Chapter 1

Transcribed from the 1898 John Lane edition by David Price, email [email protected]

[Picture: The Old Maid]

THE FAIRY CHANGELING AND OTHER POEMS

BY DORA SIGERSON (MRS CLEMENT SHORTER)

[Picture: Decorative shamrock divider]

JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD LONDON & NEW YORK MDCCCXCVIII

NOTE

_Only one of the pieces in the following collection appeared in the writer's earlier volume_ ("_Verses_" _by Dora Sigerson_; _Elliot Stock_, 1893). _The remainder have found refuge in_ "_Longman's Magazine_," "_The Pall Mall Magazine_," "_The National Observer_" (_of Mr. Henley_), "_Cassell's Magazine_," _and numerous American publications_--"_The Century Magazine_," "_The Bookman_," "_The Boston Pilot_," "_The Chap-Book_," _and others_. _The Author wishes to thank the Editors of these magazines and journals for the kindness implied_.

CONTENTS

The Fairy Changeling _Page_ 1 A Ballad of Marjorie 3 The Priest's Brother 6 The Ballad of the Little Black Hound 9 The Rape of the Baron's Wine 15 Cean Duv Deelish 19 Banagher Rhue 21 The Fair Little Maiden 23 At Christmas Time 25 A Weeping Cupid 26 The Lover 28 A Bird from the West 30 All Souls' Eve 32 An Imperfect Revolution 34 Love 36 Wishes 38 Cupid Slain 39 What Will You Give? 40 A Meadow Tragedy 42 An Eclipse 43 The Scallop Shell 44 With a Rose 45 For Ever 46 The Blow Returned 47 Vale 48 The Skeleton in the Cupboard 49 You Will Not Come Again 51 The Wreckage 52 I am the World 53 A New Year 55 The Kine of My Father 57 Sanctuary 59 An Eastern God 61 A Friend in Need 63 In a Wood 64 A Vagrant Heart 65 When You are on the Sea 68 My Neighbour's Garden 70 An Irish Blackbird 72 Death of Gormlaith 73 Unknown Ideal 75 Beware 77 The Old Maid 78 Wirastrua 80 Questions 81 A Little Dog 82 "I Prayed so Eagerly" 85 "When the Dark Comes" 86 Distant Voices 87 The Ballad of the Fairy Thorn-Tree 89 The Suicide's Grave 95

THE FAIRY CHANGELING

Dermod O'Byrne of Omah town In his garden strode up and down; He pulled his beard, and he beat his breast; And this is his trouble and woe confessed:

"The good-folk came in the night, and they Have stolen my bonny wean away; Have put in his place a changeling, A weashy, weakly, wizen thing!

"From the speckled hen nine eggs I stole, And lighting a fire of a glowing coal, I fried the shells, and I spilt the yolk; But never a word the stranger spoke:

"A bar of metal I heated red To frighten the fairy from its bed, To put in the place of this fretting wean My own bright beautiful boy again.

"But my wife had hidden it in her arms, And cried 'For shame!' on my fairy charms; She sobs, with the strange child on her breast: 'I love the weak, wee babe the best!'"

To Dermod O'Byrne's, the tale to hear, The neighbours came from far and near: Outside his gate, in the long boreen, They crossed themselves, and said between

Their muttered prayers, "He has no luck! For sure the woman is fairy-struck, To leave her child a fairy guest, And love the weak, wee wean the best!"

A BALLAD OF MARJORIE

"What ails you that you look so pale, O fisher of the sea?" "'Tis for a mournful tale I own, Fair maiden Marjorie."

"What is the dreary tale to tell, O toiler of the sea?" "I cast my net into the waves, Sweet maiden Marjorie.

"I cast my net into the tide, Before I made for home; Too heavy for my hands to raise, I drew it through the foam."

"What saw you that you look so pale, Sad searcher of the sea?" "A dead man's body from the deep My haul had brought to me!"

"And was he young, and was he fair?" "Oh, cruel to behold! In his white face the joy of life Not yet was grown a-cold."

"Oh, pale you are, and full of prayer For one who sails the sea." "Because the dead looked up and spoke, Poor maiden Marjorie."

"What said he, that you seem so sad, O fisher of the sea? (Alack! I know it was my love, Who fain would speak to me!)"

"He said, 'Beware a woman's mouth-- A rose that bears a thorn.'" "Ah, me! these lips shall smile no more That gave my lover scorn."

"He said, 'Beware a woman's eyes. They pierce you with their death.'" "Then falling tears shall make them blind That robbed my dear of breath."

"He said, 'Beware a woman's hair-- A serpent's coil of gold.'" "Then will I shear the cruel locks That crushed him in their fold."

"He said, 'Beware a woman's heart As you would shun the reef.'" "So let it break within my breast, And perish of my grief."

"He raised his hands; a woman's name Thrice bitterly he cried: My net had parted with the strain; He vanished in the tide."

"A woman's name! What name but mine, O fisher of the sea?" "A woman's name, but not your name, Poor maiden Marjorie."

THE PRIEST'S BROTHER

Thrice in the night the priest arose From broken sleep to kneel and pray. "Hush, poor ghost, till the red cock crows, And I a Mass for your soul may say."

Thrice he went to the chamber cold, Where, stiff and still uncoffined, His brother lay, his beads he told, And "Rest, poor spirit, rest," he said.

Thrice lay the old priest down to sleep Before the morning bell should toll; But still he heard--and woke to weep-- The crying of his brother's soul.

All through the dark, till dawn was pale, The priest tossed in his misery, With muffled ears to hide the wail, The voice of that ghost's agony.

At last the red cock flaps his wings To trumpet of a day new-born. The lark, awaking, soaring sings Into the bosom of the morn.

The priest before the altar stands, He hears the spirit call for peace; He beats his breast with shaking hands. "O Father, grant this soul's release.

"Most Just and Merciful, set free From Purgatory's awful night This sinner's soul, to fly to Thee, And rest for ever in Thy sight."

The Mass is over--still the clerk Kneels pallid in the morning glow. He said, "From evils of the dark Oh, bless me, father, ere you go.

"Benediction, that I may rest, For all night did the Banshee weep." The priest raised up his hands and blest-- "Go now, my child, and you will sleep."

The priest went down the vestry stair, He laid his vestments in their place, And turned--a pale ghost met him there, With beads of pain upon his face.

"Brother," he said, "you have gained me peace, But why so long did you know my tears, And say no Mass for my soul's release, To save the torture of all those years?"

"God rest you, brother," the good priest said, "No years have passed--but a single night." He showed the body uncoffined, And the six wax candles still alight.

The living flowers on the dead man's breast Blew out a perfume sweet and strong. The spirit paused ere he passed to rest-- "God save your soul from a night so long."

THE BALLAD OF THE LITTLE BLACK HOUND

Who knocks at the Geraldine's door to-night In the black storm and the rain? With the thunder crash and the shrieking wind Comes the moan of a creature's pain.

And once they knocked, yet never a stir To show that the Geraldine knew; And twice they knocked, yet never a bolt The listening Geraldine drew.

And thrice they knocked ere he moved his chair, And said, "Whoever it be, I dare not open the door to-night For a fear that has come to me."

Three times he rises from out his chair, And three times he sits him down. "Now what has made faint this heart of mine?" He says with a growing frown.

"Now what has made me a coward to-night, Who never knew fear before? But I swear that the hand of a little child Keeps pulling me from the door."

The Geraldine rose from his chair at last And opened the door full wide; "Whoever is out in the storm," said he, "May in God's name come inside!"

He who was out in the storm and rain Drew back at the Geraldine's call. "Now who comes not in the Holy Name Will never come in at all."

He looked to the right, he looked to the left, And never a one saw he; But right in his path lay a coal black hound, A-moaning right piteously.

"Come in," he cried, "you little black hound, Come in, I will ease your pain; My roof shall keep you to-night at least From the leash of wind and rain."

The Geraldine took up the little black hound, And put him down by the fire. "So sleep you there, poor wandering one, As long as your heart desire."

The Geraldine tossed on his bed that night, And never asleep went he For the crowing of his little red cock, That did crow most woefully.

For the howling of his own wolf-hound, That cried at the gate all night. He rose and went to the banquet hall At the first of morning light.

He looked to the right, he looked to the left, At the rug where the dog lay on; But the reindeer skin was burnt in two, And the little black hound was gone.

And, traced in the ashes, these words he read: "For the soul of your firstborn son, I will make you rich as you once were rich Ere the glass of your luck was run."

The Geraldine went to the west window, And then he went to the east, And saw his desolate pasture fields, And the stables without a beast.

"So be it, as I love no woman, No son shall ever be mine; I would that my stables were full of steeds, And my cellars were full of wine."

"I swear it, as I love no woman, And never a son have I, I would that my sheep and their little lambs Should flourish and multiply.

"So yours be the soul of my firstborn son." Here the Geraldine slyly smiled, But from the dark of the lonely room Came the cry of a little child.

The Geraldine went to the west window, He opened, and out did lean, And lo! the pastures were full of kine, All chewing the grass so green.

And quickly he went to the east window, And his face was pale to see, For lo! he saw to the empty stalls Brave steeds go three by three.

The Geraldine went to the great hall door, In wonder at what had been, And there he saw the prettiest maid That ever his eyes had seen.

And long he looked at the pretty young maid, And swore there was none so fair; And his heart went out of him like a hound, And hers like a timid hare.

Each day he followed her up and down, And each night he could not rest, Until at last the pretty young maid Her love for him confessed.

They wooed and they wed, and the days went by As quick as such good days will, And at last came the cry of his firstborn son The cup of his joy to fill.

And the summer passed, and the winter came; Right fair was the child to see, And he laughed at the shriek of a bitter storm As he sat on his father's knee.

Who rings so loud at the Geraldine's gate? Who knocks so loud at the door? "Now rise you up, my pretty young wife, For twice they have knocked before."

Quickly she opened the great hall door, And "Welcome you in," she cried, But there only entered a little black hound, And he would not be denied.

When the Geraldine saw the little black dog, He rose with a fearful cry, "I sold my child to the Devil's hound In forgotten days gone by."

He drew his sword on the little black hound, But it would not pierce its skin, He tried to pray, but his lips were dumb Because of his grievous sin.

Then the fair young wife took the black hound's throat Both her small white hands between. And he thought he saw one of God's angels Where his sweet young wife had been.

Then he thought he saw from God's spirit The hound go sore oppressed, But he woke to find his own dead wife With her dead child on her breast.

Quickly he went to the west window, Quickly he went to the east; No help in the desolate pasture fields, Or the stables that held no beast.

He flung himself at his white wife's side, And the dead lips moved and smiled, Then came somewhere from the lonely room The laugh of a little child.

THE RAPE OF THE BARON'S WINE

Who was stealing the Baron's wine, Golden sherry and port so old, Precious, I wot, as drops of gold? Lone to-night he came to dine,

Flung himself in his oaken chair, Kicked the hound that whined for bread; "God! the thief shall swing!" he said, Thrust his hand through his ruffled hair.

Bolt and bar and double chain Held secure the cellar door; And the watchman placed before, Kept a faithful watch in vain.

Every day the story came, "Master, come! I hear it drip!" The wine is wet on the robber's lip, Who the robber, none could name.

All the folk in County Clare Found a task for every day By the Baron's gate to stray, Came to gossip, stayed to stare.

Nothing here to satisfy Souls for tragedy awake; Just the castle by the lake, Calmest spot beneath the sky.

But the whispered story grew, When the Baron went to dine, That a devil shared his wine, Had his soul in danger too.

Every morn the Baron rose More morose and full of age; Passed the day in sullen rage, Barred his gates on friends or foes.

Lone to-night he came to dine, Struck the hound that asked a share, Heard a step upon the stair-- "Come, the thief is at your wine!"

Baron of Killowen keep Running down the vaulted way, To the cellar dark by day, Took the ten steps at a leap.

There he listened with the throng Of frighted servants at the door, He heard the wine drip on the floor, And sea-mew's laughter loud and long.

Of oaken beam, of bolt and chain They freed the door, and crowded through, Their eyes a horror claimed in vain, Nor ghost nor devil met their view.

They searched behind the hogshead, where The watchful spider spied and span; They sighed to see the wine that ran A crimson torrent, wasting there.

They even searched the gloomy well That legend said rose from the lake; They saw bright bubbles rise and break, But nothing stranger here befell.

The Baron cursed--the Baron said, "Now all be gone, alone I'll stay, There shall not rise another day Without this thief, alive or dead."

So still he stood, no sound was there, But just the wine went drop and drip; Save that, the silence seemed to slip Its threatening fingers through his hair.

And then as last an echo flew, The splash of waters thrown apart; He cursed the beating of his heart Because the thief was listening too.

The slipping scrape of scales he hears, And sea-mew laughter, loud and sweet; He dares not move his frightened feet, His pulse beats with a thousand fears.

At that strange monster in the gloom He points his pistol quick, and fires; Before the powder spark expires He hears a sea-bird's scream of doom.

He saw one gleam of foam-white arms, Of sea-green eyes, of sloak brown hair; He had a glance to find her fair, When he had slain her thousand charms.

* * * * *

The Baron of Killowen slew A strange sea-maiden, young and fair; And all the folk in county Clare Will tell you that the tale is true.

And when the Baron came to dine, His guests could never understand, That he should say, with glass in hand, "I would the thief were at my wine!"

CEAN DUV DEELISH

Cean duv deelish, beside the sea I stand and stretch my hands to thee Across the world. The riderless horses race to shore With thundering hoofs and shuddering, hoar, Blown manes uncurled.

Cean duv deelish, I cry to thee Beyond the world, beneath the sea, Thou being dead. Where hast thou hidden from the beat Of crushing hoofs and tearing feet Thy dear black head?

Cean duv deelish, 'tis hard to pray With breaking heart from day to day, And no reply; When the passionate challenge of sky is cast In the teeth of the sea and an angry blast Goes by.

God bless the woman, whoever she be, From the tossing waves will recover thee And lashing wind. Who will take thee out of the wind and storm, Dry thy wet face on her bosom warm And lips so kind?

I not to know. It is hard to pray, But I shall for this woman from day to day, "Comfort my dead, The sport of the winds and the play of the sea." I loved thee too well for this thing to be, O dear black head!

BANAGHER RHUE

Banagher Rhue of Donegal, (Holy Mary, how slow the dawn!) This is the hour of your loss or gain: _Is go d-tigheadh do_, _mhuirnin slan_! {21}

Banagher Rhue, but the hour was ill (O Mary Mother, how high the price!) When you swore you'd game with Death himself; Aye, and win with the devil's dice.

Banagher Rhue, you must play with Death, (Mary, watch with him till the light!) Through the dark hours, for the words you said, All this strange and noisy night.

Banagher Rhue, you are pale and cold; (How the demons laugh through the air!) The anguish beads on your frowning brow; Mary set on your lips a prayer!

Banagher Rhue, you have won the toss: (Mother, pray for his soul's release!) Shuffle and deal ere the black cock crows, That your spirit may find its peace.

Banagher Rhue, you have played a king; (How strange a light on your fingers fall!) A voice, "I was cold, and he sheltered me . . . " The trick is gained, but your chance is small.

Banagher Rhue, now an ace is yours; (Mother Mary, the night is long!) "I was a sin that he hurried aside . . ." O for the dawn and the blackbird's song!

Banagher Rhue, now a ten of suit; (Mother Mary, what hot winds blow!) "Nine little lives hath he saved in his path . . . " And the black cock that does not crow.

Banagher Rhue, you have played a knave; (O what strange gates on their hinges groan!) "I was a friend who had wrought him ill; When I had fallen he cast no stone . . . "

Banagher Rhue, now a queen has won! (The black cock crows with the flash of dawn.) And she is the woman who prays for you: "_Is go d-tigheadh do_, _mhuirnin slan_!"

THE FAIR LITTLE MAIDEN

"There is one at the door, Wolfe O'Driscoll, At the door, who is bidding you come!" "Who is he that wakes me in the darkness, Calling when all the world's dumb?"

"Six horses has he to his carriage, Six horses blacker than the night, And their twelve red eyes in the shadows Twelve lamps he carries for his light;

"And his coach is a coffin black and mouldy, A huge black coffin open wide: He asks for your soul, Wolfe O'Driscoll, Who is calling at the door outside."

"Who let him thro' the gates of my gardens, Where stronger bolts have never been?" "'Twas the father of the fair little maiden You drove to her grave so green."

"And who let him pass through the courtyard, By loosening the bar and the chain?" "Oh, who but the brother of the maiden, Who lies in the cold and the rain!"

"Then who drew the bolts at the portal, And into my house bade him go?" "She, the mother of the poor young maiden, Who lies in her youth so low."

"Who stands, that he dare not enter, The door of my chamber, between?" "O, the ghost of the fair little maiden, Who lies in the churchyard green."

AT CHRISTMAS TIME

For that old love I once adored I decked my halls and spread my board At Christmas time. With all the winter's flowers that grow I wreathed my room, and mistletoe Hung in the gloom of my doorway, Wherein my dear lost love might stray When joy-bells chime.

What phantom was it entered there And drank his wine and took his chair At Christmas time? With holly boughs and mistletoe He crowned his head, and at my woe And tears I shed laughed long and loud; "Get back, O phantom! to thy shroud When joy-bells chime."

A WEEPING CUPID

Why love! I thought you were gay and fair, Merry of mien and debonair. What then means this brow so black, Whose sullen gloom twin eyes give back, Poor little god in tears, alack!

Why love! I thought in your smiling cheek Dainty dimples played hide and seek; Passing by like a winter's night, With stormy sighs from lips all white. Poor little god, how comes your plight?

A maiden said you were tall and bold, With an arm of steel and a heart of gold; Whose changing face would make her day; When came a frown, the sunshine play Of smiles would chase the clouds away.

A youth once said you were like a maid With sunny hair in a golden braid; Whose cheeks were each a rose uncurled; And brow a lilybell unfurled; The fairest maid in all the world.

Why love! I find you so weak and small, A human child, not a god at all; Two angry, sleepy eyes that cry, Two little hands so soft and shy, I'll hush you with a lullaby. Come, love!

THE LOVER

I go through wet spring woods alone, Through sweet green woods with heart of stone, My weary foot upon the grass Falls heavy as I pass. The cuckoo from the distance cries, The lark a pilgrim in the skies; But all the pleasant spring is drear. I want you, dear!

I pass the summer meadows by, The autumn poppies bloom and die; I speak alone so bitterly For no voice answers me. "O lovers parting by the gate, O robin singing to your mate, Plead you well, for she will hear 'I love you, dear!'"

I crouch alone, unsatisfied, Mourning by winter's fireside. O Fate, what evil wind you blow. Must this be so? No southern breezes come to bless, So conscious of their emptiness My lonely arms I spread in woe, I want you so.

A BIRD FROM THE WEST