Part 10

Upon the shore, in wild despair, your aged father stood, And gazed upon his Daniel's corse, too late snatched from the flood! I saw him pale and lifeless lie, no more to see the light-- And cold, and dumb, and motionless, my heart grew at the sight!

My children, my loved children! do you view my bitter grief? Look down upon your poor old sire, whose woe knows no relief! The sunshine of mine eyes is gone, the comfort of my heart; My life of life, my soul of soul, I've seen from earth depart!

What am I now? an aged man, to earth by sorrow bowed, I weep within a stranger's home; lone, even in a crowd; There is no sorrow like to mine, no grief like mine appears, My once blithe Christmas is weighed down with anguish and with tears.

My sons! my sons! abandoned to the fury of the waves! Would I could reach the two who lie in ocean's darksome caves; 'Twould bring some comfort to my heart in earth to see them laid, And hear in Affadown the wild lamentings for them made.

O would that like the gay "Wild Geese" my sons had left this land, From their poor father in his age, to seek a foreign strand; Then might I hope the Lord of Heaven in mercy would restore, My brave and good and stately sons in time to me once more!

ANONYMOUS.

BOATMAN'S HYMN

Bark that bare me through foam and squall, You in the storm are my castle wall: Though the sea should redden from bottom to top, From tiller to mast she takes no drop; On the tide-top, the tide-top, Wherry aroon, my land and store! On the tide-top, the tide-top, She is the boat can sail go leor.

She dresses herself, and goes gliding on, Like a dame in her robes of the Indian lawn; For God has bless'd her, gunnel and whale, And oh! if you saw her stretch out to the gale, On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c.

Whillan, ahoy! old heart of stone, Stooping so black o'er the beach alone, Answer me well--on the bursting brine Saw you ever a bark like mine? On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c.

Says Whillan--"Since first I was made of stone, I have looked abroad o'er the beach alone-- But till to-day, on the bursting brine, Saw I never a bark like thine," On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c.

"God of the air!" the seamen shout, When they see us tossing the brine about: "Give us the shelter of strand or rock, Or through and through us she goes with a shock!" On the tide-top, the tide-top, Wherry aroon, my land and store! On the tide-top, the tide-top, She is the boat can sail go leor!

SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON.

DIRGE ON THE DEATH OF ART O'LEARY

_Shot at Carraganime, Co. Cork, May 4, 1773_

By Dark Eileen, his wife.

I

My closest and dearest! From the first day I saw you From the top of the market-house, My eyes gave heed to you, My heart gave affection to you, I fled from my friends with you, Far from my home with you, No lasting sorrow this to me.

II

Thou didst bring me to fair chambers, Rooms you had adorned for me; Ovens were reddened for me, Fresh trout were caught for me, Roast flesh was carved for me From beef that was felled for me; On beds of down I lay Till the coming of the milking-time, Or so long as was pleasing to me.

III

Rider of the white palm! With the silver-hilted sword! Well your beaver hat became you With its band of graceful gold; Your suit of solid homespun yarn Wrapped close around your form; Slender shoes of foreign fashion, And a pin of brightest silver Fastened in your shirt. As you rode in stately wise On your slender steed, white-faced, After coming over seas, Even the Saxons bowed before you Bowed down to the very ground; Not because they loved you well But from deadly hate; For it was by them you fell, Darling of my soul.

IV

My friend and my little calf! Offspring of the Lords of Antrim, And the chiefs of Immokely! Never had I thought you dead, Until there came to me your mare Her bridle dragged beside her to the ground; Upon her brow your heart-blood splashed, Even to the carven saddle flowing down Where you were wont to sit or stand. I did not stay to cleanse it-- I gave a quick leap with my hands Upon the wooden stretcher of the bed; A second leap was to the gate, And the third leap upon thy mare.

V

In haste I clapped my hands together, I followed on your tracks As well as I could, Till I found you laid before me dead At the foot of a lowly bush of furze; Without pope, without bishop, Without cleric or priest To read a psalm for thee; But only an old bent wasted crone Who flung over thee the corner of her cloak.

VI

My dear and beloved one! When it will come to me to reach our home, Little Conor, of our love, And Fiac, his toddling baby-brother, Will be asking of me quickly Where I left their dearest father? I shall answer them with sorrow That I left him in Kill Martyr; They will call upon their father; He will not be there to answer.

VII

My love and my chosen one! When you were going forward from the gate, You turned quickly back again! You kissed your two children, You threw a kiss to me. You said, "Eileen, arise now, be stirring, And set your house in order, Be swiftly moving. I am leaving our home, It is likely that I may not come again." I took it only for a jest You used often to be jesting thus before.

VIII

My friend and my heart's love! Arise up, my Art, Leap on thy steed, Arise out to Macroom And to Inchegeela after that; A bottle of wine in thy grasp, As was ever in the time of thy ancestors. Arise up, my Art, Rider of the shining sword; Put on your garments, Your fair noble clothes; Don your black beaver, Draw on your gloves; See, here hangs your whip, Your good mare waits without; Strike eastward on the narrow road, For the bushes will bare themselves before you, For the streams will narrow on your path, For men and women will bow themselves before you If their own good manners are upon them yet, But I am much a-feared they are not now.

IX

Destruction to you and woe, O Morris, hideous the treachery That took from me the man of the house, The father of my babes; Two of them running about the house, The third beneath my breast, It is likely that I shall not give it birth.

X

My long wound, my bitter sorrow, That I was not beside thee When the shot was fired; That I might have got it in my soft body Or in the skirt of my gown; Till I would give you freedom to escape, O Rider of the grey eye, Because it is you would best have followed after them.

XI

My dear and my heart's love! Terrible to me the way I see thee, To be putting our hero, Our rider so true of heart, In a little cap in a coffin! Thou who used to be fishing along the streams, Thou who didst drink within wide halls Among the gentle women white of breast; It is my thousand afflictions That I have lost your companionship! My love and my darling, Could my shouts but reach thee West in mighty Derrynane, And in Carhen of the yellow apples after that; Many a light-hearted young horseman, And woman with white spotless kerchief Would swiftly be with us here, To wail above thy head Art O'Leary of the joyous laugh! O women of the soft wet eyes, Stay now your weeping, Till Art O'Leary drinks his drink Before his going back to school; Not to learn reading or music does he go there now, But to carry clay and stones.

XII

My love and my secret thou. Thy corn-stacks are piled, And thy golden kine are milking, But it is upon my own heart is the grief! There is no healing in the Province of Munster, Nor in the Island smithy of the Fians, Till Art O'Leary will come back to me; But all as if it were a lock upon a trunk And the key of it gone straying; Or till rust will come upon the screw.

XIII

My friend and my best one! Art O'Leary, son of Conor, Son of Cadach, son of Lewis, Eastward from wet wooded glens, Westward from the slender hill Where the rowan-berries grow, And the yellow nuts are ripe upon the branches; Apples trailing, as it was in my day. Little wonder to myself If fires were lighted in O'Leary's country, And at the mouth of Ballingeary, Or at holy Gougane Barra of the cells, After the rider of the smooth grip, After the huntsman unwearied When, heavy breathing with the chase, Even thy lithe deerhounds lagged behind. O horseman of the enticing eyes, What happened thee last night? For I myself thought That the whole world could not kill you When I bought for you that shirt of mail.

XIV

My friend and my darling! A cloudy vision through the darkness Came to me last night, At Cork lately And I alone upon my bed! I saw the wood glen withered, I saw our lime-washed court fallen; No sound of speech came from thy hunting-dogs Nor sound of singing from the birds When you were found fallen On the side of the hill without; When you were found in the clay, Art O'Leary; With your drop of blood oozing out Through the breast of your shirt.

XV

It is known to Jesus Christ, I will put no cap upon my head, Nor body-linen on my side, Nor shoes upon my feet, Nor gear throughout the house; Even on the brown mare will be no bridle, But I shall spend all in taking the law. I will go across the seas To speak with the king; But if they will give no heed to me, It is I that will come back again To seek the villain of the black blood Who cut off my treasure from me. O Morrison, who killed my hero, Was there not one man in Erin Would put a bullet through you?

XVI

The affection of this heart to you, O white women of the mill, For the edged poetry that you have shed Over the horseman of the brown mare. It is I who am the lonely one In Inse Carriganane.

THE MIDNIGHT COURT

_Prologue_

Brian Merriman, died in Limerick, 1808.

Full often I strolled by the brink of the river, On the greensward soaked by the heavy dew, Skirting the woods in the bays of the mountains, No care in my heart, while the day was new.

My soul would light up when I saw Loch Gréine Lie blue on the breast of the landscape green, The heaven's expanse o'er the ring of the mountains, Peak beckoning to peak o'er the ridges between.

Ah, well might the weakling, the sport of misfortune, Spent of his vigour, embittered with pain, His birthright wasted, his pockets empty, Gaze long on that scene and take heart again.

On its mistless bosom the wild duck settled, Two followed by two rode the stately swan, In wanton gladness the perch leaped upward, Ruddy their scales when the bright sun shone!

Peaceful the scene, as the azure waters In ripples swept circling in to the shore; Strange is its change in the winter quarter, Its thunderous crash, its hollow roar.

Bright birds in the trees make a melody mirthful, The doe bounds down, the hunt flashes by, I hear the shrill horns, they are close upon me! Brave Reynard in front, and the hounds in full cry!

RELIGIOUS POEMS OF THE PEOPLE

HYMN TO THE VIRGIN MARY

Conor O'Riordan, about 1750.

Queen of all Queens, oh! Wonder of the loveliness of women, Heart which hath held in check for us the righteous wrath of God; Strong Staff of Light, and Fosterer of the Bright Child of heaven, Pray thou for us as we now pray that we may be forgiven.

She of the King of Stars beloved, stainless, undefiled, Christ chose as His Mother-nurse, to Him, the stainless Child; Within her breast, as in a nest, the Paraclete reposes, Lily among fairest flowers, Rose amid red roses.

She, the bright unsheathèd sword to guard our souls in anguish, She, the flawless limber-branch, to cover those that languish; Where her healing mantle flows, may I find my hiding, 'Neath the fringes of her robe constantly abiding.

Hostile camps upon the plain, sharp swords clashed together, Stricken fleets across the main stressed by wintry weather; Weary sickness on my heart, sinful thoughts alluring, All the fever of my soul clings to her for curing.

She the Maid the careful king of the wide wet world chooses, In her speech forgiveness lies, no suppliant she refuses; White Star of our troubled sea, on thy name I'm crying, That Christ may draw in His spread net the living and the dying.

CHRISTMAS HYMN

Hail to thee, thou holy Babe, In the manger now so poor, Yet so rich Thou art, I ween, High within the highest door.

Little Babe who art so great, Child so young who art so old, In the manger small His room Whom not heaven itself could hold.

Motherless, with mother here, Fatherless, a tiny span, Ever God in heaven's height, First to-night becoming man.

Father--not more old than thou? Mother--younger, can it be! Older, younger is the Son, Younger, older, she than He.

DOUGLAS HYDE

O MARY OF GRACES

O Mary of Graces And Mother of God, May I tread in the paths That the righteous have trod.

And mayest thou save me From evil's control, And mayest thou save me In body and soul.

And mayest thou save me By land and by sea, And mayest thou save me From tortures to be.

May the guard of the angels Above me abide, May God be before me And God at my side.

DOUGLAS HYDE.

THE CATTLE-SHED

O Trinity of the glorious saints, I marvel that the White Prince of the Kingdom did descend as a child into the pure womb of Mary. Nine months the Master of the Angels stayed in humility and in great lowliness with her, lighting a furnace of love within her. He came down to earth, the White Lamb, our loosener from sin. O Mother, who found not a dwelling in the city, till thou didst come to the stable to seek a bed; there wast thou lying in poverty, without wine, without flesh, or one taste in thy mouth; on the mean barley chaff in the cattle-shed, she brought forth the only Son of God of the Apostles. Cold and misery you complained not of as your portion, and was it not the holy sight in the manger of the ass?

HAIL TO THEE, O MARY

Hail to thee, O Mary, Full of holy graces, Thou our loving Mother Whom the child embraces. Hail to thee, O Mary, Where are our alarms? Is the little Child not blessed, Lying in thine arms?

TWO PRAYERS

A low prayer, a high prayer, I send through space. Arrange them Thyself, O Thou King of Grace.

O MARY, O BLESSED MOTHER

O Mary, O blessed Mother, praise from my heart I sing, it is thou didst bear our Saviour, our Lord and our King. In the stable of Bethlehem's city, at the hour of middle-night, was not sweet the brave song of the angels for the King who was born that night?

O King of Kings, a thousand glories to Thee, it is Thou who didst bear the cross out to Calvary's hill, and Thou wounded in every spot. We will take courage from the pouring of the blood, and we will follow our Saviour, our Lord and our King, to the city of Glory, along with the throng, Saints, Apostles, and Angels, to the dwelling of God's Son.

I REST WITH THEE, O JESUS

I rest with Thee, O Jesus, And do Thou rest with me. The oil of Christ on my poor soul, The creed of the Twelve to make me whole, Above my head I see. O Father, who created me, O Son, who purchased me, O Spirit Blest, who blessest me, Rest ye with me.

THANKSGIVING AFTER FOOD

Great Giver of the open hand, We stand to thank Thee for our meat, A hundred praises, Christ, 'tis meet, For all we drink, for all we eat.

THE SACRED TRINITY

Three folds of the cloth, yet one only napkin is there, Three joints in the finger, but still only one finger fair; Three leaves of the shamrock, yet no more than one shamrock to wear. Frost, snow-flakes and ice, all in water their origin share, Three Persons in God; to one God alone we make prayer.

O KING OF THE WOUNDS

O King of the Wounds! who found death on the top of the tree, By the hand of the blind was Thy heart's blood riven from Thee; By the blood from Thy wounds flowing down in a pool on the field, O bear us to Paradise, Thou, 'neath the shade of Thy shield.

PRAYER BEFORE GOING TO SLEEP

The cross of the angels On the bed where I lie; The robe of the kingdom, May it come very nigh; O Glorious Virgin, My thousand loves thou, My helpful supporter, My affection thou. My woman-physician, Ill or well, thou, My firm faithful helper In the Kingdom of graces, thou. O gentle Jesus, O Jesus, most gentle, O Jesus Christ, have mercy upon us; O glorious Virgin, pray thou also for us; O Mother of God, O Bright Star of Knowledge, O Queen of Paradise, watch thou and ward us, The light of glory obtain from thy Child for us, A sight of thy house, by thy great power's might, for us The Light of all lights, and a sight of the Trinity, And the grace of long patience in days of adversity.

I LIE DOWN WITH GOD

I lie down with God, and may God lie down with me; The right hand of God under my head, The two hands of Mary round about me, The cross of the nine white angels, From the back of my head To the sole of my feet. May I not lie with evil, And may evil not lie with me. Anna, mother of Mary, Mary, mother of Christ, Elizabeth, mother of John Baptist, I myself beseech these three To keep the couch free from sickness. The tree on which Christ suffered Be between me and the heavy-lying (nightmare), And any other thing that seeks my harm. With the will of God and the aid of the glorious Virgin.

THE WHITE PATERNOSTER

On going to sleep, think that it is the sleep of death, and that you may be summoned to the Day of the Mountain (_i.e._ the Day of Judgment), and say:--

I myself lie down with God, May God lie down with me! The protection of God above my head, And the cross of the angels beneath my body. Where wilt thou lie down to-night? Between Mary and her Son, Between Brigit and her mantle, Between Columcille and his shield, Between God and His right hand. Where wilt thou arise on the morrow? I will arise with Patrick. Who are they in front of us? Two hundred angels. Who are they behind us? As many again of the people of God. Shut the forts of hell, And open the gates of the kingdom of God. Let the mighty radiance out, And lead the sorrowful soul within. O God, have mercy upon us! O Son of the Virgin, may our souls be found by thee!

Glory to the Father, glory to the Son, glory to the Holy Ghost of power; as it was in the beginning, so it is now, and shall be for ages of ages. Glory to thee, O Lord.

ANOTHER VERSION

I

Welcome to thee, O White Paternoster! And welcome to thyself! Where didst thou sleep last night? As He slept, the King of Light. Where wilt thou sleep again? As the poor will sleep, in want and pain. And the night after that, where wilt thou sleep? At the feet of St. Patrick my rest shall be deep.

II

Who are they out before thee I see? Twelve fair angels defending me. Who are they behind thee west? The twelve apostles ever blest. What may that at thy right hand be? Holy water that Mary gave me, That it might lead me, with guidance wise, From this door to the door of Paradise.

III

The key of Paradise, that I need; The vat of gold stands there, indeed, With its cover above it, golden-bright; Yonder where candles blaze alight; Candles that cannot be removed Till the full of my two hands shall be The flowing fulness of stream and sea.

IV

O Men of the World who are shedding tears, I put Mary with her Son between you and your fears, Brigit with her mantle, Michael with his shield, And the two long white hands of God from behind folding us all, Between you and each grief All the years, From this night till a year from to-night, And this night itself, with God.

A NIGHT PRAYER

May the will of God be done by us, May the death of the saints be won by us, And the light of the kingdom begun in us; May Jesus, the Child, be beside my bed, May the Lamb of mercy uplift my head, May the Virgin her heavenly brightness shed, And Michael be steward of my soul!

MARY'S VISION

"Are you asleep, Mother?" "I am not, indeed, my son." "How is that, Mother?" "Because of a vision I have of thee." "What vision is that, Mother?" "There came a slim dark man on a slender black steed, A sharp lance in his left hand, Which pierced thy right side, Letting thy sacred blood pour down upon thee." "True is that vision, Mother."

THE SAFE-GUARDING OF MY SOUL

The safe-guarding of my soul be Thine, O Father Ever-mighty; O Blessed Mary, Nurse of the King of Glory; Michael the angel, Their peaceful messenger, The twelve apostles, and The Lord of Mercy, So that they may be Safe-guarding my soul Unto the city of Glory.

ANOTHER VERSION

I lie on this bed As I lie in the tomb. Firmly, O Jesus, I make my confession to Thee. Through deeds of my flesh, Through thoughts of my heart, Through sight of my eyes, Through hearing of my ears, Through speech of my lips, Through movements of my feet, Through everything spoken Which was not true; Through each thing promised And not fulfilled; Each thing that I did against Thy law, Or against Thy sacred will, I ask forgiveness from Thee, O King of Glory.

THE STRAYING SHEEP

Fair Jesu, guide Thy straying sheep Along the fragrant valleys, And where the meadow-grass grows deep, Guard from the wild wolf's sallies; No sickness unto death be theirs, But sickness unto healing, Our sickness be for love to Thee O King of all the living.

BEFORE COMMUNION

O Saviour, who lightest the sun's blessed ray, Remit my offences, this day and alway, Above my deserving, or all I could pay; Then with joy I receive my Redeemer to-day.

MAY THE SWEET NAME OF JESUS

May the sweet name of Jesus Be lovingly graven In my heart's inmost haven.

O Mary, Blest Mother, Be Jesus my Brother, And I Jesu's lover.

A binding of love That no distance can sever, Be between us for ever. Yea, O my Saviour, For ever and ever.

O BLESSED JESUS

O Blessed Jesus, and O Nurse of the fair white Lamb, In the dread hour of death it is under your shelter I am; Saints and angels about me in every time, in all places, Leading my soul to the home of the King of the Graces.

ANOTHER VERSION