 | Songs and ballads by Samuel Lover |  |
Songs of the Superstitions of Ireland.
RORY O'MORE; OR, GOOD OMENS.
He was bold as a hawk,—she as soft as the dawn;
He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please,
And he thought the best way to do that was to teaze.
“Now, Rory, be aisy,” sweet Kathleen would cry,
(Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye,)
“With your tricks I don't know, in troth, what I'm about,
Faith you've teazed till I've put on my cloak inside out.”
“Oh! jewel,” says Rory, “that same is the way
You've thrated my heart for this many a day;
And 'tis plaz'd that I am, and why not to be sure?
For 'tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory O'More.
For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike,
The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound,”
“Faith,” says Rory, “I'd rather love you than the ground”
“Now Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go;
Sure I drame ev'ry night that I'm hating you so!”
“Oh,” says Rory, “that same I'm delighted to hear,
For drames always go by conthrairies, my dear;
Oh! jewel, keep draming that same till you die,
And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie!
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not to be sure?
Since 'tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory O'More.
Sure I've thrash'd for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff;
And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste,
So I think, after that, I may talk to the priest.”
Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck,
So soft and so white, without freckle or speck,
And he look'd in her eyes that were beaming with light,
And he kiss'd her sweet lips; don't you think he was right?
“Now Rory, leave off, sir; you'll hug me no more,
That's eight times to-day you have kissed me before.”
“Then here goes another,” says he, “to make sure,
For there's luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O'More.
THE MAY-DEW.
To gather the dew from the flowers on May-morning, before the sun has risen, is reckoned a bond of peculiar power between lovers
A spell in young year's flowers;
The magical May-dew is weeping
Its charm o'er the summer bow'rs;
Its pearls are more precious than those they find
In jewell'd India's sea;
For the dew-drops, love, might serve to bind
Thy heart, for ever, to me!
Oh come with me, love, I'm seeking
A spell in the young year's flowers;
The magical May-dew is weeping
It's charm o'er the summer bowers.
We seek in the May-dew now,
For soon the warm sun will be kissing
The bright drops from the blossom and bough;
And the charm is so tender the May-dew sheds
O'er the wild flowers' delicate dyes,
That e'en at the touch of the sunbeam, 'tis said,
The mystical influence flies.
Oh, come with me, love, I'm seeking
A spell in the young year's flowers;
The magical May-dew is weeping
Its charm o'er the summer bowers.
OH! WATCH YOU WELL BY DAYLIGHT.
The Irish peasant says, “Watch well by daylight, for then your own senses are awake to guard you: but keep no watch in darkness, for then God watches over you.” This, however, can hardly be called a superstition, there is so much of rightful reverence in it: for though, in perfect truth, we are as dependent on God by day as by night, yet some allowance may be made for the poetic fondness of the saying.
By daylight may you fear,
But take no watch in darkness—
The angels then are near;
For Heav'n the gift bestoweth
Our waking life to keep,
But tender mercy showeth
To guard us in our sleep.
Then watch you well by daylight.
For pleasure oft betrays,
But take no watch in sorrow
When joy withdraws its rays:
For in the hour of sorrow,
As in the darkness drear,
To Heav'n entrust the morrow—
The angels then are near.
Then watch you well by daylight.
THE FALLING STAR.
I wish'd the wish of my soul,
My heart on its influence calling
To shed all its gentle control.
Hope whisper'd my wish would be granted,
And fancy soon waved her bright wand,
My heart in sweet ecstacy panted,
At the visions were smiling beyond.
Oh! like the meteors,—sweeping,
Thro' darkness their luminous way,
Are the pleasures too worthless for keeping,
As dazzling, but fleeting as they.
Steady and stilly and bright,
Unwearied its sweet watch 'twas seeming
To keep through the darkness of night:
Like those two stars in the heaven,
Are the joys that are false and are true,
I felt as a lesson 'twas given,
And thought my own true love of you.
When I saw the star that was beaming
Steady, and stilly, and bright,
Unwearied its sweet watch 'twas seeming
To keep through the darkness of night
THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK.
A four-leaved Shamrock is of such rarity, that it is supposed to endue the finder with magic power.
And if I find the charmed leaves, oh, how I'll weave my spells!
I would not waste my magic might on diamond, pearl, or gold,
For treasure tires the weary sense,—such triumph is but cold;
But I would play th' enchanter's part, in casting bliss around,—
Oh! not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found
And to the pallid lip recall the smile of happier years,
And hearts that had been long estrang'd, and friends that had grown cold,
Should meet again—like parted streams—and mingle as of old.
Oh! thus I'd play th' enchanter's part, thus scatter bliss around,
And not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found!
Should see them all returning—like Noah's faithful dove,
And Hope should launch her blessed bark on Sorrow's dark'ning sea,
And Mis'ry's children have an ark, and saved from sinking be;
Oh! thus I'd play th' enchanter's part, thus scatter bliss around,
And not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found!
THE LETTER.
A small spark, attached to the wick of a candle is considered to indicate the arrival of a letter to the one before whom it burns.
Over the wild and trackless sea;
Smooth be its waves, and fair the wind blowing—
Tho' 'tis to bear thee far from me.
But when on the waste of Ocean,
Some happy home-bound bark you see,
Swear by the truth of thy heart's devotion,
To send a letter back to me.
Even when reaching a brighter strand;
Let not the golden glories blind thee
Of that gorgeous Indian land;
Send me not its diamond treasures,
Nor pearls from the depth of its sunny sea,
But tell me of all thy woes and pleasures,
In a long letter back to me.
Think, as you bask in their bright sunshine,
That while the ling'ring time I measure,
Sad and wintry hours are mine;
Lonely by my taper weeping
And watching, the spark of promise to see—
All for that bright spark, my night-watch keeping,
For oh! 'tis a letter, love, from thee!
To say that soon thy sail will be flowing
Homeward to bear thee over the sea:
Calm be the waves and swift the wind blowing,
For oh! thou art coming back to me!
THE FAIRY TEMPTER.
List'ning to the music the spring birds made,
When sweeter by far than the birds on the tree,
A voice murmur'd near her, “Oh come, love, with me,
In earth or air,
A thing so fair
I have not seen as thee!
Then come love, with me.”
Thou wilt add a fresh grace to the beauty of night;
Or, if wealth be thy wish, thine are treasures untold,
I will show thee the birthplace of jewels and gold—
And pearly caves,
Beneath the waves,
All these, all these are thine,
If thou wilt be mine”
But vain was his promise of gold and of pearl;
For she said, “Tho' thy gifts to a poor girl were dear
My father, my mother, my sisters are here:
Oh! what would be
Thy gifts to me,
Of earth, and sea, and air,
If my heart were not there?”
THE MORNING DREAM.
Had closed in sleeping,
And I dreamt a bright dream of night,
And that sweet dreaming,
Had all the seeming
Of truth, in a softer light;
I saw thee, smiling,
And light beguiling
Beam'd soft from that eye of thine,
As in a bower,
You own'd love's power,
And fondly vow'd thou would'st be mine.
For I believed thee
In sleep, as in waking hours;
But even slumber,
Few joys could number,
While resting in dreamy bowers;
The soft spell breaking,
I found fancy false as you;
'Twas darkness round me,
The night-dream bound me,
And I knew the dream was then untrue.
And woes unnumber'd,
Weigh'd on my aching heart,
Thy smile had vanish'd,
And I was banish'd,
For ever doom'd to part.
From sleep I started,
All broken-hearted,
The morn shone as bright as you!
The lark's sweet singing,
My heart's knell ringing—
For I knew the morning dream was true.
THE FAIRY BOY.
When a beautiful child pines and dies, the Irish peasant believes the healthy infant has been stolen by the fairies, and a sickly elf left in its place.
Wailing round a lonely spring,
Thus she cried, while tears were falling
Calling on the Fairy King:
“Why, with spells my child caressing,
Courting him with fairy joy,
Why destroy a mother's blessing,
Wherefore steal my baby boy?
Where his childhood loved to play,
Where the flow'rs are freshly springing,
There I wander day by day;
There I wander, growing fonder
Of the child that made my joy,
On the echoes wildly calling
To restore my fairy boy.
Tears are falling all in vain,
He now sports with fairy pleasure,
He's the treasure of their train!
Fare-thee-well! my child, for ever,
In this world I've lost my joy,
But in the next we ne'er shall sever,
There I'll find my angel boy.”
THE NEW MOON.
When our attention is directed to the New Moon by one of the opposite sex, it is considered lucky.
Which I show'd you as soon as it peep'd forth at eve?
When I spoke of omens, and you spoke of love,
And in both, the fond heart will for ever believe!
And while you whisper'd soul-melting words in my ear,
I trembled—for love is related to fear—
And before that same moon had declined in its wane,
I held you my own, in a mystical chain;
Oh, bright was the omen, for love follow'd soon,
And I bless'd as I gazed on the lovely New Moon.
That rose up, like gems, from the depths of the sea,
Or like two young lovers who stole forth at eve
To meet in the twilight, like you love and me;
And we thought them a type of our meeting on earth,
Which show'd that our love had in heaven its birth.
The moon's waning crescent soon faded away,
But the love she gave birth to will never decay!
Oh, bright was the omen, for love follow'd soon,
And I bless when I gaze on the lovely New Moon.
THE CHARM.
They say that a flower may be found in a valley opening to the West, which bestows on the finder the power of winning the affection of the person to whom it is presented. Hence, it is supposed, has originated the custom of presenting a bouquet.
In some wild flow'rets bell,
That grows in a vale where the west wind sighs,
And where secrets best might dwell;
And they who can find the fairy flower,
A treasure possess that might grace a throne,
For oh! they can rule with the softest power,
The heart they would make their own.
For the gold that has made him a slave;
Or, plucking the pearl from the sea-god's shrine,
Has tempted the wrath of the wave;
But ne'er has he sought, with a love like mine,
The flower that holds the heart in thrall;
Oh! rather I'd win that charm divine,
Than their gold and their pearl and all!
I've won it—in dreams at night;
And then how I grieve my couch to leave,
And sigh at the morning's light:
Yet sometimes I think in a hopeful hour,
The blissful moment I yet may see
To win the fair flower from the fairy's bower
And give it love—to thee.
THE RING AND THE WINDING-SHEET.
The bower, nor hawthorn tree;
Why came you not at evening hour,
Why came you not to me?
Say, does thy heart beat colder now,
Oh! tell me, truly tell,
Than when you kissed my burning brow,
When last you said “Farewell?”
To sigh and watch for thee,
It soon thy mystic form assumed
Which lovers smile to see;
But fondly while I gazed upon
And trimm'd the flame with care,
The pledge of plighted love was gone,
The sign of death was there!
And wilt thou break thy vow?
And wilt thou blight my opening youth?
And must I—must I now
Meet death's embrace for that chaste kiss,
That holy kiss you vow'd?
And must I, for my bridal dress,
Be mantled in the shroud?
A small exfoliation of wax from the candle, called, by the superstitious, “a ring,” and considered indicative of marriage.
When this waxen symbol, instead of being circular, becomes lengthened and pendulous, it is then called “a winding-sheet,” and forebodes death.
THE ANGEL'S WHISPER.
A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland, that when a child smiles in its sleep, it is “talking with angels.”
It's mother was weeping,
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea;
And the tempest was swelling
Round the fisherman's dwelling,
And she cried, “Dermot, darling, oh come back to me!”
The baby still slumbered
And smil'd in her face as she bended her knee;
“O blest be that warning,
My child, thy sleep adorning,
For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.
Bright watch o'er thy sleeping,
Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me!
And say thou would'st rather
They'd watch o'er thy father!—
For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.”
Saw Dermot returning,
And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see;
And closely caressing
Her child, with a blessing,
Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering with thee.”
The beautiful superstition on which this song has been founded, has an Oriental as well as a Western prevalence; and, in all probability reached the Irish by being borrowed from the Phœnicians. Amongst the Rabinnical traditions which are treasured by the Jews, is the belief, that before the creation of Eve, another companion was assigned to Adam in Paradise, who bore the name of Lilith. But proving arrogant and disposed to contend for superiority, a quarrel ensued; Lilith pronounced the name of Jehovah, which it is forbidden to utter, and fled to conceal herself in the sea. Three angels, Sennoi, Sansennoi, and Sammangeloph, were dispatched by the Lord of the Universe to compel her to return; but on her obstinate refusal, she was transformed into a demon, whose delight is in debilitating and destroying infants. On condition that she was not to be forced to go back to Paradise, she bound herself by an oath to refrain from injuring such children as might be protected by having inscribed on them the name of the mediating angels—hence the practice of the Eastern Jews to write the names of Sennoi, Sansennoi, and Sammangeloph, on slips of paper and bind them on their infants to protect them from Lilith. The story will be found in Buxtorf's Synagoga Judaica, ch. iv. p. 81; and in Ben Sira, as edited by Bartolocci, in the first volume of his Bibliotheca Rabbinica, p. 69.
Emech Hammelech, a Rabbinnical writer, quoted by Stehelin, says, “when a child laughs in its sleep, in the night of the Sabbath or the new moon, that Lilith laughs and toys with it, and that it is proper for the mother, or any one that sees the infant laugh, to tap it on the nose, and say ‘Lilith begone, thy abode is not here.’ This should be said three times, and each repetition accompanied by a gentle tap.”—See Allen's Account of the Traditions, Rites, and Ceremonies of the Jews, ch. x. p. 168–9—ch. xvi. p. 291.
| Songs and ballads by Samuel Lover | |