Part 8

Son of God, great Lord of wonder, Save me from the ravening thunder, By the feast before Thy dying, Save me from the tempest crying And from Hell, tempestuous under.

ROBIN FLOWER.

THE OLD WOMAN OF BEARE

Eleventh century (?)

Ebbtide to me! My life drifts downward with the drifting sea; Old age has caught and compassed me about, The tides of time run out.

The "Hag of Beare!" 'Tis thus I hear the young girls jeer and mock; Yet I, who in these cast-off clouts appear, Once donned a queenly smock.

Ye love but self, Ye churls! to-day ye worship pelf! But in the days I lived we sought for men, We loved our lovers then!

Ah! swiftly when Their splendid chariots coursed upon the plain, I checked their pace, for me they flew amain, Held in by curb and rein.

I envy not the old, Whom gold adorns, whom richest robes enfold, But ah! the girls, who pass my cell at morn, While I am shorn!

On sweet May-morn Their ringing laughter on the breeze is borne, While I, who shake with ague and with age, In Litanies engage.

Amen! and woe is me! I lie here rotting like a broken tree; Each acorn has its day and needs must fall, Time makes an end of all!

I had my day with kings! We drank the brimming mead, the ruddy wine, Where now I drink whey-water; for company more fine Than shrivelled hags, hag though I am, I pine.

The flood-tide thine! Mine but the low down-curling ebb-tide's flow, My youth, my hope, are carried from my hand, Thy flood-tide foams to land.

My body drops Slowly but sure towards the abode we know; When God's High Son takes from me all my props It will be time to go!

Bony my arms and bare Could you but see them 'neath the mantle's flap, Wizened and worn, that once were round and fair, When kings lay in my lap.

'Tis, "O my God" with me, Many prayers said, yet more prayers left undone; If I could spread my garment in the sun I'd say them, every one.

The sea-wave talks, Athwart the frozen earth grim winter stalks; Young Fermod, son of Mugh, ne'er said me nay, Yet he comes not to-day.

How still they row, Oar dipped by oar the wavering reeds among, To Alma's shore they press, a ghostly throng, Deeply they sleep and long.

No lightsome laugh Disturbs my fireside's stillness; shadows fall, And quiet forms are gathering round my hearth, Yet lies the hand of silence on them all.

I do not deem it ill That a nun's veil should rest upon my head; But finer far my feast-robe's various hue To me, when all is said.

My very cloak grows old; Grey is its tint, its woof is frayed and thin; I seem to feel grey hairs within its fold, Or are they on my skin?

O happy Isle of Ocean, Thy flood-tide leaps to meet the eddying wave Lifting it up and onward. Till the grave The sea-wave comes not after ebb for me.

I find them not Those sunny sands I knew so well of yore; Only the surf's sad roar sounds up to me, My tide will turn no more.

GORMLIATH'S LAMENT FOR NIAL BLACK-KNEE

"A.D. 946. Gormliath, daughter of Fiann, Queen of Nial Glundubh, or "Black-knee," died after intense penance for her sins and transgressions."--_Annals of the Four Masters_.

Move, O Monk, thy foot away! Lift it from the grave of Nial! All too high thou heap'st the pile; All too deep thou diggest the clay.

Brown-haired Monk, most gentle friend, Press not with thy foot the soil Nial to cover, heavy toil, Of thy labours make an end.

Mournful priest, thy prayers delay, Close not yet the prince's tomb, Make an opening, for I come; Move, O Monk, thy foot away!

Not my will that brought thee bound, Black-kneed Nial, with heart of gold! When mine arms his form enfold, Raise his stone, and smooth his mound.

Gormliath I, a Queen commands, Daughter of King Flann the brave; Press not then upon his grave; Move, O Monk, thy foot away!

THE MOTHER'S LAMENT AT THE SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS

Then, as the executioner plucked her son from her breast, one of the women said:

"Why are you tearing Away to his doom, The child of my caring, The fruit of my womb. Till nine months were o'er His burden I bore, Then his pretty lips pressed The glad milk from my breast, And my whole heart he filled, And my whole life he thrilled.

All my strength dies, My tongue speechless lies, Darkened are my eyes! His breath was the breath of me; His death is the death of me."

Then another woman said:

"'Tis my own son that from me you wring, I deceived not the King.

But slay me, even me, And let my boy be. A mother most hapless, My bosom is sapless, Mine eyes one tearful river, My frame one fearful, shiver, My husband sonless ever, And I a sonless wife To live a death in life.

O my son! O God of Truth! O my unrewarded youth, O my birthless sicknesses Until doom without redress. O my bosom's silent nest, O the heart broke in my breast."

Then said another woman:

"Murderers, obeying Herod's wicked willing, One ye would be slaying, Many are ye killing. Infants would ye smother? Ruffian, ye have rather Wounded many a father, Slaughtered many a mother. Hell's black jaws your horrid deed is glutting, Heaven's white gate against your black souls shutting. Ye are guilty of the Great Offence! Ye have spilled the blood of Innocence."

And yet another woman said:

"O Lord Christ, come to me! Nay, no longer tarry! With my son home to Thee My soul quickly carry. O Mary great, O Mary mild, Of God's One Son the Mother, What shall I do without my child? For I have now no other. For Thy Son's sake my son they slew, Those murderers inhuman; My sense and soul they slaughtered too, I am but a crazy woman. Yea, after that most piteous slaughter, When my babe's life ran out like water, The heart within my bosom hath become A clot of blood from this day till the Doom!"

ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.

CONSECRATION

By Murdoch O'Daly, called Murdoch "the Scotchman" (Muredach Albanach), on account of his affection for that country; born in Connaught towards the close of the twelfth century.

How great the tale, that there should be, In God's Son's heart, a place for me! That on a sinner's lips like mine, The cross of Jesus Christ should shine!

Christ Jesus, bend me to Thy will, My feet to urge, my griefs to still; That even my flesh and blood may be A temple sanctified to Thee.

No rest, no calm, my soul may win, Because my body craves to sin, Till Thou, dear Lord, Thyself impart Peace to my head, light to my heart.

May consecration come from far, Soft shining like the evening star! My toilsome path make plain to me, Until I come to rest in Thee.

TEACH ME, O TRINITY

By the same Poet.

Teach me, O Trinity, All men sing praise to Thee, Let me not backward be, Teach me, O Trinity.

Come Thou and dwell with me, Lord of the holy race; Make here thy resting-place, Hear me, O Trinity.

That I Thy love may prove, Teach Thou my heart and hand, Ever at Thy command Swiftly to move.

Like to a rotting tree Is this vile heart of me; Let me Thy healing see, Help me, O Trinity.

Sinful, beholding Thee; Yet clean from theft and blood My hands; O Son of God, For Mary's love, answer me.

In my adversity No great man stooped to me, No good man pitied me, God ope'd His heart to me.

Lied I, as others lie, They deceived, so have I, On others' lie I built my lie-- Will my God pass this by?

Truth art Thou, truth I crave, If on a lie I rest, I'm lost; My vow demands my uttermost; Save, Trinity, O save!

THE SHAVING OF MURDOCH

_When he and Cathal of the Red Hand, King of Connaught, entered the monastic life together_.

Murdoch, whet thy knife, that we may shave our crowns to the Great King, Let us sweetly give our vow, and the hair of both our heads to the Trinity. I will shave mine to Mary, this is the doing of a true heart, To Mary shave thou these locks, well-formed, soft-eyed man. Seldom hast thou had, handsome man, a knife on thy hair to shave it, Oftener has a sweet, soft queen, comb'd her hair beside thee. Whenever it was that we did bathe, with Brian of the well-curled locks, And once on a time that I did bathe, at the well of the fair-haired Boroimhe, I strove in swimming with Ua Chais, on the cold waters of the Fergus.

When he came ashore from the stream, Ua Chais and I strove in a race. These two knives, one to each, were given us by Duncan Cairbreach, No knives of knives were better; shave gently then, Murdoch. Whet your sword, Cathal, which wins the fertile Banva, Ne'er was thy wrath heard without fighting, brave, red-handed Cathal, Preserve our shaved heads from cold and from heat, gentle daughter of Joachim, Preserve us in the land of heat, softest branch, Mary.

STANDISH HAYES O'GRADY.

EILEEN AROON

Carol O'Daly, early thirteenth century.

"Come, love, and dwell with me, Eileen aroon; I'll roam the world with thee, Eileen aroon! Down to Terawley free, From this sad house we'll flee, If thou wilt wed with me, Eileen aroon!

"We'll seek a home of peace, Eileen aroon; All fear and doubt shall cease, Eileen aroon. If thou wilt seek my side, If thou wilt be my bride, All matters not beside, Eileen aroon.

"Then, wilt thou fly or stay, Eileen aroon? Ah! do not say me nay, Come to me soon." "I come, I come to thee, Life of the world to me, Nought holds me, for I flee Thus to thy home."

"Welcome thy steps before, Eileen aroon. Fling wide our cottage door, Eileen aroon. Oh! welcome evermore, My darling and my store, Thou shalt go out no more, Eileen aroon!"

POEMS OF THE DARK DAYS

"I do not know of anything under the sky That is friendly or favourable to the Gael, But only the sea that our need brings us to, Or the wind that blows to the harbour The ship that is bearing us away from Ireland; And there is reason that these are reconciled with us, For we increase the sea with our tears, And the wandering wind with our sighs."

LADY GREGORY.

THE DOWNFALL OF THE GAEL

By O'Gnive, bard of Shane O'Neill, _circa_ 1560.

My heart is in woe, And my soul deep in trouble,-- For the mighty are low, And abased are the noble.

The Sons of the Gael Are in exile and mourning, Worn, weary, and pale, As spent pilgrims returning;

Or men who, in flight From the field of disaster, Beseech the black night On their flight to fall faster;

Or seamen aghast When their planks gape asunder, And the waves fierce and fast Tumble through in hoarse thunder;

Or men whom we see That have got their death-omen-- Such wretches are we In the chains of our foemen!

Our courage is fear, Our nobility vileness, Our hope is despair, And our comeliness foulness.

There is mist on our heads, And a cloud chill and hoary Of black sorrow sheds An eclipse on our glory.

From Boyne to the Linn Has the mandate been given, That the children of Finn From their country be driven.

That the sons of the king-- Oh, the treason and malice!-- Shall no more ride the ring In their own native valleys;

No more shall repair Where the hill foxes tarry, Nor forth to the air Fling the hawk at her quarry;

For the plain shall be broke By the share of the stranger, And the stone-mason's stroke Tell the woods of their danger;

The green hills and shore Be with white keeps disfigured, And the Moat of Rathmore Be the Saxon churl's haggard!

The land of the lakes Shall no more know the prospect Of valleys and brakes-- So transform'd is her aspect!

The Gael cannot tell, In the uprooted wild-wood And red ridgy dell, The old nurse of his childhood;

The nurse of his youth Is in doubt as she views him, If the wan wretch, in truth, Be the child of her bosom.

We starve by the board, And we thirst amid wassail-- For the guest is the lord, And the host is the vassal!

Through the woods let us roam, Through the wastes wild and barren; We are strangers at home! We are exiles in Erin!

And Erin's a bark O'er the wide waters driven! And the tempest howls dark, And her side planks are riven!

And in billows of might Swell the Saxon before her,-- Unite, oh, unite! Or the billows burst o'er her!

SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON.

ADDRESS TO BRIAN O'ROURKE "OF THE BULWARKS" TO AROUSE HIM AGAINST THE ENGLISH[107]

By his bard, Teig Dall O'Higgin, about 1566.

"And first for Owryrke: I found hym the proudest man that ever I delt with in Irelande." (Sir Henry Sydney to the Privy Council, from Dublin, 1576.)

"The man of war is he who dwells in safety," A well-worn adage that shall never cease, Save only when it girdeth on its armour May many-wooded Banba hope for peace.

Why sit ye still? the Clans of valorous Eoghan, The Clans of Conn and Conor round you stand; Do ye not hear the troops of Saxon England March o'er your plains and trample down your land?

Let Brian, son of Brian, out of Brefney, Beware the sweetness of their honeyed tongue, Their greed and need, their indigence and riches, Two-handed spoil from Ireland's sons have wrung.

Let Brian, son of Brian, son of Eoghan, Ponder if one man ever came away,-- Who put his trust in England's perjured honour,-- Unscathed by guile, unharmed by treachery?

As waters rising 'neath the snows of winter, As hamlets flaming from one secret spark, So shall the chiefs of Erinn rally round him, When Brian's star arises on the dark.

Then shall wild creatures find their surest covert Among the broken homesteads of the Pale; The wolves' deep snarl be heard beside her mansions, On grass-green Tara's slopes the children's wail.

Where once arose their lightsome lime-washed dwellings, Where once were precious things of price displayed, Be thenceforth whispered, in affrighted accents, That such things had been, ere O'Rourke's fierce raid.

By him be felled their rich fruit-bearing orchards, Each open highway clothed with ragged weeds; Long ere the harvest-hour their crops be scattered By his and Connaught's sons' death-dealing deeds.

Leave hungry famine in Boyne's fertile borders, Bir of the spreading-boughs bend 'neath his smart, So that a mother on Meath's richest pastures Shall munch the morsel of her first child's heart.

Right up to Taillte's very walls and towers Their villages be levelled with the earth; Their mills and kilns and haggarts swept before them; Where wealth and plenty reigns, dread want and dearth.

Smooth into desert wastes fair Usna's mountains, Pile into hills each widespread pleasant plain; So that a wandering man may seek her cities, So he may search her high cross-roads in vain.

By such and such an one let this be treasured (A tale of wonder for the passing guest) That on the plain was heard a heifer lowing, A tinkling cow-bell from the headland's crest.

Shrink not, O desperate band, from weapon-wounding, Stand as one body, man by brother man; Had but the clans of Erinn cleaved together Your land and you had not been under ban.

Arouse thee, valiant Brian of the Bulwarks! And God be with the champions of the Gael! The children of the seed of Conn and Eoghan Stand round thee;--canst thou fail?

FOOTNOTES:

[107] O'Rourke, Prince of Brefney, was a man whom Elizabeth and her representatives in Ireland found it hard to tackle. His handsome presence, his dignity and pride, gave rise to stories of his ascendency over Elizabeth herself. When lying prisoner in the Tower of London, he is said to have sent to ask Elizabeth the favour of being hung, if hang he must, with a gad or withe, after his country's fashion, a request which Cox, who relates the story, says was doubtless willingly granted him. He was executed in 1597. (Cox's _Hibernia Anglicana_, ed. 1689, p. 399; _cf._ Bacon's reference to the story in his essay "Of Custom and Education.")

O'HUSSEY'S ODE TO THE MAGUIRE

Eochadh O'Hosey or Hussey was bard of the Maguires of Fermanagh. The campaign of Hugh Maguire, celebrated in this poem, was undertaken in 1599-1600 into Munster.

Where is my chief, my master, this bleak night, mavrone? O cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak night for Hugh! Its showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one thro' and thro', Pierceth one to the very bone.

Rolls real thunder? Or was that red vivid light Only a meteor? I scarce know; but through the midnight dim The pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the hate that persecutes him, Nothing hath crueler venomy might.

An awful, a tremendous night is this, meseems! The flood-gates of the rivers of heaven, I think, have been burst wide; Down from the overcharged clouds, like to headlong ocean's tide, Descends grey rain in roaring streams.

Tho' he were even a wolf ranging the round green woods, Tho' he were even a pleasant salmon in the unchainable sea, Tho' he were a wild mountain eagle, he could scarce bear, he, This sharp sore sleet, these howling floods.

O mournful is my soul this night for Hugh Maguire! Darkly as in a dream he strays. Before him and behind Triumphs the tyrannous anger of the wounding wind, The wounding wind that burns as fire.

It is my bitter grief, it cuts me to the heart That in the country of Clan Barry this should be his fate! O woe is me, where is he? Wandering, houseless, desolate, Alone, without or guide or chart!

Medreams I see just now his face, the strawberry-bright, Uplifted to the blackened heavens, while the tempestuous winds Blow fiercely over and round him, and the smiting sleet-shower blinds The hero of Galang to-night!

Large, large affliction unto me and mine it is That one of his majestic bearing, his fair stately form, Should thus be tortured and o'erborne; that this unsparing storm Should wreak its wrath on head like his!

That his great hand, so oft the avenger of the oppressed, Should this chill churlish night, perchance, be paralysed by frost; While through some icicle-hung thicket, as one lorn and lost, He walks and wanders without rest.

The tempest-driven torrent deluges the mead, It overflows the low banks of the rivulets and ponds; The lawns and pasture-grounds lie locked in icy bonds, So that the cattle cannot feed.

The pale-bright margins of the streams are seen by none; Rushes and sweeps along the untamable flood on every side; It penetrates and fills the cottagers' dwellings far and wide; Water and land are blent in one.

Through some dark woods, 'mid bones of monsters, Hugh now strays, As he confronts the storm with anguished heart, but manly brow, O what a sword-wound to that tender heart of his, were now A backward glance at peaceful days!

But other thoughts are his, thoughts that can still inspire With joy and onward-bounding hope the bosom of MacNee; Thoughts of his warriors charging like bright billows of the sea, Borne on the wind's wings, flashing fire!

And tho' frost glaze to-night the clear dew of his eyes, And white ice-gauntlets glove his noble fine fair fingers o'er, A warm dress is to him that lightening-garb he ever wore, The lightening of his soul, not skies.

_Avran._

Hugh marched forth to fight: I grieved to see him so depart. And lo! to-night he wanders frozen, rain-drenched, sad betrayed; But the memory of the lime-white mansions his right hand hath laid In ashes, warms the hero's heart!

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.

A LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OF TYRONE AND TYRCONNEL

_Buried in San Pietro Montorio at Rome_

Addressed to Nuala, the O'Donnell's sister, by Owen Roe mac an Bhaird (or Ward), the family Bard, in 1608-9.

O woman of the piercing wail, Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay With sigh and groan, Would God thou wert among the Gael! Thou would'st not then from day to day Weep thus alone. 'Twere long before around a grave In green Tyrconnel, one could find This loneliness; Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave, Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined Companionless.

Beside the wave in Donegal, In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore, Or Killilee, Or where the sunny waters fall At Assaroe, near Erna shore, This could not be. On Derry's plains, in rich Drumcliff, Throughout Armagh the Great, renowned In olden years, No day could pass but woman's grief Would rain upon the burial-ground Fresh floods of tears!

O no!--From Shannon, Boyne, and Suir, From high Dunluce's castle-walls, From Lissadill, Would flock alike both rich and poor: One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls To Tara hill; And some would come from Barrow-side, And many a maid would leave her home On Leitrim's plains, And by melodious Banna's tide, And by the Mourne and Erne, to come And swell thy strains!

Oh, horses' hoofs would trample down The mount whereon the martyr-saint Was crucified; From glen and hill, from plain and town, One loud lament, one thrilling plaint, Would echo wide. There would not soon be found, I ween, One foot of ground among those bands For museful thought, So many shriekers of the keen Would cry aloud, and clap their hands, All woe-distraught!

Two princes of the line of Conn Sleep in their cells of clay beside O'Donnell Roe: Three royal youths, alas! are gone, Who lived for Erin's weal, but died For Erin's woe. Ah, could the men of Ireland read The names those noteless burial-stones Display to view, Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed, Their tears gush forth again, their groans Resound anew!

The youths whose relics moulder here Were sprung from Hugh, high prince and lord Of Aileach's lands; Thy noble brothers, justly dear, Thy nephew, long to be deplored By Ulster's bands. Theirs were not souls wherein dull time Could domicile decay, or house Decrepitude! They passed from earth ere manhood's prime, Ere years had power to dim their brows, Or chill their blood.

And who can marvel o'er thy grief, Or who can blame thy flowing tears, Who knows their source? O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief, Cut off amid his vernal years, Lies here a corse Beside his brother Cathbar, whom Tyrconnell of the Helmets mourns In deep despair: For valour, truth, and comely bloom, For all that greatens and adorns, A peerless pair.