The Fairy Changeling and Other Poems Part 2

THE RAPE OF THE BARON'S WINE

Who was stealing the Baron's wine, Golden sherry and port so old, Precious, I wot, as drops of gold?

Lone to-night he came to dine,

Flung himself in his oaken chair, Kicked the hound that whined for bread; "G.o.d! the thief shall swing!" he said, Thrust his hand through his ruffled hair.

Bolt and bar and double chain Held secure the cellar door; And the watchman placed before, Kept a faithful watch in vain.

Every day the story came, "Master, come! I hear it drip!"

The wine is wet on the robber's lip, Who the robber, none could name.

All the folk in County Clare Found a task for every day By the Baron's gate to stray, Came to gossip, stayed to stare.

Nothing here to satisfy Souls for tragedy awake; Just the castle by the lake, Calmest spot beneath the sky.

But the whispered story grew, When the Baron went to dine, That a devil shared his wine, Had his soul in danger too.

Every morn the Baron rose More morose and full of age; Pa.s.sed the day in sullen rage, Barred his gates on friends or foes.

Lone to-night he came to dine, Struck the hound that asked a share, Heard a step upon the stair- "Come, the thief is at your wine!"

Baron of Killowen keep Running down the vaulted way, To the cellar dark by day, Took the ten steps at a leap.

There he listened with the throng Of frighted servants at the door, He heard the wine drip on the floor, And sea-mew's laughter loud and long.

Of oaken beam, of bolt and chain They freed the door, and crowded through, Their eyes a horror claimed in vain, Nor ghost nor devil met their view.

They searched behind the hogshead, where The watchful spider spied and span; They sighed to see the wine that ran A crimson torrent, wasting there.

They even searched the gloomy well That legend said rose from the lake; They saw bright bubbles rise and break, But nothing stranger here befell.

The Baron cursed-the Baron said, "Now all be gone, alone I'll stay, There shall not rise another day Without this thief, alive or dead."

So still he stood, no sound was there, But just the wine went drop and drip; Save that, the silence seemed to slip Its threatening fingers through his hair.

And then as last an echo flew, The splash of waters thrown apart; He cursed the beating of his heart Because the thief was listening too.

The slipping sc.r.a.pe of scales he hears, And sea-mew laughter, loud and sweet; He dares not move his frightened feet, His pulse beats with a thousand fears.

At that strange monster in the gloom He points his pistol quick, and fires; Before the powder spark expires He hears a sea-bird's scream of doom.

He saw one gleam of foam-white arms, Of sea-green eyes, of sloak brown hair; He had a glance to find her fair, When he had slain her thousand charms.

The Baron of Killowen slew A strange sea-maiden, young and fair; And all the folk in county Clare Will tell you that the tale is true.

And when the Baron came to dine, His guests could never understand, That he should say, with gla.s.s in hand, "I would the thief were at my wine!"

CEAN DUV DEELISH

Cean duv deelish, beside the sea I stand and stretch my hands to thee Across the world.

The riderless horses race to sh.o.r.e With thundering hoofs and shuddering, h.o.a.r, Blown manes uncurled.

Cean duv deelish, I cry to thee Beyond the world, beneath the sea, Thou being dead.

Where hast thou hidden from the beat Of crushing hoofs and tearing feet Thy dear black head?

Cean duv deelish, 'tis hard to pray With breaking heart from day to day, And no reply; When the pa.s.sionate challenge of sky is cast In the teeth of the sea and an angry blast Goes by.

G.o.d bless the woman, whoever she be, From the tossing waves will recover thee And lashing wind.

Who will take thee out of the wind and storm, Dry thy wet face on her bosom warm And lips so kind?

I not to know. It is hard to pray, But I shall for this woman from day to day, "Comfort my dead, The sport of the winds and the play of the sea."

I loved thee too well for this thing to be, O dear black head!

BANAGHER RHUE

Banagher Rhue of Donegal, (Holy Mary, how slow the dawn!) This is the hour of your loss or gain: _Is go d-tigheadh do_, _mhuirnin slan_! {21}

Banagher Rhue, but the hour was ill (O Mary Mother, how high the price!) When you swore you'd game with Death himself; Aye, and win with the devil's dice.

Banagher Rhue, you must play with Death, (Mary, watch with him till the light!) Through the dark hours, for the words you said, All this strange and noisy night.

Banagher Rhue, you are pale and cold; (How the demons laugh through the air!) The anguish beads on your frowning brow; Mary set on your lips a prayer!

Banagher Rhue, you have won the toss: (Mother, pray for his soul's release!) Shuffle and deal ere the black c.o.c.k crows, That your spirit may find its peace.

Banagher Rhue, you have played a king; (How strange a light on your fingers fall!) A voice, "I was cold, and he sheltered me . . . "

The trick is gained, but your chance is small.

Banagher Rhue, now an ace is yours; (Mother Mary, the night is long!) "I was a sin that he hurried aside . . ."

O for the dawn and the blackbird's song!

Banagher Rhue, now a ten of suit; (Mother Mary, what hot winds blow!) "Nine little lives hath he saved in his path . . . "

And the black c.o.c.k that does not crow.

Banagher Rhue, you have played a knave; (O what strange gates on their hinges groan!) "I was a friend who had wrought him ill; When I had fallen he cast no stone . . . "