Part 8

Great were their acts, their passions, and their sports; With clay and stone They piled on strath and shore those mystic forts, Not yet undone; On cairn-crown'd hills they held their council courts; While youths--alone-- With giant-dogs, explored the elks' resorts, And brought them down.

Of these was _Finn_, the father of the bard Whose ancient song Over the clamour of all change is heard, Sweet-voiced and strong. Finn once o'ertook Granu, the golden-hair'd, The fleet and young: From her, the lovely, and from him, the feared, The primal poet sprung--

_Ossian!_--two thousand years of mist and change Surround thy name; Thy Finnian heroes now no longer range The hills of Fame. The very name of Finn and Gael sound strange; Yet thine the same By miscall'd lake and desecrated grange Remains, and shall remain!

The Druid's altar and the Druid's creed We scarce can trace; There is not left an undisputed deed Of all your race-- Save your majestic Song, which hath their speed, And strength, and grace: In that sole song they live, and love, and bleed-- It bears them on through space.

Inspirèd giant, shall we e'er behold, In our own time, One fit to speak your spirit on the wold, Or seize your rhyme? One pupil of the past, as mighty-soul'd As in the prime Were the fond, fair, and beautiful, and bold-- They of your song sublime?

_Thomas D'Arcy McGee_

SALUTATION TO THE CELTS

Hail to our Celtic brethren wherever they may be, In the far woods of Oregon, or o'er the Atlantic sea; Whether they guard the banner of St. George, in Indian vales, Or spread beneath the nightless North experimental sails-- One in name, and in fame, Are the sea-divided Gaels.

Though fallen the state of Erin, and changed the Scottish land, Though small the power of Mona, though unwaked Llewellyn's band, Though Ambrose Merlin's prophecies are held as idle tales, Though Iona's ruined cloisters are swept by northern gales: One in name, and in fame, Are the sea-divided Gaels.

In Northern Spain and Italy our brethren also dwell, And brave are the traditions of their fathers that they tell: The Eagle or the Crescent in the dawn of history pales Before the advancing banners of the great Rome-conquering Gaels. One in name, and in fame, Are the sea-divided Gaels.

A greeting and a promise unto them all we send; Their character our charter is, their glory is our end-- Their friend shall be our friend, our foe whoe'er assails The glory or the story of the sea-divided Gaels. One in name, and in fame, Are the sea-divided Gaels.

_Thomas D'Arcy McGee_

THE GOBBAN SAOR

He stepped a man, out on the ways of men, And no one knew his sept, or rank, or name; Like a strong stream far issuing from a glen, From some source unexplored the Master came; Gossips there were who, wondrous keen of ken, Surmised that he must be a child of shame; Others declared him of the Druids, then-- Thro' Patrick's labours--fallen from power and fame.

He lived apart, wrapt up in many plans; He wooed not women, tasted not of wine; He shunned the sports and councils of the clans; Nor ever knelt at a frequented shrine. His orisons were old poetic ranns Which the new Olamhs deem'd an evil sign; To most he seemed one of those Pagan Khans Whose mystic vigour knows no cold decline.

He was the builder of the wondrous Towers, Which, tall and straight and exquisitely round, Rise monumental round this isle of ours, Index-like, marking spots of holy ground. In glooming silent glens, in lowland bowers, On river banks, these _Cloichteachs_ old abound, Where Art, enraptured, meditates long hours And Science ponders, wondering and spell-bound.

Lo, wheresoe'er these pillar-towers aspire, Heroes and holy men repose below; The bones of some, gleaned from a Pagan pyre, Others in armour lie, as for a foe; It was the mighty Master's life-desire To chronicle his great ancestors so; What holier duty, what achievement higher Remains to us, than this he thus doth show?

Yet he, the builder, died an unknown death; His labours done, no man beheld him more; 'Twas thought his body faded like a breath-- Or, like a sea-mist, floated off Life's shore. Doubt overhangs his fate--and faith--and birth: His works alone attest his life and love, They are the only witnesses he hath, All else Egyptian darkness covers o'er.

Men called him Gobban Saor, and many a tale Yet lingers in the byways of the land, Of how he cleft the rock, and down the vale Led the bright river, child-like, in his hand; Of how on giant ships he spread great sail And many marvels else, by him first planned, And tho' these legends fail, in Innisfail His name and Towers for centuries still shall stand.

_Thomas D'Arcy McGee_

PATRICK SHEEHAN

My name is Patrick Sheehan, My years are thirty-four, Tipperary is my native place, Not far from Galtymore; I came of honest parents, But now they're lying low; And many a pleasant day I spent In the Glen of Aherlow.

My father died; I closed his eyes _Outside_ our cabin-door; The landlord and the sheriff too Were there the day before! And then my loving mother, And sisters three also, Were forced to go with broken hearts From the Glen of Aherlow.

For three long months, in search of work, I wandered far and near; I went then to the poor-house, For to see my mother dear; The news I heard nigh broke my heart; But still, in all my woe, I blessed the friends who made their graves In the Glen of Aherlow.

Bereft of home and kith and kin, With plenty all around, I starved within my cabin, And slept upon the ground; But cruel as my lot was, I ne'er did hardship know 'Till I joined the English army, Far away from Aherlow.

'Rouse up, there,' says the Corporal, 'You lazy Hirish hound; Why don't you hear, you sleepy dog, The call "to arms" sound?' Alas, I had been dreaming Of days long, long ago; I woke before Sebastopol, And not in Aherlow.

I groped to find my musket-- How dark I thought the night! O blessed God, it was not dark, It was the broad daylight! And when I found that I was _blind_, My tears began to flow; I longed for even a pauper's grave In the Glen of Aherlow.

O blessed Virgin Mary, Mine is a mournful tale; A poor blind prisoner here I am, In Dublin's dreary gaol; Struck blind within the trenches, Where I never feared the foe; And now I'll never see again My own sweet Aherlow.

A poor neglected mendicant, I wandered through the street; My nine months' pension now being out, I beg from all I meet: As I joined my country's tyrants, My face I'll never show Among the kind old neighbours In the Glen of Aherlow.

Then, Irish youths, dear countrymen, Take heed of what I say; For if you join the English ranks, You'll surely rue the day; And whenever you are tempted A-soldiering to go, Remember poor blind Sheehan Of the Glen of Aherlow.

_Charles J. Kickham_

THE IRISH PEASANT GIRL

She lived beside the Anner, At the foot of Sliev-na-mon, A gentle peasant girl, With mild eyes like the dawn; Her lips were dewy rosebuds; Her teeth of pearls rare; And a snow-drift 'neath a beechen bough Her neck and nut-brown hair.

How pleasant 'twas to meet her On Sunday, when the bell Was filling with its mellow tones Lone wood and grassy dell! And when at eve young maidens Strayed the river-bank along, The widow's brown-haired daughter Was loveliest of the throng.

O brave, brave Irish girls-- We well may call you brave!-- Sure the least of all your perils Is the stormy ocean wave, When you leave our quiet valleys, And cross the Atlantic's foam, To hoard your hard-won earnings For the helpless ones at home.

'Write word to my own dear mother-- Say, we'll meet with God above; And tell my little brothers I send them all my love; May the angels ever guard them, Is their dying sister's prayer'-- And folded in the letter Was a braid of nut-brown hair.

Ah, cold, and well-nigh callous, This weary heart has grown For thy helpless fate, dear Ireland, And for sorrows of my own; Yet a tear my eye will moisten When by Anner's side I stray, For the lily of the mountain foot That withered far away.

_Charles J. Kickham_

TO GOD AND IRELAND TRUE

I sit beside my darling's grave, Who in the prison died, And tho' my tears fall thick and fast, I think of him with pride:-- Ay, softly fall my tears like dew, For one to God and Ireland true.

'I love my God o'er all,' he said, 'And then I love my land, And next I love my Lily sweet, Who pledged me her white hand:-- To each--to all--I'm ever true, To God--to Ireland and to you.'

No tender nurse his hard bed smoothed Or softly raised his head:-- He fell asleep and woke in heaven Ere I knew he was dead;-- Yet why should I my darling rue? He was to God and Ireland true.

O, 'tis a glorious memory; I'm prouder than a queen To sit beside my hero's grave And think on what has been:-- And O, my darling, I am true To God--to Ireland and to you!

_Ellen O'Leary_

THE BANSHEE

Green, in the wizard arms, Of the foam-bearded Atlantic, An isle of old enchantment, A melancholy isle, Enchanted and dreaming lies; And there, by Shannon's flowing, In the moonlight, spectre thin, The spectre Erin sits.

An aged desolation She sits by old Shannon's flowing, A mother of many children, Of children exiled and dead, In her home, with bent head, homeless, Clasping her knees she sits, Keening, keening!

And at her keene the fairy-grass Trembles on dun and barrow; Around the foot of her ancient crosses The grave-grass shakes and the nettle swings; In haunted glens the meadow-sweet Flings to the night-wind Her mystic mournful perfume; The sad spearmint by holy wells Breathes melancholy balm.

Sometimes she lifts her head, With blue eyes tearless, And gazes athwart the reek of night Upon things long past, Upon things to come.

And sometimes, when the moon Brings tempest upon the deep, And roused Atlantic thunders from his caverns in the West, The wolf-hound at her feet Springs up with a mighty bay, And chords of mystery sound from the wild harp at her side, Strung from the heart of poets; And she flies on the verge of the tempest Around her shuddering isle, With grey hair streaming: A meteor of evil omen, The spectre of hope forlorn, Keening, keening!

She keenes, and the strings of her wild harp shiver On the gusts of night: O'er the four waters she keenes--over Moyle she keenes, O'er the Sea of Milith, and the Strait of Strongbow, And the Ocean of Columbus.

And the Fianna hear, and the ghosts of her cloudy hovering heroes; And the swan, Fianoula, wails o'er the waters of Inisfail, Chanting her song of destiny, The rune of the weaving Fates.

And the nations hear in the void and quaking time of night, Sad unto dawning, dirges, Solemn dirges, And snatches of bardic song; Their souls quake in the void and quaking time of night, And they dream of the weird of kings, And tyrannies moulting, sick In the dreadful wind of change.

Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exiles, wail no more, Banshee of the world--no more! Thy sorrows are the world's, thou art no more alone; Thy wrongs, the world's.

_John Todhunter_

AGHADOE

There's a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, There's a green and silent glade in Aghadoe, Where we met, my Love and I, Love's fair planet in the sky, O'er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe.

There's a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, There's a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe, Where I hid from the eyes of the red-coats and their spies That year the trouble came to Aghadoe.

O! my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, On Shaun Dhuv, my mother's son in Aghadoe, When your throat fries in hell's drouth salt the flame be in your mouth, For the treachery you did in Aghadoe!

For they tracked me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, When the price was on his head in Aghadoe; O'er the mountain through the wood, as I stole to him with food, When in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe.

But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe; With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe, There he lay, the head--my breast keeps the warmth where once 'twould rest-- Gone, to win the traitor's gold, from Aghadoe!

I walked to Mallow Town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Brought his head from the gaol's gate to Aghadoe, Then I covered him with fern, and I piled on him the cairn. Like an Irish King he sleeps in Aghadoe.

O! to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe! There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe! Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I, Your own love, cold on your cairn in Aghadoe.

_John Todhunter_

A MAD SONG

I hear the wind a-blowing, I hear the corn a-growing, I hear the Virgin praying, I hear what she is saying.

_Hester Sigerson_

LADY MARGARET'S SONG

Girls, when I am gone away, On this bosom strew Only flowers meek and pale, And the yew.

Lay these hands down by my side, Let my face be bare; Bind a kerchief round the face, Smooth my hair.

Let my bier be borne at dawn, Summer grows so sweet, Deep into the forest green Where boughs meet.

Then pass away, and let me lie One long, warm, sweet day There alone, with face upturned, One sweet day.

While the morning light grows broad, While noon sleepeth sound, While the evening falls and faints, While the world goes round.

_Edward Dowden_

SONG

I made another garden, yea, For my new Love. I left the dead rose where it lay And set the new above. Why did my Summer not begin? Why did my heart not haste? My old Love came and walked therein And laid the garden waste.

She entered with her weary smile, Just as of old: She looked around a little while And shivered with the cold. Her passing touch was death to all, Her passing look a blight; She made the white rose-petals fall, And turned the red rose white.

Her pale robe clinging to the grass Seemed like a snake That bit the grass and ground, alas! And a sad trail did make. She went up slowly to the gate, And then, just as of yore, She turned back at the last to wait And say farewell once more.

_Arthur O'Shaughnessy_

FATHER O'FLYNN

Of priests we can offer a charming variety, Far renowned for larnin' and piety, Still I'd advance you, without impropriety, Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all. Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn, _Slainte_, and _slainte_, and _slainte_ agin. Powerfullest preacher, And tindherest teacher, And kindliest creature in Old Donegal.

Talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity, Far renowned for Greek and Latinity, Gad! and the divils and all at Divinity, Father O'Flynn would make hares of them all. Come, I venture to give you my word, Never the likes of his logic was heard, Down from mythology, Into thayology, Troth and conchology, if he'd the call.

Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way with you, All the old sinners are wishful to pray with you, All the young children are wild for to play with you, You've such a way with you, Father _avick_! Still for all you're so gentle a soul, Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control; Checking the crazy ones, Coaxing unaisy ones, Lifting the lazy ones on with the stick.

And though quite avoiding all foolish frivolity, Still at all seasons of innocent jollity, Where is the play-boy can claim an equality At comicality, Father, with you? Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest, Till this remark set him off with the rest: 'Is it leave gaiety All to the laity? Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too?'

_Alfred Perceval Graves_

SONG

The silent bird is hid in the boughs, The scythe is hid in the corn, The lazy oxen wink and drowse, The grateful sheep are shorn. Redder and redder burns the rose, The lily was ne'er so pale, Stiller and stiller the river flows Along the path to the vale.

A little door is hid in the boughs, A face is hiding within; When birds are silent and oxen drowse, Why should a maiden spin? Slower and slower turns the wheel, The face turns red and pale, Brighter and brighter the looks that steal, Along the path to the vale.

_Rosa Gilbert_

REQUIESCAT

Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair, Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone, She is at rest.

Peace, Peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life's buried here, Heap earth upon it.

_Oscar Wilde_

THE LAMENT OF QUEEN MAEV

_From the Irish of the Book of Leinster_

Raise the cromlech high! Mac Moghcorb is slain, And other men's renown Has leave to live again.

Cold at last he lies 'Neath the burial stone. All the blood he shed Could not save his own.

Stately, strong he went, Through his nobles all, When we paced together Up the banquet-hall.

Dazzling white as lime, Was his body fair, Cherry-red his cheeks, Raven-black his hair.

Razor-sharp his spear, And the shield he bore, High as champion's head-- His arm was like an oar.

Never aught but truth Spake my noble king; Valour all his trust In all his warfaring.

As the forkèd pole Holds the roof-tree's weight, So my hero's arm Held the battle straight.

Terror went before him, Death behind his back, Well the wolves of Erinn Knew his chariot's track.

Seven bloody battles He broke upon his foes, In each a hundred heroes Fell beneath his blows.

Once he fought at Fossud, Thrice at Ath-finn-fail. 'Twas my king that conquered At bloody Ath-an-Scail.

At the Boundary Stream Fought the Royal Hound, And for Bernas battle Stands his name renowned.

Here he fought with Leinster-- Last of all his frays-- On the Hill of Cucorb's Fate High his cromlech raise.

_T.W. Rolleston_

THE DEAD AT CLONMACNOIS

_From the Irish of Enoch O'Gillan_

In a quiet watered land, a land of roses, Stands Saint Kieran's city fair; And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations Slumber there.

There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest Of the clan of Conn, Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham And the sacred knot thereon.

There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara, There the sons of Cairbrè sleep-- Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran's plain of crosses Now their final hosting keep.

And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia, And right many a lord of Breagh; Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill, Kind in hall and fierce in fray.

Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter In the red earth lies at rest; Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers, Many a swan-white breast.

_T.W. Rolleston_

THE SPELL-STRUCK

She walks as she were moving Some mystic dance to tread, So falls her gliding footstep, So leans her listening head;

For once to fairy harping She danced upon the hill, And through her brain and bosom The music pulses still.

Her eyes are bright and tearless, But wide with yearning pain; She longs for nothing earthly, But O! to hear again

The sound that held her listening Upon her moonlit path! The rippling fairy music That filled the lonely rath.

Her lips, that once have tasted The fairy banquet's bliss, Shall glad no mortal lover With maiden smile or kiss.

She's dead to all things living Since that November Eve; And when she dies in autumn No living thing will grieve.

_T.W. Rolleston_

WERE YOU ON THE MOUNTAIN?

_From the Irish_

O, were you on the mountain, or saw you my love? Or saw you my own one, my queen and my dove? Or saw you the maiden with the step firm and free? And say, is she pining in sorrow like me?

I was upon the mountain, and saw there your love, I saw there your own one, your queen and your dove; I saw there the maiden with the step firm and free And she was _not_ pining in sorrow like thee.

_Douglas Hyde_

MY GRIEF ON THE SEA

_From the Irish_

My grief on the sea, How the waves of it roll! For they heave between me And the love of my soul!

Abandoned, forsaken, To grief and to care, Will the sea ever waken Relief from despair?

My grief and my trouble Would he and I wear, In the province of Leinster, Or County of Clare?

Were I and my darling-- O, heart-bitter wound!-- On board of the ship For America bound.

On a green bed of rushes All last night I lay, And I flung it abroad With the heat of the day.

And my love came behind me-- He came from the south; His breast to my bosom, His mouth to my mouth.

_Douglas Hyde_

MY LOVE, O, SHE IS MY LOVE

_From the Irish_

She casts a spell, O, casts a spell, Which haunts me more than I can tell. Dearer because she makes me ill, Than who would will to make me well.

She is my store, O, she my store, Whose grey eye wounded me so sore, Who will not place in mine her palm, Who will not calm me any more.

She is my pet, O, she my pet, Whom I can never more forget; Who would not lose by me one moan, Nor stone upon my cairn set,

She is my roon, O, she my roon, Who tells me nothing, leaves me soon; Who would not lose by me one sigh, Were death and I within one room.

She is my dear, O, she my dear, Who cares not whether I be here. Who would not weep when I am dead, Who makes me shed the silent tear.

Hard my case, O, hard my case, How have I lived so long a space, She does not trust me any more, But I adore her silent face.

She is my choice, O, she my choice, Who never made me to rejoice; Who caused my heart to ache so oft, Who put no softness in her voice.