 | Irish Songs and Ballads |  |
69
RUSTIC POEMS.
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THE LIGHT IN THE SNOW.
Oh Pat, the bitter day when you bravely parted from us,
The mother and myself on the cruel quays of Cork:
When you took the long kiss, and you gave the faithful promise
That you'd soon bring us over to be wid you at New York.
The mother and myself on the cruel quays of Cork:
When you took the long kiss, and you gave the faithful promise
That you'd soon bring us over to be wid you at New York.
But the times they grew worse through the wild, weary winter,
And my needle all we had to find livin' for us two;
While the mother drooped and drooped till I knelt down forenint her
And closed her dyin' eyes, dear,—but still no word of you.
And my needle all we had to find livin' for us two;
While the mother drooped and drooped till I knelt down forenint her
And closed her dyin' eyes, dear,—but still no word of you.
Then the neighbours thought you false to me but I knew you better,
Though the bud became the leaf, and the corn began to start;
And the swallow she flew back, and still sorra letter,
But I sewed on and on, Pat, and kep' a stout heart.
Though the bud became the leaf, and the corn began to start;
And the swallow she flew back, and still sorra letter,
But I sewed on and on, Pat, and kep' a stout heart.
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Till the leaves they decayed, and the rook and the starlin'
Returned to the stubble, and I'd put by enough
To start at long last in search of my darlin'
Alone across the ocean so unruly and rough.
Returned to the stubble, and I'd put by enough
To start at long last in search of my darlin'
Alone across the ocean so unruly and rough.
Until at the end, very weak and very weary,
I reached the overside, and started on my search;
But no account for ever of Patrick for his Mary,
By advertisin' for you, dear, or callin' you in church.
I reached the overside, and started on my search;
But no account for ever of Patrick for his Mary,
By advertisin' for you, dear, or callin' you in church.
Yet still I struggled on, though my heart was almost broken
And my feet torn entirely on the rough, rugged stone;
Till that day it came round, signs by and by token,
The day five year that we parted you, mavrone.
And my feet torn entirely on the rough, rugged stone;
Till that day it came round, signs by and by token,
The day five year that we parted you, mavrone.
Oh! the snow it was sweepin' through the dark, silent city,
And the cruel wind it cut through my thin, tattered gown.
Still I prayed the good God on his daughter to take pity;
When a sudden, strange light shone forenint me up the town.
And the cruel wind it cut through my thin, tattered gown.
Still I prayed the good God on his daughter to take pity;
When a sudden, strange light shone forenint me up the town.
And the light it led on till at last right oppossite
A large, lonely house it vanished as I stood;
Wid my heart axing wildly of me, was it, oh, was it
A warnin' of ill or a token of good.
A large, lonely house it vanished as I stood;
Wid my heart axing wildly of me, was it, oh, was it
A warnin' of ill or a token of good.
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When the light kindled up agin, brighter and bigger,
And the shadow of a woman across the windy passed;
While close, close, and closer to her stole a man's figure,
And I fainted, as you caught me in your true arms at last.
And the shadow of a woman across the windy passed;
While close, close, and closer to her stole a man's figure,
And I fainted, as you caught me in your true arms at last.
Then Pat, my own Pat, I saw that you were altered
To the shadow of yourself by the fever on the brain!
While “Mary, Mary darlin',” at last your lips they faltered,
“You've given your poor Patrick his mem'ry back again.”
To the shadow of yourself by the fever on the brain!
While “Mary, Mary darlin',” at last your lips they faltered,
“You've given your poor Patrick his mem'ry back again.”
And the good, gentle priest, when he comes, is never weary
Of sayin', as he spakes of that light in the snow,
“The Lord heard your prayer, and in pity for you, Mary,
Restored Pat the raison that he lost long ago.”
Of sayin', as he spakes of that light in the snow,
“The Lord heard your prayer, and in pity for you, Mary,
Restored Pat the raison that he lost long ago.”
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WHAT IS LIFE WIDOUT A WIFE?
FESTAL CHORUS.
The Boys.What is life widout a wife?
The Girls.
'Tis the bee widout his honey;
'Tis the hoard by misers stored;
'Tis the spendthrift's waste of money;
Spring and all her song-birds mute;
Summer wid no rosy flowers;
Autumn robbed of all his fruit;
Winter—and no fireside hours.
The Girls.
What is life widout a husband?
The Boys.
Poetry widout an iday;
Powdther, and the shot forgot;
Fish—and it foriver Friday;
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Faix! and fever widout physic;
Troth! and music out of tune;
'Dad! and dancin' widout music.
The Girls.
Then, give over playin' rover,
Lads, wid Jacky-Lanthern Folly,
Fondly turnin' to the burnin'
Of Love's beacon bright and holy.
The Boys.
Now, girls, dear, whisper here!
Where 'll we find his guidin' beacon.
The Girls.
In the skies of woman's eyes
Fondly look, and one will waken.
The Boys.
Och! then you coquettes unthrue,
To one lad at last be list'nin',
Whilst your rose of beauty blows—
Whilst like goold your hair is glist'nin',
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Yield, whilst you can still be patrons,
Or too late you'll mourn your fate,
Poor ould maids among the matrons.
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THE HANDSOME WITCH.
“Have I seen a witch, your honour?'Deed I often have that same;
But the worst was Morna Connor,
Called ‘The Handsome Witch’ by name.
She was tall, no woman taller
Ever cross'd your cur'ous sight,
And to see her pass, you'd call her
Higher nor her proper height:
For though Time his constant quarrel
Waged upon her cheek and lip;
Though he stole their laughin' coral
And destroyed their lovely clip;
Though he robbed the sculptured roundness
From her ivory neck and arm,
Wasted up the soft profoundness
Of her bosom's swellin' charm;
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Of his shinin' winter snow;
Yes! and wrote his warnin' wrinkles
On her bold, unbendin' brow—
Time himself, that still unsparin'
Bows the lordliest in the land,
Could not curb the haughty bearin'
Of that woman great and grand.
No! nor thin one curlin' cluster
Of her long, luxuriant hair:
No! nor quinch the steady lustre
Of her eyes' contimptuous stare.
Many a cow wid swellin' udder,
As the crafty crone went by,
Took one cowld, unchristian shudder,
Dad! and ran complately dry;
While the witch she crossed the clover,
Steadyin' on her skull wid care
A full keeler frothin' over,
As if milked from out the air.
Many a colleen in the dairy
Still should wave the churn-staff round,
Scatterin' salt that crabbed fairy
Wid her canthrips to confound:
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Till she hadn't strength to stand;
While through clear, enchanted water
Morna drew the dead-man's hand.
But I beg your honour's pardon,
I'll conclude some other day;
For the calf is in the garden,
And the heifer 's at the hay.”
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SAVING THE TURF.
Cuttin' the turf, cuttin' the turf, with our feet on the shinin' slan!Cuttin' the turf, cuttin' the turf, till the cows come home to the bawn!
Footin' the turf, footin' the turf, footin' and turnin' our best,
Footin' the turf, turnin' the turf, till the rook flies home to her nest!
Settin' the turf, settin' the turf, hither and over the land,
Settin' the turf, settin' the turf, till the say-turn sinks on the strand!
Drawin' the turf, drawin' the turf, with our ponies and asses away,
Drawin' the turf, drawin' the turf, till the boats are out in the bay!
Rickin' the turf, rickin' the turf, safe in the haggard at last,
To keep and to comfort us all from the rage of the rain and the blast.
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LOOBEEN.
Bridgid.Ere the sun began to peep,
Out I wandered through our orchard.
Rosy.
Since you couldn't quiet sleep,
By the thoughts of Torlogh tortured;
For 'tis rumoured how of late,
By his manly beauty melted,
With your pippen, plump and straight
At the boy in vain you pelted.
Bridgid.
Yes! Saint Bridgid, for my sake
Interferin' with that apple,
Rolled it on to Rory Blake,
And we're goin' to the chapel.
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So you've handsome Rory fast!
Girls, go set the secret spreadin',
That when solemn Lent is past
We shall dance at Bridgid's weddin'!
Now, since all her news is out,
Nora, see can you discover,
Eastward, westward, north, or sout',
Where's the boy I'd make my lover?
Nora.
Murt na mo you wish to wed.
Rosy.
Now that notion just be sparin'!
With a hornet at my head
I'd as soon hop over Erin.
Come, I'll give a handsome hint,
Girls, should set you rightly guessin'.
How is this? To school I wint,
Till my master learnt my lesson.
Nora.
At the night-school—I've the whole—
With her make-believe-be-learnin',
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That complately she's been turnin'.
Rosy.
Yes! I've clever Phelim fast.
Nora.
Girls, go set the secret spreadin',
That when solemn Lent is past
We shall dance at Rosy's weddin'!
102
THE BLACK '46.
A RETROSPECT.
Out away across the river,
Where the purple mountains meet,
There's as green a wood as iver,
Fenced you from the flamin' heat.
And oppòsite, up the mountain,
Seven ancient cells ye'll see,
And, below, a holy fountain
Sheltered by a sacred tree;
While between, across the tillage,
Two boreens full up wid broom
Draw ye down into a village
All in ruin on the coom;
For the most heart-breakin' story
Of the fearful famine year
On the silent wreck before ye
You may read charàctered clear.
Yous are young, too young for ever
To rec'llect the bitter blight,
How it crep across the River
Unbeknownst beneath the right;
Till we woke up in the mornin',
And beheld our country's curse
Wave abroad its heavy warnin',
Like the white plumes of a hearse.
Where the purple mountains meet,
There's as green a wood as iver,
Fenced you from the flamin' heat.
And oppòsite, up the mountain,
Seven ancient cells ye'll see,
And, below, a holy fountain
Sheltered by a sacred tree;
While between, across the tillage,
Two boreens full up wid broom
Draw ye down into a village
All in ruin on the coom;
For the most heart-breakin' story
Of the fearful famine year
On the silent wreck before ye
You may read charàctered clear.
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To rec'llect the bitter blight,
How it crep across the River
Unbeknownst beneath the right;
Till we woke up in the mornin',
And beheld our country's curse
Wave abroad its heavy warnin',
Like the white plumes of a hearse.
To our gardens, heavy-hearted,
In that dreadful summer's dawn,
Young and ould away we started
Wid the basket and the slan.
But the heart within the bosom
Gave one leap of awful dread
At each darlin' pratee blossom,
White and purple, lyin' dead.
Down we dug, but only scattered
Poisoned spuds along the slope;
Though each ridge in vain it flattered
Our poor hearts' revivin' hope.
But the desperate toil we'd double
On into the evenin' shades;
Till the earth to share our trouble
Shook beneath our groanin' spades;
Till a mist across the meadows
From the graveyard rose and spread,
And 'twas rumoured ghostly shadows,
Phantoms of our fathers dead,
Moved among us, wildly sharin'
In the women's sobs and sighs,
And our stony, still despairin',
Till night covered up the skies.
Thin we knew for bitter certain
That the vinom-breathin' cloud,
Closin' still its cruel curtain,
Surely yet would be our shroud.
And the fearful sights did folly,
Och! no voice could rightly tell,
But that constant, melancholy
Murmur of the passin' bell;
Till to toll it none among us
Strong enough at last was found,
And a silence overhung us
Awfuller nor any sound.
In that dreadful summer's dawn,
Young and ould away we started
Wid the basket and the slan.
But the heart within the bosom
Gave one leap of awful dread
At each darlin' pratee blossom,
White and purple, lyin' dead.
Down we dug, but only scattered
Poisoned spuds along the slope;
Though each ridge in vain it flattered
Our poor hearts' revivin' hope.
But the desperate toil we'd double
On into the evenin' shades;
Till the earth to share our trouble
Shook beneath our groanin' spades;
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From the graveyard rose and spread,
And 'twas rumoured ghostly shadows,
Phantoms of our fathers dead,
Moved among us, wildly sharin'
In the women's sobs and sighs,
And our stony, still despairin',
Till night covered up the skies.
Thin we knew for bitter certain
That the vinom-breathin' cloud,
Closin' still its cruel curtain,
Surely yet would be our shroud.
And the fearful sights did folly,
Och! no voice could rightly tell,
But that constant, melancholy
Murmur of the passin' bell;
Till to toll it none among us
Strong enough at last was found,
And a silence overhung us
Awfuller nor any sound.
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