The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: PoemsAuthor: CushagRelease date: June 15, 2019 [eBook #59756]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: PoemsAuthor: CushagRelease date: June 15, 2019 [eBook #59756]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines
Title: Poems
Author: Cushag
Author: Cushag
Release date: June 15, 2019 [eBook #59756]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
Title page
BY
"CUSHAG"(Josephine Kermode)
Third Edition
Printed and Published byG. & L. JOHNSONDOUGLAS, Isle of Man.1912.
To my father's friend, the Ven.Archdeacon Gill, this little Bookis affectionately dedicated.J.K.
Claghbane,Ramsey, Isle of Man,July, 1907.
CONTENTS.
To the Cushag's Friend
The Wans from Up
Little Boy-Beg
Country Courtship
The Thram
Where I was rarin' to
Guillyn Veggey
The Phynodderee
The Loaghtan Beg
Sweet Etty of Rhenwee
The Passing of the Fairies
Bobby
Traa-dy-liooar
The Gable of the House
Shadow in Harvest
Great Store
Bons
The Inheritance
Longing
Inasmuch
The Days of my Life
The Ride
The Babe of Earey Cushlin
Oie-Vie
Baby Boy Carol
Promise
The Mountain Maid
The Skyes
John the Priest
Kate Cowle
The Church Brings us Home
The Glen of the Twilight
The Tholtan
Calling of the Name
Rhullick-ny-Quakeryn
Oie'll Verrey
Work or Play
The King's Visit
The Mother's Carol
The Sorrowful Crossing
The Little Everin'
O the cushag flower in a fairy bowerWould shine like a star of gold;But when it grows in the farmer's close'Tis a shocking weed, we're told.Yet common thingsMay have their wingsTo help our souls above;And wayside weeds,Like kindly deeds,Spring from a father's love.
The cushag flower had fairy powerIn olden times, you know,To bear you away on a summer's dayWherever you wished to go.Its golden wingsWere slender thingsTo carry souls aloft;But fairy tales,Like fresh'ning gales,May have their uses oft.
The cushag flower in a stormy hourShines brighter for the gloom;So kindly deeds, like wayside weeds,May shine when troubles loom.Old folks would say,In their own day,When troubles took their fill,And times were bad,And hearts were sad,"There's gool on the cushag still!"
Now the cushag we know must never growWhere the farmer's work is done;But along the rills in the heart of the hillsThe cushag may shine like the sun,Where the golden flowersHave fairy powersTo gladden our hearts with their grace;And in Vannin Veg Veen,In the valleys green,The cushags have still a place.
"Mother," she said, "when you're not by,There's lil wans talkin' to me,They're showin' me pictures out in the sky,Where the sun sets over the sea.Will I lave a piece of my supper," she said,"An' a dhrop of milk in the cup?D'you think its Fairies thass in?" she said.—I'm thinkin' 'twas Wans from Up.
"Mother," she said, "when the nights is longThere's lil wans comin' to me.They're bringin' a harp an' makin' a song,An' houlin' a light to see.I'll lave a bit of my supper," she said,"An' a tase of milk in the cup;I'm thinkin' its Fayries thass in," she said,—But I knew it was Wans from Up.
"Mother," she said, "my head is sore,An' the lil wans is callin' me;They say there's a boat waitin' down at the shoreTo take me a sail on the sea.Keep by a piece of my supper," she said,"An' lave some milk in the cup;I'll go with the Fayries a bit," she said.—An' she went to the Wans from Up.
"Where are you going, little Boy Beg,With your little grey dog an' all?""I'm going to look for the King an' Queen,To see will they cure me for all."
"Where will you find them, little Boy Beg,The King an' the Queen so high?""I'll watch from the bank where the bluebell growsTo see will they ever pass by."
"How will you know them, little Boy Beg,When you've wandered many a mile?""I'll know the King by his golden crown,An' the Queen by her lovely smile."
"How will they see you, little Boy Beg,With your poor little crutch an' all?""I'll be houlin' my flow'rs an' makin' my tow,An' the Queen she'll see me for all."
"What will you say to them, little Boy Beg,When you stand at the carriage door,""I'll give them a flow'r, an' they'll touch my han',An' I'll never be lame no more."
An' that very same day the King came by,An' the Lady Queen she smiled;An' they tuk the flow'r from the little han',An' they put the cure on the child.
Now little Boy Beg can walk an' runWith his little grey dog an' all.God bless the King and his lovely Queen—But he hadn't no crown for all!
Johnny an' me was sweetheartsMany a year gone by,Stannin' aroun' in the haggart,An' havin' a cooish on the sly.Till "Mayry, Mayry, Mayry, where's the milk?"An' "Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, you'll be took!"An' "Dear me heart, wherever is that gel!"An' "bless me sowl, that Johnny should be shook!"
Johnny was goin' to marketWith priddhas, an' butter, an' eggs,An' of coorse I was runnin' to meet him,Jus' for to soople me legs.Then "Mayry, Mayry, Mayry! Where's that gel!"An' "Johnny, Johnny, Johnny! Do you hear!"An' "Bless me sowl, that Mayry should be shook!"An' "Dear me heart what's keepin' Johnny theer!"
Johnny'd be firin' the chimleyWith a wisp of gorse an' sthrow,An' of coorse I was houlin' the matchesJus' till he set it aglow.But "Mayry, Mayry, Mayry, come you here!"An' "Johnny, Johnny, John, come urrov that!"An' "Dear me heart, wherever's Mayry gone!"An' "What in all the worl' is them two at!"
Johnny an' me was marriedMany a year ago,An' a fine scutch of childher at us—Ma word, how the lumpers grow!Now its "Mayry, Mayry, Mayry, min' the chile,"An' "Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, wipe your feet;"An' I'm spendin' me time washin' dishes,An' John is kep' running for meat!
The golden sunshine filled the room,To every corner stealing;It glanced on Charlotte's silver hair,And flashed along the ceiling.
It touched the dingy walls with gold,And painted all the china;The "rosy basins" on the shelfGrew rosier and finer.
The window high above the roadLooked over field and meadow,To where the sun, fast rolling down,Left Scacafell in shadow.
And Charlotte placidly enjoyed,But gazed without emotion;Something was lacking, I could see,But what, I had no notion.
"The windhar on the stairs," she said,And now she showed elation;"There's where the THRAM is, an' the lights,An' all the 'Lectric Station!"
"An' all the folks as plain as plain,That's comin' in or goin'—That's what I like," she said, "the thramAn' all the lights a-glowin'!"
The little stream of Ballacowle.It tumbles down the GlenAnd hides beneath the lady-fernTo sparkle out again—Then plunges underneath the roadTo seek a devious way,Where lost in quarry refuse now,Its early cradle lay.
A roomy cradle once it was,O'er-arched with spreading trees;A tangled Paradise of flowers,Scarce touched by passing breeze,And here, among the primrose tufts,It wound its cheerful way,When, long ago, we wove our wreathsTo Welcome in the May
On May Day Eve I wandered there,And, by the old plum tree,I found a bent and aged manWho gazed along the lea.His dress was of the loaghtan-brown,His hair was white as snow;And quietly he rested thereAnd watched the streamlet flow.
"Good evening, friend," I gently said,"Good everin'," said he;I said "What do you here so late,Beneath our old plum tree?""Good everin'," he said again,His voice was soft and low,"I came to put a sight down here,Where I was rarin' to."
He laid a bleached and withered handUpon the cold grey wallThat once was gable of the house,The house of Ballacowle—Though little now remains to showWhere once it stood so fair,And, but the plum tree lives to markThe garden that was there.
"I mind the day we rode to church,The hay was nearly teddin',The apple trees were dressed in pinkAs we came through Claghbeddin:We rode along the Cuckoo Field,The skies were blue and fair,And through the Croshag's miry lane,To Kirk Christ of Lezayre.
I mind th' oul' ancient Masthar wellThat lived at the Claghbeddin:He lent the horse and pillion fineTo take us to our weddin'.I mind the dogs and childher too,That scampered to and fro,And pussy cats wisout no tails,Where I was rarin' to."
The sunset faded into gray;I heard the little stream,It seemed to mingle with his voiceLike music in a dream.No longer could I see his face,But still he murmered low:"I came to put a sight once moreWhere I was rarin' to."
"THE LIL FALLAS."
I heard the Guillyn Veggey at the break of day.On a merry, merry morning in the month of May.They were hammering an' clamouring an' making such a din—An' yet there's fallas doubtin' that the like is in!Clink-a-link, link-a-link, link, link, lin,Clink-a-link, link-a-link, the hammers ring;Clink-a-link, link-a-link, ding, ding, ding—An' yet there's fallas doubtin' that the like is in!
They were hammering their barrels in the cooper's cave,Sending out the chips to meet the brimming wave.Working in the hollows of the Cushlin hill,Turning out their dandy boats an' tackle still.Clink-a-link, etc.
I heard them in the cave behind the waterfall,Merry voices echoed by the rocky wall;While the bay was covered by the chips that flew.And every chip became a boat with all its crew.Clink-a-link, etc.
Oh, lucky is the morning in the month of May,When you hear the Guillyn Veggey at the break of day,Hammering an' clamouring an' making such a din—For they know the herrin's coming, an' there's plenty in!Clink-a-link, link-a-link, link, link, lin,Clink-a-link, link-a-link, the hammers ring;Clink-a-link, link-a-link, ding, ding, ding,They know the herrin's coming, an' there's plenty in.
Ho! Ho! the Phynodderee!Swinging by himself in the Trainman Tree.I once was lord of a fairy clan,But I loved a lass in the Isle of Man;Her eyes were like the shallows of the mountain stream,Her hair was like the cornfield's golden gleamHer voice was like the ringdove's, soft and slow,Her smile was like the sunbeam's—come and go;But alas and alack-a-day!The jealous fairy maids stole my love away.And now I'm all alone in the Tramman Tree.Swinging by myself in the Tramman Tree.Alas and alack-a-day!
Ho! ho! the Phynodderee!Swinging by himself in the Tramman Tree.I was once a prince in the fairy land,But I failed to come at the king's command;His wrath was like the thunder in the mountain gills,His eyes were like the lightning on the lone dark hills;His voice was like the raging of the boiling tide,As he hurled me down to the earth to bide,And alas and alack-a-day!The whole night long I must work awayTill daylight sends me up to the Tramman Tree,Swinging by myself in the Tramman Tree.Alas and alack-a-day!
Ho! ho! the Phynodderee!Swinging by himself in the Tramman Tree.I fetched the stone to Tholt-y-Will;I saved the sheep on the snow-clad hill;I saw the storm was coming while the farmer snored;I drove the sheep before me while the Howlaa roared,I folded them in safety beneath the creg,And hunted over Snaefell for the loaghtan beg;But alas and alack-a-day.A witch she was, and she would not stayTill daylight sent me up to the Tramman Tree,To swing by myself in the Tramman Tree.Alas and alack-a-day!
Ho! ho! the Phynodderee!Swinging by himself in the Tramman Tree.I threshed the corn in the lonely night,And swept the house in the still moonlight.I watched the sleeping haggart while the dog took rest,And drove away the witches that dared molest;I milked the cows at dawning and eased their heads,And soothed the patient horses in their tired beds,But alas and alack-a-day!The farmer thought I worked because I wanted payAnd left a coat and breeches for the poor Phynodderee;So his lassie cannot see him in the Tramman TreeSwinging by himself in the Tramman Tree.
"Oh! Is it a sheep or a witch," quoth he;"Is it only a loaghtan beg?Or am I awake or asleep," quoth he,"Or am I the hairy PhynoddereeThat started to catch the meg."
"I chased her over Barooil," quoth he,"And along the side of Clagh Owre;And three times round Snaefell, like fire went she,With a screech at the hairy PhynoddereeThat turned the night's milk sour."
"I have raced the mountain lambs," quoth he,"And seen them run like deer;But I never seen wan like yondher," quoth he,"That could run like the hairy Phynodderee,She'll not be no right wan I fear."
"I've seen many a sheep in my day," quoth he,"From the Calf to the Point of Ayre;But never a wan like that," quoth he,"Which nearly done the Phynodderee"—"Man veg! you have brought me a hare!"
O gaily sing the birds amongThe woods of Ballaharry,And brightly shines the gorse alongThe lanes of Ballavarry;But I must go and leave them allTo sail upon the sea,Unless you say one little word,Sweet Etty of Rhenwee.
My father he will go his waysAnd never heed or bother,But Oh! My heart is failing whenI think upon the mother.But I must leave them all and goTo sail upon the sea,Until you say that little word,Sweet Etty of Rhenwee.
We played together, boy and girl,Among the gorse and heather,And mine it was, in storm and shine,To shield you from the weather.But I must go away for allTo sail upon the sea,Unless you say that little word,Sweet Etty of Rhenwee.
O golden shines the gorse alongThe lanes of Ballavarry,And sweetly sing the birds amongThe woods of Ballaharry.But never came the Eirey homeThat sailed upon the sea,For never could she say that word,Sweet Etty of Rhenwee.
"An' was there a dhrop between us?"That's what they're sayin' still.An' never a dhrop was there at all,But a crowd of wans in the road for all,An' sthrivin' up the hill.
The dawn was barely sthreakin'An' a sup o' rain doin' in;But liftin' as the day grew on,Like dhryin' up when the night was gone,With a scutch o' risin' win'.
An' here was these wans comin',An' creepenin' up the side,With a surt of murmerin', wailin' soun'That seemed to be risin' all aroun',Like the soun' of the weary tide.
There was oul', an' young, an' childher,All bended under loads;With beds an' crocks, an' spuds, an' grips,An' spinnin' wheels, an' taller dips,All filin' up the roads.
From Earey Beg an' Earey Moar,Over the broken bridge;Over the pairk at Earey Glass,By Balla'himmin and up Rhenass,An' all along the ridge.
An' toilin' up Bearey Mountain,With that wailin', sighin' soun'As if their hearts were goin' a-breakin',The for their last leave they were takin',Wherever they were boun.'
An' Bearey was roulin' his cloak,An' reachin' it down his side,An' coaxin' them up an' lappin' them roun',Till the wailin' was dyin' gradjual down,Like the calm of the ebbing tide.
Poor Bobby, he thravelled from dhure to dhure,An' each wan gev him a piece;He'd ress on the settle or lie on the flure,An' a bit of dhry bread was a feas'.
He had his oul' cot an' a bit of a turf,To keep out the couth of the night;But it's up he'd be an' down at the surf,As soon as the morning was light.
There's wans would be urging him out to the Brows,To be fetchin' their cattle in,But Bobby'd be heavin' hard words at the cows,'Twas makin' his sowl to sin.
Poor Bobby lay down on his dying bed,An' "Wumman," we heard him say,"Put out them boots an' that piece of bread,For I'm goin' a long, long way."
The bread was a piece of a barley cake,The las' his Mother had made,Kep' by him these years for his Mother's sake,In the chiss with her Bible laid.
We lef him good-night when our work was done,An' sof' we went out on the dhure;An' behoul' ye, next mornin' poor Bobby was gone—But his boots was lef on the flure.
There's a wickad little falla that goes among us here,An' the wickadness thass at him is tellin' far an' near;He's prowlin' in the haggart an' in at every dhure,An' coaxin' an' persuadin',—an' his name is Traa-dy-Liooar.
The house is all through others, the childher's late for school,The man is spendin' all his time in lookin' for a tool,The wumman's tired thremendjus with clearin' up the flure,An' the wan that's doin' all the jeel is wickad Traa-dy-Liooar.
The fields is full of cushag, the gates is patched with gorse,You'll hardly see the harness for the mire upon the horse;The cows is shoutin' shockin', an' puzzlin' them for sure,Is the waitin' doin' on them at that tejus Traa-dy-Liooar.
There's a power of foes within us, and enemies without,But the wan that houls the candle is that little lazy lout;So just you take an' scutch him, an' put him to the dhure,An' navar let him in again, that tejus Traa-dy-Liooar.
What was there doin' on her?Aw dade, its hard to say.She wasn' for complainin'But goin'—night an' day.Aw, well; there's no wan at me nowTo make the bed or milk the cow!
The cough was subjec' to her,Aw teerin', teerin' still;She wore it out upon her feetYon time that I was ill.Aw, well; I'm sick enough for all;But she's not hearin' when I call.
The times I'd not be sleepin'She'd up an' have a light,An' do a bit of readin'—But failin' in her sight.Aw, well; I'm lyin' lonely now,An' who's to go an' milk the cow?
Ay! Goin' goin' still,Nor never warmed a cheer,Its like she'll tire of sittin' quite,The way she'll be up theer,Like wearin' out her Sunday gownAn' longin' still for us that's down.
They're tellin' me to rise,Me clo'es is on the chiss,Aw, well, I havn' got no heart,An' that's the way it iss!What use of me above the groun'!The gable of the house is down!
Hushed is the harvest field that so lately resounded with mirthFor the gathering in of the harvest, and the joyof the fruits of the earth:Hushed is the song of the reapers, for lo! in themidst of their toilAnother Reaper has entered to gather in his spoil.
A fall from a loaded waggon; a still form lying there,The bright, gay tune he was whistling, stillthrobbing on the air.Alas! for the news they are bearing to the whitehouse under the trees,Where the wife who will soon be a widow is nursingtheir babe on her knees.
"Baby," she sings, "My Baby! Daddy will come to us soon:Daddy will come for the Mhellia, and we'll danceby the light of the moon.What do you see, my darling, and why that sudden frown?It is only a shadow, my darling, for the sun is going down."
How shall they bear to ruin that pretty baby play!How shall they dare to tell her what they must so quickly say!A trembling hand on the gate: one look in her startled face—No need for spoken words! God help her of His grace!
Like a lapwing over the meadow she has flown to her wounded mate;One broken sob; then steady! sthe tears can be made to wait.What recks she how it happened, or where the fault may lie,She only knows that the sunshine is all gone out of her sky.
Tired an' oul' an' woreAn' a lif' at these wans when I'm took!But the Lord will send in His own good time,That never His poor forsook.
The walls is goin' roun'When I rise for to try for to dhress,An' I'm forced to sit by the side of the bedAn' wait for the house to take ress!
I was middlin' smart for allTill the time when I fell in the Glen,Goin' up to supper the pigs, the sowles!An' the leg was bruk at me then.
The coul', the coul', an' the pain!An' the hollerin' out for Crowe;An' the thought of the craythurs wantin' their mate,An' it spilt at me all in the snow!
But Crowe came by at las',Goin' home from the Ramsey mart,"Them pigs will be wantin' their mate," I said,When they got me home on the cart.
So that's the way it iss,An' I'll never be sthrayin' far;But we mus' have somethin' to keep us down,The stubborn an' proud we are.
This wumman is good to me, too,An' I'm gettin' the bes' thass in,She was rared at me, an' me darter's chile,An' married on Dicky-the-Win'.
I'm tired an' oul' an' done!Nor able to stan' or to roam,But it's only to wait for the Lord's own time,An' He will be taking me Home.
It'll be in the teens of years I'm livin' here alone,An' the house is bare at me, too, like a nesswhen the birds is flown;But the days is lonelier far pas' what it is in the night,For then I'm stirrin' the bons till the house isfull of light.
And then I'm seein' the lumpers all playin' about on the flure,With pussy-bogh sthretchin' her back, and Daacomin' in on the dhure;An' a long little family at us, Henery, John, an' Lil,An' wan that was took at the Angels, an' Miriam Maud, an' Bill.
Henery went for a sailor, an' the ship went down in the night,But I'm seein' him readin' his book when thebons is burnin' bright;An' I'm feelin' me fut for the cradle, an' the teardhroppin' down from the eye,For the wan that was took at the Angels when Ihadn't no time to cry.
Johnny was studdy uncommon, an' terrible fon' of the lan',An' helpin' Daa with the bases an' givin' us all a han';Billy an' him went foreign—I h'ard they were doin' well,But, the name of the place they was to, is beatin' all to tell.
The gels is married on farmers, an' bringin' a boy or a chileFor to see th' oul' granny an' all, an' be rared atme here for a while;But I'm all as well by myself, for then in themids of the nightI can stir up the bons on the chiollagh till thehouse is full of light.
An' I sit with a fut on the cradle till the blaze is dyin' down,An' the childher goin' a-mixin' with the shaddas creepenin' roun';I'm watchin' wan an' another, an' always her that was took,An' Daa comin' in on the dhure, an' Henery readin' his book.
The lands that should have come to himWere gone with stock and store.They dug a little grave for him,What was he wantin' more.
The trees that should have grown for himHad vanished long before.They carved a little chiss for himWhat was he wantin' more.
The gown his mother worked for him,Put ready in the drawer,Was doin' a little shroud for him,What was he wantin' more.
The Sign of his InheritanceUpon his brow he bore,And that was all there was for himWhat was he wantin' more.
Oh! the woods of Ballaglass, and the Corna stream,I was there again just now in the sunset gleam,Oh! The rolling banks of shingle and the rock-bound shore,And the music of the waves' long roar.
Oh! the blaze of gorse and heather in the deep'ning glow,With their gold and purple mirrored in the pool below.And the shadows stealing upwards to the drawing night,And the ling'ring of the last low light.
All above the marshy meadows hung the dark pine treesScarcely whispering their secrets to the lifting breeze.I could hear the cattle breathing by the low stone wall:—And Barrule to watch and ward o'er all.
Oh! the little lonely house on the Mooragh turf;With the sound of running water slipping down among the surf,I went in upon the door—but the hearth was bare,And the darkness of the night was there.
Then I wakened from my dream as the sun went down.And I'll wander never more on the Mooragh brown.For I'm far from Corna valley and the rock-bound shore.And I'll see the little house no more.
A stranger passes this way at nightWhen the earth is laid to rest:He pauses before each cottage doorLike a long expected guest.Is it only a ray of the white moonlightThat falls on the dewy ground?Or is it the gleam of a Kingly RobeThat sheds such radiance round?
He pauses before each cottage doorWhen the silence is still and deep:There are souls that work and souls that rest,And souls that must watch and weep.Is it only the track of the children's feetThat has furrowed the roadway there?Or is it the print of a Piercéd FootThat was heavy with human care?
Then to those who weep, and to those who sleep,And to those who watch and wake,There comes the touch of a tender HandFor a suffering stranger's sake.Is it only the breath of the balsam pineThat is filling the midnight vale?Or is it the balm of a Healing CalmThat sweetens the perfumed gale?
For a stranger came to these gentle souls,And a sick heart craved for rest:They gave her their love and they gave her their careAnd they gave her of all their best.Is it only the wind in the waving pinesOr the sound of the distant sea?Or is it the voice of the Stranger Guest—"Ye did it unto Me."
The days of my life! They flow on like a dream,And I'm nearing the waves of the dim silent stream,Adrift in the darkness—yet fear I no ill,For Goodness and Mercy shall follow me still.
The bright days of Springtime, the sunshine and flowers!No thought then of shadow, of storm-cloud or showers,Long, long have they left me—yet fear I no ill,For Goodness and Mercy have followed me still.
There were dull days in Summer when sullen and grayThe thunder clouds broke on the upland way.Though idols were shattered—yet fear I no ill,For Goodness and Mercy have followed me still.
There were fair days in Autumn, when troubles took restWhen harvests were garnered, and trials were blest,They have gone like the shadows—yet fear I no ill,For Goodness and Mercy have followed me still.
The dark days of Winter! The storm and the rain,The joys that have vanished, the hopes that were vain;Their shadow remaineth—yet fear I no ill,For Goodness and Mercy have followed me still.
So the days of my life shall flow on like a dreamTill the Light glimmers far on the dark silent stream,Though dimly I see it—yet fear I no ill,For Goodness and Mercy will follow me still.
It happened once upon a timeI met the Fairies straying,From under Bearey's Cap they cameTo go once more a-May ing.
They came about me in the mist,I heard their songs and laughter,And some went dancing on beforeAnd some came singing after.
My nag was shod with fairy shoesAnd bred among the mountains,And many a moonlight prank she playedAlong the streams and fountains.
We scampered down by Greeba MillsAnd on to old St. Trinian's,And hastened lest the Big BugganeShould join us on his pinions.
Though steep as Ugh ta breesh ma chreeThe road to green Ballinghan,My nag stepped out with might and main—Her like is not in Englan'.
For up she went and on she wentAbove the trees o'erarching,And on the Braid we turned to seeThe mountains all come marching.
From Greeba Towers to Laxey GlenTheir noble heads up-lifting,And far behind them in the blueTheir fleecy helmets drifting.
St. Mark's and Sluggadhoo we passedAnd came to Ballamoddha,And here my Fairy CompanyFell into some disorder.
For men, they said, and motor-carsHave spoiled the roads for Fairies,We'll meet you further on, they said,Among the lonely Careys.
I scarce had gone a mile beforeMy steed began to blether,Her fairy shoes, she said, were bestFor travelling through the heather.
So round she went, and West she went,And through the pleasant Gareys,And here I met my friends again,My company of Fairies.
And over Colby Bridge we racedAnd through the Croit-y-Caley,And all the folk from Cronk-Howe-MoarCame out to meet us gaily.
Then up Cregneash we went like stormFor day began to hurry,And at the circle met the sunAnd stayed at Lag-ny-Wurry.
And on the Hill we danced till eveAnd round about the hollow,Till all the bones got up and joinedAnd set themselves to follow.
"No, no," we said, "not so," we said,"Our ways are not together;We'll take the road and go," we said"Stay you and watch the weather."
My nag was fed by fairy hands,She drank from Chibbyr-GarvelAnd in a trice she leapt aloftAnd left the bones to marvel.
The mist came floating round againWith songs and laughter ringing—And there we were on Bearey slopesWhere morning larks were singing.
So sad the lot of babe forlornThat hath no home in earth or sky,But sobs along the dark'ning broogh—"A Babe without a Name am I!"
Scarce launched upon its earthly course,It had no time to sin or pray;But all unwelcome, undesired,Its harmless life was cast away.
Unblest by sign of Holy Cross,Whose weight, like Christ, it surely bore,A sinless soul, through dreary spaceThrust out to wander evermore.
It sobs along the lonely broogh,Where night and darkness fill the sky,"Oh, pity me! Oh, pity me!A Babe without a Name am I!"
Dark was the night and rough the roadThe Heiress in her anguish trod;To frenzy wrought, her only thoughtTo hide her shame beneath the sod.
Ask not what woeful deed was doneEre dimly dawned the sombre day;What madness of despair sent forthThat dreadful cry above the bay!
The sea-mews rose and wheeled and crossed,White wings against the dark brow'd hill;And widening circles on the tideBroke silently, and all was still.
* * * * * *
At Earey-Cushlin blinds are drawn,And whispers fill the stagnant air,Wet foot-prints track the silent hall,And sea-weed drips from off the stair.
And on a day the mourners go,And hymns are sung and prayers are said,And in the Churchyard's hallowed groundThey leave one more among the dead.
And should they grudge her hallowed groundThat knew not what despair was hers,Nor dreamed what madness found her thereIn that lone Keeill among the furze?
So mass was sung and prayers were said,And tender hearts wept tears of pain.Perchance such tears might help to cleanseA hopeless soul from sinful stain.
Sad fate was hers; yet might she hope,Though ages long must pass before,Through prayers and fears and burning tearsAt last to reach the heavenly door.
And then—when purged by cleansing firesShe trembles toward the distant light,Will she not think of that poor babeThrust out to wander through the night!
So sad the lot of Babe unblestThat hath no home in heaven or earth,But mourns in its cold winding sheetAbout the place that gave it birth.
It may not reach to heaven aboveIt may not rest in earth below;Nor with its lighted taper pierceThe limbo of its outcast woe.
The grey tide leaps upon the rocks,The sea-mews rise and cross and wheel,And ever as the darkness fallsThe Babe weeps lonely in the Keeill.
And in its trailing winding sheetSobs o'er the broogh its piteous cry:—"Oh, pity me! oh, pity me!A Babe without a name am I!"
————————
The old man ceased, and in the pause,We watched the smoke against the hill;As in a dream he told his tale,As in a dream we listened still.
His sea-blue eyes though dimmed by yearsSaw far beyond our time and space,And child-like faith in unseen thingsHad smoothed the furrows in his face.
His simple creed—to do his bestAs guardian of that treasured pile,Whose ancient towers and ruined choirsStand crowned about Peel's holy Isle.
And leaning on his staff he satBeside us in the sunny nook,Embrasured by cathedral wallsWhose stones were all his sacred book.
Far off in haze we saw the CronkThat frowns o'er Earey Cushlin's strand,So far remote it seemed to beAs old tales told in fairy-land.
And then one spoke—"Ah, say not soThat sinless souls could thus be leftTo suffer for another's faultForever—of all hope bereft."
"Such hapless souls might rather beThe nurselings of the saints on high,And learn in gentler worlds than oursThe music of the earth and sky."
"Alas!" he said, "Those little onesWho unbaptised have breathed and died,May never reach the highest bliss—But still—the Father's net is wide."
"And you shall hear how this poor BabeWas lifted from its grievous plight,And, by the faith of two poor men,Set free to reach the blessed Light."
* * * * * *
From Niarbyl Point to Bradda HeadThe great Bay Mooar lies broad and deep,And here the fishers cast their nets,While landward folk are lost in sleep.
With steady sweep of heavy oars,From Dalby strand they make their way,Before the lingering light has leftThe crags of Cronk-ny-Iree Lhaa.
Sometimes the night is loud with storm,Sometimes the creeping fog comes round,And sometimes all the moonlit hoursAre holy with a peace profound.
Sometimes between the dusk and darkThe fishers see a glancing spark,A tiny riding-light;Now here—now there—And now a pair,And now a score,And everywhereAround them dancing bright.And straightway all about them rideThe fairy nickeys on the tide;And all the air is full of din,And elfish voices, shrewd and thin,And creak of spar,And smell of tar,And water washing up the side;
While here and there,And everywhere,The gentle folkAre well bespoke,And room is left for them to rideIn safety on the gleaming tide.And then a puffOf wind comes by,"Oie-vie, oie-vie!" the fairies cry.And all around the sea is bare,And not a boat is anywhere!
And that's the time the men would findGood luck with all the nets they cast,And rowing slow with loaded store,Be home before the night was past.
But other times the fish was scarce,And some would stay and some would go,About the Sloe or further outOr back to sleeping Dalby, row.
And sometimes only one aloneWould drift along the shadowy land,And in the darkness quake to hearThe Babe at Earey-Cushlin strand.
Two mates were drifting thus one nightIn lonely silence on the Bay,Such silence as old comrades knowThat means more than a man can say.
Then spoke at last the younger man—"The Babe is fretting sore to-night;And pitiful it is to hearIts cries up yonder on the height!"
And then the twain began to speakOf that sad story of the place;And question why such things should beAnd what could limit Saving Grace.
"For seemeth me," the elder said,"That babe hath more than common loss,For it was born on holy groundThough never named with sign of cross."
"And seemeth me," he musing said"It must have been so nearly saved,That even now it might be blestIf any man the deed had braved."
"And surely God's own heart must acheTo hear it sobbing through the dark,And long to have its christened soulBeside Him in the sheltering ark."
"Your tender babes are safe at home,And cradled in their mother's prayers;My sturdy sons to manhood grown,Have long repaid my early cares."
"The very hawks upon the hillWatch their fierce brood through calm and storm;And timid conies in the fernKeep their soft younglings safe and warm."
"And will not He who made them allWatch o'er His little lost ones too,And, maybe waited till this hour,For us poor men His Will to do."
And then the other made reply—"Let us christen the Babe if that be so,And if we are doing the Will of the LordHe will send us a token, that we shall know."
And these men of the sea stood up in the boat,That under them gave, and rocked, and swayed,And their hearts o'erflowed with a mighty faith,And they spake with God and were not afraid.
And they signed the Cross on the midnight air,While the lifting billows rolled and fell,And the star of night was their altar-light,And the deep sea sounded their vesper bell.
And the elder lifted his sea-worn hand,And bared to the sky his rev'rent head;While the younger followed him word by word.And thus to the Babe they spoke and said—
"If thou'rt a boy thy name shall be Juan,If thou'rt a girl thy name shall be Joan."And the crying ceased and the Babe was stillAnd the sound of the sea was heard alone.
And a star shot up from the lone dark KeeillAnd a soul flew free from the throes of night;And their eyes were opened that they could seeThe Babe's glad welcome to fields of light.
And they heard the music of harps on highWhile the lifting billows rolled and fell,Till the sun rose over the watching CronkAnd the deep sea sounded their matin bell.
Oie-vie, oie-vie, ma chree,My villish veen, oie-vie!The boats are tossing at the quay,The tide is rising high.Oie-vie!
I go till break of day,To glean for you, ma chree,Where silv'ry shoals of sceddan play,The Harvest of the Sea.
While I'm away, ma chree,And you are lapped in sleep,There's One will watch for you and me,Whose Path is on the deep.
Fear not the rising wind,Oie-vie, oie-vie, ma chree;For He will have us in His Mind,Who stilled the raging sea.
Fear not the dark'ning night,For in His Hand we lie,Who steers us through from dark to lightOie-vie, ma veen, oie-vie!
The day will break ma chree,And home my heart will fly;To see you on the sunlit quay—Till then, ma veen, oie-vie!Oie-vie!
Jesus was the Baby BoyLow in a manger laid,While holy Angels waiting roundHis tender limbs arrayed.No broidered robes or silken laceEnwrapped this Baby Boy,But clad in His pure InnocenceHe lay, His Mother's joy.
Child Jesus in the garden playedClose by His Mother's arm;And watching Angels hovered roundTo shield Him from all harm.No gilded toys this Baby had—No jewels bright and fair;The little flowerets in the grassHis only playthings were.
Child Jesus learned His daily task,His simple childish prayer;The Angels knelt beside Him, whileHe asked His Father's care.No pictures had this Baby Boy,No books to make Him wise,He learned of Love and CharityFrom His sweet Mother's eyes.
Child Jesus sang Himself to sleepLow laid upon the ground,While Angels brought Him heavenly dreamsAnd kept their watch around.Oh may such dreams be ours again,Nor leave us when we rise,To brighten all the lingering yearsWith memories of the skies.
The first day came from the bitter north,Was there ever so cold a spring!But the sun shone out for an hour at noon,And we heard the cuckoo sing.
The next day woke with a cheerless blastAnd a sky that was gray with snow,But we heard the corncrake tune his pipeIn the meadow down below.
The third day sobbed with a dismal rain,The very trees looked numb,But the swallows arrived on the old roof treeAnd we knew that the summer would come.
I heard the lark at break of day,I heard the echoes ring;A lonely maid, and blithe as they—What could I do but sing?
But neither lark nor echoes stoppedTo listen to my song,And sometimes into silence dropped—What could I do but long?
And then one stepping lightly pastCalled me his singing dove;With him to please, the days sped fast—What could I do but love?
And then! He wearied of my songAnd lightly passed me by.So, left alone to love and long—What could I do but die?