Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose,Withers once more the old blue flower of day:There where the ether like a diamond glowsIts petals fade away.A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;The great deep thrills, for through it everywhereThe breath of Beauty blows.I saw how all the trembling ages past,Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,Neared to the hour when Beauty breathes her lastAnd knows herself in death.
Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose,Withers once more the old blue flower of day:There where the ether like a diamond glowsIts petals fade away.A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;The great deep thrills, for through it everywhereThe breath of Beauty blows.I saw how all the trembling ages past,Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,Neared to the hour when Beauty breathes her lastAnd knows herself in death.
Its edges foamed with amethyst and rose,Withers once more the old blue flower of day:There where the ether like a diamond glowsIts petals fade away.
A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;The great deep thrills, for through it everywhereThe breath of Beauty blows.
I saw how all the trembling ages past,Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,Neared to the hour when Beauty breathes her lastAnd knows herself in death.
“A. E”
Why does this sudden passion smite me?I stretch my hands all blind to see:I need the lamp of the world to light me,Lead me and set me free.Something a moment seemed to stoop fromThe night with cool cool breath on my face:Or did the hair of the twilight droop fromIts silent wandering ways?About me in the thick wood nettedThe wizard glow looks human-wise;And over the tree-tops barred and frettedPonders with strange old eyes.The tremulous lips of air blow by meAnd hymn their time-old melody:Its secret strain comes nigh and nigh me:“Ah, brother, come with me;“For here the ancient mother lingersTo dip her hands in the diamond dew,And lave thine ache with cloud-cool fingersTill sorrow die from you.”
Why does this sudden passion smite me?I stretch my hands all blind to see:I need the lamp of the world to light me,Lead me and set me free.Something a moment seemed to stoop fromThe night with cool cool breath on my face:Or did the hair of the twilight droop fromIts silent wandering ways?About me in the thick wood nettedThe wizard glow looks human-wise;And over the tree-tops barred and frettedPonders with strange old eyes.The tremulous lips of air blow by meAnd hymn their time-old melody:Its secret strain comes nigh and nigh me:“Ah, brother, come with me;“For here the ancient mother lingersTo dip her hands in the diamond dew,And lave thine ache with cloud-cool fingersTill sorrow die from you.”
Why does this sudden passion smite me?I stretch my hands all blind to see:I need the lamp of the world to light me,Lead me and set me free.
Something a moment seemed to stoop fromThe night with cool cool breath on my face:Or did the hair of the twilight droop fromIts silent wandering ways?
About me in the thick wood nettedThe wizard glow looks human-wise;And over the tree-tops barred and frettedPonders with strange old eyes.
The tremulous lips of air blow by meAnd hymn their time-old melody:Its secret strain comes nigh and nigh me:“Ah, brother, come with me;
“For here the ancient mother lingersTo dip her hands in the diamond dew,And lave thine ache with cloud-cool fingersTill sorrow die from you.”
When the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies,All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam,With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes;I am one with the twilight’s dream.When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood,Every heart of man is rapt within the mother’s breast:Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude,I am one with their hearts at rest.From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and loveStrayed away along the margin of the unknown tide,All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far aboveWord or touch from the lips beside.Aye, and deep and deep and deeper let me drink and drawFrom the olden fountain more than light or peace or dream,Such primeval being as o’erfills the heart with awe,Growing one with its silent stream.
When the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies,All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam,With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes;I am one with the twilight’s dream.When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood,Every heart of man is rapt within the mother’s breast:Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude,I am one with their hearts at rest.From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and loveStrayed away along the margin of the unknown tide,All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far aboveWord or touch from the lips beside.Aye, and deep and deep and deeper let me drink and drawFrom the olden fountain more than light or peace or dream,Such primeval being as o’erfills the heart with awe,Growing one with its silent stream.
When the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies,All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam,With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes;I am one with the twilight’s dream.
When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood,Every heart of man is rapt within the mother’s breast:Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude,I am one with their hearts at rest.
From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and loveStrayed away along the margin of the unknown tide,All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far aboveWord or touch from the lips beside.
Aye, and deep and deep and deeper let me drink and drawFrom the olden fountain more than light or peace or dream,Such primeval being as o’erfills the heart with awe,Growing one with its silent stream.
“A. E.”
From the cool and dark-lipped furrows breathes a dim delightThrough the woodland’s purple plumage to the diamond night.Aureoles of joy encircle every blade of grassWhere the dew-fed creatures silent and enraptured pass:And the restless ploughman pauses, turns, and wonderingDeep beneath his rustic habit finds himself a king;For a fiery moment looking with the eyes of GodOver fields a slave at morning bowed him to the sod.Blind and dense with revelation every moment flies,And unto the Mighty Mother, gay, eternal, riseAll the hopes we hold, the gladness, dreams of things to be.One of all thy generations, Mother, hails to thee!Hail! and hail! and hail for ever: though I turn againFrom thy joy unto the human vestiture of pain.I, thy child, who went forth radiant in the golden primeFind thee still the mother-hearted through my night in time;Find in thee the old enchantment, there behind the veilWhere the Gods my brothers linger, Hail! for ever, Hail!
From the cool and dark-lipped furrows breathes a dim delightThrough the woodland’s purple plumage to the diamond night.Aureoles of joy encircle every blade of grassWhere the dew-fed creatures silent and enraptured pass:And the restless ploughman pauses, turns, and wonderingDeep beneath his rustic habit finds himself a king;For a fiery moment looking with the eyes of GodOver fields a slave at morning bowed him to the sod.Blind and dense with revelation every moment flies,And unto the Mighty Mother, gay, eternal, riseAll the hopes we hold, the gladness, dreams of things to be.One of all thy generations, Mother, hails to thee!Hail! and hail! and hail for ever: though I turn againFrom thy joy unto the human vestiture of pain.I, thy child, who went forth radiant in the golden primeFind thee still the mother-hearted through my night in time;Find in thee the old enchantment, there behind the veilWhere the Gods my brothers linger, Hail! for ever, Hail!
From the cool and dark-lipped furrows breathes a dim delightThrough the woodland’s purple plumage to the diamond night.Aureoles of joy encircle every blade of grassWhere the dew-fed creatures silent and enraptured pass:And the restless ploughman pauses, turns, and wonderingDeep beneath his rustic habit finds himself a king;For a fiery moment looking with the eyes of GodOver fields a slave at morning bowed him to the sod.Blind and dense with revelation every moment flies,And unto the Mighty Mother, gay, eternal, riseAll the hopes we hold, the gladness, dreams of things to be.One of all thy generations, Mother, hails to thee!Hail! and hail! and hail for ever: though I turn againFrom thy joy unto the human vestiture of pain.I, thy child, who went forth radiant in the golden primeFind thee still the mother-hearted through my night in time;Find in thee the old enchantment, there behind the veilWhere the Gods my brothers linger, Hail! for ever, Hail!
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
O pale green sea,With long pale purple clouds above—What lies in me like weight of love?What dies in meWith utter grief, because there comes no signThrough the sun-raying West, or the dim sea-line?O salted air,Blown round the rocky headlands chill—What calls me there from cove and hill?What calls me fairFrom Thee, the first-born of the youthful night?Or in the waves is coming through the dusk twilight?O yellow Star,Quivering upon the rippling tide—Sendest so far to one that sigh’d?Bendest thou, Star,Above where shadows of the dead have restAnd constant silence, with a message from the blest?
O pale green sea,With long pale purple clouds above—What lies in me like weight of love?What dies in meWith utter grief, because there comes no signThrough the sun-raying West, or the dim sea-line?O salted air,Blown round the rocky headlands chill—What calls me there from cove and hill?What calls me fairFrom Thee, the first-born of the youthful night?Or in the waves is coming through the dusk twilight?O yellow Star,Quivering upon the rippling tide—Sendest so far to one that sigh’d?Bendest thou, Star,Above where shadows of the dead have restAnd constant silence, with a message from the blest?
O pale green sea,With long pale purple clouds above—What lies in me like weight of love?What dies in meWith utter grief, because there comes no signThrough the sun-raying West, or the dim sea-line?
O salted air,Blown round the rocky headlands chill—What calls me there from cove and hill?What calls me fairFrom Thee, the first-born of the youthful night?Or in the waves is coming through the dusk twilight?
O yellow Star,Quivering upon the rippling tide—Sendest so far to one that sigh’d?Bendest thou, Star,Above where shadows of the dead have restAnd constant silence, with a message from the blest?
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren’t go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl’s feather!Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home,They live on crispy pancakesOf yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the black mountain lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.High on the hill-topThe old king sits;He is now so old and grayHe’s nigh lost his wits.With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Slieveleague to Rosses;Or going up with musicOn cold starry nights,To sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern Lights.They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down againHer friends were all gone.They took her lightly back,Between the night and morrow,They thought that she was fast asleep,But she was dead with sorrow.They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lake,On a bed of flag-leaves,Watching till she wake.By the craggy hill-side,Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.Is any man so daringAs dig up them in spite,He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night.Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren’t go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trouping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl’s feather.
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren’t go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl’s feather!Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home,They live on crispy pancakesOf yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the black mountain lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.High on the hill-topThe old king sits;He is now so old and grayHe’s nigh lost his wits.With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Slieveleague to Rosses;Or going up with musicOn cold starry nights,To sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern Lights.They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down againHer friends were all gone.They took her lightly back,Between the night and morrow,They thought that she was fast asleep,But she was dead with sorrow.They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lake,On a bed of flag-leaves,Watching till she wake.By the craggy hill-side,Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.Is any man so daringAs dig up them in spite,He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night.Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren’t go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trouping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl’s feather.
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren’t go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trooping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl’s feather!
Down along the rocky shoreSome make their home,They live on crispy pancakesOf yellow tide-foam;Some in the reedsOf the black mountain lake,With frogs for their watch-dogs,All night awake.
High on the hill-topThe old king sits;He is now so old and grayHe’s nigh lost his wits.With a bridge of white mistColumbkill he crosses,On his stately journeysFrom Slieveleague to Rosses;Or going up with musicOn cold starry nights,To sup with the QueenOf the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little BridgetFor seven years long;When she came down againHer friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,Between the night and morrow,They thought that she was fast asleep,But she was dead with sorrow.They have kept her ever sinceDeep within the lake,On a bed of flag-leaves,Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hill-side,Through the mosses bare,They have planted thorn-treesFor pleasure here and there.Is any man so daringAs dig up them in spite,He shall find their sharpest thornsIn his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren’t go a-huntingFor fear of little men;Wee folk, good folk,Trouping all together;Green jacket, red cap,And white owl’s feather.
THOMAS BOYD
Where is thy lovely perilous abode?In what strange phantom-landGlimmer the fairy turrets whereto rodeThe ill-starred poet band?Say, in the Isle of Youth hast thou thy home,The sweetest singer there,Stealing on wingëd steed across the foamThrough the moonlit air?And by the gloomy peaks of Erigal,Haunted by storm and cloud,Wing past, and to thy lover there let fallHis singing robe and shroud?Or, where the mists of bluebell float beneathThe red stems of the pine,And sunbeams strike thro’ shadow, dost thou breatheThe word that makes him thine?Or, is thy palace entered thro’ some cliffWhen radiant tides are full,And round thy lover’s wandering starlit skiffCoil in luxurious lull?And would he, entering on the brimming flood,See caverns vast in height,And diamond columns, crowned with leaf and bud,Glow in long lanes of light.And there the pearl of that great glittering shellTrembling, behold thee lone,Now weaving in slow dance an awful spell,Now still upon thy throne?Thy beauty! ah, the eyes that pierce him thro’Then melt as in a dream;The voice that sings the mysteries of the blueAnd all that Be and Seem!Thy lovely motions answering to the rhymeThat ancient Nature sings,That keeps the stars in cadence for all time,And echoes through all things!Whether he sees thee thus, or in his dreams,Thy light makes all lights dim;An aching solitude from henceforth seemsThe world of men to him.Thy luring song, above the sensuous roar,He follows with delight,Shutting behind him Life’s last gloomy door,And fares into the Night.
Where is thy lovely perilous abode?In what strange phantom-landGlimmer the fairy turrets whereto rodeThe ill-starred poet band?Say, in the Isle of Youth hast thou thy home,The sweetest singer there,Stealing on wingëd steed across the foamThrough the moonlit air?And by the gloomy peaks of Erigal,Haunted by storm and cloud,Wing past, and to thy lover there let fallHis singing robe and shroud?Or, where the mists of bluebell float beneathThe red stems of the pine,And sunbeams strike thro’ shadow, dost thou breatheThe word that makes him thine?Or, is thy palace entered thro’ some cliffWhen radiant tides are full,And round thy lover’s wandering starlit skiffCoil in luxurious lull?And would he, entering on the brimming flood,See caverns vast in height,And diamond columns, crowned with leaf and bud,Glow in long lanes of light.And there the pearl of that great glittering shellTrembling, behold thee lone,Now weaving in slow dance an awful spell,Now still upon thy throne?Thy beauty! ah, the eyes that pierce him thro’Then melt as in a dream;The voice that sings the mysteries of the blueAnd all that Be and Seem!Thy lovely motions answering to the rhymeThat ancient Nature sings,That keeps the stars in cadence for all time,And echoes through all things!Whether he sees thee thus, or in his dreams,Thy light makes all lights dim;An aching solitude from henceforth seemsThe world of men to him.Thy luring song, above the sensuous roar,He follows with delight,Shutting behind him Life’s last gloomy door,And fares into the Night.
Where is thy lovely perilous abode?In what strange phantom-landGlimmer the fairy turrets whereto rodeThe ill-starred poet band?
Say, in the Isle of Youth hast thou thy home,The sweetest singer there,Stealing on wingëd steed across the foamThrough the moonlit air?
And by the gloomy peaks of Erigal,Haunted by storm and cloud,Wing past, and to thy lover there let fallHis singing robe and shroud?
Or, where the mists of bluebell float beneathThe red stems of the pine,And sunbeams strike thro’ shadow, dost thou breatheThe word that makes him thine?
Or, is thy palace entered thro’ some cliffWhen radiant tides are full,And round thy lover’s wandering starlit skiffCoil in luxurious lull?
And would he, entering on the brimming flood,See caverns vast in height,And diamond columns, crowned with leaf and bud,Glow in long lanes of light.
And there the pearl of that great glittering shellTrembling, behold thee lone,Now weaving in slow dance an awful spell,Now still upon thy throne?
Thy beauty! ah, the eyes that pierce him thro’Then melt as in a dream;The voice that sings the mysteries of the blueAnd all that Be and Seem!
Thy lovely motions answering to the rhymeThat ancient Nature sings,That keeps the stars in cadence for all time,And echoes through all things!
Whether he sees thee thus, or in his dreams,Thy light makes all lights dim;An aching solitude from henceforth seemsThe world of men to him.
Thy luring song, above the sensuous roar,He follows with delight,Shutting behind him Life’s last gloomy door,And fares into the Night.
EMILY BRONTË
Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,Severed at last by Time’s all-severing wave?Now, when alone, my thoughts no longer hoverOver the mountains, on that northern shore,Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves coverThy noble heart for ever, ever more.Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers,From these brown hills, have melted into Spring!Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembersAfter such years of change and suffering!Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,While the world’s tide is bearing me along;Other desires and other hopes beset me,Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong.No later light has lighted up my heaven,No second morn has ever shone for me;All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given,All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee.But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,And even despair was powerless to destroy;Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.Then did I check the tears of useless passion—Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;Sternly denied its burning wish to hastenDown to that tomb already more than mine.And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain;Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,How could I seek the empty world again?
Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,Severed at last by Time’s all-severing wave?Now, when alone, my thoughts no longer hoverOver the mountains, on that northern shore,Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves coverThy noble heart for ever, ever more.Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers,From these brown hills, have melted into Spring!Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembersAfter such years of change and suffering!Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,While the world’s tide is bearing me along;Other desires and other hopes beset me,Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong.No later light has lighted up my heaven,No second morn has ever shone for me;All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given,All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee.But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,And even despair was powerless to destroy;Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.Then did I check the tears of useless passion—Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;Sternly denied its burning wish to hastenDown to that tomb already more than mine.And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain;Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,How could I seek the empty world again?
Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,Severed at last by Time’s all-severing wave?
Now, when alone, my thoughts no longer hoverOver the mountains, on that northern shore,Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves coverThy noble heart for ever, ever more.
Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers,From these brown hills, have melted into Spring!Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembersAfter such years of change and suffering!
Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,While the world’s tide is bearing me along;Other desires and other hopes beset me,Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong.
No later light has lighted up my heaven,No second morn has ever shone for me;All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given,All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee.
But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,And even despair was powerless to destroy;Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.
Then did I check the tears of useless passion—Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;Sternly denied its burning wish to hastenDown to that tomb already more than mine.
And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain;Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,How could I seek the empty world again?
STOPFORD A. BROOKE
A little sun, a little rain,A soft wind blowing from the west—And woods and fields are sweet again,And warmth within the mountain’s breast.So simple is the earth we tread,So quick with love and life her frame,Ten thousand years have dawned and fled,And still her magic is the same.A little love, a little trust,A soft impulse, a sudden dream—And life as dry as desert dustIs fresher than a mountain stream.So simple is the heart of manSo ready for new hope and joy;Ten thousand years since it beganHave left it younger than a boy.
A little sun, a little rain,A soft wind blowing from the west—And woods and fields are sweet again,And warmth within the mountain’s breast.So simple is the earth we tread,So quick with love and life her frame,Ten thousand years have dawned and fled,And still her magic is the same.A little love, a little trust,A soft impulse, a sudden dream—And life as dry as desert dustIs fresher than a mountain stream.So simple is the heart of manSo ready for new hope and joy;Ten thousand years since it beganHave left it younger than a boy.
A little sun, a little rain,A soft wind blowing from the west—And woods and fields are sweet again,And warmth within the mountain’s breast.
So simple is the earth we tread,So quick with love and life her frame,Ten thousand years have dawned and fled,And still her magic is the same.
A little love, a little trust,A soft impulse, a sudden dream—And life as dry as desert dustIs fresher than a mountain stream.
So simple is the heart of manSo ready for new hope and joy;Ten thousand years since it beganHave left it younger than a boy.
STOPFORD A. BROOKE
Come, where on the moorland steepSilent sunlight dreams of sleep,And in this high morning airLove me, my companion fair!All the clouds that high in HeavenRest and rove from morn to even,All the beauty that doth liveBy the winds—to thee I give.See below deep meadow lands,Misty moors and shining sands,And blue hills so far and dimThey melt on the horizon’s rim.O how fresh the air, and sweet,And with what a footfall fleetO’er the grasses’ ebb and flowThe light winds to the eastward go.Noon is now with us. FarewellTo this mountain citadel.Come, and with your footing fineThread the scented paths of pine,Till we see the Druid carnShadowed in the haunted tarn.There the water blue and deepLies, like wearied thought, asleep.While we watch, the storm awakes;Flash on flash the ripple breaks,Purple, with a snow-white crest,On the meadow’s golden breast.Roods of tinkling sedge are kissedBy the waves of amethyst:Trouble knows the place, they say,But we laugh at that to-day.Onward to the glen below;Every nook and turn we knowWhere the passion-haunted streamLaughs and lingers in its dream,Making where its pebbles shineNaiad music, clear and fine,But not sweeter than the songLove sings as we rove along.At the last the grassy seat,Where of old we used to meet,Holds us in its close embrace.Hallowed ever be the place!Here we kissed our hearts awayIn a lovers’ holiday!Shall I dream a greater blissThan the memory of this?
Come, where on the moorland steepSilent sunlight dreams of sleep,And in this high morning airLove me, my companion fair!All the clouds that high in HeavenRest and rove from morn to even,All the beauty that doth liveBy the winds—to thee I give.See below deep meadow lands,Misty moors and shining sands,And blue hills so far and dimThey melt on the horizon’s rim.O how fresh the air, and sweet,And with what a footfall fleetO’er the grasses’ ebb and flowThe light winds to the eastward go.Noon is now with us. FarewellTo this mountain citadel.Come, and with your footing fineThread the scented paths of pine,Till we see the Druid carnShadowed in the haunted tarn.There the water blue and deepLies, like wearied thought, asleep.While we watch, the storm awakes;Flash on flash the ripple breaks,Purple, with a snow-white crest,On the meadow’s golden breast.Roods of tinkling sedge are kissedBy the waves of amethyst:Trouble knows the place, they say,But we laugh at that to-day.Onward to the glen below;Every nook and turn we knowWhere the passion-haunted streamLaughs and lingers in its dream,Making where its pebbles shineNaiad music, clear and fine,But not sweeter than the songLove sings as we rove along.At the last the grassy seat,Where of old we used to meet,Holds us in its close embrace.Hallowed ever be the place!Here we kissed our hearts awayIn a lovers’ holiday!Shall I dream a greater blissThan the memory of this?
Come, where on the moorland steepSilent sunlight dreams of sleep,And in this high morning airLove me, my companion fair!All the clouds that high in HeavenRest and rove from morn to even,All the beauty that doth liveBy the winds—to thee I give.
See below deep meadow lands,Misty moors and shining sands,And blue hills so far and dimThey melt on the horizon’s rim.O how fresh the air, and sweet,And with what a footfall fleetO’er the grasses’ ebb and flowThe light winds to the eastward go.
Noon is now with us. FarewellTo this mountain citadel.Come, and with your footing fineThread the scented paths of pine,Till we see the Druid carnShadowed in the haunted tarn.There the water blue and deepLies, like wearied thought, asleep.
While we watch, the storm awakes;Flash on flash the ripple breaks,Purple, with a snow-white crest,On the meadow’s golden breast.Roods of tinkling sedge are kissedBy the waves of amethyst:Trouble knows the place, they say,But we laugh at that to-day.
Onward to the glen below;Every nook and turn we knowWhere the passion-haunted streamLaughs and lingers in its dream,Making where its pebbles shineNaiad music, clear and fine,But not sweeter than the songLove sings as we rove along.
At the last the grassy seat,Where of old we used to meet,Holds us in its close embrace.Hallowed ever be the place!Here we kissed our hearts awayIn a lovers’ holiday!Shall I dream a greater blissThan the memory of this?
JOHN K. CASEY
Over the dim blue hillsStrays a wild river,Over the dim blue hillsRests my heart ever.Dearer and brighter thanJewels and pearl,Dwells she in beauty there,Maire, my girl.Down upon Claris heathShines the soft berry,On the brown harvest treeDroops the red cherry.Sweeter thy honey lips,Softer the curlStraying adown thy cheeks,Maire, my girl.’Twas on an April eveThat I first met her;Many an eve shall passEre I forget her.Since, my young heart has beenWrapped in a whirl,Thinking and dreaming ofMaire, my girl.She is too kind and fondEver to grieve me,She has too pure a heartE’er to deceive me.Were I Tryconnell’s chiefOr Desmond’s earl,Life would be dark, wantingMaire, my girl!Over the dim blue hillsStrays a wild river,Over the dim blue hillsRests my heart ever.Dearer and brighter thanJewels or pearl,Dwells she in beauty there,Maire, my girl.
Over the dim blue hillsStrays a wild river,Over the dim blue hillsRests my heart ever.Dearer and brighter thanJewels and pearl,Dwells she in beauty there,Maire, my girl.Down upon Claris heathShines the soft berry,On the brown harvest treeDroops the red cherry.Sweeter thy honey lips,Softer the curlStraying adown thy cheeks,Maire, my girl.’Twas on an April eveThat I first met her;Many an eve shall passEre I forget her.Since, my young heart has beenWrapped in a whirl,Thinking and dreaming ofMaire, my girl.She is too kind and fondEver to grieve me,She has too pure a heartE’er to deceive me.Were I Tryconnell’s chiefOr Desmond’s earl,Life would be dark, wantingMaire, my girl!Over the dim blue hillsStrays a wild river,Over the dim blue hillsRests my heart ever.Dearer and brighter thanJewels or pearl,Dwells she in beauty there,Maire, my girl.
Over the dim blue hillsStrays a wild river,Over the dim blue hillsRests my heart ever.Dearer and brighter thanJewels and pearl,Dwells she in beauty there,Maire, my girl.
Down upon Claris heathShines the soft berry,On the brown harvest treeDroops the red cherry.Sweeter thy honey lips,Softer the curlStraying adown thy cheeks,Maire, my girl.
’Twas on an April eveThat I first met her;Many an eve shall passEre I forget her.Since, my young heart has beenWrapped in a whirl,Thinking and dreaming ofMaire, my girl.
She is too kind and fondEver to grieve me,She has too pure a heartE’er to deceive me.Were I Tryconnell’s chiefOr Desmond’s earl,Life would be dark, wantingMaire, my girl!
Over the dim blue hillsStrays a wild river,Over the dim blue hillsRests my heart ever.Dearer and brighter thanJewels or pearl,Dwells she in beauty there,Maire, my girl.
JOHN K. CASEY
I placed the silver in her palm,By Inny’s smiling tide,And vowed, ere summer time came on,To claim her as a bride.But when the summer time came onI dwelt beyond the sea;Yet still my heart is ever trueToGracie Og Machree.O bonnie are the woods of Targ,And green thy hills, Rathmore,And soft the sunlight ever fallsOn Darre’s sloping shore;And there the eyes I love—in tearsShine ever mournfully,While I am far, and far awayFromGracie Og Machree.When battle-steeds were neighing loud,With bright blades in the air,Next to my inmost heart I woreA bright tress of her hair.When stirrup-cups were lifted upTo lips, with soldier glee,One toast I always fondly pledged,’TwasGracie Og Machree.
I placed the silver in her palm,By Inny’s smiling tide,And vowed, ere summer time came on,To claim her as a bride.But when the summer time came onI dwelt beyond the sea;Yet still my heart is ever trueToGracie Og Machree.O bonnie are the woods of Targ,And green thy hills, Rathmore,And soft the sunlight ever fallsOn Darre’s sloping shore;And there the eyes I love—in tearsShine ever mournfully,While I am far, and far awayFromGracie Og Machree.When battle-steeds were neighing loud,With bright blades in the air,Next to my inmost heart I woreA bright tress of her hair.When stirrup-cups were lifted upTo lips, with soldier glee,One toast I always fondly pledged,’TwasGracie Og Machree.
I placed the silver in her palm,By Inny’s smiling tide,And vowed, ere summer time came on,To claim her as a bride.But when the summer time came onI dwelt beyond the sea;Yet still my heart is ever trueToGracie Og Machree.
O bonnie are the woods of Targ,And green thy hills, Rathmore,And soft the sunlight ever fallsOn Darre’s sloping shore;And there the eyes I love—in tearsShine ever mournfully,While I am far, and far awayFromGracie Og Machree.
When battle-steeds were neighing loud,With bright blades in the air,Next to my inmost heart I woreA bright tress of her hair.When stirrup-cups were lifted upTo lips, with soldier glee,One toast I always fondly pledged,’TwasGracie Og Machree.
GEORGE DARLEY
Prayer unsaid, and mass unsung,Deadman’s dirge must still be rung:Dingle-dong, the dead-bells sound!Mermen chant his dirge around!Wash him bloodless, smooth him fair,Stretch his limbs, and sleek his hair:Dingle-dong, the dead-bells go!Mermen swing them to and fro!In the wormless sand shall heFeast for no foul glutton be:Dingle-dong, the dead-bells chime!Mermen keep the tone and time!We must with a tombstone braveShut the shark out from his grave:Dingle-dong, the dead-bells toll!Mermen dirgers ring his knoll!Such a slab will we lay o’er himAll the dead shall rise before him!Dingle-dong, the dead-bells boom!Mermen lay him in his tomb!
Prayer unsaid, and mass unsung,Deadman’s dirge must still be rung:Dingle-dong, the dead-bells sound!Mermen chant his dirge around!Wash him bloodless, smooth him fair,Stretch his limbs, and sleek his hair:Dingle-dong, the dead-bells go!Mermen swing them to and fro!In the wormless sand shall heFeast for no foul glutton be:Dingle-dong, the dead-bells chime!Mermen keep the tone and time!We must with a tombstone braveShut the shark out from his grave:Dingle-dong, the dead-bells toll!Mermen dirgers ring his knoll!Such a slab will we lay o’er himAll the dead shall rise before him!Dingle-dong, the dead-bells boom!Mermen lay him in his tomb!
Prayer unsaid, and mass unsung,Deadman’s dirge must still be rung:Dingle-dong, the dead-bells sound!Mermen chant his dirge around!
Wash him bloodless, smooth him fair,Stretch his limbs, and sleek his hair:Dingle-dong, the dead-bells go!Mermen swing them to and fro!
In the wormless sand shall heFeast for no foul glutton be:Dingle-dong, the dead-bells chime!Mermen keep the tone and time!
We must with a tombstone braveShut the shark out from his grave:Dingle-dong, the dead-bells toll!Mermen dirgers ring his knoll!
Such a slab will we lay o’er himAll the dead shall rise before him!Dingle-dong, the dead-bells boom!Mermen lay him in his tomb!
AUBREY DE VERE
The Little Black Rose shall be red at last;What made it black but the March wind dry,And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast?It shall redden the hills when June is nigh.The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last;What drove her forth but the dragon-fly?In the golden vale she shall feed full fast,With her mild gold horn and slow, dark eye.The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last!The pine long bleeding, it shall not die!This song is secret. Mine ear it passedIn a wind o’er the plains at Athenry.
The Little Black Rose shall be red at last;What made it black but the March wind dry,And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast?It shall redden the hills when June is nigh.The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last;What drove her forth but the dragon-fly?In the golden vale she shall feed full fast,With her mild gold horn and slow, dark eye.The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last!The pine long bleeding, it shall not die!This song is secret. Mine ear it passedIn a wind o’er the plains at Athenry.
The Little Black Rose shall be red at last;What made it black but the March wind dry,And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast?It shall redden the hills when June is nigh.
The Silk of the Kine shall rest at last;What drove her forth but the dragon-fly?In the golden vale she shall feed full fast,With her mild gold horn and slow, dark eye.
The wounded wood-dove lies dead at last!The pine long bleeding, it shall not die!This song is secret. Mine ear it passedIn a wind o’er the plains at Athenry.
He roamed half round the world of woe,Where toil and labour never cease;Then dropped one little span belowIn search of peace.And now to him mild beams and showers,All that he needs to grace his tomb,From loneliest regions at all hours,Unsought for come.
He roamed half round the world of woe,Where toil and labour never cease;Then dropped one little span belowIn search of peace.And now to him mild beams and showers,All that he needs to grace his tomb,From loneliest regions at all hours,Unsought for come.
He roamed half round the world of woe,Where toil and labour never cease;Then dropped one little span belowIn search of peace.
And now to him mild beams and showers,All that he needs to grace his tomb,From loneliest regions at all hours,Unsought for come.
FRANCIS FAHY
To Killiney far away flies my fond heart night and day,To ramble light and happy through its fields and dells;For here life smiles in vain, and earth’s a land of pain,While all that’s bright in Erin in Killiney dwells.In Killiney in the West has a linnet sweet her nest,And her song makes all the wild birds in the green wood dumb;To the captive without cheer, it were freedom but to hearSuch sorrow-soothing music from her fair throat come.In Killiney’s bower blows a blushing, budding rose,With perfume of the rarest that the June day yields;And none who pass the way, but sighing wish that theyMight cull that fragrant flower of the dewy fields.Through Killiney’s meadows pass, on their way to early Mass,Like twin-stars ’mid the grass, two small feet bare;And angel-pure the heart, where the murmured Aves startOn their wingèd way to Heaven from the chapel there.And the pride of Irish girls is the dear brown head of curls,The pearl white of pearls,stoirin bàn mo chridhe;As bright-browed as the dawn, and as meek-eyed as the fawn,And as graceful as the swan gliding on to sea.Not for jewels nor for gold, nor for hoarded wealth untold,Not for all that mortals hold most desired and dear,Would I my share forego in the loving heart aglow,That beats beneath the snow of her bosom fair.Soon Killiney will you weep—for I know not rest nor sleep,Till swiftly o’er the deep I with white sails come,To win the linnet sweet, and the two white twinkling feet,And the heart with true love beating, to my far-off home.And O! farewell to care, when the rose of perfume rare,And the dear brown curling hair on my proud breast lie;Then Killiney far away, never more by night or day,To thy skies, or dark or grey, shall my fond heart fly.
To Killiney far away flies my fond heart night and day,To ramble light and happy through its fields and dells;For here life smiles in vain, and earth’s a land of pain,While all that’s bright in Erin in Killiney dwells.In Killiney in the West has a linnet sweet her nest,And her song makes all the wild birds in the green wood dumb;To the captive without cheer, it were freedom but to hearSuch sorrow-soothing music from her fair throat come.In Killiney’s bower blows a blushing, budding rose,With perfume of the rarest that the June day yields;And none who pass the way, but sighing wish that theyMight cull that fragrant flower of the dewy fields.Through Killiney’s meadows pass, on their way to early Mass,Like twin-stars ’mid the grass, two small feet bare;And angel-pure the heart, where the murmured Aves startOn their wingèd way to Heaven from the chapel there.And the pride of Irish girls is the dear brown head of curls,The pearl white of pearls,stoirin bàn mo chridhe;As bright-browed as the dawn, and as meek-eyed as the fawn,And as graceful as the swan gliding on to sea.Not for jewels nor for gold, nor for hoarded wealth untold,Not for all that mortals hold most desired and dear,Would I my share forego in the loving heart aglow,That beats beneath the snow of her bosom fair.Soon Killiney will you weep—for I know not rest nor sleep,Till swiftly o’er the deep I with white sails come,To win the linnet sweet, and the two white twinkling feet,And the heart with true love beating, to my far-off home.And O! farewell to care, when the rose of perfume rare,And the dear brown curling hair on my proud breast lie;Then Killiney far away, never more by night or day,To thy skies, or dark or grey, shall my fond heart fly.
To Killiney far away flies my fond heart night and day,To ramble light and happy through its fields and dells;For here life smiles in vain, and earth’s a land of pain,While all that’s bright in Erin in Killiney dwells.
In Killiney in the West has a linnet sweet her nest,And her song makes all the wild birds in the green wood dumb;To the captive without cheer, it were freedom but to hearSuch sorrow-soothing music from her fair throat come.
In Killiney’s bower blows a blushing, budding rose,With perfume of the rarest that the June day yields;And none who pass the way, but sighing wish that theyMight cull that fragrant flower of the dewy fields.
Through Killiney’s meadows pass, on their way to early Mass,Like twin-stars ’mid the grass, two small feet bare;And angel-pure the heart, where the murmured Aves startOn their wingèd way to Heaven from the chapel there.
And the pride of Irish girls is the dear brown head of curls,The pearl white of pearls,stoirin bàn mo chridhe;As bright-browed as the dawn, and as meek-eyed as the fawn,And as graceful as the swan gliding on to sea.
Not for jewels nor for gold, nor for hoarded wealth untold,Not for all that mortals hold most desired and dear,Would I my share forego in the loving heart aglow,That beats beneath the snow of her bosom fair.
Soon Killiney will you weep—for I know not rest nor sleep,Till swiftly o’er the deep I with white sails come,To win the linnet sweet, and the two white twinkling feet,And the heart with true love beating, to my far-off home.
And O! farewell to care, when the rose of perfume rare,And the dear brown curling hair on my proud breast lie;Then Killiney far away, never more by night or day,To thy skies, or dark or grey, shall my fond heart fly.
SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON
Put your head, darling, darling, darling,Your darling black head my heart above;Oh, mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance,Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?Oh, many and many a young girl for me is pining,Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free,For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows;But I’d leave a hundred, pure love, for thee!Then put your head, darling, darling, darling,Your darling black head my heart above;Oh, mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance,Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?
Put your head, darling, darling, darling,Your darling black head my heart above;Oh, mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance,Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?Oh, many and many a young girl for me is pining,Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free,For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows;But I’d leave a hundred, pure love, for thee!Then put your head, darling, darling, darling,Your darling black head my heart above;Oh, mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance,Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?
Put your head, darling, darling, darling,Your darling black head my heart above;Oh, mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance,Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?
Oh, many and many a young girl for me is pining,Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free,For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows;But I’d leave a hundred, pure love, for thee!
Then put your head, darling, darling, darling,Your darling black head my heart above;Oh, mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance,Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?
O Mary dear! O Mary fair!O branch of generous stem!White blossom of the banks of Nair,Though lilies grow on them;You’ve left me sick at heart for love,So faint I cannot see;The candle swims the board above,I’m drunk for love of thee!O stately stem of maiden pride,My woe it is and painThat I thus severed from thy sideThe long night must remain.Through all the towns of InnisfailI’ve wandered far and wide,But from Downpatrick to Kinsale,From Carlow to Kilbride,Many lords and dames of high degreeWhere’er my feet have gone,My Mary, one to equal theeI never looked upon:I live in darkness and in doubtWhen’er my love’s away;But were the gracious sun put out,Her shadow would make day.’Tis she, indeed, young bud of bliss,As gentle as she’s fair.Though lily-white her bosom is,And sunny bright her hair,And dewy azure her blue eye,And rosy red her cheek,Yet brighter she in modesty,Most beautifully meek:The world’s wise men from north to southCan never cure my pain;But one kiss from her honey mouthWould make me well again.
O Mary dear! O Mary fair!O branch of generous stem!White blossom of the banks of Nair,Though lilies grow on them;You’ve left me sick at heart for love,So faint I cannot see;The candle swims the board above,I’m drunk for love of thee!O stately stem of maiden pride,My woe it is and painThat I thus severed from thy sideThe long night must remain.Through all the towns of InnisfailI’ve wandered far and wide,But from Downpatrick to Kinsale,From Carlow to Kilbride,Many lords and dames of high degreeWhere’er my feet have gone,My Mary, one to equal theeI never looked upon:I live in darkness and in doubtWhen’er my love’s away;But were the gracious sun put out,Her shadow would make day.’Tis she, indeed, young bud of bliss,As gentle as she’s fair.Though lily-white her bosom is,And sunny bright her hair,And dewy azure her blue eye,And rosy red her cheek,Yet brighter she in modesty,Most beautifully meek:The world’s wise men from north to southCan never cure my pain;But one kiss from her honey mouthWould make me well again.
O Mary dear! O Mary fair!O branch of generous stem!White blossom of the banks of Nair,Though lilies grow on them;You’ve left me sick at heart for love,So faint I cannot see;The candle swims the board above,I’m drunk for love of thee!O stately stem of maiden pride,My woe it is and painThat I thus severed from thy sideThe long night must remain.
Through all the towns of InnisfailI’ve wandered far and wide,But from Downpatrick to Kinsale,From Carlow to Kilbride,Many lords and dames of high degreeWhere’er my feet have gone,My Mary, one to equal theeI never looked upon:I live in darkness and in doubtWhen’er my love’s away;But were the gracious sun put out,Her shadow would make day.
’Tis she, indeed, young bud of bliss,As gentle as she’s fair.Though lily-white her bosom is,And sunny bright her hair,And dewy azure her blue eye,And rosy red her cheek,Yet brighter she in modesty,Most beautifully meek:The world’s wise men from north to southCan never cure my pain;But one kiss from her honey mouthWould make me well again.
A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,Uileacan dubh O!Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;Uileacan dubh O!There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned;There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i’ the yellow sand,On the fair hills of holy Ireland.Curled is he and ringleted, and plaited to the knee,Uileacan dubh O!Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea;Uileacan dubh O!And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,For the fair hills of holy Ireland.Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground;Uileacan dubh O!The butter and the cream do wondrously abound,Uileacan dubh O!The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,And the cuckoo’s calling daily his note of music bland,And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i’ the forest grand,On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,Uileacan dubh O!Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;Uileacan dubh O!There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned;There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i’ the yellow sand,On the fair hills of holy Ireland.Curled is he and ringleted, and plaited to the knee,Uileacan dubh O!Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea;Uileacan dubh O!And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,For the fair hills of holy Ireland.Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground;Uileacan dubh O!The butter and the cream do wondrously abound,Uileacan dubh O!The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,And the cuckoo’s calling daily his note of music bland,And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i’ the forest grand,On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,Uileacan dubh O!Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;Uileacan dubh O!There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned;There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i’ the yellow sand,On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Curled is he and ringleted, and plaited to the knee,Uileacan dubh O!Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea;Uileacan dubh O!And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,For the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground;Uileacan dubh O!The butter and the cream do wondrously abound,Uileacan dubh O!The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,And the cuckoo’s calling daily his note of music bland,And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i’ the forest grand,On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES
Let all the fish that swim the sea,Salmon and turbot, cod and ling,Bow down the head and bend the kneeTo herring, their king! to herring, their king!Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’,’Tis we have brought the summer in.[15]The sun sank down so round and redUpon the bay, upon the bay;The sails shook idly overhead,Becalmed we lay, becalmed we lay;Sing, Hugamar, etc.Till Shawn the eagle dropped on deck,The bright-eyed boy, the bright-eyed boy;’Tis he has spied your silver track,Herring, our joy, herring, our joy;Sing, Hugamar, etc.It is in with the sails and away to shore,With the rise and swing, the rise and swingOf two stout lads at each smoking oar,After herring, our king! herring, our king.Sing, Hugamar, etc.The Manx and Cornish raised the shout,And joined the chase, and joined the chase;But their fleets they fouled as they went about,And we won the race, we won the race;Sing, Hugamar, etc.For we turned and faced you full to land,Down the góleen[16]long, the góleen long,And after you slipped from strand to strandOur nets so strong, our nets so strong;Sing, Hugamar, etc.Then we called to our sweethearts and our wives,“Come welcome us home, welcome us home,”Till they ran to meet us for their livesInto the foam, into the foam;Sing, Hugamar, etc.O kissing of hands and waving of capsFrom girl and boy, from girl and boy,While you leapt by scores in the lasses’ laps,Herring our joy, herring our joy!Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’,’Tis we have brought the summer in!
Let all the fish that swim the sea,Salmon and turbot, cod and ling,Bow down the head and bend the kneeTo herring, their king! to herring, their king!Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’,’Tis we have brought the summer in.[15]The sun sank down so round and redUpon the bay, upon the bay;The sails shook idly overhead,Becalmed we lay, becalmed we lay;Sing, Hugamar, etc.Till Shawn the eagle dropped on deck,The bright-eyed boy, the bright-eyed boy;’Tis he has spied your silver track,Herring, our joy, herring, our joy;Sing, Hugamar, etc.It is in with the sails and away to shore,With the rise and swing, the rise and swingOf two stout lads at each smoking oar,After herring, our king! herring, our king.Sing, Hugamar, etc.The Manx and Cornish raised the shout,And joined the chase, and joined the chase;But their fleets they fouled as they went about,And we won the race, we won the race;Sing, Hugamar, etc.For we turned and faced you full to land,Down the góleen[16]long, the góleen long,And after you slipped from strand to strandOur nets so strong, our nets so strong;Sing, Hugamar, etc.Then we called to our sweethearts and our wives,“Come welcome us home, welcome us home,”Till they ran to meet us for their livesInto the foam, into the foam;Sing, Hugamar, etc.O kissing of hands and waving of capsFrom girl and boy, from girl and boy,While you leapt by scores in the lasses’ laps,Herring our joy, herring our joy!Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’,’Tis we have brought the summer in!
Let all the fish that swim the sea,Salmon and turbot, cod and ling,Bow down the head and bend the kneeTo herring, their king! to herring, their king!
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’,’Tis we have brought the summer in.[15]
The sun sank down so round and redUpon the bay, upon the bay;The sails shook idly overhead,Becalmed we lay, becalmed we lay;
Sing, Hugamar, etc.
Till Shawn the eagle dropped on deck,The bright-eyed boy, the bright-eyed boy;’Tis he has spied your silver track,Herring, our joy, herring, our joy;
Sing, Hugamar, etc.
It is in with the sails and away to shore,With the rise and swing, the rise and swingOf two stout lads at each smoking oar,After herring, our king! herring, our king.
Sing, Hugamar, etc.
The Manx and Cornish raised the shout,And joined the chase, and joined the chase;But their fleets they fouled as they went about,And we won the race, we won the race;
Sing, Hugamar, etc.
For we turned and faced you full to land,Down the góleen[16]long, the góleen long,And after you slipped from strand to strandOur nets so strong, our nets so strong;
Sing, Hugamar, etc.
Then we called to our sweethearts and our wives,“Come welcome us home, welcome us home,”Till they ran to meet us for their livesInto the foam, into the foam;
Sing, Hugamar, etc.
O kissing of hands and waving of capsFrom girl and boy, from girl and boy,While you leapt by scores in the lasses’ laps,Herring our joy, herring our joy!
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’,’Tis we have brought the summer in!
ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES
I’ve been soft in a small wayOn the girleens of Galway,And the Limerick lasses have made me feel quare;But there’s no use denyin’,No girl I’ve set eye onCould compate wid Rose Ryan of the town of Kenmare.O, whereCan her like be found?No where,The country round,Spins at her wheelDaughter as true,Sets in the reel,Wid a slide of the shoea slinderer,tinderer,purtier,wittier colleen than you,Rose, aroo!Her hair mocks the sunshine,And the soft, silver moonshineNeck and arm of the colleen completely eclipse;Whilst the nose of the jewelSlants straight as Carran TualFrom the heaven in her eye to her heather-sweet lip.O, where, etc.Did your eyes ever followThe wings of the swallowHere and there, light as air, o’er the meadow field glance?For if not you’ve no notionOf the exquisite motionOf her sweet little feet as they dart in the dance.O, where, etc.If y’ inquire why the nightingaleStill shuns th’ invitin’ galeThat wafts every song-bird but her to the West,Faix she knows, I suppose,Ould Kenmare has a RoseThat would sing any Bulbul to sleep in her nestO, where, etc.When her voice gives the warnin’For the milkin’ in the mornin’Ev’n the cow known for hornin’, comes runnin’ to her pail;The lambs play about herAnd the small bonneens[17]snout herWhilst their parints salute her wid a twisht of the tail.O, where, etc.When at noon from our labourWe draw neighbour wid neighbourFrom the heat of the sun to the shelter of the tree,Wid spuds[18]fresh from the bilin’,And new milk, you come smilin’,All the boys’ hearts beguilin’, alannah machree![19]O, where, etc.But there’s one sweeter hourWhen the hot day is o’er,And we rest at the door wid the bright moon above,And she’s sittin’ in the middle,When she’s guessed Larry’s riddle,Cries, “Now for your fiddle, Shiel Dhuv, Shiel Dhuv.”O, whereCan her like be found?No whereThe country round,Spins at her wheelDaughter as true,Sets in the reel,Wid a slide of the shoea slinderer,tinderer,purtier,wittier colleen than you,Rose, aroo!
I’ve been soft in a small wayOn the girleens of Galway,And the Limerick lasses have made me feel quare;But there’s no use denyin’,No girl I’ve set eye onCould compate wid Rose Ryan of the town of Kenmare.O, whereCan her like be found?No where,The country round,Spins at her wheelDaughter as true,Sets in the reel,Wid a slide of the shoea slinderer,tinderer,purtier,wittier colleen than you,Rose, aroo!Her hair mocks the sunshine,And the soft, silver moonshineNeck and arm of the colleen completely eclipse;Whilst the nose of the jewelSlants straight as Carran TualFrom the heaven in her eye to her heather-sweet lip.O, where, etc.Did your eyes ever followThe wings of the swallowHere and there, light as air, o’er the meadow field glance?For if not you’ve no notionOf the exquisite motionOf her sweet little feet as they dart in the dance.O, where, etc.If y’ inquire why the nightingaleStill shuns th’ invitin’ galeThat wafts every song-bird but her to the West,Faix she knows, I suppose,Ould Kenmare has a RoseThat would sing any Bulbul to sleep in her nestO, where, etc.When her voice gives the warnin’For the milkin’ in the mornin’Ev’n the cow known for hornin’, comes runnin’ to her pail;The lambs play about herAnd the small bonneens[17]snout herWhilst their parints salute her wid a twisht of the tail.O, where, etc.When at noon from our labourWe draw neighbour wid neighbourFrom the heat of the sun to the shelter of the tree,Wid spuds[18]fresh from the bilin’,And new milk, you come smilin’,All the boys’ hearts beguilin’, alannah machree![19]O, where, etc.But there’s one sweeter hourWhen the hot day is o’er,And we rest at the door wid the bright moon above,And she’s sittin’ in the middle,When she’s guessed Larry’s riddle,Cries, “Now for your fiddle, Shiel Dhuv, Shiel Dhuv.”O, whereCan her like be found?No whereThe country round,Spins at her wheelDaughter as true,Sets in the reel,Wid a slide of the shoea slinderer,tinderer,purtier,wittier colleen than you,Rose, aroo!
I’ve been soft in a small wayOn the girleens of Galway,And the Limerick lasses have made me feel quare;But there’s no use denyin’,No girl I’ve set eye onCould compate wid Rose Ryan of the town of Kenmare.
O, whereCan her like be found?No where,The country round,Spins at her wheelDaughter as true,Sets in the reel,Wid a slide of the shoea slinderer,tinderer,purtier,wittier colleen than you,Rose, aroo!
Her hair mocks the sunshine,And the soft, silver moonshineNeck and arm of the colleen completely eclipse;Whilst the nose of the jewelSlants straight as Carran TualFrom the heaven in her eye to her heather-sweet lip.
O, where, etc.
Did your eyes ever followThe wings of the swallowHere and there, light as air, o’er the meadow field glance?For if not you’ve no notionOf the exquisite motionOf her sweet little feet as they dart in the dance.
O, where, etc.
If y’ inquire why the nightingaleStill shuns th’ invitin’ galeThat wafts every song-bird but her to the West,Faix she knows, I suppose,Ould Kenmare has a RoseThat would sing any Bulbul to sleep in her nest
O, where, etc.
When her voice gives the warnin’For the milkin’ in the mornin’Ev’n the cow known for hornin’, comes runnin’ to her pail;The lambs play about herAnd the small bonneens[17]snout herWhilst their parints salute her wid a twisht of the tail.
O, where, etc.
When at noon from our labourWe draw neighbour wid neighbourFrom the heat of the sun to the shelter of the tree,Wid spuds[18]fresh from the bilin’,And new milk, you come smilin’,All the boys’ hearts beguilin’, alannah machree![19]
O, where, etc.
But there’s one sweeter hourWhen the hot day is o’er,And we rest at the door wid the bright moon above,And she’s sittin’ in the middle,When she’s guessed Larry’s riddle,Cries, “Now for your fiddle, Shiel Dhuv, Shiel Dhuv.”
O, whereCan her like be found?No whereThe country round,Spins at her wheelDaughter as true,Sets in the reel,Wid a slide of the shoea slinderer,tinderer,purtier,wittier colleen than you,Rose, aroo!