University of Virginia Library

To M. L. B.

GHOST-BEREFT

A SCENE FROM BOGLAND IN WAR-TIME

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

• Widow Brennan.
• Lady Kathleen MacNeill.
• Norah Farrell.
• Nellie Connor.

A little glen traversed by a path, running along the bank above a rocky stream, and shut in on the side farthest from it by a thick screen of shrubs. In a recess among them a wooden seat stands facing the stream. On the extreme left the path ends at a small gate in a Gothic stone arch. On the right it branches, one path winding down, with wide

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2

steps here and there, to the water's edge, the others running on under overarching boughs. The time is about sunset on a showery evening in May. Along the path from the gate comes the Widow Brennan. She wears a long black hooded cloak and a white frilled cap.
Widow Brennan.
I thought by now for sure the sun was down,
But still there are leaves of fire, like, flickering by
Along in the water. Ay, and there is himself
Red yonder through the trees: a handsbreadth clear
Of daylight yet; the lonesome days pass slow.
It seems a great while since the Angelus bell
Was ringing over at Moygort; and the house
Had grown so dark I scarce could see my hand—
The shower it must have been that made things black—
And so I am here too early. After dusk
Was fallen, they said. Indeed, and after dusk
He would oft be coming home this very way,
The time he worked about the gardens here,
Before I had ever a dread next year would bring
The 'listing and the war to break our hearts.
And here some nights he would stop awhile, he said,
To smoke his pipe; he liked the water's sound
That is twisted through the stones. Then only a step
Beyond the gates, and he would be stooping in
At the dark of our little low door—too low, in truth,
For him that stood a tall six foot and more
Or ever he turned seventeen. No bigger man
The Rangers had than Larry, I will go bail.
The easier maybe so their bullets found him,
That killed the little gossoon on me. Now
I will sit down here awhile; it won't be long
Till underneath these boughs 'tis dark enough;
And if the lad knew I was waiting for him,
He would come belike a bit the sooner—ay,
He would, I am thinking.

Norah Farrell, in a blue gown and white muslin apron and cap, runs after and overtakes her.
Norah Farrell.
Oh! Mrs. Brennan, ma'am,
I have lost my breath with running—how is yourself?
Too late I am. They kept me talking on
Below there at the lodge, and 'twill be dusk
Ere I can slip through all these shrubbery paths.
Look, there's a cloud-bank building in the west
As black as a turf-stack; presently 'twill take
The last of the sun setting. That long yew-walk
Will be thick night. What shall I do at all?

Widow Brennan.
Well, child of grace, what harm could happen you?
For ne'er a man or mortal will you meet,
Unless it was a rabbit over the lawn
Went scuttling white. Or maybe you would be scared
Because you saw a tuft of thistledown
Blow by on the wind. No need to mind the dark,
For sure, if that is all ails you.

Norah Farrell.
But, ma'am dear,
Some people say they have seen the Captain—Saints (blessing herself)

Between us and harm!—in these same paths, or else
'Twas Larry Brennan. Different ways they tell
The story, but 'tis since the two of them
Were killed, that is sure and certain.

Widow Brennan
Larry—

Norah Farrell.
There—
My tongue has gone wrong again; I never meant
To tell you there was talk of him; forby
'Tis likelier now a deal they saw the Captain.
Poor Larry, what should bring him walking here?
But the poor master had a great wish ever
For this glen-shrubbery. Many a day last Fall
He would come down with my lady, and watch the men
He had set to plant that barefaced bank below
With little flowery bushes. Off he went,
Off to the war before they had finished it all;
And after that my lady came alone
One time, old Murtagh told me, and she stood
Looking on awhile, just like as if, said he,
Some bit of growing thing was rooted up,
And left to droop its life out in its place.
They all were sorry at heart for her, he said.
The little bushes should be blossoming
By summer, all red and white and lilac—sure,
Is that a glimmering of them through the trees,
Down yonder towards the bridge? Ah! now, to think
The master will ne'er lay eyes on them, nor maybe
My lady, for a foot she has never set
Outside the door since first we had the news.
In Lent that was, and here is nigh Whitsuntide.

Widow Brennan.
The creature is to be pitied; left so young
And married scarce a twelvemonth yet. Last year
I would often see them both go riding by.
A handsome man he looked on horseback too,
And she as gay as a goldfinch. Ay, God knows
She is to be pitied.

Norah Farrell.
You might say that word
If you could see her these times, ma'am. All day
There in the musty old library she sits,
And in the darkest corner, by the shelves;
She keeps an open book upon her knee,
And when one comes she is quick to turn a leaf,
As if a breeze went by, but sorrow the line
She reads in it. Away and far away
She looks, and what she sees the Saints can tell.
The eyes of her are grown too wide for aught
They will find in the world to fill them, and her face
Is dwindled like a baby's when it pines.
Up at the House, ma'am, all of us are saying
Her people must be strange, that leave her alone
To mope and fret so long, and ne'er a one
Come next or nigh her.

Widow Brennan.
They misliked the match,
So I heard tell; and since her wedding-day
They broke with Lady Kathleen.

Norah Farrell.
Set them up!
Is one of the MacNeills not good enough
For e'er a lady in the land? It is much
If they have as fine a gentleman among them
As the poor master.

Widow Brennan.
Ay, but he was not rich;
And wild a bit, some say, in his younger days,
As lads are. Sure they wanted some great lord
For Lady Kathleen. Wiser wish she had
To take the man she chose. God rest his soul.
He always had a pleasant word for Larry,
And Larry liked him well. Indeed, 'twas the talk
They had about his Honour and the war,
First put the 'listing into Larry's head;
For if they had luck, he said, they might be sent
Together. Ochone, together 'tis far they have gone.
But now, belike, my lady would hate the thought
Of folks that would have parted him and her,
As if they were the war itself.

Norah Farrell.
True for you.
They would, maybe, only vex her talking. Sure,
I have done that same myself by foolishness,
With no harm meant at all. I mind one morning
Last winter, when she still had every day
Her heart set on his letter, old Murtagh bid me
Go tell her he had brought her naught that time
In the mail-bag. So I found her at the window,
Where she throws out the bread-crumbs to the birds,
That fluttered on the sill, frost-hungry—tits
And robins and sparrows—down they whirled like leaves,
With every one the white crumb in his beak.
‘Look, look,’ said I, ‘my lady, you might think
They had all got wee white letters.’ So she looked,
And laughed, the creature. But next minute, ah,
She thought I had gone, and: ‘Ne'er a one,’ says she,
Soft to herself, ‘not one for me at all.’
I could have cried to hear her. And to-day
'Twas worse again; for like a fool I told her
I would take this message to the lodge myself,
Because Rose Flynn was scared with people's talk
Of how they had seen the Captain in the glen.
Woman dear! her shining eyes at that. And straight
She made me tell her every word I knew.
And then I tried my best, when the harm was done,
And said for sure the soldier walking there
Would just be Larry Brennan, if all the while
'Twas aught save some old body passing by,
That wore a scarlet 'kerchief, folk mistook
For a red coat through the trees in the darkening light.
May God forgive me; it was a great untruth
I told her, and I doubt she guessed as much.
Still, better it were to fool her if I could,
Than frighten her with letting her believe
His Honour walks. God rest him.

Widow Brennan.
Very wrong
You did to disappoint her with a story
About the Captain. Yet she scarce would hope it.
For sure if e'er a soldier came the road
That is strange and darksome home to poor Rosbride,
The lad 'twould be who knows the old mother lost
Her life's light when he left her in heart-sorrow
To fret her lone; herself that all this day
Is watching yon slow sun creep out of the sky,
And thinking of the chance a shadow only
Might fall across her path.

Norah Farrell.
Oh, Mother of Mercy! (Blessing herself.)

Is it waiting here you are to meet him? Indeed,
I know you are. And there is the sun gone down.
Will he be coming now? I heard a step.
Don't leave me, woman dear. Where shall I run?
Don't leave me!

Widow Brennan.
Whist, girl, whist! (Listening.)
No, I hear naught.
'Tis just the shower that's pattering by again.
What ails you, Norah? Half the sun is up yet
Behind the cloud. Well, well, I will go with you
As far as the first sunk fence, and there the House
Stands straight before you all the way. God knows
I know of naught to harm you. Afraid of Larry!

(They go down a path to the right.)
Enter Lady Kathleen along a path on the right. She wears a black gown and widow's cap.
Lady Kathleen.
Last time I came here frost lay on the grass
Along the borders, and the air was cold,
So cold, I thought how it would be warm and bright
Where Gerald was; and then I seemed to hear
The bullets shrieking in it. And now all day
It is warm and bright. I only hear the birds
That wake me singing. It will be a long, long time
Before the days are quiet and dark again.
They are happy girls who hear the bullets still,
And still, as if they dared to face and touch
Fierce lightning, read the printed, terrible lists,
And every day expect a letter still,
And cry their eyes out nearly every night
Because none came. Half glad he was, I know,
Half glad to go, even when he said good-bye,
And said: ‘Don't let those rhododendrons blossom
Till I come back to see them.’ There they are (standing still),

The white ones glimmering low upon the edge,
Too steady to be foam. They are early. Yet
The hawthorns and laburnums on the lawn
Have pearl and golden shadows where they stand,
And all the jewelled tags are strewn below
The sycamore, and drifts of amber dust
And powdery floss beneath the firs and pines:
The Fall of Spring it is; these well may blossom.
And has he come to see them now? Poor Norah
Made up some other story when she feared
She had frightened me; but what she told me first
In her belief was truth. This path grows dark. (Walking on.)

How loud the river rustles, like a wind
Among the branches, always blowing by.
Was that a step? (Listens.)
I think the raindrops gather
And splash down suddenly large and heavy. I'd hear
No step. 'Twould be a shadow stealing by
Without a sound—or could a shadow speak
A word—one word? I am near the shrubbery's end,
For now the gate is in sight. I will sit awhile
Here, where the laurels let the drops glance through
As seldom as falling stars.

(Sits down on the seat.)
Enter Widow Brennan on the right.
Widow Brennan.
No sign of him.
I made what haste I could, but she would not let me
Turn back and leave her. She was all a-tremble
For fear of seeing Larry. Sure the girl
Is foolish in her mind. You might come yet.
The moon will soon be rising, and till then
I will watch for you as many a time I have watched
In the old days; and you always came at last,
Though never, avic, 'twas by so long a road.

(Goes up to the seat.)
Lady Kathleen.
Was that a step? I hear—it is a step.
Who is there? Who is there?

(Starting up.)
Widow Brennan.
My lady! Can it be
Yourself this night?

Lady Kathleen.
The evening looked so fine,
I came out—I came out to watch the sunset.
It has been a long while setting.

Widow Brennan.
Praised be God,
'Tis pleasant weather; only now and again
I feel a mist and softness on the air.
Good-night, my lady, and I ask your pardon
For so disturbing you.

(Going.)
Lady Kathleen.
No, no; you meant
To wait until this shower went by. Sit here,
Or I will not stay. (They sit down.)
I know your face so well;
I used to see you, surely?

Widow Brennan.
Ay, my lady.
The Widow Brennan I am; my little house
Is but a stone's-throw up the road beyond
The gate-lodge there; and often riding by
I have seen yourself, my lady, with his Honour.
Just where the bog-boreen turns off it is,
With sallies by it, and a big fuchsia-bush
Against the wall, and reaching up the thatch:
You might remember.

Lady Kathleen.
I remember, indeed.
And sometimes grazing there a small white goat
Poor Minnehaha shied at.

Widow Brennan.
Sure, my lady,
I have the wee goat yet, and all I have
She is since Larry is gone.

Lady Kathleen.
Your son?

Widow Brennan.
My son,
And the only son I have; a fine tall lad;
No one to match him in the parish, unless
The Captain maybe. And his Honour thought
A deal of Larry. Making sure I was
He had come safe through the battle, when one night
A boy below at Kavanagh's spelled out
Upon the paper: Add to killed—God help me—
Add to killed Private Lawrence Brennan.

Lady Kathleen.
Ah,
Then you are all alone too, all the day.
They are very long days in the empty house,
When nobody is ever coming home,
And nothing more can happen.

Widow Brennan.
Ay, and the nights—
They are cruelly long. But you are so young, my lady,
You should be sleeping sound. As folks grow old,
The soft sleep withers off them, like the blossom
That is blowing off the hedge at every breath
Because we are nigh in June.

Lady Kathleen.
I sometimes think
We pay too dear for dreams, when we awaken
In the grey morning, half forgetting; and yet
'Tis only in dreams we see—unless—they say
Strange things are seen here in the glen these times.
Have you heard?

Widow Brennan.
Strange, my lady?

Lady Kathleen.
Yes, for at dusk
A soldier comes and walks along this way,
And by the river. Yesterday the boys
From Laraghmena, after the hurley match,
Met him close by; and other people often.
But nowhere in Rosbride, nor round about it,
Is any soldier staying—so is it not strange?

Widow Brennan.
I would scarcely think it very strange, my lady,
If some poor lad, who left his heart at home,
And bore a wishful one overseas with him,
To break if harm befell him far away,
Should strive against the black and bitter door
Clapped in a sudden instant there between us,
Till by some chink or chance he should slip back
Once more among the old places, like a dream
Strayed out of sleep, to bid them all good-bye,
And say a longer road he would have to go
To find forgetting. Larry would try, for sure,
That knows I miss this world with missing him.

Lady Kathleen.
But if it was he—if it was your son come back,
Straight home to you he would have gone; not stayed
To wander here. Why should he stand and look
At the shrubs we planted? Norah told me—

Widow Brennan.
Larry
Was fond, my lady, of this little glen.
I mind how many a time he has said to me
The pleasant place it was. But none the more
He would e'er make free to set his foot in it, save
Of early mornings maybe, or evenings late,
Lest he might chance on some one from the House.
Sure, if he knows, he will never come this night,
To annoy your ladyship.

Lady Kathleen.
Ah no, ah no,
I only meant I thought he would go wherever
He would sureliest meet his mother.

Widow Brennan.
Ay, he would.
So here I am. That was the wind went by,
And shook the raindrops out of the wet leaves.
Dear heart, dear heart, my lady, you look so white.
You are not afraid?

Lady Kathleen.
Why should I be afraid?

Widow Brennan.
That would be hard to say. And yet but now
I had Norah Farrell holding by my cloak,
And bidding me stay near her, like a child
That is frightened with some goblin in the dark,
And ready to have run three ways at once.
Troth, she set off the straight road to the door,
As if a flood's foam-waves were coursing her,
In dread of meeting Larry.

Lady Kathleen.
It was not Larry
She feared this morning.

Widow Brennan.
Folk that fear the like
Know little what they need fear. They have never looked
Down all a life, and seen it stretching lone,
Lone, lone, away to its end that lies far off.
If only a shadow moved there, you would pray
To reach it, for its company; and even
But once to see it pass the way you go
Would seem heart's comfort.

Lady Kathleen.
Is there an end far off?
I see none far or near. And now you say
Not even the shadow comes to me. And yet
My way is longer maybe.

Widow Brennan.
Ah, mavrone,
All lonesome roads are long. I am not so old
That days count each one like a rosary bead
In prayers you scarce will finish or e'er you sleep.
Reckon as I will, no such great age at all
Can I put upon myself: last year my hair
Was dark as yours, my lady, every thread.
It is the burning sorrows make white heads
Of black ones, as the burning flame strews over
The black peat-sods with flakes of snowy ashes.

Lady Kathleen.
What would you do if you were only twenty,
With never a white hair yet, no ashes yet,
But always burning grief?

Widow Brennan.
Whist, honey, whist.
Now God be good to you, and God forgive me.
Too much I make of Larry and myself;
Ay, ay, and you so young. Well, if this night
His Honour comes, not Larry, in my heart
I will not begrudge you—it will be very strange
If any come, and my lad bides away—
But in my heart I will not begrudge you him.

Nellie Connor darts out of the shrubs on the right, and is stealing across the path in front

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of the seat in the direction of the gate. She wears a white shawl and a crimson skirt. Widow Brennan starts up and grasps her arm.
Widow Brennan.
Is that you, Nellie Connor? In God's name
What brought you here? Whom have you come to meet?

Nellie Connor.
Ah, Mrs. Brennan, ma'am, you frightened me
Out of my senses. Let me go, ma'am dear,
And never tell a word, or I will be killed.
Mick Tierney is waiting for me at the gate.
'Tis he that 'listed at Glenmoyle last year,
And he and I were speaking long before,
But unbeknownst, for if my father knew
He would rage like fire.

Widow Brennan.
What has he against the boy?

Nellie Connor.
Against him? 'Twould be hard for any man
To say Mick had his better in this country;
But sure they have set their hearts on making up
A match for me with old John Gahan, that is rich.
Faith, they might spare their pains, for if he built
His peat-stack high with sods of shining gold,
I would never look at him nor them. And now
There is no one knows that Mick is come home on leave,
And staying awhile up yonder at his brother's,
Beyond Lisconnel. So across the bog
Mick steps at sunset, and I watch my chance
To slip out after supper, and meet him here.
The folk at home would kill me if they guessed,
And I heard tell, indeed, some lads one night
Caught sight of Mick, but by the best good luck
They took him for a ghost. The morrow morn
Away he is. He is ordered to the war.

Widow Brennan.
God help you both.

Nellie Connor.
By Christmas he will be home,
A corporal or a sergeant—who can tell?—
With leave to marry at Shrove. And Mick has asked
The sister he has living in the south
To let me bide with her till he comes back,
Lest while he was away my father would give me
To old John Gahan. He will bring me news from her
This night. Ah, don't delay me, woman dear,
And speak you never a word. (A whistle from the gate.)
There, that's his whistle.

(She runs off to the left.)
Widow Brennan.
And that was all. It seems as if a door
Shut in the dark.

Lady Kathleen.
There was no door, I think,
Or none that ever was opened. Now it is late,
And here we look for nothing any more;
And so I will say good-night.

(Going.)
Widow Brennan.
Good-night, my lady.
Indeed it is cold and dark, and all the boughs
Are dripping with the rain-mists. She might get
Her death, God pity her.

Lady Kathleen
(going).
Oh! afraid, afraid.
I was afraid to see him. I am glad
To think I shall not see him. Now I know
Some horrible thing has happened us. My hope
Is only fear. Afraid I am this minute
Of every rustling leaf. In the whole world
What wish is left me but to shut my eyes
On all its light, and open them nevermore?
Since if we meet it must be far beyond
This cold and dark, and past the Fear—the Fear.

(Exit.)
Widow Brennan.
(Exit.)

A shadowy form begins to move up the path from the river.

A WEATHER PROPHET

(Achill Inish. Summer, 1894.)

I

II

I hear the folks sayin' down yonder I've little enough to do,
To be wishin' away the fine weather, ere the summer's rightly through.
Says Widdy Rourke: ‘He's astray in his mind since they lost the little colleen,
So it's strange he talks.’ But themselves are strange, or they'd know the way it's been.
For, arrah now, is it aught else but the fau't of this weary fine weather
Laves the Inish all desolit and lone, when the young ones troop off it together?
After the harvestin' work they go in the fields that are rep and mown
Far off on I dunno what townland—I'd as lief 'twas all wet bog and stone.
And always the saison they quit, the long days such a shinin' 'ill keep,
The dark of the night scarce holds room for a bit of a dream in your sleep,
Ere the cocks 'ill be crowin', and the hole in the wall's like an eye blinkin' in,
And you wake and forgit she's away, and next minyit remimber agin.
But the sorra a step they set back while the summer sun's in the skies,
So its heat has a heart of cold, and its light flares the dark in our eyes,
For lost we are, missin' the young and the strong that have left us behind,
Wee imps wid no wit to heed aught, and ould fools that have grieved ourselves blind;
Till there's scarce a fut stirrin' on Achill can better than totter or creep,
And och then but the lonesome road runs long, ay, ay, and the hill lifts steep.

III

We wouldn't ha' let them away good or bad, if we'd done what was right;
There's no tellin' where childer 'ill go, when you trust them off out of your sight;
You may think they've all manner of sinse, and be wond'rin' the way they're grown,
Yet liker than not they'll git playin' some quare foolish trick of their own,
And be lost ere you know. Sure we'd never a doubt, and they startin' that day,
They'd cross safe in the big sailin' boat up to Westport, the width of the Bay;
What 'ud ail them, wid wather and win' keepin' quiet as a baste lyin' down?
But the next thing we heard they'd capsized her, wid Norah on board her to drown.

IV

V

I remimber the time me poor father was tuk on us, a great while ago,
And we waked him and buried him—Heaven be his bed—in Dugort down below;
And then back wid us home to th' ould house, that was strange-like and still when we came.
And I said to meself he was gone, but I thought he'd be there all the same.
Till I streeled out at sunsettin', round to the field where we'd broken the lea,
That's a quare long stiff pull 'gin the steep of the hill, and 'twas often I'd see
Where he follied th' ould horses, nid-noddin' their heads to the sky on the ridge,
Wid their big feet all tramplin' togither in pairs as they turned on the idge
Of the headland. So there in its furrow the plough lay, laned over on one side,
Wid its handle-crooks lookin' to feel in the air for the grip that 'ud guide;
And says I to meself: ‘He'll ne'er hold them agin till the whole world rusts red.’
And wid that, on a suddint, I couldn't say how, but I knew he was dead.

VI

But sure what would I see or hear tell could persuade me this summer 'll slip past,
And no chance to set eyes on the childer and Norah, the crathur, at last?
Sure, why else would we watch for the days gettin' dark, and the fields turnin' black,
And the win' keenin' could, if it warn't for a sign they were soon comin' back?
Troth, it's rael unnatural ould talk that long sorry I'd be to believe,
For the latest that ever they stayed, they were home agin come Holy Eve;
And now Lady Day's by, there's no terrible time to be waitin' at all,
Though it lags like an ass wid a load lettin' on it's scarce able to crawl,
And somewhiles when you're wakin' at night, or out sittin' alone in the sun,
You'll misdoubt it stands still; yet for sartin, they're nigher every hour we get done:
That's just raison and sinse. But she's wantin' the wit, I keep tellin' the wife,
That consaits she's as apt to be seein' them come any day of her life,
Till she's never quit hearin' the step, thinkin' Norah's run up our boreen—
She'd a right to know better, when, look where you will, not a cloud's to be seen.

VII

For the young ones have always the notion we're sparin' them ready enough
In the clear plisant weather that smoothes over everythin' ugly and rough,
Wid the warmth on the shore, and the light on the say. Ay bedad, they think wrong:
How'd they tell that these days they ne'er see do be all cruel lonesome and long?
So the shine of the sun, where they says to themselves we'll be sittin' content,
Shuts us out of their minds in a manner, as if it was bound to purvent
Harm from happenin' us here; and it's aisy forgettin' your folks for a while,
If you dread them no mischief, but, faith, if you do, every step seems a mile
That you tread beyond reach, wid the fear in your heart like the tug of a tether
To choke you back home. And the childer know well when we're gettin' bad weather,
It's the hard times on Achill, wid mists on the say, and polthogues on the land,
And the blasts risin' up in your face like a wall you can't touch wid your hand,
When the turf's melted down in the bog, and the praties washed out of the earth,
And the floor's like a beach wid the tide flowin' in, and a lough on the hearth,
And the win' fit to reive off th' ould thatch like dry leaves off the roof of a wood,
Till all's flooded and flittered, and nothin' you've left that's a thraneen of good.
So the childer'll be fretted to hear the storm risin', wherever they are—
Some folk says wid the Saints, and it's maybe no lie, but that's terrible far—
And they'll think how it's home agin, lendin' a hand here, by rights they should be.
Sure now Norah's the greatest opinion at all of her mother and me;
If she knew we were perished and starved, and herself livin' happy apart,
All the say's waves rolled over her head wouldn't drown the grief out of her heart.

VIII

So the next time the storm takes to rise an outrageous loud whillaballoo,
I can tell well enough anyway what poor Norah 'll be safe to go do;
Ay, she wouldn't bide aisy, the win'll turn her home, as it drives in a wave,
Tho' she's come where the highest you could name are the people she's bound to ax lave.
Our Lady herself it might be, wid heaven's blue in the folds of her gown,
And a glimmerin' of stars flown together, and lit on her head in a crown,
And poor Norah's her screed of red skirt, and her mother's ould little black shawl,
Goin' barefut—no matter for that, she'll make bold and spake up to them all,
And be thankin' them kindly, no fear but she will, she's a mannerly child,
And she'll tell them she's wanted at home now the saison's got stormy and wild—
Ah, since ever you left us, acushla, we're wantin' the sight of your face—
And she'll say there's not one but herself to be doin' a turn in our place,
For her mother's complainin' this long while, and her father's gone failed like and ould,
And she's 'fraid of her life they'll be gettin' their death in the wet and the could;
But if aught went agin them, and she far away, sure the heart of her'd break.
Then the rest of the childer'd be sayin': ‘True for her,’ each word that she'd spake;
And the sorra a Saint 'll bid them lave us all desolit here and forlorn—
Ay, the storm's our best chance in this world, and it's comin' as sure as we're born.

IX

That's the raison I'll watch a while yet, for the haze might be gatherin' to-night,
If 'twas only a breath, it's a grand sign for win': or a cloud trailin' white
On the dark of the ridge, caught and tore into flakes like sheep's wool on a wall—
Then we'd have a good chance. But some folk do keep hopin' wid no chance at all,
Like Rose Byrne, that goes callin' her sons to come back, mopin' round on the shore,
And herself there, that has me annoyed hearin' steps runnin' up to the door.
Och, it's cross wid the crathur I be, and she ailin' and wantin' the wit;
Howane'er, when we've Norah agin, every trouble in our lives we'll forgit.
And it won't be so long now, plase God, till a change 'll be comin'. Some day
The sun's self 'ill be lost o'er our heads afore ever he drops in the say,
And the moanin' away on the wather 'll come near till it roars and it raves,
For the win' 'll grip the lan' and get swirlin' it round in the clouds and the waves,
And the storm 'ill lep out on us, ragin' and wild, thro' the mists and the foam,
Blindin', and deafenin', and takin' our breath—and bringin' the childer home.

WHAT MATTER?

I

Sure I'm sorry the crathur was scared, but I meant it no harm all the while
If I peered in its face, and it stretchin' its legs down long steps in the stile,
Where I'm resting this now. There was somethin'—the blue belike clear in its eyes—
Set me thinkin' of one weeny sister I had very nigh the same size,
In the ould days a body remembers. ‘Good evenin'’ I bid it, but straight
It took off wid itself, skytin' under the hedge at a wonderful rate,
Lookin' back till it seen would I follow. 'Twould bother me finely, no fear,
Limpin' lame, I'd ha' caught it as aisy if up it had flown in the air,
Like the birds that flirt up on their wings when you pass where they're pickin' a bit:
'Tis a pity of frightenin' the birds and the childer—but sure they've no wit.

II

Little Norah she never was frightened of me but that once. I'm nigh grown
Tired of hopin' she'd maybe forget, and come back like a robin that's flown
Wid a flutter at first, and then presently 'lights just to spy what you're at;
But I've seen her no more, late or early, than if she'd been grabbed by a cat.
And before that she'd mostly be after me every place, high ways and low—
Faix, where Norah took into her head to be goin', it's there she would go,
For the youngest she was of us all, and we made the great fool of her; yet,
Quare enough, ma'am, the one she liked best was meself that was nobody's pet.
It's herself was ould-fashioned and cute; well I mind how she'd sluther and coax,
If she thought the rest had me annoyed any time wid their nonsense and jokes;
And it's often enough I'd be frettin' and cross; ay, the hairs on me head
Were no more, so to say, than me troubles; for you see they were blazin' red.

III

Whiles I've thought to meself 'tis contrary, a colleen's no chance whatsoe'er
To be choosin' the colour she's bound the best days of her lifetime to wear:
A skirt, to be sure, or a riband bow, or a scarf, that you'll soon throw by,
Blue, as it happens, or yellow, or puce, you can take them to please your eye;
But whethen now, what great good's in that, if the best you can do after all
Is cover your head up close, and hope they'll not notice it under your shawl?
I was foolish belike to be mindin', but many a time would I fret
At their callin' me ‘Red-Nob,’ and passin' the ould jokes that they'd never forget.
And some people mistrusted their luck if they met me the road that they went ;
Sure 'twas no fault of mine it come always agin me to thwart and torment.
So I'd envy the ones that was different. The never a poppy I'd pick,
Like those two by this bank, but I'd wish in me heart I'd the black of theirs thick
On the head of me. Troth, I'd be grudgin' the blackbirds their glossy dark wings,
I would so—and the crows in the field. But beyond all them wild livin' things
Was I jealous of Maureen, me sister, come home from Saint Monica's school,
For you'd think every thread of her hair had been reeled off a silky black spool;
The great armful, that scarcely her two hands 'ud hold when she took it to twist,
Drawn out long as night's shadows, and soft round her bit of white face as the mist;
And me own like naught better than ravellin's you'd get from a sodger's red coat,
And me cheeks as thick dusted wid freckles as a foxglove's quare specklety throat;
And no use to be wishin' and grievin', yet that I done times and agin,
Till it seemed to meself me fool's head was on fire both widout and widin.

IV

Howsoe'er, when I got past me patience, I'd up and I'd streel off me lone
To a place I knew down by the river, out of every one's road but its own.
Overlookin' the river our house was, and right at the bawn's end you'd step
On the little ould hand-bridge across it, where it whips round the turn wid a lep
Through the tumble of stones; and then on by the bit of steep footpath you'd land
At the water's edge down in the wood, and it runnin' so swift you must stand
And be watchin' awhile, to try listen what it said to itself as it went;
For 'twas strange how you'd seem to hear somethin', and ever just miss what it meant,
And not ever be tired of the tryin'. So there I'd me long flat-topped stone,
Wid a tall one behind it stood shaggy in green fleeces of moss overgrown,
Like a settle folk draw to the front of the hearth on a cold winter's night;
But instead of a fire at me feet I'd the strame racin' by dark and bright,
And forenent me across it the height of the bank, wid the tree-stems and roots
Loopin' out 'twixt them wide wall-faced slabs, where the ivy trailed fine little shoots,
And one big juttin' rock that the strame ran full tilt agin slashin' by;
People said in the corner beneath 'twould be deep as the bank rose high.
Quare and quiet, sure, and black-lookin' 'twas, and white circles sailed round on it slow,
Caught in out of the lathers of froth that come down wid the wild river's flow;
And I loved to be watchin' that peltin' along, twistin' clear heavy strands
In and out through the rocks where 'twas weavin' and seethin' in streamers and bands.
There was some boulders up-standin' tall; 'twould be only the maddest of floods
E'er set foot on their heads; more there was kep' ducked low under smooth-foldin' hoods
Where the water just drowned them; and off of a ledge in a mane like of foam
'Twould drop now and agin white and straight like as if it was straked wid a comb.
But the sound of it rested me heart, for it ever swep' on wid its rush,
That seemed hurryin' to find all the trouble of the world and be biddin' it hush;
Deep and hollow, and full up of different voices, all dronin' in one;
If you set them to sayin' the thought you were thinkin', they'd never be done.
So I'd hear them far up on the strame, and fast by where the waters fall:
What matter? sez they, sure what matter? Ah sure what should it matter at all?
Over and over: What matter? What matter? Ah sure what matter? they'd keep;
What matter? I'd listen, what matter at all? till me thoughts 'ud be half asleep.
Then there'd somethin' cry: ‘Oonah’; you'd say a lost chicken 'twas pipin' its best,
But the same would be Norah come trottin' to find me away from the rest,
Climbin' over the boulders as big as herself was wid foot and wid hand,
By the strame's edge. And round me stone's corner I'd peep, and I'd see where she'd stand
Wid her hair ruffled out in the sun, short and fine, like the yellowy fluff
On wee chickens—they'll niver be callin' ‘Red-Nob’ to her, that's sure enough—
And the minyit she spied me: ‘I've got her,’ sez she, and runs headlong as quick
As the chickens themselves in delight when you've thrown them a handful to pick.
So she'd roost there beside me, and both of us hear how 'twould whisper and call:
What matter? What matter? Sure what should it matter? Ah sure what matter at all?

V

And contented I was, when me troubles 'ud vex me, wid only the strame
To console me, and Norah; between them me dark humour'd pass like a drame,
Oft and oft. Till that once I met Hughey Maclean, runnin' home through the wood.
'Twas a wild April day, and the wind in the trees stooped the straightest that stood
All its own way; and if you laid hold of a bough, it 'ud strive and contend
Like some live thing you'd gripped. So I seen him along at the straight footpath's end;
And I thought to meself, would he mind the quare show I was, just skytin' past,
Wid me hair all blown loose, and the shawl flutterin' off of me head in the blast?
And I run like a rabbit. But right in a place wid no room to slip by,
Hughey met me and stopped, and: ‘Fine evenin',’ sez he, and: ‘Fine evenin',’ sez I.
Then he lifted the end of a strand of me hair on two fingers, and drew
Out its length, soft as if he was handlin' moths' wings, and sez he: ‘I ne'er knew
They'd sell gold by the yard in this country,’ sez he, wid the smile in his eyes
Lookin' into me own dark and kind, ‘But for sure you're the colleen that buys.’
‘It's the red gold,’ sez I; and sez he: ‘And the red gold was ever the best—’
And wid that a long beam of the sun come aslant on us out of the west,
And, true for him, that lock of me hair was naught else but the colour of gold—
‘Faith, the red gold's the right gold,’ sez he, and he lettin' it slip from his hold.
I remember it well: ‘The right gold,’ he sez. ‘Ay, and the prettiest to see.’
That was just and he turnin' to go: ‘The red gold for me, Oonah machree.’

VI

And, whatever the raison was, after that day come the plisantest spring
In me life. Ne'er a minyit too soon of a mornin' I'd hear the birds sing,
But was glad to be wakin', and watchin' the light at grey chinks burnin' through,
Till I'd run out of doors and I'd find it washed over the fields wid the dew.
And the cuckoo'd be callin' and callin' and callin' away like a bell
Ringin' nigh in some country far off, wid a road to it no one could tell.
And 'twas fine only feelin' the air. Sure, those days it's ‘Red-Nob’ they might call,
Sorra bit would I fret, or go hearin' the river: What matter at all?
But I went pullin' flowers by the edge of it once, and as clear as could be,
Every step of the way it was sayin': The red gold for me, Oonah machree.

VII

So the time shone away till the laves, that were scarce but green mist on the brown
Of the wood, settled thick as a cloud, and the meadows stood ripe to come down.
And one morn they were shakin' Long-Leg out of laps, heavy-wet in the rain,
That was teemin' all night, as you'd tell by the strame, for it boomed like a train
Wid the great weight of water. But home I was run to be fetchin' a sup
Of fresh buttermilk-whey for the lads, and was fillin' me jug wid a cup
From the pan sittin' out on the front kitchen window-stool; that's how I heard
People spakin' widin; and a pane was black out—I could catch every word.
And I seen by a glimpse 'twas me father that spoke in the big elbow-chair,
And forenent him Matt Flynn of Cahirclone, who was great wid Macleans sittin' there;
And behind Matt stood Hughey himself; and I knew well enough in me mind
They were match-makin'. 'Deed me first thought was to run from the words like the wind;
But me feet wouldn't move; and I listened as if I was watchin' a door,
For it might be a Saint smilin' kind, or a Divil ragin' out wid a roar.
And me father was sayin': ‘That's the long and short of it, Hughey, me lad:
'Twill be Oonah I'm wishful you'd take, and the bargain you'll find none too bad.
For she's red-headed, ay, and no beauty, I know, but, praise goodness, she's strong.
Just a stout working-lass; and by raison of that I'll be givin' you along
Them two heifers; and faix now the Kerry, she's pretty enough and to spare,
A rael dexter, lad. Musha,’ sez he, ‘Mister Flynn, sure that's spakin' him fair?’
And sez Flynn: ‘Man alive, I'd foreclose wid them bastes if they come in me way,
Though the girl's hair was greener than e'er an ould mermaid wrung out of the say.’
And then Hughey sez, clear as the light: ‘Sure what talk was of any such things?
'Tis a wife I come after,’ sez he, ‘and no thought of the fortune she brings.
Faith, I wouldn't be troubling a one of your bastes to step out of your shed;
All I want in the world's width is Maureen, herself and her little black head.’

VIII

So I crep' away quiet from the window, I dunnó rightly what way I came,
Seemin' dazed like; but after a while I was down on the path to the strame,
Racin' mad. For God knows 'twas the Divil had lep' through that door, and too slow
And too late was me fastest of runnin'. But maybe I thought there below,
Where the river went tossin', and no one'd come by, and the shade round the pool,
And the brawl of the water seemed shuttin' you in, was best place for a fool,
Who'd consaited the sun's shine scarce fit to be lightin' the world she was in,
Because Hughey Maclean would be spakin' a plisant word now and agin
To the sister of Maureen O'Connor, his sweetheart. To bide in it alone
Was me thought, if I thought. But I come—who was that had me seat on the stone?
Ah mavrone, it was Maureen herself. For that day she'd been washin' her hair,
And she'd slipped down belike to be hidin', and lettin' it dry on the air.
Hangin' loose 'twas, me arm's length, all over her cape to her lilacky gown,
Wid the black of the poppy's heart in it, and as soft as the white thistle-down;
And the weeny faint wind hardly stirred e'er a tress; you might think it had been
A hand liftin' a strand on two fingers—'twas that on a sudden I seen.
And it seemed like a wisp of me own ugly hair blowin' into me eyes,
Red and blindin'. ‘What's happened you, Oonah?’ sez she. Thinks I: ‘Whist wid your lies;
There's naught happened.’ But nothin' I said. Ne'er a word bad or good did I say,
And for sure I ne'er touched her: she stumbled there, standin' up out of me way.
I ne'er touched her. The stones would be treacherous and wet wid the rain in the night,
And her foot slipped, and ere you could see, in the strame she was, out of me sight.
For a great slidin' slab of brown water druv down on her, and passed wid one sweep,
And she under it. What could I do? Sure she'd sink where 'twas terrible deep,
Out of raich, out of sight. In an instant it chanced. I done naught, only stand
Starin' round in a maze, thinkin'—was it her face there? or was that her hand?
But the sorra a sign save the river leppin' on in its welters of foam.
Then above on the high bank I looked. There went Hughey Maclean goin' home.

IX

X

So she's gone from me sight. Sure me head does be quare, and there's times I forget,
But there's more I remember; and wonderin' I be they're all lost on me yet.
What's come over this country at all? When I'm goin' the lane or the street,
I may look in a dozen of faces, but never an ould one I meet.
And there's none calls ‘Red-Nob’ to me. Whiles when I'm passin', the spalpeens about,
‘Here's the cracked one,’ are yellin'. I wouldn't be cross if 'twas ‘Red-Nob’ they'd shout:
'Twas red gold, Hughey said. And sure, anyway, now it's as white as the frost.
But you see, all the while 'twas me sister Hugh wanted: and then she got lost
When our river run wild. I ne'er touched her; she tripped; and I knew he'd be drowned
If I called him. . . . But sometimes I think more than aught else I'm missin' the sound
Of our river that used to be sayin': What matter? For many's the strame
I go by, but the sorra a one makes an offer at sayin' that same,
Only sighin' and moanin' so lonesome and dreary it puts me in dread. . . .
'Tis the rest 'twould be now to me ould black heart, ochone, and me ould white head,
If some night through the dark in the meadows I'd hear it beginning to call:
Ah what matter? Sure what should it matter? What matter, what matter at all?

TERENCE MACRAN

A MISUNDERSTANDING

(Connemara. Spring, 1898.)

THE TURN OF THE ROAD

A LONG DAY

(A Villanelle.)

I'm thinking all this day she may be dead,
(The holly-laden child that slum-ward hies),
Because I took away her bit of bread.
She'd hid it in the wall beside her head,
That she might reach it easily where she lies:
I'm thinking all this day she may be dead
For want of it. 'Twas but a little shred,
But ah, she's weak, and if she starves and dies,
Because I took away her bit of bread,
I'll wish I'd choked. For since good-bye we said,
And then the cold was dark, before sunrise,
I'm thinking all this day she may be dead.
But here's a penny at last, and now instead
I'll bring the very biggest roll it buys,
Because I took away her bit of bread,
Straight home to her, that's waiting safe in bed,
No fear. Yet till I've seen her with my eyes,
I'm thinking all this day she may be dead,
Because I took away her bit of bread.

THE WRONG MAN

OUTSIDE THE TOYSHOP

EXPECTATION

Fleet wheels had whirled for us, deep hedge-rows threading,
Till where, down labyrinthine lanes enfolden,
The grey, green-mantled church stood, half withholden
From passing eyes by elms full-fledged for shedding
Midsummer shade, noon-shrunken, softly spreading
O'er swarded path a dappled pavement, golden
And beryl-flecked, to a door, whose dusk-arch olden
Let glimpse in hesitant gleams, the sill's gloom dreading.
A knot of children, snowy-bibbed, blue-skirted,
Hung round the gate, from devious ways diverted;
Shawled crone's slow halt and girl's light foot one goal
Had found thereby. Grand weather for whose wedding?
Methought: and straight a daw from ivied steading
Swooped startled, as a bell began to—toll.

A HEART-HAUNTED HOME

A WET EVENING

(Lady Day in Harvest, co. Kerry.)

HONEY-HARVEST

AN ERASURE

A WITCH'S WILL

(A. D. 167*)

THREE THROWS AND ONE

NEWS

SLEEPING AND WAKING

IN SANCTUARY

A RUIN

AN EMIGRANT

THE HAPPY DEAD

When he for whom, through portals strangely wrought
Of eye and ear, the watchful senses bore
From realms of light and sound a stintless store,
Or thrilled, with many a subtler message fraught,
Down myriad fibres fine: when he is taught
To leave the league of nerve with brain—Death's lore—
In that new world shall he indeed no more
Remember days when these have served his thought?
For haply there may power that passeth men's
Wait on his will, to make the mirroring lens,
The quivering cord, poor tools of mortal wight,
Weak aid and cumbrous seem, and so for him
Earth-life on memory loom all dusk and dim
As ways trod once through blinding mirk of night.

DISAPPOINTMENT

A twofold harm we hate in thy one name,
Thou who a bitter foe still enterest
At doors set wide to greet the longed-for guest;
A spy to track our hope the way she came,
And stab her at the goal; a juggler's game,
That tricks with least for most, and worst for best;
Spiller of o'er-brimming joy-cups; Fate's old jest:
A pleasure poisoned, and a frustrate fame.
Thus many speak thy blame, and none denies;
Yet some there be who dream that far from here
Men meet thee as they fare in friendlier guise:
Rued loss's gain, dawn-rose on midnight drear,
Swift guide through wonder-gates of rapt surmise,
Blithe laughter in the mask-reft face of Fear.