Part 5

But the lesson of hell he taught him in heart and mind, For to what desire soever he inclined, Of anger, lust, or pride, He had it gratified, Till he ranged the circle wide Of a blind Self-indulgence, Ere he came to youthful manhood in Tirawley.

Then, even as when a hunter slips a hound, Lynott loosed him--God's leashes all unbound-- In the pride of power and station, And the strength of youthful passion, On the daughters of thy nation, All around, Wattin Barrett! O! the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley!

Bitter grief and burning anger, rage and shame, Filled the houses of the Barretts where'er he came; Till the young men of the Back, Drew by night upon his track, And slew him at Cornassack. Small your blame, Sons of Wattin! Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.

Said the Lynott, 'The day of my vengeance is drawing near, The day for which, through many a long dark year, I have toiled through grief and sin-- Call ye now the Brehons in, And let the plea begin Over the bier Of MacWilliam, For an eric upon the Barretts of Tirawley!'

Then the Brehons to MacWilliam Burke decreed An eric upon Clan Barrett for the deed; And the Lynott's share of the fine, As foster-father, was nine Ploughlands and nine score kine; But no need Had the Lynott, Neither care, for land or cattle in Tirawley.

But rising, while all sat silent on the spot, He said, 'The law says--doth it not?-- If the foster-sire elect His portion to reject, He may then the right exact To applot The short eric.' ''Tis the law,' replied the Brehons of Tirawley.

Said the Lynott, 'I once before had a choice Proposed me, wherein law had little voice; But now I choose, and say, As lawfully I may, I applot the mulct to-day; So rejoice In your ploughlands And your cattle which I renounce throughout Tirawley.

'And thus I applot the mulct: I divide The land throughout Clan Barrett on every side Equally, that no place May be without the face Of a foe of Wattin's race-- That the pride Of the Barretts May be humbled hence for ever throughout Tirawley.

'I adjudge a seat in every Barrett's hall To MacWilliam: in every stable I give a stall To MacWilliam: and, beside, Whenever a Burke shall ride Through Tirawley, I provide At his call Needful grooming, Without charge from any Brughaidh of Tirawley.

'Thus lawfully I avenge me for the throes Ye lawlessly caused me and caused those Unhappy shame-faced ones Who, their mothers expected once, Would have been the sires of sons-- O'er whose woes Often weeping, I have groaned in my exile from Tirawley.

'I demand not of you your manhoods; but I take-- For the Burkes will take it--your Freedom! for the sake Of which all manhood's given And all good under heaven, And, without which, better even You should make Yourselves barren, Than see your children slaves throughout Tirawley!

'Neither take I your eyesight from you; as you took Mine and ours: I would have you daily look On one another's eyes When the strangers tyrannize By your hearths, and blushes arise, That ye brook Without vengeance The insults of troops of Tibbots throughout Tirawley!

'The vengeance I designed, now is done, And the days of me and mine nearly run-- For, for this, I have broken faith, Teaching him who lies beneath This pall, to merit death; And my son To his father Stands pledged for other teaching in Tirawley.'

Said MacWilliam--'Father and son, hang them high!' And the Lynott they hang'd speedily; But across the salt water, To Scotland, with the daughter Of MacWilliam--well you got her! Did you fly Edmund Lindsay, The gentlest of all the Welshmen of Tirawley!

'Tis thus the ancient Ollaves of Erin tell How, through lewdness and revenge, it befell That the sons of William Conquer Came over the sons of Wattin, Throughout all the bounds and borders Of the lands of Auley Mac Fiachra; Till the Saxon Oliver Cromwell, And his valiant, Bible-guided, Free heretics of Clan London Coming in, in their succession, Rooted out both Burke and Barrett, And in their empty places New stems of freedom planted, With many a goodly sapling Of manliness and virtue; Which while their children cherish, Kindly Irish of the Irish, Neither Saxons nor Italians, May the mighty God of Freedom Speed them well, Never taking Further vengeance on his people of Tirawley.

_Sir Samuel Ferguson_

AIDEEN'S GRAVE

They heaved the stone; they heap'd the cairn. Said Ossian, 'In a queenly grave We leave her, 'mong her fields of fern, Between the cliff and wave.

'The cliff behind stands clear and bare, And bare, above, the heathery steep Scales the clear heaven's expanse, to where The Danaan Druids sleep.

'And all the sands that, left and right, The grassy isthmus-ridge confine, In yellow bars lie bare and bright Among the sparkling brine.

'A clear pure air pervades the scene, In loneliness and awe secure; Meet spot to sepulchre a Queen Who in her life was pure.

'Here, far from camp and chase removed, Apart in Nature's quiet room, The music that alive she loved Shall cheer her in the tomb.

'The humming of the noontide bees, The lark's loud carol all day long, And, borne on evening's salted breeze, The clanking sea-bird's song,

'Shall round her airy chamber float, And with the whispering winds and streams, Attune to Nature's tenderest note The tenor of her dreams.

'And oft, at tranquil eve's decline, When full tides lip the Old Green Plain, The lowing of Moynalty's kine Shall round her breathe again.

'In sweet remembrance of the days When, duteous, in the lowly vale, Unconscious of my Oscar's gaze, She fill'd the fragrant pail,

'And, duteous, from the running brook Drew water for the bath; nor deem'd A king did on her labour look, And she a fairy seem'd.

'But when the wintry frosts begin, And in their long-drawn, lofty flight, The wild geese with their airy din Distend the ear of night,

'And when the fierce De Danaan ghosts At midnight from their peak come down, When all around the enchanted coasts Despairing strangers drown;

'When, mingling with the wreckful wail, From low Clontarf's wave-trampled floor Comes booming up the burthen'd gale The angry Sand-Bull's roar;

'Or, angrier than the sea, the shout Of Erin's hosts in wrath combined, When Terror heads Oppression's rout, And Freedom cheers behind:--

'Then o'er our lady's placid dream, Where safe from storms she sleeps, may steal Such joy as will not misbeseem A Queen of men to feel:

'Such thrill of free, defiant pride, As rapt her in her battle-car At Gavra, when by Oscar's side She rode the ridge of war,

'Exulting, down the shouting troops, And through the thick confronting kings, With hands on all their javelin loops And shafts on all their strings;

'E'er closed the inseparable crowds, No more to part for me, and show, As bursts the sun through scattering clouds, My Oscar issuing so.

'No more, dispelling battle's gloom, Shall son for me from fight return; The great green rath's ten-acred tomb Lies heavy on his urn.

'A cup of bodkin-pencill'd clay Holds Oscar; mighty heart and limb One handful now of ashes grey: And she has died for him.

'And here, hard by her natal bower On lone Ben Edar's side, we strive With lifted rock and sign of power To keep her name alive.

'That while from circling year to year, Her Ogham-letter'd stone is seen, The Gael shall say, "Our Fenians here Entombed their loved Aideen."

'The Ogham from her pillar-stone In tract of time will wear away; Her name at last be only known In Ossian's echo'd lay.

'The long-forgotten lay I sing May only ages hence revive, (As eagle with a wounded wing To soar again might strive,)

'Imperfect, in an alien speech, When, wandering here, some child of chance Through pangs of keen delight shall reach The gift of utterance,--

'To speak the air, the sky to speak, The freshness of the hill to tell, Who, roaming bare Ben Edar's peak And Aideen's briary dell,

'And gazing on the Cromlech vast, And on the mountain and the sea, Shall catch communion with the past And mix himself with me.

'Child of the Future's doubtful night, Whate'er your speech, whoe'er your sires, Sing while you may with frank delight The song your hour inspires.

'Sing while you may, nor grieve to know The song you sing shall also die; Atharna's lay has perish'd so, Though once it thrill'd this sky,

'Above us, from his rocky chair, There, where Ben Edar's landward crest O'er eastern Bregia bends, to where Dun Almon crowns the west:

'And all that felt the fretted air Throughout the song-distempered clime, Did droop, till suppliant Leinster's prayer Appeased the vengeful rhyme.

'Ah me, or e'er the hour arrive Shall bid my long-forgotten tones, Unknown One, on your lips revive Here by these moss-grown stones,

'What change shall o'er the scene have crossed; What conquering lords anew have come What lore-arm'd, mightier Druid host From Gaul or distant Rome!

'What arts of death, what ways of life, What creeds unknown to bard or seer, Shall round your careless steps be rife, Who pause and ponder here;

'And, haply, where yon curlew calls Athwart the marsh, 'mid groves and bowers, See rise some mighty chieftain's halls With unimagined towers:

'And baying hounds, and coursers bright, And burnish'd cars of dazzling sheen, With courtly train of dame and knight, Where now the fern is green.

'Or, by yon prostrate altar-stone May kneel, perchance, and, free from blame, New holy men with rites unknown New names of God proclaim.

'Let change as may the Name of Awe, Let right surcease and altar pall, The same One God remains, a law For ever and for all.

'Let change as may the face of earth, Let alter all the social frame, For mortal men the warp of birth And death are still the same.

'And still, as life and time wear on, The children of the waning days, (Though strength be from their shoulders gone To lift the loads we raise,)

'Shall weep to do the burial rites Of lost ones loved; and fondly found, In shadow of the gathering nights, The monumental mound.

'Farewell! the strength of men is worn: The night approaches dark and chill: Sleep, till perchance an endless morn Descend the glittering hill.'

Of Oscar and Aideen bereft, So Ossian's song. The Fenians sped Three mighty shouts to heaven; and left Ben Edar to the dead.

_Sir Samuel Ferguson_

DEIRDRE'S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF USNACH

_From the Irish_

The lions of the hill are gone, And I am left alone--alone-- Dig the grave both wide and deep, For I am sick, and fain would sleep!

The falcons of the wood are flown, And I am left alone--alone-- Dig the grave both deep and wide, And let us slumber side by side.

The dragons of the rock are sleeping, Sleep that wakes not for our weeping-- Dig the grave, and make it ready, Lay me on my true-love's body.

Lay their spears and bucklers bright By the warriors' sides aright; Many a day the three before me On their linkèd bucklers bore me.

Lay upon the low grave floor, 'Neath each head, the blue claymore; Many a time the noble three Reddened these blue blades for me.

Lay the collars, as is meet, Of their greyhounds at their feet; Many a time for me have they Brought the tall red deer to bay.

In the falcon's jesses throw, Hook and arrow, line and bow; Never again, by stream or plain, Shall the gentle woodsmen go.

Sweet companions, ye were ever-- Harsh to me, your sister, never; Woods and wilds, and misty valleys, Were with you as good's a palace.

O, to hear my true-love singing, Sweet as sound of trumpets ringing; Like the sway of ocean swelling Rolled his deep voice round our dwelling.

O! to hear the echoes pealing Round our green and fairy sheeling, When the three, with soaring chorus, Passed the silent skylark o'er us.

Echo now, sleep, morn and even-- Lark alone enchant the heaven! Ardan's lips are scant of breath, Neesa's tongue is cold in death.

Stag, exult on glen and mountain-- Salmon, leap from loch to fountain-- Heron, in the free air warm ye-- Usnach's sons no more will harm ye!

Erin's stay no more you are, Rulers of the ridge of war; Never more 'twill be your fate To keep the beam of battle straight!

Woe is me! by fraud and wrong, Traitors false and tyrants strong, Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold, For Barach's feast and Conor's gold!

Woe to Eman, roof and wall! Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall! Tenfold woe and black dishonour To the foul and false Clan Conor!

Dig the grave both wide and deep, Sick I am, and fain would sleep! Dig the grave and make it ready, Lay me on my true-love's body.

_Sir Samuel Ferguson_

THE FAIR HILLS OF IRELAND

_From the Irish_

A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer, _Uileacan dubh O!_ Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear; _Uileacan dubh O!_ There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand, And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned; There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i' the yellow sand, On the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Curled he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee, _Uileacan dubh O!_ Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish sea; _Uileacan dubh O!_ And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand, Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand, And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command, For the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground; _Uileacan dubh O!_ The butter and the cream do wondrously abound, _Uileacan dubh O!_ The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand, And the cuckoo's calling daily his note of music bland, And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song 'i the forest grand, On the fair hills of holy Ireland.

_Sir Samuel Ferguson_

LAMENT OVER THE RUINS OF THE ABBEY OF TIMOLEAGUE

_From the Irish_

Lone and weary as I wander'd by the bleak shore of the sea, Meditating and reflecting on the world's hard destiny, Forth the moon and stars 'gan glimmer, in the quiet tide beneath, For on slumbering spring and blossom breathed not out of heaven a breath.

On I went in sad dejection, careless where my footsteps bore, Till a ruined church before me opened wide its ancient door,-- Till I stood before the portals, where of old were wont to be, For the blind, the halt, and leper, alms and hospitality.

Still the ancient seat was standing, built against the buttress grey, Where the clergy used to welcome weary trav'llers on their way; There I sat me down in sadness, 'neath my cheek I placed my hand, Till the tears fell hot and briny down upon the grassy land.

There, I said in woful sorrow, weeping bitterly the while, Was a time when joy and gladness reigned within this ruined pile;-- Was a time when bells were tinkling, clergy preaching peace abroad, Psalms a-singing, music ringing praises to the mighty God.

Empty aisle, deserted chancel, tower tottering to your fall, Many a storm since then has beaten on the grey head of your wall! Many a bitter storm and tempest has your roof-tree turned away, Since you first were formed a temple to the Lord of night and day.

Holy house of ivied gables, that were once the country's boast, Houseless now in weary wandering are you scattered, saintly host; Lone you are to-day, and dismal,--joyful psalms no more are heard, Where, within your choir, her vesper screeches the cat-headed bird.

Ivy from your eaves is growing, nettles round your green hearth-stone, Foxes howl, where, in your corners, dropping waters make their moan. Where the lark to early matins used your clergy forth to call, There, alas! no tongue is stirring, save the daw's upon the wall.

Refectory cold and empty, dormitory bleak and bare, Where are now your pious uses, simple bed and frugal fare? Gone your abbot, rule and order, broken down your altar stones; Nought see I beneath your shelter, save a heap of clayey bones.

O! the hardship, O! the hatred, tyranny, and cruel war, Persecution and oppression, that have left you as you are! I myself once also prosper'd;--mine is, too, an alter'd plight; Trouble, care, and age have left me good for nought but grief to-night.

Gone my motion and my vigour--gone the use of eye and ear, At my feet lie friends and children, powerless and corrupting here; Woe is written on my visage, in a nut my heart could lie-- Death's deliverance were welcome--Father, let the old man die.

_Sir Samuel Ferguson_

THE FAIRY WELL OF LAGNANAY

Mournfully, sing mournfully-- 'O listen, Ellen, sister dear: Is there no help at all for me, But only ceaseless sigh and tear? Why did not he who left me here, With stolen hope steal memory? O listen, Ellen, sister dear, (Mournfully, sing mournfully)-- I'll go away to Slemish hill, I'll pluck the fairy hawthorn-tree, And let the spirits work their will; I care not if for good or ill, So they but lay the memory Which all my heart is haunting still! (Mournfully, sing mournfully)-- The Fairies are a silent race, And pale as lily flowers to see: I care not for a blanchèd face, Nor wandering in a dreaming place, So I but banish memory:-- I wish I were with Anna Grace!' Mournfully, sing mournfully!

Hearken to my tale of woe-- 'Twas thus to weeping Ellen Con, Her sister said in accents low, Her only sister, Una bawn: 'Twas in their bed before the dawn, And Ellen answered sad and slow,-- 'O Una, Una, be not drawn (Hearken to my tale of woe)-- To this unholy grief I pray, Which makes me sick at heart to know, And I will help you if I may: --The Fairy Well of Lagnanay-- Lie nearer me, I tremble so,-- Una, I've heard wise women say (Hearken to my tale of woe)-- That if before the dews arise, True maiden in its icy flow With pure hand bathe her bosom thrice, Three lady-brackens pluck likewise, And three times round the fountain go, She straight forgets her tears and sighs.' Hearken to my tale of woe!

All, alas! and well-away! 'O, sister Ellen, sister sweet, Come with me to the hill I pray, And I will prove that blessed freet!' They rose with soft They left their mother where she lay, Their mother and her care discreet, (All, alas! and well-away!) And soon they reached the Fairy Well, The mountain's eye, clear, cold, and grey, Wide open in the dreary fell: How long they stood 'twere vain to tell, At last upon the point of day, Bawn Una bares her bosom's swell, (All, alas! and well-away!) Thrice o'er her shrinking breasts she laves The gliding glance that will not stay Of subtly-streaming fairy waves:-- And now the charm three brackens craves, She plucks them in their fring'd array:-- Now round the well her fate she braves, All, alas! and well-away!

Save us all from Fairy thrall! Ellen sees her face the rim Twice and thrice, and that is all-- Fount and hill and maiden swim All together melting dim! 'Una! Una!' thou may'st call, Sister sad! but lith or limb (Save us all from Fairy thrall!) Never again of Una bawn, Where now she walks in dreamy hall, Shall eyes of mortal look upon! O! can it be the guard was gone, That better guard than shield or wall? Who knows on earth save Jurlagh Daune? (Save us all from Fairy thrall!) Behold the banks are green and bare, No pit is here wherein to fall: Aye--at the fount you well may stare, But nought save pebbles smooth is there, And small straws twirling one and all. Hie thee home, and be thy prayer, Save us all from Fairy thrall.

_Sir Samuel Ferguson_

ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS DAVIS

I walked through Ballinderry in the Spring-time, When the bud was on the tree; And I said, in every fresh-ploughed field beholding The sowers striding free, Scattering broad-cast forth the corn in golden plenty On the quick seed-clasping soil, Even such, this day, among the fresh-stirred hearts of Erin, Thomas Davis, is thy toil!

I sat by Ballyshannon in the summer, And saw the salmon leap; And I said, as I beheld the gallant creatures Spring glittering from the deep, Through the spray, and through the prone heaps striving onward To the calm clear streams above, So seekest thou thy native founts of freedom, Thomas Davis, In thy brightness of strength and love!

I stood on Derrybawn in the Autumn, I heard the eagle call, With a clangorous cry of wrath and lamentation That filled the wide mountain hall, O'er the bare deserted place of his plundered eyrie; And I said, as he screamed and soared, So callest thou, thou wrathful-soaring Thomas Davis, For a nation's rights restored!

And, alas! to think but now, and thou art lying, Dear Davis, dead at thy mother's knee; And I, no mother near, on my own sick-bed, That face on earth shall never see: I may lie and try to feel that I am not dreaming, I may lie and try to say 'Thy will be done'-- But a hundred such as I will never comfort Erin For the loss of the noble son!

Young husbandman of Erin's fruitful seed-time, In the fresh track of danger's plough! Who will walk the heavy, toilsome, perilous furrow Girt with freedom's seed-sheets now? Who will banish with the wholesome crop of knowledge The flaunting weed and the bitter thorn, Now that thou thyself art but a seed for hopeful planting Against the resurrection morn?

Young salmon of the flood-time of freedom That swells round Erin's shore! Thou wilt leap against their loud oppressive torrent Of bigotry and hate no more: Drawn downward by their prone material instinct, Let them thunder on their rocks and foam-- Thou hast leapt, aspiring soul, to founts beyond their raging, Where troubled waters never come!