Part 7

There are lands where manly toil Surely reaps the crop it sows, Glorious woods and teeming soil, Where the broad Missouri flows: Through the trees the smoke shall rise, From our hearth with _mait go leór_, There shall shine the happy eyes Of my _Maire bhan astór_. Mild is _Maire bhan astór_, Mine is _Maire bhan astór_, Saints will watch about the door Of my _Maire bhan astór_.

_Thomas Davis_

O! THE MARRIAGE

AIR--_The Swaggering Jig_

O! the marriage, the marriage, With love and _mo bhuachaill_ for me, The ladies that ride in a carriage Might envy my marriage to me; For Eoghan is straight as a tower, And tender and loving and true, He told me more love in an hour Than the Squires of the county could do. Then, O! the marriage, etc.

His hair is a shower of soft gold, His eye is as clear as the day, His conscience and vote were unsold When others were carried away; His word is as good as an oath, And freely 'twas given to me; O! sure 'twill be happy for both The day of our marriage to see. Then, O! the marriage, etc.

His kinsmen are honest and kind, The neighbours think much of his skill, And Eoghan's the lad to my mind, Though he owns neither castle nor mill. But he has a tilloch of land, A horse, and a stocking of coin, A foot for a dance, and a hand In the cause of his country to join. Then, O! the marriage, etc.

We meet in the market and fair-- We meet in the morning and night-- He sits on the half of my chair, And my people are wild with delight. Yet I long through the winter to skim, Though Eoghan longs more, I can see, When I will be married to him, And he will be married to me. Then, O! the marriage, the marriage, With love and _mo bhuachaill_ for me, The ladies that ride in a carriage Might envy my marriage to me.

_Thomas Davis_

A PLEA FOR LOVE

The summer brook flows in the bed, The winter torrent tore asunder; The skylark's gentle wings are spread Where walk the lightning and the thunder; And thus you'll find the sternest soul The gayest tenderness concealing, And minds that seem to mock control, Are ordered by some fairy feeling.

Then, maiden! start not from the hand That's hardened by the swaying sabre-- The pulse beneath may be as bland As evening after day of labour: And, maiden! start not from the brow That thought has knit, and passion darkened-- In twilight hours, 'neath forest bough, The tenderest tales are often hearkened.

_Thomas Davis_

REMEMBRANCE

Cold in the earth--and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern shore, Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth--and fifteen wild Decembers, From these brown hills, have melted into spring! Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world's tide is bearing me along; Other desires and other hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong;

No later light has lighted up my heaven, No second morn has ever shone for me; All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, And even Despair was powerless to destroy; Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion-- Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten, Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish How could I seek the empty world again?

_Emily Brontë_

A FRAGMENT FROM 'THE PRISONER: A FRAGMENT'

Still, let my tyrants know, I am not doomed to wear Year after year in gloom, and desolate despair; A messenger of Hope comes every night to me, And offers for short life, eternal liberty.

He comes with Western winds, with evening's wandering airs, With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars. Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire, And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire.

Desire for nothing known in my maturer years, When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears. When, if my spirit's sky was full of flashes warm, I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunderstorm.

But first, a hush of peace--a soundless calm descends; The struggle of distress, and fierce impatience ends. Mute music soothes my breast--unuttered harmony That I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me.

Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals; My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels: Its wings are almost free--its home, its harbour found, Measuring the gulf, it stoops, and dares the final bound.

O, dreadful is the check--intense the agony-- When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see; When the pulse begins to throb,--the brain to think again, The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.

Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less, The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless; And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine, If it but herald death, the vision is divine.

_Emily Brontë_

LAST LINES

No coward soul is mine, No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere: I see Heaven's glories shine, And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.

O God, within my breast, Almighty, ever-present Deity! Life--that in me has rest, As I--undying Life--have power in Thee.

Vain are the thousand creeds That move men's hearts: unutterably vain; Worthless as withered weeds, Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,

To waken doubt in one Holding so fast to Thine infinity; So surely anchored on The steadfast rock of immortality,

With wide-embracing love Thy spirit animates eternal years, Pervades and broods above, Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.

Though earth and man were gone, And suns and universes ceased to be, And Thou were left alone, Every existence would exist in Thee.

There is not room for Death, Nor atom that his might could render void: Thou--Thou art Being and Breath, And what Thou art may never be destroyed.

_Emily Brontë_

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD

Who fears to speak of Ninety-eight? Who blushes at the name? When cowards mock the patriot's fate, Who hangs his head for shame? He's all a knave or half a slave Who slights his country thus; But a true man, like you, man, Will fill your glass with us.

We drink the memory of the brave, The faithful and the few-- Some lie far off beyond the wave, Some sleep in Ireland, too; All, all are gone--but still lives on The fame of those who died; All true men, like you, men, Remember them with pride.

Some on the shores of distant lands Their weary hearts have laid, And by the stranger's heedless hands Their lonely graves were made; But, though their clay be far away Beyond the Atlantic foam, In true men, like you, men, Their spirit's still at home.

The dust of some is Irish earth; Among their own they rest; And the same land that gave them birth Has caught them to her breast; And we will pray that from their clay Full many a race may start Of true men, like you, men, To act as brave a part.

They rose in dark and evil days To right their native land; They kindled here a living blaze That nothing shall withstand. Alas! that Might can vanquish Right-- _They_ fell, and passed away; But true men, like you, men, Are plenty here to-day.

Then here's their memory--may it be For us a guiding light, To cheer our strife for liberty, And teach us to unite! Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, Though sad as theirs your fate; And true men, be you, men, Like those of Ninety-Eight.

_John Kells Ingram_

THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE; OR, THE EMIGRANT'S ADIEU TO BALLYSHANNY

Adieu to Ballyshanny! where I was bred and born; Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as night and morn; The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known, And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own; There's not a house or window, there's not a field or hill, But East or West, in foreign lands, I'll recollect them still. I leave my warm heart with you, tho' my back I'm forced to turn-- So adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!

No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter down the Mall, When the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon to the fall. The boat comes straining on her net, and heavily she creeps, Cast off, cast off--she feels the oars, and to her berth she sweeps; Now fore and aft keep hauling, and gathering up the clew, Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the crew. Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit, and many a joke and 'yarn':-- Adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!

The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the tide, When all the green-hill'd harbour is full from side to side, From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round the Abbey Bay, From rocky Inis Saimer to Coolnargit sandhills gray; While far upon the southern line, to guard it like a wall, The Leitrim mountains clothed in blue gaze calmly over all, And watch the ship sail up or down, the red flag at her stern;-- Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding banks of Erne!

Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them that pull an oar, A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point to Mullaghmore; From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League, that ocean-mountain steep, Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred in the deep; From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round by Tullen strand, Level and long, and white with waves, where gull and curlew stand; Head out to sea when on your lee the breakers you discern!-- Adieu to all the billowy coast, and winding banks of Erne!

Farewell, Coolmore,--Bundoran! and your summer crowds that run From inland homes to see with joy th' Atlantic setting sun; To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among the waves; To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt the gloomy caves; To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the crabs, the fish; Young men and maids to meet and smile, and form a tender wish; The sick and old in search of health, for all things have their turn-- And I must quit my native shore, and the winding banks of Erne!

Farewell to every white cascade from the Harbour to Belleek, And every pool where fins may rest, and ivy-shaded creek; The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash and holly grow, The one split yew-tree gazing on the curving flood below; The Lough that winds through islands under Turaw mountain green; And Castle Caldwell's stretching woods, with tranquil bays between; And Breesie Hill, and many a pond among the heath and fern;-- For I must say adieu--adieu to the winding banks of Erne!

The thrush will call through Camlin groves the live-long summer day; The waters run by mossy cliff, and banks with wild flowers gay; The girls will bring their work and sing beneath a twisted thorn, Or stray with sweethearts down the path among the growing corn; Along the river-side they go, where I have often been,-- O never shall I see again the days that I have seen! A thousand chances are to one I never may return,-- Adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!

Adieu to evening dances, when merry neighbours meet, And the fiddle says to boys and girls, 'Get up and shake your feet!' To _shanachus_ and wise old talk of Erin's days gone by-- Who trench'd the rath on such a hill, and where the bones may lie Of saint, or king, or warrior chief; with tales of fairy power, And tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the twilight hour. The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn-- Adieu, my dear companions on the winding banks of Erne!

Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Purt, Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather,--I wish no one any hurt; The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane, the Mall, and Portnasun, If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one. I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me; For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the sea. My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and often fondly turn To think of Ballyshanny and the winding banks of Erne!

If ever I'm a money'd man, I mean, please God, to cast My golden anchor in the place where youthful years were past; Though heads that now are black and brown must meanwhile gather gray, New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop away-- Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside; It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waters wide. And if the Lord allows me, I surely will return To my native Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne.

_William Allingham_

THE FAIRIES

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather! Down along the rocky shore Some make their home, They live on crispy pancakes, Of yellow tide-foam; Some in the reeds Of the bleak mountain lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake.

High on the hill-top The old King sits; He is now so old and gray He's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys From Sleeveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights, To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow, They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since Deep within the lake, On a bed of flag-leaves, Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hillside Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. If any man so daring As dig them up in spite, He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!

_William Allingham_

THE ABBOT OF INISFALEN

_A Killarney Legend_

The Abbot of Inisfalen awoke ere dawn of day; Under the dewy green leaves went he forth to pray. The lake around his island lay smooth and dark and deep, And wrapped in a misty stillness the mountains were all asleep. Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac when the dawn was dim and gray, The prayers of his holy office he faithfully 'gan say. Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac while the dawn was waxing red; And for his sins' forgiveness a solemn prayer he said: Low kneel'd that holy Abbot while the dawn was waking clear, And he prayed with loving-kindness for his convent-brethren dear. Low kneel'd the blessed Abbot while the dawn was waxing bright; He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland, he pray'd with all his might. Low kneel'd that good old Father while the sun began to dart; He pray'd a prayer for all men, he pray'd it from his heart. His blissful soul was in Heaven, tho' a breathing man was he; He was out of time's dominion, so far as the living may be.

The Abbot of Inisfalen arose upon his feet; He heard a small bird singing, and O but it sung sweet! It sung upon a holly-bush, this little snow-white bird; A song so full of gladness he never before had heard, It sung upon a hazel, it sung upon a thorn; He had never heard such music since the hour that he was born. It sung upon a sycamore, it sung upon a briar; To follow the song and hearken the Abbot would never tire. Till at last he well bethought him, he might no longer stay; So he bless'd the little white singing-bird, and gladly went his way.

But, when he came to his Abbey, he found a wondrous wondrous change; He saw no friendly faces there, for every face was strange. The strange men spoke unto him; and he heard from all and each The foreign tongue of the Sassenach, not wholesome Irish speech. Then the oldest monk came forward, in Irish tongue spake he: 'Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress, and who hath given it to thee?' 'I wear the holy Augustine's dress, and Cormac is my name, The Abbot of this good Abbey by grace of God I am.

I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day; and when my prayers were said, I hearken'd awhile to a little bird, that sang above my head.' The monks to him made answer, 'Two hundred years have gone o'er, Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate, and never was heard of more. Matthias now is our Abbot, and twenty have pass'd away. The stranger is lord of Ireland; we live in an evil day. Days will come and go,' he said, 'and the world will pass away: In Heaven a day is a thousand years, a thousand years are a day.'

'Now give me absolution; for my time is come,' said he. And they gave him absolution, as speedily as might be. Then, close outside the window, the sweetest song they heard That ever yet since the world began was utter'd by any bird. The monks look'd out and saw the bird, its feathers all white and clean; And then in a moment, beside it, another white bird was seen. Those two they sang together, waved their white wings, and fled; Flew aloft and vanish'd; but the good old man was dead. They buried his blessed body where lake and green-sward meet, A carven cross above his head, a holly-bush at his feet; Where spreads the beautiful water to gay or cloudy skies, And the purple peaks of Killarney from ancient woods arise.

_William Allingham_

TWILIGHT VOICES

Now, at the hour when ignorant mortals Drowse in the shade of their whirling sphere, Heaven and Hell from invisible portals Breathing comfort and ghastly fear, Voices I hear; I hear strange voices, flitting, calling, Wavering by on the dusky blast,-- 'Come, let us go, for the night is falling; Come, let us go, for the day is past!'

Troops of joys are they, now departed? Winged hopes that no longer stay? Guardian spirits grown weary-hearted? Powers that have linger'd their latest day? What do they say? What do they sing? I hear them calling, Whispering, gathering, flying fast,-- 'Come, come, for the night is falling; Come, come, for the day is past!'

Sing they to me?--'Thy taper's wasted; Mortal, thy sands of life run low; Thine hours like a flock of birds have hasted: Time is ending;--we go, we go.' Sing they so? Mystical voices, floating, calling; Dim farewells--the last, the last? 'Come, come away, the night is falling; Come, come away, the day is past.'

See, I am ready, Twilight voices! Child of the spirit-world am I; How should I fear you? my soul rejoices, O speak plainer! O draw nigh! Fain would I fly! Tell me your message, Ye who are calling Out of the dimness vague and vast; Lift me, take me,--the night is falling; Quick, let us go,--the day is past.

_William Allingham_

FOUR DUCKS ON A POND

Four ducks on a pond, A grass-bank beyond, A blue sky of spring, White clouds on the wing: What a little thing To remember for years-- To remember with tears!

_William Allingham_

THE LOVER AND BIRDS

Within a budding grove, In April's ear sang every bird his best, But not a song to pleasure my unrest, Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love; Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in jest. To every word Of every bird I listen'd, or replied as it behove.

Scream'd Chaffinch, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet! Pretty lovey, come and meet me here!' 'Chaffinch,' quoth I, 'be dumb awhile, in fear Thy darling prove no better than a cheat, And never come, or fly when wintry days appear.' Yet from a twig, With voice so big, The little fowl his utterance did repeat.

Then I, 'The man forlorn Hears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft.' 'And what'll _he_ do? What'll _he_ do?' scoff'd The Blackbird, standing, in ancient thorn, Then spread his sooty wings and flitted to the croft With cackling laugh; Whom I, being half Enraged, called after, giving back his scorn.

Worse mock'd the Thrush, 'Die! die! O, could he do it? could he do it? Nay! Be quick! be quick! Here, here, here!' (went his lay). 'Take heed! take heed!' then, 'Why? why? why? why? why? See-ee now! see-ee now!' (he drawl'd) 'Back! back! back! R-r-r-run away!' O Thrush, be still! Or at thy will Seek some less sad interpreter than I.

'Air, air! blue air and white! Whither I flee, whither, O whither, O whither I flee!' (Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the lea) 'Hills, countries, many waters glittering bright Whither I see, whither I see! deeper, deeper, deeper, whither I see, see, see!' 'Gay Lark,' I said, 'The song that's bred In happy nest may well to heaven make flight.'

'There's something, something sad I half remember'--piped a broken strain. Well sung, sweet Robin! Robin sung again. 'Spring's opening cheerily, cheerily! be we glad!' Which moved, I wist not why, me melancholy mad, Till now, grown meek, With wetted cheek, Most comforting and gentle thoughts I had.

_William Allingham_

THE CELTS

Long, long ago, beyond the misty space Of twice a thousand years, In Erin old there dwelt a mighty race Taller than Roman spears; Like oaks and towers, they had a giant grace, Were fleet as deers: With winds and waves they made their biding-place, The Western shepherd seers.

Their ocean-god was _Mananan Mac Lir_, Whose angry lips In their white foam full often would inter Whole fleets of ships: _Crom_ was their day-god, and their thunderer Made morning and eclipse: _Bride_ was their queen of song, and unto her They pray'd with fire-touch'd lips.