Part 3

'But how could he see the moon, When, you know, the dog is blind? Blind dogs won't bark at the moon, Nor fiddles be played by the wind.

'I'm not such a fool as you think, I know very well it is Pat:-- Shut your mouth, you whistlin' thief, And go along home out o' that!

'And you be off to your bed, Don't play upon me your jeers; For though I have lost my eyes, I haven't lost my ears!'

_Samuel Lover_

SOGGARTH AROON

Am I the slave they say, Soggarth aroon? Since you did show the way, Soggarth aroon, _Their_ slave no more to be, While they would work with me Old Ireland's slavery, Soggarth aroon.

Why not her poorest man, Soggarth aroon, Try and do all he can, Soggarth aroon, Her commands to fulfil Of his own heart and will, Side by side with you still Soggarth aroon?

Loyal and brave to you, Soggarth aroon, Yet be not slave to you, Soggarth aroon, Nor, out of fear to you-- Stand up so near to you-- Och! out of fear to _you_, Soggarth aroon!

Who, in the winter's night, Soggarth aroon, When the cold blast did bite, Soggarth aroon, Came to my cabin-door, And, on my earthen-floor, Knelt by me, sick and poor, Soggarth aroon?

Who, on the marriage day, Soggarth aroon, Made the poor cabin gay, Soggarth aroon?-- And did both laugh and sing, Making our hearts to ring, At the poor christening, Soggarth aroon?

Who, as friend only met, Soggarth aroon, Never did flout me yet, Soggarth aroon? And when my heart was dim, Gave, while his eye did brim, What I should give to him, Soggarth aroon?

Och! you, and only you, Soggarth aroon! And for this I was true to you, Soggarth aroon, In love they'll never shake, When for old Ireland's sake, We a true part did take, Soggarth aroon!

_John Banim_

DARK ROSALEEN

_From the Irish_

O my Dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep! The priests are on the ocean green. They march along the deep. There's wine from the royal Pope, Upon the ocean green; And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, Shall give you health, and help, and hope, My Dark Rosaleen!

Over hills, and through dales, Have I roamed for your sake; All yesterday I sailed with sails On river and on lake, The Erne, at its highest flood, I dashed across unseen, For there was lightning in my blood, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! O there was lightning in my blood, Red lightning lightened through my blood, My Dark Rosaleen!

All day long in unrest To and fro do I move, The very heart within my breast Is wasted for you, Love! The heart in my bosom faints To think of you, my queen! My life of life, my saint of saints, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! To hear your sweet and sad complaints, My life, my love, my saint of saints, My Dark Rosaleen!

Woe and pain, pain and woe, Are my lot night and noon; To see your bright face clouded so, Like to the mournful moon. But yet will I rear your throne Again in golden sheen: 'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! 'Tis you shall have the golden throne, 'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, My Dark Rosaleen!

Over dews, over sands, Will I fly for your weal: Your holy, delicate white hands Shall girdle me with steel. At home, in your emerald bowers, From morning's dawn till e'en, You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers, My Dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen! You'll think of me through daylight's hours, My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, My Dark Rosaleen!

I could scale the blue air, I could plough the high hills, O, I could kneel all night in prayer, To heal your many ills. And one beamy smile from you Would float like light between My toils and me, my own, my true, My Dark Rosaleen! My fond Rosaleen! Would give me life and soul anew, A second life, a soul anew, My Dark Rosaleen!

O! the Erne shall run red With redundance of blood, The earth shall rock beneath our tread, And flames wrap hill and wood, And gun-peal, and slogan cry, Wake many a glen serene, Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! The Judgment Hour must first be nigh Ere you can fade, ere you can die, My Dark Rosaleen!

_James Clarence Mangan_

LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OF TYRONE AND TYRCONNELL

_From the Irish_

O woman of the Piercing Wail, Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay With sigh and groan, Would God thou wert among the Gael! Thou wouldst not then from day to day Weep thus alone. 'Twere long before, around a grave In green Tyrconnell, one could find This loneliness; Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined Companionless.

Beside the wave in Donegal, In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore, Or Killillee. Or where the sunny waters fall At Assaroe, near Erna's shore, This could not be. On Derry's plains--in rich Drumclieff-- Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned In olden years, No day could pass but woman's grief Would rain upon the burial-ground Fresh floods of tears!

O, no!--from Shannon, Boyne, and Suir, From high Dunluce's castle-walls, From Lissadill, Would flock alike both rich and poor, One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls To Tara's hill; And some would come from Barrow-side, And many a maid would leave her home, On Leitrim's plains, And by melodious Banna's tide, And by the Mourne and Erne, to come And swell thy strains!

O, horses' hoofs would trample down The Mount whereon the martyr-saint Was crucified. From glen and hill, from plain and town, One loud lament, one thrilling plaint, Would echo wide. There would not soon be found, I ween, One foot of ground among those bands For museful thought, So many shriekers of the _keen_ Would cry aloud and clap their hands, All woe distraught!

Two princes of the line of Conn Sleep in their cells of clay beside O'Donnell Roe; Three royal youths, alas! are gone, Who lived for Erin's weal, but died For Erin's woe; Ah! could the men of Ireland read The names these noteless burial-stones Display to view, Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed, Their tears gush forth again, their groans Resound anew!

The youths whose relics moulder here Were sprung from Hugh, high Prince and Lord Of Aileach's lands; Thy noble brothers, justly dear, Thy nephew, long to be deplored By Ulster's bands. Theirs were not souls wherein dull Time Could domicile Decay or house Decrepitude! They passed from Earth ere Manhood's prime, Ere years had power to dim their brows Or chill their blood.

And who can marvel o'er thy grief, Or who can blame thy flowing tears, That knows their source? O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief, Cut off amid his vernal years, Lies here a corse Beside his brother Cathbar, whom Tirconnell of the Helmets mourns In deep despair-- For valour, truth, and comely bloom, For all that greatens and adorns A peerless pair.

O, had these twain, and he, the third, The Lord of Mourne, O'Niall's son, Their mate in death-- A prince in look, in deed and word-- Had these three heroes yielded on The field their breath, O, had they fallen on Criffan's plain, There would not be a town or clan From shore to sea, But would with shrieks bewail the slain, Or chant aloud the exulting _rann_ Of Jubilee!

When high the shout of battle rose, On fields where Freedom's torch still burned Through Erin's gloom, If one, if barely one of those Were slain, all Ulster would have mourned The hero's doom! If at Athboy, where hosts of brave Ulidian horsemen sank beneath The shock of spears, Young Hugh O'Neill had found a grave, Long must the North have wept his death With heart-wrung tears!

If on the day of Ballach-myre The Lord of Mourne had met thus young, A warrior's fate, In vain would such as thou desire To mourn, alone, the champion sprung From Niall the Great! No marvel this--for all the dead, Heaped on the field, pile over pile, At Mullach-brack, Were scarce an _eric_ for his head, If death had stayed his footsteps while On victory's track!

If on the Day of Hostages The fruit had from the parent bough Been rudely torn In sight of Munster's bands--Mac-Nee's-- Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow, Could ill have borne. If on the day of Ballach-boy Some arm had laid, by foul surprise, The chieftain low, Even our victorious shout of joy

Would soon give place to rueful cries And groans of woe!

If on the day the Saxon host Were forced to fly--a day so great For Ashanee-- The Chief had been untimely lost, Our conquering troops should moderate Their mirthful glee. There would not lack on Lifford's day, From Galway, from the glens of Boyle, From Limerick's towers, A marshalled file, a long array Of mourners to bedew the soil With tears in showers!

If on the day a sterner fate Compelled his flight from Athenree, His blood had flowed, What numbers all disconsolate, Would come unasked, and share with thee Affliction's load! If Derry's crimson field had seen His life-blood offered up, though 'twere On Victory's shrine, A thousand cries would swell the _keen_, A thousand voices of despair Would echo thine.

O, had the fierce Dalcassian swarm That bloody night on Fergus' banks But slain our chief, When rose his camp in wild alarm-- How would the triumph of his ranks Be dashed with grief! How would the troops of Murbach mourn If on the Curlew Mountains' day, Which England rued, Some Saxon hand had left them lorn, By shedding there, amid the fray, Their prince's blood!

Red would have been our warriors' eyes Had Roderick found on Sligo field A gory grave, No Northern Chief would soon arise, So sage to guide, so strong to shield, So swift to save. Long would Leith-Cuinn have wept if Hugh Had met the death he oft had dealt Among the foe; But, had our Roderick fallen too, All Erin must, alas! have felt The deadly blow!

What do I say? Ah, woe is me! Already we bewail in vain Their fatal fall! And Erin, once the Great and Free, Now vainly mourns her breakless chain, And iron thrall! Then, daughter of O'Donnell! dry Thine overflowing eyes, and turn Thy heart aside; For Adam's race is born to die, And sternly the sepulchral urn Mocks human pride!

Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne, Nor place thy trust in arm of clay-- But on thy knees Uplift thy soul to God alone, For all things go their destined way As He decrees. Embrace the faithful Crucifix, And seek the path of pain and prayer Thy Saviour trod! Nor let thy spirit intermix With earthly hope and worldly care Its groans to God!

And Thou, O mighty Lord! whose ways Are far above our feeble minds To understand, Sustain us in these doleful days, And render light the chain that binds Our fallen land! Look down upon our dreary state, And through the ages that may still Roll sadly on, Watch Thou o'er hapless Erin's fate, And shield at least from darker ill The blood of Conn!

_James Clarence Mangan_

A LAMENTATION FOR THE DEATH OF SIR MAURICE FITZGERALD, KNIGHT OF KERRY

_From the Irish_

There was lifted up one voice of woe, One lament of more than mortal grief, Through the wide South to and fro, For a fallen Chief. In the dead of night that cry thrilled through me, I looked out upon the midnight air; Mine own soul was all as gloomy, And I knelt in prayer.

O'er Loch Gur, that night, once--twice--yea, thrice-- Passed a wail of anguish for the Brave, That half curled into ice The moon-mirroring wave. Then uprose a many-toned wild hymn in Choral swell from Ogra's dark ravine, And Moguly's Phantom Women Mourned the Geraldine!

Far on Carah Mona's emerald plains, Shrieks and sighs were blended many hours, And Fermoy, in fitful strains, Answered from her towers. Youghal, Keenalmeaky, Eemokilly, Mourned in concert, and their piercing _keen_ Woke to wondering life the stilly Glens of Inchiqueen.

From Loughmoe to yellow Dunanore There was fear; the traders of Tralee Gathered up their golden store, And prepared to flee; For, in ship and hall, from night till morning Showed the first faint beamings of the sun, All the foreigners heard the warning Of the Dreaded One!

'This,' they spake, 'portendeth death to us, If we fly not swiftly from our fate!' Self-conceited idiots! thus Ravingly to prate! Not for base-born higgling Saxon trucksters Ring laments like those by shore and sea! Not for churls with souls of hucksters Waileth our Banshee! For the high Milesian race alone Ever flows the music of her woe! For slain heir to bygone throne, And for Chief laid low! Hark!... Again, methinks, I hear her weeping Yonder! Is she near me now, as then? Or was but the night-wind sweeping Down the hollow glen?

_James Clarence Mangan_

THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS

_From the Irish_

O, Woman of Three Cows, _agragh!_ don't let your tongue thus rattle! O, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle. I have seen--and, here's my hand to you, I only say what's true-- A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.

Good luck to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't be their despiser; For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser; And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows, Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!

See where Momonia's heroes lie, proud Owen More's descendants, 'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants! If _they_ were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows, Can _you_ be proud, can _you_ be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows?

The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning; _Mavrone!_ for they were banished, with no hope of their returning-- Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house? Yet _you_ can give yourself these airs, O Woman of Three Cows!

O, think of Donnel of the Ships, the Chief whom nothing daunted-- See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted! He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse-- Then ask yourself, should _you_ be proud, good Woman of Three Cows?

O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in story-- Think how their high achievements once made Erin's greatest glory-- Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and Cyprus boughs, And so, for all your pride, will yours, O Woman of Three Cows!

Th' O'Carrols, also, famed when fame was only for the boldest, Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and oldest; Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse? Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows!

Your neighbour's poor, and you, it seems, are big with vain ideas, Because, _inagh!_ you've got three cows, one more, I see, than _she_ has; That tongue of yours wags more at times than charity allows-- But, if you're strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows!

THE SUMMING-UP.

Now, there you go! You still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing, And I'm too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak I'm wearing, If I had but _four_ cows myself, even though you were my spouse, I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!

_James Clarence Mangan_

PRINCE ALFRID'S ITINERARY THROUGH IRELAND

_From the Irish_

I found in Innisfail the fair, In Ireland, while in exile there, Women of worth, both grave and gay men, Many clerics and many laymen.

I travelled its fruitful provinces round And in every one of the five I found, Alike in church and in palace hall, Abundant apparel, and food for all.

Gold and silver I found, and money, Plenty of wheat and plenty of honey; I found God's people rich in pity, Found many a feast and many a city.

I also found in Armagh, the splendid, Meekness, wisdom, and prudence blended, Fasting, as Christ hath recommended, And noble councillors untranscended.

I found in each great church moreo'er, Whether on island or on shore Piety, learning, fond affection, Holy welcome and kind protection.

I found thy good lay monks and brothers Ever beseeching help for others, And in their keeping the holy word Pure as it came from Jesus the Lord.

I found in Munster unfettered of any, Kings and queens and poets a many-- Poets were skilled in music and measure, Prosperous doings, mirth and pleasure.

I found in Connaught the just, redundance Of riches, milk in lavish abundance, Hospitality, vigour, fame, In Cruachan's land of heroic name.

I found in the county of Connall the glorious Bravest heroes, ever victorious; Fair-complexioned men and warlike, Ireland's lights, the high, the starlike.

I found in Ulster, from hill to glen, Hardy warriors, resolute men; Beauty that bloomed when youth was gone, And strength transmitted from sire to son.

I found in the noble district of Boyle

(_MS. here illegible._)

Brehons, erenachs, weapons bright, And horsemen bold and sudden in fight.

I found in Leinster the smooth and sleek, From Dublin to Slewmargy's peak; Flourishing pastures, valour, health, Long-living worthies, commerce, wealth.

I found, besides, from Ara to Glea, In the broad rich country of Ossorie, Sweet fruits, good laws for all and each, Great chess players, men of truthful speech.

I found in Meath's fair principality, Virtue, vigour, and hospitality; Candour, joyfulness, bravery, purity, Ireland's bulwark and security.

I found strict morals in age and youth, I found historians recording truth; The things I sing of in verse unsmooth, I found them all--I have written sooth.

_James Clarence Mangan_

O'HUSSEY'S ODE TO THE MAGUIRE

_From the Irish_

Where is my Chief, my Master, this bleak night, _mavrone_! O, cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak night for Hugh, Its showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one through and through, Pierceth one to the very bone!

Rolls real thunder? Or was that red, livid light Only a meteor? I scarce know; but through the midnight dim The pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the hate that persecutes _him_ Nothing hath crueler venomy might.

An awful, a tremendous night is this, meseems! The flood-gates of the river of heaven, I think, have been burst wide-- Down from the overcharged clouds, like unto headlong ocean's tide, Descends grey rain in roaring streams.

Though he were even a wolf ranging the round green woods, Though he were even a pleasant salmon in the unchainable sea, Though he were a wild mountain eagle, he could scarce bear, he, This sharp, sore sleet, these howling floods.

O mournful is my soul this night for Hugh Maguire! Darkly, as in a dream he strays! Before him and behind Triumphs the tyrannous anger of the wounding wind, The wounding wind, that burns as fire!

It is my bitter grief--it cuts me to the heart-- That in the country of Clan Darry this should be his fate! O, woe is me, where is he? Wandering, houseless, desolate, Alone, without or guide or chart!

Medreams I see just now his face, the strawberry-bright, Uplifted to the blackened heavens, while the tempestuous winds Blow fiercely over and round him, and the smiting sleet-shower blinds The hero of Galang to-night!

Large, large affliction unto me and mine it is, That one of his majestic bearing, his fair, stately form, Should thus be tortured and o'erborne--that this unsparing storm Should wreak its wrath on head like his!

That his great hand, so oft the avenger of the oppressed, Should this chill churlish night, perchance, be paralyzed by frost-- While through some icicle-hung thicket--as one lorn and lost-- He walks and wanders without rest.

The tempest-driven torrent deluges the mead, It overflows the low banks of the rivulets and ponds-- The lawns and pasture-grounds lie locked in icy bonds So that the cattle cannot feed.

The pale bright margins of the streams are seen by none, Rushes and sweeps along the untamable flood on every side-- It penetrates and fills the cottagers' dwellings far and wide-- Water and land are blent in one.

Through some dark wood, 'mid bones of monsters, Hugh now strays, As he confronts the storm with anguished heart, but manly brow-- O, what a sword-wound to that tender heart of his were now A backward glance of peaceful days.

But other thoughts are his--thoughts that can still inspire With joy and onward-bounding hope the bosom of Mac-Nee-- Thoughts of his warriors charging like bright billows the sea, Borne on the wind's wings, flashing fire!

And though frost glaze to-night the clear dew of his eyes, And white ice-gauntlets glove his noble fine fair fingers o'er, A warm dress is to him that lightning garb he ever wore, The lightning of the soul, not skies.

AVRAN

Hugh marched forth to the fight--I grieved to see him so depart; And lo! to-night he wanders frozen, rain-drenched, sad, betrayed-- _But the memory of the limewhite mansions his right hand hath laid In ashes, warms the hero's heart_!

_James Clarence Mangan_

THE NAMELESS ONE

Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river, That sweeps along to the mighty sea; God will inspire me while I deliver My soul to thee!