She lived beside the Anner,At the foot of Sliev-na-mon,A gentle peasant girl,With mild eyes like the dawn;Her lips were dewy rosebuds;Her teeth of pearls rare;And a snow-drift 'neath a beechen boughHer neck and nut-brown hair.How pleasant 'twas to meet herOn Sunday, when the bellWas filling with its mellow tonesLone wood and grassy dell!And when at eve young maidensStrayed the river-bank along,The widow's brown-haired daughterWas loveliest of the throng.O brave, brave Irish girls—We well may call you brave!—Sure the least of all your perilsIs the stormy ocean wave,When you leave our quiet valleys,And cross the Atlantic's foam,To hoard your hard-won earningsFor the helpless ones at home.'Write word to my own dear mother—Say, we'll meet with God above;And tell my little brothersI send them all my love;May the angels ever guard them,Is their dying sister's prayer'—And folded in the letterWas a braid of nut-brown hair.Ah, cold, and well-nigh callous,This weary heart has grownFor thy helpless fate, dear Ireland,And for sorrows of my own;Yet a tear my eye will moistenWhen by Anner's side I stray,For the lily of the mountain footThat withered far away.
She lived beside the Anner,At the foot of Sliev-na-mon,A gentle peasant girl,With mild eyes like the dawn;Her lips were dewy rosebuds;Her teeth of pearls rare;And a snow-drift 'neath a beechen boughHer neck and nut-brown hair.How pleasant 'twas to meet herOn Sunday, when the bellWas filling with its mellow tonesLone wood and grassy dell!And when at eve young maidensStrayed the river-bank along,The widow's brown-haired daughterWas loveliest of the throng.O brave, brave Irish girls—We well may call you brave!—Sure the least of all your perilsIs the stormy ocean wave,When you leave our quiet valleys,And cross the Atlantic's foam,To hoard your hard-won earningsFor the helpless ones at home.'Write word to my own dear mother—Say, we'll meet with God above;And tell my little brothersI send them all my love;May the angels ever guard them,Is their dying sister's prayer'—And folded in the letterWas a braid of nut-brown hair.Ah, cold, and well-nigh callous,This weary heart has grownFor thy helpless fate, dear Ireland,And for sorrows of my own;Yet a tear my eye will moistenWhen by Anner's side I stray,For the lily of the mountain footThat withered far away.
She lived beside the Anner,At the foot of Sliev-na-mon,A gentle peasant girl,With mild eyes like the dawn;Her lips were dewy rosebuds;Her teeth of pearls rare;And a snow-drift 'neath a beechen boughHer neck and nut-brown hair.
How pleasant 'twas to meet herOn Sunday, when the bellWas filling with its mellow tonesLone wood and grassy dell!And when at eve young maidensStrayed the river-bank along,The widow's brown-haired daughterWas loveliest of the throng.
O brave, brave Irish girls—We well may call you brave!—Sure the least of all your perilsIs the stormy ocean wave,When you leave our quiet valleys,And cross the Atlantic's foam,To hoard your hard-won earningsFor the helpless ones at home.
'Write word to my own dear mother—Say, we'll meet with God above;And tell my little brothersI send them all my love;May the angels ever guard them,Is their dying sister's prayer'—And folded in the letterWas a braid of nut-brown hair.
Ah, cold, and well-nigh callous,This weary heart has grownFor thy helpless fate, dear Ireland,And for sorrows of my own;Yet a tear my eye will moistenWhen by Anner's side I stray,For the lily of the mountain footThat withered far away.
Charles J. Kickham
I sit beside my darling's grave,Who in the prison died,And tho' my tears fall thick and fast,I think of him with pride:—Ay, softly fall my tears like dew,For one to God and Ireland true.'I love my God o'er all,' he said,'And then I love my land,And next I love my Lily sweet,Who pledged me her white hand:—To each—to all—I'm ever true,To God—to Ireland and to you.'No tender nurse his hard bed smoothedOr softly raised his head:—He fell asleep and woke in heavenEre I knew he was dead;—Yet why should I my darling rue?He was to God and Ireland true.O, 'tis a glorious memory;I'm prouder than a queenTo sit beside my hero's graveAnd think on what has been:—And O, my darling, I am trueTo God—to Ireland and to you!
I sit beside my darling's grave,Who in the prison died,And tho' my tears fall thick and fast,I think of him with pride:—Ay, softly fall my tears like dew,For one to God and Ireland true.'I love my God o'er all,' he said,'And then I love my land,And next I love my Lily sweet,Who pledged me her white hand:—To each—to all—I'm ever true,To God—to Ireland and to you.'No tender nurse his hard bed smoothedOr softly raised his head:—He fell asleep and woke in heavenEre I knew he was dead;—Yet why should I my darling rue?He was to God and Ireland true.O, 'tis a glorious memory;I'm prouder than a queenTo sit beside my hero's graveAnd think on what has been:—And O, my darling, I am trueTo God—to Ireland and to you!
I sit beside my darling's grave,Who in the prison died,And tho' my tears fall thick and fast,I think of him with pride:—Ay, softly fall my tears like dew,For one to God and Ireland true.
'I love my God o'er all,' he said,'And then I love my land,And next I love my Lily sweet,Who pledged me her white hand:—To each—to all—I'm ever true,To God—to Ireland and to you.'
No tender nurse his hard bed smoothedOr softly raised his head:—He fell asleep and woke in heavenEre I knew he was dead;—Yet why should I my darling rue?He was to God and Ireland true.
O, 'tis a glorious memory;I'm prouder than a queenTo sit beside my hero's graveAnd think on what has been:—And O, my darling, I am trueTo God—to Ireland and to you!
Ellen O'Leary
Green, in the wizard arms,Of the foam-bearded Atlantic,An isle of old enchantment,A melancholy isle,Enchanted and dreaming lies;And there, by Shannon's flowing,In the moonlight, spectre thin,The spectre Erin sits.An aged desolationShe sits by old Shannon's flowing,A mother of many children,Of children exiled and dead,In her home, with bent head, homeless,Clasping her knees she sits,Keening, keening!And at her keene the fairy-grassTrembles on dun and barrow;Around the foot of her ancient crossesThe grave-grass shakes and the nettle swings;In haunted glens the meadow-sweetFlings to the night-windHer mystic mournful perfume;The sad spearmint by holy wellsBreathes melancholy balm.Sometimes she lifts her head,With blue eyes tearless,And gazes athwart the reek of nightUpon things long past,Upon things to come.And sometimes, when the moonBrings tempest upon the deep,And roused Atlantic thunders from his caverns in the West,The wolf-hound at her feetSprings up with a mighty bay,And chords of mystery sound from the wild harp at her side,Strung from the heart of poets;And she flies on the verge of the tempestAround her shuddering isle,With grey hair streaming:A meteor of evil omen,The spectre of hope forlorn,Keening, keening!She keenes, and the strings of her wild harp shiverOn the gusts of night:O'er the four waters she keenes—over Moyle she keenes,O'er the Sea of Milith, and the Strait of Strongbow,And the Ocean of Columbus.And the Fianna hear, and the ghosts of her cloudy hovering heroes;And the swan, Fianoula, wails o'er the waters of Inisfail,Chanting her song of destiny,The rune of the weaving Fates.And the nations hear in the void and quaking time of night,Sad unto dawning, dirges,Solemn dirges,And snatches of bardic song;Their souls quake in the void and quaking time of night,And they dream of the weird of kings,And tyrannies moulting, sickIn the dreadful wind of change.Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exiles, wail no more,Banshee of the world—no more!Thy sorrows are the world's, thou art no more alone;Thy wrongs, the world's.
Green, in the wizard arms,Of the foam-bearded Atlantic,An isle of old enchantment,A melancholy isle,Enchanted and dreaming lies;And there, by Shannon's flowing,In the moonlight, spectre thin,The spectre Erin sits.An aged desolationShe sits by old Shannon's flowing,A mother of many children,Of children exiled and dead,In her home, with bent head, homeless,Clasping her knees she sits,Keening, keening!And at her keene the fairy-grassTrembles on dun and barrow;Around the foot of her ancient crossesThe grave-grass shakes and the nettle swings;In haunted glens the meadow-sweetFlings to the night-windHer mystic mournful perfume;The sad spearmint by holy wellsBreathes melancholy balm.Sometimes she lifts her head,With blue eyes tearless,And gazes athwart the reek of nightUpon things long past,Upon things to come.And sometimes, when the moonBrings tempest upon the deep,And roused Atlantic thunders from his caverns in the West,The wolf-hound at her feetSprings up with a mighty bay,And chords of mystery sound from the wild harp at her side,Strung from the heart of poets;And she flies on the verge of the tempestAround her shuddering isle,With grey hair streaming:A meteor of evil omen,The spectre of hope forlorn,Keening, keening!She keenes, and the strings of her wild harp shiverOn the gusts of night:O'er the four waters she keenes—over Moyle she keenes,O'er the Sea of Milith, and the Strait of Strongbow,And the Ocean of Columbus.And the Fianna hear, and the ghosts of her cloudy hovering heroes;And the swan, Fianoula, wails o'er the waters of Inisfail,Chanting her song of destiny,The rune of the weaving Fates.And the nations hear in the void and quaking time of night,Sad unto dawning, dirges,Solemn dirges,And snatches of bardic song;Their souls quake in the void and quaking time of night,And they dream of the weird of kings,And tyrannies moulting, sickIn the dreadful wind of change.Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exiles, wail no more,Banshee of the world—no more!Thy sorrows are the world's, thou art no more alone;Thy wrongs, the world's.
Green, in the wizard arms,Of the foam-bearded Atlantic,An isle of old enchantment,A melancholy isle,Enchanted and dreaming lies;And there, by Shannon's flowing,In the moonlight, spectre thin,The spectre Erin sits.
An aged desolationShe sits by old Shannon's flowing,A mother of many children,Of children exiled and dead,In her home, with bent head, homeless,Clasping her knees she sits,Keening, keening!
And at her keene the fairy-grassTrembles on dun and barrow;Around the foot of her ancient crossesThe grave-grass shakes and the nettle swings;In haunted glens the meadow-sweetFlings to the night-windHer mystic mournful perfume;The sad spearmint by holy wellsBreathes melancholy balm.
Sometimes she lifts her head,With blue eyes tearless,And gazes athwart the reek of nightUpon things long past,Upon things to come.
And sometimes, when the moonBrings tempest upon the deep,And roused Atlantic thunders from his caverns in the West,The wolf-hound at her feetSprings up with a mighty bay,And chords of mystery sound from the wild harp at her side,Strung from the heart of poets;And she flies on the verge of the tempestAround her shuddering isle,With grey hair streaming:A meteor of evil omen,The spectre of hope forlorn,Keening, keening!
She keenes, and the strings of her wild harp shiverOn the gusts of night:O'er the four waters she keenes—over Moyle she keenes,O'er the Sea of Milith, and the Strait of Strongbow,And the Ocean of Columbus.
And the Fianna hear, and the ghosts of her cloudy hovering heroes;And the swan, Fianoula, wails o'er the waters of Inisfail,Chanting her song of destiny,The rune of the weaving Fates.
And the nations hear in the void and quaking time of night,Sad unto dawning, dirges,Solemn dirges,And snatches of bardic song;Their souls quake in the void and quaking time of night,And they dream of the weird of kings,And tyrannies moulting, sickIn the dreadful wind of change.
Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exiles, wail no more,Banshee of the world—no more!Thy sorrows are the world's, thou art no more alone;Thy wrongs, the world's.
John Todhunter
There's a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,There's a green and silent glade in Aghadoe,Where we met, my Love and I, Love's fair planet in the sky,O'er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe.There's a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,There's a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe,Where I hid from the eyes of the red-coats and their spiesThat year the trouble came to Aghadoe.O! my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,On Shaun Dhuv, my mother's son in Aghadoe,When your throat fries in hell's drouth salt the flame be in your mouth,For the treachery you did in Aghadoe!For they tracked me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,When the price was on his head in Aghadoe;O'er the mountain through the wood, as I stole to him with food,When in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe.But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe;With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe,There he lay, the head—my breast keeps the warmth where once 'twould rest—Gone, to win the traitor's gold, from Aghadoe!I walked to Mallow Town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe,Brought his head from the gaol's gate to Aghadoe,Then I covered him with fern, and I piled on him the cairn.Like an Irish King he sleeps in Aghadoe.O! to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe!There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe!Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I,Your own love, cold on your cairn in Aghadoe.
There's a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,There's a green and silent glade in Aghadoe,Where we met, my Love and I, Love's fair planet in the sky,O'er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe.There's a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,There's a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe,Where I hid from the eyes of the red-coats and their spiesThat year the trouble came to Aghadoe.O! my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,On Shaun Dhuv, my mother's son in Aghadoe,When your throat fries in hell's drouth salt the flame be in your mouth,For the treachery you did in Aghadoe!For they tracked me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,When the price was on his head in Aghadoe;O'er the mountain through the wood, as I stole to him with food,When in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe.But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe;With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe,There he lay, the head—my breast keeps the warmth where once 'twould rest—Gone, to win the traitor's gold, from Aghadoe!I walked to Mallow Town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe,Brought his head from the gaol's gate to Aghadoe,Then I covered him with fern, and I piled on him the cairn.Like an Irish King he sleeps in Aghadoe.O! to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe!There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe!Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I,Your own love, cold on your cairn in Aghadoe.
There's a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,There's a green and silent glade in Aghadoe,Where we met, my Love and I, Love's fair planet in the sky,O'er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe.
There's a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,There's a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe,Where I hid from the eyes of the red-coats and their spiesThat year the trouble came to Aghadoe.
O! my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,On Shaun Dhuv, my mother's son in Aghadoe,When your throat fries in hell's drouth salt the flame be in your mouth,For the treachery you did in Aghadoe!
For they tracked me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,When the price was on his head in Aghadoe;O'er the mountain through the wood, as I stole to him with food,When in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe.
But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe;With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe,There he lay, the head—my breast keeps the warmth where once 'twould rest—Gone, to win the traitor's gold, from Aghadoe!
I walked to Mallow Town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe,Brought his head from the gaol's gate to Aghadoe,Then I covered him with fern, and I piled on him the cairn.Like an Irish King he sleeps in Aghadoe.
O! to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe!There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe!Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I,Your own love, cold on your cairn in Aghadoe.
John Todhunter
I hear the wind a-blowing,I hear the corn a-growing,I hear the Virgin praying,I hear what she is saying.
I hear the wind a-blowing,I hear the corn a-growing,I hear the Virgin praying,I hear what she is saying.
I hear the wind a-blowing,I hear the corn a-growing,I hear the Virgin praying,I hear what she is saying.
Hester Sigerson
Girls, when I am gone away,On this bosom strewOnly flowers meek and pale,And the yew.Lay these hands down by my side,Let my face be bare;Bind a kerchief round the face,Smooth my hair.Let my bier be borne at dawn,Summer grows so sweet,Deep into the forest greenWhere boughs meet.Then pass away, and let me lieOne long, warm, sweet dayThere alone, with face upturned,One sweet day.While the morning light grows broad,While noon sleepeth sound,While the evening falls and faints,While the world goes round.
Girls, when I am gone away,On this bosom strewOnly flowers meek and pale,And the yew.Lay these hands down by my side,Let my face be bare;Bind a kerchief round the face,Smooth my hair.Let my bier be borne at dawn,Summer grows so sweet,Deep into the forest greenWhere boughs meet.Then pass away, and let me lieOne long, warm, sweet dayThere alone, with face upturned,One sweet day.While the morning light grows broad,While noon sleepeth sound,While the evening falls and faints,While the world goes round.
Girls, when I am gone away,On this bosom strewOnly flowers meek and pale,And the yew.
Lay these hands down by my side,Let my face be bare;Bind a kerchief round the face,Smooth my hair.
Let my bier be borne at dawn,Summer grows so sweet,Deep into the forest greenWhere boughs meet.
Then pass away, and let me lieOne long, warm, sweet dayThere alone, with face upturned,One sweet day.
While the morning light grows broad,While noon sleepeth sound,While the evening falls and faints,While the world goes round.
Edward Dowden
I made another garden, yea,For my new Love.I left the dead rose where it layAnd set the new above.Why did my Summer not begin?Why did my heart not haste?My old Love came and walked thereinAnd laid the garden waste.She entered with her weary smile,Just as of old:She looked around a little whileAnd shivered with the cold.Her passing touch was death to all,Her passing look a blight;She made the white rose-petals fall,And turned the red rose white.Her pale robe clinging to the grassSeemed like a snakeThat bit the grass and ground, alas!And a sad trail did make.She went up slowly to the gate,And then, just as of yore,She turned back at the last to waitAnd say farewell once more.
I made another garden, yea,For my new Love.I left the dead rose where it layAnd set the new above.Why did my Summer not begin?Why did my heart not haste?My old Love came and walked thereinAnd laid the garden waste.She entered with her weary smile,Just as of old:She looked around a little whileAnd shivered with the cold.Her passing touch was death to all,Her passing look a blight;She made the white rose-petals fall,And turned the red rose white.Her pale robe clinging to the grassSeemed like a snakeThat bit the grass and ground, alas!And a sad trail did make.She went up slowly to the gate,And then, just as of yore,She turned back at the last to waitAnd say farewell once more.
I made another garden, yea,For my new Love.I left the dead rose where it layAnd set the new above.Why did my Summer not begin?Why did my heart not haste?My old Love came and walked thereinAnd laid the garden waste.
She entered with her weary smile,Just as of old:She looked around a little whileAnd shivered with the cold.Her passing touch was death to all,Her passing look a blight;She made the white rose-petals fall,And turned the red rose white.
Her pale robe clinging to the grassSeemed like a snakeThat bit the grass and ground, alas!And a sad trail did make.She went up slowly to the gate,And then, just as of yore,She turned back at the last to waitAnd say farewell once more.
Arthur O'Shaughnessy
Of priests we can offer a charming variety,Far renowned for larnin' and piety,Still I'd advance you, without impropriety,Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,Slainte, andslainte, andslainteagin.Powerfullest preacher,And tindherest teacher,And kindliest creature in Old Donegal.Talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity,Far renowned for Greek and Latinity,Gad! and the divils and all at Divinity,Father O'Flynn would make hares of them all.Come, I venture to give you my word,Never the likes of his logic was heard,Down from mythology,Into thayology,Troth and conchology, if he'd the call.Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way with you,All the old sinners are wishful to pray with you,All the young children are wild for to play with you,You've such a way with you, Fatheravick!Still for all you're so gentle a soul,Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control;Checking the crazy ones,Coaxing unaisy ones,Lifting the lazy ones on with the stick.And though quite avoiding all foolish frivolity,Still at all seasons of innocent jollity,Where is the play-boy can claim an equalityAt comicality, Father, with you?Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest,Till this remark set him off with the rest:'Is it leave gaietyAll to the laity?Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too?'
Of priests we can offer a charming variety,Far renowned for larnin' and piety,Still I'd advance you, without impropriety,Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,Slainte, andslainte, andslainteagin.Powerfullest preacher,And tindherest teacher,And kindliest creature in Old Donegal.Talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity,Far renowned for Greek and Latinity,Gad! and the divils and all at Divinity,Father O'Flynn would make hares of them all.Come, I venture to give you my word,Never the likes of his logic was heard,Down from mythology,Into thayology,Troth and conchology, if he'd the call.Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way with you,All the old sinners are wishful to pray with you,All the young children are wild for to play with you,You've such a way with you, Fatheravick!Still for all you're so gentle a soul,Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control;Checking the crazy ones,Coaxing unaisy ones,Lifting the lazy ones on with the stick.And though quite avoiding all foolish frivolity,Still at all seasons of innocent jollity,Where is the play-boy can claim an equalityAt comicality, Father, with you?Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest,Till this remark set him off with the rest:'Is it leave gaietyAll to the laity?Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too?'
Of priests we can offer a charming variety,Far renowned for larnin' and piety,Still I'd advance you, without impropriety,Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,Slainte, andslainte, andslainteagin.Powerfullest preacher,And tindherest teacher,And kindliest creature in Old Donegal.
Talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity,Far renowned for Greek and Latinity,Gad! and the divils and all at Divinity,Father O'Flynn would make hares of them all.Come, I venture to give you my word,Never the likes of his logic was heard,Down from mythology,Into thayology,Troth and conchology, if he'd the call.
Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way with you,All the old sinners are wishful to pray with you,All the young children are wild for to play with you,You've such a way with you, Fatheravick!Still for all you're so gentle a soul,Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control;Checking the crazy ones,Coaxing unaisy ones,Lifting the lazy ones on with the stick.
And though quite avoiding all foolish frivolity,Still at all seasons of innocent jollity,Where is the play-boy can claim an equalityAt comicality, Father, with you?Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest,Till this remark set him off with the rest:'Is it leave gaietyAll to the laity?Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too?'
Alfred Perceval Graves
The silent bird is hid in the boughs,The scythe is hid in the corn,The lazy oxen wink and drowse,The grateful sheep are shorn.Redder and redder burns the rose,The lily was ne'er so pale,Stiller and stiller the river flowsAlong the path to the vale.A little door is hid in the boughs,A face is hiding within;When birds are silent and oxen drowse,Why should a maiden spin?Slower and slower turns the wheel,The face turns red and pale,Brighter and brighter the looks that steal,Along the path to the vale.
The silent bird is hid in the boughs,The scythe is hid in the corn,The lazy oxen wink and drowse,The grateful sheep are shorn.Redder and redder burns the rose,The lily was ne'er so pale,Stiller and stiller the river flowsAlong the path to the vale.A little door is hid in the boughs,A face is hiding within;When birds are silent and oxen drowse,Why should a maiden spin?Slower and slower turns the wheel,The face turns red and pale,Brighter and brighter the looks that steal,Along the path to the vale.
The silent bird is hid in the boughs,The scythe is hid in the corn,The lazy oxen wink and drowse,The grateful sheep are shorn.Redder and redder burns the rose,The lily was ne'er so pale,Stiller and stiller the river flowsAlong the path to the vale.
A little door is hid in the boughs,A face is hiding within;When birds are silent and oxen drowse,Why should a maiden spin?Slower and slower turns the wheel,The face turns red and pale,Brighter and brighter the looks that steal,Along the path to the vale.
Rosa Gilbert
Tread lightly, she is nearUnder the snow,Speak gently, she can hearThe daisies grow.All her bright golden hair,Tarnished with rust,She that was young and fairFallen to dust.Lily-like, white as snow,She hardly knewShe was a woman, soSweetly she grew.Coffin-board, heavy stoneLie on her breast,I vex my heart alone,She is at rest.Peace, Peace, she cannot hearLyre or sonnet,All my life's buried here,Heap earth upon it.
Tread lightly, she is nearUnder the snow,Speak gently, she can hearThe daisies grow.All her bright golden hair,Tarnished with rust,She that was young and fairFallen to dust.Lily-like, white as snow,She hardly knewShe was a woman, soSweetly she grew.Coffin-board, heavy stoneLie on her breast,I vex my heart alone,She is at rest.Peace, Peace, she cannot hearLyre or sonnet,All my life's buried here,Heap earth upon it.
Tread lightly, she is nearUnder the snow,Speak gently, she can hearThe daisies grow.
All her bright golden hair,Tarnished with rust,She that was young and fairFallen to dust.
Lily-like, white as snow,She hardly knewShe was a woman, soSweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy stoneLie on her breast,I vex my heart alone,She is at rest.
Peace, Peace, she cannot hearLyre or sonnet,All my life's buried here,Heap earth upon it.
Oscar Wilde
From the Irish of the Book of Leinster
Raise the cromlech high!Mac Moghcorb is slain,And other men's renownHas leave to live again.Cold at last he lies'Neath the burial stone.All the blood he shedCould not save his own.Stately, strong he went,Through his nobles all,When we paced togetherUp the banquet-hall.Dazzling white as lime,Was his body fair,Cherry-red his cheeks,Raven-black his hair.Razor-sharp his spear,And the shield he bore,High as champion's head—His arm was like an oar.Never aught but truthSpake my noble king;Valour all his trustIn all his warfaring.As the forkèd poleHolds the roof-tree's weight,So my hero's armHeld the battle straight.Terror went before him,Death behind his back,Well the wolves of ErinnKnew his chariot's track.Seven bloody battlesHe broke upon his foes,In each a hundred heroesFell beneath his blows.Once he fought at Fossud,Thrice at Ath-finn-fail.'Twas my king that conqueredAt bloody Ath-an-Scail.At the Boundary StreamFought the Royal Hound,And for Bernas battleStands his name renowned.Here he fought with Leinster—Last of all his frays—On the Hill of Cucorb's FateHigh his cromlech raise.
Raise the cromlech high!Mac Moghcorb is slain,And other men's renownHas leave to live again.Cold at last he lies'Neath the burial stone.All the blood he shedCould not save his own.Stately, strong he went,Through his nobles all,When we paced togetherUp the banquet-hall.Dazzling white as lime,Was his body fair,Cherry-red his cheeks,Raven-black his hair.Razor-sharp his spear,And the shield he bore,High as champion's head—His arm was like an oar.Never aught but truthSpake my noble king;Valour all his trustIn all his warfaring.As the forkèd poleHolds the roof-tree's weight,So my hero's armHeld the battle straight.Terror went before him,Death behind his back,Well the wolves of ErinnKnew his chariot's track.Seven bloody battlesHe broke upon his foes,In each a hundred heroesFell beneath his blows.Once he fought at Fossud,Thrice at Ath-finn-fail.'Twas my king that conqueredAt bloody Ath-an-Scail.At the Boundary StreamFought the Royal Hound,And for Bernas battleStands his name renowned.Here he fought with Leinster—Last of all his frays—On the Hill of Cucorb's FateHigh his cromlech raise.
Raise the cromlech high!Mac Moghcorb is slain,And other men's renownHas leave to live again.
Cold at last he lies'Neath the burial stone.All the blood he shedCould not save his own.
Stately, strong he went,Through his nobles all,When we paced togetherUp the banquet-hall.
Dazzling white as lime,Was his body fair,Cherry-red his cheeks,Raven-black his hair.
Razor-sharp his spear,And the shield he bore,High as champion's head—His arm was like an oar.
Never aught but truthSpake my noble king;Valour all his trustIn all his warfaring.
As the forkèd poleHolds the roof-tree's weight,So my hero's armHeld the battle straight.
Terror went before him,Death behind his back,Well the wolves of ErinnKnew his chariot's track.
Seven bloody battlesHe broke upon his foes,In each a hundred heroesFell beneath his blows.
Once he fought at Fossud,Thrice at Ath-finn-fail.'Twas my king that conqueredAt bloody Ath-an-Scail.
At the Boundary StreamFought the Royal Hound,And for Bernas battleStands his name renowned.
Here he fought with Leinster—Last of all his frays—On the Hill of Cucorb's FateHigh his cromlech raise.
T.W. Rolleston
From the Irish of Enoch O'Gillan
In a quiet watered land, a land of roses,Stands Saint Kieran's city fair;And the warriors of Erin in their famous generationsSlumber there.There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblestOf the clan of Conn,Each below his stone with name in branching OghamAnd the sacred knot thereon.There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,There the sons of Cairbrè sleep—Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran's plain of crossesNow their final hosting keep.And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia,And right many a lord of Breagh;Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill,Kind in hall and fierce in fray.Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-FighterIn the red earth lies at rest;Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers,Many a swan-white breast.
In a quiet watered land, a land of roses,Stands Saint Kieran's city fair;And the warriors of Erin in their famous generationsSlumber there.There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblestOf the clan of Conn,Each below his stone with name in branching OghamAnd the sacred knot thereon.There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,There the sons of Cairbrè sleep—Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran's plain of crossesNow their final hosting keep.And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia,And right many a lord of Breagh;Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill,Kind in hall and fierce in fray.Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-FighterIn the red earth lies at rest;Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers,Many a swan-white breast.
In a quiet watered land, a land of roses,Stands Saint Kieran's city fair;And the warriors of Erin in their famous generationsSlumber there.
There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblestOf the clan of Conn,Each below his stone with name in branching OghamAnd the sacred knot thereon.
There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,There the sons of Cairbrè sleep—Battle-banners of the Gael, that in Kieran's plain of crossesNow their final hosting keep.
And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia,And right many a lord of Breagh;Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill,Kind in hall and fierce in fray.
Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-FighterIn the red earth lies at rest;Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers,Many a swan-white breast.
T.W. Rolleston
She walks as she were movingSome mystic dance to tread,So falls her gliding footstep,So leans her listening head;For once to fairy harpingShe danced upon the hill,And through her brain and bosomThe music pulses still.Her eyes are bright and tearless,But wide with yearning pain;She longs for nothing earthly,But O! to hear againThe sound that held her listeningUpon her moonlit path!The rippling fairy musicThat filled the lonely rath.Her lips, that once have tastedThe fairy banquet's bliss,Shall glad no mortal loverWith maiden smile or kiss.She's dead to all things livingSince that November Eve;And when she dies in autumnNo living thing will grieve.
She walks as she were movingSome mystic dance to tread,So falls her gliding footstep,So leans her listening head;For once to fairy harpingShe danced upon the hill,And through her brain and bosomThe music pulses still.Her eyes are bright and tearless,But wide with yearning pain;She longs for nothing earthly,But O! to hear againThe sound that held her listeningUpon her moonlit path!The rippling fairy musicThat filled the lonely rath.Her lips, that once have tastedThe fairy banquet's bliss,Shall glad no mortal loverWith maiden smile or kiss.She's dead to all things livingSince that November Eve;And when she dies in autumnNo living thing will grieve.
She walks as she were movingSome mystic dance to tread,So falls her gliding footstep,So leans her listening head;
For once to fairy harpingShe danced upon the hill,And through her brain and bosomThe music pulses still.
Her eyes are bright and tearless,But wide with yearning pain;She longs for nothing earthly,But O! to hear again
The sound that held her listeningUpon her moonlit path!The rippling fairy musicThat filled the lonely rath.
Her lips, that once have tastedThe fairy banquet's bliss,Shall glad no mortal loverWith maiden smile or kiss.
She's dead to all things livingSince that November Eve;And when she dies in autumnNo living thing will grieve.
T.W. Rolleston
From the Irish
O, were you on the mountain, or saw you my love?Or saw you my own one, my queen and my dove?Or saw you the maiden with the step firm and free?And say, is she pining in sorrow like me?I was upon the mountain, and saw there your love,I saw there your own one, your queen and your dove;I saw there the maiden with the step firm and freeAnd she wasnotpining in sorrow like thee.
O, were you on the mountain, or saw you my love?Or saw you my own one, my queen and my dove?Or saw you the maiden with the step firm and free?And say, is she pining in sorrow like me?I was upon the mountain, and saw there your love,I saw there your own one, your queen and your dove;I saw there the maiden with the step firm and freeAnd she wasnotpining in sorrow like thee.
O, were you on the mountain, or saw you my love?Or saw you my own one, my queen and my dove?Or saw you the maiden with the step firm and free?And say, is she pining in sorrow like me?
I was upon the mountain, and saw there your love,I saw there your own one, your queen and your dove;I saw there the maiden with the step firm and freeAnd she wasnotpining in sorrow like thee.
Douglas Hyde
From the Irish
My grief on the sea,How the waves of it roll!For they heave between meAnd the love of my soul!Abandoned, forsaken,To grief and to care,Will the sea ever wakenRelief from despair?My grief and my troubleWould he and I wear,In the province of Leinster,Or County of Clare?Were I and my darling—O, heart-bitter wound!—On board of the shipFor America bound.On a green bed of rushesAll last night I lay,And I flung it abroadWith the heat of the day.And my love came behind me—He came from the south;His breast to my bosom,His mouth to my mouth.
My grief on the sea,How the waves of it roll!For they heave between meAnd the love of my soul!Abandoned, forsaken,To grief and to care,Will the sea ever wakenRelief from despair?My grief and my troubleWould he and I wear,In the province of Leinster,Or County of Clare?Were I and my darling—O, heart-bitter wound!—On board of the shipFor America bound.On a green bed of rushesAll last night I lay,And I flung it abroadWith the heat of the day.And my love came behind me—He came from the south;His breast to my bosom,His mouth to my mouth.
My grief on the sea,How the waves of it roll!For they heave between meAnd the love of my soul!
Abandoned, forsaken,To grief and to care,Will the sea ever wakenRelief from despair?
My grief and my troubleWould he and I wear,In the province of Leinster,Or County of Clare?
Were I and my darling—O, heart-bitter wound!—On board of the shipFor America bound.
On a green bed of rushesAll last night I lay,And I flung it abroadWith the heat of the day.
And my love came behind me—He came from the south;His breast to my bosom,His mouth to my mouth.
Douglas Hyde
From the Irish
She casts a spell, O, casts a spell,Which haunts me more than I can tell.Dearer because she makes me ill,Than who would will to make me well.She is my store, O, she my store,Whose grey eye wounded me so sore,Who will not place in mine her palm,Who will not calm me any more.She is my pet, O, she my pet,Whom I can never more forget;Who would not lose by me one moan,Nor stone upon my cairn set,She is my roon, O, she my roon,Who tells me nothing, leaves me soon;Who would not lose by me one sigh,Were death and I within one room.She is my dear, O, she my dear,Who cares not whether I be here.Who would not weep when I am dead,Who makes me shed the silent tear.Hard my case, O, hard my case,How have I lived so long a space,She does not trust me any more,But I adore her silent face.She is my choice, O, she my choice,Who never made me to rejoice;Who caused my heart to ache so oft,Who put no softness in her voice.Great is my grief, O, great my grief,Neglected, scorned beyond belief,By her who looks at me askance,By her who grants me no relief.She's my desire, O, my desire,More glorious than the bright sun's fire;Who more than wind—blown ice more cold,Had I the boldness to sit by her.She it is who stole my heart,But left a void and aching smart,But if she soften not her eye,Then life and I shall surely part.
She casts a spell, O, casts a spell,Which haunts me more than I can tell.Dearer because she makes me ill,Than who would will to make me well.She is my store, O, she my store,Whose grey eye wounded me so sore,Who will not place in mine her palm,Who will not calm me any more.She is my pet, O, she my pet,Whom I can never more forget;Who would not lose by me one moan,Nor stone upon my cairn set,She is my roon, O, she my roon,Who tells me nothing, leaves me soon;Who would not lose by me one sigh,Were death and I within one room.She is my dear, O, she my dear,Who cares not whether I be here.Who would not weep when I am dead,Who makes me shed the silent tear.Hard my case, O, hard my case,How have I lived so long a space,She does not trust me any more,But I adore her silent face.She is my choice, O, she my choice,Who never made me to rejoice;Who caused my heart to ache so oft,Who put no softness in her voice.Great is my grief, O, great my grief,Neglected, scorned beyond belief,By her who looks at me askance,By her who grants me no relief.She's my desire, O, my desire,More glorious than the bright sun's fire;Who more than wind—blown ice more cold,Had I the boldness to sit by her.She it is who stole my heart,But left a void and aching smart,But if she soften not her eye,Then life and I shall surely part.
She casts a spell, O, casts a spell,Which haunts me more than I can tell.Dearer because she makes me ill,Than who would will to make me well.
She is my store, O, she my store,Whose grey eye wounded me so sore,Who will not place in mine her palm,Who will not calm me any more.
She is my pet, O, she my pet,Whom I can never more forget;Who would not lose by me one moan,Nor stone upon my cairn set,
She is my roon, O, she my roon,Who tells me nothing, leaves me soon;Who would not lose by me one sigh,Were death and I within one room.
She is my dear, O, she my dear,Who cares not whether I be here.Who would not weep when I am dead,Who makes me shed the silent tear.
Hard my case, O, hard my case,How have I lived so long a space,She does not trust me any more,But I adore her silent face.
She is my choice, O, she my choice,Who never made me to rejoice;Who caused my heart to ache so oft,Who put no softness in her voice.
Great is my grief, O, great my grief,Neglected, scorned beyond belief,By her who looks at me askance,By her who grants me no relief.
She's my desire, O, my desire,More glorious than the bright sun's fire;Who more than wind—blown ice more cold,Had I the boldness to sit by her.
She it is who stole my heart,But left a void and aching smart,But if she soften not her eye,Then life and I shall surely part.
Douglas Hyde
From the Irish
For thee I shall not die,Woman high of fame and name;Foolish men thou mayest slay,I and they are not the same.Why should I expireFor the fire of any eye,Slender waist, or swan-like limb,Is't for them that I should die?The round breasts, the fresh skin,Cheeks crimson, hair so long and rich;Indeed, indeed, I shall not die,Please God, not I, for any such.The golden hair, the forehead thin,The chaste mien, the gracious ease,The rounded heel, the languid tone,Fools alone find death from these.Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm,Thy thin palm like foam of sea;Thy white neck, thy blue eye,I shall not die for thee.Woman, graceful as the swan,A wise man did nurture me,Little palm, white neck, bright eye,I shall not die for ye.
For thee I shall not die,Woman high of fame and name;Foolish men thou mayest slay,I and they are not the same.Why should I expireFor the fire of any eye,Slender waist, or swan-like limb,Is't for them that I should die?The round breasts, the fresh skin,Cheeks crimson, hair so long and rich;Indeed, indeed, I shall not die,Please God, not I, for any such.The golden hair, the forehead thin,The chaste mien, the gracious ease,The rounded heel, the languid tone,Fools alone find death from these.Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm,Thy thin palm like foam of sea;Thy white neck, thy blue eye,I shall not die for thee.Woman, graceful as the swan,A wise man did nurture me,Little palm, white neck, bright eye,I shall not die for ye.
For thee I shall not die,Woman high of fame and name;Foolish men thou mayest slay,I and they are not the same.
Why should I expireFor the fire of any eye,Slender waist, or swan-like limb,Is't for them that I should die?
The round breasts, the fresh skin,Cheeks crimson, hair so long and rich;Indeed, indeed, I shall not die,Please God, not I, for any such.
The golden hair, the forehead thin,The chaste mien, the gracious ease,The rounded heel, the languid tone,Fools alone find death from these.
Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm,Thy thin palm like foam of sea;Thy white neck, thy blue eye,I shall not die for thee.
Woman, graceful as the swan,A wise man did nurture me,Little palm, white neck, bright eye,I shall not die for ye.
Douglas Hyde
From the Irish
A great, great house it is,A golden candlestick it is,Guess it rightly,Let it not go by thee.Heaven.There's a garden that I ken,Full of little gentlemen,Little caps of blue they wear,And green ribbons very fair.Flax.He comes to ye amidst the brineThe butterfly of the sun,The man of the coat so blue and fine,With red thread his shirt is done.A Lobster.You see it come in on the shoulders of men,Like a thread of the silk it will leave us again.Turf.
A great, great house it is,A golden candlestick it is,Guess it rightly,Let it not go by thee.Heaven.There's a garden that I ken,Full of little gentlemen,Little caps of blue they wear,And green ribbons very fair.Flax.He comes to ye amidst the brineThe butterfly of the sun,The man of the coat so blue and fine,With red thread his shirt is done.A Lobster.You see it come in on the shoulders of men,Like a thread of the silk it will leave us again.Turf.
A great, great house it is,A golden candlestick it is,Guess it rightly,Let it not go by thee.Heaven.
There's a garden that I ken,Full of little gentlemen,Little caps of blue they wear,And green ribbons very fair.Flax.
He comes to ye amidst the brineThe butterfly of the sun,The man of the coat so blue and fine,With red thread his shirt is done.A Lobster.
You see it come in on the shoulders of men,Like a thread of the silk it will leave us again.Turf.
Douglas Hyde
A little lonely moorland lake,Its waters brown and cool and deep—The cliff, the hills behind it makeA picture for my heart to keep.For rock and heather, wave and strand,Wore tints I never saw them wear;The June sunshine was o'er the land,Before, 'twas never half so fair!The amber ripples sang all day,And singing spilled their crowns of whiteUpon the beach, in thin pale sprayThat streaked the sober sand with light.The amber ripples sang their song,When suddenly from far o'erheadA lark's pure voice mixed with the throngOf lovely things about us spread.Some flowers were there, so near the brinkTheir shadows in the waves were thrown;While mosses, green and gray and pink,Grew thickly round each smooth dark stone.And, over all, the summer sky,Shut out the town we left behind;'Twas joy to stand in silence by,One bright chain linking mind to mind.O, little lonely mountain spot!Your place within my heart will beApart from all Life's busy lotA true, sweet, solemn memory.
A little lonely moorland lake,Its waters brown and cool and deep—The cliff, the hills behind it makeA picture for my heart to keep.For rock and heather, wave and strand,Wore tints I never saw them wear;The June sunshine was o'er the land,Before, 'twas never half so fair!The amber ripples sang all day,And singing spilled their crowns of whiteUpon the beach, in thin pale sprayThat streaked the sober sand with light.The amber ripples sang their song,When suddenly from far o'erheadA lark's pure voice mixed with the throngOf lovely things about us spread.Some flowers were there, so near the brinkTheir shadows in the waves were thrown;While mosses, green and gray and pink,Grew thickly round each smooth dark stone.And, over all, the summer sky,Shut out the town we left behind;'Twas joy to stand in silence by,One bright chain linking mind to mind.O, little lonely mountain spot!Your place within my heart will beApart from all Life's busy lotA true, sweet, solemn memory.
A little lonely moorland lake,Its waters brown and cool and deep—The cliff, the hills behind it makeA picture for my heart to keep.
For rock and heather, wave and strand,Wore tints I never saw them wear;The June sunshine was o'er the land,Before, 'twas never half so fair!
The amber ripples sang all day,And singing spilled their crowns of whiteUpon the beach, in thin pale sprayThat streaked the sober sand with light.
The amber ripples sang their song,When suddenly from far o'erheadA lark's pure voice mixed with the throngOf lovely things about us spread.
Some flowers were there, so near the brinkTheir shadows in the waves were thrown;While mosses, green and gray and pink,Grew thickly round each smooth dark stone.
And, over all, the summer sky,Shut out the town we left behind;'Twas joy to stand in silence by,One bright chain linking mind to mind.
O, little lonely mountain spot!Your place within my heart will beApart from all Life's busy lotA true, sweet, solemn memory.
Rose Kavanagh
Out upon the sand-dunes thrive the coarse long grasses,Herons standing knee-deep in the brackish pool,Overhead the sunset fire and flame amasses,And the moon to Eastward rises pale and cool:Rose and green around her, silver-grey and pearly,Chequered with the black rooks flying home to bed;For, to wake at daybreak birds must couch them early,And the day's a long one since the dawn was red.On the chilly lakelet, in that pleasant gloaming,See the sad swans sailing: they shall have no rest:Never a voice to greet them save the bittern's boomingWhere the ghostly sallows sway against the West.'Sister,' saith the grey swan, 'Sister, I am weary,'Turning to the white swan wet, despairing eyes;'O,' she saith, 'my young one.' 'O,' she saith, 'my dearie,'Casts her wings about him with a storm of cries.Woe for Lir's sweet children whom their vile step-motherGlamoured with her witch-spells for a thousand years;Died their father raving—on his throne another—Blind before the end came from his burning tears.She—the fiends possess her, torture her for ever,Gone is all the glory of the race of Lir;Gone and long-forgotten like a dream of fever:But the swans remember all the days that were.Hugh, the black and white swan with the beauteous feathers;Fiachra, the black swan with the emerald breast;Conn, the youngest, dearest, sheltered in all weathers,Him his snow-white sister loves the tenderest.These her mother gave her as she lay a-dying,To her faithful keeping, faithful hath she been,With her wings spread o'er them when the tempest's crying,And her songs so hopeful when the sky's serene.Other swans have nests made 'mid the reeds and rushes,Lined with downy feathers where the cygnets sleepDreaming, if a bird dreams, till the daylight blushes,Then they sail out swiftly on the current deep,With the proud swan-father, tall, and strong, and stately,And the mild swan-mother, grave with household cares,All well-born and comely, all rejoicing greatly:Full of honest pleasure is a life like theirs.But alas! for my swans, with the human nature,Sick with human longings, starved with human ties,With their hearts all human, cramped in a bird's stature,And the human weeping in the bird's soft eyes.Never shall my swans build nests in some green river,Never fly to southward in the autumn grey,Rear no tender children, love no mates for ever,Robbed alike of bird's joys and of man's are they.Babbled Conn the youngest, 'Sister, I rememberAt my father's palace how I went in silk,Ate the juicy deer-flesh roasted from the ember,Drank from golden goblets my child's draught of milk.Once I rode a-hunting, laughed to see the hurly,Shouted at the ball-play, on the lake did row;You had for your beauty gauds that shone so rarely':'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.''Sister,' saith Fiachra, 'well do I rememberHow the flaming torches lit the banquet hall,And the fire leaped skyward in the mid-December,And amid the rushes slept our staghounds tall.By our father's right hand you sat shyly gazing,Smiling half and sighing, with your eyes aglow,As the bards sang loudly, all your beauty praising';'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.''Sister,' then saith Hugh, 'most do I rememberOne I called my brother, you, earth's goodliest man,Strong as forest oaks are where the wild vines clamber,First at feast or hunting, in the battle's van.Angus, you were handsome, wise and true and tender,Loved by every comrade, feared by every foe:Low, low lies your beauty, all forgot your splendour':'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.'Dews are in the clear air, and the roselight paling,Over sands and sedges shines the evening star,And the moon's disk high in heaven is sailing,Silvered all the spear-heads of the rushes are—Housed warm are all things as the night grows colder,Water-fowl and sky-fowl dreamless in the nest,But the swans go drifting, drooping wings and shoulder,Cleaving the still waters where the fishes rest.
Out upon the sand-dunes thrive the coarse long grasses,Herons standing knee-deep in the brackish pool,Overhead the sunset fire and flame amasses,And the moon to Eastward rises pale and cool:Rose and green around her, silver-grey and pearly,Chequered with the black rooks flying home to bed;For, to wake at daybreak birds must couch them early,And the day's a long one since the dawn was red.On the chilly lakelet, in that pleasant gloaming,See the sad swans sailing: they shall have no rest:Never a voice to greet them save the bittern's boomingWhere the ghostly sallows sway against the West.'Sister,' saith the grey swan, 'Sister, I am weary,'Turning to the white swan wet, despairing eyes;'O,' she saith, 'my young one.' 'O,' she saith, 'my dearie,'Casts her wings about him with a storm of cries.Woe for Lir's sweet children whom their vile step-motherGlamoured with her witch-spells for a thousand years;Died their father raving—on his throne another—Blind before the end came from his burning tears.She—the fiends possess her, torture her for ever,Gone is all the glory of the race of Lir;Gone and long-forgotten like a dream of fever:But the swans remember all the days that were.Hugh, the black and white swan with the beauteous feathers;Fiachra, the black swan with the emerald breast;Conn, the youngest, dearest, sheltered in all weathers,Him his snow-white sister loves the tenderest.These her mother gave her as she lay a-dying,To her faithful keeping, faithful hath she been,With her wings spread o'er them when the tempest's crying,And her songs so hopeful when the sky's serene.Other swans have nests made 'mid the reeds and rushes,Lined with downy feathers where the cygnets sleepDreaming, if a bird dreams, till the daylight blushes,Then they sail out swiftly on the current deep,With the proud swan-father, tall, and strong, and stately,And the mild swan-mother, grave with household cares,All well-born and comely, all rejoicing greatly:Full of honest pleasure is a life like theirs.But alas! for my swans, with the human nature,Sick with human longings, starved with human ties,With their hearts all human, cramped in a bird's stature,And the human weeping in the bird's soft eyes.Never shall my swans build nests in some green river,Never fly to southward in the autumn grey,Rear no tender children, love no mates for ever,Robbed alike of bird's joys and of man's are they.Babbled Conn the youngest, 'Sister, I rememberAt my father's palace how I went in silk,Ate the juicy deer-flesh roasted from the ember,Drank from golden goblets my child's draught of milk.Once I rode a-hunting, laughed to see the hurly,Shouted at the ball-play, on the lake did row;You had for your beauty gauds that shone so rarely':'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.''Sister,' saith Fiachra, 'well do I rememberHow the flaming torches lit the banquet hall,And the fire leaped skyward in the mid-December,And amid the rushes slept our staghounds tall.By our father's right hand you sat shyly gazing,Smiling half and sighing, with your eyes aglow,As the bards sang loudly, all your beauty praising';'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.''Sister,' then saith Hugh, 'most do I rememberOne I called my brother, you, earth's goodliest man,Strong as forest oaks are where the wild vines clamber,First at feast or hunting, in the battle's van.Angus, you were handsome, wise and true and tender,Loved by every comrade, feared by every foe:Low, low lies your beauty, all forgot your splendour':'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.'Dews are in the clear air, and the roselight paling,Over sands and sedges shines the evening star,And the moon's disk high in heaven is sailing,Silvered all the spear-heads of the rushes are—Housed warm are all things as the night grows colder,Water-fowl and sky-fowl dreamless in the nest,But the swans go drifting, drooping wings and shoulder,Cleaving the still waters where the fishes rest.
Out upon the sand-dunes thrive the coarse long grasses,Herons standing knee-deep in the brackish pool,Overhead the sunset fire and flame amasses,And the moon to Eastward rises pale and cool:Rose and green around her, silver-grey and pearly,Chequered with the black rooks flying home to bed;For, to wake at daybreak birds must couch them early,And the day's a long one since the dawn was red.
On the chilly lakelet, in that pleasant gloaming,See the sad swans sailing: they shall have no rest:Never a voice to greet them save the bittern's boomingWhere the ghostly sallows sway against the West.'Sister,' saith the grey swan, 'Sister, I am weary,'Turning to the white swan wet, despairing eyes;'O,' she saith, 'my young one.' 'O,' she saith, 'my dearie,'Casts her wings about him with a storm of cries.
Woe for Lir's sweet children whom their vile step-motherGlamoured with her witch-spells for a thousand years;Died their father raving—on his throne another—Blind before the end came from his burning tears.She—the fiends possess her, torture her for ever,Gone is all the glory of the race of Lir;Gone and long-forgotten like a dream of fever:But the swans remember all the days that were.
Hugh, the black and white swan with the beauteous feathers;Fiachra, the black swan with the emerald breast;Conn, the youngest, dearest, sheltered in all weathers,Him his snow-white sister loves the tenderest.These her mother gave her as she lay a-dying,To her faithful keeping, faithful hath she been,With her wings spread o'er them when the tempest's crying,And her songs so hopeful when the sky's serene.
Other swans have nests made 'mid the reeds and rushes,Lined with downy feathers where the cygnets sleepDreaming, if a bird dreams, till the daylight blushes,Then they sail out swiftly on the current deep,With the proud swan-father, tall, and strong, and stately,And the mild swan-mother, grave with household cares,All well-born and comely, all rejoicing greatly:Full of honest pleasure is a life like theirs.
But alas! for my swans, with the human nature,Sick with human longings, starved with human ties,With their hearts all human, cramped in a bird's stature,And the human weeping in the bird's soft eyes.Never shall my swans build nests in some green river,Never fly to southward in the autumn grey,Rear no tender children, love no mates for ever,Robbed alike of bird's joys and of man's are they.
Babbled Conn the youngest, 'Sister, I rememberAt my father's palace how I went in silk,Ate the juicy deer-flesh roasted from the ember,Drank from golden goblets my child's draught of milk.Once I rode a-hunting, laughed to see the hurly,Shouted at the ball-play, on the lake did row;You had for your beauty gauds that shone so rarely':'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.'
'Sister,' saith Fiachra, 'well do I rememberHow the flaming torches lit the banquet hall,And the fire leaped skyward in the mid-December,And amid the rushes slept our staghounds tall.By our father's right hand you sat shyly gazing,Smiling half and sighing, with your eyes aglow,As the bards sang loudly, all your beauty praising';'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.'
'Sister,' then saith Hugh, 'most do I rememberOne I called my brother, you, earth's goodliest man,Strong as forest oaks are where the wild vines clamber,First at feast or hunting, in the battle's van.Angus, you were handsome, wise and true and tender,Loved by every comrade, feared by every foe:Low, low lies your beauty, all forgot your splendour':'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.'
Dews are in the clear air, and the roselight paling,Over sands and sedges shines the evening star,And the moon's disk high in heaven is sailing,Silvered all the spear-heads of the rushes are—Housed warm are all things as the night grows colder,Water-fowl and sky-fowl dreamless in the nest,But the swans go drifting, drooping wings and shoulder,Cleaving the still waters where the fishes rest.
Katharine Tynan Hinkson