 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
23
SONGS OF GAEL AND GALL
THE ALARM
Hurry down, hurry down, hurry down ever,
From the wrack-ridden mountain and yellow, rushing river!
Stern horsemen and footmen with spear, axe and quiver,
Oh, hurry down, hurry down, your land to deliver!
Haste, oh, haste! for in cruel might clustering,
Far and near the fierce Nordman is mustering;
Haste, oh, haste! or the daughters ye cherish,
The bride of your bosom shall far more than perish!
From the wrack-ridden mountain and yellow, rushing river!
Stern horsemen and footmen with spear, axe and quiver,
Oh, hurry down, hurry down, your land to deliver!
Haste, oh, haste! for in cruel might clustering,
Far and near the fierce Nordman is mustering;
Haste, oh, haste! or the daughters ye cherish,
The bride of your bosom shall far more than perish!
Lo! how he toils down that narrow pass yonder,
Ensnared by his spoils and oppressed by his plunder!
Flash on him, crash on him, God's fire and thunder!
And scatter and shatter his fell ranks asunder!
Oh, smite the wolf, ere he slinks from the slaughter!
Oh, rend the shark, ere he wins to deep water!
Pursue and hew him to pieces by the haven,
And feast with his red flesh the exulting sea raven!
Ensnared by his spoils and oppressed by his plunder!
Flash on him, crash on him, God's fire and thunder!
And scatter and shatter his fell ranks asunder!
Oh, smite the wolf, ere he slinks from the slaughter!
Oh, rend the shark, ere he wins to deep water!
Pursue and hew him to pieces by the haven,
And feast with his red flesh the exulting sea raven!
BATTLE HYMN
Above the thunder crashes,
Around the lightning flashes:
Our heads are heaped with ashes!
But Thou, God, art nigh!
Thou launchest forth the levin,
The storm by Thee is driven,
Give heed, O Lord, from heaven,
Hear, hear our cry.
Around the lightning flashes:
Our heads are heaped with ashes!
But Thou, God, art nigh!
24
The storm by Thee is driven,
Give heed, O Lord, from heaven,
Hear, hear our cry.
For, lo! the Dane defaces
With fire Thy holy places,
He hews Thy priests in pieces,
Our maids more than die.
Up, Lord, with storm and thunder,
Pursue him with his plunder,
And smite his ships in sunder,
Lord God, Most High!
With fire Thy holy places,
He hews Thy priests in pieces,
Our maids more than die.
Up, Lord, with storm and thunder,
Pursue him with his plunder,
And smite his ships in sunder,
Lord God, Most High!
THE RETURN FROM FINGAL
Moan, ye winds, ye caverns call
“Orro, orro!” to our sorrow,
While we bear 'neath one black pall
Brian, Murrough, from Fingal.
Still though wasted, wounded, weary,
On, Dalcassians! to your eyrie,
Eagles, crying from your crag,
“We have rent the Raven's flag.”
“Orro, orro!” to our sorrow,
While we bear 'neath one black pall
Brian, Murrough, from Fingal.
Still though wasted, wounded, weary,
On, Dalcassians! to your eyrie,
Eagles, crying from your crag,
“We have rent the Raven's flag.”
How O'Brien's banshee cried,
Wailing, warning, ere that morning,
When the Lochlan in his pride
Whitened all the ocean side.
Sea-kings stern from Norway's highlands,
Pirate chiefs from Orkney's Islands,
Lords of Leinster, Britain, Wales,
By the shore a thousand sails!
Wailing, warning, ere that morning,
When the Lochlan in his pride
Whitened all the ocean side.
25
Pirate chiefs from Orkney's Islands,
Lords of Leinster, Britain, Wales,
By the shore a thousand sails!
“On this day,” great Brian cried
To the foeman, “Jew and Roman
Christ, our Saviour, crucified.
Hold we truce till Easter-tide!”
Loud rang back their impious laughter,
“Fight comes first, thanksgiving after!”
“Perish then, with shameful loss,
Howling fiends before the Cross!”
To the foeman, “Jew and Roman
Christ, our Saviour, crucified.
Hold we truce till Easter-tide!”
Loud rang back their impious laughter,
“Fight comes first, thanksgiving after!”
“Perish then, with shameful loss,
Howling fiends before the Cross!”
Plait and Donnell brand to brand
First in raging wrath engaging,
Heart pierced by each other's hand,
Fell together on the strand.
Then before the sword of Murrough
Fled the Dane; till to our sorrow
Anrud, Norway's champion dread,
Murrough met—and both lay dead.
First in raging wrath engaging,
Heart pierced by each other's hand,
Fell together on the strand.
Then before the sword of Murrough
Fled the Dane; till to our sorrow
Anrud, Norway's champion dread,
Murrough met—and both lay dead.
But our rallying cry awoke,
“Kian, Kian, Desmond's lion!”
And, at Kian's dreadful stroke,
Reeled the Lochlan ranks and broke.
“Now with strains of martial glory
To the King to tell our story,”
But we found great Brian low;
Och, ochone! och ullalo!
“Kian, Kian, Desmond's lion!”
And, at Kian's dreadful stroke,
Reeled the Lochlan ranks and broke.
“Now with strains of martial glory
To the King to tell our story,”
But we found great Brian low;
Och, ochone! och ullalo!
26
Moan, ye winds, ye caverns call
“Orro, orro!” to our sorrow,
While we bear 'neath one black pall
Brian, Murrough, from Fingal.
Still though wasted, wounded, weary,
On, Dalcassians! to your eyrie,
Eagles, crying from your crag,
“We have rent the Raven's flag.”
“Orro, orro!” to our sorrow,
While we bear 'neath one black pall
Brian, Murrough, from Fingal.
Still though wasted, wounded, weary,
On, Dalcassians! to your eyrie,
Eagles, crying from your crag,
“We have rent the Raven's flag.”
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |