Chapter I: See All Love in Lowly Things

I see all love in lowly things,
No less than in the lusts of kings:
All beauty, shape and comeliness,
All valour, strength and gentleness,
All genius, wit and holiness.

Out of corruption comes the flower,
The corn is kindred with the clay;
The plough-hand is a hand of power,
Nobler than gold, brighter than day.

Then let the leper lift his head,
The cripple dance, the captive sing,
The beggar reap and eat his bread--
He is no baser than a king!

'TIS PRETTY TAE BE IN BAILE-LIOSAN

'Tis pretty tae be in Baile-liosan,
'Tis pretty tae be in green Magh-luan;
'Tis prettier tae be in Newtownbreda,
Beeking under the eaves in June.
The cummers are out wi' their knitting and spinning,
The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa',
And o'er the white road the clachan caddies
Play at their marlies and goaling-ba'.

O, fair are the fields o' Baile-liosan,
And fair are the faes o' green Magh-luan;
But fairer the flowers o' Newtownbreda,
Wet wi' dew in the eves o' June.
'Tis pleasant tae saunter the clachan thoro'
When day sinks mellow o'er Dubhais hill,
And feel their fragrance sae softly breathing
Frae croft and causey and window-sill.

O, brave are the haughs o' Baile-liosan,
And brave are the halds o' green Magh-luan;
But braver the hames o' Newtownbreda,
Twined about wi' the pinks o' June.
And just as the face is sae kindly withouten,
The heart within is as guid as gold--
Wi' new fair ballants and merry music,
And cracks cam' down frae the days of old.

'Tis pretty tae be in Baile-liosan,
'Tis pretty tae be in green Magh-luan;
'Tis prettier tae be in Newtownbreda,
Beeking under the eaves in June.
The cummers are out wi' their knitting and spinning,
The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa',
And o'er the white road the clachan caddies
Play at their marlies and goaling-ba'.

CIARAN, THE MASTER OF HORSES AND LANDS

Ciaran, the master of horses and lands,
Once had no more than the horn on his hands.

But Ciaran is rich now, and Ciaran is great,
And rides with the air of a squire of estate.

O Christ! and to see the man up on the back
Of a thoroughbred stallion, a bay or a black!

There's not a horsebreeder from Banna to Laoi
Can handle the snaffle so pretty as he!

And Ciaran, for all, has the wit of a child,
A heart just as soft, and an eye just as mild.

No maker of ballads puts curse at his door:
He handsels the singer, and harbours the poor.

For Ciaran, the master of horses and lands,
Once had no more than the horn on his hands.

DEEP WAYS AND DRIPPING BOUGHS

Deep ways and dripping boughs,
The fog falling drearily;
Cowherds calling on their cows,
And I crying wearily,
Wearily, wearily, out-a-door,
Houseless, hearthless, coatless, kindless,
Poorest of the wandering poor.

I am the beggar Christ--
Christ that calmed the castling flood!
Cross and thorn have not sufficed
To punish me as you would;
But out-a-door in wind and rain,
Houseless, hearthless, coatless, kindless,
You keep me wandering in pain.

NIGHT, AND I TRAVELLING

Night, and I travelling.
An open door by the wayside,
Throwing out a shaft of warm yellow light.
A whiff of peat-smoke;
A gleam of delf on the dresser within;
A woman's voice crooning, as if to a child.
I pass on into the darkness.

NIGHT-PIECE

Fill me, O stars,
As with an olden tune.
Look thro' your cloudy bars,
O summer moon;
Look thro', and drench in silver light
My soul this night.

O brief, enchanted dream
Of sea and sky,
Of ploughland, meadow, stream,
And twilight loth to die,
Of fire and dew--
My soul is one with you!

AT MORNING TIDE

At morning tide,
Upon the hill of Sliabh-na-mBan,
I saw the dead Christ glorified!
His body, like the risen sun,
Was all too bright to look upon:
The blue air burned
About him: in his side
And hands and feet there shone
(Thro' stabs and gashes gaping wide)
The golden glory of his blood:
The gilly stood
Upon his right hand: at his feet
The fishers, Peter, James and John,
Knelt worshipping
With outstretched arms, and eyes
To heaven turned:
And Maria, his mother sweet,
(The partner of his mysteries),
And Magdalen and Salome
Came thro' the doorway of the day
Behind him, weeping.
. . . . Then a cloud came o'er
My senses, and I saw and heard no more!

THE MAY-FIRE

Come away, O Maire Ban,
Come away, come away
Where the heads of _ceanabhan_
Tremble in the twilight air,
And the rushes nod and sway,
And no other sound is heard
But the swaying of the rushes,
And the shouts from Croc-an-air,
And the singing of the fidils,
And the laughing of the dancers
Round about the yellow fire,
And the scream of the water-bird.

Come away, O life of me,
O bone of me, O blood of me--
Feilim has a tale to tell:
He would own his love for thee,
Smitten first at Mura's well,
Bitten at the Lammas pattern,
By the blessed Mura's well.
He would tell thee, Maire Ban,
How his pulses leap and thrill
Quicker than the old men's fidils,
Singing out from yonder hill.

Come away, O heart's desire,
From the ruddy-featured circle,
From the story-telling circle,
By the wreathing Bealtein fire.
Come away, come away,
Come away, O Maire Ban,
Where the heads of _ceanabhan_
Tremble in the twilight air,
And the voice of love is heard
Whispering o'er the bending rushes
Like a hidden, holy bird.
Come away, O Maire Ban--
Feilim's face is fairy-wan,
Feilim's heart is sick and pale,
Languishing for love of thee.