Part 6

But I grieve not, eagle of the empty eyrie, That thy wrathful cry is still; And that the songs alone of peaceful mourners Are heard to-day on Erin's hill; Better far, if brothers' war be destined for us (God avert that horrid day I pray!) That ere our hands be stained with slaughter fratricidal Thy warm heart should be cold in clay.

But my trust is strong in God, who made us brothers, That He will not suffer those right hands Which thou hast joined in holier rites than wedlock, To draw opposing brands. O, many a tuneful tongue that thou madest vocal Would lie cold and silent then; And songless long once more, should often-widowed Erin Mourn the loss of her brave young men.

O, brave young men, my love, my pride, my promise, 'Tis on you my hopes are set, In manliness, in kindliness, in justice, To make Erin a nation yet: Self-respecting, self-relying, self-advancing, In union or in severance, free and strong-- And if God grant this, then, under God, to Thomas Davis Let the greater praise belong.

_Sir Samuel Ferguson_

THE COUNTY OF MAYO

_From the Irish of Thomas Lavelle_

On the deck of Patrick Lynch's boat I sat in woful plight, Through my sighing all the weary day, and weeping all the night; Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go, By the blessed sun! 'tis royally I'd sing thy praise, Mayo!

When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did much abound, In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round-- 'Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now I'm forced to go, And must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo.

They are altered girls in Irrul now; 'tis proud they're grown and high, With their hair-bags and their top-knots, for I pass their buckles by-- But it's little now I heed their airs, for God will have it so, That I must depart for foreign lands, and leave my sweet Mayo.

'Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl of Irrul still, And that Brian Duff no longer rules as Lord upon the hill: And that Colonel Hugh MacGrady should be lying dead and low, And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the county of Mayo.

_George Fox_

THE WEDDING OF THE CLANS

_A Girl's Babble_

I go to knit two clans together; Our clan and this clan unseen of yore:-- Our clan fears nought! but I go, O whither? This day I go from my mother's door.

Thou, red-breast, singest the old song over, Though many a time thou hast sung it before; They never sent thee to some strange new lover:-- I sing a new song by my mother's door.

I stepped from my little room down by the ladder, The ladder that never so shook before; I was sad last night; to-day I am sadder, Because I go from my mother's door.

The last snow melts upon bush and bramble; The gold bars shine on the forest's floor; Shake not, thou leaf! it is I must tremble Because I go from my mother's door.

From a Spanish sailor a dagger I bought me; I trailed a rose-tree our grey bawn o'er; The creed and my letters our old bard taught me; My days were sweet by my mother's door.

My little white goat that with raised feet huggest The oak stock, thy horns in the ivies frore, Could I wrestle like thee--how the wreaths thou tuggest!-- I never would move from my mother's door.

O weep no longer, my nurse and mother! My foster-sister, weep not so sore! You cannot come with me, Ir, my brother-- Alone I go from my mother's door.

Farewell, my wolf-hound that slew MacOwing As he caught me and far through the thickets bore: My heifer, Alb, in the green vale lowing, My cygnet's nest upon Lorna's shore!

He has killed ten chiefs, this chief that plights me, His hand is like that of the giant Balor; But I fear his kiss, and his beard affrights me, And the great stone dragon above his door.

Had I daughters nine, with me they should tarry; They should sing old songs; they should dance at my door; They should grind at the quern;--no need to marry; O when will this marriage-day be o'er?

Had I buried, like Moirín, three mates already, I might say: 'Three husbands! then why not four?' But my hand is cold and my foot unsteady, Because I never was married before!

_Aubrey de Vere_

THE LITTLE BLACK ROSE

The Little Black Rose shall be red at last; What made it black but the March wind dry, And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast? It shall redden the hills when June is nigh.

The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last; What drove her forth but the dragon-fly? In the golden vale she shall feed full fast, With her mild gold horn and her slow, dark eye.

The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last! The pine long bleeding, it shall not die! This song is secret. Mine ear it passed In a wind o'er the plains at Athenry.

_Aubrey de Vere_

SONG

She says: 'Poor Friend, you waste a treasure Which you can ne'er regain-- Time, health, and glory, for the pleasure Of toying with a chain.' But then her voice so tender grows, So kind and so caressing; Each murmur from her lips that flows Comes to me like a blessing.

Sometimes she says: 'Sweet Friend, I grieve you-- Alas, it gives me pain! What can I? Ah, might I relieve you, You ne'er had mourned in vain!' And then her little hand she presses Upon her heart, and sighs; While tears, whose source not yet she guesses, Grow larger in her eyes.

_Aubrey de Vere_

THE BARD ETHELL

_Ireland in the Thirteenth Century_

I am Ethell, the son of Conn: Here I bide at the foot of the hill: I am clansman to Brian, and servant to none: Whom I hated, I hate: whom I loved, I love still. Blind am I. On milk I live, And meat, God sends it, on each Saint's Day; Though Donald Mac Art--may he never thrive-- Last Shrovetide drove half my kine away.

At the brown hill's base by the pale blue lake I dwell and see the things I saw: The heron flap heavily up from the brake; The crow fly homeward with twig or straw The wild duck a silver line in wake Cutting the calm mere to far Bunaw. And the things that I heard, though deaf, I hear, From the tower in the island the feastful cheer; The horn from the wood; the plunge of the stag, With the loud hounds after him down from the crag. Sweet is the chase, but the battle is sweeter, More healthy, more joyous, for true men meeter!

My hand is weak! it once was strong: My heart burns still with its ancient fire. If any man smites me he does me wrong, For I was the bard of Brian Mac Guire. If any man slay me--not unaware, By no chance blow, nor in wine and revel, I have stored beforehand, a curse in my prayer For his kith and kindred; his deed is evil.

There never was king, and never will be, In battle or banquet like Malachi! The seers his reign had predicted long; He honoured the bards, and gave gold for song. If rebels arose, he put out their eyes; If robbers plundered or burned the fanes, He hung them in chaplets, like rosaries, That others beholding might take more pains! There was none to women more reverent-minded, For he held his mother, and Mary, dear; If any man wronged them, that man he blinded, Or straight amerced him of hand or ear. There was none who founded more convents--none; In his palace the old and poor were fed; The orphan might walk, or the widow's son, Without groom or page to his throne or bed. In his council he mused, with great brows divine, And eyes like the eyes of the musing kine, Upholding a sceptre o'er which men said, Seven spirits of wisdom like fire-tongues played. He drained ten lakes, and he built ten bridges; He bought a gold book for a thousand cows; He slew ten princes who brake their pledges; With the bribed and the base he scorned to carouse. He was sweet and awful; through all his reign God gave great harvests to vale and plain; From his nurse's milk he was kind and brave; And when he went down to his well-wept grave, Through the triumph of penance his soul arose To God and the saints. Not so his foes.

The King that came after, ah woe, woe, woe! He doubted his friend, and he trusted his foe, He bought and he sold: his kingdom old He pledged and pawned, to avenge a spite: No Bard or prophet his birth foretold: He was guarded and warded both day and night: He counselled with fools and had boors at his feast: He was cruel to Christian and kind to beast: Men smiled when they talked of him far o'er the wave: Well paid were the mourners that wept at his grave. God plagued for his sake his people sore: They sinned; for the people should watch and pray, That their prayers like angels at window and door, May keep from the King the bad thought away!

The sun has risen: on lip and brow, He greets me--I feel it--with golden wand: Ah, bright-faced Norna! I see thee now: Where first I saw thee I see thee stand! From the trellis the girl looked down on me: Her maidens stood near; it was late in spring; The grey priest laughed, as she cried in glee, 'Good Bard, a song in my honour sing.' I sang her praise in a loud-voiced hymn, To God who had fashioned her face and limb, For the praise of the clan, and the land's behoof: So she flung me a flower from the trellis roof. Ere long I saw her the hill descending, O'er the lake the May morning rose moist and slow, She prayed me, her smile with the sweet voice blending, To teach her all that a woman should know. Panting she stood; she was out of breath; The wave of her little breast was shaking; From eyes still childish, and dark as death, Came womanhood's dawn through a dew-cloud breaking. Norna was never long time the same; By a spirit so strong was her slight form moulded, The curves swelled out from the flower-like frame In joy; in grief to a bud she folded: As she listened, her eyes grew bright and large, Like springs rain-fed that dilate their marge. So I taught her the hymn of Patrick the Apostle, And the marvels of Bridget and Columbkille; Ere long she sang like the lark or the throstle, Sang the deeds of the servants of God's high will: I told her of Brendan, who found afar Another world 'neath the western star; Of our three great bishops in Lindisfarne isle; Of St. Fursey the wondrous, Fiacre without guile; Of Sedulius, hymn-maker when hymns were rare; Of Scotus the subtle, who clove a hair Into sixty parts, and had marge to spare. To her brother I spake of Oisin and Fionn, And they wept at the death of great Oisin's son. I taught the heart of the boy to revel In tales of old greatness that never tire; And the virgin's, up-springing from earth's low level, To wed with heaven like the altar fire. I taught her all that a woman should know, And that none should teach her worse lore, I gave her A dagger keen, and taught her the blow That subdues the knave to discreet behaviour. A sand-stone there on my knee she set, And sharpened its point--I can see her yet I held back her hair and she sharpen'd the edge, While the wind piped low through the reeds and sedge.

She died in the convent on Ina's height:-- I saw her the day that she took the veil: As slender she stood as the Paschal light, As tall and slender and bright and pale! I saw her: and dropped as dead: bereaven Is earth when her holy ones leave her for heaven. Her brother fell in the fight at Begh, May they plead for me both on my dying day!

All praise to the man who brought us the Faith! 'Tis a staff by day and our pillow in death! All praise I say to that blessed youth, Who heard in a dream from Tyrawley's strand That wail, 'Put forth o'er the sea thy hand: In the dark we die: give us hope and Truth!' But Patrick built not on Iorras' shore That convent where now the Franciscans dwell: Columba was mighty in prayer and war: But the young monk preaches as loud as his bell, That love must rule all, and all wrongs be forgiven, Or else he is sure we shall reach not heaven! This doctrine I count right cruel and hard, And when I am laid in the old churchyard, The habit of Francis I will not wear: Nor wear I his cord or his cloth of hair In secret. Men dwindle: till psalm and prayer Had softened the land no Dane dwelt there!

I forgive old Cathbar who sank my boat: Must I pardon Feargal who slew my son: Or the pirate, Strongbow, who burned Granote, They tell me, and in it nine priests, a nun, And worse--St. Finian's old crozier staff? At forgiveness like that, I spit and laugh! My chief in his wine-cups forgave twelve men: And of these a dozen rebelled again. There never was chief more brave than he! The night he was born Loch Gar up-burst: He was bard-loving, gift-making, fond of glee, The last to fly, to advance the first. He was like the top spray upon Uladh's oak, He was like the tap-root of Argial's pine: He was secret and sudden: as lightning his stroke: There was none that could fathom his hid design. He slept not: if any man scorned his alliance He struck the first blow for a frank defiance, With that look in his face, half night, half light, Like the lake just blackened yet ridged with white! There were comely wonders before he died: The eagle barked, and the Banshee cried, The witch-elm wept with a blighted bud, The spray of the torrent was red with blood: The chief returned from the mountains bound, Forgot to ask after Bran his hound. We knew he would die: three days were o'er, He died. We _waked_ him for three days more: One by one, upon brow and breast, The whole clan kissed him: In peace may he rest!

I sang his dirge, I could sing that time Four thousand staves of ancestral rhyme: To-day I can scarcely sing the half: Of old I was corn, and I now am chaff! My song to-day is a breeze that shakes Feebly the down on the cygnet's breast; 'Twas then a billow the beach that rakes, Or a storm that buffets the mountain's crest. Whatever I bit with a venomed song, Grew sick, were it beast, or tree, or man: The wronged one sued me to right his wrong With the flail of the Satire and fierce Ode's fan. I sang to the chieftains: each stock I traced, Lest lines should grow tangled through fraud or haste. To princes I sang in a loftier tone Of Moran the just who refused a throne; Of Moran, whose torque would close, and choke The wry-necked witness that falsely spoke. I taught them how to win love and hate, Not love from all; and to shun debate. To maids in the bower I sang of love: And of war at the feastings in bawn or grove.

Great is our Order: but greater far Were its pomp and power in the days of old, When the five Chief Bards in peace or war Had thirty bards each in his train enrolled: When Ollave Fodla in Tara's hall Fed bards and kings; when the boy King Nial Was trained by Torna; when Britain and Gaul Sent crowns of laurel to Dallan Forgial. To-day we can launch the clans into fight; That day we could freeze them in mid career! Whatever man knows was our realm by right: The lore without music no Gael would hear. Old Cormac the brave blind king was bard Ere fame rose yet of O'Daly and Ward. The son of Milesius was bard--'Go back My People,' he sang, 'ye have done a wrong! Nine waves go back o'er the green sea track, Let your foes their castles and coasts make strong. To the island you came by stealth and at night: She is ours if we win her, in all men's sight;' For that first song's sake let our bards hold fast To Truth and Justice from first to last! 'Tis over! some think we erred through pride, Though Columba the vengeance turned aside. Too strong we were not: too rich we were: Give wealth to knaves: 'tis the true man's snare.

But now men lie: they are just no more; They forsake the old ways; they quest for new; They pry and they snuff after strange false lore, As dogs hunt vermin: it never was true:-- I have scorned it for twenty years--this babble, That eastward and southward, a Saxon rabble Have won great battles and rule large lands, And plight with daughters of ours their hands. We know the bold Norman o'erset their throne Long since. Our lands! let them guard their own.

How long He leaves me--the great God--here! Have I sinned some sin, or has God forgotten? This year, I think, is my hundredth year; I am like a bad apple unripe and rotten! They shall lift me ere long, they shall lay me--the clan,-- By the strength of men on Mount Cruachan! God has much to think of! How much He hath seen, And how much is gone by that once hath been! On sandy hills where the rabbits burrow, Are Raths of Kings' men, named not now; On mountain-tops I have tracked the furrow, And found in forests the buried plough. For one now living the strong land then Gave kindly food and raiment to ten. No doubt they waxed proud and their God defied: So their harvest He blighted and burned their hoard; Or He sent them plagues, or He sent the sword, Or He sent them lightning and so they died, Like Dathi the King on the dark Alp's side. Ah me! that man who is made of dust, Should have pride towards God! 'Tis a demon's spleen! I have often feared lest God the All-just, Should bend from heaven and sweep earth clean: Should sweep us all into corners and holes, Like dust of the house-floor both bodies and souls! I have often feared He would send some wind In wrath; and the nation wake up stone blind. In age or in youth we have all wrought ill: I say not our great King Nial did well, Although he was Lord of the Pledges Nine, Where besides subduing this land of Eire, He raised in Armorica banner and sign, And wasted the British coast with fire. Perhaps in His mercy the Lord will say, 'These men, God's help, 'twas a rough boy-play!' He is certain, that young Franciscan Priest-- God sees great sin where men see least; Yet this were to give unto God the eye-- Unmeet the thought, of the humming fly! I trust there are small things He scorns to see In the lowly who cry to Him piteously. Our hope is Christ: I have wept full oft, He came not to Eire in Oisin's time; Though love and those new monks would make men soft, If they were not hardened by war and rhyme. I have done my part: my end draws nigh: I shall leave old Eire with a smile and sigh, She will miss me not as I missed my son, Yet for her and her praise were my best deeds done. Man's deeds! Man's deeds! they are shades that fleet, Or ripples like those that break at my feet. The deeds of my chief and the deeds of my king Grow hazy, far seen, in the hills in spring. Nothing is great save the death on the cross! But Pilate and Herod I hate, and know Had Fionn lived then he had laid them low, Though the world thereby had sustained great loss. My blindness and deafness and aching back With meekness I bear for that suffering's sake; And the Lent-fast for Mary's sake I love, And the honour of Him, the Man Above! My songs are all over now:--so best! They are laid in the heavenly Singer's breast, Who never sings but a star is born: May we hear His song in the endless morn! I give glory to God for our battles won By wood or river, on bay or creek: For Norna--who died; for my father, Conn: For feasts, and the chase on the mountains bleak: I bewail my sins, both unknown and known, And of those I have injured forgiveness seek. The men that were wicked to me and mine (Not quenching a wrong, nor in war nor wine), I forgive and absolve them all, save three: May Christ in His mercy be kind to me!

_Aubrey de Vere_

LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF EOGHAN RUADH O'NEILL

'Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Eoghan Ruadh O'Neill?' 'Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet with steel.' 'May God wither up their hearts! May their blood cease to flow! May they walk in living death, who poisoned Eoghan Ruadh!

'Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words.' 'From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords: But the weapon of the Sassanach met him on his way, And he died at Cloch Uachtar, upon St. Leonard's day.

'Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One! Wail, wail ye for the Dead! Quench the hearth, and hold the breath--with ashes strew the head. How tenderly we loved him! How deeply we deplore! Holy Saviour! but to think we shall never see him more!

'Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall, Sure we never won a battle--'twas Owen won them all. Had he lived--had he lived--our dear country had been free; But he's dead, but he's dead, and 'tis slaves we'll ever be.

'O'Farrell and Clanricarde, Preston and Red Hugh, Audley and MacMahon--ye are valiant, wise, and true; But--what are ye all to our darling who is gone? The Rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle's corner stone!

'Wail, wail him through the Island! Weep, weep for our pride! Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died! Weep the Victor of Beinn Burb--weep him, young and old; Weep for him, ye women--your Beautiful lies cold!

'We thought you would not die--we were sure you would not go, And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow-- Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky-- O! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die?

'Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill! bright was your eye, O! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die? Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with God on high, But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Eoghan!--why did you die?'

_Thomas Davis_

MAIRE BHAN ASTÓR

In a valley far away, With my _Maire bhan astór_, Short would be the summer-day, Ever loving more and more; Winter days would all grow long, With the light her heart would pour, With her kisses and her song, And her loving _mait go leór_. Fond is _Maire bhan astór_, Fair is _Maire bhan astór_, Sweet as ripple on the shore, Sings my _Maire bhan astór_.

O! her sire is very proud, And her mother cold as stone; But her brother bravely vowed She should be my bride alone; For he knew I loved her well, And he knew she loved me too, So he sought their pride to quell, But 'twas all in vain to sue. True is _Maire bhan astór_, Tried is _Maire bhan astór_, Had I wings I'd never soar From my _Maire bhan astór_.