A Book of Irish Verse Part 14

To the island you came by stealth and at night: She is ours if we win her, in all men's sight;'

For that first song's sake let our bards hold fast To Truth and Justice from first to last!

'Tis over! some think we erred through pride, Though Columba the vengeance turned aside.

Too strong we were not: too rich we were: Give wealth to knaves: 'tis the true man's snare.

But now men lie: they are just no more; They forsake the old ways; they quest for new; They pry and they snuff after strange false lore, As dogs hunt vermin: it never was true:-- I have scorned it for twenty years--this babble, That eastward and southward, a Saxon rabble Have won great battles and rule large lands, And plight with daughters of ours their hands.

We know the bold Norman o'erset their throne Long since. Our lands! let them guard their own.

How long He leaves me--the great G.o.d--here!

Have I sinned some sin, or has G.o.d forgotten?

This year, I think, is my hundredth year; I am like a bad apple unripe and rotten!

They shall lift me ere long, they shall lay me--the clan,-- By the strength of men on Mount Cruachan!

G.o.d has much to think of! How much He hath seen, And how much is gone by that once hath been!

On sandy hills where the rabbits burrow, Are Raths of Kings' men, named not now; On mountain-tops I have tracked the furrow, And found in forests the buried plough.

For one now living the strong land then Gave kindly food and raiment to ten.

No doubt they waxed proud and their G.o.d defied: So their harvest He blighted and burned their h.o.a.rd; Or He sent them plagues, or He sent the sword, Or He sent them lightning and so they died, Like Dathi the King on the dark Alp's side.

Ah me! that man who is made of dust, Should have pride towards G.o.d! 'Tis a demon's spleen!

I have often feared lest G.o.d the All-just, Should bend from heaven and sweep earth clean: Should sweep us all into corners and holes, Like dust of the house-floor both bodies and souls!

I have often feared He would send some wind In wrath; and the nation wake up stone blind.

In age or in youth we have all wrought ill: I say not our great King Nial did well, Although he was Lord of the Pledges Nine, Where besides subduing this land of Eire, He raised in Armorica banner and sign, And wasted the British coast with fire.

Perhaps in His mercy the Lord will say, 'These men, G.o.d's help, 'twas a rough boy-play!'

He is certain, that young Franciscan Priest-- G.o.d sees great sin where men see least; Yet this were to give unto G.o.d the eye-- Unmeet the thought, of the humming fly!

I trust there are small things He scorns to see In the lowly who cry to Him piteously.

Our hope is Christ: I have wept full oft, He came not to Eire in Oisin's time; Though love and those new monks would make men soft, If they were not hardened by war and rhyme.

I have done my part: my end draws nigh: I shall leave old Eire with a smile and sigh, She will miss me not as I missed my son, Yet for her and her praise were my best deeds done.

Man's deeds! Man's deeds! they are shades that fleet, Or ripples like those that break at my feet.

The deeds of my chief and the deeds of my king Grow hazy, far seen, in the hills in spring.

Nothing is great save the death on the cross!

But Pilate and Herod I hate, and know Had Fionn lived then he had laid them low, Though the world thereby had sustained great loss.

My blindness and deafness and aching back With meekness I bear for that suffering's sake; And the Lent-fast for Mary's sake I love, And the honour of Him, the Man Above!

My songs are all over now:--so best!

They are laid in the heavenly Singer's breast, Who never sings but a star is born: May we hear His song in the endless morn!

I give glory to G.o.d for our battles won By wood or river, on bay or creek: For Norna--who died; for my father, Conn: For feasts, and the chase on the mountains bleak: I bewail my sins, both unknown and known, And of those I have injured forgiveness seek.

The men that were wicked to me and mine (Not quenching a wrong, nor in war nor wine), I forgive and absolve them all, save three: May Christ in His mercy be kind to me!

_Aubrey de Vere_

LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF EOGHAN RUADH O'NEILL

'Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Eoghan Ruadh O'Neill?'

'Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet with steel.'

'May G.o.d wither up their hearts! May their blood cease to flow!

May they walk in living death, who poisoned Eoghan Ruadh!

'Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words.'

'From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords: But the weapon of the Sa.s.sanach met him on his way, And he died at Cloch Uachtar, upon St. Leonard's day.

'Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One! Wail, wail ye for the Dead!

Quench the hearth, and hold the breath--with ashes strew the head.

How tenderly we loved him! How deeply we deplore!

Holy Saviour! but to think we shall never see him more!

'Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall, Sure we never won a battle--'twas Owen won them all.

Had he lived--had he lived--our dear country had been free; But he's dead, but he's dead, and 'tis slaves we'll ever be.

'O'Farrell and Clanricarde, Preston and Red Hugh, Audley and MacMahon--ye are valiant, wise, and true; But--what are ye all to our darling who is gone?

The Rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle's corner stone!

'Wail, wail him through the Island! Weep, weep for our pride!

Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief had died!

Weep the Victor of Beinn Burb--weep him, young and old; Weep for him, ye women--your Beautiful lies cold!

'We thought you would not die--we were sure you would not go, And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow-- Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky-- O! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die?

'Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill! bright was your eye, O! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die?

Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with G.o.d on high, But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Eoghan!--why did you die?'

_Thomas Davis_

MAIRE BHAN ASToR

In a valley far away, With my _Maire bhan astor_, Short would be the summer-day, Ever loving more and more; Winter days would all grow long, With the light her heart would pour, With her kisses and her song, And her loving _mait go leor_.

Fond is _Maire bhan astor_, Fair is _Maire bhan astor_, Sweet as ripple on the sh.o.r.e, Sings my _Maire bhan astor_.

O! her sire is very proud, And her mother cold as stone; But her brother bravely vowed She should be my bride alone; For he knew I loved her well, And he knew she loved me too, So he sought their pride to quell, But 'twas all in vain to sue.

True is _Maire bhan astor_, Tried is _Maire bhan astor_, Had I wings I'd never soar From my _Maire bhan astor_.

There are lands where manly toil Surely reaps the crop it sows, Glorious woods and teeming soil, Where the broad Missouri flows: Through the trees the smoke shall rise, From our hearth with _mait go leor_, There shall shine the happy eyes Of my _Maire bhan astor_.

Mild is _Maire bhan astor_, Mine is _Maire bhan astor_, Saints will watch about the door Of my _Maire bhan astor_.

_Thomas Davis_

O! THE MARRIAGE

AIR--_The Swaggering Jig_

O! the marriage, the marriage, With love and _mo bhuachaill_ for me, The ladies that ride in a carriage Might envy my marriage to me; For Eoghan is straight as a tower, And tender and loving and true, He told me more love in an hour Than the Squires of the county could do.

Then, O! the marriage, etc.