 | Songs of Killarney |  |
111
SPRING VOICES.
113
SPRING'S SUMMONS.
Fark! the Spring again
From their bowers hidden
All her tender train
Blithesomely has bidden.
From their bowers hidden
All her tender train
Blithesomely has bidden.
“Wake, O wake! for now at last
Cruel Winter's reign is past.”
Cruel Winter's reign is past.”
So her little babes the buds
Rosy-red with innocent sleep
From their cradles in the woods
Pretty wonderers upward peep
Through the unfathomed firmament;
Now with earthward gaze intent
Eager mark how far below
Golden flowers and flowers of snow
Gladden all the garden-row,
Or like stars on quiet seas
Daisies light the verdant leas;
Whilst the faithful robins sing,
“Cruel Winter turns to Spring.”
Rosy-red with innocent sleep
From their cradles in the woods
Pretty wonderers upward peep
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Now with earthward gaze intent
Eager mark how far below
Golden flowers and flowers of snow
Gladden all the garden-row,
Or like stars on quiet seas
Daisies light the verdant leas;
Whilst the faithful robins sing,
“Cruel Winter turns to Spring.”
Then that Thorn—too fond for waiting—
Leaf with blossom antedating—
All his naked ebon branches
With sweet snows abundant blanches.
These therefore the breezy showers
Sweep like far-seen avalanches
Sudden from our Island Bowers,
Nor let their silver magic stay
To match the blossomed hawthorn-spray.
Next in fragrant order meet,
To the Season's summons sweet,
Violet, primrose, daffodilly,
Cowslip, harebell, white wood-lily,
All around by bank and field,
Sweeping common, dell concealed,
Their soft charms to Zephyr yield.
He forthwith—most false of Airs—
With the bees his secret shares.
Therefore these with sudden sheen,
Glancing golden o'er the green,
Deftly store from cup and bell,
Clear quintessent hydromel.
Now on instant raptures bent,
Of aught else improvident,
All in robes of rainbow dye,
Nature's fool the butterfly
Up and down in rash unthrift,
To and fro with ceaseless shift,
On, on, from flower to flower, for aye delights to drift.
See! the cautious Oak at last,
Owning angry Winter past,
Spreads his smiling leaves—in haste,
Lest the roving woodsman dread,
Haply holding him for dead,
Plying horrid wound on wound,
With gleaming axe should bear him groaning to the ground.
Then with emulous blossoms gay,
Snowy chestnut—snowy may
Laugh by every woodland way,
Then the blushing lilac kisses
His laburnum's golden tresses.
And, while sheep-bells mingle sweet
With the new-born lambkin's bleat,
Loud the pairing thrushes sing,
“Winter-time has turned to Spring.”
Leaf with blossom antedating—
All his naked ebon branches
With sweet snows abundant blanches.
These therefore the breezy showers
Sweep like far-seen avalanches
Sudden from our Island Bowers,
Nor let their silver magic stay
To match the blossomed hawthorn-spray.
Next in fragrant order meet,
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Violet, primrose, daffodilly,
Cowslip, harebell, white wood-lily,
All around by bank and field,
Sweeping common, dell concealed,
Their soft charms to Zephyr yield.
He forthwith—most false of Airs—
With the bees his secret shares.
Therefore these with sudden sheen,
Glancing golden o'er the green,
Deftly store from cup and bell,
Clear quintessent hydromel.
Now on instant raptures bent,
Of aught else improvident,
All in robes of rainbow dye,
Nature's fool the butterfly
Up and down in rash unthrift,
To and fro with ceaseless shift,
On, on, from flower to flower, for aye delights to drift.
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Owning angry Winter past,
Spreads his smiling leaves—in haste,
Lest the roving woodsman dread,
Haply holding him for dead,
Plying horrid wound on wound,
With gleaming axe should bear him groaning to the ground.
Then with emulous blossoms gay,
Snowy chestnut—snowy may
Laugh by every woodland way,
Then the blushing lilac kisses
His laburnum's golden tresses.
And, while sheep-bells mingle sweet
With the new-born lambkin's bleat,
Loud the pairing thrushes sing,
“Winter-time has turned to Spring.”
Now to Man that happy Voice
Cries in turn, “Rejoice! Rejoice
Come, O come! for now at last,
Lo, the Tyrant-King has passed.
Fear no more his snows and frost,
Reck not of his tempests rude,
Winter o'er the seas has crossed,
And his storms are all subdued.”
Cries in turn, “Rejoice! Rejoice
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Lo, the Tyrant-King has passed.
Fear no more his snows and frost,
Reck not of his tempests rude,
Winter o'er the seas has crossed,
And his storms are all subdued.”
Hush, oh hush! for first she calls
In a voice most full of pity,
Soft and clear,
“Mourners dear,
From the cold unlovely walls
Of your cruel, cruel city,
Softly steal to me, and make your moan
All alone;
So shall your exceeding bitter grief
Find a fond relief.
In a voice most full of pity,
Soft and clear,
“Mourners dear,
From the cold unlovely walls
Of your cruel, cruel city,
Softly steal to me, and make your moan
All alone;
So shall your exceeding bitter grief
Find a fond relief.
“Come also an open band,
Hand in hand,
From your winter durance dreary,
Whosoever weak and weary,
Languish in the land!
Press from out your sombre cities,
Sick and poor,
For your cure
I have sights and smells and ditties
Manifold—
Potent, oh! my friends, to please you,
Or a happy while to ease you,
Young and old,
Of your pain.
Hand in hand,
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Whosoever weak and weary,
Languish in the land!
Press from out your sombre cities,
Sick and poor,
For your cure
I have sights and smells and ditties
Manifold—
Potent, oh! my friends, to please you,
Or a happy while to ease you,
Young and old,
Of your pain.
“Come again.
Fair and strong,
Grave and thoughtless, join the throng.”
Fair and strong,
Grave and thoughtless, join the throng.”
“Hasten here,
Children dear!
Haste, and with your shrill delight
Fill the greenest of my glades;
Whilst in gladdest giddiest flight
Flying beams and flickering shades,
Sharing in your frolic mirth,
Go dancing, dancing with you o'er the daisied earth.
Children dear!
Haste, and with your shrill delight
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Whilst in gladdest giddiest flight
Flying beams and flickering shades,
Sharing in your frolic mirth,
Go dancing, dancing with you o'er the daisied earth.
“Come anon, ye lovers true,
With the falling of my dew,
Come, and past my faintly-figured hawthorn-row
To and fro
Turn with happy steps and slow;
Till some soft-embowered retreat
Tempt aside your willing feet;
There, whilst Love a friendly shade,
Weaves in your abashment's aid,
Trembling youth to timorous maid,
With emboldened lips confess,
All your bosom's dear distress.
With the falling of my dew,
Come, and past my faintly-figured hawthorn-row
To and fro
Turn with happy steps and slow;
Till some soft-embowered retreat
Tempt aside your willing feet;
There, whilst Love a friendly shade,
Weaves in your abashment's aid,
Trembling youth to timorous maid,
With emboldened lips confess,
All your bosom's dear distress.
“Nor withhold, my allies three,
Painter, Minstrel, Poet fond,
Your sweet services from me.
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Your sweet services from me.
“See! oh see!
Artist true,
At the wafture of my wand,
Lake and wood and hill beyond,
Purple, green, and blue,
Morn's first blush,
Eve's last flush,
Laughingly
Challenge you!
Lightest, brightest, boldest Brush
From the crowded city's hum,
Come!
Come counterfeit with art complete
All my changeful colours sweet.
Artist true,
At the wafture of my wand,
Lake and wood and hill beyond,
Purple, green, and blue,
Morn's first blush,
Eve's last flush,
Laughingly
Challenge you!
Lightest, brightest, boldest Brush
From the crowded city's hum,
Come!
Come counterfeit with art complete
All my changeful colours sweet.
“Next draw near,
Minstrel dear—
Come, O come! for Nature's Choir
This thine Art shall best inspire.
Hear her opera! love its stress;
All her stage this upland green,
Hero true and heroine
Yonder hind and shepherdess.
Hark! O hark each voice repeat
Passion's pleading,
Feigned unheeding—
Now in mutual rapture meet;
These—amidst a comrade chorus
Clear, sonorous,—
These shall be our happy singers;
Whiles that hidden Harper sweet,
With his eager, airy fingers,
Tightly straining for his pleasure the long tresses of the pine,
Sweeps them to those lovers' voices in a melody divine.
Whence now shall our viol-notes
Lightly laugh or wildly wail?
From your gay and grieving throats,
Tuneful lark and nightingale!
Now for flageolet and flute
Thrush and blackbird be not mute!
Now for trump and clarion clear
Low ye oxen, bell ye deer—
Now with silver cymbal shocks,
Clash ye sudden-echoing rocks!
Nor cease, O sea, at vastest interval
Sounding from deep to deep thine awful organ-call.
Minstrel dear—
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This thine Art shall best inspire.
Hear her opera! love its stress;
All her stage this upland green,
Hero true and heroine
Yonder hind and shepherdess.
Hark! O hark each voice repeat
Passion's pleading,
Feigned unheeding—
Now in mutual rapture meet;
These—amidst a comrade chorus
Clear, sonorous,—
These shall be our happy singers;
Whiles that hidden Harper sweet,
With his eager, airy fingers,
Tightly straining for his pleasure the long tresses of the pine,
Sweeps them to those lovers' voices in a melody divine.
Whence now shall our viol-notes
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From your gay and grieving throats,
Tuneful lark and nightingale!
Now for flageolet and flute
Thrush and blackbird be not mute!
Now for trump and clarion clear
Low ye oxen, bell ye deer—
Now with silver cymbal shocks,
Clash ye sudden-echoing rocks!
Nor cease, O sea, at vastest interval
Sounding from deep to deep thine awful organ-call.
“Last of all, delighted straying
From thy fevered fellow-throng,
Come, O Poet, pensive weighing
Words of song—
Come! my landscape fresh and fair,
Choir enchanting, perfumed air
All their essences most rare
Thee shall lend—
Aye and so divinely blend
With thy fancy's loving theme,
That when thou art dead and laid
In the quiet Churchyard shade,
O'er that gently flowing stream—
From the quiet ingle nook—
Village youth and village maid,
With the winter woodfire's aid,
May list the lark or mountain brook
Singing from thy faithful book—
May see with half-closed musing eyes
My waving woods, my shifting skies,
And almost feel upon their brow
My zephyr breathe as soft as now.”
From thy fevered fellow-throng,
Come, O Poet, pensive weighing
Words of song—
Come! my landscape fresh and fair,
Choir enchanting, perfumed air
All their essences most rare
Thee shall lend—
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With thy fancy's loving theme,
That when thou art dead and laid
In the quiet Churchyard shade,
O'er that gently flowing stream—
From the quiet ingle nook—
Village youth and village maid,
With the winter woodfire's aid,
May list the lark or mountain brook
Singing from thy faithful book—
May see with half-closed musing eyes
My waving woods, my shifting skies,
And almost feel upon their brow
My zephyr breathe as soft as now.”
124
THE CLIFFS OF GLENDORE.
“She comes, she comes, the Season's Queen!”
The faithful robins pipe, and preen
Their ruffled plumes, associate lean
The lime and larch,
Lifted in one long, lustrous, green
Triumphal arch.
The faithful robins pipe, and preen
Their ruffled plumes, associate lean
The lime and larch,
Lifted in one long, lustrous, green
Triumphal arch.
“She comes, she comes!” on herald wing,
Before her thrush and blackbird sing;
Then in she sweeps, the sovereign Spring,
While at her side,
Love, with an arrow on his string,
Doth laughing ride.
Before her thrush and blackbird sing;
Then in she sweeps, the sovereign Spring,
While at her side,
Love, with an arrow on his string,
Doth laughing ride.
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Around them troop a virgin train,
With mystic dance and magic strain,
Loose-linked in one careering chain
Of lovely mirth.
“So Spring,” he sang, “returns to reign
The willing Earth.
With mystic dance and magic strain,
Loose-linked in one careering chain
Of lovely mirth.
“So Spring,” he sang, “returns to reign
The willing Earth.
“So Spring returns, and, with her, Love,
Whom small sweet larks in heaven above,
Coy butterfly, coo-cooing dove,
Fond youth and maid—
Ay, all glad hearts are telling of,
But mine,” he said.
Whom small sweet larks in heaven above,
Coy butterfly, coo-cooing dove,
Fond youth and maid—
Ay, all glad hearts are telling of,
But mine,” he said.
“Yet how divinelier bird and bee,
And wind and wave would sing to me,
How lovelier far by lawn and lea
Thy spring would prove,
Wert thou not still estranged from me,
O longed-for Love!”
And wind and wave would sing to me,
How lovelier far by lawn and lea
Thy spring would prove,
Wert thou not still estranged from me,
O longed-for Love!”
126
So that dear Irish April day,
Above his blue Atlantic bay,
Embowered by arbutus and may,
A poet cried;
When “come!” it sang; and “I obey,
Sweet brook,” he sighed.
Above his blue Atlantic bay,
Embowered by arbutus and may,
A poet cried;
When “come!” it sang; and “I obey,
Sweet brook,” he sighed.
And strange as lips and eyes, that seem
Calling, gazing, through a dream,
With summon's sweet and beckoning beam
That brook ran ever,
Swelling to a stately stream,
A rushing river.
Calling, gazing, through a dream,
With summon's sweet and beckoning beam
That brook ran ever,
Swelling to a stately stream,
A rushing river.
And “come!” it cried again to him,
So clear, that o'er the grassy rim
He gazed into the waters dim;
But nought espied,
Save bull-flags swaying great and grim
Athwart the tide.
So clear, that o'er the grassy rim
He gazed into the waters dim;
But nought espied,
Save bull-flags swaying great and grim
Athwart the tide.
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And “come!” it called him o'er and o'er,
Love's voice upon the Atlantic shore;
And “come!” it cried to him once more,
Then laughed “Too late,”
As mid the cliffs of wild Glendore,
He found his fate.
Love's voice upon the Atlantic shore;
And “come!” it cried to him once more,
Then laughed “Too late,”
As mid the cliffs of wild Glendore,
He found his fate.
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THE POET'S SPRING.
With an aching heart and a brain outweary,
From his trembling fingers he tossed the pen,
And climbed to the roof of his attic eyrie,
And gazed far down on the city of men,
And cried from above to the thronging people,
“Oh, little as ye seem, and vain and slight,
Ye are smaller, slighter”—and he turned to the steeple—
“Meaner and vainer in your Maker's sight!”
“Yea,” the bell chimed from the sacred height.
From his trembling fingers he tossed the pen,
And climbed to the roof of his attic eyrie,
And gazed far down on the city of men,
And cried from above to the thronging people,
“Oh, little as ye seem, and vain and slight,
Ye are smaller, slighter”—and he turned to the steeple—
“Meaner and vainer in your Maker's sight!”
“Yea,” the bell chimed from the sacred height.
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“When death,” he sighed, “left my pillow lonely,
And my whole life loveless, hither I came
From our New World sierras—comforted only
By a far-heard echo of fame and name,
The siren voice of a Phantom Shrouded;
But the Mystic Shape is with clouds o'erclouded,
And her sweet strain silent. Proclaim, proclaim,
What may it mean? Is it well, oh bell?”
And the voice from the steeple replied, “It is well.”
And my whole life loveless, hither I came
From our New World sierras—comforted only
By a far-heard echo of fame and name,
The siren voice of a Phantom Shrouded;
But the Mystic Shape is with clouds o'erclouded,
And her sweet strain silent. Proclaim, proclaim,
What may it mean? Is it well, oh bell?”
And the voice from the steeple replied, “It is well.”
Once again he called to the Spirit in the Spire:
“If Fame forsake me as Love forsook,
What is left of all of my heart's desire
But a buried bride and a foolish book?”
The bell no more made answer hollow,
But a fresh voice fell on the poet's ear,
A voice from the west, crying, “Follow me, follow—
Flowers waken, birds warble, and streams run clear,
Follow me, follow, for the Spring is here!”
“If Fame forsake me as Love forsook,
What is left of all of my heart's desire
But a buried bride and a foolish book?”
The bell no more made answer hollow,
But a fresh voice fell on the poet's ear,
A voice from the west, crying, “Follow me, follow—
Flowers waken, birds warble, and streams run clear,
Follow me, follow, for the Spring is here!”
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So the poet followed the sweet-voiced zephyr
To a gay green valley in the heart of the hills,
At his feet there leaped a laughing river
Crowned with thorn-blossom and daffodils:
Two robins aloft on an elm were singing,
Two wild doves over the stream were winging,
And this song was wafted from welkin and rills
And bird and blossom—“Sad soul, be whole
With a hope that shall strengthen as the seasons roll.”
To a gay green valley in the heart of the hills,
At his feet there leaped a laughing river
Crowned with thorn-blossom and daffodils:
Two robins aloft on an elm were singing,
Two wild doves over the stream were winging,
And this song was wafted from welkin and rills
And bird and blossom—“Sad soul, be whole
With a hope that shall strengthen as the seasons roll.”
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THE IRISH EXILE'S LOVE.
With pensive eyes she passed the church,
And up the leafy woodland came;
Until she reached the silver birch
Where, long ago, he carved her name.
And up the leafy woodland came;
Until she reached the silver birch
Where, long ago, he carved her name.
And “Oh!” she sighed, as soft she kissed
With loving lips that gentle tree,
“Alone, alone, I keep the tryst,
Return to Ireland, love, and me.
With loving lips that gentle tree,
“Alone, alone, I keep the tryst,
Return to Ireland, love, and me.
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“Return! Columbia's realm afar,
Where year by year your feet delay,
We cannot match for moon or star
By silver night or golden day.
Where year by year your feet delay,
We cannot match for moon or star
By silver night or golden day.
“Her birds are brighter far of wing
A richer lustre lights her flowers;
Yet still they say no bird can sing
Or blossom breathe as sweet as ours.
A richer lustre lights her flowers;
Yet still they say no bird can sing
Or blossom breathe as sweet as ours.
“Return! Her levin-flashes dire
Affright not here. We never know
Her awful rushing prairie-fire—
The silent horror of her snow.
Affright not here. We never know
Her awful rushing prairie-fire—
The silent horror of her snow.
“Return! Her heart is wise and bold—
Her borders beautiful and free—
Yet still the New is not the Old,
Return to Ireland, love, and me.”
Her borders beautiful and free—
Yet still the New is not the Old,
Return to Ireland, love, and me.”
133
THE MAY OF THE YEAR.
O show me a season as mild and as merry
As the May of the year in the Kingdom of Kerry.
As the May of the year, as the May of the year,
When the eyes of Atlantic, as crystal-clear
As Heaven's own blue, are beaming on you;
And the sun moves slowly for love of the flowers
—Such flowers, with the wild bees all a-hum,—
And delights to linger above the bowers
—Those very bowers, so dark and dumb,
And sorrowful stripped for O, how long?
But now how green! how full of song!—
And the good sun gazes, with golden gaze,
On the evergreens of our woodland ways:
A gaze so glad—arbutus and holly
Forget their wintry melancholy
In diamond laughter, and he delays
The happy heedless course of the hours,
And looks with a lingering love-look down
To do his duty
To Irish beauty;
And looks again, with a royal frown,
Steadfast and stern, our boys to burn,
To burn our boys, to a braver brown.
As the May of the year in the Kingdom of Kerry.
As the May of the year, as the May of the year,
When the eyes of Atlantic, as crystal-clear
As Heaven's own blue, are beaming on you;
And the sun moves slowly for love of the flowers
—Such flowers, with the wild bees all a-hum,—
And delights to linger above the bowers
—Those very bowers, so dark and dumb,
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But now how green! how full of song!—
And the good sun gazes, with golden gaze,
On the evergreens of our woodland ways:
A gaze so glad—arbutus and holly
Forget their wintry melancholy
In diamond laughter, and he delays
The happy heedless course of the hours,
And looks with a lingering love-look down
To do his duty
To Irish beauty;
And looks again, with a royal frown,
Steadfast and stern, our boys to burn,
To burn our boys, to a braver brown.
So the good sun his course delays,
For he loves to lengthen our sweet spring days.
For he loves to lengthen our sweet spring days.
135
SONNET
TO A HAWTHORN.
When Spring returns, after so sad delay,
And little birds no longer pipe “Alas!”
Oft as a-field from copse to copse I pass,
I mark thee, fairest, quickening day by day
From bud to leaf—from leaf to blossom gay;
Till, as a queen, the lovely village lass
Wreathes for her crown thy pearliest-petalled spray,
Thy greenest wilding sceptres for her sway.
And little birds no longer pipe “Alas!”
Oft as a-field from copse to copse I pass,
I mark thee, fairest, quickening day by day
From bud to leaf—from leaf to blossom gay;
Till, as a queen, the lovely village lass
Wreathes for her crown thy pearliest-petalled spray,
Thy greenest wilding sceptres for her sway.
Be with us still, beseech thee, Maiden May;
Still to thy stream stoop through the springing grass.
Aye! linger still, a bride before thy glass.
And still too soon shall dusk the nuptial day
When thy virginity, that so beauteous was,
In Summer's amorous arms shall blushing melt away.
Still to thy stream stoop through the springing grass.
Aye! linger still, a bride before thy glass.
And still too soon shall dusk the nuptial day
When thy virginity, that so beauteous was,
In Summer's amorous arms shall blushing melt away.
136
SONNET
TO A LABURNUM IN A DUBLIN GARDEN.
Dost thou, despairful that thy lot is laidFar from the wild wood, the romantic hill,
In rich dishevelment of sorrow spill
Thy long locks lustrous—kiss thine own sweet shade
Narcissus-like, or with the Argive maid
To golden glamour yield thee half afraid?
An exile's longings for some orient lea
Lavish belike these glittering hoards of grief.
I know not. Yet, before their summer brief
Forsakes our island woods, Laburnum Tree,
Again thou seem'st to blossom tears of gold.
Nearer we draw, yet all that we behold
Is but the splendour of thy faded leaf—
No hue of health—the flush that all too soon is cold.
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DAWN AT BALLINVOIRIG.
Tis scarcely four by the village clock,
The dew is heavy—the air is cool—
A mist goes up from the glassy pool—
Through the dim field ranges a phantom flock,
No sound is heard but the magpie's mock.
The dew is heavy—the air is cool—
A mist goes up from the glassy pool—
Through the dim field ranges a phantom flock,
No sound is heard but the magpie's mock.
Very low is the sun in the sky,
It needeth no eagle now to regard him.
Is there not one lark left to reward him
With the shivering joy of his long sweet cry?
For his face shines sadly, I know not why.
It needeth no eagle now to regard him.
Is there not one lark left to reward him
With the shivering joy of his long sweet cry?
For his face shines sadly, I know not why.
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Through the ivied ruins of yonder elm
There glides and gazes a sadder face—
Spectre queen of a vanished race
'Tis the full moon shrunk to a fleeting film,
And she lingers for love of her ancient realm.
There glides and gazes a sadder face—
Spectre queen of a vanished race
'Tis the full moon shrunk to a fleeting film,
And she lingers for love of her ancient realm.
These are but idle fancies, I know,
Framed to solace a secret grief.
Look again—scorning such false relief—
Dwarf not Nature to match thy woe.
Look again! Whence do these fancies flow?
Framed to solace a secret grief.
Look again—scorning such false relief—
Dwarf not Nature to match thy woe.
Look again! Whence do these fancies flow?
What is the moon but a lamp of fire
That God shall relume in His season? The sun
Like a giant rejoices his race to run,
With flaming feet that never tire,
On the azure path of the starry choir.
That God shall relume in His season? The sun
Like a giant rejoices his race to run,
With flaming feet that never tire,
On the azure path of the starry choir.
The lark has sung ere I left my bed,
And hark! far aloft from those ladders of ligh
Many songs, not one only, the morn delight;
Then, Sad Heart, dream not that Nature is dead,
But seek from her strength and comfort instead.
And hark! far aloft from those ladders of ligh
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Then, Sad Heart, dream not that Nature is dead,
But seek from her strength and comfort instead.
140
THE KINGDOM OF KERRY.
AN INVITATION TO IRELAND.
O come to us and learn to own—
Unless your heart's as hard as stone—
There's not a realm around the sphere
With Our Kingdom can compare.
Unless your heart's as hard as stone—
There's not a realm around the sphere
With Our Kingdom can compare.
For how could river, lake, and sea
In softer sister hues agree?
Or hills of passionate purple-glow
Far and near more proudly flow?
In softer sister hues agree?
Or hills of passionate purple-glow
Far and near more proudly flow?
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And where will summer kiss awake
Lovelier flowers by lawn or brake?
Or brighter berries blush between
Foliage of a fresher green?
Lovelier flowers by lawn or brake?
Or brighter berries blush between
Foliage of a fresher green?
And if you miss from modern days
Sweet simple-hearted human ways,
Come! own such ancient virtues rare
In our kingdom cherished are.
Sweet simple-hearted human ways,
Come! own such ancient virtues rare
In our kingdom cherished are.
The open hospitable door,
The poor man's pittance to the poor,
Unfaltering friendship, loyal love—
Joys your greatest sigh to prove.
The poor man's pittance to the poor,
Unfaltering friendship, loyal love—
Joys your greatest sigh to prove.
O come to us! At break of day
We'll breast the billows of the bay;
Then range afar with rod or gun,
Sportsmen keen, till set of sun.
We'll breast the billows of the bay;
Then range afar with rod or gun,
Sportsmen keen, till set of sun.
142
Or our advent'rous nymphs beside
With eager oarage take the tide
To mountains fresh and forests new,
Borne along the Atlantic blue.
With eager oarage take the tide
To mountains fresh and forests new,
Borne along the Atlantic blue.
Pausing awhile, our quest achieved,
On velvet mosses over-leaved
With shelter from the solar glare
Gipsy-wise our feast to share.
On velvet mosses over-leaved
With shelter from the solar glare
Gipsy-wise our feast to share.
O then—or when a moonlit main
Together tempts us home again,
And dipping dreamy oars we go,
Softly singing, laughing low—
Together tempts us home again,
And dipping dreamy oars we go,
Softly singing, laughing low—
Then most of all—beware! beware!
The starry eyes, the night of hair—
Each darkling grace of face and mould,
Silver voices, hearts of gold.
The starry eyes, the night of hair—
Each darkling grace of face and mould,
Silver voices, hearts of gold.
143
So come to us and gladly own—
Unless your heart's as hard as stone—
That not one kingdom in the sphere
With our Kerry can compare.
Unless your heart's as hard as stone—
That not one kingdom in the sphere
With our Kerry can compare.
| Songs of Killarney | |