A Book of Irish Verse Part 18

THE CELTS

Long, long ago, beyond the misty s.p.a.ce Of twice a thousand years, In Erin old there dwelt a mighty race Taller than Roman spears; Like oaks and towers, they had a giant grace, Were fleet as deers: With winds and waves they made their biding-place, The Western shepherd seers.

Their ocean-G.o.d was _Mananan Mac Lir_, Whose angry lips In their white foam full often would inter Whole fleets of ships: _Crom_ was their day-G.o.d, and their thunderer Made morning and eclipse: _Bride_ was their queen of song, and unto her They pray'd with fire-touch'd lips.

Great were their acts, their pa.s.sions, and their sports; With clay and stone They piled on strath and sh.o.r.e those mystic forts, Not yet undone; On cairn-crown'd hills they held their council courts; While youths--alone-- With giant-dogs, explored the elks' resorts, And brought them down.

Of these was _Finn_, the father of the bard Whose ancient song Over the clamour of all change is heard, Sweet-voiced and strong.

Finn once o'ertook Granu, the golden-hair'd, The fleet and young: From her, the lovely, and from him, the feared, The primal poet sprung--

_Ossian!_--two thousand years of mist and change Surround thy name; Thy Finnian heroes now no longer range The hills of Fame.

The very name of Finn and Gael sound strange; Yet thine the same By miscall'd lake and desecrated grange Remains, and shall remain!

The Druid's altar and the Druid's creed We scarce can trace; There is not left an undisputed deed Of all your race-- Save your majestic Song, which hath their speed, And strength, and grace: In that sole song they live, and love, and bleed-- It bears them on through s.p.a.ce.

Inspired giant, shall we e'er behold, In our own time, One fit to speak your spirit on the wold, Or seize your rhyme?

One pupil of the past, as mighty-soul'd As in the prime Were the fond, fair, and beautiful, and bold-- They of your song sublime?

_Thomas D'Arcy McGee_

SALUTATION TO THE CELTS

Hail to our Celtic brethren wherever they may be, In the far woods of Oregon, or o'er the Atlantic sea; Whether they guard the banner of St. George, in Indian vales, Or spread beneath the nightless North experimental sails-- One in name, and in fame, Are the sea-divided Gaels.

Though fallen the state of Erin, and changed the Scottish land, Though small the power of Mona, though unwaked Llewellyn's band, Though Ambrose Merlin's prophecies are held as idle tales, Though Iona's ruined cloisters are swept by northern gales: One in name, and in fame, Are the sea-divided Gaels.

In Northern Spain and Italy our brethren also dwell, And brave are the traditions of their fathers that they tell: The Eagle or the Crescent in the dawn of history pales Before the advancing banners of the great Rome-conquering Gaels.

One in name, and in fame, Are the sea-divided Gaels.

A greeting and a promise unto them all we send; Their character our charter is, their glory is our end-- Their friend shall be our friend, our foe whoe'er a.s.sails The glory or the story of the sea-divided Gaels.

One in name, and in fame, Are the sea-divided Gaels.

_Thomas D'Arcy McGee_

THE GOBBAN SAOR

He stepped a man, out on the ways of men, And no one knew his sept, or rank, or name; Like a strong stream far issuing from a glen, From some source unexplored the Master came; Gossips there were who, wondrous keen of ken, Surmised that he must be a child of shame; Others declared him of the Druids, then-- Thro' Patrick's labours--fallen from power and fame.

He lived apart, wrapt up in many plans; He wooed not women, tasted not of wine; He shunned the sports and councils of the clans; Nor ever knelt at a frequented shrine.

His orisons were old poetic ranns Which the new Olamhs deem'd an evil sign; To most he seemed one of those Pagan Khans Whose mystic vigour knows no cold decline.

He was the builder of the wondrous Towers, Which, tall and straight and exquisitely round, Rise monumental round this isle of ours, Index-like, marking spots of holy ground.

In glooming silent glens, in lowland bowers, On river banks, these _Cloichteachs_ old abound, Where Art, enraptured, meditates long hours And Science ponders, wondering and spell-bound.

Lo, wheresoe'er these pillar-towers aspire, Heroes and holy men repose below; The bones of some, gleaned from a Pagan pyre, Others in armour lie, as for a foe; It was the mighty Master's life-desire To chronicle his great ancestors so; What holier duty, what achievement higher Remains to us, than this he thus doth show?

Yet he, the builder, died an unknown death; His labours done, no man beheld him more; 'Twas thought his body faded like a breath-- Or, like a sea-mist, floated off Life's sh.o.r.e.

Doubt overhangs his fate--and faith--and birth: His works alone attest his life and love, They are the only witnesses he hath, All else Egyptian darkness covers o'er.

Men called him Gobban Saor, and many a tale Yet lingers in the byways of the land, Of how he cleft the rock, and down the vale Led the bright river, child-like, in his hand; Of how on giant ships he spread great sail And many marvels else, by him first planned, And tho' these legends fail, in Innisfail His name and Towers for centuries still shall stand.

_Thomas D'Arcy McGee_

PATRICK SHEEHAN

My name is Patrick Sheehan, My years are thirty-four, Tipperary is my native place, Not far from Galtymore; I came of honest parents, But now they're lying low; And many a pleasant day I spent In the Glen of Aherlow.

My father died; I closed his eyes _Outside_ our cabin-door; The landlord and the sheriff too Were there the day before!

And then my loving mother, And sisters three also, Were forced to go with broken hearts From the Glen of Aherlow.

For three long months, in search of work, I wandered far and near; I went then to the poor-house, For to see my mother dear; The news I heard nigh broke my heart; But still, in all my woe, I blessed the friends who made their graves In the Glen of Aherlow.

Bereft of home and kith and kin, With plenty all around, I starved within my cabin, And slept upon the ground; But cruel as my lot was, I ne'er did hardship know 'Till I joined the English army, Far away from Aherlow.

'Rouse up, there,' says the Corporal, 'You lazy Hirish hound; Why don't you hear, you sleepy dog, The call "to arms" sound?'

Alas, I had been dreaming Of days long, long ago; I woke before Sebastopol, And not in Aherlow.

I groped to find my musket-- How dark I thought the night!

O blessed G.o.d, it was not dark, It was the broad daylight!

And when I found that I was _blind_, My tears began to flow; I longed for even a pauper's grave In the Glen of Aherlow.

O blessed Virgin Mary, Mine is a mournful tale; A poor blind prisoner here I am, In Dublin's dreary gaol; Struck blind within the trenches, Where I never feared the foe; And now I'll never see again My own sweet Aherlow.

A poor neglected mendicant, I wandered through the street; My nine months' pension now being out, I beg from all I meet: As I joined my country's tyrants, My face I'll never show Among the kind old neighbours In the Glen of Aherlow.

Then, Irish youths, dear countrymen, Take heed of what I say; For if you join the English ranks, You'll surely rue the day; And whenever you are tempted A-soldiering to go, Remember poor blind Sheehan Of the Glen of Aherlow.

_Charles J. Kickham_