Chapter IV

The cromlechs, gray with eld, below,
Recall the dreams of long ago,—

The dreams of kern and king, both slave
To beauty, and the white Queen Maeve;

And though she slumbers, deep, so deep,
Her golden memory may not sleep!

AT KILLYBEGS

At Killybegs above the crags
The gray gulls pipe with voices thinned,
And all the green trees are like flags
That wave and waver in the wind.

At Killybegs about the dunes
Rustle the crispy grass and whin,
And low the long tide croons and croons
As it creeps out, as it creeps in.

At Killybegs the white sails race
When the blue sea is like a floor;
Like doubt night falls with haggard face;
Sometimes the ships return no more.

The brown bee drains the cottage flowers
Of honey to their crimson dregs,
And love hath many happy hours
’Twixt birth and death at Killybegs!

THE CRIPPLE

I have dreams of the outer islands,
Firths and forths of the Far-Away;
I have dreams of the heathery highlands
Under the golden day.

I have dreams of a sliding river—
Shannon—under the stars and sun;
I have dreams how the oar-blades quiver,
And the silvery salmon run.

I have dreams of a blithe lad striding
Out through the streets of Limerick-town;
I have dreams of a sweet maid biding
Under a thatch of brown.

But here I lie all huddled and hidden,
(Oh, the eternity it seems!)
Brooding desolate and bed-ridden,
Living only in dreams!

AN EXILE

I can remember the plaint of the wind on the moor,
Crying at dawning, and crying at shut of the day,
And the call of the gulls that is eerie and dreary and dour,
And the sound of the surge as it breaks on the beach of the bay.

I can remember the thatch of the cot and the byre,
And the green of the garth just under the dip of the fells,
And the low of the kine, and the settle that stood by the fire,
And the reek of the peat, and the redolent heathery smells.

And I long for it all though the roses around me are red,
And the arch of the sky overhead has bright blue for a lure,
And glad were the heart of me, glad, if my feet could but tread
The path, as of old, that led upward and over the moor!

ABBEYDORNEY

Abbeydorney, Abbeydorney,
Long ago thy race was run,
Prone thou art ’mid thickets thorny,
Shrine of Kyrie Eleison!

Scarcely now a wild rose petal
The neglected cloister owns,
And the flaunting dock and nettle
Wave above the chancel stones.

Once through Kerry twilights tender
Vesper bells their anthems tolled,
And ’mid chants, in churchly splendor,
Princely abbots were enrolled.

Tall Fitz Maurice with his crozier,
O’Clonarchy of Lismore,
They are less now than the osier
Swaying by the Cashen’s shore!

Only when the moon is hidden,
Only when the moor-winds rave,
Eerily arise unbidden
Ghostly transept, ghostly nave.

Only when the night grows denser
March the bent monks one by one,
Singing to the sway of censer,
_Kyrie—Kyrie Eleison!_

So, amid thy thickets thorny,
All thy state and glory seem,
Abbeydorney, Abbeydorney,
Like a dim and fleeting dream!

A SONG FOR JOYCE’S COUNTRY

O a song for Joyce’s Country, where the grim wild mountains be,
And the wind wails over the moorland as the wind wails over the sea,
Where the new moon’s silver sickle sees little of grain to reap,
And the wraith of the mist goes creeping as soft as the feet of sleep!

O a song for Joyce’s Country, and the lonely loughs that lie,
Wrapt in the cloak of silence, under the great gray sky;
For the glens that have held in keeping for more than a thousand
springs
The ancient Druid wonders and the secrets of the kings!

O a song for Joyce’s Country, and the graves of the mightiest men
That ever had birth in Erin! Will their like e’er come again?
Men of the thews of titans, of the strong, unwavering hand,
Who wrested a meagre guerdon from the breast of this lean land!

O a song for Joyce’s Country, since it haunts one like a dream
That comes in the dusk ere dawning, ere the first bright sunrise beam;
A dream of dolor and vastness, of clouds that are swept and swirled
O’er the desolate wastes and waters of a joy-forsaken world!

BALLAD OF PROTESTANT’S LEAP

It was Sir Frederick Hamilton’s men
Were hungry for the fray,
And it was a son of the bog and fen
Would guide them on their way.

By the good book an oath he took,
This glib and open guide,
And so it was over bent and brook
They needs must up and ride.

They rode them fast, they rode them far,
By day’s last fitful flame,
Until, by the light of the evening star,
To a heathery slope they came.

Then spake the guide, with a glint of pride,
With a catch of his breath spake he,
“Ye may fall, if over the crest ye ride,
On the Irish enemy!

“When I drop my cloak by yon stunted oak,
Do ye ply the lash and spurs,
And there ’ll be no one see another sun
Of the popish worshippers!”

He has gone to the crest by the dwarfèd tree,
He has crept on foot and hand,
And now with a wave his cloak drops he
As a sign to the waiting band.

Oh, it ’s ride, Sir Frederick Hamilton’s men,
Ye men of ire and brawn,
And it ’s smile, ye son of the bog and fen,
To see them urge swift on!

Did they purge with the sword the Irish camp?
Nay, for the story saith
Through the evening dusk, through the evening damp,
They rode to a tryst with death.

It was over a cliff that was black and sheer
To the vale of fair Glencar
That they plunged with frenzied shrieks of fear
’Neath the eye of the mountain star.

Oh, it was Sir Frederick Hamilton’s men
Set forth to smite and slay,
And it was a son of the bog and fen
That guided them on their way!

ETCHING AT NIGHT

I wandered in the streets of Galway-town,
When night had let her dusky curtains down,
And in a doorway, tall and fair and slight,
Framed by an inner beam of golden light,
Beheld a maiden of madonna face,
Pensive and sad, yet with a nameless grace,
Presage, I thought, of the unfolding years,
That hide some things that are too deep for tears!

THE SPECTRAL ROWERS

What is that shimmering line of white
Gliding under the stark midnight—
Gliding—gliding—gliding—gliding—
Where the river gleams when the moon is bright?

There is never a sound save the night bird’s cry,
And the languid water lapsing by—
Lapsing—lapsing—lapsing—lapsing—
Under the arch of a leaden sky.

’T is the winding Garavogue’s spectral crew,
Bound for the port of dreams-come-true—
Rowing—rowing—rowing—rowing—
With a swinging stroke that is firm and true.

Do they ever reach their bourn? may be;
Yet who can say?—not we!—not we!—
Fading—fading—fading—fading—
Ere morn comes over the hills to the sea.

’T is so with all of the visions of man,
Howe’er he strive and howe’er he plan—
Fleeting—fleeting—fleeting—fleeting—
For life, alas, is a narrow span!

TYRCONNELL

They crowned Tyrconnell
On the rock of Doon;
“Hail! hail!” they said,
To that anointed head,
The henchman all;
They led him to the hall;
“Hail! hail! Tyrconnell!”
How the rafters rang!
Clang! clang!
How the blades out-sprang,
Like shimmering lake-water underneath the moon!

They slew Tyrconnell
On the rock of Doon;
“Traitor!” they said,
Of that anointed head,
The henchmen all
Who haled him from the hall;
“Base, base Tyrconnell!”
How the scabbards rang!—
Clang! clang!
As the blades out-sprang,
Like shimmering lake-water underneath the moon!

THE WAY OF THE CROSS

Where the wild sea-mew flocks and flees,
And neither winds nor skies beguile,
Foam-set amid the Irish seas
Is rugged Skellig Michael isle.

Up its escarpments, rough and grim,
To its bleak summit rimmed with moss,
The monks of old with prayer and hymn
Hewed out the weary “Way of the Cross.”

Gone are these holy toilers—gone;
They rest now in their long repose,
From the red dusk to the red dawn,
’Neath the sea-pinks and tangled rose.

But sorrow bides with us and ill,
And stress and sacrifice and loss,
And we must strive to meet them still
Climbing the weary “Way of the Cross.”

THE ISLE OF DOOM

Out of the mist off Galway shore,
Out of the morning mist,
Rose the island of Hy Brasail
With its crags of amethyst;

Crags of purple and amethyst,
And meads of gleaming green,
Rose the island of Hy Brasail
With a shimmer of sea between.

And what shall come to Galway shore,
What shadow of doom prevail,
With this fading dream of the mists of morn,
This island of Hy Brasail?

DESMOND

By the “Church of the Name” lies Desmond,
The body of Desmond lies,
And the wind of the east cries “Desmond,”
And “Desmond” the west wind cries.

And the wind of the south calls “Desmond,”
And “Desmond” the north wind calls,
As it sweeps round the keep Ardnagreagh,
The keep of the crumbling walls.

And the dawn wind grieves for Desmond,
And “Desmond” the night wind sighs;
And where is the head of Desmond,
He of the dusk-deep eyes?

They buried the body of Desmond
Hard by the “Church of the Name,”
But they hung the head of Desmond
High o’er the Gate of Shame.

Yet he was a brave man, Desmond,
A man of a hundred score,
So all the winds of the upper air,
They mourn for him evermore.

THE LITTLE CREEK COONANA

Oh, the little creek Coonana,
How clear it runs and cold
Where “Conn of the hundred battles”
Fought in the days of old!

Only the long wind dirges,
Only the long wind cries,
Where the giant Knocknatubber
Mounts to the vast gray skies.

Only the wind and the surges
Moan and moan and moan,
But the little creek Coonana,
It sings in a merry tone.

Only the wind and the surges
Have aught to do with fears;
Only the wind and the surges
Tell the tale of tears.

But the little creek Coonana,
It lilteth cheerily
Where the giant Knocknatubber
Glooms on the glooming sea.

O’DONNELL ABOO

Out of Ulster came O’Donnell,
Black O’Donnell and his crew,—
Kelly, More, Mac Carthy, Connell,
Joined the cry—“O’Donnell Aboo!”

Woe once more, red woe for Kerry,
Blood-drops were as mountain dew
When that cry so mad, yet merry,
Rang and rang—“O’Donnell Aboo!”

Gone those sanguine days of slaughter,
Sword and matchlock, pike and brand;
Peace now o’er the ways of water,
Peace o’er all the length of land.

Yet sometimes when night is sealing
Cairn and ruined shrine from view,
Down the Kerry glens goes pealing
That wild cry—“O’Donnell Aboo!”

NIGHTFALL IN SLIGO

I

I heard the bells of Sligo say
The tranquil requiem of day.

I saw the fires of sunset burn
Dim in the great west’s golden urn.

O’er Calvary’s sharp spire afar
Clear flowered one hyacinthine star.

Then mother Night her children hid
Under her purple coverlid.