Part 2
Oh! the blaze of gorse and heather in the deep'ning glow, With their gold and purple mirrored in the pool below. And the shadows stealing upwards to the drawing night, And the ling'ring of the last low light.
All above the marshy meadows hung the dark pine trees Scarcely whispering their secrets to the lifting breeze. I could hear the cattle breathing by the low stone wall:-- And Barrule to watch and ward o'er all.
Oh! the little lonely house on the Mooragh turf; With the sound of running water slipping down among the surf, I went in upon the door--but the hearth was bare, And the darkness of the night was there.
Then I wakened from my dream as the sun went down. And I'll wander never more on the Mooragh brown. For I'm far from Corna valley and the rock-bound shore. And I'll see the little house no more.
"INASMUCH."
A stranger passes this way at night When the earth is laid to rest: He pauses before each cottage door Like a long expected guest. Is it only a ray of the white moonlight That falls on the dewy ground? Or is it the gleam of a Kingly Robe That sheds such radiance round?
He pauses before each cottage door When the silence is still and deep: There are souls that work and souls that rest, And souls that must watch and weep. Is it only the track of the children's feet That has furrowed the roadway there? Or is it the print of a Piercéd Foot That was heavy with human care?
Then to those who weep, and to those who sleep, And to those who watch and wake, There comes the touch of a tender Hand For a suffering stranger's sake. Is it only the breath of the balsam pine That is filling the midnight vale? Or is it the balm of a Healing Calm That sweetens the perfumed gale?
For a stranger came to these gentle souls, And a sick heart craved for rest: They gave her their love and they gave her their care And they gave her of all their best. Is it only the wind in the waving pines Or the sound of the distant sea? Or is it the voice of the Stranger Guest-- "Ye did it unto Me."
THE DAYS OF MY LIFE.
The days of my life! They flow on like a dream, And I'm nearing the waves of the dim silent stream, Adrift in the darkness--yet fear I no ill, For Goodness and Mercy shall follow me still.
The bright days of Springtime, the sunshine and flowers! No thought then of shadow, of storm-cloud or showers, Long, long have they left me--yet fear I no ill, For Goodness and Mercy have followed me still.
There were dull days in Summer when sullen and gray The thunder clouds broke on the upland way. Though idols were shattered--yet fear I no ill, For Goodness and Mercy have followed me still.
There were fair days in Autumn, when troubles took rest When harvests were garnered, and trials were blest, They have gone like the shadows--yet fear I no ill, For Goodness and Mercy have followed me still.
The dark days of Winter! The storm and the rain, The joys that have vanished, the hopes that were vain; Their shadow remaineth--yet fear I no ill, For Goodness and Mercy have followed me still.
So the days of my life shall flow on like a dream Till the Light glimmers far on the dark silent stream, Though dimly I see it--yet fear I no ill, For Goodness and Mercy will follow me still.
THE RIDE.
It happened once upon a time I met the Fairies straying, From under Bearey's Cap they came To go once more a-Maying.
They came about me in the mist, I heard their songs and laughter, And some went dancing on before And some came singing after.
My nag was shod with fairy shoes And bred among the mountains, And many a moonlight prank she played Along the streams and fountains.
We scampered down by Greeba Mills And on to old St. Trinian's, And hastened lest the Big Buggane Should join us on his pinions.
Though steep as Ugh ta breesh ma chree The road to green Ballinghan, My nag stepped out with might and main-- Her like is not in Englan'.
For up she went and on she went Above the trees o'erarching, And on the Braid we turned to see The mountains all come marching.
From Greeba Towers to Laxey Glen Their noble heads up-lifting, And far behind them in the blue Their fleecy helmets drifting.
St. Mark's and Sluggadhoo we passed And came to Ballamoddha, And here my Fairy Company Fell into some disorder.
For men, they said, and motor-cars Have spoiled the roads for Fairies, We'll meet you further on, they said, Among the lonely Gareys.
I scarce had gone a mile before My steed began to blether, Her fairy shoes, she said, were best For travelling through the heather.
So round she went, and West she went, And through the pleasant Gareys, And here I met my friends again, My company of Fairies.
And over Colby Bridge we raced And through the Croit-y-Caley, And all the folk from Cronk-Howe-Moar Came out to meet us gaily.
Then up Cregneash we went like storm For day began to hurry, And at the circle met the sun And stayed at Lag-ny-Wurry.
And on the Hill we danced till eve And round about the hollow, Till all the bones got up and joined And set themselves to follow.
"No, no," we said, "not so," we said, "Our ways are not together; We'll take the road and go," we said "Stay you and watch the weather."
My nag was fed by fairy hands, She drank from Chibbyr-Garvel And in a trice she leapt aloft And left the bones to marvel.
The mist came floating round again With songs and laughter ringing-- And there we were on Bearey slopes Where morning larks were singing.
THE BABE OF EAREY CUSHLIN.
So sad the lot of babe forlorn That hath no home in earth or sky, But sobs along the dark'ning broogh-- "A Babe without a Name am I!"
Scarce launched upon its earthly course, It had no time to sin or pray; But all unwelcome, undesired, Its harmless life was cast away.
Unblest by sign of Holy Cross, Whose weight, like Christ, it surely bore, A sinless soul, through dreary space Thrust out to wander evermore.
It sobs along the lonely broogh, Where night and darkness fill the sky, "Oh, pity me! Oh, pity me! A Babe without a Name am I!"
* * * * * *
Dark was the night and rough the road The Heiress in her anguish trod; To frenzy wrought, her only thought To hide her shame beneath the sod.
Ask not what woeful deed was done Ere dimly dawned the sombre day; What madness of despair sent forth That dreadful cry above the bay!
The sea-mews rose and wheeled and crossed, White wings against the dark brow'd hill; And widening circles on the tide Broke silently, and all was still.
* * * * * *
At Earey-Cushlin blinds are drawn, And whispers fill the stagnant air, Wet foot-prints track the silent hall, And sea-weed drips from off the stair.
And on a day the mourners go, And hymns are sung and prayers are said, And in the Churchyard's hallowed ground They leave one more among the dead.
And should they grudge her hallowed ground That knew not what despair was hers, Nor dreamed what madness found her there In that lone Keeill among the furze?
So mass was sung and prayers were said, And tender hearts wept tears of pain. Perchance such tears might help to cleanse A hopeless soul from sinful stain.
Sad fate was hers; yet might she hope, Though ages long must pass before, Through prayers and fears and burning tears At last to reach the heavenly door.
And then--when purged by cleansing fires She trembles toward the distant light, Will she not think of that poor babe Thrust out to wander through the night!
So sad the lot of Babe unblest That hath no home in heaven or earth, But mourns in its cold winding sheet About the place that gave it birth.
It may not reach to heaven above It may not rest in earth below; Nor with its lighted taper pierce The limbo of its outcast woe.
The grey tide leaps upon the rocks, The sea-mews rise and cross and wheel, And ever as the darkness falls The Babe weeps lonely in the Keeill.
And in its trailing winding sheet Sobs o'er the broogh its piteous cry:-- "Oh, pity me! oh, pity me! A Babe without a name am I!"
The old man ceased, and in the pause, We watched the smoke against the hill; As in a dream he told his tale, As in a dream we listened still.
His sea-blue eyes though dimmed by years Saw far beyond our time and space, And child-like faith in unseen things Had smoothed the furrows in his face.
His simple creed--to do his best As guardian of that treasured pile, Whose ancient towers and ruined choirs Stand crowned about Peel's holy Isle.
And leaning on his staff he sat Beside us in the sunny nook, Embrasured by cathedral walls Whose stones were all his sacred book.
Far off in haze we saw the Cronk That frowns o'er Earey Cushlin's strand, So far remote it seemed to be As old tales told in fairy-land.
And then one spoke--"Ah, say not so That sinless souls could thus be left To suffer for another's fault Forever--of all hope bereft."
"Such hapless souls might rather be The nurselings of the saints on high, And learn in gentler worlds than ours The music of the earth and sky."
"Alas!" he said, "Those little ones Who unbaptised have breathed and died, May never reach the highest bliss-- But still--the Father's net is wide."
"And you shall hear how this poor Babe Was lifted from its grievous plight, And, by the faith of two poor men, Set free to reach the blessed Light."
* * * * * *
From Niarbyl Point to Bradda Head The great Bay Mooar lies broad and deep, And here the fishers cast their nets, While landward folk are lost in sleep.
With steady sweep of heavy oars, From Dalby strand they make their way, Before the lingering light has left The crags of Cronk-ny-Iree Lhaa.
Sometimes the night is loud with storm, Sometimes the creeping fog comes round, And sometimes all the moonlit hours Are holy with a peace profound.
Sometimes between the dusk and dark The fishers see a glancing spark, A tiny riding-light; Now here--now there-- And now a pair, And now a score, And everywhere Around them dancing bright. And straightway all about them ride The fairy nickeys on the tide; And all the air is full of din, And elfish voices, shrewd and thin, And creak of spar, And smell of tar, And water washing up the side;
While here and there, And everywhere, The gentle folk Are well bespoke, And room is left for them to ride In safety on the gleaming tide. And then a puff Of wind comes by, "Oie-vie, oie-vie!" the fairies cry. And all around the sea is bare, And not a boat is anywhere!
And that's the time the men would find Good luck with all the nets they cast, And rowing slow with loaded store, Be home before the night was past.
But other times the fish was scarce, And some would stay and some would go, About the Sloe or further out Or back to sleeping Dalby, row.
And sometimes only one alone Would drift along the shadowy land, And in the darkness quake to hear The Babe at Earey-Cushlin strand.
Two mates were drifting thus one night In lonely silence on the Bay, Such silence as old comrades know That means more than a man can say.
Then spoke at last the younger man-- "The Babe is fretting sore to-night; And pitiful it is to hear Its cries up yonder on the height!"
And then the twain began to speak Of that sad story of the place; And question why such things should be And what could limit Saving Grace.
"For seemeth me," the elder said, "That babe hath more than common loss, For it was born on holy ground Though never named with sign of cross."
"And seemeth me," he musing said "It must have been so nearly saved, That even now it might be blest If any man the deed had braved."
"And surely God's own heart must ache To hear it sobbing through the dark, And long to have its christened soul Beside Him in the sheltering ark."
"Your tender babes are safe at home, And cradled in their mother's prayers; My sturdy sons to manhood grown, Have long repaid my early cares."
"The very hawks upon the hill Watch their fierce brood through calm and storm; And timid conies in the fern Keep their soft younglings safe and warm."
"And will not He who made them all Watch o'er His little lost ones too, And, maybe waited till this hour, For us poor men His Will to do."
And then the other made reply-- "Let us christen the Babe if that be so, And if we are doing the Will of the Lord He will send us a token, that we shall know."
And these men of the sea stood up in the boat, That under them gave, and rocked, and swayed, And their hearts o'erflowed with a mighty faith, And they spake with God and were not afraid.
And they signed the Cross on the midnight air, While the lifting billows rolled and fell, And the star of night was their altar-light, And the deep sea sounded their vesper bell.
And the elder lifted his sea-worn hand, And bared to the sky his rev'rent head; While the younger followed him word by word. And thus to the Babe they spoke and said--
"If thou'rt a boy thy name shall be Juan, If thou'rt a girl thy name shall be Joan." And the crying ceased and the Babe was still And the sound of the sea was heard alone.
And a star shot up from the lone dark Keeill And a soul flew free from the throes of night; And their eyes were opened that they could see The Babe's glad welcome to fields of light.
And they heard the music of harps on high While the lifting billows rolled and fell, Till the sun rose over the watching Cronk And the deep sea sounded their matin bell.
OIE-VIE.
Oie-vie, oie-vie, ma chree, My villish veen, oie-vie! The boats are tossing at the quay, The tide is rising high. Oie-vie!
I go till break of day, To glean for you, ma chree, Where silv'ry shoals of sceddan play, The Harvest of the Sea.
While I'm away, ma chree, And you are lapped in sleep, There's One will watch for you and me, Whose Path is on the deep.
Fear not the rising wind, Oie-vie, oie-vie, ma chree; For He will have us in His Mind, Who stilled the raging sea.
Fear not the dark'ning night, For in His Hand we lie, Who steers us through from dark to light Oie-vie, ma veen, oie-vie!
The day will break ma chree, And home my heart will fly; To see you on the sunlit quay-- Till then, ma veen, oie-vie! Oie-vie!
THE BABY-BOY CAROL.
Jesus was the Baby Boy Low in a manger laid, While holy Angels waiting round His tender limbs arrayed. No broidered robes or silken lace Enwrapped this Baby Boy, But clad in His pure Innocence He lay, His Mother's joy.
Child Jesus in the garden played Close by His Mother's arm; And watching Angels hovered round To shield Him from all harm. No gilded toys this Baby had-- No jewels bright and fair; The little flowerets in the grass His only playthings were.
Child Jesus learned His daily task, His simple childish prayer; The Angels knelt beside Him, while He asked His Father's care. No pictures had this Baby Boy, No books to make Him wise, He learned of Love and Charity From His sweet Mother's eyes.
Child Jesus sang Himself to sleep Low laid upon the ground, While Angels brought Him heavenly dreams And kept their watch around. Oh may such dreams be ours again, Nor leave us when we rise, To brighten all the lingering years With memories of the skies.
PROMISE.
The first day came from the bitter north, Was there ever so cold a spring! But the sun shone out for an hour at noon, And we heard the cuckoo sing.
The next day woke with a cheerless blast And a sky that was gray with snow, But we heard the corncrake tune his pipe In the meadow down below.
The third day sobbed with a dismal rain, The very trees looked numb, But the swallows arrived on the old roof tree And we knew that the summer would come.
THE MOUNTAIN MAID.
I heard the lark at break of day, I heard the echoes ring; A lonely maid, and blithe as they-- What could I do but sing?
But neither lark nor echoes stopped To listen to my song, And sometimes into silence dropped-- What could I do but long?
And then one stepping lightly past Called me his singing dove; With him to please, the days sped fast-- What could I do but love?
And then! He wearied of my song And lightly passed me by. So, left alone to love and long-- What could I do but die?
THE SKYES.
"Hallo Dusty! Hallo Grizel! Fetch the sheep" the master cries, "Fetch them from the Island pasture Quick, before the daylight dies!"
Hurling headlong down the meadow, Almost swimming through the grass, Dusty-foot and gray Grizelda Like a hurricane they pass.
Neck and neck the water reaching, In they plunge with shrieks of joy; Every task a new-found pastime, All the world their daily toy.
See them cleave the sunset ripples Heading each a widening way, Landing, shake their eager bodies In a mist of diamond spray.
Silent now with great endeavour, Working round their fleecy charge, All the silly sheep collecting To the gently shelving marge.
Hitherward with careful guiding Comes the convoy safe to land-- Dusty-foot and gray Grizelda Flopping, panting on the strand.
"Collies? Aye, they're surely clever, Faithful too, and wondrous wise; But for all that," says the master, "Give me still my little Skyes."
JOHN THE PRIEST.
John the Priest of Corna dale Late crowned with scholar's bays; Now sent to teach a rustic flock, Had cursed his dreary days.
Far on the slopes of North Barrule The Corna valley lies; And far remote the lonely keeil That seems so near the skies.
So few and simple were the folk And scattered through the vale-- What honour should a scholar find In savage Corna dale?
Now John the Priest he laid him down Upon his pallet bare; And John he heard or dreamed he heard Soft voices in the air.
"Glory to God" they sang once more As heralds from on high; And John he rose or dreamed he rose, But nought could he espy.
Gray sheets of mist were rolling up, And pouring through the vale; When through a rift shone steps of gold-- From Heaven to Corna dale.
And John he saw, or thought he saw, Or dreamed he thought he saw, His Master on those shining steps, And bowed himself in awe.
"My Corna sheep are dear to me As any in the fold, My Corna dale is near to me As Lebanon of old."
"Thine is the work to save these sheep, Thy glory let it be, For every soul in Corna dale Thou, John, wilt answer me!"
The cloud uplift: the sun sprang up And sparkled through the vale; A score of pearly smoke-wreaths rose To Heaven from Corna dale.
Then John the Priest stretched forth his hands And blessed the rising sun, And blessed the simple folk around, And taught them one by one.
No book nor scrip could there be found; But on rough slabs of rock He cut and graved as best he might The lessons for his flock.
And that himself should ne'er forget His vision in the vale, He carved--"Of all the sheep is John The Priest in Corna dale."
Far on the slopes of old Barrule Lone lies the ruined Keeil, And there the words of John the Priest In Runes are living still.
KATE COWLE.
Grip me savadge, Miss Geargie, An' heis me up in bed, An' you can be radin' them texes The while I reddy me head.
Can ye see me hanksher, Miss Geargie? In the bed it's like it's los'. Aw well! the couth of the winter! Me legs is like sticks of fros'.
An' the rots is scraerpin', scraerpin'! Aw, it's time poor Kate was took-- No, no, I'll not have no firin' For I cannot suffer the smook.
An' well--Are ye theer, Miss Geargie? I was dhramin' a dhrame in the night, When the win's took rest from their noisin' An' the say was middlin' quite.
An' the Lord Himself come down An' stud beside the bed, An' with thremblin' fear I heard Him speak: "Come urrov theer," He said.
"Come urrov theer, Kate Cowle," He said. "An' go you up on high, For such as you that's oul' and blind There's mansions in the sky."
An' through the roof an' through the clouds Like sthrailin' through a ford, An' singin' Glo--ry, Glo--ry, while The waves around us roared.
An' Glo--ry, Glo--ry, still we sang Up to the great White Throne-- When suddently the Light went out An' I was here alone!
Are ye plentiful in pins, Miss Geargie, Them laps for me head is tore; Well, good everin'--You'll be rewahded; An' plaze pull to the door.
An' Glo--ry for ever Glo--ry An' a Light for the blind to see-- An' a lil bit of pudden, Miss Geargie, If Mayry will spare it for me."
THE CHURCH BRINGS US HOME.
A cooish, a kiss, an' a whisper, A sooryin' summer's day; Then work an' childher an' bother The ress of the way.
Some takes the road by the Chappal, An' some houls on by the Church, An' some falls down by the wayside, Lef' all in the lurch.
I'm used on the Chappal for all-- It's homelier like in the dark, But himself was took at the Pazon, An' larnt for Parish Clerk.
They're coming to see me reglar-- Church wans an' Chappal wans too; An' I'm not sayin' no ill of neither-- It's juss how we've grew.
The Church wans is middlin' free, An' passin' the time o' day, An' Church was in before the Chappal, As th' oul people say.
The Chappal wans is high, though, More prouder an' wearin' falls, An' the power of fine discoorsin' Thass at them when they calls.
But Church houls out her arrums For every chile that's born; An' it's Her that puts the blessin' On the marriage morn.
When the work an' bother is over, An' childher have left us to roam, Like a tandhar oul' nursing mother The Church brings us home.
An' then whether Church or Chappal, Or fell by the way--we must come; For without never makin' no difference, The Church brings us Home.
THE GLEN OF THE TWILIGHT.
What road are you taking my Ihiannoo veg villish, And where will you go at the end of the day? We are taking the road to the Glen of the Twilight And 'Cadlag the Sleeper' is showing the way. Where the Fayries are weaving the dreams for our pillow And lighting the candles that burn in the sky; Where 'Cadlag the Sleeper' is swaying the willow And blackbirds are calling, Oie-vie, oie-vie!
And what will you do in the Glen of the Twilight, When 'Cadlag the Sleeper' has found you a nest? We'll play with the roses the Fayries will bring us And murmur of waters will lull us to rest. Where the Fayries are weaving the dreams for our pillow And rocking the cradle where softly we'll lie; Where 'Cadlag the Sleeper' is swaying the willow And childher are nodding, Oie-vie, oie-vie.
THE THOLTAN.