The banshee and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

So from the Swans went Oifa, and cold slept in her heart
Revenge's glutted snake; and to Bov Derg she came.
Bov Derg beheld her coming, and starting from his place
Asked her: “Where are the children?” She softly smiling, said:

2

“Strange madness works in Lir: his brow grew black in wrath
When hither I would come. He loves not thee nor me.
He will not trust the children out of his jealous eye
With thee for ever more. I am weary, and would rest.”

3

Thereat amazed, Bov Derg laid ambush in his mind,
Marking the witch's eye that glittered like a snake's
With inward fire, and felt a lurking evil there;
And sent to Lir, seeking the children in their home.

4

Lir, when he heard, his wrath flaming from sudden dread,
Took horse for the hill of Bov, with visions by the way
Of Oifa's murderous mind; and schemed some vast revenge,
Rushing in flames of wrath by Derryvarragh Lake.

5

The Swans beheld afar, and with a human wail
Of song over the water, called on the name of Lir.
Pierced with their wistful sad melodious moan, sat Lir
Fumbling his rein, aghast, as wailing they drew nigh.

THE SONG OF THE SWANS.

Tarry, Lir, and hear
The song of the Swans!
Pity thy children, Lir,
The Swans forlorn, thy children!

6

Hearing that cry, ran Lir all trembling to the shore,
And bent in ruth to kiss the piteous feathery things
That sought him from the water, and on the weeping Swans
Full fast, in loving ruth, hot fell the tears of Lir!

7

And well each child he knew, sewn in its feathery shroud.
And stroked with passionate hand Oodh's o'er-snowed golden head,
And stroked Fianoula's neck, writhing to meet his touch,
And stroked his Fiachra's wings, and the downy crest of Conn.

8

Then burst in sobs his voice: “Oh, beggared in one day!
Whence are these swans for children? Whence falls this feathery blight:
This wrong unbearable, that vengeance cannot cure?
Oifa, is this thy deed?” Fianoula answered low:

SONG OF FIANOULA.

1

Hot are thy tears, O Lir,
On the feathers of the Swans;
But cold shall rain the rains
Long ages upon thy children.

2

Thou gavest us, O Lir,
A cruel witch to our mother!
Poor father! for thee I weep:
She has given thee Swans for children.

3

Three hundred years must we tread
Lake-water in Derryvarragh:
On the saltness of Sruth-na-Moyle
Must welter, three hundred years.

4

Three hundred years must we cleave
The billows of Erris Domnann:
Till the bell rings in Inis Glory
She cursed us—nine hundred years!

9

Great was the lamentation and the love between them there;
Loud was the Swans' lament, and loud the grief of Lir;
And with his children four he last lay down that night,
With the Swans he made his bed by the shores of Derryvarragh.

10

But when the dawn grew bright he hastened on his way
To the house of the High King. Oifa before Bov Derg
Was called, and to her face Lir told his piteous tale.
Wearily still she smiled: “I have done it—let me die!”

11

Stern rose Bov Derg in wrath: “I lay my Druid spell
On thy confessing tongue, to answer what vile shape
Is most abhorred by thee?” She writhed, compelled with pain,
Crying with a ghastly shriek: “A demon of the air!”

12

“Take then that shape,” he said, and smote her with his wand;
And her blue eyes grew white as dazzling leprosy,
Her hideous body seemed the snake-fiend of her heart
Burst forth on dragon wings. And Bov Derg spoke her doom:

THE DOOM OF OIFA.

1

From the tribes of men fly Oifa,
Pale outlaw of the air,
Till the wind shall cease to wail
For Erin and her woes!

2

Go howl on the blast, howl Oifa
O'er the land where the Banshee cries:
In the shade of thy dragon wings
Fall horror of brooding fate.

3

Abhorred of men, howl Oifa
O'er the mountains of Inisfail:
The Swans of Lir shall have comfort
Long ere thy end of woes.

13

So howling on the blast fled from the face of men
Oifa, for evermore. But Bov Derg went with Lir
Back to the gentle Swans for solace of their song;
And with them by the lake they dwelt three hundred years.

14

And there dwelt peace: there came, by septs, the Tuatha,
And there the Sons of Milith sat down with them in peace;

For all men loved the Swans, for comfort of their song.
And peace with all her arts reigned there three hundred years.

15

Then said Fianoula: “Ah, sweet brothers, know ye not
Our age is ended here? To-night our flight must be.”
Then sorrow for their fate fell on the sons of Lir,
“We were still men,” they said, “here dwelling with our kin.”

FLITTING-SONG OF THE SWANS.

1

Our beautiful feathers
Must we drench in salt surges,
No night brine-unbittered
For the Children of Lir!

2

Farewell, Derryvarragh,
Farewell, friendly faces,
To the gulls and the curlews
Fly the Children of Lir.

16

Loud was the Swans' lament, and loud the grief of Lir
And great the lamentation and the love between them there.
Then the four Swans soared high, and swiftly to the north
Flew from the eyes of Lir, and lit on Sruth-na-Moyle.

This is the song of the flitting of the Swans,
Of songs most mournful,
Sorrowful is my song!