O Voice of God that every heart must hear!
O Hymn of purest souls that dost unsphere
The ravished soul that lists! O white, white Gem!
O Rose that dost the senses drown in bliss!
No thing can stay, no thing can stem,
No thing can lure the heart to miss
Thy love, thy joy, thy rapture divine--
O Beauty, Beauty, ever thine
The soul, the heart, the brain,
To hymn thee in a loud perpetual strain,
Shriller and sweeter than song of wine,
Than lay of sorrow or love or war--
Beauty of heaven and sun and day,
Beauty of water and frost and star,
Beauty of dusk-tide, narrowing, grey ...
Beauty of silver light,
Beauty of purple night,
Beauty of solemn breath,
Beauty of closed eye, and sleep, and death ...
Beauty of dawn and dew,
Beauty of morning peace
Ever ancient and ever new,
Ever renewed till waking cease
Or sleep forever, when loud the angel’s word
Through all the world is heard ...
Beauty of brute and bird,
Beauty of earthly creatures
Whose hearts by the hand of God are stirred ...
Beauty of the soul,
Beauty informing forms and features,
Fairest to God’s eye,
Beauty that cannot fade or die
Till eternal atoms to ruin roll!
(By permission of The Talbot Press, Dublin.)
Beauty of blinded Trust,
Led by the hand of God
To a heaven where cherub hath never trod.
Austere Beauty of Truth,
Lighting the way of the Just ...
Splendid Beauty of Youth,
Staying when Youth is fled,
Living when Life is dead,
Burning in funeral dust!
The glory of form doth pale and pall,
Beauty endures to the end of all.
I will go with my Father a-ploughing.
[Sidenote: SEOSAMH MACCATHMHAOIL]
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 flowering 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 weary reapers
With the wren in the heat of the sun,
And my father will sing the scythe-song
That joys for the harvest done.
A Northern Love Song.
[Sidenote: SEOSAMH MACCATHMHAOIL]
Brighidín Bhán of the lint-white locks,
What was it gave you that flaxen hair,
Long as the summer heath in the rocks?
What was it gave you those eyes of fire,
Lip so waxen and cheek so wan?
Tell me, tell me, Brighidín Bhán,
Little white bride of my heart’s desire.
Was it the Good People stole you away,
Little white changeling, Brighidín Bhán?
Carried you off in the ring of the dawn,
Laid like a queen on her purple car,
Carried you back between night and day;
Gave you that fortune of flaxen hair,
Gave you those eyes of wandering fire,
Lit at the wheel of the northern star?
Gave you that look so far away?
Tell me, tell me, Brighidín Bhán,
Little white bride of my heart’s desire.
Fairy Workers.
(“Songs of Donegal.” Herbert Jenkins.)
[Sidenote: PATRICK MACGILL]
Said the Fairies of Kilfinnan
To the Fairies of Macroom:
“Oh! send to us a shuttle
For our little fairy loom.
Our workers, one and twenty,
Are waiting in the Coom----”
So Kilfinnan got a shuttle
From the Fairies of Macroom.
Kilfinnan got the shuttle,
The shuttle for the loom.
“Now, send us back a hammer,”
Said the Fairies of Macroom.
“We’ve cobblers, one and twenty,
All idle in their room.”
And Kilfinnan sent a hammer
To the Fairies of Macroom.
The Queen of all the Fairies
Sat in her drawing-room:
Her robes came from Kilfinnan,
Her brogues came from Macroom.
Now, at the Royal Dinner
The proudest in the room
Were the Fairies from Kilfinnan
And the Fairies from Macroom.
The Shadow People.
(“Complete Poems.” Published by Herbert Jenkins.)
[Sidenote: FRANCIS LEDWIDGE]
Old lame Bridget doesn’t hear
Fairy music in the grass
When the gloaming’s on the mere
And the shadow people pass:
Never hears their slow grey feet
Coming from the village street
Just beyond the parson’s wall,
Where the clover globes are sweet
And the mushroom’s parasol
Opens in the moonlit rain.
Every night I hear them call
From their long and merry train.
Old lame Bridget says to me,
“It is just your fancy, child.”
She cannot believe I see
Laughing faces in the wild,
Hands that twinkle in the sedge
Bowing at the water’s edge
Where the finny minnows quiver,
Shaping on a blue wave’s ledge
Bubble foam to sail the river.
And the sunny hands to me
Beckon ever, beckon ever.
Oh! I would be wild and free,
And with the shadow people be.
My Mother.
(“Complete Poems.” Published by Herbert Jenkins.)
[Sidenote: FRANCIS LEDWIDGE]
God made my mother on an April day,
From sorrow and the mist along the sea,
Lost birds’ and wanderers’ songs and ocean spray,
And the moon loved her wandering jealously.
Beside the ocean’s din she combed her hair,
Singing the nocturne of the passing ships,
Before her earthly lover found her there
And kissed away the music from her lips.
She came unto the hills and saw the change
That brings the swallow and the geese in turns.
But there was not a grief she deeméd strange,
For there is that in her which always mourns.
Kind heart she has for all on hill or wave
Whose hopes grew wings like ants to fly away.
I bless the God Who such a mother gave
This poor bird-hearted singer of a day.
Lyric from “The Crier by Night.”
(“King Lear’s Wife and other Plays.” Published by Constable.)
[Sidenote: GORDON BOTTOMLEY]
The bird in my heart’s a-calling through a far-fled, tear-grey sea
To the soft slow hills that cherish dim waters weary for me,
Where the folk of rath and dun trail homeward silently
In the mist of the early night-fall that drips from their hair like rain.
The bird in my heart’s a-flutter, for the bitter wind of the sea
Shivers with thyme and woodbine as my body with memory;
I feel their perfumes ooze in my ears like melody--
The scent of the mead at the harping I shall not hear again.
The bird in my heart’s a-sinking to a hushed vale hid in the sea,
Where the moonlit dew o’er dead fighters is stirred by the feet
of the Shee,
Who are lovely and old as the earth but younger than I an be
Who have known the forgetting of dying to a life one lonely pain.
The Quest.
(Dublin University Press.)
They said: “She dwelleth in some place apart,
Immortal Truth, within whose eyes
Who looks may find the secret of the skies
And healing for life’s smart.”
I sought Her in loud caverns underground--
On heights where lightnings flashed and fell;
I scaled high Heaven; I stormed the gates of Hell,
But Her I never found.
Till thro’ the tumults of my Quest I caught
A whisper: “Here, within thy heart,
I dwell; for I am thou: behold thou art
The Seeker--and the Sought.”
The Fool.
[Sidenote: PADRAIC H. PEARSE]
Since the wise men have not spoken, I speak that am only a fool;
A fool that hath loved his folly,
Yea, more than the wise men their books or their counting houses,
or their quiet homes,
Or their fame in men’s mouths;
A fool that in all his days hath done never a prudent thing,
Never hath counted the cost, nor recked if another reaped
The fruit of his mighty sowing, content to scatter the seed;
A fool that is unrepentant, and that soon at the end of all
Shall laugh in his lonely heart as the ripe ears fall to the reaping-hooks
And the poor are filled that were empty,
Tho’ he go hungry.
I have squandered the splendid years that the Lord God gave to my youth
In attempting impossible things, deeming them alone worth the toil.
Was it folly or grace? Not men shall judge me, but God.
I have squandered the splendid years:
Lord, if I had the years I would squander them over again,
Aye, fling them from me!
For this I have heard in my heart, that a man shall scatter, not hoard,
Shall do the deed of to-day, nor take thought of to-morrow’s teen,
Shall not bargain or huxter with God; or was it a jest of Christ’s
And is this my sin before men, to have taken Him at His word?
The lawyers have sat in council, the men with the keen, long faces,
[Sidenote: PADRAIC H. PEARSE]
And said, “This man is a fool,” and others have said, “He blasphemeth”;
And the wise have pitied the fool that hath striven to give a life
In the world of time and space among the bulks of actual things,
To a dream that was dreamed in the heart, and that only the heart
could hold.
O wise men, riddle me this: what if the dream come true?
What if the dream come true? and if millions unborn shall dwell
In the house that I shaped in my heart, the noble house of my thought?
Lord, I have staked my soul, I have staked the lives of my kin
On the truth of Thy dreadful word. Do not remember my failures,
But remember this my faith.
And so I speak.
Yea, ere my hot youth pass, I speak to my people and say:
Ye shall be foolish as I; ye shall scatter, not save;
Ye shall venture your all, lest ye lose what is more than all;
Ye shall call for a miracle, taking Christ at His word.
And for this I will answer, O people, answer here and hereafter,
O people that I have loved, shall we not answer together?
(By permission of Messrs. Maunsel & Roberts, Dublin.)
The Return of Song.
[Sidenote: LORD DUNSANY]
“The swans are singing again,” said to one another the gods. And looking
downwards, for my dreams had taken me to some fair and far Valhalla, I
saw below me an iridescent bubble not greatly larger than a star shine
beautifully but faintly, and up and up from it looking larger and larger
came a flock of white, innumerable swans, singing and singing and
singing, till it seemed as though even the gods were wild ships swimming
in music.
“What is it?” I said to one that was humble among the gods.
“Only a world has ended,” he said to me, “and the swans are coming back
to the gods returning the gift of song.”
“A whole world dead!” I said.
“Dead,” said he that was humble among the gods. “The worlds are not for
ever; only song is immortal.”
“Look! look!” he said. “There will be a new one soon.”
And I looked and saw the larks, going down from the gods.
Dance to your Shadow.
[Sidenote: KENNETH MACLEOD]
Dance to your shadow when it’s good to be living, lad,
Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.
Dance to your shadow when it’s fine to be living, lad,
Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.
Ho ro haradal, hind[34] ye haradal,
Ho ro haradal, hind ye han dan.
Dance to your shadow when it’s hard to be living, lad,
Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.
Dance to your shadow when it’s sore to be living, lad,
Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.
Ho ro haradal, etc.
Dance to your shadow, letting Fate to her fiddle, lad,
Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.
Dance to your shadow, for it’s fine to be living, lad,
Dance to your shadow when there’s nothing better near you.
Ho ro haradal, etc.
Sea Longing.
Sore sea-longing in my heart,
Blue deep Barra waves are calling,
Sore sea-longing in my heart.
Glides the sun, but ah! how slowly,
Far away to luring seas!
Sore sea-longing in my heart,
Blue deep Barra waves are calling,
Sore sea-longing in my heart.
Hear’st, O Sun, the roll of waters,
Breaking, calling by yon Isle?
Sore sea-longing in my heart,
Blue deep Barra waves are calling,
Sore sea-longing in my heart.
Sun on high, ere falls the gloamin’,
Heart to heart, thou’lt greet yon waves.
Mary Mother, how I yearn,
Blue deep Barra waves are calling,
Mary Mother, how I yearn.
The Reiving Ship.
[Sidenote: KENNETH MACLEOD]
A ho hi! hirrum bo!
Early sails she to the reiving,
A ho hi! Hirrum bo!
Flashing by the frowning headlands.
A ho hi! Hirrum bo!
Early sails she to the reiving.
A ho hi! Hirrum bo!
Grinds beneath her, gray-blue limpets,
A ho hi! hirrum bo!
Crunches curving whelks to sand-drift.
A ho hi! hirrum bo!
Early sails she to the reiving.
Sweeps she gaily[35]Moola’s waters, Kyles and Moyles to fair green Isla,
Leaps her way to Isles of daring, gleaming Isles of blades and laughter.
A ho hi! hirrum bo!
Early sails she to the reiving.
Land of Heart’s Desire.
[Sidenote: MARJORY KENNEDY-FRASER]
Land of Heart’s Desire, Isle of Youth,
Dear Western Isle, gleaming in sunlight!
Land of Heart’s Desire, Isle of Youth!
Far the cloudless sky stretches blue
Across the isle, green in the sunlight,--
Far the cloudless sky stretches blue.
There shall thou and I wander free,
On sheen-white sands, dreaming in starlight.
Land of Heart’s Desire, Isle of Youth!
Ossian’s Midsummer Day-Dream.
“Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.”
(After Thos. Pattison’s translation from Ossian--“The sweet voice of
Cona.”)
[Sidenote: MARJORY KENNEDY-FRASER]
Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky,
While bright the sun shines on Cona’s steep.
Sweet sounds the note of the lonely heron,
Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.
Bright the sun shines on Cona’s steep,
While hounds for chase all on fire are straining.
Their deep-mouthed bay sweet as bardic music,
Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.
Sweet the winds softly murmuring,
Of eagle sweet is the far-heard cry.
As sails she o’er Morven’s mighty sea-board,
Sleeps the noon in the deep blue sky.
Kishmul’s Galley.
[Sidenote: MARJORY KENNEDY-FRASER]
High from the Ben a Hayich
On a day of days
Seaward I gaz’d,
Watching Kishmul’s galley sailing.
O hio huo faluo!
Homeward she bravely battles
’Gainst the hurtling waves
Nor hoop nor yards,
Anchor, cable, nor tackle has she.
O hio huo faluo!
Now at last ’gainst wind and tide
They’ve brought her to
’Neath Kishmul’s walls,
Kishmul Castle our ancient glory.
O hio huo faluo!
Here’s red wine and feast for heroes
And harping too,
O hio hu!
Sweet harping too!
O hio huo faluo!
Aignish on the Machair.
[Sidenote: AGNES MURE MACKENZIE]
When day and night are over,
And the World is done with me,
Oh carry me West and lay me
In Aignish by the Sea.
And never heed me lying
Among the ancient dead,
Beside the white sea breakers
And sand-drift overhead.
The grey gulls wheeling ever,
And the wide arch of sky,
On Aignish on the Machair,
And quiet there to lie.
Fingal’s Weeping.
[Sidenote: NEIL MUNRO]
Because they were so brave and young
Who now are sleeping,
His old heart wrung, his harp unstrung,
Fingal’s a-weeping.
There’s warble of waters at morning in Etive glen,
And the mists are flying;
Chuckle of Spring in the wood, on the moor, on the ben,
No heed for their dying!
So Fingal’s weeping the young brave sleeping,
Fingal’s weeping.
They’ll be forgot in Time,--forgot!
Time that goes sweeping;
The wars they fought remembered not,
And Fingal’s weeping.
Hearken for voices of sorrow for them in the forest den
Where once they were rovers--
Only the birds of the wild at their building again,
Whispering of lovers!
So Fingal’s weeping, his old grief keeping,
Fingal’s weeping.
They should be mourned by the ocean wave
Round lone isles creeping,
But the laughing wave laments no grave,
And Fingal’s weeping.
Morven and Moidart, glad, gallant and gay in the sun,
Rue naught departed;
The moon and the stars shine out when the day is done,
Cold, stony-hearted,
And Fingal’s weeping war’s red reaping,
Fingal’s weeping!
NOTES
ANCIENT IRISH AND SCOTTISH
THE MYSTERY OF AMERGIN. PAGE 3
Of this strange pantheistical fragment, Dr Douglas Hyde writes:--“The
first poem written in Ireland is said to have been the work of Amergin,
who was brother of Evir, Ir, and Eremon, the first Milesian princes who
colonised Ireland many hundred of years before Christ. The three short
pieces of verse ascribed to Amergin are certainly very ancient and very
strange. But, as the whole story of the Milesian invasion is wrapped in
mystery and is quite possibly only a rationalised account of early Irish
mythology (in which the Tuatha De Danann, Firbolgs, and possibly
Milesians, are nothing but the gods of the early Irish euhemerised into
men), no faith can be placed in the alleged date or genuineness of
Amergin’s verses. They are, however, of interest, because as Irish
tradition has always represented them as being the first verses made in
Ireland, so it may very well be that they actually do present the oldest
surviving lines in any vernacular tongue in Europe except Greek.”
THE SONG OF FIONN. PAGE 4
“The Song of Finn MacCool, composed after his eating of the Salmon of
Knowledge.” This, if not the earliest, is almost the earliest authentic
fragment of Erse poetry. The translation is after O’Donovan and Dr
Douglas Hyde.
CREDHE’S LAMENT. PAGE 5
From _The Colloquy of the Ancients_ (called also “The Dialogue of the
Sages,” and by other analogues), translated by Standish Hayes O’Grady
(_vide_ _The Book of Lismore_; _Silva Gadelica_; etc.). See specific
mention in Introduction.
CUCHULLIN IN HIS CHARIOT. PAGE 6
(_Source_: Hector MacLean’s _Ultonian Hero Ballads_. See Introduction.)
DEIRDRE’S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF USNACH. PAGE 8
Of the many Irish-Gaelic and Scottish-Gaelic and English translations
and paraphrases, I have selected the rendering of Sir Samuel Ferguson.
The original Erse is of unknown antiquity. (See Introduction.)
THE LAMENT OF QUEEN MAEV. PAGE 10
This admirable translation is by Mr T. W. Rolleston (_vide_ Note to p.
166), after the original in _The Book of Leinster_.
THE MARCH OF THE FAERIE HOST. PAGE 12
This striking poem is given as translated by Professor Kuno Meyer. It
and other verses are to be found, in the original, in _The Book of
Lismore_ (15th century). The particular narrative therein deals with the
visit of Laegaire mac Crimthainn to the land of Faerie. The episodic
portion of this narrative has been translated and edited by Mr Standish
Hayes O’Grady (see _Silva Gadelica_); but the general reader may be more
interested in the brief and lucid commentary of Professor Kuno Meyer
(see _The Voyage of Bran_--with Essay on the Celtic Elysium, by Mr
Alfred Nutt--recently published by D. Nutt). Professor Meyer considers
this and the other verses of “Laegaire mac Crimthainn” to be as old as
the 10th century period. “The Faerie Host,” as here given, is
fragmentary, being part of an episode; but I have further curtailed it
by three lines, for the sake of effect and unity of impression. The
other three lines are--
“At all times melodious are they,
Quick-witted in song-making,
Skilled at playing _fiachell_.”
VISION OF A FAIR WOMAN. PAGE 13
This characteristic Scoto-Celtic poem is supposed by some scholars to be
very ancient. The Gaelic version permits of some doubt on the
conjecture, but the text is not in this instance conclusive. The
“Aisling” will be found in Smith’s _Collection of Ancient Poems, from
the Gaelic of Ossian, Ullin, Orran, and others_ (1780)--the reputed
originals of which were published in 1787. See, for easier reference,
Nigel MacNeil’s _Literature of the Highlanders_, p. 218.
THE FIAN BANNERS. PAGE 14
This paraphrase of an ancient poem is modern. The original is supposed
to relate to the Scoto-Celtic and Viking wars of the 11th century. (See
Nigel MacNeil’s _Literature of the Highlanders_, p. 117.)
THE RUNE OF ST PATRICK (“THE FAEDH; OR, THE CRY OF THE DEER”). PAGE 17
This translation of the “Faedh,” from _The Book of Hymns_ (11th
century), is by Charles Mangan.
COLUMCILLE CECENIT. PAGE 18
The version of Colum’s Hymn here given is the translation of Dr Douglas
Hyde, himself a poet, and one of the foremost living Irish folk-lorists.
All students of Celtic literature should see his fascinating volume of
metrical renderings of the old Erse, _The Three Sorrows of
Story-Telling_. (_Vide_ Notes to p. 126.)
COLUMCILLE FECIT. PAGE 20
This well-known poem is given as translated by Michael O’Curry, from an
Irish MS. in the Burgundian Library of Brussels.
THE SONG OF MURDOCH THE MONK. PAGE 22
This “Monastic Shaving Song” is the version of Professor Blackie, as
translated from _Bishop Ewing’s Book_.
DOMHNULL MAC FHIONNLAIDH. “THE AGED BARD’S WISH.” PAGE 23
Although this undoubtedly old Gaelic poem is attributed by its
translators, Charles Edward Stuart and John Sobieski, to the early bard
Domhnull Mac Fhionnlaidh, there is no certainty (as they admit) either
as to authorship or date. This version is taken from _Ballads and Songs_
by Charles Edward Stuart and John Sobieski.
“OSSIAN SANG.” PAGE 28
The original was jotted down in phonetic Gaelic by Dean Macgregor some
380 years ago.
FINGAL AND ROS-CRANA. PAGE 29
This is not part of the text of Macpherson’s _Ossian_ though the
Englishing is by Macpherson, who attributes the original to Colgan, an
ancient Scoto-Irish bard. It will be found in the Notes to _Temora_.
(See Introduction.)
THE NIGHT-SONG OF THE BARDS. PAGE 31
Macpherson “translated” this, he avers, from an old Gaelic original. His
version is to be found in the Notes to _Croma_.
OSSIAN. “COMALA.” PAGE 35
I have selected this short poem as representative of the semi-mythical
Ossian of Macpherson. It is undoubtedly ancient substantially.
THE DEATH-SONG OF OSSIAN. PAGE 41
The close of “The Songs of Selma.” (See foregoing Note.)
ANCIENT CORNISH
THE POOL OF PILATE. PAGE 45
From the ancient Cornish drama, _The Resurrection of Christ_ (_vide_
section: “The Death of Pilate”). See the volume on the subject by Mr
Edwin Norris, referred to in Note to “The Vision of Seth.”
MERLIN THE DIVINER. PAGE 46
(_Vide_ Introduction.) This, though it exists in the old Cornish
dialect, is really an ancient Breton incantation. The Cornish variant is
to be found in that invaluable depository of Armorican legendary lore,
the _Barzaz Breiz_. The translation here given is by Thos. Stephens.
(_Vide_ _Thos. Stephens: a Memoir_. Wm. Rees, Llandovery, 1849.)
THE VISION OF SETH. PAGE 47
This dramatic fragment is from _The Ancient Cornish Drama_, edited and
translated by Edwin Norris, Sec. R.A.S. (Oxford, 1859).
ARMORICAN
THE DANCE OF THE SWORD. PAGE 53
(_Vide_ Introduction.) In Armorican, _Gwin ar C‘ Hallaoued: Ha Korol or
C‘ Hlezf_--_i.e._ The Wine of the Gauls, and the Dance of the Sword.
Supposed to be the fragment of a Song that accompanied the old Celtic
sword-dance in honour of the Sun. [This and the following translation by
the late Tom Taylor are, by courteous permission of Messrs Macmillan,
quoted from _Ballads and Songs of Brittany_ (selections from the _Barzaz
Breiz_ of the Vicomte Hersart de la Villemarqué).]
THE LORD NANN AND THE FAIRY. PAGE 55
(By the same, and from the same source.) The “Korrigan” of Breton
superstition has his familiar congeners in Celtic Scotland and Ireland;
and is identical with the “elf” of Scandinavian mythology and of the
Danish ballads. In this English version of “The Lord Nann” the metre and
divisions into stanzas of the original Armorican have been adhered to.
The triplet indicates antiquity in Cambrian and Armorican compositions.
ALAIN THE FOX. PAGE 58
This and the following poem are from the same Franco-Breton source as
their two predecessors, but are translated by Mr F. G. Fleay, M.A. (_The
Masterpieces of Breton Ballads._ Printed for Private Circulation.
Halifax, 1870).
BRAN (THE CROW). PAGE 60
See foregoing Note.
EARLY CYMRIC
THE SOUL. PAGE 67
This strange fragment is of unknown antiquity, and may well be, as
affirmed, of as remote a date as the 6th or even 5th century. It is from
that remarkable depository of early Cymric lore, _The Black Book of
Caermarthen_ (1154-1189).
LLYWARC’H HEN. PAGE 68