NIGHT-PIECEFill me, O stars,As with an olden tune.Look thro’ your cloudy bars,O summer moon;Look thro’, and drench in silver lightMy soul this night.O brief, enchanted dreamOf sea and sky,Of ploughland, meadow, stream,And twilight loth to die,Of fire and dew—My soul is one with you!
Fill me, O stars,As with an olden tune.Look thro’ your cloudy bars,O summer moon;Look thro’, and drench in silver lightMy soul this night.O brief, enchanted dreamOf sea and sky,Of ploughland, meadow, stream,And twilight loth to die,Of fire and dew—My soul is one with you!
Fill me, O stars,As with an olden tune.Look thro’ your cloudy bars,O summer moon;Look thro’, and drench in silver lightMy soul this night.
Fill me, O stars,
As with an olden tune.
Look thro’ your cloudy bars,
O summer moon;
Look thro’, and drench in silver light
My soul this night.
O brief, enchanted dreamOf sea and sky,Of ploughland, meadow, stream,And twilight loth to die,Of fire and dew—My soul is one with you!
O brief, enchanted dream
Of sea and sky,
Of ploughland, meadow, stream,
And twilight loth to die,
Of fire and dew—
My soul is one with you!
AT MORNING TIDEAt morning tide,Upon the hill of Sliabh-na-mBan,I saw the dead Christ glorified!His body, like the risen sun,Was all too bright to look upon:The blue air burnedAbout him: in his sideAnd hands and feet there shone(Thro’ stabs and gashes gaping wide)The golden glory of his blood:The gilly stoodUpon his right hand: at his feetThe fishers, Peter, James and John,Knelt worshippingWith outstretched arms, and eyesTo heaven turned:And Maria, his mother sweet,(The partner of his mysteries),And Magdalen and SalomeCame thro’ the doorway of the dayBehind him, weeping.. . . . Then a cloud came o’erMy senses, and I saw and heard no more!
At morning tide,Upon the hill of Sliabh-na-mBan,I saw the dead Christ glorified!His body, like the risen sun,Was all too bright to look upon:The blue air burnedAbout him: in his sideAnd hands and feet there shone(Thro’ stabs and gashes gaping wide)The golden glory of his blood:The gilly stoodUpon his right hand: at his feetThe fishers, Peter, James and John,Knelt worshippingWith outstretched arms, and eyesTo heaven turned:And Maria, his mother sweet,(The partner of his mysteries),And Magdalen and SalomeCame thro’ the doorway of the dayBehind him, weeping.. . . . Then a cloud came o’erMy senses, and I saw and heard no more!
At morning tide,Upon the hill of Sliabh-na-mBan,I saw the dead Christ glorified!His body, like the risen sun,Was all too bright to look upon:The blue air burnedAbout him: in his sideAnd hands and feet there shone(Thro’ stabs and gashes gaping wide)The golden glory of his blood:The gilly stoodUpon his right hand: at his feetThe fishers, Peter, James and John,Knelt worshippingWith outstretched arms, and eyesTo heaven turned:And Maria, his mother sweet,(The partner of his mysteries),And Magdalen and SalomeCame thro’ the doorway of the dayBehind him, weeping.. . . . Then a cloud came o’erMy senses, and I saw and heard no more!
At morning tide,
Upon the hill of Sliabh-na-mBan,
I saw the dead Christ glorified!
His body, like the risen sun,
Was all too bright to look upon:
The blue air burned
About him: in his side
And hands and feet there shone
(Thro’ stabs and gashes gaping wide)
The golden glory of his blood:
The gilly stood
Upon his right hand: at his feet
The fishers, Peter, James and John,
Knelt worshipping
With outstretched arms, and eyes
To heaven turned:
And Maria, his mother sweet,
(The partner of his mysteries),
And Magdalen and Salome
Came thro’ the doorway of the day
Behind him, weeping.
. . . . Then a cloud came o’er
My senses, and I saw and heard no more!
THE MAY-FIRECome away, O Maire Ban,Come away, come awayWhere the heads ofceanabhanTremble in the twilight air,And the rushes nod and sway,And no other sound is heardBut the swaying of the rushes,And the shouts from Croc-an-air,And the singing of the fidils,And the laughing of the dancersRound about the yellow fire,And the scream of the water-bird.Come away, O life of me,O bone of me, O blood of me—Feilim has a tale to tell:He would own his love for thee,Smitten first at Mura’s well,Bitten at the Lammas pattern,By the blessed Mura’s well.He would tell thee, Maire Ban,How his pulses leap and thrillQuicker than the old men’s fidils,Singing out from yonder hill.Come away, O heart’s desire,From the ruddy-featured circle,From the story-telling circle,By the wreathing Bealtein fire.Come away, come away,Come away, O Maire Ban,Where the heads ofceanabhanTremble in the twilight air,And the voice of love is heardWhispering o’er the bending rushesLike a hidden, holy bird.Come away, O Maire Ban—Feilim’s face is fairy-wan,Feilim’s heart is sick and pale,Languishing for love of thee.
Come away, O Maire Ban,Come away, come awayWhere the heads ofceanabhanTremble in the twilight air,And the rushes nod and sway,And no other sound is heardBut the swaying of the rushes,And the shouts from Croc-an-air,And the singing of the fidils,And the laughing of the dancersRound about the yellow fire,And the scream of the water-bird.Come away, O life of me,O bone of me, O blood of me—Feilim has a tale to tell:He would own his love for thee,Smitten first at Mura’s well,Bitten at the Lammas pattern,By the blessed Mura’s well.He would tell thee, Maire Ban,How his pulses leap and thrillQuicker than the old men’s fidils,Singing out from yonder hill.Come away, O heart’s desire,From the ruddy-featured circle,From the story-telling circle,By the wreathing Bealtein fire.Come away, come away,Come away, O Maire Ban,Where the heads ofceanabhanTremble in the twilight air,And the voice of love is heardWhispering o’er the bending rushesLike a hidden, holy bird.Come away, O Maire Ban—Feilim’s face is fairy-wan,Feilim’s heart is sick and pale,Languishing for love of thee.
Come away, O Maire Ban,Come away, come awayWhere the heads ofceanabhanTremble in the twilight air,And the rushes nod and sway,And no other sound is heardBut the swaying of the rushes,And the shouts from Croc-an-air,And the singing of the fidils,And the laughing of the dancersRound about the yellow fire,And the scream of the water-bird.
Come away, O Maire Ban,
Come away, come away
Where the heads ofceanabhan
Tremble in the twilight air,
And the rushes nod and sway,
And no other sound is heard
But the swaying of the rushes,
And the shouts from Croc-an-air,
And the singing of the fidils,
And the laughing of the dancers
Round about the yellow fire,
And the scream of the water-bird.
Come away, O life of me,O bone of me, O blood of me—Feilim has a tale to tell:He would own his love for thee,Smitten first at Mura’s well,Bitten at the Lammas pattern,By the blessed Mura’s well.He would tell thee, Maire Ban,How his pulses leap and thrillQuicker than the old men’s fidils,Singing out from yonder hill.
Come away, O life of me,
O bone of me, O blood of me—
Feilim has a tale to tell:
He would own his love for thee,
Smitten first at Mura’s well,
Bitten at the Lammas pattern,
By the blessed Mura’s well.
He would tell thee, Maire Ban,
How his pulses leap and thrill
Quicker than the old men’s fidils,
Singing out from yonder hill.
Come away, O heart’s desire,From the ruddy-featured circle,From the story-telling circle,By the wreathing Bealtein fire.Come away, come away,Come away, O Maire Ban,Where the heads ofceanabhanTremble in the twilight air,And the voice of love is heardWhispering o’er the bending rushesLike a hidden, holy bird.Come away, O Maire Ban—Feilim’s face is fairy-wan,Feilim’s heart is sick and pale,Languishing for love of thee.
Come away, O heart’s desire,
From the ruddy-featured circle,
From the story-telling circle,
By the wreathing Bealtein fire.
Come away, come away,
Come away, O Maire Ban,
Where the heads ofceanabhan
Tremble in the twilight air,
And the voice of love is heard
Whispering o’er the bending rushes
Like a hidden, holy bird.
Come away, O Maire Ban—
Feilim’s face is fairy-wan,
Feilim’s heart is sick and pale,
Languishing for love of thee.
I LOVE THE DIN OF BEATING DRUMSI love the din of beating drums,The bellowing pipe, the shrieking fife:The discord and the dissonance is my blood, my breath, my life!The discord and the dissonance is my life!Away with flutes and dancing lutes—Such music likes but lovers’ ears:Give me the beating battledrum,The gunpeal and the cheers!The bellowing pipe and battledrum,The gunpeal and the cheers!
I love the din of beating drums,The bellowing pipe, the shrieking fife:The discord and the dissonance is my blood, my breath, my life!The discord and the dissonance is my life!Away with flutes and dancing lutes—Such music likes but lovers’ ears:Give me the beating battledrum,The gunpeal and the cheers!The bellowing pipe and battledrum,The gunpeal and the cheers!
I love the din of beating drums,The bellowing pipe, the shrieking fife:The discord and the dissonance is my blood, my breath, my life!The discord and the dissonance is my life!
I love the din of beating drums,
The bellowing pipe, the shrieking fife:
The discord and the dissonance is my blood, my breath, my life!
The discord and the dissonance is my life!
Away with flutes and dancing lutes—Such music likes but lovers’ ears:Give me the beating battledrum,The gunpeal and the cheers!The bellowing pipe and battledrum,The gunpeal and the cheers!
Away with flutes and dancing lutes—
Such music likes but lovers’ ears:
Give me the beating battledrum,
The gunpeal and the cheers!
The bellowing pipe and battledrum,
The gunpeal and the cheers!
THREE COLTS EXERCISING IN A SIX-ACREThree colts exercising in a six-acre,A hilly sweep of unfenced grass over the road.What a picture they make against the skyline!Necks stretched, hocks moving royally, tails flying;Farm-lads up, and they crouching low on their withers.I have a journey to go—A lawyer to see, and a paper to sign in the Tontine—But I slacken my pace to watch them.
Three colts exercising in a six-acre,A hilly sweep of unfenced grass over the road.What a picture they make against the skyline!Necks stretched, hocks moving royally, tails flying;Farm-lads up, and they crouching low on their withers.I have a journey to go—A lawyer to see, and a paper to sign in the Tontine—But I slacken my pace to watch them.
Three colts exercising in a six-acre,A hilly sweep of unfenced grass over the road.
Three colts exercising in a six-acre,
A hilly sweep of unfenced grass over the road.
What a picture they make against the skyline!Necks stretched, hocks moving royally, tails flying;Farm-lads up, and they crouching low on their withers.
What a picture they make against the skyline!
Necks stretched, hocks moving royally, tails flying;
Farm-lads up, and they crouching low on their withers.
I have a journey to go—A lawyer to see, and a paper to sign in the Tontine—But I slacken my pace to watch them.
I have a journey to go—
A lawyer to see, and a paper to sign in the Tontine—
But I slacken my pace to watch them.
THE NATURAL“Lend us the loan of a halfpenny, sir!”—And he passed with his splendid nose in the air.A gaunt, grey carcase of skin and bones,As cold as the river, as hard as the stones.To him the highway was table and bed,Shift for the newborn and sheet for the dead.The wind that blew from Beola crestSeemed fire to fetter his wild unrest.The rain that beat on his neck and face,A goad to quicken him in his pace.But sorrow a step he changed, and his prayerWas still—“Lend us the loan of a halfpenny, sir!”
“Lend us the loan of a halfpenny, sir!”—And he passed with his splendid nose in the air.A gaunt, grey carcase of skin and bones,As cold as the river, as hard as the stones.To him the highway was table and bed,Shift for the newborn and sheet for the dead.The wind that blew from Beola crestSeemed fire to fetter his wild unrest.The rain that beat on his neck and face,A goad to quicken him in his pace.But sorrow a step he changed, and his prayerWas still—“Lend us the loan of a halfpenny, sir!”
“Lend us the loan of a halfpenny, sir!”—And he passed with his splendid nose in the air.
“Lend us the loan of a halfpenny, sir!”—
And he passed with his splendid nose in the air.
A gaunt, grey carcase of skin and bones,As cold as the river, as hard as the stones.
A gaunt, grey carcase of skin and bones,
As cold as the river, as hard as the stones.
To him the highway was table and bed,Shift for the newborn and sheet for the dead.
To him the highway was table and bed,
Shift for the newborn and sheet for the dead.
The wind that blew from Beola crestSeemed fire to fetter his wild unrest.
The wind that blew from Beola crest
Seemed fire to fetter his wild unrest.
The rain that beat on his neck and face,A goad to quicken him in his pace.
The rain that beat on his neck and face,
A goad to quicken him in his pace.
But sorrow a step he changed, and his prayerWas still—“Lend us the loan of a halfpenny, sir!”
But sorrow a step he changed, and his prayer
Was still—“Lend us the loan of a halfpenny, sir!”
ON THE TOP-STONEOn the top-stone.A nipping wind blowing.Winter dusk closing in from the south Ards.The moon rising, white and fantastic, over the loch and the town below.I take off my hat, salute her, and descend into the darkness.
On the top-stone.A nipping wind blowing.Winter dusk closing in from the south Ards.The moon rising, white and fantastic, over the loch and the town below.I take off my hat, salute her, and descend into the darkness.
On the top-stone.A nipping wind blowing.Winter dusk closing in from the south Ards.The moon rising, white and fantastic, over the loch and the town below.I take off my hat, salute her, and descend into the darkness.
On the top-stone.
A nipping wind blowing.
Winter dusk closing in from the south Ards.
The moon rising, white and fantastic, over the loch and the town below.
I take off my hat, salute her, and descend into the darkness.
THE WOMEN AT THEIR DOORSThe babes were asleep in their cradles,And the day’s drudge was done,And the women brought their suppers outTo eat them in the sun.“To-night I will set my needles, Aine,And Eoghan will have stockings to wear:I spun the wool of the horny eweHe bought at the hiring fair. . . .“But what is that sound I hear, Nabla?—It is like the cheering of men.God keep our kind from the devil’s snare!”And the women answered, “Amen!”Then the moon rose over the valley,And the cheering died away,And the women went within their doorsAt the mouth of the summer day.And no men came in at midnight,And no men came in at the dawn,And the women keened by their ashy firesTill their faces were haggard and wan.For they knew they had gone to the trystingWith pike and musketoon,To fight for their hearths and altarsAt the rising of the moon!
The babes were asleep in their cradles,And the day’s drudge was done,And the women brought their suppers outTo eat them in the sun.“To-night I will set my needles, Aine,And Eoghan will have stockings to wear:I spun the wool of the horny eweHe bought at the hiring fair. . . .“But what is that sound I hear, Nabla?—It is like the cheering of men.God keep our kind from the devil’s snare!”And the women answered, “Amen!”Then the moon rose over the valley,And the cheering died away,And the women went within their doorsAt the mouth of the summer day.And no men came in at midnight,And no men came in at the dawn,And the women keened by their ashy firesTill their faces were haggard and wan.For they knew they had gone to the trystingWith pike and musketoon,To fight for their hearths and altarsAt the rising of the moon!
The babes were asleep in their cradles,And the day’s drudge was done,And the women brought their suppers outTo eat them in the sun.
The babes were asleep in their cradles,
And the day’s drudge was done,
And the women brought their suppers out
To eat them in the sun.
“To-night I will set my needles, Aine,And Eoghan will have stockings to wear:I spun the wool of the horny eweHe bought at the hiring fair. . . .
“To-night I will set my needles, Aine,
And Eoghan will have stockings to wear:
I spun the wool of the horny ewe
He bought at the hiring fair. . . .
“But what is that sound I hear, Nabla?—It is like the cheering of men.God keep our kind from the devil’s snare!”And the women answered, “Amen!”
“But what is that sound I hear, Nabla?—
It is like the cheering of men.
God keep our kind from the devil’s snare!”
And the women answered, “Amen!”
Then the moon rose over the valley,And the cheering died away,And the women went within their doorsAt the mouth of the summer day.
Then the moon rose over the valley,
And the cheering died away,
And the women went within their doors
At the mouth of the summer day.
And no men came in at midnight,And no men came in at the dawn,And the women keened by their ashy firesTill their faces were haggard and wan.
And no men came in at midnight,
And no men came in at the dawn,
And the women keened by their ashy fires
Till their faces were haggard and wan.
For they knew they had gone to the trystingWith pike and musketoon,To fight for their hearths and altarsAt the rising of the moon!
For they knew they had gone to the trysting
With pike and musketoon,
To fight for their hearths and altars
At the rising of the moon!
MY LITTLE DARK LOVEMy little dark love is a wineberry,As swarth and as sweet, I hold;But as the dew on the wineberryHer heart is a-cold.I would her love were as warm as the lightThat lives in her eye of grey,And then my heart would know the peaceIt dreams in the hills away.I would her love were as red as the roseThat blows on her cheek of brown,And then my sunless soul would laughAt the woe that weighs it down.She dwells in the valley, my little dark love,Where the river sings to the sea,And an ogham-stone sits by her door,And nigh to it hazels three.And oft when the purple twilight comes,And the blind bats flit in the air,I wander down from the quiet hillsTo seek my sweetheart there.But she comes never—she loves not me,Nor ever will love, I hold;For tho’ my heart is a peat of fire,Her heart is a-cold!
My little dark love is a wineberry,As swarth and as sweet, I hold;But as the dew on the wineberryHer heart is a-cold.I would her love were as warm as the lightThat lives in her eye of grey,And then my heart would know the peaceIt dreams in the hills away.I would her love were as red as the roseThat blows on her cheek of brown,And then my sunless soul would laughAt the woe that weighs it down.She dwells in the valley, my little dark love,Where the river sings to the sea,And an ogham-stone sits by her door,And nigh to it hazels three.And oft when the purple twilight comes,And the blind bats flit in the air,I wander down from the quiet hillsTo seek my sweetheart there.But she comes never—she loves not me,Nor ever will love, I hold;For tho’ my heart is a peat of fire,Her heart is a-cold!
My little dark love is a wineberry,As swarth and as sweet, I hold;But as the dew on the wineberryHer heart is a-cold.
My little dark love is a wineberry,
As swarth and as sweet, I hold;
But as the dew on the wineberry
Her heart is a-cold.
I would her love were as warm as the lightThat lives in her eye of grey,And then my heart would know the peaceIt dreams in the hills away.
I would her love were as warm as the light
That lives in her eye of grey,
And then my heart would know the peace
It dreams in the hills away.
I would her love were as red as the roseThat blows on her cheek of brown,And then my sunless soul would laughAt the woe that weighs it down.
I would her love were as red as the rose
That blows on her cheek of brown,
And then my sunless soul would laugh
At the woe that weighs it down.
She dwells in the valley, my little dark love,Where the river sings to the sea,And an ogham-stone sits by her door,And nigh to it hazels three.
She dwells in the valley, my little dark love,
Where the river sings to the sea,
And an ogham-stone sits by her door,
And nigh to it hazels three.
And oft when the purple twilight comes,And the blind bats flit in the air,I wander down from the quiet hillsTo seek my sweetheart there.
And oft when the purple twilight comes,
And the blind bats flit in the air,
I wander down from the quiet hills
To seek my sweetheart there.
But she comes never—she loves not me,Nor ever will love, I hold;For tho’ my heart is a peat of fire,Her heart is a-cold!
But she comes never—she loves not me,
Nor ever will love, I hold;
For tho’ my heart is a peat of fire,
Her heart is a-cold!
I HEARD A PIPER PIPINGI heard a piper pipingThe blue hills among—And never did I hearSo plaintive a song.It seemed but a partOf the hills’ melancholy:No piper living thereCould ever be jolly!And still the piper pipedThe blue hills among,And all the birds were quietTo listen to his song.
I heard a piper pipingThe blue hills among—And never did I hearSo plaintive a song.It seemed but a partOf the hills’ melancholy:No piper living thereCould ever be jolly!And still the piper pipedThe blue hills among,And all the birds were quietTo listen to his song.
I heard a piper pipingThe blue hills among—And never did I hearSo plaintive a song.
I heard a piper piping
The blue hills among—
And never did I hear
So plaintive a song.
It seemed but a partOf the hills’ melancholy:No piper living thereCould ever be jolly!
It seemed but a part
Of the hills’ melancholy:
No piper living there
Could ever be jolly!
And still the piper pipedThe blue hills among,And all the birds were quietTo listen to his song.
And still the piper piped
The blue hills among,
And all the birds were quiet
To listen to his song.
THE CLOUDS GO BY AND BYThe clouds go by and by,The heron sings in the blue—And I lie dreaming, dreamingEver of you.The stag on the hill is free,And the wind is blowing sweet—But I lie bound a prisonerAt your feet.
The clouds go by and by,The heron sings in the blue—And I lie dreaming, dreamingEver of you.The stag on the hill is free,And the wind is blowing sweet—But I lie bound a prisonerAt your feet.
The clouds go by and by,The heron sings in the blue—And I lie dreaming, dreamingEver of you.
The clouds go by and by,
The heron sings in the blue—
And I lie dreaming, dreaming
Ever of you.
The stag on the hill is free,And the wind is blowing sweet—But I lie bound a prisonerAt your feet.
The stag on the hill is free,
And the wind is blowing sweet—
But I lie bound a prisoner
At your feet.
DAVY DAWWoa! are you there my bonny mare?Your whinny seems to say—“By Bealach forge and Creagach fairWe’ll gallop hard to-day!”You champ your snaffle all to foam,And fleck your counter bright;But now we bid adieu to homeUntil the fall of night.Davy Daw, Davy Daw, with his early horn,His hunting-crop and bag of corn—His heart’s as merry as a mottle-thrushThat sings all day in the hawthorn bush.Come hither, Bran of ancient seed,And lick your master’s hand;I swear no dog of purer breedIs found in all the land.Brave scion of Cuchullain’s branch,Well do you, hound, upholdThe prowess and the courage staunchThat marked your line of old.Davy Daw, Davy Daw, my merry man,I love toast crab in a pewter can.Our tastes are like as like can be—But a measure of ale in the can for me!The wind is low and scent is good,And Mada’s on the green:He hid his head in Cratla WoodSince early yestere’en.You beat the bush from peep of light,And set the whins afire;And now the tory is in sight,You’ve got your heart’s desire.Davy Daw, Davy Daw, for a crab well-brownedIn the smiling flood of a cruiscin drowned.Give me, sirree, my crab and ale,And bog or batter, my heart won’t fail!The sun is out, and Davy’s up,And hounds are on the run:It’s hard he’ll earn his stirrup-cupBefore the day is done!A jolly life we hunters leadUpon the saddle high:We see no devil in the bead,And drain our noggins dry.Davy Daw, Davy Daw is a huntsman bold;He’s more to me than a kingdom’s gold.A hind for dinner and a hare to sup—O that’s what I get when Davy’s up!The fox is fast upon the hill,He’s wary in the dale;But I will ride to Penny MillBefore I lose his tail.That brush was born to make a capFor gallant Eoin Og;And I will have it, hang-or-hap,As sure as I’m a rogue.Davy Daw, Davy Daw, for a morning chase,With an Irish blood to make the pace:He’s last to check and first to view,And hard to the death he leads his queue.Day in we hunt the spinney fox,Day out the rapparee;Hiscave is in the broken rocksAbove the Correi-buidhe.A shameful thing, the ladies say,To hunt your fellow-man;But follow him till hard at bayIt’s just the ladies can!Davy Daw, Davy Daw, the brush is won!A good job, sir, our work is done.Whitefoot went lame this side o’ the mill,And I’m as dry as an old lime-kiln.Red rogue, he’ll kill his goose no more:Close work it was, for the light is o’er.Justclosework, sir, but the Dub’sclose to,With a can for me and a crab for you!
Woa! are you there my bonny mare?Your whinny seems to say—“By Bealach forge and Creagach fairWe’ll gallop hard to-day!”You champ your snaffle all to foam,And fleck your counter bright;But now we bid adieu to homeUntil the fall of night.Davy Daw, Davy Daw, with his early horn,His hunting-crop and bag of corn—His heart’s as merry as a mottle-thrushThat sings all day in the hawthorn bush.Come hither, Bran of ancient seed,And lick your master’s hand;I swear no dog of purer breedIs found in all the land.Brave scion of Cuchullain’s branch,Well do you, hound, upholdThe prowess and the courage staunchThat marked your line of old.Davy Daw, Davy Daw, my merry man,I love toast crab in a pewter can.Our tastes are like as like can be—But a measure of ale in the can for me!The wind is low and scent is good,And Mada’s on the green:He hid his head in Cratla WoodSince early yestere’en.You beat the bush from peep of light,And set the whins afire;And now the tory is in sight,You’ve got your heart’s desire.Davy Daw, Davy Daw, for a crab well-brownedIn the smiling flood of a cruiscin drowned.Give me, sirree, my crab and ale,And bog or batter, my heart won’t fail!The sun is out, and Davy’s up,And hounds are on the run:It’s hard he’ll earn his stirrup-cupBefore the day is done!A jolly life we hunters leadUpon the saddle high:We see no devil in the bead,And drain our noggins dry.Davy Daw, Davy Daw is a huntsman bold;He’s more to me than a kingdom’s gold.A hind for dinner and a hare to sup—O that’s what I get when Davy’s up!The fox is fast upon the hill,He’s wary in the dale;But I will ride to Penny MillBefore I lose his tail.That brush was born to make a capFor gallant Eoin Og;And I will have it, hang-or-hap,As sure as I’m a rogue.Davy Daw, Davy Daw, for a morning chase,With an Irish blood to make the pace:He’s last to check and first to view,And hard to the death he leads his queue.Day in we hunt the spinney fox,Day out the rapparee;Hiscave is in the broken rocksAbove the Correi-buidhe.A shameful thing, the ladies say,To hunt your fellow-man;But follow him till hard at bayIt’s just the ladies can!Davy Daw, Davy Daw, the brush is won!A good job, sir, our work is done.Whitefoot went lame this side o’ the mill,And I’m as dry as an old lime-kiln.Red rogue, he’ll kill his goose no more:Close work it was, for the light is o’er.Justclosework, sir, but the Dub’sclose to,With a can for me and a crab for you!
Woa! are you there my bonny mare?Your whinny seems to say—“By Bealach forge and Creagach fairWe’ll gallop hard to-day!”You champ your snaffle all to foam,And fleck your counter bright;But now we bid adieu to homeUntil the fall of night.Davy Daw, Davy Daw, with his early horn,His hunting-crop and bag of corn—His heart’s as merry as a mottle-thrushThat sings all day in the hawthorn bush.
Woa! are you there my bonny mare?
Your whinny seems to say—
“By Bealach forge and Creagach fair
We’ll gallop hard to-day!”
You champ your snaffle all to foam,
And fleck your counter bright;
But now we bid adieu to home
Until the fall of night.
Davy Daw, Davy Daw, with his early horn,
His hunting-crop and bag of corn—
His heart’s as merry as a mottle-thrush
That sings all day in the hawthorn bush.
Come hither, Bran of ancient seed,And lick your master’s hand;I swear no dog of purer breedIs found in all the land.Brave scion of Cuchullain’s branch,Well do you, hound, upholdThe prowess and the courage staunchThat marked your line of old.Davy Daw, Davy Daw, my merry man,I love toast crab in a pewter can.Our tastes are like as like can be—But a measure of ale in the can for me!
Come hither, Bran of ancient seed,
And lick your master’s hand;
I swear no dog of purer breed
Is found in all the land.
Brave scion of Cuchullain’s branch,
Well do you, hound, uphold
The prowess and the courage staunch
That marked your line of old.
Davy Daw, Davy Daw, my merry man,
I love toast crab in a pewter can.
Our tastes are like as like can be—
But a measure of ale in the can for me!
The wind is low and scent is good,And Mada’s on the green:He hid his head in Cratla WoodSince early yestere’en.You beat the bush from peep of light,And set the whins afire;And now the tory is in sight,You’ve got your heart’s desire.Davy Daw, Davy Daw, for a crab well-brownedIn the smiling flood of a cruiscin drowned.Give me, sirree, my crab and ale,And bog or batter, my heart won’t fail!
The wind is low and scent is good,
And Mada’s on the green:
He hid his head in Cratla Wood
Since early yestere’en.
You beat the bush from peep of light,
And set the whins afire;
And now the tory is in sight,
You’ve got your heart’s desire.
Davy Daw, Davy Daw, for a crab well-browned
In the smiling flood of a cruiscin drowned.
Give me, sirree, my crab and ale,
And bog or batter, my heart won’t fail!
The sun is out, and Davy’s up,And hounds are on the run:It’s hard he’ll earn his stirrup-cupBefore the day is done!A jolly life we hunters leadUpon the saddle high:We see no devil in the bead,And drain our noggins dry.Davy Daw, Davy Daw is a huntsman bold;He’s more to me than a kingdom’s gold.A hind for dinner and a hare to sup—O that’s what I get when Davy’s up!
The sun is out, and Davy’s up,
And hounds are on the run:
It’s hard he’ll earn his stirrup-cup
Before the day is done!
A jolly life we hunters lead
Upon the saddle high:
We see no devil in the bead,
And drain our noggins dry.
Davy Daw, Davy Daw is a huntsman bold;
He’s more to me than a kingdom’s gold.
A hind for dinner and a hare to sup—
O that’s what I get when Davy’s up!
The fox is fast upon the hill,He’s wary in the dale;But I will ride to Penny MillBefore I lose his tail.That brush was born to make a capFor gallant Eoin Og;And I will have it, hang-or-hap,As sure as I’m a rogue.Davy Daw, Davy Daw, for a morning chase,With an Irish blood to make the pace:He’s last to check and first to view,And hard to the death he leads his queue.
The fox is fast upon the hill,
He’s wary in the dale;
But I will ride to Penny Mill
Before I lose his tail.
That brush was born to make a cap
For gallant Eoin Og;
And I will have it, hang-or-hap,
As sure as I’m a rogue.
Davy Daw, Davy Daw, for a morning chase,
With an Irish blood to make the pace:
He’s last to check and first to view,
And hard to the death he leads his queue.
Day in we hunt the spinney fox,Day out the rapparee;Hiscave is in the broken rocksAbove the Correi-buidhe.A shameful thing, the ladies say,To hunt your fellow-man;But follow him till hard at bayIt’s just the ladies can!Davy Daw, Davy Daw, the brush is won!A good job, sir, our work is done.Whitefoot went lame this side o’ the mill,And I’m as dry as an old lime-kiln.
Day in we hunt the spinney fox,
Day out the rapparee;
Hiscave is in the broken rocks
Above the Correi-buidhe.
A shameful thing, the ladies say,
To hunt your fellow-man;
But follow him till hard at bay
It’s just the ladies can!
Davy Daw, Davy Daw, the brush is won!
A good job, sir, our work is done.
Whitefoot went lame this side o’ the mill,
And I’m as dry as an old lime-kiln.
Red rogue, he’ll kill his goose no more:Close work it was, for the light is o’er.Justclosework, sir, but the Dub’sclose to,With a can for me and a crab for you!
Red rogue, he’ll kill his goose no more:
Close work it was, for the light is o’er.
Justclosework, sir, but the Dub’sclose to,
With a can for me and a crab for you!
BLACK SILE OF THE SILVER EYEAs I rode down to Gartan fairI met a girl upon the way:The winter night was on her hair,The summer dawn was in her eye.And O, she stepped with such a gait,And bore her round black head so high,And tossed it so, I knew her straightFor Sile of the Silver Eye.“God save you, Sile, love,” says I:“God save you kindly,” murmured she—And love was welling in her eyeAs she dropped me the courtesy.The mountain boys upon the roadWere at themselves for jealousyWhen they saw Seamus win the nodFrom Sile of the Silver Eye.We rode together to the fair,We danced together on the green;And, faith, they say a suppler pairWas ne’er before a piper seen.Black Sile of the Silver EyeHas been my wife for twenty year,And still her sloe-black head is high,And still her eye is silver clear.And, God be praised, we have a girl,As like her as like well can be—The round black head, the roguish curl,The soft tongue and the silver eye.God bless the old, God bless the new,And send them stout posterity—Old Sile and young Sile, too—Both “Sile of the Silver Eye!”
As I rode down to Gartan fairI met a girl upon the way:The winter night was on her hair,The summer dawn was in her eye.And O, she stepped with such a gait,And bore her round black head so high,And tossed it so, I knew her straightFor Sile of the Silver Eye.“God save you, Sile, love,” says I:“God save you kindly,” murmured she—And love was welling in her eyeAs she dropped me the courtesy.The mountain boys upon the roadWere at themselves for jealousyWhen they saw Seamus win the nodFrom Sile of the Silver Eye.We rode together to the fair,We danced together on the green;And, faith, they say a suppler pairWas ne’er before a piper seen.Black Sile of the Silver EyeHas been my wife for twenty year,And still her sloe-black head is high,And still her eye is silver clear.And, God be praised, we have a girl,As like her as like well can be—The round black head, the roguish curl,The soft tongue and the silver eye.God bless the old, God bless the new,And send them stout posterity—Old Sile and young Sile, too—Both “Sile of the Silver Eye!”
As I rode down to Gartan fairI met a girl upon the way:The winter night was on her hair,The summer dawn was in her eye.
As I rode down to Gartan fair
I met a girl upon the way:
The winter night was on her hair,
The summer dawn was in her eye.
And O, she stepped with such a gait,And bore her round black head so high,And tossed it so, I knew her straightFor Sile of the Silver Eye.
And O, she stepped with such a gait,
And bore her round black head so high,
And tossed it so, I knew her straight
For Sile of the Silver Eye.
“God save you, Sile, love,” says I:“God save you kindly,” murmured she—And love was welling in her eyeAs she dropped me the courtesy.
“God save you, Sile, love,” says I:
“God save you kindly,” murmured she—
And love was welling in her eye
As she dropped me the courtesy.
The mountain boys upon the roadWere at themselves for jealousyWhen they saw Seamus win the nodFrom Sile of the Silver Eye.
The mountain boys upon the road
Were at themselves for jealousy
When they saw Seamus win the nod
From Sile of the Silver Eye.
We rode together to the fair,We danced together on the green;And, faith, they say a suppler pairWas ne’er before a piper seen.
We rode together to the fair,
We danced together on the green;
And, faith, they say a suppler pair
Was ne’er before a piper seen.
Black Sile of the Silver EyeHas been my wife for twenty year,And still her sloe-black head is high,And still her eye is silver clear.
Black Sile of the Silver Eye
Has been my wife for twenty year,
And still her sloe-black head is high,
And still her eye is silver clear.
And, God be praised, we have a girl,As like her as like well can be—The round black head, the roguish curl,The soft tongue and the silver eye.
And, God be praised, we have a girl,
As like her as like well can be—
The round black head, the roguish curl,
The soft tongue and the silver eye.
God bless the old, God bless the new,And send them stout posterity—Old Sile and young Sile, too—Both “Sile of the Silver Eye!”
God bless the old, God bless the new,
And send them stout posterity—
Old Sile and young Sile, too—
Both “Sile of the Silver Eye!”
A SHEEPDOG BARKS ON THE MOUNTAINA sheepdog barks on the mountain,The night is fallen cold;The shepherd blinks at his fire,The sheep are in the fold.The moon comes white and quietInto the winter sky;And nothing walks the valleyTo-night but you and I.
A sheepdog barks on the mountain,The night is fallen cold;The shepherd blinks at his fire,The sheep are in the fold.The moon comes white and quietInto the winter sky;And nothing walks the valleyTo-night but you and I.
A sheepdog barks on the mountain,The night is fallen cold;The shepherd blinks at his fire,The sheep are in the fold.
A sheepdog barks on the mountain,
The night is fallen cold;
The shepherd blinks at his fire,
The sheep are in the fold.
The moon comes white and quietInto the winter sky;And nothing walks the valleyTo-night but you and I.
The moon comes white and quiet
Into the winter sky;
And nothing walks the valley
To-night but you and I.
DEAD OAKLEAVES EVERYWHEREDead oakleaves everywhereUnder my feet,Filling the forest airWith odours sweet.Acorns, three, four and five,Falling apace.Thank God I am aliveThis day of grace!
Dead oakleaves everywhereUnder my feet,Filling the forest airWith odours sweet.Acorns, three, four and five,Falling apace.Thank God I am aliveThis day of grace!
Dead oakleaves everywhereUnder my feet,Filling the forest airWith odours sweet.
Dead oakleaves everywhere
Under my feet,
Filling the forest air
With odours sweet.
Acorns, three, four and five,Falling apace.Thank God I am aliveThis day of grace!
Acorns, three, four and five,
Falling apace.
Thank God I am alive
This day of grace!
A NIGHT PRAYERPray for me, Seachnal,Pray for me, Mel:Save me from sinAnd the cold stone of hell!Brigid and ItaAnd Eithne the Red,Spread out your mantlesAnd cover my bed!For rann and gospelHave gone from my mind,And devils are walkingAbroad in the wind!
Pray for me, Seachnal,Pray for me, Mel:Save me from sinAnd the cold stone of hell!Brigid and ItaAnd Eithne the Red,Spread out your mantlesAnd cover my bed!For rann and gospelHave gone from my mind,And devils are walkingAbroad in the wind!
Pray for me, Seachnal,Pray for me, Mel:Save me from sinAnd the cold stone of hell!
Pray for me, Seachnal,
Pray for me, Mel:
Save me from sin
And the cold stone of hell!
Brigid and ItaAnd Eithne the Red,Spread out your mantlesAnd cover my bed!
Brigid and Ita
And Eithne the Red,
Spread out your mantles
And cover my bed!
For rann and gospelHave gone from my mind,And devils are walkingAbroad in the wind!
For rann and gospel
Have gone from my mind,
And devils are walking
Abroad in the wind!
I AM THE MOUNTAINY SINGERI am the mountainy singer,And I would sing of the ChristWho followed the paths thro’ the mountainsTo eat at the people’s tryst.He loved the sun-dark peopleAs the young man loves his bride,And he moved among their thatches,And for them he was crucified.And the people loved him, also,More than their houses or lands,For they had known his pityAnd felt the touch of his hands.And they dreamed with him in the mountains,And they walked with him on the sea,And they prayed with him in the garden,And bled with him on the tree.Not ever by longing and dreamingMay they come to him now,But by the thorns of sorrowThat bruised his kingly brow.
I am the mountainy singer,And I would sing of the ChristWho followed the paths thro’ the mountainsTo eat at the people’s tryst.He loved the sun-dark peopleAs the young man loves his bride,And he moved among their thatches,And for them he was crucified.And the people loved him, also,More than their houses or lands,For they had known his pityAnd felt the touch of his hands.And they dreamed with him in the mountains,And they walked with him on the sea,And they prayed with him in the garden,And bled with him on the tree.Not ever by longing and dreamingMay they come to him now,But by the thorns of sorrowThat bruised his kingly brow.
I am the mountainy singer,And I would sing of the ChristWho followed the paths thro’ the mountainsTo eat at the people’s tryst.
I am the mountainy singer,
And I would sing of the Christ
Who followed the paths thro’ the mountains
To eat at the people’s tryst.
He loved the sun-dark peopleAs the young man loves his bride,And he moved among their thatches,And for them he was crucified.
He loved the sun-dark people
As the young man loves his bride,
And he moved among their thatches,
And for them he was crucified.
And the people loved him, also,More than their houses or lands,For they had known his pityAnd felt the touch of his hands.
And the people loved him, also,
More than their houses or lands,
For they had known his pity
And felt the touch of his hands.
And they dreamed with him in the mountains,And they walked with him on the sea,And they prayed with him in the garden,And bled with him on the tree.
And they dreamed with him in the mountains,
And they walked with him on the sea,
And they prayed with him in the garden,
And bled with him on the tree.
Not ever by longing and dreamingMay they come to him now,But by the thorns of sorrowThat bruised his kingly brow.
Not ever by longing and dreaming
May they come to him now,
But by the thorns of sorrow
That bruised his kingly brow.
THE RAINBOW SPANNING A PLANET SHOWERThe rainbow spanning a planet shower,The sloe in berry, the flax in flower.The scholar’s satchel, the beggar’s staff,The ploughman’s whistle, the tinker’s laugh.The stranded hooker, the breaking wave,The sunrise gilding the carn of Medb.The strength of mountains, the swiftness of windBlowing over the leagues behind.The hot lips sealing the spoken word,The song in gentle places heard.The wildgoose trumpeting in the blue,The postcar stuck in a drift of snow.The bogslide moving, the seaward leap,The cry, the townland whelmed in sleep.The sock on the anvil, the thread in the loom,The Host on the altar, the child in the womb.The wayside murder, the whispered name,The hanging body, the hidden shame.And more—if you but listen and look—In this, my elemental book!
The rainbow spanning a planet shower,The sloe in berry, the flax in flower.The scholar’s satchel, the beggar’s staff,The ploughman’s whistle, the tinker’s laugh.The stranded hooker, the breaking wave,The sunrise gilding the carn of Medb.The strength of mountains, the swiftness of windBlowing over the leagues behind.The hot lips sealing the spoken word,The song in gentle places heard.The wildgoose trumpeting in the blue,The postcar stuck in a drift of snow.The bogslide moving, the seaward leap,The cry, the townland whelmed in sleep.The sock on the anvil, the thread in the loom,The Host on the altar, the child in the womb.The wayside murder, the whispered name,The hanging body, the hidden shame.And more—if you but listen and look—In this, my elemental book!
The rainbow spanning a planet shower,The sloe in berry, the flax in flower.
The rainbow spanning a planet shower,
The sloe in berry, the flax in flower.
The scholar’s satchel, the beggar’s staff,The ploughman’s whistle, the tinker’s laugh.
The scholar’s satchel, the beggar’s staff,
The ploughman’s whistle, the tinker’s laugh.
The stranded hooker, the breaking wave,The sunrise gilding the carn of Medb.
The stranded hooker, the breaking wave,
The sunrise gilding the carn of Medb.
The strength of mountains, the swiftness of windBlowing over the leagues behind.
The strength of mountains, the swiftness of wind
Blowing over the leagues behind.
The hot lips sealing the spoken word,The song in gentle places heard.
The hot lips sealing the spoken word,
The song in gentle places heard.
The wildgoose trumpeting in the blue,The postcar stuck in a drift of snow.
The wildgoose trumpeting in the blue,
The postcar stuck in a drift of snow.
The bogslide moving, the seaward leap,The cry, the townland whelmed in sleep.
The bogslide moving, the seaward leap,
The cry, the townland whelmed in sleep.
The sock on the anvil, the thread in the loom,The Host on the altar, the child in the womb.
The sock on the anvil, the thread in the loom,
The Host on the altar, the child in the womb.
The wayside murder, the whispered name,The hanging body, the hidden shame.
The wayside murder, the whispered name,
The hanging body, the hidden shame.
And more—if you but listen and look—In this, my elemental book!
And more—if you but listen and look—
In this, my elemental book!
I WILL GO WITH MY FATHER A-PLOUGHINGI will go with my father a-ploughingTo the green field by the sea,And the rooks and the crows and the seagullsWill come flocking after me.I will sing to the patient horsesWith the lark in the white of the air,And my father will sing the plough-songThat blesses the cleaving share.I will go with my father a-sowingTo the red field by the sea,And the rooks and the gulls and the starlingsWill come flocking after me.I will sing to the striding sowersWith the finch on the greening sloe,And my father will sing the seed-songThat only the wise men know.I will go with my father a-reapingTo the brown field by the sea,And the geese and the crows and the childrenWill come flocking after me.I will sing to the tanfaced reapersWith the wren in the heat of the sun,And my father will sing the scythe-songThat joys for the harvest done.
I will go with my father a-ploughingTo the green field by the sea,And the rooks and the crows and the seagullsWill come flocking after me.I will sing to the patient horsesWith the lark in the white of the air,And my father will sing the plough-songThat blesses the cleaving share.I will go with my father a-sowingTo the red field by the sea,And the rooks and the gulls and the starlingsWill come flocking after me.I will sing to the striding sowersWith the finch on the greening sloe,And my father will sing the seed-songThat only the wise men know.I will go with my father a-reapingTo the brown field by the sea,And the geese and the crows and the childrenWill come flocking after me.I will sing to the tanfaced reapersWith the wren in the heat of the sun,And my father will sing the scythe-songThat joys for the harvest done.
I will go with my father a-ploughingTo the green field by the sea,And the rooks and the crows and the seagullsWill come flocking after me.I will sing to the patient horsesWith the lark in the white of the air,And my father will sing the plough-songThat blesses the cleaving share.
I will go with my father a-ploughing
To the green field by the sea,
And the rooks and the crows and the seagulls
Will come flocking after me.
I will sing to the patient horses
With the lark in the white of the air,
And my father will sing the plough-song
That blesses the cleaving share.
I will go with my father a-sowingTo the red field by the sea,And the rooks and the gulls and the starlingsWill come flocking after me.I will sing to the striding sowersWith the finch on the greening sloe,And my father will sing the seed-songThat only the wise men know.
I will go with my father a-sowing
To the red field by the sea,
And the rooks and the gulls and the starlings
Will come flocking after me.
I will sing to the striding sowers
With the finch on the greening sloe,
And my father will sing the seed-song
That only the wise men know.
I will go with my father a-reapingTo the brown field by the sea,And the geese and the crows and the childrenWill come flocking after me.I will sing to the tanfaced reapersWith the wren in the heat of the sun,And my father will sing the scythe-songThat joys for the harvest done.
I will go with my father a-reaping
To the brown field by the sea,
And the geese and the crows and the children
Will come flocking after me.
I will sing to the tanfaced reapers
With the wren in the heat of the sun,
And my father will sing the scythe-song
That joys for the harvest done.
THE SHINING SPACES OF THE SOUTHThe shining spaces of the south,The circle of the year, the sea,The blowing rose, the maiden’s mouth,The love, the hate, the ecstasy,The golden wood, the shadowed stream,The dew, the light, the wind, the rain,The man’s desire, the woman’s dream,The bed embrace, the childing pain,The sound of music heard afar,The breathing grass, the broken sod,The sun, the moon, the twilight star—Do all proclaim the mind of God.Then why should I, who am but clay,Think otherwise, or answer nay?
The shining spaces of the south,The circle of the year, the sea,The blowing rose, the maiden’s mouth,The love, the hate, the ecstasy,The golden wood, the shadowed stream,The dew, the light, the wind, the rain,The man’s desire, the woman’s dream,The bed embrace, the childing pain,The sound of music heard afar,The breathing grass, the broken sod,The sun, the moon, the twilight star—Do all proclaim the mind of God.Then why should I, who am but clay,Think otherwise, or answer nay?
The shining spaces of the south,The circle of the year, the sea,The blowing rose, the maiden’s mouth,The love, the hate, the ecstasy,The golden wood, the shadowed stream,The dew, the light, the wind, the rain,The man’s desire, the woman’s dream,The bed embrace, the childing pain,The sound of music heard afar,The breathing grass, the broken sod,The sun, the moon, the twilight star—Do all proclaim the mind of God.Then why should I, who am but clay,Think otherwise, or answer nay?
The shining spaces of the south,
The circle of the year, the sea,
The blowing rose, the maiden’s mouth,
The love, the hate, the ecstasy,
The golden wood, the shadowed stream,
The dew, the light, the wind, the rain,
The man’s desire, the woman’s dream,
The bed embrace, the childing pain,
The sound of music heard afar,
The breathing grass, the broken sod,
The sun, the moon, the twilight star—
Do all proclaim the mind of God.
Then why should I, who am but clay,
Think otherwise, or answer nay?
LIKE A TUFT OF CEANABHANLike a tuft ofceanabhanBlowing in the windIs my slender Aine Ban—White and soft and kind.Kind her heart is, but her clann’sCold as clay or stone.Would that I had herds and landsTo take her for my own!
Like a tuft ofceanabhanBlowing in the windIs my slender Aine Ban—White and soft and kind.Kind her heart is, but her clann’sCold as clay or stone.Would that I had herds and landsTo take her for my own!
Like a tuft ofceanabhanBlowing in the windIs my slender Aine Ban—White and soft and kind.
Like a tuft ofceanabhan
Blowing in the wind
Is my slender Aine Ban—
White and soft and kind.
Kind her heart is, but her clann’sCold as clay or stone.Would that I had herds and landsTo take her for my own!
Kind her heart is, but her clann’s
Cold as clay or stone.
Would that I had herds and lands
To take her for my own!
THE HERB-LEECHI have gatheredlussAt the wane of the moon,And supped its sapWith a yewen spoon.I have sat a spellBy the carn of Medb,And smelt the mouldOf the red queen’s grave.I have dreamed a dearthIn the darkened sun,And felt the handOf the Evil One.I have fathomed warIn the comet’s tail,And heard the cryingOf Gall and Gael.I have seen the spumeOn the dead priest’s lips,And the “holy fire”On the spars of ships;And the shooting starsOn Barthelmy’s Night,Blanching the darkWith ghostly light;And the corpse-candleOf the seer’s dream,Bigger in girthThan a weaver’s beam;And the shy hearth-fairiesAbout the grate,Blowing the turvesTo a whiter heat.All things on earthTo me are known,For I have the giftOf the Murrain Stone!
I have gatheredlussAt the wane of the moon,And supped its sapWith a yewen spoon.I have sat a spellBy the carn of Medb,And smelt the mouldOf the red queen’s grave.I have dreamed a dearthIn the darkened sun,And felt the handOf the Evil One.I have fathomed warIn the comet’s tail,And heard the cryingOf Gall and Gael.I have seen the spumeOn the dead priest’s lips,And the “holy fire”On the spars of ships;And the shooting starsOn Barthelmy’s Night,Blanching the darkWith ghostly light;And the corpse-candleOf the seer’s dream,Bigger in girthThan a weaver’s beam;And the shy hearth-fairiesAbout the grate,Blowing the turvesTo a whiter heat.All things on earthTo me are known,For I have the giftOf the Murrain Stone!
I have gatheredlussAt the wane of the moon,And supped its sapWith a yewen spoon.I have sat a spellBy the carn of Medb,And smelt the mouldOf the red queen’s grave.I have dreamed a dearthIn the darkened sun,And felt the handOf the Evil One.I have fathomed warIn the comet’s tail,And heard the cryingOf Gall and Gael.I have seen the spumeOn the dead priest’s lips,And the “holy fire”On the spars of ships;And the shooting starsOn Barthelmy’s Night,Blanching the darkWith ghostly light;And the corpse-candleOf the seer’s dream,Bigger in girthThan a weaver’s beam;And the shy hearth-fairiesAbout the grate,Blowing the turvesTo a whiter heat.All things on earthTo me are known,For I have the giftOf the Murrain Stone!
I have gatheredluss
At the wane of the moon,
And supped its sap
With a yewen spoon.
I have sat a spell
By the carn of Medb,
And smelt the mould
Of the red queen’s grave.
I have dreamed a dearth
In the darkened sun,
And felt the hand
Of the Evil One.
I have fathomed war
In the comet’s tail,
And heard the crying
Of Gall and Gael.
I have seen the spume
On the dead priest’s lips,
And the “holy fire”
On the spars of ships;
And the shooting stars
On Barthelmy’s Night,
Blanching the dark
With ghostly light;
And the corpse-candle
Of the seer’s dream,
Bigger in girth
Than a weaver’s beam;
And the shy hearth-fairies
About the grate,
Blowing the turves
To a whiter heat.
All things on earth
To me are known,
For I have the gift
Of the Murrain Stone!
WHO BUYS LANDWho buys land buys many stones,Who buys flesh buys many bones;Who buys eggs buys many shells,Who buys love buys nothing else.Love is a burr upon the floor,Love is a thief behind the door;Who loves leman for her breathMay quench his fire and cry for death!Love is a bridle, love is a load,Love is a thorn upon the road;Love is the fly that flits its hour,Love is the shining venom-flower.Love is a net, love is a snare,Love is a bubble blown with air;Love starts hot, and waning cold,Is withered in the grave’s mould!
Who buys land buys many stones,Who buys flesh buys many bones;Who buys eggs buys many shells,Who buys love buys nothing else.Love is a burr upon the floor,Love is a thief behind the door;Who loves leman for her breathMay quench his fire and cry for death!Love is a bridle, love is a load,Love is a thorn upon the road;Love is the fly that flits its hour,Love is the shining venom-flower.Love is a net, love is a snare,Love is a bubble blown with air;Love starts hot, and waning cold,Is withered in the grave’s mould!
Who buys land buys many stones,Who buys flesh buys many bones;Who buys eggs buys many shells,Who buys love buys nothing else.
Who buys land buys many stones,
Who buys flesh buys many bones;
Who buys eggs buys many shells,
Who buys love buys nothing else.
Love is a burr upon the floor,Love is a thief behind the door;Who loves leman for her breathMay quench his fire and cry for death!
Love is a burr upon the floor,
Love is a thief behind the door;
Who loves leman for her breath
May quench his fire and cry for death!
Love is a bridle, love is a load,Love is a thorn upon the road;Love is the fly that flits its hour,Love is the shining venom-flower.
Love is a bridle, love is a load,
Love is a thorn upon the road;
Love is the fly that flits its hour,
Love is the shining venom-flower.
Love is a net, love is a snare,Love is a bubble blown with air;Love starts hot, and waning cold,Is withered in the grave’s mould!
Love is a net, love is a snare,
Love is a bubble blown with air;
Love starts hot, and waning cold,
Is withered in the grave’s mould!
THE POET LOOSED A WINGÈD SONGThe poet loosed a wingèd songAgainst the hulk of England’s wrong.Were poisoned words at his command,’Twould not avail for Ireland.The soldier lifted up a sword,And on the hills in battle pouredHis life-blood like an ebbing sea—And still we pine for liberty.The friar spoke his bitter hope,And danced upon the gallows rope.Were he to dance that dance againA hundred times, ’twould be in vain.Christ save us! only thou canst save!The nation staggers to the grave.Can genius, valour, faith be given,And win no recompense of heaven?No, Christ! by Ireland’s martyrs, no!’Twas not for this we suffered so.Die, die again on Calvary tree,If needs be, Christ, to set us free!To set us free!
The poet loosed a wingèd songAgainst the hulk of England’s wrong.Were poisoned words at his command,’Twould not avail for Ireland.The soldier lifted up a sword,And on the hills in battle pouredHis life-blood like an ebbing sea—And still we pine for liberty.The friar spoke his bitter hope,And danced upon the gallows rope.Were he to dance that dance againA hundred times, ’twould be in vain.Christ save us! only thou canst save!The nation staggers to the grave.Can genius, valour, faith be given,And win no recompense of heaven?No, Christ! by Ireland’s martyrs, no!’Twas not for this we suffered so.Die, die again on Calvary tree,If needs be, Christ, to set us free!To set us free!
The poet loosed a wingèd songAgainst the hulk of England’s wrong.Were poisoned words at his command,’Twould not avail for Ireland.
The poet loosed a wingèd song
Against the hulk of England’s wrong.
Were poisoned words at his command,
’Twould not avail for Ireland.
The soldier lifted up a sword,And on the hills in battle pouredHis life-blood like an ebbing sea—And still we pine for liberty.
The soldier lifted up a sword,
And on the hills in battle poured
His life-blood like an ebbing sea—
And still we pine for liberty.
The friar spoke his bitter hope,And danced upon the gallows rope.Were he to dance that dance againA hundred times, ’twould be in vain.
The friar spoke his bitter hope,
And danced upon the gallows rope.
Were he to dance that dance again
A hundred times, ’twould be in vain.
Christ save us! only thou canst save!The nation staggers to the grave.Can genius, valour, faith be given,And win no recompense of heaven?
Christ save us! only thou canst save!
The nation staggers to the grave.
Can genius, valour, faith be given,
And win no recompense of heaven?
No, Christ! by Ireland’s martyrs, no!’Twas not for this we suffered so.Die, die again on Calvary tree,If needs be, Christ, to set us free!To set us free!
No, Christ! by Ireland’s martyrs, no!
’Twas not for this we suffered so.
Die, die again on Calvary tree,
If needs be, Christ, to set us free!
To set us free!
SIC TRANSITI lit my tallowAn hour ago,And now it is burningDark and low.The glimmer lengthensAnd turns about,Sinks in the sconce—Then flickers out!
I lit my tallowAn hour ago,And now it is burningDark and low.The glimmer lengthensAnd turns about,Sinks in the sconce—Then flickers out!
I lit my tallowAn hour ago,And now it is burningDark and low.
I lit my tallow
An hour ago,
And now it is burning
Dark and low.
The glimmer lengthensAnd turns about,Sinks in the sconce—Then flickers out!
The glimmer lengthens
And turns about,
Sinks in the sconce—
Then flickers out!