 | Ballads and Lyrics by Katharine Tynan |  |
45
THE CHARITY OF THE COUNTESS KATHLEEN.
This is an authentic folk-story of the West of Ireland, and is perhaps the only instance in legend of one who sold her soul for the Love of God.
O Countess Kathleen,
Kathleen O'Hea!
She was grander than the Queen,
The old people say.
She was like the Lady Mary
In God's blessed Town,
With stars for her rosary,
And sunlight for her gown.
Kathleen O'Hea!
She was grander than the Queen,
The old people say.
She was like the Lady Mary
In God's blessed Town,
With stars for her rosary,
And sunlight for her gown.
Black fell potato blight
On the kindly fruit;
Evil demons came by night,
Withered flower and root.
And the corn-ears never filled,
And the sun grew dark;
All the floods of heaven were spilled,
And we had no ark.
On the kindly fruit;
Evil demons came by night,
Withered flower and root.
And the corn-ears never filled,
And the sun grew dark;
All the floods of heaven were spilled,
And we had no ark.
46
O Countess Kathleen,
Kathleen O'Hea!
You're a Saint—a Saint and Queen,
The old people say.
And while you pray, so still and pale,
With gold hair to your feet,
The powers of hell will sure avail
Against Christ Jesus, sweet.
Kathleen O'Hea!
You're a Saint—a Saint and Queen,
The old people say.
And while you pray, so still and pale,
With gold hair to your feet,
The powers of hell will sure avail
Against Christ Jesus, sweet.
There are come in the town
Merchantmen twain;
Dark are they, of renown,
Have sailed many a main.
With gold fillets on their hair,
And gold in their hands,
They buy a merchandise most rare,
The rarest in all lands.
Merchantmen twain;
Dark are they, of renown,
Have sailed many a main.
With gold fillets on their hair,
And gold in their hands,
They buy a merchandise most rare,
The rarest in all lands.
O Countess Kathleen,
Men's souls they buy.
You are richer than the Queen,
And the poor folk die.
God's image creeps and craves,
And the world's a hearse;
If the corpse-light lit our graves,
We were scarcely worse.
Men's souls they buy.
You are richer than the Queen,
And the poor folk die.
God's image creeps and craves,
And the world's a hearse;
If the corpse-light lit our graves,
We were scarcely worse.
47
She hath sold her house and lands,
Gold cups and gear,
And a fleet of ships is manned,
Bringing food and cheer.
But a storm arose ere day,
By the power of hell;
And the ships in Blacksod Bay,
Half-wrecked, rose and fell.
Gold cups and gear,
And a fleet of ships is manned,
Bringing food and cheer.
But a storm arose ere day,
By the power of hell;
And the ships in Blacksod Bay,
Half-wrecked, rose and fell.
O Countess Kathleen,
Kathleen O'Hea!
Jesus Christ in Heaven, I ween,
Goeth sad to-day.
All the shepherds dead or fled
Who that flock did keep;
Jesus asks in voice of dread:
“Where are My sheep?”
Kathleen O'Hea!
Jesus Christ in Heaven, I ween,
Goeth sad to-day.
All the shepherds dead or fled
Who that flock did keep;
Jesus asks in voice of dread:
“Where are My sheep?”
She stepped out of her castle-door
Like a dead Saint;
And her feet scarce touched the floor,
And her eyes were faint.
Past the market-cross and well,
Swiftly she came,
Heard the toll of the death-bell,
Ever the same.
Like a dead Saint;
And her feet scarce touched the floor,
And her eyes were faint.
Past the market-cross and well,
Swiftly she came,
Heard the toll of the death-bell,
Ever the same.
48
O Countess Kathleen,
Kathleen O'Hea!
She was like the marble Queen
In the Abbey grey.
Past the people she is gone,
Up the inn stair,
In the chamber, all alone,
Where the demons were.
Kathleen O'Hea!
She was like the marble Queen
In the Abbey grey.
Past the people she is gone,
Up the inn stair,
In the chamber, all alone,
Where the demons were.
They were counting up their store,
Littling its worth.
Now who standeth in the door?
Flower of all the earth,
With her white soul in her hand,
Fair beyond desires;
And her eyes like theirs who stand
In eternal fires.
Littling its worth.
Now who standeth in the door?
Flower of all the earth,
With her white soul in her hand,
Fair beyond desires;
And her eyes like theirs who stand
In eternal fires.
O Countess Kathleen,
Kathleen O'Hea!
Heard them chaffer, shrill and mean,
Let them say their say,
But this soul, so white of hue,
Jesus Christ held dear;
It was worth all souls, they knew,
They could gather here.
Kathleen O'Hea!
Heard them chaffer, shrill and mean,
Let them say their say,
But this soul, so white of hue,
Jesus Christ held dear;
It was worth all souls, they knew,
They could gather here.
49
Thus she bought the bartered souls,
Emptied their pack,
She hath gathered up the scrolls,
Each man hath his back.
Now those merchantmen are fled,
And there's food to eat;
All the starving folk are fed,
Full with wine and meat.
Emptied their pack,
She hath gathered up the scrolls,
Each man hath his back.
Now those merchantmen are fled,
And there's food to eat;
All the starving folk are fed,
Full with wine and meat.
O Countess Kathleen,
Kathleen O'Hea!
Ullagone! and raise the keen!
Cold and dead she lay.
O ye folk, at what a price
She hath ransomèd
Poor men's souls for Paradise,
With her own instead!
Kathleen O'Hea!
Ullagone! and raise the keen!
Cold and dead she lay.
O ye folk, at what a price
She hath ransomèd
Poor men's souls for Paradise,
With her own instead!
O Countess Kathleen,
Kathleen O'Hea!
She was like the lilies' queen,
The old people say.
On her breast the white lilies,
On the dusky pall;
But the Cross she dared not kiss,
Turned against the wall.
Kathleen O'Hea!
She was like the lilies' queen,
The old people say.
On her breast the white lilies,
On the dusky pall;
But the Cross she dared not kiss,
Turned against the wall.
50
Praised be the Lord Jesus!
Could He forget
How she sold her soul for us,
Paying our debt?
Swiftly His Messenger
Doeth His behest;
And that gentle soul they bear,
Even to His breast.
Could He forget
How she sold her soul for us,
Paying our debt?
Swiftly His Messenger
Doeth His behest;
And that gentle soul they bear,
Even to His breast.
But that day was Satan wroth,
And his fury fell
On the accursed traders both,
Traffickers of hell.
They, below the river bed,
In great chains are caught,
Till they have deliverèd
That dear soul they bought.
And his fury fell
On the accursed traders both,
Traffickers of hell.
They, below the river bed,
In great chains are caught,
Till they have deliverèd
That dear soul they bought.
O Countess Kathleen,
Kathleen O'Hea!
For her charity, I ween,
High she sits to-day.
Roses grow about her feet,
The rose in her hair,
Because Love's flower is found most meet
For her to wear.
Kathleen O'Hea!
For her charity, I ween,
High she sits to-day.
Roses grow about her feet,
The rose in her hair,
Because Love's flower is found most meet
For her to wear.
| Ballads and Lyrics by Katharine Tynan | |