 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
123
SONGS OF OCCUPATION
HERRING IS KING
Let all the fish that swim the sea,
Salmon and turbot, cod and ling,
Bow down the head, and bend the knee
To herring, their king! to herring, their king!
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.
Salmon and turbot, cod and ling,
Bow down the head, and bend the knee
To herring, their king! to herring, their king!
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.
The sun sank down so round and red
Upon the bay, upon the bay;
The sails shook idle overhead,
Becalmed we lay, becalmed we lay;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.
Upon the bay, upon the bay;
The sails shook idle overhead,
Becalmed we lay, becalmed we lay;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.
Till Shawn, The Eagle, dropped on deck—
The bright-eyed boy, the bright-eyed boy;
'Tis he has spied your silver track,
Herring, our joy—herring, our joy;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.
The bright-eyed boy, the bright-eyed boy;
'Tis he has spied your silver track,
Herring, our joy—herring, our joy;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.
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It was in with the sails and away to shore,
With the rise and swing, the rise and swing
Of two stout lads at each smoking oar,
After herring, our king—herring, our king;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.
With the rise and swing, the rise and swing
Of two stout lads at each smoking oar,
After herring, our king—herring, our king;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.
The Manx and the Cornish raised the shout,
And joined the chase, and joined the chase;
But their fleets they fouled as they went about,
And we won the race, we won the race;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.
And joined the chase, and joined the chase;
But their fleets they fouled as they went about,
And we won the race, we won the race;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.
For we turned and faced you full to land,
Down the góleen long, and góleen long,
And, after you, slipped from strand to strand
Our nets so strong, our nets so strong;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.
Down the góleen long, and góleen long,
And, after you, slipped from strand to strand
Our nets so strong, our nets so strong;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.
Then we called to our sweethearts and our wives,
“Come welcome us home, welcome us home!”
Till they ran to meet us for their lives
Into the foam, into the foam;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
Tis we have brought the summer in.
“Come welcome us home, welcome us home!”
Till they ran to meet us for their lives
Into the foam, into the foam;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
Tis we have brought the summer in.
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O the kissing of hands and waving of caps
From girl and boy, from girl and boy,
While you leapt by scores in the lasses' laps,
Herring, our pride and joy;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.
From girl and boy, from girl and boy,
While you leapt by scores in the lasses' laps,
Herring, our pride and joy;
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin',
'Tis we have brought the summer in.
THE RIDDLE
A Loobeen
The Girls—Raise us a riddle as spinning we sit.
Bride—
P'r'aps I have one that your fancy will fit.
The Girls—
Come, then, advance it with all of your wit.
Bride—
Some have got the barley showin',
Some a purty patch of oats,
Others just the pratees growin',
With a mountain side for goats.
Come with me through meadows flow'ry
Up where furze and heather blow,
If my secret golden dowry,
Lasses, you would like to know.
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Surely hid treasure is in your head.
Bride—
Wrongly my riddle this time you have read.
The Girls—
Come, give us hold of a stronger thread.
Bride—
How is this my herds can utter
Of themselves the milk all day,
Churn and turn it into butter,
Faix! and firkin it safe away.
Kerry cows upon their brows
Bear a pair of branching horns;
But my kind they wear behind
Only one, like Unicorns.
A Girl—
Ah, then, your herds are the bees on the height.
Bride—
'Deed and this time you've guessed aright.
The Girls—
Pleasant the riddle you put us to-night.
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JACK, THE JOLLY PLOUGHBOY
As Jack the jolly ploughboy was ploughing through his land,
He turned his share and shouted to bid his horses stand,
Then down beside his team he sat, contented as a king,
And Jack he sang his song so sweet he made the mountains ring
He turned his share and shouted to bid his horses stand,
Then down beside his team he sat, contented as a king,
And Jack he sang his song so sweet he made the mountains ring
With his Ta-ran-nan nanty na!
Sing Ta-ran-nan nanty na!
While the mountains all ringing re-echoed the singing
Of Ta-ran-nan nanty na!
Sing Ta-ran-nan nanty na!
While the mountains all ringing re-echoed the singing
Of Ta-ran-nan nanty na!
'Tis said old England's sailors, when wintry tempests roar,
Will plough the stormy waters, and pray for those on shore;
But through the angry winter the share, the share for me,
To drive a steady furrow, and pray for those at sea.
Will plough the stormy waters, and pray for those on shore;
But through the angry winter the share, the share for me,
To drive a steady furrow, and pray for those at sea.
With my Ta-ran-nan nanty na! &c.
When heaven above is bluest, and earth most green below,
Away from wife and sweetheart the fisherman must go;
But golden seed I'll scatter beside the girl I love,
And smile to hear the cuckoo, and sigh to hear the dove.
Away from wife and sweetheart the fisherman must go;
But golden seed I'll scatter beside the girl I love,
And smile to hear the cuckoo, and sigh to hear the dove.
With my Ta-ran-nan nanty na! &c.
128
'Tis oft the hardy fishers a scanty harvest earn,
And gallant tars from glory on wooden legs return,
But a bursting crop for ever shall dance before my flail;
For I'll live and die a farmer all in the Golden Vale.
And gallant tars from glory on wooden legs return,
But a bursting crop for ever shall dance before my flail;
For I'll live and die a farmer all in the Golden Vale.
With my Ta-ran-nan nanty na!
Sing Ta-ran-nan nanty na!
While the mountains all ringing re-echo the singing
Of my Ta-ran-nan nanty na!
Sing Ta-ran-nan nanty na!
While the mountains all ringing re-echo the singing
Of my Ta-ran-nan nanty na!
SPINNING-WHEEL SONG
Once my wheel ran cheerily round,
Ran cheerily round from day to day,
But now it drags how wearily round;
For Owen's gone away.
Once I spun soft carolling O,
Soft carolling O! from morn to eve,
But since we started quarrelling, oh!
'Tis silently I weave.
Ran cheerily round from day to day,
But now it drags how wearily round;
For Owen's gone away.
Once I spun soft carolling O,
Soft carolling O! from morn to eve,
But since we started quarrelling, oh!
'Tis silently I weave.
Has he joined Sir Arthur, ochone!
Sir Arthur, ochone! to fight the French?
Though he was rude, I'd rather, ochone!
He joined me on this bench.
Hush! he's been deluthering you,
Deluthering you with swords and drums,
And now I think 'tis soothering you,
'Tis soothering you, he comes.
Sir Arthur, ochone! to fight the French?
Though he was rude, I'd rather, ochone!
He joined me on this bench.
Hush! he's been deluthering you,
Deluthering you with swords and drums,
And now I think 'tis soothering you,
'Tis soothering you, he comes.
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THE SONG OF THE PRATEE
When, after the Winter alarmin',
The Spring steps in so charmin',
So fresh and arch
In the middle of March,
Wid her hand St. Patrick's arm on;
Let us all, let us all be goin',
Agra, to assist at your sowin',
The girls to spread
Your iligant bed,
And the boys to set the hoe in.
The Spring steps in so charmin',
So fresh and arch
In the middle of March,
Wid her hand St. Patrick's arm on;
Let us all, let us all be goin',
Agra, to assist at your sowin',
The girls to spread
Your iligant bed,
And the boys to set the hoe in.
Then good speed to your seed! God's grace and increase.
Never more in our need may you blacken wid the blight;
But when Summer is o'er, in our gardens, astore,
May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.
Never more in our need may you blacken wid the blight;
But when Summer is o'er, in our gardens, astore,
May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.
So rest and sleep, my jewel,
Safe from the tempest cruel;
Till violets spring
And skylarks sing
From Mourne to Carran Tual.
Then wake and build your bower
Through April sun and shower,
To bless the earth
That gave you birth,
Through many a sultry hour.
Safe from the tempest cruel;
Till violets spring
And skylarks sing
From Mourne to Carran Tual.
Then wake and build your bower
Through April sun and shower,
To bless the earth
That gave you birth,
Through many a sultry hour.
Then good luck to your leaf. And ochone, ologone,
Never more to our grief may it blacken wid the blight,
But when Summer is o'er, in our gardens, astore,
May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.
Never more to our grief may it blacken wid the blight,
But when Summer is o'er, in our gardens, astore,
May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.
130
Thus smile with glad increasin',
Till to St. John we're raisin'
Through Erin's isle
The pleasant pile
That sets the bonfire blazin'.
O 'tis then that the Midsummer fairy,
Abroad on his sly vagary,
Wid purple and white,
As he passes by night,
Your emerald leaf shall vary.
Till to St. John we're raisin'
Through Erin's isle
The pleasant pile
That sets the bonfire blazin'.
O 'tis then that the Midsummer fairy,
Abroad on his sly vagary,
Wid purple and white,
As he passes by night,
Your emerald leaf shall vary.
Then more power to your flower, and your merry green leaf!
Never more to our grief may they blacken wid the blight;
But when Summer is o'er, in our gardens, astore,
May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.
Never more to our grief may they blacken wid the blight;
But when Summer is o'er, in our gardens, astore,
May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.
And once again, Mavourneen,
Some mellow Autumn mornin',
At red sunrise
Both girls and boys
To your garden ridge we're turnin',
Then under your foliage fadin'
Each man of us sets his spade in,
While the colleen bawn
Her brown kishane
Full up wid your fruit is ladin'.
Some mellow Autumn mornin',
At red sunrise
Both girls and boys
To your garden ridge we're turnin',
Then under your foliage fadin'
Each man of us sets his spade in,
While the colleen bawn
Her brown kishane
Full up wid your fruit is ladin'.
Then good luck to your leaf! More power to your flower!
Never more to our grief may they blacken wid the blight;
But when Summer is o'er, in our gardens, astore,
May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.
Never more to our grief may they blacken wid the blight;
But when Summer is o'er, in our gardens, astore,
May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.
131
THE PLOUGHMAN'S WHISTLE
O'er thistle, darnel, dock,
With straining flank and hock,
Our handsome honest horses
They keep to their courses
As constant as the chapel clock, O!
And straight as curraghs glide
Across the crystal tide,
Our plough, our plough we guide,
A-fluting, merrily fluting, O!
With straining flank and hock,
Our handsome honest horses
They keep to their courses
As constant as the chapel clock, O!
And straight as curraghs glide
Across the crystal tide,
Our plough, our plough we guide,
A-fluting, merrily fluting, O!
And while the wholesome soil
Heaves up beneath our toil,
Like sudden airy arrows,
See, see how the sparrows
And finches pounce upon their spoil, O!
While rook and starling shy,
Hang flutt'ring in the sky,
Afeard till we go by,
Afluting, merrily fluting, O!
Heaves up beneath our toil,
Like sudden airy arrows,
See, see how the sparrows
And finches pounce upon their spoil, O!
While rook and starling shy,
Hang flutt'ring in the sky,
Afeard till we go by,
Afluting, merrily fluting, O!
Let others care their kine,
The ploughman's lot be mine,
Through good and ill to follow
The share's faugh-a-balleach,
And never cut one crooked line, O!
Old time may dip his plough
Still deeper in my brow,
But cheerfully as now
I'll flute, I'll flute my carol, O!
The ploughman's lot be mine,
Through good and ill to follow
The share's faugh-a-balleach,
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Old time may dip his plough
Still deeper in my brow,
But cheerfully as now
I'll flute, I'll flute my carol, O!
THE MILL SONG
Corn is a-sowing
Over the hill,
The stream is a-flowing,
Round goes the mill.
Over the hill,
The stream is a-flowing,
Round goes the mill.
Winding and grinding,
Round goes the mill;
Winding and grinding
Should never stand still.
The hands that are strongest
Are welcome here,
And those that work longest
Earn the best cheer.
Round goes the mill;
Winding and grinding
Should never stand still.
The hands that are strongest
Are welcome here,
And those that work longest
Earn the best cheer.
The green corn is hinting
Over the hill,
Lasses tormenting
The lads to their fill.
Over the hill,
Lasses tormenting
The lads to their fill.
Winding and grinding, &c.
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The gold corn is glinting
Over the hill;
Lasses consenting,
Lads have their will.
Over the hill;
Lasses consenting,
Lads have their will.
Winding and grinding, &c.
Corn is a-carrying
Into the mill;
Young folk are marrying
Over the hill.
Into the mill;
Young folk are marrying
Over the hill.
Winding and grinding, &c.
From the hands of the shaker
Again goes the corn,
The old to God's acre
Gently are borne.
Again goes the corn,
The old to God's acre
Gently are borne.
Winding and grinding, &c.
The green corn is glistening
Once more with the spring;
Children are christening,
Glad mothers sing.
Once more with the spring;
Children are christening,
Glad mothers sing.
Winding and grinding, &c.
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Thus our life runs around,
Like the mill with its corn.
Young folk are marrying,
Old folk are burying,
Young folk are born.
Like the mill with its corn.
Young folk are marrying,
Old folk are burying,
Young folk are born.
Winding and grinding,
Round goes the mill;
Winding and grinding
Should never stand still.
The hands that are strongest
Are welcome here,
And they that work longest
Earn the best cheer.
Round goes the mill;
Winding and grinding
Should never stand still.
The hands that are strongest
Are welcome here,
And they that work longest
Earn the best cheer.
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |