 | The Poems of Thomas Davis |  |
71
III. PART III. HISTORICAL BALLADS AND SONGS.
First Series.
72
“This country of ours is no sand-bank, thrown up by some recent
caprice of earth. It is an ancient land, honoured in the archives of
civilisation, traceable into antiquity by its piety, its valour, and its sufferings.
Every great European race has sent its stream to the river of
Irish mind. Long wars, vast organisations, subtle codes, beacon
crimes, leading virtues, and self-mighty men were here. If we live
influenced by wind, and sun, and tree, and not by the passions and
deeds of the Past, we are a thriftless and hopeless people.”
Davis's Essays.
73
A NATION ONCE AGAIN.
I
When boyhood's fire was in my blood,I read of ancient freemen,
For Greece and Rome who bravely stood,
Three Hundred men and Three men.
And then I prayed I yet might see
Our fetters rent in twain,
And Ireland, long a province, be
A Nation once again.
74
II
And, from that time, through wildest woe,That hope has shone, a far light;
Nor could love's brightest summer glow
Outshine that solemn starlight:
It seemed to watch above my head
In forum, field, and fane;
Its angel voice sang round my bed,
“A Nation once again.”
III
It whispered, too, that “freedom's arkAnd service high and holy,
Would be profaned by feelings dark
And passions vain or lowly:
For freedom comes from God's right hand,
And needs a godly train;
And righteous men must make our land
A Nation once again.”
IV
So, as I grew from boy to man,I bent me to that bidding—
My spirit of each selfish plan
And cruel passion ridding;
For, thus I hoped some day to aid—
Oh! can such hope be vain?—
When my dear country shall be made
A Nation once again.
The Three Hundred Greeks who died at Thermopylæ, and the Three Romans who kept the Sublician Bridge.—Author's Note.
75
LAMENT FOR THE MILESIANS.
I
Oh! proud were the chieftains of green Inis-Fail;As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
The stars of our sky, and the salt of our soil;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
Their hearts were as soft as a child in the lap,
Yet they were “the men in the gap”—
And now that the cold clay their limbs doth enwrap;—
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
II
'Gainst England long battling, at length they went down;As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
But they left their deep tracks on the road of renown;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
We are heirs of their fame, if we're not of their race,—
And deadly and deep our disgrace,
If we live o'er their sepulchres, abject and base;—
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
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III
Oh! sweet were the minstrels of kind Inis-Fail!As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
Whose music, nor ages nor sorrow can spoil;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
But their sad stifled tones are like streams flowing hid,
Their caoine and their piopracht were chid,
And their language, “that melts into music,” forbid;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
IV
How fair were the maidens of fair Inis-Fail!As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
As fresh and as free as the sea-breeze from soil
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
Oh! are not our maidens as fair and as pure?
Can our music no longer allure?
And can we but sob, as such wrongs we endure?
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
V
Their famous, their holy, their dear Inis-Fail!As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
Shall it still be a prey for the stranger to spoil?
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
Sure, brave men would labour by night and by day
To banish that stranger away;
Or, dying for Ireland, the future would say
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
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VI
Oh! shame—for unchanged is the face of our isle;As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
That taught them to battle, to sing, and to smile;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
We are heirs of their rivers, their sea, and their land,—
Our sky and our mountains as grand—
We are heirs—oh! we're not—of their heart and their hand;
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh!
“That is pity, without heir in their company,” i. e. What a pity that there is no heir of their company. See the poem of Giolla Iosa Mor Mac Firbisigh in The Genealogies, Tribes, and Customs of the Ui Fiachrach, or O'Dubhada's Country, Printed for the Irish Arch. Soc. p. 230, line 2, and note d. Also O'Reilly's Dict, voce—farradh.—Author's Note.
THE FATE OF KING DATHI.
(A.D. 428.)
I
Darkly their glibs o'erhang,Sharp is their wolf-dog's fang,
Bronze spear and falchion clang—
Brave men might shun them!
Heavy the spoil they bear—
Jewels and gold are there—
Hostage and maiden fair—
How have they won them?
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II
From the soft sons of Gaul,Roman, and Frank, and thrall,
Borough, and hut, and hall,—
These have been torn.
Over Britannia wide,
Over fair Gaul they hied,
Often in battle tried,—
Enemies mourn!
III
Fiercely their harpers sing,—Led by their gallant king,
They will to Eire bring
Beauty and treasure.
Britain shall bend the knee—
Rich shall their households be—
When their long ships the sea
Homeward shall measure.
IV
Barrow and Rath shall rise,Towers, too, of wondrous size,
Tâiltin they'll solemnize,
Feis-Teamhrach assemble.
Samhain and Béal shall smile
On the rich holy isle—
Nay! in a little while
Œtius shall tremble!
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V
Up on the glacier's snow,Down on the vales below,
Monarch and clansmen go—
Bright is the morning.
Never their march they slack,
Jura is at their back,
When falls the evening black,
Hideous, and warning.
VI
Eagles scream loud on high;Far off the chamois fly;
Hoarse comes the torrent's cry,
On the rocks whitening.
Strong are the storm's wings;
Down the tall pine it flings;
Hail-stone and sleet it brings—
Thunder and lightning.
VII
Little these veterans mindThundering, hail, or wind;
Closer their ranks they bind—
Matching the storm.
While, a spear-cast or more,
On, the front ranks before,
Dathi the sunburst bore—
Haughty his form.
80
VIII
Forth from the thunder-cloudLeaps out a foe as proud—
Sudden the monarch bowed—
On rush the vanguard;
Wildly the king they raise—
Struck by the lightning's blaze—
Ghastly his dying gaze,
Clutching his standard!
IX
Mild is the morning beam,Gently the rivers stream,
Happy the valleys seem;
But the lone islanders—
Mark how they guard their king!
Hark, to the wail they sing!
Dark is their counselling—
Helvetia's highlanders
X
Gather, like ravens, near—Shall Dathi's soldiers fear?
Soon their home-path they clear—
Rapid and daring;
On through the pass and plain,
Until the shore they gain,
And, with their spoil, again,
Landed in Eirinn.
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XI
Little does Eire careFor gold or maiden fair—
“Where is King Dathi?—where,
Where is my bravest?”
On the rich deck he lies,
O'er him his sunburst flies—
Solemn the obsequies,
Eire! thou gavest.
XII
See ye that countless trainCrossing Ros-Comain's plain,
Crying, like hurricane,
Uile liú ai?—
Broad is his carn's base—
Nigh the “King's burial-place,”
Last of the Pagan race,
Lieth King Dathi!
The consul Œtius, the shield of Italy, and terror of “the barbarian,” was a contemporary of King Dathi. Feis-Teamhrach, the Parliament of Tara. Tailtin, games held at Tailte, county Meath. Samhain and Beal, the moon and sun which Ireland worshipped.—Author's Note.
Hibernice, Roilig na Riogh, vulgo, Relignaree— “A famous burial place near Cruachan, in Connacht, where the kings were usually interred, before the establishment of the Christian religion in Ireland.”— O'Brien's Ir. Dict.
82
ARGAN MÓR.
I
The Danes rush around, around;To the edge of the fosse they bound;
Hark! hark, to their trumpets' sound,
Bidding them to the war
Hark! hark to their cruel cry,
As they swear our hearts' cores to dry,
And their Raven red to dye;
Glutting their demon, Thor.
II
Leaping the Rath upon,Here's the fiery Ceallachàn—
He makes the Lochlonnach wan,
Lifting his brazen spear!
Ivor, the Dane, is struck down,
For the spear broke right through his crown;
Yet worse did the battle frown—
Anlaf is on our rere!
83
III
See! see! the Rath's gates are broke!And in—in, like a cloud of smoke,
Burst on the dark Danish folk,
Charging us everywhere—
Oh, never was closer fight
Than in Argan Mór that night—
How little do men want light,
Fighting within their lair
IV
Then girding about our king,On the thick of the foes we spring—
Down—down we trample and fling,
Gallantly though they strive:
And never our falchions stood,
Till we were all wet with their blood,
And none of the pirate brood
Went from the Rath alive!
84
THE VICTOR'S BURIAL.
I
Wrap him in his banner, the best shroud of the brave—Wrap him in his onchu, and take him to his grave—
Lay him not down lowly, like bulwark overthrown,
But, gallantly upstanding, as if risen from his throne,
With his craiseach in his hand, and his sword on his thigh,
With his war-belt on his waist, and his cathbharr on high—
Put his fleasg upon his neck—his green flag round him fold,
Like ivy round a castle wall—not conquered, but grown old—
'Mhuire as truagh! A mhuire as truagh! A mhuire as truagh! ochon!
Weep for him! Oh! weep for him, but remember, in your moan,
That he died, in his pride,—with his foes about him strown.
II
Oh! shrine him in Beinn-Edair with his face towards the foe,As an emblem that not death our defiance can lay low—
85
To menace back The East, and to sentinel The West;
Sooner shall these channel waves the iron coast cut through,
Than the spirit he has left, yield, Easterlings! to you—
Let his coffin be the hill, let the eagles of the sea
Chorus with the surges round, the tuireamh of the free!
'Mhuire as truagh! A mhuire as truagh! A mhuire as truagh! ochon!
Weep for him! Oh! weep for him, but remember, in your moan,
That he died, in his pride,—with his foes about him strown!
THE TRUE IRISH KING.
I
The Cæsar of Rome has a wider demesne,And the Ard Righ of France has more clans in his train;
The sceptre of Spain is more heavy with gems,
And our crowns cannot vie with the Greek diadems;
But kinglier far before heaven and man
Are the Emerald fields, and the fiery-eyed clan,
The sceptre, and state, and the poets who sing,
And the swords that encircle A True Irish King!
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II
For, he must have come from a conquering race—The heir of their valour, their glory, their grace:
His frame must be stately, his step must be fleet,
His hand must be trained to each warrior feat,
His face, as the harvest moon, steadfast and clear,
A head to enlighten, a spirit to cheer;
While the foremost to rush where the battle-brands ring,
And the last to retreat is A True Irish King!
III
Yet, not for his courage, his strength, or his name,Can he from the clansmen their fealty claim.
The poorest, and highest, choose freely to-day
The chief, that to-night, they'll as truly obey;
For loyalty springs from a people's consent,
And the knee that is forced had been better unbent—
The Sacsanach serfs no such homage can bring
As the Irishmen's choice of A True Irish King!
IV
Come, look on the pomp when they “make an O'Neill;The muster of dynasts—O'h-Again, O'Shiadhail,
O'Catháin, O'h-Anluain, O'Bhreisléin, and all,
From gentle Aird Uladh to rude Dún na n-gall:
87
And ollamhs and breitheamhs, and minstrels, are seen,
Round Tulach-Og Rath, like the bees in the spring,
All swarming to honour A True Irish King!
V
Unsandalled he stands on the foot-dinted rock;Like a pillar-stone fixed against every shock.
Round, round is the Rath on a far-seeing hill;
Like his blemishless honour, and vigilant will.
The grey-beards are telling how chiefs by the score
Have been crowned on “The Rath of the Kings” heretofore,
While, crowded, yet ordered, within its green ring,
Are the dynasts and priests round The True Irish King!
VI
The chronicler read him the laws of the clan,And pledged him to bide by their blessing and ban;
His skian and his sword are unbuckled to show
That they only were meant for a foreigner foe;
A white willow wand has been put in his hand—
A type of pure, upright, and gentle command—
While hierarchs are blessing, the slipper they fling,
And O'Catháin proclaims him A True Irish King!
88
VII
Thrice looked he to Heaven with thanks and with prayer—Thrice looked to his borders with sentinel stare—
To the waves of Loch n-Eathach, the heights of Srathbhán;
And thrice on his allies, and thrice on his clan—
One clash on their bucklers!—one more!—they are still—
What means the deep pause on the crest of the hill?
Why gaze they above him?—a war-eagle's wing!
“'Tis an omen!—Hurrah! for The True Irish King!”
VIII
God aid him!—God save him!—and smile on his reign—The terror of England—the ally of Spain.
May his sword be triumphant o'er Sacsanach arts!
Be his throne ever girt by strong hands, and true hearts!
May the course of his conquest run on till he see
The flag of Plantagenet sink in the sea!
May minstrels for ever his victories sing,
And saints make the bed of The True Irish King!
89
THE GERALDINES.
I
The Geraldines! the Geraldines!—'tis full a thousand yearsSince, 'mid the Tuscan vineyards, bright flashed their battle-spears;
When Capet seized the crown of France, their iron shields were known,
And their sabre-dint struck terror on the banks of the Garonne:
Across the downs of Hastings they spurred hard by William's side,
And the grey sands of Palestine with Moslem blood they dyed;—
But never then, nor thence, till now, have falsehood or disgrace
Been seen to soil Fitzgerald's plume, or mantle in his face.
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II
The Geraldines! the Geraldines!—'tis true, in Strongbow's van,By lawless force, as conquerors, their Irish reign began;
And, oh! through many a dark campaign they proved their prowess stern,
In Leinster's plains, and Munster's vales, on king, and chief, and kerne:
But noble was the cheer within the halls so rudely won,
And generous was the steel-gloved hand that had such slaughter done;
How gay their laugh, how proud their mien, you'd ask no herald's sign—
Among a thousand you had known the princely Geraldine.
III
These Geraldines! these Geraldines!—not long our air they breathed;Not long they fed on venison, in Irish water seethed;
Not often had their children been by Irish mothers nursed,
When from their full and genial hearts an Irish feeling burst!
91
To win from Irish thoughts and ways this “more than Irish” tribe;
For still they clung to fosterage, to breitheamh, cloak, and bard:
What king dare say to Geraldine, “your Irish wife discard”?
IV
Ye Geraldines! ye Geraldines!—how royally ye reignedO'er Desmond broad, and rich Kildare, and English arts disdained:
Your sword made knights, your banner waved, free was your bugle call
By Gleann's green slopes, and Daingean's tide, from Bearbha's banks to Eóchaill.
What gorgeous shrines, what breitheamh lore, what minstrel feasts there were
In and around Magh Nuadhaid's keep, and palacefilled Adare!
But not for rite or feast ye stayed, when friend or kin were pressed;
And foemen fled, when “Crom Abú” bespoke your lance in rest.
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V
Ye Geraldines! ye Geraldines!—since Silken Thomas flungKing Henry's sword on council board, the English thanes among,
Ye never ceased to battle brave against the English sway,
Though axe and brand and treachery your proudest cut away.
Of Desmond's blood, through woman's veins passed on th' exhausted tide;
His title lives—a Sacsanach churl usurps the lion's hide:
And, though Kildare tower haughtily, there's ruin at the root,
Else why, since Edward fell to earth, had such a tree no fruit?
VI
True Geraldines! brave Geraldines!—as torrents mould the earth,You channelled deep old Ireland's heart by constancy and worth:
When Ginckle 'leaguered Limerick, the Irish soldiers gazed
To see if in the setting sun dead Desmond's banner blazed!
93
“They live, who'll see ten thousand men with good Lord Edward here”—
So let them dream till brighter days, when, not by Edward's shade,
But by some leader true as he, their lines shall be arrayed!
VII
These Geraldines! these Geraldines!—rain wears away the rock,And time may wear away the tribe that stood the battle's shock,
But, ever, sure, while one is left of all that honoured race,
In front of Ireland's chivalry is that Fitzgerald's place:
And, though the last were dead and gone, how many a field and town,
From Thomas Court to Abbeyfeile, would cherish their renown,
And men would say of valour's rise, or ancient power's decline,
“Twill never soar, it never shone, as did the Geraldine.”
94
VIII
The Geraldines! the Geraldines!—and are there any fearsWithin the sons of conquerors for full a thousand years?
Can treason spring from out a soil bedewed with martyr's blood?
Or has that grown a purling brook, which long rushed down a flood?—
By Desmond swept with sword and fire,—by clan and keep laid low,—
By Silken Thomas and his kin,—by sainted Edward! No!
The forms of centuries rise up, and in the Irish line
Command their son to take the post that fits the Geraldine!
95
O'BRIEN OF ARA.
I
Tall are the towers of O'Ceinneidigh—Broad are the lands of MacCarrthaigh—
Desmond feeds five hundred men a-day;
Yet, here's to O'Briain of Ara!
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,
Down from the top of Camailte,
Clansman and kinsman are coming here
To give him the cead mile failte.
II
See you the mountains look huge at eve—So is our chieftain in battle—
Welcome he has for the fugitive,—
Uisce-beatha, fighting, and cattle!
96
Down from the top of Camailte,
Gossip and ally are coming here
To give him the cead mile failte.
III
Horses the valleys are tramping on,Sleek from the Sacsanach manger—
Creachs the hills are encamping on,
Empty the bâns of the stranger!
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,
Down from the top of Camailte,
Ceithearn and buannacht are coming here
To give him the cead mile failte.
IV
He has black silver from Cill-da-lua —Rian and Cearbhall are neighbours—
'N Aonach submits with a fuililiú—
Butler is meat for our sabres!
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,
Down from the top of Camailte,
Rian and Cearbhall are coming here
To give him the cead mile failte.
97
V
'Tis scarce a week since through OsairgheChased he the Baron of Durmhagh—
Forced him five rivers to cross, or he
Had died by the sword of Red Murchadh!
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,
Down from the top of Camailte,
All the Ui Bhriain are coming here
To give him the cead mile failte.
VI
Tall are the towers of O'Ceinneidigh—Broad are the lands of MacCarrthaigh—
Desmond feeds five hundred men a-day;
Yet, here's to O'Briain of Ara!
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,
Down from the top of Camailte,
Clansman and kinsman are coming here
To give him the cead mile failte.
Ara is a small mountain tract, south of Loch Deirgdheirc, and north of the Camailte (vulgo the Keeper) hills. It was the seat of a branch of the Thomond princes, called the O'Briens of Ara, who hold an important place in the Munster Annals.—Author's Note.
98
EMMELINE TALBOT.
A BALLAD OF THE PALE.
I
'Twas a September day—In Glenismole,
Emmeline Talbot lay
On a green knoll.
She was a lovely thing,
Fleet as a falcon's wing,
Only fifteen that spring—
Soft was her soul.
II
Danger and dreamless sleepMuch did she scorn,
And from her father's keep
Stole out that morn.
Towards Glenismole she hies;—
Sweetly the valley lies,
Winning the enterprise,—
No one to warn.
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III
Till by the noon, at length,High in the vale,
Emmeline found her strength
Suddenly fail.
Panting, yet pleasantly,
By Dodder-side lay she—
Thrushes sang merrily,
“Hail, sister, hail!”
IV
Hazel and copse of oakMade a sweet lawn,
Out from the thicket broke
Rabbit and fawn.
Green were the eiscirs round,
Sweet was the river's sound,
Eastwards flat Cruach frowned,
South lay Sliabh Bân.
V
Looking round Barnakeel,Like a tall Moor
Full of impassioned zeal,
Peeped brown Kippure.
Dublin in feudal pride,
And many a hold beside,
Over Finn-ghaill preside—
Sentinels sure!
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VI
Is that a roebuck's eyeGlares from the green?—
Is that a thrush's cry
Rings in the screen?
Mountaineers round her sprung,
Savage their speech and tongue,
Fierce was their chief and young—
Poor Emmeline!
VII
“Hurrah, 'tis Talbot's child,”Shouted the kerne,
“Off to the mountains wild,
Faire, O'Byrne!”
Like a bird in a net,
Strove the sweet maiden yet,
Praying and shrieking, “Let—
Let me return.”
VIII
After a moment's doubt,Forward he sprung,
With his sword flashing out—
Wrath on his tongue.
“Touch not a hair of her's—
Dies he, who finger stirs!”
Back fell his foragers—
To him she clung.
101
IX
Soothing the maiden's fears,Kneeling was he,
When burst old Talbot's spears
Out on the lea.
March-men, all staunch and stout,
Shoutíng their Belgard shout—
“Down with the Irish rout,
Prets d'accomplir.”
X
Taken thus unawares,Some fled amain—
Fighting like forest bears,
Others were slain.
To the chief clung the maid—
How could he use his blade?—
That night, upon him weighed
Fetter and chain.
XI
Oh! but that night was long,Lying forlorn,
Since, 'mid the wassail song,
These words were borne—
“Nathless your tears and cries,
Sure as the sun shall rise,
Connor O'Byrne dies,
Talbot has sworn.”
102
XII
Brightly on Tamhlacht hillFlashes the sun;
Strained at his window-sill,
How his eyes run
From lonely Sagart slade
Down to Tigh-bradán glade,
Landmarks of border raid,
Many a one.
XIII
Too well the captive knowsBelgard's main wall
Will, to his naked blows,
Shiver and fall,
Ere in his mountain hold
He shall again behold
Those whose proud hearts are cold,
Weeping his thrall.
XIV
“Oh! for a mountain side,Bucklers and brands!
Freely I could have died
Heading my bands,
But on a felon tree”—
Bearing a fetter key,
By him all silently
Emmeline stands.
103
XV
Late rose the castellan,He had drunk deep,—
Warder and serving-man
Still were asleep,—
Wide is the castle-gate,
Open the captive's grate,
Fetters disconsolate
Flung in a heap.
XVI
'Tis an October day,Close by Loch Dan
Many a creach lay,
Many a man.
'Mongst them, in gallant mien,
Connor O'Byrne's seen
Wedded to Emmeline,
Girt by his clan!
104
O'SULLIVAN'S RETURN.
I
O'Suillebhain has comeWithin sight of his home,—
He had left it long years ago;
The tears are in his eyes,
And he prays the wind to rise,
As he looks towards his castle, from the prow, from the prow;
As he looks towards his castle, from the prow.
II
For the day had been calm,And slow the good ship swam,
And the evening gun had been fired;
He knew the hearts beat wild
Of mother, wife, and child,
And of clans, who to see him long desired, long desired;
And of clans, who to see him long desired.
105
III
Of the tender ones the clasp,Of the gallant ones the grasp,
He thinks, until his tears fall warm:
And full seems his wide hall,
With friends from wall to wall,
Where their welcome shakes the banners, like a storm, like a storm;
Where their welcome shakes the banners like a storm.
IV
Then he sees another scene—Norman churls on the green—
“O'Suilleabháin abú” is the cry;
For filled is his ship's hold
With arms and Spanish gold,
And he sees the snake-twined spear wave on high, wave on high;
And he sees the snake-twined spear wave on high.
106
V
“Finghín's race shall be freedFrom the Norman's cruel breed—
My sires freed Béar' once before,
When the Barnwells were strewn
On the fields, like hay in June,
And but one of them escaped from our shore, from our shore;
And but one of them escaped from our shore.”
VI
And, warming in his dream,He floats on victory's stream,
Till Desmond—till all Erin is free!
Then, how calmly he'll go down,
Full of years and of renown,
To his grave near that castle by the sea, by the sea;
To his grave near that castle by the sea!
VII
But the wind heard his word,As though he were its lord,
And the ship is dashed up the Bay.
Alas! for that proud barque,
The night has fallen dark,
'Tis too late to Eadarghabhal to bear away, bear away;
'Tis too late to Eadarghabhal to bear away.
107
VIII
Black and rough was the rock,And terrible the shock,
As the good ship crashed asunder;
And bitter was the cry,
And the sea ran mountains high,
And the wind was as loud as the thunder, the thunder;
And the wind was as loud as the thunder.
IX
There's woe in Béara,There's woe in Gleann-garbh,
And from Beanntráighe unto Dún-kiaráin;
All Desmond hears their grief,
And wails above their chief—
“Is it thus, is it thus, that you return, you return—
Is it thus, is it thus, that you return?”
The standard bearings of O'Sullivan. See O'Donovan's edition of the Banquet of Dún na n-Gedh, and the Battle of Magh Rath, for the Archaeological Society, App. p. 349.—“Bearings of O'Sullivan at the Battle of Caisglinn.”
“I see, mightily advancing on the plain,
The banner of the race of noble Finghin;
His spear with a venomous adder (entwined),
His host all flery champions.”
Finghin was one of their most famous progenitors.—Author's Note.
The banner of the race of noble Finghin;
His spear with a venomous adder (entwined),
His host all flery champions.”
Finghin was one of their most famous progenitors.—Author's Note.
The Barnwells were Normans, who seized part of Beara in the reign of Henry II.; but the O'Sullivans came down on them, and cut off all save one—a young man who settled at Drimnagh Castle, Co. Dublin, and was ancestor to the Barnwells, Lords of Trimlestone and Kingsland.—Author's Note.
108
THE FATE OF THE O'SULLIVANS.
I
“A baby in the mountain gap—Oh! wherefore bring it hither?
Restore it to it's mother's lap,
Or else 'twill surely wither.
A baby near the eagle's nest!
How should their talons spare it?
Oh! take it to some woman's breast,
And she will kindly care it.”
109
II
“Fear not for it,” M`Swiney said,And stroked his cul-fionn slowly,
And proudly raised his matted head,
Yet spoke me soft and lowly—
“Fear not for it, for, many a day,
I climb the eagle's eyrie,
And bear the eaglet's food away
To feed our little fairy.
III
“Fear not for it, no Bantry birdWould harm our chieftain's baby”—
He stopped, and something in him stirred—
'Twas for his chieftain, may be.
And then he brushed his softened eyes,
And raised his bonnet duly,
And muttered “the Beantighearna lies
Asleep in yonder buaili.”
IV
He pointed 'twixt the cliff and lake,And there a hut of heather,
Half hidden in the craggy brake,
Gave shelter from the weather;
The little tanist shrieked with joy,
Adown the gulley staring—
The clansman swelled to see the boy,
O'Sullivan-like, daring.
110
V
Oh! what a glorious sight was there,As from the summit gazing,
O'er winding creek and islet fair,
And mountain waste amazing;
The Caha and Dunkerron hills
Cast half the gulfs in shadow,
While shone the sun on Culiagh's rills,
And Whiddy's emerald meadow—
VI
The sea a sheet of crimson spread,From Foze to Dursey islands;
While flashed the peaks from Mizenhead
To Musk'ry's distant highlands—
I saw no kine, I saw no sheep,
I saw nor house nor furrow;
But round the tarns the red deer leap,
Oak and arbutus thorough.
VII
Oh! what a glorious sight was there,That paradise o'ergazing—
When, sudden, burst a smoky glare,
Above Glengarriff blazing—
The clansman sprung upon his feet—
Well might the infant wonder—
His hands were clenched, his brow was knit,
His hard lips just asunder.
111
VIII
Like shattered rock from out the ground,He stood there stiff and silent—
Our breathing hardly made a sound,
As o'er the baby I leant;
His figure then went to and fro,
As the tall blaze would flicker—
And as exhausted it sunk low,
His breath came loud and thicker.
IX
Then slowly turned he round his head,And slowly turned his figure;
His eye was fixed as Spanish lead,
His limbs were full of rigour—
Then suddenly he grasped the child,
And raised it to his shoulder,
Then pointing where, across the wild,
The fire was seen to smoulder;—
X
“Look, baby !—look, there is the sign,Your father is returning,
The ‘generous hand’ of Finghin's line
Has set that beacon burning.
‘The generous hand’—Oh! Lord of hosts—
Oh, Virgin, ever holy!
There's nought to give on Bantry's coasts—
Dunbwy is lying lowly.
112
XI
“The halls, where mirth and minstrelsyThan Bêara's wind rose louder,
Are flung in masses lonelily,
And black with English powder—
The sheep that o'er our mountains ran,
The kine that filled our valleys,
Are gone, and not a single clan
O'Sullivan now rallies.
XII
“He, long the Prince of hill and bay!The ally of the Spaniard!
Has scarce a single cath to-day,
Nor seaman left to man yard”—
M'Swiney ceased, then fiercely strode,
Bearing along the baby,
Until we reached the rude abode
Of Bantry's lovely lady.
XIII
We found her in the savage shed—A mild night in mid winter—
The mountain heath her only bed,
Her dais the rocky splinter!
The sad Beantighearn' had seen the fire—
'Twas plain she had been praying—
She seized her son, as we came nigher,
And welcomed me, thus saying—
113
XIV
“Our gossip's friend I gladly greet,Though scant'ly I can cheer him;”
Then bids the clansman fly to meet
And tell her lord she's near him.
M`Swiney kissed his foster son,
And shouting out his faire—
“O'Suillebháin abú”—is gone
Like Marchman's deadly arrow!
XV
An hour went by, when, from the shoreThe chieftain's horn winding,
Awoke the echoes' hearty roar—
Their fealty reminding:
A moment, and he faintly gasps—
“These—these, thank heav'n, are left me”—
And smiles as wife and child he clasps—
“They have not quite bereft me.”
XVI
I never saw a mien so grand,A brow and eye so fearless—
There was not in his veteran band
A single eyelid tearless.
His tale is short—O'Ruarc's strength
Could not postpone his ruin,
And Leitrim's towers he left at length,
To spare his friend's undoing.
114
XVII
To Spain—to Spain, he now will sail,His destiny is wroken—
An exile from dear Inis-fail,—
Nor yet his will is broken;
For still he hints some enterprise,
When fleets shall bring them over,
Dunbwy's proud keep again shall rise,
And mock the English rover.
XVIII
I saw them cross Slieve Miskisk o'er,The crones around them weeping—
I saw them pass from Culiagh's shore,
Their galleys' strong oars sweeping;
I saw their ship unfurl its sail—
I saw their scarfs long waven—
They saw the hills in distance fail—
They never saw Berehaven!
After the taking of Dunbwy and the ruin of the O'Sullivan's county, the chief marched right through Muskerry and Ormond, hotly pursued. He crossed the Shannon in curachs made of his horses' skins. He then defeated the English forces and slew their commander, Manby, and finally fought his way into O'Ruare's country, During his absence his lady (Beantighearna) and infant were supported in the mountains, by one of his clansmen, M`Swiney, who, tradition says, used to rob the eagles' nests of their prey for his charge. O'Sullivan was excepted from James the First's amnesty on account of his persevering resistance. He went to Spain, and was appointed governor of Corunna and Viscount Berehaven. His march from Glengarriff to Leitrim is, perhaps, the most romantic and gallant achievement of his age.—Author's Note.
115
THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.
I
The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles—The summer's sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles—
Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird;
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard;
The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play;
The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to pray—
And full of love, and peace, and rest—its daily labour o'er—
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore.
116
II
A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there;No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air.
The massive capes, and ruined towers, seem conscious of the calm;
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm.
So still the night, these two long barques, round Dunashad that glide,
Must trust their oars—methinks not few—against the ebbing tide—
Oh! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore—
They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore!
III
All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street,And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet—
A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! “the roof is in a flame!”
From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame—
And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall,
And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl—
The yell of “Allah” breaks above the prayer, and shriek, and roar—
Oh, blessed God! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore!
117
IV
Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword;Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gored;
Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching wild;
Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child;
But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing heel,
While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel—
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store,
There's one hearth well avengéd in the sack of Baltimore!
V
Mid-summer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds began to sing—They see not now the milking maids—deserted is the spring!
Mid-summer day—this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town—
These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown;
They only found the smoking walls, with neighbours' blood besprent,
And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went—
Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Cléire, and saw five leagues before
The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore.
118
VI
Oh! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed—This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed.
Oh! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Dardanelles;
And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells.
The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey—
She's safe—she's dead—she stabbed him in the midst of his Serai;
And, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore,
She only smiled—O'Driscoll's child—she thought of Baltimore.
VII
'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band,And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand,
Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling wretch is seen—
'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan—he, who steered the Algerine!
He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer,
For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there—
Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought the Norman o'er—
Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore.
Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in South Munster. It grew up round a Castle of O'Driscoll's, and was, after his ruin, colonized by the English. On the 20th of June, 1631, the crew of two Algerine galleys landed in the dead of the night, sacked the town, and bore off into slavery all who were not too old, or too young, or too fierce for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman, whom they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years after he was convicted and executed for the crime. Baltimore never recovered this. To the artist, the antiquary, and the naturalist, its neighbourhood is most interesting.—See “The Ancient and Present State of the County and City of Cork,” by Charles Smith, M. D., vol. 1, p.270. Second edition. Dublin, 1774.—Author's Note.
119
LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF EOGHAN RUADH O'NEILL,
[_]
[Time—10th Nov., 1649. Scene—Ormond's Camp, County Waterford. Speakers—A Veteran of Eoghan O'Neill's clan, and one of the horsemen, just arrived with an account of his death.]
I
“Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Eoghan Ruadh O'Neill?”“Yes, they slew with poison him, they feared to meet with steel.”
“May God wither up their hearts! May their blood cease to flow!
May they walk in living death, who poisoned Eoghan Ruadh!
II
Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words.”“From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords;
But the weapon of the Sacsanach met him on his way,
And he died at Cloch Uachtar, upon Saint Leonard's day.”
120
III
“Wail, wail ye for The Mighty One! Wail, wail ye for the Dead;Quench the hearth, and hold the breath—with ashes strew the head.
How tenderly we loved him! How deeply we deplore!
Holy Saviour! but to think we shall never see him more.
IV
Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall!Sure we never won a battle—'twas Eoghan won them all.
Had he lived—had he lived—our dear country had been free;
But he's dead, but he's dead, and 'tis slaves we'll ever be.
V
O'Farrell and Clanrickarde, Preston and Red Hugh,Audley and Mac Mahon—ye are valiant, wise, and true;
But—what, what are ye all to our darling who is gone?
The Rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle's corner stone!
VI
Wail, wail him through the Island! Weep, weep for our pride!Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died!
121
Weep for him, ye women—your Beautiful lies cold!
VII
We thought you would not die—we were sure you would not go,And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow—
Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky—
Oh! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die?
VIII
Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill! bright was your eye,Oh! why did you leave us, Eoghan? why did you die?
Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with God on high;
But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Eoghan!—why did you die?”
122
A RALLY FOR IRELAND.
[MAY, 1689.]
I.
Shout it out, till it ringFrom Beann-mhór to Cape Cléire,
For our country and king,
And religion so dear.
Rally, men! rally—
Irishmen! rally!
Gather round the dear flag, that, wet with our tears,
And torn, and bloody, lay hid for long years,
And now, once again, in its pride re-appears.
See! from The Castle our green banner waves,
Bearing fit motto for uprising slaves—
For Now or never!
Now and for ever!
Bids you to battle for triumph or graves—
Bids you to burst on the Sacsanach knaves—
Rally, then, rally!
Irishmen, rally!
Shout Now or never!
Now and for ever!
Heed not their fury, however it raves,
Welcome their horsemen with pikes and with staves,
Close on their cannon, their bay'nets, and glaives,
Down with their standard wherever it waves;
Fight to the last, and ye cannot be slaves!
Fight to the last, and ye cannot be slaves!
123
II.
Gallant Sheldon is here,And Hamilton, too,
And Tirchonaill so dear,
And Mac Carrthaigh, so true.
And there are Frenchmen;
Skilful and staunch men—
De Rosen, Pontée, Pusignan, and Boisseleau,
And gallant Lauzun is a coming, you know,
With Balldearg, the kinsman of great Eoghan Ruadh.
From Sionainn to Banna, from Lifé to Laoi,
The country is rising for Libertie.
Tho' your arms are rude,
If your courage be good,
As the traitor fled will the stranger flee,
At another Drom-mór, from “the Irishry.”
Arm, peasant and lord!
Grasp musket and sword!
Grasp pike-staff and skian!
Give your horses the rein!
March, in the name of his Majesty—
Ulster and Munster unitedly—
Townsman and peasant, like waves of the sea—
Leinster and Connacht to victory—
Shoulder to shoulder for Liberty,
Shoulder to shoulder for Liberty.
124
III.
Kirk, Schomberg and ChurchillAre coming—what then?
We'll drive them and Dutch Will
To England again;
We can laugh at each threat,
For our Paliament's met—
De Courcy, O'Briain, Mac Domhnaill, Le Poer,
O'Neill and St. Lawrence, and others go leor,
The choice of the land from Athluain to the shore!
They'll break the last link of the Sacsanach chain—
They'll give us the lands of our fathers again!
Then up ye! and fight
For your King and your Right,
Or ever toil on, and never complain,
Tho' they trample your roof-tree, and rifle your fane.
Rally, then, rally!
Irishmen, rally—
Fight Now or never,
Now and for ever!
Laws are in vain without swords to maintain;
So, muster as fast as the fall of the rain:
Serried and rough as a field of ripe grain,
Stand by your flag upon mountain and plain:
Charge till yourselves or your foemen are slain!
Fight till yourselves or your foemen are slain!
125
THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK
[August 27, 1690.]
I
Oh, hurrah! for the men, who, when danger is nigh,Are found in the front, looking death in the eye.
Hurrah! for the men who kept Limerick's wall,
And hurrah! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all.
King William's men round Limerick lay,
His cannon crashed from day to day,
Till the southern wall was swept away
At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
'Tis afternoon, yet hot the sun,
When William fires the signal gun,
And, like its flash, his columns run
On the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
126
II
Yet, hurrah! for the men, who, when danger is nigh,Are found in the front, looking death in the eye.
Hurrah! for the men who kept Limerick's wall,
And hurrah! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all.
The breach gaped out two perches wide,
The fosse is filled, the batteries plied;
Can the Irishmen that onset bide
At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
Across the ditch the columns dash,
Their bayonets o'er the rubbish flash,
When sudden comes a rending crash
From the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
III
Then, hurrah! for the men, who, when danger is nigh,Are found in the front, looking death in the eye.
Hurrah! for the men who kept Limerick's wall,
And hurrah! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all.
The bullets rain in pelting shower,
And rocks and beams from wall and tower;
The Englishmen are glad to cower
At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas
But, rallied soon, again they pressed,
Their bayonets pierced full many a breast,
Till they bravely won the breach's crest
At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
127
IV
Yet, hurrah! for the men, who, when danger is nigh,Are found in the front, looking death in the eye.
Hurrah! for the men who kept Limerick's wall,
And hurrah! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all.
Then fiercer grew the Irish yell,
And madly on the foe they fell,
Till the breach grew like the jaws of hell—
Not the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
The women fought before the men,
Each man became a match for ten,
So back they pushed the villains then,
From the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
V
Then, hurrah! for the men, who, when danger is nigh,Are found in the front, looking death in the eye.
Hurrah! for the men who kept Limerick's wall,
And hurrah! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all.
But Bradenburgh the ditch has crost,
And gained our flank at little cost—
The bastion's gone—the town is lost;
Oh! poor city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
When, sudden, Sarsfield springs the mine—
Like rockets rise the Germans fine,
And come down dead, 'mid smoke and shine,
At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
128
VI
So, hurrah! for the men, who, when danger is nigh,Are found in the front, looking death in the eye.
Hurrah! for the men who kept Limerick's wall,
And hurrah! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all.
Out, with a roar, the Irish sprung,
And back the beaten English flung,
Till William fled, his lords among,
From the city of Luimneach-linn-ghlas.
'Twas thus was fought that glorious fight,
By Irishmen, for Ireland's right—
May all such days have such a night
As the battle of Luimneach linn-ghlas.
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