The Book of Irish Poetry 1000

P R I N TED B Y TH E

E DU CA TI ON A L COM P AN Y I RE LA N D LI M I TED TA LB OT P R E S S DU B LI N D eh i t at i un

DOU LA G S YDE . i t H LL D . D . t . , , L

’ P mu den t of th e Ga oh c Lea gue

B ca u e a lumn i I r i sh Colle e e s , of one g , An d some of fa ther s of tbe self-se me Cb umh , S tr i ving to swell th e sum of I r i sh k n o led e w g , D a r Cr eeveen B avi a we un i te our e n , sem i) ; - And each of us an I r i sh B a t di e broth er “ ” I n S ongs of Con na ch t an d Th e " Ga l h as oun d e f , — Thi s P oem-B ook i s your s f or to n o oth er B y w eb a

bound .

A . P . G.

323292

T IN RODU CTION .

OF es Irish anthologi of verse there have been many .

’ ’ Miss Irish P Charlotte Brooke s oetry , a volume of

Irish the translations of her own from the , led way in the

’ 1 8 Hardiman s I rish year 7 9, and was followed by

In 1 8 1 s Minstrelsy , 3 with metrical translation by Thomas

’ D Alton Furlong , Henry Grattan Curran , and John .

Both these volumes contained the Irish originals , as well as the translations from them , and both volumes were extremely valuable for their preservation of those ff originals , but su ered from the over ornate , and , indeed , often extremely artiﬁcial English verse into which they were translated . Highly ﬁnished that verse undoubtedly was

’ here and there as ﬁne as much of Macpherson s Ossian . i But it was , as a rule , as untrue a presentment in Engl sh

’ verse of Irish Gaelic poetry as Pope s version of the

’ Iliad and Dryden s translation of the Aeneid are untrue expressions Of the spirit and form of the Greek and Latin

. t originals As a mat er of fact , these translators from the

Irish had not learnt the lesson , not long afterwards learnt by Edward Walsh and Sir Samuel Ferguson , that the use

- c of that poetical Hiberno English spee h , recently made popular by Douglas Hyde , Synge , Lady Gregory and others , was a far truer vehicle for the expression , in trans R vi INT ODUCTION .

n n t latio or adaptatio , of Irish Gaelic poe ry . Walsh indeed published his own tran slations of Reliques of Ancient Jacobite Poetry ( 1 844) and his more char acteristic Irish Popular Songs it might almost

i s be thought , as a protest aga n t the artiﬁcial character of not previous collections of the kind , excepting Mont

’ omer s g y anthology , which preceded his second volume

’ ” by a year . Dr . Drummond s Ancient Irish Minstrelsy ,

f in 1 8 2 at translated by himsel , which appeared 5 , is an tempt to hark back to the eighteenth century and early n of ineteenth century formal school poetry , but has

’ ” Cu chullin s ﬁne passages , such as his Chariot , expanded from a passage in The Breach in the Plain at

M irth m u e ne.

an This wise tendency to treat Irish poetry in Irish way , through the medi um of what I have already called Hiberno

of English speech , was lost sight by the Young Irelanders , whose work was , as a rule , oratorical rather than poetical , in when verse became the medium , or very large part , the medium of their political propaganda . Thomas Davis and his friends fell more under the inﬂuence of Scott and Macaulay than under that of the Gaelic poets immediately preceding them or contemporary with them . No doubt they took a pleasure in printing Irish words in Irish characters here and there in some of their national

and lyrics , and now again we ﬁnd , in Davis more par ticularl y , the Irish human touch , which , when he had time

e s . to write poetry rather than v r e , so distinguishes him But as a rule the stirring appeals to patriotism on the part of the Y oung Ireland poets is little better than versiﬁed oratory . R INT ODUCTION . vii

Thomas Moore was more individual as a poet than any of the Young Ireland group yet , whilst he undoubtedly possessed the Irish characteristics of wit and fancy , sentiment and satire , he had nothing of the spirit of the in Irish countryside his composition . Irish was not spoken by his parents or neighbours in Dublin , and when years afterwards he was seeking materials for his History of Ireland in the library of Trinity College , Dublin , he was amazed to ﬁnd what a great body of Gaelic literature in prose and verse , utterly new to him , lay collected there before hi s eyes . The classics inspired the anacreontics of his i Thomas Little poet cal tales , coloured though they were by his Celti c imagination as well as by his West

Indian recollections , were entirely derived from Eastern , never from Irish sources . The only purely Irish influence of upon his work was that Irish music , and that influence has made his Irish melodies , in part at any rate , imperish able . In spite of his fine as well as faithful translations f rom the Irish , the influence of Byron upon Callanan is

O fﬁ bvious , and Gerald Gri n , though much nearer to the spirit of his native soil as a poet than most of his con temporaries , was drawn , like so many young Irishmen of o letters , under L ndon literary inﬂuences , and was never

n . more tha half emancipated from them Mangan , on the n other ha d , had the good fortune to be able to study in translation some of the ﬁner specimens of Gaelic verse , and his essentially mystic genius and ﬁne musical ear drew from that old Irish poetry a something which is i lack ng in the writings of his contemporaries , Ferguson and Edward Walsh alone excepted . Yet Mangan , like R viii INT ODUCTION .

n f or Moore , we t to the East some of his inspiration , l though , un ike Moore , he drew more of it from contem orar G n o i a p y erma p etry , wh ch he translated , dapted and

a n imit ted with characteristic power . But Ma gan at the end of his career did a hasty piece of work of a thoroughly Irish kind in his translations of the Gaelic Poets and

” ’ P O Dal oetry of Munster , for John y , the Gaelic pub ” lisher few Of and bookseller , which , as Mr . D . T .

’ O Dono hue g , his biographer , rightly says , are of high ” poetical merit . But it is only fair to add , in Mr .

’ ' O Dono hu e s t g words hat Mangan , who did not live to see them published , would have given them , had he “ survived their appearance , as he often did with his earlier poems , an additional polish or other necessary revision . The vulgar verse which exploited the stage Irishman before hi s time was transformed by Samuel Lover into a new medium for the expression of humorous character sketches of Irish life . These lyrics , written to Irish popular airs or original compositions by the

and author , had a great vogue in their day , on the strength Of the reputation achieved by them Lover pub l h d n - is e an A glo Irish anthology of Irish poetry , Lyrics

1 8 8 . of Ireland , in 5 Much pains has been bestowed on the collection and classiﬁcation of the poems in this

- illustrated anthology . Its Anglo Irish character is evident from the small proportion of either translations or adap — tations from the Irish that it contains about one poem — “ in ten and sentimental poems are too predominant in the volume . Much of it , moreover , is mere con

i ial v v and comic , historical and political verse , but it R U INT OD CTION . ix

t s is , never heless the mo t comprehensive , as well as typical

et a collection of Irish verse that had y ppeared , and , as c a s t in the it l im to be , the mos national widest sense

’ of Croker s P the word . Crofton opular Songs of Ireland is a collection of An glo - Irish folk songs and

ballads gleaned from an unfortunately narrow ﬁeld , but though much still remains to be done to supplement

it , more especially in the north of Ireland , Dr . Joyce has in his Folk Song volume of 1 906 added a considerable number of Irish popular ballads in the English tongue

’ Crok r to e s anthology . Meantime other anthologies of Irish poetry were

’ n : ha Duﬂ s f seei g the light C rles Gavan y , a terwards

’ ff - k Sir Charles Gavan Du y s , well nown volume of P The Ballad oetry of Ireland , which had reached

’ a fortieth edition in 1 869 ; Hayes s two volumes of The Ballads of Ireland a very comprehensive but far ” n from choice collection , and The Harp of Eri , a small R but interesting anthology , edited by alph Varian ,

1 86 N and published in 9, in which orthern writers are more adequately represented than elsewhere To these

the may be added Spirit of the Nation , a collection of the best of the poems published in that famous political journal edited by Gavan Duffy ; and Michael Joseph

’ Barry s collection , The Songs of Ireland to which Thomas Davis wrote a stirring introduction Denis Florence Mccarthy ’s The Book of Irish Ballads and Hercules Ellis ’s Songs of Ireland and Romances and Ballads of Ireland ( 1 849 and 1 85 0 ) and William Johnston ’s Boyne Book of Poetry and

) 1 8 . Song (an Orange collection , 5 9 INTRODUCTION .

With the exception of a volume of my own in the a Mayf ir Library , and , as its title Songs of Irish

Wit and Humour shows , of limited scope , no

a for anthology of Irish poetry appe red many years , until the interesting American collection of Alfred

. s n M Williams . The circum ta ces under which that d anthology was compile were remarkable . Mr . Williams , a reporter of the New York Tribune during Fenian

i Ar days , was imprisoned in Dubl n under the ms Act Am for carrying a weapon which , as an erican citizen , he in had always been the habit of doing . He solaced his enforced leisure by the study of Irish poetry , and even tu all Co y published , with Messrs . Osgood . , of

Boston , his scholarly and discriminating volume The P P i t oets and oetry of Ireland . Th s an hology had the advantage of Longfellow ’s criticism as it was

P s and going through the res , is distinguished by the interesting essays which preface most of its sections and the critical and biographical notes which deal

’ with the more important Irish poets . Like Lover s collection , it is divided into sections relating to the various

r types of Irish poet y , but more stress is laid by Williams

ea upon translations from the Irish , and , generally sp king , it may be said to be more expressive of Gaelic than

- Anglo Irish genius . It was followed by Mr . T . D . Sullivan ’s Emerald Gems The Emerald

- Wreath , and three American Irish collections The ” P ’ Ballad oetry of Ireland , in Ford s National Library

’ ’ ( 1 886) Connolly s Household Library of Ireland s Poets and “ The New Universal Irish Song P Book ( . T . Kennedy , R INT ODUCTION . xi

Meantime there had been a fresh ﬂowering of Irish poetry brought about by what has been called The Irish

n i s Literary Re a s ance , whose ﬁrst inspirers were Sir

s Samuel Ferguson , Mangan , Edward Wal h , and Aubrey

’ n O Grad De Vere ; but to the i ﬂuence of Standish y , l ” through his Heroic History of Ire and , the main impulse n n to this moveme t was u doubtedly given . Mr . Yeats might have been drawn away to lead a school of English t mystic poets but for hat inﬂuence , and Dr . Todhunter and other writers would probably also have been contented to cast in their lot with the English poets amongst whom

’ O Grad s they lived . Mr . y , him elf an Irish scholar , t though perhaps more Greek han Irish in expression , ﬁred the imagination of his friends and dr ew them to the

had contemplation of Irish heroic themes , for which he

n . show so ﬁne a feeling Katharine Tynan , who had

s fallen under the spell of Ro setti , may be claimed as a f R un o . . . disciple his , as may Mr T W olleston , but

a doubtedly Mr . Ye ts was his greatest convert , and the

n - founder , under his i ﬂuence , of the Neo Celtic School of Irish poetry , and , in conjunction with Lady Gregory , of the Irish Literary Theatre , on its heroic side . It is remarkable how his faithfuln ess to techni que has im

- pressed itself upon his followers . For like his brother poet ,

A R . . he is an artist to his ﬁnger tips If he has been blamed for the limited amount of his poetical output , he has at

ut en any rate a complete answer , that he has p artistic

r has deavou r into eve y poem he written , and that he has , n as a propagandist , spoke and written more for the creation of Irish Literary and Graphic Art , and with more

ff an a e ect , than y Irishm n of his time , and , ﬁnally , that his RO ii INT DUCTION . latest poetical work shows a remarkable departure in fresh

. a and advanced directions Mr . Ye ts is also one of our l ” anthologists , and his co lection , A Book of Irish Verse , shows a more catholic taste than could have been expected

- - from one of his own fastidious word for word ﬁnish .

’ Halliday Sparling s Irish Minstrelsy ( 1 887) had its vogue before the new School of Irish Symbolists had

’ ’ Hinks . on s arisen , under Mr Yeats aegis , and Mr . Col t lection of Verse by members of Trini y College , Dublin

’ and his wife s (n ée Katharine Tynan) delightful ﬂorilegiu m of Irish Love Songs also anticipated that l poetical period , as to a arge extent did the most ambitious and comprehensive volume of Irish verse that had yet

Of P l appeared , A Treasury Irish oetry in the Eng ish ” Sto ford Tongue edited by Dr . p Brooke and

d - - in . Mr . T . W . Rolleston , afterwar s his son law This anthology is more of a collection than a selection

- P d of Anglo Irish oetry or rather , as the e itors describe ” it , Irish poetry in the English tongue , for it contains

the not a few ﬁne translations and adaptations from Irish .

It is , as it proposes to be , a compendium of poetical

hi r literature in the making , a story of Irish poet y in the

English tongue , as shown by examples of every variety of it deserving critical recognition . Another important collection rather than selection t Of Irish poe ry , and exhibiting great pains in its gathering ,

’ ” is Mr . Cooke s The Dublin Book of Irish Verse , which has the advantage of being a practically up - to - date antho It r logy . is arranged in the main in chronological orde , and typical illustrations are given , chieﬂy from Anglo

rs thou h n a n Irish write , g it also co tains m ny good translatio s R INT ODUCTION . xiii

n from the Irish . It has no literary i troduction and no

s of biographical ketches the poets represented , or such short critical estimates of their work as are to be found in

-R the Brooke olleston collection , but there are about thirty pages of useful notes referring to the sources of the in poems or explanatory of the allusions them .

e in — Other important anthologi s , and the latest the ﬁeld ,

’ ’ n Hinkson s P o are Mrs . Tyna and Mr adri Gregory s recently published volumes entitled The Wild Harp ” - e and Modern Anglo Irish Verse , resp ctively . The

’ ms ﬁrst volume , like Mr . Yeats s , contains the poe that have l i made a specia appeal to the anthologist , poems l kely to capture for English ears , sensitive to a wild music , just such strains as might be sounded by the strings — o t n n of a harp s mething hin , strange , forlor ; somethi g a little unearthly and exquisite , else there would be no ” n reaso to garner it . This method of selection shuts

s and out reﬂective poetry , unles the reﬂection is brief

n r shi ing . It bars propagandist poet y altogether .

’ Mr . Gregory s anthology only deals with poems whose authors were living when his selection was made . He only asks that his poets should be of Irish blood ; he is not careful that their work should be Irish in atmos

h r e e . in n p He is very catholic his taste , and i troduces to his readers some half a dozen writers of ﬁnely dis tinctive verse whose work is either quite fresh or has been : n hitherto overlooked by anthologists Joh Eglinton ,

n a a Kei htl n . Hele L nyon , Sir S muel g y , Florence Wilso

and s of Though partial to the ballad , him elf a master thi s form of verse , he lays special stress on the symbolist lyrics of what we may call the Irish Georgian school of x iv R INT ODUCTION .

s M . acDona h P n writer Mr Thomas g , Mr . George lu kett ,

. n and Mr Darell Figgis , Mr . J . H . Cousi s , Mr . Sidney R oyse Lysaght . The most notable new ballad in his

’ ” book is Miss Emily Lawless s The Third Trumpet , one of the last poems she ever wrote and a very remark able one .

l n of While dea i g with the bibliography the subject , certain British anthologies may be mentioned which have

' introduced Irish verse to the general body of readers . The ﬁrst and most important of these is that beautiful " volume Lyra Celtica , selected with great discrimination

. e c by Mrs William Sharp from the b st Irish , S otch , Welsh ,

and n 1 8 6 Cornish Breto poetry available in the year 9 , and prefaced by a striking introduction from the pen of who her husband , , as a Celtic writer , had adopted the nom de lume of n M Leod p Fio a c .

’ Next comes Mr . Brimley Johnson s charmingly illus trated four volumes of British Ballads , now to be had

’ for one shilling in Everyman s Library , in which there is an interesting Irish section . It has been fol

x f of lowed by the O ord Book Verse , edited by Sir Quiller

Couch , whose Celtic instincts have led him to admit not a few Irish poems into his volume . Conspicuous amongst the writers for the book of Georgian Poets are some writers of Irish blood , and much room has been found in ’ P Mr . Walter Jerrold s Living oets for the work of

Irishmen and Irishwomen .

n n a Fi ally , attentio should be called to two not ble anthologies drawn straight from the Irish Gaelic .

Si erson ef a e Dr . g , like Miss Brooke , has pr erred to m k all the translations from the Irish contained in his Bards

R xvi INT ODUCTION .

t r P cen u y Irish version of aradise Lost and Regained ,

e attributed to Oengus the Culde , and never rendered into English before , and she prints in translation an P interesting set of recently collected Irish Folk oems , religious and secular , as well as translations in verse and prose from contemporary Gaelic poetry . In what respects does my own anthology of Irish ff poetry di er from those described . R of oughly speaking it may be said , to be a selection P n Irish oetry , old and new , old and moder Gaelic poems in English verse translation and Anglo - Irish poetry of the last two centuries which have most appealed to me as

- illustrating the leading features of Gaelic , Hiberno English

- and Anglo Irish verse . I do not suggest that there are not other poems , or even many poems equal in merit to those chosen for this volume . But I have been careful to make such a selection under the seven heads which appear to me most illustrative of the special characteristics of Irish poetry as I hope will be found to yield as much

e variety of thought , styl and metrical expression as could well be contained within the compass of from three to P ” four hundred pages . My headings are Nature oetry , ” ” P o P P r Wonder oetry , L ve oetry , War oet y , ” P ” P “ National oetry , Countryside oetry , Spiritual ” “ ” P P P . and hilosophical oetry , and Religious oetry I have been led to adopt this order of subjects for good reasons . The earliest Irish poetry consists of mystical nature hymns and Nature enters largely into the poems

Cu culain of the and Fenian sagas , while nature poems pure and simple are attributed to Fionn MacCumhail

f . himsel But , interblent with the visible beauties of this R INT ODUCTION . xvii world are the invisible enchantrnents and supernatural

e n z n appearanc s of the fairies , the de i e s of that other

h the ' Gaels in world whic , amongst , was neither heaven or hell , but in intermediate space .

s n Love poetry ﬁnds early expres io amongst the Gaels , much earlier expression from both sexes than is to be found in any other European literature . The Irish were without verse epics but their prose romances are interspersed

n i i s oi with lyrics of ma y k nds , includ ng love lyric of p g

’ s n es nant beauty . Amongst the e may be me tioned Deirdr

s i Farewell to Alba , her lament over the bodie of Na si ,

a Ainli n n Ard n and , and her passio ate rejectio , a year later ,

’ win of King Conor s attempts to her love . The lamen

’ tation two Credés over their lovers of the , Fand s noble

’ farewell to Cuculain and Grainné s Sleep Song over

Diarmid , when they are hiding from the pursuit of

u s of Fion , are love poem the rarest quality .

War I have placed the Irish poetry next , because it follows naturally upon the love contests between chief a C t in and hieftain , and also because it stretches from

u its pagan to early Christian times and thro gh them , in n many moods of dari g , triumph and defeat , down to the

’ ’ ’ 8 O Brien s rebellion of 9 , ﬂickering out ﬁnally in Smith R and the Fenian ebellions . But it was not until the tribal system had been broken for ever that there emerged that spirit of common Irish nationality which makes Irish patriotic poetry so dis tin v ten cti e. The love for Ireland is , no doubt , most d rl e . y and perfectly expressed by St Columba , but it is not until the clans had united in common defence of the whole country and until Ireland began to be described R xviii INT ODUCTION . by her bards by such loving names as The Little Dark ” Rose , or The Silk of the Kine , or again by such titles

Granu aile as or Kathleen na Houlahan , or The Shan van Vocht that a spirit of nationalism had been

suﬂi cient aroused to endure and bear , because it hoped for , all things . This patriotic poetry , beginning as sug gested with St . Columba carried on by Keating , the ” historian , in his delightful Letter to Erin , and then spreading in every direction over Ireland and overseas d with Irish exiles , is in no sense conﬁne to poets of any particular creed or political belief. It is as strong in

’ D Arc McGee Emily Lawless as in y , as fervently expressed by Sir Samuel Ferguson as Stephen Gwynn or Stan dish

’ O Grad R A . t y or . I doubt whether here is any poetical literature in the world so suffused with this genuine love of country or in which it is expressed with more delicate feeling . Folk songs have come to us in countless numbers from

- k the Gaelic and Anglo Irish alike , but the Gaelic Fol

Songs are , without doubt , the ﬁnest . Specimens of these have been given in translation with all the skill com manded Si erson by Mangan , Ferguson , Walsh , Dr . g ,

P McCall Dr . Hyde , Mr . . J . , Miss Eleanor Hull , and M Don h r . ac a Mr Thomas g . For their collection wa m obligations are due to Hardiman , Edward Walsh , Dr .

Si erson M l P l . . Ca . . c P g , Dr Hyde , Mr . , Mr H earse and to the Gaelic League and Irish Folk Song Society .

They could ill be spared , speaking as they do straight from the heart of the Irish people .

we Lastly , have to deal with Irish religious poetry and the spiritual and phi losophical poetry which has followed 0 RO TI N INT DUC O . X IX it in recent years and which is the most remarkable out come of contemporary Irish literary thought , unless indeed the new Irish literary drama may be said to rival it as an expression of the modern Irish mind ; though let it be noted that three of its most prominent repre

enta iv . l s t es . , Mr W . B . Yeats , Mr George Russe l P i and Mr . adraic Colum are also lead ng dramatists of the Irish Literary Theatre . P m Early Irish Religious oetry is re arkable , not only

r e al for its ﬁne met ical form , but for its che rful spiritu ity ,

- h o of its open air fres ness , and for its ccasional touches

' O Dal kindly humour , and the later religious poetry of y and kindred writers as preserved by Dr . Hyde , whilst of

if l f ex traor a more sombre character , is beaut u ly ervid and

r l dina i y ﬁnished in its technique . And what may be o called the wild ﬂowers of Irish religious p etry , the short h prayers , invocations and c arms are as delightful , in their

’ R s of degree , as all readers of Dr . Hyde s eligiou Songs

u Connacht m st confess . And now I hand over to my readers the song wreath

a I have been long g thering for them . May they grow to

e love , as much as I do , what I have els where described as

and These sprays of Druid oak yew , R d n And e Branch rowa s hoar with dew , And sedges sighing from the strand

Oiseen i Whence rode to Fa ry Land , And festals blooms whose bardic breath Pleasured the proud Elizabeth ;

’ Heath plumes that o er our Princes sang Exultant to the battle clang ; INTRODUCTION .

Pale irnmortelles whose plaintive lay

’ Still murmurs o er their hero clay ;

And ﬂoWers wild , plucked with artless art

’ From out the Irish peasant s heart

S noi neens n Wood hamrocks , from the law , The dr ina un dhun and canavaun

’ Killarne s Arbutus from y shore ,

lusmor e Bog myrtle , magical ,

And , every blossom else above ,

’ Dark Rosaleen s own rose of Love:

ALFRE PER EVAL D C GRAVES . WLE D M EN T A CK N O G S .

The E ditor a nd P u blishers desire to tha nk Miss E lea nor

A ex a n er or the u se o oems b her a t er the a te P r ma te o l d f f p y f h , l i f

I re a n a nd b her mot er ec Frances A ex a n er as we l d, y h , C il l d , ll a s or two o o her o n M W a m A n a m or er f p ems f w rs. illi lli gh f p m ss t M r eor e i ion o reprint poems by her la te husba nd ; s. G g S a vage-A rmstrong for the like permission ; Miss ja nc Ba rlow

’ and eor e A en the u s o s a r ow s oems a nd Co. or e s G g ll , f f Mi B l p M r H oo s. M r a r a n or a oem b her at er the a te . R c ho d f p y f h , l i h d M y the H on Fre er ck L a a Ve t H oo er or the . d i wless nd Miss ne ia . C p f use o oe E m La Lor unsa n ms b the a te The Hon . w ess f p y l ily l , d D y a nd the a u thor em Fra n E L M rs or a o b c s . e w e a nd f p y i d idg , .

Lea or m he te a n M r A H Lea P a oe b r a us . . . . hy f p y l h b d , hy , M

M r S eu a s M M t th . m a c a nus for a poem by E hna Ca rbcry ( e M ’ a te . rs ItI M VI i O r r oe l . ac a n us) l i ss N éll e B ien fo a p m

’ b her a u t th te r t r O B ri en M r n e a ss a o te a ce . y , l Mi Ch l G ;

’ O D Mf T ma o . on o hue or two oems b r o s D g f p y . h B yd M r s. E rnest R s or a oem b her s ster the a te E zabet hy , f p y i , l li h

ar L tt e hi ht M th a d ss S to es or s au ers rs. oo n M y i l d g , B by Mi k , f two oems b the a te D r W t e S to es ss Fra nces S u va n p y l . hi l y k Mi lli

or se M T S u va n vera oems b her a t er the a te r . . . f l p y f h , l D lli ;

’ essrs a tto a nd W n us or two oems b A rthur O S ha u h M . Ch i d f p y g ness e r t ms Ai r Her ert Trenc ss s. e uen or oe b y M M h f p y . b h M r C or oems b . eor e R ss a G g u ell a nd Macmilla n nd o. f p y ” A E M A ston R vers or W H s rs. . . r . esson a nd e s . . Ch M l i f H e son oems b h M W . s p y t e la te N or a H opper ( rs. . Ch )

M r E lhi th t a t ors s ec e who a re . n Ma ews a nd those of he u h p iﬁ d A e e v n or oems b ss A ce Fu r on M r . eor e . r en li i g f p y Mi li l g, G g G , a mara M r L one hn s n M M r Fra nc s a ou . o o r . a mes o cc . i l j , j j y , i M ,

ar es Weekcs a nd Fra nces W nne essrs. S ea B r ers Ch l y M ly , y

xx i x C O x ii A KN WLEDGMENTS .

’ a nd Wa er or a oem b E en O M F s r U n T. e nw lk f p y ll Leary r . i h i a nd the a ut ors themse ves or oems b D r eor e S i erson h l f p y . G g g a n M W d r . . . Yea ts a nd M S teve on n hi s P u s er r . o n ns a d B j h bli h , M r . E wa r A rn o or a oem d d ld , f p . The E ditor a nd P ublishers a re a lso indebted to the following writers for permission to reprint their poems Miss E va Gore ” oot The Rev S to or W E nor . d A . roo e arew ss ea B h , pf B k , ill C , Mi l R o er C M E ar s ox rs. w ow en to whom tha n s i s a so due g , d d D d ( k l

or the use o oems b her a te u s a n S i r A rthur ona n o e f f p y l h b d) , C D yl , ” o E t M M n n on r . Fra nc s Fa r a rre F s ss j h gli , i hy , . D ll iggi , Mi

M oireen Fox L a ert M P r o M r S te en r . a o re r , dy Gilb , d i G g y , . ph

w nn ss E m H M r K a t T H n son c e s. ar ne nan G y , Mi ily i k y , h i y i k ,

M E mon E u a s r . A . H o s ss ea nor H u r o me D . d d G . l , Mi l ll, D gl

H e M R o ert K err H e e La n on M S a ne Les e r . ss n r . yd , b , Mi l y , h li ,

W n L tt M e L t M P ss re S ne R s sa r . . . . e s r o Mi i if d M , . id y y y gh , j

M Ca l M T M c l r oma s M a cDon a h ss A ce a n r . , . h g , Mi li Millig , O ’ ’ ’ ” M t a B r M ta O a o r O N e ll rs. a ne r . S n s Gr d a i C h l y , di h y , M i ,

’ ’ O l O u l va Dr eor e S i er on en S u li va M r S e ma s S li n . s s n . u D i , , G g g ,

or a S e M e t S orter ss E nor S weetma n i rson rs. men D g ( Cl h ) , Mi li ,

T M W Y a ts a nd T te M . Her ert re c r . . e Dr . o n o un r r n . j h dh , b h , B ,

Miss E lla You ng . Finally a nd above a ll the Editor a nd P ublishers ha ve to tha nk

M a l a C a the a ut ors oncerne or the s ec a use o unse nd o. nd c , h d f p i l f

M ose h a m e S eosa mh M a c copyright poems by r . j p C pb ll ( M a h M s N a nc am e r . P a ra c Ca thmha oil nd is w e r . ) if , y C pb ll, d i D nd R u t M r H . ous ns ss e a u n a ss o um . . C l , j C i , Mi C li fﬁ Mi h M S usa n L tc e M eor e Ro erts r . Du i n ss . r . ﬂ , Mi Mi h ll, G g b ,

M r S euma s R eston M r a mes S te ens and . T W o . . . ll , j ph ,

’ O S ullivan w t out wh c th s a nt o o wou a ve m sse , i h i h i h l gy ld h i d

ter much of i ts representa tive cha ra c . I t i s interesting to learn tha t these Modern I r ish P oets will be more fu lly represen ted in a Volume of I r ish Verses to be published

a nd o by M aun sel C .

TO OR xxiv INDEX AUTH S .

ETHNA CARBERY ,

CAREW , WILL O CARLET N , WILLIAM E CASEY , JOHN KE GAN

O O see . CHESS N , N RA ( Hopper , Nora)

O P C 26 C LUM , ADRAI

COLU MKILLE 1 8 , SAINT 9, 4 , 33

O . 1 2 C USINS , JAMES H

COX O 1 , ELEAN R 3

CU LEN N AI N O C Of , C RMA , King and Bishop Cashel 33

O 2 2 DARLEY , GE RGE 77 , 7

R C 2 1 DAVIS , F AN IS

O O 1 0 1 1 6 DAVIS , TH MAS OSB RNE 3, 5 7 ,

DE 1 0 1 62 1 6 1 88 1 1 2 1 2 6 VERE , AUBREY 5 , , 3, , 9 , 5 , 7 2 28 77 ,

DE S IR 1 1 1 VERE , AUBREY ,

O 1 28 D WDEN , EDWARD 4 ,

MR 0 O S . 02 D WDEN , EDWARD 3 , 3

O S IR 1 0 I D YLE , ARTHUR CONAN 7 , 7

22 DUFFERIN , LADY

DUFFIN , CELIA

DUFFIN , RUTH 7

O O 1 EGLINT N , J HN 3

C . 1 2 FAHY , FRAN IS A

O S IR 88 0 2 1 2 1 2 1 FERGUS N , 5 9, , 9 , 9 , 4 , 45 ,

1 1 FIGGIS , DARRELL 3 , 3

Z . 20 2 FIT GERALD , EDWARD 3 , 3 O F RRESTER , ELLEN

Fox MOIREEN , INDEX TO AUTHORS XX V

Z O FRA ER , J HN DE JEAN

C 2 1 22 1 2 FURLONG , ALI E 3, , 3

D 1 8 GEOGHEGAN , ARTHUR GERAL 9

- OO EVA 2 0 2 1 GORE B TH , 3, 3 , 3 3 O R 2 20 GREENE , GE RGE A THUR 4 , 5

O PADRIC 1 0 2 2 GREG RY , 9 , 49, 5 7

0 1 GRIFFIN , GERALD 7 , 34

W NN C 1 80 20 G Y , STEPHEN LU IUS , 7

HENNESSY , W . M . 47 C 62 1 2 HI KEY , EMILY , 4

1 1 2 2 HINKSON , KATHARINE TYNAN 93, 5 , 4 O C 220 H GAN , MI HAEL

E 1 6 1 S a . . HOLME , G A , 7 ,

E O 1 6 2 20 HOPP R , N RA 9, 7 , 7 , 5

2 82 8 1 0 0 2 HULL , ELEANOR 3 , , 9, 3 , 34 , 34

LAS 8 1 1 HYDE , DOUG 4 , 9 , 33, 333, 345

V M IRWIN , THO AS CAULFIELD

O O E 1 20 1 20 6 J HNS N , LION L , 77 , O C S 2 62 J Y E , JAME O C RO E J Y E , BERT DWY R N RO KAVA AGH , SE O 1 8 KEATING , GE FFREY 5 O 22 KEEGAN , J HN 7 RO 2 KERR , BERT 5 5

O 2 0 LANY N , HELEN 5

THE HO 1 6 1 68 208 2 6 1 2 0 N . LAWLESS , EMILY 7 , , , 9 , 3 xx vi O S INDEX TO AUTH R .

Page

LEFAN U O 2 1 , J SEPH SHERIDAN 3 1 2 LESLIE , SHANE 5

. 20 2 2 1 2 2 LETTS , WINIFRED M , 7 , 4 , 45 , 5 5 Z 2 LITTLE , ELI ABETH MARY 93

O 226 L VER , SAMUEL

RO I I 0 LYSAGHT , SIDNEY YSE 9, 3 9

C P C O 2 1 2 2 M CALL , ATRI K J SEPH 4 , 44 , 45 » 343 C C M CARTHY , DENIS FLOREN E

MACDONAGH O 8 86 1 20 , TH MAS 5 , , 35 , 3

’ C O C 1 8 M GEE , TH MAS D AR Y 9

C 2 8 M KOWEN , JAMES 4

C C 1 MA NAMARA , FRAN IS 3 7

MAELISU I , SAINT 34

O C P I MAH NY , FRAN IS SYLVESTER (Father rout) 94

C 1 6 MAHONY , RI HARD 5 S C MANGAN , JAME CLAREN E C MILLIGAN , ALI E

C 2 MIT HELL , SUSAN L . 97

8 1 6 1 2 1 2 MOORE , THOMAS 9 , 4 , 74 , 7 . 74 MOZEEN 222 , THOMAS

S 1 1 0 MULHOLLAND , RO A (Lady Gilbert) NO THE HON R EL , . ODEN

’ C O BRIEN , CHARLOTTE GRA E

’ O BYRNE , CATHAL

’ DALY MU IREDACH O ,

’ O C S O DONNELL , J HN FRAN I O THE HON O GLE , . GE RGE

’ IS 1 2 O GRADY , STAND H 5 , 3,

’ V O HAGAN , JOHN

’ O HUSSEY THE , BARD TO O xx vii INDEX AUTH RS .

’ A O LE RY , ELLEN

’ O 1 1 2 2 8 2 O NEILL , M IRA (Mrs . Skrine) 7 , 3 , 5 , 5 9

’ O O 1 0 1 O REILLY , J HN B YLE ORR , JAMES

’ 1 1 6 O SHAUGHNESSY , ARTHUR

’ MRS 1 1 8 O SULLIVAN , . DENIS

’ 6 1 1 2 8 . 2 O SULLIVAN , SEUMAS 7 , , 5

P 20 ARNELL , FANNY 3 P C 28 2 ATRI K , SAINT 3 , 3 9 P T 86 E RIE , GEORGE P O 1 8 LUNKETT , J SEPH 3

2 1 8

R O 1 02 EYN LDS , GEORGE NUGENT 6 ROBERTS , GEORGE 34 R O S OLLEST N , THOMA WILLIAM 37 P C 00 SHEEHAN , ATRI K A . 3

S IGERSON O 6 1 1 2 1 , D RA (Mrs . Clement Shorter)

S IGERSON 1 1 1 , GEORGE 34 , 43, 44 , 7 , 4 06 STEPHENS , JAMES 3

2 1 STEVENSON , JOHN

O 1 0 2 ST KES , WHITLEY 5 , 3 4

O 1 20 1 SULLIVAN , TIM THY DANIEL 79, O 6 0 SWEETMAN , ELIN R 7 , 3 5

T E H M 2 2 H ON . RS . TIGHE , 7

O O 2 20 2 8 1 8 T DHUNTER , J HN 5 , 9, 7 , 3

O O Z I T NNA, CHARL TTE ELI ABETH 5 9

C AR C 28 TREN H , HBISHOP 3

C 1 1 1 1 2 ‘ TREN H , HERBERT 5 , 3, 4

C 1 0 1 2 WALLER , JOHN FRAN IS , 79

LS R 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 S t o o o o o o o o o o o o o g o o o o o WA H , EDWA D 9 9 9 0 0 9 q g q q g 94 INDEX TO AUTHORS

Page

0 1 WEEKES , CHARLES 3

O E 1 00 1 6 W LFE , CHARL S , 7

C 1 1 2 WYNNE , FRAN ES

8 1 1 2 1 1 28 YEATS , WILLIAM BUTLER 3 , , 3, 7 O Y UNG , ELLA CONTENTS.

W ere not ot erw se n ca te the oet c sett n w et er or na [ h h i i di d p i i g , h h igi l

or in tra n s a t on rom the I r s i s b the E tor . l i f i h , y di ]

Dedication Introduction Acknow ledgements

Fronti i or e sp ece by Ge g Morrow .

’ Ode Arthur O S ha ughnessy

R P I ISH NATURE OETRY .

The Song of Amorgen First Winter - Song King and Hermit

St . Columba in Iona The Irish Wolf- Hound Denis Florence M cCarthy The Rock O f Cashel S i r A ubrey De Vere Glengarriff S ir A u brey De Vere Siberia james Cla rence M angan A Sigh for K nockmany Willi amCarleton XXX CO N NTE TS .

Sonnet Edward Dowden Four Ducks on a Pond Willi am Allingham

’ Foam Flakes S tandi sh O Grady

E G A Holmes From Shannon to Sea . .

E G A Hol es Eternal Vigil . . . m

’ Birds M oi ra O N eill Sheep and Lambs K atharine Tynan

Hinkson April in Ireland

’ lorn Wi ni r M L G s . ed ett y Weir f . s The Nine Green Glens john S tevenson

Rose K avana h Lough Bray , I . g ’ S tandish O Grad Lough Bray , II . y An Awakening

Br ffn Eva Gore- B ooth The Little Waves Of e y .

Geor e A Greene On Great Sugarloaf g . A June john Todhunter

Roden N oel The Swimmer .

Wini red M Letts Spring , the Travelling Man f . A Fine Day on Lough Swilly Willi amAlexander Frost- moming Willi amAlex ander The Wind from the TO the Mountain Ben Bulben Maireen F ox An ach Darrell Figgi s

IRISH WONDER POETRY

’ The Fairi es Lullaby Eleanor Hull The Fairy Host

A H Leah The Song Of the Fairies . . y

’ Sea- Maiden s Vengeance George Sigerso n xxxii CONTENTS A

Elinor S weetman

’ S eumas O S ulli van

P IRISH LOVE OETRY .

What i s Love P

Of Dau h The Song Crede , g ter of Guare She Eleanor Hull

’ Credhe s Lament for Lament Of Fand at parting

from Cuchulain . Were you on the Mountain Dougla s Hyde Pulse Of my Heart Cha rlotte B rooke

T O Thoma s M W . Songs from the Irish , I

Thomas II . Pearl Of the White The Outlaw Of Loch jeremi ah joseph

Ca llanan

Cean Dubh Deelish S ir S amuel Ferguson The Flower Of Nut- brown Maids 89 S ir S amuel 90 She is my Love 91 ’ Happy tis , Thou Blind , for Thee The COOlun S ir S amuel Ferguson Irish Love - Song K atharine Tynan

Hinkson

Cashel Of Munster Molly Asthore C EN S ONT T . xxxiii

Remembrance

Denn Lane Lament of the Irish Maiden . y The Desmond Love Song George Darley If I had thought thou couldst have died Cha rles Wolfe A White Rose john B oyle Kitty Neil john Franci s Waller

’ Kathleen O More George N ugent Reynolds The Boatman of

Song Aubrey De Vere Song Aubrey De Vere

’ An Ancient Tale john O Hagan Donal Kenny john K eegan The Drynan Dhun Robert Dwyer The Wild Geese Rosa Mulholland Outside To an Isle in the Water Willi amB utler An Old Song Resung Willi amB utler

The Wood Pigeon K atha rine Tynan

A .E Forgiveness .

’ Arthur O S ha ughnessy

t ord A B rooke S opf .

’ l Mrs Deni s O S ulli van The Little F utw . The Penalty Of Love S idney Royse Lysaght

L l ahusan 0 ione j 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 C N S ONTE T .

’ The Sedges S eumas O S ulli van Can DOOV Deelish Dora S igerson The Betrayal Alice Furlong Song Elea nor Alexander

’ A Silent Mouth Cathal O B yrne His Home and hi s own Country Emily Hickey 1 24 Bitter Serenade Herbert Trench 1 24

Of LOV ames H Cousins 1 6 The Wings j . 2 Little Mary Cassidy 1 28 Molleen Oge 1 29

F -A r tr 1 u G. S ava e ms on 2 The Yin Wee L ik . g g 9

G F S ova e-A rmstron 1 0 The Shawlie . . g g 3

’ Luve G F S ava e-A rmstron 1 The Wee Lassie s First . . g g I 3

’ ’ Guttin Rushes M oira O N eill 1 32

call Dou las H de I Little Child , I thee g y 33 Eileen Aroon Gerald Griﬁin 1 34 Song I 35 Eleanor Alexander 1 36

r s Ed nd G A H olmes 1 6 Amor Fons Amo i mo . . 3

W P IRISH AR OETRY .

’ le or R Cox Cuchulain s Wooing E an .

’ Leagh S ‘ Summons to Cuchu 1 40 Where is the Sweetest Music George S igerson 1 4 1 The Giant Walker 1 42 The Washer Of the Ford Si r S amuel 1 45 CONTENTS XXXV

A Dirge for King Niall of the Nine Hostages The Song Of the Sword Of Carroll

’ King Ailill s D eath Whitley S tokes Rebel Mother ’s Lullaby

C W P LATER BARDI AR OETRY .

’ ’ O Hussey s Ode to the Maguire james Clarence Mangan

fer Richa rd Mahon A Lament the Red Earl . . y Lament for the Death of

’ Eoghan Ruadh O N eill Thoma s Davi s

O - C JAC BITE AND ANTI JA OBITE LAYS .

The Maiden City Cha rlotte Elizabeth

Tonna

The Battle Of the Anon A Ballad of S arsﬁeld Aubrey De Vere A Ballad Of Athlone (zu d Siege) A ubrey De Vere After the Battle (of Aughrirn) Thoma s M oore

IRISH BRIGADE BALLADS . A Farewell to Patrick Sars ﬁeld james Clarence

1 Emil Lawless Fontenoy , 745 , I y

1 Emil Lawless Fontenoy , 745 , II y C ONTENTS .

Page ’ Clare s Dragoons Thomas Davi s 1 69

S i r A Conan 1 0 Cremona . 7

C S ir A Conan 1 The Irish olonel . 74

E R S WAR P LAT R I I H OETRY .

n Thoma s Moore Oh The Sight Entra cing . . The Burial Of Sir John Moore Cha rles Wolfe Ways Of War Li oneljahusan The Sword Mi chael joseph B arry A Soldier ’s Wake S ullivan 1 79 A Song Of Defeat S tephen Gwynn 1 80

R P R I ISH NATIONAL OET Y .

S t Columkille . Geoffrey Keating to his Letter Geoﬁrey K eating

‘ Dark Rosaleen james Clarence M angan

’ Dirge Of Rory O More Aubrey De Vere After Aughri Arthur Gerald Geoghegan A Bard ’s Lament over his Children The Little Black Rose The Win d that Shakes th e

Robert Dw er 1 Barley . y 91 The Irishman james Orr 1 92 ’ A Spinning Song john Francis O Don nell 1 93 CONTEN TS XXXVII

The Bells of Shandon Francis Sylvester

The Memory of the john K ells I ngram

for 1 2th 1 8 ohn de ean Song July , 43 j j ’ Memories Thomas D Arcy McGee To God and Irelan d

’ I give my Heart to S ta ndi sh O Gr ady

T D S ulli van Song from the . . Fanny P arnell An A E Irish Face . . The Dark Man

e Geor e A reene Irish Memori s g . G Celtic Speech Li onel johnson A Song Of Freedom Ireland S tephen Lucius Gwynn An Appeal Emily Lawless Irish Melodies john Todhunter Lament for Thomas S ir S amuel Ferguson

P R IRISH COUNTRYSIDE OET Y .

B le sin s ni red M Letts s g Wi f . The Slaying of Conbeg The Wedding of the A ubrey De Vere Eamonn an Chnuic The Blind Poet Anthony Raftery My Ulick Franci s Davi s Draherin O Machree Mi chael H ogan

The Kilruddery Hunt Thomas Mozeen xxxviii CONTENTS .

A Dream William Allingham

’ A Peasant Woman s Dion B ouci cault Kitty of Coleraine Anon The Low- backed Car S amuel Lover The Dark Girl ” by the Holy Well john K eegan

’ The Potato Digger s Thomas Caulfield I rwin

’ A Drunkard s Address to a Bottle of Whiskey joseph S heridan Lefana Soggarth Aroon john B anim

’ Father O Flynn

’ The River Charlotte Grace O B ri en Tom Moody Herring is King Irish Widow ’s Message to her Son in America Ellen Forrester

P atri ck M cCall Herself and Myself j . Song of an Island Fisherman K atharine Tynan

Hi nkson

O Drimin Dhu Deelish

P P atrick McCall reparations for Winter j .

n Wi ni red M Letts My Blessi g be on Waterford f .

P atrick c Call If all the young j . The Six Road Ends Will Carew

’ God s F0 01 Celi a Da hin Bonnie Twinkling Starnies james M cK owen

’ They re only Weans P adrio Gregory

’ Helen Lan on The Hill 0 Dreams . y

The Blue , Blue Smoke Out Of Hearing x1 C ONTENTS .

Page 0 ! Wondrous Death A rchbi shop Trench 283

’ Lady Margaret s Song Edwa rd Dowden 284 Epitaph A u brey De Vere 285 An Errand 285

Sto ord A B rooke 86 The Earth and Man pf . 2 Song john Todhunter 2 87 The Ballad of Father Gilligan Willi am B utler Yeats 2 87 ’ The Irish Mother s Lament CecilFrances Alexander 289 A E . 1 Sacriﬁce . 29

’ Michan s Rose K avana h St . g 292 Eliza beth Mar Littl Life y e . 293 A Benediction Ali ce Milligan 293

TO for Edmund G A Holmes O Deep Tears . . 295 A Retort Emily Lawless 296 Carrick S usan Mitchell 297

’ nnl A E Co a s Well . . 299 Dreams CecilFrancesAlexander 299

l- P atrick A 00 The Sou Bell . 3 Titan Charles Weekes 30 1

’ A Moment s Insight Eva Gore-B ooth 302

Mrs E d Dowden no . dwar . 02 There shall be more Sea . 3

Mrs Edwar Dowde . d n 0 Adrift . . 3 4 A Song Of Sun Setting jane B arlow 304 TO a Nightingale Elinor S weetman 30 5 The Shell james S tephens 306 The Rose Of Silence Ella Young 307 The Bough Of Time Ella Young 307 A Dream Garden Ella Young 30 8

S id Ro se L sa ht 0 The Unexplored ney y y g . . 3 9 e ll El anor Hu . 31 0 CONTENTS

Page r Franci s E L d i n . e w d e . 1 1 G owi g Old g . 3 I will Forget 3I 2 From the Burren Emily Lawless 31 2 Eva Gore- B ooth 31 3 Coire Dubh Linn Darrell Figgis 31 4 Ghosts joseph Campbell 31 5 The Omen john Eglinton 31 7 Diminutivus U lulans 3I 7 The Marseillaise john Todhunter 31 8

’ The Stars Sang in God s

ose h P lunkett Garden , I . I I j p What is White P Thomas M Alas that Spring Should van ish with the Rose Edward Fitzgerald The End of All Edwa rd Fitzgerald The Touchstone William Alli ngham Man Octipartite Whitley S tokes

P R RELIGIOUS OET Y .

’ P atri ck s B lessing on Munster

s f P The Brea tplate O St . atrick A Prayer to the Virgin

’ Columbkille s Farewell Douglas Hyde On the Flightiness Of Thought The Monk and his White Cat The Scribe Quatrains from the Early Irish CO E S xlii NT NT .

The Sea- going Bark The Shaving Of Consecration Eleanor Hull Hymn to the Holy Spirit

’ Maelisu s Hymn to the Arch angel Michael ’ The Soul s Desire Eleanor Hull

Feilire Of Adamnan P atrick cCall The j . M

Dou las H d Christmas Hymn . . g y e A Confession for Forgiveness The Convent Bell Roberts ODE .

We are the musi c- mak ers ,

And we are the drea mers o drea ms f ,

Wa nderi n b lone sea- breakers g y , A nd sitti ng by desolate streams

World- lo r - r akers sers a nd wo ld fo s , On whom the p ale moon glea ms

Yet we are the movers and shakers

O the world or ever it seems f f ,

With wonderful deathless ditties

’ We build u the world s reat citi es p g , A nd out of a f abulous story ’ We ashi on an em i re s lor f p g y . One man with a dream at pleasure

S hall o orth a nd con uer a crown g f q , ’ A nd three wi th a new song s measure

C n i r d wn a tra mple an emp e o .

We i n the a es l i n , g y g

I n the buri ed ast o the earth p f ,

B uilt Ni neveh with our si hi n g g,

An B t el ith our i rth d abel i s f w m ,

’ And o erthrew them with p rophesyi ng

’ To the old of the new world s worth

F or each a e i s a drea m that i s d i n g y g,

Or one that i s comi n to bi rth g .

’

ARTHUR O SHAUGHNESSY . THE S CRI B E .

[From the E a rly I rish ]

A leafy grove surrou nds me quite F or my delight the blackbi rds flute

’ ’ While o er my little book s li ned words

S weet warbli n bi rds thei r S cri be salute g .

The Cuckoo i n hi s ma ntle grey

Cri es on a ll da throu h lu sh tree to s y g p . — A nd verily God shi eld me still !

Well s eeds m uill beneath the co se p y q p . BOOK OF IRISH POETRY

I I AT E OE R SH N UR P TRY .

THE SONG OF AMORGEN

B A mor en a - tor re s c a r . y g , p hi i B d

From the ooks o Lecca n a nd a mote [ B f B lly . ]

I am the wind on the sea for might ; I am a wave Of the deep for length ; I am the sound Of the sea for fright s Of I am a tag seven points for strength . I am a hawk on a clilI for lightness I am a tea r O f the sun for brightness ’ I am a salmon in Wisdom s fountain I am a lake that afar expands ; ’ I am Knowledge and Poesy s mountain ; ’ 3 I am a Spear in a spoiler hands . I am a God w ho fashions smoke from magic ﬁre for a

Druid to slay with . Who but I will make clear each question the mind of man still goes astray with Who but myself the assemblies knows of the house of the sages on hi h Slieve Mis Who but the poet ow s where in the ocean the going down Of the great sun is BOO OF O 4 K IRISH P ETRY .

’ Who Seven times sought the Fairy Forts without or fear or injury P ’ And who declareth the moon s past ages and the ages thereof that have yet to be P Who out Of the shadowy haunts Of Tethra hitherward draweth his herds Of kine P Who segregated them from each other to browse the plains Of the watery brine ? For whom will the ﬁsh Of the laughing ocean be making welcome if not for me P sha eth Of ea Who p as I can the spell letters , a w pon to win them out of the sea P a 0 Invoke a s tirist , ﬁt incantations to weave for you , folk Of the waves , f i Even me , the Druid , orth furn shing Ogham letters on

oaken staves , n n the Even me , the parter of combata ts , eve me who Fairy Height Enter to ﬁnd a cunning enchanter to lure with me your shoals to light ! Of I am the Wind the Sea for might .

R - N FI ST WINTER SO G . Take my tidings ! Stags contend ; Snows descend Summer ’s end !

A chill wind raging ; The sun low keeping Swift to set ’ O er seas high sweeping .

Dull red the fern Shapes are shadows ; Wild geese mourn ’ O er misty meadows .

BOOK OF IRISH POETRY .

With joy the stags of Oakridge leap - er Into their clear and deep banked riv , OH Roin Far , red y glows with joy , M s uckraw Moinmo . , y in sun hine quiver

With mighty mane a green - barked yew Upholds the blue ; his fortress green An oak uprears against the storms s Tremendous form , stupendous scene

Mine apple - tree is full Of fruit — ’ From crown to root a hostel s store My bonn nut- full hazel bush

Leans ranching lush against my door .

A choice pure spring of cooling draught Is mine what prince has quaffed a rarer P 0 Around it cresses keen , King , f Invite the famishing way arer .

Tame swine and wild and goat and deer

Assemble here upon its brink , ’ Yea even the badger s brood draw near k And without fear lie down to drin .

ea a A p ceful troop of cre tures strange , er They hith range from wood and height , To meet them slender foxes steal s i ! At ve per peal , O my del ght

These visitants , as to a Court ,

Frequent resort to seek me out , P e ure wat r , Brother Guare , are they ,

The salmon grey , the speckled trout

o Red rowans , dusky sloes and mast O - s n unsurpassed and God e t dish , c s Bla kberrie , whortleberries blue , Red strawberries to my taste and wish O IRISH NATURE P ETRY .

e Of Sweet appl s , honey wild bees ,

And , after them , of eggs a clutch , Of Haws , berries the juniper

Who , King , could cast a Slur on such P

A cup with mead Of hazel - nut m Outside my hut , in su mer Shine , w Or ale , with herbs from ood and spring , 0 t Are worth , King , thy cos liest wine .

’ Bright bluebells o er my boar d I throw A lovely Show my feast to Spangle ’ s oaklets The rushe radiance , gray ,

- — Briar tresses gay sweet , goodly tangle .

When brilliant summer casts once more ’ C Her loak of colour o er the ﬁelds , r Sweet astin marjoram , pignut , leek TO ho — s all w seek her verdure yield .

Her bright red breasted little men

Their lovely music then outpour , u s The thrush exults , the c ckoo all Ar ound her call and call once more .

’ e s The be s , earth s small mu icians , hum , e l No longer dumb , in g nt e chorus , Like echoes faint Of that long plaint ’ - The ﬂeeing wild fowl murmur o er us .

e r The wr n , an active songste now , Off - i From the hazel bough pipes shr ll , Woodpeckers ﬂock in multitudes

With beauteous hoods and beating bill .

w With fair hite birds , the crane and gull ,

s . The ﬁelds are full , while cuckoo cry No mournful music ! Heath poults dun

Through russet heather sunw ard ﬂy . O OF O BO K IRISH P ETRY .

The heifers now with loud delight ,

Summer bright , salute thy reign Comfort smooth for toilsome loss ’ s Tis now to cros the fertile plain .

The warblings of the wind tha t sweep Sk From branchy wood to sapphire y , ’ e The river falls , the Swan s far not Delicious music ﬂoating by !

’ Earth s bravest band , because unhired , me All day untired , makes cheer for . ’ In Christ s own eyes of endless outh Can this same truth be said 0 thee P

What though in Kingly pleasures now

Beyond all riches thou rejoice , Content am I my Saviour good on Should this wood have set my choice .

ri Without one hour of war or st fe , r Th ough all my life at peace I fare . Where better can I keep my tryst 0 Guare P With our Lord Christ , brother .

GUARE . ! My glorious Kingship , yea and all ’ My sire s estates that fall to me , r a My Ma van , I would gl dly give ,

So I might live my life with thee . O IRISH NATURE P ETRY .

ST . COLUMBA IN IONA .

From a n I r s ma nuscr t i n the u r u n a n L bra r [ i h ip B g di i y , russe s B l . ] Delightful would it be to me From a rock pinnacle to tr ace Continually ’ The ocea n s face That I might watch the heaving waves Of noble force To God the Father chant their staves ’ Of the earth s course ;

That I might mark its level strand ,

To me no lone distress , ’ That I might hark the sea - bird s wondrous band Sweet source of happiness That I might hear the clamorous billows thunder

On the rude beach , That by my blessed church side I might ponder t Their migh y speech , Or watch surf- ﬂying gulls the dark shoal follow

With joyous scream , Or mighty ocean monsters spout and wallow Wonder supreme

That I might well observe of ebb and ﬂood All cycles therein And that my mystic name might be for good

- But Cul ri , Erin . That gazing toward her on my heart might fall

A full contrition ,

That I might then bewail my evils all , Though hard the addition That I might bless the Lord who all things orders For their great good The countless hierarchies through Heaven ’s bright borders

Land , strand and ﬂood . I F O BOOK O IRISH POETRY .

That I might search all books and from their chart ’ Find my soul s calm ;

Now kneel before the heaven of my heart , Now chant a psalm

Now meditate upon the King of Heaven , Chief of the Holy Thr ee ;

Now ply my Work , by no compulsion driven . What greater joy could be P c Now plu king dulse upon the rocky shore ,

Now ﬁshing eager on , Now furnishing food unto the famished poor ; m a In her it ge anon . The guidance of the King of Kings Hath been vouchsafed unto me

If I keep watch beneath His wings ,

No evil shall undo me .

- THE IRISH WOLF HOUND .

’ F The Fora o on O D on nell [ rom y f C . J

His stature tall , his body long , His his breast l back like night , ike snow ,

- - His fore leg pillar like and strong , His hind - leg like a bended bow ;

Rough curling hair , head long and thin , His ear a leaf so small and round r m Not Bran , the favourite dog of Fi , ’ M D nn ll Could rival John ac o e s hound .

’ As ﬂy the shadows o er the grass ,

He ﬂies with step as light and sure , s m a He hunts the wolf through To ta p ss , r Lisanour And starts the dee by e. s The mu ic of the Sabbath bells , 0 Con ! has not a sweeter sound Than when along the valley swells ’ M cDonnell s The cry of John a hound . C C DENIS FLOREN E M CARTHY . R O I I IRISH NATU E P ETRY .

R THE OCK OF CASHEL .

Royal and saintly Cashel ! I would gaze Upon the wreck of thy departed powers

Not in the dewy light of matin hours , ’ Nor the meridian pomp of summer s blaze ,

But at the close of dim autumnal days , ’ a When the sun s p rting glance , through slanting

showers , ’ Sheds o er thy rock - throned battlements and towers Such awful gleams as brighten o ’er Decay ’s P rophetic cheek . At such a time , methinks , There breathes from thy lone courts and voiceless aisles A melancholy moral such as sinks ’ On the lone traveller s hea rt amid the piles P Of vast ersepolis on her mountain stand ,

Or Thebes half buried in the desert sand .

S I R DE AUBREY VERE .

GLENGARRIFF .

z low t Ga ing from each bulwark of his bridge , i How wonderful the contrast Dark as n ght , an d Here , amid cliffs woods , with headlong might , t The black stream whirls , hrough ferns and drooping

sedge , ’ - w Neath twisted roots moss brown , and eedy ledge ,

- Gushing . Aloft , from yonder birch clad height ,

- Leaps into air a cataract , snow white

Falling to gulfs obscure . The mountain ridge , s Like a gray Warder , guardian of the cene ,

Above the cloven gorge gloomily towers . ’ O er the dim woods a gathering tempest lowers ’ Save w here athwart the moist leaves lucid green s A sunbeam , glancing through di parted showers , Sparkles along the rill with diamond Sheen ! 1 2 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY

A sun - burst on the bay Turn and behold es The restl s waves , resplendent in their glory ,

Sweep glittering past yon purpled promontory , ’ Bright as Apollo s breastplate . Bathed in gold ,

Yon bastioned islet gleams . Thin mists are rolled ,

Translucent , throu h each glen . A mantle hoary ’ Veils those peaked ills , shapely as e er in story Al Delphic , or pine , or Vesuvian old , a Minstrels h ve sung . From rock and headland roud The wild wood spreads its arms around the gay i The man fold mountain cones , now dark , now bright , l Now seen , now lost , alternate from rich ight To spectral shade ; and each dissolving cloud

Reveals new mountains as it ﬂoats away .

IR DE S AUBREY VERE .

SIBERIA . In Siberia ’s wastes ’ The Ice - Wind s breath i e Woundeth l ke the tooth d steel . Lost Siberia doth reveal

Only blight and death .

Blight and death alone ! No summer sun shines ; Night is interblent with day ; ’ w In Siberia s wastes , al ay

The blood blackens , the heart pines .

In Siberia’s wastes

No tears are Shed , i For they freeze within the bra n . Nought is felt but dullest p ain ; P ain acute , yet dead .

P ain as in a dream , When years go by

1 OO OF O 4 B K IRISH P ETRY .

’ P u ure was the breeze that fan d my cheek , ’ ’ AS o er K nockmany s brow I went ; When every lonely dell could speak m - In airy usic , vision sent s w Fal e orld , I hate thy cares and thee , I hate the treacherous haunts of men

Give back my early heart to me , Give back to me my mountain glen !

How light my youthful Visions shone , ’ ’ When spann d by Fancy s radiant form ;

But now her glittering bow is gone , m And leaves me but the cloud and stor .

With wasted form , and cheek all pale

With heart long seared by grief and pain , ’ Du nroe , I ll seek thy native vale , ’ I ll tread my mountain glens again .

Thy breeze once more ma fan my blood , Thy valleys all are lovely still ;

And I may stand , where oft I stood , s s In lonely mu ing on thy hill . ! — But , ah the spell is gone no art

In crowded town , or native plain , ’ Can teach a cru sh d and breaking heart

To pipe the song of youth again . O WILLIAM CARLET N .

SONNET .

I have wept tears , and learnt , I fear , sad ways ea Of s rching for a smile , and I can guess ’ of w an The secret a mouth s droopingness , And know which eyes are they that waste their gaze — ’ On the hid grave of hope yet ne er the less s ss My heart leaps up to utter thank , and ble r Our earth which bears sweet ﬂo—we s , and the glad face Of these unwearied waters thahks to them IRISH NATURE POETRY I 5

For brief, intense , bright moments when we see k Our life stand clear in joy , we iss the hem ’ Of God s robe in a rapture , and are whole - - s On wind swept hill top , by the mystery m w Of ocean on still mo s , or hen the soul

Springs to the lark in a ﬁne ecstasy . O EDWARD D WDEN ,

R P FOU DUCKS ON A OND .

o Four ducks on a p nd , s - A gra s bank beyond ,

A blue sky of spring , White clouds on the wing What a little thing To remember for years To remember with tears

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM .

FOAM FLAKES .

t n r Got e in the strife of wate s , w n T i kling little stars of foam , s a Restles , be utiful White daughters

Of a father made to roam .

Under sun and under moon , S k Under many a cloudy y ,

To a low monotonous tune ,

Ye go glancing , dancing by .

s a t Fleeting shapes of rare t be u y , P oetry and life and joy , ’ I would err in manhood s duty ,

If I passed you like a boy . 1 6 OO OF O B K IRISH P ETRY .

I will lie down here and weave a Web of Similes to you In the long rye - grass and cleave a

Little lane to see you through .

ﬂamel ts Shooting , quivering , restless e On a restless hearth you seem ;

- Fairy tenanted white hamlets , Rocked of earth - quakes on the stream ;

Whitest clouds of bluest ether P ’ rest in Eons hands as snow , Thrown in multitudes together On the streams of earth below

Forms as undeﬁned as faces

Seen in dreamland ghosts of White , a Flowers that grew in he venly places ,

Fed on heavenly air and light .

I would cast my lot with you ,

In your bundle would be bound , Shining maidens ! bid adieu

To this barren , steady , ground ,

Dance with you amid the ridges

And the madness of the stream , Sleep and kiss you where the midges

On the Silent water gleam .

’ A STANDISH O GR DY .

FROM SHANNON TO SEA . The Shannon bore me to thy bosom wide I wandered with it on its winding way

B ﬁelds of yellow corn and new mown hay , f Andy ar blue hills that rose on either side , And low dark woods that fringed the ebbingtide O I IRISH NATURE P ETRY . 7

And ever as its waters neared the west , Out of the slumber of its broadening breast Faint momenta ry ripples rose and died And rose again before the breeze and grew c To wavelets dan ing in the noonday light , s e w ocmn And the e w re changed to aves of blue ,

And creek and headland faded from the sight , — And oh ! at last at last I ﬂoated free n On the lo g rollers of the open sea .

O . E . G . A . H LMES

ETERNAL VIGIL . Oh ! once again upon thy heaving breast w s I floated , like a seabird hen it brave The shoreward onset of thy flowing w aves And leaps triumphant on each rushing crest : R i ound me in dark magn ficent unrest , The billows of the wild Atlantic rolled the Far , far away , into gates of gold , The sunlit portals of the stormy w est : 0 never Wearied ! In the hush of noon Thy billow s break the paths of golden sleep They break the dreamlike lustre of the moon Earth knows the hours of darkness thou dost keep Eternal vigil still thy surges white

Flash through the deepest gloom of starless night . O E . G . A . H LMES .

BIRDS .

’ Sure ma be ye ve heard the storm - thr ush ' n Whist g bould in March , ’ ’ s ee in Before there s a primro e p p out , Or a wee red cone on the larch ; ’ ’ Whistlin the sun to come out o the cloud , ’ An the wind to come over the sea , ’ C But for all he ca n whistle so lear an loud , ’ r He s neve the bird for me . 1 8 OO OF O B K IRISH P ETRY .

’ Sure maybe ye ve seen the song- thrush After an April rain ’ in - dri in Slip from under the pp leaves , Wishful to sing again ; ’ ’ W 1 An low love when he s near the nest , ’ ’ 0 An loud from the top the tree ,

But for all he can ﬂutter the heart in your breast , ’ He s never the bird for me .

’ Sure maybe ye ve heard the cushadoo ’ Callin his mate in May , w When one s eet thought is the whole of his life , ’ An he tells it the one sweet way . But my heart is sore at the cushadoo Filled with his own soft glee Over an ’ over his me an ’ you ’ He s never the bird for me .

’ Sure maybe ye ve heard the red - breast ’ n Singin his lo e on a thorn , ’ ’ 0 Mindin himself the dear days lost ,

Brave wid his heart forlorn .

The time is in dark November , An ’ no spring hopes has he R ’ ‘ ! ’ emember , he sings , remember ’ A th e . y , thon s wee bird for me

’ O M IRA O NEILL .

P SHEE AND LAMBS .

All in the April morning , April airs were abroad ; Sheep with their little lambs P assed me by on the road .

The sheep with their little lambs Passed me by on the road ; n All in the April eveni g , God I thought on the Lamb of . O IRISH NATURE P ETRY . 1 9

The lambs were weary , and crying ,

With a weak human cry ,

I thought on the Lamb of God ,

Going meekly to die .

Up in the blue , blue mountains Dewy pas tures are sweet ; s Rest for the little bodie , R est for the little feet .

Rest for the Lamb of God

- Up on the hill top green , Only a cross of shame s Two stark crosse between .

All in the April evening ,

April airs were abroad ,

I saw the sheep with their lambs ,

And thought on the Lamb of God .

KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON.

PR A IL IN IRELAND .

s She hath a woven garland all of the ighing sedge , And all her ﬂowers are snowdrops grown on the w inter ’s edge : ’ The golden looms of Tir na n Og wove all the winter through

w . Her gown of mist and raindrops , shot ith a cloudy blue

S he Sunlight holds in one hand , and rain she scatters

after , And through the rain twilight we hear her ﬁtfu l laughter She shakes down on her ﬂowers the snows les s white than

they , ’ Then quickens with her kisses the folded knots 0 May . OO OF S O 20 B K IRI H P ETRY .

- She seeks the summer lover that never shall be hers ,

Fain for old leaves of autumn she passes by the furze , Though u ried gold it hideth :she scorns her sedgy

crown , And pressing blindly sunwards she treads her snowdrops

down .

r Her gifts are all a fardel of wayward smiles and tea s ,

Yet hope she also holdeth , this daughter of the years ’ A hope that blossoms faintly set upon sorrow s edge

She hath a woven garland all of the sighing sedge . O O R N RA H PPE .

GLORNY’S R WEI .

At night when the world was sleepy and still , ’ ’ 0 I d wake , maybe , in the depth the dark , k And thin of the river below the hill ,

That ﬂows so fast by the ruined old mill .

Never a sound beside would I hear , ’ But the water roaring at Glorny s Weir .

’ n I d thi k to myself how day would come soon , - w a The water hens wake , and the tails stir , The kingﬁsher ﬂash in the light 0 the noon K kmaroon From the Willowy banks of noc . But through the day you could scarcely hear ’ Glorn s The voice of the river at y Weir .

’ ’ 0 I d wake in the depth the dark , maybe , When the friendly voices of day were still

But the river would lift its son for me , O Down from the mountains to the sea . And glad was I in the night to hear ’ l r s The roar of the waters at G o ny Wei r .

LETTs WINIFRED M . .

22 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY .

R LOUGH B AY .

I . l A ittle lonely moorland lake , Its waters brown and cool and deep f The cli f, the hills behind it , make

A picture for my heart to keep .

For rock and heather , wave and strand , Wore tints I never saw them wear ; ’ The June sunshine was o er the land ; ’ h f ! Before , twas never al so fair

The amber ripples all day , And sin ing spill1seadngtheir crowns of whi te g i Upon the ch , in th n pale spray ,

That s treaked the sober strand with light .

i The amber ripples sang the r song , ’ When suddenly from far o erhead A lark ’s pure voice mixed w ith the throng

Of lovely things about us spread .

n Some ﬂowers were there , so near the bri k Their shadows in the wave were thrown

While mosses , green and grey and pink ,

Grew thickly round each smooth dark stone .

An d Sk over all , the summer y Shut out the town we left behind ; ’ Twas joy to stand in silence by ,

One bright chain linking mind to mind .

! Oh , little , lonely , mountain spot

Your place within my heart will be , ’ Apart from all Life s busy lot ,

A true , sweet , solemn memory . O R SE KAVANAGH . O 2 IRISH NATURE P ETRY . 3

LOUGH BRAY .

II .

Now Memory , false , spendthrift Memory , s Disloyal trea ure keeper of the soul , w This vision change shall never rong from thee , ’ eﬂacin l Nor wasteful years , g as they ro l . 0 - in ! steel blue lake , high cradled the hills 0 ! sad waves , ﬁlled with little sobs and cries i White glistening sh ngle , hiss of mountain rills , - And granite hearted walls blotting the skies , ! Shine , sob , gleam , gloom for e—ver Oh , in me Be what you are in Nature a recess m To sadness dedicate , the ystery ’ s Withdrawn , afar , in the soul s wildernes . w Still let my thoughts , leaving the orldly roar m Like pilgri s , wander on thy haunted shore . ’ STANDISH O GRADY .

AN AWAKENING . 0 Spring will waken the heart of me With the rapture of blow n violets

When the green bud quickens on every tree ,

The Spring will waken the heart of me ,

And dews of honey will rain on the lea ,

Tangling the grasses in silver nets . of Yes , S ring will waken the heart me With e rapture of blown violets ! C O ALI E FURL NG .

BREFFNY THE LITTLE WAVES OF . The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the

sea , And there is trafﬁc in it and many a horse and cart ;

But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to me , And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through

my heart . 2 O F 4 B OK O IRISH POETRY .

’ s er A great storm from the ocean goe shouting o the hill , IS And there glory m it and terror on the wind , t Is But the haunted air of wilight very strange and still , t And the little winds of wilight are dearer to my mind .

The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their

way , Shining green and Silver with the hidden herring shoal But the Little Waves of Breffny have drenched my heart

in spray , ’ And the Little Waves of Breﬂny go stumbling through

my soul . E A O - OO V G RE B TH .

R ON G EAT SUGARLOAF .

Where Sugarloaf with bare and ruinous wedge e Cleaves the y to view the darkening sea , h a We stood on g , and he rd the north wind ﬂee , a Through clouds storm he vy fallen from ledge to ledge .

Then sudden Look we cried . The far black edge

Of south horizon oped in sunbright glee ,

And a broad water shone , one moment free ,

Ere darkness veiled again the wavering sedge .

P ’ Such is the oet s inspiration , still Too evanescen t ! coming but to go ;

Such the great passions showing good in ill ,

- u Quick brightnesses , love lights , too , b rnt low ; ’ ’ And such man s life , which ﬂashes Heaven s will

two . Between glooms , a transitory glow

O R N . GE RGE A . G EE E N T O 2 IRISH A URE P ETRY . 5

A JUNE DAY .

- The very spirit of summer breathes to day ,

Here where I sun me in a dreamy mood , r And laps the sult y leas , and seems to brood ’ o er Tenderly those hazed hills far away .

- The air is fragrant with the new mown hay , And drowsed with hum of myriad ﬂies pursued s By twittering martins . All yon hill ide wood I S drowned in sunshine till its green looks grey .

No scrap of cloud is in the still blue sky ,

Vaporous with heat , from which the foreground trees — a Stand out each le f cut sharp . The whetted scythe a M kes rustic music for me as I lie , ls t Watching the gambo of the children bly he , ’ ea t Drinking the s son s swee ness to the lees . O O J HN T DHUNTER .

THE SWIMMER .

Who would linger idle ,

Dallying would lie ,

When wind and wave , a bridal

Celebrating , ﬂy P him Let plunge among them ,

Who hath wooed enough ,

Flirted with them , sung them ,

- In the salt sea trough .

He may win them , onward

On a buoyant crest ,

Far to seaward , sunward , Ocean - home to rest ! w Wild wind ill sing over him ,

And the free foam cover him ,

Swimming seaward , sunward , On a blithe sea- breast ! 26 OO OF O B K IRISH P ETRY .

On a blithe sea - bosom w too S ims another , w m - m S i s a live sea blosso , A grey- winged sea- mew !

- Grape green all the waves are , By whose hurrying line Half of ships and caves are Buried under brine ; i s Supple , shift ng range

Lucent at the crest , With pearly surface - changes Never laid to rest ; Now a dipping gunwale

Momently he sees , n Now a fumi g funnel , Or red ﬂag in the breeze

Arms ﬂung open Wide , Lip the laughing sea ; w For playfello , for bride , Claim her impetuously !

Triumphantly exult with all the free ,

Buoyant , bounding Splendour of the sea And if while on th e billow

Wearily he lay , His aw ful wild playfellow m Filled his outh with spray , e Reft him of his br ath , To some far realms away He would ﬂoat with Death ;

Wild wind would sing over him ,

And the free foam over him ,

Waft him Sleeping , sunward , All alone with Death ; In a realm of wondrous dreams

- And shadow haunted ocean gleams .

RODEN NOEL . O IRISH NATURE P ETRY . 2 7

P R S RING , THE T AVELLING MAN .

Spring , the Travelling Man , has been here Here in the glen ;

He must have passed by in the grey of the dawn , When only the robin and wren

Were awake , Watching out with their bright little eyes

In the midst of the brake .

The rabbits , maybe , heard him pass , the Stepping light on grass , ’ i 0 Wh stling careless and gay at the break the day . Then the blackthorn to give him delight Put on raiment of whi te

And , all for his sake , th e The gorse on hill , where he rested an hour ,

Grew bright with a splendour of ﬂower . t w My grief, hat I was not a are Of himself being there ; It is I would have given my dower

To have seen him set forth , mom Whistling careless and gay in the grey of the ,

By gorse bush and fraughan and thorn ,

On his way to the north .

WINIFRED M . LETTS .

A FINE DAY ON LOUGH SWILLY

Soft slept the beautiful autumn a o In the he rt , on the face of the L ugh ’ w hu sh d Its heart , hose pulses were Till you knew the life of the tide

But by a wash on the Shore . A whisper like whispering leaves In green abysses of forest c w s Its fa e , ho e violet melted , Melted in roseate gold 28 F OET BOOK O IRISH P RY .

Roses and Violets dying Into a tender mystery z Of soft impalpable ha e .

Calm lay the woodlands of Fahan ;

The summer was gone , yet it lay

On the gently yellowing leaves , f Like the beauti ul poem , whose tones

Are mute , whose words are forgot , But its music Sleepeth for ever

Within the music of thought .

The robin sang from the ash , The sunset ’s pencils of gold No longer wrote their great lines holes On the of the odorous limes ,

- Or bathed the tree tops in glory , But a soft strange radiance there hung

In splinters of tenderest light . ’ And those who look d from Glen ollen S ea Saw the purple wall of the p , As if through an old church window ’ Stain d with a marvellous blue .

From the snow- white shell strand of Inch You could not behold the white horses t Lifting their glit ering backs , Du nree Tossing their manes on , And the battle boom of Macammish ’ W lu ll d as in the delicate air . As in old pictures the smoke ’ Goes up from Abraham s pyre , So the smoke went up from Rathmullen ; And beyond the trail of the smoke

Was a great , deep , ﬁery abyss

Of molten gold in the sky , And it set a far track up the waters

Ablaze with gold like its own .

Over the ﬁre of the sea , sky Over the chasm in the ,

0 OO OF O 3 B K IRISH P ETRY .

Do the little sedges Still shake with delight And whisper together All through the ni ght ?

Have the mountains the purple

I used to love ,

And peace about them , Around and above ?

0 wind from the west , i w Blow h gh , blo low , You come from the country

I loved long ago .

ELLA YOUNG .

BU LBEN TO THE MOUNTAIN BEN .

- I would I were a wide winged hawk , beloved , s With all the silence of thy peak my own , Hovering above thy fragrant sun - steeped valleys

Or on salt winds from height to headland blown .

I would I were a little Wind of ni ght- time All the great winds blow through the upper skies - But I would wander where through dew Starred myrtle ,

Like faint moon ﬂames , thy secret thoughts arise .

I would I were a falling star , beloved , a One of a host exult nt , swift and free Then would I burn the sundering leagues of darkness

And , ﬂaming to thy heart , be lost in thee .

MOIREEN 0X F . U O 1 IRISH NAT RE P ETRY . 3

ANACH .

There is no peace now however things go , s No peace where the way of men ring loud , Save in a secret place that I know

Hidden as in a cloud .

All the high hills stand clustering round ,

Arched to protect it from trouble and noise ,

The great strong hills that sing without sound ,

And speak with no voice .

Caoro There lies g, the mute low lake , - - frea mha And Bun na lying aloft , P eacefully sleeping , or even if they wake ,

Lapping low and soft .

- Upon the high hill tops the heather may be crying ,

- And over the hill tops the voices of men are heard ,

But here only water lap and sighing , Or the wail of a birdping

P eace , peace and peace , from the inner heart of dream ,

More full of wisdom than speech can tell , Dropt like a veil round the Show of things that seem

With an invisible spell .

DARRELL FIGGIS . THE FAI RI ES ’ L ULLAB Y

From the a e [ G lic. ]

M mi rth and merri ment so t a nd sweet art thou y , f , Child of the r ace of Conn art thou ;

M mi rth and merri ment so t and sweet a rt thou y , f ,

O the r ace o Coll and Conn art thou f f .

M smooth reen rush m la u hter sweet y g , y g ,

M little lant i n the rock cle t y p y f ,

Were it not or the s ell on th ti n eet f p y y f ,

Thou ouldst ot here be le t w n f ,

N ot thou .

O the race o Coll and Con n a rt thou ] f ,

M la u hter sweet and low art thou y g ,

A s ou crow on m knee y y ,

I would li t ou wi th me f y ,

Wer e it not or the mark that i s on our eet f y f , I would li t ou awa f y y,

and awa y,

th me wi . O ELEAN R HULL . IRISH W ONDE R POETRY .

THE FAIRY HOST .

’ From the I r s ta e Lae a i re ma c Cr imtha i nn s V s t [ i h l , g i i the Fa r R e o M a e i y a lm f g M ll .

P ure white the shields their arms upbear , ’ With silver emblems rare o ercast ; a Amid blue glittering bl des they go ,

The horns they blow are loud of blast .

In well - instructed ranks of war Before their Chief they proudly pace ; ’ Coerulean sp ears o er every crest

- - A curly tressed , pale Visaged race .

Beneath the ﬂame of their attack , Bare and black turns every coast ; With such a terror to the ﬁght

Flashes that mighty vengeful host .

a Small wonder that their strength is gre t ,

Since royal in estate are all , Each hero ’s head a lion ’s fell

A golden yellow mane lets fall .

Comely and smooth their bodies are , Their eyes the starry blue eclipse The pure white crystal of their teeth

Laughs out beneath their thin red lips . 33 OO OF 34 B K IRISH POETRY .

- Good are they at man slaying feats , Melodious over meats and ale ; w Of oven verse they wield the spell , - At chess craft they excel the Gael .

THE SONG OF THE FAIRIES .

( When they ma de the roa d a cross the bog of La mra ch for their K n r i g Midi .) Fr t e I [ om h rish . )

Pile on the soil ; thru st on the soil Red are the oxen around who toil : Heavy the troops that my words obey ;

Heavy they seem , and yet men are they . e - Strongly , as piles , are the tr e trunks placed Red are the w attles above them laced s Tired are your hand , and your glances slant ; One woman ’s winning this toil may grant !

Oxen are ye , but revenge shall see Men who are white shall your servants be Rushes from Teﬂa are cleared away ; Grief is the price that the man shall pay Stones have been cleared from the rough Meath ground Where shall the gain or the ’ harm be found P Thrust it in hand ! Force it in hand ! ox - Nobles this night as an troop , stand ; s Hard is the ta k that is asked , and who Lamrach From the bridging of shall gain , or rue P

A . H . LEAHY .

’ - THE SEA MAIDEN S VENGEANCE .

I t r U n kn o n From the r h A u o w . [ is . h ) A great gallant king of yore Ruled shore and sea of Erinn ; Noble the n all sections shone ’ ’ Neath Rigdon s son of daring . O O IRISH W NDER P ETRY .

’ w s O er the main of slo gray sea , w a With the breeze , lay his hoar y To behold his foreign friend

He would wend north to Norway .

e Sped his splendid vessels thr e , When the sea calmed its motion

Till they , sailing , sudden stop

On the ridgy top of ocean .

Th ey refused to w end aw ay w Fixed they lay , no here faring

Then into the dark , dead deeps Ruad leaps , greatly daring .

When he dived for their release , Through the sea ’s surging waters There he found the forms divine s Of its nine beauteous daughter .

These with clear soft accents said ’ It was they stay d his sailing That to leave nine maidens sweet

Were a feat few prevail in .

He with these nine nymphs remained , Where there reigned shade nor sadness ’ w w Neath the aters , where no ave s Ever gave gloom to gladnes .

One of these his bride became , Still his fame forced him forward ’ But he v ow d to greet her lips his s m When hips came fro norward .

Once on board he bade them sail Past the pale billow s breaking ; And w , ith one bound , make their course s s To th e Nor e of quick peaking . OO OF O B K IRISH P ETRY .

’ sea O er the salt then they rode ,

And abode , sweet the story , Till the seventh glad year ends

With their friends , great in glory

Ruad then ran out , once more , On the hoar salt sea faring ; Speeding forth his ships to reach

To the bright far beach of Erinn .

Warped and wrong the royal will Solemn still is promise spoken He should have gone to the maid

As he said , nor pledge have broken .

’ When the prince of Tu ired s name ’ Muired s s m Unto border ca e , — Ar ound the shore foul his fame

A sound arose of sad acclaim .

’ ’ Tw as the sw eet - voiced women s song ’ s s Borne along in mu ic motion , ’ Follow ing Ruad s ﬂeeing sail ’ - O er wail of wave worn ocean .

Sailing , in bronze boat , they came

- No plank frame , made by mortal

Those nine maidens , fair and ﬁerce , ’ Ollbin s Till they pierce portal . Dire and dread the deed then done ’ There by one , mid the water ; ’ Ru ad s —h r —S he son e own slew ,

Vengeance knew , sweet in Slaughter

Then upraising high her hand , Forth she cast him on the strand ’ Shrank the shore and shu dd ring foam ’ From King Ru ad s welcome home G OR S IGERSO E GE N .

8 OO OF E 3 B K IRISH PO TRY .

P THE ISLAND OF SLEE .

us Fled foam underneath us and round , a wandering

and milky smoke , - t o High as the saddle gir h , c vering away from our glance the tide

t and ' that And hose that ﬂed , followed , from the foam pale distance broke a dmire rta s saw in s The immort l of immo l we their face ,

and sighed .

en i ns S eolan I mused on the chase with the F a , and Bran , g , Lomair , ﬁn er- And never a song sang Niam , and over my g tips Came now the sliding of tears and sweeping of mist

cold hair , 1 0W And the warmth of sighs , and after the quiver of 1 ips .

Were we days long or hours long in riding , when rolled risl in a peace , us z P An isle lay eve before , with dripping ha el and oak ’ And we stood on a sea s edge we saw not for whiter than new - washed ﬂeece nd Fled foam underneath us a round us , a wandering and milky smoke

’ — ’ And we rode on the plains of the sea s edge the sea s

edge barren and grey , Grey sand on the green of the grasses an d over the

dripping trees ,

Dripping and doubling landward , as though they would hasten away Like an army of old men longing for rest from the moan s of the sea . IRISH WONDER POETRY 39

r i But the t ees grew taller and closer , immense in the r wrinkling bark — — Dropping a murmurous dropping old silence and that one sound liv e creature For no lived there , no weasels moved in the dark the Long sighs arose in our spirits , beneath us bubbled

ground . And the earsof the horse went sinking away in the hollow nig t , l n For , as drift from a sai or slow drow ing , the gleams of the world and the sun z Ceased on our hands and our faces , on ha el and oak leaf,

the light , the And the stars were blotted above us , and whole of

the world was one .

w Till the horse gave a hinny for , cumbrous with stems oak of the hazel and ,

A valley ﬂowed down from his hoofs , and there in the

long grass lay ,

Under the starlight and shadow , a monstrous Slumbering

folk , Their naked and gleaming bodies poured out and heaped in the way .

war - ax e an d And by them were arrow and , arrow shield and blade - n And dew blanched hor s , in Whose hollow a child of three years old

Could sleep on a couch of rushes , and all inwrought and

inlaid , And more comely than man can make them with bronze an d silver and gold .

And each of the huge white creatures was huger than four score men s w a The tops of their ear ere fe thered , their hands were the claws of birds 0 OO OF O 4 B K IRISH P ETRY .

of the And , shaking the plumes grasses and the leaves

of the mural glen ,

- The breathing came from those bodies , long warless ,

grown whiter than curds .

has The wood was so spacious above them , that He who

Stars for His ﬂocks , e Could fondle the leaves with His ﬁng rs , nor go from His dew- cumbered skies

So long were they sleeping , the owls had builded their

nests in their locks , Filling the ﬁbrous dimness with long generations of

eyes . And over the limbs and the valley the slow owls wandered

and came , s - ﬁre - Now in a place of tar , and now in a shadow place Wide

And the chief of the huge white creatures , his knees his - ﬂame in soft star , Lay loose in a place of shadow we drew the reins by

his side .

- C Golden the nails of his bird laws , ﬂung loosely along the dim ground - t In one was a branch soft shining , wi h bells more many

than sighs , ’ In midst of an old man s bosom owls ruﬁling and pacing around

Sidled their bodies against him , ﬁlling the shade with their eyes

And my gaze was thronged with the Sleepers ; no , neither in house of a cann

In a realm where the handsome are many , or in m s glamours by de on ﬂung , Are faces alive with such beauty made known to the salt

eye of man , Yet weary with passions that faded when the seven

fold seas were young . O 1 IRISH W NDER POETRY . 4

’ d z - a An I ga ed on the bell branch , sleep s forbe r , far sung

by the Sennachies . a I saw how those slumbered , grown weary , there c mping

in grasses deep , Of wars with the wide world and pacing the shores of the

wandering seas , - w Laid hands on the bell branch and s ayed it , and fed n of u human sleep .

Snatching the horn of Niam , I blew a lingering note s Came sound from tho e monstrous sleepers , a sound

like the stirring of ﬂies . l the l He , shaking the fold of his ips , and heaving pi lar of

his throat , Watched me with mournful wonder out of the wells of hi s eyes .

I cried , Come out of the shadow , cann of the fails of gold 1 And tell of your goodly household and the goodly works

of your hands , That we may muse in the starlight and ta lk of the battles

of old .

Your questioner , Oisin , is worthy he comes from the ” Fenian lands .

l t of Ha f open his eyes were , and held me , dull wi h smoke their dreams l ns n His ips moved slowly in a wer , no a swer out of them came

- Then he swayed in his ﬁngers the bell branch , slow dropping a sound in faint streams Softer than snow - ﬂakes in April and piercing the marrow

like ﬂame .

Wrapt in the wave of that music , with weariness more than

of earth , The moil of my centuries ﬁlled me ; and gone like a sea- covered stone OF I O 42 BOOK RISH P ETRY .

Were the memories of the whole of my sorrow and the of i memories of the whole my m rth , And a softness came from the starlight and ﬁlled me

full to the bone .

the r th e In the roots of g asses , sorrels , I laid my body as low - her And the pearl pale Niam lay by me , brow on the midst of my breast ; s w as the sta f And the hor e gone in di nce , and years a ter years ’gan ﬂow e er Square leaves of the ivy mov d ov us , binding us down

to our rest .

i r And , man of the many wh te croziers , a centu y there I forgot

How the fetlocks drip blood in the battle , when the fallen on fallen lie rolled How the falconer follows the falcon in the weeds of the heron ’s plot And the names of the demons whose hammers made Conhor armour for of old .

An d , man of the many white croziers , a century there I

forgot , - is - o That the spear shaft made out of ash w od , the shield out of osier and hide l How the hammers spring on the anvi , on the spear head ’s burning spot How the Slow blue - eyed ox en of Fir m low sadly at

evening tide .

e s the s But in dr am , mild man of the croziers , driving du t

with their throngs ,

Moved round me , of seamen or landsmen , all who are winter tales c Came by me the anns of the Red Branch , with roaring lau hter ‘ and of g songs , - i er Or moved as they moved once , love mak ng or pi cing s the tempest with sail . O IRISH WONDER P ETRY . 43

Blanid McN essa feastw ard Came , , tall Fergus , who of i ‘Sl old t me unk , it warward Cook Barach , the tra or and , the spittle on

his beard never dry , f - a Dark Balor , as old as a orest , car borne , his mighty he d sunk

Helpless , men lifting the lids of his weary and death

making eye .

f cn ans And by me , in so t red raiment , the F i moved in m loud strea s , w And Grania , walking and smiling , sewed ith her

needle of bone .

So lived I and lived not , so wrought I and wrought not ,

with creatures of dreams , ﬁsh In a long iron sleep , as a in the water goes dumb

as a stone .

WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS .

ON THE WATERS OF MOYLE .

[ Tra nsla ted from the I rish ]

a - Time p ssed pleasantly with the Swan Children , on the lake in the day they conversed w ith their kindred and friends who had encamped around :at night they sang ” m w w . s slo , sweet , fairy music , that ade sorro sleep Thi : w term closed they bade fare ell to all , and went forth f to the Waters of Moyle , where they su fered from icy

s s . s torm Fionnuala , covering her young brother with her s wing , sang

Life is weary here , w Great the sno ing here , r Night is drea y here ,

Bleak the blow ing here .

saw the On a day , they a Fairy Cavalcade at river Banna , and were told that Lir an d their friends were celebrating 44 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY

the Feast of Age , happy but for their absence . Fion nuala made this lay

’ Gay this night Lir s royal house , s Chiefs carouse , mead ﬂow amain h Cold t is night his children roam ,

Their chill home the icy main .

For our mantles fair are found Feathers curving round our breasts w e Often silken robes had , P - urple clad we sat at feasts .

For our viands here and wine Bitter brine and pallid sands Oft the hazel mead they served a In carved vessels to our h nds .

Now our beds are the bare rock Smit with shock of heavy seas ; Often soft breast - down w as spread

For the bed of grateful ease .

ti s Though now , in frost , our toil w To s im Moyle , with drooping Wings Oft w e rode as Royal Wards And our guards were sons of Kings

THE RETURN OF THE CHILDREN OF LIR . ff In the extremity of their su ering , frozen in Erris i l . onnu a a sea , the brothers were inconsolable F asked t them to believe in the true God , and hey were relieved ,

ff . and su ered no more At the end of their ﬁnal term , they arose and went very lightly and airily towards the h city of their father . And t us they found the place a void , desol te , with naught but the bare reen paths and forests of nettles , without house , without e , without

6 4 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY .

’ R THE SEA GOD S ADD ESS TO BRAN .

[ From the E a rly I ri sh ]

l To Bran , as in his coracle he g ides , A level of blue tides appears the deep ’ When o er my shadowy steeds I loose the rein , w A ﬂowery plain my chariot seems to s eep .

r n Yea , what to Bran uplifted on the p anci g his ff - n Of proud Ski is smooth blue glanci g sea , Beneath this burning chariot of two Wheels A breadth of bloom delightful laughs for me

Bran from his skiff - side views the joyous onset Of waves red - crested in the sunset low ’ P w - I see , o er all the lain of Sports o er bedded , Of crimson - headed ﬂowers the faultless ﬂow

Sea - horses glisten in the ocean azure ’ s Far as Bran s eye can measure but , to mine , Rivers a stream of honey bright are pouring

For storing in my land beyond the brine .

Brilliant the sea whereon thy skiff is gu ided Dazzling the surf divided by thine hand Yellow and azure its white brightness vary r It is indeed a light and ai y land .

The speckled salmon from the wave outleaping Where Bran goes sweeping through the ocean ’s wiles s s Are calves and lambs , not ﬁ he of the water , ’ d ﬁl s Whose slaughter ne er our path of peace e e .

’ And though thou see st but one lone chariot rider ’ l- A glider o er the ful bloomed pleasant plain , From countless viewless steeds and chariots golden

Thine eyes are holden by the mocking main . O O IRISH W NDER P ETRY . 47

i ’ w Large is the pla n , with happy hosts tis cro ded Its colours in unclouded glory fall

A stream of silver , stairs of golden splendour ,

A full , free welcome tender unto all .

A joyous game , enchanting and delicious , w Above the luscious ine is featly played , l By men and gent e women set in session , the Without transgression , in leafy Shade .

’ Along a woodland s top , that greenly bridges

Blue , airy ridges , has thy curragh swum ; Beneath thy very prow its shade impleaches With blushing peaches the empurpled plum A wood where vagrant fruit and ﬂower are wreathing

- With clusters of the fragrant breathing vine ,

‘ - n A wood of foliage rich and golden rayi g ,

A wood without decaying or decline .

We have been here since ﬁrst the earth had being , s Yet neither eeing sere old age nor death , And hence we fear not any base beginning

Of mortal sinning shall cut short our breath .

Then let not Bran relax his steadfast row ing

The Land of Women shall be showing soon .

Yea , Evna bright with every joyful blessing

He shall be pressing ere the rise of moon .

P R KELTAR THE S EA OF . The followin nearly literal version from the ancient tale of the Brui hin Da Derga ives an idea of the fabled f s weapons of the Irish heroes. he amou sword of Finn s was the child of this terrible pear . What further sawest thou ? By the royal chair sat A couch I saw . Three heroes thereon , 8 O OF O 4 B OK IRISH P ETRY .

- In their ﬁrst grayness , they ; gray dark their robes ; - s Gray dark their words , enormous , of an edge

To slice the hair on water . He who sits The midmost of the three grasps with both hands The spear of ﬁfty rivets and so sways w the And s ings weapon , which would else give forth

Its Shout of conﬂict , that he keeps it in a his d Though thrice , essaying to esc pe han s , e It doubles , darting on him , h el to point . as A cauldron at his feet , big the vat ’ k - Of a ing s guest house . In that vat , a pool e Hid ous to look upon , of liquor black . Therein he dips and cools the blade by times ;

Else all its shaft would blaze , as though a ﬁre w - Had rapped the king post of the house in ﬂames . ’ Resolve me now and say What twas I saw .

h Not hard to say . These champion warriors t ree Olioll Are Sencha , beauteous son of ; Dubthach adderco , the ﬁerce Ulidian p Goibnen Lu i nech And , son of g and the spear In hands of Dubthach is the famous Lon K eltar Of U itechar Of , son , which erst Some wizard of the Tuath da - Danaan brought

- To battle at Moy Tura , and there lost ,

Found after . And these motions of the spear , s And sudden sallie , hard to be restrained , Affect it oft as blood of enemies n Is ripe for spilling . And a cauldron the , a Full of witch brewage , needs must be at h nd ,

To quench it , when the homicidal act

S . I by its blade expected Quench it not , ’ It blazes up , even in the holder s hand ;

- And through the holder , and the door planks through ,

Flies forth to sate itself in massacre .

W . M . HENNESSY O O IRISH W NDER P ETRY . 49

THE OF LEIDES ON LEGEND FERGUS .

F u n no a r of the Ten th entu [ rom a n k wn B d C ry . )

’ Lu thmar s One day King Fergus , Leide son , an d Drove by Loch Rury , his journey done ,

Slept in his chariot , wearied . While he Slept , ’ A troop of fairies o er his cushion crept . ﬁlched And , ﬁrst , his sharp , dread sword they away

w . Then bore himself , feet for ard , to the bay

He , with the chill touch , woke and , at a snatch , It fortuned him in either hand to catch ’ w s w A full gro n prite hile , twixt his breast and arm ,

He pinned a youngling . They , in dire alarm .

Writhed hard and squealed . He held the tighter . Then ” t Quar er ! and Ransom ! cried the little men . ” N O quarter , he nor go ye hence alive , Unless ye gift me with the art to dive — Long as I will to walk at large , and breathe

The seas , the lochs , the river ﬂoods beneath . ” We will . He loosed them . Herbs of Virtue they P - s laced in his ear holes ; or , as other say , ’ ai A hood of f ry texture o er his head , ’ Much like a cleric s cochal , drew , and said , w Wear this , and walk the deeps but well be are ” Thou enter nowise in Loch Rury there . w Clad in his cowl , through many deeps he ent , And saw their wonders but was not content Unless Loch Rury also to his eyes Revealed its inner under - mysteries therem Thither he came , and plunged and there Muirdris s The met him . Have you een a pair Of blacksmith ’s bellows open out and close ’ Alternate neath the hand of him that blow s P

So swelled it , and so shrunk . The hideous sight

Hung all his Visage sideways with affright . m He ﬂed . He gained the bank How seems y

cheer , ” 0 Mwena P 111 ! replied the charioteer . E O 5 0 BOOK OF IRISH P ETRY .

But rest thee . Sleep thy wildness will compose .

He slept . Swift Mwena to Emania oes g’ Whom now for king , since Fergus face awry P By law demeans him of the sovereignty . ” Hush ! and his sages and physicians wise S it In earnest council , and this advise h s so He knows not of i plight . To keep him

As he suspect not that he ought to know ,

For so the mind be straight , and just awards ht- Wait on the judgment , ri read law regards No mere distortion of t e outward frame AS blemish barring from the kingly name

And , knew he all the baleful fact you tell , An inward wrench might warp the mind as well ,

Behooves it therefore all of idle tongue , and Jesters , women , and the witless young , r s c Be from his e en e kept . And when at morn a hath He t kes his , behooves his bondmaid , Dorn ,

Muddy the water , lest perchance , he trace ’ Lost kingship s token on his imaged face .

Three years they kept him so till on a day , Dorn with his face - bath ew er had made delay t And fretted Fergus , pe ulant and rash ,

- A blow bestowed her of his horse whip lash . ’ Forth burst the woman s anger . Thou a king ! Thou sit in council Thou adjudge a thing

In court of law Thou , who no kingship can , Since all may see thou art a blemished man ! ’ - w Thou wry mouth . Fergus thereon sle the maid ’ And , to Loch Rury s brink in haste conveyed , Fertai Went in at s. For a day and night

Beneath the waves he rested out of sight . But all the Ultonians on the b ank who stood

Saw the loch boil and redden with the blood .

When next at sunrise skies rew also red , — ’ He rose and in his hand t e Muirdris head

Gone was the blemish . On his goodly face Each trait symmetric had resumed its place And they who saw him marked in all his mien ’ n A king s composure , ample and sere e . IRISH WONDER POETRY 5 1

He smiled he cast his trophy to the bank , r ! Cried ; I su vivor , Ulstermen and sank .

S I R O SAMUEL FERGUS N .

DEIDRE DANCING .

N aoi s - Wilt thou not dance , daughter of heaven , to day ? Free , at last free For here no moody raindrop

Can reach thee , nor betrayer overpeer ; And none the Self- delightful measure hear ” That thy soul moves to , quit of mortal ear .

loth Full she pleads , yet cannot him resist e And on the enmoss d lights begins to dance . far- ﬂoati n Away , away, g like a mist , To fade into some lea fy brilliance ;

Then , smiling to the inward melodist , Over the printless turf with slow advance r a Of showe y footsteps , m kes she inﬁnite ’ ossess d That crowded glen . But quick , p by strange R s i apture , wider than dream her mot ons range r Till to a span the forests sh ink and change .

And in her eyes and glimmering arms she brings — ’ Hither all promise all the u nlook d- for boon ’ — Of rainbow d life all rare and speechless things

That shine and sw ell under the brimming Moon . Who shall pluck tympans P For what need of strings To waft her blood who is herself the tune Herself the w arm and breathing melody P Art comes from the Land of Ever-Young P O sta y w For his heart , after thee rising a ay ,

- Falls dark and spirit faint back to the clay .

’ curl d Griefs , like the yellow leaves by winter , Rise after her—long buried pangs arouse ’ s s whirl d About that bo om the grey forest ,

And tempests with her beauty might espouse , OO OF O 5 2 B K IRISH P ETRY .

She rose with the green waters of the world

And the winds heaved with her their depth of boughs . ’ Then vague again as blow s the beanﬁeld s odour S he s On the dark lap of air chose to ink ,

- As , winnowing with plumes , to the river bank ff k The pigeons from the cli came down to drin .

S he Sudden distraught , shading her eyes , ceased , w f Listening , like bride hom cunning aery strain Forth from the trumpet- bruited spousal feast ’ beckon d Steals . But she soon , and quick , with pain , l He ran , he craved at those white feet the east P ardon ; nor , till he felt her hand again , ﬂake- Descend soft , durst spy that she was weeping t Or kneel wi h burning murmurs to atone . S he For sleep wept . Long fasting had they gone

And ridden from the breaking of the dawn . C HERBERT TREN H .

AILLINN THE NOBLE LAY OF .

A ter a n I r s e the o ter [ f i h ta l from B ok of Leins . Prince Bailé of Ulster rode out in the morn To meet his love at the ford n And he loved her better tha lands or life ,

And dearer than his sword .

And Aillinn she was , fair as the sea , ’ P Leinster s The rince of daughter , she And longed for him more than a wounded man ,

Who sees death , longs for water .

They sent a message each to each e Oh , meet me n ar or far ; tw o And the ford divided the kingdoms , And the kings were both at war

O OF BO K IRISH POETRY .

' w man What news , what ne s , thou great grey P And is it ill to me Bailié P is Oh , the rince dead at the ford ,

And he died for loving thee .

P S he two ale , pale grew , and large tears ai Dropped down like heavy r n , a And she fell to e rth with a woeful cry , she For broke her heart in twain .

And out of her tears two fountains rose

That watered all the ground , And out of her heart an apple - tree grew w ’ That heard the ater s sound .

s n Oh , woe were the king , and woe were the quee s , And woe w ere the people all ; And the poets sang their love and their death

In cottage and in hall.

And the men of Ulster a tablet made ’ Bailé s From the wood of tree , And the men of Leinster did the like ’ - Aillinn s _ Of apple tree .

And on the one the poets wrote - s The lover tales of Lein ter , And on the other all the deeds w That lover rought in Ulster .

Now when a hundred years had gone The King of all the land

Kept feast at Tara , and he bade s s a His poet Sing a tr nd .

san w They the s eet unhappy tale , ’ l Aillinn s The no e lay . ” n a b s Go , bri g the t let , cried the King , ” - For I have wept to day . . O IRISH WONDER P ETRY . 5 5

But when he held in his right hand ’ The wood of Bailies tree And in his left the tablet smooth ’ Aillinn - From s apple tree ,

The lovers in the wood who kept

- Love longing ever true , once Knew one another , and at From the hands of the King they ﬂew

As ivy to the oak they clung , Their kiss no man could sever

Oh , joy for lovers parted long 0 ! T meet , at last , for ever

T FORD S OP . OO A BR KE .

- THE LOVE TALKER .

ev e I met the Love Talker one in the glen ,

He was handsomer than any of our handsome young men , w th e e His eyes ere blacker than sloe , his voice sweet r far ’ Than the crooning of old Kevin s pipes beyond i n Cool

nagar .

I w as bound for the milkin g with a heart fair and free My grief ! my grief ! that bitter hour drained the life from me ; i I thought him human lover , though his lips on m ne were

cold ,

And the breath of death blew keen on me within hi s hold .

I know not what way he came , no shadow fell behind , s But all the sighing rushes wayed beneath a faery wind ,

The thrush ceased its singing , a mist crept about , — We two clung together w ith the world shut out 6 OO 5 B K OF IRISH POETRY .

Beyond the ghostly mist I could hear my cattle low , cow The little from Ballina , clean as driven snow , Inisheer The dun cow from Kerry , the roan from , — his ear ! Oh , pitiful their calling and whispers in my

His eyes were a ﬁre ; his words were a snare ; ’ s I cried my mother name , but no help was there ; n I made the blessed Si then he gave a dreary moan ,

ﬁaIin . A wisp of cloud went g by , and I stood alone

- Running ever through my head , is an old time rune

’ Who meets the Love -Talker must weave her shroud ’ soon f ’ My mother s face is furrowed with the salt tears that fall , But the kind eyes of my father are the saddest sight of all

ﬂeec I have spun the y lint , and now my wheel is still ,

The linen length is woven for my Shroud ﬁne and chill , I shall stretch me on the bed where a happy maid I lay Pray for the soul of Maire Og at dawning of the day i ETHN A CARBERY .

LEANAN TO THE SIDHE . Where is thy lovely perilous abode ? In what strange phantom - land Glimmer the fairy turrets whereto rode The ill - starred poet band ?

Say , in the Isle of Youth hast thou thy home ,

The sweetest singer there , Stealing on winged steed across the foam Athrough the moonlit air ?

Bri al And by the gloomy peaks of g ,

Haunted by storm and cloud ,

Wing past , and to thy lover there let fall His singing robe and shroud ?

OO OF B K IRISH POETRY .

’ THE KING S SON . Who rideth through the driving rain At such a headlong speed P Naked and pale he rides amain

Upon a naked steed .

Nor hollow nor height his going bars ,

His wet steed shines like silk , His hea d is golden to the stars An d hi s limbs are whi te as milk .

10 But , , he dwindles as the light

That lifts from a black mere , s And , as the fair youth wane from sight ,

The steed grows mightier .

What wizard by yon holy tree Mutters unto the sky ’ Where Macha s ﬂame- tongued horses ﬂee On hoofs of thunder by ?

’ Ah , tis not holy so to ban The youth of kingly seed ! Ah woe , the wasting of a man Who Changes to a steed !

P Nightly upon the lain of Kings , ’ When Macha s day is nigh , He gallops ; and the dark wind brings

His lonely human cry .

THOMAS BOYD .

LITTLE SISTER .

i Little S ster , whom the Fay t Hides away wi hin his Doon , w ou Deep belo y tufted fern , m Oh , list and learn my agic tune l O O IRISH W NDER P ETRY . 5 9

w Long ago , hen snared like thee m By the Shee , y harp and I ’ w s O er them ove the lumber Spell ,

Warbling well its lullaby .

m s Till with drea y miles they sank , Rank on rank before the strain ; Then I rose from out the rath t And found my path to ear h again .

Little sister , to my woe ,

Hid below among the Shee ,

List , and learn my magic tune , t That it full soon may succour hee .

THE FAIRY THORN .

A n U ster a a [ l B ll d . ]

c w Get up , our Anna lear , from the eary spinning wheel , ’ m For your father s on the hill , and your other is asleep ’ Come up above the crags , and we ll dance a Highland reel ” Around the fairy thorn on the steep .

’ ’ a At Anna Grace s door twas thus the m idens cried , Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green ; i th e And Anna la d rock and the weary wheel aside ,

The fairest of the four , I ween .

’ lancm eve They re g g through the glimmer of the quiet , Aw ay in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare ; - i The heavy slid ng stream in its sleepy song they leave , And the crags in the ghostly air

And linking hand in hand , and singing as they go , ’ The maids along the hill - side have ta en their fearless

way , Till they come to w here the row an trees in lonely beauty grow

Beside the Fairy Haw thorn grey . 6 0 O OF O BO K IRISH P ETRY .

n w The Hawthorn sta ds bet een the ashes tall and slim , Like matron with her twin grand - daughters at her knee The row an berries cluster o ’er her low head grey and dim

In ruddy kisses sweet to see .

n The merry maide s four have ranged them in a row , w Between each lovely couple a stately ro an stem ,

And away in mazes wavy , like skimming birds they go , ’ caroll d t Oh , never bird like hem

But solemn is the silence of the Silvery haze

That drinks away their voices in echoless repose , ’ still d the And dreamily the evening has haunted braes ,

And dreamier the gloaming grows .

- And sinking one by one , like lark notes from the sky ’ saileth w When the falcon s shadow across the open Sha , ’ ’ hush d V Are the maiden s oices , as cowering down they lie

In the ﬂutter of their sudden awe .

For , from the air above , and the grassy ground beneath , And from the mountain - ashes and the old whitethorn

between , A Power of faint enchantment doth through their beings

breathe , An d they sink down together on the green .

and They Sink together Silent , stealing side by Side , They ﬂing their lovely arms o ’er their drooping necks

so fair ,

Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide ,

For their shrinking necks again are bare .

’ clas d r Thus p and prostrate all , with their heads togethe h ’ ow d , ’ ’ — n Soft o er their bosom s beating the only human sou d ,

They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd ,

i . L ke a river in the air , gliding round

6 2 OF O BOOK IRISH P ETRY .

Deelish Deelish my woe forever that I could not sever

coward ﬂesh from fear . I called his name and the pale Ghost came ; but I was

afraid to meet my dear .

0 in s mother , mother , tears I checked the sad hours pa t ’ ’ of the year that s o er , Till by God ’s grace I might see his face and hear the sound of his voice once more Set The chair I from the cold and wet , he took when he came from unknown skies n Of the land of the dead , on my bent brow head I felt the reproach of hi s saddened eyes ’ o I cl sed my lids on my heart s desire , crouched by the ﬁre , my voice was dumb . - At my clean swept hearth he had no mirth , and at my

table he broke no crumb . Deelish ! Deelish ! my woe forev er that I could not

sever coward ﬂesh from fear . w e and His chair put aside hen the young cock cri d , I f was a raid to meet my dear . O I ER ON D RA S G S .

P TIRNANOGE THE SHI FROM .

We tw o were alone by the sea

I , and the man I loved with me .

Our eyes were glad , and our hearts beat

As we sat by the sea , my love and I ;

Till we looked afar , and saw a ship li Then white , white grew his ruddy p ;

n n s And stra ge , stra ge grew his eye that saw o Int the heart of some deep awe .

His hand that held thi s hand of mine Never a token gave nor Sign ; O R O IRISH W NDE P ETRY .

But lay as a babe ’s that is just dead

And I sat still and wondered .

Nearer and nearer the white shi drew

Who was her captain , whence er crew ?

Her crew were men and women bright ,

With fair eyes full of unknown light .

- off Tirnano e From far g they came , ’ Where they had heard my true - love s name

The name the birds and waves had sung , w ho Of one must bide for ever young .

Strong white arms let down the boat ;

Song rose up from many a throat .

Glad they were who soon had won

A lovely new companion .

They lowered the boat and they entered her And row ed to meet their passenger

Rowed to the tune of a music strange ,

That told of joy at the heart of change .

I heard her keel on the pebbles gride , ’ And she waited there till the turn 0 the tide

While they kept singing , singing clear , A song that was passmg sweet to hear

A song that boun d me in a chain

Away from any thought of pain .

They paused at last in their sweet singing ,

And I saw their hands were beckoning , BOOK OF IRISH POETRY

e In a rhythm as sweet as the still d songs , s That pas ed to the air from their silent tongues .

ss He rose and ki ed me on the face ,

And left me sitting in my place ,

Quiet , quiet , life and limb ,

I , who was not called like him .

Into the boat he entered grave , t And the tide urned , and she rode the wave ;

And I saw him sitting at the prow ,

- With a rose light about his brow .

The boat drew nigh the ship again ,

With all its lovely women and men .

s I saw him enter the hip and stand , ’ His hand held in the captain s hand .

The captain wonderful to see , With eyes a- change in depth and blee ;

A- a- change , change for ever and aye ,

Blue , and purple , and black , and gray ;

And hair like the weed that ﬁnds a home

- In the heart of a trail of white sea foam .

I wist he was no mortal man , 18 But he whose name Manannan .

They sailed away , they sailed away ,

Out of the day , into the day .

EM I LY HICKEY .

OF O 66 BOOK IRISH P ETRY .

But our light caravans ’ Run swifter than man s .

Well , well , you may come , said the ferryman affably

P a . atrick , turn out , and get re dy the barge Then again to the little folk Tho ’ you seem laughably ’

o . Small , I don t mind , if your c ppers be large

Oh , dear , what a rushing , what pushing , what crushing , (The watermen making vain eff orts at hushing

s . The hubbub the while) , there followed the e words

What clapping of boards ,

What strapping of cords ,

What stowing away of children and wives , i And platters , and mugs , and spoons , and kn ves ,

Till all had safely got into the boat , his - And the ferryman , clad in tip top coat , And his wee little fairies were safely aﬂoat !

Then ding , ding , ding ,

And kling , kling , kling , How the coppers did ring h rl In the tin pitc e ing.

s e Off , then , went the boat , at ﬁr t very pl asantly ,

Smoothly , and so forth but after a while w s It s ayed and it swagged this and that way , and pre ently

Chest after chest , and pile after pile , ’ s n Of the little folk s good began tossing and rolli g ,

n . And pitching like fun , beyond fairy co trolling

O Mab if the hubbub were great before ,

It was now some two or three million times more . Crash ! went the wee crocks and the clocks ; and the locks Of each little wee box were stove in by hard kn ocks n e And the there were oaths , and prayers , and cri s ” ! ! s ! Take care See there O , dear , my eye “ — “ — I am killed ! I am drowned ! with groans and

sighs ,

Till to land they drew . Yeo -ho Pull to O O IRISH W NDER P ETRY . 67

’ Tiller - rope thro and thro ’ w And all s right ane .

Now jump upon shore , ye queer little oddities . w (Eh , what is this here are they , at all

Where are they , and where are their tiny commodities

Well , as I live He looks blank as a wall , P oor ferryman Round him and round him he gazes , But only gets deeplier lost in the mazes w Of utter be ilderment . All , all are gone ,

And he stands alone , t Like a sta ue of stone ,

In a doldrum of wonder . He turns to steer , his And a tinkling laugh salutes ear , ! With other odd sounds Ha , ha , ha , ha Fol lol ! zidzizzle ! quee quee ! bah ! bah ! Fizzigig- giggidy pshee sha sha

O ye thieves , ye thieves , ye rascally thieves

The good man cries . He turns to his pitcher , e And there , alas , to his horror perceiv s That the little folk ’s mode of making him richer Has been to pay him with withered leaves C JAMES CLAREN E MANGAN .

R THE FAI Y FIDDLER .

’ Tis I go ﬁddling , ﬁddling By w eedy w ays forlorn I make the blackbird ’s music Ere in his breast ’tis born The sleeping larks I w aken ’ mom Twixt the midnight and the .

man has s e No alive e n me , But women hear me play m w So etimes at the door or indow , w Fiddling the souls a ay , ’ ’ The child s soul and the colleen s

Out of the covering clay . 68 OO OF O B K IRISH P ETRY .

None of my fairy kinsmen Make music with me now Alone the raths I wander Or ride the whitethorn bough ; w But the wild s ans they know me , And the horse that draws the plough

O N RA HOPPER .

R THE FAI IES .

Up the airy mountain ,

Down the rushy glen , ’ We daren t go a- hunting For fear of little men ;

Wee folk , good folk , Trooping all together

!I Green jacket , red cap , And white owl ’s feather !

Down along the rocky shore

Some make their home , They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow tide - foam ; Some in the reeds

Of the black mountain lake ,

- fro for their watch dogs ,

All nig t awake .

High on the hill - top The old King sits ; He is now so old and gray ’

He s nigh lost his wits . With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses , On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses ;

0 O OF H O 7 BO K IRIS P ETRY .

- I HY BRASA L .

On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell , has as A shadowy land appeared , they tell ;

Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest , H - Br il s asa . And they called it y , the i le of the blest ’ From year unto year on the ocean s blue rim , The beautiful spectre show ed lovely an d dim

The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay , far ! And it looked like an Eden , away , away

A peasant , who heard of the wonderful tale , In the breeze of the Orient loosened hi s sail ;

From Ara , the holy , he turned to the West , - Bra ail H s . For though Ara was holy , y was blest He heard not the voices that called from the shore ’ He heard not the rising Wind s menacing roar t Home , kindred , and safe y , he left on that day , - l H Brasai w . And he sped to y , away , far a ay

Morn rose on the deep , and that shadowy isle , ’

O er the faint rim of distance , reﬂected its smile ; On s Noon burned the wave , and that hadowy Shore a Seemed lovelily dist nt , and faint as before ; w ’ ’ Lone evening came down on the an derer s track , And to Ara again he looked timidly back

O far on the verge of the ocean it lay , s was ! Yet the isle of the ble t away , far away

a ! Rash dre mer , return O ye Winds of the main ,

Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again . Rash fool ! for a vision of fanciful bliss

To barter thy calm life of labour and peace .

The warning of reason was spoken in vain , He never revisited Ara again !

Night fell on the deep , amidst tempest and spray ,

w . And he died on the waters , away far a ay

GERALD GRIFFIN . O 1 IRISH WONDER P ETRY . 7

THE HEATHER GLEN .

There blooms a bonnie ﬂower , U on the heather glen ; p’ Tho bright in sun , in shower ’

Tis just as bright again .

I never can pass by it , ’ I never dar go nigh it , ’

My heart it won t be quiet , U p the heather glen . m ! Sing , O , the bloo ing heather a t ! O , the he her glen Where fairest fairies gather

To lure in mortal men . , I never can pass b it , I never dar ’ go nigh ’ a My he rt it won t be quiet ,

Up the heather glen .

There sings a bonnie linnet ,

Up the heather glen , The voice has magic in it Too sweet for mortal men ! o It brings j y doon before us , Wi ’ Winsome , mellow chorus , ’ But ﬂies far , too far , o er us , U p the heather glen ,

! ctc . Sing , O the blooming heather ,

w O , might I pull the ﬂo er ’ That s blooming in that glen , Nae sorrows that could lower Would make me sad again l

And might I catch that linnet , — My heart my hope are in it ! ’ O , heaven itself I d win it , Up the heather glen ! & c . Sing , O l the blooming heather , E ON GEORGE S I G RS . 2 7 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY .

THE THE WIND AMONG REEDS .

Mav rone Mavrone . , , the Wind among the reeds

It calls and cries , and will not let me be ;

And all its cry is of forgotten deeds .

When men were loved of all the Daoine Sidhe .

f O Shee that have orgotten how to love ,

And Shee that have forgotten how to hate . ’ Asleep neath quicken boughs that no winds move ,

Come back to us ere yet it be too late .

P ipe to us once again , lest we forget

What piping means , till all the Silver Spears

Be wild With gusty music , such as met

Carolan once , amid the dusty years . Dance in your rings again the yellow weeds —4 You used to ride so far , mount as of old P - - t lay hide and seek wi h wind among the reeds , r And pay your scores again with fai y gold . NORA H OPPER

THE CHANGELING .

He stood alone outside the fairy hill ,

Beneath the horned moon , e And h ard below the grasses , gay and shrill , lﬁn An e tune . There came to him a memory faint and far Of things he once had known A and square of window a twinkling star ,

- A warm hearth stone .

He set soft feet upon the turfy path , Crushing the scented thyme ; h He turned his back upon the fairy rat ,

The hidden chime .

O OF O 74 B OK IRISH P ETRY .

They tell me I am cursed and I Will lose my soul , ’ (0 red wind shrieking o er the thorn - grown dun him - mi But he is my love and I go to to ht , He will ride when the thorn glistens white beneath

the moon .

i He will call my name and l ft me to his breast , (Blow soft 0 Wind ’neath the stars of the south I care not for heaven and I fear not hell his If I have but the kisses of proud red mouth .

M IREE Fox O N .

P A A N OR THE LE R C U FAIRY SHOEMAKER.

Little Cowboy , what have you heard , Up on the lonely rath ’s green mound ? Only the plaintive yellow bird

Sighing in sultry ﬁelds around , h r ha - cc a c . Ch ry a y , c ry , chee Only th e grasshopper and the bee - Tip tap , rip rap , Tick a- tack- too

Scarlet leather , sewn together ,

This will make a shoe .

Left , right , pull it tight ; Summer days are warm ;

Underground in Winter , Laughing at the storm !

Lay your ear close to the hill .

Do you not catch the tiny clamour , elﬁn Busy click of an hammer .

Voice of. the Lepracaun singing shrill As he merrily plies his trade ? He ’s a span

And a quarter in height , i Get him n sight , hold him tight , And you ’re a made Man O IRISH W NDER POETRY .

su mmerda You watch your cattle the y ,

Sup on potatoes , sleep in the hay ;

How would you like to roll in your carriage , ’ Look for a duchess s—daughter in marriage ? Seize the Shoemaker then you may a- Big boots hunting ,

Sandals in the hall ,

- White for a wedding feast , P ink for a ball . w a This way , that y , So we make a shoe ; Ge t i ting rich every st tch , TickM - too Nine - and - ninﬁ y treasure - crooks J This keen y hath . ods an d s Hid in mountains , wo rock , ’ i - ve and Ru n and round tow r , ca rath , And where the cormorants build ; From times of old Guarded by him ; Each of them ﬁll’d Full to the brim With gold

him s f I caught at work one day , my el , the - i - In castle d tch where fox glove grows , ’ wizen d ear A wrinkled , , and b ded Elf, a s tu Spect cle s ck on his pointed nose , es Silver buckl—to his hose , Leather apron shoe in his lap Ri - - p rap , tip tap , Tick- tack- too (A grasshopper on my cap ! Away the moth ﬂew

Buskins for a fairy prince , Brogues for hi s son Pa w y me ell , pay me well , Wh en the job is done !

The rogue was mine , beyond a doubt . I stared at him ; he stared at me ; O OF O BO K IRISH P ETRY .

s Servant , Sir Humph say he , ’ ull d ff - And p a snu box out . ’ look d He took a long pinch , better pleased , The queer little Lepracau n ; ’ Offer d m the box with a Whi sical grace , P f ou he ﬂung the dust in my face , z And while I snee ed , Was gone !

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM .

R FAI Y SONG .

When daisies close and poppies nod ,

And meadow grass to earth is laid ,

And fairies dance on moonlit sod , ff - the Or qua of dew drops in shade ,

Come , gentle dreams , in velvet shod ,

And foot it round each sleeping maid .

- Come softly , hither , dove Winged ﬂock , w s And on their pillo s make your ne t , - And , light as down from puff ball clock , Let kisses on their eyes be prest ; Then sit upon the couch and rock

Each tender little heart to rest . ELIN OR SWEETMAN

THE OTHERS . From our hidden places

By a secret path , We come in the moonlight

To the side of the green rath .

OO OF O B K IRISH P ETRY .

0 ma n l a thrush and a blackbird Wouid fall to the dewy ground , And pine away in Silence of For envy such a sound .

So the night through

In our sad pleasure , e We dance to many a measur ,

That earth never knew .

’ SEUMAS O SULLIVAN . L VE ET O PO RY . " WHA T I r S LOVE .

From the E a r I r sh [ ly i . ]

A love a ll- commandi n a ll- withsta ndi n g, g Through a yea r i s my love

A ri e da rkl hidi n sta rkl bidi n g f y g, y g

Wi thout let or remove

O stren th a shar stra ini n ast su sta i n in f g p g, p g Wheresoever I rove , A force still extendi ng without endi ng

B e ore a nd a round a nd a bo f ve.

’ O Hea ven ti s the bri htest amazement f g ,

The bla ckest a basement o H ell f ,

A stru le or breath with a s ectre gg f p , I n nectar a choking to death ;

' ’ Ti s a ra ce with H eaven s lightni ng a nd thunder

’ Then Ckampi on F eats u nder M oyle s water

’ Ti s ursui n the cuckoo the wooi n p g , g ’ O E cho the Rock s a i r dau hter f , y g

Till m red li s turn a shen y p ,

M li ht li mbs row leaden y g g ,

M heart loses moti on y ,

I n Death m e es deaden y y ,

S o i s m love a nd m a ssi on y y p , S o i s my cea seless devoti on

To her to whom I a ve them g ,

ot ha e them To her who will n v .

8 2 OO OF O B K IRISH P ETRY .

h I have every bounty that life could old , a Aidne With Gu re , arch monarch of cold ,

But , fallen away from my haughty folk , ’ Irluachair s In ﬁeld my heart lies broke .

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

’ Chaste Christ ! that now at my life s last breath I should tryst with Sorrow and mate with Death i ’ At every hour of the n ght s black deep , e These are the arrows that murder sl ep .

SHE .

From the I [ r ish . ]

n The White bloom of the blackthor , she ,

- The small sweet raspberry blossom , she

More fair the shy , rare glance of her eye ,

Than the wealth of the world to me .

’ M heart s pulse , my secret , she , F The ﬂower of the fragrant apple , she ’ ’ A summer glow o er the winter s snow , ’ d an . Twixt Christmas Easter , she ELEANOR HULL

E’ FOR CREDH S LAMENT CAIL .

T T e A ents [ From he Colloquy of h nci .

’ O er thy chief, thy rushing chief, Loch da Conn , Loud the haven Is roaring ; ’ Crimtha son All too late , her deadly hate for s

Yonder deep is deploring . O O IRISH L VE P ETRY . 83

m Credhe Small co fort , I trow , to is her wail ,

Slender solace now , oh , my Cail ! wirrasthrue ! Ochone och , can she who slew

Bid thee back , Spirit soaring !

h Dru m ueen Hark , the t rush from out q lifts his keen

Through the choir of the thrushes , ’ n With his mate , his screaming mate o er the gree ! See the red weasel rushes . ’ Glensilen s Crushed on the crag lies doe , ’ O er her yon stag tells his woe , ochonee Thus , Cail , och , for thee , for thee ’ My soul s sorrow gushes .

sin O , the thrush , the mourning thrush , mating shall g , When the furze bloom is yellow the riev in O , the stag g stag in the spring With a fresh doe shal fellow ! But love for me ’neath the ever moving mound Of the scowling sea lieth drowned ; olla one While , och , och , g l the sea fowl moan

And the sea beasts bellow .

THE LAMENT OF FAND AT PARTING FROM

CUCHULAIN .

e u h [ From The S ick B d of C c u la in .

’ Tis I who must renounce my love and go , Lest conﬂict grow between thyself and me ; ’ Yet had I shared With thee Cuchulain s love ,

My joy had been above all jealousy .

a Nay , h ppier were it here for me to dwell ,

Submitting well to thy supremacy , Than thus depart unto my Royal Seat

t . Of Ard Ab at , strange though the thought to thee 8 OO OF O 4 B K IRISH P ETRY .

The man is thine , Emer , in this love strife , e O noble wife , from me he br aks away ; Yet none the less I hunger for the bliss

I now shall miss and miss and miss alway .

Proud prince on prince has supplicated me ’ In secrecy his passion s joy to share ,

With none of these have I a love tryst kept , l - But sti l have stepped stern minded past the snare .

Joyless is she who gives a heart ’s whole meed him f u n To who no ull heed thereto ret r s ,

Better for her indeed in death to pass , for him n Than not be yearned for , as she year s .

f n f With ﬁ ty wome dost thou hither are , f Thou of the lustrous hair and lo ty will , ’ ’ For Fand s o erthrow With all their tongues of scorn ’ Is t well thy rival love - forlorn to kill ?

Three times a ﬁfty women such as these case Attend my , wise , marriageable , fair ; R They wait me now within my oyal Brugh , ’ With pity s dew to calm my cruel care .

WERE YOU ON THE MOUNTAIN ?

[ From the I rish ]

’ th e Oh , were you on mountain , or saw you my love ow n Or saw you my one , my queen and my dove Or saw you the maiden With the step ﬁrm and free k ? And say , is she pining in sorrow li e me

the I was upon mountain , and saw there your love ; own I saw there your one , your queen and your dove I saw there the maiden With the step ﬁrm and free ; n And she was not pi ing in sorrow like thee . S DOUGLA HYDE .

86 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY .

Three things through love I se Sorrow and sin and death And my mind reminding me

That this doom I breathe with my breath .

But sweeter than violin or lute Is my love—and she left me behind !

I wish that all music were mute ,

And I to all beauty w ere blind .

’ t She s more shapely than swan by the s rand , ’ She s more radiant than grass after dew , She ’s more fair than the stars w here they stand ’ Tis my grief that her ever I knew

I I .

’ ’ Tis a pity I m not in England

Or with one from Erin thither bound , Or out in the midst of the ocean Where the thousands of ships are drowned ;

’ From wave to wave of the ocean To be guided on with the wind and th e rain An d O King that Thou mightst guide me Back to my love again THOMAS MAG DONAGH

PEARL OF THE WHITE BREAST .

h [ From the I ris . ]

’ There s a colleen fair as May ,

For a year and for a day , ’ I ve sought by every way her heart to gain . There ’s no art of tongue or eye

Fond youths with maidens try , ’ s in But I ve tried with ceasele s sigh , yet tried R O O I ISH L VE P ETRY . 87

If to France or far - off Spain ’ She d cross the watery main , ’ To see her face again the sea I d brave . And if ’tis Heaven ’s decree

That mine she may not be , May the Son of Mary me in mercy save

i l - O thou bloom ng mi k white dove , ’ To whom I ve given true love , not a Do ever thus reprove my const ncy . i There are maidens would be m ne , n With Wealth in hand and ki e ,

If my heart would but incline to turn from thee .

But a kiss with welcome bland , And a touch of thy dear hand

Are all that I demand , wouldst thou not spurn i For if not m ne , dear girl , O Snowy - Breasted Pearl May I never from the fair with life return ! O P GE RGE ETRIE .

THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE .

[ From the I r ish ]

Oh , many a day have I made good ale in the glen ,

- That came not of stream or malt like the brewing of men . m roof r My bed was the ground y , the g eenwood 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 str etched forth her arms - her mantle she ﬂung to

the wind , ’ And swam o er Loch Lene her outlawed lover to ﬁnd . 88 OO OF B K IRISH POETRY .

’ - d Oh would that a freezing , sleet win tempest did sweep 0 And I and my love were alone , far on the deep l ’

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 .

’ l f Tis down by the ake , where the Wild tree ringes its

sides , f The maid of my heart , my air one of Heaven resides t I hink as at eve she wanders its mazes along , of The birds go to sleep by the sweet , Wild twist her song .

M OS N JERE IAH J EPH CALLANA .

DEELI H CEAN DUBH S .

[ From the I rish ]

Put d your head , darling , darling , arling , Your darling black head my heart above t th for Oh , mouth of honey , wi h the e fragrance , Who with heart in breast con ( 1 deny you love

Oh and , many many a young girl for me is pining , i Lett ng her locks of gold to the cold wind free , f For me , the oremost of our gay young fellows ; ’ But I d leave a hundred , pure love , for thee

n The put your head , darling , darling , darling , Your darling black head my heart above

Oh , mouth of honey , with the thyme for fragrance , a t Who , with he r in breast , could deny you love S IR SAMUEL FERGUSON

90 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY

n Alo e , all alone , it matters not Where or how , 0 Flower of Nut-brown Maids

0 little v black On a slender bed , head , strained close to

thee , a Or a he p of hay , until break of day , it were one to me ,

Laughing in gladness and glee together , with none to see , r - My Flowe of Nut brown Maids .

ELEAN OR HULL .

PASTHEEN FINN .

[ From the I rish ]

’ Pastheen Oh , my fair is my heart s deli Her gay heart laughs in h er blue eye t ; - w Like the apple blossom her bosom hite , And her neck like the swan ’s on a March morn

CHORUS .

“ Then , Oro , come with me come with me come with me m ! ! Oro , co e with me brown girl , sweet a d And oh I would go through snow n sleet , t ! If you would come with me , brown girl swee

of Pastheen Love my heart , my fair ’ checks as Her are red the rose s sheen ,

But my lips have tasted no more , I ween , Then the glass I drink to the health of my queen !

’ t Were I in the town where s mir h and glee , ’ two Or twixt barrels of barley bree , i Pastheen With my fa r upon my knee , ’ Tis I would drink to her pleasantly

Nine nights I lay in longing and pain , t n Be wixt two bushes , beneath the rai , n Thi king to see you , love , again ; But whistle and call were all in vain O O 1 IRISH L VE P ETRY . 9

’ n and o I ll leave my people , both frie d f e ' From all the girls in the world I ll go ; n ! ! But from you , sweetheart , oh , ever oh , no Till I lie in the cofﬁn stretched cold and low !

S IR SAMUEL FERGUSON .

SHE IS MY LOVE .

[ From the I r ish ]

t She is my love beyond all hought , Though she has w rou ht my deepest dole Yet dearer for the cruefpain

Than one who fain would make me whole .

She is my glittering gem of gems , Who yet contemns my fortune bright ;

Whose cheek but glows with redder scorn , w t Since mine has orn a s ricken white .

She is my sun and moon and star ,

Who yet so far and cold doth keep , She would not even o ’er my bier a t One tender te r of pi y weep .

m Into my heart unsought she ca e ,

A wasting ﬂame , a haunting care

Into my heart of hearts , ah Why

And left a sigh for ever there .

’

PP . HA Y TIS , THOU BLIND , FOR THEE

[ From the I r ish ]

’ Happy tis , thou blind , for thee , That thou seest not our star ; see her Couldst thou see but as we ,

Thou wouldst be but as we are . 2 OO OF O 9 B K IRISH P ETRY .

c e On e I pitied sightl ss men , I was then unscathed by Sight

Now I envy those who see not , no They can be t hurt by light .

who has Woe once seen her please , And then sees her not each hour ; Woe for him her love - mesh binding n s Whose unwi ding pas es power . L S DOUG A HYDE .

COOLU N THE .

[ From the I r ish ]

Coolun Oh , had you seen the l ’ Wa king down by the cuckoo s street , With the dew of the meadow shi ning - On her milk white twinkling feet . 0 my love she is and my colleen oge , And she dwells in Balnagar ; And she bears the palm of beauty bright f i s From the a re t that in Erin are .

In Balna ar Coolun g is the , Like the berry on the bough her cheek ; Bright beauty dwells for ever

On her neck and ringlets sleek . O sweeter is her mouth ’s soft music

Than the lark or thrush at dawn , Or the blackbird in the greenwood singing

Farewell to the setting sun .

R a ise up , my boy , make re dy

To horse , for I forth would ride , To follow the modest damsel Where she walks on the green hill - side

O F O 94 BOOK IRISH P ETRY .

CASHEL OF MUNSTER .

[ From the I r ish ]

I would wed you , dear , without gold or gear , or counted

kine , ’ My wealth you ll be , would fair friends agree , and you

be mine . ’ My grief, my gloom that you do not come , my heart s dear hoard !

To Cashel fair , though our couch were there , but a hard

deal board .

’ 0 - come , my bride , o er the wild hill side to the valley low ’ A downy bed for my love I ll spread , where waters ﬂow , s And we shall stray Where streamlets play , the grove

among , ’ Where echo tells to the listening dells the blackbird s song .

Love tender , true , I gave to you , and secret sighs ,

In hope to see upon you and me one hour arise , ’ When the priest s blest voice would bind my choice and ’ the ring s strict tie , ’ If Wife you be , love , to one but me , love , in grief I ll die .

’ ea A neck of White has my heart s delight , and br st like

snow ,

And ﬂowing hair Whose ringlets fair to the green grass ﬂow ,

Alas that I did not early die , before the day ’ That saw me here , from my bosom s dear , far , far away

EDWARD WALSH . I O O RISH L VE P ETRY . 95

MOLLY ASTHORE .

‘ n t i in As down by Banna s ba ks I s rayed , one even ng May , The little birds with blithest notes made vocal every spray ’ t They sung their lit le notes of love , they sung them o er and o ’er Ah ramachree s ! , g , ma colleen oge , ma Molly A thore

The daisies pied and all the sweets the dawn of Nature s yield , ’ The primrose pale , the violet blue , lay scattered o er the ﬁelds

Such fragrance in the bosom lies of her whom I adore , ramachree n As ! Ah , g , ma collee oge , ma Molly thore

I laid me down upon the bank bewailing my sad fate , That doomed me thus the slave of Love and cruel Molly ’s

hate . How can she break the hones t heart that wears her in its core ramachree l e ! Ah , g , ma co l en oge , ma Molly Asthore

You said you loved me , Molly dear ah , why did I believe Yet who could think such tender words were meant but

to deceive . — a That love was all I asked on earth nay , he ven could 0 give no more . ramachree ma As Ah , g , colleen oge , ma Molly thore

az Oh , had I all the flocks that gr e on yonder yellow hill , Or lowed for me the numerous herds that yon green pastures fill ’ fleec With her I d gladly share my kine , with her my y

store , ramachree Ah , g , ma colleen oge , ma Molly Asthore 6 O 9 BOOK OF IRISH P ETRY .

on bon Two turtle doves above my head sat courting a gh ,

I envied them their happiness to see them bill and coo .

Such fondness once for me she showed , but now , alas , ’ ’ tis o er ! ramachree Ah , g , ma colleen oge , ma Molly Asthore

’ n The fare thee well , my Molly dear thy loss I e er shall

moan , ’ While M remains in Strephon 8 heart it beats for thee aIone ; Though thou art false may heaven on thee its choicest

blessings pour , m ra achree . Ah , g ma colleen oge , me Molly Asthore

O GE RGE OGLE .

REMEMBRANCE .

In — Cold the earth and the deep snow above thee , the ! Far , far removed , cold in dreary grave

Have I forgot , my only love , to love thee , ’ Severed at last by Time s all - severing wave

Now , when alone , do my thoughts no lon er hover O t ver the moun ains , on that northern s ore , Resting their wings where heath and fern - leaves cover

Thy noble heart for ever , ever more

e —and Cold in the arth ﬁfteen wild Decembers , n From these brow hills , have melted into spring ,

Faithful , indeed , is the spirit that remembers After such years of change an d suffering!

f Sweet Love of youth , forgive , if I orget thee , ’ While the world s tide is bearing me along ;

Other desires and other hopes beset me ,

es c a . Hop which obs ure , but c nnot do thee wrong

OO OF PO B K IRISH ETRY .

’ That happy day , twas but last May , ’ Tis like a dream to me , ’ ’ e a o er When Donnell swor , y , o er and , ’ ! We d part no more , astor machree

Soft April showers and bright May ﬂowers i Will bring the summer back aga n , But will they bring me back the hours I spent with my brave Donn ell then ? ’ ’ Tis but a chance , for h—e s gone to France , To wear the ﬂeur- de lys

’ ' But I ll follow you , my Donnell Dhu , ’ t For still I m rue to you , machree A DEN NY L NE .

THE DESMOND .

’ s w t By the Feal ave benigh ed , s No tar in the skies , To thy door by Love lighted s I ﬁrst saw tho e eyes , Some voice whis ered unto me thr esho ss As the d I cro ed , i There was ru n before me ,

If I loved I was lost .

Love came , and brought sorrow Too soon in his train Yet so sweet that to - morrow ’ W Twere elcome again . ’ Though misery s full measure s My portion hould be , I would drain it with pleasure

If poured out by thee . You who call it dishonour

To bow to this ﬂame , ’ If you ve eyes , look upon her ,

And blush while you blame . O O IRISH L VE P ETRY . 99

Hath the pearl less whiteness , Because of its birth ? Hath the violet less brightness For growing near earth ? No ! man for his glory r i To ancest y ﬂ es , But woman ’s bright story

Is told in her eyes . While the monarch but traces his Through mortals line , a Beauty , born of The Gr ces , Ranks next to Divine H T OMAS MOORE .

LOVE SONG . Sweet in her green dell the ﬂow er of beauty slumbers Lulled by the faint breezes S i hing through her hair Sleeps she and hears not the mefancholy numbers ’ a Bre thed to my sad lute mid the lonely air . Down from the hi h cliffs the rivulet is teeming To Wind round t e willow banks that lure him from above ; 0 that in tears , from my rocky prison streaming , I too could glide to the bower of my love

Ah where the woodbines with Sleepy arms have wound

her , a Opes she her eyelids at the dre m of my lay , a Listening , like the dove , while the fount ins echo round

her , ’ e To her lost mate s call in the for sts far away .

Come then , my bird For the peace thou ever bearest , ’ m n Still heaven s esse ger of comfort to me , faithfulest Come , this fond bosom , O and fairest , - Bleeds with its death wound its wound of love for thee . O GE RGE DARLEY . 1 00 OO OF B K IRISH POETRY .

I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST HAVE

DIED .

e If I had thought thou couldst have di d , I might not weep for thee ;

But I forgot , when by thy side , That thou couldst mortal be It never through my mind had passed ’ ’ The time would e er be o er , s And I on thee should look my la t ,

And thou shouldst smile no more .

And still upon that face I look , ’ And think t will smile again ; And still the thought I will not brook That I must look in vain a But When I spe k , thou dost not say ’ ’ left st What thou ne er unsaid ,

And now I feel , as well I may , a ! Sweet M ry thou art dead .

’ If thou wouldst stay e en as thou art ,

All cold and all serene ,

If I might press thy silent heart ,

And Where thy smiles have been . ’ While e en thy chill bleak corse I have , Thou seemest sti ll mine own ;

But there I lay thee in thy grave , And I am now alone !

w ’ I do not think , here er thou art , Thou hast forgotten me o And I perhaps may so the this heart , k By thin ing , too , of thee ,

Yet there was round thee such a dawn , ’ Of light ne er seen before , As fancy never could have drawn , d An never can restore . RLES E CHA WOLF .

BO OK or R I ISH POETRY .

’ — s Cheeks bri ht as the rose feet light as the doe , co f now Now y y retiring , boldly advancing

Search the world all round , from the sky to the ground , No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dan cing !

Sweet ate who could view your bright eyes of deep gu e r a Beaming humidly through thei dark l shes so mildly ,

Your fair turned arm , heavin breast , rounded form , ancf Nor feel his heart warm , his pulses throb wildly Pat as a s Young feels his heart , he g ze , depart , Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love

The sight leaves his eye , as he says with a sigh , " Dance light , for my heart it lies under your feet , love .

JOHN FRANCIS WALLER .

’ R KATHLEEN O MO E .

My love , still I think that I see her once more , ! But , alas she has left me her loss to deplore M o y own little Kathleen , my p or little Kathleen , ’ My Kathleen O More !

Her hair glossy black , her eyes were dark blue ,

Her colour still changing , her smiles ever new S o l l pretty was Kath een , my sweet little Kath een , ’ My Kathleen O More !

’ She milked the dun cow , that ne er offered to stir n Tho h wicked to all , it was gentle to her S o i md l was my Kathleen , my poor ittle Kathleen , My Kathleen O ’More !

o e She sat at the door n cold afternoon ,

To hear the Wind blow , and to gaze on the moon , e K t h So p nsive was a hleen , my poor little Kat leen , l ’ My Kath een 0 More . O 1 0 IRISH L VE POETRY . 3

ni - Cold was the ght breeze that sighed round her bower , i t It ch lled my poor Ka hleen , she drooped from that hour , l And I lost my poor Kathleen , my own ittle Kathleen , ’ My Kathleen O More

The bird of all birds that I love the best Is the robin that in the churchyard builds his nest ’ e For he s ems to watch Kathleen , hops lightly o er

Kathleen , ’ O M re My Kathleen o . E G ORGE NUGENT REYNOLDS .

THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE .

w n His kiss is sweet , his ord is ki d , His love is rich to me I could not in a palace ﬁn d

A truer love than he . The eagle shelters not his nest a d From hurricane n hail ,

More bravely than he guards my breast ,

The boatman of Kinsale .

The wind that round the Fastnet sweeps h Is not a w it more pure , The goat that down Kn ock Sheehy leaps

Has not a foot more sure . n r No ﬁrmer ha d , no f eer eye ’ f E er aced an autumn gale . ’ so De Courcy s heart is not high ,

The Boatman of Kinsale .

Ires The brawling q may heed him not, ai n The d n stranger s eer , But who wi dare to hurt our cot ’ When Myles O Hea is here ? 1 0 B OF R O 4 OOK I ISH P ETRY .

a The sc rlet soldiers pass along , They ’d like but fear to rail r His blood is hot , his blow is st ong , a The Boatman of Kins le .

’ His hooker s in the Scilly van When seines are in the foam ;

But money never made the man , ea t Nor w l h a happy home . So t blest wi h love and liberty , i Wh le he can trim a sail , ’ He ll trust in God , and cling to me , n The boatman of Ki sale .

THOMAS DAVIS .

MINNIE . 0 crystal well , P lay daintily on golden sands ,

When she comes at morning lonely ,

Followed by her Shadow only , s To bathe those little slender hand , All aweary gathering e S eds to make her blue bird Sing , 0 crystal well

O forest brown , t Brea he thy richest twilight balm ,

As she wanders , pulling willow

Leaﬂets for her fragrant pillow , Which wi th snowy cheek and calm s halfé closed She shall pre s with eyes , ’ a a While the gre t st rs o er thee rise , 0 forest brown !

O Lady Moon ,

Li ht her , as she mounts the stair 0 her little sacred chamber, Like a mother and remember

1 06 OO OF O B K IRISH P ETRY .

e But then her voice so t nder grows , So kind and so caressing Each murmur from her lips that ﬂows

Comes to me like a blessing .

She Sometimes says Sweet friend , I grieve you

Alas , it gives me pain ? What can I Ah , might I relieve you , You ne ’er had mourned in vain ! And then her little hand she presses on a a d s p her he rt , n sigh ; S he While tears whose source not yet guesses ,

Grow larger In her eyes .

AUBREY DE VERE .

AN ANCIENT TALE .

He leaned upon the garden gate ;

He looked , and scarce he breathed ; t Within the lit le porch she sate , With woodbine ov erwreathed ;

Her eyes upon her work were bent , Unconscious who was nigh ;

But oft the needle slowly went , And oft did idle lie And ever to her lips arose

Sweet fragments sweetly sung ,

But ever , ere the notes could close ,

She hushed them on her tongue .

L the ha d ' ong , long sun sunken down , And all his golden trail

Had died away to lines of brown ,

In duskier hues that fail . The grasshopper was chirping still No other living sound Accompanied the tiny rill That gurgled under ground I E O 1 0 RISH LOV P ETRY . 7

No other living sound , unless Some spirit bent to hear Low words of human tenderness

And mi ngling whispers near .

l The stars , like pa lid gems at ﬁrst ,

Deep in the liquid sky ,

Now forth upon the darkness burst , Sole kings and lights on hi gh

For splendour , myriadfold , supreme , No rlv al moonlight strove ’ ’ Hes er s a Nor lovelier e er was p be m ,

Nor more majestic Jove . But what if hearts there beat that night the That recked not of skies , Or only felt their imaged light ’ In one another s eyes .

And if two worlds of hi dden thought

And fostered passion met , h Whic , passing human language , sought

And found an utterance yet , And if they trembled as the ﬂowers a That droop across the stre m , The whi le the silent starry hours Wait o ’er them like a dream if m And , when ca e the parting time , They faltered still and clung ; What is it all -an ancie—nt rhyme Ten thousand times re sung That part of Paradise which man Without the portal knows a Which h th been since the world began ,

And shall be till its close . ’ JOHN O HAGAN . 1 08 O R SH O B OK OF I I P ETRY .

DONAL KENNY .

’ Shaskan R Come , piper , play the eel , ’ a Or else the L sses on the Heather ,

And , Mary , lay aside your wheel

Until we dance once more together . At fair and pattern oft before Of reels and jigs we ’ve tripped full many ’ But ne er again this loved old ﬂoor , f of Will eel the foot Donal Kenny .

Softly she rose and took his hand , l And softly g ided through the measure ,

While , clustering round , the village band

Looked half in sorrow , half in pleasure . Warm blessings ﬂowed from every lip As ceased the dancers ’ airy motion : O Blessed Virgin guide the Ship Which bears bold Donal o ’er the ocean

S i Now God be with you all , he hed , Adown his face the bright tears ﬂowing

God guard you well , avick , they cried ,

Upon the strange path you are going .

So full his breast he scarce could speak , k With burning grasp the stretched hands ta ing ,

He pressed a kiss on every cheek , hi s k And sobbed as if heart was brea ing .

’ ’ for et Boys , don t g me when I m gone , For sake of all the days p assed over

The days you spent on heath and bawn , ’ Ruadh With Donal . the rattlin rover .

Mary , agra , your soft brown eye ” Has willed my fate , he whispered lowly Another holds thy heart :good - bye ! Heaven grant you both its blessings holy

1 OF 1 0 BOOK IRISH POETRY .

THE WILD GEESE .

I had to sail across the sea ,

A brave white bird went forth from me . My heart was hid beneath his wing ; 0 strong white bird , come back in spring

I watched the Wild Geese rise and cry Across the ﬂaming western sky ; i Their winnowing pinions clove the l ght , and Then vanished , came down the night .

I laid me low , my day was done ; I longed not for the morrow ’s sun

But , closely swathed in swoon of sleep , hO e Forgot to p , forgot to weep .

o The m on , through veils of gloomy red , A warm yet dusky radiance shed All down our valley ’S golden stream

And ﬂushed my slumber with a dream .

Her mystic torch lit up my brain e My spirit rose and liv d amain , And followed through the windy Spray

That bird upon its watery way .

0 O wild white bird , wail for me My soul hath wings to ﬂy with thee f On oam waves , lengthening out afar , ’ We ll ride toward the western star .

’ n l ns f O er immeri g p ai , through orest gloom , To tracgla wanderer ’s feet I come ’Mi d m lonely swa p , by haunted brake , ’ I ll pass unfrightened for his sake . O O I I I IRISH L VE P ETRY .

n f Alo e , a ar , his footsteps roam , a The st rs his roof, the tent his home . ’ S aw st thou what way the Wild Geese ﬂew To sunward through the thick night dew

Carry my soul where he abides , And pierce the mystery that hides s r His pre ence , and th ough time and space

Look with mine eyes upon his face .

Beside his prairie ﬁre he rests , All feathered things are in their nests ai t What strange wild bird is this he s h , Still fragrant with the ocean ’s breath ? ”

P erch on my hand , thou briny thing And let me stroke thy shy wet win What message in thy soft eye thri ls

I see again my native hills ,

’ s And vale , and river s silver treak ,

The mist upon the blue , blue peak , s The shadows grey , the golden sheave , s The mossy wall , the russet eaves .

’ I greet the friends I ve loved and lost ,

- Do all forget No , tempest toast , ’ That braved for me the ocean s foam ,

Some heart remembers me at home .

’ Ere spring s return I will be there , ’ n - a e Thou stra ge sea fr grant m ssenger ,

I wake and weep the moon Shines sweet ,

O dream too short O bird too ﬂeet .

O ROSA MULH LLAND . I I O OF O R Z BO K IRISH P ET Y .

OUTSIDE . A Shining pathway of light slopes down from the half

closed door , Through the darkness on either hand it glimmers golden

and wide , n a A fair bridge spanning the ight , and the dre d deso ’ lation o er , n Stretching to me , where I stand forgotten , forlor ,

outside .

If I dared to turn my feet away from the chill an d the o gl om , If I followed yon radiant track with eager and noiseless

tread , n ﬁrelit Should I ﬁnd her , my o ly sweet , in some fragrant

room ,

Her soft dress shadowy black , and the glow on her bent bright head

P erhaps , if I only dared , she would not bid me begone P erhaps she would smile as of yore , and be kind and forget to chide Perhaps if she knew how I cared I will go I will seek her anon

Alas they have shut the door and I am alone outside . C E FRAN ES WYNN .

TO AN ISLE IN THE WATER.

Shy one , shy one ,

Shy one of m heart , ﬁreli ht She moves in e g , P ensively apart . She carries in the dishes t And la s hem in a row . To an isye in the water

With her I would go .

1 1 4 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY .

Together we ran down the copse And stood in the rain as close As the birds that sleep ‘ in the soft tops o Of the tree that comes and g es ,

When the morn moon ,

When the young moon , When the morn moon is on Killary

In tremblings of the water chill

Swans we saw preen their coat , ’d Biting their plumes , with stoop bill n a And quiveri g neck , ﬂoat

On the brown shade ,

On the deep Shade ,

The shade of hills on Killary .

Why pale , my beloved , now When the ﬁrst light ’gins to beat ? u c No sun of aut mn is ri h as thou , And honey after thy feet

Shall rise from the grass ,

From the wet of the grass , The brow of the grass over Killary My grief it is only that thou and I

Must part , like swans of the ﬂood That rise up sorrowful into the sky ;

For one goes over the wood ,

And one oversea ,

And one oversea , And one oversea from Killary

Ah , the little raindrops that hang on the bough ,

Together they may run , But never again shall I and thou Meet here in the morning sun

We shall meet no more ,

We must kiss no more , We shall meet no more by Killary C HERBERT TREN H . L 1 1 IRISH OVE POETRY . 5

P THE WOOD IGEON .

- ﬂakes The skies they were leaden , the snow were falling N O blackbird or linnet was courting or calling ’ But the wood dove s sweet moaning was heard in the

distance , i And her song all of love came in dulcet pers stence .

d Oh , what though the nests were all ﬂoo ed with water , And the cold eggs would give them no Sweet son or

daughter , She was dreamy with pleasure for her true Love beside

her , And her day was as gold as though young leaves did hide her

0 - Love , sang the wood dove , the sweet bird of summer , n It were death , it were mad ess , were my Love a roamer f But Love true and faith ul , what power has cold weather

To still our wild songs , Love , since we are together

r Then I said to my true Love , t ue love is enough , Love , - who a off And how wise is the wood dove learns th t lore , Love ’ for w n Tis our charm the inter , and when the wi ds cry ,

Love ,

And when , in the grave , on your heart I shall lie , Love .

KATHARINE TYNAN .

FORGIVENESS .

At dusk the window panes grew grey i The wet world van shed in the gloom , The dim and silver end of day o Scarce glimmered through the little r om . 1 1 6 OF ‘ O BOOK IRISH P ETRY .

And all my sins were told ; I said Such things to her who knew not sin The sharp ache throbbing in my head , The fever running high with I touched with pain her purity ’ Sin 8 darker sense I could not bring My soul was black as night to me ! 0 her I was a wounded thing .

I needed love no words could say

She drew me softly ni8gh her chair ,

My head upon her knees to lay ,

With cool hands that caressed my hair .

She sat with hands as if to bless , r And looked with grave , ethe eal eyes ; n E souled with ancient Quietness , en l s of s A g t e prieste s the Wi e .

SONG .

ea I made another garden , y , For my new love ;

I left the dead rose where it lay ,

And set the new above . Why did the summer not begin ?

Why did my heart not haste .

My old love came and walked therein ,

And laid the garden waste .

r She entered with her wea y smile , Just as of old

She looked around a little while ,

And shivered at the cold . i Her pass ng touch was death to all , Her passing look a blight - a She made the white rose pet ls fall ,

And turned the red rose white .

1 8 1 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY .

Since then , he has loved , and loves , so much , is That in the grave men say sleep , He shall not lose my sweet wild touch

Through all the silence of the deep ,

s But , when the immortal pa sions move ,

Shall quick arise , and with a cry , Run to mine arms , and say , O Love , — l . Thou hast not forgotten no , nor I

STOPFORD OO . A . BR KE

THE LITTLE FLUTES . The world has slipt away and gone

Like rain into the sea . What would be callin ’ me ?

For son and silver ﬂutes are gone ,

The litt e ﬂutes he ﬂuted on ,

That will not leave me be .

These northern mountains in their pride , ’ Are steppin from the sea

(I mind he loved the sea) , s Blue lovely tower , walled in pride , I wonder now is peace inside ? Would sorrow leave me be ?

For in his speech you knew the South , And in his eyes the sea

The grey green changin sea . 0 ’ Ireland s Sweeter in the South , ’ And sweet the S peakin of his mouth

That will not leave me be .

his I mind whistles through the dark , u The t nes he piped for me ,

The ﬂutes he ﬂuted free , O O 1 1 IRISH L VE P ETRY . 9

’ ’ - sou ndin Faint as the soarin lark , ’ - soundin Soft silver ﬂutes at dark , a Th t will not leave me be .

’ ’ He s surely walkin in the West , ’ i in the And p p to sea , ! Of Ireland , Ireland free

In Cork or Kerry , south or west ; 0 t grief of Ireland hat he rest , ’ And leave the pipin be !

He ’s put the small ﬂute to his mouth ’ The ﬂutin calls to me , Past Wicklow hills I see ’ lau hi n His g eyes that loved the South , His Silver ipes that call me south And wil not leave me be

’ M RS . DENIS O SULLIVAN .

P THE ENALTY OF LOVE . If love should count you worthy , and should deign

One day to seek your door and be your guest , P ause ere you draw the bolt and bid him rest ,

If in your old content you would remain . For not alone he enters in hi s train

Are angels of the mists , the lonely quest , s Dreams of the unfulﬁlled and unposses ed . ’

And . sorrow , and life s immemorial pain

He wakes desires you never may forget , f He shows you stars you never saw be ore , a He m kes you share with him for evermore , ’ The burden of the w orld s divine —regret How wise were you to open not and yet , How poor if you should turn him from the door O SIDNEY R YSE LYSAGHT . 1 2 0 OO OF I O B K RISH P ETRY .

MORFYDD TO .

n A voice on the wi ds ,

A voice on the waters , Wanders and cu m

0 ? , what are the winds And what are the waters ? n ‘ Mi e are your eyes .

n Western the wi ds are , And n wester the waters , Where the light lies

0 ! what are the winds ? And what are the waters

Mine are your eyes .

n Cold , cold , grow the wi ds , And dark grow the waters ,

Where the sun dies .

0 ! what are the winds ? And what are the waters

Mine are your eyes.

And down the And down the The music

O what are the winds And what are the waters

Cold be the winds ,

And wild be the waters ,

So mine be your eyes .

N L LIO E JOHNSON .

1 22 F BOOK O IRISH POETRY .

God bless the woman , whoever she be , From the tossing waves will recover thee

And lashing wind . n Who will take thee out of the wi d and storm , Dry thy wet face on her bosom warm And lips so ki nd ?

I not to know . It is hard to pray , n But I shall for this woma from day to day ,

Comfort my dead ,

The sports of the winds and the lay of the sea .

I loved thee too well for this t ing to be , 0 dear black head

DORA S IGERSON .

THE BETRAYAL .

a roamin When you were we ry , the Wide world over , e I gave my ﬁckle h art to a new over . Now they tell me that you are lying dead 0 mountains fall on me and hide my hea d !

When you lay burning in the throes of fever , He vowed me love by the willow- margined river m — r Death s ote you there here was you trust betrayed , n O dark ess , cover me , I am afraid

Yea , in the hour of your supremest trial , I laughed with him ! The shadow on the dial

Stayed not , aghast at my dread ignorance

Nor man nor angel looked at me askance .

Under the mountains there is peace abiding,

Darkness shall be pavilion for my hiding , ea T rs shall blot out the sin of broken faith ,

f . The lips that alsely kissed , Shall kiss but Death C RLON ALI E FU G. O O 1 2 IRISH L VE P ETRY . 3

SONG .

’ He climbs his lady s tower , where sail

Cold clouds about the moon , And at his feet the nightingale — ! Sings Sir , too soon , too soon

’ He steals across his lady s park ,

He tries her secret gate , And overhead the saucy lark — too ! Sings Sir , late , too late O ELEAN R ALEXANDER .

A SILENT MOUTH .

0 a in , little green le f on the bough , you hear the lark the

morn , You hear the grey feet of the wind stir in the shimmering

corn , a You hear , low down in the gr ss , n in The Si g g Sidhe as they pass , a Do you ever he r , O little green ﬂame ,

My loved one calling , whispering my name

0 little green leaf on the bough , like my lips you must

ever be dumb , For a maiden may never speak until love to her heart says ” Come . A mouth in its silence is sweet

But my heart cries loud when we meet , And I turn my head w ith a bitter Sigh

When the boy who has stolen my love , unheeding , goes by .

I have made my heart as the stones in the street for his

tread , I have made my love as the Shadow that falls from his

dear gold head , 1 2 O OF O 4 BO K IRISH P ETRY .

n But the sto es with his footsteps ring,

And the shadow keeps following ,

And just as the quiet shadow goes ever beside or before , and So must I go silent lonely and loveless for evermore .

’ CATHAL O BYRNE .

AND OWN R HIS HOME HIS COUNT Y .

cr I know not whether to lau h or y ,

So greatly , utterly glad am i - f For one , whose beaut ful love lit ace

The distance hid for a weary space , of Has come this day all days to me , Who am his home and his own country

What shall I say who am here at rest , Led from the good things up to the best

Little my knowledge , but this I know ,

It was God said , Love each other so . 0 love , my love , who hast come to me ,

Thy love , thy home , and thy own country . C EMILY HI KEY .

R N BITTER SE E ADE .

now Fate damned you young . Death young would

frustrate you . I have but lived—as alchemists for gold ’ I re- n my mad pity s ﬂame to create you , ! Heavenly one , waning , cold

n Dark planet , to your Sleepless desolatio s Whereto no ray serene hath ever gone Life might have come with my poor invocations ; and n ! You might have loved , sho e

1 26 OF O BOOK IRISH P ETRY .

ann be n It c ot , though I have ought of merit ,

That man may hold so dear , and with such pain n E fold with all the tendrils of the Spirit ,

Yet not be loved again .

n n n It cannot be that such inte sest year i g , Such ﬁerce and incommensu rable care a St rred on your face , as through a crystal burning , Is wasted on the air

It cannot be I gave my soul , unfolding ik To you its very inmost , l e a child i i Utterly giv ng faith (no jot w thholding) ,

By you to be beguiled .

No . In rich Venice riotous and human ,

That Shrinks for me to sandbanks and a sky ,

Love such as that I bear you must be common .

Enough you let it die . E C HERBERT TR N H .

THE WINGS OF LOVE .

I will row my boat on Muckross Lake when the grey of the dove Comes down at the end of the day and a quiet like prayer

Grows soft in your eyes , and among your ﬂuttering hair

The red of the sun is mixed with t he red of your cheek .

I will row you , O boat of my heart till our mouths have forgotten to speak n In the Silence of love , broken only by trout that spri g ’ And are gone , like a fairy s ﬁnger that casts a ring With the luck of the world for the hand that can hold it

fast . s I will rest on my oars , my eyes on your eye , till our thoughts have passed O O 1 2 IRISH L VE P ETRY . 7

Frorn the lake and the sky and the rings of the jumping fish i Till our ears are ﬁlled from the reeds with a sudden sw sh , t ﬂails m And a sound like the bea ing of in the ti e of corn . We shall hold our breath while a wonderful thing is born From the songs that were chanted by bards in the days gone by For a wild white l the swan Sha l be leaving lake for the sky , i With the curve of her neck stretched out in a s lver spear . Oh then when the creak of her win gs shall have brought

her near , e We shall h ar again a swish , and a beating of ﬂails , i a And a creaking of oars , and a sound l ke the wind in s ils , al air As the mate of her heart sh l follow her into the .

O wings of my soul we shall think of Angus and Caer ,

And Etain and Midir , that were changed into wild white swans

To ﬂy round the ring of the heavens , through the dusks

and the dawns , n U seen by all but true lovers , till judgment day , 0 w Because they had loved for love only . love I ill say , in For a woman and man with eternity ring g them round , n And the heave s above and below them , a poor thing it is to be bound f w l i ’ To our low walls that i l spill l ke a pedlar s pack , a r And a quilt th t will run into holes , and a chu n that will r d d y an crack . ’ the Oh better than these , a dream in night , or our heart s mute prayer ’ O Dono hue be That g , the enchanted man , Should pass

tween water and air , And i say , I will change them each to a w ld white swan ,

Like the lovers Angus and Midir , and their loved ones ,

Caer and Etain , l Because they have loved for love on y , and have searched throu h the shadows of things c For the art of all hearts , through the ﬁre of love , and the

wine of love , and the wings . O JAMES H . C USINS . 1 28 S BOOK OF IRI H POETRY .

LITTLE MARY CASSIDY .

’ ’ Oh , tis little Mary Cassidy s the cause of all my misery , And the raison that I am not now the bo I used to be ahout Oh , she bates the beauties all that we read in history , r - And sure half the count y side is as hot for her as me . val an d Travel Ireland up and down , hill , villa e , e town ’ nn Iookin for Fairer than the Cailin Do , you re g in vain ’ Oh , I d rather live in poverty with little Mary Cassidy

Than emperor , without her , be of Germany or Spain .

’ ’ Twas at the dance at Darmody s that ﬁrst I caught a

sight of her , And Droi hnean heard her sing the g Donn , till tears

came in my eyes , And ever since that blessed hour I ’m dreaming day and night of her

The devil a wink of sleep at all I get from bed to rise . i n Cheeks like the rose in June , song l ke the lark in tu e , n n Working , resti g , ight or noon , she never leaves my mind ;

Oh , till singing by my cabin ﬁre sits little Mary Cassidy , ’ ’ ’ i ss ﬁnd Tis little a se or happine I m sure I ll ever .

f t t What is wealth , what is ame , what is all ha people ﬁght about To a kind word from her lips or a love - glance from her e! , e ’

Oh , though troubles throng my breast , sure they d soon go to the right- about If I thought the curly head of her would rest there by and b owii - and Take all I to day , kith , kin , care away , the z Ship them all across th—e say , or to fro en zone Lave me an orphan bare but lave me Mary Cassidy , of would feel lonesome with the two us alone .

NC S FRA I A . FAHY

1 0 OO OF O 3 B K IRISH P ETRY .

’ ’ seem d An though she tae shun my sight , A trusted mair her luv e that night ’ ’ Than a Airth s luves thegither ;

Then yin wee gentle luik she gave . ’ A d haive waited lang that luik tae ,

’ ’ ' A d wait An lang fur sich anither .

- S O G . F . SAVAGE ARM TR NG .

THE SHAWLIE .

Drive , bitter blast , frae lough tae sea ’ ’ A little min yer smertin Her ain wee shawlie ’s roon ’ my heart ’ ’ ’ Her wee han s pinn d at partin ’ ’ ’ ’ A m - w in roof the night gen an snaw , A ’l walk frae here tae Derry ’ ’ Though Noe s ﬂood yince‘ mair cam doon ’ ’ A d bowld face it an merry .

’ NOO ben n , Charlie , dearie , ye doo ’ Ye s t maun tak my Shawlie ; ’ ’ A ll wrap it tight aroon yer kist , ’ For och , the night s sae squally , ’ ’ ’ ’ P cau d uir lad , ye ll ﬁn it unco ” t By Gransha shore , says Kit y ; ’ ’ An then her een luik d up In mIne ’ ’ Wi luv e ah , sich an pity .

’ ’ l ressin s Wee Shaw ie , p aft an werm ’ ’ a lowin Aroon my breast g , er hu A kiss y fringe , A ye fast , ’ A mock the squalls a lowin ’ ’ thu n ers li htnin s s Let roar , let g glam , ’ e A ll face the temp st brawly , ’ ’ Whilst close agen my thrabbin heart ’ A feel my Luv s wee Shawlie !

- O G . F . SAVAGE ARMSTR NG . I I OVE O I IR SH P ETRY . I 3

’ RS LU VE THE WEE LASSIE S FI T .

’ A cannae hear his name an hide ’ My thought wi ony art ; m ’ A cannae see him co e , an calm ’ The ﬂitterin uv my heart ; It ’s pain tae meet him when A walk Or meet him nae ava ; tae A wish him aye to come me , ’ A wish him aye awa .

’ ’ A dinnae ken what s wrang wi me ; ’ A m v ix ed kennae , A why ;

A cannae talk , A cannae wark ’ ’ My min s a ganged agley ; A say sich foolish thin ’s at whiles ’ ’ My face is scorch d wi pain ’ O , let them lave me tae mysel i t wu d A js be alane .

’ A m n nae sae tall as Elsie Bar es , ’ A hae nae een like May s , Ma Yit aft he turns frae y tae me , ’ ’ ’ wi s An ne er El ie strays . A cannae thole tae see him laugh Wi ’ Grace or Rose or Jean , An ’ yit he ’s Standin ’ nigh my side

Mair aft than ony ane .

’ ’ ’ coorteous He s aye sae , kin an free ’ ’ ’ W I mon an lass an chiel , Mayhap he cares nae mair fur me Than jist tae wish me wee! ’ uv hi s But ah , the kin ness voice ’ ’ his ee An ah , dark blue ’ ’ an coortl An ah , his face y grace ist cu d A think A j dee .

- O G . F . SAVAGE ARMSTR NG 1 2 OO OF O 3 B K IRISH P ETRY .

CU TTIN ’ R USHES .

! Oh , maybe it was yesterday , or ﬁfty years ago ’ ’ Meself risin cu tti n was early on a day for rushes , ’ ’ Walkin up the Brahla burn , till the sun was low , Now I ’d hear the burn run an ’ then I ’d hear the t hrushes . ’ ’ —an drenchin wet Young , still young the grass , ’ Wet the golden honeysuckle hangin sweetly down ; ! Here , lad , here will ye follow where I pass , ’ ’ cuttin a An ﬁnd me rushes on the mount in .

t Then was it only yesterday , or ﬁf y years or so R ’ ippin round the bog pools high among the heather ,

The hook it made me hand sore , I had to leave it go , ’ Twas he that cut the rushes then for me to bind

together . ’ —an Come , dear , come back along the burn ’ ’ See the darlin honeysuckle hangin like a crown . — ’ ! Quick , one kiss sure , there s some one at the turn ’ ’ ” cuttin Oh , we re after rushes on the mountain .

t Yesterday , yesterday , or ﬁf y years ago ’ s r I waken out o dream when I hear the summer th ushes , ’ ’ ’ Brabla Oh , that s the burn , I can hear it sing an ﬂow , ’ ’ ’ 0 e e For all that s fair , I d sooner see a bunch gr n rushes . Run 1 w , burn , run can ye mind when we ere young ’ The honeysuckle hangs above , the pool is dark an brown ! Sing , burn , sing can ye mind the song ye sung The day we cut the rushes on the mountain

’ O M IRA O NEILL.

BOOK OF IRISH POETRY .

EILEEN AROON .

r the I s [Afte r i h . ]

i When , l ke the early rose , Eileen aroon ! in Beauty childhood blows , Eileen aroon

When , like a diadem , the Buds blush around stem , Which is the fairest gem ? Eileen aroon !

Is it the laughing eye , Eileen aroon i Is it the t mid sigh , Eileen aroon !

Is it the tender tone , ’ Soft as the stringed harp s moan ?

Oh ! it ig Truth alone . Eileen aroon !

h W en , like the rising day , Eileen aroon !

Love sends his early ray , Eileen aroon ! What makes his dawning glow Changeless through joy or woe ? Only the constant know Eileen aroon

I know a valley fair , Eileen aroon

I knew a cottage there , Eileen aroon Far in th at v alley shade

I knew a gentle maid ,

Flower of a hazel glade , Eileen aroon ! O IRISH LOVE P ETRY . 1 35

Who in t he song so sweet ? Eileen aroon ! Who in the dance so ﬂeet ? Eileen aroon ! D w e s ear er her charm to me , l e Dearer her aughter fre ,

Dearest her constancy , Eileen aroon !

she Were no longer true , Eileen aroon ! What should her lover do ? Eileen aroon ! Fly with his broken chai n ’ Far o er the sounding

Never to love again , Eileen aroon !

i d Youth must with t me ecay , Eileen aroon !

Beauty must fade away , Eileen aroon ! a Castles are s cked in war , s are a r Chieftain sc tte ed far ,

Truth is a ﬁxed star , Eileen ' aroon

GERALD GRIFFIN .

SONG .

Love is cruel , love is sweet , r l C ue , sweet ;

Lovers Sigh till lovers meet , Sigh and meet i and a i S gh meet , and sigh ga n Cruel sweet ! O sweetest pain ! 1 6 OK OF S O 3 BO IRI H P ETRY .

Love is blind , but love is sly , Blind and sly ;

Thoughts are bold , but words are shy , Bold and S hy n Bold and shy , and bold agai

n . Sweet is bold ess , shyness pain MACDONA H THOMAS G .

NOW .

- For me , my friend , no grave side vigil keep With tears that memory and remorse might ﬁll ;

Give me your tenderest laughter earth bound still , di e And when I you shall not want to weep . No epitaph for me with virtues deep Punctured in marble pitiless and chill time But when l y is over , if you will , tliat The songs soothe beloved babes to sleep . No lenten lilies on my breast and brow

Be laid when I am silent ; roses red ,

And golden roses bring me here instead , That if you love or bear me I may know ;

I may not know , nor care , when I am dead

Give me your songs , and ﬂowers , and laughter now .

ELEANOR ALEXANDER .

AMORIS AMOR FONS .

I love all men the better , O love for loving thee The dear ones whom I cherish are dearer still to me

Each stranger is my kinsman and ever for thy sake , ’ of Beloved at Love s bidding , new springs love

I love all things the better for loving thee the best My thoughts of thee make deeper the glories of the West My hopes of thee make fresher the fragrance of the Spring And when thy accents haunt me the birds more sweetly Sing

Heroes oli shi n thei r lowin wea ons p g g g p ,

B lowin tr um ets loudl marti al g p , y , A frost- foggy wi nd with whi stli ng da rts ﬂyi ng These a re the sou nds of musi c that delight at early morn

ANCIENT IRISH I I A OE T R SH W R P RY.

HEROI WAR P TR Y C OE .

’ CUCHULAIN S WOOING .

Great- limbed and swift and beautiful P ast any dream , he came to her , From Emain Macha through a land

For gladness of the Spring astir .

And on the ﬂutes of Morning blown , o s Strong J y that took for breath no pau e , e The song of Br eze and Stream and Bird , in The herald of his com g was .

Yea , and through all her April ways , ’ - To Erin s utmost sea girt rim ,

Through waking seed , and blade and leaf,

Green Nature laughed for joy of him .

hi s - h And where he held sun brig t course , - w Its Straight sped as arro on ﬂight , Men thronged as to a pageant wrought

By the high gods for their delight .

i And see ng , with a fairer faith

The Deathless Mighty Ones adored , Who thus unto their Ulster ’s need

Had shaped at once a shield and sword . ' 39 O OF O B OK IRISH P ETRY .

So through the singing land he passed ,

The peerless warden of her fame ,

So , Lord himself of Love and War , - Unto his fair faced love he came .

R R Cox . ELEANO .

’ LEACH S SUMMONS TO CUCHULAIN .

[From The S ick - bed of

’ U ltonia s Rise , champion of need , From sickness freed to strength awake All miss thee from King Conor ’s levy For him thy heavy slumber break

! - Behold his steel clad Shoulders glare , His trumpets blare for battle press

Behold his chariots sweep the glen ,

He marshals men as though for chess .

His Red Branch Knights , with spear on loop ,

His maiden troop , tall and serene , — His vassal kings a battle storm By each the form of his fair queen

Look forth ! the winter hath begun ;

Now one by one its marvels mark ,

Behold , for it beseems thee well ,

Its long , cold spell , its hueless dark .

This rest inglorious is not good Weak lassitude from wanton strife

Such long repose is drunkenness ,

Such Sleep no less than death in life .

This trance , as of a toping churl , With migh ardour hurl away ! n Forth , from y bed of impote ce , P Leap , Champion rince , to front the fray .

1 4 2 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY .

Sweeter song at dawning dewy , Lu a of Said Mac y , Sharp spear ,

When the bounding dogs are crying , ” And we race the ﬂying deer .

s is s This is Song , and thi Mu ic ,

Spoke our lofty leader old , ’ Blowing breeze mid moving banners ’ And an Army neath their gold .

assIon Then I fear no bardic p , . ! Ossian said our Captain strong , With my faithful Fiama round me

This to me is Harp and Song . S I GERSON GEORGE .

THE GIANT WALKER .

[This and the succeeding poem , The Washer of the l Ford , are not iteral versions , although they are the substance of original legends , and are given as specimens of the supernatural ﬁgures in Celtic romance . They ’ are from Sir Samuel Ferguson s epic poem of Congal . lachtna The Giant Walker , or the Bodach an chota , m the churl with the gray cloak , is a fa iliar ﬁgure in both s Highland and Iri h legend , and has also been made the

. o s subject of a p em by Jame Clarence Mangan , under the ” title of The Churl with the Gray Coat . The Washer of the Ford ” is paraphrased with considerable literalness ’ ” ” McCraith of from a passage in s Wars Turlough , the apparition appearing to the Clan Brian Roe

Ar ound the Mound of Sighs They ﬁlled the woody - sided vale ; but no sweet sleep their eyes

Refreshed that night , for all the night , around their

echoing camp , Was heard continuous from the hills a sound as of the tramp W AR O R 1 IRISH P ET Y . 43

Of giant footsteps but so thick the white mist lay around H saw . e None the Walker save the king , starting at the

sound , Called to his foot his ﬁerce red hound ; athwart his Shoulders cast

A Shaggy mantle , grasped his spear , and through the s moonlight pas ed , ’ - t a o Alone up dark Ben Boli s heigh s , tow rd which , ab ve

‘ the woods , With sound as when at close of eve the noise of falling ﬂoodS ' ’ Is borne to Shepherd s ear remote on stilly upland lawn , n The steps alo g the mountain side with hollow fall came on . ’ Fast beat the hero s heart and Close down - crouching by his knee z Trembled the hound , while through the ha e , huge as s s sea through mi t at , The week - long sleepless mariner descries some mountain

cape , c - a Wre k infamous , rise on his lee , ppeared a monstrous

Shape , ev Striding impatient , like a man much gri ed , who walks

alone , f his Considering of a cruel wrong . Down rom shoulders

thrown , ff r r A mantle , skirted sti with soil splashed f om the mi y

ground , At every stride against his calves struck with as loud

rebound ,

As makes the mainsail of a ship brought up along the blast , When with the coil of all its ropes it beats the sounding

mast .

So striding vast , the giant passed ; the king held fast

his breath , s his and Motionle s , save throbbing heart , and still chill as death 0 s i s e n Stood li ten ng while , a econd tim , the gia t took the round

Of all the camp but when at length , for the third time , the sound 1 OO OF O 44 B K IRISH P ETRY .

r n z Came up , and th ough the parti g ha e a third time huge

and dim , R ose out the Shape , the valiant hound sprang forth and

challenged him .

And forth , disdaining that a dog Should put him so to a sh me ,

Sprang Congal , and essayed to speak . ! P Dread shadow , stand roclaim i What wouldst thou , that thou thus all n ght around my camp shouldst keep of Thy troublous vigil , banishing the wholesome gift sleep s From all our eyes who , though inured to dreadful sound and sights

By land and sea , have never yet in all our perilous nights ” Lain in the ward of such a guard . The Shape made answer none ; t m of But wi h ste wafture his hand , went angrier striding

on , ! Shaking the earth with heavier steps . Then Conga on hi s track

Sprang fearless .

Answer me , thou Churl , he cried . I bid thee back ’ But while he spoke , the giant s cloak around his shoulders grew Like to a black bulged thunder- cloud and sudden out there ﬂew

From all its angry swelling folds , with uproar unconfined , ’ i t Direct against the k ng s pursuit , a migh y blast of wind - Loud flapped the mantle tempest lined , while fluttering

down the gale ,

As leaves in autumn , man and hound were swept into the

vale , ’ And , heard o er all the huge uproar , through startled Dalaray and a The giant went , with stamp clash , dep rting south

away . S IR L R S SAMUE FE GU ON .

1 6 O OF O 4 B OK IRISH P ETRY .

I am The Washer of the Ford , she answered , and my race Is of the Tuath de Danaan line of Magi and my place For toil is in the running streams of Erin and my cave For Sleep is in the middle of the shell - heaped Cairn of

Macv , High up on haunted Knocknarea and this ﬁne carnage heap me Before , and these silken vests and mantles which I steep

Thus in the running water , are the severed heads and hands - t s - And spear torn scarfs and unics of the e gay dressed , m lla t bands , ”

on . Whom t , O Congal , leadest to death And this , the

Fury said , Uplifting by the clotted locks What seemed a dead man ’s

head , 0 ! Is thine own head , Conga

Therewith she rose in air ,

And vanished from the warriors , leaving the river bare

Of all but running water . IR MU S SA EL FERGUS ON .

A DIRGE FOR KING NIALL OF THE NINE A D HOSTAGES ( . .

TU IRN SON OF O . , T RNA When we hosted forth afar ’ With Echu s son of valour , Yellow as the primrose star h s s I saw is tre se shine .

TORNA . For the fancy that compares

The crown of golden pallor , ’ s The primrose wears , with Niall s hair A bond - maid Should be thine W AR O 1 IRISH P ETRY . 47

TU IRN SON OF O , T RNA . Brows and lashes dusky soft Of equal arch and cluster Eyes as woad ﬂowers in a croft Or h acinthin e blue ; Then e carmine of his cheeks Unchanging in their lustre Not the fairy fox - glove streaks

May woods with such a hue .

O T RNA . h ’ Laughter rare , red lips t at ne er R n eproved with scornful blami g , Hero front in battle brunt Eclipsing all beside

A harvest moon , a ﬁery noon ,

A beacon ﬁercely ﬂaming , — A dragon ship he glowed and rode ’ On war s tumultuous tide .

T IRN OF O U . , SON T RNA

Keene on keene has Kerry poured , Above his tresses ﬂax en ; Till my grief heart - high is stored ’ M redach s For u s grand on great . now Erin , Alba shall dread The onset of the Saxon Now that Echu ’s son lies dead

Oh , black reproachful fate .

TORNA . Saxon hordes shall shouting come And sw arms of Lombard strange rs ; From the hour that Niall lay dumb P Are Gael and ict dismayed .

O E SON OF O . T I N , T RNA i ’ Ah , that st ll on Tara s tower ,

Bright star in darkest dangers , 1 48 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY

With tresses of the iris ﬂower , w He stood , our stal art aid

O T RNA .

Great delight , great peace it was , ff Dear son of my a ection , After thee for some high cause

In company to go .

TU IRN SON OF O , T RNA .

Hero of the shoulder white , Beneath whose strong protection Host on host we faced the ﬁght

But never ﬂed the foe .

R RR THE SONG OF THE SWO D OF CA OLL .

t A D 0 t Da lia m M A resse a ou . . o n a c ere e [ dd d b 9 9 , Chi f ar to K n arro ma c M u i re a n b a n B d i g C ll g , y unknown poet ]

’ - of Bright battle joy the Gael , War s great woof sharply

unthreading , C Chieftain on hieftain beheading , Sword of Carroll , all hail ! ’ Oft on a foeman s soil with Kings of Counsel forth raiding ,

Ever a Worthy One aiding , hast thou divided the

spoil .

n Still in a stro g white hand pursuing thy dread , red reap Ing Till night’s shadows were sweeping o ’er the Lagenian

Land . Many a man of might thy ravening radiance wielded ; Where was the shield but yielded pierced by its veno

mous bite .

I O OO OF R S B K IRISH POET Y .

From thee southward they ﬂed out of Boyne of the rough feats of valour Cno va When , at thy stroke catching pallor , g the Noble

dropped dead . ’

Furious too was thy force , as the bolt from a black cloud s

rattle , Ailill When , in the front of the battle , of Fal fell a

’

COI S C.

Never an hour of defeat hadst thou with the fair- meadowed Carroll

Just was he ever in quarrel , faithful in every feat . s Gladly danced by each day , thy gleesome night were unreckoned - Monarchs at sun dawn beckoned thee into combat away .

’ Whom henceforth shalt thou curse or to Victory s goal be starting ’ s With whom , ince Carroll s departing he bedded for better or worse a Weapon of Hero on Hero , fe r not thou shalt ever lie

rusted , Still for a champion trusted forth on his foes thou shalt

spring .

Proudest Prize of the Gael Shall glorious Naas repute

thee ,

Finn of the Feasts shall salute thee Sword of Carroll , all hail

I ’ KING AIL LL S DEATH .

Le nster From the B ook o . [ . f i ] I know who won the peace of God Ailill The old King of the Bann , Who fought beyond the Irish sea All day against a Connaught clan IRISH W AR POETRY 1 5 1

The King was routed . In the ﬂight

He muttered to his charioteer , a the Look b ck slaughter , is it red S e The layers , are they drawing n ar P

- The man looked back . The west wind blew ’ clansmen s Dead hair against his face . - He heard the war shout of his foes , - of hi s The death cry ruined race .

es a a The fo c me d rting from the height , - s Like pine trees down a wollen fall ,

Like heaps of hay in ﬂood , his clan n —he Swept on or sa k saw it all .

And spake , The slaughter is full red , ” And we may still be saved by ﬂight .

Then groaned the King , No sin of theirs

- Falls on my people here to night .

Sin No sin of theirs , but of mine , I For was worst of evil kings ,

Unrighteous , wrathful , hurling down

To death or shame all weaker things .

Draw rein , and turn the chariot round ,

My face against the foemen bend , I When am seen and slain , mayhap

The slaughter of my tribe will end .

d . They drew and turne . Down came the foe l The King fe l cloven on the sod .

The slaughter then was stayed , and so l l God King Ai i l won the peace of .

OK WHITLEY ST ES . 1 2 O OF O 5 B OK IRISH P ETRY .

R R’ EBEL MOTHE S LULLABY .

s s w Ah , re t to the morrow , for many the orro That waking will brew ;

Gone is thy brother , Long must I rue Hark not thy mother

Rocking thee to , Lennav an Rocking thee fro , mo , Ireland ’s own woe

Never must keep children from sleep , Lennavan mo

The clouds are fast creeping , and Mary weeping Her tears down the Sky Grey is the evening When Irishmen die the Hark not keening , R est thee and lie , Lennav an Lennavan mo , mo ,

Far be the foe , is i Ours is the strife , yours dear l fe , Lennavan mo

Earl Garratt is hiding , Lord Edward And fast is his rein ; The horses are stamping Over the plain ;

Hark not the tramping ,

Turn thee again , Lennavan Lennav an mo , mo ,

Nestle down low ,

Others may ride , you must abide , Lennavan mo l

SHANE LESLIE .

1 5 4 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY — It is my bitter grief it cuts me to the heart That in the country of Clan Darry this should be hi s fate l e s O , woe to me , wher is he Wandering , housele s ,

desolate , or Alone , without or guide chart l

Medreams I see just now his face , the strawberry

bright , the Uplifted to the blackened heavens , while tempestuous winds ' i l Blow ﬁercely over and round him , and the smit ng s eet shower blinds The hero of Galang to - night !

aﬂdiction Large , large unto me and mine it is ,

That one of his majestic bearing , his fair , stately form , ’ — Should thus be tortured and o erborn e that this un sparing storm Should wreak its wrath on head like his l

That his great hand , so oft the avenger of the

oppressed , l Should this chi l churlish night , perchance , be paralysed by frost — Whi le through some icicle - hung thicket a s 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 - o The lawns and pasture grounds lie l cked 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 cotta gers dwellings far and wide and l Water and are blent in one . W AR O 1 IRISH P ETRY . 5 5

’ s Through some dark wood , mid bones of mon ters , Hu h now strays , As conﬂonts s he the storm with angui hed heart , but manly brow 0 - n a , What a sword wou d to that tender he rt of his were now A backward glance at peaceful days 1 — But other thoughts are his thoughts tha t can still inspire With joy and onward - bounding hope the bosom of MacN ee Thoughts of hi s warriors charging like bright billows of

the sea , ’ s a I Borne on the Wind s wing , ﬂ shing ﬁre

And though frost glaze to - night the clear dew of his

eyes , - s And white ice gauntlets glove his noble , ﬁne , fair ﬁnger ’ o er ,

- A warm dress is to him that lightning garb he ever wore ,

The lightning of the soul , not skies .

AVRAN . — Hugh marched forth to the ﬁght I grieved to see him so depart 10 - - And to night he wanders frozen , rain drenched , sad , betrayed But the memory of the lime - white mansio ns hi s right hand hath laid ’ In ashes , warms the hero s heart

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN . O OF B OK IRISH POETRY .

FOR A LAMENT THE RED EARL .

Guadal uiver His grave is lone by q ,

And low is his young heart laid , Where the niet waves of The Yellow River Sleep in t e linden shade ; But hard and cold Lies foreign mould

Beneath that royal head .

Oh , had he fallen in the ringing battle ’ Out by Dungannon s side ,

Where the Norman rout , like driven cattle , Choked Avon ’s swirling tide : Then should my grief Find proud relief

When I sang how the Red Earl died .

But I am come to this pale river ,

Weeping , from far away ,

Where my dear Avon rolls for ever , P ure as the dewy ray , When soft and bright The summer night

Kisses the lingering day .

Oh , lovingly that light is lying ’ Dunluce s On grey hold ,

Where the breath of night comes shoreward sighing , Low sighing as of old ;

And , soft as sleep , The shadows creep

Far up the Spears of Gold .

But I must watch by this pale river , Weary and lone and grey

1 8 O 5 B OK OF IRISH POETRY .

’ O Farrell P and Clanricarde , reston and Red Hugh , MacM ahon— Audley and ye valiant , wise and true But—w hat are ye all to our darling who is gone ? ’ was our ( h stle s er The Rudder of our Ship he , corn

stone .

! Wail , wail him through the Island Weep , weep for our pride Would that on the battle- ﬁeld our gallant chief had died Beinn — him Weep the Victor of Burb Weep , young and old — f I Weep for him , ye women your beauti ul lies cold — We thought you would not die w e wer e sure you would

not go , And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell ’s cruel blow

Sheep without a shepherd , when the snow shuts out the sky Eo han P O Why did you leave us , g . Why did you die

’ ’ O N eill ! Soft as woman s was your voice , bright was

your eye , 0 Eo han l why did you leave us , g Why did you die P ’ O Your troubles are all ver , you re at rest with God on

high , ’ ’ s Eo han — But we re Slave , and we re orphans , g why did you die O S TH MA DAVIS . WAR O 1 IRISH P ETRY . 5 9

ACOB I TE AN D AN TI - ACOB I TE LA YS J j .

THE MAIDEN CITY .

[In 1 686 Richard Talbot was sent to Ireland by James the the II . to command army with title of Earl of Tyr connell , and a year later he was made Viceroy . He was i a Catholic , it bein the pol c of James to restore to the n 0 h T r onnell Catholics ma y their rig ts . y c wished to introduce some Catholics into the corporations of the large cities . Derry absolutely refused to admit them , t 200 f and when Lord An rim was sent with I , men to en orce the rentices order , the of Derry closed the gates in their f faces . When t e deposed King James , a ter landing in 1 68 Ireland in 9, marched to Derry , he was treated in the wa same y by the sturdy sons of the city . ]

Where Foyle his Swelling waters rolls northward to the

’ Here , Queen of Erin s daughters , fair Derry ﬁxed her

reign . w A holy temple cro ned her , and commerce graced her

street , was n A rampart wall rou d her , the river at her feet

And here she sat alone , boys , and looking from the hill ’ Vow d be The Maiden on her throne , boys , would a n maide still .

From Antrim crossing over in famous eighty - eight A plumed and belted lover came to the Ferry ate ’ — She summon d to defend her our sires a beard ess race ’ Who shouted NO SURRENDER and slamm d it in 4 his face . ’ n in The a quiet tone , boys , they told him twas their will s That The Maiden on her throne , boys , hould be a

maiden still . 1 60 O OF O BO K IRISH P ETRY .

u Next , cr shing all before him , a kingly wooer came ’ (The royal banner o er him , blushed crimson deep for shame) ’ ’ P m dream d He showed the ope s com ission , nor to be

refused . ’ hi s be d She pitied condition , but gg to stand excused .

In short , the fact is known , boys , she chased him from the

hill , r For The Maiden on her th one , boys , would be a maiden

still .

. ’ n On our brave sires desce ding , twas then the tempest

broke , ’ Their peaceful dwellings rending , mid blood and ﬂame

and smoke . That hallow ’d graveyard yonder swells with the slaugh ’ ter d dead ! ! Oh brothers pause and ponder , it was for us they bled f - And while their gi t we own , boys the fane that tops our

hill , on Oh , The Maiden her throne , boys , shall be a maiden

still .

ff Nor wily tongue shall move us , nor tyrant arm a right , We ’ll look to One above us Who ne ’er forsook the right Who will , may crouch and tender the birthright of the

free , R R But , brothers , NO SUR ENDE , no compromise for me n the We wa t no barrier stone , boys , no gates to ard hill ,

Yet The Maiden on her throne , boys , shal be a maiden

still . O CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH T NNA .

1 6 2 OO OF O B K IRISH P ETRY .

Then stoutly we Boyne river crossed To give the Irish battle Our cannon to his dreadful cost Like thunder - claps did rattle P ’ In majestic mien our rince rode o er , The stream ran red with slaughter AS with blow and shout w e put to rout

Our enemies over the water . O AN N .

A BALLAD OF SARSFIELD ;

OR THE OF , BURSTING THE GUNS .

’ [This intercepting of De Gink le s siege tr ain on its way to Limerick is one of the most famous episodes in the P S arsﬁ ld career of the gallant atrick e . ]

S arsﬁeld rode out , the Dutch to rout, And to take and break their cannon

‘ - To Mass went he at half past three ,

And at four he crossed the Shannon .

l Tyrconne slept . In dream his thoughts Old ﬁelds of victory ran on ’ And the Chieftains of Thomond in Limerick s towers the Slept well by the banks of Shannon .

He rode ten miles and he crossed the ford ’ And cou ch d in the wood and waited ’ march d Till , left and right on in sight men That host which the true hated .

Charge S arsﬁeld cried and the green hillside As they charged replied in thunder ’ ’ They rode o er the plain , and they rode o er the

Sla_ n , And the rebel rout lay under I IRISH WAR POETRY 1 63

’ He burn d the gear the knaves held dear

For his King he fought , not plunder ’ ’ w cramm d ramm d With po der they the guns , and Their mouths the red soil under

’ — ’ The spark ﬂash d out like a nation s shout The sound into heaven ascended

The hosts of the sky made to earth reply , And the thunders twain were blended

S arsﬁeld rode out the Dutch to rout , And to take and break their cannon ; ’ S arsﬁeld s A century after , laughter

Was echoed from Dungannon . AUBREY DE VERE

A BALLAD OF ATHLONE (2N D SIBOE)

OR How T OW , HEY BROKE D N THE BRIDGE .

[When the Jacobite war was renewed De Ginkle besieged

i . . Athlone , wh ch was held by St Ruth The gallant action described in the poem only delayed the taking of the town a short while ]

Does any man dream that a Gael can fear ? Of a thousand deeds let him learn but one !

The Shannon swept onward broad and clear , h Between the leaguers and broad At lone . — Break down the bridge ! Six warriors rushed Through the storm of shot and the storm of shell

With late but certain victory ﬂushed ,

The grim Dutch gunners eyed them well .

’ ’ They w rench d at the planks mid a hail of ﬁre

They fell in death , their work half done The bridge stood fast ; and nigh and nigher n The foe swarmed darkly , de sely on . 1 6 OO 4 B K OF IRISH POETRY .

O , who for Erin will strike a stroke Who hurl yon planks where the waters roar ? w Six arriors forth from their comrades broke ,

And ﬂung them upon that bridge once more .

Again at the rocking planks they dashed ; And four dropped dead ; and t wo remained The huge beams groaned and the arch down - crashed

Two stalwart swimmers the margin gained .

e St . Ruth in his stirrups stood up , and cri d , I have seen no deed like that in France ! S arsﬁeld With a toss of his head , replied , ’ n They had luck , the dogs Twas a merry cha ce

O many a year upon Shannon ’s side They sang upon moor and they sang upon heath

Of the twain that breasted that raging tide , And the ten that Shook bloody hands with Death R DE AUB EY VERE .

AFTER THE BATTLE (OF AUGHRIM) .

R t hr in [Athlone fell . St . u h retreated to Aug im (

1 2 . Galway) , Where on July , a decisive battle was fought

St . Ruth was slain and the Irish utterly defeated . No t quarter was given by the English , so that the bat le ended

in wholesale and horrible slaughter . ]

’ Night closed around the conqueror s way , s And lightnings howed the distant hill , Where those who lost that dreadful day Stood few and faint but fearless still ! ’ ’ z The soldier s hope , the patriot s eal ,

For ever dimmed , for ever crossed ! f Oh who shall say what heroes eel , f ’ When all but li e and honour 8 lost .

1 66 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY .

’ I ll journe to the North , over mount , moor , and wave ; ’ Twas t ere I ﬁrst beheld , drawn up in ﬁle and line , The brilliant Irish hosts—they were bravest of the brave c ! But , alas they scorned to ombine Och ! ochone !

On the bridge of the Boyne was ou r ﬁrst overthrow

By Slaney , the next , for we battled without rest oe The third was at Aughrim . O Eire ! thy w Is a sword in my bleeding breast ! Och ! ochone !

Oh , the roof above our heads it was barbarously ﬁred , While the black Orange guns blazed and bellowed around ed And as volley followed volley , Colonel Mitchel inquir

Whether Lucan still stood his ground . Och ! ochone !

’ But O K elly still remains to defy and to toil ; ’ He has memories that Hell won t permit him to forget , And the sword that will make the blue blood ﬂow like oil Upon many an Aughrim yet ! Och ochone

And I never shall believe that my fatherland can fall ,

With the Burkes , and the Dukes , and the son of Royal James S arsﬁeld And Talbot the Captain , and above all , m The beloved of da sels and dames . Och ! ochone !

C JAMES CLAREN E MANGAN . I W AR O 1 6 IR SH P ETRY . 7

T 1 FON ENOY 745 .

— tt n ht I Be/ore the Ba le ig .

Oh , bad the march , the weary march , beneath these alien

skies , a t But good the night , the friendly night , th t soo hes our

tired eyes . t And bad the war , the edious war , that keeps us sweltering

here , s But good the hour , the friendly hour , that bring the

battle near . n That brings us on the battle , that summo s to their share

The homeless troops , the banished men , the exiled sons

of Clare .

e Bascinn the ! Oh , little Cor a , the wild , bleak , the fair l Oh , ittle stony pastures , whose ﬂowers are sweet , if rare

Oh , rough the rude Atlantic , the thunderous , the wide , Whose kiss is like a soldier ’s kiss which w ill not be denied

The whole night long we dream of you , and waking ’ think we re there , and i i we Vain dream , fool sh wak ng , never shall see Clare .

’ - air The wind is wild to night , there s battle in the

The wind is from the west , and it seems to blow from

Clare . i Have you noth ng , nothing for us , loud brawler of the night w - r No ne s to warm our heart st ings , to speed us through the ﬁght ’ s - n s In thi hollow , star pricked dark ess , as in the un s

hot glare , - In - In sun tide , star tide , we thirst , we starve for Clare

Hark ! yonder through the darkness one distant rat tat - tat ! out The old foe stirs there , God bless his soul for that l 1 68 O OF B OK IRISH POETRY .

’ on The old foe musters strongly , he s coming at last , ’ And Clare 3 Brigade may claim its own wherever blows

fall fast .

Send us , ye western breezes , our full , our rightful Share , h the s For Fait , and Fame , and Honour , and ruined hearth

of Clare . W EMILY LA LESS .

1 FONTENOY . 745 .

- I I A ter the att e ea r a wn a re coa st. f B l ly d , Cl ! Mary Mother , shield us Say , what men are ye Sweeping past so swiftly on this morning sea ? Without sails or rowlocks merrily we glide Home to Corca Bascinn on the brimming tide

entr Jesus save you , y why are you so white strai g In P Sitting all so g t and still this misty light .

Nothing ails us , brother joyous souls are we ,

Sailing home together , on the morning sea .

k Cousins , friends , and insfolk , children of the land ,

Here we come together , a merry , rousing band

Sailing home together from the last great ﬁght ,

Home to Clare from Fontenoy , in the morning light .

’ of e Bascinn of Men Cor a , men Clare s Brigade ,

Harken stony hills of Clare , hear the charge we made ;

See us come together , singing from the ﬁght , to Bascinn Home Corca , in the morning light .

EMILY LAWLESS

1 0 7 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY .

’ But , see we ll soon have work to do , s m s m To ha e our boast or prove the true , For hither comes the English crew ’ D To sweep away Lord Clare s ragoons . ’ Vive la ! for Ireland s wrong ! Vive la ! for Ireland ’s right ! ! Vive la in battled throng , For a Spanish steed and sabre bright !

Oh , comrades , think how Ireland pines r Her exiled lords , her rifled sh ines Her dearest hope the ordered lines ’ And bursting charge of Clare s Dragoons ! i Then fl ng your green flag to the sky ,

- Be Limerick your battle cry ,

- And charge , till blood ﬂoats fetlock high Around the track of Clare ’s Dragoons ! Vive la ! the New Brigade ! Vive la ! the old one too

Vive la the rose shall fade , And the shamrock shi ne for ever new

O TH MAS DAVIS .

CREMONA .

n th e a [The Fre ch army , including a part of Irish Brig de , a i under Marsh l Villeroy , held the fort ﬁed town of Cremona 0 P e Im 1 2 . t during the winter of 7 rince Eug ne , wi h the a d perial Army , surprised it one morning , n owing to the Clt treachery of a priest , occupied the whole y before the

V-illero alarm was given . y was captured , together with s many of the French garri on . The Irish , however , con i sisting of the reg ments of Dillon and Burke , held a fort commanding the river gate , and defended themselves all P e ’ f day , in spite of rince Eug ne s ef orts to win them over e to his cause . Eventually Eug ne , being unable to take ithdraw rom the post , was compelled to w f the city .] I IS W AR O 1 R H P ETRY . 7

The Grenadiers of Austria are proper men and tall ; The Grenadiers of Austri a have sealed the city wall ; They have marched from far away

Ere the dawning of the day ,

And the morning saw them masters of Cremona .

’ ’ There s not a man to whisper , there s not a horse to neigh f Du rés Of the ootmen of Lorraine and the riders of p , e They have crept up every stre t ,

- In the market place they meet , a They are holding every vant ge in Cremona .

The Marshal Villeroy he has started from his bed ; The Marshal Villeroy has no wig upon his head ;

I have lost my men uoth he , h And my men t ey have ost me , I And . sorely fear we both have lost Cremona .

Prince Eugene of Austria is in the market- place Prince Eugene of Austria has smiles upon his face ;

Says he , Our work is done ,

For the Citadel is won , ’ And the black and yellow ﬂag ﬂies o er Cremona .

’ O Mahon Major Dan y is in the barrack s uare , And just six hundred Irish lads are waiting or him there

Says he , Come in your shirt , ’ And you won t take any hurt ,

For the morning air is pleasant in Cremona .

’ O Mahon Major Dan y is at the barrack gate , i a And just, six hundred Ir sh lads will neither st y nor wait ’ ’

There s Dillon and there s Burke , ’ m And there ll be so e bloody work , K aiser lics s Ere the hall boast they hold Cremona .

’ O Mahon Major Dan y has reached the river fort , And just six hundred Irish lads are joinin g in the sport m Co e take a hand says he , s And if you will tand by me , ’ Then it s glory to the man who takes Cremona ! 1 2 O OF O 7 BO K IRISH P ETRY .

P Eu éne i u on rince g of Austr a has frowns his face , ( 1 loud he calls hi s Galloper of Irish bpood and race MacDonnell , ride , I pray , couritr men To your y , and say n That only they are left I all Cremona .

MacDonnell he has reined his mare beside the river ( 1 yke , ’ And he has tied the parley ﬂag upon a sergeant s pike ; Six companies were there i From L merick and Clare , of The last all the guardians of Cremona .

’ 0 iv e t e Now , Major Dan Mahony up h river gate , ’ 0 (ydg1 Or , Major Dan Mahony , ﬁnd it is too late For when I gallop back y ’ Tis the signal for attack , And no quarter for the Irish in Cremona

if And Major Dan he laughed Faith , what you say

be true , And if they will not come until they hear again from

you ,

Then there will be no attack , ’ For ou re never going back , y’ W e 11 e n And k ep you snug and safely in Cremo a .

All the weary day the German stormers came , r All the wea y dal they were faced by fire and flame , They have fil ed the ditch with dead , And the river ’s running red in of n But they cannot w the gateway Cremo a .

All the weary day , again , again , again , e m n of The horsemen of Dupr s and the foot e Lorraine , Taafe and Herberstein , And the riders of the Rhine ’ ’ It s a mighty price they re paying for Cremona .

1 O OF O T 74 BO K IRISH P E RY .

’ O Mahon e Why , then , says Dan y , one favour w

entreat , ’ e r We were call d a little ea ly , and our toilet s not complete . ’ We ve no quarrel with the Shirt , ’ But the breeches wouldn t hurt ,

For the evening air is chilly in Cremona .

S IR . O O A C NAN D YLE .

THE IRISH COLONEL Said the King to the Colonel :

The complaints are eternal , That you Irish give more trouble ’ Than any other corps .

Said the Colonel to the King

This complaint is no new thing ,

For your foemen , Sire , have made it

A hundred times before . S IR O O A . C NAN D YLE .

LA TER I RI S H WAR P OE TR Y .

! R OH THE SIGHT ENT ANCING . ! Oh the sight entrancing , When morning ’s beam is glancing O ’er ﬁles array ’d

With helm and blade , And plumes in the gay wind dancing n When hearts are all high beati g , And the trumpet ’s voice repeating That song w hose breath

May lead to death , But never to retreating ! W AR O IRISH P ETRY .

Then , if a cloud comes over w Of The bro sire or lover , Think ’tis the shade

By victory made , ’ Whose wings right o er us hover . ! Oh the sight entrancing , When the morning beam is glancing ’ ’ O er ﬁles array d l and With he m blade , And plumes in the gay wind dancing

a s not a Yet , helm nor fe ther

For ask yon despot , whether His plumed bands Could bring such hands

And hearts as ours together . ’ Leave pomps to those who need em Give man but heart and freedom And proud he braves The gaudi est slaves ’ That crawl where monarchs lead em .

The sword may pierce the beaver ,

Stone walls in time may sever , ’ Tis mind alone ,

Worth steel and stone ,

That keeps men free for ever . ! Oh that sight entrancing , When the morning ’s beam is glancing ’ ’ O er ﬁles array d With helm and blade ’ And in freedom s cause advancmg l

O OO TH MAS M RE . 1 6 OO OF O 7 B K IRISH P ETRY .

R SIR THE BU IAL OF JOHN MOORE .

Not a drum was heard , not a funeral note , As his corse to the rampart we hurried Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot ’ we O er the grave where our hero buried .

We buried him darkly at dead of night ,

The sods with our bayonets turning , i ’ By the struggl ng moonbeam s misty light ,

And the lantern dimly burning .

coﬂi n No useless enclosed his breast , Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him k his But he lay li e a warrior taking rest ,

With his martial cloak around him .

Few and short were the prayers we said , And we spoke not a word of sorrow

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead , An d we bitterly thought of the morrow .

’ hollow d We thought as we his narrow bed , ’ smooth d And down his lonely pillow , That the foe and the stranger would tread o ’er his

head , And we far away on the billow

’ ’ Lightly they ll talk of the spirit that s gone , ’ his And o er cold ashes upbraid him , ’ reek if But little he ll , they let him sleep on has him In the grave where a Briton laid .

But half of our heavy task was done , When the clock struck the hour for retiring And we heard the distant and random gun f as ﬁ n That the oe w sullenly ri g.

1 8 OO OF 7 B K IRISH POETRY .

THE SWORD . What rights the brave ? The sword l What frees the Slave ? The sword ! What cleaves in twain ’ The despot s chain , And makes his gyves and dungeon vain P The sword

O CH RUS .

Then cease thy proud task never , While rests a link to sever l

Guard of the free , ’l We l cherish thee , And keep thee bright for ever !

What checks the knave P The sword What smites to save P The sword What wreaks the wrong n Unpu ished long , stron P At last , upon the guilty g The sword ! O CH RUS . as Then cease thy proud t k never , etc .

What shelters right ? The sword What makes it might P The sword What strikes the crown

Of tyrants down , And answers with its ﬂash their frown P The sword ! O CH RUS .

Then cease thy proud task never , etc . W AR O 1 IRISH P ETRY . 79

Still be thou true , Good sw ord ’ We ll die or do , Good sword ! t Leap for h to light ,

If tyrants smite ,

And trust our arms to wield thee right , Good sword

O CH RUS .

Yes cease thy proud task never , While rests a link to sever

Guard of the free , ' We ll cherish thee , And keep thee bright for ever ! C MI HAEL JOSEPH BARRY .

A SOLDIER’S WAKE And this is all she has to lay - ni To ht upon the snowy sheets ,

Before t e friends who come the way , And sighing take their humble seats

This medal , bravely , dearly won ,

Poor token of her gallant son .

s But over this , as nought be ide Of him she loved to her remains ,

The lights are lit , the keen is cried , t And women croon heir saddest strains , k While men who new his boyhood well ,

Say , foes went down before he fell .

These Clasps and medal ; only these ! For this she nursed and loved him long e She rocked him softly on her kne s ,

And ﬁlled his ears with pleasant song . ’ And saw him with a mother s pride , t Grow up and streng hen by her side . 1 8 0 OO OF O B K IRISH P ETRY .

Till bright with manhood ’s glowing charms

He in his turn her nurse became ,

He clasped her in his manly arms , And fondly propped her drooping frame .

Her step grew weak , her eye grew dim ,

But then she lived and moved in him .

He went ; he joined the deadly ﬁght , His true heart loved her not the less But these are all she has to - night To light and cheer her loneliness

These silver honours , dearly won , P oor tokens of her gallant son .

- But even these , to morrow morn

When lights burn out and friends depart ,

Shall round her withered neck be worn , Shall lie upon her weary heart ’ his c Till death—, for lear memory s sake , And then shall deck another wake .

TIMOTHY DANIEL SULLIVAN .

A SONG OF DEFEAT .

N—ot for the lucky warriors , The winner at Waterloo , Or him of a newer name Whom loud - voiced triumphs acclaim Victor against the few

Not for these , O Eire , I build in my heart to - day The lay of your sons and you

to - I call your mind to day , s Out of the mist of the past ,

Many a hull and many a mast , Black in the bight of the bay

1 8 2 OO OF B K IRISH POETRY .

And his body cold in Rome . I call to your mind Benburb An d l s l the stubborn U ster tee , And the triumph of Owen Roe ; m Clon el , and the glorious stand ’ Of the younger Hugh O N eill — And Owen dead at Derry ,

An d Cromwell loosed on the land .

S arsﬁeld I call to your mind brave , m And the battle in Li erick street , m s e w The ine and the hatt red all , the And battered breach held good , An d t — William full in re reat And , at the end of all , Wild geese rising on clamorous wing

T0 follow the ﬂight of an alien King . An d - the hard won treaty _ broke ,

And the elder faith oppressed , And the blood—but not for Ireland ’ rsﬁ ld a Red upon S a e s bre st . the Ended , the roll of great m s And fa ou leaders of armies , The Shining lamps of the Gael Who wrestled a while with fate And broke the battle of foeman Ere the end left widowed Eire

Lone with her desolate wail .

Lone , yet forsaken Out of no far dim past Call I the names of the last s ff Who trove and su ered for Eire .

Saddest and nearest of all ,

See how they ﬂock to the call , The troop of famous felons sw Who won no joy of the ord , Who tasted of no rew ard w But the faint , ﬂushed da n of a wan , S W AR O 1 8 IRI H P ETRY . 3

And over whose lives there dangled

Ever the shame of the rope . I call to your mind Lord Edward Tone with his mangled throat ; Emmet high on the gallows ’ O Brien , Mitchel , and Meagher

Aye , and of newer note

Names that Eire will not forget , ' T - oﬂ s hough some have faded in far land , ’ And some have passed by the hangman s hands , d — An some are breathing yet .

Not for these , O Eire ,

Not for these , or thee , P ipers , trumpeters , blaring loud , c The throbbing drums and the olours ﬂying , - ffl And the long drawn mu ed roar of the crowd , The voice of a human sea Theirs it is to inherit ﬁ Fame of a ner grace , In the self- renewing spirit And the untameable heart

Ever defeated , yet undefeated , Of thy remembering race : i For the r names are treasured apart ,

And their memories green and sweet , h - On every ill Side and every mart ,

In every cabin , in every street , w a Of a land here to f il is more than to triumph ,

And Victory less than defeat .

STEPHEN GWYNN . THERE I R Y Y S A G E E E .

There i s a grey eye that tea rs a re throngi ng ’ Fi x ed wi th lon i n on E i re s shore g g .

’ I t shall never see o er the wa ste of waters

The sons a nd da u hters o Ei re more g f .

’ I ts la nce oes orth o er the bri ne wave- broken g g f , , Away from the ﬁrm- set oaken sea t M any the tea rs from that grey eye strea mi ng

t ea o e to The fai n fa r gl mi ng f Ei r meet.

For i ndeed my soul 28 set up on E ri n

A nd all o s therei n rom Li nnhe to Le j y f ne,

On each a i r ros ect o roud Ultoni a f p p f p ,

Mi M o on a and M eath the Gr ld m i ee . , n

COLUMKILLE SAINT .

1 86 O OF O B OK IRISH P ETRY .

! Adieu to her harvests , for ever increasing ! And her hills of assemblies , all wisdom possessing ' And her people -oh where is there braver or better P e o to e e ! Th n g The Island of Saints , my dear l tt r

And bring her my blessing , And bring her my blessing !

R DA K ROSALEEN .

O my dark Rosaleen , ! Do not Sigh , do not weep n The priests are on the ocean gree ,

They march along the deep . ’ P There s wine from the royal ope , Upon the ocean green ;

And Spanish ale shall give you hope , My dark Rosaleen ! M r own Rosaleen ! Shalf lad g your heart , shall give you hope ,

Shall give you health and help , and hope ,

My dark Rosaleen .

Over hills , and through dales , Have I roamed for your sake ; All yesterday I sailed with sails ' On river and on lake . s The Erne , at its highe t ﬂood ,

I dashed across unseen ,

For there was lightning in my blood , My dark Rosaleen ! My own Rosaleen ! ! e n Oh th re was lightni g in my blood , d h Re lightning li tened through my blood , My dark Roszﬁeen ! IO O 1 8 IRISH NAT NAL P ETRY . 7

e All day long in unr st , To do and fro I move , The very soul within my breast e ! Is wast d for you , love The heart In my bosom faints

To think of you , my Queen , In My life of life , 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 Woe and pain , pain and ,

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 ; 11 Tis you shall rei , shall reign alone , My dark RosaIeen ! My own Rosaleen ’ the Tis you Shall have golden throne , ’ Tis you shall reign , shall reign alone , My dark Rosaleen !

Over dews , over sands , Will I ﬂy for your weal w Your holy , delicate hite hands

Shall girdle me with steel . I n At home your emerald bowers , ’ ’ s en From morning dawn till e , ’ me You ll pray for , my flower of flowers , My dark Rosaleen ! My fond Rosaleen ! ’ ’ You ll think of me through daylight s hours , w s My virgin flo er , my flower of flower , My dark Rosaleen ! 1 8 8 S P BOOK OF IRI H OETRY .

I could scale the blue air , h I could plough the igh hills , k In Oh , I could neel all night 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 n Would give me life and soul a ew ,

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 , l And ﬂames wrap hi l and wood , u n- And g peal , and slogan cry VValI 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 ! C JAMES CLAREN E MANGAN .

R R ’ R DI GE OF RO Y O MO E . A D [ . .

’ sea- s Up the addened valley at evening s decline , ” A heifer walks lowing the Silk of the Kine 1

From the deep to the mountains she roams , and again ’ From the mountain s green urn to the purple - rimmed m aIn .

1 One of th e my sti cal n ames of I rel an d .

1 0 O OF 9 BO K IRISH POETRY .

’ A BARD S LAMENT OVER HIS CHILDREN .

t h [From the ea rly 1 8 h Century I r is . ] O river of great kings and sons of kings ! O river of swift bark and silver ﬁsh O O Boyne nce famed for battle frays and sports , And heroes of the regal race of Conn ! Art thou grey - grown for all thy comeliness ? O aged woman of the grey - green pools l O sorrowed Boyne ! O stream of many tears !

Where gone the golden glory of thy sires ? Meltain The fame of mighty Art , and wise Ar Meltain Art of the rows , of the spears , ’ Sons of the hero - house of the O N eill ? h To t ee , of yore , belonged red victory ,

When ﬁres of Fenian wrath were kindled well , - d And blood smeared bridles clanked on foaming stee s , e As leagu d legions swept to venging war .

0 river of great kings and sons of kings ! O river of swift bark and silver ﬁsh I lay my blessings on thee with my tears ’ For thou wilt watch forever o er the grave

Wherein my treasures sleep , close by thy side ; 0 agéd woman of the grey - green pools ! O sorrowed Boyne ! O stream of many tears !

There lie my sons in all their lusty strength , There lies my girl in all her budding charms

Rory and Brian with their sister , Rose .

These have I given sore against my will , 0 ! deep , dark grave to thee They were myself,

f . My li e , my love , my heart , my blood , my bone the The blessing of all men were on three , t The blessing of the folk hat loved them well ,

From Holy Kells to ancient Drogheda . May Peace be on the grave wherein they lie O O 1 1 IRISH NATI NAL P ETRY . 9

e i B side the waters , royal stream of k ngs i ’N ill Here in the spread ng lands of the O e .

O river of great kings and sons of kings ! O river of swift bark and silver ﬁsh ! 0 agéd woman of the grey - green pools !

I lay my blessings on thee with my tears . PADRIC R G EGORY .

R THE LITTLE BLACK OSE .

The Little Black Rose shall be red at last ;

- What made it black but the March wind dry , And the tear of the Widow tha t fell on it fast P

It shall redden the hills when June is nigh .

The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last ; What drove her forth but the dragon - ﬂy P

In the Golden Vale she shall feed full fast , n With her mild gold hor , and her slow dark eye .

The wounded Wood - dove lies dead at last ; The pine long bleeding it Shall not die ear Their song is secret . Mine it passed ’ In a wind o er the plains of Athenry . DE AUBREY VERE .

THE WIND THAT SHAKES THE BARLEY . hi I sat wit n the valley green ,

I sat me with my true love . My sad heart strove the two between l The O d love and the new love .

The old for her , the new that made Me think on Ireland dearly ; While soft the wind blew down the glade th o And shook e g lden barley . 1 2 O OF O 9 B OK IRISH P ETRY .

’ s Twas hard the woeful word to frame , To break the ties that bound us ’Twas harder still to bear the shame

Of foreign chains around us .

And so I said , The mountain glen ’ I ll seek at morning early ,

And join the brave United men ,

While soft winds shook the barley .

While sad I kissed away her tears , i My fond arms around her ﬂ nging , ’ 3 The foemen shot burst on our ears , From out the wild wood ringing ’ The bullet pierced my true love s side , ’ In life s young spring so early , In And on my breast blood she died , o When soft winds sh ok the barley .

But blood for blood without remorse ’ ’ I ve ta en at Oulart Hollow ; ’ ’ I v e placed my true love s clay -c old corse Where I full soon shall follow

And round her grave I wander drear ,

Noon , night , and morning early , With breaking heart whene ’er I hear The wind that Shakes the barley R C OBERT DWYER JOY E .

THE IRISHMAN .

The savage loves his native shore , Though rude the soil and chill the air ’ Then well may Erin s sons adore

Their isle , which Nature formed so fair . What ﬂood reﬂects a shore so sweet AS Bann P Shannon great , or pastoral Or who a friend or foe can meet So generous as an Irishman ?

1 OO OF O 94 B K IRISH P ETRY .

n Twinkle , twi kle , pretty Spindle , let the white wool

drift and dwindle , ’ Oh we eave a damask doublet for my love s coat of steew n Hark the timid , turning treadle , croo ing soft old fashioned ditties

To the low , slow murmur of the brown , round wheel .

’ My love is pledged to Ireland s ﬁght ; M ’ y love would die for Ireland s weal ,

To win her back her ancient right ,

And make her foemen reel . ’ Oh , close I ll clasp him to my breast , When homeward from the war he comes ’ The ﬁres shall li ht the mountain s crest , ei The valley p with drums .

Twinkle , twinkle , pretty spindle , let the white wool w drift and d indle , Oh ! we weave a damask doublet for my love ’s coat

of steel . ! i Old Hark the timid , turning treadle , croon ng soft fashioned ditties

To the low , slow murmur of the brown , round wheel .

’ O C J HN FRAN IS O DONNELL .

THE BELLS OF SHANDON . With deep affection and recollection o I often think of the Shand n bells , so i o Whose sounds wild would , in days of ch ldh od ,

Fling round my cradle their magic spells . ’ On this I ponder , where er I wander , w t And thus gro fonder , sweet Cork , of hee ,

With thy bells of Shandon , That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee . O O T 1 IRISH NATI NAL P E RY . 95

I have heard bells chiming full many a clime in , Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine W s w hile at a glib rate bra s tongues ould vibrate , But all their music' spoke nought to thine w For memory , dwelling on each proud s elling

Of the belfry knelling its bold notes free , Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on Lee The pleasant waters of the River .

I have heard bells tolling old Adrian ’s mole in

Their thunder rolling from the Vatican , s With cymbals glorious , winging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter ’ s Fling o er the Tiber , pealing solemnly . Oh the bells of Shandon S'ound far more grand on R The pleasant waters of the iver Lee .

’ Moscow while s There s a bell in , on tower and Kio k , O

In St . Sophia the Turkman gets , And loud in the air calls men to prayer

From the tapering summit of tall minarets . ’ Such empty phantom I freely grant em , ’ But there s an anthem more clear to me ’ Tis the bells of Shandon , That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the River Lee . FRANCIS SYLVESTER MAHONY P ( Father rout . )

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD .

Who fears to speak of Ninety - Eight P Who blushes at the name P ’ s m s When coward ock the patriot fate , Who hangs his head for shame ? 1 6 OO OF O 9 B K IRISH P ETRY .

’ He s all a knave , or half a Slave , Who slights his country thus ;

But a true man , like you , man ,

Will ﬁll your glass with us .

We drink the memory of the brave , The faithful and the few ; o off S me lie far beyond the wave ,

Some sleep in Ireland , too ;

All , all are gone but still lives on The fame of those who died men All true , like you , men , t Remember hem with pride . Some on the shores of distant lands

Their weary hearts have laid , And by the stranger ’s heedless hands Their lonely graves were made ;

But , though their clay be far away

Beyond the Atlantic foam ,

In true men , like you , men , ’ Their spirit s still at home .

The dust of some is Irish earth ,

Among their own they rest , And the same land that gave them birth Has caught them to her breast ; And we will pray that from their clay Full many a race may start

Of true men , like you , men ,

To act as brave a part .

They rose in dark and evil days To right their native land ; They kindled here a living blaze

That nothing shall withstand . Alas that Might can vanquish Right They fell and passed away ; l But true men , ike you , men , r t - A c plen y here to day .

1 8 9 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY .

’ ’ Ev n thus be , in our country s cause , Our party feelings blended ;

Till lasting peace , from equal laws ,

On both shall have descended . Till then the Orange lily be

Thy badge , my patriot brother The everlasting Green for me ;

And we for one another .

E ZER JOHN D JEAN FRA .

MEMORIES .

o t n I left two L ves on a dis ant stra d ,

One fair and young and white of hand ,

One fair and old and sadly grand , n My wedded wife and my native la d .

One tarrieth sad and seriously Beneath the roof that mine should be ; - the sea One sitteth sibyl like by , n nf Cha ting a grave song mour ully .

A little life I have not seen Lies by the heart that mine hath been t A cypress wrea h darkles now , I ween ,

Over the brow of my Love in green .

The mother and wife shall pass away ; cla Her hands be dust , her lips be But my other Love on earth sha stay

And live in the life of a better day .

r was Ere we were born my ﬁ st Love , My sires were heirs to her holy cause ’ And she yet shall sit in the world s applause ,

A mother of men and blessed laws . O O 1 IRISH NATI NAL P ETRY . 99

the I hope and strive while I sigh , For I know my ﬁrst Love cannot die ; From the chain of woes that loom so high H r e e r ign shall reach to Eternity .

’ THOMAS D ARCY MCGEE .

TO GOD AND IRELAND TRUE . I sit beside my darling ’s grave i Who in the prison d ed , And though my tears fall thick and fast I think of hi m w ith pride A y , softly fall my tears like dew

For one to God and Ireland true .

’ I love my God o er all , he said ,

And then I love my land , And nex t I love my Lily sweet Who pledged me her white hand ’ to To each , all , I m ever true ,

To God , to Ireland , and to you .

his No tender nurse hard bed smoothed , Or softly raised his head ; He fell asleep an d woke in heaven Ere I knew he w as dead ; Yet why should I my darling rue ?

He was to God and Ireland true .

’ Oh , tis a glorious memory ; I ’m prouder than a queen ’ To sit beside my hero s grave And think on w hat has been

And oh , my darling , I am true ! To God , to Ireland , and to you

’ ELLEN O LEARY . B OF R E Y OOK I ISH PO TR .

R I GIVE MY HEA T TO THEE .

I give my heart to thee , O motherland ,

I , if none else , recall the sacred womb .

I , if none else , behold the loving eyes Bent ever on thy myriad progeny

Who care not nor regard thee as they go ,

O tender , sorrowing , weeping , hoping land , ! I give my heart to thee , O motherland

t l I give my heart to thee , O fa her and ,

- Fast anchored on thy own eternal soul , R ising with cloudy mountains to the skies ,

O proud , strong land , unstooping , stern of rule , Me rule as ever ; let me feel thy might ;

Let me go forth with thee now and for aye . ! I give my heart to thee , O fatherland

I give my heart to thee , heroic land , To thee or in thy morning when the sun Flashed on thy giant limbs - thy lurid noon i ﬁerce- Or in thy depth of n ght , thoughted one

Wrestling with phantoms of thy own wild soul ,

- Or , stone still , silent , waiting for the dawn . n I give my heart to thee , heroic la d

I give my heart to thee , ideal land , Far- soaring sister of the starry throng ;

O fleet of wing , what journeyings are thine , n What goal , what god attracts thee P What u seen Glory reflected makes thy face a flame P

Leave me not where thou goest , let me go .

I give my heart to thee , ideal land

’ STANDISH O GRADY .

202 F BOOK O IRISH POETRY .

An d ! W e the loud hurroo have heard it too , And the thundering Clear the way Here ’s gay Old Ireland ! Dear Old Ireland !

Ireland , boys , hurrah

! And well we know in the cool grey eves . ’ ’ When the hard day s work is o er , How soft and sweet are the words that greet The friends who meet once more ; With Mary machree My Pat tis he ! And My own heart night and day

Ah , fond Old Ireland Dear Old Ireland

Ireland , boys , hurrah

And happy and bright are the groups that pass From their peaceful homes for miles ’ l O er ﬁelds , and roads , and hil s , to Mass , When Sunday morning smiles And deep the zeal their true hearts feel k When low they neel and pray . ! Oh , dear Old Ireland Blest Old Ireland ! n ! Irela d , boys , hurrah

’ But deep in Canadian woods we ve met , And we never may see again The Dear Old Isle Where our hearts are set

And our ﬁrst fond hopes remain .

But , come , ﬁll up another cup , And with every sup let’s say Here ’s dear Old Ireland ! Loved Old Ireland ! Ireland , boys , hurrah

T . D . SULLIVAN . O O 2 0 IRISH NATI NAL P ETRY . 3

AFTER DEATH .

Shall mine eyes behold thy glory , oh , my country P Shall mine eyes behold thy glory ? Or shall the darkness close around them ere the sun blaze Break at last upon thy story ?

e s e n Wh n the nation ope for thee their qu e ly circle ,

As sweet new sister hail thee , h e S all th se lips be sealed in callous death and silence , That have known but to bew ail thee P

e Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy prais s , When all men their tribute brin g thee ?

Shall the mouth be clay that sang thee in thy squalor , When all poets ’ mouths shall sing thee ?

Ah the harpings and the salvos and the shoutings

Of thy exiled sons returning , ’ I should hear , tho dead and mouldered , and the grave da mps ’ Should not chill my bosom s burning .

Ah the tramp of feet victorious I should hear them ’ Mid the Shamrocks and the mosses , And my heart should toss withi n the shroud and quiver

As a captive dreamer tosses .

I should turn and rend the cere - cloths round me Giant sinews I should borrow

Crying , Oh , my brothers , I have also loved her In her loneliness and sorrow !

Let , me join with you the jubilant procession , Let me chant with you her story ;

Then , contented , I shall go back to the Shamrocks , Now mine eyes have seen her glory FANNY PARNELL 20 B F E 4 OOK O IRISH PO TRY .

R AN I ISH FACE . Not her own sorrow only that hath place

Upon yon gentle face . ’ Too slight have been her Childhood s years to gain

The imprint of such pain . h It hid behind her laug ing hours , and wrought Each curve in saddest thought

On brow and lips and eyes . With subtle art It made the little heart Through its young joyous beatings to prepare

A quiet shelter there ,

Where the immortal sorrows might ﬁnd a home . And many there have come Bowed in a mournful mist of golden hair

Deirdre hath entered there . h And s rouded in a fall of pitying dew ,

Weeping the friend he slew , The Hound of Ulla lies with those who shed

Tears of the Wild Geese ﬂed . And all the lovers on whom fate hath warred Cutting the silver cord

Enter , and softly breath by breath they mould The young heart to the old

The old protest , the old pity , whose power Are gathering to the hour When their knit silence shall be mightier far

Than leagued empires are . And dreaming of the sorrow on this face

We grow of lordlier race , Could shake the rooted rampart of the hills

To shield her from all ills , And through a deep adoring pity won

Grow what we dream upon .

206 O OF O BO K IRISH P ETRY .

c Oh , well your Skylark leaves the blue To bid the sun good - morrow ; He has not the bonny song I knew

High over an Irish furrow .

’ O n And fte , often , I m longing still ,

This gay and olden weather , ’ f For my father s ace by an Irish hill ,

And he and I together .

GEORGE A .

P CELTIC S EECH .

f l Never forget ul silence fa l on thee ,

Nor younger voices overtake thee , hi Nor echoes from t ne ancient hills forsake thee , Old music heard by Mona of the sea ;

And where with moving melodies there break thee , P astoral Conway , venerable Dee .

es t Like music liv , nor may hat music die ,

Still in the far , fair Gaelic places its The speech , so wistful with kindly graces , P Holy Croagh atrick knows , and holy Hy

The speech , that wakes the soul in withered faces ,

And wakes remembrance of great things gone by .

’ s Like music by the de olate Land s End , Mournful forgetfulness hath broken ; wmds No more words kindred to the are spoken , Where upon iron cliffs whole seas expend s That trength , whereof the unalterable token ’

n . Remai s wild music , even to the world s end

O O LIONE L J HNS N . O 2 0 IRISH NATIONAL P ETRY . 7

R A SONG OF F EEDOM .

In Cavan of little lakes , w As I was walking ith the wind ,

And no one seen beside me there , There came a song into my mind It came as if the whispered voice

Of one , but none of human kind , w l Who a ked with me in Cavan then , i And he inv sible as wind . 0 On U rris i - of In sh Owen , w As I ent up the mountain side , The brook that—came leaping down Cried to me for joy it cried ; And when from off the summit far ’ w I looked o er land and water ide , I was more joyous than the brook

That met me on the mountain side .

’ Connacht s To Ara of isles , ' As I went sailing o er the sea . ’ ’ w s the The ind word , brook s word , ’ me The wave s word , was plain to is As we are , though she not , w e be As are , shall Banba the w There is no king can rule ind ,

There is no fetter for the sea . C ALI E MILLIGAN .

IRELAND . 0 ! Ireland , Ireland centre of my longings , ! Country of my fathers , home of my heart Overseas you call me ; Why an exile from me ? - ? Wherefore sea severed , long leagues apart 2 08 OO OF O B K IRISH P ETRY .

As t the shining salmon , homeless in the sea dep hs ,

Hears the river call him , scents out the land ,

Leaps and rejoices in the meeting of the waters ,

Breasts weir and torrent , nests in the sand .

t ’ Lives here and loves yet with the year s returning , R usting in the river , pines for the sea , a Sweeps back ag in to the ripple of the tideway , R oamer of the waters , vagabond and free .

Wanderer am I like the salmon of thy rivers ; r London is my ocean , mu murous and deep , Tossing and vast ; yet through the roar of London

Comes to me thy summons , calls me in sleep .

P early are the skies in the country of my fathers , P a o urple are thy mount ins , h me of my heart .

Mother of my yearning , love of all my longings ,

Keep me in remembrance , long leagues apart .

C STEPHEN LU IUS GWYNN .

PP AN A EAL .

of Days unstinted splendour , days of unceasing rain , a Days all beringed with pleasure , days all bestre ked with

pain . th e Hark ! for I hear them calling , from over rocks and the sand off Hark ! for I hear them calling , far in that wild west land ;

Up from the hearts of the mountains , cold , ascetic , severe

Up from the breasts of the streams , brown , bejewelled , and clear f - u f l s Up rom thy oozy depths , loud tong ed riend of the b a t , ‘ t They rise , they re urn , they throng ; ghosts of the days

that are past .

2 1 0 OO F O B K O IRISH P ETRY .

’ th e in A girl s young voice out of twilight , sing g

Old songs beside the legendary stream , ’ ’ 0 e1 w A girl s clear voice , the wan aters ringing ,

Beats with its wild wings at the Gates of Dream .

The ﬂagger- leaves whereon shy dew drops glisten

Are swaying , swaying gently to the sound ,

- The meadow sweet and spearmint , as they listen , Breathe wistfully their wizard balm around ;

And there , alone with her lone heart and heaven , she nd Thrushlike Sings , a lets her voice go free , Her soul of all its hidden longing shriven

Soars on wild wings with her wild melody .

Sweet in its plaintive Irish modulations ,

Her fresh young voice , tuned to old sorrow , seems

The passionate cry of countless generations , s Keens in her breast as there she sing and dreams . sad No more voice , for now the dawn is breakin ’ Through the long night , through Ireland s nig t of

tears , New songs wake in the momof her awaking

From the enchantment of nine hundred years .

JOHN TODHUNTER .

LAMENT FOR THOMAS DAVIS .

r - I walked through Ballinder y in the spring time , When the bud was on the tree ;

- And I said , in every fresh ploughed ﬁeld beholding

The sowers striding free , Scattering broadside forth the corn in golden plenty - n i On the quick seed claspi g so l , - s Even such this day , among the fresh stirred heart

Erin ,

Thomas Davis , is thy toil . O O IRISH NATI NAL P ETRY .

I sat by Ballyshannon in the summer , And saw the salmon leap the And I said , as I beheld gallant creatures n Spri g glittering from the deep ,

Through the Spray , and through the prone heaps striving onward t To the calm clear s reams above , s So seekest thou thy native founts of freedom , Thoma

Davis ,

In thy brightness of strength and love .

I Derr bawn stood in y in the autumn ,

And I heard the eagle call , With a clangorous cry of wrath and lamentation

That ﬁlled the wide mountain hall , ’ O er the bare deserted place of his plun dered eyrie

And I said , as he screamed and soared ,

So callest thou , thou wrathful soaring Thomas Davis , For a nation ’s rights restored !

! And , alas to think but now , and thou art lying , ’ Dear Davis , dead at thy mother s knee ;

- And I , no mother near , on my own sick bed , That face on earth shall never see m I may lie and try to feel that I am drea ing ,

I may lie and try to say , Thy will be done , But a hundred such as I will never comfort Erin For the loss of the noble son

’ - Young husbandman of Erin s fruitful seed time , ’ In the fresh track of danger s plough ! u Who will walk the heavy , toilsome , perilous f rrow , ’ d - s ? Girt with free om s seed heets , now Who will banish with the wholesome crop of knowledge

The daunting weed and the bitter thorn , Now that thou thyself art but a seed for hopeful planting Against the Resurrection morn P

"4 I Z OO OF O Z B K IRISH P ETRY .

Young salmon of the ﬂood- tide of freedom That swells round Erin ’s shore Thou wilt leap against their loud oppressive torrent Of bigotry and hate no more n Drawn downward by their prone material insti ct , Let them thunder on their rocks and foam

Thou hast leapt , aspiring soul , to founts beyond

raging , Where troubled waters never come

But I grieve not , Eagle of the empty eyrie , That thy wrathful cry is still And that the songs alone of peaceful mourners ’ Are heard to - day on Earth s hill ’ war Better far , if brothers be destined for us

(God avert that horrid day I pray) ,

That ere our hands be stained with slaughter fratricidal ,

Thy warm heart should be cold in clay .

But my trust is strong in God , Who made us brothers , ff That He will not su er their right hands , Which thou hast joined in holier rites than wedlock,

To draw opposing brands . h Oh , many a tuneful tongue that t ou madest vocal Would lie cold and silent then

- And songless long once more , should often widowed Erin

Mourn the loss of her brave young men .

Oh , brave young men , my love , my pride , my promise , ’ Tis on you my hopes are set , a In m nliness , in kindliness , in justice , To make Erin a nation yet - - - Self respecting , self relying , self advancing I n union or in severance , free and strong

And if God grant this , then , under God , to Thomas Davis

Let the greater praise belong . S IR R SAMUEL FE GUSON .

B LES I N G S S .

’ I t s what I tha nk God for ea ch night

’ A little ca bi n that s mi ne b ri ht y g ,

The stren th o a man or work or i ht g f f f g , i t A nd food a nd l gh .

’ I t s what I tha nk God for ea ch day

A wi e with never too mu ch to sa f y ,

A wi e a do a nd a child or la f , g, f p y ,

’ F or those I d ra p y .

I thank God or the la nd I tread f , ’ A i e to smoke a nd a n ea s bed p p y ,

’ The thatch I ma de that s over m head y ,

A d l b e nd ai y r ad.

I tha nk God or a n I ri sh na me f ,

A nd a son o mi ne to bea r the sa me f , My own to love me a nd none to bla me

’ N 0 more I d la i c m.

WINIFRED M . LETTS . IRISH COU NTRYSIDE POETRY

N BE THE SLAYING OF CO G . [A beloved hound of Fionn ’s which Goll Mac Morna drowned in despite of Fionn . ] m Sore grief to me , Co be that you are drowned h i ri tness . My little hound , for g without peer Never was one so swift or deft of foot Seen in pursuit of rushing boar or deer

Conbe Sore grief to me , g, that you lie drowned ;

My little hound , whose bay was music clear . Never was one so deft or swift of ace h- Found in the chase of proud , hig stepping deer .

Conbe r Sore grief to me , g, that you lie d owned

- Upon the mighty mounded grey green sea . Your cruel loss let loose a ﬂood of strife

A s w s ! . ﬁll of orro , ala through life to me

Tra ns a te r The o o u o The A n c en ts l d f om C ll q y / i .

THE WEDDING OF THE CLANS .

I go to knit two clans together , t Our clan and his clan unseen of yore . i ? Our clan fears naught ; but I go , oh , wh ther ’ s This day I go from my mother door . 2 1 5 2 1 6 OO OF B K IRISH POETRY .

sin est Thou , redbreast , g the old song over , Though many a time hast thou sung it before ; They never sent thee to some strange new lover ’ o To sing a new song by my mother s d or .

I stepped from my little room down by the ladder The ladder that never so shook before ; - sa I was sad last night , to day I am dder , ’ Because I go from my mother s door .

and m The last snow melts upon bush bra ble , ’ The gold bars shine on the forest s ﬂoor ;

Shake not , thou leaf ; it is I must tremble , ’ Because I go from my mother s door .

n I From a Spa ish sailor a dagger bought me , ’ I trailed a rose - bush our grey bawn o er ; The creed and the letters our old bard taught me ; ’ My days were sweet by my mother s door .

t f hu est My little white goat , that wi h raised eet gg The oak stock , thy ho—rns in the ivy frore Could I wrestle like thee how the wreaths thou tuggest ’ o I never would move from my mother s do r .

Oh , weep no longer , my nurse and mother ; - My foster sister , weep not so sore ;

You cannot come with me , Ir , my brother ’ o r Alone I g from my mothe s door .

- MacOwin Farewell , my wolf hound , that slew g,

As he caught me and far through the thickets bore ,

My heifer Alb in the green vale lowing , ’ ’ My cygnet s nest upon Loma s shore .

He has killed ten Chiefs , this Chief that plights me , His hand is like that of the giant Balor ; hi s ff But I fear kiss , and his beard a rights me ,

And the great stone dragon above his door .

2 1 8 OO OF O B K IRISH P ETRY .

Not a friend have I got I am heavy for that Late or early to take Eamonn in ; And so I must ﬂee s Ea t over the sea , Where strangers are kinder than

P THE BLIND OET .

From the I r s o Ra ter [ i h f f y . ]

I am the Poet Rafterty Full of hope and charity ; da With eyes that at the y but guess ,

With gentleness in misery .

West I wander through the night By the light of my own mind a Weak and we ried I contend , ’ Till my journey s end I ﬁnd .

I , who once in Halls of State

Guerdon great received for song ,

Harp , amid the rain and Wind , coinless To a kind but throng .

MY ULICK . My Ulick is sturdy and strong

' And light is hi s foot on the heather An d tr uth has been wed to his tongue Since ﬁrst we were talking together ;

And though he is lord of no lands , s Nor ca tle , nor cattle , nor dairy ,

My boy has his health and his hands ,

- And a heart load of love for his Mary . And What should a maiden wish more ? IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY 2 1 9

One day at th e heel of the ev e I mind it was snowing and blowing ’ h i b liev e My mot er was knitt ng , I —~ I s For me , was singing and ewing ; ’ e My father had r ad the news o er , ’ ’ em And as he sat humming , We ll wake ,

My Ulick stepped in at the door , r As white as the weathe could make him . True love never cooled with a frost !

his f z He shook the snow out of rie e , And drew up a chair by my father My spirits leaped up in my eyes o To see the tw sitting together . a They t lked of our land and its wrongs , Till both were as mad as starvation s Then Ulick ang three or four songs , And closed with Hurrah for the Nation ’ r h n Oh , Ulick s an I is ma still

M father caught hold of his ha nd ; y‘ i heir heartsgmelted into each other While tears that she couldn ’t command

Broke loose from the eyes of my mother . ” “ Wirrasthr ue ! Our freedom , she sighed ; A woman can say little in it had But it to come by you two , ’ I ve a guess at the way we would win it . ’ w ! Twould not be by weeping , I s ear

C FRAN IS DAVIS . 220 O OF B OK IRISH POETRY .

IN MA HRE I DRAHER O C E .

A ' Dra heri n O a c ree i r M h .

I grieve when I think on the dear happy days of my youth , ’ When all the bright dreams of this faithless world seem d truth ’ ’ stra d as When I y thro the green wood , gay as a mid

summer bee , In brotherly love with my Draherin O Machree !

- a Together we lay in the sweet scented me dows to rest , ’ ’ watch d as Together we the gay lark he sung o er his nest ,

Together we plucked the red fruit of the fragrant hawtree , Draherin r And I loved , as a sweetheart , my O Mach ee

f was His orm straight as a hazel that grows in the glen ,

His manners were courteous , and social , and gay amongst men His bosom was white as the lily on summer ’s green lea ’ His God s brightest image was Draherin O Machree !

Oh sweet were his words as the honey that falls in the

night , And hi s young smiling face like the May - bloom was

fresh , and as bright His eyes were like dew on the ﬂower of the sweet apple tr ee ’ My heart s spring and summer was Draherin O Machree

He went to the wars when proud England united with

His regiment was ﬁrst in the red - battle - charge to advance 2 ’ But when night drew its veil o er the gory and life - wasting

fray , P Draherin ale , bleeding , and cold lay my O Machree

1 r h e h Little b ot r of my eart . 2 rrin t o th e att e of nk erm n R ef e g B l I a .

2 22 OOK OF O B IRISH P ETRY .

K ILR DDERY THE U HUNT .

In seventeen hundred and forty - four ’ e as The ﬁfth of D cember , I think tw no more ,

At ﬁve in the morning by most of the clocks , Kilru dder We rode from in search of a fox .

The Loughlinstown land ord , the brave Owen Bray , Adair I u s And Johnny , too , were with that day P Joe Debil , Hal reston , those huntsmen so stout

Dick Holmes , some few others , and so we set out .

off for ! We cast . our hounds an hour or more , When Wanton set up a most tuneable roar ; not Hark , Wanton cried Joe , and the rest were slack , ’ For Wanton s no triﬂer esteemed by the pack ;

Old Bounty and Collier came readily in , And every hound joined in the musical din ’ Had Diana been there , she d been pleased to the life ,

And one of the lads got a goddess to Wife .

Ten minutes past nine was the time of t he day i When Reynard broke cover , and th s was his way

As strong from Killegar , as if he could fear none , Kilternan Away he brushed round by the house of , a i t o To C rrickm nes thence , and Cherrywood then , Shankhill Steep he climbed , and to Ballyman glen , ’ ’ lea d An lese s Bray Common he crossed , p Lord g y wall , ' I And seemed to say , Little care for you all .

He ran Bushes Grove up to Carbury Byrnes P Joe Debil , Hal reston , kept leading by turns

The earth it was open , yet he was so stout , ’ Tho he might have got in , still he chose to keep out

I h o o ou t son of R obin Adai r of H o ark n ear ra , w N d b , , lly P , B y m er of th e I r sh ar i ament ear in a st cent ur an d w as me b i P l ly l y , wh om ou r S cotch fri en ds ann ex ed alon g with th e ai r Aileen ” n A roo . C R O 22 IRISH OUNT YSIDE P ETRY . 3

To Malpas high hills was the way that he ﬂew , ’ At Dalkey s stone common we had him in View ; r Glena ear He d ove on to Bullock , he slunk g y ,

n s . And so on to Mo k town , Where Larry grew weary

’ R t Thro oches own wood like an arrow he passed , And came to the steep hills of Dalkey at last ;

There gallantly plunged himself into the sea , can And said in his heart , None now follow me . erceiv ed But soon , to his cost , he that no bounds Could stop the pursuit of the staunch - mettled hounds e him His policy h re did not serve a rush ,

Five couple of Tartars were hard at his brush .

To recover the shore then again was his drift

But ere he could reach to the top of the clift , and darIn He found both of speed of g a lack , Being waylaid and killed by the rest of the pack a At his death there were present the l ds I have sung ,

a n . Save Larry , who , riding a g rron , was ﬂu g

Thus ended at length a most delicate chase , ’ ﬁv e That held us hours and ten minutes space .

O MOZEEN TH MAS .

R A D EAM . I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight I went to the window to see the sight ; All the Dead that ever I knew n two Goi g one by one and two by .

’ ’ ass d on ass d On the p , and they p ; ellows Towns all , from ﬁrst to last ;

Born in the moonlight of the lane , ’ uench d Q in the heavy shadow again . 22 O OF O 4 BO K IRISH P ETRY .

’ Schoolmates , mar—ching as when they play d At soldiers once but now more staid , Those were the strangest sight to me ’ the Who were drown d , I knew , in awful sea .

l Straight and handsome fo k , bent and weak , too ’ as d Some that I loved , and g p to speak to ; Some but a day in their churchyard bed ;

Some that I had not known were dead .

’ — he d A long , long crowd w re each seem lonely ,

Yet of them all there was one , one only , Raised a head or look ’d my way ’ lin er d —s he ot a She g a moment might n st y .

How long since I saw that fair pale face ! Ah ! Mother dear ! might I only place ea My h d on thy breast , a moment to rest , While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest

On , on , a moving bridge they made

- Across the moon stream , from shade to shade ,

Young and old , women and men ; ’ - remember d Many long forgot , but then ,

And ﬁrst there came a bitter laughter A sound of tears a moment after

And then a music so lofty and gay ,

That every morning , day by day ,

I strive to recall it if I may .

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM .

P ’ A EASANT WOMAN S SONG .

’ the Pat It s lonely in night , when

Is Sleeping by my side , n I lie awake , and no one k ows ’ The big tears that I ve cried ;

226 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY .

- AR THE LOW BACKED C .

e P When ﬁrst I saw sw et eggy , ’ Twas on a market day ,

- A low backed car she drove , and sat Upon a truss of hay But when that hay was blooming grass

And decked with ﬂowers of Spring , No ﬂow ’r was there that could compare

With the blooming girl I sing .

- As she sat in the low backed car , The man at the turnpike bar

Never asked for the toll , But just rubbed his ould poll

- And looked after the low backed car .

’ In battle s wild commotion , t The proud and migh y Mars , demands With hostil—e scythes , his tithes Of death in warlike cars ; P s While eggy , peaceful godde s ,

Has darts in her bright eye ,

That knock men down in the market town , As right and left they ﬂy she - While sits in her low backed car , Than battle more dangerous far For the doctor ’s art Cannot cure the heart - That is hit from that low backed car .

P Sweet eggy , round her car , sir ,

Has strings of ducks and geese , But the scores of hearts she slaughters By far outnumber these S he m While a ong her poultry sits , - v Just like a turtle do e ,

Well worth the cage , I do engage , Of the blooming God of Love CO O 2 IRISH UNTRYSIDE P ETRY . 2 7

- car While she sits in her low backed ,

The lovers come near and far , And envy the chicken P ’ That eggy is pickin , - As she sits in the low backed car .

’ Oh , I d rather own that car , sir , P With eggy by my side ,

- - Than a coach and four and goold galore , And a lady for my bride For the lady would sit forni nst me s On a cushion made with ta te , While Peggy would sit beside me With my arm around her waist - car While we drove in the low backed ,

To be married by Father Maher ,

Oh , my heart would beat high At her glance and her si h - g Though it beat in a low bac ed car .

SAMUEL LOVER .

R DARK GI L BY THE HOLY WELL .

Mother is that the passing bell , Or yet the midnight chime ? ’ Or rush of angels golden win gs P Or is it near the time t The time when God , hey say , comes down

This weary world upon ,

With Holy Mary at His right , P And at His left St . John

’ I m dumb my heart forgets to thr ob My blood forget—s to ru n But vain my sighs in vain I sob ’ m s God s will u t still be done .

I hear but tone of warning bell , For holy priest or nun ; ’ ’ ea s ! On rth , God face I ll never see ! Nor Mary , nor St . John 2 28 O BOOK OF IRISH P ETRY .

Mother , my hopes are gone again a My he rt is black as ever . I Mother I say , look forth once more , And see can you discover God ’s glory in the crimson clouds See , does He ride u—pon That perfumed breeze or do you see

The Virgin , or St . John P

P Ah , no ah , no Well , God of eace , Grant me th y blessing still a Oh , m ke me patient with my doom And happy at Thy will And guide my footsteps so on earth ’ That , when I m dead and gone , n My eyes may catch Thy shi ing light ,

With Mary and St . John

Yet , mother , could I see your smile , Before we part below Or watch the silver moon or stars ’ Where S laney s ripples ﬂow s Oh , could I see the sweet sun hine

My native hills upon , ’ I d never love my God the less , ! Nor Mary , nor St . John

But no ah , no it cannot be ;

Yet , mother , do not mourn

Come kneel again , and pray to God ,

In peace , let us return ; The Dark Girl ’s doom must aye be mine

But Heaven will light me on ,

Until I ﬁnd my way to God , ! nd . A Mary , and St John O J HN KEEGAN .

OF BOOK IRISH POETRY .

’ n P O Reardon Ah , the , addy , you thundering Turk , Is it coorting you are in th e blessed noon P

Come over here , Kitty , and mind your work , ’ ’ n u r Or I ll see if your mother can t cha ge tune . Iy/p Well youth will be youth , as you know , ike , Six teen and twenty for each were meant Pat f But , , in the name of the airies , avie , Defer your proposals till after Lent ; And as love in this country lives mostly still

On potatoes , dig boy , dig with a will

Work hand and foot , n Work spade and ha d , Work spade and hand

Through the harvest mould . The blessed fruit That grows at the root Is the real gold

Of Ireland .

Down the bridle road the neighbours ride ,

Through the light ash shade , by the Wheaten

sheaves , And the children sing on the mountain side , In the sweet blue smoke of the burning leaves

As the great sun sets in glory furled , ’ t to hi s Fai h it s grand think as I watch face , on n If he never sets the E glish world ,

on . He never , lad , sets the Irish race

In the West , in the South , new Irelands still Grow up in his light come , work with a will

Work hand and foot ,

Work spade and hand , Work spade and hand r n Th ough the ative mould . The blessed fruit That grows at the root Is the real gold

Of Ireland . CO O 2 1 IRISH UNTRYSIDE P ETRY . 3

the But look round moon , yellow as corn , Comes up from the sea in the deep blue calm It scarcely seems a day since morn ’ Well , the heel of the evening to you , ma am

God bless the moon for many a night ,

As I restless lay on a troubled bed , i When rent was due , her quieting l ght Has ﬂatter—ed with dreams my poor old head . But see the basket remains to ﬁll . t Come , girls , be alive boys , dig wi h a will

Work hand and foot ,

Work spade and hand , h Work spade and and , Through the moonlit mould The blessed fruit That grows at the root Is the real gold

Of Ireland . O TH MAS CAULFIELD IRWIN .

A DRUNKARD ’S ADDRESS TO A BOTTLE OF

WHISKEY .

r From what dripping cell , through what fai y glen , ’ Where mid old rocks and ruins the fox makes his den m Over what loneso e mountain , Acushla machree

Where gauger never has trod , w Sweet as the ﬂo ery sod , Wild as the breath z Of the bree e on the heath , ’ ’ s arklin - And p all o er like the moon lighted fountain , Are you come to me Sorrowful me ?

— ’ Dancing inspirin ’ My wild blood ﬁrin Oh ! terrible glory Oh ! beautiful siren

Come , tell the old story 2 2 OO OF O 3 B K IRISH P ETRY .

Come light up my fancy , and open my heart . Oh ! beautiful ruin — ’ My life my u ndoin t Sof and ﬁerce as a pantheress ,

Dream of my longing and wreck of my soul , enchantheress I never knew love till I loved you , ’ l t At first , when I knew you , twas on y flirta ion , The touch of a lip and the flash of an eye ’ —’ But tis different now tis desperation !

I worship before you ,

I curse and adore you , ’ And without you I d die .

Wirrasthrue I wish ’twas again The happy time when

I cared little about you ,

Could do well without you , But would just laugh and View you ’Tis little I knew you ! ’ Oh terrible darlin ,

How have you sought me ,

Enchanted , and caught me P ’ me See , now , where you ve brought - To sleep by the road side , and dress out in rags , Think how you found me Dreams come around In ch ’ The dew of my childhood , and life s morning beam ;

Now I sleep by the roadside , a wretch all in rags .

My heart that sang merrily when I was young , Swells up like a billow and bursts in despair ; on And the wreck of my hopes sweet memory ﬂung ,

And cries on the air ,

Are all that is left of the dream .

Wirrasthrue

My father and mother ,

The priest , and my brother

Not a one has a good word for you .

2 O F 34 B OK O IRISH POETRY .

Nor , out of fear to you Stand up so near to you ! Och out of fear to you , Soggarth aroon !

’ Who , in the winter s night ,

Soggarth aroon ,

When the cold blast did bite ,

Soggarth aroon ,

Came to my cabin door , t And , on my ear hen ﬂoor , a d Knelt by me , sick n poor , Soggarth aroon P

Who , on the marriage day ,

Soggarth aroon ,

Made the poor cabin gay ,

Soggarth aroon ,

And did both laugh and sing ,

Making our hearts to ring ,

At the poor christening , Soggarth aroon ?

Who , as friend only met , r Sogga th aroon ,

Never did . ﬂout me yet , t Soggar h aroon , w as And when my heart dim , did Gave , While his eye brim ,

What I should give to him , Soggarth aroon ? ! Och you , and only you , Soggarth aroon ! hi was t And for t s I rue to you , Soggarth aroon ; ’ Our love they d never shake , When for ould Ireland ’s sake a We a true part did t ke , r Sogga th aroon . O J HN BANIM . CO O 2 IRISH UNTRYSIDE P ETRY . 35

O ’FLYN FATHER N .

f ’ Of priests we can o fer a charmin variety , ’ Far renowned for larni n and piety ’ widout im ro riet Still , I d advance you , p y , ’ Father O Flynn as the ﬂower 0 them all .

S CHORU .

’ ’ O Fl nn Here s a health to you , Father y , : Slainte , and slainte , and slainte agin Pow erfulest an d preacher , Tinderest teacher , and t Kindliest crea ure in ould Donegal .

’ P Don t talk of your rovost and Fellows of Trinity , t Famous for ever at Greek and Latini y , divels Dad and the and all at Divinity , ’ ’ O Fl nn d Father y makes hares of them all . v inture Come , I to give you my word , Never the likes of his logic was heard Down from Mythology Tha olo Into y gy , ’ Troth and Conchology , if he d the call .

’ ’ C — O Fl nn HORUS Here s a health to you , Father y , etc .

’ ’ ! O Fl nn the Och Father y , you ve wonderful way

wid you ,

All ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you , for All the young childer are wild to play wid you , ’ You ve such a way wid you , Father avick ’ Still , for all you ve so gentle a soul , ’ Gad , you ve your ﬂock in the grandest con throu l

ck Che ing the crazy ones , ’ Coax in onais y ones , ’ s w id Liftin the lazy one on the stick . — ’ ’ O e O Fl nn . CH RUS Here s a h alth to you , Father y , etc 2 6 OF O 3 BOOK IRISH P ETRY .

’ av oidin And though quite all foolish frivolity , of Still at all seasons innocent jollity , Where was the play - boy could claim an equality

At comicality , Father , wid you P

Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest , Till this remark set him off wid the rest Is it lave gaiety All to the laity P Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too P

’ ’ O — t O l nn CH RUS Here s a heal h to you , Father F y , etc .

R THE RIVE . P oor Mick was trotting on to the town . The Side car under him going

He looked on the water , swollen and brown , n He looked on the river ﬂowi g .

The day was drear and heavy and dank ,

A sleety wind was blowing , nk And the river , creeping up over the ba ,

Was into the roadside going .

Now , all that day till the night drew near,

For the wind was bitterly blowing , P oor Mick sat gossiping here and there ,

While the river was steadily ﬂowing .

? ’ f And why would ye lave Tis a cruel night , ° \ wh should P Oh , y ye be going

Bide ye here till the morning light , For the blackest wind is blowing !

The wife will be wanting her bread and tay And oil for to light her sewing Myself never minded the roughest day

Or the blackest black wind blowing .

F 238 BOOK O IRISH POETRY .

’ t - s Six craf y earth stroppers , in hunter s green dre t , Supported poor Tom to an earth made for rest ;

His horse , which he styled his Old Soul , next appeared , On whose forehead the brush of the last fox was reared

Whip , cap , boots and spurs , in a trophy were bound ,

And here and there followed an old straggling hound .

Ah no more at his voice yonder vales will they trace , Nor the welkin resound to the burst in the chase With High over ! now press him ! — Tally - ho l Tally - ho

Thus Tom spoke his friends ere he gave up his breath , ’ Since I see you re resolved to be in at the death , w —’ One favour besto tis the last I shall crave , Give a rattling view- holloa thrice over my grave

And unless at that warning I left up my head , My boys you may fairly conclude I am dead I

Honest Tom was obeyed , and the shout rent the sky , - ho cr For every voice joined in the tally y , Tally - h o Hark forward Tally - h o Tally - ho

ANDREW CHERRY .

HERRING IS KING . Let all the ﬁsh that swim in the sea

Salmon and turbot , cod and ling Bow down the head and bend the knee — To herring , their king to herring , their king Thu amar samhradh Sing , g fein an linn , ’Tis we have brought the summer in

n The sun sa k down , so round and red ,

Upon the bay , upon the bay The sails shook idly overhead

Becalmed we lay , becalmed we lay . Thu amar samhradh Sing , g fein an linn , ’ Tis we have brought the summer in . IRISH COUNTRYSIDE POETRY 2 39

a Till Sh un , The Eagle, dropped on deck ,

- - The bright eyed boy , the bright eyed boy ; ’ Tis he has spied y—our silver track , Herring , our joy herring , our joy . Thu amar samhradh li nn I Sing , g fein an , ’ Tis we have brought the summer in .

o It was in with the sails and away to the Sh re , s With the rise and swing , the ri e and swing

Of two stout lads at each smoking oar , — i After herring , our king herring , our k ng . Thu amar samhradh Sing , g fein an linn , ’ Tis we have brought the summer in .

n The Ma x and the Cornish raised the shout , the And joined the chase , and joined chase ;

But their ﬂeets they fouled as they went about ,

And we won the race , we won the race . Thu amar samhradh Sing , g fein an linn , ’ Tis we have brought the summer in .

t For we urned and faced you full to land ,

Down the goleen long , the goleen long , And after you slipped from strand to strand Ou r nets so strong , our nets so strong . Thu amar samhradh l Sing , g fein an inn , ’ In Tis we have brought the summer . Then we called to our sweethearts and our wives ’ — m Come , welcome us home welco e us home Till they ran to meet us for their lives

Into the foam , into the foam . Thu amar samhradh Sing , g fein an linn , ’ Tis we have brought the summer in .

s Oh , the kissing of hand and waving of caps

From girl and boy , from girl and boy lasses While you leapt by scores in the laps , and Herring , our pride joy . Thu amar samhradh Sing , g fein an linn , ’ Tis we have brought the summer in .

I ran s a te b th e o ow n n e T l d y f ll i g li . 2 0 OO OF O 4 B K IRISH P ETRY .

THE IRISH WIDOW ’S MESSAGE TO HER

IN AMERICA .

R emember , Denis , all I bade you say , ’ I Tell him we re well and happy , thank the Lord

But of our troubles Since he went away , ’ i e You ll m nd , avi , and never say a word , ’ Of cares and troubles sure we ve all our share , ’ The ﬁnest summer isn t always fair .

Tell him the spotted heifer calved in May , ’ She died , poor thing , but that you needn t mind Nor how the consta nt rain destroyed the hay ; k But tell him , God to us was always ind , ’ And when the fever spread the country o er , n s His mercy kept the sick e s from the door .

Be sure you tell him how the neighbours came And cut the corn and stored it in the barn Twould be as well to mention them by name Pat M cCabe McCarn Murphy , Ned , and James , And big Tim Daly from behind the hill “ stil ! But say , agra , Oh , say , I missed him l

They came with ready hands our toil to sha re ’ i Twas then I m ssed him most , my own right hand

I felt , although kind hearts were round me there ,

The kindest heart beat in a foreign land .

Strong arm brave heart Oh , severed far from me By many a weary mile of shore and sea

’ ’ hi m t who You ll tell she was wi h us (he ll know ) , ’ Mavoumeen l hasn t she the Winsome eyes ?

The darkest , deepest , brightest , bonniest blue

That ever shone , except in summer skies ; — And such black hair it is the blackest hair ’ That ever rippled o er a neck so fair .

2 2 4 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY .

’ Says Herself to Myself We re as good as the best

of them . ' s r e Says My elf to He self Shure , we re b tter than ” gold . ’ ’ Says Herself to Myself We re as young as the rest 0

them . ’ Says Myself to Herself Troth , we ll never grow

old .

’ ’ rowin As down the lane goin , I felt my heart g As young as it was forty - ﬁve years ago ; ’ Twas here in this boreen I ﬁrst kissed my stoireen

A sweet little colleen with skin like the snow . — ’ I looked at my woman a song she was hu mmin

As old as the hills , so I gave her a pogue

’ ‘ sariou s s orti n Twas like our old courtin , half , half p , ’ When Molly was young , an when hoops were in vogue ,

’ When she d say to Myself : You can coort with the ” best of them . ’ ’ When I d say to Herself Sure , I m better than ” gold . ’ ’ ’ When she d say to Myself You re as wild as the rest ’ ” 0 them . ’ : ’ And I d say to Herself Troth , I m time enough

old . MACCALL P C . ATRI K J .

SONG OF AN ISLAND FISHERMAN .

I groan as I put out my nets upon the say , irshas a - To hear the little g shout , dance among the spray ,

Ochone the childer pass away , and lave us to our grief

The stranger took my little lass at falling of the leaf.

Why would you go so fast with him you never knew throu bl is In all the e that past I never frowned on you , ’ ou 0 The light of my old eyes y are , the comfort my heart ’ W aitin I n ishart for me your mother lies in blessed n . CO O IRISH UNTRYSIDE P ETRY . 243

Her lonesome grave I keep from all the cold world wide , ’ w s s But you in life an death ill sleep the tranger till beside . s wi Ochone . my thought are dark and ld ; but little blame ,

I say , ’ hun erin a- An ould man g for his child , work the livelong

day .

’ You will not run again langhin to see me land ’ throuble t Oh , what was pain and then , boldin your lit le hand P ’ Or when your darlin head let fall its soft cu rls on my a bre st , Why do the childer grow at all to love the stranger best P O KATHARINE TYNAN HINKS N .

DRIMIN DEELIS H I O DHU .

Drimin Deeli sh i O Dhu , my k nd Kerry cow , w As black as the night ith one star on her brow , rimin Deelish i For D Dhu , the s lk of the kine , r min Deelish For D i Dhu , I mourn and I pine . t u drimin t u a raw As O dhu , och o g , ru drimin slaun ! As O dhu , go dhu tu

’ l Drimin For when to the mi king I d call Dhu , ’ Twas then like a deer down the mountain she ﬂew , 31300 1 u And ah , when beneath her the I wo ld place ,

How oft on my shoulder she rubbed her soft face .

o . As ru , etc

t Drimin And hough sixteen gallons from would hail ,

And under my ﬁngers froth up in the pail , ’ ’ She ne er kicked one keeler away o er the green , n B For no cow genteeler tha rimin was seen .

ru . As O , etc

1 0 D ea r ck Bla Cow . 2 OO OF O 44 B K IRISH P ETRY .

Drimin The mountain bog slid and surprised Dhu , Though bravely she battled to break her w ay through w w drizzen Till down , do n she ent , with a and drone , P Drimin D l h ee is . oor Dhu , and left us alone ru As O , etc .

When other cows ailed in the wet and the cold , Our Drimin was evermore hearty and bold

Straight back and ﬁrm body and honey sweet breath ,

Mild eyes and grave manners , how could you know death P ru As O , etc .

i d Oh , silk of the k ne , when amongst us you stoo ,

No milk was as ﬁne and no butter as good , ’ dr s But oh , tis chill water and oh , tis y cone , Drimin Drimin Deelish ! Since , since Dhu is gone t u As O , etc .

P P FOR R RE ARATIONS WINTE .

’ ‘ coaf N There s my cabin with a bran new of thatch , orah dear ! ’ ’ Tis as cosy as the overcoat I ve on ' ’ a And the st ck that s in the haggard you won t match , Norah dear ’ Sure the neighbours call it Lugnaqu illa s son ! ’ ’ I ve put bushes in the gaps and the doors I ve painted reen ; ’ m And fhe garden wall I ve ately repaired .

If I only had yourself, dear , I could say , like king or

queen , R ’ oll on , winter , I m well prepared

’ There s an acre of potatoes in the pit , Norah dear ! ’ Troth , I ve turf enough to light me to fame ; ’ the And the corner of kitchen where you d sit , Norah

Is a pleasant place to talk or to dream .

2 6 OO 4 B K OF IRISH POETRY .

the If all young maidens were cowslips and daisies ,

Till ﬁlled was the meadow with sweet pretty faces , ’ I d scratch my head over , And chew a red clover The sorrow a scythe would I sweep through the throng

If all the young maidens were stars in heaven , ’ the n Out peeping like mice through chi ks of the even , ’ No sleep I d be getting ,

But sighing and fretting , When Dawn ’s Whiskered cat stretches out her long tongue

a at s If all the young m idens were mealy pot oe , ’ A- i an laugh ng and smiling Young man , come ate us , I ’ d die of starvation A sight for the nation ’ I d ' ut And lie in my grave , ere p in a prong .

’ So you see , Molly O I ve a heart soft and tender , ’ And don t you stand out , but just make your surrender . If you ’re bold like these Thrushes

That ﬁght in the bushes , I ’ll turn to some Blackbird and sing you my Song

P C C . ATRI K J . M CALL

S IX R THE OAD ENDS .

’ ’ ‘ the meetin dinner ow er When folks hae got an Sabbath , ’ ’ ’ a e ll The neighbours y gather an pass a frien ly hour , ’ ’ ’ O er the doin s o the week ’ ’ Tongues ll wag an cutties reek ’ Every Sabbath evenin at the Six Road Ends .

’ If comin frae the market ye got a wee bit drouth , An ’ gang into the public an ’ tongue has slipped the

truth , e How y sold the spavin mare , Bested this yin here an ’ there ’ Ye ll hear it on the Sabbath at the Six Road Ends C O 2 IRISH OUNTRYSIDE P ETRY . 47

’ — ’ Hae ye got a poun note ye dinn a wan t to len P — ’ ’ ’ Have ye got a wife that d rin about an spen P An ’ gang an ’ waste it a ’ ’ ’ Buyin thi ngs she had nae ca ’ Ye ll hear it on the Sabbath at the Six Road Ends .

m s P Hae Billy got the measles or Sammy got the mu p . P The brindle cow has died or yer Wife hae got the grumps . ’ ’ ’ Ye ll hear it a an mair , Till yer heart is sick an ’ sair ’ Ye ll hear it onthe Sabbath at the Six Road Ends .

’ ’ 0 The latest price cattle , the prospect o the crops , ’ r ? Is the minister goin to marry , or no quite o thodox How some countryside magnate Slipped a ha ’penny on the plate ’ Ye ll hear it on the Sabbath at the Six Road Ends .

I hae a girl that loves me , her word she gie me true , ’ ’ ’ kin l Her face is fair an y , her name I ll nae tell you ’ nane ll We gang where see , ’ For in troth ye ll no catch me . ’ Courtin on the Sabbath near the Six Road Ends . R WILL CA EW .

’ GOD S FOOL .

l c He stumbles down the vil age street . They rook

Their ﬁngers as he passes by , di And follow with sdainful eye ,

His queer ungainly form and uncouth look .

Ah , men , your petty scorning spare , He bath a greater cross to bear

A woman t urns from scoﬂi ng with the rest t l h To hush the li t e child t at clings , ff A righted , to her apron strings , 2 8 B O OF O 4 O K IRISH P ETRY .

Or hides a little soft head on her breast .

Women , he too was fair of limb , An d once a mother prayed for him !

l Ragged and queer and old , he comes a one ,

But sometimes , with mysterious smile ,

He mutters to himself the while ,

Or stops to hold strange converse with a stone .

Ah , men , beware , lest you should curse

The Master of the universe .

c - He claims a quaintance with a leaf wind blown , Or bids good morrow to a toad ; t So , far adown the dus y road i He stumbles forward it to the unknown .

Have pity on his passing . He

Hath trod the road to Calvary .

CELIA DUFFIN .

R BONNIE TWINKLING STA NIES .

’ Bonnie twinklin starnies ! Sae gentle and sae bright Ye woo me and ye win me

With your soft and silver light . ’ ’ Now p eepin o er the mountain ’ Now glintin in the streams Now kissin ’ the red heather bell All wi th your Winsome beams ’ Bonnie twinklin starnies ! Sae gentle and sae bright Ye woo me and ye win me

With your soft and silver light .

’ Bonnie twinklin starnies ! ’ loamin When g sheds its tinge , And strings the crystal dew- drop ’ Around the gowan s fringe

0 25 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY .

Ye cu dnae keep it clane the weans White 1 sticks the whole day whin it rams ; Ye know I cannae let them oot ' ’ ’ an Tae play , many s the scud an cloot sir ! They git from me for , in troth m Someti es they nearly turn my hea d . ’ But after all , sir , whin all s said ’ They re weans . ’

a . Och , aye they re only we ns

PADRIC GREGORY .

’ R THE HILL O D EAMS . ! ’ ’ My grief for the days that s b an done , ’ strai When I was a young girl g t an tall , ’ ’ 0 Comin alone at set sun ,

Up the high hill road from Cushendall . h I thought the miles no ardship then ,

Nor the long road weary to the feet ,

For the thrushes sang in the deep green glen , ’ ’ ’ An the evenin air was cool an sweet .

My head with many a thought was throng , An d many a dream as I never told , ’ My heart would lift as a wee bird s song , ’ Or at seein a whin bush crowned with gold . ’ And a lways I d look back at the say , ’ Or the turn 0 the road shut out the sight ’ Of the long waves curlin into the bay ’ ’ An breakin in foam where the sands is white .

dacent I was married young on a man ,

As many would call a prudent choice , But he never could hear how the river ran ’ ’ Singin a song in a changin voice , ’ Nor thought to see on the bay s blue wather s A hip with yellow sails unfurled , Bearin ’ away a King ’s young daughter ’ Over the brim of the heavin world .

I To w h te stick s:to cu t or wh tt e st ck s i i l i . O O 2 I IRISH C UNTRYSIDE P ETRY . 5

The way seems weary now to my feet , ’ ’ bes~man an An miles y , dreams bes few , ’ ’ The evenin air s not near so sweet , ’ The birds don t sing as they used to do . ’ ’ ’ 0 the An I m that tired at the top hill , ’ t That I haven t the heart to urn at all , To watch the curlin ’ breakers ﬁll wee The round bay at Cushendall .

HELEN LANYON .

THE BLUE , BLUE SMOKE . ! Oh many and many a time , di m In the old days , When the chapel ’s distant chime P i ealed the hour of evening pra se , ’ I ve bowed 111 head in prayer

Then shou dered scythe or bill , And travelled free of care To my home across the hill l Whi st the blue , blue smoke a Of my cott ge in the coom ,

Softly wreathing , n Sweetly breathi g , s w Waved my thou and elcomes home .

’ For oft and oft I ve stood , t Deligh ed in the dew , the Looking down across wood , Where it stole into my view Sw eet spirit of the sod

Of our own Irish earth ,

Going gently up to God , ’ s From the poor man hearth .

O , the blue , blue smoke

Of my cottage in the coom , t h Sof ly wreat ing ,

Sweetly breathing ,

My thousand welcomes home . BOOK OF IRISH POETRY .

on But I hurried swiftly , When Herself from the door Came swimming like a swan Beside the Shannon shore

And after her in haste ,

On pretty , pattering feet , Our rosy cherubs raced Their daddy dear to meet i Wh le the blue , blue smoke

Of my cottage in the coom , Softly wreathing, t Sweetly brea hing ,

Waved my thousand welcomes home . But the times are sorely changed

Since those dim old days , ’ And far , far I ve ranged From those dear old ways ’ And my colleen 3 golden hair

To silver all has grown , And our little cherub pair Have cherubs of their own

And the black , black smoke ,

Like a heavy funeral plume ,

Darkly wreathing , u Fearf l breathing ,

Crowns the city with its gloom .

’ But tis our comfort sweet ,

Through the long toil of life , That we ’ll turn with tired feet

From the noise and the strife , And wander slow ly back

In the soft western glow ,

Hand in hand , by the track That we trod long ago

Till the blue , blue smoke

Of our cottage in the coom , f So tly wreathing ,

Sweetly breathing ,

Waves our thousand welcomes home .

2 OO OF O 5 4 B K IRISH P ETRY .

Fought with little fumbling hands ,

Kicked inside His swaddling bands , Puckered wilful crimsoning face

Mary Mother , full of grace ,

At that little naughty thing , a- Still had been worshipping .

C NAN Y CAMPBELL .

L IRISH . LUL ABY .

’ I d rock my own sweet childie to rest in a cradle of gold of on a bough the willow , To the shoheen ho ! Of the wind of the west and the 10 i lulla ! of the soft sea b llow .

Sleep , baby dear ,

Sleep without fear ,

Mother is here beside your pillow .

’ I d put my own sweet childie to ﬂoat in a Silver boat on

the beautiful river , shoheen ! Where a whisper the white cascades , and a s lulla lo the green ﬂag Shiver .

Sleep , baby dear ,

Sleep without fear ,

Mother is here with you for ever .

’ Shoheen ho ! to the rise and fall of mother s bosom ’ tis sleep has bound you , r And , oh , my child , what cosier nest for rosie rest could love have found you P

Sleep , baby dear ,

Sleep without fear , ’ two Mother s arms are clasped around you . O IRISH COUNTRYSIDE P ETRY . 25 5

DREAMS .

My son is in America sea Away beyond the ,

But in his dreams he comes back home , o kr And looks out towards Kn c ee. He sees the ribbon of white road n Glenchree Go windi g towards , And he knocks with his stick on the open

To call herself and me .

’ i the All day he s work ng in town , moidhered And with the street , But in his dreams he feels the grass

The grass beneath his feet .

- He wanders up the green hill side ,

The elder bloom smells sweet , Then he praises God for the Irish air

And reek of burning peat .

The wonders of the West he sees , For men of wealth live there i the In houses reach ng to stars , i ’ With everyth ng that s fair . ! But och says he , the hills for me ,

The sight of grouse or hare , u The cry of the c rlews over the bog , h The breat of Irish air .

WINIFRED M . LETTS .

IN BALLYSHANNON .

t n the - S a ding on Mall , beside the Salmon leap , n By the danci g , singing waters of the Erne , Where the town of Ballyshannon lies asleep T r on l! m In y c ne proud and ste . 2 6 OO OF O 5 B K IRISH P ETRY .

the I behold , as in a dream , olden time ,

And familiar forms in tender sunset glow , An d Kilbarron I hear the old belfry chime ,

As in Sabbaths long ago .

Kilbarron In church my mother stood , a bride , a And its churchyard holds her kindred in its bre st ,

And I stand , a stranger , where they loved and sighed , h And were carried to t eir rest .

Far away the heedless world is surging on ,

And the distant headlands greet the rising sea ,

And the soundless dusk is gliding , pale and wan , r Round the rive mournfully .

i I go forth , as in a v sion of the night , n And I journey past the bracken and the fer , S carcel - n listening , in the swiftly dyi g light , th Of To e music the Erne .

To the wistful cadence of its vesper song

Reminiscent of the islands and the lake , Whence its waters wandered in a wayward throng ’ - For the salt sea surge s sake .

- And the happy children by the Salmon leap ,

And the happy faces , vanished long ago ,

Come to me in fancy as my watch I keep , l Whi e the lonely shadows grow .

far Some , perchance , sought El Dorado away ,

Some sought fair renown like valiant knights of old , ’ s Hearing in their soul the Erne s bright waters play ,

As on elﬁn harps of gold .

’ T rconnell s - iff And y sea cl s , white with spray and foam ,

Seemed to call the exiles over wave and shore . e But the h arth grew cold , and desolate the home ,

And the children came no more .

2 8 OO OF 5 B K IRISH POETRY .

THE STARLING LAKE .

’ My sorrow that I am not by the little dII n s ss h By the lake of the starling at Ro es under the ill , Of And the larks there , singing over the ﬁelds dew ,

Or evening there and the sedges still . see t For plain I now the lengh of the yellow sand , Lissadell off And far and its leafy ways , An d the holy mountain whose mighty heart

Gathers into it all the coloured days . ’ My sorrow that I am not by the little dII n B s ythe lake of the tarlings at evening when alkis still ,

And still in whispering sedges the herons stand . ’ Tis there I would nestle at rest till the quivering moon

Uprose in the golden quiet over the hill .

’ SEUMAS O SULLIVAN .

THE GRAND MATCH .

w as Dennis hearty when Dennis was young , his High was step in the jig that he sprung , ’ ’ H e sootherin had the looks an the tongue , ’ An he wanted a girl wid a fortune .

’ Nannie was grey eyed , an Nannie was tall , inu ndher s w Fair was the face hid her ha l , ’ ’ ! s 0 Troth an he liked her the be t them all , ’ a But she d not a tr neen to her fortune .

l He be to ook out for a likelier match ,

So he married a girl that was counted a catch , ’ as An as ugly need be , the dark little patch ,

But that was a triﬂe , he tould her .

’ She brought him her good lookin gold to admire , ’ - his She brought him her good lookin cows to byre , ’ m she sat But , far fro good lookin by his ﬁre , “ And paid him that triﬂe he tould her . CO N O 2 IRISH U TRYSIDE P ETRY . 5 9

He met pretty Nan when a month had gone by , ’ ’ An he thought , like a fool , to get round her he d try , m In Wid a s ile on her lip and a Spark her eye , t w P She said , How is the woman hat o ns ye

’ ’ ! Och , never be tellin the life that he s led ’ i ’ m Sure many s the n ght that he ll wish hi self dead , ’ t For the sake of two eyes in a pret y girl s head , ' An the tongue of the woman that owns him .

’ O R M I A O NEILL .

CORRYMEELA .

’ ’ hel in W I Over here in England I m p the hay , And I wisht I was in Ireland the livelong day ; ’ r Wea y on the English hay , an sorra take the wheat ! ’ ! Corr meela Och y , an the blue sky over it .

’ ’ There s a deep dumb river ﬂow in by beyont the heavy

trees , ’ ’ ’ This livin air is moithered w 1 the hummin o the bees ; ’ ’ I wisht I d hear the Claddagh burn go ru nnin through

the heat , ’ P Corr meela wi ast y , the blue sky over it .

’

The people that s in England is richer nor the Jews , ’ There s not the smallest young gossoon but thrav els in his shoes ! ’ barefu t I d give the pipe between me teeth to see a child , m l ’ l w ! Corr ee a o . Och y , an the south wind

’ ’ ’ ’ so 0 s 0 Here s hands full money an heart so full care , ’ ’

0 . By the luck love I d still go light for all I did go bare .

God save ye , colleen dhas , I said ; the girl she thought m e wild . m l ’ Corr ee a . Far y , an the low south wind 26 0 OO OF O B K IRISH P ETRY .

’ mortial D ye mind me now , the song at night is hard to

raise , ’ The girls are heavy goin here , the boys are ill to plase ’ ’ ’ ’ ’ When ones t I m out this workin hive , tis I ll be back again Corr m l ee a . Aye , y , in the same soft rain

’ The puff o smoke from one ould roof ~ before an English town ’ ' a sha u h Feelan -a w For g wid Andy here I d give Silver cro n , ’ ’ ’ 0 i For a curl hair l ke Mollie s ye ll ask the like in vain , ’ Corr meela Sweet y , an the same soft rain .

’ O M IRA O NEILL .

AN OLD WOMAN OF THE ROADS .

Oh , to have a little house , To own the hearth and stool and all - u The heaped p sods upon the ﬁre , The pile of turf against the wall !

To have a clock with weights and chains , And pendulum swinging up and down !

A dresser ﬁlled with shining delph , Speckled and white and blue and brown

I could be busy all the day

Clearing and sweeping hearth and ﬂoor , And ﬁxing on their shelf again

My white and blue and speckled store .

I could be quiet there at night

Beside the ﬁre and by myself, of Sure a bed , and loth to leave

The ticking clock and shining delph .

S TRI N GS I N THE EA RTH AN D

S tri ngs i n the earth a nd a i r

M a ke music sweet

S tri ngs by the ri ver where

The will ws meet o .

’ There s musi c alon the ri ver g , F or Love wa nders there,

P a le owers on hi s ma ntle ﬂ ,

D rk lea ves on hi s ha i r a .

A ll softly playing

With head to the mu sic bent , A nd ﬁngers strayi ng

U Jon a i nst ument ! n r .

JAM ES J OYCE SPIRITU AL A N D PHILOSOPHICAL

POETRY .

THE TRYST AFTER DEATH .

Fothad n Canan , the leader of a Connaught warrior off Alill band , had carried the wife of of Munster with her consent . The outraged husband pursued them , and a i othad Alill ﬁerce battle was fought , in wh ch F and fell ’ t 8 by each o her hands . The lovers had engaged to meet on the evening after the battle . Faithful to his word , the spirit of the slain warrior kept hi s tryst and thus addressed his paramour]

! Hush , woman Do not speak to me ; ~ My thoughts are not with thee to night . They glance again and yet again F Among the slain at eic ﬁght .

’ Who d ﬁnd my bloody corpse must grope U on the Slope of Double Brink ; My ead unwashed is in the hands ’ Of bands who ne er from slaughter shrink .

Dark Folly is that tryster ’s guide ’ Wh o Death s black tryst aside would set th e To keep tryst at Claragh made ,

The living and the dead are met .

Unhappy journey ! Evil doom c c Had marked my tomb on F i ﬁeld , And pledged me in that fateful strife i To foreign foes my l fe to yield . 263 26 O F O 4 B OK O IRISH P ETRY .

Not I alone from Wisdom ’s way Have gone astray by Passion led ;

Yet though for thee to death I came ,

I put no blame on thy bright head .

Full wretched is our meeting here s ! In grief and fear , O haple s one

Yet had we known it should be thus ,

Not hard for us our sin to shun .

- - The proud faced , grey horsed warrior band At my command fought faithful on Till all their wondrous wood of spears ’ Beneath D eath s shears to earth had gone .

Had they but lived , their valour bright

- To night had well avenged their lord .

Had Death not all my purpose chan ed , I had avenged them with my swor

was c Theirs the blithe and lithesome for e ,

Till man and horse lay on the mould .

The great , green forest hath received l And over eav ed the champions bold .

Domnall The sword of drank red dew ,

The Lugh of hosts accoutred well , Before him in the River Ford ’ om al By Death s award slim C g fell .

lanns The three ﬁerce F , the Owens three , From sea to sea six outlaws famed

Each with his single hand slew four , ’ No coward s portion thus they claimed .

- Swift charged Cu Domna , singlingout

- With gleesome shout , his name sake dread , Down the Hill of Conﬂict rolled Lies Flann the Little cold and dead

266 OO OF B K IRISH POETRY .

’ Cailte s Then brooch , a pin of luck ,

Though small , a buckle of price untold ; Two little silver heads are bound

Deftly around its head of gold .

- My draught board , no mere treasure stake , Is thine to take without offence its rim Noble blood bright dyes ,

Lady it lies not far from hence .

rii ed While searching for that treasure p ,

Be thou advised thy speech to spare . Earth never kn ew beneath the sun l A gift more wonderfu ly fair .

- One half its pieces yellow gold , Whi te bronze of mould are all the rest

Its woof of pearls , a peerless frame , of By every smith fame confessed .

—’ The piece - bag tis a tale of tales

Its rim with golden scales enwrought . Its maker left a lock on it - Whose secret no want wit hath caught .

- Small is the casket and four square ,

Of coils of rare red gold its face , The hundreth ounce of white bronze ﬁne

Was weighed to line that matchless case .

’ O er sea that red gold coil ﬁrm- wrought Dinoll c brought , the goldsmith ni e Of its all - gl ttering Clasps one even ’ ﬁx m e Is ed at seven bondwo en s pric .

Tradition tells the treasure is ’ A masterpiece of Turvy s Skill In the rich reign of Art The Good H ﬁll is cattle would a cantred . AND C O SPIRITUAL PHILOSOPHI AL P ETRY .

No goldsmith at hi s glitterin g trade A wonder made ol brighter worth ; No royal jew el that outdid h e e Its glory ath be n hid in arth .

its If thou appraise rice with skill , ' ’ Want shall thy c dren ne er attack ; h hi If t ou keep safe t s gem of mine , N O heir of thine shall ever lack .

There are around us everwhere Grea t spoils to share of famous luck ; Yet horribly at entrails grim ’ n The Morrigan s dim ﬁ gers pluck .

- U on a spear edge sharp alit , she e ith savage wit urg d us on . a Many the spoils she washes , dre d

The laughter of red Morrigan .

Her horrid mane abroad is ﬂu n ’ That heart s well - strung that shrinks not is Yet though to us she so near ,

Let no weak fear thy heart attack .

’ t s m At dawn I part from all hat hu an , m ! To join , O wo an the warrior band . Delay not ! Homeward urge thy ﬂight ; n The end of night is nigh at ha d .

Unto all time each ghostly rann Fothad Of Canann Shall remain , a My speech with thee re ch every breast ,

If my bequest I but obtain .

c a Sin e many to my gr ve will come , s - Rai e thou for me a tomb far seen . Such trouble for thy true love ’s sake 0 ! Wilt thou not undertake , Queen 268 O OF O BO K IRISH P ETRY .

w My corse from thee must earth ard pass ,

s ! u . My soul , ala to tort ring ﬁre ’ Save worship of Heaven s Lord of lords ff All earth a ords but folly dire .

’ I hear the dusky ousel s song , t To greet the faithful hrong , outpour ;

My voice , my shape , turn spectral weak ! Hush , woman , Speak to me no more

X ALE ANDER THE GREAT .

[From the E a rly I rish ] Four Sages stood to chant a stave Above the proud Earth Conqueror ’s grave And all their words were words of candour

Above the urn of Alexander .

The ﬁrst began But yesterday ,

When all in State the Great King lay , n Myriads around him made their moa , To - day he lieth all alone I

But yesterday , the second sang , ’ ’ O er earth his charger s hoof outrang ; To - day its outraged soil instead ’ IS riding heavy o er his head

But yesterday , the third went on , ’ All earth was swayed by Philip s son To - day to shroud his calcined bones Seven feet thereof is all he owns

But yesterday , so liberal he , Silver and gold he scattered free ; ” - outsi hed To day , the last g his thought , His wealth abounds but he is naught

2 0 OO OF 7 B K IRISH POETRY .

Three the receivers are of stolen goods

A cloak , the cloak of night , the cloak of woods .

Three unions , each of peace a proved miscarriage

Confederate feats , joint ploughland , bonds of marriage .

Three excellencies of our dress are these

as . Elegance , durability and e e

’ ss Three aged sisters , not too hard to gue ,

Are groaning , chastity and ugliness .

Three glories of a gathering free from strife

Swift hound , proud steed and beautiful young wife .

The world ’s three laughing stocks (be warned and wiser

An angry man , a jealous and a miser .

Three powers advantaging a Chieftain most P Are eace and Justice and an ar med host . ’ Three worst of snares upon a Chieftain s w ay ! Sloth , treachery and evil counsel they

Three ruins of a tribe to west or cast i P e A ly ng Chief, false Brehon , lustful ri st .

The rudest three of all the sons of earth s A young ter of an old man making mirth ,

A strong man at a sick man poking fun , s A wi e man gibing at a foolish one .

Three siius that Show a fop the comb - track in his The trac of his nice teeth upon his nibbled fare ,

His cane track in the dust , oft as he takes the air .

Three sparks that light the ﬁre of love are these

and . Glamour of face , and grace , speech of ease AND ‘ PHILOSOPHICAL O 2 1 SPIRITUAL P ETRY . 7

Three steadinesses of wise womanhood

A steady tongue , through evil as through good

A steady chastity , whoso else shall stray

- Steady house service , all and every day . : Three signs of increase kine that low , When milk unto their calves they owe ' s The hammer on the anvil brow ,

The pleasant swishing of the plough .

Thr ee sisters false I w ould I might I may Three timorous brothers Hearken Hush and Stay

Three coffers of a depth unknown

Are His who occupies the throne , ’ P ’ The Church s , and the privileged oet s own .

’ ’ THRO GRIEF AND THRO DANGER .

[A n A ddress to the I rish Ca tholic Chu rch ] ’ ’ ’d Thro grief and thro danger thy smile hath cheer my way , ’ Till hope seem d to bud from each thorn that round me lay ;

The darker our fortune , the brighter our pure love

burned , t Till shame into glory , till fear into zeal was urned , w as Oh Slave as I , in thy arms my spirit felt free , ’ ’ And bless d e en the sorrows that made me more dear

to thee .

w Thy rival was honoured , while thou wert ronged and scorned w s Thy cro n was of brier , while gold her brows adorned ’ w ’ She woo d me to temples , hile thou lay st hid in caves s w m s ! Her friend ere all a ters , while thine , alas were slaves w Yet , cold in the earth at thy feet I ould rather be , ’ lov d h Than wed what I not , or turn one t ought from thee . 2 2 OO OF O 7 B K IRISH P ETRY .

They slander thee sorely who say thy vow s are fraIl ’ look d Hadst thou been a false one , thy cheek had less pale ’ lin rin They say , too , so long thou hast worn those g g a ch ins , That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile

stains ,

Oh do not believe them , no chain could that soul subdue , r Where shineth thy spirit , the e liberty shineth too . O OO TH MAS M RE .

TO TIME .

Yes , gentle Time , thy gradual , healing hand Hath stolen from sorrow ’s grasp the envenomed dart

Submitting to thy skill , my passive heart el Fe s that no grief can thy soft power Withstand , An d though my aching breast still heaves the sigh , h T ough oft the tear swells silent in mine eye , Ye t the keen pang , the agony is gone e Sorrow and I shall part , and th se faint throes Are but the remnant of severer woes ’ As when the furious tempest is o er blown ,

And when the sky has wept its Violence , w The opening heavens ill oft let fall a shower , ’ o erchar éd The poor g boughs still drops dispense .

And still the loaded streams in torrents pour .

HO MRS . E N . TH . TIGHE

LAST LINES .

No coward soul is mine , ’ No trembler in the world s storm - troubled sphere ; ’ I see Heaven s glories shine ,

n n f . And faith shi es equal , armi g me rom fear

2 O OF OE 74 B OK IRISH P TRY .

Can n ﬁnd no shore to bou d them , On whose calm breast Pure spirits rest With all their glory round them

Oh that my soul , all free , From bonds of earth might sever Oh that those isles might be

Her resting place for ever .

When all those glorious spheres i The watch of Heaven are keep ng, l ’ And dews , ike angels tears Around are gently weeping

Oh , who is he That carelessly ’ t n On vir ue s bounds e croaches , But then will feel Upon him steal

Their silent , sweet reproaches P

Oh that my soul , all free , From bonds of earth might sever Oh ! that those isles might be - r Her resting place fo ever .

J . J. CALLANAN .

LINES ON THE DEATH OF SHERIDAN .

— l n Yes , grief will have way but the fast fa li tear Shall be mingled with deep execrations on ose ’ In e Who could bask that Spirit s m ridian career ,

And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its close .

n fed Whose vanity ﬂew rou d him , only while By the odour his fame In its summer- time gave a Whose vanity now , with quick scent for the de d ,

Like the Ghole of the East , come to feed at his grave AN D O O C O 2 SPIRITUAL PHIL S PHI AL P ETRY . 75

Oh it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow , And spirits so mean in the great and high - born To think what a long line of titles may follow The relics of him who died—friendless and lorn !

How proud they can press to the funeral array Of one whom they shunned in his sickness and sorrow ff z - How baili s may sei e his last blanket to day , Whose pall shall be held up by nobles to - morrow

’ s And thou , too , who e life , a sick epicure s dream ,

Incoherent and gross , even grosser had passed , Were it not for that cordial and soul iv ing beam ’ Which his friendship and wit o er t y nothingness cast .

No , not for the wealth of the land , that supplies thee ’ With millions to heap upon Foppery s shrine ;

No , not for the riches of all who despise thee Though this would make Europe ’s whole opulence mine

Would I suffer what e ’en in the heart that thou hast n All mean as it is , must have co sciously burned , m e When the pittance , which shame had wrung fro the

at last ,

And which found all his wants at an end , was returned

th e — u sa Was this then fate , fut re ages will y , When some names shall live but in History ’s curse w When Truth ill be heard , and these Lords of a day

m . Be forgotten as fools , or reme bered as worse

- i Was this then the fate of that high g fted man ,

The pride of the palace , the bower and the hall , — — — The orator dramatist minstrel who ran

th e . Through each mode of lyre , and was master of all

an Whose mind was essence , compounded with art , ’ From the ﬁnest an d best of all other men s powers 276 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY

Who ruled , like a wizard , the world of the heart , s its And could call up its sun hine , or bring down

showers .

’ ﬁre- ﬂ s Whose humour , as gay as the y li ht , P g layed round every subject , and shone as it p yed

Whose wit , in the combat , as gentle as bright , ’ - Ne er carried a heart stain away on its blade . — Whose eloquence brightening whatever it tried .

Whether reason or fancy , the gay or the grave ,

Was as rapid , as deep , and as brilliant a tide As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave ! ”

— th e hi s Yes such was man , and so wretched fate to And thus , sooner or later , shall all have grieve , ’ the of Who waste their morn s dew in beams the Great , ’ v And expect twill return to refresh them at e e .

In the woods of the North there are insects that prey On the brain of the elk till his very last sigh atrons O Genius thy , more cruel than they ,

First feed on y brains , and then leave thee to die

THOMAS MOORE .

THE SUN GOD .

I saw the Master of the Sun . He stood

High in his luminous car , himself more bright An Archer of immeasurable might On his left shoulder hung his quivered load Spurned by his Steeds the eastern mountain glowed

Forward his eager eye , and brow of light

He bent and , while both hands that arch embowed ,

Shaft after shaft pursued the ﬂying Night . No wings profaned that godlike form around His neck high held an ever - moving crowd

278 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY

his s But when thousand years are pas ed ,

With a cherubic sigh , He vanished with his car at last For even cherubs die

Hear how his angel - brothers mourn The minstrels of the spheres Each chiming sadly in his turn

And dropping splendid tears .

The planetary sisters all in the Jo in fatal song , ’ f And weep this hapless brother s all ,

Who sang with them so long .

But deepest of the choral band

The Lunar Spirit sings , And with a bass- according hand all Sweeps her sullen strings .

From the deep chambers of the dome

Where sleepless Uriel lies ,

His rude harmonic thunders come ,

Mingled with mighty Sighs .

- The thousand car borne cherubim ,

The wandering Eleven , All join to chant the dirge of him

Who fell just now from Heaven .

‘ O GE RGE DARLEY .

R THE SEA ITUAL .

P n rayer unsaid , and Mass u sung , Deadman ’s dirge must still be rung

- - Dingle dong , the dead bells sound Mermen chant his dirge around ! AN D O O C O 2 SPIRITUAL PHIL S PHI AL P ETRY . 79

s Wash him bloodle s , smooth him fair , his l Stretch imbs , and sleek his hair - a - l o ! Dingle dong , the de d bel s g Mermen swing them to and fro

In the wormless sand shall he Feast for no foul glutton be

- - Dingle dong , the dead bells chime Mermen keep the tone and time

We must with a tombstone brave Shut the shark out from his grave

- Dingle dong , the dead bells toll Mermen dirgers rin g his knoll

w ’ Such a slab ill we lay o er him , All the dead shall rise before him - - Dingle dong , the dead bells boom Mermen lay him in his tomb

GEORGE DARLEY .

A WAKING DREAM . m Drea ing in the twilight , ’ When the shades creep o er the hill ; i is Watch ng , when the sun gone ,

How the grey , cold night comes on ,

Awake , yet dreaming still

Then I dream of dead ones ,

Of my life the joy and light , s And I see them round me ri e , And I feel their cold calm eyes

Gaze on me through the night . 28 0 OF BOOK IRISH POETRY .

fireli ht Dreaming by the g , When the wintry night is chill fire- Watching sparks upward fly , While the embers sink and die

Awake , yet dreaming still .

Then I dream of fair souls

From dead ashes issuing bright ,

And I see my dead arise ,

' s Soaring heavenward through the skie , - a In the death d rk night .

Dreaming in the sunlight , When the summer noon is still Watching in the deep blue sky

- Clouds of white , gold cinctured lie

Awake , yet dreaming still .

a Then I dream of he ven ,

Far beyond those tranquil skies , ’ And I see , mid angels bright ,

My dead , in robes of gold and white ,

Alive before my eyes .

C S JOHN FRAN I WALLER .

A LAMENT . Youth ’s bright palace t Is over hrown , With its diamond sceptre And golden throne ; As a time - worn stone

Its turrets are humbled , All hath crumbled

B ut grief alone .

28 2 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY .

And Princes who smile ’ On the Genii s daughters ’ Neath the Orient waters Full many a mile

And all that the pen

Of Fancy can write , Must vanish in manhood ’s Misty light and Squire knight , ’ And damosels glances , Sunny romances So pure and bright !

i These have van shed , An d what remains P Life ’s budding garlands Have turned to chains Its beams and rains s i Feed but dock and th stles , And sorrow whi stles O ’er desert plains ! C DENIS FLORENCE M CARTHY .

ZB RP OLIAN HA .

O pale green sea , e With long , pale , purple clouds abov What lies in me like weight of love P What dies in me

With utter grief, because there comes no sign - - Through the sun raying West , or the dim sea line P

O salted air , s Blown round the rocky headland till , What calls me there from cove and hill P What calls me fair O O C O 28 SPIRITUAL AND PHIL S PHI AL P ETRY . 3

th e ﬁrst - From thee , born of the youthful night , Or in the waves is coming through the dusk twilight P

0 yellow Star , Quivering upon the rippling tide ’ Sendest so far to one that sigh d P Bendest thou , Star , e e Above , where the shadows of the d ad have r st

And constant silence , with a message from the blest P

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM .

O l WONDROUS DEATH I

Where thou hast touched , Oh , wondrous Death s Where thou ha t come between , Lo ! there for ever perisheth

The common and the mean .

No little ﬂaw , or trivial speck

Doth any more appear ,

And cannot from this time , to ﬂeck ’ Love s perfect image clear .

’ Clear stands Love s perfect image now ,

And shall do evermore , aw e how And we in and wonder ,

The gloriﬁed before .

II . w A de drop falling on the wild sea wave , Exclaimed in fear I perish in this grave s dew But in a hell received , that drop of Unto a pearl of marvellous beauty grew ;

And , happy now , the grace did magnify — Which thrust it forth as ﬁrst it feared , to die 28 O OF O 4 B OK IRISH P ETRY .

Until again , I perish quite , it said , Torn by rude diver from its ocean bed 0 unbelieving - so it came to gleam ’ f in Chie jewel a Monarch s diadem .

III . The seed must die before the corn appears

Out of the ground , in blade and fruitful ears . ’ s Low must tho e ears by sickle s ed e be lain , Ere thou canst treasur e up the go den grain d tli e The grain is crushe , before bread is made ,

And the bread broke , ere life to man conveyed .

Oh be content to die , to be laid low ,

And to be crushed , and to be broken so ’ ’ If thou upon God s table may st be bread , - an - Life giving food for souls hungered . C ARCHBISHOP TREN H .

LADY MARGARET ’S SONG

Girls , when I am gone away , On this bosom strew and Only ﬂowers meek pale ,

And the yew .

n Lay these hands dow by my side , Let my face be bare

Bind a kerchief round the face ,

Smooth my hair .

n Let my bier be borne at daw ,

Summer grows so sweet , Deep into the forest green

Where boughs meet .

Then pass away , and let me lie

One long , warm , sweet day ,

There alone , with face upturned ,

One sweet day .

86 OK OF O 2 BO IRISH P ETRY .

0 Then , my love , I said , needs must there be

In thy dread world , unwist of mortal eyes ,

Full many a wondrous bloom , and worthier thee Than aught that drinks the light of these dim skies

u Most fair , q oth she , untouched of change that mars ,

I see them shine ; yet this I chide in all , ’ That steadfast bides their beauty as a star s , w Nor ever a glow will fade , a leaf ill fall .

For so , Beloved , I still have vainly sought ,

And missed in sheeniest sheen , in sweetest sweet , ’ i - A symbol o—f the old life s bliss , pa n fraught Thine yet where all delight doth fail and ﬂeet .

’ Hence , for the old days sake , from that far land

To clasp these ﬂowers a weary way fare I , Because their deathward drooping in my hand

Breathes memory of our love that shall not die . O JANE BARL W .

R THE EA TH AND MAN .

A little sun , a little rain , A soft wind blowing from the west

And woods and ﬁelds are sweet again , ’ a And warmth within the mount in s breast .

So simple is the earth we tread ,

So quick with love and life her frame , n Ten thousand years have daw ed and ﬂed ,

And still her magic is the same .

A little love , a little trust , ft r A so impulse , a sudden d eam

And life , as d as desert dust , ea Is fresher t an a mountain str m . O C O 28 SPIRITUAL AND PHIL SOPHI AL P ETRY . 7

So simple is the heart of man ,

So ready for new hope and joy , Ten thousand years since it began

Have left it younger than a boy .

S TOPFORD OO . A . BR KE

SONG .

and Bring from the craggy haunts of birch pine , i i Thou wild w nd , br n a n Keen forest odours from t t re lm of thi e , Upon thy wing !

! ! t Oh wind , Oh migh y , melancholy wind ,

Blow through me , blow blowest n Thou forgotten things into my mi d ,

From long ago . R JOHN TODHUNTE .

R THE BALLAD OF FATHE GILLIGAN . P The old priest , eter 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 , o man Another po r sent for him ,

And he began to grieve .

n e I have o r st , nor joy , nor peace , For eople die and die aff ! And er cried he , God forgive ! My body spake , not I 288 O OF O BO K IRISH P ETRY .

n He k elt , and leaning on the chair

He prayed and fell asleep , the - And moth hour went from the ﬁelds ,

And st ars began to peep .

They slowly into millions grew ,

And leaves shook in the wind ,

And God covered the world with shade , i And whispered to mank nd .

Upon the time of sparrow chirp h When the mot s came once more , P The old priest , eter Gilligan ,

Stood upright on the ﬂoor .

Mavrone mav rone ! , the man has died ,

While I slept on the chair .

He roused his horse out of its sleep ,

And rode with little care .

no He rode w 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 . P The old priest , eter Gilligan ,

In grief swayed to and fro .

When you were gone , he turned and died ” As merry as a bird . P The old priest , eter Gilligan ,

He knelt him at that . word .

He who hath made the night of stars who For souls , tire and bleed , Sent one of His great angels down To h elp me in my need

2 0 OO OF O 9 B K IRISH P ETRY .

How could you leave me P Did ye think a mother ’ Was natured like a bird in summer s prime , l Who leaves her young brood , hopefu of another In the next glad spring time P

They tell me your new home is rich and sunny More than this dwelling on the mounta in Cold l and i Fair as the that ﬂowed w th milk and honey , l In the great Book of O d.

They tell me ﬂowers most beautiful are' blowing

Out on your waysides , on your common trees , ’ ﬁn d s But will ye the mother love there growing , Ye gave for things like these P

And some have told me souls are never parted ; s Faith lead us all unto the same bright Heaven , - Nor meet it is , that women , Christian hearted , To such wild grief be given

Ah But I know in that bright land is wanting - On Sunday morn , the sweet church calling bell , ’ ather d The pastoral word , the g voices chanting

Hymns that ye loved so well .

The cares of this great world , its toils , its beauty ,

Will dim your eyes , and grow about your heart , an d And shut out heavenly hope Christian duty ,

And every better part .

’ ’ ra d The prayers we p y together at God s altar , ’ lis d car The creed ye p into my at night , The verses th at I taught your lips to falter

Will be forgotten quite .

co n os s a Ah me uld I but thi k th e lip were m king, s In some far church , the vow they used to pour , I could lie down without this wild heart- aching

Lest we should meet no more . A D O O C 2 1 SPIRITUAL N PHIL S PHI AL POETRY . 9

Sad mother ! for the visible presence ining e s fondf Of ey s that mile and lips that y move , ’ Things that , like dewy nights and bright sun s shining , th Nurse e sweet ﬂowers of love .

en But sadder far , wh the wild waves that sever Sing to her ear in one foreboding strain ? We part you now , but must ye part for ever ’ s l Echoing the heart du l pain .

C CECIL FRAN ES ALEXANDER .

SACRIFICE .

h i T ose del cate wanderers , the The wind , star , the cloud ,

Ever before mine eyes , a As to an alt r bowed ,

- Light and dew laden airs , ff O er in sacriﬁce .

The offerings arise w Hazes of rainbo light , P ure crystal , blue and gold , Through dreamland take their ﬂight And ’mid the sacriﬁce

God moveth as of old .

In miracles of ﬁre He symbols forth His days ; In learns of crystal light ” Revea 3 what pure pathways ’ a s Le d to the soul s de ire ,

The silence of the height . 2 2 O OF 9 B OK IRISH POETRY .

MICHAN ’S R ST . CHURCHYA D .

’ Ro ert E mmet s ur a a ce [ b B i l pl . ) Inside the city ’s throbbing heart

One spot I know , set well apart ’ ’ From Life s hard highway , Life s loud mart .

Each Dublin lane , and street , and square Around might echo ; but in there

The sound stole soft as whispered prayer .

i t A l t le , lonely , green graveyard ,

The old church tower its solemn guard ,

The gate with nought but sunbeams barred .

While other sunbeams went and came n Above the stone which waits the ame , ’ His land must write with Freedom s ﬂame .

The slender elm above that stone Its summer wreath of leaves had thrown

Around the heart so quiet grown .

A robin , the bare boughs among, Let loose his little soul in song

Quick liquid gushes , fresh and strong .

And quiet heart , and bird and tree , Seemed linked in some strange sympathy

Too ﬁne for mortal eye to see ,

But full of balm and soothing sweet ,

For those who sought that calm retreat ,

For aching breast and weary feet .

Each crowded street —and thoroughfare Was echoing round it yet in there o a The peace f He ven was everywhere . O R SE KAVANAGH.

O 294 BOOK OF IRISH P ETRY .

t But that beneath hose little faltering feet ,

In sacriﬁce complete , ma a A hard path y be chosen , the upw rd way , On which I pause to - day P ause , helpless , weary , and can walk no more , Whose work in life is o ’er

And I bequeath , n e t Whe I must r st my share of ear h beneath ,

My days of toil being done , The hope of this so nearly hopeless heart

To you , weak little one ,

To be cherished and held apart , P t erhaps by failure to be ried and shaken , Yet not by you forsaken

But kept , as I have kept it , handed on u n s Till , when you too are d st be eath the ﬂower ,

Triumph at last is ours , When darkness yields to dawn ; And may it be our best of heaven to know

That God has made it so .

Now you may run ,

White pinafore , into the spreading sun

Mid shadows racing as the clouds pass by ,

Go , play , as thoughtless as the butterﬂy , s The white , gay thing that you are cha ing after , With ringing childish laughter 1 t ’ And , whose innocent days of mir h are o er ,

Seeing you look to me and laugh again , Feel hope steal back into my heart once more

Hope , with this thought of pain ,

That , oh you would be frightened if you knew h All I ave wished for you . C ALI E MILLIGAN . AN D OSO C O 2 SPIRITUAL PHIL PHI AL P ETRY . 95

P TOO DEE FOR TEARS .

Come once again out of the depths of night , s is Out of the darkne s , that all too bright For eyes that need the glare of earthly light

s Look once again—, oh , eyes of pure t blue , Deep into mine alas ! that never kn ew

In bygone days what beauty shone in you .

O calm and silent eyes , yet once again in Ye look upon me , and I look vain That bafﬂing stillness— is it love or pain ?

Or love reproaching me that mine is cold P Ah ! never so ; the love that burned of old s Burns all the more becau e it burns untold .

c Nay , doubt me not ; a thousand ares beset ; s w New joy , new sorro s tempt me to forget ;

s ! . But thou , my deare t art remembered yet

My brother ! my lost brother ! who can say ’

How far from sight , beneath life s surface play , Live wounds of anguish that no tears betray ?

Thou know est at least that only when my woe

Grew part of me , and sank from sight below ﬂow Into my life , my tears forbore to .

e Thou know st , oh , love , how often while I fare — Through dark and stony paths in my despair — - . on I seek thine arm and lean empty air .

i Aye , even now thy dear magined eyes i Speak from the darkness , and thy heart repl es To these my passionate and wayward cries ; 2 6 OO OF O 9 B K IRISH P ETRY .

n Lea on me still God gave , in taking me , His precious gifts of Hope and Memory ; ”

r . Be st ong in these , and I am near to thee

O EDMUND G . A . H LMES .

A RETORT .

Not hers your vast Imperial mart , Where myriad hopes on fea rs are hurled ; Where furious rivals meet and part

To woo a world .

Not hers your vast Imperial town , t Your migh y mammoth piles of grain , Your loaded vessels sweeping down

To glut the main .

Unused , unseen , her rivers ﬂow From mou ntaIn tarn to ocean tide ; a Wide vacant leagues the sunbe ms Show . - The rain clouds hide .

You swept them vacant ! Your decree Bid all her budding commerce cease ; You drove her from your subject sea To starve in peace

a ! Well , be it pe ce Resi ed they ﬂow ,

No laden ﬂeet adown em glides , But wheeling salmon sometimes Show

Their silvered sides .

And sometimes through the long still day

The breeding herons slowly rise , Lifting grey tranquil wings away

To tranquil skies .

298 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY .

i . O brothers , s sters , come with me s see The old hou e still stands there , you - Tories I My little red haired , come , o For none can shut the door f home . ’ We re safe before the sun goes down ,

And sleep is sweet in Carrick town .

in O hide me , Carrick , shut me Here in your little streets begi n Again for me the young surprise e Of life , give back the eager ey s ,

The bounding hearts , the hands that clung,

The songs our comrade voices sung .

See our own window set so high k To catch the wonder of the S y . m Co e Brown Eyes , Blue Eyes , Curly Head .

O come , my living , come , my dead

O Death , how did you ﬁnd the way You tread so certainly to- day ?

No bigger than a bulrush , I

Beside the rushy Shannon cry .

There are no children on the shore , s s The inging voice sing no more ,

The sea draws all her rivers down ,

And love has sailed from Carrick town ,

C SUSAN MIT HELL .

1 I ri h s n ame for rogu es or robb ers. P AND O O C O 2 S IRITUAL PHIL S PHI AL P ETRY . 99

N ’ CO NLA S WELL . [Th a t is a w ell a t whi ch are th e h azels of wisd om and inspir a t ons th at is th e h azels of th e sci en ce of oetr an d in th e i , , p y , same h ou r th e r ru t an d th e r ossom and th ei r ol a e reak , i f i i bl f i g b orth an d th en a u on th e w el in th e same sh ower w h ch rai ses f , f ll p l , i u on th e Th e r w aters a ro a sur e of ur e . o a e of an p y l g p pl V y g B , p .

t - A cabin on the moun ain side hid in a grassy nook , t O Wi h door and window pen Wide , where friendly stars

may look , S h The rabbit y can patter in , the Winds ma enter free Who throng around the mountain throne in living ecstasy

And when the sun sets dimmed in eve , and purple ﬁlls the

air , - I think the sacred hazel tree is dropping berries there , ’ From starry fruitage waved aloft where Connla s well ’ o erﬂow s r For , sure , the immortal waters run th ough every wind

that blows .

f tremb I think , when night towers up alo t and shakes the

ling dew , How every high and lonely thought that thrills my spirit through Is but a shin ing berry dropped down thr ough the purple

am, l w And from the magic tree of life the fruit fa ls every here . A E . .

DREAMS .

Beyond , beyond the mountain line , - The grey stone and the boulder , Beyond the growt h of dark green pine

That crowns its western shoulder ,

There lies that fairy land of mine ,

Unseen of a beholder . 00 OO OF O 3 B K IRISH P ETRY .

Its fruits are all like rubies rare ; Its streams are clear as glasses ; l air There golden cast es hang in ,

And purple grapes in masses , And noble knights and ladies fair

Come riding down the passes .

Ah me they say if I could stand t Upon hose mountain ledges , I should but see on either hand Plain ﬁelds and dusty hed es And yet I know my fairy and ’ s es Lie somewhere o er their edg . C C E CE IL FRAN ES AL XANDER .

- B THE SOUL ELL .

- Night , and its noon and a far to morrow , Grey with the fears Of a future that leans to a past to borrow

Its meed of tears .

White are the drifts outside and hither ,

Around her bed , i White comes the face , that asks , oh , wh ther Fares forth my dead ?

White is the taper clasped in her ﬁngers Her lips are white ; 0 ! i Recall Thy judgment , God that l ngers This weary night

Hark ! from the ivy across the river Moaneth the bell ; Death ! ﬂi ng thy arrow back to its quiver There it is well

30 2 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY .

So take thy soul and keep it sane ; - And , treading ﬁrm the green earth sod ,

Look upward from that place to God ,

s . That He . hall see thy soul again

There undejected , there unhurled Asunder—sick with mortal change - Self held from star to star to range ,

Or one with all the working world .

0 King of kings and emperors , Though vagabond of night and morn Some dusty quarry - fellow born To walk beside a tattered horse CHARLES WEEKES

’ A MOMENT S INSIGHT .

v eilé d Beyond the smoke there burns a ﬁre , s Behind the horizon ails a ship of dreams , Yet in the night Of deeds and dull desire

The earth that blinds our eyes our Mother seems .

Lo , now the smoke rolls her thick cloud away , And white sails gleam on the horizon line ar Fierce pity whispers in the e s of clay , n And broke gods still know themselves divine.

EVA O - OO G RE B TH .

R THE E SHALL BE NO MORE SEA .

” s i S ea . s There hall be no more Ah , urely th s Is only for the souls who reach the bliss Of Paradise ! They need not seek the kiss ’ l i s Of Earth s great mother , Sea ; nor wi l they m s , AND O O C O 0 SPIRITUAL PHIL S PHI AL P ETRY . 3 3

n ew - Whose pulses with risen life beat high , lEolian The soothings of the lullaby , ’ s w Which now doth win man eariness to lie , La ed pp in its sound and be content to die .

Hearts strong in vigour of their fresh great joy Will ask no more the leaping waves to buoy Their moods to kindred laughter, and destroy Through alien glee their human cares ’ annoy

A little while . The eyes whereon doth break

The light of Heaven , what need have they to take Sad pleasure in those ocean gleams that make Dim lives worth living for their beauty ’s sake P

Yet though the Blessed need no more the Sea , P— Will not God leave her to the Lost that she ,

Who could not save them from their woe , may be

Their nurse to comfort , ever tenderly With vast and low - voiced hushabies to still ss The restle ness of pain incurable , w u e And ith a sense of vag e , fair sadn ss ﬁll

Their hunger for lost good adorable .

’

a S ea . s Men love her , e rth s old She love them well .

If she may be their mother too in Hell , t Will she not rock them here with lulling swell , ? Ah P In her deep constancy , who can tell w ’ ’ If aters strength and love s be not in vain , Some souls who nevermore God ’s grace might gain m May yet to peace of drea less sleep attain , s Lost to all gladnes , lost alike to pain .

Z C ELI ABETH DI KINSON WEST . Mrs w ( . Ed ard Dowden) . 0 OO OF O 3 4 B K IRISH P ETRY .

R AD IFT .

n Unto my Fa—ith , as to a spar , I bi d My Love and Faith and Love adrift I cast

On a dim sea . I know not if at last ﬁnd They the eternal shore of God shall .

I only know that neither waves nor wind Can sunder them th—e cords are tied so fast That Faith shall never doubts and dan gers past

Come safe to land , and Love be left behind .

Z C ELI ABETH DI KINSON WEST .

(Mrs . Edward Dowden) .

A SONG OF SUN SETTING .

M ore eet tha n i hts o re fl fl g f fi , M ore so t than stealth o slee f f p , S eed down a b sses di re p y , ’ Twix t outp ost sta rs that keep Lon e bounda r li hts a blaze y g , While meshed i n s i r ri n s , p y g , S un s wea ve thei r devi ou s maze t Even so my swee merle rings .

He furls his dusky wings Beneath the ivy - hood ’ - s That o er yon gate arch cling ,

As hill and ﬁeld and wood , Through pale mists hovering dim

Go lifted high and higher , - rim Up , up , with cu curved ’ n t e Agai st h est s rose ﬁre .

05 OO OF 3 B K IRISH POETRY .

’ 0 e He is thy love see , at heaven s dge , e Where trees exp ctant stand along the rid e , Thy song is crowned ere yet its ardour sin - Dawn leans her down through golden window bars , And ﬁings with shining hands her wreathed pinks

Among the silver lilies of the sta rs .

ELINOR SWEETMAN .

THE SHELL . And then I pressed the shell Close to my ear

And listened well , And straightway like a bell Came low and clear t The slow , sad murmur of far dis ant seas , Whipped by an icy breeze Upon a shore

Wind swept and desolate . It was a sunless strand that never bore Of The footprint a man , Nor felt the weight Since time began an Of y human quality or stir ,

Save what the dreary winds and waves incur . And in the hush of waters was the sound

Of pebbles rolling round ,

For ever rolling with a hollow sound , - And bubbling sea weeds , as the waters go , Swish to and fro

Their long , cold tentacles Of slimy grey . no There was day , Nor ever came a night Setting the stars alight

To wonder at the moon . i l o n Was tw light on y and the frightened cr o , AND O C O 0 SPIRITUAL PHIL SOPHI AL P ETRY . 3 7

s Smitten to whimper , of the dreary wind And w aves that journeyed blind —Oh w as And then I loosed my ear , it sweet TO hear a car go jolting down the street !

JAMES STEPHENS .

R THE OSE OF SILENCE . In a green stillness hidden from sun and moon

Under the sea , ’ A blossom swings by the High - Queen s doon On a silver tree And every poet has dreamed since time begun i Of that h dden place , But only those who have said farewell to the su n May come to the doon by the silver tree

Or ﬁnd in hollow or height , Under the still green tideless sea

The Rose Of Silence and Night . O ELLA Y UNG .

THE BOUGH OF TIME .

When all the years are Shaken

From the Bough of Time , Beloved we shall waken

In some far golden clime , Where no dark hour can hold us Or bitter memory fold us ’ ’ And youth is ne er o ertaken ’ By wintry Age s rime . There joy from hei ht to hollow Will call on us to ﬁollow 08 OO OF O 3 B K IRISH P ETRY .

And starry blossoms swaying Will set our hearts a- maying And keep our feet delaying

In that far golden clime .

0 would the years were shaken Of From the Bough Time . O ELLA Y UNG .

A DREAM GARDEN Will you come one day to see me In my House of Dream ? I ’ll li ht the way before you

Wit a rainbow gleam .

’ You ll see the cloud - walled garden r Where my lilies g ow , And count the sunﬂowers swaying

In a golden row . The south wind blows the rose leaves

Before the sun , In a cloud of crimson sweetness

When day is done .

And the stars come out a- ﬂutter Like moths whi te - winged Among my apple branches be- All ﬂame ringed . Flame fair the apples Shimmer

And change and glow , And nowhere but in cloud land

Such apples grow . 0 come and see my garden Of And my House Dream , I ’ll light the way —before you n . O With a rai bow gleam ELLA Y UNG .

1 0 OO F 3 B K O IRISH POETRY .

! ? Ah what seek we Even now ,

While we wonder , we endow All things near us and afar With the dreams that nowhere are Reading into the unknown

Hopes that we have long outgrown , Weaving into the unseen f - - Tidings O the might have been .

Soon along the eastern rim s Light shall teal , and silver mist s Flash to ro e , and uplands dim

Wake in folds of amethyst . n Soo shall tidings twilight told ,

Soon shall pathways starlight drew , ’ s Vanish in the morning gold , ’ Hide behind the noonday 8 blue

N ow , till morn , remain our own Of Old i Magic shores surm se , P eaks no morning can dethrone , s w Land that kno no boundaries . There the unfulﬁlled abides ; There the touch Of night unb Of s o Gates way that no nday hides , P s aths that reach beyond the star .

SIDNEY ROYSE LYSAGHT .

YOUTH AND AGE .

From the P oem- oo o F onn [ b k f i . ]

- Once I was yellow haired , and ringlets fell In clusters round my brow ;

- Grizzled and sparse to night my short grey crop , N O lustre in it now O C O 1 1 SPIRITUAL AN D PHILOS PHI AL P ETRY . 3

Better to me the shining locks of youth , ’ Or raven s dusky hue , Old s Than dear age , which chilly wi dom brings ,

If what they say be true .

I only know that as I pass the road No woman looks my way They think my head and heart alike are cold

Yet I have had my day . ELEANOR HULL

GROWING OLD . We ’ll ﬁll a Provence bowl and pledge us deep Of w The memory the far ones , and bet een The soothing pipes in heavy - lidded sleep P ’ erhaps we ll dream the things that once had been . ’ die Tis only noon and yet too soon to ,

Yet we are growing old , my heart and I .

A hundred books are ready in my head

To open out where Beauty bent a leaf , What do w e want with beauty P We are wed P i Like ancient roserpine to d smal grief,

And we are changing with the hours that ﬂy , w Old And gro ing odd and , my heart and I .

s w s Across a bed of bell the river ﬂo , us And roses dawn , but not for we want The new thing ever as the Old thing grows

Spectral and weary on the hills we haunt , And that is why we feast and that is why ’ Odd Old We re growing and , my heart and I .

C FRAN IS E . LEDWIDGE . 1 2 OF R 3 BOOK IRISH POET Y .

R I WILL FO GET . I will forget The moaning of the sea about Aran

Green beaches wet , And grey rocks barren - a ! The sea moan , against rocks th t hinder and let

(I said , and in my saying , remembered yet . )

I am the cry Of the sea of Moaning about the rocks Aran .

Ye are the rocks , cold rocks unmoved by me ,

- O dark eyed people of Aran .

I will forget The dark - eyed people Of the Isles of the Old Sea - a Mairead bhe g , and Donal who talked with the Sidh - The dark eyed people have their own fret ,

Have their own glee .

I will forget ,

(I say , and in my saying , remember yet . ) C O ALI E FURL NG .

R R F OM THE BUR EN .

t No hint , no touch of grim utili y , ’ Earth s busy functions sleep abandoned here ; - - i Corn grower , root grower , nour sher of grain ,

All are forgotten ; nakedly austere .

Nought but herself, her inmost core , survives , n Stripped to the eleme ts ; enskyed and pure , i Remote , and stern , and coldly sanct ﬁed ; P - ale as a ghost , yet rock fast to endure .

And therefore , Burren hills , to me you seem

Shrines meet for that which is , and which is not ! n ! A proach , beloved ones Haste All is clear , p — N O bidding need you you the unforgot

1 OO OF 3 4 B K IRISH POETRY .

a nd Once long ago I tramped through rain slush , n t In brown waves breaki g up the s ubborn soil , ’ I wove and wove the twilight s purple hush f e To old about the furrow d heart of toil .

Strange ﬁre and frosts burnt out the seasons ’ dross P I watched slow owers the woven cloth reveal ,

While God stood counting out His gain and loss ,

And Day and Night pushed on the heavy wheel .

Held close a d 1st the breast of livin Powers ui g 0 A little p , yet near the heart strife , w the I follo ed slow plough for hours and hours ,

Minding through sun and Shower the loom of life .

e The big winds , harsh and cl ar and strong and salt ,

Blew through my soul and all the world rang true ,

In all things born I knew no stain or fault ,

My heart was soft to every ﬂower that grew .

The cabbages in my small garden patch ’ Were rooted in the earth s heart ; win unseen

Throbbed in the silence under the dar thatch , And brave birds sang long ere the boughs were

green .

Once did I labour at the living stuff

That holds the ﬁre , the water and the wind Now do I weave the garments coarse and rough

That some vain men have made for vain manki nd .

- EVA GORE BOOTH .

COIRE DUBH LINN .

The voices of the curlew crying on the air

Floated about the silence of the hills . The brooding visage Of the mountains bare Seemed the mute passion of a thousand AN D O O C O 1 SPIRITUAL PHIL S PHI AL P ETRY . 3 5

From the black waters of the dizzy pool s Of Cupped in the rocky harpness their sides , E m s c e s nchant ent url d up to their forehead cool , e Like a large gesture that reveals and hid s .

Then thro ’ the tangled network of my mind k I san , as down a steep and endless well ; A sudden darkness and a rushing wind

And a sharp terror caught me as I fell .

S O I saw God :as like a man may see

The Spectral Beauty and be living still , ’ His snowy hair ﬂowed thro eternity ,

And His quick eyes searched out my secret will .

Then shining rainbows hid Him wholly up . But a large peace had ﬁlled me at the sight in Like crystal waters a golden cup ,

Brimming above the sides into the light . C DARRELL FI C IS .

GHOSTS .

The nettle chokes the beaten earth , The ivy - tree the stone The living dead must mind

The walls that were their own .

The living dea d must surely mind The constant stream that spills Into a granite pOOl

Between the folding hills .

’ s It twi ts about , it trickles thro

And with a hollow sound ,

It spills into the pool ,

And gurgles underground . 31 6 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY

Last night , last night , as I came by

The ruins grey and bare , I heard a human voice k o air Ma e music n the .

’ t For tho the nettle chokes the ear h , - The ivy tree the stone , The living dead must mind l The wal s that were their own .

n I looked , and lo , the driven moo Hid in a bank Of cloud ; And when it shone I saw A woman in her shroud

She sang , and washed a wooden churn All in the water white

Her hair was in the stream ,

Her Shroud was spun of light .

She washed , and coloured bubbles foamed , About her fallen hair And human laughter rang air Into the icy .

It seemed the pool was white with es The darkness bright with ey ,

The ruins warm with song ,

With laughter and with Sighs .

s a For though the nettle choke the e rth , - s The ivy tree the tone , The living dead must mind

The walls that were their own .

O J SEPH CAMPBELL .

O OF O BO K IRISH P ETRY .

Because upon Love ’s chariot I did ﬂy An d a horn winded in the great unknown , Calling lour atoms out to be an I Should have let you in abeyance lie , Disintegrate another million years ? Then use your life to teach you how to die Of And pass again beyond the reach tears ,

Some day you may regret I dragged you thence , P erhaps forgive the vast impertinence . C FRANCIS MA NAMARA .

R THE MA SEILLAISE .

t What means his mighty chant , wherein its wail

Of some intolerable woe , grown strong With sense of more intolerable w—rong Swells to a stern Victorious march a gale eful ? Of ven wrath What mean the faces pale , s The erce re olve , the ecstatic pangs along ’ Life s ﬁery ways , the demon thoughts which throng

The gates of awe , when these wild notes assail The sleeping of our souls Hear ye no more ’ the m Of Than mad foa revolution s leaven , ’ ’ Than a roused people s throne- o erwhelming tread Hark ! ’tis man ’s spirit thundering on the shore Of Of iron fate ; the tramp Titans dread ,

Sworn to dethrone the Gods unjust from Heaven .

JOHN TODHUNTER .

’ THE STARS SANG IN GOD S GARDEN .

I .

’ s in The stars ang God s garden , The stars are the birds Of God ; ’ i - The n ght time is God s harvest , Of God Its fruits are the words . L O O C O 1 SPIRITUA AND PHIL S PHI AL P ETRY . 3 9

i God ploughed His ﬁelds in the morn ng ,

God sowed His seed at noon , God reaped and gathered in His corn

With the rising of the moon .

ni The sun rose up at mid ght ,

The sun rose red as blood , a It showed the Re per , the dead Christ ,

Upon His cross of wood .

For man live that One may die , And ne must die that many live The stars are Silent in the sky

Lest my poor songs be fugitive .

P I SEE HIS BLOOD U ON THE ROSE .

II . I see His blood upon the rose in r s And the sta s the glory of His eye ,

His body gleams amid eternal snows ,

His t ears fall from the skies .

In see His face in every ﬂower The thunder an—d the singing of the birds Are but His voice and carven by His power t Rocks are His writ en words .

w s All path ay by His feet are worn , - n sea His strong heart stirs the ever beati g , n n His crown of thor s is twi ed with every thorn ,

His cross is every tree . O P K T J SEPH LUN E T . 20 OO OF O Y 3 B K IRISH P ETR .

WHAT IS WHITE ? What is white ?

- The soul of the sage , faith lit ,

The trust of Age , ’ n it The infa t s untaught w . What more white Th e Of face Truth made known , The Voice Of Youth f Singing be ore her throne . THOMAS MACDONAGH

ALAS THAT SPRING SHOULD VANISH WITH

THE ROSE .

From the Ru a a t o O a r K ha a [ b iy f m yy m. ] Myself when young did eagerly frequent

Doctor and Saint , and heard great Argument

About it and around , but evermore

Came out by the same Door as in I went .

With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow ’ And with my own hand labour d it to grow ’ And this was all the harvest that I reap d ” I came like Water , and like Wind I go .

n i n wh I to th s U iverse , and y not knowing , Nor whence - m ! , like Water willy illy ﬂowing

And out of it , as Wind along the Waste , whither -nill I know not , willy y blowing .

whence ? What , without asking , hither hurried whither ! And , without askin hurried hence Another and ano er Cup to drown The memory of this Impertinence

322 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY .

They saw the lion and the lizard keep The courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep m — And Bahra , that great hunter the wild ass ’

a . St mps o er his head , but cannot break his sleep

I sometimes think that never blows so red The rose as where some buried Caesar bled ; That every h acinth the garden wears

Dropped in her lii p from some once lovely head .

And this reviving herb whose tender green - a Fledges the river lip on which we le n , n Ah , lean upon it lightly , for who k ows From what once lovely lip it springs unseen !

e Ah , my Belov d , ﬁll the cup that clears TO - day of past regret and future fears

- - - To morrow why , to morrow I may be ’ s s My elf with yesterday seven thousand years .

For some we loved , the loveliest and the best hi s s That from vintage rolling Time hath pre t ,

Have drunk their cup a round or two , before ,

And one by one crept Silently to rest .

o And we , that now make merry in the ro m

They left , and Summer dresses in new bloom , Ourselves must we beneath the couch of earth — — Descend ourselves to make a couch for whom ?

Of Ah , make the most what we yet may spend , Before we too into the dust descend t Dus into dust , and under dust , to lie — ! Sans wine , sans songs , sans Singer , and sans end

Z EDWARD FIT GERALD . GA O O C O 2 SPIRITUAL ND PHIL S PHI AL P ETRY . 3 3

THE TOUCHSTONE .

A man there came , whence none could Bearing a Touchstone in his hand And tested all things in the land its By unerring spell .

Quick birth of transmutation smote

The fair to foul , the foul to fair ; P urple nor ermine did he spare ,

Nor scorn the dusty coat .

Of heirloom jewels , prized so much , C C Were many changed to hips and lods , And even statues of the Gods

Crumbled beneath its touch .

Then angrily the people cried , The loss outweighs the proﬁt far ; Our goods sufﬁce u s as they are ; ” r We w ill not have then t ied .

And since they could not so prevail

To check this unrelenting guest , s s They eized him , aying Let him test How real it is , our jail

But , though they Slew him with the sword , ’ And in a ﬁre his Touchstone bu rn d ’ Its o ertu rned doings could not be ,

Its undoings restored .

t And when to stop all fu ure harm , ’ They strew d its ashes on the breeze ; ’ They little gu ess d each grain of these ’ v d Con ey the perfect charm . 2 OO OF P OIQARY 3 4 B K IRISH .

North , south , in rings and amulets , ’

Throughout the crowded world tis borne ,

Which , as a fashion long outworn ,

Its ancient mind forgets .

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM .

OCTIPARTITE MAN .

From the e I r sh [ Middl i . ]

Thus sang the sages Of the Gael A thousand years ago well ni h Hearken how the Lord on igh

Wrought man , to breathe and laugh and wail ,

To hunt and war , to plough and sail , ! To love and teach , to pray and die

Then said the sages of the Gael

arcels a Of eight was Ad m built , ﬁr The st was earth , the second sea ,

The third and fourth were sun and cloud ,

The ﬁfth was wind , the sixth was stone ,

The seventh was the Holy Ghost ,

The last , the Light which lighteth God .

Then sang the sages of the Gael

’ Man s body ﬁrst was built of earth ir To lodge a living soul from b th . And earthward home again to go

When Time and Death have spoken so . Then of the sea his blood was dight TO bound in love and ﬂow in ﬁght . e k N xt , of the sun , to see the S ies , f His ace was framed with shining eyes . From hurrying hosts Of cloud was wrought f u t . His roaming , rapid change l though

26 OO OF 3 B K IRISH POETRY .

Because his mind is always bent

On Right , regardless of event .

Of each Of those eight things decreed

To make and mould the human breed , Let more or less in man and man Be set as God has framed His plan ; But sti ll there is a ninth in store (Oh grant it now and evermore d Our Freedom , wanting which , we rea ,

The bulk of earth , the strength of stone , ’ 0 The bounding life the sea , the speed Of Of comets , the splendour the sun , - ﬂa in i The never gg g light of w nd ,

The fervour of the Holy Ghost , The Light before the angels ’ host

Though all be in our frame combined , ” Grow tainted , yea , of no avail .

S O th e sang sages of the Gael .

WHITLEY STOKES . ELI IOU OET R G S P RY. ’

TRI CK S B LES S I NG ON M UNS TER .

B lessi ng from the L ord on High Over M unster fa ll a nd li e To her sons a nd da ughters a ll Choi cest blessi ngs still befa ll F ru itful blessing on the soil Tha t supp orts her fa ithful toil!

B lessi n ull o rudd hea lth g f f y , B lessi ng full of every wea lth

That her borders u rni sh th f for ,

E a st a nd West a nd S outh a nd N orth

B lessi ng from the Lord on High Over M unster fa ll a nd li e !

B lessi n on her ea ks i n a i r g p , B lessi ng on her ﬂa g- stones ba re B lessi ng from her ridges ﬂow To her gra ssy glens below B lessi ng from the L ord on High Over M unster fa ll a nd li e !

A s the sa nds up on the shore

U ndernea th her shi s or store p , f ,

B e her hearths a twi nkli n host , g

Over mounta i n la in a nd coa st ! , p , B lessi ng from the Lord on High Over M unster fall a nd li e !

OO OF O 330 B K IRISH P ETRY .

’ The Apostles pure preaching ; ’ The Confessors sure teaching ; ’ Of h The virginity blest God s Dedicate Daug ters , And the lives and the deaths Of His Saints and His Martyrs

- I arise to day in the strength of the heaven ,

The glory of the sun ,

The radiance of the moon , The splendour of ﬁre and the swiftness Of the levin ’ n The Wi d s ﬂying force ,

The depth of the sea , ’ The earth s steadfast course , ’ The rock s austerity . I arise on my way ’ With God s Strength for my stay , ' God s Might to protect me , ’ God s Wisdom to direct me , ’ God s Eye to be my providence , ’ God s Ear to take my evidence , ’ God s Word my words to order , ’ God s Hand to be my warder , ’ God s Way to lie before me , ’ ’ God s Shield and Buckler o er me , ’ God s Host Unseen to save me ,

From each ambush of the Devil , s From each vice that would en lave me ,

And from all who wish me evil ,

Whether far I fare or near , Alone or in a multitude

All these Hierarchies and Powers

I invoke to intervene , When the Adversary low ers

On my path , with purpose keen Of vengeance black and bloody On my soul and on my body I bind these Powers to come u Against Dr id counsel dark , P The black craft of agandom , O OE 1 RELIGI US P TRY . 33

And the false heresiarch , s The pells of wicked women , ’ And the Wizard s arts inhuman , Old s And every knowledge , and fre h , ’ O Corruptive f man s soul and ﬂesh .

May Christ on my way

- To Tara to day , Shield me from poison me Shield from ﬁre , Drowning or wounding ’ By enemy s ire , So that mighty fruition

May follow my mission .

Christ behind and before me , ’ Christ beneath me and o er me , r h Ch ist wit in and without me ,

Christ with and about me ,

Christ on my left and Christ on my right , Christ with me at mom and Christ with me at night Christ in each heart that shall ever take thought of me Christ in each mouth that shall ever speak aught of me;

Christ in each eye that Shall ever on me fasten , s a Christ in each ear that h ll ever to me listen .

I invoke , upon my path ’ To the King of Ireland s rath , The Almigh y pow er of the Trinity h t s T rough belie in the Threenes , Through confession of the Oneness ’ Of the Maker s Eternal Divinity .

PR A AYER TO THE VIRGIN .

Gentle Mary , Noble Maiden , Hearken to our suppliant pleas ! Shrine God ’s only Son was laid in ! Casket of the Mysteries 2 O OF O 33 BO K IRISH P ETRY .

n Holy Maid , pure Queen of Heave ,

Intercession for us make , ’ That each hardened heart s tr ansgression

May be pardoned for Thy sake .

’ Bent in loving pity o er us , ’ Through the Holy Spirit s power , Pray the King of Angels for us

In Thy Visitation hour .

’ Branch of Jesse s tree whose blossoms

Scent the heavenly hazel wood , Pray for me for full purgation ’ Of my bosom s turpitude .

Mary , crown of splendour glowing , ’ Dear destroyer of Eve s ill ,

- Noble torch of Love far showing , ’ Fru itful Stock of God s good will

r Heavenly Virgin , Maid t anscendent

Yea , He willed that Thou shouldst be R His fair Ark of Life esplendent ,

His pure Q ueen of Chastity .

Mother of all good , to free me ,

Interceding at my side , P - ray Thy First Born to redeem me , When the Judgment books are wide ;

Of Star knowledge , rare and noble , a - Tree of m ny blossoming sprays ,

Lamp to light our night of trouble ,

Sun to cheer our weary days .

Ladder to the Heavenly Highway ,

Whither every Saint ascends , f Be a sa eguard still , till my way

In Thy glorious Kingdom ends .

OO OF 334 B K IRISH P OETRY .

How happy the son is of Dima no sorrow

For him is designed , ow n He is having , this hour , round his hill in Durrow ,

The wish of his mind .

s The sounds of the winds in the elms , like the string of

A harp being played , The note of a blackbird that claps with the wings of

Delight in the glade .

With him in Ros - Grencha the cattle are lowing

At earliest dawn , On the brink of the summer the pigeons are cooing

And doves in the lawn .

Three things am I leaving behind me , the very

Most dear that I know , ’ - Leedach Tir I m leaving , and Durrow and Derry s Alas , I mu t go

Yet my visit and feasting with Comgall have eased me ’ Cainneach s At right hand , Eirie And all but thy government , , have pleased me , w aterfu l Thou land . O D UGLAS HYDE .

ON THE FLIGHTINESS OF THOUGHT . 0 Shame upon my thoughts , shame How they ﬂy in order broken , Much therefore I feel the blame

When the Trump of Doom has spoken .

At my psalms , they oft are set On the path the Fiend must pave them ; m s Ever ore , with fa h and fret , ’ In God s sight they misbehave them . O RELIGIOUS P ETRY .

Through contending crowds they ﬂeet ,

Companies of wanton women ,

Silent wood or strident street ,

Swifter than the breezes skimming .

Now through paths of loveliness , N ow through ranks of shameful riot ,

Onward ever more they press , Fledged w ith folly and disquiet

O ’er the Ocean ’s sounding deep Now they ﬂash like ﬁery levin Now at one vast bound they leap

Up from earth into the heaven .

Thus afar and near they roam On their race of idle folly ; Till at last to reason ’s home

They return right melancholy .

Would you bind them wrist to wrist

Foot to foot the truants shackle , From your toils away they twist

Into air with giddy cackle .

Crack of whip or edge of steel Cannot hold them in your keeping ; With the wriggle of an eel

From your grasp they still go leaping .

Never yet was fetter found ,

Never lock contrived , to hold them ;

Never dungeon underground , Moor or mountain keep controlled them

Thou Whose glance alone makes pure , Of Searcher all hearts and Saviour , With Thy Sevenfold Spirit cure ’

My stray thoughts unblessed behaviour . OO OF O B K IRISH P ETRY .

God of earth , air , ﬁre and ﬂood , as Rule me , rule me in such me ure ,

That , to my eternal good ,

I may live to love Thy pleasure .

’ Christ s own ﬂock thus may I reach , ’ At the ﬂash of Death s sharp sickle ,

Just in deed , of steadfast s eech , ckle Not , as now , inﬁrm and .

THE A ND H T CAT MONK IS WHI E .

P angar , my white cat , and I Silent ply our special crafts ; su Hunting mice his one pur it ,

Mine to Shoot keen Spirit shafts .

Rest I love , all fame beyond , In the bond of some rare book ; Yet white Pangar from his play

Casts , my way , no jealous look .

Thus alone within one cell — Safe we dwell not dull the tale Since his ever favourite sport

Each to court will never fail .

Now a mouse , to swell his spoils , In his toils he spears with skill ; Now a meaning deeply thought

I have caught with startled thrill .

Now his green full - shining gaze Darts its rays against the wall ; Now my feebler glances mark Through the dark bright knowledge

8 O K OF O 33 B O IRISH P ETRY .

QUATRAINS FROM THE EARLY IRISH O H SPITALITY .

s 18 r Whether my hou e da k or bright ,

I close it not on any Wight , f Lest Thou , herea ter , King of Stars ,

Against me close Thy Heavenly bars .

u If from a g est who Shares thy board , t Thy dearest dainty thou shal hoard , ’ 0 Tis not that guest , do not doubt it , ’ But Mary s Son shall do without it .

- THE SEA GOING BARK .

From the I r s o K n a nd s o or mac M a c Cu lenna i n [ i h f i g Bi h p, C , 8 37 Shall I loose my dusky little coracle lorI ous - ? On the g , deep , wide bosomed ocean 0 ’ Shall I face , Heaven s bright King and Oracle , Of my own free will the salt commotion

Whether narrow in Thy sight or wide it be , r h Se ved by few or by a ost in number , 0 my God , wilt Thou Thyself beside it be , When my strugglin g bark the billows cu mber

THE SHAVING OF MURDOCH .

’ B u i reda ch O Da l a te twe t cen tur w en he a nd a tha [ y M y , l lf h y , h C l o the R ed H a n K n o onnau ht en tered the mona st c e f d , i g f C g , i lif to t er ge h . ]

’ Murdoch , whet thy razor s edge , Our crowns to pledge to Heaven ’s Ardrigh ! Vow we now our hair ﬁne- tressed To the Blessed Trinity ! RELIGIOUS POETRY 339

Now my head I shear to Mary ’ ’ Tis a true heart s very due . - Ch Shahely , soft eyed ieftain now S ear thy brow to Mary , too

f Seldom on thy brow , fair chie , Hath a barbing knife been plied Oft the fairest of Princesses

Combed her tresses at thy side .

’ Whenso er that we did bathe and We found no scathe , yourself I ,

- With Brian of the well curled locks , wr From hidden rocks and currents y .

And well I mind what once befell Beside the well of fair Boru I swam a race with U a Chais of The icy ﬂood Fergus through .

When hand to hand the bank we reached ,

Swift foot to foot we stretched again , Cairbre i T , , ill Duncan c—hief of ch efs Gave us three knives not now in vain .

No other blades such temper have ; Then Murdoch shave with easy art

Whet , Cathal of the Wine Red Hand , in f Thy victor brand , peace ul part .

Then our shorn heads from weather wild

Shield , Daughter mild of Joachim , P n ’ reserve us from the su s ﬁerce power , f ’ Mary , so t ﬂower of Jesse s stem . 0 OO OF O Y 4 B K IRISH P ETR .

CONSECRATION .

’ O Dal [By Murdoch y , called Murdoch the Scotchman Muiredach Albanach ff ( ) , on account of his a ection 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 J esus Christ should shine

l Christ Jesus bend me to Thy wi l , e to l My f et urge , my griefs to stil 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 P eace 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 .

O TRANSLATI N BY ELEANOR HULL .

N P R HYM TO THE HOLY S I IT .

M aelisu 0 0 to [B y , 9

us ! O Holy Spirit , hasten to i us ! Move round about us , n us , through ’ All our dea dened souls desires Inﬂame w s ane with heavenly ﬁre .

342 BOOK OF IRISH POETRY .

n of t Captai Hos s , ’ n a an Agai st e rth s wicked , crooked cl , van To aid me , lead thy battle

And quell their boasts .

Archangel glorious , th n Disdain not now y supplia t urgent , But over every S in insurgent

Set me victorious .

Thou art my choosing !

That with my body , soul and spirit

Eternal life I may inherit ,

Thine aid be not refusing .

In my sore need 0 - Thou of Anti Christ the slayer ,

Triumphant Victor , to my prayer 0 Give heed , now give heed

’ R THE SOUL S DESI E .

A u t or and a te un [ h d k nown .] 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 f th li e beyond e Doom . RELIGIOUS POETRY . 343

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 H is ceaseless praise to sing .

' It were my soul s desire , ’ won When heaven s gate is , To ﬁnd my soul ’s desire

Clear shining like the sun .

’ Grant , Lord , my soul s desire , Deep waves of cleansing sighs ’ e Grant , Lord , my soul s d sire a From e rthly cares to rise .

This still my soul ’s desire Whatever life afford ’ To gain In soul s desire And Th f 0 see y ace , Lord .

Translated by ELEANOR HULL .

THE FEILIRE OF ADAMNAN .

t I r s L ta n [Ancien i h i y . ]

Ad mnan . a of [Though ascribed to St , Abbot Iona

St . (died the biographer of Columba , the piece ,

es e . judging by its languag , is lat r ]

Saints of Four Seasons ! Saints Of the Year

Loving , I pray to you longing , I say to you dreein s n Save me from angers , g , and da gers ! Saints of Four Seasons

" Saints of the Year O 344 BOOK OF IRISH P ETRY .

Saints of Green Springtime 1 Saints of the Year 1 Patraic Gri hair ! and g , Brighid be near ’ My last breath gather with God s Foster Father Saints of Green Springtime ! Saints Of the Year l

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 l 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 r Waking or sleeping , to my g ave creeping , ’ Life in its Night , hold me God s light Saints of Four Seasons Saints of the Year P C C ATRI K J . M CALL .

6 O OF O 34 BO K IRISH P ETRY .

’ For my eyes lawless roving ,

lawless hearing ,

My less moving , i w My steps , s n ard steering ;

For everything spoken Or acted untrue ; For promises broken And broken anew

For every one thing, In In thought and deed ,

In deed or in thought ,

Thy will wrought ,

Oh , Heavenly King , For Thy pardon I plead !

THE CONVENT BELL .

O convent bell long , long ago Your peal was refuge for my heart ; The homeward path you seemed to show ’ Lay from the world s ways far apart .

But now you hammer prison bars I hear the passing children ’s mirth Above the walls mad dancing stars

Mingle their music with the earth .

What though night- long as ) iring prayer And adoration In my soul Ascend as incense through the air ’ To wave for me an angel s stole

’ s The mother s heart is still more ble t , When stirring in her arms she feels ’ n as Her baby s ha d grope for the bre t , o s For heaven her wn soul reveal . O O RELIGI US P ETRY . 347

0 sad 0 , and far , convent bell You call to prayer on ev e For unborn babes your funeral knell e Mak s Mary mother weep and grieve .

O O GE RGE R BERTS .