_M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!_
"Dost thou not know thy Son, O Mother?"
_M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!_
"And is that the little Son I carried nine months?
_M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!_
"And is that the little Son that was born in the stable?
_M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!_
"And is that the little Son that was nursed at Mary's breast?"
_M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!_
"Hush, O Mother, and be not sorrowful."
_M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!_
"And is that the hammer that struck home nails through Thee?
_M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!_
"And is that the spear that went through Thy white side?
_M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!_
"And is that the crown of thorns that crowned Thy beauteous head?"
_M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!_
"Hush, O Mother, be not sorrowful.
_M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!_
"Hush, O Mother, and be not sorrowful,
_M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!_
"The women of my keening are yet unborn, little Mother."
_M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!_
"O woman, who weepest by this My death,
_M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!_
"There will be hundreds to-day in the Garden of Paradise!"
_M'óchón agus m'óchón, Ó!_
P. H. PEARSE.
Taken down from Mary Clancy of Moycullen, who keened it with great
horror in her voice, in a low sobbing recitative.
LOVE SONGS AND POPULAR POETRY
CUSHLA MA CHREE
Before the sun rose at yesterdawn,
I met a fair maiden adown the lawn;
The berry and snow
To her cheek gave its glow,
And her bosom was fair as the sailing swan;
Then, Pulse of my heart! what gloom is thine?
Her beautiful voice more hearts hath won
Than Orpheus' lyre of old hath done;
Her ripe eyes of blue
Were crystals of dew
On the grass of the lawn before the sun;
And, Pulse of my heart! what gloom is thine?
EDWARD WALSH.
THE BLACKTHORN
There is never a merrier lad in the town or a wilder lad on the
fells,
Till I fall to dreaming and thinking of the place where my lost
love dwells,
Winter snow on Slieve na m-Ban, and it evermore drifting above
The small blossom of the blackthorn who is my own true love.
Were I but down below in a boat I would float out over the sea,
And many and many a line of love I would waft o'er the wave to
thee;
My lasting sorrow, wound of my heart, that we are not together
found
In the mountain glens at sunrise when the dew lies on the ground.
I myself leave you my thousand farewells in the townland of the
trees,
And in every place I have travelled going up and down from the
seas;
There is many a weary miry road and crooked damp boreen,
Parting me from the cabin of my own Storeen.
Oh! Paddy, would you think ill of me if you saw that I was crying?
And oh! Paddy, would you think ill of me if you knew me to be dying?
Oh! Paddy of the bound black hair, your mouth and your words were
sweet,
But I knew not the hundred twists in your heart, nor the thousand
turns on your feet.
Deep down in my pocket is lying the ribbon you wound in my hair,
The men of Erin together could not tear it away from there;
All, all is over between us, you and I have said our say,
And I'll soon be lying quiet in the cold damp clay.
He is the foolish man, indeed, who would spring at the ditch that
is steep,
If close at his hand lay the fence of furze he could take at a
single leap;
Though the rowan-berry swings high, it is bitterest out of the top,
While thick from the lowliest shrubs the ripe rasps and the
blackberries drop.
O Virgin beloved! I am lost if his face should be now turned away;
What knowledge have I how to reach his house and his kinsfolk this
day?
My mother bent double with age, and my father long laid in the tomb,
And mad anger on my people towards me, and my love fled home.
Are you going from me for ever, honey mouth, hair of flame?
If you come not back, avourneen, you leave me blind, dumb, and lame;
No skiff have I to bring you back, I am broken life and limb;
The raging ocean rolls between us and I have no strength to swim!
PASTHEEN FINN
A Connaught song.
Oh, my fair Pastheen is my heart's delight,
Her gay heart laughs in her blue eye bright;
Like the apple blossom her bosom white,
And her neck like the swan's, on a March morn bright!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
Love of my heart, my fair Pastheen!
Her cheeks are red as the rose's sheen,
But my lips have tasted no more, I ween,
Than the glass I drank to the health of my queen!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
Were I in the town, where's mirth and glee,
Or 'twixt two barrels of barley bree,
With my Pastheen upon my knee,
'Tis I would drink to her pleasantly!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
Nine nights I lay in longing and pain
Betwixt two bushes, beneath the rain,
Thinking to see you, love, once again;
But whistle and call were all in vain!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
I'll leave my people, both friend and foe;
From all the girls in the world I'll go;
But from you, sweetheart, oh, never! oh, no!
Till I lie in the coffin, stretch'd cold and low!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! come with me!
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet!
And oh! I would go through snow and sleet,
If you would come with me, brown girl, sweet!
SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON.
SHE
The white bloom of the blackthorn, she,
The small sweet raspberry-blossom, she;
More fair the shy, rare glance of her eye,
Than the wealth of the world to me.
My heart's pulse, my secret, she,
The flower of the fragrant apple, she;
A summer glow o'er the winter's snow,
'Twixt Christmas and Easter, she.
HOPELESS LOVE
Since I know
Hopeless of thy love I go,
Since from me each dear delight
takes flight:
Ere we end
Ways we might together wend,
Ere the light from out mine eyes
dies:
Give some sign
One regretful thought is thine,
Lest I count my story told,
overbold.
For I hold,
Time may yet some joy unfold,
Joy such as the lifelong blind
find;
If entwined
In the fabric of the mind,
Dwells the memory of thy tear,
dear!
THE GIRL I LOVE
The girl I love is comely, straight, and tall;
Down her white neck her auburn tresses fall;
Her dress is neat, her carriage light and free--
Here's a health to that charming maid, whoe'er she be!
The rose's blush but fades beside her cheek;
Her eyes are blue, her forehead pale and meek;
Her lips, like cherries on a summer tree--
Here's a health to the charming maid, whoe'er she be!
When I go to the field no youth can lighter bound,
And I freely pay when the cheerful jug goes round;
The barrel is full; but its heart we soon shall see--
Come! here's to that charming maid, whoe'er she be!
Had I the wealth that props the Saxon's reign,
Or the diamond crown that decks the King of Spain,
I'd yield them all if she kindly smiled on me--
Here's a health to the maid I love, whoe'er she be!
Five pounds of gold for each lock of her hair I'd pay,
And five times five, for my love one hour each day,
Her voice is more sweet than the thrush on its own green tree--
Then, my dear, may I drink a fond, deep health to thee!
JEREMIAH JOSEPH CALLANAN.
WOULD GOD I WERE
Would God I were the tender apple-blossom
That floats and falls from off the twisted bough,
To lie and faint within your silken bosom,
As that does now.
Or would I were a little burnished apple,
For you to pluck me, gliding by so cold,
While sun and shade your robe of lawn will dapple,
And your hair's spun gold.
Yea, would to God I were among the roses
That lean to kiss you as you float between,
While on the lowest branch a bud uncloses
To touch you, queen.
Nay, since you will not love, would I were growing,
A happy daisy, in the garden path,
That so your silver foot might press me going,
Even unto death.
KATHARINE TYNAN-HINKSON.
BRANCH OF THE SWEET AND EARLY ROSE
Branch of the sweet and early rose
That in the purest beauty flows,
So passing sweet to smell and sight,
On whom shalt thou bestow delight?
Who in the dewy evening walk
Shall pluck thee from the tender stalk?
Whose temples blushing shalt thou twine,
And who inhale thy breath divine?
DR. DRENNAN.
IS TRUAGH GAN MISE I SASANA
'Tis a pity I'm not in England,
Or with one from Erin thither bound,
Out in the midst of the ocean,
Where the thousands of ships are drowned.
From wave to wave of the ocean
To be guided on with the wind and the rain--
And, O King! that Thou might'st guide me
Back to my love again!
THOMAS MACDONAGH.
THE YELLOW BITTERN
The yellow bittern that never broke out
In a drinking-bout, might well have drunk;
His bones are thrown on a naked stone
Where he lived alone like a hermit monk.
O yellow bittern! I pity your lot,
Though they say that a sot like myself is curst--
I was sober a while, but I'll drink and be wise
For fear I should die in the end of thirst.
It's not for the common birds that I'd mourn,
The blackbird, the corncrake or the crane,
But for the bittern that's shy and apart
And drinks in the marsh from the lone bog-drain.
Oh! if I had known you were near your death,
While my breath held out I'd have run to you,
Till a splash from the Lake of the Son of the Bird
Your soul would have stirred and waked anew.
My darling told me to drink no more
Or my life would be o'er in a little short while;
But I told her 'tis drink gives me health and strength,
And will lengthen my road by many a mile.
You see how the bird of the long smooth neck,
Could get his death from the thirst at last--
Come, son of my soul, and drain your cup,
You'll get no sup when your life is past.
In a wintering island by Constantine's halls,
A bittern calls from a wineless place,
And tells me that hither he cannot come
Till the summer is here and the sunny days.
When he crosses the stream there and wings o'er the sea,
Then a fear comes to me he may fail in his flight--
Well, the milk and the ale are drunk every drop,
And a dram won't stop our thirst this night.
THOMAS MACDONAGH.
HAVE YOU BEEN AT CARRACK?
Have you been at Carrack, and saw you my true-love there?
And saw you her features, all beautiful, bright, and fair?
Saw you the most fragrant, flowering, sweet apple-tree?
O! saw you my lov'd one, and pines she in grief like me?
I have been at Carrack, and saw thy own true-love there;
And saw, too, her features, all beautiful, bright, and fair;
And saw the most fragrant, flowering, sweet apple-tree--
I saw thy lov'd one--she pines not in grief, like thee!
Five guineas would price every tress of her golden hair--
Then think what a treasure her pillow at night to share,
These tresses thick-clustering and curling around her brow--
O, Ringlet of Fairness! I'll drink to thy beauty now!
When seeking to slumber, my bosom is rent with sighs--
I toss on my pillow till morning's blest beams arise;
No aid, bright Beloved! can reach me save God above,
For a blood-lake is formed of the light of my eyes with love!
Until yellow Autumn shall usher the Paschal day,
And Patrick's gay festival come in its train alway--
Until through my coffin the blossoming boughs shall grow,
My love on another I'll never in life bestow!
Lo! yonder the maiden illustrious, queen-like, high,
With long-flowing tresses adown to her sandal-tie--
Swan, fair as the lily, descended of high degree,
A myriad of welcomes, dear maid of my heart, to thee!
EDWARD WALSH.
CASHEL OF MUNSTER
(Air: "Clár bog déil")
I'd wed you without herds, without money, or rich array,
And I'd wed you on a dewy morning at day-dawn grey;
My bitter woe it is, love, that we are not far away
In Cashel town, though the bare deal board were our marriage-bed
this day.
Oh, fair maid, remember the green hill side,
Remember how I hunted about the valleys wide;
Time now has worn me; my locks are turned to grey,
The year is scarce and I am poor, but send me not, love, away!
Oh, deem not my birth is of base strain, my girl,
Oh, deem not my birth was as the birth of a churl;
Marry me, and prove me, and say soon you will,
That noble blood is written on my right side still!
My purse holds no red gold, no coin of the silver white,
No herds are mine to drive through the long twilight!
But the pretty girl that would take me, all bare though I be and lone,
Oh, I'd take her with me kindly to the county Tyrone.
Oh, my girl, I can see 'tis in trouble you are,
And, oh, my girl, I see 'tis your people's reproach you bear;
"I am a girl in trouble for his sake with whom I fly,
And, oh, may no other maiden know such reproach as I!"
SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON.
THE SNOWY-BREASTED PEARL
There's a colleen fair as May,
For a year and for a day
I've sought by every way her heart to gain.
There's no art of tongue or eye
Fond youths with maidens try
But I've tried with ceaseless sigh, yet tried in vain.
If to France or far-off Spain
She'd cross the watery main,
To see her face again the sea I'd brave.
And if 'tis heaven's decree
That mine she may not be
May the son of Mary me in mercy save!
O thou blooming milk-white dove,
To whom I've given true love,
Do not ever thus reprove my constancy.
There are maidens would be mine,
With wealth in hand and kine,
If my heart would but incline to turn from thee.
But a kiss with welcome bland,
And a touch of thy dear hand,
Are all that I demand, would'st thou not spurn;
For if not mine, dear girl,
O Snowy-Breasted Pearl!
May I never from the fair with life return!
GEORGE PETRIE.
THE DARK MAID OF THE VALLEY
(Bean dubh an Gleanna)
Oh, have you seen or have you heard, my treasure of bright faces,
Some dark glen roving, while in gloom I pine here day and night?
Far from her voice, far from her eyes, my cloud of woe increases--
My blessing on that glen and her, for aye and aye alight.
'Tis many's the time they've put in print, to beauty doing homage,
Her figure tall, her eyebrows small, her thin-lipped mouth of truth,
Her snowy hands, as fair and fine as silk on wild bird's plumage--
My bitter sigh to think that I am here, a lonely youth!
One little glance, once at her face, a flame lit in my bosom,
Oh, snowy-hearted, white-toothed one, whose ringlets are of gold,
More dear art thou than Deirdre, leaving lovers mourning woesome,
Or Blanaid, meshing thousands with her winning eyes of old!
Oh, bloom of women! spurn me not for this rich suitor hoary--
This boorish, noisy, songless man, who comes between us twain;
It's I would sweetly sing beneath the harvest moon's gold glory,
For thee full many a Fenian lay and bold Milesian strain!
P. J. MCCALL.
THE COOLUN
Oh, had you seen the Coolun, walking down by the cuckoo's street,
With the dew of the meadow shining on her milk-white twinkling feet,
My love she is, and my _coleen oge_, and she dwells in Bal'nagar;
And she bears the palm of beauty bright, from the fairest that in Erin
are.
In Bal'nagar is the Coolun, like the berry on the bough her cheek;
Bright beauty dwells for ever on her fair neck and ringlets sleek;
Oh, sweeter is her mouth's soft music, than the lark or thrush at
dawn,
Or the blackbird in the greenwood singing farewell to the setting sun.
Rise up, my boy! make ready my horse, for I forth would ride,
To follow the modest damsel, where she walks on the green hill side;
For, ever since our youth were we plighted, in faith, troth, and
wedlock true--
She is sweeter to me nine times over than organ or cuckoo!
For, ever since my childhood I loved the fair and darling child;
But our people came between us, and with lucre our pure love defiled;
Oh, my woe it is, and my bitter pain, and I weep it night and day,
That the _coleen bawn_ of my early love is torn from my heart away.
Sweetheart and faithful treasure, be constant still, and true;
Nor for want of herds and houses leave one who would ne'er leave you:
I'll pledge you the blessed Bible, without and eke within,
That the faithful God will provide for us, without thanks to kith
and kin.
Oh, love, do you remember when we lay all night alone,
Beneath the ash in the winter-storm, when the oak wood round did
groan?
No shelter then from the blast had we, the bitter blast and sleet,
But your gown to wrap about our heads, and my coat around our feet.
SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON.
CEANN DUBH DHILEAS[115]
Put your head, darling, darling, darling,
Your darling black head my heart above;
Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fragrance,
Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?
Oh, many and many a young girl for me is pining,
Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free,
For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows;
But I'd leave a hundred, pure love, for thee!
Then put your head, darling, darling, darling,
Your darling black head my heart above;
Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fragrance,
Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?
SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON.
FOOTNOTES:
[115] "Beloved Dark Head."
RINGLETED YOUTH OF MY LOVE
Ringleted youth of my love,
With thy locks bound loosely behind thee,
You passed by the road above,
But you never came in to find me;
Where were the harm for you
If you came for a little to see me,
Your kiss is a wakening dew
Were I ever so ill or so dreamy.
If I had golden store
I would make a nice little boreen
To lead straight up to his door,
The door of the house of my storeen;
Hoping to God not to miss
The sound of his footfall in it,
I have waited so long for his kiss
That for days I have slept not a minute.
I thought, O my love! you were so--
As the moon is, or sun on a fountain,
And I thought after that you were snow,
The cold snow on top of the mountain;
And I thought after that, you were more
Like God's lamp shining to find me,
Or the bright star of knowledge before,
And the star of knowledge behind me.
You promised me high-heeled shoes,
And satin and silk, my storeen,
And to follow me, never to lose,
Though the ocean were round us roaring;
Like a bush in a gap in a wall
I am now left lonely without thee,
And this house I grow dead of, is all
That I see around or about me.
DOUGLAS HYDE.
I SHALL NOT DIE FOR YOU
O woman, shapely as the swan,
On your account I shall not die,
The men you've slain--a trivial clan--
Were less than I.
I ask me shall I die for these,
For blossom-teeth and scarlet lips?
And shall that delicate swan-shape
Bring me eclipse?
Well shaped the breasts and smooth the skin,
The cheeks are fair, the tresses free;
And yet I shall not suffer death,
God over me!
Those even brows, that hair like gold,
Those languorous tones, that virgin way;
The flowing limbs, the rounded heel
Slight men betray.
Thy spirit keen through radiant mien,
Thy shining throat and smiling eye,
Thy little palm, thy side like foam--
I cannot die!
O woman, shapely as the swan,
In a cunning house hard-reared was I;
O bosom white, O well-shaped palm,
I shall not die.
PADRAIC COLUM
DONALL OGE
Were I to go to the West, from the West I would come not again,
The hill that is highest I would climb, at the cord that is
toughest I would strain;
The branch I would soonest pluck is far out of my reach in the
hollow,
And the track of my lover's feet is the track that my heart would
follow.
My heart is as dark as the sloe in a crack of the mountain gorge;
Or a burnt-out cinder fallen down at the back of the blazing forge;
As the stain of a miry shoe on the marble steps of a palace,
As the stain of a drowning fly in the wine of the Holy chalice.[116]
My heart is a cluster of nuts with every kernel dropped,
My heart is the ice on the pond above, where the mill has stopped;
A mournful sadness is breaking over my running laughter
Like the mirth of a maid at her marriage and the heavy sorrow after.
You have taken the East from me and you have taken the West,
You have taken the path before me and the path that is behind;
The moon is gone from me by night and the sun is gone by day,
Alas! I greatly dread you have stolen my God away!
By the Well of Loneliness I sit and make my moan;
I hear no sound in the depths below from the fall of the dropping
stone;
I see the cold wide world, but my lad I do not see,
Your shadow no longer lying between God and me.
The colour of the blackberry is my old lover's colour;
Or the colour of the raspberry on a bright day of summer;
Or the colour of the heathberry where the bog-grass is rarest--
Ah! the blackest head is often on the form that's fairest.
I heard the dog speak of you last night and the sun gone down,
I heard the snipe calling aloud from the marshlands brown;
It is you are the lonely bird flitting from tree to tree--
May you never find your mate if you find not me!
It is time for me to leave this cruel town behind,
The stones are sharp in it, the very mould unkind;
The voice of blame is heard like the muttering of the sea--
The heavy hand of the band of men backbiting me.
I denounce love; she who gave it to him is now all undone;
Little he understood, yon black mother's son.
That my heart is turned to stone, what mattered that to you?
What were you caring for, but to get a cow or two?
FOOTNOTES:
[116] This line is not in the original.
THE GRIEF OF A GIRL'S HEART
Some of the verses in this poem are identical with those found in
"Donall Oge," and also with the poem called "Breed Astore" in Dr.
Hyde's _Love Songs of Connaught_. I have omitted those which occur
in the former poem and added one quatrain from the latter, which it
would be a pity to leave out. They seem to have been all parts of the
same long poem. Here again we have Donall Oge or "Young Donall" as the
lover.
O Donall Oge, if you will go across the sea,
Bring myself with you, and do not forget it;
There will be a "faring" for thee on fine days and market-days,
And the daughter of the King of Greece as your bedfellow at night.
If you go over seas, there is a token I have of you,
Your bright top-knot and your two grey eyes,
Twelve ringlets on your yellow curling head,
Like the cowslip or the rose-leaf in the garden.
You promised me, but you spoke a lie to me,
That you would be before me at the fold of the sheep;
I let a whistle out and three hundred shouts for you,
But I found nothing in it but a lamb a-bleating.
You promised me, a thing that was hard for you,
A ship of gold under a mast of silver,
Twelve great towns of the world's market-towns,
And a fine white court beside the sea.
You promised me, a thing that was not possible,
You would give me gloves of fishes' skin,
You would give me shoes of the feathers of birds,
And gowns of silk the richest in Erinn.
O Donall Oge, it were better for thee I to be with thee,
Than a high-born, arrogant, wasteful lady;
I would milk your cows and I would churn for you,
And if it went hard with you, I would strike a blow with you.
Och, ochone, it is not the hunger,
Nor want of food and drink, nor want of sleep,
That has left me wasting and weary;
The love of a young man it is that has sickened me.
Early in the morning I saw the young man
On the back of his horse going along the road;
He did not move over to me nor take any heed of me,
And on my coming home, it is I who wept my fill.
When I myself go to the Well of Loneliness
I sit down and I go through my trouble,
When I see the world and I see not my lad;
There was the shadow of amber upon his hair.
It was a Sunday that I gave my love to you,
The Sunday before Easter Sunday exactly;
I myself on my knees a-reading the Passion,
My two eyes giving love to you ever after.
Oye, little mother, give myself to him,
And give him what is yours of goods entirely,
Out with yourself a-begging alms
And do not be going East and West seeking me.
My little mother said to me not to speak with you
To-day or to-morrow or on Sunday,
It is in the bad hour she gave me that choice,
It is "shutting the door after the theft."
And you passed me by, dark and late,
And you passed me by, and the light of the day in it;
If you would come in yourself and see me
Never a word at all would I have with you.[117]
FOOTNOTES:
[117] This last stanza is from Dr. Hyde's "Breed Astore"
(_Love Songs_, p. 77), where the third stanza is also found.
DEATH THE COMRADE
When I rose up in the morning early
On a sunny day in the burst of spring,
My step was lithe, and my form was burly,
I felt as blithe as a bird on the wing;
As I was going out my way
Who should stand in the path but Death;
I knew he was strong, and would not be said nay,
So I wished him "Good-morrow,"--but I caught my breath,
_When, "Hurry on, Shawn, for I'm wanting you to come with me," he
saith_.
Oh, then, Maura, is it parting I am from you,
My thousand loves for ever on earth?
I who would plant the potatoes for you,
I whom you needed to cut the turf!
I who would buy you the young milch cow,
I who would croon you to sleep with a rann,
I who at eve would lie down with your leave--
What ever would you do without your man?
_O Maura, keep me with you a little, little longer, if you can_!