Ballads of Irish chivalry

I stood beside a gun upon the Western Gate
At the rising of the sun, the battle to await:
In the morning's ruddy glow showed the fires' destroying tracks,
My brave comrades all below, with their harness on their backs.

II

Each with harness on his back, by rampart, street, and tower,
To repel the fierce attack in the sultry noontide hour;

Glittered lance and flashed the glaive, till the work of death begun;
And one cheer my comrades gave, as the ruthless foe came on!

III

As the wild waves dash and vault 'gainst the cliffs of high Dunmore,
Fierce they mounted to th'assault, up the breach, in sweat and gore;—
As the billows backward flow at the ebbing of the main,
Back we drove the daring foe to his camp trench once again!

IV

Out burst each roaring gun, with its mouth of hissing flame,
From its war-cloud thick and dun, as again the foe-men came
For vengeance burning hot; but once more we mowed them down
With spear, and sword, and shot, 'till we drove them from the town.

V

Cromwell kept the northern height;—as a spectre pale was he,
When he saw his men of might twice before my comrades flee;
And he pointed with his sword where the red breach smoking lay—
“Go! take it, and the Lord shall be on our side today!”

VI

With psalm and trumpet swell came they on at his behest;—
Then we rammed each cannon well, and we nerved each gallant breast!

And the bloody breach we manned with fearless hearts and high,
The onset to withstand, or for homes and altars die!

VII

Tottered mansion, tower, and wall at the thundering fire we gave;—
But thro' blood, and smoke, and all, came they on by dint of glaive;
'Till with wild and deafening din, fierce, to gorge their hate accurst,
O'er the gory breach, and in, in one destroying wave they burst!

VIII

Breast to breast their charge we met with the battle's rage and hate,
Hand to hand, unconquered yet, with the foe we tried our fate.—
They were many, we were few; they were brave and stalworth men,
But we charged, and charged anew—'till we broke their ranks again!

IX

How we cleared each narrow street when the foe-men's slight began!—
How we rushed on their retreat!—how we slew them as they ran!—
How we quaffed the wine so bright when our bloody task was o'er,
To the men who 'scaped the fight, and the brave who slept in gore!

X

Evening's cloud came o'er the hill—darker clouds on Cromwell's face,
When, with all his force and skill, he could not storm the place!—

But our powder all was gone, and our cannon useless lay,
And what man could do was done, so we might no longer stay.

XI

We buried those who fell, with the silence of the tomb,
And we left thee, brave Clonmel, 'neath the midnight's friendly gloom:—
With slow and measured tread, o'er the low Bridge of the Dane,
And that dark breach where we bled, did we ne'er behold again!

DUNLEVY.

I

Dunlevy stands lone in the forest,
To list to the bells' merry peal,
And their sounds make his young heart the sorest
That e'er throbbed 'neath corselet of steel;
For they ring the gay bridal of Alice,
The lady he loved long and pure,
False to him in her sire's feudal palace
By the sweet lovely banks of the Suir.

II

The Baron, his high Norman neighbour,
The fond, happy bridegroom is he,
And Dunlevy's right hand's on his sabre,
To think that such falseness could be;
For the lady had vowed o'er and over
That nought could her fondness allure
From Dunlevy, her brave knightly lover,
By the sweet lovely banks of the Suir.

III

The hot noon came burning and shining
O'er hill-top and valley and tower;
Yet still stood Dunlevy repining,
Dark and lone in that gay wildwood bower,
Till he saw far away brightly gleaming
Casque and spear over mountain and moor,
Till a trumpet blast startled his dreaming
By the sweet lovely banks of the Suir.

IV

Sudden heard he a trembling and sighing,
And a-nigh stood his love sorrow-worn,
From her father's gay hall after flying
Ere the bridal could bind her that morn;
And sudden away they are sweeping
On his wild steed towards gray Craganure,
Where his bright native torrents are leaping,
Far away from the banks of the Suir.

V

From the gray hill that tow'rs o'er the valley
The bridegroom and father look down,
Where the mailed knights and vassals out sally,
All searching thro' green dale and town;

But Dunlevy from stern sire and vassal
With his bright blooming love's now secure,
Far away in his own native castle
From the sweet lovely banks of the Suir!

THE BATTLE OF KNOCKINOSS.

Scene: A camp-fire by the Shannon.—An old Rapparee who had served in the wars of 1641, relating the battle to his comrades.

I

Attend, ye valiant horsemen and each bold Rapparee,
And by our blazing camp-fire a tale I'll tell to ye:—
With Murrogh's savage army one valley's breadth away,
One noon of bleak November on Knock'noss hill we lay.

II

Lord Taaffe was our commander, and brave Mac Alisdrum,
And 'cross the lowland meadows we saw the foeman come;
Then up spake bold Mac Alisdrum, “Now leave their wing to me”;
And soon we crossed our sabres with their artillery.

III

We swept them down the hill-sides, and took both flag and gun,
And back across the meadows we made them quickly run;
But swift as they retreated, more fast behind we bore,
Until we steeped our sabres from point to hilt in gore.

IV

Alas, alas for cowards, and ho! for dauntless men!
Without one cause for flying, Lord Taaffe fled thro' the glen,
And all our army with him in panic rushed away,
And left us sore surrounded on Knock'noss hill that day.

V

Then up spoke our commander, the brave Mac Alisdrum,—
“The foe pursues our comrades, this way his horsemen come;
Then out with each good claymore, and strike like brave men still!”
And at his words the foemen came charging o'er the hill!

VI

Mo brón! Mo brón! the slaughter, when we mixed horse and man!
Loud crashed the roaring battle, like floods the red blood ran;
And few the foemen left us to fight another fray,
And Alisdrum they murdered at Knockinoss that day!

VII

My curse upon all cowards, and ho! for brave men still!—
Long, long their bones were bleaching upon that blood-stained hill!
Then choose a good commander to lead ye to the fray,
And shun what lost the battle on Knock'noss hill that day!

Murrogh an Theothaun, or Murrogh the Burner. He was Baron of Inchiquin, and his name is yet remembered among the peasantry as the most ferocious and bloodthirsty of Cromwell's generals.

THE TEMPLAR KNIGHT.

[I]

Mid Corrin's haunted wildwoods, where the summer winds are straying,
Around a glade of brightness, from dells and leafy bowers,
There stands a steed caparisoned, a small steed wildly neighing
To a boy and fair girl playing by Glendinan's high towers;

And gaily round them winging, the merry birds are singing,
And the stream its waves is flinging with a glad voice mid the flowers.

II

Moves the steed with sportful neighings, near and nearer to his master,
With axe and spear crossed bravely on his gilded saddle-tree,
Where springs the boy with shout of joy, and, than the fleet winds faster,
His comrade, spurs he past her, with a bearing bold and free;
Then sudden cries: “Ho, yonder! see the magic halls of wonder,
Where the wizard old doth ponder on his spells to fetter me!”

III

Like a knight of peerless valour on his wild steed he is sweeping,
Toward the wizard tower he fancies in the dreamy forest shade,—
With lance in rest for foeman's breast, his magic foe unsleeping,
In swift course he is keeping across that sunlit glade!
And thus each evening golden, mid those mossy wild-woods olden,
By dark care unbeholden, lived that boy and bright-eyed maid.

IV

Years have passed—bright years of gladness—and their bridal bells are ringing
Along the summer mountains from that forest wild and wide;
Ah! thus from early childhood in the heart should love be springing,
Soul to soul in fondness clinging from its golden morning tide;
Yet, alas! for Gerald's dreaming of a bride in beauty beaming,
Mora's gone ere morn's first gleaming—falsely fled from Corrin side!

V

As he waited by the altar, fair and fond the dreams that bound him,—
Chief of Houra's sunny green-woods, with a bride as fair as May,—
And his look was calmly joyous to the vassals circled round him,
Till the tale of sorrow found him that his bride had fled away,—
His love, his anger scorning, a stranger's home adorning,
To Carrignour that morning with its baron bold and gay.

VI

The priest hath words of comfort, the mother mournful sighing,
The vassals' shouts of fury loud as battle trumpets blown,
And, “Bring me”, cries young Gerald, “my warsteed, that out-flying,

Ere the purple day be dying, ere her paramour be flown,—
That the traitor lord may learn my vengeance red and stern,
Ere he treads his native fern by the Funcheon's valleys lone!”

VII

He has donned his battle harness, and away so wild careering,
His good steed bears him bravely towards the valleys of Glenroe,
Till in the golden noontide, from a forest hill down peering,
Little caring, little fearing, so he meet his traitor foe,
Where a stream its tide is sending in many a silver bending,
He espies the false pair wending through the flowery dells below.

VIII

By the baron kneels the maid at the evening's calm returning,
But love is drowned in sorrow, and joy is changed to fear,—
By the baron kneels the maid all alone and wildly mourning,
And his tales with warm love burning she never more shall hear;
For away young Gerald straineth from the spot where she remaineth,
And the baron's life-blood staineth his conquering border spear!

IX

But revenge ne'er changed the bosom from its dark and dreary madness
To joy, and thus with Gerald as he rides o'er moor and moss,—
“Ah! the shadow of despair”, he cries, “has sunk my hope in sadness,
Love's gold I sought in gladness, and find it leaden dross;
So away from lovely Mulla, where she sings by height and hollow,
Another path I'll follow,—a champion of the cross!”

X

It was a golden morning mid summer's reign of splendour,
Young Gerald took his lance and steed, and sped from Houra's wold;
But the fond farewell, when with sweet spell immortal love doth lend her
Words mournful true and tender, no weeping maiden told,
Yet one true heart weepeth ever since he left his native river,
And no joy the world can give her, his mother sad and old.

XI

And she cries: “Again, oh! never shall I see my Gerald riding
To the chase in merry greenwood at the blithesome peep of morn,
Shall his looks of gladness cheer me, shall his words of love come gliding,
With peace and joy abiding, to my heart so sorrow-torn!”

But with time, despair retreating, hope springeth up unfleeting,
Else her heart had ceased its beating,—she had died in grief forlorn.

XII

Long she hoped for his returning to his hall with name of glory,
Till the flowers of ten bright summers lay dead on mead and tomb;
Then unseen he stood one morning on Corrin's summit hoary,
Gazing round that land of story on each well-known scene of bloom;—
Dreams of fair maids he was spurning, who might come with warm love burning,
When they heard of his returning, for he wore the Templar plume!

XIII

Many dreams of his sweet childhood there his memory might borrow,
Yet he entered with a sinking heart his native hall once more.
There he found his mother sitting in her lorn and silent sorrow,
As she sat that golden morrow when he left his home of yore;—
Glad and sudden up she started, “Oh! we'll never more be parted!”
And she died all joyous-hearted in his arms by Mulla's shore!

XIV

To Glendinan Sir Gerald has brought across the ocean
Five Templars, he their leader, with all their vassal power,

And thrice each day out ringing with a sad and solemn motion,
Tolls their bell to meet devotion o'er cot and hall and bower:
And long their banner knightly in the sunshine glittered brightly,
To the breezes fluttered lightly from that ancient Templar tower!

Glendinan, an extensive valley at the north side of the Bally-Houra mountains, facing the plain of Limerick. At its upper extremity lies a small, oblong, and dilapidated stone chamber, like a grave, called by the country people Iscur's Bed; about a mile below which, on the edge of a glen, are the remains of an old building, which, according to tradition, was an establishment of the Knights Templars.

ROMANCE OF THE BANNER.

I

There was a banner old, in a tower by th'ocean bound,
Its device a boat of gold, a lady, and a hound;
Then, gentles, sit around, and a tale I'll tell to ye,
All about the old green banner of that tower by Cleena's sea.

II

“Where away, oh! where away?” asked the hoary marinere,
From a rock that towered so gray o'er the waters broad and clear—
“To seek my true love dear, doth he live, or is he dead!”
Cried young Marron, with her wolf-hound, as o'er the waves she sped.

III

Night, with her starry train, o'er the hound and fair ladye—
Rose the shark from out the main, stealing slowly on their lee,
On them dark and wild looked he,—gazed the wolf-hound fierce on him,
While he plunged and glared and passed them in the ghostly midnight dim!

IV

Vanished the starlight pale, came rosy morn once more,
As that boat so small and frail sped the purpling billows o'er,
A tall coast towered before, with great, blue hills behind,
And “Perchance”, cried Marron, weeping, “here my true love I may find!”

V

The sharp keel grates the sand;—ah! the sight before her there,
Wrecks on wrecks along the strand, stark bones whitening in the air;
Down she sat in her despair. “Ah! my Turlogh brave”, said she,
“The storm came down upon him, and his bones lie in the sea!”

VI

And floating on the wave beside the sand below,
The glittering plume she gave her love two moons ago!

Oh! the madness of her woe, oh! her shriek of wild despair,
As she sank, like death had struck her, on the wet sands swooning there!

VII

A youth with agile bound, of high and princely mien,
Welcomed by Marron's hound,—no foe to her I ween,—
Has darted from the screen of an old, deserted fane,
And o'erjoyed young Marron wakens in her Turlogh's arms again!

VIII

Sank crew and galley trim when the wild tempest roared,
And left alive but him, to Marron thus restored;
Nought saved he but his sword from thundering blast and brine,
And he says, “We'll seek green Desmond, and thou never more shalt pine!”

IX

On their course the night came down without one planet bright,
Great clouds of dreary brown quenched all their trembling light.
Up to the lowering height the hound his gaze has thrown,
And a sudden yell breaks from him, and a low, sad, wailing moan!

X

Sudden the lightning's flash came darting out on high,
And the mighty thunder's crash boomed o'er the boundless sky,
And with a vengeful cry the storm began to rave,
And lowered them in the hollows, and tossed them o'er the wave.

XI

“Oh! for the mighty rock where stands my castle gray”—
Amid the tempest's shock, thus the young chief did say:—
“My heart feels no dismay, but all for love and thee,
So soon to sink and perish beneath the roaring sea!”

XII

Out in the rushing wind upon the greedy wave,
His arm around her twined, wildly he sprang to save;
The boat whirled stave by stave on toward the disstant shore,
And the wolf-hound plunged and turned, then dashed right on before.

XIII

The golden morn had broke o'er sea and lovely land,
When calmly they awoke—'twas on their native strand,
They made a banner grand, and on its gleaming fold
Was the hound and lovely lady, and the boat of ruddy gold.

An episode in a Fenian romance.

ROSE CONDON.

I

Over valley and rock and lea,
Merrily strike the wild harp's strain,—
For the fairest maid in the south countrie
Hath come to our Funcheon's side again;
Far mid the mountains of Green Fear-muighe,
In lone Crag Thierna many a day
Dwelt she long with the fairy throng,
Mourning for her home alway.

II

An Ardrigh's crown is yellow and bright—
Fill the glens with the wild harp's tone—
But it may not match those locks of light
So loosely o'er her fair brows thrown;
And the glance of her eyes, oh! mortal wight
Never such glory saw before;
And her neck as the wild rose soft and white,
Lone blooming by the Funcheon's shore.

III

She is daughter of Condon brave—
Strike the wild harp's string of pride—
The fiercest chief where thy waters rave,
Dark Oun Mór of the rushing tide;

Nine moons have silvered the Funcheon's wave,
Since by the towers of strong Cloghlee
The fondness of her heart she gave
To the banished Knight of thy woods, Gailtee!

IV

O Love! thy power grows day by day—
Strike the wild harp high and bold—
Three eves had purpled the mountains gray,
And young Clongibbon had ta'en his hold,
Reta'en his hold, regained his sway,
All for the love of Condon's child,
And chased the Saxon far away
Beyond the pale of his mountains wild!

V

Three eves more o'er Funcheon's tide—
Strike the wild harp clear and sweet—
Rose Condon sat by the water side,
Her brave, triumphant love to meet:
The sunset in his purple pride,
Over the far-off crests of Mole,
And thro' the glens and forest wide
A sweet and dreamy silence stole.

VI

Long she waits her lover's tread—
Strike the wild harp tenderly—
Till day's bright legions all are fled,
And the white stars peer thro' the forest tree;
Ha! now he comes by the river bed,
With his martial step and bearing high;
But why is the maiden's heart adread,
As her warrior love draws fondly nigh?

VII

Does victory paint a warrior's mail—
Strike the wild harp fearfully—
With swarth gold gems and diamonds pale,
And his plume with the sunbow's radiancy?
Her lover's armour thro' the vale
Sheddeth a wild and elfin gleam,
And strange sounds on the breezes sail,
Sweet echoing o'er the star-lit stream.

VIII

The warrior now beside her stands—
Strike the wild harp sad and low—
And takes in his her trembling hands,
But her loved knight ne'er gazèd so!
Oh! 'twas the king of the fairy bands
That bound her in his spells that night,
And bore her swift to the elfin lands,
Far, far away in his love-winged flight!

IX

From Oun Mór's tide to Carrig'nour, —
Strike the wild harp rushingly—
From far Mocollop's mighty tower
To the storied hill of Kil-da-righ,
Many a man ere morning hour
Thro' the wildwoods rode amain:
They sought the maid in hall and bower,
But fruitless was their search and vain.

X

Condon sat within his hall—
Strike the wild harp mournfully—
Sadness did his heart enthral,
Grief for her he might not see;
Searching still, Clongibbon tall
Roamed the forests lone and drear,
Like maniac man bereft of all
The joyance of this earthly sphere.

XI

Joy in lone Crag Thierna's steep!—
Strike the harp o'er hill and wold—
Glad feasts the Fairy King did keep
For young Rose with the locks of gold;
But ah! the maid did nought but weep,
And eight bright moons had lost their flame,
Yet still by Oun Mór swift and deep,
In sorrow she was still the same.

XII

Nine sweet nights have robed the dells—
Strike the wild harp bold and high—
Since out with martial trumpet swells
The fairy throngs came trooping by;
Round lone Molaga's holy cells,
Beneath the midnight moon they played,
While she, the victim of their spells,
Sat lorn within the ruin's shade.

XIII

It is beside a fountain fair—
Strike the wild harp sweet and low—
With sad heart brooding on her care,
She looks into the wave below;
A shadow glides before her there,
And looking up, beside her stands
An aged man with snow-white hair,
With pitying eyes and clasped hands!

XIV

A mitre decked in golden sheen—
Strike the wild harp wonderingly—
A vestment as the shamrock green,
And sandals of the mountain tree
He wears: the ancient Saint, I ween!
Ah! he hath heard the maiden's moan,
And bids her drink with brow serene,
One pure draught from a cup of stone,

XV

The fays may sport o'er hill and plain—
Strike the wild harp glad and bold—
But never shall their power again
In magic gyve that maiden hold;
One cool, bright draught she scarce had ta'en,
Searce looked upon the vestment cross,
When fearful died the fairy strain,
O'er moonlit crag and lonely moss!

XVI

Short time their splendid pageant shone—
Strike the harp with gladsome thrill—
Then faded in the moonlight wan
Far o'er Caher Drina's castled hill;

Short time the moonbeams glowed upon
The mitre and the vestment bright,
The maiden turned, the saint was gone,
Impatient to his home of light!

XVII

Oh! joy! she sees the eastern ray—
Strike the wild harp glad and clear—
The herald of a golden day,
The fairest in the circling year;
It is the first bright morn of May,
And stream and plain smile calmly now,
And many a wild bird pours his lay,
In gladness from the greenwood bough.

XVIII

Oh! Freedom leadeth where she list—
Strike the wild harp's string of pride—
Wild joy the maid can ne'er resist
Impels towards Oun-na-Geerait's side;
There, while the stream by day is kissed,
A strange sight meets her wandering eyes—
It is not golden morning mist
With glad larks o'er it in the skies:

XIX

The red fires of a Saxon raid—
Strike the wild harp fierce and high—
With scattered smoke o'er many a glade
Blue curling to the breezeless sky;

Helmet and lance, and well-tried blade,
Gleam brightly from the forest deep,
And many a creacht beneath the shade
Lie silent in their morning sleep!

XX

“Ho! wake the tired creachts from their rest!”—
Strike the harp o'er hill and plain—
On toward Kilfinane's mountain crest
The raiders take their course again;
Fear gathereth in the maiden's breast,
As wind away that fierce-browed horde,
Taking their pathway to the west,
Triumphant thro' the Spirit's Ford.

XXI

Is that the thunder of the flood—
Strike the harp all fiercely now—
She hears wild rising from the wood,
And echoing up the steep hill's brow?
Oh! rushing back in panic mood,
Like leaves before a mountain wind,
The raiders come in dust and blood,
Her father and his clan behind!

XXII

And who is he her sire before—
Strike the wild harp high and grand—
Scattering the raiders evermore
Before the wide sweep of his brand?
Ah! well within her fond heart's core
She knows her lover's martial form,
As fiercely on the river's shore
He sweepeth thro' the battle storm.

XXIII

Oh, God! that lance stroke thro' his side—
Raise the wild harp's mournful tone—

Stretches her sire where redly glide
The swift waves o'er their bed of stone!
Down speeds the maid, whate'er betide,
Swift as Glashmona's startled hare,
And soon—death, danger, all defied—
She bendeth o'er her father there!

XXIV

Oh! joy, it is no mortal wound—
Strike the glad harp to the skies—
She lifts his faint head from the ground,
With heaving breast and tearful eyes.
With wondering eyes he looks around,
As wakening sense asserts its reign—
Oh! joy of joys! the lost is found
To cheer his course thro' life again!

XXV

The clangour of the fight is o'er—
Strike the wild harp's proudest lay—
Few raiders from that river shore
Passed westward thro' the Spirit's Way;
Glad was the look Clongibbon wore,
His herds reta'en, his valleys free,
As clasped he in his arms once more
The gold-haired maid of green Fear-Muighe!

Fear-Muighe-Feine—the plain of the Fenian men—which anciently included the baronies of Condon and Clongibbon, together with what is at present called the barony of Fermoy, is walled in on the south by the Nagles mountains, and on the north by the Gailtees and Bally-Houras, or mountains of Mole. It was called Armoy, and I believe Ardmulla, by Spenser. Along its southern side flows the Blackwater, forming a succession of the most beautiful and romantic scenes in the south of Ireland. The whole plain anciently belonged to the O'Keeffes.

Crag Thierna, or Corrin Thierna, a romantic steep, eastward of Fermoy, and celebrated in the legends of the peasantry as one of the great fairy palaces of Munster.

Carriganour, a very ancient castle a few miles below Mitchelstown, on the banks of the Funcheon. Mocollop, a huge pile eastward of Cloghleigh, on the shore of the Black-water. Kil-da-righ—the Church of the two Kings—at present Kildorrery, a small town on the Cork border, between Fermoy and Kilmallock.

Teompal Molaga—the Temple or Church of Saint Molaga— an extremely beautiful and picturesque ruin, about a mile north-east of Kildorrery, on a bend of the Funcheon. Beside it is an ancient well dedicated to the saint, to which the peasantry ascribe many virtues, and of which many strange legends are told.

Caher Drian, or Fort Prospect, a castle about three miles south-east of Carriganour. Oun-na-Geerait—the River of the Champion—a tributary of the Funcheon. Glashmona, a stream rising in the Bally-Houra mountains. By the banks of this torrent, the peasantry tell many legends relating to the battles fought there between the ancient tribes. Aha Phooka—the Ford of the Spirit—is a steep and dangerous pass leading from the county Limerick into the Clongibbon's country.

THE BATTLE OF THURLES.

A.D. 1174.

I

By the gray walls of Thurles in O'Fogarty's land
We came to the trysting with banner and brand:
'Twas no true-loves to meet, 'twas no fond vows to say,
But to conquer the foeman, or die in the fray.

II

Royal Roderick was there with his bravest and best,
The wild fearless clans from the vales of the West;
Royal Donal came up from the green hills of Clare,
With his stately Dalcassians, like lions from their lair.

III

Where our Ardrigh was resting, the sunburst gleamed wide,
Donal's three bloody lions waved proud at its side,
And mavrone, on that morn how we vowed and we swore
To freshen their tints in the black Norman's gore.

IV

Out rode Earl Strongbow from Waterford gate,
With his bowmen and spearmen in armour of plate,
And they harried rich ploughland, and dungeon and hall,
To O'Fogarty's mountains from fair Carrick's wall.

V

This news reached Marisco in strong Alia Cliath,
And he smiled on his warriors a grim smile of glee,
And like wolves scenting carnage, with rapine and flame,
For their share in the booty to Thurles they came.

VI

In the sun gleamed their armour, waved their flags in the gale,
Few warriors amongst us had helmet or mail:
But the hearts in our bosoms were fearless and strong,
And we clove thro' their corselets and helmets ere long.

VII

Out rode the two kings mid our gallant array—
Small need then for words: well we knew what they'd say;
But they pointed their spears where they wished us to go,
And we rushed in their path on the iron-clad foe.

VIII

The foe levelled lances our charge to withstand,
And thick flew their arrows as we closed hand to hand;
And full stoutly they stood, for brave robbers were they,
Who would part with their lives ere they'd part with their prey.

IX

Oh! the crash of the onset as steel clanged on steel!
Oh! the Ferrah we gave as our blows made them reel!
Oh! the joy of our vengeance as onward we poured,
Till we smote them as Brian smote the fierce Danish horde!

X

Earl Strongbow for life flies tow'rds Waterford Gate,
But few vassals around him his orders await;
By the brave walls of Thurles 'neath our vengeance they died—
Wild we feasted that night by the Suir's reddened tide!

Baila-Aha-Cliath—the Town of the Ford of Hurdles—Dublin.

ROSSNALEE.

I

The fairy woman of the wood,
Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
Hath set the spell in her cave so rude,
And she cries, “Is't for sorrow, or all for good,
That the lovers shall meet in the secret wood,
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee?”

II

The fairy woman of the wood,
Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
With her crimson gown and her scarlet hood,
Cries again, “'Tis for sorrow, and nought for good,
That the lovers shall meet in the secret wood,
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee!”

III

Many hearts the wild wars rue,
Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
Mac Donogh's daughter weepeth too,
As she cometh to meet her lover true,
For war's sad chances well she knew,
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee.

IV

The first step she took from her father's door,
Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
The ban-dog howled on the barbican floor,
And her little dove cooed in the turret o'er,
With a voice of wailing and sadness sore,
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee!

V

The next step she took from her home so dear,
Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
She heard a low voice in her ear,
Though she saw but a white owl floating near—
“Thou'rt the sweetest blossom to grace a bier,
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee!”

VI

As she went down where the crags are piled,
Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
She saw a little elfish child,
And it cried with a voice all strange and wild,
“Go back! thou lady fair and mild,
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee!”

VII

As she crossed the rath and the war-grave rude,
Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
Cried she of the spells and the scarlet hood,
“If thou goest, thou goest for sorrow, not good,
And the earth shall be dyed with my darling's blood,
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee!”

VIII

But 'gainst fair warning and friendly threat,
Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
She answers, “My heart's on the trysting set,
And how can I mourn, and how regret,
That I meet with my gallant De Barrette
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee?”

IX

Where the mountain ash bends over the wave,
Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
She's clasped in the arms of her lover brave,
Who cries, “Ten kisses for love I crave,
For my new-won knighthood and conquering glaive,
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee!”

X

“Mac Donogh, aboo!” From the darksome wood,
Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
Rushed her sire and his vassals in savage mood,—
“Ho! traitor, my vengeance this hour is good,
For thou'st won thy spurs with my best son's blood,
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee!”

XI

Three vassals were cloven through basnet and brain,
Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
When an arrow shot from the wood amain,
To stretch De Barrette upon the plain,
But the heart of the maiden it cleft in twain,
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee!

XII

Down fell the knight by his true love's side,
Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
With a wound in his breast both deep and wide,—
“Oh! death in thy arms is sweet!” he cried;
And thus these lovers so faithful died
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee!

XIII

De Barrette he sleeps in that lonely dell,
Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
Where like a knight in his harness he fell:
But she that he loved so true and well
Lies low in the vault of her sire's chapelle
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee!

Fairies are believed by the peasantry to appear frequently in the form of an old woman clad in red garments, always with some benevolent intention.

CROSSING THE BLACKWATER.

A.D. 1603.

I

We stood so steady,
All under fire,
We stood so steady,
Our long spears ready
To vent our ire—
To dash on the Saxon,
Our mortal foe,
And lay him low
In the bloody mire!

II

'Twas by Blackwater,
When snows were white,
'Twas by Blackwater,
Our foes for the slaughter
Stood full in sight;
But we were ready
With our long spears,
And we had no fears
But we'd win the fight.

III

Their bullets came whistling
Upon our rank,
Their bullets came whistling,
Their spears were bristling
On th'other bank:
Yet we stood steady,
And each good blade,
Ere the morn did fade,
At their life-blood drank.

IV

“Hurra! for Freedom!”
Came from our van,
“Hurra! for Freedom!
Our swords—we'll feed 'em
As but we can—
With vengeance we'll feed e'm!”
Then down we crashed,
Through the wild ford dashed
And the fray began!

V

Horses to horses,
And man to man—
O'er dying horses
And blood and corses
O'Sullivan,
Our general, thundered,
And we were not slack
To slay at his back
Till the flight began.

VI

Oh! how we scattered
The foemen then—
Slaughtered and scattered,
And chased and shattered,
By shore and glen;—
To the wall of Moyallo,
Few fled that day,—
Will they bar our way
When we come again?

VII

Our dead freres we buried,—
They were but few,—
Our dead freres we buried
Where the dark waves hurried
And flashed and flew:
Oh! sweet be their slumber
Who thus have died
In the battle's tide,
Inisfail, for you!

ROMANCE OF MEERGAL AND GARMON.

FYTTE THE FIRST.

I

'Tis Meergal of the Mountain that sighs so mournfully,
With tearful eyes far gazing o'er the star-bespangled sea;
All alone, alon in sorrow, by the Rock of Brananmor,
Behind her loves calm planet, and the sinking moon before.

II

Nought beholds she as she gazes through the dim and windless west,
Save the diamond star-beams dancing o'er the sea's resplendent breast,
And the glorious changeful glitter of the shimmering splendour train,
From the shore, to where the bright moon hangs above the silent main.

III

And she cries, “He is not coming! I have waited many a day
To see his white sail gleaming o'er the blue waves far away;
Many a midnight have I wept him with a sad heart mournfully,
But he cometh not, he cometh not, across the weary sea!”

IV

The moon hangs o'er the water, with its face so calm and pale,
Now the lady looks beneath it, and she sees a rising sail,
And along that line of splendour comes a boat as bright as flame,
With a wondrous sheen all sparkling, as if out from Heaven it came!

V

As a fragment from the morning in its light sail gleaming o'er,
Glow its smooth sides like the sunset, glitter diamonds in its prore;

By its mast a youth is sitting with an angel's beauty crowned,
And the lady shrieks with gladness, for her long-lost love is found!

FYTTE THE SECOND.

I

Young Meergal of the Mountain, she sits all fond and fain,
With her own betrothed Garmon by the star-bespangled main,
And she cries: “Oh! long lost rover, oh, beloved Garmon, tell
Why thou comest thus so strangely, in what bright land did'st thou dwell!

II

For I've searched by strand and forest, I have waited many a day
By the deep, to see thy white sail o'er the blue waves far away;
Many a midnight have I wept thee, with a sad heart mournfully
Thinking, fearing thou wert lying 'neath the weary, weary sea!”

III

“There was silence on the forest and the wide-spread burnished deep,
To the westward I was gazing from Brananmor the steep,
And I saw the Land of Glory through that sunset of the May,
Oh! the beautiful Hy Brasil”, answered Garmon of the Bay.

IV

“I pulled a blessed shamrock by the old saint's carven stone,
And I took my boat and faced her to Hy Brasil all alone,
And a gentle wind 'gan blowing as I left this iron shore,
And the sea grew ever brighter as I wafted swiftly o'er!

V

Before me in the water, with a face like Heaven so fair,
Up rose the smiling Mermaid with her glossy golden hair,
And she gazed all gently on me, and she raised her queenly hand,
Pointing thro' the amber sunset to that far off heavenly land!

VI

Still on, and on before me went that maiden of the wave,
My soul all drunk with pleasure at each piercing glance she gave,
And my heart all wildly throbbing at the witching smiles she wore,
'Till five boat-lengths scarce before me spread Hy Brasil's golden shore!

VII

But 'twas all a land of shadows with the rainbow's radiance wove,
From the green sky-piercing mountain, to the sunny lowland grove;

Its lovely shore receded as my boat went swiftly on,
And the maiden of the ocean with the witching smiles was gone!

VIII

I bethought me of the shamrock in its emerald glories drest,
With the earth still fresh upon it, and I took it from my breast;
I threw it to the breezes, and they bore it to the strand,
And it never more receded;—I trod the Enchanted Land!

IX

A wild ecstatic wonder fills my soul since that strange day,
For I've walked with those enchanted in the ages past away;
And I've brought this boat of glory, oh! my lady love, for thee,
And we'll sail to calm Hy Brasil, and be blest eternally!”

FYTTE THE THIRD.

I

'Tis Meergal of the Mountain that never more may weep,
For she sits beside her Garmon on the star-bespangled deep;
And in that boat of beauty are they sailing to the west,
With a love that lives eternal, toward the regions of the blest.

II

And its many-tinted dwellers rose from out the deep's still domes,
To see what moving radiance glittered o'er their sparry homes;
And the dolphin heaved and gambolled around their glorious track,
With the sea one blaze of splendour where he showed his prismy back.

III

Behind them rose the morning o'er a green and golden sea,
And that swift boat seemed its herald, it moved so gloriously;
And a sweet, unearthly music filled the atmosphere around,
On their ears for ever falling with a soul-entrancing sound.

IV

It was the purple sunset when the breeze blew warm and bland,
And they saw a shore beyond them by its breath of fragrance fanned,
And within a heavenly harbour under hills serenely grand,
They have moored that boat of wonder in Hy Brasil's golden land.

V

Up they wandered thro' the mountains from the broad cerulean sea,
'Till they reached a beauteous valley decked with many a fragrant tree.

As the countless stars that glitter on a cold December night,
Shone the flow'rs' gay-tinted blossoms o'er that valley of delight.

VI

There a crystal stream danced downward with a wild melodious song,
And like children of the rainbow flew the warbling birds along;
Sang they sweetly as the wild harp when a master sweeps its wire,
As they flew from shore to greenwood, like gay sparks of heav'nly fire.

VII

Like the deep blue depths of Heaven, when the April hours come on,
A lake, broad, calm, and glorious, 'mid that valley's bosom shone,
With its splendour-tinted islands, and their music-murmuring groves,
With its green encircling mountains, and its fairy strands and coves!

VIII

On shore and shining island gleamed hall and palace gay,
Where dwell the blest Enchanted in cloudless joy alway;
Where roam the Fairy People thro' the scenes they like so well;
And, “Oh, love! oh, love!” said Garmon, “here for evermore we dwell!”

IX

When the stars are on the waters, and the peasants by the shore,
Oft they see that boat of beauty with the sparkling diamond prore,
Sailing, sailing with the lovers o'er the silent midnight sea,
To the beautiful Hy Brasil, where they're blest eternally!

Hy Brasil—the Island of Atlantis—the Western Land, etc., is supposed to be identical with Tir-n-a-n Oge, the Paradise of the Pagan Irish. The peasantry believe they can still see it at sunset from the coasts of Clare, Galway, and Donegal. Brananmor is one of the highest pinnacles of the great precipice of Moher, on the coast of Clare.

MARY LOMBARD.

I

My iron gyves were rusty grown,
So long I lay in thrall,
Down in my dungeon dark and lone,
'Neath Kilnamulla's wall.

II

My heavy chains at first were bright,
But rust had dimmed them o'er,
When an angel came in the dead of night,
And opened my dungeon door!

III

Was never face so heavenly fair,
As her's who let me go,
The lady of the sun-bright hair,
The daughter of my foe.

IV

She came as if from Heaven to me,—
In the dead of night to my lair,—
And sped me to my own countrie,
My Mary Lombard fair!

V

When next where Kilnamulla rears
Her towers now black and stern,
'Twas hosting with broad Thomond's spears,
With Murrogh of the Fern.

VI

Through Desmond's plains with vengeful swords
We carried war and flame,
And woe to all the Norman hordes,
Where'er great Murrogh came.

VII

And all around that fated town
Our warriors thronged full fain,
Till turret-stone and gate went down,
Before their charge amain.

VIII

Like a great flood, with flame and blood,
We rushed through the breach's bound,
While roof and spire were wrapt in fire,
Lighting the carnage round!

IX

'Twas the gloom of night on the far-off height,
'Twas the glare of hell round me,
As I stood before my foeman's door,
His daughter fair to see.

X

My foeman lay in the burning way,
His fond wife dying there,
And my Mary dear, wild with woe and fear,
I found on the great hall stair.

XI

I clasped her in my arms, and then
Quick bore her down the street,
Through the rushing men, to the eastward glen,
Where I left my war-horse fleet.

XII

A sudden madness seized my brain,
And away I dashed, away,
With my trembling love towards my native plain
By castle and mountain gray!

XIII

Kilmallock's wall rose stark and tall
On our course so wild and fast,
And the castle of Brugh frowned grimly through
The darkness as we passed.

XIV

At the morning's beam fair Shannon's stream
A long length spread before:
I cared not its length, for love gave me strength,
And I swam my war-horse o'er!

XV

Away again, by valley and wild plain,
Away through each torrent's foam,
Where the mountains rise, with my glorious maiden prize,
Till I reached my castled home.

XVI

One clasp I gave to my sad and sorrowing love,
One word to my mother said,
And back, my loyalty to prove,
To Murrogh's host I sped.

XVII

Many a day, and many a weary night,
And many a battle tough and stern,
I saw far, far from my true love bright,
With Murrogh of the Fern.

XVIII

And when he wore the crown of each plain and town,
To my home at length I bore,
But my mother made her moan in its sad hall alone,
For my Mary was sleeping evermore!

XIX

Oh! my bright, tender flower, ever sat within her bower,
Her mother and slain sire to mourn,
'Till sorrow quenched love's light, though it flamed up so bright,
And she died, oh! she died, ere my return!

XX

We laid her in her grave, where moans the mournful wave,—
Oh! my long-loved and hard-earned bride!
There each day my watch I keep, and for ever long to sleep
By my Mary Lombard's side!

In the year 1367 Murrogh na Ranagh, or Murrogh of the Fern, King of Thomond, issued from his fastnesses and destroyed nearly all the Norman strongholds in Munster; and after proclaiming himself King of the province, again crossed the Shannon. Buttevant, or as it was anciently called, Kilnamulla, was burnt and sacked by his forces in this war.

104

THE DYING WARRIOR.

I

Brightly on the crest of Darra
Fell the day's last golden arrow,
And the moon smiled radiantly,
Calmly, lonely, mournfully,
On a leafy dell and narrow,
Opening out towards green Fear-muighe.

II

Low young Dermuid there is lying,
Listening to the foemen flying,
For the close and bloody fray,
In the Red Gap raged all day—
Ah! that hapless youth is dying
In the pale moon's mournful ray!

III

There his rushing comrades left him,
When the struggling foemen cleft him—

105

Cleft him through helmet bright,
As he swept upon their flight—
Ah! that fatal blow has reft him
Of the joy he hoped that night.

IV

For beside his native forest,
In the abbey old and hoarest,
Wife he was that night to call
The fairest maid in cot or hall;
And that thought afflicts him sorest,
On the brink of bliss to fall!

V

“Death”, he cries, “doth point his arrow—
Make my bed so cold and narrow,
Where the sunlight falls in gold
On Glenroe's bright stream and wold,
'Neath the haunted Peak of Darra,
In the abbey gray and old!

VI

Thou, thy bridal dress adorning,
When the war-scout gave the warning,—
When thou find'st thy Dermuid slain,
Kiss his cold brow once again,—
Thou wilt have at dawn of morning
Face of woe and heart of pain!”

VII

In that dell, like fairies glancing,
Wildly the young fawns are dancing,
And the limping hares out-tread,
All their daylight terrors fled;
But none scares their bold advancing,
For the warrior youth is dead!

106

VIII

In that dell at morn's first peeping,
Mad with sorrow, worn with weeping,
Mary bends the dead above;
He died in war,—she soon for love;
And side by side the twain are sleeping,
'Neath the abbey's haunted grove!

120

THE TAKING OF ARMAGH.

A.D. 1596.

I

'Twas fast by grey Killoter we made the Saxons run,
We hewed them with the claymore, and smote them with the gun.
“Armagh! Armagh!” cried Norris, as wild he spurred away,
And sore beset and scattered, they reached its walls that day!

II

Alas! we had no cannon to batter down the gate,
To level fosse and rampart, so we were forced to wait,
And 'leaguer late and early that place of old renown,
By dint of plague and famine to bring the foeman down.

III

Then up and spake our general, the great and fearless Hugh:
“We'll give them fit amusement while we've nought else to do;
Then deftly ply your bullets, and pick the warders down,
And well watch pass and togher that none may leave the town”.

IV

We camped amid the valleys and bonnie woods about,
But spite of all our watching, one gallant wight got out,

121

Till far Dundalk he entered by spurring day and night,
And told them of our leaguer, and all their woeful plight.

V

Then Norris raised his gauntlet, and smote his mailéd breast—
“God curse these northern rebels with fire and plague and pest!
Ho! captain of the arsenal, send food and succour forth,
For if we lose that stronghold, the Queen must lose the North!”

VI

'Twas on a stormy twilight, when wildly roared the blast,
Up to our prince's standard a scout came spurring fast,
And told him how that convoy—four hundred stalworth men—
Had pitched their camp at sunset by Gartan's woody glen.

VII

“Then let them take their slumber”, said our great prince that night—
“God wot, they'll sleep far sounder before the morning's light:
My son, thou'rt ever yearning to win one meed—renown;
Go! if thou slay'st the convoy, then we will take the town!”

122

VIII

He sprang upon his charger, our prince's gallant son,
And fast his path we followed, till Gartan's glen we won;
And there beside the torrent, with watch-fires burning low,
Deep in their fatal slumber, we spied the Saxon foe.

IX

When booms the autumn thunder, and thickly pours the rain,
From Mourne's great mountain valley the flood sweeps o'er the plain—
While up our drums we rattled, and loud our trumpets blew,
Like that wild torrent swept we upon the Saxon crew!

X

We swept upon their vanguard, we rushed on rere and flank,
Like corn before the sickle we mowed them rank on rank,
And ere the ghostly midnight we'd slain them every one—
I trow they slept far sounder before the morrow's dawn!

XI

“Now don the convoy's garments, and take their standard too”,—
'Twas thus at blink of morning out spake our gallant Hugh;

123

“And march ye toward the city, with baggage, arms, and all,
With all their promised succour, and see what shall befall!”

XII

We donned their blood-red garments, and shook their banner free,
We marched us toward the city, a gallant sight to see;
Upon their drums we rattled the Saxon point of war,
And soon the foemen heard us, and answered from afar.

XIII

From dreams of lordly banquets that morn the Saxons woke,
When on their ears our clamour of drums and trumpets broke;
And up they sprang full blithely, and crowded one and all,
Like lank wolves, gazing greedily from loop-hole, gate, and wall.

XIV

There was an ancient abbey, a pile of ruined stone,
Two gun-shots from the ramparts, amid the wild woods lone;
And there he lay in ambush—our tanist brave and young—
And as we neared the city, upon our flank he sprung!

124

XV

With all his rushing troopers out from the wood he sped,
Their matchlocks filled with powder—they did not want the lead—
And well they feigned the onset with shot and sabre stroke,
And deftly too we met them with clouds of harmless smoke!

XVI

Some tossed them from their saddles to imitate the slain;
Whole ranks fell at each volley along the bloodless plain;
And groans and hollow murmurs of well-feigned woe and fear,
From that strange fight rang mournfully upon the foeman's ear!

XVII

Up heaved the huge portcullis, round swang the ponderous gate,
Out rushed the foe to rescue, or share their comrades' fate;
And fiercely waved their banners, and bright their lances shone,
And, “George for merry England!” they cried as they fell on.

XVIII

Saint Columb! the storm of laughter that from our ranks arose,
As up the corpses started, and fell upon our foes;

125

As we, the routed convoy, closed up our thick ranks well,
And met the foe with claymore, red pike, and petronel!

XIX

'Twas then from out the forest our mighty chieftain came,
Like a fierce autumn tempest of roaring wind and flame—
So loud his horsemen thundered, and rang their slogan free,
And swept upon th'affrighted foe with all his chivalrie!

XX

Yet stout retired the Saxon, though he was sore distrait,
'Till, with his ranks commingled, in burst we through the gate;
Then soon the Red Hand fluttered upon their highest towers,
And wild we raised our triumph shout, for old Armagh was ours!

Petronel, a long dag or pistol.

The Red Hand, the device on the banner of Tyrone.

138

THE SACK OF DUNBUI.

A.D. 1602.

I

They who fell in manhood's pride,
They who nobly fighting died,
Fade their memories never, never:
Theirs shall be the deathless name,
Shining brighter, grander ever
Up the diamond crags of fame!
Time these glorious names shall lift
Up from sunbright clift to clift,
Upward! to eternity!
The godlike men of brave Dunbui!

II

Glorious men and godlike men,
Well they stemmed the Saxon then,

139

When he came with all his powers,
Over river, plain, and sea,
'Gainst the tall and bristling towers
Of the Spartan-manned Dunbui—
Traitor Gael and Saxon churl,
Burning in their wrath to hurl
Ruin on the bold and free
Warrior men of brave Dunbui.

III

Thomond with his traitors came,
Carew breathing blood and flame;
First he sent his message in
To the Southern gunsmen three,
Message black as Hell and sin,
Sin and Satan e'er could be;
Would they trusting freres betray,
Would they this for golden pay?
Demon, no! foul treachery
Never dwelt in strong Dunbui.

IV

Onward then that sunny June,
On they came in the fiery noon,
On where frowned the stubborn keep,
O'er the rock-subduing flood,
First they took Beare's island steep,
And drenched its crags in helpless blood.
Nought could save—child's, woman's tears—
Curse upon their cruel spears!
Oh, that sight was Hell to see
By thy bristling walls, Dunbui!

V

Nearer yet they crowd and come,
With taunting and yelling, and thundering drum,

140

With taunting and yelling the hold they environ,
And swear that its towers and defenders must fall,
While the cannon are set, and their death-hail of iron
Crash wildly on bastion and turret and wall;
And the ramparts are torn from their base to their brow—
Ho! will they not yield to the murderers now?
No! its huge towers shall float over Cleena's bright sea,
Ere the Gael prove a craven in lonely Dunbui.

VI

Like the fierce god of battle Mac Geoghegan goes
From rampart to wall, in the face of his foes;
Now his voice rises high o'er the cannons' fierce din,
Whilst the taunt of the Saxon is loud as before,
But a yell thunders up from his warriors within,
And they dash through the gateway, down, down to the shore.
With their chief rushing on, like a storm in its wrath,
They sweep the cowed Saxon to death in their path;
Ah! dearly he'll purchase the fall of the free,
Of the lion-souled warriors of lonely Dunbui!

VII

Leaving terror behind them, and death in their train,
Now they stand on their walls 'mid the dying and slain,

141

And the night is around them—the battle is still—
That lone summer midnight, ah! short is its reign;
For the morn springeth upward, and valley and hill
Fling back the fierce echoes of conflict again.
And see how the foe rushes up to the breach,
Towards the green waving banner he yet may not reach,
For look how the Gael flings him back to the sea,
From the blood-reeking ramparts of lonely Dunbui!

VIII

Night cometh again, and the white stars look down
From the hold to the beach, where the batteries frown,
Night cometh again, but affrighted she flies,
Like a black Indian queen from the fierce panther's roar,
And morning leaps up in the wide-spreading skies,
To his welcome of thunder and flame evermore;
For the guns of the Saxon crash fearfully there,
Till the walls and the towers and the ramparts are bare,
And the foe make their last mighty swoop on the free,
The brave-hearted warriors of lonely Dunbui!

IX

Within the red breach see Mac Geoghegan stand,
With the blood of the foe on his arm and his brand;

142

And he turns to his warriors, and “fight we”, says he,
“For country, for freedom, religion, and all:
Better sink into death, and for ever be free,
Than yield to the false Saxon's mercy and thrall!”
And they answer with brandish of sparth and of glaive—
“Let them come: we will give them a welcome and grave;
Let them come—from their swords could we flinch, could we flee,
When we fight for our country, our God, and Dunbui!”

X

They came, and the Gael met their merciless shock—
Flung them backward like spray from the lone Skellig rock;
But they rally, as wolves springing up to the death
Of their brother of famine, the bear of the snow—
He hurls them adown to the ice-fields beneath,
Rushing back to his dark norland cave from the foe;—
So up to the breaches they savagely bound,
Thousands still thronging beneath and around,
Till the firm Gael is driven—till the brave Gael must flee
In, into the chambers of lonely Dunbui!

XI

In chamber, in cellar, on stairway, and tower,
Evermore they resisted the false Saxon's power;

143

Through the noon, through the eve, and the darkness of night
The clangor of battle rolls fearfully there,
'Till the morning leaps upward in glory and light,
Then, where are the true-hearted warriors of Beare?
They have found them a refuge from torment and chain:
They have died with their chief, save the few who remain,
And that few—oh, fair Heaven! on the high gallows tree
They swing by the ruins of lonely Dunbui!

XII

Long, long in the hearts of the brave and the free
Live the warriors who died in the lonely Dunbui—
Down time's silent river their fair names shall go,
A light to our race towards the long-coming day;
Till the billows of time shall be checked in their flow
Can we find names so sweet for remembrance as they?
And we will hold their memories for ever and aye,
A halo, a glory that ne'er shall decay,
We'll set them as stars o'er eternity's sea,
The bright names of the warriors who fell at Dunbui!

The Castle of Dunboy or Dunbui, is situated on the shore of Bantry Bay, opposite Beare Island. It belonged to O'Sullivan Beare, and was the great military depot of, and the last fortress that held out for, the Catholics of the South in the year 1602. It was defended, almost successfully, in the summer of that year by 146 men, under their commander, Captain Richard Mac Geoghegan, against an army of nearly 6,000 English, commanded by President Carew. Every man of the 146, together with their heroic commander, fell in its defence, except nine or ten who laid down their arms on condition of their getting quarter, and were hanged a few minutes afterwards. Vide Mac Geoghegan, and Annals of the Four Masters, etc.

The waters of the Atlantic, south of the shores of Cork.

144

THE LADY OF THE SEA.

I

It was the fairest maiden in Kerry's broad domains,
Her faith did plight to an Irish knight by the shore where Cleena reigns;
She was a Saxon maiden—'twas to her father's foe—
And ah, that leal, but hapless love, did cause her bitter woe!

II

For her dark sire had sworn that both their lives should be
The forfeit of their meeting by Cleena's murmuring sea;
And oft she wept her sister's scorn and her black brother's ire,
And oft the stern reproval of her lordly Saxon sire!

III

She sits beside the greenwood, the lady Jane, alone,
To think upon her hapless love, and make her mournful moan;
But grief was gone, and joy soon shone, when by her side stood he,
Her banished knight, her Conal Dhuv, the Rover of the Sea!

IV

I've come to thee, my lonely love, back from the main sea wave,
An outlawed man, a landless knight, thy hand once more to crave:
The grass grows in my castle hall—but fly, my love, with me,
And thou shalt reign within my bark, the Lady of the Sea!”

145

V

Ah! other ears than his have heard the low consent she gave
To fly with him next eventide out on the main sea wave;
A captain of a pirate bark was lurking in the screen,
And he hath sworn to cross their love—a truthful oath I ween.

VI

It was a golden sunset, a gorgeous eve of May,
And sea and stream beneath the beam in calm resplendence lay,
And all alone where towered the crags like giants huge and still,
A bonnie page stood pensively by tall Saint Brandon's Hill.

VII

A belt all bright with ruddy gold was o'er his shoulders flung,
A dagger and a silver horn from that glittering belt were hung,
And long he gazed upon the deep where sank the golden day,
Till round the rock there sudden peered a small sail far away.

VIII

He put the horn unto his mouth, he blew a blast full clear,
And to its sound along the waves that light boat danced a-near;
But soon he drew his dagger bright—he drew, alas, in vain,
For strange dark men around him sprang, and forced him o'er the main!

146

IX

Scarce vanished was the pirate boat the sunset billows o'er,
When from the sea-beat island crags another sought the shore;
It waited long, it moved a-near, it donned a snow-white sail,
But never sound of bugle horn came whispering on the gale.

X

At length there leapt upon the strand a youth with eagle eye,
With stately form, and kingly face, and bearing bold and high;
There found the page's blood-stained dirk, and cried, “Ah, woe is me,
Some ruffian band have slain my love, my Lady of the Sea!”

XI

He rowed his boat full furiously, he gained his bark ere night,
And told the sad tale to his crew in the sunset's waning light.
They sailed away thro' twilight gray, thro' midnight drear and dark,
And when the red morn lit the spray they found the pirate bark.

XII

An old man stood by Conal Dhuv, his foster-sire was he:
“Now give me speech with yon brave ship, perchance they guiltless be!”

147

Soon stood he on their deck, and asked for the page so young and fine:
“Nor page, nor maid, we've seen”, they said, “upon the salt sea brine!”

XIII

The old man looked around their deck: he saw the page's horn:
“Now, liars all, mark this!” he cried, with looks of hate and scorn;
Then drew his sword and cleared a path, and leapt into the sea,
And to his chief despite their shot he swam right gallantly!

XIV

Oh! loud and long the cheer they gave, young Conal's gallant crew,
As on the pirate's deck they sprang for vengeance stern and true;
Revenge is ta'en, the foe they've slain, though fought he fierce and well,
But in that hour of victory their brave young chieftain fell!

XV

A coronach, a coronach upon the ocean sheen;
The've brought the lady from the hold, no more a page I ween;
They've placed her by her Conal Dhuv, they raise the funeral wail,
And ever as they vent their grief they fly before the gale.

148

XVI

A coronach, a coronach by Cleena's fairy shore;
The lady died by her lover's side ere th'eve came blushing o'er.
A ruin crowns a wave-worn crag; there sweetly slumbers he,
Young Donal Dhuv, with his faithful love, his Lady of the Sea!

A caoine, or lament.

THE DEATH OF O'DONNELL.

A.D. 1257.

I

Red victory smiled on thy legions, Tir Conaill,
When the Geraldine fell 'neath the sparth of O'Donnel;
But fierce was the wailing, and wild was the sorrow
That broke from thy septs ere the dawn of the morrow!
For the prince of their bosoms the champions are grieving:
He fell while their axes the fierce foe were cleaving,
And he lies in his death-wounds by Swilly's dark river,
With his nation around him, as fearless as ever—
Joy, joy in his heart, tho' its pulses be dying,
That he fell while the foe from his valleys were flying.

II

The clans of Tyrone from their forays returning,
Hear thy death strains, Tir Conaill, and joy in thy mourning,

149

That he whose right hand was thy true stay in danger,
Lies wounded to death 'neath the blow of the stranger;
And they well know a nation thus reft of its leader
'Neath the brands of a foe into ruin will speed her.
High hope for O'Niall! How he bands his wild kerne
From the shores of bright Neagh to the green isles of Erne,—
Oh! round him like torrents his vassals come sweeping
Where the waves of strong Derg down the valleys are leaping.

III

O'Donnell he lies where the green mountain forest
In the glow of the sunlight spreads thickest and hoarest,
While up to his death-couch in frantic disorder
Rush the men of fleet coursers, the scouts of his border;
And they tell in their fear of the black storms looming,
How the red-handed Niall and his thousands are coming!
Then quick spreads the fear of the mighty invader,
Yet all for Tir Conaill are banding to aid her;
And their chieftain—alas! that the death-wounds have bound him—
Calls the men of his might from the valleys around him.

IV

Then he raises his voice by that wild river billow,
With the gash in his breast and the gore on his pillow—

150

“O'Niall”, he says, “from his mountains of bleakness
Ever came in the hours of our sorrow and weakness:
He pours on our valleys, and now we will greet him
With the welcome of old on the plains where we meet him!
In the day of my strength ye have found me before ye
Where'er your bright claymores to victory bore ye;
In the day of my weakness my soul must be longing
To see how my people to battle are thronging!

V

Then sound ye, my children, the war note defiant
From the gray Arran cliffs to the Pass of the Giant,
And make me a bier like the biers of my fathers;
Bear me high in your van where the red Niall gathers,
And we'll scatter his bands, as the storm-clouds of Heaven
From Aileach's black rocks by her thunders are driven!”
Then the hearts of his warriors grow stronger and prouder,
And the shouts of their ardour swell wilder and louder,
And fiercely their war-pipes are ringing and pealing,
From the low-lying glens to the far mountain shieling.

151

VI

They've made him a bier like the biers of his fathers,
They bear him afar where the red Niall gathers—
Six champions of might from that green forest alley
Bear him on thro' each wild glade and torrent-bound valley,
To a small mountain plain by a swift river torn,
Where the May-heather gleams in the dew of the morn;
But its vernal expanse by the fairy-rings spotted,
Ere the sheen of the evening with gore shall be clotted,
For there with their claymores so gallantly flashing
The septs of Tyrone on Tir Conaill are dashing!

VII

Oh, fiercely they meet! As the foam-wreathed surges,
When some demon of midnight their black fury urges
To shatter thy cross, Ard Oilean of the prayers,
So rush and so meet the wild bands of the slayers!
Soon the septs of Tyrone in their might are prevailing,
And the strength of Tir Conaill is riven and failing—
But the bier! the black bier! with the prince of their valour,—
Oh! they look on his face in its last mortal pallor,
And they band them once more and rush fiercely together
On the files of Tyrone o'er the blood-crimsoned heather.

152

VIII

Shout, shout for Tir Conaill! Hurra! for her striving!
Now the ranks of the foeman her claymores are riving;
The hoofs of her steeds through his red blood are plashing,
And each rider's bright sparth 'mid his squadrons is crashing!
As a herd of gray wolves the O'Niall she scatters,
As the dust of the desert his legions she shatters;
But who in her next hour of need will defend her?
For a corse on his bier lies the prince of her splendour!
Oh! he died while his flags waved in victory o'er him,
With the last of his foemen far scattered before him!

IX

He worsted the stranger, he routed O'Niall,
And long, long again ere they band for the trial;
Too well they remember the welcome he gave them,
When flight, nor the strength of their numbers could save them.
Oh! loud through the wild hills his coronach swelleth,
It startles the dun deer and wolf where he dwelleth;
There are eyes red with sorrow, from Erne's green islands
To wild Inishone of the wood-belted highlands;
For they'll ne'er meet his peer in the sad hour of danger
'Gainst the septs of the south, or the false-hearted stranger!

A kind of battle-axe, in the use of which the Irish were peculiarly expert.

“He then directed his men to place him on the bier which should take him to the grave, and to carry him on it at the head of his forces”. —Haverty's History of Ireland.—See also Annals of the Four Masters.

153

MARY'S SWEETHEART.

I

The first time that I saw my love, I knew his heart was mine,
The next time that I saw my love, I thought he was divine;
For he said he was no rover, and would ne'er leave me to pine,
And oh! my heart is happy with this true-love of mine!

II

I met him at the Patron by Saint Molagga's Tree,
Where at the dance and hurling the boldest, best was he;
Oh! my heart was very happy on that blissful holiday,
And I learned to love him dearly while we danced the hours away.

III

My Brian Ban is clothed in garments of the frieze;
But 'tis not costly garments or hoarded wealth I prize;
'Tis the truthful heart he gave me, 'tis the glance of his kind eyes,
And the loving tales he tells me while the golden daylight dies!

IV

A brave heart's in his bosom, yet he's gentle as a child:
He tells me pleasant stories till with laughter I am wild;

154

He'll ofttimes change to sadness, and make me sob and cry,
Then kiss my bitter tears away, till none so glad as I!

V

Oh! he was scarce a stripling when he banded with the men
That wanted Ireland's freedom, but could not get it then;
And long a gallant outlaw he kept the mountain glen;
But for old Ireland's freedom he'd venture more again.

VI

And now he sits beside me in the greenest dell of dells,
And the sweetest of all stories my fond, fond darling tells,
That he loves me with a constant love, that never can decay,
Till we sleep beneath the green grass in Molagga's churchyard gray!

VII

On lands and money hoarded my father sets great store,
Though 'gainst the poor and needy he never shut his door;
But my Brian owns a ploughland, and my father asks no more,
So we are to be married when the Easter days are o'er!

The first two lines belong to an old song sung in Munster.

165

SONGS.

MY BOAT.

[_]

Air—“I'll build my love a gallant ship”.

I

My boat is like the seagull white
That skims o'er strand and swell,
It looks so bright and sails so light,
And stems the tide so well;
The soft wild gale fills out its sail
And wafts it towards the sea,
And floats me down from Cork's fair town
Upon the pleasant Lee.

II

I sit within that bonnie boat
When love o'er me has power,
When sea birds float with shrilly note
At sunset's golden hour;
Then from the shore green towering o'er
Love seems to pilot me,
To muse alone on my loved one
Upon the pleasant Lee.

III

When first my boat upon the tide
A thing of life out came,
With conscious pride upon its side
I placed my true-love's name;

166

And since, each day, that name the spray
Has washed full wild and free,
But still each line undimmed doth shine,
Upon the pleasant Lee.

IV

A trim new sail my boat shall have
When summer days come on,
And swift and brave she'll walk the wave,
More stately than the swan;
For then my bloom-bright maid shall come
With love and joy to me,
And side by side we oft shall glide
Upon the pleasant Lee.

167

WILL OF THE GAP.

[_]

Air—“Graine Weal”.

I

In castle or town was there never a man
Could handle a broadsword or empty a can,
Could glory in danger, whatever might hap,
Like the Outlaw of Sloragh, young Will of the Gap!

168

II

From his boot to his basnet was burnished so sheen,
And his arm was so strong, and his sword was so keen;
And his brain was the brightest that e'er laid a trap
To catch the proud Saxon—young Will of the Gap.

III

Up rose in the morning the Ridderah Fionn,
And spurred with his vassals by forest and down,
To catch Will asleep in the mountain's broad lap;
But the sleep of a fox slept young Will of the Gap!

IV

For he'd gathered his men ere the Ridderah knew,
And he placed them in ambush by lone Rossarue:
“Now he thinks he will catch us just taking our nap,
But we'll open his eyes!” said young Will of the Gap.

V

The Ridderah rode with his wild vassals in,
Till he reached the deep bosom of Rossa's lone glynn;—
“Now the Ridderah's caught in his own wily trap,
So blow up the trumpet!” cried Will of the Gap.

VI

The signal was blown, and the ambush behind
And the ambush before thundered down like the wind,
And scarcely three vassals, to tell their mishap,
With the White Knight 'scaped free from young Will of the Gap!

Ridderah Fionn, the White Knight, lord of Kilbenny.

169

MY HEART IS WILD.

[_]

Air—“I travelled this country”.

I

My heart is wild with the love I bear
For my maiden mild of the yellow hair,
Of the yellow hair and the low, fond sighs,
Of the form so fair and the star-bright eyes.

II

I know a tree in a distant glade,
And it mindeth me of my own dear maid;
Where'er I strayed was no fairer tree,
No fairer maid than my love to me.

III

In a fairy dell by the moorland height
I know a well, calm, pure, and bright:
In its waves of light the sunbeams play,
Like the glances bright of my lovely May.

IV

By the gentle hill, and gray rock piled,
Leaps down that rill like a gladsome child—
Oh! my heart's as wild with the love I bear
For my maiden mild of the yellow hair.

THE FLOWER THAT NE'ER SHALL FADE.

[_]

Air—“The doctor tries all remedies”.

I

The primrose and the woodbine bower
By streams their fragrance fling,
And sweetly blooms the Drinan flower
Amid the dells in spring;

170

The red, red rose full brightly blows
In many a garden shade;
But flowers and blooms, when winter comes,
All darkly die and fade.

II

I know a flower that ne'er shall die,
More dear than life to me,—
In Mary's heart that flower doth lie
Of love and constancy;
The blooms may go, when winter's snow
Robes hill and greenwood glade,
And storms may lower, but oh! that flower
Shall never die or fade.

172

THE STUDENT.

[_]

Air—“Oh! may I marry thee?”

I

The live-long day, and many a night,
Upon my books I pore,
And is it all for fame's delight,
Or all for golden store?
It is not for the golden pay,
Or fame's bright face to see,
But oh! to hurry on the day
When I may marry thee,
My love,
When I may marry thee.

II

The breezy morn, the sunset bright,
To me no gladness bring,
Nor summer with its bloom and light,
Nor freshness of the spring;—

173

Yet I have glimpses of a ray
As bright as they can be—
Thy fond look on that happy day
When I may marry thee,
My love,
When I may marry thee.

III

I thought to seek a soldier's lot,—
Bright fame, or narrow bed,—
Yet I am chained to one lone spot,
By love-hopes only led;
But heart and brain shall win their way
To some good destiny,
And hurry on the blissful day,
When I may marry thee,
My love,
When I may marry thee.

MY STEED WAS WEARY.

[_]

Air—“'Twas early, early all in the spring”.

I

My steed was weary upon the hill,
While the night came down and the winds blew chill;
But I thought of thee by the distant Nore,
And my heart was nerved for the way once more.

II

My steed was weary beside the wood,
And I knew his weakness to swim the flood;
But I thought of thee by the distant Nore,
And I spurred him safe to the other shore.

174

III

My steed was weary beside the fen;
He saw the danger, and feared it then;
But I thought of thee by the distant Nore,
And safely, safely, I brought him o'er.

IV

My steed dropt down by the mountain lake,
And I slept by his side in the wild ash brake,
And I dreamt of thee by the distant Nore,
Till the morning's splendours came shining o'er.

V

Then up I stood with my steed again,
And I reached my home in the lowland plain,
And my thoughts of thee by the distant Nore
Were sweeter and brighter than e'er before.

FAR AWAY.

[_]

Air—“I might have got an earl”.

I

Along the winding river
The wintry tempests blow;
The sere leaves glance and quiver
Within the wave below;
The sun is redly sinking
Beyond the mountains gray,
And I am ever thinking
Of her that's far away.

II

Her eyes are like the vi'lets
In some green summer dell;
The rose of Lene's bright islets
Her lips can ne'er excel—

175

That wild lake of the mountain,
Its depths no man can say;
My love's as deep a fountain
For her that's far away.

III

Oh! were I like the earls
That reigned o'er Desmond's towers,
Her hair should shine with pearls,
Instead of fading flowers,
And robes of queenly splendour
Her fair form should array,
My love's so true and tender
For her that's far away.

IV

Oh! could you see her golden
Bright locks, and form so fine,
You'd think some goddess olden
Had witched those eyes of thine;
And while the sun is sinking,
I'm spell-bound day by day,
For oh! I'm ever thinking
Of her that's far away.

THE MOUNTAIN ASH.

[_]

Air—“The Green Ash Tree”.

I

The mountain ash blooms in the wild,
Or droops above the wandering rill;
You ne'er can see
A fairer tree,
But I know one dear maiden mild
With witching form more lovely still.

176

II

The mountain ash has berries fair,
The reddest in the woodlands green;
Sweet lips I know
With redder glow
Than ever lit those berries rare—
The red lips of my bosom's queen.

III

The mountain ash has leaves of gold,
When autumn browns the steep hill's side;
Of locks I dream
With brighter gleam
Of yellow in their braid and fold
Than e'er tinged leaf in woodland wide.

IV

The mountain ash in winter sere
Stands bravely up when wild winds blow;
So love shall stand,
Serene and bland,
Between me and my Ellen dear,
A fadeless flower in weal or woe.

THE ENSIGN AND HIS BANNER.

A BRIGADE SONG.

[_]

Air—“The Green Flag”.

I

They said I was too young to seek
For fame or martial glory;
They said I was too slight and weak
To brave the battle gory;

177

But years have passed, and I have got
A soldier's mien and manner,
And borne thro' many a storm of shot
My conquering Irish banner.

II

The bloody breach of strong Namur,
It was the first I mounted,
And many a comrade's corse be sure
Within that breach we counted;
There placed we high the Fleur de lys,
And Bill, th'old Dutch trepanner,
As fast he fled, looked back on thee,
Far higher still, my banner!

III

And since that mighty day of death,
With honour still I've borne it:
It waved in many a battle's breath,
And many a shot has torn it:
It saw on Steinkirk's fiery plain
Brave Sarsfield beat the planner
Of all our woe, Dutch Bill, again,
My glorious Irish banner.

IV

I had a sweetheart in Ireland
Before I crossed the water:
My comrades say some Saxon band
Has drenched her home in slaughter;
Ah! cold she sleeps—God rest her soul!—
Beside the Banks of Anner,
And now I've nought, as seasons roll,
To love, but my green banner!

178

V

And now where'er my banner wave,
I'll think on that sad river,
Where lies my true love's gory grave,
And fight for vengeance ever;—
With Ireland's woes in memory,
Some brave revenge I'll plan her,
And when I fall, my shroud shall be
My glorious Irish banner!

Dutch Bill, the name by which King William is almost universally known in the south of Ireland.

I NEVER CAN FORGET.

[_]

Air—“I can't forget”.

I

My Mary said to me
That she loved but me alone,
And oh! how gladsomely
I heard that kind word's tone;
She said she'd give her life
For me without regret;
She said she'd be my wife—
Can I these words forget?
Oh! glad they make me yet,
Within my fond heart set,—
The memory of that happy hour
I never can forget.

II

My Mary dwells beside
The glancing, dancing Nore,
Where it flings its sparkling tide
From the mountains high and hoar;

179

She's a fair, bright lady born—
None fairer in the land;
And she pledged to me one morn
Her loving heart and hand.
Oh! glad it makes me yet,
Within my fond heart set,—
The memory of that happy hour
I never can forget.

III

It was too soon to part,
But soon again we'll meet,
When I'll clasp her to my heart
And worship at her feet;
Oh! fondly, fondly there
My vows again I'll pour,
When the flowers are springing fair
By the glancing, dancing Nore!
Oh! glad it makes me yet,
Within my fond heart set,—
The memory of that happy hour
I never can forget.

181

THERE IS A STREAM.

[_]

Air—“As I was riding out one day”.

I

There is a stream mid Houra's dells
That dances downward fleetly,
That mirrors rocks and heather-bells
And sings by wild woods sweetly,
With drooping birch and Drinan Dhun
Its vernal banks adorning,—
And there my love with sweet smiles won
My fond heart in the morning.

II

God bless the May that brought to me
The love that nought can sunder!
God bless the odorous Drinan tree,
That we sat fondly under!
The skies were blue, the clouds were bright,
The valleys shade and splendour,
And Annie's eyes were filled with light
Of love all true and tender.

III

And oft within that valley lone
We met on May-days after,
While aye the stream went murmuring on
With sounds like fairy laughter;
'Tis there a rill, but far below
It winds, a calm bright river,—
Thus may our firm love forward go,
Increasing on for ever!

182

DONAL O'KEEFFE'S LAMENT.

[_]

Air—“She's a dear maid to me”.

I

My name is Donal Dhu—an Outlaw bold and true,
I ranged the country thro', from Saxon bondage free,
Till I loved a maiden fair, with her glossy curling hair,
But she sunk me in despair—she's a dear maid to me!

II

My sires were princes grand within old Ireland's land:
With many a knightly band they held their castles free,
Till the Saxon with them strove—an outlaw now I rove,
Lamenting my false love—she's a dear maid to me!

III

Her brow like wintry snows, her cheeks were like the rose
That nigh Blackwater blows when summer decks the tree;
Her dark eyes glittered bright, full, full of love's delight,—
They haunt me day and night—she's a dear maid to me!

183

IV

With gems of costly sheen I decked my mountain queen,
And glorious was her mien of beauty fresh and free;
Her step was like the fawn on Araglin's wild lawn,
Her smile was like the dawn—she's a dear maid to me!

V

Margaret Kelly was her name, and burning was the flame
That o'er our bosoms came when we first loved trustingly,
But her love grew false and cold, and her outlaw's life she sold
For the Saxon's worthless gold—she's a dear maid to me!

VI

Oh! woeful was the hour that revenge o'er me had power
To slay my beauteous flower, when I knew her perfidy—
I drew my skian unblest, and with rage and grief possest,
I plunged it in her breast—she's a dear maid to me!

VII

And now I've 'scaped the chain, and now I'm free again,
On many a battle plain I will let the Saxons see
What their traitor wiles shall prove, tho' an outlaw still I rove,
Lamenting my false love—she's a dear maid to me

184

I THOUGHT SHE LOVED ME DEARLY.

[_]

Air—“Oh! why are you false?”

I

I was up in the morning early
With a heart from sorrow clear,
For I thought she loved me dearly
In the spring-time of the year:
That my Eileen loved me dearly
In the spring-time of the year.

II

I climbed up the mountains cheer'ly;
But long that morn I'll rue,
For she said she loved me dearly,
And I found her all untrue:
On that summer morning early
My Eileen Bán untrue!

III

Her love oped sweet and clearly,
Like the bloom of the wild rose tree;
But a false wind stirred it drearly,
And 'tis withered and dead to me;
It blew o'er her heart so drearly,
And blighted her love for me.

IV

Ah! Eileen, how sincerely
My heart aye beat for thee,—
You said you loved me dearly,
And why prove false to me?
In the summer of love so early,
Oh! why prove false to me?

186

MY TRUE LOVE BRIGHT.

[_]

Air—“The summer is come”.

I

The winds were stayed in their endless flight,
O'er storied valley and mountain height,
As I sat me down with a wild delight
To think an hour on my true love bright.

II

My true love bright dwells far away;
My true love hears not her minstrel's lay;
Yet I know, oh! I know that she ne'er will stray
From the love she plighted that winter day.

III

The glittering stars that hang on high
Have beams like the beams of my true love's eye;
When I speak to my love, her words reply
Like an angel's song in the crystal sky.

IV

The lily flower by the wave-lit strand
Is white, like the white of my true love's hand,
And a rose doth smile in some golden land
Like the smiles of my love so sweet and bland.

V

In Paradise by a blest stream's shore,
The amaranth bloometh for evermore;
That flower will wither and die before
I cease to love, or my maid adore.

187

VI

And golden noon and starred midnight
Go my thoughts to her, like the fleet wind's flight;
For evermore with a wild delight
I fondly think on my true love bright.

THE RED LUSMORE.

[_]

Air—“The blooming meadow”.

I

The snow is on the mountains high,
The bloom has left the heather,
But laughing spring will soon be nigh,
And summer's golden weather;
Then many a vale we'll wander o'er,
Whose streams leap glad and fleetly,
And many a glen of red lusmore
That shines in June so sweetly.

II

What makes me love the lusmores gay,
With all their bright bells round them?
My dear one's lips are red as they,
And sweet as bee e'er found them;
And oh! it shines by torrents hoar,
In haunts of sprite and fairy,
Where many an hour in days of yore,
I dreamt of one like Mary.

188

III

While purple decks its gorgeous bells
I'll never seek a new love;
In summer time, where'er it dwells,
I'll wander with my true love;
And aye I'll kiss her o'er and o'er,
And vow my fond vows meetly,
In fairy glens of red lusmore,
That shines in June so sweetly.

Lusmore, i.e., the great herb—the Foxglove.

190

THE SPRING OF THE YEAR.

[_]

Air—“The Spring of the Year”.

I

We sat by the verge of the forest,
Where flowers shone like stars in the ray,
Where steep rocks towered highest and hoarest,
'Mid those hills of the east far away;

191

And sweet was the fond love that bound us,
Undimmed by all doubting and fear,
And young like the fresh flowers around us,
In the soft blooming spring of the year.

II

The breeze brushed the stream into splendour,
And murmured down valley and lea;
The wild birds sang songs low and tender
To none but my darling and me;
And sweet were the smiles of my true love,
And bright were the eyes of my dear,
A-sparkling with warm rays of new love
In the soft blooming spring of the year.

III

The bronzed nuts in autumn that cluster,
The golden-leaved sprays drooping down,
Are dim near the amber-bright lustre
That gleamed in her long locks of brown;
Her cheeks like the rose of the morning,
Her neck like the blooms of the brere,
That smile, all the woodlands adorning,
In the soft blooming spring of the year.

IV

What vows of affection we plighted,
What dreams 'mid those high hills we wove,
Of glory and bliss, ever lighted
And warmed by the gay lamp of love—
Those vows live by doubt still unhaunted,
The gay lamp shines steady and clear,
Still brightening those dreams that enchanted
In the soft blooming spring of the year.

192

V

The future for us may be laden
With grief, 'stead of bliss and of fame,
But I and my dear Irish maiden
Shall love to the end still the same—
So sure to that love we'll be clinging,
As flowers in our wild woods appear,
Or birds in green Ireland are singing
In the soft blooming spring of the year.

THE OUTLAW OF KILMORE.

[_]

Air—“The wicked Kerryman”.

I

Far in the mountains with you, my Eveleen,
I would be loving and true, my Eveleen,
Then climb the mountains with me.
Long have I dwelt by the forest river side,
Where the bright ripples flash and quiver wide,
There the fleet hours shall blissful ever glide
O'er us, sweet Gra Gal Machree.

II

There on my rocky throne, my Eveleen,
Ever, ever alone, my Eveleen,
I sit dreaming of thee;
High on the fern-clad rocks reclining there,
Though the sweet birds their songs are twining fair,
Thee I hear—and I see thy shining hair
Still, still, sweet Gra Gal Machree!

193

III

Hunted and banned I've been, my Eveleen,
But my long sword is keen, my Eveleen,
To keep all danger from thee:
The flash of this sword is my foeman's warning light,
And I live 'mid the wild hills scorning might,
While my love grows eve and morning bright
For you, sweet Gra Gal Machree!

IV

Deeply in broad Kilmore, my Eveleen,
Down by the wild stream's shore, my Eveleen,
I've made a sweet home for thee;
Yellow and bright like thy long, long flowing hair,
Flowers the fairest are ever blowing there,—
Fairer still with thy clear eyes glowing there
Fondly, sweet Gra Gal Machree!

V

Then come away, away, my Eveleen;
We will spend each day, my Eveleen,
Blissful and loving and free—
Come to the woods where the streams are pouring blue,
Which the eagle is ever soaring thro';
I'll grow fonder, each day adoring you,
There, there, sweet Gra Gal Machree.

THE LOCKS OF AMBER.

[_]

Air—“Nora an cul omhra”.

Her eyes beamed so clearly
With love's sunny ray,
When I told her how dearly
I loved her alway,

194

As she sat in the chamber
'Mid gladness and light
With her long locks of amber
All glossy and bright.

II

There are shells by the sea-side
Of brown golden hue,
There are flowers by the lea-side
To mate with them, too:
The high rocks I clamber
With gold-moss are dight—
Like my love's locks of amber
All glossy and bright.

III

When clouds gold and dun set
O'er ocean and strand,
The deep hues of sunset
Look glorious and grand:
Oh! they make me remember
With endless delight
My love's locks of amber
All glossy and bright.

IV

One dear lock, I wear it,
My fond maiden gave;
Nigh my heart I will bear it
Till cold in my grave:—
Should life low'r like December,
They'd give my heart light,
Those long locks of amber
All glossy and bright!

195

ALLISDRUM'S MARCH AT THE BATTLE OF KNOCKINOSS.

A.D. 1648.

[_]

Air—“Allisdrum's March”.

I

Blow up the pipes with the brave battle chorus—
Look to your banner, the foe is before us—
Steady your guns, but when wanting to slay more,
There's nought like the rush and the slash of the claymore!
Follow me, follow me, dauntless and steady,
Shoulder to shoulder; the battle is ready;
Many a foeman will ne'er see a day more,
When we blow up the pipes and fall on with the claymore!

II

Up Knockinoss comes he, Murrogh the Burner,
The scourge of his race, of the Old Faith the spurner;
Black be the day he returned into Ireland,
To change her from peace to a woeful and dire land!
Follow me, follow me, dauntless and steady,
Shoulder to shoulder; the battle is ready:
Look to your guns, but when wanting to slay more,
Blow louder the pipes and fall on with the claymore!

196

III

On down the hill, and ne'er fire till you're near them,
Then try from your path with one volley to clear them;
Down with your guns then, and up with your claymore,
And fast from our onset they'll soon clear the way more!
Follow me, follow me, dauntless and steady,
Shoulder to shoulder; the battle is ready;
For God and our country we'll never delay more
To blow up the pipes and fall on with the claymore!

IV

Crash thro' the foe went that chief and his brave men,
With bosoms the stoutest that ever God gave men;
But curst be the day when Lord Taaffe grew faint-hearted,
And stood not, nor charged, but in panic departed!
Leaving that chief with his comrades to die there,
Leaving their corses for th'eagles to lie there;
But the foeman he rued and remembered each day more
Stout Allisdrum's march, and the sweep of his claymore!

Murrogh O'Brien, Baron of Inchiquin, who fought at this time for Cromwell and the Parliamentarians.

THE LITTLE BIRD.

[_]

Air—“As I was riding out one day”.

A little bird with golden wings
Flies past from bloom to blossom:
'Tis like the memory that springs
Of you within my bosom;—

197

He flies unto the woodland tree,
The tree he best loves only:
And thus that memory comes to me,
Where'er I wander lonely.

II

That little bird, some magic power,
Some spell has surely found him,
For when he warbles in his bower,
The woods seem glad around him;
And when I hear his dulcet voice,
I think of yours each day, love,
And memory makes my heart rejoice,
And I am glad and gay, love.

III

I miss him now the woods among
'Mid dewy leaves adorning:
The wild hawk heard his lonely song,
And killed him in the morning;
But nought can kill the memory
Of you, now sweetly shining
Within my heart so constantly,
Till life that heart's resigning.

LAMENT OF GARODH EARLA.

A.D. 1582.

[_]

Air—“The night is coming”.

I

The night is coming, with black clouds looming,
With thunders' booming, and wild winds' moan;
The fierce wolf's yelling from Corrin swelling,
Our fate seems telling with mournful tone;

198

The dark cave's o'er us, deep floods before us
With maddening chorus down rough rocks pour,
Yet love beams clearly, tho' we sit drearly,
On death's brink nearly, by Mulla's shore.

II

What dreams were mine, love, ere hope's decline, love,
In war to shine, love, for Innisfail;
Aye to defend her from those that rend her,
And cloud the splendour of the dauntless Gael;—
I reared each castle, I roused each vassal
From sloth and wassail, to grasp the spear,
And aye thro' gory red fields of glory
Bright triumph bore me for many a year.

III

And oh! I quailed not while true hearts failed not,
But blood availed not to set her free,
For those whose might, love, should still e'en smite, love,
Grew faint in fight, love, and false to me;—
My power is broken, and each proud token
Of Erin woken has died away;
For each endeavour will fail for ever,
While brave hearts sever, and friends betray!

IV

We've now for vassal and lordly castle
And blithe friends' wassail, this cave of gloom,
With cold winds sighing round the embers dying;
Yet still defying, we'll meet our doom,—
One joy will flourish, tho' power may perish,
That joy we'll cherish—we'll love the more,
And love beams clearly, tho' we sit drearly,
On death's brink nearly, by Mulla's shore!

199

MARY EARLEY.

[_]

Air—“The little fairy moat”.

I

There is an island on the lake
Where dwelt my Mary Earley,
My modest maid with smile so sweet,
And teeth so white and pearly,
With graceful form, and heart so warm,
And eyes that shone so clearly,
And wild I loved, and wild adored,
My sweet young Mary Early.

II

There is a boat upon that lake,
With sails of snowy whiteness,
That floats across the silent tide,
From shore to shore in brightness,
And oft within that swan-like boat,
While morn was shining fairly,
I've basked me in the sunny smiles
Of loving Mary Earley.

III

And oft upon the silent eves
Of golden summer weather
We've sailed away to some bright bay,
With joyful hearts together;
The wild birds seemed to haunt that shore,
To sing around us rarely,
And many a song of love they sang
For me and Mary Earley.

IV

One autumn day to bar my way
To love and that green island,
The storm swept down the moorlands brown,
And roared o'er glen and highland;

200

I plunged me in the surging tide,
And soon I clasped her dearly,
And kissed her by the island's side,
My loving Mary Earley.

V

And now beside Lough Deirgert's shore
I sigh for Mary Earley,
And song birds all unheeded pour
The strains they sing so rarely.
There is a ruin lone and hoar
Where sigh the sad winds drearly,
And there she sleeps for evermore,
My loving Mary Earley.

201

ALLEY KELLY O!

[_]

Air—“Up the foggy mountain”.

I

Up the foggy mountain,
Within the airy valley O!
Beside the summer fountain
I met my Alley Kelly O!
Her neck than wood-rose whiter,
Her lips the glowing cherry O!
You'd find no maiden brighter,
From Sliab-na-man to Kerry O!

202

II

Her hair in streams of glory
Fell curling down so grandly O!
When by that mountain hoary
My love stood smiling blandly O!
I thought the Queen of Faery
That highland valley haunted O!
When 'neath the green trees airy
I sat me down enchanted O!

III

My heart was flaming wildly,
My voice with love was trembling O!
Her words came low and mildly,
The harp's sweet tone resembling O!
I told her by the water,
While sang the wild birds clearly O!
That up the hills I sought her,
And that I loved her dearly O!

IV

Within my heart I blessed her,
She looked so fondly smiling O!
And to my bosom pressed her,
Sweet kisses love beguiling O!
And still to that dear fountain
Within the airy valley O!
I oft stray o'er the mountain
To meet my Alley Kelly O!

203

MY FLOWER OF FLOWERS.

[_]

Air—“Slan Beo”.

I

Far, far away, where the valleys are fair and green,
And the Suir murmurs down its castles and wild woods between,
And the beautiful hills shine grand in the sunset hours,
With a heart full of sorrow I first met my flower of flowers.

II

With grief in my heart—but sorrow is ne'er so sad
But fondness can lighten and true-love can make it glad;
And fondness and true love I found by the Suir's green bowers,
When I pledged her my troth and worshipped my flower of flowers.

III

Oh! fair is the rose that smiles in Anner's green dale,
And modest and pure is the lily so pearly and pale,
And the eyebright shines like a star from Heaven's blue towers:
But fairer to me is my beautiful flower of flowers.

IV

My heart's like a golden temple of fairyland
Since I first saw my love with her face so bright and bland,
And the world seems a path where never a dark cloud lowers—
For the sun that shines o'er is my beautiful flower of flowers.

204

THIS MAID OF MINE.

[_]

Air—“Costly were her robes of gold”.

I

My Mary is not wondrous fair
As other maidens are,
Yet she's to me a jewel rare,
A clear bright shining star;
No glorious form that can surprise,
No Grecian face divine—
The beauty of her soul-bright eyes
That marks this maid of mine.

II

No vain pursuit, no idle thought,
No art its charm bestows;
No smiles with honeyed treachery fraught
My darling true-love knows;
A bashful mien, a modest face,
Where sunny health doth shine,
A form of sweet and simple grace
That mark this maid of mine.

III

She dwells not in the lordly halls
Where fashion loves to blaze,
But where the rocks like giant walls
And hills their green sides raise;
And there no guile her heart has known,
No proud charms false and fine—
There trusting love for me alone
That marks this maid of mine.

206

THE YELLOW HAIR.

[_]

Air—“As I went forth one evening”.

I

You'd know my gentle true-love 'mid five hundred maidens fair,
By her smiles of pleasant sweetness and her wondrous golden hair,
By her step of airy lightness, like a fawn's in forest lone,
And her gushing, loving laughter, like a sweet flute's golden tone.
Oh! the yellow, yellow hair! oh, the glittering yellow hair,
Sweetly flowing, brightly glowing, o'er her neck and shoulders fair!

II

With a violet-tinted ribbon, and a ribbon all of green,
Doth she bind those glossy tresses at the pleasant morning's sheen;

207

And all day they gleam and glitter, like a young queen's golden crown,
But she lets them flow at sunset in their yellow brightness down.
Oh, the yellow, yellow hair! oh, the glittering yellow hair,
Sweetly flowing, brightly glowing, o'er her neck and shoulders fair!

III

Beyond the tall, great mountains, where sing the wild streams' tides,
Amid the airy greenwoods, my lovely maid resides;
And she'll give, when next I meet her, of that hair one ringlet band,
And I'll wear it in my bosom, ever wandering through the land.
Oh, the yellow, yellow hair! oh, the glittering yellow hair,
Sweetly flowing, brightly glowing, o'er her neck and shoulders fair!

OH! FAIR SHINES THE SUN ON GLENARA.

[_]

Air—“Glenara”.

I

Oh! fair shines the sun on Glenara,
And calm rest his beams on Glenara;
But oh! there's a light
Far dearer, more bright,
Illumines my soul in Glenara,
The light of thine eyes in Glenara.

208

II

And sweet sings the stream of Glenara,
Glancing down through the woods like an arrow;
But a sound far more sweet
Glads my heart when we meet
In the green summer woods of Glenara,—
Thy voice by the wave of Glenara.

III

And oh! ever thus in Glenara,
Till we sleep in our graves by Glenara,
May thy voice sound as free
And as kindly to me,
And thine eyes beam as fond in Glenara,
In the green summer woods of Glenara!

MY ANNA'S EYES.

[_]

Air—“The summer is come”.

I

Where shines the sun on Cummergh's dells,
Far, far away, my Anna dwells,
And there her eyes first beamed on me,
And chained my heart eternally.
I sit alone, that memory rise
Of sunny hopes and golden ties,
Of smiles that beam like morning skies,
Within her large, blue, loving eyes!

II

Saint Anne's lone well is bordered round,
With golden moss and fairy mound;

209

There harebells glow like sapphire gem:
My Anna's eyes are blue like them.
I sit alone, that memory rise
Of sunny hopes and golden ties,
Of smiles that beam like morning skies,
Within my Anna's loving eyes!

III

Where'er she walks by hill or stream,
On all those eyes of glory beam,
With sweet and gentle rays that are
Like splendours of the morning star.
I sit alone that memory rise
Of sunny hopes and golden ties,
Of smiles that beam like morning skies,
Within my Anna's loving eyes!

IV

And there is more than common light,
Far dearer still, to make them bright,—
Fond rays, that pure and freshly dart
From sinless soul and sunny heart.
Then lone I sit, that memory rise
Of sunny hopes and golden ties,
Of smiles that beam like morning skies,
Within her large, blue, loving eyes!

211

FAIR KATE OF GLENANNER.

[_]

Air—“Fair Kate”.

I

The sunlight is sleeping on Cummerah's wild mountain,
And gay shine the blossoms by dingle and fountain;
Sweet murmurs the stream where the soft breezes fan her,
And bright at my side sits fair Kate of Glenanner.

212

II

The boughs of the elms in the cool breeze are swaying,
With the clear waves beneath toward the wide ocean playing,
And the tall ferns wave like a green sunlit banner,
While I whisper my love to fair Kate of Glenanner.

III

She smiles as she points at the sunny wave near me,
And I wish for a boat with its white sail to bear me
From that spot, from the stream where the gray arches span her,
To some green isle of love with fair Kate of Glenanner.

213

MERRILY, MERRILY PLAYING.

[_]

Air—“Gleantaun Araglin ēving”.

I

Merrily, merrily playing,
Dances the rill away,
Where breezes soft are straying
And linnets sing all day;
Sweeter than wood-rill's glee is,
Sweeter than linnet's tune,
My Helen's voice to me is,
All in the rose-bright June.

II

I sit by Corrin's highland,
Her dear hand clasped in mine,
While wood and stream-girt island
Glow in the noon-day shine;
The stream is sweetly welling,
The flowers are round us strewn,
And we our love are telling
All in the rose-bright June.

214

III

My love than the rose is sweeter
That blooms in yonder dell,
And far I've come to meet her,
For oh! she loves me well;
And the stream by the gay beams lighted
Shall freeze in the summer noon,
Ere we break the vows we've plighted
All in the rose-bright June.

THE SIEGE OF LIMERICK.

[_]

Air—“Cūl awling deas”.

I

By William led, the English sped,
With musket, sword, and cannon,
To sweep us all from Limerick's wall,
And drown us in the Shannon;
But we bethought how well they fought,
Our fathers there before us;
We raised on high our charging cry,
And flung our green flag o'er us l

II

For days on days their cannon's blaze
Flashed by the blood-stained water;—
The breach is done, and up they run,
Five hundred to the slaughter;
They crossed the breach beyond our reach—
New foes fresh work supplied us—
Our women brave, their homes to save,
Soon slew them all inside us!

215

III

Though through the smoke their army broke,
With cannons booming solemn,
We would not flinch, but inch for inch
Opposed each bristling column;
Three times we dashed them back, and smashed
Their lines with shot and sabre,
And nought had they at close of day
But thinned ranks for their labour.

IV

With angry word then said their lord,
“Our foes are better, braver!”
Then fled he straight from Limerick's gate,
For he could not enslave her;
Then raised we high our triumph cry,
Where battle's chances found us,
With corse, and gun, and rent flags strewn,
And blood and ruin round us!

FAIR HELEN OF THE DELL.

[_]

Air—“The Dark Maid of the Dell”.

I

Though joy his flow'rs be twining,
And thou in beauty shining,
Yet oh! in joy's declining
I'd love thee still as well;
Wherever fortune lead thee,
Or wind or wave can speed thee,
This true heart still shall heed thee,
Fair Helen of the Dell.

216

II

I've never yet beholden
A form so finely moulden,
Thy hair a sunset golden,
Thy voice the clear harp's swell;
Thine eyes have Heav'n's own brightness,
Thy neck the lily's whiteness,
Thy step the hill-stream's lightness,
Fair Helen of the Dell.

III

Few summers thou hast numbered;
Thy heart to this has slumbered;
Love leads it now uncumbered
In his bright bowers to dwell;
He casts his splendour o'er thee,
He walks in light before thee,
That I may wild adore thee,
Fair Helen of the Dell.

217

WHATEVER WIND IS BLOWING.

[_]

Air—“Where have you been?”

I

My heart's not made to freeze and fade
On sorrow's stony mountains,
But aye it turns, and oh! it burns
To drink at pleasure's fountains!
Then I will drink what best I think
To cool its hot thirst glowing,
And love shall be first guide to me,
Whatever wind is blowing.

218

II

When woe calls down night's darksome frown,
With not a star for warning,
One thought of two sweet eyes of blue
Soon brings the glorious morning.
Still o'er my way with blessed ray
May love's calm light be glowing,
And honour too still guide me through,
Whatever wind is blowing.

MARYANNE.

[_]

Air—“John the journeyman”.

I

In sweet Tipperary dwells my love,
Where Sliabhnamon stands tall above,
And from that hill to banks of Ban
There's not a girl like Maryanne.
Oh! fair the face of Maryanne!
Oh! warm the heart of Maryanne!
From Sliabhnamon to northern Ban
There's not a girl like Maryanne.

II

My girl is artless as a child,
So fair and modest, fond and mild;
Not all the verses made by man
Could tell the charms of Maryanne.
Oh! fair the face of Maryanne!
Oh! fond the heart of Maryanne!
Not all the verses made by man
Could tell the charms of Maryanne.

III

Her glossy hair is black as night,
And dark, deep blue her eyes of light—
Like midnight stars o'er Heaven's blue span,
The sparkling eyes of Maryanne.

219

Oh! fair the face of Maryanne!
Oh! fond the heart of Maryanne!
Like midnight stars o'er Heaven's blue span,
The sparkling eyes of Maryanne.

IV

My soul is sad, my heart is sore,
To think I ne'er may see her more;
For ne'er was girl, since youth began,
So dear to me as Maryanne!
Oh! fair the face of Maryanne!
Oh! warm the heart of Maryanne!
From Sliabhnamon to northern Ban
There's not a girl like Maryanne!

220

I SIT ON THE HOLD OF MOYALLO.

[_]

Air—“Thro' Mallow without my armour”.

I

I sit on the hold of Moyallo,
And look on the Blackwater stream,
As it bounds from the moors of Duhallow,
And shines in the gay summer beam:
And I dream of a nation uprisen
From its dark night of bondage and gloom—
A captive, long pining in prison,
Restored to day's beauty and bloom.

221

II

I look from the light dancing water,
O'er steep hill, and wild wood, and mound,
Where many a dark day of slaughter
Hath reddened the green vales around:
Of vengeance I am not a dreamer
For the true blood there spilt long ago,
Tho' I dream that mere words won't redeem her,
Green Erin, from bondage and woe.

III

Long, long we have asked to restore us
Our freedom, and still we are slaves:
'Twas thus with our fathers before us,
And bondsmen they went to their graves:
The wish, and the faint heart to slack it,
Have failed, since the green earth began;
The wish, and the brave hand to back it,
'Tis that makes the patriot man!

IV

From the north to the blue south'rn water,
Who wish for their freedom again,
Should ask no revenge for each slaughter,
But rise up like brave, honest men;
And when by the word or the sabre
We've righted the wrongs we deplore,
Like men, and not slaves, with our neighbour
We'd prosper in peace evermore.

223

MY MARY.

[_]

Air—“My Mary”.

I

My Mary's far from me
By the banks of wild Blackwater,
Where she sings full mournfully
The old love songs I taught her—
Ever sings that sweetest tune,
“Shule aroon”, soft “shule aroon,
Come to me, and come full soon”,
By the banks of wild Blackwater.

II

My Mary's blue eyes speak
The love that lights her bosom;
My Mary's lips and cheek
Are like the red rose blossom;
Through miles of frost and sleet
I'd go, with naked feet,
To kiss those lips so sweet,
And clasp her to my bosom.

III

Through north and south countrie
I've seen full many a maiden,
And fair they were and free,
With many a sweet charm laden;—

224

Their charms were fair to view,
But oh! for fondness true,
I'll ne'er meet one like you,
My own young Munster maiden.

IV

The rocks may wear to sand,
By the banks of wild Blackwater,
But firm my love shall stand
For Armoy's fairest daughter,
As she sings that old sweet tune—
“Shule aroon”, soft “shule aroon,
Come to me, and come full soon”,
By the banks of wild Blackwater.

226

BRAVE DONALL.

[_]

Air—“Donal's Lament”.

I

I stray alone by cove and cave,
With sad eyes looking o'er the wave,
And heart as mournful as the grave,
Since I lost my lover brave!
Oh! my brave Donall!
My bold, brave Donall!
My heart is in your foreign grave,
My bold, brave Donall!

II

Not all unknown his soldier sire;
Like glory did my love require;
Till fame grew in his heart of fire
A burning and a wild desire!
Oh! my brave Donall!
My bold, brave Donall!
What more than love could you require,
My bold, brave Donall?

III

Away to France my true love sped,
To join the bold Brigade, he said;
'Twas 'neath its flag in battle red
His only brother fought and bled!
Oh! my brave Donall!
My bold, brave Donall!
With fair, false hopes my heart you fed,
My bold, brave Donall!

227

IV

'Twas mounting on the foeman's wall
My gallant true love met his fall,
But dying, saw his banner tall
Waving in victory over all!
Oh! my brave Donall!
My bold, brave Donall!
For me they weave the funeral pall,
My bold, brave Donall!

V

And thus I stray where Shannon's wave
Moans mournfully by cove and cave,
My sad heart in that far-off grave,
Where sleeps in gore my lover brave!
Oh! my brave Donall!
My bold, brave Donall!
My heart is withering in your grave,
My bold, brave Donall!

I STILL AM A ROVER.

[_]

Air—“Bundle and go”.

I

I still am a rover our green island over,
A passion-fraught lover of beauty and bloom,
On wild mountains pondering, thro' sweet valleys wandering,
Where soft winds are squandering the blossom's perfume;

228

From all those dear places the bland summer graces,—
From all their fair faces my heart still doth stray,
Where clear waves are flinging, and flowerets are springing,
And blithe birds are singing in sunny Gleneigh!

II

There green woods wave slowly to winds breathing lowly,
And ruin walls holy stand gray o'er the scene;
There clear fountains rally their strength in each valley,
Where waves the wild sally and birch leaves are green;
There rocks famed in story stand silent and hoary,
And fields in the glory of summer are gay,
And mead blossoms muster their bells of bright lustre,
And rich berries cluster in sunny Gleneigh!

III

Yet 'tis not the tender sweet beauty and splendour
That dwells there can render such joy to my breast;
'Tis love has arrayed it, and decked and displayed it,
As spring never made it, or mild summer dress'd:
There Gracie is dwelling in beauty excelling,
Her bright looks still telling love ne'er can decay,
While clear waves are flinging, and flowerets are springing,
And blithe birds are singing in sunny Gleneigh.

229

THERE IS A TREE IN DARRA'S WOOD.

[_]

Air—“Barrack Hill”.

I

There is a tree in Darra's wood
That bears the rose-red berry,
Where sweetly sings the fairy flood
With cadence wild and merry;—
O love! like berries of that tree,
Thy red lips smile so dearly,
And like that stream's glad minstrelsy
Thy laugh rings soft and clearly!
So clearly, so clearly,
So witching, soft, and clearly,
That evermore I must adore
And love thee, true love, dearly!

II

Beneath that tree I've built a bower,
Its roof with love-knots twining,
And there the snowy shamrock flower
And blue-bells gay are shining,—
I've built a bower within my breast
And placed thee on its throne, love,
And ever there I'll love thee best,
My dark-eyed Grace, my own love!
My own love, my own love,
I've have placed thee on its throne, love,
And day and night, for ever bright,
There you shall reign, my own love!

III

'Mid Darra's wood a castle tall
Stands wrecked with age, and hoary;
A white rose tree hangs from its wall
With blooms of star-like glory;—

230

Thy fair brow hath that rose's hue,
Kind nature's own adorning:
Thy heart is stainless as the dew
That gems its leaves at morning:—
At morning, at morning,
When dew that flower's adorning,
When out I rove thro' Darra's grove,
To think on thee at morning.

IV

Oh! still may wane the summer moon,
The gay flowers follow after;
The merry birds may hush their tune,
And glad streams cease their laughter;
The leaves may wither on the tree,
All things grow cold and drear, love,
But that sweet bower I've built to thee
Shall ever bloom, my dear love!
My dear love, my dear love,
You'll reign without a peer, love,
That bower within, the glorious queen
Of my fond heart, my dear love!

I BUILT ME A BOWER.

[_]

Air—“Gouan gal bān”.

I

I built me a bower in life's greenwood,
A palace of blooms for my soul,
And there on the maids all unseen would
I dream 'neath love's blissful control,
Till I set up the image of Alice
Supreme on my heart's burning throne;
Then long in my flow'r-woven palace
I bowed to that image alone.

231

II

Oh! fair was my bird of the mountains,
Oh! sweet as the thorn's scented spray,
Oh! pure as the light of the fountains
That dance down the green hills in May.
A chapter of joy-woven story,
A voyage o'er a bright fairy sea,
A May-tide of bloom and of glory
Were the days of our love-time to me.

III

But the chapter oft ends all in sorrow,
The voyage hath its tempests and gloom,
And the May-tide, though bright be each morrow,
Must pass, like our lives, to the tomb;—
Oh! the dreams of my love-time are humbled,
The blooms from my green bow'r are fled,
My idol lies shattered and crumbled,
My Alice, my sweet flow'r, is dead!

232

THE CAILIN RUE.

[_]

Air—“An Cailin Ruadh”.

I

When first I sought her by Cashin's water,
Fond love I brought her, fond love I told;
At day's declining I found her twining
Her bright locks shining like red, red gold.
She raised her eyes then in sweet surprise then—
Ah! how unwise then such eyes to view!
For free they found me, but fast they bound me,
Love's chain around me for my Cailin Rue.

II

Fair flowers were blooming, the meads illuming,
All fast assuming rich summer's pride,
And we were roving, truth's rapture proving,
Ah! fondly loving, by Cashin's side;

233

Oh! love may wander, but ne'er could sunder
Our hearts, that fonder each moment grew,
Till friends delighted such love requited,
And my hand was plighted to my Cailin Rue.

III

Ere May's bright weather o'er hill and heather,
Sweet tuned together rang our bridal bells;
But at May's dying, on fate relying,
Fate left us sighing by Cashin's dells;
Oh! sadly perished the bliss we cherished!
But far lands flourished o'er the ocean blue,
So as June came burning I left Erin mourning,
No more returning with my Cailin Rue.

IV

Our ship went sailing with course unfailing,
But black clouds trailing lowered o'er the main,
And its wild dirge singing, came the storm out springing,
That good ship flinging back, back again!
A sharp rock under tore her planks asunder,
While the sea in thunder swallowed wreck and crew;
One dark wave bore me where the coast towered o'er me,
But dead before me lay my Cailin Rue!

THE GREEN RIBBON.

[_]

Air—“The green ribbon”.

I

I met my love in the woodland screen
With fond and sweet caresses;
I gave my love a ribbon green
To bind her yellow tresses;

234

She loosed each long lock's shining fold
O'er her neck of snowy whiteness,
And she bound the green with the yellow gold
In braids of glossy brightness.

II

It was beside a murmuring rill
Which through the woods descended,
And over peaceful vale and hill
The sun shone calm and splendid;
Oh! often 'mid those leafy bowers
In sweet blooms I arrayed her;
But lovelier far than summer flowers
That bright green ribbon made her.

III

Then oh! she minded how the green
Was oft' triumphant waving,
When long ago beneath its sheen
Our sires the foe were braving—
I'd brave red death on sea or land
To change our country's story,
And gladly die at my love's command
To give the green new glory!

IV

But ne'er was heart of maiden yet
Than hers more true or fonder,
And aye she pines in sad regret
While far away I wander;
Oh! still through every changing scene
Our fond love shall be glowing,
While the leaves shine as that ribbon green,
And the wild rill's tide is flowing.

235

ANNIE DE CLARE.

[_]

Air—“The merry dancers”.

I

The rill at its fountain how calm is its flowing!
The rill down the mountain comes rushing and glowing—
True love in my breast like its tide's ever growing,
Since I saw the bright eyes of my Annie de Clare.

II

Oh! blest be the hours that I last saw them beaming
In her home of the Crag, by the waterfall's streaming—
How I scaled the wild rocks with the red sunset gleaming,
Up into the arms of my Annie de Clare!

III

Oh! the glory that lay o'er the green earth and heaven!
Oh! the sweet lapse of bliss to my fond bosom given,
As I sat by the stream on that calm summer even
In the love-lighted smiles of my Annie de Clare.

IV

Many and bright were the pleasures that crowned me,
And dear the enchantments since boyhood that bound me,
But dearer than all were the fond arms round me,
And the red rosy lips of my Annie de Clare.

V

When the ardour of love lights the soul with its splendour,
No cares may annoy her, no sorrows can rend her;
So my soul's wrapt in gladness with visions all tender
Of glory and love and my Annie de Clare.

236

VI

And glory may crown me, of bright meeds the giver,
But love hath a guerdon more blissful for ever,
That bower where we sat by the wild Mumhan river
And the fond, twining arms of my Annie de Clare.

THE MARCH OUT OF LIMERICK.

[_]

Air—“The Rapparee's March”.

I

Comrades true, to dare and do,
Oh! they are few who've yet denied us;
We'll not say they could betray,
For many a day they fought beside us;
By hill and glade, in fight and raid,
With vengeful blade we smote the foeman,
And now till we find Ireland free
Our banner-tree shall droop to no man.

II

Alas, for strife! child, parent, wife,
More dear than life, we leave behind us;
They weep full sore, but on this shore
Oh! never more in joy they'll find us:—
More blest the brave in bloody grave,
By Boyne's red wave, or Aughrim sleeping,
Than we who hear our children dear,
And fond friends near thus wildly weeping!

III

Sarsfield stands before our bands,
For foreign lands his words prepare us;
Ry Thomond Gate the Dutchmen wait,
Their flag elate, but to ensnare us;

237

In serried mass our bright files pass
With steel cuirass and helmet gleaming,
Our brave choice said by onward tread,
And green flag spread above us streaming.

IV

Yon mournful train they weep in vain,
Black woe and pain their steps attending;—
And think of all who met their fall
Brave Limerick's wall so long defending;
When we look back on war's grim wrack,
On turret black and breach all gory,
By hearthstone bare and breach we swear,
Revenge to share, come grief or glory!

V

Farewell ye Dead, who nobly bled;
Your blood was shed for Ireland's honour,
To change her doom, to chase the gloom
Whose shadows loom so dark upon her;
And ye farewell, whose wild cries swell,
A mournful knell, at home to bind us,
Your hearts full sore on th'Irish shore
For evermore we leave behind us!

FAINGE AN LAE.

[_]

Air—“Fainge an lae”.

I

The sun in his splendour and glory
Sets over the shining main,
And island and precipice hoary
Are swimming in gold again;

238

Ah! many a battle-field gory
He lights by that ocean's spray,
The scenes of each tragical story
Which darkened our Fainge an lae!

II

The hill-tops of Clare are defining
Their shapes in the golden glow;
The mountains of Kerry are shining
Sublime on the plains below;
They look on a master still twining
The gyves of our woe each day;
They look on a race ever pining,
And all for our Fainge an lae.

III

They mind me, so riven and valleyed,
Of bownocht and rapparee,
Who oft' round their hoar summits rallied
To set their green country free.
Oh! these were the men that ne'er dallied
When once set in war's array,
But fierce on the scared foeman sallied,
And all for their Fainge an lae.

IV

Fair Freedom soon, soon must awaken
With her form of sun-bright mould;
Then let her not wander forsaken,
But armed, as in days of old,—
With her green flags and banners outshaken
Oh! what could our triumph stay?
Our thirst for the right would be slaken—
We'd soon have our Fainge an lae!

239

V

When the power of the tyrant is riven,
And swordless his blood-stained hand,
When the black clouds from Erin are driven,
Oh! where is the brighter land?
And when shall that grand hour be given
That sets us on Freedom's way?
When, like the great Dead, we have striven,
And all for our Fainge an lae!

Fainge an lae—the dawning of the morning.

Bownocht—a foot soldier.

GRA GAL BAN.

[_]

Air—“A rifleman for me”.

I

There's an airy, graceful lightness in her form of beauteous mould,
And her face shines out divinely 'neath her locks of silken gold;
There are lovely maidens dwelling
Through the land from sea to sea,
But in beauty bright excelling,
Oh! my Gra Gal Bān for me!

II

But dim is beauty's brightness unless the soul shine through
The smile upon the coral lip—the dark eye, or the blue.
There are lovely maidens dwelling
Through the land from sea to sea,
But in soul-bright eyes excelling,
Oh! my Gra Gal Bān for me!

240

III

And though age may steal upon her, and her beauty all may fade,
Joy shall linger in the glances of my guileless mountain maid.
There are lovely maidens dwelling
Through the land from sea to sea,
But in every grace excelling,
Oh! my Gra Gal Bān for me!

IV

For what makes age as gladsome as the golden day of youth?
'Tis the heart's unchanged affection and the soul's immortal truth.
There are lovely maidens dwelling
Through the land from sea to sea,
But in truthful love excelling,
Oh! my Gra Gal Bān for me!

DONALL NA GREINE.

[_]

Air—“Domnall na Greine”.

I

Where rolls the tide of the wandering Mulla,
Brilliantly gleaming, gushing and gleaming,
Young Donall lay in a sunny hollow,
Lazily dreaming, thinking and dreaming;
And thus he lay all that sweet summer idle,
Fleeing from labour, fleeing from labour,
When his left hand should hold the skian or the bridle,
And his right the steel sabre, the keen cutting sabre;

241

And hurra! for ease and for love's bright story,
Sang Donall na Greine! tall Donall na Greine!
For both he dreamed of, not war and glory,
Donall na Greine! tall Donall na Greine!

II

There built he many an airy castle,
Towering and gleaming, towering and gleaming,
And peopled their halls with fair maid and vassal,
In his wild dreaming, in his wild dreaming;
And ne'er one cause could he still discover,
Why his ease should be broken, his sweet ease broken,
Till his love proved false, and his dreams were over,
And he a rover—to sorrow awoken!
Then hurra! hurra! for a life of labour,
Sang Donall na Greine! tall Donall na Greine!
The steed, the corselet, and flashing sabre,
For Donall na Greine! bold Donall na Greine!

III

His steed's black mane to the winds is streaming,
By valley and highland, by moorland and highland;
You'd stray from Bengore with the white spray gleaming,
To Cleir's stormy island, to Cleir's stormy island,
Ere a better or doughtier man could meet you,
Than Donall na Greine! tall Donall na Greine!
Or a fiercer, haughtier smile could greet you—
Tall Donall na Greine! bold Donall na Greine!

242

And hurra! hurra! for a life of labour,
Sang Donall na Greine! bold Donall na Greine!
The rushing charge and the flashing sabre
For Donall na Greine! bold Donall na Greine!

IV

Soon the rapparees all his brave brothers were sworn
Through hardship and danger, through hardship and danger;
O'Hogan to battle was never borne
So fleet on the stranger, the false hearted stranger—
Oh! to see him down on the foeman dashing,
How fearless he bore him, how reckless he bore him!
With his sabre keen in his strong hand flashing,
Through the Sassenaghs crashing—his green flag o'er him!
And hurra! hurra! for a life of labour,
Sang Donall na Greine! bold Donall na Greine!
The rushing charge and the shining sabre,
For Donall na Greine! bold Donall na Greine!

V

Once again he loved, by the Shannon water,
A maiden unchanging, with fond heart unchanging,
And after many a field of slaughter,
Away they went ranging, to foreign lands ranging;—
At Fontenoy his brave generals paid him,
Tall Donall na Greine! bold Donall na Greine!

243

A captain fine on that field they made him,
For fear never swayed him, bold Donall na Greine!
Then hurra! for love and a life of labour,
Sang Donall na Greine! bold Donall na Greine!
Unchanging love and a conquering sabre,
For Donall na Greine! bold Donall na Greine!

Donall of the sunshine.

244

THE WIND THAT SHAKES THE BARLEY.

[_]

Air—“The old love and the new love”.

I

I sat within the valley green,
I sat me with my true love,
My sad heart strove the two between,
The old love and the new love,—
The old for her, the new that made
Me think on Ireland dearly,
While soft the wind blew down the glade
And shook the golden barley.

245

II

'Twas hard the woeful words to frame
To break the ties that bound us,—
'Twas harder still to bear the shame
Of foreign chains around us;
And so I said, “The mountain glen
I'll seek next morning early,
And join the brave United men!”
While soft winds shook the barley.

III

While sad I kissed away her tears,
My fond arms round her flinging,
The foeman's shot burst on our ears,
From out the wildwood ringing,—
The bullet pierced my true love's side,
In life's young spring so early,
And on my breast in blood she died
While soft winds shook the barley!

IV

I bore her to the wildwood screen,
And many a summer blossom
I placed with branches thick and green
Above her gore-stain'd bosom:—
I wept and kissed her pale, pale cheek,
Then rushed o'er vale and far lea,
My vengeance on the foe to wreak,
While soft winds shook the barley!

V

And blood for blood without remorse
I've ta'en at Oulart Hollow, —
I've placed my true-love's clay-cold corse
Where I full soon will follow;

246

And round her grave I wander drear,
Noon, night, and morning early,
With breaking heart whene'er I hear
The wind that shakes the barley!

The deep quarry on Oulart hill.

FANNY CLAIR.

[_]

Air—“Mōr Cluna”.

I

Queenly is thy mien and air,
Jewels sparkle in thy hair,
And those ringlets twining,
And thy dark eyes shining,
Set my fond heart pining,
Fanny Clair.

II

Grace dwells in thy features fair,
Pride of birth sits haughty there,
Yet in thy heart's glowing
Love—on me bestowing
Fond hopes brighter glowing,
Fanny Clair.

III

Never shall my heart despair
While that smile thy sweet lips wear:
In it rests a token
That thy love's awoken,
Though it burns unspoken,
Fanny Clair.

IV

Then the life that else was bare
Shall find glory, spite of care,
For thy sake shall never
Cease each good endeavour,
Till we're joined for ever,
Fanny Clair!

247

WILLY BRAND.

[_]

Air—“Blow the candle out”.

I

My love is come of English blood,
And was my father's foe;
But now he's all for Ireland's good
As once for Ireland's woe;
And now he's leal and true as steel
When war is in the land;
So aye through blame, and oh! through shame,
I'll love my Willy Brand.

II

My love he is a soldier free,
So stately and so tall,
With armour shining gloriously,
And sword, and plume, and all;
With horseman's shoon and musquetoon
He rides by tower and strand,
And aye through blame, and oh! through shame,
I'll love my Willy Brand.

III

My love has drawn his gallant sword
For Ireland's cause and king,
Black Cromwell with his blood-stained horde
Of traitors back to fling;
And may God speed each man and steed
The dark foe to withstand,
While aye through blame, and oh! through shame,
I'll love my Willy Brand.

248

IV

Each day she waited by the hill
Her Willy Brand's return,
And still the same through woe and ill
Her love for him did burn:
And back love gave her soldier brave
When peace swayed o'er the land;
For aye through blame, and oh! through shame,
She loved her Willy Brand!

THE LASSES OF IRELAND.

[_]

Air—“Pilib a Ceo”.

I

Here's to our dear lasses, wheresoe'er their home,
'Mid the ancient cities, or where wild streams foam;
Ne'er were hearts more constant, ne'er were eyes so bright,
So we'll pledge them fondly on this festive night.
Then to our dear lasses,
With their smiles divine,
Drink, in sparkling glasses
Of the rose-red wine!

II

All the lovely maids that charmed our sires of yore,
Live and shine immortal in wild bardic lore;
Still the same sweet faces, still the forms so fair,
Bloom from Antrim's Pillars to the bright Kenmare.
Then to those dear lasses,
With their smiles divine,
Drink, in sparkling glasses
Of the rose-red wine!

249

III

Once I was a rover through broad England's plains;
Through and through I've wandered Scotland's wild domains:
There I found fair maidens in the light of youth,
But no Irish fondness and no Irish truth.
So to our own lasses,
With their smiles divine,
Drink, in sparkling glasses
Of the rose-red wine!

IV

Denmark's dames are lovely, with their locks of gold;
Spanish forms are stately; France hath charms untold;
Yet that sweet, bright beauty filling glance and smile
Dwells but with the maidens of our own green isle.
So to our own lasses,
With their smiles divine,
Drink, in sparkling glasses,
Of the rose-red wine!

V

May they live for ever as in th'olden time,
When brave warriors wooed them, and sweet bards sublime;
May their glorious faces shine for aye the same,
With the light of beauty and love's radiant flame!
And to our own lasses,
With their smiles divine,
Drink, in sparkling glasses
Of the rose-red wine!

250

O'SULLIVAN'S FLIGHT.

A.D. 1603.

[_]

Air—“Ca rouish anish an cailín vig”.

I.

Glengariff's shore could give no more
The shelter strong we needed,
So away we trode on our wintry road,
Its dangers all unheeded.
We'll shout hurra! for valour's sway,
Each trembling coward scorning,
For cleaving brands in dauntless hands,
And all for freedom's morning!

II.

The snows were deep, the paths were steep,
But worse than these soon found us—
The ruffian swords, and the traitor hordes
That flocked like wolves around us!
We'll shout hurra! etc.

III.

By Blarney's towers, Mac Caurha's powers
Our good swords turned their backs on;
And Mallow's flood we stained with blood
Of Barry, Rupe, and Saxon!
Then shout hurra! etc.

IV.

By Gailty's hill around us still
Rushed many a fierce marauder;
Yet our path we clave to Shannon's wave,
And all by the good lamh laider.
Then shout hurra! etc.

251

V.

Mac Eggan's wrath there barred our path,
But we gave him warning early
To clear the way, or his bands we'd slay,
And we kept our promise fairly!
Then shout hurra! etc.

VI.

Each killed his steed in that hour of need,
After false Mac Eggan's slaughter,
Corachs unstaid of their skins we made,
And crossed the Shannon's water!
Then shout hurra! etc.

VII.

O'Sullivan was the dauntless man,
When the foe by Aughrim found us,
Black Malby's head on the sward he laid,
And we slew all around us!
Then shout hurra! etc.

VIII.

Alas! how few of our brave and true
Reached Ullad's mountains hoary!
But none should weep for the brave who sleep
On that path so rough and gory!
But shout hurra! for valour's sway,
Each trembling coward scorning,
For cleaving brands in dauntless hands,
And all for freedom's morning!

Lamh láider—the strong hand.

Corach, a light boat. O'Sullivan ordered his men to cut osiers by the shore, and make boat frames of wicker-work. These frames they covered with the skins of their horses, and in the corachs or boats thus formed, they crossed the Shannon.

Ullad—Ulster.

252

SONG.

[_]

Air—“The handsome face”.

I

A young bright face where all can trace
The heart's pure thoughts ever shining there,
In dreamland golden there's nought beholden,
Half so bewitching or half so fair.

II

Two bright eyes like the summer skies,
Where the soul laughs out in a living ray;
What can lighten the heart, and brighten
Its depths, when darkened, so well as they?

III

Lips as red as the light that's shed
By the dew-bright roses in leafy June,
With the white teeth's splendour, and voice as tender,
And soft and sweet as an old love tune.

IV

Oh! my love, my maid of the wildwood glade
In the western mountains, excels in all;
And through all ranging and fortune's changing,
With those sweet charms keeps my heart in thrall!

254

I LOVED A MAID.

[_]

Air—“The Rambling Sailor”.

I

I loved a maid by Geerait's lea,
And knew by many a token
That love dwelt in her heart for me,
Though long it lived unspoken;

255

I loved her well, I loved her true;
But she has crossed the ocean blue—
Yet can the links that fondly grew
Thus round our hearts be broken?

II

Ah! many a morn and starry night
May sink down Time's dark river,
And youth may fade like all things bright,
But nought our souls can sever;
For love shall live, the love of yore,
That filled our hearts by Geerait's shore,
Though angry oceans spread and roar
Between us still for ever.

III

There's many a maid 'neath Daragh's crest
Whose fond love I might waken,
But never from my lonely breast
Can thought of her be taken:—
I gaze on them, but constantly
Think, think on her beyond the sea:
Thus love and grief have dwelt with me,
And ne'er my heart forsaken.

JESSY BRIEN.

[_]

Air—“As thro' the woods I chanced to rove”.

I

Jessy Brien! the livelong day,
Down by Funcheon's river,
I think of her from June to May,
Down by Funcheon's river;

256

I love her not for golden dower,
But oh! that she's the fairest flower
In lowly cot or lordly bower,
Down by Funcheon's river.

II

Ne'er were eyes so clear and blue,
Down by Funcheon's river;
Ne'er was heart so good and true,
Down by Funcheon's river;
And her long hair is so bright,
That it shines by day and night,
Like a cloud of golden light,
Down by Funcheon's river.

III

Within the chapel on the green,
Down by Funcheon's river,
Oh! could you see my bosom's queen,
Down by Funcheon's river,
Kneeling at the Sunday prayer,
She looks so bright and lovely there,
You'd deem she was an angel fair,
Down by Funcheon's river!

IV

And I will love my maiden mild,
Down by Funcheon's river,
While lasts the water's song so wild,
Down by Funcheon's river;
And sweetly as that fairy song,
While blest with love so true and strong,
Our lives in joy shall glide along,
Down by Funcheon's river.

257

JOHNNY'S RETURN.

[_]

Air—“In comes a croppy”.

I

As Johnny came full merrily
By Mona's ancient tower,
He saw his true love drearily
Sit in the wild ash bower;
He spoke to her full cheerily,
But aye she made her moan:
“Oh! I'm left to weep all drearily
My misery alone,
For he whose words fell merrily
On my poor heart is flown!”

II

“When winter blasts were roaring wild,
My love left me to weep;
And ere the larks were soaring wild,
He'd crossed the stormy deep”.
Then Johnny spoke full merrily,
But aye she made her moan:
“Oh! I'm left to weep all drearily
My misery alone,
For he whose words fell cheerily
On my poor heart is flown!”

III

Oh! dead her young heart's gladness then
For two long weary years,
And wild she wailed her sadness then,
And fast fell down her tears;
Yet Johnny spoke full merrily,
But aye she made her moan:
“Oh! I'm left to weep all drearily
My misery alone,
For he whose words fell cheerily
On my poor heart is flown!”

258

IV

He'd come disguised full drearily
On his returning day;
With laugh and fond word, cheerily,
He cast it now away;
He ran where Eileen drearily
Sat making her sad moan:
And merrily, oh! merrily,
His arms were round her thrown,
Crying, “Joy is dawning cheerily,
And sorrow's night is flown!”

THE FORSAKEN.

[_]

Air—“The Gaddhe Gráine”.

I

The flowers are blooming by stream and fountain,
The wild birds sing with a joyous tone,
And gladness gushes o'er vale and mountain,
But I am left to my grief alone—
To wail alone in love's deep devotion,
For young Dunlevy of the raven hair,
Has left his mountains, and crossed the ocean,
To fight for France and for glory there.

II

They tell me that his love is burning
For me as fond as e'er it has been,
But when, ah! when comes his sweet returning
To Erin's hills and his dark Eileen?

259

They tell me one sweet pleasant story,—
My young Dunlevy's brave pride and joy,
When he had won the bright meed of glory,
A captain's sabre at Fontenoy!

III

The foreign maidens could ne'er have bound him
In love's bright fetters, though fair they be,—
Yet ah! he comes not, though fame has found him,
And well I love him and he loves me;
Alas! their vengeance is not half taken
Upon the Saxon for his tyrannie,
And oh! how long shall I sit forsaken
To wail alone by the murmuring sea?

266

MY TRUE LOVE.

[_]

Air—“The May Morning”.

I

My love has a form of splendour;
My love has an eye divine;
My love has a heart full tender,
And I know that heart is mine;
Her swan-like neck and bosom
Are softly fair and pure
As the snowy wild rose blossom,
Or the white flower of the moor.

II

The summer streamlets playing,
Flow down in light and song,
So my thoughts to her go straying
Through night and all day long,
And to the bliss which crowned me,
When I kissed her o'er and o'er,
When my true love's arms were round me
By the wild lake's rocky shore.

III

My love's like a bright May morning,
So pure, so mild, so bland;
My love's like a rose adorning
A bower in some fairy land;—
How I long for red eve's shining,
To see my true love stand,
Her golden tresses twining
With her snow-white lily hand!

IV

There's a stream in the wildwood springing,
Where the birds chant on each tree:
Oh! I deem them for ever singing,
My mountain maid, of thee!

267

And that stream the mountains blue, love,
A deep sea shall o'erflow,
Ere I forsake my true love,
Or my heart one change shall know.

270

FAIREST AND RAREST.

[_]

Air—“The rarest maid”.

I

Fairest and rarest
Of all the maids that be,
Sweetest, and meetest
For minstrel's love is she,
She who loved me longest,
When far, far away;—
With a love the strongest
I love her to-day!

II

Keep me and steep me
In black sorrow's wave,
Fair dreams and rare dreams
Of my love could save;—
Save my heart, and borrow
Light in such dark doom,
Make, 'mid desert sorrow,
Joy's gay flowers to bloom.

III

Deeming, sweet dreaming,
Such a joy to me,
How bright with joy's light
Must the present be!
When her eyes are shining,
Void of care and pain,
When her arms are twining
Round me once again!

271

COME, ALL YOU MAIDS, WHERE'ER YOU BE.

[_]

Air—“Come, all you maids”.

I

Come, all you maids, where'er you be,
That flourish fair and fine, fine,
To young and old I will unfold
This hopeless tale of mine,
Mine,
This hopeless tale of mine!

II

The sun shall set upon my grief,
The sun shall rise the same, same,
And ever so shall live my woe
Enduring as his flame,
Flame,
Enduring as his flame.

III

My home was in the border land,
Where the flashing streams rush down, down,
From Houra's hill; there with gallant Will
I met in the autumn brown,
Brown,
I met in the autumn brown.

IV

He said, his love so fond and true
Would never die for me, me,
That my eyes shamed the hue of the violet blue,
And my lips the red rose tree,
Tree,
The bloom of the red rose tree.

272

V

Alas! I liked and loved him well,
Though I answered cold as stone, stone,
So he turned his steed to the wars with speed,
And he left me weeping lone,
Lone,—
To sigh and weep alone.

VI

Grief made my love burn wild and strong,
So I followed him full fain, fain,
But by Knock'noss Hill, oh! my gallant Will
Lay dying amid the slain,
Slain,
Lay dying amid the slain!

VII

And down I knelt by my true-love's side,
And he bent his eyes on me, me;
One long, long look of love he took,
And he died on that blood-stained lea,
Lea,
He died on that blood-stained lea!

VIII

The sun shall set upon my grief,
The sun shall rise the same, same,
And ever so shall live my woe,
Enduring as his flame,
Flame,
Enduring as his flame!

From the fragments of an old song on the same subject, and in the same metre.

273

MARY, THE PRIDE OF THE WEST.

[_]

Air—“Nancy, the pride of the east”.

I

The summer shines bright from the plain
To the hills where the gray rocks are piled;
The birds sing a clear, joyous strain,
And the flowers are in bloom o'er the wild;
But a flower, all these fair flow'rs above
In sweetness, blooms deep in my breast;
'Tis the lone flower of fondness and love
For Mary, the Pride of the West.

II

There's an ash-tree that blooms light and fair,
Where the linnets in May make their bower;
There's a rose-bush beyond all compare,
By the walls of the gray mountain tower;
But how lovely soe'er that lone tree,
And the bush all in white blossoms drest,
As fair and as lovely is she,
My Mary, the Pride of the West.

III

When she goes from the wild hills among
To the town on the verge of the plain,
Could you see her sweet face 'mid the throng,
You ne'er would forget it again;
And the gallants who pass, when they see,
And the crowd, think her brightest and best,
And they ask who such fair maid can be,
My Mary, the Pride of the West!

274

IV

When each night at her father's broad hearth
I sit near my love by the fire,
I have all that my heart on this Earth
Can love, and adore, and admire;
Then her eyes, like two clear stars above,
With their kind looks on me often rest,
Till I'm wild, wild with fondness and love
For Mary, the Pride of the West!

MY LOVE IS ON THE RIVER.

[_]

Air—“Ta mo grad sa ar an abainn”.

I

Sliav Gua's highlands shade meadow and moor,
And guard the green islands of the golden Suir:
The Tar brightly sallies from their cooms, wild and fleet,
And sings through the valleys that bloom at their feet.
More bright to-day than they e'er shone before,
Shine castle gray, and green height, and shore,—
Oh! the splendours that quiver o'er wildwood and lea,
While my love is on the river in his light boat with me!

II

Swift as foot of the beagle from the hills doth he hie;
Bright as glance of the eagle, the glance of his eye;

275

When the Green Flag's unfurled he is straight as its tree,
Never heart in the world could be fonder of me.
Outlawed and lone lived he many a day,
In his cold cave of stone 'mid the hills far away;
But truth conquers ever, and my love he is free
On the Suir's golden river in his light boat with me!

III

Sweet songs are ringing from the birds of the grove,
But sweeter the singing of my own gallant love;
Oh! his brave words first found me in sadness and pain,
But they soon strewed around me joy's bright flow'rs again.
And he never more from my arms shall be torn,
The fair chapel door shall receive us next morn;
And the green woods shall quiver to our bridal bell's glee,
For my love is on the river in his light boat with me!

279

OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY.

[_]

Air—“Over the hills”.

I

From night till morn, from morn till night,
My thoughts dwell with a sweet delight,
And all upon a maiden bright
Who dwells by Houra's rocky height,
Over the hills and far away,
Over the hills and far away,
I think of her both night and day,
Over the hills and far away.

II

And is my maid a proper theme?
And is she worthy of my dream?
Go, catch her smile and clear eyes' beam,
By Houra's hill or Grena's stream,
Over the hills and far away,
And ne'er was one, you'll think and say,
So lovely as my maiden gay,
Over the hills and far away.

280

III

And have you seen the violet blow?
Its tints within her fond eyes glow;
Her skin is fair as blooms that grow,
In wild March in the fragrant sloe,
Over the hills and far away,
Over the hills and far away,
I think of her both night and day,
Over the hills and far away.

IV

Yet 'tis not for her sweet smile's charm,
And 'tis not for her graceful form,
But for her heart so true and warm,
My love burns on through calm and storm.
Over the hills and far away,
Whate'er my lot, where'er I stray,
I'll think of her both night and day,
Over the hills and far away!

THE WITHERED ROSE.

[_]

Air—“The Orange Rogue”.

I

Fair blooms array the summer bowers
Along the woodlands airy,
But fairer still this flower of flowers
I got from my dear Mary.
The purple heath-bell paints the steep,
Wild rock and glen illuming;
More dear this withered flower I keep,
Than all the wild flowers blooming.
Oh! fair the blooms that deck the bowers,
And paint the mountains airy,
Oh! fairer still this flower of flowers,
I got from my dear Mary!

281

II

Oh! sweet the days of long ago,
When love with joy was weaven,
When in the fairy dells below
We met each summer even;
When Mary sat in beauty nigh,
And sang the songs I taught her,
And spoke the love that ne'er shall die,
By Grena's sunny water.
Oh! fair the blooms that deck the bowers,
And paint the mountains airy!
Oh! fairer still this flower of flowers
I got from my dear Mary!

III

It was upon a Saint John's night
She gave me that red blossom;
'Twas blooming in its freshness bright
Upon her loving bosom;
And since, through changing joys and tears,
Though fate her smiles denied me—
Oh! ever since, for five long years,
I've kept that flower beside me!
Oh! sweet the blooms that deck the bowers,
And paint the mountains airy!
Oh! sweeter still this flower of flowers,
I got from my dear Mary.

IV

And when once more I meet her gaze
By Grena's crystal water,
How sweet to talk of those young days
When by the wave I sought her;
When care is fled, and woe is dead,
And joy alone is shining,
When meeting then in that wild glen,
Her arms are round me twining;

282

Oh! then beside our native bowers,
Amid the woodlands airy,
This long-kept, priceless flower of flowers
I'll show to my dear Mary!

284

THE JOLLY COMPANIE.

[_]

Air—“The jolly companie”.

I

Oh! we are jolly soldiers
Of courage stout and true,
Some in strife grown hoary
And some to battle new.
We're going to the wars
Beyond the Irish sea,
Our green flag o'er us waving,
A jolly companie!
A jolly companie!
A jolly companie!
In bivouac, or wild attack,
A jolly companie!

285

II

When we sailed from the harbour,
Our hearts were sad and sore
For the girls we left behind us
Upon the Irish shore:—
Though the girls in France are fair,
To our own still true we'll be,
As we fight our way to glory,
A jolly companie!
A jolly companie!
A jolly companie!
Around the can, or man to man,
A jolly companie!

III

Here's a health to good King Lewis,
Our friend for evermore,
And a health to poor Righ Shamus,
May his troubles soon be o'er,—
Where'er the pike we trail
We'll smite his enemie
To the tune of “Fág an bealach”,
A jolly companie!
A jolly companie!
A jolly companie!
In peace or fight, by day or night,
A jolly companie!

IV

When we look upon our flag-staff
Of the hardy Irish oak,
'Twill remind us of our country
'Mid the battle's dust and smoke;—

286

In danger's stormy gap,
Our gory bed may be,
But we'll die like sons of Ireland,
A jolly companie!
A jolly companie!
A jolly companie!
In bivouac or wild attack,
A jolly companie!

290

MY IRISH GIRL.

[_]

Air—“Costly were the robes of gold this Irish girl did wear”.

I

My Irish girl is young and fair
With lightsome eyes of blue,
With guileless heart and modest air,
And lips of red rose hue.
I met my love the plains above,
Amid the hills so free,
And evermore think o'er and o'er
The vows she made to me.

II

I think within my lonely room—
I think of Mary dear,
Till sunny bloom lights up the gloom,
And she seems smiling near.
My heart's dear pearl, my Irish girl,
Thy words so fond to me,
Have filled my breast with visions blest,
And deathless love for thee.

III

Beside me stands the lonely chair
Where thou didst sit that night,
With loving air and face as fair,
And eyes like wells of light;
That seat so lone, than golden throne
Is far more dear to me,
For in my dream by firelight gleam
Thy form still there I see.

291

IV

Oh! fond, oh! fond my heart doth beat,
And wild with dear delight,
When I think on the kisses sweet
You gave to me that night.
My heart's dear pearl, my Irish girl,
Love shines full constantly—
Howe'er it burn, a fond return
It meets, my love, from thee!

292

I'M FOURTEEN YEARS OLD UPON SUNDAY.

[_]

Air—“As I went a walking”.

I

Adown by the Suir, in a May morning's shine,
I saw a young maiden a milking her kine;
And she sang, “Oh! my bosom no more shall repine,
For I'm fourteen years old upon Sunday,
And I shall be married on Sunday!”

II

“Oh! love is the fondest the day it is new,
And the heart is a rover, and often untrue,
And will he be fonder, the bridegroom of you,
But fourteen years old upon Sunday,
And after your wedding on Sunday?”

293

III

“I know him too truly, my brave Conor Lee!
His mind from all thoughts of a rover is free,
And I'm sure in my heart he'll be fonder of me,
But fourteen years old upon Sunday,
And after our wedding on Sunday!

IV

“On Saturday night I'll be void of all care,
With my new bridal dress and the flowers in my hair,
With three pretty maidens to wait on me there,
And to dance at my wedding on Sunday,
For I shall be married on Sunday!”

Partly an old song.

THE SUMMER IS COME.

[_]

Air—“The summer is come”.

I

The summer is come and the grass is green,
The gay flowers spring where the snows have been,
The ships are sailing upon the sea,
And I'll soon get tidings of Gra Machree.

II

Oh! weary, weary, the long dull night
I think and think of my heart's delight,
And in my dreamings constantly
See the stately form of my Gra Machree.

III

The birds are singing from brake and bough,
And sweetly, sweetly remind me now,
The day we danced by the village tree
When I won the heart of my Gra Machree.

294

IV

I'm sure, I'm sure, while the sunbeams glow,
While flowers are springing and soft winds blow,
The white ships sailing upon the sea
Will soon bring tidings of Gra Machree.

OVER THE MORNING DEW.

[_]

Air—“As truagh gan peata vier agum”.

I

It is the sweetest hour for love:
The sun is o'er the eastern grove,
And nought is heard but coo of dove,
And wild streams in the greenwood;—
Over the morning dew,
Over the morning dew,
Come with me, young Gra Machree,
Unto the leafy greenwood!

II

With flowers that bloom so sweetly there
I'll deck thy dress and golden hair,
And thou hast never looked so fair,
As there in that wild greenwood;—
Over the morning dew,
Over the morning dew,
Come with me, young Gra Machree,
Unto the leafy greenwood!

295

III

There rears the Rath its lonely height,
Where fairies dance at noon of night,
And there my faith I'll fondly plight
To thee in that wild greenwood!
Over the morning dew,
Over the morning dew,
Come with me, young Gra Machree,
Unto the leafy greenwood!

IV

Oh! fear not here to stray with me;
You know me from your infancy;
I'll ask but look of love from thee,
And fond kiss in the greenwood.
Over the morning dew,
Over the morning dew,
Then come with me, young Gra Machree,
Unto the leafy greenwood!

297

SWEET GLENGARIFF'S WATER.

[_]

Air—“As I was riding out one day”.

I

Where wild fowl swim upon the lake
At morning's early shining,
I'm sure, I'm sure my heart will break
With sadness and repining.

298

As I went out one morning sweet,
I met a farmer's daughter,
With gown of blue and milk-white feet,
By sweet Glengariff's water.

II

Her jet-black locks with wavy shine
Fell sweetly on her shoulder,
And ah! they make my heart repine
Till I again behold her;—
She smiled, and passed me strangely by,
Though fondly I besought her;
And long I'll rue her laughing eye
By sweet Glengariff's water.

III

Where wild-fowl swim upon the lake
At morning's early splendour,
Each day my lonely path I'll take,
With thoughts full sad and tender;
I'll meet my love, and sure she'll stay
To hear the tale I've brought her—
To marry me this merry May
By sweet Glengariff's water.

AMONG THE FRAGRANT HAY.

[_]

Air—“Young Roger was a ploughboy”.

I

Young Johnnie, in the autumn,
To Limerick he came,
And none could tell what brought him,
And none could tell his name;

299

But he sat by Bessie Gray,
That sunny autumn day,
And he told her sweet romances 'mid the new-mown hay.
Then, oh! for fields lighted
By sweet autumn's ray,
When loving vows are plighted
Among the fragrant hay!

II

When ere the next sweet morning
Young Johnnie had fled,
With envy filled and scorning,
The village maidens said:
Oh! they spoke of Bessie Gray,
And they said she'd rue the day
When she heard the sweet romances 'mid the new-mown hay.
Then, oh! for fields lighted
By sweet autumn's ray,
When loving vows are plighted
Among the fragrant hay!

III

Young Johnnie's happy dwelling
Lay fast by the Lee,
And in manly parts excelling
But few like him you'd see;
And so thought Bessie Gray
Since that lovely autumn day
When she heard the sweet romances 'mid the new-mown hay.
Then oh! for fields lighted
By sweet autumn's ray,
When loving vows are plighted
Among the fragrant hay!

300

IV

Young Johnnie could remember
His vows and his flame,—
He came in dark December,
And told his kin and name;
And there was a wedding gay,
And the bride was Bessie Gray,
And all from these romances 'mid the new-mown hay.
Then, oh! for fields lighted
By sweet autumn's ray
When loving vows are plighted
Among the fragrant hay!

THE SADDEST BREEZE.

[_]

Air—“Johnnie, lovely Johnnie!”

I

The saddest breeze in all the land,
It blew across the sea;
It drove a brave ship from the strand,
And bore my Hugh from me;
And long I sat beside the rill
To weep my fate alone,
Till leaf and flower from wood and hill
With summer beams were flown.

II

The gladdest breeze e'er swept the vales
To-day blew from the sea;
It swelled a good ship's snowy sails,
And brought him back to me;

301

And now 'tis rushing wildly past,
With wintry sleet and rain,
Yet e'en I love the cold, cold blast
That brought my Hugh again!

MY LOVE IS AT MY SIDE.

[_]

Air—“I once loved a boy”.

I

The lone hill's dells are blue with heather bells,
The wild flowers bloom along the moor,
The soft winds glide, and my love is at my side,
On the banks of the calm golden Suir,
Bright and pure,
On the banks of the calm golden Suir.

II

By upland springs a lonely linnet sings
All of love, from his leafy wildwood tree,
Of smiles and sweet sighs, and the loving star-bright eyes
That are gazing so fond now on me,
Trustingly,
That are gazing so fond now on me!

III

The soft airs blow, and wildly wandering go
To tell, where the woodlark builds its nest,
Of bliss that knows no care, and the maiden young and fair,
That I'm clasping so fond to my breast,
Dearly pressed,
That I'm clasping so fond to my breast.

302

IV

Oh! bright flow the rills and this river by the hills,
Telling, telling as they go to mount and moor
That my love's at my side, that she'll be my own dear bride,
On the banks of the calm golden Suir,
Bright and pure,
On the banks of the calm golden Suir.

303

FANNY.

[_]

Air—“Royal Charlie”.

I

Where Anner flows by fairy rath
And tower and gray rocks many,
One Sunday noon in woodland path
I met my blithesome Fanny.
Her hair was like the yellow blooms
That deck the meadows early;
Her eyes like heaven, when spring illumes,
They shone so kind and clearly.

II

We sat to hear the river's tune
'Neath trees all mossed and olden,
And talked and laughed that autumn noon,
With thoughts full sweet and golden;—

304

I built a palace in my brain
As fond I gazed upon her,
And in its bright halls she did reign,
My queen of love and honour!

III

The palace towers may all depart,
And cruel fate may sever,
But in my brain and in my heart
Her form shall live for ever;—
At beauty's shrine the worshippers
Judge fond and rash and blindly;
Yet ne'er was form more fair than hers,
And ne'er beat heart more kindly.

THE END.

University of Virginia Library

TO GRACIE

BALLADS.

THE SIEGE OF CLONMEL.

A.D. 1650.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

DUNLEVY.

I

II

III

IV

V

THE BATTLE OF KNOCKINOSS.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

THE TEMPLAR KNIGHT.

[I]

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

ROMANCE OF THE BANNER.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

ROSE CONDON.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX