Whip, cap, boots, and spurs in a trophy were bound, And here and there followed an old straggling hound. Ah ! no more at his voice yonder vales will they trace, Nor the welkin resound to the burst in the chase ! With " High over ! now press him ! Tally-ho ! Tally-ho !" Thus Tom spoke his friends ere he gave up his breath, " Since I see you're resolved to be in at the death, One favor bestow 'tis the last I shall crave, Give a rattling view-hollow thrice over my grave ; And unless at that warning I lift up my head, My boys, you may fairly conclude I am dead ! " Honest Tom was obeyed, and the shout rent the sky, For every voice joined in the' tally-ho cry, Tally-ho ! Hark forward ! Tally-ho ! Tally-ho 1 IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 135 MRS. W. H. CHESSON (NORA HOPPER) (1871-1906) NIAM MOUTH of the rose and hair like a cloud After my feet the wind grows loud : The red East Wind whose rumour has gone From Tir-nan-Og 1 to Tir-na-Tonn." Under my feet the windflower grows, After my feet the shadows run, Over my feet the long grass blows. All things hail me and call me on Out of the darkness into the sun, Love and Beauty and Youth in one. Under my feet the windflower grows. Men called me Niam when first arose My splendid star : but what now ye call Me, do I heed if I hear at all ? Look in my eyes are they gray or blue ? They are the eyes that the Fenians knew, When out of the sunshine, into the shade, I called to Oisin, and he obeyed. Across Fionn's banner my dark hair flew, And safe in its leash my love I drew. 1 Tir-nan-og, the Country of Youth. 4 Tir-na-tonn, the Land under the Sea. 136 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF I called to Oisin and he obeyed Out of the sunshine into the shade, Though the words were out and the warhorns blew And wisdom and pride my voice gainsaid. But a hundred years, or a thousand years, I kept my lover from hopes and fears In Druid dark on my arm he slept. Shall I not keep men even as I kept? 'Twixt a man and his wisdom let blow my hair, The man is beside me, and wisdom's where? The Fenians died and the high Gods die, But spring's immortal, and so am -I. I am young, I am swift, I am fair to see, My blood is the sap running new in the tree. Shall I not keep men even as I kept Oisin free from his falling sept ? Who shall deny me, or who gainsay, For the world is beginning anew to-day ? Youth is glad, for the world is wide ; Tarry, O Youth ! Love is here at thy side. The world is beginning anew to-day ; Fire is awake in each clod of clay ; The ragweeds know what has never been told By the old to the young, or the young to the old. The hawthorns tell it in broad daylight ; The evening primrose awaits the night, Her beautiful secret she shuts in close Till the last late bee goes home from the rose. And I am the secret, the flower, and the tree ; I am Beauty ; O Youth, I have blossomed for thee. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 137 THE CUCKOO SINGS IN THE HEART OF WINTER T HE cuckoo sings in the heart of winter, And all for Mauryeen he tunes his song ; How Mauryeen 's hair is the honey's color. (He sings of her all the winter long !) Her long loose hair's of the honey's color, The wild sweet honey that wild bees make. The sun herself is ashamed before her, The moon is pale for her gold cool's sake. She bound her hair, of the honey's colour, With flowers of yarrow and quicken green : And now one binds it with leaves of willow, And cypress lies where my head has been. Now robins sing beside Pastheen's doorway, And wrens for bounty that Grania gave : The cuckoo sings in the heart of winter ; He sings all day beside Mauryeen's grave. THE DARK MAN ROSE o' the World, she came to my bed And changed the dreams of my heart and head; For joy of mine she left grief of hers, And garlanded me with a crown of furze. 138 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF Rose o ! the World, they go out and in, And watch me dreajn and my mother spin : And they pity the tears on my sleeping face While my soul's away in a fairy place. Rose o' the World, they have words galore, And wide's the swing of my mother's door: And soft they speak of my darkened eyes But what do they know, who are all so wise ? Rose o' the World, the pain you give Is worth all days that a man may live Worth all shy prayers that the colleens say On the night that darkens the wedding-day. Rose o' the World, what man would wed When he might dream of your face instead ? Might go to his grave with the blessed pain Of hungering after your face again ? Rose o' the World, they may talk their fill, For dreams are good, and my life stands still While their lives' red ashes the gossips stir ; But my fiddle knows and I talk to her. THE FAERY FOOL IF I'm the Faery fool, Dalua Ay me, the Faery fool ! How do I know what the rushes say, Sighing and shuddering all the day Over their shadowy pool ? IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 139 How do I know what the North Wind cries Herding his flocks of snow ? The menace that lies in the Hunter's eyes How do I know ? If I'm the Faery fool, Dalua Ay me, the Faery fool ! I cry to them that sent me here To laugh and jest, to geek and fleer, To scorn at law and rule : " Why did ye also give to me Beauty and peace to know, The ears to hear and the eyes to see And the hands that let all go ? " I cry to them that bade me jest : " Why made ye me so slight, And put a heart within my breast, An evil gift, an evil guest, To spoil me for delight ? Made for mere laughter, answer why Must I have eyes for dool ? Take from me tears, or let me die, For I am sick of wisdom, I, Dalua, the Faery fool." THE FAIRY FIDDLER TIS I go fiddling, fiddling, By weedy ways forlorn : I make the blackbird's music Ere in his breast 'tis born ; The sleeping larks I waken 'Twixt the midnight and the morn. 1 40 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF No man alive has seen me, But women hear me play Sometimes at door or window, Fiddling the souls away The child's soul and the colleen's Out of the covering clay. None of my fairy kinsmen Make music with me now : Alone the raths I wander, Or ride the whitethorn bough ; But the wild swans they know me, And the horse that draws the plow. THE GRAY FOG THERE'S a gray fog over Dublin of the curses, It blinds my eyes, mavrone ; and stops my breath, And I travel slow that once could run the swiftest, And I fear ere I meet Mauryeen I'll meet Death. There's a gray fog over Dublin of the curses, And a gray fog dogs my footsteps as they go, And its long and sore to tread, the road to Connaught. Is it fault of brogues or feet I fare so slow ? There's a gray fog over Dublin of the curses, But the Connaught wind will blow it from my way. And a Connaught girl will kiss it from my memory If the Death that walks beside me will delay. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 141 (There's a gray fog over Dublin of the curses, And no wind comes to break its stillness deep : And a Connaughtman lies on the road to Connaught And Mauryeen will not kiss him from his sleep Ululu !) N THE KING OF IRELAND'S SON OW all away to Tir na n'Og are many roads that run, But he has ta'en the longest lane, the King of Ireland's son. There's roads of hate, and roads of love, and many a middle way, And castles keep the valleys deep where happy lovers stray Where Aongus goes there's many a rose burns red mid shadows dun, No rose there is will draw his kiss, the King of Ire- land's son. And yonder, where the sun is high, Love laughs amid the hay, But smile and sigh have passed him by, and never make delay. And here (and O ! the sun is low !) they're glad for harvest won, But naught he cares for wheat or tares, the King of Ireland's son I 142 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF And you have flung love's apple by, and I'm to pluck it yet : But what are fruits of gramarye with druid dews beset ? Oh what are magic fruits to him who meets the Lianan- sidhe Or hears athwart the distance dim Fionn's horn blow drowsily ! He follows on forever when all your chase is done He follows after shadows, the King of Ireland's son. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 143 J. B. CLARKE (Living} EMAN-AC-KNUCK TO EVA ON the white hawthorn's bloom, in purpling streak, I see the fairy-ring of morning break, On the green valley's brow the golden glows, Kissing the crimson of the opening rose, Knits with her thousand smiles its damask dyes, And laughs the season on our hearts and eyes. Rise, Eva, rise ! fair spirit of my breast, In whom I live, forsake the down of rest. Lovelier than morn, carnationed in soft hues, Sweeter than rifled roses in the dews Of dawn divinely weeping and more fair Than the coy flowers fann'd by mountain air ; More modest than the morning's blushing smile. Rise, Eva, rise ! pride of our Western Isle The sky's blue beauties lose their sunny grace Before the calm, soft splendours of thy face. Thy breath is sweeter than the apple bloom, When spring's musk'd spirit bathes it in perfume; The rock's wild honey steeps thy rubied lip Rise, Eva, rise ! I long these sweets to sip. 144 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF The polish'd ringlets of thy jetty locks Shame the black raven's on the sun-gild rocks; Thy neck can boast a whiter, lovelier glow, Than the wild cygnet's silvery plume of snow. And from thy bosom, the soft throne of bliss, The witch of love, in all her blessedness, Heaves all her spells, wings all her feathered darts, And dips her arrows in adoring hearts. Rise, Eva, rise ! the sun sheds his sweet ray, Am'rous to kiss thee rise, my love ! we'll stray Across the mountain, on the blossomy heath, The heath-bloom holds for thee its odorous breath. From the tall crag, aspiring to the skies, I'll pick for thee the strings of strawberries; The yellow nuts, too, from the hazel-tree Soul of my heart ! I'll strip to give to thee : As thy red lips the berries shall be bright, And the sweet nuts shall be as rife and white And milky, as the love-begotten tide That fills thy spotless bosom, my sweet bride. Queen of the smile of joy ! shall I not kiss Thee in the moss-grown cot, bless'd bower of bliss- Shall not thy rapturous lover clasp thy charms, And fold his Eva in his loving arms Shall Inniscather's wood again attest Thy beauties strain'd unto this burning breast? Absent how long ! Ah ! when wilt thou return ? When shall this wither'd bosom cease to mourn? IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 145 Eva, why stay so long ? why leave me lone, In the deep valley, to the cold gray stone Pouring my plaints? O come, divinest fair ! Chase from my breast the demon of despair. The winds are witness to my deep distress, Like the lone wanderer of the wilderness, For thee I languish and for thee I sigh My Eva, come, or thy poor swain shall die ! And didst thou hear my melancholy lay? And art thou coming, love ? My Eva ! say ? Thou daughter of a meek-eyed dame, thy face Is lovelier than thy mother's, in soft grace. O yes ! thou comest, Eva ! to my sight An angel minister of heavenly light : The sons of frozen climes can never see Summer's bright smile so glad as I see thee : Thy steps to me are lovelier than the ray That rose night's cheek with the blush of day t 146 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF JOSEPH IGNATIUS CONSTANTINE CLARKE (1846- ) ROUGH RIDER O'NEILL 1 First recited by the author at the Annual Dinner of the New York Friendly Sons of St. Patrick, March 17, 1905, at which President Roosevelt was the guest. WHEN the cresset of war blazed over the land, And a call ran fierce thro' the West, Saying "Rough Riders, come to the roll of the drum," They came with their bravest and best, With a clatter of hoofs and a stormy hail Sinewy, lean, tall and brown ; Hunters and fighters and men of the trail, From hills and plains, from college and town ; With the cowboys' yell and the redman's whoop, Sons of thunder and swingers of steel ; And, leading his own Arizona troop, Rode glad and fearless " Bucky " O'Neill. In the ranks there was Irish blood galore, As it ever is sure to be When the Union flag is flung to the fore, And the fight is to make men free. There were Kellys and Murphys and Burkes and Doyles 1 Copyright by J. I. C. Clarke. By permission. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 147 The colonel owned an O'Brien strain And the lift of the race made a glow on each face When they met on the Texan plain ; But the man of them all, with the iron will Man and soldier from crown to heel ; A leader and master in games that kill Was soft- voiced Captain " Bucky " O'Neill. On the watch in the valley or charging the height, In a plunge 'cross the steep ravine, San Juan or Las Guasimas, battle or fight, Or a rush thro' the jungle screen, Where the wave of the war took the battling host The Rough Riders fronted the storm, And their dead on the rocks of red glory tossed Amid spray with their life-blood warm. What wonder, then, holding his chivalrous vow To stoop not, nor crouch not, nor kneel, That Death in hot anger struck full on the brow Of the dauntless " Bucky " O'Neill. O battle that tries out the hearts of the strong, To your test he had answered true, Who bent not his head and balked but at wrong, Nor murmured what billet he drew. In the cast of the terrible dice of doom It came fair to his hand as well To mount the high crest where the great laurels bloom, Or to die at the foot where he fell. And of such are the victors, and these alone Shall be stamped with the hero seal, And stirrup to stirrup they'll ride to the throne, From the colonel to " Bucky " O'Neill. 148 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF THE FIGHTING RACE ' " ~T~\ EAD out the names ! " and Burke sat back, r^ And Kelly drooped his head. While Shea they call him Scholar Jack Went down the list of the dead. Officers, seamen, gunners, marines, The crews of the gig and yawl, The bearded man and the lad in his teens, Carpenters, coal passers all. Then, knocking the ashes from out his pipe, Said Burke in an offhand way : " We're all in that dead man's list, by Cripe ! Kelly and Burke and Shea." " Well, here's to the Maine, and I'm sorry for Spain," Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. " Wherever there's Kellys there's trouble," said Burke. " Wherever fighting's the game, Or a spice of danger in grown man's work," Said Kelly, " you'll find my name." "And do we fall short," said Burke, getting mad, " When it's touch and go for life ? " Said Shea, "It's thirty-odd years, bedad, Since I charged to drum and fife Up Marye's Heights, and my old canteen Stopped a rebel ball on its way. There were blossoms of blood on our sprigs of green Kelly and Burke and Shea And the dead didn't brag." "Well, here's to the flag ! " Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. 1 Copyright by J. I. C. Clarke. By permission. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 149 " I wish 'twas in Ireland, for there's the place," Said Burke, "that we'd die by right, In the cradle of our soldier race, After one good stand-up fight. My grandfather fell on Vinegar Hill, And fighting was not his trade ; But his rusty pike's in the cabin still, With Hessian blood on the blade." "Aye, aye," said Kelly, " the pikes were great When the word was ' clear the way ! ' We were thick on the roll in ninety-eight Kelly and Burke and Shea." " Well, here's to the pike and the sword and the like ! " Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. And Shea, the scholar, with rising joy, Said, " We were at Ramillies ; We left our bones at Fontenoy And up in the Pyrenees ; Before Dunkirk, on Landen's plain, Cremona, Lille, and Ghent, We're all over Austria, France, and Spain, Wherever they pitched a tent. We've died for England from Waterloo To Egypt and Dargai; And still there's enough for a corps or crew, Kelly and Burke and Shea." " Well, here is to good honest fighting blood ! " Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. " Oh, the fighting races don't die out, If they seldom die in bed, For love is first in their hearts, no doubt," 150 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF Said Burke ; then Kelly said : " When Michael, the Irish Archangel, stands, The angel with the sword, And the battle-dead from a hundred lands Are ranged in one big horde, Our line, that for Gabriel's trumpet waits, Will stretch three deep that day, From Jehoshaphat to the Golden Gates Kelly and Burke and Shea." " Well, here's thank God for the race and the sod ! Said Kelly and Burke and Shea. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 151 HENRY BRERETON CODE ( -1830) THE SPRIG OF SHILLELAH OH ! love is the soul of a neat Irishman, He loves all that is lovely, loves all that he can, With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green ! His heart is good-humoured, 'tis honest and sound, No envy or malice is there to be found ; He courts and he marries, he drinks and he fights, For love, all for love, for in that he delights, With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green ! Who has e'er had the luck to see Donnybrook Fair ? An Irishman, all in his glory, is there, With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green ! His clothes spick and span new, without e'er a speck, A neat Barcelona tied round his white neck; He goes to a tent, and he spends half-a-crown, He meets with a friend, and for love knocks him down, With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green ! At evening returning, as homeward he goes, His heart soft with whiskey, his head soft with blows, From a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green ! He meets with his Sheelah, 1 who, frowning a smile, 1 Sheelah, sweetheart. 152 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF Cries, " Get ye gone, Pat," yet consents all the while. To the priest soon they go, and a year after that A baby cries out, " How d'ye do, father Pat, With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green ! " Bless the country, say I, that gave Patrick his birth, Bless the land of the oak, and its neighbouring earth, Where grow the shillelah and shamrock so green ! May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the Shannon, Drub the foes who dare plant on our confines a cannon ; United and happy, at Loyalty's shrine, May the rose and the thistle long flourish and twine Round the sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green ! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 153 PATRICK JAMES COLEMAN (1867- ) BINDIN' THE OATS BINDIN 1 the oats in sweet September, Don't you remember That evening, dear ? Ah ! but you bound my heart complately, Fair and nately, Snug in the snood of your silken hair ! Swung the sickles, you followed after With musical laughter And witchin' eye. I tried to reap, but each swathe I took, love, Spoiled the stock, love, For your smile had bothered my head awry ! Such an elegant, graceful binder, Where could I find her All Ireland through ? Worn't the stout, young, strappin" fellows Fairly jealous, Dyin', asthore machree, for you ? Talk o' Persephone pluckin' the posies, Or the red roses, In Henna's plain ! 154 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF You vvor sweeter, with cheeks so red, love, And beautiful head, love, Gatherin' up the golden grain. Bindin' the oats in sweet September, Don't you remember The stolen pogue ? l How could I help but there deliver My heart forever To such a beautiful little rogue ? Bindin' the oats, 'twas there you found me, There you bound me That harvest day ! Ah ! that I in your blessed bond, love. Fair and fond, love, Happy, forever and ever, stay ! SEED-TIME THE top of the mornin' to you, Mick, Isn't it fine an' dhry an' still ? Just an elegant day, avic, To stick the toleys on Tullagh hill. The field is turned, an' every clod In ridge an' furrow is fresh an' brown ; So let's away, with the help o' God, By the heel o' the evenin' we'll have them down. 1 Pogue, kiss. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 155 As long as there's plenty o' milk to churn, An' plenty o' pyaties in ridge an' furrow, By the winter fire we'll laugh to scorn The frown o' famine an' scowl o' sorrow. There's a time to work, an' a time to talk ; So, Patsy, my boy, your pratin' shtop ! By Midsummer Day, blossom an' stalk, We'll feast our eyes on a right good crop. Oh, the purple blossoms, so full o' joy, Burstin' up from our Irish loam, They're betther than gold to the peasant boy ; They crown him king in his Irish home ! As long as the cows have milk to churn, With plenty o' pyaties in ridge an' furrow, By the winter hearth we'll laugh to scorn The frown o' famine an' scowl o' sorrow. in A year ago we wor full o' hope, For the stalks wor green by the First o' May, But the brown blight fell over field an' slope, An' the poreens * rotted by Lady Day. You'd dig a ridge for a creel in vain ; But he left us still our dacint friends ; If it comes again we won't complain His will be done ! it's the besht he sends ! As long as we've plenty o 1 milk to churn, An' plenty o' pyaties in ridge an' furrow, 1 Poreens, small potatoes. 156 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF By the winter fire we'll laugh to scorn The frown o' famine an' scowl o' sorrow. IV An' whin the turfs in the haggard piled, We'll come, plase God ! with our spades and loys It's busy ye' 11 be, then, Brigid, my child, Fillin' the baskets behind the boys. So shtick thim deep in Ould Ireland's clay It's nearly dusk, an' there's work galore ; It's time enough in the winter to play, When the crop is safe on our cabin floor. As long as the cows have milk to churn, With plenty o' pyaties in ridge an' furrow, By the winter hearth we'll laugh to scorn The frown o' famine an' scowl o' sorrow. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 157 PADRAIC COLUM (Living) T A DROVER O Meath of the Pastures, From wet hills by the sea, Through Leitrim and Longford Go my cattle and me. I hear in the darkness Their slipping and breathing, I name them the byways They're to pass without heeding. Then the wet, winding roads, Brown bogs with black water, And my thoughts on white ships And the King o' Spain's daughter. O farmer, strong farmer, You can spend at the fair, But your face you must turn To your crops and your care ! And soldiers, red soldiers, You've seen many lands, But you march two by two, And by captain's commands. 158 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF O the smell of the beasts, The wet wind in the morn, And the proud and hard earth Never broken for corn ! And the crowds at the fair, The herds, loosened and blind ; Loud words and dark faces, And the wild blood behind. (O strong men with your best I would strive breast to breast ; I could quiet your herds With my words, with my words.) I will bring you, my kine, Where there's grass to the knee, But you'll think of scant croppings, Harsh with salt of the sea. DREAM AND SHADOW YOUR face has not the bloom I gave My dream of you, my dream of you ! Your eyes have not her eyes' deep hue, Nor has your hair the gold I wrought Out of my dreams for head of her M Bhron ! I thought that dream sheen caught From hair of you, from hair of you ! Pale lips, pale hair, 'tis not your fault : A shadow of a dream are you ! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 159 THE BELLS RING, little bells, tormenting tunes, Your peal calls up my scoffs and sneers ; Lo, all the bitter words I've said Come back and sting me while you ring. O forest-bird, forget your songs, No more built up with these a world Of swaying trees and falling streams. O forest-bird, with gold hairs bound, Built up no more your forest-world, With song caught from the trees and streams. THE FLOWER SUNSET and silence ; a man ; around him earth . savage, earth broken : Beside him two horses, a plow ! Earth savage, earth broken, the brutes, the dawn-man there in the sunset I And the plow that is twin to the sword, that is founder of cities ! " Brute-tamer, plow -maker, earth-breaker ! Canst hear ? There are ages between us ! Is it praying you are as you stand there, alone in the sunset ? " Surely our sky-born gods can be nought to you, Earth-child and Earth-master ! Surely your thoughts are of Pan, or of Wotan or Dana ! 160 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF " Yet why give thought to the gods ? Has Pan led your brutes where they stumble ? Has Wotan put hands to your plow or Dana numbed pain of the child-bed ? " What matter your foolish reply, O man standing lone and bowed earthward. Your task it is a day near its close. Give thanks to the night-giving God." Slowly the darkness falls, the broken lands blend with the savage, The brute-tamer stands by the brutes, by a head's breadth only above them ! A head's breadth, ay, but therein is Hell's depth and the height up to Heaven, And the thrones of the gods, and their halls and their chariots, purples and splendours. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 161 WILLIAM CONGREVE (1670-1729) AMORET k AIR Amoret is gone astray ; Pursue and seek her, ev'ry lover ; I'll tell the signs by which you may The wandering shepherdess discover. Coquet and coy at once her air, Both studied, though both seem neglected ; Careless she is with artful care, Affecting to seem unaffected. With skill her eyes dart every glance, Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them ; For she'd persuade they wound by chance, Though certain aim and art direct them. She likes herself, yet others hates For that within herself she prizes; And, while she laughs at them, forgets She is the thing that she despises. EXTRACTS FROM THE " MOURNING BRIDE " MUSIC has charms to soothe a savage breast, To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak. I've read, that things inanimate have moved, And, as with living souls, have been informed By magic numbers and persuasive sound. 162 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF Vile and ingrate ! too late thou shalt repent The base injustice thou hast done my love : Yes, thou shalt know, spite of thy past distress, And all those ills which thou so long hast mourned Heav'n has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned. Seest thou how just the hand of heav'n has been ? Let us, who through our innocence survive, Still in the paths of honour persevere, And not from past or present ills despair ; For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds ; And though a late, a sure reward succeeds. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 163 DANIEL CONNOLLY (1836-1890) COMPENSATION YES, the years are passing quickly ; months seem days and days but hours. Gloom is o'er us, dearth around us, ere we've gathered summer's flowers. And the swiftly changing seasons, sped by time's un- wearied wing, Mingle suns and snows together, hastening on from spring to spring. 'Twas not so, my friend and comrade, when to us the world was new, Then the fields were ever blooming and the skies were always blue ; And a yearning spirit filled us to leave youth behind and stand Firm on manhood's highway, scanning all the prom- ised golden land. Ah, those years of wistful dreaming ! Had we known what things should be In the future's plains and valleys, on its surging, storm -beat sea, Would desire have spurred us onward, from the simple ways which then Blossomed round us, to the thorn set paths that tire the feet of men ? 1 64 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF Naught behind had power to hold us ; all before had charms to woo. Hope to me held forth her garlands, Love her rose- wreathed crown to you ; Hope has vanished, Love has perished ; dust lies deep on rose and bay, Yet though storm and gloom beset us, sunshine oft has warmed our way. Many a face has smiled upon us, brightening hours that else were drear, Many an eye with kindness kindled, sparkling friend- ship, glancing cheer ; O'er the scenes now fading from us, many a drifting cloud has strayed, Yet my friend, when all is balanced, we have seen more sun than shade. Dreams are gone, the world is real ; this we've learned and this we know : Though we build Utopian mansions, still our feet must tread below ; All the gloss and glow that fancy spreads to lure the steps of youth, Fast recede and faster vanish, driven by staid, prosaic truth. Now with grave-eyed age advancing, heralded by silvery gleams, Though the locks that late were ebon, every season shorter seems ; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 165 Spring makes fluttering haste for summer, autumn grasps the flowers of June, Winter's fretful shadows flit before September's mel- low moon. Ours is not a new experience; nay 'tis much as other men's ; Since time's earliest cycle human hearts have pon- dered, nows and thens ; This, at least, the years have taught us : roses bloom where snow has lain, And the sun, though darkness 'whelm it, shines and glorifies again. MEMORIES OF THE ERNE THE summer days are darker now, the wintery days more drear, And leaf and flower in glen and bower, more sombre seem and sere, Than when in boyhood's sunny days, which knew no hour of shade, Along thy banks, O stately Erne, with idle steps I strayed ! 'Twas five and twenty years ago and long years they have been, Yet freshly still before me spreads the fair, familiar scene. The blooming slopes, the billowy fields, the winding paths and ways, The woodlands near, the hills afar, all veiled in mystic haze. 1 66 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF And gliding grandly to the sea, with many a flash and gleam And many a curve by swelling shores the dear old storied stream, That flows and frets o'er ford and fall, to meet the waves below, And murmurs still the song it sang a thousand years ago. To thee, Belleek, where anglers came from all the country round, And simple lives of lowly toil by simple joys were crowned ; And thee, Rose-isle, whose ivy-crested crumbling tower hath stood, Through centuries a warder gray above the foamy flood. And thee, Tetuny, blandly calm, within whose solemn shade The mingled dust of sire and son in peaceful rest is laid. Corlea's green vale, Cliff's stately halls, Laputa's emerald grove; Fair Camlin woods and Kathleen's Fall long famed in lays of love. To Ballyshannon's shingly strand and bright Bundoran Bay To each and every dear old spot doth memory fondly stray ! Much changed, I fear, is all the scene, yet grandly dost thou flow, O stately stream, as erst thou didst a thousand years ago! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 167 A mother parted from her child whose absence spans the years, Sees not, when gazing fond and far, with vision dimmed by tears, A stalwart form, with bearded face and vigorous, manly ways, But still beholds the darling boy she clasped in happy days; The boy may be to manhood grown, and all his ways be strange, But to the mother's wistful eye Time's hand hath wrought no change ; And thus doth faithful memory still preserve the favourite scene, And picture o'er each cherished charm, though long years intervene; Mayhap the scene is sadly changed and many a charm decayed, But o'er the lamp that memory holds no darkening hand is laid. New footsteps press thy banks, O Erne, but still thy waters flow With rhythmic murmur as they did a thousand years ago! Since last like soothing strains at eve, their rippling cadence fell, On ears not then attuned to notes of prouder, loftier swell. I've stood where Hudson's mighty tide, sweeps down- ward to the sea, And gazed on Mississippi's grand expanse of majesty; Potomac's war-scarred shore I've seen by summer bloom made fair 168 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF And climbed the hills which sentinel the lordly Dela- ware; By many a sylvan stream I've strayed, and many a mossy shore Where varying splendors glorified the emerald land- scape o'er. To each and all in north and south, and east and bounteous west, I freely grant a generous meed and hold their charms confessed ; But still to thee my heart returns, and all its currents flow, Dear Erne, still murmuring as thou didst a thousand years ago. Alas ! that from the peaceful vale where calm con- tentment smiled, And simple pleasures, sweetly pure, the passing hours beguiled. Alas ! that thence thy children's steps, in youth or age should turn, No more to press thy blooming banks and flowery paths O Erne ! But chance and fate, hath thus decreed, and were I now to stand Upon thy shores, this face might be, a strange one in the land. The kindly friends, the comrades dear, whom last I saw through tears, Are changed, I ween as much as I, by five and twenty years ! And some in calm Tetuny sleep, and some have strayed afar, IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 169 To dree or die 'neath tropic sun or glittering northern star. But thou bright Erne, thy course doth run to meet the waves below, And chanteth still the song they heard a thousand years ago. TROUT FISHING ACROSS the fields and through the dew Still sparkling on the blossoming clover, We lightly trudge, with all the blue Broad arch of morning beaming over ; The woods before are dark and cool, With here and there a golden glimmer, And over many a wayside pool A gleam, a flash, a shade, a shimmer. By winding paths and mossy lanes, All brightly fringed with flower and berry, We pass, nor pause to note the strains, Of woodland .warblers blithe and merry. Our thoughts are bent on " cast " and " play." We hardly heed the splendor o'er us, But haste with quickening steps away To reach the glorious sport before us. With lisping, low-voiced monotone, The brook flows by in curves and sallies, And bears its rippling music down To daisied slopes and verdant valleys ; 1 70 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF Through serried pines the sunlight falls, Like grains of gold thro' emerald drifted, And near, the cleft and towering walls Of ledge and cliff to heaven are lifted. Soft winds blow down from ridge and grove Where balsam boughs are gently swaying, And round a silvery beech above Two heedless squirrels briskly playing. But now to work with rod and line, And dainty flies on trusted leader ; We'll take the first auspicious sign, And cast below yon slanting cedar. A gleam, a splash ! By George, he's fast ! A lusty fellow and how he rushes, Now here, now there, now swiftly past A bend of fern, and alder-bushes ! The whistling line spins merrily out ; He leaps and flings a sparkling torrent Of crystals round, then wheels about And heads straight up the foamy current ! Behind a boulder now he darts, And now across to deep recesses Beneath a balmy bank, then starts For sheltering beds of tangled cresses ; But vain, all vain, subdued at last, He yields and faintly gasps and flounders ; 'Tis o'er your sportive hour is past, O royal prince of plump two-pounders ! Again with feathery touch the flies Dance lightly over pool and shallow, IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 171 And, darting through reflected skies, The wary trout retreat or follow ; A "coachman " now their fancy takes, Or now a " miller " or now a " hackle " And many a plungin' beauty breaks, To try our skill and test our tackle. Still higher, higher mounts the sun, The morn hastes on and noon is nearing ; Now varying sounds come borne upon The breeze that blows o'er copse and clearing : The far cock-crow, the jangling bell That tells where browsing herds are straying ; The quail's clear pipe in lonely dell, The woodman's call, the hounds' deep braying. Still down the grassy marge we go, Now list'ning to the tall trees moaning, Now catching from a glade below A drowsy mill's perpetual droning. Still on: the miller's brown-faced boy Stands knee-keep in the shining water, And near, with startled glance and coy, The miller's comely, dark-eyed daughter. So through the long, bright balmy days In shade and sun alternate ranging We speed the hastening hours away, Where scene and sound are ever changing. Till all the hills are dashed with gold, That pales eve's dimly dawning crescent, And twilight falls on field and wold, Like veiling gauze o'er forms quiescent. 172 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF Soft, soothing calm of summer woodsj Of streams that chant in rhythmic numbers, Of fragrant, flowery solitudes Where peace with folded pinions slumbers, Full oft to thee doth fancy take Her airy flight from burdened highways, To roam again by brook or lake, Or dream in leafy paths and byways. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 173 JAMES CONNOLLY {Living} I THE SONG OF ILANN From " Ilann and Aine" LOVED the High King's Daughter, Ah, she was fair to see ! Nine royal champions sought her For queenly company. Brooches and silks they brought her And gems from oversea, But Aine, the High King's Daughter, Received them haughtily. A cunning charm I wrought her Of gold and findruinie, As Danaan lore I taught her Under the hazel-tree. ' But far away one brought her To a great dun by the sea, And there the High King's Daughter Drooped wan for misery. And all in vain I sought her That was so fair to see, For Aine, the High King's Daughter, Had died for love of me. i 7 4 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF LUKE AYLMER CONOLLY ( -1833) THE ENCHANTED ISLAND O Rathlin's Isle I chanced to sail When summer breezes softly blew, And there I heard so sweet a tale That oft I wished it could be true. They said, at eve, when rude winds sleep, And hushed is ev'ry turbid swell, A mermaid rises from the deep, And sweetly tunes her magic shell. And while she plays, rock, dell, and cave, In dying falls the sound retain, As if some choral spirits gave Their aid to swell her witching strain. Then, summoned by that dulcet note, Uprising to th' admiring view, A fairy island seems to float With tints of many a gorgeous hue. And glittering fanes, and lofty towers, All on this fairy isle are seen : And waving trees, and shady bowers, With more than mortal verdure green. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 175 And as it moves, the western sky Glows with a thousand varying rays ; And the calm sea, tinged with each dye, Seems like a golden flood of haze. They also say, if earth or stone From verdant Erin's hallowed land Were on this magic island thrown, Forever fixed it then would stand. But when for this some little boat In silence ventures from the shore The mermaid sinks hushed is the note The fairy isle is seen no more. 176 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF MRS. JULIA CRAWFORD (i8oo?-i88s?) DERMOT ASTORE OH ! Dermot Astore ! between waking and sleeping I heard thy dear voice, and I wept to its lay ; Every pulse of my heart the sweet measure was keeping Till Killarney's wild echoes had borne it away. Oh ! tell me, my own love, is this our last meeting ? Shall we wander no more in Killarney's green bow'rs, To watch the bright sun o'er the dim hills retreating, And the wild stag at rest in his bed of spring flow'rs? Oh ! Dermot Astore, etc. Oh I Dermot Astore 1 how this fond heart would flutter, When I met thee by night in the shady boreen, And heard thine own voice in a soft whisper utter Those words of endearment, " Mavourneen col- leen ! " I know we must part, but oh ! say not forever, That it may be for years adds enough to my pain ; But I'll cling to the hope, that though now we must sever, In some blessed hour I shall meet thee again. Oh ! Dermot Astore, etc. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 177 KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN ! the gray dawn is breaking, The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill ; The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking, Kathleen Mavourneen ! what, slumbering still ? Oh, hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever? Oh ! hast thou forgotten this day we must part ? It may be for years, and it may be forever ! Oh, why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart ? Oh ! why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen ? Kathleen Mavourneen, awake from thy slumbers 1 The blue mountains glow in the sun's golden light ; Ah, where is the spell that once hung on my numbers ? Arise in thy beauty, thou star of my night ! Mavourneen, Mavourneen, my sad tears are falling, To think that from Erin and thee I must part ! It may be for years, and it may be forever ! Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart ? Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen ? 178 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF T. CROFTON CROKER (1798-1854) The following keen on the death of Maurice Fitzgerald, Knight of Kerry, who was killed in Flanders about the year 1672, contains an allusion to the superstition of the Banshee, common in Irish legend. I HAD heard lamentations And sad warning cries From the Banshees of many Broad districts arise. I besought thee, O Christ, To protect me from pain ; I prayed, but my prayers They were offered in vain. Acria from her closely Hid nest did awake The women of wailing At Sur's rosy lake. From Glen Fogra of woods Came a mournful whine, And all Kerry's hags Wept the lost Geraldine. The Banshees of Youghall And stately Mogeely IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 179 Were joined in their grief By wide Imokilly. Carah Mona in gloom Of deep sorrow appears, And all Kilnameaky's Absorbed into tears. The prosperous Saxons Were seized with affright ; In Tralee they packed up And made ready for flight ; For there a shrill voice At the door of each hall Was heard, and they fancied Foretelling their fall. At Dingle the merchants In terror forsook Their ships and their business ; They trembled and shook ; Some fled to concealment, The fools, thus to fly ! For no trader a Banshee Will utter a cry. The Banshee of Dunqueen In sweet song did deplore To the spirit that watches On dark Dun-an-oir, And Ennismore's maid By the Feal's gloomy wave With her clear voice did mourn For the death of the brave. i8o THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF On stormy Slieve Mis Spread the cry far and wide, From steep Slieve Finnalenn The wild eagle replied. 'Mong the Reeks, like the Thunder-peal's echoing shout, It bursts, and deep bellows Bright Brandon gives out. Such warring, I thought, Could be only for him ; The blood shower that made The gay harvest field dim, The fiery tailed star That a comet men call, Were omens of his As of great Caesar's fall. The localities mentioned are lakes, mountains, and glens in the South of Ireland, in the counties of Cork, Limerick, and Kerry. THE LORD OF DUNKERRON From " Fairy Legends." THE lord of Dunkerron O' Sullivan More, Why seeks he at midnight the sea-beaten shore ? His bark lies in haven, his hounds are asleep ; No foes are abroad on the land or the deep. Yet nightly the lord of Dunkerron is known On the wild shore to watch and to wander alone ; For a beautiful spirit of ocean, 'tis said, The lord of Dunkerron would win to his bed. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 181 When, by moonlight, the waters were hushed to repose, That beautiful spirit of ocean arose ; Her hair, full of luster, just floated and fell O'er her bosom, that heaved with a billowy swell. Long, long had he loved her long vainly essayed To lure from her dwelling the coy ocean maid ; And long had he wandered and watched by the tide, To claim the fair spirit O'Sullivan's bride ! The maiden she gazed on the creature of earth, Whose voice in her breast to a feeling gave birth : Then smiled ; and abashed as a maiden might be, Looking down, gently sank to her home in the sea. Though gentle that smile, as the moonlight above, O'Sullivan felt 'twas the dawning of love, And hope came on hope, spreading over his mind, As the eddy of circles her wake left behind. The lord of Dunkerron he plunged in the waves, And sought, through the fierce rush of waters, their caves; The gloom of whose depths, studded over with spars, Had the glitter of midnight when lit up by stars. Who can tell or can fancy the treasures that sleep Intombed in the wonderful womb of the deep ? The pearls and the gems, as if valueless thrown To lie 'mid the sea- wreck concealed and unknown. i&2 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF Down, down went the maid, still the chieftain pur- sued ; Who flies must be followed ere she can be wooed. Untempted by treasures, unawed by alarms, The maiden at length he has clasped in his arms ! They rose from the deep by a smooth-spreading strand, Whence beauty and verdure stretched over the land. 'Twas an isle of enchantment ! and lightly the breeze, With a musical murmur, just crept through the trees. The haze-woven shroud of that newly-born isle Softly faded away from a magical pile, A palace of crystal, whose bright-beaming sheen Had the tints of the rainbow red, yellow, and green. And grottoes, fantastic in hue and in form, Were there, as flung up the wild sport of the storm ; Yet all was so cloudless, so lovely, and calm, It seemed but a region of sunshine and balm. " Here, here shall we dwell in a dream of delight, Where the glories of earth and of ocean unite ! Yet, loved son of earth ! I must from thee away ; There are laws which e'en spirits are bound to obey ! " Once more must I visit the chief of my race, His sanction to gain ere I meet thy embrace. In a moment I dive to the chambers beneath : One cause can detain me one only 'tis death ! " IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 183 They parted in sorrow, with vows true and fond ; The language of promise had nothing beyond. His soul all on fire, with anxiety burns : The moment is gone but no maiden returns. What sounds from the deep meet his terrified ear What accents of rage and of grief does he hear ? What sees he ? what change has come over the flood What tinges its green with a jetty of blood? Can he doubt what the gush of warm blood would ex- plain ? That she sought the consent of her monarch in vain ! ~ For see all around, in white foam and froth, The waves of the ocean boil up in their wrath ! The palace of crystal has melted in air, And the dyes of the rainbow no longer are there ; And grottoes with vapour and clouds are o'ercast, The sunshine is darkness the vision has past I Loud, loud was the call of his serfs for their chief; They sought him with accents of wailing and grief: He heard, and he struggled a wave to the shore, Exhausted and faint, bears O' Sullivan More ! 184 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF REV. GEORGE CROLY (1780-1860) LEONIDAS SHOUT for the mighty men, Who died along this shore Who died within this mountain's glen ! For never nobler chieftain's head Was laid on Valor's crimson bed, Nor ever prouder gore Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day Upon thy strand, Thermopylae ! Shout for the mighty men, Who on the Persian tents, Like lions from their midnight den Bounding on the slumbering deer, Rush'd a storm of sword and spear; Like the roused elements, Let loose from an immortal hand, To chasten or to crush a land ! But there are none to hear; Greece is a hopeless slave. LEONIDAS ! no hand is near To lift thy fiery falchion now ; No warrior makes the warrior's vow Upon thy sea- wash 'd grave. The voice that should be rais'd by men, Must now be given by wave and glen. IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 185 And it is given ! the surge The tree, the rock, the sand On Freedom's kneeling spirit urge, In sounds that speak but to the free, The memory of thine and thee ! The vision of thy band Still gleams within the glorious dell Where their gore hallow'd as it fell ! And is thy grandeur done ? Mother of men like these ! Has not thy outcry gone, Where Justice has an ear to hear ? Be holy ! God shall guide thy spear ; Till in thy crimson'd seas Are plunged the chain and scimitar, GREECE shall be a new-born Star ! THE ISLAND OF ATLANTIS " For at that time the Atlantic Sea was navigable, and had an island before that mouth which is called by you Pillars of Her- cules. But this island was greater than both Lybya and all Asia together, and afforded an easy passage to other neighbour- ing islands, as it was easy to pass from those islands to all the continent which borders on this Atlantic Sea. . . . But, in succeeding times, prodigious earthquakes and deluges taking place, and bringing with them desolation in the space of one day and night, all that warlike race of Athenians was at once merged under the earth ; and the Atlantic island itself, being absorbed in the sea, entirely disappeared." flato's Timceus. H ! thou Atlantic, dark and deep, Thou wilderness of waves, Where all the tribes of earth might sleep In their uncrowded graves ! o 186 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF The sunbeams on thy bosom wake, Yet never light thy gloom ; The tempests burst, yet never shake Thy depths, thou mighty tomb ! Thou thing of mystery, stern and drear, Thy secrets who hath told ? The warrior and his sword are there, The merchant and his gold. There lie their myriads in thy pall, Secure from steel and storm ; And he, the feaster of them all, The canker-worm. Yet on this wave the mountain's brow Once glowed in morning's beam ; And, like an arrow from the bow, Out sprang the stream : And on its bank the olive grove, And the peach's luxury, And the damask rose the night-bird's love Perfumed the sky. Where art thou, proud Atlantis, now ? Where are thy bright and brave? Priest, people, warriors' living flow ? Look on that wave. Crime deepened on the recreant land, Long guilty, long forgiven ; There power npreared the bloody hand, There scoffed at Heaven. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 187 The word went forth the word of woe The judgment-thunders pealed ; The fiery earthquake blazed below ; Its doom was sealed. Now on his halls of ivory Lie giant weed and ocean slime, Burying from man's and angel's eye The land of crime. 1 88 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF A LAMENT 1 From the Irish of John O' ' Neachtan. DARK source of my anguish ! deep wound of a land Whose young and defenseless the loss will deplore ; The munificent spirit, the liberal hand, Still stretched the full bounty it prompted to pour. The stone is laid o'er thee ! the fair glossy braid, The high brow, the light cheek with its roseate glow; The bright form, and the berry that dwelt and could fade On these lips, thou sage giver, all, all are laid low. Like a swan on the billows, she moved in her grace, Snow-white were her limbs, and with beauty replete, And time on that pure brow had left no more trace Than if he had sped with her own fairy feet. i This poem is a lament for Mary D'Este, Queen of James II. She died at St. Germain, April 26, 1718. Her son, called James Francis Edward, was the Chevalier De St. George, so much beloved by the Irish. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 189 Whatever of purity, glory, hath ever Been linked with the name, lovely Mary, was thine ; Woe, woe, that the tomb, ruthless tyrant, should sever The tie which our spirits half broken resign. Than Caesar of hosts the true darling of Rome, Far prouder was James where pure spirits are met, The virgin, the saint though heav'n's radiance illume Their brows Erin's wrongs can o'ershadow them yet. And rank be the poison, the plagues that distil Through the heart of the spoiler that laid them in dust, The rapt bard with the glory the nations shall fill, With the fame of his patrons, the generous, the just. Wherever the beam of the morning is shed, With its light the full fame of our loved ones hath shone, The deep curse of our sorrow shall burst on his head That hath hurled them, the pride of our hearts, from their throne. The midday is dark with unnatural gloom And a spectral lament wildly shrieked in the air Tells all hearts that our princess lies cold in the tomb, Bids the old and the young bend in agony there ! igo THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF Faint the lowing of kine o'er the seared yellow lawn ! And tuneless the warbler that droops on the spray ! The bright tenants that flashed through the current are gone, For the princess we honoured is laid in the clay. Darkly brooding alone o'er his bondage and shame, By the shore in mute agony wanders the Gael, And sad is my spirit, and clouded my dream, For my king, for the star, my devotion would hail. What woe beyond this hath dark fortune to wreak ? What wrath o'er the land yet remains to be hurled ? They turn them to Rome ! but despairing they shriek, For Spain's flag in defeat and defection is furled. Though our sorrows avail not, our hope is not lost For the Father is mighty ! the highest remains I The loosed waters rushed down upon Pharaoh's wide host, But the billows crouch back from the foot He sustains. Just Power ! that for Moses the wave did'st divide, Look down on the land where thy followers pine ; Look down upon Erin, and crush the dark pride Of the scourge of thy people, the foes of thy shrine. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 191 JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN (1750-1817) CUSHLA-MA-CHREE DEAR Erin, how sweetly thy green bosom rises, An emerald set in the ring of the sea, Each blade of thy meadows my faithful heart prizes, Thou Queen of the West, the world's cushla-ma- chree. 1 Thy gates open wide to the poor and the stranger, There smiles hospitality, hearty and free ; Thy friendship is seen in the moment of danger, And the wanderer is welcomed with cushla-ma-chree. Thy sons they are brave, but, the battle once over, In brotherly peace with their foes they agree, And the roseate cheeks of thy daughters discover The soul-speaking flush that says cushla-ma-chree. Then flourish forever, my dear native Erin, While sadly I wander an exile from thee, And firm as thy mountains, no injury fearing, May Heaven defend its own cushla-ma-chree. 1 Cushla-ma-chree, Pulse of my heart. 192 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF THE DESERTER'S MEDITATION IF sadly thinking, with spirits sinking, Could more than drinking my cares compose, A cure for sorrow from sighs I'd borrow, And hope to-morrow would end my woes. But as in wailing there's nought availing, And Death unfailing will strike the blow, Then for that reason, and for a season, Let us be merry before we go ! To joy a stranger, a way-worn ranger, In ev'ry danger my course I've run ; Now hope all ending, and death befriending, His last aid lending, my cares are done ; No more a rover, or hapless lover, My griefs are over my glass runs low ; Then for that reason, and for a season, Let us be merry before we go ! THE MONKS OF THE SCREW 1 WHEN Saint Patrick this order established, He called us the " Monks of the Screw " ; Good rules he revealed to our Abbot To guide us in what we should do; But first he replenished our fountain With liquor the best in the sky ; And he said, on the word of a saint, That the fountain should never run dry. 1 The " Order of St. Patrick," or Monks of the Screw," was a convivial society, intended to discover and encourage the wit, humour, and intellectual power of its members. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 193 Each year, when your octaves approach, In full chapter convened let me find you ; And when to the Convent you come, Leave your favourite temptation behind you. And be not a glass in your Convent, Unless on a festival found ; And, this rule to enforce, I ordain it One festival all the year round. My brethren, be chaste, till you're tempted ; While sober, be grave and discreet ; And humble your bodies with fasting, As oft as you've nothing to eat. Yet, in honour of fasting, one lean face Among you I'd always require ; If the Abbot should please, he may wear it, If not, let it come to the Prior. Come, let each take his chalice, my brethren, And with due devotion prepare, The Convent, as it was called, or place of meeting, was in St. Kevin Street, Dublin, and it was the custom for the mem- bers to assemble every Saturday evening during the law term. They had also another meeting-place near Rathfarnham, Cur- ran's country seat, which he appropriately called The Priory, he being elected Prior. The furniture of the festive apartment in Dublin was completely monkish, and at the meetings all the members appeared in the habit of the order, a black tabinet domino. The members of the club were nearly all distinguished men, including Lord Mornington (composer of the celebrated glee " Here in Cool Grot "), the Marquis of Townshend (when Viceroy), Yelverton (afterwards Lord Avonmore), Dr. O'Leary, Grattan, Flood, George Ogle, Judge Johnson, Hussey Burgh, Lord Kilwarden, and the Earl of Arran. It lasted till 1795. See, also, the story with this title by Charles J. Lever. 194 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF With hands and with voices uplifted, Our hymn to conclude with a prayer. May this chapter oft joyously meet, And this gladsome libation renew, To the Saint, and the Founder, and Abbot, And Prior, and Monks of the Screw ! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 195 JOHN D'ALTON (1792-1867) CLARAGH'S LAMENT Translated from the Irish of John MacDonnell THE tears are ever in my wasted eye, My heart is crushed, and my thoughts are sad; For the son of chivalry was forced to fly, And no tidings come from the soldier lad. Chorus. My heart it danced when he was near, My hero ! my Caesar ! my Chevalier ! But while he wanders o'er the sea Joy can never be joy to me. Silent and sad pines the lone cuckoo, Our chieftains hang o'er the grave of joy ; Their tears fall heavy as the summer's dew For the lord of their hearts the banished boy. Mute are the minstrels that sang of him, The harp forgets its thrilling tone : The brightest eyes of the land are dim, For the pride of their aching sight is gone. The sun refused to lend his light, And clouds obscured the face of day ; The tiger's whelps preyed day and night, For the lion of the forest was far away. 196 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF The gallant, graceful, young Chevalier, Whose look is bonny as his heart is gay; His sword in battle flashes death and fear, While he hews through falling foes his way. O'er his blushing cheeks his blue eyes shine Like dewdrops glitt'ring on the rose's leaf; Mars and Cupid all in him combine, The blooming lover and the godlike chief. His curling locks in wavy grace, Like beams on youthful Phoebus' brow, Flit wild and golden o'er his speaking face, And down his ivory shoulders flow. Like Engus is he in his youthful days, Or Mac Cein, whose deeds all Erin knows, Mac Dary's chiefs, of deathless praise, Who hung like fate on their routed foes. Like Connall the besieger, pride of his race, Or Fergus, son of a glorious sire, Or blameless Connor, son of courteous Nais, The chief of the Red Branch Lord of the Lyre. The cuckoo's voice is not heard on the gale, Nor the cry of the hounds in the nutty grove, Nor the hunter's cheering through the dewy vale, Since far far away is the youth of our love. The name of my darling none must declare, Though his fame be like sunshine from shore to shore ; But, oh, may Heaven Heaven hear my prayer ! And waft the hero to my arms once more. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 197 Chorus. My heart it danced when he was near, Ah ! now my woe is the young Chevalier ; 'Tis a pang that solace ne'er can know, That he should be banished by a rightless foe. 198 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF GEORGE BARLEY (1785-1846) SONG SWEET in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, Lull'd by the faint breezes sighing through her hair; Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers Breathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air. Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming To wind round the willow banks that lure him from above ; O that in tears, from my rocky prison, streaming, I too could glide to the bower of my love ! Ah ! where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her, Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay, Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her, To her lost mate's call in the forest far away. Come then, my bird ! For the peace thou ever bearest, Still Heaven's messenger of comfort to me Come, this fond bosom, O faithfullest and fairest, Bleeds with its death-wound, its wound of love for thee ! IRISH SONGS AND LTR1CS 199 SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS u P the dale and down the bourne, O'er the meadow swift we fly ;. Now we sing, and now we mourn, Now we whistle, now we sigh. By the grassy-fringed river, Through the murmuring reeds we sweep ; 'Mid the lily-leaves we quiver, To their very hearts we creep. Now the maiden rose is blushing At the frolic things we say, While aside her cheek we're rushing, Like some truant bees at play. Through the blooming graves we rustle, Kissing every bud we pass, As we did it in the bustle, Scarcely knowing how it was. Down the glen, across the mountain, O'er the yellow heath we roam, Whirling round about the fountain, Till its little breakers foam. Bending down the weeping willows, While our vesper hymn we sigh ; Then unto our rosy pillows On our weary wings we hie. 200 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF There of idlenesses dreaming, Scarce from waking we refrain, Moments long as ages deeming Till we're at our play again. TO HELENE On a gift-ring carelessly lost. I SEND a ring a little band Of emerald and ruby stone, And bade it, sparkling on thy hand, Tell thee sweet tales of one Whose constant memory Was full of loveliness, and thee. A shell was graven on its gold 'Twas Cupid 'fin'd without his wings To Helene once it would have told More than was ever told by rings : But now all's past and gone Her love is buried with that stone. Thou shall not see the tears that start From eyes by thoughts like these beguiled ; Thou shalt not know the beating heart, Ever a victim and a child : Yet Helene, love, believe The heart that never could deceive. I'll hear thy voice of melody In the sweet whispers of the air ; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 201 I'll see the brightness of thine eye In the blue evening's dewy star ; In crystal streams thy purity ; And look on heaven to look on thee. I TRUE LOVELINESS T is not beauty I demand, A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair. Tell me not of your starry eyes, Your lips that seem on roses fed, Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies, Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed. A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks, Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, A breath that softer music speaks Than summer winds a-wooing flowers, These are but gauds. Nay, what are lips ? Coral beneath the ocean-stream, Whose brink when your adventurer slips, Full oft he perisheth on them. And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft That wave hot youths to fields of blood ? Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, Do Greece or Ilium any good ? 202 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF Eyes can with baleful ardour burn ; Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed ; There's many a white hand holds an urn With lovers' hearts to dust consumed. For crystal brows there's nought within, They are but empty cells for pride; He who the Siren's hair would win Is mostly strangled in the tide. Give me, instead of beauty's bust, A tender heart, a loyal mind, Which with temptation I would trust, Yet never linked with error find One in whose gentle bosom I Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burthened honey-fly That hides his murmurs in the rose. My earthly comforter ! whose love So indefeasible might be, That when my spirit wonned above, Hers could not stay for sympathy. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 203 FRANCIS DAVIS (1745-1810) MY KALLAGH DHU ASTHORE AGAIN the flowery feet of June have tracked our cottage side ; And o'er the waves the timid moon steals, smiling like a bride : But what were June or flowers to me, or waves, or moon, or more, If evening came and brought not thee my Kallagh dhu asthore ! Let others prize their lordly lands, and sceptres gemmed with blood, More dear to me the honest hands that earn my babes their food : And little reck we queens or kings when daily labour's o'er ; And by the evening embers sings my Kallagh dhu asthore. And when he sings, his every song is sacred freedom's own : And like his voice his arm is strong, for labour nursed the bone : And then his step, and such an eye ! ah, fancy ! touch no more ; My spirit swims in holy joy o'er Kallagh dhu asthore ! 204 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF His voice is firm, his knee is proud when pomp's im- perious tone Would have the free-born spirit bowed, that right should bow alone ; For well does Kallagh know his due, nor ever seeks he more ; Would heaven mankind were all alike you, my Kallagh dhu asthore ! And Kallagh is an Irishman in sinew, soul and bone ; Not e'en the veins of old Slieveban are purer than his own : The wing of foe has swept our skies, the foreign foe our shore, But stain or change thy race defies, my Kallagh dhu asthore ! What wonder, then, each word he said fell o'er my maiden day, Like breathing o'er the cradle-bed where mothers kiss and pray; Though dear your form, your cheek, and eye, I loved those virtues more, Whose bloom nor ills nor years destroy, my Kallagh dhu asthore ! Oh, could this heart, this throbbing thing, be made a regal chair, I'd rend its every swelling string, to seat you, Kallagh, there : And oh, if honest worth the kingly bauble bore, No slave wert thou, my blood, my bone, my Kallagh dhu asthore ! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 205 NANNY OFOR an hour when the day is breaking Down by the shore when the tide is making ! Fair as a white cloud thou, love, near me, None but the waves and thyself to hear me ! O to my breast how these arms would press thee ! Wildly my heart in its joy would bless thee ! O how the soul thou hast won would woo thee, Girl of the snow neck ! closer to me ! O for an hour as the day advances, Out where the breeze on the broom-brush dances, Watching the lark, with the sun ray o'er us, Winging the notes of his heaven-taught chorus ! O to be there and my love before me, Soft as a moonbeam smiling o'er me ! Thou wouldst but love, and I would woo thee, Girl of the dark eye ! closer to me. O for an hour where the sun first found us, Out in the eve with its red sheets round us, Brushing the dew from the gale's soft winglets, Pearly and sweet, with thy long, dark ringlets ! O to be there on the sward beside thee, Telling my tale though I know you'd chide me ! Sweet were thy voice though it should undo me, Girl of the dark locks ! closer to me. O for an hour by night or by day, love, Just as the heavens and thou might say, love ! Far from the stare of the cold-eyed many, Bound in the breath of my dove-souled Nanny ! 206 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF O for the pure chains that have bound me, Warm from thy red lips circling round me ! O in my soul, as the light above me, Queen of the pure hearts ! do I love thee ! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 207 THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS (1814-1845) A CHRISTMAS SCENE, OR LOVE IN THE COUNTRY i THE hill blast comes howling through leaf-rifted trees That late were as harp-strings to each gentle breeze ; The strangers and cousins and every one flown, While we sit happy- hearted together alone. Some are off to the mountain, and some to the fair, The snow is on their cheek, on mine your black hair ; Papa with his farming is busy to-day, And mamma's toe good-natured to ramble this way. in The girls are gone are they not ? into town, To fetch bows and bonnets, perchance a beau, down ; Ah! tell them, dear Kate, 'tis not fair to coquette Though you, you bold lassie, are fond of it yet ! 208 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF IV You're not do you say? Just remember last night, You gave Harry a rose, and you dubbed him your knight ; Poor lad ! if he loved you but no, darling ! no, You're too thoughtful and good to fret any one so. The painters are raving of light and of shade, And Harry, the poet, of lake, and of glade ; While the light of your eye and your soft wavy form Suit a proser like me, by the hearth bright and warm. VI The snow on those hills is uncommonly grand, But you know, Kate, it's not half so white as your hand, And say what you will of the gray Christmas sky, Still I slightly prefer my dark girl's gray eye. VII Be quiet, and sing me "The Bonny Cuckoo," For it bids us the summer and winter love through ; And then I'll read out an old ballad that shows How Tyranny perished, and Liberty rose. VIII My Kate ! I'm so happy your voice whispers soft, And your cheek flushed wilder from kissing so oft, For town or for country, for mountains or farms, What care I? My darling's entwined in my arms. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 209 A NATION ONCE AGAIN WHEN boyhood's fire was in my blood, 1 read of ancient freemen, For Greece and Rome who bravely stood, Three Hundred men and Three men. 1 And then I prayed I yet might see Our fetters rent in twain, And, Ireland, long a province, be A Nation once again. And, from that time, through wildest woe That hope has shone, a far light ; Nor could love's brightest summer glow Outshine that solemn starlight : It seemed to watch above my head In forum, field, and fane; Its angel voice sang round my bed, "A Nation once again." It whispered, too, that "freedom's ark And service high and holy, Would be profaned by feelings dark, And passions vain or lowly : For freedom comes from God's right hand, And needs a godly train ; And righteous men must make our land A Nation once again." 1 The Three Hundred Greeks who died at Thermopylae, and the Three Romans who kept the Sublician Bridge. Davis. 210 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF So, as I grew from boy to man, I bent me to that bidding My spirit of each selfish plan And cruel passion ridding ; For, thus I hoped some day to aid Oh I can such hope be vain ? When my dear country shall be made A Nation -once again. A PLEA FOR LOVE THE summer brook flows in the bed, The winter torrent tore asunder ; The skylark's gentle wings are spread Where walk the lightning and the thunder ; And thus you'll find the sternest soul The gayest tenderness concealing, And minds that seem to mock control, Are ordered by some fairy feeling. Then, maiden ! start not from the hand That's hardened by the swaying sabre The pulse beneath may be as bland As evening after day of labour : And, maiden ! Start not from the brow That thought has knit, and passion darkened In twilight hours, 'neath forest bough, The tenderest tales are often hearkened. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 211 FONTENOY l THRICE at the huts of Fontenoy the English col- umn failed, And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch in vain assailed ; For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery, And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary. As vainly, through De Barri's wood, the British sol- diers burst, The French artillery drove them back, diminished and dispersed. The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye, And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride ! And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide. Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread, Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head ; Steady they step a-down the slope steady they climb the hill; ir The battle of Fontenoy, fought in Flanders in 1745 between the French and the Allies English, Dutch, and Austrians in which the Allies were worsted. The Irish Brigade fought by the side of the French, and won great renown by their splendid conduct in the field. 212 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF Steady they load steady they fire, moving right on- ward still, Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace blast, Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets- showering fast ; And on the open plain above they rose, and kept their course, With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hos- tile force : Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Hol- land's ocean banks. More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round ; As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground ; Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fired Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired. " Push on my household cavalry ! " King Louis madly cried : To death they rush, but rude their shock not un- avenged they died. On through the camp the column trod King Louis turns his rein : "Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the Irish troops remain ; " And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo, Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true. IRISH SONGS AND LTR1CS 213 "Lord Clare," he said, "you have your wish, there are your Saxon foes ! ' ' The marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes ! How fierce the look these exiles wear, who' re wont to be so gay, The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could dry, Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's parting cry, Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their coun- try overthrown, Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on him alone. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere, Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were. O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he com- mands, "Fix bay'nets" "charge," Like mountain storm, rush on these fiery bands ! Thin is the English column now, and faint their vol- ieys grow, Yet, must'ring all the strength they have, they make a gallant show. They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that bat- tle-wind Their bayonets the breakers' foam ; like rocks, the men behind I One volley crashes from their -line, when, through the surging smoke, 214 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF With empty guns clutched in their hands, the head- long Irish broke. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza ! "Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sacsanach 1 ' ' Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang, Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang : Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore; Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and tram- pled flags they tore ; The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered, fled The green hillside is matted close with dying and with dead. Across the plain and far away passed on that hideous wrack, While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun, With bloody plumes the Irish stand the field is fought and won ! I MAIRE BHAN A STOR N a valley far away With my Maire bhan a stor, 1 Short would be the summer day, Ever loving more and more. 1 Maire bhan a stor, Fair Mary my treasure, pronounced Maurya vaun astore. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 215 Winter days would all grow long, With the light her heart would pour With her kisses and her song, And her loving maith go leor. 1 Fond is Maire bhan a star, Fair is Maire bhan a star, Sweet as ripple on the shore Sings my Maire bhan a stor. O her sire is very proud, And her mother cold as stone, But her brother bravely vowed She should be my bride alone ; For he knew I loved her well, And he knew she loved me too. So he sought their pride to quell, But 'twas all in vain to sue. True is Maire bhan a stor, Tried is Maire bhan a stor, Had I wings I'd never soar From my Maire bhan a stor. There are lands where manly toil Surely reaps the crop it sows, Glorious woods and teeming soil, Where the broad Missouri flows ; Through the trees the smoke shall rise From our hearth with maith go leor, There shall shine the happy eyes Of my Maire bhan a stor. Mild is Maire bhan a stor, Mine is Maire bhan a stor, Saints will watch about the door Of my Maire bhan a stor. 1 Maith go leor, in abundance. 216 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF MY GRAVE SHALL they bury me in the deep, Where wind-forgetting waters sleep ? Shall they dig a grave for me, Under the greenwood tree ? Or on the wild heath, Where the wilder breath Of the storm doth blow ? Oh, no ! oh, no ! Shall they bury me in the palace tombs, Or under the shade of cathedral domes ? Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore ; Yet not there nor in Greece, though I love it more. In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find ? Shall my ashes career on the world-seeing wind? Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound, Where cofifinless thousands lie under the ground ? Just as they fall they are buried so Oh, no ! oh, no ! No ! on an Irish green hillside, On an opening lawn but not too wide ; For I love the drip of the wetted trees I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze, To freshen the turf; put no tombstone there, But green sods decked with daisies fair ; Nor sods too deep, but so that the dew The matted grass-roots may trickle through. Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind : " He served his country, and loved his kind." Oh ! 'twere merry unto the grave to go, If one were sure to be buried so. IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 217 MY LAND SHE is a rich and rare land ; O she's a fresh and fair land ; She is a dear and rare land This native land of mine. No men than hers are braver Her women's hearts ne'er waver ; I'd freely die to save her, And think my lot divine. She's not a dull or cold land ; No ! she's a warm and bold land ; O she's a true and old land This native land of mine. Could beauty ever guard her, And virtue still reward her, No foe would cross her border No friend within it pine ! O she's a fresh and fair land, O she's a true and rare land ! Yes, she's a rare and fair land This native land of mine. OH! THE MARRIAGE OH ! the marriage, the marriage, With love and mo bhuachaiir for me, The ladies that ride in a carriage Might envy my marriage to me ; 1 Mo bhuachaill, ma bouchal, my boy. 218 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF For Eoghan is straight as a tower, And tender and loving and true, He told me more love in an hour Than the squires of the county could do. Then, Oh ! the marriage, etc. His hair is a shower of soft gold, His eye is as clear as the day, His conscience and vote were unsold When others were carried away; His word is as good as an oath, And freely 'twas given to me ; Oh ! sure 'twill be happy for both The day of our marriage to see. Then, Oh ! the marriage, etc. His kinsmen are honest and kind, The neighbors think much of his skill, And Eoghan's the lad to my mind, Though he owns neither castle nor mill. But he has a tilloch of land, A horse, and a stocking of coin, A foot for the dance, and a hand In the cause of his country to join. Then, Oh ! the marriage, etc. We meet in the market and fair We meet in the morning and night He sits on the half of my chair, And my people are wild with delight. Yet I long through the winter to skim, Though Eoghan longs more I can see, When I will be married to him, And he will be married to me. IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 219 Then, Oh ! the marriage, the marriage, With love and mo bhuachaill for me, The ladies that ride in a carriage Might envy my marriage to me. THE GIRL OF DUNBWY 1 r I "MS pretty to see the girl of Dunbwy Stepping the mountain statelily Though ragged her gown and naked her feet, No lady in Ireland to match her is meet. Poor is her diet, and hardly she lies Yet a monarch might kneel for a glance of her eyes; The child of a peasant yet England's proud Queen Has less rank in her heart and less grace in her mien. Her brow 'neath her raven hair gleams, just as if A breaker spread white 'neath a shadowy cliff And love and devotion and energy speak From her beauty-proud eye and her passion-pale cheek. But, pale as her cheek is, there's fruit on her lip, And her teeth flash as white as the crescent moon's tip, And her form and her step, like the red-deer's, go past As lightsome, as lovely, as haughty, as fast. I saw her but once, and I looked in her eye, And she knew that I worshiped in passing her by. 220 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF The saint of the wayside she granted my prayer, Though we spoke not a word ; for her mother was there. I never can think upon Bantry's bright hills, But her image starts up, and my longing eye fills ; And I whisper her softly : " Again, love, we'll meet ! And I'll lie in your bosom, and live at your feet." THE WELCOME COME in the evening, or come in the morning, Come when you're looked for, or come with- out warning, Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you. Light is my heart since the day we were plighted, Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted, The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "True lovers, don't sever ! " I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear, if you choose them: Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom. I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you ; I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. O your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed farmer, Or saber and shield to a knight without armor ; I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, Then, wandering, I'll wish you, in silence, to love me. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 221 We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrie; We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy ; We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river, Till you'll ask of your darling what gift you can give her. O she'll whisper you, " Love as unchangeably beaming, And trust, when in secret, most tunefully stream- ing, Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver As our souls flow in one down eternity's river." So come in the evening, or come in the morning, Come when you're looked for, or come without warn- ing, Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you. Light is my heart since the day we were plighted, Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted, The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, " True lovers, don't sever ! " THE WEST'S ASLEEP WHEN all beside a vigil keep, The West's asleep, the West's asleep. Alas ! and well may Erin weep, When Connaught lies in slumber deep. There lake and plain smile fair and free, 'Mid rocks their guardian chivalry. Sing ! oh ! let me learn liberty From crashing wind and lashing sea. 222 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF That chain less wave and lovely land Freedom and Nationhood demand ; Be sure the great God never planned For slumbering slaves a home so grand. And long a brave and haughty race Honored and sentineled the place Sing, oh ! not even their sons' disgrace Can quite destroy their glory's trace. For often, in O'Connor's van, To triumph dashed each Connaught clan, And fleet as deer the Normans ran Through Curlieu's Pass and Ardrahan, And later times saw deeds as brave j And glory guards Clanricarde's grave Sing, oh ! they died their land to save, At Aughrim's slopes and Shannon's wave. And if, when all a vigil keep, The West's asleep, the West's asleep Alas ! and well may Erin weep, That Connaught lies in slumber deep. But hark ! some voice like thunder spake : " The West's awake ! the West's awake ! " Sing, oh ! hurrah ! let England quake; We'll watch till death for Erin's sake. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 223 ARTHUR DAWSON (1700-1775) BUMPERS, SQUIRE JONES Y "E good fellows all, Who love to be told where good claret's in store, Attend to the call Of one who's ne'er frighted, But greatly delighted With six bottles more. Be sure you don't pass The good house, Moneyglass, Which the jolly red god so peculiarly owns, 'Twill well suit your humor For, pray, what would you more, Than mirth with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones ? Ye lovers who pine For lasses that oft prove as cruel as fair, Who whimper and whine For lilies and roses, With eyes, lips, and noses, Or tip of an ear ! Come hither, I'll show ye How Phillis and Chloe 224 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF No more shall occasion such sighs and such groans ; For what mortal's so stupid As not to quit Cupid, When called to good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones ? Ye poets who write, And brag of your drinking famed Helicon's brook, Though all you get by it Is a dinner ofttimes, In reward for your rhymes, With Humphry the Duke, Learn Bacchus to follow, And quit your Apollo, Forsake all the Muses, those senseless old crones : Our jingling of glasses Your rhyming surpasses When crowned with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones. Ye soldiers so stout, With plenty of oaths, though no plenty of coin, Who make such a rout Of all your commanders, Who served us in Flanders, And eke at the Boyne, Come leave off your rattling Of sieging and battling, And know you'd much better to sleep in whole bones ; Were you sent to Gibraltar, Your notes you'd soon alter, And wish for good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 225 Ye clergy so wise, Who mysteries profound can demonstrate so clear, How worthy to rise ! You preach once a week, But your tithes never seek Above once in a year ! Come here without failing, And leave off your railing 'Gainst bishops providing for dull stupid drones ; Says the text so divine, " What is life without wine? " Then away with the claret, a bumper, Squire Jones ! Ye lawyers so just, Be the cause what it will, who so learnedly plead, How worthy of trust ! You know black from white, You prefer wrong to right, As you chance to be fee'd : Leave musty reports And forsake the king's courts, Where dulness and discord have set up their thrones ; Burn Salkeld and Ventris, l And all your damned entries, And away with the claret, a bumper, Squire Jones ! Ye physical tribe Whose knowledge consists in hard words and grimace, Whene'er you prescribe, Have at your devotion, Pills, bolus, or potion, Be what will the case ; 1 Law commentators of the time. 226 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF Pray where is the need , To purge, blister and bleed ? When, ailing yourselves, the whole faculty owns That the forms of old Galen Are not so prevailing As mirth with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones ! Ye fox-hunters eke, That follow the call of the horn and the hound, Who your ladies forsake Before they're awake, To beat up the brake Where the vermin is found : Leave Piper and Blueman, Shrill Duchess and Trueman, No music is found in such dissonant tones ! Would you ravish your ears With the songs of the spheres, Hark away to the claret, a bumper, Squire Jones ! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 227 SIR AUBREY DE VERE (1788-1846) LIBERTY OF THE PRESS SOME laws there are too sacred for the hand Of man to approach : recorded in the blood Of patriots, before which, as the Rood Of faith, devotional we take our stand ; Time-hallowed laws ! Magnificently planned When Freedom was the nurse of public good, And Power paternal : laws that have withstood All storms, unshaken bulwarks of the land ! Free will, frank speech, an undissembling mind, Without which Freedom dies and laws are vain, On such we found our rights, to such we cling In them shall power his surest safeguard find. Tread them not down in passion or disdain ; Make a man a reptile, he will turn and sting. ALL holy influence dwells within The breast of childhood : instincts fresh from God Inspire it, ere the heart beneath the rod Of grief hath bled, or caught the plague of sin. How mighty was that fervor which could win Its way to infant souls ! and was the sod Of Palestine by infant Croises trod ? 228 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF Like Joseph went they forth, or Benjamin, In all their touching beauty to redeem ? And did their soft lips kiss the Sepulchre? Alas ! the lovely pageant as a dream Faded ! They sank not through ignoble fear, They felt not Moslem steel. By mountain, stream, In sands, in fens, they died no mother near ! THE SHANNON RIVER of billows, to whose mighty heart The tide-wave rushes of the Atlantic Sea ; River of quiet depths, by cultured lea, Romantic wood or city's crowded mart ; River of old poetic founts, which start From their lone mountain-cradles, wild and free, Nursed with the fawns, lulled by the woodlark's glee, And cushat's hymeneal song apart; River of chieftains, whose baronial halls, Like veteran warders, watch each wave-worn steep, Portumna's towers, Bunratty's royal walls, Carrick's stern rock, the Geraldine's gray keep River of dark mementoes ! must I close My lips with Limerick's wrong, with Aughrim's woes? IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 223 AUBREY T. DE VERE (1814-1902) DIRGE OF RORY O'MORE A. D. 1642 UP the sea-saddened valley, at evening's decline, A heifer walks lowing "the Silk of the Kine;" From the deep to the mountains she roams, and again From the mountain's green urn to the purple-rimmed main. What seek'st thou, sad mother? Thine own is not thine ! He dropped from the headland he sank in the brine ! 'Twas a dream ! but in dreams at thy foot did he follow Through the meadow-sweet on by the marish and mallow ! Was he thine ? Have they slain him ? Thou seek'st him, not knowing Thyself, too, art theirs thy sweet breath and sad lowing ! Thy gold horn is theirs, thy dark eye and thy silk, And that which torments thee, thy milk, is their milk ! 230 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF 'Twas no dream, Mother Land ! 'Twas no dream, Innisfail ! Hope dreams, but grief dreams not the grief of the Gael! From Leix and Ikerrin to Donegal's shore Rolls the dirge of thy last and thy bravest O'More ! FLOWERS I WOULD BRING FLOWERS I would bring if flowers could make thee fairer, And music, if the Muse were dear to thee ; (For loving these would make thee love the bearer) But the sweetest songs forget their melody, And loveliest flowers would but conceal the wearer: A rose I marked, and might have plucked ; but she Blushed as she bent ; imploring me to spare her, Nor spoil her beauty by such rivalry. Alas ! and with what gifts shall I pursue thee, What offerings bring, what treasures lay before thee ; When earth with all her floral train doth woo thee, And all old poets and old songs adore thee ; And love to thee is naught ; from passionate mood Secured by joy's complacent plenitude ! SAD IS OUR YOUTH, FOR IT IS EVER GOING SAD is our youth, for it is ever going, Crumbling away, beneath our very feet ; Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing In current unperceived, because so fleet; Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing, But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 231 Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing, And still, O still their dying breath is sweet ; And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us Of that which made our childhood sweeter still ; And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us A nearer good to cure an older ill ; And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them, Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them ! SONG SEEK not the tree of silkiest bark And balmiest bud, To carve her name while yet 'tis dark Upon the wood ! The world is full of noble tasks And wreaths hard won : Each work demands strong hearts, strong hands, Till day is done. Sing not that violet-veined skin, That cheek's pale roses, The lily of that form wherein Her soul reposes ! Forth to the fight, true man ! true knight \ The clash of arms Shall more prevail than whispered tale, To win her charms. The warrior for the True, the Right, Fights in Love's name ; The love that lures thee from that fight Lures thee to shame : 232 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF That love which lifts the heart, yet leaves The spirit free, That love, or none, is fit for one Man-shaped like thee. SORROW COUNT each affliction, whether light or grave, God's messenger sent down to thee; do thou With courtesy receive him ; rise and bow; And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, crave Permission first his heavenly feet to lave ; Then lay before him all thou hast : allow No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow, Or mar thy hospitality : no wave ; Or mortal tumult to obliterate The soul's marmoreal calmness ; grief should be Like joy majestic, equable, sedate, Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free; Strong to consume small troubles ; to commend Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end. T THE LITTLE BLACK ROSE HE Ljttle Black Rose l shall be red at last ; What made it black but the March wind dry, And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast ? It shall redden the hills when June is nigh ! The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last ; What drove her forth but the dragon fly ? In the golden vale she shall feed full fast, With her mild gold horn and her slow dark eye. 1 Mystical names of Ireland frequently occur in Gaelic poetry IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 233 The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last ! The pine long- bleeding, it shall not die ! This song is secret. Mine ear it passed In a wind o'er the plains at Athenry. 234 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF MICHAEL DOHENY (1805-1863) A CUSHLA GAL MO CHREE 1 THE long, long wished-for hour has come, Yet come, astor, in vain ; And left thee but the wailing hum Of sorrow and of pain ; My light of life, my only love ! Thy portion, sure, must be Man's scorn below, God's wrath above A cuisle geal mo chroidhe ! I've given for thee my early prime, And manhood's teeming years; I've blessed thee in my merriest time, And shed with thee my tears ; And, mother, though thou cast away The child who'd die for thee, My fondest wishes still should pray For cuisle geal mo chroidhe ! For thee I've tracked the mountain's sides, And slept within the brake, More lonely than the swan that glides On Lua's fairy lake. 1 A cushla gal mo c/iree, bright vein of my heart. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 235 The rich have spurned me from their door, Because I'd make thee free ; Yet still I love thee more and more, A cuisle geal mo chroidhe ! I've run the outlaw's wild career, And borne his load of ill ; His rocky couch his dreamy fear With fixed, sustaining will ; And should his last dark chance befall, Even that shall welcome be ; In death I'd love thee best of all, A cuisle geal mo chroidhe ! 'Twas told of thee the world around, 'Twas hoped for thee by all, That with one gallant sunward bound Thou'dst burst long ages' thrall ; Thy faith was tied, alas ! and those Who periled all for thee Were cursed and branded as thy foes, A cuisle geal mo chroidhe ! What fate is thine, unhappy Isle, When even the trusted few Would pay thee back with hate and guile, When most they should be true ! 'Twas not my strength or spirit quailed, Or those who'd die for thee Who loved thee truly have not failed, A cuisle geal mo chroidhe ! 236 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF REV. JAMES B. DOLLARD (1872- ) IRISH MIST AND SUNSHINE A prelude. SOFT mist on Irish mountain, Bright sun on field and dell, Swift tides of joy or sorrow In Celtic hearts that swell ; Green glen and haunted woodland, Loved homes by laughing streams, Firm faith and matchless manhood, Lo ! these my varied themes. Round tower and ivied abbey, Low whispering of the past, Around Life's early pathway Their dreamful shadows cast. Wild wind-blasts sighing voiceful Far o'er the moorland lone, Brought throbbing fairy music To thrill with mystic tone. Gray mist and flashing sunshine That fleck the gorse-land brown : High deed and cloudy legend Of Eire's old renown ; The saints' and martyrs' yearnings, The patriot's rhapsodies, With tim'rous touch uncertain, I strike the harp to these. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 237 Fair land of Mist and Sunshine, The distant exile thrills, In dream of home and kindred To see thy holy hills. Should song of mine flow clearer Old scenes and skies of blue, Old hopes that crown life dearer, I hold my trust made true. THE FALLIN' O' THE RAIN GOOD-BYE to County Carlow, 'tis the lonesome place to me, Sure every week is like a month, and every month like three. The mist is coming wet and cold, but now I won't complain, I'm going home, and little reck the fallin' o* the rain. 'Twas foolishness that brought me here, I wonder at it now ; Too proud was I to work the spade or follow up the plow; But little work and gold galore won't heal the heart o' pain 'And I'm off to old Kilkenny thro' the fallin' o' the rain. 'Twas foolishness that brought me here, 'twas madness made me stay, With not a hillside slopin' green to rest my eyes all day, 238 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF But Allen's bog outstretchin' like the level, blindin' main, And ne'er burst o' sunshine for the fallin' o' the rain. A plague upon the landlord crew, they're everywhere the same : If Ireland's deep in poverty, we know to whom the blame ; Black greed is in their grasping hearts, they'd rob us root and grain, Just judgment fall upon 'em with the fallin' o' the rain. The lads are tall and hearty here, their faces good to see, And God will sure reward 'em all their kindness unto me, But when I feigned their merry dance, and heard the pipers play My heart nigh burst with longin' for the faces far away. I wonder if 'tis but a dream a hundred times a day, And draw my hand across my eyes to drive it all away ; Then faint and dim I see the hills beyond this weary plain, They call my wild heart ever thro' the fallin' o' the rain. But soon I'll breathe the heather breath on brown Knockbrocken's side And see a silver-shining stream across the valleys glide ; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 239 No rest shall taste these weary limbs, or sleep the throbbin' brain, Till Suir's flood shows gleamin' thro' the fallin' o' the rain. WHEN THE WEST WIND BLOWS I AM leaving of Kilyonan, An' I'm goin' ten mile away To the back of Nephin mountain, Where the gentle rivers play. I must flee the wicked ocean That has caused my woe of woes, For its cryin' waves they rack me When the west wind blows. 'Tis the torture of a mother When her treasured ones are lost, An' she sees the bitter water Where their cold limbs are tossed ! Oh, black the hour they sailed away, The angry clouds arose, An' their bed is hard an' troubled When the west wind blows ! I heard the Banshee wailin', An' woke in heavy fright, I said, " My Neil and Moran, Oh, go not out to-night. For I heard the Banshee cryin' Where the haunted hazel grows, An' 'tis evil sound her keenin When the west wind blows ! " 2 4 o THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF My gold-haired Moran kissed me, (Oh ! bleeding heart so sore !) " 'Tis back we'll be at mornin' With a brimming boat galore ; 'Tis home we'll come at mornin', When the full tide flows." Ah ! his words are with me ever While the west wind blows. I'm leavin' of Kilyonan, An' the ocean's wicked waves, My keenest woe that never I may kneel o'er their graves. But I'll pray to God, our Father, He will grant their souls repose ; He will ease my bitter sorrow While the west wind blows ! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 241 EDWARD DOWDEN (1843- ) AWAKENING WITH brain o'erworn, with heart a summer clod, With eye so practiced ineach form around, And all forms mean, to glance above the ground Irks it, each day of many days we plod, Tongue-tied and deaf, along life's common road. But suddenly, we know not how, a sound Of living streams, an odor, a flower crowned With dew, a lark upspringing from the sod And we awake. O joy and deep amaze ! Beneath the everlasting hills we stand, We hear the voices of the morning seas, And earnest prophesyings in the land, While from the open heaven leans forth at gaze The encompassing great cloud of witnesses. G LADY MARGARET'S SONG IRLS, when I am gone away, On this bosom strew Only flowers meek and pale, And the yew. 242 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF Lay these hands down by my side, Let my face be bare ; Bind a kerchief round the face, Smooth my hair. Let my bier be borne at dawn, Summer grows so sweet, Deep into the forest green Where boughs meet. Then pass away, and let me lie One long, warm, sweet day There alone, with face upturned, One sweet day. While the morning light grows broad, While noon sleepeth sound, While the evening falls and faints, While the world goes round. SONG From " Windle- Straws" WERE life to last forever, love, We might go hand in hand, And pause and pull the flowers that blow In all the idle land, And we might lie in sunny fields And while the hours away With fallings-out and fallings-in For half a summer day. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 243 But since we two must sever, love, Since some dim hour we part, I have no tune to give thee much But quickly take my heart, "Forever thine," and "thine my love," O Death may come apace. What more of love could life bestow, Dearest, than this embrace. 244 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF BARTHOLOMEW BOWLING (1823-1863) THE BRIGADE AT FONTENOY May n, 1745. BY our camp-fires rose a murmur, At the dawning of the day, And the tread of many footsteps Spoke the advent of the fray ; And, as we took our places, Few and stern were our words, While some were tightening horse-girths And some were girding swords. The trumpet blast has sounded Our footmen to array The willing steed has bounded, Impatient for the fray The green flag is unfolded, While rose the cry of joy 1 Heaven speed dear Ireland's banner To-day at Fontenoy ! " We looked upon that banner, And the memory arose. Of our homes and perished kindred Where the Lee or Shannon flows ; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 245 We looked upon that banner, And we swore to God on high To smite to-day the Saxon's might To conquer or to die. Loud swells the charging trumpet 'Tis a voice from our own land God of battles 1 God of vengeance ! Guide to-day the patriot's brand ! There are stains to wash away, There are memories to destroy, In the best blood of the Briton To-day at Fontenoy. Plunge deep the fiery rowels In a thousand reeking flanks Down, chivalry of Ireland, Down on the British ranks ! Now shall their serried columns Beneath our sabres reel Through their ranks, then, with the war-horse Through their bosoms with the steel. With one shout for good King Louis And the fair land of the vine, Like the wrathful Alpine tempest We swept upon their line Then ran along the battle-field Triumphant our hurrah, And we smote them down, still cheering, "rin, slangthagal go bragh ! " ' 1 Erin . . . bragh, Erin, your bright health forever. 246 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF As prized as is the blessing From an aged father's lip As welcome as the haven To the tempest-driven ship As dear as to the lover The smile of gentle maid Is this day of long sought vengeance To the swords of the Brigade. See their shattered forces flying, A broken, routed line See, England, what brave laurels For your brow to-day we twine. Oh, thrice blest the hour that witnessed The Briton turn to flee From the chivalry of Erin, And France's fleur-de-lis. As we lay beside our camp-fires, When the sun had passed away, And thought upon our brethren That had perished in the fray We prayed to God to grant us, And then we'd die with joy, One day upon our own dear land Like this of Fontenoy. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 247 ELLEN MARY PATRICK DOWNING (1828-1869) THE OLD CHURCH AT LISMORE This poem, inscribed in the manuscript " My Last Verses," was the last written by " Mary " before entering on her noviti- ate in 1849. OLD Church, thou still art Catholic ! e'en dream they as they may That the new rites and worship have swept the old away ; There is no form of beauty raised by Nature, or by art, That preaches not God's saving truths to man's ador- ing heart ! In vain they tore the altar down ; in vain they flung aside The mournful emblem of the death which our sweet Saviour died ; In vain they left no single trace of saint or angel here Still angel-spirits haunt the ground, and to the soul appear. I marvel how, in scenes like these, so coldly they can pray, Nor hold sweet commune with the dead who once knelt down as they ; 248 THE GOLDEN TRBJSURT OF Yet not as they, in sad mistrust or sceptic doubt for, oh, They looked in hope to the blessed saints, these dead of long ago. And, then, the churchyard, soft and calm, spread out beyond the scene With sunshine warm and soothing shade and trees upon its green ; Ah ! though their cruel Church forbid, are there no hearts will pray For the poor souls that trembling left that cold and speechless clay ? My God ! I am a Catholic ! I grew into the ways Of my dear Church since first my voice could lisp a word of praise; But oft I think though my first youth were taught and trained awrong, I still had learnt the one true faith from Nature and from song ! For still, whenever dear friends die, it is such joy to know They are not all beyond the care that healed their wounds below, That we can pray them into peace, and speed them to the shore Where clouds and cares and thorny griefs shall vex their hearts no more. And the sweet saints, so meek below, so merciful above ; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 249 And the pure angels, watching still with such untiring love; And the kind Virgin, Queen of Heaven, with all her mother's care, Who prays for earth, because she knows what break- ing hearts are there ! Oh, let us lose no single link that our dear Church has bound, To keep our hearts more close to Heaven, on earth's ungenial ground; But trust in saint and martyr yet, and o'er their hallowed clay, Long after we have ceased to weep, kneel faithful down to pray. So shall the land for us be still the Sainted Isle of old, Where hymn and incense rise to Heaven, and holy beads are told ; And even the ground they tore from God, in years of crime and woe, Instinctive with His truth and love, shall breathe of long ago ! 2 5 o THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF DR. WILLIAM DRENNAN (1754-1820) ERIN WHEN Erin first rose from the dark swelling flood God blessed the green Island, and saw it was good; The em'rald of Europe, it sparkled and shone In the ring of the world the most precious stone. In her sun, in her soil, in her station thrice blest, With her back towards Britain, her face to the West, Erin stands proudly insular on her steep shore, And strikes her high harp 'mid the ocean's deep roar. But when its soft tones seem to mourn and to weep, The dark chain of silence is thrown o'er the deep ; At the thought of the past the tears gush from her eyes And the pulse of her heart makes her white bosom rise. Oh ! sons of green Erin, lament o'er the time When religion was war and our country a crime ; When man in God's image inverted his plan, And molded his God in the image of man ; When the int'rest of State wrought the general woe, The stranger a friend and the native a foe; While the mother rejoiced o'er her children oppressed And clasped the invader more close to her breast ; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 251 When with Pale for the body and Pale for the soul, Church and State joined in compact to conquer the whole, And, as Shannon was stained with Milesian blood, Eyed each other askance and pronounced it was good. By the groans that ascend from your forefathers' grave For their country thus left to the brute and the slave, Drive the demon of Bigotry home to his den, And where Britain made brutes now let Erin make men. Let my sons, like the leaves of the shamrock, unite A partition of sects from one footstalk of right ; Give each his full share of the earth and the sky, Nor fatten the slave where the serpent would die. Alas ! for poor Erin that some are still seen Who would dye the grass red from their hatred to Green : Yet, oh ! when you're up and they're down, let them live, Then yield them that mercy which they would not give. Arm of Erin, be strong ! but be gentle as brave ! And, uplifted to strike, be as ready to save ! Let no feeling of vengeance presume to defile The cause or the men of the Emerald Isle. The cause it is good, and the men they are true, And the Green shall outlive both the Orange and Blue ! And the triumphs of Erin her daughters shall share With the full swelling chest and the fair flowing hair. Their bosom heaves high for the worthy and brave, But no coward shall rest in that soft-swelling wave. Men of Erin ! awake, and make haste to be blest ! Rise, Arch of the Ocean and Queen of the West ! 252 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF THE WAKE OF WILLIAM ORR THERE our murdered brother lies ; Wake him not with woman's cries; Mourn the way that manhood ought Sit in silent trance of thought. Write his merits on your mind ; Morals pure and manners kind ; In his head, as on a hill, Virtue placed her citadel. Why cut off in palmy youth ? Truth he spoke, and acted truth. "Countrymen, UNITE," he cried, And died for what our Saviour died. God of peace and God of love ! Let it not Thy vengeance move Let it not thy lightnings draw A nation guillotined by law. Hapless Nation, rent and torn, Thou wert early taught to mourn ; Warfare of six hundred years ! Epochs marked with blood and tears ! Hunted thro' thy native grounds, Or flung reward to human hounds, Each one pulled and tore his share, Heedless of thy deep despair. Hapless Nation ! hapless Land ! Heap of uncementing sand I IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 253 Crumbled by a foreign weight : And by worse, domestic hate. God of mercy ! God of peace ! Make this mad confusion cease ; O'er the mental chaos move, Through it SPEAK the light of love. Monstrous and unhappy sight ! Brothers' blood will not unite ; Holy oil and holy water Mix, and fill the world with slaughter. Who is she with aspect wild ? The widowed mother with her child Child new stirring in the womb ! Husband waiting for the tomb ! Angel of this sacred place, Calm her soul and whisper peace Cord, or axe, or guillotine, Make the sentence not the sin. Here we watch our brother's sleep : Watch with us, but do not weep : Watch with us thro' dead of night But expect the morning light. Conquer fortune persevere ! Lo ! it breaks, the morning clear ! The cheerful cock awakes the skies, The day is come arise ! arise ! 254 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF WILLIAM DRENNAN, JR. (1802-1873) THE BATTLE OF BEAL-AN-ATHA-BUIDH BY O'Neill close beleaguered, the spirits might droop Of the Saxon three hundred shut up in their coop, Till Bagenal drew forth his Toledo, and swore, On the sword of a soldier to succor Portmore. His veteran troops, in the foreign wars tried Their features how bronzed, and how haughty their stride Stept steadily on ; it was thrilling to see The thunder-cloud brooding o'er BEAL-AN ATHA- BUIDH. The flash of their armor, inlaid with fine gold, Gleaming matchlocks and cannons that mutteringly rolled With the tramp and the clank of those stern cuirassiers, Dyed in the blood of the Flemish and French cavaliers. And are the mere Irish, with pikes and with darts With but glib-covered heads, and but rib-guarded hearts 1 Beal-an-atha-buidh literally means the Mouth of the Yellow Ford, and is pronounced Beal-un-ath-buie. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 255 Half-naked, half-fed, with few muskets, no guns The battle to dare against England's stout sons ? Poor Bonnochts? and wild Gallowglasses, and Kern Let them war with rude brambles, sharp furze, and dry fern ; Wirrastrue* for their wives for their babies ochanie* If they wait for the Saxon at BEAL-AN-ATHA- BUIDH. Yet O'Neill standeth firm few and brief his com- mands " Ye have hearts in your bosoms, and pikes in your hands ; Try how far ye can push them, my children, at once ; Fag-a-Bealach /* and down with horse, foot, and great guns. " They have gold and gay arms they have biscuit and bread ; Now, sons of my soul, we'll be found and be fed ; " And he clutched his claymore, and " look yonder," laughed he, " What a grand commissariat for BEAL-AN-ATHA- BUIDH." Near the chief, a grim tyke, an O'Shanaghan stood, His nostrils dilated seemed snuffing for blood ; Rough and ready to spring, like the wiry wolf-hound Of lerne, who, tossing his pike with a bound, l Bonnocht, a billeted soldier. 4 Wirrastrue (A Mhuire as truagh~}, Oh ! Mary, what sorrow ! 8 Ochanie ochone, woe. 4 Fag-a-Bealach, clear the way. 256 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF Cried, " My hand to the Sassenach ! ne'er may I hurl Another to earth if I call him a churl ! He finds me in clothing, in booty, in bread My Chief, won't O'Shanaghan give him a bed?" " Land of Owen, aboo ! " and the Irish rushed on The foe fired but one volley their gunners are gone ; Before the bare bosoms the steel-coats have fled, Or, despite casque or corslet, lie dying and dead. And brave Harry Bagenal, he fell while he fought With many gay gallants they slept as men ought ; Their faces to Heaven there were others, alack ! By pikes overtaken, and taken aback. And my Irish got clothing, coin, colors, great store, Arms, forage, and provender plunder go leor ! 1 They munched the white manchets they champed the brown chine, Fuilleluah ! * for that day, how the natives did dine ! The Chieftain looked on, when O'Shanaghan rose, And cried, " Hearken, O'Neill ! I've a health to pro- pose 'To our Sassenach hosts ' " and all quaffed in huge glee. With " Cead mile failte go" 1 BEAL-AN-ATHA- BUIDH!" 1 Go leor, in abundance. * Fuilleluah, joyous exclamation. 3 Cead mile failte go, a hundred thousand welcomes to. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 257 REV. W. H. DRUMMOND (1778-1865) CUCHULLIN'S CHARIOT The original, of which this is a considerably amplified ver- sion, is from an old Irish romance entitled, " The Breach of the Plain of Muirhevney." THE car, light-moving, I behold, Adorned with gems and studs of gold ; Ruled by the hand of skilful guide, Swiftly and swiftly see it glide ! Sharp-formed before, through dense array Of foes to cut its onward way ; While o'er its firm-fixed seat behind Swells the green awning in the wind. It mates in speed the swallow's flight, Or roebuck bounding fleet and light, Or fairy breeze of viewless wing, That in the joyous day of spring Flies o'er the champaign's grassy bed, And up the cairn-crowned mountain's head. Comes thundering on, unmatched in speed, The gallant gray, high-bounding steed ; His four firm hoofs, at every bound, Scarce seem to touch the solid ground, Outflashing from their flinty frame Flash upon flash of ruddy flame. 258 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF The other steed, of equal pace, Well shaped to conquer in the race ; Of slender limb, firm-knit, and strong, His small, light head he lifts on high, Impetuous as he scours along ; Red lightning glances from his eye ; Flung on his curving neck and chest Toss his crisped manes like warrior's crest Of the wild chafer's dark-brown hues, The color that his flanks imbues. The charioteer, of aspect fair, In front high-seated rides ; He holds the polished reins with care, And safe and swiftly guides, With pliant will and practiced hand, Obedient to his lord's command. That splendid chief, whose visage glows As brilliant as the crimson rose. Around his brows, in twisted fold, A purple satin band is rolled, All sparkling bright with gems and gold : And such his majesty and grace As speak him born of royal race ; Worthy, by deeds of high renown, To win and wear a monarch's crown. The following is McPherson's description of Cuchullin's car: " The car, the car of war comes on, like the flame of death ! the rapid car of Cuchullin, the noble son of Semo ! It bends be- hind like a wave near a rock, like the sun-streaked mist of the heath. Its sides are embossed with stones, and sparkle like the sea round the boat of night. Of polished yew is its beam ; its seat of the smoothest bone. The sides are replenished with spears ; the bottom is the footstool of heroes." Fingal, Book I. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 259 LADY HELEN DUFFERIN (1807-1867) KATEY'S LETTER OCH, girls dear, did you ever hear, I wrote my love a letter ? And altho' he cannot read, I thought 'twas all the better. For why should he be puzzled YVith hard spelling in the matter, When the ntaning was so plain ? That I loved him faithfully, And he knows it oh, he knows it- Without one word from me. I wrote it, and I folded it, And put a seal upon it, "Twas a seal almost as big As the crown of my best bonnet ; For I would not have the postmaster Make his remarks upon it, As I'd said inside the letter That I loved him faithfully, And he knows it oh, he knows it- Without one word from me. My heart was full, but when I wrote I dare not put it half in; The neighbors know 1 love him, 260 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF And they're mighty fond of chaffing, So I dare not write his name outside, For fear they would be laughing, . So I wrote " From little Kate to one Whom she loves faithfully," And he knows it oh, he knows it Without one word from me. Now, girls, would you believe it, That postman, so consated, No answer will he bring me, So long as I have waited ; But maybe there mayn't be one, For the reason that I stated That my love can neither read nor write, But loves me faithfully, And I know where'er my love is, That he is true to me. LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT I'M sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side, On a bright May mornin', long ago, When first you were my bride : The corn was springin' fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the lovelight in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary ; The day is bright as then ; The lark's loud song is in my ear, IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 261 And the corn is green again ; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm on my cheek, And I still keep list'nin 1 for the words You never more will speak. 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near The church where we were wed, Mary \ I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest For I' ve laid you, darling ! down to sleep With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends : But, oh ! they love the better still, The few our Father sends ! And you were all / had, Mary My blessin' and my pride ! There's nothin' left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died. Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone ; There was comfort ever on your lip And the kind look on your brow I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now. 262 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break, When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there, And you hid it for my sake ; I bless you for the pleasant word When your heart was sad and sore Oh ! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more ! I'm biddin' you a long farewell, My Mary kind and true ! But I'll not forget you, darling, In the land I'm goin' to : They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there But I'll not forget Old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair ! And often in those grand old woods I'll sit and shut my eyes, And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies ; And I'll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 263 THOMAS BUFFET (Circa 1676) COME ALL YOU PALE LOVERS COME all you pale lovers that sigh and complain, While your beautiful tyrants but laugh at your pain, Come practice with me To be happy and free, In spite of inconstancy, pride, or disdain. I see and I love, and the bliss I enjoy No rival can lessen nor envy destroy. My mistress so fair is, no language or art Can describe her perfection in every part ; Her mien's so genteel, With such ease she can kill, Each look with new passion she captures my heart. Her smiles, the kind message of love from her eyes, When she frowns 'tis from others her flame to disguise. Thus her scorn or her spite I convert to delight, As the bee gathers honey wherever he flies. My vows she receives from her lover unknown, And I fancy kind answers although I have none. 264 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF How blest should I be If our hearts did agree, Since already I find so much pleasure alone. I see and I love, and the bliss I enjoy No rival can lessen nor envy destroy. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 265 SIR CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY (1816-1903) INNISHOWEN GOD bless the gray mountains of dark Donegal, God bless Royal Aileach, the pride of them all; For she sits evermore like a queen on her throne, And smiles on the valley of Green Innishowen. And fair are the valleys of Green Innishowen, And hardy the fishers that call them their own A race that nor traitor nor coward have known Enjoy the fair valleys of Green Innishowen. Oh ! simple and bold are the bosoms they bear, Like the hills that with silence and nature they share ; For our God, who hath planted their home near his own, Breathed his spirit abroad upon fair Innishowen. Then praise to our Father for. wild Innishowen, Where fiercely forever the surges are thrown Nor weather nor fortune a tempest hath blown Could shake the strong bosoms of brave In- nishowen. See the bountiful Couldah * careering along A type of their manhood so stately and strong 1 Couldah, Culdaff, the chief river in the Innishowen moun- tains. 266 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF On the weary forever its tide is bestown, So they share with the stranger in fair Innishowen. God guard the kind homesteads of fair Innishowen. Which manhood and virtue have chos'n for their own; Not long shall that nation in slavery groan, That rears the tall peasants of fair Innishowen. Like that oak of St. Bride which nor Devil nor Dane, Nor Saxon nor Dutchman could rend from her fane, They have clung by the creed and the cause of their own Through the midnight of danger in true Innishowen. Then shout for the glories of old Innishowen, The stronghold that foemen have never o'er- thrown The soul and the spirit, the blood and the bone, That guard the green valleys of true Innishowen. No purer of old was the tongue of the Gael, When the charging aboo made the foreigner quail; When it gladdens the stranger in welcome's soft tone. In the home-loving cabins of kind Innishowen, Oh ! flourish, ye homesteads of kind Innishowen, Where seeds of a people's redemption are sown ; Right soon shall the fruit of that sowing have grown, To bless the kind homesteads of green Innishowen. When they tell us the tale of a spell -stricken band, All entranced, with their bridles and broadswords in hand, Who await but the word to give Erin her own, IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 267 They can read you that riddle in proud Innishowen. Hurra for the Spaemen 1 of proud Innishowen ! Long live the wild Seers of stout Innishowen ! May Mary, our mother, be deaf to their moan Who love not the promise of proud Innishoweu ! THE IRISH RAPPAREES A peasant ballad " When Limerick was surrendered and the bulk of the Irish army took service with Louis XIV, a multitude of the old soldiers of the Boyne, Aughrim, and Limerick, preferred re- maining in the country at the risk of fighting for their daily bread ; and with them some gentlemen, loath to part from their estates or their sweethearts. The English army and the English law drove them by degrees to the hills, where they were long a terror to the new and old settlers from England, and a secret pride and comfort to the trampled peasantry, who loved them even for their excesses. It was all they had left to take pride in." Author's note. RICH SHEMUS he has gone to France and left his crown behind : 111 luck be theirs, both day and night, put runnin' in his mind ! Lord Lucan 2 followed after, with his slashers brave and true, 1 Spcemen, an Ulster and Scotch term signifying a person gifted with " second sight " a prophet. 2 After the Treaty of Limerick, Patrick Sarsfield, Lord Lucan, sailed with the Brigade to France, and was killed while leading his countrymen to victory at the battle of Lauden, in the Low Countries, July 29, 1693. 268 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF And now the doleful keen is raised " What will poor Ireland do? What must poor Ireland do ? Our luck, they say, has gone to France. What can poor Ireland do?" Oh, never fear for Ireland, for she has so'gers still, For Remy's boys are in the wood, and Rory's on the hill; And never had poor Ireland more loyal hearts than these May God be kind and good to them, the faithful Rapparees ! The fearless Rapparees ! The jewel waar ye, Rory, with your Irish Rapparees ! Oh, black's your heart, Clan Oliver, and Moulder than the clay ! Oh, high's your head, Clan Sassenach, since Sarsfield's gone away ! It's little love you bear to us for sake of long ago But howld your hand, for Ireland still can strike a deadly blow Can strike a mortal blow Och ! dar-a-Chriost .' 'tis she that still could strike the deadly blow ! The master's bawn, the master's seat, a surly bodach 1 fills; The master's son, an outlawed man, is riding on the hills ; i ' Bodach, a severe, inhospitable man ; a churl. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 269 But, God be praised, that round him throng, as thick as summer bees, The swords that guarded Limerick walls his faithful Rapparees ! His lovin' Rapparees ! Who daar say, "No" to Rory Oge, who heads the Rapparees ! Black Billy Grimes, of Latnamard, he racked us long and sore God rest the faithful hearts he broke; we'll never see them more ! But I'll go bail he'll break no more while Truagh has gallows-trees, For why? he met one lonesome night the awful Rapparees ! The angry Rapparees ! They never sin no more, my boys, who cross the Rapparees. Now, Sassenach and Cromweller, take heed of what I say Keep down your black and angry looks that scorn us night and day ; For there's a just and wrathful Judge that every action sees, And he'll make strong, to right our wrong, the faith- ful Rapparees ! The fearless Rapparees ! The men that rode at Sarsfield's side, the changeless Rapparees ! 270 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH " We deny and have always denied the alleged massacre of 1641. But that the people rose under their chiefs, seized the English towns and expelled the English settlers, and in doing so committed many excesses, is undeniable as is equally their desperate provocation. The ballad here printed is not meant as an apology for these excesses, which we condemn and lament, but as a true representation of the feelings of the in- surgents in the first madness of success." Author's note. JOY ! joy ! the day is come at last, the day of hope and pride And see ! our crackling bonfires light old Bann's rejoicing tide, And gladsome bell and bugle-horn from Newry's captured towers, Hark ! how they tell the Saxon swine this land is ours is OURS ! Glory to God ! my eyes have seen the ransomed fields of Down, My ears have drunk the joyful news, " Stout Phelim hath his own." Oh ! may they see and hear no more ! oh ! may they rot to clay ! When they forget to triumph in the conquest of to- day. Now, now we'll teach the shameless Scot to purge his thievish maw ; Now, now the court may fall to pray, for Justice is the Law; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 271 Now shall the Undertaker 1 square, for once, his loose accounts We'll strike, brave boys, a fair result, from all his false amounts. Come, trample down their robber rule, and smite its venal spawn, Their foreign laws, their foreign Church, their ermine and their lawn, With all the specious fry of fraud that robbed us of our own ; And plant our ancient laws again beneath our lineal throne. Our standard flies o'er fifty towers, o'er twice ten thousand men ; Down have we plucked the pirate Red, never to rise again ; The Green alone shall stream above our native field and flood The spotless Green, save where its folds are gemmed with Saxon blood ! Pity ! a no, no, you dare not, priest not you, our Father, dare Preach to us now that godless creed the murderer's blood to spare ; 1 The Scotch and English adventurers planted in Ulster by James I were called " Undertakers." * Leland, the Protestant historian, states that the Catholic priests " labored zealously to moderate the excesses of war," and frequently protected the English by concealing them in their places of worship and even under their altars. 272 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF To spare his blood, while tombless still our slaughtered kin implore "Graves and revenge" from Gobbin cliffs and Carrick's bloody shore ! l Pity ! could we "forget, forgive," if we were clods of clay, Our martyred priests, our banished chiefs, our race in dark decay, And, worse than all you know it, priest the daugh- ters of our land With wrongs we blushed to name until the sword was in our hand ? Pity ! well, if you needs must whine, let pity have its way Pity for all our comrades true, far from our side to- day : The prison-bound who rot in chains, the faithful dead who poured Their blood 'neath Temple's lawless axe or Parson's ruffian sword. They smote us with the swearer's oath and with the murderer's knife ; We in the open field will fight fairly for land and life; But, by the dead and all their wrongs, and by our hopes to-day, One of us twain shall fight their last, or be it we or they. 1 The scene of the massacre of the unoffending inhabitants of Island Magee by the garrison of Carrickfergus. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 273 They banned our failh, they banned our lives, they trod us into earth, Until our very patience stirred their bitter hearts to mirth. Even this great flame that wraps them now, not we but they have bred : Yes, this is their own work ; and now their work be on their head ! Nay, Father, tell us not of help from Leinster's Norman peers, If we shall shape our holy cause to match their selfish fears Helpless and hopeless be their cause who brook a vain delay ! Our ship is launched, our flag's afloat, whether they come or stay. Let silken Howth and savage Slane still kiss their tyrant's rod, And pale Dunsany still prefer his master to his God ; Little we'd miss their fathers' sons, the Marchmen of the Pale, If Irish hearts and Irish hands had Spanish blade and mail ! Then let them stay to bow and fawn, or fight with cunning words; I fear no more their courtly arts than England's hire- ling swords ; Nathless their creed, they hate us still, as the de- spoiler hates ; Could they love us, and love their prey, our kinsmen's lost estates ? 274 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF Our rude array's a jagged rock to smash the spoiler's power Or, need we aid, his aid we have who doomed this gracious hour ; Of yore he led his Hebrew host to peace through strife and pain, And us he leads the self-same path the self-same goal to gain. Down from the sacred hills whereon a saint l com- muned with God, Up from the vale where Bagenal's blood manured tht reeking sod, Out from the stately woods of Truagh M'Kenna's plundered home, Like Malin's waves, as fierce and fast, our faithful clansmen come. Then, brethren, on ! O'Neill's dear shade would frown to see you pause Our banished Hugh, our martyred Hugh, is watching o'er your cause His generous error lost the land he deemed the Norman true ; Oh, forward, friends, it must not lose the land again in you ! 1 St. Patrick, whose favorite retreat was Lecale, in the County Down. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 275 MAURICE F. EGAN (1832- ) BY RIGHT DIVINE IN this free land I know a tyrant king Who rules supreme a kingdom all his own, Who reigns supreme by right divine alone, Who governs slaves that always cringe and sing, " He walks ! He talks ! " in most admiring tone; They quail with fear if he but makes a moan, And wild confusion comes if he but fling Away his sceptre coral, jingling thing ! He is a king, though loving anarchy, A tyrant king, whom our fond land obeys, A tyrant king, yet scarce a mimic man ; And this whole land is bound in monarchy, All mother-hearts some little ruler sways, If harder fathers be republican. THE SHAMROCK WHEN April rains make flowers bloom And Johnny-jump-ups come to light, And clouds of color and perfume Float from the orchards pink and white, I see my shamrock in the rain, An emerald spray with raindrops set, Like jewels on Spring's coronet, So fair, and yet it breathes of pain. 276 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF The shamrock on an older shore Sprang from a rich and sacred soil Where saint and hero lived of yore, And where their sons in sorrow toil ; And here, transplanted, it to me Seems weeping for the soil it left And diamonds that all others see Are tears drawn from its heart bereft. When April rain makes flowers grow, And sparkles on their tiny buds That in June nights will over-blow And fill the world with scented floods, The lonely shamrock in our land So fine among the clover leaves For the old springtimes often grieves I feel its tears upon my hand. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 277 ROBERT EMMET (1778-1803) Lines written on Arbor Hill burying-ground, Dublin, where the bodies of insurgents shot in 1798 were interred. O rising column marks this spot, Where many a victim lies ; But oh ! the blood which here has streamed, To Heaven for justice cries. N It claims it on the oppressor's head, Who joys in human woe, Who drinks the tears by misery shed, And mocks them as they flow. It claims it on the callous judge, Whose hands in blood are dyed, Who arms injustice with the sword, The balance throws aside. It claims it for this ruined isle, Her wretched children's grave ; Where, withered Freedom droops her head, And man exists a slave. O sacred Justice ! free this land From tyranny abhorred ; Resume thy balance and thy seat Resume but sheathe thy sword. 278 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF No retribution should we seek Too long has horror reigned ; By mercy marked may freedom rise, By cruelty unstained. Nor shall a tyrant's ashes mix With those our martyred dead ; This is the place where Erin's sons In Erin's cause have bled. And those who here are laid at rest, Oh ! hallowed be each name ; Their memories are forever blest Consigned to endless fame. Unconsecrated is this ground, Unblest by holy hands ; No bell here tolls its solemn sound, No monument here stands. But here the patriot's tears are shed, The poor man's blessing given ; These consecrate the virtuous dead, These waft their fame to heaven. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 279 FRANCIS A. FAHY (1854- ) IRISH MOLLY O. OH ! fairer than the lily tall, and sweeter than the rose, As modest as the violet in dewy dell that blows ; With heart as warm as summer noon, and pure as winter snow The pride of Erin's isle is she, dear Irish Molly O ! No linnet of the hazel grove than she more sweetly sang, No sorrow could be resting where her guileless laughter rang, No hall of light could half so bright as that poor cabin glow Where shone the face of love and grace of Irish Molly O ! But fever's breath struck down in death her father strong and brave, And who should now his little ones from want and sorrow save ? "Oh, never fear, my mother dear, across the seas I'll go, And win for ye a new home there," said Irish Molly O ! 280 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF And far away 'mid strangers cold she toiled for many a year, And no one heard the heart-wrung sigh or saw the silent tear, But letters fond the seas beyond would kind and con- stant go, With gold won dear, and words of cheer, from Irish Molly O ! And one by one she sent for all the loved ones o'er the foam, And one by one she welcomed them to her fond heart and home, And last and best her arms caressed the aged head of snow "Oh, mother, we'll be happy now!" said Irish Molly O ! Alas ! long years of toil and tears had chilled her young heart's glow, And grief and care had blanched her hair and stilled her pulse's flow, And when the spring bade wild birds sing and buds in beauty blow They made your grave where willows wave, poor Irish Molly O ! "THE BOG ROAD" Lisdoonvarna COULD I travel afar now From Bantry to Barna, 'Tis to Lisdoonvarna My way I would find ; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 281 For there, one bright summer, Myself, a newcomer, Found mirth, fun, and humor That ne'er leaves my mind. Oh, those who each season, Without rhyme or reason, Cross far foreign seas on To light the heart's load, Know nought of the pleasure, Without stint or measure, That waits them with leisure Along the Bog Road. All sorts and conditions, All trades and positions, Of men on all missions, Are there to be found ; There are jobbers and teachers, And pedlars and preachers, And delicate creatures From all Erin round ; There are blooming young maidens, And hearts heavy laden, And stout dames that no sign Of fading yet showed ; While dearly-dowered daughters Are trying the waters, And sighing for partners Along the Bog Road. 'Tis there every morning, Dull drowsiness scorning, Stout lads without warning Roam over the hills, 282 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF While matron and widdy (Lamenting "poor Biddy ") Take draughts that would rid ye, 'Tis said, from all ills. There farmers together Discuss on the heather The markets, the weather, The last crops they sowed ; While children are sporting, Young couples resorting Are cozily courting Along the Bog Road. Of priests there's a legion From every known region, The hotels besieging For shakedowns in vain Dean, Bishop, and Canon, From Liffey to Shannon, For reasons no man on This earth could explain ; Some quietly straying, Their Offices saying Some jolly and gay in The long cars a load ; Some solemnly stalking, Some eagerly talking You'll meet them all walking Along the Bog Road. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 283 THE DONOVANS IF you would like to see the height of hospitality, The cream of kindly welcome, and the core of cordiality : Joys of all the olden time you're wishing to recall again ? Come down to Donovans, and there you'll meet them all again. Ctad mile f&ilte J they'll give you down at Donovans, As cheery as the springtime and Irish as the can- nawaun * The wish of my heart is, if ever I had any one That every luck that lightens life may light upon the Donovans. As soon as e'er you lift the latch, the little ones are meeting you ; Soon as you're beneath the thatch, oh ! kindly looks are greeting you : Scarcely are you ready to be holding out the fist to them, When down by the fireside you're sitting in the midst of them. Ctade mile fdilte they'll give you down at Dono- vans, etc. There sits the cailin deas 8 oh ! where on earth's the peer of her ? 1 C'ead mile faille, a hundred thousand welcomes. 9 Cannawaun, bog-cotton. 3 Cailin deas, pretty girl. 284 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF The modest face, the gentle grace, the humor and the cheer of her Eyes like the summer skies when twin stars beam above in them, Oh ! proud will be the boy that's to light the lamp of love in them. Cead milefdilte they'll give you down at Donovans, etc. Then when you rise to go, it's " Ah, then, now sit down again ! " " Isn't it the haste you're in? " and " Won't you soon come round again ? ' ' Your caubeen and your overcoat you'd better put astray from them, 'Twill take you all your time to try and tear yourself away from them. Cead milefdilte they'll give you down at Donovans, etc. THE OULD PLAID SHAWL NOT far from old Kinvara, in the merry month of May, When birds were singing cheerily, there came across my way, As if from out the sky above an angel chanced to fall, A little Irish cailin in an ould plaid shawl. She tripped along right joyously, a basket on her arm; And ! oh, her face, and, oh ! her grace, the soul of saint would charm ; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 285 Her brown hair rippled o'er her brow, but greatest charm of all Was her modest blue eyes beaming 'neath her ould plaid shawl. I courteously saluted her "God save you, miss," says I ; "God save you kindly, sir," said she, and shyly passed me by ; Off went my heart along with her, a captive in her thrall, Imprisoned in the corner of her ould plaid shawl. Enchanted with her beauty rare, I gazed in pure de- light, Till round an angle of the road she vanished from my sight ; But ever since I sighing say, as I that scene recall, " The grace of God about you and your ould plaid shawl." I've heard of highway robbers that, with pistols and with knives, Make trembling travelers yield them up their money or their lives, But think of me that handed out my heart and head and all To a simple little cailin in an ould plaid shawl ! Oh ! graceful the mantillas that the signorinas wear, And tasteful are the bonnets of Parisian ladies fair, But never cloak or hood or robe, in palace, bow'r, or hall, 286 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF Clad half such witching beauty as that ould plaid shawl. Oh ! some men sigh for riches, and some men live for fame, And some on history's pages hope to win a glorious name; My aims are not ambitious, and my wishes are but small You might wrap them all together in an ould plaid shawl. I'll seek her all through Galway, and I'll seek her all through Clare, I'll search for tale or tidings of my traveler every- where, For peace of mind I'll never find until my own I call That little Irish cailin in her ould plaid shawl. IRISH SONGS JND LTRICS 287 SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON (1810-1866) CEAN DUBH DEELISH 1 PUT your head, darling, darling, darling, Your darling black head my heart above ; O mouth of honey with the thyme for fragrance, Who with heart in breast could deny you love? O many and many a young girl for me is pining, Letting her locks of gold to the cold winds free, For me, the foremost of the gay young fellows, But I'd leave a hundred, pure love, for thee. Then put your head, darling, darling, darling, Your darling black head my heart above; O mouth of honey with the thyme for fragrance, Who with heart in breast could deny you love? DRIMMIN DHU Translated from Irish. . Drimmin Dhu Dheelish, the dear black cow, was another pseudonym for Ireland, and there is a very sweet and plaintive air of that name. AH, Drimmin dhu dheelish, a pride of the flow, 2 Ah where are your folks ? are they living or no ? They're down in the ground, 'neath the sod ly- ing low, Expecting King James with the crown on his brow. 1 Cean dubh deelish, dear black head. z The grassy part of a bog. 288 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF But if I could get sight of the crown on his bro\v, By day and night traveling to London I'd go ; Over mountains of mist and soft mosses belo\v, Till it beat on the kettle drums Drimmin dhu O. Welcome home, welcome home, Drimmin dhu O ! Good was your sweet milk for drinking, I trow ; With your face like a rose, and your dewlap of snow, I'll part from you never, Drimmin dhu O ! LAMENT OVER THE RUINS OF THE ABBEY OF TIMOLEAGUE L ONE and weary as I wandered By the bleak shore of the sea, Meditating and reflecting On the world's hard destiny; Forth the moon and stars 'gan glimmer In the quiet tide beneath, For on slumbering spray and blossom Breathed not out of heaven a breath. On I went in sad dejection, Careless where my footsteps bore Till a ruined church before me Opened wide its ancient door, Till I stood before the portals, Where of old were wont to be, For the blind, the halt, and leper, Alms and hospitality. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 289 Still the ancient seat was standing Built against the buttress gray Where the clergy used to welcome Weary travelers on their way. There I sat me down in sadness, 'Neath my cheek I placed my hand, Till the tears fell hot and briny Down upon the grassy land. There, I said in woful sorrow, Weeping bitterly the while, Was a time when joy and gladness Reigned within this ruined pile : Was a time when bells were tinkling, Clergy preaching peace abroad, Psalms a-singing, music ringing Praises to the mighty God. Empty aisle, deserted chancel, Tower tottering to your fall, Many a storm since then has beaten On the gray head of your wall I Many a bitter storm and tempest Has your roof-tree turned away, Since you first were formed a temple To the Lord of night and day. Holy house of ivied gables, That wert once the country's pride, Houseless now in weary wandering Roam your inmates far and wide. 29Q THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF Lone you are to-day, and dismal, Joyful psalms no more are heard Where, within your choir, her vesper Screeches the cat-headed bird. Ivy from your eaves is growing, Nettles round your green hearth-stone, Foxes howl, where, in your corners, Dropping waters make their moan. Where the lark to early matins Used your clergy forth to call, There ! alas no tongue is stirring, Save the daws' upon the wall. Refectory cold and empty, Dormitory bleak and bare, Where are now your pious uses, Simple bed and frugal fare ? Gone your abbot, rule, and order, Broken down your altar stones ; Naught se'e I beneath your shelter Save a heap of clayey bones. Oh ! the hardship, oh ! the hatred, Tyranny, and cruel war, Persecution and oppression, That have left you as you are ! I myself once also prospered ; Mine is, too, an altered plight. Trouble, care, and age have left me Good for naught but grief to-night. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 291 Gone, my motion and my vigor, Gone, the use of eye and ear ; At my feet lie friends and children, Powerless and corrupting here. Woe is written on my visage In a nut my heart would lie Death's deliverance were welcome Father, let the old man die. MILD MABEL KELLY From the Irish of T. O' Carolan. WHOEVER the youth who by Heaven's decree Has his happy right hand 'neath that bright head of thine, "Tis certain that he From all sorrow is free, Till the day of his death, if a life so divine Should not raise him in bliss above mortal degree. Mild Mabel Ni Kelly, bright coolun of curls ! All stately and pure as the swan on the lake. Her mouth of white teeth is a palace of pearls, And the youth of the land are love-sick for her sake. No strain of the sweetest e'er heard in the land That she knows not to sing, in a voice so enchanting, That the cranes on the sand Fall asleep where they stand. Oh, for her blooms the rose, and the lily ne'er wait- ing To shed its mild lustre on bosom or hand. 292 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF The dewy blue blossom that hangs on the spray More blue than her eyes human eye never saw. Deceit never lurked in its beautiful ray. Dear lady, I drink to you, slainte go bragh ! * To gaze on her beauty the young hunter lies 'Mong the branches that shadow her path in the grove. But alas, if her eyes The rash gazer surprise, All eyesight departs from the victim of love, And the blind youth steals home with his heart full of sighs. O pride of the Gael of the lily-white palm ! O coolun of curls to the grass at your feet ! At the goal of delight and of honor I am To boast such a theme for a song so unmeet. OWEN BAWN This refers to the rigid prohibition of the intermarriage with the native Irish by William de Burghs, Earl of Ulster, in A. D. !333 which led to the Irish return from beyond the river Bawn and the expulsion of the English from all Ulster. MY Owen Bawn's hair is of thread of gold spun ; Of gold in the shadow, of light in the sun ; All curled in a coolun the bright tresses are They make his head radiant with beams like a star ! My Owen Bawn's mantle is long and is wide, To wrap me up safe from the storm by his side : 1 Slainte go bragh, your health forever. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 293 And I'd rather face snowdrift, and winter-wind there, Than lie among daisies and sunshine elsewhere. My Owen Bawn Quinn is a bold fisherman, He tracks the dun quarry with arrow and spear Where wild woods are waving, and deep waters flow, Oh, there goes my love with the dun-dappled roe. My Owen Bawn Quinn is a bard of the best, He spears the strong salmon in midst of the Bann ; And rocked in the tempest on stormy Lough Neagh, I )raws up the red trout through the bursting of spray. My Owen Bawn Quinn is a hunter of deer, He wakes me with singing, he sings me to rest ; And the cruit 1 'neath his fingers rings up with a sound, As though angels harped o'er us, and fays underground. They tell me the stranger has given command, That crommeal 2 and coolun shall cease in the land, That all our youths' tresses of yellow be shoni, And bonnets, instead, of a new fashion worn. That mantles like Owen Bawn's shield us no more, That hunting and fishing henceforth we give o'er, That the net and the arrow aside must be laid, For hammer and trowel, and mattock and spade. That the echoes of music must sleep in their caves, That the slave must forget his own tongue for a slave's, That the sound of our lips must be strange in our ears, And our bleeding hands toil in the dew of our tears. 1 Cruit, a small harp. * Crommeal, mustache. 294 THE GOLDEN TKEASURT OF Oh, sweetheart and comfort ! with thee by my side, I could love and live happy, whatever betide ; But thou, in such bondage, wouldst die ere a day Away to Tir-oen, then, Owen, away 1 There are wild woods and mountains, and streams deep and clear, There are loughs in Tir-oen as lovely as here ; There are silver harps ringing in Yellow Hugh's hall, And a bower by the forest side, sweetest of all ! We will dwell by the sunshiny skirts of the brake, Where the sycamore shadows glow deep in the lake ; And the snowy swan stirring the green shadows there, Afloat on the water, seems floating in air. Away to Tir-oen, then, Owen, away ! We will leave them the dust from our feet for a prey, And our dwelling in ashes and flames for a spoil 'Twill be long ere they quench them with streams of the Foyle ! PASTHEEN FION From the Irish. OH, my fair Pastheen is my heart's delight ; Her gay heart laughs in her blue eye bright ; Like the apple blossom her bosom white, And her neck like the swan's on a March morn bright ! Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me ! come with me ! Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet ! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 295 And oh ! I would go through snow and sleet If you would come with me, my brown girl, sweet ! Love of my heart, my fair Pastheen ! Her cheeks are as red as the rose's sheen, But my lips have tasted no more, I ween, Than the glass I drank to the health of my queen ! Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me ! etc. Were I in the town, where's mirth and glee, Or 'twixt two barrels of barley bree, With my fair Pastheen upon my knee, 'Tis I would drink to her pleasantly ! Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me ! etc. Nine nights I lay in longing and pain, Betwixt two bushes, beneath the rain, Thinking to see you, love, once again ; But whistle and call were all in vain 1 Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me ! etc. I'll leave my people, both friend and foe; From all the girls in the world I'll go ; But from you, sweetheart, oh, never ! oh, no ! Till I lie in the coffin stretched, cold and low ! Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me ! etc. 296 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF THE COOLUN 1 Translated from the Irish of Maurice Dugan or O' Dugan. OH AD you seen the Coolun, Walking down by the cuckoo's street, With the dew of the meadow shining On her milk-white twinkling feet. O my love she is, and my cailin og^ And she dwells in Bal'nagar; And she bears the palm of beauty bright, From the fairest that in Erin are. In Bal'nagar is the Coolun, Like the berry on the bough her cheek ; Bright beauty dwells forever On her fair neck and ringlets sleek ; O sweeter is her mouth's soft music Than the lark or thrush at dawn, Or the blackbird in the greenwood singing Farewell to the setting sun. Rise up, my boy ! make ready My horse, for I forth would ride, To follow the modest damsel, Where she walks on the green hillside : For e'er since our youth were we plighted. In faith, troth, and wedlock true O she's sweeter to me nine times over, Than organ or cuckoo ! 1 Anchuil-fhionn, maiden of fair flowing locks 2 Cailin og, young girl. IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 297 O ever since my childhood I loved the fair and darling child ; But our people came between us, And with lucre our pure love defiled : O my woe it is, and my bitter pain, And I weep it night and day, That the cailin ban of my early love Is torn from my heart away. Sweetheart and faithful treasure, Be constant still, and true ; Nor for want of herds and houses Leave one who would ne'er leave you. I'll pledge you the -blessed Bible, Without an eke within, That the faithful God will provide for us, Without thanks to kith or kin. O love, do you remember When we lay all night alone, Beneath the ash in the winter storm, When the oak wood round did groan ? No shelter then from the blast had we, The bitter blast or sleet, But your gown to wrap about our heads ; And my coat around our feet. 298 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF THE FAIR HILLS OF IRELAND From the Irish. A very close translation, in the original meler, of an Irish song of unknown authorship dating from the end of the seven- teenth century. The refrain means " O sad lament." A PLENTEOUS place is Ireland for hospitable cheer, Uileacdn dubh O ! Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear, Uileacdn dubh O ! There is honey in the trees where her misty vales ex- pand, And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned ; There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i 1 the yellow sand On the fair hills of holy Ireland. Curled he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee, Uileacdn dubh O ! Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea, Uileacdn dubh O ! And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand, Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand, And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command, For the fair hills of holy Ireland. Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground, Uileacdn dubh O ! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 299 The butter and the cream do wondrously abound, Uileacan dubh O ! The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand, And the cuckoo's calling daily his note of music bland, And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i' the forests grand On the fair hills of holy Ireland. THE FAIRY THORN An Ulster ballad. " /^"^ET up, our Anna dear, from the weary spin- 1 ~r ning wheel ; For your father's on the hill, and your mother is asleep : Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a highland reel Around the fairy thorn on the steep." At Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens cried, Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green ; And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside, The fairest of the four, I ween. They're glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve, Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare ; The heavy sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave, And the crags in the ghostly air ; And linking hand in hand and singing as they go, The maids along the hillside have ta'en their fear less way, 300 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF Till they come to where the rowan-trees in lonely beauty grow, Beside the Fairy Hawthorn gray. The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim, Like matron with her twin granddaughters on her knee ; The rowan-berries cluster o'er her low head gray and dim In ruddy kisses sweet to see. The merry maidens four have ranged them in a row, Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem, And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds they go, O never carolled bird like them ! But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze That drinks away their voices in echoless repose, And dreamily the evening has stilled the haunted braes, And dreamier the gloaming grows. And sinking one by one, like lark notes from the sky When the falcon's shadow saileth across the open shaw, Are hushed the maidens' voices, as cowering down they lie In the flutter of their sudden awe. For from the air above and the grassy ground beneath, And from the mountain-ashes and the old white- thorn between, IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 301 A power of faint enchantment doth through their be- ings breathe, And they sink down together on the green. They sink together silent, and, stealing side by side, They fling their lovely arms o'er their drooping necks so fair, Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide, For their shrinking necks again are bare. Thus clasped and prostrate all, with their heads to- gether bowed, Soft o'er their bosoms' beating the only human sound They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd, Like a river in the air, gliding round. No scream can any raise, no prayer can any say, But wild, wild the terror of the speechless three, For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away, By whom they dare not look to see. They feel thei tresses twine with her parting locks of gold, And the curls elastic falling as her head withdraws ; They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms unfold, But they may not look to see the cause. For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze ; 302 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes, Or their limbs from the cold ground raise, Till out of night the earth has rolled her dewy side, With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below j When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide, The maidens' trance dissolveth so. Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may, And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain, They pined away and died within the year and day, And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again. THE FAIRY WELL OF LAGNANAY MOURNFULLY, sing mournfully ! - " O listen, Ellen, sister dear ! Is there no help at all for me, But only ceaseless sigh and tear? Why did not he, who left me here, With stolen hope steal memory? O listen, Ellen, sister dear ! (Mournfully, sing mournfully!) I'll go away to Sleamish hill I'll pluck the fairy hawthorn-tree, And let the spirits work their will ; I care not if for good or ill, So they but lay the memory Which all my heart is haunting still. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 303 (Mournfully, sing mournfully !) The Fairies are a silent race, And pale as lily flowers to see ; I care not for a blanched face, Nor wandering in a dreaming place, So I but banish memory, I wish I were with Anna Grace. (Mournfully, sing mournfully !) " Hearken to my tale of woe ! " 'Twas thus to weeping Ellen Con, Her sister said in accents low, Her only sister, Una bawn ; 'Twas in their bed before the dawn, And Ellen answered, sad and slow, " O Una, Una, be not drawn (Hearken to my tale of woe !) To this unholy grief I pray, Which makes me sick at heart to know, And I will help you if I may 5 The Fairy Well of Lagnanay Lie nearer me, I tremble so, Una, I've heard wise women say (Hearken to my tale of woe !) That if before the dews arise True maiden in its icy flow With pure hand bathe her bosom thrice, Three lady brackens pluck likewise, And three times round the fountain go, She straight forgets her tears and sighs." (Hearken to my tale of woe !) All, alas ! and well away! " O sister Ellen, sister sweet, -504 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF Come with me to the hill I pray, And I will prove that blessed freet." They rose with soft and silent feet, They left their mother where she lay Their mother and her care discreet, (All, alas ! and well away ! ) And soon they reached the Fairy Well, The mountain's eye, clear, cold, and gray, Wide open in the dreary fell ; How long they stood 'twere vain to tell. At last upon the point of day, Bawn Una bares her bosom's swell, (All, alas ! and well away !) Thrice o'er her shrinking breast she laves The gliding glance that will not stay Of subtly-streaming fairy waves ; And now the charmed three brackens craves She plucks them in their fringed array; Now round the well her fate she braves. (All, alas ! and well away !) Save us all from Fairy thrall ; Ellen sees her face the rim Twice and thrice and that is all, Fount and hill and maiden swim, All together melting dim ! "Una, Una," thou may'st call, Sister sad, but lith or limb (Save us all from Fairy thrall) Never again of Una bawn Where now she walks in dreamy hall Shall eye of mortal look upon ; O can it be the guard was gone, That better guard than shield or \vall ? IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 305 Who knows on earth save Jurlaugh Daune ? (Save us all from Fairy thrall. Behold the banks are green and bare, No pit is here wherein to fall; Ay, at the fount you well may stare, But naught save pebbles smooth is there, And small straws twirling, one and all. Hie thee home, and be thy prayer, Save us all from Fairy thrall ! THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR COME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged ; 'tis at a white heat now : The bellows ceased, the flames decreased ; tho' on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play thro' the sable mound ; And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare; Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below ; And red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throe : It rises, roars, rends all outright O Vulcan, what a glow ! 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright ; the high sun shines not so ! 306 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show; The roof ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe ; As, quivering thro' his fleece of flame, the sailing monster, slow Sinks on the anvil all about, the faces fiery glow " Hurrah ! " they shout, "leap out leap out; " bang, bang, the sledges go : Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low; A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow; The leathern mail rebounds the hail ; the rattling cin- ders strow The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow, And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "ho !" Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out and lay on load ! Let's forge a goodly anchor a bower thick and broad ; For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode; And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road The low reef roaring on her lee the roll of ocean poured From stem to stern, sea after sea ; the mainmast by the board ; The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains ! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 307 But courage still, brave mariners the Bower yet re- mains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky high, Then moves his head, as tho' he said, " Fear nothing here am I ! " Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time; Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime ; But, while ye sling your sledges, sing and let the burden be, The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we ! Strike in, strike in the sparks begin to dull their rustling red ; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped ; Our anchor soon must change its bed of fiery rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay ; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry crafts- men here, For the yeo-heave-o 1 , and the heave-away, and the sighing seaman's cheer ; When, weighing slow at eve they go far, far from love and home ; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. 308 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last ; A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea ! O deep-sea Diver, who might then behold such sights as thou ? The hoary-monster's palaces ! methinks what joy 'twere now To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the whales, And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails ! Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea uni- corn, And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn ; To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn ; And for the ghastly grinning shark to laugh his jaws to scorn : To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Nor- wegian isles He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed miles, Till, snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls; Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished shoals Of his back -browsing ocean-calves ; or, haply in a cove, Shell-strewn, and consecrate of old to some Undin6 love, To find the long-haired mermaidens ; or, hard-by icy lands, To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 309 O broad-armed Fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine ? The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line ; And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day, Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play But shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name I gave A fisher's joy is to destroy thine office is to save. O lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but un- derstand Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band, Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend, With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their ancient friend Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee, Thine iron side would swell with pride ; thou'dst leap within the sea ! Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand, To shed their blood so freely for the love of Father- land Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church- yard grave, So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave 3io THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honor him for their memory, whose bones he goes among ! THE LAPFUL OF NUTS WHENE'ER I see soft hazel eyes, And nut-brown curls, I think of those bright days I spent Among the Limerick girls ; When up through Gratia woods I went Nutting with thee; And we plucked the glossy, clustering fruit From many a bending tree. Beneath the hazel boughs we sat, Thou, love, and I, And the gathered nuts lay in thy lap, Below thy downcast eye. But little we thought of the store we'd won, I, love, or thou, For our hearts were full, and we dare not own The love that's spoken now. O there's wars for willing hearts in Spain, And high Germanic ! And I'll come back, if I ever come back, With knightly fame and fee, And I'll come back, if I ever come back, Faithful to thee, That sat, with thy white lap full of nuts, Beneath the hazel-tree. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 311 MAURICE FITZGERALD (Living) MOONLIGHT ON NEW YORK BAY OH, say is that beautiful moon that I see Serenely adorning the Heavens above, Whose beams are refulgently shining on me, Is it shining as bright on the land that I love? The land where I first saw the moon's silver light, The land that I cherish wherever I stray Oh, say, is that moon shining brightly to-night On the green hills of Ireland, away, far away ? How calm and how placid the ocean appears See, the moon and the stars are reflected below. The reflection brings back like a flash through the years The dreams of my boyhood, the days long ago ; The days when I fancied that everything bright Was lasting and real, how delusive were they ! Oh, beautiful Moon ! art thou shining to-night On the green hills of Ireland, away, far away ? Oh, beautiful Moon ! if thou'rt shining as well On that green little island away o'er the sea, To the dear cherished friends who in Ireland dwell With friendship and love bear a token from me. For oh, were I clasped in Death's cold hand to-night, 312 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF Even there with the last breath these fond words I'd say: " Oh, beautiful Moon, shine peaceful and bright On the green hills of Ireland, away, far away ! " TO DOUGLAS HYDE FROM the banks of Androscoggin, Where the pine is bending o'er, To the farthest headland marking California's fertile shore ; From the boundless plains of Texas No Niagara's foaming tide, With a hundred thousand welcomes Exiles greet you, Douglas Hyde. Long we've listened to the pleading Of the men who failed to show How their words alone could purchase Freedom from a heartless foe ; Meekly craving for the justice Always thwarted, long denied Thank the Lord that heaven sent us Men like you, our Douglas Hyde. You, who knew of Erin's glory, You, who saw her latent power, You, who searched the mountain craggy, Wooded glen and leafy bower For the relics of her genius And the tokens of her pride ; You, who wove a native garland, You, who crowned her, Douglas Hyde ! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 313 Now the dismal clouds are drifting And the star of hope appears, Lighting Erin's road to freedom After all the weary years ; Now the olden tongue is spoken, And across the ocean wide You are bringing news to cheer us From the old land, Douglas Hyde. From the banks of Androscoggin, Where the pine is bending o'er, To the farthest headland marking California's fertile shore ; From the boundless plains of Texas To Niagara's foaming tide, Hear the shout and hear the greeting " Welcome, welcome, Douglas Hyde ! " 314 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF ELLEN FITZSIMON (1805-1883) THE SONG OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT IN AMERICA OR THE WOODS OF CAILLINO MY heart is heavy in my breast, my ears are full of tears, My memory is wandering back to long de- parted years, To those bright days long, long ago, When naught I dreamed of sordid care or worldly woe, But roamed, a gay, light-hearted boy, the woods of Caillino. There, in the spring-time of my life and spring-time of the year, I've watched the snowdrop start from earth, the first young buds appear, The sparkling stream o'er pebbles flow, The modest violet and golden primrose grow, Within thy deep and mossy dells, beloved Caillino. 'Twas there I wooed my Mary Dhuv and won her for my bride, Who bore me three fair daughters and four sons, my age's pride ; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 315 Though cruel fortune was our foe, And steeped us to the lips in bitter want and woe, Yet cling our hearts to those sad days we passed near Caillino. At length, by misery bowed to earth, we left our native strand, And crossed the wide Atlantic to this free and happy land ; Though toils we had to undergo, Yet soon content and happy peace 'twas ours to know, And plenty such as never blessed our hearts, near Caillino. And Heaven a blessing has bestowed more precious far than wealth, Has spared us to each other, full of years, yet strong in health ; Across the threshold when we go, We see our children's children round us grow, Like sapling oaks within thy woods, far distant Caillino. Yet sadness clouds our hearts to think that, when we are no more, Our bones must find a resting place far, far from Erin's shore ; For us, no funeral, sad and slow, Within the ancient abbey's burial mound will go, No, we must slumber far from home, far, far from Caillino. Yet, O if spirits e'er can leave the appointed place of rest, 316 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF Once more will I revisit thee, dear Isle that I love best! O'er thy green vales will hover slow, And many a tearful parting blessing will bestow On all, but most of all, on thee, beloved Caillino 1 IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 317 RICHARD FLECKNOE ( -1678) OF DRINKING THE fountains drink caves subterrene, The rivulets drink the fountains dry ; Brooks drink those rivulets again, And them some river gliding by ; Until some gulping sea drink them, And ocean drinks up that again. Of ocean then does drink the sky ; When having brewed it into rain, The earth with drink it does supply, And plants to drink up that again. When turned to liquor in the vine, 'Tis our turn next to drink the wine. By this who does not plainly see, How into our throats at once is hurled Whilst merrily we drinking be The quintessence of all the world ? Whilst all drink then in land, air, sea, Let us too drink as well as they. 318 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF J. L. FORREST (Living) i THE BANSHEE'S SONG " y^V 'ER the wild heath I roam, 1 1 On the night wind I come ; And Beauty shall pale At the voice of my wail ! Husk ! hark to my tidings of gloom and of sorrow ! Go, weep tears of blood, for Och! d'eag an chorra / " With the stranger the brave Hath now found him a grave ; And in beauty and bloom He hath sunk to the tomb ! Oh, never for Desmond shall beam forth a morrow ; For in death cold he lies Och ! d'eag an chorra ! " Woe, woe, wild and deep ! Wake, fair one, and weep ! Wail, wail, wail, wildly wail At the voice of my tale I Go, go ! henceforth life is a burden and sorrow ! For thy heart's pulse is stricken Och ! d'cag an chorra /" Shrieking the Phantom fled. I came and found The maiden lying lifeless on the ground. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 319 Long, long she lay insensible. At length Some feeble symptoms of returning strength Were manifest, and she could faintly tell What on that sad and weary night befell. 'Twas vain to reason with her. She would hear No reason from me. Still the ready tear Would follow the sad story, and her cheek Grow pallid at the thought of that unearthly shriek. A month elaps'd and then, alas ! we knew That the dread vision was too sadly true, She smiled again no more; but from that hour Wither'd and droop'd like to a blighted flower. Hourly she wasted : yet her cheek grew bright With a deep crimson circle and a light Unearthly sparkled in her beaming eyes. Fondly I hoped alas ! I was unwise To dream the beauty of that crimson blush, Was aught but what it was, Consumption's hectic flush. She died and oh, my grief was deep and wild I grieved for dark-hair "d ELLEN was my child ! In yon lone glen they buried her, and there Oft do I go alone to breathe a prayer For her departed spirit. It may be SJie hears and blesses me. 'Twere agony To think it otherwise. When the moon's light, Her lowly grave doth rest upon, and bright Its rays gleam over it, then doth it seem As if her spirit hover'd in that beam, And smiled in peace upon me. Deem ye not My words unhallow'd. 'Tis a blessed thought 320 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF Which fondly I have cherish'd. I have clung To this bright hope since first my heart was wrung Under my sad bereavement. Soon, ah ! soon, (And I would crave it as a blessed boon !) My bones shall rest with hers, my spirit soar To meet my dark-hair 'd child upon a happier shore ! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 321 ELLEN FORRESTER (1828-1883) THE WIDOW'S MESSAGE TO HER SON EMEMBER, Denis, all I bade you say ; Tell him we're well and happy, thank the Lord; But of our troubles, since he went away, You'll mind, avick, and never say a word ! Of cares and troubles, sure, we've all our share ; The finest summer isn't always fair. "Tell him the spotted heifer calved in May; She died, poor thing ; but that you needn't mind ; Nor how the constant rain destroyed the hay ; But tell him God to us was ever kind ; And when the fever spread the country o'er, His mercy kept the ' sickness ' from our door. " Be sure you tell him how the neighbors came And cut the corn ; and stored it in the barn ; 'Twould be as well to mention them by name Pat Murphy, Ned M'Cabe, and James M'Carn, And big Tim Daly from behind the hill ; But say agra ' O say I miss him still ! lAgradA, Olove! 322 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OP " They came with ready hands our toil to share 'Twas then I missed him most my own right hand ; I felt, although kind hearts were round me there, The kindest heart beat in a foreign land. Strong hand ! brave heart ! O severed far from me By many a weary league of shore and sea ! " And tell him she was with us he'll know who : Mavourneen* hasn't she the winsome eyes? The darkest, deepest, brightest, bonniest blue, I ever saw except in summer skies. And such black hair ! it is the blackest hair That ever rippled over neck so fair. " Tell him old Pincher fretted many a day And moped, poor dog, 'twas well he didn't die; Crouched by the roadside, how he watched the way, And sniffed the travelers as they passed him by Hail, rain, or sunshine, sure 'twas all the same, He listened for the foot that never came. " Tell him the house is lonesome-like, and cold, The fire itself seems robbed of half its light ; But maybe 'tis my eyes are growing old, And things look dim before my failing sight : For all that, tell him 'twas myself that spun The shirts you bring, and stitched them every one. 1 Mo-mhuirnln, my darling. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 323 "Give him my blessing, morning, noon, and night; Tell him my prayers are offered for his good, That he may keep his Maker still in sight, And firmly stand, as his brave father stood, True to his name, his country, and his God, Faithful at home, and steadfast still abroad." 324 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF GEORGE FOX (Unknown} THE COUNTY OF MAYO From the Irish of Thomas Flavell \ ON the deck of Patrick Lynch's boat I sat in woful plight, Through my sighing all the weary day and weeping all the night. Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go, By the blessed sun, 'tis royally I'd sing thy praise, Mayo. When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did much abound, In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round. 'Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now I'm forced to go, And must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo. They are altered girls in Irrul now ; 'tis proud they're grown and high, With their hair-bags and their top-knots for I pass their buckles by. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 325 But it's little now I heed their airs, for God will have it so, That I must depart for foreign lands, and leave ray sweet Mayo. 'Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl in Irrul still, And that Brian Duff no longer rules as Lord upon the Hill ; And that Colonel Hugh MacGrady should be lying dead and low, And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the county of Mayo. 326 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF JEAN DE JEAN FRAZER (1809-1852) BROSNA'S BANKS YES, yes, I idled many an hour (Oh ! would that I could idle now, In wooing back the wither'd flower Of health into my wasted brow !) But from my life's o'ershadowing close, My unim passioned spirit ranks Among its happiest moments those I idled on the Brosna's Banks. For there upon my boyhood broke The dreamy voice of nature first ; And every word the vision spoke, How deeply has my spirit nursed ! A woman's love, a lyre, or pen, A rescued land, a nation's thanks, A friendship with the world, and then A grave upon the Brosna's Banks. For these I sued, and sought, and strove, But now my youthful days are gone, In vain, in vain for woman's love Is still a blessing to be won ; And still my country's cheek is wet, The still-unbroken fetter clanks, 327 And I may not forsake her yet To die upon the Brosna's Banks. Yet idle as those visions seem, They were a strange and faithful guide. When heaven itself had scarce a gleam To light my darken'd life beside ; And if from grosser guilt escaped I feel no dying dread, the thanks Are due unto the Power that shaped My visions on the Brosna's Banks. And love, I feel, will come at last, Albeit too late to comfort me ; And fetters from the land be cast, Though I may not survive to see. If then the gifted, good, and brave, Admit me to their glorious ranks, My memory may, tho' not my grave, Be green upon the Brosna's Banks. 328 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF SONG FOR JULY izTH, 1843 Air " tioyne Water " COME ! pledge again thy heart and hand" One grasp that ne'er shall sever ; Our watchword be " Our native land ! " Our motto " Love forever ! " And let the Orange lily be Thy badge, ray patriot-brother The everlasting Green for me ; And we for one another. Behold how green the gallant stem On which the flower is blowing ; How in one heavenly breeze and beam Both flower and stem are glowing. The same good soil, sustaining both, Makes both united flourish ; But cannot give the Orange growth, And cease the green to nourish. Yea, more the hand that plucks the flow'i Will vainly strive to cherish ; The stem blooms on but in that hour The flower begins to perish. Regard them, then, of equal worth While lasts their genial weather ; The time's at hand when into earth The two shall sink together. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 329 Ev'n thus be, in our country's cause, Our party feelings blended ; Till lasting peace, from equal laws, On both shall have descended. Till then the Orange lily be Thy badge, my patriot-brother The everlasting Green for me ; And we for one another. 330 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF ALICE FURLONG (1875- ) THE DREAMER A WIND that dies on the meadows lush, Trembling stars in the breathless hush ! The maiden's sleeping face doth bloom A sad, white lily in the gloom. Along the limpid horizon borne The first gold breathing of the morn ! A lovely dawn of dreams doth creep Athwart the darkness of her sleep. In the dim shadow of the eaves A quiet stir of lifted leaves ! As in the old, beloved days, She wandereth by happy ways. With half-awakened twitterings, The young birds preen their folded wings ! She giveth a forget-me-not To him who long ago forgot. Athwart the meadowy, dewy-sweet, A wind comes wandering on light feet ! For her the wind is from the south, His kiss is kind upon her mouth. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 331 In the bird's house of emerald The sun is weaving webs of gold ! He never coldly went apart ! She never broke her passionate heart ! Pipeth clear from the orchard close A thrush in the bowers of white and rose ! She waketh praying : " God is good, With visions for my solitude." For full delight of birds and flowers The long day spins its golden hours. She serves the household destinies j The dream is happy in her eyes. THE TREES THESE be God's fair high palaces, Walled with fine leafen trellises, Interstarred with the warm and luminous azure ; Sunlights run laughing through, And rains and honey-dew Scatter pale pearls at every green embrasure. The tangled twist and twine Of his soaring staircases have mosses fine For emerald pavement, and each leafy chamber Is atmosphered with amber. Athwart the mellow air The twinkling threads of gossamer Shimmer and shine In many a rainbow line. 332 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF The chaffinch is God's little page. O joyant vassalage ! " You will ! You will ! " he sayeth the whole day long, In sweet monotonous song : Poised on the window-sills of outmost leaves He watches where the tremulous sunlight weaves Its golden webbing over the palpitant grass, While the summer butterfly, winged of the blue- veined snow, Floats by on aerial tides as clear as glass ; Like a fairy ship with its delicate sails ablow, From the break of morn, Herein the blackbird is God's courtier, With gold tongue ever astir, Piping and praising On his beaked horn. To do his Seigneur duty In mellow fluency and dulcet phrasing, In paeans of passing beauty ; As a chanting priest, Chanting his matins in the wane o' the night, While slow great winds of vibrant light Sweep up the lilied East. The dumb thing is God's guest, And ever tired creature seeking rest ; The sheep, grown weary browsing, The cattle, drouthy with heat, One after one, lagging on listless feet, Seek the green shadow of God's pleasant housing ; While the thousand winged wights of bough and air Do find God's palace fair ! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 333 MARY FURLONG (1868-1898) AN IRISH LOVE-SONG I love you, and I love you, and I love you, O my honey ! It isn't for your goodly lands, it isn't for your money ; It isn't for your father's cows, your mother's yellow butter, The love that's in my heart for you no words of mine may utter ! The whole world is gone wrong with me since yester- morning early, Above the shoulder of Sliav Ruadh the sun was peep- ing barely, Your light feet scarcely stirred the dew among the scented clover ; O happy dew, O happy grass, those little feet went over ! The breeze had coaxed your nut-brown hair beneath the white sunbonnet, The sunbeams kissed the corn-flowers blue that you had fastened on it, And danced and danced, and quivered down your gown of colored cotton ; And when I looked upon your face I fear I'd quite forgotten 334 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF It was not you I came to see this morning but another, But who could look on that brown head, and ask for Tom, the brother ? Your blue eyes have bewitched me quite, the eatin' and the dhrinkin' Have lost the grah * they used to have, of you I'm al- ways thinkin'. The white of wheat is on your cheek, the scarlet of the berry There sweetly blends : on each soft lip the smile comes quick and merry ; And oh ! the blue, blue eyes that shine beneath their silken lashes My word ! it is for sake of them my bread is turned to ashes ! But sure this foolish tongue of mine won't get to tell its story Oh, how I wish I had the talk of my fine cousin Rory ! Who's just as glib as if he ate the highest English Grammar, And if he loved a thousand times it would not make him stammer. And yet I almost think she cares for sometimes how she blushes ! And so this pleasant eve of May, when all the larks and thrushes Are singing their sweet songs of love, I'll try an' tell my story, Although I cannot sing like them, or speak like cousin Rory. Grah. taste. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 335 GLEN-NA-SMOEL IN the heart of high blue hills Where the silence thrills and thrills, In the Valley of the Thrushes : From the golden low furze-bushes On the mountain wind's light feet Comes a perfume faint and sweet. Where the hills stand blue and gray In the sunshine miles away, Rises a small streamlet brawling, On the silence calling, calling ; Flows by fern and foxglove tall And green mosses curled and small. Through the valley it goes swift, 'Tis the mountain's wayward gift ; Dancing onward, laughing, leaping, Amber eddies gayly sweeping Round the big stones grayly-white In the sunny summer light ! In the Thrushes' mystic glen Are the only dwellers men ? When the ghostly moonlight glimmers And the singing river shimmers, Do the fairies never come Are their nimble feet grown numb ? Ah ! I think the fairies fled When the mountain people said : " In this crystal-watered valley Skill and labor both shall rally, 336 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF Mighty earthen walls shall build And the valley shall be filled, " Filled with clear pellucid rills That are born within the hills, They shall gather all these fountains Flowing sweetly from the mountains, Cunningly shall bear them down To the distant thirsty town ! " No green rushes grow beside The dark waters as they glide From the Valley of the Thrushes ; But the scent of the furze-bushes And the breath of heath-clad hill Dwell within their bosom still. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 337 THOMAS FURLONG (1794-1827) BRIDGET CRUISE From the Irish of O' Carolan OH ! turn thee to me, my only love, Let not despair confound me ; Turn, and may blessings from above In life and death surround thee. This fond heart throbs for thee alone Oh ! leave me not to languish ; Look on these eyes, whence sleep hath flown, Bethink thee of my anguish : My hopes, my thoughts, my destiny All dwell, all rest, sweet girl, on thee. Young bud of beauty, forever bright, The proudest must bow before thee : Source of my sorrow and my delight Oh ! must I in vain adore thee ? Where, where, through earth's extended round, Where may such loveliness be found ? Talk not of fair ones known of yore ; Speak not of Deirdre the renowned She whose gay glance each minstrel hailed Nor she whom the daring Dardan bore From her fond husband's longing arms ; Name not the dame whose fatal charms, When weighed against a world, prevailed ; 338 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF To each might blooming beauty fall, Lovely, thrice lovely, might they be ; But the gifts and graces of each and all Are mingled, sweet maid, in thee ! How the entranced ear fondly lingers On the turns of thy thrilling song 1 How brightens each eye as thy fair white fingers O'er the chords fly gently along ! The noble, the learned, the aged, the vain, Gaze on the songstress, and bless the strain. How winning, dear girl, is thine air, How glossy thy golden hair ! Oh ! loved one, come back again, With thy train of adorers about thee Oh ! come, for in grief and in gloom we remain Life is not life without thee. My memory wanders my thoughts have strayed My gathering sorrows oppress me Oh ! look on thy victim, bright peerless maid, Say one kind word to bless me. Why, why on thy beauty must I dwell, When each tortured heart knows its power too well ? Or why need I say that favored and blessed Must be the proud land that bore thee ? Oh ! dull is the eye and cold the breast That remains unmoved before thee. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 339 EILEEN AROON ' I'LL love thee evermore, Eileen Aroon ! I'll bless thee o'er and o'er, Eileen Aroon ! Oh, for thy sake I'll tread Where the plains of Mayo spread, By hope still fondly led, Eileen Aroon ! Oh, how may I gain thee, Eileen Aroon ? Shall feasting entertain thee, Eileen Aroon ? I would range the world wide, With love alone to guide, To win thee for my bride, Eileen Aroon ! Then wilt thou come away. Eileen Aroon ? Oh, wilt thou come to stay, Eileen Aroon ? Oh, oh, yes, with thee, I will wander far and free, And thy only love shall be, Eileen Aroon ! A hundred thousand welcomes, Eileen Aroon ! A hundred thousand welcomes, Eileen Aroon ? 1 This Hardiman calls in his " Irish Minstrelsy : ' the " old Eileen Aroon." 340 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF Oh, welcome evermore, With welcomes yet in store, Till love and life are o'er, Eileen Aroon ! MAGGY LAIDIR From the Irish of John O'Neachtan Here's first the toast, the pride and boast, Our darling Maggy Laidir ; Let old and young, with ready tongue And open heart, applaud her. Again prepare here's to the Fair Whose smiles with joy have crowned us, Then drain the bowl for each gay soul That's drinking here around us. Come, friends, don't fail to toast O'Neil, Whose race our rights defended ; Maguire the true, O'Donnell too, From eastern sires descended. Up ! up again the tribe of Maine In danger never failed us, With Leinster's spear forever near, When foemen have assailed us. The madder fill with right good will, There's sure no joy like drinking Our Bishop's name this draught must claim, Come let me have no shrinking. His name is dear, and with him here We'll join old Father Peter, And as he steers thro" life's long years, May life to him seem sweeter. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 341 Come mark the call, and drink to all Old Ireland's tribes so glorious, Who still have stood, in fields of blood, Unbroken and victorious : Long as of old may Connaught hold Her boast of peerless beauty ; And Leinster show to friend and foe Her sons all prompt for duty. A curse for those who dare oppose Our country's claim for freedom ; May none appear the knaves to hear, Or none who hear 'em heed 'em : May famine fall upon them all, May pests and plagues confound them, And heartfelt care, and black despair, Till life's last hour surround them. May lasting joys attend the boys Who love the land that bore us, Still may they share such friendly fare As this that spreads before us. May social cheer, like that we've here, Forever stand to greet them ; And hearts as sound as those around Be ready still to meet them. Come, raise the voice ! rejoice, rejoice, Fast, fast, the dawn's advancing, My eyes grow dim, but every limb Seems quite agog for dancing. Sweet girls begin, 'tis shame and sin To see the time we're losing. 342 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF Come, lads, be gay trip, trip away, While those who sit keep boozing. Where's Thady Oge ? up, Dan, you rogue, Why stand you snilly-shally? There's Mora here, and Una's here, And yonder' s sporting Sally. Now frisk it round aye, there's the sound Our sires were fond of hearing ; The harp rings clear hear, gossip, hear ! O sure such notes are cheering ! Your health, my friend ! till life shall end May no bad chance betide us ; Oh, may we still, our grief to kill, Have drink like this beside us ! A fig for care ! but who's that there That's of a quarrel thinking ? Put out the clown or knock him down We're here for fun and drinking. Tie up his tongue am I not sprung From chiefs that all must honor The princely Gael, the great O'Neil, O' Kelly and O'Connor, O'Brien the strong, Maguire, whose song Has won the praise of nations ; O' Moore the tough, and big Branduff, These are my blood relations ! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 343 ROISIN DUBH OH ! my sweet little rose, cease to pine for the past, For the friends that came eastward shall see thee at last ; They bring blessings and favors the past never knew To pour forth in gladness on my Roisin Dubh. Long, long, with my dearest, through strange scenes I've gone, O'er mountains and broad valleys I still have toiled on; O'er the Erne I have sailed as the rough gales blew, While the harp poured its music for my Roisin Dubh. Though wearied, oh ! my fair one ! do not slight my song, For my heart dearly loves thee, and hath loved thee long ; In sadness and in sorrow I still shall be true, And cling with wild fondness round my Roisin Dubh. 1 This song is a translation. Mr. Hardiman in his " Irish Minstrelsy," says of it : " Roisin Dubh ( Little Black Rose) is an allegorical ballad in which strong political feelings are con- veyed as a personal address from a lover to his fair one. The allegorical meaning has been long since forgotten, and the verses are now remembered and sung as a plaintive love ditty. It was composed in the reign of Elizabeth of England, to cele- brate our Irish hero, Hugh Ruadh O'Donnell of Tirconnell. By Roisin Dubh, supposed to be a beloved female, is meant Ireland." 344 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF There's no flower that e'er bloomed can my rose excel, There's no tongue that e'er moved half my love can tell, Had I strength, had I skill the wide world to subdue, Oh ! the queen of that wide world should be Roisin Dubh. Had I power, oh ! my loved one, but to plead thy right, I should speak out in boldness for my heart's delight ; I would tell to all round me how my fondness grew, And bid them bless the beauty of my Roisin Dubh. The mountains, high and misty, through the moors must go, The rivers shall run backwards, and the lakes over- flow, And the wild waves of old ocean wear a crimson hue, Ere the world sees the ruin of my Roisin Dubh. IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 345 F. O'NEILL GALLAGHER (Living) THE SEA MADNESS I HAVE come far from the sound of the thresh, the sight of the living sea, To a place of cribbed and narrow ways, where only the wind is free ; But the leap of the sea is in my blood, and always, night and day, I hear the lap and wash of the waves, the hiss of the flying spray. When the loosened winds of the tempest wake far thunder on the deep I can hear the siren music calling through the veil of sleep j Through the thronging city highways comes the hol- low ocean roar, And I sicken for the long green surge, the lonely foam-wet shore. I know a storm-lashed headland, where the broken hillside dips In a sombre flame of heather to the ocean's singing lips. I must go ; the sea has called me, as a mistress to her swain ; From the immemorial tumult I shall drink of peace again. 346 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF W. D. GALLAGHER (Living.} THE LABORER STAND up erect ! Thou hast the form, And likeness of thy God ! who more ? A soul as dauntless 'mid the storm Of daily life a heart as warm And pure, as breast e'er wore. What then ? Thou art as true a man As moves the human mass among ; As much a part of the great plan That with creation's dawn began As any of the throng. Who is thine enemy ? The high In station, or in wealth the chief The great, who coldly pass thee by, With proud step and averted eye ? Nay ! nurse not such belief. If true unto thyself thou wast, What were the proud one's scorn to thee ? A feather, which thou mightest cast Aside as idly as the blast The light leaf from the tree. No : uncurb'd passions, low desires, Absence of noble self-respect, IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 347 Death, in the breast's consuming fires, To that high nature which aspires Forever, till thus check'd, These are thine enemies thy worst ; They chain thee to thy lowly lot ; Thy labor and thy life accurs'd. Oh, stand erect, and from them burst, And longer suffer not ! Thou art thyself thine enemy ! The great ! what better they than thou ? As theirs, is not thy will as free ? Has God with equal favors thee Neglected to endow ? True; wealth thou hast not 'tis but dust ! Nor place, uncertain as the wind ! But that thou hast, which, with thy crust And water, may despise the lust Of both, a noble mind ! With this, and passions under ban, True faith, and holy trust in God, Thou art the peer of any man. Ix)ok up, then ; that thy little span Of life may well be trod ! 348 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF ARTHUR GERALD GEOGHEGAN (1810-1889) AFTER AUGHRIM DO you remember, long ago, Kathaleen ? When your lover whispered low, " Shall I stay or shall I go, Kathaleen ? " And you answered proudly, " Go ! And join King James and strike a blow For the Green ! " Mavronc, your hair is white as snow, Kathaleen ; Your heart is sad and full of woe. Do you repent you made him go, Kathaleen ? And quick you answer proudly, " No ! For better die with Sarsfield so Than live a slave without a blow For the Green ! " THE MOUNTAIN FERN OH, the fern, the fern, the Irish hill fern, That girds our blue lakes from Lough Ine to Lough Erne, That waves on our crags like the plume of a king, IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 349 And bends like a nun over clear well and spring. The fairies' tall palm-tree, the heath bird's fresh nest, And the couch the red-deer deems the sweetest and best ; With the free winds to fan it, and dew-drops to gem, Oh, what can ye match with its beautiful stem ? From the shrine of St. Finbar, by lone Avon-bwee, To the halls of Dunluce, with its towers by the sea, From the hill of Knockthu to the rath of Moyvore, Like a chaplet that circles our green island o'er, In the bawn of the chief, by the anchorite's cell, Oh the hilltop or greenwood, by streamlet or well, With a spell on each leaf which no mortal can learn, Oh, there never was plant like the Irish hill fern ! Oh, the fern, the fern, the Irish hill fern, That shelters the weary, or wild roe, or kern ; Through the glens of Kilcoe rose a shout on the gale, As the Saxons rushed forth in their wrath from the Pale, With bandog and blood-hound, all savage to see, To hunt through Cluncalla the wild rapparee. Hark ! a cry from yon dell on the startled ear rings, And forth from the wood the young fugitive springs, Through the copse, o'er the bog, and oh, saints be his guide 1 His fleet step now falters, there's blood on his sides ; Yet onward he strains, climbs the cliff, fords the stream, And sinks on the hilltop, 'mid bracken leaves green ; And thick o'er his brow are the fresh clusters piled, And they cover his form as the mother her child, 350 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF And the Saxon is baffled. They never discern Where it shelters and saves him, the Irish hill fern. Oh, the fern, the fern, the Irish hill fern, That pours a wild keen o'er the hero's gray cairn, Go hear it at midnight, when stars are all out, And the wind o'er the hillside is moaning about, With a rustle and stir, and a low wailing tone That thrills through the heart with its whispering lone ; And ponder its meaning, when haply you stray Where the halls of the stranger in ruin decay ; With night-owls for warders, the goshawk for guest, And their dais of honor by cattle-hoof pressed, With its foss choked with rushes, and spider webs flung Over walls where the marchmen their red weapons hung, With a curse on their name, and a sigh for the hour That tarries so long. Look what waves on the tower With an omen and sign, and an augury stern, 'Tis the green flag of Time, 'tis the Irish hill fern. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 351 LADY GILBERT jRosa Mulholland (1855- ) KILFENORA A DREAM lives in the purple on thy hills, A spirit haunteth thee forevermore Kilfenora ! Out of that dream she cometh when she wills, That spirit, and walketh on thy wild seashore, Kilfenora ! A small white sea-bird on thy wave below Sits long and broods and rocks upon thy flood Kilfenora ! The storm within my heart how can she know. Yet she doth know and all hath understood, Kilfenora ! The violet and the song-bird have their nests In thy green lap, and they are sweet in thee, Kilfenora ! But sweeter far the dream within my breast, Scenting my thoughts and singing piteously, Kilfenora ! O sweeter far the dream that lived and died, A summer's life and then a winter's grave, Kilfenora ! 352 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF In thy fair valley and on thy strong tide, That gave and took, and taking all, yet gave, Kilfenora ! SAINT BRIGID 9"|V /TID dewy pastures girdled with blue air, IV/I Where ruddy kine the limpid waters drink, Through violet-purpled woods of green Kil- dare, 'Neath rainbow skies, by tinkling rivulet's brink, O Brigid, young, thy tender, snow-white feet In days of old on breezy morns and eves Wandered through labyrinths of sun and shade, Thy face so innocent-sweet Shining with love that neither joys nor grieves Save as the angels, meek and holy maid ! With white fire in thy hand that burned no man, But cleansed and warmed where'er its rays might fall, Nor ever wasted low, or needed fan, Thou walk'dst at eve among the oak-trees tall. There thou didst chant thy vespers, while each star Grew brighter listening through the leafy screen. Then ceased the song-bird all his love-notes soft, His music near or far, Hushing his passion 'mid the sombre green To let thy peaceful whispers float aloft. And still from heavenly choirs thou steal'st by night To tell sweet Aves in the woods unseen, To tend the shrine- lamps with thy flambeau white IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS, 353 And set thy tender footprints in the green. Thus sing our birds with holy note and pure, As though the loves of angels were their theme ; Thus burn to throbbing flame our sacred fires With heats that still endure ; Thence hath our daffodil its golden gleam, From thy dear mindfulness that never tires ! I SHAMROCKS WEAR a shamrock in my heart. Three in one, one in three Truth and love and faith, Tears and pain and death ; O sweet my shamrock is to me ! Lay me in my hollow bed, Grow the shamrocks over me. Three in one, one in three, Faith and hope and charity, Peace and rest and silence be With me where you lay my head : O dear the shamrocks are to me ! ' SONG THE silent bird is hid in the boughs. The scythe is hid in the corn, The lazy oxen wink and drowse, The grateful sheep are shorn ; Redder and redder burns the rose, The lily was ne'er so pale, Stiller and stiller the river flows Along the path to the vale. 354 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF A little door is hid in the boughs, A face is hiding within ; When birds are silent and oxen drowse Why should a maiden spin ? Slower and slower turns the wheel, The face turns red and pale, Brighter and brighter the looks that steal Along the path to the vale. THE BUILDERS I SAW the builders laying Stones on the grassy sod, And people praised them, saying " A fane to the mighty God Shall rise aloft in glory, Pillars and arches wide, Windows stained with the story Of Christ the Crucified." I saw the broken boulders Lie in the waving grass, Flung down from bending shoulders. And said, " Our lives must pass Ere wide cathedral spreading Can span this mossy field Where kine are slowly treading And flowers their honey yield. " Oh, dreaming builders, tarry ! Unchain your souls from toil, Leave the rock in the quarry, The bloom upon the soil ; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 355 For life is short, my brothers, And labor wastes it sore, Why toil to gladden others When you shall breathe no more ? " Oh ! come with footstep springing, With empty hands and free, And tread the green earth singing ' The world was made for me ! ' Pray amid nature's sweetness In pillared forest glade, Content with the incompleteness Of fanes that the Lord has made ! " The builders, never heeding, Kept piling stone on stone, Their hands with toil were bleeding I went my way alone. Prayed in the forest temple And ate the wild-bee's store ; My life was pure and simple What would the Lord have more? The years, like one long morning, They all flew swiftly by ; Old age with little warning Came creeping softly nigh. Now (be we all forgiven !) I longed to see, alas ! What the builders had raised to heaven Instead of the tender grass. I heard a sweet bell ringing Over the world so wide ; 356 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF I heard a sound of singing Across the eventide. What sight my soul bewilders Beneath the sunset's glow ? The fane that the dreaming builders Were building long ago ! "Tis n6t the sculptured portal, Or windows jeweled wide, With joy of the life immortal, And woes of him who died, That fill my soul with wonder, And drain my heart of tears, And ask with voice of thunder, Where are thy wasted years ! But a thousand thousand creatures Kneel down where grew the sod, And hear with glowing features The words that breathe of God. Alone and empty-handed, I wait by the open door : Such work hath the Lord commended, And I can work no more ! The builders never heeding They lie and take their rest, And hands no longer bleeding Are folded on each breast The grass waves o'er them sleeping, And flowerets red and white Where I kneel above them weeping, And whisper, " You were right." IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 357 THE WILD GEESE I HAD no sail to cross the sea, A brave white bird went forth from me, My heart was hid beneath his wing : strong white bird, come back in spring ! 1 watched the wild geese rise and cry Across the flaring western sky ; Their winnowing pinions clove the light, Then vanished, and came down the night. I laid me low, my day was done, I longed not for the morrow's sun, But closely swathed in swoon of sleep, Forgot to hope, forgot to weep. The moon, through veils of gloomy red, A warm yet dusky radiance shed All down our valley's golden stream, And flushed my slumber with a dream. Her mystic torch lit up my brain ; My spirit rose and lived amain, And followed through the windy spray That bird upon its watery way. " O wild white bird, O wait for me! My soul hath wings to fly with thee : On foam waves, lengthening out afar, We'll ride towards the western star. " O'er glimmering plains, through forest gloom, To track a wanderer's feet I come ; 358 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF 'Mid lonely swamp, by haunted brake, I'll pass unfrighted for his sake. "Alone, afar, his footsteps roam, The stars his roof, the tent his home. Saw'st thou what way the wild geese flew To sunward through the thick night dew ? " Carry my soul where he abides, And pierce the mystery that hides His presence, and through time and space Look with mine eyes upon his face." Beside his prairie fire he rests, All feathered things are in their nests : " What strange wild bird is this," he saith, " Still fragrant with the ocean's breath? " Perch on my hand, thou briny thing, And let me stroke thy shy wet wing ; What message in thy soft eye thrills ? I see again my native hills, " And vale, the river's silver streak, The mist upon the blue, blue peak, The shadows gray, the golden sheaves, The mossy walls, the russet eaves. " I greet the friends I've loved and lost, Do all forget ? No, tempest-tost, That braved for me the ocean's foam, Some heart remembers me at home. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 359 "Ere spring's return I will be there, Thou strange sea-fragrant messenger ! " I wake and weep ; the moon shines sweet, O dream too short ! O bird too fleet ! 360 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1728-1774) AN ELEGY On ike glory of her sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize. GOOD people all, with one accord, Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word - From those who spoke her praise. The needy seldom passed her door, And always found her kind ; She freely lent to all the poor Who left a pledge behind. She strove the neighborhood to please With manners wondrous winning ; And never followed wicked ways Unless when she was sinning. At church, in silks and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumbered in her pew But when she shut her eyes. Her love was sought, I do aver, By twenty beaux and more ; The King himself has followed her When she has walked before. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 361 But now, her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all ; The doctors found, when she was dead Her last disorder mortal. Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent Street well may say, That had she lived a twelvemonth more She had not died to-day. MEMORY O MEMORY, thou fond deceiver, Still importunate and vain, To former joys recurring ever, And turning all the past to pain : Thou, like the world, th' oppress'd oppressing, Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe : And he who wants each other blessing In thee must ever find a foe. r ^ THE HERMIT From the Vicar of Wakefield. URN gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray. "For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow ; 362 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF Where wilds immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go." "Forbear my son," the Hermit cries, " To tempt the dangerous gloom For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. " Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still ; And though my portion is but scant, I give it with good will. " Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows ; My rushy couch and frugal fare, My blessing and repose. " No flocks that range the valley free To slaughter I condemn ; Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them ; " But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I b'ing ; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring. "Then pilgrim turn, thy cares forego; All earth-born cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long." IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 363 Soft as the dew from heaven descends, His gentle accents fell ; The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure, The lonely mansion lay ; A refuge to the neighboring poor, And strangers led astray. No stores beneath its humble thatch Required a master's care ; The wicket, opening with a latch, Received the harmless pair. And now, when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest, The Hermit trimmed his little fire And cheered his pensive guest ; And spread his vegetable store, And gayly pressed and smiled ; And, skilled in legendary lore, The lingering hours beguiled. Around, in sympathetic mirth, Its tricks the kitten tries ; The cricket chirrups on the hearth : The crackling fagot flies. But nothing could a charm impart To soothe the stranger's woe ; For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. 364 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF His rising cares the Hermit spied, With answering care opprest ; " And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, " The sorrows of thy breast ? "From better habitations spurned, Reluctant dost thou rove ? Or grieve for friendship unreturned, Or unregarded love ? "Alas ! the joys that fortune brings Are trifling, and decay ; And those who prize the paltry things More trifling still than they. " And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep ; A shade that follows wealth or fame, And leaves the wretch to weep ? " And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair one's jest : On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle's nest. " For shame, fond youth ! thy sorrows hush, And spurn the sex," he said; But while he spoke, a rising blush His lovelorn guest betrayed. Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view : Like colors o'er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 365 The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms ; The lovely stranger stands confest A maid in all her charms. "And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn," she cried; " Whose feet, unhallowed thus intrude Where heaven and you reside. " But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray ; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. " My father lived beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he ; And all his wealth was marked as mine, He had but only me. " To win me from his tender arms, Unnumbered suitors came ; Who praised me for imputed charms, And felt, or feigned, a flame. " Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove ; Among the rest young Edwin bowed, But never talked of love. " In humble, simplest habit clad, No wealth or power had he ; Wisdom and worth were all he had, Bui these were all to me. 366 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF " And when beside me in the dale He caroled lays of love, His breath lent fragrance to the gale And music to the grove. " The blossom opening to the day, The dews of heaven refined, Could naught of purity display To emulate his mind. " The dew, the blossoms of the tree, With charms inconstant shine ; Their charms were his, but, woe to me ! Their constancy was mine. " For still I tried each fickle art, Importunate and vain ; And while his passion touched my heart, I triumphed in his pain ; "Till, quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride ; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret, where he died. " But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay ; I'll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay. " And there forlorn, despairing, hid, I'll lay me down and die ; 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I." IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 367 "Forbid it, Heaven," the Hermit cried, And elapsed her to his breast ; The wondering fair one turned to chide, 'Twas Edwin's self that pressed. "Turn, Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long lost Edwin here, Restored to love and thee. " Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And every care resign ; And shall we never, never part, My life, my all that's mine ? " No, never from this hour to part, We'll live and love so true ; The sigh that rends thy constant heart Shall break thy Edwin's too." TONY LUMPKIN'S SONG LET schoolmasters puzzle their brain With grammar, and nonsense, and learning; Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, Gives genus a better discerning. Let them brag of their heathenish gods, Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians ; Their Quis, and their Quaes, and their Quods, They're all but a parcel of Pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 368 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF When Methodist preachers come down, A-preaching that drinking is sinful, I'll wager the rascals a crown, They always preach best with a skinful. But when you come down with your pence For a slice of their scurvy religion, I'll leave it to all men of sense, But you, my good friend, are the pigeon. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. Then come, put the jorum about, And let us be merry and clever, Our hearts and our liquors are stout, Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons forever. Let some cry up woodcock or hare, Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons ; But of all the birds in the air, Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. Toroddle, Toroddle, toroll. WOMAN WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly, And firids too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy ? What art can wash her tears away ? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from ev'ry eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom is to die. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 369 EVA GORE-BOOTH (Living) FROM EAST TO WEST GREAT ships glided into the port : Surely the ships of the gods laden with dreams : And men said, " It is well ; They have brought their dreams to us as of old, And now new tales shall be told." But the gods stood on the decks aghast ; They saw the earth an iron port ; The air a silver citadel, The sky a fortress built of solid gold. Then Prani said, " Here is no place for our dreams." So they flung the great sails over the mast, And sailed out slowly across the seas, Till they came to a twilight land in the west Where old unquiet mysteries And pale discrowned spirits dwell ; Where the wind sings a song with a golden lilt And the air flows by in silver streams. There, in wild wastes of the world they built An ivory castle for their dreams. T THE LITTLE WAVES OF BREFFNY HE Grand Road from the mountain goes shining to the sea, And there is traffic in it, and many a horse and cart ; 370 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF But the little roads of Cloonagh are deeper far to me, And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart. A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o'er the hill, And there's glory in it, and terror on the wind ; But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still, And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind. The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way, Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal ; But the Little Waves of Breffny have drowned my heart in spray, And the Little Waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul. TO MAEVE NOT for thee, O Maeve, is the song of the Wan- dering Harper sung, For men have put lies on thy lips, and treason and shrieking fear ; Because thou wert brave, they say thou wert bitter and false of tongue : They mock at thy weakness now, who once fled from thy flaming spear. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 371 Now thou art cold on the mountain, buried and silent and blind, Dumb as the hills and the stars, blind as the waves of the sea. A clatter of treacherous tongues goes sailing along the wind, And many an evil thought is spoken in hatred of thee. Was it Fergus whose envious breath first cast o'er thy shining name A poison of venomous words in the midst of the mourning host, Till thy glory shone before them a wicked and perilous flame, And thy beauty seemed but a snare, thy valor an empty boast ? They have buried thy golden deeds under the cairn on the hill, And no one shall sing of thy hero soul in the days to come ; For the sky is blue with silence, and the stars are very still, The sea lies dreaming about thee ; even the moun- tains are dumb. 372 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF A. P. GRAVES (1846- ) AN IRISH GRACE FOR beauty's blaze Let Pagans praise The features of Aglaia. Admire agape The maiden shape Consummate in Thalia. Last hail in thee Euphrosyne Allied the sov'ran powers, Of form and face No heathen Grace Can match this Grace of ours. Blue are her eyes, as though the skies, Were ever blue above them, And dark their full fringed canopies As if the night-fays wove them. Two roses kiss to mold her mouth, Her ear's a lily blossom, Her blush a sunset in the south, And drifted snow her bosom. o IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 373 Her voice is gay, but soft and low, The sweetest of all trebles, A silver brook, that in its flow, Chimes over pearly pebbles. A happy heart, a temper bright, Her radiant smile expresses ; And, like a wealth of golden light, Rain down her sunny tresses. Earth's desert clime, Whose sands are time, Will prove a glad oasis If 'tis my fate My friends, to mate With such a girl as Grace is. FATHER O'FLYNN F priests we can offer a charmin' variety, Far renowned for larnin' and piety ; Still, I'd advance ye widout impropriety, Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all. CHORUS. Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn, Sldinte, and sldinte, and sldinte agin ; Powerfulest preacher, and Tinderest teacher, and Kindliest creature in ould Donegal. 374 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF Don't talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity Famous forever at Greek and Latinity, Faix ! and the divils and all at Divinity Father O'Flynn 'd make hares of them all ! Come, I vinture to give you my word, Niver the likes of his logic was heard, Down from mythology Into thayology, Troth ! and conchology if he'd the call. Och ! Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way wid you, All the ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you, All the young childer are wild for to play wid you, You've such a way wid you, Father avick ! Still, for all you've so gentle a soul, Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control, Checking the crazy ones, Coaxin' onaisy ones, Liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick. And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity Still, at all seasons of innocent jollity, Where was the play-boy could claim an equality At comicality, Father, wid you ? Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest, Till this remark set him off wid the rest : " Is it lave gaiety All to the laity ? Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too ? ' ' I IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 375 IRISH EYES RISH eyes ! Irish eyes ! Eyes that most of all can move me ! Lift one look From my book Through your lashes dark, and prove me In my worship, oh, how wise ! Other orbs, be content ! In your honor, not dispraisal Most I prize Irish eyes, Since were not your ebon, hazel, Violet, all to light them lent ? Then no mischief, merry eyes ! Stars of thought, no jealous fancies Can 1 err To prefer This sweet union of your glances, Sparkling, darkling Irish eyes ? B KITTY BHAN EFORE the first ray of blushing day, Who should come but Kitty Bahn, With her cheek like the rose on a bed of snows, And her bosom beneath like the sailing swan. I looked and looked till my heart was gone. 376 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF With the foot of the fawn she crossed the lawn, Half confiding and half in fear ; And her eyes of blue they thrilled me through, One blessed minute ; then, like the deer, Away she darted, and left me here. O sun, you are late at your golden gate, For you've nothing to show beneath the sky To compare to the lass, who crossed the grass Of the shamrock field, ere the dew was dry, And the glance she gave me as she went by. LIKE A STONE IN THE STREET I'M left all alone like a stone at the side of the street, With no kind " good day " on the way from the many I meet. Still with looks cold and high they go by, not one brow now unbends, None hold out his hand of the band of my fair-weather friends. They helped me to spend to the end all my fine shin- ing store, They drank to my health and my wealth till both were no more. And now they are off with a scoff as they leave me behind, " When you've ate the rich fruit, underfoot with the bare bitter rind." There's rest deep and still on yon hill by our old Chapel's side ; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 377 Where I laid long ago, to my woe, my young one year's bride. Then Ochone ! for relief from my grief into madness I flew: Would to God ere that day in the clay I'd been covered with you. THE BLUE, BLUE SMOKE OH, many and many a time In the dim old days, When the chapel's distant chime Pealed the hour of evening praise, I've bowed my head in prayer ; Then shouldered scythe or bill, And traveled, free of care, To my home across the hill ; Whilst the blue, blue smoke Of my cottage in the coom, Softly wreathing, Sweetly breathing, Waved my thousand welcomes home. For oft and oft I've stood, Delighted in the dew, Looking down across the wood, Where it stole into my view Sweet spirit of the sod, Of our own Irish Earth, Going gently up to God From the poor man's hearth. O the blue, blue smoke 378 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF Of my cottage in the coom, Softly wreathing, Sweetly breathing My thousand welcomes home. But I hurried swiftly on, When Herself from the door Came swimming like a swan Beside the Shannon shore ; And after her in haste, On pretty, pattering feet, Our rosy cherubs raced Their daddy dear to meet ; Whilst the blue, blue smoke Of my cottage in the coom, Softly wreathing, Sweetly breathing, Waved my thousand welcomes home. But the times are sorely changed Since those dim old days, And far, far I've ranged From those dear old ways ; And my colleen's golden hair To silver all has grown, And our little cherub pair Have cherubs of their own ; And the black, black smoke, Like a heavy funeral plume, Darkly wreathing, Fearful breathing, Crowns the city with its gloom. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 379 But 'tis our comfort sweet Through the long toil of life, That we'll turn with tired feet From the noise and the strife, And wander slowly back In the soft western glow, Hand in hand by the track That we trod long ago ; Till the blue, blue smoke Of my cottage in the coom, Softly wreathing, Sweetly breathing, Waves our thousand welcomes home. THE IRISH SPINNING-WHEEL SHOW me a sight Bates for delight An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it. Oh, no ! Nothing you'll show Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. Look at her there Night in her hair, The blue ray of day from her eye laughin' out on us ! Faix, an' a foot, Perfect of cut, Peepin' to put an end to all doubt in us. That there's a sight Bates for delight An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it 380 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF Oh, noJ Nothin' you'll show Aquals her sittin' an* takin' a twirl at it. See ! the lamb's wool Turns coarse an' dull By them soft, beautiful weeshy white hands of her. Down goes her heel, Roun' runs the wheel, Purrin' wid pleasure to take the commands of her. Then show me a sight Bates for delight An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it. Oh, no ! Nothin' you'll show Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. Talk of Three Fates, Seated on sates, Spinnin' and shearin' away till they've done for me 1 You may want three For your massacree, But one Fate for me, boys and only the one for me ! And isn't that fate Pictured com plate An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it? Oh, no ! Nothin' you'll show Aquals her sittin' an' takin' a twirl at it. * IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 381 SHE IS MY LOVE In the measure of tht original Gaelic love song. SHE is my love beyond all thought, Though she hath wrought my deepest dole; Yet dearer for the cruel pain Than one who fain would make me whole. She is my glittering gem of gems, Who yet contemns my fortune bright ; Whose cheek but glows with redder scorn Since mine has worn a stricken white. She is my sun and moon and star, Who yet so far and cold doth keep, She would not even o'er my bier One tender tear of pity weep. Into my heart unsought she came, A wasting flame, a haunting care j Into my heart of hearts, ah, why ? And left a sigh forever there. 382 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF C. L. GRAVES (Living) AD ARISTIUM FUSCUM ! INTEGER vitae scleresque purus Non eget Mauris jaculus neque arcu Nee venenatis gravida sagittis, Fusee, pharetra, Sive per Syrtes iter aestuosas Sive facturus per inhospitalem Caucasam vel quae loca fabulosus Lambet Hydaspes. Nam qua me silva lupus in Sabina Dum meam Canto Lalagen et ultra Terminum curis vagor expeditis, Fugit inermim, Quale portatum neque militaris Daunias latis alet aesculetis Nee Juliae tellus general, lionem Arida nutrix. 1 Horace, Ode. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 383 C. L. GRAVES (Living) AD ARISTIDEN OBFUSCATUM ' IF clear be your conscience, my Morley, No bullet-proof coat you'll require, Though often dispirited sorely By Erin's Invincible ire ; Nay further, discarding coercion, You may with impunity fare On a midsummer moonlight excursion Unarmed through the County of Clare. Look at me. As the breeze of the zephyr I strolled forth of late to enjoy, A vicious and virulent heifer I was humming the " Dear Irish Boy " Came fiercely galumphing beside me ; But suddenly, soothed by my lay, The animal amiably eyed me, And cantered serenely away. 1 From The Hawarden, Horace. 384 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis Arbor sestiva recreatur aura, Quod latus mundi nebulae malusque Jupiter urget ; Pone sub curru nimium propinqui Solis in terra domibus negata Dulce ridentum Lalagen amabo Dulce loquentem. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 385 O wild is Hibernia's Taurus * And Ceilings' chimerical Cow,* And neither demure nor decorous Is the Tammany Boss, 8 but I vow That even in Chamberlain's garden * No wickeder brute you'll espy Than the horrible heifer of Hawarden y Who fled from my Emerald Eye. Were I bound within range of a rifle In Dopping's implacable grip ; Though I flew to the summit of Eiffel To give Ashmead-Bartlett the slip ; Were I doomed to despair on Sahara, Or sentenced to dine with the Shah, Still I'd chant, to the tune of Ta-ra-ra, The praises of Erin-go-bragh. 1 The Irish Bull. 2 " Three acres and a Cow." 3 Tammany Boss or the Tiger. 4 Mr. A. Chamberlain, M. P., was once gored by a bull in his garden. 386 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF GEORGE ARTHUR GREENE (1853- ) ON GREAT SUGARLOAF WHERE Sugarloaf with bare and ruinous wedge Cleaves the gray air to view the darkening sea, We stood on high, and heard the north wind flee Through clouds storm-heavy fallen from ledge to ledge. Then sudden "Look!" we cried. The far black edge Of south horizon oped in sunbright glee, And a broad water shone, one moment free, Ere darkness veiled again the wavering sedge. Such is the Poet's inspiration, still Too evanescent ! coming but to go : Such the great passion showing good in ill, Quick brightnesses, love-lights too soon burnt low ; And such man's life, which flashes Heaven's will Between two glooms a transitory glow. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 387 SPRING-TIME THE winter fleeteth like a dream, The rain is past and o'er ; The sea is lit with sunny gleam, The hills are white no more. Full-flowered the lilac hedges stand, The throstle sings all day, But there's no spring in all the land When Eileen is away. Green are the copses on the hill ; The cuckoo, hid from sight, Haunts all the ringing valleys still With echoes of delight ; His name is like a memory Repeated day by day, But memories all are sad to me When Eileen is away. The yellow cowslips here and there Shake in the balmy breeze ; There is no perfume in the air, Far-brought from southern seas ; There is a brooding melody In forest, hill, and bay, But in my soul no harmony When Eileen is away. The birds remember in their song Their dwellings o'er the foam ; The cuckoo will not tarry long, The swift returneth home : 388 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF The very wind, so full and free, Forgets not ocean's spray, And, Eileen, I forget not thee When thou art far away. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 389 GERALD GRIFFIN (1803-1840) EILEEN AROON 1 WHEN, like the early rose, Eileen aroon ! Beauty in childhood blows, Eileen aroon ! When, like a diadem, Buds blush around the stem, Which is the fairest gem ? Eileen aroon ! Is it the laughing eye ? Eileen aroon ! Is it the timid sigh ? Eileen aroon f Is it the tender tone, Soft as the stringed heart's moan ? Oh ! it is Truth alone, Eileen aroon ! When, like the rising day, Eileen aroon ! Love sends his early ray, Eileen aroon ! 1 EibAlin a ruin, Eileen, my treasure. 390 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF What makes his dawning glow Changeless through joy or woe ? Only the constant know, Eileen aroon ! I know a valley fair, Eileen aroon ! I knew a cottage there, Eileen aroon ! Far in that valley's shade I knew a gentle maid, Flower of a hazel glade, Eileen aroon .' Who in the song so sweet ? Eileen aroon / Who in the dance so fleet ? Eileen aroon ! Dear were her charms to me, Dearer her laughter free, Dearest her constancy, Eileen aroon ! Youth must with time decay, Eileen aroon ! Beauty must fade away, Eileen aroon ! Castles are sacked in war, Chieftains are scattered far, Truth is a fixed star, Eileen aroon / IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 391 GILE MACHREE LE Machree, Sit down by me, We now are joined and ne'er shall sever ; This hearth's our own, Our hearts are one, And peace is ours forever ! When I was poor, Your father's door Was closed against your constant lover ; With care and pain I tried in vain My fortunes to recover. I said, " To other lands I'd roam, Where fate may smile on me, love ; " I said, " Farewell, my own old home ! " And I said, " Farewell to thee, love ! " Sing, Gile machree, etc. I might have said, My mountain maid, Come live with me, your own true lover I know a spot, A silent cot, Your friends can ne'er discover, Where gently flows the waveless tide By one small garden only ; Where the heron waves his wings so wide, And the linnets sing so lonely ! Sing, Gile machree, etc. 392 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF I might have said, My mountain maid, A father's right was never given True hearts to curse With tyrant force That have been blest in heaven. But then I said, "In after years, When thoughts of home shall find her, My love may mourn with secret tears Her friends thus left behind her." Sing, Gile machree, etc. Oh, no, I said, My own dear maid, For me, though all forlorn, forever That heart of thine Shall ne'er repine O'er slighted duty never. From home and thee, though wandering far A dreary fate be mine, love ; I'd rather live in endless war Than buy my peace with thine, love. Sing, Gile machree, etc. ' Far, far away, By night and day, I toiled to win a golden treasure ; And golden gains Repaid my pains In fair and shining measure. I sought again my native land, Thy father welcomed me, love ; I poured my gold into his hand, And my guerdon found in thee, love. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 393 Sing, Gile machrec, Sit down by me, We how are joined and ne'er shall sever ; This hearth's our own, Our hearts are one, And peace is ours forever ! HY-BRASAIL: THE ISLE OF THE BLEST ON the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell, A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell ; Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest, And they called it Hy-Brasail, the isle of the blest. From year unto year on the ocean's blue rim, The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim ; The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay, And it looked like an Eden, away, far away 1 A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale, In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail ; From Ara, the holy, he turned to the west, For though Ara was holy, Hy-Brasail was blest. He heard not the voices that called from the shore -He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar; Home, kindred, and safety, he left on that day ; And he sped to Hy-Brasail, away, far away ! Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle, O'er the faint rim of distance, reflected its smile ; Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy shore Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before j 394 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track, And to Ara again he looked timidly back ; Oh ! far on the verge of the ocean it lay, Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away ! Rash dreamer, return ! O ye winds of the main, Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again. Rash fool ! for a vision of fanciful bliss, To barter thy calm life of labor and peace. The warning of reason was spoke in vain ; He never revisited Ara again ! Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray, And he died on the waters away, far away ! THE WAKE OF THE ABSENT THE dismal yew and cypress tall Wave o'er the churchyard lone, Where rest our friends and fathers all, Beneath the funeral stone. Unvexed in holy ground they sleep, Oh ! early lost ! o'er thee No sorrowing friend shall ever weep, Nor stranger bend the knee. Mo Chuma / l lorn am I ! Hoarse dashing rolls the salt sea wave Over our perished darling's grave. The winds the sullen deep that tore His death-song chanted loud, 1 Mo Chuma /My grief; or, Woe is me. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 395 The weeds that line the clifted shore Were all his burial shroud. For friendly wail and holy dirge, And long lament of love, Around him roared the angry surge, The curlew screamed above. Mo Chuma ! lorn am I ! My grief would turn to rapture now, Might I but touch that pallid brow. The stream-born bubbles soonest burst That earliest left the source ; Buds earliest blown are faded first In Nature's wonted course. With guarded pace her seasons creep, By slow decay expire ; The young above the aged weep, The son above the sire. Mo Chuma ! lorn am I ! That death a backward course should hold, To smite the young and spare the old. 396 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF STEPHEN LUCIUS GWYNN (Living} A LAY OF OSSIAN AND PATRICK I TELL you an ancient story Learnt on an Irish strand Of lonely Ossian returning Belated from fairyland To a land grown meek and holy, To a land of mass and bell, Under the hope of heaven, Under the dread of hell : It tells how the bard and warrior, Last of a giant race, Wrestled a year with Patrick, Answering face to face, Mating the praise of meekness, With vaunt of the warrior school, And the glory of God the Father With the glory of Finn MacCoolj Until at last the hero, Through fasting and through prayer, Came to the faith of Christians, And turned from the things that were. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 397 When the holy bread was broken, And the water wet on his brow, And the last of the fierce Fianna Had spoken the Christian vow, In a sudden glory Patrick Seeing the fierce grown mild, Laughed with joy on his convert, Like father on first-born child. " Well was for you, O Ossian, You came to the light," he said ; " And now I will show you the torment From which to our God you fled." Then with a pass of his crozier He put a spell on the air, And there fell a mist on the eyeballs Of Ossian standing there. Shapes loomed up through the darkness, And "Now, "says the saint, "look well; See your friends the Fianna, And all their trouble in hell." Ossian stared through the darkness, Saw, as the mist grew clear, Legions of swarth-hued warriors Raging with sword and spear : Footmen, huge and misshapen, Stiffened with snarling ire ; Chariots with hell-black stallions Champing a spume of fire, 398 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF And all of the grim-faced battle, With clash and yell and neigh, Dashed on a knot of warriors Set in a rank at bay. Ossian looked, and he knew them, Knew each man of them well, Knew his friends, the Fianna, There in the pit of hell. There was his very father, Leader of all their bands, Finn, the terrible wrestler, Griping with giant hands ; Oscar with edged blade smiting, Caoilte with charging lance, And Diarmuid poising his javelin, Nimble as in the dance ; Conan, the crop-eared stabber, Aiming a slant-way stroke, And the fiery Lugach leaping Where the brunt of battle broke. But in front of all by a furlong, There in the hell-light pale, Was the champion, Gull MacMorna, Winding a monstrous flail. And still the flail as he swung it Sang through the maddened air, Singing the deeds of heroes, A song of the days that were. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 399 It swung with the shrilling of pipers, It smote with a thud of drums, It leapt and it whirled in battle, Crying, "Gull MacMorna comes." It leapt and it smote, and the devils Shrieked under every blow ; With the very wind of its whistling Warriors were stricken low. It swept a path through the army Wide as a winter flood, And down that lane the Fianna Charged in a wash of blood. Patrick gazed upon Ossian : But Ossian watched to descry The surf and the tide of battle Turn as in days gone by. And lo ! at the sudden onslaught The fighters of Eirie made, And under the flail of MacMorna, The host of the foemen swayed, Broke ; and Ossian, breathless, Heard the exultant yell Of his comrades hurling the devils Back to the wall of hell. And the sword-blades reaped like sickles, And the javelins hissed like hail, And louder and ever louder Rose the song of the flail, 400 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF As whirling in air the striker Sang clear, or thudded dull, When, woe ! the tug ' on a sudden Snapped in the grasp of Gull. Hand-staff and striker parted ; The song of the flail was dumb, On the heart of Ossian, listening, Fell that silence numb. And oh ! for a time uncounted He watched with straining eyes The tide of the devils' battle Quicken and turn and rise. He watched the Fianna's onset Waver and hang in doubt, He watched his leaderless comrades Swept in a struggling rout. But Gull, with a shield before him, Crouched on the battleground, And there in the track of slaughter Tore at what he found, Until in the crash and tumult, And dashed with a bloody rain, He had knotted his flail together With sinews out of the slain. 1 Tug, sometimes called trace, the leathern thong which holds the two parts of a flail together. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 401 Then, as the gasping Fianna Felt their endeavor fail, Chanting their ancient valor Rose the voice of the flail. And again in the stagnant ebbing Of their blood began to flow The flood of a surging courage, The hope of a crowning blow ; And the heart of their comrades watching, Stirred with joy to behold Feats of his bygone manhood, Strokes that he knew of old.- Again he beheld the stubborn Setting of targe to targe, Again he beheld the rally Swell to a shattering charge. And surely now the Fianna Must slaughter and whelm the foe In a fierce and final triumph, Lords of the realm below, As they leapt in a loosened phalanx, Climbing on heaps of slain : And again Gull's wizard weapon Flew on a stroke in twain. For a time and times uncounted Ossian endured the sight Of the endless swaying tumult, The ebb and flow of the fight. 402 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF His face grew lean with sorrow, And hunger stared from his eyes, And the laboring breath from his bosom Broke in heavy sighs. Patrick watched, and he wondered, And at last in pity spoke : " Vexed is your look, O Ossian, As your very heart were broke. "Courage, O new-made Christian: Great is my joy in you : I would like it ill on a day of grace My son should have aught to rue. " Therefore for these your comrades I give you a wish to-day That shall lift them out of their torment Into some better way. " Speak ! be bold in your asking, Christ is strong to redeem." Ossian turned to him sudden, Like one awaked from a dream. His eye was fierce as an eagle's, And his voice had a trumpet's ring, As when at the Fenian banquets He lifted his harp to sing. " I ask no help of the Father, I ask no help of the Son, Nor of the Holy Spirit, Ever Three in One. I IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 403 " This for my only asking, And then let might prevail,- Patrick, give Gull MacMorna An iron tug to his flail. ' ' Patrick is dead, and Ossian ; Gull to his place is gone ; But the words and the deeds of heroes Linger in twilight on, In a twilight of fireside tellings Lit by the poet's lay, Lighting the gloom of hardship, The night of a needy day. And still the Gael, as he listens In a land of mass and bell, Under the hope of heaven, Under the dread of hell, Thinks long, like age-spent Ossian, For the things that are no more, For the clash of meeting weapons, And the mad delight of war. IRELAND RELAND, oh, Ireland ! centre of my longings, Country of my fathers, home of my heart ! Overseas you call me : Why an exile from me f Wherefore sea-severed, long leagues apart ? 404 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF As the shining salmon, homeless in the sea depths, Hears the river call him, scents out the land, Leaps and rejoices in the meeting of the waters, Breasts weir and torrent, nests in the sand ; Lives there and loves ; yet with the years returning, Rusting in the river, pines for the sea, Sweeps back again to the ripple of the tideway, Roamer of the waters, vagabond and free Wanderer am I like the salmon of the rivers ; London is my ocean, murmurous and deep, Tossing and vast ; yet through the roar of London Comes to me thy summons, calls me in sleep. Pearly are the skies in the country of my fathers, Purple are thy mountains, home of my heart. Mother of my yearning, love of all my longings, Keep me in remembrance, long leagues apart. MATER SEVERA WHERE the huge Atlantic swings heavy water eastward, Ireland, square to meet it, shoulders off the seas; Wild are all her coasts with stress of cliff and billow, On her northern moorland is little sheltered ease. Well is with the salmon, ranger of her rivers : Well is with the mackerel shoaling in each bay, Dear is all the land to the lonely snipe and curlew : Ay, but for its manfolk ! a bitter lot have they. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 405 Thankless is the soil : men trench, and delve, and labor Black and spongy peat amid barren knowes of stone : Then to win a living overseas they travel, And their women gather, if God pleases, what was sown. Harvesters, a-homing from the golden tilth of England, Where they sweat to cope with increase of teeming years, Find too oft returning, sick with others' plenty, Sunless autumn dank upon green and spindling ears. Or a tainted south wind brings upon the root-crop Stench of rotting fibre and green leaf turning black : Famine, never distant, stalks nearer now and nearer, Bids them rake like crows amid mussel- beds and wrack. Bleak and gray to man is the countenance of Nature ; Bleak her soil below him, bleak her sky above ; Wherefore, then, by man is her rare smile so cherished ? Paid her niggard bounty with so lavish love ? Not the slopes of Rhine with such yearning are re- membered ; Not your Kentish orchards, not your Devon lanes. 'Tis as though her sons for that ungentle mother Knew a mother's tenderness, felt a mother's pains. Many an outward-bound, as the ship heads under Tory, Clings with anguished eyes to the barren Fanad shore. 406 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF Many a homeward-bound, as they lift the frowning Foreland, Pants to leap the league to his desolate Gweedore. There about the ways God's air is free and spacious : Warm are chimney-corners there, warm the kindly heart. There the soul of man takes root, and through its travail Grips the rocky anchorage till the life-strings part. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 407 CHARLES GRAHAM HALPINE (1829-1868) NOT A STAR FROM THE FLAG SHALL FADE OCH ! a rare ould flag was the flag we bore, 'Twas a bully ould flag, an' nice ; It had sthripes in plenty, an' shtars galore 'Twas the broth of a purty device. Faix, we carried it South, an' we carried it far, An' around it our bivouacs made ; An' we swore by the shamrock that never a shtar From its azure field should fade. Ay, this was the oath, I tell you thrue, That was sworn in the souls of our Boys in Blue. The fight it grows thick, an' our boys they fall, An' the shells like a banshee scream ; An' the flag it is torn by many a ball, But to yield it we never dhream. Though pierced by bullets, yet still it bears All the shtars in its tatthered field, An' again the brigade, like to one man swears, " Not a shtar from the flag we yield ! " 'Twas the deep, hot oath, I tell you thrue, That lay close to the hearts of our Boys in Blue. Shure, the fight it was won afther many a year, But two-thirds of the boys who bore 408 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF That flag from their wives and sweethearts dear Returned to their homes no more. They died by the bullet disease had power, An 1 to death they were rudely tossed ; But the thought came warm in their dying hour, " Not a shtar from the flag is lost ! " Then they said their pathers and aves through, An', like Irishmen, died did our Boys in Blue. But now they tell us some shtars are gone, Torn out by the rebel gale ; That the shtars we fought for, the states we won, Are still out of the Union's pale. May their sowls in the dioul's hot kitchen glow Who sing such a lyin' shtrain ; By the dead in their graves, it shall not be so They shall have what they died to gain ! All the shtars in our flag shall still shine through The grass growing soft o'er our Dead in Blue ! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 409 BULMER HOBSON (Living) THE DELUGE ONCE Manannan Mac' Lir his deep blue mantle cast Over the hearts of men, and over all the land ; And he came to the land of men, borne on an icy blast. The wind drifted the waves, and the waves washed on the strand Till water and earth were blent. The pale sky and the sea Met on the mountain tops, and the trembling stars were quenched. And the frightened hosts of men thought to the west to flee ; But far to the west, and further, all the land was drenched. Then the clans of men were drowned, women and warriors strong ; Children tossed on the waves, maidens with loosened hair Drifted about on the waters ; and the sea washed for long Over the land where the hosts of men once had a dwelling fair. But Fintan roamed through the flood, and he alone of men 4io THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF Watched the rise of the sea, watched it tower and fall, Ebb, and flow, and fail, and sink from the land again, Leaving the dead in its track, and silence over all. Then he gathered the bodies of men, gathered them one by one From the desolated land; and he built a mighty pyre, And he laid them side by side, wife, and father, and son. And there in the starlight pale he lit the funeral fire. And the smoke-wreath curled away; and over the moonlit sea It went, in the dead of night, till it came to the Isles in the West. And out of the smoke each man took the shape that he used to be ; And there they dwell on the sunset's rim, in the sunset roam and rest. ULAD IN the north is the strength of the wind, of the whirl- wind ; In the south there are murmuring waters ; The east has a caoine for its song ; In the west is strengthless love. The waters grow troubled and cease soon, But the wind is a-sway on the hills Forever, forever. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 411 The caoine sings memories, memories, Thoughts and deeds that are dead. Oh, 1 sing to the wind and the storm The storm that like Fomor running Leaps from hilltop to hilltop. The waters are stirred by the wind, And love drinks strength from its blowing : The sorrow of memory shrinks back ; Like a shroud it is dropped and forgotten. Memory shorn of your sorrow, Love reborn of the storm, Water touched by the wind, The wind is your master, is strongest ! 4 i2 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF MICHAEL HOGAN (1832- ) DRAHERIN O MACHREE 1 I GRIEVE when I think on the dear, happy days of youth, When all the bright dreams of this faithless world seemed truth ; When I strayed thro' the woodland, as gay as a mid- summer bee, In brotherly love with my Draherin O Machree. Together we lay in the sweet-scented meadows to rest, Together we watched the gay lark as he sung o'er his nest, Together we plucked the red fruit of the fragrant haw- tree, And I loved, as a sweetheart, my Draherin O Machree ! His form it was straight as the hazel that grows in the glen, His manners were courteous, and social, and gay amongst men ; His bosom was white as the lily on summer's green lea And God's brightest image was Draherin O Machree ! 1 Draherin O Machree, little brother of my heart IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 413 Oh ! sweet were his words as the honey that falls in the night, And his young smiling face like May-bloom was fresh, and as bright ; His eyes were like dew on the flower of the sweet ap- ple-tree ; My heart's spring and summer was Draherin O Machree ! He went to the wars when proud England united with France ; His regiment was first in the red battle-charge to ad- vance ; But when night drew its veil o'er the glory and life- wasting fray, Pale, bleeding, and cold lay my Draherin O Machree ! Oh ! if I were there, I'd watch over my darling's last breath, I'd wipe his cold brow, and I'd soften his pillow of death ; I'd pour the hot tears of my heart's melting anguish o'er thee ! Oh, blossom of beauty ! my Draherin O Machree ! Now I'm left to weep, like the sorrowful bird of the night, This earth and its pleasures no more shall afford me delight ; The dark narrow grave is the only sa'd refuge for me, Since I lost my heart's darling my Draherin O Machree 1 4H THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF DOUGLAS HYDE (1860- ) FROM A POEM BY TEIGE MAC DAIRE From the Irish, a translation in the meter of the original " 9 r I "MS not War we Want to Wage With THomond THinned by outrage. SLIGHT not Poets' Poignant spur Of RIGHT ye Owe it hOnor. " Can there Cope a Man with Me In Burning hearts Bitterly, At my BLows men BLUSH I wis, Bright FLUSH their Furious Faces. " Store of blister-Raising Ranns These are my Weighty Weapons, Poisoned, STriking STRONG through men, They Live not LONG so striken. " SHelter from my SHafts or rest Is not in Furthest Forest, Far they FALL, words Soft as Snow, No WALL can WARD my arrow. " To QUench in QUarrels good deeds, To Raise up WRongs in hundreds, To NAIL a NAME on a man, I FAIL not FAME my weapon." IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 415 I SHALL NOT DIE FOR THEE From the Irish FOR thee I shall not die, Woman high of name and fame ; Foolish men thou mayest slay, I and they are not the same. Why should a man expire For the fire of any eye ? Slender waist or swan-like limb, Is it for them that I should die ? The round breasts, the fresh skin, Crimson cheeks, hair long and rich, Indeed, indeed, I shall not die, Please God, not I, for any such. The golden hair, the forehead thin, The chaste mien, the gracious ease, The rounded heel, the languid tone, Fools alone find death in these. Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm, Thy thin palm-like foam of sea; Thy white neck, thy blue eye, I shall not die for thee. Woman graceful as the swan, A wise man did nurture me. Little palm, white neck, bright eye, I shall not die for ye. 4 i6 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF LITTLE CHILD, I CALL THEE From the Irish LITTLE child, I call thee fair, Clad in hair of golden hue, Every lock in ringlets falling Down, to almost kiss the dew. Slow gray eye and languid mien, Brows as thin as stroke of quill, Cheeks of white with scarlet through them, Och ! it's through them I am ill. Luscious mouth, delicious breath, Chalk-white teeth, and very small, Lovely nose and little chin, White neck, thin she is swan-like all. Pure white hand and shapely finger, Limbs that linger like a song ; Music speaks in every motion Of my sea-mew warm and young. Rounded breasts and lime-white bosom, Like a blossom, touched of none, Stately form and slender waist, Far more graceful than the swan. Alas for me ! I would I were With her of the soft-fingered palm, In Waterford to steal a kiss, Or by the Liss whose airs are balm. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 417 MY GRIEF ON THE SEA Translated by Douglas Hyde M Y grief on the sea, How the waves of it roll ! For they heave between me And the love of my soul ! Abandoned, forsaken, To grief and to care, Will the sea ever waken Relief from despair? My grief and my trouble ! Would he and I were In the province of Leinster Or county of Clare. Were I and my darling Oh, heart-bitter wound ! On board of the ship For America bound. 1 Literally : My grief on the sea, It is it that is big. It is it that is going between me And my thousand treasures. I was left at home Making grief, Without any hope of (going) over sea with me, Forever and aye. My grief that I am not, And my white moorneen, In the province of Leinster Or County of Clare. My sorrow 1 am not, And my thousand loves On board of a ship Voyaging to America. A bed of rushes Was under me last night And I threw it out With the heat of the day. My love came To my side, Shoulder to shoulder And mouth on mouth. Love Songs of Connacht, 4i8 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF On a green bed of rushes All last night I lay, And I flung it abroad With the heat of the day. And my love came behind me He came from the South ; His breast to my bosom. His mouth to my mouth. MY LOVE OH! SHE IS MY LOVE From the Irish SHE casts a spell oh ! casts a spell, Which haunts me more than I can tell, Dearer, because she makes me ill, Than who would will to make me well. She is my store oh ! she my store, Whose gray eye wounded me so sore, Who will not place in mine her palm, Who will not calm me any more. She is my pet oh ! she my pet, Whom I can never more forget, Who would not lose by me one moan, Nor stone upon my cairn set. She is my roon J oh ! she my roon, Who tells me nothing, leaves me soon . Who would not lose by me one sigh, Were death and I within one room. 1 Ruin : secret treasure, love. IRISH SONGS AND LTRICS 419 She is my dear oh ! she my dear, Who cares not whether I be here, Who would not weep when I am dead, Who makes me shed the silent tear. Hard my case oh ! hard my case. How have I lived so long a space ? She does not trust me any more, But 1 adore her silent face. She is my choice oh ! she my choice, Who never made me to rejoice, Who caused my heart to ache so oft, Who put no softness in her voice. Great my grief oh ! great my grief, Neglected, scorned beyond belief, By her who looks at me askance, By her who grants me no relief. She's my desire oh ! my desire, More glorious than the bright sun's fire ; Who were than wind-blown ice more cold, Had I the boldness to sit by her. She it is who stole my heart, But left a void and aching smart ; And if she soften not her eye, Then life and I shall shortly part. 420 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF O WERE YOU ON THE MOUNTAIN? From the Irish Owere you on the mountain, and saw you my Love? And saw you my own one, my queen and my dove? And saw you the maiden with the step firm and free? say, was she pining in sorrow like me ? 1 was up on the mountain and saw there your Love, I saw there your own one, your queen and your dove; 1 saw there the maiden with the step firm and free, And she was not pining in sorrow like thee. RINGLETED YOUTH OF MY LOVE Translated by Douglas Hyde in " Love Songs of Connacht" RINGLETED youth of my love, With thy locks bound loosely behind thee, You passed by the road above, But you never came in to find me ; Where were the harm for you If you came for a little to see me; Your kiss is a wakening dew Were I ever so ill or so dreamy. If I had golden store I would make a nice little boreen To lead straight up to his door, The door of the house of my storeen ; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 421 Hoping to God not to miss The sound of his footfall in it, I have waited so long .for his kiss That for days I have slept not a minute. I thought, O my love ! you were so As the moon is, or sun on a fountain, And I thought after that you were snow, The cold snow on top of the mountain ; And I thought after that you were more Like God's lamp shining to find me, Or the bright star of knowledge before, And the star of knowledge behind me. You promised me high heeled shoes, And satin and silk, my storeen, And to follow me, never to lose, Though the ocean were round us roaring ; Like a bush in a gap in a wall I am now left lonely without thee, And this house, I grow dead of, is all That I see around or about me. THE BROW OF NfcFIN Translated by Douglas Hyde in " Love Songs of Connacht " DID I stand on the bald top of Nefin And my hundred-times loved one with me, We should nestle together as safe in Its shade as the birds on a tree. From your lips such a music is shaken, 422 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF When you speak it awakens my pain, And my eyelids by sleep are forsaken, And I seek for my slumber in vain. But were I on the fields of the ocean I should sport on its infinite room, I should plow through the billows' commotion Though my friends should look dark at my doom. For the flower of all maidens of magic Is beside me where'er I may be, And my heart like a coal is extinguished, Not a woman takes pity on me. How well for the birds in all weather, They rise up on high in the air, And then sleep upon one bough together Without sorrow or trouble or care ; But so it is not in this world For myself and my thousand-times fair, For, away, far apart from each other, Each day rises barren and bare. Say, what dost thou think of the heavens When the heat overmasters the day, Or what when the steam of the tide Rises up in the face of the bay ? Even so is the man who has given An inordinate love-gift away, Like a tree on a mountain all riven Without blossom or leaflet or spray. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 423 THE RED MAN'S WIFE Translated by Douglas Hyde in " Love Songs of Convacfit " )r |"^IS what they say, Thy little heel fits in a shoe, 'Tis what they say, Thy little mouth kisses well, too. 'Tis what they say, Thousand loves that you leave me to rue j That the tailor went the way That the wife of the Red man knew. Nine months did I spend In a prison closed tightly and bound ; Bolts on my smalls * And a thousand locks frowning around ; But o'er the tide I would leap with the leap of a swan, Could I once set my side By the bride of the red-haired man. I thought, O my life, That one house between us love would be ; And I thought I would find You once coaxing my child on your knee ; But now the curse of the High One On him let it be, And on all of the band of the liars Who put silence between you and me. 1 There are three " smalls," the wrists, elbows, and ankles. In Irish romantic literature we often meet mention of men being bound " with the binding of the three smalls." 424 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF There grows a tree in the garden With blossoms that tremble and shake, I lay my hand on its bark And I feel that my heart must break. On one wish alone My soul through the long months ran, One little kiss From the wife of the Red-haired man. But the day of doom shall come, And hills and harbors be rent; A mist shall fall on the sun From the dark clouds heavily sent ; The sea shall be dry, And earth under mourning and ban ; Then loud shall he cry For the wife of the Red-haired man. THE SIGN OF THE CROSS FOREVER I came across this religious poem in Irish among the manu- scripts of William Smith O'Brien, the Irish Leader, at Caher- moyle. It was attributed to a Father O'Meehan. Douglas Hyde in " Religious Songs of Connacht.'" FROM the foes of my land, from the foes of my faith, From the foes who would us dissever, O Lord, preserve me in life, in death, With the Sign of the Cross forever. By death on the Cross was the race restored, For vain was our endeavor ; Henceforward blessed, O blessed Lord, Be the Sign of the Cross forever. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 425 Rent were the rocks, the sun did fade The darkening world did quiver, When on the tree our Saviour made The Sign of the Cross forever. Therefore I mourn for him whose heart Shall neither shrink nor shiver, Whose tears of sorrow refuse to start At the Sign of the Cross forever. Swiftly we pass to the unknown land, Down like an ebbing river, But the devils themselves cannot withstand The Sign of the Cross forever. When the hour shall come that shall make us dust, When the soul and the body sever, Fearful the fear if we may not trust In the Sign of the Cross forever. 426 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF JOHN KELLS INGRAM (1823- ) THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight ? Who blushes at the name ? When the cowards mock the patriot's fate, Who hangs his head for shame? He's all a knave or half a slave Who slights his country thus : But a true man, like you, man, Will fill your glass with us. We drink the memory of the brave, The faithful and the few Some lie far off beyond the wave, Some sleep in Ireland, too ; All, all are gone but still lives on The fame of those who died ; And true men, like you, men, Remember them with pride. Some on the shores of distant lands Their weary hearts have laid, And by the stranger's heedless hands Their lonely graves were made; But though their clay be far away Beyond the Atlantic foam, In true men, like you, men, Their spirit's still at home. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 427 The dust of some is Irish earth ; Among their own they rest ; And the same land that gave them birth Has caught them to her breast ; And we will pray that from their clay Full many a race may start Of true men, like you, men, To act as brave a part. They rose in dark and evil days To right their native land ; They kindled here a living blaze That nothing shall withstand. Alas ! that Might can vanquish Right They fell, and passed away ; But true men, like you, men, Are plenty here to-day. Then here's their memory may it be For us a guiding light, To cheer our strife for liberty, And teach us to unite ! Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, Though sad as theirs, your fate ; And true men, be you, men, Like those of Ninety-Eight. 428 THE GOLDEN TREJSUR1" OF THOMAS CAULFIELD IRWIN (1823-1892) A WINDOW SONG WITHIN the window of this white, Low, ivy-roofed, retired abode, We look through sunset's sinking light Along the lone and dusty road That leads unto the river's bridge, Where stand two sycamores broad and green, Whence from their rising grassy ridge The low rays lengthen shade and sheen. The village panes reflect the glow, And all about the scene is still, Save, by the foamy dam below, The drumming wheel of the whitewashed mill A radiant quiet fills the air, And gleam the dews along the turf: While the great wheel, bound On its drowsy round, Goes snoring through the gusts of surf. A-south, beyond the hamlet, lie The low, blue hills in mingling mist, With furl of cloud along the sky, And ravines rich as amethyst, IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 429 And mellow edges golden-ored As sinks the round sun in the flood, And high up wings the crow line toward Old turrets in the distant wood ; Awhile from some twilighted roof The blue smoke rises o'er the thatch ; By cots along the green aloof Some home-come laborer lifts the latch ; Or housewife sings her child to sleep, Or calls her fowl-flock from the turf, While the mill-wheel, bound On its drowsy round, Goes snoring through the gusts of surf. Still at our open window, where Gleams on the leaves the lamp new lit, For hours we read old books, and share Their thoughts and pictures, love and wit : As midnight nears, its quiet ray Thrown on the garden's hedges faint, Pales, as the moon, from clouds of gray, Looks down serenely as a saint. We hear a few drops of a shower, Laying the dust for morning feet, Patter upon the corner bower, Then, ceasing, send an air as sweet. And as we close the window down, And close the volumes read so long, Even the wheel's snore Is heard no more, And scarce the runnel's swirling song. 430 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF THE EMIGRANT'S VOYAGE EVENING THE white sails are filled, and the wind from the shore Blows sad from the hills we shall visit no more ; And our ship slowly moves o'er the ocean at rest, From the land of our hearts, in the light of the West. Though few are the friends on the land's sinking rim, Yet our eyes, straining into the sunset, grow dim ; We are leaving forever the walks where we strayed, And the graves where the dust of our dearest is laid. Now twilight has covered the isle in its gloom ; Dark the village, and lost the old place of the tomb ; And we see but yon dusk mountain line in the light, We have watched from our cottage doors many a night. Ah ! the stars on the ocean are glimmering nigh, Like the eyes of the dead looking up at the sky ; And our ship speeds along, as heart-wearied we sleep, 'Mid the waters of God and the clouds of the deep. MORNING Full stretched are the sails, dim and dewy the spars ; On the spray-wetted deck falls the light of the stars, And the blue lonely morning breaks coldly, as we, In the wind, cleave the hurrying heaps of the sea. All alone in the world, without riches below, We have memories that wander wherever we go ; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 431 And wild sorrow reasons, 'mid tears falling fast, That the present may still draw its light from the past. Oft of mornings to come from our windows we'll bend, And look on the sun, that bright following friend ; Still fondly remembering his glory has shone On the land that we love, and the friends who are gone. Oft at even, when labor is o'er for a while, Will our hearts travel back to our own blessed isle, Across the great sea we have traversed in gloom, And hover in prayer by the old lonely tomb. Yes, spirits beloved, though your home were as far From our world-wearied hearts as the loneliest star, Our prayers shall arise for ye from the far clime, O many and many and many a time ! We will hear the sweet voice that on earth sounds no more Still murmuring for us from the heaven's happy shore ; We will hear those dim footsteps at gray silent morn, That paced our lost home long before we were born. Old scenes, where we wandered together, will rise ; The fair window landscape, the soft, rainy skies, The old green-patched hill, where the dewy light plays, Where your shadows oft passed on the old summer days. 432 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF Not alone, not alone, will we labor and roam : \Vhere your memories linger we still have a home, And shall still tread, in fancy, the paths you have trod, Until death leads us up to our dear ones and God. THE POTATO-DIGGER'S SONG COME, Connal, acushla, turn the clay, And show the lumpers the light, gossoon ! For we must toil this autumn day, With Heaven's help, till rise of the moon. Our corn is stacked, our hay secure, Thank God ! and nothing, my boy, remains, But to pile the potatoes safe on the flure, Before the coming November rains. The peasant's mine is his harvest still ; So now, my lads, let's work with a will ; Work hand and foot, Work spade and hand, Work spade and hand Through the crumbly mould; The blessed fruit That grows at the root Is the real gold Of Ireland. Och ! I wish that Maurice and Mary dear Were singing beside us this soft day ; Of course they're far better off than here : But whether they're happier who can say? I've heard when it's morn with us, 'tis night With them on the far Australian shore ; Well, Heaven be about them with visions bright, IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 433 And send them childer and money galore. With us there's many a mouth to fill, And so, my boy, let's work with a will; Work hand and foot, Work spade and hand, Work spade and hand Through the brown dry mould ; The blessed fruit That grows at the root Is the real gold Of Ireland. Ah, then, Paddy O'Reardan, you thundering Turk, Is it coorting you are in the blessed noon. Come over here, Katty, and mind your work, Or I'll see if your mother can't change your tune. Well, youth will be youth, as you know, Mike, Sixteen and twenty for each were meant ; But, Pat, in the name of the fairies, avick, Defer your proposals till after Lent ; And as love in this country lives mostly still On potatoes dig, boy, dig with a will ; Work hand and foot, Work spade and hand, Work spade and hand Through the harvest mould ; The blessed fruit That grows at the root Is the real gold Of Ireland. Down the bridle road the neighbors ride, Through the light ash shade, by the wheaten sheaves; And the children sing on the mountainside 434 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF In the sweet blue smoke of the burning leaves. As the great sun sets in glory furled, Faith, it's grand to think, as I watch his face, As he never sets on the English world, He never, lad, sets on the Irish race. In the West, in the South, new Irelands still Grow up in his light. Come, work with a will ; Work hand and foot, Work spade and hand, Work spade and hand Through the native mould ; The blessed fruit That grows at the root Is the real gold Of Ireland. But look ! the round moon, yellow as corn, Comes up from the sea in the deep blue calm; It scarcely seems a day since morn ; Well, the heel of the evening to you, ma'am ! God bless the moon ! for many a night, As I restless lay on a troubled bed, When rent was due, her quietest light Has flattered with dreams my poor old head. But see the basket remains to fill : Come, girls, be alive ; boys, dig with a will ;- Work hand and foot, Work spade and hand, Work spade and hand Through the moonlit mould ; The blessed fruit That grows at the root Is the real gold Of Ireland. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 435 LIONEL JOHNSON (1867-1902) THE DARK ANGEL DARK Angel, with thine aching lust To rid the world of penitence : Malicious Angel, who still dost My soul such subtile violence ! Because of thee, no thought, no thing, Abides for me undesecrate : Dark Angel, ever on the wing, Who never readiest me too late ! When music sounds, then changest thou Its silvery to a sultry fire ; Nor will thine envious heart allow Delight untortured by desire. Through thee, the gracious Muses turn To Furies, O mine Enemy ! And all the things of beauty burn With flames of evil ecstasy. Because of thee, the land of dreams Becomes a gathering-place of fears; Until tormented slumber seems One vehemence of useless tears. 436 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF When sunlight glows upon the flowers, Or ripples down the dancing sea, Thou with thy troop of passionate powers Beleaguerest, bewilderest me. Within the breath of autumn woods, Within the winter silences, Thy venomous spirit stirs and broods, O Master of impieties ! The ardor of red flame is thine, And thine the steely soul of ice ; Thou poisonest the fair design Of Nature with unfair device. Apples of ashes, golden bright ; Waters of bitterness, how sweet ! banquet of a foul delight, Prepared by thee, dark Paraclete ! Thou art the whisper in the gloom, The hinting tone, the haunting laugh ; Thou art the adorner of my tomb, The minstrel of mine epitaph. 1 fight thee, in the Holy Name ! Yet what thou dost is what God saith. Tempter ! should I escape thy flame, Thou wilt have helped my soul from Death The second Death, that never dies, That cannot die, when time is dead ; Live Death, wherein the lost soul cries, Eternally uncomforted. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 437 Dark Angel, with thine aching lust ! Of two defeats, of two despairs : Less dread, a change to drifting dust, Than thine eternity of cares. Do what thou wilt, thou shalt not so, Dark Angel ! triumph over me : Lonely unto the Lone 2 go ; Divine, to the Divinity. THE LAST MUSIC CALMLY, breathe calmly all your music, maids ! Breathe a calm music over my dead queen. All your lives long, you have not heard nor seen Fairer than she, whose hair in sombre braids With beauty overshades Her brow broad and serene. Surely she hath lain so an hundred years : Peace is upon her, old as the world's heart. Breathe gently, music ! Music done, depart : And leave me in her presence to my tears, With music in mine ears ; For sorrow hath its art. Music, more music, sad and slow ! She lies Dead : and more beautiful than early morn. Discrowned am I, and of her looks forlorn : .Alone vain memories immortalize The way of her soft eyes, Her virginal voice low borne. 438 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF The balm of gracious death now laps her round As once life gave her grace beyond her peers. Strange ! that I loved this lady of the spheres, To sleep by her at last in common ground : When kindly death hath bound Mine eyes, and sealed mine ears. Maidens ! make a low music : merely make Silence a melody, no more. This day, She travels down a pale and lonely way : Now for a gentle comfort, let her take Such music for her sake, As mourning love can play. Holy my queen lies in the arms of death : Music moves over her still face, and I Lean breathing love over her. She will lie In earth thus calmly, under the wind's breath The twilight wind that saith : Rest ! worthy found to die. THE RED WIND ED WIND from out the East : Red Wind of blight and blood Ah, when wilt thou have ceased Thy bitter, stormy flood ? R Red Wind from over sea, Scourging our holy land ! What angel loosened thee Out of his iron hand ? IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 439 Red Wind, whose word of might Winged thee with wings of flame ? O fire of mournful night ! What is thy Master's name? Red Wind ! who bade thee burn, Branding our hearts ? Who bade Thee on and never turn, Till waste our souls were laid ? Red Wind ! from out the West Pour Winds of Paradise : Winds of eternal rest, That weary souls entice. Wind of the East ! Red Wind ! Thou scorchest the soft breath Of Paradise the kind : Red Wind of burning death ! O Red Wind ! hear God's voice : Hear thou, and fall, and cease. Let Innisfail rejoice In her Hesperian peace. A TO MORFYDD VOICE of the winds, A voice by the waters, Wanders and cries : Oh ! what are the winds ? And what are the waters ? Mine are your eyes. 440 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF Western the winds are, And western the waters, Where the light lies : Oh ! what are the winds ? And what are the waters ? Mine are your eyes. Cold, cold grow the winds, And dark grow the waters, Where the sun dies : Oh ! what are the winds ? And what are the waters ? Mine are your eyes. And down the night winds And down the night waters, The music flies : O ! what are the winds / And what are the waters t Cold be the winds, And wild be the waters, So mine be your eyes. WAYS OF WAR \ TERRIBLE and splendid trust /~\ Heartens the host of Innisfail : Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust, A lightning glory of the Gael. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 441 Croagh Patrick is the place of prayers, And Tara the assembling-place : But each sweet wind of Ireland bears The trump of battle on its race. From Dursey Isle to Donegal, From Howth to Achill, the glad noise Rings : and the heirs of glory fall, Or victory crowns their fighting joys. A dream ! a dream ! an ancient dream ! Yet, ere peace come to Innisfail, Some weapons on some field must gleam, Some burning glory fire the Gael. That field may lie beneath the sun, Fair for the treading of an host : That field in realms of thought be won, And armed minds do their uttermost : Some way to faithful Innisfail Shall come the majesty and awe Of martial truth, that must prevail To lay on all the eternal law. 442 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF ROBERT DWYER JOYCE (1830-1883) CROSSING THE BLACKWATER A. D. 1603 WE stood so steady, All under fire, We stood so steady, Our long spears ready To vent our ire ; To dash on the Saxon, Our mortal foe, And lay him low In the bloody mire. 'Twas by Black water, When snows were white, 'Twas by Blackwater, Our foes for the slaughter Stood full in sight ; But we were ready With our long spears, And we had no fears But we'd win the fight. Their bullets came whistling Upon our rank, Their bullets came whistling, IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 443 Their spears were bristling On th' other bank : Yet we stood steady, And each good blade, Ere the morn did fade, At their life-blood drank. " Hurrah ! for Freedom ! " Came from our van, "Hurrah ! for Freedom ! Our swords we'll feed 'em As best we can With vengeance we'll feed 'em ! * : Then down we crashed, Through the wild ford dashed, And the fray began. Horses to horses And man to man : O'er dying horses, And blood and corses, O' Sullivan, Our general, thundered, And we were not slack To slay at his back Till the fight began. O how we scattered The foemen then, Slaughtered and scattered, And chased and shattered, By shore and glen ! To the wall of Moyallo 444 TME GOLDEN TREJSURr OF Few fled that day : Will they bar our way When we come again ? Our dead freres we buried, They were but few, Our dead freres we buried Where the dark waves hurried, And flashed and flew : O sweet be their slumber Who thus have died In the battle's tide, Innisfail, for you ! THE BLACKSMITH OF LIMERICK HE grasped his ponderous hammer ; he could not stand it more, To hear the bombshells bursting and the thundering battle's roar. He said : " The breach they're mounting, the Dutch- man's murdering crew I'll try my hammer on their heads and see what that can do ! " Now, swarthy Ned and Moran, make up that iron well; 'Tis Sarsfield's horse that wants the shoes, so mind not shot or shell." "Ah, sure," cried both, "the horse can wait for Sarsfield's on the wall, And where you go we'll follow, with you to stand or fall ! " IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 445 The blacksmith raised his hammer, and rushed into the street, His 'prentice boys behind him, the ruthless foe to meet ' High on the breach of Limerick, with dauntless hearts they stood Where the bombshells burst and shot fell thick, and redly ran the blood. " Now look you, brown-haired Moran, and mark you, swarthy Ned ; This day we'll prove the thickness of many a Dutch- man's head ! Hurrah ! upon their bloody path they're mounting gallantly ; And now the first that tops the breach, leave him to this and me ! " The first that gained the rampart, he was a captain brave ! A captain of the Grenadiers, with blood-stained dirk and glaive ; He pointed and he parried, but it was all in vain, For fast through skull and helmet the hammer found his brain ! The next that topped the rampart, he was a colonel bold, Bright through the murk of battle his helmet flashed with gold. "Gold is no match for iron 1" the doughty black- smith said, As with that ponderous hammer he cracked his foe- man's head ! 446 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF " Hurrah for gallant Limerick ! " black Ned and Moran cried, As on the Dutchmen's leaden heads their hammers well they plied ; A bombshell burst between them one fell without a groan, One leaped into the lurid air, and down the breach was thrown ! " Brave smith ! brave smith ! " cried Sarsfield, " be- ware the treacherous mine Brave smith ! brave smith ! fall backward, or surely death is thine ! " The smith sprang up the rampart and leaped the blood-stained wall, As high into the shuddering air went foemen, breach and all 1 Up like a red volcano they thundered wild and high, Spear, gun, and shattered standard, and foemen through the sky ; And dark and bloody was the shower that round the blacksmith fell He thought upon his 'prentice boys, they were avenged well ! On foeman and defenders a silence gathered down, 'Twas broken by a triumph-shout that shook the ancient town ; As out its heroes sallied, and bravely charged and slew, And taught King William and his men what Irish hearts can do ! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 447 Down rushed the swarthy blacksmith unto the river side, He hammered on the foes' pontoon, to sink it in the tide; The timber it was tough and strong, it took no crack or strain "Mavrone, 'twon't break," the blacksmith roared; "I'll try their heads again ! " The blacksmith sought his smithy, and blew his bellows strong ; He shod the steed of Sarsfield, but o'er it sang no song: " Ochon ! my boys are dead," he cried; " their loss I'll long deplore, But comfort's in my heart their graves are red with foreign gore! " THE WIND THAT SHAKES THE BARLEY I sat within the valley green, I sat me with my true love ; My sad heart strove the two between, The old love and the new love ; The old for her, the new that made Me think on Ireland dearly, While soft the wind blew down the glade, And shook the golden barley. 'Twas hard the woeful words to frame To break the ties that bound us ; 448 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF But harder still to bear the shame Of foreign chains around us. And so I said, " The mountain glen I'll seek at morning early, And join the brave United Men," While soft winds shook the barley. While sad I kissed away her tears, My fond arms around her flinging, The foeman's shot burst on our ears, From out the wildwood ringing ; The bullet pierced my true love's side, In life's young spring so early, And on my breast in blood she died, When soft winds shook the barley. But blood for blood without remorse I've ta'en at Oulart Hollow ; I've placed my true love's clay-cold corse Where I full soon will follow; And round her grave I wander drear, Noon, night, and morning early, With breaking heart where'er I hear The wind that shakes the barley ! IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 449 ROSE KAVANAGH (1860-1891) LOUGH BRAY A LITTLE lonely moorland lake, Its waters brown and cool and deep - The cliff, the hills behind it make A picture for my heart to keep. For rock and heather, wave and strand, Wore tints I never saw them wear ; The June sunshine was o'er the land, Before, 'twas never half so fair ! The amber ripples sang all day, And singing spilled their crowns of white Upon the beach, in thin pale spray That streaked the sober sand with light. The amber ripples sang their song, When suddenly from far o'erhead A lark's pure voice mixed with the throng Of lovely things about us spread. Some flowers were there, so near the brink Their shadows in the wave were thrown ; While mosses, green and gray and pink, Grew thickly round each smooth dark stone. 450 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF And over all, the summer sky, Shut out the town we left behind ; 'Twas joy to stand in silence by, One bright chain linking mind to mind. Oh, little lonely mountain spot ! Your place within my heart will be Apart from all Life's busy lot A true, sweet, solemn memory. I ST. MICHAN'S CHURCHYARD NSIDE the city's throbbing heart One spot I know set well apart From life's hard highway, life's loud mart. Each Dublin lane and street and square Around might echo ; but in there The sound stole soft as whispered prayer. A little, lonely, green graveyard, The old churchyard its solemn guard, The gate with naught but sunbeams barred ; While other sunbeams went and came Above the stone which waits the name His land must write with Freedom's flame. 1 The slender elm above that stone, Its summer wreath of leaves had thrown Around the heart so quiet grown. 1 Referring to the grave of Robert Emmet. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 451 A robin the bare boughs among, Let loose his little soul in song Quick liquid gushes fresh and strong ! And quiet heart, and bird and tree, Seemed linked in some strange sympathy Too fine for mortal eye to see But full of balm and soothing sweet, For those who sought that calm retreat ; For aching breast and weary feet. Each crowded street and thoroughfare Was echoing round it yet in there The peace of Heaven was everywhere ! THE NORTHERN BLACKWATER OTHE broom banks of the river are fair, Now the wild brier is blossoming there Now when the green banks so calmly repose, Lulled by the river's strange chant as it goes, Laughing beneath the gold eyes of the broom, Flashing so free where the heather's in bloom, Blushing all o'er at the kiss of the sun, Tranquil again at the gaze of a nun. Is it, my river, a sob or a song Beats from that heart as you hurry along ? Once in the twilight I thought it farewell, Just a good-bye to both mountain and dell. 452 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF Here the first daisies break free from the sod, Stars looking up with their first glance to God ! Here, ere the first days of April are done, Stand the swart cherry trees robed with the sun ; In the deep woodland the windflovvers blow ; Where young grass is springing, the crocuses glow, Down the green glen is the primrose's light, Soft shines the hawthorn's raiment of white ; Round the rough knees of the crab-tree a ring Of daffodils dance for joy of the spring ; And then my bright river, so full and so free, Sings as it wanders through woodland and lea. Fed with a thousand invisible rills, Girdled around with the awe of the hills, High in the mountains you spring to the light, Pure as the dawn from the dark ring of night. Well may the fairies keep revelry round, There where you cleave the thin air at a bound, And rush on the crag with your arms outspread Only a fairy could step where you tread 'Mid the deep echoes you pause to arouse, 'Mid the grim rocks with the frown on their brows, Type of young Freedom, bold river, to me ; Leaping the crags, sweeping down to Lough Neagh. Many a ruin, both abbey and cot, Sees in your mirror a desolate lot. Many an ear lying shut far away Hearkened the tune that your dark ripples play One I remember her better than all She knew every legend of cabin and hall ; Wept when the Law and the Famine-time met, IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 453 Sang how the Red Hand was radiantly set Over the victors who fought at the Ford * Over the sweep of O'Neill's Spanish sword O our own river ! where is she to-night ? Where are the exiles whose homes are in sight ? Once in the Maytime your carol so sweet Found out my heart in the midst of the street. Ah ! how I listened, and you murmured low Hope, wide as earth and as white as the snow ; Hope that, alas ! like the foam on your breast, Broke and was drifted away from its rest. Peace did not pass from your bonny broom shore, Lost though the hope unto me evermore, Lost, like your song for I think it a sigh Stirs that deep heart when I listen anigh. Only at dusk does it sound like farewell, Just a good-bye to myself and the dell. 1 TheFord, Beal-an atha-Buidhe. See Dr. Drennan's poem with this title. 454 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF JOHN KEEGAN (1809-1849) CAOCH 1 THE PIPER ONE winter's day, long, long ago, When I was a little fellow, A piper wandered to our door, Gray-headed, blind, and yellow : And, oh ! how glad was my young heart, Though earth and sky looked dreary, To see the stranger and his dog Poor " Pinch " and Caoch O'Leary. And when he stowed away his " bag," Crossed-barred with green and yellow, I thought and said, " In Ireland's ground There's not so fine a fellow." And Fineen Burke, and Shaun Magee, And Eily, Kate, and Mary, Rushed in, with panting haste, to "see" And "welcome" Caoch O'Leary. Oh ! God be with those happy times ! Oh ! God be with my childhood ! When I, bareheaded, roamed all day Bird-nesting in the wildwood. I'll not forget those sunny hours, 1 Caoch, blind. IRISH SONGS AND LTR1CS 455 However years may vary ; I'll not forget my early friends, Nor honest Caoch O'Leary. Poor Caoch and " Pinch " slept well that night, And in the morning early He called me up to hear him play " The wind that shakes the barley; " And then he stroked my flaxen hair, And cried, " God mark my deary 1 " And how I wept when he said, " Farewell, And think of Caoch O'Leary ! " And. seasons came and went, and still Old Caoch was not forgotten, Although we thought him dead and gone, And in the cold grave rotten ; And often, when 1 walked and talked With Eily, Kate, and Mary, We thought of childhood's rosy hours, And prayed for Caoch O'Leary. Well twenty summers had gone past, And June's red sun was sinking, When I, a man, sat by my door, Of twenty sad things thinking. A little dog came up the way, His gait was slow and weary, And at his tail a lame man limped Twas " Pinch" and Caoch O'Leary ! Old Caoch, but, oh ! how woebegone ! His form is bowed and bending, 456 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF His fleshless hands are stiff and wan, Ay time is even blending The colors on his threadbare " bag " And " Pinch " is twice as hairy And " thin-spare" as when first I saw Himself and Caoch O'Leary. " God's blessing here ! " the wanderer cried, " Far, far be hell's black viper; Does anybody hereabouts Remember Caoch the Piper? " With swelling heart I grasped his hand ; The old man murmured, " Deary, Are you the silky-headed child That loved poor Caoch O'Leary? " " Yes, yes," I said the wanderer wept As if his heart was breaking "And where, a vie machree," he sobbed, " Is all the merry-making 1 found here twenty years ago ? " " My tale," I sighed, " might weary; Enough to say there's none but me To welcome Caoch O'Leary." " Vo, vo, vo ! " the old man cried, And wrung his hands in sorrow, " Pray let me in, astore machree, And I'll go home to-morrow. My ' peace is made ' ; I'll calmly leave This world so cold and dreary ; And you shall keep my pipes and dog, And pray for Caoch O'Leary." IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 457 With " Pinch " I watched his bed that night; Next day his wish was granted : He died ; and Father James was brought, And the Requiem Mass was chanted. The neighbors came ; we dug his grave Near Eily, Kate, and Mary, And there he sleeps his last sweet sleep. God rest you ! Caoch O'Leary. 458 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF ELSA D'ESTERRE-KEELING AN IRISH THING IN RHYME LOVE MAKING IN PADDY LAND From " In Thoughtland and Dreamland" I. Under Kitty's Window. " \ H, then ; who is that there talkin' ? " /-\ " Sure it's only me, ye know. I was thinkin' we'd go walkin' " " Wor ye raly thinkin' so ? " " Och, ye needn' be so cruel An' me thrudged this siven mile >; " Is it cruel, Michael, jewel ? Sure I'm dressin' all the while ! " II. Before Michael's Cottage. "There, now, that's me cottage, Kitty." "Is it, Mike?" " Yis ; an' isn't it pretty ? " " Hm 1 lonesome like." " Lonesome 1 " (Now's y'r minute ! Michael, strike !) " Sure, \{ you wor in it " "Arrah, Mike!" IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 459 EDWARD KENEALY LOVE'S WARNING A FAIR lady once, with her young lover walked, Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; Through a garden, and sweetly they laughed and talked, While the dews fell over the mulberry-tree. She gave him a rose while he sighed for a kiss, Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; Quoth he, as he took it, "I kiss thee in this," While the dews fall over the mulberry-tree. She gave him a lily less white than her breast, Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; Quoth he, " 'twill remind me of one I love best ; " While the dews fall over the mulberry-tree. She gave him a two faces under a hood, Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; " How blest you could make me," quoth he, "if you would," While the dews fall over the mulberry-tree. She saw a forget-me-not flower in the grass, Gillyflower, gentle rosemary ; Ah ! why did the lady that little flower pass ? While the dews fell over the mulberry-tree. 460 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF The young lover saw that she passed it, and sigh'd, Gillyflower, gentle rosemary; They say his heart broke, and he certainly died, While the dews fell over the mulberry-tree. Now all you fair ladies, take warning by this, Gillyflower,' gentle rosemary ; And never refuse your young lovers a kiss, While the dews fall over the mulberry-tree. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 461 WILLIAM KENEALY (1828-1876) THE LAST REQUEST YOU'RE going away, Alanna, over the stormy sea, And never more I'll see you oh ! never, As thore machree / Mavrone ! I'm sick with sorrow sorrow as black as night : Mabouchal goes to-morrow, by the blessed morning's light. Oh ! once I thought, Alanna, you'd bear me to the grave, By the side of your angel sisters, before you'd cross the wave : Down to the green old churchyard, where the tree's dark shadows fall But now, Achorra, you're going, you'll not be there at all. The strangers' hands must lay me down to my silent sleep, And Shemus, you'll not know it beyond the rolling deep. Oh ! Dheeling ! dheeling ! Avourneen, why do you go away, Till you'll see the poor old mother stretch'd in the churchyard clay? 462 THE GOLDEN TREdSURT OF My heart is breaking, Alanna, but I mustn't tell you so For I see by your dark, dark sorrow, that your own poor heart is low. I thought I'd bear it better, to cheer you on your way ; But, Achorra / achorra ! you're going, and I'll soon be in the clay ! God's blessing be with you, Shemus sure, you'll come back again, When your curls of brown are snowy, to rest with your mother then ; Down in the green old churchyard, where the tree's dark shadows fall Asthorach / in the strangers' land you couldn't sleep at all 1 THE MOON BEHIND THE HILL THE KILKENNY EXILE'S CHRISTMAS SONG I WATCHED last night the rising moon Upon a foreign strand, Till memories came, like flowers of June, Of home and fatherland ; I dreamt I was a child once more Beside the rippling rill, Where first I saw in days of yore The moon behind the hill. It brought me back the visions grand That purpled boyhood's dreams ; Its youthful loves, its happy land, As bright as morning's beams. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 463 It brought me back my own sweet Nore, The castle and the mill, Until my eyes could see no more The moon behind the hill. It brought me back a mother's love, Until, in accents wild, I prayed her from her home above To guard her lonely child ; It brought me one across the wave, To live in memory still It brought me back my Kathleen's grave, The moon behind the hill. 464 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF WILLIAM KENNEDY (Living) THE POET'S HEART THOU know'st it not, love, when light looks are around thee, When music awakens its liveliest tone, When pleasure in chains of enchantment hath bound thee, Thou know'st not how truly this heart is thine own. It is not while all are about thee in gladness, While shining in light from thy young spirit's shrine, But in moments devoted to silence and sadness, That thou'lt e'er know the value of feelings like mine. Should grief touch thy cheek, or misfortune o'er take thee, How soon would thy mates of the summer decay ! They first of the whole fickle flock to forsake thee, Who flattered thee most when thy bosom was gay. What though I seem cold while their incense is burning, In the depths of my soul I have cherished a flame To cheer the loved one should the night time of mourning E'er send its far shadows to darken her name. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 465 Then leave the gay crowd though my cottage is lonely, Gay halls without hearts are far lonelier still ; Then say thou'lt be mine, Mary, always and only, And I'll be thy shelter whate'er be thine ill. As the fond mother clings to her fair little blossom The closer when blight hath appeared on its bloom, So thou Love the dearer shall be to this bosom ; The deeper thy sorrow, the darker thy doom. 466 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF JAMES KENNEY (1780-1849) WHY are you wandering here, I pray ? An old man asked a maid one day. Looking for poppies, so bright and red, Father, said she, I'm hither led. Fie ! fie ! she heard him cry, Poppies, 'tis known to all who rove, Grow in the field, and not in the grove Grow in the field and not in the grove. Tell me again, the old man said, Why are you loitering here, fair maid ? The nightingale's song, so sweet and clear, Father, said she, I come to hear. Fie ! fie ! she heard him cry, Nightingales all, so people say, Warble by night, and not by day Warble by night and not by day. The sage looked grave, the maiden shy, When Lubin jumped o'er the stile hard by; The sage looked graver, the maid more glum, Lubin he twiddled his finger and thumb. Fie ! fie ! the old man's cry ; Poppies like these, I own, are rare, And of such nightingales' songs beware And of such nightingales' songs beware. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 467 THOMAS KEOHLER (Living) APOLOGY IN the garden of my youth Where the flowers' pale perfumes swayed, Passion called me and I went Fearfully yet undismayed. In the garden left my dreams Of a life that might have grown Silently to interweave With the spirit world alone. Why should I thus meekly yield At the first sound of a voice ; At the beckoning of a finger Rush like one without a choice? Could the heart that nursed reared All my youth's pale bloom of dreams, Also bear this flaring foliage With its blossoms' fiery gleams ? Surely not a chance desire Lent my feet the will to go ; But a deeper thinking, sinking To the soul of things below : 468 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF But a deeper blending, twining, With the bright ones on their way And a fiercer fire divining In the buried heart of clay. And as peace can ne'er be mine Until every way is trod, With a heart sincere I go Passion's cloud-strewn path to God. AUTUMN O SEASON of the withering of the leaves, That seek their last repose on earth's cold breast, O let me hear the sorrows of thy voice Calling all things to loveliness and rest. In thy soft clouds grown gray with misery, Thy desolate branches flaunting the gaunt skies, Surely there dwells a sweetness of despair For lonely hearts and weary tear-stained eyes. For dumbly dressed, in sober light arrayed, Breathing a hidden mystery and fear, The pomp and pageants of eternity Loom through the withering ritual of the year. THE DEVOTEE THE autumn wind sighs through the trees, Disturbing all my garnered ease, The brown leaves stir a fluttering thought With half-repented memories fraught. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 469 Dear God, how sweet the pain of sin That opens doors to let Thee in. How strange that Nature too should know The ecstasy of sin's wild glow ; How strange that in this way my soul Should feel its union with the whole. And yet may God not thus impart Himself unto the seeking heart ? 470 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF CHARLES J. KICKHAM (1830-1882) MY ULICK MY Ulick is sturdy and strong, And light is his foot on the heather, And truth has been wed to his tongue Since first we were talking together. And though he is lord of no lands, Nor castle, nor cattle, nor dairy, My Ulick has health and his hands, And a heart-load of love for his Mary, And what could a maiden wish more? One night at the heel of the eve, I mind it was snowing and blowing, My mother was knitting, I b'lieve, For me I was sitting and sewing; My father had read o'er the news, And sat there a humming, " W.e'll wake him," When Ulick stepped in at the door, As white as the weather could make him : True love never cooled with the frost. He shook the snow out from his frieze, And drew a chair up to my father, My heart lifted up to my eyes To see the two sitting together ; They talked of our isle and her wrongs IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 471 Till both were as mad as starvation : Then Ulick sang three or four songs, And closed with " Hurra for the Nation ! " O Ulick, an Irishman still ! My father took him by the hand, Their hearts melted into each other ; While tears that she could not command Broke loose from the eyes of my mother. "Ah, Freedom ! " she cried, "wirra sthrue, A woman can say little in it ; But were it to come by you two, I've a guess at the way you would win it, It would not be by weeping, I swear." 472 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF PATRICK SHEEHAN MY name is Patrick Sheehan, My years are thirty-four ; Tipperary is ray native place, Not far from Galtymore : I came of honest parents, But now they're lying low ; And many a pleasant day I spent In the Glen of Aherlow. My father died ; I closed his eyes Outside our cabin door ; The landlord and the sheriff too Were there the day before ! And then my loving mother, And sisters three also, Were forced to go with broken hearts From the Glen of Aherlow. For three long months, in search of work, I wandered far and near ; I went then to the poor-house, For to see my mother dear ; The news I heard nigh broke my heart ; But still, in all my woe, I bless the friends who made their graves In the Glen of Aherlow. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 473 Bereft of home and kith and kin, With plenty all around, I starved within my cabin, And slept upon the ground ; But cruel as my lot was, I ne'er did hardship know 'Till I joined the English army, Far away from Aherlow. "Rouse up there," says the corporal, " You lazy Hirish hound ; Why don't you hear, you sleepy dog, The call < to arms ' sound ? " Alas, I had been dreaming Of days long, long ago ; I woke before Sebastopol, And not in Aherlow. I groped to find my musket How dark I thought the night ! blessed God, it was not dark, It was broad daylight ! And when I found that I was blind, My tears began to flow ; 1 longed for even a pauper's grave In the Glen of Aherlow. O blessed Virgin Mary, Mine is a mournful tale ; A poor blind prisoner here I am, In Dublin's dreary jail ; Struck blind within the trenches, Where I never feared the foe ; And now I'll never see again My own sweet Aherlow ! 474 THE GOLDEN TREJSURr OF RORY OF THE HILL '"T^HAT rake up near the rafters, Why leave it there so long ? The handle, of the best ash, Is smooth and straight and strong ; And, mother, will you tell me, Why did my father frown When to make the hay, in summer-time I climbed to take it down ? " She looked into her husband's eyes, While her own with light did fill, " You'll shortly know the reason, boy! " Said Rory of the Hill. The midnight moon is lightning up The slopes of Sliav-na-man, Whose foot affrights the startled hares So long before the dawn ? ' He stopped just where the Anner's stream Winds up the woods anear, Then whistled low and looked around To see the coast was clear. The sheeling door flew open In he stepped with right good-will " God save all here and bless your WORK, Said Rory of the Hill. Right hearty was the welcome That greeted him, I ween, For years gone by he fully proved How well he loved the Green ; And there was one amongst them Who grasped him by the hand IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 475 One who through all that weary time Roamed on a foreign strand ; He brought them news from gallant friends That made their heart-strings thrill " My sow I / I never doubted them ! " Said Rory of the Hill. They sat around the humble board Till dawning of the day, And yet not song nor shout I heard No revelers were they : Some brows flushed red with gladness, While some were grimly pale; But pale or red, from out those eyes Flashed souls that never quail ! " And sing us now about the vow, They swore for to fulfil " " You'll read it yet in history," Said Rory of the Hill. Next day the ashen handle He took down from where it hung, The toothed rake, full scornfully, Into the fire he flung ; And in its stead a shining blade Is gleaming once again (Oh ! for a hundred thousand of Such weapons and such men !) Right soldierly he wielded it, And going through his drill " Attention " " charge " " front, point " "advance" Cried Rory of the Hill. 476 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF She looked at him with woman's pride, With pride and woman's fears; She flew to him, she clung to him, And dried away her tears ; He feels her pulse beat truly, While her arms around him twine ' ' Now God be praised for your stout heart, Brave little wife of mine." He swung his first-born in the air, While joy his heart did fill " You'll be a FREEMAN yet, my boy," Said Rory of the Hill. Oh ! knowledge is a wondrous power, And stronger than the wind ; And thrones shall fall, and despots bow, Before the might of mind ; The poet and the orator The heart of man can sway, And would to the kind heavens That Wolfe Tone were here to-day ! Yet trust me, friends, dear Ireland's strength- Her truest strength is still The rough-and-ready roving boys, Like Rory of the Hill. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 477 DENNY LANE (1818-1896) KATE OF ARRAGLEN WHEN first I saw thee, Kate, That summer ev'ning late, Down at the orchard gate Of Arraglen, I felt I'd ne'er before Seen one so fair, asthore, I feared I'd never more See thee again I stopped and gazed at thee, My footfall luckily Reached not thy ear, though we Stood there so near ; While from thy lips a strain, Soft as the summer rain, Sad as a lover's pain Fell on my ear. I've heard the lark in June, The harp's wild plaintive tune, The thrush, that aye too soon Gives o'er his strain I've heard in hushed delight, The mellow horn at night, Waking the echoes light Of old Loch Lene; 478 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF But neither echoing horn, Nor thrush upon the thorn, Nor lark at early morn, Hymning in air, Nor harper's lay divine, E'er witched this heart of mine, Like that sweet voice of thine, That ev'ning there. And when some rustling, dear, Fell on thy listening ear, You thought your brother near, And named his name, I could not answer, though, As luck would have it so, His name and mine, you know, Were both the same Hearing no answering sound, You glanced in doubt around, With timid look, and found It was not he ; Turning away your head, And blushing rosy red, Like a wild fawn you fled Far, far from me. The swan upon the lake, The wild rose in the brake, The golden clouds that make The west their throne, The wilcl ash by the stream, The full moon's silver beam, The ev'ning star's soft gleam, Shining alone ; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 479 The lily robed in white, All, all are fair and bright ; But ne'er on earth was sight So bright, so fair, As that one glimpse of thee, That I caught then, machree, It stole my heart from me That ev'ning there. And now you're mine alone, That heart is all my own That heart that ne'er hath known A flame before. That form of mold divine, That snowy hand of thine Those locks of gold are mine Forevermore. Was lover ever seen As blest as thine, Kathleen ? Hath lover ever been More fond, more true ? Thine is my ev'ry vow ! Forever dear as now ! Queen of my heart be thou ! Mo cailin ruadh ! ' 1 Mo . . . rttadh, my golden-haired girt 480 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF WILLIAM LARMINIE (1850-1900) CONSOLATION YES, let us speak, with lips confirming The inner pledge that eyes reveal Bright eyes that death shall dim forever, And lips that silence soon shall seal. Yes, let us make our claim recorded Against the powers of earth and sky, And that cold boon their laws award us Just once to live and once to die. Thou sayest that fate is frosty nothing, But love the flame of souls that are : " Two spirits approach, and at their touching, Behold ! an everlasting star. ' ' High thoughts, O love : well, let us speak them > Yet bravely face at least this fate : To know the dreams of us that dream them On blind, unknowing things await. If years from winter's chill recover, If fields are green and rivers run, If thou and I behold each other, Hangs it not all on yonder sun ? IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 481 So while that mighty lord is gracious With prodigal beams to flood the skies, Let us be glad that he can spare us The light to kindle lover's eyes. And die assured, should life's new wonder In any world our slumbers break, These the first words that each will utter : " Beloved, art thou too awake? " 482 THE GOLDEN TREASURT OF EMILY LAWLESS (Living) A RETORT From With the Wild Geese. N OT hers your vast imperial mart, Where myriad hopes on fears are hurled, Where furious rivals meet and part To woo a world. Not hers your vast imperial town, Your mighty mammoth piles of gain, Your loaded vessels sweeping down To glut the main. Unused, unseen, her rivers flow, From mountain tarn to ocean tide ; Wide vacant leagues the sunbeams show, The rain-clouds hide. You swept them vacant ! Your decree Bid all her budding commerce cease ; You drove her from your subject sea, To starve in peace ! Well, be it peace ! Resigned they flow, No laden fleet ad own them glides, But wheeling salmon sometimes show Their silvered sides. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 483 And sometimes through the long still day The breeding herons slowly rise, Lifting gray tranquil wings away, To tranquil skies, Stud all your shores with prosperous towns ! Blacken your hillsides, mile on mile ! Redden with bricks your patient downs ! And proudly smile ! A day will come before you guess, A day when men, with clearer light, Will rue that deed beyond redress, Will loathe that sight. And, loathing, fly the hateful place, And, shuddering, quit the hideous thing, For where unblackened rivers race, And skylarks sing. For where, remote from smoke and noise, Old Leisure sits knee-deep in grass ; Where simple days bring simple joys, And lovers pass. I see her in those coming days, Still young, still gay ; her unbound hair Crowned with a crown of starlike rays, Serenely fair. I see an envied haunt of peace, Calm and untouched ; remote from roar, Where wearied men may from their burdens cease On a still shore. 484 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF EDMUND LEAMY (1848- ) A ROYAL LOVE I LOVED a love a royal love In the golden long ago ; And she was fair as fair could be, The foam upon the broken sea, The sheen of sun, or moon, or star, The sparkle from the diamond spar, Not half so rare and radiant are As my own love my royal love In the golden long ago. And she had stately palace halls In the golden long ago ; And warriors, men of stainless swords, Were seated at her festive boards, Fierce champions of her lightest words, While hymned the bard the chieftains' praise, And sang their deeds of battle days, To cheer my love my royal love In the golden long ago. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 485 in She wore a stately diadem In the golden long ago, Wrought by a cunning craftsman's hand And fashioned from a battle brand ; As fit for the queen of a soldier land, Her sceptre was a sabre keen, Her robe a robe of radiant green, My queenly love my royal love In the golden long ago. IV Alas for my love my royal love Of the golden long ago 1 For gone are all her warrior bauds, And rusted are her battle brands, And broken her sabre bright and keen, And torn her robe of radiant green, A slave where she was stainless queen My loyal love my royal love Of the golden long ago. But there is hope for my royal love Of the golden long ago ; Beyond the broad and shining sea Gathers a stubborn chivalry That yet will come to make her free, And hedge her round with gleaming spears, And crown her queen for all the years, My only love my royal love Of the golden long ago. 486 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU (1814-1872) ABHRAIN AN BHUIDEIL Address of a Drunkard to a Bottle of Whiskey FROM what dripping cell, through what fairy glen, Where 'mid old rocks and ruins the fox makes his den, Over what lonesome mountain, Acuishle mo chroidhe ! Where gauger never has trod, Sweet as the flowery sod, Wild as the breath Of the breeze on the heath, And sparkling all o'er like the moon-lighted fountain, Are you come to me - Sorrowful me? Dancing inspiring My wild blood firin' ; Oh ! terrible glory Oh ! beautiful siren Come, tell the old story Come, light up my fancy, and open my heart. Oh, beautiful ruin My life my undoin' IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 487 Soft and fierce as a pantheress, Dream of my longing, and wreck of soul, I never knew love till I loved you, enchantress ! At first, when I knew you, 'twas only flirtation, The touch of a lip and the flash of an eye ; But 'tis different now 'tis desperation ! I worship before you I curse and adore you, And without you I'd die. Wirrasthrue ! I wish 'twas again The happy time when I cared little about you, Could do well without you, But would just laugh and view you ; 'Tis little I knew you ! Oh ! terrible darling, How have you sought me, Enchanted, and caught me ? See, now, where you've brought me To sleep by the roadside, and dress out in rags. Think how you found me ; Dreams come around me The dew of my childhood and life's morning beam; Now I sleep by the roadside, a wretch all in rags. My heart that sang merrily when I was young Swells up like a billow and bursts in despair ; And the wreck of my hopes on sweet memory flung, And cries on the air, Are all that is left of the dream. 488 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF Wirrasthrue ! My father and mother, The priest, and my brother Not a one has a good word for you. But I can't part you, darling ; their preaching's all vain; You'll burn in my heart till these thin pulses stop ; And the wild cup of life in your fragrance I'll drain To the last brilliant drop. Then oblivion will cover The shame that is over, The brain that was mad, and the heart that was sore ; Then, beautiful witch, I'll be found in a ditch, With your kiss on my cold lips, and never rise more. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 489 SHAMUS O'BRIEN 1 A Tale of Ninety-eight, as related by an Irish Peasant JUST after the war, in the year Ninety-Eight, As soon as the boys were all scattered and bate, 'Twas the custom, whenever a peasant was caught, To hang him by trial barring such as was shot. There was trial by jury goin' on by daylight, And the martial law hangin* the lavings by night : It's them was hard times for an honest gossoon : If he missed in the judges, he'd meet a Dragoon ; And whether the judge or the soldiers gave sentence, The divil a much time they allowed for repentance. An' the many's the fine Boy was then on his keeping, With small share of restin', or atin', or sleepin', An' because they loved Erin, and scorned to sell it, A prey for the bloodhound, a mark for the bullet, Unsheltered by night, and unrested by day, With the heath for their barrack, revenge for their pay. An' the bravest and hardiest Boy of them all 1 W. R. Le Fanu in his Seventy Years of Irish Life^ 1903, says: " (It) was written in a very few days in the year 1840, and sent me day by day by my brother as he wrote it. I quickly learned it by heart, and now and then recited it. The scraps of paper on which it was written were lost, and years after, when my brother wished for a copy, I had to write it out from memory for him. One other copy 1 gave to Samuel Lover, who recited it in America, and notwithstanding his dis- claimer of the authorship it was more than once attributed to him." 490 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF Was Shamus O'Brien, from the town of Glengall. His limbs were well set, and his body was light, An' the keen fanged hound hadn't teeth half so white. But his face was as pale as the face of the dead, And his cheek never warmed with the blush of the red ; And, for all that, he wasn't an ugly young Boy, For the devil himself couldn't blaze with his eye, So funny and so wicked, so dark and so bright, Like a fire-flash that crosses the depth of the night. And he was the best mower that ever has been, And the illigantest hurler that ever was seen ; In fincin' he gave Patrick Mooney a cut, And in jumpin' he bate Tom Malony a foot. For lightness of foot there wasn't his peer, For, begorra, you'd think he'd outrun the red deer; And his dancin' was such that the men used to stare, And the women turned crazy, he had done it so quare And, begorra, the whole world ' gave in to him there. And it's he was the boy that was hard to be caught ; And it's often he ran, and it's often he fought, And it's many's the one can remember quite well The quare things he done ; and it's often I heerd tell How he frightened the magistrate in Cahirbally, And escaped through the sojers in Aherlow valley, And leathered the yeomen, himself agin four, And stretched the two strongest on old Galtimore. 1 In Gaelic the consonant r is given its full value before another consonant, producing the effect of a dissyllable ; e. g. tarbh, pronounced " thorruv " (a bull); compare the French taureau. This practice, like many other Gaelic locutions, has been carried into English; hence " v/orruld " for "world"; "firrum" for "firm," etc. IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 491 But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest, And treachery prey on the blood of the best, And many a brave action of power and pride, And many a hard night on the mountain's bleak side, And a thousand great dangers and toils overpast, In the darkness of night he was taken at last. Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon, For the door of the prison must close on you soon ; And take your last look at her dim lovely light, That falls on the mountain and valley this night ; One look at the village, one look at the flood, And one at the sheltering, far-distant wood. Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill, And farewell to the friends that will think of you still ; Farewell to the hurlin', the pattern, and wake, An' farewell to the girl that would die for your sake. Well, twelve soldiers brought him to Maryboro' jail, And the turnkey received him, refusin' all bail ; The fleet limbs were chained, and the strong handg were bound, And he laid down his length on the cold prison ground. And the dreams of his childhood came over him there, As gentle and soft as the sweet summer air ; And happy remembrances crowding on ever, As fast the foam-flakes drift down the river, Bringing fresh to his heart merry Jays long gone by, Till the tears gathered heavy and thick in his eye. But the tears didn't fall, for the pride of his heart Wouldn't suffer one drop down his pale cheek to start ; And he sprang to his feet in the dark prison cave, 492 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OP And he swore with the fierceness that misery gave, By the hopes of the good, by the cause of the brave, That when he was moldering in his cold grave His enemies never should have it to boast His scorn of their vengeance one moment was lost ; His bosom might bleed, but his cheek should be dry, For undaunted he'd lived, and undaunted he'd die. Well, as soon as a few weeks were over and gone, The terrible day of the trial came on. There was such a crowd there was scarce room to stand, With soldiers on guard, and dragoons sword in hand ; And the court-house so full that the people was bothered, And attorneys and criers on the point of being smoth- ered ; And counselors almost given over for dead, And the jury sittin' up in their box overhead ; And the judge settled out, so determined and big, With his gown on his back, and an illigant new wig. And silence was called, and the minute it was said, The court was as still as the heart of the dead, And they heard but the opening of one prison lock, And Shamus O'Brien came into the dock. For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng, And he looked on the bars, so firm and so strong, And he saw that he hadn't a hope nor a friend, A chance to escape nor a word to defend ; And he folded his arms as he stood there alone, As calm and as cold as a statue of stone. And they read a big writin', a yard long at laste, And Jim didn't understand it or mind it a taste. And the judge took a big pinch of snuff, and he says, IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS "Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, if you plase?" And they all held their breath in silence of dread ; And Shamus O'Brien made answer and said, " My lord, if you ask me if in my lifetime I thought any treason, or done any crime That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here, The hot blush of shame or the coldness of fear, Though I stood by the grave to receive my death- blow, Before God and the world I would answer you, ' No ! ' But if you would ask me, as I think it like, If in the rebellion I carried a pike, And fought for old Ireland from the first to the close, And shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes, I answer you, ' YES,' and I tell you again, Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory that then In her cause I was willin' my veins should run dry, And that now for her sake I am ready to die." Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright, And the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light ; By my soul, it's himself was the crabbed old chap, In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap. Then Shamus's mother, in the crowd standing by, Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry : " Oh ! judge, darlin', don't oh, don't say the word ! The crathur is young, have mercy, my lord ! He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin' ; You don't know him, my lord oh, don't give him to ruin ! He's the kindliest crathur, the tenderest hearted, Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted ! Judge, mavourneen, forgive him ! forgive him, my lord! And God will forgive you. Oh ! don't say the word ! " 494 THE GOLDEN TRE4SURT OF That was the first minute O'Brien was shaken, When he saw that he wasn't quite forgot or forsaken ; And down his pale cheeks, at the words of his mother, The big tears were runnin' fast, one after th' other; And he tried hard to hide them or wipe them away, But in vain, for his hands were too fast bound that day. And two or three times he endeavored to spake, But the strong, manly voice used to falter and break, Till at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride, He conquered and mastered his grief's swelling tide. And, says he, " Mother darlin', don't break your poor heart, For, sooner or later, the dearest must part. And God knows it's better than wandering in fear On the bleak, trackless mountain among the wild deer, To lie in the grave, where the head, hand, and breast From thought, labor, and sorrow forever shall rest. Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more, Don't make me seem broken in this my last hour; For I wish, when my head is lyin' under the raven, No true man can say that I died like a craven ! " Then towards the judge Shamus bowed down his head, And that minute the solemn death sentence was said. The morning was bright, and the mists rose on high, And the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky. But why are the men standin' idle so late ? And why do the crowds gather fast in the street ? What come they to talk of? What come they to see? And why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree ? Now, Shamus O'Brien, pray fervent and fast; May the saints take your soul ! for this day is your last; IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 495 Pray fast, and pray strong, for the moment is nigh When, strong, proud, and great as you are, you must die. And faster and faster the crowd gathered there Boys, horses, gingerbread, just like a fair ; And whiskey was sellin', and cussamuck 1 too, And ould men and young women enjoyin' the view ; And ould Tim Mulvaney he made the remark, "There wasn't such a sight since the time of Noah's ark! And, begorra, 'twas true for him, the devil such a scruge, Such divarshin and crowds was known since the deluge ! Ten thousand was gathered there, if there was one, All waitin' till such time as the hangin' 'id come on. At last they drew open the big prison gate, And out came the sheriffs and soldiers in state, And a cart in the middle, and Shamus was in it, Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute. And as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien, With prayin' and blessin' an* all the girls cryin', A wild wailin' sound came on by degrees, Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees. On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone, And the cart and the soldiers go steadily on ; And at every side swellin' around of the cart, A wild sorrowful sound that would open your heart. Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand, And the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand ; 1 Cussamuck, leavings. 496 THE GOLDEN TREJSURT OF And the priest gives his blessing and goes down on the ground, And Shamus O'Brien throws one last look around ; Then the hangman drew near, and the people grew still, Young faces turned sickly and warm hearts grew chill. And all being ready, his neck was made bare, For the gripe of the life-stranghV cord to prepare; And the good priest had left him, having said his last prayer. But the good priest done more, for his hands he un- bound, And with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the ground ! Bang ! bang ! go the carbines and clash go the sabers ! " He's not down ! he's alive still ! Now stand to him, neighbors ! Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd ! By the heavens he is free ! " than thunder more loud, By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken One shout that the dead of the world might awaken. Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang, But if you want hangin', yourself you must hang, For to-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherglow glen, And the devil's in the dice if you catch him again. The soldiers run this way the hangmen run that, And Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat ; And the sheriffs were both of them punished severely, And fined like the devil, because Jim done them fairly. University of California SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 405 Hilgard Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90024-1388 Return this material to the library from which it was borrowed. University of Califor Southern Regional Library Facility