P R 6025 A1417 17 1894 MAIN yCrNRLF 073 0^7 NOININS 5VlcCALL, (QjrEhLVB.) IRISH NOININS (DAISIES) BEING A COLLECTION OF I — 1bl6torlcal ipoeme nnb JSallaDe. II — n:ran6lation0 from the (5aeUc» III.— 1bumorou0 anO Cbaracterl6tlc Sketcbes* IV.— /lRt6cellaneou0 Songe. BY PATRICK JOSEPH McCALL (CAVELLUS), DUBLIN : SEALY, BRYERS AND WALKER (A. T. & C, L.), 94> 95 & 96 MIDDLE ABBEY STREET. 1894. (AA^t^ h ^. >" ■c ,^ <■ CONTENTS. Ieish Noinins PAGE V Historical Poems and Ballads. Glen Scone, A Stone Graver's Song DuBHTACH Mac XJi Lugaiii's Death Song Clontaep, a Nordland Lament The Vision of St. Malachi 0*MoRGAnt . . Dervoegil at Mellifont The Geeen Woods of Slew ... The Death of Art O'Neill ... The Tomb of Hugh MacCawell • Awaitino Owen Roe The Bonnie Light Hoeseman The Two Rosins ... The Little Haevest Rose 1 5 11 16 20 26 28 31 35 37 39 42 Translations from the Gaelic. Maey Maguiee (Carolan) The Beown Thoen Geacb Nugent (^CVo^aw J 284368 45 47 50 CONTENTS. Shoheen Sho The Clay of the Chueoh of Creggan The Dark Maiden of the Valley GUQGIE O'GrAIG Nelly of Ballintlea Kathleen Tyeeel Humorous and Charaeteristie Sketches, Tatthee Jack Welsh Over the Hills to Maey Theeshino the Baeley An Irish Bouchaleen Old Pedhar Carthy from Clonmoee The Mummers of Baegy The Little Heathy Hill The Day of the Fair The Dance at Maeley Miscellaneous Songs. EvAL FEOM THE Eaylands, A Fairy Legend Hallowe'en My Beautiful Maey, O The Bonnie Beown-Haired Girl whom I Love The House in the Coenee ... Ceeeveen Cno The Bonny Cuckoo The Blackbird and the Thrush No, No, Not I Sympathy I E I S H N 6 I N I N S.* (daisies.) Far o'er the field ^ like sunlets, see The myriad daisies shine, ^ Neath silvern lids tipped hlushingly Peep out their golden eyne ; These dearest of all flowers I love For meek-eyed modesty — My sweet, sweet noinins — Irish noinins — Charm the heart of me ! From every skaugh and drinan down \ The hirdlings pipe their lay, Flossy each breast, all bright and brown^ That hides the heart so gay ; Dear are these wing id minstrels all. But wren-birds, wild and wee — The sweet, sweet drebilins — Irish noinins — Charm the heart of me ! * Pronounced Noan-yeens, Some G-aelic words in the above require elucidation. Thus, Dreoilins (Droal-yeens), wrens ; Paistins (Pausth-yeens), children ; Danins (Daun- yeens), songs. t Skaugh, a white thorn ; Drinan down, the black (brown) thorn or sloe. VI IRISH NOININS. Adown the meadow^ freckle-faced^ The laughing children run : Long hy the marshpooh have they chased The dragon-flies i^ the sun. Light every hearty bright every eycj And cheruh'lihe their glee—^ These sweety sweet pdistins — Irish noinins- Charm the heart of me ! Now^ with twin twinlcling, fairy feet j A maiden goes the path — Fair is her face, divinely sweet, Eer voice soft music hath ; So delicately, so gracefully, She trips across the lea — Our sweet, sweet, cdilins — Irish noinins- Charm the heart of me ! Lo, in my hand I hold a hook To soothe my soul with song^ Here, in this still, sequestered nooky I read it, lingering long: Each lay therein as raindrops pure. Soft as the mead-winds free — These sweet, sweet ddnins — Irish nSinins- Charm the heart of me I IRISH NOININS. For aye may every Irish face With truWs jpure halo glow, That noinin garlands we may place On each unsullied brow. Never such faithful ones ought leave Poor Ireland while unfree, But cling like noinins — Irish noinim — Here so dear to me ! lEISH NOININS. Ibistorfcal poems ant) 3BaUa&9* GLEN SCONE. (A Stone Graver's Song.) [" The grave of Queen Scota is to be seen between Sliev Misb and the sea, near Tralee." — Annals of the Four Masters."] *'I mount the unheaved pillar stone, Beside the blue slate, earthwise, laid. The moiirneTS, to* the brook, have gone, To edge, again, their hewing blade. I, here, behind, in green Glen Scone, Work at my facet-scoring trade; And form those signs of lore, unknown, Amergin ga.ve — ^bead, notch, and braid!" — Tap, tap, tap, tap ! — a cross-grained rock Resists the flint and mallet shock. ^ IKI^H NOININS. " I knock, but do not wake the Queen, Who stands beneath, facing the East — Stern guardian, armed with helve and skian,. Her gold snake torque upon her breast; Her banner, for a mantling screen, Enfolds her chilly house of rest^ — Here, came the six &ons, yestere'en, Their dead one bearing, raven-tressed." — Tap, tap, tap, tap ! — with measured blow, He 'graves the name of her, below. "They came : Amergin dropped a tear, As hot as battle's fever blood ; But never one shed haughty Ir, As by the yawning pit he stood ; Chafed Heber Finn, beneath her bier, And cursed her slayers, in his mood ; While Heber Donn, like wounded deer. Slunk, restless, to the green-topped wood !" Tap, tap, tap, tap ! — four imcial spears Glance Eastemwards — a> sign appears ! "Long, Heremon mused, grave and wise — His mother's darling counterpart. She gave tO' him the dove's mild eyes — A father^ £1 gift, his eagle's heart ! Young Colpa mewed, with catlike cries. That almost rent the oaks apart, HISTORICAL POEMS AND BALLADS. As on them sprang his piercing sighs, Rebounding o'er the woody scart P' — Tap, tap, tap, tap ! — four hostile lines He cuts — a second ciyptic shines ! "Yet, they stood there, a conquering band Of their bright Isle of Destiny ! How wondVous green, this western land, Of lavish grass and laden tree ! Ours now! — ^here, imdismayed, we stand. Masters of it, from sea to sea, Won by thy wand, won by thy hand, Won, sleeping Mother Queen, by thee!" — Tap, tap, tap, tap ! — ^two notches scar The edge — a third Rune-character! "Alas, we lost thee, Queen ! Thy fall Was grievous for us at Glen Scone, Where we have tombed thee ! — ^Very tall, Blue ribbed, will rise thy dallan stone. Higher than I, erect — a spall As tough, scarce has my graver known, Save one — the crystal Lia Fal, I carved for Lewy s turgid throne ! " — Tap, tap, tap, tap ! — three lances stretched With westering points — a fourth is etched I * IRISH NOININS. "I strike; joint-rigid grows my hand, Smiting, that holds the mauling heft ; Strained every sinew, nerve, and strand, The flint point guiding, with my left! For ages must this pillar stand. Carved with its Oghams, deep and deft, Writ first by gods of sea and land In stony books of cave and cleft !" — Tap, tap, tap, tap ! — one short broad line, An arris notch — the last quaint sign! " Soon ready, now ! Comes Heremon, Pacing the path the mourners made. With him, the Druids' favourite one, Amergin, reft and disarrayed ! Soon will my graving task be done — Soon shall the pillar, high be laid ; And the exploring, curious sun. Its mystic passages invade!" — Tap, tap, tap, tap! — six carven rings Crown her — dead mother of six kings ! J^^ ^ f yt> ^^ ~^^ >^ ^^ DUBHTACH MAC UI LUGAIR'S DEATH-SONG. [Dubhtach Mac Ui Lugair (pronounced Du-nch Magilligur) was Ard Filea, or chief Bard of Erinn, during the reign of Ard Kigh Lairy (Laoghaire), and was St. Patrick's first con- vert at Tara. After Lairy 's death, Dubhtach resided with Creevan (Crimthan), King of Hy-Kinsella, a.d. 484.] Is it the king who calls, who* gracious gives A gold cup, brimming meadful, and who liefs A lay 1 — Ah, generous king ! my voice grows faint ; My heart and harp, alike, have crust and taint Of rheumy night, that rot the chords of song, And numb the strings of life ! — ^Your hoary bard Feels age's cooling dews his heart ensward; Feels his bill-nestling song birds, silent, long For bonds of pleasant slumber, fast and strong ! Yet, shall he wake a bird of ruddy breast, For this, his evening song; whose voice is best Attuned to simple melody — tO' Hope, To Truth, to Love, three master-keys. That swiftly ope Song's tabernacled mysteries I b IRISH NOININS. A prelude, daltka., play ! — the air we heard Together, 'neath the cromlech of Mac Lir, One balmy summer twilight, yester-year — A Danaun tuning, weird. Of soothing sweep ; like sound of water-strings From cascade of the Brugh, as high it flings A spray of sleep on all who linger near : Strangely it lulled me, pouring on my ear A flood, like early cradle^comfortings ! I, Dubhtach, dying, praise you, monarch meek! — Creevan, my liege, the comely son of Fiac ! A flaming torch o'er battle's murky pall ! A shining sim in pleasure's banquet hall ! A heart of molten gold in bower of love ! A serpent's knot, imtied, in wisdom's grove ! I, dying, praise you, twice ! At Bresal's rath, God be my witness ! — direly wounding Gael ! — I saw you like a bull, make many a path. Through moving trees of spears and rocks of mail ; For I was there to note. My eagle's eyes. Now filmed as owl's, saw my king's victories! I, dying, praise you, thrice. I saw you go. Like sun, that wades through sheeting clouds of snow — HISTORICAL POEMS AND BALLADS. 7 Oo through the swathing Suir, when brimmed its banks, When rose the river toi your horse's flanks ! — God's truth, my tale! — Saw you Cnoc Aine win — God's truth, again ! — At Sairr, and at Magh Finn, Victorious. With memory of your deeds, Creevan, rise my tears, like gathering beads Of dew, o'er Liffey's plain ! . . . For I shall never see a fray again ! Dying, I praise my king — a wolf in war. In peace, your heart grew mild, as evening star, Alit, with twinkling joy and kindliness ; So 'twas, when holy Patrick came to bless Your brow and mine, and you, the king, believed. And I, the bard! Since then, we've never grieved For hostings, cattle^forays and the flow Of sating blood — false thirsts of long ago, For yon and me! . * . Christ's Blood, shed for us, brought satiety. Chief Seer of Erinn, I. My lore^-lamp shone O'er Tar a, Lugair's first and poet son ! Once, I remember, Ard Righ Lairy sought My subtle counsel ; vainly, him I taught The truth — a wretched king, who would not bend A knee to God, for me, his dearest friend ; 8 IRISH NOININS. Nor crook a neck, although his heart. I won, By patient pleading : so, he stubborn, went Unsaved, to God's subduing punishment — Proud son of haughty Nial — ^his father's son ! God's fingers early touched me : pricked my sloth, A minstrers fatal fault! — I journeyed wide — At all the sinful ways of mankind wroth ! — O'er Erinn of the Streams : by peak and plain, By lake and cliff, I went, and many a fane And cross I raised, to Him, our Crucified ! Ah, once, the old war fire consumed my zeal ! — Do you remember, king, whose loon of steel. Whose loric, cloak, and bronzen buttoned shield, You wore at Ocha, panting on the field? Mine, noble king ! 'Twas there, that eight score fell, And ten, by your right hand. Your father broke Full twelve prime battles : f o-ur, your waxing stroke ; Till Patrick vexed came, and stilled your hand ; And changed my battle-song, and soothed the land. With crozier, cross, and bell ! My life knew bliss of love! — the white armed Mel, TKe beautiful of face, the fleet of foot. The fragrant apple tree of bending fruit, I saw and sighed for ; and my pleading fell On gracious ears. My Queen of Beauty gave HISTORICAL POEMS AND BALLADS. i) Sweet love aiidl courtship to me, soft as wave That folds the shore! . . . My Mel, my Beautiful, is now no more. I sang my songs of Truth : my fame spread wide, Like conch, flung in a lake's cliff-ma-rgined tide, Concircling long with foam-bursts; so', my shell Of song, within my heart, heaved, many a bell Of music, rippling far, till came my meed — A poet's from a king ! — a comely steed Of chequered lawn and loam, beei-humming rills, And slow- waved! shore : thrice humped with echoing Mils— Torchar, Formal, and Fordrum! — whose long tail Is lashed by Bana^ mingling sand and shale ; Whose mouth, the loud-resounding ocean laves, Where, whinnying, come white-crestedi maney waves, Sea mareis, to wooi him ; twice, they course each day, From pebbly, shell-paved stables, far away. I, dying, praise you, king ! your gift, this land, Stretching from plume of hill to hem of strand, Horse^like in form — a royal prize for song! Fleeting as fair, I shall not hold it long. Though all the Courts of Heaven, nine, and one Of Earth — gold Croghan's mountain throne, Your pledge for it ! — ^what pledge have I, for life ? Had I, for more than life or land — my wife? — 10 IRISH NOININS. For Mel, my Beautiful, is dead, these years . . . Again, my tears. monarch, music4oving! patience, now, 1 faint and tire; death drops, upon my brow, Like whortle berries rise; my cheek pales white, And I will cease the strain; for, in the night, All birds are silent ! .. Lead me in, dear page. A strange hand-union ours, of youth and age : You think of mossy springs, of life and love ; I, of their slimy mouths, in seargirt grove. Where rocks a corach, on an ebbing tide. To bear me to Sen Patrick — and my bride ! CLONTARF. A NORDLAND LAMENT. [Aegument — Hako, a Scandinavian scald or poet, one day discovers his little son poring over the account of the battle of Clontarf, as given in the Nial Sagas, or Scaldic chronicles of Scandinavia. The poet thus addresses the boy. Some allusions therein to Northern mythology require explanation — thus ; Odin is the Northern Jupiter ; Thor (The Thunderer), Mars ; the Valkyriors are Odin's angels of death ; Valhalla is the paradise of those who die in battle, while Nifleimir is the future abode of those who die peaceful deaths ; Lok, or Loki, is the ruler of the darker nether world ; Helais his daughter.] Hide that page, my little prying Dane, Clasped within its hom-leaved tome again ; For the story there, which darkling lies Suits not you, but one grown old and wise — One with patient, quiet eyes! There, in Scaldic runes is redly writ — Cold the trembling hand which pencilled it! Cluain-Tarav's tale^O liu-id leaf I Once, my child, my own eyes, wet with grief Through it passaged fugitive. 12 IRISH NOININS. Once, that little once — in suns gone by, One song husiied and solemn evening, I, Fearful of my absent father's frown. Took this very same Nial Saga down. With bronze clasp and cover brown Woe with woe ! reading, my Nordland pride Sank within my heart, that twilight-tide ; As arpast>, on Fancy's wind-fleet wing, I beheld that clay-sweet morn of spring — Its blood fetid evening ! Seeing there, the dark Valkyrior brood Weaving shrouds with Danish flesh and blood, As our green-mailed sons of sword and shield From the lint-clad stranger's onset reeled. Seeding thick the battle-fleld ! As, upon the growing, blowing blast, Whistling gore drops sped like hailstones past. Blent with hair, grey brain, and tnmkless head. Knot and clot, till filled the furrows red, With our brave Danelanders dead ! As our Sitric sank, our Sigurd fell, Died our Carlus and wheat-haired Conmel ; As our wounded Anrud, pierced and caught His Erse victor, and, both struggling, sought Hela's lake of fire and froth ! HISTORICAL POEMS AND BALLADS. 13 Sweet was Anrud's deed, but sweeter far Brodar'si glory, bright as Polar star! Blest our Viking — blest his moon-cold blade ! That through Brian's brain a pathway made, Whence emerged the Erse king^s shade! Here I heard my father^s homing foot Striking 'gainst a blasted pine tree's root ; Serious he, with eyes that seldom wept, In whose deeps dry wrath a vigil kept — Orbs which hardly ever slept ! They divined my deed — son ! that mght, Fell, like Winter^s rain, his big tears white ; Rose, like Summer's dust, his choking curse On the men and matrons of thei Erse — On the sons they breed and nurse ! Them might Thor's Ban-dog of Darkness gnaw ; Rend with mangling tooth and strangling claw! Them might fiery Lok's sev^n twisted chain Bind and blind on Hela's pitchy plain, For our Northeirn Ravens slain ! " Hako>," said he, " my wee blue-eyed Dane, When you and your brothers grow amain. When the fire of blooded manhood comes Flaming to avenge long orphaned homes, Read again these Saga tomes 1 14 IRISH NOININS. " Then, perchance, stirred by their mystic words. Once again shall flash our Northern swords ; Who shall seek anew Cluain-TaraVs strand Who will win anew the old green land, Guided by Great Odin's hand?" Old and cold am I, Hako, his son! All my brothers toi Nifleimir gone. Never Norseman ro'se with blade and brand I Never sighed tO' win the old green land ! Never sought Cluain-Tarav's strand! In Nifleimir, too, soon shall I rot — Song and sword and sorrow all forgot, Who should in Valhalla live anew. Holding silvern shield and spear of yew, Girt, with cloak of gold and blue ! Who should sit by Odin's festive board. Sipping nectar that his bees had stored! Vain, now, for a hero's death I sigh. — Gods ! were there ani Ersemani near me, I Smiting him, would happy die ! THE VISION OF ST. MALACHI O'MORGAIR (A.D. 1U8.) "The first day's journey of a soul to pay tribute is to Jerusalem ; the second to the River Jordan ; the third to Adam's Paradise ; the fourth, to the Royal Kingdom ; the fifth to scorching Hell ; the sixth to its body again ; the seventh, it advances to battle." — Leabhar Breac, p. 34 B. V Break o* the Day ! With a fond farewell To the old, old home, ho lo'ved so well, The voyager, taking scrip and stave, Winged and shod, for vapoou" and wave, Goeth — ^his pinions, as yet, unfree — With golden shoon, o'er the glistering sea^ To seek a land where a cresset lights The over skies and the under heights ; Then, reaching the rock and holy vaults Where suif ered and slept a King, he halts ! 16 IRISH NOININS. He kneels till dawn, on the me-moried mount ; Tlien, rising, looks for a nativei fount, To cleanse his eyes in its saving tide — Light and gloo'm are its either side ! He finds : his chaliced palm he lowers. Sprinkling himself with diamond showers Pf sparkling light from the river's flow. Gemming his pate and hair and brow ; Till, on his forehead, a star is lit, To guide him on through the Infinite ! Another dawn! Swift, adown the slopes Of the cedar hill and olive copse. He goes, till stayed by a garden gate. Where, standeth one, with a sword of Hate; But the pilgrim passes beyond the bar, Uplifted, when seen the sacred star; And he tastes o' the tree of golden fruit, 0^ the fountain bubbling beside its root; And he feels the airs of the flow'ry land. Fanning his brow, like his mother^s hand ! Break c/ the day ! Lo', a wood dove's wings His tresses brush, and refreshed, he springs To journey on. With his plumes released. He soars aloft toi the Great High Priest, To azure bastions, through ruby door, 'Neath amethyst ceil, o^er golden floor. HISTORICAL POEMS AND BALLADS. 17 Past youthful singers, who sweetly choir, Past princes in white, with palm and tire ; Till, folded his wings, and bent his knees, And drooped his head, as the Priest he sees ! Another dawn ! But how dull its beam To him, like light in a troubled dream, As whirling down to a land of ire, He rolls toi forests and floods of fire — Where people gasp with tongue-tortiu'ed speech. Hoarse as the groan of a hoUow beech — Their meat of fire and their drink of flame, Whose joys are griefs, and whose glory, shame : The pilgrim poising above them, sees For an hour and a day, their agonies. Another da.wn ! Growing vaguely dim. Or sun-brighti — whichever holdeth him — Hope luminous, or malign Despair — As buoyant he floats through folds of air To the Earth again. He cometh home To the O'lHen dhair, the olden room.; But quenched the fire, the embers strewn, Where darkness and shuddering doubt commune. He waits and fears the slow-coming dawn — The last^ and eternal fateful one ! 18 IRISH NOININS. Breiak o-' the day ! Loud, a trumpet blows — The fray, the fray ! Forth the pilgrim goes. Thrice blest, if girded with sword of Truth, With helm of Hope and with shield of Ruth, Won from his Monarch to guard his home, To haive and to hold when foemen come — 0, Victor, crowned in high glory-halls ! 0, Helot, chained down 'mid shrieking thralls !- Armed or unarmed, a. soul dreadful fray Is won or lost^ on this seventh day ! Such, my spirit ! thy pilgrimage. For full seven dawns — to Holy Ridge, To Stream and Garden, to Heaven and Hell, To the Earth again, till soimds a knell Or psean — for doom or for paradise! Mindful of which, vague terrors rise, Lest thou hast not won the gifts of God, To fight and enter His bright abode; For fierce these foemen of demon band, Barring the way to the Promised Land ! Malachi, Son of Dermot, am I, Who ope the Book of Eternity, Who limn the way of each pilgrim soul — The path to pleasure, the road to dole! HISTORICAL POEMS AND BALLADS. 19 God be my luininer, and my light, Bringing me safe to His holy sight, Giving me falchion and cloak and shield, For my salvation's great battle-field ! May the poor singer of this true song, Tread the right passage, and struggle strong ! DERVORGIL AT MELLIFONT. [Note. — Dervorgil, wife of Tiernan O'Rourke, Prince of Breffni — the Irish Helen — after her elopement with Dermot MacMurrough in 1152, retired to Mellifont -Abbey, where she died in 1193, aged 85, after a long penance of forty years, Donal O'Melaghlin, her brother, was poisoned in 1152 ; Dermot, her abductor, died of a loathsome disease in 1171 ; while Tiernan, her husband, was assassinated by DeLacy in 1172.] A flutter, then a sigh. The moon, a cloth Wove snowy 'fere an altar, where a moth Had gnawed at marble, where a white-haired queen Who sought for crumbs of peace, had, sleeping, been Enclasping flints of pain, till voice and wing Proclaimed in each, the inward quivering sting Of disappointment. Tore the shrined alcove The dreamer knelt, on whom the face, above, Of Mary, gracious smiled; while, in mid air, A ruddy spark issued a current prayer. Slow swaiying, toi and fro'; like soul, albright, Which moves on earth, with God's essential light, And flames dusk wandering atoms. HISTORICAL POEMS AND BALLADS. 21 Now, anear, Came breaitliless footsteps, mounting tier on tier Of winding stair, and soon, a fresh young face Peered in and pierced the moon's wind-re&tless rays, The dreamer shrouding : — "Madam, art thou illf' Asked! anxious lips, which did not close, but still Awaited, as if listening nerval sense, Affraught, had flown to them. The calm, intense, No answer travelled; so the white-coifed mm, Doive timid, crept anigh the sleeping one, Dream-harried there. '^ 0, Sainte Yierge Marie ! — Dear Madam, wake thee !" Came a dawn, slowly Into the vacant eyes, where soon the sun Of reason beiamed, and roused a slumbering tone, From sheeting lips : — *^ Is't thou, sweet Angelie ? Lo, God has touched my soul with misery, Dreaming, that I was dead ! Come, let us go. Dear Norman !" Then, a face, like frozen snow, Rain-washed and shrunken grey, was pressed to hers, Young Angelie's — whose eyes brimmed bright with tears. As going, she subdued her eager pace, And matched the aged footsteps, trace for trace, Slowly; till, reached, their otakenpanelled cell, They heard the pealing of the turret bell. 22 IRISH NOININS. *' My dream, Angelie ? — I had gone to pray To Mary, Refuge of all Sinners; for, to-day, My life's great crime!, hid in the roll of years, Two' score—leaped out alive. My prayers and tears, The heart's twin elements — its heat and rain, I offered tc the Mother, to obtain From Him, her Son, the flowers of holy peace, To soothe my life's last years. 'Mid agonies, They came, like human blooms! " I fell asleep ; For I had lingered long ; when, from the deep. Rang ooit a voice : — ' This night, I ride alone, Without my guards ! ' — Dear Angelie, my own, Once whispered to my lover, 'fore we fled To thomy bowers of bliss ! 'Then, Dermot, dead, Appeared before me — God, the charnel sight ! There, for his eyes, two worms gave ghastly light, Blood red, as eclipsed moons : fast, to his ears. With ivory teeth, like pointed, flinten spears, Two Norway rats clung, feasting; while a host Of green efts, from his heart crawled out, and crossed, With grimy mouths, and points, trailing with spume, Of ooze corrupt, breathing a deathful fume Of sickening taint ! 'This night, I ride alone. Without my guards !' — ^the horrid, crunching tone HISTORICAL POEMS AND BALLADS. 23 Re-echoed through his scull ; till, frightened, swarmed A brood of multipedes, like imps alarmed, Thronging the gaping mouth, feelers and feet, That miniatured the rigging of a fleet, Twined ineixtricably, within a cove, O'erridden by a whirlwind. 'Hasten, love — Dervorgil, 'tis full time !' He touched my cheek With gaunt and fleshless hand. I tried to shriek, As, loosened from its socket, crumblijig, fell The joint into my bosom. With a knell, Like quivering madness from a fire-struck bell. My heart thrilled at its touch, and, cinering red, It passed to ashes. Then, I withered — dead ! " I stood before my Judge ! — A seraph near, Read from a scroll, with accents, heaving fear, Like summer's thunder : — 'Lo, this woman's pride Compassed the death of Donal V * By my side, My guardian spirit said : — ' Nine red lamps burn Through day and dark, above his tomb and urn, At Burrow's fane!' ' Again, the lector cried : — ' This wife, a husband's prinial right defied, A paramour obeying!' 24 IRISH NOININS. Said til© voice: — ' For her, a convent choir, at Cluainmacnoise, Singeth away her sin !' The seraph then, The passage scratching with fire-pointed pen, Exclaimed: — 'This woman'si virtue luring smile Brought woe and ruin red, upon our Isle Of Saints !' *' Replied, my picading angel guard: — ' At Mellif ont, a million folds retard The feet of Justice — ^Mercy's cerement, Woven with plaints and prayers !' Aside, I went, Sighing, to kneel for sentence. Then, thy voice, Angelie, called me; and, methinks, it was The same, which pleaded for me. Soothed again, Am I, of happy heart and placid brain !'' "Dear Madam," said Angelie, "at vespers, My mind afar did go from ohaunts and prayers, Dream wand'ring. Scon, within a tangled wood I caught my erring feec, where solitude Reigned seemingly, till c&me a bleating cry Deep from a brake, suppieroing leaf and sky, And, from my rustling efforts, fled a horde Of wolve?, abandoning a eweT' "Dear Lordl" Dorvorgil gasped. From off the wimpling cloth, HISTORICAL POEMS AND BALLADS. 25 Her hair efniolding, flew a feasted moth., I-$ack, to the altar, where a beam had sped Midwanl, and clothed the swaying spark of red, With lustrous handle ; like, when Heaven's choir Adds to a heart's pra/r flame, a purer fire ! THE GREEN WOODS OF SLEW. (Sliev Makgt.) [A lament for Rory Oge O'More, assassinated by MacGilla Patrick, June 30, 1578. Owny, mentioned in tlie concluding stanza, was Rory's son.] In the heart of the forest, a thrush 'gan to sing Of lo'sses, the sorest — the death of a king ! — Soon, to his bough, leafless, my srympathy flew; For I, too, roamed chiefless, in the Green Woods of Slew. He, high, 'bofve the heather, I, low, 'mong the fern, Mourned sadly together — a bird and a kerne! — Cried he, the sky vinger: — ^''A hawking cuckoo Haa slain the chief singer of the Green Woods of SlewT' Like his, was mj story : —"Our glory is o^er ; For dead lies yoamg Rory — ^the valiant O'More ! The scofurge of the stranger, he chased the false crew, Like a wolfhound of danger, in the Green Woods of Slew! HISTORICAL POEMS AND BALLADS. 27 *' My curse chill yoair castle, Gilla Patrick, the base ! No Saxon Queen's vassal, was Roiy of Leix ! The Palesmen he vanquished: they parleyed with you; And I am left anguished, in the Green Woods of Slew! " Smile, Sidney and Perrot ! — ^the gold, that oft failed — Wise weasel, fierce ferret ! — on the Gaelga prevailed : The friend of his bosom, proved faint and untrue, And left me heart-woesome in the Green Woods of Slew!" To joy, turned our singing ; for,- free from its nest, A fledgling came winging, with many a rest : The gold its crest tinseling, like dawn o'er the blue — Another plumed princeling for the Green Woods of Slew! Away, sorrow blinding ! — Cleave to women, the dead — Far better be grinding, the grey axe, instead ; For soon, brave and bonny, from the hand of Mac Hugh, Shall fly little Owny, to the Green Woods of Slew I THE DEATH OF ART O'NEILL. Scene : The Red Mountain (Sliabh Ruadh) over Glenmalure. Time; Christmas, 1592. To wild Gleoomalure, o'er the snowy heights, hj night a henchman sped — Slow steps of pain were his, and false, on many a drifted bed; But his last, sad breath had gone to God ere he left his task imtried, That brought to the sons of the Ulster chiefs some succour, else they died ! Long the mongrel Saxon of the Pale had in chains these young ones held ; But the mongrel Saxon of the Pale had not their spirits quelled! Alas! have they left a tyrant's clutch for the cold death-grasp of snow? Ah, the henchman sighed, as he thought of Hugh and Art, in the vale below. HISTORICAL POEMS AND BALLADS. 29 ^' 0, kind Mary, help me on and on !" he prayed, "till my numbed hinds feel, 'Till my strained eyes see O'Byrne's hold, 'till my sighs to him appeal ! Lo, was that a light ? mild Mary, sweet ! do 1 see his postern gate? And is that bra.ve Feagji MaoHngh himself who stands by the iron grate?'* Full, many a chill qualm shook the voice, though the heart was warmed with ale, And in Feagh's grave eyes of Irish grey, two mourners wept the tale; And many a big, white tear-drop welled, as his clans- men swept the land. With their welcome food and wanning draught in the welcomer, warmer hand ! How they wondered, these huge Wicklow kerns, as they strode with native strength — Though they seldom marvelled at aught before — at the aching joume/s length, Till Sliabh Ruadh loomed above their heads, like a giant robed' in white, Where fast in the ice^folds at his feet lay the lost ones of the night ! Oh! a bitter, burning Gaelio curse shook the rime on that mound of woe. As the clansmen broke on the faces pale their hardened masks of snow — 30 IRISH NOININS. Good God ! have they lain in fine^threaded shirt, and in coat of silken gear? Was therei never a woman to pity them, all the^ ways from Dublin, here? But these clansmen's hearts, so hard in war, are as soft as a maid's, in peace; And the never a woman in Ireland's Isle could be half as kind as these ! But the arts of love for life are vain when the heart liesi cold in death — On young Art O'Neill's dumb, purple lips stayed frozen his dying breath ! Brave are ye, Saxons of Dublin, when ye fight with a swordless foe — Sure, ye never turn the ankle round when there falleth no bladed blow! But, Dar Dhia ! soon your courage sinks when there comes an equal test With the bristling clans of the Wicklow vales, sword to sword, and breast to breast ! Hugh Koe ! life in you yet lingers faint — God' leaves you to Ulster still, Oft again you will walk in freedom o^er your heath- brown, breezy hill ! — With their chains^ clank in your memory, with O'Neill tombed in your heart — Can you ever forgive our Saxon foe, or forget young murdered Art? THE TOMB OF HUGH MacCAWELL. [ Tutor of the Princes Henry and Hugh O'Neill of Tyrone, afterwards Archbishop of Armagh. Bom at Saull, 1571 ; died at Rome, 1626.] In your dark crypt, Isidoro, By tliei Tiber's tawny flow, Sleepeth one — dear Erin's son, Whom you cherished, Isidoro, Long ago ! High above, on votive tablet. Princely Shann, the Lord Tyrone, Graved the name and words of fame — Marked them on the marble tablet. For his own. "Pray for Father Hugh MacCawell, Of the Kinel-Fary race; Saull of Down, his natal town. May the soul of Hugh MacCawell Rest in peace .' " 32 IRISH NOININS. Once o'er him a blade waa lifted, Tiiai would give the accolade, But his lord, ere sank the sword, High in shir»y tremblance lifted, He gainsayed. Playing: "Sire, withhold this honour; For a King of life and light Taketh me, and maketh me. Poor, unworthy of such honour. His O'wn knight !" So, in place of hero-circle On the youth's dark curly head. Shone the shaven crown of heaven- Shone St. Francis* hairless circle, White, instead ! Shone the crown in Aracoeli, Far from land, and far from home : Shone in Spain, and in Lonvain — First, in marbly Aracoeli; Last, in Rome ! Shone, till him the Pontiff Urban, Gave, with kiss of father sweet. Gold ring rare, and cross and chair. Holding for the saintly Urban Patrick's seat. HISTORICAL POEMS AND BALLADS. 33 But nor town noT Isle of Patrick Soothed again his yearning eyes; Sick he grew, one etv'ning blue, Far from the green Isle of Patrick — And its skies! Mingling with his esilehfever Burned the blood-fire of the frame ; Leech in vain, from Papal train — Vain to cure the double fever. Calming came. Said the exile — " Lo ! God calls me, And He beckons me toKiay : Though it grieve you, I must leave you, Friends, to Him my Sovereign calls me — Come away !'' '' Brother Emun, dearest comrade, Cross and ring, my fortune, take ! You, Antoine, when I am gone, Wear my habit, faithful comrade. For my sake!" These his latest words as gazing. At a Form stretched on the Rood, Sped the soul of Hugh MacCawell; And his brethren', mutely gazing, Understood. 34 IRISH NOININS. La, we hear the voice of Urban : — "Not a maii> indeed, was Hugh: But an angel — God's evangel I'" And the voice of saintly Urban Tearful grew. Long for him in Isidoro Cheeks were pile and eyes \vere dijn. Sons of Erin, wandering herein, Tj his crypt in Isidoro Pray for him I AWAITING OWEN ROE. (a.d. 164:2.) Owen Roe has left the Flemings' town, In the lands of Nether Spain, With many a mark, and many a crown, For Ireland's causei, again! With many a, bar of golden ore, And the Pope's red signet stone; But we have here, a richer store For him, in Green Tiro en ! Moreen, my Vanithee, will place A rosary in his hand ; And young Noreen will go and grace His breast, with ribbon band ; And my little gilla Hugh, will lead A steed of glossy roan; But a kinsman's blade is my own meed For him, in Green Tiroen I 36 IRISH NOINTNS. 'Round the quigaJ lonely spiders weave: The spinet sleeps in dust ; And the caman^ rots beneath the eave; And the plough is red with rust ! No more we spin, or sport, or toil ; For OUT tyrants bold have grown, And strangers till the weeping soil Of OUT heart lov'd Tiro en ! Oh, the rosary will win him grace: The breastrknot win him love ; And the steed will fly with lightning* pace, And the sword will trusty prove I My Moreen, pray : my Noreen, sigh : Go, Hugh, and feed the roan; For soon our swords shall sweep the sky For Ireland and Tiro en! * Quigal (cuigal), a distaff ; caman, a crooked stick used for hurling THE BONNIE LIGHT HORSEMAN (A Jacobite Ballad.) A poor lonely maiden, I'm now going over To Shemug, in Flanders, to look for my lover: O, Mary, my pity ! how shall I discover My bonnie light horseman, away in the war? We Hved by the banks of the broomy Blackwater, My father and mother, and I, their one daughter, Till red grew our valley with burning and slaughter. By Kirke's Saxon butchers, let loose in the war ! We fled to the cave — ^to the haimt of the Torie ; And Emun, my lover, for vengeance and glory, Took sabre and steed — sad, 0, Mary, my story ! — A. bonnie light horseman, he joined' in the war ! I parted! from him on the street of Dungannon: He lost at the Boyne, but he won at the Shannon; Till Shemus, the Craven, left him at Duncannon — My bonnie light horseman,, so brave in the war ! 38 IRISH NOININS. Fro'in Limerick, with. Sheldon, away he wemt sailing : ^Torget him, dear Eileen !'' my parents cried, wailing : They're now in the clay, while I sigh, unavailing. For my bonnie light horseman, afar in the war ! They^vet told me! — ah, love, shall I never more see you ? Now, Erin, cold, cold is the hand that would free you ! — They've told me at last — "0, a&thoreen mo chree hu !" My bonnie light horseman is slain in the war ! ffl IK 1 ^ ^ J ^ THE TWO ROSINS. (A Jacobite Song.) [As Rosin Gal (fair young Rose) the bard apostrophises his sweetheart, and as Rosin Dhu (dark young Rose) his other love, Ireland.] My Eosin Gal — my Eosin Dhu, How can I share my heart with you? Like the sky Siurtinged by the morning's blush, And the greenwood gladdened by song of thrush; Like the home made warm by the turf fire^s heat, With a dear one throned in a ros-y seat; As a. pulse by a love^look stirred and thrilled!, And the heart with the sudden rapture filled; As a flower awaked by the sun's first kiss — So my life by the fair yo'ung Eosin is ! 0, Rosin Gal — 0, Eosin Dhu, How can I share my heart with you? Ah ! the. sky is sad in the twilight pale, With a redbreast telling a Winter tale; And the heme is cold where no hearth fires glow, V^ith a dear one pining in want and woo; 40 IRISH NOININS. Ah! the tbiob of her pulse grows faint and weak, And her heart can never a solace seek; As a flower close shut, till the kiss of morn Lies my dark Rosin, and my heart is lorn 1 O, Eosin Gal— 0, Rosin Dhu, How must I share my heart with you? Ah, my glad white Rose ! it is bliss to me, By thy side to sit 'neath the wild-ash tree; For never thy heart hath a sorrow known. And the fair wide world still is all thine own — A flower on a hill far from meadow bee, Thou bloomest coiitented for love of me; And the girl that trembles to bruise a blade, Hath a path through the min&trePs bosom made I Glad Eosin Gal — sad Eosin Dhu, How must I share my heart with you? Ah ! my sad red Rose, hath a ruthless band Thy warm haart crushed on the arid sand? Doth an upas keep the pure light away With its pcdsonous odour of decay? Do drones sip thy nectar, still fresh and sweet, And profane thy leaves with their guilty feet? Must my brothers and I shake cruel gyves. And passing not raise thee to save our lives? HISTORICAL POEMS AND BALLADS. 41 Sfclll, Eosiu Gai — still, Eosin Dhu, Thus I can share my heart with you! Thou, my fair white Rotsie, take its cherished Love, Faithful till summoned) with thee above! Sweet maid, thou hast won it fair of me Beneath the ripe beads of the quicken tree ! — Thou, my sad red Rose, take its life, if so, It lays at thy feet a detested foe ! Then quickly command, that I may behold, A glad red Rose bloom as in days of old ! THE LITTLE HARVEST ROSE. (a.d. 1745.) There's a ripple on the waters of our four wide seas; There's a murmur on the mountains, like at dawn- ing hour ; There's a whisper 'mong the ash trees, as they shake their keys, And a thrill stirs all the sleeping land with won- d'rous power. For, the sowing time is coming, with its lingering days, When the fields no longer slumber 'neath the winter snows, When we^U plant the Tree of Liberty, 'mid hymns of praise. And greet, again, our long-lost, little Harvest Ro-se! 'Mong the glens of Kinel Fary, in the land of Owen, We await the morning whistle of The Blackbird, clear : From the royal heights of Aileach, to' the Golden Stone, We are ready, all — ^kerne, gallowglass, and moun- taineer. HISTORICAL POEMS AND BALLADS. 43 Soon, well plough, the fields with horsesf hoof and soldiers^ foot; Audi well water them, till fetlock high, the black blood flows; Then, we'll plant the Tree of Liberty, of spreading root, And greet again our little, shining, Harvest Rose ! Long, our little, shining, Harvest Rose has blighted been By the cruel, clinging, Red Wind from the chamel East — Every branch and bloom lay stricken, till no leaf of green I Could greet the hopeful, longing eyes of chief ' or priest ! Still, we're watching and we're waiting, for the pass of night, Till the salfron dawn wind o'er the hills of gloiy, blows. That will bear a morning summons on its wings of light, For the budding of our little, shining, Harvest Rose! Hark, a clarion is resounding from the Grampian Hill*- 'Tis the whistle of The Blackbird, at the dawn of day! 44 IRISH NOININS. Every heart witk rosy rapture, at the songburst thrills, As we rise froon rushy bed and bush to join the fray. As we go, our daughters speed our path, with praise and prayer, And a blush on every mantling cheek, like simset, glows ; But a redder, sweeter blossom, we will welcome, fair, When we greet again, our little, shining, Harvest Rose ! XTtanslations from tbe aaelic* MARY MAGUIRE. (Turlough Carolan.)"^ ^is my tear and sigh, tLat my dear and I Woo not 'mid the pleasant highlands, With never a tone, but our owb, alone. To break the slumbering silence I But — King of Grace ! — ^what need to praise My gentle sweetheart^ blushing, For love of whom, sharp arrows come All through my body rushing] At the early dawn she goes o^er the bawn, With her twisted coolun gleaming; And her bright face glows like a white wild rose, Through the sunlit dewdrops beaming 1 * For the original see Hardiman, Vol. II., page 8. 46 IRISH NOININS. 0, her soft skin, smooth ! — 0, her honey mouthy Harp sweet, that never wearies ! Swan's neck of snow, and cheeks where grow Two ruddy rowan berries ! THE BROWN THORN. (From the Gaelic.*) Oh, many a one that came to woo believed my heart was all his own, But when he spoke of love to me I heard anew my lover's tone : A.nd so my suitors swiftly passed down Slieve O'Flinn, like driven snow — For the sake of him, as fair and white, as the spiky blossoms of the sloe. love ! love ! what woe is mine this day, to think 'twas gold you sought; That I am left alone in grief, because no hoarded wealth I brought ! ruthless one ! who pained my heart — in vain, this night, I pant and pray, That we may meet, when whitei's the dew, in a mountain valley far away ! * For the original, see Miss Brooke's Reliques of Irish Poetry^ page 306. 48 IRISH NOININS. Here, in my purse, deep down and close, I hold a keepsake of my love; But all the men in Innisfail my load of sorrow could not movel When thoughts of him rush through my mind — hero' of the tresses brown — The live long day, the dead long night, my tears in silence trickle down. A present from my brown-haired boy would cure my grief the next Fair day; , Or greeting kind and winning smile from the flower of youth upon the way — Oh, would to God! a priest were near, to* calm my bitter biting woe, By joining my fond love to me, before across the seas he go ■ Oh, should he not think bad of me, my lips will praise him, far and wide ; And should he not think bad of me, I shall seat my- self close by his side ; And should he not think bad of me, my eyes will woomd with many a dart — O Star of Light ! — ^before the world, I hide my own poor bleeding heart 1 God above, what shall I do, if he shoidd turn his back on me? — For all unknown to me his house — unknown his hearth and family. TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GAELIC. 49 My mother moves with, many a sigh, my father stumbles all the day, And angry are my kith and kin — and he, my darling, far away ! i. A cloud of woe enfolda my eye®, and sleep comes never brushing near — ^ I think of him, my first lost love, and every night seems as a year: Mocked by the world for loving him, who loves me not — ^who'Se heart is cold! Alas, Sweet Branch ! why did you come — ^why have you me a falsehood told? GRACE NUGENT. (From the Gaelic of TWlougli O'Carolan .*) No trouble 'tis for me to praise my whitest flower of fairness, My Gracie Og, the sweetest of all maids that be : Who bears the palm for excellence, for beauty, and for rareness, From all the Fair and Fragrant of the whole countrie ! Who ever can you find me, who has lingered in her presence, Could say there camei one moment's thought of ill for him? Queen of the gentle graces and the winning ways of pleasaimce, Of the free branching tresses and the ringlets prim ! * For the original, see Walker's Historical Memoirs of the Irish Bardsj page 76. TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GAELIC. 51 Like lime her skin, like swan her neck, white arching 'bove each shoulder — The sun of summer is her face at dawning clear. blessed fortune for him who will woo and win and hold her — I Sweet branch of tendrils curling thick the live-long year! - Oh, very choice, to heart and ear, her silvery con- versation ; And very bright and beautiful her eyes of blue ; 1 hear the praises sounding everywhere throughout g the nation "^ Of her wavy tressies wandering from neck to shoe. I say, and say it o'er again, sweet maid, more true your singing Tlian all the birds on all the trees, on all the plains — No balm that ever heart desired to &oothe a sorrow wringing. But may be foimd — my hand on it—in Gracie^s strains ! Her teeth in rows imbroken, and her hair in ringlets shining — Och6n ! 'tis late, my plea.sant task I must leave so ; Yet from a heart that, many a time, for Gracie has been pining, 111 drink my darling's health, once more, before I go! SHOHEEN SHO.* [A woman was once taken by the fairies through, one of them assuming the voice of her husband, and thus enticing her into their lios. Here she remained seven years, nursing the children of the fairies. One day, while rocking a fairy child at the lios door, she saw a woman washing clothes down at the river, whom she thus importuned for help : — ] O womani ! down^ at the flag-stooieis, cleanings Take pity, now, on my bitter keeniDg : To her fairy nurse child : — Shoheen shol — nlla lo! — Shoheeni sho! thou'rt not my darling! 'Tis seiven years since a fairy, cruel, Enticed me hither, to meet my jewel ! Shoheen sho! etc. * For the Gaelic original, see John O'Daly's Miscellany, page 109. Another version of this song has been beautifully rendered by Dr. Sigerson. TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GAELIC. 53 Since then, the babes of a dozen fairies, IVe nursied for them, till mj bosom wearies 1 Shoheen sho! etc. Oh, help me, -woman ! and homewards, going, Put down, a Rre, wide tongiied and glowing. Shoheen sho! etc. Seize, then, the old hag, white-haired, and faded, That seven years hath my bed invaded ! Shoheen sho! etc. Upon her back, in the broad blaze, heave her — Let the whole world see the foul deceiver! Shoheen sho! etc. Tell, then, my husband to rise and dress him ; And seek the priest, who will solemn bless him. Shoheen sho! etc. A knife, black helved, in his right hand, holden, Let him reach this lios, by the dawning golden ! Shoheen sho! etc. And cut three stalks by the door shaft, shaded — Two, fine! stonmed', and one broad-bladed. Shoheen sho! etc. 54 IRISH NOININS. These be our daughters and son, brown curled, Transformed at the door of the fairies' world! Shoheen sho! etc. For oh ! fay child, whom I rock, heart-woesome, For thee, no true love can warm my bosom 1 Shoheen sho! — ulla ! — lo! — Shoheen sho! — thou'rt not my darling'! THE CLAY OF THE CHURCH OF CREGGAN. (From the Irish,*) THE BARD : Near the clay of Creggan's churchyard I lay last night in grief, But with the dawn, a maiden's kiss brought my poor heart relief; Her cheeks glowed like twin roses red, her hair like purest gold — 'Twas the greatest pleasure of my life this princess to behold ! THE fairy: Freo-hearted, friendly mortal, cast all sorrow to the wind: Arise, and Westland come with me, and happiness thou'lt find Far in the I^and' of Promise, where never a stranger trod — Come to its music-palaces and leave this lonely sod ! * For the original, see Nicholas Kearney's Transactions of the Ossianic Society^ Vol. II, 56 IRISH NOININS. THE BARD : 0, princess sweet ! who art thou 1 The joung Helen, bright as sun'? Or from the rare Parnassian Nine art thou a chosen one? What country in the world wide hath reared thee, cloudless star, Who seek^st an humble minstrel bard for a love whisperer ? THE FAIRY: Oh ! ask not, for I live not at this side south of the Boyne, A child from Grenogue's borders, for lovers tenderness I pine: Oft in the bardic houses have I waked the clair- seacNs* tone, At evening in Temorat and at morning in Tyrone. THE bard: I would not spurn thy love, sweeti one, for all the wealth of kings; Yet must I leave all friendship now, and all the joy it brings : The sweetheart whom I flattered with my promises of old — Oh, must I leave her desolate, and never her face behold ? * Clairseach, a small harp used by minstrels, f Temora, Tara. TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GAELIC. 57 THE FAIRY: Methinks thou'rt frieoadless, spite of all thy kindred dear and near; I see thee garmentless andl poor, a despised wanderer ; And better for the© dweU with me, gold-curled and young and whit©, Than ha.ve the Saxons mocking the harsh-rhyming doggrel wight! THE bard: Yea, 'tis my bitter sorrow that the Tyrowen Gaels are dead, And that the chieftains of the Fews are long since banished — The green shoots of Neill Fraisach, the great music- loving band, Who gave me food and raiment when cold winter chilled the land. THE fairy: These tribes at Aughrim have been crushed, and at the bloody Boyne, Brave Miledh's heirs, who learning loved, who sheltered friends of thine : Then better in the liosses^ dwell with me, a fairy bride. There William'st darts and vengeances we laughing can deride! * The fairy forts or raths. f WiUiam III. E 58 IRISH NOININS. THE BARD : 0, princess! sw^et, it is my fate ! My treamire, I will But give thy promise that when I in death shall stretch me low, By Shannon's side, on Manan's Isle, or e'en in -^gypt greats Thoult lay my corse in C!reggan's clay, and I will feel elate : THE DARK MAIDEN OF THE VALLEY.^ (Bean Dubli an Gleaima.) Oh, have yooi m&n, or have you heard, my treasure of bright faces, Some dark glen roiving, while in gloon I pine here day and night 1 Ear from her voice, far from her eyes, my cloud of woe iQcreases — My blessing on that glen and! her, for aye and aye alight, 'Tis many's the time they've put in print, to beauty doing homage, Her figure tall, her eyebrows small, her thin-lipped mouth of truth. Her snowy hands, as fair and fine as silk or wild bird's plumage — My bitter sigh to' think that I am here, a lonely youth ! * The title is somewhat misleading, and really is " The Maiden of the Dark Valley," Tor the original, see Miss Brooke's Reliques, page 319. 60 IRISH NOININS. One little glance, once at her face, a flame lit in my bosom, 0, snowy-breasted, whito-toothedi one, whose ring- lets are of gold, More dear art thou than Deirdre, leaving lovers mourning woesome, Or Blanaid, meshing thousands with her winning eyes of old ! 0, bloom of women! spurn me not for this rich suitor hoary — This boorish, notlsy, somgless man, who comes between us twain; It's I would sweetly sing beneath the harvest moon's gold glory, For thee full many a Fenian lay and bold Milesian strain ! G U G G I E O'G A I G. [A dialogue between an old goose and a gosling, para- phrased from the Gaelic in John O'Daly's Miscellany^ page 111.] I. GOSLING. Say where, Mother Guggie, sha,ll I make my nest % When far from thei warmth of thy comforting breast 1 GOOSE. White wrapped in the bed, Go nestle thy head, 0, tired little bird by not fond one caressed — My poor Guggie O'Gaig a- seeking a nest ! GOSLING. But, mother, the nurse Would come with a curse, A.I1 hoarsely and coarsely in anger expressed 1 — Say where, Mother Guggie, shall I make my nesti 62 IRISH NOININS. n. GOOSE. The cradle go sleep in^ Where no one will peep in, To creep in or leap in, to break on the rest Of mj Guggie O'Gaig, there making her nest! GOSLING. But mother, the baby, The wee Sheela., maybe, Would there deeply sleep and would scream at her guest ! — Say where, Mother Guggie, shall I make a nest? in. GOOSE. Perched proud 'neath the transome Thou'd look mighty handsome Securely, demurely there pluming the crest Of Guggie O'Gaig in her cutei little nest. GOSLING. But, mother, the colleen, The flax-headed Molleen, There tucks in the ducklings when red is the West \ — Say where, Mother Guggie, ^lall I make my nestt TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GAELIC. 63 IV. GOOSE. Perhaps in tlie barn Filled golden with] com, With neat sheaves of wheat newly girdled and pressed My poor Guggie O'Gaig may chance on ai neist. GOSLING. There, mother, the crashing Of Rory when threshing I'd hear, and I^d fear in my nook of unrest : Say where, Mother Guggie, shall I make my nest? V. GOOSE. Go down to the river Where long rushes quiver, There diving and thriving live blithely and blest. My Guggie O'Gaig, in a sedgy-green nest. GOSLING. There, mother, comes gaily A fisherman daily To dangle and angle with patience and zest : Say where, Mother Guggie, shall I make a nest? 64 IRISH NOININS. VI. GOOSE. Fly o& to til© flo© In the peat bogs beloiw, Wliero flossy flake moissy, audi soft as my breast, My Guggie O'Gaig may finxJ for a nest. GOSLING. There, mother, an urchin Stays plaiting and lurching, While minding the kine he would surely molest: Say where, Mother Guggie, shall I make a nest? vn. GOOSE. Then hie to the hill, To the wood dense and still, 'Neath the ooze of the Spruce, where no dangers in- fest. My Guggie O'Gaig, and seek for a nest. GOSLING. Therei, mother, a hunter With shot gun and pointer Goes fowling and prowling on many a quest. Say where^ Mother Guggie, shall I make my nest ? TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GAELIC. 6^ VIIL GOOSE. Maybe, on ihei meadows^ 'Neath sim twinkling' shadows Of bog lint and marsh mint and clover whitentressed, My Guggie O'Gaig may weave her a nest. GOSLING. There, mother, some morning, Without word or warning, A mower will lower the grass at his best. Say where, Mother Guggie, shall I make my nest ? IX. GOOSB. Maybe on the moor. Alone and secure, Unwhirled by the world in a hollow imguessed, My Guggie O'Gaig can build her a nest. GOSLING. There, mother, the plover Around me would hover, Low flying and crying, disturbed and distressed. Say where. Mother Guggie, shall I make my nest ? GOOSE. I know not, poor gosling, where safe thou can'st rest When far from the warmth of thine own mother^s breast ! NELLY OF BALLINTLEA. [From the Gaelic, taken down phonetically by Mr. John McCall, from an old woman named Costello, a native of Mayo, in the year 1840.] For the original, see Dublin Journal of Temperance^ Science^ and Literature, Vol. II., page 374. Of a summer's morning, I once was wandering by the King's highway, Gazing enraptured on the pleasant courtyard of Bal- lintlea. ; When who trippedi gaily, but little Nelly, with eyes of grey, Who blushed to see me, as I gave freely the time of day. Her brow was whiter, of lustre brighter, than of the swan, Or the flakes of snow, which the bleak winds blow- along the lawn; Her flowing tresses, like golden flashes of sunbeams, shone ; And her neck and bosom, like blackb'ry blossom, lit by the dawn ! TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GAELIC. 67 Again, I met hecr— I well remember — at the thronging wake: There, no one knew me, as I roved through them, my place to take. A stool, they gave me, a cuxiousi stranger, for kind- ness' sake. Beside young Nelly — and who could blame me, love thus to makel Deeply she listened, sweetly I whispered, how sore my heart To taste her kisises and twist her ringlets, some nook apart ; Though many wooed her that eve, enduring a bitter dart, I gained her favour — my fair betrayer, thisi mom, thou art! Last Wednesday mooming, at early da,wning, madly I rose — Laved not my templeis, combed not my tresses, donned net my clothes; But rushing wildly, where, bubbling whitely, the river I edged my skeean on the red clucheen, to ease my woes 1 Fierce grew my passion, for desolation swept o^er my mind ; And overwhelmed me with woe and trembling and anger blind ! — 68 IRISH NOININS. To learn that Nelly had wed already— 0, love, un- kind!— My arm I shattered, gashed from its socket, such faith to find I Ah, Nelly, darling! — ^why did you charm me, then crush my love? Oh, could you see me, this lurid evening, and cruel prove ! Soon^ on my coffin, the woodman sawing, will work, above ; And comrades bear me to the gloomy graveyard, by Killeen's grove ! Yet^ were I dying, forsaken, lying stretched on my bed, For se'ndays seven^ or till a twelvemonth had o^er me sped, My Nelly^s kisses, her meny whispers to me^ half dead, Afar would banish my mist of anguish from heart and headl !f: KATHLEEN TYRREL. [The author of the following little song is unknown, but the subject of it lived near TyrrePs Pass. Lough Errilis another name for Lough Ennel. See Hardiman, page 247.] 'Tis my mood to give praise to the good and the true, So 'tis meet I should treat of Kathleen of the Curls ; For right gracious aad pleasant, bright blossom, are you, And your like is not known 'mong the Nortbern girls ! Tis my morning sigh, daily, that I did not stay, Still to stray by the brink of Lough Erril, at dawn. To stroll and behold your soft tresses of gold, In beauty imroUed to each wondering one ! 'Tis my grief that I ever sa-w pen or inkhorn. Or the com clustering knot of your cooiun bawn, tight !— Could our Lord Bishop raise his hand o'er us, in grace, I would take you, far wiays, oi'er the' salt seas to night. 70 IRISH NOININS. You're morei wliit© than the swan, you're more bright than the sun; And more choice is your voice, than all music can boast — Not an inn o«an be found in the town and around, That does not resound with your true lover's toast ! 'Tis a pity, I stay not with Kitty, this day, 'Neath the knoU of the holly — my glass toi her lip — With God' SI help, I wo'uld try to* entice her away, From her mother, with me o^er the mountain to trip ! I have spelled her dear lines held against the drear wind — Oh, no song from the fairies, more sweet could be writ — It has swollen my heart, it has stolen my mind ; And your soul, Kathleen Tyrrel, must answer for it ! Ibumorous anb Cbaractetistic Sftetcbes* TATTHER JACK WELSE (A New Veesion.) Did jcm meet e'er a boy on the road to the fair, With hisi meony blue eyesi and his curly brown hair, With his hands in his pockets, and whistling a jig, To humour the way for himself and his pig? Oh, that was the boy who hasi won my fond heart, Whose eyes have sent throo^h me a dangerous dart ; And cut out my sweetheart of oldl, Darby Kelsh — Oh, my blessing attend you, my Tatther Jack Welsh ! Well, he lives up the lane, by the side of Lug Dhu, And the dickonce a ha'porth in life does he do, But breaking the hearts of the girls all around— Not a. single one, whole and entire, can be found. 72 IRISH NOININS. For he is thei boy that can lilt up a tun© — Troth, you'd think 'twaiS the fairies were singing Da Luan! Oh ! your feet would go jigging in spite of yourself, If you heard the fife played by that musical elf. One fine evening young Darby came up to our house, And, indeed, the poor boy was as mute as a mouse, 'Till my Jacky came in, and says he, " Darby Kelsh, Shure you can't coort at all — ^look at Tatther Jack Welsh!" So up the rogue rushes, and gave me ai pogue^ ; And Darby ran out, like he'd got a poltoguef — "Arrah, what can be ailing," says he, "Darby Kelsh f " Haith you know well enough," says I, " Tatther Jack Welsh !" * P6g, a kiss. t Buailtog^ a slight beating, or crack. OVER THE HILLS TO MARY. (Air — " Nancy Wants her Own Share/') The oiats are down, the praties sown, The meadows fine and green have grown, And now my c6tamore IVe thrown Across my shoulders airy ; Just o'er the low half door I lean And think where I will gO' this e'en — When goes a thought to* my young queen. Over th© hills to Mary ! Refrain : Yes, o'er the hills and o'er the rills, O'er dikes and ditches, drains and drills. But Love the way with flowers fills. Over the hills to Mary. There's a dance at Pedhar Poor's to^-night^ With fun go lebr and music bright, With maidens fair and bouchals light. And our fiddler, Phil O'Leary. 74 IRISH NOININS. To Jem the Gow a paper came, Tliey'll read it by Ins forge's flame- Yet, still 111 rambl© all the same Over the hills to Mary ! Refrain, And Mogue beyond has bought a horse, And asked me over there, of course, To see if I would not endorse His bargain, purchased chary; While Jer and Joe and Shamus Roe Are playing "spoil five" down below — They're cheaters all, so off I'll go Over the hills to Mary ! Refrain. My new wool hat I've brushed quite clean, My bodycoat's a bottle green, My waistcoat of a brighter sheen Than that of Fa.ther Cleary. A botheen* in my fist I'll hold To beat the dogs and ganders bold — There's no evading them, I'm told. Over the hills to Mary ! Refrain. * Botheen, a cudgel ; cotamore^ an overcoat ; go leor in abundanco ; houchals, youths. HUMOROUS AND CHARACTERISTIC SKETCHES. 75 Just up the boreen soft 111 creep, And o'er the haggard stile 111 leap, And through the holly hedge I'll peep Right opposite the dairy; There, 'neath her Roseen, sitting Ionv, Shell milk her favourite Kerry cow — 111 whisper ^'Cushla !" sweet and slow Over the hills to Mary ! Refrain, Then, when the milk-pail in IVe brought, 111 get a kiss — ^when her I've caught — Now, Pat, my boy, 'tis time you ought To win this little fairy ! While by the fire her mother knits, Just see if something shiny fits — I'm off, nor longer rack my wits, Over the hills to Mary ! Refrain : Yes, o'er the hills and o'er the rills. O'er dikes and ditches, drains, and drills, But Love the way with flowers fills. Over the hills to Mary! THRESHING THE BAELEY. (Air—" The Cuckoo's Nest/^ [Scene : — ^The barn of a Wexford farmhouse. Pat and Mat Murphy, two brothers, are engaged threshing ; seated on a bench of sheaves at the end of the barn are three companions, who have been overtaken by a shower of rain, and have come hither for shelter.] Pat, solus : — Oh, thei haggard stand weVe emptied, and the sheaves we've carried in, And the comer of the bam to the thatch is piled within, As young Mat and I, right opposite, our flails lift in the air; For there's money due, and prices, too, are holdin' purty fair. Chorus (hy all) : — With a crack from Pat, a smack from Mat, The grains like birdlings fly! With a whack from Pat, a thwack from Mat, The hoUeens quickly ply ! Oh, a pound a bar'l they're sure to get in Wexford, bye-an'-bye ; For there's ne'er a man in Bargy better barley can supply ! HUMOROUS AND CHARACTERISTIC SKETCHES. 77 Mat, solus : — Sure, last year, the rainy weather put our noses out o' joint; For the wind kept, every mornin^ blowin' from the rainy point; And the hay wag bad— the corn, bedad, was nothiu* else but straw — We'll make up for that, or know for what, when this to town we draw! Chorus : — "^Yith a crack from Pat, etc. Pat: — Thank God, the sun so constant shone all through the harvest days, And, the pratie-diggin' keepin' dry, we picked them at our aise. Now the big goold champions split their sides with laughin' in the pot, So come, welt away till noon, and we will have them, smokin' hot ! Chorus : — - With a crack from Pat, etc. Mat : — Quid Sharpes, the agent, liked our beans, and bought them for the horse; He settled for them on the nail— that paid the rent, of course ! 78 IRISH NOmiNS. Egonneys, as he gave the change — some fifty shillings o'er — " Tis ye that keep that same place cheap !'^ says ho so sour and sore! Chorus : — With a crack from Pat, etc. Pat: — Ah, we wouldn't care a thraneen, only mother died last Shroft, For she loved her two big gorsoons with affection kind and soft; And she said when dyin' : — ^''Mat an' Pat, let no thin' ever part Ye two, an' God be with yon, with the blessin' o' me heart !'' Chorus : — With a crack from Pat, etc. Mat : — And, we'll do her biddin', Pat and I, though Pat has tuk, of late, To coortin' Molly Slevin — at such work he can't be bate; And, as she lives but there beyant, and she's to get the place. When Mogue, the father, cocks his toess — ^why, Pat, don't hide your face ! Chorus : — With a. crack from Pat, etc. humorous and characteristic sketches. 79 Pat: — Haith, true for you, you're guilty, too! well, sm^e', there's no harm done If Kitty Larkin takes a likin' to your father^ s son ? Though I must admit that you could get a nicer girl than she — Well, we'll lave it so ! — don't angry grow, if now we can't agree ! Chorus : — With a crack from Pat, etc. Mat: — But, whisht! there's someone comin' — with the noise I couldn't hear; Och, 'tis Nelly, and she's sayin' how the dinner time is near; So, hang up your flail, and I'll goi bail we'll relish and enjoy A bit o' bacon, rowled in greens, and praties — ^Pat, me boy! Chorus (hy all leaving) : — With a, crack from Pat, a smack from Mat, The grains like birdlings fly ! With ai whack from Pat, a thwack from Mat, The bolteens quickly ply ! Oh, a pound a bar'l they're sure to get in Wexford bye^an'-bye ; For therei's ne'er a man in Bargy better barley can supply ! AN IRISH BOUCHALEEN* (Air — "Blackberry Blossoms.") Oh, the jewel of my bosom is my Irish bouchaleen I He can dig a spit, or thresh a bit — no better shure is seen; Aye, or dance a jig, or drive a pig, or make love to a queen — Oh, the darling of the world is he — my Irish bouchaleen ! Oh, to see him in the Springtime with his horses well in hand, As he guides the cleaving ploughshare through the oaten stubble land. While his furrows as the ruling in our copies are as straight. And he lilts his song, " The Colleen Donn/' till all is made "complate." * Bouchaleen, a farmer's boy. HUMOROUS AND CHARACTERISTIC SKETCHES. 81 Then with the harrow up and down, the prashagh* weeds are rooted out, The seed is nicely scattered in the finely-powdered clay; Then, when the roller runs o'er all, and every place is smoothed out, He goes to Jem the Smith's to hear what all the papers say. Chorus : — Oh, the jewel of my bosom is my Irish bouchaleen ! He can dig a spit, or thresh a bit — no better shure is seen; Aye, or dance a jig, or drive a pig, or make love tO' a queen ; Oh, the darling of the world is he — my Irish bouchaleen ! Then to see him in the Summer, how his pitchfork he can wield. As he tosses up the new-mown hay, with Nelly, in the field; Or upon the rick perched cosy he puts on the wheaten thatch ; Or with gun in hand, the preecauns\ from the oats he has to watch. * Prashagh, brassy-coloured flowers (ragweed, etc.). t P7'eecauns, CT0W8, 82 IRISH NOININS. Aye, or mending, down the horeen, the old gate, to keep the hedfer out; Or cutting faggots on the ditch, or by the river's brim ; Or down, the bogs, armaking tm-f, to last thei Wint'ry weather out — Oh, none on earth, for work or mirth, can yet com- pare with him ! Chorus : — Oh, the jewel of my bosom, &c. Oh, to seei him in the Autumn, in the yellow harvest time, JM to siee him in his element, his glory, and his prime. With his honest face above the com, he works the gleaming scythe, While his laugh and smile around beguile the binders far and wide. Oh, he keeps them all perspiring as he cuts so fast the nodding corn, Till Nelly cries: "Why, Pat, agra, you're workin' like a horse !'' And he replies with ringing laugh, nor stops the motion in his scorn — " What matter, Nelly ban astor — I'll never be the worse !" Chorus : — Oh, the jewel of my bosom, &c. HUMOROUS AND CHARACTERISTIC SKETCHES. 83 But toi see him in the Winter is to see the house's pride, When he has the "praties" pitted and the haggard full outside, Then the days are spent in threshing, and the even- ings all in fun — Oh, 'tis then his lorving parents know the value of their son! Shure at Brian Darcy's wedding, it was he that acted " best man" there. At Kitty Cormack's ohrist'ning, too, he stood for little Sha^un, There, when we'd danced "The Kerry Jig," and seated by me on the chair, With arm around me, whispered he: — ^" AcusKla, give me one ? " Chorus : — ^Oh, the jewel of my bosom, &c. OLD PEDHAR CARTHY FROM CLONMORE. If you searched the county o' Carlow, ay, and back again, Wicklow too', and Wexford, for that matter you might try, Never the equal of Old Pedhar would you crack again' — Never such another would delight your Irish eye ! Mirth, mime, and mystery, all were clo'se combined in him, Divelment and drollery right to the very core, As many tricks and turns as a two^-y ear-old you'd find in him. In Old Pedhar Carthy from Clonmore ! Old Pedhar, Old Pedhar, Old Pedhar Carthy, Old Pedhar Carthy from Clonmore ! Shure whene'er the houchals used to have a game o' "Forty-five," Pedhar was the master who could teach them how to play; HUMOROUS AND CHARACTERISTIC SKETCHES. 85 Bring a half-crown, though you lost it, yet, as I'm alive You'd be a famous player to your distant dying day. Scornful grew his look if they chanced to hang yoiu- king or queen; Better for your peace o' mind you never crossed hisi door: ''You to play cards!" would he mutter in sarcasm keen — Old Pedhar Carthy from Clonmore ! Old Pedhar, Old Pedhar, Old Pedhar Carthy, Old Pedhar Carthy from Clonmore ! Politics he knew better than the men in Parliament, And the wars in Europe for the past half century ; If you were to hear him with Cornelius Keogh in argument. Arranging every matter that was wrong in history ! Ah ! but if the talking ever travelled back to "Ninety- eight," Then our Pedhar^s diatribes grew vehement and sore — Kebel in his heart, how he hated to' have long to wait — Old Pedhar Carthy from Clonmore ! Old Pedhar, Old Pedhar, Old Pedhar Carthy, Old Pedhar Carthy from Gonmore ! -86 IRISH NOININS. The mischief for tricks, he was never dooie inventing them ; Once he yoked Dan Donohoe's best milker to the plough — At the Fair of Hacket&town there was no circum- venting him. He'd clear a crowd of salachs* and you never could tell how ! The Ryans and the Briens and their factions were afraid of him ; For Pedhar's fighting kippeen could command a ready score — Woe to the boys that spoke cruked, undismayed of him, Of Old Pedhar Carthy from Clonmorei ! Old Pedhar, Old Pedhar, Old Pedhar Carthy, Old Pedhar Carthy from Clonmore! But the times grew bad, and the people talked so weill and wise, Fighting left poor Ireland, and mad mischief had itsi head ; Pedhar, left alone, began to muse, and to soliloquise, Until the dear old fellow couldn't bear to leave the bed; But when dead and buried all the neighbours felt his bitter \om — The place in Pedhar's absence such a look of sorrow wore, * Untidy people, tinkers, etc. HUMOROUS AND CHARACTERISTIC SKETCHES. 8?? They sighed and cried in turn from great Eagle Hill to Cameross, For Old Pedhar Carthy from Clonmore ! Old Pedhar, Old Pedhar, Old Pedhar Carthy, Old Pedhar Carthy from Clonmore! Old Pedhar, Old Pedhar, Old Pedhar Caithy, Old Pedhar Carthy from Clonmore! THE MUMMERS OF BARGY. Air — "Droghedy's March'' (The Dniid's Dance). Down at the big manor-house of Kilquaun Assemble the girls and the boys all of Bargy— Wondr'ous this night in the barn and the baiwn To hear Billeen Ce61^ with his pipes sweetly "arguy'M Aiden Roche, the Mummer leader, Came with a boy o' the Neils from Sleedhair : Dick Shones Phoorf is George the Valiant, Charley Hayes, St. Patrick gallant — Oh, such a crowd of the girls is collected, 'Twill be a surprise if there's no one neglected ! They line all the walls like a- headland of lilies, Or rosies, or posies, or daffy-down-dillies ! The centre is clear, and the candles alight, When lo, from the haggard therei comes! a loud knocking ; * Little Billy of the Music. f Dick, the son of John Power. HUMOROUS AND CHARACTERISTIC SKETCHES. 89 Soon quickly troop in twelve Mummers in white, With, f eatheors high flying, like wild geese a-flo€king. Round they go, two circles forming, Billeen the " Soldier's Joy,'' performing. - Heels keep cracking, clubs arcrashing, Arms a-swinging, eyes a-flashing. In and out, round about, back to their places. Fencing an.d foiling, the crowd interlaces; Now all uncoil ancf in single file canter, Yet striking and timing to Billeen's old chanter. The war dance of " Droghedy's March " fast they play ; Then the quick, single jig, "Nance Wants Her Answer," "The Geese in the Bog," and the grand " First o' May," "The Flowers," and a Reel, for their favourite dancer ; Then the Mummer's play commences, When St. (ileorge so bold advances, Tells of "draggins, elves, and jyants" He has killed, and hurls defiance; Till our Saint Patrick, with green on his bonnet, Appears on the scene, when his glove is thrown on it. Ob ! the saints fight, spite of their holy station. And Patrick upholds the fair fame of his nation. In comes a dochtor, " so pure and so good," To heal the deep wounds of the saintly contender^ 90 IRISH NOININS. Tw^enty gold guineas he wants to' stop blood, Saint Pat is charoosed ^' with the quacky pretender. Cromwell stalks, with nose of scarlet, He calls Caesar great a varlet; Dan O'Connell greets Napoleon — E'eni a poocha here has stolen. Everyone, a.s he comes, " spachifies '^ neatly. And shows off his skill and his prowess completely; But they all make it up, just as it ought to' be. And, joining their hands in a ring, they dance "Droghedy." But as this night is the last of such fun — Twelfth Day is nigh, and the days getting light- some — So the grand rinka of all is begun, And for it the cailins dress beauteous and bright- some. Aiden Roche takes Alley Kelly, m Dick Shones Phoor, Johanna Skelly, ^ Charley, Anty, Mogue, yoimg Sheela, Thus they mingle, three-na-cheela.\ Heel and toe, off they go, tripping and skipping, Till daylight right over their shoulders is peeping. The girls all make home at the top o' the morning, . But talk for a year of it, milking or churning ! * Charoosed^ perplexed. t Up and down. THE LITTLE HEATHY HILL. (An Cnoicin Fraodc.) An Irish Girl's Story. Oh, my Cauthaleen, just listen ! try and stay a weenie while, Till yooi hear the heap of trouble that's upon me : Sure, you know young Brian Kinsella, beyond the hills in Kyle, Cauthaleen ! I fear that roguish lad has won me ! ^ou were with me that fine day on the little heathy hill, We went frauqhiTi*' picking thro' the furze and heather, When I nearly fell across him, he was lying there so still ; And we roamed the Summer evening together. You remember that sanae night, too, happened Mary Carthy's spree, 'Fore she went to leam dress-making off to- Dublin ; * Fraughin, the Bilberrr. 92 IRISH NOININS. And, in spite of all my frowning, tho whole time he kept by me — Sure, 'tis often since that thought myself was troublin' ! How, old Simon Carroll cried, as we both danced "The Spanladore " : "Arrah, boys and girls! come now and see some ,^ dancing !'' :|i And our Matty and yooir brother Paudh down for us "*' hauled a door, Just to place beneath our feet so quickly glancing! Oh ! I grew ashamed to witness all the parish 'most around, That I nearly fainted at the dreadful nction ; But my Brian caught me tenderly before I touched the ground, And they said it was the heat and the commotion : Then that plague of my whole lifetime, Cauthleen, Corny o' the Mill, With his eyes sharp as the foxes^ crept anigh me! — Sure I thought of Brian deelisli on the little heathy hill, And I vowed the hodach miller ne'er would buy Well, unkno'wn to even you dear, Brian met me many an eve In the knockeen 'yond the rath of Coolnamanagh, HUMOROUS AND CHARACTERISTIC SKETCHES. 93 And last Sunday h© bescught me soon for him my home to leave, But I said to tell my parents, Cauth alanna ! Then he said he heard my father long had threatened to' him ill If he dared to look at me, his promised daughter — Oh ! I spent a mournful evening 'neath the little heathy hill : My own tears would nearly fill the Deereen water ! Then my father's face this morning than the turf more darkly grew, While my mother like the "goundril bawn"^ abused me' — She could never make out quite, dear, what her girl was coining tome on — The maidens laughed to see the fun, till she sur- rendered fairly : Hands enclasped in rosy pride, tripping neatly, side by side, They turned and bowed' most dignified to all the folk of Marley ! Poorly pen of sage or scribe could such scenes of joy describe, Or due praises fair ascribe, where all were nearly equal ! The love-making IVe forgot in each cozy saustagh'^'' spot — Yet now I think I'd better not go tell, but wait the sequel. * Saustagh, comfortable. 102 IRISH NOININS. Everything must have an end, and the girshas* home*- wards wend, With guarding brother and a friend^ — this last was aibsent rarely! Late the Murphys by the hearth talked about their evening's niirth — Ne'er a dance upon the earth could match their own at Marley ! * Girshas, girls. /iDfscellaneous Songs* / EVAL FROM THE FAYLANDS. (A Fairy Legend.) From the western Faylands, Eval, o'er the billow Drove her swan, Finala, till her mystic willow Touched the breathing vessel, when the sands lay bare, Changing tre sea skimmer, to a prancing mare. Sooight, the blushing Eval, one to share her pillow, Kiss her curved forehead, twine her flowing hair. By thy star-pierced hillock, Loran Rhu, sniow wreathed, Pined the minstrel Cahal, with no harp that breathed : Bardic wrath and anger, thundering, he hurled — Fiery aoirs and satires on a songless world; Curse and malediction, through hisi grey lips, seethed, On the harpless banner, o>^er the land unfurled. 104 IRISH NOININS. Stark and rigid, by him, stretched the wingg, broad- shouldered. Of a gaiunt blue bittern on a border, bomldered : Mute, its beak, wide gaping, told of dearth and drought, Of the ice-barred rivers, and their prisoned trout, Of a wan, wide prospect, where' a lone heart mouldered, Till its frozen spirit scarcei could issue out ! Eval from the Faylands, rode with ra^diant figure. Like a star, fanned brightest by the North wind^s vigour. Swiftly o'er the snow flakes glittering, she sped Noiseless as a halcyon o'er a river bed ; Till she reached the outcast, spent with cold and rigour, On the white snow resting his wild, throbbing head. "Rise, poor harpless minstrel — soft, but chill thy pillow ! — Snow V she gently questioned ; as amid the billow, 'Bove her palfrey's bridle, fair, her fingers peeped, Like a range of sea gulls, in the briny steeped^ ; Then, she touched his eyelids with her mystic willow. And their fettered glances, loosened, to her leaped ! r, MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 105 I "Lo, the star of evening," sighed the minstrel, see- ing: " From its blue cirque swerving, slips into my being 1 Tell me, what, O Princess ! seekest thou of me — O'er the world's rim, travelling, I would roam fot the^f' " Come," said Western Eval — " come and leave thy dreeing — Minstrel of my bosom ! o'er the drumming sea T^ Over hill and valley, fleet their palfrey pranced ; Over wave and billow swift their cygnet glanced ; Till they reached a palace, set in sunny zone, Shut with bronzen portal, domed with diamond stone; Wonderstruck, the minstrel gazed with eyes en- tranced, On its pleasures opening to her queenly tone ! Thronged the happy harpers of her Isle of Pleasure, That eve to their presence, trolling many a measure ; Varied, with each minstrel, as his haunt and race : One, from the smooth liosses, sang of feasts and plays; One, from ocean caverns, of immortal leisure; One, from hunting bothy, of the headlong chase 1 106 IRISH NOININS. Sang, till C'ahal wistful grew their lays to- share in ; As his memory wandered to' the plains of Erinn. Brought, each chaunt of himting, chief and deer and hound; Brought, each festive chorus, wine and music's sound; Brought, each caveim echo, many a chieftain's cairn — Many a bardic mansion, le(velled to- the groimd ! Til] the fairy music from his heart went, grieving ; For its welcomer tarried, other guests receiving : Erinn's many harpeorsi — winds and waters — made Merry in his mem'ry, — ^heard alone, they played, Till like threadless shuttle, ceased the clairseach's wea.ving. Then, young Eval, guessing his heart longing, said : " Take my harp, dear C'ahal, sing a lay of courting, A true lover^s legend, meet for us, disporting : Over sea in Erinn, ye have one, that yet Lingers with its harpers, though their sun hath set — Oisin and his Niav, centuries consorting — Parted then*/' she gazing, saw his eyes were wet! MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 107 As he tuned her olairseiach, listened her fair legions ; But no lay of Erinn filled the fairy regionsi — 'Twas a lover's lyrio, praising her sweet grace, Whoi had wiled the minstrel to this pleasant place ; But he ceased his rapture, for his voice obedience Paid her hand, eclipsing half her blushing face. ^' Non^i but harp of Erinn,'' sighed the bard, " can borrow Strains to match that legend, tuned to- earthly sorrow ! — I will take thy cygnet, journey to my land, Smite the yew and willow ; then, with crafty hand, I will shape a harp frame, string with gold chords thorough ; Then, returning hither, love, thou cansi't com- mand!" As upon the cygnet, Cahal stood, young Eval, Her long willow gave him, saying: "Ocean devil Cannot hurt nor harm thee, while thy pinioned sail Screens from clutching danger, tooth, and claw, and tail ; But, apast the billows, fear earth foes, uncivil, Swan for palfrey changing ride o^er hill and dale.'' 108 IRISH NOININS. " Fare-thee-well, sweet Eval !'' — ^^ Fare^thee^well, de rover ! "Now Finala, safely bring me back my lover T^ And the cygnet hearing, bent a pliant bow, Gliding o'er the ocean, till, a speck of snow Hung upon the sea line; then it toppled over, Like a flower, a moment above a water flow 1 Came the eastering minstrel o'er the seas, blue braided, From the Faylands speeding, till its glory fadied; Then he heard the green waves laughing, soft and bland, At the white spray gambols o'er the level sand — Thence, he ploughed a passage, arrowy and bladed. Touching port and refuge on a silver strand ! Lo, a.s on his vision, burst the hills of Eri — Peak and passage mantled, snowy-bright and glary, Thoughts tumultuous crowding, thronged his eager brain. Full of restless longing for the promised strain, When his native clairseach, strung for his dear fairy, He would wake to music once and sweet again ! MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 109 Wand in hand, he bounded from the sea's snroingle, Fast across the sand bars, faster o'er the shingle, Hearing not Finala snorting by the tide — Heeding not her white wings flapping wild and wide: Till, dark interpacing many a distant dingle. Sought he for the willow and the yew, allied. Waited, vain, the cygnet by the sea's dominions. Shuffling the wet night mist from her darkened, pinions, Till the dawn wind ushered morning, overland. Whose gold eye surpiercing wooded hill and strand, .'Found a harper, murdered by the King'si harsh minions. Clasping a white willow in his frigid hand ! HALLOW E'E N. Let us hasteoi, little st6ireen;l Listen, darling; Shep is snarling, Seeing down the rngged b6reen Slua-She©"^ sweeping through the air, O'er the bogland's matted rushes, 'Yond the mountain's prickly bushesi, To the moonshine— fairy sunshine — Of the liosses, grey and bare ! Whitely, o'er the haunted hill-path, See the curling dust goes whirling — To the dewy-mantled cill-rath Haste the Shee this Hallotwe'en— Should they meet thee, they would take thee^ And their lowly menial make thee — Slippers mending, work unending, For the little man in green! The Fairy Host, MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Ill Once, I knew a tiny fellow, Darksome straying, out a-playing, He, amid tlie traneens yellow. Lay a tired, benighted youth.; Tlien a bubble-eyed arch-luclire. Tipped with, steely spots and ochre. Sudden, rising, leaped surprising, Clean adown his wondering mouth ! Now, the Luricaun roams, bedless — He's a fairy, sly and wary ! And the Dulicaun comes headless, Seeking for some other one. His long arms are ever sweeping, Till they touch some stranger, sleeping, Who awakes, and moaning makes — For his head, for ever gone! Fear, astor, the fire fringed Shee-rings, Never venture them to enter; Ended, else thy field joumeyings — Withered, shrunken grown, and wan; While the fairy poochas, grazing, At their stunted cowherd gazing, Would keep saying — "Ceased thy straying. Now, my little whey-faced man !" 112 IRISH NOININS. Now, at last, thou growast fearful, Of, mj deiarie, things so eerie ; But, my darling, be not teiarful — Cross thyself, and they are gone; For the SluarShee cannot charm thee, JS"or their magic hurt or harm the© : Two things bo, which fairies flee — Evening prayer and morning sun ! MY BEAUTIFUL MARY 0! (Air m Joyce's Irish Music and Song, p. 17.) The drifted snow clings to tlie brow of the mountain, to-night, And purely it glistens in peace, 'neath the moon's silvery light; But whiter and brighter than sheen of the moon on the snow Is the brow of my darling — my beautiful Mary ! Oh, leave the way, lovers ! — io all is her heart tightly locked ; There, once, faint and trembling, a. suitor, I wistfully knocked ; But, sweet was my welcomei — such welcome but few lovers know, That sprang from the lips of my beautiful Mary J Ah, she is the gentlest of maidens, that ever gave love, As piu-e as the angels, that rustle with white wiogs above — 114 IRISH NOININS. A lofve, that makes for me, a heavein of earth bere below, Lit by the bright eyes of my beautiful Mary ! I hear her clear laugh, when a. pebble I drop in the well ; I hear her low voice, in the murmur of sea-parted shell ; I hear her love sigh, in the plaint of the breezes that blow. Returning with mine, toi my beautiful Mary ! Tlie lake is not burthened, though holding a swan or its breast ; The hill feels not hea.vy, the snow shining white on its crest; And sio her rare beauty, that sets all my breast in a glow, Lies light on the heart of my beautiful Mary ! Oh, nine times a day, goes my heart o'er the moun- tains to her, By love, swiftly pinioned, a tireless and true messenger, Till in the near future, the same southward path I will go, Toi claim my heart's darling — my beautiful Mary ! THE BONNIE BROWN-HAIRED GIRL WHOM I LOVE. (Air—" The Fair HiUs of Ireland/' ( Uileacan Dubh Of) Ah ! God be with the momiiigs, when my love and I went Maying, Through the silent, heathery Glen of Imayle; When the dawn o'er Lugnaquila, like a fairy host arraying, Chased the flying elves of night, down the vale! Still, the fairies peep and play, on this twinkling May Day- Still the elfin bands sink vamshing, before the bright array ; But, alas ! my sweet maiden is far, far away — The bomiie brown-haired girl, whom I love ! A hundred thousand welcomes, love, you. gave me, slowly going, Through the silent, heathery Glen of Imayle : How I cherished them and treasured them, till, surer, poorer growing, I wandered to^ the town from the vale. . 116 IRISH NOININS. Could you know, my f ondi one ! my long nights of pain — Could you feel, my dear one ! my heart's constant strain. There, toiling and moiling, bright riches to gain, For the bonnie brown-haired girl, whom I love ! Alas, my lo-ve, one Patrick's moim, sailed' swift acro'ss the billow, From the silent, heathery Glen of Imayle; And I am all alone, each night, with sorrow for my pillow, Far away from my own native vale ! Love of loves — 0, my love! could you hear my sad moan, You would never, never leave me in Ireland, alone, To sigh and to cry, mom and evening — ochon! — For the bonnie brown-haired girl, whom I love ! 'Tis true, your lover, my brown girl ! — was poor in earthly treasure, In the silent^ heathery Glen of Imayle ! 'Tis true, your lover, my brown girl ! — ^with mingled pain and pleasure, To win you riches^ went from the vale. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Il7 But, mo^-nuar ! mot-nuar ! when the bright wealth had eoime, Them, mot-nuar I mo^nuar ! you had! left yo-ur moun- tain home — Ah, my heart., this sad morning, flies over the foam, To the bonnie, brown-haired girl, whom I love ! Oh, rare you are, and fair you are, as ever ring of morning, 'Bove the silent, heathery Glen of Imayle; And mild you are, and kind you are, God's choicest gifts adorning The pride of our own native vale: And I go now to seek you, for a year and a day, Till I find you and bind you close to my side, alway, To enfold and to hold, till I'm stretched in the clay, The bonnie brown-haired) girl, whom I love! THE HOUSE IN THE CORNER. (Air in R. M. Leivys Collection., page 15.) It stood likei a hive at the bend of the lane, Where trumans and quickens formed guardians around; It laughed at the sun, and it smiled at the rain; And it winked at the tempest that fretted and frowned. Oh! my bright little cabin, my white little cabin, So blithesome and cheery, so' lightsome and airy ! "When Death some fine day will come, haunting me troublesome, The house in the comer I'll first have to see ! Oh ! thither came Robin when evening drew* nigh, Enthroned on his branch, how his red bosom heaved, With a full flutteringi throat, and delirious eye, He sang for us all, whether blest or bereaved. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 119 In the bright little cabin, the white little cabin, So» blithesome and cheery, so lightsomei and airy ! When Death some fine day will come, haunting me tronblesome, The hooiso in the comer' 111 firstfc havei to' see ! But sweeter, I trow, out from window and door, And softer the song that all tremulous swelled, When Mairy^s fresh voice like a harp clear would poiu', That Robin grew mute, for his strain waS' erscelled, In the bright little cabin, the white little cabin, So blithesome and cheery, so lightsome and airy ! When Death some fine day will come, haunting me troublesome. The house in the corner I'll first have to' see ! Ah! Mary astor, of these evenings I think. When you and red Robineen emulous strove ; But now at the thought doth my heart sadly sink, For Robin is mated, and I'm from my love, And the bright little cabin, the white little cabin. So blithesome and cheery, so lightsome and airy, When Death some fine day will come, haunting me troublesome, The house in the corner 111 first have to see ! CREEYEEN CNO.^ (An Irisih Cradle Song.) I will sing a queer song for my Creeveen Cno, That I heard from a f airyman long agO' ; Beneath a red rowan he hammered away And lilted a song all the siummer day — ho ! dear, shall we go ho! all in a row, To see a strange palace, as fair as a chalice, With a cradle of gold for my Creeveen Cno 1 He sang : " IVe a mansion, as romid as the sun, In the mo'Ssy ra^th, hidden from everyone; 'Tis guarded by thrushes, brown speckled and bright, That sing in tbeir sleep in the hush of the night 1" — ho! dear, shall we go — ho! all in a row. To see the bold thrushes stand guard on the bushes And fifing up music for Creeveen Cno? * Little branch or cluster of nuts — a pet name for a child. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 121 " My sister^s a nightingale out in the wood ; My brother^ s a driimmer for Conn tho Good ; My fatlieor's a gemtleman, snug in his chair; My mother's a dealer in china ware !" — hoi dear, shall we go — ho! all in a row? His father and mother, his sister and broither Have millions of kisseis for Creeveen Cno ! " IVe a dandy grey mare and a pussy cat brown, And a mouse brings me oatenmeal out of the town. A little white rabbit sleeps high on my knee, And a robin picks all the bright berries for me !" — ho! dear, ahall we go — ho! all in a row, A dish of strawberries, raspberries, and cherries, Bed Robin has ready for Cteeveen Cno! " There is bread in the cupboard, and cheese on the shelf ; And if you want more you can get it yourself — A bit for old Peter, a bit for yoxmg Paul, And a bit for the beggar outside the wall !'^ — ho! dear, shall we gO' — ho ! all in a row ? This sweet bread and butter will make a nice supper For good little children like Creeveen Cno I 122 IRISH NOININS. "My butler's a gander, grey-feathered and fat, Who wears a blue jacket and three-cocked hat; Hia wife ofteux peeks him — ^h© gravely will prance When to please the yomig goslins, she bids him to dance !" — ho ! dear, shall we go — ho ! all in a row 1 This foolish old gander will to the moor wander To jig for my good little Creeveen Cno ! " IVe a. black-coated coachman, a dog called Ruff, And I sent him to town for a pinch of snuff, He broke my bos and he spilled my snuff !" — Then the man said hia story was long enough ! O ho! dear, shall we go — ho ! all in a row ? Be sfure, when Tm buriedi and you, love, are married, In heaven 1^11 watch o'er my Creeveen Cno ! THE BONNIE CUCKOO. (Air in Bunting.) When riding from Tofwni, on tlie First o' May, A-down, by the river, I lost my pm-se ! Asthrue! Asthrtie! 0, cooing cuckoo, So bright and so blue ! — it was full, of course : So true, 'tis true, my bonnie cuckoo! — My fortune, that evening, could not be worse. So, going, arseeking that First o' May, A-down by the river, 'mid heath and furze — Arue ! arue ! 0, cooing cuckoo ! So bright and so blue ! — sure, I got my purse ! Tis true for you, my bonnie cuckoo! — I gave the fair finder a kiss, of coursei I Now, coming from Town, on this last o* May, Along by the river, I ride my horse — Achue ! achue 1 0, cooing cuckoo- 1 So bright andi so blue ! — now my loss is worse !- 'Tis true, toot true, my bonnie cuckoo! — My heart I must find where I found my purse I THE BLACKBIRD AND THE THRUSH. (Air in Davidson'si Irish Melodies, page 57.) Why, why, why, glossy blackbird, Sdt ye, silent^ high above the leaves, While the sun is dawning on The ploiighlands of the eastern waves? I am sHeint, yellow speckled thrush. For I see the red lark in the sky Sowing grains of happy strains For my reaping — ^that's the why— why ! why ! Why, why, O why, glossy blackbird, Sit ye, singing, hid among the leaves, While the sim is setting on The cornfields of the Western waves? I am singing, yellow-speckled thrush, For the seeds the red lark sowed on high. Seven fold, with bill of gold, I am reaping — ^that's the why, why ! why ! NO, NO, NOT I. 'Neath, lofty Moomt Leinster my true lover dwelt, And one dewy evening beside me he knelt ; He asked me to wed: him, but cold my reply, As lightly I answered him — ^No, no — ^not I ! My dear, noi, no — not 1 1 Like a sea mist, enshrouding the stars in the skies, A haze dimmed the lovelight that shone in his eyes; As blinded with grief, forth he went with a sigh — His lonesome heart echoing^— No, no — not I ! My dear, no, no — not I ! My own little sister beheld his strange look, In the wood, hardly knowing what pathway he took — sister, dear sister, how did you reply? And lightly I answered her — Nd, no — not I ! My dear, no, no — not I ! My brother frowned darkly, my father looked grave ; And my mother no moments of peace to me gave — Is it true that the lover, who for yooi would die, You spumed with the cruel words — No, no — not I ! My dear, no, no — not I ! 126 IRISH NOINTNS. But vaan waa their chiding, till Sunday came oai. When, going the Mass^path, I heard he had gone ; He had saaled o^er the salt seas, nor left a good-bye. To the false maid who answered him — ^No, no, — ^not I ! My dear, no, no — not I ! The news like white lightning my heart split in^ two, For I loved him ! — I loved him ! oh, what would I dio ]' No Mass could I hear, but I crept home to lie, On a fever bed, moaning my — No, no — not I ! My dear, no, no — ^not I ! I sigh, when I go the Mass-path, where we walked ; I cry when I sit 'neath the oak, where we talked; 'Twould be blest relief, if I only could die. To still the sad echo of — No, no — ^not I ! My dear, nos no — not I ! I will take a small bag, and a-begging I'll go. O'er hedges and ditches, all covered! with snow; And when I am weary I'll sit down] and cry. And rue the first day I said — No, no — ^not I ! My dear, no, no — not I ! * * This stanza belongs to an old country song, and is the onlv verse I could discover which survives. SYMPATHY. Wherefore, Bard ! 'mid the rush and roar Of the world's struggle, so fierce and vain, Where ears are dulled, and where hearts no more Delight in aught but in greed and gain, Should' &t thou, the songs of thy heart outpour, In such blitheful vein? Mounteth a form from the meadow's hearl) — A wee brown bird that sings up the skies. Waking a student with dreamy start; Yet smileth his face, grown white and wise ; This song that soothes with such magic art I SI a glad surprise ! Risieth a bud in a city room, Casting the green hood from 'ro'und its head ; Yet never a one may praise its bloom. Save the dying girl on her weary bed ; But her great joy that it has come. Ere she lay dead ! r 128 IRISH NOININS. Droppettli somei gold cm the wastei of snow — A sunbeam that creeps up the loveir's path ; Yet not one blossom it sees, and so It climbs to a ruby throne that hath Begun on a robin's bo'som to blow — A rose-aftermath! Lispeth a lip some endearing word; It is noon of night and the small one dreams Of a new, strangei world of bud and bird, And of golden sand in the whisp'ring streams^ By all save the mother's ear unheard. Ah ! she sleepless seems ! So, thou oan'st find from the rush and roar Of the himian conflict, raging 'round. Some lonely spot where a heart is soren- Where grief or care hath a foothold found ! Be it so; sing, good minstrel, evecr' more, Till thoru'rt glory-crowned! ^ UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW WW 29 1915 JUN 3 1941 30wi-l,'15 U. C. BERKELEY LIBRARIES CDSEbS^EbE 2841368 UNIVERSITY OF CAI^IFORNIA LIBRARY m