Lament of the Last Leprechaun
Nora Hopper.
At last the youngest went off in search of the other two, and she took care to carry her mother’s blessing with her. She shared her dinner with the poor woman on the road, andshetold her that she would watch over her.
Well, she got lodging in the same place as the others, and agreed to mind the corpse. She sat up by the fire, with the dog and cat, and amused herself with some apples and nuts the mistress had given her. She thought it a pity that the man under the table was a corpse, he was so handsome.
But at last he got up, and, says he, “All alone, fair maid?” and she wasn’t long about an answer:
All alone I am not,I’ve little dog Douse, and Pussy, my cat;I’ve apples to roast and nuts to crack,And all alone I am not.
“Ho, ho!” says he, “you’re a girl of courage, though you wouldn’t have enough to follow me. I am now going tocross the quaking bog, and go through the burning forest. I must then enter the cave of terror and climb the hill of glass, and drop from the top of it into the Dead Sea.” “I’ll follow you,” says she, “for I engaged to mind you.” He thought to prevent her, but she was stiff as he was stout.
Out he sprang through the window, and she followed him, till they came to the “Green Hills,” and then says he:
“Open, open, Green Hills and let the light of the Green Hills through.”“Aye,” says the girl, “and let the fair maid too.”
They opened, and the man and woman passed through, and there they were on the edge of a bog.
He trod lightly over the shaky bits of moss and sod; and while she was thinking of how she’d get across, the old beggar appeared to her, but much nicer dressed, touched her shoes with a stick, and the soles spread a foot on each side. So she easily got over the shaky marsh. The burning wood was at the edge of the bog, and there the good fairy flung a damp, thick cloak over her, and through the flames she went, and a hair of her head was not singed. Then they passed through the dark cavern of horrors, when she’d have heard the most horrible yells, only that the fairy stopped her ears with wax. She saw frightful things, with blue vapours round them, and felt the sharp rocks and the slimy backs of frogs and snakes.
It was a witch that had a spite to the young man because he wouldn’t marry her, and so she got power to keep him in a state between life and death till a young woman would rescue him by doing what she had done. So, at her request, her sisters got their own shapes again, and were sent back to their mother, with their spades of gold and shovels of silver. Maybe they were better after that, but I doubt it much. The youngest got the young gentleman for her husband. I’m sure she lived happy, and, if they didn’t live happy—that we may!
Patrick Kennedy.
“Well, anyhow, it was Moll Rafferty that was thedilsy. It happened that there was a nate vagabone in the neighbourhood, just as much overburdened wid beauty as herself, and he was named Gusty Gillespie. Gusty was what they call a black-mouth Prosbytarian, and wouldn’t keep Christmas day, except what they call ‘ould style.’ Gusty was rather good-lookin’, when seen in the dark, as well as Moll herself; anyhow, they got attached to each other, and in the end everything was arranged for their marriage.
“Now this was the first marriage that had happened for a long time in the neighbourhood between a Prodestant and a Catholic, and faix, there was one of the bride’s uncles, ould Harry Connolly, a fairyman, who could cure all complaints wid a secret he had, and as he didn’t wish to see his niece married on sich a fellow, he fought bittherly against the match. All Moll’s friends, however, stood up for the marriage, barrin’ him, and, of coorse, the Sunday was appointed, as I said, that they were to be dove-tailed together.
“Well, the day arrived, and Moll, as became her, went to mass, and Gusty to meeting, afther which they were to join one another in Jack Rafferty’s, where the priest, Father Mc. Sorley, was to slip up afther mass to take his dinner wid them, and to keep Misther Mc. Shuttle, who was to marry them, company. Nobody remained at home but ould Jack Rafferty an’ his wife, who stopped to dress the dinner, for, to tell the truth, it was to be a great let-out entirely. Maybe, if all was known, too, Father Mc. Sorley was to give them a cast of his office over and above the ministher, in regard that Moll’s friends were not altogether satisfied at the kind of marriage which Mc. Shuttle could give them. The sorrow may care about that—splice here, splice there—all I can sayis that when Mrs. Rafferty was goin’ to tie up a big bag pudden, in walks Harry Connolly, the fairyman, in a rage, and shouts out, ‘Blood and blunderbushes, what are yez here for?’
“‘Arrah, why, Harry? Why, avick?’
“‘Why, the sun’s in the suds, and the moon in the high Horricks; there’s a clip-stick comin’ on, and there you’re both as unconsarned as if it was about to rain mether. Go out, an’ cross yourselves three times in the name o’ the four Mandromarvins, for as prophecy says:—“Fill the pot, Eddy, supernaculum—a blazing star’s a rare spectaculum.” Go out, both of you, an’ look at the sun, I say, an’ ye’ll see the condition he’s in—off!’
“Begad, sure enough, Jack gave a bounce to the door, and his wife leaped like a two-year-ould, till they were both got on a stile beside the house to see what was wrong in the sky.
“‘Arrah, what is it, Jack?’ says she, ‘can you see anything?’
“‘No,’ says he, ‘sorra the full of my eye of anything I can spy, barrin’ the sun himself, that’s not visible, in regard of the clouds. God guard us! I doubt there’s something to happen.’
“‘If there wasn’t Jack, what’d put Harry, that knows so much, in the state he’s in?’
“‘I doubt it’s this marriage,’ says Jack. ‘Betune ourselves, it’s not over an’ above religious of Moll to marry a black-mouth, an’ only for—; but, it can’t be helped now, though you see it’s not a taste o’ the sun is willin’ to show his face upon it.’
“‘As to that,’ says his wife, winkin’ with both her eyes, ‘if Gusty’s satisfied wid Moll, it’s enough. I know who’llcarry the whip hand, anyhow; but in the manetime let us ax Harry within what ails the sun?’
“Well, they accordianly went in, and put this question to him, ‘Harry, what’s wrong, ahagur? What is it now, for if anybody alive knows ’tis yourself?’
“‘Ah,’ said Harry, screwin’ his mouth wid a kind of a dry smile, ‘the sun has a hard twist o’ the colic; but never mind that, I tell you, you’ll have a merrier weddin’ than you think, that’s all’; and havin’ said this, he put on his hat and left the house.
Now, Harry’s answer relieved them very much, and so, afther callin’ to him to be back for dinner, Jack sat down to take a shough o’ the pipe, and the wife lost no time in tying up the pudden, and puttin’ it in the pot to be boiled.
“In this way things went on well enough for a while, Jack smokin’ away, an’ the wife cookin’ an’ dhressin’ at the rate of a hunt. At last, Jack, while sittin’, as I said, contentedly at the fire, thought he could persave an odd dancin’ kind of motion in the pot that puzzled him a good deal.
“‘Katty,’ says he, ‘what the dickens is in this pot on the fire?’
“‘Nerra thing but the big pudden. Why do you ax?’ says she.
“‘Why,’ says he, ‘if ever a pot tuck it into its head to dance a jig, and this did. Thundher and sparbles, look at it!’
“Begad, and it was thrue enough; there was the pot bobbin’ up an’ down, and from side to side, jiggin’ it awayas merry as a grig; an’ it was quite aisy to see that it wasn’t the pot itself, but what was inside of it, that brought about the hornpipe.
“‘Be the hole o’ my coat,’ shouted Jack, ‘there’s somethin’ alive in it, or it would niver cut sich capers!’
“‘Begorra, there is, Jack; somethin’ sthrange entirely has got into it. Wirra, man alive, what’s to be done?’
“Jist as she spoke the pot seemed to cut the buckle in prime style, and afther a spring that’d shame a dancin’ masther, off flew the lid, and out bounced the pudden itself, hoppin’ as nimble as a pea on a drum-head about the floor. Jack blessed himself, and Katty crossed herself. Jack shouted, and Katty screamed. ‘In the name of goodness, keep your distance; no one here injured you!’
“The pudden, however, made a set at him, and Jack lepped first on a chair, and then on the kitchen table, to avoid it. It then danced towards Katty, who was repatin’ her prayers at the top of her voice, while the cunnin’ thief of a pudden was hoppin’ an’ jiggin’ it around her as if it was amused at her distress.
“‘If I could get the pitchfork,’ says Jack, ‘I’d dale wid it—by goxty, I’d thry its mettle.’
“‘No, no,’ shouted Katty, thinking there was a fairy in it; ‘let us spake it fair. Who knows what harm it might do? Aisy, now,’ says she to the pudden, ‘aisy, dear; don’t harm honest people that never meant to offend you. It wasn’t us—no, in troth, it was ould Harry Connolly that bewitched you; pursuehim, if you wish, but spare a woman like me!’
“The pudden, bedad, seemed to take her at her word, and danced away from her towards Jack, who, like the wife,believin’ there was a fairy in it, an’ that spakin’ it fair was the best plan, thought he would give it a soft word as well as her.
“‘Plase your honour,’ said Jack, ‘she only spaiks the truth, an’ upon my voracity, we both feels much oblaiged to you for your quietness. Faith, it’s quite clear that if you weren’t a gentlemanly pudden, all out, you’d act otherwise. Ould Harry, the rogue, is your mark; he’s jist gone down the road there, and if you go fast you’ll overtake him. Be my song, your dancin’-masther did his duty, anyway. Thank your honour! God speed you, and may you niver meet wid a parson or alderman in your thravels.’
“Jist as Jack spoke, the pudden appeared to take the hint, for it quietly hopped out, and as the house was directly on the roadside, turned down towards the bridge, the very way that ould Harry went. It was very natural, of coorse, that Jack and Katty should go out to see how it intended to thravel, and as the day was Sunday, it was but natural, too, that a greater number of people than usual were passin’ the road. This was a fact; and when Jack and his wife were seen followin’ the pudden, the whole neighbourhood was soon up and afther it.
“‘Jack Rafferty, what is it? Katty, ahagur, will you tell us what it manes?’
“‘Why,’ replied Katty, ‘it’s my big pudden that’s bewitched, an’ it’s out hot foot pursuin’’—here she stopped, not wishin’ to mention her brother’s name—‘someoneor other that surely putpishrogues[3]an it.’
“This was enough; Jack, now seein’ that he had assistance, found his courage comin’ back to him; so says he to Katty,‘Go home,’ says he, ‘an’ lose no time in makin’ another pudden as good, an’ here’s Paddy Scanlan’s wife, Bridget, says she’ll let you boil it on her fire, as you’ll want our own to dress the rest of the dinner; and Paddy himself will lend me a pitchfork for purshuin’ to the morsel of that same pudden will escape, till I let the wind out of it, now that I’ve the neighbours to back an’ support me,’ says Jack.
“This was agreed to, an’ Katty went back to prepare a fresh pudden, while Jack an’ half the townland pursued the other wid spades, graips, pitchforks, scythes, flails, and all possible description of instruments. On the pudden went, however, at the rate of about six Irish miles an hour, an’ sich a chase was never seen. Catholics, Prodestants, and Prosbytarians were all afther it, armed, as I said, an’ bad end to the thing, but its own activity could save it. Here it made a hop, there a prod was made at it; but off it went, and someone, as eager to get a slice at it on the other side, got the prod instead of the pudden. Big Frank Farrell, the miller, of Ballyboulteen, got a prod backwards that brought a hullabulloo out of him that you might hear at the other end of the parish. One got a slice of a scythe, another a whack of a flail, a third a rap of a spade, that made him look nine ways at wanst.
“‘Where is it goin’?’ asked one. ‘My life for you, it’s on its way to Meeting. Three cheers for it, if it turns to Carntaul!’ ‘Prod the sowl out of it if it’s a Prodestan’’ shouted the others; ‘if it turns to the left, slice it into pancakes. We’ll have no Prodestan’ puddens here.’
“Begad, by this time the people were on the point of beginnin’ to have a regular fight about it, when, very fortunately, it took a short turn down a little by-lane that ledtowards the Methodist praychin’-house, an’ in an instant all parties were in an uproar against it as a Methodist pudden. ‘It’s a Wesleyan,’ shouted several voices; ‘an’ by this an’ by that, into a Methodist chapel it won’t put a foot to-day, or we’ll lose a fall. Let the wind out of it. Come, boys, where’s your pitchforks?’
“The divle purshuin’ to the one of them, however, ever could touch the pudden, and jist when they thought they had it up against the gavel of the Methodist chapel, begad, it gave them the slip, and hops over to the left, clane into the river, and sails away before their eyes as light as an egg-shell.
Now, it so happened that a little below this place the desmesne wall of Colonel Bragshaw was built up to the very edge of the river on each side of its banks; and so, findin’ there was a stop put to their pursuit of it, they went home again, every man, woman, and child of them, puzzled to think what the pudden was at all, what it meant, or where it was goin’! Had Jack Rafferty an’ his wife been willin’ to let out the opinion they held about Henry Connolly bewitchin’ it, there is no doubt of it but poor Harry might be badly trated by the crowd, when their blood was up. They had sense enough, howaniver, to keep that to themselves, for Harry bein’ an ould bachelor, was a kind friend to the Raffertys. So, of coorse, there was all kinds of talk about it—some guessin’ this, an’ some guessin’ that—one party sayin’ the pudden was of their side, and another denyin’ it, an’ insisting it belonged to them, an’ so on.
“In the meantime, Katty Rafferty, for ’fraid the dinnermight come short, went home and made another pudden much about the same size as the one that had escaped, an’ bringin’ it over to their next neighbour, Paddy Scanlan’s, it was put into a pot, and placed on the fire to boil, hopin’ that it might be done in time, espishilly as they were to have the ministher, who loved a warm slice of a good pudden as well as e’er a gentleman in Europe.
“Anyhow, the day passed; Moll and Gusty were made man an’ wife, an’ no two could be more lovin’. Their friends that had been asked to the weddin’ were saunterin’ about in pleasant little groups till dinner-time, chattin’ an’ laughin’; but above all things, sthrivin’ to account for the figaries of the pudden; for, to tell the truth, its adventures had now gone through the whole parish.
“Well, at any rate, dinner-time was drawin’ near, and Paddy Scanlan was sittin’ comfortably wid his wife at the fire, the pudden boilin’ before their eyes, when in walks Harry Connolly in a flutter, shoutin’, ‘Blood and blunderbushes, what are yez here for?’
“‘Arrah, why, Harry—why, avick?’ said Mrs. Scanlan.
“‘Why,’ said Harry, ‘the sun’s in the suds, an’ the moon in the high Horricks! Here’s a clipstick comin’ on, an’ there you sit as unconsarned as if it was about to rain mether! Go out, both of you, an’ look at the sun, I say, an’ ye’ll see the condition he’s in—off!’
“‘Ay, but, Harry, what’s that rowled up in the tail of your cothamore (big coat)?’
“‘Out wid yez,’ says Harry, ‘an’ pray aginst the clipstick—the sky’s fallin’!’
“Begad, it was hard to say whether Paddy or the wife got out first, they were so much alarmed by Harry’s wild, thinface and piercin’ eyes; so out they went to see what was wonderful in the sky, an’ kep lookin’ an’ lookin’ in every direction, but not a thing was to be seen, barrin’ the sun shinin’ down wid great good-humour, an’ not a single cloud in the sky.
“Paddy an’ the wife now came in laughin’ to scould Harry, who no doubt was a great wag in his way when he wished. ‘Musha, bad scran to you, Harry——’ and they had time to say no more, howandiver, for, as they were goin’ into the door, they met him comin’ out of it, wid a reek of smoke out of his tail like a lime-kiln.
“‘Harry,’ shouted Bridget, ‘my sowl to glory, but the tail of your cothamore’s afire—you’ll be burned. Don’t you see the smoke that’s out of it?’
Cross yourselves three times,’ said Harry, widout stoppin’ or even lookin’ behind him, ‘for, as the prophecy says, Fill the pot, Eddy——’ They could hear no more, for Harry appeared to feel like a man that carried something a great deal hotter than he wished, as anyone might see by the liveliness of his motions, and the quare faces he was forced to make as he went along.
“‘What the dickens is he carryin’ in the skirts of his big coat?’ asked Paddy.
“‘My sowl to happiness, but maybe he has stolen the pudden,’ said Bridget, ‘for it’s known that many a sthrange thing he does.’
“They immediately examined the pot, but found that the pudden was there, as safe as tuppence, an’ this puzzled them the more to think what it was he could be carryin’ about withhim in the manner he did. But little they knew what he had done while they were sky-gazin’!
“Well, anyhow, the day passed, and the dinner was ready, an’ no doubt but a fine gatherin’ there was to partake of it. The Prosbytarian ministher met the Methodist praycher—a divilish stretcher of an appetite he had, in throth—on their way to Jack Rafferty’s, an’ as he knew he could take the liberty, why, he insisted on his dinin’ wid him; for, afther all, in thim days, the clargy of all descriptions lived upon the best footin’ among one another, not all at one as now—but no matther. Well, they had nearly finished their dinner, when Jack Rafferty himself axed Katty for the pudden; but, jist as he spoke, in it came, as big as a mess-pot.
“‘Gintlemen,’ said he, ‘I hope none of you will refuse tastin’ a bit of Katty’s pudden; I don’t mane the dancin’ one that took to its thravels to-day, but a good solid fellow that she med since.’
To be sure we won’t,’ replied the priest. ‘So, Jack, put a thrifle on them three plates at your right hand, and send them over here to the clargy, an’ maybe,’ he said, laughin’—for he was a droll, good-humoured man—‘maybe, Jack, we won’t set you a proper example.’
“‘Wid a heart an’ a half, your riverence an’ gintlemen; in throth, it’s not a bad example ever any of you set us at the likes, or ever will set us, I’ll go bail. An’ sure, I only wish it was betther fare I had for you; but we’re humble people, gintlemen, an’ so you can’t expect to meet here what you would in higher places.’
“‘Betther a male of herbs,’ said the Methodist praycher, ‘where pace is——’ He had time to get no further, however; for much to his amazement, the priest an’ the ministher started up from the table, jist as he was goin’ to swallow the first mouthful of the pudden, and, before you could say Jack Robinson, started away at a lively jig down the floor.
“At this moment a neighbour’s son came runnin’ in, and tould them that the parson was comin’ to see the new-married couple, an’ wish them all happiness; an’ the words were scarcely out of his mouth when he made his appearance. What to think, he knew not, when he saw the ministher footin’ it away at the rate of a weddin’. He had very little time, however, to think; for, before he could sit down, up starts the Methodist praycher, an’, clappin’ his fists in his sides, chimes in in great style along wid him.
“‘Jack Rafferty,’ says he, and, by the way, Jack was his tenant, ‘what the dickens does all this mane?’ says he; ‘I’m amazed!’
“‘The not a particle o’ me can tell you,’ says Jack; ‘but will your reverence jist taste a morsel o’ pudden, merely that the young couple may boast that you ait at their weddin’; for, sure, ifyouwouldn’t, whowould?’
“‘Well,’ says he, ‘to gratify them, I will; so, just a morsel. But, Jack, this bates Bannagher,’ says he again, puttin’ the spoonful of pudden into his mouth; ‘has there been drink here?’
“‘Oh, the divle a spudh,’ says Jack, ‘for although there’s plenty in the house, faith, it appears the gintlemen wouldn’t wait for it. Unless they tuck it elsewhere, I can make nothin’ o’ this.’
“He had scarcely spoken when the parson, who was anactive man, cut a caper a yard high, an’ before you could bless yourself, the three clargy were hard at work dancin’, as if for a wager. Begad, it would be unpossible for me to tell you the state the whole meetin’ was in when they see this. Some were hoarse wid laughin’; some turned up their eyes wid wondher; many thought them mad; and others thought they had turned up their little fingers a thrifle too often.
“‘Be goxty, it’s a burnin’ shame,’ said one, ‘to see three black-mouth clargy in sich a state at this early hour!’ ‘Thundher an’ ounze, what’s over them at all?’ says others; ‘why, one would think they were bewitched. Holy Moses, look at the caper the Methodist cuts! An’ as for the Recthor, who would think he could handle his feet at sich a rate! Be this, an’ be that, he cuts the buckle, an’ does the threblin’ step aiquil to Paddy Horaghan, the dancin’-masther himself! An’ see! Bad cess to the morsel of the parson that’s not too hard atPeace upon a trancher, and it upon a Sunday, too! Whirroo, gintlemen, the fun’s in yez, afther all—whish! more power to yez!’
The sorra’s own fun they had, an’ no wondher; but judge of what they felt when all at once they saw ould Jack Rafferty himself bouncin’ in among them, an’ footin’ it away like the best of them. Bedad, no play could come up to it, an’ nothin’ could be heard but laughin’, shouts of encouragement, an’ clappin’ of hands like mad. Now, the minute Jack Rafferty left the chair, where he had been carvin’ the pudden, ould Harry Connolly come over and claps himself down in his place, in ordher to sent it round, of coorse; an’ he was scarcely satedwhen who should make his appearance but Barney Hartigan, the piper. Barney, by the way, had been sent for early in the day, but bein’ from home when the message for him went, he couldn’t come any sooner.
“‘Begorra,’ says Barney, ‘you’re airly at the work gintlemen! But what does this mane? But divle may care, yez shan’t want the music, while there’s a blast in the pipes, anyhow!’ So sayin’ he gave themJig Polthogue, and afther that,Kiss My Lady, in his best style.
In the manetime the fun went on thick and threefold, for it must be remembered that Harry, the ould knave, was at the pudden; an’ maybe, he didn’t sarve it about in double-quick time, too! The first he helped was the bride, and before you could say chopstick she was at it hard and fast, before the Methodist praycher, who gave a jolly spring before her that threw them into convulsions. Harry liked this, and made up his mind soon to find partners for the rest; so he accordianly sent the pudden about like lightnin’; an’, to make a long story short, barrin’ the piper an’ himself, there wasn’t a pair of heels in the house but was as busy at the dancin’ as if their lives depended on it.
“‘Barney,’ says Harry, ‘jist taste a morsel o’ this pudden; divle the sich a bully of a pudden ever you ett. Here, your sowl! thry a snig of it—it’s beautiful!’
“‘To be sure I will,’ says Barney. ‘I’m not the boy to refuse a good thing. But, Harry, be quick, for you know my hands is engaged, an’ it would be a thousand pities not to keep them in music, an’ they so well inclined. Thankyou, Harry. Begad, that is a fine pudden. But, blood an’ turnips! what’s this for?’
“The word was scarcely out of his mouth when he bounced up, pipes an’ all, and dashed into the middle of the party. ‘Hurroo! your sowls, let us make a night of it! The Ballyboulteen boys for ever! Go it, your reverence!—turn your partner—heel an’ toe, ministher. Good! Well done, again! Whish! Hurroo! Here’s for Ballyboulteen, an’ the sky over it!’
“Bad luck to sich a set ever was seen together in this world, or will again, I suppose. The worst, however, wasn’t come yet, for jist as they were in the very heat an’ fury of the dance, what do you think comes hoppin’ in among them but another pudden, as nimble an’ merry as the first! That was enough; they had all heard of it—the ministhers among the rest—an’ most of them had seen the other pudden, an’ knew that there must be a fairy in it, sure enough. Well, as I said, in it comes to the thick o’ them; but the very appearance of it was enough. Off the three clargy danced, and off the whole weddiners danced afther them, everyone makin’ the best of their way home; but not a sowl of them able to break out of the step, if they were to be hanged for it. Throth, it wouldn’t lave a laff in you to see the parson dancin’ down the road on his way home, and the ministher and Methodist praycher cuttin’ the buckle as they went along in the opposite direction. To make short work of it, they all danced home at last wid scarce a puff of wind in them; the bride an’ bridegroom danced away to bed; an’ now, boys, come an’ let us dance theHoro Lheigin the barn widout. But, you see, boys, before we go, and in order to make everything plain, I had as good tell you that Harry, in crossin’ the bridge ofBallyboulteen, a couple o’ miles between Squire Bragshaw’s demesne wall, saw the pudden floatin’ down the river—the truth is, he was waitin’ for it; but, be this as it may, he took it out, for the wather had made it as clane as a new pin, an’ tuckin’ it up in the tail of his big coat, contrived to bewitch it in the same manner by gettin’ a fairy to get into it, for, indeed, it was purty well known that the same Harry was hand an’ glove wid thegood people. Others will tell you that it was half a pound of quicksilver he put into it, but that doesn’t stand to raison. At any rate, boys, I have tould you the adventures of the Mad Pudden of Ballyboulteen; but I don’t wish to tell you many other things about it that happened—for ’fraid I’d tell a lie!”
William Carleton.
And we came to the isle in the ocean, and there on the shore was he.But a sudden blast blew us out and away through a boundless sea.And we came to the Silent Isle that we never had touched before,Where a silent ocean always broke on a silent shore,And the brooks glittered on in the light without sound, and the long waterfallsPoured in a thunderless plunge to the base of the mountain walls,And the poplar and cypress unshaken by storm flourished up beyond sightAnd the pine shot aloft from the crag to an unbelievable height,And high in the heaven above it there flickered a songless lark,And the cock couldn’t crow, and the bull couldn’t low, and the dog couldn’t bark.And round it we went, and thro’ it, but never a murmur, a breath,It was all of it fair as life, it was all of it quiet as death,And we hated the beautiful Isle, for whenever we strove to speakOur voices were thinner and fainter than any flittermouse shriek;And the men that were mighty of tongue, and could raise such a battle-cryThat a hundred who heard it would rush on a thousand lances and die—Oh, they to be dumb’d by the charm!—so fluster’d with anger were theyThey almost fell on each other; but, after, we sailed away.And we came to the Isle of Shouting, we landed, a score of wild birdsCried from the topmost summit with human voices and words;Once in an hour they cried, and whenever their voices peal’dThe steer fell down at the plough and the harvest died from the field,And the men dropt dead in the valleys and half of the cattle went lame,And the roof sank in on the hearth, and the dwelling broke into flame;And the shouting of these wild birds ran into the hearts of my crew,Till they shouted along with the shouting, and seized one another and slew;But I drew them the one from the other; I saw that we could not stay,And we left the dead to the birds and we sail’d with our wounded away.And we came to the Isle of Flowers, their breath met us out on the seas,For the Spring and the middle Summer sat each on the lap of the breeze;And the red passion-flower to the cliffs, and the dark-blue clematis clungAnd starr’d with a myriad blossom, the long convolvulus hung;And the topmost spire of the mountain was lilies in lieu of snow,And the lilies like glaciers winded down, running out belowThro’ the fire of the tulip and poppy, the blaze of gorse, and the blushOf millions of roses that sprang without leaf or thorn from the bush;And the whole isle-side flashing down from the peak without ever a treeSwept like a torrent of gems from the sky to the blue of the sea;And we roll’d upon capes of crocus and vaunted our kith and kin,And we wallowed in beds of lilies, and chanted the triumph of Finn,Till each like a golden image was pollen’d from head to feetAnd each was as dry as a cricket, with thirst in the middle-day heat.Blossom, and blossom, and promise of blossom, but never a fruit!And we hated the Flowering Isle, as we hated the isle that was mute,And we tore up the flowers by the million and flung them in bight and bay.And we left but a naked rock, and in anger we sail’d away.And we came to the Isle of Fruits: all round from the cliffs and the capes,Purple or amber dangled a hundred fathom of grapes,And the warm melon lay, like a little sun, on the tawny sand,And the fig ran up from the beach, and rioted over the land,And the mountain arose, like a jewelled throne thro’ the fragrant air,Glowing with all-coloured plums, and with golden masses of pear,And the crimson and scarlet of berries that flamed upon bine and vine,But in every berry and fruit was the poisonous pleasure of wine:And the peak of the mountain was apples, the hugest that ever were seen,And they prest, as they grew, on each other, with hardly a leaflet between.And all of them redder than rosiest health, or than utterest shame,And setting, when Even descended, the very sunset aflame.And we stay’d three days, and we gorged and we madden’d till everyone drewHis sword on his fellow to slay him, and ever they struck and they slew;And myself I had eaten but sparsely, and fought till I sunder’d the fray,Then I bade them remember my father’s death, and we sail’d away.And we came to the Isle of Fire: we were lured by the light from afar,For the peak sent up one league of fire to the Northern Star;Lured by the glare and the blare, but scarcely could stand upright,For the whole isle shudder’d and shook, like a man in a mortal affright;We were giddy, besides, with the fruits we had gorged, and so crazed that at last,There were some leap’d into the fire; and away we sail’d, and we pastOver that undersea isle, where the water is clearer than air:Down we look’d: what a garden! Oh, bliss, what a Paradise there!Towers of a happier time, low down in a rainbow deepSilent palaces, quiet fields of eternal sleep!And three of the gentlest and best of my people, whate’er I could say,Plunged head down in the sea, and the Paradise trembled away.And we came to the Bounteous Isle, where the heavens lean low on the land,And ever at dawn from the cloud glitter’d o’er us a sun-bright hand,Then it opened, and dropped at the side of each man, as he rose from his rest,Bread enough for his need till the labourless day dipt under the West;And we wandered about it, and thro’ it. Oh, never was time so good!And we sang of the triumphs of Finn, and the boast of our ancient blood,And we gazed at the wandering wave, as we sat by the gurgle of springs,And we chanted the songs of the Bards and the glories of fairy kings;But at length we began to be weary, to sigh, and to stretch and yawn,Till we hated the Bounteous Isle, and the sun-bright hand of the dawn,For there was not an enemy near, but the whole green isle was our own,And we took to playing at ball, and we took to throwing the stone,And we took to playing at battle, but that was a perilous play,For the passion of battle was in us, we slew and we sail’d away.And we passed to the Isle of Witches, and heard their musical cry—“Come to us, Oh, come, come,” in the stormy red of a skyDashing the fires and the shadows of dawn on the beautiful shapes,For a wild witch, naked as heaven, stood on each of the loftiest capes,And a hundred ranged on the rocks, like white sea-birds in a row,And a hundred gambled and pranced on the wrecks in the sand below,And a hundred splashed from the ledges, and bosomed the burst of the spray.But I knew we should fall on each other, and hastily sail’d away.
And we came to the isle in the ocean, and there on the shore was he.But a sudden blast blew us out and away through a boundless sea.And we came to the Silent Isle that we never had touched before,Where a silent ocean always broke on a silent shore,And the brooks glittered on in the light without sound, and the long waterfallsPoured in a thunderless plunge to the base of the mountain walls,And the poplar and cypress unshaken by storm flourished up beyond sightAnd the pine shot aloft from the crag to an unbelievable height,And high in the heaven above it there flickered a songless lark,And the cock couldn’t crow, and the bull couldn’t low, and the dog couldn’t bark.And round it we went, and thro’ it, but never a murmur, a breath,It was all of it fair as life, it was all of it quiet as death,And we hated the beautiful Isle, for whenever we strove to speakOur voices were thinner and fainter than any flittermouse shriek;And the men that were mighty of tongue, and could raise such a battle-cryThat a hundred who heard it would rush on a thousand lances and die—Oh, they to be dumb’d by the charm!—so fluster’d with anger were theyThey almost fell on each other; but, after, we sailed away.And we came to the Isle of Shouting, we landed, a score of wild birdsCried from the topmost summit with human voices and words;Once in an hour they cried, and whenever their voices peal’dThe steer fell down at the plough and the harvest died from the field,And the men dropt dead in the valleys and half of the cattle went lame,And the roof sank in on the hearth, and the dwelling broke into flame;And the shouting of these wild birds ran into the hearts of my crew,Till they shouted along with the shouting, and seized one another and slew;But I drew them the one from the other; I saw that we could not stay,And we left the dead to the birds and we sail’d with our wounded away.And we came to the Isle of Flowers, their breath met us out on the seas,For the Spring and the middle Summer sat each on the lap of the breeze;And the red passion-flower to the cliffs, and the dark-blue clematis clungAnd starr’d with a myriad blossom, the long convolvulus hung;And the topmost spire of the mountain was lilies in lieu of snow,And the lilies like glaciers winded down, running out belowThro’ the fire of the tulip and poppy, the blaze of gorse, and the blushOf millions of roses that sprang without leaf or thorn from the bush;And the whole isle-side flashing down from the peak without ever a treeSwept like a torrent of gems from the sky to the blue of the sea;And we roll’d upon capes of crocus and vaunted our kith and kin,And we wallowed in beds of lilies, and chanted the triumph of Finn,Till each like a golden image was pollen’d from head to feetAnd each was as dry as a cricket, with thirst in the middle-day heat.Blossom, and blossom, and promise of blossom, but never a fruit!And we hated the Flowering Isle, as we hated the isle that was mute,And we tore up the flowers by the million and flung them in bight and bay.And we left but a naked rock, and in anger we sail’d away.And we came to the Isle of Fruits: all round from the cliffs and the capes,Purple or amber dangled a hundred fathom of grapes,And the warm melon lay, like a little sun, on the tawny sand,And the fig ran up from the beach, and rioted over the land,And the mountain arose, like a jewelled throne thro’ the fragrant air,Glowing with all-coloured plums, and with golden masses of pear,And the crimson and scarlet of berries that flamed upon bine and vine,But in every berry and fruit was the poisonous pleasure of wine:And the peak of the mountain was apples, the hugest that ever were seen,And they prest, as they grew, on each other, with hardly a leaflet between.And all of them redder than rosiest health, or than utterest shame,And setting, when Even descended, the very sunset aflame.And we stay’d three days, and we gorged and we madden’d till everyone drewHis sword on his fellow to slay him, and ever they struck and they slew;And myself I had eaten but sparsely, and fought till I sunder’d the fray,Then I bade them remember my father’s death, and we sail’d away.And we came to the Isle of Fire: we were lured by the light from afar,For the peak sent up one league of fire to the Northern Star;Lured by the glare and the blare, but scarcely could stand upright,For the whole isle shudder’d and shook, like a man in a mortal affright;We were giddy, besides, with the fruits we had gorged, and so crazed that at last,There were some leap’d into the fire; and away we sail’d, and we pastOver that undersea isle, where the water is clearer than air:Down we look’d: what a garden! Oh, bliss, what a Paradise there!Towers of a happier time, low down in a rainbow deepSilent palaces, quiet fields of eternal sleep!And three of the gentlest and best of my people, whate’er I could say,Plunged head down in the sea, and the Paradise trembled away.And we came to the Bounteous Isle, where the heavens lean low on the land,And ever at dawn from the cloud glitter’d o’er us a sun-bright hand,Then it opened, and dropped at the side of each man, as he rose from his rest,Bread enough for his need till the labourless day dipt under the West;And we wandered about it, and thro’ it. Oh, never was time so good!And we sang of the triumphs of Finn, and the boast of our ancient blood,And we gazed at the wandering wave, as we sat by the gurgle of springs,And we chanted the songs of the Bards and the glories of fairy kings;But at length we began to be weary, to sigh, and to stretch and yawn,Till we hated the Bounteous Isle, and the sun-bright hand of the dawn,For there was not an enemy near, but the whole green isle was our own,And we took to playing at ball, and we took to throwing the stone,And we took to playing at battle, but that was a perilous play,For the passion of battle was in us, we slew and we sail’d away.And we passed to the Isle of Witches, and heard their musical cry—“Come to us, Oh, come, come,” in the stormy red of a skyDashing the fires and the shadows of dawn on the beautiful shapes,For a wild witch, naked as heaven, stood on each of the loftiest capes,And a hundred ranged on the rocks, like white sea-birds in a row,And a hundred gambled and pranced on the wrecks in the sand below,And a hundred splashed from the ledges, and bosomed the burst of the spray.But I knew we should fall on each other, and hastily sail’d away.