Chapter VI: THE DEATH OF ADAM. (xii.) (2)

Thou my great Father, I thy dear son;
Thou in me dwelling, I with Thee one.

Be Thou my battle-shield, sword for the fight,
Be Thou my dignity, Thou my delight.

Thou my soul's shelter, Thou my high tower;
Raise Thou me heavenward, Power of my power.

Riches I heed not or man's empty praise,
Thou mine inheritance now and always.

Thou, and Thou only, first in my heart,
High King of Heaven, my treasure Thou art.

King of the seven heavens, grant me for dole,
Thy love in my heart, Thy light in my soul.

Thy light from my soul, Thy love from my heart,
King of the seven heavens, may they never depart.

With the High King of heaven, after victory won,
May I reach heaven's joys, O Bright heaven's Sun!

Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,
Still be my Vision, O Ruler of all.

THE LOVES OF LIADAN AND CURITHIR

St. Cummine, in whose days the lovers lived, died 661. The
language is of the ninth century.

A young poet and poetess of Connaught were betrothed; but during the year's interval preceding their marriage, Liadan, for some unexplained reason, took the veil. When Curithir returned to fetch her to his home, he found that by her vows she had for ever separated herself from him. In his despair he determined to follow her example and become a monk. The lovers placed themselves together under the direction of St. Cummine, a severe and hard man, who permitted them to meet, with the object of accusing them of wrong-doing. Finally, he gave Curithir the choice of seeing Liadan without speaking to her, or speaking to her without seeing. He chooses the latter, and henceforth they wander round each other's cells, speaking together through the wattled walls, but never looking on each other's faces. The time comes when this can be no longer borne, and Curithir sails away to strange lands on pilgrimage, so that Liadan saw him no more. She died upon the flagstone on which Curithir was wont to pray, and was buried beneath it.

The poem is in the form of a dialogue.

(LIADAN _speaks_)

Curithir, maker of sweet song,
By me beloved, you do me wrong!
Dear master of the two Grey Feet,[106]
Is it like this we meet?

(CURITHIR _speaks_)

Of late,
Since I and Liadan understood our fate,
Each day hath been a month of fasting days,
Each month a year of doubting of God's ways.

I had my choice
To see her gentle form, or hear her voice;
"Some comfort yet may reach her from my speech,"
I said; "we have been ever looking each at each."

(LIADAN _speaks_)

His voice comes up to me again,
Is it in blame, or is it pain?
I catch its accents strained and deep,
And cannot sleep.

The flagstone where he bent the knee,
Beside the wattled oratory,
'Tis there, at eve, each lonely day,
I go to pray.

Never for him dear hearth or wife,
Homestead, or innocent baby life;
No mate at his right hand
Will ever stand.

Cummine accuses her of wrong and she turns on him:

Cleric, thy thought is ill;
Not with my will you link my name with his,
From Loch Seng's borderland he comes, I wis,
I from Iar-Conchin's Cill.

We met, you say;
But sure, no honeyed pastures of the flock
Where lover's arms in lover's arms enlock,
Was ours that May.

If Curithir is gone to-day
To teach the little scholars of the school,
Small help he'll get who does not know his rule;
Curithir's thoughts are very far away.

At length the news is brought to her that Curithir is gone for ever, and she breaks out into a passionate lament.

_The Cry of_ LIADAN _after_ CURITHIR

'Tis done!
Joyless the victory I have won,
The tender heart of him I loved I wrung!

He called me near
A little space to please him, but the fear
Of God in heaven withheld me, and I would not hear.

Great gain
To us the way love pointed plain,
To win the gates of Paradise through pain.

Reckless and vain
The whim that caused my lover's love to dim;
Great ever was my gentleness to him.

Liadan am I,
And Curithir I loved; it is no lie,
He would not doubt me now if he were by.

Short while were we
Together in the closest intimacy,
Sweet was the time to him, and sweet to me.

The music of the lightly waving tree,
When Curithir was here, would sing to me,
With the deep voice of the empurpled sea.

Surely to-day
No whim of mine would turn his heart away,
No senseless act or speech, do what I may.

And to myself I say,
My love to him was given, my heart, unshriven,
At his dear feet I lay.

My heart is flame,
A tempest heat no ice on earth can tame,
I cry "I was to blame! I was to blame!"

FOOTNOTES:

[106] A play on Curithir's patronymic, Mac Doborchon, _i.e._ "Son of the Otter."

THE LAY OF PRINCE MARVAN

_In praise of his hermit life. A reply to his brother, King Guaire, of Connaught, when asked by him why he did not dwell in the Palace._

King Guaire died 662; but the poem, as we have it, is of
the tenth century.

There is a shieling hidden in the wood
Unknown to all save God;
An ancient ash-tree and a hazel-bush
Their sheltering shade afford.

Around the doorway's heather-laden porch
Wild honeysuckles twine;
Prolific oaks, within the forest's gloom,
Shed mast upon fat swine.

Many a sweet familiar woodland path
Comes winding to my door;
Lowly and humble is my hermitage,
Poor, and yet not too poor.

From the high gable-end my lady's throat
Her trilling chant outpours,
Her sombre mantle, like the ousel's coat,
Shows dark above my doors.

From the high oakridge where the roe-deer leaps
The river-banks between,
Renowned Mucraime and Red Roigne's plains
Lie wrapped in robes of green.

Here in the silence, where no care intrudes,
I dwell at peace with God;
What gift like this hast thou to give, Prince Guaire,
Were I to roam abroad?

The heavy branches of the green-barked yew
That seem to bear the sky;
The spreading oak, that shields me from the storm,
When winds rise high.

Like a great hostel, welcoming to all,
My laden apple-tree;
Low in the hedge, the modest hazel-bush
Drops ripest nuts for me.

Round the pure spring, that rises crystal clear,
Straight from the rock,
Wild goats and swine, red fox, and grazing deer,
At sundown flock.

The host of forest-dwellers of the soil
Trysting at night;
To meet them foxes come, a peaceful troop,
For my delight.

Like exiled princes, flocking to their home,
They gather round;
Beneath the river bank great salmon leap,
And trout abound.

Rich rowan clusters, and the dusky sloe,
The bitter, dark blackthorn,
Ripe whortle-berries, nuts of amber hue,
The cup-enclosed acorn.

A clutch of eggs, sweet honey, mead and ale,
God's goodness still bestows;
Red apples, and the fruitage of the heath,
His constant mercy shows.

The goodly tangle of the briar-trail
Climbs over all the hedge;
Far out of sight, the trembling waters wail
Through rustling rush and sedge.

Luxuriant summer spreads its coloured cloak
And covers all the land;
Bright blue-bells, sunk in woods of russet oak,
Their blooms expand.

The movements of the bright red-breasted men,
A lovely melody!
Above my house, the thrush and cuckoo's strain
A chorus wakes for me.

The little music-makers of the world
Chafers and bees,
Drone answer to the tumbling torrent's roar
Beneath the trees.

From gable-ends, from every branch and stem,
Sounds sweetest music now;
Unseen, in restless flight, the lively wren
Flits 'neath the hazel-bough.

Deep in the firmament the sea-gulls fly,
One widely-circling wreath;
The cheerful cuckoo's call, the poult's reply,
Sound o'er the distant heath.

The lowing of the calves in summer-time,
Best season of the year!
Across the fertile plain, pleasant the sound,
Their call I hear.

Voice of the wind against the branchy wood
Upon the deep blue sky;
Most musical the ceaseless waterfall,
The swan's shrill cry.

No hired chorus, trained to praise its chief,
Comes welling up for me;
The music made for Christ the Ever-young,
Sounds forth without a fee.

Though great thy wealth, Prince Guaire, happier live
Those who can boast no hoard;
Who take at Christ's hand that which He doth give
As their award.

Far from life's tumult and the din of strife
I dwell with Him in peace,
Content and grateful, for Thy gifts, High Prince,
Daily increase.

(GUAIRE _replies_)

Wisely thou choosest, Marvan; I a king
Would lay my kingdom by,
With Colman's glorious heritage I'd part
To bear thee company!

THE SONG OF CREDE, DAUGHTER OF GUARE

(In the battle of Aidne, Crede, the daughter of King Guare of Aidne, beheld Dinertach of the HyFidgenti, who had come to the help of Guare, with seventeen wounds upon his breast. Then she fell in love with him. He died and was buried in the cemetery of Colman's Church.)

These are the arrows that murder sleep
At every hour in the night's black deep;
Pangs of Love through the long day ache,
All for the dead Dinertach's sake.

Great love of a hero from Roiny's plain
Has pierced me through with immortal pain,
Blasted my beauty and left me to blanch
A riven bloom on a restless branch.

Never was song like Dinertach's speech
But holy strains that to Heaven's gate reach;
A front of flame without boast or pride,
Yet a firm, fond mate for a fair maid's side.

A growing girl--I was timid of tongue,
And never trysted with gallants young,
But since I have won into passionate age,
Fierce love-longings my heart engage.

I have every bounty that life could hold,
With Guare, arch-monarch of Aidne cold,
But, fallen away from my haughty folk,
In Irluachair's field my heart lies broke.

There is chanting in glorious Aidne's meadow,
Under St. Colman's Church's shadow;
A hero flame sinks into the tomb--
Dinertach, alas my love and my doom!

Chaste Christ! that now at my life's last breath
I should tryst with Sorrow and mate with Death!
At every hour of the night's black deep,
These are the arrows that murder sleep.

ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.

THE STUDENT AND HIS CAT

The Irish of this playful poem was written by a student of the Monastery of Carinthia on a copy of St. Paul's Epistles about the close of the eighth century.

I and Pangur Bán, my cat,
'Tis a like task we are at;
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.

Better far than praise of men
'Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill-will,
He, too, plies his simple skill.

'Tis a merry thing to see
At our tasks how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.

Oftentimes a mouse will stray
In the hero Pangur's way;
Oftentimes my keen thought set
Takes a meaning in its net.

'Gainst the wall he sets his eye
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
'Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.

When a mouse darts from its den,
O! how glad is Pangur then;
O! what gladness do I prove
When I solve the doubts I love.

So in peace our task we ply,
Pangur Bán, my cat, and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine, and he has his.

Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade;
I get wisdom day and night,
Turning darkness into light.

ROBIN FLOWER.

THE SONG OF THE SEVEN ARCHANGELS

Now, Gabriel, be with my heart
On this first day of seven,
He, first of the Archangels;
And Thou, High King of Heaven.

Michael be mine, if Monday dawn,
Michael I call upon,
There is none like thee, Michael,
None but Jesu, Mary's Son.

And oh if Tuesday sorrow bring,
Let Raphael help it forth,
One of the seven that hears us weep,
Sad women of this earth.

And Uriel hear, if Wednesday wake,
In his nobility,
And heal our wounds and care for us
And calm this wind-torn sea.

And Sariel, should Thursday come
With wilder wind and seas,
On Sariel I cry aloud
For that solace which is his.

For sorrow's fast on Friday,
Out of my need I cry
On Rumiel, my heart's near friend,
Though Heaven I know is nigh.

And Saturday, on Panchel,
While this yellow world is mine,
I call on him while shake the leaves
And the yellow sun doth shine.

The Trinity protect me still--
Oh blessed Trinity,
And be my stay in danger's hour;
Protect and prosper me.

ERNEST RHYS.

THE FÉILIRE OF ADAMNAN

_Ancient Irish Litany_

Though ascribed to St. Adamnan, Abbot of Iona (died 704), the biographer of St. Columba, the piece, judging by its language, is later.

Saints of Four Seasons!
Saints of the Year!
Loving, I pray to you; longing, I say to you:
Save me from angers, dreeings, and dangers!
Saints of Four Seasons!
Saints of the Year!

Saints of Green Springtime!
Saints of the Year!
Patraic and Grighair, Brighid be near!
My last breath gather with God's Foster Father!
Saints of Green Springtime!
Saints of the Year!

Saints of Gold Summer!
Saints of the Year!
(Poesy wingeth me! Fancy far bringeth me!)
Guide ye me on to Mary's Sweet Son!
Saints of Gold Summer!
Saints of the Year!

Saints of Red Autumn!
Saints of the Year!
Lo! I am cheery! Michil and Mary
Open wide Heaven to my soul bereaven!
Saints of Red Autumn!
Saints of the Year!

Saints of Grey Winter
Saints of the Year!
Outside God's Palace fiends wait in malice--
Let them not win my soul going in!
Saints of Grey Winter!
Saints of the Year!

Saints of Four Seasons!
Saints of the Year!
Waking or sleeping, to my grave creeping,
Life in its Night, hold me God's light!
Saints of Four Seasons!
Saints of the Year!

P. J. MCCALL.

THE FEATHERED HERMIT

Blackbird, who pourest praise,
Deep hidden 'neath the bough,
No bell to call the Hours
Thou needest, thou;
Each hour, O hermit, from thy throat,
Wells thy sweet, soft, peaceful note.

AN APHORISM

Time was, I was not here;
Short the time for me, I fear!
Death comes, that is clear;
It is not clear when death is near.

THE BLACKBIRD

High trees close me round
Far from the ground the blackbird sings,
Trilling, it chants its lay
Above my well-lined book to-day.

In its soft veil of grey
The wayward cuckoo calls aloud;
Within my wall of green,
My God shrouds me, all unseen.

DEUS MEUS

By Mael-Isu ("Servant of Jesus"), of Derry, _obit._ 1038.

_Deus meus adiuva me_,
Give me thy love, O Christ, I pray,
Give me thy love, O Christ, I pray,
_Deus meus adiuva me_.

_In meum cor ut sanum sit_,
Pour, loving King, Thy love in it,
Pour, loving King, Thy love in it,
_In meum cor ut sanum sit_.

_Domine, da ut peto a te_,
O, pure bright sun, give, give to-day,
O, pure bright sun, give, give to-day,
_Domine, da ut peto a te_.

_Hanc spero rem et quaero quam_
Thy love to have where'er I am,
Thy love to have where'er I am,
_Hanc spero rem et quaero quam_.

_Tuum amorem sicut uis_,
Give to me swiftly, strongly, this,
Give to me swiftly, strongly, this,
_Tuum amorem sicut uis_.

_Quaero, postulo, peto a te_,
That I in heaven, dear Christ, may stay,
That I in heaven, dear Christ, may stay,
_Quaero, postulo, peto a te_.

_Domine, Domine, exaudi me_,
Fill my soul, Lord, with Thy love's ray,
Fill my soul, Lord, with Thy love's ray,
_Domine, Domine, exaudi me_.
_Deus meus adiuva me_,
_Deus meus adiuva me_.

GEORGE SIGERSON.

THE SOUL'S DESIRE

(Author and date unknown.)

It were my soul's desire
To see the face of God;
It were my soul's desire
To rest in His abode.

It were my soul's desire
To study zealously;
This, too, my soul's desire,
A clear rule set for me.

It were my soul's desire
A spirit free from gloom;
It were my soul's desire
New life beyond the Doom.

It were my soul's desire
To shun the chills of hell;
Yet more my soul's desire
Within His house to dwell.

It were my soul's desire
To imitate my King,
It were my soul's desire
His ceaseless praise to sing.

It were my soul's desire
When heaven's gate is won
To find my soul's desire
Clear shining like the sun.

Grant, Lord, my soul's desire,
Deep waves of cleansing sighs;
Grant, Lord, my soul's desire
From earthly cares to rise.

This still my soul's desire
Whatever life afford,--
To gain my soul's desire
And see Thy face, O Lord.

TEMPEST ON THE SEA

The original of the following poem was ascribed to Ruman mac Colmáin, an Irish poet of the seventh century, whom the _Book of Leinster_ generously styles "the Homer and Virgil of Ireland." It has been edited and exquisitely translated in prose by Professor Kuno Meyer in vol. ii. of _Otia Merseiana_. He attributes it to the eleventh century. The old prose account says that it was made by Ruman, when challenged by the Danes of Dublin to sing of the sea.

Tempest on the great sea-borders,
Hear my tale, ye viking sworders!
Winter smites us, wild winds crying
Set the salty billows flying,
Wind and winter, fierce marauders.

Lir's vast host of shouting water
Comes against us, charged with slaughter,
None can tell the dread and wonder
Speaking in the ocean thunder
And the tempest, thunder's daughter.

With the wind of east at morning
All the waves' wild hearts are yearning
Westward over wastes of ocean,
Till they stay their eager motion
Where the setting sun is burning.

When the northern wind comes flying,
All the press of dark waves crying,
Southward surge and clamour, driven
To the shining southern heaven,
Wave to wave in song replying.

When the western wind is blowing
O'er the currents wildly flowing,
Eastward sets its mighty longing
And the waves go eastward thronging
Far to find the sun-tree growing.

When the southern wind comes raining
Over shielded Saxons straining,
Waves round Skiddy isle go pouring,
On Caladnet's beaches roaring,
In grey Shannon's mouth complaining.

Full the sea and fierce the surges,
Lovely are the ocean verges,
On the showery waters whirling,
Sandy winds are swiftly swirling,
Rudders cleave the surf that urges.

Hard round Éire's cliffs and nesses,
Hard the strife, not soft the stresses,
Like swan-feathers softly sifting,
Snow o'er Milidh's folk is drifting,
Manann's wife shakes angry tresses.

At the mouth of each dark river
Breaking waters surge and shiver,
Wind and winter met together
Trouble Alba with wild weather,
Countless falls on Dremon quiver.

Son of God, great Lord of wonder,
Save me from the ravening thunder,
By the feast before Thy dying,
Save me from the tempest crying
And from Hell, tempestuous under.

ROBIN FLOWER.

THE OLD WOMAN OF BEARE

Eleventh century (?)

Ebbtide to me!
My life drifts downward with the drifting sea;
Old age has caught and compassed me about,
The tides of time run out.

The "Hag of Beare!"
'Tis thus I hear the young girls jeer and mock;
Yet I, who in these cast-off clouts appear,
Once donned a queenly smock.

Ye love but self,
Ye churls! to-day ye worship pelf!
But in the days I lived we sought for men,
We loved our lovers then!

Ah! swiftly when
Their splendid chariots coursed upon the plain,
I checked their pace, for me they flew amain,
Held in by curb and rein.

I envy not the old,
Whom gold adorns, whom richest robes enfold,
But ah! the girls, who pass my cell at morn,
While I am shorn!

On sweet May-morn
Their ringing laughter on the breeze is borne,
While I, who shake with ague and with age,
In Litanies engage.

Amen! and woe is me!
I lie here rotting like a broken tree;
Each acorn has its day and needs must fall,
Time makes an end of all!

I had my day with kings!
We drank the brimming mead, the ruddy wine,
Where now I drink whey-water; for company more fine
Than shrivelled hags, hag though I am, I pine.

The flood-tide thine!
Mine but the low down-curling ebb-tide's flow,
My youth, my hope, are carried from my hand,
Thy flood-tide foams to land.

My body drops
Slowly but sure towards the abode we know;
When God's High Son takes from me all my props
It will be time to go!

Bony my arms and bare
Could you but see them 'neath the mantle's flap,
Wizened and worn, that once were round and fair,
When kings lay in my lap.

'Tis, "O my God" with me,
Many prayers said, yet more prayers left undone;
If I could spread my garment in the sun
I'd say them, every one.

The sea-wave talks,
Athwart the frozen earth grim winter stalks;
Young Fermod, son of Mugh, ne'er said me nay,
Yet he comes not to-day.

How still they row,
Oar dipped by oar the wavering reeds among,
To Alma's shore they press, a ghostly throng,
Deeply they sleep and long.

No lightsome laugh
Disturbs my fireside's stillness; shadows fall,
And quiet forms are gathering round my hearth,
Yet lies the hand of silence on them all.

I do not deem it ill
That a nun's veil should rest upon my head;
But finer far my feast-robe's various hue
To me, when all is said.

My very cloak grows old;
Grey is its tint, its woof is frayed and thin;
I seem to feel grey hairs within its fold,
Or are they on my skin?

O happy Isle of Ocean,
Thy flood-tide leaps to meet the eddying wave
Lifting it up and onward. Till the grave
The sea-wave comes not after ebb for me.

I find them not
Those sunny sands I knew so well of yore;
Only the surf's sad roar sounds up to me,
My tide will turn no more.

GORMLIATH'S LAMENT FOR NIAL BLACK-KNEE

"A.D. 946. Gormliath, daughter of Fiann, Queen of Nial Glundubh, or "Black-knee," died after intense penance for her sins and transgressions."--_Annals of the Four Masters_.

Move, O Monk, thy foot away!
Lift it from the grave of Nial!
All too high thou heap'st the pile;
All too deep thou diggest the clay.

Brown-haired Monk, most gentle friend,
Press not with thy foot the soil
Nial to cover, heavy toil,
Of thy labours make an end.

Mournful priest, thy prayers delay,
Close not yet the prince's tomb,
Make an opening, for I come;
Move, O Monk, thy foot away!

Not my will that brought thee bound,
Black-kneed Nial, with heart of gold!
When mine arms his form enfold,
Raise his stone, and smooth his mound.

Gormliath I, a Queen commands,
Daughter of King Flann the brave;
Press not then upon his grave;
Move, O Monk, thy foot away!

THE MOTHER'S LAMENT AT THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS

Then, as the executioner plucked her son from her breast, one of the women said:

"Why are you tearing
Away to his doom,
The child of my caring,
The fruit of my womb.
Till nine months were o'er
His burden I bore,
Then his pretty lips pressed
The glad milk from my breast,
And my whole heart he filled,
And my whole life he thrilled.

All my strength dies,
My tongue speechless lies,
Darkened are my eyes!
His breath was the breath of me;
His death is the death of me."

Then another woman said:

"'Tis my own son that from me you wring,
I deceived not the King.

But slay me, even me,
And let my boy be.
A mother most hapless,
My bosom is sapless,
Mine eyes one tearful river,
My frame one fearful, shiver,
My husband sonless ever,
And I a sonless wife
To live a death in life.

O my son! O God of Truth!
O my unrewarded youth,
O my birthless sicknesses
Until doom without redress.
O my bosom's silent nest,
O the heart broke in my breast."

Then said another woman:

"Murderers, obeying
Herod's wicked willing,
One ye would be slaying,
Many are ye killing.
Infants would ye smother?
Ruffian, ye have rather
Wounded many a father,
Slaughtered many a mother.
Hell's black jaws your horrid deed is glutting,
Heaven's white gate against your black souls shutting.
Ye are guilty of the Great Offence!
Ye have spilled the blood of Innocence."

And yet another woman said:

"O Lord Christ, come to me!
Nay, no longer tarry!
With my son home to Thee
My soul quickly carry.
O Mary great, O Mary mild,
Of God's One Son the Mother,
What shall I do without my child?
For I have now no other.
For Thy Son's sake my son they slew,
Those murderers inhuman;
My sense and soul they slaughtered too,
I am but a crazy woman.
Yea, after that most piteous slaughter,
When my babe's life ran out like water,
The heart within my bosom hath become
A clot of blood from this day till the Doom!"

ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.

CONSECRATION

By Murdoch O'Daly, called Murdoch "the Scotchman" (Muredach Albanach), on account of his affection for that country; born in Connaught towards the close of the twelfth century.

How great the tale, that there should be,
In God's Son's heart, a place for me!
That on a sinner's lips like mine,
The cross of Jesus Christ should shine!

Christ Jesus, bend me to Thy will,
My feet to urge, my griefs to still;
That even my flesh and blood may be
A temple sanctified to Thee.

No rest, no calm, my soul may win,
Because my body craves to sin,
Till Thou, dear Lord, Thyself impart
Peace to my head, light to my heart.

May consecration come from far,
Soft shining like the evening star!
My toilsome path make plain to me,
Until I come to rest in Thee.

TEACH ME, O TRINITY

By the same Poet.

Teach me, O Trinity,
All men sing praise to Thee,
Let me not backward be,
Teach me, O Trinity.

Come Thou and dwell with me,
Lord of the holy race;
Make here thy resting-place,
Hear me, O Trinity.

That I Thy love may prove,
Teach Thou my heart and hand,
Ever at Thy command
Swiftly to move.

Like to a rotting tree
Is this vile heart of me;
Let me Thy healing see,
Help me, O Trinity.

Sinful, beholding Thee;
Yet clean from theft and blood
My hands; O Son of God,
For Mary's love, answer me.

In my adversity
No great man stooped to me,
No good man pitied me,
God ope'd His heart to me.

Lied I, as others lie,
They deceived, so have I,
On others' lie I built my lie--
Will my God pass this by?

Truth art Thou, truth I crave,
If on a lie I rest, I'm lost;
My vow demands my uttermost;
Save, Trinity, O save!

THE SHAVING OF MURDOCH

_When he and Cathal of the Red Hand, King of Connaught, entered the monastic life together_.

Murdoch, whet thy knife, that we may shave our crowns to the
Great King,
Let us sweetly give our vow, and the hair of both our heads to
the Trinity.
I will shave mine to Mary, this is the doing of a true heart,
To Mary shave thou these locks, well-formed, soft-eyed man.
Seldom hast thou had, handsome man, a knife on thy hair to shave it,
Oftener has a sweet, soft queen, comb'd her hair beside thee.
Whenever it was that we did bathe, with Brian of the well-curled
locks,
And once on a time that I did bathe, at the well of the fair-haired
Boroimhe,
I strove in swimming with Ua Chais, on the cold waters of the Fergus.

When he came ashore from the stream, Ua Chais and I strove in a race.
These two knives, one to each, were given us by Duncan Cairbreach,
No knives of knives were better; shave gently then, Murdoch.
Whet your sword, Cathal, which wins the fertile Banva,
Ne'er was thy wrath heard without fighting, brave, red-handed Cathal,
Preserve our shaved heads from cold and from heat, gentle daughter
of Joachim,
Preserve us in the land of heat, softest branch, Mary.

STANDISH HAYES O'GRADY.

EILEEN AROON

Carol O'Daly, early thirteenth century.

"Come, love, and dwell with me,
Eileen aroon;
I'll roam the world with thee,
Eileen aroon!
Down to Terawley free,
From this sad house we'll flee,
If thou wilt wed with me,
Eileen aroon!

"We'll seek a home of peace,
Eileen aroon;
All fear and doubt shall cease,
Eileen aroon.
If thou wilt seek my side,
If thou wilt be my bride,
All matters not beside,
Eileen aroon.

"Then, wilt thou fly or stay,
Eileen aroon?
Ah! do not say me nay,
Come to me soon."
"I come, I come to thee,
Life of the world to me,
Nought holds me, for I flee
Thus to thy home."

"Welcome thy steps before,
Eileen aroon.
Fling wide our cottage door,
Eileen aroon.
Oh! welcome evermore,
My darling and my store,
Thou shalt go out no more,
Eileen aroon!"

POEMS OF THE DARK DAYS

"I do not know of anything under the sky
That is friendly or favourable to the Gael,
But only the sea that our need brings us to,
Or the wind that blows to the harbour
The ship that is bearing us away from Ireland;
And there is reason that these are reconciled with us,
For we increase the sea with our tears,
And the wandering wind with our sighs."

LADY GREGORY.

THE DOWNFALL OF THE GAEL

By O'Gnive, bard of Shane O'Neill, _circa_ 1560.

My heart is in woe,
And my soul deep in trouble,--
For the mighty are low,
And abased are the noble.

The Sons of the Gael
Are in exile and mourning,
Worn, weary, and pale,
As spent pilgrims returning;

Or men who, in flight
From the field of disaster,
Beseech the black night
On their flight to fall faster;

Or seamen aghast
When their planks gape asunder,
And the waves fierce and fast
Tumble through in hoarse thunder;

Or men whom we see
That have got their death-omen--
Such wretches are we
In the chains of our foemen!

Our courage is fear,
Our nobility vileness,
Our hope is despair,
And our comeliness foulness.

There is mist on our heads,
And a cloud chill and hoary
Of black sorrow sheds
An eclipse on our glory.

From Boyne to the Linn
Has the mandate been given,
That the children of Finn
From their country be driven.

That the sons of the king--
Oh, the treason and malice!--
Shall no more ride the ring
In their own native valleys;

No more shall repair
Where the hill foxes tarry,
Nor forth to the air
Fling the hawk at her quarry;

For the plain shall be broke
By the share of the stranger,
And the stone-mason's stroke
Tell the woods of their danger;

The green hills and shore
Be with white keeps disfigured,
And the Moat of Rathmore
Be the Saxon churl's haggard!

The land of the lakes
Shall no more know the prospect
Of valleys and brakes--
So transform'd is her aspect!

The Gael cannot tell,
In the uprooted wild-wood
And red ridgy dell,
The old nurse of his childhood;

The nurse of his youth
Is in doubt as she views him,
If the wan wretch, in truth,
Be the child of her bosom.

We starve by the board,
And we thirst amid wassail--
For the guest is the lord,
And the host is the vassal!

Through the woods let us roam,
Through the wastes wild and barren;
We are strangers at home!
We are exiles in Erin!

And Erin's a bark
O'er the wide waters driven!
And the tempest howls dark,
And her side planks are riven!

And in billows of might
Swell the Saxon before her,--
Unite, oh, unite!
Or the billows burst o'er her!

SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON.

ADDRESS TO BRIAN O'ROURKE "OF THE BULWARKS" TO AROUSE HIM AGAINST THE ENGLISH[107]

By his bard, Teig Dall O'Higgin, about 1566.

"And first for Owryrke: I found hym the proudest man that ever I delt with in Irelande." (Sir Henry Sydney to the Privy Council, from Dublin, 1576.)

"The man of war is he who dwells in safety,"
A well-worn adage that shall never cease,
Save only when it girdeth on its armour
May many-wooded Banba hope for peace.

Why sit ye still? the Clans of valorous Eoghan,
The Clans of Conn and Conor round you stand;
Do ye not hear the troops of Saxon England
March o'er your plains and trample down your land?

Let Brian, son of Brian, out of Brefney,
Beware the sweetness of their honeyed tongue,
Their greed and need, their indigence and riches,
Two-handed spoil from Ireland's sons have wrung.

Let Brian, son of Brian, son of Eoghan,
Ponder if one man ever came away,--
Who put his trust in England's perjured honour,--
Unscathed by guile, unharmed by treachery?

As waters rising 'neath the snows of winter,
As hamlets flaming from one secret spark,
So shall the chiefs of Erinn rally round him,
When Brian's star arises on the dark.

Then shall wild creatures find their surest covert
Among the broken homesteads of the Pale;
The wolves' deep snarl be heard beside her mansions,
On grass-green Tara's slopes the children's wail.

Where once arose their lightsome lime-washed dwellings,
Where once were precious things of price displayed,
Be thenceforth whispered, in affrighted accents,
That such things had been, ere O'Rourke's fierce raid.

By him be felled their rich fruit-bearing orchards,
Each open highway clothed with ragged weeds;
Long ere the harvest-hour their crops be scattered
By his and Connaught's sons' death-dealing deeds.

Leave hungry famine in Boyne's fertile borders,
Bir of the spreading-boughs bend 'neath his smart,
So that a mother on Meath's richest pastures
Shall munch the morsel of her first child's heart.

Right up to Taillte's very walls and towers
Their villages be levelled with the earth;
Their mills and kilns and haggarts swept before them;
Where wealth and plenty reigns, dread want and dearth.

Smooth into desert wastes fair Usna's mountains,
Pile into hills each widespread pleasant plain;
So that a wandering man may seek her cities,
So he may search her high cross-roads in vain.

By such and such an one let this be treasured
(A tale of wonder for the passing guest)
That on the plain was heard a heifer lowing,
A tinkling cow-bell from the headland's crest.

Shrink not, O desperate band, from weapon-wounding,
Stand as one body, man by brother man;
Had but the clans of Erinn cleaved together
Your land and you had not been under ban.

Arouse thee, valiant Brian of the Bulwarks!
And God be with the champions of the Gael!
The children of the seed of Conn and Eoghan
Stand round thee;--canst thou fail?

FOOTNOTES:

[107] O'Rourke, Prince of Brefney, was a man whom Elizabeth and her representatives in Ireland found it hard to tackle. His handsome presence, his dignity and pride, gave rise to stories of his ascendency over Elizabeth herself. When lying prisoner in the Tower of London, he is said to have sent to ask Elizabeth the favour of being hung, if hang he must, with a gad or withe, after his country's fashion, a request which Cox, who relates the story, says was doubtless willingly granted him. He was executed in 1597. (Cox's _Hibernia Anglicana_, ed. 1689, p. 399; _cf._ Bacon's reference to the story in his essay "Of Custom and Education.")

O'HUSSEY'S ODE TO THE MAGUIRE

Eochadh O'Hosey or Hussey was bard of the Maguires of Fermanagh. The campaign of Hugh Maguire, celebrated in this poem, was undertaken in 1599-1600 into Munster.

Where is my chief, my master, this bleak night, mavrone?
O cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak night for Hugh!
Its showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one thro' and thro',
Pierceth one to the very bone.

Rolls real thunder? Or was that red vivid light
Only a meteor? I scarce know; but through the midnight dim
The pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the hate that persecutes him,
Nothing hath crueler venomy might.

An awful, a tremendous night is this, meseems!
The flood-gates of the rivers of heaven, I think, have been burst
wide;
Down from the overcharged clouds, like to headlong ocean's tide,
Descends grey rain in roaring streams.

Tho' he were even a wolf ranging the round green woods,
Tho' he were even a pleasant salmon in the unchainable sea,
Tho' he were a wild mountain eagle, he could scarce bear, he,
This sharp sore sleet, these howling floods.

O mournful is my soul this night for Hugh Maguire!
Darkly as in a dream he strays. Before him and behind
Triumphs the tyrannous anger of the wounding wind,
The wounding wind that burns as fire.

It is my bitter grief, it cuts me to the heart
That in the country of Clan Barry this should be his fate!
O woe is me, where is he? Wandering, houseless, desolate,
Alone, without or guide or chart!

Medreams I see just now his face, the strawberry-bright,
Uplifted to the blackened heavens, while the tempestuous winds
Blow fiercely over and round him, and the smiting sleet-shower blinds
The hero of Galang to-night!

Large, large affliction unto me and mine it is
That one of his majestic bearing, his fair stately form,
Should thus be tortured and o'erborne; that this unsparing storm
Should wreak its wrath on head like his!

That his great hand, so oft the avenger of the oppressed,
Should this chill churlish night, perchance, be paralysed by frost;
While through some icicle-hung thicket, as one lorn and lost,
He walks and wanders without rest.

The tempest-driven torrent deluges the mead,
It overflows the low banks of the rivulets and ponds;
The lawns and pasture-grounds lie locked in icy bonds,
So that the cattle cannot feed.

The pale-bright margins of the streams are seen by none;
Rushes and sweeps along the untamable flood on every side;
It penetrates and fills the cottagers' dwellings far and wide;
Water and land are blent in one.

Through some dark woods, 'mid bones of monsters, Hugh now strays,
As he confronts the storm with anguished heart, but manly brow,
O what a sword-wound to that tender heart of his, were now
A backward glance at peaceful days!

But other thoughts are his, thoughts that can still inspire
With joy and onward-bounding hope the bosom of MacNee;
Thoughts of his warriors charging like bright billows of the sea,
Borne on the wind's wings, flashing fire!

And tho' frost glaze to-night the clear dew of his eyes,
And white ice-gauntlets glove his noble fine fair fingers o'er,
A warm dress is to him that lightening-garb he ever wore,
The lightening of his soul, not skies.

_Avran._

Hugh marched forth to fight: I grieved to see him so depart.
And lo! to-night he wanders frozen, rain-drenched, sad betrayed;
But the memory of the lime-white mansions his right hand hath laid
In ashes, warms the hero's heart!

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.

A LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OF TYRONE AND TYRCONNEL

_Buried in San Pietro Montorio at Rome_

Addressed to Nuala, the O'Donnell's sister, by Owen Roe mac an Bhaird (or Ward), the family Bard, in 1608-9.

O woman of the piercing wail,
Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay
With sigh and groan,
Would God thou wert among the Gael!
Thou would'st not then from day to day
Weep thus alone.
'Twere long before around a grave
In green Tyrconnel, one could find
This loneliness;
Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave,
Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined
Companionless.

Beside the wave in Donegal,
In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore,
Or Killilee,
Or where the sunny waters fall
At Assaroe, near Erna shore,
This could not be.
On Derry's plains, in rich Drumcliff,
Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned
In olden years,
No day could pass but woman's grief
Would rain upon the burial-ground
Fresh floods of tears!

O no!--From Shannon, Boyne, and Suir,
From high Dunluce's castle-walls,
From Lissadill,
Would flock alike both rich and poor:
One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls
To Tara hill;
And some would come from Barrow-side,
And many a maid would leave her home
On Leitrim's plains,
And by melodious Banna's tide,
And by the Mourne and Erne, to come
And swell thy strains!

Oh, horses' hoofs would trample down
The mount whereon the martyr-saint
Was crucified;
From glen and hill, from plain and town,
One loud lament, one thrilling plaint,
Would echo wide.
There would not soon be found, I ween,
One foot of ground among those bands
For museful thought,
So many shriekers of the keen
Would cry aloud, and clap their hands,
All woe-distraught!

Two princes of the line of Conn
Sleep in their cells of clay beside
O'Donnell Roe:
Three royal youths, alas! are gone,
Who lived for Erin's weal, but died
For Erin's woe.
Ah, could the men of Ireland read
The names those noteless burial-stones
Display to view,
Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed,
Their tears gush forth again, their groans
Resound anew!

The youths whose relics moulder here
Were sprung from Hugh, high prince and lord
Of Aileach's lands;
Thy noble brothers, justly dear,
Thy nephew, long to be deplored
By Ulster's bands.
Theirs were not souls wherein dull time
Could domicile decay, or house
Decrepitude!
They passed from earth ere manhood's prime,
Ere years had power to dim their brows,
Or chill their blood.

And who can marvel o'er thy grief,
Or who can blame thy flowing tears,
Who knows their source?
O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief,
Cut off amid his vernal years,
Lies here a corse
Beside his brother Cathbar, whom
Tyrconnell of the Helmets mourns
In deep despair:
For valour, truth, and comely bloom,
For all that greatens and adorns,
A peerless pair.

Oh, had these twain, and he, the third,
The Lord of Mourne, O'Niall's son
(Their mate in death,
A prince in look, in deed, and word),
Had these three heroes yielded on
The field their breath,
Oh, had they fallen on Criffan's plain,
There would not be a town or clan
From shore to sea,
But would with shrieks bewail the slain,
Or chant aloud the exulting rann
Of jubilee!

* * * * *

What do I say? Ah, woe is me!
Already we bewail in vain
Their fatal fall!
And Erin, once the great and free,
Now vainly mourns her breakless chain,
And iron thrall.
Then, daughter of O'Donnell, dry
Thine overflowing eyes, and turn
Thy heart aside,
For Adam's race is born to die,
And sternly the sepulchral urn
Mocks human pride.

Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne,
Nor place thy trust in arm of clay,
But on thy knees
Uplift thy soul to God alone,
For all things go their destined way
As He decrees.
Embrace the faithful crucifix,
And seek the path of pain and prayer
Thy Saviour trod;
Nor let thy spirit intermix
With earthly hope, with worldly care,
Its groans to God![108]

And Thou, O mighty Lord! whose ways
Are far above our feeble minds
To understand,
Sustain us in these doleful days,
And render light the chain that binds
Our fallen land!

Look down upon our dreary state,
And thro' the ages that may still
Roll sadly on,
Watch Thou o'er hapless Erin's fate,
And shield at least from darker ill
The blood of Conn!

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.

FOOTNOTES:

[108] The literal translation of this stanza runs as follows:--

"For God's sake, thy weighty sorrow banish away, O daughter of O'Donnell! Short time till thou in self-same guise must tread the way; the same path's weariness awaits thee. In hand of clay put not thy trust.... Think on the cross that stands beside thee, and, in lieu of thy vain sorrowing, from off the sepulchre lift up thine arm and bid thy grief begone." O'Grady's Cat. of MSS. in the Brit. Mus., pp. 372-73.

THE COUNTY OF MAYO

_Or the "Lament of Thomas Flavell, or Lavell," c. 1660._

On the deck of Patrick Lynch's boat I sat in woeful plight,
Through my sighing all the weary day, and weeping all the night,
Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go,
By the blessed sun! 'tis royally I'd sing thy praise, Mayo!

When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did much abound,
In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round--
'Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now I'm forced to go,
And must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo.

They are altered girls in Irrul now; 'tis proud they're grown and
high,
With their hair-bags and their top-knots--for I pass their buckles by;
But it's little now I heed their airs, for God will have it so,
That I must depart for foreign lands, and leave my sweet Mayo.

'Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl of Irrul still,
And that Brian Duff no longer rules as Lord upon the hill;
And that Colonel Hugh MacGrady should be lying dead and low,
And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the county of Mayo.

GEORGE FOX.[109]

FOOTNOTES:

[109] Lady Ferguson, in her Life of her husband, says that he was the true author of this poem, but that as Fox had a hand in it, he allowed it to be attributed to him. Sir Samuel dedicated his poems to Fox in 1880.

THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE

Oh, many a day have I made good ale in the glen,
That came not of stream or malt--like the brewing of men.
My bed was the ground; my roof, the greenwood above,
And the wealth that I sought, one far kind glance from my love.

Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field,
That I was not near from terror my angel to shield.
She stretched forth her arms--her mantle she flung to the wind,
And swam o'er Loch Lene her outlawed lover to find.

Oh would that a freezing, sleet-winged tempest did sweep,
And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep!
I'd ask not a ship, or a bark, or pinnace, to save,--
With her hand round my waist I'd fear not the wind or the wave.

'Tis down by the lake where the wild-tree fringes its sides
The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides;
I think as at eve she wanders its mazes along,
The birds go to sleep by the sweet, wild twist of her song.

JEREMIAH JOSEPH CALLANAN.

THE FLOWER OF NUT-BROWN MAIDS

Seventeenth century.

If thou wilt come with me to the County of Leitrim,
Flower of Nut-brown Maids--
Honey of bees and mead to the beaker's brim
I'll offer thee, Nut-brown Maid.
Where the pure air floats o'er the swinging boats of the strand,
Under the white-topped wave that laves the edge of the sand,
There without fear we will wander together, hand clasped in hand,
Flower of Nut-brown Maids.

* * * * *

My heart never gave you liking or love,
Said the Flower of Nut-brown Maids;
Though sweet are your words, there's black famine above,
Said the Flower of Nut-brown Maids;
Will gentle words feed me when need and grim hunger come by?
Better be free than with thee to the woodlands to fly;
What gain to us both if together we famish and die?
Wept the Flower of Nut-brown Maids.

* * * * *

I saw her coming towards me o'er the face of the mountain
Like a star glimmering through the mist;
In the field of furze where the slow cows were browsing
In pledge of our love we kissed;
In the bend of the hedge where the tall trees play with the sun,
I wrote her the lines that should bind us for ever in one;
Had you a right to deny me the dues I had won,
O Flower of Nut-brown Maids?

My grief and my torment that thou art not here with me now,
Flower of Nut-brown Maids!
Alone, all alone, it matters not where or how,
O Flower of Nut-brown Maids;
On a slender bed, O little black head, strained close to thee,
Or a heap of hay, until break of day, it were one to me,
Laughing in gladness and glee together, with none to see,
My Flower of Nut-brown Maids.

ROISÍN DUBH

There's black grief on the plains, and a mist on the hills;
There is fury on the mountains, and that is no wonder;
I would empty the wild ocean with the shell of an egg,
If I could be at peace with thee, my Ros geal dubh.

Long is the course I travelled from yesterday to to-day,
Without, on the edge of the hill, lightly bounding, as I know,
I leapt Loch Erne to find her, though wide was the flood,
With no light of the sun to guide my path, but the Ros geal dubh.

If thou shouldst go to the Aonach to sell thy kine and stock,
If you go, see that you stay not out in the darkness of the night;
Put bolts upon your doors, and a heavy reliable lock,
Or, in faith, the priest will be down on you, on my Ros geal dubh!

O little Rose, sorrow not, nor be lamenting now,
There is pardon from the Pope for thee, sent straight home from Rome,
The friars are coming overseas, across the heaving wave,
And Spanish wine will then be thine, my Ros geal dubh.

There is true love in my heart for thee for the passing of a year,
Love tormenting, love lamenting, heavy love that wearies me,
Love that left me without health, without a path, gone all astray,
And for ever, ever, I did not get my Ros geal dubh!

I would walk Munster with thee and the winding ways of the hills,
In hope I would get your secret and a share of your love;
O fragrant Branch, I have known it, that thou hast love for me,
The flower-blossom of wise women is my Ros geal dubh.

The sea will be red floods, and the skies like blood,
Blood-red in war the world will show on the ridges of the hills;
The mountain glens through Erinn and the brown bogs will be quaking
Before the day she sinks in death, my Ros geal dubh![110]

FOOTNOTES:

[110] _Ros geal dubh_ means the "Fair-dark Rose," here used as a love-title for Ireland; _Roisín Dubh_ means "Little black or dark Rose." The above is a literal translation of the Irish poem upon which Mangan's "Dark Rosaleen" was formed. The opening quatrain is found in Petrie's _Ancient Music of Ireland_, but not in O'Daly's collection.

MY DARK ROSALEEN

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 thro' 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!
O there was lightning in my blood,
Red lightning lightened thro' 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, and 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 thro' daylight hours,
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,
My Dark Rosaleen!

I could scale the blue air,
I could plough the high hills,
O I could kneel all night in prayer,
To heal your many ills!
And one beamy smile from you
Would float like 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 shall 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!