ANOTHER VERSION
O Jesus, and Mary who fostered the King of Grace,
Be ye the friends of my soul, in every time and place,
Cold as a stone lies my soul, unheeding the things above,
Smooth Thou my path in Thy time, Lord of my love.
[MORNING WISH]
O Jesu, in the morning, I cry and call on Thee,
Blessed only Son who hast purchased us dearly;
Safeguard my soul under the protection of Thy holy cross,
May sin and loss be kept from me through the course of this day.
[ON "COVERING" THE FIRE
FOR THE NIGHT][114]
Let us preserve this fire, as Christ preserves all,
Christ at the top of this house and Brigit in the midst;
The twelve apostles of greatest power in the heavens
Guarding and preserving this house till day.
FOOTNOTES:
[114] It is the custom in the West of Ireland and in the Hebrides to place a piece of peat on the fire before going to bed, to preserve the "seed" of the fire till morning; this act is accompanied with the recital of some fragment of prayer or verse. There are many of these "covering" or "sparing" ranns in existence.
[THE MAN WHO STANDS STIFF]
The man who stands stiff in a short-lived world
He knows not how long is the lease of his clod.
With Death he must reckon, when Death shall beckon
The soul must knock at the door of God.
Then Christ shall come and shall ask of the soul,
"O Soul, say how hast thou spent thy day?
I gave to thee power and self-control,
Thou fool, hast thou given thyself away?"
(The Sinner answers)
"I thought I had time before me still,
And space to return beneath Thy shield,
But Death came first, and against my will,
Ere I knew it, to Death I was forced to yield."
To the Trinity's presence the soul must mount,
To the judgment it comes, and its sins it bears,
And nought that it pleads for itself shall count
Save fasting, and giving of alms, and prayers.
If you gave but a glass of the water cold
(The simplest drink on the green earth's sod),
Your reward is before you, a thousand-fold,
If the thing has been done for the sake of God.
Three things there be, the reward of man
For offending God—'tis a risk to run—
Misfortune's fall, and a shortened span,
And the pains of hell when all is done.
Douglas Hyde.
[CHARM AGAINST ENEMIES]
Three things are of the Evil One—
An evil eye,
An evil tongue,
An evil mind;
Three things are of God, and these three are what Mary
told to her Son, for she heard them in heaven—
The merciful word,
The singing word,
And the good word.
May the power of these three holy things be on all the
men and women of Erin for evermore.
Lady Wilde.
[CHARM FOR A PAIN IN THE SIDE]
"God save you, my three brothers, God save you! And how far have ye to go, my three brothers?"
"To the Mount of Olivet, to bring back gold for a cup to hold the tears of Christ."
"Go then, gather the gold, and may the tears of Christ fall on it, and thou wilt be cured both body and soul."
Lady Wilde.
[CHARM AGAINST SORROW]
A Charm set by Mary for her Son, before the fair man and the turbulent woman laid Him in the grave.
The charm of Michael with the shield,
Of the palm-branch of Christ,
Of Brigit with her veil.
The charm which God set for Himself when the divinity within Him was darkened.
A charm to be said by the cross when the night is black and the soul is heavy with sorrow.
A charm to be said at sunrise, with the hands on the breast, when the eyes are red with weeping, and the madness of grief is strong. A charm that has no words, only the silent prayer.
Lady Wilde.
[THE KEENING OF MARY]
"O Peter, O Apostle, hast thou seen my bright love?"
M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"I saw Him even now in the midst of His foemen,"
M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"Come hither, two Marys, till ye keen my bright love."
M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"What have we to keen if we keen not His bones?"
M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"Who is that stately man on the tree of the Passion?"
M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"Dost thou not know thy Son, O Mother?"
M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"And is that the little Son I carried nine months?
M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"And is that the little Son that was born in the stable?
M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"And is that the little Son that was nursed at Mary's breast?"
M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"Hush, O Mother, and be not sorrowful."
M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"And is that the hammer that struck home nails through Thee?
M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"And is that the spear that went through Thy white side?
M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"And is that the crown of thorns that crowned Thy beauteous head?"
M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"Hush, O Mother, be not sorrowful.
M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"Hush, O Mother, and be not sorrowful,
M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"The women of my keening are yet unborn, little Mother."
M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"O woman, who weepest by this My death,
M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
"There will be hundreds to-day in the Garden of Paradise!"
M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!
P. H. Pearse.
Taken down from Mary Clancy of Moycullen, who keened it with great horror in her voice, in a low sobbing recitative.
LOVE SONGS AND POPULAR POETRY
[CUSHLA MA CHREE]
Her beautiful voice more hearts hath won
Than Orpheus' lyre of old hath done;
Her ripe eyes of blue
Were crystals of dew
On the grass of the lawn before the sun;
And, Pulse of my heart! what gloom is thine?
Edward Walsh.
[THE BLACKTHORN]
There is never a merrier lad in the town or a wilder lad on the fells,
Till I fall to dreaming and thinking of the place where my lost love dwells,
Winter snow on Slieve na m-Ban, and it evermore drifting above
The small blossom of the blackthorn who is my own true love.
Were I but down below in a boat I would float out over the sea,
And many and many a line of love I would waft o'er the wave to thee;
My lasting sorrow, wound of my heart, that we are not together found
In the mountain glens at sunrise when the dew lies on the ground.
I myself leave you my thousand farewells in the townland of the trees,
And in every place I have travelled going up and down from the seas;
There is many a weary miry road and crooked damp boreen,
Parting me from the cabin of my own Storeen.
Oh! Paddy, would you think ill of me if you saw that I was crying?
And oh! Paddy, would you think ill of me if you knew me to be dying?
Oh! Paddy of the bound black hair, your mouth and your words were sweet,
But I knew not the hundred twists in your heart, nor the thousand turns on your feet.
Deep down in my pocket is lying the ribbon you wound in my hair,
The men of Erin together could not tear it away from there;
All, all is over between us, you and I have said our say,
And I'll soon be lying quiet in the cold damp clay.
He is the foolish man, indeed, who would spring at the ditch that is steep,
If close at his hand lay the fence of furze he could take at a single leap;
Though the rowan-berry swings high, it is bitterest out of the top,
While thick from the lowliest shrubs the ripe rasps and the blackberries drop.
O Virgin beloved! I am lost if his face should be now turned away;
What knowledge have I how to reach his house and his kinsfolk this day?
My mother bent double with age, and my father long laid in the tomb,
And mad anger on my people towards me, and my love fled home.
Are you going from me for ever, honey mouth, hair of flame?
If you come not back, avourneen, you leave me blind, dumb, and lame;
No skiff have I to bring you back, I am broken life and limb;
The raging ocean rolls between us and I have no strength to swim!
[PASTHEEN FINN]
A Connaught song.
Oh, my fair Pastheen is my heart's delight,
Her gay heart laughs in her blue eye bright;
Like the apple blossom her bosom white,
And her neck like the swan's, on a March morn bright!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
Love of my heart, my fair Pastheen!
Her cheeks are red as the rose's sheen,
But my lips have tasted no more, I ween,
Than the glass I drank to the health of my queen!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
Were I in the town, where's mirth and glee,
Or 'twixt two barrels of barley bree,
With my Pastheen upon my knee,
'Tis I would drink to her pleasantly!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
Nine nights I lay in longing and pain
Betwixt two bushes, beneath the rain,
Thinking to see you, love, once again;
But whistle and call were all in vain!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
I'll leave my people, both friend and foe;
From all the girls in the world I'll go;
But from you, sweetheart, oh, never! oh, no!
Till I lie in the coffin, stretch'd cold and low!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
Sir Samuel Ferguson.
[SHE]
The white bloom of the blackthorn, she,
The small sweet raspberry-blossom, she;
More fair the shy, rare glance of her eye,
Than the wealth of the world to me.
My heart's pulse, my secret, she,
The flower of the fragrant apple, she;
A summer glow o'er the winter's snow,
'Twixt Christmas and Easter, she.
[HOPELESS LOVE]
Ere we end
Ways we might together wend,
Ere the light from out mine eyes
dies:
Give some sign
One regretful thought is thine,
Lest I count my story told,
overbold.
For I hold,
Time may yet some joy unfold,
Joy such as the lifelong blind
find;
If entwined
In the fabric of the mind,
Dwells the memory of thy tear,
dear!
[THE GIRL I LOVE]
The girl I love is comely, straight, and tall;
Down her white neck her auburn tresses fall;
Her dress is neat, her carriage light and free—
Here's a health to that charming maid, whoe'er she be!
The rose's blush but fades beside her cheek;
Her eyes are blue, her forehead pale and meek;
Her lips, like cherries on a summer tree—
Here's a health to the charming maid, whoe'er she be!
When I go to the field no youth can lighter bound,
And I freely pay when the cheerful jug goes round;
The barrel is full; but its heart we soon shall see—
Come! here's to that charming maid, whoe'er she be!
Had I the wealth that props the Saxon's reign,
Or the diamond crown that decks the King of Spain,
I'd yield them all if she kindly smiled on me—
Here's a health to the maid I love, whoe'er she be!
Five pounds of gold for each lock of her hair I'd pay,
And five times five, for my love one hour each day,
Her voice is more sweet than the thrush on its own green tree—
Then, my dear, may I drink a fond, deep health to thee!
Jeremiah Joseph Callanan.
[WOULD GOD I WERE]
Would God I were the tender apple-blossom
That floats and falls from off the twisted bough,
To lie and faint within your silken bosom,
As that does now.
Or would I were a little burnished apple,
For you to pluck me, gliding by so cold,
While sun and shade your robe of lawn will dapple,
And your hair's spun gold.
Yea, would to God I were among the roses
That lean to kiss you as you float between,
While on the lowest branch a bud uncloses
To touch you, queen.
Nay, since you will not love, would I were growing,
A happy daisy, in the garden path,
That so your silver foot might press me going,
Even unto death.
Katharine Tynan-Hinkson.
[BRANCH OF THE SWEET AND EARLY ROSE]
Branch of the sweet and early rose
That in the purest beauty flows,
So passing sweet to smell and sight,
On whom shalt thou bestow delight?
Who in the dewy evening walk
Shall pluck thee from the tender stalk?
Whose temples blushing shalt thou twine,
And who inhale thy breath divine?
Dr. Drennan.
[IS TRUAGH GAN MISE I SASANA]
'Tis a pity I'm not in England,
Or with one from Erin thither bound,
Out in the midst of the ocean,
Where the thousands of ships are drowned.
From wave to wave of the ocean
To be guided on with the wind and the rain—
And, O King! that Thou might'st guide me
Back to my love again!
Thomas MacDonagh.
[THE YELLOW BITTERN]
The yellow bittern that never broke out
In a drinking-bout, might well have drunk;
His bones are thrown on a naked stone
Where he lived alone like a hermit monk.
O yellow bittern! I pity your lot,
Though they say that a sot like myself is curst—
I was sober a while, but I'll drink and be wise
For fear I should die in the end of thirst.
It's not for the common birds that I'd mourn,
The blackbird, the corncrake or the crane,
But for the bittern that's shy and apart
And drinks in the marsh from the lone bog-drain.
Oh! if I had known you were near your death,
While my breath held out I'd have run to you,
Till a splash from the Lake of the Son of the Bird
Your soul would have stirred and waked anew.
My darling told me to drink no more
Or my life would be o'er in a little short while;
But I told her 'tis drink gives me health and strength,
And will lengthen my road by many a mile.
You see how the bird of the long smooth neck,
Could get his death from the thirst at last—
Come, son of my soul, and drain your cup,
You'll get no sup when your life is past.
In a wintering island by Constantine's halls,
A bittern calls from a wineless place,
And tells me that hither he cannot come
Till the summer is here and the sunny days.
When he crosses the stream there and wings o'er the sea,
Then a fear comes to me he may fail in his flight—
Well, the milk and the ale are drunk every drop,
And a dram won't stop our thirst this night.
Thomas MacDonagh.
[HAVE YOU BEEN AT CARRACK?]
Have you been at Carrack, and saw you my true-love there?
And saw you her features, all beautiful, bright, and fair?
Saw you the most fragrant, flowering, sweet apple-tree?
O! saw you my lov'd one, and pines she in grief like me?
I have been at Carrack, and saw thy own true-love there;
And saw, too, her features, all beautiful, bright, and fair;
And saw the most fragrant, flowering, sweet apple-tree—
I saw thy lov'd one—she pines not in grief, like thee!
Five guineas would price every tress of her golden hair—
Then think what a treasure her pillow at night to share,
These tresses thick-clustering and curling around her brow—
O, Ringlet of Fairness! I'll drink to thy beauty now!
When seeking to slumber, my bosom is rent with sighs—
I toss on my pillow till morning's blest beams arise;
No aid, bright Beloved! can reach me save God above,
For a blood-lake is formed of the light of my eyes with love!
Until yellow Autumn shall usher the Paschal day,
And Patrick's gay festival come in its train alway—
Until through my coffin the blossoming boughs shall grow,
My love on another I'll never in life bestow!
Lo! yonder the maiden illustrious, queen-like, high,
With long-flowing tresses adown to her sandal-tie—
Swan, fair as the lily, descended of high degree,
A myriad of welcomes, dear maid of my heart, to thee!
Edward Walsh.
[CASHEL OF MUNSTER]
(Air: "Clár bog déil")
I'd wed you without herds, without money, or rich array,
And I'd wed you on a dewy morning at day-dawn grey;
My bitter woe it is, love, that we are not far away
In Cashel town, though the bare deal board were our marriage-bed this day.
Oh, fair maid, remember the green hill side,
Remember how I hunted about the valleys wide;
Time now has worn me; my locks are turned to grey,
The year is scarce and I am poor, but send me not, love, away!
Oh, deem not my birth is of base strain, my girl,
Oh, deem not my birth was as the birth of a churl;
Marry me, and prove me, and say soon you will,
That noble blood is written on my right side still!
My purse holds no red gold, no coin of the silver white,
No herds are mine to drive through the long twilight!
But the pretty girl that would take me, all bare though I be and lone,
Oh, I'd take her with me kindly to the county Tyrone.
Oh, my girl, I can see 'tis in trouble you are,
And, oh, my girl, I see 'tis your people's reproach you bear;
"I am a girl in trouble for his sake with whom I fly,
And, oh, may no other maiden know such reproach as I!"
Sir Samuel Ferguson.
[THE SNOWY-BREASTED PEARL]
O thou blooming milk-white dove,
To whom I've given true love,
Do not ever thus reprove my constancy.
There are maidens would be mine,
With wealth in hand and kine,
If my heart would but incline to turn from thee.
But a kiss with welcome bland,
And a touch of thy dear hand,
Are all that I demand, would'st thou not spurn;
For if not mine, dear girl,
O Snowy-Breasted Pearl!
May I never from the fair with life return!
George Petrie.
[THE DARK MAID OF THE VALLEY]
(Bean dubh an Gleanna)
Oh, have you seen or have you heard, my treasure of bright faces,
Some dark glen roving, while in gloom I pine here day and night?
Far from her voice, far from her eyes, my cloud of woe increases—
My blessing on that glen and her, for aye and aye alight.
'Tis many's the time they've put in print, to beauty doing homage,
Her figure tall, her eyebrows small, her thin-lipped mouth of truth,
Her snowy hands, as fair and fine as silk on wild bird's plumage—
My bitter sigh to think that I am here, a lonely youth!
One little glance, once at her face, a flame lit in my bosom,
Oh, snowy-hearted, white-toothed one, whose ringlets are of gold,
More dear art thou than Deirdre, leaving lovers mourning woesome,
Or Blanaid, meshing thousands with her winning eyes of old!
Oh, bloom of women! spurn me not for this rich suitor hoary—
This boorish, noisy, songless man, who comes between us twain;
It's I would sweetly sing beneath the harvest moon's gold glory,
For thee full many a Fenian lay and bold Milesian strain!
P. J. McCall.
[THE COOLUN]
Oh, had you seen the Coolun, walking down by the cuckoo's street,
With the dew of the meadow shining on her milk-white twinkling feet,
My love she is, and my coleen oge, and she dwells in Bal'nagar;
And she bears the palm of beauty bright, from the fairest that in Erin are.
In Bal'nagar is the Coolun, like the berry on the bough her cheek;
Bright beauty dwells for ever on her fair neck and ringlets sleek;
Oh, sweeter is her mouth's soft music, than the lark or thrush at dawn,
Or the blackbird in the greenwood singing farewell to the setting sun.
Rise up, my boy! make ready my horse, for I forth would ride,
To follow the modest damsel, where she walks on the green hill side;
For, ever since our youth were we plighted, in faith, troth, and wedlock true—
She is sweeter to me nine times over than organ or cuckoo!
For, ever since my childhood I loved the fair and darling child;
But our people came between us, and with lucre our pure love defiled;
Oh, my woe it is, and my bitter pain, and I weep it night and day,
That the coleen bawn of my early love is torn from my heart away.
Sweetheart and faithful treasure, be constant still, and true;
Nor for want of herds and houses leave one who would ne'er leave you:
I'll pledge you the blessed Bible, without and eke within,
That the faithful God will provide for us, without thanks to kith and kin.
Oh, love, do you remember when we lay all night alone,
Beneath the ash in the winter-storm, when the oak wood round did groan?
No shelter then from the blast had we, the bitter blast and sleet,
But your gown to wrap about our heads, and my coat around our feet.
Sir Samuel Ferguson.
[CEANN DUBH DHILEAS][115]
Sir Samuel Ferguson.
FOOTNOTES:
[115] "Beloved Dark Head."
[RINGLETED YOUTH OF MY LOVE]
Ringleted youth of my love,
With thy locks bound loosely behind thee,
You passed by the road above,
But you never came in to find me;
Where were the harm for you
If you came for a little to see me,
Your kiss is a wakening dew
Were I ever so ill or so dreamy.
If I had golden store
I would make a nice little boreen
To lead straight up to his door,
The door of the house of my storeen;
Hoping to God not to miss
The sound of his footfall in it,
I have waited so long for his kiss
That for days I have slept not a minute.
I thought, O my love! you were so—
As the moon is, or sun on a fountain,
And I thought after that you were snow,
The cold snow on top of the mountain;
And I thought after that, you were more
Like God's lamp shining to find me,
Or the bright star of knowledge before,
And the star of knowledge behind me.
You promised me high-heeled shoes,
And satin and silk, my storeen,
And to follow me, never to lose,
Though the ocean were round us roaring;
Like a bush in a gap in a wall
I am now left lonely without thee,
And this house I grow dead of, is all
That I see around or about me.
Douglas Hyde.
[I SHALL NOT DIE FOR YOU]
I ask me shall I die for these,
For blossom-teeth and scarlet lips?
And shall that delicate swan-shape
Bring me eclipse?
Well shaped the breasts and smooth the skin,
The cheeks are fair, the tresses free;
And yet I shall not suffer death,
God over me!
Those even brows, that hair like gold,
Those languorous tones, that virgin way;
The flowing limbs, the rounded heel
Slight men betray.
Thy spirit keen through radiant mien,
Thy shining throat and smiling eye,
Thy little palm, thy side like foam—
I cannot die!
O woman, shapely as the swan,
In a cunning house hard-reared was I;
O bosom white, O well-shaped palm,
I shall not die.
Padraic Colum
[DONALL OGE]
Were I to go to the West, from the West I would come not again,
The hill that is highest I would climb, at the cord that is toughest I would strain;
The branch I would soonest pluck is far out of my reach in the hollow,
And the track of my lover's feet is the track that my heart would follow.
My heart is as dark as the sloe in a crack of the mountain gorge;
Or a burnt-out cinder fallen down at the back of the blazing forge;
As the stain of a miry shoe on the marble steps of a palace,
As the stain of a drowning fly in the wine of the Holy chalice.[116]
My heart is a cluster of nuts with every kernel dropped,
My heart is the ice on the pond above, where the mill has stopped;
A mournful sadness is breaking over my running laughter
Like the mirth of a maid at her marriage and the heavy sorrow after.
You have taken the East from me and you have taken the West,
You have taken the path before me and the path that is behind;
The moon is gone from me by night and the sun is gone by day,
Alas! I greatly dread you have stolen my God away!
By the Well of Loneliness I sit and make my moan;
I hear no sound in the depths below from the fall of the dropping stone;
I see the cold wide world, but my lad I do not see,
Your shadow no longer lying between God and me.
The colour of the blackberry is my old lover's colour;
Or the colour of the raspberry on a bright day of summer;
Or the colour of the heathberry where the bog-grass is rarest—
Ah! the blackest head is often on the form that's fairest.
I heard the dog speak of you last night and the sun gone down,
I heard the snipe calling aloud from the marshlands brown;
It is you are the lonely bird flitting from tree to tree—
May you never find your mate if you find not me!
It is time for me to leave this cruel town behind,
The stones are sharp in it, the very mould unkind;
The voice of blame is heard like the muttering of the sea—
The heavy hand of the band of men backbiting me.
I denounce love; she who gave it to him is now all undone;
Little he understood, yon black mother's son.
That my heart is turned to stone, what mattered that to you?
What were you caring for, but to get a cow or two?
FOOTNOTES:
[116] This line is not in the original.
[THE GRIEF OF A GIRL'S HEART]
Some of the verses in this poem are identical with those found in "Donall Oge," and also with the poem called "Breed Astore" in Dr. Hyde's Love Songs of Connaught. I have omitted those which occur in the former poem and added one quatrain from the latter, which it would be a pity to leave out. They seem to have been all parts of the same long poem. Here again we have Donall Oge or "Young Donall" as the lover.
O Donall Oge, if you will go across the sea,
Bring myself with you, and do not forget it;
There will be a "faring" for thee on fine days and market-days,
And the daughter of the King of Greece as your bedfellow at night.
If you go over seas, there is a token I have of you,
Your bright top-knot and your two grey eyes,
Twelve ringlets on your yellow curling head,
Like the cowslip or the rose-leaf in the garden.
You promised me, but you spoke a lie to me,
That you would be before me at the fold of the sheep;
I let a whistle out and three hundred shouts for you,
But I found nothing in it but a lamb a-bleating.
You promised me, a thing that was hard for you,
A ship of gold under a mast of silver,
Twelve great towns of the world's market-towns,
And a fine white court beside the sea.
You promised me, a thing that was not possible,
You would give me gloves of fishes' skin,
You would give me shoes of the feathers of birds,
And gowns of silk the richest in Erinn.
O Donall Oge, it were better for thee I to be with thee,
Than a high-born, arrogant, wasteful lady;
I would milk your cows and I would churn for you,
And if it went hard with you, I would strike a blow with you.
Och, ochone, it is not the hunger,
Nor want of food and drink, nor want of sleep,
That has left me wasting and weary;
The love of a young man it is that has sickened me.
Early in the morning I saw the young man
On the back of his horse going along the road;
He did not move over to me nor take any heed of me,
And on my coming home, it is I who wept my fill.
When I myself go to the Well of Loneliness
I sit down and I go through my trouble,
When I see the world and I see not my lad;
There was the shadow of amber upon his hair.
It was a Sunday that I gave my love to you,
The Sunday before Easter Sunday exactly;
I myself on my knees a-reading the Passion,
My two eyes giving love to you ever after.
Oye, little mother, give myself to him,
And give him what is yours of goods entirely,
Out with yourself a-begging alms
And do not be going East and West seeking me.
My little mother said to me not to speak with you
To-day or to-morrow or on Sunday,
It is in the bad hour she gave me that choice,
It is "shutting the door after the theft."
And you passed me by, dark and late,
And you passed me by, and the light of the day in it;
If you would come in yourself and see me
Never a word at all would I have with you.[117]
FOOTNOTES:
[117] This last stanza is from Dr. Hyde's "Breed Astore" (Love Songs, p. 77), where the third stanza is also found.
[DEATH THE COMRADE]
When I rose up in the morning early
On a sunny day in the burst of spring,
My step was lithe, and my form was burly,
I felt as blithe as a bird on the wing;
As I was going out my way
Who should stand in the path but Death;
I knew he was strong, and would not be said nay,
So I wished him "Good-morrow,"—but I caught my breath,
When, "Hurry on, Shawn, for I'm wanting you to come with me," he saith.
Oh, then, Maura, is it parting I am from you,
My thousand loves for ever on earth?
I who would plant the potatoes for you,
I whom you needed to cut the turf!
I who would buy you the young milch cow,
I who would croon you to sleep with a rann,
I who at eve would lie down with your leave—
What ever would you do without your man?
O Maura, keep me with you a little, little longer, if you can!
"There's many an old man down in the town,
And no manner of use or abuse in him more;
There's little Dominic, wizened and brown,
Begging his scraps from door to door;
And his wife and children famished with cold
Trying to find him his bit of bread;
O Death, 'tis your right to take the old—
And they say that Dominic's wrong in his head—
O Death, take Dominic with you, for 'tis badly I'm wanted here," I said.
"It's a fine man you are, but you stand in my way,
I'd be thankful you'd let me get on to my fields;"
He raised his arm, it was cold as clay,
And strong as the flail the thresher wields.
I tried to push him out of my road,
But his bony fingers clutched me tight;
"I am your comrade henceforth," he said,
"Another man tends your sheep to-night;
Hurry home, Shawn, I call for you again before the morning's light."
[MUIRNEEN OF THE FAIR HAIR]
If my longing I could get,
I would take her in a net,
And would ease my aching sorrow for a while;
And though all men say me nay
I shall wed her on a day,
She my darling of the sweet and sunny smile.
I have finished with the plough,
And must sow my seedlands now,
I must labour in the face of wind and weather;
But in rain and frost and snow,
Always as I come and go,
I am thinking she and I should be together.
O love my heart finds fair!
It is little that you care
Though I perish in the blackness of my grief;
But may you never tread
God's Heaven overhead,
If you scorn me and refuse my love relief.
I would count them little worth,
All the women of the earth,
And myself alone to have the choice among them;
For in books I read it clear,
That the beauty of my dear,
It has wrestled with their beauties and has flung them.
Robin Flower.
[THE RED MAN'S WIFE]
'Tis what they say,
Thy little heel fits in a shoe.
'Tis what they say,
Thy little mouth kisses well, too.
'Tis what they say,
Thousand loves that you leave me to rue;
That the tailor went the way
That the wife of the Red man knew.
Nine months did I spend
In a prison closed tightly and bound;
Bolts on my smalls
And a thousand locks frowning around;
But o'er the tide
I would leap with the leap of a swan,
Could I once set my side
By the bride of the Red-haired man.
I thought, O my life,
That one house between us, love, would be;
And I thought I would find
You once coaxing my child on your knee;
But now the curse of the High One
On him let it be,
And on all of the band of the liars
Who put silence between you and me.
There grows a tree in the garden
With blossoms that tremble and shake,
I lay my hand on its bark
And I feel that my heart must break.
On one wish alone
My soul through the long months ran,
One little kiss
From the wife of the Red-haired man.
But the Day of Doom shall come,
And hills and harbours be rent;
A mist shall fall on the sun
From the dark clouds heavily sent;
The sea shall be dry,
And earth under mourning and ban;
Then loud shall he cry
For the wife of the Red-haired man.
Douglas Hyde.
[ANOTHER VERSION]
Salutation to thee,
O Seagull, who flew to my bosom,
As the Maid of the West
Winged her way o'er the waves of the sea;[118]
In wrath I will ravage the country
Right up to the ridge of Roscuain;
But when I turn home again,
Back to my bird again,
'Tis I who am conquered then,
Conquered by thee.
Whiter thy neck, thousand loves,
Than the swan that floats out on the billow;
Redder thy cheek
Than the rose-blossom dropped from the tree;
Softer thy voice
Than the cuckoo's low call from the willow,
And smoother than silk,
The fine silk of the silkworm,
The silkworm in spinning,
The fair locks of thee.
Maid without spot, matchless maiden,
How lovely the bloom of thy forehead!
Where is the fortunate youth
I would care to betroth to thee?
Why should I hide or conceal it?
The gloom of my soul I reveal it;
The mists round me thicken,
With death I am stricken,
'Twas the Red Man who smote
When he stole thee from me.
Blossom of beauty, my blossom,
Ten thousand blessings before thee,
Sick to the death is my heart
For sorrowful lack of thee.
If I could coax thee and tell thee
How lonely I am and weary,
Thy wild eyes would soften,
Would soften in sorrow,
At the pain of my loss,
By the Red Man and thee.
Though in a gaol I were fast,
There below in the old Down quarter,
Bolts on my wrist, and my waist
Fastened tight under lock and key;
Swift as the flight of the falcon
Or the swan swooping down on the harbour,
I'd find thee and bind thee,
In my arms I'd entwine thee,
Ere the Red Man could part us,
Could part thee from me.
FOOTNOTES:
[118] i.e. Deirdre, who fled with the sons of Usnach to Scotland.
[MY GRIEF ON THE SEA]
Abandoned, forsaken,
To grief and to care,
Will the sea ever waken
Relief from despair?
My grief, and my trouble!
Would he and I were
In the province of Leinster,
Or county of Clare.
Were I and my darling—
Oh, heart-bitter wound!—
On board of the ship
For America bound.
On a green bed of rushes
All last night I lay,
And I flung it abroad
With the heat of the day.
And my love came behind me—
He came from the South;
His breast to my bosom,
His mouth to my mouth.
Douglas Hyde.
[ORÓ MHÓR, A MHÓIRÍN]
O dear is Paudheen, blithe and gay,
Upon a fair or market day;
But far more dear a March morn clear,
As in his boat he singeth gay!
Oró wore, a-woreen!
Oró wore, love, will you go,
Oró wore, a-woreen!
Golden hair, out for a row?
He said and said—what did he say?—
He said he'd come on Brigid's Day!
But shirt and sock were in the crock;
And so he couldn't speed away!
Oró wore, &c.
He said and said—what did he say?—
He said he'd come on Patrick's Day!
But coat and stock were under lock;
And so he couldn't steal away!
Oró wore, &c.
He said and said—what did he say?—
He said he'd come on Sheela's Day![119]
But Borna Rock fell with a shock
Upon him, so he stayed away!
Oró wore, &c.
He said and said—what did he say?—
He said he'd come on Easter Day!
But at the knock he met a flock
Of geese, that frightened him away!
Oró wore, &c.
He said and said—what did he say?—
He said he'd come this very day!
If he should mock, I pray some rock
May wreck his corrach on the way!
Oró wore, a-woreen!
Oró wore, love, will you go,
Oró wore, a-woreen!
Golden hair, out for a row?
P. J. McCall.
FOOTNOTES:
[119] The day after St. Patrick's Day.
[THE LITTLE YELLOW ROAD]
Taken down in Co. Mayo from Michael Mac Rudhraighe.
I travelled west
By the little yellow road
In the hope I might see
Where my Secret abode.
White were her two breasts,
Red her hair,
Guiding the cow
And the weaned calf, her care.
Until wind flows
From this stream west,
Until a green plain spreads
On the withered crest,
And white fields grow
The heather above,
My heart will not find
Kindness from my love.
There's a flood in the river
Will not ebb till day,
And dread on me
That my love is away.
Can I live a month
With my heart's pain
Unless she will come
And see me again?
I drink a measure
And I drink to you,
I pay, I pay,
And I pay for two.
Copper for ale
And silver for beer—
And do you like coming
Or staying here?
Seosamh mac Cathmhaoil.
[REPROACH TO THE PIPE]
Taken down from a man named William O'Ryan, of Newcastle,
Upper Galway.
I've a story to tell you,
My little Duideen,
As ugly a story
As ever was seen;
The days are gone by
When I held my head high,
And that this is your doing,
You cannot deny.
It is you, without doubt,
Stole my means and my wealth,
My name and my fortune,
My friends and my health;
But if only I were
In new lands far from Clare,
I'd be scraping and saving
With the best of them there!
While you are well-filled,
Cleaned up, and kept trim,
There's no bread on my plate
And no strength in my limb;
Were I hung as a scarecrow,
In the fields over-night,
Sure, not only the birds
But my friends would take flight!
I might buy a laced hat
For your handsome young head,
That would pass with O'Hara,
When all's done and said;
But to you 'tis no odds
Though I fast day and night,
Your mouth is wide open
Still asking its light.
When I go out to Mass
My best coat is in slashes,
And quite half my food
Has been burnt in the ashes;
My heels may go cold,
'Tis for you, I allege,
The tobacconist's shop
Has my breeches in pledge!
The time that poor Nora
Thought me down at the loom,
Throwing the shuttle
Or doing a turn;
I'd be lighting my pipe
About old Joseph's door;
Discoursing and drinking
An hour or more.
O, my little duideen,
My little duideen,
You're the cunningest rogue
That ever was seen!
But I'm done with you quite,
Off, out of my sight!
With O'Kelly the weaver
I'm away at daylight!
[LAMENT OF MORIAN SHEHONE FOR MISS MARY BOURKE]
From an Irish Keen.
"There's darkness in thy dwelling-place and silence reigns above,
And Mary's voice is heard no more, like the soft voice of love.
Yes! thou art gone, my Mary dear! And Morian Shehone
Is left to sing his song of woe, and wail for thee alone.
Oh! snow-white were thy virtues!—the beautiful, the young,
The old with pleasure bent to hear the music of thy tongue;
The young with rapture gazed on thee, and their hearts in love were bound,
For thou wast brighter than the sun that sheds its light around.
My soul is dark, O Mary dear! thy sun of beauty's set;
The sorrowful are dumb for thee—the grieved their tears forget;
And I am left to pour my woe above thy grave alone;
For dear wert thou to the fond heart of Morian Shehone.
"Fast-flowing tears above the grave of the rich man are shed,
But they are dried when the cold stone shuts in his narrow bed;
Not so with my heart's faithful love—the dark grave cannot hide
From Morian's eyes thy form of grace, of loveliness, and pride.
Thou didst not fall like the sere leaf, when autumn's chill winds blow—
'Twas a tempest and a storm-blast that has laid my Mary low.
Hadst thou not friends that loved thee well? hadst thou not garments rare?
Wast thou not happy, Mary? wast thou not young and fair?
Then why should the dread spoiler come, my heart's peace to destroy,
Or the grim tyrant tear from me my all of earthly joy?
Oh! am I left to pour my woes above thy grave alone?
Thou idol of the faithful heart of Morian Shehone!
"Sweet were thy looks and sweet thy smiles, and kind wast thou to all;
The withering scowl of envy on thy fortunes dared not fall;
For thee thy friends lament and mourn, and never cease to weep—
Oh! that their lamentations could awake thee from thy sleep!
Oh! that thy peerless form again could meet my loving clasp!
Oh! that the cold damp hand of Death could loose his iron grasp!
Yet, when the valley's daughters meet beneath the tall elm tree,
And talk of Mary as a dream that never more shall be,
Then may thy spirit float around, like music in the air,
And pour upon their virgin souls a blessing and a prayer.
Oh! am I left to pour my wail above thy grave alone?"
Thus sinks in silence the lament of Morian Shehone.
Anonymous.
[MODEREEN RUE;
OR, THE LITTLE RED ROGUE][120]
Och, Modereen Rue, you little red rover,
By the glint of the moon you stole out of your cover,
And now there is never an egg to be got,
Nor a handsome fat chicken to put in the pot.
Och, Modereen Rue!
With your nose to the earth and your ear on the listen,
You slunk through the stubble with frost-drops aglisten,
With my lovely fat drake in your teeth as you went,
That your red roguish children should breakfast content.
Och, Modereen Rue!
Och, Modereen Rue, hear the horn for a warning,
They are looking for red roguish foxes this morning;
But let them come my way, you little red rogue,
'Tis I will betray you to huntsman and dog.
Och, Modereen Rue!
The little red rogue, he's the colour of bracken,
O'er mountains, o'er valleys, his pace will not slacken,
Tantara! Tantara! he is off now, and, faith!
'Tis a race 'twixt the little red rogue and his death.
Och, Modereen Rue!
Och, Modereen Rue, I've no cause to be grieving
For the little red rogues with their tricks and their thieving.
The hounds they give tongue, and the quarry's in sight,
The hens on the roost may sleep easy to-night.
Och, Modereen Rue!
But my blessing be on him. He made the hounds follow
Through the woods, through the dales, over hill, over hollow,
It was Modereen Rue led them fast, led them far,
From the glint of the morning till eve's silver star.
Och, Modereen Rue!
But he saved his red brush for his own future wearing,
He slipped into a drain, and he left the hounds swearing.
Good luck, my fine fellow, and long may you show
Such a clean pair of heels to the hounds as they go.
Och, Modereen Rue!
Katherine Tynan-Hinkson.
FOOTNOTES:
[120] The fox.
[THE STARS STAND UP]
Three things have I learned through love,
Sorrow, and death, and pain,
My mind reminding me daily
I never shall see you again;
You left me no cure for my sickness,
Yet I pray, though my night be long,—
My sharp grief! and my heart is broken,—
That God may forgive your wrong.
She was sweeter than fiddle and lute,
Or the shining of grass through the dew,
She was soft as the blackbird's flute
When the light of the day is new;
From her feet on the lone hill-top
I have heard the honey dropping;
Why, Girl, did you come to my door?
Or why could you not be stopping?
[THE LOVE SMART]
This weariness, this gnawing pain,
Are moving greatly through my brain;
The tears down-dropping from my eyes,
The full of my two shoes with sighs.
I think the Sunday long, and pray
You may come stepping down my way;
Twice over I my lover lack,—
When he departs—till he come back.
My thousand treasures and my love,
At break of summer let us rove,
And watch the flickering twilight dwell
Above the windings of the dell.
I claim no gift of cows and sheep;
But if I ask of thee to keep
My hand within thy circling arm,
Where were the harm? where were the harm?
Farewell! Farewell! the fading light,
Would that last night were still to-night!
Would that my darling, with his smile,
Would coax me to his knee awhile!
Bend down and hear, my tale I'll tell,
Could you but keep my secret well:
I fear my lover's gone from me;
O God and Mary, can this be?
[WELL FOR THEE]
Well for thee, unsighted bard,
Not half so hard thy plight as mine;
Hadst thou seen her for whom I pine,
Sickness like mine were thy reward.
O would to God I had been blind
Or e'er her twined locks caught my eye,
Her backward glance as she passed by—
Then had my fate been less unkind.
Till my grief outgrew all griefs,
I had pitied sightless men;
Now hold I them happy and envy them—
In the snare of her smile ensnared I lie.
Oh! woe that ever her face was seen!
And woe that I see her not every day!
Woe to him who is knotted to her alway,
Woe to him who is loosed from the knot, I ween.
Woe to him when she comes, woe to him when she goes,
To the lover who wins her, his love is but pain;
To the lover she flies who would call her again,
To him and to me, it is woe of all woes!
[I AM RAFTERY]
Anthony Raftery died at Craughwell, Co. Galway, October 1835
I am Raftery the Poet
Full of hope and love,
With eyes that have no light,
With gentleness that has no misery.
Going west upon my pilgrimage
By the light of my heart,
Feeble and tired
To the end of my road.
Behold me now,
And my face to the wall,
A-playing music
Unto empty pockets.
Douglas Hyde.
[DUST HATH CLOSED HELEN'S EYE]
Anthony Raftery.
I spoke to her kind and mannerly
As by report was her own way;
And she said, "Raftery, my mind is easy,
You may come to-day to Baile-laoi."
When I heard her offer I did not linger,
When her talk went to my heart my heart rose.
We had only to go across the three fields,
We had daylight with us to Baile-laoi.
The table was laid with glasses and a quart measure;
She had fair hair and she sitting beside me,
And she said, "Drink, Raftery, and a hundred welcomes,
There is a strong cellar in Baile-laoi."
O star of light, and O sun in harvest,
O amber hair, O my share of the world,
Will you come with me upon Sunday
Till we agree together before all the people?
I would not grudge you a song every Sunday evening,
Punch on the table or wine if you would drink it,
But, O King of Glory, dry the roads before me,
Till I find the way to Baile-laoi.
There is a sweet air on the side of the hill
When you are looking down upon Baile-laoi;
When you are walking in the valley picking nuts and blackberries
There is music of the birds in it and music of the sidhe.
What is the worth of greatness till you have the light
Of the flower of the branch that is by your side?
There is no good to deny it or to try to hide it,
She is the sun in the heavens who wounded my heart.
There is no part of Ireland I did not travel
From the rivers to the tops of the mountains,
To the edge of Loch Gréine whose mouth is hidden,
And I saw no beauty that was behind hers.
Her hair was shining and her brows were shining, too;
Her face was like herself, her mouth pleasant and sweet.
She is my pride, and I give her the branch,
She is the shining flower of Baile-laoi.
It is Mary Haynes, the calm and easy woman,
Her beauty in her mind and in her face.
If a hundred clerks were gathered together,
They could not write down a half of her ways.
Lady Gregory.
The title is added by Mr. W. B. Yeats to an article written by him on this poem in The Dome (New Series, vol. iv.). Lady Gregory informs me that Mr. Yeats has slightly worked over her translation.
[THE SHINING POSY]
Anthony Raftery.
There is a bright posy on the edge of the quay
And she far beyond Deirdre with her pleasant ways
Or if I would say Helen, the queen of the Greeks,
On whose account hundreds have fallen at Troy.
The flame and the white in her mingled together,
And sweeter her mouth than cuckoo on the bough,
And the way she has with her, where will you find them
Since died the pearl that was in Ballylaoi?
If you were to see the sky-maiden decked out
On a fine sunny day in the street, and she walking,
The light shining out from her snow-white bosom
Would give sight of the eyes to a sightless man.
The love of hundreds is on her brow,
The sight of her as the gleam of the Star of Doom;
If she had been there in the time of the gods
It is not to Venus the apple would have gone.
Her hair falling with her down to her knees,
Twining and curling to the mouth of her shoe;
Her parted locks, with the grey of the dew on them,
And her curls sweeping after her on the road;
She is the coolun is brightest and most mannerly
Of all who ever opened eye or who lived in life;
And if the country of Lord Lucan were given me,
By the strength of my cause, the jewel should be mine.
Her form slender, chalk-white, her cheeks like roses,
And her breasts rounded over against her heart;
Her neck and her brow and her auburn hair,
She stands before us like the dew of harvest.
Virgil, Cicero, nor the power of Homer,
Would not bring any to compare with her bloom and gentle ways;
O Blossom of Youth, I am guilty with desire of you,
And unless you come to me I shall not live a month.
Walking or dancing, if you were to see the fair shoot,
It is to the Flower of the Branches you would give your love,
Her face alight, and her heart without sorrow,
And were it not pleasant to be in her company?
The greatness of Samson or Alexander
I would not covet, surely, in place of my desire;
And if I do not get leave to talk to Mary Staunton
I am in doubt that short will be my life.
She bade me "Good-morrow" early, with kindness,
She set a stool for me, and not in the corner,
She drank a drink with me, she was the heart of hospitality,
At the time that I rose up to go on my way.
I fell to talking and discoursing with her,
It was mannerly she looked at me, the apple-blossom,
And here is my word of mouth to you, without falsehood,
That I have left the branch with her from Mary Brown.
[LOVE IS A MORTAL DISEASE]
My grief and my pain! a mortal disease is love,
Woe, woe unto him who must prove it a month or even a day,
It hath broken my heart, and my bosom is burdened with sighs,
From dreaming of her gentle sleep hath forsaken mine eyes.
I met with the fairy host at the liss beside Ballyfinnane;
I asked them had they a herb for the curing of love's cruel pain.
They answered me softly and mildly, with many a pitying tone,
"When this torment comes into the heart it never goes out again."
It seems to me long till the tide washes up on the strand;
It seems to me long till the night shall fade into day;
It seems to me long till the cocks crow on every hand;
And rather than the world were I close beside my love.
Do not marry the grey old man, but marry the young man, dear;
Marry the lad who loves you, my grief, though he live not out the year;
Youthful you are, and kind, but your mind is not yet come to sense,
And if you live longer, the lads will be following you.
My woe and my plight! where to-night is the snowdrift and frost?
Or even I and my love together breasting the waves of the sea;
Without bark, without boat, without any vessel with me,
But I to be swimming, and my arm to be circling her waist!
[I AM WATCHING MY YOUNG
CALVES SUCKING]
Douglas Hyde.
I am watching my young calves sucking;
Who are you that would put me out of my luck?
Can I not be walking, can I not be walking,
Can I not be walking on my own farm-lands?
I will not for ever go back before you,
If I must needs be submissive to thee, great is my grief;
If I cannot be walking, if I cannot be walking,
If I cannot be walking on my own farm-lands.
Little heed I pay, and 'tis little my desire,
Thy fine blue cloak and thy bright bird's plumes,
If I cannot be walking, if I cannot be walking,
If I cannot be walking on my own farm-lands!
There is a day coming, it is plain to my eyes,
When there will not be amongst us the mean likes of you;
But each will be walking, each will be walking,
Wherever he will on his own farm-lands.
[THE NARROW ROAD]
Douglas Hyde.
Thinking on the colleen
By night and by day,
Hurt by the colleen,
Wounded with love.
The sight of her eyes,
The sweetness of her voice,
It is these that have stricken me
And left me without guidance.
A colleen like she is
Is not in this life,
And she herself has left
Myself without sense.
A colleen like she is
Is not in this world;
Vein of my own heart
Whom I have chosen.
Little hand of my love—
It is whiter than snow;
She hath left us with wounds
And with wandering of the mind.
Three long months
Almost, am I lying;
I am pierced with her arrows
And my heart in torment.
O God of Graces,
Listen to my prayer,
Give death to me
Or give me her.
Look on my lamentations,
Look on my tears;
Were not my thoughts on thee, Storeen,
All these years?
Look on my lamentations,
Listen to me, Aroon,
I am as a sheep,
A sheep without its lamb!
Wilt thou be hard,
Colleen, as thou art tender?
Wilt thou be without pity
On us for ever?
Listen to me, Noireen,
Listen, Aroon;
Put some word of healing
From thy quiet mouth.
I am in the pathway
That is dark and narrow,
The little path that has guided
Thousands to slumber.
[FORSAKEN]
Douglas Hyde.
Oh, if there were in this wide world
One little place at all,
To be my own, my own alone,
My own over all;
Great were the joy, the comfort great,
And me so lone,
With no place in the world to say
"This is my own."
Sad it is to be knowing this,
For any man, and woe,
That there is not in life for him
Liking or love below;
That there is not in the world for him
A hand or a head
That would be doing a turn for him
Alive or dead.
Sharp it is and sorrowful,
And bitter is the grief,
Sad it is and sorrowful
Past all belief.
'Tis all the same how you are
To the passer-by,
'Tis all the same to you, at last,
To live or die.
[I FOLLOW A STAR]
Seosamh mac Cathmhaoil.
I follow a star
Burning deep in the blue,
A sign on the hills
Lit for me and for you!
Moon-red is the star,
Halo-winged like a rood,
Christ's heart in its heart set,
Streaming with blood.
Follow the gilly
Beyond to the west;
He leads where the Christ lies
On Mary's white breast.
King, priest, and prophet—
A child, and no more—
Adonai the Maker!
Come, let us adore.
Translation by the author.
LULLABIES AND WORKING SONGS
[NURSE'S SONG]
Traditional.
Sleep, my child!
The morning sleepeth upon a bed of roses,
The evening sleepeth on the tops of the dark hills;
Sleep, my child, my darling child, child of my heart's love, sleep!
Sleep, my child!
The winds sleep in the rocky caverns,
The stars sleep on their pillow of clouds,
Sleep, my child, my darling child, my little child, sleep!
Sleep, my child!
The mist sleepeth on the bosom of the valley,
The broad lake beneath the shade of the trees,
Sleep, my child, my darling child, my tender child, sleep!
Sleep, my child!
The flower sleeps, while the night-dew falls,
The wild birds sleep upon the mountains;
Sleep, my child, my darling child, my blessed child, sleep!
Sleep, my child!
The burning tear sleepeth upon the cheek of sorrow
But thy sleep is not the sleep of tears,
Sleep, my child, my darling child, child of my bosom, sleep!
Sleep, my child!
Sleep in quiet, sleep in joy, my darling,
May thy sleep be never the sleep of sorrow!
Sleep, my child, my darling child, my lovely child, sleep!
[A SLEEP SONG]
Traditional.
Deirín dé, Deirín dé!
The brown bittern speaks in the bog;
Deirín dé, Deirín dé!
The night-jar is abroad on the heath.
Deirín dé, Deirín dé!
Kine will go west at dawn of day;
Deirín dé, Deirín dé!
And my child will go to the pasture to mind them.
Deirín dé, Deirín dé!
Moon will rise and sun will set;
Deirín dé, Deirín dé!
Kine will come east at end of day.
Deirín dé, Deirín dé!
I will let my child go gathering blackberries,
Deirín dé, Deirín dé!
If he sleep softly till the ring of day!
P. H. Pearse.
[THE CRADLE OF GOLD]
I'd rock my own sweet childie to rest
In a cradle of gold on the bough of the willow,
To the shoheen ho! of the Wind of the West
And the lulla lo! of the blue sea billow.
Sleep, baby dear!
Sleep without fear!
Mother is here beside your pillow.
I'd put my own sweet childie to float
In a silver boat on the beautiful river,
Where a shoheen! whisper the white cascades
And a lulla lo! the green flags shiver.
Sleep, baby dear!
Sleep without fear!
Mother is here with you for ever!
Shoheen ho! to the rise and fall
Of mother's bosom, 'tis sleep has bound you!
And oh, my child, what cosier nest
For rosier rest could love have found you?
Sleep, baby dear!
Sleep without fear!
Mother's two arms are close around you!
Alfred Perceval Graves.
[RURAL SONG]
I wish the shepherd's pet were mine,
I wish the shepherd's pet were mine,
I wish the shepherd's pet were mine,
The pretty white lamb in the clover.
And oh! I hail, I hail thee,
And oh! I hail, I hail thee,
The love of my heart for ever thou art,
Thou little pet of thy mother.
I wish that scores of kine were mine,
I wish that scores of kine were mine,
I wish that scores of kine were mine,
And Kathleen, the love of her mother.
And oh! I hail, I hail thee,
And oh! I hail, I hail thee,
The love of my heart for ever thou art,
Thou little pet of thy mother.
[PLOUGHING SONG]
Tailsman.
Goad her, and whip her, and drive,
The old woman's little brown mare,
Stand up on the plough, look alive,
And see if our dinner is there.
Headsman.
The corn is a-reaping,
Goad her and whip her and drive.
The stooks are a-heaping,
Goad her and whip her and drive.
The corn is a-binding,
Goad her and whip her and drive.
In the mill it is grinding,
Goad her and whip her and drive.
We soon shall be feeding,
Goad her and whip her and drive.
For the flour is a-kneading,
Goad her and whip her and drive.
The bread is a-baking,
Goad her and whip her and drive.
Our dinner we are taking,—
She's the best little mare alive!
Tailsman.
Whistle and shout with zest!
The little brown mare is good!
Unyoke her, and give her a rest,
While we're stretching and getting our food.
[A SPINNING-WHEEL DITTY]
These verses, improvised to the hum of the wheel, are flung from girl to girl as they sit spinning. The references are purely personal, and the refrain, which is sung by all the spinners, has no special meaning.
First Girl.
Mallo lero, and eambo nero,
I crossed the wood as the day was dawning;
Mallo lero, and eambo nero.
Second Girl.
Mallo lero, and eambo nero,
No doubt John O'Connell had had good warning!
Mallo lero, and eambo nero.
First Girl.
Mallo lero, and eambo nero,
Oh! John may go hang, it's not me he will catch!
Mallo lero, and eambo nero.
Second Girl.
Mallo lero, and eambo nero,
You mannerless girl, he'll be more than your match!
Mallo lero, and eambo nero.
First Girl.
Mallo lero, and eambo nero,
Come, come now, leave off, or get me my own man!
Mallo lero, and eambo nero.
Second Girl.
Mallo lero, and eambo nero,
Well, what do you think of Thomas O'Madigan?
Mallo lero, and eambo nero.
First Girl.
Mallo lero, and eambo nero,
I hail him, and claim him, may we never be parted!
Mallo lero, and eambo nero.
Second Girl.
Mallo lero, and eambo nero,
Go east or go west, may you still be true-hearted!
Mallo lero, and eambo nero.
Third Girl.
Mallo lero, and eambo nero,
Go east and go west, and find me my love, too!
Mallo lero, and eambo nero.
Fourth Girl.
Mallo lero, and eambo nero,
There's Donall O'Flaherty, but I doubt will he take you!
Mallo lero, and eambo nero.
Fifth Girl.
Mallo lero, and eambo nero,
The man is too good, he'll be courting elsewhere!
Mallo lero, and eambo nero.
Third Girl.
Mallo lero, and eambo nero,
There's no tree in the wood, but its equal is there!
Mallo lero, and eambo nero.
NOTES
[NOTES]
"The Colloquy of the Two Sages," edited by Dr. Whitley Stokes from the Book of Leinster, p. 186a, is one of the most archaic pieces in tone that have come down to us. It represents the discussion between an aged poet and a young aspirant as to the sources of poetic inspiration, and shows us that the gifts of the bard were highly regarded as the direct endowment of the gods. Original in Rev. Celtique, No. xxviii. As in the following poem, I have made use of the scribal glosses or explanations wherever they seemed to throw light upon the original.
"Amorgen sang." Professor John MacNeill has most kindly made a fresh collation of the manuscripts containing this obscure poem for my use. Parts, especially from line 20 onward, are doubtful. I have incorporated with the text such of the glosses as appear to make the meaning more intelligible, but the glosses themselves are mere scribes' guesses, often bad ones, at the sense of a text they did not understand. This poem, though ascribed to the earliest traditional poet of Ireland, is, Prof. MacNeill considers, rather pseudo-archaic, than of really great antiquity. The allusion to "Tetra's kine," which is explained in the gloss to mean "the fish of the sea," alludes to Tetra as Ruler of the Ocean; in the "Colloquy" we found him ruling in the assemblies of the dead. The connection between the ocean and the invisible world is constant in Irish tradition. The poem appears to be an assertion of the Druid's powers, preparatory to the incantation for good fishing which follows immediately in most manuscripts. The final lines are an inquiry into the origin of created things, matter on which the bard or Druid claimed superior enlightenment.
"The Song of Childbirth" and the succeeding "Greeting to the New-born Babe" are taken from the piece known as "The Birth of Conchobhar" (Compert Conchobhar), edited from Stowe MS. 992, by Prof. Kuno Meyer in Rev. Celt. vi. pp. 173-182.
"What is Love?" From the story called the "Wooing of Etain" (Tochmarc Etaine). Original in Irische Texte, i. p. 124.
"Summons to Cuchulain." From the "Sickbed of Cuchulain" (Serglige Conculaind). Original, ibid., p. 216. Overcome with fairy spells, the hero lies fast bound in heavy slumber; the song is an appeal to him to throw off the charm and to arise.
"Laegh's Description of Fairy-land." From the same story, ibid., p. 218. Laegh is Cuchulain's charioteer, who went into fairy-land instead of his master, and returns to extol its beauty.
"The Lamentation of Fand when she is about to leave Cuchulain." From the dramatic incident in the same story, in which Fand, Queen of Fairy-land, and Emer, Cuchulain's mortal wife, struggle for the affection of the hero, after Cuchulain's return from fairy-land. Each woman fully recognises the nobility of the other; and Fand's parting song, in which she restores him to Emer, is one of lofty renunciation.
"Midir's Call to Fairy-land." From the story called the "Wooing of Etain" (Tochmarc Etaine), ibid., p. 132.
"Song of the Fairies." From A. H. Leahy's Heroic Romances of Ireland (D. Nutt, 1905), p. 29, taken from the same tale. Etain was wife of Eochad (pron. Yochee), King of Ireland, but Mider, King of Fairy-land, fell in love with her. He won an entry into the palace by playing chess with her husband, who demanded from Mider as the stake for which they played that the fairy hosts should clear away the rocks and stones from the plains of Meath, remove the rushes which made the land barren, build a causeway across the bog of Lamrach, and perform other services useful to his realm. The song is sung by the fairies while they are performing this heavy task. The final stake is won by Mider, who asks Etain as his prize.
"The Lamentation of Deirdre," when her husband and two sons had been slain by King Conchobhar. She recalls the happy days spent with her husband in Alba or Scotland, on Lough Etive, and compares it to her present misery in the house of the King. Original, Irische Texte, i. pp. 77-81. In all the above poems there are many difficult and obscure passages.
"Take my Tidings." A ninth century poem, edited and translated by Dr. Kuno Meyer in his Four Songs of Summer and Winter (D. Nutt, 1903), and by Dr. Whitley Stokes in Rev. Celt. xx. p. 258. It is ascribed to Fionn in the commentary on the "Amra Coluim Cille." Mr. Graves' poem will be found in his Irish Poems, i. p. 1 (Maunsel & Co., Dublin).
"Second Winter Song." Text and translation in Dr. Kuno Meyer's Four Songs of Summer and Winter. A longer poem on similar lines is to be found in the tale called the "Hiding of the Hill of Howth," Rev. Celt. xi. p. 125, reprinted in his Ancient Irish Poetry (Constable), p. 57; but in the former version the complaint of the lazy servant-lad is answered by a fine song in which Fionn praises the signs of coming spring in earth and air.
"In Praise of May." Original and translation published by Dr. K. Meyer from the tale called "The Boyish Exploits of Finn" in Rev. Celt. v. p. 195. It is said to have been composed by Fionn after he received inspiration by eating the "Salmon of Knowledge" at the River Boyne. Mr. Rolleston's poem is to be found in his Sea-Spray (Maunsel, 1909).
"The Isle of Arran." The Arran here spoken of is the Scottish island of that name. The Fianna were accustomed to spend part of the autumn and winter hunting in that island. The poem occurs in the long Ossianic tract called "The Colloquy of the Ancients," published by Standish Hayes O'Grady in Silva Gadelica (Williams and Norgate, 1892). Text, p. 102; translation, p. 109.
"The Parting of Goll with his Wife." From Duanaire Finn, edited by Prof. John MacNeill (Irish Texts Soc, vii., 1908), pp. 23 and 121. Goll was leader of the Connaught Fians and was opposed to Fionn, the chief of the Leinster warriors. He is described as a man of lofty disposition and great valour. In this poem he is standing, driven to bay by his enemies, on a bare rocky promontory, his wife only beside him, cut off from all hope of escape. Few poems relating to Goll remain in Ireland, but a good many survive in the Western Highlands of Scotland.
"Youth and Age." Ibid., pp. 80 and 194. It is Oisín (Ossian) who here laments his departed youth.
"Chill Winter." From the "Colloquy of the Ancients," Silva Gadelica, text, p. 172; translation, p. 192.
"The Sleep-song of Grainne." From Duanaire Finn, pp. 85 and 198. Dermot, who has carried off Grainne, the wife of Fionn, is lying down to rest in the forest, when Grainne hears the approach of their pursuers. She sings over him this passionate lullaby, in which the restless activities and foreboding terrors of the animal world are aptly used to heighten the sense of their own danger.
"The slaying of Conbeg, Fionn's beloved hound." Original in Gaelic Journal, ix. No. 104, Feb. 1899, p. 328; the poem occurs in the "Colloquy of the Ancients," where the readings are slightly different (Silva Gadelica, text, p. 143).
"The Fairies' Lullaby." Original in Waifs and Strays of Celtic Tradition, Argyleshire Series, No. iv. (David Nutt, 1891). It was collected in Argyleshire by John Gregorson Campbell.
"The Lay of the Forest Trees." Original in Silva Gadelica, i. p. 245; trans., ii. p. 278. This curious poem, which contains much folklore regarding forest-trees, arose out of the gathering of wood for a fire in the open air, by a servant or "Man of Smoke," as he is called. He accidentally threw upon it a block around which woodbine had twined. This called forth a protest from the onlookers, who declared that the burning of the woodbine would certainly bring ill-luck.
"St. Patrick's Breastplate." See Dr. Kuno Meyer's Ancient Irish Poetry (Constable), pp. 25-7. Original in Stokes' and Strachan's Thesaurus Palaeohibernicus, ii. p. 354. Probably eighth century.
"Patrick's Blessing on Munster," ninth century. Original in Dr. Whitley Stokes' Tripartite Life of St. Patrick, p. 216; literal translation in Dr. Kuno Meyer's Ancient Irish Poetry, p. 29. The present poetic rendering, kindly contributed to my book by Mr. A. P. Graves, has not hitherto been published.
"Columcille's Farewell to Aran." See Dr. Douglas Hyde's Three Sorrows of Story-telling (T. Fisher Unwin, 1895), pp. 146-8.
"Columba in Iona." Printed in William Skene's Celtic Scotland, ii. p. 92, from an Irish manuscript in the Burgundian Library, Brussels. It bears the ascription "Columcille fecit," and was transcribed and translated by O'Curry for Dr. Todd. Many poems are ascribed to the Saint, but the language of most of them is later than his time.
"Hymn to the Dawn." From Silva Gadelica, by Standish Hayes O'Grady (Williams & Norgate); original, vol. i. p. 56; literal trans., ii. p. 59. The hymn was composed by St. Cellach on the morning on which he was slain by his old friends and fellow-students, who had been bought over to destroy him.
"The Song of Manchan the Hermit." Original in Ériu, i. p. 39. A ninth century poem, with translation by Dr. Kuno Meyer.
"A Prayer." Original and literal translation by Miss Mary E. Byrne in Ériu, ii., Part i. p. 89.
"The Loves of Liadan and Curithir." This touching poem illustrates the tyrannical use sometimes made of their authority by the monks of the ancient Irish Church. St. Cummine, who was the confessor or "soul-friend" of the lovers, seems to have been a hard and censorious man. He lived in the first half of the seventh century. The poem, as we have it, is of the ninth century. Edited with translation by Dr. Kuno Meyer (D. Nutt, 1902). The love song has been reprinted in his Ancient Irish Poetry.
"The Lay of Prince Marvan." This song takes the form of a colloquy between Marvan, who had left his royal station to adopt a hermit life, and his brother King Guaire of Connaught (d. 662). Guaire, visiting him in his retirement, inquires why he prefers to sleep in a hut rather than in the comfort of a kingly palace; in reply Marvan bursts forth into a song in praise of his retired woodland life. Original in King and Hermit, edited by Dr. Kuno Meyer (D. Nutt, 1901); translation reprinted in Ancient Irish Poetry, p. 47.
"The Song of Crede." Text and translation in Ériu, ii. p. 15; its editor, Dr. Kuno Meyer, ascribes it to the tenth century. I have to thank Mr. A. P. Graves for most kindly giving me permission to use his unpublished poem.
"The Student and his Cat," eighth or ninth century. Written on the margin of a codex of St. Paul's Epistles, in the monastery of Carinthia. Original and translation in Stokes' and Strachan's Thesaurus Palaeohibernicus, ii. p. 293.
"Song of the Seven Archangels." Original in Ériu, ii., Part i. pp. 92-4, with literal translation by Thomas P. O'Nowlan. Mr. Ernest Rhys' poetical version, kindly contributed by him to this book, has not hitherto been published.
"Saints of Four Seasons." Original in Ériu, i., Part ii. pp. 226-7, with translation by Miss Mary E. Byrne. Mr. P. J. McCall's poetical version is printed in his Irish Fireside Songs (M. H. Gill, Dublin, 1911).
"The Feathered Hermit." Original printed by Dr. K. Meyer in Gaelic Journal, iv., No. 40, February 1892, from a marginal note on Harl. MS. 5280 (Brit. Mus.).
"An Aphorism." Ibid.; also from a marginal note.
"The Blackbird." Marginal note from a copy of Priscian in the monastery of St. Gall in Switzerland. Original in Stokes' and Strachan's Thesaurus Palaeohibernicus, p. 290.
"Deus Meus." Printed by Dr. Whitley Stokes in the Calendar of Ængus, clxxxv. It is found written on the margin of the Leabhar Breac, facs., p. 101, and is there ascribed to Maelisu ua Brolcan (d. 1086). Dr. George Sigerson's poetical rendering will be found in his Bards of the Gael and Gall (T. Fisher Unwin, 1897), p. 193.
"The Soul's Desire." Original and literal translation by Dr. Kuno Meyer in the Gaelic Journal, vol. v., No.6, 1894, p. 95. Though printed from comparatively late copies, the hymn gives the impression of being ancient.
"Song of the Sea." Original and literal translation by Dr. Kuno Meyer in Otia Merseiana (Liverpool), ii. p. 76. It is ascribed to the poet Ruman, who died 707, but the editor believes it to be of the eleventh century.
"Lament of the Old Woman of Beare." From Dr. Kuno Meyer's text and translation in Otia Merseiana, i. p. 119 ff. It has since been reprinted in the author's Selections from Early Irish Poetry, pp. 88-91. The editor would put the poem down to the late tenth century.
"Gormliath's Lament for Nial Black-knee." From the Scottish Book of the Dean of Lismore, edited by Rev. Thos. M'Lauchlan.
"The Mother's Lament." First printed by Rev. Edmund Hogan in his Latin Lives of the Irish Saints (Todd Lectures, V., 1894); see also Gaelic Journal, iv. p. 89, and Kuno Meyer's Ancient Irish Poetry, p. 42. Eleventh century? Mr. Graves has kindly given me permission to use his excellent unpublished version.
"Consecration." Original from the Book of the Dean of Lismore, a collection of poems made in the Western Islands about 1512 by Sir James McGregor, Dean of Lismore, Argyleshire, p. 121. It contains many Irish poems. This and the two following poems are ascribed to Murdoch O'Daly, called "Muredach Albanach," or Murdoch the Scot, on account of his long residence in that country. He is styled "Bard of Erin and Alba." He was a Connaught poet, who ended a stormy career by retiring to the Irish monastery of Knockmoy. It is probable that these religious poems, if not actually written by him, were composed about his period.
"Teach me, O Trinity," ibid., p. 123.
"The Shaving of Murdoch," ibid., p. 158 note, from a translation made by Standish H. O'Grady. This curious poem refers to the tonsuring of the bard and his contemporary Connaught chieftain, Cathal of the Red Hand, when they entered the monastery of Knockmoy together. In Scotland Murdoch is remembered as the first of the Macvurrachs, bards to the Macdonalds of Clanranald. He lived 1180-1225, and Cathal of the Red Hand, 1184-1225.
"Eileen Aroon." Original in Hardimen, i. p. 264; it should be compared with the version, ibid., p. 211. The present is the oldest form. Carol O'Daly, who composed it, was an accomplished Connaught gentleman, whose desire to marry Eileen Kavanagh was frustrated by her friends. He fled the country, but returned, disguised as a harper, on the eve of her marriage to another suitor, and entered the guest-chamber. He poured out this impassioned appeal with such good effect, that Eileen fled with him that night. The last lines are a welcome to her in response to her avowal of love. The air is very ancient; in Scotland it is known as "Robin Adair."
"The Downfall of the Gael." Original in Hardiman's Irish Minstrelsy, ii. p. 102. O'Gnive, bard of the O'Neills of Clandaboy, accompanied Shane O'Neill to London in 1562, on the occasion of that chief's visit to Queen Elizabeth. The poem is a lament over the condition of Ireland and the inaction of the chiefs. Sir Samuel Ferguson's rendering will be found in Lays of the Western Gael (Sealy, Bryers & Walker, 1888), p. 136.
"Address to Brian O'Rourke of the Bulwarks" (na murtha), a poem of seventy quatrains from Egerton MS. iii., art. 85. Dr. Standish Hayes O'Grady has given specimens of this poem in his valuable Catalogue of Irish MSS. in the British Museum, pp. 412-20. Another poem addressed to the same chief will be found in Hardiman, ii. pp. 266-305, by John mac Torna O'Mulchonaire. The writer of the present poem, Teigue O'Higgin, called Teigue "Dall," i.e. the Blind, on account of his blindness, is one of the best of all the tribal poets of Ireland. He was poet to the chiefs of Co. Sligo, but he came to an untimely end on account of a satire made by him on the O'Haras, who had ill-used him, some time before 1617. In the poem we give, he endeavours to arouse Brian to action, and calls on him to unite the clans against England, a challenge which O'Rourke did not fail to obey. It is a good sample of much bardic poetry of the period.
"Ode to the Maguire," by Eochadh O'Hosey or Hussey, the last bard of the Maguires, whose strongly fortified castle still frowns upon the waters of the Upper and Lower Lochs Erne, at Enniskillen, Co. Fermanagh. His young chief, Hugh Maguire, had marched into Munster in the depth of the winter of 1599-1600, with 2500 foot and 200 horse on a warlike foray; the bard, sitting at home in Fermanagh, bewails the hardships which he feels sure the chief and his followers are enduring in the open camps during the winter's weather. A fine copy of this poem is found in the O'Gara manuscript in the Royal Irish Academy, Dublin, of which Egerton III is a copy (and see O'Grady's Catalogue, p. 451).
"A Lament for the Princes of Tyrone and Tyrconnel," by the family bard, Red Owen Mac Ward, in the form of an address of comfort to O'Donnell's sister, Nuala, who is supposed to be weeping over her brother's grave in Rome, where he had taken refuge after his flight from Ireland. He lies buried, beside Hugh O'Neill, in the Church of San Pietro Montario, on the Janiculum. The bard imagines the clans of the North of Ireland gathering to bewail the dead and share Nuala's grief. Though Mangan's broken metre imparts a fervour and fire to the original, he adds nothing to its slow monotonous impressiveness. For original see Egerton III, Art. 48 (Brit. Mus.), and translation of extracts in O'Grady's Catalogue, pp. 371-3. Mangan's version has been often reprinted.
"Co. Mayo." There are many versions of this favourite song. That given here is said to have been composed by a bard named Thomas Flavell, a native of Bophin on the Western Seaboard. Hardiman gives the Irish of this song, i. p. 337; and also another version by David O'Murchadh, or Murphy, ibid., pp. 229-33. Flavell was a poor dependent on the fourth Earl of Mayo, and lived about the middle of the seventeenth century. For a different song of the same name, see Dr. Hyde's Poems of Raftery, p. 96.
"The Flower of Nut-brown Maids" is the oldest of the numerous songs written to the air "Uileacán Dubh O." This poem dates from the seventeenth century, and it is said to be an invitation addressed by one of the unfortunate landowners, driven out of Ulster during the plantation of James I, to his lady, to follow him to Leitrim. It seems to refer to a time of famine, and is, like many other love-songs, in the form of a colloquy. Original in Hardiman, i. p. 258.
"Roisín Dubh," from the original in O'Daly's Poets and Poetry of Munster, where two versions are given. It is the poem on which Mangan founded his "Dark Rosaleen." The poem is an address to Ireland, veiled as a woman. Hardiman gives some quatrains in vol. i. pp. 254-61.
"The Fair Hills of Éire" is one of several sets of words attached to the tender old air "Uileacán Dubh O," or "Oh, the heavy lamentation." One, rendered familiar in Dr. Samuel Ferguson's version, beginning, "A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer," is said to have been written by an Irish student in one of the colleges of France probably early in the seventeenth century, when most of the promising Irish youths went abroad for their education. The version here given in Dr. Sigerson's fine rendering was written by Donnchad Ruadh MacNamara about 1730. It has also been rendered into English by Mangan. For the original, see Poems by Donnchadh Ruadh MacNamara, edited by Tomás O'Flanngháile (1897). Dr. George Sigerson's poem will be found in his Bards of the Gael and Gall (T. Fisher Unwin, 1897), p. 245.
"Love's Despair" (ibid., p. 339). This touching poem was written by a young farmer of Cork who, near the time of his marriage, had gone into the city to buy the wedding-dress for his betrothed. On his way back he heard that she had been married to another man. In despair he flung his presents into the fire. His reason gave way, and he roamed the country henceforth, ever singing the cruelty of Mary and his own misfortunes. His story was well known in Co. Waterford, where he lived a great part of his life. Original in Gaelic Journal, vol. iii., 1887, p. 22.
The literal translation of the second stanza runs as follows:—
"No one knows my case, or how I may find life,
But only the woman who has made me ill;
My cure is not on sea or shore, nor in herb or skill of hand,
My cure is only in the Flower of Youth.
I know not hen from cuckoo, I know not heat from cold,
At no time do I know my friends;
I know not night from day,—but my heart would know its love,
Should she come in time to save me."
"The Cruiskeen Lawn." Dr. Sigerson's version (ibid., p. 258), here reproduced, shows that this popular air, better known in connection with O'Keeffe's rollicking drinking song, was also used as a Jacobite political poem. The chorus and name of the air, i.e. "The little full jug," show that its true intent is bacchanalian. We find this chorus, like many others, attached to songs of different significance. Petrie, in his collection of Ancient Irish Music, p. 37, attaches it to a verse of a lullaby:—
"My love is upon the river,
And he rocking from wave to wave;
A tree without foliage over his head—
And what does my Love want a-straying there?"
(see also Gaelic Journal, viii., 1898, p. 224).
"Eamonn an Chnuic" or "Ned of the Hill" is founded on the history of a famous outlaw named Edmund O'Ryan, born in Shanbohy, Co. Tipperary, late in the seventeenth century. His father possessed considerable property in his native county, but his wild career led to his outlawry. The piercing note of the words and of the air of the same name is typical of much of the poetry of the period. "Ned of the Hill" lies buried near Fáill an Chluig in the barony of Kilnemanagh, Co. Tipperary. Some versions give several other verses, of a different character. It is a love-song as given by Hardiman, "A chúil áluinn deas," i. p. 268, and by Mangan in his Poets and Poetry of Munster, p. 264. The literal translation here printed is from Mr. P. H. Pearse's contributions in the Irish Review, Dublin (November 1911), p. 437. Mr. Pearse says, "'Eamonn an Chnuic' is commonly looked upon as a love-song, but I feel sure that to its shaper and to those who first heard it, the figure of the outlaw, driven by rain-storm and bullet-storm and beating against the closed door, mystically symbolised the lonely cause of Ireland."
"O Druimin donn dileas," an early Jacobite song, sometimes supposed to apply to Prince James Charles Edward, but more probably to Ireland itself under the symbolic name of the "Beloved white-backed dun cow." Original in Hardiman, ii. p. 145. See also in Petrie's Ancient Music of Ireland, p. 116, a translation by O'Curry.
"Do you remember that night?" Original in Petrie's Ancient Music of Ireland, p. 142. He says it was written down for him by O'Curry. The account given by him of its origin does not seem to suit the words.
"The Exile's Song." Original in Gaelic Journal, vol. vi., No. 7, 1895, p. 108. Composed by an emigrant named M'Ambrois (Mac Cambridge), and taken down from James M'Auley of Glengariff and James M'Naughten of Cushendall.
"The Fisherman's Keen." From Crofton Croker's The Keen in the South of Ireland (Percy Society, 1844), p. 77. It was communicated to Mr. Croker by Mr. Maurice O'Connell. A literal translation, taken down from the lips of Mrs. Harrington, a professional "keener" of Co. Cork, is given in the same author's Researches in the South of Ireland. Unfortunately the original Irish is not preserved by him, nor is the name of the lady given who, he tells us, wrote the poetical rendering.
"The Boatman's Hymn." Taken from Sir Samuel Ferguson's Lays of the Western Gael, 1888, pp. 162-3. Original in Hardiman, ii. p. 383.
"Keen on Art O'Leary" by his wife. Original published in Mrs. Morgan J. O'Connell's The Last Colonel of the Irish Brigade (Kegan Paul, 1892), vol. ii., Appendix A., and reprinted with some corrections in the Gaelic Journal (vol. vii., Old Series, No. 74, May 1896), p. 18. Some corrections and additions are made in the following number (June 1896). Crofton Croker, in his Keens of the South of Ireland, tells us that he endeavoured to recover this dirge but without success. It is a true example of the spontaneous "keen," with its short broken lines, containing in quick, natural succession, appeals, reminiscences, laments; moving backwards and forwards as the irregular promptings of grief and affection dictate without form or premeditation. It is, however, lifted into the sphere of fine poetry by its exceeding simplicity, and by the passion of grief expressed in its lines.
The circumstances in which the poem had its origin are particularly tragic. Art O'Leary had been an officer in the Hungarian service, but he returned to Ireland, where he had a considerable property in Co. Cork, and where his handsome person and distinguished manners made him very popular. He married, against the wish of her parents, Eileen of the Raven Locks, as she was called from her dark hair, a daughter of Daniel O'Connell of Derrynane, grandfather of "the Liberator." The popularity of Art O'Leary excited the jealousy of a neighbour, a Mr. Morris, whose horse had been beaten in a race by O'Leary's beautiful mare. Taking advantage of the Penal Laws, which did not permit a Catholic to possess a horse valued at more than £5, he demanded the mare from Capt. O'Leary for this sum. O'Leary refused, saying that he "would surrender his mare only with his life." A local magistrate immediately proclaimed him an outlaw; soldiers were sent to lie in wait for him as he was returning home at night, and he was shot through the heart near Carrig-a-nimmy, in May 1773. His wife was informed of her husband's death by the return of the mare without its rider. It was many years before his body was even allowed to be buried in consecrated ground. Morris was tried for the murder, but acquitted; he was soon after shot in his house by Arthur's brother. Art O'Leary's grave is to be seen in the nave of Kilcrea Abbey, Co. Cork; the inscription states that he was only twenty-six years of age when he died.
"Prologue to 'The Midnight Court'" (Cuirt an Mheadhon Oidhche), by Bryan Merryman. The long satire of which we give the Prologue has been published by Mr. Richard Foley (Riscard O Foghludha) (Hodges, Figgis & Co.).
"Hymn to the Virgin Mary." Original in The Poems of Egan O'Rahilly (1st ed., Irish Texts Society, vol. iii., 1900), p. 290. The author, Conchubhar or Conor O'Riordan was a native of Co. Cork, where he taught the classics and other subjects to the youths of his district. He wrote, about the same time as Gray, a "Meditation in a Country Churchyard," to which this very beautiful address to the Virgin forms the Epilogue or "Binding" (ceangal as it is called in Irish). The whole poem is included in the appendix to Rev. P. S. Dinneen's edition of O'Rahilly's poems.
"Christmas Hymn." Original in Dr. Douglas Hyde's Religious Songs of Connacht (T. Fisher Unwin, 1906), vol. ii. pp. 224-6; from an old North of Ireland manuscript.
"O Mary of Graces." Ibid., p. 161. Taken down by Miss Agnes O'Farrelly from a lad in the Aran Islands, Co. Galway.
"The Cattle-shed." Original in Timthirid Chroidhe neamhtha Iosa or The Messenger (published by Gill & Son, Dublin), p. 90. The following nine poems and fragments are from the same publication, vol. i., Parts 1-4.
"The White Paternoster." Ibid., p. 58. The two versions of this favourite charm here given, of which the second is translated from the original in a Kerry journal, An Lochran (October 1900), should be compared with the copies printed by Dr. D. Hyde in his Religious Songs, vol. i. pp. 362-70.
"A Night Prayer." This fragment and the eleven succeeding prayers were taken down in Irish among the Decies of Co. Waterford by Rev. M. Sheenan, D.Ph., and have been published by him in his Cnó Cóilleadh Craobhaighe (Gill & Son, Dublin, 1907).
"The Man who Stands Stiff." From Dr. D. Hyde's Religious Songs of Connacht, vol. i. p. 101, taken down from the mouth of Martin Rua O'Gillarna (in English, Red Martin Forde) of Lisaniska, Co. Galway. He spoke no English. This poem is a sample of much of the popular religious poetry dealing with the approach of death and the danger of continuing in evil courses.
"Charm for a Sprain." This and the succeeding charms are taken from Lady Wilde's Legends, Charms, and Cures of Ireland (Chatto & Windus). It is unfortunate that Lady Wilde does not give either her originals or her authorities.
"Before the sun rose at yesterdawn." Original in Walsh's Irish Popular Songs, 2nd ed. (Gill & Son, Dublin), p. 146. Edward Walsh, who translated into English verse a great number of Irish popular songs, lived between the years 1805-50.
"The Blackthorn." One of those favourite old songs of which there are many versions, and verses in one that are not in another. Like many another Irish song, it seems to be a colloquy between a maid and her lover, and it is often difficult to tell if it is the lad or the girl who is speaking. My version is the one printed in Miss Borthwick's Ceól Sidhe, ii. p. 18 (an excellent collection of old Irish songs), with two verses added from the version in Dr. D. Hyde's Love-Songs of Connacht (T. Fisher Unwin, 1893), p. 30. The poem is sad and troubled. Dr. Hyde says, "There was an old woman in it, long ago, who used to sing it to me, and she never came to the verse—
'Although the rowen-berry tree is high, &c.,'
that she used not to shed tears from her eye." We can well believe it. Hardiman (i. p. 234) has published a different version, and Miss Brooke another in her Reliques (1816), p. 306.
"Pastheen Finn," or "Fair little Child." Original in Hardiman's Irish Minstrelsy, i. p. 217. Dr. Hyde gives a quite different version in his Love-Songs, p. 65. We find the curfa or chorus attached to different songs. Sir Samuel Ferguson's version will be found in his Lays of the Western Gael (Sealy, Bryers, Dublin, 1888), p. 152. Hardiman considers that it is an address to the son of James II, under a secret name.
"She." Original in Miss Brooke's Reliques of Irish Poetry, p. 232.
"Hopeless Love." Given as an example of an old Irish metre called Dibide baise fri toin, but this poem was not actually written in this metre.
"Would God I were." Original in Hardiman, i. p. 344. Mrs. Hinkson's setting of the Irish words will be found in her Irish Love-Songs (T. Fisher Unwin, Cameo Series, 1892).
"Branch of the sweet and early rose." William Drennan, M.D. (b. 1754), died in Belfast in 1820.
"'Tis a Pity." Original in Cláirseach na n-Gaedhil, Part ii., 1902 (Gaelic League Publications). Ceól-sídhe (p. 92) gives a different version. There are several other verses.
"The Yellow Bittern" (An bunán buidhe). Original in Cláirseach na n-Gaedhil, Part v., and Ceól-sídhe, p. 12. This translation appeared in the Irish Review, Dublin, November 1911.
"Have you been at Carrack?" Original in Mangan's Poets and Poetry of Munster (J. Duffy), p. 344. Walsh thinks it is a song from the South of Ireland.
"Cashel of Munster." There are various versions of this popular song, set to its air "Clár bog déil." One used by Walsh was, he tells us, given to him by a lady of Co. Clare. Ferguson's version is taken from Hardiman, i. p. 238.
"The Snowy-breasted Pearl." Original in Petrie's Ancient Music of Ireland, p. 11. Petrie was born in Dublin in 1789 and died in 1866.
"The Dark Maid of the Valley" (Bean dubh an Gleanna). There are two versions and airs of this name. The original of Mr. P. J. McCall's poem is to be found in Miss Brooke's Reliques, p. 319. His own rendering was published in his Irish Nóinins (Sealy, Bryers & Walker, 1894), p. 59.
"The Coolun." Original in Hardiman, i. p. 250. Two other versions will be found in Dr. Hyde's Love-Songs of Connacht (1893), pp. 71-3. One of these beginning, "A honey mist on a day of frost, in a dark oak wood" is very tender and sweet. Its air is among the most beautiful that Ireland has produced. The "Coolun" was a lock of hair which, having been forbidden by statute, it became a mark of national sentiment to adopt. It was usually worn by youths, but in these poems the address is to a woman.
"Ceann dubh dileas," or the "Beloved Dark Head." Original in Hardiman, i. p. 262. Dr. Hyde gives an additional verse in his Love-Songs. Burns claimed the air for Scotland, and Corri published it under the name of "Oran Gaoil," but it is undoubtedly Irish.
"Ringleted Youth of my Love." From Dr. Hyde's Love-Songs of Connacht (T. Fisher Unwin, 1893), p. 40.
"I shall not die for you." Original, ibid.. p. 138.
"Donall Oge." This pathetic song and the one following it, "The Grief of a Girl's Heart," seem to be portions of one long song, to the original nucleus of which quatrains have been added from time to time. Six stanzas were published by Dr. Hyde in his Love-Songs (pp. 4-6) under the title, "If I were to go West"; it would seem that his "Breed Astore" (p. 76) may also be a portion of the same poem. Mr. P. H. Pearse, who published several other stanzas under the title of "Donall Oge," or "Young Donall," in the Irish Review of August 1911, tells us that he wrote it down from the words of Denis Dorgan of Carrignavar, Co. Cork. The Irish will be found printed in his and Mr. Tadhg O'Donoghue's An t-Aithriseóir (Gaelic League, 1902), p. 7. In all these versions there are some stanzas alike and some different to the others. We have printed nearly the whole of them here under the two titles of "Donall Oge" and "The Grief of a Girl's Heart." Both are full of the most heartrending expression of loss and loneliness. Lady Gregory, in her Poets and Dreamers, published a literal translation of the latter poem.
"Death the Comrade." Original in Dr. Hyde's Religious Songs, ii. pp. 288-90.
"Muirneen of the Fair Hair." Original in Dr. Hyde's Love-Songs, pp. 10-12. Cf. another Munster version on p. 16, and one given by Hardiman, i. p. 354.
"The Red Man's Wife." A popular theme on which there are many variations. We give two, the originals of both being taken from Dr. Hyde's Love-Songs, pp. 92 and 94. The first is a Galway version, the second from Co. Meath. The latter was first printed in the Oban Times. Yet another version is given in Dr. Hyde's edition of Raftery's Poems, p. 210.
"My Grief on the Sea." Original in Dr. Hyde's Love-Songs. It was taken down by him from an old woman named Biddy Cusruaidh or Crummy, living in the midst of a bog in Co. Roscommon.
"Oró Mhór, a Mhóirín." Original in Petrie's Ancient Music of Ireland, p. 120. It was obtained by him from Teigue MacMahon, a peasant of Co. Clare. Mr. P. J. McCall's poem was printed in his Pulse of the Bards (Gill & Son, 1904), p. 50.
"The Little Yellow Road." Original taken down by Prof. John MacNeill in Co. Mayo in July 1894, and printed by him in the Gaelic Journal for that year (vol. v., No. 6), p. 91. There are several versions of An Bóithrín buidhe; see for another, Petrie's Ancient Music, p. 24. Mr. Campbell's translation, kindly contributed to this collection, has not been published before.
"Reproach to the Pipe" (Másladh an Phíopa). The original, taken down in Galway, will be found in the Gaelic Journal (vol. vi., No. 5), p. 73.
"Modereen Rue." Mrs. Tynan-Hinkson's poem is not a direct translation, but a spirited free version of the favourite Gaelic song of this name; it was published in The Wind in the Trees (Grant Richards, 1898), p. 98.
"The Stars Stand Up" (Táid na realta 'n-a seasadh ar an aer). Original in Ceól-sídhe, Part iv., p. 50, among other places. I have altered the last four lines.
"The Love Smart." Original in Dr. Hyde's Love-Songs, p. 22.
"Well for Thee." Original, ibid., p. 130.
"I am Raftery the Poet." From Dr. Hyde's edition of Raftery's Poems (H. M. Gill & Son, Dublin, 1903), p. 40.
"Dust hath closed Helen's eye." Original, ibid., p. 330. Mr. W. B. Yeats has slightly worked over Lady Gregory's rendering. Mary Hynes, who "died of fever before the famine," has left a tradition of beauty behind her in her own country. "She was the finest thing that was ever shaped," said an old fiddler who remembered her well. Baoile laoi (Ballylee) is a little village of some half-dozen houses in the barony of Kiltartan. Lady Gregory's beautiful rendering was published in an article by Mr. W. B. Yeats in The Dome, New Series, vol. iv. p. 161.
"The Shining Posy" or "Mary Stanton," ibid., p. 320. We must remember that poor Raftery, who praises so warmly the beauty of women, saw them only with the eyes of his imagination, for he was blind. His verses seem to have been impromptu compositions. The classical allusions are very characteristic of the wandering bards, who liked to show off their acquaintance with the heroes of bygone ages.
"Love is a Mortal Disease" (Is claoidhte an galar an grádh). Original in Smoílín na Rann, a collection of Connaught songs made by Mr. Fionan McCollum, "Finghin na Leamhna" (Gaelic League, 1908).
"I am watching my young calves sucking." This and the two following poems, "The Narrow Road" and "Forsaken," are translated from Dr. Douglas Hyde's little collection of original Irish songs called Ubhla de'n Chraoibh, or Apples of the Bough (Gill & Son, Dublin).
"I Follow a Star." Translated by Seosamh mac Cathmhaoil (James Campbell) from his own Irish poem, and published by him in The Gilly of Christ (Maunsell & Co., Dublin).
"Nurse's Song." Published by Mr. Alfred M. Williams in his The Poets and Poetry of Ireland (Houghton, Mifflin and Co., Boston and New York). The song is traditional, and its author is unknown.
"A Sleep Song." Original in Gaelic Journal, May 1911, p. 141. The song was partly taken down from Mr. McAuley Lynch in West Cork, and partly recollected from childhood by Mr. P. H. Pearse, the translator.
"The Cradle of Gold." From Mr. Alfred P. Graves' Irish Poems, ii. p. 117 (Maunsel & Co.). Original in Petrie's Ancient Music of Ireland, p. 146. "Rural Song." Original in Petrie's Ancient Music of Ireland, p. 43. Joyce's Irish Music gives some extra stanzas.
"Ploughing Song." Original, ibid., p. 30.
"A Spinning-wheel Ditty." Ibid., p. 85.
THE END
Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.
at Paul's Work, Edinburgh
Transcriber's notes:
Inconsistent use of accents across text, titles and poems in the original has been retained.