Scorney Bwee, the Barretts' bailiff, lewd and lame,To lift the Lynott's taxes when he came,Rudely drew a young maid to him!Then the Lynotts rose and slew him,And in Tubber-na-Scorney threw him—Small your blame,Sons of Lynott!Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.Then the Barretts to the Lynotts gave a choice,Saying, 'Hear, ye murderous brood, men and boys,Choose ye now, without delay,Will ye lose your eyesight, say,Or your manhoods, here to-day?Sad your choice,Sons of Lynott!Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.Then the little boys of the Lynotts, weeping, said,'Only leave us our eyesight in our head.'But the bearded Lynotts thenQuickly answered back again,'Take our eyes, but leave us men,Alive or dead,Sons of Wattin!'Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.So the Barretts with sewing-needles sharp and smooth,Let the light out of the eyes of every youth,And of every bearded man,Of the broken Lynott clan;Then their darkened faces wanTurning southTo the river—Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.O'er the slippery stepping-stones of Clochan-na-n'allThey drove them, laughing loud at every fall,As their wandering footsteps darkFailed to reach the slippery mark,And the swift stream swallowed stark,One and allAs they stumbled—From the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.Of all the blinded Lynotts one aloneWalk'd erect from stepping-stone to stone:So back again they brought you,And a second time they wrought youWith their needles; but never got youOnce to groan,Emon Lynott,For the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.But with prompt-projected footsteps sure as ever,Emon Lynott again cross'd the river.Though Duvowen was rising fast,And the shaking stones o'ercastBy cold floods boiling past;Yet you never,Emon Lynott,Faltered once before your foemen of Tirawley.But, turning on Ballintubber bank, you stood,And the Barretts thus bespoke o'er the flood—'O, ye foolish sons of Wattin,Small amends are these you've gotten,For, while Scorna Boy lies rotten,I am goodFor vengeance!'Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.'For 'tis neither in eye nor eyesight that a manBears the fortunes of himself and his clan,But in the manly mind,These darken'd orbs behind,That your needles could never findThough they ranThrough my heart-strings!'Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.'But, little your women's needles do I reck;For the night from heaven never fell so black,But Tirawley, and abroadFrom the Moy to Cuan-an-fod,I could walk it every sod,Path and track,Ford and togher,Seeking vengeance on you, Barretts of Tirawley!'The night when Dathy O'Dowda broke your camp,What Barrett among you was it held the lamp—Showed the way to those two feet,When through wintry wind and sleet,I guided your blind retreatIn the swampOf Beäl-an-asa?O ye vengeance-destined ingrates of Tirawley!'So leaving loud-shriek-echoing Garranard,The Lynott like a red dog hunted hard,With his wife and children seven,'Mong the beasts and fowls of heavenIn the hollows of Glen Nephin,Light-debarred,Made his dwelling,Planning vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.And ere the bright-orb'd year its course had run,On his brown round-knotted knee he nursed a son,A child of light, with eyesAs clear as are the skiesIn summer, when sunriseHas begun;So the LynottNursed his vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.And, as ever the bright boy grew in strength and size,Made him perfect in each manly exercise,The salmon in the flood,The dun deer in the wood,The eagle in the cloudTo surpriseOn Ben Nephin,Far above the foggy fields of Tirawley.With the yellow-knotted spear-shaft, with the bow,With the steel, prompt to deal shot and blow,He taught him from year to yearAnd train'd him, without a peer,For a perfect cavalier,Hoping so—Far his forethought—For vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.And, when mounted on his proud-bounding steed,Emon Oge sat a cavalier indeed;Like the ear upon the wheatWhen winds in Autumn beatOn the bending stems, his seat;And the speedOf his courserWas the wind from Barna-na-gee o'er Tirawley!Now when fifteen sunny summers thus were spent,(He perfected in all accomplishment)—The Lynott said, 'My child,We are over long exiledFrom mankind in this wild——Time we wentThrough the mountainTo the countries lying over-against Tirawley.'So, out over mountain-moors, and mosses brown,And green steam-gathering vales, they journey'd down:Till, shining like a star,Through the dusky gleams afar,The bailey of Castlebar,And the townOf MacWilliamRose bright before the wanderers of Tirawley.'Look southward, my boy, and tell me as we go,What see'st thou by the loch-head below?''O, a stone-house strong and great,And a horse-host at the gate,And a captain in armour of plate—Grand the show!Great the glancing!High the heroes of this land below Tirawley.'And a beautiful Bantierna by his side,Yellow gold on all her gown-sleeves wide;And in her hand a pearlOf a young, little, fair-haired girl.'Said the Lynott, 'It is the Earl!Let us rideTo his presence.'And before him came the exiles of Tirawley.'God save thee, MacWilliam,' the Lynott thus began;'God save all here besides of this clan;For gossips dear to meAre all in company—For in these four bones ye seeA kindly manOf the Britons—Emon Lynott of Garranard of Tirawley.'And hither, as kindly gossip-law allows,I come to claim a scion of thy houseTo foster; for thy race,Since William Conquer's days,Have ever been wont to place,With some spouseOf a Briton,A MacWilliam Oge, to foster in Tirawley.'And to show thee in what sort our youth are taughtI have hither to thy home of valour broughtThis one son of my age,For a sample and a pledgeFor the equal tutelage,In right thought,Word, and action,Of whatever son ye give into Tirawley.'When MacWilliam beheld the brave boy ride and run,Saw the spear-shaft from his white shoulder spun—With a sigh, and with a smile,He said,—'I would give the spoilOf a county, that Tibbot Moyle,My own son,Were accomplish'dLike this branch of the kindly Britons of Tirawley.'When the Lady MacWilliam she heard him speak,And saw the ruddy roses on his cheek,She said, 'I would give a purseOf red gold to the nurseThat would rear my Tibbot no worse;But I seekHitherto vainly—Heaven grant that I now have found her in Tirawley!'So they said to the Lynott, 'Here, take our bird!And as pledge for the keeping of thy word,Let this scion here remainTill thou comest back again:Meanwhile the fitting trainOf a lordShall attend theeWith the lordly heir of Connaught into Tirawley.'So back to strong-throng-gathering Garranard,Like a lord of the country with his guard,Came the Lynott, before them all,Once again over Clochan-na-n'allSteady and striding, erect and tall,And his wardOn his shouldersTo the wonder of the Welshmen of Tirawley.Then a diligent foster-father you would deemThe Lynott, teaching Tibbot, by mead and stream,To cast the spear, to ride,To stem the rushing tide,With what feats of body beside,Might beseemA MacWilliam,Fostered free among the Welshmen of Tirawley.But the lesson of hell he taught him in heart and mind,For to what desire soever he inclined,Of anger, lust, or pride,He had it gratified,Till he ranged the circle wideOf a blindSelf-indulgence,Ere he came to youthful manhood in Tirawley.Then, even as when a hunter slips a hound,Lynott loosed him—God's leashes all unbound—In the pride of power and station,And the strength of youthful passion,On the daughters of thy nation,All around,Wattin Barrett!O! the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley!Bitter grief and burning anger, rage and shame,Filled the houses of the Barretts where'er he came;Till the young men of the Back,Drew by night upon his track,And slew him at Cornassack.Small your blame,Sons of Wattin!Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.Said the Lynott, 'The day of my vengeance is drawing near,The day for which, through many a long dark year,I have toiled through grief and sin—Call ye now the Brehons in,And let the plea beginOver the bierOf MacWilliam,For an eric upon the Barretts of Tirawley!'Then the Brehons to MacWilliam Burke decreedAn eric upon Clan Barrett for the deed;And the Lynott's share of the fine,As foster-father, was ninePloughlands and nine score kine;But no needHad the Lynott,Neither care, for land or cattle in Tirawley.But rising, while all sat silent on the spot,He said, 'The law says—doth it not?—If the foster-sire electHis portion to reject,He may then the right exactTo applotThe short eric.''‘Tis the law,' replied the Brehons of Tirawley.Said the Lynott, 'I once before had a choiceProposed me, wherein law had little voice;But now I choose, and say,As lawfully I may,I applot the mulct to-day;So rejoiceIn your ploughlandsAnd your cattle which I renounce throughout Tirawley.'And thus I applot the mulct: I divideThe land throughout Clan Barrett on every sideEqually, that no placeMay be without the faceOf a foe of Wattin's race—That the prideOf the BarrettsMay be humbled hence for ever throughout Tirawley.'I adjudge a seat in every Barrett's hallTo MacWilliam: in every stable I give a stallTo MacWilliam: and, beside,Whenever a Burke shall rideThrough Tirawley, I provideAt his callNeedful grooming,Without charge from any Brughaidh of Tirawley.'Thus lawfully I avenge me for the throesYe lawlessly caused me and caused thoseUnhappy shame-faced onesWho, their mothers expected once,Would have been the sires of sons—O'er whose woesOften weeping,I have groaned in my exile from Tirawley.'I demand not of you your manhoods; but I take—For the Burkes will take it—your Freedom! for the sakeOf which all manhood's givenAnd all good under heaven,And, without which, better evenYou should makeYourselves barren,Than see your children slaves throughout Tirawley!'Neither take I your eyesight from you; as you tookMine and ours: I would have you daily lookOn one another's eyesWhen the strangers tyrannizeBy your hearths, and blushes arise,That ye brookWithout vengeanceThe insults of troops of Tibbots throughout Tirawley!'The vengeance I designed, now is done,And the days of me and mine nearly run—For, for this, I have broken faith,Teaching him who lies beneathThis pall, to merit death;And my sonTo his fatherStands pledged for other teaching in Tirawley.'Said MacWilliam—'Father and son, hang them high!'And the Lynott they hang'd speedily;But across the salt water,To Scotland, with the daughterOf MacWilliam—well you got her!Did you flyEdmund Lindsay,The gentlest of all the Welshmen of Tirawley!'Tis thus the ancient Ollaves of Erin tellHow, through lewdness and revenge, it befellThat the sons of William ConquerCame over the sons of Wattin,Throughout all the bounds and bordersOf the lands of Auley Mac Fiachra;Till the Saxon Oliver Cromwell,And his valiant, Bible-guided,Free heretics of Clan LondonComing in, in their succession,Rooted out both Burke and Barrett,And in their empty placesNew stems of freedom planted,With many a goodly saplingOf manliness and virtue;Which while their children cherish,Kindly Irish of the Irish,Neither Saxons nor Italians,May the mighty God of FreedomSpeed them well,Never takingFurther vengeance on his people of Tirawley.
Scorney Bwee, the Barretts' bailiff, lewd and lame,To lift the Lynott's taxes when he came,Rudely drew a young maid to him!Then the Lynotts rose and slew him,And in Tubber-na-Scorney threw him—Small your blame,Sons of Lynott!Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.Then the Barretts to the Lynotts gave a choice,Saying, 'Hear, ye murderous brood, men and boys,Choose ye now, without delay,Will ye lose your eyesight, say,Or your manhoods, here to-day?Sad your choice,Sons of Lynott!Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.Then the little boys of the Lynotts, weeping, said,'Only leave us our eyesight in our head.'But the bearded Lynotts thenQuickly answered back again,'Take our eyes, but leave us men,Alive or dead,Sons of Wattin!'Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.So the Barretts with sewing-needles sharp and smooth,Let the light out of the eyes of every youth,And of every bearded man,Of the broken Lynott clan;Then their darkened faces wanTurning southTo the river—Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.O'er the slippery stepping-stones of Clochan-na-n'allThey drove them, laughing loud at every fall,As their wandering footsteps darkFailed to reach the slippery mark,And the swift stream swallowed stark,One and allAs they stumbled—From the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.Of all the blinded Lynotts one aloneWalk'd erect from stepping-stone to stone:So back again they brought you,And a second time they wrought youWith their needles; but never got youOnce to groan,Emon Lynott,For the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.But with prompt-projected footsteps sure as ever,Emon Lynott again cross'd the river.Though Duvowen was rising fast,And the shaking stones o'ercastBy cold floods boiling past;Yet you never,Emon Lynott,Faltered once before your foemen of Tirawley.But, turning on Ballintubber bank, you stood,And the Barretts thus bespoke o'er the flood—'O, ye foolish sons of Wattin,Small amends are these you've gotten,For, while Scorna Boy lies rotten,I am goodFor vengeance!'Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.'For 'tis neither in eye nor eyesight that a manBears the fortunes of himself and his clan,But in the manly mind,These darken'd orbs behind,That your needles could never findThough they ranThrough my heart-strings!'Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.'But, little your women's needles do I reck;For the night from heaven never fell so black,But Tirawley, and abroadFrom the Moy to Cuan-an-fod,I could walk it every sod,Path and track,Ford and togher,Seeking vengeance on you, Barretts of Tirawley!'The night when Dathy O'Dowda broke your camp,What Barrett among you was it held the lamp—Showed the way to those two feet,When through wintry wind and sleet,I guided your blind retreatIn the swampOf Beäl-an-asa?O ye vengeance-destined ingrates of Tirawley!'So leaving loud-shriek-echoing Garranard,The Lynott like a red dog hunted hard,With his wife and children seven,'Mong the beasts and fowls of heavenIn the hollows of Glen Nephin,Light-debarred,Made his dwelling,Planning vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.And ere the bright-orb'd year its course had run,On his brown round-knotted knee he nursed a son,A child of light, with eyesAs clear as are the skiesIn summer, when sunriseHas begun;So the LynottNursed his vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.And, as ever the bright boy grew in strength and size,Made him perfect in each manly exercise,The salmon in the flood,The dun deer in the wood,The eagle in the cloudTo surpriseOn Ben Nephin,Far above the foggy fields of Tirawley.With the yellow-knotted spear-shaft, with the bow,With the steel, prompt to deal shot and blow,He taught him from year to yearAnd train'd him, without a peer,For a perfect cavalier,Hoping so—Far his forethought—For vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.And, when mounted on his proud-bounding steed,Emon Oge sat a cavalier indeed;Like the ear upon the wheatWhen winds in Autumn beatOn the bending stems, his seat;And the speedOf his courserWas the wind from Barna-na-gee o'er Tirawley!Now when fifteen sunny summers thus were spent,(He perfected in all accomplishment)—The Lynott said, 'My child,We are over long exiledFrom mankind in this wild——Time we wentThrough the mountainTo the countries lying over-against Tirawley.'So, out over mountain-moors, and mosses brown,And green steam-gathering vales, they journey'd down:Till, shining like a star,Through the dusky gleams afar,The bailey of Castlebar,And the townOf MacWilliamRose bright before the wanderers of Tirawley.'Look southward, my boy, and tell me as we go,What see'st thou by the loch-head below?''O, a stone-house strong and great,And a horse-host at the gate,And a captain in armour of plate—Grand the show!Great the glancing!High the heroes of this land below Tirawley.'And a beautiful Bantierna by his side,Yellow gold on all her gown-sleeves wide;And in her hand a pearlOf a young, little, fair-haired girl.'Said the Lynott, 'It is the Earl!Let us rideTo his presence.'And before him came the exiles of Tirawley.'God save thee, MacWilliam,' the Lynott thus began;'God save all here besides of this clan;For gossips dear to meAre all in company—For in these four bones ye seeA kindly manOf the Britons—Emon Lynott of Garranard of Tirawley.'And hither, as kindly gossip-law allows,I come to claim a scion of thy houseTo foster; for thy race,Since William Conquer's days,Have ever been wont to place,With some spouseOf a Briton,A MacWilliam Oge, to foster in Tirawley.'And to show thee in what sort our youth are taughtI have hither to thy home of valour broughtThis one son of my age,For a sample and a pledgeFor the equal tutelage,In right thought,Word, and action,Of whatever son ye give into Tirawley.'When MacWilliam beheld the brave boy ride and run,Saw the spear-shaft from his white shoulder spun—With a sigh, and with a smile,He said,—'I would give the spoilOf a county, that Tibbot Moyle,My own son,Were accomplish'dLike this branch of the kindly Britons of Tirawley.'When the Lady MacWilliam she heard him speak,And saw the ruddy roses on his cheek,She said, 'I would give a purseOf red gold to the nurseThat would rear my Tibbot no worse;But I seekHitherto vainly—Heaven grant that I now have found her in Tirawley!'So they said to the Lynott, 'Here, take our bird!And as pledge for the keeping of thy word,Let this scion here remainTill thou comest back again:Meanwhile the fitting trainOf a lordShall attend theeWith the lordly heir of Connaught into Tirawley.'So back to strong-throng-gathering Garranard,Like a lord of the country with his guard,Came the Lynott, before them all,Once again over Clochan-na-n'allSteady and striding, erect and tall,And his wardOn his shouldersTo the wonder of the Welshmen of Tirawley.Then a diligent foster-father you would deemThe Lynott, teaching Tibbot, by mead and stream,To cast the spear, to ride,To stem the rushing tide,With what feats of body beside,Might beseemA MacWilliam,Fostered free among the Welshmen of Tirawley.But the lesson of hell he taught him in heart and mind,For to what desire soever he inclined,Of anger, lust, or pride,He had it gratified,Till he ranged the circle wideOf a blindSelf-indulgence,Ere he came to youthful manhood in Tirawley.Then, even as when a hunter slips a hound,Lynott loosed him—God's leashes all unbound—In the pride of power and station,And the strength of youthful passion,On the daughters of thy nation,All around,Wattin Barrett!O! the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley!Bitter grief and burning anger, rage and shame,Filled the houses of the Barretts where'er he came;Till the young men of the Back,Drew by night upon his track,And slew him at Cornassack.Small your blame,Sons of Wattin!Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.Said the Lynott, 'The day of my vengeance is drawing near,The day for which, through many a long dark year,I have toiled through grief and sin—Call ye now the Brehons in,And let the plea beginOver the bierOf MacWilliam,For an eric upon the Barretts of Tirawley!'Then the Brehons to MacWilliam Burke decreedAn eric upon Clan Barrett for the deed;And the Lynott's share of the fine,As foster-father, was ninePloughlands and nine score kine;But no needHad the Lynott,Neither care, for land or cattle in Tirawley.But rising, while all sat silent on the spot,He said, 'The law says—doth it not?—If the foster-sire electHis portion to reject,He may then the right exactTo applotThe short eric.''‘Tis the law,' replied the Brehons of Tirawley.Said the Lynott, 'I once before had a choiceProposed me, wherein law had little voice;But now I choose, and say,As lawfully I may,I applot the mulct to-day;So rejoiceIn your ploughlandsAnd your cattle which I renounce throughout Tirawley.'And thus I applot the mulct: I divideThe land throughout Clan Barrett on every sideEqually, that no placeMay be without the faceOf a foe of Wattin's race—That the prideOf the BarrettsMay be humbled hence for ever throughout Tirawley.'I adjudge a seat in every Barrett's hallTo MacWilliam: in every stable I give a stallTo MacWilliam: and, beside,Whenever a Burke shall rideThrough Tirawley, I provideAt his callNeedful grooming,Without charge from any Brughaidh of Tirawley.'Thus lawfully I avenge me for the throesYe lawlessly caused me and caused thoseUnhappy shame-faced onesWho, their mothers expected once,Would have been the sires of sons—O'er whose woesOften weeping,I have groaned in my exile from Tirawley.'I demand not of you your manhoods; but I take—For the Burkes will take it—your Freedom! for the sakeOf which all manhood's givenAnd all good under heaven,And, without which, better evenYou should makeYourselves barren,Than see your children slaves throughout Tirawley!'Neither take I your eyesight from you; as you tookMine and ours: I would have you daily lookOn one another's eyesWhen the strangers tyrannizeBy your hearths, and blushes arise,That ye brookWithout vengeanceThe insults of troops of Tibbots throughout Tirawley!'The vengeance I designed, now is done,And the days of me and mine nearly run—For, for this, I have broken faith,Teaching him who lies beneathThis pall, to merit death;And my sonTo his fatherStands pledged for other teaching in Tirawley.'Said MacWilliam—'Father and son, hang them high!'And the Lynott they hang'd speedily;But across the salt water,To Scotland, with the daughterOf MacWilliam—well you got her!Did you flyEdmund Lindsay,The gentlest of all the Welshmen of Tirawley!'Tis thus the ancient Ollaves of Erin tellHow, through lewdness and revenge, it befellThat the sons of William ConquerCame over the sons of Wattin,Throughout all the bounds and bordersOf the lands of Auley Mac Fiachra;Till the Saxon Oliver Cromwell,And his valiant, Bible-guided,Free heretics of Clan LondonComing in, in their succession,Rooted out both Burke and Barrett,And in their empty placesNew stems of freedom planted,With many a goodly saplingOf manliness and virtue;Which while their children cherish,Kindly Irish of the Irish,Neither Saxons nor Italians,May the mighty God of FreedomSpeed them well,Never takingFurther vengeance on his people of Tirawley.
Scorney Bwee, the Barretts' bailiff, lewd and lame,To lift the Lynott's taxes when he came,Rudely drew a young maid to him!Then the Lynotts rose and slew him,And in Tubber-na-Scorney threw him—Small your blame,Sons of Lynott!Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
Then the Barretts to the Lynotts gave a choice,Saying, 'Hear, ye murderous brood, men and boys,Choose ye now, without delay,Will ye lose your eyesight, say,Or your manhoods, here to-day?Sad your choice,Sons of Lynott!Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
Then the little boys of the Lynotts, weeping, said,'Only leave us our eyesight in our head.'But the bearded Lynotts thenQuickly answered back again,'Take our eyes, but leave us men,Alive or dead,Sons of Wattin!'Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
So the Barretts with sewing-needles sharp and smooth,Let the light out of the eyes of every youth,And of every bearded man,Of the broken Lynott clan;Then their darkened faces wanTurning southTo the river—Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
O'er the slippery stepping-stones of Clochan-na-n'allThey drove them, laughing loud at every fall,As their wandering footsteps darkFailed to reach the slippery mark,And the swift stream swallowed stark,One and allAs they stumbled—From the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
Of all the blinded Lynotts one aloneWalk'd erect from stepping-stone to stone:So back again they brought you,And a second time they wrought youWith their needles; but never got youOnce to groan,Emon Lynott,For the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
But with prompt-projected footsteps sure as ever,Emon Lynott again cross'd the river.Though Duvowen was rising fast,And the shaking stones o'ercastBy cold floods boiling past;Yet you never,Emon Lynott,Faltered once before your foemen of Tirawley.
But, turning on Ballintubber bank, you stood,And the Barretts thus bespoke o'er the flood—'O, ye foolish sons of Wattin,Small amends are these you've gotten,For, while Scorna Boy lies rotten,I am goodFor vengeance!'Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
'For 'tis neither in eye nor eyesight that a manBears the fortunes of himself and his clan,But in the manly mind,These darken'd orbs behind,That your needles could never findThough they ranThrough my heart-strings!'Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
'But, little your women's needles do I reck;For the night from heaven never fell so black,But Tirawley, and abroadFrom the Moy to Cuan-an-fod,I could walk it every sod,Path and track,Ford and togher,Seeking vengeance on you, Barretts of Tirawley!
'The night when Dathy O'Dowda broke your camp,What Barrett among you was it held the lamp—Showed the way to those two feet,When through wintry wind and sleet,I guided your blind retreatIn the swampOf Beäl-an-asa?O ye vengeance-destined ingrates of Tirawley!'
So leaving loud-shriek-echoing Garranard,The Lynott like a red dog hunted hard,With his wife and children seven,'Mong the beasts and fowls of heavenIn the hollows of Glen Nephin,Light-debarred,Made his dwelling,Planning vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.
And ere the bright-orb'd year its course had run,On his brown round-knotted knee he nursed a son,A child of light, with eyesAs clear as are the skiesIn summer, when sunriseHas begun;So the LynottNursed his vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.
And, as ever the bright boy grew in strength and size,Made him perfect in each manly exercise,The salmon in the flood,The dun deer in the wood,The eagle in the cloudTo surpriseOn Ben Nephin,Far above the foggy fields of Tirawley.
With the yellow-knotted spear-shaft, with the bow,With the steel, prompt to deal shot and blow,He taught him from year to yearAnd train'd him, without a peer,For a perfect cavalier,Hoping so—Far his forethought—For vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley.
And, when mounted on his proud-bounding steed,Emon Oge sat a cavalier indeed;Like the ear upon the wheatWhen winds in Autumn beatOn the bending stems, his seat;And the speedOf his courserWas the wind from Barna-na-gee o'er Tirawley!
Now when fifteen sunny summers thus were spent,(He perfected in all accomplishment)—The Lynott said, 'My child,We are over long exiledFrom mankind in this wild——Time we wentThrough the mountainTo the countries lying over-against Tirawley.'
So, out over mountain-moors, and mosses brown,And green steam-gathering vales, they journey'd down:Till, shining like a star,Through the dusky gleams afar,The bailey of Castlebar,And the townOf MacWilliamRose bright before the wanderers of Tirawley.
'Look southward, my boy, and tell me as we go,What see'st thou by the loch-head below?''O, a stone-house strong and great,And a horse-host at the gate,And a captain in armour of plate—Grand the show!Great the glancing!High the heroes of this land below Tirawley.
'And a beautiful Bantierna by his side,Yellow gold on all her gown-sleeves wide;And in her hand a pearlOf a young, little, fair-haired girl.'Said the Lynott, 'It is the Earl!Let us rideTo his presence.'And before him came the exiles of Tirawley.
'God save thee, MacWilliam,' the Lynott thus began;'God save all here besides of this clan;For gossips dear to meAre all in company—For in these four bones ye seeA kindly manOf the Britons—Emon Lynott of Garranard of Tirawley.
'And hither, as kindly gossip-law allows,I come to claim a scion of thy houseTo foster; for thy race,Since William Conquer's days,Have ever been wont to place,With some spouseOf a Briton,A MacWilliam Oge, to foster in Tirawley.
'And to show thee in what sort our youth are taughtI have hither to thy home of valour broughtThis one son of my age,For a sample and a pledgeFor the equal tutelage,In right thought,Word, and action,Of whatever son ye give into Tirawley.'
When MacWilliam beheld the brave boy ride and run,Saw the spear-shaft from his white shoulder spun—With a sigh, and with a smile,He said,—'I would give the spoilOf a county, that Tibbot Moyle,My own son,Were accomplish'dLike this branch of the kindly Britons of Tirawley.'
When the Lady MacWilliam she heard him speak,And saw the ruddy roses on his cheek,She said, 'I would give a purseOf red gold to the nurseThat would rear my Tibbot no worse;But I seekHitherto vainly—Heaven grant that I now have found her in Tirawley!'
So they said to the Lynott, 'Here, take our bird!And as pledge for the keeping of thy word,Let this scion here remainTill thou comest back again:Meanwhile the fitting trainOf a lordShall attend theeWith the lordly heir of Connaught into Tirawley.'
So back to strong-throng-gathering Garranard,Like a lord of the country with his guard,Came the Lynott, before them all,Once again over Clochan-na-n'allSteady and striding, erect and tall,And his wardOn his shouldersTo the wonder of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
Then a diligent foster-father you would deemThe Lynott, teaching Tibbot, by mead and stream,To cast the spear, to ride,To stem the rushing tide,With what feats of body beside,Might beseemA MacWilliam,Fostered free among the Welshmen of Tirawley.
But the lesson of hell he taught him in heart and mind,For to what desire soever he inclined,Of anger, lust, or pride,He had it gratified,Till he ranged the circle wideOf a blindSelf-indulgence,Ere he came to youthful manhood in Tirawley.
Then, even as when a hunter slips a hound,Lynott loosed him—God's leashes all unbound—In the pride of power and station,And the strength of youthful passion,On the daughters of thy nation,All around,Wattin Barrett!O! the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley!
Bitter grief and burning anger, rage and shame,Filled the houses of the Barretts where'er he came;Till the young men of the Back,Drew by night upon his track,And slew him at Cornassack.Small your blame,Sons of Wattin!Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley.
Said the Lynott, 'The day of my vengeance is drawing near,The day for which, through many a long dark year,I have toiled through grief and sin—Call ye now the Brehons in,And let the plea beginOver the bierOf MacWilliam,For an eric upon the Barretts of Tirawley!'
Then the Brehons to MacWilliam Burke decreedAn eric upon Clan Barrett for the deed;And the Lynott's share of the fine,As foster-father, was ninePloughlands and nine score kine;But no needHad the Lynott,Neither care, for land or cattle in Tirawley.
But rising, while all sat silent on the spot,He said, 'The law says—doth it not?—If the foster-sire electHis portion to reject,He may then the right exactTo applotThe short eric.''‘Tis the law,' replied the Brehons of Tirawley.
Said the Lynott, 'I once before had a choiceProposed me, wherein law had little voice;But now I choose, and say,As lawfully I may,I applot the mulct to-day;So rejoiceIn your ploughlandsAnd your cattle which I renounce throughout Tirawley.
'And thus I applot the mulct: I divideThe land throughout Clan Barrett on every sideEqually, that no placeMay be without the faceOf a foe of Wattin's race—That the prideOf the BarrettsMay be humbled hence for ever throughout Tirawley.
'I adjudge a seat in every Barrett's hallTo MacWilliam: in every stable I give a stallTo MacWilliam: and, beside,Whenever a Burke shall rideThrough Tirawley, I provideAt his callNeedful grooming,Without charge from any Brughaidh of Tirawley.
'Thus lawfully I avenge me for the throesYe lawlessly caused me and caused thoseUnhappy shame-faced onesWho, their mothers expected once,Would have been the sires of sons—O'er whose woesOften weeping,I have groaned in my exile from Tirawley.
'I demand not of you your manhoods; but I take—For the Burkes will take it—your Freedom! for the sakeOf which all manhood's givenAnd all good under heaven,And, without which, better evenYou should makeYourselves barren,Than see your children slaves throughout Tirawley!
'Neither take I your eyesight from you; as you tookMine and ours: I would have you daily lookOn one another's eyesWhen the strangers tyrannizeBy your hearths, and blushes arise,That ye brookWithout vengeanceThe insults of troops of Tibbots throughout Tirawley!
'The vengeance I designed, now is done,And the days of me and mine nearly run—For, for this, I have broken faith,Teaching him who lies beneathThis pall, to merit death;And my sonTo his fatherStands pledged for other teaching in Tirawley.'
Said MacWilliam—'Father and son, hang them high!'And the Lynott they hang'd speedily;But across the salt water,To Scotland, with the daughterOf MacWilliam—well you got her!Did you flyEdmund Lindsay,The gentlest of all the Welshmen of Tirawley!
'Tis thus the ancient Ollaves of Erin tellHow, through lewdness and revenge, it befellThat the sons of William ConquerCame over the sons of Wattin,Throughout all the bounds and bordersOf the lands of Auley Mac Fiachra;Till the Saxon Oliver Cromwell,And his valiant, Bible-guided,Free heretics of Clan LondonComing in, in their succession,Rooted out both Burke and Barrett,And in their empty placesNew stems of freedom planted,With many a goodly saplingOf manliness and virtue;Which while their children cherish,Kindly Irish of the Irish,Neither Saxons nor Italians,May the mighty God of FreedomSpeed them well,Never takingFurther vengeance on his people of Tirawley.
Sir Samuel Ferguson
They heaved the stone; they heap'd the cairn.Said Ossian, 'In a queenly graveWe leave her, 'mong her fields of fern,Between the cliff and wave.'The cliff behind stands clear and bare,And bare, above, the heathery steepScales the clear heaven's expanse, to whereThe Danaan Druids sleep.'And all the sands that, left and right,The grassy isthmus-ridge confine,In yellow bars lie bare and brightAmong the sparkling brine.'A clear pure air pervades the scene,In loneliness and awe secure;Meet spot to sepulchre a QueenWho in her life was pure.'Here, far from camp and chase removed,Apart in Nature's quiet room,The music that alive she lovedShall cheer her in the tomb.'The humming of the noontide bees,The lark's loud carol all day long,And, borne on evening's salted breeze,The clanking sea-bird's song,'Shall round her airy chamber float,And with the whispering winds and streams,Attune to Nature's tenderest noteThe tenor of her dreams.'And oft, at tranquil eve's decline,When full tides lip the Old Green Plain,The lowing of Moynalty's kineShall round her breathe again.'In sweet remembrance of the daysWhen, duteous, in the lowly vale,Unconscious of my Oscar's gaze,She fill'd the fragrant pail,'And, duteous, from the running brookDrew water for the bath; nor deem'dA king did on her labour look,And she a fairy seem'd.'But when the wintry frosts begin,And in their long-drawn, lofty flight,The wild geese with their airy dinDistend the ear of night,'And when the fierce De Danaan ghostsAt midnight from their peak come down,When all around the enchanted coastsDespairing strangers drown;'When, mingling with the wreckful wail,From low Clontarf's wave-trampled floorComes booming up the burthen'd galeThe angry Sand-Bull's roar;'Or, angrier than the sea, the shoutOf Erin's hosts in wrath combined,When Terror heads Oppression's rout,And Freedom cheers behind:—'Then o'er our lady's placid dream,Where safe from storms she sleeps, may stealSuch joy as will not misbeseemA Queen of men to feel:'Such thrill of free, defiant pride,As rapt her in her battle-carAt Gavra, when by Oscar's sideShe rode the ridge of war,'Exulting, down the shouting troops,And through the thick confronting kings,With hands on all their javelin loopsAnd shafts on all their strings;'E'er closed the inseparable crowds,No more to part for me, and show,As bursts the sun through scattering clouds,My Oscar issuing so.'No more, dispelling battle's gloom,Shall son for me from fight return;The great green rath's ten-acred tombLies heavy on his urn.'A cup of bodkin-pencill'd clayHolds Oscar; mighty heart and limbOne handful now of ashes grey:And she has died for him.'And here, hard by her natal bowerOn lone Ben Edar's side, we striveWith lifted rock and sign of powerTo keep her name alive.'That while from circling year to year,Her Ogham-letter'd stone is seen,The Gael shall say, "Our Fenians hereEntombed their loved Aideen."'The Ogham from her pillar-stoneIn tract of time will wear away;Her name at last be only knownIn Ossian's echo'd lay.'The long-forgotten lay I singMay only ages hence revive,(As eagle with a wounded wingTo soar again might strive,)'Imperfect, in an alien speech,When, wandering here, some child of chanceThrough pangs of keen delight shall reachThe gift of utterance,—'To speak the air, the sky to speak,The freshness of the hill to tell,Who, roaming bare Ben Edar's peakAnd Aideen's briary dell,'And gazing on the Cromlech vast,And on the mountain and the sea,Shall catch communion with the pastAnd mix himself with me.'Child of the Future's doubtful night,Whate'er your speech, whoe'er your sires,Sing while you may with frank delightThe song your hour inspires.'Sing while you may, nor grieve to knowThe song you sing shall also die;Atharna's lay has perish'd so,Though once it thrill'd this sky,'Above us, from his rocky chair,There, where Ben Edar's landward crestO'er eastern Bregia bends, to whereDun Almon crowns the west:'And all that felt the fretted airThroughout the song-distempered clime,Did droop, till suppliant Leinster's prayerAppeased the vengeful rhyme.'Ah me, or e'er the hour arriveShall bid my long-forgotten tones,Unknown One, on your lips reviveHere by these moss-grown stones,'What change shall o'er the scene have crossed;What conquering lords anew have comeWhat lore-arm'd, mightier Druid hostFrom Gaul or distant Rome!'What arts of death, what ways of life,What creeds unknown to bard or seer,Shall round your careless steps be rife,Who pause and ponder here;'And, haply, where yon curlew callsAthwart the marsh, 'mid groves and bowers,See rise some mighty chieftain's hallsWith unimagined towers:'And baying hounds, and coursers bright,And burnish'd cars of dazzling sheen,With courtly train of dame and knight,Where now the fern is green.'Or, by yon prostrate altar-stoneMay kneel, perchance, and, free from blame,New holy men with rites unknownNew names of God proclaim.'Let change as may the Name of Awe,Let right surcease and altar pall,The same One God remains, a lawFor ever and for all.'Let change as may the face of earth,Let alter all the social frame,For mortal men the warp of birthAnd death are still the same.'And still, as life and time wear on,The children of the waning days,(Though strength be from their shoulders goneTo lift the loads we raise,)'Shall weep to do the burial ritesOf lost ones loved; and fondly found,In shadow of the gathering nights,The monumental mound.'Farewell! the strength of men is worn:The night approaches dark and chill:Sleep, till perchance an endless mornDescend the glittering hill.'Of Oscar and Aideen bereft,So Ossian's song. The Fenians spedThree mighty shouts to heaven; and leftBen Edar to the dead.
They heaved the stone; they heap'd the cairn.Said Ossian, 'In a queenly graveWe leave her, 'mong her fields of fern,Between the cliff and wave.'The cliff behind stands clear and bare,And bare, above, the heathery steepScales the clear heaven's expanse, to whereThe Danaan Druids sleep.'And all the sands that, left and right,The grassy isthmus-ridge confine,In yellow bars lie bare and brightAmong the sparkling brine.'A clear pure air pervades the scene,In loneliness and awe secure;Meet spot to sepulchre a QueenWho in her life was pure.'Here, far from camp and chase removed,Apart in Nature's quiet room,The music that alive she lovedShall cheer her in the tomb.'The humming of the noontide bees,The lark's loud carol all day long,And, borne on evening's salted breeze,The clanking sea-bird's song,'Shall round her airy chamber float,And with the whispering winds and streams,Attune to Nature's tenderest noteThe tenor of her dreams.'And oft, at tranquil eve's decline,When full tides lip the Old Green Plain,The lowing of Moynalty's kineShall round her breathe again.'In sweet remembrance of the daysWhen, duteous, in the lowly vale,Unconscious of my Oscar's gaze,She fill'd the fragrant pail,'And, duteous, from the running brookDrew water for the bath; nor deem'dA king did on her labour look,And she a fairy seem'd.'But when the wintry frosts begin,And in their long-drawn, lofty flight,The wild geese with their airy dinDistend the ear of night,'And when the fierce De Danaan ghostsAt midnight from their peak come down,When all around the enchanted coastsDespairing strangers drown;'When, mingling with the wreckful wail,From low Clontarf's wave-trampled floorComes booming up the burthen'd galeThe angry Sand-Bull's roar;'Or, angrier than the sea, the shoutOf Erin's hosts in wrath combined,When Terror heads Oppression's rout,And Freedom cheers behind:—'Then o'er our lady's placid dream,Where safe from storms she sleeps, may stealSuch joy as will not misbeseemA Queen of men to feel:'Such thrill of free, defiant pride,As rapt her in her battle-carAt Gavra, when by Oscar's sideShe rode the ridge of war,'Exulting, down the shouting troops,And through the thick confronting kings,With hands on all their javelin loopsAnd shafts on all their strings;'E'er closed the inseparable crowds,No more to part for me, and show,As bursts the sun through scattering clouds,My Oscar issuing so.'No more, dispelling battle's gloom,Shall son for me from fight return;The great green rath's ten-acred tombLies heavy on his urn.'A cup of bodkin-pencill'd clayHolds Oscar; mighty heart and limbOne handful now of ashes grey:And she has died for him.'And here, hard by her natal bowerOn lone Ben Edar's side, we striveWith lifted rock and sign of powerTo keep her name alive.'That while from circling year to year,Her Ogham-letter'd stone is seen,The Gael shall say, "Our Fenians hereEntombed their loved Aideen."'The Ogham from her pillar-stoneIn tract of time will wear away;Her name at last be only knownIn Ossian's echo'd lay.'The long-forgotten lay I singMay only ages hence revive,(As eagle with a wounded wingTo soar again might strive,)'Imperfect, in an alien speech,When, wandering here, some child of chanceThrough pangs of keen delight shall reachThe gift of utterance,—'To speak the air, the sky to speak,The freshness of the hill to tell,Who, roaming bare Ben Edar's peakAnd Aideen's briary dell,'And gazing on the Cromlech vast,And on the mountain and the sea,Shall catch communion with the pastAnd mix himself with me.'Child of the Future's doubtful night,Whate'er your speech, whoe'er your sires,Sing while you may with frank delightThe song your hour inspires.'Sing while you may, nor grieve to knowThe song you sing shall also die;Atharna's lay has perish'd so,Though once it thrill'd this sky,'Above us, from his rocky chair,There, where Ben Edar's landward crestO'er eastern Bregia bends, to whereDun Almon crowns the west:'And all that felt the fretted airThroughout the song-distempered clime,Did droop, till suppliant Leinster's prayerAppeased the vengeful rhyme.'Ah me, or e'er the hour arriveShall bid my long-forgotten tones,Unknown One, on your lips reviveHere by these moss-grown stones,'What change shall o'er the scene have crossed;What conquering lords anew have comeWhat lore-arm'd, mightier Druid hostFrom Gaul or distant Rome!'What arts of death, what ways of life,What creeds unknown to bard or seer,Shall round your careless steps be rife,Who pause and ponder here;'And, haply, where yon curlew callsAthwart the marsh, 'mid groves and bowers,See rise some mighty chieftain's hallsWith unimagined towers:'And baying hounds, and coursers bright,And burnish'd cars of dazzling sheen,With courtly train of dame and knight,Where now the fern is green.'Or, by yon prostrate altar-stoneMay kneel, perchance, and, free from blame,New holy men with rites unknownNew names of God proclaim.'Let change as may the Name of Awe,Let right surcease and altar pall,The same One God remains, a lawFor ever and for all.'Let change as may the face of earth,Let alter all the social frame,For mortal men the warp of birthAnd death are still the same.'And still, as life and time wear on,The children of the waning days,(Though strength be from their shoulders goneTo lift the loads we raise,)'Shall weep to do the burial ritesOf lost ones loved; and fondly found,In shadow of the gathering nights,The monumental mound.'Farewell! the strength of men is worn:The night approaches dark and chill:Sleep, till perchance an endless mornDescend the glittering hill.'Of Oscar and Aideen bereft,So Ossian's song. The Fenians spedThree mighty shouts to heaven; and leftBen Edar to the dead.
They heaved the stone; they heap'd the cairn.Said Ossian, 'In a queenly graveWe leave her, 'mong her fields of fern,Between the cliff and wave.
'The cliff behind stands clear and bare,And bare, above, the heathery steepScales the clear heaven's expanse, to whereThe Danaan Druids sleep.
'And all the sands that, left and right,The grassy isthmus-ridge confine,In yellow bars lie bare and brightAmong the sparkling brine.
'A clear pure air pervades the scene,In loneliness and awe secure;Meet spot to sepulchre a QueenWho in her life was pure.
'Here, far from camp and chase removed,Apart in Nature's quiet room,The music that alive she lovedShall cheer her in the tomb.
'The humming of the noontide bees,The lark's loud carol all day long,And, borne on evening's salted breeze,The clanking sea-bird's song,
'Shall round her airy chamber float,And with the whispering winds and streams,Attune to Nature's tenderest noteThe tenor of her dreams.
'And oft, at tranquil eve's decline,When full tides lip the Old Green Plain,The lowing of Moynalty's kineShall round her breathe again.
'In sweet remembrance of the daysWhen, duteous, in the lowly vale,Unconscious of my Oscar's gaze,She fill'd the fragrant pail,
'And, duteous, from the running brookDrew water for the bath; nor deem'dA king did on her labour look,And she a fairy seem'd.
'But when the wintry frosts begin,And in their long-drawn, lofty flight,The wild geese with their airy dinDistend the ear of night,
'And when the fierce De Danaan ghostsAt midnight from their peak come down,When all around the enchanted coastsDespairing strangers drown;
'When, mingling with the wreckful wail,From low Clontarf's wave-trampled floorComes booming up the burthen'd galeThe angry Sand-Bull's roar;
'Or, angrier than the sea, the shoutOf Erin's hosts in wrath combined,When Terror heads Oppression's rout,And Freedom cheers behind:—
'Then o'er our lady's placid dream,Where safe from storms she sleeps, may stealSuch joy as will not misbeseemA Queen of men to feel:
'Such thrill of free, defiant pride,As rapt her in her battle-carAt Gavra, when by Oscar's sideShe rode the ridge of war,
'Exulting, down the shouting troops,And through the thick confronting kings,With hands on all their javelin loopsAnd shafts on all their strings;
'E'er closed the inseparable crowds,No more to part for me, and show,As bursts the sun through scattering clouds,My Oscar issuing so.
'No more, dispelling battle's gloom,Shall son for me from fight return;The great green rath's ten-acred tombLies heavy on his urn.
'A cup of bodkin-pencill'd clayHolds Oscar; mighty heart and limbOne handful now of ashes grey:And she has died for him.
'And here, hard by her natal bowerOn lone Ben Edar's side, we striveWith lifted rock and sign of powerTo keep her name alive.
'That while from circling year to year,Her Ogham-letter'd stone is seen,The Gael shall say, "Our Fenians hereEntombed their loved Aideen."
'The Ogham from her pillar-stoneIn tract of time will wear away;Her name at last be only knownIn Ossian's echo'd lay.
'The long-forgotten lay I singMay only ages hence revive,(As eagle with a wounded wingTo soar again might strive,)
'Imperfect, in an alien speech,When, wandering here, some child of chanceThrough pangs of keen delight shall reachThe gift of utterance,—
'To speak the air, the sky to speak,The freshness of the hill to tell,Who, roaming bare Ben Edar's peakAnd Aideen's briary dell,
'And gazing on the Cromlech vast,And on the mountain and the sea,Shall catch communion with the pastAnd mix himself with me.
'Child of the Future's doubtful night,Whate'er your speech, whoe'er your sires,Sing while you may with frank delightThe song your hour inspires.
'Sing while you may, nor grieve to knowThe song you sing shall also die;Atharna's lay has perish'd so,Though once it thrill'd this sky,
'Above us, from his rocky chair,There, where Ben Edar's landward crestO'er eastern Bregia bends, to whereDun Almon crowns the west:
'And all that felt the fretted airThroughout the song-distempered clime,Did droop, till suppliant Leinster's prayerAppeased the vengeful rhyme.
'Ah me, or e'er the hour arriveShall bid my long-forgotten tones,Unknown One, on your lips reviveHere by these moss-grown stones,
'What change shall o'er the scene have crossed;What conquering lords anew have comeWhat lore-arm'd, mightier Druid hostFrom Gaul or distant Rome!
'What arts of death, what ways of life,What creeds unknown to bard or seer,Shall round your careless steps be rife,Who pause and ponder here;
'And, haply, where yon curlew callsAthwart the marsh, 'mid groves and bowers,See rise some mighty chieftain's hallsWith unimagined towers:
'And baying hounds, and coursers bright,And burnish'd cars of dazzling sheen,With courtly train of dame and knight,Where now the fern is green.
'Or, by yon prostrate altar-stoneMay kneel, perchance, and, free from blame,New holy men with rites unknownNew names of God proclaim.
'Let change as may the Name of Awe,Let right surcease and altar pall,The same One God remains, a lawFor ever and for all.
'Let change as may the face of earth,Let alter all the social frame,For mortal men the warp of birthAnd death are still the same.
'And still, as life and time wear on,The children of the waning days,(Though strength be from their shoulders goneTo lift the loads we raise,)
'Shall weep to do the burial ritesOf lost ones loved; and fondly found,In shadow of the gathering nights,The monumental mound.
'Farewell! the strength of men is worn:The night approaches dark and chill:Sleep, till perchance an endless mornDescend the glittering hill.'
Of Oscar and Aideen bereft,So Ossian's song. The Fenians spedThree mighty shouts to heaven; and leftBen Edar to the dead.
Sir Samuel Ferguson
From the Irish
The lions of the hill are gone,And I am left alone—alone—Dig the grave both wide and deep,For I am sick, and fain would sleep!The falcons of the wood are flown,And I am left alone—alone—Dig the grave both deep and wide,And let us slumber side by side.The dragons of the rock are sleeping,Sleep that wakes not for our weeping—Dig the grave, and make it ready,Lay me on my true-love's body.Lay their spears and bucklers brightBy the warriors' sides aright;Many a day the three before meOn their linkèd bucklers bore me.Lay upon the low grave floor,'Neath each head, the blue claymore;Many a time the noble threeReddened these blue blades for me.Lay the collars, as is meet,Of their greyhounds at their feet;Many a time for me have theyBrought the tall red deer to bay.In the falcon's jesses throw,Hook and arrow, line and bow;Never again, by stream or plain,Shall the gentle woodsmen go.Sweet companions, ye were ever—Harsh to me, your sister, never;Woods and wilds, and misty valleys,Were with you as good's a palace.O, to hear my true-love singing,Sweet as sound of trumpets ringing;Like the sway of ocean swellingRolled his deep voice round our dwelling.O! to hear the echoes pealingRound our green and fairy sheeling,When the three, with soaring chorus,Passed the silent skylark o'er us.Echo now, sleep, morn and even—Lark alone enchant the heaven!Ardan's lips are scant of breath,Neesa's tongue is cold in death.Stag, exult on glen and mountain—Salmon, leap from loch to fountain—Heron, in the free air warm ye—Usnach's sons no more will harm ye!Erin's stay no more you are,Rulers of the ridge of war;Never more 'twill be your fateTo keep the beam of battle straight!Woe is me! by fraud and wrong,Traitors false and tyrants strong,Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold,For Barach's feast and Conor's gold!Woe to Eman, roof and wall!Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall!Tenfold woe and black dishonourTo the foul and false Clan Conor!Dig the grave both wide and deep,Sick I am, and fain would sleep!Dig the grave and make it ready,Lay me on my true-love's body.
The lions of the hill are gone,And I am left alone—alone—Dig the grave both wide and deep,For I am sick, and fain would sleep!The falcons of the wood are flown,And I am left alone—alone—Dig the grave both deep and wide,And let us slumber side by side.The dragons of the rock are sleeping,Sleep that wakes not for our weeping—Dig the grave, and make it ready,Lay me on my true-love's body.Lay their spears and bucklers brightBy the warriors' sides aright;Many a day the three before meOn their linkèd bucklers bore me.Lay upon the low grave floor,'Neath each head, the blue claymore;Many a time the noble threeReddened these blue blades for me.Lay the collars, as is meet,Of their greyhounds at their feet;Many a time for me have theyBrought the tall red deer to bay.In the falcon's jesses throw,Hook and arrow, line and bow;Never again, by stream or plain,Shall the gentle woodsmen go.Sweet companions, ye were ever—Harsh to me, your sister, never;Woods and wilds, and misty valleys,Were with you as good's a palace.O, to hear my true-love singing,Sweet as sound of trumpets ringing;Like the sway of ocean swellingRolled his deep voice round our dwelling.O! to hear the echoes pealingRound our green and fairy sheeling,When the three, with soaring chorus,Passed the silent skylark o'er us.Echo now, sleep, morn and even—Lark alone enchant the heaven!Ardan's lips are scant of breath,Neesa's tongue is cold in death.Stag, exult on glen and mountain—Salmon, leap from loch to fountain—Heron, in the free air warm ye—Usnach's sons no more will harm ye!Erin's stay no more you are,Rulers of the ridge of war;Never more 'twill be your fateTo keep the beam of battle straight!Woe is me! by fraud and wrong,Traitors false and tyrants strong,Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold,For Barach's feast and Conor's gold!Woe to Eman, roof and wall!Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall!Tenfold woe and black dishonourTo the foul and false Clan Conor!Dig the grave both wide and deep,Sick I am, and fain would sleep!Dig the grave and make it ready,Lay me on my true-love's body.
The lions of the hill are gone,And I am left alone—alone—Dig the grave both wide and deep,For I am sick, and fain would sleep!
The falcons of the wood are flown,And I am left alone—alone—Dig the grave both deep and wide,And let us slumber side by side.
The dragons of the rock are sleeping,Sleep that wakes not for our weeping—Dig the grave, and make it ready,Lay me on my true-love's body.
Lay their spears and bucklers brightBy the warriors' sides aright;Many a day the three before meOn their linkèd bucklers bore me.
Lay upon the low grave floor,'Neath each head, the blue claymore;Many a time the noble threeReddened these blue blades for me.
Lay the collars, as is meet,Of their greyhounds at their feet;Many a time for me have theyBrought the tall red deer to bay.
In the falcon's jesses throw,Hook and arrow, line and bow;Never again, by stream or plain,Shall the gentle woodsmen go.
Sweet companions, ye were ever—Harsh to me, your sister, never;Woods and wilds, and misty valleys,Were with you as good's a palace.
O, to hear my true-love singing,Sweet as sound of trumpets ringing;Like the sway of ocean swellingRolled his deep voice round our dwelling.
O! to hear the echoes pealingRound our green and fairy sheeling,When the three, with soaring chorus,Passed the silent skylark o'er us.
Echo now, sleep, morn and even—Lark alone enchant the heaven!Ardan's lips are scant of breath,Neesa's tongue is cold in death.
Stag, exult on glen and mountain—Salmon, leap from loch to fountain—Heron, in the free air warm ye—Usnach's sons no more will harm ye!
Erin's stay no more you are,Rulers of the ridge of war;Never more 'twill be your fateTo keep the beam of battle straight!
Woe is me! by fraud and wrong,Traitors false and tyrants strong,Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold,For Barach's feast and Conor's gold!
Woe to Eman, roof and wall!Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall!Tenfold woe and black dishonourTo the foul and false Clan Conor!
Dig the grave both wide and deep,Sick I am, and fain would sleep!Dig the grave and make it ready,Lay me on my true-love's body.
Sir Samuel Ferguson
From the Irish
A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,Uileacan dubh O!Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;Uileacan dubh O!There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned;There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i' the yellow sand,On the fair hills of holy Ireland.Curled he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee,Uileacan dubh O!Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish sea;Uileacan dubh O!And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,For the fair hills of holy Ireland.Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground;Uileacan dubh O!The butter and the cream do wondrously abound,Uileacan dubh O!The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,And the cuckoo's calling daily his note of music bland,And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song 'i the forest grand,On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,Uileacan dubh O!Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;Uileacan dubh O!There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned;There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i' the yellow sand,On the fair hills of holy Ireland.Curled he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee,Uileacan dubh O!Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish sea;Uileacan dubh O!And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,For the fair hills of holy Ireland.Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground;Uileacan dubh O!The butter and the cream do wondrously abound,Uileacan dubh O!The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,And the cuckoo's calling daily his note of music bland,And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song 'i the forest grand,On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,Uileacan dubh O!Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;Uileacan dubh O!There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned;There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i' the yellow sand,On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Curled he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee,Uileacan dubh O!Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish sea;Uileacan dubh O!And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,For the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground;Uileacan dubh O!The butter and the cream do wondrously abound,Uileacan dubh O!The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,And the cuckoo's calling daily his note of music bland,And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song 'i the forest grand,On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Sir Samuel Ferguson
From the Irish
Lone and weary as I wander'd by the bleak shore of the sea,Meditating and reflecting on the world's hard destiny,Forth the moon and stars 'gan glimmer, in the quiet tide beneath,For on slumbering spring and blossom breathed not out of heaven a breath.On I went in sad dejection, careless where my footsteps bore,Till a ruined church before me opened wide its ancient door,—Till I stood before the portals, where of old were wont to be,For the blind, the halt, and leper, alms and hospitality.Still the ancient seat was standing, built against the buttress grey,Where the clergy used to welcome weary trav'llers on their way;There I sat me down in sadness, 'neath my cheek I placed my hand,Till the tears fell hot and briny down upon the grassy land.There, I said in woful sorrow, weeping bitterly the while,Was a time when joy and gladness reigned within this ruined pile;—Was a time when bells were tinkling, clergy preaching peace abroad,Psalms a-singing, music ringing praises to the mighty God.Empty aisle, deserted chancel, tower tottering to your fall,Many a storm since then has beaten on the grey head of your wall!Many a bitter storm and tempest has your roof-tree turned away,Since you first were formed a temple to the Lord of night and day.Holy house of ivied gables, that were once the country's boast,Houseless now in weary wandering are you scattered, saintly host;Lone you are to-day, and dismal,—joyful psalms no more are heard,Where, within your choir, her vesper screeches the cat-headed bird.Ivy from your eaves is growing, nettles round your green hearth-stone,Foxes howl, where, in your corners, dropping waters make their moan.Where the lark to early matins used your clergy forth to call,There, alas! no tongue is stirring, save the daw's upon the wall.Refectory cold and empty, dormitory bleak and bare,Where are now your pious uses, simple bed and frugal fare?Gone your abbot, rule and order, broken down your altar stones;Nought see I beneath your shelter, save a heap of clayey bones.O! the hardship, O! the hatred, tyranny, and cruel war,Persecution and oppression, that have left you as you are!I myself once also prosper'd;—mine is, too, an alter'd plight;Trouble, care, and age have left me good for nought but grief to-night.Gone my motion and my vigour—gone the use of eye and ear,At my feet lie friends and children, powerless and corrupting here;Woe is written on my visage, in a nut my heart could lie—Death's deliverance were welcome—Father, let the old man die.
Lone and weary as I wander'd by the bleak shore of the sea,Meditating and reflecting on the world's hard destiny,Forth the moon and stars 'gan glimmer, in the quiet tide beneath,For on slumbering spring and blossom breathed not out of heaven a breath.On I went in sad dejection, careless where my footsteps bore,Till a ruined church before me opened wide its ancient door,—Till I stood before the portals, where of old were wont to be,For the blind, the halt, and leper, alms and hospitality.Still the ancient seat was standing, built against the buttress grey,Where the clergy used to welcome weary trav'llers on their way;There I sat me down in sadness, 'neath my cheek I placed my hand,Till the tears fell hot and briny down upon the grassy land.There, I said in woful sorrow, weeping bitterly the while,Was a time when joy and gladness reigned within this ruined pile;—Was a time when bells were tinkling, clergy preaching peace abroad,Psalms a-singing, music ringing praises to the mighty God.Empty aisle, deserted chancel, tower tottering to your fall,Many a storm since then has beaten on the grey head of your wall!Many a bitter storm and tempest has your roof-tree turned away,Since you first were formed a temple to the Lord of night and day.Holy house of ivied gables, that were once the country's boast,Houseless now in weary wandering are you scattered, saintly host;Lone you are to-day, and dismal,—joyful psalms no more are heard,Where, within your choir, her vesper screeches the cat-headed bird.Ivy from your eaves is growing, nettles round your green hearth-stone,Foxes howl, where, in your corners, dropping waters make their moan.Where the lark to early matins used your clergy forth to call,There, alas! no tongue is stirring, save the daw's upon the wall.Refectory cold and empty, dormitory bleak and bare,Where are now your pious uses, simple bed and frugal fare?Gone your abbot, rule and order, broken down your altar stones;Nought see I beneath your shelter, save a heap of clayey bones.O! the hardship, O! the hatred, tyranny, and cruel war,Persecution and oppression, that have left you as you are!I myself once also prosper'd;—mine is, too, an alter'd plight;Trouble, care, and age have left me good for nought but grief to-night.Gone my motion and my vigour—gone the use of eye and ear,At my feet lie friends and children, powerless and corrupting here;Woe is written on my visage, in a nut my heart could lie—Death's deliverance were welcome—Father, let the old man die.
Lone and weary as I wander'd by the bleak shore of the sea,Meditating and reflecting on the world's hard destiny,Forth the moon and stars 'gan glimmer, in the quiet tide beneath,For on slumbering spring and blossom breathed not out of heaven a breath.
On I went in sad dejection, careless where my footsteps bore,Till a ruined church before me opened wide its ancient door,—Till I stood before the portals, where of old were wont to be,For the blind, the halt, and leper, alms and hospitality.
Still the ancient seat was standing, built against the buttress grey,Where the clergy used to welcome weary trav'llers on their way;There I sat me down in sadness, 'neath my cheek I placed my hand,Till the tears fell hot and briny down upon the grassy land.
There, I said in woful sorrow, weeping bitterly the while,Was a time when joy and gladness reigned within this ruined pile;—Was a time when bells were tinkling, clergy preaching peace abroad,Psalms a-singing, music ringing praises to the mighty God.
Empty aisle, deserted chancel, tower tottering to your fall,Many a storm since then has beaten on the grey head of your wall!Many a bitter storm and tempest has your roof-tree turned away,Since you first were formed a temple to the Lord of night and day.
Holy house of ivied gables, that were once the country's boast,Houseless now in weary wandering are you scattered, saintly host;Lone you are to-day, and dismal,—joyful psalms no more are heard,Where, within your choir, her vesper screeches the cat-headed bird.
Ivy from your eaves is growing, nettles round your green hearth-stone,Foxes howl, where, in your corners, dropping waters make their moan.Where the lark to early matins used your clergy forth to call,There, alas! no tongue is stirring, save the daw's upon the wall.
Refectory cold and empty, dormitory bleak and bare,Where are now your pious uses, simple bed and frugal fare?Gone your abbot, rule and order, broken down your altar stones;Nought see I beneath your shelter, save a heap of clayey bones.
O! the hardship, O! the hatred, tyranny, and cruel war,Persecution and oppression, that have left you as you are!I myself once also prosper'd;—mine is, too, an alter'd plight;Trouble, care, and age have left me good for nought but grief to-night.
Gone my motion and my vigour—gone the use of eye and ear,At my feet lie friends and children, powerless and corrupting here;Woe is written on my visage, in a nut my heart could lie—Death's deliverance were welcome—Father, let the old man die.
Sir Samuel Ferguson
Mournfully, sing mournfully—'O listen, Ellen, sister dear:Is there no help at all for me,But only ceaseless sigh and tear?Why did not he who left me here,With stolen hope steal memory?O listen, Ellen, sister dear,(Mournfully, sing mournfully)—I'll go away to Slemish hill,I'll pluck the fairy hawthorn-tree,And let the spirits work their will;I care not if for good or ill,So they but lay the memoryWhich all my heart is haunting still!(Mournfully, sing mournfully)—The Fairies are a silent race,And pale as lily flowers to see:I care not for a blanchèd face,Nor wandering in a dreaming place,So I but banish memory:—I wish I were with Anna Grace!'Mournfully, sing mournfully!Hearken to my tale of woe—'Twas thus to weeping Ellen Con,Her sister said in accents low,Her only sister, Una bawn:'Twas in their bed before the dawn,And Ellen answered sad and slow,—'O Una, Una, be not drawn(Hearken to my tale of woe)—To this unholy grief I pray,Which makes me sick at heart to know,And I will help you if I may:—The Fairy Well of Lagnanay—Lie nearer me, I tremble so,—Una, I've heard wise women say(Hearken to my tale of woe)—That if before the dews arise,True maiden in its icy flowWith pure hand bathe her bosom thrice,Three lady-brackens pluck likewise,And three times round the fountain go,She straight forgets her tears and sighs.'Hearken to my tale of woe!All, alas! and well-away!'O, sister Ellen, sister sweet,Come with me to the hill I pray,And I will prove that blessed freet!'They rose with softThey left their mother where she lay,Their mother and her care discreet,(All, alas! and well-away!)And soon they reached the Fairy Well,The mountain's eye, clear, cold, and grey,Wide open in the dreary fell:How long they stood 'twere vain to tell,At last upon the point of day,Bawn Una bares her bosom's swell,(All, alas! and well-away!)Thrice o'er her shrinking breasts she lavesThe gliding glance that will not stayOf subtly-streaming fairy waves:—And now the charm three brackens craves,She plucks them in their fring'd array:—Now round the well her fate she braves,All, alas! and well-away!Save us all from Fairy thrall!Ellen sees her face the rimTwice and thrice, and that is all—Fount and hill and maiden swimAll together melting dim!'Una! Una!' thou may'st call,Sister sad! but lith or limb(Save us all from Fairy thrall!)Never again of Una bawn,Where now she walks in dreamy hall,Shall eyes of mortal look upon!O! can it be the guard was gone,That better guard than shield or wall?Who knows on earth save Jurlagh Daune?(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.
Mournfully, sing mournfully—'O listen, Ellen, sister dear:Is there no help at all for me,But only ceaseless sigh and tear?Why did not he who left me here,With stolen hope steal memory?O listen, Ellen, sister dear,(Mournfully, sing mournfully)—I'll go away to Slemish hill,I'll pluck the fairy hawthorn-tree,And let the spirits work their will;I care not if for good or ill,So they but lay the memoryWhich all my heart is haunting still!(Mournfully, sing mournfully)—The Fairies are a silent race,And pale as lily flowers to see:I care not for a blanchèd face,Nor wandering in a dreaming place,So I but banish memory:—I wish I were with Anna Grace!'Mournfully, sing mournfully!Hearken to my tale of woe—'Twas thus to weeping Ellen Con,Her sister said in accents low,Her only sister, Una bawn:'Twas in their bed before the dawn,And Ellen answered sad and slow,—'O Una, Una, be not drawn(Hearken to my tale of woe)—To this unholy grief I pray,Which makes me sick at heart to know,And I will help you if I may:—The Fairy Well of Lagnanay—Lie nearer me, I tremble so,—Una, I've heard wise women say(Hearken to my tale of woe)—That if before the dews arise,True maiden in its icy flowWith pure hand bathe her bosom thrice,Three lady-brackens pluck likewise,And three times round the fountain go,She straight forgets her tears and sighs.'Hearken to my tale of woe!All, alas! and well-away!'O, sister Ellen, sister sweet,Come with me to the hill I pray,And I will prove that blessed freet!'They rose with softThey left their mother where she lay,Their mother and her care discreet,(All, alas! and well-away!)And soon they reached the Fairy Well,The mountain's eye, clear, cold, and grey,Wide open in the dreary fell:How long they stood 'twere vain to tell,At last upon the point of day,Bawn Una bares her bosom's swell,(All, alas! and well-away!)Thrice o'er her shrinking breasts she lavesThe gliding glance that will not stayOf subtly-streaming fairy waves:—And now the charm three brackens craves,She plucks them in their fring'd array:—Now round the well her fate she braves,All, alas! and well-away!Save us all from Fairy thrall!Ellen sees her face the rimTwice and thrice, and that is all—Fount and hill and maiden swimAll together melting dim!'Una! Una!' thou may'st call,Sister sad! but lith or limb(Save us all from Fairy thrall!)Never again of Una bawn,Where now she walks in dreamy hall,Shall eyes of mortal look upon!O! can it be the guard was gone,That better guard than shield or wall?Who knows on earth save Jurlagh Daune?(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.
Mournfully, sing mournfully—'O listen, Ellen, sister dear:Is there no help at all for me,But only ceaseless sigh and tear?Why did not he who left me here,With stolen hope steal memory?O listen, Ellen, sister dear,(Mournfully, sing mournfully)—I'll go away to Slemish hill,I'll pluck the fairy hawthorn-tree,And let the spirits work their will;I care not if for good or ill,So they but lay the memoryWhich all my heart is haunting still!(Mournfully, sing mournfully)—The Fairies are a silent race,And pale as lily flowers to see:I care not for a blanchèd face,Nor wandering in a dreaming place,So I but banish memory:—I wish I were with Anna Grace!'Mournfully, sing mournfully!
Hearken to my tale of woe—'Twas thus to weeping Ellen Con,Her sister said in accents low,Her only sister, Una bawn:'Twas in their bed before the dawn,And Ellen answered sad and slow,—'O Una, Una, be not drawn(Hearken to my tale of woe)—To this unholy grief I pray,Which makes me sick at heart to know,And I will help you if I may:—The Fairy Well of Lagnanay—Lie nearer me, I tremble so,—Una, I've heard wise women say(Hearken to my tale of woe)—That if before the dews arise,True maiden in its icy flowWith pure hand bathe her bosom thrice,Three lady-brackens pluck likewise,And three times round the fountain go,She straight forgets her tears and sighs.'Hearken to my tale of woe!
All, alas! and well-away!'O, sister Ellen, sister sweet,Come with me to the hill I pray,And I will prove that blessed freet!'They rose with softThey left their mother where she lay,Their mother and her care discreet,(All, alas! and well-away!)And soon they reached the Fairy Well,The mountain's eye, clear, cold, and grey,Wide open in the dreary fell:How long they stood 'twere vain to tell,At last upon the point of day,Bawn Una bares her bosom's swell,(All, alas! and well-away!)Thrice o'er her shrinking breasts she lavesThe gliding glance that will not stayOf subtly-streaming fairy waves:—And now the charm three brackens craves,She plucks them in their fring'd array:—Now round the well her fate she braves,All, alas! and well-away!
Save us all from Fairy thrall!Ellen sees her face the rimTwice and thrice, and that is all—Fount and hill and maiden swimAll together melting dim!'Una! Una!' thou may'st call,Sister sad! but lith or limb(Save us all from Fairy thrall!)Never again of Una bawn,Where now she walks in dreamy hall,Shall eyes of mortal look upon!O! can it be the guard was gone,That better guard than shield or wall?Who knows on earth save Jurlagh Daune?(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