Part 3
Come hither, Bran of ancient seed, And lick your master's hand; I swear no dog of purer breed Is found in all the land. Brave scion of Cuchullain's branch, Well do you, hound, uphold The prowess and the courage staunch That marked your line of old. Davy Daw, Davy Daw, my merry man, I love toast crab in a pewter can. Our tastes are like as like can be-- But a measure of ale in the can for me!
The wind is low and scent is good, And Mada's on the green: He hid his head in Cratla Wood Since early yestere'en. You beat the bush from peep of light, And set the whins afire; And now the tory is in sight, You've got your heart's desire. Davy Daw, Davy Daw, for a crab well-browned In the smiling flood of a cruiscin drowned. Give me, sirree, my crab and ale, And bog or batter, my heart won't fail!
The sun is out, and Davy's up, And hounds are on the run: It's hard he'll earn his stirrup-cup Before the day is done! A jolly life we hunters lead Upon the saddle high: We see no devil in the bead, And drain our noggins dry. Davy Daw, Davy Daw is a huntsman bold; He's more to me than a kingdom's gold. A hind for dinner and a hare to sup-- O that's what I get when Davy's up!
The fox is fast upon the hill, He's wary in the dale; But I will ride to Penny Mill Before I lose his tail. That brush was born to make a cap For gallant Eoin Og; And I will have it, hang-or-hap, As sure as I'm a rogue. Davy Daw, Davy Daw, for a morning chase, With an Irish blood to make the pace: He's last to check and first to view, And hard to the death he leads his queue.
Day in we hunt the spinney fox, Day out the rapparee; _His_ cave is in the broken rocks Above the Correi-buidhe. A shameful thing, the ladies say, To hunt your fellow-man; But follow him till hard at bay It's just the ladies can! Davy Daw, Davy Daw, the brush is won! A good job, sir, our work is done. Whitefoot went lame this side o' the mill, And I'm as dry as an old lime-kiln.
Red rogue, he'll kill his goose no more: Close work it was, for the light is o'er. Just _close_ work, sir, but the Dub's _close to_, With a can for me and a crab for you!
BLACK SILE OF THE SILVER EYE
As I rode down to Gartan fair I met a girl upon the way: The winter night was on her hair, The summer dawn was in her eye.
And O, she stepped with such a gait, And bore her round black head so high, And tossed it so, I knew her straight For Sile of the Silver Eye.
"God save you, Sile, love," says I: "God save you kindly," murmured she-- And love was welling in her eye As she dropped me the courtesy.
The mountain boys upon the road Were at themselves for jealousy When they saw Seamus win the nod From Sile of the Silver Eye.
We rode together to the fair, We danced together on the green; And, faith, they say a suppler pair Was ne'er before a piper seen.
Black Sile of the Silver Eye Has been my wife for twenty year, And still her sloe-black head is high, And still her eye is silver clear.
And, God be praised, we have a girl, As like her as like well can be-- The round black head, the roguish curl, The soft tongue and the silver eye.
God bless the old, God bless the new, And send them stout posterity-- Old Sile and young Sile, too-- Both "Sile of the Silver Eye!"
A SHEEPDOG BARKS ON THE MOUNTAIN
A sheepdog barks on the mountain, The night is fallen cold; The shepherd blinks at his fire, The sheep are in the fold.
The moon comes white and quiet Into the winter sky; And nothing walks the valley To-night but you and I.
DEAD OAKLEAVES EVERYWHERE
Dead oakleaves everywhere Under my feet, Filling the forest air With odours sweet.
Acorns, three, four and five, Falling apace. Thank God I am alive This day of grace!
A NIGHT PRAYER
Pray for me, Seachnal, Pray for me, Mel: Save me from sin And the cold stone of hell!
Brigid and Ita And Eithne the Red, Spread out your mantles And cover my bed!
For rann and gospel Have gone from my mind, And devils are walking Abroad in the wind!
I AM THE MOUNTAINY SINGER
I am the mountainy singer, And I would sing of the Christ Who followed the paths thro' the mountains To eat at the people's tryst.
He loved the sun-dark people As the young man loves his bride, And he moved among their thatches, And for them he was crucified.
And the people loved him, also, More than their houses or lands, For they had known his pity And felt the touch of his hands.
And they dreamed with him in the mountains, And they walked with him on the sea, And they prayed with him in the garden, And bled with him on the tree.
Not ever by longing and dreaming May they come to him now, But by the thorns of sorrow That bruised his kingly brow.
THE RAINBOW SPANNING A PLANET SHOWER
The rainbow spanning a planet shower, The sloe in berry, the flax in flower.
The scholar's satchel, the beggar's staff, The ploughman's whistle, the tinker's laugh.
The stranded hooker, the breaking wave, The sunrise gilding the carn of Medb.
The strength of mountains, the swiftness of wind Blowing over the leagues behind.
The hot lips sealing the spoken word, The song in gentle places heard.
The wildgoose trumpeting in the blue, The postcar stuck in a drift of snow.
The bogslide moving, the seaward leap, The cry, the townland whelmed in sleep.
The sock on the anvil, the thread in the loom, The Host on the altar, the child in the womb.
The wayside murder, the whispered name, The hanging body, the hidden shame.
And more--if you but listen and look-- In this, my elemental book!
I WILL GO WITH MY FATHER A-PLOUGHING
I will go with my father a-ploughing To the green field by the sea, And the rooks and the crows and the seagulls Will come flocking after me. I will sing to the patient horses With the lark in the white of the air, And my father will sing the plough-song That blesses the cleaving share.
I will go with my father a-sowing To the red field by the sea, And the rooks and the gulls and the starlings Will come flocking after me. I will sing to the striding sowers With the finch on the greening sloe, And my father will sing the seed-song That only the wise men know.
I will go with my father a-reaping To the brown field by the sea, And the geese and the crows and the children Will come flocking after me. I will sing to the tanfaced reapers With the wren in the heat of the sun, And my father will sing the scythe-song That joys for the harvest done.
THE SHINING SPACES OF THE SOUTH
The shining spaces of the south, The circle of the year, the sea, The blowing rose, the maiden's mouth, The love, the hate, the ecstasy, The golden wood, the shadowed stream, The dew, the light, the wind, the rain, The man's desire, the woman's dream, The bed embrace, the childing pain, The sound of music heard afar, The breathing grass, the broken sod, The sun, the moon, the twilight star-- Do all proclaim the mind of God. Then why should I, who am but clay, Think otherwise, or answer nay?
LIKE A TUFT OF CEANABHAN
Like a tuft of _ceanabhan_ Blowing in the wind Is my slender Aine Ban-- White and soft and kind.
Kind her heart is, but her clann's Cold as clay or stone. Would that I had herds and lands To take her for my own!
THE HERB-LEECH
I have gathered _luss_ At the wane of the moon, And supped its sap With a yewen spoon. I have sat a spell By the carn of Medb, And smelt the mould Of the red queen's grave. I have dreamed a dearth In the darkened sun, And felt the hand Of the Evil One. I have fathomed war In the comet's tail, And heard the crying Of Gall and Gael. I have seen the spume On the dead priest's lips, And the "holy fire" On the spars of ships; And the shooting stars On Barthelmy's Night, Blanching the dark With ghostly light; And the corpse-candle Of the seer's dream, Bigger in girth Than a weaver's beam; And the shy hearth-fairies About the grate, Blowing the turves To a whiter heat. All things on earth To me are known, For I have the gift Of the Murrain Stone!
WHO BUYS LAND
Who buys land buys many stones, Who buys flesh buys many bones; Who buys eggs buys many shells, Who buys love buys nothing else.
Love is a burr upon the floor, Love is a thief behind the door; Who loves leman for her breath May quench his fire and cry for death!
Love is a bridle, love is a load, Love is a thorn upon the road; Love is the fly that flits its hour, Love is the shining venom-flower.
Love is a net, love is a snare, Love is a bubble blown with air; Love starts hot, and waning cold, Is withered in the grave's mould!
THE POET LOOSED A WINGED SONG
The poet loosed a winged song Against the hulk of England's wrong. Were poisoned words at his command, 'Twould not avail for Ireland.
The soldier lifted up a sword, And on the hills in battle poured His life-blood like an ebbing sea-- And still we pine for liberty.
The friar spoke his bitter hope, And danced upon the gallows rope. Were he to dance that dance again A hundred times, 'twould be in vain.
Christ save us! only thou canst save! The nation staggers to the grave. Can genius, valour, faith be given, And win no recompense of heaven?
No, Christ! by Ireland's martyrs, no! 'Twas not for this we suffered so. Die, die again on Calvary tree, If needs be, Christ, to set us free! To set us free!
SIC TRANSIT
I lit my tallow An hour ago, And now it is burning Dark and low.
The glimmer lengthens And turns about, Sinks in the sconce-- Then flickers out!
End of Project Gutenberg's The Mountainy Singer, by Seosamh MacCathmhaoil