Songs of Killarney :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Come, Jack, we'll go down to the foot of the rock
And protect the poor corpse from the ravenous flock;”
And he coaxed him to come, but the dog wouldn't stir,
So alone down the clift Pat went searchin' for her;

But as he was going, a far hullahoo
Rose out of the distance, and into his view

Red torches came wavin' their way up the hill,
And he laughed a wild laugh, through his wanderin' will,
And he cried, “Is it wake-lights yez are drawin' near?
Hurry up, then, and show me the corpse of my dear.”
And the red lights approached, and a voice wid the light,
“Who are ye in distress on the mountain to-night?”
And he answered, “Come up, for our name it is Death,
Wid the eagle above and the white-worm beneath;
But the death-lights that hover by night o'er the grave
Will restore us our dead, when your torches can save.”

“What is it, O'Neale, man? How wildly you rave,”
And the hand of Murt Shea, the best friend that he had,
Was lovingly laid on the arm of the lad.
“O, Murt, give me hould of that splinter,” he said,
“And let me look down on the face of the dead,

For Nora Maguire, Murt, my own secret love,
Has fallen from the clift of Coomassig above.”
“Is it she, wirra, wirra, the pride of us all?
Do you say that the darlin's been killed by a fall?
Ologone, my poor Pat, and you loved her at heart.”

Then O'Neill groaned again, “Sure I've searched every part,
And no sign of her here at the foot of the clift.”
And the rest they came up, and the bushes they sift,
But sorra a trace to the right or the left.

Then O'Neale shouted, “Come, every man of ye lift
His fire altogether.” And one said, “I see
Somethin' hangin' high up from the juniper tree.”
“'Tis herself,” shouted Pat, wid his hand to his brow,
“How far from the top is that juniper bough?”
“Ten foot of a fall,” said a mountain gossoon,
“Wid no tussocks betune them?”

“Wid nothin' betune.”

“Have yez ere a rope handy, boys?”

“Divle a rope!
And not nearer nor Sneem for the likes you could hope.”
“Come hither, gossoon, and be off wid this splinter,
For 'tis you know the mountain; away widout hinder
To the nearest good haggard, and strip the sugane,
Not forgettin' a sop of the freshest finane.
Brustig, brustig, alanah!” and hardly the rest
Had followed O'Neale up the vapoury crest,
To the spot that the faithful, wise hound wouldn't pass,
When the boy he was back wid the hayropes and grass.

Then says Pat, leanin' down wid a splinter of light,
“God bless the good dog—after all he was right.
Ten foot underneath us—she's plainly in sight.
Now give hither the ropes, and hould on while I twist.”
So he caught the suganes up like threads in his fist,
And twined them and jined them a thirty foot length,
Fourplait to a thickness of terrible strength.

Then roped it around the two biggest boys there,
To see was it fit for supportin' a pair.
And he easily lifted the two through the air,
Up and down, till he'd proved it well able to bear.
“Now make the rope fast to me, boys, while I go
Down the side of the clift for the Colleen na Mo.
Livin' or dead—tho' I'm hopeful for all,
There's life in her still—tho' she's kilt from the fall.”

Then he turns to one side, and he whispers Murt Shea,
“If I'm killed from the clift of Coomassig to-day,
Come promise me faithful you'll stand to the mother
Like a son, till she's help from the sister and brother.
And give her this kiss, and I'll meet her again
In the place where's no poverty, sorrow or pain.”
And he promised—and all they shook hands wid O'Neale,
And he cheered them and said, “Have no dread that we'll fail,

For I'd not be afeard, why, to balance the Pope
Himself from the clift by so hearty a rope.”

So a torch in his hand, and a stick in his teeth,
And his coat round his throat the boys lowered him beneath.
And all but Murt Shea, then, they couldn't make out
The coat round his throat, and the stick in his mout'.

But it wasn't for long they'd the doubt in their mind,
For they saw his torch quenched wid a noise like the wind,
And “Steady above,” came his voice from below.
Then heavy wings flapped wid a scream and a blow.
“'Tis the eagles,” they cried, “at the Colleen na Mo.”
But an old man amongst them spoke up and he said,
“'Tis the eagles for sartin, but not at the dead,
For they'll not touch the corpse—murther, but for the mist,
'Tis I could have told you that this was their nest.”

“It's O'Neale that they're at—pull him back, or they'll tear
The poor boy to pieces below in the air.”
And they shouted together the eagles to scare.
And they called to O'Neale from the edge of the height,
“She's dead, Pat, she's dead, never mind her to-night.
But come back, or the eagles 'll pick out your sight.”
And they made for to pull; but he cries, “If you do,
I give you my oath that I'll cut the rope through.”
And they b'lieved him, and waited wid hearts beatin' loud,
Screechin' down at the birds through the vapoury cloud,
Showerin' splinters for ever to give the boy light,
And warnin' him watch to the left or the right,
As each eagle in turn it would fly at his head,
Till he dropped one below in the darkness for dead,
And the other flew off wid' a yell through the night.

Then they felt the rope slacken as he crossed to the bough,
Then tighten again—and he called to them “Now!”
And they knew that the dangerous moment was come.
So wid wrist draggin' shoulder, tight finger to thumb,
And tooth crushing tooth in the silence of death,
They drew up the two from the blackness beneath.