BALLADS OF DOWN. THE POETICAL WORKS OF GEORGE FRANCIS SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG ("THE POET OF WICKLOW.") Uniformly Bound Editions. POF.MS: LYRICAL AND DRAMATIC. Third Edition. Fcap. 8vo, cloth. Price 6s. UGONE: A TRAGEDY. A New Edition. Fcap. 8vo, cloth. Price 6s. KINO SAUL (The Tragedy of Israel, Part I.) A New Edition. Fcap. 8vo, cloth. Price 5.?. KING DAVID. (The Tragedy of Israel, Part II.) A New Edition. Fcap. 8vo, cloth. Price 6s. KING SOLOMON. (The Tragedy of Israel, Part III.) A New Edition. Fcap. 8vo, cloth. Price 6s. A GARLAND FROM GREECE. A Newand Cheaper Edition. Fcap. 8vo, cloth. Price 7*. 6rf. STORIES OF WICKLOW. A New and Cheaper Edition. ("cap. Svo, cloth. Price 7$. M. ONE IN THE INFINITE. (A Poem in Three Parts.) Fcap. 8vo, cloth. Price 7$. dd. BALLADS OF DOWN. Fcap. 8vo, cloth. Price 7*. 6d. VICTORIA REGINA ET IMPERATRIX. A Jubilee-Song from Ireland, 1887. Crown Svo, cloth. Price 2S. 6t/. MEPHISTOPHELES IN BROADCLOTH: A Satire. (A.L>. 188.8.) A New Edition, Fca. . 8vo, cloth. Price 41-. LONGMANS AND Co. LONDON AND NEW YORK. ODE IN CELEBRATION OF THE TERCENTENARY OF DUBLIN UNIVERSITY, with Music ly the late J rofessor SIR ROHERT P. STEWAKT, Mus. Doc. Price $s. NOVELLA, EWER AND Co. LONDON AND NEW YORK. QUEEN-EMPRESS AND EMPIRE. 1839-1897. Price 5*. MARCUS WARD AND Co. BELFAST. BY THE SAME AUTHOR. THE LIFE AND LETTERSOF EDMUND J. ARMSTRONG. Fcap, Svo, cloth. Price 7,5. C clot i. Price $s. ESSAYS AND SKETCHES OF EDMUND J. ARMSTRONG. Fcap. Svo. Price 5.1. LONGMANS AND Co. LONDON NKW YORK- AND BOMBAY. BALLADS OF DOWN BY GEORGE FRANCIS SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG, M.A., D.I. IT. LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON NEW YORK AND BOMBAY 1901 [All rights reserved^ PR TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY I.AXE, LONDON. TO THE MEMORY OF MY MOTHER. [NOTE. ALMOST all the poems in dialect contained in this volume were written between the years 1892 and 1899. A note on the dialect in which they are worded will be found prefixed to the Glossary at the end of the book. G. F. S.-A. January, 1901. | CONTENTS. PAGE DOWN and Wicklow I Blow, Winds of Ards ! 3 On the Heights of Mourne ...... 5 Chaffinches . . . . . . . 13 In the Woods of Tollymore . . ... .16 The Invalid 18 An Early Spring ....... 20 The Haunted Hill 22 The Temptress . . . . . . . .25 Parting ......... 26 A Snowy Day ........ 27 Winter's Over . . . . . . . .31 The Knight's Choice ....... 33 Ardkeen Castle Hill 36 The Knight's Supper ....... 40 The Down Sodger ....... 44 The Prodigal Son ....... 47 Autumn 49 A Love's Spell ........ 50 Auld John's Vengeance : or the Witch Hare . . 51 x CONTENTS. I'AGE A Downshire Home ....... 55 The Moonlit Road ....... 56 Death and Life 58 " Holy Bridget " . . . f . . -59 The Auld Airds Tramp . . . . . .61 The Shelterer . ... . . . .64 New Troubles . . , . . . -65 Betty MacBlaine 66 In a Squall by Strangford Lough .... 69 A Cannae Thole Ye ! 71 The Yin Wee Luik . . 73 Sir Robert Savage . . . - . . -74 The Shawlie 82 Unlettered Love . . ... . .84 In Strangford Woods . . . . . .86 The Savages' Revenge . . . . . >. 87 Major-General Sir John Boscawen Savage, K.C.B., K.C.H. . . ... . . . 90 Storm at Evening ....... 92 Macananty, Fairy King of Scrabo Hill . . 93 The Old Bell of Ardkeen . . . -.98 The Speedwell . . . . . . . . 101 Twa Luves . . . . . . . . 102 Sunshine in Sorrow . . . . . . . 103 The Wee Lassie's First Luve ..... 105 A Girl's Love ........ 107 Despair ......... 109 A Tired Spinner . . . . . . . 1 1 1 The Wanderer . " . . .-.-.-. . 113 A Lovers' Quarrel . *. . .116 A Rustic Love-Making . . . . . . 118 CONTENTS. xi PAGE False Coin .121 The True Heart . . . ... .122 The Yin Wee Face ....... 123 Love and Labour . . . . . . . 1 24 Aulcl Sandy Amang the Megpies . . . .127 Two Lives . . . . . . . .130 By Bryansford 131 Sweet Portaferry . . . . . . -132 Miss Maud 134 Helen's Tower . . . . . . . > 39 A Downshire Poet ....... 140 In the Moorlands . . . . ... 142 In Life's Autumn . . . . . . 144 Work-Time and Love-Time ..... 146 A Poor Rhymester . . . . . . 147 What Recompense? ....... 149 Megpies . . . . . . . . -150 A Summer's Want ....... 151 Devotion . . . . . . . . 153 The Landing of Patrick . . . . . .156 A Day of Doubts 161 By Shimna Strame ....... 163 TheWon'erO't 165 Forbidden Love . . . . . . .166 What He Maunnae Dae ...... 169 In Honour's Chain . . . . . . -171 Men of Down! 173 A Sunset off Killyleagh 176 The Ghost-Story-Tellers 186 (The Elder's Experience: The Haunted Glen) . 188 (The Auld Whupper-In's Story : Mister Alick) . 193 xii CONTENTS. PAGE (Mikkel Hayes's Story: The Spectre of Knockdoo) . 199 (The Schoolmaster's Story : The Drowned Vicar) . 204 (The Mad Poet's Story : The Souterrain) . .213 Croobaccagh, the Shepherd . . . . .221 The Smith-God . . . , ... . 250 St. Patrick and the Druid . . . . . . 255 The Friars of Drumnaquoile ..... 280 The Outcast's Tragedy 291 The Shimna ........ 343 Sunset over Strangford Lough . . . . . 351 The Dying Century . . . . . . 355 L'Envoi 358 Notes 361 Glossary . . . . . . . . . 375 BALLADS OF DOWN. DOWN AND WICKLOW. i. I LOVE the fresh bright autumn days Of mottled skies and lucid weather, For then from Wicklow's fraughan-braes I hail Slieve Donard's heights of heather, Far off I trace in outline clear The peaks of Down in light extended, Twin spots of Earth I hold most dear In one ethereal realm are blended. 2. With Wicklow's land of stream and hill My childhood's hopes and joys enwound me ; It woke the loves that mould me still ; With nets of gold its beauty bound me ; BALLADS OF DOWN. Where flashed its rills by rock and tree, Where rolled its beaches' ocean-thunder, I bowed before the mystery Of Nature's life in awe and wonder. 3- Their sword-won breezy Uladh heights For many an age my kinsfolk warded ; And Fancy loves in lingering flights To roam the land whereo'er they lorded ; As round its castled knolls I climb I hear familiar voices calling, And eerie spells of olden time With elfin music round me falling. 4- I Ve sung of Wicklow's moorlands brown, And Wicklow's folk, in measured story ; Take now these rustic rhymes of Down That claims in song an equal glory ; A few the Poet's dreams enfold, The most the peasants' loves and sorrow, And some may last till youth grows old, And all may fade before to-morrow. BLOW, WINDS OF ARDS ! i. THE hill-side road with hawthorns gay, How sweet, as, upward climbing, The sea-winds round me swirl and play And set my lips a-rhyming ! 2. From lough to sea the breezes roll, With scents of field and ocean, And all the forces of my soul Awake in blithe emotion. 3- Blue waves are leaping in the sun, Red sails and white sails dancing, And golden holt and fallow dun In leagues of light are glancing. BALLADS OF DOWN. 4- Blow, winds of Ards, through furze and May, Your flight from heaven down-winging, Blow, winds of Ards, from bay to bay, And set my heart a-singing ! ON THE HEIGHTS OF MOURNE. i. HOW blue, how passing beautiful, at times, Our island-summer skies and slumbering seas ! And here to-day what splendour of fair climes Drenches the mountains and the shores and leas, While gazing downward o'er the plumy trees That half-way up Slieve Donard's rugged height Stand, gently stirred by the cool valley-breeze, Elate, I scan with ever-gladdening sight Plain, wave, and glittering isle, clear in the cloud- less light ! 2. Lo, Mona in the distance from the sea Raises her blue aerial mountain-line Keen-edged against heaven's azure ! Mistily Far-off the bluffs of Scotland seem to shine, 6 BALLADS OF DOWN. Glimmer, and fade to vapour. Birk and pine Sweep, softening, down the slopes to Iveagh's plain. See how the yellow winding shores entwine The leafy mound where stands with many a stain The Templars' mouldering Tower still frowning o'er the main ! 3- Beyond fair "cantred of the light !" Lecale Extends its fertile fields of ripening wheat. The Seven-Castled Town, with many a sail Sheltering beneath it, guards its little fleet, Where once the Norman, with his mailed feet, Kept watch upon the bastion lest the foe, Swarming from many a forest's dim retreat, Should burst upon his fields with sudden blow, And quench his little sept in piteous overthrow. 4- And in and out of Cuan's wandering fiord Run the swift deep-blue waters, guarded well With moat and rampart of the feudal lord, Where in his pride he strove with pomp to dwell. ON THE HEIGHTS OF MOURNE. 7 The Knolls, "the Ards," of Uladh lightly swell Toward the clear sky beyond, with rath and keep And ruined abbey dotting down and dell ; Then Scrabo lifts his monumented steep, And Antrim's caverned hills their column-crags upheap. 5- And, nearer, Kinelarty's mountain-range Cleaves the horizon, and around its base Cornland and meadow, pasture, park, and grange Their vari-coloured tissues interlace, Glowing with sunshine. Here, in the embrace Of purple steeps, reclining 'mid the stream, High on this heathery rock, how sweet to trace River and lough and town and spire that gleam On that fair length of land unfolding like a dream ! 6. There roamed the Firbolgs till by magic spells The Tooaha overthrew them, god with god, Giant with giant, struggling ; the pure wells Of silver water fringed with the smooth sod, 8 BALLADS OF DOWN. And the green hills, became the veiled abode Of victor deity. There the Druid piled His rude stone-temple; there in darkness glowed The sacred fire on altar undefiled That lent the mage his might and cheered the chieftain wild. 7- Driven by the Pagan back from Wicklow shore, There to Quoile's banks the Keltic Herdsman steered, Bearing the fairer Light, the happier Lore. There the first mass-bell sounded. There were reared, By the bright sea, or where the vales are cheered With limpid brooks, or on the island-lawn Kissed by the clear lake-waters, the revered Cells of the Holy, where, in thought withdrawn, They quaffed the living Word, pure as the breath of dawn. 8. The roving Viking, from his piney bay Oaring his bark, up yonder beaches drave, ON THE HEIGHTS OF MOURNE. 9 Plundered the sacred fanes, and went his way ; Or ofttimes, in some rath above the wave Encamping, spoiled the Gaelic fields. He gave The long sea-firths the names they bear. His hand Had ceased not yet to threaten and enslave When with swift stroke the Norman's fearless band Smote the divided Gael and clutched his harried land. 9- And many a year, through many a mortal fight, Compassed with danger, there the Norman dwelt, Till Bruce o'erwhelmed him; yet his stubborn might Was bent, not shattered ; some survived and dealt Revenge upon their foemen ; for they felt The unconquerable spirit of their race Unconquered still within them ; and the Kelt, Now breaking and now broken, in his place Honoured the chief that ne'er to master bowed the face. io BALLADS OF DOWN. 10. Then o'er the fruitful vales the wings of peace Were folded. Britain's children, with the Gael And with the Norman blent, have tilled the leas, Watered and planted, set the venturous sail, Moulded the ship of iron, bale on bale Piled up their subtile loom-work, farm and town And city fashioned, till the summer's gale Wooes not a land of goodlier renown, Or happier fairer fields, than thine, O peaceful Down ! ii. Thy cup-like raths, thy grassy burial-knolls In the warm beams are basking ; Cuan's isles, As the blue tide around them softly rolls, Their ruined fanes unfold to heaven's smiles ; Thy Norman abbey-walls and broken piles Spread their bright ivies in the delicate air ; Thy glittering shore the wandering eye be- guiles ; White in their woodlands glow thy mansions fair; Thy crystal roofs afar flash in the noonday's glare ; ON THE HEIGHTS OF MOURNE. n 12. Thy winding highways sparkle near and far ; Thy homestead-walls are glancing in heaven's rays; And here and there thy beacons, each a star, Mirror the sun ; thy waters are ablaze ; Thy children gather flowers in woodland ways ; Thy wild-birds flutter from thy lake-side reeds ; Thy mill-wheels murmur 'mid thy ferny braes ; The mowers are at work amid thy meads ; The long swift snake of fire across thy levels speeds ; The smoke of labour faints in the pure sky ; The far-off city nestling 'neath its hills Has cast its dusky canopy on high ; The thirsty oxen wade thy running rills ; The rustic fast his daily task fulfils ; The lovers wander in thy leanings green ; The lark in thy blue air his rapture trills ; The thrushes warble in their leafy screen. The saddest heart grows gay poring on such a scene. 12 BALLADS OF DOWN. 14. Dear land of steadfast hearts and toiling arms, Home of my kindred, source of strange delights, Weird fancies, of my childhood, antique charms And visionary splendours, never blight Fall on thy fruitful fields, nor shadow of night Enrobe thee save with promise of bright dawn ! Peace and calm joy brood on thine every height, And town, and park, and humble cot withdrawn In leafy dell, and shore, and breadth of grove and lawn ! CHAFFINCHES. i. A SHALL nae hear the chaffinch sing, A shall nae see in ony Spring The bright white daplets ower his wing As swift he passes, But Portaferry's ferniest glade Wull seem tae fau'd me in its shade, An' in my han' in luve be laid My ain wee lassie's. 2. The bluebell-beds wi' blindin' light, Aroon' us bloomin', dazed oor sight, As there aboot the woodlan's height Sae blest we wander'd, An' not yin tree the groves amang, But on its boos the chaffinch sang, An' tae his notes the woodlan' rang Wi' sweetness squander'd. 14 BALLADS OF DOWN. 3- Ah ! whun we ceased at whiles tae speak, The wee smile ripplin' ower her cheek Grew sweeter yit, as pensive-meek, She 'd pause tae listen, Or upward whaur the beeches lean, Wud turn her face wi' luvesome een Tae watch thon birdies' crests o' green And red throats glisten. 4- Amang the lanesome Doonshire hills Aroon' me noo the chaffinch trills, An' through the droopin' daffydils The bluebells brighten ; But ither breezes roon' her roam, An' ither mountains gird her home, An' ither seas wi' flickerin' foam Forenent her whiten. 5- Amang the bluebell-plats A lie ; The bonnie birds come glancin' by, An', as they sing, wi' mony a sigh My heart seems breakin' ; CHAFFINCHES. 15 Awhile in mine her han' is press'd, Her een on mine a moment rest, Her image, passing, glads my breast, An' laves it achin'. i6 IN THE WOODS OF TOLLYMORE. i. r I "*HE winter gloaming folds the darkened woods. -*- Far-off the night-winds murmur. At my feet Startled, the blackbird, winging with shrill cry, Darts to the dusky copse. The brooding sky Draws downward, and the clouds and mountains meet. Grim shapes begin to haunt the solitudes. 2. The shrivelled leaves upwhirl themselves and speed Rustling around me into the thick gloom. The spruces heave and strain in their unrest, Sighing for slumber. In the dreary west The last red gleam sinks in the sunset's tomb. Night's inky mantle muffles moor and mead. 3- I hear no sound of footstep save mine own. Now every bird seems sleeping. Like a sea IN THE WOODS OF TOLLYMORE. 17 Far off and near the winds amid the boughs Arise and die away, awake and drowse. Night is around me with its mystery. Through the deep gloom I bear my grief alone 4- Alone into the night ! O welcome night, Amid thy blackness doth my spirit shrink, Weary of light, and life, and love foredoomed With its own bootless fire to die consumed ; Faint, sick with hopeless pain, I seem to sink Swooning into thy darkness infinite ! i8 THE INVALID. i. THE snug wee hoosie whaur she lees, My puir sick Luve, wi' epple-trees Is shaded roon', a' bright wi' fruit, An' ower its wa's white roses shoot ; An' at her wundee there wi'in She sits, reclinin', pale an' thin, Too wake tae knit, or spin, or sew, An' sees the rabins come an' go, An' watches till the close uv day The red cairts rattlin' doon the brae. 2. Jist noo her wundee glames afar In sunset blent wi' even-star ; An' noo A ken my wee yin's een Gaze on thon skies uv goolden-green. There, wrapt agen' September's chill, The dear wee sick yin lingers still ; THE INVALID. 19 Her apen buik upo' her knee, She sits, in silence, dramefully, Wi' white han's claspt as if in prayer, An' white face lifted sadly-fair. 3- Ah, wud that A fur jist yin hour, Afore the night wi' storm an' shower Fa's black'nin' ower Lough Cuan's wave, Might there beside her sit, an' crave Tae hau'd in mine her han' sae slight, The puir wee fingers frail an' white, An' talk uv happier days awhile, An' see yince mair the wistfu' smile Wi' a' its tender wilderin' grace Come stealin' ower her luvesome face ! 20 AN EARLY SPRING. i. WHILE yet the sun 's at Winter's level The wurl' is bright wi' radiant Spring ; On topmost sprays the throstles revel, The blackbird dips wi' lither wing ; Like myriad fairy falchions gleamin' The flickerin' grasses glad the lea ; An' Effie's face wi' health is beamin', An' blither light 's in Effie's ee. 2. While lingerin' snaw Slieve Donard laces The boos in Iveagh's groves ir green, The lawns ir pied wi' buddin' daisies, The laurels wave wi' livelier sheen ; There 's life an' hope in muir an' meadda, There 's joy an' rest in skies an' sea ; An' Effie's brow has nae yin shadda, An' tend'rer glances Effie's ee. AN EARLY SPRING. 21 3- While twilight yit is a' too fleetin' Fu' sweet 's the breath o' length'nin' day ; The weanlin' kids ir saftly bleatin' ; Wee lambs aroon' their mithers play ; The primrose through the moss is peepin' ; The violet decks the gnarled tree ; An' ah, my heart wi' joy is leapin' Tae see the luve in Effie's ee ! 22 THE HAUNTED HILL. i. LD Nancy Breen her skinny hand Laid cold on Donald's shoulder ; " A seen yer doom yestreen," she cried, " Whaur turf an' cinders smoulder ; A seen yer doom, young Donald Greer, Wi'in the fire, tae warn me ; For aye an' aye ye 've luved tae weel Tae mock my years an' scorn me. 2. " Then, dinnae crass Ardkeen at night, Whun winter 's murk and dreary ; 'Mang a' the lanesome nuiks in Airds By night there 's nane sae eerie. Thon Castle Hill is haunted groun' ; By elves an' ghaists it 's guarded ;, There spectre Chieftains pace the fiel's Ower which lang syne they lorded ; THE HAUNTED HILL. 23 3- " Sir Rowlan' frae his grave upleps, A helm'd and soorded shadda ; Dark Raymon' mounts his spectral steed An' scours the circlin' meadda ; Frum whaur on high the Castle stud, . There comes a soun' o' revel, An' peals o' ghaistly laughter ring Aroon' the stormy level. 4- " An' if ye see nor hear nae these, Ye '11 see the Kirkyard glowin', Each grave wi' gruesome lights wull glame, Its dismal shape oot-showin' ; Ye '11 hear the spectral bugle blaw, Tae direfu' battle cheerin' ; Ye '11 see the spectral huntsman's ban' Aroon' the Dorn careerin'." 5- Young Donald laughed with cruel scorn, " Gang hame til Portavogie ! A 'm nae the lad tae cower wi' fear At curse uv witch or bogie. 24 BALLADS OF DOWN. This night the auld Kirk's ruin'd wa' A '11 climb athoot a lather, An' whaur the conies root the graves A deed mon's banes A '11 gather ! " 6. And midnight came, and Donald rose, And through the gloom he wended. The moon was gone ; the rueful wind Wailed like a babe untended. But never back to friends or home Came Donald on the morrow. His parents searched with straining sight, And wept in hopeless sorrow ; 7- The Castle Hill they searched in vain, Dry moat and ditch and dingle, And stranded hulk and stunted thorn, And Dorn-shore's weedy shingle ; Till last the old Kirk- door they broke, And there, a corpse, they found him, Cold as the dead men's bones that lay In mouldering dust around him. THE TEMPTRESS. i. GANG awa', wee lassie, Wi' yer een sae blue ; Dinnae tempt my heart tae wander Frae my ain wee maiden true . . Ah, her een sae saft an' broon, How A see them night an' day' Niwer een in fiel' or toun Tauld a luve sae deep as they. 2. Gang awa', wee lassie ; Fair eneuch ye be ; Mony a lad wud dee tae win ye Why sae tangle me ? . . Ah, my ain wee Luve ah, dear ! Whaur 's the sweetheart 's leal as mine ? A' the girls frae Boyne tae here Cudnae part my soul frae thine ! 26 PARTING. i. LET but thy hand in mine a wee bit linger When I must say " Adieu ! ", That I may feel the clasp of palm and finger So firm and true Tingling yet softly when I sit to dream That thou art with me still by Shimna stream. 2. Leave me with just one lovesome smile at parting, When thou must turn to go, That I may see thine eyes' deep lustre darting And kindly glow Glimmering yet fondly when my face I hide To dream I greet thee still by Bearnagh side. 2 7 A SNOWY DAY. i. FRAE Carlin' Lough til Carrick Bay The wurl' is white wi' snaw the-day ; In flickerin' shoors on fiel' an' shaw The flakes wi' misty thickness fa' ; The whirrin' blast blaws keen an' swift ; The cuttage-daurs ir block'd wi' drift ; Nae play fur bairns in sich a sleet, An' nae gaun oot fur aged feet ; In ingle snug an' corner murk Wee maids an' mithers mope an' work. 2. Wi' lanes sae deep wi' driftin' straw'd A may nae meet my Luve abroad. A ken fu' weel the wee thing sits Ahint her wundee sma', an' knits, An' drames ah ! wull she drame o' me, An' watch the roads wi' restless ee ? 28 BALLADS OF DOWN. If, battlin' wi' the blindin' blast, Adoon the broad white road A pass'd, O, wud she nigh the wundee draw, Or turn her saft broon een awa' ? 3- A wull nae risk the bitter pain O' cruel disapp'intment's bane. A '11 hau'd her last wee luvesome luik Still clear in Memory's goolden buik, An' brood on that till next we meet. Then may she gie yin glance as sweet ! Ah, lang 's that luik afore me steals The fiercest blow Misfortune deals A '11 bear athoot yin moan or tear, It 's made this mortal wurl' sae dear ! 4- Whilst here A toil wi' icy han' A glower acrass the whiten'd Ian', An' think o' nocht but her, sae sweet, Far fau'ded-up 'mid snaws an' sleet, Wi'in her drift-boon'd hoosie pent, Her white face ower her needles bent, A SNO IVY DA Y. 29 Her wee-bit fingers smooth an' fair, Her lashes black an' nut-broon hair, Her rosy mooth, her dimplit chin, And ah ! her heart sae werm wi'in ! 3 WINTER'S OVER. DEEP lay the drift i' the loanin', an' lang Ower the muirlan' the winter win' sang, An' the saison wuz cruel tae cattle an' men But bonnie wee snawdraps ir bloomin' again, Ay- Violets peep frae the moss i' the glen, An' bonnie wee snawdraps ir bloomin' again. 2. Hard wur the furrows fur mony a day, Ice on the loughs an' the fringe o' the bay, An' dyin' wi' hunger wur rabin an' wren But bonnie wee snawdraps ir bloomin' again, Ay- Violets peep frae the moss i' the glen, An' bonnie wee snawdraps ir bloomin' again. WINTER'S OVER. 31 3- Deed wuz the stramelet an' dumb wuz the mill, Niwer a waggon cud climb the lang hill, There wuz snaw on the mountain an' frost on the fen But bonnie wee snawdraps ir bloomin' again, Ay- Violets peep frae the moss i' the glen, An' bonnie wee snawdraps ir bloomin' again. 4- Fuel wuz scarce, an' the cau'd wuz sae keen Puir wuz oor coomfurt by mornin' or een ; It wuz bitter athoot an' whun ye cam' ben But bonnie wee snawdraps ir bloomin' again, Ay- Violets peep frae the moss i' the glen, An' bonnie wee snawdraps ir bloomin' again. 5- After the frost cam' sudden the thaw ; Rapid the drifts in the'r meltin' awa' ; Then owe'r Airth fell the floods an' the rain But bonnie wee snawdraps ir bloomin' again, 32 BALLADS OF DOWN. Ay- Violets peep frae the moss i' the glen, An' bonnie wee snawdraps ir bloomin' again. 6. Floods in the meaddas and floods at the gate ; Pleughin' an' plantin' an' sowin' maun wait ; There wuz trouble an' sorra an' gloom athoot en'- But bonnie wee snawdraps ir bloomin' again, Ay- Violets peep frae the moss i' the glen, An' bonnie wee snawdraps ir bloomin' again. 7- Trouble an' sorra' an' sickness an' pain, Toil athoot profit, the win' an' the rain, Hope ower-clouded, nae luver, nae frien' But bonnie wee snawdraps ir bloomin' again, Ay,- Violets peep frae the moss i' the glen, An' bonnie wee snawdraps ir bloomin' again. 33 THE KNIGHT'S CHOICE. i. THESE Ards for me, this land of rolling hills 'Twixt the blue water of the blithe wide sea And the great Bay the blue sea-water fills ! Here on this height my ramparts planted be ! Yes, these for me, and for my children these ! How fresh the grassy slopes, the green thick woods ! How boon from sea to sea the summer breeze ! How fair, afar, yon mountain solitudes ! 3- The spirit broadens, grows elate and strong, On such a prospect gazing. I will keep My home where I may hear the sea-waves' song And feel the vast world round me while I sleep. D 34 BALLADS OF DOWN. 4- Set here the Lion-Banner of my race. Swift was our march on Uladh ; swiftly fell The foe before us ; yet, let none unlace His harness, for at rest we shall not dwell. 5- Our foes are legion, we a narrowing band Well-armed, made hard with battle, but too few To lie down helmless in a hostile land, Or set no blood-mark on the morning dew. 6. Yea, having won this tract of pleasant heights, Let us not lose it ! " Brave and Faithful " so Prove we, and we shall prosper, our delights The soldier's thrust for thrust and blow for blow ; 7- No dalliance and no languor and no rust ! And who could play the sluggard in such air ? We triumph in these winds because we must, Driven by strong life to labour and to dare. THE KNIGHTS CHOICE, 35 8. Let him that is the braver win ! Straight stroke, Frank speech, and free forgiveness; the firm hands Outstretched to shield the weak, to snap the yoke, To greet the guest, to tighten close the strands 9- Of friendship these be ours unto the end ! Build, then, and make our name a name of fear To them that flout us, but to every friend A welcome sound to brighten and to cheer. ARDKEEN CASTLE-HILL. l t T^V EAR little new-found cousin-friend, * ' How strange it seems that you and I Up Ardkeen Hill this morn should wend Together with the clear May sky So blue above us, and the breeze O'er Strangford's isles and waters blowing, And all the Ards betwixt the seas Beneath us in the sunlight glowing, And I should feel as if for years, In bygone ages, other spheres, Our spirits had communion held, Though o'er your neck the sea-winds play With maiden-locks all golden-gay, And mine have felt the frost of Eld, And though the freshness of your face Has lent us but a one day's grace ! Can cords of kinship subtly bind So heart with heart, so mind with mind ? ARDKEEN CASTLE-HILL. 37 2. Because about this Hill of old Our fathers fought and firmly swayed, Faced frowning Fate with spirits bold, As lovers loved, as children played, We, gladdening with a sense of power And freedom, in the mirthful weather, Here, while the distant ages shower Their memories round us, roam together And live in pleasant years of yore, And, revelling in a golden Past, Behold a magic glory cast About our feet from shore to shore. From distant diverse homes we Ve come To find a more familiar home Where hills and isles and winding bay Seem all our very own to-day. 3- What forms are glimmering in my sight As here upon the steep we stand ! I see our sires in armour dight ; I hear their merry greetings bland ; Beneath the morion and the crest 38 BALLADS OF DOWN. I see their kind and homely faces ; My hand by kindred hands is pressed ; They bid us to their dwelling-places ; Such love as oft in hours of pain My mother's eyes would o'er me rain Beneath the lifted vizor beams With tender-genial welcoming ; And clear the hearty laughters ring ; And bright the brow with humour gleams. The kindred Dead who haunt us here We meet without one touch of fear ; They seem our lives to guard and bless, Thrice happy in our happiness. 4- Yes, in this rapture rare and sweet Our Norman fathers, kind as brave, Whose dust is mouldering at our feet In vault or bluebell-spangled grave, Rejoice, their ardent lives renew, Forget the taint of mortal sadness ; Here, where their Lion-Banner flew They hail their children's-children's gladness, As, gazing round the breezy Height, ARDKEEN CASTLE-HILL. 39 We trace their Castle's vanished walls, Their frowning towers, their festive halls, Or watch the sea-waves breaking white, Or greet yon mountains as they rise Afar amid the morning skies, Or range the steep, or, hand-in-hand, Run laughing down to Cuan's strand. THE KNIGHT'S SUPPER. "Hie mensam semper splendidissimam servavit." GRACE : Annals of Kilkenny. I. HASTY, jovial, brave and generous, old Sir- Robert, armed for battle, Strode adown his hall, and cried, "Prepare a supper rich and splendid Of the best my larder yields of cates and wine and deer and cattle, That shall make us joyous-hearted when the day's rough work is ended And we come in triumph home. Let the brimming tankard foam, And the wine of Bordeaux sparkle, and the beef and venison simmer, That my men and I may gladden, back-returning from the slaughter ; And this moment, ere we march, let your cups and goblets glimmer. Ye shall fight, my friends, to-day on something blither than spring water. THE KNIGHTS SUPPER. 41 Drink, my gallant comrades ! Ho ! Each a bumper ere we go ! " 2. So they drank their foaming goblets down. But someone muttered loudly, "Wherefore waste, Sir Knight, your viands in such reckless preparation, When God knows what soul among us may return, who go so proudly Forth to fight the swarming Kerns ; and, when we lie in cold prostration, Must the cravens, crowding in, With their bragging and their din, Quaff the cups and gorge the meats intended us, the dead, to pleasure ? " And another, " Nay, Sir Knight, spread thy table still with foison, But, lest caitiffs come in conquest in to gorge them with your treasure, Mix the usquebagh and cates and wine and meat with mortal poison, So that they that taste may die In the twinkling of an eye." 42 BALLADS OF DOWN. 3- Then a flash of transient anger lit the face so brave and genial " Tush, ye be too full of envy. But an inn 's this earthly dwelling, In the which ye have no interest, but are each of you a menial, Just a tenant at God's will. If it should please Him, us expelling Hence, to shelter where we lie Those good fellows ye decry, Will it hurt us if we 've yielded the poor devils bread to feed 'em ? Let them hardly win and wear it ! If they entered now our gateway, Nothing less would manners teach us than to welcome them and speed 'em. Much good may the banquet do them ! Yet I know your worth, and straightway With such valour will ye fight That we '11 sup at home to-night." THE KNIGHTS SUPPER. 43 4- So they clashed their cups together, and in laughter out they sallied ; And they drave the lusty clansmen headlong down in fearless onset ; And all day they thrust and hewed, until at last Sir Robert rallied All his captains, and he led them home to banquet as the sun set, Leaving stark upon the plain Full three thousand foemen slain. 44 THE DOWN SODGER. i. TARRA-RAH, tarra-rah, tarra-rah ! We follie the rowl o' the drum ! Tae the tune uv our boots An' the fifes an' the flutes, We follie the rowl o' the drum ! 2. Tarra-rah, tarra-rah, tarra-rah ! Through the park an' the square an' the slum, 'Mid the puir, 'mid the gay, Fur a shillin' a day, We follie the rowl o' the drum ! 3- Tarra-rah, tarra-rah, tarra-rah ! We merch till oor buddies is numb ; Through the snaws an' the rain, Ower mountain an' plain, We follie the rowl o' the drum ! THE DOWN SODGER. 45 4- Tarra-rah, tarra-rah, tarra-rah ! Through the floods we hae waded an' swum ; Whaur the skies ir as fire In oor battle-attire We follie the rowl o' the drum ! 5- Tarra-rah, tarra-rah, tarra-rah ! Rum-a-tum, tum-a-rum, tum-a-tum ! Till a bullet flies by An' we stagger an' die We follie the rowl o' the drum ! 4 6 THE PRODIGAL SON. i. EORDIE, come hame tae yer mither, Come hame tae yer mither, yer ain, Come hame tae yer puir auld mither Alane by her blake he'rth-stane ! 2. A wudnae hae left my mither Whun A wuz a waen like you Fur the goold an' the di'mon's uv Indy, A luved her sae weel an' true. 3- A sez tae yer fayther a-coortin', " Sae lang as my Ma dra's breath, A '11 stan' by her mornin' an' gloamin', A '11 watch by her side tae death." THE PRODIGAL SON. 47 4- An' A waitit in hunger an' sorra', A gied her the hai'f o' my life, Till they laid her adoon in Grey Abbey, An' then A wuz made his wife. 5- An' yer fayther grow'd fon' o' the liquor, An wander'd awa', an' deed, An' my Geordie, my Geordie, my Geordie Wuz a' A wuz left in my need. 6. O, cau'd is the puir auld buzzom The wee waen's burthen made werm ! O, stren'th A hae nane fur tae labour, An' a 's gaed wrang wi' the ferm ! 7- O, but fur the hope that my Geordie Wull come tae his mither yince mair, A wud A wuz laid in the Abbey, The wurl' is sae cau'd an' bare ! 48 BALLADS OF DOWN. 8. O Geordie, come hame tae yer mither, Come hame tae yer mither, yer ain, Come hame tae yer puir auld mither Heart-bruck by her lane he'rth-stane ! 49 AUTUMN. i. r I "*HE heather 's all a-bloom on Iveagh's hills. J- Alas, 't is but the token Our Summer sweet its destined round fulfils, Our doom is spoken ! With Spring's beginning were our lives made one, With Autumn parted ; The rustling leaves must each one tread alone, Each broken-hearted. 2. Nay, dear, 't was not the cuckoo's note you caught Amid the reapers' singing, Only the wood-dove's muffled murmur brought With soft winds winging. Summer is past. We go through Autumn, borne We know not whither. Must love, like the dry leaflet, spent and torn, Drop too and wither ? E A LOVE'S SPELL. i. / "~p > HINE eyes enfold me like the night -*- That sinks o'er Cuan's stormful bay, As wave and wood and isle and height In gloom and slumber fade away. 2. On Cuan slopes my kindred sleep, And, with thy fervent love caressed, I seem in trances strange and deep To swoon into their perfect rest. AULD JOHN'S VENGEANCE; OR THE WITCH-HARE i. AULD John o' Ralloo went a huntin' the hare Wi' as smert a wee peck as ye 'd see, An' the hoon's wur his ain, an' he 'd rear'd them wi' care, An' wuz prood o' them a' as cud be. 2. John's mare wuz as study to ride as a bed, But unstudy in ridin' wuz John, Fur the herrin' he 'd et at his breakfast wuz red, An' the 'hale uv his flaskie wuz gone. 3- But he sut purty weel, an' he galloped awa', An' his mare wuz as fleet as the win', An' he shot like a shuttle ower puddle an' wa', An' the fiel' wuz left laggin' behin'. 52 BALLADS OF DOWN. 4- An' sae he flew on wi' the hare in his sight, An' the peck on the heels o' the hare, Till he come tae a loanin' ahint Bellawhite Wi' a gep i' the hedge leein' bare. 5- Then sez John tae hissel', " Heth, A 'm in at the daith ! " An' he plunged through the gep in his glee ; But whun he got intil the loanin' anayth, De'il a glimpse o' the hare cud he see ! 6. There crouch'd a wee wumman rowl'd up in a cloak, Wi' the boon's stannin' snifrm' beside ! Then John, wi' an oath that wud tear up an oak, Turn'd 'roon tae his hun'sman, an' cried : 7- " The De'il 's in the boon's ; they 've bin huntin' a witch ; See thon, boo she glowers an' she grins ! AULD JOHN'S VENGEANCE. 53 Cut the throats o' them a', ivvry hoon', dog or bitch An' may Heaven forgi'e us oor sins ! " 8. Then hame gaed the hun'sman in sorrowfu' plight, An' hame ambled John in his fit ; An' afore he sut doon tae his denner that night Iwry throat o' the boon's had bin slit. 9- A' sullen an' sulky sut John at his meal, He mutter'd nae word as he fed, Nae soon' cud be heerd but the plate an' the steel, Till someyin grew testy, an' said : 10. "But, John, it wuz wanton tae kill the puir peck. You 're a pitiless falla', that 's plain." Growl'd John, as he swallied his punch wi' a smeck, " Hungh ! They '11 niwer hunt witches again ! " 54 A DOWNSHIRE HOME. i. QHUT out the World and all its ills, *-' And in our Downshire home, Here, 'mid the folds of Ulster's hills, While far the night-winds roam, Sit, gathered round the kindling hearth, To-night just this one night And, careless of the strifes of Earth, Enjoy a free delight. 2. Shut out the World. Its fruits, we Ve found, Are rottenness and rust, Its praises but an empty sound, Its scorn an April's dust. Shut out the World. The kindly hearts Of wife and child and friend Are worth the wealth of all its marts, And all its pomp can lend. A DOWNSHIRE HOME. 55 3- Shut out the World. The tempest roars Afar o'er wave and wold. Pile high the hearth ; make fast the doors ; Draw close the curtain's fold. Now let the hail-showers pelt the pane, The storm the chimneys sway ; The love these girdling walls contain Charms all life's woes away. THE MOONLIT ROAD. i. AS doon the road at e'en we walk'd, The autumn moon was glowin', An', while in sweet low tones she talk'd An' fitfu' win's were blowin', Her cloak kept flitterin' ower my face, Aboot me saftly beatin', As if an angel's wings uv grace Were lightly roon' me meetin'. 2. A thought, " How mony a wound A 'd bear Tae see her an' tae hear her, How mony a pang uv griefs an' care Tae walk as noo sae near her ! Ah, Death wud fa' as kin' as sleep, If she, as noo, were by me, An' in my ear her voice might keep Sae murmurin' gently nigh me. THE MOONLIT ROAD. 57 3- O, gi'e me back that autumn e'en Uv stars an' breezy weather Whun doon alang the moonlit green We walk'd sae gled thegither ! O, let me hear her voice sae low Its trustfu' words repeatin , An' feel the win's her wee cloak blow Aboot me, saftly beatin' ! DEATH AND LIFE. PUIR Wully is deed ! " " O, is he ? " "Ay, cau'd in his coffin he's leein'!" " Jist noo A em muckle tae busy Tae trouble me heed aboot deem' ; "There's han's tae be got fur the reapin'; We're gaun tae the wark in the murn ; An' A 'm thinkin' the rain 'ill come dreepin', The-night, an' destroyin' the cum." 59 HOLY BRIDGET." r I ^HE auld gaberlunzie sae raggit an' spare *- That used tae gang leppin' alang, Wi' a skep, an' a twerl, an' a boon' in the air, An' a " whoop ! ", an' a bedlamite sang, 2. " Holy Bridget " they ca'd him, acause as he went, " Holy Bridget ! " a' day wuz his cry, As he shuck hissel' oot wi' a shiver, an' bent Tae beg o' the stranger near-by. 3- ; Auld John o' Ralloo wuz sae braid i' the belt, An' sae plump wi' guid leevin' he grew, That "Holy" wud sigh, "Och, A wush A jist dwelt In the belly o' John o' Ralloo ! " 60 BALLADS OF DOWN. 4- " Holy Bridget " haes vanish'd, an' nivver a frien' Wull care in what hole he may dee j But A won'er what doom in the Wurl'-Wi'oot- En' 'Waits sic'an a craytur as he ! 6t THE AULD AIRDS TRAMP, i. FIERCE blaws the bitter whustlin' blast Roon' Cloghy's wreckfu' bay, But A maun tramp the watthery road An' beg my lanesome way. Och, grim auld Keep o' Kirkistone, Ye 've stud there years on years, But nivver a storm sae lood an' cau'd Cam' peltin' roon' yer ears ! 2. Och, Mickie Keown, ye 're lame an' crook'd, Yer chin 's a' raspy-white, Yer taes gang ramblin' through yer shoon, Yer breeks let in the light ; Atween yer greezly pow an' heaven The shelter 's thin an' sma' ; The win' nigh lifts ye aff yer fit, An' slings ye 'gen' the wa' ! 62 BALLADS OF DO WN. 3- Och, trampin' on a night like thon For yin sae wake an' puir Is bitter coomfurt ! On an' on A gang by fiel' an' muir. What help ir sich auld brogues an' rags Whun roads ir jist yin sea ? It 's wather high, an' wather low A' 's wather, och-a-nee ! 4- Time wuz whun A cud jimp an' dance, An' trot frae toon tae toon, An' whun the day's lang trudge wuz din Wud sleep furnenst the moon, An' cared nae whaur A laid my heed, By rick or ditch or hedge ; But life's last cliff A 've climb'd, an' noo A 'm tremblin' on the edge. . . 5- My ! thon 's a gust ! ... A '11 totter on Ower Bellagelget's height, An' beg a bite at Dinver's daur, An' shelther fur the night. THE AULD AIRDS TRAMP. 63 Ay, snug 's auld Davy Dinver's barn ; Jist there adoon A '11 lay, An', slumberin' 'mang the trusses, drame Uv meadda-lan's in May. 6 4 THE SHELTERER. i, THOU luv'st beside me thus tae cower Like some wee faun by some auld tree- An oak that breaks the drivin' shower An' tempest dark'nin' airth an' sea. 2. There wull it couch till danger dees, An' aft, whun danger threats, return, Fur there its wee heart beats at peace, An' fear nae langer mak's it m'urn. 3- But ah, the difference ! Knotted boo An' gnarled bole nae sufferin's own, But A, wha yield thee coomfurt noo, Am left tae grieve whun thou art gone ! NEW TROUBLES. i. FROM the calm river to the surging sea ! Farewell the happy fields, the folds of rest ! My voyage is begun. The winds are free To waft me to my doom the worst or best. 2. Night falls upon the waters. One by one The beacons fade in blackness from mine eyes. What shall my fate be when to-morrow's sun Comes, reddening, up the east, yon stormy skies ?' 66 BETTY MACBLAINE. i. , Betty MacBlaine is a sonsie wee lass, An' her een ir as blue as the Bay uv Ardglass, An' her cheeks ir as rosy as epples in rain A sonsie bit lassie is Betty MacBlaine. 2. She 's dimplit an' smooth, an' she 's lithe as a roe, Her buzzom 's as white as the bloom o' the sloe, Her erms ir like merble wi' nivver a stain A temptin' wee hizzie is Betty MacBlaine. 3- Her waist is sae sma' an' sae roon' that yer han' Is iwermair langin' its girdle tae span ; Sae nate is her fut an' her ankle sae clane Ye 're nivver but glintin' at Betty MacBlaine. BETTY MACBLAINE. 67 4- Her hair is as dark as the shaddas o' trees ; Whun she loosens its ribbons it fa's tae her knees; She niwer cud axe fur a favour in vain A wheedlin' wee clippie is Betty MacBlaine. 5- A kin'ly wee buddy is Betty MacBlaine ; If ye met her at e'en in a loanin' alane, An' gied her a kiss, she wud niwer complain Och, a kin'ly wee buddy is Betty MacBlaine. 6. If ye gied her yin kiss on her rosy smooth cheek, She 'd wait fur anither yin, modest an' meek, An' niwer say na if ye 'd kiss her again A leesome wee hizzie is Betty MacBlaine. 7- She 's pleesant tae talk wi', she 's lively o' wit ; It 's sweeter than roses aside her tae sit Guid troth, she 's a treasure ! . . . But sma' 'd be the gain O' the mon that wud merry ye, Betty MacBlaine ! 68 BALLADS OF DOWN. 8. Ay, Gude help the falla that tak's her tae wife ! She 'd jist be a worrit the 'hale uv his life ; She maun hae her pleesure, whas'ivver the pain An' a fickle wee hizzie is Betty MacBlaine. 9- She 'd still hae her luvers that cudnae withstan' The glance uv her een an' the touch uv her han', An' the ring on her finger wud nivver restrain The flitterin' fancies o' Betty MacBlaine ; 10. Till someyin wud flether her mair than the rest, Mair craft in his tongue an' mair guile in his breast, An' awa' she wud canter tae Laplan' or Spain, An' her guid-mon might whustle fur Betty Mac- Blaine ! 6 9 IN A SQUALL BY STRANGFORD LOUGH. i. HERE, anayth this shelterin' rock, Sit we till the squall blows over. Sae may Mon the tempests mock Na, the win', luve, 's but a rover ; 2. Soon the drivin' rain that shrouds Kinelarty's hills o' heather Past wull fly in sun-lit clouds, Leadin' in the gay clear weather. 3- Luik ! Ower a' the Strangford Sea Wave an' scud an' spindrift, whiten'd, Lift, an' wreathe, an' break, an' flee, Dash'd tae spray an' rainbow-brighten'd. 70 BALLADS OF DOWN. 4- Luve, in mine, thy dear ban' rest, Lean thy sweet face tae my shoulder. T was the Wee Fow'ks' sel's that blest Cuan's beach wi' this big boulder ! A CANNAE THOLE YE! i. YE may be cliwer, may hae won A wheen o' honour 'nayth the sun But, whatsaee'er ye 've earn'd or done, A cannae thole ye ! 2. Ye may be genial noo and then Wi' helpless waens an' humble men ; But, though ye 'd gilt auld Poortith's den, A cannae thole ye ! 3- Ye may be guid ; ye may be great ; Ye may be born tae rule the State ; But, though ye rowl'd the wheels o' Fate, A cannae thole ye ! 72 BALLADS OF DOWN. 4- Ye may hae drawn yer watery bluid Frae Noe's sel' that sail'd the Flood ; But, though in Noe's breeks ye stud, A cannae thole ye ! 5- Ye may be lord o' mony a rood ; Yer smile may mak' a monarch prood ; But, though the De'il afore ye boo'd, A cannae thole ye ! 6. It 's nae that ye hae din me wrang ; It 's nae A feel a jealous pang ; It 's jist that, be ye short or lang, A cannae thole ye ! 73 THE YIN WEE LUIK. i. AS at the boord apart she sat An' noo tae this yin noo tae that She talk'd wi' careless kin'ness, Fu' weel A kenn'd her inmaist heart In a' she said had little pert, Uv hai'f the words she heerd wuz min'less. 2. An' though she seem'd tae shun my sight, A trusted mair her luve that night Than a' Airth's luves thegither ; Then yin wee gentle luik she gave. A 'd waited lang that luik tae haive An' lang A 'd wait fur sich anither. 74 SIR ROBERT SAVAGE. (OBIIT A.D. 1360.) " All hail the flower of Ulster ! " BARBOUR: The Bmce. i. STOUTER Anglo-Norman knight never dwelt on Irish land Than old brave Sir Robert Savage of Moylinny and Ardkeen. When a boy of beardless lip he had foughten sword in hand When the barks of Edward Bruce upon the Antrim wave were seen, 2. And the " flower of Ulster " marched out to meet him at the flood By the strand of Olderfleet, Le Savage, Bissett, Mandeville. SIX ROBERT SAVAGE. 75 He had fought for England's King, too, on many a field of blood, Both in Aquitaine and Scotland, and as iron was his will. 3- And the Chroniclers declare that nigh Antrim in the North In one day three thousand Irishmen in mortal strife he slew. And he wrested from O'Neill many a carucate of worth, And his boundary from Lough Cuan to the banks of Bann he drew. 4- Now, the manors he had seized and the King had made his own Out beyond his fathers' Ards of Uladh lay full many a mile, Girt with Irish foes that swayed on all sides of them but one, And no fortalice to guard them, and no foss or fence or pile ; 76 BALLADS OF DOWN. 5- And Sir Robert, searching round, saw his peril, and he said To his heir, young Harry Savage, "Thou wilt own my lands one day, And the Irish folk will rise when this hand of mine is dead, And to wrench them from my children in their legions will assay ; 6. "Therefore, buckle we my fiefs with a belt of towers and wards That may hold aloof their bravest while the Savage blood endures ; Let us castles round them build as our fathers built in Ards, To protect thee and thy children, and to baulk the Irish boors." 7- Then Sir Harry bit his lip, and he stood erect and proud, For his father's words had stung his haughty spirit like a taunt SIR ROBERT SAVAGE. 77 He had fought beside his sire where the fights were fierce and loud, And his blood was of the temper that no might of man could daunt : "Shall the sire alone seem brave and the son a coward be ? Shall the child inherit nothing from his father save his lands ? Sir, you honour not your blood when you cast a slur on me. Sir, I want no walls to hide me while I yet have arms and hands ; 9- " Better castles, Sir, of bone than your castles built of stone ; Walls for women, but for warriors shield of bone and spear of tree ! Though my sires were bold, by Heaven, I can dare to stand alone, Nor to Irish kern or Norman lord will ever bow the knee." 78 BALLADS OF DOWN. 10. " God !" Sir Robert cried in wrath, and he stamped his armed heel, And he struck his mailed hand upon the scabbard of his sword : " Harry Savage, take thy way thou, too proud to bend or kneel ! Take thy way, and take thy guerdon, and defy thy father 's word ! ii. " Brave at heart thou beest, ay, ay, better soldier than thy sire ! Ay, I know the meaning, Harry, of that sneer upon thy lip ! But, boy, valour without wit is but fuel void of fire, And without a helm to help thee thou wilt wreck the stoutest ship. 12. " Boy, the sea 's but drops of mist, and a man is brawn and brain, But what man can live when all the waves of ocean rise in storm SIR ROBERT SAVAGE. 79 To upheave and overwhelm with their cataracts of rain? Wilt thou cow the sea with frowning, crush the billows with thine arm ? " We 're outnumbered by our foes, call them weak or call them strong. Leave thy fields without a rampart, sleep within thy ' towers of bones ! ' But the hour of doom will come, be its journey brief or long, And thy race will rue the day when Harry Savage scoffed at stones." 14. And Sir Robert strode away in his anger, and he cried : "Never wall again or rampart shall be built in my demesnes. Let the boy protect his own in his haughtiness and pride. I shall soon have lived my life be his the loss, as mine the gains ! " 8o BALLADS OF DOWN. 15- And the brave Knight passed away, battle-weary, to his grave, O'er the banks of Bann in honour by the Friars laid at rest In his sculptured tomb upreared in their Abbey's silent nave, With the lions on his 'scutcheon and the lion's gamb for crest. 1 6. And Sir Harry, Baron Savage, lived carelessly and free, And against him never foeman rose to brandish lance or spear, And the house of Savage throve first of all the Normanry In the conquered realms of Ulster, proud and potent, many a year. i7- But the Norman breed were few, and Sir Robert's words were true, And the Irish swarmed and hovered thick as sea- gulls in the sun ; SIR ROBERT SAVAGE. 81 And the Savage kith and kin, though they fought and swayed and slew, Foot by foot were driven inward from the manors he had won ; 18. Slowly back upon the Ards, as the summers rolled away, Fighting inch by inch, they fell, alert and fearless as of yore, Till behind the grey old walls of Ardkeen they stood at bay, And they hurled the Irish homeward, to assail them nevermore. 19. Seven centuries of strife and persistence leave them still In the Little Ards, at peace, by Portaferry and Ardkeen, But their scattered sons may mourn young Sir Harry's wayward will, As they brood on that which is and dream of that which might have been. G 82 THE SHAWLIE. i. DRIVE, bitter blast, frae Lough tae sea A little min' yer smertin' ; Her ain wee shawlie 's roon' my heart Her wee han's pinn'd at pertin'. A 'm proof the-night 'gen' win' an' snaw, A '11 walk frae here tae Derry Though Noe's flood yince mair cam' doon A 'd face it bowld an' merry. 2. " Noo, Charlie, dearie, ben' ye doon ; Ye jist maun talc' my shawlie ; A '11 wrap it tight aroon' yer kist, For och, the night 's sae squally ! Puir lad, ye '11 fin' it unco' cau'd By Gransha shore," says Kitty ; An' then her een luik'd up in mine Wi' ah, sich luve an' pity ! THE SHAWLIE. 83 3- Wee shawlie, pressin' saft an' werm Aroon' my breast a-glowin', A kiss yer fringe, A hug ye fast, A mock the squalls a-blowin' ; Let thun'ers roar, let lightnin's glame, A '11 face the tempest brawly, Whilst close agen' my thrabbin' heart A feel my Luve's wee shawlie ! 8 4 UNLETTERED LOVE. i. \ T 7EE Ulster lass, ah little maid, * * Bent ower thy buik in studious thought, Thy wan face on thy white han' laid, Thy brow wi' troublin' fancies fraught, How dear to me thy life haes grown ! Thy image ha'nts me hour on hour ; Thou 'st made my varra soul thine own, Unconscious of thy gentle power. 2. Ah, nearer, nearer wud A press, Beside thy spirit tae breathe an' leeve, Tae help thee in thy weariness, Tae yield thee a' my min' may give, Between thy life an' ivvry herm The rough wurl's rife wi', shelterin', stan', An' guide thee through the wilderin' storm, An' stay thee wi' my stranger han' ! UNLETTERED LOVE. 85 3- But och, A 'm but a brainless lout, A puir unletter'd Doonshire bin' ! Thou scarce wud'st ben' thee doon, A doubt, Tae commune wi' sae rude a min'. An' yit A luve thy wee pale face, Thy slender ban's sae white an' sma', An' jist tae yield thee help an' grace A 'd gi'e my varra life awa'. 86 IN STRANGFORD WOODS. i. A VOICE on the wind, in the dusk of the night, 'mid the roar of the trees a-swaying, And its song is a song of the days long past, and a dread on my heart is weighing ; For the love of the dear one gone Over the dim wide sea, As I walk in the night alone, Comes back to me. A voice on the wind 'mid the storm and the night, through the roar of the woods a-swinging, And the dark eyes look in mine, and a knell as of doom in mine ear is ringing ; For the life of the days long gone, And the love that never should be, With the gloom and the night-winds' moan Roll over me. THE SAVAGES' REVENGE. i. " I ^ H ? What has become of Gilmorry, Gilmorry? * ' In the hole of what rat is the recreant hid? We 've chased him through forest, through marsh, and through meadow, up hill and down dale in his traces we Ve rid, We 've routed his sept, and we 've harried his border, and sent up his wattles in smoke to the sky; But the beast in his cunning has baffled the best of us. Where, in God's name, can the Mur- derer lie ? " 2. So clamoured the sons of the Seneschal Savage, as under the Knockagh they wheeled and drew rein. The Bandit had captured their kinsman in treachery, bargained for ransom, the ransomer slain. 88 BALLADS OF DOWN. And they'd broken his clan on the cliffs of Ben Madigan, hunted the Traitor o'er mountain and beck ; But the scent has been lost, and they stand in their stirrups, and, peering about them, they chafe at the check. 3- Then one who 'd outridden the fleetest, returning, cried, "Sons of the Savage, ride down on your foe ; He's fled to Cragfergus by yonder green alley. On ! Run him to earth ! And good speed as we go ! " And they spurred, and they swept, like a squall over ocean, away to old Carrick, and in through the gate ; And one caught a Kern by the throat, and de- manded where Corby Gilmorry lay couched from his fate. 4- Gilmorry had plundered the churches of Uladh ; from Carrick's fair windows the bars he had rent; THE SAVAGES REVENGE. 89 And now at the shrine he'd profaned he found shelter, and hard by the altar in terror he bent. A handful of clansmen around him he 'd rallied ; the doors barricaded ; the windows forgot! The Savages struck on the oak with their gauntlets, and vainly a moment an entrance they sought. 5- Then loud laughed Sir Edmund, " Behold ye, this caitiff! The miller's been caught in the wheels of his mills ! He 's broken the windows, made off with the iron / " . . . They sprang from their saddles, they climbed to the sills, They leaped to the chancel, they charged to the altar' they fought with the clansmen, and laid them to rest, And they flung to the kites, in their vengeance, the Traitor, with seven fell wounds of seven swords in his breast. 9 o MAJOR-GENERAL SIR JOHN BOSCAWEN SAVAGE, OF BALLYGALGET, Co. DOWN, K.C.B., K.C.H., &C. (BORN 1760; DIED 1843.) WELL, whatever be said, just this /'// say, Though it savour of self-laudation, So much of the blood of the breed to-day Beats time with my heart's pulsation, That the race of Savage of Ards may claim To have parented right good fellows, Graven in story a clear-cut name, Won a fame that Time but mellows ; Soldiers, statesmen, earls, or knights, With a bard, or a stray archbishop, They 've wrought like men in a world of fights Deeds that a poet might fish up ; And worthy to live with their best of yore, And worthy a poet's oblation, SIX JOHN BOSCAWEN SAVAGE. 91 Was gallant Sir John, who on sea and shore Long fought for his King and Nation. Jovial, courtly, blithe and bland, Alike with a prince or varlet, Tall and straight I see him stand In his uniform white and scarlet. At the Nile, when Nelson had laid his plan For the leap of the British Lion, A little before the battle began, In His Majesty's ship " Orion," The Captain, Saumarez, cheered his crew With a solemn and sage haranguing, And to Savage he said, " Do you speak too, And brace up your men for the banging ; " And Savage out-laughed, and " My lads," cried he, "That 's 'the Land of Egypt,' yond' edge, And if you don't fight like devils, you '11 be D d soon in ' the House of Bondage ' ! " 9 2 STORM AT EVENING. i THOUGH yit nae boo's a leaflet shake, Though yit the gloomin' Lough luiks glassy, Yon skies grow dark, the storm maun break Light fa' the rain on my wee lassie ! 2. Light fa' the rain, blaw saft the win', On my wee Luve this wintry gloamin' ; Be a' fierce Nature's forces kin' Tae my wee Luve whaure'er she 's roamin' ! 93 MACANANTY, FAIRY KING OF SCRABO HILL. (Ifalf the hill has been quarried away for the purposes of modern civilization.} i. T R ye deed, or bann'd, or banish'd, *- Macananty, Macananty, Ir ye deed, or bann'd, or banish'd, Macananty ? Och-a-nee ! Can the might o' mon supplant ye, That yer Redcaps a' hae vanish'd, Macananty, Macananty, Frae the hill an' frae the lea; That nae mair in magic trances, Whun the silver moonbeam glances, Come the Wee-Fow'k wi' their dances Frae the lan's o' Faerie, Come the Wee-Fow'k wi' their dances, Macananty, Macananty, Come the Wee-Fow'k wi' their dances Frae the lan's o' Faerie ? 94 BALLADS OF DOWN. 2. Ir ye still at Scrabo dwellin', Macananty, Macananty, Ir ye still at Scrabo dwellin', Macananty ? Och-a-nee ! Does the clink o' cheesel da'nt ye, Does the iron-ingine's yellin', Macananty, Macananty, Mak' the heart wi'in ye dee ? Or, anayth the rocks they 're rendin', Wi' their cletter nivver-endin', Ir ye still yer wee life spendin' In the lan's o' Faerie, Ir ye still yer wee life spendin', Macananty, Macananty, Ir ye still yer wee life spendin' In the lan's o' Faerie ? 3- Och, the wurP is grey and dreary, Macananty, Macananty, Och, the wurP is grey and dreary, Macananty ! Och-a-nee ! Mair an' mair A seem tae want ye, MACANANTY. 95 Wi' yer Redcaps dancin' cheery, Macananty, Macananty, Roon' the mushrooms in their glee, An' the little Piper squeezin' Tight his pipes, wi' bellows wheezin', In the scented summer season, Frae the lan's o' Faerie, In the scented summer season, Macananty, Macananty, In the scented summer season, Frae the lan's o' Faerie. 4- It may be ye 're only sleepin', Macananty, Macananty, It may be ye 're only sleepin', Macananty, Och-a-nee ! An' the elfin herps enchant ye, Whaur the rock-abysses deepen, Macananty, Macananty, Un'ernayth the Strangford Sea, An' ye mock the mason's hammer An' the quarry's divil's-clamour, Whilst ye 're dramin' in the glamour 96 BALLADS OF DOWN. O' the lan's o' Faerie, Whilst ye 're dramin' in the glamour, Macananty, Macananty, Whilst yer dramin' in the glamour O' the lan's o' Faerie ; 5- An' ye '11 come again hereafter, Macananty, Macananty, An' ye '11 come again hereafter, Macananty. Och-a-nee ! Whun the cruse o' joy is scanty, Wi' yer Redcaps' aery laughter, Macananty, Macananty, An' their music saft an' wee, Back ye '11 come again, frae un'er Scrabo-rocks they ren' an' plun'er, Wi' the beauty an' the won'er O' the lan's o' Faerie, Wi' the beauty an' the won'er, Macananty, Macananty, Wi' the beauty an' the won'er O' the lan's o' Faerie. MACANANTY. 97 6. Och, A 'm blake an' chill athoot ye, Macananty, Macananty, Och, A 'm blake an' chill athoot ye, Macananty, Och-a-nee ! Fur oor solace Nature sent ye, An' the unco' wise may scout ye, Macananty, Macananty, But ye 're still a frien' tae me. Och, this Airth we mak' oor home in, Wud be gloomier than a gloamin', If we cud nae gang a-roamin' In the lan's o' Faerie, If we cud nae gang a-roamin', Macananty, Macananty, If we cud nae gang a-roamin' In the lan's o' Faerie ! H THE OLD BELL OF ARDKEEN. i. OLD Bell, that many a Sabbath morn Rang out across the breezy Dorn To where the stag with branching horn Lay couched in cover, That thrilled with awe the shepherd's ear On castled height or moorland drear, Or soothed 'mid Cuan's waters near The rude sea-rover ; 2. Old Bell, that lightly, softly, tolled Through summer 's warmth and winter 's cold, O 'er castled height and stormy wold Rising and falling, My sires from homes of mirth and pride For prayer, at morn or eventide, Down to the time-worn altar-side Persistent calling ; THE OLD BELL OF ARDKEEN. 99 3- Old Bell, that rang with lively cheer, When, dear to each as life was dear, My great-grandparents knelt to hear Their spousal blessing, And knolled a muffled note afar When velvet-folded burial-car Bore each from light of sun and star To rest unceasing ; 4- When cruel Time 's remorseless blow Had laid thy hill-side chapel low And whelmed thee in its overthrow, Away men bore thee, A wanderer over land and sea, Till lately Fortune 's kind decree Proclaimed that at the last to me Must Earth restore thee. 5- And thou art mine indeed, to bless, To watch, to treasure, to caress, To guard with reverent tenderness, ioo BALLADS OF DOWN. To hear repeating Strange memories of the happier past Ere from their homes my kin were cast, Like summer's leaves in ruthless blast Untimely fleeting. 6. And thee against the world I '11 hold, Dear relic of remembrance old, Until my passing-knell be knolled With bootless mourning ; Then may my sons my care repeat, Till o'er Ardkeen's embattled seat The Lion-Banner waves, to greet Thy home-returning ! 101 THE SPEEDWELL. i. AH speedwell-wort sae bonnie blue, A '11 bruise thee nae wi' spade or shear, Yer frail bright blooms wur aye sae dear Tae her A luve sae weel an' true ; Tae gi'e thee hurt wud pierce my breast ; Her luve is thy protectin' cherm ; The blow that bruk' thy bonnie crest Wud seem my ain wee lassie 's herm. 2. If jist my spade thy rootlet stirr'd, Or on yin bloom my foot shud stan', A 'd feel A 'd struck her wee white han', Or chid her wi' some angry word. Dear heaven-blue weedie, bide ye still, Till a' thy leaflets gently dee ; There 's nae yin flower on plain or hill That breathes sae tender thoughts tae me. 102 TWA LUVES. i. A CANNAE crush the dear new luve That winds me in its fauld ; Yet blameless wud A walk, and prove Still steadfast tae the auld. 2. An' surely kin'less wur oor doom And puir a' airthly bliss, If in the heart wuz left nae room Fur luve sae fair as this, 3- A luve as pure as thon pale star In sunset-skies of even, Sae innocent it cud nae jar The harmonies uv Heaven. 103 SUNSHINE IN SORROW. i. THE blue May heavens wur fill'd wi' light As we oor last far'weels wur takin'. " It 's wae tae see the sun sae bright," She murmur'd, " whun one's heart is breaking O, better that the drear win's blew, The rain upo' oor brows wuz beatin', Night's darkness deeper roon' us grew, An' lightnin's ower the skies wur fleetin' ! 2. " A cannae bear this bitter grief 'Mid a' the summer's light an' splendour, The freshness uv the flower an' leaf, The thrushes' sangs sae saft an' tender. O, better 't is if winter's snaw Aroon' one's feet in drifts is lyin', An' icy tempests rage and blaw, Whun, O, one's heart, one's heart is dyin' ! " io 4 BALLADS OF DO WN. 3- A drew her nearer tae my breast ; A spak' in words that mock'd my sorrow, " Nay, lassie, let thy min' hae rest In dramin' uv the happier morrow. The summer glames that ower us flit, The warblin' birds aroon' us dartin', Wull mingle wi' their sweetness yit The memory uv oor waefu' partin' ! " 4- An' noo, 'mid Maytide's leaf an' bloom, An' summer's w'alth uv life outwellin', A muse upo' her silent tomb, My ain lost Luve in darkness dwellin', An', 'mid the life an' wermth an' light, A murmur, in my sorrow's achin', " It 's wae tae see the sun sae bright Whun, O, one's heart, one's heart is breakin' ! " THE WEE LASSIE'S FIRST LUVE. i. A CANNAE hear his name an' hide My thought wi' ony art ; A cannae see him come, an' calm The flitterin' uv my heart ; It 's pain tae meet him whun A walk, Or meet him nae ava ; A wish him aye tae come tae me, A wish him aye awa'. 2. A dinnae ken what 's wrang wi' me ; A 'm vixed, A kennae why ; A cannae talk, A cannae wark ; My min's a' gang'd agley ; A say sich foolish thin's at whiles My face is scorch'd wi' pain . . . O, let them lave me tae myseP ! A jist wud be alane. io6 BALLADS OF DOWN. 3- A 'm nae sae tall as Elsie Barnes, A hae nae een like May's, Yit aft he turns frae May tae me, An' ne'er wi' Elsie strays. A cannae thole tae see him laugh Wi' Grace or Rose or Jean, An' yit he 's stan'in' nigh my side Mair aft than ony ane. 4- He 's aye sae coorteous, kin', an' free Wi' mon an' lass an' chiel' Mayhap he cares nae mair fur me Than jist tae wish me weel . . But ah, the kin'ness uv his voice ! An' ah, his dark blue ee ! An' ah, his face an' coortly grace ! . . A think A jist cud dee. A GIRL'S LOVE. i. ALAS fur the maiden Wha luves, but may tell nae Her luve ; sorrow-laden, Maun bear an' rebel nae ; Dissemblin' an' feignin', Repress fur luve's sake, Wi' lips uncomplainin', Her heart, though it break ! 2. If A wuz thou dearest ! As free as thou seemest Wha shrink'st nae nor fearest Tae spake as thou deemest, O joy, wi' what speedin' My fit tae thy daur Wud haste, that its pleadin' My heart might ootpoor ! io8 BALLADS OF DOWN. 3- These erms wud embrace thee, That hing noo sae cauldly, Close, close, Luve, enlace thee, Fearlessly, bauldly, An', giddy in gladness An' darin' wi' bliss, A 'd seal in my madness Thy lips wi' my kiss. 4- But ah, hoo A languish Wi' luve unrequited, Wi' longin', wi' anguish Uv hope iwer blighted ! A maunnae implore thee Wi' han' or wi' ee, But mutely adore thee, Nor spake though A dee ! 109 DESPAIR. O INCE luve like oors sh'u'd niwer be, **J Since a' oor life 's but fruitless pinin', Och, Jamie, dearest, jist tae dee, Tae ken nae mair the sunbeam shinin', 2. Tae hear nae mair the thrush's sang, Tae part wi' iwry airthly treasure, Wur' better than tae linger lang Amidst the wurP uv w'alth an' pleesure. 3- If them but held my han', an' ah ! My heed wuz on thy shoulder leanin', 'T wur' dear relief tae drift awa' Whaur true luve needs nae langer screenin' ; no BALLADS OF DOWN. 4- If A but kenned that han'-in-han' We twa might glide frae sin an' sorrow, A wudnae bide in ony Ian' Fur a' Airth's gifts beyond the-morrow. ] II A TIRED SPINNER. i. A'S over noo the hoors A 'd sigh fur, The happy time whun, week by week, A 'd meet the frien' that A wud die fur, An' see his face, an' hear him speak. A 's over noo ; an', O, he 's left me Wi'oot yin word uv sad far'weel. Uv a' life's joy this murn 's bereft me. My fut lies deed upo' the wheel . . A 'm tired the-day. 2. O, weel A ken he wudnae woun' me, His heart wuz aye sae kin' an' true ; But what kenn'd he o' the chains that boon' me ? Nay lass the mon she luves may woo. He 's nae tae blame if he cud see nae The luve A struv' sae sair tae hide ; But och, it 's wae tae luve an' be nae The lass beluved, the chosen bride ! . . A 'm tired the-day. ii2 BALLADS OF DOWN. 3- A cannae wark ; A jist keep sittin', An' nae thing dae wi' fut or han' ; It 's useless sewin', useless knittin' ; A read, but nae word un'erstan'. My only joy is thinkin' over Dear things he said, an' hoo his eyes Wud seem wi' luve my life tae cover. . Ah, hoo a' hope wi'in me dies ! . . A 'm tired the-day. 4- His goolden words, whun noo A heed them An' picture a' his luiks sae kin', They seem tae lose the sense A gied them An' not yin proof uv luve A fin'. O, wull he iwer come tae meet me, An' shall A see his eyes sae fair Grow bright as if wi' joy tae greet me, Or maun A niwer see him mair? . , A 'm tired the-day. THE WANDERER. i. AWAN'ER on acrass the snaw, Jist on an' on, A care nae whither ; The flakes may fly, the blast may blaw, The storm may drive me here or thither ; A care nae hame tae turn my face, For hame haes nought tae quench this achin' ; A cannae fin' in ony place Yin thought tae soothe my heart forsaken. 2. A gied my young heart's luve awa' Tae yin wha c'u'dnae, dar'nae luve me ; A luv'd him wi' a wistfu' awe, Sae far he seem'd tae dwell abuve me ; Puir wutless waen, A little kenn'd The luve A nurs'd wuz luve furbidden, The fairest thing that life cud lend Maun a' life-lang like guilt be hidden. i ii4 BALLADS OF DOWN. 3- A 'm doom'd tae journey Airth alane, Or, waur, fur goold, tae sarve anither. O, let me, jist tae en' this pain, Like some puir blossom droop an' wither ! He c'u'dnae luve me save wi' sin, An' A frae iwry stain wud shield him Tae help my Luve the Heavens tae win My ivvry thrab o' life A 'd yield him. 4- Hoo saftly fell his manfu' words ! Hoo kin'ly beam'd his een at partin' ! O, happier leeve the wee-bit birds Aboon his heed in sunshine dartin' ! Hard, hard that A wha luve him best, That lang the maist tae see an' hear him, Maun nivver nigh his heart be press'd, Maun nivver steal, or linger, near him ! 5- A wan'er, wan'er ower the snaw, Jist on an' on, A care nae whither ; The flakes may fly, the blast may blaw, The storm may drive me here or thither ; THE WANDERER. 115 Since nane may e'er this burthen lift My life wi' nameless sorrow bendin', A care nae if the icy drift Shroods me this night in sleep unendin'. n6 A LOVERS'-QUARREL. i. THE GUID-MON. DINNAE derken my Eden, guid-wife, Wi' yer drunts aboot kennins ; Y' ev' han'led the bat a' yer life ; Let me hae my innin's. Jist gi'e me yin moment o' pace, An' nae mair o' this naggin'. (Frae the cranks o' the feminine race, An' a wife's bulliraggin', Gude save me !) 2. THE GUID-WIFE. Dinnae drive me tae madness, guid-mon, Wi' yer tyran' oppressions. Ay, ye '11 grin' me tae dust, if ye can, But A '11 thole nae sich feshions. A LOVERS-QUARREL. 117 Day an' night A hae moil'd as yer slave, Puir coomfurtless bein' ! Ye '11 hae " pace " whun A 'm deed in my grave, And Gude kens that A 'm deein' ! . . Och, lave me ! A RUSTIC LOVE-MAKING. HE. NOO, gi'e 's a kiss, ye sonsie lass . Och, gi'e 's a kiss fur kin'ness ! Yer beauty melts my heart like wex, An' doits me nigh tae blin'ness. SHE. Na ! Weel A ken the ways o' men ; The De'il fur meschief sent ye ; If yin A gied ye 'd axe fur ten, An' ten wud ne'er content ye. HE. It 's nae the merket-square ye 're in, But jist a lanesome by-way, Sae tak' yer wee han' frae yer mooth, An' ben' nae doon sae shyly. A RUSTIC LOVE-MAKING. 119 SHE. Behave ! . . The sun 's ahint the brae ; A can nae langer stay, noo ; There, hau'd yer fingers frae my frills, It 's nae the time fur play, noo. HE. Yer lips ir, och, sae smooth an' swate ! . . An' whaur 's the herm in this, noo ? Och, heth, ye 're jist the rose o' June, An' . . gi'e 's anither kiss, noo ! SHE. A tau'd ye this wud be yer game ; Ye'd keep fur aye embracin' ; It 's jist the ways uv a' yer kin', Their tricks is nivver ceasin' ! HE. Och, Natur' 't is that gi'es the law ; Mon 's made tae luve the wumman, The wumman's made fur mon tae luve . . Noo, stay ! . . there 's naeyin comin'. i2o BALLADS OF DOWN. SHE. Luik, see ! There 's fow'k that gang this way Whun gloamin'-time is nearin' . . Come doon an' walk by Comber burn That's oot o' sight an' hearin' ! 121 FALSE COIN. FALSE coin, false coin, och, weel A ken its ring, Weel mindin' the clear music o' the true ! A hae nae need uv ony praise frae you, An' little gain at best yer praise wud bring, An', fletherin' me, ye earn nae onything, But break the 'halesome laws o' Heaven anew, An' dye wi' falsehud's slain yer 'hale sowl through. L'arn, fletherer, frae the true true praise tae sing ; L'arn sarpint's craft is profitless an' base ; Stan' up, nor let yer heed sae airthward hing ; Spake oot the hate y 'd hide wi' fawnin' face. False coin, false coin, och, hoo A loathe its ring ! 122 THE TRUE HEART. i. 'S truth in baith thine een, wee lass, Whune'er on mine they rest, An' in thy wee white han' there 's truth Whune'er in mine it 's press'd ; A cannae hear thy gentle voice, Thy words uv kin'ly care, An' rise nae high aboon the airth, An' breathe nae finer air. 2. O, nestle close aside my heart, An' A thy life wull shield ; Tak' a' the coomfurt, strength, an' light My erms or min' may yield. If A cud gi'e thee a' the w'alth The win's waft ower the sea, A cudnae pay the millionth pert Uv thy great gift tae me. I2 3 THE YIN WEE FACE. i. AS doon the loanin's white wi' May A walk'd in sunny weather, A minded weel alang the way Each bird uv varied feather, Each primrose fadin' 'midst the moss, Or fern in light unfurlin', An' ivvry leaf wi' glint an' gloss, An' ivvry brooklet purlin'. 2. But noo as doon the lanes A gang, A note nor bird nor blossom ; Wi' dramefu' min' A stroll alang, Yin thought in a' my buzzom ; 'Mid hai'f-heerd murmurin's uv the brook, 'Mid scents blown lightly ower me, A only see, whaure'er A luik, Yin dear wee face afore me. I2 4 LOVE AND LABOUR. i. AT a' my toil the lee-lang day A 'm thinkin' o' my dearie, Whun plungin' deep the spade in clay, Or laynin' on 't aweary ; A whustle whilst A drive the pleugh The sangs that mak' her cheery ; Whun oot A gang wi' sheet tae soo, A 'm thinkin' o' my dearie. My dearie, O, my dearie, O, My ain wee winsome dearie, At a' my toil the lee-lang day A 'm thinkin' o' my dearie ! 2. At break o' murn whun lerks ir high A 'm thinkin' o' my dearie, An' whun the storms ir in the sky LOVE AND LABOUR. 125 An' a' the wuds ir dreary ; Whun ower the burn tae grassy braes A drive the nibblin' steerie, An' whun A drill the heedlan' ways, A 'm thinkin' o' my dearie. My dearie, O, my dearie, O, My ain wee winsome dearie, Frae day '1-agaun tae day '1-agaun A 'm thinkin' o' my dearie ! 3- Amidst the whate an' grasses lang A 'm thinkin' o' my dearie ; An' whun on merket-days A gang Wi' cairts tae Bellageary Her voice is on the wan'erin' breeze, An' murmurs, " Tarn, A 'm near ye " ; An' whilst A lop the hedgerow-trees A 'm thinkin' o' my dearie. My dearie, O, my dearie, O, My ain wee winsome dearie, There 's nae yin fut uv a' the Ian' But min's me o' my dearie ! 126 BALLADS OF DOWN. 4- In winter 's sleet and drivin' snaw A 'm thinkin' o' my dearie ; An', pilin' high the barns wi' straw, A see ye, dear, an' hear ye ! High up the knowes, amang the sheep, Awa' in muirlan's eerie, And whaur the lads the barley reap A'm thinkin' o' my dearie. My dearie, O, my dearie, O, My ain wee winsome dearie At a' my toil the lee-lang day A 'm thinkin' o' my dearie ! 127 AULD SANDY AMANG THE MEGPIES. i. A'M jiltit, an' chaytit, an' cheesell'd, But, my ! A desarvit my fate. What ca' had a falla sae greezled Tae coort a wee hizzie like Kate ? . . Wha 's lauchin' ? . . Thon horrible cletterin' Soon's like his mockin' an' hers ! . . Och, it 's only the megpies that 's chetterin' Owe'r me heed in thon firs ! 2. It soon's like a wheen o' fow'k jeerin' An' mockin' an' gigglin' fur spite. A cannae dig strecht fur their fleerin', My min' cannae rayson aright. Yin word they keep batin' an' betterin' " Fule ! " in my lugs like a curse. The De'il 's in the megpies that 's chetterin' Owe'r me heed in thon firs ! i 2 8 BALLADS OF DOWN. 3- She luved me, A thought in my blin'ness, A hopit she 'd yit be my bride, She wud luik in me een wi' sich kin'ness An' linger sae lang by my side. But whaur wuz her heart, tae gang shetterin' A' a men's life fur a. purse? . . Och, them megpies ! De'il silence their chetterin' Ower me heed in thon firs ! 4- Och, bother the thoughts that come sidlin' Wi' ivvery stroke o' the pick ! It 's waur tae be warkin' than idlin', The brain gits sae moidhered and thick ; It 's burnin' wi' faver, an' scetterin' Fancies aboot me like burs . . Bad luck tae them megpies that 's chetterin' Ower me heed in thon firs ! 5- Twa year in her luve A wuz merry As lerks whun the buttercoops blaw, An' noo whun A drame o' my dearie My life is jist ebbin' awa' ; SANDY AMANG THE MEGPIES. 129 But A ken A cud thole a' the tetterin' Here in my buzzom, an' wurse, If them megpies 'ud only quet chetterin' Ower my heed in thon firs ! 130 TWO LIVES. . i. SO you and I were born in May ! And you have all the wealth of May-time. I wonder how it comes to-day, Since both were born in such a gay time, On you alone the sunshine sweet Has shed its golden showers, I wear the season's wreath of sleet, And you its wreath of flowers. 2. O, wear its flowers in garlands gay Through every change of night and day-time Be life for you perpetual May And all your years a summer's play-time ! Yet sometimes from your lustrous height But yield my paths of gloom One ray of all your affluent light, One flower of all your bloom ! 13* BY BRYANSFORD. i. AH, what to me are all these green recesses 'Mid fresh thick leafy trees, These mossy glades reviving Spring caresses, Cooled by the lingering breeze, These shady hollows of the hurrying stream Whose murmurs chain the ear, If only thus they move my heart to dream Of those who are not near ? 2. The sound of happy children's laughter ringing,. As through the woods they pass, The girl, bare-headed in the shadow, singing 'Mid lengthening ferns and grass, The sweetness of the hawthorn in the air, The blackbird's pipings glad, Make but their absence harder yet to bear. My sinking heart more sad. SWEET PORTAFERRY. (Air "Sweet Portaferry.") I. AS thy Castle's grey walls in the low sun are gleaming, Sweet, sweet Portaferry, and the evening draws near, And I drift on the tide to the ocean down-stream- ing, And leave to the night-wind thy woodlands dear, All, all the splendours of years gone over, The glad bright life of thy halls of rest, Like the spell of weird music when fairy-wings hover, Sweet, sweet Portaferry, sink in on my breast ! 2. Dear home of my sires by the blue waves of Cuan, Sweet, sweet Portaferry of the ivy-clad towers, Where in childhood I ranged every dell the ferns grew in, And gathered in handfuls bluebell-flowers, SWEET PORTAFERRY. 133 Farewell ! I leave thee, afar to wander, Alone, alone, over land and sea ; But wherever I roam, O, my heart will grow tender, Sweet, sweet Portaferry, in dreaming of thee ! 134 MISS MAUD. i. FOWER dochters in deein' the lord o' Knock- reagh Wi' their mither left, waens, at the Ha', Miss Minnie, Miss Lillie, Miss Maud, an' Miss May, An' Miss Maud is the flower o' them a'. Och, little Miss Maud wi' her bonnie blue een, An' her hair that 's as black as the night, Her heart is mair prood than the heart uv a queen, But she 's swate as the dawnin' o' light Miss Maud ! 2. If ye gang tae the Hoose wi' a trouble tae tell The sarvants 'ull bluster an' sweer ; But axe fur Miss Maud, an' they dar'nae rebel, An' Miss Maud 'ull rin doon the big stair, MISS MAUD. 135 An' she'll s'arch ye wi' questions, an' strecht tae yer core She '11 pierce wi' her bonnie blue ee, An' if she but fin's in your buzzom yin sore She '11 help ye, whaivver ye be Miss Maud ! 3- The leddy her mither sae trusts in her brain That she 's gied her the kays o' the Hoose, An' she's hoose-keeper, mistress, and mither, an' waen ; An' she 's tender wi' man an' wi' moose ; If a hoon' in his sickness wud crawl tae her daur, She wud tak' him tae tend in the Ha' ; An' the birds in the winter frae near an' frae far Fly doon tae be fed at her ca' Miss Maud ! 4- An' yince, whun my Maggie in faver lay spent, An' neeburs a' hid in their fear, Wha cumm'd tae her bedside wi' kin'ly intent, 136 BALLADS OF DOWN. But little Miss Maud, wi' the tear In her bonnie saft ee, an' the luve in her face ? An' she sut like a nurse by the bed, An', faithfu' an' fearless, cumm'd back tae her place Each day till the faver had fled Miss Maud ! 5- O, tae see her ride oot on her pony at murn, Wi' her brithers, awa' til the mate An' afar wi' the hoon's ower water an' thurn, Wud mak' a life's misery swate, Her raven-derk tresses afloat on the win', An' her face a' aglow in her glee, As she turns wi' a smile tae the laggards behin', An' boon's like a stag ower the lea Miss Maud ! 6. There 's naethin' she cannae contrive wi' her han' ; She can sew, an' embroider, an' cut ; The cook niwer bet her in cakes fur the pan ; She 's a match fur the meenister's wut ; MISS MAUD. 137 The gerd'ner jist envies her way wi' the flowers ; The thrushes ir dumb whun she sings An' the angels o' Heaven ben' doon frae their bowers Tae listen ahint their white wings Miss Maud ! 7- Nae thought o' yer buzzom but jist she can see ; She hears iw'ry thrab o' yer heart ; Ye cannae dec'ave her, ye 're fearsome tae lee, An' her words like an arra oot-dert In anger or pity, in luve or in scorn. Ye 're better whun by her ye sit ; The saddest aside her cud feel nae forlorn, An' the proodest boo doon at her fit Miss Maud ! 8. Noo, her sisters an' brithers an' a' uv her race Ir rosy o' fayture an' fair ; She favours nae yin o' them a', fur her face Is broon, an' blue-bleck is her hair ; An' A 'm thinkin' auld Nancy is right efther a', 138 BALLADS OF DOWN. Whun King Macananty hel' sway Wi' bringin' frae Scrabo a waen tae the Ha' The Wee-People had somethin' tae dae ! Miss Maud ! 139 HELEN'S TOWER. BY Love 's hand reared, on thine aerial height Rise, pure Love's witness, and, 'mid storm and flame, Earthquake and thunder, o'er wide lands pro- claim Death by Love vanquished ; and beyond the Night Eternal splendours of eternal Light ; Hope, born of Love which grief nor time can tame, Triumphant ; Severance but a needless name ; And Joy Unending one with Sovereign Might ! Yea, thou, through whose firm tissue seems to thrill Love 's message from the Living to the Dead, With throbbings of some sweet ethereal Will Responsive through thy stony fibre sped, Prove blent in one serene Eternity The world men see not with the earth they see ! 140 A DOWNSHIRE POET. i. OME," you say, "reside in London ; That 's the Universe 's pivot ; There you '11 find the latest fun done, There see life and learn to live it ; There in line with freshest fashion You '11 keep always meekly marching, Know what knot to tie your sash in, Find your cuffs the perfect starching ; 2. " There your brain will go on growing, Stuffed with most approved opinions, Newest knowledge worth men's knowing, All the news of all dominions. He who far from London lingers Lets the glorious world go by him ; One might tell on half one 's fingers All the wealth his wits supply him." A DO WM SHIRE POET. 141 3- Peace ! Your London 's but a parish Matched with my accustomed dwelling, Field and wood and moor and marish, Mountains high, through cloudland swelling, Seas round endless islands shoaling, Cities vast of countless nations, Worlds on worlds through ether rolling, Myriad whirling constellations. 4- I, the strands of Uladh treading, Boundless orbs of empire sharing, Feel my soul's wings upward spreading Far above your lamplight's flaring. Grain your London has for each man Who his sack would pile with seed full, But to lift man and to teach man London 's not the one thing needful. 142 IN THE MOORLANDS. i. LORN on Bingian, thou and I, Lonely bird, with never a sound Save my moans and thy weird cry, As along the heathery ground Farther from my feet thou stealest, Wailing under the wide sky ! 2. Never shrink away, nor fear Wound or scath from hands of mine ; Spread thy wings and fly anear ; I have a heavier heart than thine, Woes more keen than all thou feelest, Old dead griefs of many a year. 3- What 's the purport of that word Thou repeatest day by day ? IN THE MOORLANDS. 143 Hast thou lost thy wee mate-bird ? Are thy nestlings turned to clay ? Is 't to God thy poor heart crieth Shapeless agonies all unheard ? 4- Who is He, and in what deep Dwelleth He who formed us twain ? In dark earth my brethren sleep, All my love 's been lived in vain, And I cry, and none replieth, Cry alone to Heaven, and weep. 144 O' IN LIFE'S AUTUMN. i. ; CH, it 's pleesant tae be greeted by a bright wee face As. ye 're gaun doon a loanin'in the murnin', O, Rosy lips that, smilin', show little pearly teeth a-row, An' a forehead white as curdies frae the churnin', O! Och, it's pleesant tae be greeted by a dear wee grace As ye 're gaun tae yer labour in yer sadness, O, Bonnie luvin' een that glame like the ripples in a strame, An' a dimplit cheek that flushes ower wi' gled- ness, O ! IN LIFE'S AUTUMN. 145 3- Och, it's pleesant in the sayson whun the green 1'aves turn, An' yer days o' luve an' coortin' lang ir ended, O, Tae hear a wee-bit lass bid ye welcome as ye pass, An' see her wee white han' til ye extended, O! 4- Och, it 's pleesant tae be chattin' by a blithe bright burn Wi' a wee yin lookin' up at ye abuve her, O, An' tellin' in yer ear a' her thoughts athoot a fear That sae sane an' worn a heart wud ivver luve her, O ! 5- Och, it 's pleesant whun the evenin's uv yer days grow lang Tae be frien's wi' the blossoms o' the May- time, O, An' tae 1'arn hoo wise an' guid is the heart o' Maidenhood That had hidden hai'f its sweetness in life's gay time, O ! L 146 WORK-TIME AND LOVE-TIME. i. O, SAD 'S the day uv wark and care That keeps thee frae my min' ; The wurl's a' blake, the sky 's a' bare ; A 'm falterin' like the blin' ; 2. A seem tae wrang thy gentle heart, A seem thy luve tae slight, For A maun leeve my life apert, An' veil thee frae my sight. 3- But, whun the day's lang task is wrought, Night sinks ower Castlebuy, Hoo swate tae yiel' up a' my thought Yince mair tae only thee ! 147 A POOR RHYMESTER. i. SINCE, noo my Luve 's sae far awa' A cannae spake wi' her ava, Or clasp her han' sae fine an' sma' As white 's the daisy, A jist keep rhymin' hoor on hoor ; An', if A cudnae thus o'erpow'r My buzzom's surgin' grief an' stour, A 'd gang hai'f crazy. 2. It 's soothin' thus the lee-lang day Tae let my waefu' fancy play, An' seem my inmaist heart tae lay A' bare afore her ; Tae think A hear the auld grey mill Drum-drummin' by the ramblin' rill, By Carrigs batiks A 'm bendin' still Sae luvesome ower her : 148 BALLADS OF DOWN. 3- Tae jist keep rhymin', whilst A pine, Aboot her wee sel', line on line, An' ower an' ower her name entwine Wi' verse's jingle, Oot-wanderin' far wi' aim unsure Aroon' the breezy lanesome muir, Or sittin' mopin', dowf an' dour, In smoky ingle. 4- Yet, dear ! there 's but cau'd coomfurt in 't It 's but the gildin' sunset's glint, An' nae the goold that 's gied frae Mint ; It 's life a' hazy. But if A hadnae jist thon way O' rhymin' a' the lee-lang day, A cudnae thole this weight o' clay ; A 'd gang hai'f crazy. 149 WHAT RECOMPENSE? i. WHAT can A gi'e thee in exchange For that sweet faith thy luik confesses ? A' that A ken uv rich an' strange, The fairest w'alth my min' possesses. 2. Nay, only these ? Ah, best return For trust that self-despisin' 1'aves me, Is jist tae strive thy faith tae earn, An' be as thy true heart conceives me. MEGPIES. i. YIN megpie fur sorra ! . . but yonder 's anither ! Some glame o' guid fortune maun come o' the twa ! The-day or the-morra, what luck 'ull fly hither, What fruit o' what tree on my pathway 'ull fa' ? 2. Nae treasure or splen'our A ben' on my knee fur ; 'T wur' best uv a' boons that cud drap on my way That jist the wee slen'er frail form A wud dee fur Wud come doon the loanin' A gang by the-day. A SUMMER'S WANT. i. OUOILE'S wuds wur' pied wi' daffies gay Whun, trustin', ah, sae soon tae meet, We twa fur lang wur' perted ! Alas, hoo blithe he wuz that day, As back he turn'd wi' smile sae sweet Tae me sae hopefu'-hearted ! The Spring wuz come wi' lengthenin' light, In win's uv Merch adoon the height The daffies toss'd like birds in flight, The murn we twa wur' perted. 2. The daffies a' hae droop'd an' gaed, An' gaed 's the sweet narcissus white, The jonquil 's wan an' jaded, The sloe 's lang green aboon the glade, The whin haes fill'd the fiel's wi' light, 152 BALLADS OF DOWN. The aiks the knowes hae shaded ; An' noo aboot the burns like sleet, An' ower my face, an' roon' my feet, Wi' shoorin' leaf an' fragrance sweet, Win's blaw the May-blooms faded. 3- The grass is thickenin' in the leas, An' flex an' whate mak' green the hill, An' soon wull roses sweeten In ivvery lane the Summer's breeze ; But A wull turn, expectin' still My True-Luve's kin'ly greetin' An' brave bright face an' luvesome smile, Alang the roads at ivvery mile, An' by the brig, an' ower the stile, Wi' hope fur ivver fleetin'. 153 DEVOTION. i. A'M no sae vain or blin' uv ee That A shud think she drames uv me As luvers drame, wee winsome lass, That boos a welcome as A pass, An' greets me wi' a smile sae swate Whun here or there we chance tae mate An' tak's a lingerin' sad far'weel Whun times fur partin' ower us steal, Dear weenie Gracie ! 2. A say A 'm nae sae vain an' blin' Tae think it 's luve that mak's sae kin' Her ways wi' me, wha own nae art Tae tangle ony lassie's heart. A kennae why, wee pensive thing, She seems sae close tae cower an' cling, 154 BALLADS OF DOWN. Nor why, whun aft A turn tae speak The bluid rins reddenin' ower her cheek, Dear weenie Grade ! 3- But this A ken an' weel A ken, If in the wurl' uv wayward men Yin word wur' said, or heartless jeer, For bane o' me, an' she wuz near, She 'd rise, in spite uv youth an' shame, An' speak my praise, defen' my fame, An' scathe wi' maiden scorn an' ire The wretch that did my wrang conspire, Dear weenie Gracie ! 4- An' if A lay in sickness dread An' frien's wi' selfish fear had fled, She 'd come, whate'er the wurl' might say, An' watch aside me night an' day, An' there, wee guardian-angel, stan', An' cool my brow wi' gentle han', An' gi'e awa' her ain dear breath Tae hau'd me frae the grips o' Death, Dear weenie Gracie ! DEVOTION. 155 5- An' if Mischance shud ower me fa', An' Poortith clutch me in his claw, An' A shud droop wi' shamefu' face Tae hide me frae the wurl's disgrace, If A sae mane cud be as talc' Sich gifts fur even frien'ship's sake, Her ain wee earnin's wud she bring Tae help me frae my suffering, Dear weenie Gracie ! 6. An' if A wuz this hoor tae dee, Nae heart wud langer murn for me Than hers, nae kin'ly sowl wud keep My memory lang sae green, nor weep In silent grief sae mony a night, Whun ithers' hearts again wur' light, Nor come sae aft tae stan' alane, An' muse, beside my kirkyard-stane. Dear weenie Gracie ! '56 THE LANDING OF PATRICK. i. " T T 7ITH what an eager heart the tide is shoaling * Inward and on by rock and shore and hill! Row lightly. Let the strong, blue waters, rolling Toward yon veiled inlet, waft us where they will ! 2. "To left and right how rich the pastures gleaming In morning's heat, the woods how wild and free ! Here the broad meadows from the mountain stream- ing, And there the green hills like a tossing sea ! 3- " Cling to the larboard shore, for, hark, the rumble Of yon fierce eddies whirling in their might ! Follow the glittering porpoises that tumble, Revelling with the tide, in their delight. THE LANDING OF PATRICK. 157 4- "See how their wet brown backs upheave and glisten And wheel-like roll amid the dancing brine ! On, as they frolic and the waters hasten, Drift we, borne forward by a Force Divine ! 5- " A fair fresh land on either side. What greeting Awaits us from the lips of man within ? Fair was- the land we left but lately, fleeting Far o'er the waves yet obdurate in sin. 6. " Its soft blue hills, its purple peaks upsoaring, Its woodlands billowing to the green sea's rim, The white streaks of its mountain-torrents pouring Down to its oaken dells and valleys dim, 7- " Wooed me, as there we wandered the wide ocean, To preach the Living Word beside its doors ; But the rough clansmen in their blind emotion, Inhospitable, drave us from its shores. 158 BALLADS OF DOWN. 8. " Shall they whose homes by yonder knolls are hidden Prove gentler ? I will dare the worst last fight. Yet something tells me I shall spread unchidden From yon fair vantage-ground the quenchless Light." 9- So to his oarsmen spake the Apostle, drifting On the swift waves toward Cuan's azure Bay. He watched the fleet cloud-shadows lightly shift- ing, And scanned the green hills freaked' with gorse and May ; 10. He pored upon the Firth afar that lured him Forward to some diviner destiny ; He passed the broadening channel that immured him In transient thraldom between sea and sea ; THE LANDING OF PATRICK. 159 n. Then, to the right, lo, Cuan's waters glowing, And, to the left, Quoile's isles and leafy shores ! " Bear to the left," he cried, and, westward rowing, They sprang with gladdening harmony of oars. 12. Still onward with the spreading wave they bounded, Still gladdening in the rush of the blue tide, Till, as one fair isle's grassy bluff they rounded, Behold a verdant valley opening wide ! " Drive ye the bark beneath that bending sally ! Here shall we rest," the Master cried. " God's hand Beckons me thither toward yon green sweet valley. Thence shall His glory gleam o'er all the land." 14. Then saw they how, like to a sun in splendour, The Prophet's face and form before them shone, As stretching forth his arms in glad surrender, He seemed toward that green winding valley drawn. 160 BALLADS OF DOWN. i5- "Follow, dear friends, on through yon meads Elysian ! " He cried, and up along the grassy slope, Clothed round with light and rapt in mystic vision, He led them to the triumph of his hope. i6r A DAY OF DOUBTS. i. DERK doo'ts the-day aroon' me fa', My min' is fu' uv restless fear. What if her han' be gied awa', An' A hae lost my bonnie Dear ! If sae it be, O, wha wull tell, An' save me frae the bitter cross, The grief, uv 1'arnin' frae hersel' The tidin's uv my endless loss ? 2. Cau'd Rayson mony a time haes laid A frosty palm acrass my heart, An' sneer'd, "Tae win sae rare a maid Thou hast nor luiks, nor w'alth, nor art, Bewar' uv fancies vain an' prood ; Bewar' uv hopes the wise reprove ; Thou airt but yin amang the crood ; What claim hast thou tae sich a luve ? " M 1 62 BALLADS OF DOWN. 3- An' then her words A 've brooded ower, Each kin'ly phrase that e'er she spoke, An' oot uv Memory's goolden store Each wistfu' smile an' glance that broke Frae her dear een since first we met A 've ca'd fur witness back tae me, Till Luve on Fear his heel haes set, An Doo't haes slunk awa' tae dee. 4- But, ah, the-day my heart is drear, Nae thinkin' brings my fears relief; A dread tae seek the truth tae hear, An' sink in sair unmanfu' grief; Nae langer swate 's the rose uv June, A' pale 's the blue campanula, The thrush's sang 's a weary tune, An' summer's pleesures fade awa'. 163 BY SHIMNA STRAME. i. HOORS lang A sit by Shimna strame, Here whaur the still pools glint and glame, An' uv my ain true Sweetheart drame Wi' luve undyin'. A care nae frae the spot tae roam ; Whaure'er A think uv him is home. A sit an' watch the sparklin' foam, The sma' birds flyin'. 2. Beneath the rocks an' ferny hill A sit beside the pool sae still, An' hear the wren beside me trill Wi' thrabbin' buzzom ; An' watch the little speedwell's blue An' wild geranium's rosy hue In tranquil deeps reflected true, Each fairy blossom. 164 BALLADS OF DOWN. 3- Jist noo beside the water's brink A brave wee rabin cumm'd tae drink, An' paused awhile tae peer an' think, Then dipt demurely, An' skyward turn'd his bright'nin' ee, Then sipt his wee drap eagerly, An' dipt, an' sipt, beside me free Tae sport securely. 4- Luve mak's the 'hale uv Nature dear, It mak's Heaven's kin'ly purpose clear. It draws a' leevin' creatures near The heart that 's faund it ; An' nivver did the auld Airth seem Sae guid, sae swate, as by this strame It seems, whilst here A sit an' drame, Sae luve-surrounded ! THE VVON'ER O'T. i. 'T^HOU 'ST tell 't me that thou luv'st me weel, *- An' A hae muckle won'er'd That iwer luve like thine might be On yin sae worthless squan'er'd. 2. But ah, the purer een discern The guid the baser need nae, An' thou hast faund wi'in my breast The better heart they heed nae ! i66 FORBIDDEN LOVE. i. AWUDNAE wrang thy guileless buzzom Wi' doo'ts or fears or blake distrust ; Nor blight wi' shame sae dear a blossom ; Nor tread a sacred vow in dust ; So, whaursae'er the Fates may move thee, A dar'nae say nor think A luve thee. 2. A wudnae hear thee ca' me brither Thon word wud turn the sunshine cau'd ; A wudnae see thee wed anither Fur a' the w'alth the wurl' may hau'd ; Yit, cowerin' frae thon Heaven abuve thee, A dar'nae say nor think A luve thee. FORBIDDEN LOVE. 167 3- Whun aft thy lingerin' een hae tau'd me The swatest tale the heart may tell, A 've dash'd the drame awa', tae fau'd me In thoughts that seem'd tae break thy spell ; For ah, though Time shud steadfast prove thee, A dar'nae say nor think A luve thee ! 4- Lood bates my heart whune'er A meet thee Wi' thrabs wud rend a breast uv steel ; Wi' trem'lin' lips an' han's A greet thee ; Wi' tearfu' een A tak' far'weel ; Yit, though tae sin it ne'er shud move thee, A dar'nae say nor think A luve thee. 1 68 WHAT HE MAUNNAE DAE. i. A MAUNNAE tell fur that wur' trayson- * * The luve that twines my life wi' thee ; A maunnae think in spite o' Rayson That them dost nurse yin thought o' me ; A maunnae drame thy saft een, meetin' The glance A cannae turn awa', Spak' mair than jist a kin'ly greetin' That might frae ony lassie fa'. 2. A maunnae press thy han' at pertin' ; A maunnae sit aside thee lang ; A maunnae show the tear ootstertin' Whun mute A list thy ten'erest sang ; A maunnae praise the sangs thou singest, Lest fervid words my luve betray ; A maunnae hail thee whun thou bringest Aroon' my life the light o' day. WHAT HE MAUNNAE DAE, 169 3- Whun weary thoughts an' sorrow shade thee, Whun care thy face haes thinn'd an' blurr'd, A maunnae steal anear tae aid thee, A maunnae breathe yin ten'er word. Ah, whun the heart athin grows bolder, Whun h'aves the say uv luve repress'd, A maunnae draw thee tae my shoulder, Or clasp thee tae this achin 1 breast. 4- A can but still in dumbness luve thee, In secret hide this luve, sae fair, Luik upward tae the skies abuve me, An' bless thy life in silent prayer. Deep in the derkenin' wud's recesses Alane at eve A sit an' pine, Sigh fur thy gentle han's caresses, The joy that nivver can be mine. 170 IN HONOUR'S CHAIN. YE hills o' Castlereagh, sae green Wi' 1'aves an' grass uv May, Wi' lustrous trees that lightly lean As saft win's roon' ye play, An' meaddas bright wi' blooms uv goold An' mony a ferm an' toon, Noo by the loiterin' shaddas cool'd, Noo baskin' i' the noon, 2. Ah me, far aff, wi' grassy fau'd An' knolls uv gorse an' grove, Hid frae my langin' sight, ye hau'd The yin dear lass A luve. Doon in thon vale, far aff, sae sweet, She walks by burn and lea, An' the dear spirit mony greet A may nor hear nor see. IN HONOURS CHAIN. 171 3- There 's weel-nigh thirty mile o' Ian' Atween my Luve an' me, But if A tuk' my staff in han', An' if A jist wuz free, A 'd scoor the roads wi' lightsome fit, An' ere yin star cud shine, Drap doon intae the silent street An' clasp her han' in mine. 4- Then wud she smile wi' kin'ly face, Wi' luve in her dark een, An' spake wi' guileless winsome grace My heart's wee peerless queen ! An' roon' me a' the blooms o' Heav'n The spirits o' Heav'n wud wreathe, If in the lingerin' light uv ev'n, Sae near her A cud breathe. 5- But O, A 've vow'd fur true luve's sake My True-Luve ne'er tae see, Nor maun my word uv Honour break Though daith the fruit shall be ; 172 BALLADS OF DOWN. An' A maun gaze on yon green slope Wi' langin' a' in vain, Athoot yin stir, athoot yin hope, Boon' doon in Honour's chain. MEN OF DOWN! i. THEY may tell you all too plainly That they think your ways ungainly, That your speeches seldom savour Of a sycophantic flavour, That you 're all but blunt to rudeness In your independent shrewdness, And to jibes they may subject you, Men of Down ; But I know your nature better, Know you 're truthful to the letter ; Therefore I, for one, respect you, Men of Down ! 2. They may point to other places, Where the folk have smoother faces, Where the women smile more coyly And the tongues of men are oily, 174 BALLADS OF DOWN. Where they love to cringe and flatter And with fulsome praise bespatter, And a rougher race may deem you, Men of Down ; But I know your silent action Is worth all their loud attraction ; Therefore I, for one, esteem you, Men of Down ! 3- They may say you lack the graces Of the poet in your phrases, That a sentimental ranting In your daily life is wanting, And that Fancy 's out of season With your common-sense and reason, That no Delphic draughts inspire you, Men of Down ; But your earnest life 's concealing All the poet's deeper feeling ; Therefore I, for one, admire you, Men of Down ! MEN OF DOWN! 175 4- Yes, you do n't go reeling blindly, But you 're true as steel, and kindly, And your friendships ne'er grow colder, And no soldiers' hearts are bolder, And you scorn the braggart's tumour, And you 're rich in genial humour, And you 're calm when sorrows strike you, Men of Down ; And you '11 face the fiercest foeman, And you '11 bend your necks to no man ; Therefore, high and low, I like you, Men of Down ! I 7 6 A SUNSET OFF KILLYLEAGH. i. ROUND many a pladdie, many an isle green with the glancing shower, How fleetly up the Lough we 'd sped past Sketrick's crumbling Tower ! Now round the homeward-bending sail the breezes swoon and die, And lo, becalmed in sunset's peace, off Killyleagh we lie ! 2. How still the waters round us grew that golden summer even ! From Angus-Rock to Newtown Sands was one inverted heaven ; The very sail that flagged and fell was mirrored in the deep, And not one trembling ripple vexed the water's glassy sleep. A SUNSET OFF KILLYLEAGH. 177 3- On the near shore the little Town and Castle sparkling stood ; The River round its islets spread 'mid slopes of field and wood ; O'er Audley groves, o'er Dufferin braes, far-off the mountains rolled Against a gorgeous sunset-sky of turquoise-blue and gold ; 4- And eastward all the knolls of Ards glowed in the evening ray To where the Portaferry woods leaned out toward Audley Bay A scene so fair we could not choose but inly thank and praise The fickle winds that drooped their wings and left us there to gaze. 5- Then cried our knightly Host, whose hand had steered the yacht so well That now in languid beauty lay amid the sunset- spell : N 178 BALLADS OF DOWN. " O Poet, with the wandering eyes, who lookest far away Toward purple Donard's Peak that bounds those skies of dying day, 6. " Chant some fair rhyme that breathes of love for yonder hills and dales, The love we bear our Island-Home till all of passion fails." And sweet petitionary eyes turned to the Poet's face, And gentle lips of ladies bright besought the wished- for grace. 7- Then, breaking from a moment's trance, the Poet rose and stood, Half-leaning by the stately mast, in sudden rapturous mood, And, waving toward the lovely land that lay beneath the gleam Of all those lines of varied light, he spoke as in a dream : A SUNSET OFF KILLYLEAGH. 179 i. Not tasselled palm or bended cypress wooing The languid wind on temple-crowned heights, Not heaven's myriad stars in lustre strewing Smooth sapphire bays in hushed Ionian nights, Not the clear peak of dawn-encrimsoned snow, Or plumage-lighted wood, or gilded pile Sparkling amid the imperial city's glow Endears our Isle. II. O fondling of the tempest and the ocean, White with the sea-spray and the sea-birds' wings, 'Mid clangour loud of Nature's curbless motion, The mist that to thy purple summits clings, The sun-glint and the shadow as they rove With rainbows fleeting o'er thy blustery plains, Thou tanglest us thy children in thy love With golden chains ! III. Thy beauty is the gorgeous cloud of even, The orange-glowing air of sunken suns, The scarlet rifts of morn, the windy heaven ; Thy charm the pensive grace the worldling shuns ; Thy witchery the spell that o'er us steals In gazing on green Rath's unfurrowed round, And hallowed Ruin where the mourner kneels, And haunted Mound. v* IV. Thine the weird splendour of the restless billow For ever breaking over lonely shores, i8o BALLADS OF DOWN. The reedy mere that is the wild-swan's pillow, The crag to whose torn spire the eagle soars, The moorland where the solitary hern Spreads his grey wings upon the breezes cold, The pink sweet heather's bloom, the waving fern, The gorse's gold. v. And we who draw our being from thy being, Blown by the untimely blast about the earth, Back in love's vision to thy bosom fleeing, Droop with thy sorrows, brighten with thy mirth ; O, from afar, with sad and straining eyes, Tired arms across the darkness and the foam We stretch to thy bluff capes and sombre skies, Beloved home ! VI. Forlorn amid the untrodden wildernesses, The pioneer, bent o'er his baffled spade, Sighs for thy cool blue hills remote, and blesses Thy dewy airs that o'er his cradle played ; The girl love-driven to toil in alien lands, Lone-labouring for home's dear ones, wearily Hides her wan face within her trembling hands, And sobs for thee ; VII. 'Mid the dread thunder of battling empires rolling Thy soldier for thine honour smiles at death ; Thy magic spirit, thought and will controlling, Of all we mould or dream is life and breath ; A SUNSET OFF KILLYLEAGH. 181 To thee as to its source and sun belongs All glory we would blazon with thy name ; Thine is the fervour of our fairest songs, Our passion's flame. VIII. The nurslings of thy moorlands and thy mountains, Thy children tempered by thy winter gales, Swayed by the tumult of thy headlong fountains That clothe with pasture green thy grassy vales, True to one love in climes' and years' despite, We yearn, in our last hour, upon thy breast, When the Great Darkness wraps thee from our sight, To sink to rest. 8. He ceased, and fervent plaudits rang across the tranquil sea; And silent sat in thought awhile our little company ; Then, turning toward the fairest face amid the circle fair, The Host once more a favour begged with stately old-world air : 9- " If Leila now, as Leila can, some song of home would sing, 182 BALLADS OF DOWN. Some song of kindred love, and hope, and bright imagining " . . " Ves, Leila, Leila, Leila, sing," soft voices, chiming, said, " Sing some sweet Irish song for us to Irish music wed." 10. Then Leila, with her soft brown eyes and spiritual face, On Helen's shoulder laid her head in sweet un- conscious grace, And, looking toward the skyey deeps, sang clear and soft and low A song that seemed a-thrill with wild harp-notes of long ago : i. O Peace, O Love, from Heaven afar, 'Mid roseate tints of East and West, Come, soft as ray of evening-star, Come, fold our Isle in endless rest ! No more let heart from heart be torn By narrow spites and blinding hate ; No more the exile weep, forlorn, His lightless hearth left desolate ; A SUNSET OFF KILLYLEAGH. 183 ii. No more in wild and desperate dreams The zealot waste a wayward life, The silvery murmurs of its streams Be marred with noise of needless strife ; Nor any ancient wrong remain To bar free minds their lawful scope, Or fair ambition's fervours rein, Or fret the heart with fruitless hope ; III. But side by side let rich and poor In happiest concord live and grow, Each in the other's faith secure, And lightening each the other's woe ; And all the Isle, in waste and wold And leagues of grass and breadths of corn, Be bright with blameless homes, and hold A prosperous people blithe as morn ; IV. And Art her gorgeous fabrics raise, And Song make glad the fields and air, And Learning light the lampless ways, And Virtue blossom everywhere ; Till never fairer Eden shine Beneath the blue and thronging skies, And all the loves of Earth entwine Our Sea-Encinctured Paradise ! " 1 84 BALLADS OF DOWN. ii. So Leila sang, and all who heard, as if in wordless prayer, Sat brooding with responsive thought amid the evening air. "A happy dream, and may its hope be all-in-all fulfilled ! " So said our kindly Host ; and we, whose hearts that music thrilled, 12. Still gazed upon the distant hills and tints of drooping day, And the far fields and isles and woods around the waters grey. Then o'er the Ards the white moon rose ; a gentle breeze upsprung, And in, with silvery sails, we steered the isles of Quoile among ; And tacked, and ran with prattling prow toward Portaferry's Keep ; A SUNSET OFF KILLYLEAGH. 185 And watched the gathering stars above, the sea- flames round us sweep ; And tacked again by Walter-Mead, and soon in silence lay Amid the mirrored lights of heaven in Strangford's dreamy bay. i86 THE GHOST-STORY-TELLERS. IN Arney homestead, one weird winter-night, Beside his table, by the glimmering light Of log-fire and of candle, while the wind Moaned in the little belts of trees that bind The house and orchard in from the bare world, Sat farmer Maxwell. Back in darkness, curled, As some tired hound might coil himself for rest, On a rude couch, in tattered raiment drest Rag-ribbons, Braniff, the lorn poet-lad, Shattered with griefs, fantastically mad, Lay slumbering, he whom every man and child Pitied, while awe-struck by his fancies wild, And every farmer freely proffered bread, Warmth for his frame, and shelter for his head. Before the fire, rolling with both his hands His pipeful of black weed, and o'er his lands Pondering, the neighbour-tenant, Mikkel Hayes, Bent, all his fresh face brightening in the blaze. THE GHOST-STORY-TELLERS. 187 Knitting, and dreaming of her lover, Kate, The farmer's fair-haired daughter, sat sedate And silent on the settle. By her side Her stalwart elder brother, drowsy-eyed From labour all day long about the farm, Stretched his tired limbs toward the faggots warm. Screened in the chimney-corner cozily, Was perched on creepie-stool torn cap on knee, Patched leathern breeches hanging from his hips, And leggings loose about his ankles thin " Wee Dan," the late Squire's whilome Whipper-in ; While, back to hearth, and hands in pocket, stood Tall, gaunt, and gloomy, given-o'er to brood On a sad life's mischances bitterly The schoolmaster of Mullagh, John McNee. The Goodwife of the house had risen up And cleared the liberal board of plate and cup, And Maxwell to his press had turned about, To bring his best of gin and whiskey out, When someone came a-knocking at the door, And in, amid the night-wind's ocean-roar, The Elder, Gordon, staggered, scared and cold, And all at once his late experience told : 1 88 BALLADS OF DOWN. (THE ELDER'S EXPERIENCE: THE HAUNTED GLEN.) I. " 'T^HON Ha'nted Glen sae murk wi' trees, *- Wi' win's an' waters plainin', It mak's the bluid wi' terror freeze Its paths tae walk alane in ; Whun evenin's glooms aroon it fa' An' dismal night grows thicker, Ugh, then the wailin' voices ca', An' then the derk shapes flicker. 2. " It 's no that A believe the Deed Can ha'nt an' scaur the leevin'; Tae Mon the Blessed Buik haes said Tae dee but yince is given, An', haevin' deed, anither Ian' Becomes the sperrit's centre ; It 's bad' this Airth far'weel, an' can Nae mair this Airth reenter. THE GHOST- STORY-TELLERS, 189 3- " It 's nae the Deed A fear, fur they Can wark nae herm tae mortal ; But dear ! sich shapes an' soon's uv wae The staniest heart wud startle ! They 're moanin' there, they 're jibberin' here, Ahint, afore, they 're flittin', They 're getherin' far, they 're crowdin' near, Or cloak'd an' dumb they 're sittin'; 4- " An' a' sae sudden ower my sight The spectral forms come gl'amin', A shiver ower wi' tinglin' fright, My een wi' draps ir str'amin'. It 's no that A believe the Deed, Ye ken, can ha'nt the leevin'j But thon Glen's paths alane A '11 tread Nae mair by night or even. 5- " A jist wuz walkin' frae the Kirk, An' tuk the beechwud loanin' . . An' my ! the night is wild an' murk, An' hoo the wuds ir groanin'! . . 1 9 o BALLADS OF DOWN. A miss'd the turn, an', ugh, A stray'd Adoon the way A dreadit, An' as it wound through deeper shade A scarce had stren'th tae tread it. 6. "Ootstertit jist afore my fit A rat, or weasel, slidin'; An' roon' aboot me seem'd tae flit A grey owl frae his hidin'; An' then the Shapes begood tae tak' Their sates on bank an' hollow ; An', ugh, A heerd ahint my back A dismal futstep follow ! 7- " A turn'd aroon', an' there A seed Great Gude ! a ghaistly figure Wi' bluid-stain'd neck and mangled heed ! A summon'd a' my vigour, A strud alang, an' nae luik'd roon', But onward strain'd a-trem'lin', And aye A heerd the futstep's soon' Through a' the tempest's rem'lin'. THE GHOST-STORY-TELLERS 191 8. " A gasp'd fur braith, my heart stud still, My stren'th tae water meltit, My fit, thrust doon tae climb the hill, Scarce reach'd the road or felt it. At last I spied the cheerfu' glame Here shinin' frae yer wundee, An', Gude be praised, ye 're a' at hame, An' gie an' kin' A Ve faund ye ! 9- " It 's no that A believe the Deed Ye min' can ha'nt the Leevin'; But thon Glen's paths alane A '11 tread Nae mair by night or even." " Dear ! " said the Goodwife, " Mister Gurdon, Sir, Thon wuz a fearfu' veesion ! . . Wully, stir The greesugh. . . Sit ye, Mister Gurdon, doon, An' Wully '11 male' ye up a jorum soon, An' thon 'ull scaur the spectres frae yer ee, An' werm yer buzzom. Talc' thon erm-chair, see ! " And Maxwell in his hand a tumbler set And bade the Elder, cold and dazed and wet, Sit in beside the hearth, and dry his feet 192 BALLADS OF DOWN. Before the glowing pile of logs and peat, Saying, "A doo't there mebbe sperrits that walk The Airth an' may wi' ither mortals talk, But A hae nivver seed yin." Knitting still, Kate, with a shiver, said, " Boon by the mill, A'm tell't, a mon wuz murther'd yince, lang syne." "Ay," said her father, "nigh the blaisted pine That shoots his white bare branches up the sky And sturms keep snappin' as the saysons fly, A mon wuz murther'd, fifty year or mair Afore the mill wuz burnt A'm sartin shair, An' sae they ca' the Glen 'The ha'nted Glen.' . . Come, fill up, Mister Gurdon ! Welcome ben ! Ye '11 see nae veesions in thon gless, A doo't. Gude sperrits in hau'd evil sperrits oot. Sit in aside Wee Dan." But, while he spoke, Wee Dan the Whipper from his corner broke, Set himself down beside the table, filled A glass with gin o' the whitest, filled, and swilled, And filled once more, and, leaning from his chair, Spoke with set face and grave deliberate air : THE GHOST-STORY-TELLERS. 193 (THE AULD WHUPPER-IN'S STORY: MISTER ALICK.) " A Y, it's lane-same oot o' daurs the-night, but ^~^- cozy here athin . . Blaw up the turfs, an' mak' a blaze . . . Ah, thon 's a darlin' gin ! . . An' noo A'm gaun tae tell ye what ye '11 say's a wheen o' lees. It 's a' true as thon 's the win' athoot that 's whustlin' roon' the trees. 2. " It 's as true as here A 'm sittin' an' my name is Dan McMinn That deed men rise frae oot their graves, an' wan'er hame again. A dinnae doo't they lee at pace as lang 's the day- licht 's clear, But in the nicht A 'm sartin shair they 're waikin' ivvrywhere. o 194 BALLADS OF DOWN. 3- " The auld big Hoose o' Dangin Stan's nigh Bella- hinnian Bay; It's blake an' bare tae luik at noo ; but mon ! A min' the day Whun hoon's an' men an' horses made the place wi' voices gled As ony hoose uv Squire or Peer frae Boyne tae Malin-Head. 4- " Whun Mister Alick kep' his hoon's an' A wuz Whupper-In, The perk wuz echoin' day an' nicht wi' wark an' cheerfu' din. Och, hoo ashamed o' these mane times A feel whun jist A think O' the bucket-fu's o' poonch an' wine the gentry then wud drink ! 5- " An' Mister Alick, my ! he cared fur nayther mon nor de'il. He'd hunt, an' drive his fower-in-han', an' race, an' nivver feel THE GHOST-STORY-TELLERS. 195 An' hoor's fatigue o' min' or limb. He 'd drive his gig tae toon, An' spen' the nicht in drink an' play, an' drive tae Dangin doon, 6. "An' change his claes, an' ate his bit, an' mount, an' tae the mate Be aff by break o' murnin', an' awa' ower ditch an' gate. The bowldest rider uv them a', he'd gang wi' da'ntless face, An' de'il a jock in Irelan' but he'd bate in ony race. 7- " An' yince they bribed wee Boyd he 'd hired tae ride a racin' bay, An' someyin tell't him, an' sez he, jist, ' Let them bribe away ! ' An' jist afore the stert wee Boyd he jerkit frae his sate, An', mountin', rode the race hissel', an' won in spite o' weight ! 1 96 BALLADS OF DOWN. 8. " The Maister's hame the saddle wuz ; in pleesure an' in pain His fut wuz in the stirrup an' his han' wuz on the rein. He bred, an' train'd, an' raced, an' bet, an' bought, an' lost, an' won ; An' horses, horses wur' his sang frae dawn tae dayl'agaun. 9- " Ay, horses wur' his fortune s wrack, an' horses wur his daith ; Yin day his hunter fell and rowl'd, an' he wuz crush'd anayth. A min' the murn I sut and cried aboon the auld vault-stair Whun they had laid him wi' his frien's tae rest fur ivvermair. 10. " Weel, noo, ye '11 say the auld vault-daur whaur hai'f his forebears rest Is strang eneuch, wi' lock, an' bar, and airth agen it press'd, THE GHOST-STORY-TELLERS. 197 An' yince a corp wuz bowlted ben it cudnae weel get oot. A tell ye, sirs, if thon 's yer thocht, ye 're gie an' wrang, A doo't. ii. " Twa months he 'd lain in Dangin vault, whun A wuz dannerin' hame Alane the nicht was unco' derk wi' jist yin moony glame, Whun, as A come nigh Dangin gates, A heerd a hoof ahint, An', turnin', seed a sicht that wud hae scaur'd a sowl o' flint. 12. " A horseman up the highway rode, an' as he cumm'd anear A seed his face as pale an' deed as ony borne on bier . . An' it wuz Mister Alick's face, a' white, an' cau'd, an' deed ; On his deed horse the deed mon sut wi' high an' haughty heed. i 9 8 BALLADS OF DOWN. 13- " A shiver'd like a burn-side rush ; but aff my cap A drew, An' knelt adoon foreby the shough, an' wake an' chill A grew ; An' tae his brow his han' he raised as he wud ivver dae Tae ony mon or weefe or chiel wud greet him on the way ! 14. "An' on he gaed, an' at the piers he turn'd the horse's heed, An' through the gates he maun hae pass'd, for nae- thin' mair A seed ; But whun A reach'd the ludge the lichts wur oot an' fow'ks abed. An' lane an' still lay a' the drive that through the lindens led." " Won'erful! ay!", the Goodwife, shuddering, said; " Won'erful ! ay ! ", the host with bended head ; " Won'erful ! ay ! ", the Elder murmured low. " It 's true as ravens fly an' rivers flow," THE GHOST-STORY-TELLERS. 199 Cried Dan, and filled his glass a little higher, Lighted his pipe, and went back to the fire. Then rose up Mikkel Hayes with sudden zeal, And rattled off a story like a reel : (MIKKEL HAYES'S STORY: THE SPECTRE OF KNOCKDOO.) I. "X/E'VE heerd o' the spectre that rides frae -* Knockdoo ? A year syne A seed him as noo A see you. VVhaurfrae he comes til it nane leevin' can say ; Whaurtae he gangs frae it, diskivvir wha may ! 2. " Some thinks he 's a Savage come up frae Ardkeen, An' A dar' say they're richt, fur he comes like a frien', An' he rides like a chief o' the royal auld race ; But nane ivver glow'r'd at his helmeted face. 200 BALLADS OF DOWN. 3- " He 's mebbe Sir Rowlan' that ruled in Lecale, He 's mebbe derk Raymon' array'd in his mail, He 's mebbe Lord Albanagh scoorin' the fiel', He 's mebbe a drame, or he 's mebbe the De'il. 4- " But A b'lieve that he 's yin o' the royal auld bluid, Fur he rarely brings ill, an' he aften brings guid ; An' he rides roon' the Airds whaur his faythers helt sway, Frae the sooth tae the north, an' by Lough-shore an' say ; 5- " Frae lone Bellagelget tae Donaghadee ; Tae Groomspurt ; tae Newton ; tae Gray Abbey lea ; Frae Kirkcubbin tae Glestry; an' roon' tae Ardkeen, Whaur he circles the Castle-hill's mergin o' green ; 6. " Roon' the Dorn ; an' the Deerperk ; the wee Beshop's Mell ; An' up by Lough Cowey an' Abbacy Hill ; THE GHOST-STORY-TELLERS. 201 Boon' roon' Portafarry ; an' on tae Barr cleugh ; An' by Quintin-Bay turrets yincemairtae Knockdoo. 7- " Then he vanishes clane whaur the Castle yince stud. In the auld stable-yerd, twanty perch frae the wud, An' if ye 're near-by whun he fades intae nicht Ye '11 hear his swoord clesh as he seems tae alicht, 8. " An' a soon' as if someyin the saddle had tuk And stirrups and saddle flung doon on the rock, An' ye '11 shiver a' owe'r, an' trim'le, an' pray, An' lang fur the licht an' the coomfurt o' day. 9- " Some sez that he 's wutchin' the auld Castle-keeps, An' if onyyin herms them, his vengeance he reaps ; If sich passes him, scoorin' the roads i' the nicht, His back wi' the braid uv his falchion he 'H smite, 10. " An' the mon 'ull gang limpin' the rest uv his days ; But the han' that purtects them wi' fortune he pays. 202 BALLADS OF DOWN. An' they sez that there 's goold in the ruins yet hid Whaur tae a' save his kinsmen tae dig is furbid ; ii. " An' if onyyin pokes in thon ruins fur pelf, He '11 weether him up like a weezen'd wee elf; But a' wha may honour an' welcome his race Is sartin an' shair tae partak' uv his grace. 12. " Some sez he '11 keep ridin' aroon' in his mail Till yince mair ower Antrim an' Airds an' Lecale The flag uv his race on their castles wull wave, An' then he '11 ha'e rest in the quate uv his grave. " Thon night that A seed him, A tell't uv jist noo, A wuz stan'in' alane in the yerd by Knockdoo, VVhun he flesh'd through the gate in his helmet an' mail, An' the horse he wuz ridin' stud derk by the pale. 14. " Fur a moment A seed them, an' trim'led wi' dread, Then awa' like a veesion they faded an' fled, THE GHOST-STORY-TELLERS. 203 An' A heerd, jist as plain as the clink o' thon spoon, The clesh o' the stirrups an' saddle flung doon." "Thon's true, A'm shair," said Maxwell, "fur at laste A dizzin fow'k hae seed an' heerd thon ghaist." " Ay," quoth the Goodwife, " Jamie seed him tae, Peg's Jamie that wuz droondit in the say . . Puir wean ! Ochone, ochone ! " " A wudnae sweer Sich thin's there be, an' yit A doo't A'd fear Tae wan'er muckle in the nicht an' cau'd Aroon' Knockdoo, syne sich a tale 's bin tau'd," Muttered the Elder, lifting to his lip His piping tumbler for a soothing sip. "A'm sartin shair," cried Dan, "he's near akin Tae them auld Castle-fow'k, fur ivvry yin That ivver bore the name cud race an' ride, An' nivver aff frae horse's back abide, Nor sit yin moment quate on stool or steed, But kep' on bizzin' tae they drapt doon deed. Sae smert an' restless wur they in their ways, Sae free an' active a' their mortal days, 204 BALLADS OF DOWN. A doo't Auld Nep' that calms the ocean-waves 'T wud bate tae hau'd them leein' in their graves. A 'm thinkin', tae, that yince, by Cloghy Mell, Walkin' yin nicht and talkin' tae mysel, Wi' my ain een, anayth a frosty sky, A seed the Ghaistly Horseman whizzin' by." Sad and more sad had grown the Master's face, And to and fro the room he 'gan to pace, At last once more before the fire he stood, And thus began to speak in mournful mood : (THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY: THE DROWNED VICAR.) I. " \ T 7 E know not what we may. Look narrowly * At the Spring leaf and you will find fair hues You saw not there. So spirits there may be Moving about us, and our hearts refuse THE GHOST-STORY-TELLERS. 205 To see them, through some languor of the mind, Or lapse of studious effort, lack of faith, Or dulness of the senses, or the death Of delicate thought, leaving us deaf and blind. 2. " But sometimes when the spirit within us grows Suddenly strong and all the senses stirs With affluence of being, it sees and knows The finer presences. As gossamers Glitter in sunlight and in shadow fade So that we note them not, so fade and gleam The spirits of the Dead, as in a dream, To our own sense through our own force displayed. 3- " But when they visit us, how every sin Done in our life of sin, comes back and weighs With all its horror on the soul within, As Fear its chill palm on our conscience lays ! . . I hated Ballagh's Vicar hated, yes, Wherefore deny it ? He was cruel, cold, Mean, treacherous, a spy upon us, sold The Church's goods, brought to our hearth distress, 206 BALLADS OF DOWN. 4- " Prompting the upstart owner of our farm, Late purchased from the kindly highborn race Who never wrought us hurt or wished us harm, To drive us from our age-long dwelling-place And leave my widowed mother desolate. Not strange that I should hate him. Well, one day I met him walking in our homestead-way, And stopt him by our chained and silent gate, 5- " And told him of our wrongs. He sneered, and turned ; And then my passion rose as a wild beast Gathering itself to assail ; face, forehead, burned With fury ; and I struck him him, God's priest And laid him prostrate in the roadway-dust. Did I repent? Not I. I left him there, Content the very arm of Death to dare, Deeming his degradation right and just. 6. " So full of hate and sick of life was I. Well, sirs, that very night in Strangford Sound THE GHOST-STORY-TELLERS. 207 It was a fierce night and the waves were high, Sailing the Lough, the man I 'd struck was drowned Fell overboard his boat, as in a fit Or faint, upstanding to make fast a rope, Dropped down and disappeared beyond all hope Of finding, gulfed within that watery pit. 7- " And none lamented him. ' God's punishment ' Men called his sudden death and body's loss. But, sirs, 't was then my heart grew penitent It seemed as if my blow his ending was. I saw him lying stunned i' the dust and clay ; The piteous helpless staring of his eyes Haunted me every hour, and would surprise My heart with sudden fear amid the gay, 8. " And quench the natural joy of health and youth. Now hear my story. Twelve full months had flown, The Vicar, though forgotten not, in sooth To most men's minds a shadowy name had grown, 208 BALLADS OF DOWN. When one calm night from Killyleagh I rowed Past Quoile to join a parish festival Out yonder. We were three. Our boat was small And very frail, and bore a dangerous load. 9- "The_/2/ was over, and the Rector's wine Made light my friends' hearts. Dark the night as Death ; A rising ripple jagged the water's line ; And down I sat to steer, with shortening breath, Knowing the boat was brittle as dry bent, The gunwales all but level with the sea, And the two oarsmen in their jollity Dire danger if to left or right they leant. 10. " Outward we swept upon the lonely sea. Dark, dark the waters were. Stroke after stroke My two friends rowed, half-drowsing Anxiously I watched them as the heaving wavelets broke And the frail boat, o'erstrained, arose and fell. The dark isles were my beacons ; guiding light THE GHOST-STORY-TELLERS. 209 I found not anywhere ; with baffled sight I sought the landmarks that I knew so well. ii. " More lonely and more lonely seemed our way, And a great dread crept over me. 'T was here, Amid the billows of this river-bay, The Wretch had dropped and perished. With my fear I struggled, but the thought I could not quell. Far off, within mine ear slow vibrating, With deep low muffled note and measured swing, I seemed to hear the tolling of a bell. 12. " I thought of happier things. Then very cold I grew in the night air. A waking sleep Entangled me and dazed me in its fold. But still I strove my vigil well to keep, And steer the boat with nerve unvanquished ; And still I watched the motion of the oars, And through the dark the dim receding shores When, suddenly, a yard from the boat's head, p 210 BALLADS OF DOWN. 13- " Rose up the Drowned Man's body from the sea, Erect, and visible to the waist, so pale, With silent, ghastly look glaring at me In anger, hate, reproach, and piteous bale, And moving toward the boat with stretched-out arm, It might be with intent to grasp the side And whelm us in the wave ! O, if I cried The cry I scarce could stifle, the alarm 14. " Would so have 'frighted my companions then, Who knew not what I saw, that with wild leap They would have started up, and we three men Down with the foundered boat into the deep Had gone at a breath, / clutched by those dead hands And dragged by that dread Spectre down to Hell ! Great drops of sweat from my cold forehead fell, My heart stopped beating, bound with icy bands. 15- " And still I strove to sit on motionless, And give no sign of wonder or of awe ; THE GHOST-STORY-TELLERS. 211 And nearer the grim Figure moved, to press His hands upon our gunwale and to draw All down. I lifted up my face to God And prayed in silence, 'Father, take him hence!' And in my thought so moved the will intense I struck him. Back he fell, as stone or clod 16. " Drops in deep water back the Drowned Man fell. Like one born dumb, I sat, and quivering As one late battling with the night-hag's spell, And then I tried to speak, but could not bring Shaping the phantom phrase in vain assay Palate and tongue together, nor one word Utter. At last, by a new terror stirred, I cried ' Speed ! ', and we swept across the bay. . . " And when we reached the slip at Killyleagh, They found me all so faint, and worn, and spent, I scarcely with my staff my feet could stay. Up through the street they led me weak and bent 212 BALLADS OF DOWN. As though some sudden stroke had left me lame. And never since that night am I the strong Bold man that faced the storm and fought with wrong, But shattered, nerveless, timid, scared, and tame." But, while the Schoolmaster his sorrow told, The Poet from their coil his limbs unrolled, Leaned on his hand, his wild eyes fixed with rage On the grave man, as if resolved to wage Fell war upon him for some unknown wrong ; And, as the story wound its length along, Growing more restless, where he lay concealed And quite forgot, with darkness for his shield, At the last word 's subsidence, up he sprang, Struck on the table till the glasses rang, Stooped forward, fury swaying all his form, And broke into wild utterance like a storm : THE GHOST-STORY-TELLERS. 213 (THE MAD POET'S STORY: THE SOUTERRAIN.) " r I ^HE things ye have known are as flames of -*- the sea, Or as leaves in the moonlight silver-clad, Compared with the visions by day and by night That hover about me, cling to my sight, Haunt me and harass me me, me, me In my loneliness and my misery, And have made me mad, have made me mad, The Faces that leer at me over my bed, Circling round my burning head, The Shapes that arise in the lampless room, Stretch their lean arms out of the gloom, Then over me bend with blank dead eyes, Till they all but touch me ah ! ha ! ha ! ha ! And I leap up, shrieking and yelling for light, And sink on the floor in horror and fright, And the bloodhound howls, and the night-bird cries 2i 4 BALLADS OF DOWN. Ah ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Ah ! ha ! ha ! ha ! The souterrain, the souterrain ! " They said there was none had courage enow To dig to its portal with might and with main And enter its narrow and winding lane ; And I in the crowd of them made my vow That I in the night would do it alone, Roll from its mouth the sealing-stone, And enter, and root to its last recess, And laugh in my utter fearlessness. And I rose in the night when the stars were dim And the moon was cloaked in the tempest-cloud ; And over Knockdoo to the drained lake's rim I walked in the dark when the winds were loud, And struck on the turf, with my ear to the ground, Heeding the sound, Till its hollowness told me the spot I 'd found, Found, found ! And I dug with spade, and I tore with pick, And I shovelled up earth as a rabbit that burrows Under the slabs in the kirkyard furrows, Or a rat ha ! ha ! in the dead-vault's brick Gnawing to what he may smell in it . . THE GHOST-STORY-TELLERS. 215 Ha ! I bored and I bored, and deeper and deeper I rooted and raked, and the hole made steeper, Till I reached at last the jaws of the pit, And with trembling hand my taper lit, And worked, feet foremost, prone on breast Into the tunnel so narrow and low, Backwards, backwards, wary and slow, With beating heart and breath oppressed, Knowing not what behind me lay, Or whither would wind that dismal way. Then broader and higher the cavern grew, Till I rose with shoulder stooped, and found That I could turn my body around And walk, right forward, freely, through. But ugh ! how dark and narrow and low, As I probed still onward wary and slow, Holding the taper in front, and screening Its flame with one hand ; sometimes leaning Down, to scan the dim-lit floor, Or when the roofing-slabs hung lower ; And sometimes every hollow and seam Searching, as my spirit grew bold, In hope to catch by the taper's gleam The glimmer of gold, the glimmer of gold, 216 BALLADS OF DOWN. Or the sparkle of jewel hidden of old By the magical people who built such places Under the earth and the mountains' bases For a purpose that some may learn with pain And, learning, can never find peace again ! " So, on and on, with a heart more free, I went in a wild security. Then to the left the passage turned, And lo, in a cup-like crevice inurned, What seemed a leathern pouch I spied ! My brain with a miser's fever burned, Danger and death my heart defied, And I clutched the prize I had hardly earned And felt it weighty, and opened it wide, And found it brimming with golden coin, Ay, filled to the lips with golden coin ! Ah, how I grappled it to my breast ! . . Search, search every inch of the way, For you know not what the place may hold ; And what is there better than gold, gold, gold, To lull the cares of the spirit to rest And the tortures and troubles of life allay ? And I fashioned a vision of glorious years ; THE GHOST-STORY-TELLERS. 217 I would drink of the foaming wine of the Earth, Revel in luxury, beauty, and mirth, Toying with innocence, laughing at tears. Then the passage swerved to the right, And there in an alcove ah ! ha ! ha ! Sat a Figure, bearded and old, In a monk-like gown of dusky brown I say a Figure bearded and old I saw him there in the taper's light, And his face was like a face in a shroud, And livid as clefts of the thunder-cloud, And a streak of blood, like a ribbon frayed, Trickling ran in a ghastly braid Across his forehead deadly-white ; And he rose in the dusk to all his height, Crying aloud in a voice of doom, ' Why comest thou here in thy lust and greed, To trouble my soul in its endless gloom ? Take heed, take heed ! ' And toward me he moved with a menacing hand, And I shrieked and turned to fly . . but O ! The horror, the horror ! . . an iron band Was coiled about me, and to and fro The place was rocking in roaring wind 218 BALLADS OF DOWN. And fire that left me dazed and blind, And thunders around me and over me crashed, As if all the bolts of heaven were rattling, And lightnings scribbled and quivered and flashed ; And I struggled to reach the air, the air, The clear sweet air, in my frenzy battling With horrible phantoms everywhere ; And that dread Shape his cold hand laid On my neck, as the pavement heaved and swayed, And I stumbled and fell. . . " And I cannot tell For I know not how I escaped that Hand ; For it was none other that dragged me away Down, down, to a ghostly land, And into a hall where fiends were prancing Round a pile of corpses in black decay, And the flames of a roaring furnace dancing On faces twisted in agony, Bodies writhing in nameless pain ; But I found myself, I know not how, In thickest darkness eagerly Forging my way on my face again To the air, to the air, to the leafy knowe, To the fragrant, flowery meadows above, THE GHOST- STORY-TELLERS. 219 To the clear sweet world of the dew and the rain, The world of beauty and rest and love . . And all was blank. . . " I seemed to wake From a long deep sleep, and beside me lay, On the heap I had made by the dried-up lake, My tools. And I tried to shovel the clay To its place, with the speed of terror, back, While folds of soft sheet-lightning swathed me And silently in their lustres bathed me, And the rumbling thunder wandered away Afar over spaces of land and sea At random in reinless liberty. But my hands grew faint, and my brain was wild, And I fled from the field like a 'frighted child . . For the Faces had gathered about me again, And I screamed in my terror and maddening pain . . . Ha ! I laugh at your stories of goblins and ghosts, Of ghoul and of devil, of elf and of sprite ; For the spirits / see are in legions and hosts Here, there, all around me, above, by my feet ; And the one little Maid who could put them to flight, With her smile ah ! sweet ! 220 BALLADS OF DOWN. She is gone to her grave And never can save My soul from the hell I am burning in . . And they j eer and they gibber and leer and grin . . , But what care I ? . . Tra-la-la, tra-la-la ! . . The Devil may mock me, but whose is the sin ? . . See the ape on your shoulder ! . . Ah ! ha ! ha ha!" Then sprang the poor lorn creature to the door, Back with swift hand the bolts and latches tore, Opened, and flung himself into the night, Going he knew not where, in piteous flight, Muttering the madness of his tortured mind, And mingling his shrill laughter with the wind. 221 CROOBACCAGH, THE SHEPHERD. PART I. i. WHEN the warm sunrise glanced about the lynns And reddened all the mountains' misty hoods Shadowing the leafy glens and long ravines, Croobaccagh, the wild wanderer of the woods, Half satyr and half shepherd, clad in skins, Climbed through the waste Ulidian solitudes, And started, hearing from some hidden cave A voice, as of one dying, moan and rave. 2. Croobaccagh, the wild wanderer to and fro, Half satyr and half shepherd, none might tell His parentage or land, or ever know Aught of his story, save that it befell Thither he came, a straggler, long ago, And built his rude hut high in leafy dell, And, pitying him, the Chiefs of Tir-Iveagh Bid all men yield him peace to live his day. 222 BALLADS OF DOWN. 3- Alone he lived his hut the rudest tent In all the Tir-Iveagh the hills among, And high amid the mountains, lame and bent, Moved with his scanty fleeces all day long. Half-human as he looked, he seemed content To roam for ever far from human throng, Being not all as they, his sole delight Hearkening his rude pipe's music day and night. 4- For oft his pipe was heard 'mid leafy glade In quaint and tuneless tone, and men would seek His hiding-place, soft-stealing through the shade, To watch the glee that wrinkled all his cheek, And danced in either satyr-eye, and made His rough mouth ripple o'er in Humour's freak ; And his lame foot beat time, as lovingly, Sideways, to catch his own dull melody, 5- He poised his head as bird that hears his mate. Yet none disturbed his innocent delight ; In sooth they held him something consecrate CROOBACCAGH, THE SHEPHERD. 223 Not wholly man or dwelling on man's height, One strayed from the dim Eld and lingering late On as the world's noon slowly grew to night, A creature of the morning-time of Earth, Left to amaze the men of later birth. 6. Croobaccagh, the wild wanderer of the hills, Half satyr and half shepherd, clad in skins, Scaling the rocks and plashing through the rills, Now bending down to sniff the golden whins, Now hearkening the leaf-muffled linnet-trills, Climbed the rough mountains where the rock begins And the birk fails, and started in chill fear As a sad moaning broke upon his ear. 7- He pushed the brushwood back, to search the crag For any hidden cavern there concealed ; The heather and the bracken 'gan to drag From the brown peat, lest they some life might shield ; Then silent stood, still as an antlered stag, 224 BALLADS OF DOWN. Listening and watching, if the ground might yield Once more that sad voice with its weight of woes, And guide him to the hollow whence it rose. 8. It rose again, soft, soft, a cry of teen, From just above the ledge whereon he stood, And, lifting a thick swathe of ivies green, He spied a cave beneath the hanging wood, And upward crept in dread, and peered within. There, dying, laid upon the pavement rude, A lady fairer than all thought he found, And in her arm a little child enwound ! 9- Bending, he gazed upon the lady's face, More beautiful than aught he e'er had known. Spell-bound he gazed, down-kneeling in that place Where nought except the little fern-leaves, grown Over the hanging rocks in delicate grace, Greeted his search amid the vault of stone. In the deep loneliness great tears he shed Down cheeks rough-seamed like tortoise' scaled head. CROOBACCAGH, THE SHEPHERD. 225 10. The dying lady opened her dark eyes, And seemed to see the pity and tenderness, In women's way, through all his grim disguise, Stirred by the vision of her deep distress ; Then turned she her sad gaze in loving-wise, As though that life upon his thought to press, On the sweet child that by her, gurgling, lay; Then closed her lids and passed in peace away. ii. Croobaccagh took the babe in his embrace, And smiled upon her, and the little maid Caught at his satyr-beard, and beat his face, And merrily laughed, and lightly with him played As with some strange wild thing of woodland race Kind at the core but outward rough-arrayed. So Rome's first king amid the forest dim Played with the tawny wolf that suckled him. 12. His satyr-face seemed made to yield her mirth, And, he, poor soul, amid his sunless day Mellowing with a new emotion's birth, In unaccustomed love grew blithe and gay. Q 226 BALLADS OF DOWN. He bore her down the mountain, to his hearth, Like yeanling lamb found on the hills astray, And his dear treasure-trove, all-fearful, shut With bolt and bar within his lonely hut. As some poor stunted shrub, sapless and sour, Ta'en from its stony rootage in the plain And set amid sweet soil, and hour by hour Tended by one who in a spray or twain Finds promise of fair leaf and opulent flower, And sees that in its utmost threads have lain Faint drops of life that, hoarded well, may wing Upward, and plume the dead bare bush with Spring; 14. So seemed the fawn-like man, his nature freeing, So lurked the sap of gentle human grace Amid the rough recesses of his being. There came a clearer light into his face, Lither his frame moved, thought and act agreeing, As day by day he tended in his place The little maiden child, through all mischance Yielding the alien life its sustenance. CROOBACCAGH, THE SHEPHERD. 227 i5- And with the growth of that child-maiden dear A spiritual light and manfulness Seemed purging, month by month and year by year, The soul-encumbering grosser substances That clogged their growth away ; with livelier cheer He roamed the rocky heights and mountain leas ; With gentler answer met the greetings kind Of shepherd and of woodsman and of hind ; 1 6. Till they who used to mock his wild-wood air Began to marvel at the miracle Wrought in his being by so strange a care, And think that some enchanter's druid-spell Had, for mere whim, transmewed him unaware, Not knowing that in roughest heart may dwell Some little fire of good that Love may fan, Transforming man-like brute to god-like man. The child through those swift years that to the child Are many times their sum in what they bring 22 8 BALLADS OF DOWN. Of wonder to its senses undefiled, In his rude care and clumsy fathering And forest nurture throve amid the wild, And year by year in fairy fashioning And loveliness of rounded limb, and charm Of neck and maiden bosom and white arm, 18. Ripened and grew. The neat-herd in the dale, The husbandman, the warrior of the Tir, The hunter seeking out the red-deer's trail, Yearned to behold her dark eyes' glance anear, Or glimpse of her lithe form, as up the vale Roe-like she sprang, or by the brooklet clear Bent down to fill her pitcher, with light dress Drawn upward to the smooth knee's suppleness. 19. But ever close at hand her Fosterer Kept watch. If any casual eye were turned In harmless adoration, following her, His face, his heart, with jealous anger burned ; The stranger from his shaggy throat would stir A muffled growl of warning all unearned ; CROOBACCAGH, THE SHEPHERD. 229 Even to speak of her must youth or age Move warily in word-craft, lest a rage 20. Men scarce believed could lurk 'neath such a brow Should rise, dilating his quaint ruggedness To savage splendour. As he watched her now In sooth the guardian's pitying tenderness Was changing, as the tints of morning-glow Spread into dawn and dawn to noon's excess. Another love within his reinless breast Began to sway his life in dire unrest. 21. Before her beauty, worshipping, he bent ; It haunted him in every lonely hour ; It clung about his senses like the scent Of the warm pine fresh from the summer shower ; He saw her lissome form where'er he went ; Her dark eyes seemed to melt him with their power ; Following her lithe limbs' motions as she moved, He loved her, yet he knew not that he loved. 230 ALL ADS OF DOWN. 22. From whatsoever land her parents came, She must have drawn her life from loftiest springs. The oldest race may droop and fall to shame, Ignoble, bestial, mean ; with soaring wings Up from raw earth the new may rise to fame ; But those fair delicate hands, those pencillings Of fairily-moulded mouth, that perfect grace, That natural pride of mien and pose of face, 23- Which nothing in the rough poor peasant-fare Of shepherd's hut, or rugged fosterage, Could mar or conquer, never from the share Had sprung ; they were the priceless heritage Of noble, free, untainted, debonnair, And thrice-refined ancestry, the gauge Of gentlest birth, the sweet and golden dower Of ages of fair deeds and lordly power. CROOBACCAGH, THE SHEPHERD. 231 PART II. i. A DOWN the forest mule-path, from the Fews, Bound for the Templar's Castle on its height Guarding the Norman border, his great thews Clad in chain-mail that glittered in the light, Girt with an escort, through the oaks and yews Came riding in the noon an armed Knight, At leisure, vizor up, and face a-gleam With happy youth rapt in a summer dream. 2. A noble he ; from distant land he came ; A rover of the world, by restless thought Of all too passionate heart that nothing tame Could satisfy impelled, he seemed, and fraught With fancies fair as sunset-clouds aflame, And memories from realms of wonder brought. Greek-like his face was, but his soft blue eyes Were fresh as clear autumnal northern skies. 232 BALLADS OF DOWN. 3- Among the woodland rocks a little brook From pool to crystal pool runs murmuring on, Outspreading wide in one green ferny nook. Thither had Ethlenn for cool water gone, And, gazing on its deeps with lingering look, Beside her pitcher on the bank updrawn, Fair as a dryad of the forest-glade, She sat beneath the leafy branches' shade. 4- The sound of hoofs and armour clattering nigh Startled her, and she rose ; but, as she bent To grasp her brimming vessel, the Knight's eye Rested upon her, brightening, and he leant Down lightly from his seat, and smilingly Said, " Pr'ythee, fear not ; rather, Innocent, From the full draught that from thy pitcher drips Vouchsafe to let me cool my burning lips." 5- His voice's music soothed her doubts away ; His horse's panoply, his glittering arms, CROOBACCAGH, THE SHEPHERD. 233 His grace, his goodly form, his bearing gay, His bronzed brave face and eyes' deep blue, with charms Subtler than magic of enchanter's lay Lulled her to sweet oblivion of all harms That might befall her with no guardian near, And drew her to his feet without one fear. 6. She lifted up the pitcher with white hands So fairily-wrought that, as they met his glance, He felt that never yet amid all lands Did beauty of maiden so his mind entrance. She gazed, as one before an image stands, Into his soul with such free confidence In her dark, long-fringed, deep, appealing eyes That his strong heart, love-smit in its surprise, 7- Sank down within him in delicious swoon. He raised the brimming pitcher to his lip, But, heedless of the meaning of the boon Or why he craved it, half forgot to sip. He could have lingered there the livelong noon And let all knightly care and duty slip, 234 BALLADS OF DO WN. But that, swift struggling through the crackling trees, Croobaccagh brake upon his reveries. " Hence, with thy burden, home ! " The Shepherd cried, Fierce jealous anger darkening all his face. Flushed with unwonted shame, she nought replied, But took the vessel back with pensive grace And moved away along the brooklet-side. The Knight in stately pride of birth and race Turned a stern glance upon the stranger rude, Felt his steed's mouth, and passed into the wood. 9- But the poor Shepherd lingered by the stream, Changed by a blinding hate and jealous rage To more of brute and less of man, a gleam As of red cloud that doth the storm presage Lit up his rugged face through every seam. Stricken he looked as if with sudden age. Such agony as never yet he knew Wrenched his warped frame in every nerve and thew. CROOBACCAGH, THE SHEPHERD. 235 10. He felt as if all joy in life were fled ; Strange thrills of passion shivered through his frame ; He wished the Knight and Ethlenn lay there dead. Before his fevered fancy went and came A vision of her beautiful dark head Laid on his shoulder while he breathed her name Softly, and drew her glorious face anear, And kissed her lips those lips to him so dear n. He, that accursed Knight, so light of air, So free of heart, so graceful ! What, did she Love him? Would he toy with her rich dark hair, Clasp, yielded to him freely, passionately, That lissome form, that neck, that bosom fair, Feel those white arms locked round him? . . Agony Beyond all torture of the body or soul, Fierce love's fierce jealous pangs none can control ! 236 BALLADS OF DOWN. 12. He sank upon the fern-leaves sick to death, And moaned, and beat his breast with clenched fist; Then aimless rose, and strayed the boughs beneath Into the wood's deep shade as Fortune list, And out into the lonely mountain-heath, Shunning his hut, home once of happy tryst And gentle foster-love, and now no more Sheltering one joy within its hated door. In his rough heart all roughest thoughts gat sway, With formless passion formless passion striving, The vision of her loveliness alway Flashing upon his sight, to madness driving The poor dull mind no passion would obey, And all his heart with doubts and rancours riving, All true sweet love o'ermastered by the might Of jealous fears, fell brood of blackest night. 14. So wandered he alone from hill to hill, Nursing dire hate of her he coveted, CROOBACCAGH, THE SHEPHERD. 237 And fiercely coveting her beauty still. But she, poor child, fast to the hut had sped And set herself, unconscious of all ill, His meagre board with supper fit to spread, And make him happy at his home-returning, Not knowing with what thoughts his heart was burning. But ever at her toil before her gleamed That armed Knight in all his glittering mail, His bronzed brave face, his blue dark eye that beamed With lingering love upon her, and the vale Where the bright water to the deep pool streamed Amid great ferns and many an ivy-trail And the green light o' the woodlands in their gloom Glassed in the deeps with rock and leafy plume. 1 6. And all the world around her seemed to be A land of delicate air and softest light, And perfumes rare of luscious flower and tree, And music, music sweet of aery flight, 238 BALLADS OF DOWN. With ever that fair form of bearing free, And brave dark face, and eyes with fervour bright, Moving before her and with sweet unrest And ecstasy enthralling her glad breast. 17- But seaward rode the Knight in Love's caress, His very manhood melting fast away. Back ever to her face's loveliness And lissome shape his willing thoughts would stray. His joy was such he oft forgot to press His charger's side, or check on rein to lay, And when the Templar's Gate he passed, it seemed He moved in magic, courts whereof he dreamed. 1 8. And all night long he thought of only her ; And when the morn broke to himself he cried, "At that fair brook-side, I, a wanderer, In search of love and beauty, in my pride Beauty and love in one poor cottager Have found, the fairest 'neath the heavens wide. I cannot live if I that perfect face See not, that form with arms of love enlace." CROOBACCAGH, THE SHEPHERD. 239 19. But Ethlenn waited for Croobaccagh's foot On the hut's threshold, hour on hour ; and night Fell, and he came not. Sitting, moving mute About the little room, until the white Moon o'er the mountain dropt, with ear acute She listened for his coming. Then the might Of a great fear came down upon her soul, A dread forefeeling as of endless dole. 20. All night with dreams of love and sorrow dire, Strange wakeful dreams, she lay, and rose, and lay, Restless in joy and pain. With dawn, in ire, The Shepherd, torn and ragged, grimed with clay, With frowning brows, flushed face, and eyes of fire, Drave in the door and entered, yea or nay, And called in hollow tones for drink and food, And sat down silent by his board to brood. 240 BALLADS OF DOWN. PART III. i. CLAD like a forester, with yew-tree bow, Quiver on shoulder, baldrick all of green, Feather in cap gay plume as white as snow, And in his belt a dagger, " bright and keen," The Knight rode out alone, amid the low Beams of the summer morning, all unseen To dally long within that ferny nook That held the crystal wells of the clear brook, 2. Where first he felt a true love's witchery And yielded to a maiden's beauty all Passion and faith and life and liberty And manhood, all his ardent being, thrall ; And, with a beating heart, from tree to tree Glancing, he thrid the glimmering woodland tall, Found the dear sanctuary of his hope, and there, Tethering his steed to browse the herbage spare, CROOBACCAGH, THE SHEPHERD. 241 3- He sat him down upon the banks of fern And ivy, in the shadows of the bough, In trust that that dear maiden might return, With her dark eyes and white imperial brow, Once more to draw cool water from the burn Which for long waiting were reward enow To him for whom the world had nothing sweet To wish for save the coming of her feet. 4- O, the deep wonder of the streams and woods ! He watched the white-breast ousel darting by, The bright-blue halcyon from the solitudes, The loitering bee, the dappled butterfly, The troutlet leaping in its frolic moods ; He gazed upon the pools with charmed eye, And marvelled at the mirrored shape and hue Of branch and leaf and strips of heaven blue. 5- He watched the stag that stood afar at gaze Or bounded through the forest-shades in fear, And mused on Nature's beauty, in amaze Adoring, till there broke upon his ear R 242 BALLADS OF DOWN. A gentle footstep, and amid the rays Of sunlight falling through the branches near, The fairest thing of Nature's plenitude, The perfect form of loveliest maidenhood, 6. Moved timorously toward him. Ethlenn's eyes Met his, then drooped their lashes black. She turned She turned as if to fly in maiden-wise Him whom to meet her whole heart inly yearned. But as he rose, all strength within her dies. With lids half-closed, she nothing there discerned. He drew her near in gentle slow advance, And on his breast she sank as in a trance. . . 7- That day Croobaccagh, restless in his rage, Came suddenly from shepherding his flock Home to his hut, and found from her dull cage His wild-wood captive gone. The sudden shock Stunned him. Dread battle all things seemed to wage Against him. Voices round him rose to mock CROOBACCAGH, THE SHEPHERD. 243 His life's defeat. His frenzy like a flood Surged, overwhelming all he owned of good. 8. Then went he forth to seek her through the waste, Suspicion, passion, hate, and brute-like love, Despair, blind fury, driving in hot haste To some fell deed ; his poor brain all on fire ; His heart nigh bursting ; craving still to taste The fruit withheld, yet thwarting all desire ; Prepared her very beauty to destroy Rather than let it yield another joy. 9- So went he on, with dread instinctive dream Following the woodland path that led adown To those fair crystal pools of the clear stream ; His horny fists close clenched, his brow a-frown With fury of blood-thirst, and a deadly gleam In the small satyr-eye of hazel-brown That looked out from the rough locks o'er his brows Hanging like lichen from old forest-boughs. 244 BALLADS OF DOWN. 10. And now he left the track, and through the bush And brambles bent his way in wild caprice ; And now he rent the boughs, and 'gan to crush The woodland blooms, tearing them like a fleece ; And now once more with sudden blindfold rush He sought the mule-path ever without peace ; Yet ever nearing that green hollow dim Where sat the lovers, dreaming not of him. ii. But Ethlenn had unfolded all the tale That oft Croobaccagh taught her when a child ; How he had heard in woods a dying wail He the poor friendless roamer of the wild, And found her lying by her mother pale, And ta'en her to his hut in mercy mild ; And how he nursed her kindly ; yet of late How his deep love had seemed to turn to hate. 1 2. And then the Knight had told her how he came From lane's so far it took the wanderer's ftet CROOBACCAGH, THE SHEPHERD. 245 Years, years, to reach them ; and of peaks that flame In the night sky, and roll their torrents fleet Of fire into the seas ; and of his aim In roving, how he sought the Sweetest Sweet, Loveliest Love, Best Good, and FairdR Fair ; And how he had found all he had toiled for there. And as they sat and talked the Knight had wound His arm around her and for love she had laid Her dark head on his shoulder, when a sound 'Mid the near branches scared her and dismayed. Lo, there the Shepherd, high on grassy mound, Stood with club lifted o'er her Lover's head, Bending to strike and slay ! She rose to her feet, And suddenly with her right hand in dread heat 14. Snatched the Knight's dagger from his belt, and sprang Forward, and plunged it in Croobaccagh's breast. Down dropt he dead before her. Then there rang A long cry through the woods that from its nest 246 BALLADS OF DOWN. Started the brooding heron and made clang The wood-doves' wings from many an ivy-crest. And then beside the corpse herself she threw, And called to it : " O my father, kind and true, " Dear father, speak to me ! . . O, stare not so Upon me ! . . Speak ! . . Will thy lips never move ? . . Death ! . . Is it death ? . . My father, father ! . . O, What have I done? . . But thou hadst slain my Love Had I not struck thee. . . Whither shall I go To hide me from the horror of this grove ? . . O, let me die with thee ! . . Let the kites rend My heart from out my breast, and make an end ! " 1 6. So saying, she swooned away. There by her side Knelt, chafing her white hands, her Lover. He, Reverently leaning, watched the glad sweet tide Of rosy life serenely, silently Back to pale cheek and lip, triumphant, glide. Then to his steed he strode, and from the tree CROOBACCAGH, THE SHEPHERD. 247 Whereto he had bound him loosed and led him near; Stript off the baldric from his forest-gear ; And, when in her dark eyes sweet love indeed With life and strength returned, in eager haste He snatched her from the ground ; swift to his steed Lifted her ; mounted ; round her slender waist His baldric lashed ; his baldric with deft speed Bound to his belt ; her arms about him braced 5 Struck spur ; and sped with her away and away ; Out of the forest, into the clear day ; 18. Away and away beneath the quivering trees ; Away and away, by rock and hurrying stream ; Away and away, across the mountain leas ; By crag and cleft ; through sudden shadow and gleam ; Away and away, amid the wandering breeze ; Away, as in wild flights of aery dream ; Away into the blue light of the hills ; Into the dark defiles ; the valleys' chills ; 248 BALLADS OF DOWN. 19. Into the heat and glare of the broad sky ; Into the forest's deep and ominous gloom ; Into the moorlands stretching bare and high ; Into the unknown far-off lands of doom ; Away, away, away, to live or die ; To the bride-chamber, or the silent tomb ; Away with her he loved, she knew not whither, To drink of rapturous life or droop and wither ! 20. And, ever as they rode, dear words of love He murmured, and sweet lays of love he sang Wild lays of joy, wild songs of men who rove Where lands are fair, or of the battle's clang. And, ever as they rode, her poor heart strove With doubts and fears that still would crowd and hang O'er her dazed mind and fancy ; and a thought Rose, looming o'er her, with fell madness fraught 21. " O, is he but an Elfin Lover come From Fairyland, and bears he me away CROOBACCAGH, THE SHEPHERD. 249 To the strange beauteous realms beneath the foam ? " But, ever as they rode, with laughters gay, And songs of love, and songs of men that roam In lands afar, and many a fierce affray, He sang ; and ever deadlier grew her dread ; And on into the sunset-skies they sped. 250 THE SMITH-GOD. i. IN his vast cavern deep in Gullion's heart Hewn out, with pillars huge and rocky dome, Colossal buttress, beams of crag his home, His foundry, and the store-house of his art Slumbering the Smith-God lay, his bed of rest The stark ribs of the mountain smooth and bare And carven like a couch. His brawny chest Heaved like a wave, deep-breathing. One hand, pressed Beneath his temple, propped his head. Thick hair In dusky ringlets down his broad neck teeming Cushioned one giant shoulder, overstreaming The other, whence the arm of mighty reach, With muscles like the naked-rooted beech Knotted and curved, drooped idly to the floor. His ponderous limbs, spread out for weariness When the morn's labour at the forge was o'er, Great thigh and calf arched outward in excess THE SMITH- GOD. 251 Of strength, and iron ankle from the ledge Whereon in drowse his massive frame he had flung, A little o'er the polished outer-edge, With feet blue-veined and sinewy, listless hung. 2. Far inward, with a noise of mighty wind And seas, behind a portal brazen-doored, His stithy's reddening furnace flamed and roared. It gleamed upon a thousand shapes that lined The cavern-walls, armour of deities ; Helmets of gold with twisted dragon-crests ; Vambrace or cuisses with strange fantasies Engraven or embossed ; plates for the knees Of warrior-gods ; bright linked battle-vests Chain-wov'n; broad shields that showed the maker's vision In sculpture rich, fair scenes of realms Elysian, Vale, mountain, lake, and river, and leafy bowers, Or battles fierce of dread immortal powers ; Then gold and silver chariots inwrought With mimic flower and foliage, mimic bird Or reptile ; pictured breast-plates fancy-fraught 252 BALLADS OF DOWN. With all strange thoughts whereby his heart was stirred ; Bright falchion-hilts with sparkling gems inlaid, And spears of glittering point and supple shaft, Round the dim chamber carelessly displayed, The wonders of the Titan sleeper's craft. 3- There too were things of gentlest handiwork Arrayed on tables hewn and rocky shelves, Rare torques of beaten gold ; clasps such as elves Might doat on ; brooches fine wherein might lurk Some jewel fairer than the evening star ; Armlets gem-studded, twisted cunningly To shape of snake or lizard ; many a bar Of golden necklet ; annulets afar Glittering like flashes of a sunny sea ; Bright golden goblets rich with intricate chasing ; Baskets of gold of subtlest interlacing ; Then bronze-work of the hugest, as in rest Leaning, enormous Doors, the mightiest Of all his furnace moulded, fit to guard Celestial palaces against assault Of hostile gods, or countless treasure ward THE SMITH-GOD. 953 From all approach in adamantine vault, His latest and his greatest, hugely planned, And waiting till he wakened to receive From the great hammer lying by his hand The blows by which his hope he would achieve. 4- So lay the Smith-God on his couch, and dreamed So girdled, so companioned in his sleep Stupendous visions, thoughts with star-like sweep Circling the ages, visions fair that teemed With delicate forms or mighty, such as he Only might fashion all that puny men Labouring, devising, in keen agony Have ever wrought through Earth's long history, Or ever may, and such as tongue nor pen Shall image, till Earth perish as 't is fated Dim prototypes of wonders uncreated ; And his thoughts thrilled him, so that head and limb Moved as his mind kept moving in the dim Twilight of dreams. Then o'er his eyes the blaze O' the leaping furnace flashed, and he awoke Refreshed, sprang up erect with gladdening gaze, 254 BALLADS OF DOWN. Grasped his huge hammer, with deliberate stroke, Wide-whirling and down-sweeping, heavily smote The unfinished Doors. Thunder through earth and air Rolled, and the shepherd, scared, in vales remote, Murmuring, "The Smith-God," bowed himself in prayer. 255 ST. PATRICK AND THE DRUID. r I^HE Apostle, wandering round Lough Monie's -*- banks In the clear sunshine of an autumn morn, Came to a slope of sward whereon, o'ergrown With lichen and with ivies garlanded And orange-berried branches of the rose, Gigantic columns rude, great plinths of rock, In circle a forlorn and desolate fane Of that strange creed he came to overwhelm Stood lonely and silent. Part in awe he pored Upon it, part in triumph, part remorse, As, on the morrow of some battle huge, The victor gazes on the field of death Strewn with the ruins of a nation's might And glory, and remembers his own hands Wrought the humiliation and the wreck. Then from the shadows of a little grove Hard by came moving slowly an aged man 256 BALLADS OF DOWN. Clad in worn raiment of a Druid priest, And leaning on a staff; his long white hair And snowy beard commingling almost hid His shoulders and flowed downward to his waist ; But, under shaggy eyebrows, with the light And vigour of youth, eyes of deep sapphire-blue, Gentle but fervent, flashed. With grave salute He hailed the Teacher, seeing in him his foe, His vanquisher, yet seeming none the less Contented in defeat. " All hail," he cried, " Great Victor, if not wisest of the wise, Least foolish of the fools that bask and flit Their brief life out with dull or gaudy wing, And go into the darkness whence they came Knowing as much of that that is to be As of the thing that was or that that is ; Or, haply, not least foolish of the fools Neither, but only one that on the wheel Is uppermost a moment, and the next The lowest, even as I ! Welcome ! . . Let 's sit Here on this fallen stone, within the shade Of this once mighty, now storm-wasted, oak, And talk of things that seem not out of reach, ST. PATRICK AND THE DRUID. 257 Yesterday's battle of the violent septs, Light gossip of the Lis, or for to me Such things are pleasant beauty of the earth And arching heaven, the golden autumn-leaf, The white and wandering cloudlet high in air." And Patrick answered, " Not of these. Of Him Who made them." And they sat. " Well, what thou wilt," The Druid said, and, smiling, laid a hand Upon the Teacher's wrist : " I know thee well, A man of strong belief and definite aim, Incapable of doubt, all fervour, thought, Hope, love, hate, energy of body and will, Working as one huge force to one clear end, Never to be diverted until Death All fervour, thought, hope, love, hate, energy Of will and body crush to dust, for winds To blow i' the eyes of men who have died not yet, And vex and gall them. Such a man perforce Bows with his own strong bent the baser mind, Fills with his own strong faith the feebler heart, Wields with his own strong will the weaker arm, S 258 BALLADS OF DOWN. And may be, even as thou art doomed to be, The slayer and supplanter of old gods. So freely speak. Preach to me of the god Thou wouldst have all men grovel to, since nought But to preach on to thee is possible. No gods have I thou canst offend. Yon sky And this fair earth with all its shapes on shapes Of multitudinous life, I tell thee, Priest, To me are as a great ship out at sea, Helmless and masterless. Thou makest war On my good brethren, not on me. For me, I care not what men worship any more." Then Patrick lifted up his hands to heaven And cried, "I thank Thee, Father, that Thou'st given This bare and fallow field wherein to sow ! " Then, to the Old Man turning, " O my brother, If that thy mind is clear of all belief, Idolatry, foul magic devil-born, Old prejudice that, coating heart and brain, Is harder for the Sacred Truth to pierce Than the rock-breastplate of the mountain yet To Jesu not impossible, and thy soul ST. PATRICK AND THE DRUID. 259 Yearns for the Light, God, speaking through my lips, May grant thee the true life before thou diest, Count thee among the number of his saints, Thrice bless thee. Let me tell thee of my God." The Druid, smiling, answered, " Said I not ' Talk on ' ? " Then, eloquent in hope and love, Not heeding how the humorous Grey-Beard mocked, The Apostle spake : " Hear, then, and understand. In the beginning was the Word ; the Word Was God ; by Him were all things made all these Thou thinkest fair, leaf, branch, and rock, the bird That flashes, a blue light, athwart the stream, The star that glimmers on the front of dawn. Six days the mighty God Jehovah wrought, And on the seventh rested. He surveyed The glories of His handiwork, and saw That all was good. His last created life Was Man, for whom, being lonely on the earth, He made a meet companion, that from these 260 BALLADS OF DOWN. The race of Man might spring and the whole world Replenish. These twain in a garden fair He placed, where 'mid its flowery plots He set Two trees the fruit whereof they should not taste. ' The Tree of Knowledge' one He named, ' the Tree Of Life ' the other. Now, the Serpent was Of all the beasts o' the field the subtilest. He wrought upon the woman so that she Ate o' ' the Tree of Knowledge,' telling her That eating of it they shall grow as gods, And know both Good and Evil." . His bright eyes The Old Man sideway turned, half-merrily, Watching the Teacher's rapt and earnest face. " The woman, having tasted of the fruit Forbidden, wrought upon her husband's heart That he too tasted. Thus into the world Sin entered. God in anger cast them forth Out of the garden, and before the gate Set shining Seraphim with swords of fire To hold them back for ever. With their fall Fell all the children of the Earth to be Thence until now." ST. PATRICK AND THE DRUID. 261 "Forgive me, gentle friend," The Druid softly said. " Methinks thou 'st told That when thy god had all things made, he saw That they were good. This Serpent, whence was he? How wielded he such power upon the world ? And wherefore all this ruin of the work Just finished which the maker 'saw was good '? " "The Serpent was the Spirit of all Evil, Satan," the Teacher answered. But the Druid, " Whence he ? Was he too fashioned by thy god Who saw his works ' were good ' ? To which the Saint Made answer grave, " These things are mysteries Not given to the mind of man to know." " Ah, then, thou too art foiled in the pursuit ? But, gentle friend, thy tale perplexes me. This old and feeble brain," the Druid cried, " Follows not nimbly a new dance of thought. But thus it seems thou teachest : Not one God There is, but two this Serpent-Deity, 262 BALLADS OF DOWN. Worker of Evil, and thy God of Good ; And if two, out of what have sprung the twain ? Lives there yet one more god more vast than they, Their grand creator ? Or hath thy Good God Fashioned that other, midst his myriad works, To find him but the thwarter of his aims, Ruining as he rears ? And if thy god Is good, why hath he then created Evil ? Seeking, devout, to climb thy temple-steps, I stumble at the doors." Then Patrick said, " These things are mysteries. Hear what thou mayest." And the other, "Yea, I thirst for wisdom. Speak." Then said the Saint, " Whence Evil hath its life We may not know ; that Evil is none doubteth. For our First Parents' sin the whole vast world Suffereth." The Old Man turned in mute surprise And stared at him. He, noting not, spake on : " In our First Parents' sin you, I, all Earth ST. PATRICK AND THE DRUID. 263 Fell. There was no forgiveness for our sin, For our lost souls through all Eternity No, no salvation, until Jesu Christ, The Son of God, did offer up Himself A sacrifice to God the Father." " Pause," The Old Man cried, " I pray thee ; for my wit Limps lamely after thee. ' The Son of God ' How son ? And is this Jesu also a god ? And wherefore such a sacrifice, and when ? " " Nay, not a god, but God. Father and Son Are One God. How ? These things are mysteries, O friend, for faith to welcome and embrace, Not for the restless mind of man to know Not now, though haply in the larger life That 'waits beyond the crystal gates of Heaven. Wherefore the sacrifice ? In God's fair plan 'Twas needful one should die lest all should perish." "How 'perish'?" " Be condemned to fast in torture For ever." " Have / been condemned to fast 264 3ALLADS OF DOWN. In torture, friend, for ever ? " "Yea." " Well, then," the Grey-Beard cried, " I take thee thus : There is but one god. Infinite his power. He hath created all things. But there lives The Serpent also 'Satan' thwarting him, Blasting his fairest works thou knowest not whence. Man, being created, through the Serpent falls. He is made weak enough to fall. His maker Condemns him and his seed to dwell for ever In torture. Then the ' son ' of God though ' son ' One with the Father offers to the Father One with himself to sacrifice himself . . To whom but himself? . . to save from cruel torture Man by him made so feeble as to fail To do his will, and so for punishment Condemned to never-ceasing agonies ! And did he sacrifice himself, and was His wrath appeased, and is the curse removed ? " " I preach the sacrifice of Jesu Christ Made for salvation of all human souls Who trust in him," the Master cried. ST. PATRICK AND THE DRUID. 265 " Who ' trust ' ? Not all mankind not me, who trust him not? But tell me of this sacrifice, when made, Where, in what wise." " Four hundred years ago, In Jewry, Christ was nailed to the Cross, And died, and rose again, and did ascend To Heaven, where He sitteth even now At God's right hand, to judge the souls of men, Evil and good." " Who nailed him to the Cross ? " "The unbelieving Jews, for whose salvation He came into the world." " Who made these Jews ? " "God." " And they are not saved ? " " Nay, they are damned." Then said the Druid softly : "T was ordained That Christ should die. Some one must kill him, then ; And they that do it by the sacrifice 266 BALLADS OF DOWN. Gain nothing. They are damned. How came thy god, A spirit, to be nailed to the Cross ? " " Because Himself He humbled for men's sake, And was as man, being of a Virgin born." " Being of a virgin born ! " the Druid mused " God of a human virgin born ! Make clear." "A Virgin, Mary named, was found with Child Of the Holy Ghost." " ' The Holy Ghost ? ' . . Dear friend, Who can this be ? " " He with the Father is One, Even as the Son is with the Father One." "The Holy Ghost, the Father, and the Son, And Satan not four gods, but Three. How then?" Then anger flashed across the Master's face, And his eye blazed : " I tell thee, heathen Priest, The Father is, the Son is, and the Spirit is ; Yet are there not three Gods, nor four, but One One God, the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost ST. PATRICK AND THE DRUID. 267 Great Trinity in Unity . . . Behold This little leaf ! Threefold it is ; yet is not Three leaves, but one leaf. So the Father, Son, And Holy Ghost are not three Gods, but One- Jehovah, the Lord God." The Old Man stooped And from the running shamrock at their feet Picked yet another little leaf, with eyes Attentive scanned it gravely, and then said : " Friend, what you deem one leaf to my dull eye Is truly three clear leaflets, each to each Linked by one stem, and triune but in name. Methinks I draw not nearer to the thought That satisfies thy heart. And yet four Powers, Not three, seem present to thy vision strange, To make, and mar, re-make, and harmonize The vast confusions of thy universe. Yet one more question. Thou hast said ' the Son ' Sits at the right hand of ' the Father,' one With him, to judge men's souls which he hath died, As a man, to save from everlasting pain. Say when shall be this judgment." " At the end 268 BALLADS OF DOWN. At the Last Day. O dark and ignorant, Knowest thou not this world shall pass away All that thou seest, sun, moon, and earth and star," The Master cried, " even as a leaf in fire ? To thee these things seem strange, but unto us Who have learnt them all-familiar as the hills That leaned above our cradles and the streams That made sweet music in our infant ears. But thou mayest come to heed and understand." " I heed, but understand not," said the Sage. " Yet will I muse upon thy words. But tell Of ' the Son's ' life on Earth God among men, In man's form, suffering the woes of men, Doubtless, thirst, hunger, anguish, weariness, And, as thou sayest, the pangs of bitter death." Then, fervent in his love, and in his faith Steadfast, and waxing happier as he spoke In contemplation of the things he told, The Saint, through all the wondrous history Of Him who died in Jewry for our peace Ran on in clear melodious voice and words Of godlike inspiration. All His acts .ST. PATRICK AND THE DRUID. 269 He pictured, all His potent miracles, His gentleness, long-suffering, His great love, His deep humility, life pure as snow O' the topmost mountain, tenderest sympathy, His patience in affliction, His commands, " Do unto others as ye would that men Should do unto yourselves ; " " forgive your foes ; " " Love them that hate you ; " " when ye are reviled Revile not;" "judge not;" "give to them that ask;" " Envy not ; " " feed the hungry ; " " heal the sick ; " " Shelter the fatherless and widow ; " " sin Not even in thought ; " " love all men even as I ; " And then his agony in Gethsemane, " I pray Thee, Father, if it be Thy will, Put Thou this cup far from me ; nevertheless Thy will, not mine be done ; " and His dread death, And last sweet prayer for them whose hands were red With His own innocent blood, "Forgive them, Father ; They know not what they do ! " Great tears rolled down The Apostle's face ; he bowed his head and wept. 270 BALLADS OF DOWN. Silent the Old Man sat, save that a sigh Broke from his heart ; and to his feet he rose, And paced the sward, deep-thinking. Then he stood Before the Saint, and spoke in accents low : " I marvel not thou weepest. Such deep love Is mark of noblest manhood. I have heard Thy gospel. I will hoard it in my heart. Much thou hast said is as a stumbling-block Before me. But this Christ O, such a life, And such a nature, never since mine ears Knew sound of human speech have I heard sung, Or imaged in my fancy ! If all men Were such as he, if all men his fair rede But followed, that bright ' Heaven ' whereof thou dream est Were round about us, all this Earth were 'Heaven.' If to love Christ, to reverence his name, To bow to him, adoring, at his feet, Were all a Christian's duty and his gauge, I were a Christian. Yet I ask but this Where gottest thou thy knowledge of these things Whereof thou boldly preachest ? " ST. PATRICK AND THE DRUID. 271 " From the lips Of Hoiy Men, the legends of my Lord, The Sacred Books." " What if it were not true ?, " The Druid murmured. Yet he waited not For answer, but spoke on : " O Priest of Christ, Thou to the satisfaction of thy heart Believest what thou teachest, strange, confused And hard to comprehend as unto me It seemeth ay, and even to my mind Fantastic as the dream of some poor soul Living alone in some drear mountain-cave, With nought for food but roots and nought for drink But the faint water oozing from the crag, His reason well-nigh dead for want of use, His memory emptied of all guiding truth And knowledge, his imagination weak And masterless, his life perpetual fear. And if thou didst but doubt it, all thy hope, Thy might, thy peace, thy end in life were gone. I have toiled in thought, and put aside the faith Of mine own youth as folly. Many a pang The loosening of its tendrils from my heart 272 BALLADS OF DOWN. Wrought me ; and often fear hath stayed the mind Venturing into the darker paths of thought Even as a child is stayed amid the woods When the shade thickens or the summer cloud Draws heavier overhead, or on the moors When, sudden, the dark mountains round him loom, And, scared, he turns to fly. And verily To wander in the void of Unbelief Is as the struggle of the sinking man In the deep pools wherein he finds no hold For foot or hand. Not sweet indeed the change. Nor can we rid our hearts of the old dread O' the gods themselves with whom we seem to strive With insolent daring, though the mind proclaim They are not, so from tenderest infancy They have grown close-welded with our growth, as oak And ivy twined and interlaced. The years Bring likewise habits of the mind itself, And habits of the lip, spontaneous prayer, Involuntary leaning on the Powers Whereon we had rested, the swift flight in pain Or danger to familiar ports of rest. How oft it happens when with sudden stroke ST. PATRICK AND THE DRUID. 273 Death severs from the hearth some friend beloved And dear companion, in our loneliness We turn, forgetful, thinking he is near, To tell our latest thought, or grief, or joy ! So is it when we rend us from our gods ; We cannot wholly empty heart and mind Of their familiar presences. And, then, Who can deny the solace sweet of prayer In danger and in sorrow and in pain And dire perplexity ? When brain and hand Fail utterly to serve us, no friend nigh To aid, and all is darkness and despair, What solace in the thought of Sovran Powers Encircling, who will answer when we cry, And save ! But, friend, if no gods live to help, Man must be brave, and face without a fear Truth and the desolations that she works. This I have learnt to do, and I am calm Most times in suffering, knowing to revert To the old belief is cowardice of heart, Or feebleness of reason, or the excess Of both. And yet I reverence thy zeal, And bow before the vision of thy Christ." T 274 BALLADS OF DOWN. Then rose the Apostle, saying, " It is well ; Thy reverence yet may grow to love, thy love To perfect faith, thy faith put forth the flower Of godly works, and all thine autumn-even Be gorgeous with the glow of fruited boughs And splendours of down-going of the sun. Farewell, and Christ be with thee ! " To his lips The Druid lifted up the Teacher's hand And kissed it, and the Teacher moved away. " Ay," murmured then the Grey-Beard to himself, "I am most days content most days; and yet, Even yet, though cold the blood and calm the brain, I flame with sudden yearning, many a time When calmest and when coldest, keen desire, Impetuous longing, to perceive, to know The reason, source, cause, end of all I see. One who sits watching the long sweep and sway Of falling water, far among the hills, Spell-bound by its clear beauty, as it glides Athwart the ferny precipices bowered With oak or pine, will see the downward stream, ST. PATRICK AND THE DRUID. 275 Though seeming steadfast and invariable, Swerve now and then with sudden restless life, As a pulse leaps in momentary joy : So 'mid the even languor of my years Comes the wild impulse, the impatient sigh, Ay, even the anger of the baffled will, The unsatisfied demand. For is it not Strange and unreasonable that we who live, Toil, suffer, see, bear all the burthen huge Of human care, dowered with the eager mind, The craving heart, sleepless imagination, Should know not whence we come; by whom created If any have created ; whither hence We go if anywhere ; why that we name Evil doth mar the order and the grace, The gladness and the love of living things ; Why life lives for life's ruin, man with brute Contending, brute with man, and brute with brute, Making the earth, with all its wealth of beauty, One shambles ; why to live is evermore To fall from transitory flights of joy Back to the same dark gulfs of grief and pain. 276 BALLADS OF DOWN. I gaze about me, and with hopeless heart Ask why am I so girdled in and fenced With barriers black I cannot push aside Or pierce. Ay, I would know I claim to know The meaning of this world wherein I breathe. But the mood passes ; and 't is well ; for man, Being doomed to be, is wisest when he lives In harmony with Nature as she is, Strains not his feeble mind, racks not his breast With any fruitless fervour. Let it be ! " But the Great Teacher, walking through the leas, Felt other solace, dwelt with other thought. A glory lit his face. His spirit soared High as the swallow in clear summer skies. Above the margin of the Lake he stood And gazed upon its smooth dark waters ; then Ranged round the margin brightening with the gleam Of russet leaf and golden, over-towered With leaning rock and slopes of heath and fern. Then saw he, in clear vision, on a height ST. PATRICK AND THE DRUID. 277 Before him, as in youth from Antrim cliffs He saw that Angel beckoning he beheld There on a height three Crosses, and on each One hanging, and the Christ was in the midst, And Mary His Mother knelt beneath His feet, And Mary Magdalene, and to and fro The sullen armed Roman soldier paced. He stretched his arms out to the visioned Form He loved, and cried to it : " O Christ, my Lord, My Saviour, so be present night and day To me ; dwell with me ; be my shield ; my helm, My breastplate ; be my rock to shelter me From sun and tempest ; be my living tower ; My refuge ; be my fountain of all hope, Of all delight ; my wine of life ; my bread ; My charm against all poison, all disease, All wounds, all craft of enemies, all spells Of women, magic, witchcraft, heathen snares, Foul incantations, lying prophecies, Idolatry, base thought, brute impulses, Dire cravings of the flesh, sins of the spirit The might of Satan. On my left hand be And on my right, in me and over me, 278 BALLADS OF DOWN. Behind, before me, hither, thither, now, Lord, and for ever. Doubt be never mine, Or backsliding, or fear, or apathy, Faint heart, or hesitation, or distrust. Make strong my feet for going, firm my will To endure the body's pain, the mind's fatigue, All hardships, all indifference, all contempt, All slowness of the working of Thy word In stubborn hearts Thy word that finds its way Through the thick crust of prejudice and sin At last, like water through the stubborn rock, Surely, despair who will. Make free my lips To speak Thy truth, alert my mind to unfold Thy mysteries, strong my voice to thunder forth Thy mandates to the world. O Triune God, Father, and Son, and Spirit, through the love, The gentleness, the suffering, the toil, Death, burial, and ascension up to Heaven Of Him whose bleeding Form hung even now Before my very sight, I give thee thanks For the dear gift of knowledge, of belief, Thou 'st vouchsafed to thy servant. I shall fear No evil, with my Shepherd leading me ; Crave not to draw aside the veil of things ST. PATRICK AND THE DRUID. 279 With feeble and impatient hand ; assured That all is well, could I but comprehend ; And I shall comprehend in times to be, And feel a vaster reverence, deeper love, In learning of Thy purpose and Thy will, When I, like Thee, arise from Death and Hell, To dwell beneath Thy wings for evermore ! " 280 THE FRIARS OF DRUMNAQUOILE. (A.D. 17.) i. THE choirs had ceased their chauntings low ; We lingered on in silent prayer At Rome (so long, so long ago !) Before the marble altar-stair. The gloom of evening softly fell Around each carven colonnade, Yet, stayed by some imperious spell, We lingered in the sacred shade. 2. Then rose a form before our sight Beneath the Saviour stretched on Rood A Lady, clothed in lustrous white And crowned with gold, before us stood, And, lifting up her radiant hand, She spoke in words so soft and sweet We fell, each one of all our band, We fell, adoring, at her feet : THE FRIARS OF DR UMNA Q UOILE. 2 8 1 3- " Sons of St. Francis, ye who here So yearn the works of Christ to do, Rise up, and, void of doubt and fear, Go forth, fulfil the gospel true ; Go, wander till the threefold sound Of threefold bell upon the breeze Shall greet your ears on alien ground ; There rest, and make your home of peace." 4- The lovely dream dissolved away ; We grasped each other's eager hands, Prepared the mandate to obey, And roam afar the stranger's lands. That very night we passed in haste The gates, beneath the Italian skies All white with stars, and through the waste Campagna moved with sleepless eyes. 5- Through many an antique city bowered 'Mid fruitful plains, or high upreared By lake or roaring chasm, or towered And walled on rocky fastness weird ; 282 BALLADS OF DOWN. By havens thronged with sail and mast, Where men from climes beyond the seas, With varied dress and gesture, passed And brightened all the wharves and quays ; 6. Where tall green poplars line the lanes, With lapping leaves that cool the sense ; Where floods majestic sweep the plains, And vine-trees droop their clusters dense ; Where cloven mountain-walls reveal The silver peak, the blackening pine ; Or where the groves of chestnut steal Around the sea-washed Apennine, 7- Onward we went. 'Neath skies of fire We climbed through groves of olive round The grey ravines, and high and higher From pass to pass we wound and wound Till, circled with the Alpine snows, We felt the ice-wind's cool caress, And tasted, in the blood's repose, The awe of Nature's loneliness. THE FRIARS OF DRUMNAQUOILE. 283 8. Along its highways straight and bare We crossed the level fields of France, And often knelt in pensive prayer, Or sat unseen, in silent trance, Within its fair cathedral-aisles, 'Tvvixt matin-time and evensong Dear refuge from the world, the wiles Of sinful men, the reckless throng, 9- The glare of day, the dust, the heat, The weariness of limb and eye, Where one might feel the wounded feet And bleeding hands of Jesu nigh, And watch the many-tinted light Fallen from the gorgeous oriels move Across the level pavement white, Like tokens of a Heaven of Love ! 10. Then we took ship, and, after days Of cloud and tempest, saw the hills Of Erin glow through sunlit haze, And hailed afar her whitening rills 284 BALLADS OF DOWN. That down the rocky ridges fell, The balmy slopes of fern and heath, The seaward cliff and grassy dell, And the lithe waves that broke beneath. ii. O weary months of wanderings vain ! We roamed the Isle from coast to coast ; And evermore the ear would strain To catch the sounds for ever lost ; And many an hour where distant spire Rose glittering over dale and hill We sat in baffled sad desire To rise in sadness deeper still. 12. And here a bell would lightly toll By morn from vale or aery height, And here a muffled knell would roll Across the stillness of the night ; But never came the sound we sought, The music sweet we yearned to hear, The threefold bell with tidings fraught Of rest from all our pain and fear. THE FRIARS OF DR UMNA Q UOILE. 2 8 5 J 3- Yet not all pleasureless the quest, For fair this land as eye may see ; And often it was sweet to rest And hark its rivulets' melody Deep in the wooded Wicklow dales, Or where they leap with foam and spray, In joyous life that faints nor fails, To faery lake and ferny bay 14. Amid the Kerry mountain-land ; Or follow on with languid feet, But hearts nigh cloudless, in the bland Bright spring, the silvery windings fleet Of its full rivers as they sped Through woods and meadows to the sea, With here a broad lake, -islanded, And Erne's or Ramor's witchery, '5- And here smooth banks and prairies green All dappled o'er with kine and sheep. And it was strange, where great cliffs lean Above the loud and sleepless deep, 286 BALLADS OF DOWN. To kneel within the desolate cell Of saints that sought the wilderness In days far off, with hope to dwell Alone with God in their distress ; 1 6. Or sit beneath the lichened Tower 'Mid sacred cities gone to clay ; Or muse through many a dreamful hour By carven Crosses quaint as they. Yet never came the sound we sought, The music sweet we yearned to hear, The threefold bell with tidings fraught Of rest from all our pain and fear. 17- We roamed the Antrim glens and hills, And often watched the bluffs anear Of Scotland, where the sunset spills Its rosy light from year to year O'er the grey cliffs and fields of grain ; And headland after headland clomb, Where on red reef or chalky vein The green sea breaks in breadths of foam ; THE FRIARS OF DR UMNA Q UOILE. 2 8 7 1 8. And hailed the peaceful hills of Down ; The Ards of Uladh wandered o'er ; And reached the little Norman town That guards blue Cuan's narrowing shore ; And there beside the ivied keep Took boat ; and touched the Strangford beach ; And walked to where the ashes sleep Of him who came the Word to preach 19. To Erin's race, elate to tread The sacred " Cantred of the Light," Whence Light o'er all our Isle was shed 'Mid darkness of their Pagan night. By feudal donjon, verdant rath, By farm and woodland, lawn and park, By highway dull or woodbine-path, At sunrise gay, in gathering dark, 20. We wandered on. Footsore and weak, One eve, we came to Drumnaquoile, Amid these pleasant hills. To seek Some little food, to soothe the toil 288 BALLADS OF DOWN. Of travel, or to save from death For death appeared our imminent fate With tottering limbs and fainting breath We rested by yon Castle-Gate. 21. It was a tranquil Summer's eve ; The air was light, the skies were clear, The very landscape seemed to weave Its influence round us and to cheer. All of a sudden Brother Luke His hand uplifted. " Hark ! " he cried, " A bell, a bell ! . . From yonder nook It surges o'er the meadows wide ! " . . 22. Full, soft, and sweet a bell ! a bell ! . . And now another, tolling slow ! . . And hark again ! . . O, heed it well ! . . Another yet, so soft and low ! . . It is . . O, list ! . . the triple toll We 've sought through years of agony ! . . Hark yet again ! . . from yonder knoll . . One, two and three ! . . Hark ! . . One- two three ! " THE FRIARS OF DRUMNAQUOILE. 289 23- Then I beheld far up in Heaven Her feet upon a cloud of light That wreathed Her like a moon at even That wondrous Lady robed in white, And on Her face all tenderness And gentle love benign and true ! Her radiant palm she raised to bless, And passed away into the blue. 24. Then knelt we on the stony ground ; We lifted up our hands to God ; We rose ; our eager arms we wound About each other's necks ; we trod The earth with feet as light as wings ; With tears of love our eyes were dim ; We sang aloud as wild bird sings When Spring makes rapturous life in him. And here we found our holy rest ; And here the folk are true and kind ; And here our lives with peace are blest, God's breath is in the healing wind. u 2 9 o BALLADS OF DOWN. And here we wear away our years In godly deeds and fasts and prayer, Till Jesu dries our earthly tears, And wafts away all earthly care. THE OUTCAST'S TRAGEDY. i. NOT only he who robes in rhythmic song Thought, passion, fair Imagination's dreams, And glasses Nature in the mirror of verse, May claim the Poet's glory. His who moulds Nature herself to something lovelier, By Nature taught to free her trammelled life From her own overgrowth, or crippling bonds, Or weakness, or distortion, or decay; And fashions out of Nature's elements Another Nature, beautiful as she, Mere miniature, but breathing all delight She in her vastness yieldeth, his no less The lofty title now by counterfeits Degraded, flaunted by impostors, mocked By half the world. Lord Ian in his home 292 BALLADS OF DOWN. Amid the Ulidian hills, while critics puffed Their whipster bards, and held him idle, dull, Bucolic, planting here his pines and there His holms or beeches ; hewing in the woods Glades that revealed some violet peak of Mourne, Glimpse of the sea, or flash of a white fall ; Guiding his paths along the impetuous rills, Or clearing from the pool or rocky chasm The riotous bramble he true Maker was, Artificer of beauty, perfecter Of Nature's purpose ; they of whom they raved Apes of an art they failed to comprehend. Lord Ian, happy in his dear domains Lived, reverently working out his love Of Earth's abounding beauty, while his friends, In a rough age, caroused, and fought, and stained Their hands with their own boon-companions' blood. And Eva, his one daughter, made his home Fair as the chased gold setting of a gem Worth half a kingdom. Islanded in thought, Rapt in the shaping with a facile mind And plastic skill the visions of his soul, Full oft in presence of the mightier truths Of being all-forgetful of the small THE OUTCAST'S TRAGEDY. 293 Stern bitter needs of narrow human life The poet's weakness and the poet's weal His art sufficed him. Past the furthest copse That stood as outpost to Lord lan's woods, Roughening, the fretful channel-billows broke On reefs of pointed rock that, when the sea Fell, like a mimic mountain-land, all brown With weed, and yellow, reared themselves aloft In deadly menace, and at fullest tide Lurked, barely hidden, under the blue wave A bay of ruin ; for no tempest raged But some lorn barque was driven upon the reefs, Or waif of shattered vessel, mast, or spar, Or broken beam or bulwark, cask, or chest, Flung from the foaming rollers to the shore. Once, on a night of storm and blinding snow, Dim lights at sea alarmed the fisher-folk Whose huts amid the sandhills faced the bay, And down they hurried to the beach, with cords And buoys, and, lifted on the upsweeping wave, Beheld what seemed the phantom of a ship Loom through the dark, dilating as it came, 294 BALLADS OF DOWN. Till the vague mass crashed on the jagged reefs, And over it the storm-blown fountain-spray Rose like an arch, and scattered where they stood. The next wave heaved the hulk athwart the rocks And onward till it all but touched the sand, So that the boldest, venturing downward, flung Ropes to the deck, which hands aboard made fast. And thus the living remnant of its crew Were brought half-dead a shore. Wi th these cam e one Who was not of them, one of foreign face And speech, and seeming gently-born. The news Of the wrecked vessel and its famished freight Drew down the Lord of Drimnagh to the bay, Who, seeing the Stranger, bade him to his home, With liberal hand and heart supplied his needs, And entertained him as an honoured guest. Of Spanish blood he seemed, for Buenos Ayres Had sailed from England in the ship that lay Wrecked on that reef of death. Yet not uncouth The English words he spoke with fluent lip, Nor unfamiliar he with English life. Some thirty autumns on his path had shed Their fleeting leaves. Lithe was his form; his face THE OUTCAST'S TRAGEDY. 295 Fair-carven ; dark his eyes that flashed with fire Of anger or delight ; a form, a face That drew observance, and with welcome dreams Of lands remote and strange adventure stirred The quickening fancy. Day by day went by And still the Stranger lingered at the House, Nor cared the host to lose a guest with power To gild his darker moments. Parentage, Purpose in life, or friends, he spoke not of. But it was pleasant, over wine, or couched Amid the woodland bracken, or by brook Or garden-fountain resting, morn or even, To listen to his clear and mellow voice Tell of the things he knew, the things he had seen. And so he loitered on from week to week, And so from month to month, until at length The bond that held him seemed the bond of blood. Eva, although with half-distrustful heart She watched him, could not choose but bend to hear So musical a voice in rapture speak. And yet, though oft his dark deceitful eyes Dwelt on her face, and subtlest flattery 296 BALLADS OF DOWN In look, tone, deference, delicate helpfulness, Breathed from him as the spices from the pine, She liked him not. Not at his footstep's fall Beside the doorway did her pulses leap, Catching her breath, and her face flush for joy. Sebert, the neighbouring manor's soldier-heir, She loved. His gentle eye of Northern blue, Kind, frank, with courage in its firm clear glance, Looked into, filled her mind with happier thought And fairer visions than the voluble speech Of Manuel (" Don Manuel " was he named) Had ever power to yield her. He, though yet The morning-star of life before him shone, Had tasted of life's noonday ; he had fought On that last field that broke the might of France; And now, amid the silence after storm, Rested beneath his parents' rooftree, drawn Closer to it by one more sacred chain, His love for Eva. Had he told his love, And had he heard her promise whispered low In answer ? No, not yet. The love that lives Unspoken, with its sweet uncertainties, THE OUTCASTS TRAGEDY. 297 Its fears and wildering raptures of belief, In either bosom held its tyrant sway. With shrewder glance than lan's Sebert read The Stranger, heard his tones with keener ear, And found him false. With troubled heart he saw Eva beside him walk amid the woods, And thought, " She does not love me. Could she move So by his side, so seem to him attuned, If I or any other were the god Of her heart's sanctuary ? Fool am I To dream she loves me. And if such a mind And such a nature charm her, is her love Worth all this heart-break ? O, I waste my youth In bootless reverie 'mid these Downshire hills ! The world is yet untrodden. What of love, Of beauty, wonder, knowledge, witchery, May it not hold for largess ? I will go And take what it may give." Even so the eye Of Youth misreads the heart of Maidenhood, Which, like the tremulous waterlily-bloom, That dips with every wafture of the wind, 298 BALLADS OF DOWN. And moves with every ripple of the lake, May vibrate to a thousand influences Yet stand firm-rooted in its one sure love. Yes, he would breathe the cool delicious air Of peak and glacier, sit beneath the shade Of ruined Roman temple-columns white Above the Italian wave, the bowery slopes Of Etna climb, and haply o'er the blue ^Egean see the sunset and the dawn Gild the grey pillars of the Parthenon. So he resolved. When by-and-by he came To Drimnagh Towers to take his leave, the lips Of Eva trembled as she spoke to him, Her lids were heavy with restrained tears. He saw not, for she would not let him see, The love wherewith she watched him unaware, And unto her his going seemed her doom. n. IT was a day of blustering wind, blue skies, And clouds that sped across the depths of heaven With fleeting shadow and sudden glint and gloom ; THE OUTCAST'S TRAGEDY, 299 The pines bent low their pointed crests, the limes Laboured in tempest, the hard beeches heaved, The whitening storm-blown sally-branches whipt The air, the strong oaks trembled 'mid the roar; The rolling sea was all a-mist with spray, Darkening and lightening, here and there a sail Nigh level with the billow swept afar ; While every mountain, naked to the cope, Flushing and blanching, seemed to breathe and feel; A day when young hearts revel in the war Of Nature's forces, and with thoughts of wreck And ruin of the labour of men's hands The old are sad and troubled a blithe day Though perilous. High 'mid the grassy knolls, On the smooth turf over the tumbling bay, Stood Eva of the blue adoring eyes Watching the ocean. She had ridden out In the wild morning, from her father's doors, Down the loud avenue of the roaring limes And beeches, through the crested gates, and forth, Alone on her lithe Arab, through the lanes Yellowing with autumn, seaward, with one thought One longing, just to gaze upon the waves 300 BALLADS OF DOWN. And dream of him that o'er their leagues of foam The bitter winds had blown from her away. Beside a little sheltered rocky nook She had alighted, and her pony loosed, Knowing he would not stray but when she called Would come, responsive to his name. Intent She stood, with fair hand arched above her brow, Scanning the waters, all her lissome form Straining against the breezes, and her hair All-golden rippling in the fitful gleams. "A stormy day, young lady," said a voice Behind her ; and she caught her pony's rein, And turned. A woman clad in faded black, Dark-eyed, keen-featured, badged with poverty, Stood leaning towards her. A cold answer given, Eva, her pony guiding down the slope, Moved, hardly heeding. Close behind her walked The woman. " Rough the sea, and yonder ship, She murmured, " with its well-beloved freight Goes on a perilous voyage." Eva's cheek Flamed, and she bent her eyes upon her face, Saying, " What ship ? I see but fishing-boats." THE OUTCAST'S TRAGEDY. 301 "Ay, but I see a ship beyond the mists That bears away a maiden's heart in it. Ay, ay, young lady, take that home again. Ill fares the heart that 's cast upon the seas." " I understand you not. Pray let me walk Alone," said Eva, angered. " If you will. I would not vex you, lady dear. . . But ah ! Why should you spurn a poor lorn wanderer," The woman cried, " who seeks to do you good ? " "Speak, then. What would you?" Eva said, with eyes Fronting her, holding still her pony's rein ; And in the shelter of the steep they stood. " Dear lady, I have watched you many a month, And loved you for your goodness, and your face, Your beautiful young face, your gentle deeds Of mercy and of kindness. I can tell Some secrets of your heart, for I have read The stars, and by the lines of your white hand What looms behind the curtain of the years 3 o2 BALLADS OF DOWN. I can disclose. Unglove your pretty palm, And I will tell you of the happiness To come, and warn you of the ills that be." " I care not for such trifling," Eva said. " Nay, 't is no trifling, lady. I will ask No bounty. I would help you if I might Draw off this little glove." Then Eva smiled, And, careless, answered, " Well, for your caprice, Here is my hand. But, pray you, linger not, For I would hasten homeward." And the woman Took in her own a hand as white and fair As hers that closed upon the golden fruit When Paris choosing wrought the doom of Troy. "Yes," said the woman, "he you think you love Sails on the deep. I see his ship afar. Another loves you more than he. Dark eyes Hide deeper love than blue. Trust not too much The lover who has never told his love. How easy 't is to shift a love unpledged From one face to another ! Danger lies That way for you, dear lady. Shun the reef. True love is nearer home." THE OUTCASTS TRAGEDY. 303 " Enough ! " cried Eva. "You've found the boon you craved, and I must go." She sprang into the saddle. As she rose The woman laid her fingers on the rein. " Do not forget me. I would guard your life From evil. Close beside the dusky boughs Of the thick spruce-wood yonder my poor hut Stands with a desolate hearth. In charity Come sometimes there to speak a gentle word To the poor Wandering Woman." The dark eyes Drooped their worn lids, and tender pity stirred The kindly heart of Eva, as she said, "Well, then, I will. Farewell ! " The Wanderer's hand Slipt from the bridle ; bending low her head She stood aside ; and Eva rode away. She rode away ; but as she rode the voice Of the weird woman, mingling with the wind, Kept ringing in her ear, " Trust not too much The lover who has never told his love. Dark eyes hold deeper love than blue." She laughed 304 BALLADS OF DOWN. At the grim warning ; but her heart was cold Even as she laughed ; for when had Sebert breathed His love, or given any lover's pledge ? . . What if he loved her not ! . . It well might be. Her own vain fancies might have fooled her. . . Then, " Dark eyes hold deeper love than blue." . . Dark eyes? . . What could she mean? . . O, but why heed the words Of a mere fortune-telling wanderer ? . . Dark eyes ? . . The eyes of Manuel flashed upon her; And, as at times the man we would not love, Or woman, wakes a momentary warmth W'ithin us that is half akin to love, And works a doleful conflict in our hearts Of liking and of loathing, such a spell The image of him wrought within her mind A moment, blotting out the shadowy form Of Sebert, and she could not rid her brain Of the dread fancy. Then she raised her face To the wild sky, murmuring, " Sebert, Sebert, I love you, and will love you till I die." THE OUTCASTS TRAGEDY. 305 And from her eyes the shape dissolved away. So worked the woman's witchcraft in her breast, So, like the raindrops in the rifted tree, Threatened decay of the sweet life within. Her weaker will began to sink and swoon Within a firmer folded. That weird face, Tall form, and something of strange majesty Irradiate through the soilure and the shame, Haunted her. What if Nature to fine ears Did darkly breathe foreknowledge of events, The hand confide the history of the life, The starry influence store the watchful mind ? What if the finer sense perceived and felt That in the world the dull may never know ? How read the woman her heart's love ? How found The secret of her soul ? How learnt her dream In looking o'er the tempest-whitened sea? . . Blue eyes ? . . Alas, if Sebert loved her not ! . . Or if he loved her yesterday, what bond Between them was there that he might not break To-morrow ? . . Then the warm dark flattering eyes Of Manuel glowed before her once again, Brooding upon her face. She brushed away x 306 BALLADS OF DOWN. The phantom as we flick the twilight moth, And deeper grew her loathing. But her heart Was troubled with distrust and fleeting fear. Her heedless promise to the Wanderer Perplexed her. Should she seek that lowly hut ? . . Think . . think ! . . But now a restless longing rose To peer into the gulfs of Death and Fate ; And as, while yet we mock them on the lip, All prophecies, all pictures, of ourselves, Since they are of ourselves, will draw us to them Greatly or little, gradually she grew More tolerant of the woman and her art, More gentle in her judgment of her aims, And, thinking, " I must break no promise made Even to her," she murmured to herself, " To-morrow or the next day will I go." That night, at table, in the drawing-room, At games, beside him, or where'er he moved, She could not lift her eyes to Manuel's face, And shunned the studious homage of his glance. He watched her and he wondered. Could it be His subtile craft of silent courtship throve ? Could the down-drooping of her fringed lids THE OUTCAST'S TXAGEDY. 307 Be maiden shyness born of conscious love ? He thought so. Easy victories over hearts More vain and more ignoble puffed his breast With faith unwavering in his power to charm. He loved her beauty with such love as men So low as he may love ; he coveted Her gold, her mansion, and her fair domains ; And, with a resolute and persistent will, A nerveless conscience and a crafty brain He swore to gain them, foul the means or fair. in. AMID the sweet September morning air, Eva, adown the long lime-avenue, While the thick branches gleamed with autumn-gold And now and then against the aery blue A yellow leaflet floated to her feet, Walked, with heart beating, to her father's gates, And passed into the highway. She would seek The Wanderer's hut half-hidden in the woods, And question her. Her heart, she knew not why, Failed her. Forebodings like a sense of guilt Oppressed her. Yet what sin to keep her faith Even with an outcast ? Surely, should she break 308 BALLADS OF DOWN. That word of promise honour would be stained. Why this gaingiving, this unmeaning stir Within the tremulous bosom ? On she went With mind adrift upon a misty sea ; Then at a sudden turning found the hut, Bowered in its spruces, with a meagre path, Crossed by a hurdle, leading to the door, And pushed the hingeless barrier back, and passed, And at the threshold paused. The Wanderer Came forth to give her welcome. Poor and bare The little chamber was, black as a cave, Yet neatly ordered. As the woman stood, Tall and erect, a moment in the light Shed through the doorway, Eva, gazing at her, Wondered. Hid in a hovel such as that How came a woman of such high-born air To dwell in shame and penury ? The face Dark-hued and finely moulded, the large eyes, Now dim but in their depth of gathering gloom Holding remembrances of lustrous day, The haughty spirit flashing through the guise Of meanness and a feigned humility, THE OUTCAST'S TRAGEDY. 309 Seemed foreign to her station and her haunt. What was her story ? Eva, fain to learn, Dared not to question. " Gracious, kind, and true, Dear lady, welcome to my lonely roof," The woman cried. "And would you learn of me Still more the secrets hidden in the Vast ? " Eva, half-trembling, said, " I long to know." "Then," said the woman, "I can show you things You dream not of. I can unveil the Deeps. But not to-day the stars are dumb to me ; My skill is dead. To-morrow will you come Past noon to-morrow ? " Eva answered, " Yes, To-morrow I will come." Long stayed she there, Held by the fascination of a voice That murmured like the night-winds and the waves Of far-off lonely spaces of the world, And listened as it told of wonders hid Behind the veil of life, nor let her heart, 3 io BALLADS OF DOWN. Trustful of all things human in its love And tenderness, perceive the glimmering light Of guile and cunning that about the lips And eyes would flit and glitter like the gleam, Exhaling from corruption and decay, That dances o'er the dwellings of the Dead. IV. THE ship that westward through the Narrow Seas Bore Sebert ere she met the ocean-swell Got tangled fast in tempest ; wave and wind Smote her, her boats were swept into the foam, Her foremast shattered, and such ruin wrought As no choice left but steer her as they could Into the nearest haven. So they ran To Dartmouth. There, while busy hammers clanged, Saws croaked, and chisels clinked upon her deck, He, 'mid the quiet of the seaport inn, Grew heavy-hearted. Wherefore should he set Mountains and waves between the purest bliss Life proffered and his ever-longing eyes ? Could all of Nature, all of Art, the shows And pageants of the cities and the hills, Bring to his lonely heart one tithe the joy THE OUTCAST'S TRAGEDY. 311 That one bright smile of Eva rained upon him ? He had not known the measure of his love. Could he endure so many weary moons Of absence? . . Not to see her face again For two long years? . . What changes might not come Oblivion, sickness, marriage, death itself! . . He shuddered at the dismal fantasy. . . And then that rival ! If he read him right Already was he drawing round her life His damned toils. . . What madness drave him thence ? What folly sealed his lips in silent love ? . . He would forego his wandering, set his face Nor'ward again, cling to his Downshire knolls, See her once more, and that right soon perchance Tell out his love, learn once for all his doom. That night he dreamed that from a window high At Ardagh he beheld the roofs and walls Of Drimnagh's house one sheet of leaping fire, And that he ran with winged feet, and reached The lawn, and, looking upward, through the smoke Saw the pale face of Eva, wrapped in flames, 312 . BALLADS OF DOWN. High on a tower ; and that he beat his way Through the dense crowd that pressed around the doors, And entered, crying " Eva, Eva, Eva," And the smoke surged around him, and he fell Stifled and burnt ; and, struggling, he awoke, And mused upon the horror of the dream, Half scared, and rose up in his couch, and cried, " Danger to Eva ! Ere another sun Sink, I will bend me to my home again." v. BACK to the Wanderer's hut, true to the hour, Went Eva, when the latch was lifted found The Wanderer standing in a lightless gloom, Who, saying, " Fear not ; spirits in the dark Will speak to us that in the light are dumb," Passed slowly a cold palm across her eyes, And led her in. There, sitting by her side, She clasped her hand in hers, and, as one rapt, Muttered fantastic rhymes. Then, bending near, She whispered, " I can show you what you will, Your lover, your true lord, if so you will Out of the darkness, from the Phantom World . . THE OUTCASTS TRAGEDY. 313 What would you ? " Eva, dazed and sick at heart, Murmured, " What you have power to do, that do." With paces slow she moved about the room, Half-seen, a spectral shape, with beckoning hand, Calling, "Come ! come ! Out of the Infinite Deeps, Out of the caverns of Eternal Night, Come to me, O come ! " Then kneeling by the hearth, She blew the turfs into a blaze, and cried, " Look yonder ! See your lover, your true lord, Foredestined husband ! " There by the faint flame The figure and the face of Manuel shone A moment from the darkness. The light died, And all again was gloom. With stifled scream, Eva, upstarting, sought the door. A hand Stayed her ; the woman's breath was on her neck. " No need to fear, sweet lady. Sit you down, And I will talk to you of pleasant things. Have I not said I seek your happiness And not your hurt ? I cannot cancel Fate, Though thus I may unfold it ; yet your doom 314 BALLADS OF DOWN. Is fair as morning by the summer sea. Knew you the face ? " " I have seen such a face, And like it not. I pray you let me hence." " Where have you seen it, lady ? " " Ask me not. I care not to be questioned. Only this I tell you. I would rather die to-night Than wed with him whose face it seemed to be." "Ah, lady, 'tis a story old as Earth That our poor women's-hearts can grow to love The men we think we hate, and grow to hate The men we think we have loved. And marriages, Love we or not, are one with Nature's web, Woven in the iron loom of Destiny." But Eva struggled in her grasp " I say I will not tarry longer. Fare you well." And from the door she swept into the air And sweet sure light of day. Slowly she moved, Unhappy. When she reached the wood-path gate THE OUTCAST'S TRAGEDY. 315 At Drimnagh, treading lightly through the leaves Down the red walk came Manuel wreathed in smiles, Self-confident, elate. She had turned to fly But that her pride restrained her. In a trice They met. She, bowing lightly, passed. But he With show of reverent admiration turned, And, with some phrase of flattery deftly coined, Stept to her side. She needs must hear him speak. Then Manuel, feigning virtue, reverence, Humility, deep homage, wondrous care, Spoke on until at last in broken tones He told her that he loved her, proffered life, The labour of his hands, fidelity Till death, all loving-tenderness, all might Of arm and brain, devotion absolute, Would she but still the longings of his soul. Another time she might have felt his spell, And answered him in maiden gentleness, Remorseful for the wound she needs must deal, But now, with anger-knitted brow, her face 3i 6 BALLADS OF DOWN. Turned from him, all her pity frozen in her, She answered : " No, not here, Don Manuel, Nor ever, will I yield to such a prayer. Your pardon let me seek my home alone." He bowed, and swerving to the leftward walk, And, muttering curses to his chafed soul, Went down in brute-like fury through the woods. And Eva, hardly heeding where she moved, And trembling in her anger and her pain, Walked like the blind along the homeward path, And entering the great doorway, up the stairs Climbed unperceived, and to her chamber passed, And flung herself upon her couch, and wept. VI. THE next day Manuel to Lord Ian spoke Of urgent letters that had found his hands From England. "He must leave the house that breathed God's peace, the friends that seemed his very kin. What words could tell his gratitude, what acts Repay the lavish kindness of his host ? Forget he could not. In the years to be THE OUTCAST'S TRAGEDY. 317 His happiest moments would be those he spent In dreaming of the days at Drimnagh Towers. That bliss could find no counterpart. Heaven grant Their paths diverging might again converge Hereafter !" Ian pressed him yet to stay " One winter when he went would Drimnagh be." He shook his head, saying that half the weal Of life hinged on the going. Sad at heart Lord Ian pressed no more. Two days went by, And on the morning of the third he bade Farewell. But Eva till he passed the gates Kept to her rooms, and saw him not again. VII. A WEEK had died, another toward its grave Was sinking, when a nimble messenger One morning slipt a letter in the hand Of Eva, in her sunny pleasure-ground Alone, and, darting down the shrubbery-walks, Vanished. It from the lonely Wanderer came, And told of sickness and of helplessness, And craved forgiveness had she done her wrong, And prayed that she would visit her once more, And let the dawn-light break upon her gloom. 318 BALLADS OF DOWN. Up from the heart of Eva pity welled, And, with the woman's glamour mingling, worked So on her will, that ere the sun his height Had journeyed, she, with basket on her wrist With fruit and dainties laden, through the gates Had sped to seek the sprucetree-wood again. She reached the shadow of the dusky copse, And paused to watch a brood of tiny birds That, twittering in their undulating flight, Tumbled from tree to tree, and half forgot Her purpose in her gladness as her eye Followed their gambols in the boughs and air. Just then the hut-door lightly from within Opening startled her. Out from it stept A figure cloaked, hurried along the path, And passed adown the highway. As she watched Its motions her heart's throbbing all but ceased. That movement of the all-too-graceful form, Did it not seem Don Manuel's? . . Could it be? . . No surely. He was gone across the seas. Her father knew had heard from him. Her feet Failed her ; yet, shadowed with indefinite doubts, Dangers, misgivings, courage drove her on. THE OUTCAST'S TRAGEDY. 319 She knocked and entered, welcomed by a hand Chilly as death. The Wanderer's face was pale, Her manner stiffened as with studied calm, With something ominous in it, such as stirred The heart of Eva with a dim alarm, As the down-sweeping breeze from darkened heights Might make a cheerless wrinkle in the mere That sleeps in sunshine. Then with tremulous voice She told of sickness, griefs, and poverty, And of the desolation of her life, And blessed the gentle hand that gave her help, And pardon craved again for all offence, And talked of signs and wonders, and the pain Of those who held communion with the Dead ; And her dark eyes seemed following afar Dread visioned forms and ghostly presences, Her senses all alert for thrills of life Unseen, pulsations of the Spirit-World. And Eva marvelled at and pitied her, And soothed her with a ready sympathy, Though awed, and credulous of her mystic power. 320 BALLADS OF DOWN. Then, as the shadows of the autumn-eve Grew deeper, Eva rose to haste away. She faced the setting sun. The level ray Dazzled her sight. She passed the sprucetree- wood When from a break among the fringing trees A muffled figure strode. She knew the form, The face, of Manuel. Hardly could she quell The cry that rose, for terror, from her lips ; But yet again she conquered fear, and moved Onward with firm-set lip and tightening palm. He followed. "Nay," he muttered with rough voice, The brute within him trampling out the god, " Sweet deity, fear not so your worshipper." Then with strong hand he drew her to him, swift Out of his breast a silken kerchief snatched, And cast it lightly, holding both its ends, Over her face. A sudden downward blow Felled him to the earth. Above him Sebert bent Menacing. THE OUTCASTS TRAGEDY. 321 Eva, pale and frighted, stood Apart with clasped hands raised to Heaven. He rose, Grappling with Sebert. Sebert shook him off, Saying, " Another way ; " and then to Eva, " Pray you, go on a little ; I will follow ; " And once more to his enemy, " Would you fight For honour, rapiers let it be, to-morrow- Here, in this wood, at daybreak when you will Rapiers, or what you will to-night to-morrow." And Manuel answered, trembling in his rage, " Rapiers, or what you will, and when you will. Here let it be or where you will ; " and turned, And went. Then Sebert, hastening, lightly ran To Eva. " Sebert ! " As she breathed his name A rising sob stayed utterance. " Tell me all, Eva," he said. She told him how by chance She had met Don Manuel, who had left the Towers A week since never to return, she had prayed ; How he had stolen upon her from the wood, Y 322 BALLADS OF DOWN. Seized her, and with a swift and sudden hand Assayed, as he had seen, to blindfold her. "Ay, truly," Sebert thought, "and close at hand Lurk, doubtless, his abettors. God be thanked I came upon him when I came!" And then, As side by side amid the reddening rays They walked, the love of either like a sea O'erbore all barriers. At the whispered word " Eva," his arms were twined about her neck, Her head laid on his shoulder. Love's strong bond Was sealed for ever. To her father's doors He led her. Hands were locked in mute fare- well, And Sebert down the long lime-avenue Passed to his home. The lustrous heaven of love Wherein he moved grew sudden dark as night. What should the morrow bring? Death, or the stain Of blood upon his hands for evermore ? THE OUTCAST'S TRAGEDY. 323 VIII. GREY broke the morning over Ardagh Hall, And Sebert, with his Friend, amid the dew Walked by a field-path to the sprucetree-wood, And waited. Would that other meet him? Doubt Thickened in Sebert's fancy. Could he find A Second ? Friends he might have made, but now, A prowler in the purlieus of their parks, Could he reveal himself? . . At last the boughs Were stirred, and Manuel entered not alone. Sebert a moment scanned the stranger's face, But knew it not ; MacAlpine was his name, Or so he said. . . "What weapons?" . . "Rapiers." . . " Good. Let them prepare." . . In the still air of morn Theirdeadlyglimmeringweaponsclinked and hissed. The brows of Manuel blackening with his hate Bare witness to the deathful dream within. No fight for honour his ; a thirst for blood, Revenge, the quelling of the opposed life That thwarted his ambitions and his greed These were the impelling passions in his blood. 324 B 'ALL ADS OF DOWN. Fair was his art ; but finer yet the skill Of Sebert, who with cooler heart and eye Mocked thrust on thrust. At last a craven trick Stung Sebert's anger. All at once he lunged, And deep through Manuel's breast his rapier ran. He drew it, and, remorseful, let it drop, As into his friend's arms his rival fell. But, gathering all his strength, the dying man Upreared himself, and, staggering toward his foe, Plunged his keen weapon into Sebert's heart, And, with a dull cry gurgling from his throat, Fell on him falling, dead upon the dead. Then, clinging to their own poor hour of life, Silent and scared the heart-sick Seconds fled. IX. SWIFTLY from field to field, from hearth to hearth, The story of the deathful struggle flew, And, like the sudden sweeping of a storm Down on still woodlands, making the bent boughs One sea of sound and turmoil, all at once THE OUTCASTS TRAGEDY. 325 The tranquil neighbourhood became astir With clamorous agitation. Ian heard The tidings ; came ; and stared upon the dead His neighbour and his guest corpse beside corpse Forsaken, lying in their mingled blood. He the dead Manuel to his own house bore, For yet he knew him only as his friend, And Sebert reverently to his father's steps ; Then sought for Eva. Eva in her room Had heard the tale, and in her servant's clasp, Paler than either corpse, had dropped as dead ; And, rallying, yet again with piteous cry Had swooned away ; and they that by her stood Believed that one more death blackened their day. Shivering in icy coldness on her couch Her father found her, in her agony dumb. The grey physician summoned to her side Forbad all questions ; sleep, all-healing sleep, Was the one medicine for a heart so torn. 326 BALLADS OF DOWN. So Ian bent his brows in pain, and stood Perplexed amid the woe and mystery That brooded like thick tempest on his home. But Sebert's mother, bending o'er her dead, Heart-broken, read the truth with woman's eye. What lure had hurried Sebert back to them, What lure but love for Eva ? And that other Might not Lord Ian, dreamer though he were, Have marked the sedulous courtship of his guest ? She had seen it, and had thought for friendship's sake To hint her fears to Ian, but restrained Her woman's tongue. The blameless cause of all She could not doubt was Eva. Ian heard, Pondered her words, and as he walked alone Back to his gates he beat his brows and cried, " Fool, fool to hold so lightly Nature's laws ! Fool, fool, to drift upon Life's pitiless sea ! " x. DOWN through the long lime-avenue they bore Don Manuel's corpse in reverent funeral, THE OUTCAST'S TRAGEDY. 327 And laid him in a grave of lan's choice Beneath the ruin forlorn whose ivy-plumes Wave o'er the little churchyard near the gates, And slow returned in silence to their homes. When all were gone, the last clod shovelled in, The grave left folding close its desolate prey, And twilight thickened round the wintry woods, The Sexton, from his far-off lattice looking, Saw one, he thought, in faded widow-weeds, Steal up the narrow loaning, peer about Lest any watched her, cross the graveyard-stile, Speed to the bare grey mound, and cast herself Beside it, press her face against the clay, And rise, and kneel, and stretch her hands to Heaven. And when she crossed the stile again, he watched The dark tall figure pass adown the road, And knew her as the lonely Wanderer. Next morning, lan's bailiff, passing, found The little hut beside the sprucetree-wood With open door that swung to all the winds, Its room deserted, and its hearth-stone bare. 328 BALLADS OF DOWN. XL BUT Eva, drooping like a delicate flower Cut at the root, grew feebler day by day. Through the dread breach made in her walls of life Death, spying vantage, gathered up his powers For swift and ruinous entry. Painfully, And with faint breath and many a weary pause, She to her father had the whole tale told Of Manuel's loathed suit and Sebert's love, And Manuel's craven plot and Sebert's ire ; And all the springs of all their river of woe Lay clear before him. So the hours went by. One evening as the wintry sunset broke Across the looming clouds and leafless trees, " Lift me, and on the pillows let me rest," She said, " that I may look upon the skies In that red splendour." As she sat and gazed Her father laid a letter in her hand, Her name upon it. Listlessly, her eyes Still resting on the gorgeous lights of heaven, She closed her pale weak fingers on its folds ; Held it a moment. Suddenly it dropped THE OUTCAST'S TRAGEDY. 329 Upon the coverlet. Her head had fallen Back on the pillows, and her angel-face, Set in its radiant cloud of golden hair, Lay still as alabaster white and cold. Down by the bedside Ian on his knees Sank, lifting up his helpless trembling palms, And cried to God aloud in his despair. XIT. BUT, when the burial of all his hope, His love, his pride, the one sweet life that, lost, Left all the earth one gloom where'er he turned, Was over, in his lonely library Ian the letter which from Eva's clasp Had fallen as she closed her dying eyes Unsealed with languid hand, the writing found A woman's, all haste-blotted, and thus read : " WHEN I have written down this tale of shame, I will go forth to the wild shores, and cast My pain-worn body in the sea, to drift Whithersoe'er it may. The voice you hear Now speaking through this letter is the voice 330 BALLADS OF DOWN. Of the dead. O, listen, listen, and forgive ! . . / only am the cause of all this woe. My plots have failed. The stone rolls back upon me. Mine is the greater guilt, the deeper grief. You have slain my child my child ; and on my head The hot blood of your chosen lover reeks. . . Not thus I planned it. . . By my best intent Judge me, not by the end. . . " O bitter sin ! . . Must I unto an ear so undented Whisper my shame ? I am not all so sunk In guilt that I forget the sweet white life Of modest maidenhood. I once was clean As the white buds of roses in the dew Of dawn. Ah days of happy girlhood fled So fleetly, few beside the weary months Of penury and base ignoble life, Of craft, of studious cunning, low deceit, That make the untold story of my years ! . . " My father in a neighbouring county bore A name that centuries of change had left THE OUTCAST'S TRAGEDY. 331 Noble and dear in this unstable Isle. Fair was my home, and fair the life we passed Within its hoary walls, with wood and lawn And garden girdled. I, among a crowd Of sons and daughters, ail-but latest born, Was oft forgotten. And my father's heart Was proud, and fierce his anger if his pride Were stung, his will were thwarted ; at his frown We cowered, I most of all, who loved him least. And my good mother, though of gentle mould, Had given all her mother's love away To those that claimed it ere she saw my face. . . " Perhaps because he spoke with gentler voice To me, and with obsequious courtesies And little acts of grace and helpfulness So dear to girlhood in the man o' the world Oft but the facile arts of basest natures Learnt in brute-traffic with the loathliest lives, And the false lights that lure us to our doom- Perhaps because he set himself to win My faith, from darker longings, all my soul Yielded itself in passionate maiden-love To one of more than twice my years, himself 332 BALLADS OF DOWN. A husband richly-mated, honoured friend, Neighbour, and frequent guest of our free hearth- Sir . . ' Philip,' I will call him, ' Philip Neill ' Whose dark half-foreign face and bearing, drawn From Spanish motherhood, had power to turn The hate in any woman's heart to love. . . " One night I left my father's gilded gates For ever. Cool the autumn breezes blew, The sunset looked one fierce and glowing fire With red flames blown about an inky sky. I went I knew not whither. The night fell Thickly around me as I wandered on, And the winds drave me, and I felt the rain Beat cold against my neck a dismal night ! I looked for shelter. By-and-by a gleam Shot from a cottage-window nigh the way. Down in a dell the cottage lay ; the road Dipt to its doors. I knew it well, the cot Of my old foster-mother, faithful nurse, Loving and kind, more than my mother was. Should I pass by or enter ? If I passed I might lie down and die. O dear relief Of the pent bosom ! Might that tender heart THE OUTCAST'S TRAGEDY. 333 Not help me in my secret misery ? Should I not venture ? At the door I stood Wavering. The door was opened, and I fell, Sobbing, into the nurse's kindly arms. " Love has a vigilant and a piercing eye. I think she half divined my cause of flight. She scanned rny face, and I could see a cloud Darkening her brows ; and, clenching her brown hand, She shook it at some visionary foe. She set me in her seat before the hearth, Laid whins upon the kindling turf, my feet Chafed, kissed my forehead, a great burning tear Falling upon it as she bent. And then She sat down on her stool beside my chair, And held my hand in silence. '"Do not fear,' At last she said. ' O'erburthened is your heart. Tell all.' " ' My heart is breaking, dearest nurse, I cried. ' I must to some one speak my woe. O, will you swear upon the Holy Book To take my secret with you to the grave ? ' 334 BALLADS OF DOWN " She lifted up the Sacred Book, and swore. " When I had told my bitter tale, she rose And paced the little room in angry thought ; Then cried aloud, ' God's curse upon his head Who wronged you ! ' But I chid her for her words, Because I loved him still. . . Ah, woe is me ! . . " She had a sister in the Northern Town, To whom she bore me in the night disguised. My father's searchers hunted a false trail. My flight became a fading wonder ; some Doubtless believed me swept into the seas ; Some scented in my loss a kindred sin ; And in the bustle of the little street I dwelt unnoticed. " There to him I wrote. My foster-mother gave the letter sealed To one who ran with missives to and fro Through two whole counties, ragged, fleet of foot As roebuck on the hills, and dumb as death, Commanding him to place it in his hand Wherever he could find him first alone. He found him, and he gave it. Then we met THE OUTCASTS TRAGEDY. 335 For one brief hour one evening as the moon Silvered the cliffs of black Ben Madigan, And planned my further flight, while the clear stars Hung heedless over us. Next night a ship Would sail for Havre. Huddled in its hold My babe and I were wafted out to sea, I with a purse of gold and promise given Of sustenance throughout the years to come. " We landed at the busy port in France, And, crossing the wide river, journeyed slow Through Normandy ; where, in a village quaint, With borrowed name I made my lonely home. He through some medium in the nearest town Supplied my narrow wants from month to month, And strove to heal the deathful wound he had wrought Well as he might ; nor yet forgot his child, Who at the Seminary in the town Learned aptly all the lore it yielded him. . . " Let me not linger o'er my misery. . . " At sixteen years he bade me send my boy To Buenos Ayres, to carve his fortune out 336 BALLADS OF DOWN. Amongst his Spanish kinsfolk. I was left Alone alone, alone. . . My dark-eyed boy Would write at times. He seemed to prosper. I Still lingered in the little Norman ville, Desolate, yet receiving month by month What held me from the grave. At last the stream Stopped, and I learned the man I had loved had died. They found him dead upon the public way, With broken neck ; his horse had stumbled with him And thrown him no time given for spoken wish Or written testament. Unless my son Could send me succour, I must beg or starve. " I wrote. He sent me little doles of help, Not, doubtless, rich himself; and, hoarding them Well as I might, I crossed the seas once more, With yearning to behold my native fields, And the fair house that seemed to me a dream. "I went. I wandered round the coppices, I peered into the gardens, to the door I ventured in my poor soiled wanderer's weeds, THE OUTCAST'S TRAGEDY. 337 And whined for alms, and took the coins they gave, And saw my brothers' faces seared with time ; And went out into the drear world again, In nameless incommunicable shame, An outcast and a beggar. " Yet I clung To the home-land, and wandered up and down, Making the dismal hut beside your wood Of spruces my poor shelter for the nights. . . " If life had any summer warmth or bloom For me and was not one blank wretchedness, I could have laughed, contemptuous, as my tricks Of Mystery hoodwinked youth and awed the heart Of feeble reason ; for I scorned, I loathed The paltry art, though making it my tool, Well knowing all things human are the dupes Of Nature, fed from childhood to the grave With make-believes and fantasies, and fools Agape for wonders thirst for lies on lies, And yield themselves the impostor's willing slaves. " . . But hear the end. Not wholly kind or true Or gentle-hearted was my poor dead son ; z 338 BALLADS OF DOWN. Yet he forgot me not. The hours ran on, And in his thirtieth year he wrote to tell That they he served, well pleased to trust his tact, Would send him on an errand by-and-by To England. He would cross for them the seas, And he would meet me once again. We met. I found him ripe in manhood dark of face, With something of the Spaniard in his mien And features drawn from her who gave her beauty And passionate blood to him that wrought my shame. Then back he went to England, leaving me A handful of bright gold that kept me months From want and care ; and once again took ship For Buenos Ayres. " Beside your father's bounds The ship was wrecked. I knew its name. My hut Was not far off. I learned that he was saved. Your father took the shipwrecked man, my son, Into his house, a guest. May God reward him ! But I I thought I had found a path to wealth And dignity for him, the one thing living Left me to love. Could he but make you wife We two might laugh Misfortune in the teeth, THE OUTCAST'S TRAGEDY. 339 And I upon the world that trod upon me Might set my foot in triumph. Hence my craft To draw you from your lover, and to bend Your will to mine. Your heart's true instinct wrought Against my purpose, and my purpose failed. Then though with greed, ambition, treachery, Love too was mingled when he failed to win His passionate anger loosed itself in plots To force you into marriage. Gold he had saved Enough to tempt a reckless few to aid His venture. Hidden in the copse they lay, That evening, the abductors and the Priest The " buckle-beggar " Priest without the gown ! It was my part to lure you to the net. And had not your slain lover struck that blow, You had been my daughter now. . . Ay, ay, we failed . . Not wholly no, for had we not revenge Revenge on your dear lover and on you ? . . . But nay, I meant not this. I have not writ To curse you, but forgiveness ask of you . . Forgiveness ? . . Well, I am a woman ; I Must share the long-pent secrets of my life 340 BALLADS OF DOWN. With yet some human soul ; I cannot seal My lips, and go down dumb into the Deeps. . . What boots it who forgives ? . . My life has been One starless night of sorrow. . . Let it end ! " As Ian read, across his heart, like winds Quivering along a dark and silent stream, Swept many a sudden melancholy thought And saddening memory. Back upon him came A chill like that that smote him as a child Hearing the rumour whispered up and down That the young daughter of a house he knew Had fled or perished by some untold death, And all the memory of the mystery Lighted his brain, and they that moved in it Stood out the living men and women, friends Well-known, and neighbours, of a neighbouring shire. Long time he brooded on the sombre tale That with its shadows made his darkened life A deeper wearier twilight. Then he rose, Tore the sad sheet to fragments, fanned the log On his lone hearth, and showered them in the blaze. THE OUTCAST'S TRAGEDY. 341 " For why reveal so drear a history," He thought, " why fling before the loveless world Yet one more life to spit upon and spurn ? . . Haply her threat is but a threat. Who knows ? If earnest, even now she sleeps at peace. Then, let her be forgotten. . . O Just Heaven, How many a human soul from thy great gulfs Is cast upon the beaches of this world A living strength, only to languish there In promise unfulfilled of use and joy, And, without seeming purpose, shrink and rot ? " XIII. NEVER again along the Downshire roads Or leanings passed the dark weird figure, watched With awe by children, hailed with grave salute By lowly wayfarer for seldom fails The humble eye to read the delicate signs Of gentle nurture in the high-bred face Or know the prouder presence even in rags. Lord Ian in his gardens and his groves Wandered from day to day ; with listless eyes Gaped at the beauty of his handiwork 342 BALLADS OF DOWN. By rock and stream and mountain ; now and then Would set his men to work some passing dream Of beauty out into a living form ; Then lapse into sad reverie, and forget His fleeting purpose, saying languidly To them who served him, " Do the thing yourselves, Or do it not I have no heart to do it." Nor ever had he strength or hope to mould His visions, feeling, in perpetual pain, The pressure of the world on every nerve. And sometimes he would seek in lonely walk High wood- ways where the children love to climb Lured by the danger and the mystery, And there sit brooding half a summer's day ; Or when the sun of March was bright in heaven, Gaze at the poplar's yellow spire of flame Or budding sally's orange light of sprays Against the mountain's silver snow, and sigh, Remembering how the clear resilient Springs Gladdened his being in the cloudless prime ; Until at last a weakness came upon him, And the tired languid spirit sank to sleep Amid the Downshire woods he loved so well. 343 THE SHIMNA. I LENT from thy silent spring, Little rill, thou risest. 2. Now with muffled murmuring Thou mine ear surprises!. 3- Now thou growest lustier. Rush and reed about thee stir. 4- Rocks arise to thwart thine onward going ; But they cannot stay thy strong persistent flowing, And adown the mountain-steep, As a flock of white fleeces that tumble and leap, Thou speedest away to the valley. 344 BALLADS OF DOWN. 5- And now thy forces around thee rally And out in their lustre sweep. 6. I follow thy frolic, I live with thy mirth, The soul of thy being is. mingled with mine, As, darting, glancing, Gliding, dancing, Thou hurriest onward to traverse the Earth, In the gloom of the mountain, by bracken and pine, To the depths of the dale. 7- And now content thou movest, and thou cheerest all the vale With a voice of glad elation as thou hurriest on thy way, In the pleasant breezy weather, in the golden sunshine gay, Till thou glidest in thy glory into dewy depths of wood, To wander on half-hidden in a listless quietude. THE SHIMNA. 345 8. Under the leafy mountain-slope thou windest Where'er the fairest path thou findest, Through an enchanted Eden of green trees And golden, dusky pine and silvery birk, By grassy copses where the conies lurk, Laurel and rhododendron, primroses Or bluebells in the springtime, beds of fern, Foxglove and sorrel, pale sweet eglantine In June-tide, heather pink when fraughans turn Purple as damsons toward the year's decline, And many a bramble-swathe and ivy-twine ; In among grey-green gorges of bright rock, And o'er fantastic ledges thou hast worn Smoother than steel, or hewn with shock on shock Of thy keen waters, or resistless torn With thy fell winter fury from their rest. 9- O pure and crystal Abana of the West, Thou fairest rivulet in this land of streams, How, gazing on thy myriad lovelinesses, The world-entangled heart might mock its darker dreams 346 BALLADS OF DOWN. And all that weight of care that on it presses, Hearing the harmony of Nature's sounds, Seeing the smile of Nature's kindly face, Feeling far off the sweeter life beyond her bounds ! 10. But away thou drawest me, speeding apace To the hollows beneath thee, giddy with gladness, Leaping and whirling in headlong madness, With glitter of flood and sparkle of spray, And a roar as of waves in a rock-bound bay ; And the boughs dip down in thy flood and quiver, And the ivies caught in thy current shiver, And the bramble-trailer struggles and strains, And the brown leaves cumber the woodbine-chains. ii. And now thou stayest me to hear thee falling With drowsy tones from yonder level block Into the deep still gulf beneath the rock, Foam-whitened sounds like elfin-voices calling, Soothing to slumber for a little space. THE SHIMNA. 347 12. How beautiful this pool, this leafy place, Wherein awhile thou findest glassy sleep, Green-arched and mirroring in thy tranquil deep The green entwining boughs, the cloud that pranks Yon little loop of azure heaven, thy banks Wherefrom the fern bends, wooing its own shadow, And the grey rocks that fringe the bowery meadow ! Here could I brood with placid heart, And watch the yellow wagtails dip and dart, The eager troutlet leap with sudden start, The hunchback ouzel with his breast of snow Sit silent on the islet-rock below. 13- But I would follow still thy flight, And I break my trance's rosy chain, And on again Move with thee in a new delight, O, never wearily following, cheerily Wandering Where in thy channel, thy melody squandering, Musical over the shingle thou hurriest, 348 BALLADS OF DOWN. Prettiest, daintiest, eagerest, merriest Rivulet anywhere dear to the day. 14. Till in thy play With a wild spring in air thy waters flash Into the dark green chasm with mountain-ash Embowered and laurels all a-bloom ; Then shoot, half-hidden, out of the deep gloom (As one may heedless rove Between the bygone and the coming woe) Silent betwixt the muffled roar above And a fierce revel of white foam below, Where with rainbows of spray Thou leapest and dashest, The maddest and rashest Of rivers, careering In stormy affray, O'erleaping and fleering The rocks that would stay The speed of thy going, And gurgling, and flowing Away and away. THE SHIMNA. 349 id. Here in laughing mood I stand to gaze Where beneath a crystal fall rise the little bubbles trooping Out along the rippling water till they twinkle and are flown, While with soft and noiseless motion thou art drifting slowly on. And now thou art swooping Adown to the level, Again in loud revel Prancing and swirling Among the grey rocks, now sweeping their ledges, Now diamonds whirling Far out from a fall's silver edges. 1 8. Nay, thy trouble all but vexes My spirit and perplexes The thought within my brain, And I cannot but brood on Life and its pain, And the toil of the world ah, vain, vain, vain ! 350 BALLADS OF DOWN. 19. But now, as shafts of sunlight in a day of gloom and sadness Flush through earth and sky and cheer the heavy breast with glowing gladness, Here beside thee blithely flowing, sparkling, warb- ling, swift advancing, Gay I grow again of spirit, every pulse within me dancing, As, my heart with thine in tune, I beat thy bank with mimic marching, Till the woodland, over-arching, In its shadows deep as night Hides thee from my longing sight. 20. So flow, Softly and slow, Weary of struggle and weary of play, Out to the beach of the broad sea-bay, At the close of thy brief bright life Of laughter and strife In the sands and the billows to dwindle away. SUNSET OVER STRANGFORD LOUGH. FAREWELL the sweet September day, clear airs Of autumn, lucid skies of breathless noon, The gold of ripening harvest, distant isle And purple peak and lines of glimmering coast And fleeting gleam and shadow on land and sea, And hail the splendours of the setting sun, Glory and pomp of light and colour, more Than even the joy of morning when the hills Flush, and the white clouds lifting from their heights Kindle, and o'er the lawn the low beam makes Rubies and emeralds and diamonds O' the dew-drops i' the grass ! O pageant bright Of cloud-shapes and all tints of earth and heaven, How beautiful, as here, on this green knoll, I stand beside the ruined Norman Keep 352 BALLADS OF DOWN. And gaze across the wide and gleaming fiord, Yearning toward the West ! How yon dull cloud, Dissevering, opens up a gulf of fire 'Mid flaming fringes ! . . There a golden chasm Yawns. . . There amid a sea of molten gold Floats out a crimson flake of mist, adrift, Nearer and nearer the sun's blaze till now His fires consume it. . . There long pale-blue lines Melt into orange. . . There the thick cloud shrinks In rosy ripples ; while yon mountain keen Eats out a dark gap in the luminous heaven. And all the sky is glassed within the Lough, Amidst its hundred isles. Rough Scrabo takes A transient lustre from the sinking day. Far Divis darkens into purple fume. I turn my face, and watch the glimmering coast Of Scotland fade away. Snaefell afar Is slowly gathering in the shrouds of night SUNSET STRANGFORD LOUGH. 353 Round Mona's homesteads. Nearer is the sea, Saddened with evening twilight ; and between Roll the rich undulations of green sward And yellow harvest-field. Far southward towers Slieve Donard's peak amid his brotherhood Of shadowed mountains black against yon bars Of golden light and citron. Once again I front the dazzling glories of the West, Changed even now and changing, every cloud Transformed in feature, moving silently, And colouring like a maiden's face in joy Or anger, fear or shame. Lo, there, the gold, Scarlet, and turquoise ; flights of cirrus-wings Red as wild-cherry leaves in autumn-time When the wind blows them down the mountain- glens ; Phantoms of blazing fire ; and the great sun Quivering, a disk of palpitating light, A A 354 BALLADS OF DOWN. Ere he sink down behind the up-looming rack, And night's dark folds descend on land and sea ! . . A little while, and the pale primrose rifts Of darkened sky grow brighter, and again There comes a kindling over all the heavens. . . Dull red at first the glow . . now lustrous. . . Now The earth is canopied with living fire. . . See how there rises from behind the rim Of the dark hills a cloud that seems a sun . . And yet another, proudly up the sky Soaring ! . . And now they fade . . and now again The welkin grows all colourless and cold. . . Now turns the sail far out upon the bay To ghostly pallor ; now the peasant shuts His door against the darkness ; now the lights, Here one and there another, along the knolls Gleam from the farmstead-lattices. . . O day, Sweet day of happy dreams, of delicate joys, Of glad communion with the hearts of men, Fair deeds, bright hope, delightful memories, SUNSET STRANGFORD LOUGH. 355 Still, like the after-glow of gorgeous cloud And golden heaven, with thoughts that wing their way Beyond all range of straining sight, and shapes Phantasmal thronging through the aery deeps, All-beautiful, all-garlanded with light, Linger within me, lost not yet in gloom ! 356 THE DYING CENTURY. CENTURY dying away in the silent Ulidian night, Moulder of Man, and of Earth and her destiny, out of the gloom Born amid thunders, the clangour of battle, the bane and the blight Of the peoples, the rise and the ruin of empires, doom upon doom, Pass with thy pageant of nations in rivalry red- dened with blood, Armies in pride of their victory shattered and trampled in dust, Clashing of classes with classes, the struggle of Evil and Good ; Pass with thy pomps and thine earthy corrup- tion, thy moth and thy rust ; THE DYING CENTURY. 357 Pass, with thy numberless births and thy shaping of limitless life, Blossom and vigour and beauty, disaster and death and decay, Sweetness of love and communion, and torture of manifold strife, Roar and confusion of voices, the sad and the fierce and the gay. Leaving thy sweet and thy sombre memories, leav- ing to bear Infinite harvest the myriad fields thou hast fashioned and sown, Back into gloom, as from gloom thou wast born to us, fading to air, Pass, as a leaf of the autumn over the ocean blown. n. Century dawning all over the tender Ulidian sea, Broadening and brightening in splendour, with tokens of infinite change, Come with a promise of Concord and Virtue and Glory to be, 358 BALLADS OF DOWN. Freedom for Good in its triumph and Thought in its limitless range ; Come with the crowning of bloodless endeavour, the solace of Light, Conquest of forces that foil and enfeeble and bind to the clod, Triumphs of Spirit in battle with Matter, the flower with its blight, Art in her rapture and Song in her ecstasy soar- ing to God ! 359 L' ENVOI. i. SING ? I care no more to sing With such a world to listen. There ! . . Away the Shell I fling ! Over its abandoned string Other hands will glisten, Making music as they may, While I dream my life away. 2. Sing ? I cannot choose but sing, Though not one ear may listen. To my Lyre in love I cling. Soon again along its string Mine own hands will glisten, Making music as they may On into Life's gloaming grey. T NOTES, PAGE 2. Uladh. HE old Irish name of Ulster. PAGE 3. Ards, The fertile peninsula in the County of Down, which lie between Belfast Lough, Strangford Lough, and the Irish Sea. Ards, meaning " the little hills," describes the undu- lating character of the district, which, after the conquest of A.D. 1 177, formed the central territory of the Anglo-Norman family of Savage, Palatine Barons of Ulster, and became studded with Anglo-Norman castles, churches, and monas- teries. PAGE 5. Mona. The Isle of Man. 362 NOTES. The Templars' mouldering Tower. The splendid old Norman Castle of Dundrum, Co. Down, built by the Knights Templars, soon after the Norman conquests in Ulster, to guard the southern seaward ap- proaches to Lecale. Cantred of the light. Lecale received the name of Triucha ched no. soillse, ' ' the cantred (or territory) of light," it is said, from the legend associated with St. Patrick's death, as related in the "Tri- partite Life" of that Apostle. "And for the space of twelve nights, i.e. whilst the divines were waking him with hymns, and psalms, and canticles, there was no night in Magh- inis, but angelic light there ; and some say there was light in Magh-inis for the space of a year after Patrick's death." Tripartite Life of St. Patrick, translated by HENNESY. The Seven-Castled Town. The Anglo-Norman town of Ardglass, where there were at one time seven castles, the Keeps of some of which still remain. " It is uncertain by whom these castles were built, yet it is most probable that Jordan's Castle was erected by one of that family, whose arms (a cross and three horse-shoes) are fixed in a stone near the top. One may judge, likewise, that others of them were built by the Savages, to whom a NOTES. 363 great part of Lecale, as well as the Arcles, anciently be- longed, as appears by an indenture in the 'Publick Records,' dated the 3ist of May, 28 Henry VIII., made between Lord Leonard Grey, Lord Deputy, and Raymund Savage, chief- tain of his clan, wherein it is covenanted ' That Raymund should have the Chieftainship and superiority of his sept in the territory of the Savages, otherwise called Lecale, as principal Chieftain thereof, and that Raymund should give the Deputy, for acquiring his favour and friendship, 100 fat, able cows, and a horse, or 15 marks Irish money in lieu thereof, at the pleasure of the Deputy." HARRIS, History of the County Down. Cuan's wandering fiord. Strangford Lough. The name Strong fjord, or strong inlet, descriptive of its extraordinarily powerful and rapid inflowing and outflowing tides, was given to it by the Danes, who made settlements on its shores. PAGE 7. Scrabo lifts his monumented steep. The rocky hill over the town of Newtownards at the northern end of Strangford Lough. It is the traditional abode of Macananty, King of the Fairies. County Down nurses, in reply to perplexing questions of children as to 364 NOTES. their life's beginning, would often say they "came from Scrabo," the dwelling-place of the fairies. The hill is now crowned with a lofty tower, erected in 1858 to the memory of the third Marquis of Londonderry. Kinelarty's mountain-range. The mountain-range is that of Slieve Croob, sometimes known as "the Ballinahinch Mountains," on the borders of, rather than within, the barony of Kinelarty. The Firbolgs.The Tooaha. The Firbolgs and Tooaha (or Tuatha) de Danann were races who traditionally inhabited Ireland before the invasion of the Milesians, and became mingled in later ages with Gaelic mythology and fairy-lore. See JOYCE'S Irish Names of Places, vol. i. pp. 180-182. PAGE 8. Driven by the Pagan back from Wicklow shore. St. Patrick (Sucat), having been stoned by the pagan Irish in attempting to land at the mouth of the Vartry River, in Wicklow, made his way to the banks of the Quoile, in the present County of Down, and was there hospitably received by the native chieftain Dichu. NOTES. 365 The Keltic Herdsman. St. Patrick, who during the time of his slavery was employed by his master, Miliuc, as a swineherd, or cowherd, or both, among the Antrim hills. The roving Viking. See note to page 4 " Cuan's -wandering fiord.'''' PAGE 9. The Normari s fearless land. The invasion of Ulster by De Courcy and his twenty-tw knights and three hundred foot-soldiers, in January, 1177, a brilliant feat of arms, which would occupy a more con- spicuous place in history if there had been a chronicler to describe its various incidents vividly and minutely. Till Bruce overwhelmed him. Historians, to judge by their references to Spenser, appear to have been seriously misled by him with regard to the history of the English (or Anglo-Norman) power in Ulster, and the results of Edward Bruce's invasion in 1315. State- papers, private documents, various "annals," and existing facts combine to show that many probably most of the Anglo-Norman families of Ulster were only temporarily dis- turbed by Bruce, and retained possession of their estates for several centuries after his defeat and death in 1318. For example, the Savages not only kept their former lands, but 366 NOTES. were farther endowed by Edward III., about 1335, with ex- tensive territories in the modern County of Antrim, while still occupying the Ards and, for a considerable period, Lecale ; and they hold a portion of their old possessions in the Ards at the present moment and long may they continue to do so ! The Russells of Killough have still (or had till very lately) some of their ancient patrimony in southern Lecale. The Audleys flourished at Audleystown till the eighteenth cen- tury, when Audleystown became the property of the Savage family, prior to its passing into the hands of the Viscounts Bangor. Other Anglo-Norman families retained their estates in Louth (formerly part of Ulster), where some of them are still lords of the soil. The power of the Anglo- Normans of Ulster was no doubt shaken owing to the assistance given by the Bruces to the natives ; but the loss of their terri- tories was brought about by a much more gradual process. PAGE 27. Carlin 1 Lough. Carrick Bay. Carlingford Lough, and the Bay of Carrickfergus, now better known as Belfast Lough. PAGE 40. " The Knighfs Supper." This story of Sir Robert Savage, .Seneschal of Ulster and Warden of the Marches (temp. Edward III.), has NOTES. 367 been told by many chroniclers and historians, Campion's narrative being perhaps the most striking. PAGE 59. " Holy Bridget." This poor creature was once a well-known character in the Ards, and the shocking aspiration to which he gives utterance is one of his recorded sayings. PAGE 74. " Sir Robert Savage." Sir Robert Savage, of the Ards, was probably amongst those who fought against Bruce when the Normans of Ulster were defeated at Rathmore, in the modern County of Antrim, in A.D. 1315. Afterwards he was summoned, in 1322, as one of the Magnates Hibemia: to take part in Edward II. 's expedition into Scotland, and, in 1335, to accompany Edward III.'s expedition into the same country. In 1327 he was appointed by Edward II. Sheriff of Coulrath (cor- responding to the modern County of Londonderry). Some time about the year 1335 he was appointed by Edward III. Seneschal of Ulster, with the functions of which high office were . associated the military duties of Warden of the Ulster Marches. He died in 1360, and was buried in the Church of the Friars Minors at Coulrath (Coleraine). The story embodied in the poem is familiar to all readers of Irish history. Davis, and writers of later times, have drawn 368 NOTES. too sweeping general conclusions from the isolated incident it records. The Annals of Ireland, at 1342, after narrating the story, go on to say, " The Irish destroyed the whole country for want of castles to defend it ; " and Mr. Goldwin Smith, in his interesting, though not, perhaps, always accurate, Irish History and Irish Character, pushes the statement still farther, when he says, "In some cases the colonists seem to have neglected building castles altogether. The family of Savage, in the North, were driven out of their possessions by the natives owing to their having acted on the pithy maxim that ' a castle of bones was better than a castle of stones.' " As a matter of fact, the family of Savage built or acquired in different portions of their Ulster territories at least twenty castles, the ruins of nine or ten of which are still in existence. They do seem to have left their Antrim posses- sions singularly unfortified ; yet " Sir Roland Savage, of Lecale, Knt. , and his Kinnesmen " were still paramount in Moylinny (southern Antrim) in the reign of Henry VIII. By the strand of Olderfleet, etc. Olderfleet, a name given to Larne Lough, seems to b corruption of the Dano-Keltic compound Ollan'a-fjord. " And forowt drede or affray In twa battaills took their way Toward Cragfergus, it to se. But the lords of that countre, Mandeveill, Besat, and Logane, NOTES. 369 Their men assembly! euerilkane. The SAUVAGES were alsua thair. And quhen thai assembly! wer Thar wer well ner twenty thousand." BARBOUR'S Bruce. (Circ. A.D. 1376.) PAGE 87. At A.D. 1407 The Annals of Dublin relate : "A perfidious base Irishman called [Hugh M c ] Adam MacGilmori, never christened, and therefore called Corbi, who had caused the destruction of forty churches, took Patrick Savage prisoner, forced him to pay 2,000 marks for ransom, and afterwards killed both him and his brother Richard." Patrick Savage- was Seneschal of Ulster. He seems to have been captured by an ambush, or some other kind of treacherous surprise. The Annals of the next year (1408) proceed : " This year Hugh MacGilmori was slain at Cragfergus [Carrickfergus] in the Church of the Friars Minors, which he had previously destroyed, and broken the glass windows for the sake of the iron bars, which gave admittance to his enemies the Savages." The former incident furnishes the basis of an admirable prose tale, entitled Corby AfacGHmore, by the eminent Irish poe' Sir Samuel Ferguson. See Hibernian frights' Entertain matt, edited by Lady Ferguson. BC 370 NOTES. PAGE 91. " That's the land of Eg)'pt" etc. " The speech has been erroneously attributed to many other officers." Dictionary of National Biography, Vol. L. 34 1 * article "SAVAGE, SIR JOHN BOSCAWEN." PAGE 93. Macananty. See note to page 7. PAGE 98. " The Old Bell of Ardkeen:' The bell, hung up first in year 1784, after much ill-usage and many wanderings subsequent to the destruction of the church at Ardkeen Castle Hill, came into the hands of the present writer some fifteen years ago. PAGE 132. " Sweet Portaferry" The quaint and beautiful Irish melody bearing this name is preserved in Bunting's collection of Irish airs. The rhythms of the stanzas follow its peculiar cadences. NOTES. 371 PAGE 139. " Helen's Tower." All readers of Tennyson and Browning are familiar with the name of this tower, erected by the Marquis of Dufferin and Ava on the hills of Clandeboye in honour of his gifted mother, Helen, Lady Dufferin. It is a conspicuous object from many places in the Ards, from Belfast Lough, and from the southern slopes of the County of Antrim ; and is always impressive as a symbol, and indeed a visible embodiment, of filial love and maternal devotion. PAGE 156. ' ' The Landing of Patrick. " See note to page 8. Von fierce eddies whirling in their might. The remarkable and dangerous eddies under Bankmore, at the entrance to Strangford Lough, named, from their loud and ominous roaring sound, " the Routing Rocks." PAGE 179. In gazing on green RatKs tinf tin-owed round. It is a well-known belief in Ireland that ill-luck awaits the man who dares to drive the plough through any rath or fairy- mound. 372 NOTES. PAGE 185. Walter-Mead. A slope of meadow (for the name of which several legends attempt to account) situated near the Lough-entrance to the beautiful demesne of Portaferry, the seat of Lieut. -General Xugent, head of the family of Savage of Portaferry, formerly the Lords Savage of the Little Ards. PAGE 250. " The Smith-God." Slieve Gullion, the traditional abode of the Smith-God of Keltic mythology, is in the present County of Armagh, but so close to the mountains of Down as to give the latter county a fair claim to its inclusion within its boundaries. PAGE 256. Clad in worn raiment of a Druid Priest. I am perfectly well aware that according to some authorities the Irish Druids were not priests ; but I don't believe it. PAGE 280. "The Friars of Drumnaquoile." " In the townland of Drumnaquoil ... is the site of the Friar}' of Drumnaquoil, which was the ' locus refugii ' of the NOTES. 373 Franciscans of Down. . . I have been unable to find out the date at which the Franciscans located themselves there ; but a legend told by the people accounts for the selection of that secluded spot. They say that when the friars were at prayer in Rome, a vision of a lady in white warned them to build a friary where they would hear the sound of three bells ringing. The friars, wearied and footsore, sat down one day before the gate of Savage's Castle in Drumaroad, to rest themselves, for they had searched all Ireland through for the promised sign, when at last their hearts were glad- dened by the long-expected chimes surging across the valley from the lonely hillside of Drumnaquoil." An Historical Account of the Diocese of Down and Connor, Ancient and Modern, by the Rev. James O'Laverty, M.R.I.A., Vol. I. page 75. PAGE 287. The little Norman town That guards blue Cttait's narrowing shore. Portaferry, at the entrance to Strangford Lough, with the Castle of the Savages guarding the Ferry between the Ards and Lecale. PAGE 298. Drimnagh. A pseudonym. 374 NOTES. PAGE 311. Ardagh. A pseudonym. GLOSSARY. r I^HE language in which most of the shorter poems in this volume are written is a veritable dialect, not, like what is known as the " Irish brogue," a mere mispronunciation and ignorant misuse of standard English. Historically the Dowrishire dialect, with its variants, is an Ulster develop- ment of the Lowland-Scottish principally Ayrshire brought over by Scottish settlers in the reign of James I., though a Lowland-Scottish element is noticeable in old Ulster docu- ments written in English prior to that period. The dialect is more or less marked according to locality and to the degree of the speaker's education. Some of the peasantry have it so strongly as to be hardly intelligible to a stranger ; some show little trace of it even in their least careful and least self-conscious moments. As the dramatis persona: of the poems vary in culture and in neighbourhood, so does the language of the poems vary in its approximations to literary English. A A'd, / would. A, /. a 1 , all. aboon, abuve, above. aboot, about. acause, because. achin', aching. acrass, across. adoon, adoivn. aff, off. afore, before. agon, against. aglcy, all out of gear. ahint, behind. aiks, oaks. 376 GLOSSARY. am, own. Airds, the Barony of Ards. airt, art. Alrth, airth, Earth, earth. airthly, earthly. airthward, earthward. alane, alone. A'H, I will. umang, among. an", and. anayth, underneath, beneath. anither, another. apen, open. apert, apart. aroon', around. arra, arrow. aside, beside. nthin, "within. nthoot, without. a-trem'lin', a-trembling. atween, between, atild, old. ava, at all. awa", away. axe, ask. aye, always. B Bairns, children. baith, both. ban', band. banes, bones. hate, batin', beat, beating. beechwud, beechwood. begood, began. behave, conduct yourself prfperly. bein', being. Bellagelget, Ballygalget. ben, within, inside. I ben', bend. Beshop's Mell, Bishop's Mill. bet, beat, betted. betterin', battering. bewar', beware. bin, been. bit lass, little lass. bizzin', buzzing about. blaisted, blasted. blake, bleak. blaw, blow. bleck, black. blin', blin'ness, blind, blindness. bluebell-plats, bluebell-plots. bluid, blood. boo, bough, bow. bood, bowed. boon', bound. boord, board. bowld, bold. bowlted, bolted. brae, a rough place. braid, broad. braith, breath. brawly, bravely. brig, bridge. brithers, brothers, broon, brown. bruk, broke. bucket-fu's, bucket/ills. buddies, buddy, bodies, body. Buik, Book. burn, little stream. buttercoops, buttercups, buzzom, bosom. C ca', ca'd, call, called. cairts, carts. GLOSSARY. 377 cam , came. cau'd, cold. chaytit, cheated. cheesel, cheesell'd, chisel, chis- elled. cherm, charm. chetterin', chattering. chiel', child. claes, clothes. clane, clean. clesh, clash. cletter, cletteriri', clatter, clatter- ing. cleugh, a steep bank. clippie, (dim.) "clip." clivver, clever. coomfurt, comfort. coort, coortin', court, courting. coorteous, courteous, crass, cross. craytur, creature. creepie-stool, little cottage-seat. crood, crowd. cu'd, cud, could. c'u'dnae, cudnae, could not. cumm'd, came. curdles, {dim.) amis. curn, corn. cuttage-daurs, cottage-doors. D I >ae, do. daffies, daffydils, daffodils. daith, death, ilannerin', strolling along or about. da'nt, da'ntless, daunt, dauntless. dar', dar'nae, dare, dare not. daur, door. day'l-agaun, dayl'-agaun, the tivilight, close of day. decave, deceive. dee, deein', deed, the Deed, die, dying, dead, the Dead. Deer- perk, Deer-park. defen', defend. denner, dinner. derk, derken, dark, darken. desarvit, deserved. dimplit, dimpled. di'mon's, diamonds. din, done. dinnae, do not. direfu', direful. disapp'intment, disappointment. dizzin, dozen. dochters, daughters. doits, stupifies, bewilders. doon, down. Doonshire, Downshire. doot, doubt. douf, dowf, depressed, pithless. dour, hard, sullen, dreary. drames, dramefully, dreams, dreamfully. drap, drop. dra's, draws. dree pin', dripping. drift-boon'd, drift-bound. droondit, drowned. drunts, pets, sour humour, stiff temper. E Earnin's, earnings. ee, ecu, eye, eyes. 378 GLOSSARY. eerie, weird. efther, after. em, at. en', end. eneuch, enough. epples, epple-trees, apples, apple- trees. erm-chair, arm-chair. erms, arms. et, ate, eaten. Fa , K 5, fall, falls. falla, fellow, falsehud, falsehood. falterin', faltering. far' weels, farewells. fau'd, fauld, h\i.'&eA, fold, folded. faund, found. {aver, fever. favours, resembles. fay ther's, father's. fayture, feature. fearsome, full of fears, or fearful. term, farm. feshions, fashions. fiel', fie\'s, field, fields. fit, feet. flaskie, (dim.') flask. fleerin', mocking. flesh' 'd, flashed. flether, fletherin', fletherer, flatter, flattering, flatterer. flex, flax. flitterin', fluttering. follie, follow. fon', fond. foreby, alongside. forenent, foreninst, before, in front of. torg\e, forgive . fower,four. fower-in-han', four-in-hand. fow'ks, folk, people. frae, from. fraughan, (Irish) bilberry. frien', frien's, friend, friends. frum, from . fule, fool. far,for. furnenst, in front of. fut, futstep, foot, footstep. Oaberlunzie, beggarnian. gaed, gone, "went. gang, gang'd, go, went. gaun, going. gaun oot, going out. 'gen', against. gep, gap. gerd'ner, gardener. getherin', gathering. ghaist, ghaistly, ghost, ghostly. gie, gie's, gted, give, give us, gave or given. gie-an'-kin', very kind. gits, gets. glame, glamin', gleam, gleaming. gled, gledness, glad, gladness. g\ess, glass. Glestry, Glastry. glintin', glancing. gloamin', gloaming. glower, gaze. goold, goolden, gold, golden. GLOSSARY. 379 greesugh, ashes and cinders. hoosie, little house. greezly, greezled,^r/f/y, grizzled. hopit, hoped. grin', grind. Groomspurt, Groomsport. I groon, groun', ground. Idlin', idling, grow'd, grew. Indy, India. Gude, guid, guidmon, guidwife, ingle, chimney-corner. God, good, good man, goodwife. inmaist, inmost. innin's, innings. H intae, ini<>. Hae, haes, have, has. intil, into. haev, halve, haevin', have, having. ir, are. hai'f, half. iron-ingine, steam-engine. 'hale, whole. ither, other. 'halesome, wholesome. ivver, ever. hatnc, home. ivvermair, evermore. ban', han's, hand, hands. ivvry, every. han'-in-han', hand-in-hand. han'led, handled. J ha'nts, haunts. Jerkit, jerked. hau'd, hold. jiltit, jilted. heart-bruck, heart-broken. jimp, jump. heed, head. jist,just. heed Ian', headland. jorum, bowl of punch. heerd, heard. hel', helt, held. K herm, harm. Kays, keys. herps, harps. kennae, know not. h'erth-stane, hearth-stone. kennins, trifles. heth, 'faith ! kep', kept. hin', hind. kin', kin'ly, kin'ness, kind, kindly. hing, hang. kindness. hissel', himself. kist, chest. hizzie, hussy. hoo, how . L hoon's, hounds. Lan', lan's, land, land*. hoor, hour. lanesome, lonesome. hoose, house. lang, lang ', long, long at. 3 8o GLOSSARY. 1'arn, 1'arnin', learn, learning. laste, least. lather, ladder. lauchin', laughing. lave, leave. laves, 1'aves, leaves. lay, lie. laynin', leaning. leddy, lady. leein", lying. lee-lang, live-long. lees, lies. leesome, pleasant. leeve, leevin", live, living leppin', leaping. lerks, larks. lichts, lights. loanin', loaning, a narrow country lane. lood, loud. ludge, lodge. luik, luik'd, look, looked. luve, luvers, love, lovers. luvesome, lovesome. M Ma, mother. inair, matst, more, most. mak's, makes. mane, mean. tnang, among. mate, meet. maun, maunnae, must, must not. meadda, meadda-lan's, meadow, meadow-lands. mebbe, may be. megpies, magpies. meenister's, minister t. mell, mill. meltit, melted. merble, marble. Merch, the month of March. merch, to march. mergin, margin. merket-square, market-square. merry, marry. meschief, mischief. Mikkel, Michael. min', min'less, mind, mindless. min 1 , remember. minded, noticed, remembered. mindin', noticing, remembering. min's, reminds. mither, mother. moidhered, utterly confused in mind. mon, man. mony, many. moose, mouse. mooth, mouth. mopin', moping. muckle, much. muir, muirlan", moor, moorland. murk, murky. mum, murnin', morning. m'urn, mourn. my !, an exclamation. N Na, nay, no. nae, not. naethin', nothing. naeyin, no one. nane, none. nate, neat. nayther, neither. GLOSSARY. neeburs, neighbours. poortith, poverty. Nep', Neptune. Portafarry, Portaferry. nibblin', nibbling. pow, head. nicht, night. prood, proud. nivver, never. puir, poor. no, not. purtects, protects. nocht, nothing. purty, pretty. noo, now. nuiks, nooks. Q nut-broon, nut-brown. Quate, quiet. quet, quit. o Och-a-nee !, alas ! alas ! R ony, onyyin, any, anyone. Rabins, robins. oor, our. ramblin', rambling. oot, out. Raymon', Raymond. oot-dert, out-dart. Rayson, Reason. oot-poor, outpour. rem'lin", rumbling. oot-showin', out-showing. ren', rend. ootstertin', out-starting. richt, right. oot-stretcht, out-stretched. rni, run. ower, over. roon', 'roon, round, around. rowl', rowl'd, roll, rolled. P Rowlan", Roland. Pace, peace. partak', partake. S partin', parting. Sac, so. peck, pack. saft, saftly, soft, softly. perk, park. saison, say-on, season. pert, pertecl, pertin', part, parted, sang, song. parting. s'arch, srarch. plainin', plaining. sartin shair, certain sure. pleesant, pleasure, pleasant, plea- sarvants, sarve, servants, it'Tf. sure. sates, seats. pleugh, pleughin', plough, plough- say, sea. ing. scaur, scare. plun'er, plunder. scetterin', scattering: poonch, punch. scoor, scoorin', scour, muring. 3 8 2 GLOSSARY. seed, saw, seen. seen, saw. sel', self. sez, says. shadda, shadow. shaw, a small wood in a hollow. shawlie, (dim.) shawl. shelther, sfelter. shetterin", shattering. shoorin', showing. shroods, shrouds. shuck, shook. sh'u'd, shud, should. sic'an a, sich, such a, such. sidlin', sidling. skep, skip. slen'er, slender. sma', small. smeck, smack. smert, smertin", smart, smarting. snaw, snow. snaw-draps, snow-drops. some yin, some one. sons\c,siveet and 'pleasant-looking. soo, sow . soon', soun', sound. soord, soorded, swoorded, sword, sworded. sorra, sorrow. sowl, soul. spak', spake, spoke, speak. sperrit, spirit. splen'our, splendour. squan'er'd, squandered. stan', stan'in', stannin', stand, standing. stane, stone. staniest, stoniest. steerie, (dim.') steer. stert, start. strame, str'ame, stramelet, stream' streamlet. stramin', streaming. stranger, stronger. straw'd, streivn. strecht, straight. stren'th, strength. strud', strode. struv', strove. stud, stood. study, steady. sturm, storm. sufferin's, sufferings. sut, sat. swallied, swallowed. swate, sweet. sweer, swear. syne, since. Tae, to. taes, toes. tak', take. tau'd, told. tell't, told. tetterin', tattering. thegither, together. the-morrow, to-morrow. the-night, to-night. the'r, their. thin's, things. thole, bear, endure, abiae. thon, those, that, yonder. thrab, thrabbin', throb, throbbing. thun'ers, thunders. thurn, thorn. GLOSSARY. 383 tidin's, tidings. til, to. toon, town. trayson, treason. trem'lin', trembling. trim'le, tremble. Ink, tuk', took. twanty, twenty. twerl, twirl. tyran', tyrant. Unco', strange, very, very great. un'er, under. un'ernayth, underneath. un'erstan', understand. upleps, upleaps. upo", upon. uv, of. Varra, very. veesion, vision. vixed, vexed. W Wa', wa's, wall, walls. wae, woe, waefu', woeful. waitit, waited. 'waits, awaits. wake, weak. w'alth, wealth. wan'er, wander. wark, warkin', work, working. watther, watthery, water, watery . waur, worse. wean, a child. wee-bit, little. weedie, (dim.) weed. weefe, wife. Wee Fow'k, Wee Fow'ks. Wee People, the "Wee Folk," fairies. weel, well. weenie, (dim.) wee. weether, wither. weezen'd, wizened. werm, wermth, warm, warmth. wex, wax. wha, who. whaivver, whon>er. whas'ivver, whoseever. whate, wheat. whatsae'e'er, whatsoever. whaur, where. whaure'er, wherever. whaurfrae, wherefrotn. whaursae'er, wheresoever whaurtae, whereto. wheedlin', wheedling. wheen (a wheen of), a great amount of, a great many of. whun, when. whune'er, whenever. whupper-in, whipper-in. whustlin', whistling. wi', with. wi'in, within. win', win's, wind, winds. wistfu', wistful. wi'oot, without. withstan', withstand. won'er, won'er'd, wittier, u-an- dercd. worrit, worry. GLOSSARY. wonn', wound. wush, wish. wrack, wreck. wut, wit. wrackfu', wreckful. wutchin, "watching. wrang, wrong. wutless, witless. wud, would. wuz, was. wudnae, would not. wuds, woods. \ wull, will. Yer, your. Wully, Willy. yerd, yard. wumman, woman. yestreen, yesterday evening. wundee, window. y\X, yield. wunna, will not. yin, one. wur', were. yince, once. wurl , world. yit, yet. Wurl'-Wi'oot-En', World- With- out- End. CHISWICK PRESS: TKINTKU uv CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AS TOOKS COURT, CHANCE8Y LANE, LONDON. WORKS OF GEORGE FRANCIS SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG, ^Opinions of tlje "A POET OF HIS CENTURY." " From the outset, MR. SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG appears to have had the good fortune and the good sense to understand the quality and the direction of his poetic gift. Examining the various volumes of his work, the early poems (revised and reprinted), the souvenirs of his own country and of travel, the dramatic books, and the latest volume of lyrics, ' One in the Infinite,' we find the author obedient to his inspiration, and following a natural process of development. His mind is, above all, speculative and analytic. He is no egoist, except in so far as his individuality may avail to interpret that of others. Nor is there anything morbid in his views ; a man of the world, he has neither fear nor shame of his environment, but. instead, the courage to lace the facts, moral and physical, of his time, finding in them mystery indeed, but also matter for hope and belief greater than logic can supply. We shall not hear from him the monotonous hum of ignorant optimism, any more than the angry and weak cry of pessimism. MR. SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG has an acute and serious intellect, free from ascetic weakness ; his imagination is quick and expansive ; his fluency has been moderated by highly intelligent study of his art ; and his powers are well trained and balanced. He has much to say to his contemporaries, and his subjects and his manner are in harmonv with the interests and the tastes of the present. While MR. SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG'S voice is the voice of Erin, full of words, and not soon wearied, it is dominated by an intellect of [an] English type. . . . Such scholarly and sensitive Britons have a nostalgia for the South ; they adore Italy and Greece with a passion in which associations of history and art are blended with delight in the smiling skies and lavish lands of the citron and myrtle. For these accomplished visitors the past is, perhaps, the strongest charm of the present, mingling with it in an incomparable whole. In MR. SAVA<;E-ARMSTKONG the artistic tempera- ment is ruled, but not narrowed or stiffened, by a peculiarly strong moral and religious nature. Let it be emphatically noted that he is averse to all sectarian fashions and formulas ; his is the instinctive worship of a healthful soul and brain." The Nrw World, Boston, U.S. ONE IN THE INFINITE. (A POEM IN THREE PARTS.) Fcap. 8vo, cloth, price Js. 6d. " This poem, described by the ' Saturday Review ' as ' the book of obstinate questionings,' traces, in lyrical-dramatic form, the mental history of an imaginary Inquirer struggling in lonely battle for light upon the deepest and most vital questions that can occupy human thought. The First Part represents the rejection of the dogmas in which the Inquirer has been educated, and a search through the great religious systems of the earth and through the discoveries and theories of Science, ending in disappointment and despair. The Second Part depicts the application of a philosophy based on the denial of God and Immortality to life and the relations of man to man, ending in the corruption of utter selfishness and the riot of unrestrained self-indulgence. But the better nature of ihe Inquirer, appalled by the vision of 'a Godless World,' revolts, revives, and bends itself once more to a renewed struggle for truth by other methods and on wider principles. The Third Part sets forth new evidences discovered and new conclusions adopted, and em- bodies a broad and comprehensive system of religious and moral belief, which seems sufficient for the purposes of human life, of social order, of noble and progressive activity. " In form the Poem consists of a sequence of some 214 lyric poems, in metres varying according to the mood of thought or emotion out of which they spring, evolved one from another, and to be read in the order in which they are arranged, each as an indispensable part of a single organic whole." LONDON: LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. QUEEN-EMPRESS AND EMPIRE, 1839-1897. (A POEM IN ANGLO-SAXON ALLITERATIVE MEASURE.) Price 51. MARCUS WARD AND CO., BELFAST. WORKS OF GEORGE FRANCIS SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG. of STORIES OF WICKLOVV. New Edition, price ys. 6d. " His book is very welcome." Saturday Review. "These ' Stories of Wicklow ' are all conceived and written in the true spirit of poetry. They abound in descriptions of natural scenery in which the eye and heart of the poet seem to be accompanied by the hand of the painter ; and they give forcible expression to some of the deepest and most complex feelings of the human breast. The passion of remorse, in conflict with other and more terrible passions, has seldom been more vividly depicted than in the grim story, ' The Wraith of De Riddles- ford's Castle.' 'The Fisherman,' which is stated to be a true narrative taken from the Kps of a Wicklow seafarer, enshrines, with an altogether natural pathos, the loving sorrows of one of a class of men whose natures are often as tender as their lot is hard. Nearly all the poems in the volume are narratives, containing incidents which connect them with Wicklow ; but the reader will find interest less in the events of the stones than in the descriptive and thoughtful passages which exalt the stories jnto poems. . . . The following is unexceptionable for its inspiration and its finished beauty of form." Academy. " Mr. Armstrong is a skilful and conscientious literary craftsman, and his hand has lost none of its cunning. Every poem in this volume is well wrought out, and is good in its degree. The author's blank verse is at once strong and supple In lyrical measures his touch is firm and strong. . . . There is plenty of warmth, plenty of colour, much thought, and some humour. . . . He communicates to us a pervading sense of hill and lake, and brown, tumbling bum, he makes us breathe Wicklow air. ... In our judgment, however, the special value of this book delightful colloquial poem in blank verse, in which deep teeltng and charming humour play into one another like light and shade. Many a man will start to find his unconscious ' religious convictions ' laid bare in the following lines. . . . Mr. Armstrong feels with great intensity those scientific and moral difficulties which are the special burden of this Iran- sitional age or stage. But he does not lose heart or hope. His hope, indeed, is not always sure and certain, but it is always deep-rooted and clinging. The opening section of ' De Verdun of Darragh,' though in it the author does not speak in his own person, may with safety be set down as the utterance of his personal thoughts. It is a lofty and impassioned defence of the reasonableness of those eternal hopes which the soul needs and will not let go. . . . Hardly any one who is weighed down by the burden of the age's problems could read this section, practically an independent whole, and other similar poems and passages in Mr. Armstrong's book, without feeling braced and cheered. Spectattrr. " From long excursions into the domains of Hebrew and classic poetry, Mr. George Francis Armstrong returns to the steep hills and green woodlands of Wicklow. Like Antaeus, he seems to gain fresh vigour from contact with his native soil. . . . The ' sounds of tree and stream,' ' the clearness of the mountain air,' and ' the fragrance of the sea,' all mingle with the legends of the Wicklow glens and lakes. They make the book a delightful and inspiring companion for any one who loves to ramble, in the flesh or in the spirit, on dewy heights above the smoke and bustle of the wqrk-a-day world. Another element is present, a pathetic undertone that is seldom absent from Irish poetry. In the blithest mood of the poet and his muse, there steal in, amid the sighing of the leaves and the noise of wind and waters, the ' voices of the Lost Ones,' and most of all the voice of his highly gifted brother, Edmund J. Armstrong, so often his companion in earlier climbs to the summit of Lugnaquillia, or in letterings in Luggala, the ' Hollow of Sweet Sounds.' Of these metrical stories ' De Verdun of Darragh ' is the longest ; but there are others in the collection that may be preferred to it. ' The Fisherman, 1 'The Wreck off Mizen-Head, 1 'The Bursting of Lough Nahanagan,' and ' The Glen of the Horse,' are founded on local incidents or legends of comparatively recent date ; in the latter three great skill is shown in adapting the rhythm to the stirring theme. In ' The Wraith of De RiddlesTord's Castle,' a command of the gruesome is shown which Hoffman, or Burger, or any other of the German masters of the horrible need not have disdained to own." Scotsman. "Mr. George Francis Armstrong's 'Stories of Wicklow' are most pleasant reading. Mr. Armstrong is already well known as the author of Ugone,' ' King Saul,' and other dramas, and his latest volume shows that the power and passion of his early work have not deserted him. Most modern Irish poetry is purely political, and deals with the wicked- ness of the landlords and the Tories, but Mr. Armstrong sings of the picturesqueness of Erin, not of its politics. He tells us very charmingly of the magic of its mists and the melody of its colour, and draws a most captivating picture of the peasants of county Wicklow. . . . The most ambitious poem in the volume is ' De Verdun of Darragh.' It is at once lyrical and dramatic. . . . All through it there is a personal and individual note." Pall Mall Gazette. " Let haste be made at once to express the most cordial agreement with the opinions enunciated melodiously in 'An Invocation,' and to assure the writer that the mountain-muse, with her waving hair and venturous mien and tameless woodland ways, with her wild-wood flowers and garlands green, with sounds of stream and tree, with ' clear- ness of the mountain air aud fragrance of the sea,' is certainly far more likely to ' assuage the deeper want than seas of sensual art.' ... In the mountain it is you must seek her, and to the mountain, after she has descended and exchanged sweet whispers with you, and breathed her inspiration into you, depend upon it she will ascend again. So at least, any muse that respects herself will be sure to do ; and so she will preserve her freshness, her vigour, her buoyancy. To this fact the author's own productions bear ample witness, whether he be telling a long romantic eventful tale, in four parts and in many varieties of lyric verse, or exhibiting his dashing powers of description, as in the piece entitled 'The Glen of the Horse,' or in the spirited lay of the flood and of the maiden rescued from death, or in the two parts of ' Luggala,' or in other poems long or short." Illustrated London News. " By far the best poem is ' Luggala,' a version of the world-old swan- legend, most picturesquely and sympathetically given in such Spenserian metre as it is seldom our good fortune to meet with ; the descriptions of natural scenery in this are really beautiful. . . . We have been charmed by 'Autumn Memories,' 'An Invitation,' and above all by 'Song-Time to Come." In these Mr. Armstrong is seen at his best, as a tuneful and thoughtful lover of Nature."- Graphic. "Mr. Armstrong's straightforward and vigorous writing is a refresh- ment after the sickly and introspective dreamings that most minor poets think fit to indulge in. The volume before us does not offer much that can well be quoted, as its strength lies in the narrative poems, which are full of rapidity and life, and extracts would give a very inadequate impression of them. But any one who wishes for exciting incidents well told, should read 'The Glen of the Horse,' or 'The Bursting of Lough Nahanagan.' Mr. Armstrong has the most genuine and irrepressible love of the scenes of his native district, and none can read his descrip- tions without catching some of his enthusiasm. He has the unfailing charm of reality. He writes of what he knows and loves, and does not pretend to any emotions that he has not really felt." Guardian. " Mr. Armstrong is undoubtedly one of our most versatile and finished poets. Themes classical and homely, elevated and commonplace, he has alike treated with felicity and finish. He has succeeded, too, in tragedy. His trilogy of Israelite dramas' King Saul,' ' King David * and ' King Solomon 'is marked by rare force and variety. In the present case he has found subjects nearer home, amid localities endeared to him by residence and made familiar by many journeyings and rambles. No one could deny his vigour in narration. He touches the core of human nature here and there, . . . and relieves the narrative by reflections couched in glowing language. . . . This volume will undoubtedly add to Mr. Armstrong's reputation as a poet." - Nonconformist. " Mr. Armstrong is a genuine poet. His sympathies with nature are strong, and his love for his Wicklow home intense. His opening invo- cation breathes all the freshness and loveliness of Wicklow scenery. The stories are always interesting, and for the most part of a very healthy tone." Tablet. " Mr. Armstrong is without doubt a poet ; and these ' Stories of Wicklow ' are both impressive and exhilarating productions. He belongs to a family in which poetry forms an essential element of existence. When he thinks he thinks in poetry. It is not possible for him that it should be otherwise. . . . Poems all more or less indicative of Mr. Arm- strong's fine poetic faculty and genius." Literary World. " Mr. Armstrong is better known to the poetry-reading public than is the author of either of the two works we have just reviewed, and these ' Stories of Wicklow ' will certainly maintain the reputation he has won among discriminating critics. Mr. Armstrong may ' claim applause of none;' but whether he claims it or not, he will assuredly win it from those whose applause is best worth having. These romantic legends of Wicklow County are conceived so imaginatively, and told with such passionate vividness and with such expressive music, that they take us captive at once, hold us in their spell, and will not let us go until the conclusion has been reached. Mr. Armstrong is a master of varied versification. . . . He is always strong, sinewy, and virile. His handling of character a_nd incident is admirabje, and the book has therefore not only an artistic but a strong human interest, the very thing which is so markedly missing in so much of the poetry of the period." Mancliester Examiner, " This is a volume of stones told in verse, and the reader will find in them a charm that irresistibly allures him on from stanza to stanza. Mr. Armstrong ranks among the first of our living poets, and the reputa- tion he has achieved is well sustained in these poems, which are rich in mellow harmonies, graceful rhymes, graphically drawn scenes, full of swift and varied action, marked by the gloom of tragedy, the sunny rays of light-hearted joypusness, and the tenderest and sweetst pathos. He is a master of musical verse and something more. He possesses that sympathy with man and nature without which no poet can move his reader to a common confession of joy and sorrow. ...In the other 'Stories' there are passages of equal beauty with those we have selected, and altogether the volume is full of delightful reading." Liverpool Courier. ' ' Stories of Wicklow "... are told in flowing verse. . . . ' The Wraith of De Riddlesford's Castle "... tells of the fearful remorse and the dis- ordered imagination which people the air with accusing shapes when unlawful love has culminated in murder. It is hardly possible to read the story without a creeping of the flesh. . . . Although all the selections breathe deep sentiment, the one to which special reference has been made is solitary in its superlative gruesomeness." Liverpool Daily Post. " ' The Glen of the Horse ' is a spirited ballad of the terrible death of a mounted rebel chased over a precipice in the Wicklow mountains by his pursuer, who found too late that the enemy he had ridden to death was a friend of former years, and his kinswoman's betrothed. This poem, and 'The Bursting of Lough Nahanagan,' are founded on fact, as also is ' The Fisherman,' a simple but pathetic tale of the sea. . . . The finest poems in the volume are ' The Wraith of De Riddlesford's Castle ' a romantic ghost-story of the good old-fashioned style, containing some really thrilling incidents and scenes of spectral horror and ' Luggala,' an Irish-Keltic fairy story of an Argonaut- like voyage in search of a land of rest beyond the sunset, one of those charming Swan-legends that delight old and young alike. The poem is filled with rich and beautiful passages. . . . These poems glow with a patriotic love for his Wicklow mountains and glens, the scenery of which he here depicts. . . . His language through- out is graceful, his verse always unexceptionable in rhyme and rhythm, no mean achievement in these days, when there is so much bad ' prose and worse.'" Birmingham Gazette. " Mr. George Francis Armstrong's ' Stories of Wicklow ' will maintain the reputation which former poetical works have gained him, and which was shared by his brother Edmund, whose biographer and literary executor he has been. These new Stories are mostly narratives in varied metre, and are marked by a strong love of Nature, a lively fancy, and an elevation of thought and tone." Leeds Mercury. "This is a volume of genuine poetry, full of stately music, noble thoughts, and genuine passion. It would be a mercy to admirers of Walt Whitman to submit them to the influence of a poet like this by reading one of these volumes to them aloud. Here is no hurry, no coarseness of epithet or vulgarity of idea, no straining after effect or singularity, but genius under the perfect control of sanity, and polish without weakness. We recommend all lovers of poetry of the first class to this glorious book. " Sheffield Independent. " In 'The Glen of the Horse ' we have a vigorous rendering of the legend that haunts the valley of Glenmajure a legend in itself terrible in pathos and although it would be unjust even to seem to disparage the poet's deeper, subtler verse, we commend it to the general reader as stirring the blood and moving the sympathies. To avoid comparison we retrain Irom selecting other individual contributions for particular mention, and will content ourselves with the general observation that the poems are of exceptional excellence, and that while some more than others impress us with their superlative merit, there is no instance in which good qualities can fail to be discerned. The collection will be widely read . . . hereafter perhaps the book may be presented at a cheaper cost. One hopes as much, because a good book cannot be too extensively distributed." Western Daily Mercury, '' In a volume of over 400 pages, G. F. Armstrong gives us some de- some of the pieces are exquisitely beautiful, and cannot fail to add to ti.lJI.UHl Ilimi VJ1CCV.C, ajJCdltlllj^ WJ111 UM Wdlllllll .Mill IBMMIwM U1U colour of a southern clime, are yet marked by the same love of Nature, and by the same power of sympathizing with and portraying her many- changing moods. There is a breezy freshness about Mr. Armstrong's verse which, in these days of second-hand and pumped-up enthusiasm, is very grateful to one's susceptibilities. He sings of the rivers and lakes, the woods and the heaths, the valleys and the mountain-peaks, the jutting headlands, and the storm-beaten coasts of his native Wicklow. He sings as one who knows them well, and by the sympathetic spell of his genius he brings his readers to love them also." Nottingham Daily Guardian. " The product of a poetically constituted mind of the first order. The author . . . belongs to a literary family who have splendidly contributed to the great Republic of Letters. . . . Mr. George Francis Armstrong is a sincere lover of his country, as his 'Stories of Wicklow' abundantly prove. . . . He is a student of human nature, but of external nature as well, and the latter he loves very truly, and his study is profound and appeals directly to the heart. These ' Stories of Wicklow ' are the product of a wayfarer, wandering amidst the loveliest hills and dales of Ireiand, filled with the rarest fancies that their exquisite scenic grandeur could beget. ... He is a painter from nature, and owes to nature the best, part of his inspiration. He had rather _sing fur music. His poetry is spontaneous. . . . These ' Stories of Wicklow ' are enchanting to every reader. They are inspired by the rarest spirit of poetry, and appeal in particular to the native sentiment." Irish Times. "THE POET OF WICKLOW. . . . His work proves him no minor poet, but abounding in the perpetual beauty, the unfailing metrical charm, the enduring enthusiasm, the temperance, wisdom, and moral goodness that only the great poets possess. . . . This volume should be treasured while there is anyone to be proud of the true glories of Ireland, while there are lovers of true poetry and of what is best in Man and Nature." Dublin University Review. " He has given us a Garland from Ireland worthy and more than worthy to match with his 'Garland from Greece.' In the volume before us there is at least one tragedy ' Altadore ' more affecting than the author's Hebrew Trilogy. That he should have gathered such a harvest from Irish soil to-day is a wonder to be ranked with Horrocks's Observation of the Transit of Venus amid the commotions of Charles I.'s time. . . . We think the present volume places Mr. Armstrong very high indeed among the poets of the Victorian age." Dublin Evening Mail. "Here we have traditions old and new, tales of modern life, descrip- tions of scenery and the bracing and joyous rambles of loving friends ; some of the poems long and elaborate, others consisting of a stanza or two of simple spontaneous emotion, mere breaths of poetry, as brief as the windflaw that runs purpling over the level sea on a day of perfect calm, or that in ' tranced summer nights ' passes through the woods in a single sigh. . . . We hope our readers will regret that we are unable to give more varied examples of the lofty and passionate poetry of this noble volume. Not a phase of the loveliness of the Wicklow glens and seas but will be found portrayed there, and associated with thoughts and images that make it even dearer than before." Irish J-'irest\le. " The author is one of the most prolific of later English poets. . . . His previous books have been much praised by competent British critics. In this book he treats of a variety of themes, and in many metres. One is impressed by his facility, and a capacity for descriptive writing which is apparent throughout his work. . . . They are all gracefully written." Boston (UJS.A.) Herald. " The political condition of Ireland makes it inevitable that the lyre attuned to national themes shall evoke the quickest response from the popular heart. But the true realm of the poet is larger than any country ; his place is above the world, whence he may see all that is in it, not merely a part. It is well to make the songs of a people, but it is also well to give poetical voice to the emotions, passions and aspirations of mankind. Mr. Armstrong's poetry belongs in the main to what is generally acknowledged to be the higher order of verse The Stories of Wicklow ' are better calculated to make Mr. Armstrong known among his own countrymen than any of his previous productions. The stories are full of interest, and the descriptions of places and scenery are admirable. . . . This book alone, if the others had never appeared, would be sufficient to stamp Mr. Armstrong as a true poet. . . . What would be called in stage phrase the scenic effects of all these poems are rich, harmonious, and vivid. There appears to be hardly a spot in Wicklow which the poet does not know, and he has the rare gift of being able to make others see with his own eyes. His descriptions of places, are as remarkable for detail (always difficult in verse) as for their com- pjeteness as finished pictures. . . . In one respect Mr. Armstrong's verse differs from that of nearly all other Irish poets. Nothing in its form or style indicates the nationality of the writer. In quality, however, it ranks among the best poetry of the present time, and it cannot fail to be enjoyed by all persons of f*ood literary taste. It is fresh, vigorous, and varied, and it has the special merit of not possessing any of the charac- teristics of the hasty, exotic school, which has found too much success in England, and been imitated to some extent in America. It is all clean, and fit for the young as well as for the old to read." Boston (U.S.A.) Pilot. " M. Armstrong abonde en descriptions eclatnnte et finement nuan- cees, en effusions lyriques d'un magnifique essor. Et son vers ne le trahit pas ; se pretant aux rhythmes les plus varies, il reste toujours ample, elegant et cadence. Fa>cin par les merveilleux spectacles de cette terre et enflamme d'une foi ardente, le poete a puisc aux sources les plus pures de 1 'inspiration : la Nature et Dieu. A chaque page, ses strophes ailees, qui yiennent de nous peindre quelque ravissante vision et de preter une voix a la creation muette, s'en volent sans effort vers une region plus lumineuse encore, et nous entretiennent du Createur, de sa providence, de la vie future. M. Armstrong est un vrai poete : il joint a la dt-licatus.se des sentiments et a I'e'levation de la pensee la richesse du colons et la perfection de la forme." Polybiblion (Paris). MEPHISTOPHELES IN BROADCLOTH: A SATIRE. Fcap. 8vo, price 45. 6d. " ' Mephistopheles ' shows Mr. Armstrong in a new light, and should take a high place as a satirical poem. These pictures of our modern London world, drawn by the Spirit of Evil in an hour of leisure, are brilliant and scathing. [He] notes, and points put, each folly, each craze of the day, in verse full of strength and virility. . . . The drama, the press, men of politics and letters, are passed in review with unflagging verve and singular justness of appreciation. This is never seen to better advantage than in the poet's half-humorous treatment of the question of ' Erin's Isle.'" The Morning Post. " Since the personage who s here described discarded the cloven hoof, and adopted the style and manner of a man of the world, he has passed out of theology, and his place now appears to be among those clever people who say smart things, and do daring ones. Mr. Armstrong gives us a pleasantly running account of the devil's opinions about men and things, as spoken in a sort of soliloquy while the speaker looked on at the crowds in Rotten Row. Mephistopheles does not care much about politicians, but, oddly enough, he has a fancy for poets. . . . Mephis- topheles discourses also about men of science, painters, parsons, lawyers, actors, and others besides. . . . Mr. Armstrong's satire is always smart ; and though it is sometimes a little severe, it is never malicious." Academy. "THK LATEST SATIRIST. Mr. George Francis Armstrong, who has published a good deal of imaginative verse, has in ' Mephistopheles in Broadcloth ' assumed the garb and attitude of a satirist, discoursing of what he regards as the sins and follies ol the time in the rhymed couplets so often utilized for such effusions. Works of this kind are rare now-a- 8 days. . . . Mephistopheles, it should be mentioned, is represented as sitting, clothed in broadcloth like the rest, in a chair in Rotten Row, up and down which there pass the celebrities of the day. This gives the satirist the opportunity of reviewing most of the chief features of present- day society, . . . winding up in a strain of eloquent reprobation." The Globe. " In 'Mephistopheles in Broadcloth,' Mr. Armstrong runs amuck (as the cant phrase goes) at most people and things of our day. No doubt they offer a fair mark to the satirist." The World. " Mr. Armstrong is a very clever and learned man who has a shrewd wit of his own. He re-advertises celebrities in bitter, clever verse." Vanity Fair. " ' Mephistopheles in Broadcloth ' is a well-written and outspoken satire on English life of the present day. Mephistopheles takes his walks through London, and satirizes all sorts and conditions of men. On politics his views are very pronounced, and he has naturally a good deal to say about the Church. . . . [The criticisms) on politicians of the day- are too pronounced to be reproduced here." Literary World. " En somme, ce petit poeme . . contient sous le couvert d'un elegant badinage beaucoup d'observations fines etexactes sur la vie intellectuelle, politique et morale de 1'Angleterre contemporaine. La forme en est vive et amusante ; la malice alerte y alterne avec des acces de franche indig- nation oude respect involontaire." Polybiblion, Revue Bibliographigtte Universelle (Paris). "A very fine satire. . . . Mephistopheles has come from 'the lower Hell ' to the Hell of our world, and now makes his satirical comments upon the latter, an ingenious shelter for a satirical poem, which delivers itself with much wit and much nimble mastery of language in admirable English verse, and exhibits Armstrong's gifts in a new aspect." Das Magazinf&r die Literatur des In- vnd Anslandes (Dresden). " This is probably the most pungent example of poetical satire which has of late years emanated from the printing-press. As a writer of charming descriptive verse, Mr Armstrong's powers are familiar to all readers of poetry, but in the role of satirist he comes as a distinct sur- prise as pleasant as unexpected. . . . The narrative deals with parlia- ment, the Church, the stage, poetry, painting, and literature, in a style which for incisiveness and scathing severity it would be difficult to match. Certain representative men have their characters painted by Mephis- topheles in uncommonly vivid colours. . . . The book throughout is most readable, and its moralizings cannot fail to be profitable." The Liverpool Courier. " In the present volume the author displays that great ability as a poet which he has manifested in the many other works which he has written, and which have met with such general favour. . . . Politics, religion, fashion, foibles, art, the drama, literature all up to date are among the many matters which come under the scathing pen of the writer. Skill, strength, pungency, and humour pervade the little work, which will be welcomed by those who are already acquainted with the author's literary productions." The Bristol Times. " In outward aspect the pink of propriety, Mephistopheles, who has left ' the lower for the upper hell ' on a flying visit to the metropolis, after sauntering down the Row, presently mutters : ' Let me take a chair And sit with idle gentlemen, and stare.' The book consists of his reflections as he gazes on the brilliant scene without so much as a particle of dust in his eyes. He uses such extreme plainness of speech thit it is impossible njt to perceive that, whether or not he has 'greedy ears," as report declares, he certainly is endowed with grim humour, which finds an outlet in the sharpness of his tongue. Yet there is so much truth in what he says, that one is inclined to over- look the fact that his shrewd jocose comments almost invariably run to a fine edge in biting satire. . . . The book cleverly hits off the freaks and follies of the times, and is distinguished by clever epigram and vigorous common-sense." Leeds Mercury. " Mr. George Francis Armstrong is known to lovers of poetry as a successful writer of serious lyrical and dramatic poems. In the satire, ' Mephistopheles in Broadcloth,' he breaks ground in a new field. The piece is written in the orthodox form for English satirical verse, Pope's couplets, a measure which Mr. Armstrong handles with ease. . . . The satire, too, decries the degeneracy of the age in its politics, its literature, its law, and its theatres." The Scotsman. " Mr. Armstrong is best known as the Poet of Wicklow, whose old tales and legends he has immortalized in verse the sweetest imaginable. . . . The satire is in heroic verse, and deals by name with all the public men of the day, -politicians, pjets, philosophers, artists, impostors, etc These etchings in pen and ink are often exceedingly happy, and there is a value in the characterizations by a contemporary poet and critic far beyond those generally published." The Union. " He is a true poet and a skilful versifier. . . . He has some very clever bits. Society, politics, the Church, literature, art, and science all come in for their share of satire. Home-truths are certainly spoken here and there ; and certainly the critical insight which supports the satire is often good. . . . No doubt a certain section of the public will find amusement in this satire." The ff'>n:onformist and Independent. " A satire in rhyming couplets giving a view of London society, politics, literature, art, the drama, and all that goes to make up that microcosm, from the point of view of a chair in Rotten Row in the season. Mr. Armstrong is not an unfledged songster, having already tried his wings in previous flights of verse, his Ode on the recent Jubilee being one of the finest published. The satire in the present book is mordant, and often witty, and the writer's observations on men and things are evidently those of a shrewd observer and a practised man of the world. Many of these couplets are sharply epigrammatical." Sydney Morning Herald (Australia). "George Francis Armstrong has written many books, poems, and dramas, and has by this means built up a solid reputation." Glasgow Herald. " Never before has Mr. Armstrong filled his poetic quiver with shafts of ridicule, but his supply is now large and co-nplete, and the darts are driven with a precision that reaches their mark, and must arrest the admiration of even the passing observer. ... It is not a political manifesto, though a political exposition of it may be found by those who choose to discover in it an undercurrent of philosophical meaning. It is essentially a plea for theGx>d in pipular life an argument for that conservatism of society which implies the greatest happiness of the greatest number, and an expression of the hopefulness of endeavour which is the very salt of the most wholesome satire. . . . There are brilliant passages in the poem which Dryden might have penned in his easier moments. They are worth study and attention. They are close and keen in criticism and elegantly ingenious in expression. They hit hard, yet fairly, and in the humour the element of dignity is not for- 10 gotten. . . . But though the Poet is a satirist, he is no pessimist. He does not laugh like the Mephistopheles which the imagination of Goethe conceived. The deep and thoughtful student of objective nature, the observer of those actual phenomena of reflection which inspire his earlier poems, has grown cynic. He must not be misunderstood. ' The satirist may wound many susceptibilities, but in the healthiest exercise of his mind he is but cruel to be kind. This is the disposition of Mr. Armstrong, and the very peculiarities of the poem which he has now put before the public will serve only to exhibit the generosity and versatility of an ability which his countrymen respect and admire." Irish Times. "Satire is a new departure for Mr. Armstrong, and he travels the road with as light and sure a step as he did in his lyrical and romantic and dramatic excursions. We fancy, indeed, that there is in this poem a note of self-reliance that is not discernible in his previous works. This self-reliance must, of course, be assumed by a satirist, for all laughter at the faults of others implies, as old Hobbes said, a sense of superiority on the part of the laugher ; but we are happy to think that in Mr. Armstrong's case, it proceeds from a recognition ot the fact that his novitiate is over, and his position in English poetry securery fixed. . . . English satire is a difficult species of composition. Those who have succeeded in it may be counted on the fingers of one hand Dryden, Pope, Johnson, Byron in his ' English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." Bufwer essayed it in 'The New Timon,' and did not greatly succeed in it. We expect a better future for ' Mephistopheles in Broadcloth.' " Dublin Evening Mail. " No wonder that Mephistopheles chuckles and ' chortles in his joy ' over such an exhibition of depravity in mind and morals, and finally dis- appears in a whole paragraph of ha, ha, ha's ! . . . Mr. Armstrong wields the heroic couplet with the hand of a master ; his diction is varied and polished, his versification fluent and correct, and the long monologue ascribed to his Satanic Majesty is marked by many passages of high poetic power and beauty." The County Gentleman. "A motto from De Stael which describes the 'infernal irony' of Mephistopheles, and the tradition that the devil goes to and fro upon the earth with an unchangeable sneer upon his lips, are the two ideas that underlie the little volume of keen satire entitled ' Mephistopheles in Broadcloth.' The author is well known as a fluent and versatile writer, and those who are acquainted with the lofty patriotism of his Jubilee Ode, or with the classical perfume of his ' Garland from Greece,' will be deeply interested in his new excursion into the follies and eccen- tricities, inconsistencies and errors, of modern life. As the title shows, the book is a disquisition on life by Mephistopheles, who does not at once fall into his wild Leipzig humour, but moves out with a critical eye in the world of fashion and broadcloth respectability, reviewing in his own way the churches, politics, literature, art, the stage, music, every- thing that is noteworthy in cultivated circles. ... It is Mr. Armstrong in a mask reviewing the world, and he would be a poor critic who could not discover the author's political and religious creed. . . . The pleasure of the book is that of a quick-witted cynical companion, well acquainted with the varieties of life, who plays with its ambitions, and refrains from touching the deeper feelings of human nature." The Melbourne Argus (Australia). Mr. Armstrong is a distinguished member of a well-known literary family who have made many contributions to our literature, and he himself is now recognized as one of the leading pcets of the day. II ' Mephistopheles in Broadcloth ' is a very clever satire in which the follies and rogueries of politics and literature, the Church and the Bar, the Press and the Stage, are dealt with unsparingly." Cork Con- stitution. [Translation.'] " The poet G. F. Armstrong has just published a work, ' Mephistopheles in Broadcloth,' in which a modern Mephisto, suiting our time, in a fashionable cloth coat, has taken his place on one of the hired chairs in Rotten Row, the elegant promenade in Hyde Park, where the grand and fashionable world passes before him, and where he is intent on giving everyone a hit. The situation is certainly well-chosen for a satirist. . . . His remarks about the Church are in many respects particularly correct and amusing, as for example the enumeration of the different sects, and again the different views within these sects. He mentions two dozen of these by name, and has not by any means exhausted their number. Meanwhile some prominent personages pass his garden-chair, in this or that manner ; judges and poets, lawyers and high prelates, all intermixed in a motley way, must serve as a target for his arrows, and at the same time as mortar to keep the single bricks together. . . . The section on the English stage is particularly note- worthy. . . . He throws out strikingly the difference between the present state of the stage and that of the drama in saying ' Ay, all but set the Stage o'er Mother Church, And meanwhile leave the Drama in the lurch.' . . . We often see that under the modern coat of this ' Old Gentleman * a warm heart is beating, and on the whole this Mephistopheles in Broadcloth is a very pleasant companion." The Hanover Courier. " It may be cheerfully admitted that he is not always bad company." Saturday Review. VICTORIA REGINA ET IMPERATRIX. A JUBILEE SONG FROM IRELAND, 1887. "Mr. G. F. Armstrong's Victoria, a 'Jubilee Song from Ireland," takes high rank among the many odes and hymns that celebrate what ought to be an inspiring event with our poets. It is finely modulated and distinguished by a sustained elevation of sentiment that befits the dignity of the theme." Saturday Review. "There seems something especially graceful in a Jubilee song of exultant loyalty which comes from County Wicklow. Such is Mr. George F. Armstrong's ' Victoria,' a poem vigorous and musical in expression, and breathing a lofty spirit of pride in faithful allegiance to Her Majesty. Mr. Armstrong's merits as a poet of strength and skill have been exhibited in a series of stirring works, but if evidence of them were wanting, it would be found in abundance in his fine Jubilee ode." Scotsman. " The ' Song ' is, in fact, an ode, and full of elegant passages in measures appropriate to that form. This is indeed one of the most successful celebrations of the Jubilee in verse." Globe. " This Jubilee Ode, composed near Bray, on the mountain shore of 12 Wicklow, whence he sees the mountains of North Wales, appeals to the heart of every true Briton with the expressed consciousness of a oatriotism shared by loyal men on both sides of St. George's Channel. Tne ' Wild Harp of Erin' makes good nvisic in this strain. It is fine in thought, in diction, and in versification." Illustrated London News. " A book, the author of which is already known as a po;t of mirked ability, and who now worthily represents the loyal spirit which recognizes with gratitude the obligations of Ireland, and breathes its aspirations for the weliare of that country under the rule of our Gracious Queen." Queen. " It differs from the poems on the same theme by some other dis- tinguished writers of verse, inasmuch as it will not detract from the high reputation of its author." Christian Leader. " It is decidedly refreshing to fi.id that even the ' Wild Harp of Erin ' his strings, which can be touched in sympathy with that wave of loyalty which has just passed over our kingdom. . . . Versatile and finished, Mr. Armstrong never sinks to anything approaching the commonplace, and here, as in other works, he is at home m his beloved country which passionately inspires him." Bristol Tiims. " George Francis Armstrong, whose poems, ' A G irland from Greece,' and ' Stories of Wicklow,' placed him in the front rank of living poets, has written a Jubilee Song from Ireland. ... It is written in the form of an ode, and characterized by all the remarkable vigour and precision of expression of his best work. This Jubilee ode should more than maintain ths high reputation which Mr. Armstrong's preceding poems gained for him." Newcastle Courant. "Mr. George Francis Armstrong's Jubilee OJe is awirk of a very different class from those we have noticed. They are necessarily of but e->hemeral interest. It deserves to live, and we trust will live. . . . Mr. Armstrong has written much that is worth reading, but he has never written a piece of more eloquent declamation than this Jubilee Ode." Daily Express (Dublin). " There is much spirit and high sentiment in this poem, and it will compare favourably with the best that has appeared under the muse's inspiration." Manchester Courier. " It is earnestly to be desired that Mr. George Francis Armstrong's poem 'Victoria' may be read by every well-wisher to Ireland. . . . True poetry is lasting and will live when Jubilees are forgotten. This poem of Mr. Armstrong's deserves to live and be remembered. . . . Mr. Armstrong is that happy combination a true poet and a true Irishman. " Nottingham Guardian. "Mr. Armstrong's masterly ode, an opportune and welcome addition to the Jubilee literature of this Jubilee year of grace." Aliens Indian " The offering is certainly an attractive one, both as to its sentiments and its poetry. . . . He has exhibited true poetic genius and enthusiastic loyal feeling, and these two qualities are enough to give a high value to his Jubilee offering." Sydney Morning Herald ( Australia). " Ai ode which breathes a very lofty and loyal spirit, and therefore is doubly welcome as coming from Ireland. . . . Of all the Jubilee odes it is by far the best tribute that has been paid to-day * To her who through the fifty summers flown, Has worn her lucid diadem unstained.' " Melbourne Argus. " Of all native attempts to celebrate the event in verse, Mr. Armstrong's 13 song from Ireland is decidedly the best, as it is undoubtedly the most ambitious." Dublin Evening Mail, " Among the many poems which have been inspired by Her Majesty's Jubilee, by no means the least honour must be paid to Mr. George Francis Armstrong's 'Jubilee Song irom Ireland.' This song is an admirable composition, and will further increase Mr. Armstrong's reputation. " Northern Whig (Belfast). A GARLAND FROM GREECE. r tup.^^^^w^^tTurTT^^pUtT^^^ 1 New Edition, price js. 6d. "Mr. Armstrong maintains, and even improves, his position among the English poets of the day. - No writer of the time, except Mr. Matthew Arnold and, if we are to take his ' Transcripts ' into account, of course, Mr. Browning has so thoroughly imbibed the classical spirit." Spectator. " We may confidently recommend the volume to all readers who may wish to realize so much of physical Greece as a book may convey. The variety of subjects and treatment is remarkable. But nowhere does Mr. Armstrong appear otherwise than at his ease. . . . Mr. Armstrong is under the marked influence of no particular school. His writing possesses individuality both of thought and expression, and he has at his command an abundant flow of melodious verse. ... A very charming volume." Pall Mall Gazette. " It consists of a medley of poems, all dealing with the subject of Greece from topographical, historical, legendary, political, and other points of view. As might be expected, the legendary and antique poems are the best, especially ' Selemnos,' a poem which would give more than one good subject to an artist, and the ' Closing of the Oracle.' All the book is scholarly and thoroughly readable." Academy. " Mr. Armstrong has drawn enthusiasm from several sources. The actual scenery of Greece does not seem to impress him with the sense of desolation which it produces on some spectators. He is enthusiastically Phil-Hellenic as to the present inhabitants of the country ; and he has the classical sympathies and associations which might be expected from a cultivated Englishman. Those various motives find expression by turns in his verse." Athenaum. "A delightful book. ... A large part of the merit of this work lies in the choice of subjects ; but the treatment is very vigorous, and the 4 Brigand of Parnassus ' and ' The Last Sortie from Mesolonghi ' are especially fine. . . . There is one poem which is not of Greek origin, but has an extraordinary depth of analysis and emotion ; it is entitled 4 Time the Healer.'" New York Evening Post. " Whatever may be the subject dealt with, it is always treated with delicacy and taste. The reader feels that not only is the local colouring true, that the places alluded to are accurately as well as picturesquely described, but that the characters introduced are real flesh and blood, and not merely lay-figures in a Greek dress. ... A volume of poetry which may not only be glanced at, but studied, with pleasure." Edinburgh Courant. 14 " Mr. George Francis Armstrong's name and works will be familiar to all real students of the English poets of the day. He is the author of several volumes of really noble lyric and dramatic poems, which in the opinion of the judicious hold a far higher place than a great deal of verse that, happening to be in accord with the superficial moods of the time, commands a greater temporary popularity. . . . Graceful word-pictures of Greek scenery, echoes and versions of old myths, and stirring ballads and tales in verse of the struggles of the modern Hellenes with their Mussulman oppressors, make up its contents. Mr. Armstrong employs many metres and shows himself a master of them all." Scotsman. " [He] has long been placed high amongst living poets by all who can appreciate earnest thought and a worthy choice of subjects wedded to thoroughly good technical treatment. . . . Contains some of the Authors finest work. . . . Hardly any praise could be excessive for such musical and stirring songs as the ' Agoyat ' and the ' Klepht's Flight.' . . . 'The Death of Epicurus' must be read', selections from this noble poem could only do it injustice. . . . These lines have not been surpassed by any living writer." Graphic. " A volume of poems from Mr. Armstrong is always sure of a welcome in the literary world. [He] has so often and so successfully proved his power of producing strong and musical verse appealing directly to the highest poetic sentiment, that his claim to distinguished notice amongst contemporary poets cannot be disregarded." frisk Times. " The present volume has merits quite distinctive and exceptional. But for the occasional apostrophes to England, the love of English ideals, and the purity of the English idiom we might take the book for the work of a native Greek. . . . Old tales and legends are charmingly revived in ' The Satyr," ' Orithyia," and ' Selemnos ; ' Marathon and Ch&ronea receive their meed of loyal remembrance ; and the modern struggles of the Greeks for liberty are fitly pictured and sung in the ' Brigand of Parnassus,' ' The Last Sortie from Mesolonghi," and 'The Chiote." With nature as with man the poet feels a full and friendly sympathy, and the humblest phases of the world's life are reflected in his song."ffoston (U.S.A.) Literary World. POEMS : LYRICAL AND DRAMATIC. A New Edition. Fcap. 8vo, cloth, price 65. " Mr. G. F. Armstrong, whose genuine poetical abilities have still, we hope, to bear good and lasting fruit, has re-issued his ' Poems Lyrical and Dramatic,' for the most part early works, full of the exuberant promise and vitality of youth." Guardian. ' " Son livre le fait connaitre pour un esprit sincere, profonde"ment reli- gieux, mais n'accordar t sa confiance a aucune des eglises ou des sectes de son pays, pour un coeur aimant qui s'epanchait dans des vers plutot ten- dres que passionne"s." Revue des DCHX Mondes. UGONE : A TRAGEDY. A New Edition. Fcap. 8vo, cloth, price 6s. " We notice with pleasure a new edition of this tragedy, which has been vigorously conceived, and written with sustained spirit and elegance. . . . The explanations in the closing scene are spontaneous and thoroughly- animated, the circumstances have been judiciously prepared, and the spectacle becomes absorbing and magnificent." Pall Stall Gazette. "A composition of really remarkable performance and of genuine pro- mise." Saturday Review. KING SAUL. (THE TRAGEDY OF ISRAEL, 1'ART I.) Fcap. 8vo, cloth, price $s. "The violent, but always unsuccessful, efforts of remorse to find oblivion in a deliberate attitude of defiance, the sense of the hollowness of kingship when severed from the reality of influence, aud the king's still eager love of his people, though blurred always by despair, and sometimes by the brute impulse of impotent jealousy against the foredestined suc- cessor, have been taken up one after another in Mr. Armstrong's drama in a really masterly manner. . . . We can scarcely find a higher commen- dation for the tragedy of ' King Saul ' than to say that in choosing his subject its author did not overtax his legitimate strength." Saturday Review. KING DAVID. (THE TRAGEDY OF ISRAEL, PART II.) Fcap.. 8vo, cloth, price 6s. " There can be no doubt as to the imaginative vigour, and persistent intellectual power with which Mr. Armstrong pursues his task. . . . The sequence of events sweeps along in his pages with a grand impressive roll, having the deep music of passion and imagination for an appropriate accompaniment. " Guardian. " Mr. Armstrong's right to be numbered among our poets is conceded." Sunday Times. i6 KING SOLOMON. (THE TRAGEDY OF ISRAEL, PART III.) Fcap. 8vo, cloth, price 6s. " Dramatic poems which can claim to have captivated the critics, not of this country only, but of France, Germany, and America." Edinburgh Review. " There can be no doubt that this is in various ways a production dis- playing genuine power and original thought. ... A vivid dramatic poem, dealing with various problems of human passion, suffering, and trial. The language, and often the ideas, are entirely modem, but this only helps to bring out the essential humanity of the men before us, and the reality of their flesh and blood." Saturday Review. " To the energy of purpose necessary to approach and grapple with a theme so gigantic, there has been joined a patience in execution which has allowed ot no slovenly work to the best of its judgment ; no mean skill in the mechanism of verse ; a fancy fertile in conceptions which not seldom reach grandeur ; and a remarkable descriptive faculty. . . . ' King Solomon ' is in the portraiture of the hero the best of the three plays." Academy. " Quite uncommon mastery of language and much melody of versifica- tion distinguish it [' The Tragedy of Israel ']. For energy of rhetoric, for the really poetical beauty of the lyrical portions of it, for the richness of imagery which adorns, even over-adorns it throughout, it takes high rank among the poems of the present day." Spectator. " We must designate the attested powers of the poet as extraordinarily great so elevated is his imagination ; so full of idealism his representa- tion of powerful emotions ; and, finally, so perfectly beautiful his lan- guage." Magazinfiir die Literatur des Auslandes. " Poete comme son frere Edmund, mort il y a quelques annees. M. G. F. Armstrong s'etait fait connaitre par un recueil de Poentes lyrigufs et dramatiques et par une trag^die d.'1/gont, quand il donna le Rot Saul, qui a justement augmente sa reputation, accrue encore par le Roi David t le Roi Salomon." Polybiblion (Paris). "As contributions to modern classics these works are destined to hold high rank and be universally admired." Boston (U.S.A.) Common- wealth. THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF EDMUND J. ARMSTRONG. Fcap. 8vo, with Portrait and Vignette, price 7.?. 6d. "There was a fulness of life, and of Irish life, in Edmund Armstrong, of which the years he lived afford no measure. . . . The faculties, elements, and activities which went with it were very various ; it was a life abou turbance ml in- in happiness and hope, with seasons of gloom and sore dis- iuiu.