Songs and ballads by Samuel Lover :: :: University of Virginia Library

It is related of Carolan, the Irish bard, that when deprived of sight, and after the lapse of twenty years, he recognised his first love by the touch of her hand. The lady's name was Bridget Cruise; and though not a pretty name, it deserves to be recorded, as belonging to the woman who could inspire such a passion.

“True love can ne'er forget;
Fondly as when we met,
Dearest, I love thee yet,
My darling one!”
Thus sung a minstrel gray
His sweet impassion'd lay,
Down by the Ocean's spray,
At set of sun.
But wither'd was the minstrel's sight,
Morn to him was dark as night,
Yet his heart was full of light,
As thus the lay begun;
“True love can ne'er forget,
Fondly as when we met,
Dearest, I love thee yet,
My darling one!”

“Long years are past and o'er
Since from this fatal shore,
Cold hearts and cold winds bore
My love from me.”
Scarcely the minstrel spoke,
When quick with flashing stroke,
A boat's light oar the silence broke,
Over the sea;

Soon upon her native strand
Doth a lovely lady land,
While the minstrel's love-taught hand
Did o'er his wild harp run;
“True love can ne'er forget
Fondly as when we met,
Dearest, I love thee yet,
My darling one!”

Where the minstrel sat alone,
There, that lady fair hath gone,
Within his hand she placed her own,
The bard dropped on his knee;
From his lips soft blessings came,
He kiss'd her hand with truest flame,
In trembling tones he named—her name
Though her he could not see;
But oh!—the touch the bard could tell
Of that dear hand, remember'd well;
Ah!—by many a secret spell
Can true love find his own!
For true love can ne'er forget;
Fondly as when they met,
He loved his lady yet,
His darling one.

MACARTHY'S GRAVE.

A LEGEND OF KILLARNEY.

The breeze was fresh, the morn was fair,
The stag had left his dewy lair,
To cheering horn and baying tongue
Killarney's echoes sweetly rung.

With sweeping oar and bending mast,
The eager chase was following fast,
When one light skiff a maiden steer'd
Beneath the deep wave disappeared;
While shouts of terror wildly ring,
A boatman brave, with gallant spring
And dauntless arm, the lady bore—
But he who saved—was seen no more!

Where weeping birches wildly wave,
There boatmen show their brother's grave;
And while they tell the name he bore,
Suspended hangs the lifted oar;
The silent drops thus idly shed,
Seem like tears to gallant Ned;
And while gently gliding by,
The tale is told with moistened eye.
No ripple on the slumb'ring lake
Unhallowed oar doth ever make;
All undisturb'd the placid wave
Flows gently o'er Macarthy's grave.

NED OF THE HILL.

[_]

Many legends are extant of this romantic minstrel freebooter, whose predatory achievements sometimes extended to the hearts of the gentle sex.

Dark is the evening and silent the hour;
Who is the minstrel by yonder lone tow'r
His harp all so tenderly touching with skill?
Oh, who should it be but Ned of the Hill!
Who sings, “Lady love, come to me now,
Come and live merrily under the bough,
And I'll pillow thy head,
Where the fairies tread,
If thou wilt but wed with Ned of the Hill!”

Ned of the Hill has no castle nor hall,
Nor spearmen nor bowmen to come at his call,
But one little archer of exquisite skill
Has shot a bright shaft for Ned of the Hill;
Who sings, “Lady love, come to me now
Come and live merrily under the bough,
And I'll pillow thy head,
Where the fairies tread,
If thou wilt but wed with Ned of the Hill.’

'Tis hard to escape from that fair lady's bower,
For high is the window, and guarded the tower,
“But there's always a way where there is a will,”
So Ellen is off with Ned of the Hill!
Who sings, “Lady love, thou art mine now!
We will live merrily under the bough,
And I'll pillow thy head,
Where the fairies tread,
For Ellen is bride to Ned of the Hill!”

THE BEGGAR.

'Twas sunset when
Adown the glen,
A beggar came with glee;
His eye was bright,
His heart was light,
His step was bold and free:
And he danced a merry measure
To his rollick roundelay;
“Oh a beggar's life is pleasure,
For he works nor night nor day!”

“Let fathers toil,
Let mothers moil,
And daughters milk the kine;
What lord can boast
So brave a host
Of servants as are mine?
The world is my wide mansion,
Mankind my servants be,
And many a lady in the land,
Would live and beg with me!”

The beggar laugh'd,
The beggar quaff'd,
While many a jest he told;
The miller swore
He ne'er before
Such beggar did behold;
The mother filled his can,
And the daughter smiled as he
Did toast her as the loveliest lass
That eyes did ever see.

Now all is still
Within the mill,
Even the goodwife's tongue;
All sleep but two—
You may guess who,
Or vainly I have sung.
The beggar cast his rags,
Her lover Mary spied,
The miller lost a daughter
And the hunter gained a bride!

THE HAUNTED SPRING.

[_]

It is said, Fays have the power to assume various shapes, for the purpose of luring mortals into Fairy-land. Hunters seem to have been particularly the objects of the lady fairies' fancies.

Gaily through the mountain glen
The hunter's horn did ring,
As the milk-white doe
Escaped his bow,
Down by the haunted spring;
In vain his silver horn he wound,—
'Twas echo answer'd back;
For neither groom nor baying hound
Was on the hunter's track;
In vain he sought the milk-white doe
That made him stray, and 'scaped his bow,
For, save himself, no living thing
Was by the silent haunted spring.

The purple heath-bells, blooming fair,
Their fragrance round did fling,
As the hunter lay,
At close of day,
Down by the haunted spring.
A lady fair, in robe of white,
To greet the hunter came;
She kiss'd a cup with jewels bright,
And pledg'd him by his name;
“Oh Lady fair,” the hunter cried,
“Be thou my love, my blooming bride,
A bride that well might grace a king!
Fair lady of the haunted spring.”

In the fountain clear, she stoop'd,
And forth she drew a ring;
And that bold knight
His faith did plight,
Down by the haunted spring.
But since the day his chase did stray,
The hunter ne'er was seen;
And legends tell, he now doth dwell
Within the hills so green.
But still the milk-white doe appears,
And wakes the peasant's evening fears,
While distant bugles faintly ring
Around the lonely haunted spring.

Fays and fairies are supposed to have their dwelling-places within old green hills.

THE BLARNEY.

[_]

There is a certain coign-stone on the summit of Blarney Castle, in the county of Cork, the kissing of which is said to impart the gift of persuasion. Hence the phrase, applied to those who make a flattering speech, —“you've kissed the Blarney Stone.”

Oh! did you ne'er hear of “the Blarney,”
That's found near the banks of Killarney?
Believe it from me,
No girl's heart is free,
Once she hears the sweet sound of the Blarney.
For the Blarney's so great a deceiver,
That a girl thinks you're there, though you leave her;
And never finds out,
All the tricks you're about,
Till she's quite gone herself,—with your Blarney.

Oh! say would you find this same “Blarney?”
There's a castle, not far from Killarney,
On the top of its wall—
(But take care you don't fall,)
There's a stone that contains all this Blarney.
Like a magnet its influence such is,
That attraction it gives all it touches;
If you kiss it, they say,
From that blessed day,
You may kiss whom you please with your Blarney.

THE PILGRIM HARPER.

The night was cold and dreary—no star was in the sky,
When, travel-tired and weary, the harper raised his cry.
He raised his cry without the gate, his night's repose to win,
And plaintive was the voice that cried, “Ah! won't you let me in?”

The portal soon was open'd, for in the land of song
The minstrel at the outer gate yet never lingered long;
And inner doors were seldom closed 'gainst wand'rers such as he,
For locks or hearts to open soon, sweet music is the key!

But gates if ope'd by melody, are closed by grief as fast,
And sorrow o'er that once bright hall its silent spell had cast;
All undisturb'd the spider there his web might safely spin,
For many a day no festive lay—no harper was let in.

But when this harper enter'd, and said he came from far,
And bore with him from Palestine the tidings of the war;
And he could tell of all who fell, or glory there did win,
The warder knew his noble dame would let that harper in.

They led him to the bower, the lady knelt in prayer;
The harper raised a well-known lay upon the turret stair;
The door was ope'd with hasty hand, true love its meed did win,
For the lady saw her own true knight, when that harper was let in!

GIVE ME MY ARROWS AND GIVE ME MY BOW.

[_]

In the Great North American lakes there are islands bearing the name of “Manitou,” which signifies “The Great Spirit,” and Indian tradition declares that in these islands the Great Spirit concealed the precious metals, thereby showing that he did not desire they should be possessed by man; and that whenever some rash mortal has attempted to obtain treasure from “The Manitou Isle,” his canoe was always overwhelmed by a tempest. The “Palefaces,” however, fearless of “Manitou's” thunder, are now working the extensive mineral region of the lakes.

Tempt me not, stranger, with gold from the mine,
I have got treasure more precious than thine;
Freedom in forest, and health in the chase,
Where the hunter sees beauty in Nature's bright face,
Then give me my arrows and give me my bow,
In the wild woods to rove where the blue rapids flow.

If gold had been good The Great Spirit had giv'n
That gift, like his others, as freely from Heav'n:—
The lake gives me Whitefish;—the deer gives me meat,
And the toil of the capture gives slumber so sweet:—
Then give me my arrows and give me my bow,
In the wild woods to rove where the blue rapids flow.

Why seek you death in the dark cave to find
While there's life on the hill in the health-breathing wind?
And death parts you soon from your treasure so bright—
As the gold of the sunset is lost in the night:—
Then give me my arrows and give me my bow,
In the wild woods to rove where the blue rapids flow.

THE CHAIN OF GOLD.

[_]

The Earl of Kildare, Lord-Deputy of Ireland, ruled justly, and was hated by the small oppressors whose practices he discountenanced. They accused him of favouring the Irish to the King's detriment, but he, in the presence of the King, rebutted their calumnies. They said, at last, “please your Highness, all Ireland cannot rule this Earl.”—“Then,” said Henry, “he is the man to rule all Ireland,” and he took the golden chain from his neck and threw it over the shoulders of the Earl who returned, with honour, to his government.

Oh, Moina, I've a tale to tell
Will glad thy soul, my girl;
The King hath giv'n a chain of gold
To our noble-hearted Earl.
His foes they rail'd—the Earl ne'er quailed—
But, with a front so bold,
Before the King did backward fling
The slanderous lies they told,
And the King gave him no iron chain—
No—he gave him a chain of gold!

Oh, 'tis a noble sight to see
The cause of truth prevail:
An honest cause is always proof
Against a treacherous tale.

Let fawning false ones court the great,
The heart in virtue bold
Will hold the right, in power's despite,
Until that heart be cold:
For falsehood's the bond of slavery,
But truth is the chain of gold.

False Connal wed the rich one
With her gold and jewels rare,
But Dermid wed the maid he lov'd,
And she clear'd his brow from care:
And thus, in our own hearts, love,
We may read this lesson plain,
Let outward joys depart, love,
So peace within remain—
For falsehood is an iron bond,
But love is the golden chain!

ST. KEVIN:

A LEGEND OF GLENDALOUGH.

At Glendalough lived a young saint,
In odor of sanctity dwelling,
An old-fashion'd odor, which now
We seldom or never are smelling;
A book or a hook were to him
The utmost extent of his wishes;
Now, a snatch at the “lives of the saints;”
Then, a catch at the lives of the fishes.

There was a young woman one day,
Stravagin along by the lake, sir;
She looked hard at St. Kevin, they say,
But St. Kevin no notice did take, sir.
When she found looking hard wouldn't do,
She look'd soft—in the old sheep's eye fashion;
But, with all her sheep's eyes, she could not
In St. Kevin see signs of soft passion.

“You're a great hand at fishing,” says Kate;
“'Tis yourself that knows how, faith, to hook them;
But, when you have caught them, agra,
Don't you want a young woman to cook them?”
Says the saint, “I am ‘sayrious inclined,’
I intend taking orders for life, dear.”
“Only marry,” says Kate, “and you'll find
You'll get orders enough from your wife, dear.”

“You shall never be flesh of my flesh,”
Says the saint, with an anchorite groan, sir;
“I see that myself,” answer'd Kate,
“I can only be ‘bone of your bone,’ sir.
And even your bones are so scarce,”
Said Miss Kate, at her answers so glib, sir;
“That I think you would not be the worse
Of a little additional rib, sir.”

The saint in a rage, seized the lass,
He gave her one twirl round his head, sir,
And, before Doctor Arnott's invention,
Flung her on a watery bed, sir.

Oh!—cruel St. Kevin!—for shame!
When a lady her heart came to barter,
You should not have been Knight of the Bath
But have bowed to the order of Garter.

Sauntering.

THE HOUR BEFORE DAY.

[_]

There is a beautiful saying amongst the Irish peasantry to inspire hope under adverse circumstances:—“Remember,” they say, “that the darkest hour of all is the hour before day.”

Bereft of his love, and bereaved of his fame,
A knight to the cell of an old hermit came;
“My foes they have slander'd and forced me to fly,
Oh! tell me, good father, what's left but to die?”
Despair not, my son;—thou'lt be righted ere long—
For heaven is above us to right all the wrong!
Remember the words the old hermit doth say,—
“'Tis always the darkest the hour before day!”

“Then back to the tourney and back to the court,
And join thee, the bravest, in chivalry's sport;
Thy foes will be there—and thy lady-love too,
And shew both, thou'rt a knight that is gallant and true!”
He rode in the lists—all his foes he o'erthrew,
And a sweet glance he caught from a soft eye of blue:
And he thought of the words the old hermit did say,
For her glance was as bright as the dawning of day.

The feast it was late in the castle that night,
And the banquet was beaming with beauty and light;
But brightest of all is the lady who glides
To a porch where a knight with a fleet courser bides.
She paused 'neath the arch, at the fierce ban dog's bark,
She trembled to look on the night—'twas so dark;
But her lover he whisper'd, and thus did he say,
“Sweet love it is darkest the hour before day.”