Songs of the Glens of Antrim

by Moira O'Neill

Denny's daughter stood a minute in the field I be to pass,

All as quiet as her shadow lyin' by her on the grass;

In her hand a switch o' hazel from the nut tree's crooked root,

Well I mind the crown o' clover crumpled undher one bare foot.

For the look of her,

The look of her

Comes back on me to-day,—

Wi' the eyes of her,

The eyes of her

That took me on the way.

Though I seen poor Denny's daughter white an' stiff upon her bed,

Yet I be to think there's sunlight fallin' somewhere on her head:

She'll be singin' Ave Mary where the flowers never wilt,

She, the girl my own hands covered wi' the narrow daisy-quilt....

For the love of her,

The love of her

That would not be my wife:

An' the loss of her,

The loss of her

Has left me lone for life.

LOST.

Listen, oh my jewel, I would say,—

Only wait to' I can get the word:

Sure I thought I had it sweet an' gay

Like the bravest song o' summer bird.

Faith! I knew it well an' very well

When this hour the rain begun to fall,

Now the sorra one o' me can tell

What about it was at all, at all.

Listen, oh my jewel, I was wrong,—

Never, never lived a word so sad;

Not the heavy sea that drives along

Bears such weighty throuble as it had.

Och anee! wi' ne'er a voice to cry,

Like the weary cloud or drownin' moon

So it sank, or so was carried by:

Never told is all forgot so soon.

"CUTTIN' RUSHES."

Oh maybe it was yesterday, or fifty years ago!

Meself was risin' early on a day for cuttin' rushes.

Walkin' up the Brabla' burn, still the sun was low.

Now I'd hear the burn run an' then I'd hear the thrushes.

Young, still young!—an' drenchin' wet the grass,

Wet the golden honeysuckle hangin' sweetly down;

Here, lad, here! will ye follow where I pass,

An' find me cuttin' rushes on the mountain.

Then was it only yesterday, or fifty years or so?

Rippin' round the bog pools high among the heather,

The hook it made me hand sore, I had to leave it go,

'Twas he that cut the rushes then for me to bind together.

Come, dear, come!—an' back along the burn

See the darlin' honeysuckle hangin' like a crown.

Quick, one kiss,—sure, there' some one at the turn!

"Oh, we're afther cuttin' rushes on the mountain."

Yesterday, yesterday, or fifty years ago....

I waken out o' dreams when I hear the summer thrushes.

Oh, that's the Brabla' burn, I can hear it sing an' flow,

For all that's fair, I'd sooner see a bunch o' green rushes.

Run, burn, run! can ye mind when we were young?

The honeysuckle hangs above, the pool is dark an' brown:

Sing, burn, sing! can ye mind the song ye sung

The day we cut the rushes on the mountain?

"THE OULD LAD."

I mind meself a wee boy wi' no plain talk,

An' standin' not the height o' two peats;

There was things meself consated 'or the time that I could walk,

An' who's to tell when wit an' childer meets?

'Twas the daisies down in the low grass,

The stars high up in the skies,

The first I knowed of a mother's face

Wi' the kind love in her eyes,

Och, och!

The kind love in her eyes.

I went the way of other lads that's neither good nor bad,

An' still, d'ye see, a lad has far to go;

But the things meself consated when I wasn't sick nor sad,

They're aisy told, an' little use to know.

'Twas whiles a boat on the say beyont,

An' whiles a girl on the shore,

An' whiles a scrape o' the fiddle-strings,

Or maybe an odd thing more

In troth!

Maybe an odd thing more.

A man, they say, in spite of all, is betther for a wife,

In-undher this ould roof I live me lone;

I never seen the woman yet I wanted all me life,

An' I never made me pillow on a stone.

'Tis "fancy buys the ribbon" an' all,

An' fancy sticks to the young;

But a man of his years can do wi' a pipe

Can smoke an' hould his tongue,

D'ye mind,

Smoke an' hould his tongue.

Ye see me now an ould man, his work near done,

Sure the hair upon me head's gone white;

But the things meself consated 'or the time that I could run,

They're the nearest to me heart this night.

Just the daisies down in the low grass,

The stars high up in the skies,

The first I knowed of a mother's face

Wi' the kind love in her eyes,

Och, och!

The kind love in her eyes.

THE RACHRAY MAN.

Och, what was it got me at all that time

To promise I'd marry a Rachray man?

An' now he'll not listen to rason or rhyme,

He's strivin' to hurry me all that he can.

"Come on, an' ye be to come on!" says he,

"Ye're bound for the Island, to live wi' me."

See Rachray Island beyont in the bay,

An' the dear knows what they be doin' out there

But fishin' an' fightin' an' tearin' away,

An' who's to hindher, an' what do they care?

The goodness can tell what 'ud happen to me

When Rachray 'ud have me, anee, anee!

I might have took Pether from over the hill,

A dacent poacher, the kind poor boy:

Could I keep the ould places about me still

I'd never set foot out o' sweet Ballyvoy.

My sorra on Rachray, the could sea-caves,

An' blackneck divers, an' weary ould waves!

I'll never win back now, whatever may fall,

So give me good luck, for ye'll see me no more;

Sure an Island man is the mischief an' all—

An' me that never was married before!

Oh think o' my fate when ye dance at a fair,

In Rachray there' no Christianity there.

BIRDS.