Chapter IV: Part 4

Over the dim blue hills
Strays a wild river,
Over the dim blue hills
Rests my heart ever.
Dearer and brighter than
Jewels or pearl,
Dwells she in beauty there,
=Maire=, my girl.

Gracie Og Machree.[13]

(Song of the “Wild Geese.”)

[Sidenote: JOHN K. CASEY]

I placed the silver in her palm,
By Inny’s smiling tide,
And vowed, ere summer time came on,
To claim her as a bride.
But when the summer time came on
I dwelt beyond the sea;
Yet still my heart is ever true
To =Gracie Og Machree=.

O bonnie are the woods of Targ,
And green thy hills, Rathmore,
And soft the sunlight ever falls
On Darre’s sloping shore;
And there the eyes I love--in tears
Shine ever mournfully,
While I am far, and far away
From =Gracie Og Machree=.

When battle-steeds were neighing loud,
With bright blades in the air,
Next to my inmost heart I wore
A bright tress of her hair.
When stirrup-cups were lifted up
To lips, with soldier glee,
One toast I always fondly pledged,
’Twas =Gracie Og Machree=.

Dirge.

(From “The Sea Bride.”)

[Sidenote: GEORGE DARLEY]

Prayer unsaid, and mass unsung,
Deadman’s dirge must still be rung:
Dingle-dong, the dead-bells sound!
Mermen chant his dirge around!

Wash him bloodless, smooth him fair,
Stretch his limbs, and sleek his hair:
Dingle-dong, the dead-bells go!
Mermen swing them to and fro!

In the wormless sand shall he
Feast for no foul glutton be:
Dingle-dong, the dead-bells chime!
Mermen keep the tone and time!

We must with a tombstone brave
Shut the shark out from his grave:
Dingle-dong, the dead-bells toll!
Mermen dirgers ring his knoll!

Such a slab will we lay o’er him
All the dead shall rise before him!
Dingle-dong, the dead-bells boom!
Mermen lay him in his tomb!

The Little Black Rose.

[Sidenote: AUBREY DE VERE]

The Little Black Rose shall be red at last;
What made it black but the March wind dry,
And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast?
It shall redden the hills when June is nigh.

The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last;
What drove her forth but the dragon-fly?
In the golden vale she shall feed full fast,
With her mild gold horn and slow, dark eye.

The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last!
The pine long bleeding, it shall not die!
This song is secret. Mine ear it passed
In a wind o’er the plains at Athenry.

Epitaph.

He roamed half round the world of woe,
Where toil and labour never cease;
Then dropped one little span below
In search of peace.

And now to him mild beams and showers,
All that he needs to grace his tomb,
From loneliest regions at all hours,
Unsought for come.

Killiney Far Away.

[Sidenote: FRANCIS FAHY]

To Killiney far away flies my fond heart night and day,
To ramble light and happy through its fields and dells;
For here life smiles in vain, and earth’s a land of pain,
While all that’s bright in Erin in Killiney dwells.

In Killiney in the West has a linnet sweet her nest,
And her song makes all the wild birds in the green wood dumb;
To the captive without cheer, it were freedom but to hear
Such sorrow-soothing music from her fair throat come.

In Killiney’s bower blows a blushing, budding rose,
With perfume of the rarest that the June day yields;
And none who pass the way, but sighing wish that they
Might cull that fragrant flower of the dewy fields.

Through Killiney’s meadows pass, on their way to early Mass,
Like twin-stars ’mid the grass, two small feet bare;
And angel-pure the heart, where the murmured Aves start
On their wingèd way to Heaven from the chapel there.

And the pride of Irish girls is the dear brown head of curls,
The pearl white of pearls, =stoirin bàn mo chridhe=;
As bright-browed as the dawn, and as meek-eyed as the fawn,
And as graceful as the swan gliding on to sea.

Not for jewels nor for gold, nor for hoarded wealth untold,
Not for all that mortals hold most desired and dear,
Would I my share forego in the loving heart aglow,
That beats beneath the snow of her bosom fair.

Soon Killiney will you weep--for I know not rest nor sleep,
Till swiftly o’er the deep I with white sails come,
To win the linnet sweet, and the two white twinkling feet,
And the heart with true love beating, to my far-off home.

And O! farewell to care, when the rose of perfume rare,
And the dear brown curling hair on my proud breast lie;
Then Killiney far away, never more by night or day,
To thy skies, or dark or grey, shall my fond heart fly.

Cean Dubh Deelish.[14]

[Sidenote: SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON]

Put your head, darling, darling, darling,
Your darling black head my heart above;
Oh, mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance,
Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?

Oh, many and many a young girl for me is pining,
Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free,
For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows;
But I’d leave a hundred, pure love, for thee!

Then put your head, darling, darling, darling,
Your darling black head my heart above;
Oh, mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance,
Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?

Molly Asthore.

O Mary dear! O Mary fair!
O branch of generous stem!
White blossom of the banks of Nair,
Though lilies grow on them;
You’ve left me sick at heart for love,
So faint I cannot see;
The candle swims the board above,
I’m drunk for love of thee!
O stately stem of maiden pride,
My woe it is and pain
That I thus severed from thy side
The long night must remain.

Through all the towns of Innisfail
I’ve wandered far and wide,
But from Downpatrick to Kinsale,
From Carlow to Kilbride,
Many lords and dames of high degree
Where’er my feet have gone,
My Mary, one to equal thee
I never looked upon:
I live in darkness and in doubt
When’er my love’s away;
But were the gracious sun put out,
Her shadow would make day.

’Tis she, indeed, young bud of bliss,
As gentle as she’s fair.
Though lily-white her bosom is,
And sunny bright her hair,
And dewy azure her blue eye,
And rosy red her cheek,
Yet brighter she in modesty,
Most beautifully meek:
The world’s wise men from north to south
Can never cure my pain;
But one kiss from her honey mouth
Would make me well again.

The Fair Hills of Ireland.

(From the Irish.)

A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,
=Uileacan dubh O!=
Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;
=Uileacan dubh O!=
There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,
And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned;
There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i’ the yellow sand,
On the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Curled is he and ringleted, and plaited to the knee,
=Uileacan dubh O!=
Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea;
=Uileacan dubh O!=
And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,
Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,
And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,
For the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground;
=Uileacan dubh O!=
The butter and the cream do wondrously abound,
=Uileacan dubh O!=
The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,
And the cuckoo’s calling daily his note of music bland,
And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i’ the forest grand,
On the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Herring is King.

[Sidenote: ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES]

Let all the fish that swim the sea,
Salmon and turbot, cod and ling,
Bow down the head and bend the knee
To herring, their king! to herring, their king!

Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’,
’Tis we have brought the summer in.[15]

The sun sank down so round and red
Upon the bay, upon the bay;
The sails shook idly overhead,
Becalmed we lay, becalmed we lay;

Sing, Hugamar, etc.

Till Shawn the eagle dropped on deck,
The bright-eyed boy, the bright-eyed boy;
’Tis he has spied your silver track,
Herring, our joy, herring, our joy;

Sing, Hugamar, etc.

It is in with the sails and away to shore,
With the rise and swing, the rise and swing
Of two stout lads at each smoking oar,
After herring, our king! herring, our king.

Sing, Hugamar, etc.

The Manx and Cornish raised the shout,
And joined the chase, and joined the chase;
But their fleets they fouled as they went about,
And we won the race, we won the race;

Sing, Hugamar, etc.

For we turned and faced you full to land,
Down the góleen[16] long, the góleen long,
And after you slipped from strand to strand
Our nets so strong, our nets so strong;

Sing, Hugamar, etc.

Then we called to our sweethearts and our wives,
“Come welcome us home, welcome us home,”
Till they ran to meet us for their lives
Into the foam, into the foam;

Sing, Hugamar, etc.

O kissing of hands and waving of caps
From girl and boy, from girl and boy,
While you leapt by scores in the lasses’ laps,
Herring our joy, herring our joy!

Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’,
’Tis we have brought the summer in!

The Rose of Kenmare.

[Sidenote: ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES]

I’ve been soft in a small way
On the girleens of Galway,
And the Limerick lasses have made me feel quare;
But there’s no use denyin’,
No girl I’ve set eye on
Could compate wid Rose Ryan of the town of Kenmare.

O, where
Can her like be found?
No where,
The country round,
Spins at her wheel
Daughter as true,
Sets in the reel,
Wid a slide of the shoe
a slinderer,
tinderer,
purtier,
wittier colleen than you,
Rose, aroo!

Her hair mocks the sunshine,
And the soft, silver moonshine
Neck and arm of the colleen completely eclipse;
Whilst the nose of the jewel
Slants straight as Carran Tual
From the heaven in her eye to her heather-sweet lip.

O, where, etc.

Did your eyes ever follow
The wings of the swallow
Here and there, light as air, o’er the meadow field glance?
For if not you’ve no notion
Of the exquisite motion
Of her sweet little feet as they dart in the dance.

O, where, etc.

If y’ inquire why the nightingale
Still shuns th’ invitin’ gale
That wafts every song-bird but her to the West,
Faix she knows, I suppose,
Ould Kenmare has a Rose
That would sing any Bulbul to sleep in her nest

O, where, etc.

When her voice gives the warnin’
For the milkin’ in the mornin’
Ev’n the cow known for hornin’, comes runnin’ to her pail;
The lambs play about her
And the small bonneens[17] snout her
Whilst their parints salute her wid a twisht of the tail.

O, where, etc.

When at noon from our labour
We draw neighbour wid neighbour
From the heat of the sun to the shelter of the tree,
Wid spuds[18] fresh from the bilin’,
And new milk, you come smilin’,
All the boys’ hearts beguilin’, alannah machree![19]

O, where, etc.

But there’s one sweeter hour
When the hot day is o’er,
And we rest at the door wid the bright moon above,
And she’s sittin’ in the middle,
When she’s guessed Larry’s riddle,
Cries, “Now for your fiddle, Shiel Dhuv, Shiel Dhuv.”

[Sidenote: ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES]

O, where
Can her like be found?
No where
The country round,
Spins at her wheel
Daughter as true,
Sets in the reel,
Wid a slide of the shoe
a slinderer,
tinderer,
purtier,
wittier colleen than you,
Rose, aroo!

The Song of the Pratee.

When after the Winter alarmin’,
The Spring steps in so charmin’,
So fresh and arch
In the middle of March,
Wid her hand St Patrick’s arm on,
Let us all, let us all be goin’,
Agra, to assist at your sowin’,
The girls to spread
Your iligant bed,
And the boys to set the hoe in.

Chorus--

Then good speed to your seed! God’s grace and increase.
Never more in our need may you blacken wid the blight;
But when summer is o’er, in our gardens, asthore,
May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.

So rest and sleep, my jewel,
Safe from the tempest cruel;
Till violets spring
And skylarks sing
From Mourne to Carran Tual.
Then wake and build your bower,
Through April sun and shower,
To bless the earth
That gave you birth,
Through many a sultry hour.

Chorus--

Then good luck to your leaf. And ochone, ologone,
Never more to our grief may it blacken wid the blight;
But when summer is o’er, in our gardens, asthore,
May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.

[Sidenote: ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES]

Thus smile with glad increasin’,
Till to St John we’re raisin’,
Through Erin’s isle
The pleasant pile
That sets the bonfire blazin’.
O ’tis then that the midsummer fairy,
Abroad on his sly vagary,
Wid purple and white,
As he passes by night,
Your emerald leaf shall vary.

Chorus--

Then more power to your flower, and your merry green leaf!
Never more to our grief may they blacken wid the blight;
But when summer is o’er, in our gardens, asthore,
May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.

And once again Mavourneen,
Some yellow autumn mornin’,
At red sunrise
Both girls and boys
To your garden ridge we’re turnin’,
Then under your foliage fadin’
Each man of us sets his spade in,
While the colleen bawn
Her brown kishane[20]
Full up wid your fruit is ladin’.

Chorus--

Then good luck to your leaf! more power to your flower!
Never more to our grief may they blacken wid the blight;
But when summer is o’er, in our gardens, asthore,
May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.

Irish Lullaby.

[Sidenote: ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES]

I’d rock my own sweet childie to rest in a cradle
of gold on a bough of the willow,
To the =shoheen ho= of the wind of the west and the
=lulla lo= of the soft sea billow.
Sleep, baby dear,
Sleep without fear,
Mother is here beside your pillow.

I’d put my own sweet childie to sleep in a silver boat
on the beautiful river,
Where a =shoheen= whisper the white cascades, and a
=lulla lo= the green flags shiver.
Sleep, baby dear,
Sleep without fear,
Mother is here with you for ever.

=Lulla lo!= to the rise and fall of mother’s bosom
’tis sleep has bound you,
And O, my child, what cosier nest for rosier rest
could love have found you?
Sleep, baby dear,
Sleep without fear,
Mother’s two arms are clasped around you.

Eileen Aroon.

[Sidenote: GERALD GRIFFIN]

When, like the early rose,
Eileen Aroon!
Beauty in childhood blows,
Eileen Aroon!
When, like a diadem,
Buds blush around the stem,
Which is the fairest gem?
Eileen Aroon!

Is it the laughing eye,
Eileen Aroon!
Is it the timid sigh,
Eileen Aroon!
Is it the tender tone,
Soft as the stringed harp’s moan?
Oh! it is truth alone,
Eileen Aroon!

When, like the rising day,
Eileen Aroon!
Love sends his early ray,
Eileen Aroon!
What makes his dawning glow,
Changeless through joy or woe?
Only the constant know--
Eileen Aroon!

I know a valley fair,
Eileen Aroon!
I knew a cottage there,
Eileen Aroon!
Far in that valley’s shade
I knew a gentle maid,
Flower of a hazel glade,
Eileen Aroon!

Who in the song so sweet?
Eileen Aroon!
Who in the dance so fleet?
Eileen Aroon!
Dear were her charms to me,
Dearer her laughter free,
Dearest her constancy,
Eileen Aroon!

Were she no longer true,
Eileen Aroon!
What should her lover do?
Eileen Aroon!
Fly with his broken chain
Far o’er the sounding main,
Never to love again,
Eileen Aroon!

Youth must with time decay,
Eileen Aroon!
Beauty must fade away,
Eileen Aroon!
Castles are sacked in war,
Chieftains are scattered far,
Truth is a fixèd star,
Eileen Aroon!

The Dark Man.

[Sidenote: NORA HOPPER]

Rose o’ the world, she came to my bed
And changed the dreams of my heart and head:
For joy of mine she left grief of hers
And garlanded me with the prickly furze.

Rose o’ the world, they go out and in,
And watch me dream and my mother spin:
And they pity the tears on my sleeping face
While my soul’s away in a fairy place.

Rose o’ the world, they have words galore,
For wide’s the swing of my mother’s door:
And soft they speak of my darkened brain,
But what do they know of my heart’s dear pain?

Rose o’ the world, the grief you give
Is worth all days that a man may live:
Is worth all prayers that the colleens say
On the night that darkens the wedding-day.

Rose o’ the world, what man would wed
When he might remember your face instead?
Might go to his grave with the blessed pain
Of hungering after your face again?

Rose o’ the world, they may talk their fill,
But dreams are good, and my life stands still
While the neighbours talk by their fires astir:
But my fiddle knows: and _I_ talk to her.

April in Ireland.

She hath a woven garland all of the sighing sedge,
And all her flowers are snowdrops grown on the winter’s edge:
The golden looms of Tir na n’ Og wove all the winter through
Her gown of mist and raindrops shot with a cloudy blue.

Sunlight she holds in one hand, and rain she scatters after,
And through the rainy twilight we hear her fitful laughter.
She shakes down on her flowers the snows less white than they,
Then quicken with her kisses the folded “knots o’ May.”

She seeks the summer-lover that never shall be hers,
Fain for gold leaves of autumn she passes by the furze,
Though buried gold it hideth: she scorns her sedgy crown,
And pressing blindly sunwards she treads her snowdrops down.

Her gifts are all a fardel of wayward smiles and tears,
Yet hope she also holdeth, this daughter of the years--
A hope that blossoms faintly set upon sorrow’s edge:
She hath a woven garland of all the sighing sedge.

The Wind Among the Reeds.

[Sidenote: NORA HOPPER]

Mavrone, Mavrone! the wind among the reeds.
It calls and cries, and will not let me be;
And all its cry is of forgotten deeds
When men were loved of all the Daoine-Sidhe.

O Shee that have forgotten how to love,
And Shee that have forgotten how to hate,
Asleep ’neath quicken boughs that no winds move,
Come back to us ere yet it be too late.

Pipe to us once again, lest we forget
What piping means, till all the Silver Spears
Be wild with gusty music, such as met
Carolan once, amid the dusty years.

Dance in your rings again: the yellow weeds
You used to ride so far, mount as of old--
Play hide-and-seek with wind among the reeds,
And pay your scores again with fairy gold.

My Grief on the Sea.

[Sidenote: DOUGLAS HYDE]

My grief on the sea,
How the waves of it roll!
For they heave between me
And the love of my soul!

Abandoned, forsaken,
To grief and to care,
Will the sea ever waken
Relief from despair?

My grief, and my trouble!
Would he and I wear,
In the province of Leinster,
Or County of Clare.

Were I and my darling--
O, heart-bitter wound!--
On the board of the ship
For America bound.

On a green bed of rushes
All last night I lay,
And I flung it abroad
With the heat of the day.

And my love came behind me--
He came from the South;
His breast to my bosom
His mouth to my mouth.

The Cooleen.

[Sidenote: DOUGLAS HYDE]

A honey mist on a day of frost, in a dark oak wood,
And love for thee in my heart in me, thou bright, white, and good;
Thy slender form, soft and warm, thy red lips apart,
Thou hast found me, and hast bound me, and put grief in my heart.

In fair-green and market, men mark thee, bright, young, and merry,
Though thou hurt them like foes with the rose of thy blush of the berry:
Her cheeks are a poppy, her eye it is Cupid’s helper,
But each foolish man dreams that its beams for himself are.

Whoe’er saw the Cooleen in a cool, dewy meadow
On a morning in summer in sunshine and shadow;
All the young men go wild for her, my childeen, my treasure,
But now let them go mope, they’ve no hope to possess her.

Let us roam, O my darling, afar through the mountains,
Drink milk of the goat, wine and bulcaun in fountains;
With music and play every day from my lyre,
And leave to come rest on my breast when you tire.

The Breedyeen.

’Tis the Breedyeen I love,
All dear ones above,
Like a star from the start
Round my heart she did move.
Her breast like a dove,
Or the foam in the cove,
With her gold locks apart,
In my heart she put love.

’Tis not Venus, I say,
Who grieved me this day,
But the white one, the bright one,
Who slighted my stay.
For her I shall pray--
I confess it--for aye,
She’s my sister, I missed her,
When all men were gay.

To the hills let us go,
Where the raven and crow
In dark dismal valleys
Croak death-like and low;
By this volume I swear,
O bright Cool of fair hair,
That though solitude shrieked
I should seek for thee there.

To the hills let us go,
Where the raven and crow
In the dark dismal valleys
Wing silent and slow.
There’s no Joy in men’s fate
But Grief grins in the gate;
There’s no Fair without Foul,
Without Crooked no Straight.

[Sidenote: DOUGLAS HYDE]

Her neck like the lime
And her breath like the thyme,
And her bosom untroubled
By care or by time.
Like a bird in the night,
At a great blaze of light,
Astounded and wounded
I swoon at her sight.

Since I gave thee my love,
I gave thee my love,
I gave thee my love,
O thou berry so bright;
The sun in her height
Looked on with delight,
And between thy two arms, may
I die on the night.

And I would that I were
In the glens of the air,
Or in dark dismal valleys
Where the wildwood is bare,
What a kiss from her there
I should coax without care,
From my star of the morning,
My fairer than fair!

Like a Phœnix of flame,
Or like Helen of fame,
Is the pearl of all pearls
Of girls who came,
And who kindled a flame,
In my bosom. Thy name
I shall rhyme thee in Irish
And heighten thy fame.

Nelly of the Top-Knots.

Dear God! were I fisher and
Back in Binédar,
And Nelly a fish who
Would swim in the bay there,
I would privately set there
My net there to catch her,
In Erin no maiden
Is able to match her.

And Nelly, dear God!
Why! you should not thus flee me,
I long to be near thee
And hear thee and see thee,
My hand on the Bible
And I swearing and kneeling
And giving thee part
Of the heart you are stealing.

I’ve a fair yellow casket
And it fastened with crystal,
And the lock opens not
To the shot of a pistol.
To Jesus I pray
And to Columbkill’s Master,
That Mary may guide thee
Aside from disaster.

We may be, O maiden
Whom none may disparage,
Some morning a-hearing
The sweet mass of marriage,
But if fate be against us,
To rend us and push us,
I shall mourn as the blackbird
At eve in the bushes.

[Sidenote: DOUGLAS HYDE]

O God, were she with me
Where the gull flits and tern,
Or in Paris the smiling,
Or an Isle in Loch Erne,
I would coax her so well,
I would tell her my story,
And talk till I won her,
My sunshine of glory.

I shall not Die for Thee.

[Sidenote: DOUGLAS HYDE]

For thee I shall not die,
Woman high of fame and name;
Foolish men thou mayest slay
I and they are not the same.

Why should I expire
For the fire of any eye,
Slender waist or swan-like limb,
Is’t for them that I should die?

The round breasts, the fresh skin,
Cheeks crimson, hair so long and rich;
Indeed, indeed, I shall not die,
Please God, not I, for any such.

The golden hair, the forehead thin,
The chaste mien, the gracious ease,
The rounded heel, the languid tone,
Fools alone find death from these.

Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm,
Thy thin palm like foam o’ the sea;
Thy white neck, thy blue eye,
I shall not die for thee.

Woman, graceful as the swan,
A wise man did nurture me,
Little palm, white neck, bright eye,
I shall not die for ye.

The Red Wind.

[Sidenote: LIONEL JOHNSON]

Red Wind from out the East:
Red Wind of blight and blood!
Ah, when wilt thou have ceased
Thy bitter, stormy flood?

Red Wind from over sea,
Scourging our holy land!
What angel loosened thee
Out of his iron hand?

Red Wind! whose word of might
Winged thee with wings of flame?
O fire of mournful night!
What is thy Master’s name?

Red Wind! who bade thee burn,
Branding our hearts? Who bade
Thee on and never turn
Till waste our souls were laid?

Red Wind! from out the West
Pour Winds of Paradise:
Winds of eternal rest,
That weary souls entice.

Wind of the East! Red Wind!
Thou scorchest the soft breath
Of Paradise the kind:
Red Wind of burning death!

O Red Wind! hear God’s voice:
Hear thou, and fall, and cease.
Let Innisfail rejoice
In her Hesperian peace.

To Morfydd.

[Sidenote: LIONEL JOHNSON]

A voice on the winds,
A voice on the waters,
Wanders and cries:
_O what are the winds?
And what are the waters?
Mine are your eyes._

Western the winds are,
And western the waters,
Where the light lies:
_O what are the winds?
And what are the waters?
Mine are your eyes._

Cold, cold grow the winds,
And dark grow the waters,
Where the sun dies:
_O what are the winds?
And what are the waters?
Mine are your eyes._

And down the night winds,
And down the night waters
The music flies:
_O what are the winds?
And what are the waters?
Cold be the winds,
And wild be the waters,
So mine be your eyes._

A Lament.

[Sidenote: DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY]

Youth’s bright palace
Is overthrown,
With its diamond sceptre
And golden throne;
As a time-worn stone
Its turrets are humbled,--
All hath crumbled
But grief alone!

Whither, oh! whither
Have fled away
The dreams and hopes
Of my early day?
Ruined and grey
Are the towers I builded;
And the beams that gilded--
Ah! where are they?

Once this world
Was fresh and bright,
With its golden noon
And its starry night;
Glad and light,
By mountain and river,
Have I blessed the Giver
With hushed delight.

Youth’s illusions,
One by one,
Have passed like clouds
That the sun looked on.
While morning shone,
How purple their fringes!
How ashy their tinges
When that was gone!

As fire-flies fade
When the nights are damp--
As meteors are quenched
In a stagnant swamp--
Thus Charlemagne’s camp,
Where the Paladins rally,
And the Diamond Valley,
And the Wonderful Lamp,

And all the wonders
Of Ganges and Nile,
And Haroun’s rambles,
And Crusoe’s isle,
And Princes who smile
On the Genii’s daughters
’Neath the Orient waters
Full many a mile,

And all that the pen
Of Fancy can write,
Must vanish
In manhood’s misty light--
Squire and Knight,
And damosels’ glances,
Sunny romances
So pure and bright!

These have vanished,
And what remains?
Life’s budding garlands
Have turned to chains--
Its beams and rains
Feed but docks and thistles,
And sorrow whistles
O’er desert plains!

The Fair Hills of Eiré, O!

(After the Irish of DONOGH MAC CON-MARA.)

[Sidenote: JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN]

Take a blessing from my heart to the land of my birth,
And the fair Hills of Eiré, O!
And to all that yet survive of Eibhear’s tribe on earth,
On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!
In that land so delightful the wild thrush’s lay--
Seems to pour a lament forth for Eiré’s delay--
Alas! alas! why pine I a thousand miles away
From the fair Hills of Eiré, O!

The soil is rich and soft--the air is mild and bland,
Of the fair Hills of Eiré, O!
Her barest rock is greener to me than this rude land--
O! the fair Hills of Eiré, O!
Her woods are tall and straight, grove rising over grove;
Trees flourish in her glens below, and on her heights above;
O, in heart and in soul, I shall ever, ever love
The fair Hills of Eiré, O!

A noble tribe, moreover, are the now hapless Gael,
On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!
A tribe in Battle’s hour unused to shrink or fail
On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!
For this is my lament in bitterness outpoured,
To see them slain or scattered by the Saxon sword.
Oh, woe of woes, to see a foreign spoiler horde
On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!

Broad and tall rise the =cruachs= in the golden morning’s glow
On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!
O’er her smooth grass for ever sweet cream and honey flow
On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!
O, I long, I am pining, again to behold
The land that belongs to the brave Gael of old;
Far dearer to my heart than a gift of gems or gold
Are the fair Hills of Eiré, O!

The dewdrops lie bright ’mid the grass and yellow corn
On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!
And the sweet-scented apples blush redly in the morn
On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!
The water-cress and sorrel fill the vales below;
The streamlets are hushed, till the evening breezes blow;
While the waves of the Suir, noble river! ever flow
Near the fair Hills of Eiré, O!

A fruitful clime is Eiré’s, through valley, meadow, plain,
And the fair land of Eiré, O!
The very “Bread of Life” is in the yellow grain
On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!
Far dearer unto me than the tones music yields,
Is the lowing of her kine and the calves in her fields,
And the sunlight that shone long ago on the shields
Of the Gaels, on the fair Hills of Eiré, O!

Dark Rosaleen.

[Sidenote: JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN]

O my dark Rosaleen,
Do not sigh, do not weep!
The priests are on the ocean green,
They march along the Deep.
There’s wine ... from the royal Pope,
Upon the ocean green;
And Spanish ale shall give you hope,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,
Shall give you health, and help, and hope,
My dark Rosaleen.

Over hills, and through dales,
Have I roamed for your sake;
All yesterday I sailed with sails
On river and on lake.
The Erne ... at its highest flood,
I dashed across unseen,
For there was lightning in my blood,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
Oh! there was lightning in my blood,
Red lightning lightened through my blood,
My dark Rosaleen!

All day long in unrest,
To and fro do I move,
The very soul within my breast
Is wasted for you, love!
The heart ... in my bosom faints
To think of you my Queen,
My life of life, my saint of saints,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
To hear your sweet and sad complaints,
My life, my love, my saint of saints,
My dark Rosaleen!

Woe and pain, pain and woe,
Are my lot, night and noon,
To see your bright face clouded so,
Like to the mournful moon.
But yet ... will I rear your throne
Again in golden sheen;
’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
’Tis you shall have the golden throne,
’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,
My dark Rosaleen!

Over dews, over sands,
Will I fly, for your weal:
Your holy delicate white hands
Shall girdle me with steel.
At home ... in your emerald bowers,
From morning’s dawn till e’en,
You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers,
My dark Rosaleen!
My fond Rosaleen!
You’ll think of me through Daylight’s hours,
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,
My dark Rosaleen!

I could scale the blue air,
I could plough the high hills,
Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer,
To heal your many ills!
And one ... beamy smile from you
Would float the light between
My toils and me, my own, my true,
My dark Rosaleen!
My fond Rosaleen!
Would give me life and soul anew,
A second life, a soul anew,
My dark Rosaleen!

O! the Erne shall run red
With redundance of blood,
The earth shall rock beneath our tread,
And flames wrap hill and wood,
And gun-peal, and slogan cry,
Wake many a glen serene,
Ere you shall fade, ere you can die,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
The Judgment Hour must first be nigh
Ere you can fade, ere you can die,
My dark Rosaleen!

The One Mystery.

’Tis idle! we exhaust and squander
The glittering mine of thought in vain
All-baffled reason cannot wander,
Beyond her chain.
The flood of life runs dark--dark clouds
Make lampless night around its shore:
The dead, where are they? In their shrouds--
Man knows no more.

Evoke the ancient and the past,
Will one illumining star arise?
Or must the film, from first to last,
O’erspread thine eyes?
When life, love, glory, beauty, wither,
Will wisdom’s page, or science chart,
Map out for thee the region whither
Their shades depart?

Supposest thou the wondrous powers,
To high imagination given,
Pale types of what shall yet be ours,
When earth is heaven?
When this decaying shell is cold,
Oh! sayest thou the soul shall climb
What magic mount she trod of old,
Ere childhood’s time?

And shall the sacred pulse that thrilled,
Thrill once again to glory’s name?
And shall the conquering love that filled
All earth with flame,
Re-born, revived, renewed, immortal,
Resume his reign in prouder might,
A sun beyond the ebon portal,
Of death and night?

[Sidenote: JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN]

No more, no more--with aching brow,
And restless heart, and burning brain,
We ask the When, the Where, the How,
And ask in vain.
And all philosophy, all faith,
All earthly--all celestial lore,
Have but one voice, which only saith
Endure--adore!

The Wild Geese.

[Sidenote: ROSA MULHOLLAND]

I had no sail to cross the sea,
A brave white bird went forth from me,
My heart was hid beneath his wing:
O strong white bird, come back in spring!

I watched the Wild Geese rise and cry
Across the flaring western sky;
Their winnowing pinions clove the light,
Then vanished, and came down the night.

I laid me low, my day was done,
I longed not for the morrow’s sun,
But closely swathed in swoon of sleep,
Forgot to hope, forgot to weep.

The moon, through veils of gloomy red,
A warm yet dusky radiance shed
All down our valley’s golden stream
And flushed my slumber with a dream.

Her mystic torch lit up my brain;
My spirit rose and lived amain,
And follow through the windy spray
That bird upon its watery way.

“O wild white bird, O wail for me!
My soul hath wings to fly with thee:
On foam waves, lengthening out afar,
We’ll ride toward the western star.

“O’er glimmering plains, through forest gloom,
To track a wanderer’s feet I come;
’Mid lonely swamp, by haunted brake,
I’ll pass unfrighted for his sake.

“Alone, afar, his footsteps roam,
The stars his roof, the tent his home.
Saw’st thou what way the Wild Geese flew
To sunward through the thick night dew?

[Sidenote: ROSA MULHOLLAND]

“Carry my soul where he abides,
And pierce the mystery that hides
His presence, and through time and space
Look with mine eyes upon his face.”

“Beside his prairie fire he rests,
All feathered things are in their nests:
‘What strange wild bird is this,’ he saith,
‘Still fragrant with the ocean’s breath?

“‘Perch on my hand, thou briny thing,
And let me stroke thy shy wet wing;
What message in thy soft eye thrills?
I see again my native hills

“‘And vale, the river’s silver streak,
The mist upon the blue, blue peak,
The shadows grey, the golden sheaves,
The mossy walls, the russet eaves.

“‘I greet the friends I’ve loved and lost,
Do all forget? No, tempest-tost,
That braved for me the ocean’s foam,
Some heart remembers me at home.

“‘Ere spring’s return I will be there,
Thou strange sea-fragrant messenger!
I wake and weep; the moon shines sweet,
O dream too short! O bird too fleet!’”

Lament for a Little Child.

[Sidenote: RODEN NOEL]

I am lying in the tomb, love,
Lying in the tomb,
Tho’ I move within the gloom, love,
Breathe within the gloom!
Men deem life not fled, dear,
Deem my life not fled,
Tho’ I with thee am dead, dear,
I with thee am dead,
O my little child!

What is the grey world, darling,
What is the grey world,
Where the worm lies curled, darling,
The death-worm lies curled?
They tell me of the spring, dear!
Do I want the spring?
Will she waft upon her wing, dear,
The joy-pulse of her wing,
Thy songs, thy blossoming,
O my little child!

For the hallowing of thy smile, love,
The rainbow of thy smile,
Gleaming for a while, love,
Gleaming to beguile,
Re-plunged me in the cold, dear,
Leaves me in the cold,
And I feel so very old, dear,
Very, very old!

Would they put me out of pain, dear,
Out of all my pain,
Since I may not live again, dear,
Never live again!

I am lying in the grave, love,
In thy little grave,
Yet I hear the wind rave, love,
And the wild wave!
I would lie asleep, darling,
With thee lie asleep,
Unhearing the world weep, darling,
Little children weep!
O my little child!

The Swimmer.

Yonder, lo! the tide is flowing;
Clamber, while the breeze is blowing,
Down to where a soft foam flusters
Dulse and fairy feathery clusters!
While it fills the shelly hollows,
A swift sister-billow follows,
Leaps in hurrying with the tide,
Seems the lingering wave to chide;
Both push on with eager life,
And a gurgling show of strife.
O the salt, refreshing air
Shrilly blowing in the hair!
A keen, healthful savour haunts
Sea-shell, sea-flower, and sea-plants.
Innocent billows on the strand
Leave a crystal over sand,
Whose thin ebbing soon is crossed
By a crystal foam-enmossed,
Variegating silver-grey
Shell-empetalled sand in play:
When from sand dries off the brine,
Vanishes swift shadow fine;
But a wet sand is a glass
Where the plumy cloudlets pass,
Floating islands of the blue,
Tender, shining, fair, and true.

Who would linger idle,
Dallying would lie,
When wind and wave, a bridal
Celebrating, fly?
Let him plunge among them,
Who hath wooed enough,
Flirted with them, sung them,
In the salt sea-trough
He may win them, onward
On a buoyant crest,
Far to seaward, sunward,
Ocean-borne to rest!
Wild wind will sing over him,
And the free foam cover him,
Swimming seaward, sunward,
On a blithe sea-breast!
On a blithe sea-bosom
Swims another too,
Swims a live sea-blossom,
A grey-winged sea-mew!
Grape-green all the waves are,
By whose hurrying line
Half of ships and caves are
Buried under brine;
Supple, shifting ranges
Lucent at the crest,
With pearly surface-changes
Never laid to rest:
Now a dipping gunwale
Momently he sees,
Now a fuming funnel,
Or red flag in the breeze;
Arms flung open wide,
Lip the laughing sea;
For playfellow, for bride,
Claim her impetuously!
Triumphantly exult with all the free,
Buoyant, bounding splendour of the sea!
And if while on the billow
Wearily he lay,
His awful wild playfellow
Filled his mouth with spray,
Reft him of his breath,
To some far realms away
He would float with Death;
Wild wind would sing over him,
And the free foam cover him,
Waft him sleeping onward,
Floating seaward, sunward,
All alone with Death;
In a realm of wondrous dreams,
And shadow-haunted ocean gleams!

The Dance.

[Sidenote: RODEN NOEL]

The dance! the dance!
Maidens advance
Your undulating charm!
A line deploys
Of gentle boys,
Waving the light arm,
Bronze, alive and warm;
Reed flute and drum
Sound as they come,
Under your eyelight warm!

Many a boy,
A dancing joy,
Many a mellow maid,
With fireflies in the shade,
Mingle and glide,
Appear and hide,
Here in a fairy glade:
Ebb and flow
To a music low,
Viol, and flute and lyre,
As melody mounts higher:
With a merry will,
They touch and thrill,
Beautiful limbs of fire!

Red berries, shells,
Over bosom-dells,
And girdles of light grass,
May never hide
The youthful pride
Of beauty, ere it pass:
Yet, ah! sweet boy and lass,
Refrain, retire!
Love is a fire!
Night will pass!

From “The Water-Nymph and the Boy.”

I flung me round him,
I drew him under;
I clung, I drowned him,
My own white wonder....

Father and mother,
Weeping and wild,
Came to the forest,
Calling the child,
Came from the palace,
Down to the pool,
Calling my darling,
My beautiful!

Under the water,
Cold and so pale!
Could it be love made
Beauty to fail?

Ah me! for mortals:
In a few moons,
If I had left him,
After some Junes
He would have faded,
Faded away,
He, the young monarch, whom
All would obey,
Fairer than day;
Alien to springtime,
Joyless and grey,
He would have faded,
Faded away,
Moving a mockery,
Scorned of the day!

Now I have taken him
All in his prime,
Saved from slow poisoning
Pitiless Time,
Filled with his happiness,
One with the prime,
Saved from the cruel
Dishonour of Time,
Laid him, my beautiful,
Laid him to rest,
Loving, adorable,
Softly to rest,
Here in my crystalline,
Here in my breast!

A Casual Song.

She sang of lovers met to play
“Under the may bloom, under the may,”
But when I sought her face so fair,
I found the set face of Despair.

She sang of woodland leaves in spring,
And joy of young love dallying;
But her young eyes were all one moan,
And Death weighed on her heart like stone.

I could not ask, I know not now,
The story of that mournful brow;
It haunts me as it haunted then,
A flash from fire of hell-bound men.

“The Pity of it.”

[Sidenote: RODEN NOEL]

If our love may fail, Lily,
If our love may fail,
What will mere life avail, Lily,
Mere life avail?

Seed that promised blossom,
Withered in the mould,
Pale petals overblowing,
Failing from the gold!

When the fervent fingers
Listlessly unclose,
May the life that lingers
Find repose, Lily,
Find repose!

Who may dream of all the music
Only a lover hears,
Hearkening to hearts triumphant
Bearing down the years?
Ah! may eternal anthems dwindle
To a low sound of tears?

Room in all the ages
For our love to grow,
Prayers of both demanded
A little while ago:

And now a few poor moments,
Between life and death,
May be proven all too ample
For love’s breath!

Seed that promised blossom,
Withered in the mould!
Pale petals overblowing,
Failing from the gold!

I well believe the fault lay
More with me than you,
But I feel the shadow closing
Cold about us two.

An hour may yet be yielded us,
Or a very little more--
Then a few tears, and silence
For evermore, Lily,
For evermore!

The Old.

[Sidenote: RODEN NOEL]

They are waiting on the shore
For the bark to take them home;
They will toil and grieve no more;
The hour for release hath come.

All their long life lies behind,
Like a dimly blending dream;
There is nothing left to bind
To the realms that only seem.

They are waiting for the boat,
There is nothing left to do;
What was near them grows remote,
Happy silence falls like dew;
Now the shadowy bark is come,
And the weary may go home.

By still water they would rest,
In the shadow of the tree;
After battle sleep is best,
After noise tranquillity.

Maura Du of Ballyshannon.

[Sidenote: CHARLES P. O’CONOR]

I.

=Maura du=[21] of Ballyshannon!
=Maura du=, my flower of flowers!
Can you hear me there out seaward,
Calling back the bygone hours?
=Maura du=, my own, my honey!
With wild passion still aglow,
I am singing you the old songs
That I sung you long ago.
And you mind, love, how it ran on--
“In your eyes =asthore machree=![22]
All my Heaven there I see,
And that’s true!
=Maura du=!
=Maura du= of Ballyshannon!”

II.

=Maura du= of Ballyshannon!
=Maura du=, my soul’s one queen!
Big with love my heart is flying,
Where the grass is growing green.
=Maura du=, my own, my honey!
That I love you, well you know,
And still sing for you the old song,
That I sung you long ago.
And you mind, love, how it ran on--
“In your eyes =asthore machree=!
All my Heaven there I see,
And that’s true!
=Maura du=!
=Maura du= of Ballyshannon!”

[Sidenote: CHARLES P. O’CONOR]

III.

=Maura du= of Ballyshannon,
=Maura du=, the day is drear!
Ah, the night is long and weary,
Far away from you, my dear!
=Maura du=, my own, my honey!
Still let winds blow high or low,
I must sing to you the old song,
That I sung you long ago,
And you mind, love, how it ran on--
“In your eyes =asthore machree=!
All my Heaven there I see,
And that’s true!
=Maura du=!
=Maura du= of Ballyshannon!”

IV.

=Maura du= of Ballyshannon!
=Maura du=, when winds blow south,
I will with the birds fly homeward,
There to kiss your Irish mouth.
=Maura du=, my own, my honey!
When time is no longer foe,
By your side I’ll sing the old song,
That I sung you long ago,
And you mind, love, how it ran on--
“In your eyes =asthore machree=!
All my Heaven there I see,
And that’s true!
=Maura du=!
=Maura du= of Ballyshannon!”

A Spinning Song.

[Sidenote: JOHN FRANCIS O’DONNELL]

My love to fight the Saxon goes,
And bravely shines his sword of steel,
A heron’s feather decks his brows,
And a spur on either heel;
His steed is blacker than a sloe,
And fleeter than the falling star;
Amid the surging ranks he’ll go
And shout for joy of war.

Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle, let the white wool drift and dwindle,
Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love’s coat of steel.
Hark! the timid, turning treadle, crooning soft old-fashioned ditties
To the low, slow murmur of the brown, round wheel.

My love is pledged to Ireland’s fight;
My love would die for Ireland’s weal,
To win her back her ancient right,
And make her foemen reel.
Oh, close I’ll clasp him to my breast
When homeward from the war he comes;
The fires shall light the mountain’s crest,
The valley peal with drums.

Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle, let the white wool drift and dwindle,
Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love’s coat of steel.
Hark! the timid, turning treadle, crooning soft old-fashioned ditties
To the low, slow murmur of the brown, round wheel.

A White Rose.

[Sidenote: JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY]

The red rose whispers of passion,
And the white rose breathes of love;
Oh, the red rose is a falcon,
And the white rose is a dove.

But I send you a cream-white rosebud
With a flush on its petal tips;
For the love that is purest and sweetest
Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

The Fountain of Tears.

[Sidenote: ARTHUR O’SHAUGHNESSY]

If you go over desert and mountain,
Far into the country of Sorrow,
To-day and to-night and to-morrow,
And maybe for months and for years;
You shall come with a heart that is bursting
For trouble and toiling and thirsting,
You shall certainly come to the fountain
At length,--to the Fountain of Tears.

Very peaceful the place is, and solely
For piteous lamenting and sighing,
And those who come living or dying
Alike from their hopes and their fears;
Full of Cyprus-like shadows the place is,
And statues that cover their faces:
But out of the gloom springs the holy
And beautiful Fountain of Tears.

And it flows and it flows with a motion,
So gentle and lovely and listless,
And murmurs a tune so resistless
To him who hath suffered and hears--
You shall surely--without a word spoken,
Kneel down there and know your heart broken,
And yield to the long-curb’d emotion
That day by the Fountain of Tears.

For it grows and it grows, as though leaping
Up higher the more one is thinking;
And even its tunes go on sinking
More poignantly into the ears:
Yea, so blessèd and good seems that fountain,
Reached after dry desert and mountain,
You shall fall down at length in your weeping
And bathe your sad face in the tears.

[Sidenote: ARTHUR O’SHAUGHNESSY]

Then, alas! while you lie there a season,
And sob between living and dying,
And give up the land you were trying
To find ’mid your hopes and your fears;
--O the world shall come up and pass o’er you,
Strong men shall not stay to care for you,
Nor wonder indeed for what reason
Your way should seem harder than theirs.

But perhaps, while you lie, never lifting
Your cheek from the wet leaves it presses,
Nor caring to raise your wet tresses
And look how the cold world appears,--
O perhaps the mere silences round you
All things in that place grief hath found you,
Yea, e’en to the clouds o’er you drifting
May soothe you somewhat through your tears.

You may feel, when a falling leaf brushes
Your face, as though someone had kissed you;
Or think at least some one who missed you
Hath sent you a thought,--if that cheers;
Or a bird’s little song faint and broken,
May pass for a tender word spoken:
--Enough, while around you there rushes
That life-drowning torrent of tears.

And the tears shall flow faster and faster,
Brim over, and baffle resistance,
And roll down bleared roads to each distance
Of past desolation and years;
Till they cover the place of each sorrow,
And leave you no Past and no Morrow:
For what man is able to master
And stem the great Fountain of Tears?

But the floods of the tears meet and gather;
The sound of them all grows like thunder:
--O into what bosom, I wonder,
Is poured the whole sorrow of years?
For Eternity only seems keeping
Account of the great human weeping:
May God then, the Maker and Father--
May he find a place for the tears!

After Death.

[Sidenote: FANNY PARNELL]

Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country? Shall mine
eyes behold thy glory?
Or shall the darkness close around them, ere the sun-blaze
break at last upon thy story?

When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle, as a sweet
new sister hail thee,
Shall these lips be sealed in callous death and silence, that
have known but to bewail thee?

Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy praises, when all men
their tribute bring thee?
Shall the mouth be clay that sang thee in thy squalor, when all
poets’ mouths shall sing thee?

Ah! the harpings and the salvos and the shouting of thy exiled
sons returning!
I should hear, tho’ dead and mouldered, and the grave-damps
should not chill my bosom’s burning.

Ah! the tramp of feet victorious! I should hear them ’mid the
shamrocks and the mosses,
And my heart should toss within the shroud and quiver as a
captive dreamer tosses.

I should turn and rend the cere-clothes round me, giant sinews
I should borrow--
Crying, “O my brothers, I have also loved her in her loneliness
and sorrow.

“Let me join with you the jubilant procession: let me chant
with you her story;
Then contented I shall go back to the shamrocks, now mine eyes
have seen her glory!”

The Dead at Clonmacnois.

(From the Irish of Enoch o’ Gillan.)

[Sidenote: T. W. ROLLESTON]

In a quiet watered land, a land of roses,
Stands Saint Kieran’s City fair;
And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations
Slumber there.

There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest of the
Clan of Conn,
Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham
And the sacred knot thereon.

There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,
There the sons of Cairbrè sleep--
Battle banners of the Gael, that in Kieran’s plain of crosses
Now their final posting keep.