Poems of James Clarence Mangan (Many hitherto uncollected): Centenary edition: Edited, with preface and notes by D. J. O'Donoghue: Introduction by John Mitchel |
 | I. | PART I VERSIONS (MORE OR LESS FREE) FROM THE IRISH |
 | II. |
| III. |
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| VII. |
 | Poems of James Clarence Mangan |  |
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I. PART I
VERSIONS (MORE OR LESS FREE) FROM THE IRISH
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DARK ROSALEEN.
O my Dark Rosaleen,
Do not sigh, do not weep!
The priests are on the ocean green,
They march along the Deep.
There's wine . . . from the royal Pope
Upon the ocean green;
And Spanish ale shall give you hope,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,
Shall give you health, and help, and hope,
My Dark Rosaleen.
Do not sigh, do not weep!
The priests are on the ocean green,
They march along the Deep.
There's wine . . . from the royal Pope
Upon the ocean green;
And Spanish ale shall give you hope,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,
Shall give you health, and help, and hope,
My Dark Rosaleen.
Over hills and through dales
Have I roamed for your sake;
All yesterday I sailed with sails
On river and on lake.
The Erne . . . at its highest flood
I dashed across unseen,
For there was lightning in my blood,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
Oh! there was lightning in my blood,
Red lightning lightened through my blood,
My Dark Rosaleen!
Have I roamed for your sake;
All yesterday I sailed with sails
On river and on lake.
The Erne . . . at its highest flood
I dashed across unseen,
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My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
Oh! there was lightning in my blood,
Red lightning lightened through my blood,
My Dark Rosaleen!
All day long in unrest
To and fro do I move,
The very soul within my breast
Is wasted for you, love!
The heart . . . in my bosom faints
To think of you, my Queen,
My life of life, my saint of saints,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
To hear your sweet and sad complaints,
My life, my love, my saint of saints,
My Dark Rosaleen!
To and fro do I move,
The very soul within my breast
Is wasted for you, love!
The heart . . . in my bosom faints
To think of you, my Queen,
My life of life, my saint of saints,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
To hear your sweet and sad complaints,
My life, my love, my saint of saints,
My Dark Rosaleen!
Woe and pain, pain and woe,
Are my lot night and noon,
To see your bright face clouded so,
Like to the mournful moon.
But yet . . . will I rear your throne
Again in golden sheen;
'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
'Tis you shall have the golden throne,
'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,
My Dark Rosaleen!
Are my lot night and noon,
To see your bright face clouded so,
Like to the mournful moon.
But yet . . . will I rear your throne
Again in golden sheen;
'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
'Tis you shall have the golden throne,
'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,
My Dark Rosaleen!
Over dews, over sands
Will I fly for your weal;
Your holy delicate white hands
Shall girdle me with steel.
At home . . . in your emerald bowers,
From morning's dawn till e'en,
You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My fond Rosaleen!
You'll think of me through Daylight's hours,
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,
My Dark Rosaleen!
Will I fly for your weal;
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Shall girdle me with steel.
At home . . . in your emerald bowers,
From morning's dawn till e'en,
You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My fond Rosaleen!
You'll think of me through Daylight's hours,
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,
My Dark Rosaleen!
I could scale the blue air,
I could plough the high hills,
Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer,
To heal your many ills!
And one . . . beamy smile from you
Would float like light between
My toils and me, my own, my true,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My fond Rosaleen!
Would give me life and soul anew,
A second life, a soul anew,
My Dark Rosaleen!
I could plough the high hills,
Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer,
To heal your many ills!
And one . . . beamy smile from you
Would float like light between
My toils and me, my own, my true,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My fond Rosaleen!
Would give me life and soul anew,
A second life, a soul anew,
My Dark Rosaleen!
O! the Erne shall run red
With redundance of blood,
The earth shall rock beneath our tread,
And flames wrap hill and wood,
And gun-peal, and slogan cry,
Wake many a glen serene,
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
The Judgment Hour must first be nigh,
Ere you can fade, ere you can die,
My Dark Rosaleen!
With redundance of blood,
The earth shall rock beneath our tread,
And flames wrap hill and wood,
And gun-peal, and slogan cry,
Wake many a glen serene,
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
The Judgment Hour must first be nigh,
Ere you can fade, ere you can die,
My Dark Rosaleen!
6
THE DREAM OF JOHN MAC DONNELL.
I lay in unrest—old thoughts of pain,
That I struggled in vain to smother,
Like midnight spectres haunted my brain—
Dark fantasies chased each other;
When, lo! a Figure—who might it be—
A tall fair figure stood near me!
Who might it be? An unreal Banshee?
Or an angel sent to cheer me?
That I struggled in vain to smother,
Like midnight spectres haunted my brain—
Dark fantasies chased each other;
When, lo! a Figure—who might it be—
A tall fair figure stood near me!
Who might it be? An unreal Banshee?
Or an angel sent to cheer me?
Though years have rolled since then, yet now
My memory thrillingly lingers
On her awful charms, her waxen brow,
Her pale, translucent fingers,
Her eyes that mirrored a wonder-world,
Her mien of unearthly mildness,
And her waving raven tresses that curled
To the ground in beautiful wildness.
My memory thrillingly lingers
On her awful charms, her waxen brow,
Her pale, translucent fingers,
Her eyes that mirrored a wonder-world,
Her mien of unearthly mildness,
And her waving raven tresses that curled
To the ground in beautiful wildness.
“Whence comest thou, Spirit?” I asked, methought;
“Thou art not one of the Banished!”
Alas, for me! she answered nought,
But rose aloft and evanished;
And a radiance, like to a glory, beamed
In the light she left behind her.
Long time I wept, and at last medreamed
I left my shieling to find her.
“Thou art not one of the Banished!”
Alas, for me! she answered nought,
But rose aloft and evanished;
And a radiance, like to a glory, beamed
In the light she left behind her.
Long time I wept, and at last medreamed
I left my shieling to find her.
And first I turned to the thunderous North,
To Gruagach's mansion kingly;
Untouching the earth I then sped forth
To Inver-lough, and the shingly
And shining strand of the fishful Erne,
And thence to Cruachan the golden,
Of whose resplendent palace ye learn
So many a marvel olden—
To Gruagach's mansion kingly;
Untouching the earth I then sped forth
To Inver-lough, and the shingly
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And thence to Cruachan the golden,
Of whose resplendent palace ye learn
So many a marvel olden—
I saw the Mourna's billows flow—
I passed the walls of Shenady,
And stood in the hero-thronged Ardroe,
Embosked amid greenwoods shady;
And visited that proud pile that stands
Above the Boyne's broad waters,
Where Ængus dwells, with his warrior-bands
And the fairest of Ulster's daughters.
I passed the walls of Shenady,
And stood in the hero-thronged Ardroe,
Embosked amid greenwoods shady;
And visited that proud pile that stands
Above the Boyne's broad waters,
Where Ængus dwells, with his warrior-bands
And the fairest of Ulster's daughters.
To the halls of Mac Lir, to Creevroe's height,
To Tara, the glory of Erin,
To the fairy palace that glances bright
On the peak of the blue Cnocfeerin,
I vainly hied. I went west and east—
I travelled seaward and shoreward—
But thus was I greeted at field and at feast—
“Thy way lies onward and forward!”
To Tara, the glory of Erin,
To the fairy palace that glances bright
On the peak of the blue Cnocfeerin,
I vainly hied. I went west and east—
I travelled seaward and shoreward—
But thus was I greeted at field and at feast—
“Thy way lies onward and forward!”
At last I reached, I wist not how,
The royal towers of Ival,
Which under the cliff's gigantic brow,
Still rise without a rival;
And here were Thomond's chieftains all,
With armour, and swords, and lances,
And here sweet music filled the hall
And damsels charmed with dances.
The royal towers of Ival,
Which under the cliff's gigantic brow,
Still rise without a rival;
And here were Thomond's chieftains all,
With armour, and swords, and lances,
And here sweet music filled the hall
And damsels charmed with dances.
And here, at length, on a silvery throne,
Half seated, half reclining,
With forehead white as the marble stone,
And garments so starrily shining,
And features beyond the poet's pen—
The sweetest, saddest features—
Appeared before me once again,
The fairest of Living Creatures!
Half seated, half reclining,
With forehead white as the marble stone,
And garments so starrily shining,
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The sweetest, saddest features—
Appeared before me once again,
The fairest of Living Creatures!
“Draw near, O mortal!” she said, with a sigh,
“And hear my mournful story!
The Guardian-Spirit of Erin am I,
But dimmed is mine ancient glory;
My priests are banished, my warriors wear
No longer victory's garland;
And my Child, my Son, my beloved Heir,
Is an exile in a far land!”
“And hear my mournful story!
The Guardian-Spirit of Erin am I,
But dimmed is mine ancient glory;
My priests are banished, my warriors wear
No longer victory's garland;
And my Child, my Son, my beloved Heir,
Is an exile in a far land!”
I heard no more—I saw no more—
The bands of slumber were broken;
And palace and hero, and river and shore,
Had vanished, and left no token.
Dissolved was the spell that had bound my will
And my fancy thus for a season;
But a sorrow therefore hangs over me still,
Despite of the teachings of Reason!
The bands of slumber were broken;
And palace and hero, and river and shore,
Had vanished, and left no token.
Dissolved was the spell that had bound my will
And my fancy thus for a season;
But a sorrow therefore hangs over me still,
Despite of the teachings of Reason!
O'HUSSEY'S ODE TO THE MAGUIRE.
Where is my Chief, my Master, this bleak night, mavrone!
O, cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak night for Hugh,
It's showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one through and through,
Pierceth one to the very bone!
O, cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak night for Hugh,
It's showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one through and through,
Pierceth one to the very bone!
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Rolls real thunder? Or was that red, livid light
Only a meteor? I scarce know; but through the midnight dim
The pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the hate that persecutes him
Nothing hath crueller venomy might.
Only a meteor? I scarce know; but through the midnight dim
The pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the hate that persecutes him
Nothing hath crueller venomy might.
An awful, a tremendous night is this, meseems!
The flood-gates of the rivers of heaven, I think, have been burst wide—
Down from the overcharged clouds, like unto headlong ocean's tide,
Descends grey rain in roaring streams.
The flood-gates of the rivers of heaven, I think, have been burst wide—
Down from the overcharged clouds, like unto headlong ocean's tide,
Descends grey rain in roaring streams.
Though he were even a wolf ranging the round green woods,
Though he were even a pleasant salmon in the unchainable sea,
Though he were a wild mountain eagle, he could scarce bear, he,
This sharp, sore sleet, these howling floods.
Though he were even a pleasant salmon in the unchainable sea,
Though he were a wild mountain eagle, he could scarce bear, he,
This sharp, sore sleet, these howling floods.
O, mournful is my soul this night for Hugh Maguire!
Darkly, as in a dream, he strays! Before him and behind
Triumphs the tyrannous anger of the wounding wind,
The wounding wind, that burns as fire!
Darkly, as in a dream, he strays! Before him and behind
Triumphs the tyrannous anger of the wounding wind,
The wounding wind, that burns as fire!
It is my bitter grief—it cuts me to the heart—
That in the country of Clan Darry this should be his fate!
O, woe is me, where is he? Wandering, houseless, desolate,
Alone, without or guide or chart!
That in the country of Clan Darry this should be his fate!
O, woe is me, where is he? Wandering, houseless, desolate,
Alone, without or guide or chart!
Medreams I see just now his face, the strawberry bright,
Uplifted to the blackened heavens, while the tempestuous winds
Blow fiercely over and round him, and the smiting sleet-shower blinds
The hero of Galang to-night!
Uplifted to the blackened heavens, while the tempestuous winds
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The hero of Galang to-night!
Large, large affliction unto me and mine it is,
That one of his majestic bearing, his fair, stately form,
Should thus be tortured and o'erborne—that this unsparing storm
Should wreak its wrath on head like his!
That one of his majestic bearing, his fair, stately form,
Should thus be tortured and o'erborne—that this unsparing storm
Should wreak its wrath on head like his!
That his great hand, so oft the avenger of the oppressed,
Should this chill, churlish night, perchance, be paralysed by frost—
While through some icicle-hung thicket—as one lorn and lost—
He walks and wanders without rest.
Should this chill, churlish night, perchance, be paralysed by frost—
While through some icicle-hung thicket—as one lorn and lost—
He walks and wanders without rest.
The tempest-driven torrent deluges the mead,
It overflows the low banks of the rivulets and ponds—
The lawns and pasture-grounds lie locked in icy bonds
So that the cattle cannot feed.
It overflows the low banks of the rivulets and ponds—
The lawns and pasture-grounds lie locked in icy bonds
So that the cattle cannot feed.
The pale bright margins of the streams are seen by none.
Rushes and sweeps along the untamable flood on every side—
It penetrates and fills the cottagers' dwellings far and wide—
Water and land are blent in one.
Rushes and sweeps along the untamable flood on every side—
It penetrates and fills the cottagers' dwellings far and wide—
Water and land are blent in one.
Through some dark woods, 'mid bones of monsters, Hugh now strays,
As he confronts the storm with anguished heart, but manly brow—
O! what a sword-wound to that tender heart of his were now
A backward glance at peaceful days.
As he confronts the storm with anguished heart, but manly brow—
O! what a sword-wound to that tender heart of his were now
A backward glance at peaceful days.
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But other thoughts are his—thoughts that can still inspire
With joy and an onward-bounding hope the bosom of Mac-Nee—
Thoughts of his warriors charging like bright billows of the sea,
Borne on the wind's wings, flashing fire!
With joy and an onward-bounding hope the bosom of Mac-Nee—
Thoughts of his warriors charging like bright billows of the sea,
Borne on the wind's wings, flashing fire!
And though frost glaze to-night the clear dew of his eyes,
And white ice-gauntlets glove his noble fine fair fingers o'er,
A warm dress is to him that lightning-garb he ever wore,
The lightning of the soul, not skies.
And white ice-gauntlets glove his noble fine fair fingers o'er,
A warm dress is to him that lightning-garb he ever wore,
The lightning of the soul, not skies.
AVRAN.
Hugh marched forth to the fight—I grieved to see him so depart;
And lo! to-night he wanders frozen, rain-drenched, sad, betrayed—
But the memory of the lime-white mansions his right hand hath laid
In ashes warms the hero's heart!
And lo! to-night he wanders frozen, rain-drenched, sad, betrayed—
But the memory of the lime-white mansions his right hand hath laid
In ashes warms the hero's heart!
A LAMENTATION
FOR THE DEATH OF SIR MAURICE FITZGERALD, KNIGHT OF KERRY.
There was lifted up one voice of woe,
One lament of more than mortal grief,
Through the wide South to and fro,
For a fallen Chief.
In the dead of night that cry thrilled through me,
I looked out upon the midnight air!
Mine own soul was all as gloomy,
And I knelt in prayer.
One lament of more than mortal grief,
Through the wide South to and fro,
For a fallen Chief.
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I looked out upon the midnight air!
Mine own soul was all as gloomy,
And I knelt in prayer.
O'er Loch Gur, that night, once—twice—yea, thrice—
Passed a wail of anguish for the Brave
That half curdled into ice
Its moon-mirroring wave.
Then uprose a many-toned wild hymn in
Choral swell from Ogra's dark ravine,
And Mogeely's Phantom Women
Mourned the Geraldine!
Passed a wail of anguish for the Brave
That half curdled into ice
Its moon-mirroring wave.
Then uprose a many-toned wild hymn in
Choral swell from Ogra's dark ravine,
And Mogeely's Phantom Women
Mourned the Geraldine!
Far on Carah Mona's emerald plains
Shrieks and sighs were blended many hours,
And Fermoy in fitful strains
Answered from her towers.
Youghal, Keenalmeaky, Eemokilly
Mourned in concert, and their piercing keen
Woke to wondering life the stilly
Glens of Inchiqueen.
Shrieks and sighs were blended many hours,
And Fermoy in fitful strains
Answered from her towers.
Youghal, Keenalmeaky, Eemokilly
Mourned in concert, and their piercing keen
Woke to wondering life the stilly
Glens of Inchiqueen.
From Loughmoe to yellow Dunanore
There was fear; the traders of Tralee
Gathered up their golden store,
And prepared to flee;
For, in ship and hall from night till morning
Showed the first faint beamings of the sun,
All the foreigners heard the warning
Of the Dreaded One!
There was fear; the traders of Tralee
Gathered up their golden store,
And prepared to flee;
For, in ship and hall from night till morning
Showed the first faint beamings of the sun,
All the foreigners heard the warning
Of the Dreaded One!
“This,” they spake, “portendeth death to us,
If we fly not swiftly from our fate!”
Self-conceited idiots! thus
Ravingly to prate!
Not for base-born higgling Saxon trucksters
Ring laments like those by shore and sea!
Not for churls with souls of hucksters
Waileth our Banshee!
If we fly not swiftly from our fate!”
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Ravingly to prate!
Not for base-born higgling Saxon trucksters
Ring laments like those by shore and sea!
Not for churls with souls of hucksters
Waileth our Banshee!
For the high Milesian race alone
Ever flows the music of her woe!
For slain heir to bygone throne,
And for Chief laid low!
Hark! . . . Again, methinks, I hear her weeping
Yonder! Is she near me now, as then?
Or was't but the night-wind sweeping
Down the hollow glen?
Ever flows the music of her woe!
For slain heir to bygone throne,
And for Chief laid low!
Hark! . . . Again, methinks, I hear her weeping
Yonder! Is she near me now, as then?
Or was't but the night-wind sweeping
Down the hollow glen?
THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS.
O woman of Three Cows, agra! don't let your tongue thus rattle!
O, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle.
I have seen—and, here's my hand to you, I only say what's true—
A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.
O, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle.
I have seen—and, here's my hand to you, I only say what's true—
A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.
Good luck to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't be their despiser,
For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser,
And Death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows;
Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!
For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser,
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Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!
See where Momonia's heroes lie, proud Owen More's descendants,
'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants!
If they were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows,
Can you be proud, can you be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows!
'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants!
If they were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows,
Can you be proud, can you be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows!
The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning;
Mavrone! for they were banished, with no hope of their returning—
Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house?
Yet you can give yourself these airs, O Woman of Three Cows!
Mavrone! for they were banished, with no hope of their returning—
Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house?
Yet you can give yourself these airs, O Woman of Three Cows!
O, think of Donnell of the Ships, the Chief whom nothing daunted—
See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted!
He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse—
Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!
See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted!
He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse—
Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!
O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in story—
Think how their high achievements once made Erin's highest glory—
Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs,
And so, for all your pride, will yours, O Woman of Three Cows!
Think how their high achievements once made Erin's highest glory—
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And so, for all your pride, will yours, O Woman of Three Cows!
The O'Carrolls, also, famed when Fame was only for the boldest,
Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and oldest;
Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse?
Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows!
Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and oldest;
Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse?
Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows!
Your neighbour's poor, and you, it seems, are big with vain ideas,
Because, inagh! you've got three cows—one more, I see, than she has.
That tongue of yours wags more at times than Charity allows,
But if you're strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows!
Because, inagh! you've got three cows—one more, I see, than she has.
That tongue of yours wags more at times than Charity allows,
But if you're strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows!
THE SUMMING UP.
Now, there you go! You still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing,
And I'm too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak I'm wearing,
If I had but four cows myself, even though you were my spouse,
I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!
And I'm too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak I'm wearing,
If I had but four cows myself, even though you were my spouse,
I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!
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KATHALEEN NY-HOULAHAN.
Long they pine in weary woe, the nobles of our land,
Long they wander to and fro, proscribed, alas! and banned;
Feastless, houseless, altarless, they bear the exile's brand,
But their hope is in the coming-to of Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan!
Long they wander to and fro, proscribed, alas! and banned;
Feastless, houseless, altarless, they bear the exile's brand,
But their hope is in the coming-to of Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan!
Think her not a ghostly hag, too hideous to be seen,
Call her not unseemly names, our matchless Kathaleen;
Young she is, and fair she is, and would be crowned a queen,
Were the king's son at home here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan!
Call her not unseemly names, our matchless Kathaleen;
Young she is, and fair she is, and would be crowned a queen,
Were the king's son at home here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan!
Sweet and mild would look her face, O, none so sweet and mild,
Could she crush the foes by whom her beauty is reviled;
Woollen plaids would grace herself and robes of silk her child,
If the king's son were living here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan!
Could she crush the foes by whom her beauty is reviled;
Woollen plaids would grace herself and robes of silk her child,
If the king's son were living here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan!
Sore disgrace it is to see the Arbitress of thrones,
Vassal to a Saxoneen of cold and sapless bones!
Bitter anguish wrings our souls—with heavy sighs and groans
We wait the Young Deliverer of Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan!
Vassal to a Saxoneen of cold and sapless bones!
Bitter anguish wrings our souls—with heavy sighs and groans
We wait the Young Deliverer of Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan!
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Let us pray to Him who holds Life's issues in His hands—
Him who formed the mighty globe, with all its thousand lands;
Girding them with seas and mountains, rivers deep, and strands,
To cast a look of pity upon Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan!
Him who formed the mighty globe, with all its thousand lands;
Girding them with seas and mountains, rivers deep, and strands,
To cast a look of pity upon Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan!
He, who over sands and waves led Israël along—
He, who fed, with heavenly bread, that chosen tribe and throng—
He, who stood by Moses, when his foes were fierce and strong—
May He show forth His might in saving Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.
He, who fed, with heavenly bread, that chosen tribe and throng—
He, who stood by Moses, when his foes were fierce and strong—
May He show forth His might in saving Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.
LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OF TYRONE AND TYRCONNELL (BURIED IN ROME).
O Woman of the Piercing Wail,
Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay
With sigh and groan,
Would God thou wert among the Gael!
Thou wouldst not then from day to day
Weep thus alone.
'Twere long before, around a grave
In green Tirconnell, one could find
This loneliness;
Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave
Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined
Companionless.
Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay
With sigh and groan,
Would God thou wert among the Gael!
Thou wouldst not then from day to day
Weep thus alone.
'Twere long before, around a grave
In green Tirconnell, one could find
This loneliness;
Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave
Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined
Companionless.
18
Beside the wave, in Donegall,
In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore,
Or Killilee,
Or where the sunny waters fall,
At Assaroe, near Erna's shore,
This could not be.
On Derry's plains—in rich Drumclieff—
Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned
In olden years,
No day could pass but Woman's grief
Would rain upon the burial-ground
Fresh floods of tears!
In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore,
Or Killilee,
Or where the sunny waters fall,
At Assaroe, near Erna's shore,
This could not be.
On Derry's plains—in rich Drumclieff—
Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned
In olden years,
No day could pass but Woman's grief
Would rain upon the burial-ground
Fresh floods of tears!
O, no!—from Shannon, Boyne, and Suir,
From high Dunluce's castle-walls,
From Lissadill,
Would flock alike both rich and poor,
One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls
To Tara's hill;
And some would come from Barrow-side,
And many a maid would leave her home
On Leitrim's plains,
And by melodious Banna's tide,
And by the Mourne and Erne, to come
And swell thy strains!
From high Dunluce's castle-walls,
From Lissadill,
Would flock alike both rich and poor,
One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls
To Tara's hill;
And some would come from Barrow-side,
And many a maid would leave her home
On Leitrim's plains,
And by melodious Banna's tide,
And by the Mourne and Erne, to come
And swell thy strains!
O, horses' hoofs would trample down
The Mount whereon the martyr-saint
Was crucified.
From glen and hill, from plain and town,
One loud lament, one thrilling plaint,
Would echo wide.
There would not soon be found, I ween
One foot of ground among those bands
For museful thought,
So many shriekers of the keen
Would cry aloud, and clap their hands,
All woe-distraught!
The Mount whereon the martyr-saint
Was crucified.
From glen and hill, from plain and town,
One loud lament, one thrilling plaint,
Would echo wide.
19
One foot of ground among those bands
For museful thought,
So many shriekers of the keen
Would cry aloud, and clap their hands,
All woe-distraught!
Two princes of the line of Conn
Sleep in their cells of clay beside
O'Donnell Roe:
Three royal youths, alas! are gone,
Who lived for Erin's weal, but died
For Erin's woe!
Ah! could the men of Ireland read
The names these noteless burial-stones
Display to view,
Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed,
Their tears gush forth again, their groans
Resound anew!
Sleep in their cells of clay beside
O'Donnell Roe:
Three royal youths, alas! are gone,
Who lived for Erin's weal, but died
For Erin's woe!
Ah! could the men of Ireland read
The names these noteless burial-stones
Display to view,
Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed,
Their tears gush forth again, their groans
Resound anew!
The youths whose relics moulder here
Were sprung from Hugh, high Prince and Lord
Of Aileach's land.
Thy noble brothers, justly dear,
Thy nephew, long to be deplored
By Ulster's bands.
Theirs were not souls wherein dull Time
Could domicile Decay or house
Decrepitude!
They passed from earth ere Manhood's prime,
Ere years had power to dim their brows
Or chill their blood.
Were sprung from Hugh, high Prince and Lord
Of Aileach's land.
Thy noble brothers, justly dear,
Thy nephew, long to be deplored
By Ulster's bands.
Theirs were not souls wherein dull Time
Could domicile Decay or house
Decrepitude!
They passed from earth ere Manhood's prime,
Ere years had power to dim their brows
Or chill their blood.
20
And who can marvel o'er thy grief,
Or who can blame thy flowing tears,
That knows their source?
O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief,
Cut off amid his vernal years,
Lies here a corse
Beside his brother Cathbar, whom
Tirconnell of the Helmets mourns
In deep despair—
For valour, truth, and comely bloom,
For all that greatens and adorns,
A peerless pair.
Or who can blame thy flowing tears,
That knows their source?
O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief,
Cut off amid his vernal years,
Lies here a corse
Beside his brother Cathbar, whom
Tirconnell of the Helmets mourns
In deep despair—
For valour, truth, and comely bloom,
For all that greatens and adorns,
A peerless pair.
O, had these twain, and he, the third,
The Lord of Mourne, O'Niall's son,
Their mate in death—
A prince in look, in deed, and word—
Had these three heroes yielded on
The field their breath,
O, had they fallen on Criffan's plain,
There would not be a town or clan
From shore to sea
But would with shrieks bewail the Slain,
Or chant aloud the exulting rann
Of jubilee!
The Lord of Mourne, O'Niall's son,
Their mate in death—
A prince in look, in deed, and word—
Had these three heroes yielded on
The field their breath,
O, had they fallen on Criffan's plain,
There would not be a town or clan
From shore to sea
But would with shrieks bewail the Slain,
Or chant aloud the exulting rann
Of jubilee!
When high the shout of battle rose,
On fields where Freedom's torch still burned
Through Erin's gloom,
If one, if barely one of those
Were slain, all Ulster would have mourned
The hero's doom!
If at Athboy, where hosts of brave
Ulidian horsemen sank beneath
The shock of spears,
Young Hugh O'Neill had found a grave,
Long must the North have wept his death
With heart-wrung tears!
On fields where Freedom's torch still burned
Through Erin's gloom,
If one, if barely one of those
Were slain, all Ulster would have mourned
The hero's doom!
21
Ulidian horsemen sank beneath
The shock of spears,
Young Hugh O'Neill had found a grave,
Long must the North have wept his death
With heart-wrung tears!
If on the day of Ballach-myre
The Lord of Mourne had met, thus young,
A warrior's fate,
In vain would such as thou desire
To mourn, alone, the champion sprung
From Niall the Great!
No marvel this—for all the Dead,
Heaped on the field, pile over pile,
At Mallach-brack,
Were scarce an eric for his head,
If Death had stayed his footsteps while
On victory's track!
The Lord of Mourne had met, thus young,
A warrior's fate,
In vain would such as thou desire
To mourn, alone, the champion sprung
From Niall the Great!
No marvel this—for all the Dead,
Heaped on the field, pile over pile,
At Mallach-brack,
Were scarce an eric for his head,
If Death had stayed his footsteps while
On victory's track!
If on the Day of Hostages
The fruit had from the parent bough
Been rudely torn
In sight of Munster's bands—Mac-Nee's—
Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow,
Could ill have borne.
If on the day of Ballach-boy
Some arm had laid, by foul surprise,
The chieftain low,
Even our victorious shout of joy
Would soon give place to rueful cries
And groans of woe!
The fruit had from the parent bough
Been rudely torn
In sight of Munster's bands—Mac-Nee's—
Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow,
Could ill have borne.
If on the day of Ballach-boy
Some arm had laid, by foul surprise,
The chieftain low,
Even our victorious shout of joy
Would soon give place to rueful cries
And groans of woe!
22
If on the day the Saxon host
Were forced to fly—a day so great
For Ashanee—
The Chief had been untimely lost,
Our conquering troops should moderate
Their mirthful glee.
There would not lack on Lifford's day,
From Galway, from the glens of Boyle,
From Limerick's towers,
A marshalled file, a long array
Of mourners to bedew the soil
With tears in showers!
Were forced to fly—a day so great
For Ashanee—
The Chief had been untimely lost,
Our conquering troops should moderate
Their mirthful glee.
There would not lack on Lifford's day,
From Galway, from the glens of Boyle,
From Limerick's towers,
A marshalled file, a long array
Of mourners to bedew the soil
With tears in showers!
If on the day a sterner fate
Compelled his flight from Athenree,
His blood had flowed,
What numbers all disconsolate
Would come unasked, and share with thee
Affliction's load!
If Derry's crimson field had seen
His life-blood offered up, though 'twere
On Victory's shrine,
A thousand cries would swell the keen,
A thousand voices in despair
Would echo thine!
Compelled his flight from Athenree,
His blood had flowed,
What numbers all disconsolate
Would come unasked, and share with thee
Affliction's load!
If Derry's crimson field had seen
His life-blood offered up, though 'twere
On Victory's shrine,
A thousand cries would swell the keen,
A thousand voices in despair
Would echo thine!
Oh, had the fierce Dalcassian swarm
That bloody night on Fergus' banks,
But slain our Chief,
When rose his camp in wild alarm—
How would the triumph of his ranks
Be dashed with grief!
How would the troops of Murbach mourn
If on the Curlew Mountains' day,
Which England rued,
Some Saxon hand had left them lorn,
By shedding there, amid the fray,
Their prince's blood!
That bloody night on Fergus' banks,
But slain our Chief,
When rose his camp in wild alarm—
How would the triumph of his ranks
Be dashed with grief!
23
If on the Curlew Mountains' day,
Which England rued,
Some Saxon hand had left them lorn,
By shedding there, amid the fray,
Their prince's blood!
Red would have been our warriors' eyes
Had Roderick found on Sligo's field
A gory grave,
No Northern Chief would soon arise
So sage to guide, so strong to shield,
So swift to save.
Long would Leith-Cuinn have wept if Hugh
Had met the death he oft had dealt
Among the foe;
But, had our Roderick fallen too,
All Erin must, alas! have felt
The deadly blow!
Had Roderick found on Sligo's field
A gory grave,
No Northern Chief would soon arise
So sage to guide, so strong to shield,
So swift to save.
Long would Leith-Cuinn have wept if Hugh
Had met the death he oft had dealt
Among the foe;
But, had our Roderick fallen too,
All Erin must, alas! have felt
The deadly blow!
What do I say? Ah, woe is me!
Already we bewail in vain
Their fatal fall!
And Erin, once the Great and Free,
Now vainly mourns her breakless chain,
And iron thrall!
Then, daughter of O'Donnell! dry
Thine overflowing eyes, and turn
Thy heart aside!
For Adam's race is born to die,
And sternly the sepulchral urn
Mocks human pride!
Already we bewail in vain
Their fatal fall!
And Erin, once the Great and Free,
Now vainly mourns her breakless chain,
And iron thrall!
Then, daughter of O'Donnell! dry
Thine overflowing eyes, and turn
Thy heart aside!
For Adam's race is born to die,
And sternly the sepulchral urn
Mocks human pride!
24
Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne,
Nor place thy trust in arm of clay—
But on thy knees
Uplift thy soul to God alone,
For all things go their destined way
As He decrees.
Embrace the faithful Crucifix,
And seek the path of pain and prayer
Thy Saviour trod;
Nor let thy spirit intermix
With earthly hope and worldly care
Its groans to God!
Nor place thy trust in arm of clay—
But on thy knees
Uplift thy soul to God alone,
For all things go their destined way
As He decrees.
Embrace the faithful Crucifix,
And seek the path of pain and prayer
Thy Saviour trod;
Nor let thy spirit intermix
With earthly hope and worldly care
Its groans to God!
And thou, O mighty Lord! whose ways
Are far above our feeble minds
To understand,
Sustain us in these doleful days,
And render light the chain that binds
Our fallen land!
Look down upon our dreary state,
And through the ages that may still
Roll sadly on,
Watch Thou o'er hapless Erin's fate,
And shield at least from darker ill
The blood of Conn!
Are far above our feeble minds
To understand,
Sustain us in these doleful days,
And render light the chain that binds
Our fallen land!
Look down upon our dreary state,
And through the ages that may still
Roll sadly on,
Watch Thou o'er hapless Erin's fate,
And shield at least from darker ill
The blood of Conn!
LAMENT OVER THE RUINS OF THE ABBEY OF TEACH MOLAGA.
I wandered forth at night alone
Along the dreary, shingly, billow-beaten shore;
Sadness that night was in my bosom's core,
My soul and strength lay prone.
Along the dreary, shingly, billow-beaten shore;
Sadness that night was in my bosom's core,
My soul and strength lay prone.
25
The thin wan moon, half overveiled
By clouds, shed her funereal beams upon the scene;
While in low tones, with many a pause between,
The mournful night-wind wailed.
By clouds, shed her funereal beams upon the scene;
While in low tones, with many a pause between,
The mournful night-wind wailed.
Musing of Life, and Death, and Fate,
I slowly paced along, heedless of aught around,
Till on the hill, now, alas! ruin-crowned,
Lo! the old Abbey-gate!
I slowly paced along, heedless of aught around,
Till on the hill, now, alas! ruin-crowned,
Lo! the old Abbey-gate!
Dim in the pallid moonlight stood,
Crumbling to slow decay, the remnant of that pile
Within which dwelt so many saints erewhile
In loving brotherhood!
Crumbling to slow decay, the remnant of that pile
Within which dwelt so many saints erewhile
In loving brotherhood!
The memory of the men who slept
Under those desolate walls—the solitude—the hour—
Mine own lorn mood of mind—all joined to o'erpower
My spirit—and I wept!
Under those desolate walls—the solitude—the hour—
Mine own lorn mood of mind—all joined to o'erpower
My spirit—and I wept!
In yonder Goshen once—I thought—
Reigned Piety and Peace: Virtue and Truth were there;
With Charity and the blessed spirit of Prayer
Was each fleet moment fraught!
Reigned Piety and Peace: Virtue and Truth were there;
With Charity and the blessed spirit of Prayer
Was each fleet moment fraught!
There, unity of Work and Will
Blent hundreds into one: no jealousies or jars
Troubled their placid lives: their fortunate stars
Had triumphed o'er all Ill!
Blent hundreds into one: no jealousies or jars
Troubled their placid lives: their fortunate stars
Had triumphed o'er all Ill!
There, kneeled each morn and even
The Bell for Matin—Vesper: Mass was said or sung—
From the bright silver censer as it swung
Rose balsamy clouds to Heaven.
The Bell for Matin—Vesper: Mass was said or sung—
From the bright silver censer as it swung
Rose balsamy clouds to Heaven.
26
Through the round cloistered corridors
A many a midnight hour, bareheaded and unshod,
Walked the Grey Friars, beseeching from their God
Peace for these western shores.
A many a midnight hour, bareheaded and unshod,
Walked the Grey Friars, beseeching from their God
Peace for these western shores.
The weary pilgrim bowed by Age
Oft found asylum there—found welcome, and found wine.
Oft rested in its halls the Paladine,
The Poet and the Sage!
Oft found asylum there—found welcome, and found wine.
Oft rested in its halls the Paladine,
The Poet and the Sage!
Alas! alas! how dark the change!
Now round its mouldering walls, over its pillars low,
The grass grows rank, the yellow gowans blow,
Looking so sad and strange!
Now round its mouldering walls, over its pillars low,
The grass grows rank, the yellow gowans blow,
Looking so sad and strange!
Unsightly stones choke up its wells;
The owl hoots all night long under the altar-stairs;
The fox and badger make their darksome lairs
In its deserted cells!
The owl hoots all night long under the altar-stairs;
The fox and badger make their darksome lairs
In its deserted cells!
Tempest and Time—the drifting sands—
The lightning and the rains—the seas that sweep around
These hills in winter-nights, have awfully crowned
The work of impious hands!
The lightning and the rains—the seas that sweep around
These hills in winter-nights, have awfully crowned
The work of impious hands!
The sheltering, smooth-stoned massive wall—
The noble figured roof—the glossy marble piers—
The monumental shapes of elder years—
Where are they? Vanished all!
The noble figured roof—the glossy marble piers—
The monumental shapes of elder years—
Where are they? Vanished all!
Rite, incense, chant, prayer, mass, have ceased—
All, all have ceased! Only the whitening bones half sunk
In the earth now tell that ever here dwelt monk,
Friar, acolyte, or priest.
All, all have ceased! Only the whitening bones half sunk
In the earth now tell that ever here dwelt monk,
Friar, acolyte, or priest.
27
Oh! woe, that Wrong should triumph thus!
Woe that the olden right, the rule and the renown
Of the Pure-souled and Meek should thus go down
Before the Tyrannous!
Woe that the olden right, the rule and the renown
Of the Pure-souled and Meek should thus go down
Before the Tyrannous!
Where wert thou, Justice, in that hour?
Where was thy smiting sword? What had those good men done,
That thou shouldst tamely see them trampled on
By brutal England's Power?
Where was thy smiting sword? What had those good men done,
That thou shouldst tamely see them trampled on
By brutal England's Power?
Alas! I rave! . . . If Change is here,
Is it not o'er the land? Is it not too in me?
Yes! I am changed even more than what I see.
Now is my last goal near!
Is it not o'er the land? Is it not too in me?
Yes! I am changed even more than what I see.
Now is my last goal near!
My worn limbs fail—my blood moves cold—
Dimness is on mine eyes—I have seen my children die;
They lie where I too in brief space shall lie—
Under the grassy mould!
Dimness is on mine eyes—I have seen my children die;
They lie where I too in brief space shall lie—
Under the grassy mould!
I turned away, as toward my grave,
And, all my dark way homeward by the Atlantic's verge,
Resounded in mine ears like to a dirge
The roaring of the wave.
And, all my dark way homeward by the Atlantic's verge,
Resounded in mine ears like to a dirge
The roaring of the wave.
THE DAWNING OF THE DAY.
'Twas a balmy summer morning
Warm and early,
Such as only June bestows;
Everywhere the earth adorning,
Dews lay pearly
In the lily-bell and rose.
Up from each green leafy bosk and hollow
Rose the blackbird's pleasant lay,
And the soft cuckoo was sure to follow.
'Twas the Dawning of the Day!
Warm and early,
Such as only June bestows;
Everywhere the earth adorning,
Dews lay pearly
In the lily-bell and rose.
28
Rose the blackbird's pleasant lay,
And the soft cuckoo was sure to follow.
'Twas the Dawning of the Day!
Through the perfumed air the golden
Bees flew round me:
Bright fish dazzled from the sea,
'Till medreamt some fairy olden
World-spell bound me
In a trance of witcherie.
Steeds pranced round anon with stateliest housings,
Bearing riders prankt in rich array,
Like flushed revellers after wine-carousings—
'Twas the Dawning of the Day!
Bees flew round me:
Bright fish dazzled from the sea,
'Till medreamt some fairy olden
World-spell bound me
In a trance of witcherie.
Steeds pranced round anon with stateliest housings,
Bearing riders prankt in rich array,
Like flushed revellers after wine-carousings—
'Twas the Dawning of the Day!
Then a strain of song was chanted,
And the lightly
Floating sea-nymphs drew anear.
Then again the shore seemed haunted
By hosts brightly
Clad, and wielding shield and spear!
Then came battle-shouts—and onward rushing—
Swords and chariots, and a phantom fray.
Then all vanished; the warm skies were blushing
In the Dawning of the Day!
And the lightly
Floating sea-nymphs drew anear.
Then again the shore seemed haunted
By hosts brightly
Clad, and wielding shield and spear!
Then came battle-shouts—and onward rushing—
Swords and chariots, and a phantom fray.
Then all vanished; the warm skies were blushing
In the Dawning of the Day!
Cities girt with glorious gardens
Whose immortal
Habitants in robes of light
Stood, methought, as angel-wardens
Nigh each portal,
Now arose to daze my sight.
Eden spread around, revived and blooming;
When . . . lo! as I gazed, all passed away—
. . . I saw but black rocks looming
In the dim chill Dawn of Day!
Whose immortal
Habitants in robes of light
Stood, methought, as angel-wardens
Nigh each portal,
Now arose to daze my sight.
29
When . . . lo! as I gazed, all passed away—
. . . I saw but black rocks looming
In the dim chill Dawn of Day!
THE TESTAMENT OF CATHAEIR MOR.
Here is the Will of Cathaeir Mor.
God rest him.
Among his heirs he divided his store,
His treasures and lands,
And, first, laying hands
On his son Ross Faly, he blessed him.
God rest him.
Among his heirs he divided his store,
His treasures and lands,
And, first, laying hands
On his son Ross Faly, he blessed him.
“My Sovereign Power, my nobleness,
My wealth, my strength to curse and bless,
My royal privilege of protection,
I leave to the son of my best affection,
Ross Faly, Ross of the Rings,
Worthy descendant of Ireland's Kings!
To serve as memorials of succession
For all who yet shall claim their possession
In after ages.
Clement and noble and bold
Is Ross, my son.
My wealth, my strength to curse and bless,
My royal privilege of protection,
I leave to the son of my best affection,
Ross Faly, Ross of the Rings,
Worthy descendant of Ireland's Kings!
To serve as memorials of succession
For all who yet shall claim their possession
In after ages.
Clement and noble and bold
Is Ross, my son.
“Then let him not hoard up silver and gold,
But give unto all fair measure of wages.
Victorious in battle he ever hath been;
He therefore shall yield the green
And glorious plains of Tara to none,
No, not to his brothers!
Yet these shall he aid
When attacked or betrayed.
This blessing of mine shall outlast the tomb,
And live till the Day of Doom,
Telling and telling daily,
That a prosperous man, beyond all others,
Shall prove Ross Faly!”
But give unto all fair measure of wages.
Victorious in battle he ever hath been;
He therefore shall yield the green
30
No, not to his brothers!
Yet these shall he aid
When attacked or betrayed.
This blessing of mine shall outlast the tomb,
And live till the Day of Doom,
Telling and telling daily,
That a prosperous man, beyond all others,
Shall prove Ross Faly!”
Then he gave him ten shields, and ten rings, and ten swords,
And ten drinking-horns; and he spake him those words:
“Brightly shall shine the glory,
O Ross, of my sons and heirs
Never shall flourish in story
Such heroes as they and theirs!”
And ten drinking-horns; and he spake him those words:
“Brightly shall shine the glory,
O Ross, of my sons and heirs
Never shall flourish in story
Such heroes as they and theirs!”
Then, laying his royal hand on the head
Of his good son, Darry, he blessed him and said:—
“My Valour, my daring, my martial courage,
My skill in the field I leave to Darry,
That he be a guiding torch and starry
Light and Lamp to the hosts of our age.
A hero to sway, to lead and command,
Shall be every son of his tribes in the land!
O Darry, with boldness and power
Sit thou on the frontier of Tuath Lann.
And ravage the lands of Deas Ghower.
Accept no gifts for thy protection
From woman or man,
So shall Heaven assuredly bless
Thy many daughters with fruitfulness,
And none shall stand above thee—
For I, thy sire, who love thee
With deep and warm affection,
I prophesy unto thee all success
Over the green battalions
Of the redoubtable Galions.”
Of his good son, Darry, he blessed him and said:—
“My Valour, my daring, my martial courage,
My skill in the field I leave to Darry,
That he be a guiding torch and starry
Light and Lamp to the hosts of our age.
A hero to sway, to lead and command,
Shall be every son of his tribes in the land!
O Darry, with boldness and power
Sit thou on the frontier of Tuath Lann.
And ravage the lands of Deas Ghower.
Accept no gifts for thy protection
From woman or man,
31
Thy many daughters with fruitfulness,
And none shall stand above thee—
For I, thy sire, who love thee
With deep and warm affection,
I prophesy unto thee all success
Over the green battalions
Of the redoubtable Galions.”
And he gave him, thereon, as memorials and needs,
Eight bondsmen, eight handmaids, eight cups, and eight steeds.
Eight bondsmen, eight handmaids, eight cups, and eight steeds.
The noble Monarch of Erin's men
Spake thus to the young Prince Brassal, then:—
“My Sea, with all its wealth of streams,
I leave to my sweetly-speaking Brassal
To serve and to succour him as a vassal,
And the land whereon the bright sun beams
Around the waves of Amergin's Bay
As parcelled out in the ancient day:
By free men through a long, long time
Shall this thy heritage be enjoyed—
But the chieftaincy shall at last be destroyed
Because of a Prince's crime,
And though others again shall regain it,
Yet Heaven shall not bless it,
For Power shall oppress it,
And Weakness and Baseness shall stain it!”
Spake thus to the young Prince Brassal, then:—
“My Sea, with all its wealth of streams,
I leave to my sweetly-speaking Brassal
To serve and to succour him as a vassal,
And the land whereon the bright sun beams
Around the waves of Amergin's Bay
As parcelled out in the ancient day:
By free men through a long, long time
Shall this thy heritage be enjoyed—
But the chieftaincy shall at last be destroyed
Because of a Prince's crime,
And though others again shall regain it,
Yet Heaven shall not bless it,
For Power shall oppress it,
And Weakness and Baseness shall stain it!”
32
And he gave him six ships, and six steeds, and six shields,
Six mantles and six coats of steel—
And the six royal oxen that wrought in his fields,
These gave he to Brassal the Prince for his weal.
Six mantles and six coats of steel—
And the six royal oxen that wrought in his fields,
These gave he to Brassal the Prince for his weal.
Then to Catach, he spake:—
“My border lands
Thou, Catach, shalt take,
But ere long they shall pass from thy hands,
And by thee shall none
Be ever begotten, daughter or son!”
“My border lands
Thou, Catach, shalt take,
But ere long they shall pass from thy hands,
And by thee shall none
Be ever begotten, daughter or son!”
To Fearghus Luascan spake he thus:—
“Thou Fearghus, also, art one of us,
But over-simple in all thy ways,
And babblest much of thy childish days,
For thee have I nought, but if lands may be bought
Or won hereafter by sword or lance,
Of those, perchance,
I may leave thee a part
All simple babbler and boy as thou art!”
“Thou Fearghus, also, art one of us,
But over-simple in all thy ways,
And babblest much of thy childish days,
For thee have I nought, but if lands may be bought
Or won hereafter by sword or lance,
Of those, perchance,
I may leave thee a part
All simple babbler and boy as thou art!”
Young Fearghus, therefore, was left bereaven,
And thus the Monarch spake to Creeven:—
And thus the Monarch spake to Creeven:—
“To my boyish Hero, my gentle Creeven,
Who loveth in Summer, at morn and even,
To snare the songful birds of the field,
But shunneth to look on spear and shield,
I have little to give of all that I share.
His fame shall fail, his battles be rare.
And of all the Kings that wear his crown,
But one alone shall win renown.”
Who loveth in Summer, at morn and even,
To snare the songful birds of the field,
But shunneth to look on spear and shield,
I have little to give of all that I share.
His fame shall fail, his battles be rare.
And of all the Kings that wear his crown,
But one alone shall win renown.”
33
And he gave him six cloaks, and six cups, and seven steeds,
And six harnessed oxen, all fresh from the meads.
And six harnessed oxen, all fresh from the meads.
But on Aenghus Nic, a younger child,
Begotten in crime and born in woe,
The father frowned, as on one defiled,
And with lowering brow he spake him so:—
“To Nic, my son, that base-born youth,
Shall nought be given of land or gold;
He may be great and good and bold,
But his birth is an agony all untold,
Which gnaweth him like a serpent's tooth.
I am no donor
To him or his race—
His birth was dishonour;
His life is disgrace!”
Begotten in crime and born in woe,
The father frowned, as on one defiled,
And with lowering brow he spake him so:—
“To Nic, my son, that base-born youth,
Shall nought be given of land or gold;
He may be great and good and bold,
But his birth is an agony all untold,
Which gnaweth him like a serpent's tooth.
I am no donor
To him or his race—
His birth was dishonour;
His life is disgrace!”
And thus he spake to Eochy Timin,
Deeming him fit but to herd with women:—
Deeming him fit but to herd with women:—
“Weak son of mine, thou shalt not gain
Waste or water, valley or plain.
From thee shall none descend save cravens,
Sons of sluggish sire and mothers,
Who shall live and die,
But give no corpses to the ravens,
Mine ill thought and mine evil eye
On thee beyond thy brothers
Shall ever, ever lie!”
Waste or water, valley or plain.
From thee shall none descend save cravens,
Sons of sluggish sire and mothers,
Who shall live and die,
But give no corpses to the ravens,
Mine ill thought and mine evil eye
On thee beyond thy brothers
Shall ever, ever lie!”
And to Oilioll Cadach his words were those:—
“O Oilioll, great in coming years
Shall be thy fame among friends and foes
As the first of Brughaidhs and Hospitaliers!
But neither noble nor warlike
Shall show thy renownless dwelling;
Nevertheless
Thou shalt dazzle at chess,
Therein supremely excelling
And shining as something starlike!”
34
Shall be thy fame among friends and foes
As the first of Brughaidhs and Hospitaliers!
But neither noble nor warlike
Shall show thy renownless dwelling;
Nevertheless
Thou shalt dazzle at chess,
Therein supremely excelling
And shining as something starlike!”
And his chess-board, therefore, and chessmen eke
He gave to Oilioll Cadach the Meek.
He gave to Oilioll Cadach the Meek.
Now Fiacha—youngest son was he,
Stood up by the bed . . . of his father, who said,
The while, caressing
Him tenderly:—
“My son! I have only for thee my blessing,
And naught beside—
Hadst best abide
With thy brothers a time, as thy years are green.”
Stood up by the bed . . . of his father, who said,
The while, caressing
Him tenderly:—
“My son! I have only for thee my blessing,
And naught beside—
Hadst best abide
With thy brothers a time, as thy years are green.”
Then Fiacha wept, with a sorrowful mien:
So Cathaeir spake, to encourage him, gaily,
With cheerful speech—
“Abide one month with thy brethren each,
And seven years long with my son, Ross Faly;
Do this, and thy sire in sincerity,
Prophesies unto thee fame and prosperity.”
So Cathaeir spake, to encourage him, gaily,
With cheerful speech—
“Abide one month with thy brethren each,
And seven years long with my son, Ross Faly;
Do this, and thy sire in sincerity,
Prophesies unto thee fame and prosperity.”
And further he spake, as one inspired:—
“A Chieftain flourishing, feared, and admired
Shall Fiacha prove!
The gifted Man from the boiling Berve,
Him shall his brothers' clansmen serve.
His forts shall be Aillin and proud Almain,
He shall reign in Carman and Allen;
The highest renown shall his palaces gain
When others have crumbled and fallen,
His powers shall broaden and lengthen,
And never know damage or loss;
The impregnable Naas he shall strengthen,
And govern Ailbhe and Arriged Ross.
Yes! O Fiacha, Foe of strangers,
This shall be thy lot!
And thou shalt pilot
Ladhrann and Leeven with steady and even
Heart and arm through storm and dangers!
Overthrown by thy mighty hand
Shall the Lords of Tara lie.
And Taillte's fair, the first in the land,
Thou, son, shall magnify;
And many a country thou yet shalt bring
To own thy rule as Ceann and King.
The blessing I give thee shall rest
On thee and thy seed
While Time shall endure,
Thou grandson of Fiacha the blest!
It is barely thy meed,
For thy soul is childlike and pure!”
“A Chieftain flourishing, feared, and admired
Shall Fiacha prove!
The gifted Man from the boiling Berve,
35
His forts shall be Aillin and proud Almain,
He shall reign in Carman and Allen;
The highest renown shall his palaces gain
When others have crumbled and fallen,
His powers shall broaden and lengthen,
And never know damage or loss;
The impregnable Naas he shall strengthen,
And govern Ailbhe and Arriged Ross.
Yes! O Fiacha, Foe of strangers,
This shall be thy lot!
And thou shalt pilot
Ladhrann and Leeven with steady and even
Heart and arm through storm and dangers!
Overthrown by thy mighty hand
Shall the Lords of Tara lie.
And Taillte's fair, the first in the land,
Thou, son, shall magnify;
And many a country thou yet shalt bring
To own thy rule as Ceann and King.
The blessing I give thee shall rest
On thee and thy seed
While Time shall endure,
Thou grandson of Fiacha the blest!
It is barely thy meed,
For thy soul is childlike and pure!”
36
THE EXPEDITION AND DEATH OF KING DATHY.
King Dathy assembled his Druids and Sages,
And thus he spake them:—“Druids and Sages!
What of King Dathy?
What is revealed in Destiny's pages
Of him or his? Hath he
Aught for the Future to dread or to dree?
Good to rejoice in, or Evil to flee?
Is he a foe of the Gall
Fitted to conquer, or fated to fall?”
And thus he spake them:—“Druids and Sages!
What of King Dathy?
What is revealed in Destiny's pages
Of him or his? Hath he
Aught for the Future to dread or to dree?
Good to rejoice in, or Evil to flee?
Is he a foe of the Gall
Fitted to conquer, or fated to fall?”
And Beirdra, the Druid, made answer as thus—
A priest of a hundred years was he:—
“Dathy! thy fate is not hidden from us!
Hear it through me!
Thou shalt work thine own will!
Thou shalt slay—thou shalt prey—
And be Conqueror still!
Thee the Earth shall not harm!
Thee we charter and charm
From all evil and ill;
Thee the laurel shall crown!
Thee the wave shall not drown!
Thee the chain shall not bind!
Thee the spear shall not find!
Thee the sword shall not slay!
Thee the shaft shall not pierce!
Thou, therefore, be fearless and fierce,
And sail with thy warriors away
To the lands of the Gall,
There to slaughter and sway,
And be Victor o'er all!”
A priest of a hundred years was he:—
“Dathy! thy fate is not hidden from us!
Hear it through me!
Thou shalt work thine own will!
Thou shalt slay—thou shalt prey—
And be Conqueror still!
Thee the Earth shall not harm!
Thee we charter and charm
From all evil and ill;
Thee the laurel shall crown!
Thee the wave shall not drown!
Thee the chain shall not bind!
Thee the spear shall not find!
Thee the sword shall not slay!
Thee the shaft shall not pierce!
Thou, therefore, be fearless and fierce,
And sail with thy warriors away
To the lands of the Gall,
There to slaughter and sway,
And be Victor o'er all!”
37
So Dathy he sailed away, away,
Over the deep resounding sea;
Sailed with his hosts in armour grey
Over the deep resounding sea,
Many a night and many a day,
And many an islet conquered he—
He and his hosts in armour grey.
And the billow drowned him not,
And a fetter bound him not,
And the blue spear found him not,
And the red sword slew him not,
And the swift shaft knew him not,
And the foe o'erthrew him not.
Till, one bright morn, at the base
Of the Alps, in rich Ausonia's regions,
His men stood marshalled face to face
With the mighty Roman legions.
Noble foes!
Christian and heathen stood there among those,
Resolute all to overcome,
Or die for the Eagles of Ancient Rome!
Over the deep resounding sea;
Sailed with his hosts in armour grey
Over the deep resounding sea,
Many a night and many a day,
And many an islet conquered he—
He and his hosts in armour grey.
And the billow drowned him not,
And a fetter bound him not,
And the blue spear found him not,
And the red sword slew him not,
And the swift shaft knew him not,
And the foe o'erthrew him not.
Till, one bright morn, at the base
Of the Alps, in rich Ausonia's regions,
His men stood marshalled face to face
With the mighty Roman legions.
Noble foes!
Christian and heathen stood there among those,
Resolute all to overcome,
Or die for the Eagles of Ancient Rome!
When, behold! from a temple anear
Came forth an aged priest-like man,
Of a countenance meek and clear.
Who, turning to Eire's Ceann,
Spake him as thus:—“King Dathy! hear!
Thee would I warn!
Retreat! retire! Repent in time
The invader's crime.
Or better for thee thou hadst never been born!”
But Dathy replied: “False Nazarene!
Dost thou, then, menace Dathy, thou?
And dreamest thou that he will bow
To one unknown, to one so mean,
So powerless as a priest must be?
He scorns alike thy threats and thee!
On! on, my men, to victory!”
Came forth an aged priest-like man,
Of a countenance meek and clear.
Who, turning to Eire's Ceann,
Spake him as thus:—“King Dathy! hear!
Thee would I warn!
Retreat! retire! Repent in time
The invader's crime.
Or better for thee thou hadst never been born!”
But Dathy replied: “False Nazarene!
Dost thou, then, menace Dathy, thou?
And dreamest thou that he will bow
38
So powerless as a priest must be?
He scorns alike thy threats and thee!
On! on, my men, to victory!”
And with loud shouts for Eire's king,
The Irish rush to meet the foe,
And falchions clash and bucklers ring—
When, lo!
Lo! a mighty earthquake's shock!
And the cleft plains reel and rock;
Clouds of darkness pall the skies;
Thunder crashes,
Lightning flashes,
And in an instant Dathy lies
On the earth a mass of blackened ashes!
Then, mournfully and dolefully
The Irish warriors sailed away
Over the deep resounding sea,
Till, wearily and mournfully,
They anchored in Eblana's Bay.
Thus the Seanachies and Sages
Tell this tale of long-gone ages.
The Irish rush to meet the foe,
And falchions clash and bucklers ring—
When, lo!
Lo! a mighty earthquake's shock!
And the cleft plains reel and rock;
Clouds of darkness pall the skies;
Thunder crashes,
Lightning flashes,
And in an instant Dathy lies
On the earth a mass of blackened ashes!
Then, mournfully and dolefully
The Irish warriors sailed away
Over the deep resounding sea,
Till, wearily and mournfully,
They anchored in Eblana's Bay.
Thus the Seanachies and Sages
Tell this tale of long-gone ages.
PRINCE ALFRID'S ITINERARY THROUGH IRELAND.
I found in Innisfail the fair,
In Ireland while in exile there,
Women of worth, both grave and gay men,
Many clerics and many laymen.
In Ireland while in exile there,
Women of worth, both grave and gay men,
Many clerics and many laymen.
39
I travelled its fruitful provinces round,
And in every one of the five I found,
Alike in church, and in palace hall,
Abundant apparel and food for all.
And in every one of the five I found,
Alike in church, and in palace hall,
Abundant apparel and food for all.
Gold and silver I found, and money,
Plenty of wheat and plenty of honey;
I found God's people rich in pity,
Found many a feast and many a city.
Plenty of wheat and plenty of honey;
I found God's people rich in pity,
Found many a feast and many a city.
I also found in Armagh the splendid,
Meekness, wisdom, and prudence blended,
Fasting as Christ hath recommended,
And noble councillors untranscended.
Meekness, wisdom, and prudence blended,
Fasting as Christ hath recommended,
And noble councillors untranscended.
I found in each great church, moreo'er,
Whether on island or on shore,
Piety, learning, fond affection,
Holy welcome and kind protection.
Whether on island or on shore,
Piety, learning, fond affection,
Holy welcome and kind protection.
I found the good lay monks and brothers
Ever beseeching help for others,
And in their keeping the holy word
Pure as it came from Jesus the Lord.
Ever beseeching help for others,
And in their keeping the holy word
Pure as it came from Jesus the Lord.
I found in Munster unfettered of any,
Kings, and queens, and poets a many—
Poets well skilled in music and measure,
Prosperous doings, mirth and pleasure.
Kings, and queens, and poets a many—
Poets well skilled in music and measure,
Prosperous doings, mirth and pleasure.
40
I found in Connaught the just, redundance
Of riches, milk in lavish abundance,
Hospitality, vigour, fame,
In Cruachan's land of heroic name.
Of riches, milk in lavish abundance,
Hospitality, vigour, fame,
In Cruachan's land of heroic name.
I found in the country of Connall the glorious,
Bravest heroes, ever victorious;
Fair-complexioned men and warlike,
Ireland's lights, the high, the starlike!
Bravest heroes, ever victorious;
Fair-complexioned men and warlike,
Ireland's lights, the high, the starlike!
I found in Ulster, from hill to glen,
Hardy warriors, resolute men;
Beauty that bloomed when youth was gone,
And strength transmitted from sire to son.
Hardy warriors, resolute men;
Beauty that bloomed when youth was gone,
And strength transmitted from sire to son.
I found in the noble district of Boyle,
[OMITTED]
Brehons, Erenachs, weapons bright,
And horsemen bold and sudden in fight.
[OMITTED]
Brehons, Erenachs, weapons bright,
And horsemen bold and sudden in fight.
I found in Leinster the smooth and sleek,
From Dublin to Slewmargy's peak;
Flourishing pastures, valour, health,
Long-living worthies, commerce, wealth.
From Dublin to Slewmargy's peak;
Flourishing pastures, valour, health,
Long-living worthies, commerce, wealth.
I found, besides, from Ara to Glea,
In the broad rich country of Ossorie,
Sweet fruits, good laws for all and each,
Great chess-players, men of truthful speech.
In the broad rich country of Ossorie,
Sweet fruits, good laws for all and each,
Great chess-players, men of truthful speech.
41
I found in Meath's fair principality,
Virtue, vigour, and hospitality;
Candour, joyfulness, bravery, purity,
Ireland's bulwark and security.
Virtue, vigour, and hospitality;
Candour, joyfulness, bravery, purity,
Ireland's bulwark and security.
I found strict morals in age and youth,
I found historians recording truth;
The things I sing of in verse unsmooth,
I found them all—I have written sooth.
I found historians recording truth;
The things I sing of in verse unsmooth,
I found them all—I have written sooth.
LAMENT FOR BANBA.
O my land! O my love!
What a woe, and how deep,
Is thy death to my long mourning soul!
God alone, God above,
Can awake thee from sleep,
Can release thee from bondage and dole!
Alas, alas, and alas!
For the once proud people of Banba!
What a woe, and how deep,
Is thy death to my long mourning soul!
God alone, God above,
Can awake thee from sleep,
Can release thee from bondage and dole!
Alas, alas, and alas!
For the once proud people of Banba!
As a tree in its prime,
Which the axe layeth low,
Didst thou fall, O unfortunate land!
Not by Time, nor thy crime,
Came the shock and the blow.
They were given by a false felon hand!
Alas, alas, and alas!
For the once proud people of Banba!
Which the axe layeth low,
Didst thou fall, O unfortunate land!
42
Came the shock and the blow.
They were given by a false felon hand!
Alas, alas, and alas!
For the once proud people of Banba!
O, my grief of all griefs,
Is to see how thy throne
Is usurped, whilst thyself art in thrall!
Other lands have their chiefs,
Have their kings, thou alone
Art a wife, yet a widow withal!
Alas, alas, and alas!
For the once proud people of Banba!
Is to see how thy throne
Is usurped, whilst thyself art in thrall!
Other lands have their chiefs,
Have their kings, thou alone
Art a wife, yet a widow withal!
Alas, alas, and alas!
For the once proud people of Banba!
The high house of O'Neill
Is gone down to the dust,
The O'Brien is clanless and banned;
And the steel, the red steel,
May no more be the trust
Of the Faithful and Brave in the land!
Alas, alas, and alas!
For the once proud people of Banba!
Is gone down to the dust,
The O'Brien is clanless and banned;
And the steel, the red steel,
May no more be the trust
Of the Faithful and Brave in the land!
Alas, alas, and alas!
For the once proud people of Banba!
True, alas! Wrong and Wrath
Were of old all too rife.
Deeds were done which no good man admires:
And perchance Heaven hath
Chastened us for the strife
And the blood-shedding ways of our sires!
Alas, alas, and alas!
For the once proud people of Banba!
Were of old all too rife.
Deeds were done which no good man admires:
And perchance Heaven hath
Chastened us for the strife
And the blood-shedding ways of our sires!
Alas, alas, and alas!
For the once proud people of Banba!
But, no more! This our doom,
While our hearts yet are warm,
Let us not over-weakly deplore!
For the hour soon may loom
When the Lord's mighty hand
Shall be raised for our rescue once more!
And our grief shall be turned into joy
For the still proud people of Banba!
While our hearts yet are warm,
Let us not over-weakly deplore!
43
When the Lord's mighty hand
Shall be raised for our rescue once more!
And our grief shall be turned into joy
For the still proud people of Banba!
ELLEN BAWN.
Ellen Bawn, O Ellen Bawn, you darling, darling dear, you,
Sit awhile beside me here, I'll die unless I'm near you!
'Tis for you I'd swim the Suir and breast the Shannon's waters;
For, Ellen dear, you've not your peer in Galway's blooming daughters!
Sit awhile beside me here, I'll die unless I'm near you!
'Tis for you I'd swim the Suir and breast the Shannon's waters;
For, Ellen dear, you've not your peer in Galway's blooming daughters!
Had I Limerick's gems and gold at will to mete and measure,
Were Loughrea's abundance mine, and all Portumna's treasure,
These might lure me, might insure me many and many a new love,
But O! no bribe could pay your tribe for one like you, my true love!
Were Loughrea's abundance mine, and all Portumna's treasure,
These might lure me, might insure me many and many a new love,
But O! no bribe could pay your tribe for one like you, my true love!
Blessings be on Connaught! that's the place for sport and raking!
Blessing, too, my love, on you, a-sleeping and a-waking!
I'd have met you, dearest Ellen, when the sun went under,
But, woe! the flooding Shannon broke across my path in thunder!
Blessing, too, my love, on you, a-sleeping and a-waking!
I'd have met you, dearest Ellen, when the sun went under,
But, woe! the flooding Shannon broke across my path in thunder!
44
Ellen! I'd give all the deer in Limerick's parks and arbours,
Ay, and all the ships that rode last year in Munster's harbours,
Could I blot from Time the hour I first became your lover,
For, O! you've given my heart a wound it never can recover!
Ay, and all the ships that rode last year in Munster's harbours,
Could I blot from Time the hour I first became your lover,
For, O! you've given my heart a wound it never can recover!
Would to God that in the sod my corpse to-night were lying,
And the wild birds wheeling o'er it, and the winds a-sighing,
Since your cruel mother and your kindred choose to sever
Two hearts that Love would blend in one for ever and for ever!
And the wild birds wheeling o'er it, and the winds a-sighing,
Since your cruel mother and your kindred choose to sever
Two hearts that Love would blend in one for ever and for ever!
ST. PATRICK'S HYMN BEFORE TARA.
At Tara to-day, in this awful hour,
I call on the Holy Trinity!
Glory to Him who reigneth in power,
The God of the elements, Father and Son,
And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the One,
The ever-existing Divinity!
I call on the Holy Trinity!
Glory to Him who reigneth in power,
The God of the elements, Father and Son,
And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the One,
The ever-existing Divinity!
At Tara to-day I call on the Lord,
On Christ the Omnipotent Word,
Who came to redeem from Death and Sin
Our fallen race;
And I put and I place
The virtue that lieth and liveth in
His Incarnation lowly,
His Baptism pure and holy,
His life of toil, and tears, and affliction,
His dolorous Death—His Crucifixion,
His Burial, sacred and sad and lone,
His Resurrection to life again.
His glorious Ascension to Heaven's high Throne,
And, lastly, his future dread
And terrible coming to judge all men—
Both the Living and Dead. . . .
On Christ the Omnipotent Word,
Who came to redeem from Death and Sin
Our fallen race;
And I put and I place
45
His Incarnation lowly,
His Baptism pure and holy,
His life of toil, and tears, and affliction,
His dolorous Death—His Crucifixion,
His Burial, sacred and sad and lone,
His Resurrection to life again.
His glorious Ascension to Heaven's high Throne,
And, lastly, his future dread
And terrible coming to judge all men—
Both the Living and Dead. . . .
At Tara to-day I put and I place
The virtue that dwells in the Seraphim's love,
And the virtue and grace
That are in the obedience
And unshaken allegiance
Of all the Archangels and angels above,
And in the hope of the Resurrection
To everlasting reward and election,
And in the prayers of the Fathers of old,
And in the truths the Prophets foretold,
And in the Apostles' manifold preachings,
And in the Confessors' faith and teachings,
And in the purity ever dwelling
Within the Immaculate Virgin's breast,
And in the actions bright and excelling
Of all good men, the just and the blest. . . .
The virtue that dwells in the Seraphim's love,
And the virtue and grace
That are in the obedience
And unshaken allegiance
Of all the Archangels and angels above,
And in the hope of the Resurrection
To everlasting reward and election,
And in the prayers of the Fathers of old,
And in the truths the Prophets foretold,
And in the Apostles' manifold preachings,
And in the Confessors' faith and teachings,
And in the purity ever dwelling
Within the Immaculate Virgin's breast,
And in the actions bright and excelling
Of all good men, the just and the blest. . . .
At Tara to-day, in this fateful hour,
I place all Heaven with its power,
And the sun with its brightness,
And the snow with its whiteness,
And fire with all the strength it hath,
And lightning with its rapid wrath,
And the winds with their swiftness along their path,
And the sea with its deepness,
And the rocks with their steepness,
And the earth with its starkness,
All these I place,
By God's almighty help and grace,
Between myself and the Powers of Darkness.
I place all Heaven with its power,
And the sun with its brightness,
And the snow with its whiteness,
And fire with all the strength it hath,
And lightning with its rapid wrath,
46
And the sea with its deepness,
And the rocks with their steepness,
And the earth with its starkness,
All these I place,
By God's almighty help and grace,
Between myself and the Powers of Darkness.
At Tara to-day
May God be my stay!
May the strength of God now nerve me!
May the power of God preserve me!
May God the Almighty be near me!
May God the Almighty espy me!
May God the Almighty hear me!
May God give me eloquent speech!
May the arm of God protect me!
May the wisdom of God direct me!
May God give me power to teach and to preach!
May God be my stay!
May the strength of God now nerve me!
May the power of God preserve me!
May God the Almighty be near me!
May God the Almighty espy me!
May God the Almighty hear me!
May God give me eloquent speech!
May the arm of God protect me!
May the wisdom of God direct me!
May God give me power to teach and to preach!
May the shield of God defend me!
May the host of God attend me,
And ward me,
And guard me,
Against the wiles of demons and devils,
Against the temptations of vices and evils,
Against the bad passions and wrathful will
Of the reckless mind and the wicked heart
Against every man who designs me ill,
Whether leagued with others or plotting apart!
May the host of God attend me,
And ward me,
And guard me,
Against the wiles of demons and devils,
Against the temptations of vices and evils,
Against the bad passions and wrathful will
Of the reckless mind and the wicked heart
Against every man who designs me ill,
Whether leagued with others or plotting apart!
In this hour of hours,
I place all those powers
Between myself and every foe,
Who threaten my body and soul
With danger or dole,
To protect me against the evils that flow
From lying soothsayers' incantations,
From the gloomy laws of the Gentile nations,
From Heresy's hateful innovations,
From Idolatry's rites and invocations,
Be those my defenders,
My guards against every ban,
And spells of smiths, and Druids, and women;
In fine, against every knowledge that renders
The light Heaven sends us dim in
The spirit and soul of Man!
May Christ, I pray,
Protect me to-day
Against poison and fire
Against drowning and wounding,
That so, in His grace abounding,
I may earn the Preacher's hire!
I place all those powers
47
Who threaten my body and soul
With danger or dole,
To protect me against the evils that flow
From lying soothsayers' incantations,
From the gloomy laws of the Gentile nations,
From Heresy's hateful innovations,
From Idolatry's rites and invocations,
Be those my defenders,
My guards against every ban,
And spells of smiths, and Druids, and women;
In fine, against every knowledge that renders
The light Heaven sends us dim in
The spirit and soul of Man!
May Christ, I pray,
Protect me to-day
Against poison and fire
Against drowning and wounding,
That so, in His grace abounding,
I may earn the Preacher's hire!
Christ, as a light,
Illumine and guide me!
Christ, as a shield, o'ershadow and cover me
Christ be under me! Christ be over me!
Christ be beside me
On left hand and right!
Christ be before me, behind me, about me!
Christ this day be within and without me!
Illumine and guide me!
Christ, as a shield, o'ershadow and cover me
Christ be under me! Christ be over me!
Christ be beside me
On left hand and right!
Christ be before me, behind me, about me!
Christ this day be within and without me!
Christ, the lowly and meek,
Christ, the All-powerful, be
In the heart of each to whom I speak,
In the mouth of each who speaks to me!
In all who draw near me,
Or see or hear me!
Christ, the All-powerful, be
In the heart of each to whom I speak,
In the mouth of each who speaks to me!
In all who draw near me,
Or see or hear me!
48
At Tara to-day, in this awful hour,
I call on the Holy Trinity!
Glory to Him who reigneth in power,
The God of the Elements, Father and Son,
And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the One,
The ever-existing Divinity!
I call on the Holy Trinity!
Glory to Him who reigneth in power,
The God of the Elements, Father and Son,
And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the One,
The ever-existing Divinity!
Salvation dwells with the Lord,
With Christ, the Omnipotent Word.
From generation to generation,
Grant us, O Lord, thy grace and salvation!
With Christ, the Omnipotent Word.
From generation to generation,
Grant us, O Lord, thy grace and salvation!
CEAN-SALLA.
THE LAST WORDS OF RED HUGH O'DONNELL ON HIS DEPARTURE FROM IRELAND FOR SPAIN.
Weep not the brave Dead!
Weep rather the Living—
On them lies the curse
Of a doom unforgiving!
Each dark hour that rolls,
Shall the memories they nurse,
Like molten hot lead,
Burn into their souls
A remorse long and sore!
They have helped to enthral a
Great land evermore,
They who fled from Cean-Salla!
Weep rather the Living—
On them lies the curse
Of a doom unforgiving!
Each dark hour that rolls,
Shall the memories they nurse,
Like molten hot lead,
Burn into their souls
A remorse long and sore!
They have helped to enthral a
Great land evermore,
They who fled from Cean-Salla!
49
Alas, for thee, slayer
Of the kings of the Norsemen!
Thou land of sharp swords,
And strong kerns and swift horsemen!
Land ringing with song!
Land, whose abbots and lords,
Whose Heroic and Fair,
Through centuries long,
Made each palace of thine
A new western Walhalla—
Thus to die without sign
On the field of Cean-Salla;
Of the kings of the Norsemen!
Thou land of sharp swords,
And strong kerns and swift horsemen!
Land ringing with song!
Land, whose abbots and lords,
Whose Heroic and Fair,
Through centuries long,
Made each palace of thine
A new western Walhalla—
Thus to die without sign
On the field of Cean-Salla;
My ship cleaves the wave—
I depart for Iberia—
But, oh! with what grief,
With how heavy and dreary a
Sensation of ill!
I should welcome a grave:
My career has been brief,
But I bow to God's will!
Yet if now all forlorn,
In my green years, I fall, a
Long exile I mourn—
But I mourn for Cean-Salla!
I depart for Iberia—
But, oh! with what grief,
With how heavy and dreary a
Sensation of ill!
I should welcome a grave:
My career has been brief,
But I bow to God's will!
Yet if now all forlorn,
In my green years, I fall, a
Long exile I mourn—
But I mourn for Cean-Salla!
LAMENTATION OF MAC LIAG FOR KINCORA.
Oh, where, Kincora! is Brian the Great?
And where is the beauty that once was thine?
Oh, where are the princes and nobles that sate
At the feast in thy halls, and drank the red wine?
Where, oh, Kincora?
And where is the beauty that once was thine?
50
At the feast in thy halls, and drank the red wine?
Where, oh, Kincora?
Oh, where, Kincora! are thy valorous lords?
Oh, whither, thou Hospitable! are they gone?
Oh, where are the Dalcassians of the Golden Swords?
And where are the warriors Brian led on?
Where, oh, Kincora?
Oh, whither, thou Hospitable! are they gone?
Oh, where are the Dalcassians of the Golden Swords?
And where are the warriors Brian led on?
Where, oh, Kincora?
And where is Murrough, the descendant of kings—
The defeater of a hundred—the daringly brave—
Who set but slight store by jewels and rings—
Who swam down the torrent and laughed at its wave?
Where, oh, Kincora?
The defeater of a hundred—the daringly brave—
Who set but slight store by jewels and rings—
Who swam down the torrent and laughed at its wave?
Where, oh, Kincora?
And where is Donogh, King Brian's worthy son?
And where is Conaing, the Beautiful Chief?
And Kian, and Corc? Alas! they are gone—
They have left me this night alone with my grief!
Left me, Kincora!
And where is Conaing, the Beautiful Chief?
And Kian, and Corc? Alas! they are gone—
They have left me this night alone with my grief!
Left me, Kincora!
And where are the chiefs with whom Brian went forth,
The ne'er-vanquished son of Evin the Brave,
The great King of Onaght, renowned for his worth,
And the hosts of Baskinn, from the western wave?
Where, oh, Kincora?
The ne'er-vanquished son of Evin the Brave,
The great King of Onaght, renowned for his worth,
And the hosts of Baskinn, from the western wave?
Where, oh, Kincora?
Oh, where is Duvlann of the Swift-footed Steeds?
And where is Kian, who was son of Molloy?
And where is King Lonergan, the fame of whose deeds
In the red battle-field no time can destroy?
Where, oh, Kincora?
And where is Kian, who was son of Molloy?
And where is King Lonergan, the fame of whose deeds
In the red battle-field no time can destroy?
Where, oh, Kincora?
51
And where is that youth of majestic height,
The faith-keeping Prince of the Scots?—Even he,
As wide as his fame was, as great as was his might,
Was tributary, oh, Kincora, to thee!
Thee, oh, Kincora!
The faith-keeping Prince of the Scots?—Even he,
As wide as his fame was, as great as was his might,
Was tributary, oh, Kincora, to thee!
Thee, oh, Kincora!
They are gone, those heroes of royal birth,
Who plundered no churches, and broke no trust,
'Tis weary for me to be living on earth
When they, oh, Kincora, lie low in the dust!
Low, oh, Kincora!
Who plundered no churches, and broke no trust,
'Tis weary for me to be living on earth
When they, oh, Kincora, lie low in the dust!
Low, oh, Kincora!
Oh, never again will Princes appear,
To rival the Dalcassians of the Cleaving Swords!
I can never dream of meeting afar or anear,
In the east or the west, such heroes and lords!
Never, Kincora!
To rival the Dalcassians of the Cleaving Swords!
I can never dream of meeting afar or anear,
In the east or the west, such heroes and lords!
Never, Kincora!
Oh, dear are the images my memory calls up
Of Brian Boru!—how he never would miss
To give me at the banquet the first bright cup!
Ah! why did he heap on me honour like this?
Why, oh, Kincora?
Of Brian Boru!—how he never would miss
To give me at the banquet the first bright cup!
Ah! why did he heap on me honour like this?
Why, oh, Kincora?
I am Mac Liag, and my home is on the Lake;
Thither often, to that palace whose beauty is fled,
Came Brian to ask me, and I went for his sake.
Oh, my grief! that I should live, and Brian be dead!
Dead, oh, Kincora!
Thither often, to that palace whose beauty is fled,
Came Brian to ask me, and I went for his sake.
Oh, my grief! that I should live, and Brian be dead!
Dead, oh, Kincora!
52
THE CAPTIVITY OF THE GAELS.
'Twas by sunset . . . I walked and wandered
Over hill-sides . . . and over moors,
With a many sighs and tears.
Sunk in sadness . . . I darkly pondered
All the wrongs our . . . lost land endures
In these latter night-black years.
“How,” I mused, “has her worth departed!
What a ruin . . . her fame is now!
We, once freest of the Free,
We are trampled . . . and broken-hearted;
Yea, even our Princes . . . themselves must bow
Low before the vile Shane Bwee!”
Over hill-sides . . . and over moors,
With a many sighs and tears.
Sunk in sadness . . . I darkly pondered
All the wrongs our . . . lost land endures
In these latter night-black years.
“How,” I mused, “has her worth departed!
What a ruin . . . her fame is now!
We, once freest of the Free,
We are trampled . . . and broken-hearted;
Yea, even our Princes . . . themselves must bow
Low before the vile Shane Bwee!”
Nigh a stream, in . . . a grassy hollow,
Tired, at length, I . . . lay down to rest—
There the birds and balmy air
Bade new reveries . . . and cheerier follow
Waking newly . . . within my breast
Thoughts that cheated my despair.
Was I waking . . . or was I dreaming?
I glanced up, and . . . behold! there shone
Such a vision over me!
A young girl, bright . . . as Erin's beaming
Guardian spirit—now sad and lone,
Through the spoiling of Shane Bwee!
Tired, at length, I . . . lay down to rest—
There the birds and balmy air
Bade new reveries . . . and cheerier follow
Waking newly . . . within my breast
Thoughts that cheated my despair.
Was I waking . . . or was I dreaming?
I glanced up, and . . . behold! there shone
Such a vision over me!
A young girl, bright . . . as Erin's beaming
Guardian spirit—now sad and lone,
Through the spoiling of Shane Bwee!
53
O, for pencil . . . to paint the golden
Locks that waved in . . . luxuriant sheen
To her feet of stilly light!
(Not the Fleece . . . in ages olden
Jason bore o'er . . . the ocean green
Into Hellas, gleamed so bright.)
And the eyebrows . . . thin arched over
Her mild eyes, and . . . more, even more
Beautiful, methought, to see,
Than those rainbows . . . that wont to hover
O'er the blue island-lakes of yore
Ere the spoiling by Shane Bwee!
Locks that waved in . . . luxuriant sheen
To her feet of stilly light!
(Not the Fleece . . . in ages olden
Jason bore o'er . . . the ocean green
Into Hellas, gleamed so bright.)
And the eyebrows . . . thin arched over
Her mild eyes, and . . . more, even more
Beautiful, methought, to see,
Than those rainbows . . . that wont to hover
O'er the blue island-lakes of yore
Ere the spoiling by Shane Bwee!
Bard!” she spake, “deem . . . not this unreal.
I was niece of . . . a Pair whose peers
None shall see on earth again—
Æongus Con, and . . . the Dark O'Niall,
Rulers over . . . Iern in years
When her sons as yet were Men.
Times have darkened . . . and now our holy
Altars crumble, . . . and castles fall;
Our groans ring through Christendee.
Still, despond not! He comes, though slowly
He, the Man, who shall disenthral
The Proud Captive of Shane Bwee!”
I was niece of . . . a Pair whose peers
None shall see on earth again—
Æongus Con, and . . . the Dark O'Niall,
Rulers over . . . Iern in years
When her sons as yet were Men.
Times have darkened . . . and now our holy
Altars crumble, . . . and castles fall;
Our groans ring through Christendee.
Still, despond not! He comes, though slowly
He, the Man, who shall disenthral
The Proud Captive of Shane Bwee!”
Here she vanished; . . . and I, in sorrow,
Bent with joy, rose . . . and went my way
Homeward over moor and hill.
O Great God! Thou . . . from whom we borrow
Life and strength, unto Thee I pray!
Thou, who swayest at Thy will
Hearts and councils, . . . thralls, tyrants, freemen,
Wake through Europe . . . the ancient soul,
And on every shore and sea,
From the Blackwater to the Dniemen,
Freedom's Bell will . . . ere long time toll
The deep death-knell of Shane Bwee!
Bent with joy, rose . . . and went my way
Homeward over moor and hill.
O Great God! Thou . . . from whom we borrow
Life and strength, unto Thee I pray!
Thou, who swayest at Thy will
54
Wake through Europe . . . the ancient soul,
And on every shore and sea,
From the Blackwater to the Dniemen,
Freedom's Bell will . . . ere long time toll
The deep death-knell of Shane Bwee!
THE SORROWS OF INNISFAIL
Through the long drear night I lie awake, for the sorrows of Innisfail.
My bleeding heart is ready to break; I cannot but weep and wail,
Oh, shame and grief and wonder! her sons crouch lowly under
The footstool of the paltriest foe
That ever yet hath wrought them woe!
My bleeding heart is ready to break; I cannot but weep and wail,
Oh, shame and grief and wonder! her sons crouch lowly under
The footstool of the paltriest foe
That ever yet hath wrought them woe!
How long, O mother of light and Song, how long will they fail to see
That men must be bold, no less than strong, if they truly will to be free?
They sit but in silent sadness, while wrongs that should rouse them to madness,
Wrongs that might wake the very Dead,
Are piled on thy devoted head!
That men must be bold, no less than strong, if they truly will to be free?
They sit but in silent sadness, while wrongs that should rouse them to madness,
Wrongs that might wake the very Dead,
Are piled on thy devoted head!
Thy castles, thy towers, thy palaces proud, thy stately mansions all,
Are held by the knaves who crossed the waves to lord it in Brian's hall.
Britannia, alas! is portress in Cobhthach's Golden Fortress,
And Ulster's and Momonia's lands
Are in the Robber-stranger's hands.
Are held by the knaves who crossed the waves to lord it in Brian's hall.
55
And Ulster's and Momonia's lands
Are in the Robber-stranger's hands.
The tribe of Eoghan is worn with woe; the O'Donnell reigns no more;
O'Neill's remains lie mouldering low on Italy's far-off shore;
And the youths of the Pleasant Valley are scattered and cannot rally,
While foreign Despotism unfurls
Its flag 'mid hordes of base-born churls.
O'Neill's remains lie mouldering low on Italy's far-off shore;
And the youths of the Pleasant Valley are scattered and cannot rally,
While foreign Despotism unfurls
Its flag 'mid hordes of base-born churls.
The Chieftains of Naas were valorous lords, but their valour was crushed by Craft—
They fell beneath Envy's butcherly dagger and Calumny's poisoned shaft,
A few of their mighty legions yet languish in alien regions,
But most of them, the Frank, the Free,
Were slain through Saxon perfidie!
They fell beneath Envy's butcherly dagger and Calumny's poisoned shaft,
A few of their mighty legions yet languish in alien regions,
But most of them, the Frank, the Free,
Were slain through Saxon perfidie!
Oh! lived the Princes of Ainy's plains, and the heroes of green Domgole,
And the chiefs of the Maigue, we still might hope to baffle our doom and dole,
Well then might the dastards shiver who herd by the blue Bride river,
But ah! those great and glorious men
Shall draw no glaive on Earth again!
And the chiefs of the Maigue, we still might hope to baffle our doom and dole,
Well then might the dastards shiver who herd by the blue Bride river,
But ah! those great and glorious men
Shall draw no glaive on Earth again!
All-powerful God! look down on the tribes who mourn throughout the land,
And raise them some deliverer up, of a strong and smiting hand!
Oh! suffer them not to perish, the race thou wert wont to cherish,
But soon avenge their father's graves,
And burst the bonds that keep them slaves!
And raise them some deliverer up, of a strong and smiting hand!
Oh! suffer them not to perish, the race thou wert wont to cherish,
But soon avenge their father's graves,
And burst the bonds that keep them slaves!
56
RURY AND DARVORGILLA.
Know ye the tale of the Prince of Oriel,
Of Rury, last of his line of kings?
I pen it here as a sad memorial
Of how much woe reckless folly brings.
Of Rury, last of his line of kings?
I pen it here as a sad memorial
Of how much woe reckless folly brings.
Of a time that Rury rode woodwards, clothed
In silk and gold, on a hunting chase
He thought like thunder on his betrothed,
And with clinched hand he smote his face.
In silk and gold, on a hunting chase
He thought like thunder on his betrothed,
And with clinched hand he smote his face.
“Fareer! Mabhron! Princess Darvorgilla!
Forgive she will not a slight like this;
But could she, dared she, I should be still a
Base wretch to wed her for heaven's best bliss.
Forgive she will not a slight like this;
But could she, dared she, I should be still a
Base wretch to wed her for heaven's best bliss.
“Fareer! Fareer! Princess Darvorgilla!
She has four hundred young bowmen bold;
But I—I love her, and would not spill a
Drop of their blood for ten torques of gold.
She has four hundred young bowmen bold;
But I—I love her, and would not spill a
Drop of their blood for ten torques of gold.
“Still, woe to all who provoke to slaughter!
I count as nought, weighed with fame like mine,
The birth and beauty of Cairtre's daughter;
So, judge the sword between line and line!
I count as nought, weighed with fame like mine,
The birth and beauty of Cairtre's daughter;
So, judge the sword between line and line!
“Thou, therefore, Calbhach, go call a muster,
And wind the bugle by fort and dun!
When stains shall tarnish our house's lustre,
Then sets in darkness the noonday sun!”
And wind the bugle by fort and dun!
57
Then sets in darkness the noonday sun!”
But Calbhach answered—“Light need to do so!
Behold the noblest of heroes here!
What foe confronts us, I reck not whoso,
Shall flee before us like hunted deer!”
Behold the noblest of heroes here!
What foe confronts us, I reck not whoso,
Shall flee before us like hunted deer!”
Spake Rury then—“Calbhach, as thou willest!
But see, old man, there be brief delay—
For this chill parle is of all things chillest,
And my fleet courser must now away!
But see, old man, there be brief delay—
For this chill parle is of all things chillest,
And my fleet courser must now away!
“Yet though thou march with thy legions townwards,
Well armed for ambush or treacherous fray,
Still see they point their bare weapons downwards,
As those of warriors averse to slay!”
Well armed for ambush or treacherous fray,
Still see they point their bare weapons downwards,
As those of warriors averse to slay!”
Now, when the clansmen were armed and mounted,
The aged Calbhach gave way to fears;
For, foot and horsemen, they barely counted
A hundred cross-bows and forty spears.
The aged Calbhach gave way to fears;
For, foot and horsemen, they barely counted
A hundred cross-bows and forty spears.
And thus exclaimed he—“My soul is shaken!
We die the death, not of men, but slaves;
We sleep the sleep from which none awaken,
And scorn shall point at our tombless graves!”
We die the death, not of men, but slaves;
We sleep the sleep from which none awaken,
And scorn shall point at our tombless graves!”
Then out spake Fergal—“A charge so weighty
As this, O Rury, thou shouldst not throw
On a drivelling dotard of eight-and-eighty,
Whose arm is nerveless for spear or bow!”
As this, O Rury, thou shouldst not throw
On a drivelling dotard of eight-and-eighty,
Whose arm is nerveless for spear or bow!”
But Rury answered—“Away! To-morrow
Myself will stand in Traghvally town;
But, come what may come, this day I borrow
To hunt through Glafna the brown deer down!”
Myself will stand in Traghvally town;
But, come what may come, this day I borrow
To hunt through Glafna the brown deer down!”
58
So, through the night, unto grey Traghvally,
The feeble Ceann led his hosts along;
But faint and heart-sore, they could not rally,
So deeply Rury had wrought them wrong.
The feeble Ceann led his hosts along;
But faint and heart-sore, they could not rally,
So deeply Rury had wrought them wrong.
Now, when the Princess beheld advancing
Her lover's troops with their arms reversed
In lieu of broadswords and chargers prancing,
She felt her heart's hopes were dead and hearsed.
Her lover's troops with their arms reversed
In lieu of broadswords and chargers prancing,
She felt her heart's hopes were dead and hearsed.
And on her knees to her ireful father
She prayed—“O father, let this pass by;
War not against the brave Rury! Rather
Pierce this fond bosom and let me die!”
She prayed—“O father, let this pass by;
War not against the brave Rury! Rather
Pierce this fond bosom and let me die!”
But Cairtre rose in volcanic fury,
And so he spake—“By the might of God,
I hold no terms with this craven Rury
Till he or I lie below the sod!
And so he spake—“By the might of God,
I hold no terms with this craven Rury
Till he or I lie below the sod!
“Thou shameless child! Thou, alike unworthy
Of him, thy father, who speaks thee thus,
And her, my Mhearb, who in sorrow bore thee,
Wilt thou dishonour thyself and us?
Of him, thy father, who speaks thee thus,
And her, my Mhearb, who in sorrow bore thee,
Wilt thou dishonour thyself and us?
“Behold! I march with my serried bowmen—
Four hundred thine and a thousand mine;
I march to crush these degraded foemen,
Who gorge the ravens ere day decline!”
Four hundred thine and a thousand mine;
I march to crush these degraded foemen,
Who gorge the ravens ere day decline!”
Meet now both armies in mortal struggle,
The spears are shivered, the javelins fly;
But what strange terror, what mental juggle,
Be those that speak out of Calbhach's eye?
The spears are shivered, the javelins fly;
But what strange terror, what mental juggle,
Be those that speak out of Calbhach's eye?
59
It is—it must be, some spell Satanic,
That masters him and his gallant host.
Woe, woe the day! An inglorious panic
O'erpowers the legions—and all is lost!
That masters him and his gallant host.
Woe, woe the day! An inglorious panic
O'erpowers the legions—and all is lost!
Woe, woe that day, and that hour of carnage!
Too well they witness to Fergal's truth!
Too well in bloodiest appeal they warn Age
Not lightly thus to match swords with Youth!
Too well they witness to Fergal's truth!
Too well in bloodiest appeal they warn Age
Not lightly thus to match swords with Youth!
When Rury reached, in the red of morning,
The battle-ground, it was he who felt
The dreadful weight of this ghastly warning,
And what a blow had o'ernight been dealt!
The battle-ground, it was he who felt
The dreadful weight of this ghastly warning,
And what a blow had o'ernight been dealt!
So, glancing round him, and sadly groaning,
He pierced his breast with his noble blade;
Thus all too mournfully mis-atoning
For that black ruin his word had made.
He pierced his breast with his noble blade;
Thus all too mournfully mis-atoning
For that black ruin his word had made.
But hear ye further! When Cairtre's daughter
Saw what a fate had o'erta'en her Brave,
Her eyes became as twin founts of water,
Her heart again as a darker grave.
Saw what a fate had o'erta'en her Brave,
Her eyes became as twin founts of water,
Her heart again as a darker grave.
Clasp now thy lover, unhappy maiden!
But, see! thy sire tears thine arms away,
And in a dungeon, all anguish laden,
Shalt thou be cast ere the shut of day.
But, see! thy sire tears thine arms away,
And in a dungeon, all anguish laden,
Shalt thou be cast ere the shut of day.
But what shall be in the sad years coming
Thy doom? I know not, but guess too well
That sunlight never shall trace thee roaming
Ayond the gloom of thy sunken cell!
Thy doom? I know not, but guess too well
That sunlight never shall trace thee roaming
Ayond the gloom of thy sunken cell!
60
This is the tale of the Prince of Oriel
And Darvorgilla, both sprung of Kings!
I trace it here as a dark memorial
Of how much woe thoughtless folly brings.
And Darvorgilla, both sprung of Kings!
I trace it here as a dark memorial
Of how much woe thoughtless folly brings.
THE IRISH LANGUAGE.
I
The language of Erin is brilliant as gold;It shines with a lustre unrivalled of old.
Even glanced at by strangers to whom 'tis unknown
It dazzles their eyes with a light all its own!
II
It is music, the sweetest of music, to hear;No lyre ever like it enchanted your ear.
Not the lute, or the flute, or the quaint clarionet,
For deep richness of tone could compete with it yet!
III
It is fire to the mind—it is wine to the heart—It is melting and bold—it is Nature and Art!
Name one other language, renowned though it be,
That so wakes up the soul, as the storm the deep sea!
IV
For its bards—there are none in cell, cottage, or hall,In the climes of the haughty Iberian and Gaul,
Who despair not to match them—their marvelful tones
Might have won down the gods of old Greece from their thrones!
61
V
Then it bears back your spirit on History's wingsTo the glories of Erin's high heroes and kings,
When the proud name of Gael swelled from ocean to shore,
Ere the days of the Saxon and Northman of yore.
VI
Is the heart of the land of this tongue undecayed?Shall the Sceptre and Sword sway again as they swayed?
Shall our Kings ride in triumph o'er war-fields again,
Till the sun veils his face from the hosts of the slain?
VII
O, then shall our halls with the Gaelic resound,In the notes of the harp and the claoirseach half-drowned,
And the banquet be spread, and the chess-board all night
Test the skill of our Chiefs, and their power for the fight.
VIII
Then our silken-robed minstrels, a silver-haired band,Shall rewake the young slumbering blood of the land,
And our bards no more plaintive on Banba's dark wrongs,
Shall then fill two worlds with the fame of their songs.
IX
And the gates of our Brughaidhs again shall stand wide,And their cead mile failte woo all withinside,
And the travel-tired wayfarer find by the hearth
Cheery Plenty where now, alas! all is Black Dearth.
62
X
The down-trodden Poor shall meet kindness and care,And the Rich be as happy to spare and to share!
And the Mighty shall rule unassailed in their might,
And all voices be blent in one choir of delight!
XI
The bright Golden Era that poets have sungShall revive, and be chaunted anew in our tongue;
The skies shall rain Love on the land's breadth and length,
And the grain rise like armies battalioned in strength.
XII
The priest and the noble, the serf and his lord,Shall sustain one another with word and with sword—
The Learned shall gain more than gold by their lore,
And all Fate took away she shall trebly restore.
XIII
Like rays round a centre, like stars round the moon,Like Ocean round Earth, when it heaves in the noon,
Shall our chiefs, a resplendent and panoplied ring,
In invincible valour encircle their King.
XIV
And thou, O Grand Language, please Heaven, shalt winProud release from the tomb thou art sepulchred in.
In palace, in shieling, on highway, on hill,
Shalt thou roll as a river, or glide as a rill!
XV
The story of Eiré shall shine forth in thee;Thou shall sound as a horn from the lips of the Free;
And our priests in their forefathers' temples once more
Shall through Thee call on men to rejoice and adore!
63
WELCOME TO THE PRINCE OF OSSORY.
I
Lift . . . up the drooping head,Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla-Kierin!
Her blood yet boundeth red
Through the myriad veins of Erin.
No! no! she is not dead,
Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla-Kierin!
Lo! she redeems
The lost years of bygone ages—
New glory beams
Henceforth on her History's pages!
Her long penitential Night of Sorrow
Yields at length before the reddening Morrow!
II
You . . . heard the thunder-shout,Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla-Kierin!
Saw lightning streaming out
O'er the purple hills of Erin!
And bide you yet in doubt,
Meehal Dubh Mac-Goilla-Kierin?
O! doubt no more!
Through Ulidia's voiceful valleys,
On . . . Shannon's shore,
Freedom's burning spirit rallies,
Earth and Heaven unite in sign and omen
Bodeful of the downfall of our foemen.
64
III
Thurot commands the North,Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla-Kierin!
Louth sends her heroes forth
To hew down the foes of Erin!
Swords gleam in field and gorth,
Up! up! my friend!
There's a glorious goal before us;
Here will we blend
Speech and soul in this grand chorus—
“By the Heaven that gives us one more token,
We will die, or see our shackles broken!”
IV
Charles leaves the Grampian hills,Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla-Kierin!
Charles, whose appeal yet thrills,
Like a clarion-blast, through Erin.
Charles, he whose image fills
Thy soul, too, Mac-Giolla-Kierin!
Ten . . . thousand strong,
His clans move in brilliant order,
Sure that e'er long
He will march them o'er the Border,
While the dark-haired daughters of the Highlands
Crown with wreaths the Monarch of three islands!
V
Fill, then, the ale-cup high,Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla-Kierin!
Fill!—the bright hour is nigh
That shall give her own to Erin!
65
Even as you, Mac-Giolla-Kierin,
Henceforth shall sing.
Hark!—O'er heathery hill and dell come
Shouts for the King!
Welcome, our Deliverer! Welcome!
Thousands this glad night, ere turning bedward,
Will, with us, drink “Victory to Charles Edward!”
LOVE BALLAD
Lonely from my home I come,
To cast myself upon your tomb,
And to weep.
Lonely from my lonesome home,
My lonesome house of grief and gloom,
While I keep
Vigil often all night long,
For your dear, dear sake.
Praying many a prayer so wrong
That my heart would break!
To cast myself upon your tomb,
And to weep.
Lonely from my lonesome home,
My lonesome house of grief and gloom,
While I keep
Vigil often all night long,
For your dear, dear sake.
Praying many a prayer so wrong
That my heart would break!
Gladly, O my blighted flower,
Sweet Apple of my bosom's Tree,
Would I now
Stretch me in your dark death-bower
Beside your corpse, and lovingly
Kiss your brow.
But we'll meet ere many a day,
Never more to part,
For even now I feel the clay
Gathering round my heart.
Sweet Apple of my bosom's Tree,
Would I now
Stretch me in your dark death-bower
Beside your corpse, and lovingly
Kiss your brow.
But we'll meet ere many a day,
Never more to part,
For even now I feel the clay
Gathering round my heart.
66
In my soul doth darkness dwell,
And through its dreary winter caves
Ever flows,
Ever flows with moaning swell,
One ebbless flood of many Waves
Which are Woes.
Death, love, has me in his lures,
But that grieves not me,
So my ghost may meet with yours
On yon moon-loved lea.
And through its dreary winter caves
Ever flows,
Ever flows with moaning swell,
One ebbless flood of many Waves
Which are Woes.
Death, love, has me in his lures,
But that grieves not me,
So my ghost may meet with yours
On yon moon-loved lea.
When the neighbours near my cot
Believe me sunk in slumber deep,
I arise—
For, O! 'tis a weary lot,
This watching aye, and wooing sleep
With hot eyes—
I arise, and seek your grave,
And pour forth my tears;
While the winds that nightly rave,
Whistle in mine ears.
Believe me sunk in slumber deep,
I arise—
For, O! 'tis a weary lot,
This watching aye, and wooing sleep
With hot eyes—
I arise, and seek your grave,
And pour forth my tears;
While the winds that nightly rave,
Whistle in mine ears.
Often turns my memory back
To that dear evening in the dell,
When we twain
Sheltered by the sloe-bush black,
Sat, laughed, and talked, while thick sleet fell,
And cold rain.
Thanks to God! no guilty leaven
Dashed our childish mirth.
You rejoice for this in Heaven,
I not less on earth!
To that dear evening in the dell,
When we twain
Sheltered by the sloe-bush black,
Sat, laughed, and talked, while thick sleet fell,
And cold rain.
Thanks to God! no guilty leaven
Dashed our childish mirth.
You rejoice for this in Heaven,
I not less on earth!
Love! the priests feel wroth with me,
To find I shrine your image still
In my breast.
Since you are gone eternally,
And your fair frame lies in the chill
Grave at rest;
But true Love outlives the shroud,
Knows not check nor change,
And beyond Time's world of Cloud
Still must reign and range.
To find I shrine your image still
In my breast.
67
And your fair frame lies in the chill
Grave at rest;
But true Love outlives the shroud,
Knows not check nor change,
And beyond Time's world of Cloud
Still must reign and range.
Well may now your kindred mourn
The threats, the wiles, the cruel arts,
They long tried
On the child they left forlorn!
They broke the tenderest heart of hearts,
And she died.
Curse upon the love of show!
Curse on Pride and Greed!
They would wed you “high”—and woe!
Here behold their meed!
The threats, the wiles, the cruel arts,
They long tried
On the child they left forlorn!
They broke the tenderest heart of hearts,
And she died.
Curse upon the love of show!
Curse on Pride and Greed!
They would wed you “high”—and woe!
Here behold their meed!
OWEN REILLY: A KEEN.
I
Oh! lay aside the flax, and put away the wheel,And sing with me, but not in gladness—
The heart that's in my breast is like to break with sadness—
God, God alone knows what I feel!
II
There's a lone, a vacant place beside the cheerless hearth,A spot my eyes are straining after—
Oh! never more from thence will ring my boy's light laughter,
The outgushing of his young heart's mirth!
68
III
No more will his hands clasp the cross before the shrineOf Christ's immaculate Virgin Mother.
Never, oh! never more will he pour forth another
Prayer for himself, or me, or mine!
IV
The young men on the mountain sides will miss—miss long,The fleetest hurler of their number.
Powerless, alas! to-night in death's unbroken slumber,
Lies he, the Lithe of Limb, the Strong!
V
Oh! raise the keen, young women, o'er my darling's grave—Oh! kneel in prayer o'er his low dwelling;
At break of day this morn there knelt his mother, telling
Her beads for him she could not save!
VI
Oh! plant, young men, the Shamrock near my darling's head,And raise the hardy fir tree over
The spot: the strange wayfarer then will know they cover
My Oweneen's dark burial-bed!
VII
Heard ye not, yestereven, the Banshee deploreHis death on heath-clad Killenvallen?
“Ul-ullalu!” she cried, “a green young oak is fallen,
For Owen Reilly lives no more!”
69
VIII
There stands a lone grey hazel-tree in Glen-na-ree,Whose green leaves put buds forth and wither.
I sigh and groan as often as I wander thither,
For I am like that lone grey tree!
IX
My four belovèd sons, where are they? Have they notLeft me a wreck here all as lonely?
They withered and they died! I, their old mother, only
Remain to weep and wail my lot!
X
But I will follow them now soon; for oft amidThe storm I hear their voices calling,
“Come home!”—and in my dreams I see the cold clay falling
Heavily on my coffin-lid!
XI
When the dark night films o'er my eyes, oh! let me beLaid out by Aileen Bawn Devany;
And let the lights around me at my wake be as many
As the white hairs yet left to me!
XII
See that the tall white slender gowans blow and bloomIn the grass round my head-stone brightly;
I would not have the little orphan daisy nightly
Mourning in solitude and gloom!
XIII
Let there be shrieking on the hill and in the glen,Throughout the length and breadth of Galway's
Green land! Kathleen Dubh Reilly has herelf been always
The Queen of Keeners; mourn her then!
70
XIV
Lights will be seen to dance along Carn Corra's height,And through the burial-field; but follow
Them not, young men and women! for, o'er hill and hollow
They will but lure to Death and Night!
XV
But come ye to my grave when, in the days of May,The gladsome sun and skies grow warmer,
And say, “Here sleeps Kathleen, where tempest cannot harm her,
Soft be her narrow bed of clay!”
XVI
And count your beads, and pray, “Rest her poor soul, O God!She willed no ill to breathing mortal—
Grant her, then, Thou, a place within Heaven's blessèd portal,
Now that her bones lie in the sod!”
LAMENT FOR OWEN ROE O'NEILL.
O mourn, Erin, mourn!
He is lost, he is dead,
By whom thy proudest flag was borne,
Thy bravest heroes led!
The night winds are uttering
Their orison of woe,
The raven flaps his darkling wing
O'er the grave of Owen Roe,
Of him who should have been thy King,
The noble Owen Roe!
He is lost, he is dead,
By whom thy proudest flag was borne,
Thy bravest heroes led!
The night winds are uttering
Their orison of woe,
71
O'er the grave of Owen Roe,
Of him who should have been thy King,
The noble Owen Roe!
Alas, hapless land,
It is ever thus with thee;
The eternal destinies withstand
Thy struggle to be free.
One after one thy champions fall,
Thy valiant men lie low,
And now sleeps under shroud and pall
The gallant Owen Roe,
The worthiest warrior of them all,
The princely Owen Roe!
It is ever thus with thee;
The eternal destinies withstand
Thy struggle to be free.
One after one thy champions fall,
Thy valiant men lie low,
And now sleeps under shroud and pall
The gallant Owen Roe,
The worthiest warrior of them all,
The princely Owen Roe!
Where was sword, where was soul
Like to his beneath the skies?
Ah, many a century must roll
Ere such a chief shall rise!
I saw him in the battle's shock,
Tremendous was his blow,
As smites the sledge the anvil block
His blade smote the foe.
He was a tower; a human rock
Was mighty Owen Roe!
Like to his beneath the skies?
Ah, many a century must roll
Ere such a chief shall rise!
I saw him in the battle's shock,
Tremendous was his blow,
As smites the sledge the anvil block
His blade smote the foe.
He was a tower; a human rock
Was mighty Owen Roe!
Woe to us! Guilt and wrong
Triumph, while to our grief
We raise the keen, the funeral song
Above our fallen chief.
The proud usurper sways with power,
He rules in state and show,
While we lament our fallen tower,
Our leader, Owen Roe:
While we, like slaves, bow down and cower,
And weep for Owen Roe.
Triumph, while to our grief
We raise the keen, the funeral song
Above our fallen chief.
The proud usurper sways with power,
He rules in state and show,
While we lament our fallen tower,
Our leader, Owen Roe:
While we, like slaves, bow down and cower,
And weep for Owen Roe.
72
But the high will of Heaven
Be fulfilled evermore!
What tho' it leaveth us bereaven,
And stricken to the core.
Amid our groans, amid our tears,
We still feel and know
That we shall meet in after years
The sainted Owen Roe:
In after years, in brighter spheres,
Our glorious Owen Roe!
Be fulfilled evermore!
What tho' it leaveth us bereaven,
And stricken to the core.
Amid our groans, amid our tears,
We still feel and know
That we shall meet in after years
The sainted Owen Roe:
In after years, in brighter spheres,
Our glorious Owen Roe!
THE FAIR HILLS OF EIRÈ, O!
Take a blessing from my heart to the land of my birth,
And the fair hills of Eirè, O!
And to all that yet survive of Eibhear's tribe on earth,
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
In that land so delightful the wild thrush's lay
Seems to pour a lament forth for Eirè's decay.
Alas, alas! why pine I a thousand miles away
From the fair hills of Eirè, O!
And the fair hills of Eirè, O!
And to all that yet survive of Eibhear's tribe on earth,
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
In that land so delightful the wild thrush's lay
Seems to pour a lament forth for Eirè's decay.
Alas, alas! why pine I a thousand miles away
From the fair hills of Eirè, O!
The soil is rich and soft, the air is mild and bland,
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
Her barest rock is greener to me than this rude land;
O, the fair hills of Eirè, O!
Her woods are tall and straight, grove rising over grove,
Trees flourish in her glens below and on her heights above;
Ah! in heart and in soul I shall ever, ever love
The fair hills of Eirè, O!
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
Her barest rock is greener to me than this rude land;
O, the fair hills of Eirè, O!
Her woods are tall and straight, grove rising over grove,
Trees flourish in her glens below and on her heights above;
Ah! in heart and in soul I shall ever, ever love
The fair hills of Eirè, O!
73
A noble tribe, moreover, are the now hapless Gael,
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
A tribe in battle's hour unused to shrink or fail,
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
For this is my lament in bitterness outpoured
To see them slain or scattered by the Saxon sword;
O, woe of woes! to see a foreign spoiler horde
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
A tribe in battle's hour unused to shrink or fail,
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
For this is my lament in bitterness outpoured
To see them slain or scattered by the Saxon sword;
O, woe of woes! to see a foreign spoiler horde
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
Broad and tall rise the cruachs in the golden morning glow
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
O'er her smooth grass for ever sweet cream and honey flow
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
Oh, I long, I am pining, again to behold
The land that belongs to the brave Gael of old!
Far dearer to my heart than a gift of gems or gold
Are the fair hills of Eirè, O!
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
O'er her smooth grass for ever sweet cream and honey flow
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
Oh, I long, I am pining, again to behold
The land that belongs to the brave Gael of old!
Far dearer to my heart than a gift of gems or gold
Are the fair hills of Eirè, O!
The dewdrops lie bright 'mid the grass and yellow corn
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
The sweet-scented apples blush redly in the morn
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
The water-cress and sorrel fill the vales below,
The streamlets are hushed till the evening breezes blow,
While the waves of the Suir, noble river! ever flow
'Neath the fair hills of Eirè, O!
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
The sweet-scented apples blush redly in the morn
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
The water-cress and sorrel fill the vales below,
The streamlets are hushed till the evening breezes blow,
While the waves of the Suir, noble river! ever flow
'Neath the fair hills of Eirè, O!
A fruitful clime is Eirè, through valley, meadow, plain,
And the fair hills of Eirè, O!
The very bread of life is in the yellow grain
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
Far dearer unto me than the tones music yields
Is the lowing of the kine and the calves in her fields,
In the sunlight that shone long ago on the shields
Of the Gaels, on the fair hills of Eirè, O!
And the fair hills of Eirè, O!
The very bread of life is in the yellow grain
On the fair hills of Eirè, O!
Far dearer unto me than the tones music yields
Is the lowing of the kine and the calves in her fields,
In the sunlight that shone long ago on the shields
Of the Gaels, on the fair hills of Eirè, O!
74
THE GERALDINE'S DAUGHTER.
A beauty all stainless, a pearl of a maiden,
Has plunged me in trouble, and wounded my heart;
With sorrow and gloom is my soul overladen,
An anguish is there that will never depart.
I would voyage to Egypt across the deep water,
Nor care about bidding dear Eirè farewell,
So I only might gaze on the Geraldine's daughter,
And sit by her side in some green, pleasant dell!
Has plunged me in trouble, and wounded my heart;
With sorrow and gloom is my soul overladen,
An anguish is there that will never depart.
I would voyage to Egypt across the deep water,
Nor care about bidding dear Eirè farewell,
So I only might gaze on the Geraldine's daughter,
And sit by her side in some green, pleasant dell!
Her curling locks wave round her figure of lightness,
All dazzling and long, like the purest of gold;
Her blue eyes resemble twin stars in their brightness,
And her brow is like marble or wax to behold.
The radiance of heaven illumines her features
Where the snows and the rose have erected their throne;
It would seem that the sun had forgotten all creatures,
To shine on the Geraldine's daughter alone.
All dazzling and long, like the purest of gold;
Her blue eyes resemble twin stars in their brightness,
And her brow is like marble or wax to behold.
The radiance of heaven illumines her features
Where the snows and the rose have erected their throne;
It would seem that the sun had forgotten all creatures,
To shine on the Geraldine's daughter alone.
Her bosom is swan-white, her waist smooth and slender;
Her speech is like music, so sweet and so fair;
The feelings that glow in her noble heart lend her
A mien and a majesty lovely to see.
Her lips, red as berries, but riper than any,
Would kiss away even a sorrow like mine!
No wonder such heroes and noblemen many
Should cross the blue ocean to kneel at her shrine.
Her speech is like music, so sweet and so fair;
The feelings that glow in her noble heart lend her
A mien and a majesty lovely to see.
Her lips, red as berries, but riper than any,
Would kiss away even a sorrow like mine!
No wonder such heroes and noblemen many
Should cross the blue ocean to kneel at her shrine.
She is sprung from the Geraldine race, the great Grecians,
Niece of Mileadh's sons of the Valorous Bands,
Those heroes, the seed of the olden Phœnicians,
Though now trodden down, without fame, without lands;
Of her ancestors flourished the Barrys and Powers,
To the Lords of Bunratty she, too, is allied,
And not a proud noble near Cashel's high towers
But is kin to this maiden, the Geraldine's pride.
Niece of Mileadh's sons of the Valorous Bands,
Those heroes, the seed of the olden Phœnicians,
Though now trodden down, without fame, without lands;
75
To the Lords of Bunratty she, too, is allied,
And not a proud noble near Cashel's high towers
But is kin to this maiden, the Geraldine's pride.
Of Saxon or Gael there is none to excel in
Her wisdom, her features, her figure, this fair;
In all she surpasses the far-famous Helen,
Whose beauty drove thousands to death and despair.
Whoe'er could but gaze on her aspect so noble
Would feel from thenceforward all anguish depart;
Yet for me 'tis, alas! my worst woe and my trouble
That her image must always abide in my heart!
Her wisdom, her features, her figure, this fair;
In all she surpasses the far-famous Helen,
Whose beauty drove thousands to death and despair.
Whoe'er could but gaze on her aspect so noble
Would feel from thenceforward all anguish depart;
Yet for me 'tis, alas! my worst woe and my trouble
That her image must always abide in my heart!
A LULLABY.
O, hushaby, baby! why weepest thou?
The diadem yet shall adorn thy brow,
And the jewels thy sires had, long agone,
In the regal ages of Eoghan and Conn,
Shall all be thine.
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
My sorrow, my woe, to see thy tears,
Pierce into my heart like spears.
The diadem yet shall adorn thy brow,
And the jewels thy sires had, long agone,
In the regal ages of Eoghan and Conn,
Shall all be thine.
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
My sorrow, my woe, to see thy tears,
Pierce into my heart like spears.
I'll give thee that glorious apple of gold
The three fair goddesses sought of old,
I'll give thee the diamond sceptre of Pan,
And the rod with which Moses, that holiest man,
Wrought marvels divine;
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
The three fair goddesses sought of old,
I'll give thee the diamond sceptre of Pan,
And the rod with which Moses, that holiest man,
Wrought marvels divine;
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
76
I'll give thee that courser, fleet on the plains,
That courser with golden saddle and reins,
Which Falvey rode, the mariner-lord,
When the blood of the Danes, at Cashel-na-Nord,
Flowed like to dark wine;
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
That courser with golden saddle and reins,
Which Falvey rode, the mariner-lord,
When the blood of the Danes, at Cashel-na-Nord,
Flowed like to dark wine;
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
I'll give thee the dazzling sword was worn
By Brian on Cluan-tarava's morn,
And the bow of Murrough, whose shaft shot gleams
That lightened as when the arrowy beams
Of the noon-sun shine;
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
By Brian on Cluan-tarava's morn,
And the bow of Murrough, whose shaft shot gleams
That lightened as when the arrowy beams
Of the noon-sun shine;
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
And the hound that was wont to speed amain
From Cashel's rock to Bunratty's plain,
And the eagle from gloomy Aherlow,
And the hawk of Skellig; all these I bestow
On thee and thy line;
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
From Cashel's rock to Bunratty's plain,
And the eagle from gloomy Aherlow,
And the hawk of Skellig; all these I bestow
On thee and thy line;
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
And the golden fleece that Jason bore
To Hellas' hero-peopled shore,
And the steel that Cuchullin bought of yore,
With cloak, and necklet, and golden store,
And meadows and kine;
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
To Hellas' hero-peopled shore,
And the steel that Cuchullin bought of yore,
With cloak, and necklet, and golden store,
And meadows and kine;
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
And Conal's unpierceable shirt of mail,
And the shield of Nish, the prince of the Gael,
These twain for thee, my babe, shall I win,
With the flashing spears of Achilles and Finn,
Each high as a pine;
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
And the shield of Nish, the prince of the Gael,
These twain for thee, my babe, shall I win,
With the flashing spears of Achilles and Finn,
Each high as a pine;
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
77
And the swords of Diarmid and fierce Fingal,
The slayers on heath and (alas!) in hall;
And the charmèd helmet that Oscar wore
When he left MacTreoin to welter in gore,
Subdued and supine;
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
The slayers on heath and (alas!) in hall;
And the charmèd helmet that Oscar wore
When he left MacTreoin to welter in gore,
Subdued and supine;
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
And the jewel wherewith Queen Eofa proved
The value and faith of the hero she loved;
The magic jewel that nerved his arm
To work his enemies deadly harm
On plain and on brine;
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
The value and faith of the hero she loved;
The magic jewel that nerved his arm
To work his enemies deadly harm
On plain and on brine;
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
And the wondrous cloak renowned in song
The enchanted cloak of the dark Dubhlong,
By whose powerful aid he battled mid
The thick of his foes, unseen and hid,
This, too, shall be thine;
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
The enchanted cloak of the dark Dubhlong,
By whose powerful aid he battled mid
The thick of his foes, unseen and hid,
This, too, shall be thine;
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
The last, not least, of thy weapons, my son,
Shall be the glittering glaive of O'Dunn,
The gift from Ænghus' powerful hands,
The hewer-down of the Fenian bands,
With edge so fine!
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
Shall be the glittering glaive of O'Dunn,
The gift from Ænghus' powerful hands,
The hewer-down of the Fenian bands,
With edge so fine!
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
Even Hebe, who fills the nectar up
For Love, in his luminous crystal cup,
Shall pour thee out a wine in thy dreams,
As bright as thy poet-father's themes
When inspired by the wine;
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
For Love, in his luminous crystal cup,
Shall pour thee out a wine in thy dreams,
As bright as thy poet-father's themes
When inspired by the wine;
O, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
78
And silken robes, and sweet, soft cates
Shalt thou wear, and eat beyond thy mates—
Ah, see, here comes thy mother Moirin!
She, too, has the soul of an Irish queen:
She scorns to repine!
Then, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
My sorrow, my woe, to see thy tears,
Pierce into my heart like spears.
Shalt thou wear, and eat beyond thy mates—
Ah, see, here comes thy mother Moirin!
She, too, has the soul of an Irish queen:
She scorns to repine!
Then, hushaby, hushaby, child of mine!
My sorrow, my woe, to see thy tears,
Pierce into my heart like spears.
THE RUINS OF DONEGAL CASTLE.
O mournful, O forsaken pile,
What desolation dost thou dree!
How tarnished is the beauty that was thine erewhile,
Thou mansion of chaste melody!
What desolation dost thou dree!
How tarnished is the beauty that was thine erewhile,
Thou mansion of chaste melody!
Demolished lie thy towers and halls;
A dark, unsightly, earthen mound
Defaces the pure whiteness of thy shining walls,
And solitude doth gird thee round.
A dark, unsightly, earthen mound
Defaces the pure whiteness of thy shining walls,
And solitude doth gird thee round.
Fair fort! thine hour has come at length,
Thine older glory has gone by.
Lo! far beyond thy noble battlements of strength,
Thy corner-stones all scattered lie!
Thine older glory has gone by.
Lo! far beyond thy noble battlements of strength,
Thy corner-stones all scattered lie!
Where now, O rival of the gold
Emania, be thy wine-cups all?
Alas! for these thou now hast nothing but the cold,
Cold stream that from the heavens doth fall!
Emania, be thy wine-cups all?
Alas! for these thou now hast nothing but the cold,
Cold stream that from the heavens doth fall!
79
How often from thy turrets high,
Thy purple turrets, have we seen
Long lines of glittering ships, when summer-time drew nigh,
With masts and sails of snow-white sheen!
Thy purple turrets, have we seen
Long lines of glittering ships, when summer-time drew nigh,
With masts and sails of snow-white sheen!
How often seen, when gazing round,
From thy tall towers, the hunting trains,
The blood-enlivening chase, the horseman and the hound,
Thou fastness of a hundred plains!
From thy tall towers, the hunting trains,
The blood-enlivening chase, the horseman and the hound,
Thou fastness of a hundred plains!
How often to thy banquets bright
We have seen the strong-armed Gaels repair,
And when the feast was over, once again unite
For battle, in thy bass-court fair!
We have seen the strong-armed Gaels repair,
And when the feast was over, once again unite
For battle, in thy bass-court fair!
Alas! for thee, thou fort forlorn!
Alas! for thy low, lost estate!
It is my woe of woes this melancholy morn,
To see thee left thus desolate!
Alas! for thy low, lost estate!
It is my woe of woes this melancholy morn,
To see thee left thus desolate!
Oh! there hath come of Connell's race
A many and many a gallant chief,
Who, if he saw thee now, thou of the once glad face
Could not dissemble his deep grief.
A many and many a gallant chief,
Who, if he saw thee now, thou of the once glad face
Could not dissemble his deep grief.
Could Manus of the lofty soul
Behold thee as this day thou art,
Thou of the regal towers! what bitter, bitter dole,
What agony would rend his heart!
Behold thee as this day thou art,
Thou of the regal towers! what bitter, bitter dole,
What agony would rend his heart!
He brought upon thee all this woe,
Thou of the fair-proportioned walls,
Lest thou shouldst ever yield a shelter to the foe,
Shouldst house the black, ferocious Galls!
Thou of the fair-proportioned walls,
Lest thou shouldst ever yield a shelter to the foe,
Shouldst house the black, ferocious Galls!
80
Shouldst yet become in saddest truth
A Dun-na-Gall—the strangers own.
For this cause only, stronghold of the Gaelic youth,
Lie thy majestic towers o'erthrown.
A Dun-na-Gall—the strangers own.
For this cause only, stronghold of the Gaelic youth,
Lie thy majestic towers o'erthrown.
It is a drear, a dismal sight,
This of thy ruin and decay,
Now that our kings, and bards, and men of mark and might,
Are nameless exiles far away!
This of thy ruin and decay,
Now that our kings, and bards, and men of mark and might,
Are nameless exiles far away!
Yet, better thou shouldst fall, meseems,
By thine own king of many thrones,
Than that the truculent Galls should rear around thy streams
Dry mounds and circles of great stones.
By thine own king of many thrones,
Than that the truculent Galls should rear around thy streams
Dry mounds and circles of great stones.
As doth in many a desperate case
The surgeon by the malady,
So hath, O shield and bulwark of great Coffey's race,
Thy royal master done by thee!
The surgeon by the malady,
So hath, O shield and bulwark of great Coffey's race,
Thy royal master done by thee!
A FAREWELL TO PATRICK SARSFIELD, EARL OF LUCAN.
Farewell, O Patrick Sarsfield, may luck be on your path!
Your camp is broken up, your work is marred for years;
But you go to kindle into flame the King of France's wrath,
Though you leave sick Eirè in tears—
Och, ochone!
Your camp is broken up, your work is marred for years;
But you go to kindle into flame the King of France's wrath,
Though you leave sick Eirè in tears—
Och, ochone!
81
May the white sun and moon rain glory on your head,
All hero as you are, and holy man of God!
To you the Saxons owe a many an hour of dread
In the land you have often trod—
Och, ochone!
All hero as you are, and holy man of God!
To you the Saxons owe a many an hour of dread
In the land you have often trod—
Och, ochone!
The Son of Mary guard you, and bless you to the end!
'Tis altered is the time when your legions were astir,
When at Cullen you were hailed as conqueror and friend,
And you crossed Narrow-water, near Birr—
Och, ochone!
'Tis altered is the time when your legions were astir,
When at Cullen you were hailed as conqueror and friend,
And you crossed Narrow-water, near Birr—
Och, ochone!
I'll journey to the north, over mount, moor, and wave;
'Twas there I first beheld drawn up, in file and line,
The brilliant Irish hosts; they were bravest of the brave,
But, alas, they scorned to combine—
Och, ochone!
'Twas there I first beheld drawn up, in file and line,
The brilliant Irish hosts; they were bravest of the brave,
But, alas, they scorned to combine—
Och, ochone!
I saw the royal Boyne when his billows flashed with blood;
I fought at Graine Og, when a thousand horsemen fell;
On the dark empurpled plain of Aughrim, too, I stood,
On the plain by Tubberdonny's well—
Och, ochone!
I fought at Graine Og, when a thousand horsemen fell;
On the dark empurpled plain of Aughrim, too, I stood,
On the plain by Tubberdonny's well—
Och, ochone!
To the heroes of Limerick, the city of the fights,
Be my best blessing borne on the wings of the air;
We had card-playing there o'er our camp fires at night,
And the Word of Life, too, and prayer—
Och, ochone!
Be my best blessing borne on the wings of the air;
We had card-playing there o'er our camp fires at night,
And the Word of Life, too, and prayer—
Och, ochone!
But for you, Londonderry, may plague smite and slay
Your people, may ruin desolate you stone by stone!
Thro' you there's many a gallant youth lies coffinless to-day,
With the winds for mourners alone—
Och, ochone!
Your people, may ruin desolate you stone by stone!
Thro' you there's many a gallant youth lies coffinless to-day,
With the winds for mourners alone—
Och, ochone!
82
I clomb the high hill on a fair summer noon,
And saw the Saxons muster, clad in armour blinding bright:
Oh, rage withheld my hand, or gunsman and dragoon
Should have supped with Satan that night!—
Och, ochone!
And saw the Saxons muster, clad in armour blinding bright:
Oh, rage withheld my hand, or gunsman and dragoon
Should have supped with Satan that night!—
Och, ochone!
How many a noble soldier, how many a cavalier,
Careered along this road, seven fleeting weeks ago,
With silver-hilted sword, with matchlock and with spear,
Who now, mavrone! lies low—
Och, ochone!
Careered along this road, seven fleeting weeks ago,
With silver-hilted sword, with matchlock and with spear,
Who now, mavrone! lies low—
Och, ochone!
All hail to thee, Ben Eder! but ah, on thy brow
I see a limping soldier, who battled and who bled
Last year in the cause of the Stuart, though now
The worthy is begging his bread—
Och, ochone!
I see a limping soldier, who battled and who bled
Last year in the cause of the Stuart, though now
The worthy is begging his bread—
Och, ochone!
And Diarmid, O Diarmid! he perished in the strife;
His head it was spiked upon a halberd high;
His colours they were trampled: he had no chance of life
If the Lord God Himself stood by!—
Och, ochone!
His head it was spiked upon a halberd high;
His colours they were trampled: he had no chance of life
If the Lord God Himself stood by!—
Och, ochone!
But most, O my woe! I lament and lament
For the ten valiant heroes who dwelt nigh the Nore,
And my three blessed brothers; they left me and went
To the wars, and returned no more—
Och, ochone!
For the ten valiant heroes who dwelt nigh the Nore,
And my three blessed brothers; they left me and went
To the wars, and returned no more—
Och, ochone!
On the bridge of the Boyne was our first overthrow;
By Slavery the next, for we battled without rest;
The third was at Aughrim. O Eirè! thy woe
Is a sword in my bleeding breast—
Och, ochone!
By Slavery the next, for we battled without rest;
The third was at Aughrim. O Eirè! thy woe
Is a sword in my bleeding breast—
Och, ochone!
83
Oh, the roof above our heads, it was barbarously fired,
While the black Orange guns blazed and bellowed around!
And as volley followed volley, Colonel Mitchel inquired
Whether Lucan still stood his ground?—
Och, ochone!
While the black Orange guns blazed and bellowed around!
And as volley followed volley, Colonel Mitchel inquired
Whether Lucan still stood his ground?—
Och, ochone!
But O'Kelly still remains, to defy and to toil,
He has memories that hell won't permit him to forget,
And a sword that will make the blue blood flow like oil
Upon many an Aughrim yet!—
Och, ochone!
He has memories that hell won't permit him to forget,
And a sword that will make the blue blood flow like oil
Upon many an Aughrim yet!—
Och, ochone!
And I never shall believe that my fatherland can fall
With the Burkes, and the Decies, and the son of Royal James,
And Talbot, the captain, and Sarsfield above all,
The beloved of damsels and dames—
Och, ochone!
With the Burkes, and the Decies, and the son of Royal James,
And Talbot, the captain, and Sarsfield above all,
The beloved of damsels and dames—
Och, ochone!
THE SONG OF GLADNESS.
It was on a balmy evening, as June was departing fast,
That alone, and meditating in grief on the times a-past,
I wandered through the gloomsome shades
Of bosky Aherlow,
A wilderness of glens and glades,
When suddenly a thrilling strain of song
Broke forth upon the air in one incessant flow;
Sweeter it seemed to me (both voice and word)
Than harmony of the harp, or carol of the bird,
For it foretold fair Freedom's triumph, and the doom of Wrong.
That alone, and meditating in grief on the times a-past,
I wandered through the gloomsome shades
Of bosky Aherlow,
A wilderness of glens and glades,
84
Broke forth upon the air in one incessant flow;
Sweeter it seemed to me (both voice and word)
Than harmony of the harp, or carol of the bird,
For it foretold fair Freedom's triumph, and the doom of Wrong.
The celestial hymns and anthems, that far o'er the sounding sea
Come to Erin from the temples of bright-bosomed Italy;
The music which from hill and rath
The playful fairy race
Pour on the wandering warrior's path,
Bewildering him with wonder and delight,
Or the cuckoo's full note from some green sunless place,
Some sunken thicket in a stilly wood,
Had less than that rich melody made mine Irish blood
Bound in its veins for ecstasy, or given my soul new might!
Come to Erin from the temples of bright-bosomed Italy;
The music which from hill and rath
The playful fairy race
Pour on the wandering warrior's path,
Bewildering him with wonder and delight,
Or the cuckoo's full note from some green sunless place,
Some sunken thicket in a stilly wood,
Had less than that rich melody made mine Irish blood
Bound in its veins for ecstasy, or given my soul new might!
And while as I stood I listened, behold, thousand swarm of bees,
All arrayed in gay gold armour, shone red through the dusky trees;
I felt a boding in my soul,
A truthful boding, too,
That Erin's days of gloom and dole
Will soon be but remembered as a dream,
And the olden glory show eclipsèd by the new.
Where the Usurper then be? Banished far!
Where his vile hireling henchmen? Slaughtered all in war!
For blood shall rill down every hill, and blacken every stream.
All arrayed in gay gold armour, shone red through the dusky trees;
I felt a boding in my soul,
A truthful boding, too,
That Erin's days of gloom and dole
Will soon be but remembered as a dream,
And the olden glory show eclipsèd by the new.
Where the Usurper then be? Banished far!
Where his vile hireling henchmen? Slaughtered all in war!
For blood shall rill down every hill, and blacken every stream.
85
I am Heffernan of Shronehill: my land mourns in thraldom long;
And I see but one sad sight here, the weak trampled by the strong,
Yet if to-morrow underneath
A burial-stone I lay,
Clasped in the skeleton arms of death,
And if a pilgrim wind again should waft
Over my noteless grave the song I heard to-day,
I would spring up revivified, reborn,
A living soul again, as on my birthday morn,
Ay! even though coffined, over-earthed, tombed-in, and epitaphed!
And I see but one sad sight here, the weak trampled by the strong,
Yet if to-morrow underneath
A burial-stone I lay,
Clasped in the skeleton arms of death,
And if a pilgrim wind again should waft
Over my noteless grave the song I heard to-day,
I would spring up revivified, reborn,
A living soul again, as on my birthday morn,
Ay! even though coffined, over-earthed, tombed-in, and epitaphed!
ROISIN DUBH.
(An Earlier Version of “Dark Rosaleen”)
Since last night's star, afar, afar,
Heaven saw my speed;
I seemed to fly o'er mountains high
On magic steed.
I dashed though Erne! The world may learn
The cause from love:
For light or sun shone on me none,
But Roisin Dubh!
Heaven saw my speed;
I seemed to fly o'er mountains high
On magic steed.
I dashed though Erne! The world may learn
The cause from love:
For light or sun shone on me none,
But Roisin Dubh!
O Roisin mine, droop not, nor pine;
Look not so dull!
The Pope from Rome shall send thee home
A pardon full;
The priests are near; O do not fear!
From heaven above
They come to thee, they come to free
My Roisin Dubh!
Look not so dull!
The Pope from Rome shall send thee home
A pardon full;
86
From heaven above
They come to thee, they come to free
My Roisin Dubh!
Thee have I loved, for thee have roved
O'er land and sea;
My heart was sore, and ever more
It beat for thee;
I could not weep, I could not sleep,
I could not move!
For night or day, I dreamed alway
Of Roisin Dubh!
O'er land and sea;
My heart was sore, and ever more
It beat for thee;
I could not weep, I could not sleep,
I could not move!
For night or day, I dreamed alway
Of Roisin Dubh!
Thro' Munster land, by shore and strand,
Far could I roam,
If I might get my loved one yet,
And bring her home.
O sweetest flower, that blooms in bower,
Or dell or grove!
Thou lovest me, and I love thee,
My Roisin Dubh!
Far could I roam,
If I might get my loved one yet,
And bring her home.
O sweetest flower, that blooms in bower,
Or dell or grove!
Thou lovest me, and I love thee,
My Roisin Dubh!
The sea shall burn, the skies shall mourn,
The skies rain blood,
The world shall rise in dread surprise
And warful mood,
And hill and lake in Eirè shake,
And hawk turn dove,
Ere you shall pine, ere you decline,
My Roisin Dubh!
The skies rain blood,
The world shall rise in dread surprise
And warful mood,
And hill and lake in Eirè shake,
And hawk turn dove,
Ere you shall pine, ere you decline,
My Roisin Dubh!
87
KATHLEEN NI HOULAHAN.
(Another Version.)
In vain, in vain, we turn to Spain; she heeds us not;
Yet may we still, by strength of will, amend our lot;
O yes! our foe shall yet lie low; our swords are drawn
For her, our queen, our Caitilin Ny Uallachain!
Yet may we still, by strength of will, amend our lot;
O yes! our foe shall yet lie low; our swords are drawn
For her, our queen, our Caitilin Ny Uallachain!
Yield not to fear, the time is near. With sword in hand
We soon shall chase the Saxon race far from our land.
What glory then to stand as men on field and bawn
And see, all sheen, our Caitilin Ny Uallachain!
We soon shall chase the Saxon race far from our land.
What glory then to stand as men on field and bawn
And see, all sheen, our Caitilin Ny Uallachain!
How tossed, how lost, with hopes all crossed, we long have been;
Our gold is gone; gear have we none, as all have seen.
But ships shall brave the ocean wave, and morn shall dawn
On Eirè green, on Caitilin Ny Uallachain!
Our gold is gone; gear have we none, as all have seen.
But ships shall brave the ocean wave, and morn shall dawn
On Eirè green, on Caitilin Ny Uallachain!
Let none believe that lovely Eve outworn or old;
Fair is her form, her blood is warm, her heart is bold!
Tho' strangers long have wrought her wrong, she will not fawn,
Will not prove mean, our Caitilin Ny Uallachain!
Fair is her form, her blood is warm, her heart is bold!
Tho' strangers long have wrought her wrong, she will not fawn,
Will not prove mean, our Caitilin Ny Uallachain!
Her stately air, her flowing hair, her eyes that far
Pierce thro' the gloom of Banba's doom, each like a star;
Her songful voice that makes rejoice hearts grief hath gnawn,
Prove her our queen, our Caitilin Ny Uallachain!
Pierce thro' the gloom of Banba's doom, each like a star;
Her songful voice that makes rejoice hearts grief hath gnawn,
Prove her our queen, our Caitilin Ny Uallachain!
88
We will not bear the chains we wear, not bear them long!
We seem bereaven, but mighty Heaven will make us strong:
The God who led thro' Ocean Red all Israel on!
Will aid our queen, our Caitilin Ny Uallachain!
We seem bereaven, but mighty Heaven will make us strong:
The God who led thro' Ocean Red all Israel on!
Will aid our queen, our Caitilin Ny Uallachain!
| Poems of James Clarence Mangan | |