Part 4

Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening Amid the last homes of youth and eld, That there was once one whose blood ran lightning No eye beheld.

Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour, How shone for _him_, through its griefs and gloom, No star of all heaven sends to light our Path to the tomb.

Roll on, my song, and to after ages Tell how, disdaining all earth can give, He would have taught men, from wisdom's pages, The way to live.

And tell how trampled, derided, hated, And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong, He fled for shelter to God, who mated His soul with song--

With song which alway, sublime or vapid, Flowed like a rill in the morning-beam, Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid-- A mountain stream.

Tell how this Nameless, condemned for years long To herd with demons from hell beneath, Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, long For even death.

Go on to tell how, with genius wasted, Betrayed in friendship, befooled in love, With spirit shipwrecked, and young hopes blasted, He still, still strove.

Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others, And some whose hands should have wrought for _him_; (If children live not for sires and mothers,) His mind grew dim.

And he fell far through that pit abysmal The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns; And pawned his soul for the devil's dismal Stock of returns.

But yet redeemed it in days of darkness, And shapes and signs of the final wrath, When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness, Stood on his path.

And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow, And want, and sickness, and houseless nights, He bides in calmness the silent morrow, That no ray lights.

And lives he still, then? Yes! Old and hoary At thirty-nine, from despair and woe, He lives enduring what future story Will never know.

Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble, Deep in your bosoms! There let him dwell! He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble, Here and in hell!

_James Clarence Mangan_

SIBERIA

In Siberia's wastes The Ice-wind's breath Woundeth like the toothèd steel. Lost Siberia doth reveal Only blight and death.

Blight and death alone. No Summer shines. Night is interblent with Day. In Siberia's wastes alway The blood blackens, the heart pines.

In Siberia's wastes No tears are shed, For they freeze within the brain. Nought is felt but dullest pain, Pain acute, yet dead;

Pain as in a dream, When years go by Funeral-paced, yet fugitive, When man lives, and doth not live, Doth not live--nor die.

In Siberia's wastes Are sands and rocks. Nothing blooms of green or soft, But the snowpeaks rise aloft And the gaunt ice-blocks.

And the exile there Is one with those; They are part, and he is part, For the sands are in his heart, And the killing snows.

Therefore, in those wastes None curse the Czar. Each man's tongue is cloven by The North Blast, who heweth nigh With sharp scymitar.

And such doom he drees, Till hunger gnawn, And cold-slain, he at length sinks there, Yet scarce more a corpse than ere His last breath was drawn.

_James Clarence Mangan_

HY-BRASAIL

On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell, A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell; Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest, And they called it _Hy-Brasail_ the isle of the blest. From year unto year on the ocean's blue rim, The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim; The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay, And it looked like an Eden, away, far away!

A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale, In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail; From Ara, the holy, he turned to the West, For though Ara was holy, _Hy-Brasail_ was blest. He heard not the voices that called from the shore-- He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar; Home, kindred, and safety, he left on that day, And he sped to _Hy-Brasail_, away, far away!

Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle, O'er the faint rim of distance, reflected its smile; Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy shore Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before; Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track, And to Ara again he looked timidly back; O! far on the verge of the ocean it lay, Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away!

Rash dreamer, return! O ye winds of the main, Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again. Bash fool! for a vision of fanciful bliss To barter thy calm life of labour and peace. The warning of reason was spoken in vain, He never re-visited Ara again! Night falls on the deep, amidst tempest and spray, And he died on the waters, away, far away!

_Gerald Griffin_

MO CRAOIBHIN CNO

_From the Irish_

My heart is far from Liffey's tide And Dublin town; It strays beyond the Southern side Of Cnoc-Maol-Donn, Where Capa-chuinn hath woodlands green, Where Amhan-Mhor's waters flow, Where dwell unsung, unsought, unseen _Mo craoibhin cno_, Low clustering in her leafy screen, _Mo craoibhin cno_!

The high-bred dames of Dublin town Are rich and fair, With wavy plume and silken gown, And stately air; Can plumes compare thy dark brown hair? Can silks thy neck of snow? Or measur'd pace thine artless grace? _Mo craoibhin cno_, When harebells scarcely show thy trace, _Mo craoibhin cno_!

I've heard the songs by Liffey's wave That maidens sung-- They sung their land the Saxon's slave, In Saxon tongue-- O! bring me here that Gaelic dear Which cursed the Saxon foe, When thou didst charm my raptured ear, _Mo craoibhin cno_! And none but God's good angels near, _Mo craoibhin cno_!

I've wandered by the rolling Lee! And Lene's green bowers-- I've seen the Shannon's wide-spread sea And Limerick's towers-- And Liffey's tide, where halls of pride Frown o'er the flood below; My wild heart strays to Amhan-mhor's side, _Mo craoibhin cno_! With love and thee for aye to bide, _Mo craoibhin cno_!

_Edward Walsh_

MAIRGRÉAD NI CHEALLEADH

At the dance in the village thy white foot was fleetest; Thy voice in the concert of maidens was sweetest; The swell of thy white breast made rich lovers follow; And thy raven hair bound them, young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.

Thy neck was, lost maid, than the _ceanabhan_ whiter, And the glow of thy cheek than the _monadan_ brighter; But death's chain hath bound thee, thine eye's glazed and hollow, That shone like a sunburst, young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.

No more shall mine ear drink thy melody swelling; Nor thy beamy eye brighten the outlaw's dark dwelling; Or thy soft heaving bosom my destiny hallow, When thine arms twine around me, young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.

The moss couch I brought thee to-day from the mountain, Has drank the last drop of thy young heart's red fountain-- For this good scian beside me stuck deep and run hollow In thy bosom of treason, young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.

With strings of rich pearls thy white neck was laden, And thy fingers with spoils of the Sassanach maiden: Such rich silks enrob'd not the proud dames of Mallow-- Such pure gold they wore not as Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.

Alas! that my loved one her outlaw would injure-- Alas! that he e'er proved her treason's avenger! That this right hand should make thee a bed cold and hollow, When in Death's sleep it laid thee, Young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh!

And while to this lone cave my deep grief I'm venting, The Saxon's keen bandog my footstep is scenting, But true men await me afar in Duhallow, Farewell, cave of slaughter, and Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.

_Edward Walsh_

FROM THE COLD SOD THAT'S O'ER YOU

_From the Irish_

From the cold sod that's o'er you I never shall sever; Were my hands twined in yours, Love, I'd hold them for ever. My fondest, my fairest, We may now sleep together! I've the cold earth's damp odour, And I'm worn from the weather.

This heart filled with fondness Is wounded and weary; A dark gulf beneath it Yawns jet-black and dreary. When death comes, a victor, In mercy to greet me, On the wings of the whirlwind In the wild wastes you'll meet me.

When the folk of my household Suppose I am sleeping, On your cold grave till morning The lone watch I'm keeping. My grief to the night wind For the mild maid to render, Who was my betrothed Since infancy tender.

Remember the lone night I last spent with you, Love, Beneath the dark sloe-tree When the icy wind blew, Love. High praise to thy Saviour No sin-stain had found you, That your virginal glory Shines brightly around you.

The priests and the friars Are ceaselessly chiding, That I love a young maiden In life not abiding. O! I'd shelter and shield you If wild storms were swelling! And O, my wrecked hope, That the cold earth's your dwelling.

_Edward Walsh_

THE FAIRY NURSE

Sweet babe! a golden cradle holds thee, And soft the snow-white fleece enfolds thee; In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping, Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping. Shuheen sho, lulo lo

When mothers languish broken-hearted, When young wives are from husbands parted, Ah! little think the keeners lonely, They weep some time-worn fairy only. Shuheen sho, lulo lo!

Within our magic halls of brightness, Trips many a foot of snowy whiteness; Stolen maidens, queens of fairy-- And kings and chiefs a sluagh shee airy. Shuheen sho, lulo lo!

Rest thee, babe! I love thee dearly, And as thy mortal mother nearly; Ours is the swiftest steed and proudest, That moves where the tramp of the host is loudest. Shuheen sho, lulo lo!

Rest thee, babe! for soon thy slumbers Shall flee at the magic koelshie's numbers; In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping, Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping. Shuheen sho, lulo lo!

_Edward Walsh_

A CUISLE GEAL MO CHROIDHE

The long, long wished-for hour has come, Yet come, astor, in vain; And left thee but the wailing hum Of sorrow and of pain: My light of life, my lonely love! Thy portion sure must be Man's scorn below, God's wrath above-- A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!

I've given thee manhood's early prime, And manhood's teeming years; I've blessed thee in my merriest time, And shed with thee my tears; And, mother, though thou cast away The child who'd die for thee, My fondest wishes still should pray For cuisle geal mo chroidhe!

For thee I've tracked the mountain's sides, And slept within the brake, More lonely than the swan that glides O'er Lua's fairy lake. The rich have spurned me from their door, Because I'd make thee free; Yet still I love thee more and more, A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!

I've run the Outlaw's brief career, And borne his load of ill; His rocky couch--his dreamy fear-- With fixed, sustaining will; And should his last dark chance befall, Even that shall welcome be; In Death I'd love thee best of all, A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!

'Twas prayed for thee the world around, 'Twas hoped for thee by all, That with one gallant sunward bound Thou'dst burst long ages' thrall; Thy faith was tried, alas! and those Who'd peril all for thee Were curs'd and branded as thy foes, A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!

What fate is thine, unhappy Isle, When even the trusted few Would pay thee back with hate and guile, When most they should be true! 'Twas not my strength or spirit failed Or those who'd die for thee; Who loved thee truly have not failed, A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!

_Michael Doheny_

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side, On a bright May mornin', long ago, When first you were my bride: The corn was springin' fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high-- And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye.

The _place_ is little changed, Mary, The day is bright as then, The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm on my cheek; And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near-- The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest-- For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep, With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends; But, O! they love the better still, The few our Father sends! And you were all _I_ had, Mary, My blessin' and my pride! There's nothin' left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort even on _your_ lip, And the kind look on your brow-- I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break, When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, And you hid it for _my_ sake; I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore-- O! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm biddin' you a long farewell, My Mary--kind and true! But I'll not forget _you_, darling, In the land I'm goin' to: They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there-- But I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods I'll sit and shut my eyes, And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies; And I'll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride.

_Lady Dufferin_

THE WELSHMEN OF TIRAWLEY

Scorney Bwee, the Barretts' bailiff, lewd and lame, To lift the Lynott's taxes when he came, Rudely drew a young maid to him! Then the Lynotts rose and slew him, And in Tubber-na-Scorney threw him-- Small your blame, Sons of Lynott! Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

Then the Barretts to the Lynotts gave a choice, Saying, 'Hear, ye murderous brood, men and boys, Choose ye now, without delay, Will ye lose your eyesight, say, Or your manhoods, here to-day? Sad your choice, Sons of Lynott! Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

Then the little boys of the Lynotts, weeping, said, 'Only leave us our eyesight in our head.' But the bearded Lynotts then Quickly answered back again, 'Take our eyes, but leave us men, Alive or dead, Sons of Wattin!' Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

So the Barretts with sewing-needles sharp and smooth, Let the light out of the eyes of every youth, And of every bearded man, Of the broken Lynott clan; Then their darkened faces wan Turning south To the river-- Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

O'er the slippery stepping-stones of Clochan-na-n'all They drove them, laughing loud at every fall, As their wandering footsteps dark Failed to reach the slippery mark, And the swift stream swallowed stark, One and all As they stumbled-- From the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

Of all the blinded Lynotts one alone Walk'd erect from stepping-stone to stone: So back again they brought you, And a second time they wrought you With their needles; but never got you Once to groan, Emon Lynott, For the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

But with prompt-projected footsteps sure as ever, Emon Lynott again cross'd the river. Though Duvowen was rising fast, And the shaking stones o'ercast By cold floods boiling past; Yet you never, Emon Lynott, Faltered once before your foemen of Tirawley.

But, turning on Ballintubber bank, you stood, And the Barretts thus bespoke o'er the flood-- 'O, ye foolish sons of Wattin, Small amends are these you've gotten, For, while Scorna Boy lies rotten, I am good For vengeance!' Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

'For 'tis neither in eye nor eyesight that a man Bears the fortunes of himself and his clan, But in the manly mind, These darken'd orbs behind, That your needles could never find Though they ran Through my heart-strings!' Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

'But, little your women's needles do I reck; For the night from heaven never fell so black, But Tirawley, and abroad From the Moy to Cuan-an-fod, I could walk it every sod, Path and track, Ford and togher, Seeking vengeance on you, Barretts of Tirawley!

'The night when Dathy O'Dowda broke your camp, What Barrett among you was it held the lamp-- Showed the way to those two feet, When through wintry wind and sleet, I guided your blind retreat In the swamp Of Beäl-an-asa? O ye vengeance-destined ingrates of Tirawley!'

So leaving loud-shriek-echoing Garranard, The Lynott like a red dog hunted hard, With his wife and children seven, 'Mong the beasts and fowls of heaven In the hollows of Glen Nephin, Light-debarred, Made his dwelling, Planning vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.

And ere the bright-orb'd year its course had run, On his brown round-knotted knee he nursed a son, A child of light, with eyes As clear as are the skies In summer, when sunrise Has begun; So the Lynott Nursed his vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.

And, as ever the bright boy grew in strength and size, Made him perfect in each manly exercise, The salmon in the flood, The dun deer in the wood, The eagle in the cloud To surprise On Ben Nephin, Far above the foggy fields of Tirawley.

With the yellow-knotted spear-shaft, with the bow, With the steel, prompt to deal shot and blow, He taught him from year to year And train'd him, without a peer, For a perfect cavalier, Hoping so-- Far his forethought-- For vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.

And, when mounted on his proud-bounding steed, Emon Oge sat a cavalier indeed; Like the ear upon the wheat When winds in Autumn beat On the bending stems, his seat; And the speed Of his courser Was the wind from Barna-na-gee o'er Tirawley!

Now when fifteen sunny summers thus were spent, (He perfected in all accomplishment)-- The Lynott said, 'My child, We are over long exiled From mankind in this wild-- --Time we went Through the mountain To the countries lying over-against Tirawley.'

So, out over mountain-moors, and mosses brown, And green steam-gathering vales, they journey'd down: Till, shining like a star, Through the dusky gleams afar, The bailey of Castlebar, And the town Of MacWilliam Rose bright before the wanderers of Tirawley.

'Look southward, my boy, and tell me as we go, What see'st thou by the loch-head below?' 'O, a stone-house strong and great, And a horse-host at the gate, And a captain in armour of plate-- Grand the show! Great the glancing! High the heroes of this land below Tirawley.

'And a beautiful Bantierna by his side, Yellow gold on all her gown-sleeves wide; And in her hand a pearl Of a young, little, fair-haired girl.' Said the Lynott, 'It is the Earl! Let us ride To his presence.' And before him came the exiles of Tirawley.

'God save thee, MacWilliam,' the Lynott thus began; 'God save all here besides of this clan; For gossips dear to me Are all in company-- For in these four bones ye see A kindly man Of the Britons-- Emon Lynott of Garranard of Tirawley.

'And hither, as kindly gossip-law allows, I come to claim a scion of thy house To foster; for thy race, Since William Conquer's days, Have ever been wont to place, With some spouse Of a Briton, A MacWilliam Oge, to foster in Tirawley.

'And to show thee in what sort our youth are taught I have hither to thy home of valour brought This one son of my age, For a sample and a pledge For the equal tutelage, In right thought, Word, and action, Of whatever son ye give into Tirawley.'

When MacWilliam beheld the brave boy ride and run, Saw the spear-shaft from his white shoulder spun-- With a sigh, and with a smile, He said,--'I would give the spoil Of a county, that Tibbot Moyle, My own son, Were accomplish'd Like this branch of the kindly Britons of Tirawley.'

When the Lady MacWilliam she heard him speak, And saw the ruddy roses on his cheek, She said, 'I would give a purse Of red gold to the nurse That would rear my Tibbot no worse; But I seek Hitherto vainly-- Heaven grant that I now have found her in Tirawley!'

So they said to the Lynott, 'Here, take our bird! And as pledge for the keeping of thy word, Let this scion here remain Till thou comest back again: Meanwhile the fitting train Of a lord Shall attend thee With the lordly heir of Connaught into Tirawley.' So back to strong-throng-gathering Garranard, Like a lord of the country with his guard, Came the Lynott, before them all, Once again over Clochan-na-n'all Steady and striding, erect and tall, And his ward On his shoulders To the wonder of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

Then a diligent foster-father you would deem The Lynott, teaching Tibbot, by mead and stream, To cast the spear, to ride, To stem the rushing tide, With what feats of body beside, Might beseem A MacWilliam, Fostered free among the Welshmen of Tirawley.