THE EDITED BY THE HON. CHAELES GAVAN DUFFY. FOKTIETII EDITION. DUBLIN : JAMES DUFFY, 15, WELLINGTON-QUAY; AND 22, PATERNOSTER-ROW, LONDON. 1869. TO THOMAS O'HAGAN, ESQ., BAEEISTER-AT-LAW, IN HONOUR OF HIS HEART, HIS INTELLECT, AND HIS PRINCIPLES, ig $johtme fa ^imnbtto BY HIS FRIEND, CHAS. GAVAN DUFFY. " My own friend, my own friend, There's no one like my own friend ; For all the gold the world could hold I would not give my own friend! 1 ' WOLFE. Dundrum, July^ 1845. As one-and-twenty years' additional experience of the world has not made me acquainted with ojiy one more worthy to be lov^c and honoured, THE RIGHT HON. JUDGE O'HAGAN, THE THIRTY-NINTH EDITION OF THIS LITTLE VOLUME, Paris, July, 1866. 386984 CONTENTS. DEDICATION, INDEX OF AUTHORS, ... PREFACE TO THE THIRTY-NINTH EDITION, PllKFACE TO THE SlXTH EDITION, PREFACE TO THE FOURTH EDITION, INTRODUCTION, Names of Ballads. Gille Machree, Lament of the Irish Emigrant, The Pretty Girl of Lough Dan, The Woman of Three Cows, ... The Fairy Child, Sir Turlough, or the Churchyard Bride, Soggarth Aroon, >Jhe Lord of Dunkerron, The Irish Emigrant in North America, Margre'ad ni Chealleadh, The Forester's Complaint, The Fairy Boy, Wake of William Orr, Oliver's Adv'ce, The Reconciliation, ... The Poor Man's Labour, The Emigrant Mother, Kathleen Ny-Houlahan, ... ... Kory O'Moore, an Ulster Ballad, Una Phelimy, Orange arid Green, The Burial of Sir John Moore, A Lament for the Tyronian and Tyrcon- nellian Princes, buried at Rome, ... The Court of Cahirass, Maire Bhan Astor, The Return of O'Ruark, Prince of Breffni, The Sister of Charity, Mary le More, The Lament of O'Gnive, The Irish Reaper's Harvest Hymn, The Convict of Clonmel, Lament of the Irish Maiden, ... The County of Mayo, The Patriot Mo ther, ... Bouchelleen Bawn, ... Mo Craoibhin Cno, ... Authors" Names. Gerald Griffin, Countess of Gifford, S. Ferguson, ... Clarence Mangan, Dr. Anster, ... William Carleton, John Banim, ... T. Crofton Croker, Mrs. Fitzsimon, Edward Walsh, S. Ferguson, ... Samuel Lover, Dr. Drennan, ... Colonel Blacker, John Banim, ... John Philpot Curran, Anonymous, ... Clarence Mangan, Anonymous, ... S. Ferguson, ... Gerald Griffin, Rev. Charles Wolfe, Clarence Mangan, Anonymous, ... Thomas Davis, Thomas Moore, Gerald Griffin, G. N. Reynolds, J. J. Callanan, John Keegan, J. J. Callanan, Denny Lane, ... George Fox, ... Fionnula, John Banim, ... Edward Walsh, Page, 5 9 13 . 18 ,. 19 ,. 20 Page . 39 . 41 . 43- . 46 - . 4S r . 50 . 57 . 60 . 63 . 65 . 67-^ ,. 69 . 7') . 72 . 76 . 77 . 78 . 79"- . 81 . 82 *- ,. 85 . 90 . 91 *~ . 99 . 101 -" . 102 - . 104 . 106 . 108 . 110 . 112 . 114 . 115 . 116 . 118 . 119 CONTENTS. Names of Ballads. ShuleAroon, say, my Brown Driinin, Grave of MacCaura, ... Peggy Bawn, A Lamentation, The Blackbird, Lament of the Emigrant Connaught Woman for her dead Son, The Wild Geese, The Battle of the Boy ne, The Drinan Dhun, ... The Fairy Thorn, The Avenger, Lamentation of Hugh Reynolds, Molly Carew, The Croppy Boy, The Drunkard, Dirge of O'Sullivan Bear, My Connor, ... The Fate of the Forties, Cashel of Minister, ... The Lady of Albany's Lament for King Charles, The Clan of MacCaura, Willy Gilliland, ... The Desmond, O'Brien of Arra, The Irish Mother in the Penal Days, ... The Minstrel's Walk, Grtugaune Barra, The Battle of Callan, The Sorrowful Lamentation of Cal- laghan, Greally, and Mullen, The Bridal of Malahide, The Fair Hills of Ireland, The T lower of Finae, ... When this Old Cap was New, Emmeline Tulbot, A Munster Keen, Irish Molly, The Brigade at Fontenoy, The Forging of the Anchor, ... ... The Gevaldi ne's Daughter, The Lost Wife, The Holy Wells, The Monks of Kilcrea, O'Donovan's Daughter, The Sack of Baltimore, South Munster C]ans Marching to Battle, The Boatman of Kinsale, O'Byrne's Bard to the Clans of Wicklow, The Bells of Shandon. Willy Reilly, APPENDIX, ... INDEX, Authors' Names. Page Old Ballad, ... ... 121 J. J. Callanan, ... 122 Mrs. Downing, ... 123 Old Ballad 124 Clarence Mangan, ... 126- Old Ballad, 127 John Keegan, ... 129 Dr. Drennan, ... ... 132 Old Ballad, 133 Street Ballad, ... 136 S. Ferguson, ... ... 337- J. J. Callanan, ... 140 Street Ballad, .. 142 Samuel Lover, ... 144 Carroll Malone, ... 147 Thomas Furlong, ... 149 J. J. Callanan, ... 157 Anonymous, ... ... 160 Henry Grattan Curran, 161 S.Ferguson, ... ... 164- Edward Walsh, ... 165 D. F. Mac-Carthy, ... 167- S. Ferguson, . ... 17 ! Thomas Moore, ... 177- Thomas Davis, ... 178_ John Banim, ... ... 180 Rev. James Wills, ... 181 J. J. Callanan, ... 183 Edward Walsh, ... 185 Street Ballad, ... 187 Gerald Griffin, ... 189 S. Ferguson, ... ... 194- Thomas Davis, ... 195- S. Ferguson, ... ... 197 - Thomas Davis, ... 199 . Edward Walsh, ... 203 Street Ballad, ... 204 Bartholomew Dowlin& 206 S. Ferguson, ... ... 208 . Anonymous, ... ... 213 John Fisher Murray, ... 214 J. D. Fraser, ... ... 216 * * * 218 Edward Walsh, - ... 222 Thomas Davis, , ... 224" G. H. Supple, ... ... 227 Thomas Davis, ... 230 - S.Ferguson, ... ... 231 Rev. F. Mahony, ... 233 ' Old Ballad, 235 239 243 \ INDEX OF AUTHOES. A. Page ANONYMOUS. The Emigrant Mother, . 78 Kory O'Moore, . . . 81. The Court of Cahirass, . 99 The Patriot Mother, . .116 My Connor, . . . "ICO The Geraldine's Daughter, 213 The Monks of Kilcrea, . 218 ANSTER, DK. The Fairy Child, . . . 48 B. BANIM, JOHN. Soggarth Aroon, ... 57 The Reconciliation, . , 76 Bouchelleen Bawn, . . 118 The Irish Mother in the Penal Days, . . .180 BLACKKR, COLONKL. Oliver's Advice, ... 72 C. CALLANAN, JKREMIAH JOSEPH. The Lament of O'Gnive, . 108 The Convict of Clonmel, . 112 say, my Brown Drhnin, 122 The Avenger, . . .140 Dirge of O'Sullivan Bear, . 157 Gougaune Barra, . . 183 CARLETON, WILLIAM. Sir Turlough, or the Church- yard Bride, ... 50 CROKER, T. CROFTON. The Lord of Dunkerron, . CO CuiniAN, HENRY GKATTAN. The Fate of the Forties, . 1C1 CURRAN, RIGHT HON. J. P. The Poor Man's Labour, . 77 D. PacjQ DAVIS, THOMAS, M.R.I.A. Maire Bhan Astor, . . 101 O'Brien of Arra, . . .178, The Flower of Finae, . . 195 F.mmeline Talbot, . . 19!) The Sack of Baltimore, . 224 The Boatman of Kinsale, . 23Q COWLING, BARTHOLOMEW. The Brigade at Fontenoy, . 206 DOWNING, MRS. Grave of MacCaura, . . 123 DRENNAN, DR. Vrake of William Orr, . 70 The Wild Geese, . . . 132 F. FERGUSON, SAMUEL, M.R.I.A. The Pretty Girl of Lough Dan, ... 43 The Forestei-'s Complaint, C7 Una Phelimy, ... 82 The Fairy Thorn, . . 1-7 Cashel of Minister, . . 16* Willy Gilliland, . . .171 The Fair Hills of Ireland, . 194 When this Old Cap was New, 197 The Forging of the Anchor, 208 O'Byrne's Bard to the Clans ofWicklow, . ; .231 FITZSIMON, MRS. The Irish Emigrant in North Amarica, . . C3 Fox, GEORGE. The County Mayo, . . 115 FRASER, J. D. The Holy Wells, . . .216 FURLONG, THOMAS. The Drunkard, a Tale of Low Life,. . . .149 10 INDEX OF AUTHOKS. G. Page GIFFORD, COUNTESS OF. Lament of the Irish, Emi- grant, . . . .41 GRTFFIX, GERALD. Gille Machree, ... 39 Orange and Green, . . 85 The Sister of Charity, . 104 The Bridal of Mulahide, . 189 KEKGAN, JOHN. The Irish Reaper's Harvest Hymn, . . . .110 Lament of the Emigrant Connaught Woman for her Dead Son, . . .129 LANE, DENNY. Lament of the Irish Maiden, 114 LOVER, SAMUEL. The Fairy Boy, ... 69 Molly Carew, . . .144 M. MAC-CARTUT, D. F. The Clan of MacCaura, MAHONY, REV. F. The Bells of Shandon, MALONE, CARROLL. The Croppy Boy, 167 233 147 MANGAN, CLARENCK. The Woman of Three Cows, 46 Kathleen Ny-Houlahan, . 79 A Lament for the Tyroniari and Tyrconnellian Princes buried at Rome, . . 91 A Lamentation, . . .126 Pags MOORE, THOMAS. The Return of O'Ruark, . 102 The Desmond, . . .177 MURRAY, JOHN FISHER. The Lost Wife, . . .214 0. OLD BALLADS. Shule Aroon, . . . 121 Peggy Bawn, . . . 124 The Blackbird, . . .127 The Battle of the Boyne, . 133 Willy Rielly, . . . 235 R. REYNOLDS, GEORGE NUGENT. Mary Le More, . . .106 S. STREET BALLADS. Drinan Dhun, . . . 136 Hugh Reynolds, . . . 142 The Sorrowful Lamentation of Callaghan, Greally, and Mullen 187 Irish Molly, . . .204 SUPPLE, G. H. South Munster Clans, . 227 W. WALSH, EDWARD. Margrdad ni Chealleadh, . C5 Mo Craoibhin Cno, . . 119 The Lady of Albany's La- ment for King Charles, . 165 The Battle of Callan, . . 185 A Munster Keen, . . 203 O'Douovan's Daughter, . 2J2 WILLS, RKV. JAMES. The Minstrel's Walk, , .181 WOLFE, REV. CI-IAKLKS. The Burial of Sir John Moore, . . .90 PREFACE TO THE THIRTY-NINTH EDITION. DURING a visit made to my native country after a long absence, the publisher of the "Ballad Poetry of Ireland" requested me to revise a new edition of it, which he pro- posed to issue in a new and more attractive form. The book recalled so many friends and so many hopes allied with the brightest period of life, that though the task was in many senses painful, it was one I could not decline. Having looked over the volume, I find little that I am disposed to omit ; and I do not feel justified in making any additions whatever, beyond an occasional note to illustrate the text or identify the author. There are abundant stores from which valuable additions might be drawn, but the more successfully this task were performed, the more completely the identity of the book would be destroyed. It cannot possibly pretend to be the most full and complete collection of Irish Ballads ; but I rejoice to remember that it was the first collection ; and that before it appeared the title Irish Ballad would probably have suggested to an ordinary reader something grotesque or contemptible. Some of its value to the students of Irish literature will doubtless depend upon its retaining the identical ballads with which this experiment upon the public taste was made. The larger collections since published consist, in a considerable degree, of ballads not written when this volume was issued ; and many of which would probably never have been written but for the revival in Irish literature, of which it was one of the symptoms. It is due, therefore, I think, to the writers of the ballads which first arrested attention, as well as to future readers, not to vary the original collection. Something, perhaps, is also due to old readers ; the publisher assures me that within the last twenty years he has published thirty-eight editions of it, amounting to seventy-six thousand copies, distributed wherever the English language is used, and there must necessarily be a considerable number of persons who would object to any experiment made at this time of day on an 1 2 PREFACE, habitual favourite. Of its great success I can have no hesitation in speaking, as my share in the work was only the humble one of collecting the flowers into a bouquet, with a view to vindicate the fertility and variety of Irish genius. It is impossible to look back over the long interval since the Ballad Poetry was published, without noting the empty places which Death has left in its memorable roll of young poets. Death has struck from that roll the names of Edward Walsh, whose tender and passsionate genius interpreted so successfully between the Celtic brain and the Saxon tongue ; of John Keegan, the peasant poet, who has left us, almost for the first time, genuine songs of the field and the cabin ; and of De Jean Eraser, the poet of the workshops, who maintained a life-long struggle with ill-health and narrow circumstances, and kept his heart still fresh, and his spirit erect and hopeful ; and of the master and chief whom they all cheerfully accepted and acknowledged in that character, Thomas Davis. In the original Introduction, there is no allusion to him beyond the slightest and most casual ; not because he was living and apparently destined to a long and distinguished career, for I attempted some estimate of the genius of others in kindred circumstances, but literally because he shrank painfully from any public recognition of his labours by his friends and associates. To have written of him as I felt would have rudely wounded his modest and sensitive nature. But I may now declare that though he was foremost among the young poets of his day, his greatest poem was his life. It never has been my good fortune to meet so noble a human creature ; so variously gifted, so unaffectedly just, generous, and upright, so utterly without selfishness and without vanity ; and I never expect to meet such another. I have not failed to note with pleasure the large and important additions which have been made to the domain of Irish Ballad Poetry in latter years. But I have been only a distant and pre-occupied observer. Happily, one who has watched it closely and with loving sympathy has made an estimate of our gains. In a recent article in the Dublin Review, iti which I recognize the skilful hand of my friend Mr. Cashel Hoey, all that need be said on this subject has been so effectually said, that I prefer to adopt his language rather than glean, the same ground, Speaking of PREFACE. 13 a remarkable experiment which had barely begun at the. time the "Ballad Poetry" was published, he says, in language which I somewhat abridge ; " Was it possible to transfuse the peculiar spirit of the Irish native poetry into the English tongue? The researches of the Archaeological Society were at this time rapidly disentombing the long-hidden histo- rical and poetical treasures of the Irish language. Many of these had been translated by Clarence Mangan, in a style which did not pretend to be literally faithful ; but which, so expanded, illustrated, and harmonized the original, that the poem, while losing none of its idiosyncrasy, gained in every quality of grace, freedom, and force. The rich, the sometimes redundant array of epithets, the mobile, passionate transitions, the tender and melancholy spirit of veneration for a vanishing civilization, for perishing houses, scattering clans, and a persecuted Church some even of the more graceful of the idioms and more musical of the metres^ might surely be naturalized in the English language, and so an Irish poetical dialect be absolutely invented in the middle of the nineteenth, century. It was known how an Irish peasant spoke broken English, and put it into rhyme that did not want a strange wild melody, that wa^ to more finished and scholarly verse as the flavour of poteen is to tha flavour of Burgundy. But how would an Irish bard, drawing hi^ inspiration from the primeval Ossianic sources, and thinking in the trua ecstatic spirit of the Irish muse, speak, if he were condemned to speak, in the speech of the Saxon ? This was a bold conception, and no one who is familiar with the poetry of Ireland during the last twenty years will deny that it has been in great part fulfilled. ***** " Mr. Ferguson has accomplished the problem of conveying the absolute spirit of Irish poetry into English verse, and he has done so under the most difficult conceivable conditions for he prefers a certain simple and unluxuriant structure in the plan of his poems, and he uses in their composition the most strictly Saxon words he can find. But all tha accessories and figures, and still more, a certain weird melody in tha rhythm, that reminds the ear of the wild grace of the native music, indicate at every turn what Mr. Froude has half reproachfully called 'the subtle spell of the Irish mind.' It is not surprising to fiu;d even careful and accomplished English critics unable to reach to the essential meaning of this poetry, which to many evidently appears as bald as tha style of Burns first seemed to Southron eyes, when he became the fashion at Edinburgh, eighty years ago. And yet, to master the dialect of Burns is at least as difficult as to master the dialect of Chaucer, while Mr. Ferguson rarely uses a word that would not be passed by Swift or Defoe." Of two other workers in the same field, he says : "Lady Wilde's verse has not at all the same distinctively Celtic cha- racter as Mr. Ferguson's. He aspires to be Kindly Irish of the Irish, Neither Saxon nor Italian; and his choice inspirations come from the life of the elans. Speranza^ verse so far as it has a specially Irish character, is of the most ancient 14 PEEFACE. type of that character. It is full of Oriental figures and illustrations. It is, when it is most Irish, rather cognate to Persian and Hebrew ways of thinking, forms of metaphor, redundance of expression in its ten- dency to adjuration, in its habit of apostrophe, in its very peculiar and powerful, but monotonous rhythm, which seems to pulsate on the ear with the even, stringent stroke of the Hindoo drum. Where this peculiar poetry at all adapts itself to the vogue of the modern muse, it is easy to see that Miss Barrett had very great influence in determining the mere manner of Lady Wilde's genius. But the character of her verse is far more coloured by the range of her studies than by the influence of any special style. "Tvlr. Aubrey de Vere's 'Inisfail ' comes last on our list, but certainly not least in our estimation. No poet of Young Ireland has, like him, seized and breathed the spirit of his country's Catholic nationality, its virginal purity of faith, its invincible patience of hope, and all the gentle sweetness of its charity. Young Ireland rather studied the martial muse, and that with an avowed purpose. 'The Irish Harp,' said Davis, 'too much loves to weep. Let us, while our strength is great and our hopes high, cultivate its bolder strains, its raging and rejoicing; or if we weep, let it be like men whose eyes are lifted, though their tears fall.' Mr. de Vere has tried every mood of the native lyre, and proved himself master of all. His 'Inisfail' is a ballad chronicle of Ireland, such as Young Ireland would have thought to be a worthy result of all its talents, and such as, in fact, Mr. Duffy at one time proposed. But it must be said that its heroic ballads are not equal to those of Young Ireland. They want the verve, the glow, the energy, the resonance, which belong to the best ballads of ' The Spirit of the Nation: Of the writers of that time, Mr. D'Arcy M'Gee is, perhaps, on the whole, the most kindred genius to his. Mr. De Vere has an insight into all the periods of Irish history in their most poetical expression, which Mr. M'Gee alone of his comrades seems to have equally possessed. Indeed, if Mr. M'Gee's poems Were all collected and chronologically arranged asit is to be hoped they may be some day soon it would be found that he had unconsciously and desultorily traversed very nearly the same complete extent of ground that Mr. De Vere has systematically and deliberately gone over. But' though no one has written more nobly of the dimly-glorious Celtic ages, and many of his battle-ballads are instinct with life, and wonderfully picturesque, it is easy to see that Mr. M'Gee's best desire was to follow the footsteps of the early saints, and the Via Dolorosa of the period of the penal laws. These, too, are the passages over which Mr. De Vere's genius most loves to brood, and his prevailing view of Ireland is the supernatural view of her destiny to carry the cross and spread the faith. Young Ireland wrote its bold, brilliant ballads, as a part of the education of the new nationality that it believed was growing up, and destined to take possession of the island 'a nationality that,' to use Davis's words again, 'must contain and represent all the races of Ireland.' .... And such was the dream that seemed an easy eventuality twenty years ago. But Mr. De Vere writes after the famine, and in view of the Exodus. His mind goes from the present to the past by ages of sorrow of sorrow, nevertheless, illumined, nurtured, and sustained by Divine faith, and the living presence of the Church. So in the most beautiful poem of this volume, he sees the whole Irish race carrying an inner spiritual life through all their tribulation in the guise of a great religious order, of which England is the foundress, and the rules are written in the statute- took." PREFACE. 15 The connexion which Mr. Hoey traces between the poets of to-day and those of twenty years ago, finds a most un- expected witness in M. de la Villemarque, of the French Institute. That accomplished writer, in an article pub- lished, at the commencement of the present year, in the Paris review, Le Correspondent, insists 011 the unity of design and spirit which runs through our national ballads from the earliest time down to Mr. Ferguson's "Lays of the Western Gael." He makes the "Ballad Poetry" the subject of a careful analysis, and rates the collection high enough among the popular poetry of Europe to satisfy the most exacting Irishman. I am tempted to copy a trans- lation which he has made of Banim's " Soggarth Aroon," not only as an evidence of how genuine the poetry is that has borne the process of conversion so well, but because there are touches of feeling which seem to have their vividness and intensity increased in the strange language. "Suis-je Tesclave qu'ils disent, mon doux pasteur, depuis que vous m'avez appris, mon doux pasteur, & n'etre plusleur esclave & ces hommes qui voudraient faire de moi I'instrument de la servitude de notre ve"D e- rable Irlande, mon doux pasteur." Et poursuivant, avec un accent de fierte maMe et tendre a la fois ; "Envers vous vaillant et fidele, mon doux pasteur, sans etre cependant votre esclave, mon deux pasteur, je me tiens debout pres de vous, oh! oui sans crainte pres de vous, mon doux pasteur. " Qui done pendant les nuits d'hiver, mon doux pasteur, lorsque soufflait le vent glacd, mon doux pasteur, vint a la porte de ma cabane, et la, sur la terre nue, s'agenouilla pres de moi, malade.et pauvre, mon doux pasteur? " Qui done, le jour de la noce, mon doux pasteur, rendit gaie ma tristo cahutte, mon doux pasteur? Qui, le jour du bapteme du pauvre, vint rire et chanter avec nous, faisant chanter nos coeurs, mon doux pasteur? "Qui, en ami sincere, mon doux pasteur, ne me railla jamais, mon doux pasteur, et a mon foyersombre, apporta, les yeux pleins de larrnes, ce que j'aurais, du lui porter, mon doux pasteur ? "Oh! c'est vou^, c'est vous seul, mon doux pasfceur, aussi vous ai-je voud mon doux pasteur, un amour qu'ils n'dbranleront jamais, mon doux pasteur, car nous suivons la meme cause, la vieille cause de 1'Irlande, mon doux pasteur." And so I take farewell of this collection for the last time. Of a more comprehensive and skilful distribution of all our store of ballads I have often dreamed, as pleasant work for some long holiday, if any such should occur in a busy life ; but to this volume I will return no more. PARIS, July, 18G6. PREFACE TO THE SIXTH EDITION. THE publisher has called for a Sixth Edition of this volume, \vhich, he informs me, has had a larger circulation than any book published in Ireland since the Union. I have accord- ingly spared no editorial labour to remove its casual blemishes, and add to the interest and variety of its con- tents. It now contains several ballads not in the early editions ; and an adequate Irish scholar, Mr. Eugene Curry, has been kind enough to supply the original, in the Gaelic character, of such Irish phrases as occur in it. With these emendations I commit it finally to the public rejoicing that the popularity which I ventured to anticipate for our National Ballad Poetry is now being achieved, not only in the success of this volume, but by the recent publication of two similar collections, " The Book of Irish Ballads," by my gifted friend, D. F. Mac-Carthy, and the ''Ancient Poetry of Ireland," published by M'Glashan, Dublin. It has been objected against some of the ballads of chivalry and adventure, that they are not strictly Irish, inasmuch as their phraseology does not resemble the pre- sent language of the people. But this objection is incon- siderate. The ballads of modern Irish life must, and do, suggest the living dialects and habits of the country ; but the ballads of past times take their colour from the habits and thoughts belonging to their particular era, and their phraseology from the great storehouse of language in all nations the ancient native poems and legends of the country. What they ought to suggest is that time, not this. There certainly must be the generic resemblance which is sure to be found in all simple and natural produc- tions of the same race, and which the passionate, exag- gerated, and coloured phraseology of the Celtic nations produces so remarkably in ours but that is all. To make an Irish chieftain of the middle ages speak like an Irish peasant of this time would be, not to preserve, but to belie historic truth. But I have only space to indicate, not to discuss this subject. DUBLIN, October 10th, 1846. PREFACE TO THE FOURTH EDITION. THREE editions of this collection having been exhausted in less than a month, the publisher has called upon me to prepare a fourth ; and with this object I have gone over it carefully, and expunged as many as I could detect of the original sins incident to early editions errors of the press, of haste, and of carelessness. Something of this kind was done for the Third Edition ; but there was not leisure to do it carefully. It will now, I trust, be found tolerably free from errors of the class chargeable on an editor. The success of these ballads seems to me to give happy promise of a vigorous and national literature in Ireland. Ballads have been among the first home-grown productions of all countries ; and their popularity here now is no slight evidence that the national mind is still fresh and earnest, and has the impulses and propensities that belong to a young nation. Poetry of action and passion is popular where action and passion, and faith and noble sentiment are still common. Poetry of reflection succeeds them in a lower state of public feeling. It was a great achievement of Wordsworth to wed philosophy to the ballad, and to put a high moral purpose and large intellectual development into his ballad stories ; but the ages that required only the simple passion and the obvious truth were ages of greater faith, worth, and heroism. Let us rejoice if we have not yet passed out of them. In justice to our periodical literature, I ought to havo stated in the Introduction that the ballads by Mr. Ferguson and Mr. Murray were taken from the University Magazine; those by Mr. Mangan from the Iris?i Penny Journal ; the "Fate of the Forties," by Mr. H. G-. Curran; "My Connor," and the "Irish Emigrant in North America," from the Citizen; Mr. Carletoii's "Sir Turlough," from the Dublin Literary Gazette; and the ballads of Mr. Davis, Mr. Walsh, Mr. Keegan, Mr. Mac-Carthy, and Mr. Lane, as well as most of the anonymous ones, from the Nation. RATIIMINES, Aug. 26, 1845. B INTRODUCTION. THE object of this collection is to vindicate the character of our native ballads, long and strangely misunderstood. But its title may suggest expectations which it cannot, and was by no means intended, to gratify. Let us, therefore, state, on the threshold, that it consists neither of the old bardic songs of the country, nor of the street ballads common in the mouths of the people. It has borrowed from both these sources ; but the main body of the collection is gathered from another class, chastened and elevated by modern art, but equally indigenous, and equally marked with a distinct native character. The motive of this preference is obvious. Such of the OLD BARDIC SONGS as have come down to us are locked up from the mass of readers in the Irish language, or in translations which are commonly as com- plete a disguise of their spirit and beauty. With a few exceptions, all the translations we are acquainted with, in addition to having abundance of minor faults, are eminently un-Irish. They seem to have been made by persons to whom one of the languages was not familiar. Many of them were confessedly versified from prose translations, and are mere English poems, without a tinge of the colour or character of the country. Others, translated by sound Irish scholars, are bald and literal ; the writers sometimes wanting a facility of versification, sometimes a mastery over the English language. The Irish scholars of the last century were too exclusively national to study the foreign tongue with the care essential to master its metrical resources ; and the flexible and weighty language, which they had not learned to wield, hung heavily on them, " Like Saul's plate armour on the shepherd boy, Encumbering, and not arming them." If it were just to estimate our bardic poetry by the speci- mens we have received in this manner, it coidd not be rated INTRODUCTION. 19 highly. But ifc would manifestly be most unjust. Noble and touching, and often subtle and profound thoughts, which no translation could entirely spoil, shine through the poverty of the style, and vindicate the character of the originals. Like the costly arms and ornaments found in our bogs, they are substantial witnesses of a distinct civi- lization ; and their credit is no more diminished by the rubbish in which they chance to be found than the authen- ticity of the ancient torques and sldans by their embedment in the mud. When the entire collection of our Irish Percy James Hardiman shall have been given to a public (and soon may such a one come) that can relish them in their native dress, they will be entitled to undisputed precedence in our national minstrelsy. Meantime, it is not in weak and distorted translations, but in something more instinct with life and vigour, we must look for the genuine spirit of Irish ballad poetry. The COMMON BALLADS of the people were still less suit- able. They have been already collected by Mr. Crofton Croker, and, united with the slang songs of a Scotch magazine, stray verses from provincial newspapers, and some bald translations from Latin poems of the middle ages, contributed to form a collection curiously entitled the "Popular Songs of Ireland." Their popularity and Irishism were exactly on a par. On the publication of that volume the English reviews and magazines took occasion to lament the poverty of this country in ballad poetry ; and to contrast the noble minstrelsy of England and Scotland with the dull rubbish and professed caricature of which it was mainly composed. Their regret was very good-natured and very contemptuous. Since that period we have repeatedly observed similar inju- rious contrasts in English Journals, and even Dr. Cooke Taylor has fallen into the vulgar error of treating street ballads, written by the ballad- singers of Cork, or the hedge schoolmasters of Kerry, as the national minstrelsy of Ire- land. Worthless as these productions commonly are, they are seldom much worse nonsense, and never half as bad morality, as the corresponding songs of murder, obscenity, and fraud, popular in the seaport and manufacturing towns of England. Their errors are the errors of ignorance. The tone is generally healthy and earnest, however the language may be bombastic or absurd. But, healthy or noxious, they 20 INTKODUCTION. are as distinct from our genuine National Ballads as the noble collections of Percy and Scott from the filthy and repulsive street songs of Birmingham or Glasgow. Among the peasantry ballads certainly exist, written by men in the humblest station (but men without the slang or the vices of great cities), which are full of natural feeling and character. Of these we have gladly availed ourselves. But the mass of the street songs make no pretence to being true to Ire- land ; but only to being true to the purlieus of Cork and Dublin. Another class remained : our ANGLO-IRISH BALLADS the production of educated men, with English tongues but Irish hearts. From this class the greater part of our materials hag been drawn ; and we trust it will appear that in them, in the few street ballads not written to sell, but from the fulness of the heart, and in our adequate transla- tions from the Irish, we possess a popular poetry, less ancient and precious, but not less instinct witht he spirit of the country, than the venerable minstrelsy of England and Scotland. Our Anglo-Irish ballads (like our best Anglo-Irish families) grew to be national gradually, but instinctively and half unconsciously. Before the time of Swift they were chiefly written by followers of the Court. They were, of course, satires on the country, or caricatures on the man- ners and language of the natives. French tyranny was said to be tempered by epigrams English tyranny was then (as it has often been since) barbed with libels. Several of these early ballads have been preserved, but are little known, with the exception of Lord Wharton's " Lilli- bulero,"* a dull squib, to which the English Revolution of '88 is sometimes attributed. It is difficult to believe in a cause apparently so inadequate, and impossible to believe in its adequacy. * As some of our readers may not have seen this once celebrated song, we subjoin the opening verses : " Ho, broder Teague, dost hear de decree, Lillibulero, bullena-a-la, Dat we shall have a new Deputee, Lillibulero, bullena-a-la, Lero, lero, Lillibulero, &c. Ho, by Shaint Tyburne, it is dc Talbote, Lillibulero, &c. And he will cut de Englishman's troate, Lillibulero, &c. INTRODUCTION. 21 Swift snatched these weapons out of the hands of the English faction, and turned them against their own breasts. He rescued our popular poetry from fribbles on the one hand, and from ignorant strollers on the other ; and gave it a vigour and concentration which it has never wholly lost. During his lifetime it became a power in the country the obscure precursor of a Free Press. After his death it fell into weaker and ruder hands, but never into disuse. In the succeeding Jacobite struggles both parties had bitter song- Avriters, and some of their angry lyrics are popular, as political songs, to this day. A very trifling change in the dramatis persona was at any time sufficient to refit them for use. A curious list might be made of the popular favourites who have successively monopolised them from James IT. to O'Connell ; and from William III. to the late Dr. Boy ton, the founder of the Brunswick Clubs. The era of the Volunteers was rich in songs, one or two of which are still occasionally heard ; but ballads, in the re- stricted sense, there were few or none.* In '98 there was " Dough by my sowl de English do prat, Lillibulero, iuiis Mian 11 Jt a.iau i/ccn JLHO ititt iicr iivc ai> JKJ.IIIC, JLIL jjcaiic, LHJIIUUI, and enjoyment, his attainment to the first place among our dramatic poets would have been easy and certain.] Grille 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 for ever ! 6^6106, briglitcner of my heart. 40 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 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, Grille macJiree, &c. 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 linnet sings so lonely ! Sing, Gille machree, &c. 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, Gille machree, &c. Oh, no, I said, My own dear maid, BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 41 For me, though all forlorn for ever, 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, Gille machree, &c. 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 ; Sing, Gille 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 for ever. LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. BY THE COUNTESS OF GIFFORD. I'M sittin'^on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side On a bright May mornin', long ago, When first you were my bride : The corn was springin' fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye. 42 BALLAD POETEY OF IRELAND. The place is little changed, Mary, The day is bright as then, The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again ; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm on my cheek, And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more will speak. ? Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, M ary, 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 7 and my pride ! There's nothin' left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died. Your's was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone ; There was comfort even on your lip, And the kind look on your brow I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break, When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, And you hid it for my sake ; BALLAD POETRY OF IEELAND. 43 I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore Oh ! Pin 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 Pll not forget you, darling, In the land Pm goin' to : They say there's bread and work for aJJ, 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. THE PKETTY GIEL OF LOCH DAK BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, Author of the "Hibernian Nights 1 Entertainments," She turned and gazed, unused to hear Such language in that homely glen ; But, Mary, you have nought to fear, Though smiled on by two stranger men. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 45 Not for a crown would I alarm Your virgin pride by word or sign, Nor need a painful blush disarm My friend of thoughts as pure as mine. Her simple heart could not but feel The words we spoke were free from guile , She stooped, she blushed she fixed her wheel ; Tis all in vain she can't but smile ! Just like sweet April's dawn appears Her modest face I see it yet And though I lived a hundred years, Methinks I never could forget The pleasure that, despite her heart, Fills all her downcast eyes with light The lips reluctantly apart, The white teeth struggling into sight ; The dimples eddying o'er her cheek, The rosy cheek that won't be still ! Oh ! who could blame what flatterers speak, Did smiles like this reward their skill ? For such another smile, I vow, Though loudly beats the midnight rain, I'd take the mountain-side e'en now, And walk to Luggelaw again ! BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND, THE WOMAN" OF THEEE COWS. TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH. BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN, Author of " German Anthology," &c. [This ballad 'was intended as a rebuke to the saucy pride of a woman in humble life, who assumed airs of consequence from being the pos- sessor of three cows. Its author's name is unknown, but its age can be determined, from the language, as belonging to the early part of the seventeenth century. That it was formerly very pop alar in Minister may be concluded from the fact, that the phrase, "Easy, oh woman of the three cows !"* has become a saying in that province, on any occasion upon which it is desirable to lower the pretentious of a boastful or consequential person.] O, WOMAN of Three Cows, agragh ! don't let your tongue thus rattle ! 0, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle. I have seen and, here's my hand to you, I only say what's true A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you. Good luck to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't be their despiser ; For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser : And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows. Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good Woman of Three Cows ! See where Momonia's heroes lie, proud Owen More's descendants, 'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants ! * 50 t^ei-6 A tyhe&n HA cq\i mbo BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 47 If they were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows, Can you be proud, can you be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows? The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning ; Movrone /* for they were banish'd, with no hope of their returning Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house ? Yet you can give yourself these airs, O Woman of Three Cows ! O, think of Donnell of the ships, the Chief whom nothing daunted See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, un- chanted ! He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good Woman of Three Cows ! O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrin'd in story Think how their high achievements once made Erin's greatest glory Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs, And so, for all your pride, will yours, O Woman of Three Cows ! Th' O'Carrolls, also, famed when fame was only for the boldest, Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and oldest ; Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse ? Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows ! my grief. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND, Your neighbour's poor, and you, it seems, are big with vain ideas, Because, inagh /* you've got three cows, one more, I see, than she has ; That tongue of yours wags more at times than charity allows But, if you're strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows ! THE SUMMING-UP. Now, there you go ! You still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing, And I'm too poor to hinder you ; but, by the cloak I'm wearing, If I had but/owr cows myself, even though you were my spouse, I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows ! THE FAIRY CHILD. BY DR. ANSTER, Translator of " Faust," &c. [The woman, in whose character these lines are written, supposes her child stolen by a fairy. I need not mention how prevalent the super- stition was among the peasantry, which attributed instances of sudden death to the agency of these spirits. THE summer sun was sinking With a mild light, calm and mellow It shone on my little boy's bonny 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 splendour. * Forsooth. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. My little boy lay on my bosom, While his soul the song was quaffing ; The joy of his soul had ting'd 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 ! There 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. 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 ! Oh ! 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. 50 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. SIR TUBLOUGH, OR THE CHURCHYARD BRIDE. BY WILLIAM CARLETON, Author of " Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry," e, woman of the hill. Treating of the superstitions of the Irish, Miss Balfour says, "What; rank the banshee holds in the scale of spiritual beings it is not easy to determine; but her favourite occupation seems to be that of foretelling the death of the different branches of the families over which she pre- sided, by the most plaintive cries. Every family had formerly its banshee, but the belief in her existence is now fast fading away, and in a few more years she will only be remembered in the storied records of her marvellous doings in days long since gone by." 56 BALLAD POETKY OF IRELAND. " Come, haste thee, leech, right swiftly ride, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! Sir Turlough the brave, Green Truagha's pride, Has pledged his love to the churchyard bride,' ; By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The leech groaned loud, " Come tell me this, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! By all thy hopes of weal and bliss, Has Sir Turlough given the fatal kiss V By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. " The banshee's cry is loud and long, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! At eve she weeps her funeral song, And it floats on the twilight breeze along, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. " Then the fatal kiss is given ; the last, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! Of Turlough's race and name is past, His doom is seal'd, his die is cast," By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. " Leech, say not that thy skill is vain, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! Oh, calm the power of his frenzied brain, And half his lands thou shalt retain," By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The leech has fail'd, and the hoary priest, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! With pious shrift his soul released, And the smoke is high of his funeral feast, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 57 The Shanachies now are assembled all, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! And the songs of praise, in Sir Turlough's hall, To the sorrowing harp's dark music fall, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. And there is trophy, banner, and plume, Killeevy, O KiUeevy ! And the pomp of death, with its darkest gloom, O'ershadows the Irish chieftain's tomb, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. The month is clps'd, and Green Truagha's pride, Killeevy, O Killeevy ! Is married to death and, side by side, He slumbers now with his churchyard bride, By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. SOGGARTH AEOON. BY JOHN BANIM, Author of " Tales of the O'Hara Family," &c. AIR " Aileen aroon." [In 1831, John Banim, then in the flower of his reputation, after the success of the O'Hara Tales, his Boync Water, and his tragedy of Damon and Pythias, published a small volume of national ballads and songs, which seem to have attracted literally no attention at the time, and very little since. Only one of the ballads, Soygarth Aroon, ever emerged from obscurity. Yet the volume contains songs which, for fidelity of sentiment and expression to the Irish character, in some of its vehement moods, have no equals. But it contained also pieces so utterly worthless, that it is difficult to account for their publication by a man of sane judgment. To them, no doubt, was owing the utter failure of the volume. Banim's verses are often loose and careless in. metre, and rude in construction ; but they abound in natural feeling and natural strength. They arc not only of the people, but essentially for the people. Hence they are by far the best peasant songs w r e possess, and would move a wake or a fair as vehemently as a drawing-room.] 58 BALLAD POETEY OF IRELAND. 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 Quid Ireland's slavery Soggarth aroon 1 Why not her poorest man, Soggarth aroon, Try and do all he can, Soggarth aroon, Her commands to fulfil Of his own heart and will, Side by side with you still, Soggarth aroon *? Loyal and brave to you, Soggarth aroon, Yet be not slave to you, Soggarth aroon, Nor, out of fear to you Stand up so near to you Och ! out of fear to you ! Soggarth aroon ! Who, in the winter's night Soggarth aroon, When the could blast did bite, Soggarth aroon, Came to my cabin-door, And, on my earthen-nure, Knelt by me, sick and poor, Soggarth aroon %. * SA5AJAU AIU1H, Priest, dear. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 59 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 1 And when my hearth 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 ould Ireland's sake, We a true part did take, Soggarth aroon ! 60 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. THE LOED OF DUNKEBEON. BY T. CROFTON CROKER, Author of " Fairy Legends of Ireland." THE Lord of Dunkerron* O'Sullivan More, Wliy seeks he at midnight the sea-beaten shore 1 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. When, by moonlight, the waters were hush'd to re- pose. That beautiful spirit of ocean arose ; Her hair, full of lustre, just floated and fell O'er her bosom, that heav'd with a billowy swell. Long, long had he lov'd her long vainly essay'd To lure from her dwelling the coy ocean maid ; And long had he wander'd and watch'd 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 abash'd, 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, Like the eddy of circles her wake left behind. * The remains of Dunkerron Castle are distant about a mile from tho village of Kenmare, in the county of Kerry. It is recorded to have been built in 1096, by Owen O'Sullivan More (More is merely an epithet signi- fying the Great). BALLAD POETIIY OF IRELAND. Gl The Lord of Dunkerron lie plunged in the wave's, ^ And sought through the fierce rush of waters, their caves ; The gloom of whose depth, studded over with spars, Had the glitter of midnight when lit up by stars. Who can tell or can fancy the treasures that sleep Entombed in the wonderful womb of the deep ? The pearls and the gems, as if valueless, thrown To lie 'mid the sea- wrack concealed and unknown. Down, down went the maid still the chieftain pur- sued ; Who flies must be follow'd ere she can be wooed. Untempted by treasures, unawecl by alarms, The maiden at length he has clasp'd in his arms ! They rose from the deep by a smooth-spreading strand, Whence beauty and verdure stretch'd 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 ! 62 BALLAD POETKY OF IRELAND. " 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 !" 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 1 What sees he 1 ? 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 explain ? That she sought the consent of her monarch in vain ! For see all around him, 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 ; The grottoes with vapour and clouds are o'ercast, The sunshine is darkness the vision has past ! 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 ! BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 6:3 THE IRISH EMIGRANT IN NORTH AMERICA. BY MRS. FITZSIMON. AIR " The Woods of Kylinoe." MY heart is heavy in my breast my eyes are full of tears, My memory is wandering back to long departed years To those bright days long, long ago, When nought I dream'd of sordid care, of worldly woe But roved, a gay, light-hearted boy, the woods of Kylinoe. There, in the spring-time of my life, and spring-time of the year, I've watch'd the snow-drop start from earth, the first young buds appear ; The sparkling stream o'er pebbles flow, The modest violet, and the golden primrose blow, Within thy deep and mossy dells, beloved Kylinoe ! 7 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 ; Though cruel fortune was our foe, And steep'd us to the lips in bitter want and woe, Yet cling our hearts to those sad days we pass'd near Kylinoe. At length, by misery bowed to earth, we left our native strand, And crossed the wide Atlantic to this free and happy land ; 64 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. Though toils we had to undergo, Yet soon content and happy peace 'twas ours to know, And plenty, such as never blessed our hearth near Kylinoe ! And heaven a blessing has bestoVd 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 Kylinoe. 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 ground shall go No, we must slumber far from home, far, far from Kylinoe ! Yet, oh ! if spirits e'er can leave the appointed place of rest, 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, my native Kylinoe. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 65 MAIEGE^AD NI CHEALLEADH. BY EDWARD WALSH, Translator of "Daily's Jacobite Relics of Ireland." [This ballad is founded on the story of Daniel O'Keefe, an outlaw, famous in the traditions of the County of Cork, where his name is still associated with several localities. It is related that O'Keefe's beautiful mistress, Margaret Kelly (Mairgriad ni ChealleadK), tempted by a larce reward, undertook to deliver him into the hands of the English soldiers but O Keefe, having discovered in her possession a document revealing her perfidy, in a frenzy of indignation stabbed her to the heart with his stian. He lived in the time of William III., and is represented to have been a gentleman and a poet.] AT the dance in the village Thy white foot was fleetest ; Thy voice 'mid the concert Of maidens was sweetest ; The swell of thy white breast Made rich lovers follow ; And thy raven hair bound them, Young Mairgre"ad ni Chealleadli. Thy neck was, lost maid, Than the ceanabhan* whiter, And the glow of thy cheek Than the monadant brighter ; But death's chain hath bound thee, Thine eye's glazed and hollow, That shone like a sunburst, Young Mairgread ni Chealleadli. No more shall mine ear drink Thy melody swelling ; Nor thy beamy eye brighten The outlaw's dark dwelling ; * A plant found in bogs, the top of which bears a substance resemblin" cotton, and as white as snow. t The monadan is a red berry that is found on wild marshy mountains It grows on an humble creeping plant. 66 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. Or thy soft heaving bosom My destiny hallow, When thine arms trine around me, Young Mairgre'ad ni Chealleadh. The moss couch I brought thee To-day from the mountain, Has drank the last drop Of thy young heart's red fountain For this good skian* beside me Struck deep and rung hollow In thy bosom of treason, Young Mairgre'ad rii Chealleadh. With strings of rich pearls Thy white neck was laden, And thy fingers with spoils Of the Sassanach maiden : Such rich silks enrob'd not The proud dames of Mallow Such pure gold they wore not As Mairgre'ad ni Chealleadh. Alas ! that my loved one Her outlaw would injure Alas ! that he e'er proved Her treason's avenger ! That this right hand should make thee A bed cold and hollow. When in Death's sleep it laid thee, Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh ! And while to this lone cave My deep grief I'm venting, The Saxon's keen bandog My footsteps is scenting ; But true men await me Afar in Duhallow. Farewell, cave of slaughter, And Mairgre'ad ni Chealleadh, * SdAtt, a knife, pronounced as if written skeen. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 67 THE FORESTER'S COMPLAINT. BY SAMUEL FERGUSON. THROUGH our wild wood- walks here, Sunbriglit and shady, Free as the forest deer Roams a lone lady : Far from her castle keep, Down i' the valley, Roams she, by dingle deep, Green holme, and alley, With her sweet presence bright Gladd'ning my dwelling Oh, fair her face of light, Past the tongue's telling ! Woe was me E'er to see Beauty so shining : Ever since, hourly, Have I been pining ! In our blithe sports' debates Down by the river, I, of my merry mates, Foremost was ever ; Skilfullest with my flute Leading the maidens, Hearkening by moonlight mute. To its sweet cadence, Sprightliest i' the dance Tripping together Such a one was I once E'er she came hither ! Woe was me E'er to see Beauty so shining ; Ever since, hourly, Have I been pining ! 68 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND, Loud now my comrades laugh As I pass by them ; Broadsword and quarter-staff, No more I ply them : Coy now the maidens frown, Wanting their dances ; How can their faces brown Win one who fancies Even an angel's face Dark to be seen would Be, by the Lily-grace, Gladd'ning the greenwood ? Woe was me E'er to see Beauty so shining ; Ever since, hourly, Have I been pining ! Wolf, by my broken bow Idle is lying, While through the woods I go, All the day, sighing, Tracing her footsteps small Through the moss'd cove r, Hiding then, breathless all. At the sight of her, Lest my rude gazing should From her haunt scare her Oh, what a solitude Wanting her, here were ! Woe was me E'er to see Beauty so shining ; Ever since, hourly, Have I been pining ! BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND* 63 THE FAIKY BOY.* BY SAMUEL LOVER, Author of " Legends and Stories of Ireland," fcd. A MOTHER caine when stars were paling, "Wailing round a lonely spring ; Thus she cried while tears were falling, Calling on the Fairy King : " Why with spells^my child caressing, Courting him with fairy joy Why destroy a mother's blessing, Wherefore steal my baby boy 1 " O'er the mountain, through the wild wood, Where his childhood loved to play ; Where the flowers are freshly springing, There I wander, day by day. " There I wander, growing fonder Of the child that made my joy ; On the echoes wildly calling, To restore my fairy boy. " But in vain my plaintive calling, Tears are falling all in vain ; He now sports with fairy pleasure, He's the treasure of their train ! " Fare thee well, my child, for ever, In this world I've lost my joy, But in the next we ne'er shall sever, There I'll find my angel boy !" * When a beautiful child pines and dies, the Irisli peasant believes the healthy infant has been stolen by the fairies, and a sickly elf left ill its place. See Dr, Anster's ballad, page 48. 70 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. WAKE OF WILLIAM ORE. BY DR. DRENNAN. [The case of William Orr involves one of the most ruthless acts of tyranny that preceded the insurrection of 1708. Orr, who was a young Presbyterian farmer of Antrim, and a man of great personal popularity, was tried and convicted in October, '97, of administering the United Irish oath to a private soldier, named Whitly. But on the same day, four of his jury made affidavits stating that whisky had been introduced into the jury-room, arid the verdict agreed to under the joint influence of drunkenness and intimidation. Next day Whitly, the crown witness, confessed that his evidence was false or distorted in essential parti- culars. Under these strange circumstances Orr was reprieved by government; and the reprieve twice renewed. But, ultimately, when the nation confidently awaited the commutation of his sentence, he was ordered for execution. A storm of indignation followed this arbitrary and merciless decision. The most moderate men were outraged by its Injustice; the most timid were stung to resistance by its naked tyranny. Orr died with unshaken courage, exhorting his countrymen "to be true and faithful to each other as he had been true to them." His fortitude increased popular enthusiasm to a passion. He was universally regarded as a martyr to Liberty, and "Remember Orr!" became the most popular and stimulating watchword of the National party. His death was celebrated in innumerable elegies, of which these noble and affecting verses are the best.] HERE our murdered brother lies- Wake him not with women'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 his 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 ! BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 71 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 reivard to human hounds ; Each one pulPd and tore his share, Heedless of thy deep despair. Hapless Nation hapless Land, Heap of uncementing sand ! Crumbled by a foreign weight, And, by worse, domestic hate. God of mercy ! God of peace ! Make the 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 j Holy oil and holy water, Mix, and fill the world with slaughter. Who is she with aspect wild] The widow'd 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 guillotin' 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. 72 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND, Conquer fortune persevere ! Lo ! it breaks, the morning clear ! The cheerful COCK awakes the skies, The day is come arise ! arise ! [Dr. Dreiman, the author of this ballad, was one of the ablest writers among the United Irishmen. His Letters of OreUana contributed power- fully to enlist Ulster in "the Union." His songs and ballads, which were chiefly directed to the same object, are vigorous and graceful beyond any political poetry of the period. His song commencing, ' When Erin first rose from the dark swelling flood," which fixed upon Ireland the title of " the Emerald Isle," Moore esteems among the most perfect of modern songs. A little volume of his poems was published in 1815, but is now very scarce. In 1794, he was brought to trial for his political principles ; but then or throughout a long and honoured life lie never abandoned them.*] OLIVER'S ADVICE. AN OKANGE BALLAD. BY COLONEL BLACKER. [There is a well-authenticated anecdote of Cromwell. On a certain occasion, when his troops were about crossing a river to attack the enemy, he concluded an address, couched in the usual fanatic terms in use among them, with these words" Put your trust in God ; but mind to keep your powder dry."] THE night is gathering gloomily, the day is closing fast The tempest flaps his raven wings in loud and angry blast ; The thunder clouds are driving athwart the lurid sky But " put your trust in God, my boys, and keep your powder dry." There was a day when loyalty was hail'd with honour due, Our banner the protection wav'd to all the good and true * 1866. His poems have recently been republished in conjunction with those of his two sons, who have inherited his genius and rvxtriotism. BALLAD POETRY OP IRELAND 73 And gallant hearts beneath its folds were link'd in honour's tie, We put our trust in God, my boys, and kept our powder dry. When Treason bar'd her bloody arm, and madden'd round the land, For King, and laws, and order fair, we drew the ready brand ; Our gathering spell was William's name our word was, " Do or die," And still we put our trust in God, and kept our powder dry. But now, alas ! a wondrous change has come the nation o'er, And worth and gallant services remembered are no more ; And, crush'd beneath oppression's weight, in chains of grief we lie But put your trust in God, my boys, and keep your powder dry. Forth starts the spawn of Treason, the 'scap'd of Ninety-eight, To bask in courtly favour, and seize the helm of state E'en they whose hands are reeking yet with murder's crimson dye ; But put your trust in God, my boys, and keep your powder dry. They come, whose deeds incarnadyi'd the Slaney's silver wave They come, who to the foreign foe the hail of welcome gave; He comes, the open rebel fierce he comes, the Jesuit sly; But put your trust in God, my boys, and keep your powder dry. 74 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. They come, whose councils wrapp'd the land in foul rebellious flame, Their hearts unchastened by remorse, their cheeks untinged by shame. Be still, be still, indignant heart be tearless, too, each eye, And put your trust in God, my boys, and keep your powder dry, The Pow'r that led his chosen, by pillar'd cloud and flame, , . Through parted sea and desert waste, that Tow r is still the same ; He fails not He, the loyal hearts that firm on him rely So put your trust in God, my boys, and keep your powder dry. The Pow'r that nerv'd the stalwart arms of Gideon's chosen few, The pow'r that led great William, Boyne's reddening torrent through In his protecting aid confide, and every foe defy- Then put your trust in God, my boys, and keep your powder dry. Already see the star of hope emits its orient blaze, The cheering beacon of relief it glimmers thro' the haze. It tells of better days to come, it tells of succour nigh - Then put your trust in God, my boys, and keep your powder dry. See, see along the hills of Down its rising glories But brightest beams its radiance from Donard's lofty bead.* * Lord Roden resides at the base of Siiere Donard. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 75 ClanbrassiPs vales are kindling wide, and "Koden" is the cry Then put your trust in God, my boys, and keep your powder dry. Then cheer, ye hearts of loyalty, nor sink in dark despair, Our banner shall again unfold its glories to the air. The storm that raves the wildest the soonest passes by; Then put your trust in God, my boys, and keep your powder dry. For " happy homes," for " altars free," we grasp the, ready sword For freedom, truth, and for our God's unmutilated word. These, these the war- cry of our march, our hope the Lord on high ; Then put your trust in God, my boys, and keep your powder dry. 76 BALLAD POETBY OF IRELAND. THE RECONCILIATION. BY JOHN BANIM. [The facts of this ballad occurred in a little mountain-chapel, in the county of Clare, at the time efforts were made to put an end to faction- fighting among the peasantry. Faction-fights were generally contests between families or districts ; they were sometimes as fierce and bloody as a Corsican Vendetta. The popular passions, awakened by the struggle for Catholic Emancipation and Repeal of the Union, however, burned them out to a great extent.] THE old man lie knelt at the altar, His enemy's hand to take, And at first his weak voice did falter, And his feeble limbs did shake ; For his only brave boy, his glory, Had been stretch'd at the old man's feet A corpse, all so haggard and gory, By the hand which he now must greet. And soon the old man stopt speaking, And rage which had not gone by, From under his brows came breaking \ Up into his enemy's eye And now his limbs were not shaking, But his clench'd hands his bosom cross'd, And he look'd a fierce wish to be taking Revenge for the boy he had lost ! But the old man, he look'd around him, And thought of the place he was in, And thought of the promise which 1 And thought that revenge was sin And then, crying tears like a woman " Your hand !" he said" aye that And I do forgive you, foeman, "For the sake of our bleeding land ! BALLAD POETBY OF IRELAND. 77 THE POOR MAN'S LABOUR BY THE BIGHT HON. JOHN PHILPOT CUREAN. [Curran, so great a master of poetry in prose, was an indifferent versifier. Like Edmund Burke, he could speak a poem, but scarce) v write one. His failing, however, was not like Burke's, absolute anil unqualified; but only a failure relatively to his unrivalled success as an orator. His song of "The Deserter" has always been popular, and suggested one of Byron's most touching minor poems. His other versos are perhaps little known; but they may be studied, as marked and characteristic developments of his mind. They took the same direction as his gravest labours, and are equally fired with his master passion, the love of Ireland.] MY mother sighed, the stream of pain Flow'd fast and chilly o'er her brow ; My father pray'd, nor pray'd in vain ; Sweet Mercy, cast a glance below. " My husband, dear," the sufferer cried, " My pains are o'er, behold your son." " Thank heaven, sweet partner,- 17 he replied, " The poor boy's labour's then begun." Alas ! the hapless life she gave, By fate was doom'd to cost her own ; For soon she found an early grave, Nor stay'd her partner long alone. They left their orphan here below, A stranger wild beneath the sun ; This lesson sad to learn from woe, The poor man's labour's never clone. No parent's hand, with pious care, My childhood's devious steps to guide ; Or bid my venturous youth beware The griefs that smote on ev'ry side. ? Twas still a round of changing woe Woe never ending, still begun, That taught my bleeding heart to know The poor man's labour's never done. 78 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. Soon dies the faltering voice of fame ; The vow of love's too warm to last ; And friendship ! what a faithless dream ; And wealth ! how soon thy glare is past. But sure one hope remains to save, The longest course must soon be run ; And, in the shelter of the grave, The poor man's labour must be done. THE EMIGRANT MOTHER. [I found this touching little ballad in an Australian newspaper, long before I contemplated visiting that country, and was charmed with its fresh feeling and grace. I have not been able to discover the writer's name. 1866.] YOUR eyes have the twin stars' light, macroidhe Mo cuisle Inghean ban;* And your swan-like neck is dear to me, Mo caillin og alain: And dear is your fairy foot so light, And your dazzling milk-white hand, And your hair ! it's a thread of the golden light That was spun in the rainbow's band. Oh ! green be the fields of my native shore, Where you bloom like a young rose-tree ; Mo varia astore we meet no more ! But the pulse of my heart's with thee. No more may your voice with its silver sound, Come like music in a dream ! Or your heart's sweet laugh ring merrily round, Like the gush of the summer's stream. * My pulse, my white daughter. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 70 Oh ! mo varia, the stately halls are high Where Erin's splendours shine ! Yet their hearts shall swell to the wailing cry That my heart sends forth to thine. For an exile's heart is fountain deep, Far hid from the gladsome sun- Where the bosom's yearning ne'er may sleep ; Mo thruaidh I mo chreach I och on /* KATHALEEN NY-HOULAHAN. A JACOBITE RELIC TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH, BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. FKathaleen Ny-Houlahan is one of the names employed by latter bards to signify the country of whose hopes and aim they dare not speak m direct terms.] LONG- they pine in weary woe, the nobles of out land, . Long they wander to and fro, proscribed, alas ! and banned ; .. , Feastless, houseless, altaerless, they bear the exile s brand ; But their hope is in the commg-to ot Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan ! Think her not a ghastly hag, too hideous to be seen, Call her not unseemly names, our matchless Kath- aleen; Young she is, and fair she is, and would be crowned a queen, Were the king's son at home here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan ! * My pity ! my plunder I och on ! 80 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. Sweet and mild would look her face, O none so sweet and mild, Could she crush the foes by whom her beauty is reviled ; Woollen plaids would grace herself, and robes of silk her child, If the king's son were living here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan ! Sore disgrace it is to see the Arbitress of thrones, Vassal to a Saxoneen of cold and sapless bones ! Bitter anguish wrings our souls with heavy sighs and groans We wait the young Deliverer of Kathaleen !N"y-Houlahan ! Let us pray to Him who holds life's issues in His hands Him who formed the mighty globe, with all its thousand lands ; Girdling them with seas and mountains, rivers deep, and strands, To cast a look of pity upon Kathaleen Ny- Houlahan ! He who over sands and waves led Israel along He who fed, with heavenly bread, that chosen tribo and throng He who stood by Moses, when his foes were fierce and strong May he show forth His might in saving Kathaleen IsTy-Houlahan !* CACllA/m til tiaVLACAiri, Catherine Ilolohan. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 81 RORY O'MOORE. AX ULSTER BALLAD. [::ogcr, or Rory O'Moore, is one of the most honoured and stainless names in Irish history. Writers, who concur in nothing else, agree in representing him as a man of the loftiest motives and the most passionate patriotism. In 1640, when Ireland was weakened by defeat and con- fiscation, and guarded with a jealous care constantly increasing in, strictness and severity, O'Moore, then a private gentleman, with no resources beyond his intellect and his courage, conceived the vast design of rescuing her from England, and accomplished it. In three years England did not retain a city in the island but Dublin and Drogheda. For eight years her power was barely nominal ; the land was possessed and the supreme authority exercised by the Confederation created by O'Moore. History contains no stricter instance of the influence of an individual mind. Before the insurrection broke out, the people had learned to know and expect their deliverer, and it became a popular proverb and the burden of national songs, that the hope of Ireland was in "God, the Virgin, and Rory O'Moore." It is remarkable that O'Moore, in whose courage and resources this grest insurrection had its birth, was a descendant of the chieftains of Leix, massacred by English troops at Mullaghmast, a century before. But if he took a great revenge, it was a magnanimous one; none of the excesses which stained the first rising in Ulster are charged upon him. On the contrary, when he joined the Northern Army, the excesses ceased, and strict discipline was established, as far as it was possible, among men unaccustomed to control, and wild with wrongs and sufferings.] ON the green hills of Ulster the white cross waveshigh, And the beacon of war throws its ilames to the sky ; Now the taunt and the threat let the coward endure, Our hope is in God and in Rory O'Moore ! Do you ask why the beacon and banner of war On the mountains of Ulster are seen from afar 1 'Tis the signal our rights to regain and secure, Through God and our Lady and Rory O'Moore ! For the merciless Scots, with their creed and their swords, With war in their bosoms, and peace in their words, Have sworn the bright light of our faith to obscure, But our hope is in God and Rory O'Moore. F 82 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. Oh ! lives there a traitor who'd shrink from the strife Who, to add to the length of a forfeited life, His country, his kindred, his faith would abjure 1 No ! we'll strike for our God and for Rory O'Moore ! [I found this ballad in a Belfast magazine published during the period of Dr. Drennan's literary activity, and conjectured that it was his. But his sons do not claim it for him in their recent collection of his poems. 1866.] UNA PHELIMY. AN ULSTER BALLAD, A.D. 1641. BY SAMUEL FEGUSON, M.R.I.A. [This ballad was intended to illustrate the same period in Irish History as the last; but the author looks at it from a different and more unfavourable point of view. Together they furnish another evidence of how infallibly truth sooner or later comes to be recognized. Two Northern Protestants, writing of a civil war, where the strife lay between their ancestors and the plundered Catholics (fighting for their lands and their lives), one of them vehemently sympathizes with the insurgents; the other speaks bitterly, to be sure, but not uncharitably of the contest.] " AWAKEN, Una Phelimy, How canst thou slumber so ? How canst thou dream so quietly Through such a night of woe '? Through such a night of woe," he said, " How canst thou dreaming lie, When the kindred of thy love lie dead, And he must fall or fly?" She rose, and to the casement came ; " Oh, William, dear, speak low ; For I should bear my brothers' blame Did Hugh or Angus know." " Did Hugh or Angus know, Una ? Ah, little dreamest thou On what a bloody errand bent Are Hugh and Angus now." BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 83 " Oh, what has chanced iny brothers dear 1 My William, tell me true ! Our God forbode that what I fear Be that they're gone to do !" " They're gone on bloody work, Una, The worst we feared is done ; They've taken to the knife at last, The massacre's begun ! " They came upon us while we slept Fast by the sedgy Bann ; In darkness to our beds they crept, And left me not a man ! Bann rolls my comrades even now Through all his pools and fords ; And their hearts' best blood is warm, Una, Upon thy brothers' swords ! "And mine had borne them company, Or the good blade I wore, Which ne'er left foe in victory Or friend in need before ; In theirs as in their fellows' hearts Also had dimmed its shine, But for these tangling curls, Una, And witching eyes of thine ! " I have borne the brand of flight for these, For these, the scornful cries Of loud insulting enemies ; But busk thee, love, and rise : For Ireland's now no place for us ; 'Tis time to take our flight, When neighbour steals on neighbour thus, And stabbers strike by night. "And black and bloody the revenge For this dark midnight's sake, The kindred of my murdered friends On thine and thee will take, 84 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. Unless thou rise and fly betimes, Unless tliou fly with me, Sweet Una, from this land of crimes To peace beyond the sea." " For trustful pillows wait us there, And loyal friends beside, Where the broad lands of my father are, Upon the bank of Clyde ; In five days hence a ship will be Bound for that happy home : Till then we'll make our sanctuary In sea-cave's sparry dome : Then busk thee, Una Phelimy, And o'er the waters come ! " The midnight moon is wading deep ; The land sends off the gale ; The boat beneath the sheltering steep Hangs on a seaward sail ; And leaning o'er the weather-rail, The lovers hand in hand. Take their last look of Innisfail ; " Farewell, doomed Ireland !" " And art thou doomed to discord still 1 And shall thy sons ne'er cease To search and struggle for thine ill, Ne'er share thy good in peace It Already do thy mountains feel Avenging Heaven's ire 1 Hark ! hark ! this is no thunder peal, That was no lightning fire ! ' ; It was no fire from heaven he saw, For, far from hill and dell, O'er GOBBIN'S brow the mountain flaw Bears musket-shot and yell, BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. And shouts of brutal glee, that tell A foul and fearful tale, While over blast and breaker swell Thin shrieks and woman's wail. Now fill they far the upper sky, Now down mid-air they go, The frantic scream, the piteous cry, The groan of rage and woe ; And wilder in their agony, And shriller still they grow- Now cease they, choking suddenly, The waves boom on below ! " A bloody and a black revenge ! Oh, Una, blest are we Who this sore-troubled land can change For peace beyond the sea ; But for the manly hearts and true That Antrim still retain, Or be their banner green or blue, For all that there remain God grant them quiet freedom, too, And blithe homes soon again !" OKANGE AND GKEEN. BY GERALD GRIFFIN. THE night was falling dreary, In merry Bandon town, When, in his cottage weary, An Orangeman lay down. The summer sun in splendour Had set upon the vale, And shouts of " No Surrender ! '' Arose upon the gale. BALLAD POETEY OF IRELAND. Beside the waters, laving The feet of aged trees, The Orange banners waving, Flew boldly in the breeze In mighty chorus meeting, A hundred voices join, And fife and drum were beating The Battle of the Boyne. Ha ! toVrd his cottage hieing, What form is speeding now, From yonder thicket flying, With blood upon his brow 1 Ci Hide hide me, worthy stranger, Though green my colour be, And, in the day of danger, May heaven remember thee ! " In yonder vale contending Alone against that crew, My life and limbs defending, An Orangeman I slew ; Hark ! hear that fearful warning, There's death in every tone Oh, save my life till morning, And heaVn prolong your own !" The Orange heart was melted In pity to the green ; He heard the tale, and felt it His very soul within, " Dread not that an^ry warning Though death be in its tone I'll save your life till morning, Or I will lose my own." Now, round his lowly dwelling, The angry torrent press'cl, A hundred voices swelling, The Orangeman addressed BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. " Arise, arise, and follow ^ The chase along the plain ! In yonder stony hollow Your only son is slain !" With rising shouts they gather Upon the track amain, And leave the childless father Aghast with sudden pain. He seeks the righted stranger In covert where he lay " Arise !" he said, " all danger Is gone and past away. " I had a son one only, One loved as my life, Thy hand has left me lonely, In that accursed strife. I pledged my word to save thee Until the storm should cease, I keep the pledge I gave thee Arise, and go in peace !" The stranger soon departed From that unhappy vale : The father, broken-hearted, Lay brooding o'er that tale. Full twenty summers after To silver turned his beard, And yet the sound of laughter From him was never heard. The night was falling dreary In merry Wexford town, When, in his cabin, weary, A peasant laid him down. And many a voice was singing Along the summer vale, And Wexford town was ringing With shouts of " Granua Uile I" BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. Beside the waters, laving The feet of aged trees. The green flag, gaily waving. Was spread against the breeze- In mighty chorus meeting, Loud voices filled the town, And fife and drum were beating, " Down, Orangemen, lie down ! " Hark ! 'mid the stirring clangour That woke the echoes there, Loud voices, high in anger, Rise on the evening air. Like billows of the ocean, He sees them hurry on And, 'mid the wild commotion, An Orangeman alone. " My hair," he said, " is hoary, And feeble is my hand, And I could tell a story Would shame your cruel band. Full twenty years and over Have changed my heart and brow, And I am grown a lover Of peace and concord now. " It was not thus I greeted Your brother of the green ; When fainting and defeated I freely took him in. I pledged my word to save him, From vengeance rushing on, I kept the pledge I gave him, Though he had kill'd my jsoii." That aged peasant heard him, And knew him as he stood, Kemembran.ce kindly stirr'd him, And tender gratitude. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 89 Witli gushing tears of pleasure, He pierced the listening train, " I'm here to pay the measure Of kindness back again ! J; Upon his bosom falling, That old man's tears came down ; Deep memory recalling That cot and fatal town. " The hand that would offend thee, My being first shall end ; I'm living to defend thee, My saviour and my friend !" He said, and slowly turning, Address'd the wondering crowd, With fervent spirit burning, He told the tale aloud. Now pressed the warm beholders, Their aged foe to greet ; They raised him on their shoulders And chaired him through the street. As he had saved that stranger From peril scowling dim, So in his day of danger Did Heav'n remember him. By joyous crowds attended, The worthy pair were seen, And their flags that day were blended Of Orange and of Green. 90 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. THE BUEIAL OF SIR JOHN MOOEE. BY THE REV. CHARLES WOLFE. [The Rev. Charles Wolfe was a native of Dublin, became a minister of the Established Church, and died in the prime of his manhood. Some of his letters, since published, are remarkable for earnestness and depth ; but his verses, with the exception of a song gushing with tenderness ('My own friend, my own friend"), are very much inferior to this ballad. Several weak attempts have been made to rob him of the " Burial of Moore," but they were manifest impostures. The original copy, in his own MS., hangs on the walls of the Royal Irish Academy.] NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral-note, As Ms corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought as we hollo w'd his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head And we far away on the billow ! BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 91 Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was clone, When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him clown, From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone- But we left him alone in his glory ! A LAMENT FOR THE TYRONIA.N AND TYRCONNELLIAN PRINCES BURIED AT ROME. TRANSLATED FJIOM THE IRISH. BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. [This is an elegy on the death of the Princes of Tyrone and Tyrcon- nell, who, having fled with others from Ireland m the year 1607, and afterwards dying at Rome, were interred on St. Peter's Hill, in one grave. The poem is the production of O'Donnell's bard, Owen Roe Mac an Bhaird, or Ward, who accompanied the family in their exile, and is addressed to Nuala, O'Donnell's sister, who was also one of the fugitives. As the circumstances connected with the flight of the Northern Earls, which led to the subsequent confiscation of the six Ulster Counties by James I., may not be immediately in the recollection of many of our readers, it may be proper briefly to state, that it was caused by the discovery of a letter directed to Sir William Ussher, Clerk of the Council, dropped in the Council-chamber on the 7th of May, and which accused the Northern chieftains generally of a con- spiracy to overthrow the Government. The charge is now totally dis- believed. As an illustration of the poem, and as an interesting piece of hitherto unpublished literature in itself, we extract the account of the flight as recorded in the " Annals of the Four Masters," and translated by Mr. O'Donovan : "Maguire (Cuconnaught) and Donogh, son of Mahon, who was son of the Bishop O'Brien, sailed in a ship to Ireland, and put in at the harbour of Swilly. They then took with them from Ireland the Earl O'Neill 92 BALLAD POETKY OF IRELAND. (Hugh, son of Fedoragh) and the Earl O'Donnell (Roiy, son of Hugh, who was son of Magnus), and many others of the nobles of the province of Ulster. These are the persons who went with O'Neill namely, his Countess, Catherina, daughter of Magennis, and her three sons; Huch, the Baron, John, and Brian ; Art Oge, son of Cormac, who was son of the Baron ; Ferdoragh, son of Con, who was son of O'Neill; Hugh Oge, son of Brian, who was son of Art O'Neill ; and many others of his most intimate friends. These were they who went with the Earl O'Donnell namely, Caffer, his brother, with his sister Nuala ; Hugh, the Earl's child, wanting three weeks of being one year old ; Rose, daughter of O'Dogherty and wife of Caffer, with her son Hugh, aged two years and three months ; his (Rory's) brother's son, Donnell Oge, son of Donnell, Naghtan, son of Calvach, who was son of Donogh Cairbreach O'Donnell, and many others of his intimate friends. They embarked on the Festival of the Holy Cross, in autumn. This was a distinguished company ; and it is certain that the sea 1ms not borne and the wind has not wafted in modern times a number of persons in one ship more eminent, illustrious, or noble, in point of genealogy, heroic deeds, valour, feats of arms, and brave achievements, than they. "Would that God hud but permitted them to remain in their patrimonial inheritances until the children should arrive at the age of manhood ! \Voe to the heart that meditated, woe to the mind that conceived, woe to the council that recommended the project of this expedition, without knowing whether they should, to the end of their lives, be able to return to their native principalities orpatrimonies." The Earl of Tyrone was the illustrious Hugh O'Neill, the Irish leader in the wars against Elizabeth. O, WOMAN, of the Piercing Wail, Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay With sigh and groan, Would God thou wert among the Gael ! Thou would'st not then from day to day Weep thus alone. 'Twere long before, around a grave In green Tirconnell, one could find This loneliness ; Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave ^Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined Compassionless. Beside the wave, in Donegall, In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore, Or Killilee, Or where the sunny waters fall, At Assaroe, near Erna's shore, This could not be. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 93 On Derry's plains in rich Drumclieff Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned In olden years, No day could pass but woman's grief Would rain upon the burial-ground Fresh floods of tears ! O, no ! from Shannon, Boyne, and Suir, From high Dunluce's castle-Y^alls, From Lissadill, Would flock alike both rich and poor, One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls To Tara's hill ; And some would come from Barrow-side, And many a maid would leave her home, On Leitrim's plains, And by melodious Banna's tide, And by the Mourne and Erne, to come And swell thy strains ! O, horses' hoofs would trample down The Mount whereon the martyr-saint* Was crucified. From glen and hill, from plain and town, One loud lament, one thrilling plaint, Would echo wide. There would not soon be found, I ween, One foot of ground among those bands For museful thought, So many shriekers of the keener Would cry aloud and clap their hands, All woe distraught ! * St. Peter. This passage is not exactly a blunder, though at first it may seem one: the poet supposes the grave itself transferred to Ireland, and he naturally includes in the transference the whole of the immediate locality around the grave. TK. t Caoiiie, the funeral-wail. 94 BALLAD POETEY OF IRELAND. Two princes of the line of Conn Sleep in their cells of clay beside O'Donnell Koe : Three royal youths, alas ! are gone. Who lived for Erin's weal, but died For Erin's woe ! Ah ! could the men of Ireland read The names these noteless burial-stones Display to view, Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed, Their tears gush forth again, their groans Resound anew ! The youths whose relics moulder here Were sprung from Hugh, high Prince and Lord Of Aileach's lands ; Thy noble brothers, justly dear, Thy nephew, long to be deplored By Ulster's bands. Theirs were not souls wherein dull Time Could domicile Decay or house Decrepitude ! They passed from Earth ere Manhood's priii c Ere years had power to dim their brows Or chill their blood. And who can marvel o'er thy grief, Or who can blame thy flowing tears, That knows their source ? O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief, Cut off amid his vernal years, Lies here a corse Beside his brother Cathbar, whom Tirconnell of the Helmets mourns In deep despair For valour, truth, and comely bloom, For all that great ens and adorns A peerless pair. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. O, had these twain, and he, the third, The Lord of Mourne, O'Niall's son, Their mate in death A prince in look, in deed, and word Had these three heroes yielded on The field their breath, O, had they fallen on Criffan's plain, There would not be a town or clan From shore to sea, But would with shrieks bewail the slain, Or chant aloud the exulting rann* Of Jubilee ! When high the shout of battle rose, On fields where Freedom's torch still burned Through Erin's gloom, If one, if barely one of those Were slain, all Ulster would have mourned The hero's doom ! If at Athboy, where hosts of brave Ulidian horsemen sank beneath The shock of spears, Young Hugh O'Neill had found a grave, Long must the North have wept his death With heart-wrung tears ! If on tL day of Ballach-myre The Lord of Mourne had met thus young, A warrior's fate, In vain would such as thou desire To mourn, alone, the champion sprung From Mall the great ! No marvel this for all the dead, Heaped on the field, pile -over pile, At Mullach-brack, Were scarce an eric^ for his head, If death had stayed his footsteps while On victory's track ! * Song. f A compensation or fine. 96 BALLAD POETHY OF IRELAND. If on the Day of Hostages The fruit had from the parent bough Been rudely torn In sight of Munster's bands Mac-lSTee's Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow, Could ill have borne. If on the day of Ballach-boy Some arm had laid, by foul surprise, The chieftain low, Even our victorious shout of joy Would soon give place to rueful cries And groans of woe ! If on the day the Saxon host Were forced to fly a day so great For Ashanee * The Chief had been untimely lost, Our conquering troops should moderate Their mirthful glee. There would not lack on Liftbrd's day, From Galway, from the glens of Boyle, From Limerick's towers, A marshalled file, a long array ^ Of mourners to bedew the soil With tears in showers I If on the day a sterner fate Compelled his flight from Athenree, His blood had flowed, What numbers all disconsolate, Would come unasked, and share with thee Affliction's load ! If Derry's crimson field had seen His life-blood offered up, though 'twere On Victory's shrine, A thousand cries would swelHhe keen, A thousand voices of despair Would echo thine ! * Bally ill annon. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 97 0, had the fierce Dalcassian swarm That bloody night on Fergus' banks But slain our chief, When rose his camp in wild alarm How would the triumph of his ranks Be dashed with grief ! How would the troops of Murbach mourn If on the Curlew Mountains' day, Which England rued, Some Saxon hand had left them lorn, By shedding there, amid the fray, Their prince's blood ! Bed would have been our warrior's eyes Had Roderick found on Sligo's field A gory grave, No Northern Chief would soon arise So sage to guide, so strong to shield, So swift to save. Long would Leith-Cuinn have wept if Hugli Had met the death he oft had dealt Among the foe ; But, had our Koderick fallen too, All Erin must alas ! have felt The deadly blow ! What do I say *? Ah, woe is me ! Already we bewail in vain Their fatal fall ! And Erin, once the Great and Free, Now vainly mourns her breakless chain. And iron thrall ! Then, daughter of O'Donnell ! dry Thine overflowing eyes, and turn Thy heart aside ; For Adam's race is born to die, And sternly the sepulchral urn Mocks human pride ! 98 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne, Nor place thy trust in arm of clay But on thy knees Uplift thy soul to GOD alone, For all things go their destined way As He decrees. Embrace the faithful Crucifix, And seek the path of pain and prayer Thy Saviour trod ! Nor let thy spirit intermix With earthly hope and worldly care Its groans to GOD ! And Thou, O mighty Lord ! whose ways Are far above our feeble minds To understand, Sustain us in these doleful days, And render light the chain that binds Our fallen land ! Look down upon our dreary state, And through the ages that may still Roll sadly on, Watch Thou o'er hapless Erin's fate, And shield at least from darker ill The blood of Conn ! BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 99 THE COURT OF CAHIRASS. P l About a mile from Croom (says the "History of Limerick," by Fitzgerald and MacGregor), situated on the Maig, is Cahirass House, with its finely-wooded park and plantations, belonging to Mr. (now Sir David) Roche, a descendant of the house of Fermoy;" and a note adds, "There was once a chapel of ease here belonging to the Carbery family, whose property it was. The chaplain falling desperately in love with the daughter of Lord Carbery, and being disappointed, hanged him- self in the chapel, which soon afterwards went to decay. This unfortunate lover has composed a song beginning with 'At the Court of Cahirass there lives a fair maiden,' which is still recollected by the country people.' 1 ] IN the Court of Cahirass there dwells a fair lady, Of beauty the paragon, and she is called Katey ; Her lofty descent, and her stately deportment, Prove this lovely damsel was for a king's court meant. There's many a great lord from Dublin has sought her ; But that is not strange for a nobleman's daughter : Yet, if she was poor as the poorest of creatures, There's no one her rival in figure or features. On a fine summer's morning, if you saw but this maiden, By the murmuring Maig, or the green fields she strayed in; Or through groves full of song, near that bright- flowing river, You'd think how imperfect the praise that I give her. In order arranged are her bright flowing tresses, The thread of the spider their fineness expresses ; And softer her cheek, that is mantled with blushes, Than the drift of the snow, or the pulpness of the rushes. 100 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. But her bosom of beauty, that the heart which lies under, Should have nothing of womanlike pride, is my wonder ; That the charms which all eyes daily dwell on delighted, Should seem in her own of no worth, and be slighted. I felt on my spirit a load that was weight/. In the stillness of midnight, and called upon Katey ; And a dull voice replied, on the ear of the sleeper, " Death ! Death !" in a tone that was deep, and grew deeper. 'Twas an omen to me 'twas an omen of sadness, That told me of folly, of love, and of madness ; That my fate was as dark as the sky that was o'er me, And bade me despair, for no hope was before me. Oh Katey, dear Katey, disdain not your lover ; Fromjyour frowns and your coldness he cannot recover ; For if you but bid him his passion to smother, How fatal the day when we first met each other. [I have ventured to omit a vdrse which I havo always considered an interpolation. It contained a ludicrous instance of bathos, certain to interrupt the tender and pathetic sentiment of the ballad. To wit : " To the sick and the needy profuse is her bounty, And her goodness extends through the whole of the county."'] BALLAD POETRY or IRELAND. 101 MALRE BHAN ASTOR* BY THOMAS DAVIS. IN a valley far away, With my Maire bhan ast6r, Short would be the summer-day, Ever loving more and more ; Winter days would all grow long. With the light her heart would pour, With her kisses and her song, And her loving malt go leor.f Fond is Maire bhan ast6r, Fair is Maire bhan ast6r, Sweet as ripple on the shore, Sings my Maire bhan ast6r. Oh ! her sire is very proud, And her mother cold as stone ; But her brother bravely vow'd She should be my bride alone ; For he knew I lov'd 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 ast6r, Tried is Maire bhan ast6r, Had I wings I'd never soar From my Maire bhan ast6r. There are lands where manly toil Surely reaps the crop it sows, Glorious woods and teeming soil, Where the broad Missouri flows ; * Which means, "fair Mary, my treasure." If we are to write gibberish to enable some of our readers to pronounce this, we must do so thus toTearn^rislT "** r * Eeally ^ is time for the "habitants of Ireland t Much plenty, or, in abundance. 102 B^LLAU JPQETRY OF IRELAND. Through the trees the smoke shall rise, From our hearth with mait go Ie6r, There shall shine the happy eyes Of My Maire bhan ast6r. Mild is Maire bhan ast6r, Mine is Maire bhan ast6r, Saints will watch about the door Of my Maire bhan ast6r. THE KETURN OF O'RUARK, PRINCE OF BREFFNI. BY THOMAS MOORE. AIR " Cailin Deas Cruite na-m-bo." [This ballad is founded upon an event of most melancholy importance lo Ireland, if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of profiting by our divisions, and subduing us. The following are the circumstances as related by O'Halloran: "The King of Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the King of Meath, and though she had been for some time married to O'Kuark, Prince of Breffni, yet it could not restrain his passion. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed liim that O'Kuark intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent in those days), and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested to a lover she adored. Mac Murchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns." The monarch Roderic espoused the cause of O'Ruark, while Mac Murchad fled to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II. "Such," adds Giraldus Cambrensis (as I find in an old translation), "is the variable and fickle nature of woman, by whom all mischief in the world (for the most part) do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus Antonius, and by the destruction of Troy."] THE valley lay smiling before me, Where lately I left her behind ; Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me, That saddened the joy of my mind. I looked for the lamp which she told me Should shine when her pilgrim returned, But, though darkness began to enfold me, No lamp from the battlements burn'd ! BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 103 I flew to her chamber 'twas lonely, As if the lov'd tenant lay dead ! Ah ! would it were death, and death only ! But no ! the young false one had fled. And there hung the lute that could soften My very worst pains into bliss, While the hand that had wak'd it so often Now throbbed to a proud rival's kiss. There was a time, falsest of women ! When BREFFNI'S good sword would have sougit That man through a million of foemen, Who dared but to doubt thee in thought ! While now Oh, degenerate daughter Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame ! And, thro' ages of bondage and slaughter, Our country shall bleed for thy shame. Already the curse is upon her, And strangers her valleys profane ; They come to divide to dishonour, And tyrants they long will remain ! But onward \ the green banner rearing, Go, flesh every sword to the hilt ; On our side is VIRTUE and ERIN ! On theirs is the SAXON and GUILT. 104 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. THE SISTER OF CHARITY. BY GERALD GRIFFIN. SHE once was a lady of honour and wealth, Bright glowed on her features the roses of health ; Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold, And her motion shook perfume from every fold ; Joy revel I'd around her love shone at her side, And gay was her smile as the glance of a bride : And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall, When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul. She felt in her spirit the summons of grace, That caused her to live for the suffering race ; And heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home, Rose quickly like Mary, and answer'd, " I come. 7 ' She put from her person the trappings of pride, And pass'd from her home with the joy of a bride, Nor wept at the threshold, as onwards she moved, For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved. Lost ever to fashion to vanity lost, That beauty that once was the song and the toast No more in the ball-room that figure we meet, But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat. Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name, For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame ; Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth, For she barters for heaven the glory of earth. Those feet, that to music could gracefully move, Now bear her alone on the mission of love ; Those hands that once dangled the perfume and gem Are tending the helpless, or lifted for them ; BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 105 That voice that once echoed the song of the vain, Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain ; And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl, Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl. Her down bed a pallet her trinkets a bead, Her lustre one taper that serves her to read ; Her sculpture the crucifix nailed by her bed, Her paintings one print of the thorn-crowned head ; Her cushion the pavement that wearies her knees, Her music the psalm, or the sigh of disease ; The delicate lady lives mortified there, And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer. Yet not to the service of heart and of mind, Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined. Like him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief. She strengthens the weary, she comforts the weak, And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick ; Where want and affliction on mortals attend, The Sister of Charity therein a friend. Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath, Like an angel she moves in the vapour of death ; Where rings the loud musket, and flashes the sword, Unfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord. How sweetly she bends o'er each plague-tainted face, With looks that are lighted with holiest grace \ How kindly she dresses each suffering limb, For she sees in the wounded the image of Him. Behold her, ye worldly ! behold her, ye vain ! Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain ! Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days, Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise. Ye lazy philosophers self-seeking men, Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen, How stands in the balance your eloquence weighed With the life and the deeds of that high-born maid ? 10G BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. MABY LE MOEE. BY GEORGE NUGENT REYNOLDS. [Mi*. Reynolds was a Leitrim. gentleman of moderate property, earnest patriotism, and respectable ability. Between the era of Independence and the Union he wrote several rough, strong, popular songs in the national interest; one or two of which still hold their ground in the collections. Latterly a claim has been made on his behalf to the author- ship of the "Exile of Erin," so strongly sustained by sworn evidence, that nothing but the character of Campbell could resist it. It is, however, weakened by the fact that none of his acknowledged writings are in the same style, or of the same ability.] As I stray' d o'er the common on Cork's rugged border, While the dew-drops of morn the sweet primrose array'd, I saw a poor maiden whose mental disorder, Her quick-glancing eye and wild aspect betrayed. On the sward she reclined, by the green fern sur- rounded, At her side speckled daisies and wild flow'rs abounded ; To its utmost recesses her heart had been wounded ; Her sighs were unceasing 'twas Mary le More. Her charms by the keen blasts of sorrow were faded, Yet the soft tinge of beauty still play'd on her cheek ; Her tresses a wreath of pale primroses braided, And strings of fresh daisies hung loose on her neck. While with pity I gazed, she exclaim'd, " O my Mother ! See the blood on that lash, 'tis the blood of my brother ; They have torn his poor flesh, and they now strip another 'Tis Connor, the friend of poor Mary le More. " Though his locks were as white as the foam of the ocean, Those wretches shall find that my father is brave ; My father !" she cried, with the wildest emotion, " Ah ! no, my poor father now sleeps in the grave ! BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 107 They have tolPd his death-bell, they've laid the turf o'er him ; His white locks were bloody! no aid could restore him ; He is gone ! he is gone ! and the good will deplore him, When the blue waves of Erin hide Mary le More." A lark, from the gold blossom'd furze that grew near her, Now rose, and with energy caroll'd his lay ; " Hush ! hush !" she continued, " the trumpet sounds clearer ; The horsemen approach ! Erin's daughters away ! Ah ! soldiers, 'twas foul, while the cabin was burning, And o'er a pale father a wretch had been mourning Go, hide with the sea-mew, ye maids, and take warning, Those ruffians have ruin'd poor Mary le More. "Away, bring the ointment God ! see those gashes ! Alas ! my poor brother, come dry the big tear ; Anon we'll have vengeance for these dreadful lashes ; Already the screech-owl and raven appear. By day the green grave, that lies under the willow, With wild flow'rs I'll strew, and by night make my pillow, Till the ooze and dark sea- weed, beneath the cuii'd billow, Shall furnish a death-bed for Mary le More." Thus rav'd the poor maniac, in tones more heart- rending Than sanity's voice ever pour'd on my ear, When, lo ! on the waste, and their march tow'rds her bending, A troop of fierce cavalry chanced to appear ; 108 BALLAD POETRY Oi^ IRELAND. " ye fiends !" she exclaim'd, and with wild horror started, Then through the tall fern, loudly screaming, she darted ! With an overcharged bosom I slowly departed, And sigh'd for the wrongs of poor Mary le More. THE LAMENT OF O'GNIVE. FROM A LITERAL TRANSLATION OF TIIIC ORIGINAL HUSH IN* O'COKXOK'S "DISSERTATIONS ON IRISH HISTORY." BY JEREMIAH JOSEPH CALLANAN. [FKARFLATHA O'GNIAMII was family Ollamh, or Bard, to the O'Neill, of Clanaboy, about the year 1556. The poem, of which the following lines are the translation, commences with " Ma thruagh mar ataid Goadhil."] How dimm'd 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. 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 stretch'd on your plains, And you're doomed from your cradles to bondage and chains. O where is the beauty that beam'd 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 turn'd into weeping and wi il. 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 Gollamh,* how red is thy cheek ! For thy freemen are slaves, and thy mighty are weak ! * Gollamh A name of Mllesius. 13ALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 109 O'Neill* of the Hostages; Con,f 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 infold us, O night ! Withhold, O bright sun, the reproach of thy light ! 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 bow'd, And oppression hath wrapped all your land in its shroud, Since first from the Brehons'J pure justice you stray'd, 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 Innisfai.l, 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 1 * Nial of the Nine Hostages, the Heroic Monarch of Ireland, in the fourth century, and ancestor of the O'Neill family. t Con Cead Catha Con of the Hundred Fights, Monarch of the Island in the second century; although the fighter of a hundred battles, he was not the victor of a hundred fields his valorous rival, Owen, King of Munster, compelled him to a division of the kingdom. JBrehons The hereditary Judges of the Irish Septs. Innisfail The Island of Destiny, one of the names of Ireland. 110 BALLAD POETHY OF IRELAND. 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 ! [ his ind he resided in Cork, his native city, and produced his minor poems rapid succession. But his health was never re-established; his exciting labours and an eager disposition robbed him of the repose essential to recovery. In 1829 he removed to Lisbon for change of air, died, and was buried in that city. His ballads, translations from the Irish, and other small poems, collected from jBlackwood, Bolster's (Cork) Magazine, and similar sources and the Reclute of Inchidony, a long poem in the Spenserian metre, were published the same year; but are now out of print * His exquisite verses on Gougane Barra have alone attained to a wide popularity; in the South, however, all his writings are familiarly known. Some of his translations from the Irish preserve the idiomatic peculiarities of the language to a wonderful degree, and are among the most racy and characteristic we possess.] THE IEISH REAPER'S HARVEST HYMN. BY JOHN KEEGAN. ALL hail ! Holy Mary, our hope and our joy ! Smile down, blessed Queen ! on the poor Irish boy, Who wanders away from his dear belov'd home ; Oh, Mary ! be with me wherever I roam. Be with me, Oh ! Mary, Forsake me not, Mary, But guide me, and guard me, wherever I roam. From the home of my fathers in anguish I go, To toil for the dark-livered, cold-hearted foe, Who mocks me, and hates me, and calls me a slave, An alien, a savage, all names but a knave; But, blessed be Mary, My sweet, Holy Mary, The bodag/i-^ he never dare call me a knave. * 1866. They have since been re-published, t JBodagh, a clown, a churl. BALLAD POETRY OF IKELAND. Ill From my mother's mud slieeling, an outcast I fly, With a cloud on my heart and a tear in my eye ; Oh ! I burn as I think that if Some One would say, . " Revenge on your tyrants " but Mary, I pray From my soul's depth, Oh ! Mary, And hear me, sweet Mary, For Union and Peace to old Ireland I pray. The land that I fly from is fertile and fair, And more than I ask for or wish for is there But / must not taste the good things that I see, " There's nothing but rags and green rushes for me."* Oh ! mild Virgin Mary, Oh ! sweet Mother Mary, Who keeps my rough hand from red murder but thee] But sure in the end our dear freedom we'll gain, And wipe from the Green Flag each Sasanach stain, And oh ! Holy Mary, your blessing we crave, Give hearts to the timid, and hands to the brave ; And then, Mother Mary, Our own blessed Mary, Light liberty's flame in the hut of the slave. * Taken literally from a conversation with a young peasant on his way to reap the harvest in England. 112 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND, THE CONVICT OF CLONMELL. TKANSLA.TED FROM THE IRISH. .EY JEREMIAH JOSEPH CALLANAN, Author of the " Recluse of Inchidony," &c. Is diibac e mo cas. [Who the hero of this song is I know not; but convicts, from obvious reasons, have been peculiar objects of sympathy in Ireland. Hurling, -which is mentioned in one of the verses, is a thoroughly national diversion, and is played with intense zeal by parish against parish, barony again.it barony, county against county, or even province against province. It is played, not only by the peasant, but by the students of the university, where it is an established pastime. Twiss, the most sweeping calumniator of Ireland, calls it, if I mistake not, the cricket of barbarians; but though fully prepared to pay a just tribute to the elegance of the English game, I own that I think the Irish sport fully as civilized, and much better calculated for the display of vigour and activity. Strutt, in his "Sports and Pastimes" (p. 78), eulogizes the activity of some Irishmen, who played the game about 25 years before the publication of his work (1801), at the back of the British Museum, and deduces it from the Roman harpastum. It was played in Cornwall formerly, he adds ; but neither the Romans nor Cornishmen used a bat, or, as we call it in Ireland, a hurly. The description Strutt quotes from old Carew is quite graphic.] How hard is my fortune, And vain my repining ! The strong rope of fate For this young neck is twining. My strength is departed ; My cheek sunk and sallow ; While I languish in chains, In the gaol of Clonmala.* No boy in the village Was ever yet milder, Pel play with a child, And my sport would be wilder. , Recess, or field of honey. Irish of Clonmell. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 113 I'd dance without tiring From morning till even, And the goal-ball I'd strike To the lightning of Heaven. At my bed- foot decaying, My Imrlbat is lying, Through the boys of the village My goal-ball is flying ; My horse 'rnong the neighbours Neglected may fallow, While I pine in my chains, In the gaol of Clonmala. 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 Clonmala. 114 BALLAD POETEY OF IRELAND LAMENT OF THE IHISH MAIDEN. A BRIGADE BALLAD. BY DENNY LANE. Am'* The Foggy Dew." ON Carrigdhoun the heath is brown, The clouds are dark o'er Ardnalia, And many a stream comes rushing down To swell the angry Ownabwee ; The moaning blast is sweeping fast Thro' many a leafless tree, And I'm alone, for he is gone, My hawk has flown, ochone machree. The heath was green on Carrigdhoun, Bright shone the sun on Ardnalia, The dark green trees bent trembling down To kiss the slumb'ring Ownabwee ; That happy day, 'twas but last May, 'Tis like a dream to me, When Doinnall swore, ay, o'er and o'er, We'd part no more, oh stor machree. Soft April show'rs and bright May flow'rs Will bring the summer back again, But will they bring me back the hours I spent with my brave Doinnall then ? 'Tis but a chance, for he's gone to France, To wear the fleur-de-lis ; But I'll follow you, ma Doinall dhu* For still I'm true to you, machree. 1Tlo "ooitlti Alt tiub, my black Daniel. BALLAD POETKY OF IRELAND. 115 THE COUNTY OF MAYO. TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH. BY GEORGE FOX. [This specimen of our ancient Irish literature is one of the most popular songs of the peasantry of the counties of Mayo and Galway, and is evidently a composition of the seventeenth century. The original Irish, which is the composition of one Thomas Lavelle, has been pub- lished, without a translation, by Mr. Hardiman, in his " Irish Minstrelsy," but a very able translation of it was published by Mr. Ferguson, in a review of that work in the University Magazine for June, 1834. The original melody of the same name is of very great beauty and pathos, and one which it is desirable to preserve with English words of appro- priate simplicity of character.] ON the deck of Patrick Lynch's boat L sat in woful plight, Through my sighiug_all the weary day, and weeping all the nigfit; Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go, -,_,rr 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 7 Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now Tin 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 116 BALLAD POETEY OF IRELAND. But it's little now I heed their airs, for God will have it so, That I must depart for foreign lands, and leave my sweet Mayo. Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl of Irrul still, And that Brian Duff no longer rules as Lord upon the hill: And that Colonel Hugh MacGrady should be lying dead and low, And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the county of Mayo. THE PATRIOT MOTHER. A BALLAD OP '98. " COME, tell us the name of the rebelly crew, Who lifted the pike on the Curragh with you ; Come, tell us the treason, and then you'll be free, Or right quickly you'll swing from the high gallows tree." " Alanna! alanna! the shadow of shame Has never yet fallen upon one of your name, And oh ! may the food from my bosom you drew, In your veins turn to poison, if you turn untrue. " The foul words oh ! let them not blacken your tongue, That would prove to your friends and your country a wrong, Or the curse of a mother, so bitter and dread, With the wrath of the Lord may they fall on your head ! BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND 117 " I have no one but you in the whole world wide, Yet false to your pledge, you'd ne'er stand at my side: If a traitor you liv'd, you'd be farther away From my heart than, if true, you were wrapp'd in the clay. " Oh ! deeper and darker the mourning would be, For your falsehood so base, than your death proud and free, Dearer, far dearer than ever to me, My darling, you'll be on the brave gallows tree. " 'Tis holy, agra, from the bravest and best Go I go ! from my heart, and be join'd with the rest, Alanna, mackree ! alanna, machree f Sure a ' stag ; * and a traitor you never will be. v There's no look of a braitor upon the young brow That's raised to the tempters so haughtily now ; ]SFo traitor e'er held up the firm head so high No traitor e'er show'cl such a proud flashing eye. On the high gallows tree ! on the brave gallows tree ! Where smil'd leaves and blossoms, his sad doom met he! But it never bore blossom so pure or so fair, As the heart of the martyr that hangs from it there. * "Stag," an informer. 118 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. BOUCHELLEEN-BAWN. BY JOHN BANIM. AIR " L ougli Sheeling." [This ballad refers to the abortive scheme of proselytism, commonly known as the " New Reformation."] AND Where are you going, ma bouchelleen-bawn^ From father and mother so early at dawn ] Och ! rather run idle from evening till dawn. Than darken their threshold, ma bouchelleen-baivn ! For there they would tell you, ma bouchelleen-bawn, That the mother whose milk to your heart you have drawn, And the father who prays for you, evening and dawn, Can never be heard for you, bouchelleen-baivn. That the faith we have bled for, from father to son, Since first by a lie our fair valleys were won, And which oft in the desert, our knees to the sod, We kept from them all, for our sons and our God That this was idolatry, heartless and cold, And now grown more heartless because it is old ; And for something that's newer they'd ask you to pawn The creed of your fathers, ma bouchelleen-baivn ! And now will you go to them, bouchelleen-baivn, From father and mother, so early at dawn ? Och ! the cloud from your mind let it never be drawn, But cross not their threshold, mabouchdleen-bawn ! * My little fair boy. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 119 MO CRAOIBHIN CNO * BY EDWARD WALSH. MY heart is far from Liffey's tide And Dublin town ; It strays beyond the Southern side Of Cnoc-Maol-Donn,t Where Capa-chuinnJ hath woodlands green, Where Amhan-Mhor's waters flow, Where dwells unsung, unsought, unseen, Mo craoibhin cno, Low clustering in her leafy screen, Mo craoibhin cno ! The high-bred dames of Dublin town Are rich and fair, With wavy plume and silken gown, And stately air ; Can plumes compare thy dark brown hair ] Can silks thy neck of snow ] Or measurd pace thine artless grace, Mo craobhin cno, When harebells scarcely show thy trace, Mo craoibhin cno ? I've heard the songs by Liffey's wave That maidens sung They sung their land the Saxon's slave, In Saxon tongue * Mo craobhin cno literally means my cluster of nuts ; but it figura- tively signifies my nut-brown maid. t Cnoc-maol-Donn The Brown bare hill. A lofty mountain between the county of Tipperary and that of Waterford, commanding a glorious prospect of unrivalled scenery. t Cappoquin. A romantically situated town on the Blackwater, in the county of Waterford. The Irish name denotes the head of the tribe of Conn. ' Amhon-mhorThe Or eat River. The Blackwater, which flows into the sea at Youghal. The Irish name is uttered in two sounds, Oan Vore 120 BALLAD POETRY OP IRELAND. Oh ! bring me here that Gaelic dear Which cursed the Saxon foe, When thou didst charm my raptured ear, Mo craoibhin cno ! And none but God's good angels near, Mo craoibhin cno ! I've wandered by the rolling Lee ! And Lene's green bowers I've seen the Shannon's wide-spread sea, And Limerick's towers And LifTey's tide, where halls of pride Frown o'er the flood below ; My wild heart strays to Amhan-mhor's side, Mo craoibhin cno ! With love and thee for. aye to bide, Mo craoibhin $10 ! BALLAD POETEY OF IRELAND. 121 SHULE AKOOK I WOULD I were on yonder hill, ; Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill, And every tear would turn a mill, Is go de tu mo murnin slan. Shute, shule, shule aroon, Shule go succir, agus shule go cuin, Shule go den durrus augus eligh glum, Is go de tu mo murnin sl&n. I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel, I'll sell my only spinning-wheel, To buy for my love a sword of steel, Is go de tu mo murnin slan. Chorum I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red, And round the world I'll beg my bread, Until my parents shall wish me dead, Is go de tu mo murnin slan. Chorus. I wish, I wish, I wish in vain, I wish I had my heart again, And vainly think I'd not complain, Is go de tu mo murnin slan. Chorus. But now my love has gone to France, To try his fortune to advance ; If he e'er come back 'tis but a chance, Is go de tu mo murnin slan. Chorus. 122 BALLAD POETEY OF IRELAND. SAY, MY BROWN DEIMIN. A JACOBITE RKLIC. BY J. J. CALLANAN. A Drimin doan dilis no sioda* no, mbo. [Drimin is the favourite name of a cow, by which Ireland is here allegorical!}' denoted. The five ends of Erin are the live Kingdoms - Minister, Leinster, Ulster, Connaught, and Heath, into which the island was divided, under the Milesian dynasty.] O SAY, my brown Drimin, tliou silk of the kine, 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 Lewis no aid gives, I cannot arise. O ! where art thou, Lewis ? pur eyes are on thee Are thy lofty ships walking in strength o'er the seal 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. 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 route, The five ends of Erin shall ring to their shout ; My sons all united, shall bless the glad day When the flint-hearted Saxon they've chased far away. * Silk of the cows an idiomatic expresssion for the most beautiful of cattle, which I have preserved in translating. TK. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 123 THE GKAVE OF MACCAURA. BY MRS. DOWNING. Author of "Scraps from the Mountains." [At Callan, a pass on an unfrequented road leading from Glaiierousht (the vale of the Roughty) to Ban try, the country people point out a flat stone by the pathway, which they name as the burial-place of Daniel MacCarthy, who fell there in an engagement with the Fitzgeralds in 1261. The stone still preserves the traces of characters, which are, however, illegible. From the scanty records of the period, it would appear that this battle was no inconsiderable one. The Geraldines were defeated, and their leader, Thomas Fitzgerald, and his son, eighteen barons, fifteen knights, and many others of his adherents, slain. But the honour and advantage of victory were dearly purchased by the exulting natives, owing to the death of their brave and noble chieftain.] AND this is thy grave, MacCaura, Here by the pathway lone ; Where the thorn blossoms are bending Over thy mouldered stone. Alas ! for the sons of glory ; Oh ! thou of the darkened brow, And the eagle plume, and the belted clans, Is it here thou art sleeping now ? Oh ! wild is the spot, MacCaura, In which they have laid thee low The field where thy people triumphed Over a slaughtered foe ; And loud was the banshee's wailing, And deep was the clansmen's sorrow> When with bloody hands and burning tears They buried thee here, MacCaura. And now thy dwelling is lonely King of the rushing horde ; And now thy battles are over Chief of the shining sword. 124 BALLAD POETRY OP IRELAND. And the rolling thunder echoes O'er torrent and mountain free, But alas ! and alas ! MacCaura, It will not awaken thee. Farewell to thy grave, MacCaura, Where the slanting sunbeams shine, And the briar and waving fern Over thy slumbers twine ; Thou whose gathering summons Could waken the sleeping glen ; MacCaura ! alas for thee and thine, 'Twill never be heard again ! PEGGY BAWK [The existence of this ballad is traceable for a century it is probably much older. It bears strong evidence of having been -written in Ulster, where it holds its ground with undiminished popularity to this day.] As I gae'd o'er the Highland hills, To a farmer's house I came The night being dark, and something wet, I ventur'd into the same, Where I was kindly treated, And a pretty lass I spied, Who ask'd me if I had a wife ; But marriage I denied. I courted her the lae long night, Till near the dawn of day. When frankly she to me did say, " Alang wf thee I'll gae ; For Ireland is a fine country, And the Scots to you are kin ; So I will gang along with you, My fortune to begin.'' BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 125 Day being come and breakfast o'er, To the parlour I was ta'en ; The gudeman kindly asked me, If I'd marry his daughter Jane " Five hundred merks Til give her, Besides a piece of Ian' :" But no sooner had he spoke the word, Than I thought of Peggy Bawn. " Your offer, sir, is very good, And I thank you, too," said I; " But I cannot be your son-in-law, And I'll tell you the reason why. My business ^calleth me in haste, I am the king's servant bound, And I must gang awa j this day, Straight to Edinburgh town." Oh, Peggy Bawn, though art my own, Thy heart lies in my breast; An d though we at a distance are, Yet I love thee still the best : Although we at a distance are, And the seas between us roar, Yet I'll be constant, Peggy Bawn, To thee for evermore, 126 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. A LAMENTATION. BY J. CLARENCE MANGAN. [This lamentation is not an Irish ballad, but an imitation of Irish ballad poetry. It is translated from the German of Goethe : a strange and suggestive fact, that the greatest intellect of this age should have been devoted to the study and illustration of our native poetry, while it was neglected at home.] O ! RAISE the woful Pillalu, And let your tears in streams be shed; Och, OTTO, OTTO, ollalu! The Master's eldest hope is dead! Ere broke the morning dim and pale, The owlet flapp'd his heavy wing, We heard the winds at evening wail, And now our dirge of death we sing, Och, OTTO, OTTO, ollalu ! Why wouldst thou go ? How couldst thou die ] Why hast thou left thy parents dear Thy friends, thy kindred far and nigh, Whose cries, movrone ! thou dost not hear 1 Och, OTTO, OTTO, ollalu! Thy mother, too ! how could she part From thee, her darling, fair and sweet The hea,rt that throbb'd within her heart, The pulse, the blood that made it beat 1 Och, OTTO, OTTO, ollalu ! Oh ! lost to her and all thy race, Thou sleepest in the House of Death, She sees no more thy cherub face, She drinks no more thy violet breath; Och, OTTO, OTTO, ollalu! BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 127 By strand and road, by field and fen, The sorrowing clans come thronging all ; From camp and dun. from hill and glen, They crowd around the castle wall. Ock, orro, orro, ollalu ! From East and West, from South and North To join the funeral train they hie, And now the mourners issue forth, And far they spread the keening ciy. Ock, orro, orro, ollalu ! Then raise the woful Pillalu, And let your tears in streams be shed, Och, orro, orro, ollalu ! The Chieftain's pride, his heir, is dead. THE BLACKBIRD. A JACOBITE RELIC. [This ballad is inserted in the Jacobite Relics of Scotland ; but it is unquestionably Irish. It is sung to an old Irish air of the same name (an londubh, the Blackbird), and has been in common use all over Munster for a century. But if there were no other evidence, the words are distinctly marked with the faults of early Anglo-Irish poetry broken metaphors, Irish vowel rhymes, and a hazy indistinctness of conception and expression. It is chiefly valuable for its undoubted antiquity.] ONCE on a morning of sweet recreation, I heard a fair lady a-making her moan, With sighing and sobbing, and sad lamentation, Aye singing, " My Blackbird for ever is flown ! He's all my heart's treasure, my joy and my pleasure, So justly, my love, my heart follows thee ; And I am resolved, in foul or fair weather, To seek out my Blackbird, wherever he be. 28 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. " I will go, a stranger to peril and danger, My heart is so loyal in every degree ; For he's constant and kind, and courageous in mind, Good luck to my Blackbird, wherever he be ! In Scotland he's loved and dearly approved, In England a stranger he seemeth to be ; But his name I'll advance in Ireland or France, Good luck to my Blackbird, wherever he be ! " The birds of the forest are all met together, The turtle is chosen to dwell with the dove, And I am resolved, in foul or fair weather, Once in the spring-time to seek out my love. But since fickle Fortune, which still proves uncer- tain, Hath caused this parting between him and me, His right I'll proclaim, and who dares me blame ] Good luck to my Blackbird wherever he be ! " BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 129 LAMENT OF THE EMIGRANT CONN AUGHT- WOMAN FOR HER DEAD SON. BY JOHN KEEGAN. TIME A chilly evening in September, 1844. SCEVE A rude churchyard in a sequestered hamlet in England. The sexton is digging a grave. A coffin lies convenient, and over it hangs an old woman arrayed in the tattered habiliments of her caste. She had accompanied her only son to the "English harvest," and on their return home he was seized with the fever and died in an hospital. She sings the caoine, or dirge, over the body. OH ! then, God, has it come to my turn for to see The day that you took my own UHck from me ? Did I live to look down in that dark narrow hole, Where they laid him, the pride and the joy of my soul, Ulla ochone ! Where they laid down the hope and the light of my soul ] They're taking you darling ! no more shall I see The flash of your blue eyes, a suilish machree ; Your bed they have made in the cold clammy clay, And the worms on your brave, manly bosom prey. Ocli, ochone! The Sasanach worms on your bosom will prey ! In the land of our fathers where you and I dwelt, To be sure, cold and hunger we oftentimes felt But we had a home, and a spot where we lay Our heads at the close of each sorrowful day, Och, mavrone ! Indeed, we saw many a sorrowful day. 130 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. Yet I never murmur'd nor flew in God's face Tho' my belly was hungry, my heart was at peace, When I saw my own bouchal so comely and tall, The fairest, the bravest, and best of them all OcA, asthore ! It's you was the beauty and flower of them all. And often you said, " Mother, darling, don't cry, Tho' my corner's a cold one, 'tis yours till you die ;' But the tyrant curse on him ! look'd into our bairn, And drove us like prehauns upon the shaughrawn, Och, ochone ! May the dark-live r'd "boddagh" die on the shaugh- raivn. 'Twas God's will that done it, and I won't complain, For you died as you lived, like a lamb without stain ; But my blood boils to think you should ask for a grave From the dark-looking churl who made you a slave, Ckorp-an-dhouL ! An " alien/' an outcast, a wandering slave. Had you died in your own kindly land in the West, The mass would be sung and your winding-sheet blest ; And the wild Connaught girls would throng to your bier. With bright tears and all the fair flowers of the year, Ochj ochone ! With the gems of the heart and the bloom of the year But, ah ! amongst strangers your white limbs are laid, You are stretch'd bird alone! in the Sasanach's shade ; But the Sasanach for you his bell did not toll, And no one as much as said, " Peace to your soul," Vllah, ochone ! And none but myself said, " God's rest to your soul." BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 131 Oh, God ! if you'd say to me, Granna* mastkore, Your Ulick is gone where there's rest evermore ; And if you'd come with him, or wish to be nigh Your own moc-na-bointha^ go lie down and die, Och, mavrone ! With a heart and a half I would lie down and die. I won't curse the Saxon, I won't curse the clay Where my bouchaleen sleeps, from his own far away ; But I'd lie down in peace, were it God's holy will We were both stretch'd together on Knockcarrig hill, Ullah, ochone ! Where it hangs o'er the Shannon, old Knockcarrig hill. Farewell, now, mavourneen, you're gone from my sight, But I give you to God and the angels of light ; And Pm sure the Blessed Virgin is making for thee A soft bed in Heaven, a vourneen machree ! A ckorra machree ! My blessing go with you, a vourneen machree ! * Granna -Grace, or Gertrude, a favourite female name amongst the Connanght peasantry, t " Moc-na-bointha" The widow's only son. 132 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. THE WILD GEESE.* A BRIGADE BALLAD. BY DR. DRENNAtf. How solemn sad by Shannon's flood The blush of morning sun appears ! To men who gave for us their blood, Ah ! what can woman give but tears ? How still the field of battle lies ! No shouts upon the breeze are blown ! We heard our dying country's cries, We sit deserted and alone. Ogh hone, ogh hone, ogh hone, ogh. hone, Ogh hone, &c. Ah ! what can woman give but tears ! Why thus collected on the strand Whom yet the God of mercy saves, Will ye forsake your native land ? Will you desert your brothers' graves ? Their graves give forth a fearful groan Oh ! guard your orphans and your wives ; Like us, make Erin's cause your own, Like us, for her yield up your lives. Ogh hone, ogh hone, ogh hone, ogh hone, Ogh hone, &c. Like us, for her yield up your lives. * The wild geese was the popular name for the recruits of the Irish brigade. BALLAD POETEY OF IRELAND. 133 THE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE.* us aong e e only^one ever sung by them. But that n a century and a half ago, is perfectly one Wa ae o e presen song s unnown, and it supplanted the or ompletely in common use, that inquiries on the subject were uted when there was any considerable chance of their being su ut its plainness, occasional vigour, and minute details, argue it n early date. JULY the first, in Oldbridge town, There was a grievous battle, Where many a man lay on the ground, By cannons that did rattle. King James he pitched his tents between The lines for to retire ; But King William threw his bomb-balls in, And set them all on fire. Thereat enraged they vowed revenge Upon King William's forces, And oft did vehemently cry That they would stop their courses. A bullet from the Irish came, And grazed King William's arm, They thought his majesty was slain, Yet it did him little harm. Duke Schomberg then, in friendly care, His King would often caution To shun the spot where bullets hot Retained their rapid motion ; But William said, he don't deserve The name of Faith's defender, Who would not venture life and limb To make a foe surrender. * See nol* A in the Appendix. 134 BALLAD POETEY OF IRELAND. When we the Boyne began to cross, The enemy they descended ; But few of our brave men were lost, So stoutly we defended ; The horse was the first that marched o'er, The foot soon followed after ; But brave Duke Schomberg was no more, By venturing over the water. When valiant Schomberg he was slain, King William he accosted His warlike men for to march on And he would be the foremost ; " Brave boys," he said, " be not dismayed, For the loss of one commander, For God will be our king this day. And I'll be general under." Then stoutly we the Boyne did cross, To give the enemies battle : Our cannon, to our foe's great cost, Like thund'ring claps did rattle. In majestic mien our Prince rode o'er, His men soon followed after, With blows and shouts put our foes to the rout The day we crossed the water. The Protestants of Drogheda Have reason to be thankful, That they were not to bondage brought, They being but a handful. First to the Tholsel they were brought. And tried at the Millmount af tet ; But brave King William set them tree, By venturing over the water. The cunning French near to Duleek Had taken up their .quarters, And fenced themselves on every side, Still waiting for new orders ; BALLAD POETRY OP IRELAND. 135 But in the dead time of the night, They set the fields on fire, And long before the morning light, To Dublin they did retire. Then said King William to his men, After the French departed, I'm glad (said he) that none of ye Seem to be faint-hearted ; So sheath your swords and rest awhile, In time we'll follow after ; Those words he uttered with a smile The day he crossed the water. Come let us all with heart and voice Applaud our lives' defender, Who at the Boyne his valour showed And made his foe surrender. To God above the praise we'll give Both now and ever after ; And bless the glorious memory Of King William that crossed the water. 136 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAKD. THE DEINAN DHUK MY love he is fairer than a soft summer's day, And his breath is far sweeter than new-mown hay, And his hair shines like gold when revived by the sun, And the name that they give him's the Drinan Limn* My boy he is gone to cross over the main, May God send him safe to his true love again, For I wander all day, until night-time comes on, And I sleep on the leaves of the Drinan Dhun. If I had a small cot on the ocean to row, I would follow my darling wherever he'd go ; Pd rather have my true love for to sport and to Than all the gold treasures on the land and the sea. My love he is handsome and fair to be seen, With his red rosy cheeks he is fit for a queen, With his two sparkling eyes as bright as the sun, And he is fair as the blossom of the Drinan Dhun. Impatient I wait for my love to return, And for his long absence I never cease to mourn, I will join with the small birds when the summer comes on, For to welcome the blossom of the Drinan Dhun. * Drinan Dhun literally, the sloe tree ; metaphorically, a small dark- complexioned man. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 137 THE FAIRY THORN. AN ULSTEIi BALLAD. BY SAMUEL FERGUSON. " GET up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning- 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 hill-side have ta'en their fear- less way, Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely beauty grow Beside the Fairy Hawthorn grey. The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim, Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her knee ; The rowan berries cluster o'er her low head grey and dim In ruddy kisses sweet to see. 138 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 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, Oh, 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, A power of faint enchantment doth through their beings breathe, And they sink down together on the green. They sink together silent, and stealing side to 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 together 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. BALLAD POETRY OP IRELAND. 139 Nor scream can any raise, nor prayer can any say, But wild, wild the terror of the speechless three For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away, By whom they dare not look to see. They feel their tresses twine with their 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 dare not look to see the cause. For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze ; And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes, Or their limbs from the cold ground raise. Till out of Night the Earth has rolled her dewy side, With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below; When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide, The maidens' trance dissolveth so. Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may, And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain They pined away and died within the year and day. And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again. 140 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. THE AVENGER A JACOBITE KELIO. BY JEREMIAH JOSEPH CALLANAN. Da Bfeascin si an la sin ba seasta bfeic m'intin.* OH ! Heavens, if that long-wished-for morning 1 spied As high as three kings I'd leap up in my pride ; With transport I'd laugh, and my shout should arise, As the fire from each mountain blazed bright to the skies. The Avenger shall lead us right on to the foe ; Our horns should sound out, and our trumpets should blow ; Ten thousand huzzas should ascend to high heaven, When our Prince was restored, and our fetters were riven. Oh ! Chieftains of Ulster, when will you come forth, And send your strong cry to the winds of the North? The wrongs of a king call aloud for your steel lied stars of the battle O'Donnell, O'Neill ! Bright house of O'Connor, high offspring of kings, Up, up, like the eagle, when heavenward he springs ! Oh ! break you once more from the Saxon's strong rule, Lost race of MacMurchacl, O'Byrne, and O'Toole. If I could but see that day, how well pleased would iny mind l>e BALLAD POETKY OF IRELAND. 141 Momonia of Druids green dwelling of song ! Where, where are thy minstrels why sleep they thus long'? Does no bard live to wake, as they oft did before, MacCarthy O'Brien O'Sullivan More ? O come from your hills, like the waves to the shore, When the storm-girded headlands are mad with the roar ! Ten thousand huzzas shall ascend to high heaven, When our Prince is restored, and our fetters are riven. [The names introduced in this ballad are amongst those of the prin- cipal families in Ireland, some of whom, however, were decided enemies of the Stuarts. The reader cannot fail to observe the strange expec- tation which the writer entertains of the nature of the Stuarts 1 designs : They call on him not to come to reinstate himself on the throne of his fathers, but to aid the natives in doing vengeance on the " flint-hearted Saxon." Nothing, however, could be more natural. The Irish Jacobites (at least, the Irish Catholics) were in the habit of claiming the Stuarts as of the Milesian line, fondly deducing them from Fergus, and the Celts of Ireland. Who the avenger is, whose arrival is prayed for in the song, is not accurately known; but circumstances would warrant the date to be 1708, when a general impression prevailed that the field would be taken in favour of the Stuarts, under a commander of more weight and authority than had come forward before, his name having been kept a profound secret. TK.] 142 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. THE LAMENTATION OF HUGH REYNOLDS. A STIJEKT BALLAD. [I copied this ballad from a broad-sheet in the collection of Mr. Davis; but could learn nothing of its date, or the circumstances connected with it. It is clearly modern, however, and founded on the story of an abduction, which terminated differently from the majority of these adventures. The popular sympathy in such cases is generally in favour of the -gallant, the impression being that an abduction is never attempted without at least a tacit consent on the part of the girl. Whenever she appears as a willing witness for the prosecution it is said she has been tampered with by her friends; and public indignation falls upon the wrong object. The ''Lamentation " was probably written for or by the ballad-singers ; but it is the best of its bad class. The student would do well to compare it with the other street ballads in the collection; and with the simple old traditional ballads, such as "Shule Aroon" and "Peggy Bawn," that he may discover, if possible, where the charm lies that recommends strains so rude and naked to the most cultivated minds. These ballads have done what the "songs of our greatest lyrical poets have not done -delighted both the educated and the ignorant Whoever hopes for an equally large and contrasted audience must catch their simplicity, directness, and force, or whatever else constitutes their peculiar attraction.] MY name it is Hugh Reynolds, I come of honest parents, Near Cavan I was born as plainly you may see ; By loving of a maid, one Catherine MacCabe, My life has been betrayed; she's a dear maid to me.* The country were bewailing my doleful situation, But still I'd expectation this maid would set me free ; But, oh ! she was ungrateful, her parents proved deceitful, And though I loved her faithful, she's a dear maid to me. * "A dear maid to me." An Irish idiom ; meaning, not that she was much beloved by him, but that his love for her brought a heavy penalty with it- cost him dearly. Observe the effect of this idiom at the close of the second verse. BALLAD POETRY OF IEELAND. 143 Young men and tender maidens, throughout this Irish nation, Who hear my lamentation, I hope you'll pray for me ; The truth I will unfold, that my precious blood she sold, In the grave I must lie cold ; she's a dear maid to me. For now my glass is run, and the hour it is come, And I must die for love and the height of loyalty : I thought it was no harm to embrace her in my arms, Or take her from her parents ; but she's a dear maid to me. Adieu, my loving father, and you, my tender mother, Farewell, my dearest brother, who has suffered sore for me ; With irons I'm surrounded, in grief I lie confounded, By perjury unbounded ! she's a dear maid to me. Now, I can say no more ; to the Law-board* I must go> There to take the last farewell of my friends and counterie ; May the angels, shining bright, receive my soul this night, And convey me into heaven to the blessed Trinity. [1866. This ballad has, I understand, been popular in some districts of Ulster for forty years; and two correspondents have sent me details connected with the case out of which it arose. One of them, writing from Cavan, says : " On reading in the 'Ballad Poetry of Ireland ' the ' Lament of Hugh Reynolds,' I remembered well when a child going to see him in his con- demned cell, on a Good Friday. He was executed the following Tuesday ; and as it excited an interest in my mind, I have applied to the governor of the prison, Mr. Galloghly, who gave me the date of his execution, the 28th March, 1826. He told me that Catherine MacCabe was a very reluctant witness, and was remanded to prison to force her to give * Gallows. 144 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. evidence against him. He was invited into Cavan by her friends in order to get married. When he came to town, instead of acting according to promise, they handed him over to the police, and he was convicted of housebreaking and abduction. His brother and a man named O'Hara were committed as accomplices, but admitted out on bail. Before the assizes O'Hara left for America. Some of his friends, knowing the con- sequences, urged the brother John to leave also ; but he declared his perfect innocence, and relied on that as sufficient : poor fellow! he was convicted, and sentenced to die with his brother. However, by the in- cessant entreaties of his friends to the grand jury and Colonel Saunderson (a great local potentate), a memorial was forwarded to the Castle, and his sentence was commuted; he was finally released after a few months' imprisonment." A second correspondent says : " The Reynolds and MacCabe families were both county Cavan people and Catholics. There had been a standing quarrel between them, origi- nating in a ' bit of land. 1 Both were respectable, but the Reynolds were 1 reduced.' Catherine MacCabe swore that Reynolds took her off by force ; he, in his dying speech, declared that she went with him freely. The girl's uncle was the person universally believed to be the instigator of the prosecution. I remember him well; his hair was white as snow, and his dress semi-clerical. There was universal sympathy for Reynolds. Catherine MacCabe left Cavan immediately after the execution, and soon died, it was said, of a broken heart. The ballad of ' Hugh Reynolds ' is still sung here ; and it was a popular belief that a judgment of God pursued the MacCabe family."] MOLLY CABEW. BY SAMUEL LOVER. OCH hone ! and what will I do 1 Sure my love is all cros't Like a bud in the frost ; And there's no use at all in my going to bed, For 'tis dhrames and not sleep that comes into my head. And' tis all about you, My sweet Molly Carew And indeed 'tis a sin and a shame ! You're complater than Nature In every feature, The snow can't compare With your forehead so fair. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 145 And I rather would see just one blink of your eye Than the prettiest star that shines out of the sky. And by this and by that, For the matter o' that, You're more distant by far than that same ! Och hone ! weirastliru ! I'm alone in this world without you. Och hone ! but why should I spake Of your forehead and eyes, When your nose it defies Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in rhyme, Tho' there's one BURKE, he says, that would call it snublime ; And then for your cheek, Troth, 'twould take him a week Its beauties to tell, as he'd rather ; Then your lips ! oh, machree ! In their beautiful glow, They a pattern might be For the cherries to grow. 'Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we know, For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago ; But at this time o' day, Ton my conscience I'll say, Such cherries might tempt a man's father ! Och hone ! weirasthru ! I'm alone in this world without you. Och hone ! by the man in the moon, You taze me all ways That a woman can plaze, For you dance twice as high with that thief, Pat Magee, As when you take share of a jig, dear, with me, Tho' the piper I bate For fear the owld cheat Wouldn't play you your favourite tune. K 146 BALLAD POETEY OF IRELAND. And when you're at mass, My devotion you crass, For 'tis thinking of you I am, Molly Carew. While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep, That I can't at your sweet purty i'ace get a peep ; Oh, lave off that bonnet, Or else I'll lave on it The loss of my wandering sowl ! Och hone ! weirasthru ! Och hone! like an owl, Day is night, dear, to me, without you. Och hone ! don't provoke me to do it; For there's girls by the score That loves me and more, And you'd look very quare if some morning you'd meet My wedding all marching in pride down the street ; Troth, you'd open your eyes And you'd die with surprise To think 'twasn't you was come to it ; And faith, Katty Naile, And her cow, I go bail, Would jump if I'd say, " Katty Naile, name the day," And tho' you're fair and fresh as a morning in May, While she's short and dark like a cold winter's day; Yet if you don't repent Before Easter, when Lent Is over I'll marry for spite, Och hone! weirasthru! And when I die for you, My ghost will haunt you every nighfc. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 147 THE CEOPPY BOY. A BALLAD OF '98. BY CARROLL MALONE. " GOOD men and true ! in this house who dwell, To a stranger bouchal, I pray you tell Is the priest at home ] or may he be seen 1 I would speak a word with Father Green." " The Priest's at home, boy, and may be seen ; 7 Tis easy speaking with Father Green ; But you must wait, till I go and see If the holy father alone may be." The youth has entered an empty hall What a lonely sound has his light foot-fall ! And the gloomy chamber's chill and bare, With a vested Priest in a lonely chair. TLe youth has knelt to tell his sins ; " Nomine Dei" the youth begins : At " mea calpa " he beats his breast, And in broken murmurs he speaks the rest. " At the siege of Eoss did my father fall, And at Gorey my loving brothers all, I alone am left of my name and race, I will go to Wexford and take their place. " I cursed three times since last Easter day At mass-time once I went to play ; I passed the churchyard one day in haste, And forgot to pray for my mother's rest. " I bear no hate against living thing ; But I love my country above my King. Now, Father! bless me, and let me go To die- if God has ordained it so." 148 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND The priest said nought, but a rustling noise Made the youth look above in wild surprise ; The robes were off, and in scarlet there Sat a yeoman captain with fiery glare. With fiery glare and with fury hoarse, Instead of blessing, he breathed a curse : " Twas a good thought, boy, to come here and shrive, For one short hour is your time to live. " Upon yon river three tenders float, The Priest's in one, if he isn't shot We hold his house for our Lord the King, And, amen, say I, may all traitors swing !" At Geneva Barrack that young man died, And at Passage they have his body laid. Good people who live in peace and joy, Breathe a prayer and a tear for the Croppy boy. BALLAD POETRY OP IRELAND. 149 THE DKUNKAKD. A TALE OF LOW LIFE. BY THOMAS FURLONG. [Thirty years ago Thomas Furlong was a grocer's boy in one of the back streets of Dublin. By the force of great natural powers, he made his way from sordid obscurity to aAvide reputation and a recognized position in literature. He was not, perhaps, a man of genius, but he possessed talents of great vigour and versatility, and an heroic perseverance. And his success was attained at a time when he had to create a reading public in the country. His most ambitious poems are The Misanthrope and the Doom of Derenzi; his most popular ones the Plagues of Ireland (a satire, in which, though an eager emancipator, he ran amuck at Orange Lodges, Catholic agitators, and Bible Societies); his translations from the Irish in Hardiman's Minstrelsy, and his Tales of Low Life, of which we subjoin one of wonderful truth, simplicity, and power. In public life his course was earnest and independent; in political literature he was an able, but somewhat unscrupulous, writer. But no man is entitled to a more charitable judgment. His youth was undisciplined and unguided, and he died in his thirty-third year. He lies in the little churchyard of Drumcondra, near Grose the antiquary and Gand -n the architect, under a monument erected by his friend James.Hardimaiv all names dear to Ireland.] ALONG- Drumcondra road I strolled, The smoky town was just in sight I met a woman, stooped and old, And she was in a ragged plight. " Oh ! master dear, for sake of heaven, In pity look on me ; Youll never miss a penny given Away in charity ! That I'm in want the world may see That I am old I'm sure appears ; At Christmas next my age will be Just eight-and-sixty years." " And how did all those years go o'er? What have you through that time been at P " Oh ! it would take an hour and more For me to tell all that. 15) BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. When I was small, ay, very small, To service I was sent ; And, by my mother, I was told Not to be sulky, stiff, or bold ; But, to whatever place I went Still to be ready at a call, And act obligingly to all. " Years past, I grew, I worked my way, My sweet young mistress on me doatecl ; She in the kitchen stood one day, And there she to the cook did say That I must be promoted. " She thought it wrong to have me thrust In a dark kitchen underground, Exposed to damp, and dirt, and dust, When other business could be found. Heaven be her bed ! Soon after this My kitchen clothes aside were laid : Out through the park, around the town, And in the squares, all up and down, I walked, with master and with miss, A dressy children's maid. Oh, then what easy times I had ! My look was gay, my heart was glad. " Of gowns I had full half a score, I thought the stock would never fail Nice borders still to each I wore, With flounces a yard deep or more, All gathering round the tail ; And then I had my big straw bonnet, That flapped and fluttered in the wind, And there were heaps of ribands too Tied up in knots of every kind ; I was a tidy girl to see, My mistress took a pride in me. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 151 " One evening I got leave to go, Under the care of our old cook, To see the showman and the show, And all the tents, at that strange fair That's known and talked of everywhere The merry fair of Donnybrook : That fair was then, as it is now, The place for boozing and a row. " The cook and I dressed very fine, And we were to be home at nine. We went and heard the merry man, And Mr. Punch, and Mr. Clown ; And I laughed loud at all they said, I thought with laughing I'd drop down. The cook at last to growl began, She talked of going home to bed : But she was very, very dry, And, in good earnest, so was I ; She pointed to a great big tent, And off we both together went. We settled near a table's end, Where she by chance had found a friend ; A sprightly, pleasant, nice young man God rest his sowl ! 'twas John M'Cann. " Oh ! Heavens be with you, John M'Cann ! It's then you were a neat young man I never, never can forget That pleasant evening when we met : The cook had known him in her range Of friends ; they talked of some they'd seen, And I not willing to seem strange, Dropped in at times a word between ; And John he listened still to me, And listened with so sweet a smile And his eyes looked so roguishly, That I kept blushing all the while ; Indeed I felt my cheeks quite hot, But yet I didn't quit the spot. 152 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND " Now how it was I cannot say, But he a liking took to me, For as we moved to go away, He turned and talked quite seriously ; Up did he get from off his seat, And, as he stood upon his feet By the two hands he held me fast, And swore, before a month went past, We man and wife should be ; The cook she laughed I nothing said, But tittered, and held down my head. " And faith ! before a month went by His words they turned out true, For man and wife were John and I, And gay as any other two : A little gathering I had made, A little more my mistress gave, And John a cooper was by trade, And every week a pound could save ; And at that time, as market went, A pound was not so quickly spent. " A week before our wedding day, Poor John a little room had got ; Our friends who saw it used to say, That none could wish a cozier spot : 7 Twas two-pair front in Aungier Street, Near where the coachmen have their stand. Why should I boast ? but, on my life, There was no struggling tradesman's wife, In town or country through the land, Could show a place so neat ; For lots of furniture we had, Nice pictures, too, for every wall, And I was proud, and John was glad, To hear our taste admired by all ; And then it was not very dear, The rent was but five pounds a year. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 153 " Oil ! we were both so happy there ! And we grew happier every day ; Upon my mind there was no care The table for our meals was spread, When these were done some book I read, Or sat and sewed, as humour led, While John at work was far away ; And then some friend that chance might br'iif, Sat with me, and we both talked on, Sometimes of many a foolish thing ; We prattled till the day was gone ; For I was giddy, young, and wild, And simple as the simplest child. " A woman lived next door her name Was Mistress Kitty Donohoe. When first into the house I came I often met her on the stairs, But didn't like her showy airs ; But she was sprightly company, And forced her idle chat on me For all that I could say or do ; On a child's errand she'd come in, To get a needle or a pin, Or ask what was the day about ; And then she'd fret and blame the weatlicr-r- And sometimes slyly she'd pull out A little flask of rum or gin, And force me just to take a taste Indeed, I always drank in haste, For still my mind was full of care Lest John should come and get us there Tippling o way together, But fond of Mistress Donohoe, And fonder of the drop I grew. " Of visitors she had a train, Their names 'twould take an hour to tell ; 1.51 BALLAD POETRY OP IRELAND. There was Miss Mary- Anne Magrane, And Mrs. Young, and Mrs. Lawson, And Mrs. Jones, and Mrs. Dawson ; And Mrs. White, from Stocking Lane, As good a soul as e'er broke bread At least, so Mrs. Lawson said ; I never knew the lady well, But with her came Miss Jenny Bell, And one whose name has left my head. " Miss Degan hurried from the Coombe, And from the Hoc 1 n Miss Devine Sometimes they over-^nronged her room, And then she showed them into mine ; Off went the bottle to the shop, For all these ' ladies 7 loved the drop. " With this gay set quite great I grew, And John's poor pound so tight wa:j drawn, That half the week it wouldn't do, And then I took his things to pawn. Trick followed trick ill brought on ill I saw not where my guilt began ; Misfortune to misfortune led I had some little beauty still, And, in a weak and wicked hour, When money over me had power, I vilely wronged my husband's bee! Oh ! I was false to John M'Cann. " And this went on twelve years and more ; A fit of illness came at last, And then my conscience it was sore It keenly paid me for the past. Oh ! when that sickness just began, Indeed I thought I should have died. Poor John brought in a holy man, BALLAD POETRY OP IRELAND. 155 Father Fitzlienry was liis name, And tins old priest lie often came And prayed at my bedside ; 'Twoulcl do you good his face to see He looked all peace and piety. " To this good priest I told my shame I told him 01 my sinful life ; He called me by my proper name A wicked and a worthless wife. Oh ! the sad lesson that he gave ! Why, till I'm rotting in the grave, I won't, I can't forget what then He spoke of but through life again My thoughts, my wishes, never ran On any but on John M'Cann. " I promised before God in heaven To leave my drinking, too ; I made the promise but, when given, I found it would not do. Oh ! sir, I was but up and well, When to the drop once more I fell ! My husband saw that all was gone, And let me for a time go on. Two growing boys were all we had, And they in dirty rags were clad. I pawned their clothes, I pawned my own, I left poor John quite bare at last ; My figure as a show was shown (So poor, so naked, I had grown), ; Twas shown as through the streets I passed ; And many laughed this end to see Of all my former finery. "John bore as much as man could bear, But got at last quite tired of me ; And, in mere madness and despair, He bent his course across the sea. 156 BALLAD POETEY OF IRELAND. He took my William in his care, As good a son as son could be ; For he was brought up to the trade, And a smart hand he soon was made. " Good workmen may go anywhere They settled at New York, 'tis said ; But they were not a twelvemonth there "When I got word that both were dead : I think at first some tears I shed A tear or two I might let fall, But the next naggin banished all. "Poor naked Joe, my other child. Among the blackguards took his round, Till one fine morning, in the street, By great good luck he chanced to meet A swaddling dame, all smooth and mild, And in that dame a friend he found ; She took him home, and he was taught To do as tidy servants ought ; For clothing he was at no cost Or food Oh ! sir, I'd bless that dame But that my boy's poor soul is lost ; For Joe, I tell it to his shame, At once took to the holy plan A prime sly swaddler he became ; And he could whine and wheedle so, The servants called him ' Holy Joe ;' And, as he grew to be a man, If any mentioned but my name, I'm told he'd redden at the same ; And still he shunned me when I'd call ; 7 Twas hard but I deserved it all. " Well ! to the worse at last I went I've begged for twenty years and more, Sometimes my heart has felt content, And sometimes been both sad and sore : BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 157 Master ! I'd be quite happy now, If I to yonder shop could go : IVe but this penny left, I vow And that won't get the glass, you know, Do, master, dear !" 1 paused in vain, I could not let her ask again. DIRGE OF O'SULLIVAN BEAR. BY J. J. CALLANAN. [One of the Sullivans of Beerliaven, who went by the name of Morty Oge, fell under the vengeance of the law. He had long been a very popular character in the wild district which he inhabited, and was particularly obnoxious to the local authorities, who had good reason to suspect him of enlisting men for the Irish brigade in the French service, in which ifc was said he held a captain's commission. Information of his raising these "wild geese" (the name by which such recruits were known) was given by a Mr. Puxley, on whom, in consequence, O'Sullivan vowed revenge, which he executed by shooting him on Sunday while on his way to church. This called for the interposition of the higher powers, and accordingly a party of military was sent round from Cork to attack O'Sullivan's house. He was daring and well armed ; and the house was fortified, so that he made an obstinate defence. At last a confidential servant of his, named Scully, was bribed to wet the powder in the guns and pistols prepared for his defence, which rendered him powerless. He attempted to escape, but while springing over a high wall in the rear of his house, he received a mortal wound in the back. They tied his body to a boat, and dragged it in that manner through the sea from Beerhaven 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 Beerhaven. In the version given of it in the rude chronicle of the local occurrences of Cork, there is no mention made of Scully's perfidy ; and perhaps that circumstance might have been added by those to whom O'Sullivan was deemed a hero, in order to save his credit as much as possible. The dirge was composed by his nurse, who has made no sparing use of the peculiar energy of cursing, which the Irish language is by all allowed to possess. In the following song, Morty, in Irish, Muiertach, or Muircheartach, is a name very common among the old families of Ireland. It signifies expert at sea. Og, or Oge, is young. Where a whole district is peopled, in a great measure, by a sept of one name, such distinguishing titles are necessaiy, and in some cases even supersede the original appellative. I-vera, or Aoi-vera, is the original name of Beerhaven', Aoi, or I, signify- ing an island.] THE sun on Ivera No longe 7 : shines brightly, The voi *e of her music No longer is sprightly ; 158 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. N"o more to her maidens The light dance is dear, Since the death of our darling O 'Sullivan Bear. Scully ! tliou 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 1 Scully ! may all kinds Of evil attend thee ! On thy dark road of life May no kind one befriend thee ! May fevers long burn thee, And agues long freeze thee ! May the strong hand of God In his red anger seize thee ! Had he died calmly, I would not deplore him ; Or if the wild strife Of the sea- war closed o'er him : But with ropes round his white limbs Through ocean to trail him, Like a fish after slaughter 7 Tis therefore I wail him. Long may the curse Of his people pursue them ; Scully, that sold him, And soldier that slew him ! One glimpse of heaven's light May they see never ! May the hearthstone of hell Be their best bed for ever ! BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 159 In tlie hole which, the vile hands Of soldiers had made thee, Unhonour'd, unshrouded, And headless they laid thee ; No sigh to regret thee, No eye to rain o'er thee, No dirge to lament thee, No friend to deplore thee ! Dear head of my darling, How gory and pale These aged eyes see thee, High spiked on their gaol ! That cheek in the summer sun Ne'er shall grow warm; Nor that eye e'er catch light, But the flash of the storm. A curse, blessed ocean, Is on thy green water, From the haven of Cork, To Ivera of slaughter : Since thy billows were dyed With the red wounds of fear, Of Muicrtach Oge, Our O'Sullivan Bear ! 160 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. MY CONNOR. OH ! weary's on money and weary's on wealth, And sure we don't want them while we have our health; ; Twas they tempted Connor over the sea, And I lost my lover, my ctufle mo c^oi-oe * Smiling beguiling cheering endearing Oh ! dearly I lov'd him, and he loved me. By each other delighted and fondly united- ly heart's in the grave with my Cttifle ino My Connor was handsome, good-humoured, and tall, At hurling and dancing the best of them all ; But when he came courting beneath our old tree, His voice was like music my ctnfle mo d^voi-oe. Smiling, &c. So true was his heart and so artless his mind, He could not think ill of the worst of mankind, He went bail for his cousin who ran beyond sea, And all his debts fell on my ctiifte mo cfoi-oe. Smiling, &c. Yet still I told Connor that I'd be his bride, In sorrow or death not to stir from his side. He said he could ne'er bring misfortune on me, But sure I'd be rich with my cuvple mo cfvoi-oe. Smiling, &c. The morning he left us I ne'er will forget, Not an eye in our village but with crying was wet, " Don't cry any more mo min|\tiin," said he, " For I will return to my cwifle mo d]Mo-6e.' 7 Smiling, &c. * Commonly written cusUa machree, i.e., "Vein of my heart." BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 161 Sad as I felt then, hope mixed with my care, Alas ! I have nothing left now but despair. His ship it went down in the midst of the sea, And its wild waves roll over my couple mo cporoe. Smiling beguiling cheering endearing Oh ! dearly I lov'd him and he loved me. By each other delighted and fondly united My heart's in the grave with my Cm fie rno 6^01 tie. THE FATE OF THE FOET1ES. BY HENRY GRATTAN CURRAN. [The most successful stroke in the long contest for Catholic Emanci- pation was struck by the peasantry and Forty-shilling Freeholders of Louth, Monaghan, Waterford, and other Irish counties, who, in 1826, voted against their Tory landlords, for candidates pledged in favour of religious liberty. From that date the power of the Catholic Association was felt to be irresistible. The wrath and fear which their independence kindled in the breasts of the aristocracy was their ruin. It was at first proposed to concede Emancipation, accompanied by two " wings," as they were called, payment of the Catholic clergy, and abolition of the Forty- shilling freehold. Some of the Catholic leaders were willing for a time to assent to this ignominious contract, but public indignation speedily rendered it unsafe to do so. When Emancipation was granted, however, by the Imperial Parliament, it Avas immediately followed by an Act taking away the franchise from the gallant peasants who had contributed so materially to win the victory.] AN humble peasant's fate I sing; let wealth and power disdain To praise a poor man's faithfulness, or of his wrongs complain ; But withered be my heart and tongue, when I refuse a strain To men, the victims of the faith that broke a nation's chain. Hurrah for the valiant Forties* the men of the olden time ! * The Forties, i.e. the Forty-shilling Freeholders. L 162 BALLAD POETRY OF IEELAND. "We all remember, where the stream so gently turns aside, To spare yon hawthorn, grateful for its crown of summer pride, How snug the sheltered cabin stood, and rain and storm defied, Shielding a man whose humble trust adored the hand that tried ; A poor, but pious man he was that man of the olden time. With ruddy cheeks around his hearth six laughing children stood, And kindly turned that old man's eye on his own flesh and blood. His daily labour won for them a home, and clothes, and food And, as they broke their daily bread, he taught them Heaven was good, And bade them eat in thankfulness good man of the olden time. But when election time was come, who then too rich or grand To crown that humble peasant's floor, to seize his rugged hand, To ask his vote and interest, and swear like him to stand. And peril life and liberty for faith and father- land] For he was " a real staunch Forty " the pride of the olden time. But times were changed ; the fight was fought ; tho struggle overpast, And lost the power the Forties used so bravely to the last ; BALLAD TOETRY OF IRELAND. 163 Like broken swords those dauntless men aside were falsely cast ; That hearth was quenched, that cabin's wall in ruin strewed the blast And where is he the Forty the heart of the olden time ] Now sickness grows on want, the hedge a shelter rude affords ; Poor broken man ! his madness raves in Freedom's thrilling words "'Who would be freerAwake! Arise!- 4 We'll cast away their cords ;' " We're poor, but not in spirit, we have hearts as big as lords ; " For are we not the Forties V ah ! he thinks 'tis the olden time. They wept not when the mortal cloud came down upon that eye ; They wept not when cold death had hushed his children's hungry cry ; But looked upon the damp bare earth, and to the naked sky, And muttered u To the poor it is a blessed thing to die ;" For they, too, had been Forties the pride of the olden time. 164 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. CASHEL OF MUNSTER. THANSLATED FROM THE IRISH. BY SAMUEL FERGUSON. I'D wed you without herds, without money, or rich array, And Td wed you on a dewy morning at day-dawn . grey ; My bitter woe it is, love, that we are not far away In Cashel town, though the bare deal board were our marriage bed this day ! Oh, fair maid, remember the green hill-side, Remember how I hunted about the valleys wide. Time now has worn me; my locks are turned to The year is scarce and I am poor, but send me not, love, away ! Oh, deem not my blood is of base stain, my girl, Oh, think not my birth was as the birth of the churl ; Marry me, and prove me, and say soon you will, That noble blood is written on my right side still ! My purse holds no red gold, no coin of the silver white, "No herds are mine to drive through the long twilight, But the pretty girl that would take me, all bare though I be and lone, Oh, Pd take her with me kindly to the county Tyrone. Oh, my girl, I can see 'tis in trouble you are, And, oh, my girl, I see 'tis your people's reproach you bear. I am a girl in trouble for his sake with whom I fly, And. oh. may no other maiden know such reproach as I. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 165 THE LADY OF ALBANY'S LAMENT FOR KING CHARLES. A JACOBITK RKLIC, TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH. BY EDWARD WALSH. I'LL not reveal my true-love's name ; Betimes 'twill swell the voice of fame But, O ! may heaven, my grief to quell, Restore the hero safe and well ! My hero brave, ma ghile, irifhear* My kindred love, ma ghile, m'fhear ; What wringing woes my bosom knows, Since crossed the seas ma ghile, m'fhear. His glancing eyes I may compare To diamond dews on rosebuds rare And love and valour brighten o'er The features of my bosom's store ; My hero brave, &c. No .cuckoo's note by fell or flood, No hunter's cry through hazel wood, Nor mist-wrapt valley yields me joy, Since crossed the seas my royal boy. My hero brave, &c. Oppressed with grief, I hourly cry, With bursting heart and tearful eye Since we did thee, fair youth, resign For distant shores, what woes are mine? My hero brave, &c. '"" ttlApLe in'peA^, my "brightness (of my heart) is my husband. The English reader will pronounce the Irish here as if written mayiltt mar. 168 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. The sun liis golden glory shrouds In mantle sad of sable clouds ; The threatening sky of grief portends, Since through far realms our lion wends ! My hero brave, &c. That haughty, noble, youthful knight, Of feature bland of spirit light Strong-handed, swift, in wars' wild throng, To chase to death the brave and strong ! My hero brave, &c. His wreathed hair, in graceful flow Of ringlet rare, falls full below His manly waist, in yellow fold, Like silken threads of curling gold ! My hero brave, &c. Like Aongus Oge he bears command, Or Louis of the trenchant brand, Or Daire's son, the great Conroy Brave Irish chiefs, my royal boy ! My hero brave, &c. Or Conall, who strong ramparts won, Or Fergus, regal Rogia's son ; Or Conor, Iliad's glorious king, Whom harp-strings praise and poets sing My hero brave, &e. Wake, wake, the wild harp's wildest sound, Send sparkling^ flagons flowing round- Fill high the wine-cup's tide of joy This health to tliee, my royal boy ! My hero brave, ma cjliile, mfhear, My kindred love, ma ghile, m'fkear; What wringing woes my bosom knows, Since crossed the seas, ma ghile, m'fhear. BALLAD POETRY OP IRELAND. 167 THE CLAN OF MACCAUEA.* BY D. F. MAC-CARTHY. OH ! bright arc the names of the chieftains and sages, "That shine like the stars through the darkness of ages, Whose deeds are inscribed on the pages of story, There for ever to live in the sunshine of glory Heroes of history, phantoms of fable, Charlemagne's champions, and Arthur's Eound Table, Oh ! but they all a new lustre could borrow From the glory that hangs round the name of Mac- Caura. Thy waves, Manzanares, wash many a shrine, And proud are the castles that frown o'er the Ehine, And stately the mansions whose pinnacles glance Through the elms of old England and vineyards of France ; Many have fallen, and many will fail Good men and brave men have dwelt in them all But as good and as brave men, in gladness and sorrow, Have dwelt in the halls of the princely MacCaura ! Montmorency, Medina, unheard was thy rank By the dark-eyed Iberian and light-hearted Frank, And your ancestors wandered, obscure and unknown, By the smooth Gauclalquiver and sunny Garonne Ere Venice had wedded the sea, or enrolled The name of a Doge in her proud " Book of Gold;"t * MacCarthy MacCartha (the correct way of spelling the name in Roman characters) is pronounced in Irish MacCaura, the th or dotted t having, in that language, the soft sound of h. t Montmorency and Medina are respectively at the head of the French, and Spanish nobility. The first Doge elected in Venice in 709. Voltaire considered the families whose names were inscribed in the The Book of Gold at the founding of the city as entitled to the nrst place in Euro- pean nobility. JJurke's Commoners. 168 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. When her glory was all to come on like the morrow, There were chieftains and kings of the clan of Mac- Caura. Proud should thy heart beat, descendant of Heber,* Lofty thy head as the shrines of the Guebre, Like them are the halls of thy forefathers shattered, Like theirs is the wealth of thy palaces scattered. Their fire is extinguished your flag long unfurled But how proud were ye both in the dawn of the world ! And should both fade away, oh ! what heart would not sorrow O'er the towers of the Guebre the name of MacCaura ! What a moment of glory to cherish and dream on, When far o'er the sea came the ships of Heremon, With Heber, and Ir. and the Spanish pcatricians, To free Inis-Fail from the spells of magicians. Oh ! reason had these for their quaking and pallor, For what magic can equal the strong sword of valour? Better than spells are the axe and the arrow, When wielded or flung by the hand of MacCaura !f From that hour a MacCaura had reigned in his pride O'er Desmond's green valleys and rivers so wide, From thy waters, Lismore, to the torrents and rills That are leaping for ever down Brandon's brown hills The billows of Bantry, the meadows of Bear, The wilds of Evaugh, and the groves of Glancare From the Shannon's soft shores to the banks of the Barrow All owned the proud sway of the princely MacCaura ! * The MacCarthys trace their origin to Heber Fionn, the eldest son of Milesins, King of Spain, through Ollioll Ollum, King of Minister, in the third century. Shrines of the Guebre, the Round Towers. t Heremon and Ir were also the sons of Milesius. The people who were in possession of the country when the Milesians invaded it were the Tuatha de Danans, so called, says Keating, " from their skill iu necromancy, of whom some were so famous as to be called gods." BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 169 In the house of Miodchuart,* by princes surrounded, How noble his step when the trumpet was sounded, And his clansmen bore proudly his broad shield before him, And hung it on high in that bright palace o'er him ! On the left of the monarch the chieftain was seated, And happy was he whom his proud glances greeted, 'Mid monarchs and chiefs at the great Feis of Tara Oh ! none was to rival the princely MacCaura ! To the halls of the Eed Branch, when conquest was o'er, The champions their rich spoils of victory bore,f And the s\yord of the Briton, the shield of the Dane, Flashed bright as the sun on the walls of Eamhain There Dathy and Niall bore trophies of war, From the peaks of the Alps and the waves of the Loire ;J But no knight ever bore from the hills of Ivaragh The breastplate or axe of a conquered MacCaura ! In chasing the red deer what step was the fleetest, In singing the love-song what voice was the sweetest, What breast was the foremost in courting the danger What door was the widest to shelter the stranger ? In friendship the truest, in battle the bravest In revel the gayest, in council the gravest A hunter to-day and a victor to-morrow Oh ! who but a chief of the princely MacCaura ! * The house of MiodcJiuart was an apartment in the palace of Tara, where the provincial kings met for the dispatch of public business, as the Feis (pronounced as one syllable), or parliament of Tara, which assembled then once in every three years. The ceremony alluded to is described in detail by Keating See Petrie's Tara. t The house of the lied Branch was situated in the stately palace of Eamhain (orEmania), in Ulster; here the spoils taken from the foreign foe were hung up, and the chieftains who won them were called Knights of the Red Branch. J Dathy was killed at the foot of the Alps by lightning, and Niall (his uncle and predecessor) by an arrow fired from the opposite side of the river, by one of his own generals as he sat in his tent on the banks of tho Loire, in France. 170 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. But, oli ! proud MacCaura, what anguish to touch on The one fatal stain of thy princely escutcheon In thy story's bright garden the one spot of bleakness Through ages of valour the one hour of weakness ! Thou, the heir of a thousand chiefs, sceptred and royai Thou, to kneel to the Norman and swear to be loyal ! Oh ! a long night of horror, and outrage, and sorrow, Have we wept for thy treason, base Diarmid Mac- Caura ! Oh ! why, ere yon thus to the foreigner pandered, Did you not call bravely round your Emerald standard, The chiefs of your house of Lough Lene and Clan Awley, O'Donogh, MacPatrick, O'Driscoll, MacAwley, O'Sullivan More, from the towers of Dunkerron, And O'Mahon, the chieftain of green Ardinterranl As the sling sends the stone, or the bent bow the arrow, Every chief would have come at the call of MacCaura. Soon, soon, didst thou pay for that error in woe * Thy life to the Butler thy crown to the foe Thy castles dismantled, and strewn on the sod And the homes of the weak, and the abbeys of God ! No more in thy halls is the wayfarer fed Nor the rich mead sent round, nor the soft heather spread Nor the cldrsech't sweet notes, now in mirth, now in sorrow All, all have gone by, but the name of MacCaura ! * Diarmid MaeCarthy, king of Desmond, and Daniel O'Brien, king of Thomond, were the first of the Irish princes to swear fealty to Henry the Second, BALLAD POETEY OF IRELAND. 171 MacCaura, the pride of thy house is gone by, But its name cannot fade, and its fame cannot die Though the Arigideen, with its silver waves, shine* Around no green forests or castles of thine Though the shrines that you founded no incense doth hallow, Nor hymns float in peace down the echoing Allo One treasure thou keepest one hope for the morrow- True hearts yet beat of the clan of MacCaura ! WILLY GILLILAND. AN ULSTER BALLAD. BY SAMUEL FERGUSON. UP in the mountain solitudes, and in a rebel ring, He has worshipped God upon the hill, in spite of Church and King, And sealed his treason with his blood on Bothwell bridge, he hath : So he must fly his father's land, or he must die the death ; For comely Claverhouse has come along with grim Dalzell, And his smoking rooftree testifies they've done their errand well. In vain to fly his enemies he fled his native land ; Hot persecution waited him upon the Carrick strand ; His name was on the Carrick cross, a price was on his head, A fortune to the man that brings him in alive or dead ! * The Arigideen means the little silver stream, and Allo the echoing river. By these rivers, and many others in the south of Ireland, castles were erected and monasteries founded by the MacCurthys. 172 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND, And so on moor and mountain, from the Lagan to the Bann, From house to house and hill to hill, he larked an outlawed man. At last, when in false company he might no longer bide, He staid his houseless wanderings upon the Collon side ; There in a cave all underground he laired his heathy den Ah, many a gentleman was fain to earth like hill-fox then ! With hound and fishing-rod he lived on hill and stream, by day, At night, betwixt his fleet greyhound and his bonny mare he lay. It was a summer evening, and mellowing and still, Glenwhirry to the setting sun lay bare from hill to hill , For all that valley pastoral held neither house nor tree, But spread abroad and open all, a fall fair sight to see, From Slemmish foot to Collon top lay one unbroken green, Save where, in many a silver coil, the river glanced between. And on the river's grassy bank, even from the morn- ing grey, He at the angler's pleasant sport had spent the summer day: Ah ! many a time and oft I've spent the summer day from dawn, And wondered, when the sunset came, where time and care had gone Along the reaches curling fresh, the wimpling pools and streams, Where he that day his cares forgot in those delightful dreams. BALLAD POETftY OP IRELAND. 173 His blithe work clone, upon a bank the outlaw rested now, And laid the basket from his back, the bonnet from his brow ; And there, his hand upon the Book, his knee upon the sod, He filled the lonely valley with the gladsome word of God; And for a persecuted kirk, and for her martyrs dear, And against a godless Church and king he spoke up loud and clear. And now upon his homeward way, he crossed the Collon high, And over bush, and bank, and brae, he sent abroad his eye ; But all was darkening peacefully in grey and purple haze, The thrush was silent in the banks, the lark upon the braes When suddenly shot up a blaze from the cave's mouth it came, And troopers' steeds and troopers 7 caps are glancing in the same ! He crouched among the heather, and he saw them, as he lay, With three long yells at parting, ride lightly east away ; Then down with heavy heart he came, to sorry cheer came he, For ashes black were crackling where the green whins used to be, And stretched among the prickly coomb, his heart's blood smoking round, From slender nose to breast-bone cleft, lay dead his good greyhound ! 174 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. " They've slain my clog, the Philistines ! they've ta'en my bonny mare \ }} He plunged 'into the smoky hole no bonny beast was there ; He groped beneath his burning bed (it burned him to the bone), Where his good weapon used to be, but broadsword there was none ; He reeled out of the stifling den, and sat down on a stone, And in the shadows of the night 'twas thus he made his moan "I am a houseless outcast ; I have neither bed nor board, Nor living thing to look upon, nor comfort save the Lord. Yet many a time were better men in worse extremity ; Who succoured them in their distress, He now will succour me ; He now will succour me, I know : and, by His holy name, I'll make the doers of this deed right dearly rue the same ! " My bonny mare ! I've ridden you when Claver'se rode behind, And from the thumbscrew and the boot you bore me like the wind ; And while I have the life you saved, on your sleek flank, I swear Episcopalian rowel shall never ruffle hair ! Though sword to wield they've left me none yet Wallace wight, I wis, Good battle did on Irvine's side wi' waur weapon than this." His fishing-rod with both his hands he griped it as he spoke, And, where the butt and top were spliced, in pieces twain he broke ; BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 175 The limber top he cast away, with all its gear, abroad, But, grasping the tough hickory butt, with spike of iron shod, He ground the sharp spear to a point ; then pulled his bonnet down, And, meditating black revenge, set forth for Carrick town. The sun shines bright on Carrick wall, and Carrick Castle grey, And up thine aisle, Saint Nicholas, has ta'en his morning way ; And to the North-gate sentinel displayeth far and near Sea, hill, and tower, and all thereon, in dewy freshness clear, Save where, behind a ruined wall, himself alone to view, Is peering from the ivy-green a bonnet of the blue. The sun shines red on Carrick wall, and Carrick Castle old, And all the western buttresses have changed their grey for gold ; And from thy shrine, Saint Nicholas ! the pilgrim of the sky; Hath gone in rich farewell, as fits such royal votary ; But, as his last red glance he takes down past black Slieve-a-true He leaveth where he found it first, the bonnet of the blue. Again he makes the turrets grey stand out before the hill, Constant as their foundation rock, there is the bonnet still ! 176 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND, And now the gates are opened, and forth in gallant show Prick jeering grooms and burghers blythe, and troopers in a row ; But one has little care for jest, so hard bested is he To ride the outlaw's bonny mare, for this at last is she! Down comes her master with a roar, her rider with a _ groan, The iron and the hickory are through and through him gone ! He lies a corpse ; and where he sat, the outlaw sits again, And once more to his bonny mare he gives the spur and rein ; Then some with sword, and some with gun, they ride and run amain ; But sword and gun, and whip and spur, that day they plied in vain ! Ah ! little thought Willy Gilliland, when he on Skerry side Drew bridle first, and wiped his brow after that weary ride, That where he lay, like hunted brute, a cavern'd outlaw lone, Broad lands and yeoman tenantry should yet be there his own ; Yet so it was ; and still from him descendants not a few Draw birth and lands, and, let me trust, draw love of Freedom too BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 177 THE DESMOND. BY THOMAS MOORE. [Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had accidentally been so engaged in the chase, that he was benighted near Tralee, and obliged to take shelter at the Abbey of Feal, in the house of one of his dependants, called MacCormac. Catherine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly inspired the Earl with a violent passion, which he could not subdue. He married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his followers, whose pride regarded this indulgence of his love as an unpardonable degradation of his family. Leland, vol. ii.] BY the Feal's wave benighted, ISTo star in the skies, To thy door by love lighted, I first saw those eyes. Some voice whispered o'er me, As the threshold I crost, There was ruin before me If I lov'd I was lost. Love came, and brought sorrow Too soon in his train ; Yet so sweet, that to-morrow 'Twere welcome again. Though misery's full measure My portion should be, I would drain it with pleasure, If pour'd out by thee. You, who call it dishonour To bow to this flame, If you've eyes, look but on her, And blush while you blame. Hath the pearl less whiteness Because of its birth 1 Hath the violet less brightness For growing near earth ? M 173 BALLAD POETRV OF IRELAND. 'No man for his glory To ancestry flies ; But woman's bright story Is told in her eyes. While the monarch thus traces Through mortals his lino, Beauty, born of the Graces, Ranks next to divine ! O'BRIEN OF ARA. BY THOMAS DAVIS. AIR "The Piper of Blessington." [Ara is a small mountain track, south of Lough Deargairt, and north of the Camailte (vulgo the Keeper) hills. It was the seat of a branch of the Thomond princes, called the O'Briens of Ara, who hold an important place in the Minister Annals.] TALL are the towers of O'Kennedy <; Broad are the lands of MacCarha Desmond feeds five hundred men a-day ; Yet, here's to O'Brien of Ara ! Up from the Castle of Drumineer, Down from the top of Camailte, Clansman and kinsman are coming here To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE. See you the mountains look huge at eve So is our chieftain in battle Welcome he has for the fugitive, Usquebaugh, fighting, and cattle ! Up from the Castle of Drumineer, Down from the top of Camailte, Gossip and ally are coming here To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 170 Horses the valleys are tramping on, Sleek from the Sasanach manger Creaghts the hills are encamping on, Empty the bawns of the stranger ! Up from the castle of Druinineer, Down from the top of Camailte, Kern and bpnaght are coming here To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE. He has black silver from Killaloe Ryan and Carroll are neighbours Nenagh submits with a pillileu Butler is meat for our sabres ! Up from the Castle of Drumineer, Down from the top of Camailte, Ryan and Carroll are coming here To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE. 'Tis scarce a week since through Ossory Chased he the Baron of Durrow Forced him five rivers to cross, or he Had died by the sword of Red Murrough ! Ujp from the Castle of Drumineer, Down from the top of Camailte, All the O'Briens are coming here To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE. Tall are the towers of O'Kennedy Broad are the lands of MacCarha Desmond feeds five hundred men a-day ; Yet, here's to O'Brien of Ara ! Up from the Castle of Drumineer, Down from the top of Camailte, Clansman and kinsman are coming I; ere To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE. 180 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. THE IRISH MOTHER IN THE PENAL DAYS. BY JOHN BANIM. 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 the hopes to do, A future man of his OAVH 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 ; 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, freedom'd a slave to be, Whose mother still must weep o'er him the tears I weep o'er thee ! BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 181 THE MINSTREL'S WALK. BY REV. JAMES WILLS. Author of "Lives of Illustrious Irishmen." (To the old Irish air of " Bidh mid a gol sa poga namban. r ) GREEN hills of the West, where I carolled along, In the May-day of life, with my harp and my song, Though the winter of time o'er my spirit hath roll'd, And the steps of the minstrel are weary and old ; Though no more by those famous old haunts shall I stray Once the themes of my song, and the guides of my way, That each had its story, and true-hearted friend Before I forget ye, life's journey shall end. Oh ! 'twas joy in the prime of life's morning to go On the path where Clan Connell once followed Hugh Roe, O'er the hill of Ceiscorran, renowned Ballymote, By the Boyle, or by Newport, all passes of note, Where the foe their vain armaments haughtily kept ; But the foot of th' avenger went by while they slept The hills told no tale but the night-cloud was red, And the friends of the Sasanach quaked at their tread. By the plains of Rath Croghan, fields famous of yore. Though stronghold and seat of the kingly no more ; By Tulsk and Tomona, hill, valley, and plain, To grey Ballintubber, O'Connor's domain ; Then ages rolled backward in lengthened array, In song and old story, the long summer day ; And cloud-like, the glories of Connaught rolled by, Till they sank in the horrors of grim Athenry ! 182 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. Through the heaths of Kiltullagh, kind, simple, though rude, To Aeluin's bright waters, where Willsborough stood, Ballinlough then spoke welcome from many a door, Yfhere smiles lit kind faces that now smile no more : Then away to the Moyne, o'er the Moors of Mayo, Still onward, still welcomed by high and by low Blake, Burke, and O'Malley, Lynch, Kirwan and Browne ; By forest, lake, mountain, through village and town. And kind were the voices that greeted my way 'Twas cead mile faille at closing of day, When young hearts beat lightly, and labour was done, For joy tracked my steps as light follows the sun ; Then tales pleased the hamlet, and nev/s cheered the hall, And the tune of old times was still welcome to all ; The praise of thy glory, dear Land of the West But thy praises are still, and thy kind bosoms rest. My blessing rest with you, dear friends, though no more Shall the poor and the weary rejoice at your door ; Though like stars to your homes I have seen you depart, Still ye live, O ye live in each vein of my heart ! Still the light of your looks on my darkness is thrown ; Still your voices breathe round me when weary and lone ; Like shades ye come back with each feeling old strain But the world shall ne'er look on your equals again. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 183 GOUGAUNE BABRA. BY J. J. CALLANAN. [The Lake of Gougaune Barra, i. e., the hollow or recess of St. Finn Bar, in the ragged territory of Ibh-Laoghaire (the O'Leary's country), in the west end of the county of Cork, is the parent of the river Lee. Its waters embrace a small but verdant island, of about half an acre in extent, which approaches its eastern shore. The lake, as its name implies, is situate in a deep hollow, surrounded on every side (save the east, where its superabundant waters are discharged) by vast and almost perpen- dicular mountains, whose dark inverted shadows are gloomily reflected in its still waters beneath. The names of those mountains are Derr.en (the little oak wood), where not a tree now remains; Maolagh^ which signifies a country, a region, a map perhaps so called from the wide prospect which it affords; Nad an' uillar, the Eagle's Nest; and Faille na Gougane, i. e., the cliffs of Gougaune, with its steep and frowning precipices, the home of an hundred echoes.] THERE is a green island in lone Gougaune Barra, Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow ; In deep-valley^d Desmond a thousand wild foun- tains Come down to that lake, from their home in the mountains. There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow 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 rush 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 Mullagh the eagles are screaming. Oh ! where is the dwelling in valley or highland, So meet for a bard as this lone little island *? 184 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara, And lit the dark heath on the hills of 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 of thy bards, when assembling together, In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy heather ; They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter, And waked their last song by the rush of thy water. High sons of the lyre, oh! how proud was the feeling, To think while alone through that solitude stealing, Though loftier Minstrels green Erin can number, I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber, And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains The songs even echo forgot on her mountains; And glean'd each grey legend, that darkly was sleeping Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty were creeping. Least bard of the hills ! were it mine to inherit The fire of thy harp, and the wing of thy spirit, With the wrongs which like thee to our country have bound me, Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around me, Still, still in those wilds might young liberty rally, And send her strong shout over mountain and valley, The star of the west might yet rise in its glory, And the land that was darkest be brightest in story. I too shall begone; but my name shall be spoken When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken; Some Minstrel will come, in the summer eye's gleaming, When Freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming, And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion, Where calm Avon-Buee seeks the kisses of ocean, Or plant a wild wreath, from the banks of that river, O'er the heart and the harp that are sleeping for ever. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 185 THE BATTLE OF CALLAN.* A.D. 1201. BY EDWARD WALSH. FITZ-THOMAS went forth to the slaughter all burning, And the dame by Tra-leigh waits the robber's returning, With the deep-lowing creach,^ with the rich plunder laden The altar's best gold, the rare pearls of the maiden ! Winding down by the Ruachta his lances were t gleaming; Floating, wild as a meteor, his banners were streaming ; He rode with the spoils of all Desmond around him, But the wrath of the Gael, in its red vengeance, found him ! More swift than the eagle from Skellig's high eyrie, Than whirlwinds of Corrin in nestings of Faery Dark as storm o'er Dun-Mor to the ocean-tir'd toiler, Burst MacCarthie's fierce wrath on the path of the spoiler ! O'Sullivan Mor, of the mountain and valley, O'Connor, the chief of the tall-masted galley, O'Driscoll, the scourge of the Sasanach sailor, Left Cogan's proud daughter a desolate wailer. * During the administration of William Den, Lord Justice of Ireland, the MacCarties entered Desmond, arid by means of an ambuscade sur- prised and slew John Fitz-Thomas, ancestor to the Fitz-Geralds, and his son, Maurice, at Glanorought, in this county (Kerry), which defeat so reduced the Fitz-Geralds, that none of that name durst put a plough into ground for twelve years, until dissensions arising among the Irish chiefs, the Fitz-Geralds recovered their former authority. Smith's History of the County of Kerry, p. 235. t Creach Spoils of cattle. 188 BALLAD POETEY OF IRELAND. For him that hath none from the gaunt wolf to save him, To staunch the wide wound that the fierce clansman gave him, To weep the lost chief, with his battle-shield riven, Cloven down by the war axe, unliouseH'cl, un- shriven ! With the blood of the Bievers, that rode to the foray, From Maing to Moyalla the kirtles are gory The saftron-dy'd shirts, by the Cashin and Carrow, Claim thy care at the fountain, fair maiden, to- morrow ! Chant the deeds of the warriors in chivalry vieing The doom of the Bievers, all prostrate or flying The false Saxon's fear as rejoicing thou lavest The blood-gouts that burst from the breasts of Ins bravest ! LALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 187 THE SORROWFUL LAMENTATION OF CAL- LAGHAN, GREALLY, AND MULLEN, KILLED AT THE FAIR OF TURLOUGHMORE. A STREET B.VLL.VD. [This 5s a genuine ballad of the people, written and sung among them. The reader will see at once how little resemblance it bears to the pseudo Irish songs of the stage, or even to the street ballads manufactured by the ballad singers. It is very touching, and not without a certain unpre- meditated grace. The vagueness, which leaves entirely untold the story it undertook to recount, is a common characteristic of the Anglo-Irish songs of the people. The circumstance on which it is founded took place in 1843, at the fair of Darrynacloughery, held at Turloughmore. A faction-fight having occurred at the fair, the arrest of some of the parties led fo an attack on the police - after the attack had abated or ceased, the police fired on the people, wounded several, and killed the three men v hose names stand at the head of the ballad. They Avere indicted for murder, and pleaded the order of Mr. Brew, the stipendary magistrate, which was admitted as a justification. Brew died before the day appointed for his trial.] " COME tell me, dearest mother, what makes my father stay, Or what can be the reason that he's so long away V " Oh ! hold your tongue, my darling son, your tears do grieve me sore, I fear he has been murdered in the fair of Torlough- more." Come, all you tender Christians, I hope you will draw near. It's of this dreadful murder I mean to let you hear, Concerning those poor people whose loss we do deplore (The Lord have mercy on their souls) that died at Turloughmore. 188 BAL T AD POETRY OF IRELAND. It is on the First of August, the truth I will declare, Those people they assembled that day all at the fair ; But little was their notion what evil was in store, All by the bloody Peelers at the fair of Turloughmore. Were you to see that dreadful sight it would grieve your heart I know, To see the comely women and the men all lying low ; God help their tender parents, they will never SJG them more, For cruel was their murder at the fair of Turlough- more. It's for that base blood-thirsty crew, remark the word I say, The Lord he will reward them against the judgment- day, The blood they have taken innocent for it they'll suffer sore, And the treatment that they gave to us that day at Turloughmore. The morning of their trial as they stood up in the dock, The words they spoke were feeling, the people round them flock, " I tell you, Judge and Jury, the truth I will declare, It was Brew that ordered us to fire that evening at the fair." Now to conclude and finish this sad and doleful fray, I hope their souls are happy against the judgment-day; It was little time they got, we know, when they fell like new-mowed hay, May the Lord have mercy on their souls against the judgment-day. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 189 THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE.* AN II'ISH LEGEND. BY GERALD GRIFFIN. THE joy-bells are ringing In gay Malahide, The fresh wind is singing Along the sea-side ; The maids are assembling With garlands of flowers, And the harpstrings are trembling In all the glad bowers. Swell, swell the gay measure ! Roll trumpet and drum ! 'Mid greetings of pleasure In splendour they come ! The chancel is ready, The portal stands wide For the lord and the lady. The bridegroom and bride. What years, ere the latter Of earthly delight, The future shall scatter O'er them in its flight ! What blissful caresses Shall fortune bestow, Ere those dark-flowing tresses Fall white as the snow ! Before the high altar Young Maud stands array'd, With accents that falter Her promise is made * See Note B iu the Appendix. 190 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. From father and mother For ever to part, For him and no other To treasure her heart. The words are repeated, The bridal is done, The rite is completed The two, they are one ; The vow, it is spoken All pure from the heart, That must not be broken ' Till life shall depart. Hark ! 'mid the gay clangour That compass'd their car. Loud accents in anger Come mingling afar ! The foe's on the border, His weapons resound Where the lines in disorder Unguarded are found. As wakes the good shepherd The watchful and bold, When the ounce or the leopard Is seen in the fold, So rises already The chief in his mail, While the new-married lady Looks fainting and pale. " Son, husband, and brother, Arise to the strife, For the sister and mother, For children and wife ! O'er hill and o'er hollow, O'er mountain and plain, Up, true men, and follow ! Let dastards remain !" BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 191 Farrali ! to the battle ! They form into line The shields, how they rattle ! The spears, how they shine ! Soon, soon, shall the foeman His treachery rue On, burgher and yeoman, To die or to do ! The eve is declining In lone Malahide, The maidens are twining Gay wreaths for the bride ! She marks them unheeding Her heart is afar, Where the clansmen are bleeding For her in the war. Hark ! loud from the mountain Tis Victory's cry ! O'er woodland and fountain It rings to the sky ! The foe has retreated ! He flies to the shore ; The spoiler's defeated The combat is o'er ! With foreheads unruffled The conquerors come But why have they muffled The lance and the drum] What form do they carry Aloft on his shield] And where does he tarry, The lord of the field] Ye saw him at morning How gallant and gay ! In bridal adorning, The star of the clay : 192 BALLAD POETEY OF IRELAND. Now weep for the lover His triumph is sped, His hope it is over ! The chieftain is dead ! But Oh, for the maiden Who mourns for that chief, With heart overladen And rending with grief ! She sinks on the meadow In one morning-tide, A wife and a widow, A maid and a bride ! Ye maidens attending, Forbear to condole ! Your comfort is rending The depths of her soul. True true, 'twas a story For ages of pride ; He died in his glory But, oh, he has died ! The war-cloak she raises All mournfully now, And steadfastly gazes Upon the cold brow. That glance may for ever Unalter'd remain, But the bridegroom will never Return it again. The dead-bells are tolling In sad Malahi.de, The death- wail is rolling Along the sea-side ; The crowds, heavy-hearted, Withdraw from the green, For the sun has departed That bright en' d the scene 1 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 193 Even yet in that valley, Though years have roll'd by, When through the wild sally The sea-breezes sigh, The peasant, with sorrow, Beholds in the shade The tomb where the morrow Saw Hussey corivey'd. How scant was the warning, How briefly reveal'd, Before on that morning Death's chalice was lill'd ! The hero who drunk it There moulders in gloom, And the form of Maud Piunket Weeps over his tomb. The stranger who wanders Along the lone vale Still sighs while he ponders On that heavy tale :] " Thus passes each pleasure That earth can supply Thus joy has its measure We live but to die ! ;> 194 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. THE FAIR HILLS OF IRELAND. TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH. BY SAMUEL FERGUSON. A PLENTEOUS place is Ireland for hospitable cheer, Uileacan dubh O ! Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear ; Uileacan dubh O ! There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand, And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned ; There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i' the yellow sand, On the fair hills of holy Ireland. Curled he is .and ringleted, and plaited to the knee, Uileacan dubh O ! Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish sea; Uileacan dubh ! Audi will make my journey, if life and health but stand, Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand, And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command, For the fair hills of holy Ireland. Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground ; Uileacan dudh O ! The butter and the cream do wondrously abound, Uileacan dubh ! BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 195 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 FLOWER OF FINAE. A BRIGADE BALLAD. BY THOMAS DAVIS. BRIGHT red is the sun on the waves of ^Lough Sheelin, A cool gentle breeze from the mountain is stealing, While fair round its islets the small ripples play, But fairer than all is the Flower of Finae. Her hair is like night, and her eyes like grey morning, She trips on the heather as if its touch scorning, Yet her heart and her lips are as mild as May day, Sweet Eily MacMahon, the Flower of Finae. But who down the hill-side than red deer runs fleeter ? And who on the lake side is hastening to greet her ? Who but Fergus O'Farrell, the fiery and gay, The darling and pride of the Flower of Finae. One kiss and one clasp, and one wild look of gladness ; Ah ! why do they change on a sudden to sadness He has told his hard fortime, nor more he can stay, He must leave his poor Eily to pine at Finae. For Fergus O'Farrell was true to his sire-land, And the dark hand of tyranny drove him from Ireland; He joins the Brigade, in the wars far away, But he vows he'll come back to the Flower of Fime, 196 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. He fought at Cremona she hears of his story : He fought at Qassano she's proud of his glory, Yet sadly she sings " Shule Aroon" all the day, " Oh, come, come, my darling, come home to linae." Eight long years have pass'd, till she's nigh broken- hearted, Her " reel/ 7 and her " rock/ 7 and her " flax/' she has parted ; >She sails with the " Wild Geese 7 ' to Flanders away, And leaves her sad parents alone in Finae. Lord Clare on the field of Kamilies is charging Before him the Sasanach squadrons enlarging Behind him the Cravats their sections display- Behind him rides Fergus and shouts for Finoe. On the slopes of La Judoigne the Frenchmen are fiying, Lord Clare and his squadrons the foe still defying, Outnumbered, and wounded, retreat in array ; And bleeding rides Fergus and thinks of Finre. In the cloisters of Ypres a banner is swaying, And by it a pale weeping maiden is praying ; That flag's the sole trophy of Eamilies 7 fray, This nun is poor Eily, the Flower of Finse. BALIAD TOETPvY OP ICELAND, 107 WHEN THIS OLD CAP WAS NEW. BY SAMUEL FERGUSOF. SINCE this old cap was new, Now fifty-two long years (It was new at the review Of the Dublin Volunteers) ; There have been brought to pass With us a change or two, They're altered times, alas ! Since this old cap was nevv. Our Parliament did sit Then in our native land, What good came of the loss of it I cannot understand; All though full plain I see, That changes not a few Have fallen on the country Since this old cap was new. They are very worthy fellows (And much Fd be distressed To think them else) who tell us That all is for the best; Though full as ill inclined, Now the bargain's closed, to rue, Yet I can't but call the times to mind, When this old cap was new. What rights we wanted then Were asked for above board, By a hundred thousand gentlemen, And rendered at the word; ; Twas thus in fair daylight, With all the world to view, We claimed, and gained our right When this old cap was new ! 198 BALLAD POETEY OF IRELAND. But patriots now-a-days, And state reformers, when A starving people's cry they raise, Turn out like trenchermen. Ah ! we'd have done the work, If it had been to do, With other tool than spoon or fork, When this old cap was new, The nobles of the country Were then our neighbours near, And ? mong us squires and gentry Made always jolly cheer ! Ah ! every night at some one's Or other's was a crew Of merry lords and commons When this old cap was new. They're altered times entirely, As plainly now appears ; Our landlord's face we barely see Past once in seven years. And now the man meets scorn As his coat is green or blue ; We had no need our coats to turn, When this old cap was new. Good counsel to propose I have but little skill ; Yet ere a vain lament I close In humble trust, I will Beseech for all His aid, Who knows what all should do ; And pray as I have often prayed, When this old cap was new. BALLAD POET11Y OF IRELAND. 199 EMMELINE TALBOT. A BALLAD OF THE PALE. BY THOMAS DAVIS. [The Scene is on the borders of Dublin and Wicklow.] 'TWAS a September day In Glenismole, Emmeline Talbot lay On a green knoll. She was a lovely thing, Fleet as a falcon's wing Only fifteen that spring 8 oft was her soul. Danger and dreamless sleep Much did she scorn, And from her father's keep Stole out that morn ; Towards Glenismole she hies, Sweetly the valley lies, Winning the enterprise, No one to warn. Till by the noon, at length, High in the vale, Emmeline found her strength Suddenly fail. Panting, yet pleasantly, By Dodder-side lay she Thrushes sang merrily, "Hail, sister, hail 1" Hazel and copse of oak Made a sweet lawn, Out from the thicket broke Habbit and fawn. 230 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. Green were the eskers round Sweet as the river's sound, Eastwards flat Cruagh frowned, South lay Slieve Ban. Looking round Barnakeel, Like a tall Moor Full of impassioned zeal Peeped brown Kippure, Dublin in feudal pride, And many a hold beside, Over Fingal preside Sentinels sure ! Is that a roebuck's eye Glares from the green ? Is that a thrush's cry Kings in the screen 1 Mountaineers round her sprung, Savage their speech and tongue, Fierce was their chief, and young- Poor Emmeline ! " Hurrah, 'tis Talbot's child," Shouted the kern, " Off to the mountains wild Farrali O'Byrne !" Like a bird in a net, Strove the sweet maiden yet, Praying and shrieking, " Let, Let me return." After a moment's doubt, Forward he sprung, With his sword flashing out Wrath on his tongue. " Touch not a hair of her's Dies he who finger stirs," Back fell his foragers To him she clung. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 231 Soothing the maiden's fears Kneeling was he, When burst old Talbot's spears Out on the lea. March-men, all staunch and stout, Shouting their Belgard shout " Down with the Irish rout, Prets d'accomplir"* Taken thus unawares, Some fled amain Fighting like forest bears, Others were slain. To the chief clung the maid How could he use his blade 1 That night upon him weighed Fetter and chain. Oh ! but that night was long, Lying forlorn, Since, 'mid the wassail song, These words were borne " Nathless your tears and cries, Sure as the sun shall rise, Connor O'Byrne dies, Talbot hath sworn," Brightly on Talaght hill Flashes the sun ; Strained at his window-sill, How his eyes run From lonely Saggart Slade Down to Tibraden glade, Landmarks of border raid, Many a one. * The inotto and cry of the Talbots. 202 BALLAD POETRY 01? IftELAND. Too well the captive knows Belgard's main wall Will, to his naked blows, Shiver and fall, Ere in his mountain hold He shall again behold Those whose proud hearts are cold, Weeping his thrall. " Oh ! for a mountain side, Bucklers and brands, Freely I could have died, Heading my bands, But on a felon tree " Bearing a fetter key, By him all silently Emmeline stands. Late rose the Castellan He had drunk deep, Warder and serving-man Still were asleep, Wide is the castle-gate, Open the captive's grate, Fetters disconsolate Flung in a heap. 'Tis an October day, Close by Loch Dan Many a creaght lay, Many a man. ; Mongst them, in gallant mien, Connor O'Byrne's seen Wedded to Emmeline, Girt by his clan ! BALLAD POETHY OF IRELAND. 203 A- MUNSTER KEEN.* BY EDWARD WALSH. ON Monday morning, the flowers were gaily spring* ing, The skylark's hymn in middle air was singing, When, grief of griefs, my wedded husband left me. And since that hour of hope and health bereft me. Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c., &c.f Above the board, where thou art low reclining. Have parish priests and horsemen high been dining, And wine and usquebaugh, while they were able, They quaffed with thee the soul of all the table. Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c., &c. Why didst thou die 1 Could wedded wife adore thee With purer love than that my bosom bore thee ? Thy children's cheeks were peaches ripe and mellow, And threads of gold their tresses long and yellow. Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c., &c. In vain for me are pregnant heifers lowing ; In vain for me are yellow harvests growing ; Or thy nine gifts of love in beauty blooming Tear's blind my eyes, and grief my heart's consuming ! Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c., &c. Pity her plaints whose wailing voice is broken, Whose finger holds our early wedding token, The torrents of whose tears have drain'd their foun- tain, Whose piled-up grief on grief is past recounting. Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c., &c. * Properly Caione. t The keener alone sings the extempore death-song; the burden of the ullagone, or chorus, is taken up by all the females present. 204 BALLAD POETEY OF IRELAND, I still might hope, did I not thus behold thee, That high Knockferin's airy peak might hold thee, Or Crohan's fairy halls, or Corrin's towers, Or Lene's bright caves, or Clean a's magic bowers.* Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c., &c. But Oh ! my black despair ! when thou wert dying O'er thee no tear was wept, no heart was sighing No breath of prayer did waft thy soul to glory ; But lonely thou didst lie, and maim'd and gory ! Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c., &c. Oh ! may your dove-like soul on whitest pinions Pursue her upward flight to God's dominions, Where saints' and martyrs' hands shall gifts provide thee And Oh ! my grief that I am not beside thee ! Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c., &c. IRISH MOLLY. A STREET BALLAD. On ! who is that poor foreigner that lately came to town, And like a ghost that cannot rest still wanders up and down'? A poor, unhappy Scottish youth ; if more you wish to know, His heart is breaking all for love of Irish Molly O ! She's modest, mild, and beautiful, the fairest I have known The primrose of Ireland all blooming here alone The primrose of Ireland, for wheresoever I go, The only one entices me is Irish Molly ! * Places celebrated in fairy topography. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 205 When Molly's father heard of it, a solemn oath he swore, That if she'd wed a foreigner he'd never see her more. He sent for young MacDonald and he plainly told him so " 111 never give to such as you my Irish Molly !" She's modest, &c. MacDonald heard the heavy news and grievously did say " Farewell, my lovely Molly, since I'm banished far away, A poor forlorn pilgrim I must wander to and fro, And all for the sake of my Irish Molly O ! She's modest, &c. " There is a rose in Ireland, I thought it would be mine ; But now that she is lost to me, I must for ever pine, Till death shall come to comfort me, for to the grave I'll go, And all for the sake of my Irish Molly ! She's modest, &c. " And now that I am dying, this one request I crave, To place a marble tombstone above my humble grave ! And on the stone these simple words I'd have engraven so MacDonald lost his life for love of Irish Molly !' ; She's modest, &c. 200 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. THE BRIGADE AT FONTENOY. BY BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. MAY 11, 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 oar places, Few and stern were our words, "While some were tightening horse-girths, And some were girding swords. The trumpet-blast has sounded Our footmen to array The willing steed has bounded, Impatient for the fray The green flag is unfolded, While rose the cry of joy " Heaven speed dear Ireland's banner To-day at Fontenoy ! " We looked upon that banner, And the memory arose Of our homes and perished kindred Where the Lee or Shannon flows ; We looked upon that banner, And we swore to God on high To smite to-day the Saxon's might To conquer or to die. Loud swells the charging trumpet ; Tis a voice from our own land God of battles ! God of vengeance ! Guide to-day the patriot's brand ! BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND, 207 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 rang along the battle-field Triumphant our hurrah, And we smote them down, still cheering, < Erin, slanthagai go bragh r ' 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. * ej\irm (-00) flounce 5eol 50 bj\At. Erin, your bright health for ever. 208 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 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. THE FOBGING OF THE ANCHOR BY SAMUEL FERGUSON. 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 through 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 0, Vulcan, what a glow ! BALLAD POETEY OF IEELAND. 209 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting briglit-the high sun The high^un^not, on the earth, such fiery fearful The roSribi swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy Of smiths'thTrtand, an ardent band, like men before As, quivering' thro' his fleece of flame, the sailing Sinks rthelnvil-all about the faces ** ff "Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out leap out, bang, HurrahTthe^etted^Tghtnings are hissing high and Ahailin^lount of fire is struck at every squashing The lithem mail rebounds the hail, the rattling The grZnfaS: at every bound the sweltering fountains flow, . , And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant," Ho V Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out, and lay on Let's forge a goodly anchor a bower thick and For a he r a?t of oak is hanging on every blow I bode And I see the good ship riding, all in a pei The loTfeTf roaring on her lee-the roll of ocean From stem d to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by The bulwarks r down,the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains ! But courage still, brave mariners-the remains, o 210 BALLAD POETEY OF IRELAND. And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky high ; Them 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 you sling your sledges, sing and let your burthen 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 his bed of fiery rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay ; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry crafts- men here, For the yeo-heave-o', and the heave-away, and the sighing seaman's cheer; When, weighing slow, at eve they go far, far from love and home; And sobbing, sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. 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 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 211 To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the whales, And feel the churn'd sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails ! Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea unicorn, And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn ; To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade for- lorn; 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 shallow'd 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-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undin6's love, To find the long-hair'd mermaidens ; or, hard by icy lands, To wrestle with the Sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. 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 clay 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. 212 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. O lodger in the sea-kings' halls, couldst thou but understand 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 honour 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 Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honour him for their memory, whose bones he goes among ! BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 213 THE GERALDINE'S DAUGHTER. SPEAK low ! speak low the be^n pje is crying ; Hark! hark to the echo! she's dying! "she's dying.'' What shadow flits dark'ning the face of the water 1 'Tis the swan of the lake Tis tfie Geraldine's Daughter. Hush, hush ! have you heard what the be^n p je said ] Oh ! list to the echo ! she's dead ! " she's dead !" No shadow now dims the face of the water; Gone, gone is the wraith of the Geraldines Daughter. The step of yon train is heavy and slow, There's wringing of hands, there's breathing of woe ; What melody rolls over mountain and water ] ; Tis the funeral chant for the Geraldine's Daughter. The requiem sounds like the plaintive moan Which the wind makes over the sepulchre's stone ; " Oh, why did she die 1 our heart's blood had bought her ! Oh, why did she die, the Geraldines Daughter?" The thistle-beard floats the wild roses wave With the blast that sweeps over the newly-made grave; The stars dimly twinkle, and hoarse falls the water, While night-birds are wailing the Geraldine's Daughter. * Commonly written the Banshee. 214 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. THE LOST WIFE. BY JOHN FISHER MURRAY, Author of " The World of London," etc. LONE, by my solitary hearth, Whence peace hath fled, And home-like joys, and innocent mirth Are banished ; Silent and sad, I linger to recall The memory of all In thee, dear partner of my cares, I lost, Cares, shared with thee, more sweet than joys the world can boast. My home why did I say my home ] Now have I none, Unless thou from the grave again coulds't come, Beloved one ! My home was in thy trusting heart, Where'er thou wert ; My happy home in thy confiding breast, Where my worn spirit refuge found and rest. I know not if thou wast most fair And best of womankind ; Or whether earth yet beareth fruit more rare Of heart and mind ; To ME, I know, thou wert the fairest, Kindest, dearest, That heaven to man in mercy ever gave, And more than man from heaven deserved to have. Never from thee, sweet wife, Came word or look awry, Nor peacock pride, nor sullen fit, nor strife For mastery : BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 215 Calm and controlled thy spirit was, and sure So to endure : My friend, protectress, guide, whose gentle will Compelled my good, withholding from me ill. No art of selfishness Thy generous nature knew : Thy life all love, the power to bless thy bliss Constant and true, Content, if to thy lot the world should bring Enduring suffering ; Unhappy, if permitted but to share Part of my griefs, wouldst both our burdens bear. My joy, my solace, and my pride I found thee still, Whatever change our fortunes might betide Of good or ill ; Worthier I was life's blessing to receive While thou didst live; All that I had of good in other's sight, Reflected shone thy virtue's borrowed light. The lute unstrung the meals in silence ate We wont to share ; The widowed bed the chamber desolate, Thou art not there, The tear at parting, and the greeting kiss, Who would not miss ? Endearments fond, and solaced hours, and all Th' important trivial things men comfort call. Oh ! mayest thou, if permitted, from above The starry sphere, Encompass me with ever-during love, As thou didst here : Still be my guardian spirit, lest I be Unworthy thee ; Still, as on earth, thy grace celestial give, SO GUIDE MY LIFE AS THOU WOULDST HAVE ME LIVE. 216 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. THE HOLY WELLS. BY J. D. FRASER. THE lioly wells the living wells the cool, the fresh, the pure A thousand ages rolled away, and still those founts endure, As full and sparkling as they flowed ere slave or tyrant trod The Emerald garden, set apart for Irishmen by God. And while their stainless chastity and lasting life have birth Amid the oozy cells and caves of gross material earth, The Scripture of creation holds no fairer type than they That an immortal spirit can be linked with human clay. How sweet of old the bubbling gush no less to antlered race, Than to the hunter and the hound that smote them in the chase ! In forest depths the water-fount beguiled the Druid's love, From that adored high fount of fire which sparkled far above ; Inspired apostles took it for a centre to the ring. When sprinkling round baptismal life salvation _ from the spring ; And in the sylvan solitude, or lonely mountain cave, Beside it passed the hermit's life, as stainless as its wave. The cottage hearth, the convent's wall, the battle- mented tower, Grew up around the crystal springs, as well as flag and flower ; BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 217 The brooklime and the water-cress were evidence of health, Abiding in those basins, free to poverty arid wealth : The city sent pale sufferers there the faded brow to dip, And woo the water to depose some bloom upon the lip ; The wounded warrior dragged him towards the unforgotten tide, And deemed the draught a heavenlier gift than triumph to his side. The stag, the hunter, and the hound, the Druid and the saint, And anchorite are gone, and even the lineaments grown faint. Of those old ruins into which, for monuments, had sunk The glorious homes that held, like shrines, the monarch and the monk. So far into the heights of God the mind of man has ranged, It learned a lore to change the earth it's very self it changed To some more bright intelligence ; yet still the springs endure, The same fresh fountains, but become more precious to the poor ! For knowledge has abused its powers, an empire to erect For tyrants, on the rights the poor had given them to protect ; Till now the simple elements of nature are their all, That from the cabin is not filched, and lavished in the hall And while night, noon, or morning meal no other plenty brings, No beverage than the water-draught from old, spon- taneous springs ; They, sure, may deem them holy wells, that yield from day to day, One blessing that no tyrant hand can taint or take away. 218 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. THE MONKS OF KILCKEA* [Kilcrca Abbey, county Cork, was dedicated to St. Bridget, and founded A.D. 1494, by Cormac, Lord of Muskerry; its monks belonged to the Franciscan Order, commonly called " Grey Friars." In the present day its ruins are extensive, and though considerably mutilated by Cromwell, who stabled a troop of horses in its refectory, are still both picturesque and interesting. Irish Annals.] FYTTE I. THREE monks sat by a bogwood fire ! Bare were their crowns, and their garments grey ; Close sat they to that bogwood fire, Watching the wicket till break of day ; Such was ever the rule at Kilcrea. For whoever passed, be he Baron or Squire, Was free to call at that abbey, and stay, Nor guerdon, nor hire for his lodging pay, Tho' he tarried a week with its holy choir ! Three monks sat by a bogwood fire, Dark looked the night from the window pane, They who sat by that bogwood fire Were Eustace, Alleyn, and Thade by name, And long they gazed at the cheerful flame ; Till each from his neighbour began to inquire The tale of his life before he came To Saint Brigid's shrine, and the cowl had ta'en, So they piled on more wood, and drew their seats nigher ! Three monks sat by a bogwood fire, Loud wailed the wind through cloister and nave, And with a mournful air, by that bogwood fire, The first who spake it was Eustace grave, And told "He had been a gallant brave, * This line ballad originally appeared as a fragment in the Irish Penny Journal, and attracted much less attention than it was entitled to. Since it was included in the "Ballad Poetry" the author has been induced to complete it. Several editions of the entire poem have appeared, and it has been translated into French. 1866. BALLAD POETRY OP IRELAND. 219 In liis youth, till a comrade lie slew in ire, And then forswore bastnet and glaive, Arid leaving his home, had crossed the wave, And taken the cross and cowl at Saint Finbar's Spire." Three monks sat by a bogwood fire, Swift through the glen rushed the river Lee, And Alleyn next by that bogwood fire Told his tale ; a woful man was he ; Alas ! he had loved unlawfullie The wife of his brother, Sir Hugh Maguire, And he fled to the cloister to free His soul from sin ; and 'twas sad to see How much sorrow had wasted the youthful friar. Three monks sat at a bogwood fire, And red its light on the rafters shone, The last who spake by that bogwood fire Was Thade, of the three, the only one Whom care or grief had not lit upon ; But rosy and round, thro' city and shire, His mate for innocent glee was none, And soon he told, " How a peasant's son He was reared for the church by their former Prior 1" Three monks sat by a bogwood fire, The moon looked o'er all with clouded ray, And there they sat by that bogwood fire Watching the wicket till break of day ; And many that night did call and stay, Whose names, if, gentles, ye do not tire, In his next strain shall the bard essay, For here ends the first fytte of the monks of Kilcrea ! FYTTE II. The bell of the abbey had number'd ten, O'er tower and roof rolled its sullen chime ; Yet, still by the fire sat those holy men Keeping their vigil until morning's prime j And much did they marvel, and ere that time 220 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. No traveller called, as 'twas common then For pilgrims to flock to Saint Bridgid's shrine ; So they placed on the board the pitchers of wine, Game from the mountain, and meat from the pen, And red trout that was caught close by in Dripsey Glen !* On the table was flagon and pasty good, On the hearth clean swept blazed a bogwood fire, Around were settles of the dark oak wood, And all that a weary guest could require. There was water in pans, to wash off the mire, Garment to don, and hose, and doe-skin shoon, In never a hostel throughout the shire Could you purchase for gold, or borrow for hire Such comforts, as freely for all, as boon, The monks of Kilcrea strewed around that cheerful room. There came a loud knock to the abbey gate, And a voice in the storm was heard outside, And Eustace arose from where sad he sate, Went to the wicket and opened it wide, Arid crost the threshold with a heavy stride. A Saxon stranger ; he was sore distrait, And told " how he lost both his way and guide, That his horse was drown'd in fording the Bride,"f Then took off his cloak, a dripping weight, And look'd like a man who for life had struggled late ! * Dripsey Glen, a romantic spot on the river Lee, lies half-way between Cork and Macroom. t A small but rapid river that runs close to the walls of Kilcrea. On entering the abbey, the traveller is at once struck with the number of monuments and graves contained within its precincts. Among those the tomb of "Arthur O'Leary, the Outlaw," is conspicuous. The history of this unfortunate gentleman, whose ancestors owned the country for miles around Kilcrea, must be fresh in the minds of all those who have perused Mrs. Hall's touching narrative, or the more graphic account given by Mr. Windele in hia " Guide to Killarney." BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 221 Again came a knock to the abbey gate, While sad the wind moan'd thro' bower and tree, And Alleyn arose, and opened the gate, And entered the room, a Rapparee ! And haggard, and pale, and begrimed was he ;* As lie leant on a spear in a drooping state ! His scanty garments scarcely reach'd his knee, Yet, tho' feeble and worn was his mien and gait, Still he glared on the Saxon with a look of hate. \gain came a knock to the abbey gate, And a voice outside made a rueful din, And Thade uprose and opened the gate ; And lo ! he ushered a Gleeman in, Threadbare his cloak, he was wet to the skin ; Yet the leer of his eye told a roguish mate, And he winked around with a cunning grin, As deep in the flagon he stuck his chin, And scarce would the loon for a blessing wait, When his kind host heaped the food on his plate ! And there long they sat by that bogwood fire, The monks of Kilcrea and those travellers three, And each as they sat by that bogwood fire Told by turns his name and his history ; The Saxon ! the Gleeman ! the Rapparee ! And, gentles, once more, if ye do not tire, I'll sing to you each in their due degree, As of old a sennachie taught the lay to me ! * I may be held guilty of a gross anachronism in introducing "a Rap- paree" here, but we had the thing, if not the word, at this period ; and, moreover, the laws of poetical licence, as laid down in the celebrated case of Dido versus Virgil, must at once be both my precedent and apology. 222 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. O'DONOVAN'S DAUGHTER. BY EDWARD WALSH. ATP " The Juke of the Barley'' 1 ONE midsummer's eve, when the Bel-fires were lighted. And the bagpiper's tone call'd the maidens delighted, I join'd a gay group by the Araglin's water, And danced till the dawn with O'Donovan's Daughter. Have you seen the ripe monadan glisten in Kerry, Have you mark'd on the Galteys the black whortle- berry, Or ceanabhan wave by the wells of Blackwater *? They're the cheek, eye, and neck of O'Donovan's Daughter. Have you seen a gay kidling on Claragh's round mountain, The swan's arching glory on Sheeling's blue fountain, Heard a weird woman chant what the fairy choir taught her? They've the step, grace, and tone of O'Donovan's Daughter ! Have you marked in its flight the black wing of the raven, The rosebuds that breathe in the summer breeze waven, The pearls that lie hid under Lene's magic water? They're the teeth, lip, and hair of O'Donovan's Daughter ! BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 223 Ere the Bel-fire was dimmed or the dancers departed, I taught her a song of some maid broken-hearted : And that group, and that dance, and that love-song I taught her Haunt my slumbers at night with O'Donovan's Daughter. God grant, 'tis no fay from Cnoc-Firinnthatwoosme, God grant, 'tis not Cliodhna the queen that pursues me, That my soul lost and lone has no witchery wrought her, While I dream of dark groves and O'Donovan's Daughter ! If, spell-bound, I pine with an airy disorder, Saint Gobnate has sway over Musgry's wide border ; She'll scare from my couch, when with prayer I've besought her, That bright airy sprite like O'Donovan's Daughter. 224 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.* BY THOMAS DAVIS. [Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in South Munster. It grew up round a Castle of O'Driscoll's, and was, after his ruin, colo- nized by the English. On the 20th of June, 16-31, the crew of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead of the night, sacked the town, and bore oft' into slavery all who were not too old, or too young, or too fierce for that purpose. The pirates were steered up the intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman, whom they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years after he was convicted, and executed for the crime. Baltimore never recovered this. To the artist, the antiquary, and the naturalist, its neighbourhood is most interesting. See "The Ancient and Present State of the County and City of Cork," by Charles Smith, M.D., vol. i., p. 270. Second Edition. Dublin, 1774. J THE summer sun is falling soft on Carb'ry's hundred isles The summer's sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles Old Innisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird ; And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard : The hookers lie upon the beach ; the children cease their play ; The gossips leave the little inn ; the households kneel to pray And full of love, and peace, and rest its daily labour o'er Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore, * 1866. This poem will have a special interest to many readers as the last written by Thomas Davis. I was breakfasting with him at a tempo- rary residence which he had for a short time under the Dublin Mountains, near Dundrum, two or three weeks before his death, and brought with me a young Hiberno-American, recently arrived in Ireland, whom I desired to introduce to him. After breakfast he gave me this ballad, and I read it to the stranger, who was no other than Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee, destined to rival him as a writer of Irish ballads, though no one can rival him as the most gifted and noble Irish gentleman whom his generation ever saw. BALLAD POETRY OP IRELAND. 225 A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there ; No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air, The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of the calm ; The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm. So still the night, these two long barques, round Dunashad that glide Must trust their oars methinks not few against the ebbing tide Oh ! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore They bring some lover to his bride who sighs in Baltimore ! All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street, And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet A stifled gasp ! a dreamy noise! "the roof is in a flame !" From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall, And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl The yell of "Allah!" breaks above the prayer, and shriek, and roar Oh, blessed God ! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore ! Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword ; Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gor'd ; Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching wild ; Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child : p 226 BALLAD POETHY OF IRELAND. But see yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing heel, While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel- Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store, There's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore ! Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds begin to sing They see not now the milking maids, deserted is the spring ! Midsummer clay this gallant rides from distant Ban- don's town These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown; They only found the smoking walls, with neighbours' blood besprent, And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went Then dash'd to sea, and passed Cape Clear, and saw five leagues before The pirate-galley vanishing that ravaged Baltimore. Oh ! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed. Oh ! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Darda- nelles ; And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells. The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey, She's safe she's dead she stabb'd him in the midst of his Serai ; And when, to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore, She only smiled O'Driscoll's child she thought of Baltimore. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 227 'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band, And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand, Where high upon a gallows-tree, a yelling wretch is seen 'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan he who steered the Algerine ! He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer, For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there Some muttered of MacMorrogh, who had brought the Norman o'er Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore. SOUTH MUNSTER CLANS MARCHING TO BATTLE, A.D. 1690. BY G-. H. SUPPLE. HARK the distant hum ! The clans of stormy Desmond come From their rugged glens and savage hills, How their warriors' laughter the bosom thrills : Their hearts are dauntless, and careless, and light Their plumes are brave their spears are bright. Each Crahadore's lip has the careless play, And the joyous smile of a festal day ; But that lip will clench, and that eye will glow, When he meets, when he meets his Saxon foe. As the banded squadrons pass, ; Tis glorious to see their banners wave, And the sunbeams sparkling on spear and glaive, On horseman's helm, and steel cuirass. 228 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 'Tis glorious to see by stream and glen, Old Desmond's mountaineers again Draw from its scabbard the rusting brand, In the thrilling cause of fatherland; Grimly crave, with a warrior joy, Vengeance for Smerwick and bloody Dunboy. From Muskerry mountains and Carbery hills, MacCarthies have rushed like their highland rills ; MacSwinies, O'Learies, O'Eiordans came, When the signal flew on wings of flame ; O'Driscolls are there, from their crag-bound shore; And O'Mahonies, men of the woods and moor. Many a Duhallow battle-axe bright For Clan-Awly, Clan-Keeffe, and Clan-Callaghan, all Have answered the princely MacDonogh's call, When that chieftain summoned his bands of might ; And many a clan with the Norman name Like leaves of their forests Fitzgeralds came, Barrys, and Barrets, Sapeul. Condhune, From Broad Imokilly, and Kilnatalloon From Orrery's valleys, and Avonmore's banks, In hundreds have mustered their stately ranks. OB. on, our march must know no pause, Till the wolf-dog's game is in his jaws ; On with clear heart and footing sure, For our path lies by mountain and shaking moor. The river is broad, but who'd wait for a ford, And the cause of High Seamus in need of his sword ? Up, up, with the wild hurra, We fight for the right, and Righ Seamus go Though they file along, in their loose array, Like a driving cloud on a summer's day, So brilliant, so gallant, and gay, Many a light-limbed mountaineer * King James for ever ' BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 229 Dashed from his dark eye the soul-sprung tear, As he parted from maid, or from matron dear. Many a reckless Crahadore Bent o'er the maid he might clasp no more. On leafy Imokilly's shore, Yon gallowglass has left his bride By steep Slieve Logher's heathy side. Bent was his manly heart with sorrow As she smoothed his long black hair ; As she pressed his bronzed cheek and forehead fair, And blessed him for the bloody morrow ; But the griefs of the parting moment pass From the breast of kern and gallowglass, When the clairseach rings and the baraboo, When he hears the chieftain's war halloo, When he sees the war-horse champ the rein, And toss aloft his flowing mane, Blithely he marches by town and tower, Gone are the thoughts of the parting hour, Blithely he raises the shrill hurra, Righ Seamus, High Seamus, go bragh ! 230 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE. BY THOMAS DAVIS. Am " The Gaol Cota." His kiss is sweet, liis word is kind, His love is rich to me ; I could not in a palace find A truer heart than he. The eagle shelters not his nest From hurricane and hail. More bravely than he guards my breast The Boatman of Kinsale. The wind that round the Fastnet sweeps Is not a whit more pure The goat that down Cnoc Sheehy leaps Has not a foot more sure. No firmer hand nor freer eye E'er faced an Autumn gale De Courcy's heart is not so high The Boatman of Kinsale. The brawling squires may heed him not, The dainty stranger sneer But who will dare to hurt our cot, When Myles O'Hea is here 1 The scarlet soldiers pass along, They'd like, but fear to rail His blood is hot, his blow is strong The Boatman of Kinsale. His hooker's in the Scilly van, When seines are in the foam ; But money never made the man, Nor wealth a happy home. So, blest with love and liberty, While he can trim a sail, He'll trust in God and cling to me The Boatman of Kinsale. B.VLLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 231 O'BYBNE'S BAUD TO THE CLANS OF WICKLOW. TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH. BY SAMUEL FERGUSOX. GOD be -with the Irish host, Never be their battle lost ! For in battle, never yet Have they basely earned defeat. Host of armour, red and bright, May ye fight a valiant fight ! For the green spot of the earth, For the land that gave you birth. Who in Erin's cause would stand Brother of the avenging band, He must wed immortal quarrel, Pain, and sweat, and bloody peril. On the mountain bare and steep, Snatching short but pleasant sleep, Then, ere sunrise, from his eyrie, Swooping on the Saxon quarry. What, although you've failed to keep Liffey's plain or Tara's steep, CasheFs pleasant streams to save, Or the meads of Cruachan Maev. Want of conduct lost the town, Broke the white-walled castle down, Moira lost, and old Taltin, And let the conquering stranger in. 232 BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. ; Twas the want of right command, Not the lack of heart or hand, Left your hills and plains to- day ; jN~eath the strong Clan Saxon's sway. Ah ! had heaven never sent Discord for our punishment, Triumphs few o'er Erin's host Had Clan London now to boast. Woe is me. 'tis God's decree Strangers have the victory : Irishmen may now be found Outlaws upon Irish ground. Like a wild beast in his den Lies the chief by hill and glen, While the strangers, proud and savage, Creevan's* richest valleys ravage. Woe is me, the foul offence, Treachery and violence, Done against my people's rights- Well may mine be restless nights ! When old Leinster's sons of fame, Heads of many a warlike name, Redden their victorious hilts On the Gaul, my soul exults. When the grim Gauls, who have come Hither o'er the ocean foam, From the fight victorious go, Then my heart sinks deadly low. a king of ancient Erin. BALLAD POETRY OF IRELAND. 233 Bless the blades our warriors draw God be with the Clan Eanelagh ! But my soul is weak for fear, Thinking of their danger here. Have them in Thy holy keeping, God, be with them lying sleeping, God, be with them standing fighting Erin's foes in battle smiting ! THE BELLS OF SHANDON.* BY REV. FRANCIS MAHONY, Author of the " Prout Papers." WITH deep affection and recollection I often think of the Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, in days of childhood, Fling round my cradle their magic spells On this I ponder, where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee ; With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. I have heard bells chiming full many a clime in, Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine ; While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate, But all their music spoke nought to thine ; For memory dwelling on each proud swelling Of thy belfry knelling its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. * f e The lady's oath has cleared him, as the Jury all may know, She has released her own true love, she has renewed his name, May her honour bright gain high estate, and her offspring rise to fame." APPENDIX. NOTE A, p. 133. WE publish here some fragments of the original Boyne Water. They appear to us infinitely more racy and spirited than anything in the song which has strangely superseded them. We owe them to a northern gentleman, who has made the antiquities of Ulster his particular study. THE BOYNE WATER. JULY the First, of a morning clear, one thousand six hundred and ninety, King William did his men prepare, of thousands he had thirty ; To fight King James and all his foes, encamped near the Boyne Water, He little fear'd, though two to one, their multitudes to scatter. King William call'd his officers, saying ; " Gentlemen, mind your station, And let your valour here be shown before this Irish nation ; My brazen walls let no man break, and your subtle foes you'll scatter, Be sure you show them good English play as you go over the water." # * - # 4 Both foot and horse they marched on, intending them to batter, But the brave Duke Schomberg he was shot as he cross'd over the water. When that King William did observe the brave Duke Schomberg falling, He rein'd his horse with a heavy heart, on the Ennis- killeners calling : 240 APPENDIX. " What will you do for me, brave boys see yonder men recreating ? Our enemies encourag'd are, and English drums are beating;" He says, "My boys, feel no dismay at the losing of one commander, For God shall be our king this day, and I'll be general under." ***** "Within four yards of our fore-front, before a shot was fired, A sudden snuff they got that day, which little they desired ; For horse and man fell to the ground, and some hung in their saddle ; Others turn'd up their forked ends, which we call coup de ladle, Prince Eugene's regiment was the next, on our right hand advanced, Into a field of standing wheat, where Irish horses pranced But the brandy ran so in their heads, their senses all did scatter, They little thought to leave their bones that day at the Boyne Water. Both men and horse lay on the ground, and many there lay bleeding, I saw no sickles there that day but, sure, there was sharp shearing. * ^ * * * * Now, praise God, all true Protestants, and heaven's and earth's Creator, For the deliverance that he sent our enemies to scatter. The Church's foes will pine away, like churlish-hearted Nabal, For our deliverer came this day like the great Zorobabel. So praise God, all true Protestants, and I will say no further, But had the Papists gain'd the day, there would have been open murder. Although King James and many more were ne'er that way inclined, It was not in their power to stop what the rabble they designed. APPENDIX. NOTE B, p. 189. THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE, The story of this ballad is historically true, and receives additional interest from the fact that the armour in which the hero of the ballad was slain is still shown in Malahide Castle, and the monument of the heroine in the neighbour- ing chapel. Speaking of the latter, Mr. D'Alton says : ' ' Of the monuments, the most worthy of notice is an altar tomb surmounted with the effigy, in bold relief, of a female habited in the costume of the 14th century, and represent- ing the Honourable Maud Plunket, wife of Sir Richard Talbot. She had been previously married to Mr. Htissey, son to the Baron of Galtrim, who was slain on the day of her nuptials, leaving her the singular celebrity of having been *a maid, wife, and widow on the same day.' " In a description of the castle, Mr. Petrie refers to the adventure : " Among the most memorable circumstances of general interest connected with the history of this castle and its possessors, should be mentioned what Mr. Brewer properly calls *a lamentable instance of the ferocity with which quarrels c " thei the supreme head of government: the year 1329 (as is recorded by Ware), John de Birmingham, Earl of Louth, Richard Talbot, styled Lord of Malahide, and many of their kindred, together with sixty of their English followers, were slain in a pitched battle at Bal- briggau [Bally bragan], in this neighbourhood, by the Anglo- Norman, faction of the De Verdons, De Gernoiis, and Savages the cause of animosity being the election of the earl to the palatinate dignity of Louth, the county of the latter party." Malahide Castle is one of the most interest- ing in Ireland, from its great antiquity and perfect preser- vation. It is within an hour's drive of Dublin, and, with a rare and noble liberality, is constantly opened to the public. We copy a portion of Mr. Petrie' s description of it: "An ancient baronial castle, in good preservation, and still inhabited by the lineal desendant of its original founder, is a rare object to find in Ireland ; and the causes 242 APPENDIX. which have led to this circumstance are too obvious to require an explanation. In Malahide Castle we have, how- ever, a highly interesting example of this kind ; for though in its present state it owes much of its imposing effect to . modern restorations and improvements, it still retains a considerable portion of very ancient date, and most probably even some parts of the original castle erected in the reign of King Henry II. Considered in this way, Malahide Castle is without a rival in interest, not only in our metropolitan county, but also, perhaps, within the boundary of the old English Pale. The noble family of Talbot have been seated in their present locality for a period of nearly seven hundred years. There can be no question, therefore, of the noble origin of the Talbots de Malahide, nor can their title be considered as a mushroom one, though only conferred upon the mother of the present lord." The castle contains a fine collection of pictures, including some historical portraits of the highest interest. Portraits of Talbot, Duke of Tyrconnell (James's Lord-Lieutenant before and during the Revolution),* of Sir Neale O'Neill, and the finest head of Charles I., by Vandyke, in existence, are among the number. * See Lillibulero, Introduction, p. 20. INDEX; A. Page Paffe Avenger, the . 140 Flower of Finae, . 195 Forester's Complaint, . 67 B. Forging of the Anchor, . 208 Battle of the Boyne, . 133 G. Battle of Callan, . . 18-3 Geraldine's Daughter, . 21-3 Bells of Shandon, . . 2o3 Gille Machree, 39 Blackbird, Boatman of Kinsale, Bouchelleen Bawn, . 127 . 230 . 118 Gougaune Barra, . Grave of MacCaura, 183 123 Bridal of Malahide, Ib9 H. Brigade at Fontenoy, Burial of Sir John Moore, .' 206 . 90 Holy Wells, the 216 I. C. Irish Emigrant in North Cashel of Munster, . 164 America, .... 63 Clan of MacCaura, . 167 Irish Molly, .... 204 Convict of Clonmel, . 112 Irish Mother in the Penal Court of Cahirass 99 180 County of Mayo, . ! 115 Irish Reaper's Harvest Hymn, 110 Croppy Boy, the . . 147 K. D. Kathleen Ny-Houlahan, 79 Desmond, the . 177 L. Dirge of 0' Sullivan Bear, Drinan Dhun, Drunkard, the . 157 . 136 . 149 Lady of Albany's Lament for King Charles, Lamentation of Hugh Rey- 165 nolds, 142 E. Lamentation, A ... 12G Emigrant Mother, the . Emmeline Talbot, . . 78 . 199 Lament for the Tyronian and Tyrconnellian Princes, Lament of O'Gnive, 91 108 p Lament of the Emigrant Con- * naught Woman for her Fair Hills of Ireland, . . 194 Dead Son, .... 129 Fairy Boy, the . 69 Lament of the Irish Emigrant, 41 Fairy Child, the . . 48 Lament of the Irish Maiden,. 114 Fairy Thorn, the . . 137 Lord of Dunkerron, 60 Fate of the Forties, . 161 Lost Wife, tho 214 244 INDEX. 1C, Page R. Page Maire Bhan Astor, . 101 Reconciliation, the 76 Margre'adh ni Chealleadh, . 65 llory O'More, . . . . 81 Nary le More, . . 106 Minstrel's Walk, 181 S. Molly Carew, . Mo Craoibhin Cno, 144 119 Sack of Baltimore, Shule Aroon, . 224 121 Monks of Kilcrea, Munster Keen, 218 203 Sir Turlough, or the Church- yard Bride, . 50 My Connor, . . 160 Sister of Charity, the . 104 Soggarth Aroon, . 57 0. Sorrowful Lamentation of O'Brien of Ara, 178 Callaghan, Greally, and Mullen 1S7 O'Byrne's Bard to the Clans of Wicklow, O'Donovan's Daughter, . 231 222 South Munster Clans march- ing to battle, 227 Oliver's Advice, an Orange TJ. ballad, . 72 Orange and Green, 85 UnaPhelimy, . 82 O'Ruark, Prince of Breffni, . 102 Say, niy Brown Drimin, . 122 W. Wake of William Orr, . 70 P. When this old Cap was new, 197 Patriot Mother, 11G Wild Geese, 132 Poor Man's Labour, . . 77 Willy Gilliland, 171 Peggy Bawn, . 124 Willy Reilly, . 235 Pretty Girl of Lougli Dan, . 43 Woman of Three Cows, 4G The Boyne Water, . APPENDIX* . 239 J The Bridal of Malaliide, . 241 THE ENI>. J. M. O'TooLE & SON, Printers, Gt. Brunswick-street, Dublin. 14 DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. rtcxj'O JL.O Wi8S4.ii.il AY 14 19QQ ** nfVl AF KIN 241*949 (N MOV 10 19ft) rs*--* **> J*N '68-4p'ji UU C p,fl * <*^ A , < * T-~- ^i^. wv .^.,.. f , r ^.._., r , ., ! , ' S*? > ^ D2 JUN201997 ,^ YA U. C. BERKELEY LIBRARIES COS717E5514 )9. L '? UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA UBRARY