THE RAKES OF MALLOW

Beauing, belleing, dancing, drinking,Breaking windows, damning, sinking,Ever raking, never thinking,Live the rakes of Mallow.Spending faster than it comes,Beating waiters, bailiffs, duns,Bacchus's true-begotten sons,Live the rakes of Mallow.One time nought but claret drinking,Then like politicians thinkingTo raise the sinking funds when sinking,Live the rakes of Mallow.When at home with dadda dying,Still for Mallow water crying;But where there's good claret plying,Live the rakes of Mallow.Living short, but merry lives;Going where the devil drives;Having sweethearts, but no wives,Live the rakes of Mallow.Racking tenants, stewards teasing,Swiftly spending, slowly raising,Wishing to spend all their days inRaking as at Mallow.Then to end this raking lifeThey get sober, take a wife,Ever after live in strife,And wish again for Mallow.

Beauing, belleing, dancing, drinking,Breaking windows, damning, sinking,Ever raking, never thinking,Live the rakes of Mallow.

Spending faster than it comes,Beating waiters, bailiffs, duns,Bacchus's true-begotten sons,Live the rakes of Mallow.

One time nought but claret drinking,Then like politicians thinkingTo raise the sinking funds when sinking,Live the rakes of Mallow.

When at home with dadda dying,Still for Mallow water crying;But where there's good claret plying,Live the rakes of Mallow.

Living short, but merry lives;Going where the devil drives;Having sweethearts, but no wives,Live the rakes of Mallow.

Racking tenants, stewards teasing,Swiftly spending, slowly raising,Wishing to spend all their days inRaking as at Mallow.

Then to end this raking lifeThey get sober, take a wife,Ever after live in strife,And wish again for Mallow.

Street Ballad

While going the road to sweet Athy,Hurroo! hurroo!While going the road to sweet Athy,Hurroo! hurroo!While going the road to sweet Athy,A stick in my hand and a drop in my eye,A doleful damsel I heard cry:—'Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!With drums and guns and guns and drumsThe enemy nearly slew ye,My darling dear, you look so queer,Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!'Where are your eyes that looked so mild?Hurroo! hurroo!Where are your eyes that looked so mild?Hurroo! hurroo!Where are your eyes that looked so mild,When my poor heart you first beguiled?Why did you run from me and the child?Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!With drums, etc.'Where are the legs with which you run?Hurroo! hurroo!Where are the legs with which you run?Hurroo! hurroo!Where are the legs with which you run,When you went to carry a gun?—Indeed, your dancing days are done!Och, Johnny, I hardly knew yeWith drums, etc.'It grieved my heart to see you sail,Hurroo! hurroo!It grieved my heart to see you sail,Hurroo! hurroo!It grieved my heart to see you sail,Though from my heart you took leg bail,—Like a cod you're doubled up head and tail.Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!With drums, etc.'You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg,Hurroo! hurroo!You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg,Hurroo! hurroo!You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg,You're an eyeless, noseless, chickenless egg;You'll have to be put in a bowl to beg:Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!With drums, etc.'I'm happy for to see you home,Hurroo! hurroo!I'm happy for to see you home,Hurroo! hurroo!I'm happy for to see you home,All from the island of Sulloon,So low in flesh, so high in bone,Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!With drums, etc.'But sad as it is to see you so,Hurroo! hurroo!But sad as it is to see you so,Hurroo! hurroo!But sad as it is to see you so,And to think of you now as an object of woe,Your Peggy'll still keep ye on as her beau;Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!'With drums and guns and guns and drums,The enemy nearly slew ye,My darling dear, you look so queer,Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!'

'Where are your eyes that looked so mild?Hurroo! hurroo!Where are your eyes that looked so mild?Hurroo! hurroo!Where are your eyes that looked so mild,When my poor heart you first beguiled?Why did you run from me and the child?Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!With drums, etc.

'Where are the legs with which you run?Hurroo! hurroo!Where are the legs with which you run?Hurroo! hurroo!Where are the legs with which you run,When you went to carry a gun?—Indeed, your dancing days are done!Och, Johnny, I hardly knew yeWith drums, etc.

'It grieved my heart to see you sail,Hurroo! hurroo!It grieved my heart to see you sail,Hurroo! hurroo!It grieved my heart to see you sail,Though from my heart you took leg bail,—Like a cod you're doubled up head and tail.Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!With drums, etc.

'You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg,Hurroo! hurroo!You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg,Hurroo! hurroo!You haven't an arm and you haven't a leg,You're an eyeless, noseless, chickenless egg;You'll have to be put in a bowl to beg:Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!With drums, etc.

'I'm happy for to see you home,Hurroo! hurroo!I'm happy for to see you home,Hurroo! hurroo!I'm happy for to see you home,All from the island of Sulloon,So low in flesh, so high in bone,Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!With drums, etc.

'But sad as it is to see you so,Hurroo! hurroo!But sad as it is to see you so,Hurroo! hurroo!But sad as it is to see you so,And to think of you now as an object of woe,Your Peggy'll still keep ye on as her beau;Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

'With drums and guns and guns and drums,The enemy nearly slew ye,My darling dear, you look so queer,Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!'

As beautiful Kitty one morning was trippingWith a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine,When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled,And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain.O! what shall I do now! 'Twas looking at you, now;Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again;'Twas the pride of my dairy! O Barney O'Cleary,You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine!I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her,That such a misfortune should give her such pain;A kiss then I gave her, and ere I did leave her,She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again.'Twas haymaking season—I can't tell the reason—Misfortunes will never come single 'tis plain;For very soon after poor Kitty's disasterThe devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her,That such a misfortune should give her such pain;A kiss then I gave her, and ere I did leave her,She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again.'Twas haymaking season—I can't tell the reason—Misfortunes will never come single 'tis plain;For very soon after poor Kitty's disasterThe devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

From an Irish keen

'There's darkness in thy dwelling-place, and silence reigns above,And Mary's voice is heard no more, like the soft voice of love.Yes! thou art gone, my Mary dear! and Morian ShehoneIs left to sing his song of woe, and wail for thee alone.O! snow-white were thy virtues—the beautiful, the young,The old with pleasure bent to hear the music of thy tongue:The young with rapture gazed on thee, and their hearts in love were bound,For thou wast brighter than the sun that sheds its light around.My soul is dark, O Mary dear! thy sun of beauty's set;The sorrowful are dumb for thee—the grieved their tears forget;And I am left to pour my woe above thy grave alone;For dear wert thou to the fond heart of Morian Shehone.Fast-flowing tears above the grave of the rich man are shed,But they are dried when the cold stone shuts in his narrow bed;Not so with my heart's faithful love—the dark grave cannot hideFrom Morian's eyes thy form of grace, of loveliness, and pride.Thou didst not fall like the sere leaf, when autumn's chill winds blow—'Twas a tempest and a storm-blast that has laid my Mary low.Hadst thou not friends that loved thee well? hadst thou not garments rare?Wast thou not happy, Mary? wast thou not young and fair?Then why should the dread spoiler come, my heart's peace to destroy,Or the grim tyrant tear from me my all of earthly joy?O! am I left to pour my woes above thy grave alone?Thou idol of the faithful heart of Morian Shehone!Sweet were thy looks and sweet thy smiles, and kind wast thou to all;The withering scowl of envy on thy fortunes dared not fall;For thee thy friends lament and mourn, and never cease to weep—O! that their lamentations could awake thee from thy sleep!O! that thy peerless form again could meet my loving clasp!O! that the cold damp hand of Death could loose his iron grasp!Yet, when the valley's daughters meet beneath the tall elm tree,And talk of Mary as a dream that never more shall be,Then may thy spirit float around, like music in the air,And pour upon their virgin souls a blessing and a prayer.O! am I left to pour my wail above thy grave alone?'Then sinks in silence the lament of Morian Shehone!

Speak low!—speak low—the banshee is crying;Hark! hark to the echo!—she's dying! 'she's dying.'What shadow flits dark'ning the face of the water?'Tis the swan of the lake—'tisthe Geraldine's Daughter.Hush, hush! have you heard what the banshee said?O! list to the echo! she's dead! 'she's dead!'No shadow now dims the face of the water;Gone, gone is the wraith ofthe Geraldine's Daughter.The step of yon train is heavy and slow,There's wringing of hands, there's breathing of woe;What melody rolls over mountain and water?'Tis the funeral chant ofthe Geraldine's Daughter.The requiem sounds like the plaintive moanWhich the wind makes over the sepulchre's stone;'O, why did she die? our hearts' blood had bought her!O, why did she die,the Geraldine's Daughter?'The thistle-beard floats—the wild roses waveWith the blast that sweeps over the newly-made grave;The stars dimly twinkle, and hoarse falls the water,While night-birds are wailingthe Geraldine's Daughter.

Hush, hush! have you heard what the banshee said?O! list to the echo! she's dead! 'she's dead!'No shadow now dims the face of the water;Gone, gone is the wraith ofthe Geraldine's Daughter.

The step of yon train is heavy and slow,There's wringing of hands, there's breathing of woe;What melody rolls over mountain and water?'Tis the funeral chant ofthe Geraldine's Daughter.

The requiem sounds like the plaintive moanWhich the wind makes over the sepulchre's stone;'O, why did she die? our hearts' blood had bought her!O, why did she die,the Geraldine's Daughter?'The thistle-beard floats—the wild roses waveWith the blast that sweeps over the newly-made grave;The stars dimly twinkle, and hoarse falls the water,While night-birds are wailingthe Geraldine's Daughter.

Street Ballad

By Memory inspired,And love of country fired,The deeds of Men I love to dwell upon;And the patriotic glowOf my spirit must bestowA tribute to O'Connell that is gone, boys, gone!Here's a memory to the friends that are gone.In October 'Ninety-seven—May his soul find rest in Heaven—William Orr to execution was led on:The jury, drunk, agreedThat Irish was his creed;For perjury and threats drove them on, boys, on:Here's the memory of John Mitchell that is gone.In 'Ninety-Eight—the month July—The informer's pay was high;When Reynolds gave the gallows brave MacCann;But MacCann was Reynolds' first—One could not allay his thirst;So he brought up Bond and Byrne, that are gone, boys, gone.Here's the memory of the friends that are gone!We saw a nation's tearsShed for John and Henry Shears;Betrayed by Judas, Captain Armstrong;We may forgive, but yetWe never can forgetThe poisoning of Maguire that is gone, boys, gone—Our high Star and true Apostle that is gone!How did Lord Edward die?Like a man, without a sigh;But he left his handiwork on Major Swan!But Sirr, with steel-clad breast,And coward heart at best,Left us cause to mourn Lord Edward that is gone, boys, gone:Here's the memory of our friends that are gone!September, Eighteen-three,Closed this cruel history,When Emmett's blood the scaffold flowed uponO, had their spirits been wise,They might then realizeTheir freedom—but we drink to Mitchell that is gone, boys, gone:Here's the memory of the friends that are gone!

In October 'Ninety-seven—May his soul find rest in Heaven—William Orr to execution was led on:The jury, drunk, agreedThat Irish was his creed;For perjury and threats drove them on, boys, on:Here's the memory of John Mitchell that is gone.

In 'Ninety-Eight—the month July—The informer's pay was high;When Reynolds gave the gallows brave MacCann;But MacCann was Reynolds' first—One could not allay his thirst;So he brought up Bond and Byrne, that are gone, boys, gone.Here's the memory of the friends that are gone!

We saw a nation's tearsShed for John and Henry Shears;Betrayed by Judas, Captain Armstrong;We may forgive, but yetWe never can forgetThe poisoning of Maguire that is gone, boys, gone—Our high Star and true Apostle that is gone!

How did Lord Edward die?Like a man, without a sigh;But he left his handiwork on Major Swan!But Sirr, with steel-clad breast,And coward heart at best,Left us cause to mourn Lord Edward that is gone, boys, gone:Here's the memory of our friends that are gone!

September, Eighteen-three,Closed this cruel history,When Emmett's blood the scaffold flowed uponO, had their spirits been wise,They might then realizeTheir freedom—but we drink to Mitchell that is gone, boys, gone:Here's the memory of the friends that are gone!

When you were an acorn on the tree top,Then was I an eagle cock;Now that you are a withered old block,Still am I an eagle cock.

Page xxi, lines 21 to 25.A well-known poetof the Fenian times has made the curious boast—'Talking of work—since Sunday, two cols. notes, two cols. London gossip, and a leader one col., and one col. of verse for theNation. ForCatholic Opinion, two pages of notes and a leader. ForIllustrated Magazine, three poems and a five col. story.'

Page 1. 'The deserted village' is Lissoy, near Ballymahon, and Sir Walter Scott tells of a hawthorn there which has been cut up into toothpicks by Goldsmith enthusiasts; but the feeling and atmosphere of the poem are unmistakably English.

Page xix. Some verses in 'The Epicurean' were put into French by Théophile Gautier for the French translation, and back again into English by Mr. Robert Bridges. If any Irish reader who thinksMoorea great poet, will compare his verses with the results of this double distillation, and notice the gradual disappearance of their vague rhythms and loose phrases, he will be the less angry with the introduction to this book. Moore wrote as follows—

You, who would tryYon terrible track,To live or to die,But ne'er to turn back.You, who aspireTo be purified there,By the terror of fire,Of water, and air,—If danger, and pain,And death you despise,On—for againInto light you shall rise:Rise into lightWith the secret divine,Now shrouded from sightBy a veil of the shrine.

You, who would tryYon terrible track,To live or to die,But ne'er to turn back.

You, who aspireTo be purified there,By the terror of fire,Of water, and air,—

If danger, and pain,And death you despise,On—for againInto light you shall rise:

Rise into lightWith the secret divine,Now shrouded from sightBy a veil of the shrine.

These lines are certainly less amazing than the scrannel piping of his usual anapæsts; but few will hold them to be 'of their own arduous fullness reverent'! Théophile Gautier sets them to his instrument in this fashion,

Vous qui voulez courirLa terrible carrière,Il faut vivre ou mourir,Sans regard en arrière:Vous qui voulez tenterL'onde, l'air, et la flamme,Terreurs à surmonterPour épurer votre âme,Si, méprisant la mort,Votre foi reste entière,En avant!—le cœur fortReverra la lumière.Et lira sur l'autelLe mot du grand mystère,Qu'au profane mortelDérobe un voile austère.

Vous qui voulez courirLa terrible carrière,Il faut vivre ou mourir,Sans regard en arrière:

Vous qui voulez tenterL'onde, l'air, et la flamme,Terreurs à surmonterPour épurer votre âme,

Si, méprisant la mort,Votre foi reste entière,En avant!—le cœur fortReverra la lumière.

Et lira sur l'autelLe mot du grand mystère,Qu'au profane mortelDérobe un voile austère.

Then comes Mr. Robert Bridges, and lifts them into the rapture and precision of poetry—

O youth whose hope is high,Who dost to truth aspire,Whether thou live or die,O look not back nor tire.Thou that art bold to flyThrough tempest, flood, and fire,Nor dost not shrink to tryThy heart in torments dire:If thou canst Death defy,If thy faith is entire,Press onward, for thine eyeShall see thy heart's desire.Beauty and love are nigh,And with their deathless quire—Soon shall thine eager cryBe numbered and expire.

O youth whose hope is high,Who dost to truth aspire,Whether thou live or die,O look not back nor tire.

Thou that art bold to flyThrough tempest, flood, and fire,Nor dost not shrink to tryThy heart in torments dire:

If thou canst Death defy,If thy faith is entire,Press onward, for thine eyeShall see thy heart's desire.

Beauty and love are nigh,And with their deathless quire—Soon shall thine eager cryBe numbered and expire.

Page 27.'Dark Rosaleen' is one of the old names of Ireland. Mangan's translation is very free; as a rule when he tried to translate literally, as in 'The Munster Bards,' all glimmer of inspiration left him.

Page32, line 20. 'This passage is not exactly a blunder, though at first it may seem one: the poet supposes the grave itself transferred to Ireland, and he naturally includesin the transference the whole of the immediate locality about the grave' (Mangan note).

Page47, line 6. The two Meaths once formed a distinct province.

Page55, line 7. This poem is an account of Mangan's own life, and is, I think, redeemed out of rhetoric by its intensity. The following poem, 'Siberia,' describes, perhaps, his own life under a symbol.

Page59. Hy Brasail, or Teer-Nan-Oge, is the island of the blessed, the paradise of ancient Ireland. It is still thought to be seen from time to time glimmering far off.

Page61.Mo Craoibhin Cnomeans my cluster of nuts, and is pronouncedMo Chreevin Knò.

Page64. Mr. O'Keefe has sent the writer a Gaelic version of this poem, possibly by Walsh himself. A correspondent of his got it from an old peasant who had not a word of English. A well-known Gaelic scholar pronounces it a translation, and not the original of the present poem.Mairgréad ni Chealleadhis pronouncedMairgréd nei Kealley. TheCeanabhan, pronouncedKanovan, is the bog cotton, and theMonadanis a plant with a red berry found on marshy mountains.

Page69.A cuisle geal mo chroidhe, pronouncedA cushla gal mo chre, means 'bright pulse of my heart.'

Page74. Sir Samuel Ferguson introduces the poem as follows:—

Several Welsh families, associates in the invasion of Strongbow, settled in the West of Ireland. Of these, the principal, whose names have been preserved by the Irish antiquarians, were the Walshes, Joyces, Heils (a quibusMacHale), Lawlesses, Tolmyns, Lynotts, and Barretts, which last draw their pedigree from Walynes, son ofGuyndally, theArd Maor, or High Steward of the Lordship of Camelot, and had their chief seats in the territory of the two Bacs, in the barony of Tirawley, and county of Mayo.Clochan-na-n'all, i. e. 'The Blind Men's Stepping-stones,' are still pointed out on the Duvowen river, about four miles north of Crossmolina, in the townland of Garranard; andTubber-na-Scorney, or 'Scrags Well,' in the opposite townland of Carns, in the same barony. For a curiousterrieror applotment of the Mac William's revenue, as acquired under the circumstances stated in the legend preserved by Mac Firbis, see Dr. O'Donovan's highly-learned and interesting 'Genealogies, &c. of Hy. Fiachrach,' in the publications of theIrish Archæological Society—a great monument of antiquarian and topographical erudition.

Page90, line 6. 'William Conquer' was William Fitzadelm De Burgh, the Conqueror of Connaught.

Page91, line 4. Sir Samuel Ferguson introduces the poem as follows:—

Aideen, daughter of Angus of Ben-Edar (now the Hill of Howth), died of grief for the loss of her husband, Oscar, son of Ossian, who was slain at the battle of Gavra (Gowra, near Tara in Meath), A.D. 284. Oscar was entombed in the rath or earthen fortress that occupied part of the field of battle, the rest of the slain being cast in a pit outside. Aideen is said to have been buried on Howth, near the mansion of her father, and poetical tradition represents the Fenian heroes as present at her obsequies. The Cromlech in Howth Park has been supposed to be her sepulchre. It stands under the summits from which the poet Atharne is said to have launched his invectives against the people of Leinster, until, by the blighting effect of his satires, theywere compelled to make him atonement for the death of his son.

Page99. 'There was then no man in the host of Ulster that could be found who would put the sons of Usnach to death, so loved were they of the people and nobles. But in the house of Conor was one called Mainé Rough Hand, son of the king of Lochlen, and Naesi had slain his father and two brothers, and he undertook to be their executioners. So the sons of Usnach were then slain, and the men of Ulster, when they beheld their death, sent forth their heavy shouts of sorrow and lamentation. Then Deirdre fell down beside their bodies wailing and weeping, and she tore her hair and garments and bestowed kisses on their lifeless lips and bitterly bemoaned them. And a grave was opened for them, and Deirdre, standing by it, with her hair dishevelled and shedding tears abundantly, chanted their funeral song.' (Hibernian Nights' Entertainment.)

Page102.Uileacan Dubh O', pronouncedUileacaun Doov O, is a phrase of lamentation.

Page108, line 16. 'Anna Grace' is the heroine of another ballad by Ferguson. She also was stolen by the Fairies.

Page112, line 6. Thomas Davis had an Irish father and a Welsh mother, and Emily Brontë an Irish father and a Cornish mother, and there seems no reason for including the first and excluding the second. I find, perhaps fancifully, an Irish vehemence in 'Remembrance.' Several of the Irish poets have been of mixed Irish-Celtic and British-Celtic blood. William Blake has been recently claimed as of Irish descent, upon the evidence of Dr. Carter Blake; and if, in the course of years, that claim becomes generally accepted, he should be included also in Irish anthologies.

Page119, line 13. 'The little Black Rose' is but another form of 'Dark Rosaleen,' and has a like significance. 'The Silk of the Kine' is also an old name for Ireland.

Page138.Maire Bhan Astóris pronouncedMauria vaun a-stór, and means 'Fair Mary, my treasure.'

Page140.Mo bhuachaill, pronouncedmo Vohil, means 'my boy.'

Page174. The Goban Saor, the mason Goban, is a familiar personage in Irish folk-lore, and the reputed builder of the round towers.

Page191.Slainté, ['your] health.'

Page207. 'And their step-mother, being jealous of their father's great love for them, cast upon the king's children, by sorcery, the shape of swans, and bade them go roaming, even till Patrick's mass-bell should sound in Erin; but no farther in time than that did her power extend.'—The Fate of the Children of Lir.

Page222. The wind was one of the deities of the Pagan Irish. 'The murmuring of the Red Wind from the East,' says an old poem, 'is heard in its course by the strong as well as the weak; it is the wind that wastes the bottom of the trees, and injurious to man is that red wind.'

Page226.Can Doov Deelishmeans 'dear black head.'

Page231. The chorus is pronouncedShoo-il, shoo-il, shoo-il, a rooin, Shoo-il go socair, ogus shoo-il go kiune, Shoo-il go den durrus ogus euli liom, Iss go de too, mo vourneen, slaun, and means—

'Move, move, move, O treasure,Move quietly and move gently,Move to the door, and fly with me,And mayest thou go, my darling, safe!'

Page232.Shan van vocht, meaning 'little old woman', is a name for Ireland.

Page235. This is not the most ancient form of the ballad, but it is the form into which it was recast by Boucicault, and which has long taken the place of all others.

Page237, line 2. 'Sinking,' violent swearing.

THE END

IRISH BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

VERSE.

THE COUNTESS KATHLEEN.THE LAND OF HEART'S DESIRE.THE WANDERINGS OF OISIN.

PROSE.

THE CELTIC TWILIGHT.JOHN SHERMAN AND DHOYA.

ANTHOLOGIES.

IRISH FAIRY AND FOLK TALES.IRISH FAIRY STORIES.STORIES FROM CARLETON.IRISH TALES.

Richard Clay & Sons, Limited,London & Bungay.

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