THE STARS STAND UP

FOOTNOTES:[120]The fox.

[120]The fox.

The stars stand up in the air,The sun and the moon are set,The sea that ebbed dry of its tideLeaves no single pebble wet;The cuckoo keeps saying each hourThat she, my Storeen, is fled,—O Girl of the brave, free tresses,Far better had you struck me dead!Three things have I learned through love,Sorrow, and death, and pain,My mind reminding me dailyI never shall see you again;You left me no cure for my sickness,Yet I pray, though my night be long,—My sharp grief! and my heart is broken,—That God may forgive your wrong.She was sweeter than fiddle and lute,Or the shining of grass through the dew,She was soft as the blackbird's fluteWhen the light of the day is new;From her feet on the lone hill-topI have heard the honey dropping;Why, Girl, did you come to my door?Or why could you not be stopping?

Three things have I learned through love,Sorrow, and death, and pain,My mind reminding me dailyI never shall see you again;You left me no cure for my sickness,Yet I pray, though my night be long,—My sharp grief! and my heart is broken,—That God may forgive your wrong.

She was sweeter than fiddle and lute,Or the shining of grass through the dew,She was soft as the blackbird's fluteWhen the light of the day is new;From her feet on the lone hill-topI have heard the honey dropping;Why, Girl, did you come to my door?Or why could you not be stopping?

This weariness, this gnawing pain,Are moving greatly through my brain;The tears down-dropping from my eyes,The full of my two shoes with sighs.I think the Sunday long, and prayYou may come stepping down my way;Twice over I my lover lack,—When he departs—till he come back.My thousand treasures and my love,At break of summer let us rove,And watch the flickering twilight dwellAbove the windings of the dell.I claim no gift of cows and sheep;But if I ask of thee to keepMy hand within thy circling arm,Where were the harm? where were the harm?Farewell! Farewell! the fading light,Would that last night were still to-night!Would that my darling, with his smile,Would coax me to his knee awhile!Bend down and hear, my tale I'll tell,Could you but keep my secret well:I fear my lover's gone from me;O God and Mary, can this be?

My thousand treasures and my love,At break of summer let us rove,And watch the flickering twilight dwellAbove the windings of the dell.I claim no gift of cows and sheep;But if I ask of thee to keepMy hand within thy circling arm,Where were the harm? where were the harm?

Farewell! Farewell! the fading light,Would that last night were still to-night!Would that my darling, with his smile,Would coax me to his knee awhile!Bend down and hear, my tale I'll tell,Could you but keep my secret well:I fear my lover's gone from me;O God and Mary, can this be?

Well for thee, unsighted bard,Not half so hard thy plight as mine;Hadst thou seen her for whom I pine,Sickness like mine were thy reward.O would to God I had been blindOr e'er her twined locks caught my eye,Her backward glance as she passed by—Then had my fate been less unkind.Till my grief outgrew all griefs,I had pitied sightless men;Now hold I them happy and envy them—In the snare of her smile ensnared I lie.Oh! woe that ever her face was seen!And woe that I see her not every day!Woe to him who is knotted to her alway,Woe to him who is loosed from the knot, I ween.Woe to him when she comes, woe to him when she goes,To the lover who wins her, his love is but pain;To the lover she flies who would call her again,To him and to me, it is woe of all woes!

Well for thee, unsighted bard,Not half so hard thy plight as mine;Hadst thou seen her for whom I pine,Sickness like mine were thy reward.

O would to God I had been blindOr e'er her twined locks caught my eye,Her backward glance as she passed by—Then had my fate been less unkind.

Till my grief outgrew all griefs,I had pitied sightless men;Now hold I them happy and envy them—In the snare of her smile ensnared I lie.

Oh! woe that ever her face was seen!And woe that I see her not every day!Woe to him who is knotted to her alway,Woe to him who is loosed from the knot, I ween.

Woe to him when she comes, woe to him when she goes,To the lover who wins her, his love is but pain;To the lover she flies who would call her again,To him and to me, it is woe of all woes!

Anthony Raftery died at Craughwell, Co. Galway, October 1835

I am Raftery the PoetFull of hope and love,With eyes that have no light,With gentleness that has no misery.Going west upon my pilgrimageBy the light of my heart,Feeble and tiredTo the end of my road.Behold me now,And my face to the wall,A-playing musicUnto empty pockets.Douglas Hyde.

I am Raftery the PoetFull of hope and love,With eyes that have no light,With gentleness that has no misery.

Going west upon my pilgrimageBy the light of my heart,Feeble and tiredTo the end of my road.

Behold me now,And my face to the wall,A-playing musicUnto empty pockets.

Douglas Hyde.

Anthony Raftery.

Going to Mass, by the will of GodThe day came wet and the wind rose;I met Mary Haynes at the cross of KiltartanAnd I fell in love with her then and there.I spoke to her kind and mannerlyAs by report was her own way;And she said, "Raftery, my mind is easy,You may come to-day to Baile-laoi."When I heard her offer I did not linger,When her talk went to my heart my heart rose.We had only to go across the three fields,We had daylight with us to Baile-laoi.The table was laid with glasses and a quart measure;She had fair hair and she sitting beside me,And she said, "Drink, Raftery, and a hundred welcomes,There is a strong cellar in Baile-laoi."O star of light, and O sun in harvest,O amber hair, O my share of the world,Will you come with me upon SundayTill we agree together before all the people?I would not grudge you a song every Sunday evening,Punch on the table or wine if you would drink it,But, O King of Glory, dry the roads before me,Till I find the way to Baile-laoi.There is a sweet air on the side of the hillWhen you are looking down upon Baile-laoi;When you are walking in the valley picking nuts and blackberriesThere is music of the birds in it and music of the sidhe.What is the worth of greatness till you have the lightOf the flower of the branch that is by your side?There is no good to deny it or to try to hide it,She is the sun in the heavens who wounded my heart.There is no part of Ireland I did not travelFrom the rivers to the tops of the mountains,To the edge of Loch Gréine whose mouth is hidden,And I saw no beauty that was behind hers.Her hair was shining and her brows were shining, too;Her face was like herself, her mouth pleasant and sweet.She is my pride, and I give her the branch,She is the shining flower of Baile-laoi.It is Mary Haynes, the calm and easy woman,Her beauty in her mind and in her face.If a hundred clerks were gathered together,They could not write down a half of her ways.Lady Gregory.

Going to Mass, by the will of GodThe day came wet and the wind rose;I met Mary Haynes at the cross of KiltartanAnd I fell in love with her then and there.

I spoke to her kind and mannerlyAs by report was her own way;And she said, "Raftery, my mind is easy,You may come to-day to Baile-laoi."

When I heard her offer I did not linger,When her talk went to my heart my heart rose.We had only to go across the three fields,We had daylight with us to Baile-laoi.

The table was laid with glasses and a quart measure;She had fair hair and she sitting beside me,And she said, "Drink, Raftery, and a hundred welcomes,There is a strong cellar in Baile-laoi."

O star of light, and O sun in harvest,O amber hair, O my share of the world,Will you come with me upon SundayTill we agree together before all the people?

I would not grudge you a song every Sunday evening,Punch on the table or wine if you would drink it,But, O King of Glory, dry the roads before me,Till I find the way to Baile-laoi.

There is a sweet air on the side of the hillWhen you are looking down upon Baile-laoi;When you are walking in the valley picking nuts and blackberriesThere is music of the birds in it and music of the sidhe.

What is the worth of greatness till you have the lightOf the flower of the branch that is by your side?There is no good to deny it or to try to hide it,She is the sun in the heavens who wounded my heart.

There is no part of Ireland I did not travelFrom the rivers to the tops of the mountains,To the edge of Loch Gréine whose mouth is hidden,And I saw no beauty that was behind hers.

Her hair was shining and her brows were shining, too;Her face was like herself, her mouth pleasant and sweet.She is my pride, and I give her the branch,She is the shining flower of Baile-laoi.

It is Mary Haynes, the calm and easy woman,Her beauty in her mind and in her face.If a hundred clerks were gathered together,They could not write down a half of her ways.

Lady Gregory.

The title is added by Mr. W. B. Yeats to an article written by him on this poem inThe Dome(New Series, vol. iv.). Lady Gregory informs me that Mr. Yeats has slightly worked over her translation.

Anthony Raftery.

There is a bright posy on the edge of the quayAnd she far beyond Deirdre with her pleasant waysOr if I would say Helen, the queen of the Greeks,On whose account hundreds have fallen at Troy.The flame and the white in her mingled together,And sweeter her mouth than cuckoo on the bough,And the way she has with her, where will you find themSince died the pearl that was in Ballylaoi?If you were to see the sky-maiden decked outOn a fine sunny day in the street, and she walking,The light shining out from her snow-white bosomWould give sight of the eyes to a sightless man.The love of hundreds is on her brow,The sight of her as the gleam of the Star of Doom;If she had been there in the time of the godsIt is not to Venus the apple would have gone.Her hair falling with her down to her knees,Twining and curling to the mouth of her shoe;Her parted locks, with the grey of the dew on them,And her curls sweeping after her on the road;She is the coolun is brightest and most mannerlyOf all who ever opened eye or who lived in life;And if the country of Lord Lucan were given me,By the strength of my cause, the jewel should be mine.Her form slender, chalk-white, her cheeks like roses,And her breasts rounded over against her heart;Her neck and her brow and her auburn hair,She stands before us like the dew of harvest.Virgil, Cicero, nor the power of Homer,Would not bring any to compare with her bloom and gentle ways;O Blossom of Youth, I am guilty with desire of you,And unless you come to me I shall not live a month.Walking or dancing, if you were to see the fair shoot,It is to the Flower of the Branches you would give your love,Her face alight, and her heart without sorrow,And were it not pleasant to be in her company?The greatness of Samson or AlexanderI would not covet, surely, in place of my desire;And if I do not get leave to talk to Mary StauntonI am in doubt that short will be my life.She bade me "Good-morrow" early, with kindness,She set a stool for me, and not in the corner,She drank a drink with me, she was the heart of hospitality,At the time that I rose up to go on my way.I fell to talking and discoursing with her,It was mannerly she looked at me, the apple-blossom,And here is my word of mouth to you, without falsehood,That I have left the branch with her from Mary Brown.

If you were to see the sky-maiden decked outOn a fine sunny day in the street, and she walking,The light shining out from her snow-white bosomWould give sight of the eyes to a sightless man.The love of hundreds is on her brow,The sight of her as the gleam of the Star of Doom;If she had been there in the time of the godsIt is not to Venus the apple would have gone.

Her hair falling with her down to her knees,Twining and curling to the mouth of her shoe;Her parted locks, with the grey of the dew on them,And her curls sweeping after her on the road;She is the coolun is brightest and most mannerlyOf all who ever opened eye or who lived in life;And if the country of Lord Lucan were given me,By the strength of my cause, the jewel should be mine.

Her form slender, chalk-white, her cheeks like roses,And her breasts rounded over against her heart;Her neck and her brow and her auburn hair,She stands before us like the dew of harvest.Virgil, Cicero, nor the power of Homer,Would not bring any to compare with her bloom and gentle ways;O Blossom of Youth, I am guilty with desire of you,And unless you come to me I shall not live a month.

Walking or dancing, if you were to see the fair shoot,It is to the Flower of the Branches you would give your love,Her face alight, and her heart without sorrow,And were it not pleasant to be in her company?The greatness of Samson or AlexanderI would not covet, surely, in place of my desire;And if I do not get leave to talk to Mary StauntonI am in doubt that short will be my life.

She bade me "Good-morrow" early, with kindness,She set a stool for me, and not in the corner,She drank a drink with me, she was the heart of hospitality,At the time that I rose up to go on my way.I fell to talking and discoursing with her,It was mannerly she looked at me, the apple-blossom,And here is my word of mouth to you, without falsehood,That I have left the branch with her from Mary Brown.

My grief and my pain! a mortal disease is love,Woe, woe unto him who must prove it a month or even a day,It hath broken my heart, and my bosom is burdened with sighs,From dreaming of her gentle sleep hath forsaken mine eyes.I met with the fairy host at the liss beside Ballyfinnane;I asked them had they a herb for the curing of love's cruel pain.They answered me softly and mildly, with many a pitying tone,"When this torment comes into the heart it never goes out again."It seems to me long till the tide washes up on the strand;It seems to me long till the night shall fade into day;It seems to me long till the cocks crow on every hand;And rather than the world were I close beside my love.Do not marry the grey old man, but marry the young man, dear;Marry the lad who loves you, my grief, though he live not out the year;Youthful you are, and kind, but your mind is not yet come to sense,And if you live longer, the lads will be following you.My woe and my plight! where to-night is the snowdrift and frost?Or even I and my love together breasting the waves of the sea;Without bark, without boat, without any vessel with me,But I to be swimming, and my arm to be circling her waist!

I met with the fairy host at the liss beside Ballyfinnane;I asked them had they a herb for the curing of love's cruel pain.They answered me softly and mildly, with many a pitying tone,"When this torment comes into the heart it never goes out again."

It seems to me long till the tide washes up on the strand;It seems to me long till the night shall fade into day;It seems to me long till the cocks crow on every hand;And rather than the world were I close beside my love.

Do not marry the grey old man, but marry the young man, dear;Marry the lad who loves you, my grief, though he live not out the year;Youthful you are, and kind, but your mind is not yet come to sense,And if you live longer, the lads will be following you.

My woe and my plight! where to-night is the snowdrift and frost?Or even I and my love together breasting the waves of the sea;Without bark, without boat, without any vessel with me,But I to be swimming, and my arm to be circling her waist!

Douglas Hyde.

I am watching my young calves sucking;Who are you that would put me out of my luck?Can I not be walking, can I not be walking,Can I not be walking on my own farm-lands?I will not for ever go back before you,If I must needs be submissive to thee, great is my grief;If I cannot be walking, if I cannot be walking,If I cannot be walking on my own farm-lands.Little heed I pay, and 'tis little my desire,Thy fine blue cloak and thy bright bird's plumes,If I cannot be walking, if I cannot be walking,If I cannot be walking on my own farm-lands!There is a day coming, it is plain to my eyes,When there will not be amongst us the mean likes of you;But each will be walking, each will be walking,Wherever he will on his own farm-lands.

I am watching my young calves sucking;Who are you that would put me out of my luck?Can I not be walking, can I not be walking,Can I not be walking on my own farm-lands?

I will not for ever go back before you,If I must needs be submissive to thee, great is my grief;If I cannot be walking, if I cannot be walking,If I cannot be walking on my own farm-lands.

Little heed I pay, and 'tis little my desire,Thy fine blue cloak and thy bright bird's plumes,If I cannot be walking, if I cannot be walking,If I cannot be walking on my own farm-lands!

There is a day coming, it is plain to my eyes,When there will not be amongst us the mean likes of you;But each will be walking, each will be walking,Wherever he will on his own farm-lands.

Douglas Hyde.

Once I was happy,And joyous with that,Now I am sorrowfulWeary and sick.Thinking on the colleenBy night and by day,Hurt by the colleen,Wounded with love.The sight of her eyes,The sweetness of her voice,It is these that have stricken meAnd left me without guidance.A colleen like she isIs not in this life,And she herself has leftMyself without sense.A colleen like she isIs not in this world;Vein of my own heartWhom I have chosen.Little hand of my love—It is whiter than snow;She hath left us with woundsAnd with wandering of the mind.Three long monthsAlmost, am I lying;I am pierced with her arrowsAnd my heart in torment.O God of Graces,Listen to my prayer,Give death to meOr give me her.Look on my lamentations,Look on my tears;Were not my thoughts on thee, Storeen,All these years?Look on my lamentations,Listen to me, Aroon,I am as a sheep,A sheep without its lamb!Wilt thou be hard,Colleen, as thou art tender?Wilt thou be without pityOn us for ever?Listen to me, Noireen,Listen, Aroon;Put some word of healingFrom thy quiet mouth.I am in the pathwayThat is dark and narrow,The little path that has guidedThousands to slumber.

Once I was happy,And joyous with that,Now I am sorrowfulWeary and sick.

Thinking on the colleenBy night and by day,Hurt by the colleen,Wounded with love.

The sight of her eyes,The sweetness of her voice,It is these that have stricken meAnd left me without guidance.

A colleen like she isIs not in this life,And she herself has leftMyself without sense.

A colleen like she isIs not in this world;Vein of my own heartWhom I have chosen.

Little hand of my love—It is whiter than snow;She hath left us with woundsAnd with wandering of the mind.

Three long monthsAlmost, am I lying;I am pierced with her arrowsAnd my heart in torment.

O God of Graces,Listen to my prayer,Give death to meOr give me her.

Look on my lamentations,Look on my tears;Were not my thoughts on thee, Storeen,All these years?

Look on my lamentations,Listen to me, Aroon,I am as a sheep,A sheep without its lamb!

Wilt thou be hard,Colleen, as thou art tender?Wilt thou be without pityOn us for ever?

Listen to me, Noireen,Listen, Aroon;Put some word of healingFrom thy quiet mouth.

I am in the pathwayThat is dark and narrow,The little path that has guidedThousands to slumber.

Douglas Hyde.

Oh, if there were in this wide worldOne little place at all,To be my own, my own alone,My own over all;Great were the joy, the comfort great,And me so lone,With no place in the world to say"This is my own."Sad it is to be knowing this,For any man, and woe,That there is not in life for himLiking or love below;That there is not in the world for himA hand or a headThat would be doing a turn for himAlive or dead.Sharp it is and sorrowful,And bitter is the grief,Sad it is and sorrowfulPast all belief.'Tis all the same how you areTo the passer-by,'Tis all the same to you, at last,To live or die.

Sad it is to be knowing this,For any man, and woe,That there is not in life for himLiking or love below;That there is not in the world for himA hand or a headThat would be doing a turn for himAlive or dead.

Sharp it is and sorrowful,And bitter is the grief,Sad it is and sorrowfulPast all belief.'Tis all the same how you areTo the passer-by,'Tis all the same to you, at last,To live or die.

Seosamh mac Cathmhaoil.

I follow a starBurning deep in the blue,A sign on the hillsLit for me and for you!Moon-red is the star,Halo-winged like a rood,Christ's heart in its heart set,Streaming with blood.Follow the gillyBeyond to the west;He leads where the Christ liesOn Mary's white breast.King, priest, and prophet—A child, and no more—Adonai the Maker!Come, let us adore.Translation by the author.

I follow a starBurning deep in the blue,A sign on the hillsLit for me and for you!

Moon-red is the star,Halo-winged like a rood,Christ's heart in its heart set,Streaming with blood.

Follow the gillyBeyond to the west;He leads where the Christ liesOn Mary's white breast.

King, priest, and prophet—A child, and no more—Adonai the Maker!Come, let us adore.

Translation by the author.

LULLABIES AND WORKING SONGS

Traditional.

Sleep, my child, my darling child, my lovely child, sleep!The sea sleepeth on the green fields,The moon sleepeth on the blue waters,Sleep, my child, my darling child, my lovely child, sleep!Sleep, my child!The morning sleepeth upon a bed of roses,The evening sleepeth on the tops of the dark hills;Sleep, my child, my darling child, child of my heart's love, sleep!Sleep, my child!The winds sleep in the rocky caverns,The stars sleep on their pillow of clouds,Sleep, my child, my darling child, my little child, sleep!Sleep, my child!The mist sleepeth on the bosom of the valley,The broad lake beneath the shade of the trees,Sleep, my child, my darling child, my tender child, sleep!Sleep, my child!The flower sleeps, while the night-dew falls,The wild birds sleep upon the mountains;Sleep, my child, my darling child, my blessed child, sleep!Sleep, my child!The burning tear sleepeth upon the cheek of sorrowBut thy sleep is not the sleep of tears,Sleep, my child, my darling child, child of my bosom, sleep!Sleep, my child!Sleep in quiet, sleep in joy, my darling,May thy sleep be never the sleep of sorrow!Sleep, my child, my darling child, my lovely child, sleep!

Sleep, my child, my darling child, my lovely child, sleep!The sea sleepeth on the green fields,The moon sleepeth on the blue waters,Sleep, my child, my darling child, my lovely child, sleep!

Sleep, my child!The morning sleepeth upon a bed of roses,The evening sleepeth on the tops of the dark hills;Sleep, my child, my darling child, child of my heart's love, sleep!

Sleep, my child!The winds sleep in the rocky caverns,The stars sleep on their pillow of clouds,Sleep, my child, my darling child, my little child, sleep!

Sleep, my child!The mist sleepeth on the bosom of the valley,The broad lake beneath the shade of the trees,Sleep, my child, my darling child, my tender child, sleep!

Sleep, my child!The flower sleeps, while the night-dew falls,The wild birds sleep upon the mountains;Sleep, my child, my darling child, my blessed child, sleep!

Sleep, my child!The burning tear sleepeth upon the cheek of sorrowBut thy sleep is not the sleep of tears,Sleep, my child, my darling child, child of my bosom, sleep!

Sleep, my child!Sleep in quiet, sleep in joy, my darling,May thy sleep be never the sleep of sorrow!Sleep, my child, my darling child, my lovely child, sleep!

Traditional.

Deirín dé, Deirín dé!The brown bittern speaks in the bog;Deirín dé, Deirín dé!The night-jar is abroad on the heath.Deirín dé, Deirín dé!Kine will go west at dawn of day;Deirín dé, Deirín dé!And my child will go to the pasture to mind them.Deirín dé, Deirín dé!Moon will rise and sun will set;Deirín dé, Deirín dé!Kine will come east at end of day.Deirín dé, Deirín dé!I will let my child go gathering blackberries,Deirín dé, Deirín dé!If he sleep softly till the ring of day!P. H. Pearse.

Deirín dé, Deirín dé!The brown bittern speaks in the bog;Deirín dé, Deirín dé!The night-jar is abroad on the heath.

Deirín dé, Deirín dé!Kine will go west at dawn of day;Deirín dé, Deirín dé!And my child will go to the pasture to mind them.

Deirín dé, Deirín dé!Moon will rise and sun will set;Deirín dé, Deirín dé!Kine will come east at end of day.

Deirín dé, Deirín dé!I will let my child go gathering blackberries,Deirín dé, Deirín dé!If he sleep softly till the ring of day!

P. H. Pearse.

I'd rock my own sweet childie to restIn a cradle of gold on the bough of the willow,To the shoheen ho! of the Wind of the WestAnd the lulla lo! of the blue sea billow.Sleep, baby dear!Sleep without fear!Mother is here beside your pillow.I'd put my own sweet childie to floatIn a silver boat on the beautiful river,Where a shoheen! whisper the white cascadesAnd a lulla lo! the green flags shiver.Sleep, baby dear!Sleep without fear!Mother is here with you for ever!Shoheen ho! to the rise and fallOf mother's bosom, 'tis sleep has bound you!And oh, my child, what cosier nestFor rosier rest could love have found you?Sleep, baby dear!Sleep without fear!Mother's two arms are close around you!Alfred Perceval Graves.

I'd put my own sweet childie to floatIn a silver boat on the beautiful river,Where a shoheen! whisper the white cascadesAnd a lulla lo! the green flags shiver.Sleep, baby dear!Sleep without fear!Mother is here with you for ever!

Shoheen ho! to the rise and fallOf mother's bosom, 'tis sleep has bound you!And oh, my child, what cosier nestFor rosier rest could love have found you?Sleep, baby dear!Sleep without fear!Mother's two arms are close around you!

Alfred Perceval Graves.

I wish the shepherd's pet were mine,I wish the shepherd's pet were mine,I wish the shepherd's pet were mine,The pretty white lamb in the clover.And oh! I hail, I hail thee,And oh! I hail, I hail thee,The love of my heart for ever thou art,Thou little pet of thy mother.I wish that scores of kine were mine,I wish that scores of kine were mine,I wish that scores of kine were mine,And Kathleen, the love of her mother.And oh! I hail, I hail thee,And oh! I hail, I hail thee,The love of my heart for ever thou art,Thou little pet of thy mother.

I wish that scores of kine were mine,I wish that scores of kine were mine,I wish that scores of kine were mine,And Kathleen, the love of her mother.And oh! I hail, I hail thee,And oh! I hail, I hail thee,The love of my heart for ever thou art,Thou little pet of thy mother.

Tailsman.

Goad her, and whip her, and drive,The old woman's little brown mare,Stand up on the plough, look alive,And see if our dinner is there.

Headsman.

The corn is a-reaping,Goad her and whip her and drive.The stooks are a-heaping,Goad her and whip her and drive.The corn is a-binding,Goad her and whip her and drive.In the mill it is grinding,Goad her and whip her and drive.We soon shall be feeding,Goad her and whip her and drive.For the flour is a-kneading,Goad her and whip her and drive.The bread is a-baking,Goad her and whip her and drive.Our dinner we are taking,—She's the best little mare alive!

Tailsman.

Whistle and shout with zest!The little brown mare is good!Unyoke her, and give her a rest,While we're stretching and getting our food.

These verses, improvised to the hum of the wheel, are flung from girl to girl as they sit spinning. The references are purely personal, and the refrain, which is sung by all the spinners, has no special meaning.

First Girl.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero,I crossed the wood as the day was dawning;Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

Second Girl.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero,No doubt John O'Connell had had good warning!Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

First Girl.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero,Oh! John may go hang, it's not me he will catch!Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

Second Girl.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero,You mannerless girl, he'll be more than your match!Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

First Girl.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero,Come, come now, leave off, or get me my own man!Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

Second Girl.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero,Well, what do you think of Thomas O'Madigan?Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

First Girl.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero,I hail him, and claim him, may we never be parted!Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

Second Girl.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero,Go east or go west, may you still be true-hearted!Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

Third Girl.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero,Go east and go west, and find me my love, too!Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

Fourth Girl.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero,There's Donall O'Flaherty, but I doubt will he take you!Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

Fifth Girl.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero,The man is too good, he'll be courting elsewhere!Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

Third Girl.

Mallo lero, and eambo nero,There's no tree in the wood, but its equal is there!Mallo lero, and eambo nero.

NOTES

"The Colloquy of the Two Sages," edited by Dr. Whitley Stokes from theBook of Leinster, p. 186a, is one of the most archaic pieces in tone that have come down to us. It represents the discussion between an aged poet and a young aspirant as to the sources of poetic inspiration, and shows us that the gifts of the bard were highly regarded as the direct endowment of the gods. Original inRev. Celtique, No. xxviii. As in the following poem, I have made use of the scribal glosses or explanations wherever they seemed to throw light upon the original.

"Amorgen sang." Professor John MacNeill has most kindly made a fresh collation of the manuscripts containing this obscure poem for my use. Parts, especially from line 20 onward, are doubtful. I have incorporated with the text such of the glosses as appear to make the meaning more intelligible, but the glosses themselves are mere scribes' guesses, often bad ones, at the sense of a text they did not understand. This poem, though ascribed to the earliest traditional poet of Ireland, is, Prof. MacNeill considers, rather pseudo-archaic, than of really great antiquity. The allusion to "Tetra's kine," which is explained in the gloss to mean "the fish of the sea," alludes to Tetra as Ruler of the Ocean; in the "Colloquy" we found him ruling in the assemblies of the dead. The connection between the ocean and the invisible world is constant in Irish tradition. The poem appears to be an assertion of the Druid's powers, preparatory to the incantation for good fishing which followsimmediately in most manuscripts. The final lines are an inquiry into the origin of created things, matter on which the bard or Druid claimed superior enlightenment.

"The Song of Childbirth" and the succeeding "Greeting to the New-born Babe" are taken from the piece known as "The Birth of Conchobhar" (Compert Conchobhar), edited from Stowe MS. 992, by Prof. Kuno Meyer inRev. Celt.vi. pp. 173-182.

"What is Love?" From the story called the "Wooing of Etain" (Tochmarc Etaine). Original inIrische Texte, i. p. 124.

"Summons to Cuchulain." From the "Sickbed of Cuchulain" (Serglige Conculaind). Original,ibid., p. 216. Overcome with fairy spells, the hero lies fast bound in heavy slumber; the song is an appeal to him to throw off the charm and to arise.

"Laegh's Description of Fairy-land." From the same story,ibid., p. 218. Laegh is Cuchulain's charioteer, who went into fairy-land instead of his master, and returns to extol its beauty.

"The Lamentation of Fand when she is about to leave Cuchulain." From the dramatic incident in the same story, in which Fand, Queen of Fairy-land, and Emer, Cuchulain's mortal wife, struggle for the affection of the hero, after Cuchulain's return from fairy-land. Each woman fully recognises the nobility of the other; and Fand's parting song, in which she restores him to Emer, is one of lofty renunciation.

"Midir's Call to Fairy-land." From the story called the "Wooing of Etain" (Tochmarc Etaine),ibid., p. 132.

"Song of the Fairies." From A. H. Leahy'sHeroic Romances of Ireland(D. Nutt, 1905), p. 29, taken from the same tale. Etain was wife of Eochad (pron. Yochee), King of Ireland, but Mider, King of Fairy-land, fell in love with her. He won an entry into the palace byplaying chess with her husband, who demanded from Mider as the stake for which they played that the fairy hosts should clear away the rocks and stones from the plains of Meath, remove the rushes which made the land barren, build a causeway across the bog of Lamrach, and perform other services useful to his realm. The song is sung by the fairies while they are performing this heavy task. The final stake is won by Mider, who asks Etain as his prize.

"The Lamentation of Deirdre," when her husband and two sons had been slain by King Conchobhar. She recalls the happy days spent with her husband in Alba or Scotland, on Lough Etive, and compares it to her present misery in the house of the King. Original,Irische Texte, i. pp. 77-81. In all the above poems there are many difficult and obscure passages.

"Take my Tidings." A ninth century poem, edited and translated by Dr. Kuno Meyer in hisFour Songs of Summer and Winter(D. Nutt, 1903), and by Dr. Whitley Stokes inRev. Celt.xx. p. 258. It is ascribed to Fionn in the commentary on the "Amra Coluim Cille." Mr. Graves' poem will be found in hisIrish Poems, i. p. 1 (Maunsel & Co., Dublin).

"Second Winter Song." Text and translation in Dr. Kuno Meyer'sFour Songs of Summer and Winter. A longer poem on similar lines is to be found in the tale called the "Hiding of the Hill of Howth,"Rev. Celt.xi. p. 125, reprinted in hisAncient Irish Poetry(Constable), p. 57; but in the former version the complaint of the lazy servant-lad is answered by a fine song in which Fionn praises the signs of coming spring in earth and air.

"In Praise of May." Original and translation published by Dr. K. Meyer from the tale called "The Boyish Exploits of Finn" inRev. Celt.v. p. 195. It is said to have been composed by Fionn after he received inspiration by eating the "Salmon of Knowledge" at the RiverBoyne. Mr. Rolleston's poem is to be found in hisSea-Spray(Maunsel, 1909).

"The Isle of Arran." The Arran here spoken of is the Scottish island of that name. The Fianna were accustomed to spend part of the autumn and winter hunting in that island. The poem occurs in the long Ossianic tract called "The Colloquy of the Ancients," published by Standish Hayes O'Grady inSilva Gadelica(Williams and Norgate, 1892). Text, p. 102; translation, p. 109.

"The Parting of Goll with his Wife." FromDuanaire Finn, edited by Prof. John MacNeill (Irish Texts Soc, vii., 1908), pp. 23 and 121. Goll was leader of the Connaught Fians and was opposed to Fionn, the chief of the Leinster warriors. He is described as a man of lofty disposition and great valour. In this poem he is standing, driven to bay by his enemies, on a bare rocky promontory, his wife only beside him, cut off from all hope of escape. Few poems relating to Goll remain in Ireland, but a good many survive in the Western Highlands of Scotland.

"Youth and Age."Ibid., pp. 80 and 194. It is Oisín (Ossian) who here laments his departed youth.

"Chill Winter." From the "Colloquy of the Ancients,"Silva Gadelica, text, p. 172; translation, p. 192.

"The Sleep-song of Grainne." FromDuanaire Finn, pp. 85 and 198. Dermot, who has carried off Grainne, the wife of Fionn, is lying down to rest in the forest, when Grainne hears the approach of their pursuers. She sings over him this passionate lullaby, in which the restless activities and foreboding terrors of the animal world are aptly used to heighten the sense of their own danger.

"The slaying of Conbeg, Fionn's beloved hound." Original inGaelic Journal, ix. No. 104, Feb. 1899, p. 328; the poem occurs in the "Colloquy of the Ancients," where the readings are slightly different (Silva Gadelica, text, p. 143).

"The Fairies' Lullaby." Original inWaifs and Strays of Celtic Tradition, Argyleshire Series, No. iv. (David Nutt, 1891). It was collected in Argyleshire by John Gregorson Campbell.

"The Lay of the Forest Trees." Original inSilva Gadelica, i. p. 245; trans., ii. p. 278. This curious poem, which contains much folklore regarding forest-trees, arose out of the gathering of wood for a fire in the open air, by a servant or "Man of Smoke," as he is called. He accidentally threw upon it a block around which woodbine had twined. This called forth a protest from the onlookers, who declared that the burning of the woodbine would certainly bring ill-luck.

"St. Patrick's Breastplate." See Dr. Kuno Meyer'sAncient Irish Poetry(Constable), pp. 25-7. Original in Stokes' and Strachan'sThesaurus Palaeohibernicus, ii. p. 354. Probably eighth century.

"Patrick's Blessing on Munster," ninth century. Original in Dr. Whitley Stokes'Tripartite Life of St. Patrick, p. 216; literal translation in Dr. Kuno Meyer'sAncient Irish Poetry, p. 29. The present poetic rendering, kindly contributed to my book by Mr. A. P. Graves, has not hitherto been published.

"Columcille's Farewell to Aran." See Dr. Douglas Hyde'sThree Sorrows of Story-telling(T. Fisher Unwin, 1895), pp. 146-8.

"Columba in Iona." Printed in William Skene'sCeltic Scotland, ii. p. 92, from an Irish manuscript in the Burgundian Library, Brussels. It bears the ascription "Columcille fecit," and was transcribed and translated by O'Curry for Dr. Todd. Many poems are ascribed to the Saint, but the language of most of them is later than his time.

"Hymn to the Dawn." FromSilva Gadelica, by Standish Hayes O'Grady (Williams & Norgate); original, vol. i. p. 56; literal trans., ii. p. 59. The hymn wascomposed by St. Cellach on the morning on which he was slain by his old friends and fellow-students, who had been bought over to destroy him.

"The Song of Manchan the Hermit." Original inÉriu, i. p. 39. A ninth century poem, with translation by Dr. Kuno Meyer.

"A Prayer." Original and literal translation by Miss Mary E. Byrne inÉriu, ii., Part i. p. 89.

"The Loves of Liadan and Curithir." This touching poem illustrates the tyrannical use sometimes made of their authority by the monks of the ancient Irish Church. St. Cummine, who was the confessor or "soul-friend" of the lovers, seems to have been a hard and censorious man. He lived in the first half of the seventh century. The poem, as we have it, is of the ninth century. Edited with translation by Dr. Kuno Meyer (D. Nutt, 1902). The love song has been reprinted in hisAncient Irish Poetry.

"The Lay of Prince Marvan." This song takes the form of a colloquy between Marvan, who had left his royal station to adopt a hermit life, and his brother King Guaire of Connaught (d.662). Guaire, visiting him in his retirement, inquires why he prefers to sleep in a hut rather than in the comfort of a kingly palace; in reply Marvan bursts forth into a song in praise of his retired woodland life. Original inKing and Hermit, edited by Dr. Kuno Meyer (D. Nutt, 1901); translation reprinted inAncient Irish Poetry, p. 47.

"The Song of Crede." Text and translation inÉriu, ii. p. 15; its editor, Dr. Kuno Meyer, ascribes it to the tenth century. I have to thank Mr. A. P. Graves for most kindly giving me permission to use his unpublished poem.

"The Student and his Cat," eighth or ninth century. Written on the margin of a codex of St. Paul's Epistles, in the monastery of Carinthia. Original and translationin Stokes' and Strachan'sThesaurus Palaeohibernicus, ii. p. 293.

"Song of the Seven Archangels." Original inÉriu, ii., Part i. pp. 92-4, with literal translation by Thomas P. O'Nowlan. Mr. Ernest Rhys' poetical version, kindly contributed by him to this book, has not hitherto been published.

"Saints of Four Seasons." Original inÉriu, i., Part ii. pp. 226-7, with translation by Miss Mary E. Byrne. Mr. P. J. McCall's poetical version is printed in hisIrish Fireside Songs(M. H. Gill, Dublin, 1911).

"The Feathered Hermit." Original printed by Dr. K. Meyer inGaelic Journal, iv., No. 40, February 1892, from a marginal note on Harl. MS. 5280 (Brit. Mus.).

"An Aphorism."Ibid.; also from a marginal note.

"The Blackbird." Marginal note from a copy of Priscian in the monastery of St. Gall in Switzerland. Original in Stokes' and Strachan'sThesaurus Palaeohibernicus, p. 290.

"Deus Meus." Printed by Dr. Whitley Stokes in theCalendar of Ængus, clxxxv. It is found written on the margin of theLeabhar Breac, facs., p. 101, and is there ascribed to Maelisu ua Brolcan (d.1086). Dr. George Sigerson's poetical rendering will be found in hisBards of the Gael and Gall(T. Fisher Unwin, 1897), p. 193.

"The Soul's Desire." Original and literal translation by Dr. Kuno Meyer in theGaelic Journal, vol. v., No.6, 1894, p. 95. Though printed from comparatively late copies, the hymn gives the impression of being ancient.

"Song of the Sea." Original and literal translation by Dr. Kuno Meyer inOtia Merseiana(Liverpool), ii. p. 76. It is ascribed to the poet Ruman, who died 707, but the editor believes it to be of the eleventh century.

"Lament of the Old Woman of Beare." From Dr.Kuno Meyer's text and translation inOtia Merseiana, i. p. 119 ff. It has since been reprinted in the author'sSelections from Early Irish Poetry, pp. 88-91. The editor would put the poem down to the late tenth century.

"Gormliath's Lament for Nial Black-knee." From the ScottishBook of the Dean of Lismore, edited by Rev. Thos. M'Lauchlan.

"The Mother's Lament." First printed by Rev. Edmund Hogan in hisLatin Lives of the Irish Saints(Todd Lectures, V., 1894); see alsoGaelic Journal, iv. p. 89, and Kuno Meyer'sAncient Irish Poetry, p. 42. Eleventh century? Mr. Graves has kindly given me permission to use his excellent unpublished version.

"Consecration." Original from theBook of the Dean of Lismore, a collection of poems made in the Western Islands about 1512 by Sir James McGregor, Dean of Lismore, Argyleshire, p. 121. It contains many Irish poems. This and the two following poems are ascribed to Murdoch O'Daly, called "Muredach Albanach," or Murdoch the Scot, on account of his long residence in that country. He is styled "Bard of Erin and Alba." He was a Connaught poet, who ended a stormy career by retiring to the Irish monastery of Knockmoy. It is probable that these religious poems, if not actually written by him, were composed about his period.

"Teach me, O Trinity,"ibid., p. 123.

"The Shaving of Murdoch,"ibid., p. 158note, from a translation made by Standish H. O'Grady. This curious poem refers to the tonsuring of the bard and his contemporary Connaught chieftain, Cathal of the Red Hand, when they entered the monastery of Knockmoy together. In Scotland Murdoch is remembered as the first of the Macvurrachs, bards to the Macdonalds of Clanranald. He lived 1180-1225, and Cathal of the Red Hand, 1184-1225.

"Eileen Aroon." Original in Hardimen, i. p. 264; itshould be compared with the version,ibid., p. 211. The present is the oldest form. Carol O'Daly, who composed it, was an accomplished Connaught gentleman, whose desire to marry Eileen Kavanagh was frustrated by her friends. He fled the country, but returned, disguised as a harper, on the eve of her marriage to another suitor, and entered the guest-chamber. He poured out this impassioned appeal with such good effect, that Eileen fled with him that night. The last lines are a welcome to her in response to her avowal of love. The air is very ancient; in Scotland it is known as "Robin Adair."

"The Downfall of the Gael." Original in Hardiman'sIrish Minstrelsy, ii. p. 102. O'Gnive, bard of the O'Neills of Clandaboy, accompanied Shane O'Neill to London in 1562, on the occasion of that chief's visit to Queen Elizabeth. The poem is a lament over the condition of Ireland and the inaction of the chiefs. Sir Samuel Ferguson's rendering will be found inLays of the Western Gael(Sealy, Bryers & Walker, 1888), p. 136.

"Address to Brian O'Rourke of the Bulwarks" (na murtha), a poem of seventy quatrains from Egerton MS. iii., art. 85. Dr. Standish Hayes O'Grady has given specimens of this poem in his valuableCatalogue of Irish MSS. in the British Museum, pp. 412-20. Another poem addressed to the same chief will be found in Hardiman, ii. pp. 266-305, by John mac Torna O'Mulchonaire. The writer of the present poem, Teigue O'Higgin, called Teigue "Dall,"i.e.the Blind, on account of his blindness, is one of the best of all the tribal poets of Ireland. He was poet to the chiefs of Co. Sligo, but he came to an untimely end on account of a satire made by him on the O'Haras, who had ill-used him, some time before 1617. In the poem we give, he endeavours to arouse Brian to action, and calls on him to unite the clans against England, a challenge which O'Rourke did not fail to obey. It is a good sample of much bardic poetry of the period.

"Ode to the Maguire," by Eochadh O'Hosey or Hussey, the last bard of the Maguires, whose strongly fortifiedcastle still frowns upon the waters of the Upper and Lower Lochs Erne, at Enniskillen, Co. Fermanagh. His young chief, Hugh Maguire, had marched into Munster in the depth of the winter of 1599-1600, with 2500 foot and 200 horse on a warlike foray; the bard, sitting at home in Fermanagh, bewails the hardships which he feels sure the chief and his followers are enduring in the open camps during the winter's weather. A fine copy of this poem is found in the O'Gara manuscript in the Royal Irish Academy, Dublin, of which Egerton III is a copy (and see O'Grady'sCatalogue, p. 451).

"A Lament for the Princes of Tyrone and Tyrconnel," by the family bard, Red Owen Mac Ward, in the form of an address of comfort to O'Donnell's sister, Nuala, who is supposed to be weeping over her brother's grave in Rome, where he had taken refuge after his flight from Ireland. He lies buried, beside Hugh O'Neill, in the Church of San Pietro Montario, on the Janiculum. The bard imagines the clans of the North of Ireland gathering to bewail the dead and share Nuala's grief. Though Mangan's broken metre imparts a fervour and fire to the original, he adds nothing to its slow monotonous impressiveness. For original see Egerton III, Art. 48 (Brit. Mus.), and translation of extracts in O'Grady'sCatalogue, pp. 371-3. Mangan's version has been often reprinted.

"Co. Mayo." There are many versions of this favourite song. That given here is said to have been composed by a bard named Thomas Flavell, a native of Bophin on the Western Seaboard. Hardiman gives the Irish of this song, i. p. 337; and also another version by David O'Murchadh, or Murphy,ibid., pp. 229-33. Flavell was a poor dependent on the fourth Earl of Mayo, and lived about the middle of the seventeenth century. For a different song of the same name, see Dr. Hyde'sPoems of Raftery, p. 96.

"The Flower of Nut-brown Maids" is the oldest of the numerous songs written to the air "Uileacán Dubh O." This poem dates from the seventeenth century, and it issaid to be an invitation addressed by one of the unfortunate landowners, driven out of Ulster during the plantation of James I, to his lady, to follow him to Leitrim. It seems to refer to a time of famine, and is, like many other love-songs, in the form of a colloquy. Original in Hardiman, i. p. 258.

"Roisín Dubh," from the original in O'Daly'sPoets and Poetry of Munster, where two versions are given. It is the poem on which Mangan founded his "Dark Rosaleen." The poem is an address to Ireland, veiled as a woman. Hardiman gives some quatrains in vol. i. pp. 254-61.

"The Fair Hills of Éire" is one of several sets of words attached to the tender old air "Uileacán Dubh O," or "Oh, the heavy lamentation." One, rendered familiar in Dr. Samuel Ferguson's version, beginning, "A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer," is said to have been written by an Irish student in one of the colleges of France probably early in the seventeenth century, when most of the promising Irish youths went abroad for their education. The version here given in Dr. Sigerson's fine rendering was written by Donnchad Ruadh MacNamara about 1730. It has also been rendered into English by Mangan. For the original, seePoems by Donnchadh Ruadh MacNamara, edited by Tomás O'Flanngháile (1897). Dr. George Sigerson's poem will be found in hisBards of the Gael and Gall(T. Fisher Unwin, 1897), p. 245.

"Love's Despair" (ibid., p. 339). This touching poem was written by a young farmer of Cork who, near the time of his marriage, had gone into the city to buy the wedding-dress for his betrothed. On his way back he heard that she had been married to another man. In despair he flung his presents into the fire. His reason gave way, and he roamed the country henceforth, ever singing the cruelty of Mary and his own misfortunes. His story was well known in Co. Waterford, where he lived a great part of his life. Original inGaelic Journal, vol. iii., 1887, p. 22.

The literal translation of the second stanza runs as follows:—

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