0224m
"Yes, yes!" I said. The wanderer wept
As if his heart was breaking;
"And where,avic machree" * he said,
"Is all the merry-making
I found here twenty years ago?"
"My tale," I sighed, "might weary:
Enough to say, there's none but me
To welcome Caoch O'Leary."
"Vo, vo, vo!" the old man cried,
And wrung his hands in sorrow;
"Pray lead me in,astore machree,
And I'llgo hometo-morrow.
My peace is made, I'll calmly leave
This world so cold and dreary,
And you shall keep my pipes and dog,
And pray for Caoch O'Leary."
With Pinch I watched his bed that night;
Next day his wish was granted,—
He died, and Father James was brought,
And the requiem mass was chanted.
The neighbours came;—we dug his grave,
Near Eily, Kate, and Mary,
And there he sleeps his last sweet sleep,—
God rest you, Caoch O'Leary!
J. Keegan.
*Vic ma chree, Son of my heart.
0226m
Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary
spinning-wheel;
For your father's on the hill, and your mother
is asleep:
Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a
highland reel
Around the fairy thorn on the steep."
At Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens
cried,
Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the
green;
And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel
aside,
The fairest of the four, I ween.
They're glancing through the glimmer of the
quiet eve,
Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare;
The heavy sliding stream in its sleepy song they
leave,
And the crags in the ghostly air;
And linking hand in hand, and singing as they go,
The maids along the hill-side have ta'en their
fearless way,
Till they come to where the rowan-trees in lonely
beauty grow
Beside the Fairy Hawthorn gray.
The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and
slim,
Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at
her knee;
The rowan-berries cluster o'er her low head
gray and dim
In ruddy kisses sweet to see.
The merry "maidens four have ranged them in a
row,
Between each lovely couple a stately rowan
stem,
And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds
they go,
Oh never carolled bird like them!
But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze
That drinks away their voices in echoless re-
pose,
And dreamily the evening has stilled the haunted
braes,
And dreamier the gloaming grows.
And sinking one by one, like lark notes from
the sky
When the falcon's shadow saileth across the
open shaw,
Are hushed the maiden's voices, as cowering
down they lie
In the flutter of their sudden awe.
For, from the air above, and the grassy ground
beneath,
And from the mountain-ashes and the old
Whitethorn between,
A power of faint enchantment doth through
their beings breathe,
And they sink down together on the
green.
They sink together silent, and stealing side by
side,
They fling their lovely arms o'er their drooping
necks so fair,
Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide,
For their shrinking necks again are bare.
Thus clasped and prostrate all, with their heads
together bowed,
Soft o'er their bosoms' beating—the only
human sound—
They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy
crowd,
Like a river in the air, gliding round.
No scream can any raise, no prayer can any say,
But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless
three—
For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently
away,
By whom they dare not look to see.
They feel their tresses twine with her parting
locks of gold,
And the curls elastic falling, as her head with-
draws;
They feel her sliding arms from their tranced
arms unfold,
But they may not look to see the cause:
For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment
lies
Through all that night of anguish and perilous
amaze;
And neither fear nor wonder can ope their
quivering eyes,
Or their limbs from the cold ground raise,
Till out of night the earth has rolled her dewy
side,
With every haunted mountain and streamy
vale below;
When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow
morning tide,
The maidens' trance dissolveth so.
Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may,
And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious
friends in vain—
They pined away and died within the year and
day,
And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again.
—-Sir S. Ferguson.
9231Original
On the eve of St Laurence, at the cross of
Glenfad,
Both of chieftains and bonaghts what a muster
we had,
Thick as bees, round the heather, on the side
of Slieve Bloom,
To the try sting they gather by the light of the
moon.
For the Butler from Ormond with a hosting he
came,
And harried Moycashel with havoc and flame,
Not a hoof or a hayrick, nor corn blade to feed
on,
Had he left in the wide land, right up to
Dunbreedon.
Then gathered MacGeoghegan, the high prince
of Donore,
With O'Connor from Croghan, and O'Dempsys
galore;
And, my soul, how we shouted, as dash'd in
with their men,
Bold MacCoghlan from Clara, O'Mulloy from
the glen.
And not long did we loiter where the four
toghers* met,
But his saddle each tightened, and his spurs
closer set,
By the skylight that flashes all their red burn-
ings back,
And by black gore and ashes fast the rievers
we track.
'Till we came to Ardnocher, and its steep slope
we gain,
And stretch'd there, beneath us, saw their host
in the plain;
And high shouted our leader ('twas the brave
William Roe)—
"By the red hand of Nial,'tis the Sassenach
foe!
"Now, low level your spears, grasp each battle-
axe firm,
And for God and our Ladye strike ye downright
and stern;
* Roads.
For our homes and our altars charge ye stead-
fast and true,
And our watchword be vengeance, and Lamb
Dearg Aboo!" *
Oh, then down like a torrent with afarrahwe
swept,
And full stout was the Saxon who his saddle-
tree kept;
For we dash'd thro' their horsemen till they
reel'd from the stroke,
And their spears, like dry twigs, with our axes
we broke.
With our plunder we found them, our fleet
garrons and kine,
And each chalice and cruet they had snatch'd
from God's shrine.
But a red debt we paid them, the Sassenach
raiders,
As we scatter'd their spearmen, slew chieftains
and leaders.
In the Pale there is weeping and watchings in
vain.
De Lacy and D'Alton, can ye reckon your slain?
Where's your chieftain, fierce Nangle? Has
De Netterville fled?
Ask the Molingar eagles, whom their carcasses
fed.
* The red hand for ever.
Ho! ye riders from Ormond, will ye brag in
your hall,
How your lord was struck down with his mail'd
knights and all?
Swim at midnight the Shannon, beard the wolf
in his den,
Ere you ride to Moycashel on a foray again!
——A. G. Geoghegan.
Thrice at the huts of Fontenoy the English
column failed,
And twice the lines of St Antoine the Dutch in
vain assailed;
For town and slope were filled with fort and
flanking battery,
And well they swept the English ranks and
Dutch auxiliary.
As vainly, through De Baari's wood, the British
soldiers burst,
The French artillery drove them back, diminished
and dispersed.
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with
anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance
to try.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals
ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops, like
clouds at eventide.
Six thousand English veterans in stately column
tread,
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay
is at their head;
Steady they step a-down the slope—steady they
climb the hill—
Steady they load—steady they fire, moving right
onward still,
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as though a
furnace blast,
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and
bullets showering fast;
And on the open plain above they rose, and
kept their course,
With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked
at hostile force.
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner
grow their ranks,
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through
Holland's ocean banks.
More idly than the summer flies French tirailleurs
rush round;
As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons
strew the ground;
Bomb-shell, and grape, and round shot tore, still
on they marched and fired—
Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur
retired.
"Push on, my household cavalry," King Louis
madly cried:
To death they rush, but rude their shock—not
unavenged they died.
On through the camp the column trod—King
Louis turns his rein *,
"Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the
Irish troops remain;"
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a
Waterloo,
Were not these exiles ready then, fresh,
vehement, and true.
"Lord Clare," he says, "you have your wish,
there are your Saxon foes;"
The marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously
he goes!
How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're
wont to be so gay!
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their
hearts to-day—
The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas
writ could dry,
Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines,
their women's parting cry,
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their
country overthrown—
Each looks as if revenge for all rested on him
alone.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet else-
where,
Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these
proud exiles were.
O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he
commands,
"Fix bayonets—charge." Like mountain storm,
rush on these fiery bands!
Thin is the English column now, and faint their
volleys grow,
Yet, mustering all the strength they have, they
make a gallant show.
They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that
battle-wind—
Their bayonets the breakers' foam; like rocks,
the men behind!
One volley crashes from their line, when, through
the surging smoke,
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the
headlong Irish broke.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce
huzza!
"Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down
the Sassenach."
Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with
hunger's pang,
Right up against the English line the Irish exiles
sprang:
Bright was their steel,'tis bloody now, their
guns are filled with gore;
Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and
trampled flags they tore;
The English strove with desperate strength,
paused, rallied, staggered, fled—
The green hill-side is matted close with dying
and with dead.
Across the plain and far away passed on that
hideous wrack,
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their
track.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the
sun,
With bloody plumes the Irish stand—the field
is fought and won!
—-T. Davis.
0239m
The summer sun is falling soft an Carbery's
hundred isles—
The summer's sun is gleaming still through
Gabriel's rough defiles—
Old Innisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a
moulting bird;
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is
heard:
The hookers lie upon the beach; the children
cease their play;
The gossips leave the little inn; the households
kneel to pray—
And full of love, and peace, and rest—its daily
labour o'er—
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of
Baltimore.
A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with
midnight there;
No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth,
or sea, or air,
The massive capes, and ruined towers, seem
conscious of the calm;
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing
heavy balm.
So still the night, these two long barques, round
Dunashad that glide
Must trust their oars—methinks not few—
against the ebbing tide—
Oh! some sweet mission of true love must urge
them to the shore—
They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs
in Baltimore!
All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky
street,
And these must be the lover's friends, with
gently gliding feet—
A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! "The roof is in
a flame!"
From out their beds, and to their doors, rush
maid, and sire, and dame—
And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleam-
ing sabre's fall,
And o'er each black and bearded face the white
or crimson shawl—
The yell of "Allah!" breaks above the prayer,
and shriek, and roar—
Oh, blessed God! the Algerine is lord of
Baltimore!
Then flung the youth his naked hand against the
shearing sword;
Then sprung the mother on the brand with which
her son was gor'd;
Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-
babes clutching wild;
Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled
with the child:
But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed
with splashing heel,
While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his
Syrian steel—
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers
yield their store,
There'sonehearth well avengèd in the sack of
Baltimore!
Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds
began to sing—
They see not now the milking maids—deserted
is the spring!
Midsummer day—this gallant rides from distant
Bandon's town—
These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that
skiff from Affadown;
They only found the smoking walls, with
neighbours' blood besprent,
And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile
they wildly went—
Then dash'd to sea, and passed Cape Clear, and
saw five leagues before
The pirate-galleys vanishing that ravaged Balti-
more!
Oh! some must tug the galley's oar, and some
must tend the steed—
This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that
a Bey's jerreed.
Oh! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous
Dardanelles;
And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy
dells.
The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen
for the Dey—
She's safe—she's dead—she stabb'd him in the
midst of his Serai;
And when, to die a death of fire, that noble maid
they bore,
She only smiled—O'Driscoll's child—she
thought of Baltimore.
Tis two long years since sunk the town be-
neath that bloody band,
And all around its trampled hearths a larger
concourse stand,
Where, high upon a gallows-tree, a yelling
wretch is seen—
'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan—he who steered the
Algerine!
He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a pass-
ing prayer,
For he had slain the kith and kin of many a
hundred there—
Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought
the Norman o'er—
Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in
Baltimore.
-T. Davis.
0244m
Land which the Norman would make his own!
(Thus sang the Bard'mid a host o'erthrown,
While their white cheeks some on the clench'd
hand propp'd,
And from some the life-blood unheeded dropp'd)
There are men in thee that refuse to die,
Though they scorn to live, while a foe stands
nigh!
O'Donnell lay sick with a grievous wound:
The leech had left him; the priest had come;
The clan sat weeping upon the ground,
Their banner furl'd, and their minstrels dumb.
Then spake O'Donnell, the King: "Although
My hour draws nigh, and my dolours grow;
And although my sins I have now confess'd,
And desire in the Land, my charge, to rest,
Yet leave this realm, nor will I nor can,
While a stranger treads on her, child or man.
"I will languish no longer a sick King here:
My bed is grievous; build up my Bier.
The white robe a King wears over me throw;
Bear me forth to the field where he camps—
your foe,
With the yellow torches and dirges low.
The heralds have brought his challenge and fled;
The answer they bore not I bear instead.
My people shall fight, my pain in sight,
And I shall sleep well when their wrong stands
right."
Then the clan rose up from the ground, and gave
ear,
And they fell'd great oak-trees and built a Bier;
Its plumes from the eagle's wing were shed,
And the wine-black samite above it spread
Inwov'n with sad emblems and texts divine,
And the braided bud of Tirconnell's pine,
And all that is meet for the great and brave
When past are the measured years God gave,
And a voice cries "Come" from the waiting
grave.
When the Bier was ready they laid him thereon;
And the army forth bare him with wail and
moan:
With wail by the sea-lakes and rock-abysses;
With moan through the vapour-trail'd wilder-
nesses;
And men sore wounded themselves drew nigh
And said, "We will go with our King and
die;"
And women wept as the pomp pass'd by.
The yellow torches far off were seen;
No war-note peal'd through the gorges green;
But the black pines echo'd the mourners' keen.
What said the Invader, that pomp in sight?
"They sue for the pity they shall not win."
But the sick King sat on his Bier upright,
And said, "So well! I shall sleep to-night:—
Rest here my couch, and my peace begin."
Then the war-cry sounded—"Lamb-dearg
Aboo!"
And the whole clan rush'd to the battle plain:
They were thrice driven back, but they closed
anew
That an end might come to their King's
great pain.
'Twas a nation, not army, that onward rush'd,
'Twas a nation's blood from their wounds that
gush'd:
Bare-bosom'd they fought, and with joy were
slain;
Till evening their blood fell fast like rain;
But a shout swelled up o'er the setting sun,
And O'Donnell died, for the field was won.
So they buried their King upon Aileach's shore;
And in peace he slept;—O'Donnell More.
——Aubrey de Vere.