Chapter VI: Part II: The Summer Palace stood by night (4)

Till the huge rocks melt in doomsday flame,

By wild Kilbrannon shore.

----R. D. Joyce.

THE GREEN DOVE AND THE RAVEN

|There was a dove with wings of green,

Glistening o'er so radiantly,

With head of blue and golden sheen,

All sad and wearily

Sitting two red blooms between

On lovely Barna's wild-wood tree.

There was a letter 'neath its wing,

Written by a fair ladye,

Safely bound with silken string

So light and daintily,

And in that letter was a ring,

On lovely Barna's wild-wood tree.

There was a raven, black and drear,

Stained with blood all loathsomely,

Perched upon the branches near,

Croaking mournfully,

And he said, "O dove, what bring'st thou here

To lovely Barna's wild-wood tree?"

"I'm coming from a ladye gay,

To the young heir of sweet Glenore,

His ring returned, it is to say

She'll never love him more,--

Alas the hour! alas the day! --

By murmuring Funcheon's fairy shore."

"O dove, outspread thy wings of green;

I'll guide thee many a wild-wood o'er;

I'll bring thee where I last have seen

The young heir of Glenore,

Beneath the forest's sunless screen,

By murmuring Funcheon's fairy shore."

O'er many a long mile did they flee,

The dove, the raven stained with gore,

And found beneath the murderer's tree

The young heir of Glenore,--

A bloody, ghastly corpse was he,

By murmuring Funcheon's fairy shore.

"Go back, go back, thou weary dove,--

To the cruel maid tell o'er and o'er,

He's death's and mine, her hate or love

Can never reach him more--

To his ice-cold heart in Molagga's grove,

By murmuring Funcheon's fairy shore."

----R. D. Joyce.

MANNIX THE COINER

|Mannix the coiner and Neville the Piper--

Rebels and outlaws, jolly as thrushes;

They lived in a lane where they had a great

reign

Of piping and coining, and drinking like

fishes.

Neville he swore, with wild fury,

That Mannix should share with him half the

prog;

Then Mannix jump'd up, in a hurry,

And sent off the wife for a gallon of grog.

"Well done!" said the piper; "Play up!" said

the coiner,

"We've gold in our pockets and grog on the

brain;

The _law_ and the gallows are made in the

palace,

While we, who defy them, rejoice in the

lane!"

When the grog was brought in, they soon

_swiggd_ it,

And Neville then _rasp'd_ up another gay tune,

And bold Mannix merrily jigg'd it,

As brisk as a bee in the meadows of June.

"Well done!" said the piper--"Play up!" said

the coiner,

"We are the _boys_ that can _live everywhere!_

Life, without fun, is like spring without sun--

So we'll _flash_ it away, and the devil may care!

"Those guineas--whoever may take'em--

Are but flying tokens to worldly fools lent,

And I am the _boy_ that can make'em,

As bright as e'er came from the Sassenach

mint!"

"Well done!" said the piper--"Play up!" said

the coiner,

"My _golden character_ I'll always maintain!

And, compared with the schemers who rule and

befool us,

We're real honest men and good _boys_ in the

lane!"

Then Mannix put fire to his grisset,

And out of his mould he shook many a _shiner_,

But ere he had time to impress it,

In _roll'd_ the peelers and snaffled the coiner,

So there was an end to the piping and coining,

And a ruction was kick'd up, but no one was

slain,--

"I'm done!" said the coiner--"Cheer up," said

the piper,

"Fortune will favour the brave in the lane."

"We have you, at last!" cried the peelers,

"Tho' many a day we have chased you in vain!"

"Then," said Mannix, "your dungeons and jailors

May all be high hang'd--and farewell to the

lane!"

Then off ran the coiner, and loud laughed the

piper,

As his friend disappear'd thro' night's darkness

and rain,

Like a shaft from a quiver, he plung'd o'er the

river,

And left the bold peelers befool'd in the lane.

----M. Hogan.

MY MAURIA NI MILLEÔN

|Will you come where golden furze I mow,

My Mauria ni Milleôn?"

'To bind for you I'd gladly go,

My Bliss on Earth, mine own.

To chapel, too, I would repair,

Though not to aid my soul in prayer,

But just to gazé with rapture where

You stand, _mo buchal baun_" *

"Will you rove the garden glades with me,

O Flower of Maids, alone?"

"What wondrous scenes therein to see,

My Bliss on Earth, mine own?"

"The apples from green boughs to strike,

To watch the trout leap from the lake,

And caress a pretty _cailin_ ** like

My Mauria ni Milleôn.

"Will you seek with me the dim church aisle,

O Mauria ni Milleôn?"

"What pleasant scenes to see the while,

My Bliss on Earth, mine own?"

"We'd list the chanting voice and prayer

Of foreign pastor preaching there,

O, we'd finish the marriage with my fair

White Flower of Maids alone."

* _Mo buchal baun_, my fair boy. ** _Cailin_, maiden.

She sought the dim church aisle with me,

My Bliss on Earth, most fair!

She sought the dim church aisle with me,

O grief! O burning care!

I plunged my glittering, keen-edged blade

In the bosom of that loving maid,

Till gushed her heart's blood, warm and red,

Down on the cold ground there.

"Alas! what deed is this you do?

My Bliss on Earth, _mo store!_ *

What woful deed is this you do,

O youth whom I adore?

Ah, spare our child and me, my love,

And the seven lands of earth I'll rove

Ere cause of grief to you I prove

For ever--ever more."

I bore her to the mountain peak,

The Flower of Maids, so lone!

I bore her to the mountain bleak,

My thousand woes, _mo vrone._ **

I cast my _cota_ *** round her there,

And,'mid the murky mists of air,

I fled with bleeding feet and bare

From Mauria ni Milleon.

---Anon. Translated by G. Sigerson.

* _Mo store_, my treasure. ** _Mo vrone_, my grief.

*** _Cota_, the long frieze great-coat of the peasantry.

THE LADYE'S ROCK

|A faery dwells in a cove by the sea,

Stately as maiden of high degree;

And ever and aye by night and by day

She carols a melody clear and free.

Many a stout and stalwart knight

She has tempted over the waters bright:

With dance and with song she has led them

along

To the deadly realms of endless night.

And it befell one noontide hour

(Dark was the sky with a glooming shower!)

A gallant knight his troth did plight

To a fair ladye in a lonely tower.

"Sir Knight, Sir Knight!" said the proud

ladye,

"Haste to the faery who dwells by the sea;

And tryst at the Scar with the evening star--

So shall I prove thy love to me."

He mounted his charger, and gallop'd away

By down and valley and cove and bay:

He chaunted a song as he cantered along

By the dismal coast at close of day.

The wind blew fresh and the foam ran high;

Naught he heard but the seamew's cry,

Till he came to the cave by the crisping wave

Where the billow lies calm and the breezes die.

There, over the sea-weed and over the shells

And the tufted glens and the heathery dells,

O'er cave and dale, in the twilight pale,

The blissful melody floats and swells.

The knight grew faint as he ambled along,

And his heart beat high to the charmed song;

Never thought he of the lorn ladye

As he tript the pebbles and shells among.

The Faery stood in a curve of the sand,

And she waved to the Knight with her delicate

hand,

And on to a light on the waters bright

She pointed afar with her silvery wand.

(Her tresses are dark as the tangle that lies

In the calm blue deep at the red sunrise,

And they never have rest on her beautiful

breast,

That heaves and falls as the melody sighs.)

The fickle Knight follow'd her pearl-white feet,

For his bosom was thrill'd with the roundel sweet;

She stept on the sea with frolic and glee,

And he spurr'd his charger dark and fleet.

A meadow it seem'd, the bright green sea,

It seem'd a level and flowery lea;

Nor foam nor spray was dash'd away,

As the good steed over the tide did flee.

On to an isle of purple light

The Faery led him with rapid flight;

She waved her hand, she poised her wand,

And the billows roll'd over the faithless Knight.

Ah, what will become of the sweet ladye

Who prays for her lover on bended knee

By the pointed Scar that looms afar

O'er tarn and turret and winding lea?

She heard a hoof-pace faint and far,

As she pored on the pallid evening star.

Through the distant dell arose and fell

The clattering hoofs of a steed of war.

She sprang to her feet; she clomb the Scar;

And watch'd for the galloping steed of war,

As the sound came near both loud and clear

From the wood lying under the evening star.

Lo, to the tarn a horseman sped;

Pale was his face and his eyes were dead;

He lifted his spear as he gallop'd anear,

And on and on the phantom fled!

O wildly cried the lorn ladye,

And tore her tresses that floated free,

Then madly leapt to the tarn that slept

Under the cliff by the winding lea.

And oft when the sad pale evening star

Touches the tip of the rifted Scar,

A maiden's cry comes shuddering by,

And wakes the echoings near and far.

---E. J. Armstrong.

THE WRECK OFF MIZEN-HEAD

I.

|O, who could lie a-snoring

Or who carousing be

While such a storm is roaring

And raving o'er the sea?...

A Ship to death is drifting.

Faint hands in prayer uplifting,

With hearts in anguish failing,

The wives and mothers, wailing,

Look out from cliff and lea;

And beacon-fires are glowing,

And, fierce and fiercer growing,

The sleety blasts are blowing

O'er rock and roof and tree.

Come out from giddy dances

And songs and vain romances

And idle dreams and trances,

And man the boat with me.

II.

"Come down while thunders deaden

The minute-guns afar,

And the lightnings as they redden

Make pale the signal's star;

Come down where waves are leaping

And the stricken folk stand weeping,

Our gallant boat uncover,

And through the wet sand shove her,

And speed her o'er the bar;

For though she's but a light one,

For such a sea a slight one,

She's a trim one and a tight one,

And where to-night is he

Whose yearning would not waken

To help the lives forsaken?

Come down with hearts unshaken,

And brave the deep with me!"

III.

So Guy the ever-daring

One fierce September night,

While beacon-fires were flaring

Along the Mizen's height--

As I, from pastimes shrinking,

Of Rose's scorn was thinking--

Cried, all at once upspringing

'Mid dance and mirth and singing

And games and laughters light;

And Hugh the eager-hearted

Out to the portal darted,

And Wolfe and Wilfred started

And Donald, Ralph, and I;

And, prayers and sweet imploring

From maiden lips ignoring,

With spirits wildly soaring

We faced the seas and sky.

IV.

As down the beach descending

We drave the quivering boat,

A gleam of moonlight, rending

The darkness, showed afloat

The labouring Vessel, shattered,

With tackle rent and tattered,

Amid the tempest heaving,

Her course to ruin cleaving;

Then fast the surf we smote,

And, boldly toward her steering,

Still Guy our courage cheering,

The deadly breakers clearing,

We strained across the tide;

And on,'mid lightnings gleaming,--

The winds about us screaming,

The rain in rivers streaming,--

We struggled to her side.

V.

The Vessel still to seaward

Came drifting down the bay,

And, steering into leeward

In surf and rain and spray,

Athwart her sides we floated;

And there on deck we noted,

With faces outward gazing,

Their piteous hands upraising

As all forlorn they lay,

A helpless band together

(Like birds in wintry weather

With feather pressed to feather

Close huddled from the blast);

A moment, weirdly flashing,

We saw them,'mid the lashing

Of billows wildly dashing

O'er bulwark, deck and mast.

VI.

Four times we all but touched her,

Four times adrift were flung,

The fifth I sprang and clutched her,

And leech-like there I clung;

And thus to Guy's enclasping,

With one arm tightly grasping,

Those famished forms I lowered,

Till, well-nigh overpowered,

I trembled where I hung.

Then Guy and Wilfred, straining,

New strength from victory gaining,

Drew down the last remaining,

Till all were safely stowed;

And shoreward with our treasure,

All pain transformed to pleasure,

With oars in mirthful measure

At break of dawn we rowed.

VII.

Ay, well do I remember

The morning stormy-bright

That dawn of wild September,

As through the breakers white

We rowed the brave boat laden

With man and babe and maiden,

While o'er the sandy spaces,

The dawn-beams on their faces,

Looked out with straining sight

The crowd that there had waited,

Each heart with anguish freighted,

As slow the storm abated

Along the Brittas strand;

And how they cheered us, rending

The winds, as slow ascending,

Beneath our burthens bending,

We waded to the land;

VIII.

And when the last was landed,

And homeward faint and cold

We turned, how, eager-handed,

(Guy leading as of old),

High on their shoulders proudly

They set me, cheering loudly,

And bore me on, declaring

The triumph of my daring;--

And how my love I told

That eve amid the gloaming

To Rose as we were roaming

Where Aughrim stream was foaming,

And how she smiled and sighed,

And,'mid the sunset's splendour,

Laying her white hand slender

In mine in love's surrender,

My prayer no more denied.

----G. F. Savage-Armstrong.

The Sailor Girl

|When the Wild Geese were flying to Flanders

away,

I clung to my Desmond beseeching him stay,

But the stern trumpet sounded the summons to

sea,

And afar the ship bore him, _Mabouchal machree_.*

And first he sent letters, and then he sent none,

And three times into prison I dreamt he was

thrown;

So I shore my long tresses, and stain'd my face

brown,

And went for a sailor from Limerick Town.

* My heart's own boy.

Oh! the ropes cut my fingers, but steadfast I

strove,

Till I reached the Low Country in search of my

love.

There I heard how at Namur his heart was so

high,

That they carried him captive, refusing to fly.

With that to King William himself I was

brought,

And his mercy for Desmond with tears I be-

sought.

He considered my story, then smiling, says he,

"The young Irish rebel for your sake is free.

"Bring the varlet before us. Now, Desmond

O'Hea,

Myself has decided your sentence to-day.

You must marry your sailor with bell, book, and

ring,

And here is her dowry," cried William the King!

----A. P. Graves.

JOHNNY COX

|As in the good ship Annabel

We coasted off Corfu,

A sudden storm upon us fell,

And tore our timbers true

And rent our sails in two.

Our top-mast tumbled by the board,

Our mizeh-mast as well;

Through flapping canvas, scourging cord,

Above like our death-bell--

We hear the thunder knell.

"Now cut away!" our Captain cries,

"And like a cork she floats;"

But axe in hand, with scowling eyes,

Set teeth and cursing throats,

The Lascars loose the boats.

When Johnny Cox, who lay below,

From off his fever-bed,

Comes staggering up, a ghastly show

As if from out the dead,

And drives them back in dread.

"What! quit your posts, ye cowards all?

Here's ballast then for you!"

With that he heaves a cannon-ball

Full crash the cutler through,

And saves the ship and crew.

But he, our hero, ere the rocks

We rounded, drooped and died;

And we should lower you, Johnny Cox,

Lamenting o'er the side--

Into the moaning tide.

----A. P. Graves.

A SONG OF THE EXMOOR HUNT

|Awake, arise! The south wind sighs,

Beneath a cloudy curtain

Old Sol is snoozing in the skies,

There's scent to-day for certain.

And down deep o'er Slowley Steep

The harbourer swears he shall drop, boys,

On brow, bay, bay and tray,

Tray and three on top, boys!

Look up, a stream of sporting pink

Along the ridge is rushing,

Morn's ashen cheek you'd almost think

To rosy red was blushing;

But few, few, so smart of hue

And spick and span from the shop, boys,

Shall stick to-day to brow, bay,

Tray and three on top, boys!

What ho! the tufters on a find

Are turning to the nor'ard.

Hark back! hark back!'tis but a hind!

The stag himself! Hark for'ard!

O'er hedge, spine, sedge and rhine,

Full cry we course and hop, boys,

Behind brow, bay and tray,

Tray and three on top, boys!

Past Dunster towers and Wootton bowers,

Up Cutcombe Crest he's gliding.

Here, roadster friends, your fun it ends,

We've done with arm-chair riding,

And full sail, head to tail,

Down Dunkery side we drop, boys,

On brow, bay, bay, and tray,

Tray and three on top, boys!

We've chucked a City swell to the pig

In his mixen at Cloutsham Corner;

We've hung our artist by his wig,

Like Absalom, in Horner,

Till hard pressed by all our best

From Boscombe Head full flop, boys,

Goes brow, bay, bay and tray,

Tray and three on top, boys!

A boat! a boat! the Weirmen float,

And after him go racing;

But see! to shore he heads once more,

His foes with fury facing.

And back, back! he hurls the pack,

Or heaves them, neck and crop, boys,

Till now, now, down goes brow,

Bay, tray, and three on top, boys!

Yet only five of all the hive

That set on foot the sport, boys,

Rode straight and true the whole hunt thro'

And mingled at the mort, boys!

Now name, name those sons of fame,

Who'll match them nearer and farther?

Jim Scarlett, Bissett, and Basset were there,

With Parson Jack Russell and Arthur.

----A. P. Graves.

THE SONG OF THE GHOST

|When all were dreaming but Pastheen Power,

A light came streaming beneath her bower,

A heavy foot at her door delayed,

A heavy hand on the latch was laid.

"Now who dare venture at this dark hour,

Unbid to enter my maiden bower?"

"Dear Pastheen, open the door to me,

And your true lover you'll surely see."

"My true lover, so tall and brave,

Lives exiled over the angry wave."

"Your true love's body lies on the bier,

His faithful spirit is with you here."

"His look was cheerful, his voice was gay;

Your speech is fearful, your face is grey;

And sad and sunken your eye of blue,

But Patrick, Patrick, alas!'tis you."

Ere dawn was breaking she heard below

The two cocks shaking their wings to crow.

"O hush you, hush you, both red and grey,

Or you will hurry my love away.

"O hush your crowing, both grey and red,

Or he'll be going to join the dead;

O cease from calling his ghost to mould,

And I'll come crowning your combs with gold."

When all were dreaming but Pastheen Power,

A light went streaming from out her bower,

And on the morrow when they awoke,

They knew that sorrow her heart had broke.

---A. P. Graves.

A SEA STORY

|Silence.--A while ago

Shrieks went up piercingly;

But now is the ship gone down;

Good ship, well manned, was she.

There's a raft that's a chance of life for one,

This day upon the sea.

A chance for one of two;

Young, strong, are he and he,

Just in the manhood prime,

The comelier, verily,

For the wrestle with wind and weather

and wave,

In the life upon the sea.

One of them has a wife

And little children three;

Two that can toddle and lisp;

And a suckling on the knee.

Naked they'll go and hunger sore,

If he be lost at sea.

One has a dream of home,

A dream that well may be;

He never has breathed it yet;

She never has known it, she:

But some one will be sick at heart,

If he be lost at sea.

"Wife and kids and home!"--

Wife, kids nor home has he!--

"Give us a chance, Bill!" Then,

"All right, Jem!" Quietly

A man gives up his life for a man,

This day upon the sea.

----E. H. Hickey.

GEOFFREY BARRON

|Geoffrey Barron of Clonmel

Dies the traitor's death.

Hark the toll of the death-bell!

Pray! the chimes saith.

Freton has set his ring

And the ink is dry

On the warrant that shall bring

Geoffrey Barron to die.

Many an one in Limerick Street,

With a pale face

Passes, and with hurrying feet

By the market-place.

There the scaffold blurs the sun:

And when noon is high

That most shameful hill upon,

Geoffrey Barron shall die.

O were Owen Roe but here

That's stark in his grave,

He should smite with sword and spear

Every crop-ear knave,

Ululu! but Owen's dead!

And the hour is nigh

When shall fall the comeliest head,

For Geoffrey Barron must die.

He stood up a six-foot man,

Strong as an oak:

Down his neck gold love-locks ran

Strength and manhood in his smile,

On a grass-green cloak.

Laughter in his eye:

Noble, without wile or guile,

Geoffrey Barron must die.

When they led him to the place

Where the General stood

'Mid his crop-ears, lank of face,

Godly men of blood;

Prayed the dying man, "A boon!

Mine own house is nigh,

Let me rest there till the noon,

When Geoffrey Barron shall die."

Clocks had struck three-quarters chime,

When he went in:

All the bells rang out noon-time

With great shock and din,

When the old house-door flew wide,

And in noon-day's eye,

All in splendour like a bride,

Came Geoffrey Barron to die.

Taffeta as white as milk

Made all his suit:

Threads of silver in the silk

Trailed like moonlight through't.

Silver cap and white feather;

Stepping proud and high,

In his shoon of white leather,

Came Geoffrey Barron to die.

Then the Roundhead General said,

Fingering his sword:

"Art thou coming to be wed

Like a heathen lord?

Go! thy bride the scaffold is:

Give her sigh for sigh,

Breath for breath and kiss for kiss!

For Geoffrey Barron must die."

But he laughed out as he ran

Up the black steps:

"Never happier bridegroom man

With his wife's lips!

If for some mortal woman's sake

In silks should go I,

I shall for Heaven the same pains take:

Now Geoffrey Barron must die."

"Sweet death," he laughed, "that I have

wooed

On many a stiff field,

Sweet are the eyes below the hood

To my glad eyes revealed!

Sweet death that leads us home to Christ,

Whose leal man am I!

And sweet the altar and the priest,

Now Geoffrey Barron must die!"

He kissed the Cross on his breast,

Then smiled with rapt eyes

As they beheld the vision blest

Of Christ in Paradise.

O many die for God and the green!

But never an one saw I

Go out with such a bridegroom mien

As Geoffrey Barron to die!

----K. Tynan (Hinkson).

FATHER GILLIGAN

|The old priest Peter Gilligan

Was weary night and day,

For half his flock were in their beds,

Or under green sods lay.

Once while he nodded on a chair,

At the moth-hour of eve,

Another poor man sent for him,

And he began to grieve.

"I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,

For people die and die;"

And after cried he, "God forgive!

My body spake, not I!"

And then, half-lying on the chair,

He knelt, prayed, fell asleep;

And the moth-hour went from the fields,

And stars began to peep.

They slowly into millions grew,

And leaves shook in the wind;

And God covered the world with shade,

And whispered to mankind.

Upon the time of sparrow chirp

When the moths came once more,

The old priest Peter Gilligan

Stood upright on the floor.

"_Mavrone, mavrone!_ the man has died,

While I slept on the chair;"

He roused his horse out of its sleep,

And rode with little care.

He rode now as he never rode,

By rocky lane and fen;

The sick man's wife opened the door:

"Father! you come again!"

"And is the poor man dead?" he cried.

"He died an hour ago."

The old priest Peter Gilligan

In grief swayed to and fro.

"When you were gone he turned and died,

As merry as a bird."

The old priest Peter Gilligan

He knelt him at that word.

"He who hath made the night of stars

For souls who tire and bleed,

Sent one of His great angels down

To help me in my need.

"He who is wrapped in purple robes,

With planets in his care,

Had pity on the least of things

Asleep upon a chair."

----W. B. Yeats.