BY A WONDROUS MYSTERYBy a wondrous mysteryChrist of Mary’s fair bodyUpon a middle winter’s morn,Between the tides of night and day,In Ara’s holy isle was born.Mary went upon her kneeTravailing in ecstasy,And Brigid, mistress of the birth,Full reverently and tenderlyLaid the child upon the earth.Then the dark-eyed rose did blow,And rivers leaped from out the snow.Earth grew lyrical: the grass,As the light winds chanced to pass—Than magian music more profound—Murmured in a maze of sound.White incense rose upon the hillsAs from a thousand thuribles,And in the east a seven-rayed starProclaimed the news to near and far.The shepherd danced, the gilly ran,The boatman left his curachan;The king came riding on the windTo offer gifts of coin and kind;The druid dropped his ogham wand,And said, “Another day’s at hand,A newer dawn is in the sky:I put my withered sapling by.The druid Christ has taken breathTo sing the runes of life and death.”
By a wondrous mysteryChrist of Mary’s fair bodyUpon a middle winter’s morn,Between the tides of night and day,In Ara’s holy isle was born.Mary went upon her kneeTravailing in ecstasy,And Brigid, mistress of the birth,Full reverently and tenderlyLaid the child upon the earth.Then the dark-eyed rose did blow,And rivers leaped from out the snow.Earth grew lyrical: the grass,As the light winds chanced to pass—Than magian music more profound—Murmured in a maze of sound.White incense rose upon the hillsAs from a thousand thuribles,And in the east a seven-rayed starProclaimed the news to near and far.The shepherd danced, the gilly ran,The boatman left his curachan;The king came riding on the windTo offer gifts of coin and kind;The druid dropped his ogham wand,And said, “Another day’s at hand,A newer dawn is in the sky:I put my withered sapling by.The druid Christ has taken breathTo sing the runes of life and death.”
By a wondrous mysteryChrist of Mary’s fair bodyUpon a middle winter’s morn,Between the tides of night and day,In Ara’s holy isle was born.Mary went upon her kneeTravailing in ecstasy,And Brigid, mistress of the birth,Full reverently and tenderlyLaid the child upon the earth.Then the dark-eyed rose did blow,And rivers leaped from out the snow.Earth grew lyrical: the grass,As the light winds chanced to pass—Than magian music more profound—Murmured in a maze of sound.White incense rose upon the hillsAs from a thousand thuribles,And in the east a seven-rayed starProclaimed the news to near and far.The shepherd danced, the gilly ran,The boatman left his curachan;The king came riding on the windTo offer gifts of coin and kind;The druid dropped his ogham wand,And said, “Another day’s at hand,A newer dawn is in the sky:I put my withered sapling by.The druid Christ has taken breathTo sing the runes of life and death.”
By a wondrous mystery
Christ of Mary’s fair body
Upon a middle winter’s morn,
Between the tides of night and day,
In Ara’s holy isle was born.
Mary went upon her knee
Travailing in ecstasy,
And Brigid, mistress of the birth,
Full reverently and tenderly
Laid the child upon the earth.
Then the dark-eyed rose did blow,
And rivers leaped from out the snow.
Earth grew lyrical: the grass,
As the light winds chanced to pass—
Than magian music more profound—
Murmured in a maze of sound.
White incense rose upon the hills
As from a thousand thuribles,
And in the east a seven-rayed star
Proclaimed the news to near and far.
The shepherd danced, the gilly ran,
The boatman left his curachan;
The king came riding on the wind
To offer gifts of coin and kind;
The druid dropped his ogham wand,
And said, “Another day’s at hand,
A newer dawn is in the sky:
I put my withered sapling by.
The druid Christ has taken breath
To sing the runes of life and death.”
I GATHER THREE EARS OF CORNI gather three ears of corn,And the Black Earl from over the seaSails across in his silver ships,And takes two out of the three.I might build a house on the hillAnd a barn of the speckly stone,And tell my little stocking of gold,If the Earl would let me alone.But he has no thought for me—Only the thought of his share,And the softness of the linsey shiftsHis lazy daughters wear.There is a God in heaven,And angels, score on score,Who will not see my hearthstone coldBecause I’m crazed and poor.My childer have my blood,And when they get their beardsThey will not be content to runAs gillies to their herds!The day will come, maybe,When we can have our own,And the Black Earl will come to usBegging the bacach’s bone!
I gather three ears of corn,And the Black Earl from over the seaSails across in his silver ships,And takes two out of the three.I might build a house on the hillAnd a barn of the speckly stone,And tell my little stocking of gold,If the Earl would let me alone.But he has no thought for me—Only the thought of his share,And the softness of the linsey shiftsHis lazy daughters wear.There is a God in heaven,And angels, score on score,Who will not see my hearthstone coldBecause I’m crazed and poor.My childer have my blood,And when they get their beardsThey will not be content to runAs gillies to their herds!The day will come, maybe,When we can have our own,And the Black Earl will come to usBegging the bacach’s bone!
I gather three ears of corn,And the Black Earl from over the seaSails across in his silver ships,And takes two out of the three.
I gather three ears of corn,
And the Black Earl from over the sea
Sails across in his silver ships,
And takes two out of the three.
I might build a house on the hillAnd a barn of the speckly stone,And tell my little stocking of gold,If the Earl would let me alone.
I might build a house on the hill
And a barn of the speckly stone,
And tell my little stocking of gold,
If the Earl would let me alone.
But he has no thought for me—Only the thought of his share,And the softness of the linsey shiftsHis lazy daughters wear.
But he has no thought for me—
Only the thought of his share,
And the softness of the linsey shifts
His lazy daughters wear.
There is a God in heaven,And angels, score on score,Who will not see my hearthstone coldBecause I’m crazed and poor.
There is a God in heaven,
And angels, score on score,
Who will not see my hearthstone cold
Because I’m crazed and poor.
My childer have my blood,And when they get their beardsThey will not be content to runAs gillies to their herds!
My childer have my blood,
And when they get their beards
They will not be content to run
As gillies to their herds!
The day will come, maybe,When we can have our own,And the Black Earl will come to usBegging the bacach’s bone!
The day will come, maybe,
When we can have our own,
And the Black Earl will come to us
Begging the bacach’s bone!
THE TINKERS“Oneciarogknows anotherciarog,And why shouldn’t I know you, you rogue?”“They say a stroller will never pairExcept with one of his kind and care . . .”So talked two tinkers prone in the shough—And then, as the fun got a trifle rough,They flitted: he with his corn-straw bass,She with her load of tin and brass:As mad a match as you would seeIn a twelvemonth’s ride thro’ Christendie.He roared—they both were drunk as hell:She danced, and danced it mighty well!I could have eyed them longer, butThey staggered for the Quarry Cut:That half-perch seemed to trouble them moreThan all the leagues they’d tramped before.Some’ll drink at the fair the morrow,And some’ll sup with the spoon of sorrow;But whetherthey’ll get as far as DroichidThe night—well, who knows that but God?
“Oneciarogknows anotherciarog,And why shouldn’t I know you, you rogue?”“They say a stroller will never pairExcept with one of his kind and care . . .”So talked two tinkers prone in the shough—And then, as the fun got a trifle rough,They flitted: he with his corn-straw bass,She with her load of tin and brass:As mad a match as you would seeIn a twelvemonth’s ride thro’ Christendie.He roared—they both were drunk as hell:She danced, and danced it mighty well!I could have eyed them longer, butThey staggered for the Quarry Cut:That half-perch seemed to trouble them moreThan all the leagues they’d tramped before.Some’ll drink at the fair the morrow,And some’ll sup with the spoon of sorrow;But whetherthey’ll get as far as DroichidThe night—well, who knows that but God?
“Oneciarogknows anotherciarog,And why shouldn’t I know you, you rogue?”“They say a stroller will never pairExcept with one of his kind and care . . .”So talked two tinkers prone in the shough—And then, as the fun got a trifle rough,They flitted: he with his corn-straw bass,She with her load of tin and brass:As mad a match as you would seeIn a twelvemonth’s ride thro’ Christendie.He roared—they both were drunk as hell:She danced, and danced it mighty well!I could have eyed them longer, butThey staggered for the Quarry Cut:That half-perch seemed to trouble them moreThan all the leagues they’d tramped before.Some’ll drink at the fair the morrow,And some’ll sup with the spoon of sorrow;But whetherthey’ll get as far as DroichidThe night—well, who knows that but God?
“Oneciarogknows anotherciarog,
And why shouldn’t I know you, you rogue?”
“They say a stroller will never pair
Except with one of his kind and care . . .”
So talked two tinkers prone in the shough—
And then, as the fun got a trifle rough,
They flitted: he with his corn-straw bass,
She with her load of tin and brass:
As mad a match as you would see
In a twelvemonth’s ride thro’ Christendie.
He roared—they both were drunk as hell:
She danced, and danced it mighty well!
I could have eyed them longer, but
They staggered for the Quarry Cut:
That half-perch seemed to trouble them more
Than all the leagues they’d tramped before.
Some’ll drink at the fair the morrow,
And some’ll sup with the spoon of sorrow;
But whetherthey’ll get as far as Droichid
The night—well, who knows that but God?
AS I CAME OVER THE GREY, GREY HILLSAs I came over the grey, grey hillsAnd over the grey, grey water,I saw the gilly leading on,And the white Christ following after.Where and where does the gilly lead?And where is the white Christ faring?They’ve travelled the four grey sounds of Orc,And the four grey seas of Eirinn.The moon it set and the wind’s away,And the song in the grass is dying,And a silver cloud on the silent seaLike a shrouding sheet is lying.But Christ and the gilly will follow onTill the ring in the east is showing,And the awny corn is red on the hills,And the golden light is glowing!
As I came over the grey, grey hillsAnd over the grey, grey water,I saw the gilly leading on,And the white Christ following after.Where and where does the gilly lead?And where is the white Christ faring?They’ve travelled the four grey sounds of Orc,And the four grey seas of Eirinn.The moon it set and the wind’s away,And the song in the grass is dying,And a silver cloud on the silent seaLike a shrouding sheet is lying.But Christ and the gilly will follow onTill the ring in the east is showing,And the awny corn is red on the hills,And the golden light is glowing!
As I came over the grey, grey hillsAnd over the grey, grey water,I saw the gilly leading on,And the white Christ following after.
As I came over the grey, grey hills
And over the grey, grey water,
I saw the gilly leading on,
And the white Christ following after.
Where and where does the gilly lead?And where is the white Christ faring?They’ve travelled the four grey sounds of Orc,And the four grey seas of Eirinn.
Where and where does the gilly lead?
And where is the white Christ faring?
They’ve travelled the four grey sounds of Orc,
And the four grey seas of Eirinn.
The moon it set and the wind’s away,And the song in the grass is dying,And a silver cloud on the silent seaLike a shrouding sheet is lying.
The moon it set and the wind’s away,
And the song in the grass is dying,
And a silver cloud on the silent sea
Like a shrouding sheet is lying.
But Christ and the gilly will follow onTill the ring in the east is showing,And the awny corn is red on the hills,And the golden light is glowing!
But Christ and the gilly will follow on
Till the ring in the east is showing,
And the awny corn is red on the hills,
And the golden light is glowing!
A NORTHERN LOVE-SONGBrigidin Ban of the lint-white locks,What was it gave you that flaxen hair,Long as the summer heath in the rocks?What was it gave you those eyes of fire,Lip so waxen and cheek so wan?Tell me, tell me, Brigidin Ban,Little white bride of my heart’s desire.Was it the Good People stole you away,Little white changeling, Brigidin Ban?Carried you off in the ring of the dawn,Laid like a queen on her purple car,Carried you back ’twixt the night and the day;Gave you that fortune of flaxen hair,Gave you those eyes of wandering fire,Lit at the wheel of the southern star;Gave you that look so far away,Lip so waxen and cheek so wan?Tell me, tell me, Brigidin Ban,Little white bride of my heart’s desire.
Brigidin Ban of the lint-white locks,What was it gave you that flaxen hair,Long as the summer heath in the rocks?What was it gave you those eyes of fire,Lip so waxen and cheek so wan?Tell me, tell me, Brigidin Ban,Little white bride of my heart’s desire.Was it the Good People stole you away,Little white changeling, Brigidin Ban?Carried you off in the ring of the dawn,Laid like a queen on her purple car,Carried you back ’twixt the night and the day;Gave you that fortune of flaxen hair,Gave you those eyes of wandering fire,Lit at the wheel of the southern star;Gave you that look so far away,Lip so waxen and cheek so wan?Tell me, tell me, Brigidin Ban,Little white bride of my heart’s desire.
Brigidin Ban of the lint-white locks,What was it gave you that flaxen hair,Long as the summer heath in the rocks?What was it gave you those eyes of fire,Lip so waxen and cheek so wan?Tell me, tell me, Brigidin Ban,Little white bride of my heart’s desire.
Brigidin Ban of the lint-white locks,
What was it gave you that flaxen hair,
Long as the summer heath in the rocks?
What was it gave you those eyes of fire,
Lip so waxen and cheek so wan?
Tell me, tell me, Brigidin Ban,
Little white bride of my heart’s desire.
Was it the Good People stole you away,Little white changeling, Brigidin Ban?Carried you off in the ring of the dawn,Laid like a queen on her purple car,Carried you back ’twixt the night and the day;Gave you that fortune of flaxen hair,Gave you those eyes of wandering fire,Lit at the wheel of the southern star;Gave you that look so far away,Lip so waxen and cheek so wan?Tell me, tell me, Brigidin Ban,Little white bride of my heart’s desire.
Was it the Good People stole you away,
Little white changeling, Brigidin Ban?
Carried you off in the ring of the dawn,
Laid like a queen on her purple car,
Carried you back ’twixt the night and the day;
Gave you that fortune of flaxen hair,
Gave you those eyes of wandering fire,
Lit at the wheel of the southern star;
Gave you that look so far away,
Lip so waxen and cheek so wan?
Tell me, tell me, Brigidin Ban,
Little white bride of my heart’s desire.
TO THE GOLDEN EAGLEWanderer of the mountain,Winger of the blue,From this stormy rockI send my love to you.Take me for your lover,Dark and fierce and true—Wanderer of the mountain,Winger of the blue!
Wanderer of the mountain,Winger of the blue,From this stormy rockI send my love to you.Take me for your lover,Dark and fierce and true—Wanderer of the mountain,Winger of the blue!
Wanderer of the mountain,Winger of the blue,From this stormy rockI send my love to you.
Wanderer of the mountain,
Winger of the blue,
From this stormy rock
I send my love to you.
Take me for your lover,Dark and fierce and true—Wanderer of the mountain,Winger of the blue!
Take me for your lover,
Dark and fierce and true—
Wanderer of the mountain,
Winger of the blue!
A PROPHECY“The loins of the GalldachtShall wither like grass”—Strange words I heard saidAt the Fair of Dun-eas.“A bard shall be bornOf the seed of the folk,To break with his singingThe bond and the yoke.“A sword, white as ashes,Shall fall from the sky,To rise, red as blood,On the charge and the cry.“Stark pipers shall blow,Stout drummers shall beat,And the shout of the northShall be heard in the street.“The strong shall go down,And the weak shall prevail,And a glory shall sitOn the sign of the Gaodhal.“Then Emer shall comeIn good time by her own,And a man of the peopleShall speak from the throne.”Strange words I heard saidAt the Fair of Dun-eas—“The Gaodhaldacht shall live,The Galldacht shall pass!”
“The loins of the GalldachtShall wither like grass”—Strange words I heard saidAt the Fair of Dun-eas.“A bard shall be bornOf the seed of the folk,To break with his singingThe bond and the yoke.“A sword, white as ashes,Shall fall from the sky,To rise, red as blood,On the charge and the cry.“Stark pipers shall blow,Stout drummers shall beat,And the shout of the northShall be heard in the street.“The strong shall go down,And the weak shall prevail,And a glory shall sitOn the sign of the Gaodhal.“Then Emer shall comeIn good time by her own,And a man of the peopleShall speak from the throne.”Strange words I heard saidAt the Fair of Dun-eas—“The Gaodhaldacht shall live,The Galldacht shall pass!”
“The loins of the GalldachtShall wither like grass”—Strange words I heard saidAt the Fair of Dun-eas.
“The loins of the Galldacht
Shall wither like grass”—
Strange words I heard said
At the Fair of Dun-eas.
“A bard shall be bornOf the seed of the folk,To break with his singingThe bond and the yoke.
“A bard shall be born
Of the seed of the folk,
To break with his singing
The bond and the yoke.
“A sword, white as ashes,Shall fall from the sky,To rise, red as blood,On the charge and the cry.
“A sword, white as ashes,
Shall fall from the sky,
To rise, red as blood,
On the charge and the cry.
“Stark pipers shall blow,Stout drummers shall beat,And the shout of the northShall be heard in the street.
“Stark pipers shall blow,
Stout drummers shall beat,
And the shout of the north
Shall be heard in the street.
“The strong shall go down,And the weak shall prevail,And a glory shall sitOn the sign of the Gaodhal.
“The strong shall go down,
And the weak shall prevail,
And a glory shall sit
On the sign of the Gaodhal.
“Then Emer shall comeIn good time by her own,And a man of the peopleShall speak from the throne.”
“Then Emer shall come
In good time by her own,
And a man of the people
Shall speak from the throne.”
Strange words I heard saidAt the Fair of Dun-eas—“The Gaodhaldacht shall live,The Galldacht shall pass!”
Strange words I heard said
At the Fair of Dun-eas—
“The Gaodhaldacht shall live,
The Galldacht shall pass!”
I MET A WALKING-MANI met a walking-man;His head was old and grey.I gave him what I hadTo crutch him on his way.The man was Mary’s Son, I’ll swear;A glory trembled in his hair!And since that blessed dayI’ve never known the pinch:I plough a broad townland,And dig a river-inch;And on my hearth the fire is brightFor all that walk by day or night.
I met a walking-man;His head was old and grey.I gave him what I hadTo crutch him on his way.The man was Mary’s Son, I’ll swear;A glory trembled in his hair!And since that blessed dayI’ve never known the pinch:I plough a broad townland,And dig a river-inch;And on my hearth the fire is brightFor all that walk by day or night.
I met a walking-man;His head was old and grey.I gave him what I hadTo crutch him on his way.The man was Mary’s Son, I’ll swear;A glory trembled in his hair!
I met a walking-man;
His head was old and grey.
I gave him what I had
To crutch him on his way.
The man was Mary’s Son, I’ll swear;
A glory trembled in his hair!
And since that blessed dayI’ve never known the pinch:I plough a broad townland,And dig a river-inch;And on my hearth the fire is brightFor all that walk by day or night.
And since that blessed day
I’ve never known the pinch:
I plough a broad townland,
And dig a river-inch;
And on my hearth the fire is bright
For all that walk by day or night.
THE NINEPENNY FIDILMy father and mother were Irish,And I am Irish, too;I bought a wee fidil for ninepence,And it is Irish, too.I’m up in the morning earlyTo meet the dawn of day,And to the lintwhite’s pipingThe many’s the tune I play.One pleasant eve in June timeI met a lochrie-man:His face and hands were weazen,His height was not a span.He boor’d me for my fidil—“You know,” says he, “like you,My father and mother were Irish,And I am Irish, too!”He took my wee red fidil,And such a tune he turned—The Glaise in it whispered,The Lionan in it m’urned.Says he, “My lad, you’re lucky—I wish t’ I was like you:You’re lucky in your birth-star,And in your fidil, too!”He gave me back my fidil,My fidil-stick, also,And stepping like a mayboy,He jumped the Leargaidh Knowe.I never saw him after,Nor met his gentle kind;But, whiles, I think I hear himA-wheening in the wind!My father and mother were Irish,And I am Irish, too:I bought a wee fidil for ninepence,And it is Irish, too.I’m up in the morning earlyTo meet the dawn of day,And to the lintwhite’s pipingThe many’s the tune I play.
My father and mother were Irish,And I am Irish, too;I bought a wee fidil for ninepence,And it is Irish, too.I’m up in the morning earlyTo meet the dawn of day,And to the lintwhite’s pipingThe many’s the tune I play.One pleasant eve in June timeI met a lochrie-man:His face and hands were weazen,His height was not a span.He boor’d me for my fidil—“You know,” says he, “like you,My father and mother were Irish,And I am Irish, too!”He took my wee red fidil,And such a tune he turned—The Glaise in it whispered,The Lionan in it m’urned.Says he, “My lad, you’re lucky—I wish t’ I was like you:You’re lucky in your birth-star,And in your fidil, too!”He gave me back my fidil,My fidil-stick, also,And stepping like a mayboy,He jumped the Leargaidh Knowe.I never saw him after,Nor met his gentle kind;But, whiles, I think I hear himA-wheening in the wind!My father and mother were Irish,And I am Irish, too:I bought a wee fidil for ninepence,And it is Irish, too.I’m up in the morning earlyTo meet the dawn of day,And to the lintwhite’s pipingThe many’s the tune I play.
My father and mother were Irish,And I am Irish, too;I bought a wee fidil for ninepence,And it is Irish, too.I’m up in the morning earlyTo meet the dawn of day,And to the lintwhite’s pipingThe many’s the tune I play.
My father and mother were Irish,
And I am Irish, too;
I bought a wee fidil for ninepence,
And it is Irish, too.
I’m up in the morning early
To meet the dawn of day,
And to the lintwhite’s piping
The many’s the tune I play.
One pleasant eve in June timeI met a lochrie-man:His face and hands were weazen,His height was not a span.He boor’d me for my fidil—“You know,” says he, “like you,My father and mother were Irish,And I am Irish, too!”
One pleasant eve in June time
I met a lochrie-man:
His face and hands were weazen,
His height was not a span.
He boor’d me for my fidil—
“You know,” says he, “like you,
My father and mother were Irish,
And I am Irish, too!”
He took my wee red fidil,And such a tune he turned—The Glaise in it whispered,The Lionan in it m’urned.Says he, “My lad, you’re lucky—I wish t’ I was like you:You’re lucky in your birth-star,And in your fidil, too!”
He took my wee red fidil,
And such a tune he turned—
The Glaise in it whispered,
The Lionan in it m’urned.
Says he, “My lad, you’re lucky—
I wish t’ I was like you:
You’re lucky in your birth-star,
And in your fidil, too!”
He gave me back my fidil,My fidil-stick, also,And stepping like a mayboy,He jumped the Leargaidh Knowe.I never saw him after,Nor met his gentle kind;But, whiles, I think I hear himA-wheening in the wind!
He gave me back my fidil,
My fidil-stick, also,
And stepping like a mayboy,
He jumped the Leargaidh Knowe.
I never saw him after,
Nor met his gentle kind;
But, whiles, I think I hear him
A-wheening in the wind!
My father and mother were Irish,And I am Irish, too:I bought a wee fidil for ninepence,And it is Irish, too.I’m up in the morning earlyTo meet the dawn of day,And to the lintwhite’s pipingThe many’s the tune I play.
My father and mother were Irish,
And I am Irish, too:
I bought a wee fidil for ninepence,
And it is Irish, too.
I’m up in the morning early
To meet the dawn of day,
And to the lintwhite’s piping
The many’s the tune I play.
GRASSLANDS ARE FAIRGrasslands are fair,Ploughlands are rare.Grasslands are lonely,Ploughlands are comely.Grasslands breed cattle,Ploughlands feed people.Grasslands are not wrought,Ploughlands swell with thought.
Grasslands are fair,Ploughlands are rare.Grasslands are lonely,Ploughlands are comely.Grasslands breed cattle,Ploughlands feed people.Grasslands are not wrought,Ploughlands swell with thought.
Grasslands are fair,Ploughlands are rare.Grasslands are lonely,Ploughlands are comely.Grasslands breed cattle,Ploughlands feed people.Grasslands are not wrought,Ploughlands swell with thought.
Grasslands are fair,
Ploughlands are rare.
Grasslands are lonely,
Ploughlands are comely.
Grasslands breed cattle,
Ploughlands feed people.
Grasslands are not wrought,
Ploughlands swell with thought.
WINTER SONG’Twould skin a fairyIt is so airy,And the snow it nips so cold:Shepherd and squireSit by the fire,The sheep are in the fold.You have your wish—A reeking dish,And rubble walls about;So pity the poorThat have no doorTo keep the winter out!
’Twould skin a fairyIt is so airy,And the snow it nips so cold:Shepherd and squireSit by the fire,The sheep are in the fold.You have your wish—A reeking dish,And rubble walls about;So pity the poorThat have no doorTo keep the winter out!
’Twould skin a fairyIt is so airy,And the snow it nips so cold:Shepherd and squireSit by the fire,The sheep are in the fold.
’Twould skin a fairy
It is so airy,
And the snow it nips so cold:
Shepherd and squire
Sit by the fire,
The sheep are in the fold.
You have your wish—A reeking dish,And rubble walls about;So pity the poorThat have no doorTo keep the winter out!
You have your wish—
A reeking dish,
And rubble walls about;
So pity the poor
That have no door
To keep the winter out!
I FOLLOW A STARI follow a starBurning deep in the blue,A sign on the hillsLit for me and for you!Moon-red is the star,Halo-ringed like a rood,Christ’s heart in its heart set,Streaming with blood.Follow the gillyBeyond to the west:He leads where the Christ liesOn Mary’s white breast.King, priest and prophet—A child, and no more—Adonai the Maker!Come, let us adore.
I follow a starBurning deep in the blue,A sign on the hillsLit for me and for you!Moon-red is the star,Halo-ringed like a rood,Christ’s heart in its heart set,Streaming with blood.Follow the gillyBeyond to the west:He leads where the Christ liesOn Mary’s white breast.King, priest and prophet—A child, and no more—Adonai the Maker!Come, let us adore.
I follow a starBurning deep in the blue,A sign on the hillsLit for me and for you!
I follow a star
Burning deep in the blue,
A sign on the hills
Lit for me and for you!
Moon-red is the star,Halo-ringed like a rood,Christ’s heart in its heart set,Streaming with blood.
Moon-red is the star,
Halo-ringed like a rood,
Christ’s heart in its heart set,
Streaming with blood.
Follow the gillyBeyond to the west:He leads where the Christ liesOn Mary’s white breast.
Follow the gilly
Beyond to the west:
He leads where the Christ lies
On Mary’s white breast.
King, priest and prophet—A child, and no more—Adonai the Maker!Come, let us adore.
King, priest and prophet—
A child, and no more—
Adonai the Maker!
Come, let us adore.
THE SILENCE OF UNLABOURED FIELDSThe silence of unlaboured fieldsLies like a judgment on the air:A human voice is never heard:The sighing grass is everywhere—The sighing grass, the shadowed sky,The cattle crying wearily!Where are the lowland people gone?Where are the sun-dark faces now?The love that kept the quiet hearth,The strength that held the speeding plough?Grasslands and lowing herds are good,But better human flesh and blood!
The silence of unlaboured fieldsLies like a judgment on the air:A human voice is never heard:The sighing grass is everywhere—The sighing grass, the shadowed sky,The cattle crying wearily!Where are the lowland people gone?Where are the sun-dark faces now?The love that kept the quiet hearth,The strength that held the speeding plough?Grasslands and lowing herds are good,But better human flesh and blood!
The silence of unlaboured fieldsLies like a judgment on the air:A human voice is never heard:The sighing grass is everywhere—The sighing grass, the shadowed sky,The cattle crying wearily!
The silence of unlaboured fields
Lies like a judgment on the air:
A human voice is never heard:
The sighing grass is everywhere—
The sighing grass, the shadowed sky,
The cattle crying wearily!
Where are the lowland people gone?Where are the sun-dark faces now?The love that kept the quiet hearth,The strength that held the speeding plough?Grasslands and lowing herds are good,But better human flesh and blood!
Where are the lowland people gone?
Where are the sun-dark faces now?
The love that kept the quiet hearth,
The strength that held the speeding plough?
Grasslands and lowing herds are good,
But better human flesh and blood!
THE BEGGAR’S WAKEI watched at a beggar’s wakeIn the hills of Bearna-barr,And the old men were telling storiesOf Troy and the Trojan war.And a flickering fire of bog-dealBurned on the open hearth,And the night-wind roared in the chimney,And darkness was over the earth.And Tearlach Ban MacGiolla,The piper of Gort, was there,And he sat and he dreamed apartIn the arms of a sugan chair.And sudden he woke from his dreamLike a dream-frightened child,And his lips were pale and trembling,And his eyes were wild.And he stood straight up, and he cried,With a wave of his withered hand,“The days of the grasping strangerShall be few in the land!“The scrip of his doom is written,The thread of his shroud is spun;The net of his strength is broken,The tide of his life is run. . . .”Then he sank to his seat like a stone,And the watchers stared aghast,And they crossed themselves for fearAs the coffin cart went past.. . . . . . . .“At the battle of Gleann-muic-duibhThe fate the poets foretoldShall fall on the neck of the stranger,And redden the plashy mould.“The bagmen carry the storyThe circuit of Ireland round,And they sing it at fair and hurlingFrom Edair to Acaill Sound.“And the folk repeat it overAbout the winter fires,Till the heart of each one listeningIs burning with fierce desires.“In the Glen of the Bristleless BoarThey say the battle shall be,Where Breiffne’s iron mountainsLook on the Western sea.“In the Glen of the Pig of Diarmad,On Gulban’s hither side,The battle shall be brokenAbout the Samhain tide.“Forth from the ancient hills,With war-cries strident and loud,The people shall march at daybreak,Massed in a clamorous crowd.“War-pipes shall scream and cry,And battle-banners shall wave,And every stone on GulbanShall mark a hero’s grave.“The horses shall wade to their houghsIn rivers of smoking blood,Charging thro’ heaps of corpsesScattered in whinny and wood.“The girths shall rot from their belliesAfter the battle is done,For lack of a hand to undo themAnd hide them out of the sun.“It shall not be the battleBetween the folk and the SidheAt the rape of a bride from her bedOr a babe from its mother’s knee.“It shall not be the battleBetween the white hosts flyingAnd the shrieking devils of hellFor a priest at the point of dying.“It shall not be the battleBetween the sun and the leaves,Between the winter and summer,Between the storm and the sheaves.“But a battle to doom and deathBetween the Gael and the Gall,Between the sword of lightAnd the shield of darkness and thrall.“And the Gael shall have the masteryAfter a month of days,And the lakes of the west shall cry,And the hills of the north shall blaze.“And the neck of the fair-haired GallShall be as a stool for the feetOf Ciaran, chief of the Gael,Sitting in Emer’s seat!”—. . . . . . . .At this MacGiolla fainted,Tearing his yellow hair,And the young men cursed the stranger,And the old men mouthed a prayer.For they knew the day would come,As sure as the piper said,When many loves would be parted,And many graves would be red.And the wake broke up in tumult,And the women were left alone,Keening over the beggarThat died at Gobnat’s Stone.
I watched at a beggar’s wakeIn the hills of Bearna-barr,And the old men were telling storiesOf Troy and the Trojan war.And a flickering fire of bog-dealBurned on the open hearth,And the night-wind roared in the chimney,And darkness was over the earth.And Tearlach Ban MacGiolla,The piper of Gort, was there,And he sat and he dreamed apartIn the arms of a sugan chair.And sudden he woke from his dreamLike a dream-frightened child,And his lips were pale and trembling,And his eyes were wild.And he stood straight up, and he cried,With a wave of his withered hand,“The days of the grasping strangerShall be few in the land!“The scrip of his doom is written,The thread of his shroud is spun;The net of his strength is broken,The tide of his life is run. . . .”Then he sank to his seat like a stone,And the watchers stared aghast,And they crossed themselves for fearAs the coffin cart went past.. . . . . . . .“At the battle of Gleann-muic-duibhThe fate the poets foretoldShall fall on the neck of the stranger,And redden the plashy mould.“The bagmen carry the storyThe circuit of Ireland round,And they sing it at fair and hurlingFrom Edair to Acaill Sound.“And the folk repeat it overAbout the winter fires,Till the heart of each one listeningIs burning with fierce desires.“In the Glen of the Bristleless BoarThey say the battle shall be,Where Breiffne’s iron mountainsLook on the Western sea.“In the Glen of the Pig of Diarmad,On Gulban’s hither side,The battle shall be brokenAbout the Samhain tide.“Forth from the ancient hills,With war-cries strident and loud,The people shall march at daybreak,Massed in a clamorous crowd.“War-pipes shall scream and cry,And battle-banners shall wave,And every stone on GulbanShall mark a hero’s grave.“The horses shall wade to their houghsIn rivers of smoking blood,Charging thro’ heaps of corpsesScattered in whinny and wood.“The girths shall rot from their belliesAfter the battle is done,For lack of a hand to undo themAnd hide them out of the sun.“It shall not be the battleBetween the folk and the SidheAt the rape of a bride from her bedOr a babe from its mother’s knee.“It shall not be the battleBetween the white hosts flyingAnd the shrieking devils of hellFor a priest at the point of dying.“It shall not be the battleBetween the sun and the leaves,Between the winter and summer,Between the storm and the sheaves.“But a battle to doom and deathBetween the Gael and the Gall,Between the sword of lightAnd the shield of darkness and thrall.“And the Gael shall have the masteryAfter a month of days,And the lakes of the west shall cry,And the hills of the north shall blaze.“And the neck of the fair-haired GallShall be as a stool for the feetOf Ciaran, chief of the Gael,Sitting in Emer’s seat!”—. . . . . . . .At this MacGiolla fainted,Tearing his yellow hair,And the young men cursed the stranger,And the old men mouthed a prayer.For they knew the day would come,As sure as the piper said,When many loves would be parted,And many graves would be red.And the wake broke up in tumult,And the women were left alone,Keening over the beggarThat died at Gobnat’s Stone.
I watched at a beggar’s wakeIn the hills of Bearna-barr,And the old men were telling storiesOf Troy and the Trojan war.
I watched at a beggar’s wake
In the hills of Bearna-barr,
And the old men were telling stories
Of Troy and the Trojan war.
And a flickering fire of bog-dealBurned on the open hearth,And the night-wind roared in the chimney,And darkness was over the earth.
And a flickering fire of bog-deal
Burned on the open hearth,
And the night-wind roared in the chimney,
And darkness was over the earth.
And Tearlach Ban MacGiolla,The piper of Gort, was there,And he sat and he dreamed apartIn the arms of a sugan chair.
And Tearlach Ban MacGiolla,
The piper of Gort, was there,
And he sat and he dreamed apart
In the arms of a sugan chair.
And sudden he woke from his dreamLike a dream-frightened child,And his lips were pale and trembling,And his eyes were wild.
And sudden he woke from his dream
Like a dream-frightened child,
And his lips were pale and trembling,
And his eyes were wild.
And he stood straight up, and he cried,With a wave of his withered hand,“The days of the grasping strangerShall be few in the land!
And he stood straight up, and he cried,
With a wave of his withered hand,
“The days of the grasping stranger
Shall be few in the land!
“The scrip of his doom is written,The thread of his shroud is spun;The net of his strength is broken,The tide of his life is run. . . .”
“The scrip of his doom is written,
The thread of his shroud is spun;
The net of his strength is broken,
The tide of his life is run. . . .”
Then he sank to his seat like a stone,And the watchers stared aghast,And they crossed themselves for fearAs the coffin cart went past.
Then he sank to his seat like a stone,
And the watchers stared aghast,
And they crossed themselves for fear
As the coffin cart went past.
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
“At the battle of Gleann-muic-duibhThe fate the poets foretoldShall fall on the neck of the stranger,And redden the plashy mould.
“At the battle of Gleann-muic-duibh
The fate the poets foretold
Shall fall on the neck of the stranger,
And redden the plashy mould.
“The bagmen carry the storyThe circuit of Ireland round,And they sing it at fair and hurlingFrom Edair to Acaill Sound.
“The bagmen carry the story
The circuit of Ireland round,
And they sing it at fair and hurling
From Edair to Acaill Sound.
“And the folk repeat it overAbout the winter fires,Till the heart of each one listeningIs burning with fierce desires.
“And the folk repeat it over
About the winter fires,
Till the heart of each one listening
Is burning with fierce desires.
“In the Glen of the Bristleless BoarThey say the battle shall be,Where Breiffne’s iron mountainsLook on the Western sea.
“In the Glen of the Bristleless Boar
They say the battle shall be,
Where Breiffne’s iron mountains
Look on the Western sea.
“In the Glen of the Pig of Diarmad,On Gulban’s hither side,The battle shall be brokenAbout the Samhain tide.
“In the Glen of the Pig of Diarmad,
On Gulban’s hither side,
The battle shall be broken
About the Samhain tide.
“Forth from the ancient hills,With war-cries strident and loud,The people shall march at daybreak,Massed in a clamorous crowd.
“Forth from the ancient hills,
With war-cries strident and loud,
The people shall march at daybreak,
Massed in a clamorous crowd.
“War-pipes shall scream and cry,And battle-banners shall wave,And every stone on GulbanShall mark a hero’s grave.
“War-pipes shall scream and cry,
And battle-banners shall wave,
And every stone on Gulban
Shall mark a hero’s grave.
“The horses shall wade to their houghsIn rivers of smoking blood,Charging thro’ heaps of corpsesScattered in whinny and wood.
“The horses shall wade to their houghs
In rivers of smoking blood,
Charging thro’ heaps of corpses
Scattered in whinny and wood.
“The girths shall rot from their belliesAfter the battle is done,For lack of a hand to undo themAnd hide them out of the sun.
“The girths shall rot from their bellies
After the battle is done,
For lack of a hand to undo them
And hide them out of the sun.
“It shall not be the battleBetween the folk and the SidheAt the rape of a bride from her bedOr a babe from its mother’s knee.
“It shall not be the battle
Between the folk and the Sidhe
At the rape of a bride from her bed
Or a babe from its mother’s knee.
“It shall not be the battleBetween the white hosts flyingAnd the shrieking devils of hellFor a priest at the point of dying.
“It shall not be the battle
Between the white hosts flying
And the shrieking devils of hell
For a priest at the point of dying.
“It shall not be the battleBetween the sun and the leaves,Between the winter and summer,Between the storm and the sheaves.
“It shall not be the battle
Between the sun and the leaves,
Between the winter and summer,
Between the storm and the sheaves.
“But a battle to doom and deathBetween the Gael and the Gall,Between the sword of lightAnd the shield of darkness and thrall.
“But a battle to doom and death
Between the Gael and the Gall,
Between the sword of light
And the shield of darkness and thrall.
“And the Gael shall have the masteryAfter a month of days,And the lakes of the west shall cry,And the hills of the north shall blaze.
“And the Gael shall have the mastery
After a month of days,
And the lakes of the west shall cry,
And the hills of the north shall blaze.
“And the neck of the fair-haired GallShall be as a stool for the feetOf Ciaran, chief of the Gael,Sitting in Emer’s seat!”—
“And the neck of the fair-haired Gall
Shall be as a stool for the feet
Of Ciaran, chief of the Gael,
Sitting in Emer’s seat!”—
. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . .
At this MacGiolla fainted,Tearing his yellow hair,And the young men cursed the stranger,And the old men mouthed a prayer.
At this MacGiolla fainted,
Tearing his yellow hair,
And the young men cursed the stranger,
And the old men mouthed a prayer.
For they knew the day would come,As sure as the piper said,When many loves would be parted,And many graves would be red.
For they knew the day would come,
As sure as the piper said,
When many loves would be parted,
And many graves would be red.
And the wake broke up in tumult,And the women were left alone,Keening over the beggarThat died at Gobnat’s Stone.
And the wake broke up in tumult,
And the women were left alone,
Keening over the beggar
That died at Gobnat’s Stone.
THE BESOM-MANDid you see Paidin,Paidin, the besom-man,Last night as you came byOver the mountain?A barth of new heatherHe bore on his shoulder,And a bundle of whitlow-grassUnder his oxter.I spied him as he passedBeyond the carn head,But no eye saw himAt the hill foot after.What has come over him?The women are saying.What can have crossedPaidin, the besom-man?The bogholes he knewAs the curlews know them,And the rabbits’ pads,And the derelict quarries.He was humming a tune—The “Enchanted Valley”—As he passed me westwardBeyond the carn.I stood and I listened,For his singing was strange:It rang in my earsThe long night after.What has come overPaidin, the besom-man?What can have crossed him?The women keep saying.They talk of the fairies—And, God forgive me,Paidin knewthemLike his prayers!Will you fetch wordUp to the cross-roadsIf you see track of him,Living or dead?The boys are loafingWithout game or caper;And the dark piperIs gone home with the birds.
Did you see Paidin,Paidin, the besom-man,Last night as you came byOver the mountain?A barth of new heatherHe bore on his shoulder,And a bundle of whitlow-grassUnder his oxter.I spied him as he passedBeyond the carn head,But no eye saw himAt the hill foot after.What has come over him?The women are saying.What can have crossedPaidin, the besom-man?The bogholes he knewAs the curlews know them,And the rabbits’ pads,And the derelict quarries.He was humming a tune—The “Enchanted Valley”—As he passed me westwardBeyond the carn.I stood and I listened,For his singing was strange:It rang in my earsThe long night after.What has come overPaidin, the besom-man?What can have crossed him?The women keep saying.They talk of the fairies—And, God forgive me,Paidin knewthemLike his prayers!Will you fetch wordUp to the cross-roadsIf you see track of him,Living or dead?The boys are loafingWithout game or caper;And the dark piperIs gone home with the birds.
Did you see Paidin,Paidin, the besom-man,Last night as you came byOver the mountain?
Did you see Paidin,
Paidin, the besom-man,
Last night as you came by
Over the mountain?
A barth of new heatherHe bore on his shoulder,And a bundle of whitlow-grassUnder his oxter.
A barth of new heather
He bore on his shoulder,
And a bundle of whitlow-grass
Under his oxter.
I spied him as he passedBeyond the carn head,But no eye saw himAt the hill foot after.
I spied him as he passed
Beyond the carn head,
But no eye saw him
At the hill foot after.
What has come over him?The women are saying.What can have crossedPaidin, the besom-man?
What has come over him?
The women are saying.
What can have crossed
Paidin, the besom-man?
The bogholes he knewAs the curlews know them,And the rabbits’ pads,And the derelict quarries.
The bogholes he knew
As the curlews know them,
And the rabbits’ pads,
And the derelict quarries.
He was humming a tune—The “Enchanted Valley”—As he passed me westwardBeyond the carn.
He was humming a tune—
The “Enchanted Valley”—
As he passed me westward
Beyond the carn.
I stood and I listened,For his singing was strange:It rang in my earsThe long night after.
I stood and I listened,
For his singing was strange:
It rang in my ears
The long night after.
What has come overPaidin, the besom-man?What can have crossed him?The women keep saying.
What has come over
Paidin, the besom-man?
What can have crossed him?
The women keep saying.
They talk of the fairies—And, God forgive me,Paidin knewthemLike his prayers!
They talk of the fairies—
And, God forgive me,
Paidin knewthem
Like his prayers!
Will you fetch wordUp to the cross-roadsIf you see track of him,Living or dead?
Will you fetch word
Up to the cross-roads
If you see track of him,
Living or dead?
The boys are loafingWithout game or caper;And the dark piperIs gone home with the birds.
The boys are loafing
Without game or caper;
And the dark piper
Is gone home with the birds.
EVERY SHUILER IS CHRISTEvery shuiler is Christ,Then be not hard or cold:The bit that goes for ChristWill come a hundred-fold.The ear upon your cornWill burst before its time;Your roots will yield a cropWithout manure or lime.And every sup you giveTo crutch him on his wayWill fill your churn with milk,And choke your barn with hay.Then when the shuiler begs,Be neither hard nor cold;The share that goes for ChristWill come a hundred-fold.
Every shuiler is Christ,Then be not hard or cold:The bit that goes for ChristWill come a hundred-fold.The ear upon your cornWill burst before its time;Your roots will yield a cropWithout manure or lime.And every sup you giveTo crutch him on his wayWill fill your churn with milk,And choke your barn with hay.Then when the shuiler begs,Be neither hard nor cold;The share that goes for ChristWill come a hundred-fold.
Every shuiler is Christ,Then be not hard or cold:The bit that goes for ChristWill come a hundred-fold.
Every shuiler is Christ,
Then be not hard or cold:
The bit that goes for Christ
Will come a hundred-fold.
The ear upon your cornWill burst before its time;Your roots will yield a cropWithout manure or lime.
The ear upon your corn
Will burst before its time;
Your roots will yield a crop
Without manure or lime.
And every sup you giveTo crutch him on his wayWill fill your churn with milk,And choke your barn with hay.
And every sup you give
To crutch him on his way
Will fill your churn with milk,
And choke your barn with hay.
Then when the shuiler begs,Be neither hard nor cold;The share that goes for ChristWill come a hundred-fold.
Then when the shuiler begs,
Be neither hard nor cold;
The share that goes for Christ
Will come a hundred-fold.
I WISH AND I WISHI wish and I wishAnd I wish I wereA golden beeIn the blue of the air,Winging my wayAt the mouth of dayTo the honey margesOf Loch-ciuin-ban;Or a little green drake,Or a silver swan,Floating uponThe stream of Aili,And I to be swimmingGaily, gaily!
I wish and I wishAnd I wish I wereA golden beeIn the blue of the air,Winging my wayAt the mouth of dayTo the honey margesOf Loch-ciuin-ban;Or a little green drake,Or a silver swan,Floating uponThe stream of Aili,And I to be swimmingGaily, gaily!
I wish and I wishAnd I wish I wereA golden beeIn the blue of the air,Winging my wayAt the mouth of dayTo the honey margesOf Loch-ciuin-ban;Or a little green drake,Or a silver swan,Floating uponThe stream of Aili,And I to be swimmingGaily, gaily!
I wish and I wish
And I wish I were
A golden bee
In the blue of the air,
Winging my way
At the mouth of day
To the honey marges
Of Loch-ciuin-ban;
Or a little green drake,
Or a silver swan,
Floating upon
The stream of Aili,
And I to be swimming
Gaily, gaily!
I AM THE MAN-CHILDI am the man-child. From a virgin womb,Begot among the hills of virgin loins,The generation of a hundred kings,I come. I am the man-child glorious,The love-son of the second birth foretoldBy western bards, the fruit of form and strengthBy nature’s prophylactic forethought joinedIn marriage with their kind, the crown, the peak,The summit of the scheme of things, the prideAnd glory of the hand of God.Behold!Where in the spaces of the morning worldThe sunrise shines my harbinger, the hillsLeap up, the young winds sing, the rivers dance,The leaving forests laugh, the eagles scream;For I am one with them, a mate, a brother,Bound by nature to the human soulThat thro’ the accidents of nature runs.And wherefore do they leap and laugh and sing,And dance like vestals on a holyday?Because their hearts are glad, and mænad-like,They fain would share the frenzied cup they drinkWith me, the man-child glorious.I am he,Even he, the master-mould, the paragon!Behold me in my nonage, child and man:The ripest grape on beauty’s procreant vine,The reddest apple of ingathering:Perfect in form, of peerless strength, and freeAs Caoilte when he roamed the primal hills(Those “wildernesses rich with liberty”),A hero that the shocks of chance might strike,But never tame, a giant druid-ringed,A god-like savage of the golden daysEre service shackled action: free itselfAs Oisin when he strayed in Doire-cairn,His hand upon the mountain top, his feetFixt in the flowing sea, his holy headCrowned by a flight of birds, acclaiming himThe singer of the dawn.
I am the man-child. From a virgin womb,Begot among the hills of virgin loins,The generation of a hundred kings,I come. I am the man-child glorious,The love-son of the second birth foretoldBy western bards, the fruit of form and strengthBy nature’s prophylactic forethought joinedIn marriage with their kind, the crown, the peak,The summit of the scheme of things, the prideAnd glory of the hand of God.Behold!Where in the spaces of the morning worldThe sunrise shines my harbinger, the hillsLeap up, the young winds sing, the rivers dance,The leaving forests laugh, the eagles scream;For I am one with them, a mate, a brother,Bound by nature to the human soulThat thro’ the accidents of nature runs.And wherefore do they leap and laugh and sing,And dance like vestals on a holyday?Because their hearts are glad, and mænad-like,They fain would share the frenzied cup they drinkWith me, the man-child glorious.I am he,Even he, the master-mould, the paragon!Behold me in my nonage, child and man:The ripest grape on beauty’s procreant vine,The reddest apple of ingathering:Perfect in form, of peerless strength, and freeAs Caoilte when he roamed the primal hills(Those “wildernesses rich with liberty”),A hero that the shocks of chance might strike,But never tame, a giant druid-ringed,A god-like savage of the golden daysEre service shackled action: free itselfAs Oisin when he strayed in Doire-cairn,His hand upon the mountain top, his feetFixt in the flowing sea, his holy headCrowned by a flight of birds, acclaiming himThe singer of the dawn.
I am the man-child. From a virgin womb,Begot among the hills of virgin loins,The generation of a hundred kings,I come. I am the man-child glorious,The love-son of the second birth foretoldBy western bards, the fruit of form and strengthBy nature’s prophylactic forethought joinedIn marriage with their kind, the crown, the peak,The summit of the scheme of things, the prideAnd glory of the hand of God.
I am the man-child. From a virgin womb,
Begot among the hills of virgin loins,
The generation of a hundred kings,
I come. I am the man-child glorious,
The love-son of the second birth foretold
By western bards, the fruit of form and strength
By nature’s prophylactic forethought joined
In marriage with their kind, the crown, the peak,
The summit of the scheme of things, the pride
And glory of the hand of God.
Behold!Where in the spaces of the morning worldThe sunrise shines my harbinger, the hillsLeap up, the young winds sing, the rivers dance,The leaving forests laugh, the eagles scream;For I am one with them, a mate, a brother,Bound by nature to the human soulThat thro’ the accidents of nature runs.And wherefore do they leap and laugh and sing,And dance like vestals on a holyday?Because their hearts are glad, and mænad-like,They fain would share the frenzied cup they drinkWith me, the man-child glorious.
Behold!
Where in the spaces of the morning world
The sunrise shines my harbinger, the hills
Leap up, the young winds sing, the rivers dance,
The leaving forests laugh, the eagles scream;
For I am one with them, a mate, a brother,
Bound by nature to the human soul
That thro’ the accidents of nature runs.
And wherefore do they leap and laugh and sing,
And dance like vestals on a holyday?
Because their hearts are glad, and mænad-like,
They fain would share the frenzied cup they drink
With me, the man-child glorious.
I am he,Even he, the master-mould, the paragon!Behold me in my nonage, child and man:The ripest grape on beauty’s procreant vine,The reddest apple of ingathering:Perfect in form, of peerless strength, and freeAs Caoilte when he roamed the primal hills(Those “wildernesses rich with liberty”),A hero that the shocks of chance might strike,But never tame, a giant druid-ringed,A god-like savage of the golden daysEre service shackled action: free itselfAs Oisin when he strayed in Doire-cairn,His hand upon the mountain top, his feetFixt in the flowing sea, his holy headCrowned by a flight of birds, acclaiming himThe singer of the dawn.
I am he,
Even he, the master-mould, the paragon!
Behold me in my nonage, child and man:
The ripest grape on beauty’s procreant vine,
The reddest apple of ingathering:
Perfect in form, of peerless strength, and free
As Caoilte when he roamed the primal hills
(Those “wildernesses rich with liberty”),
A hero that the shocks of chance might strike,
But never tame, a giant druid-ringed,
A god-like savage of the golden days
Ere service shackled action: free itself
As Oisin when he strayed in Doire-cairn,
His hand upon the mountain top, his feet
Fixt in the flowing sea, his holy head
Crowned by a flight of birds, acclaiming him
The singer of the dawn.
FRAGMENTI stand upon the summit now:The falcon, flying from the heath,Trails darkly o’er the mountain browAnd drops into the gloom beneath.Night falls, and with it comes the windThat blew on Fionn time out of mind,When weary of love-feasts and warsHe left his comrades all behindTo dream upon the quiet stars.Here on the lonely mountain heightIs ecstasy and living light—The living inner light that burnsWith magic caught from those white urnsThat wander thro’ the trackless blueForever, touching those they knowWith beauty, and the things that comeOf beauty. Earth lies at my feet,A dumb, vast shadow, vast as dumb.
I stand upon the summit now:The falcon, flying from the heath,Trails darkly o’er the mountain browAnd drops into the gloom beneath.Night falls, and with it comes the windThat blew on Fionn time out of mind,When weary of love-feasts and warsHe left his comrades all behindTo dream upon the quiet stars.Here on the lonely mountain heightIs ecstasy and living light—The living inner light that burnsWith magic caught from those white urnsThat wander thro’ the trackless blueForever, touching those they knowWith beauty, and the things that comeOf beauty. Earth lies at my feet,A dumb, vast shadow, vast as dumb.
I stand upon the summit now:The falcon, flying from the heath,Trails darkly o’er the mountain browAnd drops into the gloom beneath.Night falls, and with it comes the windThat blew on Fionn time out of mind,When weary of love-feasts and warsHe left his comrades all behindTo dream upon the quiet stars.Here on the lonely mountain heightIs ecstasy and living light—The living inner light that burnsWith magic caught from those white urnsThat wander thro’ the trackless blueForever, touching those they knowWith beauty, and the things that comeOf beauty. Earth lies at my feet,A dumb, vast shadow, vast as dumb.
I stand upon the summit now:
The falcon, flying from the heath,
Trails darkly o’er the mountain brow
And drops into the gloom beneath.
Night falls, and with it comes the wind
That blew on Fionn time out of mind,
When weary of love-feasts and wars
He left his comrades all behind
To dream upon the quiet stars.
Here on the lonely mountain height
Is ecstasy and living light—
The living inner light that burns
With magic caught from those white urns
That wander thro’ the trackless blue
Forever, touching those they know
With beauty, and the things that come
Of beauty. Earth lies at my feet,
A dumb, vast shadow, vast as dumb.
AT THE WHITENING OF THE DAWNAt the whitening of the dawn,As I came o’er the windy water,I saw the salmon-fisher’s daughter,Nuala ni Cholumain.Nuala ni Cholumain,Nuala ni Cholumain,Palest lily of the dawnIs Nuala ni Cholumain.In the dark of evendownI went o’er the quiet water,Dreaming of the fisher’s daughterAnd her bothy in the town.And I made this simple rannEre the whitening of the dawn,Singing to the beauty wanOf Nuala ni Cholumain.
At the whitening of the dawn,As I came o’er the windy water,I saw the salmon-fisher’s daughter,Nuala ni Cholumain.Nuala ni Cholumain,Nuala ni Cholumain,Palest lily of the dawnIs Nuala ni Cholumain.In the dark of evendownI went o’er the quiet water,Dreaming of the fisher’s daughterAnd her bothy in the town.And I made this simple rannEre the whitening of the dawn,Singing to the beauty wanOf Nuala ni Cholumain.
At the whitening of the dawn,As I came o’er the windy water,I saw the salmon-fisher’s daughter,Nuala ni Cholumain.Nuala ni Cholumain,Nuala ni Cholumain,Palest lily of the dawnIs Nuala ni Cholumain.
At the whitening of the dawn,
As I came o’er the windy water,
I saw the salmon-fisher’s daughter,
Nuala ni Cholumain.
Nuala ni Cholumain,
Nuala ni Cholumain,
Palest lily of the dawn
Is Nuala ni Cholumain.
In the dark of evendownI went o’er the quiet water,Dreaming of the fisher’s daughterAnd her bothy in the town.And I made this simple rannEre the whitening of the dawn,Singing to the beauty wanOf Nuala ni Cholumain.
In the dark of evendown
I went o’er the quiet water,
Dreaming of the fisher’s daughter
And her bothy in the town.
And I made this simple rann
Ere the whitening of the dawn,
Singing to the beauty wan
Of Nuala ni Cholumain.
WHO ARE MY FRIENDSWho are my friends,Faithful and true?Who but the starsThat burn in the blue.Who but the sunThat sinketh so red,Who but the clayThat giveth me bread.Who but the hills,Who but the sea,Who but the flowersThat fold on the tree.Who but the mothsThat flutter and pass,Who but the lambsThat cry in the grass.Who but the darkness,Who but the rain,Who but the grave, the grave—All else are vain!All else are vain!
Who are my friends,Faithful and true?Who but the starsThat burn in the blue.Who but the sunThat sinketh so red,Who but the clayThat giveth me bread.Who but the hills,Who but the sea,Who but the flowersThat fold on the tree.Who but the mothsThat flutter and pass,Who but the lambsThat cry in the grass.Who but the darkness,Who but the rain,Who but the grave, the grave—All else are vain!All else are vain!
Who are my friends,Faithful and true?Who but the starsThat burn in the blue.
Who are my friends,
Faithful and true?
Who but the stars
That burn in the blue.
Who but the sunThat sinketh so red,Who but the clayThat giveth me bread.
Who but the sun
That sinketh so red,
Who but the clay
That giveth me bread.
Who but the hills,Who but the sea,Who but the flowersThat fold on the tree.
Who but the hills,
Who but the sea,
Who but the flowers
That fold on the tree.
Who but the mothsThat flutter and pass,Who but the lambsThat cry in the grass.
Who but the moths
That flutter and pass,
Who but the lambs
That cry in the grass.
Who but the darkness,Who but the rain,Who but the grave, the grave—All else are vain!All else are vain!
Who but the darkness,
Who but the rain,
Who but the grave, the grave—
All else are vain!
All else are vain!
O GLORIOUS CHILDBEARERO glorious childbearer,O secret womb,O gilded bridechamber, from which hath come the sightly Bridegroom forth,O amber veil,Thou sittest in heaven, the white love of the Gael.Thy head is crowned with stars, thy radiant hairShines like a river thro’ the twilight air;Thou walkest by trodden ways and trackless seas,Immaculate of man’s infirmities.
O glorious childbearer,O secret womb,O gilded bridechamber, from which hath come the sightly Bridegroom forth,O amber veil,Thou sittest in heaven, the white love of the Gael.Thy head is crowned with stars, thy radiant hairShines like a river thro’ the twilight air;Thou walkest by trodden ways and trackless seas,Immaculate of man’s infirmities.
O glorious childbearer,O secret womb,O gilded bridechamber, from which hath come the sightly Bridegroom forth,O amber veil,Thou sittest in heaven, the white love of the Gael.Thy head is crowned with stars, thy radiant hairShines like a river thro’ the twilight air;Thou walkest by trodden ways and trackless seas,Immaculate of man’s infirmities.
O glorious childbearer,
O secret womb,
O gilded bridechamber, from which hath come the sightly Bridegroom forth,
O amber veil,
Thou sittest in heaven, the white love of the Gael.
Thy head is crowned with stars, thy radiant hair
Shines like a river thro’ the twilight air;
Thou walkest by trodden ways and trackless seas,
Immaculate of man’s infirmities.
CORONACHCome, pipes, soundA crooning coronach round,Till hill and hollow glen and shadowed lake o’erflowWith welling music of our woe.Beat, beat, ye muffled drums, ye drones and chanters wail,With heartbreak of the baffled, battle-broken Gael.The clay is deep on Ireland’s breast:Her proud and bleeding heart is laid at last to rest . .To rest . . to rest!
Come, pipes, soundA crooning coronach round,Till hill and hollow glen and shadowed lake o’erflowWith welling music of our woe.Beat, beat, ye muffled drums, ye drones and chanters wail,With heartbreak of the baffled, battle-broken Gael.The clay is deep on Ireland’s breast:Her proud and bleeding heart is laid at last to rest . .To rest . . to rest!
Come, pipes, soundA crooning coronach round,Till hill and hollow glen and shadowed lake o’erflowWith welling music of our woe.Beat, beat, ye muffled drums, ye drones and chanters wail,With heartbreak of the baffled, battle-broken Gael.The clay is deep on Ireland’s breast:Her proud and bleeding heart is laid at last to rest . .To rest . . to rest!
Come, pipes, sound
A crooning coronach round,
Till hill and hollow glen and shadowed lake o’erflow
With welling music of our woe.
Beat, beat, ye muffled drums, ye drones and chanters wail,
With heartbreak of the baffled, battle-broken Gael.
The clay is deep on Ireland’s breast:
Her proud and bleeding heart is laid at last to rest . .
To rest . . to rest!
TWILIGHT FALLENTwilight fallen white and cold,Child in cradle, lamb in fold;Glimmering thro’ the ghostly trees,Gemini and Pleiades.Wounds of Eloim,Weep on me!Black-winged vampires flitting by,Curlews crying in the sky;Grey mists wreathing from the ground,Wrapping rath and burial mound.Wounds of Eloim,Weep on me!Heard, like some sad Gaelic strain,Ocean’s ancient voice in pain;Darkness folding hill and wood,Sorrow drinking at my blood.Wounds of Eloim,Weep on me!
Twilight fallen white and cold,Child in cradle, lamb in fold;Glimmering thro’ the ghostly trees,Gemini and Pleiades.Wounds of Eloim,Weep on me!Black-winged vampires flitting by,Curlews crying in the sky;Grey mists wreathing from the ground,Wrapping rath and burial mound.Wounds of Eloim,Weep on me!Heard, like some sad Gaelic strain,Ocean’s ancient voice in pain;Darkness folding hill and wood,Sorrow drinking at my blood.Wounds of Eloim,Weep on me!
Twilight fallen white and cold,Child in cradle, lamb in fold;Glimmering thro’ the ghostly trees,Gemini and Pleiades.Wounds of Eloim,Weep on me!
Twilight fallen white and cold,
Child in cradle, lamb in fold;
Glimmering thro’ the ghostly trees,
Gemini and Pleiades.
Wounds of Eloim,
Weep on me!
Black-winged vampires flitting by,Curlews crying in the sky;Grey mists wreathing from the ground,Wrapping rath and burial mound.Wounds of Eloim,Weep on me!
Black-winged vampires flitting by,
Curlews crying in the sky;
Grey mists wreathing from the ground,
Wrapping rath and burial mound.
Wounds of Eloim,
Weep on me!
Heard, like some sad Gaelic strain,Ocean’s ancient voice in pain;Darkness folding hill and wood,Sorrow drinking at my blood.Wounds of Eloim,Weep on me!
Heard, like some sad Gaelic strain,
Ocean’s ancient voice in pain;
Darkness folding hill and wood,
Sorrow drinking at my blood.
Wounds of Eloim,
Weep on me!
THE DAWN WHITENESSThe dawn whiteness.A bank of slate-grey cloud lying heavily over it.The moon, like a hunted thing, dropping into the cloud.
The dawn whiteness.A bank of slate-grey cloud lying heavily over it.The moon, like a hunted thing, dropping into the cloud.
The dawn whiteness.A bank of slate-grey cloud lying heavily over it.The moon, like a hunted thing, dropping into the cloud.
The dawn whiteness.
A bank of slate-grey cloud lying heavily over it.
The moon, like a hunted thing, dropping into the cloud.
THE DWARFLook at him now, the son,And the churchyard twist in his foot,Standing there by his mother’s door,As if he had taken root!She crossed a grave, they say,On a black day in spring,And bore him in the seventh month—A poor, misshapen thing.Kneeling down in the darkShe travailed without a cry,And gave him the mothering kissBetween the earth and the sky.He licks cuckoo-spittle, they say,And eats the dung of the roads,Mocking the journeymenAs they pass by with their loads.Look at his little face—As grey as wool is grey—And the cast in his green eye,So wild and far away.Does he see Magh-meala?Is his breath human breath?Are his thoughts of the hidden thingsUntouched by time and death?Hanging there by the half-door,Dangling his devil’s foot,Stock-still on the threshold,As if he had taken root!
Look at him now, the son,And the churchyard twist in his foot,Standing there by his mother’s door,As if he had taken root!She crossed a grave, they say,On a black day in spring,And bore him in the seventh month—A poor, misshapen thing.Kneeling down in the darkShe travailed without a cry,And gave him the mothering kissBetween the earth and the sky.He licks cuckoo-spittle, they say,And eats the dung of the roads,Mocking the journeymenAs they pass by with their loads.Look at his little face—As grey as wool is grey—And the cast in his green eye,So wild and far away.Does he see Magh-meala?Is his breath human breath?Are his thoughts of the hidden thingsUntouched by time and death?Hanging there by the half-door,Dangling his devil’s foot,Stock-still on the threshold,As if he had taken root!
Look at him now, the son,And the churchyard twist in his foot,Standing there by his mother’s door,As if he had taken root!
Look at him now, the son,
And the churchyard twist in his foot,
Standing there by his mother’s door,
As if he had taken root!
She crossed a grave, they say,On a black day in spring,And bore him in the seventh month—A poor, misshapen thing.
She crossed a grave, they say,
On a black day in spring,
And bore him in the seventh month—
A poor, misshapen thing.
Kneeling down in the darkShe travailed without a cry,And gave him the mothering kissBetween the earth and the sky.
Kneeling down in the dark
She travailed without a cry,
And gave him the mothering kiss
Between the earth and the sky.
He licks cuckoo-spittle, they say,And eats the dung of the roads,Mocking the journeymenAs they pass by with their loads.
He licks cuckoo-spittle, they say,
And eats the dung of the roads,
Mocking the journeymen
As they pass by with their loads.
Look at his little face—As grey as wool is grey—And the cast in his green eye,So wild and far away.
Look at his little face—
As grey as wool is grey—
And the cast in his green eye,
So wild and far away.
Does he see Magh-meala?Is his breath human breath?Are his thoughts of the hidden thingsUntouched by time and death?
Does he see Magh-meala?
Is his breath human breath?
Are his thoughts of the hidden things
Untouched by time and death?
Hanging there by the half-door,Dangling his devil’s foot,Stock-still on the threshold,As if he had taken root!
Hanging there by the half-door,
Dangling his devil’s foot,
Stock-still on the threshold,
As if he had taken root!
I SEE ALL LOVE IN LOWLY THINGSI see all love in lowly things,No less than in the lusts of kings:All beauty, shape and comeliness,All valour, strength and gentleness,All genius, wit and holiness.Out of corruption comes the flower,The corn is kindred with the clay;The plough-hand is a hand of power,Nobler than gold, brighter than day.Then let the leper lift his head,The cripple dance, the captive sing,The beggar reap and eat his bread—He is no baser than a king!
I see all love in lowly things,No less than in the lusts of kings:All beauty, shape and comeliness,All valour, strength and gentleness,All genius, wit and holiness.Out of corruption comes the flower,The corn is kindred with the clay;The plough-hand is a hand of power,Nobler than gold, brighter than day.Then let the leper lift his head,The cripple dance, the captive sing,The beggar reap and eat his bread—He is no baser than a king!
I see all love in lowly things,No less than in the lusts of kings:All beauty, shape and comeliness,All valour, strength and gentleness,All genius, wit and holiness.
I see all love in lowly things,
No less than in the lusts of kings:
All beauty, shape and comeliness,
All valour, strength and gentleness,
All genius, wit and holiness.
Out of corruption comes the flower,The corn is kindred with the clay;The plough-hand is a hand of power,Nobler than gold, brighter than day.
Out of corruption comes the flower,
The corn is kindred with the clay;
The plough-hand is a hand of power,
Nobler than gold, brighter than day.
Then let the leper lift his head,The cripple dance, the captive sing,The beggar reap and eat his bread—He is no baser than a king!
Then let the leper lift his head,
The cripple dance, the captive sing,
The beggar reap and eat his bread—
He is no baser than a king!
’TIS PRETTY TAE BE IN BAILE-LIOSAN’Tis pretty tae be in Baile-liosan,’Tis pretty tae be in green Magh-luan;’Tis prettier tae be in Newtownbreda,Beeking under the eaves in June.The cummers are out wi’ their knitting and spinning,The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa’,And o’er the white road the clachan caddiesPlay at their marlies and goaling-ba’.O, fair are the fields o’ Baile-liosan,And fair are the faes o’ green Magh-luan;But fairer the flowers o’ Newtownbreda,Wet wi’ dew in the eves o’ June.’Tis pleasant tae saunter the clachan thoro’When day sinks mellow o’er Dubhais hill,And feel their fragrance sae softly breathingFrae croft and causey and window-sill.O, brave are the haughs o’ Baile-liosan,And brave are the halds o’ green Magh-luan;But braver the hames o’ Newtownbreda,Twined about wi’ the pinks o’ June.And just as the face is sae kindly withouten,The heart within is as guid as gold—Wi’ new fair ballants and merry music,And cracks cam’ down frae the days of old.’Tis pretty tae be in Baile-liosan,’Tis pretty tae be in green Magh-luan;’Tis prettier tae be in Newtownbreda,Beeking under the eaves in June.The cummers are out wi’ their knitting and spinning,The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa’,And o’er the white road the clachan caddiesPlay at their marlies and goaling-ba’.
’Tis pretty tae be in Baile-liosan,’Tis pretty tae be in green Magh-luan;’Tis prettier tae be in Newtownbreda,Beeking under the eaves in June.The cummers are out wi’ their knitting and spinning,The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa’,And o’er the white road the clachan caddiesPlay at their marlies and goaling-ba’.O, fair are the fields o’ Baile-liosan,And fair are the faes o’ green Magh-luan;But fairer the flowers o’ Newtownbreda,Wet wi’ dew in the eves o’ June.’Tis pleasant tae saunter the clachan thoro’When day sinks mellow o’er Dubhais hill,And feel their fragrance sae softly breathingFrae croft and causey and window-sill.O, brave are the haughs o’ Baile-liosan,And brave are the halds o’ green Magh-luan;But braver the hames o’ Newtownbreda,Twined about wi’ the pinks o’ June.And just as the face is sae kindly withouten,The heart within is as guid as gold—Wi’ new fair ballants and merry music,And cracks cam’ down frae the days of old.’Tis pretty tae be in Baile-liosan,’Tis pretty tae be in green Magh-luan;’Tis prettier tae be in Newtownbreda,Beeking under the eaves in June.The cummers are out wi’ their knitting and spinning,The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa’,And o’er the white road the clachan caddiesPlay at their marlies and goaling-ba’.
’Tis pretty tae be in Baile-liosan,’Tis pretty tae be in green Magh-luan;’Tis prettier tae be in Newtownbreda,Beeking under the eaves in June.The cummers are out wi’ their knitting and spinning,The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa’,And o’er the white road the clachan caddiesPlay at their marlies and goaling-ba’.
’Tis pretty tae be in Baile-liosan,
’Tis pretty tae be in green Magh-luan;
’Tis prettier tae be in Newtownbreda,
Beeking under the eaves in June.
The cummers are out wi’ their knitting and spinning,
The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa’,
And o’er the white road the clachan caddies
Play at their marlies and goaling-ba’.
O, fair are the fields o’ Baile-liosan,And fair are the faes o’ green Magh-luan;But fairer the flowers o’ Newtownbreda,Wet wi’ dew in the eves o’ June.’Tis pleasant tae saunter the clachan thoro’When day sinks mellow o’er Dubhais hill,And feel their fragrance sae softly breathingFrae croft and causey and window-sill.
O, fair are the fields o’ Baile-liosan,
And fair are the faes o’ green Magh-luan;
But fairer the flowers o’ Newtownbreda,
Wet wi’ dew in the eves o’ June.
’Tis pleasant tae saunter the clachan thoro’
When day sinks mellow o’er Dubhais hill,
And feel their fragrance sae softly breathing
Frae croft and causey and window-sill.
O, brave are the haughs o’ Baile-liosan,And brave are the halds o’ green Magh-luan;But braver the hames o’ Newtownbreda,Twined about wi’ the pinks o’ June.And just as the face is sae kindly withouten,The heart within is as guid as gold—Wi’ new fair ballants and merry music,And cracks cam’ down frae the days of old.
O, brave are the haughs o’ Baile-liosan,
And brave are the halds o’ green Magh-luan;
But braver the hames o’ Newtownbreda,
Twined about wi’ the pinks o’ June.
And just as the face is sae kindly withouten,
The heart within is as guid as gold—
Wi’ new fair ballants and merry music,
And cracks cam’ down frae the days of old.
’Tis pretty tae be in Baile-liosan,’Tis pretty tae be in green Magh-luan;’Tis prettier tae be in Newtownbreda,Beeking under the eaves in June.The cummers are out wi’ their knitting and spinning,The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa’,And o’er the white road the clachan caddiesPlay at their marlies and goaling-ba’.
’Tis pretty tae be in Baile-liosan,
’Tis pretty tae be in green Magh-luan;
’Tis prettier tae be in Newtownbreda,
Beeking under the eaves in June.
The cummers are out wi’ their knitting and spinning,
The thrush sings frae his crib on the wa’,
And o’er the white road the clachan caddies
Play at their marlies and goaling-ba’.
CIARAN, THE MASTER OF HORSES AND LANDSCiaran, the master of horses and lands,Once had no more than the horn on his hands.But Ciaran is rich now, and Ciaran is great,And rides with the air of a squire of estate.O Christ! and to see the man up on the backOf a thoroughbred stallion, a bay or a black!There’s not a horsebreeder from Banna to LaoiCan handle the snaffle so pretty as he!And Ciaran, for all, has the wit of a child,A heart just as soft, and an eye just as mild.No maker of ballads puts curse at his door:He handsels the singer, and harbours the poor.For Ciaran, the master of horses and lands,Once had no more than the horn on his hands.
Ciaran, the master of horses and lands,Once had no more than the horn on his hands.But Ciaran is rich now, and Ciaran is great,And rides with the air of a squire of estate.O Christ! and to see the man up on the backOf a thoroughbred stallion, a bay or a black!There’s not a horsebreeder from Banna to LaoiCan handle the snaffle so pretty as he!And Ciaran, for all, has the wit of a child,A heart just as soft, and an eye just as mild.No maker of ballads puts curse at his door:He handsels the singer, and harbours the poor.For Ciaran, the master of horses and lands,Once had no more than the horn on his hands.
Ciaran, the master of horses and lands,Once had no more than the horn on his hands.
Ciaran, the master of horses and lands,
Once had no more than the horn on his hands.
But Ciaran is rich now, and Ciaran is great,And rides with the air of a squire of estate.
But Ciaran is rich now, and Ciaran is great,
And rides with the air of a squire of estate.
O Christ! and to see the man up on the backOf a thoroughbred stallion, a bay or a black!
O Christ! and to see the man up on the back
Of a thoroughbred stallion, a bay or a black!
There’s not a horsebreeder from Banna to LaoiCan handle the snaffle so pretty as he!
There’s not a horsebreeder from Banna to Laoi
Can handle the snaffle so pretty as he!
And Ciaran, for all, has the wit of a child,A heart just as soft, and an eye just as mild.
And Ciaran, for all, has the wit of a child,
A heart just as soft, and an eye just as mild.
No maker of ballads puts curse at his door:He handsels the singer, and harbours the poor.
No maker of ballads puts curse at his door:
He handsels the singer, and harbours the poor.
For Ciaran, the master of horses and lands,Once had no more than the horn on his hands.
For Ciaran, the master of horses and lands,
Once had no more than the horn on his hands.
DEEP WAYS AND DRIPPING BOUGHSDeep ways and dripping boughs,The fog falling drearily;Cowherds calling on their cows,And I crying wearily,Wearily, wearily, out-a-door,Houseless, hearthless, coatless, kindless,Poorest of the wandering poor.I am the beggar Christ—Christ that calmed the castling flood!Cross and thorn have not sufficedTo punish me as you would;But out-a-door in wind and rain,Houseless, hearthless, coatless, kindless,You keep me wandering in pain.
Deep ways and dripping boughs,The fog falling drearily;Cowherds calling on their cows,And I crying wearily,Wearily, wearily, out-a-door,Houseless, hearthless, coatless, kindless,Poorest of the wandering poor.I am the beggar Christ—Christ that calmed the castling flood!Cross and thorn have not sufficedTo punish me as you would;But out-a-door in wind and rain,Houseless, hearthless, coatless, kindless,You keep me wandering in pain.
Deep ways and dripping boughs,The fog falling drearily;Cowherds calling on their cows,And I crying wearily,Wearily, wearily, out-a-door,Houseless, hearthless, coatless, kindless,Poorest of the wandering poor.
Deep ways and dripping boughs,
The fog falling drearily;
Cowherds calling on their cows,
And I crying wearily,
Wearily, wearily, out-a-door,
Houseless, hearthless, coatless, kindless,
Poorest of the wandering poor.
I am the beggar Christ—Christ that calmed the castling flood!Cross and thorn have not sufficedTo punish me as you would;But out-a-door in wind and rain,Houseless, hearthless, coatless, kindless,You keep me wandering in pain.
I am the beggar Christ—
Christ that calmed the castling flood!
Cross and thorn have not sufficed
To punish me as you would;
But out-a-door in wind and rain,
Houseless, hearthless, coatless, kindless,
You keep me wandering in pain.
NIGHT, AND I TRAVELLINGNight, and I travelling.An open door by the wayside,Throwing out a shaft of warm yellow light.A whiff of peat-smoke;A gleam of delf on the dresser within;A woman’s voice crooning, as if to a child.I pass on into the darkness.
Night, and I travelling.An open door by the wayside,Throwing out a shaft of warm yellow light.A whiff of peat-smoke;A gleam of delf on the dresser within;A woman’s voice crooning, as if to a child.I pass on into the darkness.
Night, and I travelling.An open door by the wayside,Throwing out a shaft of warm yellow light.A whiff of peat-smoke;A gleam of delf on the dresser within;A woman’s voice crooning, as if to a child.I pass on into the darkness.
Night, and I travelling.
An open door by the wayside,
Throwing out a shaft of warm yellow light.
A whiff of peat-smoke;
A gleam of delf on the dresser within;
A woman’s voice crooning, as if to a child.
I pass on into the darkness.