Chapter IV: Part II: The Summer Palace stood by night (2)

To the masons at the wall."

The flood runs high and still more high,

And washes stone from stone--

"In another hour," say the masons,

"Our work is all undone."

The flood runs high and still more high,

And the bugle rings anear;

The masons looking o'er the wall

Are blue and stark with fear.

There's one that's neither stark nor wan,

But never he looked so well;

"Shall I gang to the devil, St Maur?" he

cries,

"Or say, shall I gang to yoursel'?"

He's set the child high in the air

Upon his shoulder bone;

"Shall I leave them all for Armour,

Or shall I take but one?"

Never an answer spake St Maur,

And never a word he said:

There was not one o' the mason men

Looked half so wan and dead.

The gipsy's ta'en the frighted child

And set him in the wall:

"There's a bonny game to play, little man,

The bonniest game of all.

"You'll stand so still and stark, my lad;

I'll build in two's and three's;

And I'll throw you a red, red apple in,

When the stones reach to your knees.

"You'll stand so still and stark, my lad;

I'll lay the stones in haste;

And I'll throw you the forester's whistle

When they reach above your waist.

"You'll stand so still and stark, my lad,

You'll watch the stones that rise;

And I'll throw you in your father's sword,

When they reach above your eyes.

"And if you tire o' the play, my lad,

You've but to raise a shout:

At the least word o' your father's mouth,

I'll stop and pluck you out."

The gipsy-man builds quick and light,

As if he played a play,

And the child laughs with a frighted laugh,

And the tower ceases to sway.

St Maur stares out of his bloodshot eyes,

Like one that's well-nigh mad;

The tower stands fast, and the stones rise high

About the little lad.

"O father, father, lift me out!

The stones reach over my eyes,

And I cannot see you now, father,

So swift the walls uprise.

"O father, lift me out, father!

I cannot breathe at all,

For the stones reach up beyond my head,

And it's dark down i' the wall."

But never an answer spake St Maur,

Never a word but one:

"Have you finished your devil's work, mason,

Or when will the deed be done?"

"Oh, the work is done that ye wished, St

Maur,

'Twill last for many a year;

There's scarce a sound in the wall by now

A mother might not hear.

"Gang home, gang home in peace, St Maur,

And sleep sound if you can;

There's never a flood shall rock this tower,

And never a mortal man.

"Gang home and kiss your bonny wife,

And bid her mourn and fast...

She'll weep a year for her youngest child,

But she'll dry her eyes at last.

"You'll say he fell in the flood, St Maur,

But you'll not deceive yoursel',

For you've lost the bonniest thing you had,

And you'll remember well.

"Your wife will mourn him a year, St Maur,

You'll mourn him all your life,

For you've lost the bonniest thing you had,

Better than bairns or wife."

-----A. M. F. Robinson (Darmesteter).

A BALLAD OF HELL

|A letter from my love to-day!

Oh, unexpected, dear appeal!"

She struck a happy tear away

And broke the crimson seal.

"My love, there is no help on earth,

No help in heaven; the dead man's bell

Must toll our wedding; our first hearth

Must be the well-paved floor of hell."

The colour died from out her face,

Her eyes like ghostly candles shone;

She cast dread looks about the place,

Then clenched her teeth, and read right on.

"I may not pass the prison door;

Here must I rot from day to day,

Unless I wed whom I abhor,

My cousin, Blanche of Valencay.

"At midnight with my dagger keen

I'll take my life; it must be so.

Meet me in hell to-night, my queen,

For weal and woe."

She laughed although her face was wan,

She girded on her golden belt,

She took her jewelled ivory fan,

And at her glowing missal knelt.

Then rose, "And am I mad?" she said,

She broke her fan, her belt untied;

With leather girt herself instead,

And stuck a dagger at her side.

She waited, shuddering in her room

Till sleep had fallen on all the house.

She never flinched; she faced her doom:

They two must sin to keep their vows.

Then out into the night she went;

And stooping, crept by hedge and tree;

Her rose-bush flung a snare of scent,

And caught a happy memory.

She fell, and lay a minute's space;

She tore the sward in her distress;

The dewy grass refreshed her face;

She rose and ran with lifted dress.

She started like a morn-caught ghost

Once when the moon came out and stood

To watch; the naked road she crossed,

And dived into the murmuring wood.

The branches snatched her streaming cloak;

A live thing shrieked; she made no stay!

She hurried to the trysting-oak--

Right well she knew the way.

Without a pause she bared her breast

And drove her dagger home and fell,

And lay like one that takes her rest,

And died and wakened up in hell.

She bathed her spirit in the flame,

And near the centre took her post;

From all sides to her ears there came

The dreary anguish of the lost.

The devil started at her side

Comely, and tall, and black as jet.

"I am young Malespina's bride;

Has he come hither yet?"

"My poppet, welcome to your bed."

"Is Malespina here?"

"Not he! To-morrow he must wed

His cousin Blanche, my dear!"

"You lie; he died with me to-night."

"Not he! It was a plot." "You lie."

"My dear, I never lie outright."

"We died at midnight, he and I."

The devil went. Without a groan

She, gathered up in one fierce prayer,

Took root in hell's midst all alone,

And waited for him there.

She dared to make herself at home,

Amidst the wail, the uneasy stir.

The blood-stained flame that filled the dome,

Scentless and silent, shrouded her.

How long she stayed I cannot tell;

But when she felt his perfidy,

She marched across the floor of hell;

And all the damned stood up to see.

The devil stopped her at the brink;

She shook him off; she cried, "Away!"

"My dear, you have gone mad, I think."

"I was betrayed: I will not stay."

Across the weltering deep she ran--

A stranger thing was never seen:

The damned stood silent to a man;

They saw the great gulf set between.

To her it seemed a meadow fair;

And flowers sprang up about her feet;

She entered heaven; she climbed the stair;

And knelt down at the mercy-seat.

Seraphs and saints with one great voice

Welcomed that soul that knew not fear;

Amazed to find it could rejoice,

Hell raised a hoarse half-human cheer.

----John Davidson.

THE WEDDING OF PALE BRONWEN

I.

|The wind was waked by the morning light,

And it cried in the gray birch-tree,

And the cry was plain in Bronwen's bower,

"Oh, Bronwen, come to me!"

Pale, pale sleeps Bronwen, pale she wakes;

"What bird to my bower is flown?

For my lover, Red Ithel, is at the wars

Before Jerusalem town."

But still the wind sang in the tree,

"Come forth,'tis your wedding morn,

And you must be wed in Holy Land

Ere your little babe is born."

And still the wind had her true-love's cry,

"Kind Bronwen, come!" until

She could not rest, and rose to look

To the sea beyond Morva Hill.

And afar came the cry over Morva Hill,

"Kind Bronwen, come to me!"

Till she could not stay, for very love,

And stole away to the sea.

She crossed the hill to the fishing-boats,

And away she sailed so fine,

"Is it far, my love, in the summer sun

To the shores of fair Palestine?"

II.

There was no sun at sea that day,

To watch pale Bronwen drown,

But the sun was hot on the deadly sands

Before Jerusalem town.'

All day Red Ithel lay dying there,

But he thought of the far-off sea;

And he cried all day till his lips grew white,

"Kind Bronwen, come to me!"

And so it passed till the evening time,

And then the sea-wind came,

And he thought he lay on Morva Hill

And heard her call his name.

He heard her voice, he held her hand,

"This is the day," she said,

"And this is the hour that Holy Church

Has given for us to wed."

There was no strength in him to speak,

But his eyes had yet their say,

"Kind Bronwen, now we will be wed

Forever and ever and aye!"

III.

Beneath the sea pale Bronwen lies,

Red Ithel beneath the sand;

But they are one in Holy Church,

One in love's Holy Land.

Red Ithel lies by Jerusalem town,

And she in the deep sea lies;

But I trow their little babe was born

In the gardens of Paradise.

---Ernest Rhys.

THE BALLAD OF FISHER'S BOARDING-HOUSE

|That night, when through the mooring-chains

The wide-eyed corpse rolled free,

To blunder down by Garden Reach

And rot at Kedgeree,

The tale the Hughli told the shoal

The lean shoal told to me.

|Twas Fultah Fisher's boarding-house

Where sailor-men reside,

And there were men of all the ports

From Mississip to Clyde,

And regally they spat and smoked,

And fearsomely they lied.

They lied about the purple Sea

That gave them scanty bread,

They lied about the Earth beneath,

The Heavens overhead,

For they had looked too often on

Black rum when that was red.

They told their tales of wreck and wrong,

Of shame and lust and fraud,

They backed their toughest statements with

The Brimstone of the Lord,

And crackling oaths went to and fro

Across the fist-banged board.

And there was Hans the blue-eyed Dane,

Bull-throated, bare of arm,

Who carried on his hairy chest

The maid Ultruda's charm--

The little silver crucifix

That keeps a man from harm.

And there was Jake Without-the-Ears,

And Pamba the Malay,

And Carboy Gin the Guinea cook,

And Luz from Vigo Bay,

And Honest Jack who sold them slops

And harvested their pay.

And there was Salem Hardieker,

A lean Bostonian he--

Russ, German, English, Halfbreed, Finn,

Yank, Dane, and Portugee,

At Fultah Fisher's boarding-house

They rested from the sea.

Now Anne of Austria shared their drinks,

Collinga knew her fame,

From Tarnau in Galicia

To Jaun Bazar she came,

To eat the bread of infamy

And take the wage of shame.

She held a dozen men to heel--

Rich spoil of war was hers,

In hose and gown and ring and chain,

From twenty mariners,

And, by Port Law, that week, men called

Her Salem Hardieker's.

But seamen learnt--what landsmen know--

That neither gifts nor gain

Can hold a winking Light o' Love

Or Fancy's flight restrain,

When Anne of Austria rolled her eyes

On Hans the blue-eyed Dane.

Since Life is strife, and strife means knife,

From Howrah to the Bay,

And he may die before the dawn

Who liquored out the day,

In Fultah Fishers boarding-house

We woo while yet we may.

But cold was Hans the blue-eyed Dane,

Bull-throated, bare of arm,

And laughter shook the chest beneath

The maid Ultruda's charm--

The little silver crucifix

That keeps a man from harm.

"You speak to Salem Hardieker,

You was his girl, I know.

I ship mineselfs to-morrow, see,

Und round the Skaw we go,

South, down the Cattegat, by Hjelm,

To Besser in Saro."

When love rejected turns to hate,

All ill betide the man.

"You speak to Salem Hardieker"--

She spoke as woman can.

A scream--a sob--"He called me--names!"

And then the fray began.

An oath from Salem Hardieker,

A shriek upon the stairs,

A dance of shadows on the wall,

A knife-thrust unawares--

And Hans came down, as cattle drop,

Across the broken chairs.

In Anne of Austria's trembling hands

The weary head fell low

"I ship mineselfs to-morrow, straight

For Besser in Saro;

Und there Ultruda comes to me

At Easter, und I go

"South, down the Cattegat--What's here?

There--are--no--lights--to--guide!"

The mutter ceased, the spirit passed,

And Anne of Austria cried

In Fultah Fisher's boarding-house

When Hans the mighty died.

Thus slew they Hans the blue-eyed Dane,

Bull-throated, bare of arm,

But Anne of Austria looted first

The maid Ultruda's charm--

The little silver crucifix

That keeps a man from harm.

THE FALL OF JOCK GILLESPIE

|This fell when dinner-time was done--

'Twixt the first an' the second rub--

That oor mon Jock cam' hame again

To his rooms ahint the Club.

An' syne he laughed, an' syne he sang,

An' syne we thocht him fou,

An' syne he trumped his partner's trick,

An' garred his partner rue.

-----Rudyard Kipling.

Then up and spake an elder mon,

That held the Spade its Ace--

"God save the lad! Whence comes the licht

That wimples on his face?"

An' Jock he sniggered, an' Jock he smiled,

An' ower the card-brim wunk:--

"I'm a' too fresh fra' the stirrup-peg,

May be that I am drunk."

"There's whusky brewed in Galashiels,

An' L. L. L. forbye;

But never liquor lit the low

That keeks fra' oot your eye.

"There's a thrid o' hair on your dress-coat

breast,

Aboon the heart a wee?"

"Oh! that is fra' the lang-haired Skye

That slobbers ower me."

"Oh! lang-haired Sky es are lovin' beasts,

An' terrier dogs are fair,

But never yet was terrier born,

Wi' ell-lang gowden hair!

"There's a smirch o' pouther on your breast,

Below the left lappel?"

"Oh! that is fra' my auld cigar,

Whenas the stump-end fell."

"Mon Jock, ye smoke the Trichi coarse,

For ye are short o' cash,

An' best Havannahs couldna leave

Sae white an' pure an ash.

"This nicht ye stopped a story braid,

An' stopped it wi' a curse--

Last nicht ye told that tale yoursel,

An' capped it wi' a worse!

"Oh! we're no fou! Oh! we're no fou!

But plainly we can ken

Ye're failin', failin', fra' the band

O' cantie single men!"

An' it fell when _sirris_-shaws were sere,

An' the nichts were lang and mirk,

In braw new breeks, wi' a gowden ring,

Oor Jockie gaed to the Kirk.

---Rudyard Kipling.

SOLDIER, SOLDIER

|Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

Why don't you march with my true love?"

"We're fresh from off the ship an' Vs maybe

give the slip,

An' you'd best go look for a new love."

New love! True love!

Best go look for a new love,

The dead they cannot rise, an' you'd better

dry your eyes,

An' you'd best go look for a new love.

"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

What did you see o' my true love?"

"I seed him serve the Queen in a suit o' rifle-

green,

An' you'd best go look for a new love."

"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

Did you see no more o' my true love?"

"I seed 'im runnin' by when the shots begun

to fly--

But you'd best go look for a new love."

"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

Did aught take 'arm to my true love?"

"I couldn't see the fight, for the smoke it lay

so white--

An' you'd best go look for a new love."

"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

I'll up an' tend to my true love!"

"E's lying on the dead with a bullet through 'is 'ead,

An' you'd best go look for a new love."

"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

I'll down an' die with my true love!"

"The pit we dug 'll 'ide 'im an' the twenty men

beside 'im--

An' you'd best go look for a new love."

"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

Do you bring no sign from my true love?"

"I bring a lock of hair that'e alius used to

wear,

An' you'd best go look for a new love."

"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

O then I know it's true I've lost my true love!"

"An' I tell you truth again--when you've lost

the feel o' pain

You'd best take me for your true love."

True love! New love!

Best take'im for a new love,

The dead they cannot rise, an' you'd better

dry your eyes,

An' you'd best take'im for your true love.

---Rudyard Kipling.

BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST

|Oh, _East is East, and West is West, and never

the twain shall meet,

Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great

Judgment Seat;

But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor

Breed, nor Birth,

When two strong men stand face to face, tho they

come from the ends of the earth!_

Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the

Borderside,

And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the

Colonel's pride:

He has lifted her out of the stable-door between

the dawn and the day,

And turned the calkins upon her feet, and

ridden her far away.

Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a

troop of the Guides:

"Is there never a man of all my men can say

where Kamal hides?99

Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of

the Ressaldar:

"If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye

know where his pickets are.

At dusk he harries the Abazai--at dawn he is

into Bonair,

But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place

to fare,

So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird

can fly,

By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere

he win to the Tongue of Jagai.

But if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right

swiftly turn ye then,

For the length and the breadth of that grisly

plain is sown with Kamal's men.

There is rock to the left, and rock to the right,

and low lean thorn between,

And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where

never a man is seen."

The Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw

rough dun was he,

With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell

and the head of the gallows-tree.

The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid

him stay to eat--

Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits

not long at his meat.

He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as

he can fly,

Till he was aware of his father's mare in the

gut of the Tongue of Jagai,

Till he was aware of his father's mare with

Kamal upon her back,

And when he could spy the white of her eye,

he made the pistol crack.

He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the

whistling ball went wide.

"Ye shoot like a soldier," Kamal said. "Show

now if ye can ride."

It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown

dust-devils go,

The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare

like a barren doe.

The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged

his head above,

But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars,

as a maiden plays with a glove.

There was rock to the left, and rock to the right,

and low lean thorn between,

And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho'

never a man was seen.

They have ridden the low moon out of the

sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn,

The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the

mare like a new-roused fawn.

The dun he fell at a water-course--in a woful

heap fell he,

And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and

pulled the rider free.

He has knocked the pistol out of his hand--

small room was there to strive,

"'Twas only by favour of mine," quoth he,

"ye rode so long alive:

There was not a rock for twenty mile, there

was not a clump of tree,

But covered a man of my own men with his

rifle cocked on his knee.

If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it

low,

The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting

all in a row:

If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I

have held it high,

The kite that whistles above us now were

gorged till she could not fly."

Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "Do good

to bird and beast,

But count who come for the broken meats before

thou makest a feast.

If there should follow a thousand swords to

carry my bones away,

Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more

than a thief could pay.

They will feed their horse on the standing crop,

their men on the garnered grain,

The thatch of the byres will serve their fires

when all the cattle are slain.

But if thou thinkest the price be fair,--thy

brethren wait to sup,

The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn,--howl,

dog, and call them up!

And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer

and gear and stack,

Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight

my own way back!"

Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him

upon his feet.

"No talk shall be of dogs," said he, "when

wolf and grey wolf meet.

May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or

breath;

What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at

the dawn with Death?"

Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "I hold

by the blood of my clan:

Take up the mare for my father's gift--by God,

she has carried a man!"

The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and

nuzzled against his breast;

"We be two strong men," said Kamal then,

"but she loveth the younger best.

So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my

turquoise studded rein,

My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver

stirrups twain."

The Colonel's son a pistol drew and held it

muzzle-end,

"Ye have taken the one from a foe," said he;

"will ye take the mate from a friend?"

"A gift for a gift," said Kamal straight; "a

limb for the risk of a limb.

Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my

son to him!"

With that he whistled his only son, that dropped

from a mountain-crest--

He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he

looked like a lance in rest.

"Now here is thy master," Kamal said, "who

leads a troop of the Guides,

And thou must ride at his left side as shield on

shoulder rides.

Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and

board and bed,

Thy life is his--thy fate it is to guard him with

thy head.

So, thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and

all her foes are thine,

And thou must harry thy fathers hold for the

peace of the Border-line,

And thou must make a trooper tough and hack

thy way to power--

Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I

am hanged in Peshawur,"

They have looked each other between the eyes,

and there they found no fault,

They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-

Blood, on leavened bread and salt:

They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-

Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod,

On the hilt and the haft of the Kyber knife, and

the Wondrous Names of God.

The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's

boy the dun,

And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where

there went forth but one.

And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full

twenty swords flew clear--

There was not a man but carried his feud with

the blood of the mountaineer.

"Ha' done! ha' done!" said the Colonel's son.

"Put up the steel at your sides!

Last night ye had struck at a Border thief--to-

night'tis a man of the Guides!"

_Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never

the twain shall meet,

Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great

Judgment Seat;

But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor

Breed, nor Birth,

When two strong men stand face to face, tho they

come from the ends of the earth_

----Rudyard Kipling.

THE LADY OF SEVILLA

_In the city of Sevilla,

Years and years ago--

Dwelt a lady in a villa

Years and years ago._

"Magdalene," _Revelations of Peter Brown_,

by J. F. Waller.

|In the city of Sevilla,

Years and years ago,

Lived a lady in a villa,

Ah,'twas long ago.

And her lips were cherries ripe

Years and years ago,

And her eyes were like the night

Long ago.

All the gallants of Sevilla,

Years and years ago,

Loved the lady of the villa,

Ah,'twas long ago.

But their foolish hearts were broken,

Years and years ago,

For she scorned their true love tokens

Long ago.

Far away from fair Sevilla,

Years and years ago;

Far from city, town, and villa,

Ah,'twas long ago.

Sailed a ship across the ocean

Years and years ago,

And the lady's heart was broken,

Years and years ago.

----Gratiana Chanter.

IRISH BALLADS

THE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE

|July the first of a morning fair

In seventeen ninety famous,

King William did- his men prepare

To fight with false King Shamus.

King James he pitched his tents between

The lines for to retire;

But King William threw his bomb-balls in

And set them all on fire.

Thereat revenge the Irish vowed

Upon King William's forces,

And vehemently with cries did crowd

To check their forward courses.

A ball from out their batteries Hew

As our King he faced their fire;

His shoulder-knot away it shot,

Quoth he, "Pray come no nigher!"

Then straight his officers he did call,

Saying, "Gentlemen, mind your station,

And prove your valour one and all

Before this Irish nation.

My brazen walls let no man break,

And your subtle foes you'll scatter;

Let us show them to-day good English play,

As we go over the water."

Then horse and foot we marched amain,

Resolved their ranks to batter;

But the brave Duke Schomberg he was slain,

As we went over the water.

Then King William cried, "Feel no dismay

At the losing of one commander,

For God shall be our king to-day,

And I'll be general under."

Then stoutly we Boyne river crossed

To give the Irish battle;

Our cannon to his dreadful cost

Like thunder-claps did rattle.

In majestic mien our Prince rode o'er,

The stream ran red with slaughter

As with blow and shout we put to rout

Our enemies over the water.

----Anon. Adapted by A. P. Graves.

SHULE AGRA

|His hair was black, his eye was blue,

His arm was stout, his word was true;

I wish in my heart I was with you.

Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun! *

Shule, shule, shule agra! **

Only death can ease my woe,

Since the lad of my heart from me did go,

Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!

'Tis oft I sat on my true love's knee,

Many a fond story he told to me,

He told me things that ne'er shall be,

Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun.

Shule, shule, shule agra!

Only death can ease my woe,

Since the lad of my heart from me did go,

Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!

* Farewell, my darling. ** Come, come, my love!

I sold my rock, * I sold my reel; **

When my flax was spun, I sold my wheel,

To buy my love a sword of steel,

Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!

Shule, shule, shule agra!

Only death can ease my woe,

Since the lad of my heart from me did go,

Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun.

But when King James was forced to flee,

The Wild Geesef spread their wings to sea,

And bore mabouchal *** far from me,

Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!

Shule, shule, shule agra!

Only death can ease my woe,

Since the lad of my heart from me did go,

Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!

I saw them sail from Brandon Hill,

Then down I sat and cried my fill,

That every tear would turn a mill,

Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!

Shule, shule, shule agra!

Only death can ease my woe,

Since the lad of my heart from me did go,

Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!

* _Two parts of Irish spinning wheel.

** Irish Jacobites who joined the French army when the

cause of James II. was lost.

*** My boy._

I wish the King would return to reign,

And bring my true love back again;

I wish, and wish, but I wish in vain,

Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!

Shule, shule, shule agra!

Only death can ease my woe,

Since the lad of my heart from me did go,

Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!

Ill dye my petticoat, I'll dye it red, *

And round the world I'll beg my bread,

Till I find my love alive or dead,

Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!,

Shule, shule, shule agra!

Only death can ease my woe,

Since the lad of my heart from me did go,

Go-thee-thu, mavourneen slaun!

---Anon. Adapted by A. P. Graves.

THE NIGHT BEFORE LARRY WAS STRETCHED

|The night before Larry was stretched,

The boys they all paid him a visit;

A bit in their sacks too they fetched,

They sweated their duds till they riz it;

* Beggars of those days were required by the law to wear red petticoats.

For Larry was always the lad,

When a friend was condemned to the squeezer,

But he'd fence all the togs that he had

Just to help the poor boy to a sneezer,

And moisten his gob 'fore he died.

"'Pon my conscience, dear Larry," says I,

"I'm sorry to see you in trouble,

Your life's cheerful noggin run dry,

And yourself going off like its bubble."

"Hould your tongue in that matter," says he;

"For the neckcloth I don't care a button,

And by this time to-morrow you'll see

Your Larry will be dead as mutton:

All for what?'Kase his courage was good."

The boys they came crowding in fast;

They drew their stools close round about him.

Six glims round his coffin they placed;

He couldn't be well waked without 'em.

I axed if he was fit for to die,

Without having duly repented?

Says Larry, "That's all in my eye,

And all by the clergy invented

To make a fat bit for themselves."

Then the cards being called for, they played,

Till Larry found one of them cheated.

Quick! he made a hard rap at his head,--

The lad being easily heated.

"So ye chates me because I'm in grief;

O, is that, by the Holy, the rason?

Soon I'll give you to know, you d-d thief,

That you're cracking your jokes out of sason,

And scuttle your nob with my fist."

Then in came the priest with his book,

He spoke him so smooth and so civil,

Larry tipped him a Kilmainham look,

And pitched his big wig to the divil.

Then raising a little his head

To get a sweet drop of the bottle,

And pitiful sighing, he said,

"O, the hemp will be soon round my throttle,

And choke my poor windpipe to death!"

So mournful these last words he spoke,

We all vented our tears in a shower;

For my part I thought my heart broke

To see him cut down like a flower.

On his travels we watched him next day -9

O, the hangman, I thought I could kill him!

Not one word did our poor Larry say,

Nor changed till he came to "King William."

Och, my dear, thin his colour turned

white.

When he came to the nubbling chit,

He was tucked up so neat and so pretty;

The rumbler jogged off with his feet,

And he died with his face to the city.

He kicked, too, but that was all pride,

For soon you might see 'twas all over;

And as soon as the noose was untied,

Then at darky we waked him in clover,

And sent him to take a ground sweat.

THE PATRIOT MOTHER

|Come, tell us the name of the rebelly crew,

Who lifted the pike on the Curragh with you

Come, tell us the treason, and then you'll be free,

Or right quickly you'll swing from the high

gallows tree."

''_Alarma! Alanna!_ the shadow of shame

Has never yet fallen upon one of your name,

And oh! may the food from my bosom you

drew,

In your veins turn to poison, if _you_ turn untrue.

"The foul words--oh! let them not blacken

your tongue,

That would prove to your friends and your

country a wrong,

Or the curse of a mother, so bitter and dread,

With the wrath of the Lord--may they fall on

your head!

"I have no one but you in the whole world

wide,

Yet false to your pledge, you'd ne'er stand at

my side:

If a traitor you liv'd, you'd be farther away

From my heart than, if true, you were wrapp'd

in the clay.

"Oh! deeper and darker the mourning would be,

For your falsehood so base, than your death

proud and free,

Dearer, far dearer than ever to me,

My darling, you'll be on the brave gallows tree.

"'Tis holy, agra, from the bravest and best--

Go! go! from my heart, and be join'd with

the rest,

_Alanna, machree! O Alanita, machree!_

Sure a 'stag' * and a traitor you never will be."

There's no look of a traitor upon the young brow

That's raised to the tempters so haughtily now;

No traitor e'er held up the firm head so high--

No traitor e'er show'd such a proud flashing eye.

On the high gallows tree! on the brave gallows

tree!

Where smil'd leaves and blossoms, his sad doom

met he!

But it never bore blossom so pure or so fair,

As the heart of the martyr that hangs from it

there.

* "_Stag_," an informer.

THE LAKE OF COOLFIN

|To the Lake of Coolfin the companions soon came,

And the first man they met was the keeper of

game:--

"Turn back Willy Leonard, return back again;

There is deep and false water in the Lake of

Coolfin!"

Young Willy plunged in, and he swam the lake

round;

He swam to an island--'twas soft marshy ground:

"O, comrade, dear comrade, do not venture in;

There is deep and false water in the Lake of

Coolfin!"

'Twas early that morning his sister arose;

And up to her mother's bed-chamber she goes:--

"O, I dreamed a sad dream about Willy last

night;

He was dressed in a shroud--in a shroud of

snow-white!"

'Twas early that morning his mother came there;

She was wringing her hands--she was tearing

her hair.

O, woful the hour your dear Willy plunged in:--

There is deep and false water in the Lake of

Coolfin!

And I saw a fair maid, standing fast by the shore;

Her face it was pale--she was weeping full sore;

In deep anguish she gazed where young Willy

plunged in:--

Ah! there's deep and false water in the Lake of

Coolfin!

_Old Ballad. Recomposed by_ P. W. Joyce.

BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE

|By that Lake, whose gloomy shore

Skylark never warbles o'er,

Where the cliff hangs high and steep,

Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.

"Here, at least," he calmly said,

"Woman ne'er shall find my bed."

Ah! the good Saint little knew

What that wily sex can do.

'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew,--

Eyes of most unholy blue!

She had lov'd him well and long,

Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong.

Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly,

Still he heard her light foot nigh;

East or west, where'er he turn'd,

Still her eyes before him burn'd.

On the bold cliff's bosom cast,

Tranquil now he sleeps at last;

Dreams of heav'n, nor thinks that e'er

Woman's smile can haunt him there.

But nor earth nor heaven is free

From her power, if fond she be:

Even now, while calm he sleeps,

Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.

Fearless she had track'd his feet

To this rocky, wild retreat;

And when morning met his view,

Her mild glances met it too.

Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts!

Sternly from his bed he starts,

And with rude, repulsive shock,

Hurls her from the beetling rock.

Glendalough, thy gloomy wave

Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave!

Soon the Saint (yet ah! too late,)

Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate.

When he said, "Heav'n rest her soul!"

Round the Lake light music stole;

And her ghost was seen to glide,

Smiling o'er the fatal tide.

----T. Moore.

THE HIGH-BORN LADY

|In vain all the knights of the Underwald woo'd

her,

Though brightest of maidens, the proudest

was she;

Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels

they sued her,

But worthy were none of the high-born ladye.

"Whomsoever I wed," said this maid, so

excelling,

"That knight must the conqu'ror of con-

querors be;

He must place me in halls fit for monarchs to

dwell in;--

None else shall be Lord of the high-born

ladye!"

Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking

round her

On knights and on nobles of highest degree,

Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her,

And worshipp'd at distance the high-born

ladye.

At length came a knight, from a far land to woo

her,

With plumes on his helm like the foam of the

sea;

His vizor was down--but, with voice that thrill'd

through her,

He whisper'd his vows to the high-born ladye.

"Proud maiden! I come with high spousals to

grace thee;

In me the great conqu'ror of conquerors see;

Enthron'd in a hall fit for monarch s I'll place

thee,

And mine thou'st for ever, thou high-born

ladye!"

The maiden she smiled, and in jewels array'd her,

Of thrones and tiaras already dreamed she;

And proud was the step, as her bridegroom

convey'd her

In pomp to his home, of that high-born ladye.

"But whither," she, starting, exclaims, "have

you led me?

Here's nought but a tomb and a dark cypress

tree;

Is _this_ the bright palace in which thou would'st

wed me?"

With scorn in her glance said the high-born

ladye.

"'Tis the home," he replied, "of earth's

loftiest creatures"--

Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see;

But she sunk on the ground--'twas a skeleton's

features,

And Death was the lord of the high-born

ladye!

----T. Moore.

THE MAIDEN CITY

|Where Foyle his swelling waters

Rolls northward to the main,

There, queen of Erin's daughters,

Fair Derry fixed her reign;

A holy temple crowned her,?

And commerce graced her street,

A rampart wall was round her,

The river at her feet;

And here she sat alone, boys,

And, looking from the hill,

Vowed the Maiden on her throne, boys,

Should be a Maiden still.

From Antrim crossing over,

In famous eighty-eight,

A plumed and belted lover

Came to the Ferry Gate.

She summoned to defend her

Our sires,--a beardless race,--

They shouted, No surrender!

And slammed it in his face.

Then in a quiet tone, boys,

They told him 'twas their will

That the Maiden on her throne, boys,

Should be a Maiden still.

Next, crushing all before him,

A kingly wooer came;

(The royal banner o'er him

Blushed crimson deep for shame;)

He showed the Pope's commission,

Nor dreamed to be refused;

She pitied his condition,

But begged to stand excused.

In short, the fact is known, boys,

She chased him from the hill,

For the Maiden on the throne, boys,

Would be a Maiden still.

On our brave sires descending,

'Twas then the tempest broke,

Their peaceful dwellings rending,

'Mid blood and flame and smoke.

That hallowed grave-yard yonder,

Swells with the slaughtered dead,--

O brothers, pause and ponder!

It was for us they bled;

And while their gifts we own, boys,

The fane that tops the hill,

O, the Maiden on her throne, boys,

Shall be a Maiden still!

Nor wily tongue shall move us,

Nor tyrant arm affright;

We'll look to One above us,

Who ne'er forsook the right;

Who will may crouch and tender

The birthright of the free,

But, brothers, No surrender,

No compromise for me!

We want no barrier stone, boys,

No gates to guard the hill,

Yet the Maiden on her throne, boys,

Shall be a Maiden still.

----Charlotte Elizabeth (_Tonna_).

SIR TURLOUGH; OR, THE CHURCHYARD BRIDE

|The bride, she bound her golden hair--

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

And her step was light as the breezy air

When it bends the morning flowers so fair,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

And oh, but her eyes they danc'd so bright,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

As she longed for the dawn of to-morrow's

light,

Her bridal vows of love to plight,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

The bridegroom is come with youthful brow,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

To receive from his Eva her virgin vow;

"Why tarries the bride of my bosom now?"

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

A cry! a cry!'twas her maidens spoke,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

"Your bride is asleep--she has not awoke,

And the sleep she sleeps will never be broke,"

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

Sir Turlough sank down with a heavy moan,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

And his cheek became like the marble stone--

"Oh, the pulse of my heart is for ever gone!"

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

The keen is loud, it comes again,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

And rises sad from the funeral train,

As in sorrow it winds along the plain,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

And oh, but the plumes of white were fair,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

When they flutter'd all mournful in the air

As rose the hymn of the requiem prayer,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

There is a voice that but one can hear,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

And it softly pours from behind the bier,

Its note of death on Sir Turlough's ear,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

The keen is loud, but that voice is low,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

And it sings its song of sorrow slow,

And names young Turlough's name with woe,,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

Now the grave is closed, and the mass is said,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

And the bride she sleeps in her lonely bed,

The fairest corpse among the dead,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

The wreaths of virgin-white are laid,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

By virgin hands o'er the spotless maid;

And the flowers are strewn, but they soon

will fade,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

"Oh! go not yet--not yet away,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

Let us feel that _life_ is near our clay,"

The long-departed seem to say,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

But the tramp and voices of _life_ are gone,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

And beneath each cold forgotten stone,

The mouldering dead sleep all alone,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

But who is he who lingereth yet?

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

The fresh green sod with his tears is wet,

And his heart in that bridal grave is set,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

Oh, who but Sir Turlough, the young and

brave,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

Should bend him o'er that bridal grave,

And to his death-bound Eva rave,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

"Weep not--weep not," said a lady fair,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

"Should youth and valour thus despair,

And pour their vows to the empty air?"

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

There's charmed music upon her tongue,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

Such beauty--bright and warm and young--

Was never seen the maids among,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

A laughing light, a tender grace,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

Sparkled in beauty around her face,

That grief from mortal heart might chase,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

"The maid for whom thy salt tears fall,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

Thy grief or love can ne'er recall;

She rests beneath that grassy pall,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

"My heart it strangely cleaves to thee,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

And now that thy plighted love is free,

Give its unbroken pledge to me,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy."

The charm is strong upon Turlough's eye,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

His faithless tears are already dry,.

And his yielding heart has ceased to sigh,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

"To thee," the charmed chief replied,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

"I pledge that love o'er my buried bride!

Oh! come, and in Turlough's hall abide,"

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

Again the funeral voice came o'er

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

The passing breeze, as it wailed before,

And streams of mournful music bore,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

"If I to thy youthful heart am dear,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

One month from hence thou wilt meet me here

Where lay thy bridal, Eva's bier,"

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

He pressed her lips as the words were spoken;

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

And his _banshee's_ wail--now far and broken--

Murmur'd "Death," as he gave the token,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

"Adieu! adieu!" said this lady bright,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

And she slowly passed like a thing of light,

Or a morning cloud, from Sir Turlough's sight,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

Now Sir Turlough has death in every vein,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

And there's fear and grief o'er his wide domain,

And gold for those who will calm his brain,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

"Come, haste thee, leech, right swiftly ride,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

Sir Turlough the brave, Green Truagha's

pride,

Has pledged his love to the churchyard bride,"

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

The leech groaned loud, "Come, tell me this,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

By all thy hopes of weal and bliss,

Has Sir Turlough given the fatal kiss?"

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

"The banshee's cry is loud and long,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

At eve she weeps her funeral song,

And it floats on the twilight breeze along,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

"Then the fatal kiss is given;--the last,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

Of Turlough's race and name is past,

His doom is seal'd, his die is cast,"

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

"Leech, say not that thy skill is vain,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

Oh, calm the power of his frenzied brain,

And half his lands thou shalt retain,"

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

The leech has fail'd, and the hoary priest,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

With pious shrift his soul releas'd,

And the smoke is high of his funeral feast.

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

The Shanachies now are assembled all,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

And the songs of praise, in Sir Turlough's hall,

To the sorrowing harp's dark music fall,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

And there is trophy, banner, and plume,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

And the pomp of death, with its darkest gloom,

O'ershadows the Irish chieftain's tomb,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

The month is clos'd, and Green Truagha's pride,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

Is married to death--and, side by side,

He slumbers now with his churchyard bride,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

----W. Carleton,

THE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK

|The evening star rose beauteous above the

fading day,

As to the lone and silent beach the Virgin came

to pray,

And hill and wave shone brightly in the moon-

light's mellow fall;

But the bank of green where Mary knelt was

brightest of them all.

Slow moving o'er the waters, a gallant bark

appear'd,

And her joyous crew look'd from the deck as to

the land she near'd;

To the calm and shelter'd haven she floated like

a swan,

And her wings of snow o'er the waves below

in pride and beauty shone.

The master saw our Lady as he stood upon the

prow,

And mark'd the whiteness of her robe and the

radiance of her brow;

Her arms were folded gracefully upon her stain-

less breast,

And her eyes look'd up among the stars to Him

her soul lov'd best.

He show'd her to his sailors, and he hail'd her

with a cheer,

And on the kneeling Virgin they gazed with

laugh and jeer;

And madly swore, a form so fair they never saw

before;

And they curs'd the faint and lagging breeze

that kept them from the shore.

The ocean from its bosom shook off the moon-

light sheen,

And up its wrathful billows rose to vindicate

their Queen;

And a cloud came o'er the heavens, and a dark-

ness o'er the land,

And the scoffing crew beheld no more that Lady

on the strand.

Out burst the pealing thunder, and the light'ning

leap'd about,

And rushing with his watery war, the tempest

gave a shout,

And that vessel from a mountain wave came

down with thund'ring shock,

And her timbers flew like scatter'd spray on

Inchidony's rock.

Then loud from all that guilty crew one shriek

rose wild and high.

But the angry surge swept over them and

hush'd their gurgling cry;

And with a hoarse exulting tone the tempest

passed away,

And down, still chafing from their strife, the

indignant waters lay.

When the calm and purple morning shone out

on high Dunmore,

Full many a mangled corpse was seen on Inchi-

dony's shore;

And to this day the fisherman shows where the

scoffers sank,

And still he calls that hillock green, "the

Virgin Mary's bank."

----J. J. Callanan.

CAROLAN AND BRIDGET CRUISE

|True love can ne'er forget;

Fondly as when we met,

Dearest, I love thee yet,

My darling one!"

Thus sung a minstrel gray,

His sweet impassion'd lay,

Down by the ocean's spray,

At set of sun;

But wither'd was the minstrel's sight,

Morn to him was dark as night,

Yet his heart was full of light;

As he his lay begun.

"True love can ne'er forget;

Fondly as when we met,

Dearest, I love thee yet,

My darling one!

Long years are past and o'er,

Since from this fatal shore,

Cold hearts and cold winds bore

My love from me."

Scarcely the minstrel spoke,

When quick, with flashing stroke,

A boat's light oar the silence broke

O'er the sea;

Soon upon her native strand

Doth a lovely lady land,

While the minstrel's love-taught hand

Did o'er his wild harp run--

"True love can ne'er forget;

Fondly as when we met,

Dearest, I love thee yet,

My darling one!"

Where the minstrel sat alone,

There, that lady fair hath gone,

Within his hand she placed her own,--

The bard dropp'd on his knee;

From his lips soft blessings came,

He kiss'd her hand with truest flame,

In trembling tones he named--her name,

Though he could not see.

But oh! the touch the bard could tell

Of that dear hand, remember'd well,--

Ah! by many a secret spell

Can true love find her own!

For true love can ne'er forget,

Fondly as when they met,

He loved his lady yet,--

His darling one. ----S. Lover.

THE O'KAVANAGH

I.

|The Saxons had met, and the banquet was

spread,

And the wine in fleet circles the jubilee led;

And the banners that hung round the festal that

night,

Seemed brighter by far than when lifted in fight.

II.

In came the O'Kavanagh, fair as the morn,

When earth to new beauty and vigour is born;

They shrank from his glance like the waves

from the prow,

For nature's nobility sat on his brow.

III.

Attended alone by his vassal and bard;

No trumpet to herald--no clansmen to guard--

He came not attended by steed or by steel:

No danger he knew, for no fear did he feel.

IV.

In eye and on lip his high confidence smiled--

So proud, yet so knightly--so gallant, yet mild;

He moved like a god through the light of that

hall,

And a smile, full of courtliness, proffered to all.

V.

"Come pledge us, lord chieftain! come pledge

us!" they cried;

Unsuspectingly free to the pledge he replied;

And this was the peace-branch O'Kavanagh

bore--

"The friendships to come, not the feuds that

are o'er."

VI.

But, minstrel! why cometh a change o'er thy

theme?

Why sing of red battle--what dream dost thou

dream?

Ha! "Treason"'s the cry, and "Revenge" is

the call!

As the swords of the Saxon surrounded the

hall.

VII.

A kingdom for Angelo's mind! to portray

Green Erin's undaunted avenger, that day;

The far-flashing sword, and the death-darting

eye,

Like some comet commissioned with wrath from

the sky.

VIII.

Through the ranks of the Saxon he hewed his

red way--

Through lances, and sabres, and hostile array;

And, mounting his charger, he left them to tell

The tale of that feast, and its bloody farewell!

IX.

And now on the Saxons his clansmen advance,

With a shout from each heart, and a soul in each

lance.

He rushed, like a storm, o'er the night-covered

heath,

And swept through their ranks, like the angel of

death.

Then hurrah! for thy glory, young chieftain,

hurrah!

Oh! had we such lightning-souled heroes to-

day,

Again would our "Sunburst" * expand in the

gale,

And freedom exult o'er the green Innisfail.

----J. A. Shea.

* Irish national banner.

THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE

|The joy-bells are ringing

In gay Malahide,

The fresh wind is singing

Along the sea-side;

The maids are assembling

With garlands of flowers,

And the harpstrings are trembling

In all the glad bowers.

Swell, swell the gay measure!

Roll trumpet and drum!

'Mid greetings of pleasure

In splendour they come!