IANCIENT IRISHAND SCOTTISH

“Till the soil—bid cities rise—Be strong, O Celt—be rich, be wise—But still, with those divine grave eyes,Respect the realm of Mysteries.”

Let me conclude, then, in the words of the most recent of those many eager young Celtic writers whose songs and romances are charming the now intent mind of the Anglo-Saxon. “A doomed and passing race. Yes, but not wholly so. The Celt has at last reached his horizon. There is no shore beyond. He knows it. This has been the burden of his song since Malvina led the blind Oisìn to his grave by the sea. ‘Even the Children of Light must go down into darkness.’ But this apparition of a passing race is no more than the fulfilment of a glorious resurrection before our very eyes. For the genius of the Celtic race stands out now with averted torch, and the light of it is a glory before the eyes, and the flame of it is blown into the hearts of the mightier conquering people. The Celt falls, but his spirit rises in the heart and the brain of the Anglo-Celtic peoples, with whom are the destinies of the generations to come.”

WILLIAM SHARP.

Read these faint runes of Mystery,O Celt, at home and o’er the sea;The bond is loosed—the poor are free—The world’s great future rests with thee!Till the soil—bid cities rise—Be strong, O Celt—be rich, be wise—But still, with those divine grave eyes,Respect the realm of Mysteries.The Book of Orm.

Read these faint runes of Mystery,O Celt, at home and o’er the sea;The bond is loosed—the poor are free—The world’s great future rests with thee!

Till the soil—bid cities rise—Be strong, O Celt—be rich, be wise—But still, with those divine grave eyes,Respect the realm of Mysteries.The Book of Orm.

ANCIENT ERSE

I am the wind which breathes upon the sea,I am the wave of the ocean,I am the murmur of the billows,I am the ox of the seven combats,I am the vulture upon the rocks,I am a beam of the sun,I am the fairest of plants,I am a wild boar in valour,I am a salmon in the water,I am a lake in the plain,I am a word of science,I am the point of the lance of battle,I am the God who creates in the head [i.e. of man] the fire [i.e. the thought].Who is it who throws light into the meeting on the mountain?Who announces the ages of the moon [If not I]?Who teaches the place where couches the sun [If not I]?

May-day, delightful time! How beautiful the colour!The blackbirds sing their full lay. Would that Læg were here!The cuckoos sing in constant strains. How welcome is the nobleBrilliance of the seasons ever! On the margin of the branching woodsThe summer swallows skim the stream: the swift horses seek the pool:The heather spreads out her long hair: the weak fair bog-down grows.Sudden consternation attacks the signs; the planets, in their courses running, exert an influence:The sea is lulled to rest, flowers cover the earth.

ANCIENT ERSE

The haven roars, and O the haven roars, over the rushing race ofRinn-dá-bharc! the drowning of the warrior of loch dá chonn, that is what the wave impinging on the strand laments. Melodious is the crane, and O melodious is the crane, in the marshlands ofDruim-dá-thrén! ’tis she that may not save her brood alive: the wild dog of two colours is intent upon her nestlings. A woeful note, and O a woeful note, is that which the thrush in Drumqueen emits! but not more cheerful is the wail that the blackbird makes in Letterlee. A woeful sound, and O a woeful sound, is that the deer utters in Drumdaleish! dead lies the doe ofDruim Silenn: the mighty stag bells after her. Sore suffering to me, and O suffering sore, is the hero’s death—his death, that used to lie with me!... Sore suffering to me is Cael, and O Cael is a suffering sore, that by my side he is in dead man’s form! That the wave should have swept over his white body—that is what hath distracted me, so great was his delightfulness. A dismal roar, and O a dismal roar, is that the shore-surf makes upon the strand! seeing that the same hath drowned the comely noble man, to me it is an affliction that Cael ever sought to encounter it. A woeful booming, and O a boom of woe, is that which the wave makes upon the northward beach! beating as it does against the polished rock, lamenting for Cael, now that he is gone. A woeful fight, and O a fight of woe, is that the wave wages against the southern shore! As for me my span is determined!... A woeful melody, and O a melody of woe, is that which the heavy surge of Tullachleish emits! As for me: the calamity that is fallen upon me having shattered me, for me prosperity exists no more. Since now Crimthann’s son is drowned, one that I may love after him there is not in being. Many a chief is fallen by his hand, and in the battle his shield never uttered outcry!

“What is the cause of thy journey or thy story?”

The cause of my journey and my storyThe men of Erin, yonder, as we see them,Coming towards you on the plain.The chariot on which is the fold, figured and cerulean,Which is made strongly, handy, solid;Where were active, and where were vigorous;And where were full-wise, the noble hearted folk;In the prolific, faithful city;—Fine, hard, stone-bedecked, well-shafted;Four large-chested horses in that splendid chariot;Comely, frolicsome.

“What do we see in that chariot?”

The white-bellied, white-haired, small-eared,Thin-sided, thin-hoofed, horse-large, steed-large horses;With fine, shining, polished bridles;Like a gem; or like red sparkling fire;—Like the motion of a fawn, wounded;Like the rustling of a loud wind in winter;—Coming to you in that chariot.—

“What do we see in that chariot?”

We see in that chariot,The strong, broad-chested, nimble, gray horses,—So mighty, so broad-chested, so fleet, so choice;—Which would wrench the sea skerries from the rocks.—The lively, shielded, powerful horses;—So mettlesome, so active, so clear-shining;—Like the talon of an eagle ’gainst a fierce beast;Which are called the beautiful Large-Gray—The fond, largeMeactroigh.

ANCIENT ERSE

“What do we see in that chariot?”

We see in that chariot,The horses; which are white-headed, white-hoofed,slender-legged,Fine-haired, sturdy, imperious;Satin-bannered, wide-chested;Small-aged, small-haired, small-eared;Large-hearted, large-shaped, large-nostriled;Slender-waisted, long-bodied,—and they are foal-like;Handsome, playful, brilliant, wild-leaping;Which are called theDubh-Seimhlinn.

“Who sits in that chariot?”

He who sits in that chariot,Is the warrior, able, powerful, well-worded,Polished, brilliant, very graceful.—There are seven sights on his eye;And we think that that is good vision to him;There are six bony, fat fingers,On each hand that comes from his shoulder;There are seven kinds of fair hair on his head;—Brown hair next his head’s skin,And smooth red hair over that;And fair-yellow hair, of the colour of gold;And clasps on the top, holding it fast;—Whose name is Cuchullin,Seimh-suailte,Son of Aodh, son of Agh, son of other Aodh.—His face is like red sparkles;—Fast-moving on the plain like mountain fleet-mist;Or like the speed of a hill hind;Or like a hare on rented level ground.—It was a frequent step—a fast step—a joyful step;—The horses coming towards us:—Like snow hewing the slopes;—The panting and the snorting,Of the horses coming towards thee.

The lions of the hill are gone,And I am left alone—alone—Dig the grave both wide and deep,For I am sick, and fain would sleep!The falcons of the wood are flown,And I am left alone—alone—Dig the grave both deep and wide,And let us slumber side by side.The dragons of the rock are sleeping,Sleep that wakes not for our weeping—Dig the grave, and make it ready,Lay me on my true-love’s body.Lay their spears and bucklers brightBy the warriors’ sides aright;Many a day the three before meOn their linkèd bucklers bore me.Lay upon the low grave floor,’Neath each head, the blue claymore;Many a time the noble threeReddened their blue blades for me.Lay the collars, as is meet,Of the greyhounds at their feet;Many a time for me have theyBrought the tall red deer to bay.In the falcon’s jesses throw,Hook and arrow, line and bow;Never again, by stream or plain,Shall the gentle woodsmen go.Sweet companions, were ye ever—Harsh to me, your sister, never;

The lions of the hill are gone,And I am left alone—alone—Dig the grave both wide and deep,For I am sick, and fain would sleep!

The falcons of the wood are flown,And I am left alone—alone—Dig the grave both deep and wide,And let us slumber side by side.

The dragons of the rock are sleeping,Sleep that wakes not for our weeping—Dig the grave, and make it ready,Lay me on my true-love’s body.

Lay their spears and bucklers brightBy the warriors’ sides aright;Many a day the three before meOn their linkèd bucklers bore me.

Lay upon the low grave floor,’Neath each head, the blue claymore;Many a time the noble threeReddened their blue blades for me.

Lay the collars, as is meet,Of the greyhounds at their feet;Many a time for me have theyBrought the tall red deer to bay.

In the falcon’s jesses throw,Hook and arrow, line and bow;Never again, by stream or plain,Shall the gentle woodsmen go.

Sweet companions, were ye ever—Harsh to me, your sister, never;

ANCIENT ERSE

Woods and wilds, and misty valleys,Were with you as good’s a palace.O, to hear my true-love singing,Sweet as sounds of trumpets ringing;Like the sway of ocean swellingRolled his deep voice round our dwelling.O! to hear the echoes pealingRound our green and fairy shealing,When the three, with soaring chorus,Passed the silent skylark o’er us.Echo now, sleep, morn and even—Lark alone enchant the heaven!Ardan’s lips are scant of breath,Neesa’s tongue is cold in death.Stag, exult on glen and mountain—Salmon, leap from loch to fountain—Heron, in the free air warm ye—Usnach’s sons no more will harm ye!Erin’s stay no more you are,Rulers of the ridge of war;Never more ’twill be your fateTo keep the beam of battle straight!Woe is me! by fraud and wrong,Traitors false and tyrants strong,Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold,For Barach’s feast and Conor’s gold!Woe to Eman, roof and wall!Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall!—Tenfold woe and black dishonourTo the foul and false Clan Conor!Dig the grave both wide and deep,Sick I am, and fain would sleep!Dig the grave and make it ready,Lay me on my true-love’s body.

Woods and wilds, and misty valleys,Were with you as good’s a palace.

O, to hear my true-love singing,Sweet as sounds of trumpets ringing;Like the sway of ocean swellingRolled his deep voice round our dwelling.

O! to hear the echoes pealingRound our green and fairy shealing,When the three, with soaring chorus,Passed the silent skylark o’er us.

Echo now, sleep, morn and even—Lark alone enchant the heaven!Ardan’s lips are scant of breath,Neesa’s tongue is cold in death.

Stag, exult on glen and mountain—Salmon, leap from loch to fountain—Heron, in the free air warm ye—Usnach’s sons no more will harm ye!

Erin’s stay no more you are,Rulers of the ridge of war;Never more ’twill be your fateTo keep the beam of battle straight!

Woe is me! by fraud and wrong,Traitors false and tyrants strong,Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold,For Barach’s feast and Conor’s gold!

Woe to Eman, roof and wall!Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall!—Tenfold woe and black dishonourTo the foul and false Clan Conor!

Dig the grave both wide and deep,Sick I am, and fain would sleep!Dig the grave and make it ready,Lay me on my true-love’s body.

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-Scaìl.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-Scaìl.

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.

In well-devised battle array,Ahead of their fair chieftainThey march amidst blue spears,White curly-headed bands.They scatter the battalions of the foe,They ravage every land I have attacked,Splendidly they march to combatAn impetuous, distinguished, avenging host!No wonder though their strength be great:Sons of kings and queens are one and all.On all their heads areBeautiful golden-yellow manes:With smooth, comely bodies,With bright blue-starred eyes,With pure crystal teeth,With thin red lips:Good they are at man-slaying.

In well-devised battle array,Ahead of their fair chieftainThey march amidst blue spears,White curly-headed bands.

They scatter the battalions of the foe,They ravage every land I have attacked,Splendidly they march to combatAn impetuous, distinguished, avenging host!

No wonder though their strength be great:Sons of kings and queens are one and all.On all their heads areBeautiful golden-yellow manes:

With smooth, comely bodies,With bright blue-starred eyes,With pure crystal teeth,With thin red lips:

Good they are at man-slaying.

ANCIENT ERSE

Tell us some of the charms of the stars:Close and well set were her ivory teeth;White as the canna upon the moorWas her bosom the tartan bright beneath.Her well-rounded forehead shoneSoft and fair as the mountain-snow;Her two breasts were heaving full;To them did the hearts of heroes flow.Her lips were ruddier than the rose;Tender and tunefully sweet her tongue;White as the foam adown her sideHer delicate fingers extended hung.Smooth as the dusky down of the elkAppeared her shady eyebrows to me;Lovely her cheeks were, like berries red;From every guile she was wholly free.Her countenance looked like the gentle budsUnfolding their beauty in early spring;Her yellow locks like the gold-browed hills;And her eyes like the radiance the sunbeams bring.

Tell us some of the charms of the stars:Close and well set were her ivory teeth;White as the canna upon the moorWas her bosom the tartan bright beneath.

Her well-rounded forehead shoneSoft and fair as the mountain-snow;Her two breasts were heaving full;To them did the hearts of heroes flow.

Her lips were ruddier than the rose;Tender and tunefully sweet her tongue;White as the foam adown her sideHer delicate fingers extended hung.

Smooth as the dusky down of the elkAppeared her shady eyebrows to me;Lovely her cheeks were, like berries red;From every guile she was wholly free.

Her countenance looked like the gentle budsUnfolding their beauty in early spring;Her yellow locks like the gold-browed hills;And her eyes like the radiance the sunbeams bring.

The Norland King stood on the heightAnd scanned the rolling sea;He proudly eyed his gallant shipsThat rode triumphantly.And then he looked where lay his camp,Along the rocky coast,And where were seen the heroes braveOf Lochlin’s famous host.Then to the land he turn’d, and thereA fierce-like hero came;Above him was a flag of gold,That waved and shone like flame.“Sweet bard,” thus spoke the Norland King,“What banner comes in sight?The valiant chief that leads the host,Who is that man of might?”“That,” said the bard, “is young MacDoon,His is that banner bright;When forth the Féinn to battle go,He’s foremost in the fight.”“Sweet bard, another comes; I seeA blood-red banner toss’dAbove a mighty hero’s headWho waves it o’er a host?”“That banner,” quoth the bard, “belongsTo good and valiant Rayne;Beneath it feet are bathed in bloodAnd heads are cleft in twain.”“Sweet bard, what banner now I seeA leader fierce and strongBehind it moves with heroes braveWho furious round him throng?”“That is the banner of Great Gaul:That silken shred of gold,Is first to march and last to turn,And flight ne’er stained its fold.”“Sweet bard, another now I see,High o’er a host it glows,Tell whether it has ever shoneO’er fields of slaughtered foes?”“That gory flag is Cailt’s,” quoth he,“It proudly peers in sight;It won its fame on many a fieldIn fierce and bloody fight.”“Sweet bard, another still I see;A host it flutters o’er;Like bird above the roaring surgeThat laves the storm-swept shore.”“The Broom of Peril,” quoth the bard,“Young Oscur’s banner, see:Amidst the conflict of dread chiefsThe proudest name has he.”The banner of great Fionn we raised;The Sunbeam gleaming far,With golden spangles of renownFrom many a field of war.The flag was fastened to its staffWith nine strong chains of gold,With nine times nine chiefs for each chain;Before it foes oft rolled.“Redeem your pledge to me,” said Fionn;“And show your deeds of mightTo Lochlin as you did beforeIn many a gory fight.”Like torrents from the mountain heightsThat roll resistless on;So down upon the foe we rushed,And victory won.

The Norland King stood on the heightAnd scanned the rolling sea;He proudly eyed his gallant shipsThat rode triumphantly.

And then he looked where lay his camp,Along the rocky coast,And where were seen the heroes braveOf Lochlin’s famous host.

Then to the land he turn’d, and thereA fierce-like hero came;Above him was a flag of gold,That waved and shone like flame.

“Sweet bard,” thus spoke the Norland King,“What banner comes in sight?The valiant chief that leads the host,Who is that man of might?”

“That,” said the bard, “is young MacDoon,His is that banner bright;When forth the Féinn to battle go,He’s foremost in the fight.”

“Sweet bard, another comes; I seeA blood-red banner toss’dAbove a mighty hero’s headWho waves it o’er a host?”

“That banner,” quoth the bard, “belongsTo good and valiant Rayne;Beneath it feet are bathed in bloodAnd heads are cleft in twain.”

“Sweet bard, what banner now I seeA leader fierce and strongBehind it moves with heroes braveWho furious round him throng?”

“That is the banner of Great Gaul:That silken shred of gold,Is first to march and last to turn,And flight ne’er stained its fold.”

“Sweet bard, another now I see,High o’er a host it glows,Tell whether it has ever shoneO’er fields of slaughtered foes?”

“That gory flag is Cailt’s,” quoth he,“It proudly peers in sight;It won its fame on many a fieldIn fierce and bloody fight.”

“Sweet bard, another still I see;A host it flutters o’er;Like bird above the roaring surgeThat laves the storm-swept shore.”

“The Broom of Peril,” quoth the bard,“Young Oscur’s banner, see:Amidst the conflict of dread chiefsThe proudest name has he.”

The banner of great Fionn we raised;The Sunbeam gleaming far,With golden spangles of renownFrom many a field of war.

The flag was fastened to its staffWith nine strong chains of gold,With nine times nine chiefs for each chain;Before it foes oft rolled.

“Redeem your pledge to me,” said Fionn;“And show your deeds of mightTo Lochlin as you did beforeIn many a gory fight.”

Like torrents from the mountain heightsThat roll resistless on;So down upon the foe we rushed,And victory won.

OLD GAELIC

At Tara to-day in this fateful hourI place all Heaven with its power,And the sun with its brightness,And the snow with its whiteness,And fire with all the strength it hath,And lightning with its rapid wrath,And the winds with their swiftness along their path,And the sea with its deepness,And the rocks with their steepness,And the earth with its starkness:All these I place,By God’s almighty help and grace,Between myself and the powers of darkness.

O, Son of my God, what a pride, what a pleasureTo plough the blue sea!The waves of the fountain of deluge to measureDear Eiré to thee.We are rounding Moy-n-Olurg, we sweep by its head, andWe plunge through Loch Foyle,Whose swans could enchant with their music the dead, andMake pleasure of toil.The host of the gulls come with joyous commotionAnd screaming and sport,I welcome my own “Dewy-Red” from the oceanArriving in port.[7]O Eiré, were wealth my desire, what a wealth wereTo gain far from thee,In the land of the stranger, but there even health wereA sickness to me!Alas for the voyage O high King of HeavenEnjoined upon me,For that I on the red plain of bloody CooldrevinWas present to see.How happy the son is of Dima; no sorrowFor him is designed,He is having, this hour, round his own hill in DurrowThe wish of his mind.The sounds of the winds in the elms, like the strings ofA harp being played,The note of the blackbird that claps with the wings ofDelight in the glade.With him in Ros-Grencha the cattle are lowingAt earliest dawn,On the brink of the summer the pigeons are cooingAnd doves in the lawn.Three things am I leaving behind me, the veryMost dear that I know,Tir-Leedach I’m leaving, and Durrow and Derry,Alas, I must go!Yet my visit and feasting with Comgall have eased meAt Cainneach’s right hand,And all but thy government, Eiré, has pleased me,Thou waterfall land.

O, Son of my God, what a pride, what a pleasureTo plough the blue sea!The waves of the fountain of deluge to measureDear Eiré to thee.

We are rounding Moy-n-Olurg, we sweep by its head, andWe plunge through Loch Foyle,Whose swans could enchant with their music the dead, andMake pleasure of toil.

The host of the gulls come with joyous commotionAnd screaming and sport,I welcome my own “Dewy-Red” from the oceanArriving in port.[7]

O Eiré, were wealth my desire, what a wealth wereTo gain far from thee,In the land of the stranger, but there even health wereA sickness to me!

Alas for the voyage O high King of HeavenEnjoined upon me,For that I on the red plain of bloody CooldrevinWas present to see.

How happy the son is of Dima; no sorrowFor him is designed,He is having, this hour, round his own hill in DurrowThe wish of his mind.

The sounds of the winds in the elms, like the strings ofA harp being played,The note of the blackbird that claps with the wings ofDelight in the glade.

With him in Ros-Grencha the cattle are lowingAt earliest dawn,On the brink of the summer the pigeons are cooingAnd doves in the lawn.

Three things am I leaving behind me, the veryMost dear that I know,Tir-Leedach I’m leaving, and Durrow and Derry,Alas, I must go!

Yet my visit and feasting with Comgall have eased meAt Cainneach’s right hand,And all but thy government, Eiré, has pleased me,Thou waterfall land.

Delightful would it be to me to be in Uchd AiliunOn the pinnacle of a rock,That I might often seeThe face of the ocean;That I might see its heaving wavesOver the wide ocean,When they chant music to their FatherUpon the world’s course;That I might see its level sparkling strand,It would be no cause of sorrow;That I might hear the song of the wonderful birds,Source of happiness;That I might hear the thunder of the crowding wavesUpon the rocks;That I might hear the roar by the side of the churchOf the surrounding sea;That I might see its noble flocksOver the watery ocean;That I might see the sea-monsters,The greatest of all wonders;That I might see its ebb and floodIn their career;That my mystical name might be, I say,Cul ri Erin;[8]That contrition might come upon my heartUpon looking at her;That I might bewail my evils all,Though it were difficult to compute them;That I might bless the LordWho conserves all,Heaven with its countless bright orders,Land, strand and flood;That I might search the books all,That would be good for my soul;At times kneeling to beloved Heaven;At times psalm singing;At times contemplating the King of Heaven,Holy the chief;At times at work without compulsion,This would be delightful.At times plucking duilisc from the rocks;At times at fishing;At times giving food to the poor;At times in acarcair:[9]The best advice in the presence of GodTo me has been vouchsafed.The King whose servant I am will not letAnything deceive me.

Murdoch, whet thy knife, that we may shave our crowns to the Great King.Let us sweetly give our vow, and the hair of both our heads to the Trinity.I will shave mine to Mary; this is the doing of a true heart:To Mary shave thou these locks, well-formed, soft-eyed man.Seldom hast thou had, handsome man, a knife on thy hair to shave it;Oftener has a sweet, soft queen comb’d her hair beside thee.Whenever it was that we did bathe, with Brian of the well-curled locks,And once on a time that I did bathe at the well of the fair-haired Boroimhe,I strove in swimming with Ua Chais, on the cold waters of the Fergus.When he came ashore from the stream, Ua Chais and I strove in a race:These two knives, one to each, were given us by Duncan Cairbreach;No knives were better: shave gently then, Murdoch.Whet your sword, Cathal, which wins the fertile Banva;Ne’er was thy wrath heard without fighting, brave, red-handed Cathal.Preserve our shaved heads from cold and from heat, gentle daughter of Iodehim,Preserve us in the land of heat, softest branch of Mary.

DOMHNULL MAC FHIONNLAIDH

O, lay me by the gentle streamWhich glides with stealing course;Lay my head beneath the shady boughs,And thou, O sun, be mild upon my rest.There, in the flowery grass,Where the breeze sighs softly on the bank,My feet shall be bathed with the dewWhen it falls on the silent vale.There, on my lone green heap,The primrose and the daisy shall bloom over my head,And the wild bright star of St JohnShall bend beside my cheek.Above, on the steeps of the glen,Green flowering boughs shall spread,And sweet, from the still grey craigs,The birds shall pour their songs.There, from the ivied craig,The gushing spring shall flow,And the son of the rock shall repeatThe murmur of its fall.The hinds shall call around my bed;The hill shall answer to their voice,When a thousand shall descend on the field,And feed around my rest.The calves shall sport beside meBy the stream of the level plain,And the little kids, weary of their strife,Shall sleep beneath my arm.Far in the gentle breezeThe stag cries on the field;The herds answer on the hill,And descend to meet the sound.I hear the steps of the hunter!His whistling darts—his dog upon the hill.The joy of youth returns to my cheekAt the sound of the coming chase!My strength returns at the sounds of the wood;The cry of hounds—the thrill of strings.Hark! the death-shout—“The deer has fallen!”I spring to life on the hill!I see the bounding dog,My companion on the heath;The beloved hill of our chase,The echoing craig of woods.I see the sheltering caveWhich often received us from the night,When the glowing tree and the joyful cupRevived us with their cheer.Glad was the smoking feast of deer,Our drink was from Loch Treig, our music its hum of waves;Though ghosts shrieked on the echoing hills,Sweet was our rest in the cave.I see the mighty mountain,Chief of a thousand hills;The dream of deer is in its locks,Its head is the bed of clouds.I see the ridge of hinds, the steep of the sloping glen,The wood of cuckoos at its foot,The blue height of a thousand pines,Of wolves, and roes, and elks.

O, lay me by the gentle streamWhich glides with stealing course;Lay my head beneath the shady boughs,And thou, O sun, be mild upon my rest.

There, in the flowery grass,Where the breeze sighs softly on the bank,My feet shall be bathed with the dewWhen it falls on the silent vale.

There, on my lone green heap,The primrose and the daisy shall bloom over my head,And the wild bright star of St JohnShall bend beside my cheek.

Above, on the steeps of the glen,Green flowering boughs shall spread,And sweet, from the still grey craigs,The birds shall pour their songs.

There, from the ivied craig,The gushing spring shall flow,And the son of the rock shall repeatThe murmur of its fall.

The hinds shall call around my bed;The hill shall answer to their voice,When a thousand shall descend on the field,And feed around my rest.

The calves shall sport beside meBy the stream of the level plain,And the little kids, weary of their strife,Shall sleep beneath my arm.

Far in the gentle breezeThe stag cries on the field;The herds answer on the hill,And descend to meet the sound.

I hear the steps of the hunter!His whistling darts—his dog upon the hill.The joy of youth returns to my cheekAt the sound of the coming chase!

My strength returns at the sounds of the wood;The cry of hounds—the thrill of strings.Hark! the death-shout—“The deer has fallen!”I spring to life on the hill!

I see the bounding dog,My companion on the heath;The beloved hill of our chase,The echoing craig of woods.

I see the sheltering caveWhich often received us from the night,When the glowing tree and the joyful cupRevived us with their cheer.

Glad was the smoking feast of deer,Our drink was from Loch Treig, our music its hum of waves;Though ghosts shrieked on the echoing hills,Sweet was our rest in the cave.

I see the mighty mountain,Chief of a thousand hills;The dream of deer is in its locks,Its head is the bed of clouds.

I see the ridge of hinds, the steep of the sloping glen,The wood of cuckoos at its foot,The blue height of a thousand pines,Of wolves, and roes, and elks.

DOMHNULL MAC FHIONNLAIDH

Like the breeze on the lake of firsThe little ducks skim on the pool,At its head is the strath of pines,The red rowan bends on its bank.There, on the gliding wave,The fair swan spreads her wing,The broad white wing which never failsWhen she soars amidst the clouds.Far wandering over oceanShe seeks the cold dwelling of seals,Where no sail bends the mast,Nor prow divides the wave.Come to the woody hillsWith the lament of thy love;Return, O swan, from the isle of waves,And sing from thy course on high.Raise thy mournful song—Pour the sad tale of thy grief;The son of the rock shall hear the sound,And repeat thy strain of woe.Spread thy wing over ocean,Mount up on the strength of the winds;Pleasant to my ear is thy sound,The song of thy wounded heart.O youth! thou who hast departed,And left my grey and helpless hairs,What land has heard on its windsThy cry come o’er its rocks?Are the tears in thy eye, O maiden?Thou of the lovely brow and lily hand;Brightness be around thee for ever!Thou shalt return no more from the narrow bed!Tell me, O winds! since now I see them not,Where grow the murmuring reeds?The reeds which sigh where rest the troutOn their still transparent fins.O raise and bear me on your hands,Lay my head beneath the young boughs,That their shade may veil my eyesWhen the sun shall rise on high.And thou, O gentle sleep!Whose course is with the stars of night;Be near with thy dreams of songTo bring back my days of joy.My soul beholds the maid!In the shade of the mighty oak,Her white hand beneath her golden hair,Her soft eye on her beloved.He is near—but she is silent,His beating heart is lost in song,Their souls beam from their eyes—Deer stand on the hill!The song has ceased!—Their bosoms meet;—Like the young and stainless roseHer lips are pressed to his!—Blessed be that commune sweet!Recalling the joy which returns no more—Blessed be thy soul, my love!Thou maid with the bright flowing locks.Hast thou forsaken me, O dream!Once more return again!Alas! thou art gone, and I am sad—Bless thee, my love—farewell!Friends of my youth, farewell!Farewell, ye maids of love!I see you now no more—with you is summer still,With me—the winter night!O lay me by the roaring fall,By the sound of the murmuring craig,Let the cruit and the shell be near,And the shield of my father’s wars.O breeze of Ocean come,With the sound of thy gentle course,Raise me on thy wings, O wind,And bear me to the isle of rest;Where the heroes of old are gone,To the sleep which shall wake no moreOpen the hall of Ossian and Daol—The night is come—the bard departs!Behold my dim grey mist!—I go to the dwelling of bards on the hill!Give me the airy cruit and shell for the way—And now—my own loved cruit and shell—farewell!

Like the breeze on the lake of firsThe little ducks skim on the pool,At its head is the strath of pines,The red rowan bends on its bank.

There, on the gliding wave,The fair swan spreads her wing,The broad white wing which never failsWhen she soars amidst the clouds.

Far wandering over oceanShe seeks the cold dwelling of seals,Where no sail bends the mast,Nor prow divides the wave.

Come to the woody hillsWith the lament of thy love;Return, O swan, from the isle of waves,And sing from thy course on high.

Raise thy mournful song—Pour the sad tale of thy grief;The son of the rock shall hear the sound,And repeat thy strain of woe.

Spread thy wing over ocean,Mount up on the strength of the winds;Pleasant to my ear is thy sound,The song of thy wounded heart.

O youth! thou who hast departed,And left my grey and helpless hairs,What land has heard on its windsThy cry come o’er its rocks?

Are the tears in thy eye, O maiden?Thou of the lovely brow and lily hand;Brightness be around thee for ever!Thou shalt return no more from the narrow bed!

Tell me, O winds! since now I see them not,Where grow the murmuring reeds?The reeds which sigh where rest the troutOn their still transparent fins.

O raise and bear me on your hands,Lay my head beneath the young boughs,That their shade may veil my eyesWhen the sun shall rise on high.

And thou, O gentle sleep!Whose course is with the stars of night;Be near with thy dreams of songTo bring back my days of joy.

My soul beholds the maid!In the shade of the mighty oak,Her white hand beneath her golden hair,Her soft eye on her beloved.

He is near—but she is silent,His beating heart is lost in song,Their souls beam from their eyes—Deer stand on the hill!

The song has ceased!—Their bosoms meet;—Like the young and stainless roseHer lips are pressed to his!—

Blessed be that commune sweet!Recalling the joy which returns no more—Blessed be thy soul, my love!Thou maid with the bright flowing locks.

Hast thou forsaken me, O dream!Once more return again!Alas! thou art gone, and I am sad—Bless thee, my love—farewell!

Friends of my youth, farewell!Farewell, ye maids of love!I see you now no more—with you is summer still,With me—the winter night!

O lay me by the roaring fall,By the sound of the murmuring craig,Let the cruit and the shell be near,And the shield of my father’s wars.

O breeze of Ocean come,With the sound of thy gentle course,Raise me on thy wings, O wind,And bear me to the isle of rest;

Where the heroes of old are gone,To the sleep which shall wake no moreOpen the hall of Ossian and Daol—The night is come—the bard departs!

Behold my dim grey mist!—I go to the dwelling of bards on the hill!Give me the airy cruit and shell for the way—And now—my own loved cruit and shell—farewell!

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