Chapter 1

Chapter 13,997 wordsPublic domain

SPRAYS OF SHAMROCK

BY CLINTON SCOLLARD

PORTLAND MAINE THE MOSHER PRESS MDCCCCXIV

CONTENTS

PAGE MUCKROSS 3 THE HILL OF MAEVE 5 AT KILLYBEGS 7 THE CRIPPLE 8 AN EXILE 9 ABBEYDORNEY 10 A SONG FOR JOYCE’S COUNTRY 12 BALLAD OF PROTESTANT’S LEAP 14 ETCHING AT NIGHT 16 THE SPECTRAL ROWERS 17 TYRCONNELL 18 THE WAY OF THE CROSS 19 THE ISLE OF DOOM 20 DESMOND 21 THE LITTLE CREEK COONANA 22 O’DONNELL ABOO 23 NIGHTFALL IN SLIGO 24 CARROWMORE 26 ON CARAGH LAKE 27 RAHINANE 28 THE WIND OF MOURNE 29 MAN AND MAID 30 THE HUNTER 32 RAIN SONG 33 A ROVER 34 QUEENS 35 THE WONDERS 36 AT MONAREE 37 HEATHER SONG 38 OFF CONNEMARA 39 POPPIES AT MONASTERAVEN 40 THE GLEN OF CASTLEMAINE 41 SONG 42 KILMELCHEDOR 43 AT DINGLE 44 BACK TO KILLARNEY 45 GLENCAR WATER 46 FROM DERRY TO KERRY 47 A KING IN KERRY 48 A KERRY LAD 51 A KERRY DAY 52 A KERRY ROAD 53 A KERRY GARDEN 54 DOWN IN KERRY 55 HOLY WELLS 56 LOW TIDE 57 THE “BOHAREEN” 58 AN IRISH IDYL 60 AN IRISH LASS 61 THE BRIDGE OF LUCKEEN 62 DONEGAL 64 AN IRISH SONG 66

SPRAYS OF SHAMROCK

_Just a few songs of her, Not of the wrongs of her Many and bitter and long though they be,— Songs of the hills of her, Songs of the rills of her, Ireland, set like a gem in the sea!_

_Just a few songs of her, Not of the thongs of her, She that is bound, and yet fain would be free,— Songs of the gleams of her, Glamours and dreams of her, Ireland, girt by the arms of the sea!_

MUCKROSS

At night there came unto MacCarthy More A hooded vision with a voice that said, “Go thou straightway and raise a house to God Upon the spot where stands the Rock of Song!” So with the golden lifting of the dawn Upsprang the chieftain and loud called his kerns, And bade them seek the Rock. For many a day They roved the sweeping meads and fens and fells In fruitless search, and ever forth again Relentlessly he drove them from his hold Beside the dimpling waters of Lough Leane. “The Rock!” he cried, “find ye the Rock of Song!” And still they found it not. Then the gaunt chief, His long locks hoary with the frost of years, Girded himself, and turned his tottering steps Abroad in the soft lengthening of the dusk Athwart a woodland close, and saw and heard A little maid, her pitcher held at poise, Singing an old lament in minors clear And plaintive as the twilight, words that voiced The poignant, passionate yearning of the soul. “A sign!” the spent man whispered low, “a sign!” And on the spot he raised a house to God.

THE HILL OF MAEVE

This is the hill of Maeve, the queen, A mighty bulwark of gray-green

Whereon was set, by hands unknown, A rugged monument of stone.

The great winds mourn, and sobs the wave Beneath the lichened cairn of Maeve.

From many a rocky Leitrim height O’er Lough Gill’s waters, blue and bright,

From where Benbulbin fronts the foam, And sees the Sligo ships put home,

Maeve’s hill is like a pharos flame, As is eternally her name!

III

’Neath azure tides of morning air Ripple the waves of Ballysadare

Under where frowning Knocknarea Looks o’er the Rosses far to sea,—

Looks far to sea, remembering Maeve’s loveliness, a vanished thing.

The cromlechs, gray with eld, below, Recall the dreams of long ago,—

The dreams of kern and king, both slave To beauty, and the white Queen Maeve;

And though she slumbers, deep, so deep, Her golden memory may not sleep!

AT KILLYBEGS

At Killybegs above the crags The gray gulls pipe with voices thinned, And all the green trees are like flags That wave and waver in the wind.

At Killybegs about the dunes Rustle the crispy grass and whin, And low the long tide croons and croons As it creeps out, as it creeps in.

At Killybegs the white sails race When the blue sea is like a floor; Like doubt night falls with haggard face; Sometimes the ships return no more.

The brown bee drains the cottage flowers Of honey to their crimson dregs, And love hath many happy hours ’Twixt birth and death at Killybegs!

THE CRIPPLE

I have dreams of the outer islands, Firths and forths of the Far-Away; I have dreams of the heathery highlands Under the golden day.

I have dreams of a sliding river— Shannon—under the stars and sun; I have dreams how the oar-blades quiver, And the silvery salmon run.

I have dreams of a blithe lad striding Out through the streets of Limerick-town; I have dreams of a sweet maid biding Under a thatch of brown.

But here I lie all huddled and hidden, (Oh, the eternity it seems!) Brooding desolate and bed-ridden, Living only in dreams!

AN EXILE

I can remember the plaint of the wind on the moor, Crying at dawning, and crying at shut of the day, And the call of the gulls that is eerie and dreary and dour, And the sound of the surge as it breaks on the beach of the bay.

I can remember the thatch of the cot and the byre, And the green of the garth just under the dip of the fells, And the low of the kine, and the settle that stood by the fire, And the reek of the peat, and the redolent heathery smells.

And I long for it all though the roses around me are red, And the arch of the sky overhead has bright blue for a lure, And glad were the heart of me, glad, if my feet could but tread The path, as of old, that led upward and over the moor!

ABBEYDORNEY

Abbeydorney, Abbeydorney, Long ago thy race was run, Prone thou art ’mid thickets thorny, Shrine of Kyrie Eleison!

Scarcely now a wild rose petal The neglected cloister owns, And the flaunting dock and nettle Wave above the chancel stones.

Once through Kerry twilights tender Vesper bells their anthems tolled, And ’mid chants, in churchly splendor, Princely abbots were enrolled.

Tall Fitz Maurice with his crozier, O’Clonarchy of Lismore, They are less now than the osier Swaying by the Cashen’s shore!

Only when the moon is hidden, Only when the moor-winds rave, Eerily arise unbidden Ghostly transept, ghostly nave.

Only when the night grows denser March the bent monks one by one, Singing to the sway of censer, _Kyrie—Kyrie Eleison!_

So, amid thy thickets thorny, All thy state and glory seem, Abbeydorney, Abbeydorney, Like a dim and fleeting dream!

A SONG FOR JOYCE’S COUNTRY

O a song for Joyce’s Country, where the grim wild mountains be, And the wind wails over the moorland as the wind wails over the sea, Where the new moon’s silver sickle sees little of grain to reap, And the wraith of the mist goes creeping as soft as the feet of sleep!

O a song for Joyce’s Country, and the lonely loughs that lie, Wrapt in the cloak of silence, under the great gray sky; For the glens that have held in keeping for more than a thousand springs The ancient Druid wonders and the secrets of the kings!

O a song for Joyce’s Country, and the graves of the mightiest men That ever had birth in Erin! Will their like e’er come again? Men of the thews of titans, of the strong, unwavering hand, Who wrested a meagre guerdon from the breast of this lean land!

O a song for Joyce’s Country, since it haunts one like a dream That comes in the dusk ere dawning, ere the first bright sunrise beam; A dream of dolor and vastness, of clouds that are swept and swirled O’er the desolate wastes and waters of a joy-forsaken world!

BALLAD OF PROTESTANT’S LEAP

It was Sir Frederick Hamilton’s men Were hungry for the fray, And it was a son of the bog and fen Would guide them on their way.

By the good book an oath he took, This glib and open guide, And so it was over bent and brook They needs must up and ride.

They rode them fast, they rode them far, By day’s last fitful flame, Until, by the light of the evening star, To a heathery slope they came.

Then spake the guide, with a glint of pride, With a catch of his breath spake he, “Ye may fall, if over the crest ye ride, On the Irish enemy!

“When I drop my cloak by yon stunted oak, Do ye ply the lash and spurs, And there ’ll be no one see another sun Of the popish worshippers!”

He has gone to the crest by the dwarfèd tree, He has crept on foot and hand, And now with a wave his cloak drops he As a sign to the waiting band.

Oh, it ’s ride, Sir Frederick Hamilton’s men, Ye men of ire and brawn, And it ’s smile, ye son of the bog and fen, To see them urge swift on!

Did they purge with the sword the Irish camp? Nay, for the story saith Through the evening dusk, through the evening damp, They rode to a tryst with death.

It was over a cliff that was black and sheer To the vale of fair Glencar That they plunged with frenzied shrieks of fear ’Neath the eye of the mountain star.

Oh, it was Sir Frederick Hamilton’s men Set forth to smite and slay, And it was a son of the bog and fen That guided them on their way!

ETCHING AT NIGHT

I wandered in the streets of Galway-town, When night had let her dusky curtains down, And in a doorway, tall and fair and slight, Framed by an inner beam of golden light, Beheld a maiden of madonna face, Pensive and sad, yet with a nameless grace, Presage, I thought, of the unfolding years, That hide some things that are too deep for tears!

THE SPECTRAL ROWERS

What is that shimmering line of white Gliding under the stark midnight— Gliding—gliding—gliding—gliding— Where the river gleams when the moon is bright?

There is never a sound save the night bird’s cry, And the languid water lapsing by— Lapsing—lapsing—lapsing—lapsing— Under the arch of a leaden sky.

’T is the winding Garavogue’s spectral crew, Bound for the port of dreams-come-true— Rowing—rowing—rowing—rowing— With a swinging stroke that is firm and true.

Do they ever reach their bourn? may be; Yet who can say?—not we!—not we!— Fading—fading—fading—fading— Ere morn comes over the hills to the sea.

’T is so with all of the visions of man, Howe’er he strive and howe’er he plan— Fleeting—fleeting—fleeting—fleeting— For life, alas, is a narrow span!

TYRCONNELL

They crowned Tyrconnell On the rock of Doon; “Hail! hail!” they said, To that anointed head, The henchman all; They led him to the hall; “Hail! hail! Tyrconnell!” How the rafters rang! Clang! clang! How the blades out-sprang, Like shimmering lake-water underneath the moon!

They slew Tyrconnell On the rock of Doon; “Traitor!” they said, Of that anointed head, The henchmen all Who haled him from the hall; “Base, base Tyrconnell!” How the scabbards rang!— Clang! clang! As the blades out-sprang, Like shimmering lake-water underneath the moon!

THE WAY OF THE CROSS

Where the wild sea-mew flocks and flees, And neither winds nor skies beguile, Foam-set amid the Irish seas Is rugged Skellig Michael isle.

Up its escarpments, rough and grim, To its bleak summit rimmed with moss, The monks of old with prayer and hymn Hewed out the weary “Way of the Cross.”

Gone are these holy toilers—gone; They rest now in their long repose, From the red dusk to the red dawn, ’Neath the sea-pinks and tangled rose.

But sorrow bides with us and ill, And stress and sacrifice and loss, And we must strive to meet them still Climbing the weary “Way of the Cross.”

THE ISLE OF DOOM

Out of the mist off Galway shore, Out of the morning mist, Rose the island of Hy Brasail With its crags of amethyst;

Crags of purple and amethyst, And meads of gleaming green, Rose the island of Hy Brasail With a shimmer of sea between.

And what shall come to Galway shore, What shadow of doom prevail, With this fading dream of the mists of morn, This island of Hy Brasail?

DESMOND

By the “Church of the Name” lies Desmond, The body of Desmond lies, And the wind of the east cries “Desmond,” And “Desmond” the west wind cries.

And the wind of the south calls “Desmond,” And “Desmond” the north wind calls, As it sweeps round the keep Ardnagreagh, The keep of the crumbling walls.

And the dawn wind grieves for Desmond, And “Desmond” the night wind sighs; And where is the head of Desmond, He of the dusk-deep eyes?

They buried the body of Desmond Hard by the “Church of the Name,” But they hung the head of Desmond High o’er the Gate of Shame.

Yet he was a brave man, Desmond, A man of a hundred score, So all the winds of the upper air, They mourn for him evermore.

THE LITTLE CREEK COONANA

Oh, the little creek Coonana, How clear it runs and cold Where “Conn of the hundred battles” Fought in the days of old!

Only the long wind dirges, Only the long wind cries, Where the giant Knocknatubber Mounts to the vast gray skies.

Only the wind and the surges Moan and moan and moan, But the little creek Coonana, It sings in a merry tone.

Only the wind and the surges Have aught to do with fears; Only the wind and the surges Tell the tale of tears.

But the little creek Coonana, It lilteth cheerily Where the giant Knocknatubber Glooms on the glooming sea.

O’DONNELL ABOO

Out of Ulster came O’Donnell, Black O’Donnell and his crew,— Kelly, More, Mac Carthy, Connell, Joined the cry—“O’Donnell Aboo!”

Woe once more, red woe for Kerry, Blood-drops were as mountain dew When that cry so mad, yet merry, Rang and rang—“O’Donnell Aboo!”

Gone those sanguine days of slaughter, Sword and matchlock, pike and brand; Peace now o’er the ways of water, Peace o’er all the length of land.

Yet sometimes when night is sealing Cairn and ruined shrine from view, Down the Kerry glens goes pealing That wild cry—“O’Donnell Aboo!”

NIGHTFALL IN SLIGO

I heard the bells of Sligo say The tranquil requiem of day.

I saw the fires of sunset burn Dim in the great west’s golden urn.

O’er Calvary’s sharp spire afar Clear flowered one hyacinthine star.

Then mother Night her children hid Under her purple coverlid.

Well can I recall that eve at Sligo, And the vacant arches of the abbey Framing the ethereal rose of sunset! Round about me silence and gray shadow Peopled with the wraiths of time departed,— Monks with back-thrown cowls who pace the cloisters Now deep-mounded, crumbled, clad with ivy. No more from the tower their chimes of silver Will the bells fling o’er the town and river, O’er the Garavogue soft-gliding seaward! Nevermore—save in deep dreams at midnight. Death, the immemorial lord of mortals, He is abbot in the aisles of Sligo Till the spheres proclaim the resurrection!

CARROWMORE

The gray winds call o’er Carrowmore, Call in the white of the dawn, And the grasses sigh o’er Carrowmore When the purple night draws on.

The cromlechs stand on Carrowmore As they ’ve stood since who can say; And the thin wraiths flit o’er Carrowmore Between the dusk and the day.

There ’s never a hush on Carrowmore Come autumn or come spring, For, oh, the tongues of Carrowmore, They are fain of whispering!

And over and over Carrowmore ’T will be ever thus, meseems,— Like the winnow of wings o’er Carrowmore The surge of the tide of dreams!

ON CARAGH LAKE

On Caragh lake the evening light Is violet and amethyst, And the dark shadows of the pines In silence keep their twilight tryst.

And high beyond the purple groves, The sweeping moors, the climbing fells, The rugged Kerry mountains stand Like grim eternal sentinels.

In dying whispers on the shore The ripples lap, the ripples break, And there is peace beyond all words As night descends on Caragh lake!

In unexpected grooves of flight A blundering bat swoops swiftly by; From out a coppice drifts a bird’s Last plaintive melody.

The lake is like a mirror dim With no disturbing breath to mar, While o’er a lonely fell there burns One white vespernal star.

RAHINANE

Wrapt in mist and washed with rain Is the hill of Rahinane; Compassed by the hosts of sleep Is its keep.

Only shadows come and go; Only wraiths flit to and fro; And the bat, grotesque and blind, And the wind.

Just a shard of shattered hope On a barren Kerry slope; Just a ruin in the rain, Rahinane!

THE WIND OF MOURNE

The wind of Mourne comes over the hill, Over the hill with a trill of song, And the word of the wind sets my heart athrill,— “Though life is brief, yet love is long!”

I seek my sweet where the roses stir, And the stars overhead are a marching throng, And this is the tale that I tell to her,— “Though life is brief, yet love is long!”

MAN AND MAID

“I know a lad in Leitrim, I know a lad,” said she, “I know a lad in Leitrim would give his heart for me!”

“I know a maid in Mayo, I know a maid,” said he, “I know a maid in Mayo would give her heart to me!”

“Go to your maid in Mayo, go to your maid,” cried she; “Go to your maid in Mayo, for all—for all of me!”

“Go to your lad in Leitrim, go to your lad,” cried he, “Go to your lad in Leitrim, for all—for all of me!”

“And yet—and yet—” she faltered, “and yet—and yet,” blushed she, “That lad may stay in Leitrim! It ’s here I ’d rather be!”

“And yet—and yet—” he echoed, “and yet—and yet—” smiled he, “That maid may stay in Mayo. It ’s there I ’d have her be!”

’T is merry down in Kerry beside the laughing sea; ’T is merry down in Kerry when man and maid agree!

THE HUNTER

I crept up Benbulbin a-hunting the boar; Mist swooped on the heather, mist swept down the shore, And all of the tongues of the mountain, they murmured behind and before.

Then out of a cleft rose a terrible cry, And a form like a demon went ravening by, And I fell in a quake on the moss, and I thought I should die.

I ’m no hunting man now, and I sit by the fire, And whenever the wind keens around by the byre, I shiver and rock like a reed that has root in the mire.

And if you ’re a young man, and sound to the core, And a sweet maid is waiting you home at the door, Beware how you creep up Benbulbin a-hunting the boar!

RAIN SONG

Oh, it ’s gray rain in the valleys, White rain where the moorland lies, And in from the bleak sea-borders A gust that keens and cries.

Sheep huddle in the hollows, And the cattle seek the byre, But I must be up and faring Away from the warm peat fire;

I must be up and faring, For this is the hour of tryst, And Sheilah will be waiting At the glen amid the mist.

Oh, what ’s gray rain to lovers, And what though white rains fall, When blue skies shine in Sheilah’s eyes For a lad of Donegal!

A ROVER

Oh, I am just a rover Among the roving men Who loves to watch the sunlight Upon the flowering fen;

Who fain would feel the heather Dew-soft beneath his tread When morning parts the cloud-wrack Above Benbulbin’s head;

Who likes to lie and linger Until the rising moon Shows all her midnight glories High o’er the Lough of Cloon;

Whose feet were shaped to follow The road’s eternal lure From stormy Stockarudden To sunny Knockanure!

But since there ’s Sheilah calling, (’T is love that ’s in her call!) Faith, I am just a rover Who ’ll rove no more at all!

QUEENS

Fair Maeve, that was queen of Beauty, Whither, whither has she gone? Ask the cairn that over Sligo Lifts its stones to greet the dawn!

Deirdre, that was queen of Sorrow, Whither, whither has she fled? Ask the woods of Finglas Water That once knew her lissome tread!

Queens!—they are no more than mortal; Even they must pale and pass Like the prismy dews of dawning On the heather and the grass!

THE WONDERS

I dream of the ancient wonders, of the isle of Hy Brasail That rides through the mists of Mayo, then fades like a fading sail; I dream of the ancient wonders, but there ’s one that haunts me more, ’T is the faun-like grace of Moira upon Lough Corib’s shore.

I dream of the ancient wonders, of the wells of Death and Life, Of the voices of the Forest that quell both hate and strife; I dream of the ancient wonders, but greater than them all Is the luring laugh of Moira when day ’s at evenfall.

I dream of the ancient wonders, of the Cross caught up in air, Of the swan of sweet Feale Water that was a maiden fair; I dream of the ancient wonders, but each fades in eclipse At the lifted arms of Moira, and Moira’s lifted lips!

AT MONAREE

When springtime comes to Monaree I know How the blue hyacinths blow, And how the daffodil lights its golden glow.

These blossoms are remembrancers of those Who lie in long repose, Lost to our earthly scenes of joys and woes,—

The saints of other days. How fair to see These living emblems be Of their good deeds—with spring at Monaree!

HEATHER SONG

Blue weather, blue weather abroad on the moors, And the cry of the wind that elates and allures; Sing “hey” and sing “ho” for the heather!

The brook in the bracken, it prattles and purls, And the lips of the rose are as red as a girl’s; Sing “hey” and sing “ho” for the heather!

And the path that leads up from the stile at the start Is the path of my longing, the path of my heart; Sing “hey” and sing “ho” for the heather!

For I know I shall find her, my fair heather-bell, In the warm little dip at the crest of the fell, And her smile, ah, the burden of love it will tell! Sing “hey” and sing “ho” for the heather!

OFF CONNEMARA

Off the coast of Connemara, Sailor, sailor, what ’s the hail? “Dip the sail to Saint Macdara— Dip the sail!” So we dipped it as we tripped it Southward with the fluting gale.

Long ago did Saint Macdara Pass beyond this mortal pale; Yet to-day off Connemara Deeds of godliness avail; Where the good old saint said masses Every sailor, as he passes, Dips the sail.

POPPIES AT MONASTERAVEN

As clear on my mind are graven As the carving upon a shield The poppies at Monasteraven, And the cottage in the field;

The glint of a thick thorn coppice Greenly girdling all, And the glow of the scarlet poppies Under the cottage wall!

Just a fleeting vision Caught as I hurried by, A little scene elysian Under the morning sky.