A Book of Irish Verse Part 12

(Save us all from Fairy thrall!) Behold the banks are green and bare, No pit is here wherein to fall: Aye--at the fount you well may stare, But nought save pebbles smooth is there, And small straws twirling one and all.

Hie thee home, and be thy prayer, Save us all from Fairy thrall.

_Sir Samuel Ferguson_

ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS DAVIS

I walked through Ballinderry in the Spring-time, When the bud was on the tree; And I said, in every fresh-ploughed field beholding The sowers striding free, Scattering broad-cast forth the corn in golden plenty On the quick seed-clasping soil, Even such, this day, among the fresh-stirred hearts of Erin, Thomas Davis, is thy toil!

I sat by Ballyshannon in the summer, And saw the salmon leap; And I said, as I beheld the gallant creatures Spring glittering from the deep, Through the spray, and through the p.r.o.ne heaps striving onward To the calm clear streams above, So seekest thou thy native founts of freedom, Thomas Davis, In thy brightness of strength and love!

I stood on Derrybawn in the Autumn, I heard the eagle call, With a clangorous cry of wrath and lamentation That filled the wide mountain hall, O'er the bare deserted place of his plundered eyrie; And I said, as he screamed and soared, So callest thou, thou wrathful-soaring Thomas Davis, For a nation's rights restored!

And, alas! to think but now, and thou art lying, Dear Davis, dead at thy mother's knee; And I, no mother near, on my own sick-bed, That face on earth shall never see: I may lie and try to feel that I am not dreaming, I may lie and try to say 'Thy will be done'-- But a hundred such as I will never comfort Erin For the loss of the n.o.ble son!

Young husbandman of Erin's fruitful seed-time, In the fresh track of danger's plough!

Who will walk the heavy, toilsome, perilous furrow Girt with freedom's seed-sheets now?

Who will banish with the wholesome crop of knowledge The flaunting weed and the bitter thorn, Now that thou thyself art but a seed for hopeful planting Against the resurrection morn?

Young salmon of the flood-time of freedom That swells round Erin's sh.o.r.e!

Thou wilt leap against their loud oppressive torrent Of bigotry and hate no more: Drawn downward by their p.r.o.ne material instinct, Let them thunder on their rocks and foam-- Thou hast leapt, aspiring soul, to founts beyond their raging, Where troubled waters never come!

But I grieve not, eagle of the empty eyrie, That thy wrathful cry is still; And that the songs alone of peaceful mourners Are heard to-day on Erin's hill; Better far, if brothers' war be destined for us (G.o.d avert that horrid day I pray!) That ere our hands be stained with slaughter fratricidal Thy warm heart should be cold in clay.

But my trust is strong in G.o.d, who made us brothers, That He will not suffer those right hands Which thou hast joined in holier rites than wedlock, To draw opposing brands.

O, many a tuneful tongue that thou madest vocal Would lie cold and silent then; And songless long once more, should often-widowed Erin Mourn the loss of her brave young men.

O, brave young men, my love, my pride, my promise, 'Tis on you my hopes are set, In manliness, in kindliness, in justice, To make Erin a nation yet: Self-respecting, self-relying, self-advancing, In union or in severance, free and strong-- And if G.o.d grant this, then, under G.o.d, to Thomas Davis Let the greater praise belong.

_Sir Samuel Ferguson_

THE COUNTY OF MAYO

_From the Irish of Thomas Lavelle_

On the deck of Patrick Lynch's boat I sat in woful plight, Through my sighing all the weary day, and weeping all the night; Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go, By the blessed sun! 'tis royally I'd sing thy praise, Mayo!

When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did much abound, In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round-- 'Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now I'm forced to go, And must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo.

They are altered girls in Irrul now; 'tis proud they're grown and high, With their hair-bags and their top-knots, for I pa.s.s their buckles by-- But it's little now I heed their airs, for G.o.d will have it so, That I must depart for foreign lands, and leave my sweet Mayo.

'Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl of Irrul still, And that Brian Duff no longer rules as Lord upon the hill: And that Colonel Hugh MacGrady should be lying dead and low, And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the county of Mayo.

_George Fox_

THE WEDDING OF THE CLANS

_A Girl's Babble_

I go to knit two clans together; Our clan and this clan unseen of yore:-- Our clan fears nought! but I go, O whither?

This day I go from my mother's door.

Thou, red-breast, singest the old song over, Though many a time thou hast sung it before; They never sent thee to some strange new lover:-- I sing a new song by my mother's door.

I stepped from my little room down by the ladder, The ladder that never so shook before; I was sad last night; to-day I am sadder, Because I go from my mother's door.

The last snow melts upon bush and bramble; The gold bars shine on the forest's floor; Shake not, thou leaf! it is I must tremble Because I go from my mother's door.

From a Spanish sailor a dagger I bought me; I trailed a rose-tree our grey bawn o'er; The creed and my letters our old bard taught me; My days were sweet by my mother's door.

My little white goat that with raised feet huggest The oak stock, thy horns in the ivies frore, Could I wrestle like thee--how the wreaths thou tuggest!-- I never would move from my mother's door.

O weep no longer, my nurse and mother!

My foster-sister, weep not so sore!

You cannot come with me, Ir, my brother-- Alone I go from my mother's door.

Farewell, my wolf-hound that slew MacOwing As he caught me and far through the thickets bore: My heifer, Alb, in the green vale lowing, My cygnet's nest upon Lorna's sh.o.r.e!

He has killed ten chiefs, this chief that plights me, His hand is like that of the giant Balor; But I fear his kiss, and his beard affrights me, And the great stone dragon above his door.

Had I daughters nine, with me they should tarry; They should sing old songs; they should dance at my door; They should grind at the quern;--no need to marry; O when will this marriage-day be o'er?

Had I buried, like Moirin, three mates already, I might say: 'Three husbands! then why not four?'

But my hand is cold and my foot unsteady, Because I never was married before!

_Aubrey de Vere_

THE LITTLE BLACK ROSE

The Little Black Rose shall be red at last; What made it black but the March wind dry, And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast?

It shall redden the hills when June is nigh.

The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last; What drove her forth but the dragon-fly?

In the golden vale she shall feed full fast, With her mild gold horn and her slow, dark eye.