Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hoverOver the mountains, on that northern shore,Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves coverThy noble heart for ever, ever more?Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers,From these brown hills, have melted into spring!Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembersAfter such years of change and suffering!Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,While the world's tide is bearing me along;Other desires and other hopes beset me,Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong;No later light has lighted up my heaven,No second morn has ever shone for me;All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,And even Despair was powerless to destroy;Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy.Then did I check the tears of useless passion—Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten,Down to that tomb already more than mine.And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;Once drinking deep of that divinest anguishHow could I seek the empty world again?
Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hoverOver the mountains, on that northern shore,Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves coverThy noble heart for ever, ever more?Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers,From these brown hills, have melted into spring!Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembersAfter such years of change and suffering!Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,While the world's tide is bearing me along;Other desires and other hopes beset me,Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong;No later light has lighted up my heaven,No second morn has ever shone for me;All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,And even Despair was powerless to destroy;Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy.Then did I check the tears of useless passion—Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten,Down to that tomb already more than mine.And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;Once drinking deep of that divinest anguishHow could I seek the empty world again?
Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?
Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hoverOver the mountains, on that northern shore,Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves coverThy noble heart for ever, ever more?
Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers,From these brown hills, have melted into spring!Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembersAfter such years of change and suffering!
Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,While the world's tide is bearing me along;Other desires and other hopes beset me,Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong;
No later light has lighted up my heaven,No second morn has ever shone for me;All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.
But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,And even Despair was powerless to destroy;Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy.
Then did I check the tears of useless passion—Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten,Down to that tomb already more than mine.
And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;Once drinking deep of that divinest anguishHow could I seek the empty world again?
Emily Brontë
Still, let my tyrants know, I am not doomed to wearYear after year in gloom, and desolate despair;A messenger of Hope comes every night to me,And offers for short life, eternal liberty.He comes with Western winds, with evening's wandering airs,With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars.Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire,And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire.Desire for nothing known in my maturer years,When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears.When, if my spirit's sky was full of flashes warm,I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunderstorm.But first, a hush of peace—a soundless calm descends;The struggle of distress, and fierce impatience ends.Mute music soothes my breast—unuttered harmonyThat I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me.Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals;My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels:Its wings are almost free—its home, its harbour found,Measuring the gulf, it stoops, and dares the final bound.O, dreadful is the check—intense the agony—When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see;When the pulse begins to throb,—the brain to think again,The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less,The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless;And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine,If it but herald death, the vision is divine.
Still, let my tyrants know, I am not doomed to wearYear after year in gloom, and desolate despair;A messenger of Hope comes every night to me,And offers for short life, eternal liberty.He comes with Western winds, with evening's wandering airs,With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars.Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire,And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire.Desire for nothing known in my maturer years,When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears.When, if my spirit's sky was full of flashes warm,I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunderstorm.But first, a hush of peace—a soundless calm descends;The struggle of distress, and fierce impatience ends.Mute music soothes my breast—unuttered harmonyThat I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me.Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals;My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels:Its wings are almost free—its home, its harbour found,Measuring the gulf, it stoops, and dares the final bound.O, dreadful is the check—intense the agony—When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see;When the pulse begins to throb,—the brain to think again,The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less,The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless;And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine,If it but herald death, the vision is divine.
Still, let my tyrants know, I am not doomed to wearYear after year in gloom, and desolate despair;A messenger of Hope comes every night to me,And offers for short life, eternal liberty.
He comes with Western winds, with evening's wandering airs,With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars.Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire,And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire.
Desire for nothing known in my maturer years,When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears.When, if my spirit's sky was full of flashes warm,I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunderstorm.
But first, a hush of peace—a soundless calm descends;The struggle of distress, and fierce impatience ends.Mute music soothes my breast—unuttered harmonyThat I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me.
Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals;My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels:Its wings are almost free—its home, its harbour found,Measuring the gulf, it stoops, and dares the final bound.
O, dreadful is the check—intense the agony—When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see;When the pulse begins to throb,—the brain to think again,The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.
Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less,The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless;And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine,If it but herald death, the vision is divine.
Emily Brontë
No coward soul is mine,No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere:I see Heaven's glories shine,And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.O God, within my breast,Almighty, ever-present Deity!Life—that in me has rest,As I—undying Life—have power in Thee.Vain are the thousand creedsThat move men's hearts: unutterably vain;Worthless as withered weeds,Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,To waken doubt in oneHolding so fast to Thine infinity;So surely anchored onThe steadfast rock of immortality,With wide-embracing loveThy spirit animates eternal years,Pervades and broods above,Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.Though earth and man were gone,And suns and universes ceased to be,And Thou were left alone,Every existence would exist in Thee.There is not room for Death,Nor atom that his might could render void:Thou—Thou art Being and Breath,And what Thou art may never be destroyed.
No coward soul is mine,No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere:I see Heaven's glories shine,And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.O God, within my breast,Almighty, ever-present Deity!Life—that in me has rest,As I—undying Life—have power in Thee.Vain are the thousand creedsThat move men's hearts: unutterably vain;Worthless as withered weeds,Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,To waken doubt in oneHolding so fast to Thine infinity;So surely anchored onThe steadfast rock of immortality,With wide-embracing loveThy spirit animates eternal years,Pervades and broods above,Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.Though earth and man were gone,And suns and universes ceased to be,And Thou were left alone,Every existence would exist in Thee.There is not room for Death,Nor atom that his might could render void:Thou—Thou art Being and Breath,And what Thou art may never be destroyed.
No coward soul is mine,No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere:I see Heaven's glories shine,And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.
O God, within my breast,Almighty, ever-present Deity!Life—that in me has rest,As I—undying Life—have power in Thee.
Vain are the thousand creedsThat move men's hearts: unutterably vain;Worthless as withered weeds,Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,
To waken doubt in oneHolding so fast to Thine infinity;So surely anchored onThe steadfast rock of immortality,
With wide-embracing loveThy spirit animates eternal years,Pervades and broods above,Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.
Though earth and man were gone,And suns and universes ceased to be,And Thou were left alone,Every existence would exist in Thee.
There is not room for Death,Nor atom that his might could render void:Thou—Thou art Being and Breath,And what Thou art may never be destroyed.
Emily Brontë
Who fears to speak of Ninety-eight?Who blushes at the name?When cowards mock the patriot's fate,Who hangs his head for shame?He's all a knave or half a slaveWho slights his country thus;But a true man, like you, man,Will fill your glass with us.We drink the memory of the brave,The faithful and the few—Some lie far off beyond the wave,Some sleep in Ireland, too;All, all are gone—but still lives onThe fame of those who died;All true men, like you, men,Remember them with pride.Some on the shores of distant landsTheir weary hearts have laid,And by the stranger's heedless handsTheir lonely graves were made;But, though their clay be far awayBeyond the Atlantic foam,In true men, like you, men,Their spirit's still at home.The dust of some is Irish earth;Among their own they rest;And the same land that gave them birthHas caught them to her breast;And we will pray that from their clayFull many a race may startOf true men, like you, men,To act as brave a part.They rose in dark and evil daysTo right their native land;They kindled here a living blazeThat nothing shall withstand.Alas! that Might can vanquish Right—Theyfell, and passed away;But true men, like you, men,Are plenty here to-day.Then here's their memory—may it beFor us a guiding light,To cheer our strife for liberty,And teach us to unite!Through good and ill, be Ireland's still,Though sad as theirs your fate;And true men, be you, men,Like those of Ninety-Eight.
Who fears to speak of Ninety-eight?Who blushes at the name?When cowards mock the patriot's fate,Who hangs his head for shame?He's all a knave or half a slaveWho slights his country thus;But a true man, like you, man,Will fill your glass with us.We drink the memory of the brave,The faithful and the few—Some lie far off beyond the wave,Some sleep in Ireland, too;All, all are gone—but still lives onThe fame of those who died;All true men, like you, men,Remember them with pride.Some on the shores of distant landsTheir weary hearts have laid,And by the stranger's heedless handsTheir lonely graves were made;But, though their clay be far awayBeyond the Atlantic foam,In true men, like you, men,Their spirit's still at home.The dust of some is Irish earth;Among their own they rest;And the same land that gave them birthHas caught them to her breast;And we will pray that from their clayFull many a race may startOf true men, like you, men,To act as brave a part.They rose in dark and evil daysTo right their native land;They kindled here a living blazeThat nothing shall withstand.Alas! that Might can vanquish Right—Theyfell, and passed away;But true men, like you, men,Are plenty here to-day.Then here's their memory—may it beFor us a guiding light,To cheer our strife for liberty,And teach us to unite!Through good and ill, be Ireland's still,Though sad as theirs your fate;And true men, be you, men,Like those of Ninety-Eight.
Who fears to speak of Ninety-eight?Who blushes at the name?When cowards mock the patriot's fate,Who hangs his head for shame?He's all a knave or half a slaveWho slights his country thus;But a true man, like you, man,Will fill your glass with us.
We drink the memory of the brave,The faithful and the few—Some lie far off beyond the wave,Some sleep in Ireland, too;All, all are gone—but still lives onThe fame of those who died;All true men, like you, men,Remember them with pride.
Some on the shores of distant landsTheir weary hearts have laid,And by the stranger's heedless handsTheir lonely graves were made;But, though their clay be far awayBeyond the Atlantic foam,In true men, like you, men,Their spirit's still at home.
The dust of some is Irish earth;Among their own they rest;And the same land that gave them birthHas caught them to her breast;And we will pray that from their clayFull many a race may startOf true men, like you, men,To act as brave a part.
They rose in dark and evil daysTo right their native land;They kindled here a living blazeThat nothing shall withstand.Alas! that Might can vanquish Right—Theyfell, and passed away;But true men, like you, men,Are plenty here to-day.
Then here's their memory—may it beFor us a guiding light,To cheer our strife for liberty,And teach us to unite!Through good and ill, be Ireland's still,Though sad as theirs your fate;And true men, be you, men,Like those of Ninety-Eight.
John Kells Ingram
Adieu to Ballyshanny! where I was bred and born;Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as night and morn;The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known,And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own;There's not a house or window, there's not a field or hill,But East or West, in foreign lands, I'll recollect them still.I leave my warm heart with you, tho' my back I'm forced to turn—So adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter down the Mall,When the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon to the fall.The boat comes straining on her net, and heavily she creeps,Cast off, cast off—she feels the oars, and to her berth she sweeps;Now fore and aft keep hauling, and gathering up the clew,Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the crew.Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit, and many a joke and 'yarn':—Adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the tide,When all the green-hill'd harbour is full from side to side,From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round the Abbey Bay,From rocky Inis Saimer to Coolnargit sandhills gray;While far upon the southern line, to guard it like a wall,The Leitrim mountains clothed in blue gaze calmly over all,And watch the ship sail up or down, the red flag at her stern;—Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding banks of Erne!Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them that pull an oar,A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point to Mullaghmore;From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League, that ocean-mountain steep,Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred in the deep;From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round by Tullen strand,Level and long, and white with waves, where gull and curlew stand;Head out to sea when on your lee the breakers you discern!—Adieu to all the billowy coast, and winding banks of Erne!Farewell, Coolmore,—Bundoran! and your summer crowds that runFrom inland homes to see with joy th' Atlantic setting sun;To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among the waves;To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt the gloomy caves;To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the crabs, the fish;Young men and maids to meet and smile, and form a tender wish;The sick and old in search of health, for all things have their turn—And I must quit my native shore, and the winding banks of Erne!Farewell to every white cascade from the Harbour to Belleek,And every pool where fins may rest, and ivy-shaded creek;The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash and holly grow,The one split yew-tree gazing on the curving flood below;The Lough that winds through islands under Turaw mountain green;And Castle Caldwell's stretching woods, with tranquil bays between;And Breesie Hill, and many a pond among the heath and fern;—For I must say adieu—adieu to the winding banks of Erne!The thrush will call through Camlin groves the live-long summer day;The waters run by mossy cliff, and banks with wild flowers gay;The girls will bring their work and sing beneath a twisted thorn,Or stray with sweethearts down the path among the growing corn;Along the river-side they go, where I have often been,—O never shall I see again the days that I have seen!A thousand chances are to one I never may return,—Adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!Adieu to evening dances, when merry neighbours meet,And the fiddle says to boys and girls, 'Get up and shake your feet!'Toshanachusand wise old talk of Erin's days gone by—Who trench'd the rath on such a hill, and where the bones may lieOf saint, or king, or warrior chief; with tales of fairy power,And tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the twilight hour.The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn—Adieu, my dear companions on the winding banks of Erne!Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Purt,Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather,—I wish no one any hurt;The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane, the Mall, and Portnasun,If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one.I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me;For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the sea.My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and often fondly turnTo think of Ballyshanny and the winding banks of Erne!If ever I'm a money'd man, I mean, please God, to castMy golden anchor in the place where youthful years were past;Though heads that now are black and brown must meanwhile gather gray,New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop away—Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside;It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waters wide.And if the Lord allows me, I surely will returnTo my native Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne.
Adieu to Ballyshanny! where I was bred and born;Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as night and morn;The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known,And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own;There's not a house or window, there's not a field or hill,But East or West, in foreign lands, I'll recollect them still.I leave my warm heart with you, tho' my back I'm forced to turn—So adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter down the Mall,When the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon to the fall.The boat comes straining on her net, and heavily she creeps,Cast off, cast off—she feels the oars, and to her berth she sweeps;Now fore and aft keep hauling, and gathering up the clew,Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the crew.Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit, and many a joke and 'yarn':—Adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the tide,When all the green-hill'd harbour is full from side to side,From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round the Abbey Bay,From rocky Inis Saimer to Coolnargit sandhills gray;While far upon the southern line, to guard it like a wall,The Leitrim mountains clothed in blue gaze calmly over all,And watch the ship sail up or down, the red flag at her stern;—Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding banks of Erne!Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them that pull an oar,A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point to Mullaghmore;From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League, that ocean-mountain steep,Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred in the deep;From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round by Tullen strand,Level and long, and white with waves, where gull and curlew stand;Head out to sea when on your lee the breakers you discern!—Adieu to all the billowy coast, and winding banks of Erne!Farewell, Coolmore,—Bundoran! and your summer crowds that runFrom inland homes to see with joy th' Atlantic setting sun;To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among the waves;To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt the gloomy caves;To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the crabs, the fish;Young men and maids to meet and smile, and form a tender wish;The sick and old in search of health, for all things have their turn—And I must quit my native shore, and the winding banks of Erne!Farewell to every white cascade from the Harbour to Belleek,And every pool where fins may rest, and ivy-shaded creek;The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash and holly grow,The one split yew-tree gazing on the curving flood below;The Lough that winds through islands under Turaw mountain green;And Castle Caldwell's stretching woods, with tranquil bays between;And Breesie Hill, and many a pond among the heath and fern;—For I must say adieu—adieu to the winding banks of Erne!The thrush will call through Camlin groves the live-long summer day;The waters run by mossy cliff, and banks with wild flowers gay;The girls will bring their work and sing beneath a twisted thorn,Or stray with sweethearts down the path among the growing corn;Along the river-side they go, where I have often been,—O never shall I see again the days that I have seen!A thousand chances are to one I never may return,—Adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!Adieu to evening dances, when merry neighbours meet,And the fiddle says to boys and girls, 'Get up and shake your feet!'Toshanachusand wise old talk of Erin's days gone by—Who trench'd the rath on such a hill, and where the bones may lieOf saint, or king, or warrior chief; with tales of fairy power,And tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the twilight hour.The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn—Adieu, my dear companions on the winding banks of Erne!Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Purt,Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather,—I wish no one any hurt;The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane, the Mall, and Portnasun,If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one.I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me;For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the sea.My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and often fondly turnTo think of Ballyshanny and the winding banks of Erne!If ever I'm a money'd man, I mean, please God, to castMy golden anchor in the place where youthful years were past;Though heads that now are black and brown must meanwhile gather gray,New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop away—Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside;It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waters wide.And if the Lord allows me, I surely will returnTo my native Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne.
Adieu to Ballyshanny! where I was bred and born;Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as night and morn;The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known,And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own;There's not a house or window, there's not a field or hill,But East or West, in foreign lands, I'll recollect them still.I leave my warm heart with you, tho' my back I'm forced to turn—So adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!
No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter down the Mall,When the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon to the fall.The boat comes straining on her net, and heavily she creeps,Cast off, cast off—she feels the oars, and to her berth she sweeps;Now fore and aft keep hauling, and gathering up the clew,Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the crew.Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit, and many a joke and 'yarn':—Adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!
The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the tide,When all the green-hill'd harbour is full from side to side,From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round the Abbey Bay,From rocky Inis Saimer to Coolnargit sandhills gray;While far upon the southern line, to guard it like a wall,The Leitrim mountains clothed in blue gaze calmly over all,And watch the ship sail up or down, the red flag at her stern;—Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding banks of Erne!
Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them that pull an oar,A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point to Mullaghmore;From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League, that ocean-mountain steep,Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred in the deep;From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round by Tullen strand,Level and long, and white with waves, where gull and curlew stand;Head out to sea when on your lee the breakers you discern!—Adieu to all the billowy coast, and winding banks of Erne!
Farewell, Coolmore,—Bundoran! and your summer crowds that runFrom inland homes to see with joy th' Atlantic setting sun;To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among the waves;To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt the gloomy caves;To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the crabs, the fish;Young men and maids to meet and smile, and form a tender wish;The sick and old in search of health, for all things have their turn—And I must quit my native shore, and the winding banks of Erne!
Farewell to every white cascade from the Harbour to Belleek,And every pool where fins may rest, and ivy-shaded creek;The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash and holly grow,The one split yew-tree gazing on the curving flood below;The Lough that winds through islands under Turaw mountain green;And Castle Caldwell's stretching woods, with tranquil bays between;And Breesie Hill, and many a pond among the heath and fern;—For I must say adieu—adieu to the winding banks of Erne!
The thrush will call through Camlin groves the live-long summer day;The waters run by mossy cliff, and banks with wild flowers gay;The girls will bring their work and sing beneath a twisted thorn,Or stray with sweethearts down the path among the growing corn;Along the river-side they go, where I have often been,—O never shall I see again the days that I have seen!A thousand chances are to one I never may return,—Adieu to Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne!
Adieu to evening dances, when merry neighbours meet,And the fiddle says to boys and girls, 'Get up and shake your feet!'Toshanachusand wise old talk of Erin's days gone by—Who trench'd the rath on such a hill, and where the bones may lieOf saint, or king, or warrior chief; with tales of fairy power,And tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the twilight hour.The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn—Adieu, my dear companions on the winding banks of Erne!
Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Purt,Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather,—I wish no one any hurt;The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane, the Mall, and Portnasun,If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one.I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me;For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the sea.My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and often fondly turnTo think of Ballyshanny and the winding banks of Erne!
If ever I'm a money'd man, I mean, please God, to castMy golden anchor in the place where youthful years were past;Though heads that now are black and brown must meanwhile gather gray,New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop away—Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside;It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waters wide.And if the Lord allows me, I surely will returnTo my native Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne.
William Allingham
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home,They live on crispy pancakes,Of yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the bleak mountain lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.High on the hill-topThe old King sits;He is now so old and grayHe's nigh lost his wits.With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Sleeveleague to Rosses;Or going up with musicOn cold starry nights,To sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern Lights.They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down againHer friends were all gone.They took her lightly back,Between the night and morrow,They thought that she was fast asleep,But she was dead with sorrow.They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lake,On a bed of flag-leaves,Watching till she wake.By the craggy hillsideThrough the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.If any man so daringAs dig them up in spite,He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night.Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home,They live on crispy pancakes,Of yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the bleak mountain lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.High on the hill-topThe old King sits;He is now so old and grayHe's nigh lost his wits.With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Sleeveleague to Rosses;Or going up with musicOn cold starry nights,To sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern Lights.They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down againHer friends were all gone.They took her lightly back,Between the night and morrow,They thought that she was fast asleep,But she was dead with sorrow.They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lake,On a bed of flag-leaves,Watching till she wake.By the craggy hillsideThrough the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.If any man so daringAs dig them up in spite,He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night.Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home,They live on crispy pancakes,Of yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the bleak mountain lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.
High on the hill-topThe old King sits;He is now so old and grayHe's nigh lost his wits.With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Sleeveleague to Rosses;Or going up with musicOn cold starry nights,To sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down againHer friends were all gone.They took her lightly back,Between the night and morrow,They thought that she was fast asleep,But she was dead with sorrow.They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lake,On a bed of flag-leaves,Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hillsideThrough the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.If any man so daringAs dig them up in spite,He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl's feather!
William Allingham
A Killarney Legend
The Abbot of Inisfālen awoke ere dawn of day;Under the dewy green leaves went he forth to pray.The lake around his island lay smooth and dark and deep,And wrapped in a misty stillness the mountains were all asleep.Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac when the dawn was dim and gray,The prayers of his holy office he faithfully 'gan say.Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac while the dawn was waxing red;And for his sins' forgiveness a solemn prayer he said:Low kneel'd that holy Abbot while the dawn was waking clear,And he prayed with loving-kindness for his convent-brethren dear.Low kneel'd the blessed Abbot while the dawn was waxing bright;He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland, he pray'd with all his might.Low kneel'd that good old Father while the sun began to dart;He pray'd a prayer for all men, he pray'd it from his heart.His blissful soul was in Heaven, tho' a breathing man was he;He was out of time's dominion, so far as the living may be.The Abbot of Inisfālen arose upon his feet;He heard a small bird singing, and O but it sung sweet!It sung upon a holly-bush, this little snow-white bird;A song so full of gladness he never before had heard,It sung upon a hazel, it sung upon a thorn;He had never heard such music since the hour that he was born.It sung upon a sycamore, it sung upon a briar;To follow the song and hearken the Abbot would never tire.Till at last he well bethought him, he might no longer stay;So he bless'd the little white singing-bird, and gladly went his way.But, when he came to his Abbey, he found a wondrous wondrous change;He saw no friendly faces there, for every face was strange.The strange men spoke unto him; and he heard from all and eachThe foreign tongue of the Sassenach, not wholesome Irish speech.Then the oldest monk came forward, in Irish tongue spake he:'Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress, and who hath given it to thee?''I wear the holy Augustine's dress, and Cormac is my name,The Abbot of this good Abbey by grace of God I am.I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day; and when my prayers were said,I hearken'd awhile to a little bird, that sang above my head.'The monks to him made answer, 'Two hundred years have gone o'er,Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate, and never was heard of more.Matthias now is our Abbot, and twenty have pass'd away.The stranger is lord of Ireland; we live in an evil day.Days will come and go,' he said, 'and the world will pass away:In Heaven a day is a thousand years, a thousand years are a day.''Now give me absolution; for my time is come,' said he.And they gave him absolution, as speedily as might be.Then, close outside the window, the sweetest song they heardThat ever yet since the world began was utter'd by any bird.The monks look'd out and saw the bird, its feathers all white and clean;And then in a moment, beside it, another white bird was seen.Those two they sang together, waved their white wings, and fled;Flew aloft and vanish'd; but the good old man was dead.They buried his blessed body where lake and green-sward meet,A carven cross above his head, a holly-bush at his feet;Where spreads the beautiful water to gay or cloudy skies,And the purple peaks of Killarney from ancient woods arise.
The Abbot of Inisfālen awoke ere dawn of day;Under the dewy green leaves went he forth to pray.The lake around his island lay smooth and dark and deep,And wrapped in a misty stillness the mountains were all asleep.Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac when the dawn was dim and gray,The prayers of his holy office he faithfully 'gan say.Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac while the dawn was waxing red;And for his sins' forgiveness a solemn prayer he said:Low kneel'd that holy Abbot while the dawn was waking clear,And he prayed with loving-kindness for his convent-brethren dear.Low kneel'd the blessed Abbot while the dawn was waxing bright;He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland, he pray'd with all his might.Low kneel'd that good old Father while the sun began to dart;He pray'd a prayer for all men, he pray'd it from his heart.His blissful soul was in Heaven, tho' a breathing man was he;He was out of time's dominion, so far as the living may be.The Abbot of Inisfālen arose upon his feet;He heard a small bird singing, and O but it sung sweet!It sung upon a holly-bush, this little snow-white bird;A song so full of gladness he never before had heard,It sung upon a hazel, it sung upon a thorn;He had never heard such music since the hour that he was born.It sung upon a sycamore, it sung upon a briar;To follow the song and hearken the Abbot would never tire.Till at last he well bethought him, he might no longer stay;So he bless'd the little white singing-bird, and gladly went his way.But, when he came to his Abbey, he found a wondrous wondrous change;He saw no friendly faces there, for every face was strange.The strange men spoke unto him; and he heard from all and eachThe foreign tongue of the Sassenach, not wholesome Irish speech.Then the oldest monk came forward, in Irish tongue spake he:'Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress, and who hath given it to thee?''I wear the holy Augustine's dress, and Cormac is my name,The Abbot of this good Abbey by grace of God I am.I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day; and when my prayers were said,I hearken'd awhile to a little bird, that sang above my head.'The monks to him made answer, 'Two hundred years have gone o'er,Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate, and never was heard of more.Matthias now is our Abbot, and twenty have pass'd away.The stranger is lord of Ireland; we live in an evil day.Days will come and go,' he said, 'and the world will pass away:In Heaven a day is a thousand years, a thousand years are a day.''Now give me absolution; for my time is come,' said he.And they gave him absolution, as speedily as might be.Then, close outside the window, the sweetest song they heardThat ever yet since the world began was utter'd by any bird.The monks look'd out and saw the bird, its feathers all white and clean;And then in a moment, beside it, another white bird was seen.Those two they sang together, waved their white wings, and fled;Flew aloft and vanish'd; but the good old man was dead.They buried his blessed body where lake and green-sward meet,A carven cross above his head, a holly-bush at his feet;Where spreads the beautiful water to gay or cloudy skies,And the purple peaks of Killarney from ancient woods arise.
The Abbot of Inisfālen awoke ere dawn of day;Under the dewy green leaves went he forth to pray.The lake around his island lay smooth and dark and deep,And wrapped in a misty stillness the mountains were all asleep.Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac when the dawn was dim and gray,The prayers of his holy office he faithfully 'gan say.Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac while the dawn was waxing red;And for his sins' forgiveness a solemn prayer he said:Low kneel'd that holy Abbot while the dawn was waking clear,And he prayed with loving-kindness for his convent-brethren dear.Low kneel'd the blessed Abbot while the dawn was waxing bright;He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland, he pray'd with all his might.Low kneel'd that good old Father while the sun began to dart;He pray'd a prayer for all men, he pray'd it from his heart.His blissful soul was in Heaven, tho' a breathing man was he;He was out of time's dominion, so far as the living may be.
The Abbot of Inisfālen arose upon his feet;He heard a small bird singing, and O but it sung sweet!It sung upon a holly-bush, this little snow-white bird;A song so full of gladness he never before had heard,It sung upon a hazel, it sung upon a thorn;He had never heard such music since the hour that he was born.It sung upon a sycamore, it sung upon a briar;To follow the song and hearken the Abbot would never tire.Till at last he well bethought him, he might no longer stay;So he bless'd the little white singing-bird, and gladly went his way.
But, when he came to his Abbey, he found a wondrous wondrous change;He saw no friendly faces there, for every face was strange.The strange men spoke unto him; and he heard from all and eachThe foreign tongue of the Sassenach, not wholesome Irish speech.Then the oldest monk came forward, in Irish tongue spake he:'Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress, and who hath given it to thee?''I wear the holy Augustine's dress, and Cormac is my name,The Abbot of this good Abbey by grace of God I am.
I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day; and when my prayers were said,I hearken'd awhile to a little bird, that sang above my head.'The monks to him made answer, 'Two hundred years have gone o'er,Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate, and never was heard of more.Matthias now is our Abbot, and twenty have pass'd away.The stranger is lord of Ireland; we live in an evil day.Days will come and go,' he said, 'and the world will pass away:In Heaven a day is a thousand years, a thousand years are a day.'
'Now give me absolution; for my time is come,' said he.And they gave him absolution, as speedily as might be.Then, close outside the window, the sweetest song they heardThat ever yet since the world began was utter'd by any bird.The monks look'd out and saw the bird, its feathers all white and clean;And then in a moment, beside it, another white bird was seen.Those two they sang together, waved their white wings, and fled;Flew aloft and vanish'd; but the good old man was dead.They buried his blessed body where lake and green-sward meet,A carven cross above his head, a holly-bush at his feet;Where spreads the beautiful water to gay or cloudy skies,And the purple peaks of Killarney from ancient woods arise.
William Allingham
Now, at the hour when ignorant mortalsDrowse in the shade of their whirling sphere,Heaven and Hell from invisible portalsBreathing comfort and ghastly fear,Voices I hear;I hear strange voices, flitting, calling,Wavering by on the dusky blast,—'Come, let us go, for the night is falling;Come, let us go, for the day is past!'Troops of joys are they, now departed?Winged hopes that no longer stay?Guardian spirits grown weary-hearted?Powers that have linger'd their latest day?What do they say?What do they sing? I hear them calling,Whispering, gathering, flying fast,—'Come, come, for the night is falling;Come, come, for the day is past!'Sing they to me?—'Thy taper's wasted;Mortal, thy sands of life run low;Thine hours like a flock of birds have hasted:Time is ending;—we go, we go.'Sing they so?Mystical voices, floating, calling;Dim farewells—the last, the last?'Come, come away, the night is falling;Come, come away, the day is past.'See, I am ready, Twilight voices!Child of the spirit-world am I;How should I fear you? my soul rejoices,O speak plainer! O draw nigh!Fain would I fly!Tell me your message, Ye who are callingOut of the dimness vague and vast;Lift me, take me,—the night is falling;Quick, let us go,—the day is past.
Now, at the hour when ignorant mortalsDrowse in the shade of their whirling sphere,Heaven and Hell from invisible portalsBreathing comfort and ghastly fear,Voices I hear;I hear strange voices, flitting, calling,Wavering by on the dusky blast,—'Come, let us go, for the night is falling;Come, let us go, for the day is past!'Troops of joys are they, now departed?Winged hopes that no longer stay?Guardian spirits grown weary-hearted?Powers that have linger'd their latest day?What do they say?What do they sing? I hear them calling,Whispering, gathering, flying fast,—'Come, come, for the night is falling;Come, come, for the day is past!'Sing they to me?—'Thy taper's wasted;Mortal, thy sands of life run low;Thine hours like a flock of birds have hasted:Time is ending;—we go, we go.'Sing they so?Mystical voices, floating, calling;Dim farewells—the last, the last?'Come, come away, the night is falling;Come, come away, the day is past.'See, I am ready, Twilight voices!Child of the spirit-world am I;How should I fear you? my soul rejoices,O speak plainer! O draw nigh!Fain would I fly!Tell me your message, Ye who are callingOut of the dimness vague and vast;Lift me, take me,—the night is falling;Quick, let us go,—the day is past.
Now, at the hour when ignorant mortalsDrowse in the shade of their whirling sphere,Heaven and Hell from invisible portalsBreathing comfort and ghastly fear,Voices I hear;I hear strange voices, flitting, calling,Wavering by on the dusky blast,—'Come, let us go, for the night is falling;Come, let us go, for the day is past!'
Troops of joys are they, now departed?Winged hopes that no longer stay?Guardian spirits grown weary-hearted?Powers that have linger'd their latest day?What do they say?What do they sing? I hear them calling,Whispering, gathering, flying fast,—'Come, come, for the night is falling;Come, come, for the day is past!'
Sing they to me?—'Thy taper's wasted;Mortal, thy sands of life run low;Thine hours like a flock of birds have hasted:Time is ending;—we go, we go.'Sing they so?Mystical voices, floating, calling;Dim farewells—the last, the last?'Come, come away, the night is falling;Come, come away, the day is past.'
See, I am ready, Twilight voices!Child of the spirit-world am I;How should I fear you? my soul rejoices,O speak plainer! O draw nigh!Fain would I fly!Tell me your message, Ye who are callingOut of the dimness vague and vast;Lift me, take me,—the night is falling;Quick, let us go,—the day is past.
William Allingham
Four ducks on a pond,A grass-bank beyond,A blue sky of spring,White clouds on the wing:What a little thingTo remember for years—To remember with tears!
Four ducks on a pond,A grass-bank beyond,A blue sky of spring,White clouds on the wing:What a little thingTo remember for years—To remember with tears!
Four ducks on a pond,A grass-bank beyond,A blue sky of spring,White clouds on the wing:What a little thingTo remember for years—To remember with tears!
William Allingham
Within a budding grove,In April's ear sang every bird his best,But not a song to pleasure my unrest,Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love;Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in jest.To every wordOf every birdI listen'd, or replied as it behove.Scream'd Chaffinch, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet!Pretty lovey, come and meet me here!''Chaffinch,' quoth I, 'be dumb awhile, in fearThy darling prove no better than a cheat,And never come, or fly when wintry days appear.'Yet from a twig,With voice so big,The little fowl his utterance did repeat.Then I, 'The man forlornHears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft.''And what'llhedo? What'llhedo?' scoff'dThe Blackbird, standing, in ancient thorn,Then spread his sooty wings and flitted to the croftWith cackling laugh;Whom I, being halfEnraged, called after, giving back his scorn.Worse mock'd the Thrush, 'Die! die!O, could he do it? could he do it? Nay!Be quick! be quick! Here, here, here!' (went his lay).'Take heed! take heed!' then, 'Why? why? why? why? why?See-ee now! see-ee now!' (he drawl'd) 'Back! back! back! R-r-r-run away!'O Thrush, be still!Or at thy willSeek some less sad interpreter than I.'Air, air! blue air and white!Whither I flee, whither, O whither, O whither I flee!'(Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the lea)'Hills, countries, many waters glittering brightWhither I see, whither I see! deeper, deeper, deeper, whither I see, see, see!''Gay Lark,' I said,'The song that's bredIn happy nest may well to heaven make flight.''There's something, something sadI half remember'—piped a broken strain.Well sung, sweet Robin! Robin sung again.'Spring's opening cheerily, cheerily! be we glad!'Which moved, I wist not why, me melancholy mad,Till now, grown meek,With wetted cheek,Most comforting and gentle thoughts I had.
Within a budding grove,In April's ear sang every bird his best,But not a song to pleasure my unrest,Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love;Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in jest.To every wordOf every birdI listen'd, or replied as it behove.Scream'd Chaffinch, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet!Pretty lovey, come and meet me here!''Chaffinch,' quoth I, 'be dumb awhile, in fearThy darling prove no better than a cheat,And never come, or fly when wintry days appear.'Yet from a twig,With voice so big,The little fowl his utterance did repeat.Then I, 'The man forlornHears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft.''And what'llhedo? What'llhedo?' scoff'dThe Blackbird, standing, in ancient thorn,Then spread his sooty wings and flitted to the croftWith cackling laugh;Whom I, being halfEnraged, called after, giving back his scorn.Worse mock'd the Thrush, 'Die! die!O, could he do it? could he do it? Nay!Be quick! be quick! Here, here, here!' (went his lay).'Take heed! take heed!' then, 'Why? why? why? why? why?See-ee now! see-ee now!' (he drawl'd) 'Back! back! back! R-r-r-run away!'O Thrush, be still!Or at thy willSeek some less sad interpreter than I.'Air, air! blue air and white!Whither I flee, whither, O whither, O whither I flee!'(Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the lea)'Hills, countries, many waters glittering brightWhither I see, whither I see! deeper, deeper, deeper, whither I see, see, see!''Gay Lark,' I said,'The song that's bredIn happy nest may well to heaven make flight.''There's something, something sadI half remember'—piped a broken strain.Well sung, sweet Robin! Robin sung again.'Spring's opening cheerily, cheerily! be we glad!'Which moved, I wist not why, me melancholy mad,Till now, grown meek,With wetted cheek,Most comforting and gentle thoughts I had.
Within a budding grove,In April's ear sang every bird his best,But not a song to pleasure my unrest,Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love;Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in jest.To every wordOf every birdI listen'd, or replied as it behove.
Scream'd Chaffinch, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet!Pretty lovey, come and meet me here!''Chaffinch,' quoth I, 'be dumb awhile, in fearThy darling prove no better than a cheat,And never come, or fly when wintry days appear.'Yet from a twig,With voice so big,The little fowl his utterance did repeat.
Then I, 'The man forlornHears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft.''And what'llhedo? What'llhedo?' scoff'dThe Blackbird, standing, in ancient thorn,Then spread his sooty wings and flitted to the croftWith cackling laugh;Whom I, being halfEnraged, called after, giving back his scorn.
Worse mock'd the Thrush, 'Die! die!O, could he do it? could he do it? Nay!Be quick! be quick! Here, here, here!' (went his lay).'Take heed! take heed!' then, 'Why? why? why? why? why?See-ee now! see-ee now!' (he drawl'd) 'Back! back! back! R-r-r-run away!'O Thrush, be still!Or at thy willSeek some less sad interpreter than I.
'Air, air! blue air and white!Whither I flee, whither, O whither, O whither I flee!'(Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the lea)'Hills, countries, many waters glittering brightWhither I see, whither I see! deeper, deeper, deeper, whither I see, see, see!''Gay Lark,' I said,'The song that's bredIn happy nest may well to heaven make flight.'
'There's something, something sadI half remember'—piped a broken strain.Well sung, sweet Robin! Robin sung again.'Spring's opening cheerily, cheerily! be we glad!'Which moved, I wist not why, me melancholy mad,Till now, grown meek,With wetted cheek,Most comforting and gentle thoughts I had.
William Allingham
Long, long ago, beyond the misty spaceOf twice a thousand years,In Erin old there dwelt a mighty raceTaller than Roman spears;Like oaks and towers, they had a giant grace,Were fleet as deers:With winds and waves they made their biding-place,The Western shepherd seers.Their ocean-god wasMananan Mac Lir,Whose angry lipsIn their white foam full often would interWhole fleets of ships:Cromwas their day-god, and their thundererMade morning and eclipse:Bridewas their queen of song, and unto herThey pray'd with fire-touch'd lips.Great were their acts, their passions, and their sports;With clay and stoneThey piled on strath and shore those mystic forts,Not yet undone;On cairn-crown'd hills they held their council courts;While youths—alone—With giant-dogs, explored the elks' resorts,And brought them down.Of these wasFinn, the father of the bardWhose ancient songOver the clamour of all change is heard,Sweet-voiced and strong.Finn once o'ertook Granu, the golden-hair'd,The fleet and young:From her, the lovely, and from him, the feared,The primal poet sprung—Ossian!—two thousand years of mist and changeSurround thy name;Thy Finnian heroes now no longer rangeThe hills of Fame.The very name of Finn and Gael sound strange;Yet thine the sameBy miscall'd lake and desecrated grangeRemains, and shall remain!The Druid's altar and the Druid's creedWe scarce can trace;There is not left an undisputed deedOf all your race—Save your majestic Song, which hath their speed,And strength, and grace:In that sole song they live, and love, and bleed—It bears them on through space.Inspirèd giant, shall we e'er behold,In our own time,One fit to speak your spirit on the wold,Or seize your rhyme?One pupil of the past, as mighty-soul'dAs in the primeWere the fond, fair, and beautiful, and bold—They of your song sublime?
Long, long ago, beyond the misty spaceOf twice a thousand years,In Erin old there dwelt a mighty raceTaller than Roman spears;Like oaks and towers, they had a giant grace,Were fleet as deers:With winds and waves they made their biding-place,The Western shepherd seers.Their ocean-god wasMananan Mac Lir,Whose angry lipsIn their white foam full often would interWhole fleets of ships:Cromwas their day-god, and their thundererMade morning and eclipse:Bridewas their queen of song, and unto herThey pray'd with fire-touch'd lips.Great were their acts, their passions, and their sports;With clay and stoneThey piled on strath and shore those mystic forts,Not yet undone;On cairn-crown'd hills they held their council courts;While youths—alone—With giant-dogs, explored the elks' resorts,And brought them down.Of these wasFinn, the father of the bardWhose ancient songOver the clamour of all change is heard,Sweet-voiced and strong.Finn once o'ertook Granu, the golden-hair'd,The fleet and young:From her, the lovely, and from him, the feared,The primal poet sprung—Ossian!—two thousand years of mist and changeSurround thy name;Thy Finnian heroes now no longer rangeThe hills of Fame.The very name of Finn and Gael sound strange;Yet thine the sameBy miscall'd lake and desecrated grangeRemains, and shall remain!The Druid's altar and the Druid's creedWe scarce can trace;There is not left an undisputed deedOf all your race—Save your majestic Song, which hath their speed,And strength, and grace:In that sole song they live, and love, and bleed—It bears them on through space.Inspirèd giant, shall we e'er behold,In our own time,One fit to speak your spirit on the wold,Or seize your rhyme?One pupil of the past, as mighty-soul'dAs in the primeWere the fond, fair, and beautiful, and bold—They of your song sublime?
Long, long ago, beyond the misty spaceOf twice a thousand years,In Erin old there dwelt a mighty raceTaller than Roman spears;Like oaks and towers, they had a giant grace,Were fleet as deers:With winds and waves they made their biding-place,The Western shepherd seers.
Their ocean-god wasMananan Mac Lir,Whose angry lipsIn their white foam full often would interWhole fleets of ships:Cromwas their day-god, and their thundererMade morning and eclipse:Bridewas their queen of song, and unto herThey pray'd with fire-touch'd lips.
Great were their acts, their passions, and their sports;With clay and stoneThey piled on strath and shore those mystic forts,Not yet undone;On cairn-crown'd hills they held their council courts;While youths—alone—With giant-dogs, explored the elks' resorts,And brought them down.
Of these wasFinn, the father of the bardWhose ancient songOver the clamour of all change is heard,Sweet-voiced and strong.Finn once o'ertook Granu, the golden-hair'd,The fleet and young:From her, the lovely, and from him, the feared,The primal poet sprung—
Ossian!—two thousand years of mist and changeSurround thy name;Thy Finnian heroes now no longer rangeThe hills of Fame.The very name of Finn and Gael sound strange;Yet thine the sameBy miscall'd lake and desecrated grangeRemains, and shall remain!
The Druid's altar and the Druid's creedWe scarce can trace;There is not left an undisputed deedOf all your race—Save your majestic Song, which hath their speed,And strength, and grace:In that sole song they live, and love, and bleed—It bears them on through space.
Inspirèd giant, shall we e'er behold,In our own time,One fit to speak your spirit on the wold,Or seize your rhyme?One pupil of the past, as mighty-soul'dAs in the primeWere the fond, fair, and beautiful, and bold—They of your song sublime?
Thomas D'Arcy McGee
Hail to our Celtic brethren wherever they may be,In the far woods of Oregon, or o'er the Atlantic sea;Whether they guard the banner of St. George, in Indian vales,Or spread beneath the nightless North experimental sails—One in name, and in fame,Are the sea-divided Gaels.Though fallen the state of Erin, and changed the Scottish land,Though small the power of Mona, though unwaked Llewellyn's band,Though Ambrose Merlin's prophecies are held as idle tales,Though Iona's ruined cloisters are swept by northern gales:One in name, and in fame,Are the sea-divided Gaels.In Northern Spain and Italy our brethren also dwell,And brave are the traditions of their fathers that they tell:The Eagle or the Crescent in the dawn of history palesBefore the advancing banners of the great Rome-conquering Gaels.One in name, and in fame,Are the sea-divided Gaels.A greeting and a promise unto them all we send;Their character our charter is, their glory is our end—Their friend shall be our friend, our foe whoe'er assailsThe glory or the story of the sea-divided Gaels.One in name, and in fame,Are the sea-divided Gaels.
Hail to our Celtic brethren wherever they may be,In the far woods of Oregon, or o'er the Atlantic sea;Whether they guard the banner of St. George, in Indian vales,Or spread beneath the nightless North experimental sails—One in name, and in fame,Are the sea-divided Gaels.Though fallen the state of Erin, and changed the Scottish land,Though small the power of Mona, though unwaked Llewellyn's band,Though Ambrose Merlin's prophecies are held as idle tales,Though Iona's ruined cloisters are swept by northern gales:One in name, and in fame,Are the sea-divided Gaels.In Northern Spain and Italy our brethren also dwell,And brave are the traditions of their fathers that they tell:The Eagle or the Crescent in the dawn of history palesBefore the advancing banners of the great Rome-conquering Gaels.One in name, and in fame,Are the sea-divided Gaels.A greeting and a promise unto them all we send;Their character our charter is, their glory is our end—Their friend shall be our friend, our foe whoe'er assailsThe glory or the story of the sea-divided Gaels.One in name, and in fame,Are the sea-divided Gaels.
Hail to our Celtic brethren wherever they may be,In the far woods of Oregon, or o'er the Atlantic sea;Whether they guard the banner of St. George, in Indian vales,Or spread beneath the nightless North experimental sails—One in name, and in fame,Are the sea-divided Gaels.
Though fallen the state of Erin, and changed the Scottish land,Though small the power of Mona, though unwaked Llewellyn's band,Though Ambrose Merlin's prophecies are held as idle tales,Though Iona's ruined cloisters are swept by northern gales:One in name, and in fame,Are the sea-divided Gaels.
In Northern Spain and Italy our brethren also dwell,And brave are the traditions of their fathers that they tell:The Eagle or the Crescent in the dawn of history palesBefore the advancing banners of the great Rome-conquering Gaels.One in name, and in fame,Are the sea-divided Gaels.
A greeting and a promise unto them all we send;Their character our charter is, their glory is our end—Their friend shall be our friend, our foe whoe'er assailsThe glory or the story of the sea-divided Gaels.One in name, and in fame,Are the sea-divided Gaels.
Thomas D'Arcy McGee
He stepped a man, out on the ways of men,And no one knew his sept, or rank, or name;Like a strong stream far issuing from a glen,From some source unexplored the Master came;Gossips there were who, wondrous keen of ken,Surmised that he must be a child of shame;Others declared him of the Druids, then—Thro' Patrick's labours—fallen from power and fame.He lived apart, wrapt up in many plans;He wooed not women, tasted not of wine;He shunned the sports and councils of the clans;Nor ever knelt at a frequented shrine.His orisons were old poetic rannsWhich the new Olamhs deem'd an evil sign;To most he seemed one of those Pagan KhansWhose mystic vigour knows no cold decline.He was the builder of the wondrous Towers,Which, tall and straight and exquisitely round,Rise monumental round this isle of ours,Index-like, marking spots of holy ground.In glooming silent glens, in lowland bowers,On river banks, theseCloichteachsold abound,Where Art, enraptured, meditates long hoursAnd Science ponders, wondering and spell-bound.Lo, wheresoe'er these pillar-towers aspire,Heroes and holy men repose below;The bones of some, gleaned from a Pagan pyre,Others in armour lie, as for a foe;It was the mighty Master's life-desireTo chronicle his great ancestors so;What holier duty, what achievement higherRemains to us, than this he thus doth show?Yet he, the builder, died an unknown death;His labours done, no man beheld him more;'Twas thought his body faded like a breath—Or, like a sea-mist, floated off Life's shore.Doubt overhangs his fate—and faith—and birth:His works alone attest his life and love,They are the only witnesses he hath,All else Egyptian darkness covers o'er.Men called him Gobban Saor, and many a taleYet lingers in the byways of the land,Of how he cleft the rock, and down the valeLed the bright river, child-like, in his hand;Of how on giant ships he spread great sailAnd many marvels else, by him first planned,And tho' these legends fail, in InnisfailHis name and Towers for centuries still shall stand.
He stepped a man, out on the ways of men,And no one knew his sept, or rank, or name;Like a strong stream far issuing from a glen,From some source unexplored the Master came;Gossips there were who, wondrous keen of ken,Surmised that he must be a child of shame;Others declared him of the Druids, then—Thro' Patrick's labours—fallen from power and fame.He lived apart, wrapt up in many plans;He wooed not women, tasted not of wine;He shunned the sports and councils of the clans;Nor ever knelt at a frequented shrine.His orisons were old poetic rannsWhich the new Olamhs deem'd an evil sign;To most he seemed one of those Pagan KhansWhose mystic vigour knows no cold decline.He was the builder of the wondrous Towers,Which, tall and straight and exquisitely round,Rise monumental round this isle of ours,Index-like, marking spots of holy ground.In glooming silent glens, in lowland bowers,On river banks, theseCloichteachsold abound,Where Art, enraptured, meditates long hoursAnd Science ponders, wondering and spell-bound.Lo, wheresoe'er these pillar-towers aspire,Heroes and holy men repose below;The bones of some, gleaned from a Pagan pyre,Others in armour lie, as for a foe;It was the mighty Master's life-desireTo chronicle his great ancestors so;What holier duty, what achievement higherRemains to us, than this he thus doth show?Yet he, the builder, died an unknown death;His labours done, no man beheld him more;'Twas thought his body faded like a breath—Or, like a sea-mist, floated off Life's shore.Doubt overhangs his fate—and faith—and birth:His works alone attest his life and love,They are the only witnesses he hath,All else Egyptian darkness covers o'er.Men called him Gobban Saor, and many a taleYet lingers in the byways of the land,Of how he cleft the rock, and down the valeLed the bright river, child-like, in his hand;Of how on giant ships he spread great sailAnd many marvels else, by him first planned,And tho' these legends fail, in InnisfailHis name and Towers for centuries still shall stand.
He stepped a man, out on the ways of men,And no one knew his sept, or rank, or name;Like a strong stream far issuing from a glen,From some source unexplored the Master came;Gossips there were who, wondrous keen of ken,Surmised that he must be a child of shame;Others declared him of the Druids, then—Thro' Patrick's labours—fallen from power and fame.
He lived apart, wrapt up in many plans;He wooed not women, tasted not of wine;He shunned the sports and councils of the clans;Nor ever knelt at a frequented shrine.His orisons were old poetic rannsWhich the new Olamhs deem'd an evil sign;To most he seemed one of those Pagan KhansWhose mystic vigour knows no cold decline.
He was the builder of the wondrous Towers,Which, tall and straight and exquisitely round,Rise monumental round this isle of ours,Index-like, marking spots of holy ground.In glooming silent glens, in lowland bowers,On river banks, theseCloichteachsold abound,Where Art, enraptured, meditates long hoursAnd Science ponders, wondering and spell-bound.
Lo, wheresoe'er these pillar-towers aspire,Heroes and holy men repose below;The bones of some, gleaned from a Pagan pyre,Others in armour lie, as for a foe;It was the mighty Master's life-desireTo chronicle his great ancestors so;What holier duty, what achievement higherRemains to us, than this he thus doth show?
Yet he, the builder, died an unknown death;His labours done, no man beheld him more;'Twas thought his body faded like a breath—Or, like a sea-mist, floated off Life's shore.Doubt overhangs his fate—and faith—and birth:His works alone attest his life and love,They are the only witnesses he hath,All else Egyptian darkness covers o'er.
Men called him Gobban Saor, and many a taleYet lingers in the byways of the land,Of how he cleft the rock, and down the valeLed the bright river, child-like, in his hand;Of how on giant ships he spread great sailAnd many marvels else, by him first planned,And tho' these legends fail, in InnisfailHis name and Towers for centuries still shall stand.
Thomas D'Arcy McGee
My name is Patrick Sheehan,My years are thirty-four,Tipperary is my native place,Not far from Galtymore;I came of honest parents,But now they're lying low;And many a pleasant day I spentIn the Glen of Aherlow.My father died; I closed his eyesOutsideour cabin-door;The landlord and the sheriff tooWere there the day before!And then my loving mother,And sisters three also,Were forced to go with broken heartsFrom the Glen of Aherlow.For three long months, in search of work,I wandered far and near;I went then to the poor-house,For to see my mother dear;The news I heard nigh broke my heart;But still, in all my woe,I blessed the friends who made their gravesIn the Glen of Aherlow.Bereft of home and kith and kin,With plenty all around,I starved within my cabin,And slept upon the ground;But cruel as my lot was,I ne'er did hardship know'Till I joined the English army,Far away from Aherlow.'Rouse up, there,' says the Corporal,'You lazy Hirish hound;Why don't you hear, you sleepy dog,The call "to arms" sound?'Alas, I had been dreamingOf days long, long ago;I woke before Sebastopol,And not in Aherlow.I groped to find my musket—How dark I thought the night!O blessed God, it was not dark,It was the broad daylight!And when I found that I wasblind,My tears began to flow;I longed for even a pauper's graveIn the Glen of Aherlow.O blessed Virgin Mary,Mine is a mournful tale;A poor blind prisoner here I am,In Dublin's dreary gaol;Struck blind within the trenches,Where I never feared the foe;And now I'll never see againMy own sweet Aherlow.A poor neglected mendicant,I wandered through the street;My nine months' pension now being out,I beg from all I meet:As I joined my country's tyrants,My face I'll never showAmong the kind old neighboursIn the Glen of Aherlow.Then, Irish youths, dear countrymen,Take heed of what I say;For if you join the English ranks,You'll surely rue the day;And whenever you are temptedA-soldiering to go,Remember poor blind SheehanOf the Glen of Aherlow.
My name is Patrick Sheehan,My years are thirty-four,Tipperary is my native place,Not far from Galtymore;I came of honest parents,But now they're lying low;And many a pleasant day I spentIn the Glen of Aherlow.My father died; I closed his eyesOutsideour cabin-door;The landlord and the sheriff tooWere there the day before!And then my loving mother,And sisters three also,Were forced to go with broken heartsFrom the Glen of Aherlow.For three long months, in search of work,I wandered far and near;I went then to the poor-house,For to see my mother dear;The news I heard nigh broke my heart;But still, in all my woe,I blessed the friends who made their gravesIn the Glen of Aherlow.Bereft of home and kith and kin,With plenty all around,I starved within my cabin,And slept upon the ground;But cruel as my lot was,I ne'er did hardship know'Till I joined the English army,Far away from Aherlow.'Rouse up, there,' says the Corporal,'You lazy Hirish hound;Why don't you hear, you sleepy dog,The call "to arms" sound?'Alas, I had been dreamingOf days long, long ago;I woke before Sebastopol,And not in Aherlow.I groped to find my musket—How dark I thought the night!O blessed God, it was not dark,It was the broad daylight!And when I found that I wasblind,My tears began to flow;I longed for even a pauper's graveIn the Glen of Aherlow.O blessed Virgin Mary,Mine is a mournful tale;A poor blind prisoner here I am,In Dublin's dreary gaol;Struck blind within the trenches,Where I never feared the foe;And now I'll never see againMy own sweet Aherlow.A poor neglected mendicant,I wandered through the street;My nine months' pension now being out,I beg from all I meet:As I joined my country's tyrants,My face I'll never showAmong the kind old neighboursIn the Glen of Aherlow.Then, Irish youths, dear countrymen,Take heed of what I say;For if you join the English ranks,You'll surely rue the day;And whenever you are temptedA-soldiering to go,Remember poor blind SheehanOf the Glen of Aherlow.
My name is Patrick Sheehan,My years are thirty-four,Tipperary is my native place,Not far from Galtymore;I came of honest parents,But now they're lying low;And many a pleasant day I spentIn the Glen of Aherlow.
My father died; I closed his eyesOutsideour cabin-door;The landlord and the sheriff tooWere there the day before!And then my loving mother,And sisters three also,Were forced to go with broken heartsFrom the Glen of Aherlow.
For three long months, in search of work,I wandered far and near;I went then to the poor-house,For to see my mother dear;The news I heard nigh broke my heart;But still, in all my woe,I blessed the friends who made their gravesIn the Glen of Aherlow.
Bereft of home and kith and kin,With plenty all around,I starved within my cabin,And slept upon the ground;But cruel as my lot was,I ne'er did hardship know'Till I joined the English army,Far away from Aherlow.
'Rouse up, there,' says the Corporal,'You lazy Hirish hound;Why don't you hear, you sleepy dog,The call "to arms" sound?'Alas, I had been dreamingOf days long, long ago;I woke before Sebastopol,And not in Aherlow.
I groped to find my musket—How dark I thought the night!O blessed God, it was not dark,It was the broad daylight!And when I found that I wasblind,My tears began to flow;I longed for even a pauper's graveIn the Glen of Aherlow.
O blessed Virgin Mary,Mine is a mournful tale;A poor blind prisoner here I am,In Dublin's dreary gaol;Struck blind within the trenches,Where I never feared the foe;And now I'll never see againMy own sweet Aherlow.
A poor neglected mendicant,I wandered through the street;My nine months' pension now being out,I beg from all I meet:As I joined my country's tyrants,My face I'll never showAmong the kind old neighboursIn the Glen of Aherlow.
Then, Irish youths, dear countrymen,Take heed of what I say;For if you join the English ranks,You'll surely rue the day;And whenever you are temptedA-soldiering to go,Remember poor blind SheehanOf the Glen of Aherlow.
Charles J. Kickham