The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves :: :: University of Virginia Library

O rose-tree in full bearing,
When rude storms had stripped the bowers,
How oft, with thee despairing,
I've sighed through the long dark hours!
Till Spring, so hard of wooing,
Hope's own green spell upon thee cast,
And Kate, her coldness rueing,
With sweet pity turned at last.

Then April smiled to cheer us,
Or mocked grief with golden rain,
While Kate drew laughing near us,
Or frowned past with dear disdain;
'Till, was it yester even?—
Beneath thy faint red flowers divine,
With Love's one star in heaven,
Her lips leant at last to mine!

And when I fondly told her,
O Rose, all our stormy grief;
And how my hope grew bolder
With thy every opening leaf;
She answered, “For so sharing,
Dear heart, Love's weary winter hour,
The Rose-tree in full bearing
Shall build us our summer bower.”

103

THE SAILOR'S BRIDE

And is he coming home to-day
Who all these years has ranged?
And will he be the same to me,
Although I so have changed.
The same again, the same as when
At first he courting came,
And looked me through with eyes so blue—
Ah, will he be the same?

I would have dressed in all my best;
He'd have me wear my worst—
The faded gown of homespun brown
In which I met him first.
My woman's heart would have me smart;
I'm but a woman still.
Yet bide, gay gown, come, old one, down;
Let Donal have his will.

“The Southern Star” has fetched the Bar,
She's signalled from the land.
Quick, little Donal, to my arms!
Now on my shoulder stand!
There, there she sails! He's at the rails!
For joy my eyes run o'er.
Wave, little lad, to your own dad!
Aye, 'tis himself once more.

104

THE BLACKBIRD AND THE THRUSH

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One evening as I walkéd
Down by a green bush,
I heard two birds whistling,
'Twas the blackbird and thrush;
I asked them the reason
They were so merrie,
And in answer they sang back to me,
“We are single and free.”

Next morning as that green bush
I passed all alone,
Two thrushes piped out of it,
The blackbird was flown;
I asked them the reason
Their hearts were so gay,
It was joyfully they answered me.
“We have mated to-day.”

One morrow little after
That bush I went by,
When o'er me most piteously
I heard my thrush cry;
I asked why such sorrow
He poured from the tree,
And he answered, “'Tis the blackbird
Has my love stolen from me.”

105

Oh, freedom it is pleasant,
Love returned is delight!
But a lover deserted
Must mourn noon and night.
Break my house, take my goods,
I can gather fresh gain;
But love's ruined bower
Who shall build up again?

FOR I HAD A SPIRIT ABOVE MY DEGREE

With the lark up above, the Lent lilies below,
Young Owen came courting, I could not say No!
But because I was poor and of humble degree,
His proud parents parted my Owen and me.

Had he only stood firm. I'd have waited for years;
But Owen gave way; so I forced back my tears,
And wed Hugh O'Donnell, long hopeless of me,
For I had a spirit above my degree.

But the sweet old croonawns evermore, evermore,
Owen whistled and sang as he went by our door;
Yet I never looked out my old sweetheart to see;
For I had a spirit above my degree.

For comfort, for comfort, I cried and I prayed,
Even while my sweet babe in my bosom was laid;
But when in my face he laughed up from my knee,
Sweet comfort, sweet comfort it came back to me.

106

Till one day to a knock when I pushed back the pin,
All dressed in his best, my poor Owen ran in,
And “Oonagh, make haste, dear, make haste, dear,” cried he,
“For the chapel's full up our fine wedding to see.”

I looked in his eyes and I saw they were wild,
With the sweet old croonawns his mood I beguiled,
Till his heart-broken father came over the lea
With the keepers and took him still crying for me.

My good man is gone, but God has been kind;
My sons they are steady, my girls of my mind;
My prayers for my lost ones rise fervent and free,
And between their two graves there's one waiting for me.

MY GARDEN AT THE BACK

When I came o'er from old Rosstrevor
Here to London town,
A lonesome spell upon me fell
For Kate and County Down.
'Twas gloomy toil for her glad smile,
Grey stone for grassy track;
Till I took heart at last to start
A garden at the back.

107

With country mould, at morn and eve,
Still I piled my plot;
Then sow'd and set musk, mignonette,
Pink, rose, forget-me-not.
Till bees they flew from out the blue,
And butterflies they'd tack,
O blessed hour, from flow'r to flow'r
Of my garden at the back.

Then when I'd but the Christmas rose
To end the flow'ry race,
Around the corner came my scorner
With a sadden'd face.
The cause to guess of her distress
For sure I was not slack,
And now her eyes make Paradise
Of my garden at the back.

MY HEART'S IN INNISHOWEN

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The blackbird he was piping loud
From off the lilac tree,
And there was not a single cloud
In all the North Countree.
When down there stepped a bonny bride,
Still sweeter than the Spring;
And at Greencastle Ferryside
'Twas thus I heard her sing:

108

“Oh, Magilligan 's a pretty place,
And that full well is known;
Yet I am going to leave you all
And live in Innishowen;
Where every maid goes neat and trig,
Whatever her degree.
For of all the parts of Ireland
Sweet Innishowen for me!

“And if you ask why I've forsook
My lovely native strand,
Then at my left third finger look
And you will understand.
For sure a maid must follow him
Whose ring's upon it shown;
So though my eyes for you are dim,
My heart's in Innishowen!”

THE SONG OF THE GHOST

When all were dreaming but Pastheen Power,
A light came streaming beneath her bower,
A heavy foot at her door delayed,
A heavy hand on the latch was laid.

“Now who dare venture at this dark hour,
Unbid to enter my maiden bower?”
“Dear Pastheen, open the door to me,
And your true lover you'll surely see.”

109

“My own true lover, so tall and brave,
Lives exiled over the angry wave.”
“Your true love's body lies on the bier,
His faithful spirit is with you here.”

“His look was cheerful, his voice was gay;
Your speech is fearful, your face is grey;
And sad and sunken your eye of blue,
But Patrick, Patrick, alas! 'tis you.”

Ere dawn was breaking she heard below
The two cocks shaking their wings to crow.
“O hush you, hush you, both red and grey,
Or you will hurry my love away.”

“O! hush your crowing, both grey and red,
Or he'll be going to join the dead;
O cease from calling his ghost to the mould,
And I'll come crowning your combs with gold.”

When all were dreaming but Pastheen Power,
A light went streaming from out her bower,
And on the morrow when they awoke,
They knew that sorrow her heart had broke.

THE KERRY COW

“O what are you seekin', my pretty colleen,
So sadly, tell me now?”
“O'er mountain and plain I'm seekin' in vain,
Kind sir, for my Kerry cow.”

110

“Is she black as the night, with a star of white
Above her bonny brow?
And as clever to clear the dykes as a deer?”
“That's just my own Kerry cow.”

“Then cast your eye into that field of wheat;
She's there as large as life!”
“My bitter disgrace! howe'er shall I face
The farmer and his wife?”

“Since the farmer's unwed, you've no cause for dread
From his wife, you must allow;
And for kisses three—'tis myself is he—
The farmer will free your cow.”

HEY HO, THE MORNING DEW

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My father bought at great expense
A grand high stepping grey,
But when he puts her at a fence
She backs and backs away.
Sing Hey ho, the morning dew!
Hey ho, the rose and rue!
Follow me, my bonny lad,
For I'll not follow you!

My mother bought a likely hen
On last St. Martin's day:
She clucks and clucks and clucks again,
But never yet will lay.

111

Sing Hey ho, the morning dew!
Hey ho, the rose and rue!
Follow me, my bonny lad,
For I'll not follow you!

O, Mustard is my brother's dog,
Who whines and wags his tail,
And snuffs into the market bag,
But dar' not snatch the meal.
Sing Hey ho, the morning dew!
Hey ho, the rose and rue!
Follow me, my bonny lad,
For I'll not follow you!

When walls lie down for steeds to step,
When eggs themselves go lay,
And the groats jump into Mustard's jaws,
To you my court I'll pay!
Sing Hey ho, the morning dew!
Hey ho, the rose and rue!
Follow me, my bonny lad,
For I'll not follow you!

THE BLACKBIRD AND THE WREN

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Once the blackbird called unto the solemn crow,
“Oh, why do you for ever in mourning go?”
Quoth the crow, “I lost my own true love, alack!
And thereafter for ever I go all in black.”

112

Then the blackbird sighed from out the sally bush,
“Once I, too, fell courting a fair young thrush.
Oh, but she deceived and grieved me, Oh, but she turned false, false O.
And ever since in mourning I go!”

Last the little wren he piped, “If we were men,
We could find us sweethearts, eight, nine and ten.
Then if one grew cold or turned unfaithful, O,
It is off to another we each could go.”
“Perhaps,” replied the crow, “that plan of yours might work
If we were living in the land of the Turk.
But the Colleens of Coleraine still are free to give us pain,
And so, my friends, in feathers we'll remain.”

THE STRATAGEM

Who'd win a heart must learn the art
To hide what he's about.
When Kate I met, too soon I let
My loving secret out.
In vain I'd sigh, in vain I'd try
Each trick of eye or speech;
Advance, retire, neglect, admire,
The rogue I could not reach.
Then I grew warm and in a storm
Against her out I blew,
But she stood fast before my blast
And raging I withdrew.

113

Then I began a different plan;
I went to Rose Maguire,
Who'd had her scene with Con Mulqueen,
And asked her to conspire.
Says she, “Avick, we'll try the trick,”
And so we shammed sweethearts,
Till Con grew vexed and Kate perplexed,
So well we played our parts:
And when we found them turning round
The very way we wanted,
Our stratagem we owned to them
And got our pardon granted.

THE LITTLE RED LARK

Oh, swan of slenderness, dove of tenderness,
Jewel of joys, arise!
The little red lark like a rosy spark
Of song to his sunburst flies.
But till thou art risen, earth is a prison
Full of my lonesome sighs;
Then awake and discover to thy fond lover
The morn of thy matchless eyes.
The dawn is dark to me; hark! oh, hark to me,
Pulse of my heart, I pray!
And out of thy hiding with blushes gliding,
Dazzle me with thy day.
Ah, then, once more to thee flying, I'll pour to thee
Passion so sweet and gay,
The lark shall listen and dewdrops glisten,
Laughing on every spray.