 | Collected Poems of Moira O'Neill |  |
iii
Songs of The Glens of Antrim
v
TO W. C. S.
1
THE SONG OF GLEN DUN.
Sure this is blessed Erin an' this the same glen,
The gold is on the whin-bush, the wather sings again,
The Fairy Thorn's in flower,—an' what ails my heart then?
Flower o' the May,
Flower o' the May,
What about the May time, an' he far away!
The gold is on the whin-bush, the wather sings again,
The Fairy Thorn's in flower,—an' what ails my heart then?
Flower o' the May,
Flower o' the May,
What about the May time, an' he far away!
2
Summer loves the green glen, the white bird loves the sea,
An' the wind must kiss the heather top, an' the red bell hides a bee;
As the bee is dear to the honey-flower, so one is dear to me.
Flower o' the rose,
Flower o' the rose,
A thorn pricked me one day, but nobody knows.
An' the wind must kiss the heather top, an' the red bell hides a bee;
As the bee is dear to the honey-flower, so one is dear to me.
Flower o' the rose,
Flower o' the rose,
A thorn pricked me one day, but nobody knows.
The bracken up the braeside has rusted in the air,
Three birches lean together, so silver limbed an' fair,
Och! golden leaves are flyin' fast, but the scarlet roan is rare.
Berry o' the roan,
Berry o' the roan,
The wind sighs among the trees, but I sigh alone.
Three birches lean together, so silver limbed an' fair,
Och! golden leaves are flyin' fast, but the scarlet roan is rare.
Berry o' the roan,
Berry o' the roan,
The wind sighs among the trees, but I sigh alone.
3
I knit beside the turf fire, I spin upon the wheel,
Winter nights for thinkin' long, round runs the reel. . . .
But he never knew, he never knew that here for him I'd kneel.
Sparkle o' the fire,
Sparkle o' the fire,
Mother Mary, keep my love, an' send me my desire!
Winter nights for thinkin' long, round runs the reel. . . .
But he never knew, he never knew that here for him I'd kneel.
Sparkle o' the fire,
Sparkle o' the fire,
Mother Mary, keep my love, an' send me my desire!
4
CORRYMEELA.
Over here in England I'm helpin' wi' the hay,
An' I wisht I was in Ireland the livelong day;
Weary on the English hay, an' sorra take the wheat!
Och! Corrymeela an' the blue sky over it.
An' I wisht I was in Ireland the livelong day;
Weary on the English hay, an' sorra take the wheat!
Och! Corrymeela an' the blue sky over it.
There' a deep dumb river flowin' by beyont the heavy trees,
This livin' air is moithered wi' the bummin' o' the bees;
I wisht I'd hear the Claddagh burn go runnin' through the heat
Past Corrymeela, wi' the blue sky over it.
This livin' air is moithered wi' the bummin' o' the bees;
5
Past Corrymeela, wi' the blue sky over it.
The people that's in England is richer nor the Jews,
There' not the smallest young gossoon but thravels in his shoes!
I'd give the pipe between me teeth to see a barefut child,
Och! Corrymeela an' the low south wind.
There' not the smallest young gossoon but thravels in his shoes!
I'd give the pipe between me teeth to see a barefut child,
Och! Corrymeela an' the low south wind.
Here's hands so full o' money an' hearts so full o' care,
By the luck o' love! I'd still go light for all I did go bare.
“God save ye, colleen dhas,” I said: the girl she thought me wild.
Far Corrymeela, an' the low south wind.
By the luck o' love! I'd still go light for all I did go bare.
“God save ye, colleen dhas,” I said: the girl she thought me wild.
Far Corrymeela, an' the low south wind.
6
D'ye mind me now, the song at night is mortial hard to raise,
The girls are heavy goin' here, the boys are ill to plase;
When one'st I'm out this workin' hive, 'tis I'll be back again—
Ay, Corrymeela, in the same soft rain.
The girls are heavy goin' here, the boys are ill to plase;
When one'st I'm out this workin' hive, 'tis I'll be back again—
Ay, Corrymeela, in the same soft rain.
The puff o' smoke from one ould roof before an English town!
For a shaugh wid Andy Feelan here I'd give a silver crown,
For a curl o' hair like Mollie's ye'll ask the like in vain,
Sweet Corrymeela, an' the same soft rain.
For a shaugh wid Andy Feelan here I'd give a silver crown,
For a curl o' hair like Mollie's ye'll ask the like in vain,
Sweet Corrymeela, an' the same soft rain.
7
MARRIAGE.
I met an' ould caillach I knowed right well on the brow o' Carnashee:
“The top o' the mornin'!” I says to her. “God save ye!” she says to me:
“An' och! if it's you,
Tell me true,
When are ye goin' to marry?”
“I'm here,” says I, “to be married to-morrow,
Wi' the man to find an' the money to borrow.”
“The top o' the mornin'!” I says to her. “God save ye!” she says to me:
“An' och! if it's you,
Tell me true,
When are ye goin' to marry?”
“I'm here,” says I, “to be married to-morrow,
Wi' the man to find an' the money to borrow.”
8
“As sure as ye're young an' fair,” says she, “one day ye'll be ugly an' ould.
If ye haven't a husband, who'll care,” says she, “to call ye in out o' the could?
Left to yerself,
Laid on the shelf,—
Now is yer time to marry.
Musha! don't tell me ye'll be married to-morrow,
Wi' the man to find an' the money to borrow.”
If ye haven't a husband, who'll care,” says she, “to call ye in out o' the could?
Left to yerself,
Laid on the shelf,—
Now is yer time to marry.
Musha! don't tell me ye'll be married to-morrow,
Wi' the man to find an' the money to borrow.”
“I may be dead ere I'm ould,” says I, “for nobody knows their day.
I never was fear'd o' the could,” says I, “but I'm fear'd to give up me way.
Good or bad,
Sorry or glad,
'Tis mine no more when I marry.
So here stand I, to be married to-morrow,
Wi' the man to find an' the money to borrow.”
I never was fear'd o' the could,” says I, “but I'm fear'd to give up me way.
Good or bad,
Sorry or glad,
'Tis mine no more when I marry.
So here stand I, to be married to-morrow,
Wi' the man to find an' the money to borrow.”
9
The poor ould caillach went down the hill shakin' her finger at me.
“'Tis on top o' the world ye think yerself still, an' that's what it is,” says she.
But thon was the day
Dan MacIlray
Had me promise to marry.
So here stand I, to be married to-morrow,—
The man he is found, but the money's to borrow.
“'Tis on top o' the world ye think yerself still, an' that's what it is,” says she.
But thon was the day
Dan MacIlray
Had me promise to marry.
So here stand I, to be married to-morrow,—
The man he is found, but the money's to borrow.
10
SEA WRACK.
The wrack was dark an' shiny where it floated in the sea,
There was no one in the brown boat but only him an' me;
Him to cut the sea wrack, me to mind the boat,
An' not a word between us the hours we were afloat.
The wet wrack,
The sea wrack,
The wrack was strong to cut.
There was no one in the brown boat but only him an' me;
Him to cut the sea wrack, me to mind the boat,
An' not a word between us the hours we were afloat.
The wet wrack,
The sea wrack,
The wrack was strong to cut.
11
We laid it on the grey rocks to wither in the sun,
An' what should call my lad then, to sail from Cushendun?
With a low moon, a full tide, a swell upon the deep,
Him to sail the old boat, me to fall asleep.
The dry wrack,
The sea wrack,
The wrack was dead so soon.
An' what should call my lad then, to sail from Cushendun?
With a low moon, a full tide, a swell upon the deep,
Him to sail the old boat, me to fall asleep.
The dry wrack,
The sea wrack,
The wrack was dead so soon.
There' a fire low upon the rocks to burn the wrack to kelp,
There' a boat gone down upon the Moyle, an' sorra one to help!
Him beneath the salt sea, me upon the shore,
By sunlight or moonlight we'll lift the wrack no more.
The dark wrack,
The sea wrack,
The wrack may drift ashore.
There' a boat gone down upon the Moyle, an' sorra one to help!
Him beneath the salt sea, me upon the shore,
By sunlight or moonlight we'll lift the wrack no more.
The dark wrack,
The sea wrack,
The wrack may drift ashore.
12
A BROKEN SONG.
‘Where am I from?’ From the green hills of Erin.
‘Have I no song then?’ My songs are all sung.
‘What o' my love?’ 'Tis alone I am farin'.
Old grows my heart, an' my voice yet is young.
‘Have I no song then?’ My songs are all sung.
‘What o' my love?’ 'Tis alone I am farin'.
Old grows my heart, an' my voice yet is young.
‘If she was tall?’ Like a king's own daughter.
‘If she was fair?’ Like a mornin' o' May.
When she'd come laughin' 'twas the runnin' wather,
When she'd come blushin' 'twas the break o' day.
‘If she was fair?’ Like a mornin' o' May.
When she'd come laughin' 'twas the runnin' wather,
When she'd come blushin' 'twas the break o' day.
13
‘Where did she dwell?’ Where one'st I had my dwellin'.
‘Who loved her best?’ There' no one now will know.
‘Where is she gone?’ Och, why would I be tellin'!
Where she is gone there I can never go.
‘Who loved her best?’ There' no one now will know.
‘Where is she gone?’ Och, why would I be tellin'!
Where she is gone there I can never go.
14
THE FAIRY LOUGH.
Loughareema! Loughareema
Lies so high among the heather;
A little lough, a dark lough,
The wather's black an' deep.
Ould herons go a-fishin' there
An' sea-gulls all together
Float roun' the one green island
On the fairy lough asleep.
Lies so high among the heather;
A little lough, a dark lough,
The wather's black an' deep.
Ould herons go a-fishin' there
An' sea-gulls all together
Float roun' the one green island
On the fairy lough asleep.
15
Loughareema, Loughareema;
When the sun goes down at seven,
When the hills are dark an' airy,
'Tis a curlew whistles sweet!
Then somethin' rustles all the reeds
That stand so thick an' even;
A little wave runs up the shore
An' flees, as if on feet.
When the sun goes down at seven,
When the hills are dark an' airy,
'Tis a curlew whistles sweet!
Then somethin' rustles all the reeds
That stand so thick an' even;
A little wave runs up the shore
An' flees, as if on feet.
Loughareema, Loughareema!
Stars come out, an' stars are hidin';
The wather whispers on the stones,
The flittherin' moths are free.
One'st before the mornin' light
The Horsemen will come ridin'
Roun' an' roun' the fairy lough,
An' no one there to see.
Stars come out, an' stars are hidin';
The wather whispers on the stones,
The flittherin' moths are free.
One'st before the mornin' light
The Horsemen will come ridin'
Roun' an' roun' the fairy lough,
An' no one there to see.
16
A SONG OF GLENANN.
Och, when we lived in ould Glenann
Meself could lift a song!
An' ne'er an hour by day or dark
Would I be thinkin' long.
Meself could lift a song!
An' ne'er an hour by day or dark
Would I be thinkin' long.
The weary wind might take the roof,
The rain might lay the corn;
We'd up an' look for betther luck
About the morrow's morn.
The rain might lay the corn;
We'd up an' look for betther luck
About the morrow's morn.
17
But since we come away from there
An' far across the say,
I still have wrought, an' still have thought
The way I'm doin' the day.
An' far across the say,
I still have wrought, an' still have thought
The way I'm doin' the day.
An' now we're quarely betther fixed,
In troth! there' nothin' wrong:
But me an' mine, by rain an' shine
We do be thinkin' long.
In troth! there' nothin' wrong:
But me an' mine, by rain an' shine
We do be thinkin' long.
18
“FORGETTIN'.”
The night when last I saw my lad
His eyes were bright an' wet.
He took my two hands in his own,
“'Tis well,” says he, “we're met.
Asthore machree! the likes o' me
I bid ye now forget.”
His eyes were bright an' wet.
He took my two hands in his own,
“'Tis well,” says he, “we're met.
Asthore machree! the likes o' me
I bid ye now forget.”
19
Ah, sure the same's a thriflin' thing,
'Tis more I'd do for him!
I mind the night I promised well,
Away on Ballindim.—
An' every little while or so
I thry forgettin' Jim.
'Tis more I'd do for him!
I mind the night I promised well,
Away on Ballindim.—
An' every little while or so
I thry forgettin' Jim.
It shouldn't take that long to do,
An' him not very tall:
'Tis quare the way I'll hear his voice,
A boy that's out o' call,—
An' whiles I'll see him stand as plain
As e'er a six-fut wall.
An' him not very tall:
'Tis quare the way I'll hear his voice,
A boy that's out o' call,—
An' whiles I'll see him stand as plain
As e'er a six-fut wall.
Och, never fear, my jewel!
I'd forget ye now this minute,
If I only had a notion
O' the way I should begin it;
But first an' last it isn't known
The heap o' throuble's in it.
I'd forget ye now this minute,
If I only had a notion
O' the way I should begin it;
But first an' last it isn't known
The heap o' throuble's in it.
20
Meself began the night ye went
An' hasn't done it yet;
I'm nearly fit to give it up,
For where's the use to fret?—
An' the memory's fairly spoilt on me
Wid mindin' to forget.
An' hasn't done it yet;
I'm nearly fit to give it up,
For where's the use to fret?—
An' the memory's fairly spoilt on me
Wid mindin' to forget.
21
DENNY'S DAUGHTER.
Denny's daughter stood a minute in the field I be to pass,
All as quiet as her shadow lyin' by her on the grass;
In her hand a switch o' hazel from the nut tree's crooked root,
Well I mind the crown o' clover crumpled undher one bare foot.
For the look of her,
The look of her
Comes back on me to-day,—
Wi' the eyes of her,
The eyes of her
That took me on the way.
All as quiet as her shadow lyin' by her on the grass;
In her hand a switch o' hazel from the nut tree's crooked root,
Well I mind the crown o' clover crumpled undher one bare foot.
For the look of her,
The look of her
Comes back on me to-day,—
Wi' the eyes of her,
The eyes of her
That took me on the way.
22
Though I seen poor Denny's daughter white an' stiff upon her bed,
Yet I be to think the sunlight's fallin' somewhere on her head:
She'll be singin' Ave Mary where the flowers never wilt,
She, the girl my own hands covered wi' the narrow daisy-quilt. . . .
For the love of her,
The love of her
That would not be my wife:
An' the loss of her,
The loss of her
Has left me lone for life.
Yet I be to think the sunlight's fallin' somewhere on her head:
She'll be singin' Ave Mary where the flowers never wilt,
She, the girl my own hands covered wi' the narrow daisy-quilt. . . .
For the love of her,
The love of her
That would not be my wife:
An' the loss of her,
The loss of her
Has left me lone for life.
23
LOST.
Listen, oh my jewel, I would say,—
Only wait to' I can get the word:
Sure I thought I had it sweet an' gay
Like the bravest song o' summer bird.
Faith! I knew it well an' very well
When this hour the rain begun to fall
Now the sorra one o' me can tell
What about it was at all, at all.
Only wait to' I can get the word:
Sure I thought I had it sweet an' gay
Like the bravest song o' summer bird.
Faith! I knew it well an' very well
When this hour the rain begun to fall
Now the sorra one o' me can tell
What about it was at all, at all.
24
Listen, oh my jewel, I was wrong,—
Never, never lived a word so sad;
Not the heavy sea that drives along
Bears such weighty throuble as it had.
Och anee! wi' ne'er a voice to cry,
Like the weary cloud or drownin' moon
So it sank, or so was carried by:
Never told is all forgot so soon.
Never, never lived a word so sad;
Not the heavy sea that drives along
Bears such weighty throuble as it had.
Och anee! wi' ne'er a voice to cry,
Like the weary cloud or drownin' moon
So it sank, or so was carried by:
Never told is all forgot so soon.
25
“CUTTIN' RUSHES.”
Oh maybe it was yesterday, or fifty years ago!
Meself was risin' early on a day for cuttin' rushes
Walkin' up the Brabla' burn, still the sun was low,
Now I'd hear the burn run an' then I'd hear the thrushes.
Young, still young!—an' drenchin' wet the grass,
Wet the golden honeysuckle hangin' sweetly down;
Here, lad, here! will ye follow where I pass,
An' find me cuttin' rushes on the mountain.
Meself was risin' early on a day for cuttin' rushes
Walkin' up the Brabla' burn, still the sun was low,
Now I'd hear the burn run an' then I'd hear the thrushes.
Young, still young!—an' drenchin' wet the grass,
Wet the golden honeysuckle hangin' sweetly down;
Here, lad, here! will ye follow where I pass,
An' find me cuttin' rushes on the mountain.
26
Then was it only yesterday, or fifty years or so?
Rippin' round the bog pools high among the heather,
The hook it made me hand sore, I had to leave it go,
'Twas he that cut the rushes then for me to bind together.
Come, dear, come!—an' back along the burn
See the darlin' honeysuckle hangin' like a crown.
Quick, one kiss,—sure, there' some one at the turn!
“Oh, we're afther cuttin' rushes on the mountain.”
Rippin' round the bog pools high among the heather,
The hook it made me hand sore, I had to leave it go,
'Twas he that cut the rushes then for me to bind together.
Come, dear, come!—an' back along the burn
See the darlin' honeysuckle hangin' like a crown.
Quick, one kiss,—sure, there' some one at the turn!
“Oh, we're afther cuttin' rushes on the mountain.”
Yesterday, yesterday, or fifty years ago. . . .
I waken out o' dreams when I hear the summer thrushes.
Oh, that's the Brabla' burn, I can hear it sing an' flow,
For all that's fair, I'd sooner see a bunch o' green rushes.
Run, burn, run! can ye mind when we were young?
The honeysuckle hangs above, the pool is dark an' brown:
Sing, burn, sing! can ye mind the song ye sung
The day we cut the rushes on the mountain?
I waken out o' dreams when I hear the summer thrushes.
Oh, that's the Brabla' burn, I can hear it sing an' flow,
For all that's fair, I'd sooner see a bunch o' green rushes.
27
The honeysuckle hangs above, the pool is dark an' brown:
Sing, burn, sing! can ye mind the song ye sung
The day we cut the rushes on the mountain?
28
“THE OULD LAD.”
I mind meself a wee boy wi' no plain talk,
An' standin' not the height o' two peats;
There was things meself consated 'or the time that I could walk,
An' who's to tell when wit an' childer meets?
'Twas the daisies down in the low grass,
The stars high up in the skies,
The first I knowed of a mother's face
Wi' the kind love in her eyes,
Och, och!
The kind love in her eyes.
An' standin' not the height o' two peats;
There was things meself consated 'or the time that I could walk,
An' who's to tell when wit an' childer meets?
'Twas the daisies down in the low grass,
The stars high up in the skies,
The first I knowed of a mother's face
Wi' the kind love in her eyes,
Och, och!
The kind love in her eyes.
29
I went the way of other lads that's neither good nor bad,
An' still, d'ye see, a lad has far to go;
But the things meself consated when I wasn't sick nor sad,
They're aisy told, an' little use to know.
'Twas whiles a boat on the say beyont,
An' whiles a girl on the shore,
An' whiles a scrape o' the fiddle-strings,
Or maybe an odd thing more
In troth!
Maybe an odd thing more.
An' still, d'ye see, a lad has far to go;
But the things meself consated when I wasn't sick nor sad,
They're aisy told, an' little use to know.
'Twas whiles a boat on the say beyont,
An' whiles a girl on the shore,
An' whiles a scrape o' the fiddle-strings,
Or maybe an odd thing more
In troth!
Maybe an odd thing more.
A man, they say, in spite of all, is betther for a wife,
In-undher this ould roof I live me lone;
I never seen the woman yet I wanted all me life,
An' I never made me pillow on a stone.
'Tis “fancy buys the ribbon” an' all,
An' fancy sticks to the young;
But a man of his years can do wi' a pipe
Can smoke an' hould his tongue,
D'ye mind,
Smoke an' hould his tongue.
In-undher this ould roof I live me lone;
I never seen the woman yet I wanted all me life,
An' I never made me pillow on a stone.
30
An' fancy sticks to the young;
But a man of his years can do wi' a pipe
Can smoke an' hould his tongue,
D'ye mind,
Smoke an' hould his tongue.
Ye see me now an ould man, his work near done,
Sure the hair upon me head's gone white;
But the things meself consated 'or the time that I could run,
They're the nearest to me heart this night.
Just the daisies down in the low grass,
The stars high up in the skies,
The first I knowed of a mother's face
Wi' the kind love in her eyes,
Och, och!
The kind love in her eyes.
Sure the hair upon me head's gone white;
But the things meself consated 'or the time that I could run,
They're the nearest to me heart this night.
Just the daisies down in the low grass,
The stars high up in the skies,
The first I knowed of a mother's face
Wi' the kind love in her eyes,
Och, och!
The kind love in her eyes.
31
THE RACHRAY MAN.
Och, what was it got me at all that time
To promise I'd marry a Rachray man?
An' now he'll not listen to rason or rhyme,
He's strivin' to hurry me all that he can.
“Come on, an' ye be to come on!” says he,
“Ye're bound for the Island, to live wi' me.”
To promise I'd marry a Rachray man?
An' now he'll not listen to rason or rhyme,
He's strivin' to hurry me all that he can.
“Come on, an' ye be to come on!” says he,
“Ye're bound for the Island, to live wi' me.”
See Rachray Island beyont in the bay,
An' the dear knows what they be doin' out there
But fishin' an' fightin' an' tearin' away,
An' who's to hindher, an' what do they care?
The goodness can tell what 'ud happen to me
When Rachray 'ud have me, anee, anee!
An' the dear knows what they be doin' out there
But fishin' an' fightin' an' tearin' away,
An' who's to hindher, an' what do they care?
The goodness can tell what 'ud happen to me
When Rachray 'ud have me, anee, anee!
32
I might have took Pether from over the hill,
A dacent poacher, the kind poor boy:
Could I keep the ould places about me still
I'd never set foot out o' sweet Ballyvoy.
My sorra on Rachray, the could sea-caves,
An' blackneck divers, an' weary ould waves!
A dacent poacher, the kind poor boy:
Could I keep the ould places about me still
I'd never set foot out o' sweet Ballyvoy.
My sorra on Rachray, the could sea-caves,
An' blackneck divers, an' weary ould waves!
I'll never win back now, whatever may fall,
So give me good luck, for ye'll see me no more;
Sure an Island man is the mischief an' all—
An' me that never was married before!
Oh think o' my fate when ye dance at a fair,
In Rachray there' no Christianity there.
So give me good luck, for ye'll see me no more;
Sure an Island man is the mischief an' all—
An' me that never was married before!
Oh think o' my fate when ye dance at a fair,
In Rachray there' no Christianity there.
33
BIRDS.
Sure maybe ye've heard the storm-thrush
Whistlin' bould in March,
Before there' a primrose peepin' out,
Or a wee red coal on the larch;
Whistlin' the sun to come out o' the cloud,
An' the wind to come over the sea,
But for all he can whistle so clear an' loud,
He's never the bird for me.
Whistlin' bould in March,
Before there' a primrose peepin' out,
Or a wee red coal on the larch;
Whistlin' the sun to come out o' the cloud,
An' the wind to come over the sea,
But for all he can whistle so clear an' loud,
He's never the bird for me.
Sure maybe ye've seen the song-thrush
After an April rain
Slip from in-undher the drippin' leaves,
Wishful to sing again;
An' low wi' love when he's near the nest,
An' loud from the top o' the tree,
But for all he can flutter the heart in your breast
He's never the bird for me.
After an April rain
34
Wishful to sing again;
An' low wi' love when he's near the nest,
An' loud from the top o' the tree,
But for all he can flutter the heart in your breast
He's never the bird for me.
Sure maybe ye've heard the cushadoo
Callin' his mate in May,
When one sweet thought is the whole of his life,
An' he tells it the one sweet way.
But my heart is sore at the cushadoo
Filled wid his own soft glee,
Over an' over his “me an' you!”
He's never the bird for me.
Callin' his mate in May,
When one sweet thought is the whole of his life,
An' he tells it the one sweet way.
But my heart is sore at the cushadoo
Filled wid his own soft glee,
Over an' over his “me an' you!”
He's never the bird for me.
Sure maybe ye've heard the red-breast
Singin' his lone on a thorn,
Mindin' himself o' the dear days lost,
Brave wid his heart forlorn.
The time is in dark November,
An' no spring hopes has he:
“Remember,” he sings, “remember!”
Ay, thon's the wee bird for me.
Singin' his lone on a thorn,
Mindin' himself o' the dear days lost,
Brave wid his heart forlorn.
35
An' no spring hopes has he:
“Remember,” he sings, “remember!”
Ay, thon's the wee bird for me.
36
JOHNEEN.
Sure he's five months old, an' he's two foot long,
Baby Johneen;
Watch yerself now, for he's terrible sthrong,
Baby Johneen.
An' his fists 'ill be up if ye make any slips,
He has finger-ends like the daisy-tips,
But he'll have ye attend to the words of his lips,
Will Johneen.
Baby Johneen;
Watch yerself now, for he's terrible sthrong,
Baby Johneen.
An' his fists 'ill be up if ye make any slips,
He has finger-ends like the daisy-tips,
But he'll have ye attend to the words of his lips,
Will Johneen.
37
There' nobody can rightly tell the colour of his eyes,
This Johneen;
For they're partly o' the earth an' still they're partly o' the skies,
Like Johneen.
So far as he's thravelled he's been laughin' all the way,
For the little soul is quare an' wise, the little heart is gay;
An' he likes the merry daffodils, he thinks they'd do to play
With Johneen.
This Johneen;
For they're partly o' the earth an' still they're partly o' the skies,
Like Johneen.
So far as he's thravelled he's been laughin' all the way,
For the little soul is quare an' wise, the little heart is gay;
An' he likes the merry daffodils, he thinks they'd do to play
With Johneen.
He'll sail a boat yet, if he only has his luck,
Young Johneen,
For he takes to the wather like any little duck,
Boy Johneen;
Sure them are the hands now to pull on a rope,
An' nate feet for walkin' the deck on a slope,
But the ship she must wait a wee while yet, I hope,
For Johneen.
Young Johneen,
For he takes to the wather like any little duck,
Boy Johneen;
Sure them are the hands now to pull on a rope,
An' nate feet for walkin' the deck on a slope,
But the ship she must wait a wee while yet, I hope,
For Johneen.
38
For we couldn't do wantin' him, not just yet,
Och, Johneen;
'Tis you that are the daisy, an' you that are the pet,
Wee Johneen.
Here's to your health, an' we'll dhrink it to-night.
Slainte gal, avic machree! live an' do right,
Slainte gal avourneen! may your days be bright,
Johneen!
Och, Johneen;
'Tis you that are the daisy, an' you that are the pet,
Wee Johneen.
Here's to your health, an' we'll dhrink it to-night.
Slainte gal, avic machree! live an' do right,
Slainte gal avourneen! may your days be bright,
Johneen!
39
“BEAUTY'S A FLOWER.”
Youth's for an hour,
Beauty's a flower,
But love is the jewel that wins the world.
Beauty's a flower,
But love is the jewel that wins the world.
Youth's for an hour, an' the taste o' life is sweet,
Ailes was a girl that stepped on two bare feet;
In all my days I never seen the one as fair as she,
I'd have lost my life for Ailes, an' she never cared for me.
Ailes was a girl that stepped on two bare feet;
In all my days I never seen the one as fair as she,
I'd have lost my life for Ailes, an' she never cared for me.
40
Beauty's a flower, an' the days o' life are long,
There' little knowin' who may live to sing another song;
For Ailes was the fairest, but another is my wife,
An' Mary—God be good to her!—is all I love in life.
There' little knowin' who may live to sing another song;
For Ailes was the fairest, but another is my wife,
An' Mary—God be good to her!—is all I love in life.
Youth's for an hour,
Beauty's a flower,
But love is the jewel that wins the world.
Beauty's a flower,
But love is the jewel that wins the world.
41
THE BOY FROM BALLYTEARIM.
He was born in Ballytearim, where there' little work to do,
An' the longer he was livin' there the poorer still he grew;
Says he till all belongin' him, “Now happy may ye be!
But I'm off to find me fortune,” sure he says, says he.
An' the longer he was livin' there the poorer still he grew;
Says he till all belongin' him, “Now happy may ye be!
But I'm off to find me fortune,” sure he says, says he.
“All the gold in Ballytearim is what's stickin' to the whin;
All the crows in Ballytearim has a way o' gettin' thin.”
So the people did be praisin' him the year he wint away,—
“Troth, I'll hould ye can do it,” sure they says, says they.
All the crows in Ballytearim has a way o' gettin' thin.”
42
“Troth, I'll hould ye can do it,” sure they says, says they.
Och, the boy 'ud still be thinkin' long, an' he across the foam,
An' the two ould hearts be thinkin' long that waited for him home:
But a girl that sat her lone an' whiles, her head upon her knee,
Would be sighin' low for sorra, not a word says she.
An' the two ould hearts be thinkin' long that waited for him home:
But a girl that sat her lone an' whiles, her head upon her knee,
Would be sighin' low for sorra, not a word says she.
He won home to Ballytearim, an' the two were livin' yet,
When he heard where she was lyin' now the eyes of him were wet;
“Faith, here's me two fists full o' gold, an' little good to me
When I'll never meet an' kiss her,” sure he says, says he.
When he heard where she was lyin' now the eyes of him were wet;
“Faith, here's me two fists full o' gold, an' little good to me
When I'll never meet an' kiss her,” sure he says, says he.
43
Then the boy from Ballytearim set his face another road,
An' whatever luck has followed him was never rightly knowed:
But still it's truth I'm tellin' ye—or may I never sin!—
All the gold in Ballytearim is what's stickin' to the whin.
An' whatever luck has followed him was never rightly knowed:
But still it's truth I'm tellin' ye—or may I never sin!—
All the gold in Ballytearim is what's stickin' to the whin.
44
I MIND THE DAY.
I mind the day I'd wish I was a say-gull flyin' far,
For then I'd fly an' find you in the West;
An' I'd wish I was a little rose as sweet as roses are,
For then you'd maybe wear it on your breast,
Achray!
You'd maybe take an' wear it on your breast.
For then I'd fly an' find you in the West;
An' I'd wish I was a little rose as sweet as roses are,
For then you'd maybe wear it on your breast,
Achray!
You'd maybe take an' wear it on your breast.
I'd wish I could be living near, to love you day an' night,
To let no throuble touch you or annoy;
I'd wish I could be dyin' here to rise a spirit light,
If Them above 'ud let me bring you joy,
Achray!
If Them above 'ud let me win you joy.
To let no throuble touch you or annoy;
I'd wish I could be dyin' here to rise a spirit light,
If Them above 'ud let me bring you joy,
Achray!
If Them above 'ud let me win you joy.
45
An' now I wish no wishes, nor ever fall a tear,
Nor take a thought beyont the way I'm led:
I mind the day that's over-by, an' bless the day that's here,
There be to come a day when we'll be dead,
Achray!
A longer, lighter day when we'll be dead.
Nor take a thought beyont the way I'm led:
I mind the day that's over-by, an' bless the day that's here,
There be to come a day when we'll be dead,
Achray!
A longer, lighter day when we'll be dead.
46
GRACE FOR LIGHT.
When we were little childer we had a quare wee house,
Away up in the heather by the head o' Brabla' burn;
The hares we'd see them scootin', an' we'd hear the crowin' grouse,
An' when we'd all be in at night ye'd not get room to turn.
Away up in the heather by the head o' Brabla' burn;
The hares we'd see them scootin', an' we'd hear the crowin' grouse,
An' when we'd all be in at night ye'd not get room to turn.
47
The youngest two She'd put to bed, their faces to the wall,
An' the lave of us could sit aroun', just anywhere we might;
Herself 'ud take the rush-dip an' light it for us all,
An' “God be thankèd!” she would say,—“now we have a light.”
An' the lave of us could sit aroun', just anywhere we might;
Herself 'ud take the rush-dip an' light it for us all,
An' “God be thankèd!” she would say,—“now we have a light.”
Then we be to quet the laughin' an' pushin' on the floor,
An' think on One who called us to come and be forgiven;
Himself 'ud put his pipe down, an' say the good word more,
“May the Lamb o' God lead us all to the Light o' Heaven!”
An' think on One who called us to come and be forgiven;
Himself 'ud put his pipe down, an' say the good word more,
“May the Lamb o' God lead us all to the Light o' Heaven!”
There' a wheen things that used to be an' now has had their day,
The nine Glens of Antrim can show ye many a sight;
But not the quare wee house where we lived up Brabla' way,
Nor a child in all the nine Glens that knows the grace for light.
The nine Glens of Antrim can show ye many a sight;
48
Nor a child in all the nine Glens that knows the grace for light.
49
THE GRAND MATCH.
Dennis was hearty when Dennis was young,
High was his step in the jig that he sprung,
He had the looks an' the sootherin' tongue,—
An' he wanted a girl wid a fortune.
High was his step in the jig that he sprung,
He had the looks an' the sootherin' tongue,—
An' he wanted a girl wid a fortune.
Nannie was grey-eyed an' Nannie was tall,
Fair was the face hid in-undher her shawl,
Troth! an' he liked her the best o' them all,—
But she'd not a traneen to her fortune.
Fair was the face hid in-undher her shawl,
Troth! an' he liked her the best o' them all,—
But she'd not a traneen to her fortune.
50
He be to look out for a likelier match,
So he married a girl that was counted a catch,
An' as ugly as need be, the dark little patch,—
But that was a thrifle, he tould her.
So he married a girl that was counted a catch,
An' as ugly as need be, the dark little patch,—
But that was a thrifle, he tould her.
She brought him her good-lookin' gold to admire,
She brought him her good-lookin' cows to his byre,
But far from good-lookin' she sat by his fire,—
An' paid him that “thrifle” he tould her.
She brought him her good-lookin' cows to his byre,
But far from good-lookin' she sat by his fire,—
An' paid him that “thrifle” he tould her.
He met pretty Nan when a month had gone by,
An' he thought like a fool to get round her he'd try;
Wid a smile on her lip an' a spark in her eye,
She said, “How is the woman that owns ye?”
An' he thought like a fool to get round her he'd try;
Wid a smile on her lip an' a spark in her eye,
She said, “How is the woman that owns ye?”
Och, never be tellin' the life that he's led!
Sure many's the night that he'll wish himself dead,
For the sake o' two eyes in a pretty girl's head,—
An' the tongue o' the woman that owns him.
Sure many's the night that he'll wish himself dead,
For the sake o' two eyes in a pretty girl's head,—
An' the tongue o' the woman that owns him.
51
THE SAILOR MAN.
Sure a terrible time I was out o' the way,
Over the sea, over the sea,
Till I come back to Ireland one sunny day,—
Betther for me, betther for me
The first time me foot got the feel o' the ground
I was sthrollin' along in an Irish city,
That hasn't its aquil the world around
For the air that is sweet an' the girls that are pretty.
Over the sea, over the sea,
Till I come back to Ireland one sunny day,—
Betther for me, betther for me
The first time me foot got the feel o' the ground
I was sthrollin' along in an Irish city,
That hasn't its aquil the world around
For the air that is sweet an' the girls that are pretty.
52
Light on their feet now they passed me an' sped,
Give you me word, give you me word,
Every girl wid a turn o' the head
Just like a bird, just like a bird;
An' the lashes so thick round their beautiful eyes
Shinin' to tell you it's fair time o' day wid them,
Back in me heart wid a kind o' surprise
I think how the Irish girls has the way wid them!
Give you me word, give you me word,
Every girl wid a turn o' the head
Just like a bird, just like a bird;
An' the lashes so thick round their beautiful eyes
Shinin' to tell you it's fair time o' day wid them,
Back in me heart wid a kind o' surprise
I think how the Irish girls has the way wid them!
Och man alive! but it's little ye know
That never was there, never was there.
Look where ye like for them, long may ye go,—
What do I care? what do I care?
Plenty as blackberries where will ye find
Rare pretty girls not by two nor by three o' them?
Only just there where they grow, d'ye mind
Still like the blackberries, more than ye see o' them.
That never was there, never was there.
Look where ye like for them, long may ye go,—
What do I care? what do I care?
Plenty as blackberries where will ye find
Rare pretty girls not by two nor by three o' them?
Only just there where they grow, d'ye mind
Still like the blackberries, more than ye see o' them.
53
Long, long away, an' no matther how far,
'Tis the girls that I miss, the girls that I miss:
Women are round ye wherever ye are
Not worth a kiss, not worth a kiss.
Over in Ireland many's the one,—
Well do I know, that has nothing to say wid them,—
Sweeter than anythin' undher the sun,
Och, 'tis the Irish girls has the way wid them!
'Tis the girls that I miss, the girls that I miss:
Women are round ye wherever ye are
Not worth a kiss, not worth a kiss.
Over in Ireland many's the one,—
Well do I know, that has nothing to say wid them,—
Sweeter than anythin' undher the sun,
Och, 'tis the Irish girls has the way wid them!
54
AT SEA.
'Tis the long blue Head o' Garron
From the sea,
Och, we're sailin' past the Garron
On the sea.
Now Glen Ariff lies behind,
Where the waters fall an' wind
By the willows o' Glen Ariff to the sea.
From the sea,
Och, we're sailin' past the Garron
On the sea.
Now Glen Ariff lies behind,
Where the waters fall an' wind
By the willows o' Glen Ariff to the sea.
Ould Luirgedan rises green
By the sea,
Ay, he stands between the Glens
An' the sea.
Now we're past the darklin' caves,
Where the breakin' summer waves
Wandher in wi' their trouble from the sea.
By the sea,
Ay, he stands between the Glens
An' the sea.
55
Where the breakin' summer waves
Wandher in wi' their trouble from the sea.
But Cushendun lies nearer
To the sea,
An' thon's a shore is dearer
Still to me,
For the land that I am leavin'
Sure the heart I have is grievin',
But the ship has set her sails for the sea.
To the sea,
An' thon's a shore is dearer
Still to me,
For the land that I am leavin'
Sure the heart I have is grievin',
But the ship has set her sails for the sea.
Och, what's this is deeper
Than the sea?
An' what's this is stronger
Nor the sea?
When the call is “all or none,”
An' the answer “all for one,”
Then we be to sail away across the sea.
Than the sea?
An' what's this is stronger
Nor the sea?
When the call is “all or none,”
An' the answer “all for one,”
Then we be to sail away across the sea.
56
“LOOKIN' BACK.”
Wathers o' Moyle an' the white gulls flyin',
Since I was near ye what have I seen?
Deep great seas, an' a sthrong wind sighin'
Night an' day where the waves are green.
Struth na Moile, the wind goes sighin'
Over a waste o' wathers green.
Since I was near ye what have I seen?
Deep great seas, an' a sthrong wind sighin'
Night an' day where the waves are green.
Struth na Moile, the wind goes sighin'
Over a waste o' wathers green.
Slemish an' Trostan, dark wi' heather,
High are the Rockies, airy-blue;
Sure ye have snows in the winter weather,
Here they're lyin' the long year through.
Snows are fair in the summer weather,
Och, an' the shadows between are blue!
High are the Rockies, airy-blue;
Sure ye have snows in the winter weather,
Here they're lyin' the long year through.
Snows are fair in the summer weather,
Och, an' the shadows between are blue!
57
Lone Glen Dun an' the wild glen flowers,
Little ye know if the prairie is sweet.
Roses for miles, an' redder than ours
Spring here undher the horses' feet,
Ay, an' the black-eyed gold sunflowers,—
Not as the glen flowers small an' sweet.
Little ye know if the prairie is sweet.
Roses for miles, an' redder than ours
Spring here undher the horses' feet,
Ay, an' the black-eyed gold sunflowers,—
Not as the glen flowers small an' sweet.
Wathers o' Moyle, I hear ye callin'
Clearer for half o' the world between,
Antrim hills an' the wet rain fallin
Whiles ye are nearer than snow-tops keen:
Dreams o' the night an' a night wind callin'—
What is the half o' the world between?
Clearer for half o' the world between,
Antrim hills an' the wet rain fallin
Whiles ye are nearer than snow-tops keen:
Dreams o' the night an' a night wind callin'—
What is the half o' the world between?
58
THE NORTH-WEST—CANADA.
Oh would ye hear, and would ye hear
Of the windy, wide North-West?
Faith! 'tis a land as green as the sea,
That rolls as far and rolls as free,
With drifts of flowers, so many there be,
Where the cattle roam and rest.
Of the windy, wide North-West?
Faith! 'tis a land as green as the sea,
That rolls as far and rolls as free,
With drifts of flowers, so many there be,
Where the cattle roam and rest.
Oh could ye see, and could ye see
The great gold skies so clear,
The rivers that race through the pine-shade dark,
The mountainous snows that take no mark,
Sun-lit and high on the Rockies stark,
So far they seem as near.
The great gold skies so clear,
The rivers that race through the pine-shade dark,
The mountainous snows that take no mark,
Sun-lit and high on the Rockies stark,
So far they seem as near.
59
Then could ye feel, and could ye feel
How fresh is a Western night!
When the long land-breezes rise and pass
And sigh in the rustling prairie grass,
When the dark-blue skies are clear as glass,
And the same old stars are bright.
How fresh is a Western night!
When the long land-breezes rise and pass
And sigh in the rustling prairie grass,
When the dark-blue skies are clear as glass,
And the same old stars are bright.
But could ye know, and for ever know
The word of the young North-West!
A word she breathes to the true and bold,
A word misknown to the false and cold,
A word that never was spoken or sold,
But the one that knows is blest.
The word of the young North-West!
A word she breathes to the true and bold,
A word misknown to the false and cold,
A word that never was spoken or sold,
But the one that knows is blest.
60
BACK TO IRELAND.
Oh tell me, will I ever win to Ireland again,
Astore! from the far North-West?
Have we given all the rainbows, an' green woods an' rain,
For the suns an' the snows o' the West?
“Them that goes to Ireland must thravel night an' day,
An' them that goes to Ireland must sail across the say,
For the len'th of here to Ireland is half the world away—
An' you'll lave your heart behind you in the West.
Set your face for Ireland,
Kiss your friends in Ireland,
But lave your heart behind you in the West.”
Astore! from the far North-West?
Have we given all the rainbows, an' green woods an' rain,
For the suns an' the snows o' the West?
“Them that goes to Ireland must thravel night an' day,
An' them that goes to Ireland must sail across the say,
For the len'th of here to Ireland is half the world away—
An' you'll lave your heart behind you in the West.
Set your face for Ireland,
Kiss your friends in Ireland,
But lave your heart behind you in the West.”
61
On a dim an' shiny mornin' the ship she comes to land,
Early, oh early in the mornin',
The silver wathers o' the Foyle go slidin' to the strand,
Whisperin', “Ye're welcome in the mornin'.”
There's darkness on the holy hills I know are close aroun',
But the stars are shinin' up the sky, the stars are shinin' down,
They make a golden cross above, they make a golden crown,
An' meself could tell ye why,—in the mornin'.
Sure an' this is Ireland,
Thank God for Ireland!
I'm comin' back to Ireland the mornin'.
Early, oh early in the mornin',
The silver wathers o' the Foyle go slidin' to the strand,
Whisperin', “Ye're welcome in the mornin'.”
There's darkness on the holy hills I know are close aroun',
But the stars are shinin' up the sky, the stars are shinin' down,
They make a golden cross above, they make a golden crown,
An' meself could tell ye why,—in the mornin'.
Sure an' this is Ireland,
Thank God for Ireland!
I'm comin' back to Ireland the mornin'.
62
TO W. C. S.
There's a house upon the sea-sand, a white house an' low,
The gulls are flyin' over it, the red roses blow.
By night the waves are breakin', an' the moon is on the sea;
Sure all that I love are there, all that love me,—
Only one.
The gulls are flyin' over it, the red roses blow.
By night the waves are breakin', an' the moon is on the sea;
Sure all that I love are there, all that love me,—
Only one.
There' a house upon the prairie in the lone North-West,
In the flowery, silent summer, on a green hill's breast;
Where mountains stretch across the sky the world's end must be,
An' none that I love are there, none that love me,—
Only one.
In the flowery, silent summer, on a green hill's breast;
Where mountains stretch across the sky the world's end must be,
An' none that I love are there, none that love me,—
Only one.
I dreamt of gentle Ireland beneath the Northern Light,
The waves that broke on Ireland were callin' me by night;
Till back across the salt sea, back against the sun
I took the way the birds know, an' woke in Cushendun,—
Not with you.
The waves that broke on Ireland were callin' me by night;
Till back across the salt sea, back against the sun
I took the way the birds know, an' woke in Cushendun,—
Not with you.
Oh, what about the roses then, an' what about the strand!
For now 'tis wantin' back I am to that lone land;
'Tis the other house I'm seein' on the green hill's breast,
An' a trail across the prairie that's goin' south an' west,—
Back to you.
For now 'tis wantin' back I am to that lone land;
'Tis the other house I'm seein' on the green hill's breast,
An' a trail across the prairie that's goin' south an' west,—
Back to you.
63
THE LITTLE SON.
When my little son is born on a sunny summer morn,
I'll take him sleepin' in my arms to wake beside the sea,
For the windy wathers blue would be dancin' if they knew,
An' the weeny waves that wet the sand come creepin' up to me.
I'll take him sleepin' in my arms to wake beside the sea,
For the windy wathers blue would be dancin' if they knew,
An' the weeny waves that wet the sand come creepin' up to me.
When my little son is here in the noonday warm an' clear,
I'll carry him so kindly up the glen to Craiga' Wood;
In a green an' tremblin' shadow there I'll hush my tender Iaddo,
An' the flittin' birds 'ill quet their songs as if they understood.
I'll carry him so kindly up the glen to Craiga' Wood;
64
An' the flittin' birds 'ill quet their songs as if they understood.
When my pretty son's awake, och, the care o' him I'll take!
An' we'll never pass a gentle place between the dark an' day;
If he's lovely in his sleep on his face a veil I'll keep,
Or the wee folk an' the good folk might be wantin' him away.
An' we'll never pass a gentle place between the dark an' day;
If he's lovely in his sleep on his face a veil I'll keep,
Or the wee folk an' the good folk might be wantin' him away.
When my darlin' comes to me he will lie upon my knee,—
Though the world should be my pillow he must know no harder place.
Sure a queen's son may be cold in a cradle all o' gold,
But my arm shall be about him an' my kiss upon his face.
Though the world should be my pillow he must know no harder place.
Sure a queen's son may be cold in a cradle all o' gold,
But my arm shall be about him an' my kiss upon his face.
65
PADDY THE SLITHERS.
Ochone! don't be tellin' me to fiddle or to play,
Ochone! 'tis a pity that I lived to see this day.
I'm fit to break my fiddle, or I'm fit to take an' die,—
Wirra! Paddy the Slithers, could a woman make ye cry?
I asked her for another dhrink, an' sure I'd played an hour,
Oh, who could think that music sweet would turn a woman sour?
An' the company so pleasant sittin' back agin' the wall,
But me bould Biddy Brogan ups an' says before them all,
“I'll give ye no more. There' a well in the garden,
'Tis there ye may dhrink, an' not pay a farden.”
Ochone! 'tis a pity that I lived to see this day.
I'm fit to break my fiddle, or I'm fit to take an' die,—
Wirra! Paddy the Slithers, could a woman make ye cry?
I asked her for another dhrink, an' sure I'd played an hour,
Oh, who could think that music sweet would turn a woman sour?
66
But me bould Biddy Brogan ups an' says before them all,
“I'll give ye no more. There' a well in the garden,
'Tis there ye may dhrink, an' not pay a farden.”
I am Paddy the Slithers, an' my father was the same,
For I kep' his ould fiddle an' I won his ould name,
That never said a false word or played a false note,—
But the manners o' thon woman has me chokin' in the throat.
I had played her “Baltigoran,” an' “The Pedlar wid his Pack,”
“The Wind that Shakes the Barley,” an' “When Tony's Comin' Back.”
'Twas “The Rockin' o' the Cradle” I was goin' to give her next,
An' troth! if I had wasted that, 'tis worse I would be vext,
Wid her “Not another dhrop! There' a well in the garden,
'Tis there ye may dhrink, an' not pay a farden.”
For I kep' his ould fiddle an' I won his ould name,
That never said a false word or played a false note,—
But the manners o' thon woman has me chokin' in the throat.
I had played her “Baltigoran,” an' “The Pedlar wid his Pack,”
“The Wind that Shakes the Barley,” an' “When Tony's Comin' Back.”
67
An' troth! if I had wasted that, 'tis worse I would be vext,
Wid her “Not another dhrop! There' a well in the garden,
'Tis there ye may dhrink, an' not pay a farden.”
Good-bye, Biddy Brogan! now I'll tramp it through the rain,
Good-bye, Biddy Brogan! for I'll never come again.
I wouldn't let my fiddle sweet be soundin' in your place,
You're the only one that ever brought the red into my face.
You'll be wantin' music badly for your weddin', yet to be,
An' faith! ye may do wantin' for all ye'll get from me.
If the man you're coaxin' now could know the crossness of your mind,
He'd be trampin' through the rain wid me an' lavin' you behind,
Wid your “Not another dhrop! There' a well in the garden,
'Tis there ye can dhrink, an' not pay a farden.”
Good-bye, Biddy Brogan! for I'll never come again.
I wouldn't let my fiddle sweet be soundin' in your place,
You're the only one that ever brought the red into my face.
You'll be wantin' music badly for your weddin', yet to be,
An' faith! ye may do wantin' for all ye'll get from me.
68
He'd be trampin' through the rain wid me an' lavin' you behind,
Wid your “Not another dhrop! There' a well in the garden,
'Tis there ye can dhrink, an' not pay a farden.”
69
DIVIDED.
'Tis well I know ye, Slieve Cross, ye windy stony hill,
An' I'm tired, och! I'm tired with lookin' on ye still;
For here I live the near side, an' he is on the far,
An' all your heights an' hollows are between us, so they are,
Och anee!
An' I'm tired, och! I'm tired with lookin' on ye still;
For here I live the near side, an' he is on the far,
An' all your heights an' hollows are between us, so they are,
Och anee!
But if 'twere only Slieve Cross to climb from foot to crown,
I'd soon be up an' over that, I'd soon be runnin' down;
Then sure the great ould sea itself is there beyond to bar,
An' all its weary wathers are between us, so they are,
Och anee!
I'd soon be up an' over that, I'd soon be runnin' down;
Then sure the great ould sea itself is there beyond to bar,
An' all its weary wathers are between us, so they are,
Och anee!
70
But what about the wather when I'd have ould Paddy's boat?
Is it me that would be fear'd to grip the oars an' go afloat?
Oh, I could find him by the light o' sun or moon or star,
But there' coulder things than salt waves between us, so they are,
Och anee!
Is it me that would be fear'd to grip the oars an' go afloat?
Oh, I could find him by the light o' sun or moon or star,
But there' coulder things than salt waves between us, so they are,
Och anee!
For well I know he'll never have the heart to come to me,
An' love is wild as any wave that wanders on the sea;
'Tis the same if he is near me, 'tis the same if he is far,
His thoughts are hard an' ever hard between us, so they are,
Och anee!
An' love is wild as any wave that wanders on the sea;
'Tis the same if he is near me, 'tis the same if he is far,
His thoughts are hard an' ever hard between us, so they are,
Och anee!
71
A LATE WOOING.
Am I the young man that you sent for to see?
An' tell me what is it you're wantin' with me?—
“'Tis you that I sent for, 'tis you that I need,
An' what I am wantin' you know it indeed.”
An' tell me what is it you're wantin' with me?—
“'Tis you that I sent for, 'tis you that I need,
An' what I am wantin' you know it indeed.”
Then spare me the tale an' I'll save you the blush,
For all you would offer I'd care not a rush.—
“Sure then it was false what you said long ago,
An' moved me to love you to bring me to woe.”
For all you would offer I'd care not a rush.—
“Sure then it was false what you said long ago,
An' moved me to love you to bring me to woe.”
72
I said that I loved you as dear as my life,
You mocked when I wanted to make you my wife.—
“Forget it, forget it! That's over an' bye,
An' if I must lose you I'm soon like to die.”
You mocked when I wanted to make you my wife.—
“Forget it, forget it! That's over an' bye,
An' if I must lose you I'm soon like to die.”
Oh, never be thinkin' you'll win me to rue,
If you live or you die or whatever you do!
You killed the young love that you cared not to save,—
I'll smile when the young grass is green on your grave.
If you live or you die or whatever you do!
You killed the young love that you cared not to save,—
I'll smile when the young grass is green on your grave.
73
NEVER MARRIED.
My mother had three daughters, an' the ouldest one was me,
The other two was married in their youth;
'Tis well for them that likes it, but by all that I could see
It 'ud never fit meself, an' there's the truth.
The other two was married in their youth;
'Tis well for them that likes it, but by all that I could see
It 'ud never fit meself, an' there's the truth.
Oh, never think I'm wantin' to miscall the race o' men,
There' not a taste o' harm in them, the cratures!
They're meddlesome, an' quarrelsome, an' troublesome, but then
The Man Above He put it in their natures.
There' not a taste o' harm in them, the cratures!
They're meddlesome, an' quarrelsome, an' troublesome, but then
The Man Above He put it in their natures.
74
I'd never be uncivil, sure an' marriage must be right,
Or what 'ud bring the childer to the fore?
Wid their screechin' an' their roarin' an' balorin' day an' night,—
Me sister Ann has five, an' Jane has more.
Or what 'ud bring the childer to the fore?
Wid their screechin' an' their roarin' an' balorin' day an' night,—
Me sister Ann has five, an' Jane has more.
I couldn't work wid childer, an' the men's a bigger kind,
But muddy an' mischeevous like the small;
Ye've got to larn them betther, an' ye've got to make them mind,
An' ye've got to keep them aisy afther all.
But muddy an' mischeevous like the small;
Ye've got to larn them betther, an' ye've got to make them mind,
An' ye've got to keep them aisy afther all.
I'm betther doin' wi' dumb things, a weeny black-face lamb,
Or the yaller goosey-goslin's on the knowe;
The neighbours think I'm sensible wi' sick ones, so I am,—
Sure 'twas me that saved the life o' Mullen's cow.
Or the yaller goosey-goslin's on the knowe;
The neighbours think I'm sensible wi' sick ones, so I am,—
Sure 'twas me that saved the life o' Mullen's cow.
75
Aye, ye'll often hear them say a woman cannot bide her lone,
An' it's fifty years alone that I have bided;
They're very apt to say no woman yet could guide her own,—
But them that God guides is well guided!
An' it's fifty years alone that I have bided;
They're very apt to say no woman yet could guide her own,—
But them that God guides is well guided!
76
HER SISTER.
“Brigid is a Caution, sure!”—What's that ye say?
Is it my sister then, Brigid MacIlray?
Caution or no Caution, listen what I'm tellin' ye. . .
Childer, hould yer noise there, faix! there' no quellin' ye!. . .
Och, well, I've said it now this many a long day,
'Tis the quare pity o' Brigid MacIlray.
Is it my sister then, Brigid MacIlray?
Caution or no Caution, listen what I'm tellin' ye. . .
Childer, hould yer noise there, faix! there' no quellin' ye!. . .
Och, well, I've said it now this many a long day,
'Tis the quare pity o' Brigid MacIlray.
An' she that was the beauty, an' never married yet!
An' fifty years gone over her, but do ye think she'll fret?
Sorra one o' Brigid then, that's not the sort of her,
Ne'er a hate would she care though not a man had thought of her.
Heaps o' men she might 'a had. . . .Here, get out o' that,
Mick, ye rogue! desthroyin' o' the poor ould cat!
An' fifty years gone over her, but do ye think she'll fret?
77
Ne'er a hate would she care though not a man had thought of her.
Heaps o' men she might 'a had. . . .Here, get out o' that,
Mick, ye rogue! desthroyin' o' the poor ould cat!
Ah, no use o' talkin'! Sure a woman's born to wed,
An' not go wastin' all her life by waitin' till she's dead.
Haven't we the men to mind, that couldn't for the lives o' them
Keep their right end uppermost, only for the wives o' them?—
Stick to yer pipe, Tim, an' give me no talk now!
There's the door fore'nenst ye, man! out ye can walk now.
An' not go wastin' all her life by waitin' till she's dead.
Haven't we the men to mind, that couldn't for the lives o' them
Keep their right end uppermost, only for the wives o' them?—
Stick to yer pipe, Tim, an' give me no talk now!
There's the door fore'nenst ye, man! out ye can walk now.
78
Brigid, poor Brigid will never have a child,
An' she you'd think a mother born, so gentle an' so mild. . . .
Danny, is it puttin' little Biddy's eyes out ye're after,
Swishin' wid yer rod there, an' splittin' wid yer laughter?
Come along the whole o' yez, in out o' the wet,
Or may I never but ye'll soon see what ye'll get!
An' she you'd think a mother born, so gentle an' so mild. . . .
Danny, is it puttin' little Biddy's eyes out ye're after,
Swishin' wid yer rod there, an' splittin' wid yer laughter?
Come along the whole o' yez, in out o' the wet,
Or may I never but ye'll soon see what ye'll get!
She to have no man at all. . . .Musha, look at Tim!
Off an' up the road he is, an' wet enough to swim,
An' his tea sittin' waitin' on him, there he'll sthreel about now,—
Amn't I the heart-scalded woman out an' out now?
Here I've lived an' wrought for him all the ways I can,
But the Goodness grant me patience, for I'd need it wid that man!
Off an' up the road he is, an' wet enough to swim,
An' his tea sittin' waitin' on him, there he'll sthreel about now,—
Amn't I the heart-scalded woman out an' out now?
Here I've lived an' wrought for him all the ways I can,
But the Goodness grant me patience, for I'd need it wid that man!
79
What was I sayin' then? Brigid lives her lone,
Ne'er a one about the house, quiet as a stone. . . .
Lave a-go the pig's tail, boys, an' quet the squealin' now,
Mind! I've got a sally switch that only wants the peelin' now. . . .
Ah, just to think of her, 'deed an' well-a-day!
'Tis the quare pity o' Brigid MacIlray.
Ne'er a one about the house, quiet as a stone. . . .
Lave a-go the pig's tail, boys, an' quet the squealin' now,
Mind! I've got a sally switch that only wants the peelin' now. . . .
Ah, just to think of her, 'deed an' well-a-day!
'Tis the quare pity o' Brigid MacIlray.
80
ONLY ONE.
There' five-an'-fifty islands maybe, take the world aroun',
An' the sun he be to light them all afore his goin' down;
But when he looks on Ireland 'tis then he shines the best,
An' he wants to see no other, an' he sinks into the West,—
For the sun would sleep beside her in the West.
An' the sun he be to light them all afore his goin' down;
But when he looks on Ireland 'tis then he shines the best,
An' he wants to see no other, an' he sinks into the West,—
For the sun would sleep beside her in the West.
81
There' many a lough in Ireland, an' one I know is small,
An' a little house beside it where the childer run an' call;
An' wather there an' heather there, an' sorra thing to see,
But a quare an' lonesome place it is that holds the girl for me,—
She's walkin' by the lough-side, an' thinkin' long for me.
An' a little house beside it where the childer run an' call;
An' wather there an' heather there, an' sorra thing to see,
But a quare an' lonesome place it is that holds the girl for me,—
She's walkin' by the lough-side, an' thinkin' long for me.
If I'd step up the loanin', the childer they would fly,
They're very strange in them parts where no one's passin' by;
They'd scatter out like pettericks, an' hide among the heather,
Their sister standin' by the door, an' in we'd go together,—
To spake the word would aise our hearts, the two of us together.
They're very strange in them parts where no one's passin' by;
They'd scatter out like pettericks, an' hide among the heather,
Their sister standin' by the door, an' in we'd go together,—
To spake the word would aise our hearts, the two of us together.
82
Then why go heavy-hearted, man, an' why live here your lone?
The sun he loves a green isle, but keeps the sky his own;
He's down in love this evenin', he's far away the morn,—
A man will lave his fancy an' the place where he was born,
Aye, a wheen things behind him in the place where he was born.
The sun he loves a green isle, but keeps the sky his own;
He's down in love this evenin', he's far away the morn,—
A man will lave his fancy an' the place where he was born,
Aye, a wheen things behind him in the place where he was born.
But for all that the best does be still-an'-ever one,
Oh, ne'er another Ireland can smile beneath the sun!
For all the loughs in Ireland, for all the glens there be,
The one lough, the one glen, the one girl for me;—
She's walkin' by the wather-side, an' thinkin' long for me.
Oh, ne'er another Ireland can smile beneath the sun!
For all the loughs in Ireland, for all the glens there be,
The one lough, the one glen, the one girl for me;—
She's walkin' by the wather-side, an' thinkin' long for me.
83
A BUD IN THE FROST.
Blow on the embers, an' sigh at the sparkles!My mother she bid me be wise in time.—
Ashes are white an' the red fire darkles:
I lost the words, but I know the rhyme.
It may be true,
An' it may be true,
'Tis much to me, 'tis little to you!
Oh, look if a boat comes over the water,
An' call on my mother who told her daughter
That “Love is all crost,—like a bud in the frost.”
84
My mother she bid me be wise in time.—
The waters have met, an' my head has gone under,
But far, far away there are bells that chime
How love is no liar,
Oh, love is no liar,
“That's only a bird singin' there on the briar.
You'd better be lookin' no more at the water,
But give me your hand an' come home, my daughter,
For love is all crost,—like a bud in the frost.”
85
THE BLACKBIRD.
There' a sweet bird singing in the narrow glen,
The blackbird clear with a golden bill,
He'll call me afther him, an' then
He'll flit an' lave me still.
A bird I had was one'st my own,
Oh dear, my colleen dhu to me!
My nest is cold, my bird has flown,—
An' the blackbird sings to me.
The blackbird clear with a golden bill,
He'll call me afther him, an' then
He'll flit an' lave me still.
A bird I had was one'st my own,
Oh dear, my colleen dhu to me!
My nest is cold, my bird has flown,—
An' the blackbird sings to me.
86
Oh, never will I tell her name,
I'll only sing that her heart was true;
My blackbird! ne'er a thing's the same
Since I was losin' you.
'Tis lonesome in the narrow glen,
An' rain-drops fallin' from the tree;
But whiles I think I hear her when
The blackbird sings to me.
I'll only sing that her heart was true;
My blackbird! ne'er a thing's the same
Since I was losin' you.
'Tis lonesome in the narrow glen,
An' rain-drops fallin' from the tree;
But whiles I think I hear her when
The blackbird sings to me.
I'll make a cradle of my breast,
Her image all its child shall be;
My throbbin' heart shall rock to rest
The care that's wastin' me.
A Night of sleep shall end my pain,
A sunny Morn shall set me free;
An' when I wake I'll hear again
My blackbird sing to me.
Her image all its child shall be;
My throbbin' heart shall rock to rest
The care that's wastin' me.
A Night of sleep shall end my pain,
A sunny Morn shall set me free;
An' when I wake I'll hear again
My blackbird sing to me.
87
NEVER LET ON!
When I was just a youngster an' the whole of us was young,
An' childer will be still tormentin' other,
I larned a thrick to watch it out an' still to hould me tongue,
An' sure enough it saved a heap o' bother.
I mind the time that Micky had his sister by the hair,
That day she took an' broke his rod, an' Pat was skelpin' Mick,
An' Jane had hould o' Patsy by the legs, an' Tim was there,
Says I, “I think I see me Da,”—that saved us all the stick.
An' childer will be still tormentin' other,
I larned a thrick to watch it out an' still to hould me tongue,
An' sure enough it saved a heap o' bother.
I mind the time that Micky had his sister by the hair,
That day she took an' broke his rod, an' Pat was skelpin' Mick,
An' Jane had hould o' Patsy by the legs, an' Tim was there,
Says I, “I think I see me Da,”—that saved us all the stick.
88
'Tis the only way o' doin', just till not be lettin' on!
Were ye ever at a fair in Cushendall?
'Twas there I nearly lost me life, an' sure I'd only gone
For to buy a likely heifer in the fall.
Well, I bought her, then I sould her, an' I done a thriflin' deal
Wi' poor ould John MacGonnell o' Rafoam;
But the bruiser Big MacDonnell knocked the head off John MacGonnell,
So at the latter end of all I dhruv the heifer home.
Were ye ever at a fair in Cushendall?
'Twas there I nearly lost me life, an' sure I'd only gone
For to buy a likely heifer in the fall.
Well, I bought her, then I sould her, an' I done a thriflin' deal
Wi' poor ould John MacGonnell o' Rafoam;
But the bruiser Big MacDonnell knocked the head off John MacGonnell,
So at the latter end of all I dhruv the heifer home.
I was lookin' after Nancy, but of course I'd not let on,
An' she was lettin' on she didn't care;
The women think theirselves as 'cute, an' faith, they're never done
Wi' their simple sort o' schamin' in the air.
Well, that's a tale I'll tell to none, but now we're man an' wife,
An' she quarely likes to manage an' to rule;
I'm not the man to cross her, so we lead a quiet life,
For he isn't all a wise man that wouldn't play the fool.
An' she was lettin' on she didn't care;
The women think theirselves as 'cute, an' faith, they're never done
Wi' their simple sort o' schamin' in the air.
89
An' she quarely likes to manage an' to rule;
I'm not the man to cross her, so we lead a quiet life,
For he isn't all a wise man that wouldn't play the fool.
Ah, where's the use o' talkin'? Ye should never draw the sod,
Ye should never stop a beggar in his dhrink,
Ye should see an' lift your own load an' put your trust in God:
'Tis He will make the ship to sail or sink.
But och! the world is full o' fools that won't be said or led,
Now may I never live to rear a son
If I would not insense him ere he'd be to earn his bread,
Till “keep a quiet sough, me boy, an' never you let on!”
Ye should never stop a beggar in his dhrink,
Ye should see an' lift your own load an' put your trust in God:
'Tis He will make the ship to sail or sink.
But och! the world is full o' fools that won't be said or led,
Now may I never live to rear a son
If I would not insense him ere he'd be to earn his bread,
Till “keep a quiet sough, me boy, an' never you let on!”
90
A ROSE IN DECEMBER.
Well can I mind your mother, the pity it is she's gone,
An' her sort is lost out of Ireland, women like her there's none!
Blue were the eyes an' kindly, soft an' slow was the tongue,
I mind her words the betther for that, an' the quare ould songs she sung.
She had many a poor one's blessin', an' blessin' she'd give golor,—
Aye, a rose in December was growin' by her door.
An' her sort is lost out of Ireland, women like her there's none!
Blue were the eyes an' kindly, soft an' slow was the tongue,
I mind her words the betther for that, an' the quare ould songs she sung.
She had many a poor one's blessin', an' blessin' she'd give golor,—
Aye, a rose in December was growin' by her door.
91
But you were all the daughter she had, an' faith, 'twas just as well!
For if it wasn't for manners now, straight to your face I'd tell
That two like you is too many, an' one is more than enough,
But rightly I know for an ould man's talk you'll care not a pinch o' snuff.
For looks you were never the peel of her, for larnin',—I may be a fool,
But I wouldn't give much for the larnin' that's got at the National School.
For if it wasn't for manners now, straight to your face I'd tell
That two like you is too many, an' one is more than enough,
But rightly I know for an ould man's talk you'll care not a pinch o' snuff.
For looks you were never the peel of her, for larnin',—I may be a fool,
But I wouldn't give much for the larnin' that's got at the National School.
Young people should be conducted, but that's where they're all asthray,
There were none o' this loiterin' home from fairs in Father M'Carthy's day;
'Twas he would ha' had their lives for less, so he would then, who but he!
Your mother he called “the flower o' Layde,” an' none minds that but me
An' she had the voice of a song-thrush, but you have the laugh of a jay,—
Och, she was a rose in December, but you are a frost in May!
There were none o' this loiterin' home from fairs in Father M'Carthy's day;
'Twas he would ha' had their lives for less, so he would then, who but he!
Your mother he called “the flower o' Layde,” an' none minds that but me
92
Och, she was a rose in December, but you are a frost in May!
93
THE OULD TUNES.
A boy we had belongin' us, an' och, but he was gay,
An' we'd sooner hear him singin' than we'd hear the birds in May,
For a bullfinch was a fool to him, an' all ye had to do,
Only name the song ye wanted an' he'd sing it for ye through,
Wid his “Up now There!” an' his “Look about an' thry for it,”—
Faith, he had the quarest songs of any ye could find,—
“Poppies in the Corn” too, an' “Molly, never Cry for it!”
“A Pretty Girl I Courted,” an' “There's Trouble in the Wind.”
An' we'd sooner hear him singin' than we'd hear the birds in May,
For a bullfinch was a fool to him, an' all ye had to do,
Only name the song ye wanted an' he'd sing it for ye through,
94
Faith, he had the quarest songs of any ye could find,—
“Poppies in the Corn” too, an' “Molly, never Cry for it!”
“A Pretty Girl I Courted,” an' “There's Trouble in the Wind.”
Music is deludherin', ye'll hear the people say,
Ah, the more they be deludhered then, the betther is their case;
I would sooner miss my dhrink than never hear a fiddle play,
An' since Hughie up an' left us this has been another place.
Arrah, come back, lad! an' we'll love you when you sing for us,
Sure we're gettin' oulder an' ye'll maybe come too late.
Sing “Girl Dear!” an' “The Bees among the Ling” for us;
I could shake a foot to hear “The Pigeon on the Gate.”
Ah, the more they be deludhered then, the betther is their case;
I would sooner miss my dhrink than never hear a fiddle play,
An' since Hughie up an' left us this has been another place.
Arrah, come back, lad! an' we'll love you when you sing for us,
Sure we're gettin' oulder an' ye'll maybe come too late.
95
I could shake a foot to hear “The Pigeon on the Gate.”
Oh, Hughie had the music, but there come on him a change,
He should ha' stayed the boy he was an' never grown a man;
I seen the shadow on his face before his time to range,
An' I knew he sung for sorrow as a winter robin can.
But that's not the way! oh, I'd feel my heart grow light again,
Hughie, if I'd hear you at “The Pleasant Summer Rain”;
Ould sweet tunes, sure my wrong 'ud all come right again,
Listenin' for an hour I'd forget the feel o' pain.
He should ha' stayed the boy he was an' never grown a man;
I seen the shadow on his face before his time to range,
An' I knew he sung for sorrow as a winter robin can.
But that's not the way! oh, I'd feel my heart grow light again,
Hughie, if I'd hear you at “The Pleasant Summer Rain”;
Ould sweet tunes, sure my wrong 'ud all come right again,
Listenin' for an hour I'd forget the feel o' pain.
96
TIDY ANNIE.
I am not carin' much to hear what the young men dancin' say,
An' I think there is little sense in them, but let them go their way.
For I have many another thing, an' it is not marriage I mind!
Nor yet to be meetin' below the road, nor yet to be lookin' behind;
For the like o' that is foolishness, an' it happens every day.
An' I think there is little sense in them, but let them go their way.
For I have many another thing, an' it is not marriage I mind!
Nor yet to be meetin' below the road, nor yet to be lookin' behind;
For the like o' that is foolishness, an' it happens every day.
97
Then I think it is very well for me to be livin' in ould Parkure,
An' the way that I am it fits me best, for a mother's love is sure.
The half o' the wives are sharp-tongued, the half are desthroyed with work,
Ah, the height o' botheration it is to be married on a Turk,—
But what about that? If he's ten Turks, when it's done you can get no cure.
An' the way that I am it fits me best, for a mother's love is sure.
The half o' the wives are sharp-tongued, the half are desthroyed with work,
Ah, the height o' botheration it is to be married on a Turk,—
But what about that? If he's ten Turks, when it's done you can get no cure.
'Tis “Tidy Annie” they give me, they know that I can't be bet
For a steady girl, an' a dacent shawl, an' walkin' clean in the wet.
They don't see many that do like me, with the house to keep an' all,
An' ducks to feed, an' a goat to milk an' to mind the mother's call,—
But isn't it now the quarest thing—that nobody's asked me yet!
For a steady girl, an' a dacent shawl, an' walkin' clean in the wet.
They don't see many that do like me, with the house to keep an' all,
An' ducks to feed, an' a goat to milk an' to mind the mother's call,—
But isn't it now the quarest thing—that nobody's asked me yet!
98
THE EMIGRANT'S LETTER.
I hope this finds all well at home, as it leaves me at present,
An' sure I am, my mother dear, that you've been thinkin' long!
But don't you fret, I'm livin' still, an' so is Andy Besant;
We didn't mind the ship so much, but she was awful throng.
An' sure I am, my mother dear, that you've been thinkin' long!
But don't you fret, I'm livin' still, an' so is Andy Besant;
We didn't mind the ship so much, but she was awful throng.
99
I wisht ye'd see the place we're in,—the name is wrote above,—
Ye'd say 'twas just unearthly, wi' the blazin' o' the sun;
The drink we get is barefut tea, an' not for gold or love
Could ye rise an' post a letter here as ye would in Cushendun.
Ye'd say 'twas just unearthly, wi' the blazin' o' the sun;
The drink we get is barefut tea, an' not for gold or love
Could ye rise an' post a letter here as ye would in Cushendun.
My uncle says he minds you well, an' why would you not come?
Be sure he'd send a ticket, an' he'd build a house some place;—
But the blacks 'ud have you scared by nights, an' women's best at home;—
He's a kindly sort of a decent man, wi' a great big sod of a face.
Be sure he'd send a ticket, an' he'd build a house some place;—
But the blacks 'ud have you scared by nights, an' women's best at home;—
He's a kindly sort of a decent man, wi' a great big sod of a face.
100
Ye've likely seen Rosanna?. . .did she ask or did she care?
But ye needn't say I named her, for I wouldn't go that far.
'Tis only Andy wants to know, an' “Faith,” says he, “'tis quare
An' she so comely as she is, an' she so long wi' her da!”
But ye needn't say I named her, for I wouldn't go that far.
'Tis only Andy wants to know, an' “Faith,” says he, “'tis quare
An' she so comely as she is, an' she so long wi' her da!”
Who feeds my old dog Dusty now, an' what place does he lie?
Ye'll mind not fill the cart too full, to spoil that pony's shape.
I doubt Tom Boyd's forgot me, an' the rest will by-an'-by,—
He said he'd write so constant, an' he never sent a scrape.
Ye'll mind not fill the cart too full, to spoil that pony's shape.
I doubt Tom Boyd's forgot me, an' the rest will by-an'-by,—
He said he'd write so constant, an' he never sent a scrape.
101
So now no more, my mother dear, for I've no more to tell.
I see you at your spinnin'-wheel beside the red turf fire,
An' my little brother Alick there,—I still liked him so well!
When I win back to yous again I'll get my heart's desire.
I see you at your spinnin'-wheel beside the red turf fire,
An' my little brother Alick there,—I still liked him so well!
When I win back to yous again I'll get my heart's desire.
102
ALTANEIGH.
There' a place I used to know,
Where the bendin' birches grow
By the bright wather still-an'-ever fallin',
An' the fern is smellin' sweet
Up the brae about your feet,
An' a voice within the wather-voice is callin'.
Where the bendin' birches grow
By the bright wather still-an'-ever fallin',
An' the fern is smellin' sweet
Up the brae about your feet,
An' a voice within the wather-voice is callin'.
If you waited all the day
Till the light was gone away,
An' the dark an' dewy clouds were slowly shiftin',
Oh, a little, little moon
There would glimmer on you soon,
An' all among the stars go downward driftin'.
Till the light was gone away,
103
Oh, a little, little moon
There would glimmer on you soon,
An' all among the stars go downward driftin'.
Will I ever rise an' go
To the glen I used to know,
To the sweet fern an' golden wather droppin'?
Up the brae an' by the burn
See them stand at every turn,
Green birch crowns the one another toppin'?—
To the glen I used to know,
To the sweet fern an' golden wather droppin'?
Up the brae an' by the burn
See them stand at every turn,
Green birch crowns the one another toppin'?—
Now grant I may not see,
No, never would I be
Where the ferns dip, the dark pools bubble:
When we've loved too long to praise,—
God be with the old dear days!
But the peace of that glen my heart would trouble.
No, never would I be
Where the ferns dip, the dark pools bubble:
When we've loved too long to praise,—
God be with the old dear days!
But the peace of that glen my heart would trouble.
| Collected Poems of Moira O'Neill | |