Thomas Davis, Selections from his Prose and Poetry Part 23

In possessing the powers and elements of a glorious nationality, we owned the sources of a national poetry. In the combination and joint development of the latter we find a pledge and a help to that of the former.

This book of Mr. Duffy's,[47] true as it is to the wants of the time, is not fortuitous. He has prefaced his admirable collection by an Introduction, which proves his full consciousness of the worth of his task, and proves equally his ability to execute it. In a s.p.a.ce too short for the most impatient to run by he has accurately investigated the sources of Irish Ballad Poetry, vividly defined the qualities of each, and laboured with perfect success to show that all naturally combine towards one great end, as the brooks to a river, which marches on clear, deep, and single, though they be wild, and shallow, and turbid, flowing from unlike regions, and meeting after countless windings.

Mr. Duffy maps out three main forces which unequally contribute to an Irish Ballad Poetry.

The _first_ consists of the Gaelic ballads. True to the vehemence and tendencies of the Celtic people, and representing equally their vagueness and extravagance during slavish times, they nevertheless remain locked from the middle and upper cla.s.ses generally, and from the peasantry of more than half Ireland, in an unknown language. Many of them have been translated by rhymers--few indeed by poets. The editor of the volume before us has brought into one house nearly all the poetical translations from the Irish, and thus finely justifies the ballad literature of the Gael from its calumnious friend:--

"With a few exceptions, all the translations we are acquainted with, in addition to having abundance of minor faults, are eminently un-Irish. They seem to have been made by persons to whom one of the languages was not familiar. Many of them were confessedly versified from prose translations, and are mere English poems, without a tinge of the colour or character of the country.

Others, translated by sound Irish scholars, are bald and literal; the writers sometimes wanting a facility of versification, sometimes a mastery over the English language. The Irish scholars of the last century were too exclusively national to study the foreign tongue with the care essential to master its metrical resources; and the flexible and weighty language which they had not learned to wield hung heavily on them,

'Like Saul's plate armour on the shepherd boy, Enc.u.mbering, and _not_ arming them.'

If it were just to estimate our bardic poetry by the specimens we have received in this manner, it could not be rated highly. But it would manifestly be most unjust. n.o.ble and touching, and often subtle and profound thoughts, which no translation could entirely spoil, shine through the poverty of the style, and vindicate the character of the originals. Like the costly arms and ornaments found in our bogs, they are substantial witnesses of a distinct civilisation; and their credit is no more diminished by the rubbish in which they chance to be found than the authenticity of the ancient _torques_ and _skians_ by their embedment in the mud.

When the entire collection of our Irish Percy--James Hardiman--shall have been given to a public (and soon may such a one come) that can relish them in their native dress, they will be ent.i.tled to undisputed precedence in our national minstrelsy."

About a dozen of the ballads in the volume are derived from the Irish.

It is only in this way that Clarence Mangan (a name to which Mr. Duffy does just honour) contributes to the volume. There are four translations by him, exhibiting eminently his perfect mastery of versification--his flexibility of pa.s.sion, from loneliest grief to the maddest humour. One of these, "The Lament for O'Neil and O'Donnell," is the strongest, though it will not be the most popular, ballad in the work.

Callanan's and Ferguson's translations, if not so daringly versified, are simpler and more Irish in idiom.

Most, indeed, of Callanan's successful ballads are translations, and well ent.i.tle him to what he pa.s.sionately prays for--a minstrel of free Erin to come to his grave,

"And plant a wild wreath from the banks of the river O'er the heart and the harp that are sleeping for ever."

But we are wrong in speaking of Mr. Ferguson's translations in precisely the same way. His "Wicklow War Song" is condensed, epigrammatic, and crashing, as anything we know of, except the "Pibroch of Donnil Dhu."

The _second_ source is--the common people's ballads. Most of these "make no pretence to being true to Ireland, but only being true to the _purlieus_ of Cork and Dublin"; yet now and then one meets a fine burst of pa.s.sion, and oftener a racy idiom. The "Drimin Dhu," "The Blackbird,"

"Peggy Bawn," "Irish Molly," "w.i.l.l.y Reilly," and the "Fair of Turloughmore," are the specimens given here. Of these "w.i.l.l.y Reilly"

(an old and worthy favourite in Ulster, it seems, but quite unknown elsewhere) is the best; but it is too long to quote, and we must limit ourselves to the n.o.ble opening verse of "Turloughmore"--

"'Come, tell me, dearest mother, what makes my father stay, Or what can be the reason that he's so long away?'

Oh! 'hold your tongue, my darling son, your tears do grieve me sore; I fear he has been murdered in the fair of Turloughmore.'"

The _third_ and princ.i.p.al source consists of the Anglo-Irish ballads, written during the last twenty or thirty years.

Of this highest cla.s.s, he who contributes most and, to our mind, best is Mr. Ferguson. We have already spoken of his translations--his original ballads are better. There is nothing in this volume--nothing in _Percy's Relics_, or the _Border Minstrelsy_, to surpa.s.s, perhaps to equal, "w.i.l.l.y Gilliland." It is as natural in structure as "Kinmont Willie," as vigorous as "Otterbourne," and as complete as "Lochinvar." Leaving his Irish idiom, we get in the "Forester's Complaint" as harmonious versification, and in the "Forging of the Anchor" as vigorous thoughts, mounted on bounding words, as anywhere in the English literature.

We must quote some stray verses from "w.i.l.l.y Gilliland":--

"Up in the mountain solitudes, and in a rebel ring, He has worshipped G.o.d upon the hill, in spite of church and king; And sealed his treason with his blood on Bothwell bridge he hath; So he must fly his father's land, or he must die the death; For comely Claverhouse has come along with grim Dalzell, And his smoking roof tree testifies they've done their errand well.

"His blithe work done, upon a bank the outlaw rested now, And laid the basket from his back, the bonnet from his brow; And there, his hand upon the Book, his knee upon the sod, He filled the lonely valley with the gladsome word of G.o.d; And for a persecuted kirk, and for her martyrs dear, And against a G.o.dless church and king he spoke up loud and clear.

"'My bonny mare! I've ridden you when Claver'se rode behind, And from the thumbscrew and the boot you bore me like the wind; And while I have the life you saved, on your sleek flank, I swear, Episcopalian rowel shall never ruffle hair!

Though sword to wield they've left me none--yet Wallace wight I wis, Good battle did, on Irvine side, wi' waur weapon than this.'--

"His fishing-rod with both his hands he gripped it as he spoke, And, where the b.u.t.t and top were spliced, in pieces twain he broke; The limber top he cast away, with all its gear abroad, But, grasping the tough hickory b.u.t.t, with spike of iron shod, He ground the sharp spear to a point; then pulled his bonnet down, And, meditating black revenge, set forth for Carrick town."

The only ballad equally racy is "The Croppy Boy," by some anonymous but most promising writer.

Griffin's "Gille Machree"--of another cla.s.s--is perfect--"striking on the heart," as Mr. Duffy finely says, "like the cry of a woman"; but his "Orange and Green," and his "Bridal of Malahide," belong to the same cla.s.s, and suffer by comparison, with Mr. Ferguson's ballads.

Banim's greatest ballad, the "Soggarth Aroon," possesses even deeper tenderness and more perfect Irish idiom than anything in the volume.

Among the Collection are Colonel Blacker's famous Orange ballad, "Oliver's Advice" ("Put your trust in G.o.d, my boys, but keep your powder dry"), and two versions of the "Boyne Water." The latter and older one, given in the appendix, is by far the finest, and contains two unrivalled stanzas:--

"Both foot and horse they marched on, intending them to batter, But the brave Duke Schomberg he was shot as he crossed over the water.

When that King William he observed the brave Duke Schomberg falling, He rein'd his horse, with a heavy heart, on the Enniskilleners calling; 'What will you do for me, brave boys? see yonder men retreating, Our enemies encouraged are--and English drums are beating'; He says 'My boys, feel no dismay at the losing of one commander, For G.o.d shall be our King this day, and I'll be general under.'"

Nor less welcome is the comment:--

"Some of the Ulster ballads, of a restricted and provincial spirit, having less in common with Ireland than with Scotland; two or three Orange ballads, altogether ferocious or foreign in their tendencies (preaching murder, or deifying an alien), will be no less valuable to the patriot or the poet on this account. They echo faithfully the sentiments of a strong, vehement, and indomitable body of Irishmen, who may come to battle for their country better than they ever battled for prejudices or their bigotries. At all events, to know what they love and believe is a precious knowledge."

On the language of most of the ballads Mr. Duffy says:--

"Many of them, and generally the best, are just as essentially Irish as if they were written in Gaelic. They could have grown among no other people, perhaps under no other sky or scenery. To an Englishman, to any Irishman educated out of the country, or to a dreamer asleep to impressions of scenery and character, they would be achievements as impossible as the Swedish _Skalds_ or the _Arabian Nights_. They are as Irish as Ossian or Carolan, and unconsciously reproduce the spirit of those poets better than any translator can hope to do. They revive and perpetuate the vehement native songs that gladdened the halls of our princes in their triumphs, and wailed over their ruined hopes or murdered bodies. In everything but language, and almost in language, they are identical. That strange tenacity of the Celtic race, which makes a description of their habits and propensities when Caesar was still a Proconsul in Gaul true in essentials of the Irish people to this day, has enabled them to infuse the ancient and hereditary spirit of the country into all that is genuine of our modern poetry. And even the language grew almost Irish. The soul of the country, stammering its pa.s.sionate grief and hatred in a strange tongue, loved still to utter them in its old familiar idioms and cadences.

Uttering them, perhaps, with more piercing earnestness, because of the impediment; and winning out of the very difficulty a grace and a triumph."

How often have we wished for such a companion as this volume! Worse than meeting unclean beds, or drenching mists, or c.o.c.kney opinions, was it to have to take the mountains with a book of Scottish ballads. They were glorious, to be sure, but they were not ours--they had not the brown of the climate on their cheek, they spoke of places afar, and ways which are not our country's ways, and hopes which were not Ireland's, and their tongue was not that we first made sport and love with. Yet how mountaineer without ballads any more than without a shillelagh? No; we took the Scots ballads, and felt our souls rubbing away with envy and alienage amid their attractions; but now, Brighid, be praised! we can have all Irish thoughts on Irish hills, true to them as the music, or the wind, or the sky.

Happy boys! who may grow up with such ballads in your memories. Happy men! who will find your hearts not only doubtful but joyous in serving and sacrificing for the country you thus learned in childhood to love.

--------------------------------------------------------------- [47] _Ballad Poetry of Ireland_,--Library of Ireland, No. II.

A BALLAD HISTORY OF IRELAND.

Of course the first _object_ of the work we project[48] will be to make Irish History familiar to the minds, pleasant to the ears, dear to the pa.s.sions, and powerful over the taste and conduct of the Irish people in times to come. More _events_ could be put into a prose history.

Exact dates, subtle plots, minute connections and motives rarely appear in Ballads, and for these ends the worst prose history is superior to the best ballad series; but these are not the highest ends of history.

To hallow or accurse the scenes of glory and honour, or of shame and sorrow; to give to the imagination the arms, and homes, and senates, and battles of other days; to rouse, and soften, and strengthen, and enlarge us with the pa.s.sions of great periods; to lead us into love of self-denial, of justice, of beauty, of valour, of generous life and proud death; and to set up in our souls the memory of great men, who shall then be as models and judges of our actions--these are the highest duties of history, and these are best taught by a Ballad History.

A Ballad History is welcome to childhood, from its rhymes, its high colouring, and its aptness to memory. As we grow into boyhood, the violent pa.s.sions, the vague hopes, the romantic sorrow of patriot ballads are in tune with our fitful and luxuriant feelings. In manhood we prize the condensed narrative, the grave firmness, the critical art, and the political sway of ballads. And in old age they are doubly dear; the companions and reminders of our life, the toys and teachers of our children and grand-children. Every generation finds its account in them. They pa.s.s from mouth to mouth like salutations; and even the minds which lose their words are under their influence, as one can recall the starry heavens who cannot revive the form of a single constellation.

In olden times all ballads were made to music, and the minstrel sang them to his harp or screamed them in recitative. Thus they reached farther, were welcomer guests in feast and camp, and were better preserved. We shall have more to say on this in speaking of our proposed song collection. Printing so multiplies copies of ballads, and intercourse is so general, that there is less need of this adaptation to music now. Moreover, it may be disputed whether the dramatic effect in the more solemn ballads is not injured by lyrical forms. In such streaming exhortations and laments as we find in the Greek choruses and in the adjurations and caoines of the Irish, the breaks and parallel repet.i.tions of a song might lower the pa.s.sion. Were we free to do so, we could point out instances in the _Spirit of the Nation_ in which the rejection of song-forms seems to have been essential to the awfulness of the occasion.

In pure narratives and in the gayer and more splendid, though less stern ballads, the song-forms and adaptation to music are clear gains.

In the Scotch ballads this is usual, in the English rare. We look in vain through Southey's admirable ballads--"Mary the Maid of the Inn,"

"Jaspar," "Inchcape Rock," "Bishop Hatto," "King Henry V. and the Hermit of Dreux"--for either burden, chorus, or adaptation to music. In the "Battle of Blenheim" there is, however, an occasional burden line; and in the smashing "March to Moscow" there is a great chorusing about--

"Morbleu! Parbleu!

What a pleasant excursion to Moscow."