Irish Lullaby.

When after the Winter alarmin’,The Spring steps in so charmin’,So fresh and archIn the middle of March,Wid her hand St Patrick’s arm on,Let us all, let us all be goin’,Agra, to assist at your sowin’,The girls to spreadYour iligant bed,And the boys to set the hoe in.

Chorus—

Then good speed to your seed! God’s grace and increase.Never more in our need may you blacken wid the blight;But when summer is o’er, in our gardens, asthore,May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.

So rest and sleep, my jewel,Safe from the tempest cruel;Till violets springAnd skylarks singFrom Mourne to Carran Tual.Then wake and build your bower,Through April sun and shower,To bless the earthThat gave you birth,Through many a sultry hour.

Chorus—

Then good luck to your leaf. And ochone, ologone,Never more to our grief may it blacken wid the blight;But when summer is o’er, in our gardens, asthore,May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.

Thus smile with glad increasin’,Till to St John we’re raisin’,Through Erin’s isleThe pleasant pileThat sets the bonfire blazin’.O ’tis then that the midsummer fairy,Abroad on his sly vagary,Wid purple and white,As he passes by night,Your emerald leaf shall vary.

Chorus—

Then more power to your flower, and your merry green leaf!Never more to our grief may they blacken wid the blight;But when summer is o’er, in our gardens, asthore,May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.

And once again Mavourneen,Some yellow autumn mornin’,At red sunriseBoth girls and boysTo your garden ridge we’re turnin’,Then under your foliage fadin’Each man of us sets his spade in,While the colleen bawnHer brown kishane[20]Full up wid your fruit is ladin’.

Chorus—

Then good luck to your leaf! more power to your flower!Never more to our grief may they blacken wid the blight;But when summer is o’er, in our gardens, asthore,May the fruit at your root fill our bosoms wid delight.

ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES

I’d rock my own sweet childie to rest in a cradle of gold on a bough of the willow,To theshoheen hoof the wind of the west and thelulla loof the soft sea billow.Sleep, baby dear,Sleep without fear,Mother is here beside your pillow.I’d put my own sweet childie to sleep in a silver boat on the beautiful river,Where ashoheenwhisper the white cascades, and alulla lothe green flags shiver.Sleep, baby dear,Sleep without fear,Mother is here with you for ever.Lulla lo!to the rise and fall of mother’s bosom ’tis sleep has bound you,And O, my child, what cosier nest for rosier rest could love have found you?Sleep, baby dear,Sleep without fear,Mother’s two arms are clasped around you.

I’d put my own sweet childie to sleep in a silver boat on the beautiful river,Where ashoheenwhisper the white cascades, and alulla lothe green flags shiver.Sleep, baby dear,Sleep without fear,Mother is here with you for ever.

Lulla lo!to the rise and fall of mother’s bosom ’tis sleep has bound you,And O, my child, what cosier nest for rosier rest could love have found you?Sleep, baby dear,Sleep without fear,Mother’s two arms are clasped around you.

GERALD GRIFFIN

When, like the early rose,Eileen Aroon!Beauty in childhood blows,Eileen Aroon!When, like a diadem,Buds blush around the stem,Which is the fairest gem?Eileen Aroon!Is it the laughing eye,Eileen Aroon!Is it the timid sigh,Eileen Aroon!Is it the tender tone,Soft as the stringed harp’s moan?Oh! it is truth alone,Eileen Aroon!When, like the rising day,Eileen Aroon!Love sends his early ray,Eileen Aroon!What makes his dawning glow,Changeless through joy or woe?Only the constant know—Eileen Aroon!I know a valley fair,Eileen Aroon!I knew a cottage there,Eileen Aroon!Far in that valley’s shadeI knew a gentle maid,Flower of a hazel glade,Eileen Aroon!Who in the song so sweet?Eileen Aroon!Who in the dance so fleet?Eileen Aroon!Dear were her charms to me,Dearer her laughter free,Dearest her constancy,Eileen Aroon!Were she no longer true,Eileen Aroon!What should her lover do?Eileen Aroon!Fly with his broken chainFar o’er the sounding main,Never to love again,Eileen Aroon!Youth must with time decay,Eileen Aroon!Beauty must fade away,Eileen Aroon!Castles are sacked in war,Chieftains are scattered far,Truth is a fixèd star,Eileen Aroon!

When, like the early rose,Eileen Aroon!Beauty in childhood blows,Eileen Aroon!When, like a diadem,Buds blush around the stem,Which is the fairest gem?Eileen Aroon!

Is it the laughing eye,Eileen Aroon!Is it the timid sigh,Eileen Aroon!Is it the tender tone,Soft as the stringed harp’s moan?Oh! it is truth alone,Eileen Aroon!

When, like the rising day,Eileen Aroon!Love sends his early ray,Eileen Aroon!What makes his dawning glow,Changeless through joy or woe?Only the constant know—Eileen Aroon!

I know a valley fair,Eileen Aroon!I knew a cottage there,Eileen Aroon!Far in that valley’s shadeI knew a gentle maid,Flower of a hazel glade,Eileen Aroon!

Who in the song so sweet?Eileen Aroon!Who in the dance so fleet?Eileen Aroon!Dear were her charms to me,Dearer her laughter free,Dearest her constancy,Eileen Aroon!

Were she no longer true,Eileen Aroon!What should her lover do?Eileen Aroon!Fly with his broken chainFar o’er the sounding main,Never to love again,Eileen Aroon!

Youth must with time decay,Eileen Aroon!Beauty must fade away,Eileen Aroon!Castles are sacked in war,Chieftains are scattered far,Truth is a fixèd star,Eileen Aroon!

NORA HOPPER

Rose o’ the world, she came to my bedAnd changed the dreams of my heart and head:For joy of mine she left grief of hersAnd garlanded me with the prickly furze.Rose o’ the world, they go out and in,And watch me dream and my mother spin:And they pity the tears on my sleeping faceWhile my soul’s away in a fairy place.Rose o’ the world, they have words galore,For wide’s the swing of my mother’s door:And soft they speak of my darkened brain,But what do they know of my heart’s dear pain?Rose o’ the world, the grief you giveIs worth all days that a man may live:Is worth all prayers that the colleens sayOn the night that darkens the wedding-day.Rose o’ the world, what man would wedWhen he might remember your face instead?Might go to his grave with the blessed painOf hungering after your face again?Rose o’ the world, they may talk their fill,But dreams are good, and my life stands stillWhile the neighbours talk by their fires astir:But my fiddle knows: andItalk to her.

Rose o’ the world, she came to my bedAnd changed the dreams of my heart and head:For joy of mine she left grief of hersAnd garlanded me with the prickly furze.

Rose o’ the world, they go out and in,And watch me dream and my mother spin:And they pity the tears on my sleeping faceWhile my soul’s away in a fairy place.

Rose o’ the world, they have words galore,For wide’s the swing of my mother’s door:And soft they speak of my darkened brain,But what do they know of my heart’s dear pain?

Rose o’ the world, the grief you giveIs worth all days that a man may live:Is worth all prayers that the colleens sayOn the night that darkens the wedding-day.

Rose o’ the world, what man would wedWhen he might remember your face instead?Might go to his grave with the blessed painOf hungering after your face again?

Rose o’ the world, they may talk their fill,But dreams are good, and my life stands stillWhile the neighbours talk by their fires astir:But my fiddle knows: andItalk to her.

She hath a woven garland all of the sighing sedge,And all her flowers are snowdrops grown on the winter’s edge:The golden looms of Tir na n’ Og wove all the winter throughHer gown of mist and raindrops shot with a cloudy blue.Sunlight she holds in one hand, and rain she scatters after,And through the rainy twilight we hear her fitful laughter.She shakes down on her flowers the snows less white than they,Then quicken with her kisses the folded “knots o’ May.”She seeks the summer-lover that never shall be hers,Fain for gold leaves of autumn she passes by the furze,Though buried gold it hideth: she scorns her sedgy crown,And pressing blindly sunwards she treads her snowdrops down.Her gifts are all a fardel of wayward smiles and tears,Yet hope she also holdeth, this daughter of the years—A hope that blossoms faintly set upon sorrow’s edge:She hath a woven garland of all the sighing sedge.

Sunlight she holds in one hand, and rain she scatters after,And through the rainy twilight we hear her fitful laughter.She shakes down on her flowers the snows less white than they,Then quicken with her kisses the folded “knots o’ May.”

She seeks the summer-lover that never shall be hers,Fain for gold leaves of autumn she passes by the furze,Though buried gold it hideth: she scorns her sedgy crown,And pressing blindly sunwards she treads her snowdrops down.

Her gifts are all a fardel of wayward smiles and tears,Yet hope she also holdeth, this daughter of the years—A hope that blossoms faintly set upon sorrow’s edge:She hath a woven garland of all the sighing sedge.

NORA HOPPER

Mavrone, Mavrone! the wind among the reeds.It calls and cries, and will not let me be;And all its cry is of forgotten deedsWhen men were loved of all the Daoine-Sidhe.O Shee that have forgotten how to love,And Shee that have forgotten how to hate,Asleep ’neath quicken boughs that no winds move,Come back to us ere yet it be too late.Pipe to us once again, lest we forgetWhat piping means, till all the Silver SpearsBe wild with gusty music, such as metCarolan once, amid the dusty years.Dance in your rings again: the yellow weedsYou used to ride so far, mount as of old—Play hide-and-seek with wind among the reeds,And pay your scores again with fairy gold.

Mavrone, Mavrone! the wind among the reeds.It calls and cries, and will not let me be;And all its cry is of forgotten deedsWhen men were loved of all the Daoine-Sidhe.

O Shee that have forgotten how to love,And Shee that have forgotten how to hate,Asleep ’neath quicken boughs that no winds move,Come back to us ere yet it be too late.

Pipe to us once again, lest we forgetWhat piping means, till all the Silver SpearsBe wild with gusty music, such as metCarolan once, amid the dusty years.

Dance in your rings again: the yellow weedsYou used to ride so far, mount as of old—Play hide-and-seek with wind among the reeds,And pay your scores again with fairy gold.

DOUGLAS HYDE

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 trouble!Would he and I wear,In the province of Leinster,Or County of Clare.Were I and my darling—O, heart-bitter wound!—On the 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 bosomHis 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 trouble!Would he and I wear,In the province of Leinster,Or County of Clare.

Were I and my darling—O, heart-bitter wound!—On the 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 bosomHis mouth to my mouth.

DOUGLAS HYDE

A honey mist on a day of frost, in a dark oak wood,And love for thee in my heart in me, thou bright, white, and good;Thy slender form, soft and warm, thy red lips apart,Thou hast found me, and hast bound me, and put grief in my heart.In fair-green and market, men mark thee, bright, young, and merry,Though thou hurt them like foes with the rose of thy blush of the berry:Her cheeks are a poppy, her eye it is Cupid’s helper,But each foolish man dreams that its beams for himself are.Whoe’er saw the Cooleen in a cool, dewy meadowOn a morning in summer in sunshine and shadow;All the young men go wild for her, my childeen, my treasure,But now let them go mope, they’ve no hope to possess her.Let us roam, O my darling, afar through the mountains,Drink milk of the goat, wine and bulcaun in fountains;With music and play every day from my lyre,And leave to come rest on my breast when you tire.

In fair-green and market, men mark thee, bright, young, and merry,Though thou hurt them like foes with the rose of thy blush of the berry:Her cheeks are a poppy, her eye it is Cupid’s helper,But each foolish man dreams that its beams for himself are.

Whoe’er saw the Cooleen in a cool, dewy meadowOn a morning in summer in sunshine and shadow;All the young men go wild for her, my childeen, my treasure,But now let them go mope, they’ve no hope to possess her.

Let us roam, O my darling, afar through the mountains,Drink milk of the goat, wine and bulcaun in fountains;With music and play every day from my lyre,And leave to come rest on my breast when you tire.

’Tis the Breedyeen I love,All dear ones above,Like a star from the startRound my heart she did move.Her breast like a dove,Or the foam in the cove,With her gold locks apart,In my heart she put love.’Tis not Venus, I say,Who grieved me this day,But the white one, the bright one,Who slighted my stay.For her I shall pray—I confess it—for aye,She’s my sister, I missed her,When all men were gay.To the hills let us go,Where the raven and crowIn dark dismal valleysCroak death-like and low;By this volume I swear,O bright Cool of fair hair,That though solitude shriekedI should seek for thee there.To the hills let us go,Where the raven and crowIn the dark dismal valleysWing silent and slow.There’s no Joy in men’s fateBut Grief grins in the gate;There’s no Fair without Foul,Without Crooked no Straight.

’Tis not Venus, I say,Who grieved me this day,But the white one, the bright one,Who slighted my stay.For her I shall pray—I confess it—for aye,She’s my sister, I missed her,When all men were gay.

To the hills let us go,Where the raven and crowIn dark dismal valleysCroak death-like and low;By this volume I swear,O bright Cool of fair hair,That though solitude shriekedI should seek for thee there.

To the hills let us go,Where the raven and crowIn the dark dismal valleysWing silent and slow.There’s no Joy in men’s fateBut Grief grins in the gate;There’s no Fair without Foul,Without Crooked no Straight.

Her neck like the limeAnd her breath like the thyme,And her bosom untroubledBy care or by time.Like a bird in the night,At a great blaze of light,Astounded and woundedI swoon at her sight.Since I gave thee my love,I gave thee my love,I gave thee my love,O thou berry so bright;The sun in her heightLooked on with delight,And between thy two arms, mayI die on the night.And I would that I wereIn the glens of the air,Or in dark dismal valleysWhere the wildwood is bare,What a kiss from her thereI should coax without care,From my star of the morning,My fairer than fair!Like a Phœnix of flame,Or like Helen of fame,Is the pearl of all pearlsOf girls who came,And who kindled a flame,In my bosom. Thy nameI shall rhyme thee in IrishAnd heighten thy fame.

Her neck like the limeAnd her breath like the thyme,And her bosom untroubledBy care or by time.Like a bird in the night,At a great blaze of light,Astounded and woundedI swoon at her sight.

Since I gave thee my love,I gave thee my love,I gave thee my love,O thou berry so bright;The sun in her heightLooked on with delight,And between thy two arms, mayI die on the night.

And I would that I wereIn the glens of the air,Or in dark dismal valleysWhere the wildwood is bare,What a kiss from her thereI should coax without care,From my star of the morning,My fairer than fair!

Like a Phœnix of flame,Or like Helen of fame,Is the pearl of all pearlsOf girls who came,And who kindled a flame,In my bosom. Thy nameI shall rhyme thee in IrishAnd heighten thy fame.

Dear God! were I fisher andBack in Binédar,And Nelly a fish whoWould swim in the bay there,I would privately set thereMy net there to catch her,In Erin no maidenIs able to match her.And Nelly, dear God!Why! you should not thus flee me,I long to be near theeAnd hear thee and see thee,My hand on the BibleAnd I swearing and kneelingAnd giving thee partOf the heart you are stealing.I’ve a fair yellow casketAnd it fastened with crystal,And the lock opens notTo the shot of a pistol.To Jesus I prayAnd to Columbkill’s Master,That Mary may guide theeAside from disaster.We may be, O maidenWhom none may disparage,Some morning a-hearingThe sweet mass of marriage,But if fate be against us,To rend us and push us,I shall mourn as the blackbirdAt eve in the bushes.

Dear God! were I fisher andBack in Binédar,And Nelly a fish whoWould swim in the bay there,I would privately set thereMy net there to catch her,In Erin no maidenIs able to match her.

And Nelly, dear God!Why! you should not thus flee me,I long to be near theeAnd hear thee and see thee,My hand on the BibleAnd I swearing and kneelingAnd giving thee partOf the heart you are stealing.

I’ve a fair yellow casketAnd it fastened with crystal,And the lock opens notTo the shot of a pistol.To Jesus I prayAnd to Columbkill’s Master,That Mary may guide theeAside from disaster.

We may be, O maidenWhom none may disparage,Some morning a-hearingThe sweet mass of marriage,But if fate be against us,To rend us and push us,I shall mourn as the blackbirdAt eve in the bushes.

O God, were she with meWhere the gull flits and tern,Or in Paris the smiling,Or an Isle in Loch Erne,I would coax her so well,I would tell her my story,And talk till I won her,My sunshine of glory.

DOUGLAS HYDE

For thee I shall not die,Woman high of fame and name;Foolish men thou mayest slayI 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 o’ the 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 slayI 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 o’ the 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.

LIONEL JOHNSON

Red Wind from out the East:Red Wind of blight and blood!Ah, when wilt thou have ceasedThy bitter, stormy flood?Red Wind from over sea,Scourging our holy land!What angel loosened theeOut of his iron hand?Red Wind! whose word of mightWinged thee with wings of flame?O fire of mournful night!What is thy Master’s name?Red Wind! who bade thee burn,Branding our hearts? Who badeThee on and never turnTill waste our souls were laid?Red Wind! from out the WestPour Winds of Paradise:Winds of eternal rest,That weary souls entice.Wind of the East! Red Wind!Thou scorchest the soft breathOf Paradise the kind:Red Wind of burning death!O Red Wind! hear God’s voice:Hear thou, and fall, and cease.Let Innisfail rejoiceIn her Hesperian peace.

Red Wind from out the East:Red Wind of blight and blood!Ah, when wilt thou have ceasedThy bitter, stormy flood?

Red Wind from over sea,Scourging our holy land!What angel loosened theeOut of his iron hand?

Red Wind! whose word of mightWinged thee with wings of flame?O fire of mournful night!What is thy Master’s name?

Red Wind! who bade thee burn,Branding our hearts? Who badeThee on and never turnTill waste our souls were laid?

Red Wind! from out the WestPour Winds of Paradise:Winds of eternal rest,That weary souls entice.

Wind of the East! Red Wind!Thou scorchest the soft breathOf Paradise the kind:Red Wind of burning death!

O Red Wind! hear God’s voice:Hear thou, and fall, and cease.Let Innisfail rejoiceIn her Hesperian peace.

LIONEL JOHNSON

A voice on the winds,A voice on the waters,Wanders and cries:O what are the winds?And what are the waters?Mine are your eyes.Western the winds are,And western the waters,Where the light lies:O what are the winds?And what are the waters?Mine are your eyes.Cold, cold grow the winds,And dark grow the waters,Where the sun dies:O what are the winds?And what are the waters?Mine are your eyes.And down the night winds,And down the night watersThe music flies:O what are the winds?And what are the waters?Cold be the winds,And wild be the waters,So mine be your eyes.

A voice on the winds,A voice on the waters,Wanders and cries:O what are the winds?And what are the waters?Mine are your eyes.

Western the winds are,And western the waters,Where the light lies:O what are the winds?And what are the waters?Mine are your eyes.

Cold, cold grow the winds,And dark grow the waters,Where the sun dies:O what are the winds?And what are the waters?Mine are your eyes.

And down the night winds,And down the night watersThe music flies:O what are the winds?And what are the waters?Cold be the winds,And wild be the waters,So mine be your eyes.

DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY

Youth’s bright palaceIs overthrown,With its diamond sceptreAnd golden throne;As a time-worn stoneIts turrets are humbled,—All hath crumbledBut grief alone!Whither, oh! whitherHave fled awayThe dreams and hopesOf my early day?Ruined and greyAre the towers I builded;And the beams that gilded—Ah! where are they?Once this worldWas fresh and bright,With its golden noonAnd its starry night;Glad and light,By mountain and river,Have I blessed the GiverWith hushed delight.Youth’s illusions,One by one,Have passed like cloudsThat the sun looked on.While morning shone,How purple their fringes!How ashy their tingesWhen that was gone!As fire-flies fadeWhen the nights are damp—As meteors are quenchedIn a stagnant swamp—Thus Charlemagne’s camp,Where the Paladins rally,And the Diamond Valley,And the Wonderful Lamp,And all the wondersOf Ganges and Nile,And Haroun’s rambles,And Crusoe’s isle,And Princes who smileOn the Genii’s daughters’Neath the Orient watersFull many a mile,And all that the penOf Fancy can write,Must vanishIn manhood’s misty light—Squire and Knight,And damosels’ glances,Sunny romancesSo pure and bright!These have vanished,And what remains?Life’s budding garlandsHave turned to chains—Its beams and rainsFeed but docks and thistles,And sorrow whistlesO’er desert plains!

Youth’s bright palaceIs overthrown,With its diamond sceptreAnd golden throne;As a time-worn stoneIts turrets are humbled,—All hath crumbledBut grief alone!

Whither, oh! whitherHave fled awayThe dreams and hopesOf my early day?Ruined and greyAre the towers I builded;And the beams that gilded—Ah! where are they?

Once this worldWas fresh and bright,With its golden noonAnd its starry night;Glad and light,By mountain and river,Have I blessed the GiverWith hushed delight.

Youth’s illusions,One by one,Have passed like cloudsThat the sun looked on.While morning shone,How purple their fringes!How ashy their tingesWhen that was gone!

As fire-flies fadeWhen the nights are damp—As meteors are quenchedIn a stagnant swamp—Thus Charlemagne’s camp,Where the Paladins rally,And the Diamond Valley,And the Wonderful Lamp,

And all the wondersOf Ganges and Nile,And Haroun’s rambles,And Crusoe’s isle,And Princes who smileOn the Genii’s daughters’Neath the Orient watersFull many a mile,

And all that the penOf Fancy can write,Must vanishIn manhood’s misty light—Squire and Knight,And damosels’ glances,Sunny romancesSo pure and bright!

These have vanished,And what remains?Life’s budding garlandsHave turned to chains—Its beams and rainsFeed but docks and thistles,And sorrow whistlesO’er desert plains!

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN

Take a blessing from my heart to the land of my birth,And the fair Hills of Eiré, O!And to all that yet survive of Eibhear’s tribe on earth,On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!In that land so delightful the wild thrush’s lay—Seems to pour a lament forth for Eiré’s delay—Alas! alas! why pine I a thousand miles awayFrom the fair Hills of Eiré, O!The soil is rich and soft—the air is mild and bland,Of the fair Hills of Eiré, O!Her barest rock is greener to me than this rude land—O! the fair Hills of Eiré, O!Her woods are tall and straight, grove rising over grove;Trees flourish in her glens below, and on her heights above;O, in heart and in soul, I shall ever, ever loveThe fair Hills of Eiré, O!A noble tribe, moreover, are the now hapless Gael,On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!A tribe in Battle’s hour unused to shrink or failOn the fair Hills of Eiré, O!For this is my lament in bitterness outpoured,To see them slain or scattered by the Saxon sword.Oh, woe of woes, to see a foreign spoiler hordeOn the fair Hills of Eiré, O!Broad and tall rise thecruachsin the golden morning’s glowOn the fair Hills of Eiré, O!O’er her smooth grass for ever sweet cream and honey flowOn the fair Hills of Eiré, O!O, I long, I am pining, again to beholdThe land that belongs to the brave Gael of old;Far dearer to my heart than a gift of gems or goldAre the fair Hills of Eiré, O!The dewdrops lie bright ’mid the grass and yellow cornOn the fair Hills of Eiré, O!And the sweet-scented apples blush redly in the mornOn the fair Hills of Eiré, O!The water-cress and sorrel fill the vales below;The streamlets are hushed, till the evening breezes blow;While the waves of the Suir, noble river! ever flowNear the fair Hills of Eiré, O!A fruitful clime is Eiré’s, through valley, meadow, plain,And the fair land of Eiré, O!The very “Bread of Life” is in the yellow grainOn the fair Hills of Eiré, O!Far dearer unto me than the tones music yields,Is the lowing of her kine and the calves in her fields,And the sunlight that shone long ago on the shieldsOf the Gaels, on the fair Hills of Eiré, O!

The soil is rich and soft—the air is mild and bland,Of the fair Hills of Eiré, O!Her barest rock is greener to me than this rude land—O! the fair Hills of Eiré, O!Her woods are tall and straight, grove rising over grove;Trees flourish in her glens below, and on her heights above;O, in heart and in soul, I shall ever, ever loveThe fair Hills of Eiré, O!

A noble tribe, moreover, are the now hapless Gael,On the fair Hills of Eiré, O!A tribe in Battle’s hour unused to shrink or failOn the fair Hills of Eiré, O!For this is my lament in bitterness outpoured,To see them slain or scattered by the Saxon sword.Oh, woe of woes, to see a foreign spoiler hordeOn the fair Hills of Eiré, O!

Broad and tall rise thecruachsin the golden morning’s glowOn the fair Hills of Eiré, O!O’er her smooth grass for ever sweet cream and honey flowOn the fair Hills of Eiré, O!O, I long, I am pining, again to beholdThe land that belongs to the brave Gael of old;Far dearer to my heart than a gift of gems or goldAre the fair Hills of Eiré, O!

The dewdrops lie bright ’mid the grass and yellow cornOn the fair Hills of Eiré, O!And the sweet-scented apples blush redly in the mornOn the fair Hills of Eiré, O!The water-cress and sorrel fill the vales below;The streamlets are hushed, till the evening breezes blow;While the waves of the Suir, noble river! ever flowNear the fair Hills of Eiré, O!

A fruitful clime is Eiré’s, through valley, meadow, plain,And the fair land of Eiré, O!The very “Bread of Life” is in the yellow grainOn the fair Hills of Eiré, O!Far dearer unto me than the tones music yields,Is the lowing of her kine and the calves in her fields,And the sunlight that shone long ago on the shieldsOf the Gaels, on the fair Hills of Eiré, O!

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN

O my dark Rosaleen,Do not sigh, do not weep!The priests are on the ocean green,They march along the Deep.There’s wine ... from the royal Pope,Upon the ocean green;And Spanish ale shall give you hope,My dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,Shall give you health, and help, and hope,My dark Rosaleen.Over hills, and through dales,Have I roamed for your sake;All yesterday I sailed with sailsOn river and on lake.The Erne ... at its highest flood,I dashed across unseen,For there was lightning in my blood,My dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!Oh! there was lightning in my blood,Red lightning lightened through my blood,My dark Rosaleen!All day long in unrest,To and fro do I move,The very soul within my breastIs wasted for you, love!The heart ... in my bosom faintsTo think of you my Queen,My life of life, my saint of saints,My dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!To hear your sweet and sad complaints,My life, my love, my saint of saints,My dark Rosaleen!Woe and pain, pain and woe,Are my lot, night and noon,To see your bright face clouded so,Like to the mournful moon.But yet ... will I rear your throneAgain in golden sheen;’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,My dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!’Tis you shall have the golden throne,’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,My dark Rosaleen!Over dews, over sands,Will I fly, for your weal:Your holy delicate white handsShall girdle me with steel.At home ... in your emerald bowers,From morning’s dawn till e’en,You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers,My dark Rosaleen!My fond Rosaleen!You’ll think of me through Daylight’s hours,My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,My dark Rosaleen!I could scale the blue air,I could plough the high hills,Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer,To heal your many ills!And one ... beamy smile from youWould float the light betweenMy toils and me, my own, my true,My dark Rosaleen!My fond Rosaleen!Would give me life and soul anew,A second life, a soul anew,My dark Rosaleen!O! the Erne shall run redWith redundance of blood,The earth shall rock beneath our tread,And flames wrap hill and wood,And gun-peal, and slogan cry,Wake many a glen serene,Ere you shall fade, ere you can die,My dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!The Judgment Hour must first be nighEre you can fade, ere you can die,My dark Rosaleen!

Over hills, and through dales,Have I roamed for your sake;All yesterday I sailed with sailsOn river and on lake.The Erne ... at its highest flood,I dashed across unseen,For there was lightning in my blood,My dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!Oh! there was lightning in my blood,Red lightning lightened through my blood,My dark Rosaleen!

All day long in unrest,To and fro do I move,The very soul within my breastIs wasted for you, love!The heart ... in my bosom faintsTo think of you my Queen,My life of life, my saint of saints,My dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!To hear your sweet and sad complaints,My life, my love, my saint of saints,My dark Rosaleen!

Woe and pain, pain and woe,Are my lot, night and noon,To see your bright face clouded so,Like to the mournful moon.But yet ... will I rear your throneAgain in golden sheen;’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,My dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!’Tis you shall have the golden throne,’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,My dark Rosaleen!

Over dews, over sands,Will I fly, for your weal:Your holy delicate white handsShall girdle me with steel.At home ... in your emerald bowers,From morning’s dawn till e’en,You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers,My dark Rosaleen!My fond Rosaleen!You’ll think of me through Daylight’s hours,My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,My dark Rosaleen!

I could scale the blue air,I could plough the high hills,Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer,To heal your many ills!And one ... beamy smile from youWould float the light betweenMy toils and me, my own, my true,My dark Rosaleen!My fond Rosaleen!Would give me life and soul anew,A second life, a soul anew,My dark Rosaleen!

O! the Erne shall run redWith redundance of blood,The earth shall rock beneath our tread,And flames wrap hill and wood,And gun-peal, and slogan cry,Wake many a glen serene,Ere you shall fade, ere you can die,My dark Rosaleen!My own Rosaleen!The Judgment Hour must first be nighEre you can fade, ere you can die,My dark Rosaleen!

’Tis idle! we exhaust and squanderThe glittering mine of thought in vainAll-baffled reason cannot wander,Beyond her chain.The flood of life runs dark—dark cloudsMake lampless night around its shore:The dead, where are they? In their shrouds—Man knows no more.Evoke the ancient and the past,Will one illumining star arise?Or must the film, from first to last,O’erspread thine eyes?When life, love, glory, beauty, wither,Will wisdom’s page, or science chart,Map out for thee the region whitherTheir shades depart?Supposest thou the wondrous powers,To high imagination given,Pale types of what shall yet be ours,When earth is heaven?When this decaying shell is cold,Oh! sayest thou the soul shall climbWhat magic mount she trod of old,Ere childhood’s time?And shall the sacred pulse that thrilled,Thrill once again to glory’s name?And shall the conquering love that filledAll earth with flame,Re-born, revived, renewed, immortal,Resume his reign in prouder might,A sun beyond the ebon portal,Of death and night?No more, no more—with aching brow,And restless heart, and burning brain,We ask the When, the Where, the How,And ask in vain.And all philosophy, all faith,All earthly—all celestial lore,Have but one voice, which only saithEndure—adore!

Evoke the ancient and the past,Will one illumining star arise?Or must the film, from first to last,O’erspread thine eyes?When life, love, glory, beauty, wither,Will wisdom’s page, or science chart,Map out for thee the region whitherTheir shades depart?

Supposest thou the wondrous powers,To high imagination given,Pale types of what shall yet be ours,When earth is heaven?When this decaying shell is cold,Oh! sayest thou the soul shall climbWhat magic mount she trod of old,Ere childhood’s time?

And shall the sacred pulse that thrilled,Thrill once again to glory’s name?And shall the conquering love that filledAll earth with flame,Re-born, revived, renewed, immortal,Resume his reign in prouder might,A sun beyond the ebon portal,Of death and night?

ROSA MULHOLLAND

I had no sail to cross the sea,A brave white bird went forth from me,My heart was hid beneath his wing:O strong white bird, come back in spring!I watched the Wild Geese rise and cryAcross the flaring western sky;Their winnowing pinions clove the light,Then vanished, and came down the night.I laid me low, my day was done,I longed not for the morrow’s sun,But closely swathed in swoon of sleep,Forgot to hope, forgot to weep.The moon, through veils of gloomy red,A warm yet dusky radiance shedAll down our valley’s golden streamAnd flushed my slumber with a dream.Her mystic torch lit up my brain;My spirit rose and lived amain,And follow through the windy sprayThat bird upon its watery way.“O wild white bird, O wail for me!My soul hath wings to fly with thee:On foam waves, lengthening out afar,We’ll ride toward the western star.“O’er glimmering plains, through forest gloom,To track a wanderer’s feet I come;’Mid lonely swamp, by haunted brake,I’ll pass unfrighted for his sake.“Alone, afar, his footsteps roam,The stars his roof, the tent his home.Saw’st thou what way the Wild Geese flewTo sunward through the thick night dew?“Carry my soul where he abides,And pierce the mystery that hidesHis presence, and through time and spaceLook with mine eyes upon his face.”“Beside his prairie fire he rests,All feathered things are in their nests:‘What strange wild bird is this,’ he saith,‘Still fragrant with the ocean’s breath?“‘Perch on my hand, thou briny thing,And let me stroke thy shy wet wing;What message in thy soft eye thrills?I see again my native hills“‘And vale, the river’s silver streak,The mist upon the blue, blue peak,The shadows grey, the golden sheaves,The mossy walls, the russet eaves.“‘I greet the friends I’ve loved and lost,Do all forget? No, tempest-tost,That braved for me the ocean’s foam,Some heart remembers me at home.“‘Ere spring’s return I will be there,Thou strange sea-fragrant messenger!I wake and weep; the moon shines sweet,O dream too short! O bird too fleet!’”

I had no sail to cross the sea,A brave white bird went forth from me,My heart was hid beneath his wing:O strong white bird, come back in spring!

I watched the Wild Geese rise and cryAcross the flaring western sky;Their winnowing pinions clove the light,Then vanished, and came down the night.

I laid me low, my day was done,I longed not for the morrow’s sun,But closely swathed in swoon of sleep,Forgot to hope, forgot to weep.

The moon, through veils of gloomy red,A warm yet dusky radiance shedAll down our valley’s golden streamAnd flushed my slumber with a dream.

Her mystic torch lit up my brain;My spirit rose and lived amain,And follow through the windy sprayThat bird upon its watery way.

“O wild white bird, O wail for me!My soul hath wings to fly with thee:On foam waves, lengthening out afar,We’ll ride toward the western star.

“O’er glimmering plains, through forest gloom,To track a wanderer’s feet I come;’Mid lonely swamp, by haunted brake,I’ll pass unfrighted for his sake.

“Alone, afar, his footsteps roam,The stars his roof, the tent his home.Saw’st thou what way the Wild Geese flewTo sunward through the thick night dew?

“Carry my soul where he abides,And pierce the mystery that hidesHis presence, and through time and spaceLook with mine eyes upon his face.”

“Beside his prairie fire he rests,All feathered things are in their nests:‘What strange wild bird is this,’ he saith,‘Still fragrant with the ocean’s breath?

“‘Perch on my hand, thou briny thing,And let me stroke thy shy wet wing;What message in thy soft eye thrills?I see again my native hills

“‘And vale, the river’s silver streak,The mist upon the blue, blue peak,The shadows grey, the golden sheaves,The mossy walls, the russet eaves.

“‘I greet the friends I’ve loved and lost,Do all forget? No, tempest-tost,That braved for me the ocean’s foam,Some heart remembers me at home.

“‘Ere spring’s return I will be there,Thou strange sea-fragrant messenger!I wake and weep; the moon shines sweet,O dream too short! O bird too fleet!’”

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