Part 2

These three poets published much of their best work before and during the Fenian movement, which, like 'Young Ireland,' had its poets, though but a small number. Charles Kickham, one of the 'triumvirate' that controlled it in Ireland; John Casey, a clerk in a flour-mill; and Ellen O'Leary, the sister of Mr John O'Leary, were at times very excellent. Their verse lacks, curiously enough, the oratorical vehemence of Young Ireland, and is plaintive and idyllic. The agrarian movement that followed produced but little poetry, and of that little all is forgotten but a vehement poem by Fanny Parnell, and a couple of songs by Mr T.D. Sullivan, who is a good song-writer, though not, as the writer has read on an election placard, 'one of the greatest poets who ever moved the heart of man.' But while Nationalist verse has ceased to be a portion of the propaganda of a party, it has been written, and is being written, under the influence of the Nationalist newspapers and of Young Ireland societies and the like. With an exacting conscience, and better models than Thomas Moore and the Young Irelanders, such beautiful enthusiasm could not fail to make some beautiful verses. But, as things are, the rhythms are mechanical, and the metaphors conventional; and inspiration is too often worshipped as a Familiar who labours while you sleep, or forget, or do many worthy things which are not spiritual things. For the most part, the Irishman of our times loves so deeply those arts which build up a gallant personality, rapid writing, ready talking, effective speaking to crowds, that he has no thought for the arts which consume the personality in solitude. He loves the mortal arts which have given him a lure to take the hearts of men, and shrinks from the immortal, which could but divide him from his fellows. And in this century, he who does not strive to be a perfect craftsman achieves nothing. The poor peasant of the eighteenth century could make fine ballads by abandoning himself to the joy or sorrow of the moment, as the reeds abandon themselves to the wind which sighs through them, because he had about him a world where all was old enough to be steeped in emotion. But we cannot take to ourselves, by merely thrusting out our hands, all we need of pomp and symbol, and if we have not the desire of artistic perfection for an ark, the deluge of incoherence, vulgarity, and triviality will pass over our heads. If we had no other symbols but the tumult of the sea, the rusted gold of the thatch, the redness of the quicken-berry, and had never known the rhetoric of the platform and of the newspaper, we could do without laborious selection and rejection; but, even then, though we might do much that would be delightful, that would inspire coming times, it would not have the manner of the greatest poetry.

Here and there, the Nationalist newspapers and the Young Ireland societies have trained a writer who, though busy with the old models, has some imaginative energy; while Mr Lionel Johnson, Mrs Hinkson, Miss Nora Hopper, and A.E., the successors of Allingham and Ferguson and Mr de Vere, are more anxious to influence and understand Irish thought than any of their predecessors who did not take the substance of their poetry from politics. They are distinguished too by their deliberate art, and with their preoccupation with spiritual passions and memories. Mr Lionel Johnson and Mrs Hinkson are both Catholic and devout, but Mr Lionel Johnson's poetry is lofty and austere, and, like Mr de Vere's, never long forgets the greatness of his Church and the interior life whose expression it is, while Mrs Hinkson is happiest when she embodies emotions, that have the innocence of childhood, in symbols and metaphors from the green world about her. She has no reverie nor speculation, but a devout tenderness like that of S. Francis for weak instinctive things, old gardeners, old fishermen, birds among the leaves, birds tossed upon the waters. Miss Hopper belongs to that school of writers which embodies passions, that are not the less spiritual because no Church has put them into prayers, in stories and symbols from old Celtic poetry and mythology. The poetry of A.E., at its best, finds its symbols and its stories in the soul itself, and has a more disembodied ecstasy than any poetry of our time. He is the chief poet of the school of Irish mystics, which has shaped Mr Charles Weekes, who published recently, but withdrew immediately, a curious and subtle book, and Mr John Eglinton, who is best known for the orchestral harmonies of his 'Two Essays on the Remnant,' and certain younger writers who have heard the words, 'If ye know these things, happy are ye if ye do them,' and thought the labours that bring the mystic vision more important than the labours of any craft.

Except some few Catholic and mystical poets and Prof. Dowden in one or two poems, no Irishman living in Ireland has sung excellently of any but a theme from Irish experience, Irish history, or Irish tradition. Trinity College, which desires to be English, has been the mother of many verse-writers and of few poets; and this can only be because she has set herself against the national genius, and taught her children to imitate alien styles and choose out alien themes, for it is not possible to believe that the educated Irishman alone is prosaic and uninventive. Her few poets have been awakened by the influence of the farm-labourers, potato-diggers, pedlars, and hedge-schoolmasters of the eighteenth century, and their imitators in this, and not by a scholastic life, which, for reasons easy for all to understand and for many to forgive, has refused the ideals of Ireland, while those of England are but far-off murmurs. An enemy to all enthusiasms, because all enthusiasms seemed her enemies, she has taught her children to look neither to the world about them, nor into their own souls where some dangerous fire might slumber.

To remember that in Ireland the professional and landed classes have been through the mould of Trinity College or of English Universities, and are ignorant of the very names of the best writers in this book, is to know how strong a wind blows from the ancient legends of Ireland, how vigorous an impulse to create is in her heart to-day. Deserted by the classes from among whom have come the bulk of the world's intellect, she struggles on, gradually ridding herself of incoherence and triviality, and slowly building up a literature in English which, whether important or unimportant, grows always more unlike others; nor does it seem as if she would long lack a living literature in Gaelic, for the movement for the preservation of Gaelic, which has been so much more successful than anybody foresaw, has already its poets. Dr Hyde, who can only be represented here by some of his beautiful translations, has written Gaelic poems which pass from mouth to mouth in the west of Ireland. The country people have themselves fitted them to ancient airs, and many that can neither read nor write, sing them in Donegal and Connemara and Galway. I have, indeed, but little doubt that Ireland, communing with herself in Gaelic more and more, but speaking to foreign countries in English, will lead many that are sick with theories and with trivial emotion, to some sweet well-waters of primeval poetry. W.B.Y.

The editor thanks Mr Aubrey de Vere, Mr T.W. Rolleston, Dr J. Todhunter, Mr Alfred Perceval Graves, Dr Douglas Hyde, Mr Lionel Johnson, A.E., Mr Charles Weekes, Mr John Eglinton, Mrs Hinkson, Miss Dora Sigerson (Mrs Clement Shortes), and Miss Nora Hopper for permission to quote from their poems, Lady Ferguson and Mrs Allingham for leave to give poems by Sir Samuel Ferguson and William Allingham, and Messrs Chatto & Windus for permission to include a song of Arthur O'Shaughnessy's. Two writers are excluded whom he would gladly have included--Casey, because the copyright holders have refused permission, and Mr George Armstrong, because his 'Songs of Wicklow,' when interesting, are too long for this book.

OLD AGE

_From the 'Deserted Village'_

In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs--and God has given my share-- I still had hopes my later hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close And keep the flame from wasting by repose; I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return--and die at home at last.

_Oliver Goldsmith_

THE VILLAGE PREACHER

_From the 'Deserted Village'_

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, And still where many a garden flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village Preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change, his place; Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain; The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allow'd; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talked the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, He pity gave ere charity began.

_Oliver Goldsmith_

THE DESERTER'S MEDITATION

If sadly thinking, with spirits sinking, Could, more than drinking, my cares compose, A cure for sorrow from sighs I'd borrow, And hope to-morrow would end my woes.

But as in wailing there's nought availing, And Death unfailing will strike the blow, Then for that reason, and for a season, Let us be merry before we go!

To joy a stranger, a wayworn ranger, In every danger my course I've run; Now hope all ending, and death befriending, His last aid lending, my cares are done;

No more a rover, or hapless lover-- My griefs are over--my glass runs low; Then for that reason, and for a season, Let us be merry before we go!

_John Philpot Curran_

THOU CANST NOT BOAST

Thou canst not boast of Fortune's store, My love, while me they wealthy call: But I was glad to find thee poor, For with my heart I'd give thee all, And then the grateful youth shall own, I loved him for himself alone.

But when his worth my hand shall gain, No word or look of mine shall show That I the smallest thought retain Of what my bounty did bestow: Yet still his grateful heart shall own, I loved him for himself alone.

_Richard Brinsley Sheridan_

KATHLEEN O'MORE

My love, still I think that I see her once more, But, alas! she has left me her loss to deplore-- My own little Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen, My Kathleen O'More!

Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue, Her colour still changing, her smiles ever new-- So pretty was Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen, My Kathleen O'More!

She milked the dun cow, that ne'er offered to stir; Though wicked to all, it was gentle to her-- So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen, My Kathleen O'More!

She sat at the door one cold afternoon, To hear the wind blow, and to gaze on the moon, So pensive was Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen, My Kathleen O'More!

Cold was the night-breeze that sighed round her bower, It chilled my poor Kathleen, she drooped from that hour: And I lost my poor Kathleen, my own little Kathleen, My Kathleen O'More.

The Bird of all birds that I love the best, Is the Robin that in the churchyard builds his nest; For he seems to watch Kathleen, hops lightly o'er Kathleen, My Kathleen O'More.

_James Nugent Reynolds_

THE GROVES OF BLARNEY

The groves of Blarney They look so charming Down by the purling Of sweet, silent brooks, Being banked with posies That spontaneous grow there, Planted in order By the sweet rock close. 'Tis there's the daisy And the sweet carnation, The blooming pink, And the rose so fair, The daffydowndilly, Likewise the lily, All flowers that scent The sweet, fragrant air.

'Tis Lady Jeffers That owns this station; Like Alexander, Or Queen Helen fair. There's no commander In all the nation, For emulation, Can with her compare. Such walls surround her That no nine-pounder Could dare to plunder Her place of strength; But Oliver Cromwell Her he did pommell, And made a breach In her battlement.

There's gravel walks there For speculation And conversation In sweet solitude. 'Tis there the lover May hear the dove, or The gentle plover In the afternoon; And if a lady Would be so engaging As to walk alone in Those shady bowers, 'Tis there the courtier He may transport her Into some fort, or All under ground.

For 'tis there's a cave where No daylight enters, But cats and badgers Are for ever bred; Being mossed by nature, That makes it sweeter Than a coach-and-six or A feather bed. 'Tis there the lake is, Well stored with perches, And comely eels in The verdant mud; Beside the leeches, And groves of beeches, Standing in order For to guard the flood.

There's statues gracing This noble place in-- All heathen gods And nymphs so fair; Bold Neptune, Plutarch, And Nicodemus, All standing naked In the open air. So now to finish This brave narration, Which my poor genii Could not entwine; But were I Homer Or Nebuchadnezzar, 'Tis in every feature I would make it shine.

_Richard Alfred Milliken_

THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS

Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone Now dimm'd and gone, The cheerful homes now broken! Then in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain hath bound me, Sad memory brings the light Of other days around me.

When I remember all The friends so linked together I've seen around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed. Then in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain hath bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

_Thomas Moore_

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, And tell me our love is remembered even in the sky!

Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear; And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from the kingdom of souls Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

_Thomas Moore_

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral-note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed, And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-- But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-- But we left him alone in his glory.

_Rev. Charles Wolfe_

THE CONVICT OF CLONMELL

_From the Irish_

How hard is my fortune, And vain my repining! The strong rope of fate For this young neck is twining. My strength is departed; My cheek sunk and sallow; While I languish in chains, In the gaol of _Cluanmeala_.

No boy in the village Was ever yet milder, I'd play with a child, And my sport would be wilder. I'd dance without tiring From morning till even, And the goal-ball I'd strike To the lightning of Heaven.

At my bed-foot decaying, My hurlbat is lying, Through the boys of the village My goal-ball is flying; My horse 'mong the neighbours Neglected may fallow,-- While I pine in my chains, In the gaol of _Cluanmeala_.

Next Sunday the patron At home will be keeping, And the young active hurlers The field will be sweeping. With the dance of fair maidens The evening they'll hallow, While this heart, once so gay, Shall be cold in _Cluanmeala_.

_Jeremiah Joseph Callanan_

THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE

_From the Irish_

O, many a day have I made good ale in the glen, That came not of stream or malt;--like the brewing of men. My bed was the ground; my roof, the greenwood above, And the wealth that I sought one far kind glance from my love.

Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field, That I was not near from terror my angel to shield. She stretched forth her arms,--her mantle she flung to the wind, And swam o'er Loch Lene, her outlawed lover to find.

O would that a freezing sleet-wing'd tempest did sweep, And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep; I'd ask not a ship, or a bark, or pinnace, to save,-- With her hand round my waist, I'd fear not the wind or the wave.

'Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringes its sides, The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides;-- I think as at eve she wanders its mazes along, The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of her song.

_Jeremiah Joseph Callanan_

DIRGE OF O'SULLIVAN BEAR

_From the Irish_

The sun on Ivera No longer shines brightly, The voice of her music No longer is sprightly; No more to her maidens The light dance is dear, Since the death of our darling O'Sullivan Bear.

Scully! thou false one, You basely betrayed him, In his strong hour of need, When thy right hand should aid him; He fed thee--he clad thee-- You had all could delight thee: You left him--you sold him-- May Heaven requite thee!

Scully! may all kinds Of evil attend thee! On thy dark road of life May no kind one befriend thee! May fevers long burn thee, And agues long freeze thee! May the strong hand of God In His red anger seize thee!

Had he died calmly, I would not deplore him; Or if the wild strife Of the sea-war closed o'er him: But with ropes round his white limbs Through ocean to trail him, Like a fish after slaughter-- 'Tis therefore I wail him.

Long may the curse Of his people pursue them; Scully, that sold him, And soldier that slew him! One glimpse of heaven's light May they see never! May the hearthstone of hell Be their best bed for ever!

In the hole which the vile hands Of soldiers had made thee, Unhonour'd, unshrouded, And headless they laid thee; No sigh to regret thee, No eye to rain o'er thee, No dirge to lament thee, No friend to deplore thee!

Dear head of my darling, How gory and pale, These aged eyes see thee, High spiked on their gaol! That cheek in the summer sun Ne'er shall grow warm; Nor that eye e'er catch light, But the flash of the storm.

A curse, blessed ocean, Is on thy green water, From the haven of Cork To Ivera of slaughter: Since thy billows were dyed With the red wounds of fear Of Muiertach Oge, Our O'Sullivan Bear!

_Jeremiah Joseph Callanan_

LOVE SONG

Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through her hair; Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers Breathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air.

Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming To wind round the willow banks that lure him from above; O that in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, I too could glide to the bower of my love!

Ah, where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her, Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay, Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her, To her lost mate's call in the forests far away.

Come then, my bird! For the peace thou ever bearest, Still heaven's messenger of comfort to me, Come, this fond bosom, O faithfulest and fairest Bleeds with its death-wound its wound of love for thee!

_George Darley_

THE WHISTLIN' THIEF

When Pat came over the hill, His colleen fair to see, His whistle low, but shrill, The signal was to be;

(_Pat whistles._)

'Mary,' the mother said, 'Some one is whistling sure;' Says Mary, ''Tis only the wind Is whistling through the door.'

(_Pat whistles a bit of a popular air._)

'I've lived a long time, Mary, In this wide world, my dear, But a door to whistle like _that_ I never yet did hear.'

'But, mother, you know the fiddle Hangs close beside the chink, And the wind upon the strings Is playing the tune I think.'

(_The pig grunts._)

'Mary, I hear the pig, Unaisy in his mind.' 'But, mother, you know, they say The pigs can see the wind.'

'That's true enough _in the day_, But I think you may remark, That pigs no more nor we Can see anything in the dark.'

(_The dog barks._)

'The dog is barking now, The fiddle can't play the tune.' 'But, mother, the dogs will bark Whenever they see the moon.'