 | Ballads of Irish chivalry |  |
21
BALLADS.
24
THE SIEGE OF CLONMEL.
A.D. 1650.
I
I stood beside a gun upon the Western GateAt the rising of the sun, the battle to await:
In the morning's ruddy glow showed the fires' destroying tracks,
My brave comrades all below, with their harness on their backs.
II
Each with harness on his back, by rampart, street, and tower,To repel the fierce attack in the sultry noontide hour;
25
And one cheer my comrades gave, as the ruthless foe came on!
III
As the wild waves dash and vault 'gainst the cliffs of high Dunmore,Fierce they mounted to th'assault, up the breach, in sweat and gore;—
As the billows backward flow at the ebbing of the main,
Back we drove the daring foe to his camp trench once again!
IV
Out burst each roaring gun, with its mouth of hissing flame,From its war-cloud thick and dun, as again the foe-men came
For vengeance burning hot; but once more we mowed them down
With spear, and sword, and shot, 'till we drove them from the town.
V
Cromwell kept the northern height;—as a spectre pale was he,When he saw his men of might twice before my comrades flee;
And he pointed with his sword where the red breach smoking lay—
“Go! take it, and the Lord shall be on our side today!”
VI
With psalm and trumpet swell came they on at his behest;—Then we rammed each cannon well, and we nerved each gallant breast!
26
The onset to withstand, or for homes and altars die!
VII
Tottered mansion, tower, and wall at the thundering fire we gave;—But thro' blood, and smoke, and all, came they on by dint of glaive;
'Till with wild and deafening din, fierce, to gorge their hate accurst,
O'er the gory breach, and in, in one destroying wave they burst!
VIII
Breast to breast their charge we met with the battle's rage and hate,Hand to hand, unconquered yet, with the foe we tried our fate.—
They were many, we were few; they were brave and stalworth men,
But we charged, and charged anew—'till we broke their ranks again!
IX
How we cleared each narrow street when the foe-men's slight began!—How we rushed on their retreat!—how we slew them as they ran!—
How we quaffed the wine so bright when our bloody task was o'er,
To the men who 'scaped the fight, and the brave who slept in gore!
X
Evening's cloud came o'er the hill—darker clouds on Cromwell's face,When, with all his force and skill, he could not storm the place!—
27
And what man could do was done, so we might no longer stay.
XI
We buried those who fell, with the silence of the tomb,And we left thee, brave Clonmel, 'neath the midnight's friendly gloom:—
With slow and measured tread, o'er the low Bridge of the Dane,
And that dark breach where we bled, did we ne'er behold again!
32
DUNLEVY.
I
Dunlevy stands lone in the forest,To list to the bells' merry peal,
And their sounds make his young heart the sorest
That e'er throbbed 'neath corselet of steel;
For they ring the gay bridal of Alice,
The lady he loved long and pure,
False to him in her sire's feudal palace
By the sweet lovely banks of the Suir.
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II
The Baron, his high Norman neighbour,The fond, happy bridegroom is he,
And Dunlevy's right hand's on his sabre,
To think that such falseness could be;
For the lady had vowed o'er and over
That nought could her fondness allure
From Dunlevy, her brave knightly lover,
By the sweet lovely banks of the Suir.
III
The hot noon came burning and shiningO'er hill-top and valley and tower;
Yet still stood Dunlevy repining,
Dark and lone in that gay wildwood bower,
Till he saw far away brightly gleaming
Casque and spear over mountain and moor,
Till a trumpet blast startled his dreaming
By the sweet lovely banks of the Suir.
IV
Sudden heard he a trembling and sighing,And a-nigh stood his love sorrow-worn,
From her father's gay hall after flying
Ere the bridal could bind her that morn;
And sudden away they are sweeping
On his wild steed towards gray Craganure,
Where his bright native torrents are leaping,
Far away from the banks of the Suir.
V
From the gray hill that tow'rs o'er the valleyThe bridegroom and father look down,
Where the mailed knights and vassals out sally,
All searching thro' green dale and town;
34
With his bright blooming love's now secure,
Far away in his own native castle
From the sweet lovely banks of the Suir!
THE BATTLE OF KNOCKINOSS.
Scene: A camp-fire by the Shannon.—An old Rapparee who had served in the wars of 1641, relating the battle to his comrades.I
Attend, ye valiant horsemen and each bold Rapparee,And by our blazing camp-fire a tale I'll tell to ye:—
With Murrogh's savage army one valley's breadth away,
One noon of bleak November on Knock'noss hill we lay.
II
Lord Taaffe was our commander, and brave Mac Alisdrum,And 'cross the lowland meadows we saw the foeman come;
Then up spake bold Mac Alisdrum, “Now leave their wing to me”;
And soon we crossed our sabres with their artillery.
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III
We swept them down the hill-sides, and took both flag and gun,And back across the meadows we made them quickly run;
But swift as they retreated, more fast behind we bore,
Until we steeped our sabres from point to hilt in gore.
IV
Alas, alas for cowards, and ho! for dauntless men!Without one cause for flying, Lord Taaffe fled thro' the glen,
And all our army with him in panic rushed away,
And left us sore surrounded on Knock'noss hill that day.
V
Then up spoke our commander, the brave Mac Alisdrum,—“The foe pursues our comrades, this way his horsemen come;
Then out with each good claymore, and strike like brave men still!”
And at his words the foemen came charging o'er the hill!
VI
Mo brón! Mo brón! the slaughter, when we mixed horse and man!Loud crashed the roaring battle, like floods the red blood ran;
And few the foemen left us to fight another fray,
And Alisdrum they murdered at Knockinoss that day!
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VII
My curse upon all cowards, and ho! for brave men still!—Long, long their bones were bleaching upon that blood-stained hill!
Then choose a good commander to lead ye to the fray,
And shun what lost the battle on Knock'noss hill that day!
Murrogh an Theothaun, or Murrogh the Burner. He was Baron of Inchiquin, and his name is yet remembered among the peasantry as the most ferocious and bloodthirsty of Cromwell's generals.
50
THE TEMPLAR KNIGHT.
[I]
Mid Corrin's haunted wildwoods, where the summer winds are straying,Around a glade of brightness, from dells and leafy bowers,
There stands a steed caparisoned, a small steed wildly neighing
To a boy and fair girl playing by Glendinan's high towers;
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And the stream its waves is flinging with a glad voice mid the flowers.
II
Moves the steed with sportful neighings, near and nearer to his master,With axe and spear crossed bravely on his gilded saddle-tree,
Where springs the boy with shout of joy, and, than the fleet winds faster,
His comrade, spurs he past her, with a bearing bold and free;
Then sudden cries: “Ho, yonder! see the magic halls of wonder,
Where the wizard old doth ponder on his spells to fetter me!”
III
Like a knight of peerless valour on his wild steed he is sweeping,Toward the wizard tower he fancies in the dreamy forest shade,—
With lance in rest for foeman's breast, his magic foe unsleeping,
In swift course he is keeping across that sunlit glade!
And thus each evening golden, mid those mossy wild-woods olden,
By dark care unbeholden, lived that boy and bright-eyed maid.
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IV
Years have passed—bright years of gladness—and their bridal bells are ringingAlong the summer mountains from that forest wild and wide;
Ah! thus from early childhood in the heart should love be springing,
Soul to soul in fondness clinging from its golden morning tide;
Yet, alas! for Gerald's dreaming of a bride in beauty beaming,
Mora's gone ere morn's first gleaming—falsely fled from Corrin side!
V
As he waited by the altar, fair and fond the dreams that bound him,—Chief of Houra's sunny green-woods, with a bride as fair as May,—
And his look was calmly joyous to the vassals circled round him,
Till the tale of sorrow found him that his bride had fled away,—
His love, his anger scorning, a stranger's home adorning,
To Carrignour that morning with its baron bold and gay.
VI
The priest hath words of comfort, the mother mournful sighing,The vassals' shouts of fury loud as battle trumpets blown,
And, “Bring me”, cries young Gerald, “my warsteed, that out-flying,
53
That the traitor lord may learn my vengeance red and stern,
Ere he treads his native fern by the Funcheon's valleys lone!”
VII
He has donned his battle harness, and away so wild careering,His good steed bears him bravely towards the valleys of Glenroe,
Till in the golden noontide, from a forest hill down peering,
Little caring, little fearing, so he meet his traitor foe,
Where a stream its tide is sending in many a silver bending,
He espies the false pair wending through the flowery dells below.
VIII
By the baron kneels the maid at the evening's calm returning,But love is drowned in sorrow, and joy is changed to fear,—
By the baron kneels the maid all alone and wildly mourning,
And his tales with warm love burning she never more shall hear;
For away young Gerald straineth from the spot where she remaineth,
And the baron's life-blood staineth his conquering border spear!
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IX
But revenge ne'er changed the bosom from its dark and dreary madnessTo joy, and thus with Gerald as he rides o'er moor and moss,—
“Ah! the shadow of despair”, he cries, “has sunk my hope in sadness,
Love's gold I sought in gladness, and find it leaden dross;
So away from lovely Mulla, where she sings by height and hollow,
Another path I'll follow,—a champion of the cross!”
X
It was a golden morning mid summer's reign of splendour,Young Gerald took his lance and steed, and sped from Houra's wold;
But the fond farewell, when with sweet spell immortal love doth lend her
Words mournful true and tender, no weeping maiden told,
Yet one true heart weepeth ever since he left his native river,
And no joy the world can give her, his mother sad and old.
XI
And she cries: “Again, oh! never shall I see my Gerald ridingTo the chase in merry greenwood at the blithesome peep of morn,
Shall his looks of gladness cheer me, shall his words of love come gliding,
With peace and joy abiding, to my heart so sorrow-torn!”
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Else her heart had ceased its beating,—she had died in grief forlorn.
XII
Long she hoped for his returning to his hall with name of glory,Till the flowers of ten bright summers lay dead on mead and tomb;
Then unseen he stood one morning on Corrin's summit hoary,
Gazing round that land of story on each well-known scene of bloom;—
Dreams of fair maids he was spurning, who might come with warm love burning,
When they heard of his returning, for he wore the Templar plume!
XIII
Many dreams of his sweet childhood there his memory might borrow,Yet he entered with a sinking heart his native hall once more.
There he found his mother sitting in her lorn and silent sorrow,
As she sat that golden morrow when he left his home of yore;—
Glad and sudden up she started, “Oh! we'll never more be parted!”
And she died all joyous-hearted in his arms by Mulla's shore!
XIV
To Glendinan Sir Gerald has brought across the oceanFive Templars, he their leader, with all their vassal power,
56
Tolls their bell to meet devotion o'er cot and hall and bower:
And long their banner knightly in the sunshine glittered brightly,
To the breezes fluttered lightly from that ancient Templar tower!
Glendinan, an extensive valley at the north side of the Bally-Houra mountains, facing the plain of Limerick. At its upper extremity lies a small, oblong, and dilapidated stone chamber, like a grave, called by the country people Iscur's Bed; about a mile below which, on the edge of a glen, are the remains of an old building, which, according to tradition, was an establishment of the Knights Templars.
60
ROMANCE OF THE BANNER.
I
There was a banner old, in a tower by th'ocean bound,Its device a boat of gold, a lady, and a hound;
Then, gentles, sit around, and a tale I'll tell to ye,
All about the old green banner of that tower by Cleena's sea.
II
“Where away, oh! where away?” asked the hoary marinere,From a rock that towered so gray o'er the waters broad and clear—
“To seek my true love dear, doth he live, or is he dead!”
Cried young Marron, with her wolf-hound, as o'er the waves she sped.
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III
Night, with her starry train, o'er the hound and fair ladye—Rose the shark from out the main, stealing slowly on their lee,
On them dark and wild looked he,—gazed the wolf-hound fierce on him,
While he plunged and glared and passed them in the ghostly midnight dim!
IV
Vanished the starlight pale, came rosy morn once more,As that boat so small and frail sped the purpling billows o'er,
A tall coast towered before, with great, blue hills behind,
And “Perchance”, cried Marron, weeping, “here my true love I may find!”
V
The sharp keel grates the sand;—ah! the sight before her there,Wrecks on wrecks along the strand, stark bones whitening in the air;
Down she sat in her despair. “Ah! my Turlogh brave”, said she,
“The storm came down upon him, and his bones lie in the sea!”
VI
And floating on the wave beside the sand below,The glittering plume she gave her love two moons ago!
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As she sank, like death had struck her, on the wet sands swooning there!
VII
A youth with agile bound, of high and princely mien,Welcomed by Marron's hound,—no foe to her I ween,—
Has darted from the screen of an old, deserted fane,
And o'erjoyed young Marron wakens in her Turlogh's arms again!
VIII
Sank crew and galley trim when the wild tempest roared,And left alive but him, to Marron thus restored;
Nought saved he but his sword from thundering blast and brine,
And he says, “We'll seek green Desmond, and thou never more shalt pine!”
IX
On their course the night came down without one planet bright,Great clouds of dreary brown quenched all their trembling light.
Up to the lowering height the hound his gaze has thrown,
And a sudden yell breaks from him, and a low, sad, wailing moan!
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X
Sudden the lightning's flash came darting out on high,And the mighty thunder's crash boomed o'er the boundless sky,
And with a vengeful cry the storm began to rave,
And lowered them in the hollows, and tossed them o'er the wave.
XI
“Oh! for the mighty rock where stands my castle gray”—Amid the tempest's shock, thus the young chief did say:—
“My heart feels no dismay, but all for love and thee,
So soon to sink and perish beneath the roaring sea!”
XII
Out in the rushing wind upon the greedy wave,His arm around her twined, wildly he sprang to save;
The boat whirled stave by stave on toward the disstant shore,
And the wolf-hound plunged and turned, then dashed right on before.
XIII
The golden morn had broke o'er sea and lovely land,When calmly they awoke—'twas on their native strand,
They made a banner grand, and on its gleaming fold
Was the hound and lovely lady, and the boat of ruddy gold.
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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;
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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?
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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.
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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.
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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;
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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;
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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—
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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.
THE BATTLE OF THURLES.
A.D. 1174.
I
By the gray walls of Thurles in O'Fogarty's landWe came to the trysting with banner and brand:
'Twas no true-loves to meet, 'twas no fond vows to say,
But to conquer the foeman, or die in the fray.
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II
Royal Roderick was there with his bravest and best,The wild fearless clans from the vales of the West;
Royal Donal came up from the green hills of Clare,
With his stately Dalcassians, like lions from their lair.
III
Where our Ardrigh was resting, the sunburst gleamed wide,Donal's three bloody lions waved proud at its side,
And mavrone, on that morn how we vowed and we swore
To freshen their tints in the black Norman's gore.
IV
Out rode Earl Strongbow from Waterford gate,With his bowmen and spearmen in armour of plate,
And they harried rich ploughland, and dungeon and hall,
To O'Fogarty's mountains from fair Carrick's wall.
V
This news reached Marisco in strong Alia Cliath,And he smiled on his warriors a grim smile of glee,
And like wolves scenting carnage, with rapine and flame,
For their share in the booty to Thurles they came.
VI
In the sun gleamed their armour, waved their flags in the gale,Few warriors amongst us had helmet or mail:
But the hearts in our bosoms were fearless and strong,
And we clove thro' their corselets and helmets ere long.
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VII
Out rode the two kings mid our gallant array—Small need then for words: well we knew what they'd say;
But they pointed their spears where they wished us to go,
And we rushed in their path on the iron-clad foe.
VIII
The foe levelled lances our charge to withstand,And thick flew their arrows as we closed hand to hand;
And full stoutly they stood, for brave robbers were they,
Who would part with their lives ere they'd part with their prey.
IX
Oh! the crash of the onset as steel clanged on steel!Oh! the Ferrah we gave as our blows made them reel!
Oh! the joy of our vengeance as onward we poured,
Till we smote them as Brian smote the fierce Danish horde!
X
Earl Strongbow for life flies tow'rds Waterford Gate,But few vassals around him his orders await;
By the brave walls of Thurles 'neath our vengeance they died—
Wild we feasted that night by the Suir's reddened tide!
74
ROSSNALEE.
I
The fairy woman of the wood,Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
Hath set the spell in her cave so rude,
And she cries, “Is't for sorrow, or all for good,
That the lovers shall meet in the secret wood,
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee?”
II
The fairy woman of the wood,Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
With her crimson gown and her scarlet hood,
Cries again, “'Tis for sorrow, and nought for good,
That the lovers shall meet in the secret wood,
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee!”
III
Many hearts the wild wars rue,Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
Mac Donogh's daughter weepeth too,
As she cometh to meet her lover true,
For war's sad chances well she knew,
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee.
IV
The first step she took from her father's door,Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
The ban-dog howled on the barbican floor,
And her little dove cooed in the turret o'er,
With a voice of wailing and sadness sore,
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee!
75
V
The next step she took from her home so dear,Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
She heard a low voice in her ear,
Though she saw but a white owl floating near—
“Thou'rt the sweetest blossom to grace a bier,
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee!”
VI
As she went down where the crags are piled,Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
She saw a little elfish child,
And it cried with a voice all strange and wild,
“Go back! thou lady fair and mild,
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee!”
VII
As she crossed the rath and the war-grave rude,Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
Cried she of the spells and the scarlet hood,
“If thou goest, thou goest for sorrow, not good,
And the earth shall be dyed with my darling's blood,
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee!”
VIII
But 'gainst fair warning and friendly threat,Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
She answers, “My heart's on the trysting set,
And how can I mourn, and how regret,
That I meet with my gallant De Barrette
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee?”
76
IX
Where the mountain ash bends over the wave,Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
She's clasped in the arms of her lover brave,
Who cries, “Ten kisses for love I crave,
For my new-won knighthood and conquering glaive,
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee!”
X
“Mac Donogh, aboo!” From the darksome wood,Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
Rushed her sire and his vassals in savage mood,—
“Ho! traitor, my vengeance this hour is good,
For thou'st won thy spurs with my best son's blood,
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee!”
XI
Three vassals were cloven through basnet and brain,Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
When an arrow shot from the wood amain,
To stretch De Barrette upon the plain,
But the heart of the maiden it cleft in twain,
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee!
XII
Down fell the knight by his true love's side,Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
With a wound in his breast both deep and wide,—
“Oh! death in thy arms is sweet!” he cried;
And thus these lovers so faithful died
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee!
77
XIII
De Barrette he sleeps in that lonely dell,Rossnalee! oh, Rossnalee!
Where like a knight in his harness he fell:
But she that he loved so true and well
Lies low in the vault of her sire's chapelle
By the crystal waters of Rossnalee!
Fairies are believed by the peasantry to appear frequently in the form of an old woman clad in red garments, always with some benevolent intention.
CROSSING THE BLACKWATER.
A.D. 1603.
I
We stood so steady,All under fire,
We stood so steady,
Our long spears ready
To vent our ire—
To dash on the Saxon,
Our mortal foe,
And lay him low
In the bloody mire!
II
'Twas by Blackwater,When snows were white,
'Twas by Blackwater,
Our foes for the slaughter
Stood full in sight;
But we were ready
With our long spears,
And we had no fears
But we'd win the fight.
78
III
Their bullets came whistlingUpon our rank,
Their bullets came whistling,
Their spears were bristling
On th'other bank:
Yet we stood steady,
And each good blade,
Ere the morn did fade,
At their life-blood drank.
IV
“Hurra! for Freedom!”Came from our van,
“Hurra! for Freedom!
Our swords—we'll feed 'em
As but we can—
With vengeance we'll feed e'm!”
Then down we crashed,
Through the wild ford dashed
And the fray began!
V
Horses to horses,And man to man—
O'er dying horses
And blood and corses
O'Sullivan,
Our general, thundered,
And we were not slack
To slay at his back
Till the flight began.
79
VI
Oh! how we scatteredThe foemen then—
Slaughtered and scattered,
And chased and shattered,
By shore and glen;—
To the wall of Moyallo,
Few fled that day,—
Will they bar our way
When we come again?
VII
Our dead freres we buried,—They were but few,—
Our dead freres we buried
Where the dark waves hurried
And flashed and flew:
Oh! sweet be their slumber
Who thus have died
In the battle's tide,
Inisfail, for you!
ROMANCE OF MEERGAL AND GARMON.
FYTTE THE FIRST.
I
'Tis Meergal of the Mountain that sighs so mournfully,With tearful eyes far gazing o'er the star-bespangled sea;
All alone, alon in sorrow, by the Rock of Brananmor,
Behind her loves calm planet, and the sinking moon before.
80
II
Nought beholds she as she gazes through the dim and windless west,Save the diamond star-beams dancing o'er the sea's resplendent breast,
And the glorious changeful glitter of the shimmering splendour train,
From the shore, to where the bright moon hangs above the silent main.
III
And she cries, “He is not coming! I have waited many a dayTo see his white sail gleaming o'er the blue waves far away;
Many a midnight have I wept him with a sad heart mournfully,
But he cometh not, he cometh not, across the weary sea!”
IV
The moon hangs o'er the water, with its face so calm and pale,Now the lady looks beneath it, and she sees a rising sail,
And along that line of splendour comes a boat as bright as flame,
With a wondrous sheen all sparkling, as if out from Heaven it came!
V
As a fragment from the morning in its light sail gleaming o'er,Glow its smooth sides like the sunset, glitter diamonds in its prore;
81
And the lady shrieks with gladness, for her long-lost love is found!
FYTTE THE SECOND.
I
Young Meergal of the Mountain, she sits all fond and fain,With her own betrothed Garmon by the star-bespangled main,
And she cries: “Oh! long lost rover, oh, beloved Garmon, tell
Why thou comest thus so strangely, in what bright land did'st thou dwell!
II
For I've searched by strand and forest, I have waited many a dayBy the deep, to see thy white sail o'er the blue waves far away;
Many a midnight have I wept thee, with a sad heart mournfully
Thinking, fearing thou wert lying 'neath the weary, weary sea!”
III
“There was silence on the forest and the wide-spread burnished deep,To the westward I was gazing from Brananmor the steep,
And I saw the Land of Glory through that sunset of the May,
Oh! the beautiful Hy Brasil”, answered Garmon of the Bay.
82
IV
“I pulled a blessed shamrock by the old saint's carven stone,And I took my boat and faced her to Hy Brasil all alone,
And a gentle wind 'gan blowing as I left this iron shore,
And the sea grew ever brighter as I wafted swiftly o'er!
V
Before me in the water, with a face like Heaven so fair,Up rose the smiling Mermaid with her glossy golden hair,
And she gazed all gently on me, and she raised her queenly hand,
Pointing thro' the amber sunset to that far off heavenly land!
VI
Still on, and on before me went that maiden of the wave,My soul all drunk with pleasure at each piercing glance she gave,
And my heart all wildly throbbing at the witching smiles she wore,
'Till five boat-lengths scarce before me spread Hy Brasil's golden shore!
VII
But 'twas all a land of shadows with the rainbow's radiance wove,From the green sky-piercing mountain, to the sunny lowland grove;
83
And the maiden of the ocean with the witching smiles was gone!
VIII
I bethought me of the shamrock in its emerald glories drest,With the earth still fresh upon it, and I took it from my breast;
I threw it to the breezes, and they bore it to the strand,
And it never more receded;—I trod the Enchanted Land!
IX
A wild ecstatic wonder fills my soul since that strange day,For I've walked with those enchanted in the ages past away;
And I've brought this boat of glory, oh! my lady love, for thee,
And we'll sail to calm Hy Brasil, and be blest eternally!”
FYTTE THE THIRD.
I
'Tis Meergal of the Mountain that never more may weep,For she sits beside her Garmon on the star-bespangled deep;
And in that boat of beauty are they sailing to the west,
With a love that lives eternal, toward the regions of the blest.
84
II
And its many-tinted dwellers rose from out the deep's still domes,To see what moving radiance glittered o'er their sparry homes;
And the dolphin heaved and gambolled around their glorious track,
With the sea one blaze of splendour where he showed his prismy back.
III
Behind them rose the morning o'er a green and golden sea,And that swift boat seemed its herald, it moved so gloriously;
And a sweet, unearthly music filled the atmosphere around,
On their ears for ever falling with a soul-entrancing sound.
IV
It was the purple sunset when the breeze blew warm and bland,And they saw a shore beyond them by its breath of fragrance fanned,
And within a heavenly harbour under hills serenely grand,
They have moored that boat of wonder in Hy Brasil's golden land.
V
Up they wandered thro' the mountains from the broad cerulean sea,'Till they reached a beauteous valley decked with many a fragrant tree.
85
Shone the flow'rs' gay-tinted blossoms o'er that valley of delight.
VI
There a crystal stream danced downward with a wild melodious song,And like children of the rainbow flew the warbling birds along;
Sang they sweetly as the wild harp when a master sweeps its wire,
As they flew from shore to greenwood, like gay sparks of heav'nly fire.
VII
Like the deep blue depths of Heaven, when the April hours come on,A lake, broad, calm, and glorious, 'mid that valley's bosom shone,
With its splendour-tinted islands, and their music-murmuring groves,
With its green encircling mountains, and its fairy strands and coves!
VIII
On shore and shining island gleamed hall and palace gay,Where dwell the blest Enchanted in cloudless joy alway;
Where roam the Fairy People thro' the scenes they like so well;
And, “Oh, love! oh, love!” said Garmon, “here for evermore we dwell!”
86
IX
When the stars are on the waters, and the peasants by the shore,Oft they see that boat of beauty with the sparkling diamond prore,
Sailing, sailing with the lovers o'er the silent midnight sea,
To the beautiful Hy Brasil, where they're blest eternally!
Hy Brasil—the Island of Atlantis—the Western Land, etc., is supposed to be identical with Tir-n-a-n Oge, the Paradise of the Pagan Irish. The peasantry believe they can still see it at sunset from the coasts of Clare, Galway, and Donegal. Brananmor is one of the highest pinnacles of the great precipice of Moher, on the coast of Clare.
MARY LOMBARD.
I
My iron gyves were rusty grown,So long I lay in thrall,
Down in my dungeon dark and lone,
'Neath Kilnamulla's wall.
II
My heavy chains at first were bright,But rust had dimmed them o'er,
When an angel came in the dead of night,
And opened my dungeon door!
III
Was never face so heavenly fair,As her's who let me go,
The lady of the sun-bright hair,
The daughter of my foe.
87
IV
She came as if from Heaven to me,—In the dead of night to my lair,—
And sped me to my own countrie,
My Mary Lombard fair!
V
When next where Kilnamulla rearsHer towers now black and stern,
'Twas hosting with broad Thomond's spears,
With Murrogh of the Fern.
VI
Through Desmond's plains with vengeful swordsWe carried war and flame,
And woe to all the Norman hordes,
Where'er great Murrogh came.
VII
And all around that fated townOur warriors thronged full fain,
Till turret-stone and gate went down,
Before their charge amain.
VIII
Like a great flood, with flame and blood,We rushed through the breach's bound,
While roof and spire were wrapt in fire,
Lighting the carnage round!
88
IX
'Twas the gloom of night on the far-off height,'Twas the glare of hell round me,
As I stood before my foeman's door,
His daughter fair to see.
X
My foeman lay in the burning way,His fond wife dying there,
And my Mary dear, wild with woe and fear,
I found on the great hall stair.
XI
I clasped her in my arms, and thenQuick bore her down the street,
Through the rushing men, to the eastward glen,
Where I left my war-horse fleet.
XII
A sudden madness seized my brain,And away I dashed, away,
With my trembling love towards my native plain
By castle and mountain gray!
XIII
Kilmallock's wall rose stark and tallOn our course so wild and fast,
And the castle of Brugh frowned grimly through
The darkness as we passed.
XIV
At the morning's beam fair Shannon's streamA long length spread before:
I cared not its length, for love gave me strength,
And I swam my war-horse o'er!
89
XV
Away again, by valley and wild plain,Away through each torrent's foam,
Where the mountains rise, with my glorious maiden prize,
Till I reached my castled home.
XVI
One clasp I gave to my sad and sorrowing love,One word to my mother said,
And back, my loyalty to prove,
To Murrogh's host I sped.
XVII
Many a day, and many a weary night,And many a battle tough and stern,
I saw far, far from my true love bright,
With Murrogh of the Fern.
XVIII
And when he wore the crown of each plain and town,To my home at length I bore,
But my mother made her moan in its sad hall alone,
For my Mary was sleeping evermore!
XIX
Oh! my bright, tender flower, ever sat within her bower,Her mother and slain sire to mourn,
'Till sorrow quenched love's light, though it flamed up so bright,
And she died, oh! she died, ere my return!
XX
We laid her in her grave, where moans the mournful wave,—Oh! my long-loved and hard-earned bride!
There each day my watch I keep, and for ever long to sleep
By my Mary Lombard's side!
In the year 1367 Murrogh na Ranagh, or Murrogh of the Fern, King of Thomond, issued from his fastnesses and destroyed nearly all the Norman strongholds in Munster; and after proclaiming himself King of the province, again crossed the Shannon. Buttevant, or as it was anciently called, Kilnamulla, was burnt and sacked by his forces in this war.
104
THE DYING WARRIOR.
I
Brightly on the crest of DarraFell the day's last golden arrow,
And the moon smiled radiantly,
Calmly, lonely, mournfully,
On a leafy dell and narrow,
Opening out towards green Fear-muighe.
II
Low young Dermuid there is lying,Listening to the foemen flying,
For the close and bloody fray,
In the Red Gap raged all day—
Ah! that hapless youth is dying
In the pale moon's mournful ray!
III
There his rushing comrades left him,When the struggling foemen cleft him—
105
As he swept upon their flight—
Ah! that fatal blow has reft him
Of the joy he hoped that night.
IV
For beside his native forest,In the abbey old and hoarest,
Wife he was that night to call
The fairest maid in cot or hall;
And that thought afflicts him sorest,
On the brink of bliss to fall!
V
“Death”, he cries, “doth point his arrow—Make my bed so cold and narrow,
Where the sunlight falls in gold
On Glenroe's bright stream and wold,
'Neath the haunted Peak of Darra,
In the abbey gray and old!
VI
Thou, thy bridal dress adorning,When the war-scout gave the warning,—
When thou find'st thy Dermuid slain,
Kiss his cold brow once again,—
Thou wilt have at dawn of morning
Face of woe and heart of pain!”
VII
In that dell, like fairies glancing,Wildly the young fawns are dancing,
And the limping hares out-tread,
All their daylight terrors fled;
But none scares their bold advancing,
For the warrior youth is dead!
106
VIII
In that dell at morn's first peeping,Mad with sorrow, worn with weeping,
Mary bends the dead above;
He died in war,—she soon for love;
And side by side the twain are sleeping,
'Neath the abbey's haunted grove!
120
THE TAKING OF ARMAGH.
A.D. 1596.
I
'Twas fast by grey Killoter we made the Saxons run,We hewed them with the claymore, and smote them with the gun.
“Armagh! Armagh!” cried Norris, as wild he spurred away,
And sore beset and scattered, they reached its walls that day!
II
Alas! we had no cannon to batter down the gate,To level fosse and rampart, so we were forced to wait,
And 'leaguer late and early that place of old renown,
By dint of plague and famine to bring the foeman down.
III
Then up and spake our general, the great and fearless Hugh:“We'll give them fit amusement while we've nought else to do;
Then deftly ply your bullets, and pick the warders down,
And well watch pass and togher that none may leave the town”.
IV
We camped amid the valleys and bonnie woods about,But spite of all our watching, one gallant wight got out,
121
And told them of our leaguer, and all their woeful plight.
V
Then Norris raised his gauntlet, and smote his mailéd breast—“God curse these northern rebels with fire and plague and pest!
Ho! captain of the arsenal, send food and succour forth,
For if we lose that stronghold, the Queen must lose the North!”
VI
'Twas on a stormy twilight, when wildly roared the blast,Up to our prince's standard a scout came spurring fast,
And told him how that convoy—four hundred stalworth men—
Had pitched their camp at sunset by Gartan's woody glen.
VII
“Then let them take their slumber”, said our great prince that night—“God wot, they'll sleep far sounder before the morning's light:
My son, thou'rt ever yearning to win one meed—renown;
Go! if thou slay'st the convoy, then we will take the town!”
122
VIII
He sprang upon his charger, our prince's gallant son,And fast his path we followed, till Gartan's glen we won;
And there beside the torrent, with watch-fires burning low,
Deep in their fatal slumber, we spied the Saxon foe.
IX
When booms the autumn thunder, and thickly pours the rain,From Mourne's great mountain valley the flood sweeps o'er the plain—
While up our drums we rattled, and loud our trumpets blew,
Like that wild torrent swept we upon the Saxon crew!
X
We swept upon their vanguard, we rushed on rere and flank,Like corn before the sickle we mowed them rank on rank,
And ere the ghostly midnight we'd slain them every one—
I trow they slept far sounder before the morrow's dawn!
XI
“Now don the convoy's garments, and take their standard too”,—'Twas thus at blink of morning out spake our gallant Hugh;
123
With all their promised succour, and see what shall befall!”
XII
We donned their blood-red garments, and shook their banner free,We marched us toward the city, a gallant sight to see;
Upon their drums we rattled the Saxon point of war,
And soon the foemen heard us, and answered from afar.
XIII
From dreams of lordly banquets that morn the Saxons woke,When on their ears our clamour of drums and trumpets broke;
And up they sprang full blithely, and crowded one and all,
Like lank wolves, gazing greedily from loop-hole, gate, and wall.
XIV
There was an ancient abbey, a pile of ruined stone,Two gun-shots from the ramparts, amid the wild woods lone;
And there he lay in ambush—our tanist brave and young—
And as we neared the city, upon our flank he sprung!
124
XV
With all his rushing troopers out from the wood he sped,Their matchlocks filled with powder—they did not want the lead—
And well they feigned the onset with shot and sabre stroke,
And deftly too we met them with clouds of harmless smoke!
XVI
Some tossed them from their saddles to imitate the slain;Whole ranks fell at each volley along the bloodless plain;
And groans and hollow murmurs of well-feigned woe and fear,
From that strange fight rang mournfully upon the foeman's ear!
XVII
Up heaved the huge portcullis, round swang the ponderous gate,Out rushed the foe to rescue, or share their comrades' fate;
And fiercely waved their banners, and bright their lances shone,
And, “George for merry England!” they cried as they fell on.
XVIII
Saint Columb! the storm of laughter that from our ranks arose,As up the corpses started, and fell upon our foes;
125
And met the foe with claymore, red pike, and petronel!
XIX
'Twas then from out the forest our mighty chieftain came,Like a fierce autumn tempest of roaring wind and flame—
So loud his horsemen thundered, and rang their slogan free,
And swept upon th'affrighted foe with all his chivalrie!
XX
Yet stout retired the Saxon, though he was sore distrait,'Till, with his ranks commingled, in burst we through the gate;
Then soon the Red Hand fluttered upon their highest towers,
And wild we raised our triumph shout, for old Armagh was ours!
138
THE SACK OF DUNBUI.
A.D. 1602.
I
They who fell in manhood's pride,They who nobly fighting died,
Fade their memories never, never:
Theirs shall be the deathless name,
Shining brighter, grander ever
Up the diamond crags of fame!
Time these glorious names shall lift
Up from sunbright clift to clift,
Upward! to eternity!
The godlike men of brave Dunbui!
II
Glorious men and godlike men,Well they stemmed the Saxon then,
139
Over river, plain, and sea,
'Gainst the tall and bristling towers
Of the Spartan-manned Dunbui—
Traitor Gael and Saxon churl,
Burning in their wrath to hurl
Ruin on the bold and free
Warrior men of brave Dunbui.
III
Thomond with his traitors came,Carew breathing blood and flame;
First he sent his message in
To the Southern gunsmen three,
Message black as Hell and sin,
Sin and Satan e'er could be;
Would they trusting freres betray,
Would they this for golden pay?
Demon, no! foul treachery
Never dwelt in strong Dunbui.
IV
Onward then that sunny June,On they came in the fiery noon,
On where frowned the stubborn keep,
O'er the rock-subduing flood,
First they took Beare's island steep,
And drenched its crags in helpless blood.
Nought could save—child's, woman's tears—
Curse upon their cruel spears!
Oh, that sight was Hell to see
By thy bristling walls, Dunbui!
V
Nearer yet they crowd and come,With taunting and yelling, and thundering drum,
140
And swear that its towers and defenders must fall,
While the cannon are set, and their death-hail of iron
Crash wildly on bastion and turret and wall;
And the ramparts are torn from their base to their brow—
Ho! will they not yield to the murderers now?
No! its huge towers shall float over Cleena's bright sea,
Ere the Gael prove a craven in lonely Dunbui.
VI
Like the fierce god of battle Mac Geoghegan goesFrom rampart to wall, in the face of his foes;
Now his voice rises high o'er the cannons' fierce din,
Whilst the taunt of the Saxon is loud as before,
But a yell thunders up from his warriors within,
And they dash through the gateway, down, down to the shore.
With their chief rushing on, like a storm in its wrath,
They sweep the cowed Saxon to death in their path;
Ah! dearly he'll purchase the fall of the free,
Of the lion-souled warriors of lonely Dunbui!
VII
Leaving terror behind them, and death in their train,Now they stand on their walls 'mid the dying and slain,
141
That lone summer midnight, ah! short is its reign;
For the morn springeth upward, and valley and hill
Fling back the fierce echoes of conflict again.
And see how the foe rushes up to the breach,
Towards the green waving banner he yet may not reach,
For look how the Gael flings him back to the sea,
From the blood-reeking ramparts of lonely Dunbui!
VIII
Night cometh again, and the white stars look downFrom the hold to the beach, where the batteries frown,
Night cometh again, but affrighted she flies,
Like a black Indian queen from the fierce panther's roar,
And morning leaps up in the wide-spreading skies,
To his welcome of thunder and flame evermore;
For the guns of the Saxon crash fearfully there,
Till the walls and the towers and the ramparts are bare,
And the foe make their last mighty swoop on the free,
The brave-hearted warriors of lonely Dunbui!
IX
Within the red breach see Mac Geoghegan stand,With the blood of the foe on his arm and his brand;
142
“For country, for freedom, religion, and all:
Better sink into death, and for ever be free,
Than yield to the false Saxon's mercy and thrall!”
And they answer with brandish of sparth and of glaive—
“Let them come: we will give them a welcome and grave;
Let them come—from their swords could we flinch, could we flee,
When we fight for our country, our God, and Dunbui!”
X
They came, and the Gael met their merciless shock—Flung them backward like spray from the lone Skellig rock;
But they rally, as wolves springing up to the death
Of their brother of famine, the bear of the snow—
He hurls them adown to the ice-fields beneath,
Rushing back to his dark norland cave from the foe;—
So up to the breaches they savagely bound,
Thousands still thronging beneath and around,
Till the firm Gael is driven—till the brave Gael must flee
In, into the chambers of lonely Dunbui!
XI
In chamber, in cellar, on stairway, and tower,Evermore they resisted the false Saxon's power;
143
The clangor of battle rolls fearfully there,
'Till the morning leaps upward in glory and light,
Then, where are the true-hearted warriors of Beare?
They have found them a refuge from torment and chain:
They have died with their chief, save the few who remain,
And that few—oh, fair Heaven! on the high gallows tree
They swing by the ruins of lonely Dunbui!
XII
Long, long in the hearts of the brave and the freeLive the warriors who died in the lonely Dunbui—
Down time's silent river their fair names shall go,
A light to our race towards the long-coming day;
Till the billows of time shall be checked in their flow
Can we find names so sweet for remembrance as they?
And we will hold their memories for ever and aye,
A halo, a glory that ne'er shall decay,
We'll set them as stars o'er eternity's sea,
The bright names of the warriors who fell at Dunbui!
The Castle of Dunboy or Dunbui, is situated on the shore of Bantry Bay, opposite Beare Island. It belonged to O'Sullivan Beare, and was the great military depot of, and the last fortress that held out for, the Catholics of the South in the year 1602. It was defended, almost successfully, in the summer of that year by 146 men, under their commander, Captain Richard Mac Geoghegan, against an army of nearly 6,000 English, commanded by President Carew. Every man of the 146, together with their heroic commander, fell in its defence, except nine or ten who laid down their arms on condition of their getting quarter, and were hanged a few minutes afterwards. Vide Mac Geoghegan, and Annals of the Four Masters, etc.
144
THE LADY OF THE SEA.
I
It was the fairest maiden in Kerry's broad domains,Her faith did plight to an Irish knight by the shore where Cleena reigns;
She was a Saxon maiden—'twas to her father's foe—
And ah, that leal, but hapless love, did cause her bitter woe!
II
For her dark sire had sworn that both their lives should beThe forfeit of their meeting by Cleena's murmuring sea;
And oft she wept her sister's scorn and her black brother's ire,
And oft the stern reproval of her lordly Saxon sire!
III
She sits beside the greenwood, the lady Jane, alone,To think upon her hapless love, and make her mournful moan;
But grief was gone, and joy soon shone, when by her side stood he,
Her banished knight, her Conal Dhuv, the Rover of the Sea!
IV
I've come to thee, my lonely love, back from the main sea wave,An outlawed man, a landless knight, thy hand once more to crave:
The grass grows in my castle hall—but fly, my love, with me,
And thou shalt reign within my bark, the Lady of the Sea!”
145
V
Ah! other ears than his have heard the low consent she gaveTo fly with him next eventide out on the main sea wave;
A captain of a pirate bark was lurking in the screen,
And he hath sworn to cross their love—a truthful oath I ween.
VI
It was a golden sunset, a gorgeous eve of May,And sea and stream beneath the beam in calm resplendence lay,
And all alone where towered the crags like giants huge and still,
A bonnie page stood pensively by tall Saint Brandon's Hill.
VII
A belt all bright with ruddy gold was o'er his shoulders flung,A dagger and a silver horn from that glittering belt were hung,
And long he gazed upon the deep where sank the golden day,
Till round the rock there sudden peered a small sail far away.
VIII
He put the horn unto his mouth, he blew a blast full clear,And to its sound along the waves that light boat danced a-near;
But soon he drew his dagger bright—he drew, alas, in vain,
For strange dark men around him sprang, and forced him o'er the main!
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IX
Scarce vanished was the pirate boat the sunset billows o'er,When from the sea-beat island crags another sought the shore;
It waited long, it moved a-near, it donned a snow-white sail,
But never sound of bugle horn came whispering on the gale.
X
At length there leapt upon the strand a youth with eagle eye,With stately form, and kingly face, and bearing bold and high;
There found the page's blood-stained dirk, and cried, “Ah, woe is me,
Some ruffian band have slain my love, my Lady of the Sea!”
XI
He rowed his boat full furiously, he gained his bark ere night,And told the sad tale to his crew in the sunset's waning light.
They sailed away thro' twilight gray, thro' midnight drear and dark,
And when the red morn lit the spray they found the pirate bark.
XII
An old man stood by Conal Dhuv, his foster-sire was he:“Now give me speech with yon brave ship, perchance they guiltless be!”
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“Nor page, nor maid, we've seen”, they said, “upon the salt sea brine!”
XIII
The old man looked around their deck: he saw the page's horn:“Now, liars all, mark this!” he cried, with looks of hate and scorn;
Then drew his sword and cleared a path, and leapt into the sea,
And to his chief despite their shot he swam right gallantly!
XIV
Oh! loud and long the cheer they gave, young Conal's gallant crew,As on the pirate's deck they sprang for vengeance stern and true;
Revenge is ta'en, the foe they've slain, though fought he fierce and well,
But in that hour of victory their brave young chieftain fell!
XV
A coronach, a coronach upon the ocean sheen;The've brought the lady from the hold, no more a page I ween;
They've placed her by her Conal Dhuv, they raise the funeral wail,
And ever as they vent their grief they fly before the gale.
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XVI
A coronach, a coronach by Cleena's fairy shore;The lady died by her lover's side ere th'eve came blushing o'er.
A ruin crowns a wave-worn crag; there sweetly slumbers he,
Young Donal Dhuv, with his faithful love, his Lady of the Sea!
THE DEATH OF O'DONNELL.
A.D. 1257.
I
Red victory smiled on thy legions, Tir Conaill,When the Geraldine fell 'neath the sparth of O'Donnel;
But fierce was the wailing, and wild was the sorrow
That broke from thy septs ere the dawn of the morrow!
For the prince of their bosoms the champions are grieving:
He fell while their axes the fierce foe were cleaving,
And he lies in his death-wounds by Swilly's dark river,
With his nation around him, as fearless as ever—
Joy, joy in his heart, tho' its pulses be dying,
That he fell while the foe from his valleys were flying.
II
The clans of Tyrone from their forays returning,Hear thy death strains, Tir Conaill, and joy in thy mourning,
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Lies wounded to death 'neath the blow of the stranger;
And they well know a nation thus reft of its leader
'Neath the brands of a foe into ruin will speed her.
High hope for O'Niall! How he bands his wild kerne
From the shores of bright Neagh to the green isles of Erne,—
Oh! round him like torrents his vassals come sweeping
Where the waves of strong Derg down the valleys are leaping.
III
O'Donnell he lies where the green mountain forestIn the glow of the sunlight spreads thickest and hoarest,
While up to his death-couch in frantic disorder
Rush the men of fleet coursers, the scouts of his border;
And they tell in their fear of the black storms looming,
How the red-handed Niall and his thousands are coming!
Then quick spreads the fear of the mighty invader,
Yet all for Tir Conaill are banding to aid her;
And their chieftain—alas! that the death-wounds have bound him—
Calls the men of his might from the valleys around him.
IV
Then he raises his voice by that wild river billow,With the gash in his breast and the gore on his pillow—
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Ever came in the hours of our sorrow and weakness:
He pours on our valleys, and now we will greet him
With the welcome of old on the plains where we meet him!
In the day of my strength ye have found me before ye
Where'er your bright claymores to victory bore ye;
In the day of my weakness my soul must be longing
To see how my people to battle are thronging!
V
Then sound ye, my children, the war note defiantFrom the gray Arran cliffs to the Pass of the Giant,
And make me a bier like the biers of my fathers;
Bear me high in your van where the red Niall gathers,
And we'll scatter his bands, as the storm-clouds of Heaven
From Aileach's black rocks by her thunders are driven!”
Then the hearts of his warriors grow stronger and prouder,
And the shouts of their ardour swell wilder and louder,
And fiercely their war-pipes are ringing and pealing,
From the low-lying glens to the far mountain shieling.
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VI
They've made him a bier like the biers of his fathers,They bear him afar where the red Niall gathers—
Six champions of might from that green forest alley
Bear him on thro' each wild glade and torrent-bound valley,
To a small mountain plain by a swift river torn,
Where the May-heather gleams in the dew of the morn;
But its vernal expanse by the fairy-rings spotted,
Ere the sheen of the evening with gore shall be clotted,
For there with their claymores so gallantly flashing
The septs of Tyrone on Tir Conaill are dashing!
VII
Oh, fiercely they meet! As the foam-wreathed surges,When some demon of midnight their black fury urges
To shatter thy cross, Ard Oilean of the prayers,
So rush and so meet the wild bands of the slayers!
Soon the septs of Tyrone in their might are prevailing,
And the strength of Tir Conaill is riven and failing—
But the bier! the black bier! with the prince of their valour,—
Oh! they look on his face in its last mortal pallor,
And they band them once more and rush fiercely together
On the files of Tyrone o'er the blood-crimsoned heather.
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VIII
Shout, shout for Tir Conaill! Hurra! for her striving!Now the ranks of the foeman her claymores are riving;
The hoofs of her steeds through his red blood are plashing,
And each rider's bright sparth 'mid his squadrons is crashing!
As a herd of gray wolves the O'Niall she scatters,
As the dust of the desert his legions she shatters;
But who in her next hour of need will defend her?
For a corse on his bier lies the prince of her splendour!
Oh! he died while his flags waved in victory o'er him,
With the last of his foemen far scattered before him!
IX
He worsted the stranger, he routed O'Niall,And long, long again ere they band for the trial;
Too well they remember the welcome he gave them,
When flight, nor the strength of their numbers could save them.
Oh! loud through the wild hills his coronach swelleth,
It startles the dun deer and wolf where he dwelleth;
There are eyes red with sorrow, from Erne's green islands
To wild Inishone of the wood-belted highlands;
For they'll ne'er meet his peer in the sad hour of danger
'Gainst the septs of the south, or the false-hearted stranger!
“He then directed his men to place him on the bier which should take him to the grave, and to carry him on it at the head of his forces”. —Haverty's History of Ireland.—See also Annals of the Four Masters.
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MARY'S SWEETHEART.
I
The first time that I saw my love, I knew his heart was mine,The next time that I saw my love, I thought he was divine;
For he said he was no rover, and would ne'er leave me to pine,
And oh! my heart is happy with this true-love of mine!
II
I met him at the Patron by Saint Molagga's Tree,Where at the dance and hurling the boldest, best was he;
Oh! my heart was very happy on that blissful holiday,
And I learned to love him dearly while we danced the hours away.
III
My Brian Ban is clothed in garments of the frieze;But 'tis not costly garments or hoarded wealth I prize;
'Tis the truthful heart he gave me, 'tis the glance of his kind eyes,
And the loving tales he tells me while the golden daylight dies!
IV
A brave heart's in his bosom, yet he's gentle as a child:He tells me pleasant stories till with laughter I am wild;
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Then kiss my bitter tears away, till none so glad as I!
V
Oh! he was scarce a stripling when he banded with the menThat wanted Ireland's freedom, but could not get it then;
And long a gallant outlaw he kept the mountain glen;
But for old Ireland's freedom he'd venture more again.
VI
And now he sits beside me in the greenest dell of dells,And the sweetest of all stories my fond, fond darling tells,
That he loves me with a constant love, that never can decay,
Till we sleep beneath the green grass in Molagga's churchyard gray!
VII
On lands and money hoarded my father sets great store,Though 'gainst the poor and needy he never shut his door;
But my Brian owns a ploughland, and my father asks no more,
So we are to be married when the Easter days are o'er!
| Ballads of Irish chivalry | |