And no manner of use or abuse in him more;
There's little Dominic, wizened and brown,
Begging his scraps from door to door;
And his wife and children famished with cold
Trying to find him his bit of bread;
O Death, 'tis your right to take the old--
And they say that Dominic's wrong in his head--
_O Death, take Dominic with you, for 'tis badly I'm wanted here,"
I said_.
"It's a fine man you are, but you stand in my way,
I'd be thankful you'd let me get on to my fields;"
He raised his arm, it was cold as clay,
And strong as the flail the thresher wields.
I tried to push him out of my road,
But his bony fingers clutched me tight;
"I am your comrade henceforth," he said,
"Another man tends your sheep to-night;
_Hurry home, Shawn, I call for you again before the morning's
light_."
MUIRNEEN OF THE FAIR HAIR
For a year my love lies down,
In a little western town,
And the sun upon the corn is not so sweet;
At the chill time of the year,
On the hills where roams my dear,
There is honey in the traces of her feet.
If my longing I could get,
I would take her in a net,
And would ease my aching sorrow for a while;
And though all men say me nay
I shall wed her on a day,
She my darling of the sweet and sunny smile.
I have finished with the plough,
And must sow my seedlands now,
I must labour in the face of wind and weather;
But in rain and frost and snow,
Always as I come and go,
I am thinking she and I should be together.
O love my heart finds fair!
It is little that you care
Though I perish in the blackness of my grief;
But may you never tread
God's Heaven overhead,
If you scorn me and refuse my love relief.
I would count them little worth,
All the women of the earth,
And myself alone to have the choice among them;
For in books I read it clear,
That the beauty of my dear,
It has wrestled with their beauties and has flung them.
ROBIN FLOWER.
THE RED MAN'S WIFE
'Tis what they say,
Thy little heel fits in a shoe.
'Tis what they say,
Thy little mouth kisses well, too.
'Tis what they say,
Thousand loves that you leave me to rue;
That the tailor went the way
That the wife of the Red man knew.
Nine months did I spend
In a prison closed tightly and bound;
Bolts on my smalls
And a thousand locks frowning around;
But o'er the tide
I would leap with the leap of a swan,
Could I once set my side
By the bride of the Red-haired man.
I thought, O my life,
That one house between us, love, would be;
And I thought I would find
You once coaxing my child on your knee;
But now the curse of the High One
On him let it be,
And on all of the band of the liars
Who put silence between you and me.
There grows a tree in the garden
With blossoms that tremble and shake,
I lay my hand on its bark
And I feel that my heart must break.
On one wish alone
My soul through the long months ran,
One little kiss
From the wife of the Red-haired man.
But the Day of Doom shall come,
And hills and harbours be rent;
A mist shall fall on the sun
From the dark clouds heavily sent;
The sea shall be dry,
And earth under mourning and ban;
Then loud shall he cry
For the wife of the Red-haired man.
DOUGLAS HYDE.
ANOTHER VERSION
Salutation to thee,
O Seagull, who flew to my bosom,
As the Maid of the West
Winged her way o'er the waves of the sea;[118]
In wrath I will ravage the country
Right up to the ridge of Roscuain;
But when I turn home again,
Back to my bird again,
'Tis I who am conquered then,
Conquered by thee.
Whiter thy neck, thousand loves,
Than the swan that floats out on the billow;
Redder thy cheek
Than the rose-blossom dropped from the tree;
Softer thy voice
Than the cuckoo's low call from the willow,
And smoother than silk,
The fine silk of the silkworm,
The silkworm in spinning,
The fair locks of thee.
Maid without spot, matchless maiden,
How lovely the bloom of thy forehead!
Where is the fortunate youth
I would care to betroth to thee?
Why should I hide or conceal it?
The gloom of my soul I reveal it;
The mists round me thicken,
With death I am stricken,
'Twas the Red Man who smote
When he stole thee from me.
Blossom of beauty, my blossom,
Ten thousand blessings before thee,
Sick to the death is my heart
For sorrowful lack of thee.
If I could coax thee and tell thee
How lonely I am and weary,
Thy wild eyes would soften,
Would soften in sorrow,
At the pain of my loss,
By the Red Man and thee.
Though in a gaol I were fast,
There below in the old Down quarter,
Bolts on my wrist, and my waist
Fastened tight under lock and key;
Swift as the flight of the falcon
Or the swan swooping down on the harbour,
I'd find thee and bind thee,
In my arms I'd entwine thee,
Ere the Red Man could part us,
Could part thee from me.
FOOTNOTES:
[118] _i.e._ Deirdre, who fled with the sons of Usnach to
Scotland.
MY GRIEF ON THE SEA
My grief on the sea,
How the waves of it roll!
How they heave between me
And the love of my soul!
Abandoned, forsaken,
To grief and to care,
Will the sea ever waken
Relief from despair?
My grief, and my trouble!
Would he and I were
In the province of Leinster,
Or county of Clare.
Were I and my darling--
Oh, heart-bitter wound!--
On board of the ship
For America bound.
On a green bed of rushes
All last night I lay,
And I flung it abroad
With the heat of the day.
And my love came behind me--
He came from the South;
His breast to my bosom,
His mouth to my mouth.
DOUGLAS HYDE.
ORÓ MHÓR, A MHÓIRÍN
O dear is Paudheen, blithe and gay,
Upon a fair or market day;
But far more dear a March morn clear,
As in his boat he singeth gay!
Oró wore, a-woreen!
Oró wore, love, will you go,
Oró wore, a-woreen!
Golden hair, out for a row?
He said and said--what did he say?--
He said he'd come on Brigid's Day!
But shirt and sock were in the crock;
And so he couldn't speed away!
Oró wore, &c.
He said and said--what did he say?--
He said he'd come on Patrick's Day!
But coat and stock were under lock;
And so he couldn't steal away!
Oró wore, &c.
He said and said--what did he say?--
He said he'd come on Sheela's Day![119]
But Borna Rock fell with a shock
Upon him, so he stayed away!
Oró wore, &c.
He said and said--what did he say?--
He said he'd come on Easter Day!
But at the knock he met a flock
Of geese, that frightened him away!
Oró wore, &c.
He said and said--what did he say?--
He said he'd come this very day!
If he should mock, I pray some rock
May wreck his corrach on the way!
Oró wore, a-woreen!
Oró wore, love, will you go,
Oró wore, a-woreen!
Golden hair, out for a row?
P. J. MCCALL.
FOOTNOTES:
[119] The day after St. Patrick's Day.
THE LITTLE YELLOW ROAD
Taken down in Co. Mayo from Michael Mac Rudhraighe.
I am sick, sick,
No part of me sound;
The heart in my middle
Dies of its wound,
Pining the time
When she did stand
With me shoulder to shoulder
And hand in hand.
I travelled west
By the little yellow road
In the hope I might see
Where my Secret abode.
White were her two breasts,
Red her hair,
Guiding the cow
And the weaned calf, her care.
Until wind flows
From this stream west,
Until a green plain spreads
On the withered crest,
And white fields grow
The heather above,
My heart will not find
Kindness from my love.
There's a flood in the river
Will not ebb till day,
And dread on me
That my love is away.
Can I live a month
With my heart's pain
Unless she will come
And see me again?
I drink a measure
And I drink to you,
I pay, I pay,
And I pay for two.
Copper for ale
And silver for beer--
And do you like coming
Or staying here?
SEOSAMH MAC CATHMHAOIL.
REPROACH TO THE PIPE
Taken down from a man named William O'Ryan, of Newcastle,
Upper Galway.
I've a story to tell you,
My little Duideen,
As ugly a story
As ever was seen;
The days are gone by
When I held my head high,
And that this is your doing,
You cannot deny.
It is you, without doubt,
Stole my means and my wealth,
My name and my fortune,
My friends and my health;
But if only I were
In new lands far from Clare,
I'd be scraping and saving
With the best of them there!
While you are well-filled,
Cleaned up, and kept trim,
There's no bread on my plate
And no strength in my limb;
Were I hung as a scarecrow,
In the fields over-night,
Sure, not only the birds
But my friends would take flight!
I might buy a laced hat
For your handsome young head,
That would pass with O'Hara,
When all's done and said;
But to you 'tis no odds
Though I fast day and night,
Your mouth is wide open
Still asking its light.
When I go out to Mass
My best coat is in slashes,
And quite half my food
Has been burnt in the ashes;
My heels may go cold,
'Tis for you, I allege,
The tobacconist's shop
Has my breeches in pledge!
The time that poor Nora
Thought me down at the loom,
Throwing the shuttle
Or doing a turn;
I'd be lighting my pipe
About old Joseph's door;
Discoursing and drinking
An hour or more.
O, my little duideen,
My little duideen,
You're the cunningest rogue
That ever was seen!
But I'm done with you quite,
Off, out of my sight!
With O'Kelly the weaver
I'm away at daylight!
LAMENT OF MORIAN SHEHONE FOR MISS MARY BOURKE
From an Irish Keen.
"There's darkness in thy dwelling-place and silence reigns above,
And Mary's voice is heard no more, like the soft voice of love.
Yes! thou art gone, my Mary dear! And Morian Shehone
Is left to sing his song of woe, and wail for thee alone.
Oh! snow-white were thy virtues!--the beautiful, the young,
The old with pleasure bent to hear the music of thy tongue;
The young with rapture gazed on thee, and their hearts in love were
bound,
For thou wast brighter than the sun that sheds its light around.
My soul is dark, O Mary dear! thy sun of beauty's set;
The sorrowful are dumb for thee--the grieved their tears forget;
And I am left to pour my woe above thy grave alone;
For dear wert thou to the fond heart of Morian Shehone.
"Fast-flowing tears above the grave of the rich man are shed,
But they are dried when the cold stone shuts in his narrow bed;
Not so with my heart's faithful love--the dark grave cannot hide
From Morian's eyes thy form of grace, of loveliness, and pride.
Thou didst not fall like the sere leaf, when autumn's chill winds
blow--
'Twas a tempest and a storm-blast that has laid my Mary low.
Hadst thou not friends that loved thee well? hadst thou not garments
rare?
Wast thou not happy, Mary? wast thou not young and fair?
Then why should the dread spoiler come, my heart's peace to destroy,
Or the grim tyrant tear from me my all of earthly joy?
Oh! am I left to pour my woes above thy grave alone?
Thou idol of the faithful heart of Morian Shehone!
"Sweet were thy looks and sweet thy smiles, and kind wast thou to all;
The withering scowl of envy on thy fortunes dared not fall;
For thee thy friends lament and mourn, and never cease to weep--
Oh! that their lamentations could awake thee from thy sleep!
Oh! that thy peerless form again could meet my loving clasp!
Oh! that the cold damp hand of Death could loose his iron grasp!
Yet, when the valley's daughters meet beneath the tall elm tree,
And talk of Mary as a dream that never more shall be,
Then may thy spirit float around, like music in the air,
And pour upon their virgin souls a blessing and a prayer.
Oh! am I left to pour my wail above thy grave alone?"
Thus sinks in silence the lament of Morian Shehone.
ANONYMOUS.
MODEREEN RUE; OR, THE LITTLE RED ROGUE[120]
Och, Modereen Rue, you little red rover,
By the glint of the moon you stole out of your cover,
And now there is never an egg to be got,
Nor a handsome fat chicken to put in the pot.
Och, Modereen Rue!
With your nose to the earth and your ear on the listen,
You slunk through the stubble with frost-drops aglisten,
With my lovely fat drake in your teeth as you went,
That your red roguish children should breakfast content.
Och, Modereen Rue!
Och, Modereen Rue, hear the horn for a warning,
They are looking for red roguish foxes this morning;
But let them come my way, you little red rogue,
'Tis I will betray you to huntsman and dog.
Och, Modereen Rue!
The little red rogue, he's the colour of bracken,
O'er mountains, o'er valleys, his pace will not slacken,
Tantara! Tantara! he is off now, and, faith!
'Tis a race 'twixt the little red rogue and his death.
Och, Modereen Rue!
Och, Modereen Rue, I've no cause to be grieving
For the little red rogues with their tricks and their thieving.
The hounds they give tongue, and the quarry's in sight,
The hens on the roost may sleep easy to-night.
Och, Modereen Rue!
But my blessing be on him. He made the hounds follow
Through the woods, through the dales, over hill, over hollow,
It was Modereen Rue led them fast, led them far,
From the glint of the morning till eve's silver star.
Och, Modereen Rue!
But he saved his red brush for his own future wearing,
He slipped into a drain, and he left the hounds swearing.
Good luck, my fine fellow, and long may you show
Such a clean pair of heels to the hounds as they go.
Och, Modereen Rue!
KATHERINE TYNAN-HINKSON.
FOOTNOTES:
[120] The fox.
THE STARS STAND UP
The stars stand up in the air,
The sun and the moon are set,
The sea that ebbed dry of its tide
Leaves no single pebble wet;
The cuckoo keeps saying each hour
That she, my Storeen, is fled,--
O Girl of the brave, free tresses,
Far better had you struck me dead!
Three things have I learned through love,
Sorrow, and death, and pain,
My mind reminding me daily
I never shall see you again;
You left me no cure for my sickness,
Yet I pray, though my night be long,--
My sharp grief! and my heart is broken,--
That God may forgive your wrong.
She was sweeter than fiddle and lute,
Or the shining of grass through the dew,
She was soft as the blackbird's flute
When the light of the day is new;
From her feet on the lone hill-top
I have heard the honey dropping;
Why, Girl, did you come to my door?
Or why could you not be stopping?
THE LOVE SMART
This weariness, this gnawing pain,
Are moving greatly through my brain;
The tears down-dropping from my eyes,
The full of my two shoes with sighs.
I think the Sunday long, and pray
You may come stepping down my way;
Twice over I my lover lack,--
When he departs--till he come back.
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.