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123
FROM THE CELTIC.
125
BELTANE.
Oh, mild May day, in Fōdla's climeOf fairy colour, the laughing prime
Of leafy summer from year to year,
I would that Leagha were with me here
To lie and listen down in a dell
To Banba's blackbirds warbling well,
And her cuckoos crying with constant strain
Welcome, welcome the bright Beltane;
When the swallows are skimming the shore,
And the swift steed stoops to the fountain,
And the weak, fair bog-down grows on the moor,
And the heath spreads her hair on the mountain,
And the signs of heaven are in consternation,
And the rushing planets such radiance pour,
That the sea lies lulled, and the generation
Of flowers awakes once more.
145
PATRICK AND OISIN.
“Oisin, Oisin, too long is thy slumber.
Oisin, arise, and give ear to the chant:
Thy force hath forsook thee, thy battles are over,
And without us, old man, thou would'st perish of want.”
Oisin, arise, and give ear to the chant:
Thy force hath forsook thee, thy battles are over,
And without us, old man, thou would'st perish of want.”
“My force hath forsook me, my battles are over;
Since alas the famed empire of Finn is no more,
And without you indeed 'tis for want I should perish,
But since Finn sweetest music is music no more.”
Since alas the famed empire of Finn is no more,
And without you indeed 'tis for want I should perish,
But since Finn sweetest music is music no more.”
“Nay, silly old man, for all of thy vaunting,
Of the loud Dord-Finn chorus, the timpan and horn,
Thou hast never heard music like matin bells ringing,
Or solemn psalms sung in the still summer morn.”
Of the loud Dord-Finn chorus, the timpan and horn,
Thou hast never heard music like matin bells ringing,
Or solemn psalms sung in the still summer morn.”
“Though greatly thou praisest the chants of the clerics,
I had rather lie listening down in the dale
To the voice of the cuckoo of Letter Lee calling;
Or the very sweet thrushes of green Gleann-a-Sgail;
I had rather lie listening down in the dale
To the voice of the cuckoo of Letter Lee calling;
Or the very sweet thrushes of green Gleann-a-Sgail;
146
“Or the song of the blackbird of Derrycarn gushing
So full and so free in the woods of the West;
(Oh, Patrick, no hymn under heaven could approach it!
Ah, would that I only were under his nest!)
So full and so free in the woods of the West;
(Oh, Patrick, no hymn under heaven could approach it!
Ah, would that I only were under his nest!)
“And I'd far liefer hearken the eagle's fierce whistle,
From lone Glennamoo or the Ridge by the stream,
Or list the loud thunder of rushing Tra-Rury,
Or catch on rough Irrus the seagull's scream.
From lone Glennamoo or the Ridge by the stream,
Or list the loud thunder of rushing Tra-Rury,
Or catch on rough Irrus the seagull's scream.
“And I'd bid long goodbye to the bells of the clerics,
Could I once again follow o'er mountain and moor
The tune of the twelve fleetest wolf hounds of Erin
Let loose with their faces away from the Suir.
Could I once again follow o'er mountain and moor
The tune of the twelve fleetest wolf hounds of Erin
Let loose with their faces away from the Suir.
“And Cnu, little Cnu of my bosom, where art thou?
O small fairy dwarf, to the Finians so dear,
Whose harp ever soothed all our sorrows to slumber,
Ah, Cnu, little Cnu, how I would you were here.
O small fairy dwarf, to the Finians so dear,
Whose harp ever soothed all our sorrows to slumber,
Ah, Cnu, little Cnu, how I would you were here.
“Where is now your betrothed one, oh, Cnu, where is Blathnaid,
Who stood up in beauty to sing when you played;
For the mouth of no mortal such sweetness could utter,
As the soft, rosy mouth of that magical maid.”
Who stood up in beauty to sing when you played;
For the mouth of no mortal such sweetness could utter,
As the soft, rosy mouth of that magical maid.”
147
THE SONG OF THE FAIRY KING.
Queen of women, oh come away,
Come to my kingdom strange to see;
Where tresses flow with a golden glow,
And white as snow is the fair bodỳ.
Come to my kingdom strange to see;
Where tresses flow with a golden glow,
And white as snow is the fair bodỳ.
Under the arching of ebon brows,
Eyes of azure the soul enthral,
And a speech of songs to the mouth belongs,
And sorrowful sighing shall ne'er befall.
Eyes of azure the soul enthral,
And a speech of songs to the mouth belongs,
And sorrowful sighing shall ne'er befall.
Bright are the blooms of Innisfail,
Green her forests wave in the west:
But brighter flowers and greener bowers
Shall all be ours in that country blest.
Green her forests wave in the west:
But brighter flowers and greener bowers
Shall all be ours in that country blest.
Can her streams compare to the runnels rare
Of yellow honey and rosy wine
That softly slip to the longing lip
With magic flow through that land of mine?
Of yellow honey and rosy wine
That softly slip to the longing lip
With magic flow through that land of mine?
149
We roam the earth in its grief and mirth,
But move unseen of all therein,
For before their gaze there hangs a haze,
The heavy haze of their mortal sin.
But move unseen of all therein,
For before their gaze there hangs a haze,
The heavy haze of their mortal sin.
But our age wastes not, our beauty tastes not
Evil's apple nor droops nor dies;
Death slays us never, but love for ever
With stainless ardour illumes our eyes.
Evil's apple nor droops nor dies;
Death slays us never, but love for ever
With stainless ardour illumes our eyes.
Then, queen of women, oh come away,
Come and sit on my fairy throne,
In a realm of rest with spirits blest,
Where sin and sorrow are all unknown.
Come and sit on my fairy throne,
In a realm of rest with spirits blest,
Where sin and sorrow are all unknown.
150
O'CURNAN'S SONG.
O Mary bhan asthore,
That through my bosom's core
Hast pierced me past the Isle of Fodla's healing;
By Heaven, 'tis my belief,
Had you but known my grief,
Long since to me with succour you'd been stealing.
That through my bosom's core
Hast pierced me past the Isle of Fodla's healing;
By Heaven, 'tis my belief,
Had you but known my grief,
Long since to me with succour you'd been stealing.
With tears the night I waste;
No food by day I taste,
But wander weak and silent as a shadow!
Ah! if I may not find
My Mary true and kind,
My mother soon must weep, a sonless widow.
No food by day I taste,
But wander weak and silent as a shadow!
Ah! if I may not find
My Mary true and kind,
My mother soon must weep, a sonless widow.
I know not night from day:
“Cuckoo!” the thrushes say!
But how can it be May in dark December?
My friends look strange and wild;
But hasten, Mary mild,
And well my heart its mistress shall remember.
“Cuckoo!” the thrushes say!
But how can it be May in dark December?
My friends look strange and wild;
But hasten, Mary mild,
And well my heart its mistress shall remember.
151
No herb or skill of hand
My cure can now command,
From you, O Flower of Love, alone I'll seek it;
Then hasten, hasten here,
My own and only dear,
And in your secret ear I'll softly speak it.
My cure can now command,
From you, O Flower of Love, alone I'll seek it;
Then hasten, hasten here,
My own and only dear,
And in your secret ear I'll softly speak it.
One sweet kiss from your mouth
Would quench my burning drouth,
And lift me back to life; ah! yield it to me;
Or make for me my bed
Among the mouldering dead,
Where the winding worms may crawl and channel through me.
Would quench my burning drouth,
And lift me back to life; ah! yield it to me;
Or make for me my bed
Among the mouldering dead,
Where the winding worms may crawl and channel through me.
Ah! better buried so
Than like a ghost to go,
All music, dance, and sport with sighs forsaking;
A witless, wandering man
For the love of Mary bhan,
With the heart within my bosom slowly breaking.
Than like a ghost to go,
All music, dance, and sport with sighs forsaking;
A witless, wandering man
For the love of Mary bhan,
With the heart within my bosom slowly breaking.
152
CAOINE.
Cold, dark, and dumb lies my boy on his bed;
Cold, dark, and silent the night dews are shed;
Hot, swift, and fierce fall my tears for the dead!
Cold, dark, and silent the night dews are shed;
Hot, swift, and fierce fall my tears for the dead!
His footprints lay light in the dew of the dawn
As the straight, slender track of the young mountain fawn;
But I'll ne'er again follow them over the lawn.
As the straight, slender track of the young mountain fawn;
But I'll ne'er again follow them over the lawn.
His manly cheek blushed with the sun's rising ray,
And he shone in his strength like the sun at midday;
But a cloud of black darkness has hid him away.
And he shone in his strength like the sun at midday;
But a cloud of black darkness has hid him away.
And that black cloud for ever shall cling to the skies:
And never, ah, never, I'll see him arise,
Lost warmth of my bosom, lost light of my eyes!
And never, ah, never, I'll see him arise,
Lost warmth of my bosom, lost light of my eyes!
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