Part 10

Like music by the desolate Land's End, Mournful forgetfulness hath broken: No more words kindred to the winds are spoken, Where upon iron cliffs whole seas expend That strength, whereof the unalterable token Remains wild music, even to the world's end.

_Lionel Johnson_

TO MORFYDD

A voice on the winds, A voice on the waters, Wanders and cries:

_O! what are the winds? And what are the waters? Mine are your eyes._

Western the winds are, And western the waters, Where the light lies:

_O! what are the winds? And what are the waters? Mine are your eyes._

Cold, cold, grow the winds, And dark grow the waters, Where the sun dies:

_O! what are the winds? And what are the waters? Mine are your eyes._

And down the night winds, And down the night waters The music flies:

_O! what are the winds? And what are the waters? Cold be the winds, And wild be the waters, So mine be your eyes._

_Lionel Johnson_

CAN DOOV DEELISH

Can doov deelish, beside the sea I stand and stretch my hands to thee Across the world. The riderless horses race to shore With thundering hoofs and shuddering, hoar, Blown manes uncurled.

Can doov deelish, I cry to thee Beyond the world, beneath the sea, Thou being dead. Where hast thou hidden from the beat Of crushing hoofs and tearing feet Thy dear black head?

God bless the woman, whoever she be, From the tossing waves will recover thee And lashing wind. Who will take thee out of the wind and storm, Dry thy wet face on her bosom warm And lips so kind?

I not to know. It is hard to pray, But I shall for this woman from day to day, 'Comfort my dead, The sport of the winds and the play of the sea.' I loved thee too well for this thing to be, O dear black head!

_Dora Sigerson_

ANONYMOUS

SHULE AROON

I would I were on yonder hill, 'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill, And every tear would turn a mill, _Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn. Shule, shule, shule aroon, Shule go succir, agus shule go cuin, Shule go den durrus agus eligh lum, Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn._

I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel, I'll sell my only spinning-wheel, To buy for my love a sword of steel, _Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn._

_Chorus._

I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red, And around the world I'll beg my bread, Until my parents shall wish me dead, _Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn._

_Chorus._

I wish, I wish, I wish in vain, I wish I had my heart again, And vainly think I'd not complain, _Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn._

_Chorus._

But now my love has gone to France, To try his fortune to advance; If he e'er come back 'tis but a chance, _Is go de tu mo vuirnin slàn._

_Chorus._

THE SHAN VAN VOCHT

O! the French are on the sea, Says the _shan van vocht_; The French are on the sea, Says the _shan van vocht_; O! the French are in the bay, They'll be here without delay, And the Orange will decay, Says the _shan van vocht_.

_Chorus._

O! the French are in the bay, They'll be here by break of day, And the Orange will decay, Says the _shan van vocht_.

And their camp it shall be where? Says the _shan van vocht_; Their camp it shall be where? Says the _shan van vocht_; On the Currach of Kildare, The boys they will be there, With their pikes in good repair, Says the _shan van vocht_.

To the Currach of Kildare The boys they will repair, And Lord Edward will be there, Says the _shan van vocht_.

Then what will the yeomen do? Says the _shan van vocht_; What will the yeomen do? Says the _shan van vocht_; What _should_ the yeomen do But throw off the red and blue, And swear that they'll be true To the _shan van vocht_?

What _should_ the yeomen do But throw off the red and blue, And swear that they'll be true To the _shan van vocht_?

And what colour will they wear? Says the _shan van vocht_; What colour will they wear? Says the _shan van vocht_; What colour should be seen Where our fathers' homes have been, But our own immortal Green? Says the _shan van vocht_.

What colour should be seen Where our fathers' homes have been, But our own immortal Green? Says the _shan van vocht_.

And will Ireland then be free? Says the _shan van vocht_; Will Ireland then be free? Says the _shan van vocht_; Yes! Ireland SHALL be free, From the centre to the sea; Then hurra! for Liberty! Says the _shan van vocht_.

Yes! Ireland SHALL be free, From the centre to the sea; Then hurra! for Liberty! Says the _shan van vocht_.

THE WEARING OF THE GREEN

O Paddy dear, and did you hear the news that's going round? The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground; St. Patrick's day no more we'll keep, his colours can't be seen, For there's a bloody law agin the wearing of the green. I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand, And he said, 'How's poor old Ireland, and how does she stand?' She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen, They are hanging men and women for the wearing of the green.

Then if the colour we must wear be England's cruel red, Let it remind us of the blood that Ireland has shed. You may take the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod, But 'twill take root and flourish there, though under foot 'tis trod. When law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they grow, And when the leaves in summer-time their verdure dare not show, Then I will change the colour that I wear in my caubeen, But 'till that day, please God, I'll stick to wearing of the green.

THE RAKES OF MALLOW

Beauing, belleing, dancing, drinking, Breaking windows, damning, sinking, Ever raking, never thinking, Live the rakes of Mallow.

Spending faster than it comes, Beating waiters, bailiffs, duns, Bacchus's true-begotten sons, Live the rakes of Mallow.

One time nought but claret drinking, Then like politicians thinking To raise the sinking funds when sinking, Live the rakes of Mallow.

When at home with dadda dying, Still for Mallow water crying; But where there's good claret plying, Live the rakes of Mallow.

Living short, but merry lives; Going where the devil drives; Having sweethearts, but no wives, Live the rakes of Mallow.

Racking tenants, stewards teasing, Swiftly spending, slowly raising, Wishing to spend all their days in Raking as at Mallow.

Then to end this raking life They get sober, take a wife, Ever after live in strife, And wish again for Mallow.

JOHNNY, I HARDLY KNEW YE

_Street Ballad_

While going the road to sweet Athy, Hurroo! hurroo! While going the road to sweet Athy, Hurroo! hurroo! While going the road to sweet Athy, A stick in my hand and a drop in my eye, A doleful damsel I heard cry:-- 'Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye! With drums and guns and guns and drums The enemy nearly slew ye, My darling dear, you look so queer, Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

'Where are your eyes that looked so mild? Hurroo! hurroo! Where are your eyes that looked so mild? Hurroo! hurroo! Where are your eyes that looked so mild, When my poor heart you first beguiled? Why did you run from me and the child? Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye! With drums, etc.

'Where are the legs with which you run? Hurroo! hurroo! Where are the legs with which you run? Hurroo! hurroo! Where are the legs with which you run, When you went to carry a gun?-- Indeed, your dancing days are done! Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye With drums, etc.

'It grieved my heart to see you sail, Hurroo! hurroo! It grieved my heart to see you sail, Hurroo! hurroo! It grieved my heart to see you sail, Though from my heart you took leg bail,-- Like a cod you're doubled up head and tail. Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye! With drums, etc.

'You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg, Hurroo! hurroo! You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg, Hurroo! hurroo! You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg, You're an eyeless, noseless, chickenless egg; You'll have to be put in a bowl to beg: Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye! With drums, etc.

'I'm happy for to see you home, Hurroo! hurroo! I'm happy for to see you home, Hurroo! hurroo! I'm happy for to see you home, All from the island of Sulloon, So low in flesh, so high in bone, Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye! With drums, etc.

'But sad as it is to see you so, Hurroo! hurroo! But sad as it is to see you so, Hurroo! hurroo! But sad as it is to see you so, And to think of you now as an object of woe, Your Peggy'll still keep ye on as her beau; Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

'With drums and guns and guns and drums, The enemy nearly slew ye, My darling dear, you look so queer, Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!'

KITTY OF COLERAINE

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled, And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain. O! what shall I do now! 'Twas looking at you, now; Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again; 'Twas the pride of my dairy! O Barney O'Cleary, You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine!

I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her, That such a misfortune should give her such pain; A kiss then I gave her, and ere I did leave her, She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again. 'Twas haymaking season--I can't tell the reason-- Misfortunes will never come single 'tis plain; For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

LAMENT OF MORIAN SHEHONE FOR MISS MARY ROURKE

_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. O! 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? O! 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-- O! that their lamentations could awake thee from thy sleep! O! that thy peerless form again could meet my loving clasp! O! 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. O! am I left to pour my wail above thy grave alone?' Then sinks in silence the lament of Morian Shehone!

THE GERALDINE'S DAUGHTER

Speak low!--speak low--the banshee is crying; Hark! hark to the echo!--she's dying! 'she's dying.' What shadow flits dark'ning the face of the water? 'Tis the swan of the lake--'tis _the Geraldine's Daughter_.

Hush, hush! have you heard what the banshee said? O! list to the echo! she's dead! 'she's dead!' No shadow now dims the face of the water; Gone, gone is the wraith of _the Geraldine's Daughter_.

The step of yon train is heavy and slow, There's wringing of hands, there's breathing of woe; What melody rolls over mountain and water? 'Tis the funeral chant of _the Geraldine's Daughter_.

The requiem sounds like the plaintive moan Which the wind makes over the sepulchre's stone; 'O, why did she die? our hearts' blood had bought her! O, why did she die, _the Geraldine's Daughter_?' The thistle-beard floats--the wild roses wave With the blast that sweeps over the newly-made grave; The stars dimly twinkle, and hoarse falls the water, While night-birds are wailing _the Geraldine's Daughter_.

BY MEMORY INSPIRED

_Street Ballad_

By Memory inspired, And love of country fired, The deeds of Men I love to dwell upon; And the patriotic glow Of my spirit must bestow A tribute to O'Connell that is gone, boys, gone! Here's a memory to the friends that are gone.

In October 'Ninety-seven-- May his soul find rest in Heaven-- William Orr to execution was led on: The jury, drunk, agreed That Irish was his creed; For perjury and threats drove them on, boys, on: Here's the memory of John Mitchell that is gone.

In 'Ninety-Eight--the month July-- The informer's pay was high; When Reynolds gave the gallows brave MacCann; But MacCann was Reynolds' first-- One could not allay his thirst; So he brought up Bond and Byrne, that are gone, boys, gone. Here's the memory of the friends that are gone!

We saw a nation's tears Shed for John and Henry Shears; Betrayed by Judas, Captain Armstrong; We may forgive, but yet We never can forget The poisoning of Maguire that is gone, boys, gone-- Our high Star and true Apostle that is gone!

How did Lord Edward die? Like a man, without a sigh; But he left his handiwork on Major Swan! But Sirr, with steel-clad breast, And coward heart at best, Left us cause to mourn Lord Edward that is gone, boys, gone: Here's the memory of our friends that are gone!

September, Eighteen-three, Closed this cruel history, When Emmett's blood the scaffold flowed upon O, had their spirits been wise, They might then realize Their freedom--but we drink to Mitchell that is gone, boys, gone: Here's the memory of the friends that are gone!

A FOLK VERSE

When you were an acorn on the tree top, Then was I an eagle cock; Now that you are a withered old block, Still am I an eagle cock.

NOTES

Page xxi, lines 21 to 25. A well-known poet of the Fenian times has made the curious boast--'Talking of work--since Sunday, two cols. notes, two cols. London gossip, and a leader one col., and one col. of verse for the _Nation_. For _Catholic Opinion_, two pages of notes and a leader. For _Illustrated Magazine_, three poems and a five col. story.'

Page 1. 'The deserted village' is Lissoy, near Ballymahon, and Sir Walter Scott tells of a hawthorn there which has been cut up into toothpicks by Goldsmith enthusiasts; but the feeling and atmosphere of the poem are unmistakably English.

Page 8. Some verses in 'The Epicurean' were put into French by Théophile Gautier for the French translation, and back again into English by Mr. Robert Bridges. If any Irish reader who thinks Moore a great poet, will compare his verses with the results of this double distillation, and notice the gradual disappearance of their vague rhythms and loose phrases, he will be the less angry with the introduction to this book. Moore wrote as follows--

You, who would try Yon terrible track, To live or to die, But ne'er to turn back.

You, who aspire To be purified there, By the terror of fire, Of water, and air,--

If danger, and pain, And death you despise, On--for again Into light you shall rise:

Rise into light With the secret divine, Now shrouded from sight By a veil of the shrine.

These lines are certainly less amazing than the scrannel piping of his usual anapæsts; but few will hold them to be 'of their own arduous fullness reverent'! Théophile Gautier sets them to his instrument in this fashion,

Vous qui voulez courir La terrible carrière, Il faut vivre ou mourir, Sans regard en arrière:

Vous qui voulez tenter L'onde, l'air, et la flamme, Terreurs à surmonter Pour épurer votre âme,

Si, méprisant la mort, Votre foi reste entière, En avant!--le coeur fort Reverra la lumière.

Et lira sur l'autel Le mot du grand mystère, Qu'au profane mortel Dérobe un voile austère.

Then comes Mr. Robert Bridges, and lifts them into the rapture and precision of poetry--

O youth whose hope is high, Who dost to truth aspire, Whether thou live or die, O look not back nor tire.

Thou that art bold to fly Through tempest, flood, and fire, Nor dost not shrink to try Thy heart in torments dire:

If thou canst Death defy, If thy faith is entire, Press onward, for thine eye Shall see thy heart's desire.

Beauty and love are nigh, And with their deathless quire-- Soon shall thine eager cry Be numbered and expire.

Page 27. 'Dark Rosaleen' is one of the old names of Ireland. Mangan's translation is very free; as a rule when he tried to translate literally, as in 'The Munster Bards,' all glimmer of inspiration left him.

Page 32, line 20. 'This passage is not exactly a blunder, though at first it may seem one: the poet supposes the grave itself transferred to Ireland, and he naturally includes in the transference the whole of the immediate locality about the grave' (Mangan note).

Page 47, line 6. The two Meaths once formed a distinct province.

Page 55, line 7. This poem is an account of Mangan's own life, and is, I think, redeemed out of rhetoric by its intensity. The following poem, 'Siberia,' describes, perhaps, his own life under a symbol.

Page 59. Hy Brasail, or Teer-Nan-Oge, is the island of the blessed, the paradise of ancient Ireland. It is still thought to be seen from time to time glimmering far off.

Page 61. _Mo Craoibhin Cno_ means my cluster of nuts, and is pronounced _Mo Chreevin Knò_.

Page 64. Mr. O'Keefe has sent the writer a Gaelic version of this poem, possibly by Walsh himself. A correspondent of his got it from an old peasant who had not a word of English. A well-known Gaelic scholar pronounces it a translation, and not the original of the present poem. _Mairgréad ni Chealleadh_ is pronounced _Mairgréd nei Kealley_. The _Ceanabhan_, pronounced _Kanovan_, is the bog cotton, and the _Monadan_ is a plant with a red berry found on marshy mountains.

Page 69. _A cuisle geal mo chroidhe_, pronounced _A cushla gal mo chre_, means 'bright pulse of my heart.'

Page 74. Sir Samuel Ferguson introduces the poem as follows:--

Several Welsh families, associates in the invasion of Strongbow, settled in the West of Ireland. Of these, the principal, whose names have been preserved by the Irish antiquarians, were the Walshes, Joyces, Heils (_a quibus_ MacHale), Lawlesses, Tolmyns, Lynotts, and Barretts, which last draw their pedigree from Walynes, son of Guyndally, the _Ard Maor_, or High Steward of the Lordship of Camelot, and had their chief seats in the territory of the two Bacs, in the barony of Tirawley, and county of Mayo. _Clochan-na-n'all_, i. e. 'The Blind Men's Stepping-stones,' are still pointed out on the Duvowen river, about four miles north of Crossmolina, in the townland of Garranard; and _Tubber-na-Scorney_, or 'Scrags Well,' in the opposite townland of Carns, in the same barony. For a curious _terrier_ or applotment of the Mac William's revenue, as acquired under the circumstances stated in the legend preserved by Mac Firbis, see Dr. O'Donovan's highly-learned and interesting 'Genealogies, &c. of Hy. Fiachrach,' in the publications of the _Irish Archæological Society_--a great monument of antiquarian and topographical erudition.

Page 90, line 6. 'William Conquer' was William Fitzadelm De Burgh, the Conqueror of Connaught.

Page 91, line 4. Sir Samuel Ferguson introduces the poem as follows:--

Aideen, daughter of Angus of Ben-Edar (now the Hill of Howth), died of grief for the loss of her husband, Oscar, son of Ossian, who was slain at the battle of Gavra (_Gowra_, near Tara in Meath), A.D. 284. Oscar was entombed in the rath or earthen fortress that occupied part of the field of battle, the rest of the slain being cast in a pit outside. Aideen is said to have been buried on Howth, near the mansion of her father, and poetical tradition represents the Fenian heroes as present at her obsequies. The Cromlech in Howth Park has been supposed to be her sepulchre. It stands under the summits from which the poet Atharne is said to have launched his invectives against the people of Leinster, until, by the blighting effect of his satires, they were compelled to make him atonement for the death of his son.

Page 99. 'There was then no man in the host of Ulster that could be found who would put the sons of Usnach to death, so loved were they of the people and nobles. But in the house of Conor was one called Mainé Rough Hand, son of the king of Lochlen, and Naesi had slain his father and two brothers, and he undertook to be their executioners. So the sons of Usnach were then slain, and the men of Ulster, when they beheld their death, sent forth their heavy shouts of sorrow and lamentation. Then Deirdre fell down beside their bodies wailing and weeping, and she tore her hair and garments and bestowed kisses on their lifeless lips and bitterly bemoaned them. And a grave was opened for them, and Deirdre, standing by it, with her hair dishevelled and shedding tears abundantly, chanted their funeral song.' (_Hibernian Nights' Entertainment_.)

Page 102. _Uileacan Dubh O_', pronounced _Uileacaun Doov O_, is a phrase of lamentation.

Page 108, line 16. 'Anna Grace' is the heroine of another ballad by Ferguson. She also was stolen by the Fairies.