Part 2

THE NINEPENNY FIDIL

My father and mother were Irish, And I am Irish, too; I bought a wee fidil for ninepence, And it is Irish, too. I'm up in the morning early To meet the dawn of day, And to the lintwhite's piping The many's the tune I play.

One pleasant eve in June time I met a lochrie-man: His face and hands were weazen, His height was not a span. He boor'd me for my fidil-- "You know," says he, "like you, My father and mother were Irish, And I am Irish, too!"

He took my wee red fidil, And such a tune he turned-- The Glaise in it whispered, The Lionan in it m'urned. Says he, "My lad, you're lucky-- I wish t' I was like you: You're lucky in your birth-star, And in your fidil, too!"

He gave me back my fidil, My fidil-stick, also, And stepping like a mayboy, He jumped the Leargaidh Knowe. I never saw him after, Nor met his gentle kind; But, whiles, I think I hear him A-wheening in the wind!

My father and mother were Irish, And I am Irish, too: I bought a wee fidil for ninepence, And it is Irish, too. I'm up in the morning early To meet the dawn of day, And to the lintwhite's piping The many's the tune I play.

GRASSLANDS ARE FAIR

Grasslands are fair, Ploughlands are rare. Grasslands are lonely, Ploughlands are comely. Grasslands breed cattle, Ploughlands feed people. Grasslands are not wrought, Ploughlands swell with thought.

WINTER SONG

'Twould skin a fairy It is so airy, And the snow it nips so cold: Shepherd and squire Sit by the fire, The sheep are in the fold.

You have your wish-- A reeking dish, And rubble walls about; So pity the poor That have no door To keep the winter out!

I FOLLOW A STAR

I follow a star Burning deep in the blue, A sign on the hills Lit for me and for you!

Moon-red is the star, Halo-ringed like a rood, Christ's heart in its heart set, Streaming with blood.

Follow the gilly Beyond to the west: He leads where the Christ lies On Mary's white breast.

King, priest and prophet-- A child, and no more-- Adonai the Maker! Come, let us adore.

THE SILENCE OF UNLABOURED FIELDS

The silence of unlaboured fields Lies like a judgment on the air: A human voice is never heard: The sighing grass is everywhere-- The sighing grass, the shadowed sky, The cattle crying wearily!

Where are the lowland people gone? Where are the sun-dark faces now? The love that kept the quiet hearth, The strength that held the speeding plough? Grasslands and lowing herds are good, But better human flesh and blood!

THE BEGGAR'S WAKE

I watched at a beggar's wake In the hills of Bearna-barr, And the old men were telling stories Of Troy and the Trojan war.

And a flickering fire of bog-deal Burned on the open hearth, And the night-wind roared in the chimney, And darkness was over the earth.

And Tearlach Ban MacGiolla, The piper of Gort, was there, And he sat and he dreamed apart In the arms of a sugan chair.

And sudden he woke from his dream Like a dream-frightened child, And his lips were pale and trembling, And his eyes were wild.

And he stood straight up, and he cried, With a wave of his withered hand, "The days of the grasping stranger Shall be few in the land!

"The scrip of his doom is written, The thread of his shroud is spun; The net of his strength is broken, The tide of his life is run. . . ."

Then he sank to his seat like a stone, And the watchers stared aghast, And they crossed themselves for fear As the coffin cart went past.

. . . . . . . .

"At the battle of Gleann-muic-duibh The fate the poets foretold Shall fall on the neck of the stranger, And redden the plashy mould.

"The bagmen carry the story The circuit of Ireland round, And they sing it at fair and hurling From Edair to Acaill Sound.

"And the folk repeat it over About the winter fires, Till the heart of each one listening Is burning with fierce desires.

"In the Glen of the Bristleless Boar They say the battle shall be, Where Breiffne's iron mountains Look on the Western sea.

"In the Glen of the Pig of Diarmad, On Gulban's hither side, The battle shall be broken About the Samhain tide.

"Forth from the ancient hills, With war-cries strident and loud, The people shall march at daybreak, Massed in a clamorous crowd.

"War-pipes shall scream and cry, And battle-banners shall wave, And every stone on Gulban Shall mark a hero's grave.

"The horses shall wade to their houghs In rivers of smoking blood, Charging thro' heaps of corpses Scattered in whinny and wood.

"The girths shall rot from their bellies After the battle is done, For lack of a hand to undo them And hide them out of the sun.

"It shall not be the battle Between the folk and the Sidhe At the rape of a bride from her bed Or a babe from its mother's knee.

"It shall not be the battle Between the white hosts flying And the shrieking devils of hell For a priest at the point of dying.

"It shall not be the battle Between the sun and the leaves, Between the winter and summer, Between the storm and the sheaves.

"But a battle to doom and death Between the Gael and the Gall, Between the sword of light And the shield of darkness and thrall.

"And the Gael shall have the mastery After a month of days, And the lakes of the west shall cry, And the hills of the north shall blaze.

"And the neck of the fair-haired Gall Shall be as a stool for the feet Of Ciaran, chief of the Gael, Sitting in Emer's seat!"--

. . . . . . . .

At this MacGiolla fainted, Tearing his yellow hair, And the young men cursed the stranger, And the old men mouthed a prayer.

For they knew the day would come, As sure as the piper said, When many loves would be parted, And many graves would be red.

And the wake broke up in tumult, And the women were left alone, Keening over the beggar That died at Gobnat's Stone.

THE BESOM-MAN

Did you see Paidin, Paidin, the besom-man, Last night as you came by Over the mountain?

A barth of new heather He bore on his shoulder, And a bundle of whitlow-grass Under his oxter.

I spied him as he passed Beyond the carn head, But no eye saw him At the hill foot after.

What has come over him? The women are saying. What can have crossed Paidin, the besom-man?

The bogholes he knew As the curlews know them, And the rabbits' pads, And the derelict quarries.

He was humming a tune-- The "Enchanted Valley"-- As he passed me westward Beyond the carn.

I stood and I listened, For his singing was strange: It rang in my ears The long night after.

What has come over Paidin, the besom-man? What can have crossed him? The women keep saying.

They talk of the fairies-- And, God forgive me, Paidin knew _them_ Like his prayers!

Will you fetch word Up to the cross-roads If you see track of him, Living or dead?

The boys are loafing Without game or caper; And the dark piper Is gone home with the birds.

EVERY SHUILER IS CHRIST

Every shuiler is Christ, Then be not hard or cold: The bit that goes for Christ Will come a hundred-fold.

The ear upon your corn Will burst before its time; Your roots will yield a crop Without manure or lime.

And every sup you give To crutch him on his way Will fill your churn with milk, And choke your barn with hay.

Then when the shuiler begs, Be neither hard nor cold; The share that goes for Christ Will come a hundred-fold.

I WISH AND I WISH

I wish and I wish And I wish I were A golden bee In the blue of the air, Winging my way At the mouth of day To the honey marges Of Loch-ciuin-ban; Or a little green drake, Or a silver swan, Floating upon The stream of Aili, And I to be swimming Gaily, gaily!

I AM THE MAN-CHILD

I am the man-child. From a virgin womb, Begot among the hills of virgin loins, The generation of a hundred kings, I come. I am the man-child glorious, The love-son of the second birth foretold By western bards, the fruit of form and strength By nature's prophylactic forethought joined In marriage with their kind, the crown, the peak, The summit of the scheme of things, the pride And glory of the hand of God.

Behold! Where in the spaces of the morning world The sunrise shines my harbinger, the hills Leap up, the young winds sing, the rivers dance, The leaving forests laugh, the eagles scream; For I am one with them, a mate, a brother, Bound by nature to the human soul That thro' the accidents of nature runs. And wherefore do they leap and laugh and sing, And dance like vestals on a holyday? Because their hearts are glad, and maenad-like, They fain would share the frenzied cup they drink With me, the man-child glorious.

I am he, Even he, the master-mould, the paragon! Behold me in my nonage, child and man: The ripest grape on beauty's procreant vine, The reddest apple of ingathering: Perfect in form, of peerless strength, and free As Caoilte when he roamed the primal hills (Those "wildernesses rich with liberty"), A hero that the shocks of chance might strike, But never tame, a giant druid-ringed, A god-like savage of the golden days Ere service shackled action: free itself As Oisin when he strayed in Doire-cairn, His hand upon the mountain top, his feet Fixt in the flowing sea, his holy head Crowned by a flight of birds, acclaiming him The singer of the dawn.

FRAGMENT

I stand upon the summit now: The falcon, flying from the heath, Trails darkly o'er the mountain brow And drops into the gloom beneath. Night falls, and with it comes the wind That blew on Fionn time out of mind, When weary of love-feasts and wars He left his comrades all behind To dream upon the quiet stars. Here on the lonely mountain height Is ecstasy and living light-- The living inner light that burns With magic caught from those white urns That wander thro' the trackless blue Forever, touching those they know With beauty, and the things that come Of beauty. Earth lies at my feet, A dumb, vast shadow, vast as dumb.

AT THE WHITENING OF THE DAWN

At the whitening of the dawn, As I came o'er the windy water, I saw the salmon-fisher's daughter, Nuala ni Cholumain. Nuala ni Cholumain, Nuala ni Cholumain, Palest lily of the dawn Is Nuala ni Cholumain.

In the dark of evendown I went o'er the quiet water, Dreaming of the fisher's daughter And her bothy in the town. And I made this simple rann Ere the whitening of the dawn, Singing to the beauty wan Of Nuala ni Cholumain.

WHO ARE MY FRIENDS

Who are my friends, Faithful and true? Who but the stars That burn in the blue.

Who but the sun That sinketh so red, Who but the clay That giveth me bread.

Who but the hills, Who but the sea, Who but the flowers That fold on the tree.

Who but the moths That flutter and pass, Who but the lambs That cry in the grass.

Who but the darkness, Who but the rain, Who but the grave, the grave-- All else are vain! All else are vain!

O GLORIOUS CHILDBEARER

O glorious childbearer, O secret womb, O gilded bridechamber, from which hath come the sightly Bridegroom forth, O amber veil, Thou sittest in heaven, the white love of the Gael. Thy head is crowned with stars, thy radiant hair Shines like a river thro' the twilight air; Thou walkest by trodden ways and trackless seas, Immaculate of man's infirmities.

CORONACH

Come, pipes, sound A crooning coronach round, Till hill and hollow glen and shadowed lake o'erflow With welling music of our woe. Beat, beat, ye muffled drums, ye drones and chanters wail, With heartbreak of the baffled, battle-broken Gael. The clay is deep on Ireland's breast: Her proud and bleeding heart is laid at last to rest . . To rest . . to rest!

TWILIGHT FALLEN

Twilight fallen white and cold, Child in cradle, lamb in fold; Glimmering thro' the ghostly trees, Gemini and Pleiades. Wounds of Eloim, Weep on me!

Black-winged vampires flitting by, Curlews crying in the sky; Grey mists wreathing from the ground, Wrapping rath and burial mound. Wounds of Eloim, Weep on me!

Heard, like some sad Gaelic strain, Ocean's ancient voice in pain; Darkness folding hill and wood, Sorrow drinking at my blood. Wounds of Eloim, Weep on me!

THE DAWN WHITENESS

The dawn whiteness. A bank of slate-grey cloud lying heavily over it. The moon, like a hunted thing, dropping into the cloud.

THE DWARF

Look at him now, the son, And the churchyard twist in his foot, Standing there by his mother's door, As if he had taken root!

She crossed a grave, they say, On a black day in spring, And bore him in the seventh month-- A poor, misshapen thing.

Kneeling down in the dark She travailed without a cry, And gave him the mothering kiss Between the earth and the sky.

He licks cuckoo-spittle, they say, And eats the dung of the roads, Mocking the journeymen As they pass by with their loads.

Look at his little face-- As grey as wool is grey-- And the cast in his green eye, So wild and far away.

Does he see Magh-meala? Is his breath human breath? Are his thoughts of the hidden things Untouched by time and death?

Hanging there by the half-door, Dangling his devil's foot, Stock-still on the threshold, As if he had taken root!

I SEE ALL LOVE IN LOWLY THINGS

I see all love in lowly things, No less than in the lusts of kings: All beauty, shape and comeliness, All valour, strength and gentleness, All genius, wit and holiness.

Out of corruption comes the flower, The corn is kindred with the clay; The plough-hand is a hand of power, Nobler than gold, brighter than day.

Then let the leper lift his head, The cripple dance, the captive sing, The beggar reap and eat his bread-- He is no baser than a king!

'TIS PRETTY TAE BE IN BAILE-LIOSAN

'Tis pretty tae be in Baile-liosan, 'Tis pretty tae be in green Magh-luan; 'Tis prettier tae be in Newtownbreda, Beeking under the eaves in June. The cummers are out wi' their knitting and spinning, The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa', And o'er the white road the clachan caddies Play at their marlies and goaling-ba'.

O, fair are the fields o' Baile-liosan, And fair are the faes o' green Magh-luan; But fairer the flowers o' Newtownbreda, Wet wi' dew in the eves o' June. 'Tis pleasant tae saunter the clachan thoro' When day sinks mellow o'er Dubhais hill, And feel their fragrance sae softly breathing Frae croft and causey and window-sill.

O, brave are the haughs o' Baile-liosan, And brave are the halds o' green Magh-luan; But braver the hames o' Newtownbreda, Twined about wi' the pinks o' June. And just as the face is sae kindly withouten, The heart within is as guid as gold-- Wi' new fair ballants and merry music, And cracks cam' down frae the days of old.

'Tis pretty tae be in Baile-liosan, 'Tis pretty tae be in green Magh-luan; 'Tis prettier tae be in Newtownbreda, Beeking under the eaves in June. The cummers are out wi' their knitting and spinning, The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa', And o'er the white road the clachan caddies Play at their marlies and goaling-ba'.

CIARAN, THE MASTER OF HORSES AND LANDS

Ciaran, the master of horses and lands, Once had no more than the horn on his hands.

But Ciaran is rich now, and Ciaran is great, And rides with the air of a squire of estate.

O Christ! and to see the man up on the back Of a thoroughbred stallion, a bay or a black!

There's not a horsebreeder from Banna to Laoi Can handle the snaffle so pretty as he!

And Ciaran, for all, has the wit of a child, A heart just as soft, and an eye just as mild.

No maker of ballads puts curse at his door: He handsels the singer, and harbours the poor.

For Ciaran, the master of horses and lands, Once had no more than the horn on his hands.

DEEP WAYS AND DRIPPING BOUGHS

Deep ways and dripping boughs, The fog falling drearily; Cowherds calling on their cows, And I crying wearily, Wearily, wearily, out-a-door, Houseless, hearthless, coatless, kindless, Poorest of the wandering poor.

I am the beggar Christ-- Christ that calmed the castling flood! Cross and thorn have not sufficed To punish me as you would; But out-a-door in wind and rain, Houseless, hearthless, coatless, kindless, You keep me wandering in pain.

NIGHT, AND I TRAVELLING

Night, and I travelling. An open door by the wayside, Throwing out a shaft of warm yellow light. A whiff of peat-smoke; A gleam of delf on the dresser within; A woman's voice crooning, as if to a child. I pass on into the darkness.

NIGHT-PIECE

Fill me, O stars, As with an olden tune. Look thro' your cloudy bars, O summer moon; Look thro', and drench in silver light My soul this night.

O brief, enchanted dream Of sea and sky, Of ploughland, meadow, stream, And twilight loth to die, Of fire and dew-- My soul is one with you!

AT MORNING TIDE

At morning tide, Upon the hill of Sliabh-na-mBan, I saw the dead Christ glorified! His body, like the risen sun, Was all too bright to look upon: The blue air burned About him: in his side And hands and feet there shone (Thro' stabs and gashes gaping wide) The golden glory of his blood: The gilly stood Upon his right hand: at his feet The fishers, Peter, James and John, Knelt worshipping With outstretched arms, and eyes To heaven turned: And Maria, his mother sweet, (The partner of his mysteries), And Magdalen and Salome Came thro' the doorway of the day Behind him, weeping. . . . . Then a cloud came o'er My senses, and I saw and heard no more!

THE MAY-FIRE

Come away, O Maire Ban, Come away, come away Where the heads of _ceanabhan_ Tremble in the twilight air, And the rushes nod and sway, And no other sound is heard But the swaying of the rushes, And the shouts from Croc-an-air, And the singing of the fidils, And the laughing of the dancers Round about the yellow fire, And the scream of the water-bird.

Come away, O life of me, O bone of me, O blood of me-- Feilim has a tale to tell: He would own his love for thee, Smitten first at Mura's well, Bitten at the Lammas pattern, By the blessed Mura's well. He would tell thee, Maire Ban, How his pulses leap and thrill Quicker than the old men's fidils, Singing out from yonder hill.

Come away, O heart's desire, From the ruddy-featured circle, From the story-telling circle, By the wreathing Bealtein fire. Come away, come away, Come away, O Maire Ban, Where the heads of _ceanabhan_ Tremble in the twilight air, And the voice of love is heard Whispering o'er the bending rushes Like a hidden, holy bird. Come away, O Maire Ban-- Feilim's face is fairy-wan, Feilim's heart is sick and pale, Languishing for love of thee.

I LOVE THE DIN OF BEATING DRUMS

I love the din of beating drums, The bellowing pipe, the shrieking fife: The discord and the dissonance is my blood, my breath, my life! The discord and the dissonance is my life!

Away with flutes and dancing lutes-- Such music likes but lovers' ears: Give me the beating battledrum, The gunpeal and the cheers! The bellowing pipe and battledrum, The gunpeal and the cheers!

THREE COLTS EXERCISING IN A SIX-ACRE

Three colts exercising in a six-acre, A hilly sweep of unfenced grass over the road.

What a picture they make against the skyline! Necks stretched, hocks moving royally, tails flying; Farm-lads up, and they crouching low on their withers.

I have a journey to go-- A lawyer to see, and a paper to sign in the Tontine-- But I slacken my pace to watch them.

THE NATURAL

"Lend us the loan of a halfpenny, sir!"-- And he passed with his splendid nose in the air.

A gaunt, grey carcase of skin and bones, As cold as the river, as hard as the stones.

To him the highway was table and bed, Shift for the newborn and sheet for the dead.

The wind that blew from Beola crest Seemed fire to fetter his wild unrest.

The rain that beat on his neck and face, A goad to quicken him in his pace.

But sorrow a step he changed, and his prayer Was still--"Lend us the loan of a halfpenny, sir!"

ON THE TOP-STONE

On the top-stone. A nipping wind blowing. Winter dusk closing in from the south Ards. The moon rising, white and fantastic, over the loch and the town below. I take off my hat, salute her, and descend into the darkness.

THE WOMEN AT THEIR DOORS

The babes were asleep in their cradles, And the day's drudge was done, And the women brought their suppers out To eat them in the sun.

"To-night I will set my needles, Aine, And Eoghan will have stockings to wear: I spun the wool of the horny ewe He bought at the hiring fair. . . .

"But what is that sound I hear, Nabla?-- It is like the cheering of men. God keep our kind from the devil's snare!" And the women answered, "Amen!"

Then the moon rose over the valley, And the cheering died away, And the women went within their doors At the mouth of the summer day.

And no men came in at midnight, And no men came in at the dawn, And the women keened by their ashy fires Till their faces were haggard and wan.

For they knew they had gone to the trysting With pike and musketoon, To fight for their hearths and altars At the rising of the moon!

MY LITTLE DARK LOVE

My little dark love is a wineberry, As swarth and as sweet, I hold; But as the dew on the wineberry Her heart is a-cold.

I would her love were as warm as the light That lives in her eye of grey, And then my heart would know the peace It dreams in the hills away.

I would her love were as red as the rose That blows on her cheek of brown, And then my sunless soul would laugh At the woe that weighs it down.

She dwells in the valley, my little dark love, Where the river sings to the sea, And an ogham-stone sits by her door, And nigh to it hazels three.

And oft when the purple twilight comes, And the blind bats flit in the air, I wander down from the quiet hills To seek my sweetheart there.

But she comes never--she loves not me, Nor ever will love, I hold; For tho' my heart is a peat of fire, Her heart is a-cold!

I HEARD A PIPER PIPING

I heard a piper piping The blue hills among-- And never did I hear So plaintive a song.

It seemed but a part Of the hills' melancholy: No piper living there Could ever be jolly!

And still the piper piped The blue hills among, And all the birds were quiet To listen to his song.

THE CLOUDS GO BY AND BY

The clouds go by and by, The heron sings in the blue-- And I lie dreaming, dreaming Ever of you.

The stag on the hill is free, And the wind is blowing sweet-- But I lie bound a prisoner At your feet.

DAVY DAW

Woa! are you there my bonny mare? Your whinny seems to say-- "By Bealach forge and Creagach fair We'll gallop hard to-day!" You champ your snaffle all to foam, And fleck your counter bright; But now we bid adieu to home Until the fall of night. Davy Daw, Davy Daw, with his early horn, His hunting-crop and bag of corn-- His heart's as merry as a mottle-thrush That sings all day in the hawthorn bush.