Part 1
Produced by Jana Srna
[ Transcriber's Notes:
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including any inconsistencies in the original.
Italic text has been marked with _underscores_. ]
THE MOUNTAINY SINGER
BY THE SAME AUTHOR:
THE GARDEN OF THE BEES THE RUSHLIGHT THE MAN-CHILD THE GILLY OF CHRIST
THE MOUNTAINY SINGER
BY SEOSAMH MacCATHMHAOIL
MAUNSEL AND COMPANY, LTD. 96 MID. ABBEY STREET, DUBLIN 1909
All Rights Reserved
Dedit pauperibus. Lib. Psalm.
CONTENTS
PAGE
I am the Mountainy Singer 1
When Rooks Fly Homeward 2
I Spin my Golden Web 2
Cherry Valley 3
Darkness 3
My Fidil is Singing 4
The Goat Dealer 4
Why Crush the Claret Rose 5
Lament of Padraic Mor Mac Cruimin 6
To a Town Girl 8
A March Moon 8
A Thousand Feet Up 9
The Dark 9
Reynardine 11
Snow 11
I am the Gilly of Christ 12
Go, Ploughman, Plough 13
Go, Reaper 14
The Good People 14
The Storm is Still, the Rain hath Ceased 15
Scare-the-Crows 16
A Cradle Song 17
Twine the Mazes Thro' and Thro' 18
The Fighting-Man 19
My Mother has a Wee Red Shoe 20
By a Wondrous Mystery 21
I Gather Three Ears of Corn 22
The Tinkers 23
As I Came over the Grey, Grey Hills 24
A Northern Love-Song 24
To the Golden Eagle 25
A Prophecy 26
I Met a Walking-Man 27
The Ninepenny Fidil 28
Grasslands are Fair 29
Winter Song 30
I Follow a Star 30
The Silence of Unlaboured Fields 31
The Beggar's Wake 32
The Besom-Man 36
Every Shuiler is Christ 38
I Wish and I Wish 39
I am the Man-Child 40
Fragment 41
At the Whitening of the Dawn 42
Who are My Friends 43
O Glorious Childbearer 44
Coronach 44
Twilight Fallen 45
The Dawn Whiteness 45
The Dwarf 46
I See all Love in Lowly Things 47
'Tis Pretty tae be in Baile-Liosan 48
Ciaran, the Master of Horses and Lands 49
Deep Ways and Dripping Boughs 50
Night, and I Travelling 50
Night-Piece 51
At Morning Tide 51
The May-Fire 52
I Love the Din of Beating Drums 54
Three Colts Exercising in a Six-acre 54
The Natural 55
On the Top-Stone 55
The Women at their Doors 56
My Little Dark Love 57
I Heard a Piper Piping 58
The Clouds go By and By 58
Davy Daw 59
Black Sile of the Silver Eye 62
A Sheep-Dog Barks on the Mountain 63
Dead Oakleaves Everywhere 64
A Night Prayer 64
I am the Mountainy Singer 65
The Rainbow Spanning a Planet Shower 66
I will Go with My Father A-Ploughing 67
The Shining Spaces of the South 68
Like a Tuft of Ceanabhan 68
The Herb-Leech 69
Who Buys Land 70
The Poet Loosed a Winged Song 71
Sic Transit 72
This book is made up of a selection from the Author's early books, with many new poems added.
A LINE'S A SPEECH
A line's a speech; So here's a line To say this pedlar's pack Of mine Is not a book-- But a journey thro' Mountainy places, Ever in view Of the sea and the fields, With the rough wind Blowing over the leagues Behind!
I AM THE MOUNTAINY SINGER
I am the mountainy singer-- The voice of the peasant's dream, The cry of the wind on the wooded hill, The leap of the fish in the stream.
Quiet and love I sing-- The carn on the mountain crest, The cailin in her lover's arms, The child at its mother's breast.
Beauty and peace I sing-- The fire on the open hearth, The cailleach spinning at her wheel, The plough in the broken earth.
Travail and pain I sing-- The bride on the childing bed, The dark man labouring at his rhymes, The ewe in the lambing shed.
Sorrow and death I sing-- The canker come on the corn, The fisher lost in the mountain loch, The cry at the mouth of morn.
No other life I sing, For I am sprung of the stock That broke the hilly land for bread, And built the nest in the rock!
WHEN ROOKS FLY HOMEWARD
When rooks fly homeward And shadows fall, When roses fold On the hay-yard wall, When blind moths flutter By door and tree, Then comes the quiet Of Christ to me.
When stars look out On the Children's Path And grey mists gather On carn and rath, When night is one With the brooding sea, Then comes the quiet Of Christ to me.
I SPIN MY GOLDEN WEB
I spin my golden web in the sun: The cherries tremble, the light is done.
A sudden wind sweeps over the bay, And carries my golden web away!
CHERRY VALLEY
In Cherry Valley the cherries blow: The valley paths are white as snow.
And in their time with clusters red The scented boughs are crimsoned.
Even now the moon is looking thro' The glimmer of the honey dew.
A petal trembles to the grass, The feet of fairies pass and pass.
By _them_, I know, all beauty comes To me, a habitan of slums.
I sing no rune, I say no line: The gift of second sight is mine!
DARKNESS
Darkness. I stop to watch a star shine in the boghole---- A star no longer, but a silver ribbon of light. I look at it, and pass on.
MY FIDIL IS SINGING
My fidil is singing Into the air; The wind is stirring, The moon is fair.
A shadow wanders Along the road; It stops to listen, And drops its load.
Dreams for a space Upon the moon, Then passes, humming My mountain tune.
THE GOAT-DEALER
Did you see the goat-dealer All in his jacket green? I met him on the rocky road 'Twixt this and Baile-doirin.
A hundred nannies ran before, And a she-ass behind, And then the old wanderer himself, Burnt red with sun and wind.
He gave me the time-a-day And doitered over the hill, Walloping his gay ashplant And shouting his fill.
I think I hear him yet, Tho' it's a giant's cry From where I hailed him first, Standing up to the sky.
Is that Puck Green I see beyond? It is, and the stir is there. By the holy hat, I know then-- He's making for Puck Fair!
WHY CRUSH THE CLARET ROSE
Why crush the claret rose That blows So rarely on the tree? Wherefore the enmity, dear girl, Betwixt the rose and thee? Art thou not fair enough With that dark beauty given thee, That thou must crush the rose That blows So rarely on the tree!
LAMENT OF PADRAIC MOR MAC CRUIMIN OVER HIS SONS
I am Padraic Mor mac Cruimin, Son of Domhnall of the Shroud, Piper, like my kind before me, To the household of MacLeod.
Death is in the seed of Cruimin-- All my music is a wail; Early graves await the poets And the pipers of the Gael.
Samhain gleans the golden harvests Duly in their tide and time, But my body's fruit is blasted Barely past the Bealtein prime.
Cethlenn claims the fairest fighters Fitly for her own, her own, But my seven sons are stricken Where no battle-pipe is blown.
Flowers of the forest fallen On the sliding summer stream-- Light and life and love are with me, Then are vanished into dream.
Berried branches of the rowan Rifled in the wizard wind-- Clan and generation leave me, Lonely on the heath behind.
Who will soothe a father's sorrow When his seven sons are gone? Who will watch him in his sleeping? Who will wake him at the dawn?
Seven sons are taken from me In the compass of a year; Every bone is bose within me, All my blood is white with fear.
Seven youths of brawn and beauty Moulder in their mountain bed, Up in storied Inis-Scathach Where their fathers reaped their bread.
Nevermore upon the mountain, Nevermore in fair or field, Shall ye see the seven champions Of the silver-mantled shield.
I will play the "_Cumhadh na Cloinne_" Wildest of the rowth of tunes Gathered by the love of mortal From the olden druid runes.
Wail ye! Night is on the water; Wind and wave are roaring loud-- _Caoine_ for the fallen children Of the piper of MacLeod.
TO A TOWN GIRL
Violet mystery, Ringleted gold, Whiteness of whiteness, Wherefore so cold?
Silent you sit there-- Spirit and mould-- Darkening the dream That must never be told!
A MARCH MOON
A March moon Over the mountain crest, _Ceanabhan_ blowing: Her neck and breast.
Arbutus berries On the tree head: Her mouth of passion, Dewy and red.
Cold as cold And hot as hot, She loves me . . . . And she loves me not!
A THOUSAND FEET UP
A thousand feet up: twilight. Westwards, a clump of firtrees silhouetted against a bank of blue cumulus cloud; The June afterglow like a sea behind. The mountain trail, white and clear where human feet have worn it, zigzagging higher and higher till it loses itself in the southern skyline. A patch of young corn to my right hand, swaying and swaying continuously, tho' hardly an air stirs. A falcon wheeling overhead. The moon rising. The damp smell of the night in my nostrils.
O hills, O hills, To you I lift mine eyes! I kneel down and kiss the grass under my feet. The sense of the mystery and infinity of things overwhelms me, annihilates me almost. I kneel down, and silently worship.
THE DARK
This is the dark. This is the dream that came of the dark. This is the dreamer who dreamed the dream that came of the dark. This is the look the dreamer looked who dreamed the dream that came of the dark.
This is the love that followed the look the dreamer looked who dreamed the dream that came of the dark.
This is the breast that fired the love that followed the look the dreamer looked who dreamed the dream that came of the dark.
This is the song was made to the breast that fired the love that followed the look the dreamer looked who dreamed the dream that came of the dark.
This is the sword that tracked the song was made to the breast that fired the love that followed the look the dreamer looked who dreamed the dream that came of the dark.
This is the rope that swung the sword that tracked the song was made to the breast that fired the love that followed the look the dreamer looked who dreamed the dream that came of the dark.
This is the dark that buried the rope that swung the sword that tracked the song was made to the breast that fired the love that followed the look the dreamer looked who dreamed the dream that came of the dark.
This is the dark, indeed!
REYNARDINE
_If by chance you look for me_ _Perhaps you'll not me find,_ _For I'll be in my castle--_ _Enquire for Reynardine!_
Sun and dark he courted me-- His eyes were red as wine: He took me for his leman, Did my sweet Reynardine.
Sun and dark the gay horn blows, The beagles run like wind: They know not where he harbours, The fairy Reynardine.
_If by chance you look for me_ _Perhaps you'll not me find,_ _For I'll be in my castle--_ _Enquire for Reynardine!_
SNOW
Hills that were dark At sparing-time last night Now in the dawn-ring Glimmer cold and white.
I AM THE GILLY OF CHRIST
I am the gilly of Christ, The mate of Mary's Son; I run the roads at seeding time, And when the harvest's done.
I sleep among the hills, The heather is my bed; I dip the termon-well for drink, And pull the sloe for bread.
No eye has ever seen me, But shepherds hear me pass, Singing at fall of even Along the shadowed grass.
The beetle is my bellman, The meadow-fire my guide, The bee and bat my ambling nags When I have need to ride.
All know me only the Stranger, Who sits on the Saxon's height; He burned the bacach's little house On last Saint Brigid's Night.
He sups off silver dishes, And drinks in a golden horn, But he will wake a wiser man Upon the Judgment Morn!
I am the gilly of Christ, The mate of Mary's Son; I run the roads at seeding time, And when the harvest's done.
The seed I sow is lucky, The corn I reap is red, And whoso sings the Gilly's Rann Will never cry for bread.
GO, PLOUGHMAN, PLOUGH
Go, ploughman, plough The mearing lands, The meadow lands, The mountain lands: All life is bare Beneath your share, All love is in your lusty hands.
Up, horses, now! And straight and true Let every broken furrow run: The strength you sweat Shall blossom yet In golden glory to the sun.
GO, REAPER
Go, reaper, Speed and reap, Go take the harvest Of the plough: The wheat is standing Broad and deep, The barley glumes Are golden now.
Labour is hard, But it endures Like love: The land is yours: Go reap the life It gives you now, O sunbrowned master Of the plough!
THE GOOD PEOPLE
The millway path looks like a wraith, The lock is black as ink, And silently in stream and sky The stars begin to blink.
I see them pass along the grass With slow and solemn tread: Aoibheall, their queen, is in between-- A corpse is at their head!
They wander on with faces wan, And dirges sad as wind. I know not, but it may be that The dead's of human kind.
THE STORM IS STILL, THE RAIN HATH CEASED
The storm is still, the rain hath ceased To vex the beauty of the east: A linnet singeth in the wood His hermit song of gratitude.
So shall I sing when life is done To greet the glory of the sun; And cloud and star and stream and sea Shall dance for very ecstasy!
SCARE-THE-CROWS
Twopence a day for scaring crows-- Tho' the rain beats and the wind blows!
The scholars think I've little wit, But, God! I've got my share of it.
Why does the gorbing land-shark Leave ploughed rigs for the green park?
Where little's to find, and nothing's to eat But rabbits' droppings and pheasants' meat.
He knows better than come my way Between the mouth and the tail of day.
For one lick of my hurding wattle Would lay him out like a showman's bottle!
And the thoughts that rise in my crazed head When the cloud is low and the wind's dead.
Where you see only clay and stones I see swords and blanching bones. . . .
But I'll leave you now--it's gone six, And the smoke is curling over the ricks.
And it's hardly like that the land-shark Will trouble the furrows after dark.
A CRADLE-SONG
Sleep, white love, sleep, A cedarn cradle holds thee, And twilight, like a silver-woven coverlid, Enfolds thee. Moon and star keep charmed watch Upon thy lying; Water plovers thro' the dusk Are tremulously crying. Sleep, white love mine, Till day doth shine.
Sleep, white love, sleep, The daylight wanes, and deeper Gathers the blue darkness O'er the cradle of the sleeper. Cliodhna's curachs, carmine-oared, On Loch-da-linn are gleaming; Blind bats flutter thro' the night, And carrion birds are screaming. Sleep, white love mine, Till day doth shine.
Sleep, white love, sleep, The holy mothers, Anne and Mary, Sit high in heaven, dreaming On the seven ends of Eire. Brigid sits beside them, Spinning lamb-white wool on whorls, Singing fragrant songs of love To little naked boys and girls. Sleep, white love mine, Till day doth shine.
TWINE THE MAZES THRO' AND THRO'
Twine the mazes thro' and thro' Over beach and margent pale; Not a bawn appears in view, Not a sail!
Round about! In and out! Thro' the stones and sandy bars To the music of the stars! The asteroidal fire that dances Nightly in the northern blue, The brightest of the boreal lances, Dances not so light as you, Cliodhna! Dances not so light as you.
THE FIGHTING-MAN
A fighting-man he was, Guts and soul; His blood as hot and red As that on Cain's hand-towel.
A copper-skinned six-footer, Hewn out of the rock. Who would stand up against His hammer-knock?
Not a sinner-- No, and not one dared! Giants showed clean heels When his arm was bared.
I've seen him swing an anvil Fifty feet, Break a bough in two, And tear a twisted sheet.
And the music of his roar-- Like oaks in thunder cleaving; Lips foaming red froth, And flanks heaving.
God! a goodly man, A Gael, the last Of those that stood with Dan On Mullach-Maist!
MY MOTHER HAS A WEE RED SHOE
My mother has a wee red shoe-- She bought it off a bacach-man; And all the neighbours say it's true He stole it off a Leath-brogan. Bacach-man, bacach-man, Where did you get it? Faith now, says he, In my leather wallet!
My father has an arrow-head-- He begged it off poor Peig na Blath; And Mor, the talking-woman, said She found it in a fairy rath. Peig na Blath, Peig na Blath, Where did you get it? Faith now, says she, In my wincey jacket!
My brother has a copper pot-- He tryst' it wi' a shuiler-man; And gossip says it's like as not He truff'd it from a Clobhair-ceann. Shuiler-man, shuiler-man, Where did you get it? Faith now, says he, In my breeches' pocket!
BY A WONDROUS MYSTERY
By a wondrous mystery Christ of Mary's fair body Upon a middle winter's morn, Between the tides of night and day, In Ara's holy isle was born. Mary went upon her knee Travailing in ecstasy, And Brigid, mistress of the birth, Full reverently and tenderly Laid the child upon the earth. Then the dark-eyed rose did blow, And rivers leaped from out the snow. Earth grew lyrical: the grass, As the light winds chanced to pass-- Than magian music more profound-- Murmured in a maze of sound. White incense rose upon the hills As from a thousand thuribles, And in the east a seven-rayed star Proclaimed the news to near and far. The shepherd danced, the gilly ran, The boatman left his curachan; The king came riding on the wind To offer gifts of coin and kind; The druid dropped his ogham wand, And said, "Another day's at hand, A newer dawn is in the sky: I put my withered sapling by. The druid Christ has taken breath To sing the runes of life and death."
I GATHER THREE EARS OF CORN
I gather three ears of corn, And the Black Earl from over the sea Sails across in his silver ships, And takes two out of the three.
I might build a house on the hill And a barn of the speckly stone, And tell my little stocking of gold, If the Earl would let me alone.
But he has no thought for me-- Only the thought of his share, And the softness of the linsey shifts His lazy daughters wear.
There is a God in heaven, And angels, score on score, Who will not see my hearthstone cold Because I'm crazed and poor.
My childer have my blood, And when they get their beards They will not be content to run As gillies to their herds!
The day will come, maybe, When we can have our own, And the Black Earl will come to us Begging the bacach's bone!
THE TINKERS
"One _ciarog_ knows another _ciarog_, And why shouldn't I know you, you rogue?" "They say a stroller will never pair Except with one of his kind and care . . ." So talked two tinkers prone in the shough-- And then, as the fun got a trifle rough, They flitted: he with his corn-straw bass, She with her load of tin and brass: As mad a match as you would see In a twelvemonth's ride thro' Christendie. He roared--they both were drunk as hell: She danced, and danced it mighty well! I could have eyed them longer, but They staggered for the Quarry Cut: That half-perch seemed to trouble them more Than all the leagues they'd tramped before. Some'll drink at the fair the morrow, And some'll sup with the spoon of sorrow; But whether _they_'ll get as far as Droichid The night--well, who knows that but God?
AS I CAME OVER THE GREY, GREY HILLS
As I came over the grey, grey hills And over the grey, grey water, I saw the gilly leading on, And the white Christ following after.
Where and where does the gilly lead? And where is the white Christ faring? They've travelled the four grey sounds of Orc, And the four grey seas of Eirinn.
The moon it set and the wind's away, And the song in the grass is dying, And a silver cloud on the silent sea Like a shrouding sheet is lying.
But Christ and the gilly will follow on Till the ring in the east is showing, And the awny corn is red on the hills, And the golden light is glowing!
A NORTHERN LOVE-SONG
Brigidin Ban of the lint-white locks, What was it gave you that flaxen hair, Long as the summer heath in the rocks? What was it gave you those eyes of fire, Lip so waxen and cheek so wan? Tell me, tell me, Brigidin Ban, Little white bride of my heart's desire.
Was it the Good People stole you away, Little white changeling, Brigidin Ban? Carried you off in the ring of the dawn, Laid like a queen on her purple car, Carried you back 'twixt the night and the day; Gave you that fortune of flaxen hair, Gave you those eyes of wandering fire, Lit at the wheel of the southern star; Gave you that look so far away, Lip so waxen and cheek so wan? Tell me, tell me, Brigidin Ban, Little white bride of my heart's desire.
TO THE GOLDEN EAGLE
Wanderer of the mountain, Winger of the blue, From this stormy rock I send my love to you.
Take me for your lover, Dark and fierce and true-- Wanderer of the mountain, Winger of the blue!
A PROPHECY
"The loins of the Galldacht Shall wither like grass"-- Strange words I heard said At the Fair of Dun-eas.
"A bard shall be born Of the seed of the folk, To break with his singing The bond and the yoke.
"A sword, white as ashes, Shall fall from the sky, To rise, red as blood, On the charge and the cry.
"Stark pipers shall blow, Stout drummers shall beat, And the shout of the north Shall be heard in the street.
"The strong shall go down, And the weak shall prevail, And a glory shall sit On the sign of the Gaodhal.
"Then Emer shall come In good time by her own, And a man of the people Shall speak from the throne."
Strange words I heard said At the Fair of Dun-eas-- "The Gaodhaldacht shall live, The Galldacht shall pass!"
I MET A WALKING-MAN
I met a walking-man; His head was old and grey. I gave him what I had To crutch him on his way. The man was Mary's Son, I'll swear; A glory trembled in his hair!
And since that blessed day I've never known the pinch: I plough a broad townland, And dig a river-inch; And on my hearth the fire is bright For all that walk by day or night.