 | Ballads of Irish chivalry |  |
64
ROSE CONDON.
I
Over valley and rock and lea,Merrily strike the wild harp's strain,—
For the fairest maid in the south countrie
Hath come to our Funcheon's side again;
Far mid the mountains of Green Fear-muighe,
In lone Crag Thierna many a day
Dwelt she long with the fairy throng,
Mourning for her home alway.
II
An Ardrigh's crown is yellow and bright—Fill the glens with the wild harp's tone—
But it may not match those locks of light
So loosely o'er her fair brows thrown;
And the glance of her eyes, oh! mortal wight
Never such glory saw before;
And her neck as the wild rose soft and white,
Lone blooming by the Funcheon's shore.
III
She is daughter of Condon brave—Strike the wild harp's string of pride—
The fiercest chief where thy waters rave,
Dark Oun Mór of the rushing tide;
65
Since by the towers of strong Cloghlee
The fondness of her heart she gave
To the banished Knight of thy woods, Gailtee!
IV
O Love! thy power grows day by day—Strike the wild harp high and bold—
Three eves had purpled the mountains gray,
And young Clongibbon had ta'en his hold,
Reta'en his hold, regained his sway,
All for the love of Condon's child,
And chased the Saxon far away
Beyond the pale of his mountains wild!
V
Three eves more o'er Funcheon's tide—Strike the wild harp clear and sweet—
Rose Condon sat by the water side,
Her brave, triumphant love to meet:
The sunset in his purple pride,
Over the far-off crests of Mole,
And thro' the glens and forest wide
A sweet and dreamy silence stole.
VI
Long she waits her lover's tread—Strike the wild harp tenderly—
Till day's bright legions all are fled,
And the white stars peer thro' the forest tree;
Ha! now he comes by the river bed,
With his martial step and bearing high;
But why is the maiden's heart adread,
As her warrior love draws fondly nigh?
66
VII
Does victory paint a warrior's mail—Strike the wild harp fearfully—
With swarth gold gems and diamonds pale,
And his plume with the sunbow's radiancy?
Her lover's armour thro' the vale
Sheddeth a wild and elfin gleam,
And strange sounds on the breezes sail,
Sweet echoing o'er the star-lit stream.
VIII
The warrior now beside her stands—Strike the wild harp sad and low—
And takes in his her trembling hands,
But her loved knight ne'er gazèd so!
Oh! 'twas the king of the fairy bands
That bound her in his spells that night,
And bore her swift to the elfin lands,
Far, far away in his love-winged flight!
IX
From Oun Mór's tide to Carrig'nour, —Strike the wild harp rushingly—
From far Mocollop's mighty tower
To the storied hill of Kil-da-righ,
Many a man ere morning hour
Thro' the wildwoods rode amain:
They sought the maid in hall and bower,
But fruitless was their search and vain.
67
X
Condon sat within his hall—Strike the wild harp mournfully—
Sadness did his heart enthral,
Grief for her he might not see;
Searching still, Clongibbon tall
Roamed the forests lone and drear,
Like maniac man bereft of all
The joyance of this earthly sphere.
XI
Joy in lone Crag Thierna's steep!—Strike the harp o'er hill and wold—
Glad feasts the Fairy King did keep
For young Rose with the locks of gold;
But ah! the maid did nought but weep,
And eight bright moons had lost their flame,
Yet still by Oun Mór swift and deep,
In sorrow she was still the same.
XII
Nine sweet nights have robed the dells—Strike the wild harp bold and high—
Since out with martial trumpet swells
The fairy throngs came trooping by;
Round lone Molaga's holy cells,
Beneath the midnight moon they played,
While she, the victim of their spells,
Sat lorn within the ruin's shade.
68
XIII
It is beside a fountain fair—Strike the wild harp sweet and low—
With sad heart brooding on her care,
She looks into the wave below;
A shadow glides before her there,
And looking up, beside her stands
An aged man with snow-white hair,
With pitying eyes and clasped hands!
XIV
A mitre decked in golden sheen—Strike the wild harp wonderingly—
A vestment as the shamrock green,
And sandals of the mountain tree
He wears: the ancient Saint, I ween!
Ah! he hath heard the maiden's moan,
And bids her drink with brow serene,
One pure draught from a cup of stone,
XV
The fays may sport o'er hill and plain—Strike the wild harp glad and bold—
But never shall their power again
In magic gyve that maiden hold;
One cool, bright draught she scarce had ta'en,
Searce looked upon the vestment cross,
When fearful died the fairy strain,
O'er moonlit crag and lonely moss!
XVI
Short time their splendid pageant shone—Strike the harp with gladsome thrill—
Then faded in the moonlight wan
Far o'er Caher Drina's castled hill;
69
The mitre and the vestment bright,
The maiden turned, the saint was gone,
Impatient to his home of light!
XVII
Oh! joy! she sees the eastern ray—Strike the wild harp glad and clear—
The herald of a golden day,
The fairest in the circling year;
It is the first bright morn of May,
And stream and plain smile calmly now,
And many a wild bird pours his lay,
In gladness from the greenwood bough.
XVIII
Oh! Freedom leadeth where she list—Strike the wild harp's string of pride—
Wild joy the maid can ne'er resist
Impels towards Oun-na-Geerait's side;
There, while the stream by day is kissed,
A strange sight meets her wandering eyes—
It is not golden morning mist
With glad larks o'er it in the skies:
XIX
The red fires of a Saxon raid—Strike the wild harp fierce and high—
With scattered smoke o'er many a glade
Blue curling to the breezeless sky;
70
Gleam brightly from the forest deep,
And many a creacht beneath the shade
Lie silent in their morning sleep!
XX
“Ho! wake the tired creachts from their rest!”—Strike the harp o'er hill and plain—
On toward Kilfinane's mountain crest
The raiders take their course again;
Fear gathereth in the maiden's breast,
As wind away that fierce-browed horde,
Taking their pathway to the west,
Triumphant thro' the Spirit's Ford.
XXI
Is that the thunder of the flood—Strike the harp all fiercely now—
She hears wild rising from the wood,
And echoing up the steep hill's brow?
Oh! rushing back in panic mood,
Like leaves before a mountain wind,
The raiders come in dust and blood,
Her father and his clan behind!
XXII
And who is he her sire before—Strike the wild harp high and grand—
Scattering the raiders evermore
Before the wide sweep of his brand?
Ah! well within her fond heart's core
She knows her lover's martial form,
As fiercely on the river's shore
He sweepeth thro' the battle storm.
XXIII
Oh, God! that lance stroke thro' his side—Raise the wild harp's mournful tone—
71
The swift waves o'er their bed of stone!
Down speeds the maid, whate'er betide,
Swift as Glashmona's startled hare,
And soon—death, danger, all defied—
She bendeth o'er her father there!
XXIV
Oh! joy, it is no mortal wound—Strike the glad harp to the skies—
She lifts his faint head from the ground,
With heaving breast and tearful eyes.
With wondering eyes he looks around,
As wakening sense asserts its reign—
Oh! joy of joys! the lost is found
To cheer his course thro' life again!
XXV
The clangour of the fight is o'er—Strike the wild harp's proudest lay—
Few raiders from that river shore
Passed westward thro' the Spirit's Way;
Glad was the look Clongibbon wore,
His herds reta'en, his valleys free,
As clasped he in his arms once more
The gold-haired maid of green Fear-Muighe!
Fear-Muighe-Feine—the plain of the Fenian men—which anciently included the baronies of Condon and Clongibbon, together with what is at present called the barony of Fermoy, is walled in on the south by the Nagles mountains, and on the north by the Gailtees and Bally-Houras, or mountains of Mole. It was called Armoy, and I believe Ardmulla, by Spenser. Along its southern side flows the Blackwater, forming a succession of the most beautiful and romantic scenes in the south of Ireland. The whole plain anciently belonged to the O'Keeffes.
Crag Thierna, or Corrin Thierna, a romantic steep, eastward of Fermoy, and celebrated in the legends of the peasantry as one of the great fairy palaces of Munster.
Carriganour, a very ancient castle a few miles below Mitchelstown, on the banks of the Funcheon. Mocollop, a huge pile eastward of Cloghleigh, on the shore of the Black-water. Kil-da-righ—the Church of the two Kings—at present Kildorrery, a small town on the Cork border, between Fermoy and Kilmallock.
Teompal Molaga—the Temple or Church of Saint Molaga— an extremely beautiful and picturesque ruin, about a mile north-east of Kildorrery, on a bend of the Funcheon. Beside it is an ancient well dedicated to the saint, to which the peasantry ascribe many virtues, and of which many strange legends are told.
Caher Drian, or Fort Prospect, a castle about three miles south-east of Carriganour. Oun-na-Geerait—the River of the Champion—a tributary of the Funcheon. Glashmona, a stream rising in the Bally-Houra mountains. By the banks of this torrent, the peasantry tell many legends relating to the battles fought there between the ancient tribes. Aha Phooka—the Ford of the Spirit—is a steep and dangerous pass leading from the county Limerick into the Clongibbon's country.
| Ballads of Irish chivalry | |