Part 13

My thousand treasures and my love, At break of summer let us rove, And watch the flickering twilight dwell Above the windings of the dell. I claim no gift of cows and sheep; But if I ask of thee to keep My hand within thy circling arm, Where were the harm? where were the harm?

Farewell! Farewell! the fading light, Would that last night were still to-night! Would that my darling, with his smile, Would coax me to his knee awhile! Bend down and hear, my tale I'll tell, Could you but keep my secret well: I fear my lover's gone from me; O God and Mary, can this be?

WELL FOR THEE

Well for thee, unsighted bard, Not half so hard thy plight as mine; Hadst thou seen her for whom I pine, Sickness like mine were thy reward.

O would to God I had been blind Or e'er her twined locks caught my eye, Her backward glance as she passed by-- Then had my fate been less unkind.

Till my grief outgrew all griefs, I had pitied sightless men; Now hold I them happy and envy them-- In the snare of her smile ensnared I lie.

Oh! woe that ever her face was seen! And woe that I see her not every day! Woe to him who is knotted to her alway, Woe to him who is loosed from the knot, I ween.

Woe to him when she comes, woe to him when she goes, To the lover who wins her, his love is but pain; To the lover she flies who would call her again, To him and to me, it is woe of all woes!

I AM RAFTERY

Anthony Raftery died at Craughwell, Co. Galway, October 1835

I am Raftery the Poet Full of hope and love, With eyes that have no light, With gentleness that has no misery.

Going west upon my pilgrimage By the light of my heart, Feeble and tired To the end of my road.

Behold me now, And my face to the wall, A-playing music Unto empty pockets.

DOUGLAS HYDE.

DUST HATH CLOSED HELEN'S EYE

Anthony Raftery.

Going to Mass, by the will of God The day came wet and the wind rose; I met Mary Haynes at the cross of Kiltartan And I fell in love with her then and there.

I spoke to her kind and mannerly As by report was her own way; And she said, "Raftery, my mind is easy, You may come to-day to Baile-laoi."

When I heard her offer I did not linger, When her talk went to my heart my heart rose. We had only to go across the three fields, We had daylight with us to Baile-laoi.

The table was laid with glasses and a quart measure; She had fair hair and she sitting beside me, And she said, "Drink, Raftery, and a hundred welcomes, There is a strong cellar in Baile-laoi."

O star of light, and O sun in harvest, O amber hair, O my share of the world, Will you come with me upon Sunday Till we agree together before all the people?

I would not grudge you a song every Sunday evening, Punch on the table or wine if you would drink it, But, O King of Glory, dry the roads before me, Till I find the way to Baile-laoi.

There is a sweet air on the side of the hill When you are looking down upon Baile-laoi; When you are walking in the valley picking nuts and blackberries There is music of the birds in it and music of the sidhe.

What is the worth of greatness till you have the light Of the flower of the branch that is by your side? There is no good to deny it or to try to hide it, She is the sun in the heavens who wounded my heart.

There is no part of Ireland I did not travel From the rivers to the tops of the mountains, To the edge of Loch Gréine whose mouth is hidden, And I saw no beauty that was behind hers.

Her hair was shining and her brows were shining, too; Her face was like herself, her mouth pleasant and sweet. She is my pride, and I give her the branch, She is the shining flower of Baile-laoi.

It is Mary Haynes, the calm and easy woman, Her beauty in her mind and in her face. If a hundred clerks were gathered together, They could not write down a half of her ways.

LADY GREGORY.

The title is added by Mr. W. B. Yeats to an article written by him on this poem in _The Dome_ (New Series, vol. iv.). Lady Gregory informs me that Mr. Yeats has slightly worked over her translation.

THE SHINING POSY

Anthony Raftery.

There is a bright posy on the edge of the quay And she far beyond Deirdre with her pleasant ways Or if I would say Helen, the queen of the Greeks, On whose account hundreds have fallen at Troy. The flame and the white in her mingled together, And sweeter her mouth than cuckoo on the bough, And the way she has with her, where will you find them Since died the pearl that was in Ballylaoi?

If you were to see the sky-maiden decked out On a fine sunny day in the street, and she walking, The light shining out from her snow-white bosom Would give sight of the eyes to a sightless man. The love of hundreds is on her brow, The sight of her as the gleam of the Star of Doom; If she had been there in the time of the gods It is not to Venus the apple would have gone.

Her hair falling with her down to her knees, Twining and curling to the mouth of her shoe; Her parted locks, with the grey of the dew on them, And her curls sweeping after her on the road; She is the coolun is brightest and most mannerly Of all who ever opened eye or who lived in life; And if the country of Lord Lucan were given me, By the strength of my cause, the jewel should be mine.

Her form slender, chalk-white, her cheeks like roses, And her breasts rounded over against her heart; Her neck and her brow and her auburn hair, She stands before us like the dew of harvest. Virgil, Cicero, nor the power of Homer, Would not bring any to compare with her bloom and gentle ways; O Blossom of Youth, I am guilty with desire of you, And unless you come to me I shall not live a month.

Walking or dancing, if you were to see the fair shoot, It is to the Flower of the Branches you would give your love, Her face alight, and her heart without sorrow, And were it not pleasant to be in her company? The greatness of Samson or Alexander I would not covet, surely, in place of my desire; And if I do not get leave to talk to Mary Staunton I am in doubt that short will be my life.

She bade me "Good-morrow" early, with kindness, She set a stool for me, and not in the corner, She drank a drink with me, she was the heart of hospitality, At the time that I rose up to go on my way. I fell to talking and discoursing with her, It was mannerly she looked at me, the apple-blossom, And here is my word of mouth to you, without falsehood, That I have left the branch with her from Mary Brown.

LOVE IS A MORTAL DISEASE

My grief and my pain! a mortal disease is love, Woe, woe unto him who must prove it a month or even a day, It hath broken my heart, and my bosom is burdened with sighs, From dreaming of her gentle sleep hath forsaken mine eyes.

I met with the fairy host at the liss beside Ballyfinnane; I asked them had they a herb for the curing of love's cruel pain. They answered me softly and mildly, with many a pitying tone, "When this torment comes into the heart it never goes out again."

It seems to me long till the tide washes up on the strand; It seems to me long till the night shall fade into day; It seems to me long till the cocks crow on every hand; And rather than the world were I close beside my love.

Do not marry the grey old man, but marry the young man, dear; Marry the lad who loves you, my grief, though he live not out the year; Youthful you are, and kind, but your mind is not yet come to sense, And if you live longer, the lads will be following you.

My woe and my plight! where to-night is the snowdrift and frost? Or even I and my love together breasting the waves of the sea; Without bark, without boat, without any vessel with me, But I to be swimming, and my arm to be circling her waist!

I AM WATCHING MY YOUNG CALVES SUCKING

Douglas Hyde.

I am watching my young calves sucking; Who are you that would put me out of my luck? Can I not be walking, can I not be walking, Can I not be walking on my own farm-lands?

I will not for ever go back before you, If I must needs be submissive to thee, great is my grief; If I cannot be walking, if I cannot be walking, If I cannot be walking on my own farm-lands.

Little heed I pay, and 'tis little my desire, Thy fine blue cloak and thy bright bird's plumes, If I cannot be walking, if I cannot be walking, If I cannot be walking on my own farm-lands!

There is a day coming, it is plain to my eyes, When there will not be amongst us the mean likes of you; But each will be walking, each will be walking, Wherever he will on his own farm-lands.

THE NARROW ROAD

Douglas Hyde.

Once I was happy, And joyous with that, Now I am sorrowful Weary and sick.

Thinking on the colleen By night and by day, Hurt by the colleen, Wounded with love.

The sight of her eyes, The sweetness of her voice, It is these that have stricken me And left me without guidance.

A colleen like she is Is not in this life, And she herself has left Myself without sense.

A colleen like she is Is not in this world; Vein of my own heart Whom I have chosen.

Little hand of my love-- It is whiter than snow; She hath left us with wounds And with wandering of the mind.

Three long months Almost, am I lying; I am pierced with her arrows And my heart in torment.

O God of Graces, Listen to my prayer, Give death to me Or give me her.

Look on my lamentations, Look on my tears; Were not my thoughts on thee, Storeen, All these years?

Look on my lamentations, Listen to me, Aroon, I am as a sheep, A sheep without its lamb!

Wilt thou be hard, Colleen, as thou art tender? Wilt thou be without pity On us for ever?

Listen to me, Noireen, Listen, Aroon; Put some word of healing From thy quiet mouth.

I am in the pathway That is dark and narrow, The little path that has guided Thousands to slumber.

FORSAKEN

Douglas Hyde.

Oh, if there were in this wide world One little place at all, To be my own, my own alone, My own over all; Great were the joy, the comfort great, And me so lone, With no place in the world to say "This is my own."

Sad it is to be knowing this, For any man, and woe, That there is not in life for him Liking or love below; That there is not in the world for him A hand or a head That would be doing a turn for him Alive or dead.

Sharp it is and sorrowful, And bitter is the grief, Sad it is and sorrowful Past all belief. 'Tis all the same how you are To the passer-by, 'Tis all the same to you, at last, To live or die.

I FOLLOW A STAR

Seosamh mac Cathmhaoil.

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-winged 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.

_Translation by the author._

LULLABIES AND WORKING SONGS

NURSE'S SONG

Traditional.

Sleep, my child, my darling child, my lovely child, sleep! The sea sleepeth on the green fields, The moon sleepeth on the blue waters, Sleep, my child, my darling child, my lovely child, sleep!

Sleep, my child! The morning sleepeth upon a bed of roses, The evening sleepeth on the tops of the dark hills; Sleep, my child, my darling child, child of my heart's love, sleep!

Sleep, my child! The winds sleep in the rocky caverns, The stars sleep on their pillow of clouds, Sleep, my child, my darling child, my little child, sleep!

Sleep, my child! The mist sleepeth on the bosom of the valley, The broad lake beneath the shade of the trees, Sleep, my child, my darling child, my tender child, sleep!

Sleep, my child! The flower sleeps, while the night-dew falls, The wild birds sleep upon the mountains; Sleep, my child, my darling child, my blessed child, sleep!

Sleep, my child! The burning tear sleepeth upon the cheek of sorrow But thy sleep is not the sleep of tears, Sleep, my child, my darling child, child of my bosom, sleep!

Sleep, my child! Sleep in quiet, sleep in joy, my darling, May thy sleep be never the sleep of sorrow! Sleep, my child, my darling child, my lovely child, sleep!

A SLEEP SONG

Traditional.

Deirín dé, Deirín dé! The brown bittern speaks in the bog; Deirín dé, Deirín dé! The night-jar is abroad on the heath.

Deirín dé, Deirín dé! Kine will go west at dawn of day; Deirín dé, Deirín dé! And my child will go to the pasture to mind them.

Deirín dé, Deirín dé! Moon will rise and sun will set; Deirín dé, Deirín dé! Kine will come east at end of day.

Deirín dé, Deirín dé! I will let my child go gathering blackberries, Deirín dé, Deirín dé! If he sleep softly till the ring of day!

P. H. PEARSE.

THE CRADLE OF GOLD

I'd rock my own sweet childie to rest In a cradle of gold on the bough of the willow, To the shoheen ho! of the Wind of the West And the lulla lo! of the blue sea billow. Sleep, baby dear! Sleep without fear! Mother is here beside your pillow.

I'd put my own sweet childie to float In a silver boat on the beautiful river, Where a shoheen! whisper the white cascades And a lulla lo! the green flags shiver. Sleep, baby dear! Sleep without fear! Mother is here with you for ever!

Shoheen ho! to the rise and fall Of mother's bosom, 'tis sleep has bound you! And oh, my child, what cosier nest For rosier rest could love have found you? Sleep, baby dear! Sleep without fear! Mother's two arms are close around you!

ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.

RURAL SONG

I wish the shepherd's pet were mine, I wish the shepherd's pet were mine, I wish the shepherd's pet were mine, The pretty white lamb in the clover. And oh! I hail, I hail thee, And oh! I hail, I hail thee, The love of my heart for ever thou art, Thou little pet of thy mother.

I wish that scores of kine were mine, I wish that scores of kine were mine, I wish that scores of kine were mine, And Kathleen, the love of her mother. And oh! I hail, I hail thee, And oh! I hail, I hail thee, The love of my heart for ever thou art, Thou little pet of thy mother.

PLOUGHING SONG

TAILSMAN.

Goad her, and whip her, and drive, The old woman's little brown mare, Stand up on the plough, look alive, And see if our dinner is there.

HEADSMAN.

The corn is a-reaping, Goad her and whip her and drive. The stooks are a-heaping, Goad her and whip her and drive. The corn is a-binding, Goad her and whip her and drive. In the mill it is grinding, Goad her and whip her and drive. We soon shall be feeding, Goad her and whip her and drive. For the flour is a-kneading, Goad her and whip her and drive. The bread is a-baking, Goad her and whip her and drive. Our dinner we are taking,-- She's the best little mare alive!

TAILSMAN.

Whistle and shout with zest! The little brown mare is good! Unyoke her, and give her a rest, While we're stretching and getting our food.

A SPINNING-WHEEL DITTY

These verses, improvised to the hum of the wheel, are flung from girl to girl as they sit spinning. The references are purely personal, and the refrain, which is sung by all the spinners, has no special meaning.

FIRST GIRL.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero, I crossed the wood as the day was dawning; Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

SECOND GIRL.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero, No doubt John O'Connell had had good warning! Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

FIRST GIRL.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero, Oh! John may go hang, it's not me he will catch! Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

SECOND GIRL.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero, You mannerless girl, he'll be more than your match! Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

FIRST GIRL.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero, Come, come now, leave off, or get me my own man! Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

SECOND GIRL.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero, Well, what do you think of Thomas O'Madigan? Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

FIRST GIRL.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero, I hail him, and claim him, may we never be parted! Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

SECOND GIRL.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero, Go east or go west, may you still be true-hearted! Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

THIRD GIRL.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero, Go east and go west, and find me my love, too! Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

FOURTH GIRL.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero, There's Donall O'Flaherty, but I doubt will he take you! Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

FIFTH GIRL.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero, The man is too good, he'll be courting elsewhere! Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

THIRD GIRL.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero, There's no tree in the wood, but its equal is there! Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

NOTES

NOTES

"The Colloquy of the Two Sages," edited by Dr. Whitley Stokes from the _Book of Leinster_, p. 186a, is one of the most archaic pieces in tone that have come down to us. It represents the discussion between an aged poet and a young aspirant as to the sources of poetic inspiration, and shows us that the gifts of the bard were highly regarded as the direct endowment of the gods. Original in _Rev. Celtique_, No. xxviii. As in the following poem, I have made use of the scribal glosses or explanations wherever they seemed to throw light upon the original.

"Amorgen sang." Professor John MacNeill has most kindly made a fresh collation of the manuscripts containing this obscure poem for my use. Parts, especially from line 20 onward, are doubtful. I have incorporated with the text such of the glosses as appear to make the meaning more intelligible, but the glosses themselves are mere scribes' guesses, often bad ones, at the sense of a text they did not understand. This poem, though ascribed to the earliest traditional poet of Ireland, is, Prof. MacNeill considers, rather pseudo-archaic, than of really great antiquity. The allusion to "Tetra's kine," which is explained in the gloss to mean "the fish of the sea," alludes to Tetra as Ruler of the Ocean; in the "Colloquy" we found him ruling in the assemblies of the dead. The connection between the ocean and the invisible world is constant in Irish tradition. The poem appears to be an assertion of the Druid's powers, preparatory to the incantation for good fishing which follows immediately in most manuscripts. The final lines are an inquiry into the origin of created things, matter on which the bard or Druid claimed superior enlightenment.

"The Song of Childbirth" and the succeeding "Greeting to the New-born Babe" are taken from the piece known as "The Birth of Conchobhar" (_Compert Conchobhar_), edited from Stowe MS. 992, by Prof. Kuno Meyer in _Rev. Celt._ vi. pp. 173-182.

"What is Love?" From the story called the "Wooing of Etain" (_Tochmarc Etaine_). Original in _Irische Texte_, i. p. 124.

"Summons to Cuchulain." From the "Sickbed of Cuchulain" (_Serglige Conculaind_). Original, _ibid._, p. 216. Overcome with fairy spells, the hero lies fast bound in heavy slumber; the song is an appeal to him to throw off the charm and to arise.

"Laegh's Description of Fairy-land." From the same story, _ibid._, p. 218. Laegh is Cuchulain's charioteer, who went into fairy-land instead of his master, and returns to extol its beauty.

"The Lamentation of Fand when she is about to leave Cuchulain." From the dramatic incident in the same story, in which Fand, Queen of Fairy-land, and Emer, Cuchulain's mortal wife, struggle for the affection of the hero, after Cuchulain's return from fairy-land. Each woman fully recognises the nobility of the other; and Fand's parting song, in which she restores him to Emer, is one of lofty renunciation.

"Midir's Call to Fairy-land." From the story called the "Wooing of Etain" (_Tochmarc Etaine_), _ibid._, p. 132.

"Song of the Fairies." From A. H. Leahy's _Heroic Romances of Ireland_ (D. Nutt, 1905), p. 29, taken from the same tale. Etain was wife of Eochad (pron. Yochee), King of Ireland, but Mider, King of Fairy-land, fell in love with her. He won an entry into the palace by playing chess with her husband, who demanded from Mider as the stake for which they played that the fairy hosts should clear away the rocks and stones from the plains of Meath, remove the rushes which made the land barren, build a causeway across the bog of Lamrach, and perform other services useful to his realm. The song is sung by the fairies while they are performing this heavy task. The final stake is won by Mider, who asks Etain as his prize.

"The Lamentation of Deirdre," when her husband and two sons had been slain by King Conchobhar. She recalls the happy days spent with her husband in Alba or Scotland, on Lough Etive, and compares it to her present misery in the house of the King. Original, _Irische Texte_, i. pp. 77-81. In all the above poems there are many difficult and obscure passages.

"Take my Tidings." A ninth century poem, edited and translated by Dr. Kuno Meyer in his _Four Songs of Summer and Winter_ (D. Nutt, 1903), and by Dr. Whitley Stokes in _Rev. Celt._ xx. p. 258. It is ascribed to Fionn in the commentary on the "Amra Coluim Cille." Mr. Graves' poem will be found in his _Irish Poems_, i. p. 1 (Maunsel & Co., Dublin).

"Second Winter Song." Text and translation in Dr. Kuno Meyer's _Four Songs of Summer and Winter_. A longer poem on similar lines is to be found in the tale called the "Hiding of the Hill of Howth," _Rev. Celt._ xi. p. 125, reprinted in his _Ancient Irish Poetry_ (Constable), p. 57; but in the former version the complaint of the lazy servant-lad is answered by a fine song in which Fionn praises the signs of coming spring in earth and air.

"In Praise of May." Original and translation published by Dr. K. Meyer from the tale called "The Boyish Exploits of Finn" in _Rev. Celt._ v. p. 195. It is said to have been composed by Fionn after he received inspiration by eating the "Salmon of Knowledge" at the River Boyne. Mr. Rolleston's poem is to be found in his _Sea-Spray_ (Maunsel, 1909).

"The Isle of Arran." The Arran here spoken of is the Scottish island of that name. The Fianna were accustomed to spend part of the autumn and winter hunting in that island. The poem occurs in the long Ossianic tract called "The Colloquy of the Ancients," published by Standish Hayes O'Grady in _Silva Gadelica_ (Williams and Norgate, 1892). Text, p. 102; translation, p. 109.