The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSprays of Shamrock

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSprays of ShamrockThis 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: Sprays of ShamrockAuthor: Clinton ScollardRelease date: February 9, 2009 [eBook #28032]Most recently updated: March 15, 2023Language: EnglishCredits: David Wilson, Curtis Weyant and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPRAYS OF SHAMROCK ***

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: Sprays of ShamrockAuthor: Clinton ScollardRelease date: February 9, 2009 [eBook #28032]Most recently updated: March 15, 2023Language: EnglishCredits: David Wilson, Curtis Weyant and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

Title: Sprays of Shamrock

Author: Clinton Scollard

Release date: February 9, 2009 [eBook #28032]Most recently updated: March 15, 2023

Language: English

Credits: David Wilson, Curtis Weyant and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SPRAYS OF SHAMROCK ***

[pi]SPRAYS OF SHAMROCK

[piii]SPRAYS OF SHAMROCKBY CLINTON SCOLLARDPublisher's devicePORTLAND MAINETHE MOSHER PRESSMDCCCCXIV

PORTLAND MAINETHE MOSHER PRESSMDCCCCXIV

[piv]COPYRIGHTCLINTON SCOLLARD1914

[pv]CONTENTSPAGEMUCKROSS3THE HILL OF MAEVE5AT KILLYBEGS7THE CRIPPLE8AN EXILE9ABBEYDORNEY10A SONG FOR JOYCE’S COUNTRY12BALLAD OF PROTESTANT’S LEAP14ETCHING AT NIGHT16THE SPECTRAL ROWERS17TYRCONNELL18THE WAY OF THE CROSS19THE ISLE OF DOOM20DESMOND21THE LITTLE CREEK COONANA22O’DONNELL ABOO23NIGHTFALL IN SLIGO24CARROWMORE26ON CARAGH LAKE27[pvi]RAHINANE28THE WIND OF MOURNE29MAN AND MAID30THE HUNTER32RAIN SONG33A ROVER34QUEENS35THE WONDERS36AT MONAREE37HEATHER SONG38OFF CONNEMARA39POPPIES AT MONASTERAVEN40THE GLEN OF CASTLEMAINE41SONG42KILMELCHEDOR43AT DINGLE44BACK TO KILLARNEY45GLENCAR WATER46FROM DERRY TO KERRY47A KING IN KERRY48A KERRY LAD51A KERRY DAY52[pvii]A KERRY ROAD53A KERRY GARDEN54DOWN IN KERRY55HOLY WELLS56LOW TIDE57THE “BOHAREEN”58AN IRISH IDYL60AN IRISH LASS61THE BRIDGE OF LUCKEEN62DONEGAL64AN IRISH SONG66

[p1]SPRAYS OF SHAMROCK

[p2]Just a few songs of her,Not of the wrongs of herMany and bitter and long though theybe,—Songs of the hills of her,Songs of the rills of her,Ireland, set like a gem in the sea!Just a few songs of her,Not of the thongs of her,She that is bound, and yet fain would befree,—Songs of the gleams of her,Glamours and dreams of her,Ireland, girt by the arms of the sea!

[p2]Just a few songs of her,Not of the wrongs of herMany and bitter and long though theybe,—Songs of the hills of her,Songs of the rills of her,Ireland, set like a gem in the sea!

[p2]Just a few songs of her,

Not of the wrongs of her

Many and bitter and long though theybe,—

Songs of the hills of her,

Songs of the rills of her,

Ireland, set like a gem in the sea!

Just a few songs of her,Not of the thongs of her,She that is bound, and yet fain would befree,—Songs of the gleams of her,Glamours and dreams of her,Ireland, girt by the arms of the sea!

Just a few songs of her,

Not of the thongs of her,

She that is bound, and yet fain would befree,—

Songs of the gleams of her,

Glamours and dreams of her,

Ireland, girt by the arms of the sea!

[p3]MUCKROSS[decorative A]Atnight there came unto MacCarthyMoreA hooded vision with a voice that said,“Go thou straightway and raise a house to GodUpon the spot where stands the Rock of Song!”So with the golden lifting of the dawnUpsprang the chieftain and loud called his kerns,And bade them seek the Rock. For many a dayThey roved the sweeping meads and fens and fellsIn fruitless search, and ever forth againRelentlessly he drove them from his holdBeside the dimpling waters of Lough Leane.“The Rock!” he cried, “find ye the Rock of Song!”And still they found it not. Then the gaunt chief,His long locks hoary with the frost of years,Girded himself, and turned his tottering stepsAbroad in the soft lengthening of the duskAthwart a woodland close, and saw and heardA little maid, her pitcher held at poise,Singing an old lament in minors clear[p4]And plaintive as the twilight, words that voicedThe poignant, passionate yearning of the soul.“A sign!” the spent man whispered low, “a sign!”And on the spot he raised a house to God.

[decorative A]Atnight there came unto MacCarthyMoreA hooded vision with a voice that said,“Go thou straightway and raise a house to GodUpon the spot where stands the Rock of Song!”So with the golden lifting of the dawnUpsprang the chieftain and loud called his kerns,And bade them seek the Rock. For many a dayThey roved the sweeping meads and fens and fellsIn fruitless search, and ever forth againRelentlessly he drove them from his holdBeside the dimpling waters of Lough Leane.“The Rock!” he cried, “find ye the Rock of Song!”And still they found it not. Then the gaunt chief,His long locks hoary with the frost of years,Girded himself, and turned his tottering stepsAbroad in the soft lengthening of the duskAthwart a woodland close, and saw and heardA little maid, her pitcher held at poise,Singing an old lament in minors clear[p4]And plaintive as the twilight, words that voicedThe poignant, passionate yearning of the soul.“A sign!” the spent man whispered low, “a sign!”And on the spot he raised a house to God.

[decorative A]Atnight there came unto MacCarthyMore

A hooded vision with a voice that said,

“Go thou straightway and raise a house to God

Upon the spot where stands the Rock of Song!”

So with the golden lifting of the dawn

Upsprang the chieftain and loud called his kerns,

And bade them seek the Rock. For many a day

They roved the sweeping meads and fens and fells

In fruitless search, and ever forth again

Relentlessly he drove them from his hold

Beside the dimpling waters of Lough Leane.

“The Rock!” he cried, “find ye the Rock of Song!”

And still they found it not. Then the gaunt chief,

His long locks hoary with the frost of years,

Girded himself, and turned his tottering steps

Abroad in the soft lengthening of the dusk

Athwart a woodland close, and saw and heard

A little maid, her pitcher held at poise,

Singing an old lament in minors clear

[p4]And plaintive as the twilight, words that voiced

The poignant, passionate yearning of the soul.

“A sign!” the spent man whispered low, “a sign!”

And on the spot he raised a house to God.

[p5]THE HILL OF MAEVEIThisis the hill of Maeve, the queen,A mighty bulwark of gray-greenWhereon was set, by hands unknown,A rugged monument of stone.The great winds mourn, and sobs the waveBeneath the lichened cairn of Maeve.IIFrom many a rocky Leitrim heightO’er Lough Gill’s waters, blue and bright,From where Benbulbinfronts the foam,And sees the Sligo ships put home,Maeve’s hill is like a pharos flame,As is eternally her name!III’Neath azure tides of morning airRipple the waves of Ballysadare[p6]Under where frowning KnocknareaLooks o’er the Rosses far tosea,—Looks far to sea, rememberingMaeve’s loveliness, a vanished thing.IVThe cromlechs, gray with eld, below,Recall the dreams of longago,—The dreams of kern and king, both slaveTo beauty, and the white Queen Maeve;And though she slumbers, deep, so deep,Her golden memory may not sleep!

IThisis the hill of Maeve, the queen,A mighty bulwark of gray-greenWhereon was set, by hands unknown,A rugged monument of stone.The great winds mourn, and sobs the waveBeneath the lichened cairn of Maeve.IIFrom many a rocky Leitrim heightO’er Lough Gill’s waters, blue and bright,From where Benbulbinfronts the foam,And sees the Sligo ships put home,Maeve’s hill is like a pharos flame,As is eternally her name!III’Neath azure tides of morning airRipple the waves of Ballysadare[p6]Under where frowning KnocknareaLooks o’er the Rosses far tosea,—Looks far to sea, rememberingMaeve’s loveliness, a vanished thing.IVThe cromlechs, gray with eld, below,Recall the dreams of longago,—The dreams of kern and king, both slaveTo beauty, and the white Queen Maeve;And though she slumbers, deep, so deep,Her golden memory may not sleep!

Thisis the hill of Maeve, the queen,A mighty bulwark of gray-green

Thisis the hill of Maeve, the queen,

A mighty bulwark of gray-green

Whereon was set, by hands unknown,A rugged monument of stone.

Whereon was set, by hands unknown,

A rugged monument of stone.

The great winds mourn, and sobs the waveBeneath the lichened cairn of Maeve.

The great winds mourn, and sobs the wave

Beneath the lichened cairn of Maeve.

From many a rocky Leitrim heightO’er Lough Gill’s waters, blue and bright,

From many a rocky Leitrim height

O’er Lough Gill’s waters, blue and bright,

From where Benbulbinfronts the foam,And sees the Sligo ships put home,

From where Benbulbinfronts the foam,

And sees the Sligo ships put home,

Maeve’s hill is like a pharos flame,As is eternally her name!

Maeve’s hill is like a pharos flame,

As is eternally her name!

’Neath azure tides of morning airRipple the waves of Ballysadare

’Neath azure tides of morning air

Ripple the waves of Ballysadare

[p6]Under where frowning KnocknareaLooks o’er the Rosses far tosea,—

[p6]Under where frowning Knocknarea

Looks o’er the Rosses far tosea,—

Looks far to sea, rememberingMaeve’s loveliness, a vanished thing.

Looks far to sea, remembering

Maeve’s loveliness, a vanished thing.

The cromlechs, gray with eld, below,Recall the dreams of longago,—

The cromlechs, gray with eld, below,

Recall the dreams of longago,—

The dreams of kern and king, both slaveTo beauty, and the white Queen Maeve;

The dreams of kern and king, both slave

To beauty, and the white Queen Maeve;

And though she slumbers, deep, so deep,Her golden memory may not sleep!

And though she slumbers, deep, so deep,

Her golden memory may not sleep!

[p7]AT KILLYBEGSAtKillybegs above thecragsThe gray gulls pipe with voices thinned,And all the green trees are like flagsThat wave and waver in the wind.At Killybegs about the dunesRustle the crispy grass and whin,And low the long tide croons and croonsAs it creeps out, as it creeps in.At Killybegs the white sails raceWhen the blue sea is like a floor;Like doubt night falls with haggard face;Sometimes the ships return no more.The brown bee drains the cottage flowersOf honey to their crimson dregs,And love hath many happy hours’Twixt birth and death at Killybegs!

AtKillybegs above thecragsThe gray gulls pipe with voices thinned,And all the green trees are like flagsThat wave and waver in the wind.At Killybegs about the dunesRustle the crispy grass and whin,And low the long tide croons and croonsAs it creeps out, as it creeps in.At Killybegs the white sails raceWhen the blue sea is like a floor;Like doubt night falls with haggard face;Sometimes the ships return no more.The brown bee drains the cottage flowersOf honey to their crimson dregs,And love hath many happy hours’Twixt birth and death at Killybegs!

AtKillybegs above thecragsThe gray gulls pipe with voices thinned,And all the green trees are like flagsThat wave and waver in the wind.

AtKillybegs above thecrags

The gray gulls pipe with voices thinned,

And all the green trees are like flags

That wave and waver in the wind.

At Killybegs about the dunesRustle the crispy grass and whin,And low the long tide croons and croonsAs it creeps out, as it creeps in.

At Killybegs about the dunes

Rustle the crispy grass and whin,

And low the long tide croons and croons

As it creeps out, as it creeps in.

At Killybegs the white sails raceWhen the blue sea is like a floor;Like doubt night falls with haggard face;Sometimes the ships return no more.

At Killybegs the white sails race

When the blue sea is like a floor;

Like doubt night falls with haggard face;

Sometimes the ships return no more.

The brown bee drains the cottage flowersOf honey to their crimson dregs,And love hath many happy hours’Twixt birth and death at Killybegs!

The brown bee drains the cottage flowers

Of honey to their crimson dregs,

And love hath many happy hours

’Twixt birth and death at Killybegs!

[p8]THE CRIPPLEIhavedreams of the outer islands,Firths and forths of the Far-Away;I have dreams of the heathery highlandsUnder the golden day.I have dreams of a slidingriver—Shannon—under the stars and sun;I have dreams how the oar-blades quiver,And the silvery salmon run.I have dreams of a blithe lad stridingOut through the streets of Limerick-town;I have dreams of a sweet maid bidingUnder a thatch of brown.But here I lie all huddled and hidden,(Oh, the eternity it seems!)Brooding desolate and bed-ridden,Living only in dreams!

Ihavedreams of the outer islands,Firths and forths of the Far-Away;I have dreams of the heathery highlandsUnder the golden day.I have dreams of a slidingriver—Shannon—under the stars and sun;I have dreams how the oar-blades quiver,And the silvery salmon run.I have dreams of a blithe lad stridingOut through the streets of Limerick-town;I have dreams of a sweet maid bidingUnder a thatch of brown.But here I lie all huddled and hidden,(Oh, the eternity it seems!)Brooding desolate and bed-ridden,Living only in dreams!

Ihavedreams of the outer islands,Firths and forths of the Far-Away;I have dreams of the heathery highlandsUnder the golden day.

Ihavedreams of the outer islands,

Firths and forths of the Far-Away;

I have dreams of the heathery highlands

Under the golden day.

I have dreams of a slidingriver—Shannon—under the stars and sun;I have dreams how the oar-blades quiver,And the silvery salmon run.

I have dreams of a slidingriver—

Shannon—under the stars and sun;

I have dreams how the oar-blades quiver,

And the silvery salmon run.

I have dreams of a blithe lad stridingOut through the streets of Limerick-town;I have dreams of a sweet maid bidingUnder a thatch of brown.

I have dreams of a blithe lad striding

Out through the streets of Limerick-town;

I have dreams of a sweet maid biding

Under a thatch of brown.

But here I lie all huddled and hidden,(Oh, the eternity it seems!)Brooding desolate and bed-ridden,Living only in dreams!

But here I lie all huddled and hidden,

(Oh, the eternity it seems!)

Brooding desolate and bed-ridden,

Living only in dreams!

[p9]AN EXILEIcanremember the plaint of the wind on the moor,Crying at dawning, and crying at shut of the day,And the call of the gulls that is eerie and dreary and dour,And the sound of the surge as it breaks on the beach of the bay.I can remember the thatch of the cot and the byre,And the green of the garth just under the dip of the fells,And the low of the kine, and the settle that stood by the fire,And the reek of the peat, and the redolent heathery smells.And I long for it all though the roses around me are red,And the arch of the sky overhead has bright blue for a lure,And glad were the heart of me, glad, if my feet could but treadThe path, as of old, that led upward and over the moor!

Icanremember the plaint of the wind on the moor,Crying at dawning, and crying at shut of the day,And the call of the gulls that is eerie and dreary and dour,And the sound of the surge as it breaks on the beach of the bay.I can remember the thatch of the cot and the byre,And the green of the garth just under the dip of the fells,And the low of the kine, and the settle that stood by the fire,And the reek of the peat, and the redolent heathery smells.And I long for it all though the roses around me are red,And the arch of the sky overhead has bright blue for a lure,And glad were the heart of me, glad, if my feet could but treadThe path, as of old, that led upward and over the moor!

Icanremember the plaint of the wind on the moor,

Crying at dawning, and crying at shut of the day,

And the call of the gulls that is eerie and dreary and dour,

And the sound of the surge as it breaks on the beach of the bay.

I can remember the thatch of the cot and the byre,And the green of the garth just under the dip of the fells,And the low of the kine, and the settle that stood by the fire,And the reek of the peat, and the redolent heathery smells.

I can remember the thatch of the cot and the byre,

And the green of the garth just under the dip of the fells,

And the low of the kine, and the settle that stood by the fire,

And the reek of the peat, and the redolent heathery smells.

And I long for it all though the roses around me are red,And the arch of the sky overhead has bright blue for a lure,And glad were the heart of me, glad, if my feet could but treadThe path, as of old, that led upward and over the moor!

And I long for it all though the roses around me are red,

And the arch of the sky overhead has bright blue for a lure,

And glad were the heart of me, glad, if my feet could but tread

The path, as of old, that led upward and over the moor!

[p10]ABBEYDORNEYAbbeydorney, Abbeydorney,Long ago thy race was run,Prone thou art ’mid thickets thorny,Shrine of Kyrie Eleison!Scarcely now a wild rose petalThe neglected cloister owns,And the flaunting dock and nettleWave above the chancel stones.Once through Kerry twilights tenderVesper bells their anthems tolled,And ’mid chants, in churchly splendor,Princely abbots were enrolled.Tall Fitz Maurice with his crozier,O’Clonarchy of Lismore,They are less now than the osierSwaying by the Cashen’s shore!Only when the moon is hidden,Only when the moor-winds rave,Eerily arise unbiddenGhostly transept, ghostly nave.[p11]Only when the night grows denserMarch the bent monks one by one,Singing to the sway of censer,Kyrie—Kyrie Eleison!So, amid thy thickets thorny,All thy state and glory seem,Abbeydorney, Abbeydorney,Like a dim and fleeting dream!

Abbeydorney, Abbeydorney,Long ago thy race was run,Prone thou art ’mid thickets thorny,Shrine of Kyrie Eleison!Scarcely now a wild rose petalThe neglected cloister owns,And the flaunting dock and nettleWave above the chancel stones.Once through Kerry twilights tenderVesper bells their anthems tolled,And ’mid chants, in churchly splendor,Princely abbots were enrolled.Tall Fitz Maurice with his crozier,O’Clonarchy of Lismore,They are less now than the osierSwaying by the Cashen’s shore!Only when the moon is hidden,Only when the moor-winds rave,Eerily arise unbiddenGhostly transept, ghostly nave.[p11]Only when the night grows denserMarch the bent monks one by one,Singing to the sway of censer,Kyrie—Kyrie Eleison!So, amid thy thickets thorny,All thy state and glory seem,Abbeydorney, Abbeydorney,Like a dim and fleeting dream!

Abbeydorney, Abbeydorney,Long ago thy race was run,Prone thou art ’mid thickets thorny,Shrine of Kyrie Eleison!

Abbeydorney, Abbeydorney,

Long ago thy race was run,

Prone thou art ’mid thickets thorny,

Shrine of Kyrie Eleison!

Scarcely now a wild rose petalThe neglected cloister owns,And the flaunting dock and nettleWave above the chancel stones.

Scarcely now a wild rose petal

The neglected cloister owns,

And the flaunting dock and nettle

Wave above the chancel stones.

Once through Kerry twilights tenderVesper bells their anthems tolled,And ’mid chants, in churchly splendor,Princely abbots were enrolled.

Once through Kerry twilights tender

Vesper bells their anthems tolled,

And ’mid chants, in churchly splendor,

Princely abbots were enrolled.

Tall Fitz Maurice with his crozier,O’Clonarchy of Lismore,They are less now than the osierSwaying by the Cashen’s shore!

Tall Fitz Maurice with his crozier,

O’Clonarchy of Lismore,

They are less now than the osier

Swaying by the Cashen’s shore!

Only when the moon is hidden,Only when the moor-winds rave,Eerily arise unbiddenGhostly transept, ghostly nave.

Only when the moon is hidden,

Only when the moor-winds rave,

Eerily arise unbidden

Ghostly transept, ghostly nave.

[p11]Only when the night grows denserMarch the bent monks one by one,Singing to the sway of censer,Kyrie—Kyrie Eleison!

[p11]Only when the night grows denser

March the bent monks one by one,

Singing to the sway of censer,

Kyrie—Kyrie Eleison!

So, amid thy thickets thorny,All thy state and glory seem,Abbeydorney, Abbeydorney,Like a dim and fleeting dream!

So, amid thy thickets thorny,

All thy state and glory seem,

Abbeydorney, Abbeydorney,

Like a dim and fleeting dream!

[p12]A SONG FOR JOYCE’S COUNTRYOa songfor Joyce’s Country, where the grim wild mountains be,And the wind wails over the moorland as the wind wails over the sea,Where the new moon’s silver sickle sees little of grain to reap,And the wraith of the mist goes creeping as soft as the feet of sleep!O a song for Joyce’s Country, and the lonely loughs that lie,Wrapt in the cloak of silence, under the great gray sky;For the glens that have held in keeping for more than a thousand springsThe ancient Druid wonders and the secrets of the kings!O a song for Joyce’s Country, and the graves of the mightiest menThat ever had birth in Erin! Will their like e’er come again?Men of the thews of titans, of the strong, unwavering hand,Who wrested a meagre guerdon from the breast of this lean land![p13]O a song for Joyce’s Country, since it haunts one like a dreamThat comes in the dusk ere dawning, ere the first bright sunrise beam;A dream of dolor and vastness, of clouds that are swept and swirledO’er the desolate wastes and waters of a joy-forsaken world!

Oa songfor Joyce’s Country, where the grim wild mountains be,And the wind wails over the moorland as the wind wails over the sea,Where the new moon’s silver sickle sees little of grain to reap,And the wraith of the mist goes creeping as soft as the feet of sleep!O a song for Joyce’s Country, and the lonely loughs that lie,Wrapt in the cloak of silence, under the great gray sky;For the glens that have held in keeping for more than a thousand springsThe ancient Druid wonders and the secrets of the kings!O a song for Joyce’s Country, and the graves of the mightiest menThat ever had birth in Erin! Will their like e’er come again?Men of the thews of titans, of the strong, unwavering hand,Who wrested a meagre guerdon from the breast of this lean land![p13]O a song for Joyce’s Country, since it haunts one like a dreamThat comes in the dusk ere dawning, ere the first bright sunrise beam;A dream of dolor and vastness, of clouds that are swept and swirledO’er the desolate wastes and waters of a joy-forsaken world!

Oa songfor Joyce’s Country, where the grim wild mountains be,

And the wind wails over the moorland as the wind wails over the sea,

Where the new moon’s silver sickle sees little of grain to reap,

And the wraith of the mist goes creeping as soft as the feet of sleep!

O a song for Joyce’s Country, and the lonely loughs that lie,Wrapt in the cloak of silence, under the great gray sky;For the glens that have held in keeping for more than a thousand springsThe ancient Druid wonders and the secrets of the kings!

O a song for Joyce’s Country, and the lonely loughs that lie,

Wrapt in the cloak of silence, under the great gray sky;

For the glens that have held in keeping for more than a thousand springs

The ancient Druid wonders and the secrets of the kings!

O a song for Joyce’s Country, and the graves of the mightiest menThat ever had birth in Erin! Will their like e’er come again?Men of the thews of titans, of the strong, unwavering hand,Who wrested a meagre guerdon from the breast of this lean land!

O a song for Joyce’s Country, and the graves of the mightiest men

That ever had birth in Erin! Will their like e’er come again?

Men of the thews of titans, of the strong, unwavering hand,

Who wrested a meagre guerdon from the breast of this lean land!

[p13]O a song for Joyce’s Country, since it haunts one like a dreamThat comes in the dusk ere dawning, ere the first bright sunrise beam;A dream of dolor and vastness, of clouds that are swept and swirledO’er the desolate wastes and waters of a joy-forsaken world!

[p13]O a song for Joyce’s Country, since it haunts one like a dream

That comes in the dusk ere dawning, ere the first bright sunrise beam;

A dream of dolor and vastness, of clouds that are swept and swirled

O’er the desolate wastes and waters of a joy-forsaken world!

[p14]BALLAD OF PROTESTANT’S LEAPItwas Sir Frederick Hamilton’s menWere hungry for the fray,And it was a son of the bog and fenWould guide them on their way.By the good book an oath he took,This glib and open guide,And so it was over bent and brookThey needs must up and ride.They rode them fast, they rode them far,By day’s last fitful flame,Until, by the light of the evening star,To a heathery slope they came.Then spake the guide, with a glint of pride,With a catch of his breath spake he,“Ye may fall, if over the crest ye ride,On the Irish enemy!“When I drop my cloak by yon stunted oak,Do ye ply the lash and spurs,And there ’ll be no one see another sunOf the popish worshippers!”[p15]He has gone to the crest by the dwarfèd tree,He has crept on foot and hand,And now with a wave his cloak drops heAs a sign to the waiting band.Oh, it ’s ride, Sir Frederick Hamilton’s men,Ye men of ire and brawn,And it ’s smile, ye son of the bog and fen,To see them urge swift on!Did they purge with the sword the Irish camp?Nay, for the story saithThrough the evening dusk, through the evening damp,They rode to a tryst with death.It was over a cliff that was black and sheerTo the vale of fair GlencarThat they plunged with frenzied shrieks of fear’Neath the eye of the mountain star.Oh, it was Sir Frederick Hamilton’s menSet forth to smite and slay,And it was a son of the bog and fenThat guided them on their way!

Itwas Sir Frederick Hamilton’s menWere hungry for the fray,And it was a son of the bog and fenWould guide them on their way.By the good book an oath he took,This glib and open guide,And so it was over bent and brookThey needs must up and ride.They rode them fast, they rode them far,By day’s last fitful flame,Until, by the light of the evening star,To a heathery slope they came.Then spake the guide, with a glint of pride,With a catch of his breath spake he,“Ye may fall, if over the crest ye ride,On the Irish enemy!“When I drop my cloak by yon stunted oak,Do ye ply the lash and spurs,And there ’ll be no one see another sunOf the popish worshippers!”[p15]He has gone to the crest by the dwarfèd tree,He has crept on foot and hand,And now with a wave his cloak drops heAs a sign to the waiting band.Oh, it ’s ride, Sir Frederick Hamilton’s men,Ye men of ire and brawn,And it ’s smile, ye son of the bog and fen,To see them urge swift on!Did they purge with the sword the Irish camp?Nay, for the story saithThrough the evening dusk, through the evening damp,They rode to a tryst with death.It was over a cliff that was black and sheerTo the vale of fair GlencarThat they plunged with frenzied shrieks of fear’Neath the eye of the mountain star.Oh, it was Sir Frederick Hamilton’s menSet forth to smite and slay,And it was a son of the bog and fenThat guided them on their way!

Itwas Sir Frederick Hamilton’s menWere hungry for the fray,And it was a son of the bog and fenWould guide them on their way.

Itwas Sir Frederick Hamilton’s men

Were hungry for the fray,

And it was a son of the bog and fen

Would guide them on their way.

By the good book an oath he took,This glib and open guide,And so it was over bent and brookThey needs must up and ride.

By the good book an oath he took,

This glib and open guide,

And so it was over bent and brook

They needs must up and ride.

They rode them fast, they rode them far,By day’s last fitful flame,Until, by the light of the evening star,To a heathery slope they came.

They rode them fast, they rode them far,

By day’s last fitful flame,

Until, by the light of the evening star,

To a heathery slope they came.

Then spake the guide, with a glint of pride,With a catch of his breath spake he,“Ye may fall, if over the crest ye ride,On the Irish enemy!

Then spake the guide, with a glint of pride,

With a catch of his breath spake he,

“Ye may fall, if over the crest ye ride,

On the Irish enemy!

“When I drop my cloak by yon stunted oak,Do ye ply the lash and spurs,And there ’ll be no one see another sunOf the popish worshippers!”

“When I drop my cloak by yon stunted oak,

Do ye ply the lash and spurs,

And there ’ll be no one see another sun

Of the popish worshippers!”

[p15]He has gone to the crest by the dwarfèd tree,He has crept on foot and hand,And now with a wave his cloak drops heAs a sign to the waiting band.

[p15]He has gone to the crest by the dwarfèd tree,

He has crept on foot and hand,

And now with a wave his cloak drops he

As a sign to the waiting band.

Oh, it ’s ride, Sir Frederick Hamilton’s men,Ye men of ire and brawn,And it ’s smile, ye son of the bog and fen,To see them urge swift on!

Oh, it ’s ride, Sir Frederick Hamilton’s men,

Ye men of ire and brawn,

And it ’s smile, ye son of the bog and fen,

To see them urge swift on!

Did they purge with the sword the Irish camp?Nay, for the story saithThrough the evening dusk, through the evening damp,They rode to a tryst with death.

Did they purge with the sword the Irish camp?

Nay, for the story saith

Through the evening dusk, through the evening damp,

They rode to a tryst with death.

It was over a cliff that was black and sheerTo the vale of fair GlencarThat they plunged with frenzied shrieks of fear’Neath the eye of the mountain star.

It was over a cliff that was black and sheer

To the vale of fair Glencar

That they plunged with frenzied shrieks of fear

’Neath the eye of the mountain star.

Oh, it was Sir Frederick Hamilton’s menSet forth to smite and slay,And it was a son of the bog and fenThat guided them on their way!

Oh, it was Sir Frederick Hamilton’s men

Set forth to smite and slay,

And it was a son of the bog and fen

That guided them on their way!

[p16]ETCHING AT NIGHTIwanderedin the streets ofGalway-town,When night had let her dusky curtains down,And in a doorway, tall and fair and slight,Framed by an inner beam of golden light,Beheld a maiden of madonna face,Pensive and sad, yet with a nameless grace,Presage, I thought, of the unfolding years,That hide some things that are too deep for tears!

Iwanderedin the streets ofGalway-town,When night had let her dusky curtains down,And in a doorway, tall and fair and slight,Framed by an inner beam of golden light,Beheld a maiden of madonna face,Pensive and sad, yet with a nameless grace,Presage, I thought, of the unfolding years,That hide some things that are too deep for tears!

Iwanderedin the streets ofGalway-town,

When night had let her dusky curtains down,

And in a doorway, tall and fair and slight,

Framed by an inner beam of golden light,

Beheld a maiden of madonna face,

Pensive and sad, yet with a nameless grace,

Presage, I thought, of the unfolding years,

That hide some things that are too deep for tears!

[p17]THE SPECTRAL ROWERSWhatis that shimmering line of whiteGliding under the starkmidnight—Gliding—gliding—gliding—gliding—Where the river gleams when the moon is bright?There is never a sound save the night bird’s cry,And the languid water lapsingby—Lapsing—lapsing—lapsing—lapsing—Under the arch of a leaden sky.’T is the winding Garavogue’s spectral crew,Bound for the port of dreams-come-true—Rowing—rowing—rowing—rowing—With a swinging stroke that is firm and true.Do they ever reach their bourn? may be;Yet who can say?—not we!—notwe!—Fading—fading—fading—fading—Ere morn comes over the hills to the sea.’T is so with all of the visions of man,Howe’er he strive and howe’er heplan—Fleeting—fleeting—fleeting—fleeting—For life, alas, is a narrow span!

Whatis that shimmering line of whiteGliding under the starkmidnight—Gliding—gliding—gliding—gliding—Where the river gleams when the moon is bright?There is never a sound save the night bird’s cry,And the languid water lapsingby—Lapsing—lapsing—lapsing—lapsing—Under the arch of a leaden sky.’T is the winding Garavogue’s spectral crew,Bound for the port of dreams-come-true—Rowing—rowing—rowing—rowing—With a swinging stroke that is firm and true.Do they ever reach their bourn? may be;Yet who can say?—not we!—notwe!—Fading—fading—fading—fading—Ere morn comes over the hills to the sea.’T is so with all of the visions of man,Howe’er he strive and howe’er heplan—Fleeting—fleeting—fleeting—fleeting—For life, alas, is a narrow span!

Whatis that shimmering line of whiteGliding under the starkmidnight—Gliding—gliding—gliding—gliding—Where the river gleams when the moon is bright?

Whatis that shimmering line of white

Gliding under the starkmidnight—

Gliding—gliding—gliding—gliding—

Where the river gleams when the moon is bright?

There is never a sound save the night bird’s cry,And the languid water lapsingby—Lapsing—lapsing—lapsing—lapsing—Under the arch of a leaden sky.

There is never a sound save the night bird’s cry,

And the languid water lapsingby—

Lapsing—lapsing—lapsing—lapsing—

Under the arch of a leaden sky.

’T is the winding Garavogue’s spectral crew,Bound for the port of dreams-come-true—Rowing—rowing—rowing—rowing—With a swinging stroke that is firm and true.

’T is the winding Garavogue’s spectral crew,

Bound for the port of dreams-come-true—

Rowing—rowing—rowing—rowing—

With a swinging stroke that is firm and true.

Do they ever reach their bourn? may be;Yet who can say?—not we!—notwe!—Fading—fading—fading—fading—Ere morn comes over the hills to the sea.

Do they ever reach their bourn? may be;

Yet who can say?—not we!—notwe!—

Fading—fading—fading—fading—

Ere morn comes over the hills to the sea.

’T is so with all of the visions of man,Howe’er he strive and howe’er heplan—Fleeting—fleeting—fleeting—fleeting—For life, alas, is a narrow span!

’T is so with all of the visions of man,

Howe’er he strive and howe’er heplan—

Fleeting—fleeting—fleeting—fleeting—

For life, alas, is a narrow span!

[p18]TYRCONNELLTheycrowned TyrconnellOn the rock of Doon;“Hail! hail!” they said,To that anointed head,The henchman all;They led him to the hall;“Hail! hail! Tyrconnell!”How the rafters rang!Clang! clang!How the blades out-sprang,Like shimmering lake-water underneath the moon!They slew TyrconnellOn the rock of Doon;“Traitor!” they said,Of that anointed head,The henchmen allWho haled him from the hall;“Base, base Tyrconnell!”How the scabbardsrang!—Clang! clang!As the blades out-sprang,Like shimmering lake-water underneath the moon!

Theycrowned TyrconnellOn the rock of Doon;“Hail! hail!” they said,To that anointed head,The henchman all;They led him to the hall;“Hail! hail! Tyrconnell!”How the rafters rang!Clang! clang!How the blades out-sprang,Like shimmering lake-water underneath the moon!They slew TyrconnellOn the rock of Doon;“Traitor!” they said,Of that anointed head,The henchmen allWho haled him from the hall;“Base, base Tyrconnell!”How the scabbardsrang!—Clang! clang!As the blades out-sprang,Like shimmering lake-water underneath the moon!

Theycrowned Tyrconnell

On the rock of Doon;

“Hail! hail!” they said,

To that anointed head,

The henchman all;

They led him to the hall;

“Hail! hail! Tyrconnell!”

How the rafters rang!

Clang! clang!

How the blades out-sprang,

Like shimmering lake-water underneath the moon!

They slew TyrconnellOn the rock of Doon;“Traitor!” they said,Of that anointed head,The henchmen allWho haled him from the hall;“Base, base Tyrconnell!”How the scabbardsrang!—Clang! clang!As the blades out-sprang,Like shimmering lake-water underneath the moon!

They slew Tyrconnell

On the rock of Doon;

“Traitor!” they said,

Of that anointed head,

The henchmen all

Who haled him from the hall;

“Base, base Tyrconnell!”

How the scabbardsrang!—

Clang! clang!

As the blades out-sprang,

Like shimmering lake-water underneath the moon!

[p19]THE WAY OF THE CROSSWherethe wild sea-mew flocks and flees,And neither winds nor skies beguile,Foam-set amid the Irish seasIs rugged Skellig Michael isle.Up its escarpments, rough and grim,To its bleak summit rimmed with moss,The monks of old with prayer and hymnHewed out the weary “Way of the Cross.”Gone are these holy toilers—gone;They rest now in their long repose,From the red dusk to the red dawn,’Neath the sea-pinks and tangled rose.But sorrow bides with us and ill,And stress and sacrifice and loss,And we must strive to meet them stillClimbing the weary “Way of the Cross.”

Wherethe wild sea-mew flocks and flees,And neither winds nor skies beguile,Foam-set amid the Irish seasIs rugged Skellig Michael isle.Up its escarpments, rough and grim,To its bleak summit rimmed with moss,The monks of old with prayer and hymnHewed out the weary “Way of the Cross.”Gone are these holy toilers—gone;They rest now in their long repose,From the red dusk to the red dawn,’Neath the sea-pinks and tangled rose.But sorrow bides with us and ill,And stress and sacrifice and loss,And we must strive to meet them stillClimbing the weary “Way of the Cross.”

Wherethe wild sea-mew flocks and flees,And neither winds nor skies beguile,Foam-set amid the Irish seasIs rugged Skellig Michael isle.

Wherethe wild sea-mew flocks and flees,

And neither winds nor skies beguile,

Foam-set amid the Irish seas

Is rugged Skellig Michael isle.

Up its escarpments, rough and grim,To its bleak summit rimmed with moss,The monks of old with prayer and hymnHewed out the weary “Way of the Cross.”

Up its escarpments, rough and grim,

To its bleak summit rimmed with moss,

The monks of old with prayer and hymn

Hewed out the weary “Way of the Cross.”

Gone are these holy toilers—gone;They rest now in their long repose,From the red dusk to the red dawn,’Neath the sea-pinks and tangled rose.

Gone are these holy toilers—gone;

They rest now in their long repose,

From the red dusk to the red dawn,

’Neath the sea-pinks and tangled rose.

But sorrow bides with us and ill,And stress and sacrifice and loss,And we must strive to meet them stillClimbing the weary “Way of the Cross.”

But sorrow bides with us and ill,

And stress and sacrifice and loss,

And we must strive to meet them still

Climbing the weary “Way of the Cross.”

[p20]THE ISLE OF DOOMOutof the mist off Galway shore,Out of the morning mist,Rose the island of Hy BrasailWith its crags of amethyst;Crags of purple and amethyst,And meads of gleaming green,Rose the island of Hy BrasailWith a shimmer of sea between.And what shall come to Galway shore,What shadow of doom prevail,With this fading dream of the mists of morn,This island of Hy Brasail?

Outof the mist off Galway shore,Out of the morning mist,Rose the island of Hy BrasailWith its crags of amethyst;Crags of purple and amethyst,And meads of gleaming green,Rose the island of Hy BrasailWith a shimmer of sea between.And what shall come to Galway shore,What shadow of doom prevail,With this fading dream of the mists of morn,This island of Hy Brasail?

Outof the mist off Galway shore,Out of the morning mist,Rose the island of Hy BrasailWith its crags of amethyst;

Outof the mist off Galway shore,

Out of the morning mist,

Rose the island of Hy Brasail

With its crags of amethyst;

Crags of purple and amethyst,And meads of gleaming green,Rose the island of Hy BrasailWith a shimmer of sea between.

Crags of purple and amethyst,

And meads of gleaming green,

Rose the island of Hy Brasail

With a shimmer of sea between.

And what shall come to Galway shore,What shadow of doom prevail,With this fading dream of the mists of morn,This island of Hy Brasail?

And what shall come to Galway shore,

What shadow of doom prevail,

With this fading dream of the mists of morn,

This island of Hy Brasail?

[p21]DESMONDBythe “Church of the Name” lies Desmond,The body of Desmond lies,And the wind of the east cries “Desmond,”And “Desmond” the west wind cries.And the wind of the south calls “Desmond,”And “Desmond” the north wind calls,As it sweeps round the keep Ardnagreagh,The keep of the crumbling walls.And the dawn wind grieves for Desmond,And “Desmond” the night wind sighs;And where is the head of Desmond,He of the dusk-deep eyes?They buried the body of DesmondHard by the “Church of the Name,”But they hung the head of DesmondHigh o’er the Gate of Shame.Yet he was a brave man, Desmond,A man of a hundred score,So all the winds of the upper air,They mourn for him evermore.

Bythe “Church of the Name” lies Desmond,The body of Desmond lies,And the wind of the east cries “Desmond,”And “Desmond” the west wind cries.And the wind of the south calls “Desmond,”And “Desmond” the north wind calls,As it sweeps round the keep Ardnagreagh,The keep of the crumbling walls.And the dawn wind grieves for Desmond,And “Desmond” the night wind sighs;And where is the head of Desmond,He of the dusk-deep eyes?They buried the body of DesmondHard by the “Church of the Name,”But they hung the head of DesmondHigh o’er the Gate of Shame.Yet he was a brave man, Desmond,A man of a hundred score,So all the winds of the upper air,They mourn for him evermore.

Bythe “Church of the Name” lies Desmond,The body of Desmond lies,And the wind of the east cries “Desmond,”And “Desmond” the west wind cries.

Bythe “Church of the Name” lies Desmond,

The body of Desmond lies,

And the wind of the east cries “Desmond,”

And “Desmond” the west wind cries.

And the wind of the south calls “Desmond,”And “Desmond” the north wind calls,As it sweeps round the keep Ardnagreagh,The keep of the crumbling walls.

And the wind of the south calls “Desmond,”

And “Desmond” the north wind calls,

As it sweeps round the keep Ardnagreagh,

The keep of the crumbling walls.

And the dawn wind grieves for Desmond,And “Desmond” the night wind sighs;And where is the head of Desmond,He of the dusk-deep eyes?

And the dawn wind grieves for Desmond,

And “Desmond” the night wind sighs;

And where is the head of Desmond,

He of the dusk-deep eyes?

They buried the body of DesmondHard by the “Church of the Name,”But they hung the head of DesmondHigh o’er the Gate of Shame.

They buried the body of Desmond

Hard by the “Church of the Name,”

But they hung the head of Desmond

High o’er the Gate of Shame.

Yet he was a brave man, Desmond,A man of a hundred score,So all the winds of the upper air,They mourn for him evermore.

Yet he was a brave man, Desmond,

A man of a hundred score,

So all the winds of the upper air,

They mourn for him evermore.

[p22]THE LITTLE CREEK COONANAOh, the little creek Coonana,How clear it runs and coldWhere “Conn of the hundred battles”Fought in the days of old!Only the long wind dirges,Only the long wind cries,Where the giant KnocknatubberMounts to the vast gray skies.Only the wind and the surgesMoan and moan and moan,But the little creek Coonana,It sings in a merry tone.Only the wind and the surgesHave aught to do with fears;Only the wind and the surgesTell the tale of tears.But the little creek Coonana,It lilteth cheerilyWhere the giant KnocknatubberGlooms on the glooming sea.

Oh, the little creek Coonana,How clear it runs and coldWhere “Conn of the hundred battles”Fought in the days of old!Only the long wind dirges,Only the long wind cries,Where the giant KnocknatubberMounts to the vast gray skies.Only the wind and the surgesMoan and moan and moan,But the little creek Coonana,It sings in a merry tone.Only the wind and the surgesHave aught to do with fears;Only the wind and the surgesTell the tale of tears.But the little creek Coonana,It lilteth cheerilyWhere the giant KnocknatubberGlooms on the glooming sea.

Oh, the little creek Coonana,How clear it runs and coldWhere “Conn of the hundred battles”Fought in the days of old!

Oh, the little creek Coonana,

How clear it runs and cold

Where “Conn of the hundred battles”

Fought in the days of old!

Only the long wind dirges,Only the long wind cries,Where the giant KnocknatubberMounts to the vast gray skies.

Only the long wind dirges,

Only the long wind cries,

Where the giant Knocknatubber

Mounts to the vast gray skies.

Only the wind and the surgesMoan and moan and moan,But the little creek Coonana,It sings in a merry tone.

Only the wind and the surges

Moan and moan and moan,

But the little creek Coonana,

It sings in a merry tone.

Only the wind and the surgesHave aught to do with fears;Only the wind and the surgesTell the tale of tears.

Only the wind and the surges

Have aught to do with fears;

Only the wind and the surges

Tell the tale of tears.

But the little creek Coonana,It lilteth cheerilyWhere the giant KnocknatubberGlooms on the glooming sea.

But the little creek Coonana,

It lilteth cheerily

Where the giant Knocknatubber

Glooms on the glooming sea.

[p23]O’DONNELL ABOOOutof Ulster came O’Donnell,Black O’Donnell and hiscrew,—Kelly, More, Mac Carthy, Connell,Joined the cry—“O’Donnell Aboo!”Woe once more, red woe for Kerry,Blood-drops were as mountain dewWhen that cry so mad, yet merry,Rang and rang—“O’Donnell Aboo!”Gone those sanguine days of slaughter,Sword and matchlock, pike and brand;Peace now o’er the ways of water,Peace o’er all the length of land.Yet sometimes when night is sealingCairn and ruined shrine from view,Down the Kerry glens goes pealingThat wild cry—“O’Donnell Aboo!”

Outof Ulster came O’Donnell,Black O’Donnell and hiscrew,—Kelly, More, Mac Carthy, Connell,Joined the cry—“O’Donnell Aboo!”Woe once more, red woe for Kerry,Blood-drops were as mountain dewWhen that cry so mad, yet merry,Rang and rang—“O’Donnell Aboo!”Gone those sanguine days of slaughter,Sword and matchlock, pike and brand;Peace now o’er the ways of water,Peace o’er all the length of land.Yet sometimes when night is sealingCairn and ruined shrine from view,Down the Kerry glens goes pealingThat wild cry—“O’Donnell Aboo!”

Outof Ulster came O’Donnell,Black O’Donnell and hiscrew,—Kelly, More, Mac Carthy, Connell,Joined the cry—“O’Donnell Aboo!”

Outof Ulster came O’Donnell,

Black O’Donnell and hiscrew,—

Kelly, More, Mac Carthy, Connell,

Joined the cry—“O’Donnell Aboo!”

Woe once more, red woe for Kerry,Blood-drops were as mountain dewWhen that cry so mad, yet merry,Rang and rang—“O’Donnell Aboo!”

Woe once more, red woe for Kerry,

Blood-drops were as mountain dew

When that cry so mad, yet merry,

Rang and rang—“O’Donnell Aboo!”

Gone those sanguine days of slaughter,Sword and matchlock, pike and brand;Peace now o’er the ways of water,Peace o’er all the length of land.

Gone those sanguine days of slaughter,

Sword and matchlock, pike and brand;

Peace now o’er the ways of water,

Peace o’er all the length of land.

Yet sometimes when night is sealingCairn and ruined shrine from view,Down the Kerry glens goes pealingThat wild cry—“O’Donnell Aboo!”

Yet sometimes when night is sealing

Cairn and ruined shrine from view,

Down the Kerry glens goes pealing

That wild cry—“O’Donnell Aboo!”

[p24]NIGHTFALL IN SLIGOIIheardthe bells of Sligo sayThe tranquil requiem of day.I saw the fires of sunset burnDim in the great west’s golden urn.O’er Calvary’s sharp spire afarClear flowered one hyacinthine star.Then mother Night her children hidUnder her purple coverlid.[p25]IIWell can I recall that eve at Sligo,And the vacant arches of the abbeyFraming the ethereal rose of sunset!Round about me silence and gray shadowPeopled with the wraiths of timedeparted,—Monks with back-thrown cowls who pace the cloistersNow deep-mounded, crumbled, clad with ivy.No more from the tower their chimes of silverWill the bells fling o’er the town and river,O’er the Garavogue soft-gliding seaward!Nevermore—save in deep dreams at midnight.Death, the immemorial lord of mortals,He is abbot in the aisles of SligoTill the spheres proclaim the resurrection!

IIheardthe bells of Sligo sayThe tranquil requiem of day.I saw the fires of sunset burnDim in the great west’s golden urn.O’er Calvary’s sharp spire afarClear flowered one hyacinthine star.Then mother Night her children hidUnder her purple coverlid.[p25]IIWell can I recall that eve at Sligo,And the vacant arches of the abbeyFraming the ethereal rose of sunset!Round about me silence and gray shadowPeopled with the wraiths of timedeparted,—Monks with back-thrown cowls who pace the cloistersNow deep-mounded, crumbled, clad with ivy.No more from the tower their chimes of silverWill the bells fling o’er the town and river,O’er the Garavogue soft-gliding seaward!Nevermore—save in deep dreams at midnight.Death, the immemorial lord of mortals,He is abbot in the aisles of SligoTill the spheres proclaim the resurrection!

Iheardthe bells of Sligo sayThe tranquil requiem of day.I saw the fires of sunset burnDim in the great west’s golden urn.O’er Calvary’s sharp spire afarClear flowered one hyacinthine star.Then mother Night her children hidUnder her purple coverlid.

Iheardthe bells of Sligo sayThe tranquil requiem of day.

Iheardthe bells of Sligo say

The tranquil requiem of day.

I saw the fires of sunset burnDim in the great west’s golden urn.

I saw the fires of sunset burn

Dim in the great west’s golden urn.

O’er Calvary’s sharp spire afarClear flowered one hyacinthine star.

O’er Calvary’s sharp spire afar

Clear flowered one hyacinthine star.

Then mother Night her children hidUnder her purple coverlid.

Then mother Night her children hid

Under her purple coverlid.

Well can I recall that eve at Sligo,And the vacant arches of the abbeyFraming the ethereal rose of sunset!Round about me silence and gray shadowPeopled with the wraiths of timedeparted,—Monks with back-thrown cowls who pace the cloistersNow deep-mounded, crumbled, clad with ivy.No more from the tower their chimes of silverWill the bells fling o’er the town and river,O’er the Garavogue soft-gliding seaward!Nevermore—save in deep dreams at midnight.Death, the immemorial lord of mortals,He is abbot in the aisles of SligoTill the spheres proclaim the resurrection!

Well can I recall that eve at Sligo,

And the vacant arches of the abbey

Framing the ethereal rose of sunset!

Round about me silence and gray shadow

Peopled with the wraiths of timedeparted,—

Monks with back-thrown cowls who pace the cloisters

Now deep-mounded, crumbled, clad with ivy.

No more from the tower their chimes of silver

Will the bells fling o’er the town and river,

O’er the Garavogue soft-gliding seaward!

Nevermore—save in deep dreams at midnight.

Death, the immemorial lord of mortals,

He is abbot in the aisles of Sligo

Till the spheres proclaim the resurrection!

Back to Index Next