RINGLETED YOUTH OF MY LOVE

Put your head, darling, darling, darling,Your darling black head my heart above;Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fragrance,Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?Oh, many and many a young girl for me is pining,Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free,For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows;But I'd leave a hundred, pure love, for thee!Then put your head, darling, darling, darling,Your darling black head my heart above;Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fragrance,Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?Sir Samuel Ferguson.

Sir Samuel Ferguson.

FOOTNOTES:[115]"Beloved Dark Head."

[115]"Beloved Dark Head."

Ringleted youth of my love,With thy locks bound loosely behind thee,You passed by the road above,But you never came in to find me;Where were the harm for youIf you came for a little to see me,Your kiss is a wakening dewWere I ever so ill or so dreamy.If I had golden storeI would make a nice little boreenTo lead straight up to his door,The door of the house of my storeen;Hoping to God not to missThe sound of his footfall in it,I have waited so long for his kissThat for days I have slept not a minute.I thought, O my love! you were so—As the moon is, or sun on a fountain,And I thought after that you were snow,The cold snow on top of the mountain;And I thought after that, you were moreLike God's lamp shining to find me,Or the bright star of knowledge before,And the star of knowledge behind me.You promised me high-heeled shoes,And satin and silk, my storeen,And to follow me, never to lose,Though the ocean were round us roaring;Like a bush in a gap in a wallI am now left lonely without thee,And this house I grow dead of, is allThat I see around or about me.Douglas Hyde.

If I had golden storeI would make a nice little boreenTo lead straight up to his door,The door of the house of my storeen;Hoping to God not to missThe sound of his footfall in it,I have waited so long for his kissThat for days I have slept not a minute.

I thought, O my love! you were so—As the moon is, or sun on a fountain,And I thought after that you were snow,The cold snow on top of the mountain;And I thought after that, you were moreLike God's lamp shining to find me,Or the bright star of knowledge before,And the star of knowledge behind me.

You promised me high-heeled shoes,And satin and silk, my storeen,And to follow me, never to lose,Though the ocean were round us roaring;Like a bush in a gap in a wallI am now left lonely without thee,And this house I grow dead of, is allThat I see around or about me.

Douglas Hyde.

Owoman, shapely as the swan,On your account I shall not die,The men you've slain—a trivial clan—Were less than I.I ask me shall I die for these,For blossom-teeth and scarlet lips?And shall that delicate swan-shapeBring me eclipse?Well shaped the breasts and smooth the skin,The cheeks are fair, the tresses free;And yet I shall not suffer death,God over me!Those even brows, that hair like gold,Those languorous tones, that virgin way;The flowing limbs, the rounded heelSlight men betray.Thy spirit keen through radiant mien,Thy shining throat and smiling eye,Thy little palm, thy side like foam—I cannot die!O woman, shapely as the swan,In a cunning house hard-reared was I;O bosom white, O well-shaped palm,I shall not die.Padraic Colum

Owoman, shapely as the swan,On your account I shall not die,The men you've slain—a trivial clan—Were less than I.

I ask me shall I die for these,For blossom-teeth and scarlet lips?And shall that delicate swan-shapeBring me eclipse?

Well shaped the breasts and smooth the skin,The cheeks are fair, the tresses free;And yet I shall not suffer death,God over me!

Those even brows, that hair like gold,Those languorous tones, that virgin way;The flowing limbs, the rounded heelSlight men betray.

Thy spirit keen through radiant mien,Thy shining throat and smiling eye,Thy little palm, thy side like foam—I cannot die!

O woman, shapely as the swan,In a cunning house hard-reared was I;O bosom white, O well-shaped palm,I shall not die.

Padraic Colum

Were I to go to the West, from the West I would come not again,The hill that is highest I would climb, at the cord that is toughest I would strain;The branch I would soonest pluck is far out of my reach in the hollow,And the track of my lover's feet is the track that my heart would follow.My heart is as dark as the sloe in a crack of the mountain gorge;Or a burnt-out cinder fallen down at the back of the blazing forge;As the stain of a miry shoe on the marble steps of a palace,As the stain of a drowning fly in the wine of the Holy chalice.[116]My heart is a cluster of nuts with every kernel dropped,My heart is the ice on the pond above, where the mill has stopped;A mournful sadness is breaking over my running laughterLike the mirth of a maid at her marriage and the heavy sorrow after.You have taken the East from me and you have taken the West,You have taken the path before me and the path that is behind;The moon is gone from me by night and the sun is gone by day,Alas! I greatly dread you have stolen my God away!By the Well of Loneliness I sit and make my moan;I hear no sound in the depths below from the fall of the dropping stone;I see the cold wide world, but my lad I do not see,Your shadow no longer lying between God and me.The colour of the blackberry is my old lover's colour;Or the colour of the raspberry on a bright day of summer;Or the colour of the heathberry where the bog-grass is rarest—Ah! the blackest head is often on the form that's fairest.I heard the dog speak of you last night and the sun gone down,I heard the snipe calling aloud from the marshlands brown;It is you are the lonely bird flitting from tree to tree—May you never find your mate if you find not me!It is time for me to leave this cruel town behind,The stones are sharp in it, the very mould unkind;The voice of blame is heard like the muttering of the sea—The heavy hand of the band of men backbiting me.I denounce love; she who gave it to him is now all undone;Little he understood, yon black mother's son.That my heart is turned to stone, what mattered that to you?What were you caring for, but to get a cow or two?

My heart is as dark as the sloe in a crack of the mountain gorge;Or a burnt-out cinder fallen down at the back of the blazing forge;As the stain of a miry shoe on the marble steps of a palace,As the stain of a drowning fly in the wine of the Holy chalice.[116]

My heart is a cluster of nuts with every kernel dropped,My heart is the ice on the pond above, where the mill has stopped;A mournful sadness is breaking over my running laughterLike the mirth of a maid at her marriage and the heavy sorrow after.

You have taken the East from me and you have taken the West,You have taken the path before me and the path that is behind;The moon is gone from me by night and the sun is gone by day,Alas! I greatly dread you have stolen my God away!

By the Well of Loneliness I sit and make my moan;I hear no sound in the depths below from the fall of the dropping stone;I see the cold wide world, but my lad I do not see,Your shadow no longer lying between God and me.

The colour of the blackberry is my old lover's colour;Or the colour of the raspberry on a bright day of summer;Or the colour of the heathberry where the bog-grass is rarest—Ah! the blackest head is often on the form that's fairest.

I heard the dog speak of you last night and the sun gone down,I heard the snipe calling aloud from the marshlands brown;It is you are the lonely bird flitting from tree to tree—May you never find your mate if you find not me!

It is time for me to leave this cruel town behind,The stones are sharp in it, the very mould unkind;The voice of blame is heard like the muttering of the sea—The heavy hand of the band of men backbiting me.

I denounce love; she who gave it to him is now all undone;Little he understood, yon black mother's son.That my heart is turned to stone, what mattered that to you?What were you caring for, but to get a cow or two?

FOOTNOTES:[116]This line is not in the original.

[116]This line is not in the original.

Some of the verses in this poem are identical with those found in "Donall Oge," and also with the poem called "Breed Astore" in Dr. Hyde'sLove Songs of Connaught. I have omitted those which occur in the former poem and added one quatrain from the latter, which it would be a pity to leave out. They seem to have been all parts of the same long poem. Here again we have Donall Oge or "Young Donall" as the lover.

O Donall Oge, if you will go across the sea,Bring myself with you, and do not forget it;There will be a "faring" for thee on fine days and market-days,And the daughter of the King of Greece as your bedfellow at night.If you go over seas, there is a token I have of you,Your bright top-knot and your two grey eyes,Twelve ringlets on your yellow curling head,Like the cowslip or the rose-leaf in the garden.You promised me, but you spoke a lie to me,That you would be before me at the fold of the sheep;I let a whistle out and three hundred shouts for you,But I found nothing in it but a lamb a-bleating.You promised me, a thing that was hard for you,A ship of gold under a mast of silver,Twelve great towns of the world's market-towns,And a fine white court beside the sea.You promised me, a thing that was not possible,You would give me gloves of fishes' skin,You would give me shoes of the feathers of birds,And gowns of silk the richest in Erinn.O Donall Oge, it were better for thee I to be with thee,Than a high-born, arrogant, wasteful lady;I would milk your cows and I would churn for you,And if it went hard with you, I would strike a blow with you.Och, ochone, it is not the hunger,Nor want of food and drink, nor want of sleep,That has left me wasting and weary;The love of a young man it is that has sickened me.Early in the morning I saw the young manOn the back of his horse going along the road;He did not move over to me nor take any heed of me,And on my coming home, it is I who wept my fill.When I myself go to the Well of LonelinessI sit down and I go through my trouble,When I see the world and I see not my lad;There was the shadow of amber upon his hair.It was a Sunday that I gave my love to you,The Sunday before Easter Sunday exactly;I myself on my knees a-reading the Passion,My two eyes giving love to you ever after.Oye, little mother, give myself to him,And give him what is yours of goods entirely,Out with yourself a-begging almsAnd do not be going East and West seeking me.My little mother said to me not to speak with youTo-day or to-morrow or on Sunday,It is in the bad hour she gave me that choice,It is "shutting the door after the theft."And you passed me by, dark and late,And you passed me by, and the light of the day in it;If you would come in yourself and see meNever a word at all would I have with you.[117]

If you go over seas, there is a token I have of you,Your bright top-knot and your two grey eyes,Twelve ringlets on your yellow curling head,Like the cowslip or the rose-leaf in the garden.

You promised me, but you spoke a lie to me,That you would be before me at the fold of the sheep;I let a whistle out and three hundred shouts for you,But I found nothing in it but a lamb a-bleating.

You promised me, a thing that was hard for you,A ship of gold under a mast of silver,Twelve great towns of the world's market-towns,And a fine white court beside the sea.

You promised me, a thing that was not possible,You would give me gloves of fishes' skin,You would give me shoes of the feathers of birds,And gowns of silk the richest in Erinn.

O Donall Oge, it were better for thee I to be with thee,Than a high-born, arrogant, wasteful lady;I would milk your cows and I would churn for you,And if it went hard with you, I would strike a blow with you.

Och, ochone, it is not the hunger,Nor want of food and drink, nor want of sleep,That has left me wasting and weary;The love of a young man it is that has sickened me.

Early in the morning I saw the young manOn the back of his horse going along the road;He did not move over to me nor take any heed of me,And on my coming home, it is I who wept my fill.

When I myself go to the Well of LonelinessI sit down and I go through my trouble,When I see the world and I see not my lad;There was the shadow of amber upon his hair.

It was a Sunday that I gave my love to you,The Sunday before Easter Sunday exactly;I myself on my knees a-reading the Passion,My two eyes giving love to you ever after.

Oye, little mother, give myself to him,And give him what is yours of goods entirely,Out with yourself a-begging almsAnd do not be going East and West seeking me.

My little mother said to me not to speak with youTo-day or to-morrow or on Sunday,It is in the bad hour she gave me that choice,It is "shutting the door after the theft."

And you passed me by, dark and late,And you passed me by, and the light of the day in it;If you would come in yourself and see meNever a word at all would I have with you.[117]

FOOTNOTES:[117]This last stanza is from Dr. Hyde's "Breed Astore" (Love Songs, p. 77), where the third stanza is also found.

[117]This last stanza is from Dr. Hyde's "Breed Astore" (Love Songs, p. 77), where the third stanza is also found.

When I rose up in the morning earlyOn a sunny day in the burst of spring,My step was lithe, and my form was burly,I felt as blithe as a bird on the wing;As I was going out my wayWho should stand in the path but Death;I knew he was strong, and would not be said nay,So I wished him "Good-morrow,"—but I caught my breath,When, "Hurry on, Shawn, for I'm wanting you to come with me," he saith.Oh, then, Maura, is it parting I am from you,My thousand loves for ever on earth?I who would plant the potatoes for you,I whom you needed to cut the turf!I who would buy you the young milch cow,I who would croon you to sleep with a rann,I who at eve would lie down with your leave—What ever would you do without your man?O Maura, keep me with you a little, little longer, if you can!"There's many an old man down in the town,And no manner of use or abuse in him more;There's little Dominic, wizened and brown,Begging his scraps from door to door;And his wife and children famished with coldTrying to find him his bit of bread;O Death, 'tis your right to take the old—And they say that Dominic's wrong in his head—O Death, take Dominic with you, for 'tis badly I'm wanted here," I said."It's a fine man you are, but you stand in my way,I'd be thankful you'd let me get on to my fields;"He raised his arm, it was cold as clay,And strong as the flail the thresher wields.I tried to push him out of my road,But his bony fingers clutched me tight;"I am your comrade henceforth," he said,"Another man tends your sheep to-night;Hurry home, Shawn, I call for you again before the morning's light."

Oh, then, Maura, is it parting I am from you,My thousand loves for ever on earth?I who would plant the potatoes for you,I whom you needed to cut the turf!I who would buy you the young milch cow,I who would croon you to sleep with a rann,I who at eve would lie down with your leave—What ever would you do without your man?O Maura, keep me with you a little, little longer, if you can!

"There's many an old man down in the town,And no manner of use or abuse in him more;There's little Dominic, wizened and brown,Begging his scraps from door to door;And his wife and children famished with coldTrying to find him his bit of bread;O Death, 'tis your right to take the old—And they say that Dominic's wrong in his head—O Death, take Dominic with you, for 'tis badly I'm wanted here," I said.

"It's a fine man you are, but you stand in my way,I'd be thankful you'd let me get on to my fields;"He raised his arm, it was cold as clay,And strong as the flail the thresher wields.I tried to push him out of my road,But his bony fingers clutched me tight;"I am your comrade henceforth," he said,"Another man tends your sheep to-night;Hurry home, Shawn, I call for you again before the morning's light."

For a year my love lies down,In a little western town,And the sun upon the corn is not so sweet;At the chill time of the year,On the hills where roams my dear,There is honey in the traces of her feet.If my longing I could get,I would take her in a net,And would ease my aching sorrow for a while;And though all men say me nayI shall wed her on a day,She my darling of the sweet and sunny smile.I have finished with the plough,And must sow my seedlands now,I must labour in the face of wind and weather;But in rain and frost and snow,Always as I come and go,I am thinking she and I should be together.O love my heart finds fair!It is little that you careThough I perish in the blackness of my grief;But may you never treadGod's Heaven overhead,If you scorn me and refuse my love relief.I would count them little worth,All the women of the earth,And myself alone to have the choice among them;For in books I read it clear,That the beauty of my dear,It has wrestled with their beauties and has flung them.Robin Flower.

If my longing I could get,I would take her in a net,And would ease my aching sorrow for a while;And though all men say me nayI shall wed her on a day,She my darling of the sweet and sunny smile.

I have finished with the plough,And must sow my seedlands now,I must labour in the face of wind and weather;But in rain and frost and snow,Always as I come and go,I am thinking she and I should be together.

O love my heart finds fair!It is little that you careThough I perish in the blackness of my grief;But may you never treadGod's Heaven overhead,If you scorn me and refuse my love relief.

I would count them little worth,All the women of the earth,And myself alone to have the choice among them;For in books I read it clear,That the beauty of my dear,It has wrestled with their beauties and has flung them.

Robin Flower.

'Tis what they say,Thy little heel fits in a shoe.'Tis what they say,Thy little mouth kisses well, too.'Tis what they say,Thousand loves that you leave me to rue;That the tailor went the wayThat the wife of the Red man knew.Nine months did I spendIn a prison closed tightly and bound;Bolts on my smallsAnd a thousand locks frowning around;But o'er the tideI would leap with the leap of a swan,Could I once set my sideBy the bride of the Red-haired man.I thought, O my life,That one house between us, love, would be;And I thought I would findYou once coaxing my child on your knee;But now the curse of the High OneOn him let it be,And on all of the band of the liarsWho put silence between you and me.There grows a tree in the gardenWith blossoms that tremble and shake,I lay my hand on its barkAnd I feel that my heart must break.On one wish aloneMy soul through the long months ran,One little kissFrom the wife of the Red-haired man.But the Day of Doom shall come,And hills and harbours be rent;A mist shall fall on the sunFrom the dark clouds heavily sent;The sea shall be dry,And earth under mourning and ban;Then loud shall he cryFor the wife of the Red-haired man.Douglas Hyde.

Nine months did I spendIn a prison closed tightly and bound;Bolts on my smallsAnd a thousand locks frowning around;But o'er the tideI would leap with the leap of a swan,Could I once set my sideBy the bride of the Red-haired man.

I thought, O my life,That one house between us, love, would be;And I thought I would findYou once coaxing my child on your knee;But now the curse of the High OneOn him let it be,And on all of the band of the liarsWho put silence between you and me.

There grows a tree in the gardenWith blossoms that tremble and shake,I lay my hand on its barkAnd I feel that my heart must break.On one wish aloneMy soul through the long months ran,One little kissFrom the wife of the Red-haired man.

But the Day of Doom shall come,And hills and harbours be rent;A mist shall fall on the sunFrom the dark clouds heavily sent;The sea shall be dry,And earth under mourning and ban;Then loud shall he cryFor the wife of the Red-haired man.

Douglas Hyde.

Salutation to thee,O Seagull, who flew to my bosom,As the Maid of the WestWinged her way o'er the waves of the sea;[118]In wrath I will ravage the countryRight up to the ridge of Roscuain;But when I turn home again,Back to my bird again,'Tis I who am conquered then,Conquered by thee.Whiter thy neck, thousand loves,Than the swan that floats out on the billow;Redder thy cheekThan the rose-blossom dropped from the tree;Softer thy voiceThan the cuckoo's low call from the willow,And smoother than silk,The fine silk of the silkworm,The silkworm in spinning,The fair locks of thee.Maid without spot, matchless maiden,How lovely the bloom of thy forehead!Where is the fortunate youthI would care to betroth to thee?Why should I hide or conceal it?The gloom of my soul I reveal it;The mists round me thicken,With death I am stricken,'Twas the Red Man who smoteWhen he stole thee from me.Blossom of beauty, my blossom,Ten thousand blessings before thee,Sick to the death is my heartFor sorrowful lack of thee.If I could coax thee and tell theeHow lonely I am and weary,Thy wild eyes would soften,Would soften in sorrow,At the pain of my loss,By the Red Man and thee.Though in a gaol I were fast,There below in the old Down quarter,Bolts on my wrist, and my waistFastened tight under lock and key;Swift as the flight of the falconOr the swan swooping down on the harbour,I'd find thee and bind thee,In my arms I'd entwine thee,Ere the Red Man could part us,Could part thee from me.

Whiter thy neck, thousand loves,Than the swan that floats out on the billow;Redder thy cheekThan the rose-blossom dropped from the tree;Softer thy voiceThan the cuckoo's low call from the willow,And smoother than silk,The fine silk of the silkworm,The silkworm in spinning,The fair locks of thee.

Maid without spot, matchless maiden,How lovely the bloom of thy forehead!Where is the fortunate youthI would care to betroth to thee?Why should I hide or conceal it?The gloom of my soul I reveal it;The mists round me thicken,With death I am stricken,'Twas the Red Man who smoteWhen he stole thee from me.

Blossom of beauty, my blossom,Ten thousand blessings before thee,Sick to the death is my heartFor sorrowful lack of thee.If I could coax thee and tell theeHow lonely I am and weary,Thy wild eyes would soften,Would soften in sorrow,At the pain of my loss,By the Red Man and thee.

Though in a gaol I were fast,There below in the old Down quarter,Bolts on my wrist, and my waistFastened tight under lock and key;Swift as the flight of the falconOr the swan swooping down on the harbour,I'd find thee and bind thee,In my arms I'd entwine thee,Ere the Red Man could part us,Could part thee from me.

FOOTNOTES:[118]i.e.Deirdre, who fled with the sons of Usnach to Scotland.

[118]i.e.Deirdre, who fled with the sons of Usnach to Scotland.

My grief on the sea,How the waves of it roll!How they heave between meAnd the love of my soul!Abandoned, forsaken,To grief and to care,Will the sea ever wakenRelief from despair?My grief, and my trouble!Would he and I wereIn the province of Leinster,Or county of Clare.Were I and my darling—Oh, heart-bitter wound!—On board of the shipFor America bound.On a green bed of rushesAll last night I lay,And I flung it abroadWith the heat of the day.And my love came behind me—He came from the South;His breast to my bosom,His mouth to my mouth.Douglas Hyde.

My grief on the sea,How the waves of it roll!How they heave between meAnd the love of my soul!

Abandoned, forsaken,To grief and to care,Will the sea ever wakenRelief from despair?

My grief, and my trouble!Would he and I wereIn the province of Leinster,Or county of Clare.

Were I and my darling—Oh, heart-bitter wound!—On board of the shipFor America bound.

On a green bed of rushesAll last night I lay,And I flung it abroadWith the heat of the day.

And my love came behind me—He came from the South;His breast to my bosom,His mouth to my mouth.

Douglas Hyde.

O dear is Paudheen, blithe and gay,Upon a fair or market day;But far more dear a March morn clear,As in his boat he singeth gay!Oró wore, a-woreen!Oró wore, love, will you go,Oró wore, a-woreen!Golden hair, out for a row?He said and said—what did he say?—He said he'd come on Brigid's Day!But shirt and sock were in the crock;And so he couldn't speed away!Oró wore, &c.He said and said—what did he say?—He said he'd come on Patrick's Day!But coat and stock were under lock;And so he couldn't steal away!Oró wore, &c.He said and said—what did he say?—He said he'd come on Sheela's Day![119]But Borna Rock fell with a shockUpon him, so he stayed away!Oró wore, &c.He said and said—what did he say?—He said he'd come on Easter Day!But at the knock he met a flockOf geese, that frightened him away!Oró wore, &c.He said and said—what did he say?—He said he'd come this very day!If he should mock, I pray some rockMay wreck his corrach on the way!Oró wore, a-woreen!Oró wore, love, will you go,Oró wore, a-woreen!Golden hair, out for a row?P. J. McCall.

He said and said—what did he say?—He said he'd come on Brigid's Day!But shirt and sock were in the crock;And so he couldn't speed away!Oró wore, &c.

He said and said—what did he say?—He said he'd come on Patrick's Day!But coat and stock were under lock;And so he couldn't steal away!Oró wore, &c.

He said and said—what did he say?—He said he'd come on Sheela's Day![119]But Borna Rock fell with a shockUpon him, so he stayed away!Oró wore, &c.

He said and said—what did he say?—He said he'd come on Easter Day!But at the knock he met a flockOf geese, that frightened him away!Oró wore, &c.

He said and said—what did he say?—He said he'd come this very day!If he should mock, I pray some rockMay wreck his corrach on the way!Oró wore, a-woreen!Oró wore, love, will you go,Oró wore, a-woreen!Golden hair, out for a row?

P. J. McCall.

FOOTNOTES:[119]The day after St. Patrick's Day.

[119]The day after St. Patrick's Day.

Taken down in Co. Mayo from Michael Mac Rudhraighe.

Iam sick, sick,No part of me sound;The heart in my middleDies of its wound,Pining the timeWhen she did standWith me shoulder to shoulderAnd hand in hand.I travelled westBy the little yellow roadIn the hope I might seeWhere my Secret abode.White were her two breasts,Red her hair,Guiding the cowAnd the weaned calf, her care.Until wind flowsFrom this stream west,Until a green plain spreadsOn the withered crest,And white fields growThe heather above,My heart will not findKindness from my love.There's a flood in the riverWill not ebb till day,And dread on meThat my love is away.Can I live a monthWith my heart's painUnless she will comeAnd see me again?I drink a measureAnd I drink to you,I pay, I pay,And I pay for two.Copper for aleAnd silver for beer—And do you like comingOr staying here?Seosamh mac Cathmhaoil.

Iam sick, sick,No part of me sound;The heart in my middleDies of its wound,Pining the timeWhen she did standWith me shoulder to shoulderAnd hand in hand.

I travelled westBy the little yellow roadIn the hope I might seeWhere my Secret abode.White were her two breasts,Red her hair,Guiding the cowAnd the weaned calf, her care.

Until wind flowsFrom this stream west,Until a green plain spreadsOn the withered crest,And white fields growThe heather above,My heart will not findKindness from my love.

There's a flood in the riverWill not ebb till day,And dread on meThat my love is away.Can I live a monthWith my heart's painUnless she will comeAnd see me again?

I drink a measureAnd I drink to you,I pay, I pay,And I pay for two.Copper for aleAnd silver for beer—And do you like comingOr staying here?

Seosamh mac Cathmhaoil.

Taken down from a man named William O'Ryan, of Newcastle,Upper Galway.

I've a story to tell you,My little Duideen,As ugly a storyAs ever was seen;The days are gone byWhen I held my head high,And that this is your doing,You cannot deny.It is you, without doubt,Stole my means and my wealth,My name and my fortune,My friends and my health;But if only I wereIn new lands far from Clare,I'd be scraping and savingWith the best of them there!While you are well-filled,Cleaned up, and kept trim,There's no bread on my plateAnd no strength in my limb;Were I hung as a scarecrow,In the fields over-night,Sure, not only the birdsBut my friends would take flight!I might buy a laced hatFor your handsome young head,That would pass with O'Hara,When all's done and said;But to you 'tis no oddsThough I fast day and night,Your mouth is wide openStill asking its light.When I go out to MassMy best coat is in slashes,And quite half my foodHas been burnt in the ashes;My heels may go cold,'Tis for you, I allege,The tobacconist's shopHas my breeches in pledge!The time that poor NoraThought me down at the loom,Throwing the shuttleOr doing a turn;I'd be lighting my pipeAbout old Joseph's door;Discoursing and drinkingAn hour or more.O, my little duideen,My little duideen,You're the cunningest rogueThat ever was seen!But I'm done with you quite,Off, out of my sight!With O'Kelly the weaverI'm away at daylight!

I've a story to tell you,My little Duideen,As ugly a storyAs ever was seen;The days are gone byWhen I held my head high,And that this is your doing,You cannot deny.

It is you, without doubt,Stole my means and my wealth,My name and my fortune,My friends and my health;But if only I wereIn new lands far from Clare,I'd be scraping and savingWith the best of them there!

While you are well-filled,Cleaned up, and kept trim,There's no bread on my plateAnd no strength in my limb;Were I hung as a scarecrow,In the fields over-night,Sure, not only the birdsBut my friends would take flight!

I might buy a laced hatFor your handsome young head,That would pass with O'Hara,When all's done and said;But to you 'tis no oddsThough I fast day and night,Your mouth is wide openStill asking its light.

When I go out to MassMy best coat is in slashes,And quite half my foodHas been burnt in the ashes;My heels may go cold,'Tis for you, I allege,The tobacconist's shopHas my breeches in pledge!

The time that poor NoraThought me down at the loom,Throwing the shuttleOr doing a turn;I'd be lighting my pipeAbout old Joseph's door;Discoursing and drinkingAn hour or more.

O, my little duideen,My little duideen,You're the cunningest rogueThat ever was seen!But I'm done with you quite,Off, out of my sight!With O'Kelly the weaverI'm away at daylight!

From an Irish Keen.

"There's darkness in thy dwelling-place and silence reigns above,And Mary's voice is heard no more, like the soft voice of love.Yes! thou art gone, my Mary dear! And Morian ShehoneIs left to sing his song of woe, and wail for thee alone.Oh! snow-white were thy virtues!—the beautiful, the young,The old with pleasure bent to hear the music of thy tongue;The young with rapture gazed on thee, and their hearts in love were bound,For thou wast brighter than the sun that sheds its light around.My soul is dark, O Mary dear! thy sun of beauty's set;The sorrowful are dumb for thee—the grieved their tears forget;And I am left to pour my woe above thy grave alone;For dear wert thou to the fond heart of Morian Shehone."Fast-flowing tears above the grave of the rich man are shed,But they are dried when the cold stone shuts in his narrow bed;Not so with my heart's faithful love—the dark grave cannot hideFrom Morian's eyes thy form of grace, of loveliness, and pride.Thou didst not fall like the sere leaf, when autumn's chill winds blow—'Twas a tempest and a storm-blast that has laid my Mary low.Hadst thou not friends that loved thee well? hadst thou not garments rare?Wast thou not happy, Mary? wast thou not young and fair?Then why should the dread spoiler come, my heart's peace to destroy,Or the grim tyrant tear from me my all of earthly joy?Oh! am I left to pour my woes above thy grave alone?Thou idol of the faithful heart of Morian Shehone!"Sweet were thy looks and sweet thy smiles, and kind wast thou to all;The withering scowl of envy on thy fortunes dared not fall;For thee thy friends lament and mourn, and never cease to weep—Oh! that their lamentations could awake thee from thy sleep!Oh! that thy peerless form again could meet my loving clasp!Oh! that the cold damp hand of Death could loose his iron grasp!Yet, when the valley's daughters meet beneath the tall elm tree,And talk of Mary as a dream that never more shall be,Then may thy spirit float around, like music in the air,And pour upon their virgin souls a blessing and a prayer.Oh! am I left to pour my wail above thy grave alone?"Thus sinks in silence the lament of Morian Shehone.Anonymous.

"Fast-flowing tears above the grave of the rich man are shed,But they are dried when the cold stone shuts in his narrow bed;Not so with my heart's faithful love—the dark grave cannot hideFrom Morian's eyes thy form of grace, of loveliness, and pride.Thou didst not fall like the sere leaf, when autumn's chill winds blow—'Twas a tempest and a storm-blast that has laid my Mary low.Hadst thou not friends that loved thee well? hadst thou not garments rare?Wast thou not happy, Mary? wast thou not young and fair?Then why should the dread spoiler come, my heart's peace to destroy,Or the grim tyrant tear from me my all of earthly joy?Oh! am I left to pour my woes above thy grave alone?Thou idol of the faithful heart of Morian Shehone!

"Sweet were thy looks and sweet thy smiles, and kind wast thou to all;The withering scowl of envy on thy fortunes dared not fall;For thee thy friends lament and mourn, and never cease to weep—Oh! that their lamentations could awake thee from thy sleep!Oh! that thy peerless form again could meet my loving clasp!Oh! that the cold damp hand of Death could loose his iron grasp!Yet, when the valley's daughters meet beneath the tall elm tree,And talk of Mary as a dream that never more shall be,Then may thy spirit float around, like music in the air,And pour upon their virgin souls a blessing and a prayer.Oh! am I left to pour my wail above thy grave alone?"Thus sinks in silence the lament of Morian Shehone.

Anonymous.

Och, Modereen Rue, you little red rover,By the glint of the moon you stole out of your cover,And now there is never an egg to be got,Nor a handsome fat chicken to put in the pot.Och, Modereen Rue!With your nose to the earth and your ear on the listen,You slunk through the stubble with frost-drops aglisten,With my lovely fat drake in your teeth as you went,That your red roguish children should breakfast content.Och, Modereen Rue!Och, Modereen Rue, hear the horn for a warning,They are looking for red roguish foxes this morning;But let them come my way, you little red rogue,'Tis I will betray you to huntsman and dog.Och, Modereen Rue!The little red rogue, he's the colour of bracken,O'er mountains, o'er valleys, his pace will not slacken,Tantara! Tantara! he is off now, and, faith!'Tis a race 'twixt the little red rogue and his death.Och, Modereen Rue!Och, Modereen Rue, I've no cause to be grievingFor the little red rogues with their tricks and their thieving.The hounds they give tongue, and the quarry's in sight,The hens on the roost may sleep easy to-night.Och, Modereen Rue!But my blessing be on him. He made the hounds followThrough the woods, through the dales, over hill, over hollow,It was Modereen Rue led them fast, led them far,From the glint of the morning till eve's silver star.Och, Modereen Rue!But he saved his red brush for his own future wearing,He slipped into a drain, and he left the hounds swearing.Good luck, my fine fellow, and long may you showSuch a clean pair of heels to the hounds as they go.Och, Modereen Rue!Katherine Tynan-Hinkson.

Och, Modereen Rue, you little red rover,By the glint of the moon you stole out of your cover,And now there is never an egg to be got,Nor a handsome fat chicken to put in the pot.Och, Modereen Rue!

With your nose to the earth and your ear on the listen,You slunk through the stubble with frost-drops aglisten,With my lovely fat drake in your teeth as you went,That your red roguish children should breakfast content.Och, Modereen Rue!

Och, Modereen Rue, hear the horn for a warning,They are looking for red roguish foxes this morning;But let them come my way, you little red rogue,'Tis I will betray you to huntsman and dog.Och, Modereen Rue!

The little red rogue, he's the colour of bracken,O'er mountains, o'er valleys, his pace will not slacken,Tantara! Tantara! he is off now, and, faith!'Tis a race 'twixt the little red rogue and his death.Och, Modereen Rue!

Och, Modereen Rue, I've no cause to be grievingFor the little red rogues with their tricks and their thieving.The hounds they give tongue, and the quarry's in sight,The hens on the roost may sleep easy to-night.Och, Modereen Rue!

But my blessing be on him. He made the hounds followThrough the woods, through the dales, over hill, over hollow,It was Modereen Rue led them fast, led them far,From the glint of the morning till eve's silver star.Och, Modereen Rue!

But he saved his red brush for his own future wearing,He slipped into a drain, and he left the hounds swearing.Good luck, my fine fellow, and long may you showSuch a clean pair of heels to the hounds as they go.Och, Modereen Rue!

Katherine Tynan-Hinkson.

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