The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves :: :: University of Virginia Library

Would I were Erin's apple-blossom o'er you,
Or Erin's rose, in all its beauty blown,
To drop my richest petals down before you,
Within the garden where you walk alone;
In hope you'd turn and pluck a little posy,
With loving fingers through my foliage pressed,
And kiss it close and set it blushing rosy
To sigh out all its sweetness on your breast.

Would I might take a pigeon's flight towards you,
And perch beside your window-pane above,
And murmur how my heart of hearts it hoards you,
O hundred thousand treasures of my love;
In hope you'd stretch your slender hand and take me,
And smooth my wildly-fluttering wings to rest,
And lift me to your loving lips and make me
My bower of blisses in your loving breast.

And when the dew no longer pearls your roses,
Nor gems your footprint on the glittering lawn,
I'd follow you into the forest closes
In the fond image of your sportive fawn;
Till you should woo me 'neath the wavering cover
With coaxing call and friendly hands and eyes,
Where never yet a happy human lover
His head has pillowed—mine to emparadise.

SONGS OF MANY WATERS

CREDHE'S LAMENT FOR CAIL

O'er thy chief, thy rushing chief, Loch da Conn,
Loud the haven is roaring;
All too late, her deadly hate for Crimtha's son
Yonder deep is deploring.
Small comfort, I trow, to Credhe is her wail,
Slender solace now, oh, my Cail!
Ochone! och, wirrasthrue! can she who slew
Bid thee back, Spirit soaring!
Hark, the thrush from out Drumqueen lifts his keen
Through the choir of the thrushes;
With his mate, his screaming mate, o'er the green
See! the red weasel rushes.
Crushed on the crag lies Glensilen's doe,
O'er her yon stag tells his woe,
Thus, Cail, och, ochonee! for thee, for thee
My soul's sorrow gushes.
O, the thrush, the mourning thrush, mating shall sing,
When the furze bloom is yellow;
O, the stag, the grieving stag, in the spring
With a fresh doe shall fellow!
But love for me 'neath the ever-moving mound
Of the scowling sea lieth drowned;
While och, och, ollagone! the sea fowl moan
And the sea beasts bellow.

BALTIMORE BOAT SONG

With swelling sail away, away!
Our bark goes bounding o'er the bay.
“Farewell, farewell, old Baltimore,”
She curtseys, curtseys to the shore.

Farewell, fond wives and children dear,
From ev'ry ill Heav'n keep you clear;
Till thro' the surge we stagger back,
As full of herring as we'll pack.

For when we've sowed and gardened here,
Far off to other fields we'll steer;
Our farm upon the distant deep,
Where all at once you till and reap.

There, there the reeling ridge we plough,
Our coulter keen the cutter's prow;
While fresh and fresh from out the trawl
The fish by hundreds in we haul.

Thou glorious sun, gleam on above
O'er Erin, Erin, of our love.
Ye ocean airs, preserve her peace,
Ye night dews, yield her rich increase.

Until, one glittering realm of grain,
She waves her wanderers home again;
And we come heaping from our hold
A silver crop beside the gold.

THE WRECK OF THE AIDEEN

Is it cure me, docther, darlin'? an ould boy of siventy-four,
Afther soakin' off Berehaven three and thirty hour and more,
Wid no other navigation underneath me but an oar.

God incrase ye, but it's only half myself is livin' still,
An' there's mountin' slow but surely to my heart the dyin' chill;
God incrase ye for your goodness, but I'm past all mortial skill.

But ye'll surely let them lift me, won't you, docther, from below?
Ye'll let them lift me surely—very soft and very slow—
To see my ould ship Aideen wanst agin before I go?

Lay my head upon your shoulder; thank ye kindly, docther, dear.
Take me now; God bless ye, cap'n! now together! sorra fear!
Have no dread that ye'll distress me—now, agin, ochone! I see her.

Ologone! my Aideen's Aideen, christened by her laughin' lips,
Wid a sprinkle from her finger, as ye started from the slips,
Thirty year ago come Shrovetide, like a swan among the ships.

And we both were constant to ye till the bitter, bitter day,
Whin the typhus took my darlin,' and she pined and pined away,
Till yourself's the only sweetheart that was left me on the say.

So through fair and foul we'd travel, you and I thin, usen't we?
The same ould coorse from Galway Bay, by Limerick and Tralee,
Till this storm it shook me overboard, and murthered you, machree.

But now, agra, the unruly wind has flown into the West,
And the silver moon is shinin' soft upon the ocean's breast,
Like Aideen's smilin' spirit come to call us to our rest.

Still the sight is growin' darker, and I cannot rightly hear,
The say's too cold for one so old; O, save me, cap'n, dear!
Now its growin' bright and warm agin, and Aideen, Aideen's here.

THE HERRING FLEET

In the golden Autumn gloaming
Our sweethearts loosed away,
And their hookers brown went foaming
Full race o'er Galway Bay.

But through all their shouts and singing
Broke in the breaker's tune,
And the ghostly gulls came winging,
In flocks to the frowning dune,
And angry red was ringing
The rising harvest moon.

Then we girls went back to our spinning,
But soon grew sore distressed
To hear the storm beginning
Far off in the wailing west.
Till fearful lightning flashes
Came darting round our reels—
And dreadful thunder crashes
Made dumb our dancing wheels,
While with lips as white as ashes
We prayed for our fishing keels.

In the wild wet dawn we started
In grief to the groaning shore,
Where so lightly we had parted
From our boys but the eve before.
Then sure no angel's story
Ever spoke such comfort sweet
As the cry of the coastguard hoary,
As he sighted each craft complete:
“Our God has saved—to His glory—
All hands of the herring fleet.”

'TWAS PRETTY TO BE IN BALLINDERRY

'Twas pretty to be in Ballinderry,
'Twas pretty to be in Aghalee,
'Twas prettier to be in little Ram's Island,
Trysting under the ivy tree!
Ochone, ochone!
Ochone, ochone!
For often I roved in little Ram's Island,
Side by side with Phelimy Hyland,
And still he'd court me and I'd be coy,
Though at heart I loved him, my handsome boy!

“I'm going,” he sighed, “from Ballinderry
Out and across the stormy sea;
Then if in your heart you love me, Mary,
Open your arms at last to me.”
Ochone, ochone!
Ochone, ochone!
I opened my arms; how well he knew me!
I opened my arms and took him to me;
And there, in the gloom of the groaning mast,
We kissed our first and we kissed our last!

“'Twas happy to be in little Ram's Island,
But now 'tis as sad as sad can be;
For the ship that sailed with Phelimy Hyland
Is sunk for ever beneath the sea.”
Ochone, ochone!
Ochone, ochone!

And 'tis oh! but I wear the weeping willow,
And wander alone by the lonesome billow,
And cry to him over the cruel sea,
“Phelimy Hyland, come back to me!”

MY MOUNTAIN LAKE

My own lake of lakes,
My lone lake of lakes,
When the young blushing day
Beside you awakes,
The cold hoary mist,
To gold glory kissed,
Lifts laughing away
O'er your cool amethyst.

My fair lake of lakes,
My rare lake of lakes,
How your tartan, red gold,
In the summer air shakes!
Fold fluttering on fold
Of purple heath bloom
And gay, glancing broom,
A joy to behold.

My sad, sleeping lake!
My mad, leaping lake!
When the palled tempest powers
Into agony break—

Their tears scalding showers,
Thunder moans their lament,
Their garments grief-rent
Thy broken hill bowers.

Bright faint-heaving breast,
By fond visions possessed!
Not a wave frets thy beach,
Scarce one ripple's unrest.
Dim, weltering reach,
Where the Priestess of Heaven
And the Steadfast Stars Seven
Hold Sibylline speech.

FAR AWAY FROM HER SCORNING

In the wan, mistful morning to Ocean's wild gales
Afar from her scorning I loose my black sails;
For my kiss was scarce cold on her cheek when she turned
And my love for the gold of a renegade spurned.

Under cloud chill and pallid, while hollow winds moan,
Lies, alas! our green-valleyed, purple-peaked Innishowen;
For as if my sad case she were sharing to-day,
All her glory and grace she hides weeping away.

Farewell, Lake of Shadows! Buncrana, farewell
To your thymy sea-meadows, your fern-fluttering dell!
Adieu, Donegal! o'er the waters death-wan,
Under Heaven's heavy pall, like a ghost I am gone.

JOHNNY COX

As in the good ship “Annabel”
We coasted off Corfu,
A sudden storm upon us fell,
And tore our timbers true,
And rent our sails in two.

Our top-mast tumbled by the board,
Our mizen mast as well;
Through flapping canvas, scourging cord,
Above like our death-bell
We heard the thunder knell.

“Now cut away!” our Captain cries,
“And like a cork she floats;”
But axe in hand, with scowling eyes,
Set teeth and cursing throats,
The Lascars loose the boats.

When Johnny Cox, who lay below,
From off his fever bed
Comes stagg'ring up, a ghastly show,
As if from out the dead,
And drives them back in dread.

“What, quit your posts, ye cowards all,
Here's ballast then for you!”
With that he heaves a cannon ball
Full crash the cutter through,
And saves the ship and crew.

But he, our hero, ere the rocks
We rounded, drooped and died;
And we should lower you, Johnny Cox,
Lamenting, o'er the side
Into the moaning tide.

THE DAUGHTER OF THE ROCK

As on Killarney's bosom blue
We lay with lifted oars,
He challenged with his clarion true
The silent shores.
And straight from off her mountain throne
The Daughter of the Rock
Took up that challenge, tone by tone,
With airy mock.
And twice and thrice from hill to hill
She tossed it o'er the heather,
Then drew the notes with one wild thrill
Together.
Like pearls of silver dew
From a fragrant purple flower,
Echo's secret heart into
They shower.

We floated on, and ever on,
With many a warbled tune,
Until above the water wan
Awoke the moon

Then with a sudden, strange surprise
A clearer challenge came
From out his eager lips, and eyes
Of ardent flame.
Like Echo answering his horn,
At first I mocking met him;
Till, lest e'en counterfeited scorn
Should fret him,
From all my heart strings caught,
Faint as Echo's closing stress,
Stole the answer that he sighing sought,
Love's low “Yes!”

LOVE SONGS

A SONG OF KILLARNEY

By the Lakes of Killarney one morning in May
On my pipe of green holly I warbled away,
While a blackbird high up on the arbutus tree
Gave back my gay music with gushes of glee,
When my Eileen's voice stole
From the thicket of holly
And turned just the whole
Of our fluting to folly;
And softly along
Through the myrtle and heather
The maid and her song
Swept upon us together.

'Twas an old Irish tale full of passionate trust
Of two faithful lovers long laid in the dust,
And her eyes as she sang looked so far, far away,
She went by me, nor knew she went by, where I lay
And myself and the grass
And the deeshy, red daisies
Should let our love pass,
Only whisp'ring her praises;
While the lass and her lay
Through the myrtle and heather
Like a dream died away,
O'er the mountain together.

IF I WERE KING OF IRELAND

My love's a match in beauty
For every flower that blows,
Her little ear's a lily,
Her velvet cheek a rose;
Her locks like gillygowans
Hang golden to her knee.
If I were king of Ireland,
My Queen she'd surely be.

Her eyes are fond forget-me-nots,
And no such snow is seen
Upon the heaving hawthorn bush
As crests her bodice green.
The thrushes when she's talking
Sit listening on the tree.
If I were king of Ireland,
My Queen she'd surely be.

WHEN SHE ANSWERED ME HER VOICE WAS LOW

When she answered me her voice was low,
But minstrel never matched his chords
To such a wealth of warbled words
In Temora's palace long ago.

When her eyes looked back the love in mine,
Not Erin's self upon my sight
Has started out of stormy night
With a bluer welcome o'er the brine.

And no other orbs shall e'er eclipse
That magic look of maiden love,
And never song my soul shall move
Like that low sweet answer on her lips.

THE HOUR WE PARTED

The hour we parted,
When broken-hearted
You clung around me,
Maureen, aroo!
I swore I'd treasure,
Thro' pain and pleasure,
Thro' health and sickness
My love for you.

And still that jewel,
Thro' changes cruel
Of fickle Fortune
I'll jealous guard;

Still let her vary,
The jade contràry,
If but my Mary
Be my reward.

Yes! scorn and anger,
Distress and langour,
They're welcome willing,
The long day thro';
Could I feel certain
That ev'ning's curtain
But clos'd us nearer,
Maureen, aroo!

The dreamy shadows
Along the meadows
Go softly stealing,
And falls the dew;
And o'er the billows,
Like faithful swallows,
All, all my thoughts, dear,
Fly home to you.

With touches silken,
I see you milkin'
The crossest Kerry
In Adragole;
And like a fairy,
You're singing, Mary,
Till every keeler
Is foaming full.

The night is falling,
And you are calling
The cattle homeward,
With coaxing tone;
In God's own keeping,
Awake or sleeping,
'Tis now I leave you,
Maureen, mavrone!

WITH FLUTTERING JOY

How happy for the little birds
From tree to tree, away and hither,
To pour their pretty, warbling words,
And fly with fluttering joy together!
But let the sun rejoice the skies,
Or sullen clouds his glory smother,
With heavy hearts we still must rise,
Far, far away from one another.

Now leave those foolish, feathered things,
O Fortune, Fortune, fond and cruel!
And fit two pair of trusty wings
Upon myself and Maurya jewel,
That she and I from earth may start,
And skim the sky on angel feather,
Till from mid-heaven, heart to heart,
With fluttering joy we fall together.

THE FOGGY DEW

Oh! a wan cloud was drawn
O'er the dim, weeping dawn,
As to Shannon's side I returned at last;
And the heart in my breast
For the girl I loved best
Was beating—ah, beating, how loud and fast!
While the doubts and the fears
Of the long, aching years
Seemed mingling their voices with the moaning flood;
Till full in my path,
Like a wild water-wraith,
My true love's shadow lamenting stood.

But the sudden sun kissed
The cold, cruel mist
Into dancing showers of diamond dew;
The dark flowing stream
Laughed back to his beam,
And the lark soared singing aloft in the blue;
While no phantom of night,
But a form of delight
Ran with arms outspread to her darling boy:
And the girl I loved best
On my wild, throbbing breast
Hid her thousand treasures, with a cry of joy.

I'D ROAM THE WORLD OVER WITH YOU

“I'd roam the world over and over with you,
O, Swan-neck, and Lark-voice, and Swallow-in-shoe,
My Violets and Lilies, and Rose without rue,
I'd roam the world over and over with you.”

“If I roamed the world over, fond lover, with you,
And we met the rude mountains, now what should I do?”
“They would smooth themselves straight at one stroke of your shoe,
And I'd course their crests over and over with you.”

“My fond, foolish lover, still roaming with you,
To cross the rough river now what should we do?”
“To one great, shallow glass it would shrink from your shoe
And admire, and admire, and admire you step through.”

“But, ah! if still roaming, rash lover, with you,
I reached the dread desert, say what could we do?”
“Your breath of soft balm would the wilderness woo
To break into blossom so heavenly of hue,
That we'd rest at long last from our roaming, aroo!”

MY LOVE'S AN ARBUTUS

My love's an arbutus
By the borders of Lene,
So slender and shapely
In her girdle of green;

And I measure the pleasure
Of her eye's sapphire sheen
By the blue skies that sparkle
Through that soft branching screen.

But though ruddy the berry
And snowy the flower
That brighten together
The arbutus bower,
Perfuming and blooming
Through sunshine and shower,
Give me her bright lips
And her laugh's pearly dower.

Alas! fruit and blossom
Shall scatter the lea,
And Time's jealous fingers
Dim your young charms, machree.
But unranging, unchanging,
You'll still cling to me,
Like the evergreen leaf
To the arbutus tree.

STILL SIDE BY SIDE

When at the altar
Together kneeling
To Heaven appealing,
My loving wife,

Without one falter
Of faith, we plighted,
With hands united,
Our troth through life.
And now, though anguish
Our souls has smitten,
Sad records written
On cheek and brow;
Doth our love languish?
Ah, no! but nearer,
Mavrone, and dearer
Our hearts beat now.

And though hereafter
Inconstant fortune
With cruel sporting
Our lot deride;
Her mocking laughter
Can never grieve us,
If she but leave us
Still side by side.
That prayer be granted!
And closer leaning,
Each other screening
From ev'ry blast,
We'll face undaunted
Life's wintriest weather,
And fall together,
Love-linked, at last.

ROSE AND RUE

I was a maiden fair and fond,
Smiling, singing all the day;
Till Maguire, with looks of fire,
He stole my heart away.
The gard'ner's son as he stood by
Blossoms four did give to me:
The pink, the rue, the violet blue,
And the red, red rosy tree.

Lass, for your lips the sweet clove pink,
For your eyes the violets blue;
The rose to speak your damask cheek,
For memory the rue.
Oh, but my love at first was fond,
Now, alas, he's turned untrue,
My rose and pink and violet shrink,
But tears keep fresh my rue.

THE FALLING STAR

On my heaven he flashed, as the meteor star
Out of night will flame from afar
Ah! how could I escape his spell?
Deep, deep into my heart he fell
Ochone!

I believed the stars that burn above
Shone less true than his eyes of love.
All their lamps beam on and on,
But, my falling star, thou art gone.
Ochone!

And a new love claims my fealty now,
Scant of speech and stern of brow.
Until death I own his claim,
Sorrow is my new love's name.
Ochone!

I ONCE LOVED A BOY

I once loved a boy, and a bold Irish boy,
Far away in the hills of the West;
Ah! the love of that boy was my jewel of joy
And I built him a bower in my breast,
In my breast;
And I built him a bower in my breast.

I once loved a boy, and I trusted him true,
And I built him a bower in my breast;
But away, wirrasthrue! the rover he flew,
And robbed my poor heart of its rest,
Of its rest;
And robbed my poor heart of its rest.

The spring-time returns, and the sweet speckled thrush
Murmurs soft to his mate on her nest,
But forever there's fallen a sorrowful hush
O'er the bower that I built in my breast,
In my breast—
O'er the desolate bower in my breast.

THE WHITE BLOSSOM'S OFF THE BOG

The white blossom's off the bog, and the leaves are off the trees,
And the singing birds have scattered across the stormy seas;
And, oh! 'tis winter,
Wild, wild winter!
With the lonesome wind sighing for ever through the trees.

How green the leaves were springing! how glad the birds were singing!
When I rested in the meadow with my head on Patrick's knees;
And, oh! 'twas spring time,
Sweet, sweet spring time!
With the daisies all dancing before me in the breeze.

With the spring the fresh leaves they'll laugh upon the trees,
And the birds they'll flutter back with their songs across the seas,
But I'll never rest again with my head on Patrick's knees;
And for me 'twill be winter,
All the year winter,
With the lonesome wind sighing for ever through the trees.

I MAYN'T OR I MAY

And will I answer you, when you come again?
And have you a chance or two? may be one in ten.
And will I think of you, when you're far away?
That's according to my humour, I just mayn't or I may.

Do I feel more kind to you than I did before?
We'll say inclined to you, p'r'aps a trifle more.
Make up my mind to you? I can hardly guess.
If I couldn't, sure I shouldn't, no nor wouldn't say Yes!

And will I write to you, when you write to me?
Give that delight to you? only wait and see.
And will I think of you? may be now and then.
But will you, won't you, will you, won't you soon be home again?

COME, SIT DOWN BESIDE ME

When first you came courting,
My own heart's delight,
I met you with sporting
And saucy despite;
And of other fine fellows
I made you mad jealous,
When first you came courting,
My own heart's delight.

In turn then you tried me,
My own heart's delight,
For coldly you eyed me,
Or shrank from my sight;
Or with Norah you chattered,
Or Flora you flattered,
Sitting close up beside me,
You rogue, you were right!
But sit down beside me,
My own heart's delight,
To comfort and guide me;
I'm yours from to-night!
I've teased and I've vexed you,
I've pleased and perplexed you,
But sit down beside me,
We're one from to-night!

OH, MY GRIEF! OH, MY GRIEF!

Oh, my grief, oh, my grief!
Oh, my grief all the morning!
Oh, my grief all the even!
Oh, my grief all the night!
Over flower, over leaf
Falls the shade of her scorning,
And darkens blue heaven
With its desolate blight.

Oh, wind, and oh, wind
Wailing over the forest,
With thee my sad spirit
Would fain wander forth!

Thus all unconfined,
When sorrow was sorest,
I too should inherit
The strange, silent North.

More pure and more chaste,
Thou desolate Norland,
Than the South's sighing langours
In bowers rose-hung,
Thy wan, winter waste,
Thy still, solemn foreland,
Aurora's red angers
The white stars among.

MAUREEN, MAUREEN

Oh! Maureen, Maureen, have you forgotten
The fond confession that you made to me,
While round us fluttered the white bog cotton,
And o'er us waved the wild arbutus tree?
Like bits of sky bo-peeping through the bower,
No sooner were your blue eyes sought than flown,
Till, white and fluttering as the cotton flower,
Your slender hand it slipped into my own.

Oh! Maureen, Maureen, do you remember
The faithful promise that you pledged to me
The night we parted in black December
Beneath the tempest-tossed arbutus tree.

When faster than the drops from heaven flowing,
Your heavy tears they showered with ceaseless start;
And wilder than the storm-wind round us blowing,
Your bitter sobs they smote upon my heart?

Oh! Maureen, Maureen, for your love only
I left my father and mother dear;
Within the churchyard they're lying lonely,
'Tis from their tombstone I've travelled here.
Their only son, you sent me o'er the billow,
Ochone! though kneeling they implored me stay;
They sickened, with no child to smooth their pillow;
They died. Are you as dead to me as they?

Oh! Maureen, must then the love I bore you—
Seven lonesome summers of longing trust—
Turn like the fortune I've gathered for you,
Like treacherous fairy treasure, all to dust!
But, Maureen, bawn asthore, your proud lips quiver;
Into your scornful eyes the tears they start;
Your rebel hand returns to mine for ever;
Oh! Maureen, Maureen, never more we'll part.

IN REASON'S DESPITE

Because when the moon shed a lustre divine,
For one magical moment her spirit met mine;
And to-day she went by
With a laugh in her eye,
Yet no soft look of promise, what quarrel have I?

100

I might just as well blame a beautiful star
For flashing her spell over earth from afar,
And then speeding on through the shadowy night
To some orb beyond ours her pure message of light.

Or, because, when I've sought the Queen Rose on her throne
A chance breeze has caught her sweet breath to my own,
If that exquisite scent
By the breeze is besprent
For another's delight, shall I show discontent?
Still in reason's despite, at my heart there's a hope,
As frail yet as bright as the gossamer rope,
That shall float up to thee from life's dull prison bars,
My Rose of all roses, my Star of all stars!

LOVE AT MY HEART

Love at my heart came knocking!
Ah! but with bitter mocking
I said him No!
Bowed and bade him go
Far, far away, heigho!

Ah! but when Love lay bleeding,
Pity, to scorn succeeding,
Turned cold disdain
Into poignant pain,
Till I too loved again.

101

Now love despised is dearest,
Now love neglected nearest;
Now late and soon,
Under sun and moon,
O, heart o' mine, keep Love's tune!

102

LOVE BALLADS

THE ROSE-TREE IN FULL BEARING

O rose-tree in full bearing,
When rude storms had stripped the bowers,
How oft, with thee despairing,
I've sighed through the long dark hours!
Till Spring, so hard of wooing,
Hope's own green spell upon thee cast,
And Kate, her coldness rueing,
With sweet pity turned at last.

Then April smiled to cheer us,
Or mocked grief with golden rain,
While Kate drew laughing near us,
Or frowned past with dear disdain;
'Till, was it yester even?—
Beneath thy faint red flowers divine,
With Love's one star in heaven,
Her lips leant at last to mine!

And when I fondly told her,
O Rose, all our stormy grief;
And how my hope grew bolder
With thy every opening leaf;
She answered, “For so sharing,
Dear heart, Love's weary winter hour,
The Rose-tree in full bearing
Shall build us our summer bower.”

103

THE SAILOR'S BRIDE

And is he coming home to-day
Who all these years has ranged?
And will he be the same to me,
Although I so have changed.
The same again, the same as when
At first he courting came,
And looked me through with eyes so blue—
Ah, will he be the same?

I would have dressed in all my best;
He'd have me wear my worst—
The faded gown of homespun brown
In which I met him first.
My woman's heart would have me smart;
I'm but a woman still.
Yet bide, gay gown, come, old one, down;
Let Donal have his will.

“The Southern Star” has fetched the Bar,
She's signalled from the land.
Quick, little Donal, to my arms!
Now on my shoulder stand!
There, there she sails! He's at the rails!
For joy my eyes run o'er.
Wave, little lad, to your own dad!
Aye, 'tis himself once more.

104

THE BLACKBIRD AND THE THRUSH

[_]

(Adapted)

One evening as I walkéd
Down by a green bush,
I heard two birds whistling,
'Twas the blackbird and thrush;
I asked them the reason
They were so merrie,
And in answer they sang back to me,
“We are single and free.”

Next morning as that green bush
I passed all alone,
Two thrushes piped out of it,
The blackbird was flown;
I asked them the reason
Their hearts were so gay,
It was joyfully they answered me.
“We have mated to-day.”

One morrow little after
That bush I went by,
When o'er me most piteously
I heard my thrush cry;
I asked why such sorrow
He poured from the tree,
And he answered, “'Tis the blackbird
Has my love stolen from me.”

105

Oh, freedom it is pleasant,
Love returned is delight!
But a lover deserted
Must mourn noon and night.
Break my house, take my goods,
I can gather fresh gain;
But love's ruined bower
Who shall build up again?

FOR I HAD A SPIRIT ABOVE MY DEGREE

With the lark up above, the Lent lilies below,
Young Owen came courting, I could not say No!
But because I was poor and of humble degree,
His proud parents parted my Owen and me.

Had he only stood firm. I'd have waited for years;
But Owen gave way; so I forced back my tears,
And wed Hugh O'Donnell, long hopeless of me,
For I had a spirit above my degree.

But the sweet old croonawns evermore, evermore,
Owen whistled and sang as he went by our door;
Yet I never looked out my old sweetheart to see;
For I had a spirit above my degree.

For comfort, for comfort, I cried and I prayed,
Even while my sweet babe in my bosom was laid;
But when in my face he laughed up from my knee,
Sweet comfort, sweet comfort it came back to me.

106

Till one day to a knock when I pushed back the pin,
All dressed in his best, my poor Owen ran in,
And “Oonagh, make haste, dear, make haste, dear,” cried he,
“For the chapel's full up our fine wedding to see.”

I looked in his eyes and I saw they were wild,
With the sweet old croonawns his mood I beguiled,
Till his heart-broken father came over the lea
With the keepers and took him still crying for me.

My good man is gone, but God has been kind;
My sons they are steady, my girls of my mind;
My prayers for my lost ones rise fervent and free,
And between their two graves there's one waiting for me.

MY GARDEN AT THE BACK

When I came o'er from old Rosstrevor
Here to London town,
A lonesome spell upon me fell
For Kate and County Down.
'Twas gloomy toil for her glad smile,
Grey stone for grassy track;
Till I took heart at last to start
A garden at the back.

107

With country mould, at morn and eve,
Still I piled my plot;
Then sow'd and set musk, mignonette,
Pink, rose, forget-me-not.
Till bees they flew from out the blue,
And butterflies they'd tack,
O blessed hour, from flow'r to flow'r
Of my garden at the back.

Then when I'd but the Christmas rose
To end the flow'ry race,
Around the corner came my scorner
With a sadden'd face.
The cause to guess of her distress
For sure I was not slack,
And now her eyes make Paradise
Of my garden at the back.

MY HEART'S IN INNISHOWEN

[_]

(Adapted)

The blackbird he was piping loud
From off the lilac tree,
And there was not a single cloud
In all the North Countree.
When down there stepped a bonny bride,
Still sweeter than the Spring;
And at Greencastle Ferryside
'Twas thus I heard her sing:

108

“Oh, Magilligan 's a pretty place,
And that full well is known;
Yet I am going to leave you all
And live in Innishowen;
Where every maid goes neat and trig,
Whatever her degree.
For of all the parts of Ireland
Sweet Innishowen for me!

“And if you ask why I've forsook
My lovely native strand,
Then at my left third finger look
And you will understand.
For sure a maid must follow him
Whose ring's upon it shown;
So though my eyes for you are dim,
My heart's in Innishowen!”

THE SONG OF THE GHOST

When all were dreaming but Pastheen Power,
A light came streaming beneath her bower,
A heavy foot at her door delayed,
A heavy hand on the latch was laid.

“Now who dare venture at this dark hour,
Unbid to enter my maiden bower?”
“Dear Pastheen, open the door to me,
And your true lover you'll surely see.”

109

“My own true lover, so tall and brave,
Lives exiled over the angry wave.”
“Your true love's body lies on the bier,
His faithful spirit is with you here.”

“His look was cheerful, his voice was gay;
Your speech is fearful, your face is grey;
And sad and sunken your eye of blue,
But Patrick, Patrick, alas! 'tis you.”

Ere dawn was breaking she heard below
The two cocks shaking their wings to crow.
“O hush you, hush you, both red and grey,
Or you will hurry my love away.”

“O! hush your crowing, both grey and red,
Or he'll be going to join the dead;
O cease from calling his ghost to the mould,
And I'll come crowning your combs with gold.”

When all were dreaming but Pastheen Power,
A light went streaming from out her bower,
And on the morrow when they awoke,
They knew that sorrow her heart had broke.

THE KERRY COW

“O what are you seekin', my pretty colleen,
So sadly, tell me now?”
“O'er mountain and plain I'm seekin' in vain,
Kind sir, for my Kerry cow.”

110

“Is she black as the night, with a star of white
Above her bonny brow?
And as clever to clear the dykes as a deer?”
“That's just my own Kerry cow.”

“Then cast your eye into that field of wheat;
She's there as large as life!”
“My bitter disgrace! howe'er shall I face
The farmer and his wife?”

“Since the farmer's unwed, you've no cause for dread
From his wife, you must allow;
And for kisses three—'tis myself is he—
The farmer will free your cow.”

HEY HO, THE MORNING DEW

[_]

(Adapted)

My father bought at great expense
A grand high stepping grey,
But when he puts her at a fence
She backs and backs away.
Sing Hey ho, the morning dew!
Hey ho, the rose and rue!
Follow me, my bonny lad,
For I'll not follow you!

My mother bought a likely hen
On last St. Martin's day:
She clucks and clucks and clucks again,
But never yet will lay.

111

Sing Hey ho, the morning dew!
Hey ho, the rose and rue!
Follow me, my bonny lad,
For I'll not follow you!

O, Mustard is my brother's dog,
Who whines and wags his tail,
And snuffs into the market bag,
But dar' not snatch the meal.
Sing Hey ho, the morning dew!
Hey ho, the rose and rue!
Follow me, my bonny lad,
For I'll not follow you!

When walls lie down for steeds to step,
When eggs themselves go lay,
And the groats jump into Mustard's jaws,
To you my court I'll pay!
Sing Hey ho, the morning dew!
Hey ho, the rose and rue!
Follow me, my bonny lad,
For I'll not follow you!

THE BLACKBIRD AND THE WREN

[_]

(Adapted)

Once the blackbird called unto the solemn crow,
“Oh, why do you for ever in mourning go?”
Quoth the crow, “I lost my own true love, alack!
And thereafter for ever I go all in black.”

112

Then the blackbird sighed from out the sally bush,
“Once I, too, fell courting a fair young thrush.
Oh, but she deceived and grieved me, Oh, but she turned false, false O.
And ever since in mourning I go!”

Last the little wren he piped, “If we were men,
We could find us sweethearts, eight, nine and ten.
Then if one grew cold or turned unfaithful, O,
It is off to another we each could go.”
“Perhaps,” replied the crow, “that plan of yours might work
If we were living in the land of the Turk.
But the Colleens of Coleraine still are free to give us pain,
And so, my friends, in feathers we'll remain.”

THE STRATAGEM

Who'd win a heart must learn the art
To hide what he's about.
When Kate I met, too soon I let
My loving secret out.
In vain I'd sigh, in vain I'd try
Each trick of eye or speech;
Advance, retire, neglect, admire,
The rogue I could not reach.
Then I grew warm and in a storm
Against her out I blew,
But she stood fast before my blast
And raging I withdrew.

113

Then I began a different plan;
I went to Rose Maguire,
Who'd had her scene with Con Mulqueen,
And asked her to conspire.
Says she, “Avick, we'll try the trick,”
And so we shammed sweethearts,
Till Con grew vexed and Kate perplexed,
So well we played our parts:
And when we found them turning round
The very way we wanted,
Our stratagem we owned to them
And got our pardon granted.

THE LITTLE RED LARK

Oh, swan of slenderness, dove of tenderness,
Jewel of joys, arise!
The little red lark like a rosy spark
Of song to his sunburst flies.
But till thou art risen, earth is a prison
Full of my lonesome sighs;
Then awake and discover to thy fond lover
The morn of thy matchless eyes.
The dawn is dark to me; hark! oh, hark to me,
Pulse of my heart, I pray!
And out of thy hiding with blushes gliding,
Dazzle me with thy day.
Ah, then, once more to thee flying, I'll pour to thee
Passion so sweet and gay,
The lark shall listen and dewdrops glisten,
Laughing on every spray.

114

LULLABIES

HUSH O!

I would hush my lovely laddo,
In the green arbutus' shadow,
O'er the fragrant, flowering meadow,
In the smiling spring-time.
Shoheen sho lo,
Shoheen hoo lo!

I'd hush my boy beside the fountain,
By the soothing, silvery fountain,
On the pleasant, purple mountain,
In the sultry summer.
Shoheen sho lo,
Shoheen hoo lo!

I would smooth my darling's pillow,
By the blue Atlantic billow,
On the shores of Parknasilla,
In the golden autumn.
Shoheen sho lo,
Shoheen hoo lo!

115

I would soothe my child to slumber,
By the rosy, rustling ember,
Through the days of dark December,
In the stormy winter.
Shoheen sho lo,
Shoheen hoo lo!

May no cruel fairy charm thee!
May no dread banshee alarm thee!
Flood, nor fire, nor sickness harm thee!
Winter, spring, and summer—
Summer, autumn, winter,
Shoheen sho lo,
Shoheen hoo lo!

THE HOOD HAMMOCK

Though the way be long and weary
Over mountain, under wood,
Mother will never mind it, deary,
With you hammocked in her hood.

Hush! my honey! See, my sonny,
How from off the Autumn trees
Sparkling showers of fairy money
Fall and flutter in the breeze!

Hush! the Queen bee to her levee,
Buzz-a-buzz! with humming sport,
From the blossoms in a bevy
Calls her golden glancing court.

116

Hark! the cushats without number
In the tree-tops o'er our track
“Coo-a-coo!” to smiling slumber
Coax the boyo on my back.

Shoheen sho ho! lulla lo lo!
Safe from sight and sound of harm,
Dream till daddy lifts his laddy
Laughing up upon his arm.
Dream! Dream!

UNDER THE ARBUTUS

In the green arbutus shadow
On the lovely banks of Loune,
I would rock my laughing laddo
In his cradle up and down;
Up and down, and to and fro,
Singing lulla, lulla lo!

Soft cloud fleeces, floating o'er us,
Curtain up the staring sun!
Pretty birds, in loving chorus,
Pipe around my precious one!
Pipe your softest shoheen sho,
Tirra lirra! lulla lo!

See! the sky to brightest blossom
Flowers within the furthest West,
And the babe upon my bosom
Flushes with the rose of rest;
Whilst with magic light aglow
Loune gives back my lulla lo!

117

THE CRADLE OF GOLD

I'd rock my own sweet Childie to rest
In a cradle of gold on the bough of the willow,
To the shoheen ho! of the Wind of the West
And the lulla lo! of the blue sea billow.
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,
Where a shoheen! whisper the white cascades
And a lulla lo! the green flags 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!
And oh, my Child, what cosier nest
For rosier rest could love have found you?
Sleep, baby dear!
Sleep without fear!
Mother's two arms are close around you!

118

SONGS OF SPORT

THE FOX HUNT

[_]

(Adapted)

The first morning of March in the year '33,
There was frolic and fun in our own country:
The King's County hunt over meadows and rocks,
Most nobly set out in the search of a fox.
Hullahoo! harkaway! hullahoo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!

When they started bold Reynard he faced Tullamore,
Through Wicklow and Arklow along the seashore;
There he brisked up his brush with a laugh, and says he,
“'Tis mighty refreshing, this breeze from the sea!”
Hullahoo! harkaway! hullahoo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!

With the hounds at his heels every inch of the way,
He led us by sunset right into Roscrea;
Here he ran up a chimney and out of the top,
The rogue he cried out for the hunters to stop
From their loud harkaway! hullahoo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!

“'Twas a long thirsty stretch since we left the seashore,
But, lads, here you've gallons of claret galore;

119

Myself will make free just to slip out of view
And take a small pull at my own mountain dew.”
So no more hullahoo, hullahoo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!

One hundred and twenty good sportsmen went down,
And sought him from Ballyland into B'lyboyne;
We swore that we'd watch him the length of the night,
So Reynard, sly Reynard, lay hid till the light.
Hullahoo! hullahoo! harkaway, harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!

But the hills they re-echoed right early next morn
With the cry of the hounds and the call of the horn,
And in spite of his action, his craft, and his skill,
Our fine fox was taken on top of the hill.
Hullahoo! harkaway! hullahoo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!

When Reynard he knew that his death was so nigh,
For pen, ink, and paper he called with a sigh;
And all his dear wishes on earth to fulfil,
With these few dying words he declared his last will.
While we ceased harkaway! hullahoo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!

“Here's to you, Mr. Casey, my Curraghmore estate,
And to you, young O'Brien, my money and plate,
And to you, Thomas Dennihy, my whip, spurs and cap,
For no leap was so cross that you'd look for a gap.”
And of what he made mention they found it no blank,
For he gave them a cheque on the National Bank.

120

THE IRISH REEL

While ould Phelim o'er his fiddle
Flourishes his famous bow,
Lad and lass along the middle
All salute and rank in row.
“Are yez full arranged and ready?”
“Ready, Phelim, heart and heel!”
“Off then, all!” and, smart and steady,
Twenty couple step the reel.

Whisper, Phelim, from the fairies
Underneath the midnight moon
Leadin' up their light vagaries
Have you stole that lovely tune?
Since each dancer's foot it follows
Up and down the magic chime,
For the world like slender swallows
Racin' in the meadow rime.

At the double, at the treble,
How the lads they leap and slide,
Whilst the women wid their skimmin'
Teach the very swans to glide.
Glancin' shyly, blushin' coyly,
Arm to waist, around we wheel,
Boys, between us all and Venus,
What could best our Irish Reel?
At the double, at the treble,
We go dancin', heart and heel.
Boys, between us all and Venus,
What could best our Irish Reel?

121

THE KILLARNEY HUNT

The hunt is up! and hound and pup
Are tunin' round Killarney;
The hunt is out! O there's a shout!
You'd hear it down to Blarney.
There goes the stag along the crag,
A Royal now, I warrant,
See how he sails across the rails
And flies the foaming torrent.

Away to Tork they wind and work,
Among the whorts and heather.
The scent's in doubt, now all are out,
Now, hark! they're all together.
For old Jack Keogh he marked him go
And waved 'em with his wattle.
A full George crown they've thrown him down,
With that he'll moist his throttle.

A fine view spot up here we've got,
A fine mixed lot within it.
Like ould No'hs Ark, above the Park
We're packed this blessed minute.
The Parson's pasted to the Priest,
The farmer to the flunkey,
Between the fool upon his mule,
The cripple on his donkey.

122

Yoicks! tally ho! now off they go!
See, there the stag is skimmin'!
He's through the brake, he's in the lake,
And after him they're swimmin'.
Their floatin' ranks are on his flanks,
They're closin' now behind him;
He feels the land! he's up the strand!
Now mind him! oh, now mind him!

Hul-hullahoo! they flash in view
Along the shinin' shingle,
In lengthenin' row they streamin' go,
Now with the shades they mingle;
While underneath the evening star
A phantom hunt seems flyin',
Now swelling near, now falling far,
Now down the darkness dyin'.

123

SONGS OF OCCUPATION

HERRING IS KING

Let all the fish that swim the sea,
Salmon and turbot, cod and ling,
Bow down the head, and bend the knee
To herring, their king! to herring, their king!
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.

The sun sank down so round and red
Upon the bay, upon the bay;
The sails shook idle overhead,
Becalmed we lay, becalmed we lay;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.

Till Shawn, The Eagle, dropped on deck—
The bright-eyed boy, the bright-eyed boy;
'Tis he has spied your silver track,
Herring, our joy—herring, our joy;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.

124

It was in with the sails and away to shore,
With the rise and swing, the rise and swing
Of two stout lads at each smoking oar,
After herring, our king—herring, our king;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.

The Manx and the Cornish raised the shout,
And joined the chase, and joined the chase;
But their fleets they fouled as they went about,
And we won the race, we won the race;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.

For we turned and faced you full to land,
Down the góleen long, and góleen long,
And, after you, slipped from strand to strand
Our nets so strong, our nets so strong;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.

Then we called to our sweethearts and our wives,
“Come welcome us home, welcome us home!”
Till they ran to meet us for their lives
Into the foam, into the foam;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
Tis we have brought the summer in.

125

O the kissing of hands and waving of caps
From girl and boy, from girl and boy,
While you leapt by scores in the lasses' laps,
Herring, our pride and joy;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.

THE RIDDLE

A Loobeen

The Girls—
Raise us a riddle as spinning we sit.

Bride—
P'r'aps I have one that your fancy will fit.

The Girls—
Come, then, advance it with all of your wit.

Bride—
Some have got the barley showin',
Some a purty patch of oats,
Others just the pratees growin',
With a mountain side for goats.
Come with me through meadows flow'ry
Up where furze and heather blow,
If my secret golden dowry,
Lasses, you would like to know.

126

A Girl—
Surely hid treasure is in your head.

Bride—
Wrongly my riddle this time you have read.

The Girls—
Come, give us hold of a stronger thread.

Bride—
How is this my herds can utter
Of themselves the milk all day,
Churn and turn it into butter,
Faix! and firkin it safe away.
Kerry cows upon their brows
Bear a pair of branching horns;
But my kind they wear behind
Only one, like Unicorns.

A Girl—
Ah, then, your herds are the bees on the height.

Bride—
'Deed and this time you've guessed aright.

The Girls—
Pleasant the riddle you put us to-night.

127

JACK, THE JOLLY PLOUGHBOY

[_]

(Adapted)

As Jack the jolly ploughboy was ploughing through his land,
He turned his share and shouted to bid his horses stand,
Then down beside his team he sat, contented as a king,
And Jack he sang his song so sweet he made the mountains ring

With his Ta-ran-nan nanty na!
Sing Ta-ran-nan nanty na!
While the mountains all ringing re-echoed the singing
Of Ta-ran-nan nanty na!

'Tis said old England's sailors, when wintry tempests roar,
Will plough the stormy waters, and pray for those on shore;
But through the angry winter the share, the share for me,
To drive a steady furrow, and pray for those at sea.

With my Ta-ran-nan nanty na! &c.

When heaven above is bluest, and earth most green below,
Away from wife and sweetheart the fisherman must go;
But golden seed I'll scatter beside the girl I love,
And smile to hear the cuckoo, and sigh to hear the dove.

With my Ta-ran-nan nanty na! &c.

128

'Tis oft the hardy fishers a scanty harvest earn,
And gallant tars from glory on wooden legs return,
But a bursting crop for ever shall dance before my flail;
For I'll live and die a farmer all in the Golden Vale.

With my Ta-ran-nan nanty na!
Sing Ta-ran-nan nanty na!
While the mountains all ringing re-echo the singing
Of my Ta-ran-nan nanty na!

SPINNING-WHEEL SONG

Once my wheel ran cheerily round,
Ran cheerily round from day to day,
But now it drags how wearily round;
For Owen's gone away.
Once I spun soft carolling O,
Soft carolling O! from morn to eve,
But since we started quarrelling, oh!
'Tis silently I weave.

Has he joined Sir Arthur, ochone!
Sir Arthur, ochone! to fight the French?
Though he was rude, I'd rather, ochone!
He joined me on this bench.
Hush! he's been deluthering you,
Deluthering you with swords and drums,
And now I think 'tis soothering you,
'Tis soothering you, he comes.

129

THE SONG OF THE PRATEE

When, after the Winter alarmin',
The Spring steps in so charmin',
So fresh and arch
In the middle of March,
Wid her hand St. Patrick's arm on;
Let us all, let us all be goin',
Agra, to assist at your sowin',
The girls to spread
Your iligant bed,
And the boys to set the hoe in.

Then good speed to your seed! God's grace and increase.
Never more in our need may you blacken wid the blight;
But when Summer is o'er, in our gardens, astore,
May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.

So rest and sleep, my jewel,
Safe from the tempest cruel;
Till violets spring
And skylarks sing
From Mourne to Carran Tual.
Then wake and build your bower
Through April sun and shower,
To bless the earth
That gave you birth,
Through many a sultry hour.

Then good luck to your leaf. And ochone, ologone,
Never more to our grief may it blacken wid the blight,
But when Summer is o'er, in our gardens, astore,
May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.

130

Thus smile with glad increasin',
Till to St. John we're raisin'
Through Erin's isle
The pleasant pile
That sets the bonfire blazin'.
O 'tis then that the Midsummer fairy,
Abroad on his sly vagary,
Wid purple and white,
As he passes by night,
Your emerald leaf shall vary.

Then more power to your flower, and your merry green leaf!
Never more to our grief may they blacken wid the blight;
But when Summer is o'er, in our gardens, astore,
May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.

And once again, Mavourneen,
Some mellow Autumn mornin',
At red sunrise
Both girls and boys
To your garden ridge we're turnin',
Then under your foliage fadin'
Each man of us sets his spade in,
While the colleen bawn
Her brown kishane
Full up wid your fruit is ladin'.

Then good luck to your leaf! More power to your flower!
Never more to our grief may they blacken wid the blight;
But when Summer is o'er, in our gardens, astore,
May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.

131

THE PLOUGHMAN'S WHISTLE

O'er thistle, darnel, dock,
With straining flank and hock,
Our handsome honest horses
They keep to their courses
As constant as the chapel clock, O!
And straight as curraghs glide
Across the crystal tide,
Our plough, our plough we guide,
A-fluting, merrily fluting, O!

And while the wholesome soil
Heaves up beneath our toil,
Like sudden airy arrows,
See, see how the sparrows
And finches pounce upon their spoil, O!
While rook and starling shy,
Hang flutt'ring in the sky,
Afeard till we go by,
Afluting, merrily fluting, O!

Let others care their kine,
The ploughman's lot be mine,
Through good and ill to follow
The share's faugh-a-balleach,

132

And never cut one crooked line, O!
Old time may dip his plough
Still deeper in my brow,
But cheerfully as now
I'll flute, I'll flute my carol, O!

THE MILL SONG

Corn is a-sowing
Over the hill,
The stream is a-flowing,
Round goes the mill.

Winding and grinding,
Round goes the mill;
Winding and grinding
Should never stand still.
The hands that are strongest
Are welcome here,
And those that work longest
Earn the best cheer.

The green corn is hinting
Over the hill,
Lasses tormenting
The lads to their fill.

Winding and grinding, &c.

133

The gold corn is glinting
Over the hill;
Lasses consenting,
Lads have their will.

Winding and grinding, &c.

Corn is a-carrying
Into the mill;
Young folk are marrying
Over the hill.

Winding and grinding, &c.

From the hands of the shaker
Again goes the corn,
The old to God's acre
Gently are borne.

Winding and grinding, &c.

The green corn is glistening
Once more with the spring;
Children are christening,
Glad mothers sing.

Winding and grinding, &c.

134

Thus our life runs around,
Like the mill with its corn.
Young folk are marrying,
Old folk are burying,
Young folk are born.

Winding and grinding,
Round goes the mill;
Winding and grinding
Should never stand still.
The hands that are strongest
Are welcome here,
And they that work longest
Earn the best cheer.

135

THE OLD COUNTRY

SWEET ISLE

Sweet Isle, O how our hearts upleap
Once more to mark thee mount the deep,
Unfolding still to greet our gaze
Haunt after haunt of blessed by-gone days.

Blue hill-sides oft in boyhood climbed,
Lanes where we courted, roamed and rhymed,
Our hurling green, our dancing ground,
Each dear old cottage ranging round.

And now, sweet Isle, we near thy shore;
Young hands wave welcome, old eyes run o'er;
Till loving arms at long, long last
Have fondly folded their exile fast!

THE CUCKOO MADRIGAL

Cuckoo! cuckoo!
Our joyful rover,
At last you're over
The Ocean blue,

136

And once again
All ears shall listen,
All eyes shall glisten
At your glad strain,
O yellow-throated,
Mellow-noted
Minstrel!

Cuckoo! cuckoo!
'Twas only sorrow
Made dark each morrow
The winter through;
And till your voice
Awoke to cheer us,
None, none came near us
To cry “Rejoice!”
O yellow-throated,
Mellow-noted
Minstrel!

Cuckoo! cuckoo!
How lad and maiden
Love ambuscading
In search of you!
But far and near
Ventriloquising,
With art surprising
You mock the ear;
Till, airy elf,
'Tis Echo's self
They call you.

137

Cuckoo! cuckoo!
At dawn upspringing,
We hear you ringing
Your joy-bell true.
The livelong day,
Its magic measure
Peals perfect pleasure,
Then dies away,
In far off whispers
Thro' our vespers
Stealing.

O BLESSED HOUR

The frowning winter's past,
O blessed, blessed hour!
And leaves of hope at last
Laugh out from bank and bower.
The thorn that darkly sighed
Is decked in bridal May,
The sullen, sweeping tide
Runs sparkling on its way,
And bonny birds
Their loving words
Pipe forth from spray to spray.

The meadows, long so dumb
Beneath the aching frost,
With bees are all a-hum,
With cowslips all embossed

138

And butterflies they glance
From nodding flower to flower
To join the jewel dance;
O blessed, blessed hour!
While pairing birds
Their warbled words
Through all the woodland shower.

THE LIMERICK LASSES

At every pleasant party,
Whoe'er the host, he gave a toast,
When we were young and hearty,
That ever pleased us lads the most.
'Twas—“Friends, fill up your glasses
Until they brim and bubble o'er,
Here's to our Limerick lasses!
Of Womanhood the cream and core.”

Ere long we heard from Mar's field
The mighty battle trumpet blown.
And off with gallant Sarsfield
“Wild Geese” we all to France were flown—
Attacked and then attacking,
The one brigade no foe could break,
And ever bivouacking
On fresh fields won for Ireland's sake,
With “Comrades, charge your glasses
Until they brim and bubble o'er;
Here's our own Limerick lasses!
Of Womankind the cream and core.”

139

And now we're back from glory,
Huzzaing into Limerick town—
Each soldier tells his story
And with his sweetheart settles down;
For all the sighs and glances
Of donna or of demoiselle
Ne'er fooled away our fancies
From those we've loved so long and well.
Then, boys, fill up your glasses
Until they're brimming o'er and o'er,
Here's to our Limerick lasses!
With three times three and one cheer more.

THE BEAUTIFUL CITY OF SLIGO

We may tramp the earth for all that we're worth,
But what odds where you and I go?
We shall never meet a spot so sweet
As the beautiful City of Sligo.

Oh, sure she's a Queen in purple and green,
As she shimmers and glimmers her gardens between;
And away to Lough Lene the like isn't seen
Of her river a-quiver with shadow and sheen,
The beautiful City of Sligo.

Though bustle and noise are some folks' joys,
Your London just gives me ver-ti-go;
You can hear yourself talk when out you walk
Thro' the beautiful City of Sligo.

140

As an artist in stones a genius was Jones,
Whom so queerly they christened In-i-go,
But he hadn't the skill to carve a Grass Hill
For the beautiful City of Sligo.

Then for powder and puff and cosmetical stuff,
Dear girls, to Dame Fashion, ah! why go?
When Dame Nature supplies for tresses and eyes
Such superior dyes down in Sligo.

141

MY BLACKBIRD AND I

[_]

(Suggested by a touching episode in the late Michael Davitt's life in Portland Gaol in 1881, recorded by him in his Leaves from a Prison Diary.)

When first you came to me,
And so little you knew me
That from me you struggled
With wild beating breast,
Red sun-rays up-jetting
On fire seemed setting
The wavering woodland
Where once was your nest—
Then, my own dawny blackbird,
The tears my eyes blinded,
As my heart was reminded
How, a child, long ago
With strangers I shivered,
While the cruel flames quivered
Through our kindly old roof-tree
In lovely Mayo.

That thought, trembling blackbird,
To my bosom endeared you,
And ever I cheered you
Till so friendly we grew

142

That together we'd forage
At the one plate of porridge,
And from out the same pitcher
Be both sipping too.
Then so sweetly you'd chuckle
From off of my knuckle,
That, my tired eyes closing
To drink in the sound,
By its glad spell uplifted
From my sad cell I drifted
To the joyful enchantment
Of green Irish ground.

Now below, blessed hour!
Even my grey prison's bower
Is laughing with flower
In the eye of the sun;
Rude cliffs throw soft shadows
On green ocean meadows,
And the homesteads of free men
Shine out one by one.
O who could keep captives
In solitude pining,
With such a sun shining,
Such bliss in the blue?
I lingered and lingered,
And then trembling-fingered
I opened your cage door,
And from me you flew.

143

THE EXILES

O! if for ev'ry tender tear
That from our aching exiled eyes
Has fallen for you, Erin dear,
Our own loved Shamrocks could arise,
They'd weave and weave a garland green,
To stretch the cruel ocean through,
All, all the weary way between
Our yearning Irish hearts and you.

And oh! if ev'ry patriot prayer,
Put forth for your sad sake to God,
Could in one cloud of incense rare
Be lifted o'er your lovely sod,
That cloud would curtain all the skies
That far and near your fairness cope,
Until upon its arch of sighs
There beamed Heav'ns rainbow smile of hope.