Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.
Fearless she had track'd his feet
To this rocky, wild retreat;
And when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too.
Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts!
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And with rude, repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock.
Glendalough, thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave!
Soon the Saint (yet ah! too late,)
Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate.
When he said, "Heav'n rest her soul!"
Round the Lake light music stole;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling o'er the fatal tide.
----T. Moore.
THE HIGH-BORN LADY
|In vain all the knights of the Underwald woo'd
her,
Though brightest of maidens, the proudest
was she;
Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels
they sued her,
But worthy were none of the high-born ladye.
"Whomsoever I wed," said this maid, so
excelling,
"That knight must the conqu'ror of con-
querors be;
He must place me in halls fit for monarchs to
dwell in;--
None else shall be Lord of the high-born
ladye!"
Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking
round her
On knights and on nobles of highest degree,
Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her,
And worshipp'd at distance the high-born
ladye.
At length came a knight, from a far land to woo
her,
With plumes on his helm like the foam of the
sea;
His vizor was down--but, with voice that thrill'd
through her,
He whisper'd his vows to the high-born ladye.
"Proud maiden! I come with high spousals to
grace thee;
In me the great conqu'ror of conquerors see;
Enthron'd in a hall fit for monarch s I'll place
thee,
And mine thou'st for ever, thou high-born
ladye!"
The maiden she smiled, and in jewels array'd her,
Of thrones and tiaras already dreamed she;
And proud was the step, as her bridegroom
convey'd her
In pomp to his home, of that high-born ladye.
"But whither," she, starting, exclaims, "have
you led me?
Here's nought but a tomb and a dark cypress
tree;
Is _this_ the bright palace in which thou would'st
wed me?"
With scorn in her glance said the high-born
ladye.
"'Tis the home," he replied, "of earth's
loftiest creatures"--
Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see;
But she sunk on the ground--'twas a skeleton's
features,
And Death was the lord of the high-born
ladye!
----T. Moore.
THE MAIDEN CITY
|Where Foyle his swelling waters
Rolls northward to the main,
There, queen of Erin's daughters,
Fair Derry fixed her reign;
A holy temple crowned her,?
And commerce graced her street,
A rampart wall was round her,
The river at her feet;
And here she sat alone, boys,
And, looking from the hill,
Vowed the Maiden on her throne, boys,
Should be a Maiden still.
From Antrim crossing over,
In famous eighty-eight,
A plumed and belted lover
Came to the Ferry Gate.
She summoned to defend her
Our sires,--a beardless race,--
They shouted, No surrender!
And slammed it in his face.
Then in a quiet tone, boys,
They told him 'twas their will
That the Maiden on her throne, boys,
Should be a Maiden still.
Next, crushing all before him,
A kingly wooer came;
(The royal banner o'er him
Blushed crimson deep for shame;)
He showed the Pope's commission,
Nor dreamed to be refused;
She pitied his condition,
But begged to stand excused.
In short, the fact is known, boys,
She chased him from the hill,
For the Maiden on the throne, boys,
Would be a Maiden still.
On our brave sires descending,
'Twas then the tempest broke,
Their peaceful dwellings rending,
'Mid blood and flame and smoke.
That hallowed grave-yard yonder,
Swells with the slaughtered dead,--
O brothers, pause and ponder!
It was for us they bled;
And while their gifts we own, boys,
The fane that tops the hill,
O, the Maiden on her throne, boys,
Shall be a Maiden still!
Nor wily tongue shall move us,
Nor tyrant arm affright;
We'll look to One above us,
Who ne'er forsook the right;
Who will may crouch and tender
The birthright of the free,
But, brothers, No surrender,
No compromise for me!
We want no barrier stone, boys,
No gates to guard the hill,
Yet the Maiden on her throne, boys,
Shall be a Maiden still.
----Charlotte Elizabeth (_Tonna_).
SIR TURLOUGH; OR, THE CHURCHYARD BRIDE
[Illustration: 0196]
|The bride, she bound her golden hair--
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And her step was light as the breezy air
When it bends the morning flowers so fair,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
And oh, but her eyes they danc'd so bright,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
As she longed for the dawn of to-morrow's
light,
Her bridal vows of love to plight,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
The bridegroom is come with youthful brow,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
To receive from his Eva her virgin vow;
"Why tarries the bride of my bosom now?"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
A cry! a cry!'twas her maidens spoke,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
"Your bride is asleep--she has not awoke,
And the sleep she sleeps will never be broke,"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Sir Turlough sank down with a heavy moan,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And his cheek became like the marble stone--
"Oh, the pulse of my heart is for ever gone!"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
The keen is loud, it comes again,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And rises sad from the funeral train,
As in sorrow it winds along the plain,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
And oh, but the plumes of white were fair,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
When they flutter'd all mournful in the air
As rose the hymn of the requiem prayer,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
There is a voice that but one can hear,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And it softly pours from behind the bier,
Its note of death on Sir Turlough's ear,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
The keen is loud, but that voice is low,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And it sings its song of sorrow slow,
And names young Turlough's name with woe,,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Now the grave is closed, and the mass is said,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And the bride she sleeps in her lonely bed,
The fairest corpse among the dead,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
The wreaths of virgin-white are laid,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
By virgin hands o'er the spotless maid;
And the flowers are strewn, but they soon
will fade,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
"Oh! go not yet--not yet away,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
Let us feel that _life_ is near our clay,"
The long-departed seem to say,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
But the tramp and voices of _life_ are gone,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And beneath each cold forgotten stone,
The mouldering dead sleep all alone,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
But who is he who lingereth yet?
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
The fresh green sod with his tears is wet,
And his heart in that bridal grave is set,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Oh, who but Sir Turlough, the young and
brave,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
Should bend him o'er that bridal grave,
And to his death-bound Eva rave,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
"Weep not--weep not," said a lady fair,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
"Should youth and valour thus despair,
And pour their vows to the empty air?"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
There's charmed music upon her tongue,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
Such beauty--bright and warm and young--
Was never seen the maids among,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
A laughing light, a tender grace,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
Sparkled in beauty around her face,
That grief from mortal heart might chase,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
"The maid for whom thy salt tears fall,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
Thy grief or love can ne'er recall;
She rests beneath that grassy pall,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
"My heart it strangely cleaves to thee,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And now that thy plighted love is free,
Give its unbroken pledge to me,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy."
The charm is strong upon Turlough's eye,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
His faithless tears are already dry,.
And his yielding heart has ceased to sigh,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
"To thee," the charmed chief replied,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
"I pledge that love o'er my buried bride!
[Illustration: 0201]
Oh! come, and in Turlough's hall abide,"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Again the funeral voice came o'er
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
The passing breeze, as it wailed before,
And streams of mournful music bore,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
"If I to thy youthful heart am dear,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
One month from hence thou wilt meet me here
Where lay thy bridal, Eva's bier,"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
He pressed her lips as the words were spoken;
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And his _banshee's_ wail--now far and broken--
Murmur'd "Death," as he gave the token,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
"Adieu! adieu!" said this lady bright,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And she slowly passed like a thing of light,
Or a morning cloud, from Sir Turlough's sight,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
Now Sir Turlough has death in every vein,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And there's fear and grief o'er his wide domain,
And gold for those who will calm his brain,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
"Come, haste thee, leech, right swiftly ride,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
Sir Turlough the brave, Green Truagha's
pride,
Has pledged his love to the churchyard bride,"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
The leech groaned loud, "Come, tell me this,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
By all thy hopes of weal and bliss,
Has Sir Turlough given the fatal kiss?"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
"The banshee's cry is loud and long,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
At eve she weeps her funeral song,
And it floats on the twilight breeze along,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
"Then the fatal kiss is given;--the last,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
Of Turlough's race and name is past,
His doom is seal'd, his die is cast,"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
"Leech, say not that thy skill is vain,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
Oh, calm the power of his frenzied brain,
And half his lands thou shalt retain,"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
The leech has fail'd, and the hoary priest,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
With pious shrift his soul releas'd,
And the smoke is high of his funeral feast.
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
The Shanachies now are assembled all,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And the songs of praise, in Sir Turlough's hall,
To the sorrowing harp's dark music fall,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
And there is trophy, banner, and plume,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
And the pomp of death, with its darkest gloom,
O'ershadows the Irish chieftain's tomb,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
The month is clos'd, and Green Truagha's pride,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
Is married to death--and, side by side,
He slumbers now with his churchyard bride,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
----W. Carleton,
[Illustration: 0204]
THE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK
|The evening star rose beauteous above the
fading day,
As to the lone and silent beach the Virgin came
to pray,
And hill and wave shone brightly in the moon-
light's mellow fall;
But the bank of green where Mary knelt was
brightest of them all.
Slow moving o'er the waters, a gallant bark
appear'd,
And her joyous crew look'd from the deck as to
the land she near'd;
To the calm and shelter'd haven she floated like
a swan,
And her wings of snow o'er the waves below
in pride and beauty shone.
The master saw our Lady as he stood upon the
prow,
And mark'd the whiteness of her robe and the
radiance of her brow;
Her arms were folded gracefully upon her stain-
less breast,
And her eyes look'd up among the stars to Him
her soul lov'd best.
He show'd her to his sailors, and he hail'd her
with a cheer,
And on the kneeling Virgin they gazed with
laugh and jeer;
[Illustration: 0206]
And madly swore, a form so fair they never saw
before;
And they curs'd the faint and lagging breeze
that kept them from the shore.
The ocean from its bosom shook off the moon-
light sheen,
And up its wrathful billows rose to vindicate
their Queen;
And a cloud came o'er the heavens, and a dark-
ness o'er the land,
And the scoffing crew beheld no more that Lady
on the strand.
Out burst the pealing thunder, and the light'ning
leap'd about,
And rushing with his watery war, the tempest
gave a shout,
And that vessel from a mountain wave came
down with thund'ring shock,
And her timbers flew like scatter'd spray on
Inchidony's rock.
Then loud from all that guilty crew one shriek
rose wild and high.
But the angry surge swept over them and
hush'd their gurgling cry;
And with a hoarse exulting tone the tempest
passed away,
And down, still chafing from their strife, the
indignant waters lay.
When the calm and purple morning shone out
on high Dunmore,
Full many a mangled corpse was seen on Inchi-
dony's shore;
And to this day the fisherman shows where the
scoffers sank,
And still he calls that hillock green, "the
Virgin Mary's bank."
----J. J. Callanan.
CAROLAN AND BRIDGET CRUISE
|True love can ne'er forget;
Fondly as when we met,
Dearest, I love thee yet,
My darling one!"
Thus sung a minstrel gray,
His sweet impassion'd lay,
Down by the ocean's spray,
At set of sun;
But wither'd was the minstrel's sight,
Morn to him was dark as night,
Yet his heart was full of light;
As he his lay begun.
"True love can ne'er forget;
Fondly as when we met,
Dearest, I love thee yet,
My darling one!
Long years are past and o'er,
Since from this fatal shore,
Cold hearts and cold winds bore
My love from me."
Scarcely the minstrel spoke,
When quick, with flashing stroke,
A boat's light oar the silence broke
O'er the sea;
Soon upon her native strand
Doth a lovely lady land,
While the minstrel's love-taught hand
Did o'er his wild harp run--
"True love can ne'er forget;
Fondly as when we met,
Dearest, I love thee yet,
My darling one!"
Where the minstrel sat alone,
There, that lady fair hath gone,
Within his hand she placed her own,--
The bard dropp'd on his knee;
From his lips soft blessings came,
He kiss'd her hand with truest flame,
In trembling tones he named--her name,
Though he could not see.
But oh! the touch the bard could tell
Of that dear hand, remember'd well,--
Ah! by many a secret spell
Can true love find her own!
For true love can ne'er forget,
Fondly as when they met,
He loved his lady yet,--
His darling one. ----S. Lover.
[Illustration: 0210]
THE O'KAVANAGH
I.
|The Saxons had met, and the banquet was
spread,
And the wine in fleet circles the jubilee led;
And the banners that hung round the festal that
night,
Seemed brighter by far than when lifted in fight.
II.
In came the O'Kavanagh, fair as the morn,
When earth to new beauty and vigour is born;
They shrank from his glance like the waves
from the prow,
For nature's nobility sat on his brow.
III.
Attended alone by his vassal and bard;
No trumpet to herald--no clansmen to guard--
He came not attended by steed or by steel:
No danger he knew, for no fear did he feel.
IV.
In eye and on lip his high confidence smiled--
So proud, yet so knightly--so gallant, yet mild;
He moved like a god through the light of that
hall,
And a smile, full of courtliness, proffered to all.
V.
"Come pledge us, lord chieftain! come pledge
us!" they cried;
Unsuspectingly free to the pledge he replied;
And this was the peace-branch O'Kavanagh
bore--
"The friendships to come, not the feuds that
are o'er."
[Illustration: 0212]
VI.
But, minstrel! why cometh a change o'er thy
theme?
Why sing of red battle--what dream dost thou
dream?
Ha! "Treason"'s the cry, and "Revenge" is
the call!
As the swords of the Saxon surrounded the
hall.
VII.
A kingdom for Angelo's mind! to portray
Green Erin's undaunted avenger, that day;
The far-flashing sword, and the death-darting
eye,
Like some comet commissioned with wrath from
the sky.
VIII.
Through the ranks of the Saxon he hewed his
red way--
Through lances, and sabres, and hostile array;
And, mounting his charger, he left them to tell
The tale of that feast, and its bloody farewell!
IX.
And now on the Saxons his clansmen advance,
With a shout from each heart, and a soul in each
lance.
He rushed, like a storm, o'er the night-covered
heath,
And swept through their ranks, like the angel of
death.
Then hurrah! for thy glory, young chieftain,
hurrah!
Oh! had we such lightning-souled heroes to-
day,
Again would our "Sunburst" * expand in the
gale,
And freedom exult o'er the green Innisfail.
----J. A. Shea.
* Irish national banner.
[Illustration: 0215]
THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE
|The joy-bells are ringing
In gay Malahide,
The fresh wind is singing
Along the sea-side;
The maids are assembling
With garlands of flowers,
And the harpstrings are trembling
In all the glad bowers.
Swell, swell the gay measure!
Roll trumpet and drum!
'Mid greetings of pleasure
In splendour they come!
The chancel is ready,
The portal stands wide
For the lord and the lady,
The bridegroom and bride.
What years, ere the latter,
Of earthly delight
The future shall scatter
O'er them in its flight!
What blissful caresses
Shall fortune bestow,
Ere those dark-flowing tresses
Fall white as the snow!
Before the high altar
Young Maud stands array'd;
With accents that falter
Her promise is made--
From mother and father
For ever to part,
For him and no other
To treasure her heart.
The words are repeated,
The bridal is done,
The rite is completed--
The two, they are one;
The vow, it is spoken
All pure from the heart,
That must not be broken
Till life shall depart.
Hark!'mid the gay clangour
That compass'd their car,
Loud accents in anger
Come mingling afar!
The foe's on the border,
His weapons resound
Where the lines in disorder
Unguarded are found.
As wakes the good shepherd,
The watchful and bold,
When the ounce or the leopard
Is seen in the fold,
So rises already
The chief in his mail,
While the new-married lady
Looks fainting and pale.
"Son, husband, and brother,
Arise to the strife,
For the sister and mother,
For children and wife!
O'er hill and o'er hollow,
O'er mountain and plain,
Up, true men, and follow!
Let dastards remain!"
Far rah! to the battle!
They form into line--
The shields, how they rattle!
The spears, how they shine!
Soon, soon shall the foeitian
His treachery rue--
On, burgher and yeoman,
To die or to do!
The eve is declining
In lone Malahide,
The maidens are twining
Gay wreaths for the bride!
She marks them unheeding--
Her heart is afar,
Where the clansmen are bleeding
For her in the war.
Hark! loud from the mountain
'Tis Victory's cry!
O'er woodland and fountain
It rings to the sky!
The foe has retreated!
He flies to the shore;
The spoiler's defeated--
The combat is o'er!
With foreheads unruffled
The conquerors come--
But why have they muffled
The lance and the drum?
What form do they carry
Aloft on his shield?
And where does he tarry,
The lord of the field?
Ye saw him at morning
How gallant and gay!
In bridal adorning,
The star of the day:
Now weep for the lover--
His triumph is sped,
His hope it is over!
The chieftain is dead!
But O for the maiden
Who mourns for that chief,
With heart overladen
And rending with grief!
She sinks on the meadow
In one morning-tide,
A wife and a widow,
A maid and a bride!
Ye maidens attending,
Forbear to condole!
Your comfort is rending
The depths of her soul.
True--true,'twas a story
For ages of pride;
He died in his glory--
But, oh, he _has_ died!
The war-cloak she raises
All mournfully now,
And steadfastly gazes
Upon the cold brow.
That glance may for ever
Unalter'd remain,
But the bridegroom will never
Return it again!
The dead-bells are tolling
In sad Malahide,
The death-wail is rolling
Along the sea-side;
The crowds, heavy-hearted,
Withdraw from the green,
For the sun has departed
That brighten'd the scene!
Even yet in that valley,
Though years have roll'd by,
When through the wild sally
The sea-breezes sigh,
The peasant, with sorrow,
Beholds in the shade
The tomb where the morrow
Saw Hussy convey'd.
How scant was the warning,
How briefly reveal'd,
Before on that morning
Death's chalice was fill'd!
The hero who drunk it
There moulders in gloom,
And the form of Maud Plunket
Weeps over his tomb.
The stranger who wanders
Along the lone vale
Still sighs while he ponders
On that heavy tale:
"Thus passes each pleasure
That earth can supply--
Thus joy has its measure--
We live but to die!"
----Gerald Griffin.
CAOCH, THE PIPER
|One winter's day long, long ago,
When I was a little fellow,
A piper wandered to our door,
Gray-headed, blind, and yellow.
And O how glad was my young heart,
Though earth and sky looked dreary,
To see the stranger and his dog,
Poor Pinch and Caoch O'Leary!
And when he stowed away his bag
Crossbarred with green and yellow,
I thought and said, "In Ireland's ground,
There's not so fine a fellow."
And Fineen Burke and Shane Magee,
And Eily, Kate, and Mary,
Rushed in with panting haste to see
And welcome Caoch O'Leary.
O, God be with those happy times,
O, God be with my childhood,
When I, bare-headed, roamed all day
Bird-nesting in the wild wood!
I'll not forget those sunny hours
However years may vary;
I'll not forget my early friends,
Nor honest Caoch O'Leary.
Poor Caoch and Pinch slept well that night,
And in the morning early
He called me up to hear him play
"The wind that shakes the barley."
And then he stroked my flaxen hair,
And cried, "God mark my deary!"
And how I wept when he said, "Farewell,
And think of Caoch O'Leary!"
And seasons came and went, and still
Old Caoch was not forgotten,
Although I thought him dead and gone,
And in the cold clay rotten;
And often when I walked and danced
With Eily, Kate, and Mary,
We spoke of childhood's rosy hours,
And prayed for Caoch O'Leary.
Well--twenty summers had gone past,
And June's red sun was sinking,
When I, a man, sat by my door,
Of twenty sad things thinking.
A little dog came up the way,
His gait was slow and weary,
And at his tail a lame man limped,
'Twas Pinch and Caoch O'Leary.
Old Caoch! but ah! how woe-begone!
His form is bowed and bending,
His fleshless hands are stiff and wan,
Ay, time is even blending
The colours on his threadbare bag,
And Pinch is twice as hairy
And thin-spare as when first I saw
Himself and Caoch O'Leary.
"God's blessing here!" the wanderer cried,
"Far, far be hell, black viper;
Does anybody hereabouts
Remember Caoch, the piper?"
With swelling heart I grasped his hand;
The old man murmured, "Deary,
Are you the silken-headed child
That loved poor Caoch O'Leary?"
[Illustration: 0224]
"Yes, yes!" I said. The wanderer wept
As if his heart was breaking;
"And where, _avic machree_" * he said,
"Is all the merry-making
I found here twenty years ago?"
"My tale," I sighed, "might weary:
Enough to say, there's none but me
To welcome Caoch O'Leary."
"_Vo, vo, vo!_" the old man cried,
And wrung his hands in sorrow;
"Pray lead me in, _astore machree_,
And I'll _go home_ to-morrow.
My peace is made, I'll calmly leave
This world so cold and dreary,
And you shall keep my pipes and dog,
And pray for Caoch O'Leary."
With Pinch I watched his bed that night;
Next day his wish was granted,--
He died, and Father James was brought,
And the requiem mass was chanted.
The neighbours came;--we dug his grave,
Near Eily, Kate, and Mary,
And there he sleeps his last sweet sleep,--
God rest you, Caoch O'Leary!
J. Keegan.
* _Vic ma chree_, Son of my heart.
[Illustration: 0226]
THE FAIRY THORN
|Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary
spinning-wheel;
For your father's on the hill, and your mother
is asleep:
Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a
highland reel
Around the fairy thorn on the steep."
At Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens
cried,
Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the
green;
And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel
aside,
The fairest of the four, I ween.
They're glancing through the glimmer of the
quiet eve,
Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare;
The heavy sliding stream in its sleepy song they
leave,
And the crags in the ghostly air;
And linking hand in hand, and singing as they go,
The maids along the hill-side have ta'en their
fearless way,
Till they come to where the rowan-trees in lonely
beauty grow
Beside the Fairy Hawthorn gray.
The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and
slim,
Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at
her knee;
The rowan-berries cluster o'er her low head
gray and dim
In ruddy kisses sweet to see.
The merry "maidens four have ranged them in a
row,
Between each lovely couple a stately rowan
stem,